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Title: Upward and onward

or, The history of Rob. Merritt

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: December 12, 2025 [eBook #77450]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Anson D. F. Randolph, 1856

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77450

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UPWARD AND ONWARD ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

"I have no work to go to," replied Robert.

UPWARD AND ONWARD;

OR, THE

History of Rob. Merritt.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "ALICE AND BESSIE,"

ETC., ETC.

NEW-YORK:

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH, 683 BROADWAY

——

1 8 5 6.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the

Southern District of New-York.

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——————————————————————————

JOHN A. GRAY

PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER

95 and 97 Cliff st., N. Y.

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CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

UPWARD AND ONWARD.

———————

CHAPTER I.

"AND now," concluded Mr. Vanderburgh, "you are acquainted by name at least with all the families in Grandville—all that you are likely to come in contact with."

"But, who lives in this house?" asked Mr. Ellison. "You have said nothing about them, have you? They must be poor enough to need attention, judging from the outside of the dwelling and its surroundings."

Mr. Ellison was the new minister. He had arrived in Grandville only the day before, and in company with two prominent members of his church, he was now taking a walk through the village, and making his own observations upon what he saw, while Mr. Vanderburgh amused himself and his companions with a kind of "catalogue raisonné" of the family inhabiting each house which they passed.

Mr. Vanderburgh's remarks were shrewd and amusing enough, and perhaps sufficiently tempered with the spirit of kindness, but a tolerably acute observer would have had no difficulty in discovering that they had one prominent aim, namely, to exalt himself in the eyes of the new minister, and to show conclusively, that the Vanderburgh family, in all its branches, constituted the most important part of the congregation. Mr. Vanderburgh was a short and rather thick-set man, with a partially bald head, blue eyes, and a sharp, shrewd, and withal a pleasant countenance; he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and carried a handsome cane with an ivory top, which he seemed to use simply for the purpose of giving emphasis to his conversation.

Dr. George Huntley, the minister's other companion, was of quite a different stamp, and never said more than one word to Mr. Vanderburgh's six. He was very tall and large in proportion, with curling chestnut hair and whiskers, partially striped with gray, fine eyes, and a grave, serious, abstracted manner, which, however, gave place to a smile full of kindness and gentleness whenever he was addressed. He was Mr. Vanderburgh's brother-in-law, and they were firm friends, though they often disagreed, and sometimes rather warmly.

The house which they were passing, and to which Mr. Ellison had referred, was, indeed, rather discouraging in its appearance. It was a long, thin, two-story house, and seemed to have had some few pretensions to gentility in its day, but it was now dilapidated and weather-worn. The paint was almost entirely washed off, and the color of the boards was farther diversified with green moss and weather stains. The porch, or stoop as it was called, had lost one of its pillars, and was propped up with rails in a very insecure-looking fashion, while two of the steps were entirely missing. Some attempt seemed to have been made towards keeping the lower story habitable, as the windows were mended with paper in some places, and bits of board in others, but the upper floor was evidently abandoned to the weather. A few old lilacs and cinnamon roses were trying to make a living in the yard, and in one corner, protected by a few boards and rails, were some patches of corn, peas, and potatoes, which seemed to have been carefully attended to, and presented quite a thriving appearance. A girl, apparently about fifteen years old, holding a sickly-looking baby in her arms, was standing at the gate, but turned into the house as the party approached, while two or three other children peeped out at the window, or round the corner of the house.

"You have said nothing of these people," said Mr. Ellison again. "Who and what are they?"

"A miserable set, sir, a miserable set," replied Mr. Vanderburgh, with emphasis, "the less we say about them the better. Merritt is a dissolute, drunken creature, who drinks more than he earns every day of his life, and abuses his wife, who is the best of the set, shamefully. Her children are up to every species of mischief, and Bob especially, who is the eldest, is at the bottom of half the trouble that goes on in Grandville."

"That is a sad state of things, certainly," said Mr. Ellison, "but can nothing be done to improve it?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. We have tried every way to reform the man, and finally to break up the family, but all in vain. They seem to hang together in spite of every thing."

"Some body seems to have tried to make a garden," observed Mr. Ellison, "and to have taken a good deal of pains with it."

"That is Bob's doing, I presume," replied Mr. Vanderburgh, "he is a smart boy enough, when his own interests are concerned, I assure you."

"The boy is just what you might expect a boy to be under such circumstances, no better and no worse," remarked Dr. George. "It would be strange, indeed, if he should have any very clear ideas of right and wrong, considering how he has been brought up. He is smart and active, and does more than his father for the support of the family, though not always in the most creditable way. He is fond of his mother, and takes a good deal of pains to make her comfortable, with very little encouragement on her part."

"But he is a bad boy, George, you can not deny that. He swears like a young dragoon."

"Dragoons do not always swear," interrupted the Doctor.

"He swears like a trooper," continued Mr. Vanderburgh, disregarding the interruption, "robs hen-roosts and orchards, goes in swimming, when he ought to be in church and at Sunday-school, and raises the mischief generally."

"What is the father like?" inquired the minister.

"Like a good-for-nothing, drunken loafer," replied Mr. Vanderburgh. "He is a painter by trade, and might easily earn enough to support his family, if he did not spend all he earned, and more too in drink. His father was a respectable man, a man of property, sir, and owned the place they live in, with about twenty acres of land. Titus was his only child, and began the world with quite a nice little property besides this house; but it is all gone now, scattered to the four winds, and this would have gone with it, only it is so secured that he can not sell it till the children are of age."

"Was the father a temperate man?" asked Mr. Ellison.

"Why, yes; he was, and he was not. He was not a total abstinence man, by any means. He took his glass or two of brandy every day, and on extra occasions, such as election or Thanksgiving day, he would be a little merry; but I don't think any one ever saw him really the worse for liquor. But Titus always seemed to take to it more than his father."

"And can nothing be done to reform him?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. We have talked to him time and again, but it does no good. I expect he will go to destruction, and his son after him. They are a hard set, sir, a very hard set, indeed."

The minister said no more, but walked on with a sad and thoughtful countenance, not seeming to pay as much attention as at first to Mr. Vanderburgh's sprightly remarks. Perhaps he was thinking of the last words of his companion: "He will go to destruction, and his son after him." And indeed, when one considers what is the fate, both in regard to this world and the next, which awaits the drunkard, it does seem rather an awful thing to prophecy in regard to a brother man. Perhaps he was contriving in his own mind some way of getting at these unfortunate people, and making an impression on them. However it might be, he excused himself at the next corner, and turned towards his boarding-place, leaving his companions to pursue their walk together, if they were so inclined.

Mr. Vanderburgh returned to his office, feeling very well satisfied with the new minister, the prospects of the parish, and above all, with himself. And in the excess of his complaisance, informed his clerk that he might take that afternoon to go home if he pleased: it was almost too fine to be shut up in the office. "And, Webster, you may as well call and see what has become of Allan; he ought to have paid his interest the day before yesterday."

Mr. Vanderburgh's description of the Merritt family had one more auditor than he was aware of. As the party passed on their way, Robert Merritt descended from the old cherry tree where he had been ensconced, and where he had heard every word of the conversation. Robert was a pale, thin boy, with light brown hair, and dark eyes, and an expression of face much too old for his years. His clothes had evidently seen long and hard service though they were mended, if not very neatly yet with considerable ingenuity, and his hat looked as though it might have served alternately the office of foot-ball and water-dipper for several years. Robert might with justice be called a pretty hard-looking boy, but yet there was, on close inspection, something in his face which promised the elements of a good character, if he could have been placed in circumstances at all favorable to its development. He now stood for some minutes, leaning on the end of the broken stone wall, and looking after the retreating party.

"A pretty character Old Vanderburgh gives to the new parson," he muttered. "I must say I think he might as well have let him find out for himself; if he has been giving him the history of the whole congregation in the same style, they won't thank him much, I reckon. And yet he is a clever man too, and didn't say a word more than what was true: we are a hard set, and I don't blame any one for saying so; but if Old Vanderburgh had only had such a father as mine, he wouldn't have been so very much better. I think I should like to change places with some boy that had a decent father for a little while, just to see how it would seem. Here is poor Celia, too, as good a girl as ever was; she might be getting a good education, or learning a trade, only no body will take her, because they don't want father coming round; so she just drags about the children from morning till night, learning nothing that can do her any good, and getting just as tired every day as though she was working for a living. And Ben and Mark will grow up in the same way, I suppose, learning nothing but mischief, and very likely coming to the State's prison, or worse. I do declare, it's too bad!"

Bob did not look like a very hard boy, just then, as he leaned his head on the wall, and the tears dropped on his brown and dirty hands. "I wish I was dead," he sobbed. "I wish we all were; though if all the parsons say is true, some of us would not gain much. Mr. Ellison's a real kind, clever-looking man, any how, and I mean to go and hear him preach to-morrow; I can get into the gallery without any one's seeing me. But I promised to go a-fishing with Dick Childs and Joe Adams in the morning; I believe I'll go to church in the evening. I do mean to try and make something of myself if I can."

Bob remained for a long time leaning on the wall and apparently absorbed in thought. His meditations did not seem to be of a very pleasant nature, for it was with a deep sigh, and an impatient exclamation, that he roused himself at last, and turned towards the house.

As he came in sight of it, he uttered an oath and quickened his steps into a run; the rails that surrounded his garden, his cherished garden, were broken down or displaced, and the cow and pig were busy in the midst of his vegetables, the one pulling at the luxuriant pea—vines and the other rooting among the potatoes. It was the work of a moment to drive them out of the yard, and securing the rickety gate as well as he could, Bob returned to ascertain the extent of the mischief and to repair the damaged fence, but as he cast a glance over the beds and saw the uprooted potatoes and trampled corn, his courage seemed to forsake him entirely, and sitting down on the fence, he again burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Bob," said a gentle voice behind him, and Celia sitting down by his side put her arm round his neck. "It is a real shame, any way, but I wouldn't cry."

"Isn't it enough to make any one cry, after all the pains I have taken, to have it all spoiled? How came the cow in there?"

"Father put her in," replied Celia, now crying in her turn; "he has come home just as tipsy as he can be, and broken half the dishes we had left. He turned them in to get their own supper, he said, and then he whipped Mark because he ran to drive them out. Mother has taken the baby and gone over to Mrs. Smith's, and the boys are in bed, and now father lies on mother's bed and swears at me every time I stir. I am afraid to go in till he goes to sleep."

"I wish he would go to sleep and never wake up again," muttered Bob between his teeth.

"O Bob! Don't say so," said Celia starting, "remember he is your father after all, and if you wish he was dead, it is the same as being a murderer."

"Well, I won't then, if I can help it, but I feel as though I could not stand it much longer. I was up in the cherry tree in the orchard this afternoon when the new parson came along with Mr. Vanderburgh and Dr. Huntley, and I heard him ask who lived here. Then Mr. Vanderburgh up and told him all about us; how father got drunk and abused his family, and he said we were a hard set; those were the very words he used, and that I was the hardest of all. But then Dr. George put in his word and said, I wasn't any worse than any one would expect, and that I did more for the family than father. But Vanderburgh stuck to it, and said I used to go swimming Sundays, and that I robbed orchards and so on, and then he said again that we were a hard set."

"What did Mr. Ellison say?"

"Nothing, but he looked rather sorrowful I thought; I like his looks very well, and I wish, Celia, you would go to church with me to-morrow; I have taken a great notion to hear him preach."

"I would, Bob, but to tell you the simple truth, I haven't a decent suit to wear."

"But can't you fix up something? Wash out the frock that Mrs. Huntley gave you, and mend it up, and it will do very well. We will sit in the gallery where no body will see us. Come, Sis, do try to go; it isn't often that I take such a notion."

"I'll try what I can do," said Celia, after a moment's reflection; "I guess I can make out some way."

They sat in silence for some minutes, when Bob asked, though without looking up: "Sis, do you think I could ever make any thing of myself if I was to try?"

"How do you mean?" asked Celia.

"Whether I could ever make a man like Dr. George or Mr. Metwood, if I were to begin now. I have heard that some of our best men were poor boys once."

"I don't know why you could not," replied Celia. "I am sure you are smart enough, if that is all; but, Bob," she continued, with some hesitation, "I think you would have to leave off some things that you do now."

"What things?"

"I am afraid you won't like it if I tell you?"

"Yes, I shall, and it's no matter if I don't. Come, tell me what you mean, though I guess I know pretty well beforehand what you are thinking about."

"Well, for one thing, what Mr. Vanderburgh said, going a-fishing and in swimming on Sundays. I've always noticed that it is only real hard cases, like Childs and Adams, that practise such things. Respectable people never do, and I don't think Dr. Huntley or Mr. Metwood would want to hire any body that had such ways."

"I'm sure Dr. Huntley goes out riding on Sundays, and that is just as bad," said Bob in rather a sulky tone.

"Not for the fun of it, he don't, only to see his patients, and he is obliged to do that. And George Huntley, though he is so daring at other times, and goes everywhere and does every thing, yet you never hear of his hunting or fishing on Sundays."

"I don't see that people are any better for being so very religious, though. They don't do any more for their neighbors as I see."

"Well, I don't know, I think they do. Who have done the most for us lately? Hasn't it been religious people, and members of the church, such as Dr. George and his wife, and Miss Metwood, and the Lyatts, all church members? Don't you remember how Miss Jane Lyatt came and sat up two nights when Benny was sick last summer, and what nice things Mrs. Huntley used to send us? Don't you know how Mr. Vanderburgh gave each of the little boys a pair of shoes last fall, and Mr. Hyde sent us a load of wood?"

"That's true enough, so they did; and I don't know that Childs or Adams or any of that set ever did any thing for us, except Charley Brown. He has been right clever, Sis, you must allow."

"I like Charley Brown the best of them all, I must say," replied Celia; "he is so good-hearted. But if I was you, I would leave off going out Sundays, and go to church and to Sunday-school, and then try to get something to do. If you are steady this summer, perhaps you can find a place in the winter where you can work for your board and go to school."

"I suppose I might," replied Robert, musingly; "well, Sis, at any rate, we will go and hear the new minister to-morrow, and after that I'll see what can be done. Now, let me put the garden in as good order as I can again, though there is not much encouragement to do it," he added sadly.

Just as he had finished his work, and was securing the rails round his beloved garden, now looking, if possible, neater than ever, he heard his name called, and looking up, saw two young men leaning over the wall and watching his proceedings.

"How wonderfully busy you are, Bob," said one of them; "I have called you three times without getting any answer. I began to think you were getting too grand to speak to us."

"I have been very busy," replied Bob, finishing his work without noticing the interruption. "The old cow got in and turned every thing topsy-turvey, but I believe it is all right now."

"You take a mighty deal of pains with that lot of garden stuff," remarked the other boy. "How much do you expect to get out of it?"

"Not a great deal more than we want to eat ourselves," replied Robert, "though I shall have some green corn and tomatoes to sell. We have had nice radishes and greens already."

"You must be fonder of them than I am to take so much pains about them. But, come, are you going fishing with us to-morrow? It promises to be a first-rate day."

"I guess not," replied Bob, in rather an embarrassed manner. "I don't think I can go to-morrow very well."

"Nonsense! What is there to hinder?"

"Nothing very particular, only I don't want to."

"That's clever, any way, when you have been promising all the week, and we have depended on you. Oh! Come, don't use a fellow that way."

"Don't go, Bob," whispered Celia, "I wouldn't."

"You are not going to turn saint, and be too good to go a-fishing Sundays, are you?" continued Adams.

"None of your business," replied Bob, angrily.

"That's it, get mad the first minute. I wouldn't sit up for a deacon, Bob; it won't pay, and besides, it don't run in the family. Come, now, don't be a fool! You know we shall have glorious times."

"Don't urge him, Adams," said the other young man, who was much better dressed than his companion; "if he won't go, there are others that will; only I'll just thank you, Bob Merritt, not to make a promise another time unless you mean to keep it; and by the bye, I wish you would pay me the three dollars I lent you more than two months ago. You promised to let me have it in a week, and I can't afford to let it run any longer."

"I would if I could, Childs," replied Bob coloring, "but I haven't a cent now. I'll pay you as soon as I can get any thing. I shall have green corn to sell the first of any body, and then you shall have your pay."

"So you said six weeks ago, and I don't choose to wait any longer."

"But how can I pay you unless I have the money?"

"You must get it, that's all?"

"I've got ten shillings, Bob," whispered Celia, "you are welcome to that, I am sure."

"That you saved to buy yourself a decent frock with—no indeed. I'm not so mean as that, I hope, if I 'am' a hard case."

"Come, Bob, I can't be standing here all night; hand over, will you?"

"I tell you, Childs, I have not got it, and how can I pay it?"

"You shall find some way to pay it, or I will make you wish you had never seen it. As long as you behaved yourself decently, you were welcome to it, but now that you are getting too grand to associate with me, you may borrow your money somewhere else."

"Who said I was too grand to associate with you? I'm sure I didn't."

"Why won't you go fishing with us, then? Now, I'll tell you what it is, Bob: if you have a mind to go with us to-morrow, and behave yourself, I'll say no more about the money at present, but if not, just pay down! There you have it in a nutshell."

"Come, Bob," said Adams, persuasively: "come along, and we'll settle it some how. I don't like to have you go unless you want to, but you see we depended on you, and Charley's sick a-bed. Come, there's a clever fellow, and we'll have a good time."

Thus urged, Bob gave a reluctant consent, and the young men went on their way.

"So you are going after all," said Celia, as they departed, and Robert returned to his labors with the rails.

"I don't see but I must. Childs has got such a hold on me with that confounded three dollars. I'll pay it next week, at any rate, if I have to steal it."

"It is too bad," replied Celia, looking just ready to cry. "I thought we should go to church to-morrow, like decent people, for once in our lives.'

"So you can; what hinders you?" said. Bob, rather gruffly. "You are not afraid to go alone, are you?"

"I don't want to go alone," replied Celia; "and, besides, Bob, I tell you, you will never be any body, unless you leave off going out on Sundays with those boys. It is no use for you to try."

"It is no use for me to try, any way. I may as well give it up first as last. Every thing goes against me."

"What a pity you borrowed that money of Childs!"

"You needn't twit me with that," returned Bob; "if it had not been for that three dollars, you would all have gone to the poor-house. It didn't do me much good."

"I didn't mean to twit you with it," said Celia, gently, "only I wish we could pay it. Can't we earn the money some way, I wonder?"

"I shall try next week. But do you go to church in the morning, there's a good girl, and tell me how you like the minister. I'll go with you in the evening, if we get home in time. If it wasn't for you and mother, I'd run away, and never show myself here again. But I can't leave you to go to the poor-house as long as I can help it."

CHAPTER II.

CELIA MERRITT had just returned from church, and was engaged, with some assistance from her little brothers, in getting ready the scanty dinner. Mrs. Merritt was sitting in a easy rocking-chair, trying to keep her fretful baby quiet that it might not awake her husband, who was sleeping off his debauch in an adjoining room: she knew well enough, poor woman, what kind of treatment they must all expect, if he awoke before he had fairly slept himself sober. The dinner was just placed upon the table as Bob came in, looking heated and weary, and without any fish.

"Why Bob, I did not expect you so soon," said Celia, "and where are your fish?"

"I only caught two or three, and I gave them to Childs," was the short response, as Bob threw his cap into a corner.

"Do hush, my son, and not wake your father," remonstrated Mrs. Merritt. "I think you might as well bring your fish home, if you will go fishing Sundays, and not give them to people who have enough without. I can't be reconciled to this Sabbath-breaking, Robert: it isn't the way I was brought up, and I am sure we shall never prosper as long as it goes on."

"Well, mother, I won't go again if I can help it. I did not mean to go to-day. Let's have what dinner there is, and say no more about it."

The dinner, consisting principally of potatoes, was placed upon the table, and the children sat down with little ceremony, helping themselves to what they wanted. After an interval of silence, Mrs. Merritt asked Celia how she liked the new minister.

"Very much indeed," replied Celia, with some animation. "I never heard any one preach that I liked so well. His sermon was so plain that any child could understand it, and yet it sounded beautifully, and then he had such a pleasant face, that it does one good just to look at him. I wish you would go and hear him to-night, mother!"

"My child, I should be ashamed to be seen there; but you and Bob can go if you like. I think you had better do so."

"Why are you ashamed to be seen there, pray mother?" asked Bob.

"Because I feel whenever I go, as though every body was looking at me. I really have hardly decent clothes to wear, and I can't help thinking all the time how different it used to be when I was a girl, and sang in the choir, and felt myself as good as any one," and Mrs. Merritt sighed bitterly, as she remembered the days of her girlhood.

She had married entirely contrary to the wishes of her parents, who both died soon after. The little property they had left her, had been long since dissipated by her husband; her brothers tired of supporting the family, had moved away, and she had almost lost sight of them. She often said with tears that she had not a friend in the world.

"But I should like very much to have you and Celia go," she continued, "it looks so much more respectable than to be hanging over the gate, or going in swimming."

Accordingly at the hour of evening service, Robert and his sister might have been seen walking soberly towards the church. Robert looked about him rather uneasily as he turned into the main street. He was apprehensive of meeting some of his ordinary companions, and being laughed at for being such a fool as to spend his evening in church, instead of by the river-side; but the people he dreaded were all absent or otherwise engaged, and they reached the church door without encountering any one they knew. They were rather too early, and as they were standing on the steps, Mr. Ellison and Dr. Huntley, or Dr. George as he was frequently called, entered together.

"Good evening, Robert," said the Doctor kindly. "I am glad to see you at church. Mr. Ellison, this is Robert Merritt, of whom I was speaking to you yesterday. You remember we noticed the neatness of his garden."

Mr. Ellison shook hands with Robert and his sister, and expressed his pleasure at meeting them. "I hope we shall become well acquainted," said he; "I wish all my young people to feel that I am their friend, as well as their minister, and I shall come and see you very soon."

"How pleasant he is," remarked Celia to her brother, as they were walking homewards together.

"I don't know what mother will say about his coming to see us, though," said Bob. "She does not much like to have visitors, and she never seemed pleased when Mr. Hyde called."

"I suppose she was ashamed of the state of the house, and no wonder," replied Celia. "Then, he was always asking her why the boys did not go to Sunday-school, and why she did not go to church herself. I know she was very much put out, because he told her that the children would grow up to destruction unless she took better care of them."

"I don't see how she could do any more very well. She don't have much to do with."

"That's true, but I suppose what he meant was that they ought to mind better, and not be so saucy. They might go to school, too, only they won't."

Robert sighed, but made no other reply, and they walked on in silence. He was thinking how he could possibly manage to earn three dollars in the course of the week, with which to pay Childs, but no way seemed to present itself. He felt at times almost tempted to leave home altogether, and make the effort to get a living and a character in some other place, but as often as the idea presented itself, the thought of his mother and sister drove it away, and he felt that he must stay with them. He was determined not to obtain the money in any improper way, such as he had sometimes resorted to; for the desire of respectability which had been aroused in his mind by the conversation he had overheard, grew stronger every minute, and he had seen enough to see that in order to be respected, he must be honest.

The more he thought about it, the more hopeless seemed the case, and he went to sleep at last, feeling wearied out with thinking, and utterly unable to arrive at any result. He had never been taught to seek for help and strength from above; all his ideas on that subject were dark and confused, and he would as soon have thought of asking help from the Emperor of Austria, as from Him who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not. So he slept without prayer at night, and awoke in the morning without one thought of Him who had preserved him through the hours of darkness.

But God does not always wait for his erring creatures to seek Him. He often comes to meet them, and leads them by a way which they know not, into his wondrous light and truth. Poor Robert was as yet afar off, and groping for the way as the blind, but his Heavenly Father saw and had compassion on him. As he was leaning over the gate next morning after breakfast, moodily pondering over his desires and plans, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and a pleasant voice said:

"Good morning, Robert. I was afraid I should not find you, but I see you have not gone to your work yet."

"I have no work to go to," replied Robert, looking both pleased and confused at Ellison's salutation. "I only wish I had."

"Then I am doubly glad to have come so early. I noticed the other day, how very neat your garden was, and I want you to come and help me put mine in order, at the parsonage. It looks like the garden of the slothful at present; the weeds are so numerous that it looks as if there were nothing else. I am going there now, and should be glad to take you with me."

Here was just the opportunity that Robert wanted. He knew that he understood the kind of work required, and felt that he could give satisfaction. He could not help thinking it very strange that Mr. Ellison should want to employ him, after hearing the character given to the whole family by Mr. Vanderburgh, but he felt doubly obliged to him on that very account, and he inly determined to do nothing to forfeit that good opinion of the minister.

The parsonage had been vacant for three months, and the garden did indeed look like a wilderness; but it contained many choice plants and trees, which maintained themselves amid their worthless neighbors, and which needed only care and attention to produce abundantly their proper fruits. Robert set to work under Mr. Ellison's direction, and by his assistance the plot of ground began by degrees to assume quite a different appearance. The straggling shrubs were pruned and trimmed into comeliness, the weeds pulled out, the grass-plots restrained within their proper limits, and the vines and running roses furnished with sufficient supports. To conclude, a number of flowering verbenas, heliotropes, salvias, and other flourishing plants were transplanted into the flower-beds under the parlor and study windows.

Robert worked with a hearty good will, he was pleased with the prospect of earning something wherewith to pay his debts, he was interested in the work itself, for which he had a natural fondness. Especially he was gratified that Mr. Ellison should have selected him as an assistant, and he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, the desire of truly meriting esteem. He was rather shy at first, and answered the minister's questions with some reserve; but he became by degrees more communicative—and Mr. Ellison was surprised to see how much miscellaneous information the boy had contrived to pick up. He found indeed that his ideas on many important subjects were vague and perverted, but he perceived a strong capacity for good in him, and inly determined to do all in his power to foster that capacity.

As they were busily working and talking together, the garden-gate was opened, and Mr. Vanderburgh and his brother-in-law, Dr. Huntley, walked in.

"So you are working in your garden already, Mr. Ellison," was the salutation of the former gentleman, "and how much you have accomplished, to be sure. But why did you not apply to me? I could have furnished you with an excellent and trustworthy gardener." And then in rather a lower tone, "You will have to look sharply after that boy: he is not to be trusted any farther than you can see him. You had better get rid of him, and I will send my gardener to you as soon as I return home."

Robert partly heard, and partly guessed at the purport of this speech, and the rather proud smile with which he had responded to Dr. Georges kindly greeting, died away, and was succeeded by an expression of sullen resentment. The pleasing vista that had been opened before him, seemed suddenly closed again, and his heart swelled with grief at his disappointment, and anger at him who had thus wantonly destroyed his bright prospects.

"I am much obliged to you," Mr. Ellison replied aloud; "but it will not be necessary, Mr. Vanderburgh; Robert has done exceedingly well this morning, as you may see by the results of his labor, and I am quite sure he will do his best to please me. You may go round to the other side now, if you please, Robert, and weed that strawberry-bed."

Mr. Vanderburgh felt a little vexed. He was not much accustomed to having his counsels rejected, and he felt moreover, that there was a mild reproof conveyed in the minister's answer. He did not feel at all disposed to give up the point.

"But sir—but Mr. Ellison, you must not get that boy fastened upon you. He is a regularly hard case—a young vagabond, sir, that is well known, and the whole family are no better than so many pests to the community. And besides," he continued, waxing warm, as he saw that his remonstrance produced no effect, "I must tell you, sir, that I think it does not look well for the minister to be employing and countenancing a boy who is well known as a daring Sabbath-breaker. It won't do, sir, it will have a very bad influence in the parish. You must send him adrift, sir, it won't do at all."

Mr. Ellison's face flushed, and his lips were a little compressed: he was naturally rather a warm-tempered man, and the dictatorial tone assumed by his parishioner decidedly grated on his feelings. But while he was hesitating for a reply, Dr. George saved him the trouble.

"I can not agree with my brother-in-law, sir," he said. "I am very glad you have taken up the boy, and shall be most happy to second you in any efforts you may make for his benefit. I have been always desirous to do something for him, myself, but I am very much occupied with my business—perhaps too much so—and moreover, I have not known exactly how to set about it."

"Well, I am sure, enough has been done for him," persisted Mr. Vanderburgh, still more annoyed at finding himself in the minority. "I have told him twenty times that he would come to the gallows, if he did not mend his ways and go to work honestly."

"Did you ever offer to employ him?" asked Mr. Ellison.

"Who, I? No, indeed, I would not have him about my place. I should not expect to have a peach or a melon left, and every body in town thinks the same."

"If that is the case, you can scarcely wonder that he does not go to work honestly, as you say. He has shown that he can work well and thoroughly, and certainly his kindness to his step-mother and her children is much to his credit. But as your twenty times repeated warning seems to have had no effect, suppose we try some other plan—for instance, setting an honest living, and a respectable station in the world before him, instead of the gallows, and see how that will act. There are some animals, you know, which can not be driven by any amount of force, but which may be made, by coaxing, to perform a great amount of work."

Mr. Vanderburgh was silent, and the Doctor replied: "I think you are right, sir, in your opinions. I remember very well how I felt when I was a boy myself; and I really do not think I should have been driven an inch by being told that I was going the gallows. It is no doubt true, as my brother Vanderburgh says, that Robert has been a bad boy, and his associates are among the worst in the town, but it has been partly the fault of his unfortunate position. I have thought sometimes of taking him into my own family, where I could easily find work enough for him to keep him fully employed: but I have, as you know, a son about his own age, and I feared lest he should be unfavorably influenced."

"George seems a very reliable, steady boy," remarked Mr. Ellison.

"He has been so, hitherto; I have never seen in him any inclination to low company or low vices, and I believe him to be actuated to some extent by right and true motives. I am not sure that Robert would do him any harm. The best thing for the boy, however, would be to place him with some sensible and kind farmer, at a considerable distance from here—the farther the better—where he would be out of the way of temptation, and removed from the influence of his old associates. If this could be done, I think he would be likely enough to turn out well."

"And why can it not be done?"

"I presume it could, sir. I am not aware that such a measure has been proposed to him."

"He would not agree to it," said Mr. Vanderburgh, doggedly. "He is too fond of loafing about the streets and bar-rooms, and being ringleader in all the mischief that goes on in the village."

"If you think, Doctor, that such a place could be provided, it might be well to speak to the boy about it."

The Doctor had no manner of doubt on the subject, and accordingly Robert was called, and the project submitted to him by Mr. Ellison. Robert listened in silence, and then shook his head. "It wouldn't do, sir," he said.

"I told you so!" said Mr. Vanderburgh, with some exultation. "I knew he would not be willing to leave the village!"

"But why do you think it would not do, Robert?" asked the Doctor without noticing the remark. "Are you afraid of being lonely in the country?"

"No, indeed, sir! I'm not afraid of being lonely anywhere, so long as I have enough to do; but there is a reason why I must stay here. Mother and the children-can't get along and live unless I am here to provide for them."

"But you could send them your wages, could you not?"

"It would not do, sir. I must spend what little I earn for them myself, or it will do them no good. Father would get hold of it, and then you know well enough how it would go."

"But suppose it could be kept out of his hands, as I think it might," persisted the Doctor.

"Still I could not leave them, sir. When I am at home, I stand between them and a good deal from which they would have no protection if I were away."

"The long and the short of it is, you don't want to go into the country," said Mr. Vanderburgh, losing all patience at what he considered the boy's unthankfulness. "Here we are all trying to contrive some way to do you good, and to help you, and to do something for your benefit," (Mr. Vanderburgh was fond of presenting an idea in several different shapes, when he wished to be impressive) "and all the answer you make is, that you won't go."

"I didn't say so," returned Robert, sullenly.

"You said much the same thing; and I tell you, as I have often told you before, that you will go to the gallows; and more than that, if I catch you in my garden again, I will send you as far as the House of Refuge, myself."

Robert threw down the rake he had all the time held in his hand, and with a fearful oath, turned towards the gate. But before he could reach it, a detaining hand was laid on his arm, and Mr. Ellison said: "Stop Robert, my boy! Do not go off in a rage! I do not at all wonder that you are angry, but I can not have you leave me so. Go back to your strawberries, there's a good fellow, and we will talk more about this matter some other time. Above all, don't add worse to bad, by taking God's holy name in vain. Finish the strawberry-beds, and by that time, you will be able to think more coolly about the whole affair."

Mr. Vanderburgh was confounded when he saw Mr. Ellison occupied in soothing the boy, and prevailing on him to resume his work, and still more so when, in reply to his again-repeated offer to send an experienced and honest gardener to finish what remained to be done, Mr. Ellison thanked him, but decidedly avowed his intention of keeping Robert Merritt. He bade the minister good evening rather coolly, and walked home in any thing but an agreeable frame of mind. He began to think the parish had made a sad mistake in their choice of a pastor, and that a man so opinionated and obstinate as Mr. Ellison would be a great misfortune to them.

But as the evening wore on, and he thought the matter over, his feelings began to take quite another direction. He saw that he had been rather unjust to Robert—had in fact, given him some provocation: he acknowledged to himself that it was hardly fair, when the boy was working hard for once, to try to have him discharged on account of his past offenses, thus bringing up his former bad character against him, at the very time when he was trying to retrieve it. He could not but confess, upon thinking it over, that there was some show of reason, in what he had said about going into the country, and he now regretted very much that he had spoken so harshly to him. Mr. Vanderburgh was a conscientious man in spite of his peculiarities, and though his conscience did not always awake in time to prevent him from doing acts of injustice, it always prompted him to repair them as fully as possible, and tormented him grievously, when that reparation came, as it often did, too late to do any good. He now resolved that he would make it up to Robert, if possible, and thus reconciled himself to himself in some degree.

Mr. Ellison made no allusion to what had passed, when he again saw Robert. He perceived the neatness of his work, told him he should need his services for two or three days longer, and offered him the money for his day's work, which Robert declined receiving.

"I would rather leave it in your hands till I get through, sir, and then take it altogether."

Mr. Ellison was rather surprised, but he returned the money to his pocket without any remark, and Robert went home, feeling more like being happy than he had done for a long time.

CHAPTER III.

AFTER thinking the matter over a good deal, Mr. Vanderburgh came to the conclusion that the best way he could make amends to Robert for his hasty speech, would be by employing him in his own garden, and thus showing that he was willing to trust him, notwithstanding what he had said about it. Accordingly, before he went to his office in the morning, he walked over to the parsonage, thinking to find the boy at work there. But as he turned into the street in which it was situated, he unexpectedly overtook Robert, who was proceeding to his day's labor. He quickened his steps as Mr. Vanderburgh approached, and seemed inclined to get away without replying to his salutation.

"Come, come, Robert, don't be in such a hurry! I have a job of work I want you to do for me, when you get through at the parsonage."

"I don't want any of your work, Mr. Vanderburgh," replied Robert, coloring. "You have done all you could to injure me, and set Mr. Ellison against me, and I don't want any thing more to do with you."

Mr. Vanderburgh had not anticipated being met in this way. He had supposed that Robert would be very ready and very glad to take up with his offer, and he was decidedly taken aback by this refusal. A moment's reflection, however, told him that it was no more than he ought to have expected, and he determined not to be discouraged, in his attempts at conciliation.

"Oh! Come, Robert, don't bear malice, my boy! I was wrong in speaking to you so, I confess, and I have felt sorry ever since. I came out this morning expressly to find you, and get you to work for me. Come, now, shake hands and be friends."

Robert was not proof against this unlooked-for kindness on Mr. Vanderburgh's part; he very cordially accepted the offered hand, and they walked on together towards the parsonage.

"I was angry last night, Mr. Vanderburgh, and no mistake," said Robert. "I thought it very hard that just as I was trying to do better, and had found a friend to help me, you should come and spoil it all; for I thought to be sure Mr. Ellison would not want to have any more to do with me, after what you said. I know as well as any body that I have been a bad boy, but it has not been altogether my fault. I have not had a great deal to make me good in my life-time."

"But yet you knew better than to do a great many things that you have done, Robert, I am sure. Now didn't you?"

"Well, yes—I knew better, perhaps; but then—didn't you ever do wrong when you knew better, Mr. Vanderburgh? And then I only acted just like my companions, and I had such hard times at home, I thought I had a sort of right to have fun whenever I could get it. But I do mean to break off with them, and be better if I can, and if I only succeed in getting a little money beforehand, I rather think I can make it out."

"What has your getting money beforehand to do with it?" asked Mr. Vanderburgh.

"I owe some of them," replied Robert; "I have borrowed money of them, and that gives them a kind of hold on me. If I can only get that paid, I think I shall do well enough."

"Ah! Yes! Very bad thing to borrow money. The borrower is servant to the lender, you know the good Book says. Never borrow money if you can help it, my boy. But never mind that now; don't be discouraged, and we will try and keep you in work. Come round to my office when you get through here, and we will see what can be done for you."

"So you and Mr. Vanderburgh have been having a little talk, have you?" said Mr. Ellison, as Robert came into the garden.

"Yes, sir. He wants me to come and do some work for him, when I get through here."

"Indeed! I am glad to hear you have a prospect of employment. I suppose you were quite willing to undertake it, were you not?"

"Why, not at first, sir! I was rather provoked at him, for speaking so to me yesterday, and at first I would not have any thing to say to him; but I saw he was sorry, and so I agreed to do it. It is not in my nature to be angry at any one a minute after I see that they really want to make friends; and besides, though he is such a quick-tempered man, he has been very kind to mother."

"I believe him to be a good man, in spite of his hastiness," said Mr. Ellison; "and I am glad to hear you say that you do not bear malice, which is worse than being hasty, though that is bad enough: now we will go to our work in the orchard."

Robert worked two days longer for Mr. Ellison, and then three days for Mr. Vanderburgh, so that by the end of the week he had earned not only the three dollars necessary to pay his debts, but a dollar over, which last he intended to lay out in necessaries for the family. Moreover—and this gave him even more pleasure than his wages—both gentlemen had highly commended his neatness and steadiness, and Mr. Vanderburgh had promised to recommend him as a good gardener. Mr. Ellison paid him as soon as he finished his work, but Mr. Vanderburgh seemed very much engaged when Robert entered his office on Saturday evening, and as he did not want to use the money till Monday morning, he concluded to let it remain in his employer's hands till that time. He expended his spare dollar on some flour, which he carried with him when he returned from his work.

"So you have really got some flour," said his mother as he entered; "but why didn't you buy more at a time? It isn't good economy to get so little at once."

"I know it, mother, but I spent all the money I had to spare."

"Why, you must have earned four or five dollars, I should think, you have worked so steadily this week; but I suppose you are laying it up for some grand frolic, or perhaps you are going off on a journey, and mean to have enough to pay your travelling expenses. Any thing rather than lay it out on your own family."

Mrs. Merritt felt irritated and discouraged herself; and, as is often the case, especially with weak people, she vented her discomfort on the first person that came in her way.

Robert felt very keenly the injustice of her words. With all his faults, he had never been indifferent to the welfare of the family, and indeed had almost supported them for three or four years.

"I am sure you need not accuse me of spending much on myself; mother," he replied; "I might perhaps have been better off for some things if I had done so now and then," casting a glance at his ragged clothes as he spoke. "I did earn five dollars; but three of it must go to pay borrowed money, and I can not spend it for any thing."

"Oh! I am so glad you have got it!" exclaimed Celia, joyfully. "Now you can pay Childs, can't you?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Merritt. "Childs is well enough off; and can afford to wait for his pay, better than Celia and I can afford to wait for shoes. Don't be so foolish as to give your money to him, Robert."

"I can wait well enough, mother," interrupted Celia; "and I am sure I can mend yours, if you will let me try. I know Robert wants to pay this money very much."

"Oh! Well, if you like to go barefoot, I have nothing to say against it; only when I was a girl, I should have been ashamed to be seen with my shoes in such a state. Children used to mind their parents then, and have some respect for them, but that is all out of fashion now."

Robert was tempted to ask whether it had been in fashion at the time when she married his father against the wishes, command, and entreaties, not only of her parents, but of all her other friends. Though quite young when it happened, he was old enough clearly to remember the circumstance, and the talk there was about it. He exchanged a glance with Celia, but said nothing.

Just as they were sitting down to supper, Mr. Merritt came in, rather more sober than was usual for him on Saturday night, and in consequence disposed to quarrel with every body and any body that came in his way.

"What's all this?" he exclaimed, as the bag of flour met his eye. "Who has been buying all this stuff?"

"I have," returned Robert, shortly.

"The — you have! And where did you get the money, I should like to know?"

"Earned it!" was the brief response.

"Was that all you earned?"

"No."

"Where's the rest, then?"

"It's safe, father," and the expression of the boy's face finished the sentence—"safe where you won't get hold of it."

"What do you mean by that, you young scapegrace? What have you done with it, hey?"

"I've a right to use my own earnings as I please, I suppose," returned Bob; "I shan't give it to you, you may depend upon that."

"Are you not ashamed to speak so to your father, Robert?" said his mother, taking part with her husband, as she sometimes did when she was vexed with the elder children. "Don't you know that he has a right to take your earnings till you are twenty-one?"

"I suppose you would like to have him take the money, and have a spree on it, wouldn't you?" returned Bob, whose temper was now thoroughly excited. "You would like to have him come home drunk at twelve o'clock, and thrash you with the broom-stick, as he has done before now. He shall not have a cent of it, nor you either," he continued, buttoning his jacket; "and more than that, if I hear much more about it, I'll go away where I can live in peace and comfort, and not have any one hanging on me, and eating up every thing I can earn or steal, without so much as saying, Thank you, at last. If it had not been for Celia, I would have gone long ago."

Mrs. Merritt burst into tears, an exercise in which she frequently indulged, and which had usually the effect of quieting Robert's "tantrums," as she called his occasional fits of temper. Mr. Merritt rose from his seat, apparently determined to obtain what he wanted by force, but meeting Robert's determined eye, he seemed to change his mind; he told Robert he should do what he pleased with his money, if he would not be so saucy about it, and commanded his wife to stop her whimpering, and sit down to supper peaceably. Thus the meal passed off without any farther disturbance.

After supper, when Celia had washed up the dishes and put the house a little in order, she went out to where Bob was working in his garden, weeding and hoeing, and enjoying the luxuriance of his melon-beds and winter-squashes. He ceased his labors as she approached, and the two sat down on the fence together.

"Don't you give that money to father, or mother, either," said Celia, "but keep it to pay Childs, and then you will be out of his power. I can't think what made mother act so, only she was worried, I suppose, and did not feel very well. It is warm weather now, and I can as well as not go without shoes when I am about the house. Perhaps by the time cold weather comes, I may get a place where I can earn something for myself."

"I don't mean to give it up, I promise you," replied Robert, passing his arm around her; "I don't much mind what mother said, because I know she don't really mean it, only it is rather discouraging to be met in that way when a fellow has been working hard from morning till night."

"You didn't have any dinner, did you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Vanderburgh gave me some. Oh! She is such a nice woman. I wish you could go and live there, Sis."

"I wish I could," said Celia, sighing; "but there is no hope of my going to live anywhere just now, I suppose. Will you go to church to-morrow?"

"Yes, I think I must! Mr. Ellison has been so good to me, it would look rather mean for me to stay away. I hardly look decent to go into such a place, but I believe I will venture. Every body knows I hain't much of a chance to dress well. But it is a real shame that you have nothing better to wear; for you would be as pretty a girl as any in the church, if you were only just dressed up nicely."

Celia blushed and smiled, and looked prettier than ever, at this compliment from her brother. "I should like to have some good clothes, that is a fact; but after all, Robert, one does not go to church to show one's self."

"No, I suppose not; and yet after all, Sis, what 'do' people go to church for? I know that I go because Mr. Ellison has been kind to me, and I think it will please him, and he goes himself because that is his business; but all the rest of the people—what takes them there?"

"I suppose because they want to hear the preaching," said Celia; "and because they think they must. It seems to do some people a deal of good, too. I remember when old Mrs. Miner's son died, some of the neighbors tried to persuade her not to go to church, because she was so feeble, but she said: 'I must go! I feel as though it would do me more good than any thing else,' and she seemed to come home quite cheerful."

"Well, we will go to-morrow any way; and now I am for getting to bed, for I am about tired off my feet. Good night, Sis; if it was not for you, I should feel as though it was not worth while to live."

Robert was indeed much fatigued, and slept soundly; but about the middle of the night, he was half aroused by an unusual noise, and dreamed that there was some one in his room. He was finally quite awakened by the thought that the door was being opened and shut, and sitting up in bed, he looked around the apartment; there was no one there—the moon was shining broadly in at the uncurtained windows, and the house was all still. He listened a few moments, and then lay down and went to sleep.

As Celia was getting breakfast ready next morning, Robert came running down stairs, and flung the door open with such violence, that the whole house shook. He was only half-dressed, and had his jacket in his hands, and his face was as pale as ashes.

Celia dropped her knife and fork, and gazed at him in astonishment and alarm.

"Where is father?" was his first question. "Don't stand there staring, child, but answer—where is father?"

"He has gone out," said Celia, recovering herself; "he said he should not wait for breakfast, but took a piece of bread, and went off. O Bob!" she exclaimed, as a sudden thought flashed across her mind. "He has not got your money, has he?"

"He has!" replied Bob, throwing down his jacket. "It is all gone, Sis, every cent, except some little change that I had in my other pocket. I thought I heard some one in the room, but I could not wake up enough to be sure. And now it is all gone, and I shall never see it again."

He laid his head down on his folded arms, and cried bitterly, and Celia wept with him. All his hopes—all his prospects of independence, seemed again dashed to the earth, just as he was on the point of realizing them. His week of faithful labor was worse than thrown away, for he knew very well that all would go for liquor, and that his father would never be well again so long as the money lasted. How could a boy with such a parent be any thing else than a vagabond? The poor fellow was completely disheartened, and felt as though he could never make another effort.

"But you have not lost all, Bob!" said Celia at last. "There is the money Mr. Vanderburgh owes you."

"True!" exclaimed Robert, starting up. "I never thought of that! I will go and ask him for it this very minute."

"I wouldn't," said Celia, rather hesitatingly; "perhaps he would not like to be asked for it on Sunday, for you know they are very particular about such things. You can get it to-morrow just as well."

"And after all, it is only twelve shillings, and that is but half enough. There is no use in paying him, unless I pay all." And Robert laid his head down again.

"The long and the short of it is," said Celia, "you must just take that money of mine, and make it up. You are going to have work enough now, and will soon be able to give it back to me, and if not, it is no matter. Come now, just take it, and then the affair will be settled and off your mind."

"But it looks so mean, Celia, to take your money to pay my debts, and to such a rascal as Childs, too. If it was only going to a decent man, I should not care."

"That don't matter, so long as you owe it honestly," replied his sister; "and as to it's being mean, it is no more so than for me to live on what you earn. But you can pay it back to me, you know, if you make such a point of it. Come now, do take it, and free yourself."

"Well, Sis, since you are so kind, I will take it, and pay you just as soon as I get any thing. And I promise you, if ever I have the means, you shall have the prettiest dress that can be bought for money."

"And you will go to church with me?"

After a little consideration, Robert consented, making up his mind that he would discharge his debts the first thing on Monday morning, lest some other accident should happen. The remembrance that all his money was not gone, and the kindness and sympathy of his sister, comforted him a little, but he felt deeply depressed and sick at heart. He had naturally strong feelings and warm affections, and was inclined to attach himself strongly to those about him. He could remember a time when his father was not so debauched as at present—when he would have shrunk in horror from such an action as he had just committed.

If any one else had taken the money, he would no doubt have been very angry, and would immediately have taken steps to recover it; but here the thief was his own father, and what could he do? He knew enough of the law to be aware that his father had a legal right to his earnings till he was twenty-one, and even supposing this not to be the case, how could he go before a magistrate, and accuse his own father of robbing him? He was now fifteen, and unless he could be in some way set free, it would be six years before his time would be his own. Meantime, the family would be sinking lower and lower, and he should share their disgrace; and Celia, too—pretty and attractive as she was—he could not bear to think of that. Whichever way he turned, the prospect seemed dark and gloomy.

He went to church with Celia, and though he was thinking more of his lost treasure than of the service, yet there was something in the prayers and singing, in the subdued light and brooding quiet, which soothed him, and prepared him to listen with more attention to the sermon. It was a very plain one, on the text, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest;" and it spoke of the weariness of the world and its service, and of the consolations and refreshment to be found in Christ. Robert listened with pleasure and interest, and though he had no very definite ideas of coming to Christ at that time, he felt that he should like to do so some time or other.

Mr. Ellison and Mr. and Mrs. Vanderburgh spoke kindly to him, as they came out of church; so did Dr. Huntley and his wife; and Robert went home feeling comforted and refreshed.

CHAPTER IV.

THE next morning, Bob dressed himself as neatly as he was able with his limited means, and at an early hour presented himself at Mr. Vanderburgh's office. The clerks had not yet come in, and Mr. Vanderburgh and Dr. George were the only occupants of the room.

"Ah! Good morning, Robert," said the former gentleman kindly; "well, I suppose you have come after your money, eh?"

"Yes, sir, if you please."

"You must have done pretty well last week," continued Mr. Vanderburgh taking out his pocket-book. "I should think you must have earned nearly enough to buy a new suit of clothes, and I should advise you to do so if you can."

"I haven't got money enough yet," returned Robert coloring. "I lost part of my earnings, and besides, I have got to pay some money that I borrowed."

"That is right, pay your debts first always. But how did you come to lose it? Seems to me that was rather careless; you must learn to be careful of your money."

"It was not my fault, sir; I could not help it."

"Oh! Don't say you could not help it; that's nonsense! People can help losing things if they are only careful. I don't suppose any body stole it, and I don't see how you could lose it in any other way," and Mr. Vanderburgh was proceeding with a very well-intended homily on carefulness and attention, when a glance from his brother-in-law checked him. "But never mind that now; I dare say you will do better another time. Here is your money, and whenever I have another job, you shall have it, I promise you."

Bob received the money with a bow, which, considered as a first attempt, was really very creditable, and wishing the gentlemen good morning, he left the room.

The Doctor followed him; he saw that there was something unusual in Robert's loss, and partly guessed the truth.

"Tell me, Robert," he said, as soon as they were by themselves, "how did you lose your money? I don't want to force myself into your confidence, my boy," he added, as Robert hesitated; "but I rather think I can be of service to you, and I shall be glad to do so."

"You are very kind, sir! It is almost too bad to tell, but you may as well know all about us first as last," and so saying, he related the whole story.

The Doctor listened attentively, and without remark till he had finished. Then he asked, "Do you owe any one else?"

"Only a dollar to Charley Brown, and about two dollars at the grocery on the corner. Mr. Bride has trusted me for tea and sugar several times, and I have never had the money to pay him. He says he will trust me any time, but I have only been there once or twice."

"Does not Mr. Bride sell liquor?" asked the Doctor:

"Yes; sir, he lets father have it very often: he hardly ever passes there without stopping in, if he has any money."

"I do not think it is a very good place for you to buy provisions, if that is the case. You had better go somewhere else, where they do not keep rum to sell."

"Yes, sir, but then who will trust me? And then, if I leave off going to Mr. Bride's, he will want me to pay him."

"But if you are earning money, you will not want to be trusted, and can buy what you want much cheaper, without the danger of being drawn into bad company, and led on to drink."

"I do not think there is much danger, sir. I have drank sometimes I own; but I have seen enough of its consequences never to want to touch it again."

"Do not be too sure, my boy! No body knows when they may be drawn aside, and the best way is to keep out of the way of temptation." The Doctor mused a little, and then said:

"Robert, if I were to lend you three dollars to pay all your debts with, might I trust you to work it out? Would you not be tempted to leave me, and go to work for some one else, who would pay you ready money?"

Robert hesitated a little, and then said: "Yes, sir, I think you might trust me; but I don't care much about paying Mr. Bride and Charley. They can wait as well as not."

"But is that right, Robert? Is it doing as you would be done by? No, no, my boy, you must pay your just debts, before you can hope to prosper. And besides, do you not see, that as long as you owe these people money, you are in their power? You would like to buy your provisions of Jenner, instead of Mr. Bride, because he sells them cheaper, and they are of better quality, but you are afraid to make the change, because you are in debt to Mr. Bride already. You can not refuse to do what Charley wants of you, though it may be something very wrong, lest he should ask you for the money you owe him? Don't you see?"

Robert nodded assent.

"Now if you will work steadily for me this week, I will pay you six shillings a day. How much will that be?"

"Thirty-six shillings," replied Bob after a little consideration.

"And how many dollars?"

"Four dollars and a half," after another interval of study.

"Perfectly right! I see you know something of arithmetic. Well, I will either pay you entirely in money, or I will give you an order on Jenner for half the sum, and he will let you have provisions for the family, at the same rate that he supplies me. Thus you will be able to pay your debts, and begin anew at a respectable shop. How would you like that?"

"Very much, sir," said Robert, with sparkling eyes; "I should like nothing better than to work for you; but," he added, his countenance suddenly falling, "I am afraid my father will claim all my earnings."

"Leave that to me," said the Doctor; "I will settle the matter with him, and I do not think we shall have any difficulty. Your father would hardly care to come into collision with me just now. But if you are going to work for me, I must make some conditions with you. The first is, that you shall always come to your work at seven in the morning."

"Well, sir. We don't have breakfast very early, but I will come whether I have my breakfast or not. What else?"

"You shall not have any thing to say to Childs or Adams, or any of that set."

"Well, sir, I'll agree to that, I am sure."

"You shall not swear."

"I won't if I can help it, but I have got into such a habit of it that I do so without thinking. I don't mean any thing by it."

"Don't you? When you call upon the Almighty God, in whose power you are, body and soul—more helpless than a baby in the jaws of a lion—when you call on Him to destroy you eternally, don't you mean any thing by it?"

Robert seemed struck by this view of the case. "I never thought of it in that way! But God is not like a lion. He is good and merciful—at least the ministers say so."

"And because He is good and merciful, will you insult him to his face? Remember that though he is indeed merciful, he is also just, and will by no means clear the guilty. Christ himself is all mercy and love, yet a time will come, when he will say: 'Depart ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels!' And God has expressly declared that he will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain."

Robert drew a long breath. "I will try to break it off, Doctor. Any thing else?"

"Nothing else that I can specify particularly. Some people would say that I am risking a great deal in thus taking you into my family, where you must necessarily associate more or less with my own boy; but I am willing to trust you, and thus give you a chance for rising in the world, and becoming a respectable man: I hope you will not give me cause to repent of having done so. Now go and pay your debts, and then come back to my office, and I will show you what I want you to do."

Robert accordingly went in pursuit of his creditor, and found him with his shadow, Joe Adams, standing in front of a billiard—saloon, which was the pest of the village.

"Hallo, Bob!" said the former. "You have come just in time to make yourself useful. Come, and have a game with us."

"I can't," replied Bob, coloring with a kind of false shame, for he was always very much afraid of being laughed at. "I must hurry back to my work; but here is your money, Childs, and I am much obliged to you."

"Back to your work, eh! You are very industrious all at once, seems to me. Who are you going to work for?" laying his hand on his arm, as Bob was turning away. "Come man, don't be in such a hurry, became you have something to do for once in your life."

"I am going to work for Dr. Huntley, if you must know. I promised to be back directly, so let me go if you please."

"Yes, yes, presently! Why, it is only eight o'clock, and half an hour hence will be time enough. Come, let's have one game. You are not getting too grand to associate with us, I hope."

Robert made no answer, but wrenching his arm from his tormentor, set off at full speed up the street, his ears tingling with the shouts of laughter which pursued him.

"What on earth has got into the fellow?" said Adams. "He seems to have taken up a new line of business lately."

"Oh! I suppose the saints have got 'posession' of him, and mean to make him a burning and a shining light; but they may do their best, and I will have hold of him yet. And by the bye, Joe, you didn't see him give me that money?"

"No!" replied Joe, rather surprised. "I was looking another way—why?"

"Never you mind, only you didn't see him give it to me, and don't know any thing about it."

A sudden light broke in upon Joe's mind. "You don't mean to deny that he paid you? Oh! Come, Childs, that would be too mean."

"You mind your own business, old fellow, and let me attend to mine. Only you be sure, you remember only what I want you to, or I'll find means to make you recollect something you don't like. You want to be like Bob, and set up for a gentleman, I suppose, but remember—" and he held up his finger warningly.

Joe sighed at the thought of the slavery to which he had reduced himself; but he was not inclined to trouble himself with unpleasant reflections, when it could be helped, so he dismissed the whole subject from his mind, and was soon deeply engaged in a game of ten-pins.

Robert returned to the Doctor's office, heated and out of breath, but rejoicing in his escape, and in having freed himself from his galling debt. He worked industriously all day, only pausing half an hour, to eat his luncheon of cold johnny-cake and pork, which was all Celia had to give him. Mrs. Huntley was going to send him a plate from the dinner-table, when her husband stopped her.

"Better not, my love! Let him do without luxuries till he earns them."

"I ought not to have any thing but bread and water either, by your rule, father," said George Huntley, a bright-looking boy of about Robert's age; "for I have done nothing to earn my dinner."

"No!" said his father. "Have you no then done your task in school to-day?"

"Yes, father, but that is not earning any thing."

"I do not agree with you, my son. I think it is earning a good deal. Studying Greek and Latin is your appointed work, as hoeing corn and potatoes is Robert's, and if you perform it well, you are entitled to as much credit as he. Moreover, roast fowl and custards are no luxuries to you: they are every-day matters. But it is not so with him: they are delicacies altogether beyond his reach, and it would be as unfortunate for him to acquire a taste for such things at present, as it would be for you to get the habit of living on the same scale as your cousins in New-York."

"I do not think the Merritt's limit themselves in any thing when they have the means of procuring it," remarked Mrs. Huntley. "I have seen them at breakfast, dinner, and supper; and they always have tea or coffee on the table, and sometimes both, and always meat and butter, even while the latter is at its highest price. I once ventured to hint to Mrs. Merritt that I thought they might use less tea and sugar, and thus have more money to lay out upon necessaries, such as shoes and stockings for instance, but she took it very much in dudgeon, and informed me that poor folks had as much right to be comfortable as rich folks, and that they were not to be trodden upon, because they were poor. So I did not venture to say any more, though it does seem to me, that when butter is twenty-five or thirty cents a pound, people who are dependent on the charity of their neighbors, ought to use it rather more sparingly."

"But, papa," said Maude Huntley, "don't you think, then, that poor people have a right to be made comfortable?"

"That is rather a vague question, my daughter."

"I mean," said Maude, striving to make her meaning more clear, "don't you think they have a right to tea, and sugar, and butter, and such things?"

"That depends upon circumstances. If an industrious man is suddenly incapacitated from supporting himself, by sickness or any other accident, he has a certain right to expect a 'maintainance' from the community, till such time as he is able to take care of himself, and few persons will grudge to him a supply of such provisions as he has been accustomed to. But when a man is able to work and will not, but depends on the community for all he eats and drinks, he has, in my view, no right to any thing, and if he is supplied with a moderate amount of the coarsest provisions it is all he ought to expect."

"Celia Merritt looks like a nice girl," remarked Maude. "I noticed her in church yesterday."

"It is a thousand pities," said Mrs. Huntley, "that she should not be learning something which would be useful to her, instead of growing up in ignorance and idleness, as she seems likely to do at present. We could procure a respectable place for her very easily, if her parents would only let her go. I believe I will make another effort to persuade them. Your aunt Maria is going out with me on some Sunday-school business this afternoon, and we will call there on our way."

Mrs. Vanderburgh was very willing to second her sister, in her attempt to do something for Celia, in whom she had long felt an interest, but she was not very sanguine in her expectations of success.

They found Mrs. Merritt seated as usual in her rocking-chair, with her hands before her, doing nothing except that she occasionally rocked with her foot, the cradle in which the baby was sleeping. Celia was working in the outer kitchen, and did not leave her work, except to dust out the most secure of the rickety chairs which she set for the accommodation of her visitors, and then returned to her tubs, leaving the door open that she might hear the conversation. After a few preliminary remarks, and inquiries after the health of the family, Mrs. Huntley opened the matter.

"Celia is growing a great girl," she remarked experimentally. "Don't you begin to think about setting her about something useful?"

"Well, she is growing tall, that's a fact, and I often tell her she don't do half as much as she might. When I was of her age, I could accomplish twice as much; but she has not much ambition, though she is a middling good girl."

"She ought to be going to school," said Mrs. Vanderburgh.

"Oh! I can not spare her for that, and besides, I should not like to have her go to the district-school. If her father only behaved half-way decently, she might be going to the academy, as I did at her age. When I was young, I should not have thought of going to the district-school."

"Our common-school is a very good one," replied Mrs. Huntley, suppressing a smile. "I sent Maude there till last summer, and we never had occasion to find fault with it. Do you not think it would be a good thing if she had a place where she could go to school, and, at the same time, be learning something about house-work, as well as supporting herself?"

"A place!" repeated Mrs. Merritt, rousing herself a little. "What sort of a place do you mean?"

"Why, such a place as Annie Leavitt has, for instance. She lives with Mrs. Atwood and goes to school in winter, doing all she can before and after school. Mrs. Atwood tells me that she has learned to work quite nicely, and makes herself very useful about house. Now, I know an excellent woman, a Mrs. Dennison, who supplies us with butter, and who would be willing to take Celia on the same terms that Mrs. Atwood does Annie; namely, that she should go to school in winter and help do the work in summer, when of course there is more to be done. How would you like that, Celia?"

"Very much, ma'am," said Celia, coming forward with sparkling eyes. "I have always wanted just such a place. I would go to-morrow, if mother was willing, and if Bob thought it best, as I am sure he would."

"I am sure of it, too, Celia; Robert is a very sensible boy, and fond of his sister. What do you say to this plan, Mrs. Merritt?"

"I say I won't bear of such a thing," replied Mrs. Merritt, in such a tone of irritation that the ladies started astonished. "A likely story, indeed, that I would let a daughter of mine demean herself by going out to do house-work like a common Irish girl, and with Jane Dennison, too! Why, she used to be a hired girl herself, and lived with your father years upon years. I remember when I would no more have thought of associating with Jane True than I would with—with any one," said Mrs. Merritt, rather at a loss for a comparison whereby to express the greatness of the distance between herself and the former Jane True. "No, indeed, Celia Merritt, if you haven't any proper pride in yourself, I have, and I won't hear of any such whim, you may depend. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" she continued. "You, the granddaughter of old Titus Merritt, and descended from some of the first families in the land, to want to go out for a hired girl?"

"No, I am not," returned Celia, with spirit, as Mrs. Merritt stopped to take breath. "I would rather go out digging potatoes, and earn an honest living, than go on as I do now. And as to our being descended from some of the first people, I should think we had descended a good way. I think we had better leave off descending, and try to get up a little."

"Hush, Celia, my child!" whispered Mrs. Vanderburgh. "Don't lose your temper. I am sorry your feelings are so much hurt by the mere mention of the thing, Mrs. Merritt, and really I do not understand why they should be. Mrs. Dennison is a most respectable woman, and always has been. I assure you, my children take it as a great favor to be allowed to spend two or three days with Amelia Dennison; and I intend next summer to place my second boy with them that he may learn something of out-of-door work."

"That is very different," returned Mrs. Merritt; "your girls only go visiting, and never think of doing any thing, and I dare say Jane True thinks it a great feather in her cap that she can tell her neighbors how Lawyer Vanderburgh's children come to visit her now and then. If she just wanted Celia to keep her company, and sew, and so on, I might think of it, but no daughter of mine shall go out as a kitchen drudge. I dare say you think you do us a great favor by coming to see us now and then and giving us something, but my father was as good as yours any day, and if I am poor, I am not to be trodden down and walked over by any body."

"You need not be so angry, Mrs. Merritt," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, coolly. "We thought we were doing you a service, but since you do not choose to accept it, it is your own affair. I hope you will think better of it when you come to consider the matter. I may as well tell you now, in plain terms, that the ladies of the Society have determined to allow you no more assistance unless you are willing to be guided by them in some degree. I suppose you will not mind that, however, as, of course, you would not be willing to receive any thing from such people as Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Sawtell, who are both liberal subscribers to the Society. Celia, my dear, don't cry. We will try and contrive some way to have you go to school."

The ladies took their leave before Mrs. Merritt had recovered from her astonishment at the idea of being cut off from the lists of the Society, as part of the family income and something to which she had an acknowledged right.

Poor Celia, to whom the idea of going to live with good Amelia Dennison seemed to open a vision of Paradise, could not restrain her grief at the disappointment. She cried over her washing all the afternoon, and it was with swollen eyes and a melancholy countenance that she welcomed Bob on his return. Mrs. Merritt regaled her husband at supper-time with an exaggerated account of the impertinence and pride of her visitors, who wanted to make a common drudge of old Titus Merritt's daughter, and expatiated on Celia's mean-spiritedness in crying because she could not go to work in Jane True's kitchen.

"The girl is a fool, and you are another," was the gruff response. "I don't see, for my part, what your gentility ever did for you, except to make all your relations ashamed of you. However, you needn't trouble yourself about her, nor they neither, for I have found a place for her myself, or two of them, for that matter."

"What sort of places?"

"One is to work in the factory. They will give her fourteen shillings a week for the first three months, and more afterwards. But I don't think much of that. I have promised Burke, at the Union House, that she shall go there and be dining-room girl. He is a good friend of mine, and I'd like to oblige him."

"Why, Mr. Merritt! You would not think of having a daughter of yours go to live at the Union, would you? Why, there is hardly a respectable person boards there."

"Think of it or not, it makes no difference," interposed Bob; "no sister of mine goes to live at that house. It is not a decent place, father, and you know it."

"Hoity-toity! Who asked your opinion? I should think any place that was good enough for me was good enough for you or your sister. I say she shall go."

"And I say she shall not! I would rather see her drowned."

"Hold your tongue, you impudent jackanapes. And you, wife, stop your whimpering, or I will give you something to cry for. Celia shall go to Burke's to-morrow, and stay there, too, or I will give her a lesson that she will remember the longest day she lives."

"Father," said Celia, speaking quite calmly, though she was very pale, "listen to me; I will not go to the Union to live. There is not a respectable servant in the house, and everybody knows what Burke's character is. I will never set foot in his house, and if you try to make me, I will go to Mr. Wheeler, the Poor-master, and ask him to bind me out to some decent person in the country. I know he has a right to do it if I ask him. As for working in the factory, I will think about it. I will ask some of the ladies, and if they say it is respectable, I am willing to go, though it is not what I want to do. But I will never go to live in any public-house, much less Burke's."

Mr. Merritt was astonished to see Celia show so much spirit, for she had never before opposed any thing to his tyranny but tears and entreaties. He knew she had it in her power to put into execution her threat of binding herself out, and he had sense enough to see that such a step would place her entirely out of his power, while if she worked in the factory, he would probably draw her wages at pleasure.

"Well, well, child, you needn't be so spunky," he replied at length. "You shall not go to Burke's if you are so set against it, though it is all nonsense to say that it is not respectable. But you must go to work at something, and that directly. As for you, Bob, you are laying up an account that will have to be settled some day, and in a way, perhaps, that you don't imagine. I shall not always put up with your impertinence though I do now. You need not think you are going to get off so easily, though you do have great folks to take your part."

Robert made no reply to his father's threats. He advised Celia, as soon as Mr. Merritt was out of the way, to ask Mrs. Huntley or Mrs. Vanderburgh what she had better do, and act accordingly. "They are the best friends we ever had, except Mr. Ellison," said he. "I only wonder they have had patience to befriend us so long."

"You would wonder more, if you knew how mother talked to them this afternoon," replied Celia. "She talked as though Mrs. Dennison was not good enough to carry her shoes, just because she was a hired girl. A great deal of good my being Titus Merritt's granddaughter does me, to be sure. I almost wish sometimes that there had been no such person."

"Never mind, Sis. The time may come when I shall be able to buy the old place and make it look as well as it did in grandfather's time. More unlikely things have happened."

CHAPTER V.

AS soon as Celia had finished her evening's work, she dressed herself and went up to Mrs. Huntley to ask her advice, in the matter of going into the factory. The lady was very kind, and listened to her story with attention and interest. When she had finished, she asked:

"Do you think, ma'am, that the factory will be a proper place for me? Robert says I shall not go, unless you do."

"I think you may do very well there, Celia; but it will all depend upon yourself. I know several girls who work in the factory and are perfectly respectable, and I know others who are not so. If you are steady and industrious, and keep yourself out of the way of undesirable company; if you are careful not to associate with those of the girls who dress too much, and run about the streets in the evening, I do not see what harm can happen to you; but remember, my child, that evil communications corrupt good manners very soon. I should much prefer to have you find a place in some good family; but since that can not be done at present, the factory is at least better than nothing. By and by, perhaps, we may be able to arrange matters as we desire."

Thus assured by her kind friend, Celia consented to enter the factory, and it was settled that she should go the next day. It was with many misgivings that at the appointed time she found herself at the factory-gates, and with a still greater sinking of heart that she followed her employer into the large room, where she was to be occupied. But the overseer was kind and considerate, and the girls too much occupied to spend much time in staring at her, and though she was dizzy with the motion and noise, and the apparent confusion, and a little sickened by the smell of oil and dust, she became so much accustomed to them by the end of the day, as to be able to tell Bob, when he came home at night, that she thought she should like it very well, when she got a little used to it.

For three or four weeks, things went on quietly, and with comparative comfort. Robert remained in the Doctor's employ, carefully keeping out of the way of his old acquaintances, and taking great pains to give satisfaction. He was sometimes strongly tempted to help himself to the fruit and vegetables which lay so profusely in his way, and once, finding a large melon, the first ripe one of the season, already detached from its stalk, he actually took it under his arm to carry it home; but a second thought made him hastily lay it down again where he found it. He felt that it would be the height of meanness to rob the friend who had been so kind to him, and he had, moreover, begun to feel a certain pride in being honest and trustworthy.

Robert supposed that this little transaction was entirely unknown to any one but himself; but in this he was mistaken. Dr. Huntley had watched the whole from his office-window, which looked into the garden; and he rejoiced in spirit at this evident triumph of new principles over old habits. It showed, he thought, that the boy had that in him, which would well repay the care bestowed on him. At the same time, he knew that some relapses into dissipation were to be expected as a matter of course, and he meant to give him a pretty thorough trial, before taking him into his family. So Robert came to his work every morning, and returned home every night, waiting at the gates of the factory till his sister was released from her labors that they might walk together.

Celia was beginning to like her new employment very well. She was naturally a painstaking, careful girl, and though it came rather hard at first to work from morning till night, she became used to it by degrees, and was soon noticed by the overlooker, as a steady workwoman, who minded her own business, and always did her best, and she rose in his favor accordingly.

Mr. Westall, the official in question, was a tall, stout man, without an inch to spare about him, as they say. His neat dress and open handsome face, with its bright blue eyes, and carefully trimmed whiskers, prepossessed one in his favor at the first glance, and a farther acquaintance did not bely its promise. He was a man who never did any thing by halves; all that he knew was thoroughly mastered; all that he did was well done. His clarion voice could be heard above all the noises of the mill, and never failed to command attention; and hardened indeed was that offender who did not tremble at its tones, when raised in anger. Withal, he was a kind, conscientious man, and a sincere Christian; and being so, he felt it his duty to take a kind of fatherly oversight of all the young people under his charge. He knew all their domestic circumstances, was their confidant in many little and great embarrassments, and very often helped them out of scrapes into which their own ignorance or imprudence had brought them. He was well acquainted with the condition of Celia's family, and the vices of her father; and he made up his mind that the girl should have, to some extent, the benefit of her own earnings.

"Well, Celia," he said, as at the end of the month, she made her appearance with the rest of the hands, to receive her, wages; "you have got quite a fortune beforehand, hey? I suppose you will have a deal of shopping to do?"

"I don't know about that, sir! I should like very much to buy some new clothes; but I suppose father will want all the money."

"He shall not have it, then, that's all! I'll tell you—you stop on your way home, and buy what you want; and if your father finds fault with you, just say to him, that I told you to get a decent Sunday suit, and if that don't content him, tell him I won't have a girl in the mill who does not dress decently on a Sunday. You need not color up so, my girl," he added kindly; "I don't mean any thing against you; for I know you do as well as you can: I only want you to tell your father so. There is your money, and now go and purchase a nice dress—or stop! I suppose you have not much experience in shopping! Miss Green!"

Miss Green, a rather prim, old-maidish looking person, with a kind good face, immediately presented herself.

"Miss Green, I shall take it as a favor, if you will go with Celia Merritt to the store, and help her to buy a frock and such other things as she wants. I don't know much about women's trappings; but I want her to be properly dressed to go to church and Bible-class, and I have great confidence in your judgment."

Miss Green smiled, and assented; and she and Celia walked up to the store together.

"What kind of a frock do you want, Miss Merritt?"

"I don't know ma'am; something that will do to wear to church: a de laine or nice gingham, I suppose."

"Mr. Westall said something about Sunday-schools: I do not remember that I have seen you there."

"I have never been yet," replied Celia. "I have sometimes thought I should like to go; but I am so large, I feel almost ashamed."

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," said Miss Green; "a great many of the girls are older than yourself. Betsey Brown, and Ruth Cummings, and Anna Leavitt are all in our Sunday-school. Ruth is in my class, and a very good girl she is."

"I should like to go, if I could be in your class," said Celia, after a little reflection; "but I am afraid I could not get the lessons."

"I do not think you would have any difficulty. It is only to learn by heart, ten verses of the New Testament, and I am sure you could do that. I should like to have you in my class. Suppose you come next Sunday, and see how you like it!"

Celia assented, and Miss Green, taking a little Testament from her pocket, showed her the proper lesson. Her frock—a pretty muslin de laine—was purchased and paid for, and then arose a new difficulty.

"How shall I get it made, Miss Green? I have no time, even if I knew how; and I don't believe mother will do it, for it always tires her to sew."

"Don't you think you could make it, if it were cut and fitted?"

"Yes, I think I could."

"Jane Haywood will cut and baste it for two shillings, and then you can make it in the evenings. We will go there now, if you like, and get it under way."

Thus was Celia provided with a decent suit of outer garments, in which she was not ashamed to show herself at church and Sunday-school; and accordingly she began to attend both regularly.

Her father grumbled at finding her wages three dollars short of what he expected, and would probably have said a good deal more, but for Mr. Westall's message, which was faithfully repeated to him.

Celia formed quite an intimacy with Ruth Cummings, who was, as Miss Green said, a very nice good girl, sensible and religious, and this friendship was decidedly beneficial to her. Robert was glad that his sister had found a companion, though he sometimes felt a little bit jealous, lest her affection for her new friend should diminish her regard for himself. He still continued to call for her at night, and to walk over to the factory with her in the morning; and many were the confidential chats they had on these occasions over their prospects and plans.

By and by, he began to study her Sunday-school lessons with her, and to read the books that she brought home; and finally he was prevailed upon by George Huntley to enter the school himself, and become a member of Mr. Westall's class. He had now become, as it were, accustomed to respectability, and thought it would be impossible for him to relapse into his old habits. He had left off smoking and swearing, went regularly to church and to Sunday-school, employed his leisure hours in reading such books as he could procure, and seemed in a fair way of attaining the height of his ambition, and becoming a respectable man. He was yet to learn that self was a poor dependence in a struggle with the bad habits of a life-time.

At home, things went on much as usual, except that the house was rather dirtier and more comfortless than ever, now that Celia had no time to put things to rights. Mrs. Merritt, never a very energetic or systematic woman, had become completely disheartened by the trials of her married life, and no longer made any effort to improve her condition. She now sat all day in her rocking-chair, except when it became absolutely necessary to make an exertion in order to have something to eat. With no ideas of economy or management, she made the least of the little she had, and there was some truth in her husband's complaint that he never had a comfortable meal in his own house. She fancied that her health was very delicate, and she really did suffer a good deal from the combined effects of indolence, dirt, and unwholesome food. Her husband seldom spoke to her, except to taunt her with her inefficiency, or to reproach her for some mistake; her own children, as might be expected, were saucy and disobedient, and though her step-children treated her with more kindness than any one else, they showed her very little respect. Thus she led a miserable life.

Mark and Ben, the two younger boys, came and went pretty much as they pleased, sometime gathering chips and coopers' shavings for the fire, but more frequently playing in the streets, and on the borders of the canal, with other urchins of the same sort as themselves, of which the village afforded a plentiful supply. Robert had tried by bribes, threats, and entreaties to prevail on them to go to the district-school, but in vain; and they seemed likely enough to follow in the footsteps of their father. The baby was a miserable, sickly creature; always crying, when it was not under the influence of the paregoric which its mother administered with a liberal hand, there seemed very little probability of its living to grow up.

"Robert," said Dr. Huntley one day, going out to the field where Bob was busily engaged in digging some new potatoes, "I have a plan in my head which I wish to propose to you."

Robert suspended his operations, and prepared to hear with due attention what the Doctor had to say.

"I have concluded not to keep my horses at the livery-stable any longer," continued the Doctor; "it is expensive, and I do not think they are very well looked after. I think that henceforth I shall keep them in my own barn; but in that case I shall want a man to take care of them; it will be necessary for me to have some one who can stay here all the time, as I sometimes want the horses at night."

"Well, sir!" said Robert, his heart beating at the thought of what was to follow.

"Well, what I have to propose is this: I will take you in that capacity, and give you eight dollars a month and your board. Your work will be pretty much what it is now, with the addition of taking care of the horses, doing errands, and bringing in wood, and I may sometimes want you to go out with me in the carriage. I believe you know how to drive?"

Robert assented.

"You shall have your evenings, either to attend the night-school or to study at home, with what assistance we can give you; and thus in course of time, you will be prepared to learn a trade, or to do any thing else that seems desirable. I shall make the same conditions with you that I did when you first came to work for me, with this addition, that you shall always be at home in the evening, unless by special permission, and in that case I must know where you are."

"I should like nothing better than to work for you, sir. You are the first person, so far as I know, that ever spoke a kind word to me, or thought I could be good for any thing, and I should never have had the courage to try but for you. But I hope you will not think me ungrateful if I say that I should like to talk to Celia about it first. We always consult about every thing. I think I know what she will say, but still I should like to ask her. I hope you won't think me unthankful," he repeated, looking anxiously at the Doctor.

"Certainly not, Robert; you are quite right in wishing to consult your sister, who seems to me a very nice girl, and I will give you till Monday to decide. But you need say nothing to your father about the matter. I will settle it with him."

"Celia!" said Robert, as she joined him as usual at the factory-gates. "I wish, if you are not too tired, you would walk down by the river with me. I want to consult you about something."

Celia declared that the walk would refresh her, after being shut up in the close factory all day; and accordingly the brother and sister might soon be seen, arm in arm, pacing up and down in one of the green pastures on the bank of the river.

Robert explained the Doctor's plan for his benefit, expatiating on the advantages it offered, and concluded by saying: "There is only one thing against it, Sis; it would take us very much apart. I should not be at home evenings, except now and then, and I could not go with you to and from the factory, as I do now. I might spend an evening at home once in a while, and you could come up to Dr. Huntley's sometimes; but after all, it would be very different from what it is now."

"I know it," said Celia, brushing away a tear, which rose at the prospect of separation; "but still, Robert, I think you ought to go. You may never have such another opportunity, for there are few such men as the Doctor."

"I should not think twice about it if it were not for you."

"Never mind me. I shall miss you, to be sure, but I shall not mind it so much as long as I know you are in a good place. And beside, it will be very different from what it would have been three months ago. You know Ruth lives so near that we can always go and come together, and she is so much older, that I always feel as though I could depend upon her to advise me about things. Then there is Miss Green too; you know we are in the same room at the mill now, and she is always good to me."

"She seems to be a real good woman," remarked Robert; "I did not like her at first, her manners are so prim and stiff. Well, Sis, if you think you can do without me, I believe I will tell the Doctor that I will come."

"That is right," said Celia. "O Bob! Who would have thought two months ago, when we were sitting there on the garden-rails, talking about what we should do, that it would have turned out so?"

"I know!" said Bob. "It seems like a fairy story."

"I told Miss Green so," continued Celia, "and she said it made her think of a verse in the Bible: 'He leadeth the blind by a way that they know not of.' She always finds something in the Bible to suit every thing that happens."

"She is a good soul," said Robert. "I wonder why she never got married."

"Perhaps she did not want to. She looks as though she must have been pretty when she was young. I am so glad I have got acquainted with her."

"Yes, it is a good thing for you. I hope, Sis, you will be very careful whom you associate with. Don't have any thing to say to any of the men about the factory."

"No danger!" said Celia. "And that reminds me: Have you seen Adams or any of that set lately?"

"No, I have kept out of their way as much as I could. Why?"'

"Because Adams was talking to Mark last night, and trying to find out something about you. Mark said he asked him where you lived, and what wages you had. He said, Adams laughed like every thing, when he heard you went to Sunday-school."

"He had better leave off talking about me," said Bob, coloring, "or I will teach him a lesson."

"I would not have any thing to do with him," replied Celia, alarmed for the consequences of what she had said; "what signifies the talk of an idle loafer like Adams? But keep out of their way altogether, or they may get hold of you again."

"I hope you don't think I am such a fool as that. Depend upon it, now I am out of the scrape, I shall keep out. I shall never have any thing more to do with them."

"Don't be too confident, Robert. Miss Green says, having confidence in ourselves is the sure way to get into trouble. She says, if we have no help but our own, we shall never accomplish much; and I think she is right, too," she added, in a lower tone.

"What are we to depend on, then?" asked Bob.

"Miss Green says, we must ask God for his grace to assist us," replied Celia, blushing; and in a still lower tone, "and she says we can't expect to prosper if we don't."

Robert made no reply. Not long before, he would have been very much vexed at discovering in his darling sister any tendency to sanctimoniousness, as he would have called it; and would probably have tried to laugh her out of it. But he was learning to feel a respect for religion and religious people, and though his own heart was as yet very slightly affected by its power, he was not sorry to find that Celia was thinking on the subject. The dew was now beginning to fall heavily, and they retraced their steps to the village; but before they reached home, it was fully determined that Robert should accept the Doctor's proposal.

It was true, as Celia had said, that Adams had been making inquiries of the little boys concerning their brother. This he had done at the instigation of Childs, who was determined not to lose his power over his former associate without at least a struggle to retain it. He at first thought it would not be long before Robert would tire of his steady habits, and be very willing to return to his old companions and his former haunts; but as day after day went by without his even succeeding in getting speech or even sight of him, he grew angry, and determined to do his best to regain one who was a useful tool and companion. With this view, he caused Adams, who was completely his slave, to gather all the information he could from the children. As soon as he learned that Robert was to live entirely at the Doctor's, he set his wits at work to devise some means of bringing him into irreparable disgrace with his new friends, hoping by that means to make him once more dependent on himself. The result of his cogitations will be seen in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VI.

THE next Monday after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, Robert went to live at Dr. Huntley's. He had anticipated a good deal of opposition from his father, but in this he was agreeably disappointed. Not that he himself would have cared very particularly about any thing his father might have to say; but he knew very well, that Mr. Merritt would be exceedingly apt to visit upon the rest of the family, the wrath which he dared not bestow upon his son.

The fact was, Mr. Merritt was not at all unwilling to have his eldest son out of his way; he had lost the little control he had ever possessed over him, now that Bob was stout enough to defend himself, and the boy's industry and steadiness were a perpetual reproach upon his own idle and vicious way of life. So he only grumbled a little at the foolishness of the thing, and ended by telling Bob, that he might go and welcome; he was a good riddance.

Robert found himself very pleasantly situated at the Doctor's; he had a comfortable room over the stable—by far the neatest place he had ever slept in—his work was not at all burdensome, though he was kept constantly busy, and he was at liberty in the evening to sit down with his books in the neat, well-ordered kitchen, or in his own room if he preferred it. The Doctor advised him to devote at least half his time to study, instead of spending it all upon miscellaneous reading, and George offered to give him lessons in grammar and arithmetic, in both of which he became much interested and made great progress. He entered, too, upon a regular course of historical reading, which opened to him a new world of ideas and aspirations.

Once or twice a week he went home to spend an evening, and Celia sometimes came up to the Doctor's after factory hours, and staid till nine o'clock. She was now earning eighteen shillings a week, and thanks to the peremptory kindness of Mr. Westall, she was able to retain in her own hands enough of her wages to clothe herself nicely. Good Miss Green was of great service to her, giving her instructions in making and mending her clothes, and some other matters of the toilet, such as cleaning her teeth, keeping her hair in nice order, bathing, etc.

As she became accustomed to her work, it grew less fatiguing, and she did not feel like going directly to bed, as soon as she had eaten her supper. As her friend Ruth Cummings lived near, they were often able to spend their evenings together, employing themselves in sewing, or in reading some volume selected by Miss Green, who had a considerable knowledge of books, and possessed quite a little library of her own. In this way, Celia's time passed both pleasantly and profitably.

Things went on in this manner for about two months, Robert giving satisfaction to every one in the family, and feeling himself all the time more and more at home with them, when he one evening asked permission to go out before dark. Cold weather was coming on, and he wished to purchase some wood for his mother, as well as to consult with Celia about getting comfortable clothes for his brothers. The permission was readily given, with the request, that he would stop at the railway station on his way, and see if a certain package, which the Doctor was expecting, had arrived.

As he stood on the platform, awaiting the arrival of the train, he heard himself accosted by a familiar voice, and turning round, he beheld Charley Brown. If it had been any other of the set, he would probably have turned away at once, but Charley had always been a favorite. He was rather a good-natured fellow, and kind when it did not interfere with his own self-indulgence, and he had several times done Robert little services in the way of lending him money.

Charley was one of that class of people, who are sometimes said to be no body's enemy but their own. He always drank and often gambled; he was always ready to stand treat, if he had any money, or could get trusted, and he was ever ready to do a kindness for any body, when it did not involve too much exertion. He belonged to a respectable family, the members of which, after many vain attempts to reclaim him, had finally abandoned the case as hopeless, and now held no sort of communication with him, except to send him a certain monthly allowance, which was his only means of support, for he had no business pursuit whatever. Upon this he contrived to live some how or other, spending most of his time at the bar of the Union House, where he not only drank himself; but was the cause of drink in others. He was one of Childs' most useful tools, generally keeping himself so much in debt to him as to be entirely in his power.

"Why, Bob!" said he, as Robert returned his greeting. "How smart you look; I should not have known you. You must have a good place, I think. But where have you kept yourself these three months?"

"I have been pretty busy," replied Bob, "and have not been about much; and by the way, I will pay you the dollar I have owed you so long."

He took out his pocket-book as he spoke, and Charley perceived that it was well filled.

"Oh I never mind the dollar; I am sure you are welcome to it; but what are you waiting here for?"

Bob told his errand, and at the same moment, the train came in. The parcel was not forth-coming, and he prepared himself to go on his way.

"Where now?" asked Charley, as Robert bade him good evening.

"I have several matters to attend to," replied Robert. "I must buy a load of wood for mother, and some other things for the family."

"You are a clever fellow, and no mistake, Bob! It is not every young man, who would spend his own earnings buying wood and flour for his mother. But talking of wood, there is a man at the Union, who has a parcel for sale cheap. I heard Burke say it was first-rate wood, and that he would take it himself, only he had got as much as he wanted for the winter. Suppose you come over and see? It may be the very thing you want."

Robert hesitated. He did not exactly like to go to the Union, even for the purpose of buying wood.

"Come, man, what are you waiting for? You are not afraid the Doctor will scold you for going to the Union, are you?"

"No," replied Robert coloring, "I am not afraid to go where I please."

"Come along, then, and show that you are independent."

Robert finally yielded to Charley's persuasions, saying to himself that he might just as well buy his wood there, as anywhere else. He would not go into the bar-room, but he would show them that he was his own master.

Charley had penetration enough to take advantage of one of the weakest points of his character—the desire of being thought independent.

"Burke," said Charley, entering the bar-room and giving the landlord a signal, which he well understood, "where is that man who was here with wood just now? Robert Merritt wants to see him."

"He has gone to the other end of the village," said the landlord, readily understanding what was wanted of him. "He said he would be back in about fifteen minutes, and wanted me to keep any one that called to see him. Take a chair, Mr. Merritt."

"Have a segar, Bob," asked Charley.

Robert had formerly been exceedingly fond of smoking, but he had broken off the habit, at the desire of Dr. Huntley, who very much disliked it. There were two or three persons smoking in the room, and the fumes overcame his resolution; he accepted a segar, and lighting it, sat down by the stove to await the arrival of the man with the wood—a personage it is perhaps needless to add, who existed only in Charley's imagination.

"What will the Doctor and the parson say to you, Bob?" asked Childs in a sneering tone; as he knocked the ashes off his segar. "Good little boys that go to Sunday-school, should not smoke in bar-rooms."

"You mind your own business, Childs," replied Charley, interrupting him: "Bob is no more afraid of the Doctor than you are."

"Oh! No, of course not! I tell you, he dare not say his soul is his own, and he knows it."

"You lie!" exclaimed Bob, starting up.

"Hush, Bob, don't get in a passion," said Charley soothingly. "Childs don't mean what he says. I know very well that you are not afraid of any of the set. You will do as you please for all or any of them."

"I say," repeated Childs, in a more offensive tone than before, "that Bob Merritt dare not say his soul is his own. He is as much afraid of the Doctor, as he is of — and he knows it. He dare no more drink that glass of brandy and water, than he dare jump over the falls."

"Oh! Come, Childs! Don't say that! Bob don't want to drink, very likely, because he is afraid he can't stop when he pleases, or because he don't like brandy; but he is not afraid of any one, I know."

"He is afraid!" repeated Childs again, as he saw that Robert was growing very angry: "Let us see him do it, if he dares."

By this time Robert was too much enraged to think of consequences; he snatched the glass from the bar, and drained it to the bottom without stopping, amid the laughter and applause of the by-standers.

"Well done, old fellow!" said Childs starting up. "I see you have more spunk than I gave you credit for. I am sorry I teased you about it. Come, take another glass, and be friends."

Bob would willingly have excused himself, but he did not know how, and moreover the spirits which he had already taken, and which was very strong, mixed with the fumes of the tobacco, had already almost deprived him of self-control. Partly by persuasion, partly by force, he was induced to take another glass, and then another; and then some one proposed that they should go up to Charley's room, and have a game of cards. By this time, Robert was too much intoxicated to know what he was doing, and he willingly consented.

We will not follow such a disgusting scene any further. Suffice it to say that at five o'clock in the morning, he was carried out of the house in a state of insensibility, and deposited, with many jokes and much suppressed laughter, at the Doctor's stable—door.

His absence had occasioned considerable anxiety to his friends, who could not help fearing that he might have fallen into the hands of his old enemies. Mrs. Huntley, however, suggested that his father might have returned home in a condition which rendered it dangerous to leave him alone, with the women and children, and that Robert might have staid on that account, which was thought a probable solution of the mystery.

Dr. Huntley was accustomed to rise early, and walk in the garden before breakfast, and on this occasion, he turned his steps toward the stable, thinking that Robert might have come in late, and, unwilling to disturb the family, gone directly up to bed. What was his amazement to see the object of his search lying prostrate and insensible in a pool of water, which the last night's rain had formed near the door of the stable. At first he thought the boy was dead; but as he stooped to examine him, his flushed face, and the disgusting smell of brandy and tobacco revealed the mystery.

Dr. Huntley stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. He was at first tempted to send for an officer, and have Robert carried direct to the watch-house, but a little consideration showed him that no good could be expected to result from a step which would not only disgrace him, but would at once throw him again into all his old associations.

After some farther thought, he brought a pail of cold water, from the neighboring trough, and dashing it on Robert's head and face, succeeded in partly restoring him to consciousness. He then half-led, half-carried him, into a little room in the barn, sometimes used as a granary, and depositing him upon his bed of straw, he turned the key upon him, and left him to sleep off his debauch.

As soon as breakfast was over, the Doctor walked round to the parsonage to consult Mr. Ellison as to what was to be done. Mr. Ellison listened with grief, but without much surprise, to the account of Robert's backsliding.

"I do not know that it is any more than was to be expected," said he, when the story was concluded. "He probably fell in with some of his old companions, and they would naturally rejoice in the opportunity of leading him astray. You know as well as I do, the almost fiendlike cunning that is often exercised by such persons when they get a young man into their clutches, especially if he has once before escaped from them."

"I know," replied the Doctor; "but I hoped better things of Robert. He has been so steady, and evinced so much resolution since he has been with me, that I really thought he would persevere to the end. It is a great disappointment to me. I have become very much interested in him, and I do not like to give him up; but really, I do not see how I can keep him after this."

"He will go to swift destruction, if we abandon him," said Mr. Ellison. "Do you not think we had better make one more effort to save him?"

"How?"

"Let him remain where he is till he is quite sober. He will probably—nay, I am quite certain, that he will be very much ashamed of himself, for he has strong feelings. Then set before him in the plainest terms, the sin he has been guilty of, and its consequences, and if he seems thoroughly penitent, as I think he will be, offer to give him one more trial upon more stringent conditions than ever."

"I wonder what my brother-in-law will say?"

"He will probably say that it was just what he expected," said Mr. Ellison, smiling; "that is his general comment, you know, whatever happens. He will probably think, at first, that there is no use in doing anything more for such an ungrateful subject, but a little consideration will bring him round. His wife is sure to be on our side."

"Yes, Maria is always on the side of mercy. Well, sir, I think I will take your advice, if it is only for the sake of his sister, who seems a very promising girl. I confess my hopes are not very sanguine as to success."

"Nor mine," said Mr. Ellison, "but it is worth trying. If I had any thing for him to do, I would take him off your hands, but I could not keep him employed."

Bidding his friend good day, the Doctor now set out on his usual round of morning visits in the village. He had informed his wife and son of Robert's condition before leaving home, desiring them to leave him entirely to himself, and not to mention the matter to any one.

It was not till afternoon that he sought the place where he had left his prisoner. He found Robert sitting up on his straw bed, supporting his head with both hands, and groaning with pain. When he saw the Doctor, he turned away, and hid his face in the straw; but the agony he suffered on laying his head down, forced him to resume an upright position.

"Well, Robert!" said his friend in a kind though grave tone, and taking a seat beside him. "This is a sad state of things. You seem to be in a great deal of pain."

Robert burst into an agony of weeping. "O Doctor!" he said, in a suffocated tone. "Pray don't speak so to me! Kick me out of the yard, as I deserve, or send me to the station-house, but don't speak kindly to me. I can not bear it. Oh! What shall I do; what shall I do?"

"Be composed, if you can, my boy," said the Doctor. "You will only make yourself worse by this agitation, and I want you to become quiet enough to tell me how it all happened. You had better get up stairs to your own room, and then I will see what can be done to relieve you."

With some difficulty, the removal was accomplished. The Doctor bathed his head in cool water, brought him a cup of tea, and by degrees he became composed enough to talk. He told the whole story from the beginning, without concealment or excuse. It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of his penitence and humility, and Dr. Huntley rejoiced that he had not yielded to his first feelings of anger. He now set before Robert, in the plainest terms, the enormity of his sin and its consequences; the injury to his reputation, which was just beginning to be firmly established; the distress it would occasion to his sister; and the hold that it would give his enemies upon him.

"And now, Robert, I want you to see where the trouble began. How came you to go to that drinking-hole in the first place? Was it not because you thought yourself firm enough to resist temptation?"

"Yes, sir."

"You relied entirely upon yourself; and thus foolishly thrust yourself into danger, and you have learned by bitter experience, how much your self-reliance is worth. You can see now, how utterly powerless you are. I tell you, my boy, that unless you learn to depend entirely upon a higher power for strength, your resolution is no better than a broken reed."

"What must I do then, Doctor?"

"You must ask of God, who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not, and he will strengthen you. You must seek him in earnest prayer, repenting heartily of your sins, and begging of him to grant you that help which you need; otherwise, you are lost. As surely as you depend on yourself, you will become a drunkard, and go into eternal destruction, for no drunkard shall inherit eternal life."

"But I should not dare to pray," said Robert; "I am such a sinner."

"If you were the chief of sinners, that should not hinder you from praying. If you do truly feel yourself a great sinner, you will feel your need of a Saviour, and that Saviour is already provided. You must ask God, for Christ's sake, to forgive and blot out your sins. You must beseech Him to grant you true repentance and his Holy Spirit, that the rest of your life hereafter may be pure and holy. I tell you again, that unless you do this, you are lost for ever."

"Do you think He would hear me? I should like to pray, but I am afraid."

"Do not be afraid. Seek God with your whole soul. Ask him to renew your heart by his Holy Spirit, and to grant you a death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness for Jesus Christ's sake. He is more ready to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him, than earthly parents to give good gifts to their children. Surely, Robert, if your earthly friends are ready to forgive you and give you another trial, you need not distrust the mercy of God."

Robert could hardly believe his ears. He had supposed of course that Dr. Huntley would at once dismiss him from his service, after he had made such an ungrateful return for all his kindness, and the thought that he might be forgiven, that his friend intended to afford him another opportunity of redeeming his character, was too much for him. He became so agitated, that the Doctor thought it best to discontinue the conversation, and he left him alone for a while, advising him to lie still and try to sleep.

But Robert could not sleep; his head grew more oppressed every moment, and with every breath he drew, a sharp and almost insupportable pain darted through his chest. He felt that he was very ill, and the thought that he might die, overwhelmed him with terror. He tried to pray, but he could not collect his thoughts.

At last, his agony found vent in those words which have always been, and will always be the refuge for the over-laden heart—

"Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!"

For the first time in his life, he had really prayed.

THE SICK ROOM.

When Mrs. Huntley came up to see him about dark, she was so much alarmed at the state in which she found him, that she immediately dispatched an express for her husband, who at once pronounced the boy to be laboring under severe inflammation of the lungs. He was at once removed from his room at the barn, to an apartment over the kitchen, and then put to bed; but despite the measures taken for his relief, he grew worse through the night, and continued for many days so ill, that his life was despaired of.

Celia, almost broken-hearted for her brother's disgrace and his danger together, left her work at the factory, and came to take care of him, and even Mrs. Merritt exerted herself sufficiently to walk up and see him. But she gave way to such a tempest of tears and exclamations on beholding his state that she was quickly removed from the room, and forbidden to enter it again—a prohibition which she considered as very hard-hearted and unnatural, besides being rather unaccountable; for, as she said to her friend Mrs. Smith, "she was sure no one could show more feeling than she did."

CHAPTER VII.

"SO, GEORGE," said Mr. Vanderburgh, entering the Doctor's office one morning, soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, "our 'protégé' has turned out just as expected."

"So it would seem," replied the Doctor, gravely.

"I knew it would be just so," continued the gentleman, taking a chair; "I never expected any thing else. He is a regular hard case, and will come to the gallows as sure as he is alive."

"His chances of coming to the gallows are rather small just now," returned Dr. Huntley. "He is almost as likely to die with inflammation of the lungs as any body I ever saw. I shall be surprised if he lives thirty-six hours longer."

"Indeed! You don't say so," exclaimed Mr. Vanderburgh. "It serves him right, though; just good for him! Inflammation of the lungs! Poor fellow, I hope he will get over it. Can't you do any thing to help him, George?"

"I shall do all I can, you may depend upon that, though there is little hope for him as regards this world, I fear."

"Poor boy!" exclaimed Mr. Vanderburgh again, blowing his nose rather suspiciously. "I should like to do something for him myself, I declare I should."

"You may do something for some one else, if not for him, William. If you can break up that infamous nest of gamblers and dram-sellers at the Union, you will be conferring a great benefit upon society."

"I wish I could, I am sure," replied Mr. Vanderburgh. "It is an infamous nest, as you say, and has been the destruction of more than one young man: the trouble is to get at it. It is owned and rented by one of our most respectable men, Mr. Haylett, you know, and even if the present set were turned out, he would let it again for the same purpose. I can't think what his conscience is made of; for my part. But I will take it into consideration, and see what can be done. How unlucky for you, that the boy should be left on your hands."

"On the contrary, I consider it a very happy thing."

"You do! What, to have a boy dying of inflammation of the lungs in your house?"

"Not precisely that, though I think his sickness has been of great service to him; but I do think it extremely fortunate that he should have been brought here, where he could be cared for, body and soul."

"Well, well, you are not like any one else—and never will be, though, in fact, my wife is just the same. But if he gets well, what will you do with him?"

"Give him another trial," said the Doctor.

"What! Keep him to get drunk again, and perhaps set your house on fire."

"I hardly think there will be any danger of that. He has had a lesson that will make an impression on him, if any thing will, and I shall not give him up till I have tried every means to reclaim him."

"Well," said Mr. Vanderburgh, "I don't know but it is all right, but I should not do so."

"Yes, you would!" rejoined the Doctor smiling. "That is, you would want to, but ten to one, you would do some hasty thing first, that would put it out of your power. That is your way."

Mr. Vanderburgh frowned and then laughed, and again repeating his desire of serving poor Bob, took his leave.

"I say, Childs," said Joe Adams, as they met in the bar-room of the Union, "have you heard about Merritt?"

"I heard he had got turned out of doors," said Childs indifferently.

"Then you heard wrong. He has not been turned out, but is very sick at the Doctor's, and they are taking care of him. Vanderburgh's man says he is dying as sure as a gun."

"There will be one fool less in the world, then," replied his companion, lighting his segar. "He has paid me all he owes me, that is one comfort, and the saintly folks will be tripped up in their schemes for him, that's another."

"I declare, Child; you are too bad!" said Charley Brown. "You made the poor fellow tipsy, and got his money away, and now that he is sick and dying, you care no more for him than though he were a dog."

"As to that," replied Childs, "I had no more to do with his coming here than yourself, nor so much; but if you are so much interested in him, you had better go up and see him. That pretty sister of his is taking care of him, they say, which may, perhaps, be another inducement."

Charley made no reply, but slipped out of the room, and not long after, he might be seen hanging about the door of the Doctor's office as if desirous of seeing some body. He hoped the Doctor himself would come out; but after waiting some time in vain, he got his courage up to the necessary point, and entered the office. Dr. Huntley was not there, but another person was, whom Charley would much rather not have seen; whom he had, in fact, always avoided—and that person was Mr. Ellison. This gentleman had been acquainted with Charley's father and mother, and knew the height from which he had fallen, and from the first of his coming to Grandville, the wretched young man had carefully kept out of his way. It was with some little consternation that he now found himself face to face with him.

"Is the Doctor in?" asked he, bashfully.

"No," replied Mr. Ellison, "but he will be here presently. Please to take a seat."

"Oh! It's no matter," returned Charley, edging towards the door; "I only came up to inquire about Robert. I heard he was very sick."

"He 'is' very sick," said Mr. Ellison, gravely. "Thanks to your cares and those of your associates, he will probably live but a few hours longer at most."

Charley was confounded by this unexpected address, which showed clearly that the minister was acquainted with the whole affair. Strange as it may seem, the idea that he was at all to blame for what had passed, had never entered his mind. To be sure he was not much accustomed to reflect upon any thing.

"I am sure," he stammered, "I did not mean any harm. It was only a joke. I did not think any thing would come of it."

"Did you not?" asked Mr. Ellison. "You contrived a story to get him over to the Union, into your den of robbers and drunkards. You persuaded him to drink and then to gamble, though you knew well that it would be the means of his losing his place and destroy all his hopes of advancement. You knew how much his fall would distress his friends, who have been making efforts to reclaim him, as well as his sister, who is devoted to him. How, then, can you say you meant no harm?"

Charley could make no reply. Degraded as he was, his conscience was not yet dead, and now it made itself heard.

The minister saw his advantage, and pursued it. "You knew more," he continued; "for I know that you were well taught when you were young. You know that no drunkard can inherit the kingdom of God. You know that the course you and your associates are pursuing leads down to hell!—that it is destruction in this world and perdition in the next. Did you ever see any one die of delirium tremens?"

"I saw a man have it once."

"Did you think it a pleasant or easy death?"

"No," replied Charley shuddering, "it was horrible."

"And yet it was to this horrible fate that you wished to lead this poor young man, for the sake of a joke, as you are pleased to say. And now, I warn you solemnly, that his death will rest upon you; if he dies, you are his murderer. You would have killed him body and soul if you could; but God, in his mercy, has given him time to repent, and I trust all is well there. But I warn you, and as you love your own soul, I beseech you not to slight the warning, that you are on your way to eternal ruin, and that it is not far off. The pit may open at any moment under your feet, for drunkards are not long-lived, as you know very well. Oh! Be entreated; leave off your evil courses, repent, and be saved. Do you remember your mother?"

Charley nodded.

"What sort of a woman was she?"

"She was a good woman," said Charley, with a trembling lip. "She used to try to make me a good boy, and it is not her fault that I am not a good man."

"Did she use to teach you to say your prayers at her knee?"

"Yes," replied the young man with tears starting in his eyes; "and to read the Bible. If I had minded her, I should not have been such a miserable fellow as I am."

"Then, if you love her memory, as I see you do, you will wish to see her again. But can you ever hope to do so, if you die as you are now? Come, Charley, be entreated before it is too late. There is time for repentance now—to-morrow there may be none. Think of your mother in heaven! Think of God, who loves you more than she does, and is waiting for you to return. Repent, leave off the drink which degrades you to a level lower than the lowest beast, in your own eyes and those of others. If you are unable to do it where you are, go where you can not get liquor; study your Bible and pray, and you may yet be a man and a Christian. There are enough ready to help you. We will stand by you, as we did by Robert, and assist you in every way. God himself will be on your side. Come, Charley, lose no more time—begin now!"

Charley was much moved. He brushed the tears from his eyes and grasped the minister's hand warmly, as he promised to consider the matter.

But alas! for deferred resolutions.

That afternoon he was persuaded by Childs to get into his buggy and ride up the river to see a foot-race which was going on about ten miles off. He was unwilling to consent, yet had not the strength to refuse, and he went, excusing himself by thinking that it was the last time he would have any thing to do with Childs. It was, indeed, the last time! He had made a solemn resolution that he would not drink a drop, but in the hands of his tormentor, he was as helpless as an infant.

Both the young men drank enough to deprive them of all self-control. The spirited horse took fright as they were coming down a steep hill, the reins gave way, and the wagon, horse, and all were dashed over a considerable precipice. Their danger was seen by some men who were at work in a field not far off, and who ran to their assistance, but too late to prevent the catastrophe. Childs was dead! A kick from the frantic horse had fractured his skull, and he never spoke or moved again.

Charley lived three or four days, but he never recovered his senses or seemed to know those about him. Once, indeed, he opened his eyes for a few moments, and seeing Mr. Ellison standing over him, he made a feeble movement to grasp his hand.

Mr. Ellison took it in his own, and bending over him, said distinctly: "Charley, can you hear me?"

A feeble movement of the head seamed to say yes. "It is not too late yet. Pray, my friend, say in your heart, God have mercy on me! Press my hand if you can say so."

He thought there was a faint pressure, but he would not be sure. The hand relaxed, the eyes closed, and all was over for this world. Thus died one who might have been a useful and respected member of society, instead of being its pest and bane. Thus die hundreds—yes, hundreds of young men every year. This is no fiction. It is a true story, and your own physician and clergyman can probably tell you many more such tales.

Contrary to all expectations, Robert's disorder took a favorable turn, and after many days of suspense and watching, he was pronounced out of danger. It was a long time before he could leave his room, and all winter long he was feeble and unable to do much work. He still continued to live at the Doctor's, doing what he could in return for his board and lodging, and spending his spare time in study, of which he was becoming very fond. He was no longer self-reliant and confident; he had found out now what such confidence was worth. When he became able to talk and to be read to, his kind friends Mrs. Huntley and George were ready to lead him to right and profitable thoughts, and during the many long hours, when he lay unable to talk or to employ himself in any way, he revolved in his mind all he had learned in church and Bible-class, and the Holy Spirit made the truth effectual to his salvation. Robert came out of his sickness a sincere and humble Christian.

Thus passed the winter. Celia returned to her work in the factory, though it did not seem to suit her very well; for she grew thin and pale, and sometimes had a pain in her chest which hindered her from working at all. Robert became alarmed about her, and tried to communicate his fears to his mother, but she could or would see nothing wrong. Celia was growing very fast, she said; it was natural for girls to grow thin at her age; and as for the pains in her chest they were nothing; she often had much worse ones herself, which no one thought were worth noticing. She would not hear of her going out to service, and so Celia continued working in the factory when she was able, and taking the greatest care of herself.

Benny and Mark were at last prevailed upon to go to school by the gift of a comfortable suit a-piece, on condition that they would attend regularly every day. Once broken in, to habits of quietness, they began to enjoy the warmth, the cleanliness, and the society of the school-room. Thus their ambition was aroused, and they grew ashamed of being so much behind the boys of their own age, and finally, by the judicious pains of their teacher, the desire of knowledge for its own sake was aroused in their minds.

When Benny came to Miss Williams one night, and asked permission to carry his Reader home with him, that he might show Celia and Bob how much he had learned, she felt as though her work was almost done. It now became their greatest pleasure and reward to be allowed to go up with Celia and spend the evening with Robert at Dr. Huntley's, where Maude took great pains to make the time pass pleasantly to them.

And though Mrs. Merritt now and then grumbled a little, and sometimes cried as she said that her children cared more for any one else in the world than they did for her, she did not often refuse permission. She grew more and more indolent every day, and, though now and then, spurred by the earnest representations of her visitors, Mrs. Vanderburgh and Mrs. Huntley, she would make some effort to clean her house and make her children more comfortable, they soon relaxed, and the family would have fared badly but for Celia.

And what did the father say all this time? He said very little one way or the other. He was fast sinking into a state of utter imbecility. He was never sober so long as he had the means of drinking in his hands, and the means were supplied pretty regularly by that part of Celia's earnings of which he got possession. She managed to keep enough in her own hands to clothe herself comfortably, and to do something for her mother, besides providing some comforts for the family. Robert was unable to earn any thing, so that this, with the allowance made by the poor-master, was all they had to depend upon.

This allowance was sufficiently liberal, some people thought quite too much so, but Mrs. Merritt's careless improvidence made it little enough. While her cord of wood lasted, she would stuff it into the fire by armfuls, keeping the stove red-hot half the time, without bestowing a thought on what they were to do when it was gone. She would cook meat three times a day while she had a bit remaining, and the same with tea and coffee. Twenty times the poor-master, vexed past all patience, had threatened to carry them off to the poor-house; but he was a good-natured man, and had become interested in the efforts of Robert and Celia to raise themselves and their brothers to respectability, and so when they would beset him with their entreaties, he would decide to postpone the removal a little longer.

The poor little baby died in the course of this winter. It had been ailing from its birth; and had never been properly taken care of. And though Celia was very fond of the poor little thing, and cried bitterly over its little coffin, she could not be sorry that it was taken to its rest so early. The little boys behaved as well as possible at the funeral, and showed so much thoughtfulness and seriousness in their questions and remarks about the matter, that Celia was quite comforted. Mr. Merritt paid but little attention to the matter, and hardly seemed to understand that the child was dead. And so, between working, studying, suffering, and enjoyment, the winter passed away, in spite of sickness and anxiety, by far the happiest winter our young friends had ever passed.

CHAPTER VIII.

BY the time that the weather became settled in the spring, Robert's health was again fully established, and he was able to do more work than ever. His horticultural tastes found full scope in Mrs. Huntley's flower-garden, which garden was her especial pet, and the pride of her heart. She had never allowed any former gardener to set foot within its sacred boundaries, but Robert displayed such genuine love for her favorites, and went into such ecstasies over the first bunch of blue and white hyacinths, that she allowed him henceforth to assist her in all her nice operations, and even to weed, and hoe, and rake, when she was not there to overlook him. Besides, he reigned supreme over the kitchen-garden, tying up raspberries, trimming currant-bushes, and planting seeds according to his own pleasure, and evincing so much discretion and taste, that the Doctor had seldom occasion to interfere with his arrangements.

As he could not, of course, attend to his garden at home, Dr. George allowed him to cultivate, on his own account, a small piece of ground at the back of the orchard. Here he planted the seeds he had purchased with his own money, and here Benny and Mark, coming up before and after school, received their first lessons in the sublime art of weeding onions.

Celia continued her work in the factor where some changes had occurred, which made a decided change for the worse in her situation. In the first place, Mr. Westall married and went away to the city, his place being supplied by an overseer who took no interest in the hands, except to see that they did not slight their work. He allowed them to talk as much, and on such subjects as they pleased, and as many of the girls had been far from well brought up, Celia often heard things which made her feel very uncomfortably, and wish herself anywhere else. A year before, she would have been in great danger, but now she had a principle within, which might possibly preserve her from contamination. Still she would sometimes find herself listening to the stories related by her companions in the intervals of labor, and thinking of them afterwards, and though she always checked herself as soon as she became aware of it, it made her very unhappy.

Her two friends Miss Green and Ruth Cummings, also left the mill, the one to teach a little school in a neighboring village, the other to go into a family, to do house-work. Miss Green strongly urged Celia to do the same, as soon as she possibly could.

"The mill is no place for you now, Celia; things are entirely changed there. Mr. Smith takes no sort of oversight of the girls' doings, and some of them are up to any sort of mischief. You are young, and likely enough to be led astray, and I should certainly advise you to get a place in some respectable family as soon as possible."

"Lydia Hinds says she would not work in a family for any thing," observed Celia. "She says she lived with Mrs. Ainsworth once, and that she could not go out anywhere without coming to ask, and telling where she was going, and Mrs. Ainsworth would not let her be out after nine o'clock."

"Lydia Hinds is a foolish, giddy girl," returned Miss Green with some severity; "and if you listen to her, you will be certain to get into trouble. The things of which she complains, are the very ones which should make a sensible girl like her place. Do you suppose Miss Maude Huntley ever goes anywhere, without first asking her mother?"

"No!" replied Celia. "I know she does not, and her mother is very particular about always knowing where she is. One night while Robert was sick, Miss Maude went home from school with one of the young ladies, and staid till nine o'clock, without telling her mother where she was going, and Mrs. Huntley was very much displeased about it. But all mothers are not so very particular."

"Nor all mistresses, but all sensible ones are, especially with girls of your age. If you live with a lady, you should always go to her, just as if she were your mother, and never do any thing without asking. A great many giddy girls I know, prefer to live in rooms by themselves, and take in sewing, or work in the mills, instead of going into families, because they fancy it is a fine thing to be independent; and a nice piece of work they make of it sometimes."

"I should like to live in a family, I am sure," said Celia; "and I would look for a place in a minute, if mother would let me, but she won't. She says I ought to have more self-respect than to think of such a thing. But for my part, I think that people who are not above being helped by the poor-master, should not feel bad about going out to work."

"Pride takes all sorts of curious shapes, my dear. But now bear in mind what I say, and get a place as soon as you can. Don't have any thing to do with the foolish talk of the girls about beaux and such things; and don't listen to them if you can help it. Above all, be very careful what you read. I have seen Lydia finds reading such books as any decent girl ought to be ashamed to look into; and nine tenths of the yellow and green-covered pamphlets which the girls have among them, are not fit to light a fire with. Let them all alone; that is the best way for you. You can procure books enough from the district and parish library, to occupy your leisure hours without running any risk of getting what is not proper for you. Well, my dear, I have preached you quite a sermon; I hope I have not tired you."

"No, indeed!" replied Celia. "I could hear you preach all day without being tired."

"Then I will add a little more. You will have a new teacher in Sunday-school, I presume, or perhaps be put into one of the larger classes. Do not fail to go every Sunday, and to have your lessons perfectly. I hope, Celia, that you love to read your Bible?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"And to pray?"

"Yes ma'am," returned Celia in a lower tone.

"Then, my dear, remember that these two things must be your great safe-guards. Whenever you find yourself tempted to do wrong, as you will often be, pray for strength to resist that temptation; whenever you feel that you have sinned in any way, lose no time in asking forgiveness and strength for the future. When you are perplexed and troubled and know not which way to turn, go to God, and ask Him to enlighten you; cast all your desires and plans before him, and he will make your way very plain before you. God bless and keep you, my dear! I feel badly about leaving you here, in the midst of so much evil; but I hope He will soon show you a way out of it."

Celia felt forlorn enough, when Miss Green and Ruth were both gone, and she could hardly bear to go into the mill, next day; but there was no help for it, so she went, fully resolved to attend only to her work, and have nothing to do with the follies of the girls. For many days, she persevered in this resolution, but after a while she became careless, and relaxed her guard. She began to listen with interest to the talk and stories of the girls, and even joined in them herself. She went out walking in the evening once or twice, with Lydia Hinds, and one or two of her male associates; but chancing, happily for her, to meet Robert on one of these occasions, he gave her such a lecture on the subject, that she was afraid to do it again.

Still, she talked with Lydia and listened to her, and thus having begun a degree of intimacy, she found it hard to leave off. Then she began to read a little at a time, in some of the books, that Miss Green had cautioned her against, and finally went so far as to borrow one of them, and take it home with her. Her Bible lost its interest for her, and lay neglected day after day; her Sunday-school lessons were very badly learned, and she began to feel ashamed, when her new friend laughed at her for going every Sunday, like a little girl. Thus she was once more in the downward way, which might have led her to utter destruction, had she not been mercifully arrested, before she had taken any fatal step.

It was very warm weather. The authorities of Grandville were not remarkably careful about cleaning the streets, and keeping the sewers in order, despite the energetic representations of Dr. George, and his brother-in-law. Mr. Ellison talked sanitary reform with all his might, and threatened to preach a sermon about it, but all to very little purpose. People were still allowed to keep pigs in their back-gardens, and to pour their slops into the street to dry away in the sun. Mr. Haylett still rented the Union for a drinking-house, and got a good rent for it, too, though the drains were all stopped up, and the cellars filled with water. Mr. Jones was not forced to remove his slaughter-house, though it was a terrible nuisance to all the thickly-settled neighborhood; to be sure, none but poor Dutch and Irish families lived there. And when Dr. George complained that the streets were never cleaned, that the drains were very offensive, and that all sorts of rubbish was thrown into the river, now very low, as was usual at that season, he only got himself laughed at, for being so notional.

Well, by and by people began to talk about the cholera. It had made its appearance in the neighboring city of B., and was very bad there, and a great many people were leaving the city in consequence; so the Grandville people stopped going to B. to do their shopping, greatly to the delight of the merchants in the village, who were much benefited thereby. The doctor and the minister urged more and more strongly the necessity of taking urgent measures to cleanse and purify the village, and now people began to be seriously angry with them for trying to create a panic.

"Did not every one know," Mr. Haylett said, "that people were very often frightened into the disorder? Nothing could be worse than to go and make every one think that they must certainly have the disorder; such measures would be certain to bring it on." He even did not scruple to accuse the Doctor of trying to serve his own ends in getting customers for himself. As for Mr. Ellison, Mr. Haylett was of opinion that a minister's business was to preach the Gospel, and not to go poking round among the lower classes, looking into their cellars and cisterns, and trying to make them discontented with their houses and their landlords.

By and by, a man who lived down near the slaughter-house, in one of Mr. Haylett's tenements, died very suddenly. He went home from his work, in the afternoon, a little unwell, and before morning he was dead; so sudden was he taken, that there was no time to send for a doctor. It was cholera morbus—clearly cholera morbus, Mr. Haylett said—at the same time taking good care to keep away from that part of the village.

But Dr. Huntley talked with the priest, who, the man being a Roman Catholic, had been sent for in his last moments, and made up his own mind as to the matter. Mr. O'Brien had seen a great deal of the disease during his ministrations in the neighboring city, and he had no hesitation in telling the Doctor that he considered it a clear case of cholera, adding, that in his opinion, it would not be the last.

Dr. George thought so, too, and so it proved. He was sent for, before night, to see the wife of the man who was first attacked; and before the next evening not only this woman, but another in the same house, had died, and two or three of the neighbors lay sick enough. There was no doubt now of the nature of the disease, though many people still persisted that there was no danger, and declaimed angrily enough against those who, by active sanitary measures, wished to "create a panic."

The merchants were very indignant at the proposition made by Mr. Ellison, that the number of cases should be published daily, (Grandville, as became a place of its importance, had a daily paper,) in order that people might know exactly how bad the disease was, and not be deceived by rumors which always made things appear worse than they really were. So it went on from day to day, and nothing was done that should have been done. The pestilence increased frightfully. Dr. George and Mr. Ellison were called upon at all hours of the day and night; whole families were prostrated at once in the poorer parts of the village, and people began to wonder where it would end.

In the midst of the distress, Celia came home from the factory rather late one night to find Benny quite unwell, complaining of pain and sickness at the stomach. He was rather subject to such attacks, so she was not at all alarmed. But after giving him a little hot tea and bathing his feet, she put him to bed early, and thought little more about the matter, except to visit him again before she retired, when she found him sleeping soundly. Her own bed-room was next to that of the boys, and she was awakened from her first nap to find little Mark crying by her bed.

"Benny is very sick," he said. "I can't make him say any thing that I can understand, only he says his feet cramp. Do get up and see him."

"You must run for the doctor, Mark," she said as soon as she had a look at Benny; "I am afraid he is very sick indeed."

"I am afraid to go in the dark," said Mark, crying afresh. "Jim Dolan says there is a ghost down by the old church that comes out at night."

"Jim Dolan is a dunce," replied Celia. "Come, Mark, dear, do go as quick as you can. Nothing will hurt you; there are no such thing as ghosts, you know."

"Oh! But there are!" persisted Mark. "For Jim's father saw this one once, and it chased him."

"Well, then, stay here and I will go myself; I am not afraid of the ghost."

But Mark was as unwilling to stay alone with Benny as to go alone for the doctor, and Celia concluded that she must call her mother and leave her with Ben while she did her errand herself.

She did not take much by her motion. Mrs. Merritt, peevish at being awakened, at first insisted that nothing more than common ailed the child, and that it was nonsense to send for the doctor. Finally, when she did get frightened, she would not be left alone either, and thus a precious hour was wasted in useless remonstrances, the boy all the time growing worse.

Finally, just as Celia was getting desperate, she heard some one passing in the street. The firm, steady step and clear whistle of the stranger showed that he was sober, at any rate, and she opened the window and called, "Who is there?"

"Hullo," was the answer, "any thing the matter?"

"Yes," replied Celia, "my little brother is very sick. I am afraid he is dying, and I have no one to send for the doctor."

"I'll send him," replied the man at once, "I am going right past there. Who shall I say wants him?"

"Celia Merritt, and please tell him to make haste; and, oh! Do tell my brother Robert to come home directly. He lives at the Doctor's. Tell him Benny is very sick."

The stranger set off on his errand of kindness, with an apparent hearty good will, and after what seemed an age to poor Celia, Robert made his appearance, but without the Doctor. He had been called in another direction, and Mrs. Huntley promised to send him the moment he came in. Meantime she had given Robert careful directions what to do in case the child should be very ill.

Very ill indeed he was, and grew worse every moment, despite the care of his brother and sister, so that when the Doctor appeared, as he did about five o'clock in the morning, the case was hopeless. The child was in the last stages of collapse, and died a few minutes after sunrise. As soon as possible, a coffin was procured, and at sunset Robert and Celia saw him deposited in his last resting-place by the side of his baby sister.

This was a terrible blow to Celia; she was not exactly aware how far she had wandered from the right way till it came upon her; but now she naturally sought refuge in prayer, and was distressed that it did not as formerly afford her relief in her distress. There now seemed no one to hear her; her attention wandered in spite of herself, and thoughts from the book she had lately been reading—such thoughts as she had indulged with pleasure—haunted her, showing themselves in all their true ugliness. How deeply now did she repent having forgotten the councils of her truest friend, and silenced the voice of her own conscience, as she had done of late. Bitterly, bitterly she wept, and most earnestly she prayed for forgiveness; and when at last, in answer to her prayers, a degree of peace was vouchsafed to her, she felt humbled in the very dust as she thought of what she had done.

But she had little time for thought now, and perhaps it was as well for her that all her attention was necessarily occupied. Before the next morning, Mark was attacked with the same disease, and though his case was taken in time to save his life, he was very ill for some days, and required constant attention. At last he grew better, and was able to sit up, and Celia began to hope that the worst was over, and that she and her brother might be able to take the rest they so much needed.

One day, when she had been out to do some marketing, and returned, she found her mother eating some cherries which one of the neighbors had given her.

"Why, mother!" she exclaimed in terror. "How can you eat those things? You will surely have the cholera. Don't you know the Doctor said there could be nothing worse than sour fruit?"

"They are not sour; they are as ripe as they can be."

"But pray don't eat any more; I hope you have not given Mark any of them."

"I am not such a fool as to give fruit to a sick child, I hope. Of course I have not; but there is no danger of their hurting me," she continued, finishing the last of them as she spoke.

Celia was distressed and terrified; but there was nothing to be done, except to watch the first approach of the malady, and meet it in time. For some time no bad symptoms appeared, and she hoped that she might have been alarmed for nothing. But the next day showed that she was mistaken: before the evening of the third day, Mrs. Merritt was dying in spite of all that could be done to save her.

As she bent over the body of her mother, now as cold as a corpse, and almost breathless, Celia forgot all that had been wrong; she forgot the indolence, the shiftlessness, the false pride, and remembered only what was good. She thought now of the young woman who came to the house as her father's second wife, when Robert was seven and she six years old; how pretty and neat she was, and how kindly she had talked to them, the first night that she put them to bed. She remembered how much more comfortable they were for a long time after she came, till illness and discomfort had made her indolent, and the removal of her own family had taken away the spur which prompted her to show them that all their predictions of misery were unfounded.

How she longed to have her speak once more; to have her show some signs of intelligence, that she might ask her pardon for the many instances of disrespect and disobedience of which she painfully felt she had been guilty. But the poor soul never spoke nor opened her eyes again; and not long after sunset, her children closed her eyes and prepared her for the grave as decently as they could; the husband for whose sake she had deserted her home and broken the hearts of her parents, lying in a state of stupid intoxication in the next room. How very very seldom do runaway matches turn out happily! We almost wish they never did.

In three days' time, the house was deserted. Mark who was almost entirely recovered, was taken to board by a kind neighbor, till he could be placed as an apprentice with some respectable farmer or mechanic. While Mr. Merritt, who had not been sober for three weeks, was taken to the poor-house. At first, Robert could not hear of such a thing; but he yielded at last to the representations of the poor-master and the Doctor.

"Your father will be perfectly comfortable there," said good Mr. Wheeler; "you can go and see him whenever you please, and above all, he will not have any thing to drink there."

This last argument was decisive. Robert could not help hoping, that when his father was entirely out of the sight and reach of liquor, he might perhaps reform. Dr. George was not very sanguine, but he held his peace and allowed the children to please themselves with the prospect of their father's amendment. Celia went to Mrs. Vanderburgh's to stay a while, till she could put her clothes in order, and till her friends could find her a place. She at first inclined to a situation in the village, but this was decidedly opposed by Robert; for though he felt that he should miss his sister sadly, he was most desirous to see her placed out of the reach of all her factory associations, of which he knew the danger much better than she did.

Celia herself had the sense to see the force of her brother's representations, and hearing that Mrs. Dennison's girl had left her, she requested her kind friend, Mrs. Huntley, to obtain the place for her. Mrs. Dennison was quite willing to make trial of any body whom Mrs. Huntley recommended, and thus the affair was finally settled.

CHAPTER IX.

THE Sunday before she was to go to her place, as Celia took her accustomed seat in church, she was surprised to find her old associate Lydia Hinds in the pew before her. She had not seen Lydia since she left the mill, and had no desire to renew their acquaintance, but she could not help feeling rather glad at seeing her in church, and returned her salutation gravely, but with civility; though she made no reply to the observations which Lydia addressed to her both before and during service, and felt very uncomfortable under them, as she feared that Mr. Ellison would think she was whispering, a thing she would have been very much ashamed to do. Lydia, finding her advances thus repulsed, tossed her head, and turning away, began an observation of the bonnets and mantles which came within the range of her vision.

"So, Miss Merritt," she said, almost before the congregation was dismissed, "you don't want to talk to me, it seems."

"Not in church," replied Celia, feeling that she might with truth add, "nor anywhere else."

"Well, so it is only that, I'll excuse you, though I do not see any sense in being so particular. Well, and when are you coming back to the mill? We miss you very much, I can tell you. Jim Harris has lent me some delightful books, and he says you may take them if you want to."

"I am not coming back to the mill," returned Celia; "I am going to work in a family."

"You are not going to be such a goose! Why, you won't have any fun at all!"

"I do not feel much like having fun just now," replied Celia, glancing at her new mourning frock; "but I do feel as though I should like to have a home."

"To be sure! I forgot you had lost your mother, but that is no reason you should make a nun of yourself. I should think you would need diversion all the more. But where are you going to live? Tell me, and I will come and see you sometimes."

"At Mrs. Dennison's, on the river road," replied Celia, rejoicing that she was going to be out of walking distance.

"Well, if ever I heard the like! Clear out there on that lonesome farm, with no body to speak to, and nothing to see but cows and horses. I should die in a week! But I suppose you are afraid of the cholera, and no wonder. Do you know that Myra William died of it last night? Only sick three or four hours."

Celia was shocked to hear of the sudden fate of the giddy, reckless girl, whom she had so lately seen in perfect health, and tried to learn something of the particulars, but Lydia could tell her nothing.

"I didn't go near her," she said, "I am so much afraid of catching it."

"Poor Anne!" said Celia. "She was so well, and always so gay and giddy. It does not seem possible. I should think, Lydia, you would begin to think a little about yourself; when so many are dying around you. Suppose you should be taken away suddenly."

"Well, then, I suppose I should, and that would be all about it. I did feel a little scared when I heard of Myra's death, but after all, there is no use in thinking more of it than one can help. It only makes you more likely to have the sickness, they say."

"I don't know about that being all about it: after death comes the judgment, the Bible says. If you knew that you were likely any day to be called into court to be tried for your life, you would want to be ready, I should think, and much more when it is to be for eternity. Just think if you should be taken away, without any time for repentance!"

"What is the use of thinking and talking about such things?" said Lydia, who was evidently uncomfortable under the turn the conversation was taking. "They only make one feel bad, and spoil all one's pleasure."

"The use is, that we may be ready when our time comes," replied Celia. "I am afraid you will think me very inconsistent, Lydia," she continued, blushing; "but I can not help asking you to think of these things more than you do. I know I was as bad—I mean, as thoughtless—as any of you, the latter part of the time that I was in the mill, and I have been sorry enough since. But you were kind to me, at least you meant to be, and I can not help saying one word. I do wish you would stop reading that kind of books. You know they don't do you any good, and there are a great many things in them that are downright wicked and shameful. I am sure I wish I had never looked into them myself. But now, just look at it! We must all die some time, and we don't know how soon; at this time, especially, it seems as though we might be called into the other world at any moment; and if we should not be ready to go—only think how dreadful it would be! I wish you would read the Bible, and try to do differently. Come, why not begin now?"

"You are a good girl!" Lydia said, evidently a good deal moved. "And I do believe you mean kindly in what you say. I have sometimes thought myself that I should not like to be taken with my head full of Jim's novels. But even if one wanted to be a Christian, there would be no use in trying, situated as I am now. You might as well try to be pious in Bedlam as in the mill."

"I do not think myself it is the best place, but then it can be done. There were Miss Green and Ruth Cummings, and there is Charity Bateman now. They are all pious."

"Oh! Well. It was natural to Miss Green: she was just cut out for a Sunday-school teacher; and Ruth's father and mother were very pious. As for Charity Bateman, she is not a very good one to hold up for an example: she is so sour and disagreeable, and always acts as though she felt herself too good to associate with any one. There never was any one worse named, for she has no charity in her."

"She is not very amiable, to be sure, but she is very good. Don't you remember how she sat up night after night with Matilda Smith last winter?"

"So she did. I admit that she is ready enough to do kindnesses for people, but then she need not be so crabbed the rest of the time."

"Perhaps if you did not plague her and laugh at her so much, she would not be so crabbed. But whatever she is, that is no excuse for you, you know very well. Come, Lydia, perhaps I shall never see you again; no one knows what may happen. Do promise me now that you will read your Bible and go to church, and thus try to become a Christian. You know how much depends on it, and how miserable you will be, if you neglect it till it is too late. Do try, there's a good girl!"

Celia spoke earnestly and kindly, and Lydia was evidently considerably affected. Her eyes filled with tears, as she returned her companion's earnest pressure of the hand, and she promised to consider the matter with an honest intention of keeping her word. But the cares of her daily labor, the giddiness of her companions, the fear of ridicule, all combined to destroy the slight serious impression which she had received, and in a week she was as careless as ever. In another week, she was beyond the reach of repentance or prayer—called, like many another, without hope, without preparation, into the presence of her Judge.

The next day, Celia went to her new home. It was a long, low, red house, about two miles from the village, and stood in the very centre of the large farm, so that the nearest neighbors were half a mile off. There was a glorious prospect of wood, mountain, and meadow from the front door, while back of the house was a deep, wooded glen, surrounded by high rocks, full of living springs, and abounding with all sorts of wood-plants. Mrs. Dennison received her very kindly; she was a tall, spare woman, between forty and fifty years old—rather plain, but with an expression of good temper and kindness which won the regard of every one that approached her. She had been born and brought up in Grandville, as were her parents before her. She had lived for fifteen years in the family of Mrs. Huntley's father, sometimes as seamstress, sometimes as nurse.

And there was no greater treat to the youthful Huntleys and Vanderburghs than to be allowed to spend a day at Auntie Dennison's, as they always called her. On these occasions, they raced in the pastures, and played hide-and-seek-in the glen, and swing in the barn, and gathered fruits and mushrooms, and hunted eggs, besides performing feats of eating and drinking which would be considered incredible by any one who has not had just such a dear old nurse to visit. Mrs. Dennison was in her element on these occasions, though between her pleasures and her anxieties, her fears of their getting cold and hurting themselves, of their running too much or not eating enough, she was, as she expressed it, something like a hen with ducklings.

Mr. Dennison was a tall, stalwart, sun-burnt man, who loved his wife, and was proud of her skill in all sorts of culinary and dairy arts. He was esteemed the best farmer in the town, and his farm was the pride and joy of his heart; his meadows were like green velvet; no unsightly weeds encumbered and deformed his pastures; his fences were always in repair, and his cattle always fat, and never unruly. They had no children, and the family consisted, besides themselves, of an old lady called Aunt Nancy, a relative of Mr. Dennison's, and dependent on him, and a boy who worked on the farm.

Besides these persons, there were four generations of cats—from old Dolly, who was the grandmother of all cats and quite too grand to condescend to be caressed by any one but her mistress, to Dick and Nelly, the youngest kittens, who were not old enough to catch mice and continually "aggravated" Dolly by taking liberties with her tail, undeterred by the numerous cuffs and scratches which they received; a lame and tame gander, who waddled all over after his mistress, whenever she appeared out of doors; and Prince, a wonderfully accomplished little black dog who learned all sorts of surprising tricks without ever being taught, and understood language as well, Mr. Dennison was wont to say, as "folks."

Such was the family in which Celia now found herself. Mrs. Dennison received her with great kindness, and showed her her bed-room, which, though small, was the very picture of comfort and neatness.

"I hope you will be contented here," she said, when Celia came down stairs; "though I expect it will seem rather lonely after being in the mill. I don't think it is, you see, because I am used to it, and always have so much to do; but very likely a young girl might find it different. But I do hope you will like it, for I can't bear to see any one discontented."

"I think I shall like it very much," replied Celia; "but I am afraid you will find me very awkward at work. I never did know much about it, and since I have been in the mill, I have done less than ever."

"Where there's a will, there's a way," remarked Mrs. Dennison encouragingly. "If you really want to learn, I have no doubt you can. I am very particular about such things, but I don't usually have much trouble with my girls. If you will only do just as you are told, we shall get on nicely."

"What shall I do, now?" asked Celia.

"Oh I wash up the dishes, that is the first thing. I can't bear to have a parcel of dirty dishes about. There's the pan and the cloth, and the towels are out on the grass. But what are you doing, child? You wouldn't take hard water to wash dishes, would you? Never mind, it is only a mistake. You will learn in time."

Mrs. Dennison went on with her washing, keeping her eye on Celia's proceedings, and now and then setting her right, in a good-natured way, so that she accomplished her task with great ease. She then helped to finish the washing, hung out the clothes, mopped the floor of the outer kitchen, and then washed the potatoes for dinner. By three o'clock the work was all done for the day, and Mrs. Dennison and Celia sat down with their sewing in the kitchen, which was the sitting-room in summer.

Two hours passed away pleasantly in sewing and talking, and then Celia set the table, and got tea. Then there were more dishes to be washed, and the milk to be taken care of. All the cats came round for their share, and Mrs. Dennison filled their basins with as much new milk as a city family would buy for a whole day's consumption. Celia remarked it.

"Well, it might seem wasteful to some people perhaps, but I like to give them as much as they want, and that keeps them from helping themselves. Just bring that pail into the milk-room, will you, if it is not too heavy?"

Celia had not been in the milk-room before, and she now gazed around her in astonishment, at the long table filled with milk-pans, the shelves of cheese, each on its well-scrubbed board, and the pots of cream and butter, with which it was filled.

"A nice parcel of it, isn't there?" said Auntie Dennison, well pleased with her admiration. "I suppose you never saw so much milk together before, did you? Well, I like to take care of milk, though it is dreadful particular work. Every thing has to be just so neat, or else the butter isn't worth any thing. Now, I never wash my pans with the same cloth, that I do my other dishes—I always have separate cloths, towels, and all, and though I say it myself, I always have good luck. Not a pound of soft butter have I had this summer."

The next day was ironing and churning-day, and then came baking-day, and so on round the week; each morning bringing with it its especial duties, for Mrs. Dennison was very systematic in her work. On Saturday, a pair of chickens were roasted, and some pies and cake baked; for Mrs. Dennison said, though she never calculated to have any cooking done on Sundays, she liked to have every thing nice. On Sunday morning the work was finished earlier than usual, because they had some distance to ride to church, and it would not do to be late. Accordingly, they were at the church door just as the first bells had finished ringing, thus illustrating the truth of the often-repeated saying, that those who live the farthest from church, are usually the most punctual in their attendance.

Celia took her accustomed seat, and glanced around for Lydia; she was not there. Robert and Mark came together, and sat with her; they were both well, and she had the satisfaction of hearing that Mark was apprenticed to a very respectable shoemaker, with whom he was to live. Certainly no one who had known them a year before, would have recognized in the quiet, well-dressed young people, who were so attentive both to the service and the sermon, the boy and girl whom Mr. Vanderburgh had pronounced such hopelessly hard cases, on the occasion of Mr. Ellison's first visit.

Mr. and Mrs. Dennison were both teachers at the Sunday-school, and therefore they did not return home till after the afternoon service. Then the table was set, and they had dinner and tea together, at half-past four, thus dispensing with one meal, and having the evening free. Mrs. Dennison's eyes were not good, and Aunt Nancy had long since lost almost the entire use of hers; and thus Celia found a new way of making herself useful, by reading aloud, which made the Sunday evenings pass away pleasantly as well as profitably.

She had passed two or three weeks in this quiet manner, when one day, as she was setting out her milk-pails in the sun, she heard Prince barking with all his might, as he always did when any one approached. And looking up she saw a man running across the field, apparently in great haste. As he came near, he called out something, but he was so much out of breath, that she could not understand what he said. The call brought Mrs. Dennison to the door.

"It's that unfortunate critter, Hewson," said she; "I wonder what has happened now?"

By this time the man came up, but so breathless with distress and haste, that he could hardly make out to say: "O Mrs. Dennison! Come over, do come over! My wife has fallen into the cistern, and hurt herself dreadful bad. Do come over while I go for the doctor."

"You go out there in the corn, and send Mr. Dennison after the doctor," said Mrs. Dennison, snatching her sun-bonnet. "Come along, Celia, may-be you can do some good. We will just go cross-lots and get there sooner. Take this bottle of camphor in your hand, and I'll carry the liniment; for they will be sure not to have any thing that's needed."

"I'll be bound it comes from some of Hewson's shiftless ways," she said, as they walked rapidly along; "he never did any thing at the right time, or in the right place yet. I don't believe there ever was a lazier man born into the world. You will hardly believe it, Celia, but they lived in their house a whole summer, with the rain pouring in by pailfuls, whenever there was a shower. He might have mended it in a day's time; but as he said, when it rained, he couldn't mend it, and when it didn't rain, it was as good as any body's."

"Does he drink?" asked Celia, who was accustomed to refer all sorts of misery to whiskey.

"Oh! No. He never does any thing he ought not to; but then again, he never does any thing he ought to. He is a member of the church, and in some respects a good man, but he never has prospered, because he is so shiftless, and his wife is just like him. Take care! You will be in the cistern yourself! Do put the cover on, before any other accident happens, and I will go in and see the woman."

No cover was to be found, however, and Celia secured it as well as she could, by means of some bits of boards which she found, and a rough bench, which stood by the kitchen-door with one of its legs out. She then followed Mrs. Dennison into the house, when a sad scene presented itself. Poor Mrs. Hewson, dripping with water, her face covered with blood, and groaning with pain, lay upon the bed, which evidently had not been made that day. A tub with dirty clothes, stood on one side of the fireplace, and the breakfast-table, still uncleared, on the other. The furniture had once been very good, and there was enough of it, and the dishes upon the table were of good stone china; but all things wore an aspect of dilapidation, dirt, and negligence, lamentable to behold.

"O Mrs. Dennison! I am so glad you have come!" said the poor woman. "I thought no body would ever get here, and I am in such distress. Can't you do something for me?"

"We must get off your wet clothes first," replied Mrs. Dennison. "You will get your death of cold, lying in them so. Where do you keep your nightgowns?"

"I don't know whether I have any clean ones or not," replied Mrs. Hewson. "I have not washed for three or four weeks, because I have been out of soap, and the wash-board was broken. If I have any, they are in that bureau in the parlor."

"Do you look for them, Celia, while I get her undressed."

Celia looked accordingly, but no nightgowns were to be found, except one which had no sleeves in it. There was abundance of dirty and faded finery, and several garments in various stages of progress, but not one nightgown, cap, or chemise that was in a wearable condition. She glanced around the parlor. It was a prettily finished room, with windows down to the floor, and well furnished, but dirty and comfortless beyond expression. The panes were thick with fly-specks, and the sashes adorned with dead flies. The carpet was so covered with dust that it was difficult to discover the original pattern or color, and you might, as the saying is, have written your name on any article of furniture in the room. The paper had been very pretty, but it was partly cracked from the walls, and covered, like every thing else, with dust, cobwebs, and dirt. Celia could not help wondering when she saw the quantities of flourishing spiders, how there came to be so many flies remaining. All these things she noticed as she was searching unsuccessfully for the nightgowns.

"I was afraid there were none," said Mrs. Hewson, feebly. "I thought I should get them washed out to-day. I don't know what I shall do."

"You run home, Celia, and bring a nightgown and chemise of mine out of my top drawer, and a pair of clean sheets and pillowcases from the press. Be as quick as you can; you know just where to find them, and ask Aunt Nancy for the roll of old linen."

Celia made all the haste possible, and returned just as the doctor drove up. Mrs. Hewson was undressed with great difficulty and suffering, and the bed put in order and made comfortable.

It was found, upon examination, that two of her ribs were broken, and she was severely bruised, besides having received a bad cut upon her forehead. It was almost a miracle that she escaped so easily. While the doctor and Mrs. Dennison were busy about the sick woman, Celia made an attempt to put the house a little in order; but it seemed almost a hopeless task, every thing was in such disorder that she did not know where to begin. However, she carried the washing apparatus out into the wood-house, cleaned away and washed the dirty dishes, brushed up the hearth, and swept the floor, while Hewson sat by the fire, bemoaning his bad luck.

"I always was the most unfortunate man in the whole world," he said, as the doctor came out of his wife's room. "Nothing ever went right with me, nor ever will. I lost a sheep in that cistern only two weeks ago."

"Why did you not make a cover for it?" asked the doctor.

"Well, I have been calculating to, this three or four weeks, but I had nothing just right to make one of."

"What became of the planks you got on purpose for it?" asked Mr. Dennison.

"Oh! I had to use them to mend the fence. It was knocked down in the spring, and the boards were handy for kindling-wood, so they got burned up. Then my sheep got into Peters' lot, and he threatened to prosecute me, so I had to take the first thing that came to hand to mend the fence. But that's just the way every thing always goes against me. It's Providence, I suppose!"

"I should think it was carelessness in this case," said the doctor, "and a carelessness which is likely to cost you pretty dear. I should think any man of common-sense would know better than to leave an open cistern directly in the way for three or four months."

"Well, how could I fix it when I had no boards?"

"You could have got some, I suppose!"

"Well, so I did try. I depended on Peters to get me some the first time he went to the mill; but he says I didn't mention it to him, though I am pretty sure I did. But that's just the way! One can't depend on any one now-a-days."

"Except on one's self! Well Mrs. Dennison, I will call again this evening and see how she is, and meantime I hope you will be able to stay."

It was neither easy nor convenient for Mrs. Dennison to spare the time; but with her an act of kindness was paramount to all other things. She set Celia to finish the washing, the accumulation of three or four weeks; but finding that it was quite too heavy for her, she bade her wash only such things as were absolutely necessary for the sick woman, telling Hewson that he must hire a washerwoman to do the rest. She put the bed-room in more decent order, driving out the swarming flies, and darkening the windows. She combed Mrs. Hewson's hair and bathed her face and hands, and then prepared her a cup of tea, first washing the kettle, the tea-pot, and a cup and saucer. Then, having done all things in her power to make her patient comfortable, she sent Celia home to get supper, and see to the milk, proposing to stay all night herself.

"How do they come to be so badly off?" asked Celia of Mr. Dennison at supper. "They do not seem as though they had always been poor."

"Nor have they," he replied. "They need not be poor now, if Hewson had any industry, or his wife any economy; but they have neither the one nor the other. His farm might be as good as mine if it were properly treated; but under his bad management, it is almost worthless. He goes upon the principle of never doing to-day what can possibly be put off till to-morrow. This affair of the cistern is just a specimen. His barn-door is off the hinges; well, there he will let it lie, for the cows to walk over and knock to pieces, perhaps for a month, when half an hour's work would put it to rights. Then he has to pay twice as much for a new one as it would have cost to fix the old one, and has his barn-floor spoiled besides. It is just so in the house. They never have a bit of good butter or good bread. They can not get more than half the market price for their cheese or their fowls, because they are not half-pressed or half-dressed. Mrs. Hewson buys twice as many dresses as my wife, and yet she never looks half as well."

"You can see from them, Celia," remarked Aunt Nancy, "the great importance of what Jane is always saying about doing things thoroughly. You think it rather hard sometimes because she makes you sweep the room over, or wash the pans a second time, and always do things just at the right minute; but if Mrs. Hewson had had some one to do the same by her when she was young, how much better off she would be now! I am not sorry that you have had a chance to see how things go there, because you have been quite put out several times lately at being made to do things nicely."

Celia blushed, and acknowledged her error. It was true that she had, as Aunt Nancy said, been considerably "put out" at Mrs. Dennison for insisting on her doing things exactly at the right time and in the right way; and it was only the day before that she had showed a great deal of temper about it. Mrs. Dennison reproved her, which added to her irritation, and she was beginning to remember what Lydia Hinds used to say about the slavery of working in a family, and to cast a longing glance back to the freedom of the mill. The day at Mrs. Hewson's, however, partly set her right, and several subsequent visits deepened the impression. She saw plainly enough the discomfort arising from indolence and carelessness to make her willing to be directed as to the best way of doing things, and Mrs. Dennison had much seldomer occasion to reprove her for ill-temper or carelessness. She took pains to give satisfaction, and succeeded, as people almost always do who take pains.

CHAPTER X.

THE lessons which Celia had received at Mrs. Hewson's, as we remarked in the last chapter, did her a great deal of good, inasmuch as they made her very willing to take pains with her work, and to be directed into the best way of doing it. She saw clearly the misery resulting from careless and dilatory habits in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Hewson who, with abundant means to make themselves comfortable and even rich, were always poor and in trouble. Mrs. Dennison observed, with pleasure, that Celia now seldom needed to be reproved for slighting her work; on the contrary, she seemed to give her mind to what she had to do, and performed it in the best manner she was able, asking for instructions whenever she found herself at a loss.

Celia had naturally a strong will and a great deal of perseverance, and having once made up her mind to learn to do every thing in the very best manner, she adhered with great steadiness to her resolution. Sometimes, indeed, she carried it rather too far, and spent so much time in making a bed or washing the dishes, that Aunt Nancy complained, "that it made her have the fidgets."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Dennison one day, after some such remark made by the old lady. "It's always just so with beginners; the extra particularity will wear off in time. She had better waste five minutes in the pantry or over the beds than not learn to do them just right. I am very glad to see it for my part, as it shows that she is in earnest about learning."

So Celia went on, being as particular as she pleased, and becoming every day more and more attached to the family and more useful about the house. When the district-school opened for the winter, she attended it, walking three quarters of a mile every night and morning, and carrying her dinner. It was almost a new experience for her; for she had been to school very little, and she felt rather unpleasantly at being so much behind the other girls of her age and size in the school. But Mr. Dennison was always ready to help her out with her arithmetic, (her great trouble,) and having a good natural capacity, and a retentive memory, she improved very fast. Soon she was able to get all her lessons in school hours, and then the evenings were spent in sewing, while Mr. Dennison read aloud some volume procured from the district or parish library, or drawn from their own stores.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Dennison were very fond of books, and they were not, like some farmers we wot of, too "stingy" to spend money in buying them or time in reading them. A certain portion of the profits of the poultry-yard was regularly set aside for this purpose every year, and thus, in the course of time, they had accumulated quite a little library. A good edition of Hume, another of Josephus, Bancroft, and Rollins, occupied the lower shelves of the neat book-case, while Cook's Voyages, Mungo Park's, and Lewis and Clarke's Travels, Bishop Heber's and Henry Martyn's Journals, with a number of well-chosen volumes adorned the upper part, besides a number of agricultural works, (for Mr. Dennison was a good deal of a book farmer,) and some handsome editions of standard poets.

Thus Celia's winter was passed quietly and pleasantly, with constant improvement on her part, and a growing regard and affection on that of her kind friends.

In the Doctor's family some changes occurred. George went away to college and Maude to boarding-school, and a young gentleman came to live in the family, and study medicine in the Doctor's office. This youth was a cousin of Mrs. Vanderburgh's, and rejoiced in the romantic name of Eugene Augustus Mandeville—a name, as Mr. Vanderburgh observed, enough to ruin any boy; if he had been christened Peter, he might have had some chance: He was a very handsome youth, with good manners, and a great sufficiency of modest assurance, which last, added to very exalted ideas of his own consequence, and a rather slender stock of information, made him rather ridiculous at times.

Robert did not like him at all, and was several times on the point of an out-and-out quarrel with him, which only his sense of obligation to the family prevented. Robert had improved during the summer in health and strength as well as in good manners and general knowledge; for though he had not had a great deal of time to study, he had improved all his spare minutes, and was really becoming a very good scholar. Winter was now coming on, and he began to think very anxiously about going to school, but he did not like to speak first about it, and waited for the Doctor to introduce the subject, which he did one day after the following conversation with his wife:

"I am thinking, my dear," said he at dinner, "of sending Robert to school."

"Well," replied Mrs. Huntley, "the district-school opens this week."

"There would be no particular use in his going to the district-school," said the Doctor meditatively; "he went through the arithmetic and grammar last winter with George, and he is pretty well drilled in geography."

"Why does he want to go to school at all, then?" asked Eugene Augustus, carelessly.

"There are several things in the world to be learned beside grammar and arithmetic," returned the Doctor, "though these are no doubt essential."

"I do not see what else is needed by a boy in his station in life," persisted Eugene. "I don't imagine he would make better shoes or become a more careful driver from learning the higher mathematics and the ologies. Such information could only tend to make him dissatisfied with his own proper position in life."

"What do you consider his proper position in life?" asked Dr. George. While his wife looked annoyed, as she always did, when Eugene sported aristocracy.

"Why, I don't know. Learning a trade or driving, as I said, or—what do you say is his proper station?"

"The very highest he can attain to," replied the Doctor, emphatically, "whatever that may be. If he chooses to learn a trade, well and good, he will make none the worse shoemaker for understanding algebra and geometry, nor the worse stone-mason for being acquainted with the nature of the stones with which he has to do. It has long been a maxim of mine, that no knowledge comes amiss to any body."

"And then he may not choose to learn a trade," added Mrs. Huntley; "indeed, I think it doubtful if he does, for he has an excellent capacity and is very fond of study. I should not be surprised, if we live to see him a distinguished lawyer or physician."

"Maybe you will live to see him President," sneered the young exquisite.

"Maybe I shall! He is as likely to attain a distinguished position as Warren Hastings was."

"Is that the Mr. Hastings who was member of Congress for B.?" asked Eugene Augustus.

"No!" said the Doctor, briefly, while Mrs. Huntley hastily gave some orders to the servant in waiting to conceal her amusement.

"I thought you might allude to him," returned the sapient youth. "I knew his family were of very low origin."

"His father was an excellent and industrious man," replied Dr. George; "and your father learned his trade in the same work-shop with him. But as to this matter of Robert's," turning to his wife, "I think he is well prepared to profit by an advanced school, and I shall advise him to go to the academy."

"I shall be very glad to have him there," returned Mrs. Huntley; "it will be good for him in more ways than one. Mr. Whitney is a sensible and conscientious man, and will, I doubt not, do all in his power for him. But what arrangement do you propose to make with Robert?"

"I shall offer to give him his board and clothes for what he can do out of school. He can pay for his tuition himself with the money he has earned during the summer, and still have something over for the savings bank. He can not invest his earnings better, in my opinion, than in acquiring a good education. I might pay for his schooling, I suppose—"

"Better not," interposed his wife; "it will do him twice as much good if he pays his own way."

"I think so myself, and so I am sure will he."

"But what will people say, Doctor?" asked Eugene. "How will the genteel and respectable families who patronize the academy, like to have such a pupil introduced—a boy whose father is in the poor-house, and who works for his board?"

"They will not object to any one I choose to send, I dare say," said the Doctor quietly. "He may probably meet with some slights from under-bred young persons, who show their own vulgarity by their horror of people who work for a living; but he is pretty well able to hold his own. I will speak to him about the matter this very afternoon, as I shall take him out with me in the buggy."

"Have you begun to think what you are going to do this winter, Robert?" asked the Doctor, accordingly, as they were riding together.

"Yes, sir, I have been thinking about it a little."

"Well, and what conclusion have you come to?"

"I should like to keep on living with you better than any thing else, but then—" Robert paused.

"But then what?"

"I don't know what you will say to such an idea, but I can not help feeling as though I should like to get an education. I have no one dependent on me, now that Mark and Celia both have good homes. I have learned a great deal since I came here, thanks to your kindness and Master George's, and I can not help feeling as though I should like to learn more. But I owe every thing to you, and I want to be guided by you entirely." Robert colored, as he finished this speech, and seemed to fear that he had been guilty of a great piece of presumption.

"Do you look forward to a profession, Robert?" asked Dr. George with one of his benevolent smiles, which did not look at all as if he were offended.

"Well, sir, I am afraid you will think it very ridiculous, but I have thought of it sometimes."

"Why, as long as I am a professional man myself, I really don't see why I should think so, Robert."

"Yes, sir, but then your family and all your circumstances are very different from mine."

"I do not exactly see what that has to do with the matter," said the Doctor. "However, if you are to be a lawyer or doctor, you must have an education, you know. Now, I have a plan to propose to you. I don't want to part with you at all, because we are all attached to you, and it would be long before I should find any one else who would suit me as well. Neither do I think that there is any need of it. I will get you entered at Mr. Whitney's academy, which you are well prepared to profit by. You can continue to live here, and I will give you your board and clothes for what you can do before and after school. You have money enough beforehand to pay your school bills and purchase your books, and still have something left at the end of the winter. What do you think of this plan?"

"I am sure I should be the most ungrateful wretch that ever lived, if I did not like it," said Robert, in a faltering tone. "It is just what I have wanted to mention to you this long time, but I was afraid you would think me very bold to think of such a thing. I was afraid, too, that I could not work enough out of school to pay for my board. But I assure you I will do my very best. II it had not been for you and Mr. Ellison, I should have been beyond hope by this time—perhaps in the State's prison, like Joe Adams, or like poor Charley."

"Well, well, Robert, we won't talk about that at present. You have pretty well repaid me for all that I have done for you thus far. I must warn you before you enter school, that you may perhaps meet with some disagreeable things. You know there are always weak-minded and vulgar people in the world who endeavor to demonstrate their own elevated position by looking down upon others. These are almost invariably under-bred persons who have something in their own origin of which they are ashamed. You may perhaps meet some of them in school, and be a little annoyed by their airs. I advise you not to mind them in the least, but keep on your own way without regarding them. Be careful to give no offense, and do not be ready to take it."

"I will try not to, sir. But it is hard work not to let people know what you think of them, when they give themselves such airs." And Robert let out his whip-lash and took off the top of a tall thistle, which might or might not have represented Eugene Augustus in his mind.

"There is no use in letting them know, my dear boy. The knowledge does them no good. You may tell the greatest fool in the world that he is a consummate blockhead, and he will never believe you, while you will make him your enemy for life. The best way is, to go on your own course and let other people take theirs. You may be sure that your teacher will take at your true value, and he is the person you are to strive to please. Keep all the rules of the school rigidly, so long as you are a member of it, no matter whether you consider them reasonable or not. Endeavor not to lose a single moment or a single recitation, for you will find it very hard to overtake. Leave nothing behind you that you do not conquer, for if you do, it will always annoy and hinder you. Do not be deterred from asking for explanations when you need them, for fear that people will think you stupid. Take it good-humoredly if they laugh at you, and laugh in return. Above all, remember that in every thing you are dependent upon God for success and for strength against temptation, and never begin or end a day without asking for his blessing. I will go with you this evening to see Mr. Whitney, and arrange your studies."

The visit was made accordingly, and the next Monday, Robert entered the school, feeling strangely awkward and ashamed in his new circumstances. He could not help wishing that none of the boys knew any thing about his former way of life; but as this was a vain wish, he thought the next best thing was to make them forget it. So he went to work very hard, and very soon showed that he was inferior to no one in natural capacity, though he was, of course, very much behind-hand in many acquirements. He had, however the very great advantage of being well-grounded in the rudiments of education, an advantage not always possessed by those who have been to school all their lives. Many a scholar suffers all through his school-course from not having acquired clear ideas of the first four rules of arithmetic.

Mr. Whitney and his assistants were much pleased with Robert's diligence and good behavior, and gave him all the assistance he needed, and he soon began to take a high place in his classes, often getting above those who had been in school much longer than himself. This made him enemies among the dunces, of whom there are always some in every school; and one boy in particular, named Henry Hyde, was very angry at being outstripped by a boy who worked for his board, and determined to revenge himself on the first opportunity.

"How is your father, Bob?" he asked one day, after he had, as he thought, received fresh provocations from Robert in school.

"He is well, I believe," said Robert, rather absently, and hardly looking up from his book.

"Has he returned from his country-seat yet?" continued Henry, determined to provoke a quarrel.

Bob's face flushed, but he returned no answer.

"I hope he enjoys his retirement, and pray, have you heard lately from Mr. Joe Adams? I remember he used to be a particular friend of yours. I understand he is finishing his education in a public institution; pray do you intend to graduate in the same school?"

"No!" replied Bob. "That is too aristocratic for me. I leave it to your cousin, John Carford, and his friends."

"Do you mean to insult me, you blackguard?" asked Henry, bristling up.

"No!" replied Bob. "I have no desire to do any thing of the kind. I only want to show you that two can play at your game. I do not think the less of you because your cousin is in State's prison, nor any more of you because your father is a rich man. I know you are angry because I got above you; but your chance is as good as mine, and you may do the same to-morrow. I have no desire to quarrel with you, or with any one else." So saying, he returned to his book.

"Well said, Bob!" exclaimed Philip Myers, who was standing near with several of the other boys. "You hold your own, and we will stand by you. Come, Hal, don't make a fool of yourself!"

"You mind your business, Phil. Myers," said Henry, "and I'll attend to mine. As for you, Mr. Robert Merritt, I'll teach you to put yourself on a level with gentlemen. Just please to march off this play-ground, and not show your face here again. If we have to put up with your company in school hours, we won't do it here! March, I say!"

Robert closed his book, and rising, looked his opponent straight in the face. "Henry Hyde," said he, "be pleased to let me alone; I have as much right here as yourself; and here I will stay. I know my faults and misfortunes a great deal better than you can tell them to me. I know very well that I might have been in State's prison myself by this time, if I had not had kind friends to help me when I tried to help myself. I hope I shall never forget what I was, at the time you speak of; never, as long as I live; but it is no affair of yours. I shall remain here when and how I please, and if you do not like my company, you are welcome to keep out of it."

With these words, he was about to resume his seat and his book, when Henry, almost beside himself with rage, struck him a severe blow in the face. Robert had acquired a wonderful command over his naturally impetuous temper. He did not, happily for his antagonist, return the blow, but he caught him by both his arms and held him as in a vice. Writhe and kick as he would, he could not free himself.

"Well done, Bob!" shouted the boys, as they gathered round to see the fray. "Give it to him, old fellow; he deserves it! 'Cuff him well, for a puppy as he is."

"I have no desire to hurt him," said Bob, still holding his prisoner fast. "I never fight if I can help it, and then only with those of my own size. Come, Hal, don't be in such a passion! Own that you are sorry, and I will let you go."

"I won't," sobbed Hal; "I'll die first!"

"Then I shall have to hold you till the bell rings," said Robert, "and that won't be pleasant to either of us. I can not have you striking me, you know."

But Henry would not give up, and Robert accordingly held him fast, despite his struggles, till the bell rung, when he released him. And quietly settling his own dress, walked into school and took his seat, as though nothing had happened.

That evening, as Dr. Huntley's family were sitting round the lamp, engaged in their usual avocations, a ring was heard at the door, and in a moment Mr. Hyde entered in a state of great excitement.

"I have come, Dr. Huntley," said he, almost without returning the polite salutations of the Doctor and his wife, "to request you to remove your hired boy from the academy, where he never ought to have been allowed to set his foot. I request that it may be done at once—at once, sir."

"But why, Mr. Hyde? What has Robert done to excite such violent indignation?"

"Done, sir! He has insulted my son—my son, sir, and has gone so far as to leave the marks of his hands on his person. He has insulted him brutally, sir; and Henry shall never be allowed to enter the school again unless this boy is removed. You have affronted the community by placing him there at all—a common vagabond about the streets! It is shameful, sir—scandalous!"

"Mr. Hyde," said the Doctor, in a voice which seemed to bring the angry little man to his senses a little, "you will please to be a little more select in your language when speaking to me. I will inquire into the affair, and then I shall be able to form some idea how far my boy has been to blame." He rang the bell as he spoke. "Send Robert here directly, Chloe! Well, Robert, what is this story? Have you had any quarrel with Henry Hyde?"

"No, sir; Henry quarreled with me!"

"Don't be insolent, young man!" interposed Eugene Augustus in a lofty tone.

"Leave the matter to me, if you please, Mr. Mandeville," said the Doctor; "I am able to manage my own family without any assistance. Let me hear the whole story, Robert."

"If you please, sir," said Robert, turning a look of calm disdain upon Mr. Mandeville, "I would rather some one else should tell it. Perhaps you will let me go for John Vanderburgh, who saw the whole affair."

"A very good suggestion," returned the Doctor; "you may go over and call him. We will suspend our judgment a few moments, Mr. Hyde."

Robert soon returned, accompanied by John Vanderburgh.

"Come, John," said his uncle, "let us hear the whole story of the fight between Robert and Henry."

"There was no fight at all, uncle," replied John. "Robert got above Henry in the class, and that made him angry; so when we came out at recess, he went up to Robert, who was reading, and began to twit him about his father's being in the poor-house; and asked him when he was going to see his friend, Mr. Adams, in State's prison. Then Robert said, there were other people besides himself that had friends in State's prison, or something like that; and Hal called him a blackguard, and asked him if he meant to insult him. Robert said no, but he wanted to be let alone; that he did not think any the worse nor the better of Henry for things that he could not help, and that Henry would have a chance to get back his place to-morrow. Henry called him names, and ordered him to leave the play-ground, and Bob said he would stay as long as he pleased. Then Henry struck him in the face with his fist, and Robert took hold of him and held him fast till school began. He said he would not fight a boy not as strong as himself, and he never struck Henry at all, sir, only held him."

"Is that the whole story, Robert?" asked the Doctor.

"That is all, I believe, sir," said Robert, modestly.

"You see, Mr. Hyde," pursued the Doctor, turning to that gentleman, who had listened in silence to John's account of the fray, "that your boy gave the first provocation."

"It would seem so, indeed," returned Mr. Hyde thoughtfully. "But Henry seems to think that Robert took an unfair advantage of him in the class."

"He didn't, sir!" replied John eagerly. "It was all fair and honorable, and so Mr. Whitney will tell you. Robert studies very hard, and gets up almost every day."

"You may go, Robert," said Dr. Huntley. "I am sure, Mr. Hyde," he continued, when Robert had closed the door, "you would not have this poor boy deprived of the advantages of a good school for such a trifling affair, especially when it appears clearly that he is not the one most to blame. As to his former history, it appears to me to furnish an excellent reason for keeping him where he is, and giving him every inducement to maintain a good reputation. He has now been with me more than a year, and saving on one occasion, when he was led away by bad company, I have found him every thing I could wish. He is very desirous to educate himself, and pays his own way, and it really appears to me that he is as well entitled to the advantages of the institution as your son or mine."

Mr. Hyde's anger had now had time to cool. Though a passionate, he was also a kind-hearted man, and he now readily admitted the truth of Dr. Huntley's remarks.

"Certainly! You are right, Doctor, quite right; and I beg your pardon, as well as Mrs. Huntley's, for being so warm. Henry is a hot-headed lad—a little like his father in that, eh?—and I presume he was provoking. It vexed me, I own, to think that a boy who, two years ago, was a common vagabond in the street, should lay hands on my son; but I see I was wrong; I must say, young Merritt appears very well; does you great credit, in fact, and I should be sorry to injure him. But may I ask you, sir, when Robert has acquired an education, what will you do with him then?"

"Take him into the office, perhaps, as my father did Bowen, you remember. Jack is none the worse surgeon, that he studied medicine in the stable, as it were."

"No, certainly not; though some people cast it up to him, I understand, and call him a horse-doctor."

And again apologising for his warmth, the little gentleman bade the Doctor good evening, and retreated.

Henry was very much amazed, and a good deal disappointed, when his father returned, to find that he was not at all disposed to fight his battles for him, and still more on being told next morning to go to school and behave himself like a gentleman in future, his ill-temper being considerably augmented by knowing that Robert had all the boys on his side. He went to school in a very bad humor, and when Robert bade him good morning, as usual, he turned away without making any answer.

"Come, Hal," said Robert, following him, "don't let us keep up this foolish business any longer; I was wrong to speak of your cousin, perhaps; but then you begun it, and you know I told you I did not think, the worse of you on that account."

"You need not have held my arms so," returned Hal, half-relenting, "and made all the boys laugh at me."

"What would you have me do?" asked Bob, smiling. "I did not want to fight you, and I would not have you strike me, you know. You almost gave me a black eye as it was. Come, now, shake hands and be friends."

Henry was not naturally a sullen boy, and his anger yielded almost in spite of himself, to Robert's determined good nature; he accepted the offered hand, and they entered the school-room together. Mr. Whitney was glad to see that the affair was settled without his interference, and the boys admired Robert's readiness to forgive and forget, and Hal's ready acknowledgment of having been in the wrong.

After this, Robert had very little more trouble in school. He was obliged to work hard to accomplish his tasks without neglecting his home duties, but he was strong and hardy; he did his best, and both teacher and employer were too reasonable to expect impossibilities. His only discomfort now arose from the conduct of Mr. Mandeville, who was always supercilious, and often very provoking, being determined, as he said, to make Robert "keep his place," a phrase very much in use among people who are not very well assured of their own position. The Doctor was obliged sometimes to interfere and keep the peace between them, and nothing but Robert's respect and regard for his employer, kept him from expressing his opinion of Eugene Augustus in very plain terms.

Little Mark also went regularly to school this winter, and improved very fast in all respects, under the good feeding and good management of his new home. His master and mistress were kind and considerate people, who made all due allowances for his faults, and did not give him up as a hopeless case because he now and then told a story, or helped himself to a bit of sugar. They strove to correct his faults as fast as they appeared, taught him as much as they could, and prevented instead of punishing, whenever it was possible. Thus Mark was very happy, and seemed likely to become in time a very good boy.

Celia continued to like her home more and more, and to improve in every respect. She came home to Mrs. Huntley's to spend Thanksgiving, and Robert and Mark took their Christmas dinner at Mrs. Dennison's. Celia was delighted to have Bob going to such a good school, and learning so much, and they built a good many pleasant castles in the air, when talking over their plans and prospects. Celia herself, though she did very well at school, was fonder of work than of study; she began already to distinguish herself as a seamstress, and showed a degree of taste in making dresses and caps, which indicated a promising talent for millinery. She was very "smart about house," as Aunt Nancy said, and did all sorts of work very well, but her chief pleasure was in sewing. And Mrs. Huntley began seriously to think of advising her to learn the business of dressmaking after she should have remained long enough at Auntie Dennison's to become a thorough housekeeper.

CHAPTER XI.

WE must now ask our readers to pass hastily over a period of about two years, during which time nothing particularly worthy of notice occurred to our hero and heroine.

Robert continued to live at the Doctor's, going to school in winter and working in the garden in summer, and employing all his spare moments in study and reading. He had been steady so long that scarcely any one remembered his having been any thing else, and if his former delinquencies were spoken of, it was only as a striking proof, that no one, however unpromising, ought to be considered quite hopeless.

He made rapid progress in all his studies, and became extremely fond of every department of natural science, especially chemistry, and during the last winter of his stay in school, he was able to render essential service to the chemical professor in preparing his experiments. He had taken a class in Sunday-school, and was a faithful and successful teacher, being particularly earnest in visiting and instructing those of his class, (and there were several such,) whose condition at all resembled that of his own early life; for though others might forget his former circumstances, Robert himself never did, and he often spoke to Mr. Ellison of the morning when he first went to work in the parsonage garden.

"That morning," said he one day, "was the beginning of all that was good in me."

Celia still lived at Mrs. Dennison's, but more as a daughter than a servant. She had thought and talked a little of going to learn the trade of dressmaking, for which she had a special aptness, but Mrs. Dennison seemed so grieved at the idea of parting with her that she gave it up, and remained very contentedly on the farm. She could now fearlessly undertake the whole business of churning, and do it as well as Auntie Dennison herself, besides being remarkably skillful in all the finer arts of cookery, for which Mrs. Dennison had always been renowned.

By dint of constant painstaking, she had become extremely neat in her work as well as in her person, and Aunt Nancy declared that she was the only "young gal" she ever saw who could do up a plain muslin cap as it ought to be; even Jane herself could not make them look as well. She had, moreover, acquired very sweet and winning manners, and though not what is called accomplished, she was sufficiently well-educated. She had grown-up into a tall handsome girl, and was beginning to attract a good deal of attention from the young men in the neighborhood, several of whom began to manifest such a deep interest in Mr. Dennison's high-bred cattle and improved stables, that it was quite remarkable to see them.

Her first offer was from poor Hewson, whose wife never recovered from the injuries she received by her unlucky fall into the cistern, but died three months after the accident. Her husband was quite disconsolate, and indeed entirely inconsolable at first. But by degrees, as the poignancy of his grief abated, he found out that his house was even more uncomfortable than usual, and beginning to look out for a successor to his lost partner, he cast his eyes upon Celia, not in the least doubting that she would, as he elegantly expressed it, "jump at the chance of getting a good-looking husband, and a home, of her own."

Accordingly, he began to spend long evenings at Mr. Dennison's, much to the discomfort of Celia, who could not imagine what he came for, as he never seemed to have any thing to say, and to the mingled amusement and annoyance of Mrs. Dennison, who, as she said, saw plainly enough which way the wind blew. When Mr. Hewson at last made his offer to Celia, which he did in the shape of a letter, written on green paper, with a pink envelope, she could hardly understand what he meant, and carried the epistle to Mrs. Dennison, who happened to be engaged in skimming milk in the cheese-room.

"I have got the queerest letter here, Auntie," she said. "It is from Mr. Hewson, and I don't know what to make of it at all. He seems to want me to come and live with him. I wonder if he is going to be married?"

Mrs. Dennison rested the skimming-dish on the edge of the pan and took the letter.

"You little goose," she exclaimed, laughing heartily as she read it, "don't you see into it? The man wants you to marry him yourself."

Celia opened her eyes in blank amazement and read the letter again, and as the truth dawned upon her, she sat down upon an empty butter firkin, and laughed till she cried.

"It is a serious matter, Celia," said Auntie Dennison, at last, wiping her eyes and taking breath; "I am surprised to see you laugh so. Only think of the advantages Mr. Hewson offers you—a nice house all ready to go into, and plenty of furniture to begin house-keeping with."

"And a nice open cistern, all ready to tumble into whenever I pleased," continued Celia; "I don't believe he has made a cover to it yet."

"He has not, I know, for I noticed it the other day. Well, Celia, my dear, I have no desire to part with you, and if you want to get married, I have no kind of doubt that you can do better by waiting a little; but, however, you must decide for yourself. Perhaps you had better consult Robert about it."

"Dear me, no! He would never leave off laughing at me in the world. But what do you think I had better do about it? I am sure I can never answer him with a straight face."

"You don't mean to have him, then, I conclude?"

Celia held up her hands in horror. "The idea of my having any body. I think I will wait till I get my growth first. I had to let the tucks out of my frock yesterday. I wish you would ask Mr. Dennison to speak to him about it, for I am sure I never can."

Mr. Dennison accordingly informed Mr. Hewson that Celia was much obliged to him for his offer; but she did not want to leave her home, and considered herself quite too young to think of matrimony yet.

"Just as she likes," replied the lover, philosophically, "'taint every girl that has such a chance to get a house of her own. But it's just my luck; I always was the most unfortunate of mortals. Every thing goes against me. Well, it is more her loss than mine, that's one comfort."

Mr. Dennison did not think so, but he kept his opinion to himself, feeling it quite a comfort to be relieved of Mr. Hewson's company, who went quietly on his way as before.

We may as well say here, for the information of those who have taken an interest in that "lone and lorn" individual, that he found some one to have him. About three months after Celia's refusal, he married a widow, a little, thin, dried-up woman, with a tongue that ran unceasingly, and a love of neatness and order that amounted to an absolute passion. Under her hands, the house and farm soon assumed a new aspect, the cistern was covered, the doors mended, the house cleaned, and Mr. Hewson was seen going about his work with more swiftness and purpose than ever he had done before. His wife's tongue was sharp as well as swift, and her will unconquerable, and he soon found that if he meant to have any peace at all, he must, as she expressed it, toe the mark. But this complete revolutionizing was quite too much for him, and he died two years after his second marriage.

Robert was now nineteen, a tall, well-grown young man, with a tolerably good education, and very agreeable, gentlemanly manners. He was quite one of the family at the Doctor's, who would have been much at a loss what to do without him. He now began to think seriously of his future prospects, and to consider what he was going to make himself. He felt that he could not bind himself down to any mechanical occupation, however respectable and necessary, while all his tastes led him to incline towards the study of medicine. He had always hoped that Dr. George would offer to take him into the office, but he had not yet done so, and Robert did not like to speak first. He would have given a great deal to be able to go through college, but he could not see his way at all in that direction, though he tried very hard.

The more he thought, the more bewildered he grew, and his perplexity really began to affect his health and spirits, though remembering the comforting promise, "Commit thy way unto Him and he will bring it to pass," he strove to wait in patience for its fulfillment.

Dr. Huntley saw his trouble and guessed the cause of it, and with characteristic kindness, he determined to try and clear his path for him. Their first conversation on the subject took place, as did all their confidential talks, as they were driving together in the country.

"How old are you, Robert?" asked the Doctor, by way of opening the subject.

"Past nineteen, sir. I was nineteen two months ago."

"And you have been with me more than three years. It hardly seems longer ago than yesterday that you first came to work in my garden. But you have done and learned a great deal in that time."

"Yes, sir, thanks to you!"

"Well, you are old enough to think what you are going to do with yourself."

"So I think myself; sir," replied Robert.

"Which way are you looking—towards a profession or a trade?"

"I am rather thinking of a profession, sir."

"So I supposed," said the Doctor; "and what profession do you prefer?—For I presume you have made up your mind."

"I should prefer the study of medicine, sir. I have always had a strong inclination for it, ever since I began to think about such things."

The Doctor smiled kindly. "That is as I hoped, Robert; for although I would not for a moment oppose your taking up any other respectable occupation, but on the contrary I would further your wishes as far as I was able, yet I do not feel as though I wanted to part with you at all. You see I take it for granted that you mean to study with me."

"Of course, sir," replied Robert. "I hope you do not imagine that I would think of going to any one else. If you will take me into your office, it will be the height—that is—" said he, correcting himself, "it will be the accomplishment of one of my dearest wishes."

"But not the height of your ambition, eh?" said the Doctor, noticing the correction. "Come, now, be frank, for I know there is something behind, and tell me what is the height of your desires."

Robert hesitated, colored, and then with his eyes steadfastly fixed on his horse's ears, he said: "I have thought I should like to go to college, sir."

"Whew!" whistled the Doctor. "Go to college, eh? I had never thought of that. Then you don't think you have learned quite enough yet, it seems."

"Why, no, sir. If I had thought so, I should not have wanted to study medicine."

"Well, that is true. You know, I suppose, that it would take you four years to go through."

"I think not, sir. I was talking to Philip Myers about it yesterday, and I find I know enough already to enter the Sophomore Class, so there is one year off."

"True; that shortens the time, and of course lessens the expense considerably. I suppose you think you would be a better doctor for reading Greek tragedies and all else that people do at college."

"I do not know about that, Doctor, but I think I should feel better satisfied with myself, and as I have often heard you say, no knowledge can come amiss in any station, though Mr. Mandeville does think that no man can make good shoes who understands geometry."

"Mr. Mandeville is a gosling!" said the Doctor, in a parenthesis.

"And beside all that, it seems to me to be a duty to learn all one can. Then, if the heart is right, the more knowledge a man possesses, the more good he can do in the world, as I have often heard you say."

"I must be careful what I say, if I am to be quoted to such an extent," said the Doctor, smiling. "Well, Robert, my boy, I like your ideas on the subject very well. But we must take into consideration the ways and means. You know it will take a good deal of money to go through college; how do you propose to get it?"

"That is just where I do not see my way, sir," replied Robert somewhat sadly. "If I had a trade, I could make my way by that; but I have none, and I am afraid I could not earn enough by gardening."

"I should think not, but what do you say to teaching school? A great many young men do that."

"I never thought of it, sir. It did not occur to me that I could teach school."

"It is, however, a very common way of getting through, and, I think, a very good one. It gives a man confidence in himself, reveals to him the extent of his own resources, and is moreover an excellent discipline for acquiring exactness, patience, and steadiness of temper, three things, let me tell you, very essential to a physician."

"I am afraid I do not know enough to teach school."

"Why not? You understand very thoroughly arithmetic, grammar, and geography, which are the main things to be taught, and you possess another qualification very necessary to the government of children, namely, very quiet, gentlemanly manners. What, then, should hinder you from teaching a district-school successfully?"

"I do not know, except that I never thought of it."

"Then, if you do not entirely pay your way," continued his friend, "the college authorities are always ready to give credit to promising young men until they make enough to pay for their education. I have known it done in several cases."

"I don't think I should like that as well, sir. I have always had a perfect horror of running in debt ever since you first helped me out of mine to poor Child's. I should not study with any comfort unless I knew I was paying my way."

"Still, if we can not do as we will, we must do as we can, you know. But we will keep the matter in mind, Robert, and I am sure some way will present itself."

The evening of the day on which this conversation occurred, Mr. Vanderburgh and his wife dropped in to spend the evening at the Doctor's. Mr. Vanderburgh had quite given up his persuasion that Robert would come to the gallows, and had become very fond of him.

"Well, and how is Bob getting on?" he inquired in the course of the evening. "He must be pretty nearly ready to begin life for himself, I should think. And what does he mean to do, eh?—For I suppose you are in his confidence of course."

"He is going to study medicine," replied the Doctor; "but he has set his heart upon going to college first."

"To college, eh? He is an aspiring young man. To college—well, it is natural enough, too, but who would have thought of it three years ago? It's a world of changes, ain't it?"

"It certainly is," replied the Doctor; "there is no denying it. I only wish all the changes were as much for the better as Robert's. He is very anxious to finish his education, and I am equally desirous to have him do so, if we can only manage the pecuniary part of the matter."

"How could he do it?" asked Mrs. Vanderburgh. "It costs a good deal, first and last."

"He might make his way by teaching school I presume. To be sure, he would have to work very hard, but not harder than a great many young men; and he has the great advantage of perfect health, a cheerful temperament, and most indomitable perseverance. I spoke to him of getting credit for his tuition till he should have finished his medical studies and got into practice, but he has such a horror of running in debt, that he will not hear of it."

"And very right too, in my opinion," said Mr. Vanderburgh. "It is a bad thing, a very discouraging thing for a young man to begin the world in debt. And yet he wants to go to college, and ought to go, too," he continued, musingly, turning his spectacles round and round, and wiping them with his handkerchief, as was his custom when he was meditating. "You say he has made good use of his advantages thus far—was a good scholar at the academy, eh?"

"Whitney says he never had a better," returned Doctor George, "and he always tells plain truth, you know."

Mr. Vanderburgh stopped wiping his spectacles, put them on, and then pushed them up on his forehead; by which signs, those who knew his ways saw that his musings had arrived at a happy termination. "I am thinking of a plan for him," said he, "which I think will be just the thing, but I don't know what you will say to it."

"I shall know when I hear it," replied the Doctor; "and at any rate he will thank you for taking an interest in his affairs, for no kindness is lost on him."

"Or on his sister," remarked Mrs. Huntley; "they are certainly two very fine young people."

"This is my plan, then," began Mr. Vanderburgh. "You know, I suppose, that I have a scholarship in B— University?"

"Yes!"

"Well, I have always meant to reserve it for Jack, thinking to make a lawyer of him, and I confess I had quite set my heart on it. But now that he is old enough to make up his mind, Jack don't like the idea at all, and says he wants to be an engineer, like his uncle Gordon, who will be very glad to take him. I would a little rather have him study law; but after all, he has a genius for mathematics, and his health is much better when he is out of doors, as he says himself. If he were an idle lad, who only wanted to take up an outdoor life to get rid of work, I would not hear of it; but that isn't the case, for though he is my own boy, I will say for him, that a better or more faithful lad never lived. And though he is quite set on this engineering scheme, he says he will give it up and study law if I say so. But I don't want to cross his inclinations unnecessarily, and I have about come to the conclusion to let him have his own way. Then there is my scholarship of no use to me, eh?"

"Well!" said the Doctor, beginning to see into his brother-in-law's idea.

"Well, I am bound to fill it, at some rate, you see, and get the worth of my money. Now here is Robert, a good steady young man, who has made great efforts to render himself respectable and get a good education, and he wants to go to college. Now, what can I do better than to put this same steady, industrious young man into my scholarship, eh?" And Mr. Vanderburgh flourished his white handkerchief, as who should say: "See how clever I am! Now, you would never have thought of that!"

"He will be greatly obliged to you, William, and so, I am sure, shall I," said Dr. George, shaking his brother-in-law's hand heartily. "I could not feel the kindness more, if it were my own boy."

"Nor I," added Mrs. Huntley. "It will be good news to him, poor fellow, for he has been quite in despair about his prospects lately."

"Tut! Tut!" said Mr. Vanderburgh, returning his brother's pressure of the hand. "That isn't any thing; I should have been glad to have any one do as much for me when I was a poor boy. But you think this will answer his purpose?"

"Admirably," replied the Doctor. "He would not wish for any thing better. Now he will have nothing to provide for but his board and clothes, which he can easily do without any more hard work than is good for him. I can not speak for a certainty, to be sure, but I think I may safely say, William, that you will never repent of your kindness."

"Oh! I never expect to. If the boy does not turn out well, (but he will,) I may be sorry that the advantages were thrown away on him, but I shan't be sorry that I have done him the kindness. Not at all! I believe I never did that. Well, if you all approve the plan, suppose we call the young man in and communicate the matter."

Robert was according summoned, and Mr. Vanderburgh explained his projects with certain rhetorical flourishes, which would have brought a smile to the Doctor's face but for the respect which he felt for his brother-in-law's kindness.

Robert listened in silence till Mr. Vanderburgh had finished, and then as that gentleman paused for a reply, he said in a low and faltering voice: "I am very much obliged to you, sir, for your kindness, and I will try—" His feelings entirely overcame him, and he burst into tears.

"Come, come, Bob, you mustn't be hysterical," said Mr. Vanderburgh, while his own eyes glistened. "I owe you something, you know, to pay for prophesying such a sad end to you so many times. So you think it will suit you, eh?"

"I am sure, sir, I don't know what to say, except that I am very much obliged to you," said Robert, recovering himself a little. "It is just what I wanted. I have had it so very much at heart, but I could not see my way through. I hope I shall be able to repay you some day, as well as all the other friends, who have been so kind to me. I—I am not a good hand at expressing myself, sir, but I hope you will understand what I mean to say."

"Perfectly well, Robert, perfectly well, my boy! No occasion to say any more, I assure you."

"And since you wish to make some present proof of your gratitude, you may do it by cracking a basket of butter-nuts and bringing them in," said Mrs. Huntley, who saw that Robert would be glad of an excuse to escape from the parlor.

He left the room accordingly; but before going for the nuts, he ascended to his own apartment, and there poured out his whole soul in thankfulness for the good conferred upon him—a good so much beyond his highest expectations, and dedicated solemnly to the service of God those talents which He had given with the means to improve them.

When he returned to the parlor, he had quite regained his composure, and was able to enter calmly and soberly into the conversation on his plans and prospects. So the matter was settled. He was to go in two or three weeks to B., to be present at the commencement, to pass his examination, and to find a suitable boarding-place.

Celia was almost as much delighted with her brother's prospects as he was himself, and the brother and sister made a great many pleasant plans as they talked the matter over.

Little Mark felt at first rather dissatisfied that Bob should go to college and be a doctor while he should be only a shoemaker. But upon his "Boss" representing to him that people wanted shoes as much as they wanted medicine, and that moreover there was nothing in the world to prevent his studying what he pleased as soon as he had finished learning his trade, and being besides presented with the Lives of Celebrated Shoemakers by Robert, he became quite contented with his lot, and wished his brother all success, promising to make a pair of boots for him by the time he left college.

We have for some time heard nothing from Mr. Merritt. He was now a permanent inmate of the county hospital, having been disabled, soon after his wife's death, by a stroke of the palsy, which considerably affected his mind. He was still able to use his hands a little, and was employed in various small matters about the house. Robert went frequently to see him and carry him some little luxury or indulgence not furnished by the institution; his father always seeming glad to see him, and taking a great deal of pride in his being such a well-dressed, handsome young man. He had now and then fits of violence, when it became necessary to confine him for a short time, but in general he was gentle and happy, seeming to have quite forgotten his former way of life, and never expressing any desire to return to it. It was rather painful to the children to have their father dependent on public charity in any degree, but they feared if he were taken away from the restraints of the hospital and placed in the midst of familiar things, his old appetite would return; so they contented themselves with clothing him out of their earnings, and doing what else they could for him where he was.

Robert went with Dr. Huntley to B. to attend the commencement, and after passing an excellent examination, entered his name as a member of the Sophomore Class. He had some trouble in finding a suitable boarding-place, but at last succeeded in engaging a room with a widow lady, who supported herself and her daughters by taking boarders. His vacation was employed partly in study and partly in hard work in the garden, and as harvest-hand for Mr. Dennison, by which means, as men were scarce and wages high, he increased considerably his stock of ready money, besides having the pleasure of spending two or three weeks with Celia. At the end of the vacation, he departed for B., and was soon deeply engaged in his studies, and gaining great credit, both as a bright scholar and a steady, well-conducted young man.

CHAPTER XII.

WE shall not attempt to follow our friend Robert through his whole college career; suffice it to say, that he worked hard, and kept himself conscientiously out of the way of temptation, endeavoring to behave himself in all things, as became a Christian and a gentleman. When he had resided in B. about three months, an unexpected assistance presented itself, in the shape of an offer of the place of teacher of mathematics and Latin in a private school, a situation which he was very glad to accept. The salary was rather small, to be sure, but still it was something, and his duties did not occupy more than two hours a day, which left him ample time to pursue his studies. He found great advantage to himself from his exertions, not only in a pecuniary point of view, but also as it obliged him to reexamine the foundation of his information, in imparting elementary knowledge to others.

Robert did not make a great many acquaintances, except among his class-mates, with whom his good temper and cheerfulness made him a great favorite, notwithstanding his steady refusal to join in any of those doubtful performances which are sometimes called sprees, and sometimes frolics. He was always ready for a ball-play or a ramble at a proper time, and entered into them with great spirit; but his class-mates knew very well that it would be in vain to ask Merritt's assistance in any unlawful frolic, and the sensible ones among them respected him the more for his steadiness. He visited sometimes in the families of the professors, especially the professor of chemistry, with whom he soon became a great favorite, and in whose parlor or study he was always a welcome guest.

There was one other family in which he felt at home—that of Mr. Compton, an old college friend of Dr. Huntley's, and a very cultivated and intelligent man, to whom he had been introduced when he first came to B. Mrs. Compton was a very kind and extremely elegant woman, and her friendship was of great service to the young man, who, aware of his own deficiencies, was not too proud to learn of any one who was kind enough to teach him. There he frequently spent his evenings, and here it one day chanced that he met his old acquaintance, Mr. Eugene Augustus Mandeville.

Eugene Augustus had given up the study of medicine, as too fatiguing and disagreeable, and was now spending his spare time in a law-office, where he professed to be qualifying himself for the bar, though none of his friends had very strong expectations of his passing an examination.

The meeting chanced in this wise. Robert had come in, as he often did, soon after tea, and finding Mr. Compton examining some daguerreotypes, then a new discovery, he at once plunged with that gentleman into a profound discussion on the chemical effects of light, and as chemistry chanced to be a hobby of his host's as well, they were soon deep in the mysteries of the science, Mrs. Compton and her daughters entering with interest into the subject, when the doorbell rung, and in a moment Eugene Augustus walked in, in all the majesty of a faultless suit of clothes, and irreproachable boots. Mrs. Compton looked a little annoyed; for, sooth to say, that charming youth was no favorite of hers; but she was always well bred, and therefore giving him a graceful welcome, she turned round and presented him to "my young friend, Mr. Merritt."

Eugene Augustus looked astonished, and felt as though he wanted to rub his eyes to assure himself of the reality of the vision. Here was Robert Merritt, whom he had a hundred times seen at work in a blue frock and overalls, whom he had last beheld on the box of the Doctor's carriage, actually sitting in Mr. Compton's parlor, and very evidently upon equal terms with the finest people in B.; people, indeed, who were quite too fine to care whether they were fashionable or not. He could not understand it at all, but of one thing he was very sure—that there was some mistake, some gross imposition on Robert's part—that Mr. Compton could not know his true history—and he determined that he should be informed of it on the first opportunity. Meanwhile, he would do all in his power to put this presumptuous youth down to his proper position.

"Why, Robert, is this you?" he said, in a tone of surprise, but with great condescension. "I supposed you were still 'working' at Dr. Huntley's."—A particular emphasis on the word "working," which was intended to be very stinging.

"I am, in vacation time," replied Robert, smiling, though his cheek flushed a little.

"Indeed! In vacation! You are probably teaching in some public school. I congratulate you upon your advancement."

"Thank you; but your congratulations are uncalled-for, as I am only teaching in a small private school at present."

"Mr. Merritt is in the University," said General Compton, with some emphasis; "and, as I am assured by his teachers, takes a very high place there."

"Oh! Indeed!" replied the discomfited young gentleman, who felt himself rather uncomfortable under the General's tone and glance, and still more so under the politely repressed smiles of the young ladies. "I did not know—I was not aware that Robert had left Grandville—I—in fact, I was quite surprised at seeing him."

"Very naturally so," said Robert with perfect composure. And then returned to his examination of the photographs, and his conversation with his host, leaving Mr. Mandeville to his own devices, and the tender mercies of the young ladies.

Eugene, as may well be supposed, did not spend a very pleasant evening, but he was determined to outstay Robert at all events. And accordingly, when the latter arose, a little after nine, to take his leave, he bade him good evening in a most lofty tone, and still retained his seat, much to the annoyance of the ladies.

"You have met Mr. Merritt before?" remarked Miss Compton, by way of saying something.

"Oh! Yes—that is, not exactly met him; but—in fact, I never was more surprised in my life, than I was to see him here; and I think it no more than right that you should know his true history, before he imposes on you any farther."

"Thank you!" returned Mrs. Compton, in rather a peculiar tone, but which Eugene Augustus took for encouragement.

"Well, the fact is, that when I was in Grandville, this person lived at Dr. Huntley's as groom and stable-boy, and did all the work about the place. He was, though of the very lowest origin, greatly inclined to be insolent at that time, and I was often obliged to make him know his place, especially after the Doctor, who is a most eccentric man, allowed him to attend the academy: but I never thought he would have the brazen impudence to pass himself off on you as a gentleman. How he comes to be in the University, I can not conceive."

"The matter is easily enough explained," said Mr. Compton, quietly. "Mr. Vanderburgh of Grandville has a scholarship in the University, and as his own son inclines to an out-of-door life, he very kindly, and, in my opinion, very wisely, bestowed it upon young Merritt. As to his being here, that is also easily explained. He was introduced to me by Dr. Huntley himself, who is a very particular friend of mine, and who told me his whole history. I was much interested in him, not only from the fact of his having educated himself, in a great measure, by his own exertions, but also because he is really a very modest and remarkably well-informed young man; and as he rides the chemical hobby as well as myself, we agree very well. I hope to be able to serve him essentially when he shall have finished his studies, and shall take great pleasure in doing so; for a more deserving, and I will add, a more agreeable young man I have seldom met."

This speech, though delivered in the blandest manner, did not, as may be imagined, tend to make Eugene feel any more at his ease. He found he had made a mistake all round, and he did not exactly see which way to retreat. So he wisely judged it best to let the matter drop entirely, and made his exit, feeling as though he should not care about calling at Mrs. Compton's again in some time.

Robert, however, was not at all discomfited by his encounter, nor did he visit his friends at all the less. Through their kindness, he became acquainted with some other cultivated families, whose society made his stay in B. very pleasant. He did not, however, allow his social enjoyments to draw him in the least degree from his studies, feeling that he owed it to those friends who had given him the means of improvement, to make the most of his advantages. His friends, on their part, were entirely satisfied with him, and George Huntley himself was scarcely more welcome home in vacation time than Robert.

George had finished his collegiate course, and was pursuing his studies for the ministry, when Robert returned home for his last college vacation. And the two young men held a great many serious conversations while they were working together in the garden, or resting at noon at harvest and haying-time; for Robert still continued to work for Mr. Dennison during those busy seasons, and George was very fond of lending a hand.

"I could almost find it in my heart to envy you, George," said Robert on one of these occasions, "though I am not dissatisfied with my own decision, mind. But you will have such powers for usefulness in your hands—such grand opportunities of doing good!"

"And also such great and fearful responsibilities," replied George; "don't forget that. I assure you that though I am, as you say, not at all dissatisfied with my decision, I often tremble at the thought of what is before me. I do not suppose I shall ever have as much influence as Mr. Ellison; but when I spend a day with him and see how he is looked up to for advice and instruction in the gravest matters, my heart sinks at the idea of bearing half the burden. But you will have opportunity enough of doing good if you are faithful. Look at my father! There is hardly a minister in the land that does more than he."

"I shall never be like your father," said Robert; "it is not in me. Indeed, if it were possible, I would rather be a tutor in a college or some such institution, with an ultimate view to a professorship, than to study medicine at all, but of course I shall not think of such a thing."

"Why not?" asked George.

"Oh! Because your father has set his heart on my studying with him, and of course I should not dream of acting contrary to his wishes, when I owe to him, under God, all that there is of good about me."

"But if my father knew which way your wishes tended, he would advance them to the extent of his power, I am certain."

"That is the very reason I do not want him to know, and I beg that you will not intimate such a thing to him. But after all, if any such situation should offer, I should be all the better prepared for it by going through a regular course of medical study. So don't, for the world, say that I am at all dissatisfied, for indeed I am not. To think," he continued in a musing tone, "how wonderfully my prospects have changed since I first knew your father! And there is one thing that has surprised me, George."

"If there is only one thing that surprises you, you are more fortunate than most people. There are a dozen things that surprise me every day. But what in particular?"

"Just this," replied his friend, "that every body is so ready to forget all about the first part of my career, and to lend me a helping hand. To be sure there is now and then a dunce like Mandeville, who tries to look down upon me; but as a general thing, the moment a man tries to help himself, there are plenty of people to assist him; and as soon as he shows a desire to become respectable, they begin to respect him."

"Then you don't think," said George, smiling, "that the rich always oppress the poor, and look down on them."

"It may be so in some instances, but they have not come under my observation. I have often heard people talk in that way, but they have always been either those whose poverty was the least of their faults, scheming politicians who were fishing for votes, or else extremely ignorant people. For myself, I have found too many friends ever to believe any such cant. I only wish I could in any way repay their kindness to me."

"You will have a great many opportunities of being of service to my father," remarked George. "He has always had a tendency to absence of mind, and I can see that it grows upon him. If you are at his elbow, you can save him from a great many uncomfortable mistakes, and a deal of annoyance; for he always feels badly when he finds that he has made a blunder. He is as fond of you as if you were his son, and you can serve him a great many times when a stranger could not."

"I know it," replied Robert, "and I desire nothing better than to be able to do so; and I beg you once more, George, never to hint to him that I have ever thought of any other line of life."

George gave the required promise, and Robert returned for his last year in college, fully determined to devote himself heart and soul to the study of medicine. He graduated with great honor, and then immediately returned to Grandville, and entered the Doctor's office, where he gave himself to the study of his profession with as much ardor as he had done to his college pursuits. He was constantly on the watch for opportunities of being of service to the Doctor, who, as George had remarked, was growing absent-minded; and he often stood between him and annoyance, by finding lost papers and reminding him of forgotten engagements, so that Dr. George was wont to say, he could as well dispense with his right hand as with Robert.

Especially was this the case, when the death of Maude in her early womanhood, threw a deep shade of sadness over the hitherto happy family. Robert had loved Maude as an own sister, and his unobtrusive sympathy and heart-felt grief endeared him still more to the family, who now treated him in all respects as a cherished son and brother. He passed through his course of medical study as he had done through his college course; working hard, and never doing less than his best; and having passed an excellent examination, he was admitted to partnership with the Doctor, and soon obtained a fair share of the confidence of the community.

About the time that Robert left college, Celia was married to a young farmer in the neighborhood—a man of some property, and in every way unexceptionable, who wanted a good wife to take with him to Michigan, where he owned an excellent new farm. Auntie Dennison made a grand party on the occasion, to which all the Huntleys and Vanderburghs, as well as Mr. Ellison's family, were invited; at which time she fairly outdid herself in cookery, providing cakes, pies, preserves, and all other good things in such quantity and variety, that Robert laughingly told her he hoped she would make two or three more such after he got his diploma, as in that case he should be sure of plenty of patients; whereupon she promised to celebrate that event by another feast of fat things.

Celia looked very pretty and happy in her wedding-dress, presented by Mrs. Huntley. And among the property which Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury carried with them to their new home, was a securely-packed crate of crockery, including among other things, a pretty china dinner and tea-set, a nice set of silver spoons, Bob's present, and a plentiful "plenishing" of table and bed-linen, blankets and comforters, all the bridal gifts of her friends.

Mrs. Dennison missed her sadly, and Aunt Nancy said the house was not like the same place without her; she did not think she should ever take, to another girl as she had to Celia. But when Mr. Dennison went to the city one day, and brought home a pretty, delicate little girl from the orphan asylum, the kind-hearted old lady "took" to her as readily as she had done to Celia, and soon loved her like a daughter.

Mark, who was now a stout, well-grown lad of thirteen, went with his brother-in-law. His kind master having died, his friends thought he could not do better than to go out to a new country where, as Mr. Bradbury expressed it, "there was twice as much room for a boy to grow up, as there was in a stifled-up place like Grandville." So Mark left his shoemaker's bench, and went out to the West to be made a farmer of.

We will now leave our young people, and passing over an interval of no less than twenty years, we will take a peep at the homestead and family of a thriving farmer in Michigan. It is a pretty white house of two stories, and is charmingly shaded with trees; on one side is a flourishing garden, on the other a beautiful meadow stretches its velvet green down to the borders of one of those charming little lakes which are the pride and beauty of Michigan. The front door stands invitingly open, and indeed, it is seldom closed during the day-time in summer, and a glimpse through a door which opens into the wide hall, shows a parlor neatly furnished, most invitingly cool, and perfumed by freshly gathered flowers, among which shines conspicuously, a vase of splendid water-lilies.

But there is no body at present in the parlor, nor yet in the dining-room, where the table, ready set for tea, with its plates of bread, cheese, and cakes of all sorts, its dishes of fresh and preserved fruits, and its two neat mats, suggestive of hot additions yet to come, all make us think of Auntie Dennison. If we want to find any body, we must pass through the hall, across the back-piazza, and open the kitchen-door. There is a great fire in the stove, although it is a summer evening, and a warm bluish haze pervades the atmosphere, together with a smell of frying and baking, which reminds us not disagreeably, that we have not had our supper, and that there is something in the air of Michigan which makes people hungry.

Can this be Celia coming out of the milk-room, with a brimming pitcher of rich cream in one hand and a plate of butter crowned with sparkling ice in the other? Certainly it looks very much like Celia as we knew her twenty years ago; but it can not be she. No, it is Miss Maude Huntley Bradbury; and Miss Maude, is sixteen and begins to feel very grown-up, indeed. There is Celia Bradbury, looking over those strawberries, with a high apron protecting her nice white dress. If you look out of the door you will see certain flaxen heads intently looking over the gate, and down the road, who answer to the names of John Vanderburgh and Jane Dennison, and Richard Ellison and Georgiana Maria Bradbury, the last-mentioned young lady being considerably shorter than her name, for Michigan folks have a passion for grand titles, and in general, the less children have of any thing else, the more names they possess.

But if you want to see the mother of all these promising young people, as no doubt you do, you must wait a minute, for Mrs. Bradbury has retired to make her toilet; she will return in time to give the last touches to the fried chicken, and to take the biscuits out of the oven herself, for Uncle Robert and his wife are coming to-night. Mr. Bradbury and Robert the younger, have gone down to the station with the carriage, and now John Vanderburgh and Jane Dennison run a race to the house to announce that they have heard the cars.

Well, the biscuits are done just in time, so Mrs. Bradbury takes them out of the oven and folds them in a nice white napkin, that they may be piping hot, and setting the chicken off the fire, she goes to the door to look out for herself.

Here they are!—Here they come! And Mrs. Bradbury runs down to the gate, and is at once enfolded in the arms of a tall and stout gentleman, with dark eyes and brown curling hair, who certainly bears a strong resemblance to our friend Bob. Then Mrs. Merritt is embraced in her turn; and Mrs. Merritt looks very much as the youngest Miss Compton used to. Then various little Merritts are lifted down, and being taken in custody by the young Bradburys, are conducted in triumph to the house, amidst kisses and questions and exclamations, and a vast amount of general confusion.

Well, by and by, they have eaten supper, and the younger children have, in a manner, subsided and gone to bed. Now the elders sit down to have a quiet chat, and to take a good look at each other, which they have hardly been able to do yet for the noise of the young ones. Celia notices how large and stout Robert has grown, and how thoughtful he looks, and a nearer inspection discovers several threads of gray in his hair and whiskers, which have no business to be there; but, then, he has always worked so hard. Robert laughs at Celia for growing so fat, and tells her she will soon be as stout as Aunt Nancy.

"And how is the dear old Doctor?" asks Celia.

"Very well," returns Robert, "and very happy. He seldom goes out now except to church and to ride, but he is very well and enjoys himself greatly. Mr. Vanderburgh spends a great deal of time with him since his wife died, and if Mary marries and goes away, I think he will go to live at the Doctor's. John is in your neighborhood, so I need tell you nothing about him."

"When have you seen Auntie Dennison?"

"Just before I left. She is the same good soul as ever, and just as fond of making people eat too much. The little girl they took from the Orphan Asylum has been a great comfort to them."

"Mr. Ellison is the same as ever, I suppose?"

"Just the same, only more so, as they say out here. He does not seem to grow old in heart at all, and is just as fond as ever of having young people about him. George Huntley works with him heart and soul, and is just the assistant that he ought to have. On the whole, he is as happy a man as one will often see."

"I should really like to go back and see Grandville again," said Celia, thoughtfully; "though I suppose there have been a great many changes since I was there."

"Oh! Yes, a great many," replied Robert. "You would hardly know the place. However, there are some landmarks still remaining, and our old house is one of them."

"Still that must be very much altered."

"Yes, it is more like what it was in grandfather's time, though I have been obliged to enlarge it a good deal. It is one of the prettiest places in the village. Ah! Celia, do you remember that evening the cow got into my garden—the evening Mr. Vanderburgh gave Mr. Ellison such an account of us?"

"Remember it! Yes, indeed, and how we went to church the next Sunday evening, and how you went to work in the parsonage garden next day. I wonder if Mr. Vanderburgh ever remembers what he used to prophesy about you."

"Not at all. The old gentleman tells every one that he knew from the first I would turn out well. He told me the last time I went away to P., to my lectures, that he always knew I was cut out for a professor. I did not say any thing to the contrary, for, indeed, but for him I should never have been one."

"I don't know that," said Celia. "It would have been harder, no doubt, but I think you would have made your way first or last. Not but that you owe him a great deal. And, by the way, do you remember that Mr. Mandeville, who used to provoke you so? What has become of him?"

"He is a fourth or fifth-rate lawyer in B.," said Robert. "He just passed his examination, and that was all, and now he practices when he can get a chance, which is not often. He never had wit enough to make a living."

"You stopped to see Mark, I suppose?" said Mr. Bradbury.

"Oh! Yes, and found him as comfortable as can be, with a nice little house, and a nice little wife and baby. He seems to be prospering in every way."

"Yes, Mark is doing very well now," remarked Celia. "He made us a little uneasy at one time, lest he should fall into bad habits; but he had the sense to stop in time, and he now bears a very good character, and seems likely to be well off. After all, Robert, we have turned out pretty well, for all we were such a hard set, as Mr. Vanderburgh said."

"Yes, thank God, we have nothing now to be ashamed of. But if we had not found just the right kind of people to help us, we might have been badly off in spite of our efforts. It was only the good old Doctor's forbearance and patience that saved me from utter destruction; if he had dealt with me according to my deserts, I should have been—God only knows where—by this time."

The large family Bible, Mrs. Ellison's wedding present, was soon brought and put into Robert's hands. He selected the one hundred and seventh psalm:

"Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and the wonders that he doeth for the children of men.

"Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy.

"For he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness.

"He brought down their soul with heaviness: they fell down and there was none to help them.

"Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them out of their distress. He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death, and broke their bonds in sunder.

"Oh! that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for the wonderful works that he doeth for the children of men."

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Table of Contents

UPWARD AND ONWARD;

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

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