Elsie and the Raymonds

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Title: Elsie and the Raymonds
Author: Finley, Martha
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Note

In the following transcription, italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Small capitals in the original text have been transcribed as ALL
CAPITALS.

See end of this document for details of corrections and other changes.

————————————— Start of Book —————————————

A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND
OTHER POPULAR BOOKS

MARTHA FINLEY

———————————

_ELSIE DINSMORE._
_ELSIE’S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._
_ELSIE’S GIRLHOOD._
_ELSIE’S WOMANHOOD._
_ELSIE’S MOTHERHOOD._
_ELSIE’S CHILDREN._
_ELSIE’S WIDOWHOOD._
_GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._
_ELSIE’S NEW RELATIONS._
_ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._
_THE TWO ELSIES._
_ELSIE’S KITH AND KIN._
_ELSIE’S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._
_CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._
_ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._
_ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._
_ELSIE’S VACATION._
_ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._
_ELSIE AT ION._
_ELSIE AT THE WORLD’S FAIR._
_ELSIE’S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._
_ELSIE AT HOME._
_ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._
_ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._
_ELSIE’S YOUNG FOLKS._
_ELSIE’S WINTER TRIP._
_ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES._

——————————

_MILDRED KEITH._
_MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._
_MILDRED’S MARRIED LIFE._
_MILDRED AND ELSIE._
_MILDRED AT HOME._
_MILDRED’S BOYS AND GIRLS._
_MILDRED’S NEW DAUGHTER._

——————————

_CASELLA._
_SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._
_THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._
_OUR FRED._
_AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._
_WANTED, A PEDIGREE._
_THE THORN IN THE NEST._

ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS

MARTHA FINLEY

AUTHOR OF “ELSIE DINSMORE,” “ELSIE’S WOMANHOOD,”
“ELSIES’S KITH AND KIN,” “THE MILDRED BOOKS,”
“WANTED—A PEDIGREE,” ETC., ETC.

——————————

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS.

CHAPTER I.

“Excuse me, Miss, but do you know of any lady who wants a seamstress?”
asked a timid, hesitating voice.

Lulu Raymond was the person addressed. She and Max had just alighted
from the Woodburn family carriage—having been given permission to do
a little shopping together—and she had paused upon the pavement for
a moment to look after it as it rolled away down the street with her
father, who had some business matters to attend to in the city that
afternoon, and had appointed a time and place for picking the children
up again to carry them home.

Tastefully attired, rosy, and bright with health and happiness, Lulu’s
appearance was in strange contrast to that of the shabbily dressed
girl, with pale, pinched features that wore an expression of patient
suffering, who stood by her side.

“Were you speaking to me?” Lulu asked, turning quickly at the sound
of the voice, and regarding the shrinking figure with pitying eyes.

“Yes, Miss, if you’ll excuse the liberty. I thought you looked kind,
and that maybe your mother might want some one to do plain sewing.”

“I hardly think she does, but I’ll ask her when I go home,” replied
Lulu. “Are you the person who wants the work?”

“Yes, Miss; and I’d try to give satisfaction. I’ve been brought up
to the use of my needle, and the sewing machine too. And—and”—in a
choking voice—“I need work badly; mother’s sick, and we’ve only what
I can earn to depend on for food and clothes, and doctor, and medicine,
and to pay the rent.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Lulu, hastily taking out her purse.

“You are very kind, Miss; but I’m not asking charity,” the girl said,
shrinking back, blushing and shamefaced.

“Of course not, you don’t look like a beggar,” returned Lulu with
warmth. “But I’d be glad to help you in some suitable way. Where do
you live?”

At this instant Max, whose attention had been drawn for a moment to
some article in the show-window of a store near at hand, joined his
sister, and with her listened to the girl’s reply.

“Just down that alley yonder, Number five,” she said. “It’s but a poor
place we have; a little bare attic room, but—but we try to be content
with it, because it’s the best we can do.”

“What is it she wants?” Max asked, in a low aside to Lulu.

“Sewing. I’m going to ask Mamma Vi and Grandma Elsie if they can find
some for her. But we’ll have to know where she can be found. Shall we
go with her to her home?”

“No; papa would not approve, I think. But I’ll write down the address,
and I’m sure papa will see that they’re relieved, if they need help.”

Turning to the girl again, as he took notebook and pencil from his
pocket, “What is the name of the alley?” he asked.

“Rose,” she answered, adding, with a melancholy smile, “though there’s
nothing rosy about it except the name; it’s narrow and dirty, and the
people are poor, many of them beggars, drunken, and quarrelsome.”

“How dreadful to have to live in such a place!” exclaimed Lulu, looking
compassionately at the speaker.

“Rose Alley,” murmured Max, jotting it down in his book, “just out of
State Street. What number?”

“Number five, sir; and it’s between Fourth and Fifth.”

“Oh, yes; I’ll put that down, too, and I’m sure the place can be found
without any difficulty. But what is your name? We will need to know
whom to inquire for.”

“Susan Allen, sir.”

The girl was turning away, but Lulu stopped her.

“Wait a moment. You said your mother was sick, and I’d like to send her
something good to eat. I dare say she needs delicacies to tempt her
appetite. Come with me to that fruit-stand on the corner,” hurrying
toward it as she spoke, the girl following at a respectful distance.

“That was a good and kind thought, Lu,” Max remarked, stepping close
to his sister’s side as she paused before the fruit-stand, eagerly
scanning its tempting display of fruits and confections.

“You don’t doubt papa’s approval of this?” she returned
interrogatively, giving him an arch look and smile.

“No; not a bit of it; he always likes to see us generous and ready to
relieve distress. I must have a share in the good work.”

“Then they’ll have all the more, for I shan’t give any less because
you’re going to give, too. Oh, what delicious looking strawberries!”

“And every bit as good as they look, Miss,” said the keeper of the
stand.

“What’s the price?”

“Dollar a box, Miss. They always come high the first o’ the season,
you know; they were a dollar-ten only yesterday.”

“Do you think your sick mother would enjoy them?” Lulu asked, turning
to Susan, who was looking aghast at the price named.

“Oh, yes, indeed, Miss; but—but it’s too much for you to give; we have
hardly so much as that to spend on a week’s victuals.”

“Then I’m sure you ought to have a few luxuries for once,” said Lulu.
“I’ll take a box for her,” addressing the man, and taking out her purse
as she spoke.

“A dozen of those oranges, too, a pound of your nicest crackers,
and one of sugar to eat with the berries,” said Max, producing his
porte-monnaie.

They saw the articles put up, paid for them, put them into Susan’s
hands, and hurried on their way, followed by her grateful looks.

In trembling, tearful tones she had tried to thank them, but they would
not stay to listen.

“How glad she was,” said Lulu. “And no wonder, for she looks half
starved. And, O Max, just think, if we hadn’t a father to take care of
and provide for us we might be as poor and distressed as she is!”

“That’s so,” returned Max; “we’ve hardly a thing worth having that
hasn’t come to us through my father.”

“_My_ father, sir,” asserted Lulu, giving him a laughing glance.

“Yes, our father; but he was mine before he was yours,” laughed her
brother. “Well, here we are at Blake’s, where you have an errand; at
least, so you said, I think.”

They passed into the store, finding so many customers there that all
the clerks were engaged; and while waiting till some one could attend
to their wants, they amused themselves in scrutinizing the contents of
shelves, counters, and show-cases. Some picture-frames, brackets, and
other articles of carved wood attracted their attention.

“Some of those are quite pretty, Max,” Lulu remarked in an undertone;
“but I think you have made prettier ones.”

“So have you; and see,” pointing to the prices attached, “they pay
quite well for them. No, I’m not so sure of that, but they ask good
prices from their customers. Perhaps we could make a tolerable support
at the business, if we had to take care of ourselves,” he added in a
half-jesting tone.

“Earn enough to buy bread and butter maybe, but not half the good
things papa buys for us,” said Lulu.

“Is no one waiting upon you?” asked the proprietor of the store,
drawing near.

“No, sir; they all seem to be busy,” answered Lulu.

“Yes. What can I show you? Some of this carved work? We have sold a
good deal of it, and I’m sorry to say that the young lady who supplied
it has decided to give up the business—and go into matrimony,” he
added, with a laugh.

A thought seemed to strike Lulu, and she asked, coloring slightly as
she spoke, “Does it pay well?”

The merchant named the prices he had given for several of the articles,
and asked in his turn if she knew of any one who would like to earn
money in that way.

“I—I’m not quite sure,” she answered. “I know a boy, and a girl too,
who are fond of doing such work, and I think can do a little better
than this, but—”

“You doubt if they would care to make a business of it, eh?” he said
inquiringly, as she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished.

“Yes, sir; I’m not sure they would want to, or that their parents would
be willing to have them do so. If you please, I should like to look at
materials for fancy work.”

“Yes, Miss. This way, if you please. We have them in great variety, and
of the best quality.”

Captain Raymond expected a friend on an incoming train, and had
directed the children to be at the depot a few minutes before it was
due. Punctuality was one of the minor virtues he insisted upon, and
while interested in their shopping, they were not forgetful of the
necessity for keeping their appointment with him. Their watches were
consulted frequently, and ample time allowed for their walk from the
last store visited to the depot.

“We are here first; our carriage isn’t in sight yet,” remarked Lulu
with satisfaction, as they reached the outer door of the building.

“Yes,” said Max, “but papa will be along presently, for it wants but
ten minutes of the time when the train is due.”

“And he’s never a minute late,” added Lulu.

Max led the way to the ladies’ room, seated his sister comfortably in
an arm-chair, and asked if there was anything he could get, or do for
her; treating her with as much gallantry as if she had been the sister
of somebody else.

“Thank you, Maxie, I’m really comfortable, and in want of nothing,” she
replied. “I’ll be glad if that gentleman doesn’t come,” she went on,
“for it’s so much nicer to have papa all to ourselves driving home.”

“Yes; and afterward too. But we mustn’t be selfish, and perhaps he
would be disappointed if his friend shouldn’t come.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! And if papa would rather have him come,
I hope he will.”

“Of course you do. Ah, here comes papa now,” as a tall, remarkably
fine-looking man, of decidedly military bearing, entered the room and
came smilingly toward them.

“Good, punctual children,” he said. “I hope you have been enjoying
yourselves since we parted?”

“Oh, yes, papa,” they answered, speaking both at once; “we did all our
errands, and are ready to go home.”

“The train is just due,” he said, consulting his watch. “Ah, here it
comes,” as its rush and roar smote upon their ears.

Lulu sprang up hastily.

“Wait a little, daughter,” the captain said, laying a gently detaining
hand on her shoulder; “we need not be in haste, as we are not going on
the train.”

“Everybody else seems to be hurrying out, papa,” she said.

“Yes; they are probably passengers. Ah, the train has arrived and come
to a standstill, so we will go now. Max, you may help your sister into
the carriage, while I look about for our expected guest.”

The captain scanned narrowly the living stream pouring from the cars,
but without finding him of whom he was in quest. He turned away in
some disappointment, and was about to step into his carriage, when a
not unfamiliar voice hailed him.

“Good-evening, Captain Raymond. Will you aid a fellow-creature in
distress? It seems that by some mistake my carriage has failed to meet
me, though I thought they understood that I would return home by this
train. If you will give me a lift as far as your own gate I can easily
walk the rest of the way to Briarwood.”

“It will afford me pleasure to do so, Mr. Clark, or to take you quite
to Briarwood,” responded the captain heartily. “We have abundance of
room. Step in, and I will follow.”

This unexpected addition to their party gave Lulu some slight feeling
of vexation and disappointment, but her father’s proud look and
smile, as he said, “My son Max and daughter Lulu, Mr. Clark,” and the
affectionate manner in which, on taking his seat at her side, he put
his arm about her waist and drew her close to him, went far to restore
her to her wonted good-humor.

Mr. Clark said, “How do you do, my dears?” then engaged the captain in
conversation, taking no further notice of the children.

But they were intelligent, well-instructed children, and when the talk
presently turned upon one of the political questions of the day they
were interested; for their father had taken pains to give them no
little information on that and kindred topics. He did not encourage
their reading of the daily secular papers—indeed forbade it, because
he would not have their pure minds sullied by the sickening details of
crime, or love of the horrible cultivated by minute descriptions of its
punishment in the execution of murderers; but he examined the papers
himself and culled from them such articles, to be read aloud in the
family, as he deemed suitable and instructive or entertaining; or he
would relate incidents and give instruction and explanations in his own
words, which the children generally preferred to the reading.

The gentlemen were in the midst of their conversation, and the great
gates leading into the avenue at Woodburn almost reached, when Mr.
Clark caught sight of his own carriage approaching from the opposite
direction.

He called and beckoned to his coachman, and with a hasty good-by
and hearty thanks to Captain Raymond, transferred himself to his
own conveyance, which at once faced about and whirled away toward
Briarwood, while the Woodburn family carriage turned into the avenue
and drove up to the house.

Violet and the three younger children were on the veranda, waiting for
its coming, and ready with a joyful welcome to its occupants.

“Papa, papa!” shouted little Elsie, as they alighted, “Max and Lu,
too! Oh, I’se so glad you all tum back adain!”

“Are you, papa’s sweet pet?” returned the captain, bending down to take
her in his arms with a tender caress.

Then he kissed his wife and the lovely babe crowing in her arms and
reaching out his chubby ones to be taken by his father, evidently as
much rejoiced as Elsie at his return.

“In a moment, Ned,” laughed the captain, stooping to give a hug and
kiss to Gracie waiting at his side; then taking possession of an
easy-chair, with a pleasant “Thank you, my dears,” to Max and Lulu, who
had hastened to draw it forward for him, he took a baby on each knee,
while the three older children clustered about him, and Violet, sitting
near, watched with laughing eyes the merry scene that followed.

“Gracie and Elsie may search papa’s pockets now and see what they can
find,” said the captain.

Promptly and with eager delight they availed themselves of the
permission.

Grace drew forth a small, gilt-edged, handsomely bound volume.

“That is for your mamma,” her father said; “you may hand it to her; and
perhaps, if you look farther, you may find something for yourself.”

Violet received the gift with a pleased smile and a hearty “Thank you,
Gracie. Thank you, my dear. I shall be sure to prize it for the sake of
the giver, whatever the contents may be.”

But the words were half drowned in Elsie’s shouts of delight over a
pretty toy and a box of bon-bons.

“Hand the candy round, pet; to mamma first,” her father said.

“May Elsie eat some too, papa?” she asked coaxingly, as she got down
from his knee to obey his order.

“Yes; a little to-night, and some more to-morrow.”

Grace had dived into another pocket. “Oh! is this for me, papa?” she
asked, drawing out a small paper parcel.

“Open it and see,” was his smiling rejoinder.

With eager fingers she untied the string and opened the paper.

“Three lovely silver fruit-knives!” she exclaimed. “Names on ’em, too.
Lu, this is yours, for it has your name on it; and this is mine, and
the other Maxie’s,” handing them to the owners as she spoke. “Thank
you, papa, oh, thank you very much, for mine!” holding up her face for
a kiss.

Bestowing it very heartily, “You are all very welcome, my darlings,” he
said, for Max and Lulu were saying thank you too.

And now they hastened to display their purchases of the afternoon and
present some little gifts to Grace and Elsie.

These were received with thanks and many expressions of pleasure,
and Lulu was in the midst of an animated account of her shopping
experiences when her father, glancing at his watch, reminded her that
she would have barely time to make herself neat for the tea-table if
she repaired to her room at once.

“Max and I, too, must pay some attention to our toilets,” he added,
giving the babe to its nurse, who had just appeared upon the scene.

“Now, papa, let’s run a race, and see who’ll be down first,”—proposed
Lulu laughingly, as she went skipping and dancing along the hall just
ahead of him.

“Very well, and I’ll give you a dollar if you are first,—and there are
no signs of haste or negligence in your appearance.”

“And is the offer open to me too, papa?” asked Max, coming up behind.

“Yes; I shall not be partial,” answered the captain, suddenly lifting
Lulu off her feet and starting up the stairs with her in his arms.

“O papa, you’ll tire yourself all out!” she exclaimed with a merry
laugh; “I’m so big and heavy.”

“Not a bit,” he said. “I’m so big and strong. There, now for our
race,” as he set her down in the upper hall.

“It’s nice, nice, to have such a big, strong papa!” she said, lifting a
flushed, happy face to his and reaching up to give him a hug and kiss.

“I’m glad my little daughter thinks so,” he returned, smiling down on
her and laying his hand tenderly on her head for an instant.

The captain and Lulu met in the upper hall just as the tea-bell rang,
and at the same instant Max came down the stairs from the third story
almost at a bound.

A merry peal of laughter from all three, and the captain said, “So
nobody is first; we shall all reach the tea-room together.”

“And you won’t have any dollar to pay, papa,” said Lulu, her face very
bright and no disappointment in her tone. She was clinging to her
father’s hand as they went down the stairs, Max close behind them.

“But I don’t care to save it,” was the reply, “so what shall be done
with it? Suppose I divide it between you and Max.”

“And yourself, papa,” added Max laughingly.

His father smiled. “Perhaps a better plan would be to put it into our
missionary box,” he said.

“Oh, yes, sir!” exclaimed both the children, “that would be the best
thing that could be done with it.”

They had taken their seats at the table, and all were quiet while the
captain asked a blessing on their food.

CHAPTER II

“I have something to tell you, my dear,” Violet began, giving her
husband a bright smile from behind the coffee urn as she filled his cup.

“Ah?” he said, returning the smile. “I am all attention. I have no
doubt it is something worth hearing.”

“Perhaps you remember that mamma’s fiftieth birthday will come early
next month,” Violet resumed.

“No, not the fiftieth surely!” exclaimed the captain. “Really I think
that, judging from her looks alone, no one would take her to be over
forty.”

“So we all think, and everybody says she has a remarkably young face.
But it will be her fiftieth birthday, and we, her children, want to do
her unusual honor. Of course, as you know, my dear, we always remember
the day, and each of us has some little gift for her, but this, being
her semi-centennial, we think should be observed in some special
manner.”

“I agree with you, and what do you propose doing in order to celebrate
it appropriately?”

“We have not fully decided that question, and would be glad of
suggestions and advice from you, if you will kindly give them.”

“I am sensible of the honor you do me, but must take a little time to
reflect,” was his pleasant rejoinder.

“Papa, how old are you?” asked Grace with sudden animation, as if the
question had just occurred to her.

“About twenty-four years older than Max,” replied the captain, turning
upon his first-born a look of fatherly pride and affection.

“And I’m almost fifteen,” added Max.

“That makes papa thirty-nine,” remarked Lulu. “You’ll be forty next
birthday, won’t you, papa?”

“Yes, daughter.”

“Then Grandma Elsie is only about ten years older than you, not nearly
enough older to be your real mother.”

“Quite true,” he said, with a humorous look, “but I find it not at all
unpleasant to have so young and beautiful a mother; a lady so lovely
in character, as well as in form and feature, that I should greatly
rejoice to know that my daughters would grow up to resemble her in all
respects.”

“I’d like to be exactly like her, except—” But there Grace paused,
leaving her sentence unfinished.

“Except in being fifty years old?” her father asked, regarding her with
laughing eyes.

“Yes, sir; I’d rather be a little girl for a good while yet; your
little girl, papa, who can sit on your knee whenever she wants to.”

“That’s right,” he said heartily. “I am by no means ready to part with
my little Gracie yet.”

“I feel just as Gracie does about it,” said Lulu. “I want to be a
little girl for a while longer, then a young lady; but when I get to
be fifty years old I’d like to be as nearly like Grandma Elsie as
possible.”

“I hope not to be,” remarked Max facetiously; “but I know a gentleman I
would like to resemble so much when I’m forty, that people would say of
me, ‘He’s just a chip off the old block,’” and with the last words the
lad turned a proud, admiring, affectionate look upon his father.

The captain’s countenance expressed pleasure, and Violet, looking
pleased also, said, “I hope you will have your wish, Max, and I think
there is every prospect of it.”

“What plans are thought of for the coming celebration, my dear?” asked
the captain.

“We talk of a garden or lawn party, if the weather is fine; all the
relatives to be invited, and perhaps a few intimate friends beside.
Certainly our minister and his wife.”

“I don’t think I could suggest anything better,” the captain said.

“But you may be able to give some useful hints in regard to plans for
the entertainment of the guests, and suitable gifts for mamma.”

“Possibly; and you must help me to decide upon mine.”

“I shall be only too glad,” she answered with a bright, pleased look.

“And we children may give something nice to Grandma Elsie too, mayn’t
we, papa?” they asked, all three speaking at once.

“Most assuredly,” he replied, “the very nicest thing, or things,
you can think of that will come within the limits of your financial
ability.”

“Papa,” remarked Grace doubtfully, “I don’t believe I know exactly what
that means.”

“You understand the meaning of ability, surely?” returned her father.

“Yes, sir; but that other word—fi—”

“Financial? as I used it then, it means the amount of money you
children may have at your disposal at the time of making your
purchases.”

“Oh, I’m glad I have some money saved up!” she remarked with
satisfaction.

“How much?” he asked.

“A good deal, papa; about five dollars, I think.”

“Ah, so much as that? quite a fortune,” he said, with a look of
amusement.

“I suppose, wife, your mother is to be consulted in regard to the
manner of the proposed celebration? about the party, the guests to be
invited, and so forth?”

“Oh, yes, sir; about everything but the gifts she is to receive.”

The babies had had their evening romp with papa and been carried off
to the nursery, Gracie going along at Elsie’s urgent request, and all
the more willingly because she had heard her father say he must write
a letter immediately, that it might be in time to go by the next mail,
so she knew that for the present she and Max and Lulu must do without
their usual bit of chat with him.

Lulu was particularly desirous for an opportunity for a talk with him,
for she had a scheme in her head about which she wished to ask his
advice and permission. She would not have minded broaching the subject
before Max and Gracie, but thought it would be still more enjoyable to
talk it over with papa alone.

“I’ll not go far away,” she said to herself, “and when papa has
finished his writing maybe I’ll get a chance to talk a little with him
before anybody else comes.”

She took a book and seated herself in the veranda; but she did not
read. The captain, stepping to the door presently, saw her sitting
with the book lying unopened in her lap, her attitude and expression
denoting profound thought. She did not seem aware even of his approach
as he drew near her side, but started and looked up in surprise as he
laid his hand gently on her head, saying, “A penny for my little girl’s
thoughts! She looks as if she had the affairs of the nation on her
shoulders.”

“I’m sure they’re not worth a penny, papa, but you are welcome to them
for nothing,” she returned laughingly, “if you have time to let me talk
to you.”

She rose as she spoke, and taking the chair, he drew her to his knee.

“Plenty of time, now that that letter has been dispatched,” he said.
“But are you to do all the talking?”

“Oh no, indeed, papa; I hope you’ll do the most of it, but I suppose I
must begin by telling you my thoughts.”

“Yes.”

“I was thinking about a poor girl that spoke to me in the street to-day
and asked for sewing to do to earn money to support herself and her
sick mother.

“I told her I would try to get some work for her. Afterward Max and I
went into a store where we saw brackets and picture frames, and other
things, carved out of wood as we do it, only they were not so pretty
as some we have made; at least we both thought so, and we wondered how
much was paid for such work. The price they were asking for them was on
them, and Max thought it a good one. We were talking together about it
when the merchant came up and asked if we wanted to buy any of those
things.

“He said he had sold a good many, and was sorry the lady who had carved
them for him was going to give up doing it. I asked if it paid well,
and he told me how much he gave, and asked if I knew anybody who would
like to earn money in that way.”

“And what answer did you make to that?”

“I said I wasn’t sure; I knew a boy and girl who were fond of that kind
of work, and I thought could do it a little better than those were
done, but I didn’t know whether they would want to do it for pay, or
whether their parents would be willing to let them.”

“And the boy and girl you referred to were Max and yourself?”

“Yes, sir; would you let us do it if we wanted to?”

“That would depend upon circumstances; it is a question to be
considered.”

“Well, papa, this is what I was thinking of when you spoke to me. You
know I spend some of my spare time sewing for the poor, and you know I
don’t like to sew—I mean I don’t enjoy doing it—and I do enjoy carving;
and that poor girl wants sewing to do, because she needs to earn her
living, and that’s her way of doing it; and I was trying to decide
whether or not it would be right for me to give her the sewing to do
and pay her for doing it with money I could earn by carving. Would it
be right, papa? and will you let me do it?”

“I say yes to both questions; I think it a good idea; for you will be
doing good in two ways—helping the poor to whom the garments go, and
the poor girl who wants employment; and that without indulging yourself
in laziness.”

“Oh, I am so glad you approve, papa!” Lulu exclaimed in delight. “I
was afraid you would not; I was afraid that perhaps I ought to do the
sewing myself if only because I dislike it so.”

“No, my child, there is nothing praise-worthy in doing a thing merely
because it is unpleasant to us. If another is needing help which we can
give in that way and no other, duty bids us to perform the unpleasant
task; but in this case it seems you can do more good by allowing the
young sewing-girl to act as your substitute, helping her at the same
time that you help those to whom the garments will go.

“But the sewing you can give will not be really enough to keep even
one seamstress busy.”

“Oh, no, sir; but I am going to tell Mamma Vi and Grandma Elsie about
her, and I think they will find her work and recommend her to other
ladies who want sewing done, if they find that she does it well.”

“Did you learn her name and where she lives?”

“Yes, sir; and I wanted to go and see the place, but Max said you would
not approve; so I didn’t go.”

“Max was quite right. You must never venture into strange places about
the city without my knowledge and consent, unless with Grandma Elsie or
some other equally wise and trustworthy person.”

“I will not, papa,” she answered, smiling lovingly into his eyes. “I do
hope I shall never again disobey you in anything.”

“I hope not, indeed,” he said, smoothing her hair caressingly. “So far
as I know, you have been very good and obedient for the last six months
or more.”

Just then Violet and Grace joined them, followed almost immediately by
Max, and as he stepped from the doorway the Ion family carriage was
seen coming up the drive.

It brought Violet’s grandparents, mother, and young brother and
sister—Rosie and Walter. They spent the evening. The proposed birthday
celebration was under discussion for some time, several questions in
regard to it were settled, then Lulu found an opportunity to tell of
Susan Allen and her needs.

Grandma Elsie—always ready for every good work—said: “If you will
accompany me, Captain, I will hunt them up to-morrow and inquire into
their needs, should nothing unforeseen happen to prevent.”

“I shall be at your service, mother, then, or at any other time,”
returned the captain gallantly. “And we will take Lulu with us, if you
have no objection,” he added, as he caught an entreating look from her.

“Not the slightest,” replied Mrs. Travilla, smiling kindly upon the
little girl.

“Oh, thank you, Grandma Elsie! Thank you, papa; I should like to go
very much indeed”, exclaimed Lulu joyously.

While Lulu talked with Susan Allen in the city street that afternoon,
the girl’s mother lay on a bed of straw in the small attic room
they called home; a very forlorn specimen of a home it was, though
everything in and about it was scrupulously neat and clean; the floor
was bare, save a strip of carpet beside the bed; there were three
unpainted wooden chairs, a little table to match, and a tiny stove;
their few changes of raiment hung on hooks along the wall back of the
bed, and a few cheap dishes and cooking utensils were ranged in an
orderly manner on some shelves in one corner.

The one window was shaded by a paper blind and short white curtain,
both bearing evidence of careful mending, as did the night-dress worn
by the invalid, the sheets and pillowcases of her bed.

She was not an old woman; Susan was but sixteen, and her mother, who
had married very young, little more than twice that age. But toil and
privation had broken down her health, and aged her before her time,
so that she looked full forty; there were very perceptible lines in
her forehead, and the dark hair was streaked with gray; yet it was a
pleasant face to look upon—so full of sweet patience and resignation.

A well-worn Bible lay beside her, and one hand rested upon the open
page; but her eyes were closed and tears trickled down her wasted
cheek, while her lips moved as if in prayer.

One standing very near might have heard the low, murmured words, but
they reached only the ear of Him who has said: “Call upon me in the day
of trouble; I will deliver thee and thou shalt glorify me.”

It was that promise she was pleading.

“Lord,” her pale lips whispered, “I believe thy word and obey thy kind
command; it is the day of trouble with me and my beloved child. We are
in sore straits; the last cent is gone, the last crust eaten; we have
neither barn nor storehouse, yet I know thou wilt feed us as thou dost
the sparrows; for thou hast said, ‘Are not ye much better than they?’
and, ‘Your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these
things.’ Lord, increase my faith and let me never for one moment doubt
thy word—thy promise to deliver those who call upon thee in the day of
trouble, and never to leave or forsake any who put their trust in thee.
Oh, blessed be thy holy name, for all the great and precious promises
thou hast given thy people, and upon which thou hast taught me to lean
in every time of trouble!”

She was still pouring out her soul in prayer and praise when Susan’s
light step came up the stairs, the door was hastily thrown open, and
she entered with flushed, beaming face, and arms full of bundles, half
breathless with excitement and exertion.

“Mother, dear mother!” she cried, as she hastened to deposit her
burdens on the table, “I know you have been praying for help, and God
has sent it. See here! the very luxury I have been longing to get you,
but without the least hope of being able to do so; great, lovely,
luscious strawberries!” gently pouring them from the paper bag in which
she had carried them, on to a plate. “I’ll put some of the finest on
a saucer for you. Here is sugar for them, too, and delicate crackers
to eat with them. And here are oranges; the finest in the market! O
mother, eat and grow strong!” she added, tears springing to her eyes,
as she put a saucer of berries into her mother’s hand and laid a fine
orange by her side. “I won’t keep you waiting till I can stem the
berries, but just give you some sugar on another saucer to dip them
into. Oh, if I only had some of the rich cream for you that we used to
have before we left the farm!”

“Oh, child, our Father has sent us so much, so much, don’t let us fret
after anything more!” cried the mother at length, recovering the power
of speech, of which surprise and joy had robbed her ever since her
daughter’s entrance so richly laden.

“No, mother, no indeed! only I should so love to give you every comfort
and luxury to make you well. You are so thin and weak! There, do lie
back on your pillows and let me feed you. Isn’t that delicious?”
putting a berry into her mouth.

“Oh, very, very! But let me thank God, and then do you eat with me.”

They were very hungry, having scarcely tasted food that day, but when
the edge of their appetites had been taken off, Mrs. Allen remarked,
with an inquiring look at her daughter, “But you haven’t told me yet
where you got all these good things?”

“No, mother, but I’ll do it now. You know I went out in search of work.
I can’t beg, but I am willing to ask for employment. I asked at some
private houses, and two or three stores, but no one seemed to care to
risk trying me.

“Then I saw a carriage (a very handsome one it was, with match horses)
stop at a street crossing, and a boy and girl step out on the pavement.
A tall, fine-looking gentleman handed the little girl out, then stepped
back into the carriage, and it drove off.

“You can’t think how pretty and beautifully dressed the little girl
was; she had bright dark eyes, rosy cheeks, and a smiling mouth, and
as the gentleman set her down they gave each other such a loving look!
I felt sure she had a kind heart, so I stepped up to her, as she stood
looking after the carriage as it drove away down the street, and asked
her if she knew of anybody wanting a seamstress.

“She turned round quickly and answered in a very pleasant tone. She
promised to tell her mother about me when she went home, and see if she
could get me work to do. She opened her purse—such a lovely one with
gold clasps—as if she meant to give me money, and I felt my face grow
hot at being taken for a beggar. I said it wasn’t charity I was asking
for, but work.

“Then she said, in the kindest tone, ‘Of course not, you don’t look
like a beggar. But I’d be glad to help you in some suitable way’; and
asked where I lived.

“While I was telling her a boy came up and stood beside her listening.
He asked me questions, too, and took out a note-book and wrote down my
name and address. He was as nice and kind-looking as his sister—as I
suppose she is, for they resemble each other strongly; the gentleman,
too, that helped her out of the carriage; I think he must be their
father.

“They called each other Max and Lu, and talked between themselves about
what would please or displease papa.

“I had told her that you were sick, and we’d nothing to depend on but
what I could earn, and as I was turning to go, after her brother had
taken my address, and promised that somebody would hunt us up soon, she
told me to wait a moment and go with her to a fruit-stand; she wanted
to get something nice for my sick mother to eat.

“And there they bought all these things; she the berries—at a dollar
a box, mother! only think of it!—and he the oranges and crackers and
sugar.

“Oh, I remember I saw her slip something into the bag with the
oranges, I wonder what it was, I must look!” she exclaimed, turning
hastily to the table, where she had deposited the bag.

She took the oranges out one by one till the bag was nearly empty, then
catching sight of something shining at the bottom, made a dive for it
and drew it out with a little cry of joy.

“Oh, it’s half a dollar! Now mother, you shall have some tea and a bit
of broiled steak, or a lamb chop. I’ll run out to the nearest provision
store now and get them.”

She began putting on her hat as she spoke.

“Child, you must buy for yourself too,” her mother said, with tears
shining in her eyes.

“O mother, no! I shall do nicely without meat, but you are so weak you
must have it to strengthen you.”

She stepped to the side of the bed again, bent over her mother, and
kissed her tenderly.

“Dear child, I cannot enjoy it unless you share it with me; you need
nourishing food quite as much as I,” returned the mother, gazing fondly
into the eyes looking so lovingly into hers. “The Lord has sent us
money enough to buy what we need for to-day, and we will trust him for
to-morrow. A text—a precious promise—has been running in my mind ever
since you came in laden with so many good things: ‘Before they call I
will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear.’ I had been
asking him very earnestly to send us help in our sore extremity, and
while I was yet speaking it came.

“O daughter, let us ever stay our hearts on him, never for a moment
doubting his loving-kindness and faithfulness to his promises, no
matter how dark and threatening the cloud may be.”

“I’ll try, mother. Ah, I wish I had your faith. Now I must go; but I’ll
be back again in five or ten minutes. But I’ll put some more berries in
your saucer, first, and I don’t want to find a single one in it when I
come back,” she added with playful gayety. “Aren’t they making you feel
a little better already, you dear, patient mother?”

“Yes, dear, they are very refreshing. But you are giving me more than
my fair share.”

“No, indeed, mamma, they were all given to you, and I have eaten a good
many. I want you to finish the rest, for I do hope they will do more
for you than any medicine could. Now I’m off. Don’t be lonesome while
I’m gone,” and she hurried away with a light, free step, tears of joy
and thankfulness shining in her eyes.

Not many minutes had passed ere she returned with the materials for
what was to them a feast indeed.

“See mother,” she said, displaying her purchases, “just see how
extravagant I have been! two nice lamb chops, two fresh eggs, a loaf
of bread, half a dozen potatoes, a quarter of a pound of tea, and five
cents’ worth of butter. Oh, but we shall have a feast! I’ll broil the
chops, bake the potatoes, toast a few slices of the bread, and make
you a cup of tea. I’d have bought a few cents’ worth of milk, but I
remembered that you like your tea quite as well without.”

“But you don’t drink tea, dear, and should have bought some milk for
yourself.”

“No, no, mother. I’m very fond of cold water and fortunately a very
good article in that line can be had for the going after, no farther
than to the hydrant in front of the street door,” she answered with a
merry look and smile.

As she talked she was moving about with light, quick step between
table and stove, performing her tasks with the ease and dexterity
of a practiced hand, and without noise or bustle, her mother’s eyes
following her with loving glances.

“You are very bright and cheery to-night, dear child,” she said.

“Yes, mother, I haven’t been in such spirits for weeks. I do believe
better days are dawning for us, mother dear, and all in answer to your
prayers.”

She paused at the bedside to bend lovingly over the dear parent and
touch her lips to the pale cheek.

“Yes, my Susie, and yours too. The Bible tells us that God is the
hearer and answerer of prayer, and many times I have proved it in my
own experience; but he is no respecter of persons, but ready to hear
and help any, however humble and unworthy, who come in the name of
Jesus and pleading his merits.”

“Yes, mother, I know it. I have been praying for help, and I’m sure he
sent it; and while I feel very grateful to that dear little girl and
boy, I’m thanking God with all my heart for all these good things; for
they were only his messengers, and the gifts were more from him than
from them even—the dear, kind children!”

CHAPTER III.

The sun was half an hour high when Susan Allen opened her eyes the next
morning.

Her mother greeted her with a smile and a cheery “Good-morning, my
child. You have slept sweetly ever since I have been awake to watch
you, and I have had the best night’s rest I have known for weeks.”

“Oh, I am so glad to hear that, mother!” Susan exclaimed, raising
herself on her elbow to give the invalid a searching look, “and you
feel better and stronger, don’t you?”

“Yes, indeed! almost as if I could sit up and sew a little, if we had
any work on hand.”

“Oh, no, I should not think of letting you do that yet!” the girl
answered; “not if we had any quantity; and as we have none at all,
you can surely lie still quite contentedly. I’ll get up now and have
breakfast ready in a few minutes.

“It is only to make a few slices of toast, boil the eggs, and draw the
tea. Then I’ll tidy the room and my mother and myself, and we’ll be all
ready to receive our hoped-for visitors.”

“Yes; we need not expect them for two or three hours, at the very
earliest,” Mrs. Allen said in reply. “Even if they lived in town they
wouldn’t be likely to come before the middle of the forenoon, and
probably their home is in the country, as you saw them getting out of a
carriage.”

Events proved her conjectures correct; it was near the middle of the
afternoon when in answer to a rap on the door Susan opened it, to find
a lady and gentleman there, accompanied by her little girl acquaintance
of the day before.

“Oh, yes, papa, it’s the right place!” exclaimed Lulu, in a very
pleased tone. “Susan, I’ve brought my grandma and father to see you.”

“You are all very kind to come,” said Susan, blushing vividly. “Will
you please walk in and take some seats?”

She made haste to bring forward the chairs as she spoke, but with a
word of thanks Mrs. Travilla and the captain turned toward the invalid,
asking: “Is this the sick mother Lulu has been telling about?”

“Yes, ma’am; yes, sir,” said Susan. Mrs. Allen adding, with a grateful
look from them to Lulu, “But better already for the kind gifts of the
little girl and boy. I thank them from the bottom of my heart. I am
very sure God sent them to our relief in answer to prayer. But, dear
lady, won’t you be seated? and you, too, sir?” addressing the captain.
“It is extremely kind in you to call on us—strangers and living in this
poor and unpleasant locality.”

“It is nothing—it is a privilege, if in so doing we bring succor to one
of God’s dear children,” Grandma Elsie replied, taking the wasted hand
in hers and seating herself close by the bedside. “How glad I am to
learn that you are one of his. I had heard only that you were ill and
in want.”

“And you, too, are his, dear lady? Ah, one look into your face would
tell us that.”

“It is the joy of my heart to be numbered among his followers, and to
own him as my Lord and Master,” returned Mrs. Travilla, the light of
joy and love shining in her eyes.

“As it is mine,” added the captain. “We belong to one family, we own
one Lord and King, and it is his command that we love one another, and
that we do good to all men as we have opportunity, ‘especially to them
who are of the household of faith!’”

A conversation of some length followed, in which, by questions put with
delicacy and kindness, Grandma Elsie and her son-in-law contrived to
draw from Mrs. Allen the story of the trials and struggles with poverty
and privation which had reduced her to her present state of feebleness
and distress.

Her husband had been an intelligent, industrious farmer, and working
and saving together, they were looking forward with hope to getting
their land clear of encumbrance and finding themselves in comfortable
circumstances by the time they should reach middle life; but sickness
entered the house, child after child was taken away, till Susan was the
only one left; then Mr. Allen sickened and died, and the foreclosure of
a mortgage robbed the widow and her daughter of their home.

They came to the city seeking employment by which to earn their daily
bread, but found it scarce and ill-paid, and had been growing poorer
and poorer, till, but for the precious promises of God’s Word, they
would have been in utter despair.

Her listeners seemed deeply interested; tears rolled down the cheeks
of Grandma Elsie and Lulu more than once during the course of the
narrative, and Captain Raymond was evidently deeply moved.

It was he who broke the momentary silence that fell upon the little
company at the conclusion of the tale.

“This close, filthy alley is no place for one brought up in the pure
air of the country; I have not the least doubt that the tainted air
you breathe here is largely responsible for your feeble condition; we
must get you out of it as speedily as possible. I own a little cottage
on the outskirts of Union,—a village some two or three miles from us;
it is at present without a tenant, and you and your daughter may take
possession to-day if you wish and feel strong enough for the necessary
exertion.”

“O sir, how kind, how wonderfully kind you are!” exclaimed Mrs.
Allen, as soon as astonishment would let her speak, tears of joy and
thankfulness coursing freely down her cheeks. “Country air is what I
have been longing for more than words can express.”

“But you are by far too generous in offering us a whole house; one room
will hold us and our few belongings.”

“But will not hold all that we hope to see in your possession before
very long,” he replied, with a benevolent smile; “your daughter—and
you also when you are well enough to desire it—shall be provided with
abundance of employment, at remunerative prices, and so will soon be
able to gather about you many more comforts than I see here,”—sending a
sweeping glance about the room.

“And it shall be my care, my great pleasure, to anticipate somewhat
the time when you will be able to provide such things for yourselves,”
Mrs. Travilla said, rising to go, taking the poor woman’s hand in hers
and holding it for a moment in a kindly pressure. “You must be made as
comfortable as possible without delay.”

Mrs. Allen tried to speak her thanks, but was too much overcome by
emotion.

“I shall send a conveyance for you and your goods day after to-morrow,”
the captain said, as he also rose to take his departure, “and I trust
you will be well enough to bear the short journey; but if you are not,
you must not hesitate to say so, and the opportunity shall be given you
again, whenever you send me word that you are ready.”

“We brought you some work, Susan,” Lulu said, giving her hand to the
girl in parting; “it is down in the carriage.”

“And shall be sent up at once,” added the captain.

“Oh, thank you, sir!” returned the girl. “But,”—looking from Lulu to
Mrs. Travilla,—“will I not need some instruction in regard to how you
want it done?”

“I think not,” said the lady; “the garments are all cut and basted, and
written directions given with them. If you want more work when they are
done you have only to ask for it. But do not over-work yourself in the
effort to accomplish more than your strength is equal to.”

With kindly good-bys the visitors went, refusing to allow Susan to
accompany them to the outer door of the house, saying that she had
doubtless to climb those steep flights of stairs far too often for her
good.

In a very few moments a rap called Susan to the door again, to find
there a large covered basket. No one was with it, but she heard the
retreating footsteps of its bearer hurrying down the stairs.

She lifted it inside and closed the door, then began with eager,
trembling hands to unpack it and examine the contents.

There was the promised roll of work, a note pinned to it, on opening
which she found, not only the promised directions, but liberal pay in
advance.

She read the note aloud in tones faltering with emotion and eyes so
dimmed with tears that she could scarcely see.

“Mother,” she cried, “did you ever hear of such kind, generous people?”

“It is because they are Christians; they do it for the dear Master’s
sake,” responded Mrs. Allen, her own voice quivering with feeling.

“I’m sure of it, mother, and that he sent them to help us in our sore
need. Just look! just look!” as she took out one article after another
from the basket and laid it upon the table. “How we shall feast for the
next few days! Here are tea, coffee, sugar, a cold chicken, delicious
looking bread and rolls, fresh-laid eggs (I am sure they’re that from
their appearance), and a pot of currant jelly. It’s wonderful how many
things they have thought of! I shall try very hard to do the work to
please them.”

“What a lovely, beautiful lady Mrs. Travilla is! But I don’t know how
to believe she’s really grandmother to Miss Lulu.”

“Perhaps a step-grandmother,” suggested Mrs. Allen. “She can’t be the
captain’s mother, though I noticed he called her that.”

“What a noble-looking man he is! and the little girl! Weren’t you
pleased with her, mother?”

“Yes; with both her looks and her behavior.”

The palatable, nourishing food, and the cheering prospect for the
future opened up before her by these new and kind friends, had so
beneficial an effect upon Mrs. Allen that when the captain’s promised
conveyance came she was up, dressed, and ready for her journey.

Great were her surprise and gratitude when she learned that he had
sent his own luxurious family carriage to take her and Susan to their
destination, while a wagon was to convey their effects.

It was a lovely day, and their drive took them through a beautiful
country, diversified by hill and valley, meadow and woodland, all
clothed in the charming verdure of spring; now they crossed a dancing
streamlet, now flew past a lordly dwelling, with its lawn of emerald
green and avenue or grove of noble trees, its cultivated fields
spreading far on either hand, now traversed pine woods or skirted the
banks of a flowing river, and anon from some slight eminence caught a
distant view of the ever-restless sea.

The easy motion of the smoothly running carriage, the soft, sweet air,
bringing gratefully to the nostrils the mingled spicy odor of the pines
and the refreshing saltness of the sea, the beautiful sights and sounds
that greeted eye and ear, were all so intensely enjoyable to the mother
and daughter, after their long sojourn in the stifling atmosphere of
the close and filthy alley they were leaving behind, that even the
invalid was scarcely sensible of fatigue until they had reached their
destination and found themselves in the new home, which, though small
and humble, seemed to them almost an earthly paradise.

It was a four-roomed cottage, with a trim little flower garden and
grass plat in front and on each side, fruit trees, currant and
gooseberry bushes, and space for raising vegetables at the back.
Porches, richly festooned with flowering vines, and two giant oaks that
cast their shadows from front gate to porch, made the house seem from
the outside a bower of beauty, and gave promise of delightful shelter
from the too fervid rays of the sun when the sultry summer heats
should come.

“This surely cannot be the place!” exclaimed Mrs. Allen, as the
carriage drew up at the gate.

“No, hardly,” said Susan. “Haven’t you made a mistake?” addressing the
coachman.

“I reckon I habn’t, Miss; dis darkey gin’rally knows what he’s ’bout,”
laughed the man. “Dar’s Miss Elsie a-settin’ in de poach, an’ hyar
comes de cap’n fo’ to help you light.”

Captain Raymond was there, sure enough, hurrying down the path.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said, with a benevolent smile, as he
threw open the carriage door. “Mrs. Allen, you must be very weary,
though you are looking much brighter than when I saw you the other day.
Let me help you into the house.”

“You are wonderfully kind, sir,” she returned with feeling, as he
lifted her out. “And, oh, what a paradise you have provided for us
here! I can hardly believe it is really to be our home; and I feel that
it is far beyond our deserts. The flowers, the vines, the grand old
trees, and the green grass,—how lovely they all are!”

“Yes,” he returned pleasantly; “as some one has said, ‘God made the
country, and man made the town,’ and I for one have no desire to make
my home in the man-made city.”

Max and Lulu had come racing down the path after their father, and were
now bringing up the rear with Susan in tow.

“How do you like it?” Lulu was asking eagerly: “is it any improvement
upon Rose Alley?”

“Oh, Miss Lulu, it’s too sweet and beautiful for anything!” exclaimed
Susan, clasping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “What lovely
flowers, what a delicious perfume from them! Oh, I think myself the
happiest girl alive, to be going to live here! I never dreamed of
anything half so delightful!”

“And Grandma Elsie has made it nearly, if not quite, as inviting
indoors as out,” remarked Max.

“What a kind, kind lady!” said Susan, in tones tremulous with grateful
emotion; “the kindest and most generous I ever saw.”

Grandma Elsie was at that moment standing at the entrance to the porch,
with hand outstretched in friendly greeting to Mrs. Allen, and to
assist her up the steps.

“Welcome home,” she said, with her own rarely sweet smile. “I hope you
will find it a happy home.”

“Dear madam, it seems to me a paradise upon earth,” returned the poor
woman, tears of joy and gratitude coursing down her wasted cheeks.

Her strength seemed giving way, and the captain half-carried her in
and laid her down on a lounge which was so placed that it commanded a
partial view of each of the four rooms.

Parlor, living-room, bedroom were all simply and inexpensively, yet
tastefully, furnished, every comfort, including a luxuriously easy
chair, provided for the invalid. White curtains at the windows, and
vases of flowers set here and there, lent an air of elegance to the
otherwise unpretending, modest apartments.

In the neat little kitchen a tidy, pleasant-faced colored woman was
moving briskly about, evidently preparing the evening meal, while in
the living-room a table was laid for two.

It was a delight to Lulu to lead Susan from room to room, calling her
attention to all the beauties and conveniences, and explaining that
Grandma Elsie had provided this, papa or Mamma Vi that.

“Mamma Vi,” repeated Susan inquiringly; “is it your mother you mean?”

“No—yes, my second mother, but not old enough to be really my mamma;
that’s why Max and I put the Vi to it.”

“Come, daughter,” the captain said to Lulu as she and Susan re-entered
the parlor, where they had left the others, “put on your hat; we are
going home now.”

“Yes, it is time,” Mrs. Travilla said, taking Mrs. Allen’s hand in
farewell. “We will leave you to rest, my good woman, for you look
sadly in need of it. Sally has your supper nearly ready. I hope you
will both enjoy it, and she will stay to wash the dishes and set
everything to rights; so that you will have no occasion for exertion
till to-morrow.”

“I think they are very happy,” Lulu remarked, as the carriage rolled
away toward Woodburn; “and how delightful it is to be able to make
other folks happy!”

“Yes,” said her father; “‘it is more blessed to give than to receive.’
We should be very thankful that we are in circumstances to be
givers—stewards of God’s bounty. He has given largely to us, in order
that we may distribute to others. He never intended that we should
spend all on ourselves.”

CHAPTER IV.

Grandma Elsie took tea at Woodburn, but drove home to Ion directly
after. Edward, her eldest son, met her in the veranda with a face full
of pleasurable excitement.

“It is over, mamma,” he said; “most happily over!”

“Ah, how thankful I am!” she exclaimed. “Can I see her?”

“Yes, oh yes! She is sleeping, though, the influence of the ether
having not yet passed off.”

“It is a surprise,” she said. “I should have hastened home if I had had
the least idea of what was going on.”

“It was sudden and unexpected; rather quickly over, too, or you should
have been sent for. Fortunately Cousin Arthur happened in just as I was
about to summon him.”

“Which is it?”

“Both,” he returned, with a joyous laugh.

“Indeed! that too is a surprise. But none the less delightful.”

He was leading the way to the suite of apartments occupied by himself
and wife, his mother following.

They passed into the bedroom, where Zoe lay extended on her couch in
placid slumber. They drew near and stood looking down at her, each face
a trifle anxious.

She stirred and opened her eyes sleepily: “Mamma,” she murmured,
“Edward—”

“Yes, love, we are both here,” he answered in tender tones. Then
bending over her and pressing a tender kiss upon her cheek: “Do you
know how rich you are, my darling?”

“Rich?” she repeated with a bewildered look up into his face, still
only half awake.

“Yes; both you and I; we have more than doubled our wealth since you
went to sleep two hours ago.”

“Oh!” rousing to full consciousness, “is it all over? Which is it? Show
it to me, do, dear.”

“It’s both,” he said, with a low, gleeful laugh.

“Look! they are close beside you,” folding back the covers of the bed,
and bringing into view a pair of tiny forms and faces. “Your son and
daughter, young Mrs. Travilla.”

She raised herself slightly to get a better view. “Oh, the darlings,
the lovely darlings! Indeed we are rich! You may have the girl, but the
boy’s mine,” she added, with a silvery laugh. “But they’re like as two
peas. If they were both boys, or both girls, I should never be able to
tell them apart. So it’s a blessing they’re one of each.”

“There, lie down now,” he said. “They’re great treasures, but both
together worth less to me than their mother; and I can’t have her
running any risks. Mamma, dear, what do you think of your new
grandchildren?”

“Just what the new-made parents do,” she answered, bending over them
from the other side of the bed. “Welcome, welcome, little strangers!
there is plenty of room in grandma’s heart for you both.”

“Our birthday gift to you, mamma,” said Zoe.

“What, giving them away already?” queried Edward playfully, “and that
without consulting me!”

“Only as grandchildren,” she answered in the same tone. “You and I
are papa and mamma. Ah, how delightfully odd it seems! Poor little
dears, to have such a silly young thing for their mother,” she added
sorrowfully, reaching out a hand and softly touching the tiny faces
with the tips of her fingers. “But then they have a good papa, and such
a dear, wise grandma. Are you pleased? Will you take them for your
birthday gift from me, mamma?” lifting loving, entreating eyes to the
sweet face of her mother-in-law.

“Indeed I will, dear child. You could have given me nothing more
acceptable,” bending down to touch her lips softly to the velvet cheek
of first the one and then the other. “Which is the boy and which the
girl, Ned?”

“I really don’t know, mamma,” he said, laughing, “for, as their mother
says, they are as like as two peas.”

“We’ll have to put some sort of mark on them,” said Zoe, gloating
over her new treasures, “else one may often be blamed for the other’s
faults. Ah, I wonder whether they will be wise and good like their
father, or silly like their mother.”

“You are slandering their mother, and I can’t allow it,” Edward said,
frowning in mock indignation. “But you weren’t to talk. You must be
quiet, or I’ll have to run away.”

“We’ll have use for both our names, Ned,” remarked Zoe, smiling up into
her husband’s face, the next time he came to her bedside.

“Yes,” he said, with a glance of pride and pleasure, from her to the
little ones.

Then turning to his mother, “You must understand, mamma, that we had
selected a suitable name for the expected little stranger, whether
it should prove to belong to the one sex or the other. Of course we
desired to name for you or my father; but there are already so many
Elsies and Neds in the family connection that we decided to add
another name, as you did in my case, to avoid confusion; that if a boy,
it should be named Edward Lawrence, for both Zoe’s father and mine, and
commonly called Laurie; but if a girl, should be Lily, for the dear
little sister who went to heaven so many years ago.”

“I entirely approve your choice,” said his mother, her eyes shining
through tears of mingled joy and sorrow, as her thoughts were carried
back to the husband and child whose loved presence would cheer her
earthly pilgrimage no more. “Laurie and Lily; the two names go nicely
together. It will be sweet to have a Lily in the family again, and I
trust she and her brother may be spared to their parents, even to be
the stay and staff of their old age.”

“How cunningly you have managed to catch up with Elsie and me in the
matter of providing mamma with grandchildren,” was Violet’s jesting
remark to Zoe, when she came for the first time to look at the new
arrivals.

“Yes, haven’t I?” laughed Zoe. “We have two apiece now, making six in
all. Mamma says she is growing rich in grandchildren.”

“Six of her own, and four others who address her by that title, though
it has always seemed ridiculous to me, considering how young my darling
mother looks.”

“Yes, to me too. But these darlings are her very own and—Vi, don’t you
think they’re the sweetest things that ever were made?”

“O Zoe, don’t ask quite so much as that of me!” returned Violet, with
playful look and smile. “I do really think them as sweet as they can
be, but my own two no less so!”

“Oh, of course!” laughed Zoe. “It was just like my silliness to ask
such a question. I tell mamma they are Ned’s and my birthday gift to
her; though they came three weeks before the time.”

“They’ll not be less worth having for being three weeks old,” remarked
Violet.

“No; they develop new beauties every day. Mamma herself says so. And
I am glad there is time for me to recover sufficiently to enjoy the
festivities of the occasion.”

Zoe hovering over her babies made a pretty picture to look upon.
She would scarcely let them out of her sight; rejoiced over them
with singing and laughter, full of mirth and gladness, as though the
veriest child herself. Yet at times her mood changed, her face wore a
pensive expression akin to sadness, and caressing them with exceeding
tenderness, she would murmur softly:

“My wee bit darlings, my precious treasures, what trials and sufferings
may be yours before you reach the end of life’s long journey! Ah, if
your mother might but bear all your pains and troubles for you, how
gladly she would do it.”

“Dear daughter,” Grandma Elsie said on overhearing the words one day,
“that is one of the cares we are privileged to cast on Jesus. He dearly
loves the little ones, and he has all power in heaven and in earth.
‘I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee,’ is one of the
many great and precious promises of his Word. ‘Train up a child in the
way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.’ Seek
wisdom for that work by prayer and the study of God’s word.”

“I will, mamma,” Zoe answered thoughtfully. “I am quite sure Edward
will make a good father, and I shall try very hard to be a good mother;
I shall take you, dear mamma, for my pattern, for there couldn’t be a
better mother than you are, and always have been.”

“I have tried to be—tried in the way I have recommended to you—but I
sometimes made mistakes, and I would have you follow me only in so far
as I have followed Christ, and the teachings of his Word,” Grandma
Elsie answered, in sincere humility.

“Mamma,” said Zoe, “I do not believe it possible for any frail human
creature to follow more closely in the Master’s footsteps than you do.”

The Ion twins were objects of great interest to all the children of
the connection, and from the first news of their arrival they were
eager to see them. It was not allowed, however, till the proud young
mother was able to exhibit them herself.

Rosie and Walter had of course a look at them on the day of their
birth, but they were nearly two weeks old before the others were
admitted to Zoe’s room, where she insisted on keeping her precious
treasures all the time.

The Woodburn children were anxious for their turn, and at last it
came. Lulu and Grace rode over to Ion one pleasant afternoon, on their
ponies, Fairy and Elf, the captain and Max accompanying them on their
larger steeds.

The little girls did not know when they started that Ion was their
destination, and on arriving were still in doubt whether they were to
see the babies; but the greetings were scarcely over when they asked if
they might.

“Yes; Zoe is feeling very well to-day, and I think it will do her no
harm to see you all for a few moments,” replied Grandma Elsie, leading
the way. “You may come, too, Captain; Zoe is always delighted with an
opportunity to exhibit her treasures.”

“Thank you, mother, I accept your invitation with pleasure,” he
answered, following with his children.

Zoe, lying on a couch with a dainty crib close beside her, greeted her
visitors with smiles and words of welcome.

“It seems an age since I last saw your pleasant countenance, Captain,”
she said, as he took her hand.

“You could hardly miss me with such companionship as you have here,” he
returned playfully, as he bent over the crib and took a scrutinizing
look at its tiny occupants. “They are really worth showing, little
mother.”

“I should say they were,” she responded, laughing; a low, gleeful,
silvery laugh.

Grandma Elsie had led Lulu and Grace to the other side of the crib. “O
Aunt Zoe, what lovely little darlings!” they both exclaimed. “And it’s
such a pretty sight, two babies just the same size and exactly alike!”

“So it is,” said the captain, but added playfully, “both together,
though, would hardly make one of our Ned; so Aunt Zoe need not propose
to swap.”

“Aunt Zoe has not the remotest idea of making such a proposition,” she
returned gayly. “No, indeed, mother’s darlings,” raising herself on one
elbow that she might have a good look at each tiny face, “you needn’t
fret,”—for one stirred in its sleep and gave a faint little cry—“no one
could persuade mamma to give even one of you for the biggest baby in
the land.”

“Was that Laurie? or Lily, Aunt Zoe?” asked Lulu. “Such pretty names as
you have given them!”

“Yes, I think so. It was Laurie that cried out then; he’s not so quiet
as Lily; but one must expect a boy to make more noise in the world than
a girl.”

“But how can you tell which is which, Aunt Zoe,” queried Grace; “they
look exactly alike to me.”

“To me too; but see, we have put a gold chain round Lily’s neck, and
Laurie has none.”

“Ah, no wonder he cries out at such favoritism,” remarked the captain
sportively.

“Sure enough!” exclaimed Zoe; “strange I had not thought of it before.
But he shall have that excuse no longer; he shall wear that lovely
necklace of pink coral beads Ned gave me on my last birthday. Lu, if
you will go to my jewel-case and get it, I’ll be much obliged.”

“I will, Aunt Zoe; I’m delighted with the errand,” exclaimed Lulu,
hurrying into the adjoining dressing-room.

She had been there often enough to know where to find what she had been
sent for, and was back again in a moment with it in her hand.

“Thank you, Lu. Hand it to mamma, please,” said Zoe. “She will put it
on him; I’d like to do it myself, but presume I wouldn’t be allowed,
they are all so exceedingly—I’d almost said absurdly—careful of me.”

“It would be better for you not to make the effort, my dear,” Grandma
Elsie said, taking the necklace from Lulu’s hand.

All eyes were upon her as she gently raised the tiny head just enough
to enable her to slip it under and around the child’s neck, then
fastened the clasp in front.

“I don’t know,” she remarked in a doubtful tone, “that he will be quite
as comfortable with as without it, and I’m positively certain he will
not appreciate the honor.”

The babe was fast asleep, and did not rouse himself to give his opinion.

Rosie had come softly into the room, and was standing beside the crib
with the others.

“Aren’t they the loveliest, darlingest wee pets that ever were seen?”
she exclaimed. “I think it would be delightful to have one baby in the
house—really belonging here—but to have two such pretty pets is doubly
delightful.”

“Yes, but I think you’ll find it better still when they’re grown to be
as large as ours, and can run about and talk,” said Lulu. “They do say
such smart things sometimes.”

“Yes; what fun it will be when these two begin to talk!” Zoe exclaimed,
with a low, gleeful, happy laugh, touching each tiny face caressingly.

CHAPTER V.

The celebration of Grandma Elsie’s approaching semi-centennial was
now the most important event in the near future, the principal theme
of conversation in the connection, and grand preparations for it were
going forward.

By her express wish, all the poor of the neighborhood—white and black,
in two distinct assemblies—were invited to spend a large part of the
day on the plantation, amusing themselves with outdoor games and
enjoying a bountiful feast spread for them in the shade of the wood in
which Mr. Leland, the uncle of the present occupant of Fairview, had
once concealed himself when attacked by the Ku Klux.

Another party, consisting of all the relatives, connections, and
intimate friends residing in the vicinity, would be given the freedom
of the house and grounds to enjoy themselves as they should please.

Circumstances were auspicious; all the preparations had been thoroughly
well attended to; the day dawned bright and beautiful, and found every
one in high health and spirits.

She whom all were seeking to honor and make the happiest of the happy,
awoke with a heart full of love and gratitude for the unnumbered
mercies and blessings of her lot in life. Her first act was to rise
from her bed, and, kneeling beside it, pour out her thanksgivings and
praises, mingled with confession of sins, petitions for herself and
others, and a renewal of her oft-repeated consecration to His service.

She had scarce completed her morning toilet, singing the while in low,
sweet strains, a song of praise, when a light tap at the door was
followed by her father’s entrance.

He folded her in his arms, and holding her close to his heart, wished
her, in moved tones, many happy returns of the day.

“I know not how to believe that you have seen fifty years,” he said,
holding her off a little to gaze searchingly into her face,—still as
sweet, and well-nigh as fair and smooth, as it had been thirty years
before—“there are no silver threads in your hair, no lines on your
forehead, or about your eyes or mouth; you are no less beautiful than
you were in your early girlhood; my darling’s charms have only matured,
not lessened.”

“Ah, papa,” she returned, shaking her head with an incredulous smile,
“you always did see me through rose-colored glasses. I dare say any
eyes but yours—so blinded by love—can readily perceive many traces left
by the passing years.”

“Yet, dear father, why should we regret it? Why care that we are both
growing old, since each day as it passes brings us a step nearer to our
heavenly home.”

“That is a delightful thought,” he responded, with a smile and a sigh;
“a thought that more than reconciles me to the inevitable in my own
case.”

“And surely in mine, too, papa, for you would not want to be in heaven
without me,” she said, creeping closer into his embrace and half hiding
her face on his breast.

“No,” he replied with emotion, tightening the clasp of his arm about
her waist and pressing his lips again and again to her cheek and brow,
“not for long; but in the course of nature I shall probably be called
away first, and for your children’s sake I hope you may yet live many
years, and that those years may be for you as free as possible from the
infirmities of age.”

“And it is that I wish for you, dear father, for _your_ children’s
sake; my own especially,” she returned, gazing lovingly into his eyes.

Another tap at the door, and Edward and Zoe entered, each carrying a
baby.

“Here we come, mamma, with your birthday gifts,” cried Zoe gayly, “and
wishing you many, many happy returns of the day.”

“Thank you, my dears; but O Zoe, this is too much exertion for you!
you should not have done it, my child!” Elsie answered, stepping
hastily forward and taking little Laurie from his young mother’s arms,
while Zoe sank into an easy-chair, panting a little, the color coming
and going in her cheeks.

“The nurse carried him to the very door, mamma,” she said; “and I
thought I was stronger than I am.”

“It is my fault,—I should not have allowed it,” said Edward, looking
anxiously at Zoe.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear; I am not injured in the least,” she
responded, smiling up into his face as he stood over her, forgetting
everything else in concern for her. “You haven’t presented your half of
the gift to mamma; nor any good wishes either.”

“As if both halves didn’t belong to both of us,” he responded, with an
amused smile. “Mamma, I wish you many, many happy returns of the day,
and beg to present you with what I consider a priceless treasure—my
little daughter, your youngest granddaughter,” laying the babe in the
arms she held out to receive it, having already resigned the other to
its great-grandsire.

“They are indeed priceless treasures, and very dear to their
grandmamma’s heart,” she said, cuddling it close in her arms and
pressing kisses on the tiny velvet cheek.

“Now, mamma, it’s Laurie’s turn,” remarked the young mother laughingly;
“you didn’t take time to kiss him, in your concern for me, and it will
never do to be partial.”

“No, certainly not,” Grandma Elsie said, exchanging babies with her
father, “but they are so exactly alike in looks that one will have to
be a little careful to make sure of avoiding such a mistake.”

But now came Mrs. Dinsmore, Rosie, and Walter with their
congratulations and good wishes.

The scene was a lively one for a little while; then the old people, and
Zoe and Edward with their babies, withdrew, leaving Grandma Elsie alone
with the youngest two of her flock.

They spent a short time together in the usual way, then the breakfast
bell rang, and at the same moment the family carriage drove up to the
door bringing her college boys, who had arrived in the village by an
early train which the carriage had been sent to meet.

Each in turn must hold his mother in a long, tender embrace; then
greetings with the others were to be exchanged, questions asked and
answered on both sides; so that it was some time before any attention
was paid to the summons to the breakfast-table; and when they did
gather about the board the flow of talk was such as to seriously
interfere with the business of eating, so that the meal was prolonged
to twice its ordinary length.

Zoe, down for the first time since the advent of the twins, was
smiling, happy, eager to show her darlings to the young uncles.

They had already given congratulations by letter to her and Edward, and
had not been many minutes in their company before renewing them.

“I am quite in haste to see my new niece and nephew,” said Harold. “I
presume, Zoe, they are the prettiest, brightest, sweetest wee mortals
that ever were seen. Isn’t it so?”

“Of course they are to their mother,” she answered laughingly, “but
she doesn’t expect anybody else, except papa,”—with an arch look at
Edward—“to see the darlings through the same rose-colored glasses. You
and Herbert shall judge for yourselves presently though; they will be
on exhibition as soon as prayers are over.”

“We may judge for ourselves, you say, Zoe, but dare we express our
opinions freely, should they not coincide with that of the parents?”
queried Herbert, in a bantering tone.

“At a safe distance I think you may venture,” returned Zoe demurely.

“But Zoe won’t be the only one to take part with Laurie and Lily should
anybody have the bad taste to utter a word in depreciation of them,”
remarked Rosie warningly.

“And yet this is called a free country!” exclaimed Harold, with an
expressive shrug of his shoulders.

“Ion’s to be a monarchy to-day,” remarked Walter. “Mamma’s to be
crowned queen of it in the arbor.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed his mother in surprise and amusement. “It is the
first hint I have had that such doings were in contemplation.”

“Yes, mamma,” said Rosie, “we have been keeping it a secret from you,
and Walter’s communication is a little premature. But it really doesn’t
signify, for you would have had to know very soon.”

“Yes, I suppose so, for some of our guests—the nearest relations at
least—will soon begin to arrive. But when is this important ceremony to
take place?”

“I suppose as soon as the guests are all here, mamma.”

“The other ceremony—the presentation of the babies to their newly
arrived uncles—will be gone through with first, doubtless?” Harold
remarked, in an inquiring tone.

“Oh, yes; of course,” answered several voices, as they all rose from
the table and withdrew to the library to unite in the usual morning
worship.

The babies’ dainty crib had been brought down to an adjoining room for
the day, and there they lay sweetly sleeping.

As soon as the short service had come to an end, Zoe, motioning to
Harold and Herbert to follow, led the way to the side of the crib, and
laying back the cover brought the two tiny forms to view lying side by
side, the little plump faces turned toward each other, round, rosy, and
dimpled.

“There, aren’t they beauties, boys?” exclaimed Zoe, bending over her
treasures in a perfect rapture of mother-love and admiration. “Did you
ever see anything half so sweet?”

“Well, really, they are quite passable, considering their extreme
youth,” returned Harold sportively. “I say, Ned, what would you take
for them?”

“They are not in the market, sir,” replied the young father, regarding
them with pride and admiration. “Though you should offer every dollar
you possess it would be utterly contemned.”

“Ah, ’tis just as well, Ned, for I should not know what to do with such
tender, delicate little morsels of humanity if I had them.”

“You don’t half appreciate them,” said Zoe, half jestingly, half in
earnest, “you don’t deserve the honor of being their uncle.”

“We’ll enjoy and appreciate them more a year or two hence, when they
can be romped and played with,” remarked Herbert. “But, really, Zoe,
they’re as pretty as any young baby I ever saw.”

Rosie looked in at the door with the announcement, “The Woodburn
carriage is coming up the avenue,” and the three brothers hurried out
to greet its occupants. They were the whole Raymond family, from the
captain down to baby Ned, and scarcely had greetings been exchanged
with them when the Lelands from Fairview arrived, and Grandma Elsie had
all her children about her.

She was the centre of attraction; everybody had an embrace, good
wishes, and a gift for her, and all were most graciously received.

But her daughters presently hurried her away to her private apartment,
where they busied themselves in attiring her for the day in such manner
as suited their own ideas of what would be most fitting and becoming,
she smilingly submitting to their will.

“You must wear white, mamma,” said Violet; “nothing could be more
suitable to the weather or more becoming to you. Do you not say so,
Elsie?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Leland, opening her mother’s wardrobe and glancing
over the dresses hanging there; “and it will please grandpa better than
anything else. There,” taking down a nun’s veiling, “this is just the
thing.”

“My dears, remember how many years have flown over your mother’s head,
and don’t dress me too youthfully,” Grandma Elsie said, with an amused
look and smile.

“Never fear, mamma,” returned Violet in her sprightly way, “how can you
fear for a moment that your daughters would do such discredit to the
training of so good and wise a mother as theirs?”

“What ornaments shall mamma wear?” asked Rosie.

“Only flowers—natural flowers,” returned her sisters, both speaking at
once.

“Oh, yes; and they must be roses and lilies; a knot of them at her
throat, and another at her waist. I’ll go and get them myself,”
exclaimed Rosie, hurrying from the room.

In one of the lower apartments of the mansion she found Zoe, Edward,
and his brothers, Mr. Leland and Evelyn, Captain Raymond and his
children, all busy with flowers from conservatories, gardens, fields,
and woods, which were piled in fragrant heaps upon tables and in
baskets, making them into bouquets, wreaths, garlands, and arranging
them in vases.

With deft fingers Zoe was weaving a beautiful wreath.

“Oh, Zoe, how lovely!” exclaimed Rosie. “It is to be mamma’s crown,
isn’t it?”

“Yes; and everything in it has a meaning; these laurel leaves are to
say to mamma, and everybody, that she is the glory of this house; this
calla lily, that she is beautiful (though of course no one who looks
at her can help seeing that without being told); this sweet alyssum,
that she has worth beyond beauty; this white jessamine, that she is
amiability itself; the yellow, that she has grace and elegance; this
china rose means the same; this moss rose, superior merit; this myrtle,
that we all love her dearly, dearly!”

“Oh, what a nice story they tell!” exclaimed Rosie; “the wreath has my
entire approval,” she added, with a merry laugh.

“What a relief to my mind!” said Zoe, joining in the laugh. “We’re
going to make a perfect bower of the dining-room, the only room in the
house that will be much used by the company to-day.”

“That’s a nice idea; we must have flowers everywhere to-day in mamma’s
honor. I have come to select some for the adornment of her person.”

“This is for that very purpose,” said Zoe, holding up her nearly
completed wreath, and regarding it with satisfaction.

“Yes, I know; but I want a knot of flowers for her throat, and another
for her belt. Roses, lilies, and heliotrope.”

“Grandma Elsie is versed in the language of flowers, isn’t she?” asked
Evelyn.

“Yes, indeed!” answered Rosie.

“Oh, then, wouldn’t it be a nice idea for each of us to select a few
flowers expressing our feelings of love, admiration, and so forth;
then, after Grandpa Dinsmore has put the crown on her head, go one at
a time, kneel before her on one knee, kiss her hand, and present the
little floral offering?”

“Capital!” “Quite a bright thought, Eva!” “Just the thing!” exclaimed
several voices, in response to the suggestion.

“Oh, let’s do it!” said Lulu. “I think it would be ever so nice!”

“All in favor say aye,” said Harold.

A chorus of “Ayes,” in response.

“Contrary, no!”

A dead silence.

“The ayes have it,” he announced; “but of course everybody is at
liberty to do exactly as he or she pleases.”

“I don’t know anything about the language of flowers,” remarked Grace
shyly.

“And my memory needs refreshing on the subject,” Herbert said, smiling
pleasantly on the little girl. “So I’ll bring a book from the library
that will tell us what we want to know.”

“Will it be objectionable if several of us choose the same flower?”
asked Lulu.

“Oh no, not at all,” replied Harold. “I shall take some of these
beautiful pinks. This one means pure affection; this clove pink,
dignity; this double red, pure, ardent love; this white one, ‘You are
fair.’ I should like to say all that to mamma.”

“So should I,” said Grace. “May I take some of the same flowers, Uncle
Harold?”

“Surely, dear child,” he returned, selecting them for her.

“A bit of myrtle, too, please,” she said; “because I do love Grandma
Elsie dearly.”

“I want a bit of that, too,” Lulu said, “and all the kinds of lilies
and roses that mean something nice. I do think they are the loveliest
flowers!”

“I’ll have heliotrope, ‘I love you,’ pansy, ‘Think of me,’ purple
heartsease, some of the myrtle, and honeysuckle, ‘bond of love,’”
Evelyn said, after consulting the book Herbert had brought, and culling
them from the fragrant heaps as she spoke.

In the mean time Rosie had made up the two bouquets she had come for.
“See!” she said, holding them up to view, “aren’t these roses and
lilies just the perfection of beauty? They’ll put the finishing touch
to mamma’s attire, and I’ll be back presently to select others as my
offering to the queen of the day.”

So saying she tripped gayly away.

“There, the crown is done!” said Zoe, turning it about in her hands and
viewing it with a satisfied smile.

The others pronounced it beautiful.

“Now I’ll help with the wreaths for the rooms.”

“No, no, my dear, you have exerted yourself quite enough for one day,”
said her husband. “Just lie back in that easy-chair and give as many
directions as you please.”

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, laughing, “you are as careful of me as if I
were made of the finest china or glass.”

“A great deal more so,” he returned, with a look that spoke volumes of
loving appreciation, and bending over her to bring his lips close to
her ear, “Your price is above rubies, my darling,” he added, in a low
aside.

“Dear Ned, you are so good to me!” she responded, lifting to his eyes
as full of love as his own.

“The queen of the day! the queen of all our hearts!” announced Rosie,
preceding her mother and sisters into the room.

“We are all ready to do her homage,” said the captain, stepping forward
and saluting his mother-in-law with much respect and affection.

The others were prompt to follow his example, all crowding about her
with expressions of love and admiration.

“You are too good to me, my dear children and grandchildren,” she said,
glad tears springing to her eyes. “I am quite sensible that I am by no
means the beautiful and admirable person your affectionate appreciation
leads you to imagine.”

“O mamma,” exclaimed Zoe, “there’s no imagination about it! Girls, you
have shown great taste in arraying her for the occasion; it only needs
the addition of my floral crown to make her dress quite perfect.”

But carriages were driving up the avenue, and near friends and
relatives came pouring in with their congratulations and gifts, which
last were received with grateful thanks and bestowed, for the present,
in a small reception-room set apart for the purpose.

When the last of the guests had arrived all repaired to the grounds,
wending their way toward the arbor where the heroine of the day was
seated on an extemporized throne garlanded with flowers, while her
father made a neat little speech and placed the floral crown on her
head, then, dropping on one knee at her feet, kissed her hand and
presented a bouquet of calla lilies, pinks, and roses.

It was altogether a surprise to her, and a vivid blush mantled her
cheek.

“My dear father,” she said, low and tenderly, looking up into his face,
with eyes half filled with tears, as he rose and stood by her side,
“you should never have knelt to me—your own child.”

“Only in sport, dearest,” he said, bending down and imprinting a kiss
upon her lips; “you know young lads like myself must be allowed to
indulge in a trifle of that kind occasionally.”

He stepped aside, and amid much jesting and mirth, the others followed
his example till the throne and its occupant were half hidden in the
fragrant heaps of floral offerings.

But father and sons, coming to the rescue, extricated her without
damage to person or attire, and she went about among her guests doing
the honors of the place with a sweet and gentle dignity all her own.

There were no strangers among them, however, and everybody felt at home
and free to follow his or her own inclinations, to sit and converse in
the grateful shade of the fine old trees, wander about lawn, shrubbery,
and gardens, or take part in the active sports with which the children
and youth of the company were delighting themselves.

But it was not in the kind heart of Grandma Elsie to neglect her poorer
guests. Her father, sons, and a few others accompanying her, she paid
a short visit to each assembly, went about among them with kindly
inquiries concerning their health and welfare (no air of condescension
marring their enjoyment of her sweet looks and words), and distributing
gifts—from a large basket carried by two men-servants—of such articles
of food and clothing as she knew would be acceptable; for, ever, like
her Master, going about doing good, she was a frequent visitor in their
dwellings and well acquainted with their needs.

And they looked upon her as a kind, powerful friend, from whom they
might ever expect with confidence sympathy and help in their trials and
struggles with life’s hard problems.

The birthday feast at the mansion was served somewhat later in the
day; a banquet, not only of such things as appease the hunger of the
physical man, but also “a feast of reason and a flow of soul.”

The celebration of Grandma Elsie’s semi-centennial was pronounced by
every one so fortunate as to have a share in it to have been from
beginning to end a most decided success.

CHAPTER VI.

Max and Lulu were on the veranda at Woodburn,—its only occupants.
The western sky was all aglow with the gorgeous hues of a brilliant
sunset; rich masses of purple, gold, amber, pale-green, and delicate
rose color were piled from the horizon half way up to the zenith, while
flecks, patches, and long streaks of flame, changing every moment—here
spreading and deepening, there contracting and fading to paler
tints—stretched above and beyond on every side.

It was a grand scene, and Max, who was whittling a bit of soft wood,
paused for several minutes to gaze upon it with admiration and delight.

“What a splendid sunset!” he exclaimed, turning toward his sister.

But she was absorbed in a story-book, holding it in a way to catch
the last beams of the fading light, and reading on with eager haste,
utterly oblivious to the glories of the sunset sky, and the beauties of
the grounds arrayed in all the verdure of June.

“Lu, you’re straining your eyes, reading by this fading light,” said
Max. “If papa were here he would certainly tell you to stop at once.”

Lulu made no reply, but continued to read as if she had not heard the
remark.

Max waited a moment, then began again, “Lu—”

“Oh, Max, do be quiet!” she exclaimed impatiently, without moving her
eyes from the page.

Max gazed at her for another minute without speaking, an odd sort of
smile in his eyes and playing about the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, I’ll do it,” he muttered under his breath; “now’s as good a time
as any for the experiment.”

At that instant their father’s voice was heard in grave, slightly
reproving accents, coming apparently from the hall. “Lulu!”

“Sir,” she answered promptly, dropping her book, while a vivid color
suffused her cheek.

“Don’t read any longer; you will injure your eyes. Lay aside your book
and come here to me.”

She obeyed at once, hurrying into the hall. Max looking after her with
a gleam of mingled fun and triumph in his eyes.

“Why, papa, where are you?” he heard her ask the next moment; then she
came rushing back with a face full of astonishment and perplexity.
“Max, where can papa be? didn’t you hear him call me? I was sure he was
in the hall, but he isn’t; and I can’t find him in any of the rooms.
And oh, now I remember he drove away with Mamma Vi not half an hour
ago, and they were going to the Oaks, and he couldn’t possibly be back
by this time, even if they didn’t stop there long enough to get out of
the carriage. Besides, we would have seen it drive up from the gate.”

“Couldn’t they have come back through the wood, as you and I do
sometimes?”

“Yes, so they could; but even then we should have seen and heard
them, and—no, they can’t have come back. Papa can’t be at home; and
yet I heard him call me as plainly as ever I did in my life. Oh!—”
and she dropped into a chair with a look of dread and alarm that half
frightened her brother.

“Max,” she went on in low, half-tremulous tones, “I—I—do believe it
means that I’m going to die.”

“Why, Lu!” he exclaimed, “I should never have thought you could be so
silly! What on earth can have put that notion into your head?”

“I’ve heard stories of people hearing themselves called in that
mysterious way and dying very soon afterward,” she answered, looking
rather ashamed.

“Well, that’s all nonsense,” he returned with an air of superior
wisdom. “I’m perfectly sure papa would tell you so.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t care if you thought it did mean that?” she said,
half-interrogatively.

“Oh, of course not; you don’t suppose I care anything about you, do
you?”

“Yes; I know you do. And if you didn’t, you know papa loves me, and
would be grieved to lose me, and you love him well enough to be sorry
on his account.”

“Well, maybe so; though I hadn’t thought it out. But you’re very
healthy, and I’ve a notion are going to outlive all the rest of us.”

“Dear me, how awful that would be!” she cried; “to be left all alone,
after seeing you all dead and buried. I believe I’d rather go first.”

“But not very soon?”

“No, I—think I’d like to live a little longer; we do have such good
times nowadays—in our own home with papa. But—Max, who could have
called me like that?” she queried, with a look of anxious perplexity.
“You heard it, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But why do you laugh, and look so pleased and amused? I should think
you’d be troubled by the mysteriousness of it, same as I am.”

“No, I’m not,” he answered, “because it isn’t really very mysterious to
me. Lu, to save you from worrying, I’ll explain.”

She looked at him in wide-eyed surprise.

“Then you know who it was?”

“Yes; it was I—myself.”

“You? why how—what do you mean, Max?”

“That I’ve found out that I’m a ventriloquist, like Cousin Ronald.”

“Oh, Maxie! is that so? Oh, how nice!”

“Yes; I wondered if I could do it, and I asked him to tell me exactly
how he did it, and if people could learn how if they tried very hard.
He said it depended upon practice and dexterity, and explained and
showed me as nearly as he could; and I tried, and would go off into the
wood yonder, when I could get a chance without anybody noticing, and
practice. To-night I thought I’d try it on you, and I’m just delighted
that I succeeded so well.”

“Indeed you did!” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe Cousin Ronald himself
could have done it any better. Oh, Max, I think it’s ever so nice! what
fun we shall have! Try it on papa when he comes home; do! He wouldn’t
be vexed; papa enjoys fun just as much as we do, and is never angry,
even if the joke is at his expense.”

“No, indeed! and I never had a boy friend that was better company, or
even as good, going gunning or fishing, or in a game of base-ball, or
anything else.”

“And I never enjoy our parlor games half so much when he doesn’t take
part.”

“No; but he always does, unless he’s too busy or has company to
entertain. I tell you, Lu, it’s just splendid to have a father you can
talk to just as freely as if he was a boy like yourself—tell him all
you think and feel, and see that he’s interested, and know that if your
thoughts and feelings aren’t right he’ll show you it’s so without being
angry or stern, or making you feel that he considers you a simpleton or
a fool. I like to be reasoned with as if I had some sense; and that’s
the way papa does with me; and sometimes he asks my opinion, as if he
thought it was worth something.”

“Yes, I know he does; and mine too, and I’m younger than you, and not
nearly so far along in my studies. But, oh, Max, let’s be thinking
of the tricks you can play with your ventriloquism. What will you do
to-night to astonish papa and Mamma Vi?”

“I don’t know; have you any suggestion to make?”

She had several, and was very eager to see one or more of her plans
tried. Max had some of his own too, and they made themselves very merry
talking them over.

The sunset glow had faded from the sky, but the moon had risen and
was flooding the beautiful grounds with silvery light. Suddenly a
mocking-bird in a tree close at hand began to pour forth a perfect
flood of melody. The children ceased talking to listen to its song.

“Oh, isn’t that delicious music?” cried Lulu, as the bird paused for a
moment. “Max, you couldn’t do that, could you?”

“No, indeed,” laughed Max. “I’d give a great deal if I could. But hark,
he’s beginning again.”

“It sounds as if he’s praising God,” Lulu remarked, at the next pause;
“he sings as if his little heart is so full of joy and thankfulness
that he doesn’t know how to express it.”

“Yes,” said Gracie’s voice, close at her side. “I think he’s rejoicing
in the beautiful moonlight, Lu; and isn’t it lovely? It makes a rainbow
in the spray of the fountain, and I can see the dewdrops glitter in the
grass. And look at the fireflies dancing in and out among the trees and
bushes.”

“Some of them soaring away above the tree-tops,” put in Max.

“And maybe birdie is rejoicing in the sweet scent of the roses and
honeysuckle, the mignonette, the moon-flowers, and others too numerous
to mention,” said Lulu. “But where have you been all this time, Gracie?”

“With Elsie and baby Ned. Mamma put them to bed as usual before she
and papa went, but she couldn’t stay till Elsie went to sleep, and I
offered to stay beside Elsie and sing to her and tell her stories, and
mamma said I might, and she would be very much obliged to me for it.”

“That was good in you, Gracie,” Lulu said, pulling Grace down into her
lap, and putting her arm round her; “I suppose it was my place to do
it, really, as I’m the oldest, but I never thought of it. But you are
always such a dear, kind, unselfish girl.”

“And so you are,” said Max and Grace, speaking together, Max adding,
“Who was it was so brave the night the burglars got into the strong
room, and so unselfish as to prefer to risk her own life, locking them
in there, rather than have papa risk his?”

“Lulu, of course,” said a voice that sounded like Evelyn Leland’s,
speaking near at hand, on the other side of the little girls, “for who
else would have done it?”

Even Lulu was startled enough to turn her head, half-expecting to see
her friend standing there, while Grace sprang up and turned in the
direction of the sound, exclaiming, “Why, Eva when did you come? I
didn’t know you were here! Oh, she isn’t there! How quickly she got
away—into the hall, I suppose,” running toward the door. “Eva, Eva,”
she called, “where can you have gone to so fast?”

Max and Lulu looked after her with a low, gleeful laugh.

“Another success for you, Max,” Lulu said.

“Oh, I hope Gracie won’t be frightened!” he exclaimed, in sudden fear
of the effect of his experiment upon his timid, nervous little sister,
and just then Grace came hurrying back, looking a little alarmed and
very much perplexed.

“Why,” she said, “where could Eva have gone to? I’ve looked all about
and can’t find her.”

“Shall I tell her, Max?” asked Lulu.

“Yes,” he answered, and Lulu went on, “Max has learned to be a kind of
Cousin Ronald, Gracie, and we shall have lots of fun because of it,
don’t you think so?”

“A ventriloquist, do you mean?” asked Grace in astonishment. “Why, how
can he?”

“Because he is so smart, I suppose,” laughed Lulu. “Aren’t you proud of
being the sister of such a genius? I am.”

“Yes,” returned Grace promptly. “I always was proud of Maxie. But this
astonishes me very much indeed. Oh, I’m ever so glad of it! I’m sure he
can make a great deal of fun for himself and us. Does papa know?”

“No,” said Max, “and you mustn’t tell him. When he comes home we’ll
see if we can’t have some fun out of him. He’ll enjoy it as much as we
will.”

“Of course; and be as proud of you, Maxie, as Lu and I are.”

Just then they saw the carriage, bringing their parents, turn in at the
great gates leading from the highway into the Woodburn grounds, and
come rapidly up the drive.

It drew up before the entrance, and the captain alighted and handed out
his wife.

The children, always delighted to see them return after even the
shortest absence, sprang up and ran forward with eager, joyous
greetings.

“I hope you have not been lonely, dears?” said Violet, bending down to
receive and return an ardent kiss from Grace. “But I must hurry up to
the nursery to see how the babies are doing.”

“Papa, sit down in this easy-chair, please,” said Lulu.

“And let me take your hat and hang it on the rack,” added Max.

“And may I get you a glass of ice-water?”

“And I a fan?” asked Lulu and Grace.

“Thank you, my darlings, I do not feel the need of either,” he
answered, seating himself and drawing Grace to his knee, Lulu to his
side, and putting an arm affectionately around each.

Max drew up a chair close to his father’s side. “Had you a pleasant
time, papa?” he asked.

“Very; we happened upon quite a number of the relatives—Dr. Conly and
his brother Calhoun, from Roselands, the Fairview family, Grandpa and
Grandma Dinsmore, and Grandma Elsie. Some of them were spending the
day, while others, like ourselves, had just dropped in for a call.”

At the sound of the carriage-wheels on the driveway, Prince, Max’s big
Newfoundland dog, had come rushing round from the back of the house
with a joyous welcoming bark. He was devotedly attached to every member
of the family, to no one of them more than to the captain. He had
followed Max into the hall and out again, and stood close beside him
now, evidently considering himself entitled to make one of the little
group; pushing himself a little farther in among them, he laid his head
on Grace’s lap, wagging his tail in pleased expectancy, and looking up
wistfully into the captain’s face.

“Good Prince! good dog!” the captain said kindly, stroking and patting
the dog’s head. “How are you to-night, old fellow?”

“Wide awake, and glad to see you home, sir,” were the words that seemed
to come from Prince’s own mouth in reply.

“What!” exclaimed the captain, hastily putting Grace off his knee to
rise and turn round toward the open hall door, “Cousin Ronald here?
Children, why didn’t you tell me he had come?”

He was moving quickly in the direction of the doorway as he spoke,
the children exchanging amused glances and finding some difficulty in
suppressing an inclination to laugh aloud.

The captain glanced within the hall, saw no one, though it was
brilliantly lighted, then turning toward the little group, “Max,” he
asked, “where is Mr. Lilburn?”

“I don’t know, papa; not here; at least, I have not seen or heard
anything of him.”

“Strange!” said his father, with a look of perplexity. “Ah, I see you
are all laughing. Come, if you can explain Prince’s sudden power of
speech, do so at once.”

Captain Raymond’s tones were perfectly pleasant; evidently he was not
at all angry at the liberty taken with him.

He sat down again, and they crowded round him, Max answering, “Yes,
sir”; the little girls, “Max can tell you, papa,” generously resigning
to him the pleasure of revealing the secret.

The captain began to have an inkling of the truth. “Out with it, Max,”
he said, pretending to be very stern; “so you’ve been playing tricks on
your father, have you? I never expected such disrespectful treatment
from you.”

Max had dropped his eyes and did not see the twinkle of fun in his
father’s.

Coloring deeply, “Papa,” he said in a remorseful tone, “I—I wouldn’t
for anything have been disrespectful to you; I didn’t mean it; there’s
nobody else I so sincerely respect as I do you. Please forgive me, and—”

“My boy, don’t you see that I am only in jest?” the captain asked,
taking his hand and holding it in a kindly pressure. “But come,” he
added sportively, “make a clear breast of it now, and let me judge
whether you have sinned beyond forgiveness.”

Max answered with a full confession and explanation, making them as
brief as possible; and his sisters gave a mirthful account of the
exhibitions of his power that he had given them.

“Well, my son,” the captain said, “this newly discovered talent may be
made a source of innocent amusement to yourself and others, but I trust
you will never use it to injure or annoy—unless the victim of a slight
annoyance is to be more than recompensed for it by the after results,”
he added in a playful tone, laying his hand affectionately on the boy’s
head.

Max heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ll try not to, papa,” he said, with an
arch look and smile up into his father’s face, “and you’ll forgive me
for tricking you, won’t you?”

“Yes; taking into consideration the extenuating circumstance of its
being the first offense.”

“Thank you, sir. But I hope you don’t forbid me to try it on Mamma Vi,
one of these times?” returned Max insinuatingly, and with another arch
look and smile.

“No, I shall not, as I incline to the opinion that she would rather
enjoy it,” laughed his father.

“Oh, Max, when will you do it?” cried Lulu. “Gracie and I will want to
be there to see and hear it all, for you know it’s only once you can
play the trick on any one person; at least if you try it again they’re
very apt to think immediately that it’s you doing it.”

“I’ll take some time when you two girls are by,” said Max; “papa also.
But perhaps,” with an inquiring glance at his father, “I’d better not
try any more of it to-night.”

“No; it is time now for prayers,” the captain answered. “We will go in,
and, Max, you may ring for the servants.”

They all repaired to the library, where Violet and the servants
presently came also, and the short service was held.

At its conclusion, as the children were bidding good-night, Violet
noticed a large doll sitting in state in its own tiny chair. She picked
it up, saying, “Ah, Elsie has forgotten her favorite Fatima, and will
probably be crying out for her before morning.”

Max’s eyes twinkled, and he sent a questioning, wishful glance in his
father’s direction.

The captain smiled, and gave a nod of acquiescence.

“Where’s my little mamma?” asked a tiny voice, that seemed to issue
from Fatima’s lips. “Please take me to my little mamma.”

Violet started and opened her eyes wide in astonishment, then glancing
quickly around the room, “Cousin Ronald!” she exclaimed. “But where is
he?”

No answer but a half-suppressed giggle from the little girls, and an
exchange of amused glances between them, their father, and Max.

“Captain, is Cousin Ronald here? have you seen him? What does it all
mean?” Violet asked, piling one question upon another.

“No, my dear, but it seems he has left a representative behind him,”
returned her husband pleasantly, laying a hand on Max’s shoulder, and
giving him a little playful shake.

“Max!” she cried in fresh astonishment; “is it possible that you can
imitate his powers as a ventriloquist so well, Maxie?”

Max modestly repeated the explanation already made to his father and
sisters; they gave a laughing account of his exploits witnessed by
them, then the captain bade Lulu and Grace say good-night and seek
their nests.

“But you, Max, my son,” he added, “may stay a little longer. I have
something to say to you.”

CHAPTER VII.

The captain opened his secretary, took a letter from one of its
pigeon-holes, glanced over the contents, restored the missive to its
place, then turned to Max, who stood patiently waiting by his side.

“We will go out on to the veranda and have our talk there, my boy,” he
said, leading the way, Max following, “the air is so much pleasanter
there than within doors this warm evening.”

“Yes, sir; perfectly delightful, I think, papa; I don’t know where a
lovelier, happier home than ours can be found.”

“Ah, I am very glad you appreciate it, my dear boy,” the captain said,
with a pleasant look, beginning to pace the length of the veranda to
and fro, Max keeping close at his side, “and I shall miss my eldest
hope sadly when the time comes for him to leave the home nest. Have you
made up your mind yet as to what calling you would like best to pursue?”

“I have been thinking a great deal about it of late, papa, and if you
are willing, and there is an opening for me, I want to go into the
navy.”

“I willing? Entirely so. I have not lost my old love for the service,
and shall not grudge my son to it.”

“Perhaps I inherit my love for it from you, papa,” remarked Max. “Any
way, I know that your having been in it, and hearing you speak so
highly of it, has had a good deal to do with my desire to go into it;
and your son could hardly fail to be patriotic and full of love to the
old flag. Then you have furnished me with so much interesting reading
about the doings of our navy in the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812,
and the Civil War, that it’s no wonder I feel a strong desire to help
in its work if we ever have another one.”

“No, I suppose I have only myself to blame,” his father said
pleasantly, “yet I am not at all sure that I should act otherwise if I
could go back to the time of your babyhood and begin over again.

“Well, Max, to-day’s mail brought me the offer of an appointment to a
naval cadetship for my son, if I desired it. My boy, shall I accept for
you?”

“If you think best, papa, I’ll be delighted to have you do it,” Max
said, in a joyous tone. “But am I old enough to go this year?”

“Just the right age,” answered his father, half-sighing at the thought
of the separation the acceptance of the offered appointment must
involve. “But, Max, I fear I may have shown you the pleasant side of
the life too exclusively. I must discourse to you of its hardships,
before allowing you to decide for or against it.”

“I hope, papa, you don’t think me such a milksop or coward that I’d
be frightened at the thought of a little hardship?” Max said, with
heightened color. “I’m sure I ought to be willing to stand as much of
such things as my father did.”

“No, my boy, I should not be the proud and happy father I am if I
were compelled to entertain so mean an opinion of you,” returned the
captain, looking down at the boy with a smile of fatherly pride and
affection. “Perhaps love blinds me to the faults of my first-born, but
to me he seems a son that any man might be proud to call his own; and
if ever tempted to an unworthy act, let the remembrance that it would
go nigh to break your father’s heart to hear of it restrain you from
yielding to the temptation.”

He paused in his walk and laid a hand affectionately on the lad’s
shoulder.

“Papa,” returned Max with emotion, “I think no punishment could be too
bad for a boy that could grieve such a father as mine. I—I think I’d
rather die than know I had hurt you so!”

“I believe it, my son,” responded the captain with feeling; “I have
not the least doubt that you have a very strong affection for me, and
would be very loath to cause me pain. I hope, too, that you are quite
as anxious to please and honor your heavenly Father; much more so,
indeed.

“But let us sit down here while I tell you of the hardening process a
naval cadet must pass through, and the trials of his after-life as an
officer in the service if he be so fortunate as to secure a permanent
place in it.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be glad to hear anything you can tell me about both. I
suppose I’m not quite sure of getting into the academy, even if I do
accept this offer, am I?”

“No, not quite; there is an examination to pass through, as to both
your physical and educational qualifications. To be accepted, a boy
must be physically sound and of robust constitution; both of which you
are, so far as I can judge; you have never been seriously ill in your
life.

“Beside, the applicant must have a sufficient knowledge of reading,
writing, spelling, geography, English grammar, United States history,
arithmetic, and algebra. You are well grounded in all these, and must
review during your summer vacation, under the tutor who has had charge
of you for some time past,” he added with playful look and tone.

“Papa,” Max said, a little tremulously, “shall I ever have such
another? so kind, so patient, and always so ready to take any amount of
trouble to explain things and make them clear to me?”

“It is not at all impossible that you may find one or more who will be
all that, my boy,” the captain responded, “but certainly none that can
have the same affection for you, the same fatherly joy and pride in
seeing your progress; it would not be natural for any other than your
own parent.”

“No, sir; I know that; and of course I couldn’t feel the same toward
any other teacher.”

“I shouldn’t want you to, Max,” laughed the captain; “I must
acknowledge that I couldn’t be quite willing to have my son loving any
other man with the same filial affection that he gives me.

“But to return to the subject in hand: you will have to resign many
of the luxuries you enjoy at home. You will not be allowed a room to
yourself; you must share it with another cadet, and with him take week
about in keeping it in the most perfect order; sweeping, dusting, and
arranging its contents every morning for inspection; every article will
have a place, and must be found there when not in use.

“Your furniture will be severely plain; an iron bedstead, a wooden
chair, a washstand, looking-glass, wardrobe, rug, and a table which
you will share with your room-mate. You can have no curtains to your
windows, no maps or pictures to adorn your walls.”

“I shouldn’t expect the government to provide such things,” remarked
Max, “but can’t I take some from home?”

“No; it is not allowed.”

“That seems odd, papa. What harm could it do for a boy to have such
things, if his father could afford to provide them?”

“It is because some of the lads may come from very poor families, and
the government chooses—very wisely, I think—that all shall fare alike
while students in that national college.”

“Yes, to be sure,” returned Max thoughtfully; “I think that’s just
as it ought to be; and it will be a trifling hardship to have to do
without such things while I’m there.”

“The discipline is very strict,” the captain went on, “but my boy has
learned to obey one naval officer, and perhaps will in consequence find
it at least comparatively easy to obey others.”

“Yes, sir; I hope so.”

“Your academic standing, number of demerits, and so forth, will be
reported to me once a month, and will gratify or distress me according
to what they are. I am sure the thought of that will be a restraint
upon any inclination my boy may have to idleness or breaches of
discipline.”

“I ought to be called an ungrateful wretch if it doesn’t, papa. How
long is the course?”

“If appointed, you will have to take an oath to serve for eight years,
including the probationary period. After graduating two years are spent
at sea, then there is another examination, and if passed successfully
and there is a vacancy to be filled, there will be an appointment to
the line, and to the marine or the engineer corps of the navy.”

“But if there is no vacancy, papa?”

“The candidate is, in that case, given an honorable discharge, a
certificate of graduation, and one year’s pay.”

“I hope I’ll get through all right and that there’ll be a vacancy ready
for me to fill,” said Max.

“I hope so, my son, if that is your desire; but don’t forget that
there are hardships in a seafaring life that do not fall to the lot
of landsmen: many and long separations from their families, exposure
to danger from disasters at sea or on foreign shores, and others too
numerous to mention at present. Yet it is a life that has many and
great attractions for me. But those I have often told you of.”

“Yes, sir; and all you have told me to-night does not frighten me out
of my wish; life is very easy here at home, and perhaps it may be good
for me to go through some rougher experiences. Don’t you think so,
papa?”

“Yes, I rather agree with you in that; a life of luxury and ease is
not the best for the development of a strong, manly, self-reliant
character.”

“Then you will write and accept for me, will you, sir?”

“Yes.”

“How soon do I go to the academy, papa?”

“In September; and I have a plan for you in the mean time, with which
you will be pleased, I think.

“I find I must pay a visit to some property that I own in the far West,
and I want my son’s companionship on the trip, supposing he fancies
taking it with me.”

The captain looked smilingly into the lad’s eyes as he spoke.

“Oh, papa, how delightful!” cried Max. “Will you really take me with
you?”

“Such is certainly my intention, if nothing happens to prevent,” the
captain replied, smiling to see how pleased the boy was with the
prospect.

“Mamma Vi can hardly be going along on such a trip, I suppose?” Max
said inquiringly.

“Oh no! we could not take the babies along, and she would not be
willing to leave them.”

“Then are you and I to be the whole party, sir?”

“I have some thought of inviting Lulu to go with us,” replied his
father. “Do you think she would like it, and that we two could take
proper care of her?”

Max laughed. “I shouldn’t be a bit afraid to trust anybody to your
care, sir,” he said, “and I’d do anything I could to help. Beside, I
don’t believe Lu’s the sort of girl to give much trouble on such a
journey, and I’m sure she’ll be fairly wild with delight when you tell
her about it, and that she is to go along.”

“I am of the same opinion, and enjoying the prospect of witnessing her
pleasure on hearing the news.

“Well, my son, our talk has been a long one, and it is late; time for a
growing boy, such as you, to be in bed. Bid me good-night and go.”

They both hath risen to their feet. Captain Raymond held out his hand
as he spoke. Max promptly put his into it, saying with a bright, happy,
affectionate look up into his father’s face, “Thank you very much,
papa, for all your kind plans for me. Is Lu to hear about the journey
to-night?”

“I think not,” was the reply; “she is so excitable that I fear such
surprising news might keep her awake. I dare say, though, she is
already in bed and asleep.”

To make sure of that, he went softly into her room on his way to his
own. He rarely failed to look in upon his little girls after they had
gone to their rooms for the night, and when he did fail it was a sore
disappointment to them.

Lulu was in bed and had fallen into a doze, but woke at his approach,
albeit he moved with a very quiet step, and started up to a sitting
posture.

“Papa,” she exclaimed in an undertone, mindful not to rouse Grace
from her slumbers in the adjoining room, “oh, I’m so glad you came!”
throwing her arms round his neck as he reached the bedside and bent
down to give her a kiss. “You must have talked a long time to Maxie. I
was really growing jealous,” she added, with a laugh.

“Were you?” he asked, seating himself on the edge of the bed and
drawing her into his arms. “Isn’t Maxie entitled to a fair share of
papa’s attentions, as well as of his love?”

“Oh, yes, indeed! and I wouldn’t want to rob him of a bit of either;
but I do so love the little bedtime chat with you that I’d rather miss
’most anything else.”

“Well, dear child, perhaps we can have an unusually long talk in the
morning to comfort you for the loss to-night. So go to sleep as fast
as you can, that you may be ready for an early waking,” he said. Then
with another kiss and fervent, “Good-night, my darling, and may He who
neither slumbers nor sleeps have you in his kind care and keeping,” he
left her.

CHAPTER VIII.

Lulu’s first waking thought was of her father’s promise.

“Perhaps he is going to tell me what he and Maxie were talking
about last night,” she said to herself. “Likely it was something of
importance to keep them so long. I wonder what? Maybe about going to
the seashore, or somewhere, for the hot months, as we always do.”

She slipped out of bed and began a brisk toilet, determined to be ready
to receive her father whenever he might come.

She and Gracie were together in their own little sitting-room looking
over their tasks for the day, when hearing his approaching footsteps
they hastily laid aside their books and ran to meet him.

“Good-morning, my darlings; you look well and bright,” he said, bending
down and opening his arms to receive them.

“Good-morning, dear papa,” they answered, running into them, and
putting theirs about his neck. “Yes, we are well, and hope you are
too,” hugging and kissing him with ardent affection.

“Now, papa, won’t you give me that long talk you said I should have
this morning?” pleaded Lulu.

“Yes; don’t I always keep my promises?” he asked, taking possession of
an easy-chair and allowing them to seat themselves one upon each knee.

“Yes, indeed you do, papa; sometimes when I’d rather you wouldn’t,”
returned Lulu laughingly.

“Would you be willing to lose faith in your father’s word, dear child?”
he asked, with sudden gravity.

“No, papa; no indeed!” she answered earnestly; “that would be worse
than being punished, when I deserve it, for naughtiness that you’ve
said you’d have to punish me for.”

“I trust there will never again be any call for me to keep such
promises,” he said caressing her. “You have been very good for some
time past, and intend to keep on trying to be so, do you not?”

“Yes, sir; but I’m afraid the badness that I still feel inside
sometimes will crop out again one of these days,” she said, half-sadly,
half-jestingly.

“The same danger threatens your father, too,” he said, “and the only
safety for either of us lies in constant watching and prayer.”

“But, papa, how can we be praying all the time?”

“The Bible,” he replied, “bids us ‛Pray without ceasing,’ not meaning
that we are to live on our knees, or with words of prayer always on
our lips, for that would be impossible without neglecting other duties
enjoined in God’s Word—such, for example, as ‘Six days shalt thou
labor and do all thy work,’ ‘Distributing to the necessity of saints,’
and so forth—but that we are to live near to God and with so much of
the spirit of prayer in our hearts that they will be often sending up
swift, silent petitions, or songs of praise and thankfulness.

“Well, Lulu, I know you are curious to hear what Max and I were
conversing about last night.”

“Oh, yes, sir, indeed! if you are willing I should know,” she responded
eagerly.

“Quite willing,” he said. “It was of his choice of a business or
profession. I had received a letter offering an appointment for my
son as a naval cadet; so, as I wish Max to choose for himself, it was
necessary for him to decide, and to do so promptly, whether he would
accept that offer or decline it.”

“Oh! which did he choose to do, papa?”

“He said he had quite made up his mind to go into the navy, if he
might, and asked me to write an acceptance for him; which I did before
I went to my bed.”

“You are always so prompt, papa,” remarked Lulu, putting her arm round
his neck and gazing with loving admiration into his face.

“Yes,” he said, “I must try to be all I would have my children, for
‘example is better than precept.’”

“And Maxie will have to go away and not be in school with us any more?”
Grace said, half-inquiringly, tears filling her eyes.

“Yes, daughter,” her father answered with a slight sigh; “boys can’t be
always kept at home; but I hope to keep my girls a long while yet,” he
added, drawing them into a close embrace as he spoke.

“Dear, dear! how we will miss Max!” exclaimed Lulu, “but then how nice
it will be when he comes home for his vacations!”

“So it will,” said the captain. “But now I have something else to tell
you; something which concerns you, Lulu, a little more nearly.”

“I hope it isn’t that I am to go away too! you can’t make a cadet of
me, though Aunt Beulah called me a tom-boy when I was with her,” Lulu
remarked laughingly.

“No; but there are other places more suitable for girls,” her father
replied, with a grave look and tone that she was at a loss to interpret.

“Oh, papa, you can’t mean that really I—I’m going away too?”

“Perhaps some better instructor than your present one might be found
for you,” he began meditatively, then paused, as if considering the
matter.

“Oh, no, no, no!” she cried, “there couldn’t be a better one, I’m sure,
and I just love to be taught by you, and couldn’t bear to have anybody
else teach me; ’specially if I had to go away from you. And wouldn’t
you miss me a little, papa?” she asked, with tears in her voice and
hiding her face on his shoulder.

“Yes; a great deal more than a little should I miss the darling
daughter always so ready, even eager, to run papa’s errands and wait
upon him lovingly,” he said, pressing his lips again and again to her
cheek. “In fact, her companionship is so sweet to me that, having to go
upon a long journey, I would prefer to take her with me.

“But I shall not force her inclination; if you would rather stay at
home with Mamma Vi and the little ones, you may do so.”

“Oh, papa, what do you mean?” she asked, looking up in joyful surprise,
not unmixed with perplexity. “Won’t you please explain?”

“Yes; I am going out to the far West on a business trip, shall take Max
with me, and you, too, if you care to go.”

“Care to go! wouldn’t I!” she cried, clapping her hands in delight,
and half smothering him with caresses. “Oh, I think I never dreamed
of anything so, so, _so_ delightful! Papa, you are such a dear, dear
father! so, _so_ good and kind to me! Oh, I ought to be the best girl
that ever was made! and if I’m not it shan’t be for want of trying.”

But tears were rolling down Gracie’s cheeks, and with a little sob she
drew out her handkerchief to wipe them away.

“O Gracie, dear, I wish you could go too!” exclaimed Lulu.

“If she were only strong enough,” her father said, caressing her with
great tenderness, “she too should have her choice of going or staying;
but I know the fatigue of the journey would be more than she could
endure.”

“I don’t want to have a journey,” sobbed Grace; “but how can I do
without papa? without Maxie? and without Lulu? all gone at once?”

“But mamma and the babies will be left, and you love them dearly, I
know.”

“Yes, papa, but I love Max and Lu, and oh, I love you better than
anybody else, in all the world!” clinging about his neck and laying her
little wet cheek to his.

“Sweet words for papa to hear from your lips, darling,” he returned,
holding her close and kissing her many times, “and papa’s love for you
is more than tongue can tell.”

“Then why will you go away and leave me, papa?”

“Because business makes it necessary for me to go, darling, and you are
not strong enough to go with me. But cheer up; it will be very pleasant
at home with mamma and the babies; Grandma Elsie and the others coming
over from Ion and Fairview very often; and after a while you will all
be going to some nice seaside resort, where I hope to join you with Max
and Lulu before it is time to come home again.”

“That will be nice, papa,” she said a little more cheerfully.

“And how would you like to get a letter from papa now and then? from
Max and Lulu too? and to answer them? You can write very nicely now,
and a talk on paper to your father will be better than none at all,
won’t it?”

“Oh, I’d enjoy it ever so much, if you’ll excuse the mistakes, papa!”
she exclaimed with animation.

“Indeed, I will,” he said; and just then the breakfast-bell rang.

Violet’s face as she met them in the breakfast-room was not quite
so sunny as husband and children were accustomed to see it. She was
feeling very much as Gracie did about the captain’s contemplated
absence from home; also it was a sad thought to her that Max was not
likely ever to be again a permanent resident of his father’s house; he
would be at home now and then for a vacation, but that probably would
be all, for after graduating he would go out into the world to make a
career for himself; and it seemed hard to give him up, for she was fond
of the lad—her husband’s son, and like a dear younger brother to her.
She noted the traces of tears on Gracie’s cheeks with a fellow-feeling
for the child’s distress.

“So papa has been telling you, dear?” she said, bending down to kiss
the little girl. “Well, we won’t fret; we’ll try to just keep thinking
of the joyful time we shall have when they come back to us.”

“Oh, that will be nice, won’t it?” exclaimed Lulu. “I’m just wild with
delight at the prospect of going, but I know I’ll be ever so glad to
get back; for this is such a dear, sweet home.”

“And papa will be in it again when you get back; you’ll have him all
the time going and coming. I’m glad for you, Lu,” Grace said, smiling
affectionately on her sister, through her tears.

But they had taken their places at the table, and all were quiet for a
moment while the captain craved a blessing on their food.

Lulu asked a question the instant she was free to do so. “Papa, when
will we start on our journey?”

“In about a week. Can you get ready in that time?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir! I don’t believe I have anything to do but pack
my trunk. I have plenty of nice clothes and pretty things ready to
wear!”

“Yes, plenty of them, such as they are; but you will need something
plainer and more durable than the dresses you wear at home.”

“Shall I, papa?” she asked, in surprise and dismay. “Surely, papa, you
won’t want me to look shabby, and I’ve heard that people dress quite as
handsomely and fashionably away out West as they do here or anywhere
else.”

“That may be so, daughter,” he said, “but sensible people dress
according to circumstances; suitably for time, place, and occupation;
for instance, a sensible lady wouldn’t put on a ball dress in the
morning and when about to engage in domestic duties, any more than she
would wear a calico wrapper to a ball.”

“Nor I wouldn’t think of doing either of those things, papa,” she
returned laughing. “But you don’t expect to set me to doing housework
out there, do you?”

“Perhaps we are to live in a tent and have you for our housekeeper,
Lu,” suggested Max.

“Oh, is that it?” she exclaimed, with a look of delight. “Oh, that
would be fun! Papa, are we to do so?”

“I have no such scheme in contemplation,” he said, smiling kindly into
her excited face. “I rather think we will find a place to board, and
that it will not be one where you will find occasion for much fine
dressing. Beside I shall not care to take any one tricked out in laces
and ribbons with me to climb mountains, roam through forests, or go
down into mines, or to ride an Indian or Mexican pony, or a mule, over
rough roads, and that not always in fine weather.”

“O papa, are you going to let me do such things as that!” she cried,
laying down knife and fork to clap her hands in glee, and feeling a
strong inclination to jump up and dance about the floor.

“Some, or possibly all of them, if I can have you in suitable attire,”
he answered; “but certainly not otherwise.”

“What additions to her wardrobe do you wish made, my dear?” asked
Violet.

“Two or three dresses of some material not easily torn or soiled;
flannel perhaps; and they must be plainly and strongly made, no
flounces, furbelows, or trimming of a kind that would be liable to
catch on twigs or bushes or points of rock.”

“I shall look like a fright, I’m afraid,” remarked Lulu uneasily, and
coloring deeply; “but I’m willing to for the sake of pleasing you,
papa, and being taken everywhere with you.”

“That’s right, dear child,” he said, giving her a smile of approval.

“And I think you will look very nice and neat, Lu,” said Violet. “My
dear, mamma and I are going into the city this morning for a little
shopping, and if you can trust our taste and judgment we will willingly
purchase the goods for Lulu’s dresses. Then I will set Alma to work
upon them at once, and try to get Susan Allen to help her; for I think
it will take both to finish them in season.”

“An excellent plan, my dear,” the captain replied, “and I shall be
exceedingly obliged if you will undertake it, for I should sooner trust
your and mother’s taste and judgment in such things than my own.”

“Can’t I go along and help choose my own dresses, papa?” pleaded Lulu.

“If it didn’t involve neglect of lessons, you might, daughter,” the
captain answered in a very kind tone, “but as that is the case, we must
leave the selection to your mamma and Grandma Elsie.”

A slight cloud gathered on Lulu’s brow, but it cleared again, when Max
said, “You know, Lu, our school days together are almost over, and you
don’t want to miss any of them; at least I don’t, for I shall never
have another teacher so good at explaining, so kind and so fond of his
pupils, as papa.”

The lad’s voice trembled a little with the concluding words, in spite
of himself.

“I’m sure you won’t, Max, and I’m sorry for you,” returned Lulu, with a
slight sigh; “for myself too, that I’m not to have your company in the
school-room after this week.”

“Please don’t talk about it,” begged Grace, hastily wiping away a tear.
“I’ll just have to try not to think of it, or I’ll be crying all the
time.”

“Which would not be at all good for your eyes,” added her father, “so
you would better take your mamma’s advice and turn your thoughts upon
pleasant subjects. I have something to suggest; make out a list of all
the toys, books, and other presents you would like to have (supposing
some fairy should come and offer to supply them),” he interpolated with
playful look and tone, “the places you would like to visit, and all the
agreeable ways of spending your time this summer that you can manage to
contrive; and when your list is done let me see it.”

Grace knew her father well enough to feel quite certain that the making
out of such a list at his suggestion would not be labor lost.

“I will, papa,” she said, smiling through her tears; “I think I’ll
begin this afternoon, soon as my lessons are learned.”

Lulu found no small difficulty in fixing her attention upon her tasks
that morning; her thoughts would fly off, now to the Naval Academy,
where her brother was likely to be domiciled in the fall, now to the
far West, with the fresh pleasures there awaiting her father, Max, and
herself.

Glancing toward her the captain saw that, though a book lay open on the
desk before her, her eyes were fixed on vacancy. He called her to come
to him. She started, coloring deeply, rose, and obeyed.

“You are not studying,” he said, in a grave, though not unkindly, tone.

“No, sir; I meant to, but—O papa, I just can’t study when I have so
much else to think about.”

“Can’t is a lazy word, my daughter,” he replied. “You have a strong
will—which is not altogether a bad thing, though it has given both you
and me a good deal of pain and trouble in past days. I want you to
exert it now and force your truant thoughts to fix themselves upon the
business in hand. Will you not? because it is your duty, and to please
your father who loves you so dearly?”

“Indeed, I will, papa; and perhaps I shall succeed if I try with all
my might,” she answered, holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave
very heartily.

Returning to her seat, she set to work with such earnestness and
determination that when summoned to recite she was able to do so to the
entire satisfaction of both her father and herself.

Max and Grace did equally well, and tutor and scholars withdrew from
the school-room in a happy frame of mind.

A carriage was coming up the drive, bringing Grandma Elsie and Mrs.
Raymond on their return from the proposed shopping expedition, and at
once Lulu was all excitement to see what they had bought for her.

“May I see my dresses, Mamma Vi?” she asked, following Violet and her
mother through the hall and up the wide stairway.

“Yes, Lu, certainly,” replied Violet, “though I’m afraid you will not
think them very pretty to look at,” she added, with a deprecatory
smile. “You know I could only try to carry out your father’s wishes and
directions.”

“And that I am sure is just what a little girl who loves her father so
dearly, and has such confidence in his judgment, would wish to have
done,” Grandma Elsie remarked, in a pleasant tone. “I think the goods
we have selected will make up into very neat dresses, entirely suitable
for the occasions on which you expect to wear them, Lulu, my dear
child.”

“Yes, Grandma Elsie, and I mean to be satisfied, even if they don’t
look pretty to me, because I know that you and papa and Mamma Vi are
much wiser than I, and if papa is satisfied with my appearance, I
suppose it really doesn’t make any difference what other folks think,”
returned Lulu, seating herself on a sofa in her mamma’s boudoir and
undoing the package handed her by a servant.

“Three flannel dresses—a dark brown, a dark blue, and a dark green; all
beautiful shades and nice, fine material,” she commented. “I like them
better than I expected to, but—”

“Well, dear?” inquired Violet, as the little girl paused without
finishing her sentence.

“They are very pretty shades,” repeated Lulu, “but I think red—a
dark shade, most black in some lights—would be more becoming to my
complexion. Don’t you, papa?” looking up into his face as he came and
stood by her side.

“Possibly,” he answered, sitting down and drawing her to his knee, “but
there might be times when it would prove dangerous. Some animals have a
great hatred to that color, and with a red dress on you might be chased
by a turkey gobbler or some large animal,” he concluded laughingly,
hugging her up in his arms and kissing her first on one cheek, then on
the other.

“Oh, yes! I didn’t think of that!” she exclaimed with a merry laugh.

“Beside,” he continued in the same sportive tone, “so thoroughly
patriotic a young American as my Lulu surely does not want to be a
redcoat?”

“No, papa, no, indeed! that would never do for a blue-jacket’s
daughter, would it? Blue’s the right color, after all, and I’m glad
that it was the color chosen for one of the dresses.”

“And now the next thing is to go up to the sewing-room and have them
cut and fitted,” said Violet. “Alma is there, and will attend to it at
once.”

“And we’re going to have Mrs. Allen and Susan here to help too, aren’t
we?” queried Lulu, leaving her father’s knee and gathering up the new
purchases.

“There will be some parts they can work on at home,” said Violet.

“You and I will drive over with some work for them this afternoon,
Lulu,” said the captain; “and call at Fairview and Ion on our way home,
so that you can have the pleasure of telling your little friends,
Evelyn and Rosie, about the trip you are expecting to take. Here, give
me that bundle; it is a trifle heavy for you to carry, and I’ll go with
you to the sewing-room.”

“Oh, you’re just the goodest papa!” she returned merrily, readily
yielding up the package, putting her hand into his, and dancing along
by his side as he led her to the sewing-room; “you’re always contriving
something to give me pleasure. It’ll be fun to tell the girls, and I’m
in ever such a hurry to have a chance.”

“Yes, my daughter Lulu is very apt to be in a hurry,” he said, smiling
down indulgently upon her, “and it is well not to dilly dally when
there is anything to be done, yet sometimes wisest to make haste
slowly.”

“Papa, don’t tell Alma or Susan that, please,” she whispered,
in a merry aside—for they were nearing the open door of the
sewing-room—“because I want them to make haste fast this time.”

“No, only that they must be deliberate enough to make sure of doing
the work right; for otherwise it would but be the ‘more haste the less
speed.’”

“Yes, sir; I remember that old saw, and how I’ve sometimes found it
true.”

In the neat living-room of their cottage home Mrs. Allen and Susan sat
that bright June afternoon, the mother busily plying her needle, the
daughter running a sewing-machine.

The little garden was gay with flowers and the vines over the porch
were in full bloom; the drowsy hum of the bees came pleasantly in
at the open door and window, accompanied by the sweet scents of the
flowers, and now and then from an adjacent field or wood the cheery
bird call, “Bob White! Bob White!”

“How delightful it is here,” remarked Susan, stopping her machine for
a moment to readjust her work; “the air is so sweet; the sounds are
too. I like to hear that bird calling out so cheerily.”

“Yes,” rejoined her mother, “it is a very agreeable change from the old
sounds of scolding, quarrelling, screaming, and crying that used to
assail our ears in our former abode.”

“In Rose Alley? Yes, I was just thinking of that, and how hot and
stifling the air must be there to-day. O mother, I do believe I should
have been left alone in the world before now if we had had to stay on
there! When I think of that I feel that I owe a debt of gratitude to
Mrs. Travilla and Captain Raymond that I can never, never pay.”

“To them and to Him who put it into their hearts to do such great
kindness and gave them the ability,” responded her mother. “I feel like
another woman—find it a pleasure to busy myself with this beautiful
napery. See, I am at the last dozen napkins, and will be ready to
begin on those linen sheets presently. Yes, this is easy and pleasant
employment, yet I should prefer something that would keep me out of
doors most of the day. Dr. Conly says it would be the best thing for
my health, and I have a plan in my head that perhaps I may be able
to carry out if our kind friends approve, and will give me a little
assistance at the start.”

“What is that, mother?” asked Susan; then glancing from the door, “Oh,
there is the Woodburn carriage!”

She sprang up and ran down the path to open the gate for its occupants
and bid them welcome.

They were Grandma Elsie, the captain, and Lulu. They greeted her with a
pleasant, “Good-afternoon,” and kindly inquiries about her mother; then
Lulu, handing out a bundle, said, “I’ve brought you some more work,
Susan; parts of dresses for me. Alma says they are all cut and basted,
so that you won’t need any directions about them; and Mamma Vi says you
may please lay aside other work and do this as promptly as you can.”

“Yes, Miss Lulu; but won’t you all ’light and come in? A bit of
chat with you and the captain always does mother so much good, Mrs.
Travilla.”

They had not intended doing so, but that plea was powerful to Grandma
Elsie’s kind heart.

“Yes, I can spare a few minutes,” she said, in reply to the captain’s
inquiring look.

He at once alighted, assisted her to do so, and then Lulu.

They made only a short call, yet it was long enough for Grandma Elsie’s
sympathetic listening and questioning to draw from Mrs. Allen the
secret of her desire for outdoor employment of a kind not too laborious
for her slender strength, and her idea that she might find it in
bee-raising, had she the means to buy a hive, a swarm of the insects,
and a book of instructions.

“You shall have them all,” Grandma Elsie said, “everything that is
necessary to enable you to give the business a fair trial.”

“Many thanks, dear Mrs. Travilla,” returned the poor woman, tears of
gratitude springing to her eyes; “and if you will kindly consider
whatever you may advance me as a loan, I accept your kind offer most
gladly.”

“It shall be as you wish,” Mrs. Travilla replied, “but with the
distinct understanding that the loan is not to be repaid till you can
do it with perfect ease.”

“And I should be glad to have a share in the good work,” remarked
the captain. “Let it be my part to gather information on bee culture
for you, and help in raising flowers for them to gather honey from.
Doubtless they fly long distances in search of such, but it must be an
advantage to have plenty near at hand.”

“Ah, sir,” returned Mrs. Allen, “you too are always ready to do
every kindness in your power. I hope God, our heavenly Father, will
abundantly repay you both. I always think of you when reading the words
of the psalmist, ‘Blessed is he that considereth the poor’; for you
give not only money, but time and thought and sympathy, considering
their needs and how you may best supply them.”

While this talk went on in the parlor Lulu was telling Susan, out in
the living-room, what the dresses were needed for, and going into
ecstasies of delight over the prospect of her journey to the far West
with her father and Max.

Susan sympathized in her pleasure, and promised to do her best toward
getting her dresses done in season.

“To Fairview,” was the captain’s order to the coachman, when again they
were seated in the carriage.

It was but a few minutes’ drive, and on their arrival Lulu was
pleased to find Rosie there with Evelyn, so that she could have the
satisfaction of telling her news to both together, and enjoying their
surprise. It was quite as great as she had expected.

“How splendid!” cried Rosie. “You are a fortunate girl, Lu. I wonder if
I couldn’t persuade mamma and grandpa to get up some such expedition
and take me along!”

“I’m very glad for you, Lu, and hope it will be one long pleasure from
beginning to end,” Eva said; “you couldn’t have a more delightful
care-taker than your father, and Max will be good company too. But,
oh dear, how I shall miss you!” she concluded with a sigh, putting her
arms round Lulu and holding her in a close embrace.

“And I you,” said Lulu. “But when we talk that way at home papa says we
should not think about that, but about the joy of reunion when we get
home again.”

“Well, Gracie, what progress have you made with that list? Is it ready
for papa’s inspection?” the captain asked, as the children clustered
about him on the veranda after tea that evening.

“I’ve put down some things, papa, but maybe I can think up some more
before long, if I may have a little more time,” she answered, with an
arch smile up into his face.

“You can have all the time you want, darling,” he said, caressing her;
“but suppose you let me see what you have already set down.”

At that she drew a half-sheet of note-paper from her pocket and put it
into his hand.

He glanced over it and a look of amusement stole over his face. “A
spade, rake, and hoe! I thought you had garden tools,” he said.

“Yes, papa, but these are to be big ones for Sam Hill to make his
mother’s garden with. He says he always has to borrow now, and the
neighbors get tired lending to him.”

“Ah, very well, you shall have money to buy them for him. But what do
you want with twenty yards of calico and a piece of muslin?”

“Sam needs shirts, and his mother some dresses, papa.”

“And the slates and books are for the younger children?”

“Yes, sir; and those other things are for the Jones children. You know
their father doesn’t buy them anything to wear, and sometimes he takes
the clothes other folks give them and sells them to buy liquor.”

“Yes, it is very sad, and we must do the best we can for them. But you
have not put down anything for my little Grace; is there nothing she
would like to have?”

“I don’t need anything at all, papa. I have so many, many nice things
already.”

“But I want to give you something to help to keep you from being lonely
while Lulu is enjoying herself in the far West. Ah, I see there is
something! What is it?”

“A canary bird, papa, that will sing beautifully.”

“Dear child,” he said, holding her close, “you shall have the finest
that money can buy; a pair of them; and the handsomest cage we can
find. I shall take you to the city to-morrow and let you choose them
for yourself.”

“Oh, how nice, papa!” she cried, clapping her hands in delight; “then
they will have a pretty home and be company for each other. I was
afraid one would be lonesome all by itself. I was thinking, too, that
I’d be ever so lonely, at night especially, without Lu; but mamma says
she will take me in with her while you are gone.”

“Very kind and thoughtful in mamma,” was the captain’s comment.

“You’ll take me to buy them to-morrow afternoon, will you, papa?” she
asked.

“Yes; if nothing happens to prevent.”

“And mayn’t Lu and Max go along?”

“Certainly; if they want to.”

“Thank you, papa; I’ll be very much pleased to go,” Lulu said; Max
adding, “I too. So there’ll be four of us to choose your two birds,
Gracie.”

“Perhaps we may be able to persuade your mamma to go too,” the captain
said, as at that moment Violet joined them, “and then there’ll be five
of us.”

“Go where, my dear?” asked Violet, seating herself by his side.

He explained, and she accepted the invitation, with the remark that she
did not want to lose his company for a moment of the week he would be
with her before starting on his journey to the West.

CHAPTER IX.

They all enjoyed their trip to the city the next day, Grace perhaps
more than any of the others. She was allowed to buy everything on her
list, and some others she thought of while on the way or in the stores,
selecting them herself.

But the first business attended to was the purchase of the canaries.
They succeeded in getting a beautiful pair, fine singers, and a very
handsome cage. Grace was full of delight, and her father pleased
himself with the hope that the new pets would save her from the
loneliness Lulu’s absence would otherwise have caused her.

They left her all drowned in tears when they set out upon their long
journey, but, as Violet reported to the captain in a letter written on
the evening of that same day, the canaries set up a song so melodious
and full of joy that she presently dried her eyes and hushed her sobs
to listen.

Violet herself indulged in a few tears over the parting, but for the
sake of Grace and the little ones soon forced herself to assume an air
of cheerfulness.

Max and Lulu were sorry for those left behind, yet so delighted with
their own good fortune in being permitted to accompany their father,
that they speedily recovered from the sadness of leave-taking and were
never in better spirits.

It was on Saturday morning they began their journey; the Lord’s day was
spent in a strange city, very much as they would have spent it at home,
and on Monday they started on again, taking a through train that would
carry them to their destination, and on which they spent several days
and nights, finding excellent accommodations for eating and sleeping.

The captain watched over his children with tenderest care—Lulu
especially, as being the younger and of the weaker sex—and Max was
constantly on the alert to wait upon both her and his father.

The journey, the longest the children had ever taken, was without
accident; there was no detention, and the luxurious appointments of the
cars prevented it from being very fatiguing.

They made some pleasant acquaintances, among them an English gentleman
and his son,—a lad about Max’s age.

Mr. Austin, a man of wealth and refinement, was travelling for his
health and to see the country, and had brought his son with him as a
companion; thinking, too, as he explained to Capt. Raymond, after they
had arrived at terms of comparative intimacy, that travel in a foreign
land would be improving to the boy in an educational way.

The acquaintance began with the children. Albert had been watching Lulu
admiringly for a day or so, from the opposite side of the car.

“That’s a pretty little girl over there, papa,” he at length remarked
in an undertone. “I fancy she’s English too.”

“I think you are mistaken,” returned his father. “The gentleman is
assuredly an American, and from his manner toward the children I fancy
they are his own. There is a strong resemblance, also, between the
three.”

“But she has quite an English complexion, sir; so rosy.”

“Yes, but such complexions are not so very unusual among the American
women and girls.”

“No, sir, perhaps not. The boy’s a nice-looking fellow and has very
gentlemanly manners. Don’t you think so, sir?”

“Yes; they are evidently people of education and refinement. But what
is the train stopping for?” glancing from the window. “Ah, I see; they
are taking on a fresh supply of fuel for the engine.”

The same question had been just asked by Lulu and answered by her
father in the same way, as he rose and took his hat from the rack
overhead.

“You are going out, papa?” Lulu said inquiringly. “Oh, don’t get left,
please!”

“I certainly do not intend to,” he answered with a look of amusement.
“I only want to stretch my limbs for a moment, and shall not go any
distance from the train.”

“Oh, can’t we go too?” she asked.

“Max may, but you, I think, would better content yourself with moving
about the car.”

“May I go out on the platform?”

“No, decidedly not,” he answered, in a firm though kind tone, then
hurried out, Max following.

Lulu rose and stood at the window, watching for their appearance
outside. They were there in a moment, right below it.

“Papa,” she called softly.

He looked up with a smile. “Dear child,” he said, “move about the car,
it will rest you. I know you are tired sitting so long.”

He walked on, and she stepped out into the aisle and promenaded it
up and down several times, stopping occasionally, now at one window,
now at another, to gaze out over the landscape; a seemingly boundless
prairie on one side, with a great herd of cattle feeding in the
distance; on the other, woods and low-lying hills; no sign of human
habitation or of human occupancy anywhere to be seen, except the little
coaling station before which the train was standing.

The car was nearly empty now, almost all the passengers, excepting
a few children and those in charge of them, having, like her father
and Max, taken advantage of the halting of the train to get a little
outdoor exercise, Mr. Austin and Albert among the rest.

The latter, however, returned almost immediately. As he stepped in at
the car door his eyes fell upon a dainty white pocket-handkerchief
lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, glancing around the
car in search of the owner.

Lulu, standing at the window near by, with her back toward him, seemed
most likely to be the one, and he approached her at once, asking in a
polite tone, “Is not this your property, Miss? Excuse the liberty, but
I found it lying on the floor, and it seemed likely to belong to you,”
holding out the article as he spoke.

Lulu had turned round at the first sound of his voice. “Thank you,” she
said; “yes, it is mine, for there is my name in the corner; in papa’s
own handwriting.”

“I’m glad to have had the happiness of restoring it to you,” he said.
“How extremely warm it is to-day. Do you not think so?”

“Yes; especially now that the train is standing still, but when it is
in motion there’s a nice breeze.”

“There are some things I like vastly about America,” he went on, “but
the climate does not suit me so well as that of old England; it’s so
hot and dry, you know; at least, don’t you think so?”

She gave him a slightly puzzled look. “I—I believe I’ve heard that the
weather in England is rather cooler in summer, and that it rains very
often; but I never was there.”

“Why, aren’t you a little English girl?”

“English?” she exclaimed, opening her eyes wide in surprise, “no,
indeed, I’m American, every inch of me!” with a flash of joy in her
dark eyes and a little exultant laugh, as though to be able to call him
or herself an American were the proudest boast any one could make.

“I meant it as a compliment, most assuredly,” he said, coloring with a
sense of mingled annoyance and mortification. “I’m very proud of being
English.”

“And that’s quite right,” she said; “papa says each one should love his
own native land above all others.”

“Certainly. But you are of English descent surely.”

“I really don’t know,” laughed Lulu. “I know that my parents, and
grandparents, and great-grandparents were all born in America, and I
never thought of asking about my ancestors any farther back than that.”

“We think a great deal of family in England; it’s a grand thing—a
thing to be proud of—if one can boast of a long line of noble
ancestors.”

“Yes; papa says the knowledge that we’re descended from honest,
upright, pious people is something to be very thankful for. He says
it’s easier for such folks to be good—I mean honest and truthful and
all that—than it is for the descendants of wicked people.”

“Perhaps so; though I never thought of it before,” and with a slight
bow he withdrew to his own seat, for the passengers were flocking in
again as the call, “All aboard!” warned them that the train was about
to start.

Captain Raymond was among the first, and just in time to perceive that
the English lad had been making acquaintance with his little girl. He
was not altogether pleased. His countenance was unusually grave as he
took Lulu’s hand and led her back to her seat. But there was too much
noise and confusion at the moment for anything like conversation, and
he made no remark.

Lulu felt that he was displeased, and several times her eyes were
lifted to his face for an instant with a timid, half-imploring,
half-deprecating glance.

At length as the train began to move more quietly, he bent down and
spoke close to her ear. “I do not want a daughter of mine to be too
forward in making acquaintance with strangers, especially men and
boys. I would have her always modest and retiring. But I will not blame
you unheard, dear child. Tell me about it.”

“I didn’t make the first advances, papa,” she said, putting her arm
around his neck, her lips close to his ear. “Please don’t think I could
be so bold. I had dropped my handkerchief and didn’t know it till the
boy picked it up and handed it to me. He behaved in a very gentlemanly
way, and when I had thanked him he began to talk about the weather,
and presently asked me if I wasn’t an English girl. Just think of it,
papa!” she added, with a gleeful laugh.

“And what did you say to that?” he asked, with an amused look; “that
you were not, but wished you were?”

“Oh, papa, no, indeed! wish I was English? or anything else but
American? I’m sure you know I don’t.”

“Yes,” he returned, putting his arm about her waist and giving her an
affectionate hug. “I am happy in the knowledge that all my darlings are
intensely patriotic.”

“Because you’ve taught us to be so—to love our dear native land and the
beautiful old flag, the emblem of our nation’s glory!” she responded,
her cheeks flushing and her eyes sparkling.

Max sitting directly in front of them, had caught the last two
sentences of their colloquy.

“Yes, papa,” he said, “every one of us is that; even Baby Ned laughs
and crows and claps his hands when he looks up at the flag waving in
the breeze. I noticed it at Ion, on Grandma Elsie’s semi-centennial,
where they had so many floating from the veranda and tree-tops.”

“Ah!” laughed the captain, “that was doubtless an evidence of good
taste, but hardly of patriotism in so young a child.”

Mr. Austin was beginning to share his son’s interest in the Raymonds,
and the two had been furtively watching the little scene, attracted by
the animated expression of the faces of the captain, Max, and Lulu, as
they talked.

“They seem a happy and affectionate trio,” Mr. Austin remarked to
Albert.

“Yes, sir; and you were right about their being Americans. I asked the
little girl if she wasn’t English, and to my astonishment she seemed
almost indignant at the bare idea.”

“Ah, indeed! then I fancy she has never seen England.”

“No, sir, she said she never had; but if you had seen the look in her
eyes when she told me she was every inch an American, you would hardly
expect even a sight of old England to make her change her mind.”

“It’s a great country, certainly; immensely larger than our favored
isle; and had it been our birthplace, it is quite possible we might
have shared her feeling; but as it is, we assuredly looked upon Great
Britain as the most favored land the sun shines on.”

“And he shines always upon some part of the empire,” responded Albert,
with proudly beaming eyes.

It was not until in the afternoon of the next day the Raymonds reached
their destination,—Minersville, a town not yet three years old, that
had sprung up within that period of time, upon a tract of land owned by
the captain, and grown with a rapidity that might well remind one of
Jonah’s gourd, “which came up in a night.” It was all the result of the
discovery of gold in the immediate vicinity. The mine—a very productive
one—was still largely owned by Captain Raymond, also the greater part
of the town, and a coal mine at no great distance from the place.

The two yielded him a large income—augmented by the fortunate
investment of very considerable sums realized on the sales of stock and
town lots; so that he was indeed a wealthy man.

He and Mr. Austin had made acquaintance by this time, and were
mutually pleased. The same thing had happened with their sons, and the
Englishman, after learning from the captain what was his destination,
the history of Minersville, and something of the opportunities and
facilities for hunting bears, deer, and other game in that region, had
decided to make a halt there for a few days or weeks, Captain Raymond
having given him a cordial invitation to inspect the mines and join him
in hunting expeditions.

The town already boasted several thousand inhabitants, two churches, a
bank, post-office, a fine public school building, dry goods and grocery
stores, mills, factories, and two hotels.

To one of these last went Mr. Austin and Albert, but Captain
Raymond—particularly on account of having his children with
him—preferred a private boarding-house, and, through his business agent
and mine-superintendent, Mr. John Short, had already engaged rooms with
a Scotch lady, Mrs. McAlpine by name, whom Short recommended as a good
housekeeper and one who kept an excellent table.

Our party had scarcely left the train when a gentlemanly looking man
approached, and lifting his hat, said, “My name is Short. Do I address
Captain Raymond?”

“That is my name, sir,” rejoined the captain, offering his hand, which
the other took and shook heartily.

“Glad to meet you, sir; very glad; have often wished you would come out
and see your property here for yourself. It’s well worth looking after,
I assure you.”

“I am quite convinced of that,” the captain said, with a smile. “Also
I do not doubt that it has been well looked after by my agent, Mr.
Short.”

“Thanks, sir,” returned Short, bowing and smiling in acknowledgment.
“And these are the son and daughter you wrote me you would bring with
you?” he remarked, with an inquiring glance at the children.

“Yes,” replied the captain, looking down at the two with fatherly pride
and affection. “Max and Lulu are their names. I am so domestic a man
that I could not persuade myself to leave all my family behind when
expecting to be absent so long from home.”

“Yes, sir; I’m not surprised at that. Well, sir, I think Mrs. McAlpine
will make you comfortable. She has two sets of boarders, mill
operatives and miners, who eat in the kitchen, and a few gentlemen and
a lady or two who take their meals in the dining-room. But she has
agreed to give up her own private sitting-room at meal times to you and
your family (as you stated in your letter of instruction you wished
a private table for yourself and children); for a consideration, of
course,” he added with a laugh. “But knowing you could well afford it,
and were not disposed to be close, I did not hesitate to accept her
terms.”

“Quite right,” replied the captain. “And as to sleeping
accommodations?”

“She can let you have a room of pretty good size for yourself and son,
with a small one opening into it for the little girl—or perhaps I
should rather say the young lady—your daughter.”

“She is only a little girl,—her father’s little girl, as she likes
to call herself,” returned the captain, smiling down at Lulu and
affectionately pressing the hand she had slipped into his while they
stood talking.

“Yes,” she said, laughing and blushing, “I do like it; I’m not in a bit
of a hurry to be a young lady.”

“No, Miss, I wouldn’t if I were you,” laughed Mr. Short. “Those
changes come to us all only too fast. Shall I show you the way to your
quarters, captain? I did not order a carriage, as it is hardly more
than a step; and judging by my own past experience, I thought you’d be
glad of a chance to use your limbs after being cramped up in the cars
for so long.”

“You were not mistaken in that. I think we all feel it rather a
relief,” the captain made answer, as they moved on together.

A very short walk brought them to the door of the boarding-house. They
were admitted by a rather comely girl, apparently about fifteen years
of age, whom their conductor addressed as “Miss Marian,” and introduced
as the daughter of Mrs. McAlpine. She invited them into the parlor, and
went in search of her mother, returning with her almost immediately.
She was a middle-aged woman, with a gentle, ladylike manner, that was
very pleasing, and the remains of considerable beauty, but had, Captain
Raymond thought, one of the saddest faces he had ever seen; there were
depths of woe in the large gray eyes that touched him to the heart;
yet the prevailing expression of her countenance was that of patient
resignation.

“She is evidently a great sufferer from some cause,” he said to
himself; “probably an inconsolable widow, as I have heard no mention of
a Mr. McAlpine.”

She bade them welcome, and inquired what they would have for their
evening meal, and how soon they would like it served.

The captain answered these questions, then requested to be shown to the
sleeping-rooms set apart for their use during their stay.

“I fear, sir, they will seem but poor and mean after such as you and
the young folks have no doubt been accustomed to,” she said, leading
the way: “but they are the best I can provide, and I trust you will
find them clean and comfortable.

“Our nights are cool, even when the days are very warm, and you will
get the mountain breeze here; which is a thing to be thankful for, to
my way of thinking,” she added, drawing back the curtain from an open
window of the room into which she had conducted them.

The captain stepped to it and looked out. “Yes,” he said, “and a
fine view of the mountains themselves, with a pretty flower-garden
and orchard in the foreground, a river and wooded hills between; a
beautiful prospect; another cause for thankfulness, I think. The room,
too, is of fair size,” turning from the window and glancing about him.
“That open door I presume leads into the one my little girl is to
occupy?”

“Yes, sir. It is not large, but I have no other communicating bedrooms,
and Mr. Short said you wrote particularly that they must be such, or
yours large enough for a corner of it to be curtained off for the young
miss.”

“Yes; so I did: and she, I know, would prefer a small room with an
open door into mine, to a large and better one with a separating wall
between,” smiling down into Lulu’s eager, interested face, at that
instant upturned to his.

“Indeed, I should, papa,” she responded, slipping a hand confidingly
into his and returning his smile with one of ardent, filial affection.

Tears sprang to the sad eyes of Mrs. McAlpine at the sight, and it was
a moment before she could command her voice to speak. When able to do
so, excusing herself upon the plea that domestic duties required her
attention, she left them.

“I want to see my room,” said Lulu, hurrying toward the open door;
then, as she gained a view of the whole interior, “I should say it
was small! one window, one chair, a single bed, a little bit of a
wash-stand, and just barely room to move back and forth beside the bed.
How different from my lovely rooms at home!” she ended with a pout and
frown.

“I am sorry it is not more to your liking, my dear child,” the captain
remarked, in a kindly, sympathizing tone, “but it cannot be helped now.
Does my little girl begin to wish her father had left her at home?” he
asked, laying his hand tenderly on her head, for he had followed her
and now stood close at her side.

“Oh, no, no, dear papa! and I’m quite ashamed of my grumbling,”
she returned, taking his hand in both of hers and laying her cheek
affectionately against it.

“You wouldn’t do to go into the navy, Lu, if you can’t put up with
narrow quarters sometimes,” remarked Max sportively. “So it’s a good
thing you’re not a boy.”

“Of course it is,” she answered in a sprightly tone. “Who that might be
a girl would ever want to be a boy? Not I, I’m sure.”

“Not even for the sake of being able to grow up into such a man as
papa?”

“No, I couldn’t have any hope of that anyhow, for there’s nobody in
all the world like papa—so dear and good and kind and handsome and—”

“There, that will do,” laughed the captain, bending down and stopping
the next word with a kiss full upon her lips; “it is enough, and more
than enough, and we must be getting rid of the dust of travel and
making ourselves neat for the tea-table,” he added.

“Yes, sir; I’m glad to be out of the cars for a while, after being in
them so long; and these rooms are neat as wax, if the furniture is
scanty, and poor, and plain. I shan’t mind that a bit, as it’s only for
a short time, and I wouldn’t have been left behind for anything. I hope
I’ll not complain any more, papa; I don’t intend to. But,” in sudden
dismay, “oh, where am I to put my trunk?”

Her father and brother both laughed at her perplexed, woebegone
countenance.

“You’ll have to decide that question very soon, for here they come,”
said Max, glancing from the window.

“Don’t be troubled, dear child; we will find a place for it in this
outer room,” added her father cheerily, and glancing about in search
of one. “Ah, it can stand in this corner close by your door. Does that
suit your ideas and wishes, daughter?”

“Yes, sir; it will be the most convenient place for me,” she answered,
in a bright, cheery tone, quite restored to good-humor.

The trunks had already been brought in and deposited according to
directions.

“Will you have anything out of this, daughter?” the captain asked,
unstrapping Lulu’s.

“Another dress, papa, if you are willing to let me change; this
travelling one feels hot and dusty.”

“My dear child, can you suppose I would want you to be uncomfortable?”
he asked. “Give me your key, and we will have the dress out
immediately.”

“Thank you, papa,” she said, taking the key from her travelling bag
and handing it to him. “Please choose for me, the one you think most
suitable.”

“Do you feel inclined for a stroll about the town with your father and
Max after tea?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, yes indeed!”

“You are not too tired?” he questioned, smiling at her eager, joyous
tone.

“Oh, no, sir, not at all. I think I shall feel as fresh as a lark after
I have washed and dressed and had my supper.”

“Then this will be quite suitable,” he said, lifting out a
cream-colored serge with collar and cuffs of red velvet and a bordering
of Indian embroidery in which the same shade was quite prominent.

“The very dress I’d have chosen myself, papa,” she remarked, with a
pleased laugh. “And when we take our walk I must wear the hat that
matches. I do like to wear things that match or contrast prettily and
suit my complexion.”

“Well, daughter, since our kind heavenly Father has made so many things
beautiful to our eyes, the sunset clouds with their gorgeous hues, the
myriads of lovely flowers and fruits, to mention only a few—I think it
cannot be wrong for us to enjoy pretty things. Still, my dear little
girl must be on her guard against vanity and pride, because of being
well and tastefully attired, and careful not to give too much of her
time and thoughts to dress.”

CHAPTER X.

“Well, it is nice to be going to eat in a house again and no strangers
by,” remarked Lulu when they had seated themselves at the table in Mrs.
McAlpine’s sitting-room, and the captain had asked a blessing on their
food.

“So it is,” responded Max; “it would seem something like home, if we
had Mamma Vi, Gracie, and the little ones here with us.”

“Yes,” assented their father with a slight sigh, “they make the best
part of home. We must look for the post-office when we are out. I hope
we shall find letters there from home, and I have one to mail to your
mamma.”

“Why, when did you write it, papa?” asked Lulu.

“While you were dressing.”

“Was I so very slow?”

“No, but you see I had the advantage of you in not needing to change my
dress.”

With that Marian, who had just brought in a plate of hot cakes, glanced
admiringly at Lulu’s costume.

“What a pretty girl that little Miss Raymond is, and so beautifully
dressed!” she remarked to her mother on going back to the kitchen. “It
must be a grand thing to be the daughter—”

“Don’t allow yourself to envy her, my child,” interrupted the mother,
“’tis God appoints our lot, and we must strive to be submissive and
content.”

“Mother,” cried the girl, almost fiercely, “ye needna tell me God
appointed this lot for you and me. I’ll never believe it, never! ’Twas
the father o’ lies brought us here an’ keeps us here, and oh, but I wad
we had never left bonny Scotland!”

“Hush, hush, child! bairn, your wild words but add to the weight o’ the
cross already almost too heavy for your mother to bear,” returned Mrs.
McAlpine, catching her breath with a half sob. “Here, carry this to the
guests in the sitting-room,” giving her another plate of cakes, just
taken from the griddle.

“Can you tell me where to find the post-office, Miss Marian?” Captain
Raymond asked, as she again stood at his side, offering her cakes.

“Yes, sir; ’tis just around the corner, on the way to the mine. If you
want to send there, sir, Sandy, my brother, will go for you willingly.
They must be making up the mail for the East now, and it will close
presently.”

“Then I accept your offer of your brother’s services, with thanks,” he
said, taking a letter from his pocket and giving it to her. “Please ask
him to carry this at once to the post-office, and see that it gets into
the mail; then inquire for letters for Captain L. Raymond, Master Max,
and Miss Lulu Raymond.”

“I will, sir,” she replied, taking the letter and hurrying from the
room with it.

A few minutes later a boy who looked to be two or three years younger
than Marian came briskly in and, laying a handful of letters on the
table beside the captain, said, “Several for you, sir, and one apiece
for Master and Miss. And the one I took for you is gone with the rest
o’ the mail for the East.”

“I am much obliged,” the captain said, putting a dime into his hand.

The boy glanced down at it. “That’s too much, sir, by half, the errand
wasn’t worth a nickel, and in fact I didn’t expect any pay for doing
it.”

“Then take the dime as a gift, my boy; I like your honesty,” returned
the captain.

“Thank you, sir,” responded the lad heartily, and with a grin of
satisfaction, as he turned and hastened away again.

“Papa, is there one for me?” asked Lulu, as her father took up the
letters and glanced at the superscriptions.

“Yes, daughter; and one for Max. But as we have all finished eating we
will go to our room to read them.”

The letters brought only good news; the dear ones left behind were all
well, and, though missing the absentees, content and happy, at least so
far as could be gathered from the cheerful tone of their epistles.

Lulu’s was the joint production of Eva and Grace, and gave an
interesting account of the doings and sayings of the babies and the
parrot.

The last-named, they said, was continually calling “Lu, Lu, what you
’bout? Where you been?”

The letter told, too, of the beautiful singing of Gracie’s canaries,
the doings of her kitten, and of Max’s big dog Prince. There was more
about the last-named in Max’s own letter, which was from Violet, with a
postscript by Grace.

The captain read his letter from Violet, first to himself, then
portions of it aloud to the children; then they offered him theirs, and
he read them aloud in turn, and chatted pleasantly with them about the
contents of all three.

“Well,” he said at length, “if we are going to take that walk, it is
about time we were setting out. Lulu, you may put on your hat, while I
glance over these other letters.”

That was a welcome order to the little girl, and it did not take her
many minutes to obey it. They found Mr. Short on the pavement before
the front gate as they went out.

“Ah, captain,” he said, “I was just coming to ask if you did not feel
inclined for a stroll about the town. May I have the pleasure of acting
as your guide?”

“It will be conferring a favor, sir, if you will do so,” replied the
person addressed, and the two walked on, leaving Max and Lulu to follow.

“I wish he hadn’t come,” she muttered discontentedly. “I thought I was
going to have the pleasure of walking beside papa with my hand in his.”

“That’s very pleasant for you,” said Max, “but I think you might care
almost as much to walk with me, considering that you’ll probably not
have many more such opportunities to do so.”

“Oh, I forgot that! Oh, I wish you weren’t going away from home, Max!”
she exclaimed. “I seem to grow fonder of you than ever when I think of
that!”

“Yes, blessings brighten as they take their flight,” he returned, with
a little laugh that sounded rather forced.

The new home made by his father for him and the others, and especially
the being taken by that father into a close intimacy, friendship, and
confidence, such as are seldom given by a parent to a son of his age,
had been so delightful that the thought of going away among strangers,
leaving all the dear ones behind, and having communication with his
father only by letter, instead of the pleasant daily and hourly
familiar intercourse, could not fail to cause the boyish heart a pang.

Yet, on the other hand, there was joy and exultation in the thought
that he was about to enter upon special preparation for his chosen
profession, the work that he was to do as a man; it seemed to him the
beginning of the putting away of childish things, the putting on of
the armor, and the gathering up of the weapons, for the great battle
of life, and at times he was eager for the day when he should appear
before the examiners at Annapolis.

“Yes, and you _are_ a blessing to me, Maxie; you always have been,”
Lulu said in reply. “And I am sure papa thinks you a very great one to
him.”

The captain’s quick ear caught the words, and he glanced smilingly
round at the two without pausing in his talk with his agent.

Mr. Short gave the names of the streets as they passed along, pointed
out the public buildings and the prettiest private residences,
telling to whom each one belonged, and sometimes adding a little
character sketch in a humorous or slightly satirical vein. He seemed a
good-natured, jovial sort of man, and anxious to entertain and amuse.

It did not take long to traverse the town, and having presently reached
the outskirts, they ascended an eminence from whence might be obtained
a bird’s-eye view of the whole place and its surroundings of valley and
wooded hills.

They paused here to gaze upon the landscape spread out at their feet,
and Lulu, stepping to her father’s side, quietly slipped her hand into
his. His fingers closed affectionately over it, and he gave her a
pleased, loving look, though he seemed to be listening attentively to
something Mr. Short was saying about the mine.

“I must visit it to-morrow, if the weather is favorable,” the captain
said in reply. “I want to take my children with me, and as I expect to
be in the vicinity for several weeks, there is no special haste; no
need of hurrying out there through a storm.”

“Oh, I do hope the weather will be good!” exclaimed Lulu, while she and
Max exchanged glances of delight.

“I think there is every indication of pleasant weather for some days to
come,” remarked Mr. Short.

“Is it far to the mine?” asked Lulu; “will we have to ride or drive?”

“No, Miss; I think even you could easily walk it,” replied Mr. Short.
“The distance is not over a mile.”

“Then I can,” she said; “I’ve walked more than two miles many a time.”

“No doubt of it,” said her father; “but you must have a pony for longer
excursions. Have you succeeded in securing a suitable one, Mr. Short?
Horses for myself and son, also?”

Short replied to the effect that he had succeeded in procuring a steed
for each of them, which, though probably by no means equal to those
they were accustomed to at home, would, he hoped, answer their purpose
quite well.

“Are you accustomed to riding horseback, Miss?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Lulu said. “Papa gave me a pony of my own more than a year
ago, and before that I used to ride one belonging to somebody else.”

“Here come Mr. Austin and Albert up the hill,” said Max, and the next
moment the English gentleman and his son had joined themselves to the
little group.

They and Mr. Short had already made acquaintance. Polite greetings were
exchanged, and then all stood together watching the sun as he sank
behind the western hills.

It was a grand sunset, the whole western horizon ablaze with gold,
orange, and flame color, shading off here and there into the more
delicate shades—rose, pale-green, and amber.

They lingered for many minutes, silently gazing upon the ever-changing
panorama until most of its glories had faded away, then slowly
descended the hill and wended their way back to their temporary abodes.

It was growing dark, the stars coming out one by one overhead, and a
young moon showing herself above the hilltops, when the captain and his
children re-entered Mrs. McAlpine’s gate and walked up the path leading
to the front porch.

There were several persons sitting there, among them the lady of the
house. She rose, said “Good-evening,” and turning to a gentleman who
had risen also, introduced him as the Rev. Mr. Green.

He and Capt. Raymond shook hands cordially, each expressing pleasure at
the meeting, and when Max and Lulu had also been introduced, and all
were seated, the two gentlemen fell into earnest discourse, the mission
work and its interests and needs in that region of country being their
principal theme.

The children listened in silence, and presently learned from the
remarks of the minister, what was news to them—that their father had
given town lots for church, parsonage, and schoolhouse, and nearly the
whole amount of money their erection had cost.

“Papa must be rich, very rich, Max,” whispered Lulu in her brother’s
ear.

“Yes; and generous too; far more generous and liberal than most folks,”
Max whispered back. “I’m proud as can be of being his son.”

“And I of being his daughter,” she returned.

They gave expression to these sentiments in talking with their father
when, a little later, they found themselves alone with him in his room.

“My dears,” he said, “as I have often told you, the money is the Lord’s
and I am only his steward. How, then, could I do otherwise than use it
for the advancement of his cause and kingdom?”

“Yes, papa, and you did it for the good of our dear country, too,
didn’t you?” asked Lulu, taking a seat upon his knee and putting an arm
affectionately about his neck.

“Yes, daughter; for if we would ensure her safety, we must all do
battle earnestly against the threatening evils of ignorance, error, and
superstition; the only way to preserve the liberties of this land, and
make her a power for good to the rest of the world, is to instruct and
evangelize all classes, whether native or foreign born.

“Now,” he continued, opening a Bible which he had taken from his trunk
and laid upon a table, before going out, “we will close the day with
reading and prayer, as we do at home, and go to our rest, for we are
all in need of it, I think.”

He kept Lulu on his knee while he read, one arm about her waist, and
Max’s chair was drawn close up on the other side; then they all knelt
together, while the father gave thanks for all the blessings of the
past day, made confession of sins, and implored the protecting care
of their heavenly Father through the silent watches of the night; for
themselves and the dear ones far away.

The captain had always been careful not to make family worship seem
long and tedious to his children, and to-night it was shorter than
usual, in consideration for their weariness, consequent upon the long
journey but just completed.

When they had risen from their knees he took Lulu in his arms and
kissed her tenderly two or three times, saying, “Now you may go to your
own little room, my darling, and when you are quite ready for bed set
the door wide open, so that you can feel that papa is near enough to
hear you speak, should you want anything in the night.”

“Max, too,” said her brother laughingly, and giving her a kiss in his
turn, “so that if any danger threatens you there’ll be two knights to
fly to the rescue.”

“Thank you,” she returned gayly, “but if anything frightens me I shall
run right to papa”, giving him another hug as she spoke.

It was a very warm evening, and the windows of the room were wide open
to admit the air. Through one of them, looking upon the garden, Marian
McAlpine witnessed the little scene; the words spoken did not reach her
ear, but she saw the expression of the countenance of the captain and
his children, and the caresses given and received.

“What a good, kind father! and what happy, happy children!” she
murmured half aloud, as she turned away with a sigh that seemed to say
her own lot was not so blessed.

Passing round the house and into the porch she found her mother, now
sitting there alone.

Taking a chair close by her side, “Mother,” she said, “I think that
Captain Raymond must be a very good man.”

“I dare say he is, child; certainly he has been extremely liberal to
the mission cause in this town.”

“And he looks so good and kind and seems so fond of his children,”
Marian went on. “I saw him reading to them to-night—the little girl
sitting on his knee and the boy as close as he could well get by his
side; the Bible I suppose it was, for when he closed it they all three
knelt down together, and I could hear his voice as if he was praying,
though not the words. Then they got up and hugged and kissed each
other good-night. They’re the very happiest looking people I ever saw.”

“So I think. But, Marian, you shouldn’t be spying out what they are
doing in the privacy of their own room.”

“I didn’t mean to, mother, but I happened to look up at their
window—the light was so bright, you know—and I saw the girl help
herself to a seat on her father’s knee, just as if she was sure he’d
like her to, and put her arm round his neck, and it was such a pretty
scene I couldn’t help standing there and watching them a bit. They
don’t have to share their father with a lot of other children that are
not their mother’s too,” she added, in a suppressed and bitter tone.

“Marian, Marian, hush!” exclaimed Mrs. McAlpine, in a low voice
quivering with pain; “is your end of the cross heavier than mine?”

“No, mother, dear, not half so heavy: the cruelest part of it is seeing
you suffer—you, who are as good and pure as an angel!” returned the
girl passionately.

“Then for my sake, lass, try to suffer and be still. I’ve a hard enough
fight with my own rebellious heart; at times I feel I shall never be
able to bring it into meek submission to His will who doeth all things
well.”

“But it isn’t His will! it isn’t His doing! I’ll never believe it, no,
never!” cried the girl, clinching hands and teeth in impotent fury;
“it’s the will and the doings of the adversary of souls, the father o’
lies, him that the Bible tells us was a murderer from the beginning,
and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him.”

“Marian, Marian, ye’re tempting your mother to the sin she maun ficht
against nicht and day,” groaned Mrs. McAlpine, relapsing into Scotch,
as they were both apt to do under strong excitement, “an’ oh, beware,
lassie, that you dinna wrest Scripture to ye’r ain destruction and to
mine.”

“Wrest Scripture! ’tis they wrest it,” cried the girl, in tones of
fierce indignation; but before the words had fairly left her lips her
mother had risen from her chair and fled from her presence, as one
would fly from temptation.

Marian too rose, closed the house, and went to bed, while alone in her
own apartment the mother spent a long time upon her knees wrestling in
prayer for submission and strength to endure the cross she mistakenly
deemed that He, her loving Lord and Master, had laid upon her.

CHAPTER XI.

Marian McAlpine was setting the breakfast-table for the Raymonds, when
Lulu came into the room looking bright and fresh in one of the new
dresses her father had directed to be made for such excursions as that
proposed for the day.

“Good-morning,” she said, in a pleasant, sprightly tone.

Marion returned the salutation, and Lulu went on, “We are going to
visit the mine today, and papa sent me to ask if you would like to go
with us.”

“Thank you, Miss; it’s very kind in your father and yourself to invite
me, and I should be blithe to go if mother could spare me; but I’m
afraid she can’t. Good help is very scarce about here, and we have to
do a great deal of the cooking and other work ourselves.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lulu; “I’d like very much to have you go, for my own
sake as well as yours, for there will be no lady in the party, and no
girl but me, if you don’t go.”

“But you’ll not mind that, with such a kind, tender father as yours,”
Marian said, a little tremulously, and with a wistful glance into
Lulu’s bright, happy face.

“No, I’d not mind going to the world’s end with papa, and nobody else,”
returned Lulu, her cheeks flushing and her eyes shining with joy and
filial love. “But how did you find out what a dear, kind father I have?”

“Surely, Miss, just the way he looks at you (as if to his mind there
was nothing else so sweet and fair in all the world) is enough to tell
the tale to any one but the dullest of the dull.”

The girl sighed involuntarily as she spoke, and turned away—busying
herself at the china closet—to hide her emotion.

“And you have none, I suppose? Oh, I am so sorry for you!” Lulu said,
in a gentle, pitying tone.

Marian turned toward her a pale, set face, opened her lips to speak,
but closed them again as her mother entered the room.

“Good-day, lassie, you look bright and blithe as the morning,” Mrs.
McAlpine said, addressing Lulu, with a smile that was sadder than
tears; and the little girl noticed that her face was paler than on the
previous day, her countenance fuller of grief and woe, though she was
evidently striving to be cheerful.

“Did you find your bed comfortable last night?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, ma’am; but I had hardly touched it before I went fast
asleep, and I never moved, I believe, till the sun was up.”

“It must have seemed a short night to you. Sound sleep is a very great
blessing,” responded the lady. Then asked, “And what are your plans
for the day? I fear you will find little to interest you in this small
town.”

“Papa is going to take us to look at the mine,” said Lulu, “and we
would be pleased to take your daughter with us, if you can spare her.”

“Certainly; Marian gets few holidays, and I would be glad to have her
go. Tell your papa I thank him for the invitation, and she will be
ready in good season.”

Marian’s eyes sparkled, and her face wore a glad, eager look for a
moment: then it changed and she said, “No, mother, I can’t go and leave
you everything to do.”

“There is not so much to-day, lass, not more than I can easily do
myself,” returned the mother kindly, “and I shall enjoy hearing your
report when you get back.”

Thus kindly urged, Marian gladly accepted the invitation. Few of what
young folks are wont to call “good times” came into her life, and a
visit to the mine had never been one of them.

They set out shortly after breakfast, the party consisting of Captain
Raymond with his children and Marian, Mr. Austin and Albert, and Mr.
Short, who acted as guide.

The two girls walked together, but Lulu managed to keep very near her
father. That pleased him, both as an evidence of her ardent affection
and because, knowing so little what sort of companion Marian would
prove, he wanted to be near enough to overhear their talk, that
he might be able to judge what influence she was likely to exert
over his child. Mindful of the declaration of Holy Writ that “evil
communications corrupt good manners,” he was very careful in regard
to the choice of his children’s associates. Poverty, if not united to
viciousness or vulgarity, was considered no ground of objection, while
wealth, fine dress, or fine manners could not atone for lack of moral
purity and refinement.

Marian’s appearance and manners had pleased him, and nothing that he
saw or heard during the walk had any tendency to lower her in his
estimation. It was a pleasant walk, much of the way being shaded
by forest trees, and a refreshing breeze tempering the heat of the
weather. The girls were almost sorry when it came to an end.

But they found much to interest them in and around the mine. When they
had seen all that was to be seen and were about to return to the town,
Mr. Short proposed their doing so by a different route from that by
which they had come. It was a little longer, he said, circling around
among the hills, but would give them some fine views and an opportunity
to gather a variety of beautiful wild-flowers.

“Oh, then, do please let us go that way, papa!” exclaimed Lulu, looking
up at him with a very bright, eager face.

“If it suits the wishes of all the party, we will,” he answered in an
indulgent tone. “What do you say to it, Mr. Austin?”

“That it suits my inclination exactly,” returned the English gentleman.

“Mine also,” added Albert, as the captain looked inquiringly at him.

“And it’s just what I’d like, too, papa,” said Max.

“And I offer my services as guide,” said Mr. Short.

“Then the question is settled in the affirmative,” Captain Raymond
said. “Mr. Short, will you lead the way?”

It was just dinner-time when they reached home, the girls bright-eyed
and rosy-cheeked and with hands full of flowers.

“Are you tired, daughter?” the captain asked, as Lulu was taking off
her hat.

“Oh no, indeed, papa! not a bit,” she answered. “What a delightful
morning we have had! Now what are we going to do this afternoon?”

“The first thing is to eat your dinner,” he said, smiling and pinching
her cheek, then stooping to give her a hearty kiss.

“Yes, sir; I feel ready to do it justice,” she returned, putting her
hand into his, that he might lead her to the table.

“I too,” said Max, following them, “I don’t know when I’ve been so
hungry.”

The captain had asked the blessing, and Marian began passing the plate
of bread, when a voice, apparently that of a boy speaking from the
garden, said, “Please, Miss, gimme a piece. I’m awful hungry! Didn’t
have a mouthful o’ anything to eat to-day.”

Marian started in surprise, then went toward the window, saying, “A
beggar. We don’t often have them about here. Why,” glancing out, “where
is he?”

A loud barking, that seemed to come from round the corner of the house,
then a shrill cry, “Oh, oh, call him off! he’s got me by the leg!
he—he’ll tear me to pieces!”

“Towser, Towser!” called Marian, putting her head out of the window,
“let him go, I tell you! Come here, sir! come here, and let that fellow
alone!”

Then she rushed out to the porch to look for the boy and dog, but was
back again in a moment all breathless with bewilderment and exertion.

“I can’t find either of them,” she panted, “and where they could go so
quickly I canna conjecture.”

Lulu was casting mirthful glances at Max, but he avoided her eye and
went on with his dinner as if much too hungry to think of anything else.

“Both boys and dogs can move very rapidly sometimes,” remarked the
captain, in reply to the girl. “But don’t be alarmed, Miss Marian, I
dare say the beggar has come to no worse harm than a fright sufficient
to send him off to get a meal elsewhere. And now, if you please, will
you replenish the bread plate? Max is emptying it very fast.”

“Oh, yes, sir, and I hope you will excuse me for neglecting my
business,” she answered smilingly, taking up the plate and leaving the
room.

“Now, Max, own up that that was you,” said Lulu laughing.

“That what was?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows in mock astonishment.
“Do you mean to insinuate that I’m either a beggar or a dog?”

“No,” laughed Lulu merrily, “but you needn’t pretend ignorance; you
know well enough what I mean. Well, I shan’t let Marian into the secret
if I can help it; for I hope we’ll have some more fun out of it. Papa,
it was right good in you not to explain.”

“Was it?” he asked.

But Marian’s entrance with a fresh supply of bread put an end to talk
on that subject for the time.

“Papa,” said Lulu, “you haven’t told me yet what we are going to do
this afternoon.”

“How would you like to try the pony Mr. Short has engaged for your use
while here?” he asked in return.

“Oh, very much, if you will go with me!”

“I shall most certainly not allow you to go without me,” he answered
with a tender, loving look into the bright eyes she had lifted to his.

“You couldn’t trust her alone, could you, papa?” Max said teasingly.

“No, nor with you, nor you alone,” answered his father with sportive
look and tone.

“There now, Maxie, don’t you wish you’d kept quiet?” laughed Lulu. “You
see papa doesn’t consider you so very much older or wiser than I am.”

“I don’t hope I’ll ever be too old or wise to be the better and happier
of papa’s company,” Max answered, bestowing upon his father a look of
deepest respect and affection.

“I’m glad to hear that, my boy,” the captain responded, his eyes
shining with pleasure.

“Well, then, I think we are all satisfied that the arrangement is for
the three of us to ride out together.”

“And Mr. Short to go along to show us the way?” queried Lulu.

“Yes; he has kindly offered to do so.”

“I do think he has the wrong name altogether,” she said laughingly, “he
ought to be Mr. Long.”

“People hardly ever do get a name that fits,” remarked Max sagely; “Mr.
Carpenter will be a shoemaker, like as not, or a merchant, and Mr.
Shoemaker a hotel keeper, and so on.”

“Yes, that is rather apt to be the case,” assented his father, “but
occasionally a man does follow the trade that fits his name; for
instance, I used to know a Mr. Cobbler who made, and doubtless mended,
shoes, too.”

“Max, don’t you remember the Browns that lived next door to Aunt
Beulah?” asked Lulu.

“Yes; they were all very fair, and had light hair and eyes. And Tom
White, who went to the same school I did, was dark-complexioned and had
eyes as black as sloes.”

“Papa,” asked Lulu, “will the horses and ponies be here soon? Will we
take our ride soon as we are done eating?”

“No, not quite; ‘after dinner rest awhile,’ is the rule, don’t you
know? You may do that for fully half an hour while I write to your
mamma.”

“Oh, mayn’t I write too? I’m not tired.”

“Certainly, if you wish to; you and Max are both at liberty to amuse
yourselves during the interval before our ride. Well, what is it,
daughter?” noticing a slight expression of trouble and perplexity in
her speaking countenance.

“Only that sometimes I forget how to spell a word, papa, and what am I
to do about it? At home you always tell me to look in the dictionary,
but we haven’t any here.”

“How will your father answer for one?” he asked, with sportive look and
tone.

“Oh, nicely, if you’ll let me use you,” she returned, laughing.

“I will when there’s no printed one at hand.”

“Thank you, sir; it will be a great deal less trouble than hunting for
the word in a dictionary. But why don’t you let me use you always when
you’re with me?”

“Because I think the spelling will be more likely to be impressed upon
your memory by the trouble of having to search out the word; beside,
I want my children to learn the lesson of self-help. We should never
trouble others to do for us what we can do for ourselves.”

“I’ll try always to remember and act upon that, papa,” said Max. “Isn’t
it the people that help themselves all they can, who are most apt to
succeed in life?”

“Most assuredly, my boy,” replied the captain, as they left the table
and retired to their own apartments.

“My letter is going to be to Gracie,” Max remarked as he took out his
writing materials.

“Mine too,” said Lulu; “I’m going to tell her about our walk this
morning, and our visit to the mine.”

“Just what I intended doing,” Max said.

“Suppose you both carry out your intentions, and then compare accounts,
to see how they differ,” suggested their father. “Very likely each of
you will tell something that the other will omit, and between the two
letters Gracie will get a better idea of the little excursion than she
could from either one alone.”

“And shall we show them to you, papa, when done?” asked Lulu.

“You may do exactly as you please in regard to that,” he answered.

All three pens were presently scratching away, the captain’s more
rapidly, and with fewer pauses, than the other two. Presently he laid
it down and began folding his sheet.

Then Max did the same, remarking to Lulu a trifle triumphantly, “I’m
done first.”

“Why!” she exclaimed, “I haven’t finished telling about the mine, and
have all the story about the walk home to tell yet.”

“Probably you are going more into detail than Max did,” their father
said, “and that is just what Gracie will enjoy.”

At that instant Sandy appeared at the open door with the announcement
that the horses had come and Mr. Short was waiting.

“And my letter isn’t finished!” exclaimed Lulu in dismay.

“No matter, daughter, it is not one requiring special haste, and you
can finish it at your leisure, to-night or to-morrow; no, on Monday,
to-morrow is Sunday,” the captain said. “Lay it in your writing-desk
and put on your hat. We will not keep Mr. Short waiting any longer than
necessary.”

She obeyed with cheerful alacrity, wondering aloud the while what her
new pony would be like.

“Better tie that hat on tight, Lu,” Max said, in sportive tone; “he may
rear and make it fall off, if he doesn’t throw you.”

“I’ll fasten it as tight as I can,” she said. “Oh, I wish I had Gracie
or somebody to tie my veil for me!”

“You have two somebodies; isn’t that enough?” asked her father,
stepping up behind her where she stood in front of the mirror, and
tying it for her as deftly as if he had been a woman. “You will always
find your father, and doubtless your brother also, ready to perform any
such little service for you. As for the danger of your pony throwing
you, I think you may dismiss any such fear. Mr. Short told me he had
secured a safe one for you.”

“Oh, I’m glad of that, papa! I thought you wouldn’t let me try a
dangerous one. And thank you for tying my veil. I’m quite ready now,”
drawing on her gloves as she spoke.

“Well, captain, what do you think of them?” Mr. Short asked, with a
look and tone that spoke confidence of a favorable judgment.

The captain and his children stood on the sidewalk in front of the
boarding-house, ready to mount the steeds the agent had provided.

“They are far better in appearance, at least, than I had expected to
see,” replied Captain Raymond pleasantly. “That horse is a Spanish
Mexican, is it not?”

“Yes, sir; and what I call a grand piece of horseflesh for such work as
you are likely to put them to. He’ll stand a longer, harder gallop than
any other horse I ever rode.

“And those Indian ponies for the use of the young folks are hardy,
strong, and well broken, and though not the handsomest steeds that ever
were seen, will, I think, give good satisfaction to their riders.”

“I presume they will,” the captain said, lifting Lulu to her saddle and
putting the bridle into her hands, while Max mounted his pony without
assistance.

“You’ll ride beside me, won’t you, papa?” she asked, her tone
expressing some slight timidity.

“Yes, dear child: so near that I can seize your pony’s bridle at any
moment,” he replied. “But I think you need have no fear that he will
misbehave with you on his back.”

His horse was close at hand, and with the concluding words of his
sentence he vaulted into the saddle.

Away they went through the town, down the valley, passing near the mine
they had visited in the morning, over the hills and far out on the
grassy plains beyond.

Lulu found her pony manageable, so that soon she could partly forget
him and give her attention to the country they were passing through,
and the talk of her companions.

She and Max thought they would never forget that ride; it was so full
of pleasure to them; the air was delightfully fresh and pure, the
motion of their steeds rapid and easy, and everything they saw was
interesting, if only because of its dissimilarity to whatever they had
heretofore been accustomed to.

The principal topics of discourse between the two gentlemen were the
natural resources of the territory and their development, the incoming
tide of immigration, its character and probable influence upon the
future of that region of country.

“You have some Mormon citizens?” the captain said, half in assertion,
half inquiringly.

“Yes, sir; quite a good many, though they are decidedly in the
minority. By the way, you Eastern folks have little idea, I take it,
of the aggressive character of Mormonism, its enmity to the Federal
Government, and far-reaching schemes to gain the balance of power in,
not Utah alone, but as many more Territories and States as possible.
Believe me, the Union has no bitterer foes, and none who need to be
more vigilantly watched and guarded against.”

“I believe you,” the captain returned, with a look of grave concern;
“and I think too that the Eastern people are at least beginning to
awake to the danger. One object I had in view in coming out here was
to see for myself the extent of the evil and the best remedy to be
applied; also to decide the important question of my own duty in the
matter.”

“They are mostly an ignorant set,” remarked Mr. Short; “the foreign
portion know so little about our government that they believe the lying
assertions of their hierarchy that it is the worst and most despotic in
the world.”

“Whereas, it is the very best and freest!” exclaimed Max indignantly.
“Isn’t it, papa?”

“Certainty, my boy,” returned the captain, smiling at the lad’s heat.

Mr. Short smiled too, and giving Max an approving look, remarked that
he liked nothing better than to see boys full of patriotism.

“I wouldn’t be my father’s son if I didn’t love my country,” said Max.

“Like father, like son, eh?” laughed Short. “Well, it is very apt to be
the case.”

“There’s a cattle ranch I must take you to see, Captain,” pointing in
a southwesterly direction, where, far in the distance, might be dimly
discerned a dwelling with out-buildings, and herds of cattle grazing
near by. “It’s too far for us to go to-night, but some time next week,
perhaps, it may suit your plans to ride out there, and I think you will
find it pay to do so, as I understand you want to learn all about this
region of country.”

The captain assented to the proposal, adding that he thought it was now
time to turn their horses’ heads toward home.

CHAPTER XII.

Tea was not quite ready when they arrived at their boarding-house, and
they sat on the porch while waiting for it, Captain Raymond looking
over the daily paper just taken from the mail.

Sandy McAlpine and a younger brother named Hugh were sitting near by
looking over a picture-book together.

“Is your mother not well, boys?” asked the captain, glancing from his
paper to them. “I think I have not seen her at all to-day.”

“No, sir,” replied Sandy; “She’s lying down with a headache.”

“She got a letter,” added Hugh; “one of those letters that always make
her cry and get a bad headache. I wish they wouldn’t come, ever any
more.”

“Hush, hush, Hugh!” muttered Sandy, frowning at his brother and nudging
him with his elbow. “You know mother wouldn’t like you talking so,
especially to a stranger.”

“I haven’t said anything wicked,” returned the little fellow. “May be
you like to see mother cry and have a headache, but I don’t, and I’d
just thrash the man that sends her such horrid letters, if I could; and
I will, too, when I’m a big, strong man.”

Captain Raymond was seemingly quite occupied with his paper during
this little aside between the lads, but he heard every word, and was
thinking to himself, “It is probably some financial trouble, and I must
see what I can do for her relief; there are very special promises to
widows, and as one of the Lord’s stewards it becomes me to be ready to
assist them in distress.”

Marian came to the door at that moment with the announcement that tea
was ready.

The Raymonds at once rose and obeyed the summons, the captain with his
newspaper still in his hand. He laid it aside before sitting down to
his meal, and forgot it on leaving the room after supper.

He presently remembered it, however, and went back in search of it. He
found Mrs. McAlpine there alone, in tears, and with an open letter in
her hand. He would have retreated, but perceived that it was already
too late. She was aware of his presence, and opening her lips to speak.

“Excuse me, my dear madam,” he said. “I had no thought of intruding
upon your privacy, but—”

“You are entirely excusable, sir,” she answered gently, and with an
effort to recover her composure; “this room is public to you and your
children, and you have a perfect right to enter it unceremoniously when
you will. Will you take a seat?”

“Although I merely stepped in to get my paper, which I carelessly left
here, I shall accept your invitation with pleasure, dear madam, if you
will allow me the privilege of talking with you as a friend,” he said,
in a deeply sympathizing tone. “I can not be blind to the fact that you
are in trouble, and if in any way I can assist you, it will give me
sincere pleasure to do so.”

Then with the greatest delicacy he offered financial assistance, if
that were what she stood in need of.

“Sir, you are most kind,” she said, with grateful emotion, “but it is
not that; it is something far worse;—it is that this wicked, rebellious
heart will not submit, as it ought, to the cross He—my blessed Lord and
Master—has laid upon me. Oh!” clasping her hands together, while the
big tears streamed down over her pale and sunken cheeks, “I fear—I very
much fear—I hae loved the creature more than the Creator, and that this
is why this cross has been laid upon me; this cross, so heavy that it
bears me to the earth!”

She sank sobbing into a chair.

He drew up another and seated himself beside her. “Dear madam,” he
said, in moved tones, “we have not a high-priest who cannot be touched
with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted
like as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly unto the
throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in
time of need.”

“I know not what your trouble is, but sure I am that thus you may find
grace, mercy, peace, and the fulfillment of the promise, ‘As thy days,
so shall thy strength be!’”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, “and
whiles I’m willing to bear whatever He sends; but at times the cross
seems heavier than mortal strength can endure, so that it crushes me to
the very earth! O Willie, my Willie, how happy we were in those early
years o’ our married life, when you were all the world to me and I was
all the world to you! but now—I can no longer feel that you are mine.
Others hae come between us; they have stolen your love from me, and my
heart is breaking, breaking!

“But, oh, this is sinful, sinful! Lord, help a poor, frail worm of the
dust to be obedient and submissive to Thy will!” She seemed to have
forgotten the captain’s presence, but light was dawning upon him.

“I think you are accusing yourself unjustly, my dear madam,” he
said, in pitying tones; “are mistaking God-implanted feelings for the
suggestions of the evil one.”

“Alas, no!” she sighed. “Has not God given a new revelation to his
prophet, ordaining that ‘it is the duty of every woman to give other
wives to her husband, even as Sara gave Hagar to Abram, and that if she
refuses it shall be lawful for the husband to take them without her
consent, and she shall be destroyed for her disobedience’?”

“No,” returned the captain, and there was stern indignation in
his tone—not against the poor, deluded woman, but toward her base
deceivers—“a thousand times, no! any pretence to a new revelation, no
matter by whom it may be set up, must be a base fabrication. Listen!—”

“Ah, sir, you mean kindly,” she said, “but I must not listen to you,
for I perceive—what I had already suspected—that you are not one of the
saints; that you do not believe the teachings of the new gospel.”

“New gospel!” he exclaimed, his eyes kindling. “Tell me, Mrs. McAlpine,
were you not brought up to believe the Bible?” taking out a pocket
edition constantly carried with him, as he spoke.

“Surely, sir, and I may say with the Psalmist, ‘Unless thy law had been
my delights, I should then have perished in mine affliction.’”

He opened his Bible, and turning to the first chapter of Galatians,
read aloud: “I marvel that ye are so soon removed from him that
called you into the grace of Christ, unto another gospel; which is
not another; but there be some that trouble you and would pervert the
gospel of Christ.

“But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto
you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed. As
we said before, so say I now again, If any man preach any other gospel
unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed.”

“Could anything be plainer or stronger than that?” he asked, with
emphasis.

“No,” she said slowly, looking like one waking from a dream. “Why
have I not remembered those words before? But—there has been a new
revelation; at least, they told me so.”

“A new revelation!” he repeated, in a tone of utter incredulity.
“Listen again to God’s own word, inspired and written many hundreds of
year before the birth of your so-called prophets, (‘false prophets,
dreamers of dreams, who have spoken to turn you away from the Lord your
God ... to thrust thee out of the way which the Lord thy God commanded
thee to walk in’).”

Opening to the very last page of the New Testament he read again: “I
testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this
book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him
the plagues that are written in this book; and if any man shall take
away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away
his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from
the things which are written in this book.”

She gazed at him for an instant in awestruck silence, then rousing
herself, said slowly, “But they say there are corruptions,
mis-translations.” She paused, leaving her sentence unfinished.

“There is no lack of proof that the Scriptures are the revealed word of
God, that the writers were inspired by God, and that if any corruptions
or mis-translations have crept in they are so few and slight as to be
of little account, making small difference in the meaning,” he said.
“The proofs of the authenticity and inspiration of the Scriptures are
so many that it would take a long time to state them all.”

“There is no need in my case, sir,” she interrupted. “I know they are
divine; the internal evidence alone would be all-sufficient to me.”

“And yet their teachings are directly opposed to those of Mormonism.”

“Not against polygamy, surely? God knows I would be glad to think so;
but how many of the prominent characters of the Old Testament had a
plurality of wives. Even David, ‘the man after God’s own heart,’ had
many more than one.”

“But the Bible nowhere tells us that God approved of the practice; and
how often the history it gives shows that polygamy brought sin and
misery on those who practised it. God made but one wife for Adam.”

“But Sarai gave Hagar to Abram.”

“But God did not command it, nor are we anywhere told that he approved
it. It was a sinful deed done in unbelief, and brought forth the bitter
fruits of sin.”

For a moment or more she sat silent, evidently in deep thought. Then
she spoke:

“I believe you are right, sir; though it has not struck me in that
way before. It did bring ‘forth the bitter fruits of sin,’ very much
the same fruits that polygamy brings forth here and in this day,” she
concluded with a heavy sigh.

Captain Raymond was again turning over the leaves of his Bible. “Listen
to the words of the Lord Jesus Christ,” he said.

“Have ye not read, that he who made them at the beginning made them
male and female, and said, ‘For this cause shall a man leave father
and mother, and shall cleave to his wife; and they twain shall be one
flesh! Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh.’”

“That passage is from Matthew, and Mark also gives these words of the
Master,” the captain said. “And have you not noticed how Paul in his
epistles always seems to take it for granted, when speaking of the
marriage tie, that a man can lawfully have but one wife at a time?

“‘For the husband is the head of the wife’ (not wives).

“‘He that loveth his wife loveth himself,’ ... ‘Let every one of you in
particular so love his wife even as himself.’

“‘A bishop then must be blameless, the husband of one wife.’

“But Mormonism teaches that bishops may have, and ought to have, many
wives. Polygamy is encouraged on the ground that the rank and dignity
of its members is in proportion to the number of their wives and
children. Is not that the fact?”

“Yes,” she answered with a heavy sigh, “it is according to the
revelation made to Bishop Young.”

“A revelation indeed! though, as we have seen, the record was closed in
the time of the Apostle John, and a fearful curse pronounced on any who
should add to it. A revelation opposed to all the teachings of God’s
word on that subject. It came from the father of lies, for God never
contradicts himself; all the teachings of every part of his word are
consistent with each other, which is one of the proofs of the divine
inspiration of the Scriptures.

“From Genesis to Revelation the teaching, both direct and implied, is
that God made of twain one flesh, and a man may have but one wife. Adam
had but one, and in the book of Revelation John tells us the angel
said to him, ‘Come hither, and I will show thee the bride, the Lamb’s
wife,’—not wives, you will observe; there was but one.”

“You shake my faith in Mormonism,” she said, with a startled, troubled
look.

“I rejoice to hear it,” he responded; “would that I could shake it to
its utter destruction.

“Popery has been well called ‘Satan’s masterpiece,’ and Mormonism is
another by the same hand; the points of resemblance are sufficient to
prove that to my mind.”

“Points of resemblance?” she repeated inquiringly, “I have never
thought there were any, and I have a heart hatred to Popery, as you may
well suppose, coming, as I do, from a land where she slew, in former
ages, so many of God’s saints. But surely in one thing the two are very
different—the one forbidding to marry, the other encouraging men to
take many wives.”

“The difference in regard to that is not so great as may appear at
first sight,” he returned; “both pander to men’s lusts—for what are
nunneries but ‘priests’ prisons for women,’ as one who left the ranks
of the Popish priesthood has called them?

“Both teach children to forsake their parents; both teach lying and
murder, when by such crimes they are expected to advance the cause of
their church.”

“Oh, sir, so bad as that?” she exclaimed, with a shudder.

“It is computed that Popery has slain fifty millions of those she
calls heretics, and oftentimes she has secured her victims by the
basest treachery. All that in past ages, to be sure, but she claims
infallibility and denies that she has ever done wrong; besides, to this
day she shows the same persecuting spirit, and actually kills, too,
wherever she has the power.

“As to Mormonism doing likewise, look at the Mountain Meadow massacre,
the lying and perjury to prevent convictions for polygamy, and the
private assassinations committed to carry out their fearful and wicked
doctrine of blood atonement.

“In that doctrine also—asserting that the blood of Christ does not
cleanse from all sin those who accept his offered salvation—they agree
with the Church of Rome, whose teaching is that forgiveness of sins
and final salvation are to be obtained by penance and good works
supplementing the finished work of Christ; that good works are to be
done not—as the Bible teaches—_because_ we _are_ saved, but in order to
_earn_ salvation; thus flatly contradicting God’s word, which says:

“‘A man is justified by faith without the deeds of the law.’

“‘By grace are ye saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves; it
is the gift of God.’

“‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’”

Again he opened his Bible and read: “‘Ye are of your father the devil,
and the lusts of your father ye will do: he was a murderer from the
beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in
him; when he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own; for he is a liar
and the father of it.’

“‘He that is of God heareth God’s words; ye therefore hear them not,
because ye are not of God.’

“Are not those words of the Master peculiarly applicable to all those
teaching doctrines so diametrically opposed to his?” he asked.

“They certainly are applicable to any who teach false doctrine,” she
replied.

“And can you call the Mormon doctrine of ‘blood atonement,’ by any
softer name?”

“No, for I believe God’s word, ‘the blood of Jesus Christ his Son
cleanseth us from all sin’; and its teaching that he is the one
sacrifice for sin.”

“And yet you call yourself one of them?”

“I have done so. I stood out against it for a time—in the old home in
Scotland—but the man—a Mormon missionary—was very plausible and seemed
very devout, quoted Scripture, won Willie, my husband, over first, and
they both kept at me till I grew fairly bewildered and half crazed,
and at last, when Willie told me he was bound to come over to America
and join the Latter-day Saints, I gave up and agreed to do the same;
for how could I part from him? and no word at all had been breathed to
either of us about polygamy; we had not thought it was one of their
doctrines.”

A spasm of pain convulsed her features, and for a moment she seemed
unable to go on.

“Does that speak well for their honesty?” he asked, in stern
indignation.

She shook her head. “No,” she said chokingly; “and the thought of that
has sometimes made me grow weak in the faith till my heart would almost
stand still with fright.”

The last words were spoken in a suppressed tone, little louder than a
whisper, and with a half-terrified glance from side to side, as if she
feared they might be overheard.

“And no wonder, considering their fiendish practice of ‘blood
atonement,’” he responded, regarding the poor, trembling woman with
deep commiseration. “I presume you had not been long a dweller in
Mormondom before you were more fully instructed in regard to those two
important doctrines?”

“No, sir, not long,” she replied, “as to polygamy at least; and when
my husband declared his intention of carrying that into practice, I
was heart-broken and entreated him to forbear, remembering his solemn
marriage vow to cleave to me only so long as we both should live.

“He tried argument with me at first, coaxing and persuasion, but
finding I was not to be moved by those, he grew very angry and abusive,
and hinted darkly at the danger of the blood atonement doctrine being
carried out in my case if I continued obstinate in refusing my consent.”

“And so you gave it?”

“Yes. Oh, sir, it was like consenting to have my heart torn from my
bosom!” she exclaimed in a low tone tremulous with pain. “But to
withhold it would do no good, and would endanger my life—my life, no
longer valuable save for the sake of my dear children: but for their
sake I did desire to live. Ah, sir, I could not but ask myself, ‘Is
this what it is to live in free America?’”

“I blush for my country, in view of the outrages she has allowed
in the name of religion!” he exclaimed, his fine, manly countenance
flushing with shame and indignation as he spoke. “And yet,” he
continued interrogatively, “you came to believe it right for a man thus
to break his marriage vow?”

“I grew bewildered with misery,” she said. “I had no choice but to
submit, and felt that I should go mad with the thought of my husband’s
wickedness if I held fast to the teachings of my childhood. I could not
answer their arguments (ah, I see now that more prayer and searching
of the Scriptures might have enabled me to do so; yet the result would
have been a violent death; probably by Willie’s own hand, making him
a murderer as well as—a breaker of the seventh commandment), so I
resigned myself to my fate—so far as I could—and have ever since been
fighting with the anguish and rebellion in my broken heart.”

She was silent for a moment, struggling with her emotion, then with a
grateful look at him, “I don’t know how it is, sir, that you have so
quickly won my confidence,” she said. “I have never before breathed a
word of all this into any mortal ear. Even Marian knows no more than
that I suffer because—other women share the affection that in former,
happier days was all my own.”

“It is sometimes a relief to unburden our hearts to a
fellow-creature,” he replied; “there is healing and comfort in human
sympathy, and I assure you, dear madam, that you have mine in no slight
measure. The man who can so wound the heart of a loving wife must be
worse than a brute.

“But the government has at last come to the rescue of these oppressed
wives. I trust the Edmunds Bill will prove the complete destruction of
polygamy, and efface this bar sinister from my country’s scutcheon.”

“I cannot but desire it, if only for my daughter’s sake,” she returned.
“Marian will soon be a woman, and, if your government does not help,
may be forced into a polygamous marriage. She would never go into it
of her own free will; she is no Mormon, but, young as she is, has
always declared intense hatred and abhorrence of both polygamy and the
blood atonement doctrine—and practice,” she added, after a moment’s
hesitation.

“Oh, sir, no small part of my suffering is occasioned by the change in
my child’s feelings toward her father; from loving him with an ardent
affection, she has turned to hating him with a bitter hatred, as the
destroyer of her mother’s peace and happiness.”

She ended with a burst of uncontrollable weeping.

Captain Raymond’s kind heart was sorely pained by the sight of her
distress. He felt himself powerless to give relief, but spoke gently
to her of the love and sympathy of Jesus, the “Friend that sticketh
closer than a brother,” and to whom “all power is given in heaven and
in earth.”

“Carry all your griefs, your fears, and anxieties to Him,” he said.
“There is no trouble too great for his power to remove, too small for
his loving attention. His love to his people is infinite, and he never
regards their sorrows with indifference.

“In all their afflictions he was afflicted, and the Angel of his
presence saved them.”

“It is true,” she said tremulously; “I have found it true in my own
experience. ‘In his love and in his pity he redeemed them; and he bare
them, and carried them all the days of old.’ And so he has done with
me—his most unworthy and doubting servant. Ah, sir, you, I am sure, are
one of God’s own people, whatever may be your views with regard to the
Mormon creed, and I beseech you to pray for me that my faith in God, in
Jesus, and his gospel may be strengthened and increased.”

CHAPTER XIII.

On leaving the tea-table Max and Lulu had seated themselves in the
porch, along with their father, and just as he went in search of his
paper they were joined by Albert Austin.

“Ah, good-evening, Albert,” said Max, making haste to place a chair for
him near his own, “I’m pleased to see you.”

“Thanks; I’m pleased to come,” returned the English lad, accepting
the offered seat. “I was bored with listening to papa and some other
gentlemen talking on some subject that didn’t interest me in the least,
so I slipped away after telling papa where I could be found when
wanted.”

“He doesn’t object to our society then?” remarked Max, in a playfully
interrogative tone.

“No, indeed! I fancy he thinks I could hardly be in better company.
He’s taken a strong liking to your father, and I think I may add to
yourselves, also,” glancing admiringly at Lulu as he spoke.

“In spite of my not being an English girl?” she returned laughingly.

“Oh, assuredly, Miss Lulu! That could make no difference; in fact, I
believe Englishmen are, as a class, great admirers of American ladies.”

“In which they show their good taste,” laughed Max. “My father says
American ladies compare favorably with those of any other nation. I
wish you could see Mamma Vi and Grandma Elsie.”

“Who are they?” asked Albert, with a puzzled look.

“Mamma Vi is papa’s wife; his second wife, while we are the children
of the first. Her name is Violet; she isn’t old enough to be our real
mother, so she told us to call her Mamma Vi. Grandma Elsie is her
mother, and we call her that to distinguish her from an older lady whom
we call grandma also.”

“Ah, yes, I think I understand. That’s one of your American ways, I
suppose. And where are those ladies you would like to show me? not in
this state, I fancy, as I remember seeing you on the cars long before
we entered it.”

“Yes,” replied Max, with an amused look, “our home is so far away that
we crossed several states in coming here. But this is not a state.”

“Isn’t? What then?”

“A territory.”

“Ah, excuse me, but I don’t know the difference.”

“I’ll try to explain,” said Max. “Papa has taken some pains to give us
a clear understanding of our government and its workings.

“Each of the thirty-eight states has its own constitution, elects
its own governor, legislators, and judges. It elects two senators to
send to Congress, too, and from one to thirty-four representatives,
according to its population.

“But the territories can send only one delegate to Congress, and he has
no vote; they are governed by Congress, with a governor appointed by
the president.”

“Ah, yes, I see the difference, and that the states have the best of
it. The territories, I presume, look forward to becoming states?”

“Yes; but they must have a certain number of inhabitants before they
can hope to be admitted into the Union?”

“Your father’s an army officer, isn’t he?”

“No; he belonged to the navy, but resigned not very long ago.”

“The American navy is quite small, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t so large as it ought to be,” returned Max shortly.

“Britannia rules the wave!” quoted Albert, in an exultant tone.

“Yes; when Columbia isn’t there to interfere with her,” retorted Max, a
little mischievously.

“I’m thinking ’twill be a sorry day for Columbia when she attempts
that,” sneered Albert.

“It hasn’t always been in the past,” remarked Max quietly.

“When wasn’t it?” asked Albert.

“When John Paul Jones in the Bon Homme Richard fought Capt. Pearson in
the Serapis, for instance.”

“Well, yes; but that was a very close fight. Beside, you had six
vessels and we only two.”

“Two of ours were pilot boats and kept out of the fight altogether,”
said Max.

“So did the Vengeance; though she had been ordered to render the larger
vessels any assistance in her power; she didn’t even try to overhaul
the band of flying merchantmen.

“Then the Alliance, commanded by that bad-tempered Frenchman Landais,
who was so envious of Jones, went into the battle only at the last
moment, and instead of helping her allies, fired her broadsides into
the Richard. The fight was between the Richard, with forty guns, and
the Serapis with forty-four; the Pallas, twenty-two guns, and the
Countess of Scarborough, with twenty-two. So there was no advantage on
our side. If Landais had been in command of the Richard he wouldn’t
have tried to fight the Serapis at all.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because, as he dashed past her in the Alliance, pushing ahead to
reconnoitre, before the fight began, he cried out that if the enemy
proved to be a forty-four, the only course for the Americans was
immediate flight. He practiced on that idea, too, hauling off and
leaving the Richard and the Pallas to do the fighting.

“Our French allies did us more harm than good in the naval battles of
the Revolutionary War. If Captain Landais wasn’t crazy, he must have
been one of the greatest scoundrels that ever trod a quarter-deck.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Lulu, “when I read about his firing into the Bon
Homme Richard—when the poor fellows on it had been fighting so hard and
long, so many of them dreadfully wounded, and the ship almost sinking
already—I felt as if I could hardly stand it to think he escaped being
well punished for it. He ought to have been hung; for his fire killed
some of our poor fellows.”

“So he ought, the miserable coward!” assented the English lad. “I’m not
partial to the French anyway,” he added. “Of course my own countrymen
come first in my estimation, but I put the Americans next. We’re a sort
of cousins, you know.”

“Yes,” said Max. “But wasn’t it a crazy idea that this great big
country should go on being ruled by that little one across the sea?
Most absurd, I think.”

“At the beginning of the trouble between them it must have looked like
great folly for the thirteen weak colonies to go into the fight with
England,” remarked Albert.

“Particularly to the English, who didn’t know how in love with liberty,
and determined to keep her, the Americans were,” said Max. “Papa says
we triumphed at the last because our cause was the cause of right, and
God guided our counsels and gave success to our arms.”

“I don’t believe I’m as well-read on the subject as you are,” remarked
Albert. “I presume I would naturally take less interest in it than you
would.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Max. “I’ve studied the history of the
United States, my native land, a great deal, especially in the last
year or two, and have had many talks with papa about the events, and
especially the doings of the navy; they interested me more than any
other part; first, because papa was a naval officer, and then because
I’m hoping to go into the navy myself.”

“And those studies didn’t increase your love for us—the English, I
mean?” said Albert interrogatively.

“No, not a bit,” returned Max with a slight laugh. He paused a moment,
then went on more gravely.

“The treatment they gave the Americans they took prisoner, was simply
barbarous; unworthy of a civilized—not to say Christian—nation.”

“Yes, perfectly dreadful!” chimed in Lulu.

“Now I really don’t remember any such barbarity,” remarked Albert,
rather apologetically. “But you know the Americans were considered
rebels, and I—suppose the British officers may have thought it a duty
to—refrain from coddling them.”

“Coddling indeed!” exclaimed Max. “Do you remember about the ‘Old
Jersey’ prison-ship?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“It was a dismasted hulk—an old sixty-four gun-ship moored in Wallabout
Bay, near New York City. She was so old and worn-out and rotten that
she wasn’t fit to go to sea; so they used her as a prison for Americans
whom they captured, and starved them and treated them so horribly in
every way, that eleven thousand died in her.”

“Wouldn’t it be charitable to suppose the starving may have been
because of an unavoidable scarcity of provisions?” queried Albert
mildly.

“There was no such unavoidable scarcity,” asserted Max, “yet the poor
prisoners were sometimes so hungry as to be glad to eat cockroaches
and mice when they could catch them.”

“On that vessel?” asked Albert.

“I think it was on that very vessel,” said Max musingly; “but possibly
I might be mistaken; there were other prison-ships, but the Old Jersey
was the worst. But I’m certain it was American prisoners in the hands
of the British near New York. A piece of wanton cruelty the jailors
were guilty of, was bringing in a kettle of boiling soup, or mush, and
setting it down before those starving prisoners of war, with never a
spoon or anything to dip it up with.”

“Yes,” said Lulu, “and another time they marched some prisoners for
four days without a mouthful to eat, then rolled out barrels of salt
pork for them to eat raw. And another time, when they were exchanging
prisoners with the Americans, they put pounded glass into the last
meal’s victuals they gave to the American soldiers before they let them
go.”

“Well, if they did that ’twas mean and wicked enough,” admitted Albert.
“But don’t you think the world has grown a little better since those
days, and that then other nations were quite as cruel, if not more
so? always excepting the Americans, of course,” he added, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I believe that’s so,” admitted Max.

“And some Americans—the Tories—were worse than the British,” said
Lulu; “some of their deeds were perfectly dreadful, shockingly wicked
and cruel! beside, it was so contemptible in them to turn against
their own country and ill-use—even to robbing and murdering—their own
countrymen.”

“Well, yes,” said Albert, “but then, we must remember that the way they
looked at it ’twas only being loyal to their king.”

“The English king, you mean,” she retorted. “But most of them—the
Tories—were low, mean, wicked fellows that really cared for neither
king nor country, and were only glad of an excuse to rob wherever they
could.”

“Then please don’t blame my country with what they did,” said Albert.

“No; it isn’t worth while; she has sins enough of her own to answer
for,” returned Lulu demurely. “And then she’s so little, poor thing!”

Albert looked nettled at that. “The sun never sets on the British
Empire,” he said, straightening himself proudly. “And, big as your
country is, I don’t believe either her army or navy can compare with
ours.”

“Yes, our regular army is small, I know,” admitted Max; “but we have
a great army of militia, and all so devoted to their country that
they make splendid fighters when called on to defend her. Our navy’s
small, too, but compares better in size with yours than it did at the
beginning of the war of 1812–14, and it came out of that with flying
colors.”

“Really, I don’t remember what was the difference then, or just what
the fight was about,” acknowledged Albert modestly.

“Don’t you?” asked Max, in some surprise. “Well, I shouldn’t either,
if papa hadn’t turned my attention to such subjects and talked with us
about them in such an interesting way. He says he wants his children to
be well acquainted with history, especially that of their own country.
That’s how I happen to be posted on those questions.

“When the United States declared war against England in 1812, our navy
consisted of twenty vessels, the largest carrying forty-four guns, most
of the others rating under thirty, while England had over a thousand
ships on the rolls of her navy, two hundred and fifty-four of them
ships of the line, mounting over seventy-four guns each.

“It really wasn’t much wonder the British laughed at the idea of our
attempting to fight them; especially as Britannia had ruled the wave up
to that time.”

“Yes; the Americans must have been a plucky little nation to try
it,” laughed Albert, “they must have been desperately angry about
something.”

“They were, and with good reason,” returned Max. “Oh, such wrongs as
our poor sailors had endured for years from British naval officers! It
makes my blood boil just to read, at this late day, of their arrogance
and injustice, and the dreadful cruelties they were guilty of toward
Americans they kidnapped from our vessels.”

“Kidnapped?” repeated Albert.

“Yes; what else could you call it when a British man-of-war would stop
an American merchant-vessel on the high seas—in time of peace—board
her, order the crew mustered aft, pick out any man they chose to say
was an Englishman, and carry him off to their own vessel against his
will?”

“Oh yes, I see you refer to the right of search.”

“Right of search, indeed!” exclaimed Max hotly, “there was no right
about it, it was all an outrageous wrong. The British had no more right
to search our ships than we had to search theirs.”

“But deserters should be caught and punished,” said Albert.

“Perhaps that’s so,” said Max: “I don’t say it is, or it isn’t; but
they often and often took native-born Americans, asserting, without a
shadow of proof, that they were English. American captains said they
always chose the most ship-shape sailors in the crew, and, of course,
those wouldn’t always be the Englishmen, supposing there were any
Englishmen among them.

“One can imagine that it was exceedingly exasperating to be forced in
that way into foreign service, especially that of a nation their own
country had been having a bloody war with only a little while before;
under the red flag of England, too, instead of the beautiful Stars and
Stripes they loved so well.

“And if one of them showed any unwillingness to serve his kidnappers,
he was triced up and flogged till his back was cut to ribbons, and the
blood spurted at every blow.

“Of course they detested the service they had been forced into, and
that was made so dreadful to them, would desert whenever they had a
chance; and if they were caught again they were speedily hung at the
yardarm.”

“It was hard when a mistake was made and a real American impressed,”
conceded Albert, “but, of course, the English government had a right to
take her own men wherever she could find them.”

“I have no objection to Englishmen submitting to such tyranny, if they
choose,” sneered Max, “but Americans are made of different stuff; they
are free and glory in their freedom, and never would, and never will,
put up with such treatment. And I say again, British officers had no
right to board our ships without leave or license, and forcibly rob
them of part of their crew. It was an abominably cruel and tyrannical
thing for them to do, even before the Revolution, and most outrageously
insulting beside, after the war when we were no longer colonies of
Great Britain, but free and independent states.”

“I don’t recall the occurrence you refer to,” said Albert, “but surely
before the war they had the same right to impress American subjects as
they had to take their fellow-subjects of Great Britain.”

“Let me recall one incident to your memory, and see if even an
Englishman can approve of it in these days,” said Max.

“In 1764—eleven years before the beginning of the war, you will
remember—the British man-of-war ‘Maidstone’ lay in the harbor of
Newport. It was a time of peace, and the officers had nothing to do; so
they amused themselves sending out press-gangs to seize any luckless
American sailor who happened to be on shore, and force him into his
Majesty’s service aboard their vessel.

“The life on board a British man-of-war was a dreadful one in those
times, for any sailor; the cat-o’-nine-tails was flourished so often,
and for such slight offenses, and even a boy midshipman could order a
poor fellow to the grating to have his back cut to ribbons.

“So no wonder American sailors dreaded being forced into it; they had
no peace of their lives with those press-gangs roaming the streets in
search of them every night, and breaking into the taverns where a group
of them might be smoking and chatting together, to seize and carry them
off.

“But the incident I was going to speak of was this: One day a brig came
sailing up the bay into the harbor of Newport. She had been on a long
voyage—to the west coast of Africa—and the poor fellows aboard of her
were just wild with joy to think they had reached home at last and were
going ashore presently to see their mothers and wives and sweethearts,
and all the rest of their dear ones they had been separated from so
long, and who had crowded on the dock to watch the brig coming in.

“Oh, I can imagine how they felt! for I remember how glad we always
were when papa’s vessel came in from a long voyage, and we knew that
he’d be with us presently; and so I know something of how terrible,
how perfectly unbearable, it must have seemed to them, when just as
their ship was anchored, a couple of longboats from the man-of-war came
pulling up alongside of the brig, and two or three officers and a lot
of sailors climbed on board, and the head one ordered the American
captain to call his men aft, saying ‘His Majesty has need of a few fine
fellows for his service.’

“It was bad enough when they thought he was going to take some of them,
each poor jackie fearing he might be the unfortunate one, yet hoping he
might not; but just think of it! the officer ordered every one of them
to go below and pack up his traps.

“The American captain expressed his astonishment and indignation,
saying that the poor fellows were just home from a long voyage and
hadn’t seen their families yet. But it did no good; every man jack of
them was carried off to the man-of-war and forced to serve aboard of
her.

“It was such acts of tyranny as this that drove the colonies to rebel,
and finally to be determined to be free and independent.”

“And that drove them into the war of 1812, too,” said Lulu, “Oh, the
States, I mean; they were not colonies then, though the British did not
seem to have found it out.”

“It was a plucky little nation to declare war with England,” again
remarked Albert good humoredly. “I don’t know how they ever got up
courage to pit their twenty vessels against her thousand.”

“Love of liberty, and self-respect, and abhorrence of insult and
tyranny nerved them to it,” said Max. “Do you remember that affair of
the Chesapeake and Leopard?”

“Not at all; if I ever heard of it, it must have made but little
impression on my mind.”

“Well, I suppose it would naturally make a deeper one on an American
boy’s,” said Max.

“It happened in 1807, when we were at peace with England, and it seems
to me the most insulting thing ever heard of.

“The Chesapeake, an American man-of-war lying at the navy-yard at
Washington, was put in commission and ordered to the Mediterranean to
relieve the Constitution.

“It took nearly a month to get her ready, and while that was being
attended to the British minister informed our naval authorities that
three deserters from His British Majesty’s ship ‘Melampus’ had joined
the crew of the Chesapeake, and asked to have them given up.

“Our government was willing to do it, but on inquiring into the matter
found that the men were really native-born Americans who had been
impressed by the British and forced into their service. They were able
to prove it. So, of course, they weren’t given up.

“The facts were stated to the British minister, and as he didn’t
protest any further, it was supposed he was satisfied.

“A few weeks after this the Chesapeake left the navy-yard and dropped
down the river to Hampton Roads. There she stayed for some days,
taking on guns and stores and adding to her crew till she had three
hundred and seventy-five men; then she weighed anchor and started on
her voyage.

“But she started before she was in really proper condition. A quantity
of things, such as stores, ropes, lumber, trunks, and furniture, were
piled on the decks, instead of being stowed away in their proper
places. Somebody was to blame for that, of course, though papa says it
was not Commodore Barron, who was in command, and nobody could have
dreamed of the mischief the confusion was to cause, remembering that it
was in a time of peace, and right on our own coast.

“But there were four English men-of-war lying quietly at anchor in Lynn
Haven Bay, and as our ship passed out into the ocean there was a stir
on their decks; then one of them weighed anchor, set her sails, and
started in pursuit. The Chesapeake had to tack frequently, on account
of a stiff breeze that was blowing, and the American officers noticed
that the Leopard—the British ship—did the same, and kept right in their
wake; but it never occurred to them that she had any but peaceful
intentions. The ship kept on her course, and the sailors set busily to
work putting the decks in order.

“Presently the Leopard bore down rapidly, and when she got near enough,
hailed, saying that she had a dispatch for Commodore Barron. So the
Chesapeake hove to and waited for a boat to be sent. Now the two ships
were lying broadside to broadside, less than a pistol-shot apart.
Still the commodore did not suspect any mischief. Some of the younger
officers noticed that the Leopard had her cannon all ready to fire, and
they ought to have told the commodore; but they didn’t.

“Soon a boat put off from the Leopard, bringing an English officer. One
of the American officers received him and took him to the commodore’s
cabin. There he produced an order from the British Admiral Berkeley,
commanding all British ships to watch for the Chesapeake and search her
for deserters.

“Commodore Barron said he didn’t harbor deserters, and couldn’t permit
his crew to be mustered by an officer of any foreign power. Just
then there was a signal from the Leopard recalling her officer. Then
Commodore Barron came out of his cabin, and was much surprised to see
that the Leopard was quite in fighting trim.”

Sandy McAlpine had drawn near the little group, and was listening with
profound interest to Max’s story. “And did they have a fight between
the two ships?” he burst out, as Max made a momentary pause in his
narrative.

“A fight!” echoed Max. “No; there was a disgraceful, insulting attack
by the Leopard, which the Americans had not power to respond to,
because, though their guns were loaded and they ready to use them with
a will, no matches, powder-flasks, wads, rammers or gun-locks could be
found.

“While they were hunting for them, there was a hail from the Leopard.
Commodore Barron shouted back that he did not understand. They hailed
again:

“‘Commodore Barron must be aware that the orders of the vice-admiral
must be obeyed.’

“The commodore again answered that he didn’t understand, and after
another hail or two the British fired a gun at the Chesapeake, then
poured in a full broadside. The heavy shot crashed through the sides of
the American ship, wounding a number of men.”

“And they couldn’t fire back?” queried Sandy.

“For want of matches and the other necessary things that were not to be
found, they had to let their guns keep silence, though they were filled
with fury that they had no chance at all to defend themselves and show
their insolent foe how American blue-jackets can fight. They heated
pokers red-hot in the galley fire, but they cooled too much before they
could get them to the guns.

“So for eighteen minutes the Leopard kept on firing at a helpless,
unresisting foe. Then the Chesapeake’s flag was hauled down, two
British lieutenants and some midshipmen came in a boat from the
Leopard, boarded the Chesapeake, and again demanded the deserters.

“Of course, there was no choice but to give them up. Four sailors were
seized and carried aboard the Leopard in triumph. One of them they
hung, one died before he could escape, but five years later the other
two got back to the Chesapeake.”

“Max, you are forgetting that one shot was fired from the Chesapeake?”
said Lulu.

“Yes, you tell about it.”

“There was a Lieutenant Allen among the officers of the Chesapeake, who
cried out in his anger, ‘I’ll have one shot at those rascals, anyhow,’
ran to the galley fire, picked up a live coal in his fingers, and,
never caring for the pain, ran with it to one of the guns and fired it
off just as the flag came fluttering down.”

“He was a brave fellow,” commented Sandy. “Well, I s’pose the British
didn’t fire any more after they got what they wanted. But hadn’t their
shot made some big holes in the Chesapeake?”

“I presume so,” replied Lulu. “Anyhow, she turned and went back.

“Everybody in the whole country was furious on hearing the news—which
I don’t blame them for, I’m sure; but it was a great shame that the
government punished Commodore Barron, by suspending him from the
service, without pay, for five years. Papa says it was very unjust, for
it wasn’t his fault that things were not in order on the vessel, but
the fault of the fitting-out officers. And I feel perfectly certain
that the commodore and everybody else on the Chesapeake would have
fought bravely if they’d had half a chance, and whipped the insolent
British well. Oh, I do wish they had had a chance!”

“Well, never mind,” said Max. “We whipped them well in the war that
followed a few years later.”

“Now, if I remember right, the Americans didn’t always whip in that war
either on land or on water,” said Albert.

“No, not always,” acknowledged Max, “but a good many times; and the war
accomplished what we went into it for: putting a stop to their insolent
claim to a right to search our vessels, and their impressment of our
seamen.”

“Was that mentioned and given up in the treaty of peace?”

“No,” acknowledged Max, “but they haven’t tried it since, and they’d
better not, as I guess they know.”

“Perhaps you mightn’t have fared so well if we hadn’t had another war
on our hands at the same time,” retorted Albert.

But just here the talk was interrupted by Captain Raymond and Mr.
Austin joining them, the former coming from his interview with Mrs.
McAlpine in the sitting-room, the latter entering from the street.

CHAPTER XIV.

“Can’t we go to our own rooms now, papa?” asked Lulu, when their
English friends had bidden good-night and gone.

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand and leading the way, Max following not
at all unwillingly.

“I suppose you want to finish your letter now, Lulu?” the captain said,
as they entered his bedroom, which they made their sitting-room also
when desirous of being quite to themselves.

“No, sir, I don’t. I’d rather let it wait till Monday, if I may sit on
your knee a little while and have you talk to me.”

“Have me talk to you? or let you talk to me?” he asked with playful
look and tone, as he sat down and drew her to the coveted place.

“Both, you dear papa,” she answered, putting her arms around his neck
and giving him an ardent kiss.

“And am I to do nothing but listen?” asked Max, pulling forward a chair
and seating himself close beside them.

“Just as you please, young man,” laughed his father; “but I doubt if
you can refrain from putting in a word now and then.”

“He’s been talking ever so fast almost all the evening,” said Lulu;
“only letting me have a word now and then.”

“Ah, indeed! I hope it has been good-humored and sensible talk?”

“Very sensible (I was quite proud of my brother)” replied Lulu, giving
Max a laughing glance, “but I’m not so sure about the good-humor. I
shouldn’t wonder if Albert Austin had made up his mind by this time
that Max and I are not very partial to the English.”

“I hope you haven’t been rude to Albert, my children?” the captain
said, with sudden gravity.

“I hope not, papa; I don’t think we were, though we stated a few
historical facts—perhaps a little strongly,” replied Lulu.

“What were they?” he asked, “you may tell me about it if you like.”

They then repeated the substance of their conversation with Albert,
their father listening with evident interest.

At the conclusion of the story, he said, “I think from your account
that Albert showed much good temper and moderation in the way he bore
your strictures on his country and countrymen. You can not be too
patriotic to please me, my dears, but I want you to be careful of the
feelings of others, never wounding them unnecessarily. Albert and his
father may be considered, to some extent, our guests, as strangers
visiting our country, so that we should be doubly careful to be kind
and considerate toward them.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, papa,” said Max, “standing up for my
own country always but not abusing his—when I can help it. Just as we
were separating to-night he said to me in a low tone, ‘We must have
some more talks on the subject we were on to-night. I haven’t any books
at hand to consult, but I must inform myself by questioning papa, and
then I’ll be better prepared to stand up for old England.’”

“Did he look cross when he said it?” asked Lulu.

“No,” replied Max; “he’s quite a gentleman, I think.”

“As his father is,” remarked the captain. “‘Like father, like son,’ is
an old saying, so remember, my children, that people will judge of me
by your behavior.”

“Yes, sir,” said Max, “I think I shall be the more careful to behave
well on that account.”

“I too,” chimed in Lulu. “It would be a dreadful thing if we should
disgrace our father. Wouldn’t it, Max?”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed the lad earnestly. “I have often felt, oh, so
thankful that I had a father I could respect and reverence and honor;
for I’ve known boys whose fathers were drunken, wicked, men, that they
couldn’t help being ashamed of.”

“Give all the glory and thanks to God, who has kept your father from
drunkenness and crime, my boy,” the captain said, laying his hand
affectionately on his son’s shoulder, and giving him a look full of
fatherly affection. “But for His restraining grace I might have been
the worst of criminals.”

Then taking up the Bible and opening it, “Now, we will have our reading
and prayer,” he said, “and then go to our beds.”

“I just know Gracie is longing for this, if she’s awake,” said Lulu, as
her father took her in his arms, after prayers, to give her a goodnight
kiss.

“I trust she is asleep ere this, the dear pet!” he replied. “I seem to
see the dear little face lying on my pillow with the sweet blue eyes
closed in sleep and almost a smile on her lips; the babies asleep in
the nursery, with the door open between, and Mamma Vi seated somewhere
near, writing a letter to her absent husband. Ah, I should be homesick
to-night if I hadn’t these two of my loved flock with me.”

“And I’d be dreadfully homesick if I wasn’t with my dear father,” she
responded, clinging lovingly to him. “You are a good deal more than
half of home to me, papa; and, oh, but you were good and kind to bring
me with you!”

“And me, too,” added Max. “Papa, I am sure this trip to the far West
will be something to remember all my life.”

“I hope so, my boy,” his father said. “It has been my desire to make it
so enjoyable to you both that it will be to you a pleasant memory all
your days.

“To-morrow we will attend morning and evening service at the mission
church—Sunday school also—and in the afternoon have our usual home
exercises, going on with our regular Bible and catechism lessons
exactly as if we were at Woodburn.

“On Monday I expect to take you to see the cattle ranch Mr. Short
pointed out in the distance, this afternoon.”

Both thanked him, expressing themselves pleased with the plans he had
mapped out for the two days.

“Papa, shall I dress for church when I get up in the morning?” asked
Lulu.

“Yes,” he answered. “Wear one of your plainer dresses. I think we
should not dishonor God’s house by being shabby or slovenly in our
attire, nor should we dress in a way to attract attention and divert
the thoughts of others from the service.”

“Yes, sir, I know that’s what you have told me at home, and that you
never let me wear my gayest things to church. And I suppose it would
make even more difference here, where most of the congregation must be
quite poor and ignorant?”

“I think so,” he said; “and also that you will be less likely to be
taken up with thoughts of yourself and your own appearance if you are
not gayly dressed.”

Captain Raymond’s arrangements for spending the holy hours of the
Lord’s Day were duly carried out. The hour for morning service in the
church he had provided for Minersville, found him and his son and
daughter seated among the worshippers. The Austins were there also; and
it was the same again in the evening.

They all visited the Sunday school, too, and took part in its
exercises. The two gentlemen had not been acquainted many hours before
discovering that they were followers of the same Saviour, and each felt
it to be a closer bond of union than would have been that of the same
nativity without it.

The Austins joined the Raymonds by invitation, in Monday’s excursion,
and indeed in almost every other one taken while they all remained in
Minersville, which was for several weeks.

Captain Raymond took his children with him almost everywhere that he
went; to Lulu’s extreme satisfaction her days were spent principally
in walks and rides, the latter becoming more enjoyable as she made
better acquaintance with her pony and grew confident of her ability to
guide and control it. Her father, however, always rode by her side, and
kept constant watch over her safety.

Their evenings were apt to be spent on the porch, as the weather was
such as to make that the most enjoyable spot at that time. Often one or
more of the McAlpine family would be there—perhaps at the farther end
of the porch, so as not to seem to intrude upon the Raymonds and their
guests, for Mr. Austin and Albert were apt to be with them; Mr. Short,
too, not unfrequently.

But occasionally the young people were there without their elders, the
captain, perhaps, busied with some writing in his own room.

The lads, Albert and Max, were very good friends, in spite of an
occasional tilt over the respective claims of the two countries to
preeminence in one thing or another, usually in regard to the bravery
and competence of her soldiers and sailors.

One evening Albert began lauding Nelson as the greatest naval hero the
world had ever seen, winding up his eulogy with a challenge to Max to
mention any one to compare to him in seamanship, fighting qualities, or
bravery.

“Well, I don’t know of any other Englishman to compare to him,” replied
Max coolly, “but we’ve had a number of officers in our navy that I
think were quite equal to him.”

“Which, pray?” sneered Albert.

“There was Commodore McDonough, who whipped the British in the battle
of Lake Champlain. It was so terrible a fight that one of the British
sailors engaged in it, and who had been with Nelson at Trafalgar, said
that battle was a mere flea-bite in comparison.”

“But in the action at Trafalgar Lord Nelson defeated the combined
navies of France and Spain.”

“Yes, the British whipped them, and the Americans whipped the British,”
said Max. “You ought to think it a greater feat to whip the British
than to conquer in fight with Frenchmen and Spaniards,” he added
laughingly.

“But the odds against Nelson were very much greater. Our force in the
battle of Lake Champlain was only slightly superior.”

“I am not so sure about that,” replied Max, “I know at least one
historian says it was _decidedly_ superior. But McDonough was a
Christian, and before going into the fight he called his officers about
him, and kneeling on the quarter deck, asked help of God in the coming
battle.”

“Then, if his prayer was granted, he had better help than all the
navies of the world could have given him.”

“That’s so,” said Max. “And he gave the glory of the victory where it
belonged; in his dispatch to the Secretary of the Navy he said God had
granted it.

“He was gallant and generous as a conqueror; when the British officers
tendered him their swords after the surrender, he put them back,
saying, ‘Gentlemen, your gallant conduct makes you worthy to wear your
weapons. Return them to their scabbards.’

“Commodore Perry was another of our naval heroes. He won the victory
in the battle of Lake Erie in the war of 1812, and wrote that famous
dispatch, ‛We have met the enemy, and they are ours, two ships, two
brigs, one schooner, and one sloop.’

“Then there were the great naval commanders of our civil war,” Max went
on. “I don’t believe a greater one than Farragut ever lived, or as
great a one, unless it might be Porter, who had a large share in the
taking of New Orleans; helping ever so much with his mortar boats.

“Why, the undertaking was so difficult, that a number of English and
French naval officers who visited Farragut while he was in the lower
Mississippi completing his preparations for passing on up to take
the city, told him they had carefully examined the defences of the
Confederates, and that it would be sheer madness for him to attack the
forts with wooden ships such as his; he’d be sure to be defeated.

“But he was not to be discouraged—the brave old man! He said, ‘You
may be right, but I was sent here to make the attempt. I came here to
reduce or pass the forts, and to take New Orleans, and I shall try it
on.’ And so he did try it on, and succeeded.”

“I admire such grit,” said Albert. “I’ve read quite a good deal about
that war—a tremendous one it was—and I think there were some very
plucky things done on both sides.”

“Yes,” returned Max; “I’m proud of the bravery shown by both the
‘Yanks’ and the ‘Johnnies,’ as they called each other.”

Here Lulu, who had thus far contented herself with listening, put in a
word:

“I don’t believe there ever was or could be a braver or more wonderful
feat than Lieutenant Cushing performed when he blew up the rebel ram
Albemarle. He dashed up along side of it, in his little vessel, through
a perfect shower of bullets, then, finding that the ram was behind
a wall of logs, he sheered off and dashed over that, he standing up
in the stern of his boat, with the tiller ropes in one hand and the
lanyard of a torpedo in the other, never flinching, though a big gun
was trained right on him; but he got his torpedo just where he wanted
it under the ram, gave his lanyard a jerk, and fired the thing off, so
that it blew up the ram at the same instant that their great gun sent
a hundred pound shot right through the bottom of his boat. Oh, such
a roar as the two—the torpedo and the gun—must have made, going off
together in that way!”

“It was a wonderfully brave deed!” exclaimed Albert with enthusiasm.
“Did Cushing himself, or any of his crew, escape alive? I have
forgotten, if ever I knew about it.”

“Yes,” replied Lulu; “he escaped to the Union fleet, after almost
incredible hardships and dangers, the only one of thirteen who had set
out on the expedition two days before.”

“And the ram was destroyed?”

“Yes, she was a total wreck. Cushing wasn’t sure of it till, while
he was lying in hiding in a swamp and half covered with water, two
Confederate officers passing along near him, said to each other that
the Albemarle was a total wreck.”

“They didn’t see him, but he heard what they said, and it was such good
news that it gave him fresh courage to bear his sufferings and exert
himself to get back to the Federal fleet.”

“Your father was on the Union side, I suppose?” Albert said inquiringly.

“Yes, indeed!” replied Max and Lulu, both speaking at once; then Max
went on, “but he was only a boy, younger than I am now, when the war
began.”

“And what was it all about?” asked Albert. “I’m not sure I ever clearly
understood that?”

“The Confederates were trying to break up the Union, and the Federals
fought to save it,” replied Max. “Papa has made it very clear to
me that the Revolutionary War was fought to win freedom from Great
Britain’s galling yoke, and make ourselves a nation; the War of 1812
to convince the British that we were free and independent, and not to
be maltreated with impunity. Those two wars did that for us;—_made_
the dear old Union; and the Civil War saved it from being destroyed by
those who ought to have been ready to defend and preserve it at the
risk of their lives. I do believe they would now,” he added; “or rather
the new generation, who have taken their places, would. I believe, if
England or France or any other nation should attack us, the people of
the Southern states would fight for the Union quite as bravely and with
as much fury and determination as any men of any other part of our
great big country.”

“Is that so?” said Albert. “Well, I trust there will be no more wars
between England and the United States.”

“I am sure I can echo that wish,” returned Max. “It seems a dreadful
thing for two Christian nations to go to war with each other.”

“Very true,” said Albert; “it would certainly look strangely
inconsistent to the heathen peoples we are both trying to convert.”

“It couldn’t fail to do so,” assented Max. “War is a dreadful thing;
reading descriptions of the awful scenes of bloodshed and carnage on
board of vessels, and in land battles, too, I’ve sometimes thought
Satan must take great and fiendish delight in it.”

“Yes,” said Lulu, again joining in the talk; “I’ve heard papa make a
remark like that, but he said at the same time that there were worse
things than war, when it was waged to secure liberty, not only for
ourselves, but for others; that war could never be right on both sides,
but it often was on one. On the side of America in her two wars with
England, for instance.”

“My father surprised me by saying the same thing when I questioned him
on the subject after that talk we had about it before,” said Albert.
“He added that, of course, England being his native land, he loved her
better than any other, and always should, but for all that he couldn’t
shut his eyes to the fact that she had not always been in the right.

“The colonies were oppressed, and had a right to be free if they
desired separation from the mother country; and that after they had
been acknowledged free and independent states, they were no more
under English rule than any other foreign nation, and as, according
to international law, the public and private vessels of every nation
are subject, on the high seas, to the jurisdiction of the State they
belong to, and to no other, and no nation has the right of visitation
and search of the vessels of another nation, Americans were justly
indignant over the insistance upon, and the carrying out, of the
so-called right of search by British men-of-war; especially, as
native-born Americans had no security against being impressed as
Englishmen, and indeed very often were. It must have been awfully hard
on them, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” returned Max, “and your father must be an honorable and just man
to acknowledge it.”

“Just my opinion,” Albert said, with a frank, good-humored smile; “but
if it’s noble to acknowledge one’s own individual faults, why not to
own that your country may have sometimes been in the wrong?”

“Certainly,” said Max, “and I’ve heard papa say he thought we were the
aggressors in the war with Mexico, and that our government had done
grievous wrong to the poor Indians.”

“It’s very true that a good many Americans were impressed,” remarked
Lulu; “thousands of them; even while we were fighting France and so
helping England, she kept on impressing our sailors and seizing our
ships whenever she could find the smallest excuse for doing so; they
didn’t respect even the ships belonging to our government when they—the
British, I mean—were enough stronger to put resistance out of the
question on the part of the Americans.

“And they even impressed three of our sailors after the War of 1812
had begun. I read about it not long ago, and remember very well how
shamefully they were treated.

“They refused to serve against their country, and for that were
punished with five dozen lashes, well laid on. Still they refused, and
two days later got four dozen more, and two days after that two dozen
more.

“But all the beating the British could give them wouldn’t make them
fight against their country; so they put them in irons for three
months, till the ship reached London.

“There they heard of the glorious victory of the Constitution over the
Guerriere and were so rejoiced that they made a flag by tearing up
some of their clothes into strips and sewing them together, then hung
it on a gun and cheered for the Stars and Stripes. Of course, they got
another flogging for that.

“But there were twenty thousand American seamen in the British
navy, five times as many as we had in our own navy, and quite too
many to beat into subjection, so they imprisoned thousands of them
in old hulks, where they froze in winter and sweltered in summer and
suffocated all the time—so crowded together they were hardly able to
get a breath of fresh air; eaten up by vermin also, and only half-fed;
on very poor food, too.

“Of course they grew sick, and altogether had a dreadful, dreadful
life; all because they wouldn’t fight against their country.”

“It was awfully hard on them,” admitted Albert, “but please, Miss Lulu,
don’t hold Englishmen of the present day responsible for what was done
so many years ago.”

“I’ll try not to,” she said with a smile; “certainly I shall not hold
you responsible, for I feel quite sure you would never be so unjust and
cruel.”

“Thanks,” he returned with a gratified look, and she went on.

“I know there were Englishmen, even in that day, who wouldn’t have
had one poor sailor so treated if they could have helped it. Captain
Dacres, of the Guerriere, for one.

“He had an American captain prisoner on his vessel at the time of his
battle with the Constitution, and before the fight began politely told
him, as he supposed he didn’t want to fight against his country, he
might go below, if he chose; and he gave the same privilege to ten
American sailors who had been impressed on to his ship.”

“Yes,” said Max, “He was a fine fellow; and if all his countrymen had
been like him, I don’t believe there would have been any war between
England and America.”

“I admire his conduct,” Albert said, “and hope I should have acted as
he did, had I been in his place.”

“I dare say you would,” said Max.

CHAPTER XV.

“Papa,” said Max, on finding himself alone with his father and sister
that evening, “we’ll spend the Fourth here, won’t we?”

“Probably, my son,” was the reply. “I do not now expect to leave
Minersville before the middle or perhaps the last of July. But why do
you ask?”

“I was thinking whether we mightn’t get up some sort of a celebration,”
said Max.

“Oh, yes, do let us, papa!” cried Lulu. “It would be such fun.”

“Would it?” he said, smiling at her eagerness. “I should think that
would depend on how we celebrate. What would you two like to do to show
your patriotism on the nation’s birthday?”

“We shall want your help in deciding what might be done, papa,” said
Max.

“We might treat the mission school, couldn’t we, papa?” asked Lulu.

“I like that idea,” he answered, “but we must consider what sort of
treat it shall be.”

“Good things to eat, such as they do not get every day—nuts, candies,
raisins, oranges, figs, cakes, anything nice that we can get. Could we
send away somewhere for such things, papa? I’m afraid they are not to
be had in the stores here; at least not many of them.”

“I think I can order by telegraph and have them brought in season by
express on the railroad,” he answered. “We have about a week in which
to make our arrangements.”

“Oh, good! then you’ll do it, won’t you, papa?”

“I think so,” he said, in an indulgent tone.

“And let’s distribute some small flags among the children,” said Max.
“And have fireworks in the evening.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Lulu, clapping her hands and jumping up and
down in delight. “Mayn’t we, papa?”

“I think we will,” he said; “but before we quite decide the question we
will talk the matter over with Mr. Short. He knows the tastes of the
people here much better than we do, and may have some good suggestions
to make.”

“Perhaps the minister and the teacher might give some good suggestions,
too,” Max said.

“Very likely,” replied his father. “We will consult them also.”

The proposed consultations were held early the next morning, and the
necessary orders dispatched to the nearest points where they could be
filled.

Max and Lulu were very full of the subject, and talked of it at the
table not a little, exciting a good deal of interest and curiosity
in the mind of Marian, as she overheard a remark now and again while
attending to their wants.

There was a fine natural grove of forest trees on the outskirts of
the village, and there it had been decided the town’s people were to
be invited to assemble on the morning of the Fourth to listen to an
oration by the foremost lawyer of the place, and the reading of the
Declaration of Independence by Captain Raymond; also to join in the
singing of patriotic songs.

The children of the mission-school would be taken to the grove in a
body, marching in procession, carrying flags and banners. After the
exercises were over they would be marched back to the schoolroom and
treated to cakes, candies, fruits and ices.

There were to be fire-works in the evening, set off in front of Mrs.
McAlpine’s boarding-house, which, cornering on two very wide streets,
was quite a good place for the display.

“Mr. Short seemed really pleased with the idea of having a celebration,
didn’t he, papa?” Lulu said, at the dinner table.

“I thought so,” returned her father. “And it was fortunate that he knew
some one capable of delivering an oration on the subject at so short
notice, and that arrangements could be made in season for a little
advertisement of our plans for the Fourth, in this week’s issue of the
county paper.”

“I daresay it will be the first celebration of the Fourth of July ever
seen by Albert or his father,” remarked Max. “I hope every thing will
go off nicely, so that they may be favorably impressed.”

On leaving the table Lulu seated herself in the porch with a book. She
was still sitting there alone when Marian came out with her hat on and
a basket in her hand.

“Do you feel inclined for a walk, Miss Lulu?” she asked. “I am going
down town on an errand for mother, and should be delighted to have your
company if you would like to go.”

“Yes, I should,” returned Lulu. “I’ll go if I can get permission. Papa
is in his room writing letters; can you wait a minute while I run and
ask him?”

“Oh, yes, indeed; two minutes, if you wish,” replied Marian sportively,
and Lulu hurried into the house.

She was back again almost immediately, with hat, gloves and parasol.

“Papa says I may go with you to do your errand, but must come directly
home again.”

“I didn’t suppose you would have to ask permission just to go down town
with me,” remarked Marian, in surprise, as they walked on together;
“your father seems to pet you so that I had an idea you could do
exactly as you pleased.”

“Oh, no, indeed!” Lulu answered, with a contented little laugh. “Papa
pets and indulges us all, but still he is very strict about some
things. I must never go anywhere without asking leave; not outside of
the grounds, by myself, when I’m at home.”

“I suppose that is because he’s afraid something might harm you?
something or somebody?” Marian said, interrogatively.

“Yes, I know that’s his reason, and it’s because he loves me so dearly.
If it wasn’t for that I’d be very rebellious sometimes, I’m afraid; for
I’m naturally very wilful, always wanting to have my own way.”

“Yes; but one would bear almost any thing for the sake of being loved
so,” Marian said with an involuntary sigh; then suddenly changed the
subject.

“Miss Lulu, won’t you tell me about the celebration you were talking
of at breakfast and dinner to-day! I mean particularly why Americans
should make so much of that day? I’m afraid you must think I ought
to be ashamed of my ignorance, and I suppose I ought; but you must
remember that I’ve lived in America only a few years, and have not
mingled much with native-born citizens.

“It was a Mormon missionary that persuaded father and mother to come
over, and most of the people I’ve known about here have been Mormons
from foreign lands, and they are all taught by the Mormon leaders
to believe that the United States Government is the worst and most
tyrannical in the world, and to hate it accordingly.

“So, of course, they haven’t made anything of celebrating the Fourth of
July. I do know enough to be aware that it’s the patriotic people who
do that.”

“We keep it because it’s the nation’s birthday,” said Lulu; “and we’ve
good reason to be glad, and thankful to God, that our nation was born;
for instead of our government being the worst and most tyrannical, it
is the very best and freest in the world.”

“The nation’s birthday? How do you mean? I don’t quite understand.”

“It was the day of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The
Continental Congress signed it.

“You see, when the colonies began the struggle with England that we
call the Revolutionary War, they had not thought of separating from
her (they loved her, and called her the mother country), but as the
fight went on the breach grew wider and wider, till, after a while,
the people began to see that it could never be healed; and that the
only thing to do, if they would be anything better than slaves to Great
Britain, was to become a separate nation; declare themselves free and
independent, and fight the British till they forced them to go back
where they belonged and let us alone.

“Of course the declaration had to be made and signed by the leaders of
the people, and that made us a new nation—one by ourselves—and so we
call it the nation’s birthday; although most of the fighting to carry
it out, and make the British and other nations own that we were really
what we called ourselves, had to be done afterwards.

“It’s quite a nice story about the signing, and if you like I’ll tell
it to you some time. To-morrow, papa and Mr. Austin and Max and Albert
are all going with a hunting party, and I shall be at home alone; that
will give me a good opportunity to tell the story, if you can find time
to sit with me for awhile.”

“Thank you, Miss Lulu,” said Marian; “I shall certainly try to find the
time, and will be very glad to hear the story.”

Here the conversation came to an end, as they were just on the
threshold of the store to which Marian’s errand led her.

While she attended to that, Lulu, glancing curiously about, spied a
box of narrow ribbons of various colors, asked to be allowed to look
at them, inquired the price, and selecting a red, a white, and a blue
piece, said, “You may please wrap these up for me,” and taking out her
purse, paid for them.

She noticed that Marian watched the proceeding with some little
surprise and curiosity, though she asked no question and made no remark.

“I suppose you are wondering what I bought these ribbons for?” Lulu
said, as they left the store.

“Yes,” replied Marian, “but still more that you should buy them without
asking permission, when you couldn’t even walk down the street with me
till you had asked your father if you might.”

“Oh, that was quite a different thing:” said Lulu. “Papa allows me to
spend my pocket money as I please,—at least, within certain bounds. He
wouldn’t let me buy whiskey or tobacco or dime novels, of course,” she
added, with a laugh.

“I should think not, indeed,” said Marian, joining in the laugh; “yet I
dare say he would be as likely to let you, as you to wish to do so.”

“Yes; I can’t say that I have any inclination to spend my money so,
even to prove my independence; though, now I come to think of it, I’m
pretty sure I would be allowed to buy tobacco if it was as a present
to some of our old colored people who are very fond of it.”

“It must be fine to have money of your own to do as you will with,”
remarked Marian, “I never was so fortunate, but I hope to earn for
myself some day. Poor mother has always had a struggling time,” she
went on, “and I could never have the heart to take pocket money from
her, if she offered it, but the folk about town say your father is
very, very rich, Miss Lulu.”

“Just say Lulu, Marian; you needn’t call me Miss,” Lulu said. “I
suppose it is true that papa is rich, but he never says so, and
always tells us he is only the Lord’s steward, bound to use the money
entrusted to him for the upbuilding of Christ’s cause and kingdom,
and that no one—no matter how rich—has any right to be wasteful,
extravagant, or idle. And he says that not only money, but time and
ability to do anything useful, are talents entrusted to us to be used
and increased—the money and talents, I mean, are to be increased—that
at last the Lord may say to us each, ‘Well done, good and faithful
servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.’”

“I think your father must be a very good, Christian man,” was Marian’s
answering remark.

“Indeed he is!” returned Lulu emphatically, “he’s always a Christian,
always loving Jesus, and trying his very best to please and honor him
by doing exactly as the Bible says.”

The captain had finished his correspondence and gone out to mail his
letters, and as Max, too, was out, Lulu found no one in their rooms
when she went back to them on her return from her walk with Marian.

But on the table beside which her father had been sitting lay a pile of
clothes fresh from the iron; just brought in from the wash.

“There,” thought Lulu to herself, “if Mamma Vi were here she would soon
take papa’s clothes from that pile and see if there were any buttons to
sew on or stockings to darn; and if there were she’d sit right down and
attend to it. She lets Christine or Alma attend to Max’s clothes, but
unless she is sick, no one but herself must do papa’s, because, as she
says, it is a great pleasure to her to care for her husband’s comfort.

“I always love to do things for papa, too, and I like to be kind and
helpful to Max, for he’s a dear, kind brother to me. And of course
my own mending belongs to me; so I’ll just sit down to this pile of
clothes and put them all in order.”

She hastened to put away her hat and gloves and get out her
work-basket, which was thoroughly furnished with all the needed
articles and implements, and when her father came in he found her
seated in a low chair between table and window, busily plying her
needle.

“My little busy bee,” he said, regarding her with a pleased smile, then
bending down, kissed her forehead.

She laughed and held up her rosy lips in mute invitation. He kissed
them, too, then laying his hand tenderly on her head, said, “My little
girl looks quite matronly. Are you playing at being Mamma Vi?”

“Yes, sir, I am like her in at least one thing.”

“What is that?”

“In feeling it a pleasure to do anything for you, sir. Papa, I thought
it was just dreadful when you wouldn’t let me wait on you for four
whole days, because I’d been disobedient and rebellious.”

“Yes, I know you did; and it was hard for me, too; hard to do without
my dear little daughter’s loving services.”

“But you denied yourself for my sake—to make me good, because you know
no one can be happy who is not good—you dear papa!” she said, with a
grateful loving look up into his face.

“Yes, my darling, that was exactly it,” he said, repeating his
caresses, “and it makes me very happy that of late I have rarely needed
to punish, or even reprove you. It is so much pleasanter to commend and
reward my children, than to punish them.”

He had drawn up a chair and seated himself by her side. “I did better
for myself than I was aware of in bringing my eldest daughter along,”
he remarked. “I had no thought of making use of you to keep my clothes
and Max’s in order.”

“But you are pleased to have me do it, papa?”

“I am.”

“Papa, I bought something when I was at the store with Marian. See!”
opening a brown paper parcel, which she took from the table beside her,
and displaying the ribbons.

“Ah! what use do you expect to make of your purchases?” he asked.

“Badges for the school children. They are the national colors, you see,
papa.”

“Yes; it is a good idea, and I presume the children will be much
pleased. When do you propose to make your badges?”

“To-morrow, papa, while you and Max are off on your hunting expedition.
But I mean to finish all this mending first.”

“That’s right. I am glad you have found something to do to keep you
from being lonely while we are away. I should like to take you along
but for exposing you to danger.”

“Mightn’t I as well be exposed to it as Max?” she asked in a playful
tone.

“Max is older, and a boy,” he said. “You are very fearless, I know,
but women and girls are not so strong physically as our sex, and it is
not to be expected that they can endure the same amount of exposure and
fatigue. You could hardly be of much assistance in fighting a grizzly,
for instance,” he added laughingly, bending over her and softly
smoothing her hair as he spoke.

“No, sir,” she returned, laughing a little; “I’m not fearless enough to
enjoy the idea of facing one of them. And it frightens me to think of
you and Max fighting one. Oh, papa, don’t try it!”

“My child, would you have your father a coward?” he asked.

“No, sir; oh, no, indeed! I know you are brave, as brave as can be, and
it makes me very proud; but what’s the use of fighting bears?”

“To rid the country of them, as dangerous enemies to settlers. Also
their flesh is good for food, and the skin, too is valuable. But here
comes Max, and there is our tea-bell. Put up your work and let me lead
you to the table.”

Max met them in the hall.

“Where have you been, my son!” asked the captain.

“Out to the mine, with Albert, papa. You know you gave me permission to
walk with him when I chose, provided we did not go farther than that
from the town.”

“So I did; I’m glad you went, for I should not wish you to be cooped up
in the house in such weather as this.”

They sat down to the table, and after the blessing had been asked, Max
began telling about his walk.

“We found the sun rather hot, going,” he said, “but coming back it was
very pleasant, indeed; there was a nice breeze from the mountains.”

“Had you any adventures,” asked Lulu.

“No, hardly that,” he answered with a slight laugh; “but as we were
going, Albert thought he heard a little child crying in the bushes,
and started off to hunt for it. I kept straight on, and he was much
disgusted with what he called my heartlessness.

“I said, ‘I don’t believe there is any child there’; and he answered,
‘There is, then; I’m certain of it, for I heard it cry, and dare say
it’s some poor little thing that has wandered away from home and is
lost. Didn’t you hear it?’”

“Then I said, ‘I heard something, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a
child. I’ve read that a panther will imitate the cry of a child so that
almost any one would be deceived, and hunting for the child might get
so near the panther that it could spring on him before he could get out
of its way, or even knew it was there. But, if you think best, I’ll go
with you into the bushes and make sure whether there is a baby there
or not.’”

“Oh, Max, you knew what it was all the time; didn’t you?” laughed Lulu.

“Yes; but we went and hunted thoroughly through the bushes without
finding anything. Albert never suspected and wondered very much that we
found neither child nor panther. I presume he’s wondering about it yet.”

“I’m glad he didn’t find you out,” Lulu said, with satisfaction;
“because I hope we’ll have some more fun with him. You’ll try it one of
these evenings when we’re all together on the porch, won’t you, Max?”

“Perhaps; if I can think of something.

“Albert’s very full of the bear hunt for to-morrow, papa; says he
wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Ah? And how does my boy feel about it?”

“Pretty much the same, I believe, papa,” Max answered, with a light
laugh. “I’m sorry for Lu that she’s only a girl and can’t have the
pleasure of going along.”

“I could if papa would let me,” replied Lulu demurely; “but I wouldn’t
be a boy for the sake of being allowed to go.”

“You think a boy’s privileges are more than counterbalanced by a
girl’s?”

“Yes; papa takes me on his knee, while you can only sit by his side;
and I shall stay at home with him, while you will have to go away to
the Academy at Annapolis.”

“I go of my own free will,” returned Max; “I don’t believe papa would
compel me against my will.”

“Not at all,” said the captain, “and I am glad you are both so well
satisfied.”

CHAPTER XVI.

The hunters started the next morning, shortly after an early breakfast.

“Papa, when do you expect to be back?” asked Lulu, as she helped her
father with the last of his preparations, some anxiety showing itself
in her tone.

“Toward evening, daughter; I can’t set the hour,” he answered cheerily.
“Better not expect us too soon, lest it should make you feel lonely
and disappointed. Your better plan will be to keep yourself busy with
reading, writing, sewing—as you prefer, and you may take a walk about
town with Marian, if you choose, but don’t go outside of it.

“Perhaps you will find letters at the post-office after the mail comes;
maybe have the pleasure of handing me one from your mamma when I get
back. Now good-by, my darling.”

He held her in a close embrace for a moment, kissing her tenderly two
or three times, released her, and was gone.

Max was following, with a hasty “Good-by, Lu,” but she ran after him,
calling, “Max, kiss me, let me kiss you. Suppose the bear should get
hold of you and hug you so tight that I’d never have a chance to do it
again,” she added, laughing to hide an inclination to cry.

“Just imagine now that he has hold of you,” Max said, throwing his arms
round her and squeezing her so hard that she screamed out, “Oh, let me
go! you’re bear enough for me!”

“Bears must be allowed to hug, for ’tis their nature to,” he said, with
a laugh, giving her another squeeze and a resounding kiss. “Good-by, I
must be off now, to catch up with papa.”

Lulu hurried out to the porch to watch them mount and ride away, her
father throwing her a kiss from the saddle, then went back, rather
disconsolately, to her work of sorting over the clean clothes and
giving them the needed repairs.

She had finished that and begun upon her badges, when Marian came in
with some sewing, and asked if she might sit with her and hear the
promised story of the signing of the Declaration.

“Yes, indeed! I’ll be glad of your company and glad to tell the story;
for it’s one I like very much,” said Lulu.

“Thank you,” Marian said, “but before you begin, may I ask what those
pretty badges are for? You forgot to tell me what you were going to do
with the ribbons.”

“Oh, so I did! These are our national colors, and I’m making badges of
them for the mission-school children to wear on the Fourth. I’m glad
you think them pretty. Now for my story:

“It was in Philadelphia it all happened, on the 4th of July, 1776. But
I must go back and tell of something that happened before that.

“Of course you know about the Pilgrims coming over from England and
settling in the wilderness that America was then, so that they might
be free to worship God as they thought right; and about the settling
of all the others of the thirteen colonies; and how King George the
Third and the British Parliament oppressed them, taxing them without
representation, passing that hateful Stamp Act, and so on, till the
people couldn’t stand it any longer.

“They just wanted to make all they could off the American people and
give them nothing in return. But the Americans wouldn’t stand it; they
weren’t the sort of stuff to be made slaves of; so when a tax was put
on tea they said they wouldn’t buy any; they would sooner go without
drinking tea than pay that tax.

“Great ship-loads were sent over, but they wouldn’t let it be landed,
and at last they grew so angry that they boarded a ship loaded with tea
and lying in Boston harbor, and threw the chests of tea into the water.

“That was the Boston ‘tea-party’ that is so often spoken of in talking
about the struggle between the colonies and Great Britain. That
happened in 1773; then the next year—1774—there was another tea-party
something like it, though not exactly, in New Jersey. It was at a small
place called Greenwich on the Cohansey.

“A brig named the Greyhound, commanded by Captain Allen, came up the
river to Greenwich, and on the 22d of November landed her load of tea
there.

“It was put into a cellar not very far from the wharf, and somebody
that saw it ran and told some one else.

“The news spread very fast. People were astonished and angry; they had
never expected such a cargo to come there, and they had no notion of
letting it stay; for most of them were quite as patriotic as the Boston
people.

“So a party of them disguised themselves, assembled together in the
dusk of the evening, got the chests of tea out of that cellar, carried
them to an old field, piled them up there and set them on fire; burned
them entirely up.”

“Quite as good a way to get rid of them as by throwing them into the
sea, I think,” commented Marian. “But wasn’t any one punished for it?”

“Not that I ever heard or read of,” replied Lulu. “I suppose nobody who
would have wanted to tell knew who the men were that did the deed.”

“I think they had something of the spirit of our Scotch folk of early
times, who would never submit to be ruled by the English,” remarked
Marian.

“Yes; papa has told me that a good many who did good service to their
country in the Revolution, were of Scotch, and Scotch-Irish descent. He
says it is a race that never would brook oppression.

“Well, the next spring after the burning of the tea at Greenwich—that
is on the 19th of April, 1775—the war began—with the battle of
Lexington. Still, most of the Americans didn’t think of anything but
forcing the English government to treat them better; but the fight went
on; the British had no idea of giving up their oppressive doings, and
soon the wise ones among the Americans began to see that there was no
way to get their rights but by separating from England and setting up
for themselves; and that was what brought them to writing and signing
the Declaration of Independence.”

“But who did it? the officers of your army who were fighting the
British?”

“No, oh, no! it was the Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia.
They appointed a committee to draw up the paper, and when it was read
to them every one voted for it; then, one after another, each of the
fifty-six members present signed his name to it.

“It was a very dangerous thing to do, for the English king and his
government would call it treason, and put the signers to death if they
could catch them. So the people were quite afraid the hearts of the
congressmen would fail them when it came to the signing, and the thing
be given up.

“A great crowd was gathered on the day of the signing, in the street
outside of the State House, where Congress met, and there they waited,
oh, so anxiously, to hear that the deed was done.

“There was a bell at the top of the State House, and the ringer was
there ready to let the crowd know by ringing the bell when the signing
was done. He was an old man, and down on the landing by the stairs
leading to the belfry sat a little blue-eyed boy who was to call up the
news to him.

“All was very quiet indoors and out; the crowd listening for the
news—the old man and the little boy also—and the congressmen feeling
very solemn because of the great risk they were running, and the
necessity for taking it if they would save their country.

“There was a death-like stillness in the room while one after another
went from his seat to the table and wrote his name at the bottom of the
paper; and when all had signed, oh, how still it was for a moment! till
Franklin broke the silence by saying: ‘Now, gentlemen, we must all
hang together, or we shall surely hang separately!’

“I suppose somebody then stepped to the door and spoke to the little
boy. The old man in the belfry was saying sadly to himself, ‘They’ll
never sign it! they’ll never sign it!’ when all at once the little boy
clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Ring! ring!’

“The old man was all ready, with the bell-rope in his hands, and he did
ring without waiting one instant, and with the first peal the great
crowd in the street below set up a wild ‘Hurrah! hurrah!’ almost going
wild with joy.

“Then people farther off heard and caught up the shout, and I suppose
not many minutes had passed before everybody else in the whole city
knew that the Declaration was signed.”

“And everybody was glad?”

“Everybody but the Tories, I think. No doubt there were some of them
even there.”

“But it seems to me the rejoicing was premature, as they could not be
certain of winning in the fight that was hardly more than begun.”

“Perhaps so; but they had been so very patient and borne repeated
wrongs till they felt that they could bear no more, but would fight on
till death, if victory didn’t come before that.

“Oh, I must tell you of a strange coincidence in connection with the
bell that rang to tell that the deed was done! It had been cast years
before, and there was a motto on it that couldn’t have been made more
suitable to what it did on that 4th of July, if all the doings of that
day had been foreseen.

“Oh, I’d forgotten that I’ve read that the declaration was only adopted
on the 4th of July and proclaimed on the 8th.”

“But what was the motto?” asked Marian.

“It was a verse from the Bible,” Lulu answered. “‘Proclaim Liberty
throughout all the land, to all the inhabitants thereof.’ Wasn’t it a
strange coincidence!”

“Very, I think,” Marian replied. “I’d like to see that old bell. I
suppose they keep it in memory of that time?”

“Yes, oh yes, indeed! I’ve seen it; when we were in Philadelphia not
very long ago, Papa took me to the State House or Independence Hall—it
gets both names—and showed me the old bell (it isn’t in use, because
it has a large crack in it: but they keep it for people to see), and
the Declaration—the very paper those brave men signed—and the pen they
wrote their names with, and a great many other things connected with
revolutionary and colonial times. Did you ever hear of Patrick Henry?”

“No, never. Who was he?”

“I think you will like to hear about him because, though born in
America, he was the son of a Scotchman. He lived in the times
we’ve been talking about, and was one of our very patriotic men and
greatest orators. He was a Virginian, and in 1765—ten years before the
Revolutionary War began, and when George the Third was oppressing the
colonies so, and had the Stamp Act passed—he belonged to the House of
Burgesses.

“They were debating about the Stamp Act, and Patrick Henry was wanting
resolutions passed declaring that no one but the House of Burgesses and
the governor had a right to lay taxes and imposts on that colony.

“Some of the other members were very much opposed to his resolutions
and grew very angry and abusive toward him; but he wouldn’t give up
to them; he went on with his speech and said some brave words that
startled even the patriots and have been famous words ever since. They
were:

“‘Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George
the Third’—just there he was interrupted by cries of ‘Treason!
treason!’—‘may profit by their example,’ he added. ‘If this be treason,
make the most of it.’”

“That was fine!” Marian exclaimed, her eyes shining. “I’m thinking he
was a worthy descendant of some of our Scotch heroes. But did they pass
his resolutions?”

“Yes; by a majority of one.”

“Ten years after that—just a few weeks before the battle of Lexington,
that began the war—he was talking in a convention at Richmond, in
Virginia. He wanted to organize the militia and make the colony ready
for defence against Great Britain; but some of the others were very
much opposed.

“He made a grand speech to them, trying to convince them that what
he wanted done was the wisest thing they could do, and in it he
said some brave words which I admire so much that I learned them by
heart,—committed them to memory, I suppose would be the more proper
expression.”

“Oh, say them over to me!” entreated Marian, her eyes sparkling with
enthusiasm, “I dearly love to hear brave, bold words that speak a
determination to be free from tyranny of man, whether he would lord it
over soul or body, or both.”

“So do I,” said Lulu, “and no one was more capable of saying such words
than Patrick Henry. These are the ones I spoke of.

“‘There is no retreat but in submission and slavery. Our chains are
already forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston.
The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring the clash of
resounding arms. I know not what course others may take, but as for me,
give me liberty or give me death.’

“I think the convention couldn’t hold out against such brave and
eloquent words, for they passed his resolutions without any one saying
a word against it.”

“I’m proud that he was a Scotchman’s son,” Marian said.

“And I that he was a native-born American,” said Lulu.

“And your government is really a free one, though the Mormons say so
much against it?” queried Marian.

“Yes, indeed! But I wish it had broken up Mormonism long ago.”

“So do I,” responded Marian, almost fiercely, “Yes, before it had time
to get well started and could send out its missionaries to deceive
folks in other countries and persuade them to come over here, where the
women, at least, are nothing but slaves!”

Lulu looked at her in surprise and sympathy, for she detected in her
tones a bitter sense of personal wrong.

“Was that how you came to emigrate to this country, Marian?” she asked.
“Are you and your mother Mormons?”

“_I’m_ no Mormon!” exclaimed the girl, through her clenched teeth.
“But they made one of my father, and led him to break my poor mother’s
heart, so that I hate him—I that used to love him next to her—and
would never set eyes on him again if I could help myself.”

“Hate your own father!” cried Lulu, aghast at the very idea. “Oh, how
can you?”

“He isn’t like yours,” Marian returned, in quivering tones: “if he was
I’d love the very ground he walks on. He used to be kind, but now—he’s
cruel and heartless as—I’d almost said the father o’ lies himself!”

“Oh, Marian, what has he done to grieve your mother so?”

“What the Mormons teach that every man ought to do if he wants a high
place in heaven; taken other wives.”

“Why!” exclaimed Lulu, “that’s very, _very_ wicked! They send men to
the penitentiary for doing it.”

“They deserve worse than that,” said Marian, her eyes flashing. “I’m no
Mormon, I say again. Do you know they teach the women that they can’t
go to heaven unless they have been married?”

“I know better than that,” Lulu said emphatically; “for the Bible says
‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.’ And I know
some very good Christian ladies who have never been married. I don’t
see how anybody who believes the Bible can be a Mormon.”

“No, nor I,” said Marian; “for a good many things they say one
must believe, are directly the opposite of what the Bible says. For
instance, that the blood of Christ doesn’t atone for all sin, but
some sins have to be atoned for by shedding the sinner’s own blood. I
think that—beside contradicting the Scriptures—it is the same thing as
saying that Jesus’ blood is not of sufficient value to pay for all the
wickedness men have done, and buy their salvation, if only they choose
to accept it as a free gift at his hands, believe in him, and love him
with all their hearts, so that they will be his servants forever.”

“But,” said Lulu, “I know that is the way the Bible tells us we may
be saved, and the only way, and I’ll believe the Bible—God’s own
word—though every human creature should contradict it.”

“So will I,” Marian said firmly. “I’ll never forget the good teaching
of my minister and Sunday-school teacher in old Scotland. Everything
they taught they proved by Scripture; and from them I learned that
man’s teachings are not worthy of the smallest consideration, if they
do not agree with the teachings of God’s word.”

“And I’ve learned the same from papa. How good our Heavenly Father was
to give us His holy word, that we might learn from it just what he
would have have us believe and do! I feel sorry for the poor heathen
who haven’t it, and I want to do all I can to send it to them.”

“Have you ever read anything of Scotland’s martyrs, who laid down their
lives for the love of Jesus and his word?” asked Marian.

“Yes, indeed; and papa has told me about them; as well as of martyrs
who suffered in other parts of the world. How strange it is that men
should want to persecute each other so, and pretend they do it to
please God, who is so kind and merciful. You know the Bible says he
proclaimed himself to Moses:

“‘The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suffering, and
abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving
iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the
guilty.’”

“How do you explain that?” asked Marian; “I mean the not clearing the
guilty, yet forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin?”

“For Jesus’ sake, you know,” returned Lulu. “Papa explained it to me,
saying ‘God’s law does not call him guilty for whom Christ has borne
the punishment.’”

“Ah, yes, I see; Christ takes the sinner’s guilt and gives him of his
righteousness; and to try to add some of our own is like fastening
filthy rags on a beautiful white wedding garment; and what better is it
to try to pour some of the sinner’s own polluted blood into that pure
fountain opened for sin and uncleanness?”

“Not one bit better, and Mormonism cannot be a true religion; indeed,
there can be but one true religion, I know—that which teaches salvation
through the blood and righteousness of Christ.”

But the dinner hour was approaching, and Marian found she must go to
her mother’s assistance.

Lulu spent most of the afternoon alone, but amused herself with writing
letters to Evelyn and Gracie. Marian went with her to the post-office
to mail them when done, and to Lulu’s great satisfaction there were
letters from home for her father, for Max, and for herself.

“One of these is from Mamma Vi,” she said to Marian, “and I’m so glad
I shall have the pleasure of handing it to papa; of course he’s always
very glad to get her letters.”

“Your mamma, did you say?” asked Marian.

“My young step-mother,” explained Lulu. “She’s not old enough to be my
own mamma. My mother had been dead two or three years when papa married
again.”

“It’s all right, then,” Marian commented, with some bitterness of tone,
thinking of Mormon teaching that a man may have many wives living at
the same time, “I never heard of any religion that teaches it is wrong
for a man to marry again after his wife is dead.”

They had entered the house and passed on into the sitting-room. At that
moment there was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the street and some
seemed to pause at Mrs. McAlpine’s gate.

“Oh, I do believe they’ve come back!” cried Lulu, in joyous tones,
“Yes, I hear papa’s voice,” and she ran to meet him, Marian’s eyes
following her with a wistful, longing look.

The captain had just stepped across the threshold as his little
daughter came flying to him, crying, “Oh, papa, I’m so glad you’re
safely back again! I was so afraid you might get hurt.”

He bent down, caught her in his arms, and giving her a loving kiss,
said, “Yes, I have been taken care of and brought back unhurt. My
little girl should have trusted me to our Heavenly Father’s care, and
not tormented herself with useless, unavailing fears.”

“It was foolish and wrong,” she acknowledged. Then catching sight of
her brother, “Oh, Maxie, I’m glad to see you safe, too!”

“Are you?” he returned, in a sportive tone. “I was beginning to wonder
if it made any particular difference to you.”

“Oh, did you see any bears?” she asked, as they moved on into their own
rooms.

“Yes,” answered her father, and Max added, “Papa shot him; right
through the heart, so that he fell dead instantly.”

“I was almost sure papa would be the one to shoot him,” Lulu exclaimed
with a look of triumph. Then with a sudden change of tone, “Papa,
you’re very tired, aren’t you?”

“Rather tired, daughter, and have a slight headache,” he answered.
“Were there any letters for me?”

He was taking off his coat, preparatory to ridding himself of the dust
gathered during his ride.

“Yes, sir; one of them from Mamma Vi,” replied Lulu. “Papa, won’t you
sit down in this easy-chair while you read it, and let me stand beside
you and brush your hair gently to see if that won’t help your head?”

“Yes, dear child; I shall enjoy having you do so, if you do not find it
too wearisome.”

“It won’t tire me at all, papa,” she asserted with warmth, “and
there’s nothing else I enjoy so much as doing something to make you
comfortable.”

“My own dear little loving daughter,” he responded, giving her a look
that filled her heart with gladness.

Max, no less ready than Lulu to wait upon their father, had seized a
clothes-brush and the captain’s coat, and carrying them to the window
was giving the coat a vigorous shaking and brushing.

“Thank you, my dear boy,” the captain said, as Max presently brought
the garment to him, looking much better for what it had just gone
through; “truly I think no man was ever more fortunate in his children
than I am in mine.”

“If there’s anything good about our conduct, papa, I think your
training deserves all the credit of it,” replied Max; “your training
and your example, I should have said,” he corrected himself.

“If so it is by God’s blessing upon it all in the fulfillment of his
promise, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old
he will not depart from it.’ I hope, my children, you will never depart
from it in youth or in later days.”

“I hope not, papa,” said Lulu. “Now please sit down and let me try
to help your poor head. I’ll brush very softly. There, how does that
feel?” after passing the brush gently over his hair two or three times.

“Very soothing, darling. You may go on while I open and read my
letters.”

There were several home letters, and they enjoyed them together as
usual, the captain reading aloud, while Lulu continued her labor of
love, and Max attended to his own toilet—brushing his clothes and hair
and washing hands and face. There was nothing of the dandy about the
lad, but he liked to be neat; for his own comfort, and because it
pleased his father to see him so.

By the time the letters were disposed of and the tea-bell sounded
out its summons, the captain was able to assure Lulu that his head
was almost entirely relieved. He gave the credit to her efforts, and
rewarded her with a kiss.

CHAPTER XVII.

“Good-evenin’, Cap’n. So they tell me as ’twas you shot and killed that
big b’ar?”

The speaker was an elderly man, in his shirt sleeves, and with a pipe
in his mouth, who stepped into the porch and took a seat near Captain
Raymond as he made the remark.

“I reckon now we’ll have to own that yer a better marksman than most o’
the fellers about these here diggin’s,” he added, puffing away at his
pipe.

“That does not follow, by any means, Mr. Riggs,” returned the captain
modestly. “I happened to get the best opportunity to aim at a vital
part. That was all.”

“Well, now, I’ll say fer you that you don’t seem to be noways stuck up
about it, an’ I’ve seen fellers as proud as a peacock over a smaller
streak o’ luck (or maybe ’twas skill) than that. But you’re a lucky
man, sir; nobody kin deny that, seein’ how this ere tract o’ land that
they tell me ye bought for a mere trifle, has riz in value.”

“Yes, I have been very fortunate in that and many other things,”
replied the captain, with a glance at his son and daughter, seated
near, that seemed to include them among the blessings that had been
granted him, “though wealth has sometimes proved a curse rather than a
blessing to its owner.”

“It’s a curse as most folks is glad to git,” laughed the old man, “and
I tell you I was wild with joy when it fell to my lot to come upon the
biggest nugget as has ever been seen in these parts. I began life poor,
and never had no eddication to speak of, but I’ve more money now than
half the fellers that’s rubbed their backs agin’ a college.”

“But education has other uses than enabling a man to accumulate wealth.
Also, there are things that contribute more to one’s happiness than
money. How many millions do you suppose would tempt me to part with
my son or daughter, for instance?” and with the question the captain
turned his gaze upon his children, his eyes full of fatherly pride and
affection.

“Well, Cap’n, I don’t s’pose you’d be for sellin’ of ’em fer no price,”
returned the old man, with a grin. “They’re a likely lookin’ lot, and
you’ve plenty o’ the evil fur them and yourself, too.”

Lulu, mistaking the old man’s meaning, shot an angry glance at him,
moved nearer to her father, and slipped her hand into his.

Riggs observed it with a laugh. “I wasn’t sayin’ nothin’ agin your
dad, miss,” he said. “I was only referrin’ to the way folks has o’
callin’ money the root o’ all evil; but I obsarve there’s precious few
on ’em that isn’t glad to git all he kin lay his hands on.”

“Yes,” said the captain; “but do you know where they get that idea?”

“Well, now, they do tell me there’s Scripter fer it.”

“That’s a mistake, my friend; the Bible says, ‘the _love_ of money
is the root—or a root—of all evil.’ But it does not say it of money
itself; _it_ is a very good thing, if honestly got and put to right
uses.”

“And what do you call right uses?”

“‘Providing things honest in the sight of all men,’ relieving the wants
of the destitute, helping every good cause, and especially sending the
light of the gospel into all the dark places of the earth.”

“Well, sir, that’s purty good doctrine, and I rayther think ye’re
livin’ up to it, too, by all I hear.

“As for me, I’ve been a hard-workin’ man all my days, ’cept since I
come upon that are nugget, and I ’low to take my ease fer the rest o’
my days. I’m goin’ ter fix up my house as fine as I know how. My gal
she says ’taint nowheres big ’nough fer rich folks, and I’m goin’ to
build a condition to it with a portfolio at the back.”

“What’s that? he! he! never heard o’ such a thing!” cried a squeaky
little voice that seemed to come from behind the old man’s chair.

He sprang up and turned round, asking in a startled tone, “Who’s that?
who spoke? Why, why, why! where’s the feller gone to?” rolling his eyes
in wild astonishment, as he perceived that no one was there.

“Where are your eyes, man? Here I am.”

It was the same voice, now coming apparently from behind a large tree
growing a few feet from the porch, its spreading branches reaching to,
and partly resting upon its roof.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Riggs, hurrying down the porch steps and round
to the farther side of the tree, “What are you up to, you rascal?”

“I’m no rascal, sir. What do you call me that for?” queried the voice,
sounding as if the speaker was making the circuit of the tree, keeping
always on the side farthest from the old man who was pursuing him.

“You were making fun o’ me, that’s why I call you a rascal, sir,”
panted Riggs.

“Oh no, sir; I was only wanting to know what your conditions and
portfolios were; such odd things to talk of adding to a house.”

“Odd, indeed! I reckon you’ll sing another song when you see ’em. But
where under the sun are you?”

“Here, right up here.”

The voice now seemed to come from among the branches overhead.

“Well, if you ain’t the spryest rogue ever I see! I’ve a notion to
climb after you and throw you down.”

“Come ahead then; who’s afraid?” the sentence ended in a mocking laugh.

“I’ll find a stone, and I guess that’ll fetch ye,” muttered Riggs,
stooping and feeling about on the ground.

“Ho, ho! better be careful; you might happen to break a window.
Good-by; I’m off.”

The voice came from the roof this time, and was immediately followed by
a sound as of scrambling and of shuffling footsteps; at first, near at
hand, then gradually dying away in the distance.

Meanwhile the captain was fairly shaking with suppressed mirth, and
Lulu nearly convulsed with her efforts to control an inclination to
burst into uproarious laughter. Max laughed a little when Riggs was
talking, but was sober as a judge when the strange voice answered.

Riggs came stumbling up into the porch again, and dropping into his
chair, panted out, “Well, if that isn’t the beatenest thing ever I
hearn tell on! how that fellar could git away so—keepin’ out o’ sight
all the time—is more’n I can understand. I thought I knowed everybody
about these diggins, but that there woice didn’t belong to none on ’em.
It sounded like the woice of an oldish man, but the villain sartainly
did skedaddle equal to any youngster ever I see. Did ye ketch sight o’
him, cap’n?”

“I saw no one but ourselves,” returned Captain Raymond, in a quiet tone.

The four had had the porch to themselves, the other boarders being
out, the McAlpine’s at supper. But at this moment the gate opened and
several gentlemen—Mr. Short and Mr. Austin among them—came in. Most of
them had taken part in the hunt that day, one or two others were old
hunters who were interested in the affair and desirous to talk it over
with the captain. Also to tell of past experiences of their own.

There were stories told of encounters with panthers, bears, deer,
buffaloes, and smaller game; all interesting, some amusing, some
thrilling because of danger or death narrowly escaped.

One told by a very old man whose business had been hunting and trapping
in the early days when great herds of buffaloes roamed over the plains
of the far West, was both thrilling and mirth-provoking.

He said that on one occasion he had fallen in with a company of young
army officers who were very desirous to shoot one buffalo or more;
they must have a taste of the sport, however dangerous.

“And it is mighty dangerous,” he went on, “mighty dangerous, as I told
’em. They’re shy critters, them buffaloes, but if you wound one and
don’t kill him, he’s very apt to turn and charge head down, gore you
with his big horns, toss you up, and when you come down again, stamp
you to death with his heavy hoofs.

“But those young chaps wasn’t to be skeared out o’ the notion; bein’
soldiers, they was bound to show themselves afeard o’ nothing, I
’spose. So I led ’em along the buffalo tracks to one o’ the critters’
drinkin’ places, and, sure enough, we found a big herd gathered round
it. They was to windward of us, but we’d hardly come up with ’em when
by sight or scent some of ’em become aware of our vicinity, and off
started the whole herd, we after ’em.

“One young officer (I furgit his name now) had a swifter horse than the
others, and presently he got near enough the hindermost ones to send a
bullet into a big bull. The critter was hurt purty bad, but not killed
by a good bit; so round he wheels and charges toward the feller that
had hit him. He put spurs to his horse and it was a race fer life, now
I tell you.

“And to make matters worse, somehow the man lost his balance, or the
saddle turned, and there he was a-hangin’ with one foot in the stirrup
and clingin’ to the horse’s neck with his left arm, the pistol in his
right hand, the buffalo comin’ up on t’ other side o’ the horse, and it
a runnin’ like mad.

“Fer a bit it seemed the poor young chap would never come out o’ that
alive, but one o’ his mates put another bullet into the buffalo so he
staggered and fell dead just as it seemed there wasn’t no escape for
horse or man; and somehow the feller had got back into his saddle in
another minute, though the horse was still tearin’ over the praries at
a thunderin’ pace.

“So it all ended well, after all; he’d killed a buffalo—leastways he
and the feller that fired the last shot into the critter—and ’scaped
without no hurt worse’n a purty bad scare.

“But here comes the fun o’ the thing. He told us he’d about give
himself up fer lost when he found hisself hangin’ by the stirrup and
the horse’s neck, and that mad buffalo bull after him, bellowing and
pawin’ up the ground and comin’ on as if he’d a mind to gore and
toss man and beast both, so he thinkin’ there wasn’t no earthly help
for him, concluded he’d better fall to prayin’, but when he tried he
couldn’t fer the life o’ him think of nothin’ to say but the words his
mother’d taught him when he was a leetle shaver, ‘Now I lay me down
to sleep,’ and they didn’t seem no ways appropriate to that perticlar
occasion.

“No; I’m wrong thar; he did say that, finally, somethin’ else come into
his head, but it warn’t much improvement on t’ other; it was the fust
words o’ the blessin’ his father was used to ask afore eatin’. ‘Fer
what we are about to receive make us truly thankful.’”

When the laugh that followed the old hunter’s story had subsided Mr.
Austin remarked: “That goes to show the folly and danger of neglecting
prayer on ordinary occasions,—one is not prepared to employ it in
emergencies.”

“True as preachin,’ sir,” replied the hunter. Then, rising, he bade
good-night, saying he was used to early hours, and thought it likely
the gentlemen who had been out that day would feel ready to go to bed.

At that the others followed his example, and the captain and his
children went to their own rooms.

“What a funny old man that Mr. Riggs is!” remarked Lulu, laughing at
the remembrance of his talk that evening. “Papa, what did he mean when
he said he was going to build a condition to his house with a portfolio
at the back’?”

“An addition with a portico, I suppose.”

“And he couldn’t imagine who or where the fellow was that laughed at
him. Max, you did that splendidly!”

“_I_ did it?” exclaimed Max, in astonishment so well feigned that for
an instant she doubted the correctness of her surmise; though before it
had almost amounted to certainty.

But the next moment she laughed merrily, saying, “Oh, you needn’t
pretend innocence! for I’m sure you were the naughty fellow. Didn’t he
do it well, papa?”

“Very, I thought,” replied their father, regarding his son with a
proudly affectionate smile.

“Papa, shall I call you dad?” asked Lulu merrily, taking possession of
his knee and putting her arm round his neck.

“No, I shall think you very disrespectful if you do. You may say either
papa or father, but I shall answer to no other titles from you—unless I
should, some time when you have been very naughty, forbid you to call
me anything but Captain Raymond.”

“Oh, papa, dear, don’t ever do that?” she pleaded, hugging him tight,
“I think it would be a worse punishment than you have ever given me;
for it would seem as if you were saying, ‘You don’t belong to me any
longer; I won’t have you for my own.’”

“No, my darling,” he returned, holding her close, “I shall never say
that, however ill you may behave.”

“And I do mean to be good; always obedient, and never in a passion
again; but I can’t be sure that I shall; it’s sometimes so much easier
to be naughty.”

“Yes, sad to relate, we all find it so,” he sighed. “What a happy place
heaven will be! for when we get there we shall have no more inclination
to sin, but shall be always basking in the sunshine of God’s love and
favor.”

“Yes, papa; being so happy when you are entirely pleased with me
helps me to understand how happy we shall all be when we are with our
Heavenly Father and he smiles on us and has no fault to find with us.
I like that Bible verse, ‘Like as a father pitieth his children, so
the Lord pitieth them that fear him,’ because I know you pity and love
me when I’m in trouble, even when I’ve brought it on myself by being
naughty.”

“I do, indeed, my child; and God’s love for his children is infinitely
greater than that of any earthly father for his.”

“It seems to me,” Max remarked, “that if that officer the old hunter
told about had been used to thinking of God as his kind, loving Father,
and praying to him, it would have been easy enough for him to ask for
help when in such danger.”

“I think you are quite right,” his father said; “and now,” opening the
Bible, “we will read a portion of his word, then ask for his kind,
protecting care while we sleep.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Mr. Short took great interest in the plans and preparations for
celebrating the Fourth, and was quite anxious that “the captain’s young
folks” should have their every wish in regard to them satisfied.

Also he thought it would be a fine thing to give them an agreeable
surprise. He had a private consultation with Captain Raymond, and one
result was that Max and Lulu were unexpectedly roused from sleep at
sunrise of the important day by the firing of cannon and the ringing of
all the church bells, while at the same moment a flag was flung to the
breeze from every public building.

“Oh, it’s the Fourth, the glorious Fourth!” cried Lulu, springing out
of bed and running to her window. “It’s a lovely day, too; and there
are flags flying. Papa,” she called, “is it too early for me to get up?”

“No,” he answered, “not if you wish to; Max and I are going to rise
now. You may close your door and dress yourself for the day.”

She made haste with her toilet, arraying herself in white, which she
considered the most suitable thing for the “glorious Fourth,” and
adding one of her badges to her adornment.

Her father smiled approval when she came to him for the usual
good-morning caress.

“My little girl looks sweet and pure in papa’s partial eyes,” he said.

“It’s nice to have you look at me with that kind of eyes, you dear
papa,” she returned, giving him a vigorous hug, and laughing merrily.

“I think it’s with that kind of eyes papa looks at all his children,”
remarked Max, “and I believe it is for our happiness and his, too.”

“Very true, my son,” rejoined the captain.

Lulu was full of pleasurable excitement. “Papa, do you know if all the
things you have sent for have come?” she asked.

“I think it likely the last of them came on the midnight train, which
brings the express,” he answered. “I will make inquiry after breakfast.
Now try to forget these matters for a little, while we have our reading
and prayer.”

She sobered down at that, and earnestly tried to give her thoughts to
the teachings of the portion of Scripture her father read, and to join
with her heart in the prayer that followed.

That duty attended to, and the breakfast bell not having rung yet, they
repaired to the front porch to wait for it.

There seemed an unusual stir in the town, people passing to and fro,
early though it was, and fire-crackers going off here and there.

“You seem to have stirred up the patriotism of the people here,
Captain,” Mr. Short said laughingly, as he came in at the gate and up
the path to the porch steps. “Good-morning, sir. Good-morning, young
folks. We are favored with as good weather as one could ask for, and
your packages all arrived by last night’s train; so that everything
looks propitious for your celebration, so far. I had the things taken
directly to the school-house, and doubtless they will be unpacked in
good season.”

The captain said “Thank you,” and invited Mr. Short to walk in and take
breakfast with them. The bell rang at the moment, and the invitation
was accepted.

“You are honoring the day, I see, Miss Lulu,” remarked Mr. Short, with
a smiling glance at her attire.

“Oh, yes,” she said, looking down at her badge, “I want everybody to
know that I’m a patriotic American girl. I made this badge and a whole
boxful beside for the school children to wear.

“Papa, mayn’t I carry them to the schoolhouse myself, after breakfast,
and help the teacher fasten them on?”

“You may go, and I’ll go with you,” he said; “and if the children fancy
wearing them, and the teacher will accept our services, we will do as
you propose.”

“I’ll be bound the children won’t object, but will be delighted with
the gift of the pretty bunch of ribbons, whether they have, or have
not, any patriotism in their make-up,” laughed Mr. Short.

“By the way, Captain, I met Riggs on the street as I came here, and he
informed me that he would be present at the oration, reading of the
Declaration, and so forth, and that he hoped the people would turn out
‘copiously.’ He’s rather original in the use of words.”

“So I have discovered,” was the captain’s quiet reply.

“Has he told you of his plans for improving his house?” asked Mr.
Short, with a humorous look.

“Yes, and how he obtained his wealth spite of entire lack of education.”

“It was a lucky find, and he’s one of the richest men of the town; but
if he had education he would get twice the satisfaction out of his
wealth that he does as it is; at least, I think so.”

“And I do not doubt that you are right,” assented Captain Raymond.

“Well, Miss Lulu, how many pounds of fire-crackers do you expect to set
off to-day?” asked Mr. Short. “So patriotic a young lady will hardly
be satisfied with less than two or three, I suppose.”

“Indeed, sir, I do not expect to fire one,” she returned gaily. “Papa
has promised me something else in place of them; I don’t know yet what
it is, but as he says I will enjoy it more I’m quite sure I shall.”

“Now, I shouldn’t wonder if I could guess what it is,” returned Mr.
Short with a twinkle in his eye.

“Perhaps so, sir; but I don’t want to be told till papa’s time for
telling me comes, or by anybody but him.”

“Good girl; uncommonly loyal and obedient,” he said laughingly.

“No, sir, you are mistaken in thinking me that,” she said, with
heightened color; “I’m naturally very wilful, so that papa has had any
amount of trouble to teach me to obey.”

“But the lesson has been pretty thoroughly learned,” said her father
kindly, Mr. Short adding, “I’m sure of it; and she is certainly honest
and frank.”

The school children were delighted with the badges, the teacher glad of
Lulu’s help in pinning them on, and of the gentlemen’s assistance in
forming her procession. All were on their best behavior, and everything
went prosperously with the celebration.

The captain and his children following in the wake of the procession,
returned to the schoolroom to see and assist in the distribution of the
candies, cakes, and fruits. The delight and gratitude of the recipients
was a pretty and pleasant thing to behold.

By the time that was over the Raymond’s dinner hour had arrived, and
they hastened to their boarding-house.

As they left the table the captain caught an inquiring look from Lulu.

“Yes, child, you shall know now; you have waited very patiently,” he
said. “I am going to teach you how to handle a pistol and shoot at a
mark.”

“Oh, good, good!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “I
always did want to know how to shoot, but I didn’t suppose you’d ever
let me touch a pistol or gun, papa.”

“I won’t, except when I’m close beside you,” he said, “at least, not
for a long time to come. But I am going to teach you, because there
may be times in a woman’s life when such knowledge and skill may be of
great value to her.”

“Max will take part, too, won’t he?” she asked.

“Yes, certainly; it is even more important for him to know how to use
fire-arms than for you. Mr. Short will join in the sport, too, and you
may invite Marian to do so also, if you choose.”

“Oh, thank you, papa! I will,” she said, running back to the room they
had just left, while her father went on to his.

Marian was clearing the table as Lulu came rushing in, half breathless
with haste and excitement.

“O Marian,” she said, “papa is going to teach me to use a pistol; to
shoot at a mark; and he told me I might ask you if you would like to
learn too. Would you?”

“Thank you, yes; it’s just what I’ve been longing to learn, for if the
United States Government can’t, or won’t, protect me from the Mormons,
I want to know how to protect myself,” returned the girl, her eyes
flashing: “helpless women are their victims, but I don’t mean to be a
helpless one. I’ll learn, if your father will teach me; then I’ll get a
pistol of my own and use it, too, if I have occasion.”

“Marian, what makes you so fierce at them?” asked Lulu in surprise. “Is
it because they persuaded your father to be a Mormon and leave his own
country?”

“Yes; and because they force women to marry against their will: they
force them into sin, making them marry horrid creatures (calling
themselves men, but not worthy of the name) that already have wives;
sometimes a number of them.

“And if a woman dares resist they say she is weakening in the
faith—supposing she is called a Mormon—and according to their wicked,
fiendish, blood atonement doctrine she must be put to death; and so
they murder her in the name of religion.

“I know of one poor creature that ran away from her husband to escape
that dreadful fate; for he told her they thought she was weakening in
the faith and that he was to kill her. Every night he hung a dagger at
the head of her bed, and he told her that some night she would hear a
tap at the window at midnight, and that would be a signal for him to
stab her to death with that dagger.

“Now do you wonder I think it would be well for me to have a pistol and
know how to use it?”

“No, indeed!” exclaimed Lulu. “I’m sure I should in your place; and
I’m dreadfully ashamed that my government doesn’t protect you so well
that no one would dare do such things to you or to any woman or girl,
or anybody. It’s just awful! I shall tell papa about it, and ask him if
something can’t be done. I think he’ll find a way; and I can tell you,
if he sets out to do a thing it’s pretty sure to be done.”

“You have great confidence in him,” Marian returned, with a sad sort of
smile. “Ah, you’re very fortunate, Miss Lu, to have such a father.”

“Don’t I know it?” replied Lulu, exultantly. “Max and Gracie and I
think he’s just the best man and kindest father that ever lived. He
knows all about fire-arms, too, and if anybody can teach us how to use
them he can.”

“When do we take the lesson, Miss Lu?” inquired Marian.

“I suppose in a few minutes, but you can come just when you are ready,
I must run back now and tell papa that you will join us.”

She was full of what Marian had just told her of Mormon doings, and at
once repeated it all to her father, winding up with “Oh, papa, isn’t it
dreadful? Can’t something be done to put a stop to such wicked, cruel
doings? I do think it’s a perfect disgrace that such deeds can be done
in our country.”

“And I quite agree with you,” he sighed, “and am resolved to exert
myself to the utmost to put a stop to the commission of such crimes in
the name of religion.

“Talk of the right of Mormon _men_ to civil and religious liberty,” he
went on, rather thinking aloud than speaking to her, “what has become
of the _woman’s_ right to the same, if they are to be permitted to
murder her when she ceases to believe as they do, or to conform her
conduct to the will of their hierarchy? Oh, it is monstrous, monstrous,
that this thing called Mormonism has been allowed to grow to its
present proportions!”

“Can’t you put a stop to it, papa?” she asked.

“_I_, child? _I_ put a stop to it?” he returned, smiling slightly with
amusement. “You may well believe that if I had the power I would need
no urging to exercise it.”

“I’m sure I wish you had, papa,” said Max. “But as you haven’t, I’m
afraid we may be obliged to fight one of these days to rid the country
of that tyrannical Mormon hierarchy that is aiming to destroy our free
institutions.

“So, Lu, you will do well to make the best of your opportunities to
learn the use of firearms; for there is no knowing how much help we men
and boys may need from the women and girls, if that tug of war comes,”
he added, suddenly dropping the serious tone in which he had begun and
adopting a sportive one.

“You needn’t make fun of us, Max,” she retorted, “for I’m sure women
and girls have sometimes done good service in time of war.”

“I willingly acknowledge it,” he said; “history gives us a number of
such instances. They have carried dispatches at the risk of their
lives, concealed and befriended patriots when pursued by the enemy,
taken care of the sick and wounded soldiers, made many sacrifices for
their country, and in some instances even put on men’s attire and
fought in the ranks. Perhaps that last is what you’d like to do,” he
wound up, laughingly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said; “but I think I could and would do the
others if there should be any need for me to.”

“I believe it,” her father said, “because I know you are both
courageous and patriotic. I will give you this when you have learned
how to use it,” he added, taking a small, silver-mounted pistol from
his pocket and putting it into her hands. “It is not loaded, and you
may examine it and learn all you can in that way, while we are waiting
for Mr. Short to come. He will bring the target and set it up in the
shade of those large trees down yonder by the river, where we can shoot
at it without danger of a stray shot striking where it might harm any
one or any thing.”

Mr. Short came presently, the little party repaired to the designated
spot, and the two girls took their first lesson in the use of the
pistol.

At first their bullets went wide of the mark, but after a number of
trials they were able to come pretty near it, and were told they did
very well—all things considered.

The gentlemen, and Max also, took their turns, and the girls watched
them with a feeling akin to envy at their superior skill. Max was a
very respectable shot, Mr. Short still better, while the captain showed
uncommon dexterity.

“As I ought,” he said, laughingly, when complimented on it, “that
being a part of my profession.”

At length they had all had enough of it, and putting up their empty
pistols, returned to the house.

They seated themselves in the shaded porch, and had hardly done so when
they were joined by Mr. Austin and Albert.

“I heard some one say you were target-shooting,” remarked Albert to
Max, “and that the captain hit the center of the mark every time.”

“So he did,” said Max, “but shooting at a target is nothing to papa;
he shoots a bird on the wing. Indeed, I’ve seen him bring down several
of a flock with one shot; also throw up two potatoes and send a bullet
through them both before they reached the ground.”

“I’d like very much to see him do that last,” Albert said, “though I
don’t in the least doubt your word; especially as all the men about
here who have hunted with him say he’s a capital shot.”

At that Max turned to Sandy McAlpine, standing near, and asked if he
could get him two potatoes.

“Cooked or raw?” asked the boy.

“Raw, of course,” laughed Max, “and I’ll hand them back when I’m done
with them. I don’t think they’ll be hurt much for cooking and eating.”

Sandy ran off round the house in the direction of the kitchen, and was
back again almost immediately with the desired articles.

“Papa,” said Max, holding them up to view, “won’t you load your pistol
and show what you can do with it and these?”

“Yes, to please you, my boy,” the captain replied, taking out and
loading the little weapon of warfare that Lulu began already to look
upon as her property. Then taking the offered potatoes he threw them
high in air, fired, and they came down each with a hole through it.

“Admirably done, Captain!” exclaimed Mr. Austin. “I am considered a
very fair marksman at home, but I could not do that.”

“There is nothing like trying, sir; and probably you excel me in many
another thing,” the captain said pleasantly, as he stepped into the
porch again and resumed his seat.

Then the gentlemen fell into discourse about the event commemorated by
that day’s celebration.

“Your Declaration of Independence handles King George the Third with
much severity,” remarked Mr. Austin, addressing Captain Raymond.

“Yes, sir; the truth is sometimes the severest thing that can be said,”
returned the captain, with a good-humored smile.

“You are right there, sir,” pursued the Englishman. “I cannot say that
I altogether admire the character of that monarch, though he had some
excellent traits, and in reading of the struggle of the colonies for
freedom, my sympathies have always been with them.

“As you are no doubt aware, many of the English of that day sympathized
with them and rejoiced over their success. Fox, Burke, and Chatham had
kept the merits of their cause well before the public mind.”

“For which we owe them a debt of gratitude,” responded the captain; “as
we do John Bright, also, for his outspoken sympathy with our Federal
Government in its efforts to put down the late rebellion,—a time of
sore trial to Union-loving Americans; a time ‘when days were dark and
friends were few,’ and even such men as Gladstone and Guthrie showed
themselves sympathizers with the would-be destroyers of our nation.

“It seemed passing strange to loyal Americans of that day that the
English, who had for many years so constantly reproached our land for
allowing the existence of negro slavery within her borders, should,
when the awful struggle was upon us, side with those whose aim and
purpose it was to found an empire upon the perpetual bondage of
millions of that race—their fellow-men; for, as the Bible tells us, God
‘hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face
of the earth.’”

“I acknowledge the inconsistency,” returned Mr. Austin; “but do not
forget that not _all_ Englishmen were guilty of it. Mr. Bright,
according to your own showing, was a notable exception; and there were
many others.

“Nor is inconsistency a fault confined to Englishmen,” he added, with
a slightly mischievous smile; “the readers of your Declaration, in the
days when negro slavery flourished in this country, must sometimes
have felt uncomfortably conscious of the inconsistency of the two,—the
contradiction between creed and manner of life.”

“No doubt,” acknowledged Captain Raymond, “and thankful I am that the
blot is removed from the scutcheon of my country.”

“‘Slaves cannot breathe in England!’” quoted Albert, with pride and
satisfaction.

“I think they were never deprived of that privilege in America,”
remarked Max soberly, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, it is not meant in that sense, but Englishmen have never been
guilty of holding men in bondage—in their own land, at least.”

“Haven’t they?” cried Max, pricking up his ears. “Why, then, did your
Alfred the Great make laws respecting the sale of slaves?”

“I had forgotten that for the moment,” returned Albert, reddening: “but
I was thinking only of negro slavery.”

“White slaves, they were to be sure,” admitted Max, in a slightly
sarcastic tone, “but I can’t see that it’s any less cruel and wicked to
enslave white men than darkies.”

“But those were very early times, when men were little better than
savages.”

“Alfred the Great among the rest?”

“Assuredly Alfred the Great was no savage,” returned Albert,
slightly nettled, “but then he was far ahead of his time, and I must
still insist that you go very far back to fasten the reproach of
slave-holding upon Great Britain.”

The two fathers had paused in their discourse to listen to the talk
of the lads, and they seemed to have forgotten the presence of their
elders.

“Well, then, to come down to a later day,” said Max, “don’t you
remember the statute made by Edward the Sixth, that if anybody lived
idly for three days, or was a runaway, he should be taken before two
justices of the peace, branded with a V with a hot iron on the breast,
and given as a slave to the one who brought him for two years; and if
during that time he absented himself for fourteen days he was to be
branded again with a hot iron, on the cheek, with the letter S, and
to be his master’s slave forever! The master might put a ring of iron
round his neck, leg, or arm, too, feed him poorly, and beat, chain, or
otherwise abuse him.

“That white slavery in England was worse than ever negro slavery was in
the United States of America.”

“Well, they who practiced it were the ancestors of Americans as truly
as of those of the present race of Englishmen, that have to bear the
reproach of the slavery of the very early times you first spoke of,”
retorted Albert.

“Maybe so,” said Max; “and I suppose they—the Americans—inherited their
ancestors’ wicked propensities (same as the Englishmen), which may
account for their becoming slaveholders.”

“Well,” Albert said, “you can’t deny that England has always been a foe
to the slave trade, and—”

“Oh! oh! oh! how you forget!” exclaimed Max. “History says that she
began in 1563 to import slaves from Africa into the West Indies; and
the trade was not finally abolished till the spring of 1807. Also,
that by the Peace of Utrecht, in 1713, England obtained a monopoly
of the slave-trade, and engaged to furnish Spanish America with one
hundred and forty-four thousand negroes in thirty-three years; that
a great slave-trading company was formed in England, and Queen Anne
took one-quarter of the stock; that the King of Spain took another
quarter, so that the two sovereigns became the greatest slave-dealers
in Christendom.

“That company brought slaves into the American colonies, and to some
extent slavery was forced upon them by what they then called the
mother country. Queen Anne directed the New York colonial government
to encourage the Royal African Company, and see that the colony was
furnished with plenty of merchantable negroes at moderate rates.

“In the face of such facts, can you deny that England was largely
responsible for the slavery that has proved such a curse to this
country in years past?”

Albert’s countenance wore a discomfited expression, and instead of
replying to Max’s query, he turned to his father with the question, “Is
he correct, sir, in the statements he has been making?”

“I am afraid he is,” replied Mr. Austin, “though some of his facts had
slipped my memory till he brought them up. Europe has no right to twit
America on the subject of slavery or the slave trade; especially now
when negro slavery no longer exists in any part of the Union.”

“And our government abolished the slave trade in the same year that
yours did,” remarked Captain Raymond.

“Yes,” acknowledged Mr. Austin, “but the act for the abolition of
slavery throughout the British colonies was passed thirty years before
Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation set the last of the negroes free in
this country.”

“True; but as a set-off against that, remember that the first negroes
brought to Massachusetts (the first in New England) were sent home at
the public expense, by the General Court of the colony.

“That was in 1640. In 1652, Roger Williams and Gorton made a decree
against slavery in Rhode Island; while as late as 1672, white slaves
were sold in England, to be transported to Virginia.”

“Not sold into perpetual slavery, however,” said Mr. Austin.

“No; but for a term of years; still, it can not be denied that they
were slaves for the time being.

“But I give England all credit for her persistent efforts to suppress
the slave-trade since she abolished it in 1807.”

“By the way,” said Mr. Austin, “I have been, since coming into this
community, using every opportunity for studying the Mormon problem, and
it strikes me as a strange thing that such a system of hierarchical
tyranny and outrage has been so long permitted to exist and grow in
this land of boasted freedom—civil and religious.”

“It can not seem stranger, or more inconsistent, to you than to me,
sir,” replied Captain Raymond, flushing with mortification. “I am
exceedingly ashamed of this bar sinister on the scutcheon of my
country; but I trust that vigorous measures are about to be taken for
its expunging.

“Some have defended the let-alone policy on the ground that to restrain
and punish them would be to abridge religious liberty; but I cannot
see it so. We have, in fact, allowed a most tyrannical hierarchy to
persecute even to putting to death, those who, having unfortunately
fallen into its power, attempted an escape from it, or refused to
submit to its dictation in regard to either belief or practice.

“Women have been forcibly detained among them (the self-styled
“Latter-day Saints”) horribly ill-used, and when caught in an attempt
to escape, foully murdered.”

“The perpetrators and abettors of such deeds of darkness mistake
liberty for license; every man or woman has a right to life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness—yet only so far as he does not interfere
with the exercise of the same rights by others. The victims of Mormon
tyranny and intolerance have most certainly a right to complain that
they have been deprived of both civil and religious liberty.”

“Very true,” responded Mr. Austin; “and I have learned with
mortification, that the ranks of the Mormons are largely recruited from
Great Britain.”

“Yes; I wish your government were as anxious to keep that class of its
citizens as its sailors, particularly its man-of-war’s-men,” returned
the captain laughingly.

A short discussion as to the comparative amount of freedom enjoyed by
the citizens of the two countries, and the comparative security of life
and property, followed, each gentleman maintaining that his own was the
more favored land.

“Mormonism has for years destroyed in a great measure the personal
liberty of the citizens of this part of your country, where it
flourishes,” remarked Mr. Austin, “and certainly there is neither civil
nor religious liberty enjoyed within the walls of the monasteries and
convents scattered over the whole length and breadth of your land.”

“That is true, only too true!” sighed the captain, “but, as regards
monastic and conventual institutions, as true of your country as of
mine.

“Who can tell what suffering—what martyrdoms, may be endured by the
hapless inmates of those prisons for innocent victims?

“Some will say they should not be interfered with, because the shutting
up of men and women in that way is part of the Romish religion, and
that the victims go into their confinement voluntarily; but it is
certain that some do not do so voluntarily, and that others are
wheedled in by false representations of the life to be led there.

“When they learn by experience what it really is, they often abhor
it and long for the restoration of their freedom, but, alas, find
themselves in the hands of jailors, fastened in by bolts and bars,
and so forced to remain, no matter how unwillingly they are detained.
Where for _them_ is the liberty guaranteed by our Constitution to every
citizen, from the highest to the lowest?”

“It is a great wrong, both here and in Great Britain,” Mr. Austin said.
“One occasionally escapes, and thrills the public mind for a time by
her tale of the horrors of her prison, but they—her tormentors—assert
that she is insane, her tale the fabrication of an unsound mind—and
presently it is all forgotten by the fickle populace; drowned in
thoughts of other matters.

“But what remedy would you propose? the abolition of monasteries and
convents?”

“No; that would savor of interference with their religious liberty;
but I would have them obliged to open their doors to the visits and
inspection of the police at any and all times, without previous
warning; and the fact made certain that every grown person in the
establishment was left entirely free to come and go at his or her
pleasure. While that liberty is not secured to them, it cannot be said
with truth that they are free citizens of a free country.”

CHAPTER XIX.

The little party gathered on the porch again after tea, and amused
themselves with conversation while waiting till the setting of the sun,
and the fading away of the twilight should give a better opportunity
for the display of the fireworks.

“I fancy,” remarked Mr. Austin, half-interrogatively, half in
assertion, “that our present sovereign is more highly appreciated in
America than was her royal grandfather George the Third?”

“There is no comparison,” replied Captain Raymond. “Americans highly
appreciated your queen’s kindly expressed sympathy in the sad days of
our poor Garfield’s suffering, and she has many admirers among us.”

Just then Mr. Riggs came up the path from the front gate, and greeting
the company, “Good-evenin’, cap’n, Mr. Austin, and young folks,” took a
seat in their midst.

“Well, we’ve had a riglar old-time glorious Fourth,” he went on,
addressing no one in particular, “on’y ’tisn’t done yit, thank fortin’,
an’ I’ve come round to see them fireworks set off. The folks did turn
out copiously this mornin’, and I don’t mistrust that they won’t do it
agin to-night.”

“Of course they will. Who wouldn’t turn out to see fireworks?”

It was the squeaky little voice again right behind his chair, as on the
former occasion.

He sprang up as if he had been shot, faced about, and with a scared
look asked, “Why, where is he—the old raskil?”

“Rascal, indeed! I’m no rascal, sir, but a patriotic, honest American
citizen.”

It was the squeaky voice again, and this time sounded a trifle farther
off, as if the speaker might be descending the porch steps; but though
distinctly heard, he could not be seen.

“Well, now, if it isn’t the beatenest thing! I wonder ef I’m a-gittin’
crazy!” exclaimed Riggs, staring wildly round from side to side. “You
all heered him, didn’t ye? but has anybody seen the raskilly feller?”

The Austins and Mr. Short were struck dumb with astonishment; the
Raymonds did not speak either, but the next moment a loud, “Ha, ha,
ha!” coming apparently from among the branches of the nearest tree, was
followed by the squeaky voice:

“You can’t see me? That’s only because you don’t look in the right
place; I’m big enough to be seen by the naked eye, even at a
considerable distance.”

“But ye’r always playing at hide and seek,” said Riggs, “and a body
can’t never find ye.”

“Why who is he? and where is he?” queried Albert, staring up into the
tree; “his voice seems to come from among those branches, but I see
nothing there.”

“It is growing dark,” remarked Captain Raymond in reply.

“Yes, sir; but still I think I could see a man or boy if he were really
there.”

“Come up on to the porch roof, all of you,” called the voice, now
seeming to come from there; “it’ll be the best place to see the
fireworks from.”

“It is time to begin setting them off; isn’t it, papa?” asked Lulu.

“Yes,” he said, and Max, springing down the steps and the walk to the
gate, in another minute had sent up a sky-rocket, and as it darted
skyward the same squeaky voice cried out from the upper air, “Up I go!”

“There, did ye hear that?” screamed Riggs. “He’s gone up with the
rocket. He must be a wizard.”

“Ha! there is certainly a ventriloquist among us!” exclaimed Mr. Austin.

“I agree with you,” said the captain, “it is the only rational
explanation of the phenomenon.”

“And it is yourself, sir?”

“No, sir; if I have any talent in that line it remains to be discovered
by myself even.”

And without waiting for further embarrassing questions, the captain
hurried to Max’s assistance.

Mr. Short did likewise, and for the next hour or more the display of
the fireworks absorbed the attention of every one present, almost to
the exclusion of thoughts on other matters.

It was quite a fine display—for the captain had been generous in his
outlay for the celebration of the Fourth, and many were the expressions
of delight and admiration from the crowd of spectators who had gathered
to witness it.

There were rockets, squibs, Roman candles, Bengal lights, Catherine
wheels, and others of more complicated structure, some of which sent
out figures of men and animals.

One of these Max reserved for the last, and as a tiny figure of a man
issued from the brilliant coruscation and darted upward, it cried out
in the squeaky little voice that had troubled Mr. Riggs so often,
“Good-by; I’m off!”

“There the feller is at last. I seen him this time,” screamed the old
man. “Now did ye ever? how did he git in there? and how did he git out?”

The faces of the crowd were full of surprise and perplexity as they
first gazed upward, then turned toward each other in half-breathless
astonishment.

“There is a ventriloquist among us,” repeated Mr. Austin; “there must
be, without doubt.”

“Ven—ven—what is it anyway?” asked Riggs.

“Ventriloquist; one who can speak without moving his lips, and cause
his voice to seem to come from somewhere outside of himself; from some
person or animal, or place near at hand or farther off.”

“You don’t say. I never heered o’ sech doins!” exclaimed Riggs. While
several others standing near cried out, “A ventriloquist. Is there one
here? If there is, let him give us some more of his tricks. We’d like
no better fun.”

“Just you keep quiet then, all of you, and perhaps he will,” said Mr.
Short, who, though he knew nothing absolutely in regard to the matter,
began to have strong suspicions that Captain Raymond could tell all
about it if he would.

A short, sharp bark, that seemed to come from the coat-pocket of the
speaker, made him start involuntarily and thrust his hand deep into it.

He drew it out with a laugh. “Nothing there, as I might have known,” he
said.

But the words were hardly out of his mouth when a loud, furious
barking, growling and snarling began in the midst of the crowd,
causing them to scatter pell-mell to the sidewalks, women and children
screaming, men and boys shouting, bursts of laughter following, as they
perceived that the cause of their fright was but another trick of the
ventriloquist.

“Who is he! who is he!” was the question bandied from one to another,
but answered by no one.

“Hoo, hoo, hoo!” came from amid the branches of a tree in Mrs.
McAlpine’s yard.

It sounded like the cry of an owl, but was followed by a human voice,
“Good-night, friends. We have had a glorious Fourth, and now it is time
to go home and to bed.”

“That means the show is done for to-night, I s’pose,” remarked Riggs,
“and we may as well git fer home. But I just wisht I could find out who
the feller is,” he mumbled to himself, as he moved down the street.

The crowd dispersed and the Raymonds retired to their own apartments.

“Oh, Max, how good it is that nobody’s found you out yet?” laughed Lulu
gleefully.

“I’m glad they haven’t,” returned Max. “Papa, did I do anything
objectionable?”

“I have no fault to find with you, my boy,” his father replied, with a
slight smile and a very affectionate look at his son.

CHAPTER XX.

Captain Raymond lingered some time longer in Minersville.

It was near the middle of July, and his arrangements had been made for
starting upon the homeward journey in a day or two, when early one
morning he, Max, Mr. Short and the Austins set out upon their final
hunt together.

Lulu was, of course, left behind in the boarding-house.

As her father kissed her good-by he said, “I am very sorry to leave
you alone, dear child, but I trust that you will be able to pass the
time agreeably in reading, sewing or letter-writing—whatever employment
you fancy that can be attended to in the house—for I want you to stay
within doors; the day is a very warm one, and I much prefer that you
should not be exposed to the heat of the sun.

“I hope to be back in season to take you for a walk or ride in the cool
of the evening.”

“I shall like that, if you don’t come home too tired, dear papa,” she
replied, clinging about his neck for a moment. “Oh, do take good care
of yourself! and don’t be a bit troubled lest I should be lonesome. I
shall do nicely and be oh, so glad to see you when you come back.”

She followed him out to the porch, with a book in her hand, and after
seeing the hunting party disappear down the street, took a seat in a
comfortable arm-chair in the shade of the vines, and amused herself
with reading until joined by Marian with a basket of mending.

“There!” exclaimed Lulu, closing her book. “I have some stockings to
darn. I’ll go and get them and my work-basket, and we’ll have a nice
time together.”

“I’d like that very much,” Marian said, “but don’t let me hinder you
from reading your book.”

“I’d rather stop reading and talk awhile. I’m remarkably fond of
talking,” laughed Lulu, as she hurried into the house.

She was back again almost immediately, and as she resumed her seat
Marian said, “I was glad to hear you say you were fond of talking,
because I wish very much you would tell me about your home and your
brothers and sisters—if you have any beside the one that is here.”

Lulu willingly complied with a glowing description of Woodburn, “Mamma
Vi,” Gracie and the babies, and the happy life led there by the whole
family.

Marian listened with deep interest, tears sometimes starting to her
eyes as she was struck by the contrast between that life and her
own, most of all in the tender fatherly love and care in which the
Woodburn children rejoiced, and which had been so sadly lacking in her
experience since the blighting curse of Mormonism had fallen upon the
McAlpine household.

Lulu noticed her emotion, guessed at the cause, and made an effort to
divert the poor girl’s thoughts from the sorrows of her lot, by telling
amusing anecdotes of little Elsie’s sayings and doings.

“Of course,” she said, “Mamma Vi began as soon as Elsie was able to
talk, to teach her to say the little prayer, ‘Now I lay me.’ She soon
said it nicely, but whenever she came to the part, ‘If I should die,’
she would put in ‘but I _won’t_ die!’

“Not long ago Mamma Vi told her she thought she was old enough now to
learn the Lord’s prayer. ‘It is a good deal longer than the other,’ she
said, ‘do you think you can remember it?’ ’Yes’m,’ Elsie said, ‘I’ll
set it down.’

“Then Mamma Vi began teaching it to her, but she has never succeeded in
getting her to say it all right yet, for she always will ask for ‘daily
_corn_ bread.’ We have corn bread on the table at least once every day,
and Elsie likes it much better than wheat.

“She often says things that make us all laugh. Once Mamma Vi had just
finished a very pretty new dress for the little darling and put it on
her for the first time; then she took her to Grandma Elsie, who was
visiting us, to ask what she thought of it.

“‘See, ganma,’ little Elsie said, walking up to her.

“Grandma Elsie said, ‘Ah! just from Paris?’ And little Elsie nodded her
head, saying, ‘Yes’m, ganma, just from parasol.’”

“She must be a dear, amusing little thing,” said Marian. “Is she
pretty?”

“She is a perfect beauty!” replied Lulu, with enthusiasm.

“Ah, here comes Edith Kingsley!” Marian exclaimed, as the gate opened
and a girl a year or two younger than herself, a neighbor and intimate
friend of hers, came tripping up the path.

Lulu had met Edith several times and liked her, for she was a pleasant,
sunny-tempered child, innocent and artless.

“Good-morning, girls,” she said. “I just ran over for a minute to tell
you that a party of us are going berrying this afternoon, and to ask
you both to go along.”

“I’d like to, if mother can spare me,” said Marian. “But isn’t it very
warm!”

“Not so warm as it was,” replied Edith; “there are floating clouds now,
so that the sun doesn’t shine so hot, and a nice breeze has sprung up.
You’ll go, won’t you, Lulu?” turning to the latter.

“Thank you; I feel a strong inclination to go, but I can’t, as papa is
not here to give me leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d say you might go,” returned Edith, with eager
entreaty in her tones; “the place we are going to is only a little
beyond the edge of town, and the berries are so thick we shall fill our
baskets directly and be back long, long before dark. So what objection
could he find?”

“He said he wanted me to stay in the house till he came back,” replied
Lulu, “he didn’t want me exposed to the heat of the sun, and hoped
to be back in time to take me for a walk or ride in the cool of the
evening.”

“Oh, if that was all, I’m sure he would say you could go, because the
sun isn’t hot any longer. And he didn’t positively forbid you, did he?”

“No,” Lulu said slowly, as if striving to recall his exact words; “he
only said he wanted me to stay within doors, and gave that reason for
it; and I’m pretty sure if he were here he would give me permission to
go.”

“Then you will, won’t you?”

Lulu considered a moment. The temptation to yield was very strong, but
the more she reflected, the deeper grew her conviction that to do
so would be disobedience; disobedience to the kindest, dearest, most
indulgent of fathers; one who never denied her any pleasure that he
deemed good for her.

“Come now, do say you will,” urged Edith, coaxingly. “Even if your
father should be a little vexed at first, he will soon forgive you.”

“Perhaps so; but it would be a long time before I could forgive
myself,” Lulu said, then added firmly, “No, Edith, I thank you very
much for your invitation, but I can’t go. I am quite sure it would be
disobedience, and how could I be so ungrateful as to so grieve such a
father as mine? I couldn’t bear to see the sorry look that would come
into his eyes when he heard of it.”

“Oh, we won’t tell on you,” Edith said laughingly.

Lulu looked indignant at that. “I should tell on myself,” she said. “I
could never be happy while concealing anything from papa.”

Marian had left them to consult with her mother in regard to her own
acceptance of the invitation, and now came back to report a favorable
reply. She was much disappointed to hear that Lulu would not go, and
joined her entreaties to Edith’s that she would reconsider and accept.

But Lulu was firm, both then and later, when, ready to start on their
little expedition, they again urged her to accompany them.

“I think we’ll have a nice time,” Edith said; “it’s just a pleasant
walk, winding about a little way among the hills, and there are lovely
wild flowers to gather as well as berries. Oh, do change your mind and
come along with us!”

“I do wish you would, Lulu,” put in Marian, “I shan’t half enjoy myself
without you, and thinking how lonely you’ll be here by yourself.”

“Please don’t urge me any more,” returned Lulu. “I think you wouldn’t
if you knew how very much I’d like to go with you, if I could have
papa’s permission; but I know I couldn’t enjoy myself going without
that. My conscience wouldn’t give me any peace at all.”

So they left her. She sat on the porch watching them out of sight,
then opened her book, and presently forgot her disappointment in the
interest of the story.

She read on and on, taking no note of the lapse of time, though full
two hours had passed since the berry gatherers disappeared round the
corner, till suddenly she became conscious that some unusual excitement
was abroad in the streets of the town; men armed with muskets,
revolvers, and other weapons, were rushing past in the direction the
girls had taken; women and children were running hither and thither,
calling wildly to each other, some crying, all seeming full of anxiety
and fright.

“Oh, what is it? what’s the matter, Sandy?” asked Lulu, dropping her
book and springing to her feet, as the lad came tearing in at the gate,
his face white with terror and distress.

“A bear!” he gasped; “a big grizzly got after the girls, and they all
had to run for their lives, and he—he caught Edith—they say, and—and
he’s hugging her to death.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Lulu, bursting into tears and sobs, “can’t anybody save
her? Oh, I wish papa was there with his gun to shoot the bear, he’d do
it, I know he would. And, oh, where’s Marian?”

“She’s safe now; they all got away from the beast but Edith. But Marian
was so out of breath with fright and running and crying because she
couldn’t save Edith, that she had to stop farther down the street.”

Mrs. McAlpine had heard enough of the bustle in the streets to alarm
her, and now came hurrying out, asking, “What’s happened, Sandy?
Where’s your sister?”

The boy repeated his story, had scarce finished when Marian came in at
the gate, her form drooping, her head bowed on her breast, sobs shaking
her whole frame.

“Have they got her?” asked Sandy.

“Marian, my poor child, is Edith much hurt?” questioned her mother,
drawing the weeping girl into the house.

Marian did not lift her head; she seemed unable to speak.

But Hugh came running in from the street, tears rolling down his
cheeks. “Oh, oh, Edith’s killed! she’s dead! I heard a man say so.
They’ve killed the bear, but he’d a’ready squeezed Edith to death, and
tore her awful with his big claws and teeth.”

“Oh, don’t! don’t tell it!” shrieked Marian, covering her ears with her
hands. “Oh, if we only hadn’t gone there!”

“Her poor mother, her poor, poor mother! how will she ever bear it?”
sobbed Mrs. McAlpine, dropping into a chair and hiding her face with
her apron.

Lulu, too, was weeping bitterly.

“What have they done with her, Hugh?” asked Sandy, in a loud whisper.

“Who? Edith, or the bear?”

“Edith, I meant, of course, Stupid,” returned the elder brother
contemptuously.

“They’re goin’ to bring her home; I guess they’re doin’ it now,” as a
sound as of the trampling of many feet smote upon their ears.

The body was being carried past on a hastily improvised litter, and in
another moment, as it crossed the threshold of the home she had left
two hours before in the heyday of life and health, a woman’s wail of
heart-breaking anguish rent the air.

“It’s her mother, her poor mother!” sobbed Mrs. McAlpine. “Wae’s me for
the puir heart-broken thing! but, oh! thank God my lassie has come safe
home to me!”

Marian burst into wild weeping, and Lulu, unable to bear any more, ran
swiftly from the room to that of her father, where, falling on her
knees by the bedside, she buried her face in the clothes and cried as
if her heart would break.

She seemed to see Edith standing before her, bright and beautiful,
full of life and health, as she had seen her—oh, such a little while
ago!—then in the cruel embrace of the ferocious wild beast, crushed,
bitten, torn, bleeding, and dying—dead. Then the poor body, at last
rescued from the clutches of the bear, but with no life left in it,
carried along the high road on its rude litter, borne into the house
over the way—the happy home of the morning now darkened and made
desolate by that sudden, fearful stroke of doom—the mother, bereaved in
a manner so fearful, of her only child, bending over it in an agony of
woe unutterable.

“And I might have been the one the bear attacked, if I had gone with
them, papa mourning over his dead daughter, his heart breaking with
the thought that she’d been killed in the very act of disobeying him,”
thought Lulu. “I can never, never be thankful enough that I didn’t do
it; that God helped me resist the temptation.”

A hand rested lightly, tenderly on her head, and she started up to find
her father standing by her side.

She threw herself into his arms, and as he folded her close to his
heart, hid her face on his breast, sobbing convulsively. “Oh, papa, it
is so, so dreadful! so terrible!”

“Yes,” he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, “my heart aches for
the bereaved parents. Oh, thank the Lord that I have my darling safe
in my arms!” caressing her with exceeding tenderness, as he sat down,
still holding her fast as a treasure he would suffer no earthly power
to snatch from his grasp. “You were not with them?”

“No, papa; you bade me stay within doors—at least, you said you wanted
me to—and how could I disobey such a dear, kind father? Oh, I couldn’t,
though I wanted to go very badly! And if I had—oh, I might have been
the one to be killed in that dreadful way!”

“And your father the heart-broken parent weeping over his lost
treasure. My dear child, I think you will never regret resisting the
temptation to disobey the father who loves you as his life.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure I shall not! Papa, what a good thing for me that
you have trained me to obedience, for otherwise I should have gone
with them and maybe have been killed, killed in that horrible way! You
didn’t say I must stay in the house—only that you wanted me to—but I
suppose it would have been disobedience if I’d gone; wouldn’t it?”

“Yes; a truly obedient child will not go against the known wishes of
a parent. I trusted my daughter loved me enough to obey my slightest
wish, so did not think it necessary to put my injunction in the form of
a command. We all prefer to be requested rather than ordered.”

“But I have really learned to love even to be ordered by you, my own,
own dearest father!” she said, creeping closer in his embrace.

“Had I been quite sure of that it would have saved me some moments of
great alarm and anxiety,” he said.

She looked up inquiringly, and he went on. “As our party came into
town, on the side opposite to that where this dreadful accident
occurred, a man hailed us with the news that some little girls, out
gathering berries, had been attacked by a bear, one of them killed, and
others badly hurt.

“That last was a mistake, as we presently learned, but, oh, the pang
that shot through my heart with the sudden fear that my dear little
daughter might be among the injured, perhaps even the slain one. How I
wished that I had positively forbidden you to leave the house at all in
my absence!”

“But even then you couldn’t have been sure that I wasn’t with those
girls, because there have been times when I’ve disobeyed your most
positive commands,” she said, in a remorseful tone.

Her heart leaped with joy at his answering words. “But you have been so
perfectly obedient for a long time now, that I have come to have great
confidence in your careful observance of any order from me to do or not
to do.”

Max, who had lingered in the street trying to learn all the particulars
of the sad occurrence, which was the absorbing subject of thought and
speech with every one for the time being, now came quietly in, looking
thoughtful and distressed.

“They say she’s terribly crushed and mangled,” he said, half-chokingly.
“Oh, Lu, what a fright papa and I had, thinking it might be you!”

“But I could have been spared much better than poor Edith,” she said;
“she was an only child, and papa would have four still left if he lost
only me.”

“I should not know how to spare you or any one of my darlings,”
responded her father, in moved tones, smoothing her hair with tender,
caressing hand, and kissing her on cheek and lip and brow.

“I’m glad we’re almost ready to go away from here,” remarked Max,
“We’ve been having a merry, happy time, but it will seem very sad after
this.”

“When do we go, papa?” asked Lulu.

“I have set day after to-morrow,” he answered. “But while we are here,
let us strive rather to sympathize in the grief and suffering of
those so sorely bereaved than to be thinking of ourselves and our own
enjoyment. The Bible bids us weep with those that weep, as well as to
rejoice with those that do rejoice!”

The captain earnestly strove to carry out that teaching, and nothing
was omitted or neglected that he could do to show his sympathy with
Edith’s heart-broken parents; or with Marian, who grieved sorely over
the loss of her friend—snatched from her in so sad a manner—and the
news that Lulu, to whom she had become warmly attached, was soon to
leave Minersville, probably never to return.

Lulu had been seized with a longing for the dear ones at
home—especially Gracie—and expected to feel only joy in turning her
back upon the little Western town in which she had sojourned so
pleasantly for the last four weeks, but, when the time came, found she
was a sharer to some extent in the grief at parting, that set Marian
to weeping bitterly.

“Don’t cry so, Marian,” Lulu said, with emotion. “I didn’t think you
cared so much for me.”

“Oh, I love you almost as if you were my sister!” sobbed Marian, “and
it nearly breaks my heart to think I shall never, never see you again.”

“But perhaps you may. Isn’t it possible, papa?” and Lulu turned
inquiringly to her father.

“Yes,” he said; “I may be visiting my property here again one of these
days, and in that case will be very likely to bring my eldest daughter
along.

“And Marian, my good girl, if ever you should be in need of a friend,
remember that Captain Raymond will be glad to do you any kindness in
his power.”

Marian and her mother both thanked him with earnest gratitude; both
felt that the day might not be far distant when they would stand in
sore need of his friendly offices, and with the knowledge they had
gained of his character in the last few weeks of daily intercourse,
they could not doubt the sincerity of his offer.

But the train that was to carry the Raymonds on their eastward way was
nearly due; the rest of the good-byes were hastily said, and in a few
moments they were seated in the cars and speeding onward.

It was a beautiful summer morning, and the spirits of the children soon
rose to such a height that they must find vent in chat and laughter.

“Papa,” exclaimed Lulu, “you actually haven’t told us where we are
going next!”

“To the sea-shore, as the end of this journey.”

“But that’s very indefinite; for the sea-shore of our big country is a
long, long strip,” she said laughingly.

“So it is; but can’t you trust me to take you to a pleasant part of it?”

“Oh, yes, sir, yes, indeed! and I’m always glad to go anywhere with
you,” resting her cheek affectionately against his shoulder and
squeezing his hand in both of hers.

“And we are perfectly willing to wait for the information till you are
ready to give it, sir,” added Max.

“Good children,” the captain said, smiling approvingly upon them. “I
had thought of giving you a surprise, but have no objection to telling
you now, that we have taken again the cottages we occupied the first
summer after my marriage to your Mamma Vi, and that she and Gracie and
the babies—the Ion and Fairview people too—are already there waiting
for us to join them. Are you satisfied with the arrangement, my dears?”

“I am, perfectly, papa,” Max replied.

“And I, too,” said Lulu. “Oh, I do think it will be very pleasant to
spend a while there again! And I hope I’ll be a great deal better child
to you than I was before, dear papa,” she whispered in his ear, her arm
about his neck.

“Dear child!” was all he said in reply, but the accompanying look and
smile spoke volumes of fatherly love and confidence.

THE END.

————————————— End of Book —————————————

Transcriber’s Note (continued)

Punctuation has been made consistent. However inconsistencies in
spelling, grammar, capitalisation and hyphenation have been retained
as they appear in the original publication except as noted below:

Page 9 – “port-monnaie” changed to “porte-monnaie” (producing his
porte-monnaie)

Page 21 – “of” changed to “off” (a chip off the old block)

Page 49 – “It was delight” changed to “It was a delight” (It was
a delight to Lulu)

Page 53 – “yon” changed to “you” (Are you pleased?)

Page 91 – “retuned” changed to “returned” (returned Max
insinuatingly)

Page 102 – “hath” changed to “had” (They both had risen to their feet)

Page 108 – “half inquiringly” changed to “half-inquiringly” (Grace
said, half-inquiringly,)

Page 179 – “leter” changed to “letter” (with an open letter)

Page 183 – “empire” changed to “Empire” (British Empire)

Page 184 – “mistranslations” changed to “mis-translations”
(corruptions or mis-translations)

Page 246 – “brave can” changed to “brave as can” (as brave as can be)

Page 249 – “one these” changed to “one of these” (You’ll try it one
of these evenings)

Page 261 – “qnivering” changed to “quivering” (in quivering tones)

Page 296 – “peace” changed to “Peace” (Peace of Utrecht)

Page 297 – “Alfred’s” changed to “Albert’s” (Albert’s countenance)

Page 300 – “nasteries” changed to “monasteries” (walls of the
monasteries)

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Elsie and the Raymonds" ***

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