THE ORPHAN NIECES; (continued 5)

"What on earth ails the man?" said Mrs. Felton to her daughter. "I should not wonder if he had got the neuralgia again. Why, where's Olive?" she continued, as she entered the sitting-room, and found it vacant. "I don't believe but that she is real sick. Hadn't you better go up and see?"

Ruth went up, but did not go in. She had an inkling of the state of the case, and she thought Olive would prefer to be alone, so she contented herself with asking, at the door, if Olive wanted any thing, and then went to her own room.

Olive would have given a good deal if she could have avoided meeting her rejected lover the next morning, but there was no help for it. And she determined to put the best face she could upon the encounter.

Mr. Prendergrass rose and bade her good morning, as usual, when she entered the large room, following her train of girls.

Glancing at him, after she was seated, she was shocked to see how he was altered. He looked ten years older, at least. His eyes were hollow, and there was an expression of forlorn wretchedness about him, which went to Olive's heart. His voice, however, was full and firm as ever in going through the morning prayers.

When school was out, at noon, Mr. Prendergrass entered the library, where Olive was, searching for something in one of the book-cases.

"Allow me a moment, Miss McHenry," he said, in his formal way, and closing the door. "I made myself very ridiculous last night," he continued, "and I fear gave you great pain."

"On the contrary, you never commanded my respect more," said Olive warmly, "and the only pain I felt was for your disappointment, and the fear that I had lost your friendship."

"You are very kind to say so." He paused a moment. "From henceforth let the whole matter be forgotten, so far as possible. I entirely acquit you of any wrong in the matter, and blame only my own folly and vanity."

Olive would have interrupted him, but he waved his hand, and proceeded. "We will say no more about it, if you please. I believe Mr. Landon to be a worthy and excellent young man, and I greatly respect him for the course which I understand he has lately taken. I hope you may both be happy, and so long as I know 'you' are so, I can never be quite wretched. God bless you!"

He bowed, and was gone, leaving Olive to wonder whether, if she had never seen Walter, she might not, in the course of time, have fallen in love with this honorable, noble, kind-hearted, formal, eccentric piece of humanity.

School was out at last, and us the scholars assembled once more to receive their prizes and to bid good-by, Olive felt sadly at leaving them, even for the vacation. She had expected when she returned for the summer term, to give up her charge entirely at this time, and to return to Basswoods as Mrs. Landon. A great change had passed over her prospects. She was none the less happy, but it was a calm and subdued happiness. Those who saw only the outside pitied her disappointment, but she told Augusta that if she could, by turning her hand, reverse the whole matter, she would not do it.

"I respect and love him more than ever, when I see him making such sacrifices to what we both feel to be paramount duty," said she, "and I never think of it but with a thankful heart that we are both of one mind."

"Mr. Prendergrass is going to travel this vacation; only think of that!" said Ruth. "He has not been out of Basswoods before, except to York to buy books, for ten years. He says he is going to the White Mountains, and up the St. Lawrence, and so home by the way of Niagara. I only hope the poor man will not get lost."

"Perhaps he will only get married," said Augusta. "You look quite indignant, Olive, but let me tell you, my dear, there is truth in the saying that 'many a heart is caught in the rebound.'"

"I was not aware that I looked indignant," replied Olive, coloring. "It is nothing to me, of course, but it does not seem very probable."

The girls smiled and turned the conversation, leaving Olive wondering why she should have felt a little vexed at the idea of Mr. Prendergrass being married.

She had expected to go alone to B., but when the day came, she found Walter prepared to accompany her.

"I can afford myself so much of a holiday," he said, in answer to her remonstrances, "and I do not choose to have you travel alone, if it can be helped. Besides, I want to see your sister and Forester. You know he was a classmate of mine. We used to be thought very much alike."

Olive wondered where the resemblance could have been, as she contrasted the high-flown æsthetics and refined selfishness of her accomplished brother-in-law, with the hearty, manly energy, and determined self-sacrifice of her lover: the one pampering his mind and indulging his taste for idleness with all sorts of pretty and petty amusements which he dignified by the name of intellectual pursuits; the other devoting all his energies to the profession he had chosen, and only relinquishing it at the call of a still higher duty. She did not express her thoughts to her companion, but perhaps he guessed them, for he said presently:

"You must not judge Forester too harshly. He has been a spoiled child all his life; petted, waited on, and admired by father and mother, brothers and sisters. He had talent, and they thought it genius, and accordingly humored him in all his pursuits, and gratified all his desires. After living upon his father till he was nearly five-and-twenty, it was naturally not easy for him to settle down to business at once. He was admired and courted in society, and that finished the spoiling."

"All that need not have made him dishonorable and false," said Olive, "as he certainly was, so far as Abby was concerned."

"Perhaps it need not, but I think you will find that idleness and self-indulgence are very apt to have that effect after a time. We will not despair of him, however, my dear Olive. The fact of his having a wife dependent upon him may force upon his mind the necessity of exerting himself."

Olive tried to hope so, but it must be confessed she did not feel very sanguine. They arrived in B. in the afternoon, and after some little trouble, succeeded in finding the house—a small brick cottage in a retired street, and Walter left her at the door, promising to return in the evening.

Her sister met her with open arms, and then followed the usual amount of tears, laughter, clapping of hands, and other demonstrations, common to all Abby's great occasions.

"You are just as much of a child as ever, Abby," said Olive, when she was finally settled in the parlor.

"Why, no, I think not quite," replied Abby, sobering down a little. "I have learned some things since I saw you. Only think, Olive, I have been a wife almost six months, and you are not married yet, nor likely to be very soon."

"I am very well contented as I am," said Olive.

"Yes, I dare say; you always are, you know. But how do you like our house? You see it is not in a fashionable neighborhood, and the house is not large nor splendid, but it is comfortable."

"It looks so," said Olive, looking round. "I see you have a piano."

"Yes, Mrs. Forester sent me that. Wasn't she kind? So different from—"

"Hush! Abby," interposed Olive, "I will not hear one word against uncle or aunt Merton. They have been kinder to you than you deserve, and you know what I thought from the beginning. You have never, so far as I know, intimated a wish to be forgiven."

"William says it is not my place to do so," said Abby. "He says they ought to make the first advances, and that uncle has insulted him. Not," she added hastily, "that I should do so, even if he would let me. But we had better not talk about that! Let me take you up to your room: you must be tired, and when William comes in, we will get your trunks up. I used to wonder how people kept house without a man, but I am finding out."

Olive begged her sister not to trouble herself, and accompanied her up-stairs to the bedroom destined for her. It was small, but well-furnished, and tolerably neat, though showing signs of needing the dusting-brush.

"The dust settles on every thing so," said Abby. "I can't think why it is. We did not use to see any dust at aunt Merton's. I hope you will not laugh at my housekeeping, Olive! I do my best, but I know very well things do not go on as they used to at home."

"Aunt Merton has excellent servants, and plenty of them," said Olive, encouragingly, "and she has kept house a good many years, while you are only a beginner. You will soon learn."

"I hope so," said Abby, "for I do hate to have things go wrong. Emma Forester was here the first fortnight, and you don't know how nice it was. She is not a bit like William—not at all a genius, though she is cultivated. William says she cares for nothing but sewing and Sunday-schools, but she is a real housekeeper, and I am sure Katy did better for her than she does for me."

"Why did she not stay?" asked Olive.

"Oh! Her mother and Emmeline wanted her, and she had to go home. But there comes William, and I must go down and have the trunks brought up."

Olive heard, accordingly, an argument down in the hall, which ended in the trunks being dragged up-stairs by a stout, good-natured English girl.

"I am afraid they are rather too heavy for you," said Olive kindly.

"Oh! No, indeed. I'm very stout, you see, and Mrs. Forester is far too delicate to put her hand to such a thing."

Olive wondered whether that were the only alternative but she dressed herself and went down-stairs.

Mr. Forester, in dressing-gown and slippers, was stretched upon the sofa in the parlor, reading a newspaper. He rose, however, when she entered, and greeted her with his accustomed easy cordiality.

"So you have come to see how far we have gone in the way of destruction you so kindly prophesied to us!" said he, after a few common-place inquiries.

"I don't remember expressing any such prophecy," replied Olive.

"Ah! Well, you thought so, and your pattern uncle thinks so still."

"Perhaps we had better let that branch of the subject rest," said Olive. "We shall not be likely to agree any better than we did before, and I can not consent to hear my uncle spoken of, except with respect."

"Very well," said Mr. Forester good-naturedly, "there are enough of other subjects to talk about. What has become of Landon, and why did he not come up with you?"

"He is in town," replied Olive, "and will be here this evening. I learned this morning, for the first time, that you were class-mates."

"Yes, surely. We never were very intimate, though. Landon was one of those plodding fellows, who give their whole energies to the daily routine of study, and are great favorites with faculty and tutors in consequence. He is just the man to make a lawyer or a minister."

"Walter is very industrious," replied Olive. "I think sometimes he hardly allows himself as much recreation as he needs, but his health is good, and he always gives himself up entirely to every thing he undertakes."

"Yet he has given up the study of law as well as William," remarked Abby, who had just come in.

"No one can say that he has consulted his ease in so doing," replied Olive, smiling, "since the one he has chosen is much more laborious, besides being worse paid."

"I can not conceive why he should have made the exchange," said William; "he always seemed to enjoy the idea of studying law."

"He thought it was his duty to do so."

"His duty! Yes, that sounds just like him," laughed Mr. Forester. "'My duty' always settled every thing for him. But, Abby, is not tea ready? I am sure it is past the time."

"It is just ready," was the reply; "I came in to tell you so."

"I don't remember hearing any thing about it. Abby is not much of a housekeeper, Miss McHenry. I wonder your good aunt did not give her lessons."

"Girls of seventeen are not apt to be good housekeepers," was the reply that rose to Olive's lips, but she checked herself, and said simply: "Abby has been a great deal in school, and she has had very little experience. She will do very well, I dare say."

"Oh! Yes, of course. Don't color so, little wife: you know you said as much yourself this morning."

The tea was very nice and abundant, though plain. The biscuits especially were very nice, and Olive noticed them.

"I made them myself," said Abby, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Emma taught me while she was here."

"You were an apt scholar, certainly," replied her husband, helping himself to another. "But, my love, I should rather you would try your skill in teaching Katy, than in doing such things yourself. A good housekeeper directs, instead of doing—is head, and not hands."

Abby looked mortified, and Olive felt indignant.

"I am inclined to think, if you were to try it, you would sometimes find it necessary to be head and hands too," said she: "at least, I never saw a housekeeper who did not."

Mr. Forester smiled and turned the conversation, but poor Abby's spirits had received a check. She evidently felt a good deal like a child who has taken a good deal of pains in preparing a present, and then hears it criticised by the person for whom it is intended. Mr. Forester seemed quite unconscious of having said any thing unkind, and continued to make himself very gracious to Olive, and to Mr. Landon when he appeared.

"How do you like your new business?" asked Walter.

"What do you mean, the nursery business? Oh! I gave that up, long ago. My partner, who was a stupid fellow, thought I ought to take half the labor of superintendence; and it did not suit me to be out in all weathers. Besides, I did not like his ideas. I wanted to make the grounds picturesque and pretty, but he had a notion that it was much more convenient to plant the trees in straight rows all of a sort, with a stake at the head of each. There was no beauty or grace in that! Then, it really seems a very heartless thing to sell for money, a tree or shrub which one has raised and nourished. So I gave it up, and lost some money by it. I am keeping books now, till something better comes along."

"Play something, Abby," said Olive. "Have you learned any thing new?"

"Not very lately; my hands have been too full."

She played and sung better than ever, Olive thought, but Mr. Forester thought she did not give exactly the correct expression.

"I really wish my ear was not so fastidious, Miss McHenry. It deprives me of any pleasure in ordinary music, and has prevented me from practising enough to make a good player myself."

Once more Abby looked uncomfortable, and Olive felt indignant. She persuaded her sister to sing again and sang with her, Mr. Forester talking all the time to Mr. Landon of the comparative merits of Jenny Lind and Sontag. So the evening passed.

Mr. Landon took his leave early, promising to call the next morning before he left town.

And Olive retired, feeling more than ever anxious about Abby's future. She could see, now that she looked at her, that Abby was thinner than usual—that she had lost much of her animation, and looked careworn. She thought she saw in Mr. Forester the beginning of what she feared he would become, when the first novelty of getting a wife and having his own way about it was worn off—a selfish, exacting, careless husband, seeking his own ease, and troubling himself very little about the comfort of his wife. There were no signs of God being acknowledged in the family—no grace at table, no evening prayers, not even a family Bible in the parlor. She went to sleep at last, so full of sad forebodings for Abby that she almost forgot to be thankful for herself.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

EVERY day that Olive spent in her sister's house, convinced her more and more that Abby, in her hasty and ill-advised marriage, had made shipwreck of her life's happiness, and roused her indignation more and more against her brother-in-law. She acquitted him of deliberate tyranny and unkindness, but she could not help seeing how systematically selfish he was—how he would let Abby go to market in the rain, rather than take the trouble to order the dinner himself on his way to his place of business. How he regularly took the best place in the room, the best light by the window, the new book or newspaper as soon as it came in. He would sit by the grate and let the fire go entirely out, while Abby and Olive were shopping, or busy in the kitchen, and he would never stir to make it up again unless he was particularly requested to do so.

On Sunday evening he would not go with them to a church at some little distance where a clergyman was officiating that Abby particularly desired to hear, playfully excusing himself upon the ground of always being sleepy at evening service, and disliking the style of music. But the next day but one, he dragged them out to a picture-exhibition quite at the other end of the town, though the day was damp and unpleasant, and Abby had a bad cold. In short, he always considered himself first of any one.

Olive could not guess whether Abby was at all aware of her husband's failings. Of course she could not say a word about them, even if it would have done any good. Several other things were very apparent. One was, that Abby was not strong. She got very tired with her household cares, few as they were in comparison with those of many people, and the unaccustomed responsibility weighed on her mind. She really too great pains to learn, and Olive assisted her as much as she could, but many times did she see the tears start to the poor child's eyes after she had taken great pains in the concoction of some dish for dinner or tea, to hear some careless criticism from her husband, or his often-repeated remark:

"I do not want you to do such things, Abby. Leave them to Katy. How often must I tell you, my dear, that it is the part of a good housekeeper to direct and not to work herself? You are getting really quite coarse from working in the kitchen."

Then Abby's color would rise, and she would be unable to eat a mouthful, while Mr. Forester would complacently enjoy the fruit of his wife's labors.

"I do wish Abby were not so sensitive and touchy," he said to Olive one day.

"We always thought she had a remarkably serene temper at home," replied Olive. "You should remember how young she is—only seventeen now, and the cares of life weigh heavily upon her."

"I do not think she has so very much to do," said Mr. Forester, in a tone of injured innocence. "I take all I can upon myself; and I have often seen women with much larger families who got on much better than Abby does."

"I do not think Abby is very well," remarked Olive. "She looks very pale oftentimes, and has not a particle of appetite in the morning."

Mr. Forester seemed rather alarmed, and for some days was so attentive and considerate that Abby was quite happy, and Olive almost began to like him.

But it did not last long; he soon became as careless as ever, and the cloud settled again upon his little wife's spirits. It was touching to see how she endeavored to deceive herself and Olive, how much she made of every kindness, how proud she was of his accomplishments, and how anxious to conceal his deficiencies. In all that related to her affections for her husband, she was a woman: in every thing else, she was a child.

She confessed to Olive after a while that she was often very home-sick, and longed to see her uncle and aunt, and that she would have written to beg pardon long before "if William had thought it best; not of course that I would say I was sorry for having married him, you know, but sorry that they were displeased at it. I can not bear to think of their being angry," she said, her eyes overflowing. "I never could endure to have even one of the girls in school put out with me."

"I do not think uncle would require you to say any thing more than that you were sorry for having displeased him, but he thinks you ought to make some acknowledgment of error, and indeed so do I."

"Do they ever talk of me?"

"Aunt does very often. She never writes without asking me whether I have heard from you, and how you are. I can tell you, Abby, there are not many orphan girls who have kinder friends than we have been blessed with."

"Yet you were very anxious to make yourself independent of them."

"In a pecuniary point of view—yes! I felt as if it were wrong to be dependent upon uncle for a living as long as I could support myself. But I have never made myself in any way independent of their authority, and have no wish to do so."

"Well," replied Abby, "what is done can not be helped. Perhaps matters will take a turn before I see you again, if I ever do. Sometimes I think I never shall."

"That is a foolish thought, my baby," said Olive, taking her sister's head upon her lap as she used to do in school, to soothe Abby's troubles; "why should you think so?"

"I don't know; I am not very well, and—you know mother died that way."

"But just think, Pussy, how many children are born every year, and people get well directly; and as for mother, I don't think she would have died but for the other troubles, father's death and the poverty and all. You must not encourage these gloomy fancies indeed, my love. It is worse than foolish, it is downright wrong. It is a want of faith in God."

Abby sighed again deeply. "Dear Olive, I am very much to blame, I know, about that and many things. I can not go to church as I used to. William does not always want to attend, and I hate to go alone; and even if I do, it does not seem to do me much good. I wish I were a little girl again, as I was when I first went to uncle's to live, or else I wish I had not been so happy all my life."

"But you must rouse yourself, Abby, my child," said Olive, cheerfully; "you have never known care before, and you are very young indeed to have the responsibility of a family upon your shoulders. But if you keep up good courage and do your best, the hardest parts will soon be past, and you will go on easier. Every one has some trouble at first."

"If I could only ever do right."

"I think you do wonders, both in cooking and housekeeping."

"William thinks I might get along with directing Katy, and doing nothing myself," said Abby, "but I have tried and I can not. She is good-natured, and willing to do any thing she can, but she is not much of a cook, and she is careless unless I stand over her. I think she has learned good deal, though."

"Oh! Yes, she has improved since I came. If you keep her a few months longer, she will turn out an excellent servant, I am sure."

"But Olive, when I am sick will you come and be with me if you can? I think I shall die if I am left alone."

"I promise you, baby. Keep up good courage, have faith in God, and I am sure all will go well."

The vacation lasted six weeks, and Olive spent four with her sister. She would willingly have devoted to her the whole six, but Mrs. Merton would not hear of it. And she reluctantly took her leave.

"Olive has promised to come to me next winter if I want her," said Abby to her husband after she had done crying.

"Has she?" replied Mr. Forester absently, and working busily at a sketch of "the East Wind," that had occupied him and the only table in the room for several evenings. "But don't you think after all, my love, that it is pleasanter to be by ourselves? Olive is very nice, but she is a little severe, a little trying, with her extremely practical ways. But never mind," he added, seeing Abby's eyes ready to overflow again. "You shall have her if you want her, my dear, if she were ten times as practical. Only, I hope you do not mean to cry so every time she goes away, or I shall wish her somewhere else. I can't bear to see women cry, and you of all others. Come now, don't shed any more tears, but look at my head of the east wind, and tell me how you like it."

Abby dried her eyes, looked at the picture, and was duly interested. She tried to keep from crying afterwards, and sustained her spirits wonderfully, considering how much she was alone.

Mrs. Granger interested herself much in the poor child, as she called her, and went to see her as often as she could, giving her many useful hints about household management, etc., but she was of course much engaged.

Abby had many lonely hours, when it was very hard not to dwell upon the dark side of the picture, when she could not help seeing that her idol was not a god—that even marriage with a man she loves is not enough to make a woman happy.

But in these very lonely hours she found comfort after a while. The lessons she had learned ever so long ago at her mother's knee began to come back to her; many a passage learned in Sunday-school invested itself with a new meaning. The little Bible she had brought away with her came to lie in her work-basket, and chapters which used to be only tasks now became full of divinest comfort. The poor child crept timidly near, and laid her weary head on her Saviour's arm. Thus she grew happier by degrees, and wrote so much more cheerfully that Olive was quite encouraged about her.

Olive's vacation at home was very pleasant. No one could be kinder than Mrs. Merton, though the sight of her niece seemed to renew her indignation at Mr. Landon's eccentricity, and Olive had to summon all her philosophy to meet the expression of it.

Charlotte, for a wonder, supported Olive, against her mother, and declared that Mr. Landon was right and consistent, and that she respected him for the course he had taken, though she was sorry for Olive's disappointment about getting settled in a home of her own.

Mrs. Merton was vexed, then laughed, called them a pair of romantic girls, and declared they would know better when they were older.

"Of course you think every thing Walter does is just right, now. But wait till you have been married ten years."

"Or till I have been married as long as aunt Rebecca," Olive ventured to say laughingly. "Now tell me honestly, aunt, don't you think uncle Merton is about as perfect as human nature allows any one to be?"

"Oh!—Well, yes, perhaps so. But your uncle would never do any thing so romantic."

"That depends upon what you call romantic. Some people would have thought it a very romantic proceeding to adopt two orphan girls, and give them an expensive education."

"Yes, I know many people did say so, but I assure you, my dear, we have never regretted it—not even when poor Abby disappointed us so sadly. And now, Olive, tell me all about the poor child. I have had no opportunity to ask you. Does she seem comfortable? Is her husband kind to her?"

"I do not think he means to be unkind, aunt. I believe he loves her as well as he can love any one but himself. But he is selfish in little things, and not very considerate, and I think Abby feels it."

"Of course she must," said Mrs. Merton emphatically. "A constant display of small selfishness will do more to render a household uncomfortable than even very serious faults of temper. And how are they situated in a pecuniary point of view? Do they seem to have enough?"

Olive thought they seemed comfortable for the present, but she had doubts for the future. "Mr. Forester has given up his nursery business, and says he has lost money by it."

"Why did he do that?" asked Charlotte.

"So far as I could find, his only reason was that he discovered it to be work instead of play. He said his partner cared for nothing but making money, and persisted in planting all the trees in straight lines. He is keeping books, now. But I don't believe he will persevere in it long. Abby tries very hard. It is really affecting to see the pains she takes to learn to cook and to sew. I am certain she never worked so hard at any school-lesson as she did to learn to make soda-biscuits."

"Poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Merton. "Only to think of her little hands doing such things. And does her husband appreciate her efforts?"

"I don't believe he does. He does not think there is any need of her working, herself, and I have heard him tell her, two or three times, that if she only knew how to direct, there would be no need of her putting her hand to any thing."

"How absurd!" said Charlotte. "I wonder how my father would get on in his office, on that principle, or a merchant in his store?"

"It troubles Abby very much, and discourages her, too," said Olive.

"And how do you think Abby felt about us?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Do you think she ever feels as if she would like to see us again? I don't want you to betray confidence, my dear," she added, seeing Olive hesitate, "but I feel anxious to know."

"I do not know that I shall betray any confidence in telling my own thoughts, aunt," said Olive. "I think Abby would very gladly ask to be forgiven, if Mr. Forester would let her. She would not say that she was sorry she married him, of course."

"Certainly not," interrupted Mrs. Merton. "We should never ask that."

"But I do think it makes her very unhappy to be so entirely separated from the family. She made me promise to be with her at the time of her confinement, if I could, but I shall not be surprised if Mr. Forester contrives to prevent it, for I know very well he does not like me. Abby is very low-spirited about it, and thinks she shall never get well. I am afraid she is sad enough, when she is alone, as of course she must be, a great deal of the time."

"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Merton again. "How I do wish I could send and have her here, at home! If she would only take one step toward a reconciliation, I am sure your uncle would forgive her at once."

"I am sure he would, if he were to see her."

"Well, my love, we will have patience; all will be brought round yet. I am sure I wish poor Abby well, with all my heart!" A fact which Olive did not in the least doubt.

Laura seemed to be going on in much the same way as ever, but Olive did not see her. Mrs. Dimsden had taken her down to the sea-shore, and from there to Saratoga, where her dazzling beauty and sweet manners attracted much attention. Laura seemed to be in Paradise, to judge from her letters, which were very long, and so filled from end to end with descriptions of dances, parties, and every thing of that sort, that Olive hardly had patience to read them through. Now that Abby was in some degree separated from her, she felt more and more painfully the distance between herself and Laura. They did not seem to have one thought in common.

Charlotte was much more of a companion to her, though they differed so widely upon many points. She was at least serious and thoughtful. She was not impatient of half an hour's grave conversation, and she had a thorough respect for goodness in others.

Laura valued people by their dress, their station, their fine houses, and above all, by their degree of fashion. It was respectable to go to church, and besides, it was a good place to see and be seen, so she went regularly, and knelt gracefully at all proper places, but she did not like the preaching, especially Doctor Eastman's preaching, and she wished they would leave that out. She thought his personal appeals to the hearts and consciences of his flock very Methodistical, such being the title given by a great many people to any thing like earnestness.

She could understand, or thought she could, the motives of Miss Eustace, an heiress, and a very beautiful and dignified person, in presenting a superb altar-cloth and set of cushions to the church, but she could not comprehend why the same Miss Eustace should sit back with her Sunday scholars, every Sunday, and find all their places for them, or why she should spend a great deal of her time in working for them, when no one would know it, unless by accident. Laura lived entirely in and for this world, and thought or cared no more for any other than if she had had no soul.

Olive returned to Basswoods, feeling as if the winter would be rather a long one. Walter was not there. He had gone, after a short visit in M., to pursue his studies at a distance. He was to return at Christmas for a week, and to this week she looked forward as a weary passenger on shipboard looks for the land.

The school filled up at once, and so many large girls came in, that Olive, after a good deal of consideration and consultation, came to the conclusion that it would by necessary to have another teacher for the little ones. Mrs. Tucker and a few of her special adherents, who had formed a sort of party against Olive, manœuvred greatly to get this appointment into their own hands. Mrs. Tucker wished to give it to a young friend of her own, and, by what she considered a master-stroke of policy, she invited that young lady to come and make her a visit during the vacation. Miss Lambert was really a nice sort of girl, and would have answered Olive's purpose very well, but Mrs. Tucker had reckoned without her host, and like some other great generals, had out-manœuvred not her adversary, but herself. Mr. Jones heard his sister-in-law's innuendoes and suggestions very patiently, for some time.

"Sister Tucker," he broke out at last, "do you really think the trustees are going to do such a mean and uncivil thing as to put an assistant into the school without consulting Miss McHenry's wishes about it?"

"I don't see the incivility," replied Mrs. Tucker, a good deal alarmed, but standing her ground. "If Miss McHenry did not like it, she could leave."

"Yes, and that is what you want. Because she checked Melissa in her tattling when she first came, as you ought to have done yourself long ago, you have always been against her. Now, listen to me. These insinuations against Miss McHenry must be put a stop to, at once and forever. They do you no credit, let me tell you, either as a woman or a Christian, and you do Miss Lambert great harm. She seems a pretty good girl, and if Miss McHenry approves of her, there may be no objection to having her. But not one step shall be taken without her concurrence."

Mrs. Tucker could only murmur something about "not meaning any harm."

"Then be careful you don't do any harm. I have seen so much malice, and so much mischief under that cloak of not meaning any harm, that I don't think much of it."

In effect, Miss McHenry, understanding the state of the case, willing to conciliate, and having seen Miss Lambert and conversed with her away from her champion, Mrs. Tucker, was very well pleased with her, and signified to the trustees that she had no objection to their giving her the vacant place.

Mrs. Tucker exulted greatly, but her triumph was of short duration. For Miss Lambert, being really an honest, good-hearted, affectionate girl, and positively declining to tell tales out of school, and submitting herself entirely to the guidance of her principal, Mrs. Tucker considered her as having gone over to the enemy, and quarrelled with her, accordingly. It became necessary for her to seek a new boarding-place, and as she had abundance of room, Olive persuaded Mrs. Felton to take her.

Maria was young, and her opportunities had not been great. She delighted to read and study under Olive's direction, and she, on her part, grew very much attached to her, and so ended an affair which might have been a very serious one for our heroine, had her friends been one whit less straightforward or sensible.

But Miss Lambert did not remain through the year, for a very good reason—an excellent reason, indeed, since it was no other than Mr. Prendergrass. That gentleman had fallen into the habit of visiting at least once a week at Mrs. Felton's, and to him habit was second nature. So he kept on visiting there, as usual, after Olive returned. And now that there was no farther danger of mistakes, Olive was very glad to see him.

But after Miss Lambert came, she began to perceive, with much amusement, that she was not the principal attraction. He talked to her, indeed, but he looked at Maria. She was very glad to observe, after a little, that Maria herself had no objection to have Mr. Prendergrass look at her, that she was glad to see him when he came, and low-spirited if he went away early, or failed to present himself at the usual time.

At last, one day, not long after the holidays, Maria came to Olive's room, and with blushes, and smiles, and tears, and much pretty confusion, acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Prendergrass had offered himself to her, and wished to be advised.

"About what does Maria wish to be advised?" Olive asked.

Maria wanted to be advised whether she should marry Mr. Prendergrass or not.

"That depends entirely upon circumstances, my dear. If you do not love him, you ought not to marry him."

"But I am afraid I do love him," sobbed Maria.

"Then you had better marry him, by all means, my love, if there is no other objection. He is a most excellent man, and no doubt will make you very happy."

"You know I have neither father nor mother," said Maria. "I have hardly a friend in the world but you."

"Don't think of marrying simply for a home, Maria. I would rather you did almost any thing else."

"I don't indeed, Miss McHenry. I would rather go to the poor-house. But I do like him so very much, and he is so good—that—that—"

"That you can not help crying about it," said Olive smiling, and kissing her. "My love, I think you could hardly have done better, and I wish you joy with all my heart. Now then, dry your eyes and answer Mr. Prendergrass's note and don't keep the poor man in suspense any longer."

"Poor man," she thought as Maria left the room. "I need not have distressed myself so much about breaking his heart and all that. I do not believe men's hearts are so easily fractured after all."

Olive felt some awkwardness upon meeting and congratulating her former lover upon his approaching marriage, but there was no necessity for any embarrassment upon her part, for he evidently felt none. The fact that he had once cared himself to Olive seemed to have passed entirely from his mind, and he could think of nothing and look at nothing but his dear Maria.

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, as Mr. Prendergrass beside his salary had a comfortable little property, the result of his savings for many years.

Augusta and Ruth helped Olive to put Maria's wardrobe into a state befitting so grand an occasion. She had many presents, indeed quite a setting out of plate and china from those who took an interest in the motherless girl. The wedding took place at Mrs. Felton's and was quite a splendid affair. Contrary to the forebodings of those who knew his habits, Mr. Prendergrass was not late and did not forget the ring. Maria looked very lovely, the bridegroom very manly and sensible, and every one was pleased except Mrs. Tucker.

That lady was not pleased. She thought Mr. Prendergrass ought to be ashamed of himself to marry such a little chit of a girl as Maria Lambert—a man of "his" age! It was all an affair of Miss McHenry's getting up, and just like her. Maria had been a good girl before she fell under that woman's influence—but she had shown the disposition of a serpent in going to Mrs. Felton's, as if that lady was in the habit of taking reptiles to board, and she would have no more to do with her: so she would not go to the wedding, though Maria invited her, and would not call upon her, though they lived very near—a circumstance which probably did not detract in the least from the happiness of Maria's married life.

It was wonderful and exceedingly pleasant to see how Mr. Prendergrass improved under the influence of his young wife. He learned to dress, talk, and comport himself much like ordinary mortals, discovered that there were other objects in life besides books, and entertained company at home with great propriety. Maria was as happy as the day was long, thought her husband the most wonderful of men, and herself the happiest woman in the world, especially after Olive consented to take her younger sister in her place. She insisted upon Olive's coming to make them a visit.

And Olive accepted the invitation and enjoyed it greatly, thinking at least once every day how much Mr. Prendergrass was superior to Mr. Forester though he could not have told a Claude from a Turner—and his musical knowledge, like the western gentleman's, only amounted to two tunes, one of which was Old Hundred and the other wasn't; and how much happier Maria was than poor Abby.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLIVE was not with Abby at her confinement, after all—not from any fault of her own, but because Mr. Forester had very clearly intimated that he did not want her, and preferred even his own sister Emma, whom he did not seem to like very well either. But though Olive was not with her, Aunt Merton was—to explain which, we must go back a little.

As the time of trial drew near, Emma Forester, who was staying with Abby, saw that there was something which weighed upon her mind and disturbed her very much.

Emma was a kind-hearted and practical woman—she had need to be so, having exercised in her own person all the common-sense which had been brought to bear upon the family affairs since she was twelve years' old. She was not a favorite with her brothers or sisters, and truth to say, Emma's manners were not amiable: she was apt to be short and rather sharp in her replies, and to criticise, especially her brother William, pretty severely. She had been very much displeased with him for his marriage, an affair which his mother considered as at worst only an amiable eccentricity—but her anger did not extend to her little sister-in-law, for whom she felt very sorry, well-knowing what was before her.

William had positively declined having Olive to stay with Abby during her confinement, not so much in words, as in looks and tones, giving it to be understood that he preferred having his house to himself. He would not have had Emma either, if he could have helped himself, but she left him no choice, coming of her own accord about six weeks beforehand, and establishing herself for a long stay, without consulting him.

Abby was delighted to have Emma, since she could not have Olive. They suited very well: Emma from temper and habit liking to direct, and Abby pleased to be directed. Emma took at once the whole charge of housekeeping off her sister's hands, leaving her to take the rest she so much needed: and this in itself was a great relief.

But her good offices did not end here. She saw that Abby was very unhappy—that she had some secret trouble, apart from the vague fear of death which had haunted her by turns for a long time. And she set herself kindly and delicately to discover and if possible to remedy it. At last, after much coaxing, it all came out in a gush of tears.

"O Emma! I want to see aunt Rebecca so much. I want to tell her how very sorry I am for displeasing her, and ask her to forgive me."

"Well, love, what hinders you from writing to her? I dare say she would come and see you at once, if she knew you desired to see her."

"I am sure she would," sobbed Abby. "Olive says she always asks about me. I would give any thing to see her once more."

"Why not write immediately?" asked Emma.

"William does not wish to have me, Emma. He does not like aunt, and he thinks uncle has insulted him. I did speak about it once, but—" A new gush of tears followed, as she recalled the scene.

"Don't cry, my dear—now you really must not!" said Emma, with authority. "I think it can be managed, and if it can not, you must not make yourself ill about it. Lie down, child, and don't try to sew: I will attend to all that."

Abby still looked anxious. "I don't know whether it is best for you to say any thing, Emma. I am afraid—"

"Tut! Tut! My dear. He is not my husband, you know. I have not said that I shall speak to him either, but I want you to be gratified, if possible."

"You do not think it is a notion—do you, Emma?"

"No, child; I think it is a feeling that does you credit. And even if it were, I don't see why your notions should not be gratified, as well as those of other people."

"Well, I don't know," sighed Abby. "I am afraid I am very troublesome and fanciful sometimes. Nothing ever used to disturb me when I was a girl. Olive used to cry five times to my once. But lately, some how, every thing seems so heavy and hard to me—even things that would not have made any impression on me a year ago. I am afraid it is my fault, and that I am growing very unamiable."

"You are sick, child; that is all."

"I am glad you think so. You are so good to me, Emma. I don't know how I shall ever repay you."

"Pshaw!" returned Emma shortly. "One must be hard-hearted indeed, to be any thing but good to such a poor little forlorn bird as you are. I am glad if I can do any thing for you, I am sure."

William was out in the evening. There was a grand concert in town, and the tickets were only a dollar. He had lost his place as accountant that morning, and wanted something to divert his mind from what even he thought rather an unpleasant circumstance. So he went to the concert, and afterwards took an oyster-supper downtown with a friend, feeling not at all uneasy at being out late, since he knew Emma would not let his wife sit up for him. He was a little vexed to find Emma herself awaiting his return.

"Why did you sit up?" he asked. "You know I can let myself in."

"I did not sit up altogether for you," replied Emma. "I had a piece of work to finish to-night. But I do want to speak to you about Abby."

"Is she ill?" asked Mr. Forester, rather anxiously.

"She is as well as she has been for some days past, but she is very unhappy, poor child."

"What does she want now?" said he, with the air of a man accustomed to yield to a vast number of unreasonable desires upon the part of his wife. "I am ready to do any thing in reason."

"She wants to see her aunt," replied Emma, as usual coming to the point at once.

Mr. Forester's face was darkened by a very unpleasant frown. "I thought I had settled that matter once for all," he said, tapping his finger upon the table. "I told Abby that when her uncle would apologize for his treatment of me, I would let her see him, and not before. I must say, she forgets her duty as a wife, in complaining of me to you, and I do not think the better of you for encouraging her in it."

"She has not complained of you!" returned Emma, indignantly. "She thinks you are a demi-god, or somewhere near it, poor child."

"How did this come out, then?"

"I guessed it, and she admitted that it was so."

"And told you I would not let her write?"

"She said you thought it was not best."

"I do think so. I think, too, that Abby forgets herself strangely, in cherishing a desire which she knows to be directly contrary to my judgment. Since you are in her confidence, you may tell her that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Merton shall ever enter my doors, till they make me a humble apology. In her present condition, there is nothing to be done but to get along with her whims as easily as possible, but when she is better—it don't signify talking of it now! I thought you knew that I had too much pride and self-respect to be over-crowed by my wife's relations."

He took up his candle to go up-stairs.

"Very good," said Emma, coolly. "Keep your pride and self-respect, and lose your wife. Do you know what Dr. M. thinks of her?"

William hesitated, turned, and came back to the table. "Doctors are so fanciful," he said peevishly.

Emma did not reply.

"Do you really think, Emma, that there is danger?"

"There is always danger," was the brief response.

"I should be sorry to cross her unnecessarily," he continued, after another pause. "She tries her best to please me, I must say, but,—don't you think, Emma, she is very childish?"

"Very, or she would never have married you," was the rather unpromising reply. "But you are the last person who ought to complain of that. You knew what she was when you took her."

"I knew she was young and girlish, and thought I could form her mind—"

"You had better have formed your own first," interrupted his sister.

"I thought I could make her what I wanted. You know what sort of woman I always admired—a gentle, yielding character that would twine round her husband like the honeysuckle round an elm."

"Like a pea round a pumpkin-vine would be the better comparison in your case," said Emma. "You never could stand alone yourself, much less sustain any thing else. But there is no use in talking of that now: the mischief is done, and you have only to make the best of it. Now, the case stands thus. Abby, like, all young girls in such circumstances, thinks she is certainly going to die, and I do not know but she is right, for Dr. M. is very anxious—at any rate, she thinks so. She is longing, from the bottom of her affectionate little heart to see the people who have brought her up, and been father and mother to her—and to be friends with them. It is a reasonable wish, too. But you, for the sake of sustaining your absurd pride, deny her this comfort—perhaps the last that it may be yours to grant. You admit that she has never gone contrary to your wishes since you married her, and, on the contrary, has striven in every way to please you, and yet you will not make this small sacrifice to soothe her hour of trial—perhaps of death!"

"Settle it in your own fashion!" said Mr. Forester abruptly, and turning away. "I am willing she should have the whole clan here, Olive and all, if it will do her any good. Only let me know when they are coming that I may be out of the way, and avoid the scene. I must look out for something to do, I suppose, and I have not much hope of finding it here. I can make that an excuse for running away for a few days."

"Something to do! What do you mean?" asked his sister, with a feeling of anxiety which prevented her from noticing, as she otherwise would have done, the heartlessness of this speech.

"Oh! I have given up my engagement with Hancock, and shall be out of work after to-morrow," he replied, with a vain attempt to appear unconcerned.

"William, are you mad? Why did you throw up your situation without knowing that you had something to turn to, at this time of all others? What was the matter?"

"The matter was that we could not agree, and so we thought it best to part," returned Mr. Forester doggedly. "He wanted to pin me down to the desk from Monday morning till Saturday night, ten hours a day. I thought I had a right to some relaxation now and then. So I went off on a fishing-party two or three times, you know, and was not there when he expected me. Then I COULD not give my whole attention to figures; it is quite too tiresome and stupid, and narrows down one's mind to a mere point. The consequence was, that I made some trifling mistakes, and so you see—"

"I see," said Emma, finishing the sentence for him, "that as usual, you have no one to blame but yourself! William, when will you ever be a man? You talk of Abby's being a child, and so she is, but a good and obedient child; while you are a perverse, self-willed boy—a torment to yourself and every one that has any thing to do with you."

She walked nervously up and down the room a few times. William took up a pen and began to draw figures all over a sheet of music-paper. He was used to his sister's fault-finding, and waited patiently till she should exhaust her vexation, and propose some remedy for his embarrassments.

"There is no use in all that," he said at last; "and besides, you will disturb Abby."

"Very true," replied Emma, pausing in her walk, and throwing herself into a corner of the sofa. "I am glad you have the grace to think of her. How much have you beforehand?"

"Well, perhaps two hundred dollars—perhaps a little more. I do not know exactly how much of my salary I have drawn."

"Don't you keep an account?"

"No, indeed! I tried it once, but the cigars, and so on, mounted up so—"

His sister made a gesture of impatience, and he returned to his trees.

"Is that all you have to depend upon?"

"Pretty much all. There may be a little coming in from publishers."

"And out of this, your rent is to be paid—and the physician, and poor Katy, and the nurse, and housekeeping to be carried on! How do you think it is all to be done?"

"I don't know, I am sure," replied William, with an air of virtuous resignation. "I hope it will all come right some way. I must find something else to do, after I have enjoyed a little vacation, and poor Abby is right again. And now, don't you think we had better break up this council and retire? If she wakes, she may be alarmed. I won't say any thing to her, but you may tell her that she may write as penitent a letter as she pleases, disowning her husband and all his relations, if she will—"

"You know she does not want to do that. She only wants—"

"She only wants what is right, and you, too, I dare say, sis, though you are rather sharp in your way of putting it. Come, now, don't look so miserable," he added, in a coaxing way, putting his arm round her. "I will be as steady as old Hancock himself, if you will only kiss and be friends."

Emma yielded, as she almost always did in the end, to her fascinating brother's soothing and coaxing, so far as to kiss him good-night. But she lay awake till almost morning, thinking what was to become of her brother and sister when worse came to the worst—when they had spent all they had, and exhausted every one's patience.

Abby roused up as William entered, and begged to know if there was any thing wrong, but being gayly assured that every thing was very right, went quietly to sleep again.

As for William, nothing disturbed his slumbers: if he had been going to be hanged the next morning, he would have slept equally well, comforting himself with the reflection that something favorable would certainly happen before the time came.

Abby was very happy next morning when Emma informed her that there was no farther objection to her writing to her aunt, but her joy was a little damped when she was told (for Emma thought best to tell her) that William would probably have to be away upon business at the time. Still, it was with a joyful heart that she sat down to indite her letter, which she wrote and rewrote with a nervous anxiety, till Emma, seeing the state of the case, took the best copy from her hand, pronounced it good enough, folded and sealed it, and then placed it before Abby, to direct. William carried it to the post, without any remark, and made his wife very happy all day by a great many kind words, and some little attentions, which cost him nothing, but which were invaluable to her.

The family at Mr. Merton's were seated at the breakfast-table, when the letter was brought in.

Mrs. Merton took it, and broke the seal. And when Charlotte looked up from one of her own a moment after, she was both astonished and alarmed to see such an unusual sight as tears rolling down her mother's cheeks. She rose hastily, as did Mr. Merton, and the Black Prince, with his accustomed delicacy, withdrew, under the pretext of seeking hot cakes, but remained close by the outside of the door—perhaps to be within call.

"It is from Abby," said Mrs. Merton, as soon as she could find a voice. "The poor dear child has come to her senses at last. Read it, Charlotte, my dear."

And Charlotte read, being obliged to pause more than once in the course of it. When she had done, she looked anxiously from one to the other.

"You will go—you will go at once, father, will you not?"

"Certainly, my dear child, if your mother says so. I dislike the idea of meeting Forester, but poor Abby must not be disappointed. Yes, we will go at once."

"You will not see him," said Charlotte. "Did you not notice, she says he will be obliged to go away upon business?"

"Then we will set out without delay—as early as to-morrow," said Mrs. Merton.

"Why not to-day?" asked her husband. "There is time enough."

"Perhaps it will be better to leave space for a letter to precede us," suggested Mrs. Merton. "We must not startle her, you know."

Mr. Merton acquiesced, and Charlotte sat down, at once, to write the letter.

How delighted Abby was when she received it! She laughed and cried by turns, kissed her husband and thanked him so many times that he really began to think he had made a meritorious sacrifice, and felt very self-complacent in consequence. He half-resolved to stay and face it out, but found his courage failing the next morning, and went off, bidding his wife a most affectionate farewell, thinking, as he went, how badly he should feel if he were to lose her, and beginning at once to set his possible feelings first to rhyme and then to music, till he composed an affecting song, called the "Widower's Lament."

Abby would sit at the window and watch for carriages till she was wearied out, and obliged to lie down upon the sofa, in spite of herself. Then she fell asleep, and when she awoke, she found her aunt and uncle sitting beside her.

It is impossible to say what extravagances she might have committed, if aunt Rebecca had not put on her most impressive face of authority, and absolutely forbidden her to speak one word. Abby submitted, and lay still, hardly daring to think that she was awake, and not dreaming. She still lay upon the sofa, feeling very weak, but very happy, while the others went out to tea, listening, with subdued pleasure, to their voices, and enjoying the thought that uncle and aunt Merton were taking tea in her house.

How exactly it seemed like old times, when aunt Rebecca brought her her tea in the little silver mug which she had always used at home, and which had been sent to her, with the rest of her possessions, at the time of her marriage. She could almost believe that she had never been away at all.

Aunt Merton was one who never did any thing by halves. When she made up her mind to take Abby into favor, she did it heartily, and showed that she did, by making no allusions to the past, except such as were necessary in talking over affairs in M. The neighbors, the servants, the garden, above all, Laura's approaching marriage, were all talked over again and again, till Mr. Merton suggested that Abby must be tired, and that they had better go.

Abby, however, was very anxious to have them stay. There was plenty of room, and if aunt thought she could be comfortable—.

Aunt had no doubt at all about that, and so they staid. It was well they did, for Abby was taken ill in the night, and after some hours of considerable danger, was "as well as could be expected," with a fine little daughter.

Emma telegraphed to her brother with but a faint hope of his getting the message, for she knew he would probably be off fishing or scenery-hunting, and so it proved. He did not return till nearly a week had elapsed, and knew nothing of the matter till Emma met him at the door. He was sufficiently alarmed, on hearing the state of the case, to ward off the lecture which had been brewing for him, and she had hard work to keep him from rushing up to his wife's room at once.

Aunt Merton came down to see him, while he was waiting for Emma to prepare Abby, and though nothing but politeness, and even cordiality, were expressed in her tone, she succeeded, in ten minutes, in making him feel more like some condemned piece of furniture about to be sent to auction than like the master of his own house.

Abby was not so well as she had been, and William was cautioned against exciting her. He was very much affected at the sight of the wee colorless face, looking smaller than ever from the absence of the accustomed curls, and showed so much feeling that Mrs. Merton began to think she had done him injustice.

Abby brightened up very much after he came home, and she really was very happy—happy in her baby, which she found some difficulty in imagining to be really hers—in her husband whom she felt was showing to excellent advantage—in having so many friends about her, and every one so much kinder than she deserved. She felt sad when she thought of their all going away and leaving her alone. But then there would be baby, and she thought she could not be very lonely.

Emma wished very much that she could stay, but she well knew that it would be impossible.

Mrs. Forester and Emmeline fancied they were unable to live without her. Emmeline liked to think that she had delicate health, and that it hurt her to work. She could go to two or three parties in a week, and dance till two o'clock in the morning, though it always made her feel dreadfully to dust the parlor, and fatigued her almost to extinction to make her own bed. She always got a terrible headache over plain sewing, though she could embroider for hours, yes, even upon silver canvas, and her crochet collars and mats almost equalled real lace in fineness. In short, Emmeline could play to any extent, but work always made her sick directly.

Mrs. Forester never thought that Emmeline ought to be crossed in any thing. She was not strong herself, and she was very fanciful besides being proud, and her pride was constantly brought into active exercise by the reduced circumstances of the family, and the consequent struggle to keep up appearances. When Emma was at home, she earned something by translating and editing for a publisher of children's books, and moreover she took the whole oversight of the household, besides doing a great part of the work. It is easy to see that she could not be spared.

Abby did not recover so rapidly as they had at first hoped. She did not seem to have any particular disorder, but she gained strength very slowly, and now and then slight symptoms of a tendency to disease of the lungs alarmed her aunt and the physician. She was very much distressed when she found that William had lost his place, for she was beginning to realize how much it cost them to keep house, and she knew her husband would never exercise any sort of economy. It cost her a feverish night, and she was worse for three or four days.

Mr. Merton saw that something had gone wrong and that Mr. Forester was out of employment. And after a day or two, he ventured to make some inquiries of that gentleman relative to his affairs.

Mr. Forester was decidedly stiff and cold at first, but he could not withstand Mr. Merton's kindness, and moreover he was at his wits' end for the means of supporting himself and his wife. His mother had heretofore been his resource when he had exhausted his own finances, but she had impoverished herself in her efforts to help him. And Emma, in answer to a hint of the sort, had informed him that any farther assistance from that quarter was entirely out of the question. He confessed to Mr. Merton, at last, that he had hardly the means of defraying the expenses of his wife's confinement, to say nothing of the cost of housekeeping. He had drawn on Mr. Hancock for his salary as fast as it became due, and instead of having, as he supposed, a considerable balance in that gentleman's hands, he was actually some few dollars in debt to him.

There was no use in any reproaches, and Mr. Merton made none, but promised to see what he could do towards finding him employment. Mr. Forester was very much obliged, and thought to himself that it might not, after all, be a bad thing to have made up friends with his wife's rich uncle. After two or three days, Mr. Merton held another conversation with him, in the course of which he told him that he had procured for him a situation as accountant and draughtsman in a large foundry and machine-shop. The salary was liberal, but close attention to business would be absolutely necessary, in order to retain the place. He took the opportunity to press upon Mr. Forester's attention the great advantage of keeping regular accounts, and being economical of time as well as money. He thought the young gentleman might find time to finish his law studies, and be prepared to enter into business as a lawyer in the course of a year, promising him all the assistance in his power, and Mr. Forester thanked him, and listened respectfully, with some faint idea of following the advice. He went to work the next day, with great vigor.

At the end of a week's trial, his employer professed himself perfectly satisfied, and engaged him for a year, at a salary which, care and economy, would be sufficient to support them in comfort. With this care removed from her mind, Abby began to improve rapidly, and in the course of a few days was so much better that her aunt thought she might venture to leave her to herself.

"Suppose," said she to her husband, "that we go round the other way, stop at Basswoods, and take Olive home with us. It will be so much pleasanter than for her to come alone."

Mr. Merton thought it an excellent idea, and, accordingly, as Olive was sitting at the piano one evening after tea, she was surprised by the sudden entrance of her uncle and aunt.

At first she was frightened, thinking that Abby must be worse. But a moment's thought reassured her, and she gave herself up to the unexpected enjoyment. They had proposed to stay at the hotel, but Mrs. Felton had abundance of room, as Isabella Lambert was at her sister's: she was very urgent with them to remain, and Mrs. Merton finally consented, after stipulating that she should make no difference in the family arrangements. There was, indeed, no need of her doing so, for Mrs. Felton's housekeeping was always carried on upon a very liberal scale—so liberal, indeed, that Olive thought she could not make much by her boarders.

"Why, really, my love, you are delightfully situated here—are you not?" said Mrs. Merton, as she surveyed Olive's comfortable room. "I had no idea that you were in such luxurious quarters. I should think Mrs. Felton might be a trifle wearisome sometimes, however."

"One soon gets used to it," replied Olive, smiling. "I know exactly how much importance to attach to her complaints, and in general mind them no more than the rain on the windows. She is really very kind to me, and I have no excuse for being dissatisfied or home-sick, except the desire to see you all."

"And Miss Felton—what a delightful person she is!" pursued Mrs. Merton. "She is not pretty, but there is such a charming cheerfulness about her face and voice that she really seems to bring the sunshine into the room with her. If she only had a little more style, she would really make a sensation in society. You must bring her home with you some time, Olive, to make a visit. I should be quite delighted to have her, and I think a little of the world would be a great advantage to her."

"I am glad you like her," said Olive, feeling as though she did not care to have Ruth improved in that way. "She is one of my most intimate friends. I want you to see Mrs. Tower; she is very different from Ruth, but equally excellent."

"All in good time, my dear. I mean to see all your friends before I go, and your school, too. How soon is it out?"

"There is only one week more."

"And then you have an examination, I suppose?"

"No, aunt, I am thankful to say, we do not. We have a review-day every fortnight, and the last two weeks of the term are spent in the same way, but we have no public display, except in declamation and compositions. The school is open to visitors at all times, and we have a good many, especially on repetition-days. If you will come in to-morrow, we shall be very glad to see you. I assure you I am proud of my girls. But I want to hear all about Abby and the baby."

Mrs. Merton was very ready to tell; and Abby's affairs, and Laura's approaching marriage, occupied the evening. Olive was very much touched at hearing of her uncle's kindness, and especially on learning what neither Abby nor William yet knew, that he had defrayed the entire expenses of her sister's confinement, besides leaving in Abby's hands a sum sufficient to last till William should receive his first quarter's salary. She could not help feeling some sympathy for what she supposed must be William's mortification at being oblige to receive assistance from one whom he had so deeply wronged, but she might have spared herself the trouble.

That talented young gentleman had early imbibed the idea that he was created to amuse himself, and the rest of mankind to wait upon him. From the exaltation of his fancied genius and refinement, he looked calmly down upon those lower mortals, whose grovelling minds permitted them to learn and labor truly to get their own living, in the state of life to which God had called them. He had felt a little annoyed at first, on discovering that Mr. Merton had left money with Abby, but the feeling did not prevent him from spending seven or eight dollars of it upon some new engravings which had struck his fancy, and which, he assured Abby, were so cheap that it would have been really foolish not to buy them.

"Economy!" he said, when she remonstrated with him. "Oh! Yes, of course, we must practise economy, but your uncle can not expect me to deny myself all gratifications. I can not live without books and pictures."

"In what, then, do you propose to economize?" persisted Abby.

"Oh! Why—in dress and housekeeping—any thing, in short, but intellectual pleasures."

Abby shook her head. "The housekeeping costs as little as it can, William."

"But could you not manage with a less expensive girl, my dear? I have heard of servants getting only six shillings a week, and we give Katy twelve!"

"I do not like to part with Katy," replied Abby, her heart sinking at the prospect of a new and cheap girl. "She has just learned to be useful, and attends to baby so nicely."

"Oh! Well, I only mentioned it. I thought, when it came to your own case, you would not be so very desirous of saving. It is easy to be economical of other people's enjoyments."

Abby's pale face flushed, and the tears filled her eyes.

"There, now, don't cry! I am sorry I said any thing, but you are so cool in proposing your economy to me. But come, cheer up, my little darling. I am coming to take you to ride presently."

Abby cheered up, and was thankful for the prospect of a little fresh air, for she was not able to walk out yet. But when the carriage came, there was a new cause of annoyance.

"Why do you wear that coarse blanket of a thing, my dear?" said William, glancing disdainfully at the large woollen shawl Abby had put on. "It makes you look like a servant."

"I have no other," replied Abby, coloring. "My cloak is not warm enough, and I can not wrap the baby in it."

"Oh! Pray don't take the baby. She will be sure to cry, as they always do when they ought not to, and besides, it will tire you to death. I am sure your cloak is warm enough, my love," he continued, dexterously removing the obnoxious shawl, and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. "You do not know how mild and pleasant it is. Come, you are too bad to make such a figure of yourself, when you know how much I like to have you admired, and you are ten times prettier than ever."

So Abby wore the cloak, returned home chilled through, and was very ill next day, in consequence. Mr. Forester was very sorry, paid her every attention, and to prevent the possibility of such an accident happening again, went out and bought a new shawl, for which he paid thirty dollars.

To return to Basswoods! Mrs. Merton was delighted with the place and the people, and quite astonished to find so much refinement in a country village. Mrs. Gregory made a little party for her: so did Mrs. Gordon, and at both did Mrs. Merton win golden opinions from all sorts of people, by her elegant appearance and charming manners. It was a peculiarity of hers that every one with whom she conversed ten minutes, felt as though he or she had received a personal favor. Some of Mrs. Tucker's adherents, who had hitherto been rather unfriendly to Olive, suddenly turned completely round, and were warm in their praises of her and her relations.

In short, Mrs. Merton's visit did a great deal of good, and Olive enjoyed it extremely. She told her aunt she thought it would not do to offer to pay Mrs. Felton for their board, and Mrs. Merton, after considerable hesitation, consented to give up the idea, thinking that she could make it up in some other way. Accordingly, she afterwards sent Mrs. Felton a beautiful dress and shawl, with an elegant letter, which Mrs. Felton showed to all the village, thanking her for all her kindness to her niece, and requesting her to accept the accompanying articles from herself and her husband, as a testimonial of her gratitude.

A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Felton. Ruth was pleased with the delicacy of the attention to her mother, and Mr. Felton, whose conversation was usually summed up in a semidiurnal report of the state of the weather, gave vent to the profound and original idea, that in point of fact, some people were very different from other people.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

MRS. DIMSDEN'S summer campaign at Newport and Saratoga had been successful, almost beyond her highest hopes. Laura was going to be married to a man of wealth and position fully equal to her uncle Merton's—a man who had been an object with speculating young ladies and their mammas for several years. Attracted by Miss Dimsden's magnificent beauty, he had followed the ladies from Cape May to Newport, from Newport to the White Mountains, and from thence to Saratoga, where he finally surrendered at discretion.

It was a singular circumstance that no sooner was it known that Mr. Witherington was engaged to the young and beautiful Miss Dimsden, than all these same speculating young ladies and their speculating mammas were at once filled with pity and sympathy for the poor girl, thus remorselessly sacrificed by her heartless aunt, and with contempt for the weak-minded suitor, caught by a girl without principle and without fortune.

Olive had made anxious inquiries of Mrs. Merton concerning her future brother-in-law.

"It is an excellent match, my dear, in all the generally received senses of that much abused word. Mr. Witherington is a man of good manners, excellent principles, and a large fortune. He has a fine house in town, and a fine house in the country, and all that; and moreover, he is desperately in love with Laura."

"Then I do not see, aunt, but that Laura's chances for happiness are excellent."

"If you will excuse my saying so, Olive, I think her chances are better than his." Olive looked at her inquiringly. "You know I am not romantic in the least," continued Mrs. Merton, "but then I have rather peculiar notions. I do not think a woman has any right to marry a man unless she honestly prefers him to all the rest of the world."

"And you think, aunt, that Laura does not—"

"I think she is almost indifferent, my dear. Begging your pardon for speaking so freely of your sister, I do not think she has depth of character enough to appreciate a man like Mr. Witherington. He is an earnest, grave person—what I call a weighty man, and I fear he will be disappointed in his wife. Of course, he can see no fault in her now."

"But it seems rather strange," said Olive, after a little silence, "that Laura should not like such a man."

"She does like him, my child, but she does not love him, and no one should know better than you that there is all the difference in the world between loving and liking."

"I suppose aunt Dimsden is delighted."

"Oh! Of course; you know what her ideas of marriage are. But don't attach too much importance to what I say, my love," added Mrs. Merton kindly. "Perhaps when you see them together, you may think I am entirely mistaken."

"And how is Laura?" asked Olive.

"She is splendid—really magnificent! I never knew that she was half so beautiful, and she has a subdued, gentle manner, which is very becoming to her. And now, while I think of it, Mrs. Dimsden is bent upon having a grand display—a reception, and all that, and of course you and Charlotte must be dressed to correspond. Now what I want to stipulate is that you shall permit us to provide your dress and ornaments. I know you like to be independent, my dear, but you must really allow us this pleasure. You will have ways enough to dispose of your earnings by and by."

Olive accepted the kindness, and felt very grateful for it. She knew her aunt wanted her to be dressed like Charlotte upon all occasions, an expenditure which, now that she was dependent upon her own resources, and had such a strong motive for saving, she felt that she could not well afford, and she appreciated the delicacy which thus granted a favor on pretense of asking one.

They arrived at home early in the evening, and Olive was hardly dressed before the Black Prince announced Mr. Witherington and Miss Dimsden.

Laura was certainly more dazzling than ever, and Olive could not wonder at her lover for looking at her constantly, even while talking to other people. She was very much pleased with Mr. Witherington. He did not talk much, and was evidently full of serious thought, but what said was frank, manly, and to the purpose. She thought he winced a good deal under Mrs. Dimsden's genteel vulgarisms, and she admired the adroit way in which Laura often contrived to turn the conversation, or to divert her lover's attention to herself.

The evening passed before she could satisfy herself as to whether her aunt was right in her ideas about the depth of Laura's attachment.

The next day she spent the whole morning in her sister's apartment, admiring and commenting upon the bridal finery which Laura displayed for her inspection. Every thing was of the best and handsomest, and Olive gave her aunt credit for greater liberality than she had thought belonged to her. Laura told her how many presents she had had.

"These two boxes of hankerchiefs Charlotte gave me. See what beauties they are, all marked with my name so ingeniously. Aunt Merton gave me this set of cameos. Don't they look just like her, so quietly elegant? Besides, she and uncle together gave me the tea and coffee-set that you will see by and by. They are much handsomer than Jane Lewis's were. Mrs. Schuyler gave me the fruit and cake-knives, and Louisa a beautiful little pitcher. The Jenners sent me the egg-cups lined with gold, and Mrs. John Jenner a beautiful basket, etc., etc. Now confess, Olive, is it not worth while to be married, to have such beautiful things given to one?"

"I am afraid I never took that into the calculation," said Olive, good-naturedly.

"No, I dare say not, but you and I are very different, you know. Now only think, if you had only been guided by aunt Dimsden, you might have married a rich man, too, instead of a poor minister. Not," she added hastily, "that Mr. Witherington's money is the only good thing about him."

"I should think his money was the least recommendation," said Olive. "He appears to me to be a very earnest, excellent man. I only hope you love him as he deserves."

Laura laughed and then sighed. "Why, to tell you the simple truth, Olive, I don't think it is in me to 'fall in love,' as people call it, with any body. I esteem Mr. Witherington highly, and I have a very great respect for him. I think that is a great deal more sure foundation than such a violent passion, don't you?"

Olive shook her head. "'Love,' honor, and obey, Laura!"

"Oh! Well, of course, yes. But there is another thing, Olive—do you think that obey is to be rendered literally, or is it just put in to fill out the line?"

"I think of it in this way, Laura. A man ought to be head of his own house, and when there is a decided difference of opinion, the wife ought to give up. I must say I do not believe in a woman's humoring a man in all his whims and caprices, as Abby does with William. It is not good for her, and certainly it is very bad for him."

"But, now for instance, to take something that you know all about, there was Janet Forster. She married Mr. Heyling, you know, when she was so very poor, and he not only took care of her, but of all her relatives. Then she was seized with a poetical mania, and wanted to publish her poems. He was a very proud man, and it disturbed him dreadfully to think his wife should write for money. He could not bear to have her publish the volume, but she persisted. It came out in spite of him, and she got the pay for it, whatever it was. What do you think of that?"

"I never knew exactly the truth of the matter before," said Olive, "though I knew that poor Mr. Heyling was very unhappy. I must say, I think she did very wrong. Supposing that it was a foolish pride, which I will not deny, she was under the greatest obligations to him, not only for herself, but for her family. The poems were not so very splendid that the world would have suffered any great loss from their suppression."

"I don't think he objected so much to her publishing as to her writing for money."

"Then she ought not to have written for money. What did a few hundred dollars, more or less, matter, compared to her husband's annoyance?"

"I always thought she was wrong," remarked Laura. "If I were going to differ from my husband, at least I would do it in a delicate way, and not make it a subject of town gossip. But I don't believe Mr. Witherington will try to govern me much."

"I rather hope he will," said Olive, smiling. "He does not seem at all like a man who would be tyrannical or capricious, and a little reasonable government will do you no harm."

Laura laughed heartily at the idea. "Really, Olive, you are very good. Don't look grave, my dear, I mean to be quite a pattern wife, I assure you, and shall preside over my husband's establishment with all the dignity and grace imaginable. I mean to make him very happy, and never contradict him unless we differ in opinion. But come down-stairs—I want to show you my presents."

The presents were magnificent. Laura had their cost all by heart, and went over it all with a readiness which would have done credit to a jeweller's' clerk.

"What a quantity of silver you have!" remarked Olive. "If you should ever become reduced in circumstances, you might set up a shop, and stock it with your bridal presents. Let me see—here are one, two, three, six butter-knives, all marked with your name, and how many fruit-knives?"

"Two complete sets, besides three odd ones. That is the trouble—one gets so many things just alike. I have four or five cream-spoons, and three sugar-sifters, and so with other things."

"I shall be quite afraid to put my simple presents by the side of all these grand things, Laura. I have not felt as if I could spend much money, and my plain white Parian ware will look out of place beside all these grand things, I am afraid."

"No, indeed," replied Laura, with more earnestness than she usually manifested. "If you had given me nothing more than a sheet of paper, Olive, I should think more of it than of all these fine things that people give me to display their own liberality, and get themselves talked about."

"You don't seem to have a very high opinion of your friends," remarked Olive.

"Of course that does not apply to all of them," returned Laura. "Some of these were given by dear friends, and these I really value. The things uncle and aunt Merton have given me, for instance, and Mrs. Schuyler's presents, because she was a friend of mother's, you know, and the Jenners, because I always loved them. But there is Maria Lewis, she never liked me, though she wanted me to marry Sam. And after I refused him, she hated me, I know—yet she sends me this superb "odeur"-box, just that she might see it on the table, with her name attached to it."

"I should hardly want to accept presents upon such terms, I think," said Olive.

"Oh! The things are just as pretty and convenient, you know, as if they liked me ever so much. But tell me, Olive, and pray don't think I ask because I am dissatisfied, or any such thing—why can not you afford to spend as much money as you want? I am sure you have some good reason."

"My reason is Abby, Laura. I feel as if the time would come when she will need all that I can do for her. William is not getting on at all in business, and is not likely to. He is very extravagant besides."

"I am very sorry to hear it. I hoped they were doing pretty well. Perhaps I shall be able to help them."

"If you can do it by denying yourself, and curtailing your own expenses, my dear Laura, I shall be very glad. But pray do not ask Mr. Witherington to do any thing for them."

"What a queer girl you are! Why not?"

Olive thought if the "why not" did not present itself, there was no use in arguing the point any farther.

"I hope, at any rate, Laura, if your husband approves, you will go and see Abby, or at least write to her."

"I have done that already," said Laura. "I told aunt I would not be married at all unless she would let me ask Abby to the wedding. She made a great fuss at first, and threatened to appeal to Mr. Witherington, so I saved her the trouble by appealing to him myself. Then she was frightened, for he is so very precise and particular in his ideas, and she thought the match might be off."

"What did he say?" asked Olive, very much interested.

"He praised me very much in the first place, for telling him every thing. Then he asked very particularly about the affair, and aunt told him, only she made it a great deal worse than it was. You would have thought Abby had behaved more shamefully than any one ever did in the world. I could not help putting in a word now and then, and finally he said I might have my own way in the matter. Aunt was very angry, but she dared not show it to him, you know. So I wrote to her day before yesterday. I do wonder if she will come?"

"I am rather afraid not, Laura. Abby has more on her hands than you have any idea of. She wrote to me that she had changed girls lately, and she has not learned to keep house so but that it takes all her time. Moreover, I do not think William will spare her, and I am very certain he will not come himself."

Laura sighed.

"I am very sorry for her, I am sure. It seems a great pity—so pretty and well-educated as she is. She ought to be enjoying herself in society, instead of being burdened with a house and a baby at her age. Only think, she is only eighteen now! I do think girls lose a great deal by marrying so young, Olive, even if they marry well."

"I think so, too, Laura. But I must go home, or aunt will miss me at luncheon-time. I shall see you again to-morrow, and arrange about every thing."

Olive felt rather sadly as she walked homeward. She did not think Laura was doing right, and she feared that Mr. Witherington would be disappointed in her. He seemed an earnest, thoughtful man, who would need something more in a wife beside beauty and fine manners. And, fond as she was of her, she could not conceal from herself that Laura had no depth, either of character or principle. She clearly married Mr. Witherington, not because she loved him, but because he was an excellent match, and could give her at once that wealth and position which she had been educated to regard as the chief end of existence.