CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

SCHOOL was to begin on Wednesday as usual, and Olive arrived in Basswoods on Monday evening at dusk. She found several people waiting to welcome her—Mr. Gregory and Augusta, Mr. Landon and Mr. Jones, and last not least, Mr. Prendergrass. As Olive shook hands with the last named gentleman, and received his half-formal, half-embarrassed greeting, her mind adverted for the first time to what Mrs. Dimsden had so elegantly said, about her setting her cap for the school-master, and she wondered whether there could be any possible danger of his making a mistake—of his fancying that she was giving him encouragement, but she dismissed it as too absurd to deserve consideration.

Ruth was not at the station, but was waiting for her at the door of the old house which Olive was quite surprised to see looking as usual, forgetting that houses do not generally change very much in the course of four weeks. It seemed like home to be again in her comfortable, cheerful room, which was just as she left it, except that a beautiful bouquet stood in a little vase of biscuit-ware on the table.

"Louisa Landon brought that over," said Ruth, seeing that Olive's eyes were fixed upon it, the moment she entered the room.

"Did she?" asked Olive, taking it up, to examine it.

"Why of course, you know she did," retorted Ruth shortly, but not unkindly. "What is the use of pretending you don't? Don't you think I have guessed all about it by this time?"

"I am glad you have, I am sure," said Olive, laughing and blushing; "for it will save me the awkwardness of telling you, which I have been dreading all the way. Well, what do you think about it?"

"Me! I don't know any thing about such things. I think Walter is a very nice young man, and you are a very nice young woman, and I dare say you will be as happy as most people. I hope so, I am sure."

Olive glanced at Ruth in surprise, and saw that she seemed a good deal agitated, though she was stooping over Olive's trunk, as if to hide her face from observation. The expression passed away as she looked, and she was as calm as ever. Olive remembered the same look once before, when Ruth had spoken of Augusta's brother, and she had wondered at the time, but now something in her own feelings gave her a clue to her friend's.

"Don't think I am cross, Olive," said Ruth presently. "Sometimes I remember things I would rather forget, and it upsets me for a moment. Cool as you think me, I was not always so. Augusta can tell you—she is the only one who knows. I never speak or think of it, if I can help it. I wish you every happiness, my dear, and I think your prospects are as fair as any one's. I have known Walter from a child. Don't talk to me now—I shall get quiet presently."

And when Olive met her a few minutes afterwards, she was as composed and cheerful as usual, nor did she ever again advert to the subject.

From Augusta she afterwards learned part of the story. Frederick Gregory was a young man of promising talents, and, as every one thought, of good principles, but he went to college, so often only another name for going to destruction. He was treated with a great deal of attention, and often invited out, and at last fell into the hands of one of those gangs of fashionable rascals, some of whom are to be found in almost every city, who think it an excellent joke to draw in a young man, first to drink, then to gamble, and so on, to utter ruin, and when it is accomplished, hold up their hands in astonishment that any one could be so weak.

Into such a set did Frederick Gregory fall. Mr. T's game-suppers and little dinner-parties (for men only) were very pleasant, and his vanity was flattered in being distinguished by such a fashionable man, albeit he did not think Mr. T. as elegant as his father, or old Judge Landon of Basswoods. One thing led to an other—"champaigne" to brandy-punch, punch to clear brandy: which led to betting on the players, and that to playing on his own account. Why pursue the story?

Frederick Gregory was expelled from the college for gross misconduct in his third year. He went home for a short time, but life in his father's house and under his mother's eye was unendurable to him. Fresh disgrace and exposure followed, and at last he went to sea, and was never heard of again.

Frederick and Ruth had been lovers almost from childhood, and though their parents refused to recognize any engagement till Frederick should have finished his college career, they considered themselves none the less bound to each other. It was very long before Ruth could believe that Frederick was as degraded as people said, but she was at last convinced in a way not to be mistaken. The young man visited her one evening when he was too far gone in intoxication to know what he was about, and absolutely insulted her. Once convinced, her course was taken.

The next morning she sent him a letter, breaking off the engagement, and refusing to see him again, till he could give proof of his reformation. He made no attempt to overcome her resolution, for he had for some time felt his engagement to be only a restraint and an annoyance. Before leaving Basswoods, he sent her a seal-ring which she had given him before he went to college, with a note, thanking her for having taken the first step towards a separation, and bidding her an eternal farewell.

What Ruth felt on this occasion, nobody knew, unless it were Augusta. She kept about her duties as usual, for two or three months. Then she had a long and tedious fit of sickness, from which she rose up, cured in body and mind. After a long storm, she had found a calm; she had conquered in deadly strife, and was henceforth at peace with herself and the world. She was sometimes haunted, as all of us are upon dark days, with the ghosts of the enemies she had slain, but they were only ghosts, and fled at daylight.

She lived for duty, and with the duties came many pleasures, but her home was not here, "and all her heart was fixed above." Love and marriage were things utterly out of the question with her, and though she might have been comfortably established more than once, she dismissed all her suitors with an indifference nowise flattering to them, and very provoking to her mother, who could not see why Ruth should be so foolish as to refuse such an excellent man as Mr. Brown, the largest merchant in the place. She might have annoyed her daughter not a little, had not Mr. Felton, for the first and last time in his life, asserted his individuality, and forbidden her to say another word on the subject, declaring that in this and all other matters, Ruth should do just as she chose, a proceeding which besides silencing his wife, amazed her to such a degree that she actually forgot to be lone and low for as much as three days afterwards.

Olive was warmly welcomed by all her pupils, most of whom declared that they were tired of vacation, and quite ready to begin school again. The drawing-class had each a picture or two to show her, the results of her holiday labors, and they were all delighted to find that they could draw at home as well as in school. Miss Tucker was gone, her aunt having concluded to send her to a seminary at a distance, where her talents would be appreciated, and her feelings respected; such at least was the reason she gave Olive, with an emphasis intended to be very cutting, and Olive accepted it politely, glad to be rid of her on any terms.

The school was smaller than it had been in the winter, as many of the country pupils had returned to their homes to assist in the summer labors of the dairy and the farm. Olive found some of her best pupils missing, but she felt herself in some degree compensated by being able to bestow more time and attention upon the rest. As she thought how much she might do for them in a few years, she could not help feeling a pang of regret at being obliged to leave them so soon. She had not yet said any thing to Mr. Jones about her intention, nor did she mean to do so, till about a month before the summer vacation, as that would afford abundance of time to procure another teacher.

After she had been in Basswoods about two weeks, Olive received a letter from Helen Monteith, and one from Abby at the same time. Helen had been visiting Mrs. Granger, and had been to see Abby. She wrote to Olive that they were comfortably established in the principal hotel of the place, and that Abby liked it very much, but Mr. Forester was discontented and talked of going to housekeeping as soon as he could find a house.

"I think Abby dreads it," she said, "but she talks cheerfully about it, and is quite sure she can learn. She seems rather subdued, and I think feels very much the separation from her family. She thinks her uncle and aunt are very hard-hearted to treat her with so much severity, and really, I do not think she has the least idea of having done wrong. A good many people have visited her, and some of Mr. Forester's relations have sent her very handsome presents. I think they cherish the hope that William may settle down and be steady now that he has a wife on his hands; and perhaps he will. He certainly seems very fond of her."

Abby wrote in good spirits. She adverted to the housekeeping scheme, and said they had been house-hunting several times, but rents were high, and they had not found any thing desirable.

It was evident that Abby was coming to the conclusion that it cost money to live, a fact of which she had never been in any degree sensible before. She spoke of the kindness of Mr. Forester's relations, and contrasted it with the sternness of her uncle and aunt Merton, by whom she evidently felt herself very much abused. She exulted greatly over Olive's engagement, and said she supposed her sister would now be willing to admit that she had not been so very much to blame. She was mistaken, however.

The more deeply Olive loved, the more she wondered at Abby's course. The effect of her own attachment was to make her more and more anxious to do her duty in every respect, to correct her faults, and to render herself worthy of her lover, and her destiny as a wife and mother. Her conscience had never been so quick to feel the first approach of wrong, her thankfulness had never been so deep, or her desire of self-consecration so entire as since she had been engaged.

She did not consider how different all this might have been, if Walter had not had the deepest sympathy in all her religious feelings; if he had not been her superior in religious experience; if he had regarded the whole matter with indifference, or at best with a careless respect as an institution very well suited to women and clergymen, and such narrow-minded people; if he had gently laughed at her scruples, and intimated that conscience was all very well, but there were instincts and feelings of our nature much higher, and better guides, etc., etc., the cant of a certain fashionable school very much in favor with such gentlemen as Mr. Forester.

Contrary to the well-known prediction, the course of Olive's true love seemed likely to run very smooth indeed. Walter's business was very prosperous, he had no debts, and he had sufficiently demonstrated the fact of his being able to make a living. Olive's little property was in an excellent shape, and she thought the proceeds of her year's labor would go far toward fitting her out comfortably and respectably.

There seemed no reason why the young people should wait longer than the first of October. Aunt Merton and her prime minister, Mammy, had already begun to calculate how much sheeting, toweling, etc., etc., would be wanted, when an event happened which changed the face of affairs very considerably.

Olive had been in school about eight weeks, when one Sunday, on taking her seat in church, she found the desk occupied by a stranger, and she was not long in recognizing the peculiar features and bearing of the Rev. Dr. V., a gentleman well-known for his talents, both as a speaker and a writer. She had heard him once before, and prepared herself for a treat. She was not disappointed.

The Doctor's subject was the lack of young men for the ministry, and most splendidly was it handled. There was enough of originality to keep the attention awake, without any of that straining after effect so painful and disgusting in some popular preachers. Every one in the congregation was made to feel that the subject was an important one, and one in which he or she had a share of responsibility. Chancing for a moment to look away from the preacher, Olive met Walter's eye, filled with an expression that thrilled to her very heart. She knew what he was thinking of as well as though he had spoken.

"How do you like Dr. V.'s sermon?" he asked as they met after Sunday-school in the porch.

"Very much," replied Olive, hardly knowing what she said; "it was a powerful appeal, certainly."

They walked a little way in silence, and then Olive said earnestly: "Walter, tell me what you are thinking of."

"I am thinking, Olive, whether this is not an appeal to me. Young men are wanted, and I am young and strong. Who is there that can go better than I?"

"It would be a great sacrifice," said Olive presently.

"Yes, a sacrifice to both of us—to me of wealth, fame, and almost all the earthly objects I had set my heart upon; not to mention the fact, that our marriage must be put off at least a year, and possibly longer. Yes, it will be a sacrifice."

"Perhaps we ought not to take that so much into the account, as the simple matter of what our duty is," said Olive gently. "Nothing, no sacrifice can be so painful to me, Walter, as the idea of being a clog upon you. I could bear any thing better than that."

"I am sure you never will be so, Olive," replied Waiter, earnestly. "You have done me far too much good already for me to imagine such a thing possible. But we will not be hasty. I will revolve the matter in my own mind, and do you do the same. Perhaps I ought not to mention it yet, but I can not bear to have a thought that you do not share."

The girls thought they had never seen Miss McHenry so absent as she was in school, next day. She became aware of it herself after a little, and exerted herself to be attentive to her duties, but it was hard work, and she was glad when school was out.

A long solitary walk helped to compose her thoughts, but she still felt almost as though she were dreaming.

"Olive looks tired to-night," Mrs. Felton remarked in her general way, addressing no one in particular.

"I have taken a long walk," said Olive, trying to rouse herself from her abstraction. "I have been up past the old red house on the banks of the river."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton. "That lonesome road, and so far too! But you didn't go alone?"

"Yes, why not."

"Well, I declare! I wouldn't have done it for any money when I was your age, and I don't know that I would now. Why, the old Vander Heyden vault is on that road!"

"Well!"

"And the graves of the family that was murdered by the Indians, in the old red house!"

"I never heard that," said Olive, with some interest; "what was it?"

Mrs. Felton loved nothing better than to tell a story, and moreover, she had some talent for narration.

"A family of the name of Munn formerly lived in that house," she began. "They were not much respected, and the man used to come up to the village and get drunk, leaving his family alone for two or three days at a time. Basswoods was a little place then, and this house was more lonely then, than it is now. His wife was rather a violent-tempered woman, but she worked hard, and was in a manner fond of her children. One afternoon in sleighing-time, Munn started for the village, and as usual his wife scolded him for it.

"A neighbor (that is, he lived three or four miles off) was passing, and heard them using very high words, and he said to Munn, half in joke, 'You had better not leave your family alone to-night, Jacob; there is talk of Indians up the river.'

"And so there was, though nobody thought much of it.

"'Indians!' said the brute, with an oath. 'I only wish they would come and carry off this one!' pointing to his wife.

"The man said no more, but went on his way, and Munn came up to the village. He did not go home till towards dark the next day, and the first thing he saw was his own baby lying with its brains dashed out in the snow by the gate. The woman and the other two were lying scalped and dead inside the door, and the house was robbed. It was the only one in the valley which was attacked, which made it the more singular.

"Most likely," said Mr. Felton, "the mischief was done by a small party of Indians who knew Munn's habits. They had their spies all through the country at that time. I can remember seeing him round the village when I was a boy—a miserable, crazy creature, always talking to himself about the Indians."

"But why should I not walk there?" persisted Olive. "The Indians are all dead long ago."

Mrs. Felton had no very satisfactory reason to give, only that the place had a bad name, and no one would live there. Strange things had happened in the house.

"But what things?"

Well, she could not exactly say, only that queer things had been seen there at might, and people did not like to pass it. Some thought it was not altogether the Indians.

"And if I were you, Olive, I would not walk that way towards night. It is as well to be on the safe side, you know."

This reminiscence produced others, and Olive was surprised to find how many such traditions attached to the place. In one house there had been a murder committed. From another, a young girl had mysteriously disappeared one evening, and never was heard of again. In another, the watchers by a dead body had been alarmed by footsteps in the room, and sobs and sighs sounded near them, though nothing was to be seen. Olive had never heard so many ghost stories in her life. They had, at least, the good effect of arousing her attention, and turning her thoughts for a time away from the subject was engrossing them, perhaps more effectually than any thing more sensible would have done.

The next day found her much more composed. She had made up her mind entirely to the sacrifice, feeling her own share to be nothing to Walter's; and, girl-like, she even began already to find some pleasure in the prospect of the quiet parsonage and useful life, which lay beyond that long separation which she would not look at. She was detained an hour after school by an extra class, and then went round to the parsonage to tea.

"Where is your father?" she asked, after a while. "He did not come round to hear my class in Latin, as he promised."

"He has been closeted with Walter almost all the afternoon," replied Augusta; "I can not think what they are so earnestly engaged about. Walter looked as though he had the weight of nations upon his shoulders when he came in. And you, too, look anxious, Olive! I hope there is nothing wrong."

"Oh! No!" replied Olive, earnestly. "Nothing wrong. Something very right, I hope, but something which will make a great difference in our plans, if we decide upon it."

Augusta looked at her inquiringly, and they were silent for a while.

"After all, Olive, putting aside gratified ambition, which is perhaps but a questionable good, there are few happier lives than a clergyman's," said Augusta. She spoke rather to what she supposed were her friend's thoughts, and so Olive answered her.

"People have a great deal to say of a clergyman's trials, you know."

"I know, and doubtless some have more trouble than others. One can only speak from one's own experience and observation, of course. I have lived in a parsonage all my life long, you know, and I do not know that my father has been especially favored, except that he has remained a long time in the same place. We have had some hard times, and some sad times. There have been troubles, and now and then hard feeling and discontent in the parish. Once my father had no salary for three years, and we were poor enough. But the people have always come round after a while, and we have been as comfortable as ever. I am sure my father has enjoyed pleasures which more than counterbalanced his trials, and just think how it will be in the next world, when he shall come to know the full fruition of his labors!"

"But it must be hard, Augusta, for a man like your father to labor Sunday after Sunday, month after month, without seeing any fruit of his toils."

"Yes," replied Augusta, "and a minister undoubtedly needs faith, more than almost any one else in the word. But then, what state of life is there, which has not its trials? I remember well how my husband used to come home at night, especially in court-time, so worn out and disgusted with the meanness and villainy with which he was obliged to come in contact, the double-distilled lies and inveterate malice with which he was obliged to come in contact, even among his own clients. I have asked him sometimes, why he did not abandon his profession, and take up some other line of business, and his answer always was that there was no profession in the world which had not its drawbacks and its annoyances; and that, in laying down one burden, of which he knew the weight, he might take up another still heavier."

"Walter loves his profession," said Olive, sighing. "I do not think any thing but a certain sense of duty would make him dream of resigning it."

"I hope he will not be hasty."

"He is not apt to be hasty, I think," observed Olive. "Do you know, Augusta, that when I went away from here, I thought he was engaged to Annette Vander Heyden."

"I thought you did," said Augusta, smiling; "I knew very well he was not."

"Why did you not—?" Olive stopped, suddenly coloring as deeply as the crimson cushion she was working.

"Why did I not tell you? Because I thought it better both for your dignity and his, to let him tell his own story. I felt pretty sure that he would do so, and if he did not, the least said was soonest mended."

"I assure you, Augusta, I never was more astonished than I was when I discovered that I cared any thing about him." Olive made this declaration with great seriousness, and looked rather indignantly at Augusta for receiving it with a hearty laugh.

"Well, my dear child, what of that? You do not suppose that people in general go and fall in love of malice prepense, do you? To be sure, I have known cases where men, and women, too, set themselves about getting married as they would take steps to buy a cow or a horse, but I never heard of any one's making a deliberate calculation to fall in love."

"I do not know that I ever thought of it in that way," said Olive, joining in the laugh, "but I do assure you I was surprised."

"And you thought nobody was ever so unhappy before, I dare say."

Olive nodded.

"Whereas, your experience was that of at least eighty out of every hundred sensible and reasonable people, who marry at all, and perhaps as large a proportion who never do. But here are my father and Walter, coming back from the orchard. Walter looks as though his heart was lighter, does he not?"

He did, indeed, and, as Olive observed him, she thought he must have made up his mind to something certain. He looked pleased at meeting her, and his cheerful greeting and warm hand-pressure made her heart feel ten pounds lighter. The subject was not adverted to during the evening, but when they were walking homeward, Walter told her that he had been discussing the matter the whole afternoon with Mr. Gregory, and that he felt his mind quite made up to the step.

"Mr. Gregory advises me to let the matter rest for a month," said he. "And, of course, I shall do so, if only in deference to his opinion, trying meanwhile to gain all the light I can upon the matter. The only thing that really troubles me, Olive, is your sacrifice. I had enjoyed so much the prospect of our having a home of our own this fall, and having Louisa with us. I had built so many castles on it that—" Walter's voice faltered: he could not complete the sentence.

"We will not think about that," said Olive, cheerfully, though she felt a moisture rise to her own eyes as she spoke. "Our engagement has been a very short one, and we shall be none the less happy in the end, for knowing each other better. I believe you have full faith in me, Walter; you have no doubt of my constancy—there, that will do! And I have not a shadow of distrust for you. We can afford to wait."

"And what will you do meantime?" asked Walter.

"Go on teaching here as long as they want me," replied Olive. "I am thankful that I am not dependent on any body for a house or a living. It is pleasant at Mrs. Felton's, and I like the school very much—more than I ever expected to do, when I begun. I do not think three or four years of such discipline will do me any harm."

"You are determined to see only the bright side, my love."

"I am, in this case, because the dark side is most prominent, and speaks for itself," replied Olive.

"What will your uncle and aunt say?" asked Walter.

"Frankly, I do not think they will be pleased. Uncle—I wish to speak with all respect—is proud of his profession, and considers every slight offered to it as an insult to himself. I believe, to speak the truth, that they will be likely to consider you a very visionary and enthusiastic person, in making such a sacrifice. My aunt has, of course, renounced the world and its vanities, but she thinks it no harm to give up the most of her time and energies to what she and others call the requirements of society. I hesitate to say this, lest I should seem lacking in respect and affection, but I know that the inconsistency used to strike me when I was quite a child."

"But what does she make of such texts as—'Be not conformed to this world,' 'The friendship of the world is enmity towards God,' and others of like character?" asked Walter.

"I suppose she thinks they applied only to the time when they were written, and have nothing to do with people nowadays."

"Yes, that is a convenient way of dispensing with inconvenient precepts."

"You must not understand me to say that she always does it, Walter, by any means. In many things, I think my aunt is guided by truly religious motives. For instance, she never invites company on Sunday, unless it is some person to whom it will be a real kindness. She is careful to see that the servants go to church regularly, and that they are provided with proper books, both of instruction and amusement; and she is very kind to the poor, and to all sorts of forlorn and friendless people. I think this is her one great inconsistency."

"It is so with many excellent people, I know," said Walter; "and, after all, Olive, we all have our own pet failings. Perhaps this is no worse than many things in us, which we never think of as faults. But do not say any thing to them of the matter till it is settled, one way or other. As Mr. Gregory says, a distance of time makes a great difference in our feelings, and it is possible that I may see grounds for changing my mind. We will wait a month, and then decide."

They waited a month accordingly. Walter now and then adverted to the subject, but he said very little. At the end of that time, he informed Olive that his mind was settled, if hers was. He intended to devote himself to the ministry, and to commence his preparatory studies at once. Olive had no objections to offer, and in a few days, all was settled.

Walter would not have as much to do as many young men in the same circumstances, inasmuch as he was an excellent classical scholar already, and had read a good deal of Church-history, and of other matters which would come into the course.

Of course there were a great many different opinions expressed in Basswoods when the matter came to be generally known. Some people thought it a very foolish, romantic move, for a young man already in good practice as a lawyer, to exchange a lucrative profession, which offered so many chances of rising in the world, for one which held out no promise, either of wealth or of gratified ambition. Others thought it was very hard upon poor Miss McHenry, as of course her marriage must now be put off indefinitely, if not broken off entirely. But when Miss McHenry appeared just as good spirits as ever, and upon the same terms with her lover, they had nothing more to say, except that it was a queer world, a proposition which, if you regard it in some lights, hardly admits of a denial.

There were many who gave an unqualified approval, and wished that more young men would follow such a good example, and among them were Olive's fast friends, Mr. Jones and Dr. Gordon, the two acting members of the board of trustees, who were, moreover, much pleased at the idea of keeping their favorite teacher two or three years longer.

When Olive announced the change of plans to her aunt, Walter wrote a long letter to Mr. Merton, in which he gave a full account of all the motives and reasons which had influenced him.

Mr. Merton replied very soon. As a general thing, he said, he could not approve of a young man's changing his profession when he had once set out in life, and he really thought that, with Mr. Landon's talents, he might do as much good as a Christian layman, as in the character of a clergyman. Still, it could not be denied that there was a great want of young men for the ministry. He desired his young friend to do nothing hastily, but consider well what he was going to relinquish, and also what he was going to take upon himself before making any decided move, and enjoined it upon him not to enter the work of the ministry, unless it was his intention to devote to it all his energies of mind and body. On the whole, the letter was quite as satisfactory in its character as Olive expected.

Aunt Rebecca's was not quite so much so. She evidently regarded the whole scheme as visionary and fanatical, and fully believed that Olive's apparently cheerful concurrence in it was only a freed and sorrowful acquiescence to the whims of her enthusiastic lover. She seemed indeed to place Walter's conduct upon a par with William Forester's relinquishment of the study of law, because he could not bring his mind down to such narrow limits. She concluded by expressing, in most affectionate terms, her sympathy in Olive's sad disappointment, and reminding her that she had always a home at her uncle's, independent of any one's caprice.

The kind tone of the letter brought tears to Olive's eyes, even while she half-laughed and was half-vexed at the determination to think her a martyr, in spite of herself. Since she had had the charge of young people upon her own hands, she had learned to appreciate, more than she had ever done before, how much she owed to aunt Rebecca's kindness, and how many times she had tried it, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes through willfulness and selfishness. She wrote again, to assure her aunt that she was not suffering and to beg her not to be uneasy, as she was perfectly well, and about as happy as she could be, inclosing, at the same time, a little sketch of her own face, in order to demonstrate, clearly, that she was not pining away.

The next letter was still more kindly expressed towards herself. Mrs. Merton had read Walter's letter to her husband, and admitted that his arguments were strong, but still she thought he might have been contented with doing all the good he could in his own profession. She sent him a very affectionate message, however, and Olive had no fear but that, in course of time, he would be fully taken into favor again.

Charlotte's letter was concise and to the point, like almost every thing she said. "You know very well that I do not pretend to be governed by your motives, or even to understand them, always. But I must say I think you have done right. You have acted consistently with your own views and professions. If I believed as Walter does, I should act just as he has done. I am sorry, on some accounts, that your marriage is put off, but I think perhaps it will be as well in the end."

Olive thought so, too, and she settled herself to her work with fresh patience and hopefulness, now that there was a chance of her seeing something of the fruit of her labors. People gradually ceased talking about it, and busied themselves with other matters, and by degrees Olive became as much accustomed to the thought of spending her life in a parsonage as though she had never had any other prospect before her.

"Aunt Dimsden was right," she said to herself, sometimes; "I shall be a minister's wife, after all."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE summer term passed rapidly, unmarked by any particularly startling incident. The Basswoods people had become accustomed to the idea of Olive's engagement and Walter's change of profession, and troubled themselves very little more about the matter. The school prospered, and was larger than usual in summer, and Olive had her hands full of employment,—so full, indeed, that the trustees began seriously to talk of giving her an assistant the next term.

Olive hoped it would not be necessary. She liked to have the management in her own hands, and feared that some one might be appointed who would not work with her, and might, perhaps, thwart her plans.

She was the more solicitous on this point, as she knew very well that she had an enemy in the amiable Mrs. Tucker, who had never forgiven the summary setting down of the sensitive and conscientious Melissa, and who had never since hesitated to use all her influence against Olive, both secretly and openly. She talked of mercenary motives, and drew touching contrasts between people who taught only for money and those who taught for the love of it, though who these last were, she did not think it necessary to state. She intimated that Olive was fond of society, and went out a great deal, that her connections in M. were very fashionable people, that Miss McHenry paid a great deal of attention to the manners of her pupils, and even advised them about their dress, etc., etc.

Olive heard very little of these speeches, and troubled herself not at all about them. She had early discovered Mrs. Tucker to be a meddling, vulgar woman, very fond of having her own way, and considering herself a model of solid education, though upon what she founded her claim it would be difficult to say, except it were upon the fact of her having no accomplishments.

The school was full, the girls loved her, and the trustees were quite satisfied. Walter was every thing she had believed him to be, and now she had kind friends, and her own relatives, if they did not entirely approve of Walter's course, were at least satisfied with her. She was happier than she had ever been before in all her life, and she would have been quite happy, but for her constant feeling of anxiety about Abby—an anxiety to which she could attach no definite shape, but which haunted her continually, and made her heart beat fast at sight of a letter with the B. post-mark.

After a longer interval than usual, she got a letter, saying that they were at housekeeping, and that Abby liked it very well, "so far." The next letter was not quite so cheerful. They had not a good girl, and Abby had so much to do that she got tired to death. She supposed it was all her own fault, in not knowing how, but thought if they could only get competent servants, they would do better. She was very anxious to have Olive stop and pay them a visit on her return to M., if not to spend the whole vacation with them, and Olive fully intended to do so.

Olive, herself, was learning a good deal about work, from Ruth, who excelled in all that constituted a good housekeeper. Every Saturday she took a lesson in baking, and she felt more proud of her first fair, light loaf of bread, than she had ever been of a fine drawing.

Aunt Merton, to whom she wrote an account of her exploits, commended her highly for taking pains to acquire a practical knowledge of such things—"a knowledge, my dear, which can never come amiss in any station. At the same time, I can not but hope, notwithstanding Mr. Landon's eccentric course, that you will never be placed in circumstances which will render it necessary for you to bake your own bread."

It was plain that aunt Rebecca had not quite forgiven Walter yet, for what she considered his romantic folly. Yet Mrs. Merton regretted, extremely, the great want of young men for the ministry, and was in favor of having it made an especial object of prayer in the churches. She admired, too, the heroism of missionaries, and gave liberally to the cause.

Olive was not at all disturbed by her aunt's letter. She appreciated the kindness, and only smiled at the inconsistency. She had learned away from home, what, when at home, she had never fully realized—that, taking them all in all, there were few better people in the world than her uncle and aunt Merton. And many times did she feel herself shamed and humiliated, as she looked back on her own conduct, and thought how illy she had often requited their kindness.

The time sped on, and the summer term was near its close. Olive had made all her preparations for the long vacation, and Walter had wound up his business, except what had gone into the hands of his successor, and was giving his whole attention to some preparatory studies, under the direction of Mr. Gregory.

At the earnest petition of a number of the girls who had hitherto considered themselves quite too old to go to Sunday-school, Olive had taken a Bible-class, in which she found, both pleasure and profit. Julia Goodrich stood at the head of this class, as she did at the head of the day-school, side by side with her fast friend, Anna Jones. She never missed a lesson, was apparently very much interested in the information she acquired, and was regular in her attendance; yet Olive could not flatter herself that she was making any decided impression upon her. When the subject of personal piety was pressed upon her attention, she treated it with respect, but frankly owned that she had no interest in it, on her own account. She seemed to have an idea that she should some time or other, be converted, without any special agency of her own, and that all would be right, as a matter of course.

Olive was very much in doubt what to do with these girls during her absence. She had asked, as a personal favor to herself, that they would continue to meet, and they had promised to do so, but she could think of no one to whom to commit the charge of the class. Augusta and Ruth had their hands full, the one with the infant-school, the other with a class of large boys from the country which she had taught for several years.

She was talking the matter over with Augusta one day, when Mrs. Vander Heyden came in. She was a pleasant woman, and rather remarkably well-informed, and Olive had more than once thought of her. But as Mrs. Vander Heyden had never had any thing to do with the school, she did not venture to propose it.

In the course of conversation, however, it came out, incidentally, that Olive was looking for some one to supply her place during her absence.

"If you will trust them to me, Miss McHenry," said Mrs. Vander Heyden, "I will do as well as I can by them. I have very little experience in teaching, but perhaps I can keep them together."

"I could ask nothing better," replied Olive, equally surprised and pleased; "and I shall be very much obliged to you. I did not think of asking you, as you have never been in Sunday-school."

Mrs. Vander Heyden sighed. "Perhaps I have been wrong in keeping so much aloof from such things," said she, "but we have had such a pleasant circle at home, and I found it so easy to occupy myself fully there that I shrank from any thing which should take me out. We are sadly broken up," she added, with a sigh.

"Is Agnes going south?" asked Augusta.

"Yes, we shall take her to her aunt, in Georgia. I hope the change and the journey will do her good, for she is still sadly delicate. Jenny will be very lonely without her, I fear."

"Poor Mrs. Vander Heyden! How very sad she seems," said Olive, after the lady had gone. "I was very much surprised at her offer, were not you?"

"Not so much as I should have been a year ago," replied Augusta. "The family have lived, hitherto, almost entirely within themselves, and I believe, felt themselves quite beyond the need of neighborly sympathy. But the death of poor Annette, and the long-continued illness of Agnes and Jenny, have taught them a good lesson. I do not know what would have become of them, if they had been done by as they have been in the habit of doing to others. It shows what a really noble nature the woman has, that she has learned the lesson, and is ready to repair and acknowledge her error."

In the year which she had spent in school, Olive had learned to have not only a great respect, but also a really friendly regard for her partner in the institution. It is said that we are apt to like those whom we have benefited, and if so, it is no wonder that Olive liked Mr. Prendergrass. She had certainly, done him a great deal of good. She had coaxed him out of his seclusion, and persuaded him into society; she had made him laugh heartily, more than once. She knew, too, how to draw out his vast and miscellaneous stores of thought and information, so as to make him an entertaining companion. But it was not merely his learning that commanded admiration. He was so thoroughly good, his feelings were so elevated and dignified, his piety so earnest, every thing about him so sincere and true, that Olive had a hearty reverence for him, and looked up to him with an almost daughterly regard, at the same time that she could not help being sometimes amused and sometimes annoyed by his eccentricities, and she now and then laughed at him a little, when she was with Ruth or Augusta. In what light he regarded her, we shall soon see.

One Wednesday evening Olive did not go to church, as usual. She was not very well, and had had a fatiguing day in school. She would not allow any one to stay at home with her, and they all went, leaving her to enjoy that not unpleasant degree of indisposition which may be defined as too unwell to work and not too unwell to enjoy a new book. In this peaceful state, she had established herself upon the sofa, and given herself up to the fascinations of the "Princess."

It was not a very pleasant interruption to hear Mr. Prendergrass's voice, inquiring if Miss. McHenry was at home. But she put down her book, turned her feet off the sofa, and prepared to be gracious, wondering all the time what had kept him from church, when the clergyman himself was hardly more punctual than he.

The fact was, that Mr. Prendergrass had, for a long time, been trying to work his courage up to the point necessary for making a declaration of love to Miss McHenry. He lived, in general, so entirely out of the world, and was habitually so abstracted, that the report of Olive's engagement to Walter had never reached him, or had fallen upon unheeding ears. For the first time in his life, he had fallen into the society of a pretty, cultivated girl. The teachers before Olive had made no more impression upon him than the desks, or other furniture of the school-room. In fact, he had looked upon women in general as necessary evils, to be endured and made the best of.

Olive was entirely different. She had begun by a tacit but decided declaration of independence. She was clearly not afraid of him, though she treated him with respect. She often disagreed with him, and sometimes laughed at him. The consequence of all which was, that Mr. Prendergrass, before he knew what he was about, fell violently in love with Miss McHenry. It was a long time before he would acknowledge the fact to himself, and still longer before he could make up his mind to inform the object of his affections. But when he saw the Felton family going to church without her, and ascertained that she was at home, alone, he thought it would never do to allow so good an opportunity to pass by unimproved.

Olive never knew, exactly, how he contrived to make her understand the matter. She was so utterly astonished, so shocked and grieved at having unwittingly led the good man into an error that for a moment she could not say a word. Mr. Prendergrass evidently took her silence for encouragement.

"May I hope, Miss Olive," he said, in a trembling voice, and changing his first seat for one upon the sofa, at her side, "that you will listen to my humble suit with favor? I am aware of my unworthiness, and your exalted merit, but if the devotion of so humble an individual as myself can make you happy—"

"Stop, pray stop, Mr. Prendergrass!" exclaimed Olive, finding her voice at last. "I am so very sorry. I am afraid I have been very much to blame." And girl-like, she burst into tears.

Poor Mr. Prendergrass was inexpressibly shocked and alarmed.

"Don't weep, pray don't, my dear Miss McHenry! What have I said to cause you a moment's grief?"

"It is not what you have said," replied Olive, recovering her calmness, "but I fear I have been very much to blame. I looked up to you so much, Mr. Prendergrass—I felt you were so much above me, and so much older that I never thought of your caring any thing more for me than as a friend."

Mr. Prendergrass felt his heart sink fathoms deep, but he did not mean to give it up quite yet. "Respect is an essential agreement in the marriage-covenant. Do you not think so, Miss McHenry?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, sir, certainly, but something more than respect is necessary."

"You refer to love, Miss McHenry! Is that entirely out of the question, madam? So far as I myself am concerned, I repeat that life itself is not dearer to me than my Olive."

The dignity and earnestness with which the good man spoke, brought the tears again to Olive's eyes, but she forced them back, and determined to put an end to the scene at once.

"You will see that it is quite impossible, Mr. Prendergrass, when I tell you that I have been engaged to Mr. Landon ever since my return. I regret, very much, that any thing in my conduct should have led to such a mistake on your part, and I fear I have been to blame in not foreseeing it. But, as I said, I have been in the habit of looking up to you so much that it never struck me as possible."

Her tone, even more than the words, convinced Mr. Prendergrass that his visit was hopeless. He rose and walked up and down the room a few times.

"Miss McHenry," he said at last, stopping before her, "why did you ever come here? I was happy before that. I lived in my duties and my books, contented in solitude. I felt the need of nothing. You drew me out of myself, and away from my studies. You, first of any woman in the world, commanded my respect. You made me perfectly happy for a time, happier than I ever knew any one could be, only to plunge me in utter misery. Why did you not leave me alone?"

He walked once more the length of the room.

"Now what am I to do? I can not go back to my old way of life, and be happy in it, after the year of enjoyment I have passed. I can not forget you, even if it were possible to myself, since I must meet you every day. I have given you every thing, and left myself poor indeed, only to contribute to your amusement, and be cast aside for a younger man, who, whatever may be his merits, never can love you better than the poor awkward school-master with whom you have diverted yourself, without a thought of the mischief you were doing."

"Mr. Prendergrass, I can not permit this," said Olive, with dignity. "I make great allowances for your disappointment, but you do great injustice, both to me and to yourself, when you accuse me of trifling with you. I found you, as you say, shut up with your books, and I thought it a great pity. I tempted you from your seclusion, not to amuse myself with you—such a thought never entered my mind—but because I thought it would be much better for you, while your society would be pleasant to others. You have never given me the least reason to think that I was more to you than any other young lady in the village. I have no more to say, except that when you are more yourself, I am sure you will do me justice."

Mr. Prendergrass stood a moment. "Forgive me, Miss McHenry. I have spoken improperly, and you are right, as you always are. Good-night."

"We part friends, at least, I hope," said Olive, offering him her hand.

He took it in a grasp which almost crushed it, pressed it to his lips, and pulling his hat over his eyes, he left the house, passing Mrs. Felton at the gate, without even a sign of salutation.

"What on earth ails the man?" said Mrs. Felton to her daughter. "I should not wonder if he had got the neuralgia again. Why, where's Olive?" she continued, as she entered the sitting-room, and found it vacant. "I don't believe but that she is real sick. Hadn't you better go up and see?"

Ruth went up, but did not go in. She had an inkling of the state of the case, and she thought Olive would prefer to be alone, so she contented herself with asking, at the door, if Olive wanted any thing, and then went to her own room.

Olive would have given a good deal if she could have avoided meeting her rejected lover the next morning, but there was no help for it. And she determined to put the best face she could upon the encounter.

Mr. Prendergrass rose and bade her good morning, as usual, when she entered the large room, following her train of girls.

Glancing at him, after she was seated, she was shocked to see how he was altered. He looked ten years older, at least. His eyes were hollow, and there was an expression of forlorn wretchedness about him, which went to Olive's heart. His voice, however, was full and firm as ever in going through the morning prayers.

When school was out, at noon, Mr. Prendergrass entered the library, where Olive was, searching for something in one of the book-cases.

"Allow me a moment, Miss McHenry," he said, in his formal way, and closing the door. "I made myself very ridiculous last night," he continued, "and I fear gave you great pain."

"On the contrary, you never commanded my respect more," said Olive warmly, "and the only pain I felt was for your disappointment, and the fear that I had lost your friendship."

"You are very kind to say so." He paused a moment. "From henceforth let the whole matter be forgotten, so far as possible. I entirely acquit you of any wrong in the matter, and blame only my own folly and vanity."

Olive would have interrupted him, but he waved his hand, and proceeded. "We will say no more about it, if you please. I believe Mr. Landon to be a worthy and excellent young man, and I greatly respect him for the course which I understand he has lately taken. I hope you may both be happy, and so long as I know 'you' are so, I can never be quite wretched. God bless you!"

He bowed, and was gone, leaving Olive to wonder whether, if she had never seen Walter, she might not, in the course of time, have fallen in love with this honorable, noble, kind-hearted, formal, eccentric piece of humanity.

School was out at last, and us the scholars assembled once more to receive their prizes and to bid good-by, Olive felt sadly at leaving them, even for the vacation. She had expected when she returned for the summer term, to give up her charge entirely at this time, and to return to Basswoods as Mrs. Landon. A great change had passed over her prospects. She was none the less happy, but it was a calm and subdued happiness. Those who saw only the outside pitied her disappointment, but she told Augusta that if she could, by turning her hand, reverse the whole matter, she would not do it.

"I respect and love him more than ever, when I see him making such sacrifices to what we both feel to be paramount duty," said she, "and I never think of it but with a thankful heart that we are both of one mind."

"Mr. Prendergrass is going to travel this vacation; only think of that!" said Ruth. "He has not been out of Basswoods before, except to York to buy books, for ten years. He says he is going to the White Mountains, and up the St. Lawrence, and so home by the way of Niagara. I only hope the poor man will not get lost."

"Perhaps he will only get married," said Augusta. "You look quite indignant, Olive, but let me tell you, my dear, there is truth in the saying that 'many a heart is caught in the rebound.'"

"I was not aware that I looked indignant," replied Olive, coloring. "It is nothing to me, of course, but it does not seem very probable."

The girls smiled and turned the conversation, leaving Olive wondering why she should have felt a little vexed at the idea of Mr. Prendergrass being married.

She had expected to go alone to B., but when the day came, she found Walter prepared to accompany her.

"I can afford myself so much of a holiday," he said, in answer to her remonstrances, "and I do not choose to have you travel alone, if it can be helped. Besides, I want to see your sister and Forester. You know he was a classmate of mine. We used to be thought very much alike."

Olive wondered where the resemblance could have been, as she contrasted the high-flown æsthetics and refined selfishness of her accomplished brother-in-law, with the hearty, manly energy, and determined self-sacrifice of her lover: the one pampering his mind and indulging his taste for idleness with all sorts of pretty and petty amusements which he dignified by the name of intellectual pursuits; the other devoting all his energies to the profession he had chosen, and only relinquishing it at the call of a still higher duty. She did not express her thoughts to her companion, but perhaps he guessed them, for he said presently:

"You must not judge Forester too harshly. He has been a spoiled child all his life; petted, waited on, and admired by father and mother, brothers and sisters. He had talent, and they thought it genius, and accordingly humored him in all his pursuits, and gratified all his desires. After living upon his father till he was nearly five-and-twenty, it was naturally not easy for him to settle down to business at once. He was admired and courted in society, and that finished the spoiling."

"All that need not have made him dishonorable and false," said Olive, "as he certainly was, so far as Abby was concerned."

"Perhaps it need not, but I think you will find that idleness and self-indulgence are very apt to have that effect after a time. We will not despair of him, however, my dear Olive. The fact of his having a wife dependent upon him may force upon his mind the necessity of exerting himself."

Olive tried to hope so, but it must be confessed she did not feel very sanguine. They arrived in B. in the afternoon, and after some little trouble, succeeded in finding the house—a small brick cottage in a retired street, and Walter left her at the door, promising to return in the evening.

Her sister met her with open arms, and then followed the usual amount of tears, laughter, clapping of hands, and other demonstrations, common to all Abby's great occasions.

"You are just as much of a child as ever, Abby," said Olive, when she was finally settled in the parlor.

"Why, no, I think not quite," replied Abby, sobering down a little. "I have learned some things since I saw you. Only think, Olive, I have been a wife almost six months, and you are not married yet, nor likely to be very soon."

"I am very well contented as I am," said Olive.

"Yes, I dare say; you always are, you know. But how do you like our house? You see it is not in a fashionable neighborhood, and the house is not large nor splendid, but it is comfortable."

"It looks so," said Olive, looking round. "I see you have a piano."

"Yes, Mrs. Forester sent me that. Wasn't she kind? So different from—"

"Hush! Abby," interposed Olive, "I will not hear one word against uncle or aunt Merton. They have been kinder to you than you deserve, and you know what I thought from the beginning. You have never, so far as I know, intimated a wish to be forgiven."

"William says it is not my place to do so," said Abby. "He says they ought to make the first advances, and that uncle has insulted him. Not," she added hastily, "that I should do so, even if he would let me. But we had better not talk about that! Let me take you up to your room: you must be tired, and when William comes in, we will get your trunks up. I used to wonder how people kept house without a man, but I am finding out."

Olive begged her sister not to trouble herself, and accompanied her up-stairs to the bedroom destined for her. It was small, but well-furnished, and tolerably neat, though showing signs of needing the dusting-brush.

"The dust settles on every thing so," said Abby. "I can't think why it is. We did not use to see any dust at aunt Merton's. I hope you will not laugh at my housekeeping, Olive! I do my best, but I know very well things do not go on as they used to at home."

"Aunt Merton has excellent servants, and plenty of them," said Olive, encouragingly, "and she has kept house a good many years, while you are only a beginner. You will soon learn."

"I hope so," said Abby, "for I do hate to have things go wrong. Emma Forester was here the first fortnight, and you don't know how nice it was. She is not a bit like William—not at all a genius, though she is cultivated. William says she cares for nothing but sewing and Sunday-schools, but she is a real housekeeper, and I am sure Katy did better for her than she does for me."

"Why did she not stay?" asked Olive.

"Oh! Her mother and Emmeline wanted her, and she had to go home. But there comes William, and I must go down and have the trunks brought up."

Olive heard, accordingly, an argument down in the hall, which ended in the trunks being dragged up-stairs by a stout, good-natured English girl.

"I am afraid they are rather too heavy for you," said Olive kindly.

"Oh! No, indeed. I'm very stout, you see, and Mrs. Forester is far too delicate to put her hand to such a thing."

Olive wondered whether that were the only alternative but she dressed herself and went down-stairs.

Mr. Forester, in dressing-gown and slippers, was stretched upon the sofa in the parlor, reading a newspaper. He rose, however, when she entered, and greeted her with his accustomed easy cordiality.

"So you have come to see how far we have gone in the way of destruction you so kindly prophesied to us!" said he, after a few common-place inquiries.

"I don't remember expressing any such prophecy," replied Olive.

"Ah! Well, you thought so, and your pattern uncle thinks so still."

"Perhaps we had better let that branch of the subject rest," said Olive. "We shall not be likely to agree any better than we did before, and I can not consent to hear my uncle spoken of, except with respect."

"Very well," said Mr. Forester good-naturedly, "there are enough of other subjects to talk about. What has become of Landon, and why did he not come up with you?"

"He is in town," replied Olive, "and will be here this evening. I learned this morning, for the first time, that you were class-mates."

"Yes, surely. We never were very intimate, though. Landon was one of those plodding fellows, who give their whole energies to the daily routine of study, and are great favorites with faculty and tutors in consequence. He is just the man to make a lawyer or a minister."

"Walter is very industrious," replied Olive. "I think sometimes he hardly allows himself as much recreation as he needs, but his health is good, and he always gives himself up entirely to every thing he undertakes."

"Yet he has given up the study of law as well as William," remarked Abby, who had just come in.

"No one can say that he has consulted his ease in so doing," replied Olive, smiling, "since the one he has chosen is much more laborious, besides being worse paid."

"I can not conceive why he should have made the exchange," said William; "he always seemed to enjoy the idea of studying law."

"He thought it was his duty to do so."

"His duty! Yes, that sounds just like him," laughed Mr. Forester. "'My duty' always settled every thing for him. But, Abby, is not tea ready? I am sure it is past the time."

"It is just ready," was the reply; "I came in to tell you so."

"I don't remember hearing any thing about it. Abby is not much of a housekeeper, Miss McHenry. I wonder your good aunt did not give her lessons."

"Girls of seventeen are not apt to be good housekeepers," was the reply that rose to Olive's lips, but she checked herself, and said simply: "Abby has been a great deal in school, and she has had very little experience. She will do very well, I dare say."

"Oh! Yes, of course. Don't color so, little wife: you know you said as much yourself this morning."

The tea was very nice and abundant, though plain. The biscuits especially were very nice, and Olive noticed them.

"I made them myself," said Abby, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Emma taught me while she was here."

"You were an apt scholar, certainly," replied her husband, helping himself to another. "But, my love, I should rather you would try your skill in teaching Katy, than in doing such things yourself. A good housekeeper directs, instead of doing—is head, and not hands."

Abby looked mortified, and Olive felt indignant.

"I am inclined to think, if you were to try it, you would sometimes find it necessary to be head and hands too," said she: "at least, I never saw a housekeeper who did not."

Mr. Forester smiled and turned the conversation, but poor Abby's spirits had received a check. She evidently felt a good deal like a child who has taken a good deal of pains in preparing a present, and then hears it criticised by the person for whom it is intended. Mr. Forester seemed quite unconscious of having said any thing unkind, and continued to make himself very gracious to Olive, and to Mr. Landon when he appeared.

"How do you like your new business?" asked Walter.

"What do you mean, the nursery business? Oh! I gave that up, long ago. My partner, who was a stupid fellow, thought I ought to take half the labor of superintendence; and it did not suit me to be out in all weathers. Besides, I did not like his ideas. I wanted to make the grounds picturesque and pretty, but he had a notion that it was much more convenient to plant the trees in straight rows all of a sort, with a stake at the head of each. There was no beauty or grace in that! Then, it really seems a very heartless thing to sell for money, a tree or shrub which one has raised and nourished. So I gave it up, and lost some money by it. I am keeping books now, till something better comes along."

"Play something, Abby," said Olive. "Have you learned any thing new?"

"Not very lately; my hands have been too full."

She played and sung better than ever, Olive thought, but Mr. Forester thought she did not give exactly the correct expression.

"I really wish my ear was not so fastidious, Miss McHenry. It deprives me of any pleasure in ordinary music, and has prevented me from practising enough to make a good player myself."

Once more Abby looked uncomfortable, and Olive felt indignant. She persuaded her sister to sing again and sang with her, Mr. Forester talking all the time to Mr. Landon of the comparative merits of Jenny Lind and Sontag. So the evening passed.

Mr. Landon took his leave early, promising to call the next morning before he left town.

And Olive retired, feeling more than ever anxious about Abby's future. She could see, now that she looked at her, that Abby was thinner than usual—that she had lost much of her animation, and looked careworn. She thought she saw in Mr. Forester the beginning of what she feared he would become, when the first novelty of getting a wife and having his own way about it was worn off—a selfish, exacting, careless husband, seeking his own ease, and troubling himself very little about the comfort of his wife. There were no signs of God being acknowledged in the family—no grace at table, no evening prayers, not even a family Bible in the parlor. She went to sleep at last, so full of sad forebodings for Abby that she almost forgot to be thankful for herself.