The Schoolmaster's Story

I WAS in the shop of my friend on the day of the great snow-storm, when the plan was proposed which he mentions in the beginning of his story, called “Pink and Blue,” printed in this magazine in the month of May, 1861. Fears were entertained that some of the women might object. And they did. My sister Fanny, Mrs. Maybe, said it was like being set in a frame. Farmer Hill’s wife hoped we should n’t tell exactly how much we used to think of them, for “ praise to the face was open disgrace.” But my wife, Airs.. Browne, thought the stories should be made as good as possible, for praise could not hurt them so long as they knew themselves, just what they were. It was suggested by some one, that, if the married men told how they won their wives, there were a couple of old bachelors belonging to onr set who ought to tell bow they came to be without, which seemed very fair.

When the lot fell upon me, my wife laughed, and declared that our affairs ran so crooked, she did n’t believe I could tell a straight story. But Fanny said that would make it seem more like a book ; the puzzle to her was what I should call myself, seeing that I was neither one tiling nor another. It was finally agreed, however, that, as I had taught school one winter, and that an important one, I should call mine “ The Schoolmaster’s Story.” The truth is, my own calling would not look well at the head of an article, for I am by profession a loafer. For this vocation, which was my own deliberate choice, I was well prepared, having graduated, with a moderate degree of honor, from Cambridge College. I know of no profession requiring for its complete enjoyment a more thorough and varied preparation.

My sister Fanny and I were two poor orphans, brought up, fed, clothed, and loved by our Aunt Huldah. If it had not been for her, I don’t know what we should have done. Our Aunt Huldah was a widow and a manager. Nearly every person has among his acquaintances one individual, usually a female, who is called a good manager. She knows what is to be done, and who should do it, — picks out wives for the young men, husbands for the maidens, and attends herself to the matter of bringing them together. Sometimes these individuals become tyrannical, standing with vials of wrath all ready to he poured forth upon the heads of the unsubmissive, and it must be owned that our aunt was in this not wholly unlike the rest; but then she was so good-natured, so reasonable, that, although the aforesaid vials were often known to be well filled, yet her kindness and good sense always kept the corks in.

I think she took us partly from love, and partly to show how children ought to be managed. We got on admirably together. I was by no means a fiery youth. I was amiable, fond of books, had soft, light hair, fair complexion, a quiet, persevering way, and never ran after the girls. Taking all these things into consideration, my aunt determined that I should go to college, and become an honor to the family.

Fanny, though not a bit like me, got along equally as well with the reigning power. She was a smart, blaek-eyed maiden, full of life, and had herself some of the managing blood in her veins. In fact, so bright and so sly was my dear little sister, that she often succeeded in managing the Grand Panjandra herself. I speak thus particularly of Fanny, because, if it had not been for her, I might now have no story to tell. I never, from childhood to manhood, worked myself into any tight place, that her little scheming brain did not invent some way of getting me out.

When my collegiate labors were nearly finished, our aunt was taken poor. She was subject to these attacks, under which she always resorted to the heroic treatment, retrenching and economizing with the greatest zeal. This attack of hers was the primary cause of my taking a winter school in the little village ot Norway, about twenty miles from home. One evening, after school, the young folks stopped to slide down-bill. Rachel and a few little girls stood awhile, watching the sleds go by ; but it was cold standing still, and they soon moved homewards. I walked along by the side of Rachel: this was the first time I ever went home with her. I found she was living in the family of Squire Brewster, a family in which I had not yet boarded. After this I frequently walked home with her. Sometimes I would determine not to do so again, for I was afraid I was getting — I did n’t know where, but where I had never been before ; but when evening Came, and I saw how handsome she looked, and how all alone, I could n’t help it. It was not often I could get her to talk much. She was bashful, different from any girl I had ever met. The only friend she seemed to have was the young wife of the Doctor, Mrs. James. The Doctor, she said, had attended her through a fever, and asked no pay. His wife was kind, and lent her books to read.

I was perfectly willing to keep school; it seemed the easiest thing in the world.

The night before leaving home, my aunt summoned me to her chamber. She sat erect in her straight-backed chair, a tall, dark woman, in a bombazine gown, with white muslin frill and turban. Her eyes were black and deep. Her nose was rather above than below the usual height, and eminently fitted to bear its spectacles. She was evidently a person who thought before she acted, but who was sure to act after she had thought.

Good advice was what she wanted to give me. The world was a snare. The Devil was always on the lookout, and everywhere in a minute. She read considerable portions from the “ Boston Reconler,” after which she dropped some hints about the marriage-state,—said she had noticed, with pleasure, my prudence in not hurrying these matters, adding, that it was much safer to choose a wife from among our own neighbors and friends than to run the risk of marrying a stranger. No names were mentioned, but I knew she was thinking of Alice, the postmaster’s daughter, a fair young maiden, soft in speech, quiet in manners, and constant at meeting, — a maiden, in fact, of whom I had long stood in dread.

My school commenced the week after Thanksgiving. I had fancied myself appearing among my scholars like a king surrounded by his subjects. But these lofty notions soon melted down beneath the searching glances of forty pairs of eyes. A sense of my incompetency came over me, and I felt like saying,—“ Young people, little children, what can I do for you, and how shall I show you any good ? ”

The first thing I did was to take the names. Ah ! in what school-record of modern times could be found such a catalogue of the Christian virtues ? Think of mending pens for Faith and Prudence! — of teaching arithmetic to Love, Hope, and Charity!—of imparting general knowledge to Experience ! There were three of this last name, and it was only after a long experience of my own that I learned that the first was called “ Pelly,” the second, “ Exy,” and the third, “ Sperrence.” Penelope was rendered “ Pep.”

It gave me peculiar sensations to find among my scholars so many large girls. I have said that I had never been in the habit of running after the girls, and I never had. I was one of those quiet young men who read poetry, buy pictures and statues, and play the flute on still, moonlight evenings. Not that I was indifferent to female charms, or let beauty pass by unnoticed. In tact, I was keenly alive to the beautiful in all its forms. I had seen, in the course of my life, a great many handsome faces, which, in my quiet way, I had studied, when nobody was minding, comparing beauties, or imagining alterations for the better, just as if I had been studying a picture or a statue, and with no more fear of being myself affected. Passing strange it was, that, exposed as I had been, I should have remained so long unscathed. My time had not yet come. But now dangers thickened around me, and I felt that Aunt Huldah knew the world, when she said it was a snare. For, in glancing about the room carelessly, while taking the names, I could not but perceive that I was beset by perils on every side,— perils from which there seemed no possible escape : for no sooner did I turn resolutely away from a dove-like face in one corner than my eye was caught by a bright eye or a sweet smile in another; anud the admiring glance which with reluctance I withdrew from a graceful figure was arrested by a well-shaped head or a rosy cheek. One was almost a beauty, with her light curls and delicate pink cheeks; another was quite such: her smile was bewitching, and her eyes were roguish. But I soon found that there were other things to be attended to besides picking out the prettiest flowers in my winter bouquet.

I have intimated that my ideas regarding school-keeping were exceedingly vague. Nevertheless, I had in the course of my studies picked out and put together a system for the instruction and management of youth. This system I now proceeded to apply.

It is curious, as we trace back the current of our lives, to discover the multitude of whims, plans, and mighty resolves which lie wrecked upon the shore. cannot help smiling, as, in looking back upon my own life-stream, I discern the remains of my precious system lying high and dry among the rocks of that winter’s experience. Yet I tried all ways to make it go. I was like a boy with a new boat, who increases or lessens his ballast, now tries her with mainsail, foresail, topsail, jib, flying jib, and jibber jib, and now with bare poles, — anything to make her float. Each night I took my poor system home for repairs, and each morning, full of hope, tried to launch it anew in my school-room. I have always felt that wronged those scholars, that I learned more than I taught. I have no doubt of it.

I, of course, as was then the custom, boarded round; and this method of obtaining nourishment, though savoring somewhat of the Arab or the common beggar, I, on the whole, enjoyed. It gave me a much stronger interest in the children, seeing them thus in their own homes, where was so much love, so much solicitude for even the dullest of them. Besides this, I came in contact with all sorts of curious people, found new faces to study.

Another custom of the place I also fell in with, which was, to keep an eveningschool. All the school masters had kept one from time immemorial. This eveningschool I really enjoyed. Plenty of charming girls, too big or too busy to waste their daylight upon books, came from great distances, bringing their brothers and their beaux, all intent upon having a good time and getting on in their ciphering. Teaching them was a pleasure, for they felt the need of knowledge. I feel bound to say, however, that imparting knowledge was not my only pleasure. In intervals of leisure, before or after school, or at recess, I found much that was worthy attention. Seated at my desk, wrapped in my dignity, I watched, with many a sidelong glance, the progress of rustic love-making. I only mean by this, that from their general movements I constructed such love-stories as seemed to me probable. I learned who went with whom, who wished they could go with whom, who could and who could n’t, who did and who did n’t.

Did I not go into the business on my own account ? That is by no means an improper question. In fact, I might have expected it. Some have, no doubt, considered it a settled thing that I fell in love with the bright-eyed beauty, before mentioned, or with the pink-cheeked; but I beg that such fancies may be brushed away, that all may be in readiness to receive the true queen, who in due time will come to take possession of her kingdom. For I will be honest with you, and not, like most story-tellers, try to pull wool over your eyes all the way through. I will say openly, that I did first see the girl who was afterwards my wife in that cold little village of Norway. Cold it seems not to me now, in the light of so many warm, sunshiny memories!

When my evening-school had been in operation a few weeks, I noticed, one evening, at the end of the back-form on the girls’ side a new face. The owner of this new face was very quietly studying her book, a thin, blue-covered book, Temple’s Arithmetic. She was dressed in black,—not fine, glossy black, but black that was gray, rusty, and well worn. A very small silk handkerchief of the same color was drawn over her shoulders and pinned where its two corners met her gown in front, making a sort of triangle of whiteness,—some would say, “revealing a neck and throat pure and white as a lily-leaf” ; and they would say no more than the truth, only I never like to put things in that way. Just so white was her face. Her hair was black, soft, but not what the other girls would have called smooth, or “ slick.” It was pulled away behind her ears, and fixed up rather queerly in a great bunch behind, as if the only aim were to get it out of the way. The upper part of her face was the most striking, — the black eyebrows upon such a white, straight forehead. I am rather particular in describing this new face, because — well, perhaps because I remember it so distinctly. While I was studying her as, I might perhaps say, a work of Art, she suddenly raised her eyes, as people always do when they are watched. I looked away in a hurry, though her eyes were just what I wanted to see more of, for they were splendid eyes. “ Splendid” is not the right word, though. Deep, thoughtful, sorrowful, are the words which are floating about in my mind. I wondered how she would look when animated, and watched, at recess, for some of the others to talk to her.

But she seemed one by herself. While other girls chatted with their beaux, or whispered wonderful secrets, she remained sitting alone, now looking at her book, and now glancing around in a pitiful sort of way, that made me feel like going to speak to her. In fact, as her teacher, I was bound to do this, and, true to the promptings of duty, I walked slowly down the alley. As I paused by her side, she glanced up in my face. I never forgot that look. I might say that I never recovered from the effects of it. I asked about her studies, and very willingly explained a sum over which she had stumbled.

After this, she came every evening, and it usually happened that it was most convenient for me to attend to her at recess. Helping her in her sums was a pleasant thing to do, but in nothing was I more interested than in the writing-exercise. I felt that I was indeed fortunate to be in duty bound to follow the movement of her charming little hand across the page, to teach her pretty fingers how to hold the pen ; but then, if pleasure and duty would unite, how could I help it ? Then I had a way, all my own, of throwing looks sidelong at her face, while thus engaged ; but sometimes my eyes would get so entangled in her long lashes, that I could hardly turn them away before she looked up.

Yet I never thought then of being in love with the girl. Marriage was a subject upon which I had never seriously reflected. Much as I liked to watch, to criticize pretty faces, I never had thought of taking one for my own. I was like a good boy in a flower-garden, who looks about him with delight, admiring each beautiful blossom, but plucking none. Not that I meant to live a bachelor; for, whenever I looked forward, — an indefinite number of years, — I invariably saw myself sitting by my own fireside, with a gentle-faced woman making pinafores near me, a cradle close by, and one or two chaps reading stories, or playing checkers with beans and buttons. But this gentle maker of pinafores had never yet assumed a tangible shape. She had only floated before me, in my lonely moments, enveloped in mist, and far too indistinct for revealing the color of the eyes and hair. So I could not be in love with Rachel,—her name was Rachel Lowe,—only a sort of magnetism, as it would be called in these days, drew my eyes constantly that way. I soon found, however, that it was impossible to watch her face with that indifference with which, as I have before stated, it had been my custom to regard female beauty. Its peculiar expression puzzled me, and I kept trying to study it out. Interesting, but dangerous study ! The difficulties of school-keeping are by no means fully appreciated.

I was boarding at that time with a poor widow-woman, and one night I asked her about Rachel. She warmed up immediately, said Rachel Lowe was a good girl and ought to be “ sot by,” and not slighted on her parents’ account.

“ And who were her parents ? ” I asked.

“ Why, when her father was a poor boy, the Squire thought he would take him and bring him up to learnin’; but when he came to be a man grown almost, he ran away to sea; and long afterwards we heard of his marryin’ some outlandish girl, half English, half French, — but Rachel ’s no worse for that. After his wife died, — and, as far as I can find out, the way he carried on was what killed her,—he started to bring Rachel here ; but he died on the passage, and she came with only a letter. I suppose he thought the ones that had been kind to him would be kind to her ; but, you see, the Squire is a-livin' with his second wife, and she is n’t the woman the first Miss Brewster was. In time folks will come round, hut now they sort of look down upon her; for, you see, everybody knows who her father was, and how he did n't do any credit to his bringin’ up, and nobody knows who her mother was, only that she was a furrener, which was so much agin her. But you are goin’ right from here to the Squire’s ; and mebby, if you make of her, and let folks see that you set store by her, they ’ll begin to open their eyes.”

I thought I felt just like kissing the poor widow ; anyway, I knew I felt like kissing somebody. To be sure, the talk was all about Rachel, and it might----But no matter ; what difference does it make now who it was I wanted to kiss forty or fifty years ago ?

The next day I went to board at the Squire’s. It was dark when I reached the house ; the candles were just being lighted. The Squire, a kindly old man, met me in the porch and took my bundle. I followed him into the kitchen. There something more than common seemed to be going on, for chairs were being arranged in rows, and Mrs. Brewster was putting out of sight every article suggestive of work. There was to be an evening meeting. I watched the people as they came in, still and solemn. Not many of the women wore bonnets. All who lived within a moderate distance just stepped in with a little homespun blanket over the head, or a patchwork eradlequilt. I noticed Rachel when she entered and took her scat upon the settle. It will only take a minute to tell what a settle is, or, rather, was. If you should take a low wooden bench and add to it a high back and ends, you would make a settle. It usually stood near the fireplace, and was a most luxurious seat, — its high back protecting you from cold draughts aud keeping in the heat of the fire. It was now shoved back against the wall. This neighborhood-gathering was called a conference-meeting, being carried on by the brethren. I liked to hear them speak, because they were so much in earnest. The exercises closed with singing “ Old Hundred.” I joined at first, but soon there fell upon my ear such sweet strains from the other side of the room that I was glad to stop and listen. They came from the settle. It was Rachel, singing counter. Only those who have heard it know what counter is, and how particularly beautiful it is in “ Old Hundred.” I think it has already been intimated that I was somewhat poetical. It will not, therefore, be considered strange, that, when I heard those clear tones, rising high above the harsher ones around, above the grating bass of the brethren and the cracked voices of elderly females, I thought of summer days in the woods, when I had listened to the notes of the robin amid a chorus of locusts and grasshoppers.

Squire Brewster treated Rachel kindly ; but women make the home, and Mrs. Brewster was a hard woman. The neighbors said she was close, and would have more of a cat than her skin. Miss Sarah had been out of town to school, and was proud. Sam, the grown-up sou, was coarse, but just as proud as Ins sister. I disliked the way he looked at Rachel. Her position in the family I soon understood. She was there to take the drudgery from Mrs. Brewster, to be ordered about by Miss Sarah, tormented by the younger children, and teased, if not insulted, by Sam. What puzzled me was her manner towards them. She spoke but seldom, and, it seemed to me, had a way of looking down upon these people, who were so bent upon making her look up to them. The cross looks and words seemed not to hit her. Her deep, dark eyes appeared as if they were looking away beyond the scenes around her. I was very glad to see, however, that she could notice Sam enough to avoid him ; for to that young man I had taken a dislike, and not, as it turned, without reason.

One evening, during my second week at the Brewsters’, I sat long at my chamber-window, watching the fading twilight, the growing moonlight, and the steady snow-light. Presently I saw Rachel come out to take in the clothes. It seemed just right that she should appear then, for in her face were all three, — the shadowy twilight, the soft moonlight, and the white snow-light.

She wore a little shawl, crossed in front, and tied behind at the waist, and over her head a bright-colored blanket, just pinned under the chin. This exposed her face, and while I watched it, as it showed front-view or profile, not knowing which I liked best, admiring, meanwhile, the grace with which she reached up, where the line was high, sometimes springing from the ground, I saw Sam approaching, very slowly aud softly, from behind. When quite near, watching his opportunity, he seized her by the waist. He was going to kiss her. I started up, as if to do something, but there was nothing to be done. With a quick motion she slid from his grasp, stepped back, and looked him in the face. Not a word fell from her lips, only her silence spoke. “ I despise you ! There is nothing in you that words can reach ! ” was the speech which I felt in my heart she was making, though her lips never moved. Other things, too, I felt in my heart,—rather perplexing, agitating, but still pleasing sensations, which I did not exactly feel like analyzing. One of the children came out to take hold one side of the basket, and Sam walked away.

I went down soon after and took my favorite seat upon the settle, which was then in its own place by the fire. The children were in bed, the older ones had gone to singing-school, and Mrs. Brewster was at an evening-meeting. The Squire was at home with his rheumatism.

I liked a nice chat with the Squire, He was a great reader, and delighted to draw me into long talks, political or theological. My remarks on this particular evening would have been more brilliant, had not Rachel been sprinkling and folding clothes at the hack of the room. The Squire, in his roundabout, came exactly between us, so that, in looking up to answer his questions, I could not help seeing a white arm with the sleeve rolled above the elbow, could not. help watching the drops of water, as she shook them from her fingers. I wondered how it was, that, while working so hard, her hands should be so white. My sister Fanny told me, long afterwards, that some girls always have white hands, no matter how hard they work.

This question interested me more than the political ones raised by the Squire, and I became aware that mv answers were getting wild, by his eying me over his spectacles. Rachel finished the clothes, and seated herself, with her knitting-work, at the opposite corner of the fireplace. I changed to the other end of the settle: sitting long in one position is tiresome. She was knitting a gray woollen stocking. I think she must have been “ setting the heel,” for she kept counting the stitches. I had often noticed Fanny doing the same thing, at this turning-point in the progress of a stocking ; but then it never took her half as long. After knitting so many feet of . leg, though, any change must have been pleasant.

A mug of cider stood near one andiron ; leaning against the other was a flat stone, — the Squire’s “Simon.” It would soon be needed, for he was already nodding,— nodding and brightening up, — nodding and brightening up. While he slept, the room was still, unless the fire snapped, or a brand fell down. I said within myself, “ This is a pleasant time ! It is good to be here ! That cozy settle, that glowing fire, that good old man, that pure-hearted girl,— how distinctly do they now rise before me! It seems such a little, little while ago! For I feel young. I like to be with young folks; I like what they like. Yet deep lines are set in my forehead, the veins stand out upon my hands, and my shadow is the shadow of a stooping old man ; and when, from frequent weariness, I rest my head on my hand, the fingers clasp only smoothness, or, at best, but a few scattered locks,—wisps, I might as well say. If ever I took pride in anything, it was in my fine head of hair. Well, what matters it ? Since heart of youth is left me, I ’ll never mind the head.

Many writers speak well of age, and it certainly is not without its advantages, meeting everywhere, as it does, with respect and indulgence. Neither is it, so the books say, without its own peculiar beauty. An old man leaning upon his staff, with white locks streaming in the wind, they call a picturesque object. All this may be; still, I have tried both, and must say that my own leaning is towards youth.

Remembering the desire of the poor widow, that Rachel should be “made of,” I continued to walk home with her from evening-school, and to pay her many little attentions, even after I had left the Squire’s. The widow was right in saying, that, when folks saw that I “ set store” by her, they would open their eyes. They did, — in wonder that “ the schoolmaster should be so attentive to Rachel Lowe ! ” We were “ town-talk.”

I often, in the school-house entry, overheard the scholars joking about us; and once I saw them slyly writing our names together on the bricks of the fireplace. Everybody was on the look-out for what might happen.

One evening, in school-time, I stood a long while leaning over her desk, working out for her a difficult sum. On observing me change my position, to rest myself, she, very naturally, and almost unconsciously, moved for me to sit down, and I took a seat beside her, going on, all the while, with my ciphering. Happening to look up suddenly, I saw that half the school were watching us. I kept my scat with calmness, though I knew I turned red. I glanced at Rachel, and really pitied her, she looked so distressed, so conscious. That night she hurried home before I had put away my books, and for several evenings did not appear.

But if she could do without me, I could not do without her. I missed her face there at the end of the back-seat. I missed the walk home with her : I had grown to depend upon it. She was just getting willing to talk, and in what she said and the way she said it, in the tone of her voice, and in her whole manner, there was something to me extremely bewitching. She had been strangely brought up, was familiar with books, but, having received no regular education, fancied herself ignorant, and different from everybody.

Finding that she still kept away from the school, I resolved one night to call at the Squire’s. It was some time after dark when I reached there ; and as I stood in the porch, brushing the snow from my boots, I became aware of loud talking in the kitchen. Poor Rachel! both Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were upon her, laughing and sneering about her “ setting her cap ” for the schoolmaster, and accusing her of trying to get him to come home with her, of moving for him to sit down by her side ! Once I heard Rachel’s voice, — “Oh, please don’t talk so! I don’t do as you say. It is dreadful for you to talk so ! ” I judged it better to defer my call, and walked slowly along the road. It was not very cold, and I sat down upon the stone wall. I sat down to think. Presently Rachel herself hurried by, carrying a pitcher. She was bound on some errand up the road. I called out, —

“ Rachel, stop ! ”

She turned, in affright, and, upon seeing me, hurried the more. But I overtook her, and placed her arm within mine in a moment, saying, —

“ Rachel, you are not afraid of me, I hope ! ”

“ Oh, no, Sir ! no, indeed ! ” she exclaimed.

“ And yet you run away from me.”

She made no answer.

“ Rachel, ’ I said, at last, “ I wish you would talk to me freely. I wish you would tell what troubles you.”

She hesitated a moment; and when, at last, she spoke, her answer rather surprised me.

“ I ought not to be so weak, I know,” she replied ; “ but it is so hard to stand all alone, to live my life just right, that sometimes I get discouraged.”

I had expected complaints of ill treatment, but found her blaming no one but herself.

“ And who said you must stand alone ? ” I asked.

“ I hat was one of the things my mother used to say.”

“And what other things did she say ? ”

Oh, Mr. Browne,” she replied, “ I wish I could tell you about my mother!

But I can’t talk; I am too ignorant; I don’t know how to say it. When she was alive, she continued, speaking very slowly, “ I never knew how good she was ; but now her words keep coining back to me. Sometimes I think she whispers them, — for she is an angel, and you know the hymn says,

‘There are angels hovering round.'

When we sing,

'Ye holy throng of angels bright,’

I always sing to her, for I know she is listening.”

Here she stopped suddenly, as if frightened that she had said so much. The house to which she was going was nowclose by. I waited for her to come out, and walked back with her towards home. After proceeding a little way in silence, I said, abruptly, —

“ Rachel, do they treat you well at the house yonder ? ”

She seemed reluctant to answer, but said, at last, —

“ Not very well.”

“ Then, why stay ? Why not find some other home ? ”

“I don’t think it is time yet,” she replied.

“ I don’t understand you. I wish -----

Rachel, can’t you make a friend of me, since you have no other ? ”

“ I will tell you as well as I can,” she replied, “ what my mother used to say. She said we must act rightly.”

“ That is true,” I replied; “ and what else did she say ? ”

“ She said, that that would only be the outside life, but the inside life must be right too, must be pure and strong, and that the way to make it pure and strong was to learn to bear.“

“ Still,” I urged, “ I wish you would find a better home. You cannot learn to bear any more patiently than you do,”

She shook her head.

“ That shows that you don’t know,” she answered. “ It seems to me right to remain. Why, you know they can’t hurt me any. Suppose they scold me when I am not to blame, aud my temper rises,— for I am very quick-tempered ”-----

“ Oh, no, Rachel!”

“ Oh, yes, Mr. Browne! Suppose my temper rises, and I put it down, and keep myself pleasant, do I uot do myself good ? And thinking about it in this way, is not their unkindness a benefit to me,—to the real me,—to the soul of Rachel Lowe ? ”

I hardly knew what to say. Somehow, she seemed away up above me, while I found that I had, in common with the Brewsters, only in a different way, taken for granted my own superiority.

“ All this may be true,” I remarked, after a pause, “ but it is not the common way of viewing things.”

“Perhaps not,” she answered. “My mother was not like other people. My father was a strong man, hut he looked up to her, and he loved her; but he killed her at last,—with his conduct, be killed her. But when she was dead, be grew crazy with grief, he loved her so. He talked about her always, — talked in an absent, dreamy way about her goodness, her beauty, ber white hands, her long hair. Sometimes he would seem to be whispering with her, and would say, softly, — 'Oh, yes ! I ’ll take care of Rachel ! pretty Rachel! your Rachel! ’ ”

I longed to have her go on ; but we had now reached the bars, and she was not willing to walk farther.

“ I have been talking a great deal about myself,” she said; “ but you know you kept asking me questions.”

“ Yes, Rachel, I know I kept asking you questions. Do you care? I may wish to ask you others.”

“ Oh, no,” she replied; “ but I could not answer many questions. I have only a few thoughts, and know very little.”

I watched her into the house, and then walked slowly homewards, thinking, all the way, of this strange young girl, striving thus to stand alone, working out her own salvation. I passed a pleasant night, half sleeping, half waking, having always before my eyes that white face, earnest and beautiful, as it looked up to me in the winter starlight, and in my ears her words, “ Is not their unkindness a benefit to me, — to the real me, — to the soul of Rachel Lowe ?”

But spring came ; my school drew to a close ; and I began to think of home, Aunt Huldah, and Fanny. I wished that my sister could see Rachel. I knew she would appreciate her, for there was depth in Fanny, with all her liveliness. Sometimes I imagined, just imagined, myself married to Rachel. But then there was Aunt Huldah,—what would she say to a foreigner ? And I was dependent upon Aunt Huldah. Besides, how did I know that Rachel would have me ? Was I equal to her ? Hew worthless seemed my little stock of book-learning by the side of that heart-wisdom which she had coined, as it were, from her own sorrow !

My last day came, and I had not spoken. In fact, we latterly had both grown silent. I was to leave in the afternoon stage. I gave the driver my trunk, telling him to call for me at the Squire’s, — for I must bid Rachel good-bye, and in some way let her know how I felt towards her. As I drew near the bouse, I saw that she was drawing water. I stepped quickly towards the well, but Sam appeared just then, and I could not say one word. She walked into the house. I went behind with the waterpad, and Sam followed us into the porch. Rachel was going up-stairs, but I took her hand to bid her good-bye. Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were in the kitchen, watching. “ Quite a love-scene ! ” I heard them whisper. “ I do believe he ’ll marry her ! ”

Now, although I was by nature quiet, yet I could be roused. Bidding good-bye to Rachel had stirred the very depths of my nature. I longed to take her in my arms, and bear her away to my own quiet home. And when, instead of this, I thought of the life to which I must leave her, it needed but those sneering whispers to make me speak out, — and I did speak out. Taking her by the hand, I stepped quickly forward, and stood before them.

“ And so I will marry her! ” I exclaimed. “ If she will accept me, I shall be proud to marry her! ”

“ Rachel,” said I, turning towards her, “ this is strange wooing; but before these people I ask, Will you be my wife ? ” The astonished spectators of our lovescene looked on in dismay.

“ Mr. Browne ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, “ do you know what you are doing ? I have no ill-will to the girl; but I feel it my duty to tell you who and what she is.”

“ I know what Rachel Lowe is, Madam ! ” I cried, almost fiercely; “ you don’t, — you can’t! ”

Then, turning to the trembling girl, I said again, —

“ Rachel, say, will you be my wife ? ” At this moment Sam came forward. His face was pale, and he trembled.

“ No, Rachel,” said he, “ don’t be his wife! Be mine ! I have n’t treated you right, I know I have n’t; but I love you, you don’t know how much! The very way you have tried to keep me off has made me love you ! ”

“ Sam ! stop ! ” cried his mother, in a rage. “ What do you mean ? You know you won’t marry that girl! ”

“Mother,” exclaimed Sam, “you don’t know anything about her ! She is worth every other girl in the place, and handsomer than all of them put together! ”

“ Sam ! ” began Miss Sarah.

“ Now, Sarah, you stop ! ” cried he. “I’ve begun, and now I ’ll tell. At first I teased her for fun. Then I watched her to see how she bore everything so well. And while I was watching, I — before I knew it—I began to love her. You may talk, if you want to; but I shall never he anybody, if she won’t have me !”

“ Stage coming ! ” said a little boy, running in.

I took Rachel by the hand, and drew her with me into the porch.

“ Don’t promise to marry him ! ” cried Sam, as we passed through the door-way. “But she will, — I know she will!” he added, as I closed the door.

He spoke in a pitiful tone, and his voice trembled. I was surprised that he showed so much feeling.

“ Rachel,” said I, as soon as we were alone, “ won’t you answer me now ? Yon must know how much I love you. Will you be my wife ? ”

“ Oh, Mr. Browne, I cannot! I cannot ! ” she whispered.

I was silent, for my fears came uppermost. Pressing one hand to my forehead, I thought of a thousand things in a moment. Nothing seemed more probable than that she should already have a lover across the sea. Seeing my distress, she spoke.

“ Don’t think, Mr. Browne,” she began, earnestly, “ that it is because I do not ”-----

There she stopped. I gazed eagerly in her face. It was strangely agitated. I should hardly have known my calm, white-faced Rachel. Just then I heard the stage stop at the bars.

“ Oh, Rachel ! ” I cried, “ go on ! What must n’t I think? What shall I think ? ”

“ Don’t think me ungrateful, — you have been so kind,” she said, softly.

“ And is that all ? ” I asked.

“ Stage ready !” called out the driver.

I opened the door, to show that I was coming; then, taking her hand, I said, —

“ Good bye, Rachel! And so — you can’t love me ! ”

An expression of pain crossed her face. She leaned against the wall, but did not speak.

“ Hurry up there ! ” shouted the driver.

“ Yes, yes ! ” I cried, impatiently.

“ If you can’t speak,” I went on to Rachel, “ press my hand, if you can love me,—now, for I am going. Good bye! ”

She did not press my hand, and I could not go.

“ You can’t say you love me,” I cried; “ then say you don’t. Anything rather than this doubt.”

“ Oh, Mr. Browne ! ” she replied, at last, “ I can’t say anything—but—good bye ! ”

“ Good bye, then,” I said, sadly. “ But shall you still live here ? ”

“ Oh, no ! ” she exclaimed, earnestly ;

“ you can’t think that I ”-----

Here she stopped, and glanced towards the kitchen-door.

“ No,” said I, “ I won’t think it. But where will you stay ? ”

“ With Mrs. James. You know her.

I have already spoken with her.”

The tramp of the driver was now heard, approaching.

“ Any passenger here hound for Boston ? ”

“ Yes, Sir,” I answered, and with one more whispered good-bye, one. wring of the hand, I passed out, gave my bundle to the driver, and entered the coach.

What a ride home that was ! What a half-day of doubting, hoping, despairing! I had not before realized how sure I had been of her accepting me ; and now that I felt how much I loved her, and thought of the many causes which might separate us, I could not but say over in my heart the sorrowful words of poor Sam, — “I shall never be anybody, if she won’t have me.” Still, though not accepted, I could not feci refused ; for what was it I read in her face ? why so agitated ? That she struggled with some strong feeling was evident. The remembrance, perhaps, of a former love.

In this tumult, this miserable condition, I reached home, where, spreading my old calmness over my new agitation, I received, as best I might, the joyful greeting of Fanny, the heartfelt welcome of Aunt Huldah. I tried hard to be my own old self, and could not but hope that even my sharp-eyed sister was blinded. But no sooner had I entered my room for the night, no sooner had I thrown myself into my deep - cushioned arm-chair, than this lively sprite entered, on her way to bed. She seated herself on the trunk close by me, laid her hand upon my arm, and said, —

“ What is it, Charley ? ”

“ What, Fanny ? ” I asked.

“ Now, Charley,” said she, “you might as well speak out at once. Why was I

left, when all the rest were taken, but that you might have at least one that you loved to tell your troubles to ? Come, now ! Take off that manner of yours; you might as well, for I can see right through it. You will feel better to let everything out, — and then, who knows but I might help you ? ”

Sure enough. It was strange, considering what Fanny had always been to me, that this had not occurred to my own mind. How natural it seemed now to tell her all about it ! What a relief it would he ! But how should I begin ? I shrank from it. I began to come round to my first position. It seemed as if the corner of my heart which held Rachel was a holy of holies, too sacred to be entered even by my dear, good sister. While I was thinking, she watched my face.

“ Ah! ” said she, “ I see you don’t, know how to begin, and that I must both listen and talk. Give me your hand. Have n’t I got gypsy eyes ? I will tell your fortune.”

Dear little bright-faced Fanny! I smiled a real smile when she took my hand.

“ It is about a girl ? ” she said, half inquiringly.

I colored, though it was only Fanny, and nodded, —

“ Yes.”

“ You love the girl ? ” she continued, after a pause.

“ I do love the girl ! ” I said, earnestly, — for, now that the curtain was lifted, she might see all she chose.

“ And she loves you ? ”

“No, — I think so,— I don’t know,” was my satisfactory reply.

“ But why don’t you ask her ? ”

“ I have asked her.”

“ And what did she say ? I wish, Charley, you would begin at the beginning and tell me all about it. How can I help you, if I don’t know ? ”

I was glad enough to do it. I began at the beginning, and told all there was to tell. It was not much,— for the beauty, the goodness, the patience of Rachel could not be told. When all was over, she said, —

“ I am glad you have told me, for I can make you easy on one point. She loves you. Ah, I can see ! Women can always see, but men are stupid. Your declaration was too sudden. She might have thought you were forced into it. She is too high-minded to take advantage of a moment when your feelings were all excited. Wait awhile. Let her see that you do not change, and she will give you just such an answer as you will like to hear. Why, Charley, I like her better for not accepting you than for anything you have told about her.”

“ Well, Fanny,” I said, half sighing, “ it may be so,—I hope it may be so; but if it does turn out as you say, how shall we manage about Aunt Huldah ? You know how she feels ; and then there is Alice.”

“ What a brother you are ! ” exclaimed Fanny. “ No sooner do I get you out of one difficulty than you go beating against another ! Perhaps I shan’t like her; then how will you manage about me? It is not every girl I will take for a sister ! And as for Alice, do you think she is waiting for you all this time, vain man ? She ’s got another beau. But now,” she went on, as soon as she could stop laughing, “go to bed, and sleep easy, knowing that Rachel loves you, for I have said it. She loves you too well to take you at your word. I hope she is n’t too good for you. I will think it all over, and see what can be done. Good night! Kiss me now for what I have told you, just as you would Rachel, if she had told you herself.”

And I did, almost.

The next afternoon Fanny and I went out for a long walk. Aunt Huldah encouraged our going, for she was coloring, and wanted from the store both indigo and alum.

“ Do you know the person with whom Rachel is staying?” asked Fanny, as soon as we were fairly started.

“Mrs. James? Yes, she is a nice young woman.”

“ Do you think Rachel would like to learn the milliner’s trade ? It would be a good thing for her.”

“ So it would ; but where ? ”

“ Does she know much of your friends, of how you are situated ? ”

“ No. In the few hours we were together I was too much occupied in drawing her out to speak of my own affairs.”

“ I suppose she knows where you live ? ”

“ I don’t know ; I think, if I spoke of any place, it was Cambridge, — I hailed from there.”

“Well,” said Fanny, thoughtfully, “ perhaps it will make no difference. Anyway, it will do to try it. There are many Brownes. Besides, Aunt Huldah will be different. She will be Sprague, I shall be only Fanny, and Charley will be Charley.”

“ My dear Fanny!” I exclaimed, “ what are you saying ? ”

“ Why, you see, buddy,” — she often called me “buddy” for “ brother,” — “ that, if Rachel loves you, and you love her, you will have each other. If Aunt Huldah is angry, and won’t give you any of her money, still you will be married, even if you both have to work by the day. Does this seem clear ? ”

I laughed, and said, —

“ Very, — and right, too,”

“ Still,” she went on, “ it will be better for all concerned to have Aunt Huldah like her. Don’t you remember that one summer a young girl from the milliner’s boarded with us, and helped us, to pay her board ? ”

“ Capital! ” I said. “ But can you manage it ? ”

“ I think I can. Mrs. Sampson is, I know, wanting a girl for the busy season.”

“ But Rachel would n’t come here, — to my home ! ”

“ She need not know it is your home. I will write to Mrs. Janies, and tell her all about it,—tell why I want Rachel here, and what a good situation it will be for her at Mrs. Sampson’s. She can find out whether the plan is pleasing to her; and if it is, slie can herself make all the arrangements. Of course I shall charge her not to tell. Then, when everything is settled, I can just say to the milliner that we should like to make the same little arrangement that we did before.”

“ And she live here with you, with Aunt Huldah ? ”

“ Why not ? She need n't know that Mrs. Huldah Sprague is your aunt, or that this is your home.”

“ But she would find it out some way. People calling would mention me. Aunt herself would.”

“ I know it,” said Fanny, not quite so hopefully; “and that is the weak point of my plan. But then, you know, we are. Charley and Fanny to everybody. She only thinks of you as Mr. Browne. Anyway, something will he gained. I shall see her, and decide about liking her, which is quite important; and it will be well for her to have the situation, even if nothing else comes of it.. I don't see any harm our scheme can do; do you, Charley ? ”

“ No, — no harm ; but still, tilings don’t look — exactly clear.”

“ Of course not; it is not to be expected. I have read in books that lovers have always a mist before their eyes. Mine are clear yet; and I will tell you what to do, — or, rather, what not to do. Don’t write her from here ; wait till you are in Cambridge.”

By this time we reached the house. The moment we entered, Aunt Huldah stretched out her hand for the dye-stuff. We had forgotten all about, it!

Those few days at borne were pleasant. Aunt Huldah was unusually kind. It was such a satisfaction to her to know that I bad kept a school, — to think that some of her own pluck was hid beneath my quiet seeming. She proposed my becoming a lawyer, to which I made no objection, — for I knew I could make a dumb lawyer, one of the kind who only sit and write.

I wrote to Rachel from Cambridge, and she answered my letter. It was like herself. “ How very kind you have been,” she wrote, “ to me, a poor stranger-girl I If I knew bow to write, I would try to let you know bow much I feel it. I can’t understand your wanting to marry a girl like me. I know so little, am so little.

I hope it will not offend you, but I think I ought to say, even if it does, that you must not write any more. Sometime you will thank me, in your heart, for not doing as you want me to now.”

I saw that I had indeed a noble nature to deal with. Here was a girl, all alone in the world, rejecting the sweetest offering that could be made to a friendless one, — a loving heart, — lest that heart should he made to suffer on her account! Of course I kept on writing, though my letters were not answered. I sent her letter to Fanny, who wrote me to keep up good courage, for she had already put her irons in the fire,—that, although now fully convinced that Rachel was too good for me, she had herself begun to love her, and was at work on her own account.

I always kept Fanny’s letters. Here is a part of one I received after having been a few weeks from home : —

“ I have just got my answer from Mrs. James. She is just the woman to help us along. Rachel wants to come ! I have spoken to Aunt Huldah. It is too bad, but I bad to be a bit of a hypocrite, to hint that I was rather poorly, and how nice it would be to have a little help. She had just got in a new piece to weave, and so was quite ready to take up with my plan. I shall get well as soon as it will do, for she seems anxious. Aunt has a stiff way, I know, but there ’s a warm corner somewhere in her heart, and we are in it, and you know there’s always room for one more.”

It was a week, and more, before I got another letter from my scheming sister. It began this way : —

“ Your Rachel is a beauty ! Just as sweet and modest as she can be ! She is sitting at the end-window of my room, watching the vessels. I am writing at the front-window. She has just looked at me. What eyes she has! If she only knew whom I was writing to! When I see you, I shall tell you the particulars. But don’t come posting home now, and spoil everything. You shall hear all that is necessary lor you to know.”

Fanny need not have cautioned me about coming home. It was happiness enough then to think of Rachel sitting in my sister’s room, — of Aunt Huldah’s keen eyes watching her daily life,

“My plan works,” writes Fanny, a week afterwards. “ Aunt seems to take a liking to Rachel, which I, if anything, rather discourage, thinking she will be more likely to stick to it. Rachel is a sister after my own heart. I do like those people who, while they are so steady and calm, show by their eyes and the tone of the voice what warm, delicate feelings they are keeping to themselves ! She is one of the real good kind ! What a way she has with her! — I saw her to-day, when she received a letter from you. It came in one from Mrs. James. I was making believe read, but peeped at her sideways, just as I have seen you do at the girls in meeting-time. She slipped yours into her pocket, with such a blush, — then looked up, sort of scared, to see if I noticed anything; but I was reading my book. Then she stepped quickly out of the room, and I saw her, a moment after, go through the garden into the appleorchard, and along the path to the low-branching apple-tree, to read it all alone.”

This tree I knew well. It was an irregular old apple-tree, one of whose branches formed of itself a nice seat, where Fanny and I had often sat from childhood up.

Afterwards she writes, —

“ You have sent Rachel a ring,—a pearl ring; yon did n’t tell me, but I know. I have seen her kiss it. (Does this please you ?) I happened to find it yesterday, while rummaging her box for the buttonhole scissors. (She sent me there.) Said I,—‘ Oh, what a pretty ring ! Why don’t you wear it ? ’ I never thought till I had spoken ; but then I knew in a minute, by her looking so red. She said she’d a reason for thinking it would not be quite right to wear it,—said perhaps she would tell sometime. It was last night I saw her kiss it, when she thought I was asleep, — we sleep in the same room. She tried it on her finger, but took it right off again, sighing, and looking so sad that I don’t know what I should have done, had I not known how it was all coming out right pretty soon.—Aunt Huldah is completely entangled in my web. She has come into it with her sharp eyes wide open ! She likes Rachel,—says she always knows where to take hold, and makes no fuss about doing things. She gets her to read the chapter, because she says she likes the sound of her voice. There is not only sound, but feeling in her voice, and that is what aunt means; but you know she never says all she means, — she is n’t one of the kind. Rachel is always doing little things for her, and bringing home bunches of sweet-fern and everlasting. Even if my plan upsets now, much will be gained,—for aunt can’t get back her liking, I have found a dear friend, and Rachel a good place. Your name has been mentioned, but only as Charley. I am in daily fear that aunt will allude to your school, though, to be sure, she is not at all communicative, (girls having brothers in college should use a big word now and then.) but we are getting so well acquainted that I begin to shake in my shoes. But the mornings are busy, the noons are short, and you know aunt always goes to bed with the hens. My dread is of callers,—not just the neighbors running in, but the regulars. It is so natural for them to say, 'How is your nephew ? ’ — not that they care for you, except as being something to talk about.”

Soon after, came the following: —

“ Charley, my boy, what I feared has come to pass ! Last night our new young minister called. He is a good young man, I know, but so stiff! Not too stiff, though, to take a good look at Rachel. We all sat up straight in our chairs. His eyes were deep and black, his face pale and solemn. He was all in black, but just the white about his throat. When the weather, the prospects of the farmers, and of the church, were all over with, then came an awful pause. Then it was that I began to shiver, and that the mischief was done. ‘ Mrs. Sprague,’ he began,

‘ I understand you have a nephew, not now at home, who taught school last winter in the little village of Norway.’ You may guess the rest. There was a long talk about you. Rachel has n’t said a word, but I see by her face that she is laying some desperate plan. Now, Charley, is your time ! Hurry home ! Come and spend next Sunday. Aunt spoke of your coming in four weeks, but I shall look for you next Saturday night. She gets through work earlier then. The stage reaches here about sunset. Stop at the tavern, and run home over the hills. You will come out behind the orchard, and Rachel and I will be sitting on the branch of the low apple-tree.”

Now I had been getting uneasy for some time. All this while I bad been living on Fanny’s letters. Now I wanted more. It was much to know that Rachel loved me, but I longed to bear her say so. I depended upon her. She seemed already a part of myself. My shadowy pinafore-maker had assumed a living form of beauty, and was already more to me than I had ever imagined woman could be to man, than one soul could be to another. I had always, in common with other men, considered myself as an oak destined in the course of Nature to support some clinging vine; but, if I were an oak-tree, she was another, with an infinitude more of grace and beauty.

As may be supposed, I required no urging to take the Saturday’s stage for home. We arrived at sunset. I made for the hills with all speed, rushing through bushes and briers, leaping brooks at a bound, until I came out just behind the orchard. There I paused. My happiness seemed so near that I would fain enjoy, before grasping it. I walked softly along under the trees, until I came in sight of two girls sitting with their arms around each other’s waists upon the low branch of the apple-tree. There was just room for two. The branch, after running parallel with the ground for a little way, took a sudden turn upwards; and to this natural seat I had myself, in my younger days, added a back of rough branches. I came towards them from behind, and hid myself awhile behind the trunk of a tree. Fanny was making Rachel talk, making her laugh, in spite of herself, as I could well see, Then she began to play with her dark hair, twining it prettily about her bead, and twisting among it damask roses with their buds, —for it was June, and our damask rose-bush was then always in full bloom.

If Rachel had been beautiful in her rusty black dress, what could I say of her now ? She wore a gown of pink gingham, made after the fashion of the day, short-waisted and low in the neck, with a—finishing-off— of white muslin or lace, edged with a tucker. There was color in her cheeks, and added to this was the glow from the roses, and from the pink gown. When she smiled, her mouth was beautiful. I had not been used to seeing her smile. As she threw her arm over the back of the seat, in turning her face towards Fanny, laughing as I had never before seen her laugh, I was so bewildered by the beauty of her face and figure that I forgot my caution, and made a hasty step towards her. The grass was soft, but they heard the noise and turned full upon me.

“ Why, Charley ! yon dear boy ! ” exclaimed Fanny; and she came running up, throwing both arms around my neck.

I kissed her ; and then she drew me towards Rachel, who stood, like one in despair, trembling, blushing, almost weeping.

“ Charley,” cried Fanny, roguishly, “kiss me, kiss my friend. This is my friend. Won’t you kiss her, too ? ”

“ With pleasure,” I answered, with too much of deep feeling to laugh. “ Rachel, I always mind Fanny; you will not, then, think It strange, if I ”-----

I cannot finish the sentence on paper, because it bad not a grammatical ending.

I kept hold of Rachel’s hand, thus adding to her distress, — telling her, all the while, how good it was to see her, and to see her there. She tried to withdraw her hand, tried to speak, tried to keep silent, and at last burst out with,—

“ Oh, Fanny! do tell him that I did n’t know,— that I had no idea, — that you asked me,—that you never told me ! ”

“ Charley,” said Fanny, laughing, “ did you ever know me to tell a lie ? To my certain knowledge, this young woman came here to board, expecting to find nothing worse than Aunt Huldah and myself; and it was at my suggestion she came.”

Then taking Rachel by the hand, she said,—

“ Be easy, my dear child. You need not feel so pained. Charley loves you, and you love him, and we all love one another. Charley Is a dear boy, and you must n’t plague him. I will tell you all about it, dear. When Charley came home, and I made him tell me about you, I knew, from what he said, that you were ----But I won’t praise you to your face. Has n’t Charley seen plenty of girls, handsome girls, educated, accomplished ? And have n’t I watched him these years, to see when Love would catch him ? Have n’t I searched his face, time and again, for signs of love at his heart ? When he came home in the spring, I saw that his time had come, and trouble with it. I made him tell, for I would not send him away with a grief shut up in his heart. Then I contrived this plan of seeing and knowing you, dear. I knew that Charley would never have been so deeply moved, had you not been worthy; but, my dear child, I never thought of loving you so ! I shall be so proud, if you will be my sister, — for you will, I know. You can’t refuse such a dear boy as Charley! ”

I still held Rachel by the hand ; and while Fanny was speaking so earnestly, my other hand, of itself, went creeping around her waist, and drew her close to me.

“ You can’t refuse,” I whispered, repeating Fanny’s words; and I knew by the look in her face, and the way her heart beat, that she could n’t.

But Fanny was one who never liked deep waters. Seeing that matters were growing earnest, she rose quickly to the surface, and went rattling on, in her lively way.

“ Now, come, you two, and sit down in this cozy seat. You have never had a nice time all to yourselves, to make love in. Ah ! how well you look together ! Just room enough! Rachel, dear, rest your head on Charley’s shoulder. You must. Charley always minds me, and you will have to. How, buddy, just drop your head on hers a minute. Capital ! Your light curls make her hair look more like black velvet than ever ! That will do. How I leave you to your fate, I am rattle-headed, I know, but I hope I have some consideration.”

And so she left us, sitting there in the twilight, in the solemn hush of Saturday night.

The next day we all went to meeting. It seemed good that I was only to spend Sunday at home. The quiet, the air of solemnity all around us, harmonized well with the song my own soul was singing. It was Sabbath-day within, one long, blessed Sabbath, with which the bustle of week-day life would ill accord. That perfect day I never forgot. Even now I can scent its roses in the air. Even now I can almost feel the daisies brushing against my feet, while walking up the narrow lane on our way to church, —can see the sweetbrier by the red gate, and myself giving Rachel one of its blossoms.

During the rest of the term I had frequent letters from Fanny and Rachel, telling how happy they both were, and what talks they had in the apple-tree,— telling that Aunt Huldah knew, but was n’t angry, only just a little at Fanny, for being so sly. Then came the long summer vacation. The very day I got home, the solemn young minister called. Fanny said that he came often, but she thought he would do so no longer, for he would see that it was of no use to be looking at Rachel. He did, however, and Rachel said he came to look at Fanny. I bestirred myself, therefore, to become acquainted with him. His stiffness was only of the manners. I found him a genial, cultivated, warm-hearted person ; in fact, I liked him. How cold the word sounds now, applied to one whom I afterwards came to love as a brother, whose gentle heart sympathized in all our troubles, whose tears were ever ready to mingle with our own !

He gave ns every opportunity of finding him out, joined us in our sunset walks, and in our long sittings under the trees. I soon came to be well satisfied that he should look at Fanny, — satisfied that she should watch for his coming, and blush when he came. I was happy to see the mist she once spoke of slowly gathering before her own eyes, and to know, from the strange quiet which came over her, that some new influence was at work within her heart.

The beauty of Rachel seemed each day more brilliant. Amid such happy influences, the lively, genial side of her nature expanded like a flower in the sunshine. “ The soul of Rachel Lowe,” having no longer to stand alone, bearing the weight of its own sorrows, brought its energies to promote the happiness of us all. She contrived pleasant surprises, and charmed Aunt Huldah with her constant acts of kindness. She sang beautiful songs, and filled the house with flowers ; and when we sat long, in the cool of the evening, out under the trees, she would relate strange, wild stories which she had heard from her mother,—stories of other times and distant lands.

Meanwhile Aunt Huldah was as kind as heart could wish, treating us tenderly, and as if we were little children ; and one stormy night, when we four sat with her in the keeping-room, talking, until daylight faded, and the short twilight left us nearly in darkness, she told us some things about her own youth, things of which, by daylight, she would never have spoken, — and told, too, of a dear, only brother, who was ruined for all time, and, she feared, for eternity also, from being crossed in love by the strong will of his father. Aunt Huldah had a tender heart. Her voice grew thick and hoarse, while telling the story. I was always glad we had that talk. It made us know her better. She lived only a year after. She died in June, when the grass was green and the roses were in bloom, —just a year from that Sabbath I spent at home, that perfect day when I walked to meeting with Rachel up the grassy lane. With sad hearts, we laid her to rest in a spot that she loved, where the sweet-fern and wild-roses were growing,—with sad, grateful hearts, for she had been to us as father, mother, and true friend. We loved her for the affection she showed, and still more for that which we knew she concealed within herself,—for the tenderness she would not let be revealed.

The next year Rachel and I were married, thus making the month of June trebly sacred. We had a double wedding ; for the young minister, finding that he had looked at Fanny too long for his own tranquillity, proposed to mend matters in a way which no one whose faculties were not strangely betwisted by love would ever have thought of. And my sister must either have secretly liked the plan, or else have lost her old faculty of managing; for, when he said, “ Come, Fanny, and let us dwell together in the parsonage,” she went, just as quiet as a lamb.

Rachel and I remained, and do remain to this day, at the old house. Fanny said we ought to go into the world,— that I might possibly become brilliant, and Rachel would certainly be admired. But the first of these suggestions had little weight with me ; and Rachel said how nice it would be to live here among the apple-trees, near Fanny, to read books, sing songs, and so have a good time all our lives !

“ And have nobody but Charley see how handsome you are! ” exclaimed Fanny.

Rachel did n’t color at this, but remarked, a little roguishly, that she would rather have one of those sidelong looks I used to give her in the old school-house than all the admiration in the world.

This was the time when I chose my profession, as mentioned in the beginning. And I may say that we have had a good time all our lives. Yet we have known sorrow. Four times has the dark shadow fallen upon our hearts ; four sad processions have passed up the narrow lane ; four little graves, by the side of Aunt Huldah’s, show where, standing together, we wept tears of agony ! Yet we stood together; and Rachel, who knew so well, taught me how to bear. In every hour of anguish I have found myself leaning upon the strong, steadfast “ soul of Rachel Lowe.” I say still, therefore, that we have had a good time, for we have loved one another all our lives. And we have never been too much alone. Plenty of friends have been glad to come and see us ; and on Anniversary Week we have usually made a journey to Boston, to wear off the rust, and get stirred up generally. We attend most frequently the AntiSlavery Conventions. I know of no better place, whether for getting stirred up, or wearing off the rust. That couple whom you may have noticed sitting near the platform — that bald-headed old gentleman and intelligent-looking elderly lady —are my wife and I. We met with the early Abolitionists in a stable ; we saw Garrison dragged through the streets, and heard Phillips’s first speech in Faneuil Hall.

I have always kept my old habit of watching pretty faces ; only I don’t look sideways now : for the girls never think that an old man cares to see them ; but he does. We have one son, who Fanny devoutly hopes will turn out better than his father. May he go through life as happily! And he is in a fair way for it. I like to see him with Jenny, the pretty daughter of my friend the watchmaker. If my good friend thinks to keep always with him that youngest one of his flock, he will find his mistake ; for it was only yesterday that I saw them sitting together on the seat in the low-branching apple-tree.