University of Virginia Library

MARGARET FIELDS.

I have read a story of Blake, the painter, that sometimes
when engaged on a picture, an imaginary being, or the haunting
memory of a face, unseen perhaps for years, would thrust
itself between the canvas and his pencil, and force him to
abandon his work until the visionary portrait, or whatever it
was, was sketched. So it is with me this morning: I had other
scenes in hand, but the story I am about to write will not be
put aside, and therefore, as best I may, I will fulfil a sorrowful
task.

In one of the many beautiful valleys of the West, not far
from Clovernook, stands an old-fashioned cottage, half hidden
among tall slender-trunked maples, gnarled oaks, and flowing
elms—spared monuments of the forest growth, of which the
cool shadows drop on the grass beneath, all the long summer,
grateful to the little naked feet of the children that frolic there,
carelessly picking from where they are sunken among the turf
the round clover blossoms, red and white, and building play-yards,
with boundaries of slender weeds, and broken bits of
china for ornament.

The house, and all that pertains to it, are now falling sadly to
decay, but the vestiges, here and there, speak of more affluent
and prosperous days. The paint is washed from the weatherboards;
the shutters, broken and left without fastening, beat
backward and forward with every storm, the fences are leaning
to the ground, and a desolate and ruinous look is everywhere.
Blue thistles bloom about the meadows, and some straggling
roses and unpruned lilacs tell where the garden was in other
times.

But my story has little to do with the place as it is now. I
must go back a little. Ten years ago, everything around the
cottage was as bright and pretty as you can imagine, and Margaret,
the sunshine of the house, the brightest and prettiest of
all. Yet she was not beautiful, as most persons estimate
beauty, having nothing of that physical and showy development
which is commonly admired; but in her eyes lay a depth of
tenderness and a world of thought; and in her face was a blending
of intellectuality and the most exquisite refinement. She was
now an only child, though she had been one of two children, to
that time when the buds of childhood are opening to full bloom,
and a cloud had then swept across her early womanhood. How
often, as I went to school, after her playmate was gone, have I
seen her sitting in the shadows of the old trees about the door,
her hands lying idly on her lap, and her eyes on the ground.
She was never mirthful, even before the fountain of sorrow had
been struck open in her heart, by that hand that no love can
turn away, but now she was more quiet, and pensive almost to
melancholy. Her mother had been for years an invalid, and
one of those restless, querulous, dissatisfied invalids, whom few
persons find pleasure in attending. Scarcely was Margaret
suffered to leave her presence half-an-hour at a time; now a
cup of water was wanted, which only Margaret could bring,
and when it was brought it was sure to be too hot or too cold
—not enough, or too much—and then the dear child who was
gone, was always contrasted with the present in a way to give
the latter pain.

Margaret must read to her, and she did by the hour, from
works she felt no interest in herself. Theological discussions
were the passion of Mrs. Fields, but the arguments which supported
her previously established views were the only ones she
could endure. That the dissenter was annihilated, admitted of
no doubt, so it was of no use, wasting time over his puerility.
But at the conclusion of these intermittent and unsatisfactory
readings, there were no kind words or thanks for Margaret—
she had read so fast or so slow that her poor mother had had
little enjoyment. If she stayed at home she was a sad mope,
so unlike the dear child that was in heaven—if she went abroad,

she had so little consideration for the stricken and afflicted invalid
at home, and was still so unlike the dear departed. Poor
Margaret! it is no wonder she was sad.

The summer of which the fading blossoms should bring her
seventeenth birthday, was come. At the window of her
mother's chamber Margaret sat alone, for the invalid had been
busy with reproaches all the morning, and was fallen asleep.
The girl was unusually sad—she had been looking across the
hills to the dark line of woods that skirted the village graveyard,
where the willow trailed, and the now fast-fading violets lay
about the modest head-stone. She had been looking to that
spot, not as to an awful end, from which to shrink tremblingly
away, but rather as to the only spot in which peace, deep and
eternal, is to be embraced by the over wearied and lonely. I
would not call thee back, lost one! she said—to front again, it
may be with unequal strength, the beleaguering hosts that take
arms against us at our birth—to suffer, to struggle, to hope,
to fear, to falter, to fail, and to die; I would rather unlock
the door of thy dark chamber, and cover my eyes forever with
the silent whiteness of thy shroud.

Are these strange thoughts for youth and beauty? for she
was young, and I remember no face of more loveliness than
hers; for myself, I do not think them very strange. Her
father, in attending to the increase of his folds, and the gathering
of his harvests and the enlargement of his threshing-floors,
forgot his child, and her mother, a troubled and troublesome
invalid, never spoke to her in any words of tenderness, or called
her any gentle names. The fountain of her sisterly affection
had been choked with the dust of death, and that stronger feeling,
the strongest that attaches mortality to earth, had never
touched her heart. A time was very close at hand when she
should hear gladness in the song of the harvester that she had
never heard, and feel a warmth and joyousness in the sunshine
that had drifted before her coldly as the clouds. Love was
already brightening in her skies, and a new and beautiful garniture
was presently to adorn her world. Now, as she sat, the
light fell over the valleys, gilded the hill-tops, shimmered along
the meadows, played on the window-sill beneath her eyes, and

sunk among her long, chestnut lock sunheeded. They are small
things that make up the sum of human happiness or misery; a
smile, or a kind word, may strengthen us for the tasks and
duties of the day, more than the fresh airs of summer, more
than the shelter of a broad roof, or daintiest viands, or most
delicious and inspiring wines. A reproachful glance, any untoward
event, a ruthful conviction, falls on the hands like paralysis,
on the heart like mildew; and the landscape fades not so
much with the slant rains of autumn beating cold against its
flowers, as for the presence of any of these.

Beneath the window where Margaret sat, a man was spading
the fresh earth, and the peculiar and invigorating odor impregnated
all the air. He was singing to himself snatches of old
songs:

Her attention was arrested, and she said, as she resumed the
task with which she had been occupied, “You are right, old man,
sing while you may—there is an end of all our thoughtless
singing ere we think.” He had thrown up a ridge of earth
against some roots, to protect them from frost, and brushing
gray hairs from his forehead, that was wrinkled with care and
time, he resumed his labor and the song.

“Ah, yes,” said Margaret, smiling and taking up her again
neglected work, “it is better than play.” Her mood was becoming
more genial from seeing the gardener's cheerful labor.
Presently he was joined by his boy. “Here, take the spade,”
said he, and lighting his pipe, with a match and flint he carried
in his pocket, he sat down to smoke, while the youth went on
with the service, after the manner of his father, yet how differently.
He was a wiry lad, with yellow curls blowing over his
eyes, and hands like ill-shapen bones, with a warted and brown

skin about them. His eyes were yellowish gray, his complexion,
the tint of a blackened rose, and his only clothing a
shirt of small-specked calico, and blue cotton trowsers. He
wore no shoes, and as he endeavored to force the spade in the
ground, constantly bruised and hurt his feet in such way as
caused repeated exclamations of vaxation, after which he would
pause a moment, and look with dissatisfied scowl all about him.
Meantime the old man had leaned against the fence of the
garden, and with closed eyes seemed to enjoy the fragrant ex-halations
of his pipe. “Some people have easy times,” said
the boy, “ding it all!” and walking slily near his father, set up
the spade in the ground, and then, touching it with his hand
lightly, caused it to fall and push the pipe from the mouth of
the smoker, who, starting from his agreeable reverie, gave a
half-reproachful look to the lad, and one of sorrow to the broken
pipe, and seizing the spade, resumed his work with more earnestness,
and his song with more unction, than before: “It is better
to work than play.”

Having found release from the labor which he seemed not to
love, the boy stole beneath the window, and on a hollow reed
began piping a simple air, doubtless for the ear of the fair lady
above.

“Ezra,” said her sweet voice, as she leaned from the window,
“that is a pretty song, but I heard Josiah singing from the garden
a little time ago; though his voice was tremulous, he was so tired,
the song was more cheerful than yours; and if you will take
his place for an hour, and I am sure you will, your song may
become happy as his.” The boy said not a word, overcome, as it
seemed, by such condescension, but gliding away, he took the
spade, with some words of apology, from the weary hands of
the old man, and began working in good earnest without once
saying, “ding it all,” a favorite exclamation in which his dissatisfaction
usually found vent.

“A pleasant song you have been singing, Josiah,” said Margaret,
as the old man hobbled by towards his own cottage,
“and this is to pay you;” handing him from the window a new
pipe—a very pretty one, as Josiah thought—for he looked at it
in what seemed a bewilderment of admiration, and said, “Nobody

in the sound of the church bell is half so good or half so
beautiful as Miss Margaret.” “Ah, you must not give me any
flattery,” she answered, laughingly, “for I have heard that wiser
heads than mine have been spoiled thereby, and hereafter I may
only be giving you presents for the sake of fair words.”

The happy old man went toward his cottage, happy for that
he had a new pipe, and also for the new kindness of his son—
whom, he thought, some supernatural visitant must have influenced.
While working in the garden with earnestness and
cheerfulness by no means habitual to him, the ill-natured but
simple-minded boy looked now and then at the window, where
Margaret was busy with her sewing, humming the words of
Josiah—“It is better to work than play.” She was probably
conscious that the boy was busy beneath the window, but
she was so much engrossed, that she did not notice the passing
of the young village clergyman on his accustomed walk. Glad
to arrest her attention for a moment, even though it were to
divert it from himself, Ezra gathered, and threw in at the window
a sprig of rue, saying, “Look yonder, Miss Fields.” She
looked in the direction indicated, and the color came rushing
into her cheeks as she did so, for she saw that her glance was
observed. The road on which the Fields' cottage was situated,
was not the main one, but was what is usually termed a crossroad,
for the convenience of out of the way farmers, and it
struck into the more frequented thoroughfare, leading to the
village on the one hand, and to the city on the other, at the
distance of about half a mile westward from the cottage; and
on this road, full of dusty travel, stood, at the distance of a
quarter of a mile to the south, a large and fashionable house, of
very red bricks, and with inside blinds of white, a style of finish
of which no other in the whole neighborhood could boast.
Here lived Mr. Ralph Middleton, a descendant of one of the
royalist families of the Revolution, and strongly tincutred with
aristocratic feeling. He kept the best coach in the county, in
fact there were but one or two others, and he drove the finest
horses, bred the best cattle, and was acknowledged the great
man of all that region; and his acquaintance was esteemed even
by Deacon White and Doctor Haywood, as an especial honor.

Often I remember of crossing the fields from school to look
at the deer in his orchard, and I know now that I felt half
ashamed and mortified, that we had only two brown calves and
a flock of sheep and lambs in ours. My deference for the
Middletons, I am willing to acknowledge, though it humbles
me, at this distance of time, to know that anything but honest
integrity should have elicited such feeling. I was by no means
however so prostrated before them, as were most of my school
companions, who were glad to talk with James, the black man,
who tended the cows, and rode to the field on a little sorrel
poney, to bring them home at night: sometimes carrying little
Willie Middleton on the saddle before him. My admiration
was never seryile, but I can remember that more than one of my
playmates would gladly have been deprived of dinner when it
chanced to be some nicety to which they were not accustomed,
for the hope of giving it at night to Willie Middleton, though
he fed it to his dog “Flora,” or threw it on the ground.

Sometimes we saw the daughter, Florence Middleton, sitting
under the orchard trees, with her book—a beautiful girl, else
my childish fancy interpreted amiss her long golden curls, soft
blue eyes, and lily complexion. Her dress was always exquisitely
tasteful, nor had the soil of labor embrowned her
youthful cheek, or hardened her plump little hands, glittering
with gems, either of which would have bought any of the petty
estates in the neighborhood. I think her disposition must have
been exceedingly sweet and amiable, for she sometimes called
us to her—a rude and noisy tribe, as we were, and showed us
through the garden—to us a fairy land—gathering flowers for
us, and telling us their names, which we could not remember,
but thought long and curious, and supposed were brought from
across the sea. Toward us she acted, though I know not if such
were her custom with others, as one confident of ability to
please.

Margaret Fields, none of us thought pretty, though from my
recollections now, she must have been much the prettier of the
two. Her brown hair was always parted smoothly away from
her forehead, and her dark eyes had that look of soft and angel
gentleness, as if half suffused with coming tears. But her

dress of simple muslin, had none of the style belonging to Florence's,
it looked as though we ourselves might wear such an
one some day. Then, too, we had seen her in the little cabin
of Josiah, when the good dame was disabled with rheumatism
or toothache, making bread, or scattering crumbs to the chickens:
how could she be either pretty or a fine lady! She was
punctual in her attendance at church, where, to our regret, we
never saw Florence, for every Sabbath she went in the coach
with her father to the city, where, as we heard, the pews were
nicely cushioned, the aisles carpeted, and the windows stained
in such a way, as to make the light more beautiful than that
which streams through sunset clouds.

From the window where Margaret sat so often, reading to
her querulous mother, or within her call, the white spire of the
village church was distinctly visible. The pastor, at this time,
was but lately come to the parish, and in the meanwhile the
illness and ill-humor of her mother, had prevented her being in
her accustomed place, so that as the boy Ezra threw the rue in
her lap, she looked up and saw the young man for the first
time. “A fair looking personage, is he not?” she said, as with
one ungloved hand between the gilt leaves of a small volume,
and one holding a red thistle flower, he passed slowly along—
not without more than once glancing at the pretty cottage. The
exclamation of the girl was partly to herself, and partly to
Ezra, who, leaning upon his spade, was gazing with admiration
first at the young man and then at the girl. The poor boy
seemed to feel the vast distance between himself and the clergyman,
and could not repress the exclamations of `Ding it all!
blame!” Then, as if some sudden impulse seized him he
threw aside his spade, and glancing at Margaret, walked hastily
in the direction taken by the young man. When he had approached
him within a few steps, he slackened his pace, and observing
him with the jealous scrutiny of a spy, seemed desirous
himself of remaining unobserved. Ezra was selfish, for though
he could work with the most persevering energy, when the profits
of his labors accrued solely to himself, he declined exertion
for the benefit of his parents. Nothing but an inordinate love
of money could overcome his natural indolence, and for hours

sometimes he would lie basking in the sun, with no occupation
but his thoughts, the nature of which may be guessed from
the fact of his position being chosen generally within sight of
Margaret's window. The love of the moth for the star! In the
chamber of the cottage, where he slept, he had picked the plaster
from the wall, close by the head of the bed, making a place sufficiently
large for the concealment of his purse, which was, in fact,
the foot of an old gray stocking, in which were hoarded all his
little earnings, even from the first shilling given him by Deacon
White, for dropping corn, to the bright gold dollar he received
for the recovery of Mr. Middleton's stray cow. After the careful
survey of the young clergyman, which I have described, Ezra
went straight to his humble chamber, and taking the purse from
its concealment, counted the treasure, with a sort of chuckle,
and replacing it again, walked the floor, as in agitation. All
that night was sleepless—passed counting his money or walking
restlessly to and fro. But day had scarcely dawned ere,
with the strange purse in one hand and a luncheon of bread and
meat in the other, he was on his way to the city. Poor boy:
he was about to do a very foolish thing. Under the window of
Margaret he paused for a moment, and looked reverently up,
and then breaking into an exultant song, walked briskly forward.

Time went by—the bright morning sun had more than once
blackened the vine and rose leaves which the night had previously
stiffened with frost, but with the fading of nature came into
the heart of Margaret new light, and the haze, dimming the blue
air of summer, seemed only to make the world more beautiful.

The young minister had learned to end his walk at the cottage.
If, however, he passed sometimes, extending it to the
thick woods beyond, merely to see him and know that he was
well, and that he thought of her, at least, was beautiful sunshine
in her shady place. Occasionally, too, Margaret accompanied
him in these walks, and what delightful seasons they were to
her—how she treasured the flowers thus gathered for her, for
here and there, in some sheltered nook, a hardy flower might
still be found. Every word was stored in her heart, no matter
how trivial—whether of the sunset, or the sea—about the low

earth, or the high heavens. Yet there were words sometimes
uttered more dear to her than any suggested by the presence or
the aspect of the silent world; nor were his smile, or the tones
of his tremulous and variable voice, forgotten; but whether
grave or gay, mournful or encouraging, all were remembered
and referred to, afterwards.

Yearning for sympathetic kindness, uneducated in art, and
simple in nature as Margaret was, is it any marvel that she put
her hand in that of the young clergyman with the same confidence
she had previously felt in interviews with the gray-haired
man, who had given to her forehead the baptismal seal? We
expect the tendrils of the young vine to clasp themselves about
the nearest support; we expect the flower to unfold itself to
the kiss of the sun, and to blush beneath the breathing of the
wind; and the heart—to yield to the influence of kindness.

One evening when the young man had spoken more freely
than was his wont, of himself—of his past history, which had
not been unmixed with sorrow—and the fountain in her bosom
was stirred till tears washed the roses from her cheeks, roses
which his first kiss called back again, more brightly beautiful
than before—as they lingered over the parting, speaking little, but
one, at least, feeling much, the dull rumble of wheels over the
grass-grown road arrested their attention, and presently the gay
equipage of Mr. Middleton was seen approaching. Very proud
looked the coachman, of his glittering buttons and the bright
band on his hat; consequentially complaisant looked Mr. Middleton,
leaning on the golden head of his cane from the corner
of his coach; gay and bewitchingly smiling looked Florence, as
with curls flowing from her little coquettish bonnet, she joyously
kissed the tips of her white kid gloves to Margaret, though
their salutations had been limited to the simplest civility hitherto.
“Beautiful! is she not beautiful!” exclaimed the young
man, with enthusiasm, as the carriage rolled away. “Very,”
echoed Margaret; but the fervor that had been in her tone was
gone, the eloquent glow was faded from her cheek, and the tears
she strove to repress, came with tell-tale fulness to her eyes:
this time only the winds kissed them away—the eyes of the
clergyman were turned in the direction of the receding coach.

“But what were you saying?” asked Margaret, after a moment's
silence, and putting down her heart with a strong effort.

“Nothing,” answered the young man, mechanically; and,
with an abrupt “good-evening,” he walked hastily toward his
own home; while alone, in the deepening shadows, and as one
might have watched the folding of the white wings away from
Eden, stood the girl. She was recalling their interrupted conversation:

These were his last words, and on the hope they inspired, she
was trying to lean—a frail support—with the parting gulf between
them. Youth is buoyant, and sleep, that loves best the
eyes that are unsullied with a tear, sometimes also visits those
that are so sullied; and, under the influence of bright dreams,
new hopes awakened in the heart of Margaret, as daffodils under
the April rain.

All day she looked forward to the twilight, thinking of every
endearing word and look of the last meeting, and shutting from
her thoughts, as much as possible, the coldness and abruptness
of its close. At sunset, she sat beneath one of the trees at the
door, not to watch its fading splendors, or to wait the white
trembling of the evening star, but to listen for the echo of a
coming step. She did not have long to wait.

She had made her toilet with unusual care, for though she
wore the accustomed dress of simple muslin, some bright leaves
of the brier-rose shone among her chestnut braids, and the shawl
of crimson and orange, wrapt about her dainty bare arms, concealed
not the blue ribbons upon her neck and wrists.

Now and then as the gust rose, the yellow leaves dropped in
her lap, and a bird sometimes skimmed close to the ground,
very near; but not gust, nor dropping leaves, nor skimming
bird, did the maiden heed. Toward where the village spire
whitened against the purple clouds, she looked, how earnestly,
and the careless step of the passing traveller made her heart
beat louder and quicker than it could have beat at the sudden
bursting of a tempest. Presently, in the direction of her gaze,
the figure of a darkly-clad man is seen approaching slowly, and

by the sudden burning on her cheek, she recognises the minister.
The beating of her heart is like a death-watch—the shadow of a
fear crosses her thought—she knows not why: will his greeting
be cordial, or sad, or cold? Kind, surely, else he would not
have come; and so she rises and walks forward to meet him,
for he has almost reached the turning of the lane. “His head
is bent down,” she says, “but he will see me, in a moment
more, and quicken his step.” Does he see her? the hapless
sinking of her heart tells her Yes, and yet it would seem not,
for he has quite passed the lane, and is giving his walk a direction
which, till now, it had never received. Shall she walk forward,
or return? Hesitating, she does neither, but stands as
one stricken into stone, following with her eyes the receding
form of him who turns not even once to look on her. The way
he has chosen is dusty, and not so pleasant as the green and
quiet lane; but Ralph Middleton's garden borders the dusty
road, and the fair Florence walks there often at twilight. What
need is there of farther explanation? Days went by, and the
sunsets were just as beautiful as before, but not to the eyes of
Margaret—her walks were alone. After ten or twelve days, as
she one evening sat on the mossy log in the edge of the thick
wood, where she had so often sat before, watching the clouds or
the stars, in his dear presence, she was surprised in her sad
meditation, by his approach. He smiled as he drew near, and
extended his hand with more familiarity than formerly, and
seating himself beside her on the mossy log, talked gaily and
lightly of a thousand things, but in a different vein from that
in which he had ever talked before. His manner was now that
of a dear, kind, darling brother, but nothing more—in fact he
denied impliedly that anything more had ever been intended—
and he spoke of the future, but did not say
No—nothing of that sort—but of the time when he should have
a home—just such an one as the poetic mind of Margaret might
picture—and that one of the chief pleasures he hoped for was
in receiving her as a frequent guest. “You are growing thin,
my dear friend,” he said, patting her on the cheek in a patronizing
way; “you seclude yourself too much: how I wish I could
persuade you to condescend a little from your dignity, and associate
with your modest little neighbor yonder.” She did not
look up, but she felt that he pointed in the direction of the Middleton
mansion, and that that was the unkindest thing of all. She
said nothing, however, and the recreant continued, as though
every word were healing balm, instead of a piercing thorn:
“Really, Miss Fields, Florence is the most charming little
creature in the world; I am sure you would love her if you
knew her, so perfectly does she realize my ideal of all that is
good and beautiful.” “Doubtless she is all you say,” answered
Margaret; “but I am not one to win back love, however much
I may give; and for my own peace, it is best that I make no
overtures.” “Miss Fields must not so depreciate herself,” replied
the young man: “Florence speaks almost every evening
of the black-eyed cottage girl, and wishes she could be persuaded
to join our walks.” He had always said Margaret and
Miss Middleton, until to-night.

Thick and fast fell the shadows, and the poor girl was glad
of their fall, for she felt the blood go down from her cheek and
the waters coming up to her eyes. Father! there is need of
all thy infinite mercies for him who holds the heartstrings of
another with a careless hand.

“And so I have found you at last,” said a familiar voice,
breaking the silence that was becoming embarrassing, and Ezra
stood before the young people bowing awkwardly; but as he
recognised the clergyman, he could not avoid his habitual exclamation,
of “Ding it all!” He then, in his blandest manner,
told Margaret he had been searching for her everywhere—that
his mother, or the old woman, as he called her, had a terrible
fit of the rheumatism, and that she wished Miss Margaret to
come to her cabin, more for the comfort of her sweet smile than
for anything else.

A moment afterwards Margaret was on the way towards the
light that glimmered from the little window of the cabin in the
edge of the woods across the fields. Ezra walked at her side

in happy silence, feeling very much as if he had borne the prize
from a hundred lovers, and Margaret was too much engaged
with her own thoughts to speak to, or notice him. It was not
of the first slight swerving of the heart, that words are powerless
to express, that she mused, but—

And as the minister sat alone, did he watch the receding
figure of the girl, and as the pale, rebuking face of the moon
looked down on him from between the withering boughs, did he
reproach himself for the blight cast on a young life? Alas, no!
“I never told her I loved her,” he said, and thus satisfied his
conscience, if it whispered any unpleasant remonstrance; and
of the thousand nameless things that have more meaning than
words, he said, “If she misconstrued them, am I to blame?”
But the meeting and the parting with Margaret, their brief conversation,
and the reflections it caused, of whatever sort, were
speedily forgotten in the gorgeous lights and gay music and
witching smiles found in Ralph Middleton's parlor.

Alone, in her melancholy, sat Margaret Fields, watching by
the bedside of the mumbling old woman, the sands of whose
glass were nearly run. Ezra, at her entreaty, had during the
early evening retired to his own room, but by the constant
creaking of the floor overhead, and the almost perpetual shutting
and opening of a trunk, she knew that he was not gone
there to sleep. Near midnight, he crept down into the room
where she was, and by various motions and signs and sighs,
contrived to make her aware of his presence. She felt that he
was there, but rocking to and fro by the bedside, and watching
the pained expression of the invalid, and listening to and soothing
her complaints, hour after hour went by without her having
noticed him. At last broke forth the petulant exclamation,
“Ding it all—blame! won't you see a body's new things,
ever?”

“Certainly, Ezra: have you got new things?” said Margaret,
smiling, but the smile changed to positive laughter when turning
round she saw the unlooked for metamorphosis. “These
things are what I got for what I had in my old sock-foot,” said
the boy, drawing himself to his full height, and distorting his
features to a sort of grin; “and I guess even the preacher
would be glad to swap.”

“I will dare say,” answered Margaret, and she now saw that
the new dress in which he was arrayed was a very close imitation
of that worn by the young elergyman, and that he held in
one hand a small gilt volume between the leaves of which two
of his long fingers were slipt. Poor mistaken youth! yet he
did not look like the village pastor. All that fall, and till
the white snow sifted down on his new clothes, he walked
through the lane with the volume in his hand in the hope of
being seen by Margaret. Sometimes he would stop at the
door and communicate the last intelligence he had heard in reference
to the marriage of Florence and the minister, concluding
always with the comforting assurance that every body said
they would be married very shortly.

Last autumn was the tenth since the young clergyman came
to the village near which lived Margaret Fields and Florence
Middleton, and both are living still, but Florence has for a
long time written her changed name with the title of a matron,
while our heroine is still Margaret Fields. In the village
graveyard where she first wept there are two more graves, and
he who was so busy in laying up treasures for himself on earth,
is gone, taking nothing with him, and the last complaints of the
querulous invalid are hushed. By their deaths, Margaret became
heir to the estate, which long since passed from her
hands, and is now fallen sadly to decay. The elegant church,
and the plain but substantial school house for the education of
poor and orphan children, speak volumes in praise of her virtues,
who became, not a useless misanthrope, for the crushing
of one hope, though never so dear, but, turning aside very
meekly to the by-paths of duty, bears steadfastly still her cross.

The young clergyman, now no longer very young, is the
pastor of a wealthy church in the city, and his wife is what is
termed a fine lady. Nevertheless, he goes often from the noise
and bustle of the thoroughfare, and the pride and glitter of his
loftier home, to the humbler scene of his early labors. He requires
change of air and new sensations, he says, and in a neat
little cottage—half-hidden among the vines that climb about the
windows and over the eaves—humble, but sufficient for all the
wants of the solitary inmate, he is frequently a guest, and sometimes,
as he partakes of the bowl of sweet milk and delicious
white bread, listening to the cheerfulness and wisdom that drop
from the lips which perhaps he remembers to have kissed, he
says in a half-sad tone, “How I wish Florence were more like
you!”

As for Ezra, I know not whether he be living or dead; but
probably he has long been in the earth in which it was his
living lot to toil. And the reader will be glad to know that
his thoughts were soon diverted from the unhappy channel in
which they at one time flowed—partly by the beautiful red silk
purse full of glittering coins, which Margaret bestowed on him,
in lieu of the sock, for which he continually pined, in spite of
the broadcloth in which he was “appareled as became the
brave,”—partly by the stoppage in the neighborhood of a travelling
menagerie, of which one of the most ferocious and unmanageable
of the beasts, became surprisingly attached to him,
so that he was hired as its keeper; and, mounted on the box in
which his new interest was conveyed from place to place,
dressed in his new clothes, and whistling Yanke Doodle, he departed
from his native village forever. He was afterwards
heard of, from one of the Southern cities, as having obtained

complete mastery over his charge, being able to enter the cage
with the most easy confidence imaginable, and promptly awing
any belligerent propensity, with “Ding it all!” He was completely
satisfied, and the proprietors thought him one of the
chief attractions of their caravan.

The good old wife of Josiah has passed away, but he still
lives, strong and content, smoking his pipe—the same one he
has had these ten years. He makes all the gardens in the
neighborhood, but people say he takes especial pains with that
of Margaret, for no other in the whole village is half so pretty
as hers. However, Mrs. Troost generally concludes by saying,
“Some people are born lucky,” to which Margaret smilingly
says, “Yes.” Little does our old and ill-contented friend suspect—