University of Virginia Library

A BERKSHIRE TRADITION.

An old friend once described to me the following scene, of
which, in his early boyhood, he was an eye-witness, and desired
me to record it. He is, even now, but slightly bent
under the weight of more than eighty years. He has a strong
voice, a hearty laugh, a sound memory, and other healthful
physical attributes, that as accompanying four-score, will be
as incredible to the descendants of the present dyspeptic generation,
as is the longevity of the antediluvians to our skeptical
cotemporaries.

My friend belonged to one of the aristocratic families of
Massachusetts. People then dared to boast that distinction.
And even now he may claim a charter of nobility that none
will dispute, for he bears a name illustrated by a progenitor
who, when he wrote, had no rival, and even now has no superior,
upon that topic on which he exercised his marvellous
intellect.

It was on a Sabbath day, (I dare not, in this relation, use
other than a Puritan term,) late in April, in 1776, that an
unprecedented bustle occurred in one of the quietest villages
of Berkshire. The stern, long Winter of our hill-country

had just passed away. The tempests of a sterner Winter
were beginning in our political world—a Winter whose storm
was to drive out all old customs, observances, relations, and
to be followed by a Spring of vigorous life, suited to our
young country.

The genial sunbeams of the long afternoon played on the
few framed houses of the village, and on the Indian huts
scattered among them, which seemed to be rooted there, as
were the affections of their doomed masters. And did ever
savage or civilized man dwell in that sweet valley, who did
not cling to its as if it were in truth their mother earth!

Times are changed there now. Hideous telegraph poles
deform its embowered street, and the “whistle” of the rail-car
shrieks from its lowlands. But then, as now, even late
in April, Winter lingered on the wet, cold, dull-coloured hill-side;
the forest trees were yet brown and naked; but, oh!
how fresh and bright was the grass in the meadows—how
deep-coloured the furrows just turned up for the corn-planting
—how rich the green of the Winter wheat-fields—how sparkling
the musical stream that, in the early Spring-time, seemed
to sing of nothing but its freedom! And then, as my friend
said, “the willows, where we cut our sticks, along the Housatonic,
looked as if they had been dipped in melted gold;
the maples were flushed with their red buds; the air at our
windows was so inviting with the young buds of the lilacs!
The girls were longing to go out to pick cresses and violets
by the brook side; the hens were cackling—the birds singing
—the Deacons could not stop them; but we children had to
stay, silent and sad, in-doors, and study our catechisms, and
watch—which we did more than study—the shadows, as they
crept (how slowly!) over the valley, and up, and up, the Eastern
hills; and not till the last purple ray had faded from the

very crest of the mountains, were we permitted to sally forth.
With the setting of the sun ended `holy time.' The Sabbath
sun was in our eyes a mortal enemy—so tedious was the long
`holy time' to us. God forgive our parents that it was so!”

On the memorable afternoon we are commemorating, my
octogenarian friend, then a boy of seven or eight years, was
sitting with the other children of the household, near a window,
which afforded a tempting view of the different avenues
that converged to the village-green, which village-green was
a dangerous competitor with the lucid “Westminster Shorter
Catechism,” for their bright eyes—the truant eyes had wandered.

“Oh, Phœbe, how pleasant the green looks!” said the
boy. “I wish the moon would shine as bright as the sun
does; then we could see to play ball after sunset. Don't you
wish so, Phœbe?”

Phœbe was a pattern Puritan child, faithful and sedate.
Without raising her eyes, she went on, sotto voce, committing
to memory her appointed task, which, at that moment, happened
to be the tremendous answer to the question, in the
Shorter Westminster Catechism—the child's spiritual bread
and meat of that day—“What is the misery of that estate
whereunto man fell?”

“Phœbe,” resumed her brother, “do you believe Deacons
were ever boys and girls, like we are?”

“All mankind, by their fall, lost communion with God,
are under His wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the
miseries of this life, to death itself, and to the pains of hell
for ever,” murmured Phœbe.

“Phœbe, Phœbe.!” called out her brother again. “I declare,
there is Squire Woodhull coming out of his house, and
Deacon Orne out of his! Look.”

But Phœbe was immovable.

“All mankind, by their fall,” she continued.

“Why see, Phœbe! there is Captain Bradley, and Mr.
Taylor, too? What can it mean, Phœbe?”

Phœbe was as firm as Atlas.

“And so made liable to all the miseries of this life, to
death itself, and to the pains of hell for ever,” &c., she reiterated.

It was worthy of observation that these familiar words of
eternal doom made no more impression on the serene child
than if she were repeating—“Dickery-dickery-dock,” or any
other of Mother Goose's lyrics.

“Phœbe,” resumed her brother, “I never saw any one like
you; why don't you look? There comes Levi Carter, and
Joshua Lee. They have both got guns. What will Deacon
Orne say?”

By this time Phœbe's attention was completely aroused.
She closed her little blue book, and the children all clustered
together to observe the scene, which was soon interpreted to
them by their excellent mother, who came from her nursery,
with her infant child, Rhoda, in her arms, beautiful then, as
tradition has it, beautiful still, as all can testify who are acquainted
with that majestic form, fresh cheek, beaming eye,
and most serene aspect.

The gathering on the Sabbath, so astounding to the children,
was occasioned by the arrival of an express, bringing
news of the battle of Lexington. An association called
Minute Men, from the fact that they held themselves ready
to go forth in their country's service at a minute's warning,
had been formed throughout the towns of Massachusetts.
Each man in the village had been notified to meet instantly
on the green. The inhabitants were few, but every man capable

of bearing arms, “Minute Men,” and others not thus
enrolled, came, old and young, each with a comprehension of
the sacred principles for which he was to contend, and for
which he was willing to leave his home and peril his life.
These principles had been maturing in Anglo-Saxon minds
from the days of King John and the Charter, and they were
now ripened into the glorious truths proclaimed in our Declaration
of Independence.

Our men were ready and eager for their work, but not
one among them probably had the faintest imagination that
the destinies of the world hung upon the issue of the contest
on which they were entering.

There were volunteers not enrolled with the Minute men,
and the purpose of the gathering was to decide who should
be permitted to go, and who should perform the inglorious
duty of remaining at home, to take care of the women and
children, and keep the Indians in order. “I have not fired a
gun these ten years,” said Deacon Orne, “but I guess I can
do it as well as my neighbours.”

One lad nudged another, whispering, “Did not I tell you
the Deacon had grit for all?”

“If Mrs. Bradley is willing,” said her husband, the Captain,
“there's no man readier nor happier to go than I am,”
he could afford to defer to his help-meet, for the little world
of S— knew their wills were one.

“I ask no woman's leave to do my duty,” said little gnarly
squally Obid Allen, the well known tyrant of his household.
“I go.”

“That is doubtful yet,” said William Freeman, to whom
the command of the minute men of S— was assigned;
“every one cannot have the privilege, Obid, and we must
take such only as can be serviceable.” William Freeman

was a stout, tall, well-made yeoman, standing six feet two
inches without his shoes, some forty-two or three years old, in
the prime of manhood, a living man in the comprehensive
sense of that term, beloved and respected in the little community
of S— as no other man was. Most of the men
were zealous patriots eager for the service. The selection
made by Freeman, met with unanimous acquiescence. Few
wished to dispute it, and none dared. To the astonishment
of all, however, Obid Allen was among the picked men. This
he explained confidentially to a friend, saying, “Obid will be
a wasp among us, I know, and I fear a coward—your tyrants
at home, for the most part, are. But to tell you the truth, it
was an opportunity to relieve his women folks, and I could
not neglect it!”

The dispositions for the march were promptly made.
There was no time to be lost. They were to depart that evening.
Some among them never to return, some to homes,
how changed! some, themselves mournfully changed! One
solemn office remained before their dispersion. The children
of the Puritans were not men to embark in a serious enterprise
without appealing to the great Disposer of events; and
now the children's wonder was again excited by seeing the
Pastor descending the long straight road from the hill overhanging
the village where his house, like a watch-tower on
Zion, stood. He was attended by a young friend who was
then residing with him. He was himself then still young,
though he had already been ten years on a ministry which he
was destined to continue in that favoured place, in zeal and
purity, for more than sixty years! “Why, mother,” exclaimed
little Phœbe, “Mr. West is not going to fight, is he? a minister,
and such a little man too!”

“Little,” exclaimed her brother, “I guess he is as tall as

Alexander, for Master Day says Alexander was not taller
than he is.”

“I don't know, my child; but don't, my son, let your mind
run upon heathen people. Attend to what is going on.”

“I guess Mr. Oakley will go, don't you Phœbe?” whispered
the rebuked child to his sister—“he is so tall, and
beautiful, and has such black eyes! he is something like a
soldier!”

Whether Mr. Oakley would have gone or not, had the opportunity
been offered him, we cannot say, for the quota was
already made up. Perhaps he was glad to avoid the necessity
of a choice, for though the colony was the land of his birth
and to be his future residence, more than half his life had been
passed in England, and it was natural that his affections
should be divided. That they leaned to the wrong side, the
villagers all thought, and as he approached, there were whispers
among them. “He is a friend of Mr. West, or we would
give him a piece of our mind!” “This is no time for Tories.”
“No, nor for fine gentlemen with gloves and ruffles, we must
handle things without mittens now-a-days.” “Hush, boys!”
said William Freeman, who stood a little apart with this knot
of free speakers, “don't be saucy to Mr. Oakley, he is my
friend as well as the minister's—he is something more than a
fine gentleman—a scholarly man, and none the worse for not
wanting to fight his cousins and friends whose bread and salt
he has eaten on the other side.—You have come in good
time, sir,” he added, advancing and giving his hand to the
Pastor—“every thing is settled, the men are ready to march,
and we wait only for you to ask the Lord's blessing on our
endeavours.”

The twilight was near, the deepening shadows stealing
over the valley typified the dark passage through which the

people were to pass, the sun beams on the eastern hills the
light beyond it. The men leaning on their guns and staves
arranged themselves in a circle around the minister—a group
of Indian men and women had gathered, and stood on one
side listening reverently. The minister prayed and wept.
To the last of his long good life he was marked by a sensibility
that gushed forth in sympathy for all his people; the
just and unjust—saints and sinners, all shared a heart wide
enough for all.

The boy of whom we have spoken, was permitted by his
mother to go out and listen to the service. No wonder the
scene never passed from his memory.

That war was thus fitly begun in the self-devotion and
self-sacrifice of thoughtful fathers, faithful husbands, brothers
and sons, and sanctified by the prayers of holy men which was
for self-government, an equality of rights and privileges—the
freedom and happiness of all. The battle was fought on their
mother earth, about their own homesteads. On the other
side the soldiers were a good part mercenaries, and aliens
from the household for which they fought, and, for the most
part, ignorant and brutish men.

A HOME SCENE.

“I have no time to give any directions, Sylvy,” said William
Freeman to his sister, a tall, gaunt, elderly woman. “You
know full as well as I how to take care of every thing—the
horses, cattle, pigs and hens. You'll give them all plenty to
eat, for that's your nature, and that's the main chance. Ben
will be a plague—boys always are—but he being motherless,

you won't feel it so much. Don't humour him too much,
Sylvy. Don't go out, as you did last winter in the snow, and
feed the horses that he went to bed and forgot. Take care!
don't tie up the portmanteau yet, I want to put this in.”

“What is it, brother?” asked Sylvy, who kept her head
averted that her brother might not see the tears that were
pouring down her cheeks.

“Well, its Lucy's profile that Staunton Oakley cut for
me last week—it is only an outline, but I can fill it up with
blue eye and round cheeks, and a sweet little fair child's
face. You think I am foolish?—I, more than forty!”

“No, no, brother, don't I set by her almost as much as
you do—poor little dove.”

“Yes, Sylvy, and that is a comfort to me now; if it tore
my heart in two to leave Lucy and Willie, I should go, but
now I go cheerfully; for I know you will always consider for
them. I confide them to you, and go in peace. Lucy is a
helpless little thing, but it is my fault. She was so young
when we married that she has always seemed to me like a
child.”

“Oh, never mind, brother, it is easy to care for her—truly
the pleasure and comfort of my life.”

“I have no words to thank you, Sylvy; but words are
nothing between you and I, I have bid her good-bye. It has
taken the strength out of me; It makes me feel like a poor
soldier,” and he wiped away his tears, as he added, “This
little woman makes such a child of me. I left her with Willie
on her lap, both sobbing; I hear them now. By the way,
Sylvy, I have forgotten to tell you that I have engaged
Staunton Oakley to teach Will.”

“To teach Willie, brother? Willie is but six. I have

heard that Mr. Staunton Oakley is a finished scholar. Surely
he is not a suitable teacher for Willie.”

“Maybe not. But Oakley is halting about his profession.
He is fallen under suspicion as a Tory, and he would like to
stay quietly here and mind his books. So I offered him his
board for teaching Willie; but if it will be a trouble to you,
Sylvy—”

“To me! What trouble can it be to me to get victuals
for four instead of three? No, truly, I am glad he is coming.
He will be company for Lucy—poor little dove!”

A wagon drove to the door. William Freeman threw in
his portmanteau, turned and looked around for the last time.
Every object was daguerreotyped on his heart. He kissed
his sister's coarse cheek as fervently as if she were the loveliest
woman in creation, and knocking with his iron knuckles
on his wife's bed-room door, he said, in a cheering tone—
“God bless you dear, dearest little wifie,” dashed off his tears
and departed.

As our story has little to do with the military career of
the commander of the little detachment from L., but is confined
to the domestic incidents of his life, we must take

A RETROSPECT.

William Freeman's body, mind and heart, were in that
state which, in our present hacknied phrase, would be called
normal. Capricious nature—no, this is but vulgar slang—
nature is but another name for the great Creator of perfect
works; not nature, then, but the transmitted wrongs done to
her so often, effect such incongruous combination as a heart
of infinite expansiveness in a half-developed body, a gigantic
intellect, like Pope's, Napoleon's, or Alexander Hamilton's,

in a stinted, almost dwarfish frame, that when the world has
assurance of a man in the highest intellectual and moral attributes,
with their fitting majestic investment, he receives,
as William Freeman did, the tribute of trust, and love, and
reverence. Freeman was of a good old English stock, but the
branch in this country had, by adverse accidents, been reduced
to an humble condition of life, and William and his
sister Sylvy, four or five years older than himself, were left,
at an early age, with no inheritance but a sterile farm, on the
cold sea-shore of Massachusetts; this they exchanged for one
in better position and condition in a lovely valley in the most
western countyo of the same State. This, by the joint management
of brother and sister, improved rapidly in value and
productiveness. As it was the good custom of those times
for a man to take a help-mate so soon as he had a roof to
shelter her, it was a subject of discussion among the male and
female gossips of S—, why William Freeman remained a
bachelor? Some fancied it was from regard to Miss Sylvy, who
was a `set-body,' and had too long governed their joint household
to bear a deposition from her feminine supremacy. But
they misjudged. Miss Sylvy was as far above the little competitions
and meannesses of domestic rivalries as any man.
In truth, she was remarkably exempt from any feminine peculiarities.
Of the two, her brother had more of the tenderness
and softness, and far more of the gentleness and polish
that characterizes the minor sex. Sylvy was true as steel,
faithful, kind-hearted, and entirely in thought, word and deed,
devoted to her brother; but a more masculine creature has
seldom appeared in woman's form. So she was made, and
she was content with nature's decrees, never opposing them
by any compromises, or palliations of dress or habit. If Sylvy
had lived in our day she would have deemed a women's rights
convention a superfluous mooting of a foolish question. Her
might was her right. She was a woman of action, doing
cheerfully and well the duty nearest to her, and not disturbing
herself by a theoretical claim to those for which she was
neither qualified by nature nor education. Her life had one
ruling purpose, the advancement of her brother's interest and
happiness—one absorbing affection, not expressed in words,
but told in the deeds of every day.

As William Freeman's protracted bachelorship was a
mystery not to be solved by people so ingenious, earnest and
indefatigable as his neighbours of S—, we should not attempt
it. He might have had an early disappointment “down
East,” but nothing could be more unlikely. Any woman beloved
by this magnificent-looking man, frank, affectionate,
good-humoured and agreeable, could not choose but to love
him. He deferred, on all suitable occasions, to his sister's
wishes, but he had no fear of her to prevent his doing what
was right; and, besides, she had been heard to say more than
once that, “as to marrying, that was not in her way, but she
wondered brother put it off—it was a pity for the girls!”
She now and then hinted to him that life was going on, and
its great work not done! Still he remained in obstinate, inexplicable
content—a man sound in mind, body and estate,
and yet a bachelor!

Freeman's nearest neighbours were the Scotts. They were
a head-over-heels family, with some eight or ten children,
that scrabbled their way up into life as they could. Besides
these, there was a little orphan niece, Lucy Clay, a fair, delicate,
gentle creature, who looked, among the nut-brown
Scotts, as a Saxon child might in a Gipsy camp, or a pearl
on common earth. She naturally attracted William Freeman's
observation. He loved children, and Lucy soon became

a favourite. He gave her rides; he took her to his hay
field; she was permitted to tumble his hay-cocks, and always
rode home on the load—the prettiest flower that ever grew,
he said, in meadow, or garden. Miss Sylvy was in nowise
addicted to pets; dogs she kept strictly to their official duty,
and cats she tolerated only as necessary evils; but brother's
plaything, as she called little Lucy, soon became her weakness
—the first she had ever shown. Nothing was forbidden her
—nothing was good enough for her—she, who never before,
was jealous of any thing, was jealous of Lucy's rights in the
rough democracy of the Scott's household. She held to
children being hardy, but she was alarmed if Lucy dampened
her little feet, and finally, upon the little girl letting fall a
silent tear on being rather rudely summoned home by one of
“Scott's boys,” Sylvy could bear it no longer, and she
distinctly proposed to her brother that Lucy should have a
home with them. “The Scotts,” she said, “were overrun
with children—she did not see as brother would ever have a
family of his own—Mrs. Scott did not take suitable care of
her own children—little Lucy, poor little dove. needed the
best of care.”

There was no need of multiplying arguments to William
Freeman. They fell upon a willing mind, and little Lucy
was forthwith begged as a boon, and dropped off, by the
Scotts, as a burden. We said that Miss Sylvy was not, like
most women-kind, addicted to pets, but now it seemed that
all the womanly weakeness, if it must be so called, that, with
others of her sex is diffused over a lifetime, had accumulated,
to be lavished on her “little dove”—the first soft epithet she
was known to use. Flower-beds were sown for Lucy—chickens
were reared for her—kittens were permitted, and dovecotes
were built over the porch.

William Freeman, in his domain, was not less indulgent.
William, in rustic phrase, was a great reader, but now he
could not fully enjoy his book unless Lucy were sitting by
him, stroking her kittens, stringing flowers, or knitting a
garter, the hardest task Miss Sylvy ever laid on her. If he
drove out she was beside him, permitted to hold the whip, or
take the reins; if he sat on the porch smoking, (young men
of that day smoked their pipes as they now do their cigars.)
she sat beside him. She was a luxury in the house, and like
other luxuries, came to be more essential than “necessaries.”
She lived in a placid, perennial contentment, the inward
motions of her heart harmonizing with the symmetry of her
lovely face and form. When she was seventeen William
Freeman was thirty-five; about this time he became abstracted
and fitful; he lost his colour and his appetite. “It was
unaccountable,” Miss Sylvy said, “how brother was `running
down.”'

Suddenly there was a change; he was brighter, happier,
handsomer than ever, and Miss Sylvy who never dreamed of
any weaving of sentimental fabrics among her domestic looms,
was astounded by the communication that Lucy was to be
her brother's wife. She laughed for half an hour.—“Why,
what is the matter, Sylvy?” said her brother—“you don't
refuse your consent?”

“Brother! No, indeed; but it seems so odd—little
Lucy!”

“Yes; like the bee, she is little; but her fruit is the
chief of sweet things. Sylvy.”

“And, you may say more than that, brother; unlike the
bee, she has no sting. Well, it's just right; and, if I were
not the dumb thing I am, I should have thought of it before.

Lucy would have married—gone away—how in the world
could we have lived without her?”

The bans were proclaimed, to the infinite surprise of the
good people of S—, who made more than a nine days' wonder
of it; all opining that William Freeman might have made a
much more advantageous match, and saying that, “if they
were he, they should not have chosen such a `helpless little
piece' as Lucy Clay.” But, they were not he; and nothing
was more natural than for his generous nature to match his
strength with her weakness, to extend his protection to her
helplessness.

Never did a match of such apparent disparity prove happier
than his, for the seven years that followed, and up to the
time of the departure we have recorded.

Here we hesitate to go farther. We would fain linger in
this paradise of a happy home. But, change comes to all, and
happy should they esteem themselves to whom it comes in
the common providential forms of sickness, death, and
pecuniary trial.

The years went on—every month, every day, and every
hour, marked by William Freeman's services to his country.
He was rapidly advanced to a colonelcy. We have nothing
to do with his public career; but insomuch as it was interwoven
with his domestic history. Others may have equalled
him in courage and conduct—none surpassed him;
and few equalled him in his minute attention to the wants of
his men, in his fatherly care of them, and in his general
humanity.

How matters were getting on at home may be indicated
by the following letters—the first from his son, then eight
years old:—

The above letters, slightly abridged, from those preserved
in the family archives, indicate sufficiently the condition of
things in William Freeman's family in the third year of his
absence. They satisfied his heart—amid all the trials, struggles
and privations of his military life, his affections settled
in peace over his home. It seemed to him a little kingdom
of his own, where the sun always shone, and into whose rest
he should enter as soon as his work for his country was over.

His magnanimity, his boldness, and perhaps more than
these qualities that belong to physical health and strength;
his eminent good sense, his charming good humour, and his
indefatigable humanity, won the love of his companions in
arms, and drew confidence and favours from the highest quarters.
His career was a most active and successful one.

The only time he was ever known to lose his self-command,
and with it, as he afterwards confessed, a portion of
his self-respect, was on occasion of a visit from Allen, after
his return from S—. Allen had attained the place of
sutler in the Army—an office admirably adapted to his
taste and genius. Freeman had often detected, and corrected
Allen's petty impositions and overreachings, but had never
lost his temper, and the scurvy sutler had no fear of exciting
his anger.

“Why, Colonel, you don't ask after your folks,” said
Allen.

“No, I have letters from them.”

“Yes, but letters don't tell every thing.”

“They tell me all I wish to hear—and just what I wish.”

“It's pretty judicious to be satisfied with them, may be.”

There was something in Allen's manner that conveyed
more than met the ear.

“Have you bad news?—speak—don't hesitate—speak—
I command you.”

“Why, Colonel! we ain't on duty.”

“Tell me what you know—what have you heard? Is my
wife sick? my boy? my sister?”

“Oh, no, no! nothing like that.”

“Why scare me then, man! I suppose one of my horses
is dead—or my cattle—they may all die—if the blessed
God keep hearty my little family. Yes, though the flock
be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the
stalls, yet will I rejoice in the Lord, and joy in the gifts He
has given me.”

“Don't mount too high a horse, Colonel; pride goes before
a fall. I suppose there is something in a family that some
men care for besides enjoying health?”

“What in the name of goodness are you driving at,
Allen? Were you at my house?—did you see my family?”

“I saw Miss Sylvy, and your boy; he is a stout, healthy
lad—but he wants your correcting—he's for'ard, and freespoken.”

“Did you not see my wife?”

“N—o—no. Not exactly see her—I heard them talking
and laughing in the dwelling-room—she and that—and that
genteel spark you keep there.”

“Then they were all well, and at home, and cheerful?”

“Yes, that's true—some folks think something too cheerful.”

“And why?—speak plainer, Allen, or I'll shake your meaning
out of you.”

Allen saw the Colonel was not a man to receive inuendoes.
“Well, then,” he said, “if I must speak, I must. Folks up
there think it ain't every man that would be willing to leave a
woman, young enough to be his daughter, and the handsomest
woman in all the country round, to keep company month in
and month out—year in and year out, with a British-bred
Tory spark—a picture of a man!”

“Is that all?” said Colonel Freeman, not a shade darkening
his hopeful, trustful face.

“Well, no, not quite all; some folks talk, and some folks
think more than they talk.”

“Hold your infamous tongue!” cried Colonel Freeman.
The Colonel's quarters were in a farm-house. His door opened
upon a narrow strip of level ground which descended some ten
or twelve feet, precipitously to the road. He opened the
door, seized Allen by the collar, and thrust him out with such
force that he went down the bank, head over heels, to the
road, to the infinite delight of a dozen spectators who knew

him, detested him, and happened to be passing at the
moment.

Colonel Freeman was remarkable, even among his self-controlling
countrymen, for his equal temper. It was not with
him, as with them, the equal pressure on all sides, that kept
him subdued and quiet, but it was a magnanimity of nature—
an atmosphere too pure and high for storms.

When one of the spectators who had witnessed his practical
rebuke said, “If you had broken the fellow's neck you
would have served him right.”

“No, no,” replied the Colonel. “I am sorry I did it—
sorry I put my hand upon him—it wasn't right—the poor,
weak, bandy-legged, miserable detestable scoundrel that he is
—he is not worth it.”

Three months elapsed, when Colonel Freeman received a
letter from his sister, for the most part detailing the prosperity
of the farm and household, and closing thus:

“I am loth to disturb your mind, brother, but it's right
you should know the great change that has taken place in the
family. Our dear little Lucy has got all of a nerve. No
wonder, you so long absent, and exposed to so many dangers.
She was fractious for a week, and did not speak to any of us
—not even to Willie—and suddenly Mr. Oakley determined
to leave; his feelings being grated, I suppose, she having
refused for many days to see him. I did not ask questions.
He did see her before going. I heard her cry so that it most
broke my heart. He went—and he told Willie he had
obtained a pass to New-York, and expected to go from there,
by the first opportunity, to England. Poor Willie is downhearted—he
is writing to you. But cheer up, brother, `It's
a long lane that never turns,' and when you come home all
will go smooth again.”

Willie's mother had charged him to say nothing to his
father of her dejection, and he did not, but lamented grievously
the departure, and loss of his tutor.

Colonel Freeman knew that his wife was of a delicate and
susceptible constitution. He willingly and lovingly believed
that his sister was right in her suggestion—that Lucy's
nerves had been weakened by anxiety, and, recalling Allen's
suggestions, he thought it probable that the unkind surmises
of her neighbors had reached her ears, and that she had
decided on parting with Mr. Oakley, and not being able from
motives of delicacy to tell him why; and, not willing to distress
her husband with her perplexities, she had appeared
wayward and dejected. He immediately wrote her a letter
full of tenderness, and told her that the moment he could
arrange his affairs, he should make her a visit.

But to do this was impossible. The military affairs of
the country became more and more perplexed, and the duties
more and more imperative. Colonel Freeman was not a man
to defer his duty to his country to the indulgence of his
domestic claims and affections. From month to month, and
week to week, he planned to go home, and was disappointed.
In the mean time no extraordinary news came from his family.
Miss Sylvy never lost an opportunity of writing. She grew
more and more minute in her accounts of her farming economy,
and said less and less of `poor little Lucy,' as she now
invariably designated her. What she did say was the truth,
but in the least alarming form she could put it. “Poor little
Lucy's spirits don't gain.” “The poor little woman keeps to
her room and says little—her appetite don't improve.” “I
hope, brother, you'll excuse poor little Lucy not writing. She
is low in strength, and dreadful low spirited.” So on, and so
on, from month to month. But what was more painful to

Colonel Freeman was that his son, whose letters had been
pervaded with notices of his mother, now never mentioned
her—and that he persevered in his silence even after his father,
again and again, reproached him with it. Alas! for the
poor boy.

At last, and unexpectedly at last, came to the happy
Colonel, the power to suspend his command for a short time,
and having obtained leave of absence, he joyfully set his face
homeward.

He had, till now, as well as he could, turned aside
thoughts of home. Now, permitted, they overpowered and
possessed his whole being. Happiness is the health of the
spirit, and in his sound nature the tendencies were so strong
to it, that anxieties and fears fled from him as demons from
daylight. To his happy anticipations his home was the home
he had left. His appearance would at once restore his wife
—and all would be as it had been, with the added joy of
meeting. His return had been so sudden to himself, that he
had not announced or even intimated it to his family, but
when within a few miles of home, it occurred to him that his
unexpected appearance might be too much for his little nervous
wife, and he sent forward a courier with a note to his
sister. The man was unacquainted with the country—he
took a wrong road, and the Colonel, driving rapidly and
eagerly forward, arrived before him. He turned up to his
own gate. His horses were grazing in the paddock next to
his garden; he did not see them. Ben, grown from boyhood
to manhood, turned his oxen, who were drawing home a load
of hay, to let the Colonel pass, and grinned joyfully at his
master, but the Colonel did not speak to him, so full was his
heart of the dear people within. He entered through the
kitchen. There was no one there, but every thing was just as

he had left it; and he paused for an instant, with a feeling
that the long gap of absence was closed, annihilated. It was
but an instant, and his heart swelling, and his strong hand
trembling, he opened the `dwelling-room' door. There, too,
was vacancy, and silence. For the first time an apprehension
entered the Colonel's mind, like the sudden coming of a cloud
in the clear sky, a fear, an indefinable dread. He paused—
listened. He heard no sound. His wife's bed-room was beyond,
and opened out of the dwelling-room. His old dog
“Bose” was lying at the door. He opened his eyes, and
evidently recognized his master, for he vehemently wagged
his tail, but without moving, or making the slightest noise.
“Not even my dog moves to meet me!” flashed through the
Colonel's mind. Who could comprehend, explain or limit
the feelings of that poor old animal who at that moment
blended servant and friend? The Colonel shoved him aside
with his foot and opened wide the door. It was the middle
of a July afternoon, the room was darkened—one of the
window blinds being left just open enough to admit the necessary
light.

The Colonel's wife was stretched on the bed, covered only
with a sheet, and white as the sheet. Her eyes were closed.
Her beautiful curling hair lay in tangled masses on the
pillow, her arms were outstretched, and her hands tight
clasped over her head. This was the only indication that
life was still there. Their boy, Willie, sat close to the bedside
of his mother, with his back to the door. “Hush,
doctor!” he rather breathed, than said, “mother is sleeping;”
and then turning round and seeing it was not the doctor, and
was his father, for he instantly recognized him, he sprang into
his arms, buried his face in his father's bosom, and tried, but
alas! tried in vain, to suppress his sobs. One other object

had caught William Freeman's eye, and he, who had never
flinched at the cannon's mouth, now shook like a smitten
woman. His sister Sylvy was sitting at the farthest extremity
of the room, with a new-born baby on her lap. Her eyes
once met her brother's—then fell, and she remained silent,
and motionless.

The whole story was told. The iron entered the husband's
—father's soul. He reeled, and involuntarily grasped the post
of the bedstead. His wife awoke, opened her eyes and fixed
them on him. This steadied him. She gazed intently for
half a minute. Her glance seemed to burn into his very soul.

She uttered a loud, prolonged shriek. The blood rushed
into her blanched cheeks, and springing up in the bed, she
clasped her arms tight around his neck.

“It was a dream—a dream, a horrid dream!—a night-mare!”
she screamed. “You are here, my husband!—my
honoured, dear husband! It was a dream—my arms are around
you, and you don't spurn me—you don't call me that dreadful
name! Oh! how they rung it in my ears! It was a
dream! I see you!—I see you! I was not false—bad! I
couldn't be—I loved you—I do love you! It was a horrid
dream!”

She paused—she still hung around his neck; but she let
her head fall back and gazed intently in her husband's face.

“Why,” she said, in her own natural, low, subdued tone,
but lower, tenderer than ever—“Why don't you kiss your
little Lucy?”

And then, starting away from him as if a harpy had seized
her, and flashing her eye around the room, she pointed to the
baby, and shrieked:

“There!—there!—there!”

It was a shriek that seemed to comprehend all human woe

“Oh! it was not a dream!—it was not a dream!” she
screamed, and sinking down, she covered her face. “Oh!
hide me—hide me—bury me deep under ground! He has
seen me—he hates me! Oh! God of mercy! strike me dead!
Why can't I die?”

Colonel Freeman didn't speak. He stood motionless
beside the bed. Gloom and misery had settled on his noble
countenance. His son threw himself beside his mother; he
tore the sheet from her face, laid his cheek to hers, and
said—

“Dear, dear mother, don't! Father will speak to you—in
a minute he will.

This apparently soothed her. She was quiet for a moment;
but the tide flowed back and swept every thing before it. She
pushed her boy aside, threw back the tresses of hair that she
had gathered over her face, raised up, leaning on her elbow,
looked vacantly at her husband, at the infant, at her boy, and
broke out into peals of maniac laughter.

Colonel Freeman fled from the room.

“Oh, mother! dear mother! don't!” besought poor Willie.

Sylvy laid down the baby and rushed to the bedside. In
her effort to suppress her feelings and her words at her
brother's sudden appearance, she had bitten through her lip,
and the blood had trickled down over her white, loose gown.
The blood stains caught Lucy's eye.

“Did you kill her?” she asked with that sudden change
of countenance and flash of intelligence, common in madness.
“Did you, sister Sylvy? Oh! how could you? Well, I don't
know that I am sorry; it's all for the best; she was innocent,
poor little thing! You are sure she is quite, quite dead?”

“Oh, no, dear child!—she is not dead—she is not harmed.
I will take care of her—I will, Lucy.”

“Will you? Will you tell him she is innocent? Ask him,
beg him, pray him to let her stay with him. I am going
where all bad women go—going—going!”

Her utterance became incoherent and confused, and from
that time, though her mind was filled with distressful visions,
she had rarely and at long intervals any memory, or even
faint shadowing, of the realities of her own existence and its
dreadful calamity.

Colonel Freeman went to his room—shut and locked the
door. His sister went often to the entry that communicated
with his apartment, and signified, by her footsteps, that she
was there; but there was no response to her, and she understood
her brother too well to force herself upon him.

Evening came. Willie said—

“Don't you think, Aunt Sylvy, that my father will come
down before bed-time?”

“No—I think not.”

“But he has eaten no dinner and no supper?”

“I think he does not miss them, Willie. Go to bed,
child; go to bed—you can go to sleep.”

“I cannot—I feel as if I never should go to sleep again.”

The little fellow crept up stairs, and laid himself down by
his father's door, and there he lay a weary hour, listening to
the low, sad sounds within; and then the blessing of childhood
fell upon him, and he slept till the sun rose. He then
made a movement that indicated his awaking, and his father
opened the door and drew him into the room. He put his
arms fondly over the boy.

“It was kind of you, my child, to lie down there; it comforted
me.”

“Did it, sir? I am glad.”

“You have grown, Willy!”

“Why, yes, sir. I was only a child when you went away.”

A slight shiver passed over Colonel Freeman.

“It is a great while—four years the 22d of last April.
You have not changed otherwise than being taller, and more
manly. You are the same kind-hearted boy—you love your
little mother?”

There was an unwonted trembling of his voice on the last
words.

“Lover her, father! I love her better than any one in
the world. I can't help loving her. Can you, sir?”

His eyes fell.

“No, Willie. Tell me, my boy, why you never mentioned
your mother all the spring and winter in your letters?”

“She begged me not to, sir; and she used to say, over
and over again—`I am not your mother, Willie; I am not
your father's wife!' I could not think what she meant; and
she cried; so I couldn't do what she asked me not to do.”

“I do not blame you, my boy. And now we stand together,
and the world sha'n't move us. Go down stairs and
ask your aunt to send Ben to me with my portmanteau, and
water and towels; and ask your aunt to come to me in half
an hour.”

“Will you not come to breakfast, sir?”

“If I can, my son; I am not hungry now.”

“But, father, you have not eaten since yesterday morning!
You will be sick!”

“Don't fear that, my boy. You know I am a soldier,
and used to fasting. Go now.”

If one so sick at heart could have been sick in body, it
would have been an infinite relief.

Miss Sylvy counted the minutes, and in half an hour precisely
was in her brother's room. The Colonel had gone

through the renovation of washing and shaving, and he was
composed in his manner, but his ghastly paleness, a general
tremulousness, and his heavy, dull, sick eye, showed how the
strong man had been taken down.

“Sit down, my good sister,” he said.

Her brother's composure seemed preternatural to Sylvy;
it awed her. She sank into a chair, and said, without addressing
him, for she seemed to speak unconsciously,

“My knees are weak. I wonder what ails me!”

“Sylvy,” said her brother, “we have a task to do, and we
must set shoulder to shoulder. You have ever been the
friend that is the medicine of life to me, and so you will continue
to be. It seems to me that I have lived ages and ages
since I opened that door yesterday. It has been a sorrowful
night.”

He paused, and wept like a child.

“I didn't mean this should be again,” he continued; “but
nature will have her way. Sylvy, light has broken upon me.
I think the good God has answered my prayer, and given me
wisdom to direct my steps aright. I have laid out my course,
and with His help I will maintain it. How is she this morning?”

“Just so—lost, entirely lost, but not raving.”

“Did she sleep?”

“Yes, a sort of sleep, brother. The doctor gave her
opium. Her sleep was full of groans, and sobs, and confused
talk!”

“Sylvy, give me in brief the history of the past week—go
no farther back—I have made out the fatal story. I speak of
it now for the first and last time. Let no friend ever speak
to me on the subject. If an enemy does, I shall know how to
answer him. I remember when it was you said she had a

falling out with—with—” (his voice choked)—“with Oakley.
The last of November he left here. Her life since has been
one of remorse and misery. Tell me now, Sylvy, what I
asked of you.”

“Yes, brother; but I must go farther back than last
week. I didn't tell you all in my letters. Maybe I was
wrong; but, says I to myself, brother can't leave his duty,
and what's the use of distressing him?

“It was weeks and weeks before her dejection was known
to the neighbours. She was always a little house-body, you
know—no hand for visiting; and so after you went away, we
seldom saw the neighbours, and I am a still body at best. It
was enough to tell the work-folks that Mrs. Freeman was
not well; and so it went on for weeks, till one day Mr. West
called, and after telling me that he had heard that Oakley
had got safe into New-York, he asked to see her; I could
not refuse him, so I led him right into the dwelling-room.
She started and turned pale, for she had got so nervous then
she could not bear any thing. Mr. West soon saw how low
she was, and he thought it was on account of your long absence,
and anxiety, and so on; and the good man's tears ran
down his face—he is a dreadful feeling man you know—but
he told her she `ought to submit, and remember she was a
professor!'

“`Yes—yes,' she said—it was the first word she spoke—
`a professor, and a hypocrite!'

“`But, my dear young friend,' he said, `you surely have
not lost your hope?'

“`I have, I have,' she cried, `for ever and for ever!'

“He talked long, and handled her as if she had been a
little child. You know, brother, how, from the very first she
had that about her that made every one gentle with her. But,

then, Mr. West, out of the range of doctrine, and down the
pulpit stairs, is gentle to every one. Well, he talked, she
not answering a word, but looking steadfastly down. He
told her the church and he had been well satisfied with her
experience at her examination, and that many a saint had
low times,—but that final perseverance was sure. He said
that he had known others who, in trying circumstances, or
poor health, were tempted by Satan to give up their precious
hope. She answered not a word. He told her he would
send her his unpublished work on the Atonement, and he did
so, and other writings of learned divines on the Perseverance
of Saints, and so on. She never opened them—and she begged
me never to bring Mr. West into her room again, and
wrought me to promise I would not. She said the evil spirit
most tormented her when a good spirit was near. But she
said little. There were days and days she saw no face but
mine, for she said she could not even bear Willie's presence—
and then, again, she could not bear to have him move from
her side. She never opened one of your letters—she would
not even touch them. She said she was not worthy. She
had them put in a basket on the table, beside which he sat,
and Willie said, many a time, she would bend her head over
it, and the tears would fall like rain. You may see them
now all crumpled with her tears—poor little dear!”

“Merciful God!” exclaimed Colonel Freeman, starting
from his seat with uncontrollable emotion. He was soon
again calm. “Proceed, Sylvy,” he said.

“Well, brother—so it went on. I saw she did not get
thin or pale—and I kept hoping that when the time for the
singing of birds came, and the woods freshened, and the grass
sprung, and the blossoms came out, she would rise. But, no,
she who had loved all such pretty things, never seemed to

desire any of them now. Day and night I considered about
writing to you—but I knew how the country needed all your
strength, and how you were harassed, and I much doubted if
this were a case that even you could help; not that I ever—
ever—for an instant mistrusted the truth. You know, brother,
I am not much acquainted with woman's business, and
I am not one of the suspicious or observing kind—and truly,
truly I should as soon have surmised evil of one of the angels
that stand before the Heavenly throne as of our Lucy—poor
little dear! I always went into her room before I went to
bed, to see if there were any thing to be done,—and night
before last, as I was leaving the room, I heard a groan—I
turned and looked at her. `You are in distress,' I said.

“ `I am always in distress,' she answered.

“ `But,' says I, `Lucy, this is something more than common.'

“ `It is!—it is!' she says, and clenching both her hands,
she told me what was coming—`I shall die,' she says, `I
know I shall die; for I have prayed and prayed for that. I
have asked nothing else. God is merciful, and he will grant
me that. I would rather go now to the fire prepared for me
than meet your brother's altered eye.'

“She never called you husband—poor little dear!—from
the time her spirits first failed. I was calm, brother. The
shock was too great for words, or tears. Her sufferings
increased beyond account. I had never been in such a situation
before, and though she begged me to let her die alone
with me, I dared not. So I roused Ben, and sent for
Doctor Lyman. He said not one word when I told him.
But he felt. Well, the child was born towards morning.
Doctor Lyman was doctor, nurse, and every thing—for I
knew no more than you would, brother, what to do. I think

she wandered a little from the moment the child was born.
She would see Willie—she would not be denied. Doctor
Lyman said it was not safe to refuse her. I told him Willie
might be relied on. The doctor went out and talked to
Willie himself—I don't know what he said, but I surmise
the poor boy knows enough what it all means. Doctor Lyman
said, says he, `Miss Sylvy, keep your doors shut and
locked. The hellish spirit of gossip is awake in the village,'
says he, `but, if possible, it shall not be gratified this
time. For the present, take the best care you can. You
know how to keep close—so do I. We will consider for the
future. Perhaps I will, myself, go to the Colonel—but we
leave that. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. We
will shelter her if we can. She is a million times better than
those that are ready and glad to believe in her backsliding,
`tigers and foul beasts!' says he.”

“Oh, that it should be so—`earth and ashes' as we all
are!” groaned Colonel Freeman.

Sylvy had finished her mournful story, and she was not
addicted to any prosing comments, least of all at this time
was she like to offend in this way. After a few moments'
silence, Colonel Freeman said, “Thank you, my good sister;
I believe you have done all for the best. There is much
wisdom in a good and feeling heart. Tell Dr. Lyman I
kindly thank him. I cannot speak even to him on the subject.
But, do you tell him, Sylvy, I wish to have no concealments—no
false shows—no acting lies. No, say not that
last to him. He is an honest man, and meant no wrong. I
have my own view of the matter. I wish to shape our life
for the equal eye of God, and not with any respect to the
erring, presumptuous hard judgment with which man, and
woman too, judge their own frail fellow-creatures. No, I have

laid out my course, and with God's help and blessing, I will
follow it. I have no blame to throw upon my poor little
wife—if she were herself, I would go upon my knees and ask
her forgiveness. It is not that I take blame for marrying
one so much younger than myself. You know, Sylvy, our
love filled up that chasm! But, how could I, deemed a prudent
man—arrived at the age of cool forethought and discretion,
invite a man—an idle man—with all the qualities pleasing
in the eye of a young woman, in the closest intimacy with
my wife. I, who was her earthly providence, should have
preserved her from temptation, and not thrust her into it. I
look back and see that repentance and remorse followed close
on transgression. Surely, if a mortal's penitence can expiate
sin, she has washed hers out by months of continual tears—
by days and nights of untold misery. My life henceforth
shall be devoted to her—if she lives. If she dies, and I
think she will die, not one reproachful thought will turn to
the time since we parted, but I will lay her down in the grave
lovingly, and in the hope of a joyful re-union.”

“Brother, I thought you would feel so—I know your nature—but—”

“But what, Sylvy?”

“You forget the law, brother—the law of church and
state divorces you?”

“Forget!” echoed Colonel Freeman. “She has, herself,
divorced us—broken for ever our marriage bond—but what
law can prevent my cherishing her as a child—loving her as
a child. We have a wide land, Sylvy; if she lives we will
take her beyond the reach of the laws she has offended. We
will live where God, who forgiveth, will alone take cognizance
of us. We will all go together, Sylvy.”

“The baby, brother?”

“I have wrestled there, Sylvy. I cannot see how it is
right to cast out from us the only perfectly innocent one
among us. And yet to take it with us a perpetual memento,
badge, and reproach! I leave that, Sylvy. I trust
to have strength for my duty when the time comes. For the
present, find a nurse, and let the poor little heir of shame
and sorrow be well cared for.”

“But you must leave us, brother, and return to duty?”

“No, I never will leave my home again. Others can as
well perform my public duty—none other can do it here.
There is my letter to the commanding officer.”

He laid under her eye an unsealed letter. Sylvy read
the few words following, which were all it contained.

The dishonour of Colonel Freeman's house was soon
known through the little community of S—. The weak had
their pleasure in the mean “I told you so!” The wicked
scoffed; the hard-hearted thought the Colonel should be dealt
with for winking at sin; the pitiful dropped a tear over their
erring sister, and said nothing. There were a few magnanimous
minds that sympathized with the divine qualities of
Colonel Freeman, and felt how much greater was the husband,
who could hold an even scale, who could forgive and
succour, than he who crushes and avenges. Mercy is thrice
blessed. “Pride is hateful before God and man.”

“Man proposes—God disposes,” as the projects and disappointments
of every day show. Colonel Freeman took his
breakfast with his sister and son. Ben, and a small servant

girl, as was the custom of the time, even with most of our New
England gentry, sitting at one end of the table. The Colonel
was calm and self-possessed. He commended Miss Sylvy's
bread—he had never seen as good, he said, since he had left
his own home. “The making of good bread was one of the
first of duties—but few,” he said—and there was a faint, but
benign smile on his face as he looked to his sister in saying
it—“but few performed it.” He thanked the zealous little
girl who had been out in the dewy field to pick the strawberries
for his breakfast. He asked Ben about the planting and
the stock. The storm had swept over him, but it had left
him lord of himself.

“You praise every thing, but you don't eat, father!” said
poor Willie, who watched him intently.

“Don't be anxious, my dear little boy—I am a strong
man, and can bear a long fast. In a day or two I shall do
my part.” He could not, with all his resolution and effort, do
it now; and he hastily left the table and joined Dr. Lyman,
who he knew was awaiting him in his wife's apartment. She
was awake. She turned her eyes, glancing on him, and they
followed him as he passed round to the foot of the bed. She
was quiet, but it was a fearful calm, an absence of the sense
from which emotion and passion spring. Colonel Freeman
came round to the side of the bed. He took her hand. It
was passive in his. He stroked her hair from off her brow
as he had been used to do when she was a little girl. Not a
muscle moved. “Lucy,—dear little Lucy!” he said. She
made no reply—no movement. He bent over her, and his
hot tears fell on her white cheek. She didn't feel them. He
started away from her, and paced up and down the room.
She raised her head and leaned on her elbow—her eyes still

intently fixed on him. Having knit his mind to the worst—
“Are her senses utterly gone, Doctor?” he asked.

“I cannot tell you, my dear sir—it looks so, I confess—
but I think not utterly. She has spoken to me. She seems
to be possessed with one idea. Mrs. Freeman, do you know
who you are looking at?”

“I know what I am looking at,” she answered, speaking
in her natural voice, but with an inflexible harrowing monotony;
“but you do not, Doctor,—one shadow cannot see another.
I excuse you sir,—but you need not talk about it.
I am a real living being, and talking rather worries me. Pass
this way—pass this way.” She motioned her hand to her
husband, and he came again to the bedside.—“There it is,
just so, Doctor. They are all gone—there's nothing but shadows
left!”

And so it seemed to her. This one idea had taken possession
of her mind. God had dealt mercifully with her.
The great facts of her life were stricken from her memory.
The faculty was not utterly lost; for several days following
she continued to call the Doctor, Sylvy, and Willie by name
—always maintaining they were mere shadows. Doctor Lyman
laid the baby on her arm, hoping the intense feeling
connected with its existence might stimulate her mind to
more rational action. But it failed of this effect. She only
said in the same unvarying tone, “It is but a little shadow,
but it makes me cold—take it away, if you please.”

One after another was lost from her memory. Her husband
lived alone there, if that could be called life which to
her was but the shadow of life. Day after day—weeks—
months—years! passed on and there was no change. The
only feeling she manifested was a preference of her husband's
to all other “shadows,” as she called them. She made little

demonstration, even of this. She had a desire, as most people
under a nervous derangement have, to be in the open air, and
she was permitted to walk in the fields behind the house.
No one but Colonel Freeman could induce her to return to
it. He had but to join her and turn towards the house—she
followed, often repeating “that shadow draws me after it!”
The only food she tasted was that he brought her. His
patience and tenderness never abated. It was wonderful to
see a man in the vigour of his manhood—a man who had commanded
a regiment in perilous and perplexing times, who had
won laurels in many battles, become the gentle nurse—circumscribing
his life, and renouncing power and fame, and all
that most men most love, most eagerly pursue.

He built an apartment for her with a southern aspect—
hoping, as he said, that the sun and moon would be God's
ministers to her. He bought sweet singing birds, and put
them in cages by her window.

He planted lilacs and damask roses—the only flowering
things then domiciliated in Berkshire, about her window, and
he trained around it a monthly honey-suckle, obtained, at
much pains. Thus the “Flower Angel” was ever near her,
expounding the parable of that modern Sirach, Edie Ochiltree,
who says “it is to teach us not to slight them that are
in the darkness of sin and the decay of tribulation, that God
sends odours to refresh the withered hour.”

A coarse jest at the expense of Colonel Freeman might
have passed round in the congregation of vulgar men at the
village bar-room, and there might have been depreciating
whispers from some female Pharisee of a tea-drinking—but
for the most part, men, women and children united in a sentiment
of reverence for the Freemans.

Taking into account what human nature is, we must attribute

a portion of this to the natural dignity and commanding
presence of Colonel Freeman, to his soldierly reputation,
and to the purity of a life without reproach, which latter carries
with it a stronger prestige than the “divinity that doth
hedge about a king.” There was a single exception to this
general current of respect.

Obed Allen returned to his home at the close of the war,
one of the few enriched by its employment, and puffed up,
and glorying in his shame. The very day after his return he
met Col. Freeman at the village Post-Office. Mail-day was
then once a week, some great news was expected, and the
little room was crowded with men and lads from all the
districts of the town. Allen had not been long enough at
home “to take an observation,” (to borrow a seaman's phrase,)
that is (in our village parlance) he had not ascertained “the
mind of the street,” and obedient to his own low instinct, he
ventured to the Colonel a jocular reference to the warning he
had given him. Colonel Freeman said nothing, but sent a
glance through Allen, which, a bystander said, put him in
mind of the promise: “I will give unto you power to tread
on serpents and scorpions;” there was a general cry of
“shame!” and Allen was hustled round the room, and kicked
out the door, and that very evening, a brilliant moonlight one,
the lads of the village rode him on a rail—a species of Lynch
law then much in fashion.

We have but one more incident to relate before we close
this sad, but we hope not quite useless story. Soon after the
Peace, an English packet was transmitted to Colonel Freeman,
by official hands. He was alone with his sister when
he received it, and pleased and curious as one is at receiving
an important-looking dispatch, he turned it first on one side,
and then on the other, examined the stamps and the handwriting,

and said, “Why, Sylvy, one would think I was still
somebody—a colonel at the head of a regiment.”

“Open it, brother—open it,” said Sylvy, impatiently.

“Foreign Embassy! Secretary of Legation!” murmured
the Colonel, still reading the impressions—“what can this
mean?”

“Open the letter, brother, open it—that is the shortest
way to find what is in it.”

The Colonel smiled and broke the seal—and first read the
envelope which was merely a certificate of the genuineness
of the inclosure. He broke the second seal, and read as
follows:—

Inclosed within this letter was a draft for ten thousand
pounds sterling. Colonel Freeman threw the letter across
the table to his sister without speaking a word.

“How dare he!” she exclaimed as she finished reading it.
`Regretted!' what a flimsy word for one who has no right
all his life to talk or think of any thing but sackcloth and
ashes. How will you answer it, brother?”

“There is but one way. I shall return his letter and
draft through the hands that forwarded it. My handwriting
of the superscription will be explanation enough to him.”

By an inexplicable coincidence, marked events of life
seem to fall together. Miss Sylvy went habitually early
to Mrs. Freeman's room, and washed and dressed her, as
when she had first come to live with her, and she was as docile

and gentle in her hands now as in childhood. She had
always found her out of bed, and usually pacing up and down
the room, for, with the wakefulness that characterizes insaniity,
her sleep ended with the first ray of daylight. On the
day after the receipt of Oakley's letter, on going to perform
her morning office, she found Lucy still in bed. Miss Sylvy
approached the bed, and sat down, for she found, to her surprise,
that her patient was, as she believed, still sleeping, and
as she looked nearer, she thought much changed. There
was a slight knitting of the brow which had been smooth
from vacuity—the blue veins showed a quick and irregular
beating of the heart. Soon she perceived a movement of the
eyeballs through the almost transparent lids, and a tremulousness
of the lids; and in a few moments, closed as they
were, one tear stole after another over her deathly pale cheek.
Sylvy gently wiped them away.

“Thank you, dear—good—sister,” said Lucy, in the lowest,
feeblest whisper, “but don't speak to me, now—sit still,
by me.”

Sylvy obeyed—every minute seemed an age. But in a
few minutes she again spoke.

“Call your brother,” she said, “and Willy—and lay my
baby on my pillow.”

“I will call them—but, your baby—dear little Lucy—
your baby is in heaven. She lived but a year.”

“A year!” She opened her eyes, wide, and spoke with
great increase of force. “Why, I thought it was but yesterday,
sister; a year! how strange! But she is in heaven,
you say—God is good and merciful! Call them, Sylvy.”

Sylvy communicated the change to her brother and nephew—now
a charming lad of fifteen. They hastened, with
throbbing hearts and suppressed emotion, to the bed of the

dying wife and mother. They both bent over and kissed her
and then knelt beside her. Colonel Freeman wore his hair
long over his temples; it was silvered, but it still retained
the softness and waviness of his youth. She put up her little
hand and held it off his brow and looked calmly and intently
into his eyes till her arm dropped from weakness.

“My friend!—father!—husband!” she faintly articulated,
“may I call you husband?”

“Oh, Lucy!—dear wife!—yes!”

“You have forgiven me?”

“Forgiven!—don't speak that word—you are dearer to
me than my own soul. Don't,” he said, speaking with perfect
calmness, for he feared a breath might hurry away her
fluttering spirit, “don't speak of the past—don't think of it,
dearest child.”

“I must speak—for I am going away from you all; and
I have much to say. How long is it since you came home
and stood there at the foot of the bed and looked at me? Oh,
my heart! be still one minute.” She laid her hand on her
throbbing heart. “And Willie was there where he is now,
and Sylvy sat by the table, with my poor baby—how long?”

“Four years, yesterday!”

“Four years!—four years!—how strange—strange! I
thought it was yesterday morning. I remember nothing
since, but a strange dream of shadows—and a long, long
walk with you, my husband—up through the clover-field, and
being so tired—and a feeling that you loved me, and pitied
me—and that you all would love me if you were any thing
—but you seemed all, but shadows. You took care of my
sinless baby, dear husband? God received it, and you, I
know, did not cast it out.”

“I did not, my child. Sylvy took it to her own room—

and we got a wet-nurse for it—and they told me it thrived—
but at the end of the year it pleased God suddenly to take
it. I did what I could for it—I never saw it.”

Lucy drew a deep sigh. “Right—perfectly right,” she
said. “What a long dream I have had—four years! I
waked from it early this morning. It seemed to me, this
was not my room.”

“No, dear child, it is a room I built for you.”

“How strange—I got out of bed and crept, I was too
weak to walk, to the window. I opened the shutter, the
clouds were rose-coloured. I had a feeling I should soon
be beyond them. There was the sweetest scent came into
the windows—it seemed to me the breath of an angel. I
tried to think, I could not think, but the past came back
—one thing after another, as we see objects as the light of
day increases. And I had no distress—no distress. It
seemed to me, you all loved me, all were at sweet peace with
me! I recalled that hour of darkness and distress, when
you came home, my honoured husband; I seemed again to
see your look of pity, and compassion and forgiveness, and it
was that gave me a sense of God's infinite mercy—yes, peace
fell upon me, God's peace, and all the world cannot take it
away.” She spoke in the lowest audible tone, and audible
only in profound silence, and to senses made most acute by
intense feeling. “Stand up, dear Willie,” she said. “Oh—
how tall—it is four years! Willie, put your cheek down to
mine, dear. Willie, when you are a man, you will not blush
at your mother's name? the sin that has been repented in
tears, and misery not to be told as mine has—that God and
man has forgiven, you will not blush for, my son?”

“Oh, no—dear mother, no—never!”

“Sylvy,” resumed the dying woman, “I have not breath

to thank you. How long-suffering, and slow to anger you
were.”

“Oh, dear little Lucy,” said the faithful creature, “don't
waste your breath on me—I did nothing, I could not do any
thing for you—but love you—that I did.”

A faint smile played over Lucy's pale—still beautiful
lips. “Yes—and doing that you could do—did do all the
rest,” she said—“Sylvy, I have a message for Mr. West.
Give my respectful love to that good man, and tell him God
has taught me better than when I cried in my despair that
my hope was gone for ever, and for ever—tell him that I returned
to Him who forgiveth and upbraideth not—and fell
asleep in my Heavenly Father's arms.” She then again
kissed Willie, motioned him aside, and drew her husband to
her. “My husband,” she said, “dearest—best—we are again
united!”

“Yes, my wife,” he answered, “for ever and for ever!”

A gleam of joy shot through her eyes, a heavenly brightness
overspread her whole face, it came and went like a flash
of lightning, but it left an ineffaceable impression on those
faithful ones who saw it. To them it was a preternatural
light—a visible token of God's presence.

Two days after, the neighbours assembled to perform the
last services. When Mr. West rose to make the prayer, he
repeated, with a trembling voice, and overflowing eyes, the
message of the departed to him. It was his only allusion to
any thing peculiar in the circumstances of their friends. The
good man's mind, glowing with a sense of God's infinite love,
kindled with divine life spirits lower than his own.

Lucy Freeman was tenderly and reverently borne to her
grave, and when the sods were laid upon it, human, for once,
reached heavenly love—there was more joy, on earth as in

heaven, over one that repenteth, than over ninety and nine
that had not gone astray.

Colonel Freeman returned to life, not with a bowed head
and faint heart, but with that cheerful activity that springs
from an assured faith in God, and love to man. The only
indication that he had suffered more than others appeared in
pity for the erring, and earnest efforts to reclaim them, and
in sympathy with every form of sorrow. It was said of
him that not a day passed over his head without some good,
purposed and done. The prosperity of his outward life overflowed
the more barren condition of his neighbours.

His son grew up to place and honour in the State. He
kept his promise to his mother. Her name was transmitted
to his children a dear, familiar, honoured household word.
And when he laid his father (after a serene and sound old
age) in a grave beside her in our village burial-ground, it was
with “a peace that passeth understanding.”