Mary Erskine / Abbott, Jacob, 1803-1879

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Title: Mary Erskine

Author: Jacob Abbott

Release Date: December 26, 2004 [EBook #14475]

Language: English

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[Illustration: MARY ERSKINE'S FARM]


MARY ERSKINE


A Franconia Story,


BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ROLLO BOOKS.




NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS. FRANKLIN SQUARE.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by HARPER &
BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New York.




PREFACE.


The development of the moral sentiments in the human heart, in early
life,--and every thing in fact which relates to the formation of
character,--is determined in a far greater degree by sympathy, and
by the influence of example, than by formal precepts and didactic
instruction. If a boy hears his father speaking kindly to a robin in
the spring,--welcoming its coming and offering it food,--there arises
at once in his own mind, a feeling of kindness toward the bird,
and toward all the animal creation, which is produced by a sort of
sympathetic action, a power somewhat similar to what in physical
philosophy is called _induction_. On the other hand, if the
father, instead of feeding the bird, goes eagerly for a gun, in order
that he may shoot it, the boy will sympathize in that desire, and
growing up under such an influence, there will be gradually formed
within him, through the mysterious tendency of the youthful heart to
vibrate in unison with hearts that are near, a disposition to kill and
destroy all helpless beings that come within his power. There is no
need of any formal instruction in either case. Of a thousand children
brought up under the former of the above-described influences, nearly
every one, when he sees a bird, will wish to go and get crumbs to feed
it, while in the latter case, nearly every one will just as certainly
look for a stone. Thus the growing up in the right atmosphere, rather
than the receiving of the right instruction, is the condition which
it is most important to secure, in plans for forming the characters of
children.

It is in accordance with this philosophy that these stories, though
written mainly with a view to their moral influence on the hearts and
dispositions of the readers, contain very little formal exhortation
and instruction. They present quiet and peaceful pictures of happy
domestic life, portraying generally such conduct, and expressing such
sentiments and feelings, as it is desirable to exhibit and express in
the presence of children.

The books, however, will be found, perhaps, after all, to be useful
mainly in entertaining and amusing the youthful readers who may peruse
them, as the writing of them has been the amusement and recreation of
the author in the intervals of more serious pursuits.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

I.--JEMMY

II.--THE BRIDE

III.--MARY ERSKINE'S VISITORS

IV.--CALAMITY

V.--CONSULTATIONS

VI.--MARY BELL IN THE WOODS

VII.--HOUSE-KEEPING

VIII.--THE SCHOOL

IX.--GOOD MANAGEMENT

X.--THE VISIT TO MARY ERSKINE'S




ENGRAVINGS.


MARY ERSKINE'S FARM--FRONTISPIECE.

CATCHING THE HORSE

THE LOG HOUSE

MARY BELL AT THE BROOK

THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS

MRS. BELL

MARY BELL AND QUEEN BESS

MARY BELL GETTING BREAKFAST

THE SCHOOL

GOING TO COURT

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY




THE FRANCONIA STORIES.


ORDER OF THE VOLUMES.

MALLEVILLE.

WALLACE.

MARY ERSKINE.

MARY BELL.

BEECHNUT.

RODOLPHUS.

ELLEN LINN.

STUYVESANT.

CAROLINE.

AGNES.




SCENE OF THE STORY


The country in the vicinity of Franconia, at the North.


PRINCIPAL PERSONS


MARY ERSKINE.

ALBERT.

PHONNY and MALLEVILLE, cousins, residing at the house of Phonny's
mother.

MRS. HENRY, Phonny's mother.

ANTONIO BLANCHINETTE, a French boy, residing at Mrs. Henry's; commonly
called Beechnut.

MRS. BELL, a widow lady, living in the vicinity of Mrs. Henry's.

MARY BELL, her daughter.

MARY ERSKINE.




CHAPTER I.

JEMMY.


Malleville and her cousin Phonny generally played together at
Franconia a great part of the day, and at night they slept in two
separate recesses which opened out of the same room. These recesses
were deep and large, and they were divided from the room by curtains,
so that they formed as it were separate chambers: and yet the children
could speak to each other from them in the morning before they got up,
since the curtains did not intercept the sound of their voices. They
might have talked in the same manner at night, after they had gone to
bed, but this was against Mrs. Henry's rules.

One morning Malleville, after lying awake a few minutes, listening to
the birds that were singing in the yard, and wishing that the window
was open so that she could hear them more distinctly, heard Phonny's
voice calling to her.

"Malleville," said he, "are you awake?"

"Yes," said Malleville, "are you?"

"Yes," said Phonny, "I'm awake--but what a cold morning it is!"

It was indeed a cold morning, or at least a very _cool_ one.
This was somewhat remarkable, as it was in the month of June. But the
country about Franconia was cold in winter, and cool in summer. Phonny
and Malleville rose and dressed themselves, and then went down stairs.
They hoped to find a fire in the sitting-room, but there was none.

"How sorry I am," said Phonny. "But hark, I hear a roaring."

"Yes," said Malleville; "it is the oven; they are going to bake."

The back of the oven was so near to the partition wall which formed
one side of the sitting-room, that the sound of the fire could be
heard through it. The mouth of the oven however opened into
another small room connected with the kitchen, which was called the
baking-room. The children went out into the baking-room, to warm
themselves by the oven fire.

"I am very glad that it is a cool day," said Phonny, "for perhaps
mother will let us go to Mary Erskine's. Should not you like to go?"

"Yes," said Malleville, "very much. Where is it?"

The readers who have perused the preceding volumes of this series
will have observed that Mary Bell, who lived with her mother in the
pleasant little farm-house at a short distance from the village, was
always called by her full name, Mary Bell, and not ever, or scarcely
ever, merely Mary. People had acquired the habit of speaking of her in
this way, in order to distinguish her from another Mary who lived with
Mrs. Bell for several years. This other Mary was Mary Erskine. Mary
Erskine did not live now at Mrs. Bell's, but at another house which
was situated nearly two miles from Mrs. Henry's, and the way to it
was by a very wild and unfrequented road. The children were frequently
accustomed to go and make Mary Erskine a visit; but it was so long a
walk that Mrs. Henry never allowed them to go unless on a very cool
day.

At breakfast that morning Phonny asked his mother if that would not be
a good day for them to go and see Mary Erskine. Mrs. Henry said that
it would be an excellent day, and that she should be very glad to have
them go, for there were some things there to be brought home. Besides
Beechnut was going to mill, and he could carry them as far as Kater's
corner.

Kater's corner was a place where a sort of cart path, branching off
from the main road, led through the woods to the house where Mary
Erskine lived. It took its name from a farmer, whose name was Kater,
and whose house was at the corner where the roads diverged. The main
road itself was very rough and wild, and the cart path which led from
the corner was almost impassable in summer, even for a wagon, though
it was a very romantic and beautiful road for travelers on horseback
or on foot. In the winter the road was excellent: for the snow buried
all the roughness of the way two or three feet deep, and the teams
which went back and forth into the woods, made a smooth and beautiful
track for every thing on runners, upon the top of it.

Malleville and Phonny were very much pleased with the prospect of
riding a part of the way to Mary Erskine's, with Beechnut, in the
wagon. They made themselves ready immediately after breakfast, and
then went and sat down upon the step of the door, waiting for Beechnut
to appear. Beechnut was in the barn, harnessing the horse into the
wagon.

Malleville sat down quietly upon the step while waiting for Beechnut.
Phonny began to amuse himself by climbing up the railing of the
bannisters, at the side of the stairs. He was trying to poise himself
upon the top of the railing and then to work himself up the ascent
by pulling and pushing with his hands and feet against the bannisters
themselves below.

"I wish you would not do that," said Malleville. "I think it is very
foolish, for you may fall and hurt yourself."

"No," said Phonny. "It is not foolish. It is very useful for me to
learn to climb." So saying he went on scrambling up the railing of the
bannisters as before.

Just then Beechnut came along through the yard, towards the house. He
was coming for the whip.

"Beechnut," said Malleville, "I wish that you would speak to Phonny."

"_Is_ it foolish for me to learn to climb?" asked Phonny. In
order to see Beechnut while he asked this question, Phonny had to
twist his head round in a very unusual position, and look out under
his arm. It was obvious that in doing this he was in imminent danger
of falling, so unstable was the equilibrium in which he was poised
upon the rail.

"Is not he foolish?" asked Malleville.

Beechnut looked at him a moment, and then said, as he resumed his walk
through the entry,

"Not very;--that is for a boy. I have known boys sometimes to do
foolisher things than that."

"What did they do?" asked Phonny.

"Why once," said Beechnut, "I knew a boy who put his nose into the
crack of the door, and then took hold of the latch and pulled the
door to, and pinched his nose to death. That was a _little_ more
foolish, though not much."

So saying Beechnut passed through the door and disappeared.

Phonny was seized with so violent a convulsion of laughter at the idea
of such absurd folly as Beechnut had described, that he tumbled off
the bannisters, but fortunately he fell _in_, towards the stairs,
and was very little hurt. He came down the stairs to Malleville, and
as Beechnut returned in a few minutes with the whip, they all went out
towards the barn together.

Beechnut had already put the bags of grain into the wagon behind,
and now he assisted Phonny and Malleville to get in. He gave them the
whole of the seat, in order that they might have plenty of room, and
also that they might be high up, where they could see. He had a small
bench which was made to fit in, in front, and which he was accustomed
to use for himself, as a sort of driver's seat, whenever the wagon was
full. He placed this bench in its place in front, and taking his seat
upon it, he drove away.

When the party had thus fairly set out, and Phonny and Malleville had
in some measure finished uttering the multitude of exclamations of
delight with which they usually commenced a ride, they began to wish
that Beechnut would tell them a story. Now Beechnut was a boy of
boundless fertility of imagination, and he was almost always ready to
tell a story. His stories were usually invented on the spot, and were
often extremely wild and extravagant, both in the incidents involved
in them, and in the personages whom he introduced as actors. The
extravagance of these tales was however usually no objection to them
in Phonny's and Malleville's estimation. In fact Beechnut observed
that the more extravagant his stories were, the better pleased his
auditors generally appeared to be in listening to them. He therefore
did not spare invention, or restrict himself by any rules either of
truth or probability in his narratives. Nor did he usually require any
time for preparation, but commenced at once with whatever came into
his head, pronouncing the first sentence of his story, very often
without any idea of what he was to say next.

On this occasion Beechnut began as follows:

"Once there was a girl about three years old, and she had a large
black cat. The cat was of a jet black color, and her fur was very soft
and glossy. It was as soft as silk.

"This cat was very mischievous and very sly. She was _very_ sly:
very indeed. In fact she used to go about the house so very slyly,
getting into all sorts of mischief which the people could never find
out till afterwards, that they gave her the name of Sligo. Some people
said that the reason why she had that name was because she came from
a place called Sligo, in Ireland. But that was not the reason. It was
veritably and truly because she was so sly."

Beechnut pronounced this decision in respect to the etymological
import of the pussy's name in the most grave and serious manner, and
Malleville and Phonny listened with profound attention.

"What was the girl's name?" asked Malleville.

"The girl's?" repeated Beechnut. "Oh, her name was--Arabella."

"Well, go on," said Malleville.

"One day," continued Beechnut, "Sligo was walking about the house,
trying to find something to do. She came into the parlor. There was
nobody there. She looked about a little, and presently she saw a
work-basket upon the corner of a table, where Arabella's mother had
been at work. Sligo began to look at the basket, thinking that it
would make a good nest for her to sleep in, if she could only get it
under the clock. The clock stood in a corner of the room.

"Sligo accordingly jumped up into a chair, and from the chair to the
table, and then pushing the basket along nearer and nearer to the edge
of the table, she at last made it fall over, and all the sewing and
knitting work, and the balls, and needles, and spools, fell out upon
the floor. Sligo then jumped down and pushed the basket along toward
the clock. She finally got it under the clock, crept into it, curled
herself round into the form of a semicircle inside, so as just to fill
the basket, and went to sleep.

"Presently Arabella came in, and seeing the spools and balls upon
the floor, began to play with them. In a few minutes more, Arabella's
mother came in, and when she saw Arabella playing with these things
upon the floor, she supposed that Arabella herself was the rogue that
had thrown the basket off the table. Arabella could not talk much.
When her mother accused her of doing this mischief, she could only say
"No;" "no;" but her mother did not believe her. So she made her go and
stand up in the corner of the room, for punishment, while Sligo peeped
out from under the clock to see."

"But you said that Sligo was asleep," said Phonny.

"Yes, she went to sleep," replied Beechnut, "but she waked up when
Arabella's mother came into the room."

Beechnut here paused a moment to consider what he should say next,
when suddenly he began to point forward to a little distance before
them in the road, where a boy was to be seen at the side of the road,
sitting upon a stone.

"I verily believe it is Jemmy," said he.

As the wagon approached the place where Jemmy was sitting, they
found that he was bending down over his foot, and moaning with, pain.
Beechnut asked him what was the matter. He said that he had sprained
his foot dreadfully. Beechnut stopped the horse, and giving the
reins to Phonny, he got out to see. Phonny immediately gave them to
Malleville, and followed.

"Are you much hurt?" asked Beechnut.

"Oh, yes," said Jemmy, moaning and groaning; "oh dear me!"

Beechnut then went back to the horse, and taking him by the bridle,
he led him a little way out of the road, toward a small tree, where
he thought he would stand, and then taking Malleville out, so that
she might not be in any danger if the horse should chance to start, he
went back to Jemmy.

"You see," said Jemmy, "I was going to mill, and I was riding along
here, and the horse pranced about and threw me off and sprained my
foot. Oh dear me! what shall I do?"

"Where is the horse?" asked Beechnut.

"There he is," said Jemmy, "somewhere out there. He has gone along the
road. And the bags have fallen off too. Oh dear me!"

Phonny ran out into the road, and looked forward. He could see the
horse standing by the side of the road at some distance, quietly
eating the grass. A little this side of the place where the horse
stood, the bags were lying upon the ground, not very far from each
other.

The story which Jemmy told was not strictly true. He was one of the
boys of the village, and was of a wild and reckless character. This
was, however, partly his father's fault, who never gave him any kind
and friendly instruction, and always treated him with a great degree
of sternness and severity.

A circus company had visited Franconia a few weeks before the time of
this accident, and Jemmy had peeped through the cracks of the fence
that formed their enclosure, and had seen the performers ride around
the ring, standing upon the backs of the horses. He was immediately
inspired with the ambition to imitate this feat, and the next time
that he mounted his father's horse, he made the attempt to perform it.
His father, when he found it out, was very angry with him, and sternly
forbade him ever to do such a thing again. He declared positively that
if he did, he would whip him to death, as he said. Jemmy was silent,
but he secretly resolved that he would ride standing again, the very
first opportunity.

Accordingly, when his father put the two bags of grain upon the horse,
and ordered Jemmy to go to mill with them, Jemmy thought that the
opportunity had come. He had observed that the circus riders, instead
of a saddle, used upon the backs of their horses a sort of flat pad,
which afforded a much more convenient footing than any saddle; and as
to standing on the naked back of a horse, it was manifestly impossible
for any body but a rope-dancer. When, however, Jemmy saw his father
placing the bags of grain upon the horse, he perceived at once that a
good broad and level surface was produced by them, which was much
more extended and level, even than the pads of the circus-riders. He
instantly resolved, that the moment that he got completely away from
the village, he would mount upon the bags and ride standing--and ride
so, too, just as long as he pleased.

Accordingly, as soon as he had passed the house where Phonny lived,
which was the last house in that direction for some distance, he
looked round in order to be sure that his father was not by any
accident behind him, and then climbing up first upon his knees, and
afterward upon his feet, he drew up the reins cautiously, and then
chirruped to the horse to go on. The horse began to move slowly along.
Jemmy was surprised and delighted to find how firm his footing was
on the broad surface of the bags. Growing more and more bold and
confident as he became accustomed to his situation, he began presently
to dance about, or rather to perform certain awkward antics, which
he considered dancing, looking round continually, with a mingled
expression of guilt, pleasure, and fear, in his countenance, in order
to be sure that his father was not coming. Finally, he undertook to
make his horse trot a little. The horse, however, by this time,
began to grow somewhat impatient at the unusual sensations which
he experienced--the weight of the rider being concentrated upon one
single point, directly on his back, and resting very unsteadily
and interruptedly there,--and the bridle-reins passing up almost
perpendicularly into the air, instead of declining backwards, as they
ought to do in any proper position of the horseman. He began to trot
forward faster and faster. Jemmy soon found that it would be prudent
to restrain him, but in his upright position, he had no control
over the horse by pulling the reins. He only pulled the horse's head
upwards, and made him more uneasy and impatient than before. He then
attempted to get down into a sitting posture again, but in doing
so, he fell off upon the hard road and sprained his ankle. The horse
trotted rapidly on, until the bags fell off, first one and then the
other. Finding himself thus wholly at liberty, he stopped and began
to eat the grass at the road-side, wholly unconcerned at the mischief
that had been done.

Jemmy's distress was owing much more to his alarm and his sense of
guilt, than to the actual pain of the injury which he had suffered. He
was, however, entirely disabled by the sprain.

"It is rather a hard case," said Beechnut, "no doubt, but never mind
it, Jemmy. A man may break his leg, and yet live to dance many a
hornpipe afterwards. You'll get over all this and laugh about it one
day. Come, I'll carry you home in my wagon."

"But I am afraid to go home," said Jemmy.

"What are you afraid of?" asked Beechnut.

"Of my father," said Jemmy.

"Oh no," said Beechnut. "The horse is not hurt, and as for the grist
I'll carry it to mill with mine. So there is no harm done. Come, let
me put you into the wagon."

"Yes," said Phonny, "and I will go and catch the horse."

While Beechnut was putting Jemmy into the wagon, Phonny ran along the
road toward the horse. The horse, hearing footsteps, and supposing
from the sound that somebody might be coming to catch him, was at
first disposed to set off and gallop away; but looking round and
seeing that it was nobody but Phonny he went on eating as before.
When Phonny got pretty near to the horse, he began to walk up slowly
towards him, putting out his hand as if to take hold of the bridle and
saying, "Whoa--Dobbin,--whoa." The horse raised his head a little
from the grass, shook it very expressively at Phonny, walked on a few
steps, and then began to feed upon the grass as before. He seemed
to know precisely how much resistance was necessary to avoid the
recapture with which he was threatened.

"Whoa Jack! whoa!" said Phonny, advancing again. The horse, however,
moved on, shaking his head as before. He seemed to be no more disposed
to recognize the name of Jack than Dobbin.

[Illustration: CATCHING THE HORSE.]

"Jemmy," said Phonny, turning back and calling out aloud, "Jemmy!
what's his name?"

Jemmy did not answer. He was fully occupied in getting into the wagon.

Beechnut called Phonny back and asked him to hold his horse, while he
went to catch Jemmy's. He did it by opening one of the bags and taking
out a little grain, and by means of it enticing the stray horse near
enough to enable him to take hold of the bridle. He then fastened him
behind the wagon, and putting Jemmy's two bags in, he turned round and
went back to carry Jemmy home, leaving Malleville and Phonny to walk
the rest of the way to Mary Erskine's. Besides their ride, they lost
the remainder of the story of Sligo, if that can be said to be lost
which never existed. For at the time when Beechnut paused in his
narration, he had told the story as far as he had invented it. He had
not thought of another word.




CHAPTER II.

THE BRIDE.


Mary Erskine was an orphan. Her mother died when she was about twelve
years old. Her father had died long before, and after her father's
death her mother was very poor, and lived in so secluded and solitary
a place, that Mary had no opportunity then to go to school. She
began to work too as soon as she was able to do any thing, and it was
necessary from that day forward for her to work all the time; and this
would have prevented her from going to school, if there had been one
near. Thus when her mother died, although she was an intelligent and
very sensible girl, she could neither read nor write a word. She told
Mrs. Bell the day that she went to live with her, that she did not
even know any of the letters, except the round one and the crooked
one. The round one she said she _always_ knew, and as for S she
learned that, because it stood for Erskine. This shows how little she
knew about spelling.

Mrs. Bell wanted Mary Erskine to help her in taking care of her own
daughter Mary, who was then an infant. As both the girls were named
Mary, the people of the family and the neighbors gradually fell
into the habit of calling each of them by her full name, in order to
distinguish them from each other. Thus the baby was never called Mary,
but always Mary Bell, and the little nursery maid was always known as
Mary Erskine.

Mary Erskine became a great favorite at Mrs. Bell's. She was of a
very light-hearted and joyous disposition, always contented and happy,
singing like a nightingale at her work all the day long, when she
was alone, and cheering and enlivening all around her by her buoyant
spirits when she was in company. When Mary Bell became old enough to
run about and play, Mary Erskine became her playmate and companion,
as well as her protector. There was no distinction of rank to separate
them. If Mary Bell had been as old as Mary Erskine and had had a
younger sister, her duties in the household would have been exactly
the same as Mary Erskine's were. In fact, Mary Erskine's position was
altogether that of an older sister, and strangers visiting, the family
would have supposed that the two girls were really sisters, had they
not both been named Mary.

Mary Erskine was about twelve years older than Mary Bell, so that when
Mary Bell began to go to school, which was when she was about five
years old, Mary Erskine was about seventeen. Mrs. Bell had proposed,
when Mary Erskine first came to her house, that she would go to school
and learn to read and write; but Mary had been very much disinclined
to do so. In connection with the amiableness and gentleness of her
character and her natural good sense, she had a great deal of pride
and independence of spirit; and she was very unwilling to go to
school--being, as she was, almost in her teens--and begin there to
learn her letters with the little children. Mrs. Bell ought to have
required her to go, notwithstanding her reluctance, or else to have
made some other proper arrangement for teaching her to read and write.
Mrs. Bell was aware of this in fact, and frequently resolved that she
would do so. But she postponed the performance of her resolution from
month to month and year to year, and finally it was not performed at
all. Mary Erskine was so very useful at home, that a convenient time
for sparing her never came. And then besides she was so kind, and so
tractable, and so intent upon complying with all Mrs. Bell's wishes,
in every respect, that Mrs. Bell was extremely averse to require any
thing of her, which would mortify her, or give her pain.

When Mary Erskine was about eighteen years old, she was walking home
one evening from the village, where she had been to do some shopping
for Mrs. Bell, and as she came to a solitary part of the road after
having left the last house which belonged to the village, she saw a
young man coming out of the woods at a little distance before her. She
recognized him, immediately, as a young man whom she called Albert,
who had often been employed by Mrs. Bell, at work about the farm and
garden. Albert was a very sedate and industrious young man, of frank
and open and manly countenance, and of an erect and athletic form.
Mary Erskine liked Albert very well, and yet the first impulse was,
when she saw him coming, to cross over to the other side of the road,
and thus pass him at a little distance. She did in fact take one or
two steps in that direction, but thinking almost immediately that it
would be foolish to do so, she returned to the same side of the road
and walked on. Albert walked slowly along towards Mary Erskine, until
at length they met.

"Good evening, Mary Erskine," said Albert.

"Good evening, Albert," said Mary Erskine.

Albert turned and began to walk along slowly, by Mary Erskine's side.

"I have been waiting here for you more than two hours," said Albert.

"Have you?" said Mary Erskine. Her heart began to beat, and she was
afraid to say any thing more, for fear that her voice would tremble,

"Yes," said Albert. "I saw you go to the village, and I wanted to
speak to you when you came back."

Mary Erskine walked along, but did not speak.

"And I have been waiting and watching two months for you to go to the
village," continued Albert.

"I have not been much to the village, lately," said Mary.

Here there was a pause of a few minutes, when Albert said again,

"Have you any objection to my walking along with you here a little
way, Mary?"

"No," said Mary, "not at all."

"Mary," said Albert, after another short pause, "I have got a hundred
dollars and my axe,--and this right arm. I am thinking of buying a
lot of land, about a mile beyond Kater's corner. If I will do it, and
build a small house of one room there, will you come and be my wife?
It will have to be a _log_ house at first."

Mary Erskine related subsequently to Mary Bell what took place at this
interview, thus far, but she would never tell the rest.

It was evident, however, that Mary Erskine was inclined to accept this
proposal, from a conversation which took place between her and Mrs.
Bell the next evening. It was after tea. The sun had gone down,
and the evening was beautiful. Mrs. Bell was sitting in a low
rocking-chair, on a little covered platform, near the door, which they
called the stoop. There were two seats, one on each side of the stoop,
and there was a vine climbing over it. Mrs. Bell was knitting. Mary
Bell, who was then about six years old, was playing about the yard,
watching the butterflies, and gathering flowers.

"You may stay here and play a little while," said Mary Erskine to Mary
Bell. "I am going to talk with your mother a little; but I shall be
back again pretty soon."

Mary Erskine accordingly went to the stoop where Mrs. Bell was
sitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of Mrs. Bell,
though rather behind than before her. There was a railing along
behind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush,
covered with roses, upon the other side.

Mrs. Bell perceived from Mary Erskine's air and manner that she
had something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a very
pleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for Mary Erskine to
begin.

"Mrs. Bell," said Mary.

"Well," said Mrs. Bell.

The trouble was that Mary Erskine did not know exactly _how_ to
begin.

She paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said,

"Albert wants me to go and live with him."

"Does he?" said Mrs. Bell. "And where does he want you to go and
live?"

"He is thinking of buying a farm," said Mary Erskine.

"Where?" said Mrs. Bell.

"I believe the land is about a mile from Kater's corner."

Mrs. Bell was silent for a few minutes. She was pondering the thought
now for the first time fairly before her mind, that the little
helpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many years
ago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, begin
to form her own independent plans of life. She looked at little Mary
Bell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do when
Mary Erskine was gone.

After a short pause spent in reflections like these, Mrs. Bell resumed
the conversation by saying,

"Well, Mary,--and what do you think of the plan?"

"Why--I don't know," said Mary Erskine, timidly and doubtfully.

"You are very young," said Mrs. Bell.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I always was very young. I was very young
when my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, I was very
young to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living.
And now I am very young, I know. But then I am eighteen."

"Are you eighteen?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I was eighteen the day before yesterday."

"It is a lonesome place,--out beyond Kater's Corner," said Mrs. Bell,
after another pause.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I am not afraid of lonesomeness. I
never cared about seeing a great many people."

"And you will have to work very hard," continued Mrs. Bell.

"I know that," replied Mary; "but then I am not afraid of work any
more than I am of lonesomeness. I began to work when I was five years
old, and I have worked ever since,--and I like it."

"Then, besides," said Mrs. Bell, "I don't know what I shall do with
_my_ Mary when you have gone away. You have had the care of her
ever since she was born."

Mary Erskine did not reply to this. She turned her head away farther
and farther from Mrs. Bell, looking over the railing of the stoop
toward the white roses. In a minute or two she got up suddenly from
her seat, and still keeping her face averted from Mrs. Bell, she went
in by the stoop door into the house, and disappeared. In about ten
minutes she came round the corner of the house, at the place where
Mary Bell was playing, and with a radiant and happy face, and tones
as joyous as ever, she told her little charge that they would have one
game of hide and go seek, in the asparagus, and that then it would be
time for her to go to bed.

Two days after this, Albert closed the bargain for his land, and began
his work upon it. The farm, or rather the lot, for the farm was yet
to be made, consisted of a hundred and sixty acres of land, all in
forest. A great deal of the land was mountainous and rocky, fit only
for woodland and pasturage. There were, however, a great many fertile
vales and dells, and at one place along the bank of a stream, there
was a broad tract which Albert thought would make, when the trees
were felled and it was brought into grass, a "beautiful piece of
intervale."

Albert commenced his operations by felling several acres of trees, on
a part of his lot which was nearest the corner. A road, which had been
laid out through the woods, led across his land near this place. The
trees and bushes had been cut away so as to open a space wide enough
for a sled road in winter. In summer there was nothing but a wild
path, winding among rocks, stumps, trunks of fallen trees, and other
forest obstructions. A person on foot could get along very well, and
even a horse with a rider upon his back, but there was no chance for
any thing on wheels. Albert said that it would not be possible to get
even a wheelbarrow in.

Albert, however, took great pleasure in going back and forth over this
road, morning and evening, with his axe upon his shoulder, and a pack
upon his back containing his dinner, while felling his trees. When
they were all down, he left them for some weeks drying in the sun, and
then set them on fire. He chose for the burning, the afternoon of a
hot and sultry day, when a fresh breeze was blowing from the west,
which he knew would fan the flames and increase the conflagration. It
was important to do this, as the amount of subsequent labor which he
would have to perform, would depend upon how completely the trees were
consumed. His fire succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations,
and the next day he brought Mary Erskine in to see what a "splendid
burn" he had had, and to choose a spot for the log house which he was
going to build for her.

Mary Erskine was extremely pleased with the appearance of Albert's
clearing. The area which had been opened ascended a little from the
road, and presented a gently undulating surface, which Mary Erskine
thought would make very beautiful fields. It was now, however, one
vast expanse of blackened and smoking ruins.

Albert conducted Mary Erskine and Mary Bell--for Mary Bell had come in
with them to see the fire,--to a little eminence from which they could
survey the whole scene.

"Look," said he, "is not that beautiful? Did you ever see a better
burn?"

"I don't know much about burns," said Mary Erskine, "but I can see
that it will be a beautiful place for a farm. Why we can see the
pond," she added, pointing toward the south.

This was true. The falling of the trees had opened up a fine view of
the pond, which was distant about a mile from the clearing. There
was a broad stream which flowed swiftly over a gravelly bed along the
lower part of the ground, and a wild brook which came tumbling down
from the mountains, and then, after running across the road, fell into
the larger stream, not far from the corner of the farm. The brook and
the stream formed two sides of the clearing. Beyond them, and along
the other two sides of the clearing, the tall trees of those parts of
the forest which had not been disturbed, rose like a wall and hemmed
the opening closely in.

Albert and Mary Erskine walked along the road through the whole length
of the clearing, looking out for the best place to build their house.

"Perhaps it will be lonesome here this winter, Mary," said Albert. "I
don't know but that you would rather wait till next spring."

Mary Erskine hesitated about her reply. She did, in fact, wish to
come to her new home that fall, and she thought it was proper that
she should express the cordial interest which she felt in Albert's
plans;--but, then, on the other hand, she did not like to say any
thing which might seem to indicate a wish on her part to hasten the
time of their marriage. So she said doubtfully,--"I don't know;--I
don't think that it would be lonesome."

"What do you mean, Albert," said Mary Bell, "about Mary Erskine's
coming to live here? She can't come and live here, among all these
black stumps and logs."

Albert and Mary Erskine were too intent upon their own thoughts and
plans to pay any attention to Mary Bell's questions. So they walked
along without answering her.

"What could we have to _do_ this fall and winter?" asked Mary
Erskine. She wished to ascertain whether she could do any good by
coming at once, or whether it would be better, for Albert's plans, to
wait until the spring.

"Oh there will be plenty to do," said Albert. "I shall have to work a
great deal, while the ground continues open, in clearing up the land,
and getting it ready for sowing in the spring; and it will be a great
deal better for me to live here, in order to save my traveling back
and forth, so far, every night and morning. Then this winter I shall
have my tools to make,--and to finish the inside of the house, and
make the furniture; and if you have any leisure time you can spin.
But after all it will not be very comfortable for you, and perhaps you
would rather wait until spring."

"No," said Mary Erskine. "I would rather come this fall."

"Well," rejoined Albert, speaking in a tone of great satisfaction.
"Then I will get the house up next week, and we will be married very
soon after."

There were very few young men whose prospects in commencing life were
so fair and favorable as those of Albert. In the first place, he was
not obliged to incur any debt on account of his land, as most young
farmers necessarily do. His land was one dollar an acre. He had one
hundred dollars of his own, and enough besides to buy a winter stock
of provisions for his house. He had expected to have gone in debt for
the sixty dollars, the whole price of the land being one hundred and
sixty; but to his great surprise and pleasure Mary Erskine told him,
as they were coming home from seeing the land after the burn, that she
had seventy-five dollars of her own, besides interest; and that she
should like to have sixty dollars of that sum go toward paying for
the land. The fifteen dollars that would be left, she said, would be
enough to buy the furniture.

"I don't think that will be quite enough," said Albert.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine. "We shall not want a great deal. We shall
want a table and two chairs, and some things to cook with."

"And a bed," said Albert.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I can make that myself. The cloth will
not cost much, and you can get some straw for me. Next summer we can
keep some geese, and so have a feather bed some day."

"We shall want some knives and forks, and plates," said Albert.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but they will not cost much. I think
fifteen dollars will get us all we need. Besides there is more than
fifteen dollars, for there is the interest."

The money had been put out at interest in the village.

"Well," said Albert, "and I can make the rest of the furniture that
we shall need, this winter. I shall have a shop near the house. I have
got the tools already."

Thus all was arranged. Albert built his house on the spot which Mary
Erskine thought would be the most pleasant for it, the week after her
visit to the land. Three young men from the neighborhood assisted him,
as is usual in such cases, on the understanding that Albert was to
help each of them as many days about their work as they worked
for him. This plan is often adopted by farmers in doing work which
absolutely requires several men at a time, as for example, the raising
of heavy logs one upon another to form the walls of a house. In order
to obtain logs for the building Albert and his helpers cut down fresh
trees from the forest, as the blackened and half-burned trunks, which
lay about his clearing, were of course unsuitable for such a work.
They selected the tallest and straightest trees, and after felling
them and cutting them to the proper length, they hauled them to
the spot by means of oxen. The ground served for a floor, and the
fire-place was made of stones. The roof was formed of sheets of
hemlock bark, laid, like slates upon rafters made of the stems of
slender trees. Albert promised Mary Erskine that, as soon as the snow
came, in the winter, to make a road, so that he could get through the
woods with a load of boards upon a sled, he would make her a floor.

From this time forward, although Mary Erskine was more diligent and
faithful than ever in performing all her duties at Mrs. Bell's, her
imagination was incessantly occupied with pictures and images of the
new scenes into which she was about to be ushered as the mistress of
her own independent household and home. She made out lists, mentally,
for she could not write, of the articles which it would be best to
purchase. She formed and matured in her own mind all her house-keeping
plans. She pictured to herself the scene which the interior of her
dwelling would present in cold and stormy winter evenings, while she
was knitting at one side of the fire, and Albert was busy at some
ingenious workmanship, on the other; or thought of the beautiful
prospect which she should enjoy in the spring and summer following;
when fields of waving grain, rich with promises of plenty and of
wealth, would extend in every direction around her dwelling. She
cherished, in a word, the brightest anticipations of happiness.

[Illustration: THE LOG HOUSE.]

The house at length was finished. The necessary furniture which Albert
contrived in some way to get moved to it, was put in; and early in
August Mary Erskine was married. She was married in the morning, and a
party of the villagers escorted her on horseback to her new home.




CHAPTER III.

MARY ERSKINE'S VISITORS.


Mary Erskine's anticipations of happiness in being the mistress of her
own independent home were very high, but they were more than realized.

The place which had been chosen for the house was not only a suitable
one in respect to convenience, but it was a very pleasant one. It was
near the brook which, as has already been said, came cascading down
from among the forests and mountains, and passing along near one side
of Albert's clearing, flowed across the road, and finally emptied into
the great stream. The house was placed near the brook, in order that
Albert might have a watering-place at hand for his horses and cattle
when he should have stocked his farm. In felling the forest Albert
left a fringe of trees along the banks of the brook, that it might be
cool and shady there when the cattle went down to drink. There was a
spring of pure cold water boiling up from beneath some rocks not far
from the brook, on the side toward the clearing. The water from this
spring flowed down along a little mossy dell, until it reached the
brook. The bed over which this little rivulet flowed was stony, and
yet no stones were to be seen. They all had the appearance of rounded
tufts of soft green moss, so completely were they all covered and
hidden by the beautiful verdure.

Albert was very much pleased when he discovered this spring, and
traced its little mossy rivulet down to the brook. He thought that
Mary Erskine would like it. So he avoided cutting down any of the
trees from the dell, or from around the spring, and in cutting down
those which grew near it, he took care to make them fall away from
the dell, so that in burning they should not injure the trees which he
wished to save. Thus that part of the wood which shaded and sheltered
the spring and the dell, escaped the fire.

The house was placed in such a position that this spring was directly
behind it, and Albert made a smooth and pretty path leading down to
it; or rather he made the path smooth, and nature made it pretty. For
no sooner had he completed his work upon it than nature began to adorn
it by a profusion of the richest and greenest grass and flowers,
which she caused to spring up on either side. It was so in fact in all
Albert's operations upon his farm. Almost every thing that he did was
for some purpose of convenience and utility, and he himself undertook
nothing more than was necessary to secure the useful end. But his kind
and playful co-operator, nature, would always take up the work
where he left it, and begin at once to beautify it with her rich and
luxuriant verdure. For example, as soon as the fires went out over the
clearing, she began, with her sun and rain, to blanch the blackened
stumps, and to gnaw at their foundations with her tooth of decay. If
Albert made a road or a path she rounded its angles, softened away all
the roughness that his plow or hoe had left in it, and fringed it with
grass and flowers. The solitary and slender trees which had been left
standing here and there around the clearing, having escaped the fire,
she took under her special care--throwing out new and thrifty branches
from them, in every direction, and thus giving them massive and
luxuriant forms, to beautify the landscape, and to form shady retreats
for the flocks and herds which might in subsequent years graze upon
the ground. Thus while Albert devoted himself to the substantial and
useful improvements which were required upon his farm, with a view
simply to profit, nature took the work of ornamenting it under her own
special and particular charge.

The sphere of Mary Erskine's duties and pleasures was within doors.
Her conveniences for house-keeping were somewhat limited at first, but
Albert, who kept himself busy at work on his land all day, spent the
evenings in his shanty shop, making various household implements and
articles of furniture for her. Mary sat with him, usually, at such
times, knitting by the side of the great, blazing fire, made partly
for the sake of the light that it afforded, and partly for the warmth,
which was required to temper the coolness of the autumnal evenings.
Mary took a very special interest in the progress of Albert's work,
every thing which he made being for her. Each new acquisition, as one
article after another was completed and delivered into her possession,
gave her fresh pleasure: and she deposited it in its proper place in
her house with a feeling of great satisfaction and pride.

"Mary Erskine," said Albert one evening--for though she was married,
and her name thus really changed, Albert himself, as well as every
body else, went on calling her Mary Erskine just as before--"it
is rather hard to make you wait so long for these conveniences,
especially as there is no necessity for it. We need not have paid for
our land this three years. I might have taken the money and built a
handsome house, and furnished it for you at once."

"And so have been in debt for the land," said Mary.

"Yes," said Albert. "I could have paid off that debt by the profits of
the farming. I can lay up a hundred dollars a year, certainly."

"No," said Mary Erskine. "I like this plan the best. We will pay as
we go along. It will be a great deal better to have the three hundred
dollars for something else than to pay old debts with. We will build a
better house than this if we want one, one of these years, when we get
the money. But I like this house very much as it is. Perhaps, however,
it is only because it is my own."

It was not altogether the idea that it was her own that made Mary
Erskine like her house. The interior of it was very pleasant indeed,
especially after Albert had completed the furnishing of it, and had
laid the floor. It contained but one room, it is true, but that was a
very spacious one. There were, in fact, two apartments enclosed by the
walls and the roof, though only one of them could strictly be called
a room. The other was rather a shed, or stoop, and it was entered from
the front by a wide opening, like a great shed door. The entrance to
the house proper was by a door opening from this stoop, so as to be
sheltered from the storms in winter. There was a very large fire place
made of stones in the middle of one side of the room, with a large
flat stone for a hearth in front of it. This hearth stone was very
smooth, and Mary Erskine kept it always very bright and clean. On
one side of the fire was what they called a settle, which was a long
wooden seat with a very high back. It was placed on the side of the
fire toward the door, so that it answered the purpose of a screen to
keep off any cold currents of air, which might come in on blustering
winter nights, around the door. On the other side of the fire was a
small and \ very elegant mahogany work table. This was a present to
Mary Erskine from Mrs. Bell on the day of her marriage. There were
drawers in this table containing sundry conveniences. The upper drawer
was made to answer the purpose of a desk, and it had an inkstand in
a small division in one corner. Mrs. Bell had thought of taking this
inkstand out, and putting in some spools, or something else which Mary
Erskine would be able to use. But Mary herself would not allow her to
make such a change. She said it was true that she could not write, but
that was no reason why she should not have an inkstand. So she filled
the inkstand with ink, and furnished the desk completely in other
respects, by putting in six sheets of paper, a pen, and several
wafers. The truth was, she thought it possible that an occasion
might arise some time or other, at which Albert might wish to write
a letter; and if such a case should occur, it would give her great
pleasure to have him write his letter at her desk.

Beyond the work table, on one of the sides of the room, was a
cupboard, and next to the cupboard a large window. This was the only
window in the house, and it had a sash which would rise and fall. Mary
Erskine had made white curtains for this window, which could be parted
in the middle, and hung up upon nails driven into the logs which
formed the wall of the house, one on each side. Of what use these
curtains could be except to make the room look more snug and pleasant
within, it would be difficult to say; for there was only one vast
expanse of forests and mountains on that side of the house, so that
there was nobody to look in.

On the back side of the room, in one corner, was the bed. It was
supported upon a bedstead which Albert had made. The bedstead had high
posts, and was covered, like the window, with curtains. In the other
corner was the place for the loom, with the spinning-wheel between the
loom and the bed. When Mary Erskine was using the spinning-wheel,
she brought it out into the center of the room. The loom was not yet
finished. Albert was building it, working upon it from time to time as
he had opportunity. The frame of it was up, and some of the machinery
was made.

Mary Erskine kept most of her clothes in a trunk; but Albert was
making her a bureau.

Instead of finding it lonesome at her new home, as Mrs. Bell had
predicted, Mary Erskine had plenty of company. The girls from the
village, whom she used to know, were very fond of coming out to see
her. Many of them were much younger than she was, and they loved to
ramble about in the woods around Mary Erskine's house, and to play
along the bank of the brook. Mary used to show them too, every time
they came, the new articles which Albert had made for her, and to
explain to them the gradual progress of the improvements. Mary Bell
herself was very fond of going to see Mary Erskine,--though she was of
course at that time too young to go alone. Sometimes however Mrs. Bell
would send her out in the morning and let her remain all day, playing,
very happily, around the door and down by the spring. She used to play
all day among the logs and stumps, and upon the sandy beach by the
side of the brook, and yet when she went home at night she always
looked as nice, and her clothes were as neat and as clean as when she
went in the morning. Mrs. Bell wondered at this, and on observing that
it continued to be so, repeatedly, after several visits, she asked
Mary Bell how it happened that Mary Erskine kept her so nice.

"Oh," said Mary Bell, "I always put on my working frock when I go out
to Mary Erskine's."

The working frock was a plain, loose woolen dress, which Mary Erskine
made for Mary Bell, and which Mary Bell, always put on in the morning,
whenever she came to the farm. Her own dress was taken off and
laid carefully away upon the bed, under the curtains. Her shoes and
stockings were taken off too, so that she might play in the brook if
she pleased, though Mary Erskine told her it was not best to remain in
the water long enough to have her feet get very cold.

When Mary Bell was dressed thus in her working frock, she was allowed
to play wherever she pleased, so that she enjoyed almost an absolute
and unbounded liberty. And yet there were some restrictions. She
must not go across the brook, for fear that she might get lost in the
woods, nor go out of sight of the house in any direction. She might
build fires upon any of the stumps or logs, but not within certain
limits of distance from the house, lest she should set the house on
fire. And she must not touch the axe, for fear that she might cut
herself, nor climb upon the wood-pile, for fear that it might fall
down upon her. With some such restrictions as these, she could do
whatever she pleased.

She was very much delighted, one morning in September, when she was
playing around the house in her working frock, at finding a great hole
or hollow under a stump, which she immediately resolved to have for
her oven. She was sitting down upon the ground by the side of it, and
she began to call out as loud as she could,

"Mary Erskine! Mary Erskine!"

But Mary Erskine did not answer. Mary Bell could hear the sound of the
spinning-wheel in the house, and she wondered why the spinner could
not hear her, when she called so loud.

She listened, watching for the pauses in the buzzing sound of the
wheel, and endeavored to call out in the pauses,--but with no better
success than before. At last she got up and walked along toward the
house, swinging in her hand a small wooden shovel, which Albert had
made for her to dig wells with in the sand on the margin of the brook.

"Mary Erskine!" said she, when she got to the door of the house,
"didn't you hear me calling for you?"

"Yes," said Mary Erskine.

"Then why did not you come?" said Mary Bell.

"Because I was disobedient," said Mary Erskine, "and now I suppose I
must be punished."

"Well," said Mary Bell. The expression of dissatisfaction and reproof
upon Mary Bell's countenance was changed immediately into one of
surprise and pleasure, at the idea of Mary Erskine's being punished
for disobeying _her_. So she said,

"Well. And what shall your punishment be?"

"What did you want me for?" asked Mary Erskine.

"I wanted you to see my oven."

"Have you got an oven?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Yes," said Mary Bell, "It is under a stump. I have got some wood, and
now I want some fire."

"Very well," said Mary Erskine, "get your fire-pan."

Mary Bell's fire-pan, was an old tin dipper with a long handle. It had
been worn out as a dipper, and so they used to let Mary Bell have it
to carry her fire in. There were several small holes in the bottom of
the dipper, so completely was it worn out: but this made it all the
better for a fire-pan, since the air which came up through the holes,
fanned the coals and kept them alive. This dipper was very valuable,
too, for another purpose. Mary Bell was accustomed, sometimes, to go
down to the brook and dip up water with it, in order to see the water
stream down into the brook again, through these holes, in a sort of a
shower.

Mary Bell went, accordingly, for her fire-pan, which she found in its
place in the open stoop or shed. She came into the house, and Mary
Erskine, raking open the ashes in the fire-place, took out two large
coals with the tongs, and dropped them into the dipper. Mary Bell held
the dipper at arm's length before her, and began to walk along.

"Hold it out upon one side," said Mary Erskine, "and then if you fall
down, you will not fall upon your fire."

Mary Bell, obeying this injunction, went out to her oven and put the
coals in at the mouth of it. Then she began to gather sticks,
and little branches, and strips of birch bark, and other silvan
combustibles, which she found scattered about the ground, and put them
upon the coals to make the fire. She stopped now and then a minute or
two to rest and to listen to the sound of Mary Erskine's spinning. At
last some sudden thought seemed to come into her head, and throwing
down upon the ground a handful of sticks which she had in her hand,
and was just ready to put upon the fire, she got up and walked toward
the house.

"Mary Erskine," said she, "I almost forgot about your punishment."

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I hoped that you had forgot about it,
altogether."

"Why?" said Mary Bell.

"Because," said Mary Erskine, "I don't like to be punished."

"But you _must_ be punished," said Mary Bell, very positively,
"and-what shall your punishment be?"

"How would it do," said Mary Erskine, going on, however, all the time
with her spinning, "for me to have to give you two potatoes to roast
in your oven?--or one? One potato will be enough punishment for such a
little disobedience."

"No; two," said Mary Bell.

"Well, two," said Mary Erskine. "You may go and get them in a pail out
in the stoop. But you must wash them first, before you put them in the
oven. You can wash them down at the brook."

"I am afraid that I shall get my fingers smutty," said Mary Bell, "at
my oven, for the stump is pretty black."

"No matter if you do," said Mary Erskine. "You can go down and wash
them at the brook."

"And my frock, too," said Mary Bell.

"No matter for that either," said Mary Erskine; "only keep it as clean
as you can."

So Mary Bell took the two potatoes and went down to the brook to wash
them. She found, however, when she reached the brook, that there was
a square piece of bark lying upon the margin of the water, and she
determined to push it in and sail it, for her ship, putting the two
potatoes on for cargo. After sailing the potatoes about for some time,
her eye chanced to fall upon a smooth spot in the sand, which she
thought would make a good place for a garden. So she determined to
_plant_ her potatoes instead of roasting them.

She accordingly dug a hole in the sand with her fingers, and put the
potatoes in, and then after covering them, over with the sand, she
went to the oven to get her fire-pan for her watering-pot, in order to
water her garden.

The holes in the bottom of the dipper made it an excellent
watering-pot, provided the garden to be watered was not too far from
the brook: for the shower would always begin to fall the instant the
dipper was lifted out of the water.

[Illustration: MARY BELL AT THE BROOK.]

After watering her garden again and again, Mary Bell concluded on the
whole not to wait for her potatoes to grow, but dug them up and began
to wash them in the brook, to make them ready for the roasting. Her
little feet sank into the sand at the margin of the water while she
held the potatoes in the stream, one in each hand, and watched the
current as it swept swiftly by them. After a while she took them out
and put them in the sun upon a flat stone to dry, and when they were
dry she carried them to her oven and buried them in the hot embers
there.

Thus Mary Bell would amuse herself, hour after hour of the long
day, when she went to visit Mary Erskine, with an endless variety of
childish imaginings. Her working-frock became in fact, in her mind,
the emblem of complete and perfect liberty and happiness, unbounded
and unalloyed.

The other children of the village, too, were accustomed to come out
and see Mary Erskine, and sometimes older and more ceremonious company
still. There was one young lady named Anne Sophia, who, having been
a near neighbor of Mrs. Bell's, was considerably acquainted with Mary
Erskine, though as the two young ladies had very different tastes and
habits of mind, they never became very intimate friends. Anne Sophia
was fond of dress and of company. Her thoughts were always running
upon village subjects and village people, and her highest ambition
was to live there. She had been, while Mary Erskine had lived at Mrs.
Bell's, very much interested in a young man named Gordon. He was a
clerk in a store in the village. He was a very agreeable young man,
and much more genteel and polished in his personal appearance than
Albert. He had great influence among the young men of the village,
being the leader in all the excursions and parties of pleasure which
were formed among them. Anne Sophia knew very well that Mr. Gordon
liked to see young ladies handsomely dressed when they appeared in
public, and partly to please him, and partly to gratify that very
proper feeling of pleasure which all young ladies have in appearing
well, she spent a large part of earnings in dress. She was not
particularly extravagant, nor did she get into debt; but she did
not, like Mary Erskine, attempt to lay up any of her wages. She often
endeavored to persuade Mary Erskine to follow her example. "It is of
no use," said she, "for girls like you and me to try to lay up money.
If we are ever married we shall make our husbands take care of us; and
if we are not married we shall not want our savings, for we can always
earn what we need as we go along."

Mary Erskine had no reply at hand to make to this reasoning, but she
was not convinced by it, so she went on pursuing her own course,
while Anne Sophia pursued hers. Anne Sophia was a very capable and
intelligent girl, and as Mr. Gordon thought, would do credit to any
society in which she might be called to move. He became more and more
interested in her, and it happened that they formed an engagement to
be married, just about the time that Albert made his proposal to Mary
Erskine.

Mr. Gordon was a very promising business man, and had an offer from
the merchant with whom he was employed as a clerk, to enter into
partnership with him, just before the time of his engagement.
He declined this offer, determining rather to go into business
independently. He had laid up about as much money as Albert had, and
by means of this, and the excellent letters of recommendation which he
obtained from the village people, he obtained a large stock of goods,
on credit, in the city. When buying his goods he also bought a small
quantity of handsome furniture, on the same terms. He hired a store.
He also hired a small white house, with green trees around it, and
a pretty garden behind. He was married nearly at the same time with
Albert, and Anne Sophia in taking possession of her genteel and
beautiful village home, was as happy as Mary Erskine was in her sylvan
solitude. Mr. Gordon told her that he had made a calculation, and he
thought there was no doubt that, if business was tolerably good that
winter, he should be able to clear enough to pay all his expenses and
to pay for his furniture.

His calculations proved to be correct. Business was very good. He
paid for his furniture, and bought as much more on a new credit in the
spring.

Anne Sophia came out to make a call upon Mary Erskine, about a
month after she had got established in her new home. She came in the
morning. Mr. Gordon brought her in a chaise as far as to the corner,
and she walked the rest of the way. She was dressed very handsomely,
and yet in pretty good taste. It was not wholly a call of ceremony,
for Anne Sophia felt really a strong attachment to Mary Erskine, and
had a great desire to see her in her new home.

When she rose to take her leave, after her call was ended, she asked
Mary Erskine to come to the village and see her as soon as she could.
"I meant to have called upon you long before this," said she, "but I
have been so busy, and we have had so much company. But I want to see
you very much indeed. We have a beautiful house, and I have a great
desire to show it to you. I think you have got a beautiful place here
for a farm, one of these days; but you ought to make your husband
build you a better house. He is as able to do it as my husband is to
get me one, I have no doubt."

Mary Erskine had no doubt either. She did not say so however, but only
replied that she liked her house very well. The real reason why she
liked it so much was one that Anne Sophia did not consider. The reason
was that it was her own. Whereas Anne Sophia lived in a house, which,
pretty as it was, belonged to other people.

All these things, it must be remembered, took place eight or ten years
before the time when Malleville and Phonny went to visit Mary Erskine,
and when Mary Bell was only four or five years old. Phonny and
Malleville, as well as a great many other children, had grown up from
infancy since that time. In fact, the Jemmy who fell from his horse
and sprained his ankle the day they came, was Jemmy Gordon, Anne
Sophia's oldest son.




CHAPTER IV.

CALAMITY.


Both Mary Erskine and Anne Sophia went on very pleasantly and
prosperously, each in her own way, for several years. Every spring
Albert cut down more trees, and made new openings and clearings. He
built barns and sheds about his house, and gradually accumulated quite
a stock of animals. With the money that he obtained by selling the
grain and the grass seed which he raised upon his land, he bought oxen
and sheep and cows. These animals fed in his pastures in the summer,
and in the winter he gave them hay from his barn.

Mary Erskine used to take the greatest pleasure in getting up early
in the cold winter mornings, and going out with her husband to see
him feed the animals. She always brought in a large pile of wood every
night, the last thing before going to bed, and laid it upon the hearth
where it would be ready at hand for the morning fire. She also had a
pail of water ready, from the spring, and the tea-kettle by the side
of it, ready to be filled. The potatoes, too, which were to be roasted
for breakfast, were always prepared the night before, and placed in an
earthen pan, before the fire. Mary Erskine, in fact, was always very
earnest to make every possible preparation over night, for the work of
the morning. This arose partly from an instinctive impulse which made
her always wish, as she expressed it, "to do every duty as soon as it
came in sight," and partly from the pleasure which she derived from a
morning visit to the animals in the barn. She knew them all by name.
She imagined that they all knew her, and were glad to see her by
the light of her lantern in the morning. It gave her the utmost
satisfaction to see them rise, one after another, from their straw,
and begin eagerly to eat the hay which Albert pitched down to them
from the scaffold, while she, standing below upon the barn floor, held
the lantern so that he could see. She was always very careful to hold
it so that the cows and the oxen could see too.

One day, when Albert came home from the village, he told Mary Erskine
that he had an offer of a loan of two hundred dollars, from Mr. Keep.
Mr. Keep was an elderly gentleman of the village,--of a mild and
gentle expression of countenance, and white hair. He was a man of
large property, and often had money to lend at interest. He had an
office, where he used to do his business. This office was in a wing of
his house, which was a large and handsome house in the center of the
village. Mr. Keep had a son who was a physician, and he used often to
ask his son's opinion and advice about his affairs. One day when Mr.
Keep was sitting in his office, Mr. Gordon came in and told him that
he had some plans for enlarging his business a little, and wished to
know if Mr. Keep had two or three hundred dollars that he would like
to lend for six months. Mr. Keep, who, though he was a very benevolent
and a very honorable man, was very careful in all his money dealings,
said that he would look a little into his accounts, and see how much
he had to spare, and let Mr. Gordon know the next day.

That night Mr. Keep asked his son what he thought of lending Mr.
Gordon two or three hundred dollars. His son said doubtfully that he
did not know. He was somewhat uncertain about it. Mr. Gordon was doing
very well, he believed, but then his expenses were quite heavy, and it
was not quite certain how it would turn with him. Mr. Keep then said
that he had two or three hundred dollars on hand which he must dispose
of in some way or other, and he asked his son what he should do with
it. His son recommended that he should offer it to Albert. Albert
formerly lived at Mr. Keep's, as a hired man, so that Mr. Keep knew
him very well.

"He is going on quite prosperously in his farm, I understand," said
the doctor. "His land is all paid for, and he is getting quite a stock
of cattle, and very comfortable buildings. I think it very likely that
he can buy more stock with the money, and do well with it. And, at all
events, you could not put the money in _safer_ hands."

"I will propose it to him," said Mr. Keep.

He did propose it to him that very afternoon, for it happened that
Albert went to the village that day. Albert told Mr. Keep that he was
very much obliged to him for the offer of the money, and that he would
consider whether it would be best for him to take it or not, and let
him know in the morning. So he told Mary Erskine of the offer that he
had had, as soon as he got home.

"I am very glad to get such an offer," said Albert.

"Shall you take the money?" said his wife.

"I don't know," replied Albert. "I rather think not."

"Then why are you glad to get the offer?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Oh, it shows that my credit is good in the village. It must be very
good, indeed, to lead such a man as Mr. Keep to offer to lend me
money, of his own accord. It is a considerable comfort to know that I
can get money, whenever I want it, even if I never take it."

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "so it is."

"And it is all owing to you," said Albert.

"To me?" said Mary Erskine.

"Yes," said he; "to your prudence and economy, and to your contented
and happy disposition. That is one thing that I always liked you
for. It is so easy to make you happy. There is many a wife, in your
situation, who could not have been happy unless their husband would
build them a handsome house and fill it with handsome furniture--even
if he had to go in debt for his land to pay for it."

Mary Erskine did not reply, though it gratified her very much to hear
her husband commend her.

"Well," said she at length, "I am very glad that you have got good
credit. What should you do with the money, if you borrowed it?"

"Why, one thing that I could do," said Albert, "would be to build a
new house."

"No," said Mary Erskine, "I like this house very much. I don't want
any other--certainly not until we can build one with our own money."

"Then," said Albert, "I can buy more stock, and perhaps hire some
help, and get more land cleared this fall, so as to have greater crops
next spring, and then sell the stock when it has grown and increased,
and also the crops, and so get money enough to pay back the debt and
have something over."

"Should you have much over?" asked Mary.

"Why that would depend upon how my business turned out,--and that
would depend upon the weather, and the markets, and other things which
we can not now foresee. I think it probable that we should have a good
deal over."

"Well," said Mary Erskine, "then I would take the money."

"But, then, on the other hand," said Albert, "I should run some risk
of embarrassing myself, if things did not turn out well. If I were
to be sick, so that I could not attend to so much business, or if I
should Jose any of my stock, or if the crops should not do well, then
I might not get enough to pay back the debt."

"And what should you do then?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why then," replied Albert, "I should have to make up the deficiency
in some other way. I might ask Mr. Keep to put off the payment of the
note, or I might borrow the money of somebody else to pay him, or I
might sell some of my other stock. I could do any of these things well
enough, but it would perhaps cause me some trouble and anxiety."

"Then I would not take the money," said Mary Erskine. "I don't like
anxiety. I can bear any thing else better than anxiety."

"However, I don't know any thing about it," continued Mary Erskine,
after a short pause. "You can judge best."

They conversed on the subject some time longer, Albert being quite
at a loss to know what it was best to do. Mary Erskine, for her part,
seemed perfectly willing that he should borrow the money to buy more
stock, as she liked the idea of having more oxen, sheep, and cows. But
she seemed decidedly opposed to using borrowed money to build a new
house, or to buy new furniture. Her head would ache, she said, to lie
on a pillow of feathers that was not paid for.

Albert finally concluded not to borrow the money, and so Mr. Keep lent
it to Mr. Gordon.

Things went on in this way for about three or four years, and then
Albert began to think seriously of building another house. He had
now money enough of his own to build it with. His stock had become so
large that he had not sufficient barn room for his hay, and he did not
wish to build larger barns where he then lived, for in the course of
his clearings he had found a much better place for a house than the
one which they had at first selected. Then his house was beginning to
be too small for his family, for Mary Erskine had, now, two children.
One was an infant, and the other was about two years old. These
children slept in a trundle-bed, which was pushed under the great bed
in the daytime, but still the room became rather crowded. So Albert
determined to build another house.

Mary Erskine was very much interested in this plan. She would like to
live in a handsome house as well as any other lady, only she preferred
to wait until she could have one of her own. Now that that time had
arrived, she was greatly pleased with the prospect of having her
kitchen, her sitting-room, and her bed-room, in three separate rooms,
instead of having them, as heretofore, all in one. Then the barns and
barn-yards, and the pens and sheds for the sheep and cattle, were all
going to be much more convenient than they had been; so that Albert
could take care of a greater amount of stock than before, with the
same labor. The new house, too, was going to be built in a much more
pleasant situation than the old one, and the road from it to the
corner was to be improved, so that they could go in and out with a
wagon. In a word, Mary Erskine's heart was filled with new hopes and
anticipations, as she saw before her means and sources of happiness,
higher and more extended than she had ever before enjoyed.

When the time approached for moving into the new house Mary Erskine
occupied herself, whenever she had any leisure time, in packing up
such articles as were not in use. One afternoon while she was engaged
in this occupation, Albert came home from the field much earlier than
usual. Mary Erskine was very glad to see him, as she wished him to
nail up the box in which she had been packing her cups and saucers.
She was at work on the stoop, very near the door, so that she could
watch the children. The baby was in the cradle. The other child, whose
name was Bella, was playing about the floor.

Albert stopped a moment to look at Mary Erskine's packing, and then
went in and took his seat upon the settle.

"Tell me when your box is ready," said he, "and I will come and nail
it for you."

Bella walked along toward her father--for she had just learned to
walk--and attempted to climb up into his lap.

"Run away, Bella," said Albert.

Mary Erskine was surprised to hear Albert tell Bella to run away, for
he was usually very glad to have his daughter come to him when he got
home from his work. She looked up to see what was the matter. He was
sitting upon the settle, and leaning his head upon his hand.

Mary Erskine left her work and went to him.

"Are you not well, Albert?" said she.

"My head aches a little. It ached in the field, and that was the
reason why I thought I would come home. But it is better now. Are you
ready for me to come and nail the box?"

"No," said Mary, "not quite; and besides, it is no matter about it
to-night. I will get you some tea."

"No," said Albert, "finish your packing first, and I will come and
nail it. Then we can put it out of the way."

Mary Erskine accordingly finished her packing, and Albert went to it,
to nail the cover on. He drove one or two nails, and then he put the
hammer down, and sat down himself upon the box, saying that he could
not finish the nailing after all. He was too unwell. He went into the
room, Mary Erskine leading and supporting him. She conducted him to
the bed and opened the curtains so as to let him lie down. She helped
him to undress himself, and then left him, a few minutes while she
began to get some tea. She moved the box, which she had been packing,
away from the stoop door, and put it in a corner. She drew out the
trundle-bed, and made, it ready for Bella. She sat down and gave Bella
some supper, and then put her into the trundle-bed, directing her to
shut up her eyes and go to sleep. Bella obeyed.

Mary Erskine then went to the fire and made some tea and toast for
Albert, doing every thing in as quiet and noiseless a manner as
possible. When the tea and toast were ready she put them upon a small
waiter, and then moving her little work-table up to the side of the
bed, she put the waiter upon it. When every thing was thus ready, she
opened the curtains. Albert was asleep.

He seemed however to be uneasy and restless, and he moaned now and
then as if in pain. Mary Erskine stood leaning over him for some time,
with a countenance filled with anxiety and concern. She then turned
away, saying to herself, "If Albert is going to be sick and to die,
what _will_ become of me?" She kneeled down upon the floor at
the foot of the bed, crossed her arms before her, laid them down very
quietly upon the counterpane, and reclined her forehead upon them. She
remained in that position for some time without speaking a word.

Presently she rose and took the tea and toast upon the waiter, and
set them down by the fire in order to keep them warm. She next went to
look at the children, to see if they were properly covered. Then
she opened the bed-curtains a little way in order that she might see
Albert in case he should wake or move, and having adjusted them as she
wished, she went to the stoop door and took her seat there, with her
knitting-work in her hand, in a position from which, on one side she
could look into the room and observe every thing which took place
there, and on the other side, watch the road and see if any one went
by. She thought it probable that some of the workmen, who had been
employed at the new house, might be going home about that time, and
she wished to send into the village by them to ask Dr. Keep to come.

Mary Erskine succeeded in her design of sending into the village by
one of the workmen, and Dr. Keep came about nine o'clock He prescribed
for Albert, and prepared, and left, some medicine for him. He said he
hoped that he was not going to be very sick, but he could tell better
in the morning when he would come again.

"But you ought not to be here alone," said he to Mary Erskine. "You
ought to have some one with you."

"No," said Mary Erskine, "I can get along very well, alone,
to-night,--and I think he will be better in the morning."

Stories of sickness and suffering are painful to read, as the reality
is painful to witness. We will therefore shorten the tale of Mary
Erskine's anxiety and distress, by saying, at once that Albert grew
worse instead of better, every day for a fortnight, and then died.

During his sickness Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time at Mary
Erskine's house, and other persons, from the village, came every day
to watch with Albert, and to help take care of the children. There was
a young man also, named Thomas, whom Mary Erskine employed to come and
stay there all day, to take the necessary care of the cattle and of
the farm. They made a bed for Thomas in the scaffold in the barn. They
also made up a bed in the stoop, in a corner which they divided off
by means of a curtain. This bed was for the watchers, and for Mary
Erskine herself, when she or they wished to lie down. Mary Erskine
went to it, herself very seldom. She remained at her husband's bedside
almost all the time, day and night. Albert suffered very little
pain, and seemed to sleep most of the time. He revived a little the
afternoon before he died, and appeared as if he were going to be
better. He looked up into Mary Erskine's face and smiled. It was
plain, however, that he was very feeble.

There was nobody but Mrs. Bell in the house, at that time, besides
Mary Erskine and the baby. Bella had gone to Mrs. Bell's house, and
Mary Bell was taking care of her. Albert beckoned his wife to come to
him, and said to her, in a faint and feeble voice, that he wished Mrs.
Bell to write something for him. Mary Erskine immediately brought her
work-table up to the bedside, opened the drawer, took out one of the
sheets of paper and a pen, opened the inkstand, and thus made every
thing ready for writing. Mrs. Bell took her seat by the table in such
a manner that her head was near to Albert's as it lay upon the pillow.

"I am ready now," said Mrs. Bell.

"I bequeath all my property,"--said Albert.

Mrs. Bell wrote these words upon the paper, and then said,

"Well: I have written that."

"To Mary Erskine my wife," said Albert.

"I have written that," said Mrs. Bell, a minute afterwards.

"Now hand it to me to sign," said Albert.

They put the paper upon a book, and raising Albert up in the bed,
they put the pen into his hand. He wrote his name at the bottom of the
writing at the right hand. Then moving his hand to the left, he wrote
the word '_witness_' under the writing on that side. His hand
trembled, but he wrote the word pretty plain. As he finished writing
it he told Mrs. Bell that she must sign her name as witness. When this
had been done he gave back the paper and the pen into Mary Erskine's
hand, and said that she must take good care of that paper, for it was
very important. He then laid his head down again upon the pillow and
shut his eyes. He died that night.

Mary Erskine was entirely overwhelmed with grief, when she found that
all was over. In a few hours, however, she became comparatively calm,
and the next day she began to help Mrs. Bell in making preparations
for the funeral. She sent for Bella to come home immediately. Mrs.
Bell urged her very earnestly to take both the children, and go with
her to _her_ house, after the funeral, and stay there for a few
days at least, till she could determine what to do.

"No," said Mary Erskine. "It will be better for me to come back here."

"What do you think you shall do?" said Mrs. Bell.

"I don't know," said Mary Erskine. "I can't even begin to think now. I
am going to wait a week before I try to think about it at all."

"And in the mean time you are going to stay in this house."

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I think that is best."

"But you must not stay here alone," said Mrs. Bell. "I will come back
with you and stay with you, at least one night."

"No," said Mary Erskine. "I have got to learn to be alone now, and
I may as well begin at once. I am very much obliged to you for all
your--"

Here Mary Erskine's voice faltered, and she suddenly stopped. Mrs.
Bell pitied her with all her heart, but she said no more. She remained
at the house while the funeral procession was gone to the grave; and
some friends came back with Mary Erskine, after the funeral. They all,
however, went away about sunset, leaving Mary Erskine alone with her
children.

As soon as her friends had gone, Mary Erskine took the children and
sat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both in
her lap, the baby upon one side and Bella upon the other, and began to
rock back and forth with great rapidity. She kissed the children again
and again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in the
excess of her anguish. She remained sitting thus for half an hour. The
twilight gradually faded away. The flickering flame, which rose from
the fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylight
disappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so as
to give it a genial and cheerful expression. Mary Erskine gradually
became calm. The children, first the baby, and then Bella, fell
asleep. Finally Mary Erskine herself, who was by this time entirely
exhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. Mary
Erskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by the
nestling of the baby.

[Illustration: THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.]

When Mary Erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectly
calm, tranquil, and happy. She looked down upon her children--Bella
asleep and the baby just awaking--with a heart full of maternal joy
and pleasure. Her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright and
cheerful and happy as then. She carried Bella to the bed and laid her
gently down in Albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, she
gave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep.
Her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, She put the baby, at
length, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked God with
her whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spirit
of resignation and peace. She then pushed open the curtains, and
reclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with a
peaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a little
tongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brand
in the fire. After lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closed
her eyes, and gradually fell asleep again.

She slept very profoundly. It was a summer night, although, as usual,
Mary Erskine had a fire. Clouds rose in the west, bringing with them
gusts of wind and rain. The wind and the rain beat against the window,
but they did not wake her. It thundered. The thunder did not wake her.
The shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while Mary
Erskine slept tranquilly on. At length the baby began to move in the
cradle. Mary Erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, and
raised herself up suddenly. The fire had nearly gone out. There was
no flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burning
embers. Mary Erskine was frightened to find herself alone. The
tranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours ago
were all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined and
mysterious distress and terror. She went to the fire-place and built
a new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from the
cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to
bed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at the
stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before
the morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, and
holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she
walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish,
longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief.




CHAPTER V.

CONSULTATIONS.


Mrs. Bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhausted
and fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, and
exertion. She went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearly
midnight. The thunder awaked her.

She felt solitary and afraid. Mary Bell, who was then about nine years
old, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. There was a little
night lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismal
gleam upon the objects around it. Every few minutes, however, the
lightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon the
walls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. The
little night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirely
overpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuse
once more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightning
came to extinguish it as before.

Mrs. Bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if Mary Bell
was safe. She found her sleeping quietly. Mrs. Bell drew the crib out
a little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it into
a somewhat safer position. Then she lighted a large lamp. Then
she closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out the
lightning. Then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. But
she could not. She was thinking of Mary Erskine, and endeavoring to
form some plan for her future life. She could not, however, determine
what it was best for her to do.

In the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with her
knitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. Presently
she laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholy
reverie.

Mary Bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, came
up to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, she
said,

"Mother, what is the matter with you?"

"Why, Mary," said Mrs. Bell, in a melancholy tone, "I was thinking of
poor Mary Erskine."

"Well, mother," said Mary Bell, "could not you give her a little
money, if she is poor? I will give her my ten cents."

[Illustration: MRS. BELL.]

Mary Bell had a silver piece of ten cents, which she kept in a little
box, in her mother's room up stairs.

"Oh, she is not poor for want of money," said Mrs. Bell. "Her husband
made his will, before he died, and left her all his property."

"Though I told Mr. Keep about it last night," continued Mrs. Bell,
talking half to herself and half to Mary, "and he said the will was
not good."

"Not good," said Mary. "I think it is a very good will indeed. I am
sure Mary Erskine ought to have it all. Who should have it, if not
she?"

"The children, I suppose," said her mother.

"The children!" exclaimed Mary Bell. "Hoh! They are not half big
enough. They are only two babies; a great baby and a little one."

Mrs. Bell did not answer this, nor did she seem to take much notice of
it, but took up her knitting again, and went on musing as before. Mary
Bell did not understand very well about the will. The case was this:

The law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, provided that when a
man died, as Albert had done, leaving a wife and children, and a farm,
and also stock, and furniture, and other such movable property, if
he made no will, the wife was to have a part of the property, and the
rest must be saved for the children, in order to be delivered to them,
when they should grow up, and be ready to receive it and use it. The
farm, when there was a farm, was to be kept until the children should
grow up, only their mother was to have one third of the benefit of
it,--that is, one third of the rent of it, if they could let it--until
the children became of age. The amount of the other two thirds was to
be kept for them. In respect to all movable property, such as stock
and tools, and furniture, and other things of that kind, since they
could not very conveniently be kept till the children were old enough
to use them, they were to be sold, and the wife was to have half the
value, and the children the other half.

In respect to the children's part of all the property, they were
not, themselves, to have the care of it, but some person was to be
appointed to be their guardian. This guardian was to have the care of
all their share of the property, until they were of age, when it was
to be paid over into their hands.

If, however, the husband, before his death, was disposed to do so, he
might make a will, and give all the property to whomsoever he pleased.
If he decided, as Albert had done, to give it all to his wife, then
it would come wholly under her control, at once. She would be under no
obligation to keep any separate account of the children's share, but
might expend it all herself, or if she were so inclined, she might
keep it safely, and perhaps add to it by the proceeds of her own
industry, and then, when the children should grow up, she might give
them as much as her maternal affection should dictate.

In order that the property of men who die, should be disposed of
properly, according to law, or according to the will, if any will be
made, it is required that soon after the death of any person takes
place, the state of the case should be reported at a certain public
office, instituted to attend to this business. There is such an office
in every county in the New England states. It is called the Probate
office. The officer, who has this business in charge, is called the
Judge of Probate. There is a similar system in force, in all the
other states of the Union, though the officers are sometimes called by
different names from those which they receive in New England.

Now, while Albert was lying sick upon his bed, he was occupied a great
deal of the time, while they thought that he was asleep, in thinking
what was to become of his wife and children in case he should die.
He knew very well that in case he died without making any will, his
property must be divided, under the direction of the Judge of Probate,
and one part of it be kept for the children, while Mary Erskine would
have the control only of the other part. This is a very excellent
arrangement in all ordinary cases, so that the law, in itself, is a
very good law. There are, however, some cases, which are exceptions,
and Albert thought that Mary Erskine's case was one. It was owing,
in a great measure, to her prudence and economy, to her efficient
industry, and to her contented and happy disposition, that he had been
able to acquire any property, instead of spending all that he earned,
like Mr. Gordon, as fast as he earned it. Then, besides, he knew
that Mary Erskine would act as conscientiously and faithfully for the
benefit of the children, if the property was all her own, as she
would if a part of it was theirs, and only held by herself, for safe
keeping, as their guardian. Whereas, if this last arrangement went
into effect, he feared that it would make her great trouble to keep
the accounts, as she could not write, not even to sign her name. He
determined, therefore, to make a will, and give all his property, of
every kind, absolutely to her. This he did, in the manner described in
the last chapter.

The law invests every man with a very absolute power in respect to his
property, authorizing him to make any disposition of it whatever, and
carrying faithfully into effect, after his death, any wish that he may
have expressed in regard to it, as his deliberate and final intention.
It insists, however, that there should be evidence that the wish, so
expressed, is really a deliberate and final act. It is not enough that
the man should say in words what his wishes are. The will must be in
writing, and it must be signed; or if the sick man can not write, he
must make some mark with the pen, at the bottom of the paper, to stand
instead of a signature, and to show that he considers the act, which
he is performing, as a solemn and binding transaction. Nor will it do
to have the will executed in the presence of only one witness; for if
that were allowed, designing persons would sometimes persuade a sick
man, who was rich, to sign a will which they themselves had written,
telling him, perhaps, that it was only a receipt, or some other
unimportant paper, and thus inducing him to convey his property in a
way that he did not intend. The truth is, that there is necessity for
a much greater degree of precautionary form, in the execution of a
will, than in almost any other transaction; for as the man himself
will be dead and gone when the time comes for carrying the will into
effect,--and so can not give any explanation of his designs, it is
necessary to make them absolutely clear and certain, independently
of him. It was, accordingly, the law, in the state where Mary Erskine
lived, that there should be three witnesses present, when any person
signed a will; and also that when signing the paper, the man should
say that he knew that it was his will. If three credible persons thus
attested the reality and honesty of the transaction, it was thought
sufficient, in all ordinary cases, to make it sure.

Albert, it seems, was not aware how many witnesses were required. When
he requested Mrs. Bell to sign his will, as witness, he thought that
he was doing all that was necessary to make it valid. When, however,
Mrs. Bell, afterwards, in going home, met Mr. Keep and related to
him the transaction, he said that he was afraid that the will was not
good, meaning that it would not stand in law.

The thought that the will was probably not valid, caused Mrs. Bell a
considerable degree of anxiety and concern, as she imagined that its
failure would probably cause Mary Erskine a considerable degree of
trouble and embarrassment, though she did not know precisely how. She
supposed that the children's share of the property must necessarily be
kept separate and untouched until they grew up, and that in the mean
time their mother would have to work very hard in order to maintain
herself and them too. But this is not the law. The guardian of
children, in such cases, is authorized to expend, from the children's
share of property, as much as is necessary for their maintenance while
they are children; and it is only the surplus, if there is any, which
it is required of her to pay over to them, when they come of age. It
would be obviously unjust, in cases where children themselves have
property left them by legacy, or falling to them by inheritance, to
compel their father or mother to toil ten or twenty years to feed and
clothe them, in order that they might have their property, whole and
untouched, when they come of age. All that the law requires is
that the property bequeathed to children, or falling to them by
inheritance, shall always be exactly ascertained, and an account of it
put upon record in the Probate office: and then, that a guardian shall
be appointed, who shall expend only so much of it, while the children
are young, as is necessary for their comfortable support and proper
education; and then, when they come of age, if there is any surplus
left, that it shall be paid over to them. In Mary Erskine's case,
these accounts would, of course, cause her some trouble, but it would
make but little difference in the end.

Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time, during the day, in trying to
think what it would be best for Mary Erskine to do, and also in trying
to think what she could herself do for her. She, however, made very
little progress in respect to either of those points. It seemed to her
that Mary Erskine could not move into the new house, and attempt to
carry on the farm, and, on the other hand, it appeared equally out
of the question for her to remain where she was, in her lonesome log
cabin. She might move into the village, or to some house nearer the
village, but what should she do in that case for a livelihood. In a
word, the more that Mrs. Bell reflected upon the subject, the more at
a loss she was.

She determined to go and see Mary Erskine after dinner, again, as the
visit would at least be a token of kindness and sympathy, even if it
should do no other good. She arrived at the house about the middle
of the afternoon. She found Mary Erskine busily at work, putting the
house in order, and rectifying the many derangements which sickness
and death always occasion. Mary Erskine received Mrs. Bell at first
with a cheerful smile, and seemed, to all appearance, as contented and
happy as usual. The sight of Mrs. Bell, however, recalled forcibly to
her mind her irremediable loss, and overwhelmed her heart, again, with
bitter grief. She went to the window, where her little work-table
had been placed, and throwing herself down in a chair before it, she
crossed her arms upon the table, laid her forehead down upon them in
an attitude of despair, and burst into tears.

Mrs. Bell drew up toward her and stood by her side in silence. She
pitied her with all her heart, but she did not know what to say to
comfort her.

Just then little Bella came climbing up the steps, from the stoop,
with some flowers in her hand, which she had gathered in the yard. As
soon as she had got up into the room she stood upon her feet and went
dancing along toward the baby, who was playing upon the floor, singing
as she danced. She gave the baby the flowers, and then, seeing that
her mother was in trouble, she came up toward the place and stood
still a moment, with a countenance expressive of great concern. She
put her arm around her mother's neck, saying in a very gentle and
soothing tone,

"Mother! what is the matter, mother?"

Mary Erskine liberated one of her arms, and clasped Bella with it
fondly, but did not raise her head, or answer.

"Go and get some flowers for your mother," said Mrs. Bell, "like those
which you got for the baby."

"Well," said Bella, "I will." So she turned away, and went singing and
dancing out of the room.

"Mary," said Mrs. Bell. "I wish that you would shut up this house and
take the children and come to my house, at least for a while, until
you can determine what to do."

Mary Erskine shook her head, but did not reply. She seemed, however,
to be regaining her composure. Presently she raised her head, smoothed
down her hair, which was very soft and beautiful, readjusted her
dress, and sat up, looking out at the window.

"If you stay here," continued Mrs. Bell, "you will only spend your
time in useless and hopeless grief."

"No," said Mary Erskine, "I am not going to do any such a thing."

"Have you begun to think at all what you shall do?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"No," said Mary Erskine. "When any great thing happens, I always have
to wait a little while till I get accustomed to knowing that it has
happened, before I can determine what to do about it. It seems as if
I did not more than half know yet, that Albert is dead. Every time the
door opens I almost expect to see him come in."

"Do you think that you shall move to the new house?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"No," said Mary Erskine, "I see that I can't do that. I don't wish to
move there, either, now."

"There's one thing," continued Mrs. Bell after a moment's pause, "that
perhaps I ought to tell you, though it is rather bad news for you. Mr.
Keep says that he is afraid that the will, which Albert made, is not
good in law."

"Not good! Why not?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why because there is only one witness The law requires that there
should be three witnesses, so as to be sure that Albert really signed
the will."

"Oh no," said Mary Erskine. "One witness is enough, I am sure. The
Judge of Probate knows you, and he will believe you as certainly as he
would a dozen witnesses."

"But I suppose," said Mrs. Bell, "that it does not depend upon the
Judge of Probate. It depends upon the law."

Mary Erskine was silent. Presently she opened her drawer and took out
the will and looked at it mysteriously. She could not read a word of
it.

"Read it to me, Mrs. Bell," said she, handing the paper to Mrs. Bell.

Mrs. Bell read as follows:


    "I bequeath all my property to my wife, Mary Erskine. Albert
    Forester. Witness, Mary Bell."


"I am sure that is all right," said Mary Erskine. "It is very plain,
and one witness is enough. Besides, Albert would know how it ought to
be done."

"But then," she continued after a moment's pause, "he was very sick
and feeble. Perhaps he did not think. I am sure I shall be very sorry
if it is not a good will, for if I do not have the farm and the stock,
I don't know what I shall do with my poor children."

Mary Erskine had a vague idea that if the will should prove invalid,
she and her children would lose the property, in some way or other,
entirely,--though she did not know precisely how. After musing upon
this melancholy prospect a moment she asked,

"Should not I have _any_ of the property, if the will proves not
to be good?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Bell, "you will have a considerable part of it, at
any rate."

"How much?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why about half, I believe," replied Mrs. Bell.

"Oh," said Mary Erskine, apparently very much relieved. "That will
do very well. Half will be enough. There is a great deal of property.
Albert told me that the farm and the new house are worth five hundred
dollars, and the stock is worth full three hundred more. And Albert
does not owe any thing at all."

"Well," said Mrs. Bell. "You will have half. Either half or a third, I
forget exactly which."

"And what becomes of the rest?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why the rest goes to the children," said Mrs. Bell.

"To the children!" repeated Mary Erskine.

"Yes," said she, "you will have to be appointed guardian, and take
care of it for them, and carry in your account, now and then, to the
Judge of Probate."

"Oh," said Mary Erskine, her countenance brightening up with an
expression of great relief and satisfaction. "That is just the same
thing. If it is to go to the children, and I am to take care of it for
them, it is just the same thing. I don't care any thing about the will
at all."

So saying, she threw the paper down upon the table, as if it was of no
value whatever.

"But there's one thing," she said again, after pausing a few minutes.
"I can't keep any accounts. I can not even write my name."

"That is no matter," said Mrs. Bell. "There will be but little to
do about the accounts, and it is easy to get somebody to do that for
you."

"I wish I had learned to write," said Mary Erskine.

Mrs. Bell said nothing, but in her heart she wished so too.

"Do you think that I could possibly learn now?" asked Mary Erskine.

"Why,--I don't know,--perhaps, if you had any one to teach you."

"Thomas might teach me, perhaps," said Mary Erskine, doubtfully. Then,
in a moment she added again, in a desponding tone,--"but I don't know
how long he will stay here."

"Then you don't know at all yet," said Mrs. Bell, after a short pause,
"what you shall conclude to do."

"No," replied Mary Erskine, "not at all. I am going on, just as I am
now, for some days, without perplexing myself at all about it. And I
am not going to mourn and make myself miserable. I am going to make
myself as contented and happy as I can, with my work and my children."

Here Mary Erskine suddenly laid her head down upon her arms again, on
the little work-table before her, and burst into tears. After sobbing
convulsively a few minutes she rose, hastily brushed the tears away
with her handkerchief, and went toward the door. She then took the
water pail, which stood upon a bench near the door, and said that
she was going to get some water, at the spring, for tea, and that she
would be back in a moment. She returned very soon, with a countenance
entirely serene.

"I have been trying all day," said Mrs. Bell, "to think of something
that I could do for you, to help you or to relieve you in some way or
other; but I can not think of any thing at all that I can do."

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "there is one thing that you could do
for me, that would be a very great kindness, a very great kindness
indeed."

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"I am afraid that you will think it is too much for me to ask."

"No," said Mrs. Bell, "what is it?"

Mary Erskine hesitated a moment, and then said,

"To let Mary Bell come and stay here with me, a few days."

"Do you mean all night, too?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "all the time."

"Why, you have got two children to take care of now," replied Mrs.
Bell, "and nobody to help you. I should have thought that you would
have sooner asked me to take Bella home with me."

"No," said Mary Erskine. "I should like to have Mary Bell here, very
much, for a few days."

"Well," said Mrs. Bell, "she shall certainly come. I will send her,
to-morrow morning."




CHAPTER VI.

MARY BELL IN THE WOODS.


Mary Erskine had a bible in her house, although she could not read
it. When Albert was alive he was accustomed to read a chapter every
evening, just before bed-time, and then he and Mary Erskine would
kneel down together, by the settle which stood in the corner, while he
repeated his evening prayer. This short season of devotion was always
a great source of enjoyment to Mary Erskine. If she was tired and
troubled, it soothed and quieted her mind. If she was sorrowful, it
comforted her. If she was happy, it seemed to make her happiness more
deep and unalloyed.

Mary Erskine could not read the bible, but she could repeat a
considerable number of texts and verses from it, and she knew, too,
the prayer, which Albert had been accustomed to offer, almost by
heart. So after Mrs. Bell had gone home, as described in the last
chapter, and after she herself had undressed the children and put them
to bed, and had finished all the other labors and duties of the day,
she took the bible down from its shelf, and seating herself upon the
settle, so as to see by the light of the fire, as Albert had been
accustomed to do, she opened the book, and then began to repeat such
verses as she could remember. At length she closed the book, and
laying it down upon the seat of the settle, in imitation of Albert's
custom, she kneeled down before it, and repeated the prayer. The use
of the bible itself, in this service, was of course a mere form:--but
there is sometimes a great deal of spiritual good to be derived from
a form, when the heart is in it, to give it meaning and life. Mary
Erskine went to bed comforted and happy; and she slept peacefully
through each one of the three periods of repose, into which the care
of an infant by a mother usually divides the night.

In the morning, the first thought which came into her mind was, that
Mary Bell was coming to see her. She anticipated the visit from her
former charge with great pleasure. She had had Mary Bell under her
charge from early infancy, and she loved her, accordingly, almost as
much as if she were her own child. Besides, as Mary Bell had grown up
she had become a very attractive and beautiful child, so kind to all,
so considerate, so gentle, so active and intelligent, and at the
same time so docile, and so quiet, that she was a universal favorite
wherever she went. Mary Erskine was full of joy at the idea of having
her come and spend several days and nights too, at her house, and she
was impatient for the time to arrive when she might begin to expect
her. At eight o'clock, she began to go often to the door to look down
the road. At nine, she began to feel uneasy. At ten, she put on
her hood and went down the road, almost to the corner, to meet
her--looking forward intensely all the way, hoping at every turn to
see her expected visitor advancing along the path. She went on thus
until she came in sight of the corner, without seeing or hearing any
thing of Mary Bell; and then she was compelled to return home alone,
disappointed and sad. She waited dinner from twelve until one, but
no Mary Bell appeared. Mary Erskine then concluded that something had
happened to detain her expected visitor at home, and that she might
be disappointed of the visit altogether. Still she could not but hope
that Mary would come in the course of the afternoon. The hours of
the afternoon, however, passed tediously away, and the sun began to
decline toward the west; still there was no Mary Bell. The cause of
her detention will now be explained.

When Mary Bell came down to breakfast, on the morning after her
mother's visit to Mary Erskine, her mother told her, as she came
into the room, that she had an invitation for her to go out to Mary
Erskine's that day.

"And may I go?" asked Mary Bell.

"Yes," said her mother, "I think I shall let you go."

"I am _so_ glad!" said Mary Bell, clapping her hands.

"Mary Erskine wishes to have you stay there several days," continued
her mother.

Mary Bell began to look a little sober again. She was not quite sure
that she should be willing to be absent from her mother, for so many
days.

"Could not I come home every night?" said she.

"Why, she wishes," answered Mrs. Bell, "to have you stay there all the
time, day and night, for several days. It is an opportunity for you
to do some good. You could not do Mary Erskine any good by giving her
your money, for she has got plenty of money; nor by carrying her any
thing good to eat, for her house is full of abundance, and she knows
as well how to make good things as any body in town. But you can do
her a great deal of good by going and staying with her, and keeping
her company. Perhaps you can help her a little, in taking care of the
children."

"Well," said Mary Bell, "I should like to go."

So Mrs. Bell dressed Mary neatly, for the walk, gave her a very small
tin pail, with two oranges in it for Mary Erskine's children, and then
sent out word to the hired man, whose name was Joseph, to harness the
horse into the wagon. When the wagon was ready, she directed Joseph to
carry Mary to the corner, and see that she set out upon the right road
there, toward Mary Erskine's house. It was only about half a mile
from the corner to the house, and the road, though crooked, stony, and
rough, was very plain, and Mary Bell had often walked over it alone.

There was, in fact, only one place where there could be any danger
of Mary Bell's losing her way, and that was at a point about midway
between the corner and Mary Erskine's house, where a road branched off
to the right, and led into the woods. There was a large pine-tree at
this point, which Mary Bell remembered well; and she knew that she
must take the left-hand road when she reached this tree. There were
various little paths, at other places, but none that could mislead
her.

When Joseph, at length, set Mary Bell down in the path at the corner,
she stood still, upon a flat rock by the side of the road, to see him
turn the wagon and set out upon his return.

"Good-bye, Joseph," said she. "I am going to be gone several days."

"Good-bye," said Joseph, turning to look round at Mary Bell, as the
wagon slowly moved away.

"Bid mother good-bye," said Mary Bell,--"and Joseph, don't you forget
to water my geranium."

"No," said Joseph, "and don't you forget to take the left-hand road."

"No," said Mary Bell.

She felt a slight sensation of lonesomeness, to be left there in
solitude at the entrance of a dark and somber wood, especially when
she reflected that it was to be several days before she should see her
mother again. But then, calling up to her mind a vivid picture of Mary
Erskine's house, and of the pleasure that she should enjoy there, in
playing with Bella and the baby, she turned toward the pathway into
the woods, and walked resolutely forward, swinging her pail in her
hand and singing a song.

There were a great many birds in the woods; some were hopping about
upon the rocks and bushes by the road-side. Others were singing in
solitary places, upon the tops of tall trees in the depths of the
forest, their notes being heard at intervals, in various directions,
as if one was answering another, to beguile the solemn loneliness of
the woods. The trees were very tall, and Mary Bell, as she looked up
from her deep and narrow pathway, and saw the lofty tops rocking to
and fro with a very slow and gentle motion, as they were waved by the
wind, it seemed to her that they actually touched the sky.

At one time she heard the leaves rustling, by the side of the road,
and looking in under the trees, she saw a gray squirrel, just in the
act of leaping up from the leaves upon the ground to the end of a log.
As soon as he had gained this footing, he stopped and looked round at
Mary Bell. Mary Bell stopped too; each looked at the other for several
seconds, in silence,--the child with an expression of curiosity and
pleasure upon her countenance, and the squirrel with one of wonder and
fear upon his. Mary Bell made a sudden motion toward him with her hand
to frighten him a little. It did frighten him. He turned off and ran
along the log as fast as he could go, until he reached the end of it,
and disappeared.

"Poor Bobbin," said Mary Bell, "I am sorry that I frightened you
away."

A few steps farther on in her walk, Mary Bell came to a place where
a great number of yellow butterflies had settled down together in the
path. Most of them were still, but a few were fluttering about, to
find good places.

"Oh, what pretty butterflies!" said Mary Bell. "They have been flying
about, I suppose, till they have got tired, and have stopped to rest.
But if I were a butterfly, I would rest upon flowers, and not upon the
ground."

Mary Bell paused and looked upon the butterflies a moment, and then
said,

"And now how shall I get by? I am sure I don't want to tread upon
those butterflies. I will sit down here, myself, on a stone, and wait
till they get rested and fly away. Besides, I am tired myself, and
_I_ shall get rested too."

Just as she took her seat she saw that there was a little path, which
diverged here from the main road, and turned into the woods a little
way, seeming to come back again after a short distance. There were
many such little paths, here and there, running parallel to the main
road. They were made by the cows, in the spring of the year when the
roads were wet, to avoid the swampy places. These places were now all
dry, and the bye-paths were consequently of no use, though traces of
them remained.

"No," said Mary Bell. "I will not stop to rest; I am not very tired;
so I will go around by this little path. It will come into the road
again very soon."

Mary Bell's opinion would have been just, in respect to any other path
but this one; but it so happened, very unfortunately for her, that
now, although not aware of it, she was in fact very near the great
pine-tree, where the road into the woods branched off, and the path
which she was determining to take, though it commenced in the main
road leading to Mary Erskine's, did not return to it again, but after
passing, by a circuitous and devious course, through the bushes a
little way, ended in the branch road which led into the woods, at a
short distance beyond the pine-tree.

Mary Bell was not aware of this state of things, but supposed, without
doubt, that the path would come out again into the same road that
it left, and that, she could pass round through it, and so avoid
disturbing the butterflies. She thought, indeed, it might possibly be
that the path would not come back at all, but would lose itself in
the woods; and to guard against this danger, she determined that after
going on for a very short distance, if she found that it did not come
out into the road again, she would come directly back. The idea of
its coming out into a wrong road did not occur to her mind as a
possibility.

She accordingly entered the path, and after proceeding in it a little
way she was quite pleased to see it coming out again into what she
supposed was the main road. Dismissing, now, all care and concern, she
walked forward in a very light-hearted and happy manner. The road
was very similar in its character to the one which she ought to have
taken, so that there was nothing in the appearances around her to lead
her to suppose that she was wrong. She had, moreover, very little idea
of measures of time, and still less of distance, and thus she went on
for more than an hour before she began to wonder why she did not get
to Mary Erskine's.

She began to suspect, then, that she had in some way or other lost
the right road. She, however, went on, looking anxiously about for
indications of an approach to the farm, until at length she saw signs
of an opening in the woods, at some distance before her. She concluded
to go on until she came to this opening, and if she could not tell
where she was by the appearance of the country there, she would go
back again by the road she came.

The opening, when she reached it, appeared to consist of a sort of
pasture land, undulating in its surface, and having thickets of
trees and bushes scattered over it, here and there. There was a small
elevation in the land, at a little distance from the place where Mary
Bell came out, and she thought that she would go to the top of
this elevation, and look for Mary Erskine's house, all around. She
accordingly did so, but neither Mary Erskine's house nor any other
human habitation was anywhere to be seen.

She sat down upon a smooth stone, which was near her, feeling tired
and thirsty, and beginning to be somewhat anxious in respect to her
situation. She thought, however, that there was no great danger, for
her mother would certainly send Joseph out into the woods to find her,
as soon as she heard that she was lost. She concluded, at first, to
wait where she was until Joseph should come, but on second thoughts,
she concluded to go back by the road which had led her to the opening,
and so, perhaps meet him on the way. She was very thirsty, and wished
very much that one of the oranges in the pail belonged to her, for she
would have liked to eat one very much indeed. But they were not either
of them hers. One belonged to Bella, and the other to the baby.

She walked back again to the woods, intending to return toward the
corner, by the road in which she came, but now she could not find the
entrance to it. She wandered for some time, this way and that, along
the margin of the wood, but could find no road. She, however, at
length found something which she liked better. It was a beautiful
spring of cool water, bubbling up from between the rocks on the side
of a little hill. She sat down by the side of this spring, took off
the cover from her little pail, took out the oranges and laid them
down carefully in a little nook where they would not roll away, and
then using the pail for a dipper, she dipped up some water, and had an
excellent drink.

"What a good spring this is!" said she to herself. "It is as good as
Mary Erskine's."

It was the time of the year in which raspberries were ripe, and Mary
Bell, in looking around her from her seat near the spring, saw at
a distance a place which appeared as if there were raspberry bushes
growing there.

"I verily believe that there are some raspberries," said she. "I will
go and see; if I could only find plenty of raspberries, it would be
all that I should want."

The bushes proved to be raspberry bushes, as Mary had supposed, and
she found them loaded with fruit. She ate of them abundantly, and was
very much refreshed. She would have filled her pail besides, so as
to have some to take along with her, but she had no place to put the
oranges, except within the pail.

It was now about noon; the sun was hot, and Mary Bell began to be
pretty tired. She wished that they would come for her. She climbed up
upon a large log which lay among the bushes, and called as loud as she
could,

"_Mary Erskine! Mary Erskine!_"

Then after pausing a moment, and listening in vain for an answer, she
renewed her call,


    "_Thom--as! Thom--as!_"

    Then again, after another pause,

    "_Jo--seph! Jo--seph!_"


She listened a long time, but heard nothing except the singing of the
birds, and the sighing of the wind upon the tops of the trees in the
neighboring forests.

She began to feel very anxious and very lonely. She descended from the
log, and walked along till she got out of the bushes. She came to a
place where there were rocks, with smooth surfaces of moss and grass
among them. She found a shady place among these rocks, and sat down
upon the moss. She laid her head down upon her arm and began to weep
bitterly.

Presently she raised her head again, and endeavored to compose
herself, saying,

"But I must not cry. I must be patient, and wait till they come. I am
very tired, but I must not go to sleep, for then I shall not hear
them when they come. I will lay my head down, but I will keep my eyes
open."

She laid her head down accordingly upon a mossy mound, and
notwithstanding her resolution to keep her eyes open, in ten minutes
she was fast asleep.

She slept very soundly for more than two hours. She was a little
frightened when she awoke, to find that she had been sleeping, and she
started up and climbed along upon a rock which was near by, until she
gained a projecting elevation, and here she began to listen again.

She heard the distant tinkling of a bell.

"Hark," said she. "I hear a bell. It is out _that_ way. I wonder
what it is. I will go there and see."

So taking up her pail very carefully, she walked along in the
direction where she had heard the bell. She stopped frequently to
listen. Sometimes she could hear it, and sometimes she could not.
She, however, steadily persevered, though she encountered a great many
obstacles on the way. Sometimes there were wet places, which it was
very hard to get round. At other times, there were dense thickets,
which she had to scramble through, or rocks over which she had to
climb, either up or down. The sound, however, of the bell, came nearer
and nearer.

"I verily believe," said she at length, "th