He He stood quiet a moment, and then sopped his face with his ragged white handkerchief. It was strangely composed and grave. went to a closet and took down from the orderly shelves a bottle full of a dark-brown liquid, from which he half-filled a goblet, which he placed ready on the mantel-shelf; then, as though doubting its efficacy, he took out a tiny vial full of white powder, and hid it in his pocket. Unlocking a desk, he took out an old leather-covered Bible, yellow with age, and began turning over the leaves to find the family record. stood in her eyes. She perched herself up on the major's chair, beating her hands in their woollen gloves together. "If you only could unlace my boots? My feet haven't had a bit of feeling for an hour. Five miles did they tramp. I didn't want to break the note for car-fare. It's the half-yearly pay day, you know. Just look at it," fumbling in her bosom under her sacque, and bringing out, warm and crisp, a bright new note. "I couldn't sleep until we'd both seen it and-gone halves!" winking with both eyes, and laughing all over in the most ridiculous, lovable way. The major had taken off her shoes, and stood with them in his hands looking down at her. She was so alive with beauty, warm-blooded, and happy! She seemed to come to him like sudden youth or summer in this last desperate hour. There hung about her even the faint scent of roses. It seemed so easy to come back to sit down beside his little daughter, who loved him with all her honest heart, and be happy and jolly and alive as "Born, Jan. 31st, John, only child of Richard always. and Mary Standish." He read it over, as he had done every day since he gave the boy up. He fancied God came as near to him in those words as he could in any others in that book. page which he ever read. them there. It was the only She had written "She knows whether I've loved her and you, Jack," stooping to kiss the faded writing. Your old father shall never be a weight on you, boy." He opened a knife and cut the leaf. It was loose now; he held it in his hand and stooped over the fire irresolute. After all, his real hold on life for a good many years had been through that page; as it began to crisp, he glanced up quickly at the goblet, and then out of the square dormer window. Lights were beginning to gleam in the houses beyond the Schuylkill, the sky warmed red as cinnabar on the frosty sunset, while wisps of feathery smoke from some passing steamer wavered across it. The world gave him a friendly look—for the last. He threw the paper in the fire, put out his hand for the goblet-when there was a sudden soft flurry behind him, and two nervous little hands were clapped over his eyes. The next thing was a hearty kiss right on his mouth. "Why, Madeline! child! is it you?” "Of course it is not me! there are so many pretty girls stealing in to kiss you without leave! Oh, dear, I'm quite frozen, Uncle Dan!" She looked as if she were; her chubby dimpled face was blue, and the rimy drops I But he knew what he had to do. 66 How long are you going to stay, Maddy?" Until to-morrow-unless you would rather would go to-night," quickly. "Yes, I would rather. I have some business-there will be some men here after a while it wouldn't be best for you to stay." "Very well," Maddy nodded, turning her stockinged feet about before the fire. She never asked questions, but she generally found out all that she wanted to know without them. "How long can I stay, Uncle Dan?" taking off her hat. "In two hours will be time enough. Let me have you as long as I can." "Isn't that a lovely hat?" poising it on her little fat fist, and looking over it steadily into his gaunt, changeless face. "The brown is just the shade of my hair. Been hard at work on the Camera lately, dear?” "They've needed nothing for two weeks." "Oh!" She was quiet a minute. "Just put that hat carefully away in my room, won't you? and bring me my slippers. They're in the lower drawer. You have the keys." She sat motionless until the door closed behind him, and then like a flash she was in the pantry cupboard, which was empty, as we know, and back again by the fire. She took up the goblet and smelled it. The major, coming back, glanced at it jealously, but it stood where he left it, and Maddy was leaning lazily back in her own low chair. She was pale, and the water stood in her eyes. "You're not well, child?" No. Sit down by me, Uncle Dan. I'm tired and I'm hungry, that's all. I ordered a miraculous little supper as I came along. It will be here presently." She took his big hand as he sat by her, fingering it over, holding it now and then to her cheek. Something else than hunger had been at work with him. They were both too old soldiers to be beaten, as he was to-day, by a little wholesome fasting. But what was the sore? She did not know where to thrust her probe. "They've raised my salary, Uncle Dan. Did you notice?" "No, I did not. I'm glad of it, my darling. You can go through the world alone pretty well now, Maddy?" She made a grimace. "If one only cares for hard work and money-yes. But I'm tired of being alone. I mean to either come home, or you must come to me. Though a man of your talents would be wasted in a Jersey village like that. They have only one newspaper. You could not go there." "Only one newspaper, have they?" There was silence. said at last. eyes fixed on the fire, her hands pressed on her "Yes, Uncle Dan." "I'll tell you about Jack," in an unnaturally loud, harsh voice. "He is a man of mark now -a leader in his sect. They've called him to the first church here. His companions are not yours or mine, and his ways are not ours. They would look upon him as tainted if he made friends of shiftless Bohemians like us. He's in a world the door of which is shut to you and me. It will be the same way when we are dead. He will be inside, but when I come the door will be shut-shut.' "I tell you the boy is on the road to success, "Jack is at home," he and he must go on," he cried. Nobody shall stand in his way to hinder him. I mean to stand out of his way. It will be quite easy for me to do it quite easy. The cheek against which she had pressed his fingers grew suddenly, fiercely hot. She got up and laid some wood on the grate, sat down leisurely, her face turned from him. "Who did you say had come home-John? John Proctor?" "Yes-Jack" The very name of the boy stabbed him like pain, yet he could not keep it off his lips. He did not waver in his resolve. He would put himself out of the way to keep the shameful birth of his boy a secret. Yet, as the clock ticked away the moments of this last hour, nature grew almost too strong for him. He could have cried out, so that all the world might hear, for his son-for his son, whose flesh and blood was the same as his. He heard the girl speaking to him as in a dream. Her voice trembled in spite of herself. "Tell me something about him, Uncle Dan. Is he much changed?" "I see no change in him." He caught sight of her face, and through all his dull absorption it startled him; it was so strangely fresh, and dewy, and young. "I suppose John has been successful, then?” she said at last, with an effort. "He told me once he would never come back or write until he could do a man's work, and make all his friends proud of him. He thought they would forget him. He need not have been very much afraid of that." She was talking half to herself, stooping as she sat on her stool, her brown Some suspicions of years ago were coming back to her. "I think I understand," she said. "Is Jack willing that you should give him up?" "What could it matter to him? A shabby old liar and braggart, as M'Murray called me. I saw his church to-day, and the house where he will live. So grandly furnished, Maddy!" "Churches and furniture!" with a contemptuous shrug. "What are they to Jack?" "I saw the woman he is to marry." "Ah! the woman "A daughter of M'Murray's; a delicate, white rosebud of a girl. He has everything now the world can give, Jack has. There's but one bar in his way, and that won't be there long." It When But Madeline had turned to the window, her face toward the sun that was going down. was some time before she came back. she did, she stood by the mantel-shelf looking down at him. "Does the woman love him?" "I thought so. It was in her face." "She only has known him a little while?" "Withrow told me they met last month in Chicago. The match was arranged there." She looked at her hand. There was a thin gold ring on one finger-a cheap little trifle, such as a school-boy would give. It had been there so many years that it bound and pained the woman's full-grown finger. It had done so for many years. sionate dream. Practical, common-sense people on the same plane of society saw each other a "One month?" she said to herself, again and month ago in Chicago, and married rationally. again. The sun was down, but the reflection from the snow on the roofs threw a pleasant brightness into the many windows, while the clock ticked cheerfully the last hour of daylight away. A noise below broke the silence into which they had fallen. The stairs were long and ricketty, and steps could be heard creaking from one flight to the other. "It's Jack!" The major spoke hoarsely, standing up. He had been thinking it over as he sat. However false and disreputable his course had been since he was a man, he at least was right, he thought, in this act of its close. 666 "Nothing in his life so became him as the ending of it," he quoted to himself. "But M'Murray would call it a theatrical trick." Jack was at the street door; in a few minutes it would be too late. He thrust his fingers into his pocket, and secreted the little vial in his palm. He went to the door as if to close it. At that moment Maddy caught sight of a yellow bit of writing on the hearth, stooped, picked it up. She nodded as she read it without surprise. "His son? now to deny it? And Jack wants the old man Not to stand in his way?" The first hint about that poor white rabbit Clara had turned her blood to gall. She was suddenly bitter and unjust as death to Jack, to whom she had given her whole life of patient, sweet-tempered trust. The steps came nearer. The poor old major backed toward the inner door, his uncouth face white and wet. "I'm not well. I'm going to lie down on your bed. Take him away with you, Maddy. I can't see either of you to night." Yet even then it gave him a vague pleasure to hear how light and gay and resolute the boy's steps were. Maddy came quietly between him and the door. 'No, we will both see this Jack, who puts you out of his way." The door opened. There was the old, short, stout-built Jack! The old sturdy, honest face under the same fur cap, the twitch in the mouth ready to make a joke at anybody or at himself. "Why, Maddy? I did not hope to find you here, little woman," giving her a brotherly shake of the hand, and so figuratively setting her aside. How the dull morbid shadows that had filled the room crept aside before him! Madeline felt that her life had been but a pas And why should a practical, rational man encumber himself with this late-discovered father, with his undoubtedly unwholesome fancies and stagey habits? Major Standish”—Jack, with all his hearty manner, was embarrassed-"I came to speak to you on business of importance. You have no secrets from Maddy?" "Don't speak, boy! For God's sake! In a little while I will set it all right! Wait one minute!" retreating to the door. "But I won't wait." Jack had his hands on the major's shoulders, and forced him down on a chair. His face flushed as he spoke, and his voice grew unsteady. "Look at this old man, Madeline. Twenty years ago he came here a healthy, middle-aged man, with a comfortable living, and a son-a boy that he could have educated plainly, and had to work for him, and be a companion as he grew old. But what does he do? Puts the boy where he will be tended like a prince, be clothed in purple and fine linen, gives up his income to him, while he-look at this cockloft, Maddy! Lookhere!" He put his hand on the old man's head, and drew it through the thin white hair. Once or twice he began to speak, but stopped. At last he said: "I know the shifts you have made to live, the insults you bore, that I might sleep soft and live warm! It's well I do know them all. You will never want the care of a son again; so help me God!" "Yes, yes, I knew you would say that," cried the major. "But of what use was it all! You have ruined yourself. I know what I am. Who told you this?" "A man who came from Virginia to find you.' "He would not tell me." Proctor's face clouded. The major's quick eyes marked it. "He has a warrant for me, I suppose?" sullen and dogged. "I do not know. He refused to give me any hint." There were several little affairs- there's no use in their stirring up muddy water, that I can see," peevishly. "But if it's criminal -let me alone, Jack," catching the young man's sleeve. "You shall not drag yourself down for me. I'll not have my whole life thwarted," fiercely. Jack's answer was to glance around the poverty-stricken garret, and at his own costly, quiet dress. The tears were in his eyes. "We're one now, come what will, father," he said, quietly. "That is the man at the door." The major went to open it. "I'll balk them yet," he muttered. "I'll not drag Jack down." He came back in a moment, a huge yellow envelope in his hand. "He sent it in a letter. A man can't be arrested by letter? It may be -" turning it over. What's this? bless my soul, what's this? Why, it's no arrest!" "Thank Heaven for that!" muttered Proc tor. 66 "That poor little creature! Oh, Madeline!" That touch of contempt was worth more than a thousand arguments. Do you mean to say you don't love her, Jack?" catching his coat lapels with both her hands. "I've been so "Robert Standish is dead, Jack," poring and so miserable! I." She dropped her head muttering over a parchment sheet. "Is he, sir?" indifferently. Jack was standing awkwardly alone, for Madeline, whom he had time to notice now, was engrossed in tying ap some drawings of hers which she was going to take away with her. She would not leave one vestige of herself in her old home, she thought. The old man would go with his son to the delicate little rosebud of a girl. As for her, what did it matter that she had no home, nobody on earth but them? that her life had held nothing but them? The drawings looked like masterpieces of art to Jack; he had heard of Maddy's genius. How cold and still she had grown in these two years! It might be devotion to art and to her work. She looked as impassive and abstracted as if she had gone into some height unknown to him, from whence she would look down on all his fancies and his Jack never remained long in doubt about anything. "Maddy." He crossed the hearth rug to the corner where she stood, and took up her hand. The ring? It's gone!" "Ring? That ring was too Maddy glanced down carelessly. Yes. I remember now. small. I took it off long ago." Jack's eyes twinkled; he held her wrist tight. "How long ago? Within the hour? See how red and bruised the poor little hand is!" The pity was too much for heroic Maddy. She gave a sob, but held the tears back in her wet, miserable eyes. Jack never knew in all his life how deep the bruise went when that ring came off. He looked at her steadily closer, closer: lifted the hurt hand till his breath touched it, then kissed it, just as he used to kiss her lips long ago, as no man had touched them since, as they never would be kissed again. and said no more; but the little Burgundy rose had opened its heart to him now with all its sweetness and spicy perfume, and Jack knew the flavour of it well. He had been waiting for it for a good many years. They sat together in a shaded corner; the major was poring over his parchment by firelight. After a while Madeline referred to her rival again, patronizingly. "Clara is pretty, you must acknowledge, Jack. Though she is weak, as you say, poor child!" "I don't know," said Mr. Jack, whose conscience twinged him with certain moonlight walks in Chicago. "She was very considerate and kind to me, Madeline. Her father was anxious for me to take the first church here. But I'd made up my mind to that little home in the west-if you would go with me." "I always thought you'd come for me," said honest Maddy. The major was looking at them over his spectacles. "So? So?" he said, in amazement. "Why, God bless you, children! You plan better for yourselves than I did for you." Jack laughed, and drew his chair over between them. 'It will be hard work to live, at first. But we three are old comrades, and know how to rough it." "This is a duplicate of Robert Standish's will," said the major, striving to be legal and lucid, "and by it I find certain demesnes, messuages-well, I don't know, to tell the truth, if it's a fortune or a mere competency, Jack. But it's enough for us all to give M'Murray and his cursed Camera the go-by for life. We may start a National Magazine with it," in his old bragging tone. "There will be no more of this for you then, father," glancing around. The bare floors, and pinched poverty, and the worn-out old man with his white hair in the midst, chafed Jack angry and sore continually. And here is the supper. At last?" cried Maddy. "I had really forgotten I was hungry; but it is long past my usual dinner hour," said the major, loftily. He rose with alacrity to help her spread the white cloth, and set the hot, dainty dishes on it, managing, as he lighted the lamp, to empty a half-filled goblet into the ashes. "Such abominable wine as these fellows furnish me now!" he muttered, and then suddenly stopped, looking at Jack, a shamed, defeated look creeping all over his big body. He went to him. "My son," he said, humbly, "it would be better you left me behind, you and Maddy. I'm a miserable, faulty old man." "And I am a faulty young one," said Jack, hastily. "But there's that between you and me, father, which God will look to find in us all underneath these weeds that grow atop." Maddy came closer to the two men. "I think I know what you mean. And I too," she said with infinite love, and very bad grammar, putting her hand softly into theirs. REBECCA HARDING DAVIS. PRAYER. Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Prayer is the burden of a sigh, Prayer is the simplest form of speech Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways, While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry, Behold, he prays! Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death; He enters heaven with prayer. The saints, in prayer, appear as one In word, and deed, and mind; While with the Father and the Son Sweet fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made by man alone: The Holy Spirit pleads; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For mourners intercedes. O Thou, by whom we come to God! JAMES MONTGOMERY, A LESSON IN BIOGRAPHY.1 AN EXTRACT FROM THE LIFE OF DR. POZZ, IN TEN VOLUMES, FOLIO, WRITTEN BY JAMES BOZZ, ESQ., WHO FLOURISHED WITH HIM NEAR FIFTY YEARS. -We dined at the chop-house. Dr. Pozz was this day very instructive. Talking of books, I mentioned The History of Tommy Trip, and said it was a great work. Po "Yes, sir, it is great relatively; it was a great work to you when you were a little boy; but now, sir, you are a great man, and Tommy Trip is a little man." Feeling somewhat hurt at this comparison, I believe he perceived it, for as he was squeezing a lemon he said, "Never be affronted at a comparison; I have been compared to many things, yet I never was affronted at a comparison. No, sir; if they were to call me a dog, and you a cannister tied to my tail, I should not be affronted." Cheered by this kind mention of me, though in such company, I asked him what he thought of a friend of ours who was always making comparisons. Pozz. "Sir, that fellow has a simile for everything. I knew him when he kept shop he then made money, and now he makes comparisons; he would say, for instance, that you and I were two figs stuck together, two figs in adhesion, and then he would laugh." To this vivid exertion of intellect I observed in reply, "Certain great writers have determined that comparisons are odious." Pozz "No, sir, not odious in themselves, not odious as comparisons; the fellows who make them are odious; the whigs make comparisons." We supped that evening at his house, when I took an opportunity of showing him a copy of verses I had made on a pair of breeches. 1 This satire, written, it is believed, by the Rev. James Beresford, appeared shortly after the publication of Boswell's Life of Johnson. Mr. Beresford, besides many sermons, produced The Miseries of Human Life; or, the Last Groans of Timothy Testy and Samuel Sensitive-an amusing book of facetiæ, by which a man may be brought to laugh at himself for allowing the accidents of life to ruffle him. The author was born in 1764, and died in 1840. |