girl, all smiles and blushes, whom Edward introduced as Carrie Wood. Mary spoke lovingly to her, and put her arm caressingly around the slight form to draw her in. But Carrie "could not stay; she had left mamma with one of her bad headaches, and must hasten back. Here was a jar of strawberry jam, with mother's love." Mary kissed her good evening, and she ran lightly back, saying, as she reached her mother's room, “I did not dare look at her much; but she has the most beautiful voice I ever heard,—just like music. I loved her as soon as she spoke." Dear Carrie! The love which she inspired was equally spontaneous and warm. Little did they imagine it would ere long be put in requisition so sadly. Mr. Vernon and sister Harriet, it will be remembered, had a little difference of opinion on a certain point affecting the credit of his people. He resolved it should be settled before tea; in order to which, he led her to the pantry, and pointed triumphantly to the well-stored shelves. There were hams of bacon, and dried beef; balls of golden butter, and a fine cheese; before the window, a joint of roast meat, and a chicken pie, which bore the familiar stamp of the deacon's wife. Here was a row of mince pies, looking as much at home as if the pastry had been rolled on the very kneading-board that lay by their side. There were tins of cake and new biscuit, all unconscious of transportation; and a pan of milk, serenely forgetful of its agitated passage hither in a wooden bottle. Miss Harriet took the surprise quite coolly, and proceeded to open her own basket of edibles, that Mrs. Ely, who was present, might not suppose they meant to throw themselves on the generosity of the parish. How pleasant to the young minister was that first tablegathering in his own house, with its novel sense of independence and responsibility! With what grace did Mary preside, —her father seated at her right hand, with eyes that moistened whenever he looked at her! The good deacon's wife seemed not an interloper, but as one of the family; while Miss Allison looked the very genius of the occasion. In the evening, Deacon Ely came for his wife, and made a pleasant call; in the course of which, he asked Mr. Vernon about his young horse,—whether he was getting much accustomed to the harness,—and at length said, abruptly, "Well, Mr. Vernon, I have a proposal to make to you. You will want to ride about considerable this winter, and your colt is not very strong. You had better take one of my bays. I am about through with my fall work now, and can get along with one. When I want the span, I can send for him; but it will not be often. So, I will keep your colt, and the boys will exercise him for you, if you'll trust them. What do you think of the matter?" “O, thank you, thank you!" said Mr. Vernon. “If I accept, I shall have the best of the bargain. It would be a nice arrangement." "Another thing,” said the good man, "if you will not think me inquisitive. What will you do for a vehicle?" Mr. Vernon did not know. He had thought of purchasing, but concluded to wait till his horse had more power. The deacon was about to suggest a way, when Dr. Allison quietly informed him that he had ordered a carriage at the manufactory in Mayfield, which he should do himself the pleasure to present to his children. As the worthy parishioners were departing, Mr. Vernon sent his best regards to Miss Leevy, and his thanks for her careful hand in the removal of his library; to which Mrs. Ely replied that Leevy would come over and help them, if she could be of any use. Miss Allison's face wore a demurrer, but it did not prevent the response, "Tell her to come; her needle will be quite in place here; besides, we want to see her;" and Mrs. Ely's last look was one of satisfaction. “Edward, how could you?" said sister Harriet. The young man smiled; he knew what he was about. The cool evening gave a snug home air to the well-warmed and lighted dining-room. Another half-hour of social converse passed, and then this new Christian household was organized by the setting up of the family altar. The young master of the family entered upon his duties, as the priest of his own house, with sacrifices of thanksgiving and praise. Toward this service all his religious thoughts and affections had been, through the day, converging. That first prayer as the head of his house: how tender, how earnest, how full of unction and power! It well became the occasion and the man. O, how blessed the dwelling-place that is devoutly consecrated to the God of all the families of the earth! Whatever uncertainties hang, to human view, over its future history; whatever changes it may witness; whether predominates there the voice of health and gladness, or the wail of sorrow and pain; whether its larder be filled with plenty, or made lean by poverty; how oft soever its windows may be darkened by calamity and death,-one thing is sure. It is the abiding place of the Most High; -the angel of the covenant is there, and, in the deepest night of grief, that dwelling has light, and hope, and peace. CHAPTER IX. "She, round thy sweet domestic bower, And blend her holiest prayer with thine." LET us look again into the old "Whitman place," now that it has fairly established its new name on the lips of the people, and is publicly known as "the Parsonage." 66 It is a wintry afternoon in December. In the little backparlour, a bright wood-fire is crackling and glowing in the open Franklin ;"-for the forests about Salem were, in those days, unfelled, and fuel was cheap; hence, the luxury of an open fire might be indulged, even in a parsonage, without the charge of extravagance. In the centre of the room, on a piece of new drugget, stands the tea-table, ready spread for the evening meal. Between it and the fire, in a light cane-seat rocker, sits the young mistress of the dwelling,-her little work-stand at her side, and in her hand a paper-covered volume, which she has been for the last half hour intently perusing, not the latest novelette, but the October number of a well-known quarterly, the Spectator. A small French clock on the mantel strikes the half hour after five, and that sweet, thoughtful face is raised from the book to listen for a familiar step. Then the eyes return not to the open page, but fall musingly on the blazing fire-light; and presently, over that mental attitude of happy expectation, steals a dimness which makes the whole scene recede into a waking dream of six months ago,- -a dream oft repeated,-of just such a twilight hour, in some quiet parsonage, waiting his return to a cheerful supper and a happy hearth. That seemed so life-like, so real; this so vague and dream-like. Which is the reality? A gust of wind breaks the thread of these cogitations, and calls her to the window. She looks out toward the church and the village green. The snow has been falling very quietly all the afternoon, ever since Edward started on foot to visit a sick parishioner two miles distant. So still had the flaky shower come down, that she was surprised to see how it had accumulated. Around the old Academy a few boys were lingering, to finish a game at snow-ball; and, as the sudden gale rapidly increased, the whirling eddies of snow made her wish that Edward was safely housed out of reach of the storm. "Ah, he has come!" She hears his step in the portico, and, before he can shake the snow from his umbrella, she is at the door to let him in. It is of no use for him to admonish her of the driving snow and the chilling wind; she will stand in the door and brush the feathery flakes from his hat and wrapper, till he forgets the discomfort of the walk in the pleasure of so joyous a greeting,―till there hangs, across her forehead and in her curls, a snowy wreath more becoming than her bridal pearls; and a richer glow mantles her cheek as she leads the way to the dear, cosey parlour, and adds another stick of maple to the glowing hearth. Gown and slippers are brought from the adjoining room; and now the tea comes in, and Mary listens to the particulars of the pastoral visit, and to the previous history of the afflicted family. While the "tea things" are being removed, Edward goes to the barn to see the old bay horse disposed for the night. When he returned, the table, with its rich, dark cover, was drawn nearer the fire; the astral burning brightly in the centre. On one side, Mary with her knitting, and by the other, an easychair drawn up for him. |