CHAPTER XIX.

MORRISVILLE.

IN a village seventy miles from Maytown, the old-fashioned stage coach drew up, just about sunset, at the gate of a stone house. The driver jumped from the box, let down the steps with a clang, and held out his hand to assist his lady passenger to alight.

"This be the house, Miss, follow the path round to the south door. This one,—" pointing to a front entrance, shaded by a portico with heavy coping, and woodbine stripped of its leaves flickering to and fro in the breeze,—"this one is locked most-times."

"Thank you," answered a pleasant, girlish voice, which we recognize as that of our friend Helen Edmond. "Will you bring my trunk in?"

"Sartin, Miss."

"Here's your pay, driver. I think this part of the country is beautiful."

He was busy unstrapping the trunk, and only stopped to take the bank bill in his teeth, while she, following his direction, walked slowly around the house to a pretty porch on the south side.

There on the ample platform lay an immense dog of the St. Bernard breed, who, after regarding her with half-shut eyes, lifted his huge form and lazily approached her.

"Good fellow," exclaimed Helen. "You and I must be friends." She laughingly held out her hand.

And to seal the compact, he licked it, as if she were an old acquaintance.

A woman at this moment answered her ring, and ushered the traveller into a cosey sitting-room, with pots of house plants filling the south windows, and giving the apartment that "heartsome" appearance so thoroughly appreciated by a stranger.

"Yer aunt's expecting of yer, Miss," the woman remarked. "I'll show yer her chamber, whenever yer ready. I s'pose yer tired and hungry."

"Not much of either," laughingly answered Helen, throwing off her hat and cloak. "It looks very pleasant, here."

"Yer aunt 'll be pleased to hear yer say so, Miss."

Leading the way to the front hall and up the handsome staircase:

"This is the room; and I'll have some supper ready when yer come down."

The chamber windows opened to the west, and the reflection from the gorgeously tinted sky filled the room.

In the centre of the apartment, with her eyes fixed on the glorious scene, sat an elderly lady, arrayed in a silk dressing-gown and frilled cap. She held out her hand with a welcoming smile, and then drawing down the sweet, fresh face, imprinted a loving kiss on Helen's cheek.

"You make me feel young," said the old lady, after a long gaze into Helen's eyes. "You are very like your mother."

"I'm glad to hear you say so. Did you know her very well? And will you tell me a great deal about her?"

"I answer yes to both your questions. I hope you have come to stay a long time with me."

"Yes, aunt, a month if you wish it."

The old lady smiled in a knowing way, but then added:

"You must be very weary after your long ride. Go down and eat your supper, but don't be away too long. I am growing selfish at once, you see."

Helen soon reappeared, and gave her mother's aunt an account of her journey, half of which she had come alone, her life in Maytown, her studies, her letters from Frank, and the pleasure she anticipated in her new sister, Constance.

"I wish Frank could have come with you. I don't like this way of young girls travelling alone," said Aunt Martha.

"Since Frank's engagement, I am getting quite used to doing without his attentions," urged Helen, laughing. "Besides, I only came alone from S—, that is less than half way."

"Who was your companion, dear?"

"Mr. Knowles, a clergyman from Maytown."

"Ah! I think I have heard of him, a man near my own age."

"That is the father to Mr. Frederic. A kind old gentleman, and I love him dearly."

Mrs. Prescott apparently did not notice the blush which accompanied these words. She only patted the delicate fingers lying in her own, and said:

"I am glad you have an affectionate heart. I think you and I shall understand each other."

By this time the evening was quite advanced, and Betsey, the woman who had admitted Helen, came in to make arrangements for the night.

The room was very large, and contained a good deal of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There was an immense high post bedstead, with curtains of printed linen and beyond that a narrow bed. There were two bureaus, with claw feet and carved handles, a large table, and a small work table, each in the same style, and half-a-dozen chairs of various shapes, but all with elaborately worked bottoms.

On the tables and bureaus there were curiously carved boxes of quaint, old-fashioned shapes, the wood as rich and dark with age as the furniture.

Exactly at nine, a bell was rung in the lower hall.

"Helen," said the old lady, "we have prayers at this hour. My eyes are dim and failing, will you read for me?"

"I shall love to," Helen answered, with such an emphasis, that both her aunt and Betsey, the long tried, faithful servant, smiled their approbation.

Presently a man and woman came up the stairs, and quietly took seats near the door. Helen then opened the Bible, to which her aunt pointed, and read the chapter which came in course.

"Your mother was a sweet singer," remarked Mrs. Prescott, when she had finished. "I suppose you can sing?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Are you too weary to sing a psalm? It is a long time since I heard one. The book is near your hand on the little table."

Selecting a simple tune, the young girl gained all hearts presently by her ready compliance, and the smile with which she said: "I shall be glad of some help."

She commenced in a low tone, but soon, inspired by the sentiment of the hymn, she forgot the novelty of her position, and the room was filled with her clear sweet notes.

From this time the singing of a hymn became part of the morning and evening service.

"Christopher has carried your trunk to your chamber, Miss," explained Betsey, lighting a candle for the young lady. "I hope you will find everything to your mind. If not, I shall be proud to make it so."

"I trust my niece will remember this is her home as long as we can persuade her to remain," remarked Mrs. Prescott, kindly. "Now good-night, dear. May your sleep be rendered sweeter by the thought that you have made your mother's friend very happy. Good-night, and may the good Father protect you."

Helen lovingly returned the old lady's kiss, and then sought her chamber, but not her bed.

Taking her portfolio from her trunk, she commenced a journal, which she had promised to send her teacher, as, in the first line, she blushingly termed him.

"How fresh and lovely you look, my dear," began her aunt, the next morning. "Shall I make you vain by telling you so?"

"I've heard a few remarks before, of that kind, in my life," Helen said, laughing merrily, "but really, this fine air is enough to make one fresh. I have been up since sunrise, and have visited every nook and corner of your farm, as Christopher calls it. I have seen the late chickens, and commenced an acquaintance with Hero. What a splendid fellow he is! And I've seen where the summer garden is, and admired the old trees, even enough to satisfy Christopher. Isn't he funny, with his little bows, and big words?"

"And do you know that this farm, house and all, will be yours by and by? It is not my gift. I have a life-lease only. Your grandfather willed it to you when you received your grandmother's name."

"I hope it will not come to me for a long, long time," was Helen's tearful reply. "I had much rather have 'you!'"

An hour or two later the young girl had brought her sewing, some delicate trifles of lady's work and was sitting by her aunt when Mrs. Prescott said:

"Now, my dear, tell me all about Mr. Frederic Knowles."

Glancing quickly at her companion, an arch smile around the old lady's mouth sent the warm blood to beautify the young girl's cheeks.

"You see, I know your secret, Helen."

"It is no secret, aunt."

And then with many blushes she nestled herself closer to the old lady and told her all that was in her little innocent heart. She told her too of the day when she found she needed an Almighty Friend, and how her Saviour had appeared to her as one altogether lovely. From this time the tie between the two was very strong.

The more Helen saw of Morrisville, the better she liked it. In her journal she gave Frederic an account of the long, wide street shaded with noble old elms—the handsome mansions which bordered it for nearly two miles, the large stone church half covered with ivy. She ended her description by saying:

"If I could move Woodbine Cottage and the parsonage and all the people that I love from Maytown to Morrisville, I should be almost too happy."

Only on the Sabbath was our young friend discontented. The clergyman who had ministered to the wants of the people for twenty years had been called to a position of greater responsibility, and the pulpit was now supplied for a few months by a younger man whose heart his hearers soon found, was not in his work. Indeed he confided to one of the Committee the fact that unless he could get a call from some wealthy church where the salary would support him in style, he should leave the pulpit for the bar.

Mrs. Prescott had for many years been a liberal supporter of religious institutions, both in her native town and elsewhere. On account of her feeble state of health, she had never heard the new preacher; but she had invited him to her house, had talked with him on subjects connected with personal religion, and had listened to his prayers. She had done more, and by her Christian frankness proved herself a tried friend. She advised him to search his own heart, and take counsel of God in reference to his motives in preaching the gospel of Christ. If he found that worldly gain, ease or luxury were inducements stronger than the desire to win souls, she asked whether it would not be better for Christ's kingdom and for his own soul that he should leave the work in which he was engaged.

[Illustration]