 20 A perfect woman, nobly planned, to warn, to comfort, and command, and yet a spirit still and bright, with something of an angel-light, Wordsworth. It was the twilight of a sultry September day, and wearied with many hours' endurance of an excessive heat, unlooked for so late in the season. Emily Graham sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze which had just sprung up. The western sky was still streaked with brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of the day, and the commencement of her nightly rain, cast her full beams upon Emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which, escaping from the drapeured sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic armchair, the semblance of polished marble. Ten years had passed since Emily was first introduced to the reader, and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time upon her face and figure, that she looked scarcely any older than on the occasion of her first meeting Gertrude in Mr. Arnold's Church. She had even then experienced much of the sorrow of life, and learned how to distill from the bitter dregs of suffering a bomb for every pain. Even then that experience and the blessed knowledge she had gained from it had both stamped themselves upon her countenance, the one in a sobered and subdued expression, which usually belongs to more mature years, the other in that sweet, calm smile of trust and hope which proclaims the Votery of Heaven. More time had little power upon her, and as she was then, so she was now, lovely in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life. A close observer might, however, perceive in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of life, than she had formerly evinced. And this was due, as Emily felt and acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her lively sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, as well as the beautiful and the true, and her earnest and unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and become what Uncle True baited her to be, eyes to her benefactor. On the present occasion, however, as Emily sat alone, shot out from the beautiful sunset, and unconscious of the shadows that played over her in the moonlight, her thought seemed to be sad. She held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she would start, well, a look of anxiety and even pain would cross her features. At length, someone emerges from behind the high fence which screens the garden from public gaze, and approaches the gate. None but Emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step, but she hears it at once, and rising goes to meet the newcomer, whom we must pause to introduce. For though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize in her our little quantum Gertrude. The present Gertrude, for she it is, has now become a young lady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and her figure is slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks. But that may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station. She has taken off her bonnet, and is swinging it by the string, a habit she always had as a child, so we will acquit her of any coquettish desire to display in unusually fine head of hair. Gertrude's eyes have retained their old luster, and do not now look too large for her face. And if her mouth be less classically formed, then the strict rule of beauty would come end. One can easily forgive that, in consideration of two rows of small pearly teeth, which are as regular and even as a string of beads. Her neat dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her simple black mantle does not conceal the roundness of her taper waist. What then is Gertrude a beauty? By no means. Hers is a face and form about which there would be a thousand different opinions, and out of the whole number few would pronounce her beautiful. But there are faces whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch. Tell-tale faces that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within. Faces that now light up with intelligence now beam with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that which the soul abhors. And now, again, are sanctified by the divine presence when the heart turns away from the world and itself, and looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude's. There are forms, too, which though neither dignified, queenly, or fairy-like, puts us a grace, an ease, a self-possession, a power of moving lightly and eerily in their sphere, and never being in any one's way. And such a form was Gertrude's. Never charm these attractions might give her, and there were those who estimated it highly. It was undoubtedly greatly enhanced by an utter unconsciousness on her part of possessing any attractions at all. The early and grafted belief in her own personal plainness had not yet deserted her, but she no longer felt the mortification she had formerly labored under on that account. As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace, and joining her near the doorstep, where a path turning to the right led into the garden, passed her arm affectionately over Emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness, and Gertrude's superior height, and ability to act as guide, had aflate rendered usual, and turning into the walk which led from the house, said while she drew the shawl closer around her blind friend. Here I am, Emily, have you been alone ever since I went away? Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been quite worried to think you were travelling about in Boston the successively warm day. It has not hurt me in the least. I only enjoy this cool breeze all the more. It is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city. But Gertrude, said Emily, stopping short in their walk, what are you coming away from the house for? You have not been to tea, my child. I know I, Emily, but I don't want any supper. They walked on for some time, slowly and in perfect silence. At last Emily said, Well, Gertrude, have you nothing to tell me? Oh, yes, a great deal, but—but you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like to speak it. Is it not so? I ought not to have the vanity, dear Emily, to think it would trouble you very much. But ever since last evening, when I told you what Mr. W. said, and what I had in my mind, and you seemed to feel so badly at the thought of our being separated, I have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do. And I, on the other hand, Gertrude, have been reproaching myself for allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the matter, lest I should be influencing you against your duty, or at least making it harder for you to fulfill. I feel that you are right, Gertrude, and that instead of opposing, I ought to do everything I can to forward your plans. Dear Emily, exclaimed Gertrude vehemently, if you thought so from what I told you yesterday, you would be convinced, had you seen and heard, all that I have today. Why, are matters any worse than they were at Mrs. Sullivan's? Much worse than I described to you, I did not then know myself all that Mrs. Sullivan had to contend with, but I have been at their house nearly all the time since I left home this morning, for Mr. W. did not detain me five minutes. And it really does not seem to me safe for such a timid, delicate woman as Mrs. Sullivan, to be alone with Mr. Cooper, now that his mind is in such a dreadful state. But do you think you can do any good, Gertrude? I know I can, dear Emily. I can manage him much better than she can, and at the same time do more for his comfort and happiness. He is like a child now, and full of whims. When he can possibly be indulged, Mrs. Sullivan will please him at any amount of inconvenience, and even danger to herself, not only because he is her father, and she feels it her duty, but I actually think she is afraid of him. He is so irritable and violent. She tells me he often takes it into his head to do the strangest things, such as going out late at night, when it would be perfectly unsafe, and sleeping with his window wide open, though his room is on the lower floor. Poor woman, explained Emily, what does she do in such cases? I can tell you, Emily, for I saw an instance of it today. When I first went in this morning, he was preparing to make a coal fire in the grate, notwithstanding the heat, which was becoming intense in the city. And Mrs. Sullivan, said Emily, was sitting on the lower stair in the front entry, crying. Poor thing, murmured Emily. She could do nothing with him, continued Gertrude, and had given up in despair. She ought to have a strong woman or a man to take care of him. That is what she dreads more than anything. She says it would kill her to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to be by a stranger. And besides, I can see that she shrinks from the idea of having anyone in the house to whom she is unaccustomed. She is exceedingly neat and particular in all her arrangements. Has always done her work herself, and declares she would sooner admit a wild beast into her family than an Irish girl. Her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her yet, has it? Oh, no! She was saying today how strange it seemed, when she had been looking forward so long to the comfort of a new and well-built tenement, that just as she had moved in and got everything furnished to her mind, she should have this great trial come upon her. It seems strange to me, said Emily, that she did not sooner perceive its approach. I noticed, when I went with you to the house in E. Street, the failure in the old man's intellect. I had observed it for a long time, remarked Gertrude, but never spoke of it to her, and I do not think she was in the least aware of it, until about the time of their removal, when the breaking up of old associations had a sad effect upon poor Mr. Cooper. Don't you think, Gertrude, that the polling down of the church, and his consequent loss of employment, were a great injury to his mind? Yes, indeed, I am sure of it. He altered very much after that, and never seemed so happy, even while they were in the house in E. Street, and when the owners of that land concluded to take it for stores and warehouses, and gave Mrs. Sullivan notice that she would be obliged to leave, the old sexton's mind gave way entirely. Sad thing, said Emily, how old is he, Gertrude? I don't know exactly, but I believe he is very old. I remember Mrs. Sullivan's telling me, some time ago, that he was near eighty. Is he so old as that? Then I am not surprised that these changes have made him childish. Oh, no, Mellon Kelly as it is, it is no more than we may any of us come to, if we live to his age, and as he seems, for the most part, full as contented and happy, as I have ever seen him appear. I do not lament it so much on his own account, as on Mrs. Sullivan's. But I do, Emily, feel dreadfully anxious about her. Does it seem to be so very hard for her to bear up under it? I think it would not be, if she were well, but there is something to matter with her, and I fear it is more serious than she allows, for she looks very pale, and has, I know, had several alarming ill-turns lately. Has she consulted a physician? No, she doesn't wish for one, and insists upon it she shall soon be better, but I do not feel sure that she will, especially as she takes no care of herself, and that is one great reason for my wishing to be in town as soon as possible. I am anxious to have Dr. Jeremy see her, and I think I can bring it about without her knowing that he comes on her account. I'll have a severe cold myself, if I can't manage it any other way. You speak confidently of being in town, Gertrude, so I suppose it is all arranged. Oh, I have not told you, have I, about my visit to Mr. W. Dear, good man, how grateful I ought to be to him. He has promised me the situation. I had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to you at Mrs. Bruce's. You hadn't, really? Why, Emily, I was almost afraid to mention it to him. I couldn't believe he would have sufficient confidence in me, but he was so kind. I hardly dare tell you what he said about my capacity to teach. You will think me so vain. You need not tell me, my darling. I know from his own lips how highly he appreciates your ability. You could not tell me anything so flattering as what he told me himself. Dear Uncle True always wanted me to be a teacher. It was the height of his ambition. He would be pleased, wouldn't he, dear Emily? He would no doubt have been proud enough to see you assistant in a school like Mr. W.'s. I am not sure, however, but he would think, as I do, that you are undertaking too much. You expect to be occupied in the school the greater part of every morning, and yet you propose to establish yourself as nurse to Mrs. Sullivan and guardian to her poor old father. My dear child, you are not used to so much care, and I shall be constantly troubled for you, lest your own health and strength give way. Oh, dear Emily, there is no occasion for any anxiety on my account. I am well and strong, and fully capable, of all that I have planned for myself. My only dread is in the thought of leaving you, and the only fear I have is that you will miss me, and perhaps feel as if— I know what you would say, Gertrude. You need not fear that. I am sure of your affection. I am confident you love me next to your duty, and I would not for the world that you should give me the preference. So dismiss that thought from your mind, and do not carry with you the belief that I would be selfish enough to desire to retain you a moment. I only wish, my dear, that for the present you had not thought of entering the school. You might then have gone to Mrs. Sullivan's, stayed as long as you were needed, and perhaps found by the time we are ready to start on our southern tour that your services could be quite dispensed with, in which case you could accompany us on a journey which I am sure your health will by that time require. But dear Emily, how could I do that? I could not propose myself as a visitor to Mrs. Sullivan, however useful I might intend to be to her, nor could I speak of nursing to a woman who will not acknowledge that she is ill. I thought of all that, and it seemed to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the world, to bring it about. For I have been with you so long, that Mrs. Sullivan, I have no doubt, thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive way of life. It was only when Mr. W. spoke of his wanting and assistant, and, as I imagined, hinted that he should like to employ me in that capacity, that the present plan occurred to me. I knew, if I told Mrs. Sullivan that I was engaged to teach there, and that you were not coming to town at all, but were soon going south, and represented to her that I wanted a boarding-place for the winter. She would not only be loath to refuse me a home with her, but would insist that I should go nowhere else. And it proved, as you expected. Exactly, and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of my being with her, that I realized still more how much she needed someone. She will have a treasure in you, Gertrude, I know that very well. No indeed, I do not hope to be of much use. The feeling I have is, that however little I may be able to accomplish, it will be more than anyone else could do for Mrs. Sullivan. She has lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the city, and I do not really know of any one, except myself, whom she would willingly admit under her roof. She is used to me, and loves me, and I am no restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist in whatever she is doing, although she often says that I live a lady's life now, and I'm not used to work. She knows, too, that I have an influence over her father, and I have, strange as it may seem to you, I have more than I know how to account for myself. I think it is partly because I am not at all afraid of him, and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly because I am more of a stranger than Mrs. Sullivan. But there is still another thing which gives me a great control over him. He naturally associates me and his mind with Willie, for we were for some years constantly together, both left the house at the same time, and he knows, too, that it is through me that the correspondence with him is chiefly carried on. Since his mind has been so weak, he seems to think continually of Willie, and I cannot any moment, however irritable or willful he may be, make him calm and quiet by proposing to tell him the latest news from his grandson. It does not matter how often I repeat the contents of the last letter. It is always new to him. And you have no idea, Emily, what power this little circumstance gives me. Mrs. Sullivan sees how easily I can guide his thoughts, and I noticed what a load of care seemed to be taken from her mind by merely having me there to-day. She looked so happy when I came away to-night, and spoke so hopefully of the comfort it would be during the winter to have me with her, that I felt repaid for any sacrifice it has been to me. But when I came home, and saw you, and thought of your going so far away, and of the length of time it might be before I should live with you again, I felt as if Gertrude could say no more. She laid her head on Emily's shoulder and wept. Emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. We have been very happy together, Gertie, said she, and I shall miss you sadly. Half of the enjoyment of my life has of late years been borrowed from you. But I never loved you half so well as I do now, at the very time that we must part. For I see in the sacrifice you are making of yourself one of the noblest and most important traits of character a woman can possess. I know how much you love the solovans, and you have certainly every reason for being attached to them, and desiring to repay your old obligations. But you are leaving us at this time, and renouncing, without a murmur, the southern tour from which you expected so much pleasure, proves that my Gertrude is the brave, good girl I always hoped and prayed she might become. You are in the path of duty, Gertrude, and will be rewarded by the approbation of your own conscience, if in no other way. As Emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the garden, and were here met by a servant girl, who had been looking for them to announce that Mrs. Bruce and her son were in the parlor, and had asked for them both. Did you get her buttons in town, Gertrude? inquired Emily. Yes, I found some that were an excellent match for the dress. She probably wants to know what success I had. But how can I go in? I will return to the house with Katie, and you can go in at the side door, and reach your own room without being seen. I will excuse you to Mrs. Bruce for the present, and when you have bathed your eyes, and feel composed, you can come in and report concerning the errand she entrusted to you. CHAPTER XXI There was no evidence in her appearance of any unusual distress of mine. Mrs. Bruce nodded to her good-naturedly from a corner of the sofa. Mr. Bruce rose and offered his chair, at the same time that Mr. Graham pointed to a vacant window-seat near him, and said, kindly, here is a place for you, Gertrude. Declining, however, the civilities of both gentlemen, she withdrew to an ottoman which stood near an open-glass door, where she was almost immediately joined by Mr. Bruce, who, seating himself in an indolent attitude upon the upper row of a flight of steps which led from the window to the garden, commenced conversation with her. Mr. Bruce, the same gentleman who some years before wore a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass, had recently returned from Europe, and glorying in the renown acquired from a mustache, a French tailor, and the possession of a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with more complacency than ever. So you've been in Boston all day, Miss Flint? Yes, nearly all day. Didn't you find it distressingly warm? Somewhat so. I tried to go in to attend to some business that Mother was anxious about, and even went down to the depot, but I had to give it up. Were you overpowered by the heat? I was. How unfortunate, remarked Gertrude, and a half-compassionate, half-ironical tone of voice. Mr. Bruce looked up to judge, if possible, from her countenance, whether she were serious or not. Whether being little light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he could not decide the question in his mind, and therefore replied, I dislike the heat, Miss Gertrude, and why should I expose myself to an unnecessarily? Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke of important business. Only some affair of my mother's, nothing I felt any interest in, and she took the state of the weather for an excuse. If I had known that you were in the cars, as I have since heard, I should certainly have persevered in order to have had the pleasure of walking down Washington Street with you. I did not go down Washington Street. But you would have done so with a suitable escort, suggested the young man. If I had gone out of my way for the sake of accompanying my escort, the escort would have been a very doubtful advantage, said Gertrude, laughing. How very practical you are, Miss Gertrude. Do you mean to say that, when you go to the city, you always have a settled plan of operations and never swear from your course? By no means. I trust I am not difficult to influence when there is a sufficient motive. The young man bit his lip. Then you never act without a motive? Pray, what is your motive in wearing that broad brimmed hat when you were at work in the garden? It is an old habit, adopted some years ago from motives of convenience, and still adhered to, in spite of later inventions, which would certainly be a better protection from the sun. I must plead guilty, I fear, to a little obstinacy in my partiality for that old hat. Why now acknowledge a truth, Miss Gertrude, and confess that you wear it in order to look so very fanciful and picturesque that the neighbor slumbers are disturbed by the very thoughts of it? My own morning dreams, for instance, as you are well aware, are so haunted by that hat, as seen in company with its owner, that I am daily drawn, as if by magnetic attraction, in the direction of the garden. You will have a heavy account to settle with Morpheus, one of these days, for defrauding him of his rights, and your conscience, too, will suffer for injuries to my health, sustained by continued exposure to early dues. It is hard to condemn me for such innocent and unintentional mischief, but since I am to experience so much future remorse on account of your morning visits, I shall take upon myself the responsibility of forbidding them. Oh, you wouldn't be so unkind, especially after all the pains I have taken to impart to you the little I know of horticulture. Very little I think it must have been, or I have but a little memory, said Gertrude, laughing. Now, how can you be so ungrateful? Have you forgotten the pains I took yesterday to acquaint you with the different varieties of roses? Don't you remember how much I had to say at first of de-masque roses and de-masque bloom, and how, before I had finished, I could not find words enough in praise of blushes, especially such sweet and natural ones as met my eyes while I was speaking? I know you talked a great deal of nonsense. I hope you don't think I listened to it all. Oh, Miss Gertrude, it is of no use to say flattering things to you. You always look upon my compliments as so many jokes. I have told you several times that it was the most useless thing in the world to waste so much flattery upon me. I am glad you are beginning to realize it. Well, then, to ask a serious question, where were you this morning? At what hour? Half past seven. On my way to Boston in the cars. Is it possible, so early, why, I thought you went at ten. Then all the time I was watching by the garden wall to get a chance to say good morning, you were half a dozen miles away. I wish I had not wasted that hour, so I might have spent it sleeping. Very true, it is a great pity. And then half an hour more here this evening. How came you to keep me waiting so long? I? When? Why now, to-night? I was not aware of doing so. I certainly did not take your visit to myself. My visit certainly was not meant for anyone else. Then, said Mr. Graham, approaching rather abruptly and taking part in the conversation. Are you fond of gardening? I thought I heard you just now speaking of roses. Yes, sir, Miss Flint and I were having quite a discussion upon flowers, roses especially. Gertrude, availing herself of Mr. Graham's approach, tried to make her escape and join the ladies at the sofa. But Mr. Bruce, who had risen on Mr. Graham's addressing him, saw her intention and frustrated it by placing himself in the way so that she could not pass him without positive rudeness. Mr. Graham continued, I propose placing a small fountain in the vicinity of Miss Flint's flower garden. Won't you walk down with me and give your opinion of my plan? Isn't it too dark, sir, too? No, no, not at all. There is ample light for our purpose, this way, if you please. And Mr. Bruce was compelled to follow where Mr. Graham led, though in spite of his acquaintance with Paris Manners, he made a rye face, and shook his head menacingly. Gertrude was now permitted to relate to Mrs. Bruce the results of the shopping which she had undertaken on her account, and display the buttons, which proved very satisfactory. The gentleman, soon after returning to the parlor, took seats near the sofa, and the company forming one group the conversation became general. Mr. Graham, said Mrs. Bruce, I have been questioning Emily about your visit to the south, and from the route which she tells me you proposed taking, I think it will be a charming trip. I hope so, madame. We have been talking of it for some time. It will be an excellent thing for Emily, and, as Gertrude has never travelled at all, I anticipate a great deal of pleasure for her. Ah! Then you are to be of the party, Miss Flint. Of course, of course, answered Mr. Graham, without giving Gertrude a chance to speak for herself. We depend upon Gertrude, couldn't get along at all without her. It will be delightful for you, continued Mrs. Bruce, her eyes still fixed on Gertrude. I did expect to go with Mr. and Miss Graham, answered Gertrude, and looked forward to the journey with the greatest eagerness, but I have just decided that I must remain in Boston this winter. What are you talking about, Gertrude, asked Mr. Graham? What do you mean? This is all news to me. And to me, too, sir, or I should have informed you of it before. I supposed you expected me to accompany you, and there is nothing I should like so much. I should have told you before of the circumstances that now make it impossible, but they are of quite recent occurrence. But we can't give you up, Gertrude. I won't hear of such a thing. You must go with us, in spite of circumstances. I fear I shall not be able to," said Gertrude, smiling pleasantly, but still retaining her firmness of expression. You are very kind, sir, to wish it. Wish it! I tell you I insist upon it. You are under my care, child, and I have a right to say what you shall do. Mr. Graham was beginning to get excited. Gertrude and Emily both looked troubled, but neither of them spoke. Give me your reasons, if you have any, added Mr. Graham vehemently, and let me know what has put the strange notion into your head. I will explain it to you tomorrow, sir. Tomorrow I want to know now. Mrs. Bruce, plainly perceiving that a family storm was brewing, wisely rose to go. Mr. Graham suspended his wrath until she and her son had taken leave, but as soon as the door was closed upon them, burst forth with real anger. Now tell me what all this means. Here I plan my business and make all my arrangements, on purpose to be able to give up this winter to travelling. And that, not so much on my own account, as to give pleasure to both of you. And just as everything is settled, and we are almost on the point of starting, Gertrude announces that she has concluded not to go. Now I should like to know her reasons. Emily undertook to explain Gertrude's motives, and ended by expressing her own approbation of her course. As soon as she had finished, Mr. Graham, who had listened very impatiently, and interrupted her with many a pish, and a pshaw, burst forth with redoubled indignation. So Gertrude prefers the solovents to us, and you seem to encourage her in it. I should like to know what they have ever done for her, compared with what I have done. They have been friends of hers for years, and now that they are in great distress, she does not feel as if she could leave them. And I confess I do not wonder at her decision. I must say I do. She prefers to make a slave of herself in Mr. W's school, and a still greater slave in Mrs. Sullivan's family, instead of staying with us, where she has always been treated like a lady, and more than that, like one of my own family. Oh, Mr. Graham, said Gertrude earnestly, it is not a matter of preference or choice, except as I feel it to be a duty. And what makes it a duty, just because you used to live in the same house with them, and that boy out in Calcutta has sent you home a camel-hair scarf and a cageful of miserable little birds, and written you a great package of letters? You think you must forfeit your own interest to take care of his sick relations? I can't say that I see how their claim compares with mine, haven't I given you the best of educations, and spared no expense, either for your improvement or your happiness? I did not think, sir, answered Gertrude humbly, and yet with quiet dignity. Of counting up the favors I had received, and measuring my conduct accordingly. In that case, my obligations to you are immense, and you would certainly have the greatest claim upon my services. Services, I don't want your services, child. Mrs. Ellis can do quite as well as you can for Emily, or me, either. But I like your company, and I think it is very ungrateful in you to leave us as you talk of doing. Father," said Emily, I thought the object, and giving Gertrude a good education, was to make her independent of all the world, and not simply dependent upon us. Emily, said Mr. Graham, I tell you it is a matter of feeling. You don't seem to look upon the thing in the light I do, but you are both against me, and I won't talk any more about it. So saying, Mr. Graham took a lamp, went to his study, shut the door hard, not to say slammed it, and was seen no more that night. Poor Gertrude, Mr. Graham, who had been so kind and generous, who had seldom before spoken harshly to her, and had always treated her with great indulgence, was now deeply offended. He had called her ungrateful. He evidently felt that she had abused his kindness, and believed that he and Emily stood in her estimation secondary to other, and, as he considered them, far less warm-hearted friends. Emily wounded and grieved. She hastened to say good night to the no less afflicted Emily, and seeking her own room, gave way to feelings that exhausted her spirit, and caused her a sleepless night. CHAPTER XXII Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Shakespeare. Left at three years of age dependent upon the mercy and charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, Gertrude had, during the period of her residence at Anne Grant's, found little of that mercy, and still less of that charity. But although her turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she received, she was then too young to reason upon the subject, or come to any philosophical conclusions upon the general hardness and cruelty of humanity. And had she done so, such impressions could not but have been effaced amid the atmosphere of love and kindness which surrounded her during the succeeding period, when cherished and protected in the home of her kind foster father. She enjoyed a degree of parental tenderness which rarely falls to the lot of an orphan. And having, through a similar providence, found in Emily additional proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not always needed to bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of sympathy and affection. She had hitherto, in her unusually happy experience, felt none of the evils that spring from dependence upon the bounty of strangers. The unfriendly conduct of Mrs. Ellis had, at times, been a source of irritation to her. But the housekeeper's power and influence in the family were limited by her own dependence upon the good opinion of those she served, and Gertrude's patience and forbearance had at last nearly disarmed her enmity. From Mr. Graham she had until now experienced only kindness. On her first coming to live with them he had, to be sure, taken very little notice of her. And so long as she was quiet, well mannered, and no trouble to anybody, had been quite indifferent concerning her. He observed that Emily was fond of the girl and liked to have her with her. And though he wondered at her taste, was glad that she should be indulged. It was not long, however, before he was led to notice in his daughter's favorite a quickness of mind and a propriety of deportment which had the effect of creating an interest in her that soon increased to positive partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gardening and her perseverance in laboring among her flowers. He not only set off a portion of his grounds for her use, but charmed with her success during the first summer after the appropriation was made, added to the original flower garden, and himself assisted in laying out and ornamenting it. Emily formed no plan with regard to Gertrude's education, to which she did not obtain a ready assent from her father. And Gertrude, deeply grateful for so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obligation and regard by treating Mr. Graham with the greatest respect and attention. But unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations, Mr. Graham possessed neither the disinterested, forbearing spirit of Uncle True, or the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of Emily. Mr. Graham was a liberal and highly respectable man. He had the reputation, as the world goes, of being a remarkably high-minded and honorable man, and not without reason, for his conduct had often times justified this current report of him. But alas! He was a selfish man, and often took very one-sided views. He had supported and educated Gertrude. He liked her. She was the person whom he preferred for a traveling companion for himself and Emily. Everybody else had any claim upon her to compare with his. And he either could not, or would not, see that her duty lay in any other direction. And yet, while he was ready to act the tyrant, he deceived himself with the idea that he was the best friend she had in the world. He was not capable of understanding that kind of regard, which causes one to find gratification in whatever tends to the present, or future welfare of another, without reference to himself or his own interests. Under the influence of his own prejudice and narrow sentiments, Mr. Graham gave way to his ill temper, and distressed Gertrude by the first really harsh and severe language he had ever used towards her. During the long hours of a wakeful and restless night, Gertrude had ample time to review and consider her own situation and circumstances. At first her only emotion was one of grief and distress, such as a child might feel on being reproved. But that gradually subsided, as other and bitter thoughts rose up in her mind. What right, thought she, has Mr. Graham to treat me thus, to tell me I shall go with them on this southern journey, and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation, and ought to be in my own. Does he consider that my freedom is to be the price of my education, and am I no longer to be able to say yes or no? Emily does not think so. Emily, who loves and needs me a thousand times more than Mr. Graham, thinks I have acted rightly, and assured me, only a few hours ago, that it was my duty to carry out the plans I had formed. And my solemn promise to Willie, is that to be held for nothing? No, thought she, it would be tyranny in Mr. Graham to insist upon my remaining with them, and I am glad I have resolved to break away from such thralldom. Besides, I was educated to teach, and Mr. W. says it is important to commence at once, while my studies are fresh in my mind. Perhaps if I yielded now, and stayed here living in luxury, I should continue to do so, until I lost the power of regaining my independence. It is cruel in Mr. Graham to try to deprive me of my free will. So much said pride, and Gertrude's heart naturally proud, and only kept in check by strict and conscientious self-control, listened a while to such suggestions. But not long, she had accustomed herself to view the conduct of others, and that spirit of charity which she desired should be exercised towards her own, and milder thoughts soon took the place of these excited and angry feelings. Perhaps, said she to herself, as she reviewed in her mind the conversation of the evening, it is, after all, pure kindness to me that prompted Mr. Graham's interference. He may think, as Emily does, that I am undertaking too much. It is impossible for him to know how strong my motives are, how deep I consider my obligations to the solovans, and how much I am needed by them at this time. I had no idea, either, that it was such an understood thing that I was to be of the party to the South. For though Emily talked as if she took it for granted, Mr. Graham never spoke of it, or asked me to go, and I could not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to have me refuse. But after his planning the journey, as he says he has done, with reference to the enjoyment of us both, I do not wonder at his being somewhat annoyed. He probably feels, too, as if I had been under his guardianship so long that he has almost a right to decide upon my conduct. And he has been very indulgent to me, and I, a stranger, with no claims. Oh, I hate to have him think me so ungrateful. Shall I then decide to give up my teaching, go to the South, and leave dear Mrs. Sullivan to suffer? Perhaps die, while I am away? No, that is impossible. I will never be such a traitor to my own heart, and my own sense of right. Sorry as I shall be to offend Mr. Graham, I must not allow fear of his anger to turn me from my duty. Having thus resolved to brave the tempest that she well knew she must encounter, and committed her cause to him who judged righteously, Gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep, but found it impossible to obtain any untroubled rest. Scarcely had slumber eased her mind of the weight that pressed upon it, before dreams of an equally painful nature seized upon her, and startled her back to consciousness. In some of these visions she beheld Mr. Graham, angry and excited as on the previous evening, and threatening her with the severest marks of his displeasure if she dared to thwart his plans. And then again she seemed to see Willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted nearly five years before, beckoning her with a sad countenance, to the room where his pale mother lay in a swoon, as Gertrude had a few weeks before discovered her. Exhausted by a succession of such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain any rest through sleep, and rising seated herself at the window, where watching the now descending moon and the first approach of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the strength and courage which she felt would be requisite to carry her calmly and firmly through the following day, a day destined to witness her sad separation from Emily and her farewell to Mr. Graham, which would probably be of a still more distressing character. It may seem strange that anything more than the ordinary mental courage and decision should be needful to sustain Gertrude under the present emergency. But in truth it required no small amount of both these qualities for a young girl of eighteen years, long dependent upon the liberality of an elderly man, well known as a stern dictator in his household, to suddenly break the bonds of custom and habit, and mark out a course for herself in opposition to his wishes and intentions, and nothing but an urgent motive could have led the grateful and peace-loving Gertrude to such a step. The tyrannical disposition of Mr. Graham was well understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed to respect all his wishes and whims, and though he was always indulgent and usually kind, none ever ventured to brave a temper which, when excited, was violent in the extreme. It cannot then be surprising that Gertrude's heart should have almost failed her, when she stood, half an hour before breakfast time, with the handle of the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her energies for another meeting with the formidable opposer of her plans. She paused by a moment, however, then opened the door and went in. Mr. Graham was where she expected to see him, sitting in his armchair, and on the breakfast table by his side lay the morning paper. It had been Gertrude's habit, for a year or two, to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this same hour, and it was for that very purpose she had now come. She advanced towards him, with her usual, good morning. The salutation was returned, and a purposely constrained voice. She seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper, but he placed his hand upon it and prevented her. I was going to read the news to you, sir, and I do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for me, until I know whether you have concluded to treat me with the respect I have a right to demand from you. I certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with respect, Mr. Graham. When girls or boys set themselves up in opposition to those older and wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest disrespect they are capable of. But I am willing to forgive the past, if you are sure me, as I think you will, after a night's reflection, that you have returned to a right sense of your duty. I cannot say, sir, that I have changed my views with regard to what that duty is. Do you mean to tell me, asked Mr. Graham, rising from his chair, and speaking in a tone which made Gertrude's heart quake, in spite of her brave resolutions? Do you mean to tell me that you have any idea of persisting in your folly? Is it folly, sir, to do right? Right? There is a great difference of opinion between you and me as to what right is in this case. But Mr. Graham, I think, if you knew all the circumstances, you would not blame my conduct. I have told Emily the reasons that influenced me, and she, don't quote Emily to me, interrupted Mr. Graham, as he walked the floor rapidly. I don't doubt she'd give her head to anybody that asked for it, but I hope I know a little better what is due to myself, and I tell you plainly, misgertrude Flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave my house as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure, and that you may find one of these days as no light thing to have incurred. Unnecessarily, too, he muttered, as you were doing. I am very sorry to displease me, Mr. Graham, but— No, you're not sorry. If you were, you would not walk straight in the face of my wishes, said Mr. Graham, who began to observe the expression of Gertrude's face, which, though grieved and troubled, had, in the last few minutes, acquired additional firmness, instead of quelling beneath his severe and cutting words. But I have said enough about a matter which is not worthy of so much notice. You can go or stay as you please. I wish you to understand, however, that in the former case I utterly withdraw my protection and assistance from you. You must take care of yourself or trust the strangers. I suppose you expect your Calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come home and take you under his special care. But if you think so, you know little of the world. I daresay he is married to an Indian by this time, and if not, has pretty much forgotten you. Mr. Graham, said Gertrude proudly, Mr. Sullivan will not probably return to this country for many years, and I assure you I neither look to him or anyone else for my support. I intend to earn a maintenance for myself. A heroic resolve, said Mr. Graham contemptuously, and pronounced with a dignity I hope you will be able to maintain. Am I to consider, then, that your mind is made up? It is, sir, said Gertrude, not a little strengthened for the dreaded necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by Mr. Graham's sarcastic speeches. And you go? I must. You believe it to be my duty, and am therefore willing to sacrifice my own comfort. And what I assure you I value far more, your friendship. Mr. Graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter part of her remark, and before she had finished speaking, so far forgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice in the violent ringing of the table-bell. It was answered by Katie with the breakfast, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis coming in at the same moment all seated themselves at table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and constraint. For Emily had heard the loud tones of her father's voice, and was filled with anxiety and alarm. While Mrs. Ellis plainly saw, from the countenances of all present, that something unpleasant had occurred. When Mr. Graham, whose appetite appeared undiminished, had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to Mrs. Ellis, and deliberately and formally invited her to accompany himself and Emily on their journey to the South, mentioning the probability that they should pass some weeks in Havana. Mrs. Ellis, who had never before heard any intimation that such a tour was contemplated, accepted the invitation with pleasure and alacrity, and proceeded to ask a number of questions concerning the proposed route and length of absence, while Emily hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup, and Gertrude, who had lately been reading letters from Cuba, and was aware that Mr. Graham knew the strong interest she consequently felt in the place, pondered in her mind whether it were possible that he could be guilty of the small and mean desire to vex and mortify her. Breakfast over, Emily hastily sought her room, where she was immediately joined by Gertrude. In answering Emily's earnest inquiries as to the scene which had taken place, Gertrude forebored to repeat Mr. Graham's most bitter and wounding remarks, for she saw, from her kind friends pained in anxious countenance, how deeply she participated in her own sense of wrong and misapprehension. She told her, however, that it was now well understood by Mr. Graham that she was to leave, and as his sentiments towards her were far from kindly, she thought it best to go at once, especially as she could never be more needed by Mrs. Sullivan than at present. Emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented to it, and agreed to accompany her to town that very afternoon, for deeply sensitive at any unkindness manifested toward Gertrude, she preferred to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encounter her father's contemptuous neglect. The remainder of the day, therefore, was spent by Gertrude in packing and other preparations, while Emily sat by, counseling and advising the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiterated assurances of continued and undiminished affection. Oh, if you could only write to me, dear Emily, during your long absence, what a comfort it would be, exclaimed Gertrude. With Mrs. Ellis's assistance, my dear, replied Emily, I will send you such news as I can of our movements. But though you may not be able to hear much from me, you will be ever in my thoughts, and I shall never forget to commend my beloved child to the protection and care of one who will be to her a better counselor and friend than I could be. In the course of the day Gertrude sought Mrs. Ellis, and astonished that lady by announcing that she had come to have a few farewell words with her. Surprise and curiosity, however, were soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to expatiate upon the kindness and generosity of Mr. Graham, and the delights of the excursion and prospect. After wishing her a great deal of pleasure, Gertrude begged to hear from her by letter during her absence. To which apparently unheard request, Mrs. Ellis only replied by asking if Gertrude thought a thai bet dress would be uncomfortable on the journey, and when it was repeated with still greater earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to the supplicant, for epistolary favors, begged to know how many pairs of undersleeves she should probably require. Having responded to her questions, and at last gained her ear and attention, Gertrude obtained from her a promise to write one letter, which would, she declared, be more than she had done for years. Before leaving the house, Gertrude sought Mr. Graham study, and hopes that he would take a friendly leave of her. But on her telling him that she had come to bid him goodbye, he indistinctly muttered the simple words of that universal formula, so deep in its meaning, when coming from the heart, so chilling when uttered, as on the present occasion, by stern and nearly closed lips, and turning his back upon her, took up the tongs to mend his fire. So she went away, with a tear in her eye, and sadness in her heart, for until now Mr. Graham had been a good friend to her. A far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where she went to seek Mrs. Prime and Katie. "'Bless your soul, dear Miss Gertrude,' said the former, stumbling up the staircase, which led from the lower room, and wiping her hands on her apron. "'How we shall miss you? Why the house won't be worth living in when you're out of it. My gracious, if you don't come back, we shall all die out in a fortnight. Why, you're the life and soul of the place. But there, I guess you know what's right. So if you must go, we must bear it. So Katie and I'll cry our eyes out, for odd I know.' "'Sure, Miss Gertrude,' said Irish Katie, and it's right good in you to be after coming to bid us good-bye. I don't see how you get's memory to think of us at all. And I'm sure you'll never be better off than what I wish here.' "'I can't but think, Miss. It'll go to help you along, that everybody's good wishes and blessing goes with your.' "'Thank you, Katie, thank you,' said Gertrude, much touched by the simple earnestness of these good friends. You must come and see me some time in Boston. And you, too, Mrs. Prime, I shall depend upon it.' "'Good-bye.' And the good-bye that now fell upon Gertrude's ear was a hearty and a true one. It followed her through the hall, and as the carry-all drove away, she heard it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle.' CHAPTER XXII. Passing over Gertrude's parting with Emily, her cordial reception by Mrs. Sullivan, and her commencement of school duties, we will look in upon her and record the events of a day in November, about two months after she left Mr. Graham's. Rising with the sun, she made her neat toilet and a room so cold that before it was completed her hands were half benumbed. Nor did she, in spite of the chilling atmosphere, omit ere she commenced the labours of the day to supplicate heaven's blessing upon them. Then noiselessly entering the adjoining apartment where Mrs. Sullivan was still sleeping, she lit a fire, the materials for which had been carefully prepared the night before, in a small grate, and descending the stairs with the same light footstep, performed a similar service at the cooking-stove, which stood in a comfortable room, where, now that the weather was cold, the family took their meals. The table was set, and the preparations for breakfast nearly completed, when Mrs. Sullivan entered, pale, thin and feeble in her appearance, and wrapped in a large shawl. Gertrude, said she, why will you let me sleep so mornings when you were up and at work? I believe it has happened so every day this week. For the very best reason in the world, Auntie, because I sleep all the early part of the night, and am wide awake at daybreak, and with you it is just the reverse. Besides, I like to get the breakfast. I make such beautiful coffee. Look, said she, pouring some into a cup, and then lifting the lid of the coffee-pot, and pouring it back again. See how clear it is. Don't you long for some of it, this cold morning. Mrs. Sullivan smiled. For Uncle True, having always preferred tea, Gertrude did not at first know how to make coffee, and had been obliged to come to her for instructions. Now, said Gertrude, playfully, as she drew a comfortable chair close to the fire. I want you to sit down here and watch the tea kettle boil, while I run and see if Mr. Cooper is ready to let me tie up his queue. She went, leaving Mrs. Sullivan to think what a good girl she was, and presently returning with the old man, who was dressed with perfect neatness. She placed a chair for him, and having waited, as for a child, while he seated himself, and then pinned a napkin about his throat, she proceeded to place the breakfast on the table. While Mrs. Sullivan poured out the coffee, Gertrude, with a quiet tact, which rendered the action almost unobserved, removed the skin from a baked potato, and the shell from a boiled egg, and placing both on the plate dusted for Mr. Cooper, handed him his breakfast in a state of preparation, which obviated the difficulty the old man experienced in performing these tasks for himself. And spared Mrs. Sullivan the anxiety she always felt at witnessing his clumsiness, and sadly increasing carelessness on those points of neatness so sacred in her eyes. Poor Mrs. Sullivan had no appetite, and it was with difficulty Gertrude persuaded her to eat anything. A few fried oysters, however, unexpectedly placed before her, proved such a temptation that she was induced to taste, and finally to eat several. With a degree of relish she rarely felt lately for any article of food. As Gertrude gazed at her languid face, she realized more than ever before the change which had come over the active, energetic little woman, and confident that nothing but positive disease could have affected such a transformation. She resolved that not another day should pass without her seeing a physician. Breakfast over there were dishes to wash, rooms to be put in order, dinner to be decided on, and partially prepared. And all this Gertrude exerted herself and saw accomplished, chiefly through her own labor, before she went to rearrange her dress, previous to her departure for the school, where she had now been some weeks installed as assistant teacher. A quarter before nine she looked in at the kitchen door, and said, in a cheering tone, to the old man who was cowering gloomily over the fire, Come, Mr. Cooper, won't you go over and superintend the new church a little while this morning? Mr. Miller will be expecting you, he said yesterday that he depended on your company when he was at work. The old man rose, and taking his greatcoat from Gertrude, put it on with her assistance, and accompanied her in a mechanical sort of way, that seemed to imply a great degree of indifference whether he went or stayed. As they walked in silence down the street, Gertrude could not but revolve in her mind the singular coincidence which had thus made her the almost daily companion of another infirm old man, nor could she fail to draw a comparison between the genial warmhearted Uncle True and the gloomy, discontented Paul Cooper, who never as we have said possessing a genial temperament, now retained in his state of mental imbecility, his old characteristics in an exaggerated form. Unfavorable as the comparison necessarily was to the latter, it did not diminish the kindness and thoughtfulness of Gertrude towards her present charge, who was in her eyes an object of sincere compassion. They soon reached the new church of which Gertrude had spoken. A handsome edifice, built on the site of the old building in which Mr. Cooper had long officiated as sexton. It was not yet finished, and a number of workmen were at this time engaged in the completion of the interior. A man with a hod full of mortar preceded Gertrude and her companion up the steps which led to the main entrance, but stopped inside the porch unhearing himself addressed by name, and laying down his burden, turned to respond to the well-known voice. "'Good morning, Miss Flint,' said he, "'I hope you're very well this fine day.' "'Ah, Mr. Cooper, you've come to help me a little, I see. That's right. We can't go on very well without you. You're so used to the place.' "'Here, sir, if you'll come with me, I'll show you what has been done since you were here last. I want to know how you think we get along.'" So saying, he was walking away with the old sexton. But Gertrude followed, and detained him a moment, to ask if he would do her the favor to see Mr. Cooper safe home when he passed Mrs. Sullivan's house on his way to dinner. "'Certainly, Miss Flint,' replied the man, "'with all the pleasure in the world. He has usually gone with me pretty readily when you have left him in my care.'" Having obtained this promise, Gertrude hastened towards a squall rejoicing in the certainty that Mr. Cooper would be safe and well-amused during the morning, and that Mrs. Sullivan, freed from all responsibility concerning him, would be left to the rest and quiet she so much needed. This cordial co-editor in Gertrude's plan of diverting and occupying the old man's mind was a respectable mason, who had often been in Mr. Graham's employ, and whose good will and gratitude Gertrude had won by the kindness and attention she had shown his family during the previous winter, when they were sick and afflicted. In her daily walk past the church, she had frequently seen Mr. Miller at his work, and it occurred to her that, if she could awaken in Mr. Cooper's mind an interest in the new structure, he might find amusement in coming there and watching the workmen. She had some difficulty in persuading him to visit a building to the erection of which he had been vehemently opposed, not only because it was inimical to his interests, but on account of the strong attachment he had for the old place of worship. Once there, however, he became interested in the work. And as Mr. Miller took pains to make him comfortable, and even awakened in him the belief that he was useful, he gradually acquired a habit of passing the greater part of every morning, and watching the men engaged in their various branches of industry. Sometimes Gertrude called for him on her return from school. And sometimes, as on the present occasion, Mr. Miller undertook to accompany him home. Since Gertrude had been at Mrs. Sullivan's house, there was a very perceptible alteration in Mr. Cooper. He was much more manageable, looked better contented, and manifested far less irritability than he had previously done. And this favorable change, together with the cheering influence of Gertrude's society, he had for a time produced a proportionately beneficial effect upon Mrs. Sullivan. But within the last few days, her increased stability and one or two sudden attacks of fateness had awakened all, and more than all, of Gertrude's former fears. She had left home with a determination, as soon as she should be released from her school duties, to seek Dr. Jeremy and request his attendance. And it was in order to secure leisure for that purpose that she had solicited Mr. Miller's superintending care for Mr. Cooper. Of Gertrude's school duties, we shall say nothing, save that she was found by Mr. W, fully competent to the performance of them, and that she met with those trials and discouragements, only to which all teachers are more or less subjected, from the idleness, obstinacy, or stupidity of their pupils. On this day, however, she was, from various causes, detained to a later hour than usual, and the clock struck two at the very moment that she was ringing Dr. Jeremy's doorbell. The girl who opened the door knew Gertrude by sight, having often seen her at her master's house. And telling her that, though the doctor was just going into dinner, she thought he would see her, asked her into the office where he stood, with his back to the fire, eating an apple, as it was his invariable custom to do before dinner. He laid it down, however, and advanced to meet Gertrude, holding out both his hands. Gertrude flint I declare, exclaimed he, why I'm glad to see you, my girl. Why haven't you been here before? I should like to know. Gertrude explained that she was living with friends, one of whom was very old, the other an invalid, and that so much of her time was occupied in school, that she had no opportunity for visiting. Poor excuse, said the doctor, poor excuse. But now we've got you here, we shan't let you go very soon. And going to the foot of the staircase, he called, and the loudest possible tone of voice, Mrs. Jerry, Mrs. Jerry, come, come down to dinner as quick as you can, and put on your best cap. We've got company. Poor soul, edity, and a lower tone, addressing himself to Gertrude, and smiling good-naturedly. She can't hurry, can't she, Gertie, she's fat. Gertrude now protested against staying to dinner, declaring she must hasten home, and announcing Mrs. Sullivan's illness and the object of her visit. An hour can't make much difference in such a case, insisted the doctor. You must stay and dine with me, and then I'll go wherever you wish, and take you with me in the buggy. Gertrude hesitated, the sky had clouded over, and a few flakes of snow were falling. She should have an uncomfortable walk, and, moreover, it would be better for her to accompany the doctor, as the street in which she lived was principally composed of new houses, not yet numbered. Auntie May, if he were alone, have some difficulty in finding the right tenement. At the stage of her reflections Mrs. Jeremy entered. Fat she certainly was, very uncommonly fat, and flushed too with her unwanted haste, and the excitement of anticipating the company of a stranger. She kissed Gertrude in the kindest manner, and then, looking round, and seeing that there was no one else present, exclaimed, glancing reproachfully at the doctor. Why, Dr. Jerry, ain't you ashamed of yourself? I never will believe you again. You made me think there was some great stranger here. And pray, Mrs. Jerry, who's a greater stranger in this house than Gertie Flint. Sure enough, said Mrs. Jeremy, Gertrude is a stranger, and I've got a scolding and store for her on that very account. But you know, Dr. Jerry, I shouldn't have put on my lilac and pink for Gertrude to see. She likes me just as well in my old yellow, if she did tell me when I bought it, the saucy girl, that I'd selected the ugliest cap in Boston. Do you remember that, Gertie? Gertie laughed heartily at the recollection of a very amusing scene that took place at the milliners when she went shopping with Mrs. Jeremy. But come, Gertie, continued that lady, dinner's ready. Take off your cloak and bonnet, and come into the dining room. The doctor has got a great deal to say, and has been wanting dreadfully to see you. They had been sitting some minutes without a words having been spoken, beyond the usual civilities of the table. When the doctor, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, commenced laughing, and laughed till the tears came into his eyes. Gertrude looked at him inquiringly. And Mrs. Jeremy said, there, Gertrude, for one whole week he has just such a laughing-fit, two or three times a day. I was as much astonished at first as you are, and I confess I don't quite understand now what could have happened between him and Mr. Graham that was so very funny. Come, wife, said the doctor, checking himself and his merriment, don't you forestall my communication. I want to tell the story myself. I don't suppose, continued he, turning towards Gertrude, you've lived five years at Mr. Graham's, without finding out what a contankerous, opinionative, obstinate old hulk he is. Doctor, said Mrs. Jeremy, reprovingly, and shaking her head at him. I don't care for winking or head shaking, wife, I speak my mind, and that's the conclusion I've come to with regard to Mr. Graham. And Gertrude here has done the same. I haven't a particle of doubt, only she's a good girl and won't say so. I never saw anything that looked like it, said Mrs. Jeremy, and I've seen as much of him as most folks. I meet him in the street almost every day, and he looks as smiling as a basket of chips, and makes a beautiful bow. I dare say, said the doctor, Gertrude and I know what gentlemanly manners he has when one does not walk in the very teeth of his opinions. Eh, Gertrude? But when one does? In talking politics, for instance, suggested Mrs. Jeremy, it's your differences with him on politics that have set you against him so. No, it doesn't, replied the doctor. A man may get angry talking politics, and be a pretty good natured man, too, in the main. I get angry myself on politics, but that isn't the sort of thing I have reference to at all. It's Graham's wanting to lay down the law to everybody that comes within ten miles of him that I can't endure. His dictatorial way of acting, as if he were the grand mogul of Cotch and China. I thought he'd improved of late years. He had a serious lesson enough, and that sad affair of poor Philip Amory's. But, fact, I believe he's been trying the old game again. Ha, ha, ha, shouted the good doctor, leaning forward, and giving Gertrude a light tap on the shoulder. Wasn't I glad when I found he'd met at last with a reasonable opposition, and that, too, where he least expected it. Gertrude looked her astonishment at his evident knowledge of the misunderstanding between herself and Mr. Graham, and in answer to that look he continued, you wonder where I picked up my information, and I'll tell you. It was partly from Graham himself. And what diverts me is to think how hard the old chap tried to hide his defeat, and persuade me that he'd had his own way after all, when I saw through him, and knew as well as he did, that he'd found his match in you. Dr. Jeremy, interposed Gertrude, I hope you don't think. No, my dear, I don't think you a professed pugilist, but I consider you a girl of sense, one who knows what's right, and will do what's right, in spite of Mr. Graham, or anybody else. And when you hear my story, you will know the grounds on which I formed my opinion with regard to the course things had taken, and the reasons I have for understanding the state of the case, rather better than Graham meant I should. One day, perhaps it was about two months ago. You may remember the exact time better than I do. I was summoned to go and see one of Mr. W's children, who had an attack of croop. Mr. W was talking with me, when he was called away to see a visitor. And on his return, he mentioned that he had just secured your services in his school. I was not surprised, for I knew Emily intended you for a teacher, and I was thankful you had got so good a situation. I had hardly left Mr. W's door, however, before I encountered Mr. Graham, and he entertained me, as we went down the street, with an account of his plans for the winter. But Gertrude Flint is not going with you, said I. Gertrude, said he, certainly she is. Are you sure of that? I asked. Have you invited her? Invited her? No, was his answer. But, of course, I know she will go, and be glad enough of the opportunity. It isn't every girl in her situation that is so fortunate. Now, Gertie, I felt a little provoked at his way of speaking, and I answered, and nearly as confident atone as his own. I doubt myself whether she will accept the invitation. Upon that Mr. Dignity straightened up, and such a speech as he made. I never can recall it without being amused, especially when I think of the come down that followed so soon after. I can't repeat it, but goodness, Gertrude, one would have thought to hear him, that it was not only impossible you should oppose his wishes, but actual treason in me to suggest such a thing. Of course, I knew better than to tell what I had just heard for Mr. W., but I never felt a greater curiosity about anything than I did to know how the matter would end. Two or three times I planned to drive out with my wife, to see Emily, and hear the result. But a doctor never can call a day his own, and I got prevented. At last, one Sunday, I heard Mrs. Prime's voice in the kitchen. Her niece lives here, and down I went to make my inquiries. That woman is a friend of yours, Gertrude, and pretty sharp where you are concerned. She told me the truth, I rather think. Though not perhaps all the particulars. It was not more than a day or two after that, before I saw Graham. Ah, said I, when do you start? Tomorrow, replied he. Really, I exclaimed, then I shan't see your ladies again. Will you take a little package from me to Gertrude? I know nothing about Gertrude, said he, stiffly. What, rejoined I, affecting the greatest surprise? Has Gertrude left you? She has, answered he, and dared, continued I, quoting his own words, to treat you with such disrespect, to trifle so with your dignity. Dr. Jeremy exclaimed he, I don't wish to hear that young person mentioned. She has behaved as ungrateful as she has unwisely. Why, about the gratitude, Graham, said I, I believe you said it would only be an additional favor on your part if you took her with you. And I can't say but what I think it is wisdom in her to make herself independent at home. But I really am sorry for you and Emily. You will miss her so much. We can dispense with your sympathy, sir, answered he, for that which is no loss. Ah, really, I replied, now I was thinking Gertrude's society would be quite a loss. Mrs. Ellis goes with us, said he, with a marked emphasis, that seemed to say she was a person whose company compensated for all deficiency. Ah, said I, charming woman, Mrs. Ellis! Graham looked annoyed, for he is aware that Mrs. Ellis is my antipathy. Well, you ought to have known better, Dr. Jerry, said his kind-hearted wife, than to have attacked a man so on his weak point. It was only exciting his temper for nothing. I was taking up the cudgels for Gertrude, wife. And I don't believe Gertrude wants you to take up the cudgels for her. I have no manner of doubt that she has the kindest of feelings toward Mr. Graham, this blessed minute. I have indeed, Mrs. Jeremy, said Gertrude. He has been a most generous and indulgent friend to me. Except when you wanted to have your own way, suggested the doctor. Which I seldom did, when it was in opposition to his wishes. And what if it were? I always considered it my duty to submit to him, until at last a higher duty compelled me to do otherwise. And then, my dear, said Mrs. Jeremy, I dare say it pains you to displease him. And that is a right woman's feeling, and one that Dr. Jerry, in his own heart, can't but approve of. Though one would think to hear him talk, that he considered it pretty in a young girl, to take satisfaction in brow-beating an old gentleman. But don't let us talk any more about it. He has had his say, and now it's my turn. I want to hear how you are situated, Gertrude, where you live, and how you like teaching. Gertrude answered all these questions, and the doctor, who had heard Mrs. Sullivan spoken of as a friend of truths and Gerties, at the time when he attended the former, made inquiries concerning the state of her health. It was by this time beginning to snow fast, and Gertrude's anxiety to return home in good season, being very manifest to her kind host and hostess, they urged no further delay. And after she had given many a promise to repeat her visit on the earliest opportunity, she drove away with the doctor. CHAPTER XXIV No simplest duty is forgot. Life hath no dim and lovely spot, that doth not in her sunshine share. Lowell. I have been thinking, said Gertrude, as she drew near home. How we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm Mrs. Sullivan. What's going to alarm her? asked the doctor. You, if she knows at once that you are a physician. I think I had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in the storm. Oh! So we are going to act a little farce, are we? Stage manager Gertrude Flint. Unknown stranger. Dr. Jeremy. I'm ready. What shall I say first? I leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a physician. Ah, yes, pretend at first to be only a private individual of a very inquiring mind. I think I can manage it. They went in. As they opened the door, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair with the troubled countenance, and hardly waited for the introduction to Gertrude's friend before she turned to her and asked, with some anxiety, if Mr. Cooper were not with them. No indeed, replied Gertrude. Hasn't he come home? Upon Mrs. Sullivan saying that she had not seen him since morning, Gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far from feeling, that Mr. Miller had undertaken the care of him, and could undoubtedly account for his absence. She would seek him at once. Oh, I'm so sorry, said Mrs. Sullivan, that you should have to go out again in such a storm, but I feel very anxious about Grandpa, don't you, Gertie? Not very. I think he is safe in the church, but I'll go for him at once. You know, Auntie, I never mind the weather. Then take my great shawl, dear, and Mrs. Sullivan went to the entry-closet for her shawl, giving Gertrude an opportunity to beg of Dr. Jeremy, that he would await her return. For she knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often occasion an attack of faintness in Mrs. Sullivan, and was afraid to have her left alone, to dwell with anxiety and alarm upon Mr. Cooper's prolonged absence. It was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing dark. Gertrude hastened along the wet sidewalks, exposed to the blinding storm, for the wind would not permit her to carry an umbrella, and after passing through several streets, gained the church. She went into the building, now nearly deserted by the workmen, saw at once that Mr. Cooper was not there, and was beginning to fear that she should gain no information concerning him. Then she met Mr. Miller coming from the gallery. He looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if Mr. Cooper had not returned home. She answered in the negative, and he then informed her that his utmost efforts were insufficient to persuade the old man to go home at dinnertime, and that he had therefore taken him to his own house. He had supposed, however, that long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one of the children to accompany him to Mrs. Sullivan's. As it now seemed probable that he was still at Mr. Miller's, Gertrude took the direction, for the family had moved within a year, and she did not know where to seek them. And declining the company of the friendly Mason, whom she was unwilling to take from his work, proceeded thither at once. After an uncomfortable walk, and some difficulty in finding the right street and house, she reached her destination. She knocked at the outside door, but there was no response, and after waiting a moment she opened it and went in. Through another door at the right there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise that she believed it impossible to make herself heard. And therefore, without further ceremony, entered the room. A band of startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and ensconced themselves in corners. And Mrs. Miller, in dismay at the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a clothes-horse against the wall. And thereby disclosing to view the very person Gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding attitude, sat cowering over the fire. But before she could advance to speak to him, her whole attention was arrested by another and most unexpected sight. Placed against the side of the room, directly opposite the door, was a narrow bed in which some person seemed to be sleeping. Hardly, however, had Gertrude presented herself in the doorway before the figure suddenly raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off her approach, and uttered a piercing shriek. The voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and Gertrude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her old dread, as she beheld the well-known features of Nan Grant. Go away, go away, cried Nan, as Gertrude, after a moment's hesitation, advanced into the room. Again Gertrude paused, for the wildness of Nan's eyes and the excitement of her countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. Mrs. Miller now came forward and interfered. Why Aunt Nancy, said she, what is the matter? This is Miss Flint, one of the best young ladies in the land. No taint, said Nan fiercely, I know better. Mrs. Miller now drew Gertrude aside into the shadow of the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an undertone, while Nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them into the dim corner to which they had retreated, maintained a watchful, listening attitude. Gertrude was informed that Mrs. Miller was a niece of Ben Grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife for years, until a few days previous Nan had come there in a state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever under which she was now laboring. I could not refuse her a shelter, said Mrs. Miller, but as you see I have no accommodation for her, and it's not only bad for me to have her sick right here in the kitchen. But what with the noise of the children, and all the other discomforts? I'm afraid the poor old thing will die. Have you a room that you could spare above stairs? asked Gertrude. Why, there's our Jane, answered Mrs. Miller. She's a good-hearted girl, as ever lived. She said right off she'd give up her room to poor Aunt Nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other children. I didn't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another fire going, and so I thought we'd put up a bed here for a day or two, and just see how she got along. But she's looking pretty bad today, and now I'm thinking, from her actions, that she's considerable out of her head. She ought to be kept quiet, said Gertrude, and if you will have a fire in Jane's room at my expense, and do what you can to make her comfortable, I'll try and send a physician here to see her. Mrs. Miller was beginning to express the warmest gratitude, but Gertrude interrupted her with saying, Don't thank me, Mrs. Miller. Nancy is not a stranger to me. I have known her before, and perhaps feel more interest in her than you do yourself. Mrs. Miller looked surprised, but Gertrude, whose time was limited, could not stop to enter into a further explanation. Anxious, however, if possible, to speak to Nan, and assure her of her friendly intentions. She went boldly up to the side of the bed, in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily upon her. Nan, said she, Do you know me? Yes, yes, replied Nan, and a half whisper, speaking quickly and catching her breath. What have you come for? To do you good, I hope. But Nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone, and with the same nervous accent, inquired, Have you seen Gertrude? Where is she? She as well, answered Gertrude, astonished, however, at the question, for she had supposed herself recognized. What did she say about me? She says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to do something to help you and make you well. Did she, said the sick woman, then you won't kill me? Kill you? No, indeed. We are in hopes to make you comfortable and cure you. Mrs. Miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew near with it in her hand. Gertrude took it and offered it to Nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her, however, in the meantime, over the edge of the cup. When she had finished, she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word being the name of her son, Stephen. Finding the current of her thoughts, thus apparently diverted, Gertrude, now feeling in haste to return and relieve Dr. Jeremy, who had so kindly agreed to stay with Mrs. Sullivan, moved a little from the bedside, saying as she did so, Goodbye, I will come and see you again. You won't hurt me? exclaimed Nan, starting up once more. Oh, no! I will try to bring you something you will like. Don't bring Gertrude here with you, I don't want to see her. I will come alone, replied Gertrude. Nan now laid down, and did not speak again while Gertrude remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she was outside the door. Mr. Cooper made no objection to accompanying his young guide, and though the severity of the storm was such that they did not escape a thorough wedding, they reached home in safety, in little more than an hour from the time she started on her expedition. Dr. Jeremy, seated at the side of the grate, with his feet upon the fender, had the contented appearance of one who was quite at home. He seemed indeed unconscious that he was waiting for Gertrude's return, or anything else but his own pleasure. He had been talking with Mrs. Sullivan about the people of a country town, where they had both passed some time in their childhood. And the timid retiring woman had, in the course of conversation, come to feel so much at her ease in the society of the social and entertaining physician, that although he had, and his unguarded discourse, accidentally disclosed his profession, she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without any of the alarm she had nervously fancied she should feel at the very sight of a doctor. By the time Gertrude returned, he had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared, on Mrs. Sullivan's leaving the room to provide dry clothes for her father, to report to Gertrude his opinion. Gertrude, said he, as soon as the door was shut, that's a very sick woman. Do you think so, Dr. Jeremy? said Gertrude, much alarmed, and sinking into the nearest chair. I do, replied he thoughtfully. I wished to mercy I had seen her six months ago. Why, doctor, do you date her illness so far back as that? Yes, and much further. She has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease, which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment. Dr. Jeremy, said Gertrude, in tones of greatest distress, you do not mean to tell me that Auntie is going to die, and leave me and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again too. Oh, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that. Do not be alarmed, Gertrude, said the doctor kindly. I did not mean to frighten you. She may live some time yet. I can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutely unsafe for you to be here alone, with these two friends of yours, to say nothing of its over-tasking or strength. Has not Mrs. Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? She tells me she has no one. Yes, indeed, answered Gertrude. Her son supplies her wants most generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend. Then you must speak to her about getting someone to assist you at once, for if you do not, I shall. I intend to, said Gertrude, I have seen the necessity for some time past, but she has such a dread of strangers that I hated to propose it. Nonsense, said the doctor, that's only imagination in her. She would soon get used to being waited upon. Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy, who knew the particulars of her own early life, and had frequently heard of Nan, to go the next day and see her. It will be a visit of charity, said she, for she is probably penniless, and though staying with her old patients, the millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them. That never makes any difference with you, however, I know very well. Not a bit, not a bit, answered the doctor. I'll go and see her tonight, if the case requires it, and tomorrow I shall look in to report how she is, and hear the rest of what Mrs. Sullivan was telling me about her wakeful nights. But Gertrude, do you go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings? I shall have you on my hands next. Mrs. Sullivan was delighted with Dr. Jeremy, and when he was gone eagerly sounded his praise. So different, said she, from common doctors. A portion of humanity for which she seemed to have an uncountable aversion, so sociable and friendly, why I felt Gertrude, as if I could talk to him about my sickness, as freely as I could to you. Gertrude readily joined in the praises bestowed upon her much valued friend, and it was tea time before Mrs. Sullivan was weary of the subject. After the evening meal was over, and Mr. Cooper, much wearied with the fatigues of the day, had been persuaded to retire to rest, while Mrs. Sullivan, comfortably reclining on the sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour. Gertrude broached the subject recommended by Dr. Jeremy. Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Sullivan no longer objected to the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. She was convinced of her own incompetency to perform any act of labor, and was equally opposed to the exertion on Gertrude's part, which had, during the last week, had been requisite. Gertrude suggested Jane Miller as a girl remarkably well suited to their wants, and it was agreed that she should be applied for on the following morning. One more glance at Gertrude, and we shall have followed her to the conclusion of the day. She is alone. It is ten o'clock, and the house is still. Mr. Cooper is sound asleep. Gertrude has just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. Mrs. Sullivan, under the influence of a soothing draw recommended by Dr. Jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. The little Calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in the window, are nestled side by side on their slender perch, in a close, unbroken row, and Gertrude has thrown a warm covering over them that they may not suffer from the cold night air. She has locked the doors, made all things safe, fast, and comfortable, and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. Her trials and cares are multiplying. A great grief stares her in the face, and a great responsibility, but she shrinks not from either. No, on the contrary, she thanks God that she is here, that she had the resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and in spite of her own weakness, and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's battle, and bravely wait its issues. She thanks God that she knows where to look for help, that the bitter sorrows of her childhood and early youth left her not without a witness of his love, who can turn darkness into light, and that no weight can now overshadow her whose gloom is not illumined by rays from the throne of God. But though her heart is brave and her faith firm, she has a woman's tender nature, and as she sits alone she weeps, weeps for herself, and for him who far away in a foreign land is counting the days, the months and years, which shall restore him to a mother he is destined never to see again. With the recollection, however, that she is to stand in the place of a child to that parent, and that hers is the hand that must soothe the pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes a stern necessity of self-control, a necessity to which Gertrude has long since learned to submit. And rallying all her calmness and fortitude, she wipes away the blinding tears, commends herself to him, who is strength to the weak, and comfort to the sorrowing. And soothed by the communion of her spirit, with the father of spirits, she seeks her couch, and worn out by the varied mental and bodily fatigues of her day's experience, follows the rest of the household to the land of dreams. CHAPTER XXV Some say that gleams of a remote or world visit the soul in sleep. Shelley It was a fortunate thing for Gertrude that Thanksgiving week was approaching, as that was a vacation time at Mr. W. School, and she would thus be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied cares. She considered herself favored, too, in obtaining the services of Jane, who willingly consented to come and help Miss Gertrude. She did not, she said, exactly like the idea of living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady who had been so good to them in times past. Gertrude had feared that, with Nan Grant sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give up her eldest daughter. But Mary, a second girl, having returned home unexpectedly, one of them could be very conveniently spared. Under Gertrude's tuition, Jane, who was knee-uncapable, was able, after a few days, to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of nearly all her household duties, and so far provide for many of her personal wants as to leave Gertrude at liberty to pay frequent visits to the sick-room of Nan, whose fever, having reached its height, rendered her claim for aid at present the most imperative. We need hardly say that, and Gertrude still vivid recollections of her former sufferings under the rule of Nan. There remained nothing of the bitterness or a spirit of revenge. If she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor. If she meditated upon the course she should herself pursue towards her once-hated tyrant, it was only to revolve in her mind how she could best serve and comfort her. Therefore, night after night, found her watching by the bedside of the sick woman, who though still delirious, had entirely lost the fear and dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence. Nan talked much of little Gertie, sometimes in a way that led Gertrude to believe herself recognized, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be absent, and it was not until a long time after that Gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition, which was that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by Nan herself, the fevered, diseased, and conscious, stricken sufferer believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was only the continued assurances of Goodwill on Gertrude's part, and her unwearyed efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led Nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in health and safety, and was ignorant if the wrongs and unkindness she had endured. One night it was the last of Nan's life, Gertrude, who had scarcely left her during the previous day, and was still maintaining her watch, heard her own name mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. She approached the bed and listened intently, for she was always in hopes, during these partly incoherent ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early life. Her name was not repeated, however, and for some time the muttering of Nan's voice was indistinct. Then suddenly, starting up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted aloud, Stevie, Stevie, give me back the watch, and tell me what you did with the rings. They will ask those folks, and what shall I tell them? Then after a pause, during which her eyes were fixed steadily upon the wall, she said, in a more feeble, but equally earnest voice, No, no, Stevie, I never will tell, I never, never will. The moment the words had left her lips, she started, turned, saw Gertrude standing by the bedside, and with a frightened look, shrieked, rather than asked, Did you hear, did you hear? You did, continued she, and you'll tell, Oh, if you do, she was here preparing to spring from the bed, but overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow. Summoning both Mr. and Mrs. Miller, who half expecting to be called up during the night, had lain down in the next room, the agitated Gertrude, believing that her own presence was too exciting, left the now dying woman to their care, and saw in another part of the house to calm her disturbed mind and disordered nerves. Learning about an hour afterwards from Mrs. Miller, that Nan had become comparatively calm, but was utterly prostrated in strength, and seemed near her end. Gertrude thought at best not to enter the room again, and sitting down by the kitchen stove, pondered in her mind the strange scene she had witnessed. Day was just dawning when Mrs. Miller came to tell her that Nan had breathed her last. Gertie's work of mercy, forgiveness, and Christian love, being thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her wasted strength, and fortify herself, as she best might, for the labor and suffering yet in store for her. And it was no ordinary strength and fortitude that she needed to sustain her through a period, such as persons in this world are often called upon to meet, when scenes of suffering, sickness, and death follow each other in such quick succession. There ere one shock can be recovered from, and composure of mind restored. Another blow comes to add its force to the already overwhelming torrent. In less than three weeks from the time of Nan Grant's death, Paul Cooper was smitten by the destroyer's hand. And after a brief illness, he too was laid to his last rest. And though the deepest feelings of Gertrude's heart were not in either case fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physical endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self-imposed duties occasioned by each event. In that too, at a time when her mind was wracked by the apprehension of a new and far more intense grief, Emily's absence was also a sore trial to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and counsel, and in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and submission from one who was herself a living exemplification of both virtues. Only one letter had been received from the travelers, and that, written by Mrs. Ellis, contained little that was satisfactory. It was written from Havana, where they were boarding in a house kept by an American lady, and crowded with visitors from Boston, New York, and other northern cities. It ain't so very pleasant after all, Gertrude, wrote Mrs. Ellis, and I only wish we were safe home again, and not on my own account either, so much as Emily's. She feels kind of strange here, and no wonder, for it's a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. The windows have no glass about them, but are graded just like a prison, and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a fireplace, though sometimes the mornings are quite cold. There's a witter here, with a brother and some nieces. The witter is a flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think, if you'll believe it, is either setting her cap for Mr. Graham, or means to make an old fool of him. She is one of your loud talking women that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead. And Mr. Graham is just silly enough to follow after her party, and go to all sorts of rides and excursions. It's so ridiculous, and he over sixty five years old. Emily and I have pretty much done going into the parlor, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. Emily doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but I know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in Boston. And so should I, if it wasn't for that horrid steamboat. I liked to have died with seasickness Gertrude coming out, and I dread going home so, that I don't know what to do. Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily, but as Miss Graham was dependent upon Mrs. Ellis' eyesight, and the letters must therefore be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and feelings, as she was want to do in conversation with her sympathizing and indulgent friend. Every India male brought news from William Sullivan, who prosperous in business, and rendered happy, even in his exile, by the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the fruits of his exertions, wrote always in his accustomed strain of cheerfulness. One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper's death, phoned Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous postcards upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. It had that day been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she lay stretched upon her couch, had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents. The bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious, as he yet was, of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwanted degree of sadness. While Gertrude, as she glanced at the passage, in which Willie dilated upon the joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear little mother whom he so longed to see again, and then turned her gaze upon the wasted and faded cheek of that mother, felt an indescribable chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy's first fears were all confirmed, and her disease still further aggravated by the anxiety and agitation which attended her father's sickness and death. Mrs. Sullivan was rapidly passing away. Whether she were herself aware that this was the case, Gertrude had not yet been able to determine. She had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated in any manner a conviction of her approaching end. And Gertrude, as she surveyed her placid countenance, was almost inclined to believe that she was yet deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery. All doubt on this point was soon removed, for after remaining a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs. Sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon her young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct voice, Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again. Gertrude made no reply. I wished to write him, and tell him so myself, she continued, or rather, if you will write for me, as you have done so many times already, I should like to tell you what to say, and I feel that no time is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long have strength enough left to do it. It will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know when all is over, but you have had too many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. Will you commence a letter today? Certainly, Auntie, if you think it best. I do, Gertrude. What you wrote by the last mail was chiefly concerning grandpa's sickness and death, and there was nothing mentioned which would be likely to alarm him on my account, was there? Nothing at all. Then it is quite time he should be forewarned, poor boy. I do not need Dr. Jeremy to tell me that I am dying. Did he tell you so? asked Gertrude, as she went to her desk and began to arrange her writing materials. No, Gertie, he was too prudent for that, but I told him, and he did not contradict me. You have known it some time, have you not? inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of Gertrude, who had returned to the couch, and seated upon the edge of it, was bending over the invalid, and smoothing the hair from her forehead. Some weeks, replied Gertrude, as she spoke in printing a kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer. Why did you not tell me? Why should I, dear Auntie? said Gertrude, her voice trembling with emotion. I knew the Lord could never call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning. Feebly it burns feebly, said the humble Christian. Whose then is bright? responded Gertrude, if yours be dim. Have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety and patience? Unless it be Emily, Auntie, I know of no one who seems so fit for heaven. Oh, no, Gertrude, I am a sinful creature, full of weakness. Much as I long to meet my saviour, my earthly heart pines with the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one blessing I most craved on earth has been denied me. Oh, Auntie, exclaimed Gertrude, we are all human. Until the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of Willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour? It cannot be a sin, that which is so natural. I do not know, Gertrude, perhaps it is not, and if it be I trust before I go hence, I shall be blessed with a spira of perfect submission that will atone for the occasional murmuring of a mother's heart. Read to me, my dear, some holy words of comfort. You always seem to open the good book at the passage I most need. It is sinful, indeed, in me Gertrude, to indulge the least repining. Blessed as I am in the love and care of one who is dear to me as a daughter. Gertrude took her Bible, and opening it at the Gospel of St. Mark, her eye fell at once upon the account of her Savior's agony and the Garden of Gethsemane. She rightly believed that nothing could be more appropriate to miss a soul of in state of mind than the touching description of the struggle of our Lord's humanity. Nothing more likely to soothe her spirit, and reconcile her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature than the evident contest of the human with the divine so thrillingly narrated by the disciple, and that nothing could be more inspiring than the example of that holy Son of God who ever to his thrice-repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him, added the pious ejaculation, thy will not mine be done. Without hesitation, therefore, she read what first met her glance, and had the satisfaction of seeing that the words were not without effect. For when she had finished, she observed that as Mrs. Sullivan lay still and calm upon her couch, her lips seemed to be repeating the Savior's prayer. Not wishing to disturb her meditations, Gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to Willie, but sat in perfect silence, and about half an hour afterwards Mrs. Sullivan fell asleep. It was a gentle, quiet slumber, and Gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful, happy expression of her features. Darkness had come on before she awoke, and so shrouded the room that Gertrude, who still sat there, was invisible in the gloom. She started unhearing her name, and hastily, lighting a candle, approached the couch. Oh, Gertrude, said Mrs. Sullivan, I have had such a beautiful dream. Sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to you. It could not have been more vivid if it had all been reality. I thought I was sailing rapidly through the air, and for some time I seemed to flow on and on over clouds and among bright stars. The motion was so gentle that I did not grow weary, though in my journey I traveled over land and sea. At last I saw beneath me a beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments, and throngs of gay people moving in every direction. As I drew nearer, I could distinguish the faces of these numerous men and women, and among them, in a crowded street, there was one who looked like Willie. I followed him, and soon felt sure it was he. He looked older than when we saw him last, and much as I have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appearance. I followed him through several streets, and at last he turned into a fine, large building which stood near the center of the city. I went in also. We passed through large halls and beautifully furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-salon, in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, glasses, and the remains of a rich dessert such as I never saw before. There was a group of young men round the table, all well-dressed, and some of them fine-looking, so that at first I was quite charmed with their appearance. I seemed, however, to have a strange power of looking into their hearts and detecting all the evil that was there. One had a very bright intelligent face, and might have been thought a man of talent. And so he was, but I could see better than people usually can, and I perceived, by a sort of instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant as to be ensnared. And in a corner of his pocket I knew he had a pair of loaded dice. Another seemed by his wit and drullery to be the charm of the company. But I could detect mercs of intoxication, and felt a certainty that in less than an hour he would cease to be the master of his own actions. A third was making a vain attempt to look happy, but his very soul was bared to my search and gaze, and I was aware of the fact that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table all his own and a part of his employer's money, and was tortured with anxiety lest he might not this evening be fortunate enough to win it back. There were many others present, and all, more or less sunk in dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to rune. Their faces, however, looked animated and gay, and as Willie glanced from one to another he seemed pleased and attracted. One of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged him to take it. He did so, and the young man at his right filled a glass with bright wine, and handed it to him. He hesitated, then took it, and raised it to his lips. Just then I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, saw me, and instantly the glass fell from his hand, and was broken into a thousand pieces. I beckoned, and he immediately rose and followed me. The gay circle he had left called loudly upon him to return. One of them even laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him. But he would not listen or stay. He shook off the hand that would have held him, and we went on. Before we had got outside the building, the man whom I had first noticed, and whom I knew to be the most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door, which he had reached by some other direction, and approaching Willie, whispered in his ear. Willie faltered, turned, and would perhaps have gone back. But I placed myself in front of him, held up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. He hesitated no longer, but flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, and was down the long flight of steps before I could overtake him. I seemed, however, to move with great rapidity, and soon found myself taking the lead, and guiding my son through the intricate, crowded streets of the city. Many were the adventures we encountered, many the snares we found laid for the unwary in every direction. More than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless boy by my side from sun pitfall or danger, into which without me he would have surely fallen. Occasionally I lost sight of him, and was obliged to turn back. Now he had been separated from me by the crowd, and consequently missed his way, and now he had purposely lingered to witness, or join in the amusements of the gay populace. Each time, however, he listened to my warning voice, and we went on in safety. At last, however, and passing through a brilliantly lighted street, for it was now evening, I suddenly observed that he was absent from my side. I went backwards and forwards, but he was nowhere to be seen. For an hour I hunted the streets, and called him by name, but there was no answer. I then unfolded my wings, and soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the whole, hoping that in one glance I might, as I had at first done, detect my boy. I was not disappointed. In a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, and filled with gaiety and fashion, I beheld Willie. A brilliant young creature was leaning on his arm, and I saw into her heart, and knew that she was not blind to his beauty, or insensible to his attractions. But, oh, I trembled for him now. She was lovely and rich, and it was evident to me, from the elegance of her dress, and the attention she attracted, that she was also fashionable and admired. I saw into her soul, however, and she was vain, proud, cold-hearted and worldly, and if she loved Willie, it was his beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her, not his noble nature, which she knew not how to prize. As they promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising, gave all her time and thoughts to him. I, descending in an invisible shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder as I had done before. He looked around, but before he could see his mother's face, the siren's voice attracted all his attention. Again and again I endeavored to win him away, but he heard me not. At length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. I seized the moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and clasping him in my arms, spread my wings, and soared far, far away, bearing with me the prize I had toiled after in one. As we rose into the air, my manly sun became in my encircling arms a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, with its soft silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. Back we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until on a soft, grassy slope, under the shade of green trees. I thought I saw my darling Gertie, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when I awoke, pronouncing your name. And now Gertrude, the bitterness of the cup I am called upon to drink, is passed away. A blessed angel has indeed ministered unto me. I no longer wish to see my son again on this earth, for I am persuaded that my departure is in perfect accordance with the schemes of a merciful providence. I now believe that Willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from temptation and evil, but the spirit of that mother will be mighty still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the stray and narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger, a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while yet on earth. Now, O my father, I can say from the depths of my heart, that I will not mine be done. From this time until her death, which took place about a month afterward, Mrs. Sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect resignation and tranquility. As she said, the last pang had lost its bitterness. In the letter which she dictated to Willie, she expressed her perfect trust in the goodness and wisdom of providence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love for the all-wise. She reminded him of the early lessons she had taught him, the piety and self-command which she had inculated, and made at her dying prayer that her influence might be increased, rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a continual reality. She gave the important caution to one who had faithfully struggled with adversity, to beware of the dangers and snares which attend prosperity, and besought him never to discredit or disgrace his childhood's training. After Gertrude had folded the letter, which she supposed completed, and left the house to attend to those duties in school, which she still continued regularly to perform. Mrs. Sullivan reopened the nearly-covered sheet, and with her own feeble and trembling hand recounted the disinterested, patient, loving devotion of Gertrude. So long, said she, my son, as you cherish in your heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is capable upon one whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray. So slow and gradual was the decline of Mrs. Sullivan that her death at last came as an unexpected blow to Gertrude, who though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realize that a termination must come to their work. In the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and encourage her but the frightened and trembling Jane, did she watch the departing spirit of her much loved friend. Are you afraid to see me die, Gertrude? asked Mrs. Sullivan, about an hour before her death. On Gertrude's answering that she was not. Then turn me a little towards you, said she, that your face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth. It was done, and with her hand locked fast in Gertrude's, and a look that spoke of the deepest affection, she expired.