CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE winter wore away happily, on the whole. Olive thought that, aside from her secret trouble about Abby, she had never spent a pleasanter one. The girls all liked her, and she had very little trouble with them. The drawing-class got on finely, having advanced from rudimental lines and squares to heads and figures; and some of them had begun drawing from objects with a decision of hand and correctness of eye which fully justified Chapman's method.

She sometimes got very tired, and was usually unable to study much, but she had abundance of the sort of society that she liked best, and as many new books as she cared to read, and she looked forward with pleasure to the prospect of returning to her labors after the spring vacation. How rich she felt, when her first quarter's salary was paid into her hands! She had no idea that she could enjoy the possession of money so much.

As spring came on, there began to be a good deal of sickness in Basswoods, especially among poor people, of whom there were a good many in the lower part of the town. Measles and hooping cough prevailed, and took on malignant forms; and severe quinseys and influenza prostrated whole families at once. Those whose households were unvisited set themselves seriously to help their afflicted neighbors, and for a time little else was done.

Ruth and Augusta were among the busiest, and were away day and night. But Ruth would not allow Olive to assist them in watching.

"You are obliged to be employed all day, whether you feel able or not," she said; "and you must have your nights to rest. Besides, you will be going home in two or three weeks, and if you do not look well, they will not let you come back." And Olive was fain to acquiesce, since she could not help herself.

The school was much diminished in numbers, as many of the girls from out of town had returned home to avoid the sickness, and she was able to give a great deal of time to those that remained, much to her and their satisfaction.

Her uncle had promised to come for her, and she had at last resolved, by the advice of Mr. Gregory, to tell him all, when he came. He would then have time to get over the first heat of his anger before he saw Abby, and in that case she was sure of his acting reasonably. She found her heart very much lightened after she had formed this resolution, though she felt that it would require all her strength to carry it out, and would have given almost any thing to be safe the other side of it.

There remained now only one more week before her return home, and that was the week before Easter. There was service in the church every evening at four o'clock, and by exact punctuality she found herself able to attend. Mr. Gregory's plain, earnest lectures did her a great deal of good, and she felt stronger and better for every one of them.

One evening, after church, she was walking, slowly homeward, by herself, enjoying the beautiful twilight, and thinking over what she had just heard. She had not seen Mr. Landon for several days. He was very much engaged in his office, and, moreover, he did more than his share in taking care of the sick. It was very pleasant to have such a friend. It occurred to her, several times, that she should miss him a great deal if he should go away, as he now and then talked of doing, but she did not dwell upon that idea. If she were afraid to do so, she did not acknowledge the fear to herself.

She was presently joined by Dr. Gordon, the oldest physician in the place, who had been her fast friend from the beginning. He looked very weary, and Olive remarked it.

"Yes," said he, "I am indeed very tired and very sad. I do not see where all this is to end. At first, the sickness seemed confined to the poor people, but now it is share and share alike with all classes. Poor Annette Vander Heyden is much worse."

"I did not know she was sick," replied Olive. "Is she very unwell?"

"She is very ill, indeed," said the doctor. "I fear she will never be any better. It will be a sad blow to the family, as well as to Walter Landon."

Olive felt as though some one had struck her, but she asked, quietly: "Why to him?"

"They have been engaged a long time, I suppose," was the answer. "I know it used to be talked of, even when Walter was at college."

"They will make a fine-looking pair, will they not?" said Olive, in a tone of quiet interest. "I think Annette is a very agreeable girl."

"Yes, barring her absurd pride of family, I do not know a nicer young lady; and Walter was always a favorite of mine. Good-by, Miss McHenry, and pray take care of yourself, or we shall have you down, too."

"I shall take care," said Olive, lightly. "You know I am going home next Wednesday. Will you please send word to school, by Catharine, how Annette is? I shall feel very anxious to know."

The doctor promised.

Olive bade him good-night and went into the house, and up-stairs to her own room. A heavy, hard pain was pressing at her heart, and she felt as though she should suffocate. But she had only one distinct thought—that she would not think of any thing just then.

Very quietly she took off her bonnet and brushed her curls, and then, going down into the sitting-room as usual, she set about correcting a large pile of compositions, going over and over every one, with even more than ordinary care and deliberation. Phebe Jones came to take a music lesson. She seemed to think Olive was rather more particular than usual about touch and time, and she told Anna, when she returned, that she had never seen Miss McHenry when she came so near to being cross.

"You look pale, Olive," said Ruth. "I am afraid you are over-working yourself."

Olive admitted that she was tired, and should be glad of some tea. Mrs. Felton bustled about to expedite matters, and to provide something better than usual, and Olive exerted herself to eat, that she might not be disappointed, but it was very hard work. She sat up as late as usual, apparently reading attentively, but in reality seeing nothing but blank confusion upon the page before her, while repeating to herself that she would not think of it till bed-time.

Bed-time came at last, and she sat down alone with her trouble, and looked at it, almost as though it had been a bodily presence of evil which it was necessary to face and conquer. What was it, after all? Walter Landon was going to be married and what of that? Had she not said to herself, twenty times, that this was nothing but friendship? Vain subterfuge—miserable lie! She knew better—she had known it all the time. Abby might well say that Olive could not understand her feelings, but she knew them now. She had blamed and pitied—Abby herself had never sunk so low as she.

She set herself to examine all their intercourse from the first, but there was no comfort in that. She could not blame Walter, for he had never showed a mark of any thing but mere friendship. No; the truth was plain—she had given away her heart to a man who had never asked for it, and who did not care for it. She had weakly, miserably permitted herself to go on, and be drawn in, to the shipwreck of peace, self-respect—every thing. She had not seen him for several days: perhaps he had discovered her secret, and was keeping away in compassion to her.

Her eyes overflowed with hot tears at last, but they gave her no relief. She could see nothing, think of nothing, to extenuate her miserable folly. She had gone on, quietly placing upon a stranger all her hopes and wishes, and setting him in the place of God, till at last she discovered that she was dependent upon him for all her happiness that she was inexpressibly wretched at the thought of his caring for any one else. There was no excuse, no comfort, no hope. She had loved an idol more than God, and God had forsaken her, while she had found too late that her idol was not hers, but another's. What should she do?

She slept, at last, from very weariness of body, but when she awaked, the load was still upon her heart, dull, heavy, oppressive, crushing her very life out. She prayed, but without comfort, and set about her daily task, with a feeling of relief at having something tangible to do, wherewith she was forced to occupy her thoughts and hands. Nobody could have seen any difference in her, except that she was rather more particular than usual about the lessons, and had, perhaps, more than ordinary patience with the dullness and stupidity of some of the girls, and the perverseness of others. She was careful to ask Catharine Gordon about Annette.

"Papa thinks she is much worse," said little Kitty, with a quivering lip. "He said so this morning. Oh! Won't it be too bad if she should die!" And the child burst into tears, for the families had long been on terms of intimacy, and she was very much attached to Annette.

Olive tried to comfort her, while her own tears fell fast. They relieved her a little, but she dared not indulge in them, and was soon as calm as ever.

"Olive; do you feel able to watch to-night?" asked Ruth, at the tea-table, after she had studied Olive's face a little.

"Yes, indeed," replied Olive, glad of any duty that promised self-forgetfulness for a time. "Where?"

"With that Mrs. Beman and her child," said Ruth. "You know they both have the measles. The child is rather better, but it is doubtful whether the woman can live through the night."

"I don't believe Olive is able," said Mrs. Felton. "She looks tired now. Why don't you ask Mrs. Gregory, or Mrs. Dennison?"

"Mrs. Gregory is sick herself, and Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones are engaged," said Ruth, briefly.

Olive knew that they were going to Mrs. Vander Heyden's, where some of the younger children had been added to the sick-list. "I am quite well, and shall be glad to go," she repeated. "I suppose you will set out early."

Ruth assented, and before nine they were at Mrs. Beman's. They were poor but respectable people, of the sort who, without any visible drawback, never seem to prosper, but always remain about where they set out. The house was clean and comfortable, and they seemed to have every thing necessary for the sick.

The husband and eldest daughter, a girl of twelve or fourteen, though worn out with fatigue, were unwilling to retire as they thought there was a change in the sick woman.

And on going near the bed, Ruth's experienced eye saw at once that the messenger was there. She whispered to Olive to take the baby, and relieve the little girl who was quietly weeping by the fireside.

The poor woman was quite sensible, and able to speak a little. She had been but a plain, hard-working person all her life, but the majestic presence of death was with her, and all around her felt its power. In few but earnest words, she commended the little one to its sister's care.

"God deal with you, Sally, as you deal with that motherless child. I have tried to be a mother to you, and to treat you, in all things, like my own, and I have loved you as well, for aught I know. Be a good girl, Sally, and take good care—"

"I will, mother," sobbed the child. "I'll be good to Liddy."

The dying woman seemed satisfied, and lay quietly for a little while. "I've known trouble and sorrow of all sorts," she said, opening her eyes again, "more than most of my age, but I've had help through it all. It's most over now. Give me my baby. You look sad, young woman," she remarked, as Olive laid it in her arms. "If you've got trouble, don't rest in yourself, nor in any man. Trust in the Lord. God bless you all!"

These were her last words, and in a few minutes, she was gone.

Some of the neighboring women came in and laid out the body. Mr. Beman and Sally retired to rest, and Olive and Ruth were left with the child and its dead mother. Neither of them felt inclined to talk. The little one seemed disposed to slumber, and Olive held it in her arms and looked at its wasted features, but her thoughts were far away. The bitter feeling of injury was gone, but she felt very, very desolate. All the sorrows of her life returned upon her; her own orphaned state—Abby's misconduct and danger—Laura's estrangement—her uncle's probable anger—all were present to her at once. She felt as though she could never remember a time when she had been happy. Past, present, and future seemed shrouded in blackness, and she could see no hope of any light. She prayed for submission to the will of God, and that Annette's life might be spared, and by and by she found that she could be thankful that she had only herself to blame, and not Walter.

In the long, long hours before daybreak she had made her final resolve. She had a profession—that certainly was a comfort. The experiment of teaching had been tried with success. If she could never be happy again, at least she could be useful, and with all the earnestness of her nature, she consecrated herself to the work, and resolved with God's help to follow it out.

Still, with all this, her heart would not be quiet, but throbbed and struggled under that crushing pain: still her weary spirit repeated over and over again: "How wretched, how very wretched I am!"

The child passed an easy night and was clearly much better in the morning. Neighbors came in and promised to attend to every thing necessary.

As Ruth and Olive were walking homeward at sunrise, the bell began to toll. They looked at each other, but did not speak. The age was struck—twenty—and then two strokes followed to show that a woman was dead.

"Annette!" said Olive.

"It must be, I suppose," Ruth replied, sighing, "Poor child!"

Olive could not repress her tears as she thought of the blooming girl she had so lately seen in health and spirits, and they flowed still faster as she thought of Walter's grief—grief which she could not comfort and hardly sympathize with.

Ruth pressed her hand, but said nothing. She had partly guessed the state of the case the day before, but doing as she would be done by, she had not said a word. She advised her friend to lie down, and try to sleep, and Olive was glad to obey.

All that day she suffered greatly, but the next—the resurrection morning—she found relief at last. In the presence of the white carved symbols of infinite love and infinite sorrow, she seemed to hear a whisper of peace; her load grew less oppressive with every prayer, and when after the distribution of the elements, she rose from her knees, she found she had left it behind her. The Comforter was come to her, and she found strength to say and to feel, from her heart's depths, "Not my will, but Thine be done."

Before, she had felt that she should soon die, and rejoiced in the thought, but now the language of her soul was: "I shall not die but live and declare the loving-kindness of the Lord."

"Olive," said a well-known voice behind her, as they were going out of church.

She turned and saw Walter. He looked pale and worn out with grief and watching.

"Will you go and see Louisa?" he asked, as he offered his hand. "She is at Mrs. Jones's, and needs some one with her; not that she is ill, but she is worn out and nervous. Can you go and stay with her this afternoon?"

"I will," replied Olive, grateful for the proof of confidence.

"When do you go?" he asked.

"On Wednesday; possibly on Tuesday, if my uncle comes."

"I may not see you again before you go," said Walter. "They feel as though they could not spare me there, and Agnes is very sick. God bless you, Olive, till we meet again."

"God bless and comfort you, Walter," returned Olive calmly.

She went at once to Mrs. Jones's, and found Louisa suffering from severe nervous headache, the result of fatigue and excitement; for she was a delicate child, and somewhat spoiled withal. Olive found it necessary to exert a little authority over her to make her stop crying, and the effort necessary to take care of her patient was useful to herself.

Louisa was better in the evening, but she begged hard to have Olive stay with her all night, and Olive consented.

She was walking slowly homeward the next morning, glad that there was no school, when she saw a carriage drive up to Mrs. Felton's, and a gentleman get out, who she was sure was her uncle. Her heart almost failed her as she hurried forward. She had not expected him till evening at soonest, and not very much till Tuesday. He must have left home Sunday night, an action so contrary to all his habits as to fill her with fear of she knew not what calamity.

"Your uncle is come," said Ruth, meeting her at the door, and observing her evident agitation with surprise.

Olive waited not to hear more lest her resolution should fail her entirely, but hastily opened the parlor-door. Mr. Merton was standing opposite it, and her heart sunk as she met his glance.

"I bring you pleasant news, Miss McHenry," were his first words, "but no doubt you are prepared for them, since you have been in the secret from the first."

"What is the matter, uncle?" Olive rather gasped than spoke.

"Read that letter," handing her one with the seal unbroken. "It will probably tell you more than I can."

Olive tried, but the words swam before her eyes, and her head whirled. She looked at her uncle imploringly. "I can not see," she said; "do tell me!"

"Your sister Abby is married," replied Mr. Merton abruptly, "and I suspect—" "You knew as much before," he was going to add, but he saw Olive's lips grow white, and before he could reach her, she fell to the ground.

It was the drop too much in the full cup, and for the first time in her life, she fainted away.

Happily Ruth was at hand, and Mrs. Felton was out.

Olive soon revived, and Ruth left her to attend to some household call.

"When, uncle?" asked Olive, after a short silence.

"Olive," said her uncle, "I used to think I could trust you implicitly, and even now, I on hardly believe that you would deceive me. Before I reply to any questions, tell me all you know about this miserable business."

Olive roused herself and went through with the story, from beginning to end.

Mr. Merton listened fixedly. "Why did you not write and tell me?" he asked, when she had finished.

"I hoped to prevail upon Abby to do so herself, and I thought that would be much better. Besides, what right had I to betray her secret? I had no authority over her, and she told me in confidence."

"But you made yourself privy to her subterfuge in corresponding with that man!"

"I did not know for certain that she did correspond with him," said Olive, "though I guessed it from something Charlotte said. I had made up my mind to tell you all when you came, and risk the consequences."

"Then she has told you nothing about this precious marriage?"

"Not a word, sir! I have all her letters, and can show them to you," she added, proudly, for she was beginning to feel indignant. "Perhaps you will believe them, unless you choose to accuse me of forgery as well as lying."

"Sit still," said her uncle. "I have no desire to see her letters, or to hear from her again. My only object is to clear you from the imputation of being engaged in the conspiracy, which, it seems, she has been carrying on for a year or more. I believe we have done you injustice, and I beg your pardon. I know that you must feel it more than any of us, my poor child!" he continued, kissing her forehead.

"How did it happen?" asked Olive, after an interval of silence. "How did it all come out?"

"It came out by degrees. I could not help seeing that something more was the matter with her, than merely your going away, and I began to watch her. It seems, too, that your aunt Dimsden had her suspicions, even before Forester went to M., but instead of coming and telling me, as she should have done, she talked to other people—"

"Just like her," said Olive, bitterly.

"I do not defend Mrs. Dimsden," Mr. Merton continued. "She did very wrong, and so I have told her. Well, as I have said, my suspicions were aroused, and I watched her, but I could find nothing to justify them. I wish now I had questioned her about it."

"Oh! Why didn't you?" exclaimed Olive, in renewed grief. "If you had done so kindly, she would have told you all; I am sure she would. She was naturally so open. O my child, my darling child!"

"I was wrong, Olive, but I acted for the best. After a time, Forester returned, and came at once to our house, where he met with a cool reception from all but Abby. I had made up my mind to demand a full explanation from him, but I was frustrated. He had hardly sat down before Mrs. Dimsden and Laura came in. Charlotte, who I think had no suspicions, asked after the Misses Jennings, with whom Abby had, apparently, been maintaining a correspondence for three or four months. Forester looked confused and annoyed, and Abby colored deeply.

"But before either of them had time to reply, Laura exclaimed, 'Why, Charlotte, the Misses Jennings went to Kentucky long ago—just after they left school.'

"The truth flashed upon me at once, and I was going to speak, when Forester said, with perfect ease: 'Are you sure, Miss Laura? Do you make a study of the M. directory?'

"Abby said not a word, but I saw that she was ready to drop. I did not want to get up a scene before them, and turned the conversation. They did not stay long, and as soon as they were gone, I turned to Abby and demanded an explanation—Mr. Forester standing by. She began to cry, of course, and I could get nothing out of her.

"Forester then took the matter upon himself, and informed me that he had been engaged to Abby almost a year, and intended to marry her, with my consent, if I would give it—otherwise without it. He complimented me, by saying that but for my prejudice against him, and harshness when I was opposed, they should have confided in me, and declared that you had known and approved the whole matter from the beginning. This enraged me more than any thing else, and I ordered Abby to leave the room and go to her own apartment.

"Mr. Forester had the coolness to follow her to the door, and exchange some words with her in German, which, of course, I did not understand. He then returned and requested to know what my intentions were with regard to Abby. I can not tell you all about it, but the end was, that I ordered him to leave the house.

"I went up to Abby's room, but I found she had locked herself in, and I could get nothing from her. It was the same in the morning—she would take no breakfast, nor open her door, and I went to the office, hoping that she would be more reasonable by night. When I came home, I found Mrs. Merton and Charlotte in great alarm. The door had not been opened, nor any movement heard. I had then no hesitation in forcing the door, but she was gone—" He paused, perhaps to give himself time to control his voice, which certainly trembled very much.

Olive was weeping bitterly.

"She had taken very little except what she had on. She even left behind a watch and chain I gave her at Christmas, and all her trinkets, all her letters, except the last one from you."

"And did she leave nothing for me?"

"Yes, a note—the one you have in your hands."

Olive began to read aloud, but Mr. Merton interrupted her: "Read to yourself, Olive; I do not wish to hear one word from her."

She read accordingly:

"I am going to be married at last, Olive. I did not mean to take such a step till you came home, but they have driven me to it. Uncle is just as harsh and unjust as I knew he would be, but I thank him for all his kindness to me, and aunt, too. I shall take nothing more with me than I can help. I will write just as soon as I am settled anywhere."

"Did you hear nothing of her afterwards?" Olive asked, as soon as she could speak.

"Nothing, except a notice of their marriage in the paper that evening. I told you I wished to hear nothing more. She has taken her own course, and she must abide by it. This subject will necessarily be renewed when we reach home, but till then, I wish to have it dropped entirely. You look very much worn and fatigued," he said kindly. "I am afraid you are working too hard."

"Oh! No," replica Olive, "I like it very much, and do not usually get over-tired, but there has been a good deal of sickness in town, and I have been nursing as well as teaching. One of our loveliest girls died yesterday."

"Then you find the place pleasant?"

"Very much so. I should have been quite happy the last few months if my mind had been at ease about Abby. The school is a very nice one, and there are a good many agreeable people here. I enjoy the idea of coming back very much."

"Do you know a young Mr. Landon?" asked Mr. Merton.

"Yes, very well," replied Olive, thankful that she could answer steadily, and without coloring. "He is a great favorite here, and thought very talented."

"He is a rising young man," replied her uncle. "I heard him make an argument, not long ago, which would have done credit to many an older lawyer. I should like to meet him."

"You will not be likely to do so, now," said Olive. "The young lady who died yesterday, Miss Vander Heyden, was his cousin, and they were said to be engaged."

"I thought of returning to-night," said Mr. Merton, rising, "but I see you are unfit for it. We will go to-morrow morning, if you please, and till then you must take the time to rest. I shall stay at the hotel, and must go down now, and secure a room."

When he was gone, Olive sat a little while, perfectly still. It did not seem possible for her to make an exertion. She was stunned and overwhelmed to such a degree, by the events of the last few days, that she seemed to have lost power of sense or feeling. She was still sitting in precisely the same attitude, when a shadow fell before her, a soft arm was passed round her neck, and Augusta sat down beside her.

Olive laid her head on her shoulder. "Have you heard?" she asked.

"I have heard nothing, love, except that you were in trouble, and had received sad news from home? Is it your sister?"

Olive assented, silently.

"I did not know she was ill," said Augusta, after a little pause.

"It is not that," said Olive. "It almost seems as though the news of her death would not be half as hard to bear. She is married, Augusta—married against my uncle's wishes, and without his knowledge, to a man utterly unworthy of her. She has carried on a course of deception for months, and I see plainly that my uncle is too angry ever to forgive her. And I might have prevented it all by a little decision and courage."

"How?"

Olive went over the outline of the story, adding at the end:

"I might have prevented the whole thing if I had staid at home, as they wanted me to—if I had not been so proud, and so set upon being independent. It is all my fault."

"I do not think so," replied Augusta, gently. "You acted for the best, so far as I can see, and that is all we can ever do. I do not really see that you could have acted otherwise."

"I might have told uncle at first."

"You forget that he was away, and you had no opportunity. Besides, you were doubtful whether you had the right to do so. No, Olive, you are wrong, now—naturally so, but still wrong. Don't you remember what Mrs. Dennison said about her little boy's sickness and death? Even supposing that you made a mistake, which I do not allow—"

"You do not know, Augusta," said Olive. "You have not tried it. I do not mean that you have not suffered, but not in this way—not by the unworthiness of those you loved. I could bear any thing else."

"Come and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," repeated Augusta, involuntarily. "Olive, if your sister has sinned, she is yet young, and has time for repentance before her. Others have sinned much more deeply, against more warnings and opportunities for repentance, and at last been cut off in the midst of their sins. I had a dear brother—" She paused. "We had little comfort in his life or death."

"I am impatient, I know," said Olive, sighing, "but I have had so much, the last few days. I thought I had made up my mind to patience and self-forgetfulness, but this has overcome me entirely. I feel as though I could not have it so."

"God has comfort for all sorrows, Olive."

"I used to think so, before I had any. Nay, I thought so no longer ago than yesterday, but to-day all seems dark as night again."

"Have patience, my child, and accept the bitter cup. He will send the sweet in his own time, and if we have no pleasures in this world, we shall always have duties; that is one comfort. And, after all, it is but for a day."

"A long, long, dreary day, Augusta."

"Sorrow 'may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.' When we look at the past through dying eyes, it will seem very short, believe me; and we go to no uncertain future, my love. We know in whom we have believed, and He will make all plain. Once more, dearest, have patience! Drink of the cup which He drank, and be baptized with the baptism that He was baptized withal. It is indeed not joyous, but grievous, but it worketh the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby. For look how high the heavens are in comparison of the earth—so great is the Lord's mercy to them that fear him. Look how far, also, the east is from the west—so far hath He set our sins from us. 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear him.'"

"Augusta, I know I am impatient and wrong. I will try not to be so."

"I did not mean to reprove you, dearest."

"No, you comfort me. You have done me good, but I feel so weary and desolate. I have counted so on seeing Abby, when I went home. She has always been so near my heart. Oh! I ought never to have left her. I knew what a child she was, and it was my duty to have staid with her, but I did not see it then. And now she is gone—lost to me forever!" And again she gave way to a violent burst of grief which both perplexed and alarmed Augusta, and she glanced at Ruth, who had just entered, as though to ask what should be done.

"Olive," said Ruth, with a little more of austerity than usual in her tone, and taking both her hands, "this will never do. You have duties before you which will require all your strength, and this is not the way to fit yourself for them. You must come up-stairs and lie down, and let me do your packing. You are worn out, for want of sleep, and will be sick to-morrow. Come with me, like a good girl."

Olive obeyed like a child. She was, indeed, utterly worn out and exhausted. Augusta sat down beside her, and read in her soft voice, selections from Scripture. In a few minutes, Olive's sobs grew less frequent, her eyes closed, and her friend had the satisfaction of seeing her in a deep sleep, from which she arose composed and refreshed.

CHAPTER NINTH.

OLIVE'S heart sank as she approached home the next evening, and thought of the reception she was likely to meet with, and how sad it would be without Abby.

Mr. Merton had been very kind all day, but he had said little, and not one word about the matter that was clearly occupying both their thoughts. She dared not speak herself, for he had positively forbidden her to renew the subject till they reached home. She knew how Mrs. Merton would feel, very well. Not only her affections (and Abby had always been very dear to her) were wounded, but also her pride, and that in the tenderest point. Aunt Rebecca had very particular notions upon the subject of the education of young ladies. Her ideas of propriety were very strict, and she was often shocked by the freedoms indulged in by some of the young ladies in town. She prided herself upon the care with which her daughters and nieces had been educated, and more than one young girl, who had been secretly indignant at seeing Olive and Abby held up to them as models, would triumph greatly over this result of the boasted system.

As they rode up from the depot, Olive leaned back in the carriage, and shut her eyes, while her soul poured itself out in an earnest prayer for strength and patience.

"Be calm, Olive. You shall be cleared from suspicion," said her uncle, as he assisted her to alight.

Mrs. Merton stood at the door, and received her husband warmly, as did Charlotte, but neither of them took the least notice of Olive, till they entered the drawing-room, when Mrs. Merton said, in her most freezing tones:

"Your room is prepared, Miss McHenry. Perhaps you will have the goodness to retire to it at once."

Olive did not move from the attitude in which she had drawn herself up, but she turned her eyes to her uncle. He did not speak.

"Before I sit down in this house, Mrs. Merton," she returned, in tones as calm, though not so cold as her own, "I must demand to be freed from the unjust suspicion to which I have been subjected. My uncle, I believe, is convinced of my innocence. If he chooses to justify me, I shall be glad. If not, I shall be obliged to seek some other shelter for the night."

Charlotte's eyes flashed fire. Mrs. Merton turned to her husband.

"I fully believe Olive to be innocent," said Mr. Merton, with emphasis. "She has convinced me that though she knew of Mr. Forester's engagement, it was only the night before she left home that she was informed, and nothing but indecision respecting the best course of action prevented her from informing me immediately. I think she mistook her duty, but I fully believe that she acted from the best motives."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Merton, unbending at once. "Olive, I am sorry you met with such a cold reception, but you must remember that we have had great provocation. Let me untie your bonnet," she added, kissing her kindly; "it is a sad coming home foe you, my poor child, when we had hoped to be so happy together."

Olive struggled to repress her tears, and succeeded in doing so till she found herself alone in her own room—Abby's room. It was just as she had left it. The last book she had been reading was turned down upon the open writing-desk, and Abby's personal property was strewed about the room in the picturesque confusion usual with her, when she had no one to pick up after her. The key was in her trinket-box, and on opening it, Olive perceived that she had left all her ornaments. Nothing was missing from the room but the old Bible and prayer-book, her mother's gifts. Olive wondered how she could have the heart to take them.

The bitterness of her grief returned with ten-fold violence, and when Mrs. Merton herself came up to look after her, she was so alarmed at the state in which she found her usually composed and undemonstrative niece that she sent her to bed at once, administered ether and other restoratives, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

At breakfast next morning, Olive was treated just as usual by her uncle and aunt, but Charlotte did not relax in her stiffness at all. She treated Olive with ceremonious politeness, but exchanged no more words with her than were exacted by the courtesies of the table. Olive felt the coldness very much, for she had unconsciously relied a good deal upon Charlotte's sympathy and friendship.

The meal passed almost in silence, no one seeming inclined to talk. As they were about rising from table, a servant brought in the letters and papers: there were two letters for Olive, and her heart beat fast as she recognized on one of them Abby's well-known handwriting.

Mr. Merton saw it, too. "Where is she?" he asked, when he saw that Olive had finished reading it.

"She is at M.," replied Olive, handing him the letter, but he repelled her hand.

"That is all. You will please to pack up all her personal property, and I will see that it is forwarded, and then I require that all intercourse with her on the part of this family shall cease."

"Do you mean that prohibition to apply to me, uncle?" asked Olive.

"Certainly."

"I can not consent to it, sir," she replied, respectfully but firmly. "I can not promise to cease all intercourse with my poor Abby. That she has done wrong I do not deny, but I love her none the less, and I can never forget that she is my sister. She will need friends now more than ever, and I certainly shall not desert her."

"Olive McHenry, you greatly forget yourself," said Mr. Merton sternly. "Do you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Hardly," replied Olive, almost involuntarily. "You are so unlike yourself that I might well be excused for forgetting it. But what if Abby has sinned?" she went on, rather surprised at her own courage. "What are we, that we should be unforgiving? Have we no need of mercy ourselves? No, I can never consent to give up my sister, till she gives me up. And then, she is such a child—so young in years, and so much younger in mind. It seems but yesterday that she was playing with her dolls, sitting on the floor by your side, uncle! Do you remember the first night you came to our house—the night after mother died, and how you found Abby lying on the bed by her, and could not coax her away, till you came and took her, and she cried herself to sleep in your arms? It seems such a very little while ago!"

"We will let the subject drop for a little, I think," said Mrs. Merton, rising. "You will have a good deal to do this morning. Have a little patience, my dear," she continued, when Mr. Merton had left the room. "Your uncle is deeply wounded, and feels as I do, that we ought to show our disapprobation of Abby's course, but I don't think he will apply that to you."

"Especially as Miss McHenry was in the secret from the beginning," said Charlotte, "and quite as much to blame as the poor child herself."

Mrs. Merton was leaving the room, and did not hear Charlotte's remark. "You are determined to suspect me, Charlotte," said Olive.

"I know you, Olive McHenry, as I knew you in school. You blinded me for a little time with your well-acted candor and friendliness, but my eyes are opened. I am sorry they are, for I thought I was going to have an intimate friend, for once in my life."

"You think—" Olive began.

"I know," said Charlotte, interrupting her, "that Abby, simple child that she is, would never have been able to carry on such a system of deception, unless some one had supported her in it. You thought, no doubt, that it would be a very nice thing for you to be my father's favorite niece, and to have one less to share the property and you imagined that an elopement would be a good way to get rid of Abby, and illustrate your own virtues. You may find yourself mistaken, as deep as you think yourself."

"I shall not reply to your insinuations, Charlotte," returned Olive. "They are too foolish and unreasonable to merit an answer. You yourself promised to watch over Abby while I was gone: how you have fulfilled that trust you yourself best know. But there is no use in talking. I thought you had outgrown your childish jealousy, but it seems not."

With these words, she left the room and went up-stairs, where she occupied herself in looking over Abby's clothes, to see if they needed any putting in order. Among them she found all the letters which she had written during the winter, and she was wondering at Abby's leaving them behind, when Charlotte entered, with her hands full of books.

"These are Abby's," she said, shortly.

"Thank you," Olive quietly replied; "please to lay them on the table."

Charlotte lingered a little, looking over the books. After a moment, she said, in the same abrupt way, "Can I help you?"

"No, thank you," replied Olive, surprised at the offer.

But Charlotte did not go; she seemed looking for something.

"Charlotte," said Olive, after a short struggle with her pride, "would you rather believe me innocent or guilty?"

"Innocent, if I could," was the reply.

"Here are all the letters I have written to Abby since I left home. If you wish, you can look them over, and satisfy yourself. I do not ask you to, but you can if you choose."

She laid the package down by her cousin, and busied herself with the drawers. But, glancing in the mirror a few minutes afterwards, she saw that Charlotte was deeply engaged in their perusal. Neither of them spoke for almost an hour. Then Charlotte said, laying down the last letter:

"Olive, you are innocent. I have done you great injustice, and I ask your pardon."

"It is granted," said Olive, taking the offered hand, and kissing her.

"What do you mean to do about corresponding with her?" asked Charlotte.

"What would you do yourself in such a case?"

"I am afraid I should be too angry with her to care much about it," replied Charlotte. "If my sister had acted as Abby has, I should never forgive her."

"Then you would make up your mind not to be forgiven yourself, I suppose?"

"What do you mean?"

"'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses,'" Olive repeated. "Which of us can afford to cherish anger upon such conditions?"

"I never understand that sort of talk," said Charlotte; "it all sounds cant alike to me."

"Just because you don't understand it. If should call your pleasure in geology cant, you would consider that rather a narrow-minded view, I think."

"We won't dispute it now," returned Charlotte. "Don't some of these clothes need repairing? Abby's things generally do. Let me put the stockings in order."

Olive consented, and they busied themselves together all the morning. They were just about concluding their labors, when a light step came up-stairs, and Laura entered. She seemed quite subdued, and wept bitterly as she embraced her sister. Charlotte left the room.

"I have not been here before since she went," said Laura, after a little; "isn't it shameful?"

Olive assented silently.

"It seems almost worse than if she were dead," she continued. "To think she will be so near, and yet we can never see her, or even write to her."

"Don't you mean to write to her, Laura?" asked Olive.

"I can't. Aunt Dimsden declares I shall have nothing to do with her from this time. She says, if Abby were at the door, and it stormed ever so hard, she would not let her in."

"She ought to be ashamed of herself then," said Olive, indignantly. "Her own marriage was not so very proper, from all I have heard, that she need be the first to throw stones at poor Abby."

"That is the very reason, child! Don't you know that people who have done any thing questionable in that line themselves, are just the ones who think it necessary to be ferociously proper ever afterwards?"

"She may be as proper as she pleases, but I am not going to desert the poor child for any of them," said Olive. "I have told uncle that I mean to write to her, and moreover I shall stop a day in M. when I go back, on purpose to see her."

"But they say—at least aunt Dimsden says that Abby has done so very wrong that she ought to be made an example of."

"I don't deny that she has done wrong: nobody feels it more than I do, and I do not think she ought to be treated as though she had not. But I do say, that it is quite too much, to require us, her sisters, to give her up, and so leave her to go more and more wrong."

"You are independent, Olive, and can do as you please," said Laura, sighing. "I wish I was."

"You can be, in the same way that I am."

"Oh! No. I never could make up my mind to teach school, or to work for a living. I could not consent to any thing which would lower my social position."

"Why, Laura, I never was of so much consequence in my life, as I have been since I went to Basswoods."

"Yes, in such a little country place as that, but not among stylish people."

"But you used to be very contented, Laura: you thought no one was as happy as yourself."

"Aunt Dimsden is not so kind as she was," said Laura. "She is very cross sometimes, and when she is vexed, or mortified, she bestows all her ill-temper upon me. She has been very angry with me, for presuming to refuse an offer without consulting her—some body that lives not a hundred miles from Berkley Square, you know."

"But, Laura—!"

"Oh! Yes, I know all you would say—that he is dissipated, and a fool besides, but you know they are rich and very fashionable, and his sisters paid me a great deal of attention. I think all the family were anxious for the match, but he was quite too bad. I suppose I am bound to make a rich marriage at last—indeed, it is the only way I see to escape from dependence, but this one was rather too much, and I dismissed him somewhat suddenly. They were all very angry, and aunt thinks I am almost as bad as Abby. She told me she expected I would go the same way, and it will not be for want of sufficient provocation if I don't."

"But you would not marry for money alone, would you?"

"Not perhaps for money alone; I would not marry a really bad, vulgar man, if he was ever so rich. But if he had position, and style, and so on, as well as money. I don't believe in all that silly, sentimental nonsense of love, and all that, it only makes fools of people, just as it has of Abby."

"But it is not absolutely necessary to marry at all," said Olive.

"I do not agree with you there, sister mine. I think it is necessary, if a woman wants to be any body that she should marry, unless she retires into a nunnery or something. I hope you don't mean to be an old maid, Olive."

"I think it most likely I shall," said Olive, sighing in spite of herself, "but I hope to be some body nevertheless. Will you let me come and stay with you, when I grow too old to work any longer?"

"Of course," said Laura, "if I have any home myself. But now tell me what you intend to do about Abby? Do you really mean to write to her?"

"I really do. I would obey uncle in almost any thing else, but in this I must follow my own conscience and my own feelings."

"You can afford it," said Laura, "because you are independent, but I dare not. Aunt has been very angry on account of the refusal, and she says, if I do not mind what she says about this, she will leave me to take care of myself. But if you write, give my love to Abby, and tell her I would write too if I could—and send her these ear-rings; Maria Lewis gave them to me, but I do not care any thing about them, and aunt has never seen them. I have no money to buy her any thing new, and I wanted to send her something.

"Did I tell you that aunt Dimsden is coming over to spend the afternoon? I believe in my heart, she is glad of Abby's marriage, and the triumph over aunt Rebecca, till I am ready to stone her. You know I never was very fond of aunt Rebecca myself, but I am sorry for her, and I think aunt Dimsden ought to be ashamed of herself. I can tell you, Olive, you think I am so well off—"

"I never thought so, Laura," interrupted Olive. "I would rather go out as a seamstress than live as you do."

"Well, every one else thinks so, at any rate, but I am sometimes tempted to say I will marry the first presentable man that comes along, to escape from it."

"Do give up that idea of marrying for money, Laura! I can not bear to think of it. You will repent as surely as you do."

"Well, I don't know," said Laura, lightly. "If you marry for money, you are pretty sure of getting it, at any rate, and if you marry for love, you may be deceived, you know. Now, if you have finished your packing, do dress, and come down-stairs. I dare not face them all alone."

"I am sure, Laura, uncle would not be angry at you for refusing Sam Lewis. You know there is nothing he detests like an idle, frivolous young man."

"I don't believe he knows any thing about that," returned Laura, "but I am always afraid of him."

After luncheon, Laura sat down to a handkerchief she was embroidering, and Olive to write.

She had almost forgotten Augusta's letter, till she saw it in her desk. It was just like Augusta herself, and Olive felt refreshed and comforted by it. Among other news of the place, she said:

"Jenny Vander Heyden is better, and the sickness is abating. Mr. Landon is going away, and he told me he meant to go and see you before his return."

Olive's heart beat somewhat faster at the thought, and she almost wished Augusta had not told her. After twice reading the letter, she put it carefully away, and began writing to Abby. She sighed, as she thought of the unsatisfactory intelligence she had to convey, but there was no help for it, at least at present. As Mr. Merton said, she had taken her own course, and she would have to abide by it.

She was just finishing, when Mrs. Dimsden came in. Olive greeted her as warmly as she could, and then asked to be excused, as she was anxious to close her letter in time for the post. As she placed it in the vase appropriated for the purpose, Mrs. Dimsden unceremoniously took it out of her hand, and read the direction: "Mrs. William Forester, Eagle Hotel, M."

"So you have been writing to Abby, have you?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Olive, coolly.

"I have forbidden Laura to do any thing of the kind," said Mrs. Dimsden, drawing herself up: "I will not allow any young person in my family to have any intercourse with a girl who has no more sense of propriety than Abby. I have never thought it necessary to make as much fuss as some people," with a glance at aunt Rebecca, "but I do think my girls generally turn out well."

Mrs. Merton had a way of looking at a forward or impertinent person, as though he or she were a superfluous chair, or an intruding cat, which she sometimes brought to bear upon her sister-in-law with great effect.

She was silenced for a moment, and replaced the letter.

At this moment, Charlotte entered, and looked into the vase as she passed.

"Charlotte," said her mother, "have I not often told you that it was very rude to look at the direction of another person's letter?"

Now Charlotte knew very well that this reproof was not in the least intended for her; she took it very coolly, and sat down by Laura to admire her work.

Mrs. Dimsden colored furiously. "Perhaps, if you had kept a more careful watch over your young ladies' letters, sister Merton, some things might not have happened that have happened. I know my mother always looked out for me."

"Was that the reason you never did any thing improper when you were young, aunt Dimsden?" asked Charlotte carelessly.

It was a home-thrust, for Miss Ashly had been considered rather an eccentric young lady, and there were some circumstances in her career, and in the way she became Mrs. Dimsden, which were more curious than edifying. That lady did not like to provoke a contest with Charlotte, who was not in the least afraid of her, and by superior coolness usually came off conqueror. She turned her head, and murmured something about impertinence, but did not venture upon a retort.

Mrs. Merton conversed as politely as possible with every one in the parlor, and was especially gracious to Olive.

Charlotte, very contrary to her usual custom, devoted herself to Laura, with whom she very seldom condescended to talk when she could help it. Laura was very low-spirited, and hardly said a word, though she seemed grateful to Charlotte for her kindness, and clung to Olive in a way very uncommon with her. Mrs. Dimsden contradicted her at every word she said, and seemed out of all patience with her.

When Mr. Merton came in to tea, he looked into the vase as usual, and took out the two or three letters it contained.

"Your letter is over weight, Olive," he said, balancing it on his finger: "you must add another stamp."

He smiled kindly as he handed it to her, and she received it with a glad heart, rightly judging that it was a tacit concession of the point.

"Thank you, uncle," she said in a voice too low to be heard by Mrs. Dimsden, who was anxiously watching the scene, in the pleasing anticipation of an explosion.

He smiled again, and walked away, putting the letter in his pocket.

But Charlotte had not finished yet. She was, as we know, not at all an amiable young lady, and she was extremely jealous of any affront offered to her mother. She felt that her debt to Mrs. Dimsden was not quite discharged.

"Papa," said she, "do you know Sam Lewis?"

"Yes, I know him. Why?"

"What is he like?"

"Like a fool!" replied Mr. Merton, who was not particularly well disposed toward idle young men just then.

"A great many young men are that," said, Charlotte sententiously. "Is that all there is remarkable about him?"

"No," said Mr. Merton: "he is remarkably idle, remarkably dissipated, and a remarkable torment to every one who ever tried to do any thing with him."

"That seems a pity," remarked Olive. "They used to be quite nice people, especially Mrs. Lewis. I liked her very much."

"They were nice people. It is the ambition to be fine and fashionable that has spoiled them—that is, the younger part of them, for Mrs. Lewis is just as gentle and pleasant as ever. I often feel sorry for her, when I see how unceremoniously she is treated by her children. I tried, for his father's sake, to do something with Sam, but it was useless. He has not even sense enough to be governed. I heard the other day that he was going to be married, but I hope it is not true. I should be sorry to think that any girl could throw herself away upon such an apology for a man."

Charlotte's triumph was now complete, but she had too much sense to parade it openly. And for the rest of the evening, she was as polite to her victim as Mrs. Merton herself.

"How could you have the heart to annoy aunt Dimsden so?" said Olive, half-reprovingly, half-laughing, as they went up-stairs together, after the guests had departed. "You are downright revengeful."

"If Mrs. Dimsden annoys my mother when I am by, she may make up her mind to be paid in her own coin," replied Charlotte. "Besides, I felt sorry for Laura, who I saw was very uncomfortable. I really pity the poor girl."

"I feel very anxious about Laura," said Olive, sighing; "she is, as you say, very uncomfortable, and she does not seem to have any thing to sustain herself upon. I am afraid she is acting upon a wrong principle."

"How do you mean?"

"She thinks she must certainly marry some body, in order to be independent and have a position in the world, and that is all she lives for. She has, or seems to have, no idea of any higher motive in life, nor has aunt Dimsden for her that I can see. Think of her wanting Laura to marry Sam Lewis!"

"Did not my father give him a charming character?"

"I hope she will be satisfied, and not torment Laura any more about him," said Olive. "But what is the child to do? Either aunt Dimsden is angry with her about something, or else she is getting tired of taking care of her—perhaps both. Laura feels as uneasy as possible under her state of dependence, and yet she has a fixed idea that it would be a terrible degradation for her to do any thing towards supporting herself; and she feels as though a certain amount of luxury and a certain position were absolutely necessary to existence. Only look at all this and think what a temptation it places in her way, to marry the first tolerably respectable man with a large fortune who presents himself, and you will understand why I am so full of trouble about her."

"But does Laura think you have degraded yourself?" asked Charlotte.

"Aunt Dimsden does, I know," replied Olive. "As for Laura, I think she considers me an exception to all general rules, a sort of oddity. She went so far to-day, as to say she envied me."

"I am sure I do," said Charlotte, sighing; "not that I am not perfectly well off at home, and as happy as those around me can make so perverse a person as I am, but I never can feel as though I was working to any purpose."

"I am sure your Greek and drawing come on nicely," said Olive. "I never saw any one improve so much as you have. If you were a pupil of mine, I should be proud of you. That copy of your father's portrait is beautiful. I wish you would give it to me, to take back to Basswoods."

"I meant it for you, as well as one I begun of my mother, and I am very glad you like them. But Olive, I am not contented with the acquisition of knowledge merely for the sake of knowledge. I want to do something with it. In short," said she, smiling rather bitterly, "I am, without any particular reason for it, about as discontented as any body can be. I wish some one would tell me what I want."

"I think I can tell you," said Olive, "but I rather doubt whether you will believe me."

"May I come and sleep with you?" asked Charlotte.

"I shall be glad to have you," replied Olive, "if you will let me do just as I would if I were alone."

"Of course," said Charlotte, "we will each take our own way."

Charlotte occupied herself with a book, while Olive went through with her usual reading and prayers. She had herself given up even the semblance of prayer, ever since she left the nursery.

"Now Olive," said she, as they were curling their hair afterwards, "tell me what I want."

"I think you want the two sacraments, as Mr. Gregory says—the baptism of duty and the communion of love. Are you as much in the dark as ever?"

"No; I think I partly understand you, but please explain."

"First, then, you want to do every single thing because it is right do it. This rule applies to all actions, great as well as small. Moreover, you need to have such a love to God, and such a desire to promote his glory that you will do every thing that is right because it is pleasing to him, and avoid every thing that is wrong for the same reason. Are not these two motives which cover all things?"

"Perhaps so, if one could understand them. I confess I can not. I do not know what you mean by love to God. Can you tell me, for I suppose you think you love him?"

"I know I do."

"What sort of a feeling is it?"

"It is the same feeling that we have toward our best earthly friends, though as much higher and purer in its character, and greater in its degree, as the object is greater and purer. There is no selfishness mixed with it, and no distrust, since the object is absolutely perfect in goodness and truth. If there is happiness in loving a fallible mortal, who may change or die at any time, must there not be much more in loving and being loved by one in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning, and who has the will and the power to order all things as is best for us?"

"I can not understand such a love for God. He is too far off."

"He is not far off. His name is Emmanuel—God with us!"

"I have no feeling towards the Supreme Being," said Charlotte, after a little pause, "except one of terror when I think how helpless we are—bond slaves in his hands."

"If you loved and trusted him, you would find pleasure instead of terror in the idea that your destinies were in the hands of one who could do no injustice and no wrong. Then every thing you did would be sanctified by the thought that you were doing it for him, since he is served by every one of our duties, whatever it is. I know you always take pleasure in working for people. I never saw you so happy, as when you were straightening and going over those long accounts for your father, when I was at home before. If in addition, you had had in your mind the thought of pleasing your Father in heaven, you would have been still happier."

"But, Olive, do you not think there is danger of losing one's reverence for the Supreme by thus mixing him up with all the common and daily concerns of life?"

"If there is," replied Olive, "we are not answerable for it, since he himself says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without him, and that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we must do all to the glory of God."

"And does this feeling really comfort you, Olive, when you are in trouble? I have heard people talk about religious consolations, but I always took it all for cant."

"Take care," said Olive, "that in dreading and avoiding cant, you do not fall into it yourself, and that of the worst kind—that of condemning as cant all that you do not understand. Yes, I have found, more than ever before, the great comfort of having such a trust and confidence in God, as I have described. But for that, I do not believe I could have lived through this last week. It is all that gives me any hope about Abby. She has been so well taught, and the child of so many prayers, that I can not but think she will come right at last."

"I wish I felt so," said Charlotte sighing, "but I can not, and I do not know how to attain to it."

"Prayer and repentance are the only ways I know," replied Olive. "The bitter comes before the sweet; and the godly sorrow that worketh repentance must precede the love of Christ which passeth knowledge. We must repent in sackcloth and ashes, before we can rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. Do try, Charlotte—I know you will be so much happier, not only here but hereafter."

"I will make no promises," said Charlotte, "but I will think of what you have said, and I am very much obliged to you for speaking so freely, and not being shocked at me. You do not know how miserable I was at the thought that I had been deceived in you after all. If you did, you would not wonder that I was so savage when you first came home."