 CHAPTERS 1 AND 2 OF LENA RIVERS For many days the storm continued. Highways were blocked up, while roads less frequented were rented wholly impassable. The oldest inhabitants of Oakland had never seen the like before, and they shook their grey heads ominously as over and to down the New England mountains the howling winds swept furiously, now shrieking exultingly as one by one the huge forest trees bent before its power, and again dying away in a low, sad wail, as it shook the casement of some low-roofed cottage where the blazing fire, high-piled upon the hearth, danced merrily to the sound of the storm wind, and then whirling in fantastic circles disappeared up the broad-mouthed chimney. For nearly a week there was scarcely a sign of life in the streets of Oakland, but at the end of that time the storm abated, and the December sun emerging from its dark hiding-place once more looked smilingly down upon the white untrodden snow which covered the earth for miles and miles around. Rapidly the roads were broken, paths were made on the narrow sidewalk, and then the villagers bethought themselves of their mountain neighbors who might perchance have suffered from the severity of the storm. Far up the mountain side in an old yellow farmhouse which had withstood the blast of many a winter lived Grandfather and Grandmother Nichols as they were familiarly called, and ere the sun setting arrangements were made for paying them a visit. Oakland was a small rural village nestled among rocky hills where the word fashion was seldom heard and where many of the primitive customs of our forefathers still prevailed. Consequently neither the buxom maidens nor the hail-old madrons felt in the least disgraced as they piled promiscuously upon the four-ox sled which ere long was moving slowly through the mammoth drifts which lay upon the mountain road. As they drew near the farmhouse they noticed that the blue paper curtains which shaded the windows of Grandmon Nichols' spare room were rolled up, while the faint glimmer of a tallow candle within indicated that the room possessed an occupant. Who could it be? Possibly it was John, the proud man who lived in Kentucky and who, to please his wealthy bride, exchanged the plebeian name of Nichols for that of Livingstone which his high-born lady fancied was more aristocratic in its sounding. And if it be John, said the passengers of the ox sled with whom that gentleman was no great favorite, if it be John we'll take ourselves home as fast as ever we can. Satisfied with this resolution they kept on their way until they reached the wide gateway where they were met by Mr. Nichols whose greeting they fancied was less cordial than usual. With their simple, how do you do, he led the way into the spacious kitchen which answered the trouble-purpose of dining-room, sitting-room, and cook-room. Grandmon Nichols, too, appeared somewhat disturbed, but she met her visitors with an air which seemed to say she was determined to make the best of her trouble whatever it might be. The door of the spare room was slightly ajar, and while the visitors were disrobing one young girl more curious than the rest peered cautiously in, exclaiming as she did so, mother, mother, Helena is in there on the bed, pale as a ghost. Yes, Helena is in there, interrupted Grandmon Nichols who overheard the girl's remark. She got home the first night of the storm and what's queerer than all, she's been married better than a year. Married! Married! Helena married! Who, too? Where's her husband? Asked a dozen voices in the same breath. Grandfather Nichols groaned as if in pain, and his wife, glancing anxiously toward the door of the daughter's room, said in reply to the last question. That's the worst, don't it? He was some grand rascal who lived at the southern and come up here to see what he could do. He thought Helena was handsome, I suppose, and married her, making her keep it still because his folks in Carolina wouldn't like it. Of course he got sick of her, and just before the baby was born he gave her five hundred dollars and left her. A murmur of surprise ran round the room accompanied with a look of incredulity, which Grandmon Nichols quickly divined, and while her withered cheek crimson'd at the implied disgrace she added in an elevated tone of voice, it's true as the Bible. Grandfather Blanchard's son that used to preach here married them, and Helene brought us a letter from him saying it was true. Here it is. Read it yourselves if you don't believe me. And she drew from a side drawer a letter on the back of which the villagers recognized the well-remembered handwriting of their former pastor. This proof of Helena's innocence was hardly relished by the clever gossips of Oakland for the young girl, though kind-hearted and gentle was far too beautiful to be a general favorite. Mothers saw in her arrival for their daughters while the daughters looked enviously upon her clear white brow and shining chestnut hair, which fell in wavy curls about her neck and shoulders. Two years before our story opens she had left her mountain home to try the mysteries of millenry in the city where a distant relative of her mother was living. Here her uncommon beauty attracted much attention, drawing hair along to her side a wealthy young Southerner, who just freed from the restraints of college life found it vastly agreeable making love to the fair Helena. Simple-minded and wholly unused to the ways of the world she believed each word he said, and when at last he proposed marriage she not only consented, but also promised to keep it a secret for a time, until he could in a measure reconcile his father, who he feared might disinherit him for wedding a penniless bride. Wait, darling, until he knows you, said he, and then he will gladly welcome you as his daughter. Accordingly one dark wintry night when neither moon nor stars were visible, Helena stole softly from her quiet room at Mrs. Warren's, and in less than an hour was the lawful bride of Harry Rivers, the wife of the clergyman alone witnessing the ceremony. I wish I could take you home at once, said young Rivers, who was less a rascal than a coward. I wish I could take you home at once, but it cannot be. We must wait a while. So Helena went back to Mrs. Warren's, where for a few weeks she stayed and then, saying she was going home, she left and became the mistress of a neat little cottage which stood a mile or two from the city. Here, for several months, young Rivers devoted himself entirely to her happiness, seeming to forget that there was ought else in the world save his beautiful Lena, as he was want to call her. But at last there came a change. Harry seemed sad and absent-minded, though ever kind to Helena, whose strove in vain to learn the cause of his uneasiness. One morning, when later than usual she awoke, she missed him from her side, and on the table near her lay a letter containing the following. Forgive me, darling, that I leave you so abruptly. Circumstances render it necessary, but be assured I shall come back again. In the meantime you had better return to your parents, where I will seek you. Enclosed are five hundred dollars, enough for your present need. Farewell. H. Rivers. There was one bitter cry of hopeless anguish, and when Helena Rivers again awoke to perfect consciousness, she lay in a darkened room, soft footsteps passed in and out, kind faces, in which were mingled pity and reproach bent anxiously over her, while at her side lay a little tender thing, her infant daughter, three weeks old. And now there arose within her a strong desire to see once more her childhood's home, to lay her aching head upon her mother's lap, and pour out the tale of grief which was crushing the life from out her young heart. As soon therefore as her health would permit, she started for Oakland, taking the precaution to procure from the clergyman who had married her a letter confirming the fact. Wretched and weary she reached her home at the dusk of evening, and with a bitter cry fell fainting in the arms of her mother, who having heard regularly from her never dreamed that she was elsewhere than in the employ of Mrs. Warren. With streaming eyes and trembling hands, the old man and his wife made ready the spare room for the wanderer, more than once blessing the fearful storm which for a time at least would keep away the prying eyes of those who they feared would hardly credit their daughter's story. And their fears were right, for many of those who visited them on the night of which we have spoken disbelieve the tale, mentally pronouncing the clergyman's letter of forgery got up by Helena to deceive her parents. Consequently, of the few who from time to time came to the old farmhouse, nearly all were actuated by motives of curiosity rather than by feelings of pity for the young girl mother, who though feeling their neglect scarcely heeded it. Strong in the knowledge of her own innocence, she lay day after day watching and waiting for one who never came. But at last as days glided into weeks and weeks into months, hope died away, and turning wearily upon her pillow she prayed that she might die. And when the days grew bright and glad some in the warm spring sun, when the snow was melted from off the mountaintops, and the first robin's note was heard by the farmhouse door, Helena laid her baby on her mother's bosom and without a murmur, glided down the dark, broad river whose deep waters move onward and onward, but never return. When it was known in Oakland Helena was dead, there came a reaction, and those who had been loudest in their condemnation were now the first to hasten forward with offers of kindness and words of sympathy. But neither tears nor regrets could recall to life the fair young girl who wondrously beautiful even in death slept calmly in her narrow coffin, a smile of sadness breathing her lips as if her last prayer had been for one who had robbed her thus early of happiness in life. In the bright green valley at the foot of the mountain they buried her, and the old father as he saw the damp earth fall upon her grave asked that he too might die. But his wife younger by several years prayed to live, live that she might protect and care for the little orphan who first by its young mother's tears and again by the waters of the baptismal fountain was christened, Helena Rivers, the Lena of our story. 2 John 10 years of sunlight and shadow have passed away and the little grave at the foot of the mountain is now grass grown and sunken. 10 times have the snows of winter fallen upon the horny head of grandfather Nichols, bleaching his thin locks to their own weakness and bending his sturdy frame until now the old man lay dying, dying in the same blue curtained room where years ago on his only daughter was born and where 10 years before she had died. Carefully did Mrs. Nichols nurse him, watching, weeping and praying that he might live while little Lena gladly shared her grandmother's vigils hovering ever by the bedside of her grandfather who seemed more quiet when her soft hand smoothed his tangled hair or wiped the cold moisture from his brow. The villagers too, remembering their neglect when once before death had brooded over the mountain farmhouse now daily came with offers of assistance. But one thing still was wanting. John, their only remaining child, was absent and the sick man's heart grew sad and his eyes dim with tears as day by day went by and still he did not come. Several times had Elena written to her uncle, apprising him of his father's danger and once only had he answered. It was a brief, formal letter written evidently under some constraint but it said that he was coming and with childish joy the old man had placed it beneath his pillow, withdrawing it occasionally for Lena to read again, particularly the passage, Dear Father, I am sorry you are sick. Heaven bless him, I know he's sorry, Mr. Nichols would say. He was always a good boy, is a good boy now, ain't he Martha? And motherlike Mrs. Nichols would answer, yes. Forcing back the while the tears which would start when she thought how long the good boy had neglected them, eighteen years having elapsed since he had crossed the threshold of his home. With his hand plighted to one of the village maidens he had left Oakland to seek his fortune going first to New York then to Ohio and finally wending his way southward to Kentucky. Here he remained readily falling into the luxurious habits of those around him and gradually forgetting the low-roofed farmhouse far away to the northward where dwelt a gray-haired pair and a beautiful young girl, his parents and his sister. She to whom his vows were plighted was neither graceful nor cultivated, and when occasionally her tall spare figure and uncouth manners arose before him, in contrast with the fair forms around him, he smiled derisively at the thoughts of making her his wife. About this time there came from New Orleans a wealthy invalid with his only daughter Matilda. She was a proud haughty girl whose disposition, naturally unameable, was rendered still worse by a disappointment from which she was suffering. Accidentally Mr. Richards her father made the acquaintance of John Nichols conceiving for him a violent fancy and finally securing him as a constant companion. For several weeks John appeared utterly oblivious to the presence of Matilda who accustomed to adulation began at last to feel peaked at his neglect and to strive in many ways to attract his attention. John, who was ambitious, met her advances more than halfway and finally encouraged by her father offered her his heart and hand. Under other circumstances Matilda would undoubtedly have spurned him with contempt, but having heard that her recreational lover was about taking to himself a bride she felt a desire as she expressed it to let him know she could marry too. Accordingly John was accepted on condition that he change the name of Nichols which Miss Richards particularly disliked to that of Livingstone. This was easily done and the next letter which went to Oakland carried the news of John's marriage with the proud Matilda. A few months later and Mr. Richards died leaving his entire property to his daughter and her husband. John was now richer far than even in his wildest dreams he had ever hoped to be and yet like many others he found that Richards alone could not ensure happiness and indeed to be happy with Matilda Richards seemed impossible. Proud, avaricious and overbearing she continually taunted her husband with his entire dependence upon her carefully watching him lest any of her horded wealth should find its way to the scanty purse of his parents of whom she always spoke with contempt. Never but once had they asked for aid and that to help them rear the little Lena. Influenced by his wife John replied sneeringly scouting the idea of Helena's marriage denouncing her as his sister and saying of her child that the poor house stood ready for such as she. This letter Lena had accidentally found among her grandfather's papers and though its contents gave her no definite impression concerning her mother it inspired her with a dislike for her uncle whose coming she greatly dreaded for it was confidently expected that she together with her grandmother would return with him to Kentucky. You'll be better off there than here said her grandfather one day when speaking of the subject. Your uncle John is rich and you'll grow up a fine lady. I don't want to be a lady, I won't be a lady, said Lena passionately. I don't like uncle John. He called my mother a bad woman and me a little brat. I hate him and the beautiful brown eyes glittering with tears flashed forth their anger quite as eloquently as language could express it. The next moment Lena was bending over her grandfather asking to be forgiven for the hasty words which she knew had caused him pain. I'll try to like him, said she, as the pulsed hand stroked her disordered curls and token of forgiveness. I'll try to like him, adding mentally, but I do hope he won't come. It would seem that Lena's wish was to be granted for weeks glided by and there came no tidings of the absent one. Daily Mr. Nichols grew weaker and when there was no longer hope of life his heart yearned more and more to once more behold his son. To hear again ere he died the blessed name of Father. Lena, said Mrs. Nichols one afternoon when her husband seemed worse. Lena, it's time for the stage and do you run down to the turn and see if your uncles come? Something tells me he'll be here tonight. Lena obeyed and throwing on her faded calico sunbonnet she was soon at the turn, a point in the road from which the village hotel was plainly discernible. The stage had just arrived and Lena saw that one of the passengers evidently intended stopping, for he seemed to be giving directions concerning his baggage. That's Uncle John I most know, thought she, and seating herself on a rock beneath some white birches so common in New England she awaited his approach. She was right in her conjecture, for the stranger was John Livingstone, returned after many years but so changed that the jolly landlord who had known him when a boy and with whom he had cracked many a joke now hardly dared to address him, he seemed so cold and haughty. I will leave my trunk here for a few days, said John, and perhaps I shall wish for a room, got any decent accommodations. Wonder if he don't calculate to sleep to hum, thought the landlord replying at the same instant. Yes, sir, tipped up accommodations, ain't more than two beds in any room and nowadays we oughters has a wash, bowl and pitcher. Don't go to the sink as we used to when you lived round here. With a gesture of impatience Mr. Livingstone left the house and started up the mountain road where Lena still kept her watch. Oh how that walk recalled to him the memories of other days which came thronging about him as one by one familiar waymarks appeared reminding him of his childhood when he roamed over that mountain side with those who were now scattered far and wide, some on the deep blue sea, some at the distant west, and others far away across the dark river of death. He had mingled much with the world since last he had traversed that road and his heart had grown callous and indifferent, but he was not entirely hardened, and when at the turn in the road he came suddenly upon the tall walnut tree on whose shaggy bark his name was carved together with that of another. A maiden. He started as if smitten with a heavy blow and dashing a tear from his eye he exclaimed, oh that I were a boy again. From her seat on the mossy rock Lena had been watching him. She was very ardent and impulsive, strong in her likes and dislikes, but quite ready to change the latter if she saw any indications of improvement in the person disliked. For her uncle she had conceived a great aversion and when she saw him approaching thrusting aside the thistles and dandelions with his gold-headed cane she mimicked his motions wondering if he didn't feel big because he wore a large gold chain dangling from his jacket pocket. But when she saw his emotions beneath the walnut tree her opinion suddenly changed. A very bad man wouldn't cry, she thought, and springing to his side she grasped his hand exclaiming, I know you are my uncle John and I'm real glad you've come. Granny thought you never would and grandpa asks for you all the time. Had his buried sister arisen before him Mr. Livingstone would hardly have been more startled for in form and feature Lena was exactly what her mother had been at her age. The same clear complexion, large brown eyes and wavy hair. And the tones of her voice too, how they thrilled the heart of the strong man making him a boy again guiding the steps of his baby sister or bearing her gently in his arms when the path was steep and stony. It was but a moment, however, and then the vision faded. His sister was dead and the little girl before him was her child, the child of shame he believed or rather his wife had said it so often that he began to believe it. Glancing at the old womanish garb in which Mrs. Nichols always arrayed her, a smile of mingled scorn and pity curled his lips as he thought of presenting her to his fastidious wife and elegant daughters, then withdrawing the hand which she had taken, he said, and you are Lena, Lena Nichols they call you, I suppose. Lena's old dislike began to return and placing both hands upon her hips in imitation of her grandmother, she replied. No, taint Lena Nichols neither, it's Lena Rivers. Granny says so and the town clerk has got it so on his book. How are my cousins? Are they pretty well? And how is Aunt? Mr. Livingstone winced at the same time feeling amused at this little specimen of Yankeeism in which he saw so much of his mother. Poor little Lena, how should she know any better living as she always had with two old people whose language savored so much of the days before the flood? Some such thought passed through Mr. Livingstone's mind and very civilly he answered her concerning the health of her cousins and aunt, proceeding next to question her of his father who, she said, had never seen a well day since her mother died. Is there anyone with him except your grandmother? asked Mr. Livingstone. And Lena replied. And Nancy Scovendike has been with us a few days and is there now. At the sound of that name, John started coloring so deeply that Lena observed it and asked if he knew Miss Scovendike. I used to, said he, while Lena continued. She's a nice woman and though she ain't no connection I call her aunt, Granny thinks the side of her. Miss Scovendike was evidently an unpleasant topic for Mr. Livingstone and changing the subject, he said. What makes you say Granny Child? Lena blushed painfully. It was the first word she had ever uttered, her grandmother having taught it to her and encouraged her in its use. Besides that, Lena had a great horror of anything which she fancied was at all stuck up and thinking an entire change from Granny to grandmother would be altogether too much, she still persisted in occasionally using her favorite word in spite of the ridicule it frequently called forth from her school companions. Thinking to herself that it was none of her uncle's business what she called her grandmother, she made no reply and in a few moments they came inside of the yellow farmhouse which looked to Mr. Livingstone just as it did when he left it, 18 years before. There was the tall poplar with its green leaves rustling in the breeze just as they had done years ago when from a distant hail top he looked back to catch the last glimpse of his home. The whale in the rear was the same, the lilac bushes in front, the tansy patch on the right and the gable-roofed barn on the left, all were there, nothing was changed but himself. Mechanically he followed Lena into the yard half expecting to see bleaching upon the grass the same web of home-made cloth which he remembered had lain there when he went away. One thing alone seemed strange. The blue paper curtains were rolled away from the spare-room windows which were open as if to admit as much air as possible. I shouldn't wonder if Grandpa was worse, said Lena, hurrying him along and ushering him at once into the sick-room. At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him for she was bending tenderly over the white wrinkled face which lay upon the small scanty pillow. John thought, how small and scanty they were, while he almost shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted floor. Everything was dreary and comfortless and his conscience reproached him that his old father should die so poor when he counted his money by thousands. As he passed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight causing his mother to raise her head and in a moment her long bony arms were twined around his neck. The cruel letter, his long neglect, were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her darling boy whose bearded cheeks she kissed again and again. John was unused to such demonstrations of affection except indeed from his little golden-haired Anna who was refined and polished and all that which made a vast difference as he thought. Still he returned his mother's greeting with a tolerably good grace managing, however, to tear himself from her as soon as possible. How is my father? he asked and his mother replied. He grew worse right away after Leni went out and he seemed so put to it for breath that Nancy went for the doctor. Here a movement from the invalid arrested her attention and going to the bedside she saw that he was awake. Bending over him she whispered softly, John has come. Would you like to see him? Quickly the feeble arms were outstretched as if to feel what could not be seen for the old man's eyesight was dim with the shadows of death. Taking both his father's hands in his John said, Here I am, father. Can't you see me? No, John, no. I can't see you. And the poor man wept like a child. Soon growing more calm he continued, Your voice is the same that it was years ago when you lived with us at home. That hasn't changed, though they say your name has. Oh, John, my boy, how could you do so? It was a good name, my name, and you the only one left to bear it. What made you do so? Oh, John, John. Mr. Livingstone did not reply and after a moment his father again spoke. John, lay your hand on my forehead. It's cold as ice. I am dying and your mother will be left alone. We are poor, my son, poorer than you think. The homestead is mortgaged for all its worth and there are only a few daughters in the purse. Oh, I worked so hard to earn them for her and the girl, Helena's child. Now, John, promise me that when I am gone they shall go with you to your home in the West. Promise, and I shall die happy. This was a new idea to John and for a time he hesitated. He glanced at his mother. She was ignorant and peculiar, but she was his mother still. He looked at Lena. She was beautiful. He knew that, but she was odd and old-fashioned. He thought of his hearty wife, his headstrong son, and his imperious daughter. What would they say if he made that promise for if he made it he would keep it? A long time his father awaited his answer and then he spoke again. Won't you give your old mother a home? The voice was weaker than when it spoke before and John knew that life was fast ebbing away for the brown which his hand was resting was cold and damp with the moisture of death. He could no longer refuse and the promise was given. The next morning the deep toned bell of Oakland told that another soul was gone and the villagers, as they counted the three score strokes and ten, knew that grandfather Nichols was numbered with the dead. End of chapters one and two. Chapters three and four of Lena Rivers by Mary Jane Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Three. Packing up. The funeral was over and in the quiet valley by the side of his only daughter, grandfather Nichols was laid to rest. As far as possible his father's business was settled and then John began to speak of his returning. More than once had he repented of the promise made to his father and as the time passed on he shrank more and more from introducing his plebeian mother to his lady wife who he knew was meditating an open rebellion. Immediately after his father's death he had written to his wife telling her all and trying as far as he was able to smooth matters over so that his mother might at least have a decent reception. In a violent fashion his wife had answered that she never would submit to it, never. When I married you, said she, I didn't suppose I was marrying the old woman, young one and all and as for my having them to maintain I will not so Mr. John Nichols you understand it. When Mrs. Livingstone was particularly angry she called her husband Mr. John Nichols and when Mr. John Nichols was particularly angry he did as he pleased so in this case he replied that he should bring home as many old women and young ones as he liked and she might help herself if she could. This state of things was hardly favorable to the future happiness of Grandma Nichols who wholly unsuspecting in deeming herself as good as anybody never dreamed that her presence would be unwelcome to her daughter-in-law whom she thought to assist in various ways taking perhaps the whole heft of the housework upon herself. Though she added I mean to begin just as I can hold out. I've heard of such things as son's wives shirking the whole on to their old mothers and the minute Tilda shows any signs of that I shall back out I tell you. John who overheard this remark bit his lip with vexation and then burst into a laugh as he fancied the elegant Mrs. Livingstone's dismay at hearing herself called a Tilda. Had John chosen he could have given his mother a few useful hints with regard to her treatment of his wife but such an idea never entered his brain. He was a man of few words and generally allowed himself to be controlled by circumstances thinking that the easiest way of getting through the world. He was very proud and keenly felt how mortifying it would be to present his mother to his fashionable acquaintances but that was in the future many miles away. He wouldn't trouble himself about it now so he passed his time mostly in rambling through the woods and over the hills while his mother, Good Soul, busied herself with the preparations for her journey inviting each and every one of her neighbors to me, sure, and visit her if they ever came that way and urging some of them to come on purpose and span the winter. Among those who promised compliance with this last request was Miss Nancy Scovendike whom we have once before mentioned and who as the reader will have inferred was the first love of John Livingstone. On the night of his arrival she had been sent in quest of the physician and when on her return she learned from Lena that he had come she had kept out of sight thinking she would wait a while before she met him. Not that she cared the snap of her finger for him, she said, only it was natural that she should hate to see him. But when the time did come she met it bravely shaking his hand and speaking to him as if nothing had ever happened and while he was wondering how he ever could have fancied her she too was mentally styling herself a fool for having liked such a pussy overgrown thing. Dearly did Miss Nancy love excitement and during the days that Mrs. Nichols was packing up she was busy helping her to stow away the crockery which the old lady declared should go, particularly the blue set which she'd had ever since the day but won before John was born and which she intended as a part of Lieny's setting out. Then too John's wife could use him when she had a good deal of company to had saved by a new and every little help. I wonder now if Tilda takes Snuff, said Mrs. Nichols one day, seating herself upon an empty dry goods box which stood in the middle of the floor and helping herself to an enormous pinch of her favorite macaboy. I wonder if she takes Snuff, because if she does we shall take a sight of comfort together. I don't much believe she does, answered Miss Nancy whose face was very red with trying to cram a pair of cracked bellows into the already crowded top of John's leathern trunk. I don't believe she does, for somehow it seems to me she's a mighty nipped up thing, not a natum like you nor me. Like enough, returned Mrs. Nichols finishing her Snuff and wiping her fingers upon the corner of her checked apron. But Nancy, can you tell me how in the world I'm ever going to carry this mop? It's brand new, never been used above a dozen times, and I can't afford to give it away. At this point, John, who was sitting in the adjoining room, came forward. Hitherto he had not interfered in the least in his mother's arrangements, but had looked silently on while she packed away article after article which she would never need, and which undoubtedly would be consigned to the flames the moment her back was turned. The mop business, however, was too much for him, and before Miss Nancy had time to reply he said, For heaven's sake, mother, how many traps do you propose taking, and what do you imagine we can do with a mop? Why, I daresay, not one of my servants would know how to use it, and it's a wonder if some of the little chaps didn't take it for a horse before night. A nigger ride my mop? My new mop? exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, rolling up her eyes in astonishment while Miss Nancy turning to John said. In the name of the people, how do you live without mops? I should suppose you'd wrought alive. I am not much worse in the mysteries of housekeeping, returned John with a smile, but it's my impression that what little cleaning our floors get is done with a cloth. While if I won't give it up now, said Miss Nancy, as good an abolitionist as you used to be, make the poor colored folks wash the floor with a rag on their hands and knees. It can't be that you indulge a hope if you'll do such things. John made Miss Nancy no answer, but turning to his mother he said. I'm an earnest mother about your carrying so many useless things. We don't want them. Our house is full now, and besides that, Mrs. Livingstone is very particular about the style of her furniture, and I am afraid yours would hardly come up to her ideas of elegance. That chist of drawers, said Mrs. Nichols, pointing to an old-fashioned high-topped bureau, cost a notion of money when it was new, and if the brass is on it was rubbed up, Tilda couldn't tell him from gold, unless she's seen more on it than I have, which ain't much likely being I'm double her age. The chess does very well for you, I admit, said John. But we have neither use nor room for it, so if you can't sell it, why give it away, or burn it, one or the other? Mrs. Nichols saw he was decided, and forthwith, Lena was dispatched to widow-fishers to see if she would take it at half-price. The widow had no fancy for second-hand articles, consequently Miss Nancy was told to keep it, and maybe she'd some time have a chance to send it to Kentucky. It won't come amiss, I know, suppose than they be well on it. I believe in looking out for a rainy day. I can teach Tilda economy yet, whispered Mrs. Nichols, glancing toward the room where John sat whistling, whittling, and pondering in his own mind the best way of reconciling his wife to what could not well be helped. Lena, who was naturally quick-sighted, had partially divine the cause of her uncle's moodiness. The more she saw of him, the better she liked him, and she began to think that she would willingly try to cure herself of the peculiarities which evidently annoyed him if he would only notice her a little, which he was not likely to do. He seldom noticed any child, much less little Lena, who he fancied was ignorant as well as awkward. But he did not know her. One day, when as usual he sat whittling and thinking, Lena approached him softly and laying her hand upon his knee said rather timidly, Uncle, I wish you'd tell me something about my cousins. What about them? He asked somewhat gruffly, for it graded upon his feelings to hear his daughters called cousin by her. I want to know how they look and which one I shall like the best, continued Lena. You're like Anna the best, said her uncle, and Lena asked, why? What sort of a girl is she? Does she love to go to school and study? None do well, I reckon, returned her uncle adding that there were not many little girls who did. Why, I do, said Lena, and her uncle stopping for a moment his whittling replied rather scornfully. You, I should like to know what you ever studied besides the spelling book. Lena reddened, for she knew that, whether deservedly or not, she bore the reputation of being an excellent scholar for one of her age, and now she rather tartly answered, I study geography, arithmetic, grammar, and history she was going to add, but her uncle stopped her saying, that'll do, that'll do. You study all these. Now I don't suppose you know what one of them is. Yes, I do, said Lena, with a good deal of spirit. All these geography is a description of the earth. Colburn's arithmetic is the science of numbers. Smith's grammar teaches us how to speak correctly. Why don't you do it then? asked her uncle. Do what? said Lena, and her uncle continued. Why don't you make use of your boasted knowledge of grammar? Why, my Anna has never seen the inside of a grammar as I know of, but she don't talk like you do. Don't what, sir? Don't talk like you do, repeated her uncle, while Lena's eyes fairly danced with mischief, as she asked, if that were good grammar. Mr. Livingstone colored, thinking it just possible that he himself might sometimes be guilty of the same things for which he had so harshly chided Lena, of whom from this time he began to think more favorably. It could hardly be said that he treated her with any more attention, and still there was a difference which she felt, and which made her very happy. 4. On the Road At last the packing-up process came to an end. Everything too poor to sell and too good to give away had found a place, some here, some there, and some in John's trunk, among his ruffled bosoms, collars, dickies, and so forth. Miss Nancy, who stood by until the last, was made the receiver of sundry-cracked teacups, nozeless pitchers, and iron spoons, which could not be disposed of elsewhere. And now every box and trunk was ready. Farmer Trusdale's red wagon stood at the door waiting to convey them to the depot, and nothing remained for grand-monicles but to bid adieu to the old spot, endeared to her by so many associations. Again and again she went from room to room, weeping always, and lingering longest in the one where her children were born and where her husband and daughter had died. In the corners to the old, low-post bedstead, the first she had ever owned, and now how vividly she recalled the time long years before when she, a happy maiden, ordered that bedstead, blushing deeply at the sly illusion which the cabinet-maker made to her approaching marriage. He, too, was with her, strong and healthy. Now he was gone from her side forever. His couch was a narrow coffin, and the old bedstead stood there naked, empty. Seating herself upon it, the poor old lady rocked to and fro, moaning in her grief and wishing that she were not going to Kentucky or that it were possible now to remain at her mountain home. Summoning all her courage she gave one last glance at the familiar objects around her, at the flowers she had planted, and then taking Lena's hand, went down to the gate where her son waited. He saw she had been weeping and though he could not appreciate the cause of her tears, in his heart he pitied her, and his voice and manner were unusually kind as he helped her to the best seat in the wagon and asked if she were comfortable. Then his eye fell upon her dress, and his pity changed to anger as he wondered if she was wholly devoid of taste. At the time of his father's death he purchased decent mourning for both his mother and Lena, but these Mrs. Nichols pronounced, all together too good for the nasty cars. Nobody'd think any better of them for being rigged out in their best meat and gowns. So the bombazine was packed away, and in its place she wore a dark blue and white spotted calico, which John could have sworn she had twenty years before and which was not unlikely as she never wore out a garment. She was an enemy to long skirts, hence hers came just to her ankles, and as her black stockings had been footed with white there was visible a dark rim. Altogether she presented a rather grotesque appearance, with her oblong work bag in which were her snuff-box, brass spectacles, and half a dozen nutcakes which would save John's buying dinner. Unlike her grandmothers, Lena's dress was a great deal too long, and as she never wore a pantalette she had the look of a premature old woman instead of a child ten summers old as she was. Still the uncommon beauty of her face and the natural gracefulness of her form atoned in a measure for the singularity of her appearance. In the doorways stood Miss Nancy, and by her side her nephew Joel Slocum, a freckled face boy who had frequently shown a preference for Lena by going with her for her grandmother's cow, bringing her harvest apples, and letting her ride on his sled oftener than the other girls at school. Strange to say his affection was not returned, and now notwithstanding he several times wiped both eyes and nose on the end of which there was an enormous freckle. Lena did not relent at all but with a simple, goodbye, Joe, she sprang into the wagon which moved rapidly away. It was about five miles from the farmhouse to the depot, and when half that distance had been gone over, Mrs. Nicholl suddenly seized the reins, ordering the driver to stop, and saying, She must go straight back, for on the shelf of the North Room cupboard she had left a whole paper of tea which she couldn't afford to lose. Drive on, said John rather angrily at the same time telling his mother that he could buy her a ton of tea if she wanted it. But that was already bought and would have saved so much, said she, softly wiping away a tear which was occasioned partly by her son's manner, and partly by the great loss she felt she sustained in leaving behind her favorite, Old Heisen. This saving was a matter of which Grand Monocles said so much that John, who was himself slightly avaricious, began to regret that he ever knew the definition of the word save. Lest our readers get a wrong impression of Mrs. Nicholl's, we must say that she possessed very many sterling qualities, and her habits of extreme economy resulted more from the manner in which she had been compelled to live than from natural stinginess. For this, John hardly made allowance enough, and his mother's remarks instead of restraining him, only made him more lavish of his money than he would otherwise have been. When Mrs. Nicholl's and Lena entered the cars, they of course attracted universal attention which annoyed John excessively. In Oakland, where his mother was known and appreciated, he could bear it, but among strangers, and with those of his own caste, it was different, so, motioning them into the first unoccupied seat, he sauntered on with an air which seemed to say, they were nothing to him, and finding a vacant seat at the other end of the car he took possession of it. Scarcely, however, had he entered into conversation with a gentleman near him when someone grasped his arm, and looking up, he saw his mother, her box in one hand, and an enormous pinch of snuff in the other. John, said she, elevating her voice so as to drown the noise of the cars. I never thought on it till this minute, but I just as life ride in the second-class cars as not, and it only costs half as much. Mr. Livingstone colored Crimson and bade her go back, saying that if he paid the fare she didn't feel troubled about the cost. Just as she was turning to leave, the loud ring and whistle as the train near to crossing startled her, and in great alarm she asked if something hadn't buzzed. John made no answer, but the gentleman near him very politely explained to her the cause of the disturbance after which she returned to her seat. When the conductor appeared, he fortunately came in at the door near as John, who pointed out the two for whom he had tickets, and then turned again to converse with the gentleman who, though a stranger, was from Louisville, Kentucky, and whose acquaintance was easily made. The sight of the conductor awoke in Mrs. Nicholl's brain a new idea, and after peering out upon the platform she went rushing up to her son telling him that the trunks, box, feather-bed, and all were everyone on him left. No, they are not, said John. I saw them aboard myself. While then they're lost off. For as sure as you're born, there ain't one on them in here. And there's as much as twenty weight of new feathers besides all the crockery. Haller to them to stop quick. The stranger, pitying Mr. Livingstone Chagrin kindly explained to her that there was a baggage-car on purpose for trunks and the like, and that her feather-bed was undoubtedly safe. This quieted her, and mentally styling him, a proper nice man, she again returned to her seat. A rare specimen of the raw Yankee, said the stranger to John, never dreaming in what relations he stood to him. Yes, answered John, not thinking it at all necessary to make any further explanations. By this time Mrs. Nichols had attracted the attention of all the passengers who watched her movements with great interest. Among these was a fine-looking youth fifteen or sixteen years of age who sat directly in front of Lena. He had a remarkably open, pleasing countenance, while there was that in his eyes which showed him to be a lover of fun. Thinking he had now found it in a rich form he turned partly round and would undoubtedly have quizzed Mrs. Nichols unmercifully had not something in the appearance of Lena prevented him. This was also her first ride in the cars but she possessed a tact of concealing the fact, and if she sometimes felt frightened she looked in the faces of those around her gathering from them that there was no danger. She knew that her grandmother was making herself ridiculous and her eyes filled with tears as she whispered, do sit still Granny, everybody is looking at you. The young lad had noticed this and while it quelled in him the spirit of ridicule it awoke a strange interest in Lena who he saw was beautiful spite of her unseemly guise. She was a dear lover of nature and as the cars sped on through the wild mountain scenery between Pittsfield and Albany she stood at the open window, her hands closely locked together, her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide with wonder at the country through which they were passing. At her grandmother's suggestion she had removed her bonnet and the brown curls which clustered around her white forehead and neck were moved up and down by the fresh breeze which was blowing. The youth was a passionate admirer of beauty come in what garb it might and now as he watched he felt a strong desire to touch one of the glossy ringlets which floated within his reach. There would be no harm in it, he thought. She was only a little girl and he was almost a man, had tried to shave and was going to enter college in the fall. Still he felt some doubts as to the propriety of the act and was about making up his mind that he had better not when the train shot into the tunnel and for an instant they were in total darkness. Quick as thought his hand sought the brown curls but they were gone and when the cars again emerged into the daylight Lena's arms were around her grandmother's neck trying to hold her down for the old lady sure of a smash-up this time had attempted to rise screaming loudly for John. The boy laughed aloud he could not help it but when Lena's eyes turned reprovingly upon him he felt sorry and anxious to make amends addressed himself very politely to Mrs. Nichols explaining to her that it was a tunnel through which they had passed and assuring her there was no danger whatever. Then turning to Lena he said, I reckon your grandmother is not much accustomed to traveling. No sir, answered Lena, the rich blood dying her cheek at being addressed by a stranger. It was the first time anyone had ever said sir to the boy and now feeling quite like patronizing the little girl he continued, I believe old people generally are timid when they enter the cars for the first time. Nothing from Lena except a slight straightening up of her body and a smoothing down of her dress but the ice was broken and ere long she and her companion were conversing as familiarly as if they had known each other for years. Still the boy was not inquisitive. He did not ask her name or where she was going though he told her that his home was in Louisville and that at Albany he was going to take the boat for New York where his mother was stopping with some friends. He also told her that the gentleman near the door with dark eyes and whiskers was his father. Glancing toward the person indicated Lena saw that it was the same gentleman who all the afternoon had been talking to her uncle. He was noble looking and she felt glad that he was the father of the boy. He was just such a man she fancied as ought to be his father. Just such a man as she could wish her father to be. And then Lena felt glad that the youth had asked her nothing concerning her parentage for though her grandmother had seldom mentioned her father in her presence there were others ready and willing to inform her that he was a villain who broke her mother's heart. When they reached Albany the boy rose and offering his hand to Lena said I suppose I must bid you good-bye but I'd like right well to go farther with you. At this moment the stranger gentleman came up and on seeing his son was occupied said smilingly. So ho, Derwood, you always managed to make some lady acquaintance. Yes, father returned the boy called Derwood but not always one like this. Isn't she pretty? he added in a whisper. The stranger's eyes fell upon Lena's face and for a moment as if by some strange fascination seemed riveted there but the crowd pressed him forward and Lena only heard him reply to his son. Yes, Derwood, very pretty but hurry or we shall lose the boat. The next moment they were gone. Leaning from the window Lena tried to catch another glimpse of him but in vain. He was gone she would never see him again she thought and then she fell into a reverie concerning his home, his mother, his sisters if he had any and finally ended by wishing that she were his sister and the daughter of his father. While she was thus pondering her grandmother also was busy and when Lena looked round for her she was gone. Stepping from the car Lena espied her in the distance standing by her uncle and anxiously watching for the appearance of her great trunk, little trunk, bandbox, and bag. Each of these articles were forthcoming and in a few moments they were on the ferry boat crossing the blue waters of the Hudson. Mrs. Nichols declaring that if she'd known it wasn't a bridge she was stepping on to she'd be bound they wouldn't have got her on in one while. Do sit down, said Lena. The other people don't seem to be afraid and I'm sure we needn't. This Mrs. Nichols was more willing to do as directly at her side was another old lady traveling for the first time frightened and anxious. To her Mrs. Nichols addressed herself announcing her firm belief that she should blue sky high before she reached Kentucky where she was going to live with her son John who she supposed was well off, worth twenty negroes or more but she added lowering her voice. I don't believe in no such and I mean he shall set him free. Poor critters done from morning till night without a cent of pay. He says they call him master but I'll warrant he'll never catch me a calling him so to one on him. I promise Nancy scov and type that I wouldn't and I won't. Here a little popcorn boy came round which reminded Mrs. Nichols of her money and that she hadn't once looked after it since she started. Thinking this as favorable a time as she would have she drew from her capacious pocket an old knit purse and commenced counting out its contents piece by piece. Beware of pickpockets, said someone in her ear and with the exclamation of oh the Lord the purse disappeared in her pocket on which she kept her hand until the boat touched the opposite shore. Then in the confusion and excitement it was withdrawn the purse was forgotten and when on board the night express for Buffalo it was again looked for it was gone. With a wild outcry the horror-stricken matron sprang up calling for John who in some alarm came to her side asking what she wanted. I've lost my purse somebody stole it. Lock the door quick and search every man woman and child in the car. The conductor who chanced to be present now came up demanding an explanation and trying to convince Mrs. Nichols how improbable it was that anyone present had her money. Stop the train then and let me get off. How do you a large amount? asked the conductor. Every cent I had in the world. Ain't you going to let me get off? was the answer. The conductor looked inquiring yet John who shook his head at the same time whispering to his mother not to feel so badly as he would give her all the money she wanted. Then placing a $10 bill in her hand he took a seat behind her. We doubt whether this would have quieted the old lady had not a happy idea that moment entered her mind causing her to exclaim loudly. There now I have just this minute thought. I hadn't but five dollars in my purse. To other fifty I sewed up in an old nightgown sleeve and tucked it away in that satchel up there. Pointing to Lena's travelling bag which hung over her head. She would undoubtedly have designated the very corner of said satchel in which her money could be found had not her son touched her shoulder bidding her to be silent and not tell everybody where her money was if she didn't want it stolen. Mrs. Nichols made no reply but when she thought she was not observed she arose and slyly taking down the satchel placed it under her. Then seating herself upon it she gave a sigh of relief as she thought they'd have to work hard to get it now without her knowing it. Dear old soul when arrived at her journey's end how much comfort she took in recounting over and over again the incidence of the robbery wondering if it was as John said the very man who had so kindly cautioned her to beware of pickpockets and who thus ascertained where she kept her purse. Nancy Scovindike too was duly informed of her loss and charged when she came to Kentucky to look out on the ferry boat for a youngish good-looking man with brown frock coat blue cravat and mouth full of white teeth. At Buffalo Mr. Livingstone had hard work to coax his mother on board the steamboat but he finally succeeded and as the weather chanced to be fine she declared that ride on the lake to be the pleasantest part of her journey. At Cleveland they took the cars for Cincinnati going then to Lexington by stage. On ordinary occasions Mr. Livingstone would have preferred the river but knowing in all probability that he should meet with some of his friends upon the boat he chose the route via Lexington where he stopped at the Phoenix as was his usual custom. After seeing his mother and niece into the public parter he left them for a time saying he had some business to transact in the city. Scarcely was he gone when the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall announced an arrival and a moment after a boy apparently 15 years of age appeared in the door. He was richly though carelessly dressed and not was standing the good-humored expression of his rather handsome face there was in his whole appearance an indescribable something which at once pronounced him to be a fast boy. A rowdy hat was set on one side of his head after the most approved fashion while in his hand he held a lighted cigar which he applied to his mouth when he saw the parter was unoccupied save by an old woman and a little girl. Instinctively Lena shrank from him and withdrawing herself as far as possible within the recess of the window pretended to be busily watching the passersby but she did not escape his notice and after coolly surveying her for a moment he walked up to her saying, Howdy Pollywog I'll be hanged if I know to what gender you belong woman or gal which is it eh? None of your business was Lena's ready answer. Spunky ain't you said he unceremoniously pulling one of the brown curls which Derwood had so long to touch seems to me your hair don't match the rest of you. Wonder if it isn't somebody else's head set on your shoulders. No it ain't, it's my own head and you just let it alone. Returned Lena growing more and more indignant and wondering if this were a specimen of Kentucky boys. Don't be saucy, continued her tormentor. I only want to see what sort of stuff you are made of. Made of dirt, muttered Lena. I reckon you are, returned the boy. But say, where did you come from and who do you live with? I came from Massachusetts and I live with Granny, said Lena, thinking that if she answered him civilly he would perhaps let her alone. But she was mistaken. Glancing at Granny he burst into a loud laugh and then placing his hat a little more on one side and assuming a nasal twang he said. Now do tell if you're from Massachusetts. How do you do little Yankee and how are all the folks to hum? Feeling sure that not only herself but all her relations were included in this insult Lena darted forward hitting him a blow in the face which he returned by puffing smoke into hers where upon she snatched the cigar from his mouth and hurled it into the street bidding him touch her again if he dared. All this transpired so rapidly that Mrs. Nichols had hardly time to understand its meaning but fully comprehending it now she was about to come to the rescue when her son reappeared exclaiming, John, John Livingstone Jr., how came you here? Had a cannon exploded at the feet of John Jr. as he was called he could not have been more startled. He was not expecting his father for two or three days and was making the most of his absence by having what he called a regular spree. Taking him all together he was without being naturally bad a spoiled child whom no one could manage except his father and as his father seldom tried he was of course seldom managed. Never yet had he remained at any school more than two quarters for if he were not sent away he generally ran away sure of finding a champion in his mother who had always sped at him calling him Johnny Darling until he one day very coolly informed her that she was a silly old fool and that he'd thank her not to Johnny Darling him any longer. It would be difficult to describe the amazement of John Jr. when Lena was presented to him as his cousin and Mrs. Nichols as his grandmother. Something which sounded very much like an oath escaped his lips as turning to his father he muttered. Won't mother go into fifths? Then as he began to realize the ludicrousness of the whole affair he exclaimed, rich, good, by gracious, and laughing loudly he walked away to regale himself with another cigar. Lena began to tremble for her future happiness if that boy was to live in the same house with her. She did not know that she had already more than half won his good opinion for he was far better pleased with her antagonistical demonstrations than he would have been had she cried or ran from him as his sister Anna generally did when he teased her. After a few moments he returned to the parlor and walking up to Mrs. Nichols commenced talking very sociably to her, calling her granny and winking slightly at Lena as he did so. Mr. Livingstone had too much good sense to sit quietly by and hear his mother ridiculed by his son and in a loud, stern voice he bade the young gentleman behave himself. Law now, said Mrs. Nichols, let him talk if he wants to. I like to hear him. He's the only grandson I've got. This speech had the effect of silencing John Jr. quite as much as his father's command. If he could tease his grandmother by talking to her he would take delight in doing so but if she wanted him to talk that was quite another thing. So moving away from her he took a seat near Lena telling her her dress was a heap too short and occasionally pinching her just to vary the sport. This last however Lena returned with so much force that he grew weary of the fun and informing her that he was going to a circus which was in town that evening he arose to leave the room. Mr. Livingstone who partially overheard what he had said stopped him and asked where he was going. Feigning a yawn and rubbing his eyes John Jr. replied that he was confounded sleepy and was going to bed. Lena, where did he say he was going? asked her uncle. Lena trembled for John Jr. had clenched his fist and was shaking it threateningly at her. Where did he say he was going? repeated her uncle. Poor Lena had never told a lie in her life and now braving her cousin's anger she said. To the circus sir. Oh I wish you had not asked me. You'll get your pay for that. muttered John Jr. suddenly receding himself by his father who kept an eye on him until he saw him safely in his room. Much as John Jr. frightened Lena with his threats in his heart he respected her for telling the truth and if the next morning on their way home in the stage in which his father compelled him to take a seat he frequently found it convenient to step on her feet it was more from a natural propensity to torment than from any lurking feeling of revenge. Lena was no wise backward in returning his cousinly attentions and so between an interchange of kicks rye faces and so forth they proceeded toward maple grove a description of which will be given in another chapter. End of chapters 3 and 4 Chapter 5 of Lena Rivers by Mary Jane Holmes This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 5 Maple Grove The residence of Mr. Livingstone or rather of Mr. Livingstone's wife was a large handsome building such as often one finds in Kentucky particularly in the country. Like most planter's houses it stood at some little distance from the street from which its mass of walls wreathed with evergreen were just discernible. The carriage road which led to it passed first through a heavy iron gate guarded by huge bronze lions so natural and lifelike that Mrs. Nichols when first she saw them uttered a cry of fear. Next came a beautiful maple grove followed by a long green lawn dotted here and there with forest trees and having on its right a deep running brook whose waters farther on at the rear of the garden were formed into a miniature fish pond. The house itself was a brick too storied and surrounded on three sides with a double piazza whose pillars were entwined with climbing roses, honeysuckle and running vines so closely interwoven as to give it the appearance of an immense summer house. In the spacious yard in front tall shade trees and bright green grass were growing while in the well kept garden at the left bloomed an endless variety of roses and flowering shrubs which in their season filled the air with perfume and made the spot brilliant with beauty. Directly through the center of this garden ran the stream of which we have spoken and as its mossy banks were never disturbed they presented the appearance of a soft velvety ridge where each spring the starry dandelion and the blue eyed violet grew. Across the brook two small foot bridges had been built both of which were latticed and overgrown by luxuriant grape vines whose dark green foliage was now intermingled with clusters of the rich purple fruit. At the right and somewhat in the rear of the building was a group of linden trees overshadowing the whitewashed houses of the negroes who imitating as far as possible the taste of their master beautified their dwellings with hop vines, creepers, hollyhocks and the like. All together it was as Alina said just the kind of place which one reads of in stories and which is often found at the sunny south. The interior of the building corresponded with the exterior for with one exception the residents of a wealthy Englishman Mrs. Livingstone prided herself upon having the best furnished house in the county. Consequently neither pains nor money had been spared in the selection of the furniture which was of the most costly kind. Carrie, the eldest of the daughters was now about thirteen years of age. Proud, imperious, deceitful and self-willed she was hated by the servants and disliked by her equals. Some thought her pretty. She felt sure of it, and many an hour she spent before the mirror admiring herself and anticipating the time when she would be a grown-up lady and as a matter of course a bell. Her mother unfortunately belonged to that class who seemed to think that the chief aim in life is to secure a brilliant match and thinking she could not commence too soon she had early instilled into her favorite daughter's mind the necessity of appearing to the best possible advantage when in the presence of wealth and distinction pointing out her own marriage as a proof of the unhappiness resulting from unequal matches. In this way Carrie had early learned that her father owed his present position to her mother's condescension in marrying him, that he was once a poor boy living among the northern hills, that his parents were poor, ignorant and vulgar, and that there was with them a little girl, their daughter's child, who never had a father and whom she must never on any occasion call her cousin. All this had likewise been told to Anna the youngest daughter who was about Lena's age, but upon her it made no impression. If her father were once poor he was in her opinion none the worse for that, and if he liked his parents that was a sufficient reason why she should like them too and if little Lena was an orphan she pitied her and hoped she might sometimes see her and tell her so. Thus Anna reasoned while her mother terribly shocked at her low bread taste, strove to instill into her mind some of her own more aristocratic notions. But all in vain, for Anna was purely democratic, loving everybody and beloved by everybody in return. It is true she had no particular liking for books or study of any kind, but she was gentle and affectionate in her manner and kindly considerate of other people's feelings. With her father she was a favorite and to her he always looked for sympathy which she seldom failed to give. Not in words it is true, but whenever he seemed to be in trouble she would climb into his lap, wind her arms round his neck, and laying her golden head upon his shoulder would sit thus until his brown heart grew lighter as he felt there was yet something in the wide world which loved and cared for him. For Carrie Mrs. Livingstone had great expectations but Anna she feared would never make a brilliant match. For a long time Anna meditated upon this wondering what a brilliant match could mean and at last she determined to seek an explanation from Captain Atherton, a bachelor and a millionaire who was in the habit of visiting them and who always noticed and petted her more than he did Carrie. Accordingly the next time he came and they were alone in the parlor she broached the subject asking him what it meant. Laughing loudly the captain drew her toward him saying, why marrying Mitch you little novice? For instance, if one of these days you should be my little wife I dare say your mother would think you had made a brilliant match and the well-preserved gentleman of forty glass complacently at himself in the mirror thinking how probable it was that his useful looks would be unimpaired for at least ten years to come. Anna laughed for to her his words then conveyed no serious meaning but with more than her usual quickness she replied that she would as soon marry her grandfather. With Mrs. Livingstone the reader is partially acquainted. In her youth she had been pretty and now at thirty-eight she was not without pretensions to beauty not with standing her sallow complexion and sunken eyes. Her hair which was very abundant was brightened glossy and her mouth in which the dentist had done his best would have been handsome had it not been for a certain draw at the corners which gave it a scornful and rather disagreeable expression. In her disposition she was overbearing and tyrannical fond of ruling and deeming her husband a monster of ingratitude if ever in any way he manifested a spirit of rebellion. Didn't she marry him and now they were married didn't her money support him and wasn't it exceedingly amiable in her always to speak of their children as ours? But as for the rest it was my house, my servants, my carriage, and my horses. Oh, mine! Mrs. John Livingstone's, Miss Matilda Richards that was. Occasionally however her husband's spirit was roused and then after a series of tears, sig-addicts, and then spasms Miss Matilda Richards that was. Was compelled to yield her face for many days wearing the look of a much injured heartbroken woman. Still her influence over him was great else she had never so effectually weakened every tie which bound him to his native home making him ashamed of his parents and of everything pertaining to them. When her husband first wrote to her that his father was dead and that he had promised to take charge of his mother and Lena she flew into a violent rage which was increased tenfold when she received his second letter wherein he announced his intention of bringing them home in spite of her. Bursting into tears she declared she'd leave the house before she'd have it filled up with a lot of poppers. Who did John Nichols think he was and who did he think she was? Besides that where was he going to put them for there wasn't a place for them that she knew of? Why mother? said Anna who was pleased with the prospect of a new grandmother and cousin. Why mother what a story? There's the two big chambers and bedrooms besides the one next to Carey's and mine. Oh do put them in there. It'll be so nice to have Grandma and cousin Lena so near me. And not living stone. Return the indignant lady. Never let me hear you say Grandma and cousin again. But they be Grandma and cousin. Persisted Anna while her mother commenced lamenting the circumstance which had made them so wishing as she had often done before that she had never married John Nichols. I reckon you are not the only one that wishes so. Slightly whispered John Junior who was a witness to her emotion. Anna was naturally of an inquiring mind and her mother's last remark awoke within her a new and strange strain of thought causing her to wonder whose little girl she would have been, her fathers or mothers, in case they had each married someone else. As there was no one whose opinion Anna dared to ask the question is undoubtedly to this day with her unsolved. The next morning when Mrs. Livingstone arose her anger of the day before was somewhat abated and knowing from past experience that it was useless to resist her husband when once he was determined she wisely concluded that as they were now probably on the road it was best to try to endure for a time at least what could not well be helped. And now arose the perplexing question what should she do with them? Where should she put them that they would be the most out of the way for she could never suffer them to be round when she had company The chamber of which Anna had spoken was out of the question for it was too nice and besides that it was reserved for the children of her New Orleans friends who nearly every summer came up to visit her. At the rear of the building was a long low room containing a fireplace and two windows which looked out upon the negro quarters and the hemp fields beyond. This room which in the summer was used for storing feather beds, blankets and so forth was plastered but minus either paper or paint. Still it was quite comfortable, better than they were accustomed to at home, Mrs. Livingstone said, and this she decided to give them. Accordingly the negroes were set at work scrubbing the floors, washing the windows and scouring the sails until the room at least possessed the virtue of being clean. A faded carpet discarded as good for nothing and over which the rats had long held their nightly revels was brought to light, shaken, mended, and nailed down. Then came a bedstead which Mrs. Livingstone had designed as a Christmas gift to one of the negroes, but which of course would do well enough for her mother-in-law. Next followed an old wooden rocking chair whose ancestry Anna had tried in vain to trace and which Cary had often proposed burning. This with two or three more chairs of a later date, a small wardrobe and a square table completed the furniture of the room if we accept the plain muslin curtains which shaded the window's destitute of blinds. Taking it by itself, the room looked tolerably well, but when compared with the richly furnished apartments around it it seemed meager and poor indeed, but if they wanted anything better they could get it themselves. They were welcome to make any alterations they chose. This mode of reasoning hardly satisfied Anna, and unknown to her mother, she took from her own chamber a handsome hearth rug and carrying it to her grandmother's room laid it before the fireplace. Coming accidentally upon a roll of green paper she, with the help of Carinda a black girl, made some shades for the windows which faced the west, rendering the room intolerably hot during the summer season. Then at the suggestion of Carinda she looped back the muslin curtains with some green ribbons which she had intended using for her dolly's dress. The bare appearance of the table troubled her, but by rummaging she brought to light a cast-off spread which though soiled and mourn was on one side quite handsome. Now, if we only had something for the mantle, said she, it seems so empty. Carinda thought a moment, then rolling up the whites of her eyes, she replied. Don't you mind them little pictures, meaning vases, which Master Atherton done, didn't you? They'd look mighty fine up there, full of sprigs and posies. Without hesitating a moment Anna brought the vases, and as she did not know the exact time when her grandmother would arrive she determined to fill them with fresh flowers every morning. There, it looks a heap better, don't it, Cari? said she to her sister who chanced to be passing the door and looked in. You must be smart, answered Cari, taking so much pains just for them. And as I live, if you haven't got those elegant vases that Captain Atherton gave you for a birthday present. I know Mother won't like it, I mean to tell her, and away she ran with the important news. There I told you so, said she quickly returning. She says you carry them straight back and let the room alone. Anna began to cry, saying, the vases were hers, and she should think she might do what she pleased with them. What did you go and blab for, you great for shame you? exclaimed John Junior, suddenly appearing in the doorway at the same time giving Cari a push which set her to crying and brought Mrs. Livingstone to the scene of action. Can't my vases stay in here? Nobody'll hurt them and they'll look so pretty, said Anna. Can't that hateful John behave and let me alone? said Cari. And can't Cari quit sticking her nose in other folks' business? shined in John Junior. Oh, Lordy, what a fuss! said Corinda while poor Mrs. Livingstone half distracted took refuge under one of her dreadful headaches and telling her children to fight their own battles and let her alone return to her room. A bodied, spose, Maristar's skin warrant of no kind of count, said Aunt Milly the head cook to a group of sables who in the kitchen were discussing the furniture of the Trumpry Room as they were in the habit of calling the chamber set apart for Mrs. Nichols. Yes, they would suppose they warrant of no kind of count the way Miss goes on, raven and tarren and put in a moth with low live truck that we black folks wouldn't begin to attach with the tongs. Massey knows if my old mother weren't dead and gone to kingdom come, I should never think a-sarban her so, and I don't set myself up to be nothing but an old nigger and a black one at that. But, Lord, that's the way with more than half the white folks. They jind the church and then they think they done got a title deed to one of them houses up in heaven that nobody ever built, sure enough. Go and straight there as fast as a span of race-horses can carry them. Key, won't they be disappointed some on them, and Miss Matilda long the rest when she drives up, horses all are reek and sweat and specks to walk straight into the best room, but is told to go to the kitchen and turn hoe-cakes for us niggers who are eating at the fast table with silver-porks and napkins. Here old Milly stopped to breathe and her daughter Vine, who had listened breathlessly to her mother's description of the good time coming, asked, when these things come to pass if Miss Gary wouldn't have to swing the feathers over the table to keep off the flies instead of herself. Yes, that she will, child, returned her mother. Things is all going to be changed in the wink of your eye. Miss Anna read the very text to me last Sunday, and I knew in a minute what it meant. Now there's Miss Anna, blessed lamb. She's one of them that'll wear her white gowns and stay into the room with her face shining like an aisle lamp. While this interesting conversation was going on in the kitchen, John Jr. in the parlor was teasing his mother for money with which to go up to Lexington the next day. You may just as well give it to me without any fuss, said he, for if you don't I'll get my bills at the Phoenix Charged. The old man is good and they'll trust. But then a feller feels more independent when he can pay down and treat a friend if he likes. So hand over four or five fives. At first Mrs. Livingstone refused, but her head ached so hard and her nerves trembled so that she did not feel equal to the task of contending with John Jr., who was always sure in the end to have his own way. Yielding at last to his importunities she gave him $15 charging him to keep out of that company and be a good boy. Trust me for that, said he, and pulling the tail of Anna's pet kitten, upsetting Carey's workbox, poking a black baby's ribs with his walking cane and knocking down a cob house, which Thomas Jefferson had been all day building, he mounted his favorite firelock and together with a young negro rode off. The Lord sent us a little peace now, said Aunt Millie, tossing her squalling baby up in the air and telling Thomas Jefferson not to cry, for his young master was done gone off. And I hope to goodness he'll stay off a spell, she added, for there's old Sam to pay the whole time he's at home, and if ever there was a tickled critter in this world it's me when he clars out. I'm glad too, said Anna, who had been sent to the kitchen to stop the screaming, and I wish he'd stay ever so long, for I don't take a bit of comfort when he's at home. Great hateful, I wish he didn't live here, said Carey, gathering up her spools, thimble, and scissors, while Mrs. Livingstone, feeling that his absence had taken a load from her shoulders, settled herself upon her silken lounge and tried to sleep. Amid all this rejoicing at his departure, John Jr. put spurs to the fleet firelock, who soon carried him to Lexington, whereas we have seen, he came unexpectedly upon his father, who not daring to trust him on horseback, lest he should play the truant, took him into the stage with himself, leaving firelock to the care of the negro. END OF CHAPTER V CHAPTER SIX The Arrival Oh mother, get up quick! The stage has driven up at the gate, and I reckon Pa has come, said Anna, bursting into the room where her mother, who was suffering from a headache, was still in bed. Raising herself upon her elbow and pushing aside the rich, heavy curtains, Mrs. Livingstone looked out upon the mud bespattered vehicle from which a leg, encased in a black and white stalking, was just making a teagrass. Oh heavens, said she, burying her face again in the downy pillows. Women's curiosity, however, soon prevailed over all other feelings, and again looking out, she obtained a full view of her mother-in-law, who, having emerged from the coach, was picking out her boxes, trunks, and so forth. When they were all found, Mr. Livingstone ordered two negros to carry them to the side-piazza, where they were soon mounted by three or four little darkies, Thomas Jefferson among the rest. John! John! said Mrs. Nichols. Them niggers won't send my things, will they? Don't talk, Granny! whispered Lena, painfully conscious of the curious eyes fixed upon them by the bevy of blacks who had come out to greet their master and who, with side-long glances at each other, were inspecting the newcomers. Don't talk! Why not? said Mrs. Nichols rather sharply. This is a free country, I suppose. Then, be thinking herself, she added quickly. Oh, I forgot! Taint free here. After examining the satchel and finding that the nightgown sleeve was safe, Mrs. Nichols took up her line of march for the house, herself carrying her umbrella and bandbox which she would not entrust to the care of the negros, as, like enough, they'd break the umbrella or squash her caps. The Trumpry Room is plenty good enough for them, thought Corinda, retreating into the kitchen and cutting sundry flourishes in token of her contempt. The moment Lena came in sight, Mrs. Livingstone exclaimed, Oh, mercy, which is the oldest! And truly, poor Lena did present a sorry figure. Her bonnet, never very handsome or fashionable, had received an ugly crook in front, which neither her grandmother or uncle had noticed, and of which John Jr. would not tell her thinking that the worse she looked the more fun he would have. Her skirts were not very full and her dress hung straight around her, making her of the same bigness from her head to her feet. Her shoes, which had been given to her by one of the neighbors, were altogether too large, and it was with considerable difficulty that she could keep them on, but then, as they were present, Mrs. Nichols said, it was a pity not to get all the good out of them she could. In front of herself and grandmother walked Mr. Livingstone, moody, silent, and cross. Behind them was John Jr., mimicking first Lena's gate and then his grandmother's. The negros, convulsed with laughter, darted hither and thither, running against and over each other and finally disappearing, some behind the house and some into the kitchen, and all retaining a position from which they could have a full view of the proceedings. On the piazza, Stodana and Cary, the one with her handkerchiefs stuffed in her mouth and the other with her mouth open, astounded at the unlooked poor spectacle. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Growned Mrs. Livingstone. Do, get up and dress yourself and come and see your new relations. That's what I should do, answered John Jr., who, tired of mimicking, had run forward and now rushed unceremoniously into his mother's sleeping room, leaving the door open behind him. John, Livingstone, what do you mean? said she. Shut that door this minute. Feigning not to hear her, John Jr. ran back to the piazza, which he reached just in time to hear the presentation of his sisters. This is Cary and this is Anna, said Mr. Livingstone, pointing to each one as he pronounced her name. Marching straight up to Cary and extending her hand, Mrs. Nichols exclaimed, Now I want to know if this is Caroline. I had no idea she was so big. You pretty well, Caroline. Very hotly Cary touched the ends of her grandmother's fingers and with stately gravity replied that she was well. Turning next to Anna, Mrs. Nichols continued, And this is Annie. Looks weakly pierced to me, kind of blew around the ice as though she was fitty. Never have fits, do you, dear? No, ma'am, answered Anna, struggling hard to keep from laughing outright. Here Mr. Livingstone inquired for his wife and on being told that she was sick started for her room. Sick? Is your marm sick? asked Mrs. Nichols of John Jr. Well, I guess I'll go right in and see if I can do something for her. I'm tolerable good at gnawson. Following her son, who did not observe her, she entered unannounced into the presence of her elegant daughter-in-law, who, with a little shriek, covered her head with the bedclothes. Knowing that she meant well and never dreaming that she was intruding, Mrs. Nichols walked up to the bedside, saying, How did you, tilde? I suppose you know I'm your mother. Come all the way from Massachusetts to live with you. What is the matter? Do you take anything for your sickness? A groan was Mrs. Livingstone's only answer. Little hysteric-y, I guess, suggested Mrs. Nichols, adding that, set in her feet in midland hot water is good for that. She is nervous and the sight of strangers makes her worse. So I reckon you'd better go out for the present, said Mr. Livingstone, who really pitied his wife. Then, calling Corinda, he better show his mother to her room. Corinda obeyed, and Mrs. Nichols followed her, asking her on the way what her surname was, how old she was, if she knew how to read, and if she hadn't a good deal rather be free than to be a slave, to which Corinda replied that she didn't know what a surname meant, that she didn't know how old she was, that she didn't know how to read, and that she didn't know whether she'd like to be free or not, but reckoned she shouldn't. A half-witted gal that, thought Mrs. Nichols, and I guess Tilda don't set much store by her. Then, dropping into the wooden rocking chair and laying aside her bonnet, she, for the first time, noticed that Lena was not with her, and asked Corinda to go for her. Corinda complied, leaving the room just in time to stifle a lap, as she saw Mrs. Nichols stoop down to examine the hearth rug, wondering how much it cost when twas knew. We left Lena standing on the steps of the piazza. At a glance she had taken in the whole, had comprehended that there was no affinity whatever between herself and the objects around her, and a wild, intense longing filled her heart to be once more among her native hills. She had witnessed the merriment of the blacks, the scornful curl of Carrie's lip, the half suppressed ridicule of Anna when they met her grandmother, and now a surgeon of her own reception she stood before her cousins not knowing whether to advance or run away. For a moment there was an awkward silence, and then John Jr. bent on mischief, whispered to Carrie, look at that pinch in her bonnet and just see her shoes, big as little sailboats. This was too much for Lena. She already disliked John Jr., and now flying into a violent passion, she drew off her shoes and hurling them at the young gentleman's head, fled away, away she knew not, cared not with her, so that she got out of sight and hearing. Coming at last to the arbor bridge across the brook in the garden she paused for breath and, throwing herself upon a seat, burst into a flood of tears. For several minutes she sobbed so loudly that she did not hear the sound of footsteps upon the graveled walk. Anna had followed her, partly out of curiosity and partly out of pity, the latter of which preponderated when she saw how bitterly her cousin was weeping. Going up to her she said, don't cry so Lena, look up and talk. It's Anna, your cousin. Lena had not yet recovered from her angry fit and thinking Anna only came to tease her, and perhaps again ridicule her bonnet, she tore the article from her head and, bending it up double, threw it into the stream which carried it down to the fish pond, where for two or three hours it furnished amusement for some little negroes, who, calling it a crab, fished for it with hook and line. For a moment Anna stood watching the bonnet as it sailed along down the stream, thinking it looked better there than on its owner's head but wondering why Lena had thrown it away. Then, addressing her cousin, she asked why she had done so. It's a homely old thing and I hate it, answered Lena, again bursting into tears. I hate everybody and I wish I was dead or back in Massachusetts, I don't care which. With her impressions of the Bay State where her mother said folks lived on cold beans and caught fish, Anna thought she should prefer the first alternative but she did not say so, and after a little she tried again to comfort Lena, telling her she liked her or at least she was going to like her a heap. No you ain't, returned Lena. You laughed at me and Granny both. I saw you do it and you think I don't know anything but I do. I've been through all these geography and call-burns arithmetic twice. This was more than Anna could say. She had no scholarship of which to boast, but she had a heart brim full of love and in reply to Lena's accusation of having laughed at her she replied, I know I laughed for Grandma looked so funny I couldn't help it, but I won't anymore. I pity you because your mother is dead and you never had any father, Ma says. This made Lena cry again while Anna continued, I'll buy you some new clothes I reckon, and if you don't I'll give you some of mine for I've got heaps and they'll fit you I most know. Here's my mark, pointing to a cut upon the doorpost. Here's mine and Carrie's and Brother's. Stand up and see if you don't measure like I do. Lena complied and to Anna's great joy they were just of a height. I'm so glad, said she. Now come to my room and Carinda will fix you up mighty nice before mother sees you. Hand in hand the two girls started for the house but had not gone far when they heard someone calling. Oh, Miss Lena, why is you? Oh, Miss Dunwant you. At the same time Carinda made her appearance around the corner of the piazza. Here, Cora, said Anna, come with me to my room, I want you. With a broad grin Carinda followed her young mistress while Lena, never having been accustomed to any negro, saved the one with whom many New England children are threatened when they cry, clung closer to Anna's side, occasionally casting a timid glance toward the dark brown girl who followed them. In the upper hall they met with Carrie who in passing Lena held back her dress as if fearing contamination from in contact with her cousin's plainer garments. Painfully alive to the slightest insult Lena reddened while Anna said, never mind, that's just like Cad, but nobody cares for her. Thus reassured Lena followed on until they reached Anna's room which they were about to enter when the shrill voice of Mrs. Nichols fell upon her ear as calling. Leni, Leni, where upon earth is she? Let's go to her first, said Lena, and leading the way Anna soon ushered her into her grandmother's room which child as she was Lena readily saw was far different from the handsome apartments of which she had obtained a passing glance. But Mrs. Nichols had not thought of this, and was doubtless better satisfied with her present quarters than she would have been with the best furnace chamber in the house. The moment her granddaughter appeared she exclaimed, Leni Rivers, where have you been? I was worried to death for fear you might be running after some of them paltry niggers. And now whilst I think on it, I charge you never to go and I am. I'd no idea they were such half-naked nasty critters. This prohibition was a novelty to Anna who spent many happy hours with her sable-hued companions never deeming herself the worst for it. Her grandmother's first remark, however, struck her still more forcibly and she immediately asked, Grandma, what did you call Lena just now? Lena what? I called her by her name, Lena Rivers. What should I call her? Returned Mrs. Nichols. Why, I thought her name was Lena Nichols. Masette was, answered Anna. Mrs. Nichols was very sensitive to any slight cast upon Lena's birth, and she rather tightly informed Anna that her mother didn't know everything, adding that Lena's father was Mr. Rivers, and there wasn't have so much reason why she should be called Nichols as there was why Anna should, for that was her father's name, the one by which he was baptized the same day with Nancy Skolvendijk, who's just his age, only he was born about a quarter past four in the morning, and she not till some time in the afternoon. But where is Mr. Rivers? Asked Anna, more interested in him than in the exact minute of her father's birth. The Lord only knows. Returned Mrs. Nichols. Little girl shouldn't ask too many questions. This silenced Anna and satisfied her that there was some mystery connected with Lena. The mention of Nancy Skolvendijk reminded Mrs. Nichols of the dishes which that lady had packed away, and anxious to see if they were safe she turned to Lena saying, I guess we'll have time before dinner to unpack my trunks, for I want to know how the crockery stood the racket. Annie, you run down and tell your pal to fetch him up here. That's a good girl. In her eagerness to know what those weather-beaten boxes contained, Anna forgot her scheme of dressing Lena and ran down not to call her father, but the black boy Adam. It took her a long time to find him and Mrs. Nichols growing impatient, determined to go herself, spite of Lena's entreaties that she would stay where she was. Passing down the long stairway and out upon the piazza, she aspired a negro girl on her hands and knees engaged in cleaning the steps with a cloth. Instantly remembering her mop, she greatly lamented that she had left it behind. It would come so handy now, thought she, but there was no help for it. Walking up to the girl whose name she did not know, she said, Sissy, can you tell me where John is? Quickly Sissy's ivories became visible as she replied. We ain't got any such nigger as John. With a silent invective upon negroes in general, and this one in particular, Mrs. Nichols choked, stammered and finally said, I didn't ask for a nigger, I want your master John. Had the old lady been a Catholic, she would have crossed herself for thus early breaking her promise to Nancy's Govindike. As it was she mentally asked forgiveness and as the colored girl didn't know where Marster was, but Rekendi had gone somewhere. She turned aside and seeking her son's room again entered unannounced. Mrs. Livingstone, who was up and dressed, frowned darkly upon her visitor. But Mrs. Nichols did not heed it and advancing forward, she said. Do you feel any better, Tilda? I'd keep kinder still today and not try to do much, for if you feel any concerned about the housework, I'd just as life see to it a little laugh to dinner is not. I have all confidence in Milly's management and seldom trouble myself about the affairs of the kitchen, answered Mrs. Livingstone. While then, returned her mother-in-law, nothing daunted, while then maybe you'd like to have me come in and set with you a while. It would be impossible for us to depict Mrs. Livingstone's look of surprise and anger at this proposition. Her face alternately flushed and then grew pale until at last she found voice to say, I greatly prefer being alone, madam. It annoys me excessively to have any one round. Considerable kind a touchy, thought Mrs. Nichols. But then the poor critter is sick and I shan't lay it up againer. Taking out her snuff box, she offered it to her daughter telling her that, like enough, it would cure her headache. Mrs. Livingstone's first impulse was to strike it from her mother's hand, but knowing how unladylike that would be, she restrained herself and turning away her head, replied, Uh, no. The very sight of it makes me sick. How you do talk. Wow, I've seen folks that it's served just so. But you'll get over it. Now there was Nancy's Govindike. Did John ever say anything about her? While she couldn't bear snuff till after her disappointment, John told you, I suppose? No, madam. My husband has never told me anything concerning his eastern friends. Neither do I wish to hear anything of them. Returned Mrs. Livingstone, her patience on the point of giving out. Never told you nothing about Nancy's Govindike? If that don't beat all. Why, he was. She was prevented from finishing the sentence which would undoubtedly have raised a domestic breeze when Anna came to tell her that the drunks were carried to her room. I'll come right up, then, said she, adding more to herself than anyone else. If I ain't mistaken, I've got a little paper of saffron somewhere, which I mean to steep for Tilda. Her skin looks despot-john to see. When Mr. Livingstone again entered his wife's room, he found her in a collapsed state of anger and mortification. John, nickels, said she with a strong emphasis on the first word which sounded very much like jarn. Do you mean to tell me by bringing that vulgar, ignorant thing here, walking into my room without knocking, calling me Tilda, and prating about Nancy's somebody? John started. His wife knew nothing of his affa'ilded care with Miss Nancy, and for his own peace of mind was desirable that she should not. Mentally resolving to give her a few hints, he endeavoured to conciliate his wife by saying that he knew his mother was troublesome, but she must try not to notice her oddities. I wonder how I can help it when she forces herself upon me continually, returned his wife. I must either keep the doors locked or live in constant terror. It's bad, I know, said he, smoothing her glossy hair, but then she's old, you know. Have you seen Lena? No, neither do I wish to if she's at all like her grandmother, answered Mrs. Livingstone. She's handsome, suggested Mr. Livingstone. Sha, handsome, repeated his wife scornfully while he replied. Yes, handsomer than either of our daughters, and with the same advantages I have no doubt she'd surpass them both. Those advantages then she shall never have, returned Mrs. Livingstone, already jealous of a child she had only seen at a distance. Mr. Livingstone made no reply, but felt that he'd made a mistake in praising Lena in whom he began to feel a degree of interest for which he could not account. He did not know that way down in the depths of his heart, calloused over as it was by worldly selfishness, there was yet a tender spot, a lingering memory of his only sister whom Lena so strongly resembled. If left to himself he would undoubtedly have taken pride in seeing his niece improve and as it was he determined that she should at home receive the same instruction that his daughters did. Perhaps he might not send her away to school. He didn't know how that would be, his wife held the purse and taking refuge behind that excuse he for the present dismissed the subject. So much for marrying a rich wife and nothing else. This we throw in gratis. Meantime Grandma had returned to her room at the door of which she found John Jr. and Carrie, both curious to know what was in those boxes, one of which had burst open and been tied up with a rope. Come, children, said she, don't stay out there, come in. We prefer remaining here, said Carrie in a tone and a manner so nearly resembling her mother that Mrs. Nichols could not refrain from saying, chip of the old block. That so, by cracky, you've hit her this time, Granny, exclaimed John Jr., snapping his fingers under Carrie's nose, which, being rather long, was frequently a subject of his ridicule. Let me be, John Livingstone, said Carrie, while Lena resolved never again to use the word Granny, which she knew her cousin had taken up on purpose to tease her. Come, Lena, catch hold and help me untie this rope. I believe the crockery's in here, said Mrs. Nichols to Lena, who soon opened the chest, disclosing to view as motley a variety of articles as is often seen. Among the rest was the blue set, a part of her setting out, as his grandmother told John Jr., at the same time dwelling at length upon their great value. Mistaking Carrie's look of contempt for Envy, Mrs. Nichols chucked her under the chin telling her, maybe there was something for her, if she was a good girl. Now, Cad, turn your nose up clear to the top of your head, said John Jr., vastly enjoying his sister's vexation. Where does your marm keep her, China? I want to put this with it, said Mrs. Nichols to Anna, who uncertain what reply to make looked at Carrie to answer for her. I reckon mother don't want that old stuff stuck into her China closet, said Carrie, elevating her nose to a height wholly satisfactory to John Jr., who unbuttoned one of his waistband buttons to give himself room to laugh. Mortal sakes alive, I wonder if she don't, returned Mrs. Nichols, beginning to get an inkling of Carrie's character and the estimation in which her valuables were held. Here's a nice little cupboard over the fireplace, I'd put them here, said Lena. Yes, chimed in John Jr., imitating both his grandmother and cousin. Yes, Granny, put them there. The niggers are awful critters to steal, and like enough you'd lose them if they sought in with marms. This argument prevailed. The dishes were put away in the cupboard, Lena thinking that with all his badness, John Jr. was of some use after all. At last, tired of looking on, Anna suggested to Lena, who did not seem to be helping matters forward much, that she should go and be dressed up as had been first proposed. Redily divining her sister's intention, Carrie ran with it to her mother who sent back word that, Lena must mind her own affairs and that Anna's dress is alone. This undeserved thrust made Lena cry while Anna declared, her mother never said any such thing, which Carrie understood as an insinuation that she had told of Osford. Accordingly, a quarrel of words ensued between the two sisters, which was finally quelled by John Jr., who called to Carrie, to come down as she'd got a letter from Derword Belmont. Derword, how that name made Lena's heart leap. Was it her, Derword, the boy in the cars? She almost hoped not, for somehow the idea of his writing to Carrie was not a pleasant one. At last, summoning courage, she asked Anna who he was, and was told that he lived in Louisville with his stepfather, Mr. Graham, and that Carrie, about two months before, had met him in Frankfurt at Colonel Douglas's, where she was in the habit of visiting. Colonel Douglas, continued Anna, has got a right nice little girl whose name is Nelly. Then there's Mabel Ross, a sort of cousin who lives with them part of the time. She's an orphan and a great heiress. You mustn't tell anybody for the world, but I overheard Ma say that she wanted John to marry Mabel. She's so rich. But, Shah, he won't, for she's awful baby-ish and ugly-looking. Captain Atherton is related to Nelly, and during the holidays she and Mabel are coming up to spend a week, and I'll bet Derword is coming too. Cad teased him and he said maybe he would if he didn't go to college this fall. I'll run down and see. Soon returning she brought the news that it was as she had conjectured. Derword, who was now travelling, was not going to college until the next fall, and at Christmas he was coming to the country with his cousin. Oh, I'm so glad, said Anna. We'll have a time, for Ma'll invite them here, of course. Cad thinks a heap of Derword, and I want so bad to see him, don't you? Lena made no direct reply, for much as she would like to see her companion de voyage, she felt an unwillingness to meet him in the presence of Carrie, who she knew would spare no pains to mortify her. Soon, forgetting Derword, Anna again alluded to her plan of dressing Lena, wishing Cad would mind her own business. Then, as a new idea entered her head, she brightened up, exclaiming, I know what I can do. I'll have Corinda curl your hair real pretty. You've got beautiful hair. A heap nicer than my yellow flax. Lena offered no remonstrance, and Corinda, who came at the call of her young mistress, immediately commenced brushing and curling the bright, wavy hair which Anna had rightly called beautiful. While this was going on, Grant Monicles, who had always adhered to the good old puritanical custom of dining exactly at twelve o'clock, began to wonder why dinner was not forthcoming. She had breakfasted in Versailles, but, like many travelers, could not eat much at a hotel, and now her stomach clamored loudly for food. Three times had she walked back and forth before what she supposed was the kitchen, and from which a savory smell of something was issuing, and at last determining to stop and reconnoitre, she started for the door. The northern reader at all equated with southern life knows well that a kitchen there and a kitchen here are two widely different things. Hours, particularly in the country, being frequently used as a dining room, while a southern lady would almost as soon think of eating in the barn as in her cook room. Like most other planters, Mr. Livingstone's kitchen was separate and at some little distance from the main building, causing Grandma to wonder how the poor critters managed to carry victuals back and to when it was cold and slippery. When Aunt Millie, who was up to her elbows and dough, saw her visitor approaching, she exclaimed, Laura Mighty, if there ain't old Miss coming straight into this looking-hole, Jeff, you quit that are poking in damages and not lying out that kiddle, does you ha? And you, Polly, speaking to a superannuated Negroess who was sitting near the table, you just shoved that our piece of dough I done saved to bake for you and me under your char while she won't see it. Polly complied and by this time Mrs. Nichols was at the door surveying the premises and thinking how differently she'd make things look after a little. Does Mrs. want anything? asked Aunt Millie and Grandma replied. Yes, I want to know if tain't nigh about noon. This is a term never used among the blacks and rolling up her white eyes, Aunt Millie answered. You done got me now, Sarton, for this child know nothing what you mean more than the deadest critter livin'. As well as she could Mrs. Nichols explained her meaning and Aunt Millie replied. Oh, yes, yes, I know now. Is it most dinner time? Yes, dinner'll be done ready in an hour. We never has it till two no day and when we has company not till three. Confident that she should starve, Mrs. Nichols advanced a step or two into the kitchen whereupon Aunt Millie commenced making excuses saying, she was going to clear up one of these days and then if Thomas Jefferson and Marquis de Lafayette didn't quit that litterin', they'd catch it. Attracted by the clean appearance of Aunt Polly who not having to work, prided herself upon always being neatly dressed. Mrs. Nichols walked up to her and to use a vulgar expression the two old ladies were soon hand in glove. Mrs. Nichols informing her of her loss and how sorry Nancy Scovendike would feel when she heard of it and ending by giving her the full particulars of her husband's sickness and death. In return Aunt Polly said that, she was born and bred along with old master Richards Miss Matilda's father and that she too had buried a husband. With a deep sigh Mrs. Nichols was about to commiserate her when Aunt Polly cut her short by saying, of no kind account as she never relished him much. Some drunken critter I warned, thought Mrs. Nichols at the same time asking what his name was. James, said Aunt Polly, this was not definite enough for Mrs. Nichols who asked for their surname. James what? James Atherton I reckon, being he long to old master Atherton, said Polly. For a time Mrs. Nichols had forgotten her hunger but the habit of sixty years was not so easily broken and she now hinted so strongly of the emptiness of her stomach that Aunt Polly, emboldened by her familiarity said, I never wait for the rest but have my cup of tea or coffee just when I feel like it. And if Mrs. wouldn't mind taking a bite with a nigger she's welcome. Saying nothing about it, we shall all be white in heaven. That am'd a truth, muttered Millie, mentally assigning Mrs. Nichols a more exalted occupation than that of turning hoe-cakes. Two cups and saucers were forthwith produced. Millie acting as waiter for fear Aunt Polly would leave her seat and so disclosed to view the loaf of bread which had been hidden under the chair. Some coffee was poured from the pot which still stood on the stove and then the little negroes, amused with the novelty of the thing, ran shouting and yelling that, Oh, Miss was eaten in the kitchen long with Lion Aunt Polly and the other dogs. The coffee being drank, Mrs. Nichols returned to the house thinking, What sights of comfort she should take with Mrs. Atherton, whom she pronounced to be a likely clever woman as ever was. Scarcely had she reached her room when the dinner-bell rang every note falling like an ice-bolt on the heart of Lina, who though hungry like her grandmother still greatly dreaded the dinner, fearing her inability to acquit herself creditably. Corinda had finished her hair and Anna, looking over her wardrobe and coming upon the black dress which her father had purchased for her, had insisted upon Lina's wearing it. It was of rather more modern make than any of her other dresses and when her toilet was completed, she looked uncommonly well. Still she trembled violently as Anna led her to the dining-room. Neither Mrs. Nichols nor Mrs. Livingstone had yet made their appearance, but the latter soon came languidly in, wrapped in a rose-colored shawl, which John Jr. said, she wore to give a delicate tint to her yellow complexion. She was in the worst of humors having just been opening her husband's trunk where she found the numerous articles which had been stowed away by Nancy Skolvendike. Very angrily she had ordered them removed from her sight and at this very moment the little negroes in the yard were playing with the cracked bellows, calling them a blubber and filling them with water to see it run out. Except through the window, Mrs. Livingstone had not yet seen Lina and now dropping into her chair she never raised her eyes until Anna said, Mother, Mother, this is Lina, look at her. Thus importuned, Mrs. Livingstone looked up and the frown with which she was prepared to greet her niece soft and somewhat, for Lina was not a child to be looked upon and despised. Plain and humble as was her dress there was something in her fine open face which at once interested and commanded respect. John Jr. had felt it, his father had felt it, and his mother felt it too, but it awoken her a feeling of bitterness as she thought how the fair young girl before her might in time rival her daughters. At a glance she saw that Lina was beautiful and that it was quite as much a beauty of intellect as of feature and form. Yes, thought she, husband was right when he said that with the same advantages she'd soon outstrip her cousins, but it shall never be, never, and the white teeth shut firmly together as the cold proud woman bowed a welcome. At this moment Mrs. Nichols appeared. Stimulated by the example of Lina she too had changed her dress, and now in black bombazine, white muslin cap and shining silk apron she presented so respectable an appearance that her son's face instantly brightened. Come mother, we are waiting for you, said he as she stopped on her way to ask Vine the thigh girl how she did and if it wasn't hard work to swing them feathers. Not being very bright Vine replied with a grin, don't know miss. Taking her seat next to her son, Mrs. Nichols said when offered a plate of soup. I don't often eat broth, besides that I ain't much hungry as I've just been taken a bite with Miss Atherton. With whom? asked Mr. Livingstone, John Jr., Carrie and Anna in the same breath. With Miss Polly Atherton, that nice old colored lady in the kitchen, said Mrs. Nichols. The scowl on Mrs. Livingstone's face darkened visibly while her husband, thinking at time to speak, said, It is my wish, mother, that you keep away from the kitchen. It does the negroes no good to be meddled with and besides that, when you are hungry, the servants will take you something. Accustomed to eat in the kitchen, probably, muttered Carrie with all the air of a young lady of twenty. Hold on to your nose, cad, whispered John Jr., thereby attracting his sister's attention to himself. By this time the soup was removed and a fine large turkey appeared. What a noble great feller, gobbler, ain't it? asked Mrs. Nichols touching the turkey with the knife. John Jr. roared and was ordered from the table by his father, Wylena, who stepped on her grandmother's toes to keep her from talking was told by that lady to keep her feet still. Along with the dessert came ice cream, which Mrs. Nichols had never before tasted and now fancying that she was dreadfully burned, she quickly deposited her first mouthful upon her plate. What's the matter, grandma, can't you eat it? asked Anna. Yes, I can eat it, but I don't hanker either it. Answered her grandmother pushing the plate aside. Dinner being over, Mrs. Nichols returned to her room, but soon growing weary, she started out to view the premises. Coming suddenly upon a group of young negroes, she discovered her bellows, the water dripping from the nose while a little farther on she aspired Lena's bonnet, which the negroes had at last succeeded in catching and which, wet as it was, now adorned the head of Thomas Jefferson. In a trice the old lady's principles were forgotten and she cuffed the negroes with the right goodwill, hitting Jeff the hardest and as a matter of course making him yell the loudest. Out came Aunt Millie, scolding and muttering about, white folks tenden to their own business, and reversing her decision with regard to Mrs. Nichols' position in the next world. Cuff, the watchdog whose kennel was close by, set up a tremendous howling, while John Jr. always on hand danced a jig to the sound of the direful music. For heaven's sake, husband, go out and see what's the matter, said Mrs. Livingstone, slightly alarmed at the unusual noise. John complied and reached the spot just in time to catch a glimpse of John Jr.'s heels as he gave the finishing touch to his exploit while Mrs. Nichols, highly incensed, marched from the field of battle with the bonnet and bellows thinking if them niggers was only her and they'd catch it. End of Chapter 6