CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

AS the doctor had prophesied, Abby was much more comfortable the next morning—better, indeed, than, she had been since her arrival, and it was thought that a little talking would do her no harm. She seemed to find the greatest pleasure in recurring to her childhood, and her school-days, and in talking about them.

Emma sat quietly upon the bed, looking at her mother, and amusing herself with some old play-things of Charlotte's that Mammy had discovered in a remote corner of the nursery. She was a very precocious and beautiful child, having her mother's blue eyes and fair hair already beginning to curl in rings round her face.

Olive and Charlotte sat at work by the bed, and Mrs. Merton went and came from the parlor to the sick-room as she could find time. A great many people called to inquire for the invalid, and, according to the pleasant custom of the place, gifts of flowers, fresh fruit, and other delicacies, were sent in.

Abby seemed as though she would have been quite happy, but for her anxiety about her husband, who came about noon, feeling very much abused, and preparing to be very lofty and indignant at having his wife carried off without his knowledge. He had not received the letter, having left Boston before it arrived, and he was naturally much amazed on reaching home, and going straight to his room, to find Abby and the baby gone, the bedstead empty, and the furniture covered up.

The terrible fear that first came over him being removed by the reply to his first question, he was all the better prepared to be irritated, when Mrs. Hines, nowise inclined to soften matters, informed him "that Mrs. Forester's friends had come and took her home, and time enough they did, too, in her opinion."

An attempt to silence and overawe that lady by dignified and lofty demeanor turned out a signal failure, and ended in what might with propriety be called a scolding-match, on which occasion the gentleman came off second-best, so that it was in no very good humor that he took the cars to M. By the time he arrived there, he had worked himself up into a great passion, and was determined to do wonderful things. Abby should return with him at once, or not at all, and he would put a final end to her peevishness and childish freaks of temper. He would teach Mr. Merton to interfere in his affairs.

A thundering ring brought that gentleman himself to the door. Mr. Merton possessed in a remarkable degree the commanding presence, and calm, all-penetrating eye, which is apt to belong to distinguished lawyers. And as his gaze rested upon his nephew-in-law, that gentleman felt a sudden and sensible diminution of his courage and wrath; so he thought it best to begin, before any more of it forsook him.

"So, Mr. Merton!" he commenced, in a much louder tone than was necessary. "You think it an honorable proceeding, do you, to enter a gentleman's house and interfere with his affairs, as you have done with mine! Let me tell you—"

"Tell me in a lower tone, if you please," interrupted Mr. Merton blandly. "There is no occasion for the next street to be informed, and moreover, your voice will alarm your wife, who lies in a very precarious state. Be pleased to walk in, and then we can discuss the matter properly."

Mr. Forester was put down, in spite of himself. He followed Mr. Merton in to the library, and took a seat. "Well, sir!" he continued. "I should like to know by what right my wife has been taken away without my knowledge?"

"Simply because there was no one to stay with her, and she was far too ill to be left alone. There was no other course to take."

"By whose judgment was she pronounced so ill?" asked Mr. Forester, trying to continue his lofty tone, but feeling more and more all the time that it was a failure.

"Upon my own, and my wife's, corroborated by that of your family physician," was the composed reply.

"She must have become suddenly worse, then," said Mr. Forester peevishly. "She seemed well enough when I was last at home. I never saw any one have a more splendid color."

"Being unused to sickness, probably the symptoms did not attract your attention," returned Mr. Merton politely. "She is very ill now, and I am sorry to be obliged to tell you, that Dr. Willson pronounces her recovery very doubtful. Indeed, he told Olive that only the utmost quiet and ease, would prolong her life from day to day. I should not tell you this painful intelligence so abruptly, my dear sir," he continued, "but that I wish to impress upon you the absolute necessity of caution. I will go and tell my wife that you are here; and she will prepare Abby for seeing you."

Mr. Merton was gone some little time—long enough for Mr. Forester to make up his mind that they were all in a conspiracy to frighten him out of finding any fault with Abby. "But I will not be bullied," he said internally, as he followed Mr. Merton up-stairs; "she shall go back to-morrow, if she is able to be moved."

All thought of finding fault, of taking Abby back, for once even of himself, were put to flight by his first look at her. She had raised herself from her pillows, and was looking eagerly toward the door: every trace of color had vanished from one cheek, while on the other the hectic spot burned more brightly than ever. Her large eyes looked black, from the dilatation of their pupils and the hands she stretched out to him were transparent as porcelain.

He was shocked beyond measure. It had never been any part of his education to put any constraint upon his emotions, and as she threw herself towards him, he clasped her in his arms, and burst into tears. Abby's eyes were always ready to overflow, but nothing could be more dangerous now than a fit of crying.

"This will never do!" Mrs. Merton's calm voice was heard saying. "Mr. Forester, you are endangering Abby's life by giving way so. If you can not compose yourself, you must retire at once. Abby, my love, remember—"

Mr. Forester disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and walked to the window to recover his composure. Even then, he found time to think how hard-hearted Mrs. Merton was, and how little she could appreciate delicate feelings like his. In a few moments, he returned and sat down by the bed-side, and Mrs. Merton left them together, with a renewed charge to William, not to agitate Abby.

"So you came home and found your bird flown," said Abby softly, after a little pause. "What did you think, when you found I was not there?"

"I was very much alarmed, of course," replied Mr. Forester. "I could not be otherwise, not having heard of your being worse. Why did you not write?"

"I was not able for several days, and kept thinking I should be better. Mrs. Granger wrote to uncle without my knowledge, and when he came, I was so ill, and so very uncomfortable that I seemed to have no other choice. Uncle wrote to you directly after we arrived here."

"Are you sure? I have had no letter. But if you were so unwell the last time I was at home, why did you not say something about it? I never saw you looking better than you did then."

"I did tell you that my cough was very troublesome," said Abby timidly.

"I don't remember it," replied Mr. Forester, carelessly. And indeed he had paid very little attention to it, having been absorbed for the time in running over a new piece of music. "But I hope you will soon be well enough to return home, for I can not say I like the idea of your being here."

Abby's heart sunk. "It is so pleasant and home-like here," she pleaded, "and they are all so kind, and so fond of Emma. And if you are away in Boston, I might as well be here as there."

"Only that it is not very agreeable to me to come here, and be treated like a criminal by all the family," rejoined Mr. Forester peevishly, "and I do not choose to have my child brought up to despise her father."

"They have never said an unkind word about you," said Abby, with an eagerness which set her coughing. "I am sure uncle's letter was as kind as could be."

"I see that they have won you over to their side altogether," replied Mr. Forester, in what he meant for a playful tone, but which was really one of annoyance. "We shall soon have you making them a humble apology for having married me at all."

"I think uncle has forgiven me entirely," said Abby faintly, for she was getting very tired.

"So you acknowledge that you are wrong! What a pity you had not thought of it before. You might have saved yourself all the trouble you have had in housekeeping, and have been still an admired young lady. But come, don't bring the water-works into play," he added, seeing her eyes full of tears, "or you will be worse, and I shall be turned out of doors for an unnatural monster. I want you to get well, so I can have you all to myself again."

But in the earnestness of justifying herself from the charge of wishing she had never been married, Abby over-exerted herself, and coughed terribly.

The ominous sound summoned Mrs. Merton, and she at once dismissed Mr. Forester, not without a grave rebuke for allowing his wife to talk so much.

The gentleman went down-stairs in any thing but an amiable humor. He had intended to be very magnanimous and very gentle with his wife, but upon reviewing what he had said, he could not but be conscious that he had allowed his annoyance to appear plainly—that he had disturbed her, instead of doing her any good, and that Mrs. Merton thought, though she did not say so, that he was not to be trusted.

It was, therefore, with no amiable feelings that he met Miss Merton and Miss McHenry in the parlor. They took pains to be very polite, feeling really sorry for him in view of the distress which they supposed he must feel. Olive asked him how he found Abby.

"She is very unwell, no doubt," said he, throwing himself into a corner of the sofa. "I do not believe her hasty journey has done her any good. She is much worse than when I left her."

Miss Charlotte stiffened up directly. "The journey was not a hasty one, Mr. Forester," said she coldly, "and Abby was so unwell when my father found her that it was impossible to think of leaving her where she was, with no one to take care of her."

"I understood Mrs. Forester that the people of the house were very attentive," he replied loftily.

"It would be rather hard both for them and her to have her left upon their hands," said Olive gently. "Such people have usually enough to do to attend to their own affairs, and however well disposed they may be, they can not bestow that constant attention which is needed by an invalid in Abby's situation. But how do you like your present employment?" she asked, hoping by turning the conversation to prevent an explosion from Charlotte. "I should think it must be very agreeable."

"Oh! I have given that up," replied the gentleman. "The man was too insufferably accurate. He insisted upon my doing every thing according to rule and measure, and had the audacity to prefer his own stiff sketches to the drawings I made from them, because he said they were more correct! As if mere mechanical correctness were the main thing in a picture!"

"But in a scientific work," said Olive, "it seems to me that accuracy would be worth much more than picturesque effect."

"May-be so," returned her brother-in-law, "but I can not work in that way. I must have room allowed for the play of my imagination. These very practical people never have any sympathy for aught beyond their own ideas."

"Perhaps the very practical people might make the same complaint of the very imaginative ones," replied Olive, smiling; "at any rate, as a certain number of practical people seem to be necessary for the well-being of society, it is perhaps best to have patience with them."

"Yes, of course, if they will only have patience with us, and be willing to know their place, and keep to it. And as you say, a certain number of them seem to be rather convenient. Now there is my sister, Emma—she has not one spark of genius, and is as narrow-minded as possible, but yet she is a very useful person in the family. I hardly know what my mother and Emmeline would do without her. But to return to your sister. When do you think she will be able to be moved?"

"Moved!" exclaimed Charlotte and Olive together. "You surely can not think of taking her away."

"Why, I don't know," he replied doubtfully. "Perhaps a change might do her good. I was thinking of going to some of the villages near Boston to live, and of course I could not go without her."

"I am afraid she will never live to be moved again," said Olive, her eyes filling with tears. "Dr. Willson says her case is almost hopeless."

"But don't you think physicians are apt to make matters worse than they are, Olive?" asked William anxiously. "They naturally like to enhance their own importance. I have seen people much worse than she is, who recovered."

"We must hope for the best as long as we can," said Olive sadly, "but I fear there is but one event possible. Her only chance is to be kept perfectly quiet and easy in mind. Pray do not say a word to her about going away. I am sure it would worry her very much, and perhaps bring on another bad attack."

The mischief was done, however. Abby coughed very badly all the afternoon, and the evening brought another time of great distress, followed by another attack of bleeding, not so severe as the last, but enough to cause serious alarm in her present weak state. Dr. Willson absolutely forbade her talking to any body, and only one person was allowed to be in her room at a time.

The next day, Mr. Merton courteously invited Mr. Forester to make the house his home as long as Abby continued ill. Mr. Forester was much obliged, but hinted at painful obligations, whereupon Mr. Merton intimated that Mr. Forester's services would be valuable in the office just now, and Mr. Forester accepted the invitation upon condition that his services should be considered an equivalent for his board. For about a week he was very assiduous in his attendance upon office-work, and Mr. Merton really began to have hopes of him, but they were not very long-lived.

As usual, when the novelty of the thing wore off, his industry began to relax. His old companions courted his society. It was very wearisome to work in the office all day, and then return at night to Abby's sick-room, and the grave circle in Mr. Merton's drawing-room. He persuaded himself that his own health was failing, as it always did when he worked in the house, and that he needed exercise, and his office-hours became few and far between.

If he had been a clerk, Mr. Merton would have discharged him at the end of a month, but Abby's comfort was now the principal object, and he was allowed to take his own course. The example was by no means a good one, and, as may be imagined, began to make trouble among the other young men, and Mr. Merton was very glad when he abandoned the office altogether, and became wholly absorbed in the idea of publishing a set of translations from the older German and Italian poets, an occupation which he varied by long pedestrian rambles, which sometimes kept him away for a day or two at a time, and from which he returned with abundance of beautiful but unfinished sketches.

Olive once or twice finished up some of these sketches into pictures, which Mr. Forester admired very much, and showed to every body as his own. He was quite astonished to find that his sister-in-law could draw as well as himself and that Charlotte was more than his equal in languages, both ancient and modern, and now and then a glimmering perception came across his mind that he was not altogether so far above all the rest of the world as he had always imagined.

Abby lay from day to day with little visible alteration, except that she was gradually growing weaker, and less able to withstand her terrible attacks of difficulty of breathing, which were always followed by bleeding. She was quiet and smiling, apparently perfectly resigned to whatever might happen, happy in being once more at home, in feeling herself forgiven, in having her husband and child with her. She had told William her desires in respect to Emma, and he had given his consent to the arrangement, without thinking much about it.

In fact, Mr. Forester made entirely a false estimate of his own character. He fancied himself earnest, passionate, and susceptible of strong emotions, when in reality he was both shallow-minded and shallow-hearted, utterly incapable of receiving deep or lasting impressions. As Laura said, if Abby had refused him, he would have forgotten all about her in six weeks. But like most persons of weak will and understanding, he was very obstinate, and when he found himself opposed, he resolved to win her at all hazards. But he was kind to her now, and took some little pains to render himself agreeable to the family, and that was enough to render her happy.

It had already been settled in the family councils that Olive was not to return to Basswoods at the end of the vacation. Abby could not bear the idea of her sister's leaving her even for a day, and Mrs. Merton thought that as there was no probability of her returning for any length of time, she had better write to Mr. Jones, in order to give him time to provide a substitute. She did so at once, advising him to apply to Mrs. Granger again, and she also wrote to Ruth, informing her of the change in her plans. She felt very sorry to take leave of the school so abruptly, but her anxiety and grief for Abby swallowed up all minor considerations.

Walter entirely approved of her plan of spending the winter at home, thinking, though she did not say so, that she ought to have a season of rest before undertaking the somewhat arduous duties of a pastor's wife. His visit was a comfort to the whole family. Abby liked to have him read to her and pray with her, even better than Dr. Eastman; Mr. Merton enjoyed the quiet evening conversations, and formed all the time a higher and higher estimate of his young friend's abilities and principles; Charlotte liked him because he was so perfectly honest and plain spoken—so utterly without humbug, was her expression; and even Mrs. Merton quite forgave his romance, as when driven into a corner she still persisted in calling it.

Mr. Forester, utterly unconscious of what an admirable foil he was to Walter's good qualities, tolerated, and sometimes patronized him, to Olive's indignation and Walter's great amusement. And though he could not but look with contempt upon a man who had given up the study of music because it interfered with such a trifling pursuit as practising law, he yet allowed that Walter would make a very good sort of husband for Olive, who was as prosy as himself.

In a week or two letters came from Mr. Jones and Isabella Lambert, containing both pleasant and sad news. The pleasant part of the intelligence was, that upon Mrs. Granger's earnest recommendation, the committee had engaged Helen Monteith to fill Olive's place, Isabella being still retained as second teacher. Nothing could have pleased Olive more. She knew that Helen would carry out her plans, and keep up the influence which she had acquired, and she felt, too, that she would fill up the gap in the little social circle at the parsonage.

A postscript in Isabella's letter, written the next day, announced the death of Frederick Gregory. As the doctor had predicted, it was very sudden at last. He had been working at his collections by times during the day, and seemed as well as usual. But while they were all sitting together in the twilight, he had complained of fatigue, and laid his head upon Ruth's shoulder. After a few moments' silence, she touched his hand, and was alarmed at its coldness. Lights were brought, but all was over. He had breathed his last, resting upon the breast which had been faithful to him for so many years.

Olive wrote to the girls, and received an answer from Ruth almost immediately. It was short, and a good deal of it related to business, but there were a few sentences which related to himself, and which set Olive's heart at rest about her. Ruth evidently felt resigned to her loss, and was deeply thankful that so much more had been vouchsafed to her than she had any reason to expect. She told Olive that Helen was to have her old room, but there would be another for her whenever she came to Basswoods; her letter concluding with quantities of affectionate messages from the school-girls, who, Ruth said, were quite in despair, and perfectly sure that they never could, never should, and never would like any other teacher as well as Miss McHenry.

Olive wrote them a kind of general letter, recommending Miss Monteith to their especial consideration, and begging them to show their affection by being as dutiful and respectful to her successor as they had been to herself.

A few days later, the express brought her a package containing a beautiful writing-desk and color-box, which had been purchased for her by their joint contributions. Mr. Forester criticised the form and arrangement of both, and wondered what a parcel of common-place school-girls could find in their mistress to be grateful for. But Olive shed some tears over the pretty gifts, and felt that the love of her pupils was worth a great deal to her.

Laura and her husband came up to see Abby, and spent two weeks at aunt Dimsden's, who was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and gratified vanity, and displayed her adopted daughter and her daughter's husband, or, as William said, "trotted out her elephants," till the elephants themselves did not know whether to be most amused or annoyed.

Olive's opinion of Mr. Witherington rose with every opportunity she had of observing him, and she could not but hope that he would, after a time, acquire such an influence over Laura, as would make her worthy of him. She thought that Laura was really improved—that she was less frivolous, less fond of display, and showed less anxiety to be admired. Aunt Dimsden was rather vexed with her niece for making Abby's state an excuse for not attending some of the gay parties that were made for her, and wanted Mr. Witherington to interpose his authority to prevent his wife from being moped to death in a sick-room. But Mr. Witherington was not inclined to do so, and she had to content herself with talking to every one about her dear Laura's sensibility and affection for her sister.

Abby liked having Laura to sit with her and talk to her a little while at a time, for she soon grew weary now of any conversation. Laura told her many stories and anecdotes of her New-York life, and her fine acquaintances, and sometimes made her laugh more than Mrs. Merton thought was quite safe. But she always slept well after it, and seemed to enjoy it so much that no one had the heart to interfere with her pleasure. The last day of Laura's stay, she was alone with Abby quite a long time, and when she left her, she was weeping bitterly. It was some time before Olive knew the subject of their conversation. But Mr. Witherington told her afterwards, he thought it had a great effect upon Laura—that she was much more domestic, and cared more for her husband's society, and less for the excitements which had formerly been her chief delight.

It seemed as though Abby declined from the day Laura left them. She lost her voice entirely, and was unable to sit up a moment. But she had no more of the terrible turns of suffering which had been so distressing to witness, and which nothing seemed to relieve. She lay most of the time in a painless, half-dreaming state, not always recognizing those about her, but always docile and uncomplaining. Little Emma was almost always with her, sitting upon the bed, as near her mother as she could creep, and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, or playing with her long, thin fingers. Abby liked to have Emma near her, and the little one's presence often roused her when nothing else would have the desired effect.

Every night, as long as she was able to speak, she put Emma's hands together, and repeated her evening prayer, and it was a sad grief to the baby, the first time her mother was too ill to notice her clasped hands, and the inarticulate murmur with which she had learned to accompany the whispered words.

William seemed about this time to awaken all at once to the idea that his wife was dying. He seldom left her, except to procure something which he fancied would give her pleasure, watched her day and night, and gave up all his favorite employments to read to her when she was able to hear him, or to sit by with his hand clasped in hers, when she was restless and unable to sleep. It was evident that Abby herself never blamed him, even in her inmost thoughts, and that she loved him with an earnestness and depth over which his own faults and follies had no power. To her, he was still the William who had attracted her first love, whom she had invested with qualities which certainly never belonged to him, and whom she still believed in, despite all her disappointments and the sad experience of her married life.

A few days before the last, she seemed to revive very much. She regained her voice in some measure, knew every one about her, and seemed much stronger than she had been for weeks. William was full of joy, and seemed to look upon her as nearly well, and even Mrs. Merton could not help having some hopes. Abby had expressed a wish to receive the holy communion, and Mrs. Merton consulted the doctor.

"Nothing can hurt her, my dear madam," he said, in answer to her anxious inquiries. "This apparent gain is but the last flash of the lamp. Let her have her own way in every thing, but do not leave her alone a moment."

Dr. Eastman was accordingly summoned, and with all her friends around her, Abby received, for the last time, the pledges of the dying love of the Saviour, who was even then standing at the door. She did not seem much fatigued, and spoke without difficulty several times after the clergyman had gone, but Mammy's experienced eye saw that a change had come over her.

"She is marked for death, Mrs. Merton," said she to her mistress, whom she had gone to call, leaving Charlotte and Olive with Abby. "She won't be here many hours longer. Lord receive her, poor dear lamb!"

"Do you think she is dying, Mammy?" asked Mrs. Merton anxiously, but preserving her composure, as she usually did, so long as there was any thing to be done. "Send Edward for Mr. Merton at once—he was called to the office a few minutes ago; and let him call for Dr. Willson."

When she entered the sick-room, she found Abby half-leaning upon her husband, but holding Charlotte's hand, and talking to her at intervals. Charlotte sat like a statue, but the tears fell fast from her eyes.

The only words Mrs. Merton caught were, "Take Him for your own, Lotta. Nothing else is worth living for."

Then, after a few moments' silence: "He is so good—he helped me—he helps me now."

"Don't talk, Abby," said William hoarsely; "you will exhaust yourself."

"It won't make much difference," she said, with a heavenly smile illuminating her already sharpened features. "Dear William, don't grieve too much, and study the Bible. Don't be deceived by fancies. There is nothing but Christ!" She was silent again, and lay apparently asleep for half an hour, till Mammy brought in the baby.

Emma stretched out her hands to her mother.

"Set her down here," said Abby, now seeming to speak with a little difficulty.

As Mammy obeyed, she took her hand and kissed her. "Thank you, dear Mammy. Take care of her while she is little, won't you?"

"So help me God, I will, Miss Abby," said Mammy, quite overcome. Her sobs were the signal for a burst of tears from every one in the room. Abby's eyes filled, too, but the drops did not fall. She looked around the room, and called every one to her by name, even the servants, who had collected at the door. There was again an interval of silence, and she said faintly, "Uncle!"

"What, love?" asked Mr. Merton, trying to speak calmly.

"I was a very ungrateful girl, but indeed I loved you all the time. Please forgive me and poor William, for my sake."

Mr. Merton kissed her, but could not reply.

Abby now changed rapidly, and when Dr. Willson put some wine to her lips, she could not swallow. Taking, with a last effort, Emma's little hands between her own, she murmured some indistinct words, of which they could only distinguish the last—"for Jesus Christ's sake."

And when she had so spoken, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

FROM the first of Abby's illness, Olive had felt that she could not get well, but now that she was really gone, it seemed but a dream. She could not think, in passing Abby's room, that her sister was no longer there. The exquisite statue of alabaster that lay folded on soft satin and surrounded with beautiful flowers was not Abby, and she could not connect it with her sister.

It seemed as though the house were almost empty. Emma would hardly go to any one but Mammy, and she cried constantly for her mother, especially at night. She would not allow her father to take her at all. All necessary business was attended to by Mrs. Dimsden with a quietness and kindness which did her great credit, causing Mrs. Merton to think that she had really done Alicia injustice, and making her resolve that she would hereafter be more patient with her short-comings.

William shut himself up in his room, and would see no one. Perhaps as he went back over the circumstances of his married life, he felt some self-reproach and some misgiving that he had not always been the kindest and most considerate of husbands—that it would have been better if he had been willing to cramp his fancy and genius a little and work steadily at a respectable calling, instead of quarrelling with his employers and allowing his wife to waste almost her last breath in music lessons. Perhaps he thought that the things he had been spending, time and money upon (thinking himself all the time much superior to his poor Abby) would not weigh a grain when laid in the balance against her self-sacrificing industry. It is at least charitable to hope so. He left M. a few days after his wife was buried, to pay a visit to his mother, having first borrowed fifty dollars of Mr. Merton, who was very kind to him at parting, and very glad to get rid of him so cheaply.

He left Emma in Olive's charge, with proper expressions of gratitude and confidence, which she could very well have dispensed with, and begged her to keep Abby clothes and ornaments for the child and not let her forget her father. "I think she is very bright," was his last remark. "I hope she may turn out talented."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Olive when he was out of hearing. "I would rather she would turn out almost any thing else."

"Talents do nobody any harm, my dear Olive, when they are rightly improved, and the character properly cultivated," said Mrs. Merton, who overheard her. "But when a man thinks that because he can do a little of a good many things very easily and likes to amuse himself with books and pictures, that he is a genius and that therefore he is excused from hard work and from doing any thing that he does not like; when he once accepts the supposition that he has a right to please himself and that every one else is bound to work for him—why, I would give more for any little Dutch child that is taught to work at four years old, by picking up chips while its father saws wood."

Walter came up to the funeral, as did Mr. Witherington and Laura, so that the family were once more all together. Laura seemed very much subdued, and every way improved. She would gladly have taken the little Emma herself, but Olive would not hear of such a thing, and indeed aunt Merton seemed to want her more than any body. She should keep her till Olive was married, she declared, and then they would see what was to be done.

She hoped matters might be so managed that Olive might be settled near them. Mrs. Merton had her own reasons for hoping so, though she thought best to keep them to herself. Their parish church had long been full and crowded to overflowing, and some of the families who lived most distant from church, Mrs. Merton's among the number, began to think of colonizing and establishing a new parish nearer at hand. It was not likely that the movement would be carried into effect before spring. Mr. Merton had great influence among his friends and neighbors, every one liked Olive, and there seemed no reason why Olive's husband should not take charge of the new chapel, as soon as it was built and he was ordained.

It was only since her niece had been away from her, that Mrs. Merton had learned to appreciate her—for in reality she had never really done Olive justice while she was at home. Her very quick feelings and somewhat irritable temper, as well as a certain diffidence which sometimes looked like sullenness, made her appear at a great disadvantage by the side of poor Abby, who was always gentle, cheerful, and tractable, and laid her open to constant defeats in her frequent skirmishes with Charlotte, who usually contrived to throw the blame of the quarrel upon her. Mrs. Merton thought her own daughter hasty, but open and generous, and she had never been able to believe that Olive really was so.

But the spirited yet judicious and respectful way with which Olive had asserted her right to support herself, and the entirely noble manner in which she had come out of the affair of poor Abby's miserable marriage, had acquired for her upon the part of her aunt, a respect which every thing she did contributed to strengthen, and Mrs. Merton no sooner began to respect any one than she began to like them. She felt too, that she had done Olive injustice, and she was anxious to make it up to her by every means in her power. It would have pleased her better undoubtedly, if her niece had made a more splendid match, but she saw that she and Walter were very well suited to each other, that he was a talented, industrious, and steady young man, and she felt that under such circumstances she had no right to interfere. The course he had taken about studying for the ministry had displeased her very much at first, but she gradually learned to regard it with more favor as she saw how entirely he was fitted for the profession he had chosen. As she said to Mr. Merton, it was plain that Mr. Landon would do his best in whatever he undertook, and would never be any thing but a credit to those connected with him.

Walter's stay was a short one, but before he left M. it was settled that Olive was to be married in the spring as soon after her lover's ordination as he should be settled anywhere. Meantime, she was to remain at Mrs. Merton's, except that she intended to make a visit to Basswoods some time during the fall. Mrs. Merton again began to turn her attention to sheeting and linen, and made numerous long shopping excursions, which resulted in such a quantity of brown paper parcels that the Miss Willets who lived opposite, thought Mrs. Merton must be thinking of setting up a shop.

Over the contents of these bundles did Mrs. Merton and Charlotte hold long and solemn consultations, to which Olive was sometimes admitted and sometimes not. She was not to be allowed to make herself thin and ill with sewing, Mrs. Merton pronounced, so she was only allowed to do the very lightest parts of the work, the rest having been committed to a seamstress renowned for skill and the mysteries of the needle. Olive would have remonstrated at the quantity and quality of the articles lavishly provided, but Mrs. Merton had a plea which stopped all remonstrances.

"You know, my dear, that we always intended to provide for you both as if you were our own, and since poor dear Abby did not have her share, you must take a double portion."

Abby died the last of September, and it was not until the end of November that Olive felt any spirits for her intended visit to Basswoods. She carried an invitation from her aunt to little Louisa to come home with her and spend the holidays, with which she was very well pleased, thinking that the child would be both gratified and benefited by the change. She found Helen completely established in her old quarters, and to all appearance likely to become as much of a favorite in the place as she herself had been. Every one was pleased with her, Ruth said, except Mrs. Tucker, who had wished to obtain the place for Melissa.

It was rather trying to Olive to be obliged to listen to Mrs. Felton's expressions of sympathy, for that lady always seemed to suffer under a fear that her friends would not appreciate the extent of their misfortunes. If she visited a mother who had lost her child, she would insist upon inquiring into all the circumstances of the little one's sickness and death, and related all the cases in any degree similar which had come within her knowledge. Nothing offended her more than to have any one intimate to her that this sort of conversation was ill-timed; she set that person down at once as unfeeling and wicked, and she had never quite forgiven Mr. Gregory for somewhat abruptly dismissing her from Augusta's room at the time that her little girl died.

Ruth seemed entirely unaltered, except that her cheerfulness had a certain subdued character, and that she talked less. She seemed to take as much interest as ever in all her old pursuits, and she and Augusta were still reading German together. Frederick's collection had been arranged by them in the library of the academy, and formed quite a valuable cabinet of natural history. The little property he had brought home with him was left to his parents for their life-time; at their death to be equally divided between Ruth and Augusta.

This arrangement disappointed Mrs. Felton, who had made up her mind that Ruth was to turn out an heiress, and who had built several castles in the air upon this foundation, but all the other parties interested were more than satisfied. Mrs. Felton could not understand what a clergyman could want with so much money. Their house was furnished well enough—some people thought too well for a minister—and what any one could want of so many books was more than she could see. Why, the parish library contained more volumes than were to be found in the whole country when she was a girl, and she did not perceive that any one was the better for it. Nobody ever thought any thing of what she said, however. The parish library went on increasing no one exactly knew how, while the comeliness of the sanctuary was increased by various repairs and improvements till it became one of the prettiest in the country.

If Olive met with some annoyances in the course of her visit, the pleasures greatly counterbalanced them. Every one was glad to see her. The first time she entered the school-room, she was nearly devoured by the kisses of the girls, while Helen looked on smilingly, above the jealousy which some people would have felt upon such an occasion. Mr. Prendergrass actually left the regions below, and came up-stairs to speak to her, though such a thing as the principal entering the young ladies' department had never been known in the Rev. Mr. Snowden's time.

Olive saw at once that Helen was likely to succeed—all the girls liked her and she evidently liked them, without being finical or fussy about little things, she was sufficiently strict, and she required the most perfect recitations at the same time that she took pains to make those recitations lively and interesting. Several of the larger girls, including Anna Jones and Julia Goodrich, had left school, though they still came two or three times a week to draw and read French, and Helen told Olive that their influence and example had been of great use to her. They were a good deal looked up to by the younger set, who seeing them take pride in being good scholars and punctual in their attendance, were naturally more inclined to be so, too.

Upon the whole, the tone of the school had improved very much during the three years it had been under Olive's care. The standard of scholarship was higher, there was much less gossiping and consequently much less quarrelling among the girls, and a better state of morals prevailed altogether.

Olive could not but be thankful that it had not fallen into the hands of another Miss Brown, who would undo in one quarter all that she had accomplished. It was hard for her to leave Basswoods, where she had spent so many happy hours, and where she had first known Walter. Every house and street-corner in the curious old place was dear to her—yes, even the haunted old red house, to which she and the girls persisted in walking one Saturday afternoon, despite Mrs. Felton's grave remonstrances. Olive took a sketch of it, which that lady declared she would not have hanging up in her room for any thing; it was all very well for people not to be superstitious, but she did think there was such a thing as presumption. She appealed to Mr. Gregory to know if this last remark was not true, and his grave assent made her almost forget his want of appreciation for her sympathy.

Olive's stay was prolonged from day to day, and from week to week, till at last she hardly left herself time to return before the holidays.

Louisa enjoyed her visit at Mrs. Merton's very much, and won all hearts by her merriment and docility. She received more pretty presents than she ever had before. Mr. Merton took great pleasure in showing her all the lions of the city. Mrs. Dimsden made a children's party for her, and Olive feared the little girl's head would be turned entirely. She did not think it best for her to stay longer than a fortnight, as it was not desirable that she should lose her standing in school. And she returned with Walter, feeling that she had subjects enough of thought and conversation to last her all winter.

Helen wrote that Louisa had settled down to her studies as well as was to be expected, and that she seemed to think Mrs. Merton's home the very "ne plus ultra" of magnificence, and Mrs. Merton herself a sort of superior being.

But the winter was not destined to pass without further sorrow. The little Emma, who had always seemed a healthy child, was taken suddenly ill, not long after Louisa's visit, and despite all that could be done, died on the fourth day. She was insensible most of the time, and seemed to suffer but little. She had never seemed to Mrs. Merton like a child that was likely to grow up, but more like one of those little angels who are sent to earth, to show what the Saviour meant when He said: "Of such is the kingdom of heaven." Her extraordinary precocity, her perfect docility, and almost unearthly beauty, had always been in her aunt's eyes so many signs that her pilgrimage on earth would be a short one.

Mammy thought so too.

"Her mother keeps calling her," she said to Olive one day. "She won't be here long, Miss. Most every time I watch her asleep, I see her smile and hold up her hands, and I know her mother calls her."

Though Olive had something of the same feeling, the baby's death was a bitter disappointment to her. Yet when she was calm enough to think the matter all over, she was constrained to say it was well. William would undoubtedly marry again, and even if he did not, she well knew there was no dependence to be placed upon him—that he would be very likely to take a fancy to remove Emma from her charge after a while. Nevertheless, she missed the little creature sadly. And for a long time, the sight of a child of Emma's age would bring the tears into her eyes.

A message was sent to Mr. Forester at the first appearance of danger, but he only arrived in time for the funeral. He remained two or three days at Mr. Merton's, occupied in selecting his own books from among Abby's, and in burning her letters and papers. As we shall have nothing further to do with that gentleman, we may as well say here that within a year from Emma's death, he married a wealthy young lady, an heiress, who had been first attracted to him by "The Widower's Lament," which was published with an appropriate vignette, and greatly admired as displaying such a depth of feeling.

The present Mrs. Forester is not in the least like Abby, possessing upon the contrary good deal of decision of character and some sharpness of tongue on occasions. Nevertheless, she is in the main an estimable person, and as she took the precaution before she was married of having all her property secured upon herself, it is to be hoped that Mr. Forester may loiter away the rest of his life without doing a great deal more mischief.

His sister Emma has married late in life a very excellent man in good circumstances greatly to the astonishment of her mother and Emmeline, who have a great deal to say about Emma's selfishness and ingratitude in leaving them, after all they had done for her. William sympathizes with them and says that Emma was always narrow-minded.

Mr. Landon's ordination came on early in March, and Mrs. Merton took Olive down to New-York to be present at it. The new parish was organized by this time, and when Walter came up on a visit to Mrs. Merton's, he was invited to fill the vacant pulpit for several Sundays.

Olive thought the severest ordeal through which she had ever been called upon to pass was hearing Walter's first sermon. But with all her fears and misgivings, she could not but feel that it had been all she could wish. Every one else seemed to think so too, for at the end of the six weeks for which he had been invited to take charge of the parish, a formal call was tendered to him to become the pastor of the new church.

For his own part, he would have preferred to make his first essay in a country congregation. But he knew how anxious Olive's friends were to have her settled near them, and how kindly Mr. Merton had exerted himself to procure this place for him; so, as there was really no good reason for refusing, he accepted the call, and was formally installed in the sacred office. The salary was sufficiently liberal, he had something of his own, and there seemed to be no reason why the engagement between him and Olive should be prolonged.

It was not prolonged beyond the first of June. Olive had sent for Augusta and Ruth to come up and bring Louisa with them, and they accepted the invitation. Louisa and Charlotte were to be bridesmaids, and the former mounted her first long dress upon the occasion.

The wedding was a very quiet one, the deep mourning of the family forming a ready excuse for having no company, though Mrs. Dimsden thought the fact of Olive's being the minister's wife ought to have outweighed it. Abundance of cake and cards were sent out by Mrs. Merton next day, and no one was dissatisfied except Mammy, who thought the affair was not half grand enough, though she admitted that it was very genteel.

The new-married pair went down to make a short visit at Mrs. Witherington's. She was staying at the Briars, and welcomed them with her usual cordiality and grace. Olive liked the country-house better than the town-house. It was more quiet, the furniture was all old-fashioned, and looked as if it might have been there since the old French war, and indeed much of it had retained its place since the Revolution. The gardens and conservatories were splendid, and Mr. Witherington seemed perfectly happy in walking through them, giving directions to the gardener or holding consultations with him over some delicate grape-vine or sickly-looking pear-tree.

Laura frankly confessed that she had at first detested Briars, and only came there in compliance with the wishes of her husband, who was very fond of the place.

"But do you know I am really beginning to like it? The mornings were terribly long at first, till I took to practising violently. Mr. Witherington likes Beethoven and Mendelssohn, and I am learning all the old-fashioned things I can pick up to please him. I think it is little enough, as long as he is so indulgent to me. We ride out on horseback almost every day, and you know I was always fond of that. There are some very pleasant people within visiting distance, and upon the whole I like it almost as well as New-York."

"I suppose you will return to the city in winter," said Olive.

"Oh! Yes, but I assure you I shall not be so dissipated as I was last year. I am beginning to think that there are other things in the world besides company and dress. I shall never forget what dear Abby said to me that last day. But tell me all about your plans, my dear. Are you going directly to housekeeping?"

"Oh! Yes, I think it is best to begin as one means to keep on. I never believed in young married people boarding, and it is especially inconvenient for a minister. We shall have a very pleasant house—the one Mr. Fairfax built for Jenny, you know. The church, when it is built, will be just next door. I left Mammy planning about carpets and curtains as happy as possible."

"She and Edward will have hard work deciding to which house they belong—won't they?"

"I don't know," replied Olive laughing; "I think the Black Prince thinks that I am hardly able to take care of myself. Aunt has kindly promised to spare me Anne, so I shall have no trouble with servants to begin with."

After a short stay in Basswoods, where Olive received so many bridal presents as to materially increase her baggage, Mr. and Mrs. Landon returned to M. to find her house all prepared for them, with tea ready, Louisa looking out for them, and Anne in attendance.

The beautiful china which decorated the table, was at once recognized by Olive as part of a set upon the merits of which Laura had asked her opinion one day when they were in New-York. The house was elegantly but not splendidly furnished, though Louisa thought nothing had ever been seen more beautiful than the dark-green and crimson carpets and rosewood chairs. She could hardly allow her sister-in-law time to take off her bonnet, so anxious was she to display the contents of closets, book-cases, drawing-room, and study, and especially her own little room with its blue and white bed, table, and chairs all to match, and its little book-case and desk, which Mrs. Merton said was to be all her own. It was not till she had done the honors of the whole house that she remembered that her brother and sister might possibly like something to eat after their ride.

They had hardly finished their tea before a ring was heard, and in came Mrs. Merton and Charlotte, closely followed by aunt Dimsden, all anxious to see Olive, and know how she liked her new house. Mrs. Merton was in her most gracious mood, and Louisa listened with blushing delight to her commendation of her own conduct during her brother's absence. The house had again to be passed in review; and the presents of friends to be discussed and praised. The silk quilt which Olive had brought from Basswoods, and upon which Anna and Phebe Jones had been employed for a year previous, was displayed and admired, as well as Mrs. Felton's knit counterpane, Ruth's beautiful embroidery, and Augusta's Chinese screens and tea-trays. Charlotte thought Olive would have to have a fancy-fair to get rid of the quantities of book-marks, pen-wipers, glove-boxes, and other small articles presented by the younger part of the congregation.

"Well, Olive," were Mrs. Dimsden's parting words, "you see I was right, after all. I knew you would marry a minister, and really," she concluded, glancing at Walter as she spoke, "taking all things into consideration, I doubt if you could have done better even if I had found you a husband myself."