SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
OR PAUL BURTON’S SURPRISE

A Romance of the

American Revolution

BY JULIA A. MOORE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

Many years ago, in one of the New England States near the banks of a small lake, stood a beautiful farm house, surrounded by a fine orchard. John Hilton, the owner of this romantic place, was an intelligent farmer and was kind to all people who chanced to come to his house. His family consisted of himself, wife and two children, a son and daughter. Warren, the eldest, was a fine lad of eighteen, with blue eyes and light complexion, and inherited his father’s kind disposition. Minnie was a brunette, a splendid girl of sixteen, with a heart as pure as the wild flowers around her home. She had company. Her cousin, Nettie Spaulding, had come from the city of New York to spend her birthday. Nettie was a lovely girl of eighteen, with dark brown eyes and dark auburn hair which hung in lovely curls around her shapely head. She had come to spend a few days with her cousin in the country. Since her father’s death nothing seemed to please this dreary, kind-hearted child of nature more than to visit her uncle’s house by the lake, where she could roam at will in the woods and gather wild flowers where nature had planted them so artistically. That Monday morning there was a great bustle around the house. There was to be a party on the Friday night following in honor of the young lady friend, and all seemed to enjoy the pleasure it afforded, except the young lady. She was silent and often in tears, and her cousins could not draw her out of this apathy. That afternoon her cousins were going to town to do some shopping. Nettie preferred staying at home and going down to the lake to gather wild flowers for a bouquet.

“It is so pleasant to gather roses, lilies and shrubs alone by the lake;” thus she said to her cousins as they rode away.

Warren waved an adieu as he said, “Dear cousin, do not go too near the brink of the lake, as you may fall in and there would be no one to get you out.”

She waved back the adieu as she sadly said, “Be not afraid, cousin. I shall be careful. How happy they are,” she said as she turned and went silently to the house, thinking how kind her cousins were to her, a poor, lonely girl of the metropolis. Thus she mused: “Mother told me my cousins would use me as if I was as well off financially as they were. Oh, if papa had lived perhaps we would not have been bankrupt. Oh, how times will change in a few short months; as soon as papa died nearly all of his creditors wished to have their pay. It was all right for them to have their dues. Poor mamma had to sell nearly all the property, only saving a small sum out of the wreck. We can get along, for ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’ I am going to do something. One thing certain—my parents gave me a good common education and debts cannot take that away. I will try and turn it to good advantage when I can.” Thus she mused as she went slowly up the path. The tears were slowly trickling down her lovely features and falling on the little hands. She was deeply engaged in thinking and did not observe her aunt who was coming down to meet her. She was surprised when her aunt said, “Nettie dear, why those tears? Are you not happy? Have your cousins been unkind to you?”

“No, auntie, I was only thinking of papa and what might have been.”

“Yes, Nettie, I know what you are referring to, but God has willed it otherwise and you should be content. My dear, your papa did not know that he was so soon to die and leave his only child nearly penniless. If he was to know it would make him very unhappy, as he dearly loved you. It is well the dead do not know of the living, for if they did how unhappy thousands would be to see the troubles and sorrows of their friends on earth. This is a great mystery we cannot solve; we can only do our duty in helping one another, then, perhaps, we can meet them on that ‘evergreen shore.’”

While her aunt was speaking Nettie was silently weeping. Her aunt said, “Cheer up, Nettie, you and your mother can have a home with us as long as we have one, and we will share the last morsel of food with you; your uncle said so a few days ago.”

“Thank you, auntie, we can get along yet a while; something may turn up for us yet,” answered Nettie, kissing her aunt.

“Remember, my dear, you have one true Friend, One who is always near. He will not forsake you in the hour of trial,” said her aunt.

“I remember mamma telling me that God will never forsake one of his children if they will call on him for aid. It seems so strange, though, to be cast down from wealth to poverty, and have nearly all our friends turn from us,” said Nettie sorrowfully.

“They are not your friends; they are only make-believers. No true friends would turn their backs to you because you had lost your wealth. They would help you in the hour of need.”

“Thanks, auntie, for your compliment,” answered Nettie. “I will always be true to myself and all mankind, then I will be able to reap the great reward that is in store for the just.”

“Now, dear, it is time you should be going down to the lake to gather those flowers, as your cousins will be back soon,” and as she spoke these words she kissed her niece, turned, and ran up the steps as sprightly as a young girl.

All the afternoon she was meditating how happy she would make her only brother’s lonely child. “My children shall not mar her happiness by one thought or deed, as I will set the example and they will follow, as they are dutiful children.”

Meantime Nettie wandered down to the lake, gathered a beautiful bouquet of wild flowers, and then sat down on the brink of the lake to arrange them more tastily. She was thinking how she would be eighteen next Friday, and how anxious her cousins were for her to get acquainted with the young people of the vicinity. She exclaimed aloud, “Oh, if I was as light hearted as they how happy I would be. They seem to be very happy indeed, and why should they not be, with everything so pleasant around them; by this little lake I could live always, where nature is dressed in green in the summer season. Oh, mother, if you knew how lonely your child is this afternoon and how sad it seems to me to come here for pleasure, and leave you at home with only one companion. I know it is very lonely for you, as I never have left you at home since papa died. Oh, mama! why did you urge me to come and leave you alone. You were very anxious for me to come and spend my birthday with my cousins. Oh, mother! no happiness have I found, although my friends are very kind to me. I hope some day I may be able to repay you for all the kindness you have shown to me. Oh, dear! I am so melancholy.”

As she uttered those words tears were falling on the flowers in her lap, and in moving some of the most beautiful of them fell into the water. “Oh, dear! what shall I do! I can’t get any more of those lilies tonight; what will auntie say when I return home?”

She had brought a stick and was trying to fish some of them up. So busily was she engaged that she did not observe a tall manly form come out of a clump of bushes near by until he said, “Dear lady, may I not get those flowers for you? Please let me have that stick. Perhaps I can reach the greater part of them.”

She gave the stick to him and stepped back and watched him as he drew the flowers, one by one, out of the water. What a handsome young man he was, as he stood, one foot on the bank and the other on a rock on the edge of the lake, reaching far out into the water after the flowers. His hat lay on the bank; his hair waved in the summer breeze—it was auburn and inclined to be curly. His eyes were dark blue. He was a picture of manliness. This was Paul Burton, the richest young man in the vicinity. He came down to the lake fishing, had torn his net, and was mending it when the lady came near by, and not wishing to frighten her had kept quiet, thinking perhaps she would soon go away. He did not wish to be an eaves dropper, but the circumstances placed him there and he did what any other young man would have done in like circumstances. At last he secured all the flowers. He gently shook the water from them and gave them to her, and bowing low said, “May nothing more serious happen to the receiver of these flowers!”

He picked up his hat and turned to go when Nettie said, “Sir, to whom am I indebted for this great act of kindness?”

He turned towards her, handing her a card which read thus: P. B., of Pine Island. She put the card in her portfolio and kindly thanked him.

“You are entirely welcome, and I hope we may meet again.”

He quickly retreated to his work, leaving her standing alone. She watched his form until the bushes hid him from view, then she went slowly homeward, contemplating about the young fellow she had just met. She looked upon him as a hero and wished to know more about him. Thus she mused: “I will find out who he is Friday night. Perhaps he may come to the party, for he can’t live far from here as he is alone. I will not say anything to cousin about whom I saw, but will wait and see what will come to pass.” She went home in a lively mood; she was happier now than she had been since her sojourn in the country. Her cousins had returned heavy laden with dainties for the party. As she came into the house so gaily they demanded to know why she had been gone so long.

“You have not been getting flowers all this time; mother said you went away as soon as we were gone,” said Minnie.

“Yes,” said Warren, “I was thinking of coming down to find you, thinking you had wandered far out into the woods and got lost, or was drowned in the lake.”

“No, cousin, I lost some of my flowers in the lake and had to get them.”

“How did you manage to get them,” asked Minnie laughing, “you had to wade out in the water no doubt.”

“No, Minnie, they were fished out with a stick.”

“It must have been great amusement for you fishing for flowers; I wish I could have seen you,” said Minnie, looking at her cousin pleasantly.

“You would have been surprised no doubt. I tell you, cousin, I have had a splendid time since you have been gone, anyway,” answered Nettie.

She omitted telling them what a fine companion she met by the lake. She seemed more cheerful and took more interest in getting ready for the party. All her friends there wondered what had made her so lively and gay all at once, as she spoke often of the party the remainder of the week. All the young people were busily engaged in getting ready for this grand occasion, which was to be a sunbeam in the life of poor, delicate, lovely little Nettie; she who was discouraged and depressed; and for this reason her mother was anxious regarding the health of her child, and for a change sent her to her uncle’s, who were doing everything in their power to draw her back to be the same lively girl she was before her father’s death.

I will leave them all busily engaged in getting ready for the party, and return to Paul.

After getting the flowers he went back to his net, but he could not work. Time hung heavily on his hands. At last he picked up his fishing tackle and went homeward, musing on what a lovely little being he had found; such little hands. “I saw one tiny little foot as she stepped upon a knoll to see me fish for the flowers, and never can I forget those dark, dreamy eyes. They seem to look into my very soul. I wonder if she is Warren Hilton’s cousin. All the girls around here I am acquainted with. This little lady must be the city cousin Hilton’s people are going to make a party for. Warren has given me an invitation, and I am going, on purpose to see if my conjecture is right.” Turning he went home, and as he came without any fish. His mother met him at the door and said: “Why Paul where are your fish?”

“In the lake, I suppose,” he answered laughing heartily. “Do you not see I haven’t any?”

“I didn’t know but what you left them somewhere about,” answered his mother, rather sharply.

“Now mother do not be cross with your little boy. He has only been fishing and tore the fish net and could not catch any,” said Paul, still laughing. “Oh, mother, I found the nicest little human fish I ever saw, and I am going to catch her if I can. What will my mother say to that?”

“My son,” answered the lady solemnly, “if she is good and true I will not say anything, but if she is not, what a life you would live God only knows. My past life you never knew, and may never, perhaps. If I had my life to live over again, I should lead a different life to the one I have been living the past twenty years.”

CHAPTER II.

It touched the honest heart of her son, and he said: “Mother, I know there’s a great sorrow you wish to keep from me. I have found out that my father is living, but why he is an exile from his home I know not, as you have always avoided telling me of him.”

Paul looked wistfully at his mother, hoping she would respond favorably to his last few words and tell him something about his father, whose picture hung over the piano, in the parlor. She had taught him to love it and call it papa, yet would always avoid telling anything about him when Paul in childish prattle would say: “Mamma, where is my papa?”

The answer was always the same: “Paul, my darling son, your papa is gone, gone;” then would break out weeping violently.

His childish questions were quickly hushed, as it always awed him into silence to see his mother in trouble. Yet the same thought had grown up with him, and in later years had troubled him very much. “Why does not mother tell me more about my father—whether he is dead or alive;” these were his thoughts.

He was sitting under a tree one Sunday evening musing, when he exclaimed aloud: “Is my father dead or alive? Why does mother not tell me and not keep me in misery?”

An old negro servant was passing by and heard him. He went quietly to him, and laying his hand on Paul’s shoulder said: “Young massa, fadda is alibe and is a roving ober the earf, missa and massa had a quarrel and massa went away when you was a little babe. He laid you in my arms and said, ‘Pompey, watch ober dis boy as if he was your own, and God will bless you always; and my prayer will always be for you and my poor little boy, who will neber know he has a fadder.’”

Great tears rolled down the negro’s dusky cheeks and fell on the young man’s shoulder as he said: “Paul, I has always watched you grow up to be a man, and a good, kind man you is, too, and now I is ready to die.”

“No, no,” answered Paul, “do not say die, Pompey. You have tried to fill the place of father to me, and I can remember many acts of kindness you have shown to me in my childhood and I want you to live long with me,” and he grasped the hand of his faithful old servant.

This was how Paul came to know his father was living; and when he was last speaking to his mother and she did not say anything about his father he turned to go and she saw he was deeply moved: she said, “Paul, who is this little girl you spoke so highly of?”

“I do not know, mother, but perhaps I shall before the week is out.” So saying, he went slowly to the barn.

He was the owner of a fine farm of two hundred acres, surrounded by the beautiful forest. Here he had lived ever since he could remember. It had always seemed strange to him why his mother would not live in the city. She would only go to town occasionally and always avoided company while there. She seemed very low-spirited at times, and Paul many times wondered what made her act so strange. She had given him a fine education and taught him to be a good farmer, as she thought he would be compelled personally to go to farming to save the farm, as she, a few years before the opening of our story, had mortgaged it to save her father from ruin. She had always managed to pay the interest on it in the strictest secrecy, always preserving the papers in a little drawer in the closet in the garret. She thought no one knew where it was. Paul knew nothing of what o’er-shadowed his birthplace. Happy was he at the age of twenty-one when his mother deeded him the farm, saying, “My son, I freely give this beautiful mansion and large farm to you, my only child. I know you love your mother and will take care of her as long as she lives, and when she is dead will place a plain marble stone at her grave to mark the resting place of her who gave you birth.”

“Yes, mother,” answered her son. “Never will I forsake you or do aught to give you pain;” and so far he had kept his word.

At this time or period in his career, time was changing with him; there was a little being stepping between him and his mother, or in other words his love was being divided between them. He dearly loved the mother who had nursed him up to manhood and freely resolved ever to do only what was just and right by her. He went to the barn to see his beautiful team of horses, a finer span of blacks there was not for miles around. They were the envy of all the boys in the country. Whenever he drove out to parties they always attracted attention and comment, and their owner was highly esteemed for his true manliness. All the girls said he was too fastidious, as none of them could please him so well as to keep him from fishing. At last all the girls of his acquaintance said he could never be suited. At last his fastidious taste was pleased. The lovely, dreamy girl he met by the lake had won his honest heart. As he cared for his horses he was deeply thinking of her whom he saw at the lake, and he mused: “I will saddle Nellie and go to town this evening by the way of Hilton’s, and perhaps I will see or hear of this city cousin, as I am very anxious to see this little lady.”

Hastily throwing the saddle on his horse he brought him out of the barn, and handed the reins to his faithful old servant, who was standing near by, and went and told his mother of his intentions, omitting of course his going by the way of Hilton’s. As he came out of the house and took the horse by the bridle, Pompey said, “Where now, massa Paul, at dis time ob day.”

“To see my girl and tell her what a good old boy you are,” said Paul, laughing as he went away.

“Bless his young heart; just like his fadder when a boy. How I lobe him. If he only knowed what I does, how sad he would be. I can neber tell him, but will watch all the same;” thus mused Pompey as he went out to see if everything was all right, before retiring.

Paul rode quickly down the road and soon Hilton’s fine farm was in sight. As he passed slowly by the house he heard someone singing. He stopped and listened, and these words came floating out on the evening breeze:

But drops of grief can e’er repay

The debt of love I owe.

Here, Lord, I give myself away—

’Tis all that I can do.

As the sound of the sweet voice died away, he rode off saying, “It is her voice, and it sounds as melancholy as it did down by the lake.” His whole soul seemed to go out to her; his heart was beating violently, as the words just uttered seemed to echo through his whole being. “Can such bliss ever be mine to enjoy? If I can only win the little girl I saw today, I shall be the happiest man on earth.” Thus the young man mused until the village was in sight. He rode up to one of the principal stores, when Ralph Harding, an old chum, came up to him saying, “Paul, have you had a bid to Hilton’s to a party Friday night?” Not waiting for an answer he said: “I have, and I am going too. They say there is going to be a New York girl there, and won’t we have jolly fun. She will call us ‘moss backs’ and stick up her nose at us. They say she is so aristocratic that a fellow can’t talk with her, even. Anyway, I am going up to see her.”

Paul stayed to hear no more, as he said: “You had better stay away from there or keep your foolish clack to yourself, as no decent man would talk as you do about a person he never saw.”

“Perhaps you have seen her and fallen in love with her, as you speak in such high terms of her,” answered Ralph, winking knowingly.

“I have never had the honor of seeing her as I know of. What would Warren Hilton say if he heard what you say about his cousin? He would take you for less than a gentleman,” said Paul, springing lightly on his horse.

“I don’t know and I don’t care; better go and tell him,” said Ralph in a sneering tone.

“Sir,” answered Paul, “it is a very foolish plan to strike a fool, or I would pitch you in the street,” springing from his horse down on the sidewalk as he said: “Ralph, you and I have never had any words before, and it is very strange we should now, over a stranger; yet I cannot hear you speak ill of a woman you know no harm of. I never heard you speak so hateful before of anyone. Why should you now, Ralph?”

“I don’t know,” said Ralph meekly. “I will take it all back, and we will be friends as of yore if you choose.”

“Thanks,” answered Paul; “kind words are better any time than cruel ones. My mother always told me to shun a quarrel, and I would find it better in the end, as no good ever sprung out of one. I must be going, as it is nearly nine o’clock and I will not get home now until ten and mother will be very anxious about me,” said Paul. “I would like to see you at the party, Ralph, as I am going too, if mother is as well as usual. She has not been very well lately. She went to town some time ago, and since then has been very poorly.”

“I am very sorry,” answered Ralph, and he felt deeply moved as he said: “Paul, your mother is all the relative you have living, and it would be very bad indeed to see her die. She has been a good, kind mother to you and you would miss her very much.”

“Yes,” answered Paul, “a kinder mother there never was, and may she live long to see what a dutiful son she has.” As he said this tears were in his eyes. “Good night, Ralph!” Suiting the action to the word he sprang lightly on his horse and rode away. He went homeward thinking of all Ralph had said about Warren’s cousin and his mother, and he was deeply troubled. His mother he loved deeply and feared for her health. He soon arrived and all were to bed except his mother who met him at the door, saying: “My son, I am very glad to see you come.”

“Why, mother, did you think the wolves would get me?” said her son laughing, as he bent down and kissed her. “You see I am here and looking well, so you need not worry any more, but go right to bed, as you are very pale. Mother, have you any objections to my going to John Hilton’s to a party Friday night? I will not stay long.”

“No, my son, I should be pleased to have you go, as it is very lonesome for you to stay here all the time with only me as company,” said his mother, the tears springing to her eyes.

“No, no, mother, it is not lonesome here. It would be, though, if I had no mother to kiss me good night.”

He went to his mother and kissed her again, saying: “Drive those tears away, dear mother, and let me see you smile again. You have been thinking too deeply about me since I went away this evening.”

If he only knew what troubled her day and night he would have been troubled too, but as it were he only thought it was because he went away and left her alone, which he seldom did in the evening, lately. He went to bed thinking of all that had transpired since morning—the little lady he met by the lake—Ralph’s cruel and kind words—and seeing his mother in tears, which he seldom ever did.

“’Tis strange, very strange,” mused Paul as he fell asleep.

CHAPTER III.

The time for the party came in due season, and at John Hilton’s everything seemed to be hustle, bustle. The tea things were to be cleared away, the lamps lighted, and many other things to be seen to before the company arrived.

Nettie was tripping here and there, making bouquets, for the dining room tables, seemingly very happy. Her cousins, Warren and Minnie, were very happy to see their little city cousin, as they loved to call her, so happy—she always wore a happy smile now.

It was getting late when Minnie said, “Come, Nettie, we must dress soon or some will come and see us with our working clothes on.”

“Why, cousin, we should not care, as all who will be here tonight know that we have to work for our living, and we should not try to deceive them,” answered Nettie, setting the last bouquet in the vase on the mantle over the old-fashioned fireplace.

“Come now, Minnie, I am ready to go up to the chamber.”

Suiting the action to the word she went tripping away, leaving Minnie to follow her.

Soon the house was filled with guests, as Hilton’s family were highly respected throughout the vicinity. Nearly all the guests had arrived when the girls came down to the sitting room.

Nettie was dressed in book muslin, looped up with knots of cardinal ribbon and a knot in her hair and at her lily-white throat. She was a picture of loveliness. Minnie was dressed the same.

“We will be twin sisters this evening,” said Minnie.

“Two better-looking girls there are not in the country,” said Warren, as he proudly gave an arm to each.

“Don’t flatter us, cousin, or you will make us vain,” said Nettie, looking smilingly up at him.

“Yes, brother, these dresses are very becoming to us—do you not think so?”

“Yes, sister, white becomes both of you very much.”

They were going slowly down the hall. Nettie was looking shyly around the room, and Warren noticing her movements said, “Dear cousin, who are you looking for?”

“No one in particular, cousin Warren. What made you think so?”

“Oh, you seemed so absent-minded; I do not think you have heard a word we were saying.”

As he stopped speaking the door opposite them opened, a young man entered, looked around the room, and took off his hat as he said, “Good evening, all.”

His eyes rested on the lovely young girl on Warren’s arm as they came slowly toward him.

They came to him, and Warren said, “My cousin, Miss Spaulding, Mr. Burton.”

As their eyes met Warren knew they had met before, as Nettie’s face turned crimson and Paul did not look up. He was sure the guests were all looking at him. The cousins turned and went down the hall. A young man came and claimed Minnie for a dance, and Nettie and Warren were alone. As soon as they were far enough away Warren said, “Little cousin, you and Mr. Burton have met before; when and where?”

As Nettie did not say anything, he said, “Won’t you tell me, Nettie? Do not be afraid to tell me, as I am your friend and cousin—one that will be a true friend to you under all circumstances.”

“Yes,” answered Nettie, “we met last Monday down by the lake; it was he who rescued the flowers for me.”

“Well,” answered Warren, “he is one of the noblest young men there is about here, and wealthy besides, and if you gain the esteem of him you will gain more than any girls about here have done. They have all tried to capture him, but all have failed in the attempt. They say ‘He never can be suited.’ I wish you success, little cousin mine.”

As he said this he led her to a seat and went to find Minnie. He went back to where Paul sat and said, “Mr. Burton, I am pleased to see you here this evening; I was afraid your mother was not able so you could come.”

“She is some better. She thinks and wished me to come, as she says I have stayed at home very much of late on her account. I shall not stay very long tonight, as I think she did not feel as well as usual.”

The young men went out on the piazza and were viewing the scenery by moonlight, when who should they espy but Minnie and Ralph coming towards them.

As they came up to them Minnie said, “Why brother, where is cousin?”

“She is with mother. I came to find you. Where have you been all this time?”

“You could not have looked very sharply, or you would have found me, as we have been following you for some time and wondering where cousin was,” said Minnie.

“Come, Mr. Burton, we will go and find her,” said Warren, leading the way through the company to where Nettie and her aunt sat chatting pleasantly.

As they came to them Paul said, “Miss Spaulding, please favor me with your company for a waltz?”

“Please excuse me, I never dance,” said Nettie, smiling.

“We will promenade then, if you wish. I do not care to dance either,” answered Paul.

She took his arm, and as they walked along comments of praise were lavished upon them, as they made a splendid-looking couple; and many of the company saw at a glance that the young man loved to be in the company of the strange young lady; and many a young lady there knew that he loved to dance, but preferred the company of the lady by his side. Many envious glances were given Nettie that evening, but she appeared not to notice them. She used them all alike, and, when not in company with Paul, she would seek the company of her aunt and uncle and look on and see the others enjoy themselves. “I do not care to dance,” she would tell all who asked for her company. “I cannot enjoy dancing,” she would say to her aunt, when she urged her to dance.

“No, no, I can not,” she would say.

It was not because she could not dance. It was because of a request of her father, who was lying in his grave, and of her mother who was far away at home.

How many young people of today scarcely wait till the green sod grows over the grave of some beloved form, before they are away to some ball or place of amusement? Such is progression.

It was getting quite late and Paul came to Nettie and said, “Miss Spaulding, accept my company, please, for a promenade on the piazza. The moon is spreading its rays beautifully and the evening is delightful.”

She took his arm and they walked quietly out under the trailing vines of myrtle, which were trained to droop from the eaves of the old farm-house. They came to an old-fashioned settee that was enfolded in the drooping vines and formed an arbor. Here they sat down. Soon Paul said, “Miss Spaulding, have you been down to the lake since Monday?”

His companion blushed deeply as she answered. “I have not, sir; you must have heard all I said, did you not? I was very lonely that day—my poor mother far away and I alone here. My cousins are very kind to me, very kind indeed, or I do not know what I should do.”

“Will you accept the friendship of a stranger? As you know but little about me that is all I will ask now. I never saw a lady in all my wanderings who ever drew such words of acknowledgment from me before. All I ask is friendship, and when you know me better perhaps I shall ask you for this little hand.”

He gently raised her hand to his lips as he was speaking.

She drew it quickly from him saying: “Sir, please pardon me if I have given you occasion to make the declaration. The truth we should tell at all times; perhaps you think me rich; if so, you are mistaken. I am very poor. Such as you needs not the friendship of one beneath him.”

Truth and honesty shone in her dark, brown eyes as she turned her head away to hide the gathering tears. It pained her very much to tell him whom she loved. She had been taught to shun deceitfulness, and she thought it decisively her duty to tell him she was poor, no matter how it pained her to do so. She spoke deliberately, but in a dejected manner. She was pale, with a faint flush on her cheeks that was drawn there by the enthusiasm she was forced to exercise.

“Nettie, darling, you do not know me. It is not wealth I wish. It is this little being by my side. She is rich in voice, rich in beauty, and richer still in mind. Do not say wealth to me again—it hurts my feelings.”

As he spoke he gently drew the little form nearer to him and rested her head on his great, manly breast.

“Only four days have I known you, yet it seems to me a life time.”

Nettie quickly arose saying: “Please, sir, say no more to me; always remember me as your true friend, one who will not do you an unkindness. Never say aught of this meeting to anyone for my sake and for yours, and in the future if you prove faithful to me I am yours.”

She turned and fled away, leaving him sitting in the twilight deeply touched.

How long he had been there he knew not. Warren Hilton’s voice brought him to his senses as he said, “Paul, where is my cousin? I have not seen her since you came out together.”

“Oh, Warren! I do not know; she abruptly left me here, and how long I have been here I know not. Oh, I have stayed too long. I must surely go home.”

He quickly arose, and he looked so sad Warren really pitied him as he said, “Why, Paul, are you sick?”

“Oh, no,” answered Paul; “only sorry I have stayed from home so long.”

“I hope you have not been unkind to my little cousin,” said Warren changing the subject, as he thought Paul was really thinking of his mother.

“Been unkind to her? been unkind to your cousin?” said Paul, looking Warren squarely in the face; “I would sooner cut my right hand off than say one word to offend that lovely little girl.”

Warren saw he was deeply troubled as he answered, “Paul, what then is the matter?”

“I cannot tell you; go find your cousin. Perhaps she will tell you.”

Paul’s voice trembled, and Warren readily guessed the cause, as he thought Paul had sued for the hand of his cousin and had been refused. He went to find Nettie and he thought she would readily tell him all he wished to know. He looked, but could not find her anywhere among the company. At last he found Minnie and asked her where Nettie was.

“I have not seen her for a long time; I saw her last with Mr. Burton.”

“She is not with him now and has not been for some time. I wish you would go up to her room and see if she is there,” said Warren, “I fear something is the matter with her.”

Minnie ran softly upstairs to her room. She heard someone walking to and fro as if in a hurry. She gently rapped at the door and a trembling voice bid her come in.

“You know you are always welcome, Minnie.”

Not heeding Nettie’s words Minnie said, “why did you come up here? Warren missed you and sent me to find you. Why, Nettie, where are you going? I see you have been packing your trunk.”

CHAPTER IV.

“I hope you are not going home?”

“Yes, cousin, I shall go tomorrow. I wish you would bear the intelligence to your father and mother and entreat them to let Cousin Warren take me to the village in time to take the coach for home tomorrow. I do not care to ask him, as he will question me. Mother will be looking for me in a day or so and I concluded to go tomorrow.”

She gave her hand to her cousin, saying: “We will go down to the hall now or the company may think it strange we are both gone.”

They went along the corridor as placidly as if nothing had transpired to mar the pleasure of the evening.

They came to where Warren stood toying with the tassel of the window curtain and looking out into the moonlight with deeply-troubled thoughts.

“Where have you been, you little rogue? we have been looking for you for some time.”

“She has been packing her trunk to go home tomorrow morning: I cannot get her to stay any longer,” said Minnie.

“What has caused you to make such a quick decision? I supposed you were going to stay with us two or three weeks. Something has offended you I fear, or you would not decide so quickly to go home.”

“No, Warren, nothing has happened of any account: please don’t scold me,” said Nettie sorrowfully, as she was nearly overcome with the burden on her mind.

She turned her head away to hide the tears from prying eyes. She turned to go when Warren said, “Please excuse my last words, cousin, I did not wish to scold you. See! yonder comes Mr. Burton. He is coming this way.”

He was calm but pale. As he drew near to them he said, “Mr. Hilton, get my hat please; it is time for me to be going.”

As Warren left to do his bidding Paul said, “Miss Spaulding, if I have said aught to offend you, pardon me. As God is my witness, what I have told you is the truth. I will do as you have bidden me to do, and I ask in return to remember me some times when alone.”

He gently pressed the little hand he was holding.

“Goodbye, and may God bless you forever,” said Paul solemnly.

Soon Warren came with the hat, and Paul taking it bid them all good night and went homeward in a sad frame of mind.

One hope she had given him, viz: “If you prove faithful to me in the future I am yours.”

These words cheered him, and he fully resolved to be true to her until death.

“What can be her object. Can it be she thinks she is not good enough for me financially?” thus murmured Paul until he reached home.

He found his mother sitting up. She had been having a serious spell of heart disease and dared not lie down. As he entered the room she was sitting in she said, “My son, why did you come so soon? I did not expect you for some time yet.”

“It is nearly twelve, mother, and I am sorry I stayed so long. You have been sick, and are now, only wishing to keep me in ignorance of how bad you really are. You look very ill mother. Why do you sit up so long?” asked her son, bending over her and pressing a kiss on her fair brow.

“My son,” answered his mother, “I have the heart disease, and I fear you will soon have no mother. I see it is growing worse with me with every attack, as I cannot lie down after one now.”

“Oh! mother, do not speak so sadly. Shall I go for a doctor tonight?”

“It would do me no good. I have tried the best-skilled physicians there are on the continent and they unite in saying I must be kept quiet or I will some day be no more. I have prayed that I might live to see you grown to manhood, and that prayer is answered and now I am willing to go when God sees fit to call me.”

His mother was speaking in a sorrowful tone. Paul sat like a statue, pale as death.

“Oh! mother, it cannot be,” he spoke at last. “I can not part with you; you who are all the companion I have on earth,” answered Paul in frightened tones.

“My son you will not miss me much when you catch that ‘little human fish’ you spoke of the other day. Oh! if you should marry her I pray she may prove a true, honest wife to you. Then you will lead a happy life.”

“Oh, mother, may your last few words be true! Time works wonders in this world sometimes. I hope you may live long with me, then you will see what a dutiful son you have,” answered Paul, the tears falling thick and fast.

The nurse came in with a cup of strong tea for his mother, and Paul arose as he said, “Take good care of my mother and I will repay you well.”

He kissed his mother again and went off to bed but not to sleep. Try as he might no sleep came to his eyes. Early the next morning he arose, took his shot gun and went out to see if he could kill a pheasant, to make some broth for his mother.

The next morning after the party Mr. Hilton said to his niece as she came down to breakfast: “You did not receive much pleasure by the party I fear, Nettie. Warren has been telling me you wish to start for home this morning. I hope my children have not done anything to mar your pleasure here.”

“Uncle, they have done nothing to mar my happiness,” answered Nettie, with a dreary laugh that touched her uncle’s heart.

“Will you promise me if you and your mother ever come to want that you will come and live with us? Our house is large and you are both welcome to its shelter.”

Nettie went gently to him, planted a kiss on his fair, honest forehead and said, “I promise. Never can I forget the kindness I have received at this new home, or forget the inmates that dwell here.”

The eyes of all of her friends were filled with tears to see the sweet young girl, who, standing smoothing her uncle’s silvery hair, was outwardly calm, but a deep trouble was raging in her breast, as she wished to stay but could not and did not wish to let any of her friends know the real cause.

Her aunt said, “My dear, something has transpired to make you decide so quickly to go home. We expected you were going to remain two or three weeks with us.”

“Nothing, auntie, only my conception to go home and surprise mamma. She will be very delighted to hear from you all. Of course I shall tell her what a pleasant time I have had with my cousins. It is getting late and we should be going soon or we will not be in time to take the stage, as it leaves at ten.” So saying she began putting on her mantle and cap. As her cousin Warren drove up to the door with a splendid span of iron grays, he called out lightly, “All aboard for town.”

“Auntie, are you and cousin Minnie not going to see me off for home?”

“No, my dear, we cannot go with you, as we have these rooms to make tidy. Warren will see you safe there and in the coach, too.”

Nettie bade her friends good-bye and was still lingering at the door, as she was loath to leave her new found home.

“I will come back here some day perhaps, and then I will stay longer; or long enough to make you wish there never more could come a Nettie Spaulding to trouble you,” said Nettie, feigning a laugh.

“Never you need be afraid of that,” answered her uncle, “come and see us and stay as long as ever you can. We will be most happy to see you.”

“Thank you, uncle, I will return soon no doubt.”

She tripped lightly out, and Warren handed her into the buggy, and soon the two cousins went from that farmhouse in a very sad mood, as Nettie was leaving her new found friends to go back to the great busy city to live within herself, as her old associates avoided her, or she avoided them, as she could not meet them as of old.

Warren was sad, as he did not wish his little cousin to leave them. She was like a sunbeam in the dear old home, and he had taken great pleasure in getting the two young people together who he thought were best suited to each other. Now his pleasures were ended, as his cousin was going home.

“If she was not my cousin,” he would say to himself, “I would try to win her affections, but that word cousin casts all into oblivion as far as I am concerned.”

As they were driving over the rough country roads, Warren said, “Little cousin, there is something wrong or you would not be leaving us so soon; is there not?”

“Warren,” she said, bursting into tears, “God alone knows the misery I have endured since last evening. You say you are my friend; I believe you, as you seem to take great interest in my welfare. I am going home to live like a hermit, in a great city. As such always think of me. I would like to stay, but it can not be,” she exclaimed passionately.

“He is rich and I am poor. I can not stay and be a temptation to one who is dearer to me than life. If he proves true then all is well, if not, then God pity me.”

Warren was listening to her passionate words, while tears stood in his honest blue eyes as he said, “Paul Burton is a man of honor. If he told my little cousin he loved her it is the truth, as I have known him for many years, or ever since I can remember a playmate, and I never have caught him in a lie.”

Nettie was weeping violently as she said, “Please write to me often, and write all the news about him, but do not tell him one word about me. If he really loves me he will find me, if not, it is better as it is.”

She spoke sadly.

“I will do as you have bidden me,” said Warren, “and prove to you that I am a true friend.”

Suddenly the crack of a gun was heard. The horses sprang forward and nearly threw the young couple out of the buggy.

“I wonder who is out sporting so early this morning,” said Nettie.

“It sounds like Paul’s gun,” said Warren, as he gently drew up the reins of the horses and brought them to a walk.

“I wonder how Paul’s mother is this morning. He said she was not very well last night. Perhaps he is out to kill something for her.”

“Has his mother been sick very long?” asked Nettie.

“She is a tall, frail woman, and she has very bad spells. Some people say she has heart disease,” said Warren.

“I am very sorry indeed. It would be very sad for him to have his mother taken from him. I really hope to hear when you write that she is better.”

They went slowly up to the little village hotel. The stage was about to start.

As Warren handed her down he said, “Do not forget to write me all your troubles, cousin, and I will write you the news. I will give the same injunction to come and live with us as father did.”

“Thank you for your kindness. I shall never forget you or the dear ones I left in my new home by the lake,” answered Nettie.

“Have you no word for Paul?”

“Yes, cousin, tell him good bye, to be upright and honest in all his endeavors, and God will deal justly by him. Good bye, cousin,” said Nettie.

As she took a seat in the stage she peeped out of the window and said, “Write me often, and please send me the village newspaper if you do not think I am asking too much. I will send the change when I arrive home.”

“I will go and order it sent you so you will get it next week,” said Warren.

The stage started on its long journey to the city, bearing one sad little being on her way for home.

How happy it makes one feel to unburden a troubled mind to a true friend, and it seems to make the heart lighter to have words of consolation given in the hour of trial from a true, loving friend. Many a young person and many aged ones can bring back to memory the same solemn fact.

Thus it was with Nettie as she went homeward. Warren’s kind words ever rang in her ears: “He is a man of honor; if he told my little cousin he loved her it is the truth.”

How many times in the future did she think of them and draw consolation from them.

Warren watched the stage that bore his cousin homeward until it was out of sight, then started homeward at a brisk pace.

He had not gone but a few miles when he overtook Paul returning from hunting. On his shoulder hung several pheasants.

Warren brought his horses to a halt as he said, “Take a seat by my side, Paul, it is better to ride than to walk. Are you not tired? You must have gone out early this morning, as I heard the report of your gun when I went to town.”

“Yes,” answered his companion getting into the buggy, “I came out very early, as mother is not as well as usual and I thought some wild food would be good for her. I fear my mother is not long for this world, as she is failing every day. I sent Pompey for the doctor this morning, but mother says it will do no good, as she is past cure. Oh, Warren, I do not know what to do or where to turn, for I am in deep trouble. Why don’t you come over oftener and stay some night with us?”

“Would your mother be willing? She is so delicate about company,” answered Warren.

“She would be very happy indeed to see me have company,” said Paul.

“I will come over in a day or so,” said Warren.

“Please do, Warren, in an hour of need, as I am very lonely—mother sick, and she is my only companion except the servants.”

They came to a cross road that was nearer for Paul to reach home and he sprang lightly out and ran swiftly home with his game.

Nettie’s homeward journey came to an end in due season, nothing happening of any account worth mentioning. As she came sooner than her mother expected her she was surprised to see her child back again.

In less than a week after greetings were exchanged and many questions asked about distant friends the mother said, “Why, Nettie my child, why did you not stay longer? I did not expect you for two weeks at least.”

CHAPTER V.

“Oh, mother, I could not stay away any longer from you. It seemed a long time to me.”

“Why, my child, in your letter you said you was happy and would stay two weeks, as your uncle and cousins would not take ‘no’ for an answer and wished we should come and live with them; and I was nearly making up my mind to go up there for a while and see the country. Perhaps it would be agreeable to my health.”

The mother was viewing her child critically while speaking. Noticing Nettie’s face changing from a bright crimson hue to a pale color, and not answering her, she said, “Has my little girl quarreled with anyone out there and come home angry?”

“No, no mother,” answered Nettie.

“It is worse than that, mother; I will tell you all, as no true mother would advise her child to do wrong. I will tell you all, but do not think for one moment I was telling you an untruth when I told you I could not stay longer. I could not under the circumstances, and it seemed a long time to leave you here alone. Well, mama, now for my story: My cousins made a party for me last Friday evening, as you know Friday was my birthday, and invited all the young people in that vicinity, and among them was a rich young man, highly esteemed for his true manliness. Cousin Warren says he has known him ever since he can remember, as they have grown up and trudged to school together, and says he never caught him in a lie. That is saying a good deal about him. Well, the Monday before the party cousin went to town and I went down to a beautiful lake on uncle’s farm to gather flowers. I sat down on the brink of the lake and some of the flowers fell into the water. I was wondering how to get them when the same young man spoken of came and fished them out. He gave me his card, and the night of the party he told me the same old, old story.”

“What did you tell him Nettie?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. The most I told him at last was if he proved true to me in the future I was his.”

“Nettie, dear, do you really love him?”

“Yes mother, with my whole heart. But I have run away and if he really loves me he will hunt me up,” said Nettie, her face beaming with smiles.

“Nettie,” said her mother, “pray what is the name of your admirer?”

“Paul Burton, of Pine Island. The name was given to the farm many years ago. It is a beautiful farm enclosed by the forest, and there is a little lake on it; and in the center pine trees are growing. I was out with cousin and he took me by there.”

Nettie was speaking with enthusiasm and hearing her mother repeating the name she turned and noticing her mother’s pale face said, “Mother, what ails you? Are you sick?”

“No, Nettie, the name sounds familiar. What kind of a looking man is this Paul Burton, and what is his age?” asked the mother.

“He is tall—about six feet—well proportioned, his eyes are dark blue, and he has auburn hair, and is a picture to behold,” answered Nettie.

“Blue eyes and auburn hair; did his hair curl?” asked her mother.

“Yes,” answered Nettie, “and he is about twenty-two or three. He lives alone with his mother, who is a frail, sickly woman.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“No, mother, but cousin says she is tall and dark complexioned, with black eyes, and her given name is Margaret or Margretia, I do not know which.”

“It is the same woman and must be their son. Oh, my God! why have I come to this?” exclaimed Mrs. Spaulding.

“Why, mother, what is the matter, and who are you referring to?” asked Nettie, noticing her mother’s pale face.

“My child, one you never saw—and I hope you may never meet him or any of his descendants.”

“Why, mother. His descendants should not be cruelly judged by his conduct. You speak as though he had been guilty of some great criminal act. I do not see what he has to do with Paul Burton, the young man I was speaking of,” said Nettie, turning and looking out of the window.

“If I had known it would have troubled you, mother, I would not have told you anything about him. You seemed so anxious to know why I returned so soon I thought it proper to tell you all. The young man was supposed rich and I was a poor girl with only my good name to sustain. I deemed it best to try his love. If he loves me sincerely he will find me; if he does not, it is better I should be far away. Do you not think my act justifiable, mother?”

“Yes, my child, you did what is right and proper, and I am glad you came home, and I hope my conjecture is not true,” answered the mother sorrowfully.

Nettie went to her mother and pressed a kiss on her pure fair brow. She had passed through many severe trials, yet she remained beautiful—only a trifle pale. Time made little impression upon the fair form of the once beautiful Minnie Hilton, one of old England’s fair daughters.

“Nettie, I have a long story to tell you. It might prove a good lesson to you in the future, as you are young and inexperienced in this world of sunshine and shadow, and you may draw conclusion from the story.

“My child. I hope you will not have to endure the troubles and sorrows like the lady of whom I am going to speak.”

“Oh! mama, do tell me now, as I am anxious to hear it. I am sure it is a warning to me,” said Nettie, tapping the velvety cheek of her mother.

“Well, Nettie, many years ago in England there once stood a neat cottage surrounded by a group of beautiful trees, and just within hearing of the big bell in London. What a happy little home it was before the revolution broke out in this country. England was all confusion, especially among the second and lower classes of people. The inmates of that little cottage numbered four—father, mother, a lovely girl of eighteen summers, and a lad of sixteen, as honest a boy as ever lived and a kinder heart never beat today. Well, the father had to help to fill the ranks of England’s army and came over here to fight for King George. How noble and manly he looked in his red coat as he mounted his coal black steed. He made a fearless and brave soldier, as many of his comrades testified on their return home. But he who kissed his wife and children an affectionate farewell never returned to receive their welcome embrace of joy as did many of his fellow soldiers. As the news spread quickly over the old domain that the battle of Bunker Hill had been fought many tears fell for the fallen soldiers who fell in that sad fray.

“Sad was the news indeed, to hear that the father of this happy household was no more, during the intervening term of his going away and time of his death. The daughter of this family was the fairest in England at that time. Her fame for beauty rang far and near. One day in summer when the commons were robed in green, besprinkled with buttercups and daisies, this young lady for a little pleasure rambled over the green, picking the flowers and thinking of her father who then was far away in the battle fighting for his king, when close to her she espied a large stray sheep of the masculine gender. He had probably broken out from its owner’s enclosure and was wandering over the commons. As soon as he espied the lady he came toward her with his head bent to the ground, and the lady gave a scream and was running toward the hedge fence of thorns; and just as the sheep was about to strike her a young man rode rapidly between them, striking the sheep with a heavy loaded whip, which felled him to the ground as though dead. The gentleman sprang lightly from his horse and picked up the inanimate form of the lady, as if she was an infant, and bore her to a cottage near by, and by the aid of spirits she soon returned to consciousness. She had swooned with fright and had fallen, hitting her head lightly on a rock, cutting a cruel wound which bled profusely. The young man saw the blood and he only had thought for the fair young form as he quickly bore it to a friendly shelter, letting his horse roam at will. The lady was too weak to walk, so the gentleman went home and took his father’s carriage and took her home; as he called every day for several days to see how his patient was getting along he grew deeply in favor with the little family of the cottage. The young lady looked for his coming and was deeply grieved when she learned who he was, for he was the son of a baronet, a gentleman of note among the upper classes of people. He was a lovely young man, and one beloved by old and young throughout the community. He called often at the cottage. None of the inmates could tell him to come no more, as he was both manly and honest, and with each day he grew more enamored with the little lady he had saved from a cruel death. How time flew away! Soon his father, who was not noted for kindness, began to notice his son’s movements, and it soon became known to him where he wandered. As his son was of age he had him sent off to the war, as he would then get over his love passion for the little cottager, as he called the little lady his son admired. Sad was the last meeting of the young couple, as he came to bid her farewell. Many were the promises given each to prove faithful until death. Then another blow was given that household, as he in his red coat rode away leaving his promised bride to mourn the loss of one she deeply loved. Soon after came the news of the battle of Bunker Hill, and the father of this little cottage was no more. Deeply mourned the inmates for the friend and father, and also for the absence of one who seemed a true friend to all; but he was the King’s subject and had to go and leave a lover behind him to mourn his absence, as many over our land today have done, and how sorrowful the earth seems to the ones left behind.

“The young man went away in hopes of a speedy return, but what a sad delusion! One year passed, then a second, and a letter came to the loved one far over the deep that her lover was slain. How deeply that little girl mourned for her supposed dead lover no human tongue can tell, and as time flew away many were the changes with the inmates of that cottage. Finally in time the mother concluded to remove her family over here to America. She wished to view the resting place of her beloved companion, and when the shadows of death came to her weary soul her form might lie in the same soil, beside her husband. Cold and stormy was the day when the noble ship set sail that bore on its bosom the widow and her children. It was the following autumn when they landed in New York, six weeks after setting sail. The widow rented a little cottage and made the place her future home. Her children both had grown to manhood and womanhood, and having a good education managed to maintain themselves respectably.”

“Oh, mama, you did not tell me whether the young lady ever heard definitely about her lover’s death,” said Nettie, breaking in on her mother’s narrative.

“My child,” answered her mother, “she left word with some of her friends that if any news came to them concerning him they should write to her immediately. She received only one letter bearing news of him. It said he had returned before the widow had left England. It was reported by the young man’s proud family that he was dead, for they knew their son’s disposition would be to fulfill his promise to the ‘little cottager,’ as they called his promised bride. They were bound it never should be. At the last meeting before he went to war he frankly told his father he should marry the girl on his return home; he might disinherit him if he chose—he would have a few shillings of his own and he would take his wife over to the new land he was going to fight on. This exasperated the father to such an extent that he brought his fist down on the table and swore an oath it never should be. The son did seem not to heed his father’s words, as he was sure the lady would prove faithful and he would soon return and claim her, in spite of all earthly beings. The lady watched and waited until nearly autumn for a letter from her loved one which never came. During that time she received news of her lover’s death, then broken hearted, she urged her mother to leave the place which, with each day, brought memories of the two loved ones who never would tread o’er its well-remembered threshold. The young lady lived single eight years. She employed the time in teaching primary school in the suburbs of the city of New York. Time, the great healer, brought consolation to the wounded heart. At last she accepted the hand of a young merchant. The old love was buried beneath the new, but never forgotten. The young lady’s brother learned the trade of a mechanic but did not like it very well, and like Washington turned to agriculture as soon as he earned money enough to buy a farm. The widow often went to view the grave of her beloved companion, and when her life on earth was ended her children laid her silent form beside him she loved.”

“Why, mamma!” exclaimed Nettie, the tears trinkling down her fair cheeks, “it was my own grandmamma, as I can just remember when papa and Uncle John took her deceased form away and did not get back for a long time,” said Nettie, speaking slowly.

“Why, mamma, can the young lady you have been speaking about be yourself?”

“Yes, my daughter, it is the same.”

Nettie was standing by her mother’s chair, stroking the fair brow of her only parent, deeply thinking over all she had been told.

Soon she said, “Mamma, it was very sad indeed, but I do not see why it should be a warning to me.”

CHAPTER VI.

“My child,” answered the mother sorrowfully, “you will be surprised when I state that the young man did go home and did not try to find where we removed to, but soon became acquainted with a lady of high standing and married her. They came over here, bought a large tract of land somewhere in the New England states. Your father and I met him once on board a vessel lying in harbor. Your papa, dear soul, knew of my first love and also the name of his predecessor, and getting an introduction to him made himself very inquisitive, as he found he was the same person and had been married some twelve years. You see how deceitful some people are in this world. It is a good saying and a true one, too, that ‘sometimes you think a friend you’ve got until trial proves you have him not.’ Thus it proved out to be to me.”

“Mamma,” answered Nettie, “I am a trusting spirit. It might not have been all his fault. He might have been deceived, as the story circulated by the family deceived you. Perhaps he did try to find you but could not get any clue to your whereabouts, as money sometimes will do a great deal in the way of bribing people.”

“Well. Nettie, time will prove all things. As it is said, ‘Right conquers might.’”

“Mamma, what is the name of the once young man you have been speaking of?”

The mother looked sadly up in her daughter’s fair face as she answered, “Paul Burton; with manly form, blue eyes, and hair the color of your admirer’s. Nettie, I am so glad you had sense enough to come home, as it is my conjecture that this young man is the son of him I have told you of. God grant it may not be!” said the mother fervently. “I do not wish my child to be deceived as I have been.”

“Your father and I lived very happy through the years of our married life. No shadows came to mar the horizon of our union until he became bankrupt through a person we supposed our friend. Poor soul, like many others before him he could not stand the crash in his financial affairs, and soon after died. It was a sad blow to me as I loved him fully as well as I ever did Paul Burton, the baronet’s son.”

“Poor mamma!” exclaimed Nettie passionately. “God must have willed it to be so. I love this strange young man and it was very hard for me to come home and leave him whom I loved so fondly, but my English pride bade me come home.”

“And I hope God will deal justly by us all. We must trust to Providence and wait and see what time will bring in the future.”

“Oh mamma dear, I cannot believe Paul is false. Oh, no, no, it cannot be!” exclaimed Nettie passionately.

“May God be merciful to me.”

“My child. God doeth all things. We can trust to Providence and all yet may be well. This is a world of trouble and sorrow to us poor mortals and what falls to our lot we must endure patiently, for what is to be will be, in spite of all human aid. I sincerely hope for the happiness of my only child,” said the mother, pressing Nettie fondly to her breast.

Here I will leave them bemoaning their fate, and return to Paul, who, on returning home, found his mother very ill. She gradually grew worse day by day. All medical skill was of no avail and they could not restore her to ordinary health. Time passed drearily at that once pleasant home. Paul, sad hearted, went about the house as one in a dream, never speaking to any one except to give orders to servants and inquire about his mother, whom he loved more fondly than ever. He knew she would soon leave him, and it grieved him very much to see her sad, pale face as she would look fondly at him and say, “I will soon be at rest—free from all earthly trouble.”

She lingered through the fall and long dreary winter months, and as the buds came on the trees in the following spring she breathed her last, while lying in the arms of her affectionate son. Sad was the scene, to see the young man fondly clasp his mother to his breast while tears fell like rain, on the sad, silent face.

A few moments before she died she called for her son, and when he did not come immediately she said, “Must I die and not tell him? I ought to have done it before now. Oh, where is my boy? Will he come soon?” she asked faintly, turning her face to the wall.

Pompey, hearing her call, went into the room in time to hear her last words. He went to her bedside as he said, “Paul will come soon. He went down the lane to see if the doctor is coming. I’s sent for him and he will come very fast when he hears de news. Missus, I’s been berry kind and obedient to you, ain’t I? I’s lived with you ever since Paul was a little chick. Anything you want me to tell him, Missus?”

“Yes, my faithful man, you know the whole history of my life, and when I am gone tell him not to censure his father as it was all my fault—his leaving home; but make my sin as light as you can. There is a little tin box in the garret that will tell him all he wishes to know.”

She nearly held out her hand to the faithful man, saying, “It’s very hard bidding you goodbye, Pompey, and may God bless you forever!”

She whispered the last words, and as her son came into the room her eyes brightened for a moment and she tried to speak to him but could not. Her breath grew shorter and shorter with each moment, and soon she was no more.

They laid her beneath the weeping willow tree and at her grave the son placed a neat monument in memory of her who reared him to manhood. Sad and dreary was that house to Paul. The sunshine had fled and only shadows remained. No mother now to kiss him good night; no father to bear with him this sorrow, and the only being he loved beside his mother was gone, he knew not where. The only friends that deeply sympathized with him except the servants were John Hilton’s family, especially Warren, who was there night and day and kept Paul company through this sad affliction. When this kind companion went home Paul could not reconcile himself to stay in the house where once was life and joy for him.

“I cannot stay here; I must go somewhere; there is no comfort for me on this earth. Oh, why did I live to see this trouble!”

Thus he would talk to Warren Hilton when they were alone.

“Why do you not go away from here for a while? The servants can look after the farm, and I will run over now and then to see how they get along. You can write me and you can hear all about them. You can go down to the city of New York, or anywhere else you choose. Something may change for the best. I would not stay here and moan myself to death if I were you. What do you say to that, my friend?” said Warren, tapping his friend on the shoulder, one summer evening as he saw how sad and lonely Paul was. Warren’s sympathetic heart went out to his friend. It grieved him sadly to see his lonely friend, as Paul was never seen to smile since his mother’s death.

It was nearly a year since the opening of our story. All nature was dressed in its mantle of green when Paul decided to travel. The evening before he was to start he sat in the library with his head in his hands thinking of the past. A light rap sounded on the door, which brought him back to the present, and bidding the knocker come in Pompey put his wooly head in the room and said, “Massa berry busy? I’s like to talk wid you a little while before you goes away, as you go so early in de morning, so I’s just come now to see you.”

“All right, Pompey, take a chair and tell me all the news.”