Lena Rivers Part 1

LENA RIVERS.

by Mary J. Holmes.

CHAPTER I.

'LENA.

For many days the storm continued. Highways were blocked up, while roads less frequented were rendered wholly impa.s.sable. The oldest inhabitants of Oakland had "never seen the like before," and they shook their gray heads ominously as over and adown the New England mountains the howling wind swept furiously, now shrieking exultingly as one by one the huge forest trees bent before its power, and again dying away in a low, sad wail, as it shook the cas.e.m.e.nt of some low-roofed cottage, where the blazing fire, "high piled upon the hearth," danced merrily to the sound of the storm-wind, and then, whirling in fantastic circles, disappeared up the broad-mouthed chimney.

For nearly a week there was scarcely a sign of life in the streets of Oakland, but at the end of that time the storm abated, and the December sun, emerging from its dark hiding-place, once more looked smilingly down upon the white, untrodden snow, which covered the earth for miles and miles around. Rapidly the roads were broken; paths were made on the narrow sidewalk, and then the villagers bethought themselves of their mountain neighbors, who might perchance have suffered from the severity of the storm. Far up the mountain side in an old yellow farmhouse, which had withstood the blasts of many a winter, lived Grandfather and Grandmother Nichols, as they were familiarly called, and ere the sun-setting, arrangements were made for paying them a visit.

Oakland was a small rural village, nestled among rocky hills, where the word fas.h.i.+on was seldom heard, and where many of the primitive customs of our forefathers still prevailed. Consequently, neither the buxom maidens, nor the hale old matrons, felt in the least disgraced as they piled promiscuously upon the four-ox sled, which erelong was moving slowly through the mammoth drifts which lay upon the mountain road. As they drew near the farmhouse, they noticed that the blue paper curtains which shaded the windows of Grandma Nichols' "spare room," were rolled up, while the faint glimmer of a tallow candle within, indicated that the room possessed an occupant. Who could it be? Possibly it was John, the proud man, who lived in Kentucky, and who, to please his wealthy bride exchanged the plebeian name of Nichols, for that of Livingstone, which his high-born lady fancied was more aristocratic in its sounding!

"And if it be John," said the pa.s.sengers of the ox sled, with whom that gentleman was no great favorite, "if it be John, we'll take ourselves home as fast as ever we can."

Satisfied with this resolution, they kept on their way until they reached the wide gateway, where they were met by Mr. Nichols, whose greeting they fancied was less cordial than usual. With a simple "how d'ye do," he led the way into the s.p.a.cious kitchen, which answered the treble purpose of dining-room, sitting-room, and cook-room. Grandma Nichols, too, appeared somewhat disturbed, but she met her visitors with an air which seemed to say, she was determined to make the best of her trouble, whatever it might be.

The door of the "spare room" was slightly ajar, and while the visitors were disrobing, one young girl, more curious than the rest, peered cautiously in, exclaiming as she did so, "Mother! mother! Helena is in there on the bed, pale as a ghost."

"Yes, Heleny is in there," interrupted Grandma Nichols, who overheard the girl's remark. "She got hum the fust night of the storm, and what's queerer than all, she's been married better than a year."

"Married! Married! Helena married! Who to? Where's her husband?" asked a dozen voices in the same breath.

Grandfather Nichols groaned as if in pain, and his wife, glancing anxiously toward the door of her daughter's room, said in reply to the last question, "That's the worst on't. He was some grand rascal, who lived at the suthard, and come up here to see what he could do. He thought Heleny was handsome, I s'pose, and married her, making her keep it still because his folks in Car'lina wouldn't like it. Of course he got sick of her, and jest afore the baby was born he gin her five hundred dollars and left her."

A murmur of surprise ran round the room, accompanied with a look of incredulity, which Grandma Nichols quickly divined, and while her withered cheek crimsoned at the implied disgrace, she added in an elevated tone of voice, "It's true as the Bible. Old Father Blanchard's son, that used to preach here, married them, and Heleny brought us a letter from him, saying it was true. Here 'tis,--read it yourselves, if you don't b'lieve me;" and she drew from a side drawer a letter, on the back of which, the villagers recognized the well remembered handwriting of their former pastor.

This proof of Helena's innocence was hardly relished by the clever gossips of Oakland, for the young girl, though kind-hearted and gentle, was far too beautiful to be a general favorite. Mothers saw in her a rival for their daughters, while the daughters looked enviously upon her clear white brow, and s.h.i.+ning chestnut hair; which fell in wavy curls about her neck and shoulders. Two years before our story opens, she had left her mountain home to try the mysteries of millinery in the city, where a distant relative of her mother was living. Here her uncommon beauty attracted much attention, drawing erelong to her side a wealthy young southerner, who, just freed from the restraints of college life, found it vastly agreeable making love to the fair Helena. Simple-minded, and wholly unused to the ways of the world, she believed each word he said, and when at last he proposed marriage, she not only consented, but also promised to keep it a secret for a time, until he could in a measure reconcile his father, who he feared might disinherit him for wedding a penniless bride.

"Wait, darling, until he knows you," said he, "and then he will gladly welcome you as his daughter."

Accordingly, one dark, wintry night, when neither moon nor stars were visible, Helena stole softly from her quiet room at Mrs. Warren's, and in less than an hour was the lawful bride of Harry Rivers, the wife of the clergyman alone witnessing the ceremony.

"I wish I could take you home at once," said young Rivers, who was less a rascal than a coward; "I wish I could take you home at once, but it cannot be. We must wait awhile."

So Helena went back to Mrs. Warren's, where for a few weeks she stayed, and then saying she was going home, she left and became the mistress of a neat little cottage which stood a mile or two from the city. Here for several months young Rivers devoted himself entirely to her happiness, seeming to forget that there was aught else in the world save his "beautiful 'Lena," as he was wont to call her. But at last there came a change. Harry seemed sad, and absent-minded, though ever kind to Helena, who strove in vain to learn the cause of his uneasiness.

One morning when, later than usual, she awoke, she missed him from her side; and on the table near her lay a letter containing the following:-- "Forgive me, darling, that I leave you so abruptly. Circ.u.mstances render it neccessary, but be a.s.sured, I shall come back again. In the mean time, you had better return to your parents, where I will seek you. Enclosed are five hundred dollars, enough for your present need. Farewell.

"H. RIVERS."

There was one bitter cry of hopeless anguish, and when Helena Rivers again awoke to perfect consciousness, she lay in a darkened room, soft footsteps pa.s.sed in and out, kind faces, in which were mingled pity and reproach, bent anxiously over her, while at her side lay a little tender thing, her infant daughter, three weeks old. And now there arose within her a strong desire to see once more her childhood's home, to lay her aching head upon her mother's lap, and pour out the tale of grief which was crus.h.i.+ng the life from out her young heart.

As soon, therefore, as her health would permit, she started for Oakland, taking the precaution to procure from the clergyman, who had married her, a letter confirming the fact. Wretched and weary she reached her home at the dusk of evening, and with a bitter cry fell fainting in the arms of her mother, who having heard regularly from her, never dreamed that she was elsewhere than in the employ of Mrs. Warren. With streaming eyes and trembling hands the old man and his wife made ready the spare room for the wanderer more than once blessing the fearful storm which for a time, at least, would keep away the prying eyes of those who, they feared, would hardly credit their daughter's story.

And their fears were right, for many of those who visited them on the night of which we have spoken, disbelieved the tale, mentally p.r.o.nouncing the clergyman's letter a forgery, got up by Helena to deceive her parents. Consequently, of the few who from time to time came to the old farmhouse, nearly all were actuated by motives of curiosity, rather than by feelings of pity for the young girl-mother, who, though feeling their neglect, scarcely heeded it. Strong in the knowledge of her own innocence, she lay day after day, watching and waiting for one who never came. But at last, as days glided into weeks, and weeks into months, hope died away, and turning wearily upon her pillow, she prayed that she might die; and when the days grew bright and gladsome in the warm spring sun, when the snow was melted from off the mountain tops, and the first robin's note was heard by the farmhouse door, Helena laid her baby on her mother's bosom, and without a murmur glided down the dark, broad river, whose deep waters move onward and onward, but never return.

When it was known in Oakland that Helena was dead, there came a reaction, and those who had been loudest in their condemnation, were now the first to hasten forward with offers of kindness and words of sympathy. But neither tears nor regrets could recall to life the fair young girl, who, wondrously beautiful even in death, slept calmly in her narrow coffin, a smile of sadness wreathing her lips, as if her last prayer had been for one who had robbed her thus early of happiness and life. In the bright green valley at the foot of the mountain, they buried her, and the old father, as he saw the damp earth fall upon her grave, asked that he too might die. But his wife, younger by several years, prayed to live--live that she might protect and care for the little orphan, who first by its young mother's tears, and again by the waters of the baptismal fountain, was christened HELENA RIVERS;--the 'Lena of our story.

CHAPTER II.

JOHN.

Ten years of sunlight and shadow have pa.s.sed away, and the little grave at the foot of the mountain is now gra.s.s-grown and sunken. Ten times have the snows of winter fallen upon the h.o.a.ry head of Grandfather Nichols, bleaching his thin locks to their own whiteness and bending his st.u.r.dy frame, until now, the old man lay dying--dying in the same blue-curtained room, where years agone his only daughter was born, and where ten years before she had died. Carefully did Mrs. Nichols nurse him, watching, weeping, and praying that he might live, while little 'Lena gladly shared her grandmother's vigils, hovering ever by the bedside of her grandfather, who seemed more quiet when her soft hand smoothed his tangled hair or wiped the cold moisture from his brow. The villagers, too, remembering their neglect, when once before death had brooded over the mountain farmhouse, now daily came with offers of a.s.sistance.

But one thing still was wanting. John, their only remaining child, was absent, and the sick man's heart grew sad and his eyes dim with tears, as day by day went by, and still he did not come. Several times had 'Lena written to her uncle, apprising him of his father's danger, and once only had he answered. It was a brief, formal letter, written, evidently, under some constraint, but it said that he was coming, and with childish joy the old man had placed it beneath his pillow, withdrawing it occasionally for 'Lena to read again, particularly the pa.s.sage, "Dear father, I am sorry you are sick."

"Heaven bless him! I know he's sorry," Mr. Nichols would say. "He was always a good boy--is a good boy now. Ain't he, Martha?"

And mother-like, Mrs. Nichols would answer, "Yes," forcing back the while the tears which would start when she thought how long the "good boy" had neglected them, eighteen years having elapsed since he had crossed the threshold of his home.

With his hand plighted to one of the village maidens, he had left Oakland to seek his fortune, going first to New York, then to Ohio, and finally wending his way southward, to Kentucky. Here he remained, readily falling into the luxurious habits of those around him, and gradually forgetting the low-roofed farmhouse far away to the northward, where dwelt a gray-haired pair and a beautiful young girl, his parents and his sister. She to whom his vows were plighted was neither graceful nor cultivated, and when, occasionally, her tall, spare figure and uncouth manners arose before him, in contrast with the fair forms around him, he smiled derisively at the thoughts of making her his wife.

About this time there came from New Orleans a wealthy invalid, with his only daughter Matilda. She was a proud haughty girl, whose disposition, naturally unamiable, was rendered still worse by a disappointment from which she was suffering. Accidentally Mr. Richards, her father, made the acquaintance of John Nichols, conceiving for him a violent fancy, and finally securing him as a constant companion. For several weeks John appeared utterly oblivious to the presence of Matilda who, accustomed to adulation, began at last to feel piqued at his neglect, and to strive in many ways to attract his attention.

John, who was ambitious, met her advances more than half way, and finally, encouraged by her father, offered her his heart and hand. Under other circ.u.mstances, Matilda would undoubtedly have spurned him with contempt; but having heard that her recreant lover was about taking to himself a bride, she felt a desire, as she expressed it, "to let him know she could marry too." Accordingly, John was accepted, on condition that he changed the name of Nichols, which Miss Richards particularly disliked, to that of Livingstone. This was easily done, and the next letter which went to Oakland carried the news of John's marriage with the proud Matilda.

A few months later and Mr. Richards died, leaving his entire property to his daughter and her husband. John was now richer far than even in his wildest dreams he had ever hoped to be, and yet like many others, he found that riches alone could not insure happiness. And, indeed, to be happy with Matilda Richards, seemed impossible. Proud, avaricious, and overbearing, she continually taunted her husband with his entire dependence upon her, carefully watching him, lest any of her h.o.a.rded wealth should find its way to the scanty purse of his parents, of whom she always spoke with contempt.

Never but once had they asked for aid, and that to help them rear the little 'Lena. Influenced by his wife, John replied sneeringly, scouting the idea of Helena's marriage, denouncing her as his sister, and saying of her child, that the poor-house stood ready for such as she! This letter 'Lena had accidentally found among her grandfather's papers, and though its contents gave her no definite impression concerning her mother, it inspired her with a dislike for her uncle, whose coming she greatly dreaded, for it was confidently expected that she, together with her grandmother, would return with him to Kentucky.

"You'll be better off there than here," said her grandfather one day, when speaking of the subject. "Your Uncle John is rich, and you'll grow up a fine lady."

"I don't want to be a lady--I won't be a lady," said 'Lena pa.s.sionately. "I don't like Uncle John. He called my mother a bad woman and me a little brat! I hate him!" and the beautiful brown eyes glittering with tears flashed forth their anger quite as eloquently as language could express it.

The next moment 'Lena was bending over her grandfather, asking to be forgiven for the hasty words which she knew had caused him pain. "I'll try to like him," said she, as the palsied hand stroked her disordered curls in token of forgiveness, "I'll try to like him," adding mentally, "but I do hope he won't come."

It would seem that 'Lena's wish was to be granted, for weeks glided by and there came no tidings of the absent one. Daily Mr. Nichols grew weaker, and when there was no longer hope of life, his heart yearned more and more to once more behold his son; to hear again, ere he died, the blessed name of father.

"'Lena," said Mrs. Nichols one afternoon when her husband seemed worse, "'Lena, it's time for the stage, and do you run down to the 'turn' and see if your uncle's come; something tells me he'll be here to-night."

'Lena obeyed, and throwing on her faded calico sunbonnet, she was soon at the "turn," a point in the road from which the village hotel was plainly discernible. The stage had just arrived, and 'Lena saw that one of the pa.s.sengers evidently intended stopping, for he seemed to be giving directions concerning his baggage.

"That's Uncle John, I most know," thought she, and seating herself on a rock beneath some white birches, so common in New England, she awaited his approach. She was right in her conjecture, for the stranger was John Livingstone, returned after many years, but so changed that the jolly landlord, who had known him when a boy, and with whom he had cracked many a joke, now hardly dared to address him, he seemed so cold and haughty.

"I will leave my trunk here for a few days," said John, "and perhaps I shall wish for a room. Got any decent accommodations?"

"Wonder if he don't calculate to sleep to hum," thought the landlord, replying at the same instant, "Yes, sir, tip-top accommodations. Hain't more'n tew beds in any room, and nowadays we allers has a wash-bowl and pitcher; don't go to the sink as we used to when you lived round here."

With a gesture of impatience Mr. Livingstone left the house and started up the mountain road, where 'Lena still kept her watch. Oh, how that walk recalled to him the memories of other days, which came thronging about him as one by one familiar way-marks appeared, reminding him of his childhood, when he roamed over that mountain-side with those who were now scattered far and wide, some on the deep, blue sea, some at the distant west, and others far away across the dark river of death. He had mingled much with the world since last he had traversed that road, and his heart had grown callous and indifferent, but he was not entirely hardened, and when at the "turn" in the road, he came suddenly upon the tall walnut tree, on whose s.h.a.ggy bark his name was carved, together with that of another--a maiden--he started as if smitten with a heavy blow, and das.h.i.+ng a tear from his eye he exclaimed "Oh that I were a boy again!"

From her seat on the mossy rock 'Lena had been watching him. She was very ardent and impulsive, strong in her likes and dislikes, but quite ready to change the latter if she saw any indications of improvement in the person disliked. For her uncle she had conceived a great aversion, and when she saw him approaching, thrusting aside the thistles and dandelions with his gold-headed cane, she mimicked his motions, wondering "if he didn't feel big because he wore a large gold chain dangling from his jacket pocket."

But when she saw his emotions beneath the walnut tree, her opinion suddenly changed. "A very bad man wouldn't cry," she thought, and springing to his side, she grasped his hand, exclaiming, "I know you are my Uncle John, and I'm real glad you've come. Granny thought you never would, and grandpa asks for you all the time."

Had his buried sister arisen before him, Mr. Livingstone would hardly have been more startled, for in form and feature 'Lena was exactly what her mother had been at her age. The same clear complexion, large brown eyes, and wavy hair; and the tones of her voice, too, how they thrilled the heart of the strong man, making him a boy again, guiding the steps of his baby sister, or bearing her gently in his arms when the path was steep and stony. It was but a moment, however, and then the vision faded. His sister was dead, and the little girl before him was her child--the child of shame he believed, or rather, his wife had said it so often that he began to believe it. Glancing at the old-womanish garb in which Mrs. Nichols always arrayed her, a smile of mingled scorn and pity curled his lips, as he thought of presenting her to his fastidious wife and elegant daughters; then withdrawing the hand which she had taken, he said, "And you are 'Lena--'Lena Nichols they call you, I suppose."

'Lena's old dislike began to return, and placing both hands upon her hips in imitation of her grandmother she replied, "No 'tain't 'Lena Nichols, neither. It's 'Lena Rivers. Granny says so, and the town clark has got it so on his book. How are my cousins? Are they pretty well? And how is _Ant_?"

Mr. Livingstone winced, at the same time feeling amused at this little specimen of Yankeeism, in which he saw so much of his mother. Poor little 'Lena! how should she know any better, living as she always had with two old people, whose language savored so much of the days before the flood! Some such thought pa.s.sed through Mr. Livingstone's mind, and very civilly he answered her concerning the health of her cousins and aunt; proceeding next to question her of his father, who, she said, "had never seen a well day since her mother died."

"Is there any one with him except your grandmother?" asked Mr. Livingstone; and Lena replied, "Aunt Nancy Scovand.y.k.e has been with us a few days, and is there now."

At the sound of that name John started, coloring so deeply that 'Lena observed it, and asked "if he knew Miss Scovand.y.k.e?"

"I used to," said he, while 'Lena continued: "She's a nice woman, and though she ain't any connection, I call her aunt. Granny thinks a sight of her."

Miss Scovand.y.k.e was evidently an unpleasant topic for Mr. Livingstone, and changing the subject, he said, "What makes you say Granny, child?"

'Lena blushed painfully. 'Twas the first word she had ever uttered, her grandmother having taught it to her, and encouraged her in its use. Besides that, 'Lena had a great horror of anything which she fancied was at all "stuck up," and thinking an entire change from Granny to Grandmother would be altogether too much, she still persisted in occasionally using her favorite word, in spite of the ridicule it frequently called forth from her school companions. Thinking to herself that it was none of her uncle's business what she called her grandmother, she made no reply, and in a few moments they came in sight of the yellow farmhouse, which looked to Mr. Livingstone just as it did when he left it, eighteen years before. There was the tall poplar, with its green leaves rustling in the breeze, just as they had done years ago, when from a distant hill-top he looked back to catch the last glimpse of his home. The well in the rear was the same--the lilac bushes in front--the tansy patch on the right and the gable-roofed barn on the left; all were there; nothing was changed but himself.

Mechanically he followed 'Lena into the yard, half expecting to see bleaching upon the gra.s.s the same web of home-made cloth, which he remembered had lain there when he went away. One thing alone seemed strange. The blue paper curtains were rolled away from the "spare room" windows, which were open as if to admit as much air as possible.

"I shouldn't wonder if grandpa was worse," said 'Lena, hurrying him along and ushering him at once into the sick-room.

At first Mrs. Nichols did not observe him, for she was bending tenderly over the white, wrinkled face, which lay upon the small, scanty pillow. John thought "how small and scanty they were," while he almost shuddered at the sound of his footsteps upon the uncarpeted floor. Everything was dreary and comfortless, and his conscience reproached him that his old father should die so poor, when he counted his money by thousands.

As he pa.s.sed the window his tall figure obscured the fading daylight, causing his mother to raise her head, and in a moment her long, bony arms were twined around his neck. The cruel letter, his long neglect, were all forgotten in the joy of once more beholding her "darling boy," whose bearded cheek she kissed again and again. John was unused to such demonstrations of affection, except, indeed, from his little golden-haired Anna, who was refined and polished, and all that, which made a vast difference, as he thought. Still, he returned his mother's greeting with a tolerably good grace, managing, however, to tear himself from her as soon as possible.

"How is my father?" he asked; and his mother replied, "He grew worse right away after 'Leny went out, and he seemed so put to't for breath, that Nancy went for the doctor----"

Here a movement from the invalid arrested her attention and going to the bedside she saw that he was awake. Bending over him she whispered softly, "John has come. Would you like to see him?"

Quickly the feeble arms were outstretched, as if to feel what could not be seen, for the old man's eyesight was dim with the shadows of death.

Taking both his father's hands in his, John said, "Here I am, father; can't you see me?"

"No, John, no; I can't see you." And the poor man wept like a little child. Soon growing more calm, he continued: "Your voice is the same that it was years ago, when you lived with us at home. That hasn't changed, though they say your name has. Oh, John, my boy, how could you do so? 'Twas a good name--my name--and you the only one left to bear it. What made you do so, oh John, John?"

Mr. Livingstone did not reply, and after a moment his father again spoke; "John, lay your hand on my forehead. It's cold as ice. I am dying, and your mother will be left alone. We are poor, my son; poorer than you think. The homestead is mortgaged for all it's worth and there are only a few dollars in the purse. Oh, I worked so hard to earn them for her and the girl--Helena's child. Now, John, promise me that when I am gone they shall go with you to your home in the west. Promise, and I shall die happy."

This was a new idea to John, and for a time he hesitated. He glanced at his mother; she was ignorant and peculiar, but she was his mother still. He looked at 'Lena, she was beautiful--he knew that, but she was odd and old-fas.h.i.+oned. He thought of his haughty wife, his headstrong son and his imperious daughter. What would they say if he made that promise, for if he made it he would keep it.

A long time his father awaited his answer, and then he spoke again: "Won't you give your old mother a home?"

The voice was weaker than when it spoke before, and John knew that life was fast ebbing away, for the brow on which his hand was resting was cold and damp with the moisture of death. He could no longer refuse, and the promise was given.

The next morning, the deep-toned bell of Oakland told that another soul was gone, and the villagers as they counted the three score strokes and ten knew that Grandfather Nichols was numbered with the dead.

CHAPTER III.

PACKING UP.

The funeral was over, and in the quiet valley by the side of his only daughter, Grandfather Nichols was laid to rest. As far as possible his father's business was settled, and then John began to speak of his returning. More than once had he repented of the promise made to his father, and as the time pa.s.sed on he shrank more and more from introducing his "plebeian" mother to his "lady" wife, who, he knew, was meditating an open rebellion.

Immediately after his father's death he had written to his wife, telling her all, and trying as far as he was able to smooth matters over, so that his mother might at least have a decent reception. In a violent pa.s.sion, his wife had answered, that "she never would submit to it--never. When I married you," said she, "I didn't suppose I was marrying the 'old woman,' young one, and all; and as for my having them to maintain, I will not, so _Mr. John Nichols_, you understand it."

When Mrs. Livingstone was particularly angry, she called her husband _Mr. John Nichols_, and when Mr. John Nichols was particularly angry, he did as he pleased, so in this case he replied that "he should bring home as many 'old women' and 'young ones' as he liked, and she might help herself if she could!"

This state of things was hardly favorable to the future happiness of Grandma Nichols, who, wholly unsuspecting and deeming herself as good as anybody, never dreamed that her presence would be unwelcome to her daughter-in-law, whom she thought to a.s.sist in various ways, "taking perhaps the whole heft of the housework upon herself--though," she added, "I mean to begin just as I can hold out. I've hearn of such things as son's wives s.h.i.+rkin' the whole on to their old mothers, and the minit 'Tilda shows any signs of that, I shall back out, I tell you."

John, who overheard this remark, bit his lip with vexation, and then burst into a laugh as he fancied the elegant Mrs. Livingstone's dismay at hearing herself called 'Tilda. Had John chosen, he could have given his mother a few useful hints with regard to her treatment of his wife, but such an idea never entered his brain. He was a man of few words, and generally allowed himself to be controlled by circ.u.mstances, thinking that the easiest way of getting through the world. He was very proud, and keenly felt how mortifying it would be to present his mother to his fas.h.i.+onable acquaintances; but that was in the future--many miles away--he wouldn't trouble himself about it now; so he pa.s.sed his time mostly in rambling through the woods and over the hills, while his mother, good soul, busied herself with the preparations for her journey, inviting each and every one of her neighbors to "be sure and visit her if they ever came that way," and urging some of them to come on purpose and "spend the winter."

Among those who promised compliance with this last request, was Miss Nancy Scovand.y.k.e, whom we have once before mentioned, and who, as the reader will have inferred, was the first love of John Livingstone. On the night of his arrival, she had been sent in quest of the physician, and when on her return she learned from 'Lena that he had come, she kept out of sight, thinking she would wait awhile before she met him. "Not that she cared the snap of her finger for him," the said, "only it was natural that she should hate to see him."

But when the time did come, she met it bravely, shaking his hand and speaking to him as if nothing had ever happened, and while he was wondering how he ever could have fancied her, she, too, was mentally styling herself "a fool," for having liked "such a p.u.s.s.y, overgrown thing!" Dearly did Miss Nancy love excitement, and during the days that Mrs. Nichols was packing up, she was busy helping her to stow away the "crockery," which the old lady declared should go, particularly the "blue set, which she'd had ever since the day but one before John was born, and which she intended as a part of 'Leny's settin' out. Then, too, John's wife could use 'em when she had a good deal of company; 'twould save buyin' new, and every little helped!"

"I wonder, now, if 'Tilda takes snuff," said Mrs. Nichols, one day, seating herself upon an empty drygoods box which stood in the middle of the floor, and helping herself to an enormous pinch of her favorite Maccaboy; "I wonder if she takes snuff, 'cause if she does, we shall take a sight of comfort together."

"I don't much b'lieve she does," answered Miss Nancy, whose face was very red with trying to cram a pair of cracked bellows into the already crowded top of John's leathern trunk, "I don't b'lieve she does, for somehow it seems to me she's a mighty nipped-up thing, not an atom like you nor me."

"Like enough," returned Mrs. Nichols, finis.h.i.+ng her snuff, and wiping her fingers upon the corner of her checked ap.r.o.n; "but, Nancy, can you tell me how in the world I'm ever going to carry this _mop_? It's bran new, never been used above a dozen times, and I can't afford to give it away."

At this point, John, who was sitting in the adjoining room, came forward. Hitherto he had not interfered in the least in his mother's arrangements, but had looked silently on while she packed away article after article which she would never need, and which undoubtedly would be consigned to the flames the moment her back was turned. The mop business, however, was too much for him, and before Miss Nancy had time to reply, he said, "For heaven's sake, mother, how many traps do you propose taking, and what do you imagine we can do with a mop? Why, I dare say not one of my servants would know how to use it, and it's a wonder if some of the little chaps didn't take it for a horse before night."

"A n.i.g.g.e.r ride my mop! my new mop!" exclaimed Mrs. Nichols, rolling up her eyes in astonishment, while Miss Nancy, turning to John, said, "In the name of the people, how do you live without mops? I should s'pose you'd rot alive!"

"I am not much versed in the mysteries of housekeeping," returned John, with a smile; "but it's my impression that what little cleaning our floors get is done with a cloth."

"Wall, if I won't give it up now," said Miss Nancy. "As good an abolutionist as you used to be, make the poor colored folks wash the floor with a rag, on their hands and knees! It can't be that you indulge a hope, if you'll do such things!"

John made Miss Nancy no answer, but turning to his mother, he said, "I'm in earnest, mother, about your carrying so many useless things. We don't want them. Our house is full now, and besides that, Mrs. Livingstone is very particular about the style of her furniture, and I am afraid yours would hardly come up to her ideas of elegance."

"That chist of drawers," said Mrs. Nichols, pointing to an old-fas.h.i.+oned, high-topped bureau, "cost an ocean of money when 'twas new, and if the bra.s.ses on it was rubbed up, 'Tilda couldn't tell 'em from gold, unless she's seen more on't than I have, which ain't much likely, bein' I'm double her age."

"The chest does very well for you, I admit," said John; "but we have neither use nor room for it, so if you can't sell it, why, give it away, or burn it, one or the other."