Douglass farm: A juvenile story of life in Virginia

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The Littlo Gnto Opcuers.
DOUGLASS FARM
;
gl %ukmlt .Stota 0{ fife in firginia.
BY
MARY E. BRADLEY.
EDITED BY
COUSIN ALIO E."
' Be not overcome of otII, but overcome evil -witli good."—Eosi. xii. 21,
NEW YORK
:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
846 & 348 BROADWAY.
MDCCCLVn.
Enteeed, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1856, by
D. APPLETON & COMPANY
. the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
AOBURN UNiVERSiTY 13!
AUBURN, kimkm 3683a
«5o 7 76
TO MY SISTER
"SUE ,"
THIS SIMPLE STOKT,
WHOSE ESrsriRATION SHE WILL RECOGNIZE,
M. E. N. B.
A GEEETma FEOM " COUSm ALICE."
There is no " Home Book " for Christmas and
New Tear's Day ; but, instead of a " proverbial
tale," Cousin Alice greets you witb one that she has
read and approved, and commends to all who have
her own volumes on their book-shelves.
In her Christmas story four years ago—a long
time for little people to remember,—she promised
some day to give a description of the Old Virginia
Homestead in which it was written. That was in
the introduction to "Patient Waiting no Loss,"
—
which will prove true in this instance ; for the story
of Douglass Farm describes these very scenes—the
old Hall, the lawn, the avenue, the chubby little
negro children who ran to open the carriage gate in
our drives, the " Aunties " and " Uncles " of the
large kitchen department,—the bountiful Christmas
cheer, and the little people for whom it was made
ready. All this is described by the young hostess
who welcomed her to " Margret Hall,"—and far
better than Cousin Alice would have been able to,
inasmuch as it was her birthplace and childhood's
home.
More than this, you will find, in the history of a
year at Douglass Farm a lesson of patient " contin-uance
in well doing,"—of filial obedience and sisterly
6 A GREETING FROM " COUSIN ALICE."
love,—of the tender respect and care the aged justly
claim from us, and a pure unselfishness in the char-acter
of Miriam, worthy of all imitation.
Happy to send you through so pleasant a mes-senger
her glad yearly greeting, and hoping the next
will he a tale from her own pen to those she has
learned to love as her young readers and friends, ac-cept
the best wishes of
Cousin Alice.
Locust Cottage, 1856.
DOUGLASS FARM
:
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT.
CHAPTER I.
It was ^ew-Year's eve, and Miriam Doug-lass
was sitting alone in one of the deep windows
of the broad old hall that divided equally the
ample homestead of Douglass farm. In summer
time, this hall, pierced with many doors and
windows, and opening at each end upon a long,
shady piazza whose draperies of honeysuckle
and cluster roses sent perpetual wafts of fra-grance
through it, was the pleasantest place in
the house. But in this chilly winter evening,
with the shadows lying thickly around, and the
frosty air finding entrance through many a
chink and crevice, a seat in the great curtain-less
window, looking out into murkiness and
gloom, was not very inviting.
Miriam's feet were gathered up under the
8 DOUGLASS faum;
folds of her black dress, and her dark hair
drooping over her face, hid it so, as she sat in
her crouching attitude, that yon scarce distin-guished
her from the mass of shadows around.
Her hands were folded over her knees, and her
head bent upon them in a sort of hopeless dreamy
way, that told unconsciously the character of the
young girl's reverie. The burden of human
care and sorrow, and responsibility had fallen
early upon her, and her heart was full of sad
memories, bitter anticipations, and weary yearn-ings
for rest, and comfort and guidance.
" If I only knew what to do, or how to help
it all;" she murmured half aloud; "but I am
too young, and too weak, and too ignorant for
any such responsibility. And I have tried too,
BO hard—but it is no use, I might as well give
up trying. What can I do ? Oh mother, why
did God take you from us when we all needed
you so much !
"
She leaned her face against the window-pane,
and strained her eyes into the darkness
without. She knew it was not visible, that
which she looked for, yet with inward vision
she saw the white gleam of the marble over
her mother's grave, and the great pine boughs
tossing in the wind. Only four months ago
that grave had been made in the family
burial-ground, the first time that its sods had
been broken since Miriam could remember.
m *
fhe Pnrk FTcnr.
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 9
The tombstones were moss-grown, and bore
date of years before ber birtb ; not even a baby
sister or brother bad fonnd resting-place, there,
to teach her heart somewhat of the great uni-versal
sorrow of humanity. And so her first
knowledge of death had come to her in the bit-terest
shape. Her mother—the light and bright-ness
of the household, who bore all its bm-dens,
who scattered all its cares, who bound all to-gether
by her own strong love, and shed over
all hearts the warmth and gladness of her own
sunny beautiful spirit, had been taken away al-most
without a warning, and from the head of
the household to its youngest and least mem-ber,
all were left desolate. A few days of de-lirious
pain, a long night of speechless agony,
when only the dear eyes could turn from one
to another with their last utterance of love, and
the lips could frame not even one dying mes-sage—
and then there was nothing left but a
fair, beautiful body, round whose lifelessness
and silence, husband and children, and servants
and friends, wept in wild passionate woe.
Miriam recalled it all, as with wistful eyes
she looked out into the darkness towards the
graveyard. Fom* months since, her mother had
been borne a silent weight through the long
hall over whose floor her light feet had sprung
so often, through the piazza, whose roses and
honeysuckles had been trained by her own fin-
10 DOUGLASS fakm;
gers out into the shady graveyard, under whose
pines and cedars she had sat with her children
round her, full of gladness and life, so many
summer days. That one tall pine which over-topped
all the others, had been her special pride
and admiration ; and Miriam could not count
the times that her mother had sat in its shade,
telling her stories maybe of the Douglass ances-tors,
who lay around them beneath those mossed
and crumbling tombstones. It was there, at
the foot of that very pine, that the new grave
had been made ; and the wind surging through
those thick boughs sang its solemn song for her
now, whose dull ears should never listen to it
again.
Four months : it was the last of the summer
then, and now autumn had faded into winter,
and the close of the year was come. Christmas
had passed drearily and joylessly, so different
from every other year that Miriam could re-member.
There had always been such Christ-mas
merry-making ; gifts for the children and
the negroes ; such wonderful Christmas pies,
and bountiful Christmas tables; the house
garnished with myrtle, and cedar, and holly
boughs ; and guests coming and going with in-terchange
of blithe and loving greeting. It had
been so different this time : there was no " mer-ry
Christmas " spoken in the house, the little
ones were checked and awed into silence by
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 11
their father's stern and gloomy brow, and even
the negroes scarcely kept their own holiday.
Instead of a season of joy and festivity, it had
been one of heaviness and gloom at Donglass
Farm; and worse still, instead of a day of
" peace on earth, good-will to men," that Christ-mas
day had been darkened by the saddest
scene of bitterness and harshness and anger that
^Miriam's young eyes had ever witnessed.
Her head drooped again as she thought of
•it, and for a moment a feeling of thankfulness
arose in her heart that her mother had not been
left to. know the bitter pain of this strife and
contention between her husband and her first-born
son. " But it would never have been if she
had not been taken away," came the murmuring
thought directly. " There was no trouble in
the house when she was here, and now there is
perpetual complaining and disagreement, and
harshness and rebellion. Father is so hard and
stern, and Lawrence is so wilful and passionate
;
and the little ones quarrel amongst themselves,
and the household is in confusion half the time.
And I—what can I do ? how can I bring order
out of this chaos, peace out of such tumult ?
"
It might have seemed a hopeless task to one
older and of a more resolute spirit than Miriam.
She was very young, only fourteen, when her
mother died ; and naturally timid and shrinking
in disposition. Her love was earnest, but her
12 DOUGLASS faem;
faith weak and fearful, and slie had no confi-dence
in her own powers, no appreciation of
her own efforts. Prone always to yield to de-pression,
rather than to struggle against it ; to
sink down in humiliation and self-reproach be-neath
her burdens, instead of rising up hope-fully
to put forth new strength for its endur-ance
; it was little wonder that her weak heart
sent out its cry of despair beneath such a weight
of trial and sorrow and perplexity as oppressed
it now.
All alone—as far as human counsel or sym-pathy
were concerned—she stood in her re-ligious
faith. She had never even spoken to
her mother so passionately loved, of the new
and thrilling hope that had sprung up in her
soul. In sensitive timidity she had kept it hid-den
in her heart, only striving to conform her
outer life by the inward light granted her, until
her mother died : then when this hope and trust
were her only solace and strength, to endure a
grief which without them had been all despair
;
she longed to tell her father, wrapped up in his
stern and gloomy sorrow, where she had found
comfort and support, and entreat him that he
might seek it for himself. But she had never
dared. She had been alone with him many
times when she had longed to seat herself at his
feet, and lay her head upon his knee, and tell
him so every thought and feehng of her heart.
A HOUSEHOLD BTOEY. 13
But she never could come near to liim, her own
father thougli lie was. One glance at the stern
brow from which the dark shadow was •never
lifted, at the firmly set lips with their expression
of proud endurance—^lips from which no tender
and softening word had come since her mother
died—and every impulse to approach him shrank
frightened from Miriam's heart. So she would
sit with him, but apart from him, silent and sad,
not daring to offer sympathy or companionship ;
while he brooded alone over his rebellious and
unchastened sorrow.
He had never been like her mother ; Miriam
ever remembered him as to a degree stern
and undemonstrative, and the childi-en had al-ways
a certain awe of him never felt towards
her ; yet he had been kind and affectionate, too
indulgent even at times, and there was rarely
any household trouble so long as she was with
them. But every thing had changed since, and
in those four months there had been more fault-finding,
more harshness and anger, more strife
and contention at Douglass iP'arm than in all the
fourteen years of Miiiam's life before. Their
great common sorrow, instead of softening the
father's heart to pitying tenderness for his chil-dren,
seemed only to make him more harsh and
severe with them ; more impatient of every
childish fault, more rigorous in the withholding
of childish indulgences. He shut himself up in
14 DOUGLASS fakm;
his own morbid grief, and had little commnnion
with his children except to blame or reprove ;
and fliat often for trifling misdemeanors by no
means proportionate to the severity of the re-buke.
It is true that Miriam but seldom incurred
his displeasure ; for she was so humble and pa-tient,
so dutiful and submissive, and strove so
meekly to fulfil the household duties and re-sponsibilities
that devolved upon her, that he
could not often find fault with her: but the
younger children, away from the influence of
the gentle yet firm hand which had guided
them so carefully, were constantly getting into
disgrace and trouble, spite of all her eflbrts to
keep them in proper bounds. And many a
night she had lingered by the little beds, trying
to soothe and comfort the little childish sorrow
called forth by some punishment, which in the
depths of her troubled heart she could not but
feel as a harsh and unnecessary thing.
And even this, hard as it was to bear, was
not the worst. The bitterest trouble of her life,
and the one for which she could find no consola-tion,
was the perpetual strife between her fether
and Lawrence her older brother. He was but
a year older than herself ; yet while Miriam
was precocious and womanly much beyond her
years, Lawrence as a boy was even more so ;
and at fifteen was a man already, proud, reso-
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 15
lute, and self-willed. He had all his father's
strength of character and determined purpose,
and with this sense of power, he rebelled
against any imposed restraint, and boldly disre-garded
the sovereignty of his father's authority.
Hence there was continued discord between
them, a stern command on one side, and obsti-nate
rebellion on the other, excited by trifles of
everyday occurrence. The worst outbreak had
taken place on Christmas day, when Lawrence
had asked permission to spend the day at
" Hollybrook " with Eoger De»nis, a compan-ion
of his own age. The request was a mere
matter of form with Lawrence, for he had made
the engagement with his friend a week ago ;
and his surprise almost equalled his indignation
when he received a decided refusal.
" Why may I not go, sir ? " he asked, witH a
vain effort to steady the passionate trembling
of his voice.
" Because I have forbidden it, sir, which is
an all-sufficient reason," was his father's cold
reply. And Lawrence retorted furiously,
" It is a sufficient reason for a slave or a
baby, perhaps, but one that Zwill neither ac-cept
nor submit to !
"
So he hurried out of the house, saddled his
horse with his own hands, and rode away in
open defiance of his father's prohibition. He
came back at nightfall, and walked boldly into
16 DOUGLASS farm;
the sitting-room where lie knew that Mr. Dong-lass
was, neither fearing nor caring for the re-ception
that he was likely to meet. A bitter
reception it was, and the scene that took place
I will not attempt to describe. The children
clustered around Miriam, frightened and trem-bling
at the lond tones, and angry, threatening
words ; and Miriam bowed her head and hid
her face in an agony of the deepest shame and
sorrow that she had ever known. In this room,
once such a bright and cheery honsehold room,
where still stooi^ her mother's chair, her mother's
work-table, and many a little token besides of
the presence that had been its smishine in for-mer
times ; where, if in any place, her mother's
spirit should linger^—that such a scene should
be witnessed—and on this day of all others!
One little year ago the room had echoed to
such glad voices, with not one note out of tune —oh, the harsh discords that jarred through it
now
!
Over all this dreary ground Miriam's
thoughts wandered. There was no light or
comfort in the retrospect, and to her weak faith
there seemed no promise of hope for the future.
Yery drooping, very hopeless and sad sat the
child, with the darkness folded close about her,
the great hall a sea of blackness before her, and
without the graveyard pines swaying in the
A HOrSEHOLD STOET. 17
wind, heard but not seen. It was tlie time of
her temptation, for in this sense of ntter weari-ness
and helplessness came the almost irresisti-ble
impulse to give np every thing—^faith, hope,
j^rayer^and drift with the tide which she had
no power to stem.
But trembling and frightened, she shrank
back, as suddenly the extent of the gi-eat temp-tation
flashed over her ; and quickly, in answer
to her eager cry for help and strength to resist
it, these words came gliding into her mind
—
'' Be not overcome of evil, hut overcome evil vnth good.
" Endure unto the end
—
endure unto the endP
And with the words a great flood of light and
comfort seemed poured into the child's heart
:
the siLllen tears that unshed had weighed down
her eyelids, fell in a sudden shower now of hope
and thankfulness, and the head bent down upon
the folded hands drooped no longer in helj)less
despair, but in fervent, eager, trustful prayer.
The night was as dark around her as before, she
could not see one step forward ; yet the voice
before her saying, " It is I, be not afraid—fol-low
me "—^her ears could hear now. So, hum-bly
but with new courage, she arose to tread
the unseen path which the ]S"ew-Tear should
open for her.
18 DOUaLASS FAEM :
CHAPTER n.
" Minnie ! sister ! " a child's troubled voice,
lialf friglitened, half fretful, reached Miriam's
ear, sounding from the farther end of the great
hall. She started up quickly, answering,
"Is that you, Pussie ? Where are you? "
" Where are you f " asked the little voice*
" Oh, now I know ! " and then there was a sud-den
rush of little feet through the darkness, and
the child sprang breathless into the arms opened
wide to receive her.
"What makes you stay in the dark, all
alone ? " she exclaimed pettishly, nestling down
upon her sister's shoulder. " I hunted for you
every where, and didn't you know I wanted
you ?
"•
" I left you in Grandma's room, Pussie, so I
didn't think of your wanting me," Miriam an-swered,
as, carrying the child in her arms, she
walked towards the sitting-room.
" Well, but I got tired of staying there
;
Grandma was cross"—
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 19
" Hu—sli, Pussie ! " Miriam's finger toiiclied
the little girl's lip reprovingly ; but Pussie kept
on boldly
:
" So sbe was, Minnie, ask Horace now ! for
she wanted ns to sit right still, and wouldn't let
us play a bit. So we came away, and then
Horace wanted to read with Mabel, and I had
nobody to take care of me. Then I went to look
for you."
" Well, now you've found me," Miriam said
pleasantly, setting the little girl down as she
opened the door of the sitting-room. There
were no lamps lighted, but the large room was
all in a glow from a famous oak-wood fire, burn-ing
within the ample fireplace. The flame was
reflected in the broad hearth of polished black
marble, and glittered and flashed over the
shining surface of the brass fender, and huge
brass andirons that upheld those sturdy oak-logs.
The whole room, with its three large
windows draped with dark chintz curtains, its
soft, bright-colored carpet, its heavy old-fash-ioned
mahogany, furniture, its high-backed
leather arm-chairs, and cosy, crimson-covered
round table on which stood the shaded lamp
—
lay warm and cheery in the bright blaze of
this generous fire. There could not be a greater
contrast than between it and the chilly darkness
of the hall-window ; and Miriam's heart in its
new hopefulness acknowledged gratefully the
20 DOTTGLASS FAEM ;
comfort and pleasantness that still lingered in
her home.
This was the family room, arranged in all
its cheerful and homelike details by her mo-ther's
own plan. There was a parlor on the
other side of the hall, that had the grand old
furniture in it, and the stately portraits of the
ancient Douglasses, and the century old cabinets
ofminerals and stuffed birds. The negroes on the
farm, who only had glimpses of it on high-days
and holidays, thought it a most gorgeous and
wonderful room ; but it had not the grace and
brightness of the sitting-room, where nothing
was grand, but every thing pretty and useful.
In the parlor her mother had rested last : the
slight shrouded figure, with its delicate hands
clasping roses white as themselves, and pure
face so beautiful in its marble stillness, had lain
there two summer days ; and from there had
been borne away to the grave beneath the great
pine. The room had never been used since,
and the children saw always in the midst of its
stately stillness, their dead mother, as she had
lain there in her coffin through those summer
days. But in the sitting-room, where she had
dwelt with them day by day, and where they
had clustered round her in glad household union
and love, she seemed still a living presence with
them. When their father was away, that is :
for when he came in amongst them, it was
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 21
strange and sad to see what a shadow fell over
them at once, and how keenly they missed the
presence which before they had almost fancied
in their midst.
But to-night he was not here. Only two
childi-en, a boy and a girl, of exactly the same
height and wonderfully like each other, sat to-gether
on the hearth-rug, reading by the fire-light
from off the same book. And at a little
distance apart from them, just before the hottest
blaze of the fii'e, knelt two little negro gii'ls,
upon whose shining black faces and arms it
seemed to make no more impression than it did
upon the marble hearth. As silent and absorbed
as the readers themselves, were these two little
sable handmaidens, with their round bright
eyes winking and shutting sleepily, and their
heads nodding to and fro. It was quite a ]3ic-tm-
e, the little group ; but Pussie sprang in and
put life into it in a very little while.
First to the little negroes : " Wake up, you
Lily ! Geranium, don't you hear ? " with such
peremptory emphasis, that the Kttle dainsels of
the flowery appellations sprang to their feet
broad awake in a minute, and smiling from ear
to ear.
Then to her brother and sister : " There !
'
with a snatch at the engrossing book—" Mimiie
says you're not to read any more, don't you,
Minnie ? So just put the old book down now,
and play."
22 DOUGLASS faem;
But Mabel held the book tigbtlj, and Hor-ace
said impatiently, "Who cares for Minnie?
She didn't say so, besides. So be still, Pnssie,
and don't botber ns. You bear ?
"
" Who cares for Minnie ! " Miriam repeated
pleasantly, stooping down to tbe children.
" Why Horace does, of course, and if Minnie
says put the book down till after supper, he will
do it for her. Won't he, little May ?
"
Little May looked up brightly into her sis-ter's
face, ready to make a bargain. " Yes, if
you'll tell us a story," she said. But Pussie in-terrupted
impetuously, " ISTo, no I Let's play
puss in the corner. Papa hasn't come yet, so
we can have a nice time ; and we neve^'' play
any games nowadays."
" Puss in the corner 's only fit for babies,"
said Horace contemptuously. At which Pussie
began a remonstrance. But Miriam hushed
it up, and made a compromise for all by open-ing
the piano to play for them. It was so
rarely opened nowadays—for Mr. Douglass
could never bear to hear it since his wife's
death—that the music was quite a treat to the
children, and they all gathered eagerly around
Miriam. And Lily and Geranium were sta-tioned
at the window to watch "for mas'r's
gig," and give the first signal of his arrival ; so
that the piano might be closed before he was
annoyed by the soimd.
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT. 23
l^ow while Miriam is playing, and the little
ones too mncb. engrossed to be conscious of any
personal remarks, we will give yon a more formal
introduction to tlie young people at Douglass
Farm. Pussie comes first, as in lier own esti-mation
at least, she is an important member of
the family. Her true name is Kitty, or to go
back to the family Bible, Catharine Amelia
Douglass : and this is the title which she always
gives to any stranger asking her name. But
she is such a little round thing, so saucy and
frolicsome and topsy-turvy, so kitten-like in her
general aspect and behavior, that her long
name sees very little every-day service, and
" Pussie " has been always the household call
for the household pet. She is five years old, and
the youngest, Miriam's sj^ecial charge and care.
For Miriam read in the pleading look which her
dying mother turned from her to the sobbing,
frightened child, that the little one was left as
a sacred trust to her. And very sacredly Mi-riam
had held it, praying that she might act a
motherly part, wise and thoughtful and tender,
towards the wayward petted little one. Pussie
thinks that " Minnie " belongs to her quite as
entirely as her little bond maidens, Lily and
Geranium ; and she orders her about hither and
thither, making her subject to her whimsical
will in a very " little princess " style. But
Miriam suffers it smilingly, for in all essential
24: DOUGLASS FAKM ;
matters, Pussie is a good and obedient child
;
loving her sister with all her heart, and yielding
prompt submission whenever it is required.
Horace and Mabel—or Little May, as Lau-rence
always calls her—make much more
trouble for Miriam. They are the twins, and
in their nine-year-old dignity, do not choose al-ways
to be governed by their sister, who as
May, a self-willed little rebel, says, "is only
fourteen, and just a head taller than me;"
Horace, being a boy, has his own ideas of su-periority
of course; so it happens that the
twins, through disregard of Miriam's advice,
come under their father's displeasure far too of-ten
for Miriam's peace of mind.
Lily, and Geranium-Flower, are twins too
;
several years older than Pussie, though Pussie
claims them as her own peculiar playmates
and waiting-maids. They trot after her all day
long, the pair of them, for you never see them
a^^art. If' you did, you would never know
which was Lily, or which Geranium ; for they
are both just so black and just so small, with,
the same round woolly heads, and the same sau-cy,
twinkling black eyes, and wide mouths for-ever
on the grin ; which display rows of whiter
and more regular teeth than Miss Pussie, who
has been too much indulged in sweet things,
can show. Pussie has a way of distinguishing
them though, which she fancies very original.
A. HOTJSEHOLD STORY. 25
Slie lias sewed with her own little hands, a red
ribbon bow upon the shoulder of Geranium's
linsej frock ; a badge of which Geranium is
very proud indeed, and Lilj not a little envi-ous.
In general, however, the dark little sis-ters
are very good friends, and perfectly united
in their devotion to Miss Pussie. They are
useful little messengers for the whole house be-sides,
and run upon perpetual errands for par-lor
and kitchen alike. For Aunt Comfort,
who is "Granny" to them, their mother being
dead long ago, keeps a strict hand over them,
and by way of seeing that they*are "wuth
their vittles" as she says, manages to make
them save her a great many steps.
Aunt Comfort is the house-keeper at Doug-lass
Farm. She has nm-sed every one of the
childi-en as she nursed their mother before
them, and in her dignified position, impresses
all the negroes upon the place with a wonder-ful
sense of her importance. She wears a most
miraculous turban, and always has her gowns
made with the biggest bishop-sleeves ; which,
as she is sufficiently portly without them, give
such ample breadth to her figure, as could only
be accommodated in the wide doors and halls
of this roomy old house. Miriam keeps the
key-basket and is the mistress, but Aunt Com-fort
bears the real burden of the house-keeping,
the " sponsibility," as she often says. She su-
2
26 DouaLAss fakm;
perintends the great Christmas slaiigliterings
with all their concomitants of " fat-trying," sau-sage-
chopping, soap-making, and cutting up
into shoulders and jowls and chines and mid-dlings
: she looks to the spinning and weaving,
and cuts out all the garments, of which such a
pile is made yearly for the numerous " hands "
upon the farm : she has charge of the smoke-house,
and the poultry-yard, and the dairy;
and portions out to the field-negroes their daily
rations of meat and meal and molasses. She
directs Aunt Sabra the cook, too, in the matter
of breakfasts and dinners for ''- Marster," and
takes upon herself the making of all the deli-cate
pastry and rich cake, and " company" des-serts.
A very busy and very self-im^^ortant individ-ual
is Aunt Comfort, though most faithful and
kind-hearted too, and with all her soul devoted
to the interests and well-being of the family.
Miss Minnie is her great pride and admiration,
nevertheless she doesn't allow much interfe-rence
of Miss Minnie's in any of her depart-ments.
If Miriam, seeking as house-mistress a
general supervision of all the labors going on,
ofi'ers her assistance in any, Aunt Comfort sends
her off, with—
"]N"ow, Miss Minnie, jes' you clar out,
honey, and let me ten' to dis bisness by myself.
I'ze plenty capable, and you ain't no sort o' good
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 27
yer, so you'd a heap better be lookin' arter dem
cliilliin. Lord bless you, dey alias wants seein' to,
some of 'em. Leave 'em alone one minnit, and
' pen ' upon it, dey gits into some kin' o' mis-chieviousness.
Den you know, Miss Minnie,
marster lias to git 'em out of it, and you ain't
so mighty well sot up wid his way, no how."
Aunt Comfort knew the strength of her ar-gument,
for this view of the case generally im-pressed
Miriam, so that she left Aunt Comfort
to her own devices, and went back to the charge
which she felt in truth her own more especial
duty. It was true enough that the children
always wanted " looking after." About the house
as they were all day, for they did not go to
school, and with no regular study hours for the
lessons which their father heard them recite
every afternoon, they were continually getting
up some sort of a nursery riot. Then the les-sons
which they could learn " any time " were
neglected and put off from hour to hour, especi-ally
by those rebellious ones, Horace and Mabel.
Until their father's summons to say them found
them all unprepared and in trouble and fear
they would go down to meet the pimishment
which only too often awaited them.
These lessons made a world of trouble for
the twins. They were long enough and hard
enough in their way of Greek and Latin, and
History and Geography and Arithmetic, to em
28 DOTJOLASS FAEM-;
ploy fully the most of their morning hours. But
they would waste away the morning with some
trifle, disregarding Miriam's frequent warn-ings
; then when frightened suddenly by a dis-covery
of the lateness of the hour, they would
go to work very hard indeed to accomplish a
great deal in a little while. But it often hap-pened
that the recitation of the tasks thus hur-ried
over, ended in tears and woful disgrace.
Many a night found the children supperless in
bed long before bed-time ; many a bright after-noon
looked in u]3on them shut up in papa's
study, to con again those hopeless crabbed
Greek verbs, and puzzle over the construction
of those involved Latin sentences ; while
smarting hands and tingling ears too, bore evi-dence
sometimes of harsher discipline still. For
Mr. Douglass was more severe in the matter of
the lessons than in any thing else. He had his
own ideas of education, of which he considered
Latin and Greek the only solid foundation.
Tliere was no discipline like it for the mind, he
said ; so as soon as his childi*en had mastered
the spelling-book, their young minds were dis-ciplined
. with Latin grammar. "Milk for
babes " Mr. Douglass was apt to forget, and he
expected them to digest the strong meat which
he set before them as if they had been men. So
the struggle with the Latin and Greek had al-ways
been a hard one, the progress a very weary
A HOUSEHOLD 6T0EY. 29
iip-liill sort of advance, every step of whicli had
been marked by tears ; even when tlieir mother
was living. She had smoothed it for them as
much as possible by making them observe a
certain system and order in their stndying ; bnt
since hei* death Miriam had not the same au-thority,
and as the study hours came to be spread
all over the day, so the lessons came to be neg-lected,
and then constant trouble and punish-ment
was the consequence.
Miriam had her own tasks too, for Mr.
Douglass taught them all, and was himself pre-paring
Laurence for the University. There was
no school in the county which he considered
suitable for his children, and instead of employ-ing
tutor or governess, he chose to be their
teacher himself. But Miriam often wished that
it could be otherwise. She tried to be faithful
and conscientious in the discharge of her own
duty, even though the studies to which she was
confined were difficult and uninteresting, and
her father's style of instruction was not such as
to inspire her with love for them. But the chil-dren's
troubles often, made her wish that they
could go to school ; and Laurence was even
more discontented than they. Mr. Douglass
required almost impossible promptitude, dili-gence,
and progress from him, and Lam*ence
rebelling against his exactions, was purposely
careless and indiflerent often. Of late there
30 DOUGLASS faem;
were few days when the boy did not come from
his father's study angry and excited, with new
fuel added to the fire of his discontent.
He had looked forward eagerly to the close
of this year as the last of his home-teaching.
For though it had never been directly promised,
he had been led to expect that in the coming
'New Year his collegiate course should begin
;
and he had waited for it with restless impa-tience,
and feverish longing to escape from the
home which since his mother's death had grown
a hateful prison to the proud and wilful boy.
Miriam had looked for it too as an uns]3eakable
relief, dearly as she loved her brother, and much
as she needed his companionship. But on that
unhappy Christmas day, Mr. Douglass in his
angry displeasure with Laurence had revoked
his decision, and as a punishment condemned
him to remain at home for another whole year.
He knew how great the disappointment would
be to the boy, and that a bitterer punishment
could not have been inflicted.
One piece after another Miriam played for
the eager children, who had not heard the piano
in a week before. She enjoyed it herself too,
strangely, for the music that sprang to sound
beneath her own light touches, seemed to blend
with the voices of hope in her heart, making a
gayer melody there than it had listened to of
late. So she played away cheerily whatever
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 31
the children called for, and sang to them, too,
with her sweet girlish voice, that in its shyness
would never let itself be heard, except before
such an audience. She was in the midst of a
grand march, to which Pussie was keeping time
by strutting up and down the room with great
dignity of gait, when Lily and Geranium gave
at last the signal of Mas'r's approach. The
grand march was cut short, and the piano closed
quickly. Horace and Mabel settled themselves
to the beloved book again, but Pussie ran to the
Avindow impatiently, to see for herself if it were
really her father.
" I don't see any body. Geranium—what do
you tell wi'ong stories for ? " she said, flattening
her nose against the pane, in a vain effort to
peer through the darkness.
Geranium giggled: "I spec' you don' see
nothin', Miss Pussie ; you ain't gwine to,
nother. De hoss clean gon roun' de house
a'ready—de way dat hoss gits up !
"
" Get papa's slippers for him, Pussie ; " said
Miriam, who was busy lighting the globe-lamp
upon the centre-table. But while Pussie ran
off for the slippers, the door opened, and instead
of Mr. Douglass, a tall, somewhat slender boy,
with brilliant dark eyes, and a wavy mass of
curly hair clustering over a girlishly white fore-head,
made his appearance.
" Oh, it is Lam*ence ! " cried little May,
82 DorGLASs faem;
jumping np from her book. ""Where have
you been, Laurie, and where's papa ?
"
'' "What business is that of yours ? " Lau-rence
answered good-humoredly, for little May
was a great favorite with her tall brother.
"Run out and tell Aunt Comfort to let us
have supper right away. Papa isn't coming
home."
" I'll go, Miss May, I'll tell her ! " Lily and
Geranium cried in a breath, while Pussie paused
irresolute with the slippers which she was
about to lay upon the hearth-rug, and Mabel
asked eagerly, " Isn't he really coming ? How
do you know, Laurie ?
"
"Because I was riding through Pungo-teague,
and saw him at Kellam's," Laurence
answered. " And he told me to take home
word that he should not be back till late, as he
was to meet a gentleman on business. It's just
possible that he may not come at all to-night,
Miriam ; it is a long ride, and he will have to
be out early to-morrow. IS'ew Year's Day, you
know."
"Yes, to be sure ; and what do you think,
Laurie ?" broke in Pussie. "Lily and Gera-nium
want to go up to Pungoteague to-morrow
with Aunt Comfort and Big Jim, and all the
rest of the people ! Did you ever hear any
thing so foolish ?
"
" i^Tever in my life ! " Laurence exclaimed
A HOUSEHOLD STOET. 33
laughing, as he looked down upon the dusky-twins,
who had delivered their message and
trotted hack again, and were now listening
eagerly for " Mas' Laurie's " opinion of their
ambitious desire. '' Why, such pickanimiies as
you would be run over in the twinkling of an
eye at Pungoteague to-morrow, and they'd
never stop to pick you up ! They'd trample
you into such little bits. Aunt Comfort would
never be able to find the pieces ! Or if they
didn't do that, they'd tie your hands behind
you and send you down to Georgia to pick cot-ton
with yom* toes ! ISTo, indeed, Pungoteague
isn't the place for such mice as you, 'New Year's
Day!"
The round black eyes were stretched to their
widest extent with terror, showing a vast ex-panse
of white, as Lily and Geranium listened
in silent horror. " Mas' Laurie's " words were
solemn truth to them, and even Pussie looked a
little frightened as she said warningly, " There
—didn't I tell you how foolish you were to
want to go ?
"
Miriam laughed, and said, " What nonsense,
Laurie ! " as she put her arm through his and
led the way into the supper-room. It was a
pleasant thing to see him so bright and cheer-ful
as he was to-night ; he was more like the
gay, handsome, loving brother that he used to
be of old than he had been since Christ-
2^
34: D0FGLAS8 FAEM ;
mas Day. And Miriam enjoyed all his merry
speeches, and his fun with the children very
heartily. They had a pleasanter supper than
any of them had had in a long while. In gen-eral,
the meal-times passed in a very dull
and silent way ; Mr. Douglass had little or
nothing to say, and the children only spoke
under their breath. It was always a relief to
Miriam when the breakfast or dinner or sup-per
was fairly over. But to-night, unrestrained
by their father's presence, the little tongues kept
up a lively chatter, which Laurence provoked
and encom-aged by his good-natured bantering.
They lingered over the table a long time in plea-sant
talk, and Aunt Comfort looked on with dig-nified
satisfaction to see " dem chillun 'joyin'
demselves. Dat was de way things %Lsed to be,"
she remarked to Aunt Sabra as she stood wash-ing
up the dishes, when they had left the table
at last. " When mistis was a livin', and de chil-lun
warn't afeard to say deir souls was deir own.
ISTowadays dey isn't one of 'em—'thout it is
Mas' Laurie, an' he ain't afeard o' de Ole Boy
hisself, ef he was on the face o' the yeth—dat
farly dars to open his mouth when Marster's by.
But dat's no way to fotch up chillun, 'cordin'
to my b'lief, nor de blessed Bible nother.
'Twan't Mistis's way, 'taint de right way—and
Marster he'll fiu' it out one o' dese days ; you
min', Comfort !
"
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 35
So Aunt Comfort wound up with an oracu-lar
toss of her turban, which was answered sym-patlieticallj
by Aunt Sabra, as she bore away
the remains of the waffles and stewed oysters
into the kitchen dominions. While Miriam, un-conscious
of these remarks, which, however, she
heard often enough from Aunt Comfort, was
seated in her father's arm-chair, with Pussie on
her knee, Horace and Mabel on the rug at her
feet, and Geranium and Lily hovering like
ishadows in the rear, all listening with hushed
ind solemn faces to a marvellous legend of the
)ld Year, partly handed down by family tradi-
Lon, but very much embellished by Miriam's
wn imagination.
The story ended, Lily and Geranium trotted
ff to the kitchen for their supper. When they
ippeared again, Pussie, who had been basking
n the firelight in a state of quietude very unu-sual
for her, suddenly declared herself sleepy
;
and Miriam laid aside her work to go up stairs
with her. She always went to hear her say her
prayers, and give her the good-night kiss, with-out
which Pussie never willingly went to sleep.
Aunt Comfort went too, for she was Pussie's
" mammy " still, and regularly di-essed and un-dressed
her ; and the two little negroes went,
for they were Pussie's body-guard by night as
well as by day. They slept upon a " lodge "
beside the bed, and went to sleep whenever she
did.
36 DOUGLASS faem;
Laurence laiiglied at the forming of tlie pro-cession,
and told Miriam to limTy down again,
for lie wanted to read aloud to lier. So she
came back as soon as she had seen Pussie in
bed, and then Laurence read aloud the papers
and magazines which he had brought from the
post-office ; while she sewed, and Horace and
May amused themselves quietly, making paper
toys, and listening to their brother whenever
any thing like a story was read. They too grew
sleej)y by and by, however, and went off in
search of Aunt Comfort to light them to bed,
and Miriam was left alone with her brother.
" We have had a nice evening, Laurie," she
said, as he laid aside the magazine at last;, and
sat looking thoughtfully into the fire.
" Yes," he answered drily. '' It's a singular
thing, isn't it, that a father's absence contrib-utes
so much to the enjoyment of his chil-dren?"
Miriam looked up with a reproachful " /
wish you would not say such things, Laurie."
'' As well say them as think them," he re-turned
carelessly. " You know well enough,
Miriam, how true they are. We've had a
pleasant evening because he was not here to
sj)oil it—because his absence lifted the shadow
that his presence always throws. You think
so as well as myself, only you are afraid to say
it."
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 37
" I know it is not riglit to think so ; ana if
it is true, it is more our fault tlian his, perhaps,
Laurence."
" How ? I am sure I cannot see what we
have to do with his moods. We are never near
enough to his thoughts to influence them in any
way, except as we are before his eyes, and he
is obliged to feel that we belong to him. A
feeling that gives him very little satisfaction, as
I believe."
" That is the very thing I mean, Laurie
;
that we think such things about him, and dis-trust
his love for us, and so keep our hearts shut
to him, until it is no wonder that he is harsh
and stern and silent towards us."
" Is it my fault that my heart is shut to
him ? " Laurence asked excitedly. " Has he
ever given me any encouragement to open it ?
I would love my father with such a ]ove, and
such a pride, if he would only let me ! But you
know at what a distance he keeps us all, and me
in especial—how no effort of mine to please him
ever has given him pleasfire, and his delight
seems to be to thwart, constrain, mortify, and
disappoint me in every possible way. I do not
say that I have not given him cause often enough
for anger with me, but I do say that had he
even displayed any symj^athy or forbearance
with me, ever shown any fatherly feeling for
me, I Avould have been as loving and dutiful a
38 DOUGLASS FARM ;
son as a father could desire. But he never
has."
" Oh, Laurence, never is a hard word,"
Miriam exclaimed sorrowfully. " It was not
always so, you know. While mother lived, you
had no trouble with father, at least nothing
such as has happened since ; and he did love
you then, and does love you still, I am sure !
"
" He loved motJier^^ said Laurence, " and
for her sake he gave us a measure of interest or
affection—something—to satisfy her. But now
that she is gone, he has no longer any tender-ness
for us. We irritate him by continually
reminding him of her, without any power to
fill her place ; and he proves it by his harsh
and impatient treatment of us ever since her
death."
He spoke quietly, without passion, and
Miriam, standing by his side, could only hide
her face upon his shoulder in silent grief, for
she could not deny that she had felt the same
thing. They stood together so for some minutes,
without speaking. .Miriam said, at last
:
" We must try to love him then, without
looking for encouragement or return yet. Be-cause
he is our father, because she loved him
so dearly, and because the sorrow which we all
feel, falls heaviest and bitterest on him. We
must try to fill her place to him, to keep her
spirit so present with us always that he shall
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 39
recognize it in ns by and by—and be won by
our likeness to her. I do believe, Laarie," sbe
continued earnestly, " that if we watch and
pray, and strive to act always as she would wish
to have us if she were here—as God shows us is
right—we shall be happy again by and by, and
there will be peace and love amongst us once
more."
" Then I wish I had your faith, Minnie,"
said Laurence, with a half smile. " I must
confess that I cannot see any prospect of such a
millennium."
"We must work for it," she answered ; " it
will not come while we stand idle—but by pa-tient
perseverance in well-doing."
" Those are little words to say, Minnie, but
it is not so easy to fulfil their meaning in one's
life."
" Unless God helps us," Miriam interrupted
timidly. " In this way we can do any thing
that is right by His help, Laurie, and He has
promised us all the strength that we need, if we
only ask for it."
She looked up into her brother's face as she
spoke, though her cheek flushed with embar-rassment
; for it cost her a great effort even to
speak in this way, and she half dreaded indif-ference,
if not ridicule, from Laurence.
She met neither, however ; he only bent
down and kissed her quietly, then said good-
40 DOUGLASS FAEM.
night, and left the room. Miriam stayed au
hour after he had gone ; not waiting for her
father, for it was too late now to expect his re-turn
; but kneeling upon the hearth-rug, her face
buried in the cushions of her father's arm-chair,
wliile her whole heart went out in sorrowful,
pleading prayer. If the spirit of peace that
she had prayed for did not yet spread its wings
over the troubled household, its sweet influence
was at least shed into her heart. She arose
from her knees strengthened and comforted,
and that night her sleep was untroubled as a
child's.
A HOUSEHOLD STOBY. 41
CHAPTER m.
The houseliold was astir at a very early hour
tlie next morning, for ISTew Tear's Day in
Accomac is the greatest holiday of all the year
to the negroes, and all were eager to get an
early start to Pungoteague. Aunt Comfort,
dignified as she was in general, holding herself
loftily above the interests of the other negroes,
condescended to take part in their JSTew Year's
Day ; and her turban was always the centre of
attraction in the great double wagon that went
with its load of gayly-di-essed and merry people
from Douglass Farm up to Pungoteague. She
was in a state of special excitement to-day, be-cause
Big Jim, her youngest son, so called to
distino-uish him from half-a-dozen smaller Jims
on the j)lace, was going to be liired out for the
first time.
Big Jim was very willing himself, he
wanted to see more of the world, and was get-ting
besides very impatient of the strict control
which his mother exercised over him still.
Aunt Comfort had no particular objection
42 DOUGLASS FARM ;
either, but it added a new importance to her
bustling preparations, and gave occasion for the
use of a great many grand words, as she laid
down the law to him with regard to his future
behavior, when no longer under her guardian-ship.
Big Jim's regard for his woolly locks,
just now combed and plaited in the highest
style of darkey art, constrained him to listen
with an appearance of respect to his " Mam-my's
" lectures ; but as soon as she was out of
hearing, his heels kicked up in the air, and his
chuckling " ha-ha-ha ! " proved his appreciation
of them to be not altogether satisfactory.
Miriam was glad that her father was not at
home, for the children were romping and shout-ing
up and down stairs, the servants going in
and out, and the house generally in a state of
bustle and confusion that would have been dis-tracting
to Mr. Douglass. Breakfast was hur-ried
over in a style very unlike the usual for-mality
of the meal. Aunt Sabra's mind had
been more intent upon the manufacture of her
" cent-cakes," and mince-pies, and ice-cream
—
tempting wares from which she expected to
realize large retail profits in Pungoteague—than
upon the coffee and pone for breakfast. And
" Jupe," (short for Jupiter Olympus !
) had
begged off from his attendance as waiter, so
that he might get started an hour earlier. Lily
and Geranium were the only ones left to render
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 43
any service ; and tliey were of very little use
indeed, for their hearts had gone with the rest
to that delightful, unattainable Pungoteague
;
and their wide-open eyes stared at every thing
but the cup or plate they were wanted to pass.
Miriam was indulgent to all accidents how
ever this morning, and by way of consolation to
the little hand-maidens, persuaded Aunt Com-fort
to let them have a ride in the wagon as far
as the upper gate. Pussie declared she would
go too ; so all three were tumbled into the laps
of the women, who were packed as closely
together as their finery would allow, and
Big Jim, with a flourish of his whip, set the
cavalcade in motion. The stout horses sprang
off at a round trot, as if they entered into the
fun of the thing ; and Pussie standing up in
Aunt Comfort's lap, much to the tumbling of
that grand black silk dress, waved her handker-chief
with a shout to Horace and May, who
watched them from the piazza.
The npper gate opened upon the country
road, and that was alive, by the time they
reached it, with vehicles of all descriptions.
Gentlemen in rockawa^^s and sulkies, lawyers in
their smart curricles, farmers and planters in
their roomy old-fashioned gigs, young men on
their ponies, negroes of every age and size and
appearance, in carts and wagons and wains,
and on foot, were all travelling over the broad
44 DorGLAss faem;
road with various degrees of speed. Every
body was going either to Pungoteagne, Onan-cock,
Drummondtown, or some other one of
the villages scattered along the length of the
peninsula. For every one of them on Kew
Year's Day was a great gathering point, since
all the business of the year was then and there
to be transacted. In Accomac one can hire a
servant, rent a house, buy a piece of land, hold
a vendue, or do any thing else in short that is
considered business, on no day but the all-im-portant
first of the year !
Tlie childi'en, after they had been dropped
out of the wagon, hid themselves in the pine
thicket that grew up tall and close, marking the
line between Douglass Farm and the public
road, to watch the passers-by for a while. There
was plenty of racing and fast driving among the
motley crowd, and Pussie grew greatly excited
in watching the flying horses, especially when-ever
she recognized one that she knew.
" Oh Geranium ! here comes cousin [Ro-bert's
new pony ! " she exclaimed as a pretty lit-tle
sorrel dashed by ; " doesnH he go fast ! as fast
as a mile in a minute !
"
"Dat ain't nuffin," Geranium answered
scornfully. "Mas' Kobert's pony ain't no
'count 'long with Mas ' Laurie's. Takes hiifn
to get ober the groun ' ! nobody can't ketch him,
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 45
'cept sometime Mas' Roger. Ki! dafs Mas'
Boger now ! Lookee dar, Miss Piissie !
"
A pretty little cmTicle, drawn by a small
but beautiful black horse, was ra]3idly approach-ing
; and Pussie recognized it quickly as Eoger
Dennis's.
" Sm-e enough ! " she cried, " and he is com-ing
here too ! See ! Run, Lily—run. Geranium,
and 023en the gate before he gets down."
The twins sj^rang to the gate with a bound,
and Pussie with them in her eagerness to meet
Roger, whom she liked very much. He was
Laurie's best friend, and while their mother
lived, used to come to Douglass Farm very
often. Since then, he had not been there so
much, because the cold welcome which Mr.
Douglass gave him, always vexed and irritated
the proud boy. He was none the less Laurie's
friend, however ; and he had always a merry
word for Pussie too, whenever he saw her.
^' Hullo ! Miss Catliarine Amelia, it isn't
possible that's yom-self ; " he called out, as Pus-sie
presented herself in front of the gate.
" What in the world are you doing on the road,
Kew Year's Day?"
" Waiting for you to take me home," Pussie
answered s^^ucily. " Pick me up, Roger."
" Kot I," said Roger. " Pick yourself up, if
you want a ride. Soli ! woh ! Robin Good-fel-low
! " for the black horse, as soon as the gate
46 DOUGLASS FAUM ;
was opened, wanted to dash throngh witliout
waiting for any one.
" Jump in quick, Robin won't stand," he
said. So Pnssie made a spring into the curricle,
Lily and Geranium scrambled up behind, and
Robin Good-fellow started off in a gallop, as if
his load was none a bit the heavier. They had a
merry little drive up the avenue to the house,
and there Miriam and Laurence were waiting
on the piazza to meet Roger. For Laurence
had expected him, they had agreed to go up to
Pungoteague together, and Laurence was all
ready with his hat and overcoat on. He jumped
Pussie out, and took her place in the curricle
beside Roger, who gave the reins to Robin
Good-fellow, nodding good by to the girls—and
soon they were out of sight again.
This was the last of the departures, and
Miriam went back into the house, which looked
almost deserted in its emptiness, to spend a quiet
day with Grandmamma—we have not intro-duced
you to her yet, but we will now if you will
follow Miriam up stairs—who was sitting alone
in her easy-chair, half asleep. Her own maid,
Minerva, was engaged to Jupiter Olymjjus, and
had got permission to walk up to Pungoteague
with him. So Miriam had to take her place for
the day, and wait upon her grandmother, who
required constant attendance. A few months
before the death of her daughter, Miriam's mo-
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 47
ther, she had had a stroke of paralysis, which
had left her helpless as a child. She could not
walk, or even stand alone, and her nerveless
hand was unable to grasp any thing ; so that
every service had to be performed for her as if
for an infant. The stroke had paralyzed her
mind as well as her body, and her comprehen-sion
now was like that of a child, to whom the
simplest things must be over and over explain-ed.
It was a wearisome task often to sit with the
old lady, and while away the honrs that passed
so slowly and heavily for her ; to answer all
her often-repeated questions, to soothe her quer-ulous
complaints, to satisfy her causeless fears
and suspicions. But Miriam tried to fill her
mother's place in patient, faithful devotion to
her helpless grandmother, and many hours of
every day she spent with lier ; until the old
lady grew to look for her coming, and depend
upon her society as the chief pleasure of her
life.
Miriam's own room was connected with her
grandmother's and at night the door was always
left open ; so that, although Minerva slept by
the side of her mistress's bed, she could still
hear and go to her grandmother if she awaken-ed.
And as Minerva, like the rest of her race,
was no hght sleeper, Miriam often chose to get
up herself, and do what was needed in the night,
48 DOUGLASS FAKM ;
rather than cail tlie maid. Many a night too,
she would sit patiently by the bed, when grand-mamma
conld not sleep, and listen to her ram-bling,
incoherent stories, or, what was harder
than any thing to do—go over and repeat to her
all the sorrowful meniories of her mother's sick-ness
and death, for this was the last vivid im-pression
which the poor old lady's shattered
mind had received, the death of her only be-loved
daughter. And she dwelt upon it contin-ualljr,
making Miriam repeat to her every cir-cumstance
of the terrible period ; and torturing
herself and the child by imagining all sorts of
vain and impossible remedies that might have
been applied to save her life.
Mr. Douglass paid her a short visit every
day, and grandmamma, who had a great admi-ration
and respect for her son-in-law, was al-ways
pleased with his attention. The children
too, ran in and out of her room through the
day ; but they were noisy and did not like to
sit still and talk to her, and grandmamma was
not very fond of them. It was upon Miriam that
she depended chiefly, and upon Miriam that the
chief responsibility of her comfort rested. And
it was not the least of the young girl's cares.
She sent Pussie into the nursery to play,
when she found her grandmother dozing, and
sat down with her work beside her chair, that
A HOTJSEHOLD STORY. 4:9
she might 'watcli her. It was her post through
the day, except when domg some necessaiy er-rands
down stairSj she left one of the chikh-en
in her place. Grandmamma was never left
alone, for fear of accidents. Once or twice
when she had been unattended for a few min-utes,
she had attempted to get up and walk, and
had fallen helplessly .u]3on the floor ; so that
now Miriam was always very careful to see that
some one was always with her.
They all had their cold dinner, or luncheon
rather, in grandmamma's room, and Miriam
made it a sort of feast for the old lady ; so that
she enjoyed having the party very much. She
grew cheerful and communicative, and told the
children old stories about her childhood ; for
she seemed to remember these better than any
events of later years. While they listened
and talked together, Miriam went down stairs,
to see that the sitting-room was all in order, and
to build up the fire freshly, that it might be
bright and cheerful when her father came home.
The short winter afternoon was wearing on to
twiliglit, and as the sun sank lower, a chilly
wind was rising. She knew that her father and
Laurence would come home cold and tired ;
so she determined that every thing within the
house should be cheerful and warm for them.
And she hoped that they might come home in
3
50 DOTJGLASS FAUM ;
peace and loye, and all s^^end a liappj even-ing
together.
Slie drew her father's arm-chair np to the
fire, which was bnrning brightly, Ml of glow-ing
light and warmth, laid his slippers and
dressing-gown ready for him, and drew the
round table near, with the lamp upon it ready
to be lighted when the twihght shonld close.
When she had done every thing, she sat down
by the window to watch for the arrivals. She
heard already the songs and shouts of the ne-groes
as they were on their homeward way, and
the rattle of wheels in the distance upon the
public road. And by and by, the stragglers
from Douglass Farm began to return, singly, or
in little groups. Minerva and little Jupe came
first, for Minerva, in gratitude for the permis-sion
to go so early, had determined to be very
punctual in her return. Soon after, the wag-on
made its appearance, with Aunt Comfort's
towering turban in the centre ; and Miriam felt
at ease then, for she knew that supper would
be prepared, and everything in order before
her father's return.
She w^atched for Laurence now, for she
wished, though she scarcely knew why, that
he might come before his father. It was partly
that there might be no possibility of Mr. Doug-lass
meeting Roger, whom of late he seemed to
dislike so much. And also that all the chil-
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 61
dren might be at h.om.e, to welcome liim after
his absence. Tbej were all clown stairs by this
time ; Pussie rom2:)ing before the fire with Hor-ace
; little May standing at the window, peer-ing
into the twilight that fast deepened into
darkness, and wondering why Lanrie didn't
come. Miriam wondered too, but he did not
come for all ; and at last as she still looked ont,
she saw the dim ontline of her father's gig at
the lower gate, and Jw^e plunging through the
darkness down the avenue, to open it for him.
So she gave up the hope, and turned away
to light the lamp, and oj)en the door into the
hall, that her father might have light when he
came in. She herself went to the front door to
meet him, as he stepped out of the gig on to
the piazza. She called him " Father," and
lifted her face timidly for a kiss ; for she hoped
that after his two days' absence, he might give
her this rare token of afi'ection. But he took
no notice of the gentle, pleading face upraised
to his, except with a mere nod of recognition,
a careless " Is it you, Miriam ?" as he passed
by her into the hall, and threw off his cloak
and hat. He did not even take her hand, or
call her " daughter," and Miriam followed after
him into the sitjting-room with a heavy heart,
more pained and disappointed than she had
imagined she could be now, by treatment which
had become so familiar to her.
52 DoraLAss farm ;
She tried to smother the feeling, however,
and look and speak cheerfully ; asking her
father various little questions about his personal
comfort and offering little attentions. But he
declined them all, and so impatiently at last,
that Miriam drew back silent and sorrowful,
and gave up the effort to win him in any way.
It was evident that to-night he was in one of
his gloomiest moods. He leaned back in his
arm-chair, stern and silent, his heavy brows
drawn into a frown, his mouth rigid and un-smiling.
The children gathered together in a
group as far from him as possible ; and by and
by they crept quietly out of the room, all
three of them together. Miriam longed to go
too; she felt oppressed and dejected in her
father's gloomy presence, and would have
gladly accepted any means of escape from it.
But she had no excuse for going, and she was
thankful afterwards that she had not stirred
;
for Mr. Douglass, though he had taken no no-tice
of the children while they remained, looked
after them as they went out, and said bitterly,
" That is the welcome my children give me
when I come home. Five minutes in my pres-ence
is more than they can endure, and any
company is to be preferred to their father's.
It is truly a pleasant thing to come home to
such loving and dutiful children !
"
Miriam said no word in reply, for tears so
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 63
swelled lier heart that she could find no voice
to speak. And so there was another dreary
silence for a while. Mr. Douglass looked
around again at last, and asked suddenly,
" "Where is Lam*ence ?
"He has not come home yet," Miriam an-swered.
" Where has he been ?
"
" At Pungoteague, father ; I thought you
would have seen him."
" 1^0 : he was very careful to avoid me, as
he always is. Did he go alone ?
"
" 'No, father, Roger Dennis came for him."
Miriam spoke half hesitatingly, for she knew
that the information would not please him.
But she was not prepared for the burst of pas-sion
that her words called forth.
"It is Roger Dennis for ever!" he ex-claimed
angrily, striking his clenched hand
against the arm of the chair. "An upstart boy
whose own head is filled with the absurdest
notions of independence and self-importance,
and who is doing his best t^ make Laurence
as bad as himself. And yet my son, against
my exj)ressed will and desire, chooses him for
his boon companion, scorns my judgment, and
braves my displeasure !—Why did you suffer
him to go, Miriam, without remonstrance ?
"
he asked, suddenly turning sharply upon her.
" 1 did not know that you had forbidden
54 DOUGLASS faum;
him, father," Miriam began, startled and dis-tressed
; " I did not know—
"
But lie interrupted her impatiently—" You
should have known, and that you did not know
proves only how mindful you are of my words
and my actions, which have all expressed dis-ap23roval
of Laurence's intimacy with Boger
Dennis. But you are like all the rest."
He strode up and down the room in his in-dignation
; while she sat quite still, making no
reply. These bitter taunts from her father
seemed harder than any thing in the world to
endure. " I cannot bear it any longer ! I
would rather die ! " was the first wild thought
that came to her, as she gave way to her uncon-trollable
agony. But it passed away in the
first passionate outburst, and the same comfort-ing
words that had soothed her yesterday,
'"''Endure unto the end—ye shall he saved^^^
crept into her heart again to make peace in the
midst of its troubled commotion.
She was so calm and quiet when she went
to the supper-ta]ple, showing no trace of her
grief, except that her face was paler and more
patient, that the children never guessed that
any thing had distressed her. Only Aunt Com-fort's
eyes, quick and loving where Miriam was
concerned, saw that something had happened ;
and she gave vent in the kitchen, after her
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 55
usual fasliion, to her discontent and indigna-tion
:
" Wisli to grasluis Mas'r 'd go 'way some-wliar
and stay. Kebber come back 'gen, for we
gits 'long a beaj) better widout nm. First thing,
soon as he gits home, he must be flyin' at Miss
Minnie 'bout somethin' or other—Lord knows
what ! Mas' Laurie I s'pose ; it's alius him.
And dar's her eyes all washed out cryin agen,
and she white as a ghost, and Mas'r lookin black
as thunder at everybody. Don' see how he can
carry on so—do'no what sort o' conshus he hab,
sure 'nuff ! Wonder de child'en don't all run
away, I do !
"
" Maybe Mas' Laurie done gone run away,
a'ready ? " put in Jupe, who had been listening
with great interest. " He aint come home yet,
an I 'spec—
"
But what he " 'spected " was never known,
for Aunt Comfort, with wrathful fingers twisted
in his locks, brought hi^ remarks to a sudden
terminus.
" You specs, does you ? I tell you what I
specs, you sassy good-for-nothin' nigger ! Dat
I'll find out whether dis har o' yourn 's got any
roots or not, ef ebber I ketch you talkin' such
stuff as dat agen. Mas' Laurie run away, sui'e
'nuft'! Cl'ar out o' dis kitchen dis minnit, and
don' show your wall-eyes here 'gen to-night !
"
A vigorous pull of the plaited locks enforced
56 DOUGLASS faum;
her words, and Jwpe was glad to escape out of
her hands by obeying her. AYhile Aunt Com-fort
muttered indignantly, "Dese young nig-gers
! dey 's too sassy for any kind o' use. Can't
say nothin' 'fore 'em nowadays, but deir impi-dent
tongues must wag too."
^
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 57
CHAPTER lY.
It was ten o'clock ; tlie massive liall-doors, stiid-cled
with nails, were bolted and barred, tbe
lamps extinguished in the sitting-room, and
every one had retired for the night. Laurence
had not come home yet, and Miriam still
watched and waited for him, in her own room.
He had never stayed away all night without his'
father's permission, and she hoped with all her
heart that he would yet come home.
But she was destined to be disappointed, for
two hours wore by while she still kept her
lonely watch, and yet he did not come. So at
midnight she Vas forced to give up the hope at
last, and go to bed. The truth was,, that Roger
had persuaded Laurence to go home with him
and spend the evening at Hollybrook. And
they had had so merry an evening—Roger's
sisters playing and singing, and then all dancing
together, and then a JSTew Year's cake, with ap-ples
and nuts and mottoes, and pleasant stories
and talk with all—that the hours passed by un-noticed,
and twelve o'clock came before any
3-
58 DOUGLASS FAJRM ;
one was aware of it. Then tliey wonld not suf-fer
Laurence to go home, and lie knew indeed
that it wonld be better to stay away all night
than to return at that late hour.
But he was sorry that it had happened so,
for he had not intended it, and he knew Miriam
would be anxious and his father displeased.
For the latter consequence he cared very little,
however ; he was growing of late reckless and
indifferent as to his father's displeasure. He
never could please him, he said to himself, what-ever
he did, therefore it was useless to take
pains to obey him, since his father made so lit
tie distinction between his good and bad deeds.
It was wrong and foolish reasoning, but Roger
applauded it, and encouraged every demonstra-tion
of free thought and action in Laurence. It
was a boyish bravado, and beyond this there
were better and nobler qualities in Roger ; but
Mr. Douglass knew very well in what estima-tion
the boy held Jiim^ and fron-*- that view of
his character condemned him wholly.
Laurence knew, as he rode homewards next
morning, that he should " get a scolding," as
Koger said, for his unauthorized absence. He
did not shrink from it, however, but as soon as
he arrived, went directly to his father's study,
and knocked for admission.
" Well, sir ! " was Mr. Douglass' greeting
as he entered. " You have condescended to
come home, I see."
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT. 59
Laurence's cheek fliislied, but lie answered
respectfiillj, " I came in, father, to explain to
you the reason of my absence last night."
" I am glad you have sufficient sense of duty
left to see that it needs explanation," Mr. Doug-lass
said coldly. " Sit down, sir, and let us hear
what you have to say."
" I have very little to say," Laurence re-turned
]3roudly, " except that it was not my in-tention
to remain from home all night without
your permission. But I spent the evening at
Hollybrook, and the time passed so pleasantly
that I was not aware of its flight, till it grew too
late for me to go home."
" Yery pleasantly, doubtless, forbidden fruit
3 usually most delightful. You went with
he knowledge that I disapprove of your
^isits there entirely—your staying all night was
)ut an aggravation of what was already dis-
)bedience."
" I went with no such knowledge, father,"
Laurence exclaimed indignantly. " I have vis-ited
at Hollybrook for years, and I do not un-derstand
why my going there now has so sud-denly
come to be accounted disobedience !
"
"It is the more to be regretted, sir, that
you have visited there so long," Mr. Douglass
returned sternly. "I should perhaps have a
more dutiful son if his chosen comj)anion had
been of a diflerent stamp. However, since you
60 DOUGLASS FARM ;
were not aware of my will before, please to re-member
now tliat I desire yom- visits to Holly-brook
discontinnecl, and yonr intimacy with
Roger Dennis to cease entirely. His influence
over you continually increases, and your disre-gard
of all autliority save tliat of your own un-governed
will, is one consequence of its unwor-thy
exercise. He is not a wise, or safe, or suit-able
companion for my son, and as your father
I command your obedience in withdrawing from
your undue intimacy with him. This is all I
have to say to you on the subject, but I shall
expect your compliance with my desire."
He waved his hand, as if for Laurence to
go, but the boy stood still resolutely, with a hot
indignant flush mounting to his brow, and a
flash of defiance in his eyes.
"Zhave something to say, if you please, fa-ther,"
he said, with an eff'ort to speak calmly,
"and it is this, that you judge Roger Dennis
most unjustly when you condemn him as you
do ; and that knowing so well as I do how ut-terly
undeserving of your blame he is, I never*
can promise to obey you in the thing you re-quire.
Roger is my friend, and I love him. I
know him better than you do, and simply for
your command, which is unkind and imreason-able,
I cannot give him up !
"
*
He did not waver or hesitate in his bold
words, but looked steadily at his father, who
rose up and confronted him angrily.
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT. 61
" Do you dare to speak to me in this way,
sir? Have you forgotten wlioni you are ad-dressing?
Leave the room immediately, and
never venture to use such language to me again.
Gro, sir ; do you hear ?
"
" I will go, father," Laurence began, " but
you must understand—•"
" IN'ot a word, sir," Mr. Douglass interrupted
severely. " I will understand Hothing but that
you will do as I command you—or if you re-fuse,
that I will make use of such measures
as will sooner or later compel your obedience."
'' ITever ! " cried the boy with passionate ve-hemence.
" I will not bear it, I will not sub-mit
to it."
He had lost all control of himself, carried
away by his angry indignation, and spoke as he
had never dared to speak to his father before.
There was a light cane lying upon the desk near
which Mr. Douglass stood ; incensed beyond
measure at the boy's rebellious sjDeech, he
snatched it hastily, and struck Lam*ence once
or twice across the shoulders.
" 'Now, sir, go," he exclaimed, pale with ex-citement
; " and remember when you defy me
again, that if I am a tyrant, I am still your fa-ther,
and have and will exercise the power to
chastise insolence."
Laurence turned and left the room without
a word in reply. The first wild impulse had
62 DOUaLASS FAEM ;
been in his rage, to snatch, the cane from his
father's hands, and dash it away, or strike hini
in return perhaps. Bnt it had all passed in a
minute—the blows, his father's stinging words
—and his own momentary impulse was con-trolled
; as with a firm step, and face white with
intense suppressed passion, he strode out of the
study. ISTo one met him on his way up stairs,
he felt as if he^should have trampled down and
crushed any one who had crossed his path then
—and he went into his own room, and locked
himself within^
He never knew how the hours of the day
passed, as he sat there alone, «a throng of wild
thoughts and vague purposes in his heart, and
his passionate anger swelling and surging like
the waves of a stormy sea. The first interrup-tion
that came to him was Miriam's gentle
knock and pleading voice at the door.
" Laurie, won't you let me in ? " she asked
entreatingly. " It is almost dinner-time, and I
want to speak to you before you go down."
But he called to her without opening the
door : " I don't intend to come down, Miriam,
and I cannot let you in just now. I don't want
to see anybody."
" But, Laurie, just one minute ! " she plead-ed.
" I want to speak to you so much."
" Then you must speak where you are," he
said impatiently. " I cannot see anybody
A. HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 63
now, not even yon. For j)itj's sake go away,
Miriam."
He was ashamed of- his irritable words as
soon as lie had spoken them, and almost longed
to recall them ; bnt Miriam had gone already.
He heard her retreating footsteps, slow and
weary, as if she carried so heavy a heart with
her. And, indeed, poor Miriam's heart was
very heavy, burdened with a vague sense of
some new and incomprehensible trouble. She
had had one glimpse of her father's face, and
that had chilled her with its rigid expression.
Laurence had kept himself invisible all day.
"What had fallen between them she did not
know, but she tortured herself with a thousand
fears and anxieties, vainly trying to. understand
the matter.
And so the day dragged by, so heavily,
every minute seemed an hour. Her father had
not spoken a word at the table, and when he
left it, shut himself in his study again. Lau-rence
still did not appear, and Miriam at last,
unable to endure any longer her suspense and
apprehension, determined to make another ef-fort
to see him. He was just coming out of his
room as she got to the door, his overcoat hang-ing
upon his arm, as if he were preparing to go
out. He stopped when he saw Miriam, though,
put his disengaged arm around her, and kissed
her,, saying,
64 DOUGLASS FAEM ;
" Forgive me, Minnie, for speaking so liarsli-
Ij to you to-clay. I hardly knew what I was
saying. But promise me not to remember it
against me, won't you ?
"
'•If you will only tell me what is the matter,
Laurie," Miriam exclaimed, pressing closer to
him as he made a motion to leave her. " "What
has happened between you and father, and why
have you acted so all day ? Do not go, Laurie,
please ; but stay and tell me about it."
" I cannot stay now, Minnie, I must go," he
answered excitedly. " You will know all
about it time enough ; there is something on my
desk that will tell you. But now you must not
keep me. Good-by, Minnie !
"
He kissed her hastily, and drew himself
away from her, and before she could speak he
was down stairs, and out of sight. She went
into his room and looked out of the window
;
down "below, by the piazza steps, Jupe stood
holding the bridle of Laurie's own horse. In
another moment she saw Laurence himself come
out, carrying a carpet-bag in his hand, which
she had not noticed before, because it was con-cealed
by his overcoat. Now he had the coat
on, and the bag hung upon his arm, as he
mounted his horse and rode away.
It had all passed so quickly and quietly, that
Miriam, confused and bewildered, comprehend-ed
nothing ; till suddenly, as Laurence vanished
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 65
from her sight amongst the thick trees of the
avenue, a terrible thought flashed over her ; a
thought which made her limbs tremble weakly
beneath her, her heart faint and sicken with
despair. She had no courage at first to seek for
the " something " to which Laurence had al-luded.
She knew now instinctively what it
would tell her—that her brother, in the outburst
of some great passion, had determined at last
to leave his father's house, to escape the bond-age
under which he had fretted so long, to for-sake
his home for ever ! She sank down, hiding
her face in hopeless shame and sorrow, for now
indeed it seemed as if " all the waves and bil-lows
had gone over her." This was even worse
than any thing she had ever di'eaded—in all her
apprehensions for the future, she had never
looked forward to this ; and hope and faith failed
her in her dreary anticipations of the conse-quences
that must ensue.
The letter lay upon Laurence's desk before
her, and she took it up at last, though with a
strange reluctance ; for she dreaded the confir-mation
of that which still she was abeady so
sure of. It was a hastily wi'itten account of the
morning's scene with his father—a declaration
of his purpose to submit no longer to an unjust
control—and a slight sketch of the plan he
meant to act upon in his departiu-e.
" I am going to Roger first," it went on to
66 DOUGLASS FARM ;
say : " I made him a half promise some time
ago, that I would go do^vii to ISTortliampton with
him this week to make a visit at his Uncle Not-tingham's.
Mr. I^ottingham has m-ged me a
great many times to come down with Koger
;
he was a dear friend of mother's, yon know,
Miriam, and he will be a friend to me now in
helping me to form a plan for my future action.
What that will be, I cannot tell yet, I am only
determined nj)on one thing; that I will no
longer be dependent upon a father who knows
so little how to use a father's power. Don't be
afraid, however, that I shall make a fool of my-self,
after the fashion of school-boys playing
truant. If I am only a boy in years, I am
somewhat more than a boy in energy and will,
and I shall neither faint nor fail in my purpose.
You can do as you please about showing this
note to my father. I shall write to you again,
dear Minnie, as soon as I have decided any thing
—and meanwhile do not break your heart about
this affair. It is something that I have known
must happen, sooner or later, for I knew I could
not much longer endure the state of things at
home. If I did not go now, I should perhaps
do something worse ; for the sting of those blows
pierced deeper than my shoulders, and I know
not what wicked deed another meeting with my
father would tempt me to commit. I am not
patient and long-suffering as you, Minnie, and
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 67
your millenmum is too far off for my wait-ing."
Tliat was all ; and Miriam read and re-read
it, but found no comfort for her sorrow and
sliame.
68 DOUGLASS FAEM I
CHAPTER Y.
Two weeks had passed by. Laurence was still
with. Roger and his nncle in ISTorthampton, from
whence he had once written to Miriam. The
letter was filled with descriptions of the various
riding and hnnting and shooting parties which
had been arranged for their visit, bnt nothing
was said of any plan for the future. Indeed
Laurence had no definite plan in view ; he had
depended upon Mr. ^Nottingham to suggest
something, and to aid him in carrying out some
scheme gf independence, but what he scarcely
knew. The idea which was most atti-active to
him, was that he would go to the University,
and in some manner work his way through.
But Mr. I^ottingham understood the impracti-cability
of such a scheme better than Laurence
did ; and he, indeed, gave him but little encour-agement
to attempt any thing of the sort.
He was indignant at Mr. Douglass's arbi-trary
prohibition, and unjust condemnation
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT. 69
of Roger ; but he still saw that Laurence liad
clone very wrong in leaving his father's house.
And instead of aiding him in some rash enter-prise,
he advised him to undertake nothing at
present, but to take time enough to consider
the whole matter quietly, after the fire of his
first anger was cooled. So he kept the boys
with him, making their visit as pleasant as he
could, in the hope that he might by and by in-duce
Laurence to return to his father.
At Douglass Farm meanwhile, Laurence's
absence had made but little outward change.
Miriam had taken the letter to her father, pale
and trembling and tearful, expecting she knew
not what oiitburst of anger. But he had read
it calmly through, without a change upon his
stern countenance.
" Laurence is a fool," he said contemptuous-ly,
as he handed it back to her. " He will know
it himself soon."
That was all, and afterwards he had not men-tioned
him, or alluded to him in any way.
Whatever thoughts or feelings were working in
his breast, Miriam could not know. More
gloomy, more silent, more stern than ever, she
never dared approach him, or speak to him, ex-cept
in simplest answer to some necessary ques-tion
or remark. All her own weary sorrow she
must keep in her own heart, and sometimes the
70 DOUGLASS faem;
burden seemed too heavj, too hopeless for en-.
durance.
She satisfied the children's curiosity about
their brother's absence, by telling them that he
was making a visit with Eoger ; and she told
the same thing to the servants who inquired
for him. Only Aunt Comfort was not to be de-ceived.
She knew the whole history as well as
if she had read Laurence's letter, or been pre-sent
at his interview with his father. But she
kept her knowledge to herself, as far as the
other servants were concerned, and did not even
confide it to her prime minister, Aunt Sabra.
Jupe, who was possessed of a very inquiring
mind, had a shrewd suspicion that " Mas' Lau-rie
wa'n't a wisitin' all dis time for nuffin' ; " but
he was very careful not to make such observa-tions
within the range of Aunt Comfort's quick
eyes and ears. Aunt Comfort was a most
jealous defender of the family, and whatever
she might say herself, nobody else was sufi'ered
to speak a word against any member of it. She
loved Miriam especially with all her heart, and
petted and pitied her now continually ; but as
all her attempts at consolation ended in scold-ing
and railing at her master, it was not much
comfort to Miriam.
It was the third week of Laurence's absence,
and she sat alone in her own room one after-noon,
watching the wandering snow-flakes, first
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 71
besrinnino^s of a storm, wliicli floated down from
the gray black sky. It bad been a dreary day
to ber ; sbe could not employ berself with any
tbing for tbe vague unrest in ber beart. Some
sbadow bung over ber, wbicb sbe could not de-fine,
a sort of baunting presentiment, an uncer-tain
apprebension. Sbe could not banisb it for
all ber striving.
Outside of tbe window tbe snow-flakes were
falling more tbickly, specking tbe bard ground,
and powdering tbe tbick foliage of tbe firs and
cedars. Miriam could see tlie great bougbs of
tbe graveyard pine wbitening slowly in tbe
soft, noiseless fall. An unspeakable yearning
for ber motber came over ber, a longing to be
folded in ber arms, to lie at rest in ber bosom,
to be sootbed into quietness and confidence once
more by ber gentle voice and toucb. Ob, if it
were only all a dream, sbe tbougbt ; only a
troubled vision of tbe nigbt—tbat ber motber
was dead, tbat ber fatber was so cbanged, tbat
Laurence bad forsaken bis borne ! If sbe could
only tbrow it ofi" like a terrible nigbtmare, and
waken to bappiness and peace once more
!
Sbe was startled suddenly from ber indul-gence
in tbese dreamings, by a frigbtened cry
from ber grandmother's room.
" Ob, Miss Minnie, come quick, do please !
"
called Minerva in an agony of terror ; and tben
Mabel sprang tbrougb tbe open door, crying
affrigbtedly.
72 DOUGLASS faem;
" Grrandma' is falling, Miriam—oh, come,
and see what is the matter !
"
Miriam was in her grandmother's room in
a moment : the old lady had fallen half-way out
of her chair, her head drooping to the floor, her
hands hanging lifelessly down; and Minerva
bending over her, was trying vainly to lift her
np. Miriam sprang to her assistance, fear and
excitement lent her unwonted strength, and she
raised her grandmother almost alone, and car-ried
her to her bed. Herself was forgotten, and
every other thought and feeling swallowed up
in this overpowering excitement, as she hur-riedly
strove to recall her to consciousness.
She had sent Mabel for her father immediately,
and meanwhile made use of every restorative
that she could remember. But neither her
own efforts nor those of Mr. Douglass and Aunt
Comfort, when they arrived, seemed of any
avail. Her grandmother lay helpless, blind, and
speechless.
Twice before Miriam had seen her stricken
in this way, but never so terribly as now, and
the spasm had never been of so long duration.
For a whole hour she watched in sickening
anxiety. If only the doctor would come, or if
any change would take place ! Any thing
would be a relief from that terrible sameness
of expression.
Jupe had gone to Pungoteague for the
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 73
doctor, mounted on one of tlie swiftest horses in
the stable ; hut Pnngoteague was distant seven
miles from Douglass Farm, and it seemed an
age to Miriam before he could reasonably be
expected back. The spasm passed away at last
before the physician came. Her eyes closed,
the working mouth grew still, and a gentle
slumber, childlike and serene, fell upon her.
Miriam breathed a prayer of intense thankful-ness,
as she watched the peaceful rest into
which her grandmother had subsided. Then
she went to tell the children, who were gathered
in the nursery, terrified and grieving, that
grandmamma was a great deal better; and
leaving Aunt Comfort to keep watch, she staid
there with them, to recover a little from her
overstrained excitement and suspense.
Dr. Kellam came by and bye, and after
looking closely at Grandmamma, and asking a
great many questions about her attack, the
manner of its beginning, and so on ; he said that
she would probably sleep calmly till some time
in the night, and need not be disturbed. But
that when she wakened, certain medicines
which he left should be administered. He
would come again the next day, he said. Mr.
Douglass went to the door with him as he left,
and the two stood talking together a few min-utes.
Miriam could not hear what they said
4
74 DOUGLASS faem;
at first, but at last she heard the doctor's voice
as if in reply to something her father had asked.
" Possible, barely possible," he was saying.
" A third attack is not always fatal, but it is
very apt to be. She is old and very much en-feebled
; I am afraid she will not weather it."
They went down stairs together, and Miriam
heard no more, but she had already heard
enough ; and her heart grew cold with a strange,
fearful awe. Her grandmother would die
!
Death, the solemn, terrible mystery, was at
hand once more, its dreary shadow again dark-ening
over the household. When would the
night end, and the dawn appear ?
The room was hushed and dim ; the di'awn
curtains shut out the snow-storm, and Aunt
Comfort sat by \h.Q bedside, keeping guard over
her old mistress, whose breath in her slumber
rose and fell evenly as an infant's. Miriam
passed on into her own room, and sat down by
the window, watching the snow and the twi-light
as they fell together, and trying to look
through the cloud to the graveyard beyond.
She remembered the mossed headstone which
bore her grandfather's name—" Laurence Doug-lass:
Aged 31." On one side of it was a row
of little graves, four in number, all overrun
with myrtle-vines, and the child-names on their
stones half hidden by the climbing sprays.
They were her mother's little brothers and
A HOUSEHOLD STOET. 75
sisters wlio liad died in childhood; then the
young father died, and now after all these
many years, tha vacant j^lace by his side was
to be filled. The wife and her husband, the
mother and her little children, soon to be re-united.
Miriam's tears fell silent .and fast as the
falling snow-flakes, as she thought over these
things. She pictured her grandmother's room
lonely and desolate, the cushioned chair in
which she had sat for so many months, unused
and empty, a darkness and silence like a shadow
over every thing. Then she went back to the
time in which she remembered her not old and
helpless and childish, but so fond and careful
of the children, so indulgent to them all, and
especially to herself. How many tokens of her
tender love she had had, how many times she
had niu'sed her in childish illnesses, how many
pleasures and favors she liad procured for her,
and how much she had done for her every way
in all those past years ! Miriam remembered
the first beginning of her failing health—and
how slowly and gradually from that time her
strength of mind and body had given way.
How in growing feeble and helpless, she had
grown irritable and unreasonable also; how
memory failed her, and her intellect was like
a child's in its Hmited comprehension.
Then Miiiam wept more bitterly, for she
76 DOUGLASS faem;
recalled times when slie had not been patient
and forbearing as she might have been ; when
her grandmother's qnernlonsness and trouble-some
exactions had so irritated her that she
would speak sharply and ungentlj, and often
wound the poor spirit already so tried and
chastened. This was the bitterest memory of
all; and in her sorrowful self-reproach, she
thought that if only her grandmother might be
spared a little while longer, her life should be
spent in devotion to her. With all these re-collections
stirring in her heart, Miriam had
forgotten for a time the one thought that till
now had been nearest it—Laurence. It came
back to her suddenly, bringing a sharper pain
at first, for she thought, " He will be away
when Grandmamma dies, he will never see her
again ! " But then a ray of hope sprang quick-ly
into life, and for a moment she forgot her
sorrow in the eagerness of a sudden joyful an-ticipation.
This was, that Laurence would
come home now : if he could know that his
grandmother was so ill, he would surely, sure-ly
come, she said earnestly to herself. And if
he came back now, then in the one common
grief all faults might be forgiven, all injuries
forgotten, and the peace she had so longed for
might at last be established.
She lighted a lamp, for it Avas almost dark,
and wrote a hasty but earnest letter to Lau-
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 77
rence ; telling him of what iiad happened, and
praying him to come home that he might once
more see his grandmother alive. When she
had finished the letter, she carried it to her
father, and asked his permission to send it to
Pungoteagne, that it might go down to ISTorth-ampton
by the mail. He granted it by a sim-ple
assent, bnt asked no question as to what
she had written. Miriam was, however, too
thankful for the opportunity to send her letter,
to care for any thing else, and she hurried
away to look for Jupe. That individual looked
somewhat dismayed at the prosj)ect of another
journey to Pungoteague at this late hoiu'.
" Lord-a-messy, Miss Minnie ! " he began re-monstratingly,
"you ain't gwine make me
trabbel to Pungoteague 'gen to-night, is you?
It'll be j)itch dark 'fore I gits half way dar ! I
ain't hardly got back, 'nother, an' ole Wash,
he's blowed wid runuin' all de way."
" Then you must take Selim," Miriam said.
" I wouldn't send you if I could help it, Jupe ;
but it's a letter for ' Mas ' Laurie ' to tell him
about Grandma ; and I'm afraid if it doesn't
get to the ofiice to-night, it will not reach him
time enough to do any good."
"What 'bout ole mistis?" Jupe asked ea-gerly.
" She ain't gwine to die, not dis time,
Miss Miimie ?
"
" She is very sick," Miriam answered, " and
Dr. Kellam is afraid she won't get over ^t."
78 DOUGLASS FAEM ;
" I'se real sorry, Hiss Minnie ! Lord-a-mes-sj
! " Jnpe exclaimed; " I thonght she jist had
a fit, nebber 'spected she was goin' to die. Mi-nerva,
she'll be breakin' her heart arter ole mis-tis
; " and Jupe, repeating his favorite adjura-tion
over and again in his sympathy for Minerva,
and his grieving for " ole mistis," started off
uncomplainingly to take his ride in the dark to
the post-office ; while Miriam went back to
her grandmother's room, to watch the peace-ful
slumber, so soon to be changed into the
solemn, never-wakening sleep of Death.
A HOUSEHOLD 6T0EY. T9
CHAPTER YI.
" You go to bed, honey," said Aunt Com-fort.
" 'Ta'nt no kind o' use, joiir sittin' up, on-ly
jes' make yourself sick. I'se 'ten' to ole
mistis ; you can't do nuffin for lier."
It was nearly midnight, and Grandmamma
lay still in that profound, unbroken slumber
from whicli slie bad not once stirred. Miriam,
in spite of Aunt Comfort's repeated entreaties
to go to bed, had persisted in keeping watch
also ; and she still replied in answer to her last
remonstrance,
" I cannot go. Aunt Comfort ; I couldn't
sleep if I went. Or if I did, and Grandmam-ma
should wake while I was gone, I never
should forgive myself; I shall not make my-self
sick, you need not be afraid."
"'Cause you been an' done it a'ready,
den," Aunt Comfort whisj)ered grumbling.
" You'se white as a ghost now, wid dem black
rings round yom* eyes. Can't be satisfied to
keep 'em cryin' all day, but you mus' hab 'em
open all night too. Go 'way any how, an' sit
80 DOUGLASS FAEM ;
down thar in yonr Gran'mamniy's big cliair
—
you'se breakin' your back sittin' tiere, wid
nothin' to bold yon np."
To please Aunt Comfort Miriam left ber
post at the foot of tbe bed, and sat down in
tbe large cbair. Tbongb with some relnctance,
for she could scarcely bear to move ber eyes
from ber grandmotber's face ; and tbe cbair
was so placed tbat sbe could no longer see ber,
neitber did sbe dare to move it for fear of dis-turbing
ber. But sbe could not sleep, as Aunt
Comfort fancied sbe would, resting amongst
its soft cusbions. Too many troubled tbougbts
were stirring in ber beart, too many old mem-ories
uprising, and over all brooded tbe fearful
sense of Deatb's terrible presence. Sbe came
back to tbe bedside by and by, too restless to
stay long away, and Aunt Comfort, seeing tbat
it was useless, made no further remonstrance.
So tbe hours passed on in their solemn
march, midnight gave place to tbe twilight of
early dawn, and the sun rose, brightening over
tbe snow at last. But neitber change nor con-sciousness
of outward change came to ber who
lay in ber long and placid slumber. 'No one
could tell what sweet dreams glided through it
;
but the face that awake had been so old and with-ered
and troubled, lay now in this slee23 fair,
serene, and beautiful as if the brightness of a
heavenly vision were reflected on it. Every
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 81
line or wrinkle was smoothed; the eyelids-closed
so gently, the light breath floating softly
and evenly throngh the lips, parted as with a
smile. Miriam thonght she had never seen a
little child more beautiful in its sleep.
But she longed to waken her ; it was grow-ing
terrible to her, this long, trance-like rest.
She called her softly once, and then again more
loudly; then she bent over and kissed her
lips, and moved her hands ; but it was as if she
had' touched a statue, there was no more re-sponse.
Aunt Comfort tried too, with less gen-tle
movements ; and Mr. Douglass, when he
came in and found that she had never stirred
through the night, made an effort likewise to
break the spell of her sleep. But nothing
availed to disturb it. Miriam turned away sick
and sorrowful from tlie hopeless attempt.
Dr. Kellam arrived in the course of the
morning, and found his patient as he had left her
the day before. There was no sign of awakening,
and though he too, as the others had done, tried
to arouse her, he met with no better success.
There was nothing for him to do, for he knew
well enough that the only ending of this sleej)
would be death. All his own knowledge and
experience, all the power of his di-ugs and med-icines,
could avail nothing here.
Miriam knew by one glance at his face as
he tm*ned from the bedside, that there was no
4*
82 DOUGLASS faem;
hope ; and then by the sinking of her heart, the
sndclen faintness which came over her, she knew
that ahnost nnconscionsly she had been cherish-ing
a hope, that the evil day might not come
yet, that if only for a little while, it might still
be postponed. It was all over now, though,
and she resumed her place by the bed, quietly
to wait for the end ; patient and resigned, but
with an unspeakable sadness in her heart.
The children crept in and out of the room
through the day, gazing at their grandmother
with awe-stricken faces, and asking frightened
questions in solemn whispers. Pussie clung to
Miriam all day, her little lace pale with grief
and fear. She would not go away, but she was
very quiet, and unlike her usual self, scarcely
spoke at all. So Miriam suffered her to stay, and
the child sat at the foot of the bed, white and
silent ; watching the face of her grandmother,
and striving to recall her vague memories of
the first time when she had seen death.
Mr. Douglass came in every hour to see if
there were any change ; but the day wore by
again, morning and noon and evening, and still
the breath of the sleeper rose and fell as even-ly,
and her face lay unvaried in its expression
of profound repose. The crisis seemed no near-er
now than when the slumber first fell upon
her ; and Miriam, who was faint and weary
with her long vigil, gave up her place to her
A HOrSEHOLD STOEY. 83
father at dnsk, and went ont to seek a little
rest, to strengthen herself for the night-watch
before her. She could not sleej) for her nervous
excitement ; but she thought a brisk walk in
the cool, frosty air would refresh her. So she
threw a shawl around her, and ran down the
beaten path in the snow to the gate. There she
seated herself upon the trunk of an old fallen
poplar, which had been blown down in a great
|
storm years ago, and since then had been a fa-vorite
seat with the children. Mabel and Horace
amused themselves in jumping over its jagged
points and knots, and got many a tumble in the
exercise. Pussie had a " see-saw " at one end
of it, which Lily and Geranium alternately bal-anced
for her ; and Laurence and Miriam had
sat there together many a summer evening,
watching the stars, the clouds silvered by the
moonlight, and listening to the song of the wind
in the rustling poplar leaves.
Miriam -recalled those many pleasant even-ings,
as she brushed away the snow piled upor
the log, and sat down alone in the darkness anc
cold. Where was Laurence now ? would h<
never come home again ? She looked back t<
the house, showing dark and gloomy amongst
the sombre firs, and thought of the shadow of
death brooding over it now ; and how her
brother, who should be with her to help her bear
this grief, was still away, and would not return
84 DOUGLASS faum;
at all perlia]3s. She grew sick witli the fear, it
seemed too mucli to bear, and yet for a moment
it weighed npon her like a fearful certainty.
. All day she had been npon a strain of ex-pectation
: she knew that it was impossible for
Lanrence to have received her letter so soon,
yet still she had cherished a wild hope that
something would bring him home that day ; and
every sound of wheels had awakened vivid ex-pectation,
only to be followed by disaj)p oint-ment.
She looked for him now, straining
her eyes into the darkness that grew deeper
all the while, and listening with her keenest
attention for the distant rattle of a carriage
in the road. But none came for her watch-ing
and waiting, and at last she rose up to re-turn
to the house, knowing that she would be
missed and wanted if she stayed longer.
The wind swept, wailing, through the bare
leafless poplara as she walked up the avenue ;
and brought her the sound of an old negro hymn
which one of the men was singing. She could
not see the singer, but the words and the air
—
a rude chant set to a strange wild melody, like
most of the negro songs—blown back by the
wind fell distinctly uj^on her ears.
" Get a-ready, get a-ready,
Blow, Gabriel, blow
!
Get a'-readj^ get n-ready.
An'—a blow, Gabriel, blow !
"
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 85
" The dyin' day's a-comin'.
Oh blow, Gabriel, blow !
The dyin' day's a-comiu',
An' we all got to go."
Slie had heard it snug amongst the negroes
often before, and laughed many a time at its odd
monotonous refrain. To-night it fell upon her
heart like a dirge, solemn and wild, and she was
glad to escape into tlie house where she could no
longer hear its hauntiug strain. She went into the
sitting-room, but no one was there, and the room
had a neglected, desolate look. Across the hall,
she saw a line of light under her father's study
door, and heard his step in the room ; so she
knew tliat no change had taken place in her ab-sence,
else he would not have been there. Pus-sie,
meeting her on the stairs, confirmed her
belief : " Grandma' is asleep yet, Minnie—oh,
sister, will she never wake up ? " was the child's
troubled question ; and Miriam could only put
her arms round her, and answer sorrowfully,
" God will wake her up, Pussie, by and by,
but it will be in Heaven. She will never see
us again !
"
Another night passed as the last had done,
Miriam keeping watch again. Minerva slept
upon tlie floor at the foot of the bed, and Aunt
Comfort dozed in the arm-chair. But Miriam
was sleepless, heart and brain were too full of
troubled thoughts, grief, and anxious disquiet.
86 DOUGLASS fasm;
Laurence still was the bnrden of her anxiety,
'i If tie will only come home ! If he may see
her once before she dies ! " was the continual
cry of her agony, and all night long this was
her fervent, passionate supplication. She scarce-ly
rose from her knees all through the long
hours from midnight till dawn, but prayed with
tears and anguished pleading, till the morning
twilight crept into the room again.
As it grew stronger, dispelling the shadows
that hovered around, and expanding into broad
daylight, Miriam saw that her grandmother's
face wore a different expression since the night
before. She was breathing calmly and regular-ly
still, but her lips were colorless, her cheeks
sharpened in their outline, and a shadow seemed
to have fallen over her eyes, they were so dark
and sunken. She could not resist the impres-sion
that this was the death change ; and Aunt
Comfort, who came at her call, exclaimed quick-ly
as soon as she saw her
:
" Oh, Miss Minnie, ole mistis dyin' now for
sure. You'll nebber sit up wid her 'gen, honey,
she won't be 'live dis night !
"
" Must I call papa ? " Miriam asked, trem-bling
and faint, for though she had known so
long that this must be, she still could not meet
it bravely at last.
But Aunt Comfort answered, " Kot yet,
honey ; she ain't gwine jis' dis minnit. She'll
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 87
hold out till dark, maybe ; but 'fore dis time to-morrow,
she'll be waldng up in Heaven.
Bress de Lord !
"
" If she could only wake up once and speak
to us before she died," Miriam said sorrowfully,
as she leaned over and pressed her lips lightly
to her grandmother's forehead. " And if Lau-rie
were at home to see her before it is all over,
I could bear it better. That is the hardest thing
of all. Aunt Comfort, that he is away !
"
" Maybe he'll come back arter all, honey,"
Aunt Comfort answered soothingly, longing to
find some consolation for her darling. " Don't
you think 'bout his bein' gone, and bimeby
he'll be comin' when you'se not lookin' for him.
Should 'n' wonder ef he was on his way home
dis minnit anyhow—should'n' be s'prised a bit,
Miss Minnie, I 'clar! Jest you wait awhile,
honey, and don' 'stress yourself 'bout Mas' Lau-rie.
Ole mistis ain't gone yet."
The words had scarcely passed Aunt Com-fort's
lips, when a sound was heard in the still-ness
of the early morning that startled them
both alike. It was the clatter of a horse's hoofs,
galloping rapidly over the hard-trodden snow.
I^earer and more distinct it came momently
;
and Miriam with a great effort suppressing the
cry of joy that rose to her lips, sprang out of
the room and down the stairs with impetuous
eagerness, never stopping to look from the
88 DOUGLASS FAKM ;
window even, but hunying on to meet her
brotlier; for her heart told her truly enough
that he had indeed come home at last.
With hands trembling in their eager excite-ment,
she unlocked and unbarred the heavy
hall door, and ran down the steps of the piazza
just as Laurence had checked his hard-ridden
horse in front of them. He leaped oif, with an
exclamation of joy at sight of his sister, and
next moment held her clasped tightly in his
arms. ISTeither could speak for a minute, but
Miriam struggling with her sobs, exclaimed
presently
—
" Oh, Laurie, I am so glad ! You have come
just in time to see Grandma' before she dies."
" Thank God ! " Laurence replied fervently.
'' I was so afraid I might be too late, Minnie
!
I never got your letter till midnight, last night.
We had been out on a coon-hunt, and when we
got home I found it. I wanted to start off that
minute, but Mr. ITottingham would not hear of
my going till I was rested a little, and so I was
compelled to wait till three o'clock this morn-ing.
But I am in time after all, and I am so
thankful !
"
He was much excited, and his voice trem-bled
with tearful earnestness ; Miriam had
scarcely expected to see him so much moved.
He followed her upstairs into their grand-mother's
room—neither of them had mentioned
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT. 89
their father—and after a whispered greeting to
Annt Comfort, took his j)lace beside the bed.
Miriam watched him as he gazed in deep sad-ness
upon the changed face before him. Lying
here with the shadow of death npon it, dnmb,
solemn, and awful almost as if the lingering
soul had already dej^arted—it thrilled the boy's
heart with an inexpressible blending of awe
and sorrow and self-reproach.
When he had seen her last, those eyes so
deathlike now, had brigthened with a kindly
smile for him, and the mute lij^s had spoken
loving words. She had always been so fond
and proud of him, her oldest grandchild ; and
bitter tears of grief and shame tilled his eyes as
he recalled her unvarying tenderness, so ill re-paid
at times by him. He had gone away in
his indignation, without a thought of her,
without even coming to say one last word
to her—and now he could never speak to her
again ! It was the first fruit of his wrong-doing,
and it seemed very bitter indeed.
But Miriam scarcely thought of all this : her
heart was overflowing with thankful joy for
Laurence's timely return, and for the while
every other feeling was merged in this. She
had gone into her own room, that for a moment
she might kneel down and pour out all her
thankfulness to God, who had heard her and
sent her such abundant answer. She had been
90 DOUGLASS FAPtM ;
faithless and despairing, but God had been so
good ! For a minute she prayed eagerly for
forgiveness, and help to trust Him more fully.
Then, comforted and strengthened, she went
softly back into the room she had left—just in
time to meet her father, as he entered by an
opposite door.
A HOrSEHOLD STOEY. 91
CHAPTEE VII.
Laueence did not hear his step, as lost in
his own thoughts, he still bent over his grand-mother,
or see him, nntil Mr. Donglass was at
his side. Then aware of his presence, he start-ed
to his feet in a flush of embarrassment,
half of which was shame and distress, half
still a boy's stmxlj defiance. He had scarcely
thought of his father at all : Miriam's letter
had not mentioned him ; she only pleaded for
his return that he might see his grandmother for
the last time. Overwhelmed with that grief
and excitement, he had never asked himself
what he meant to do, farther than that he must
get home as quickly as possible. But now at
this first sight of his father, all the past came
back to him, and such a mingled tide of feeling
rushed over him, that for the time he had no
command of speech or action.
Mr. Douglass, at first almost equally startled
at the unexpected meeting, recovered his self-
92 DOUGLASS faem;
possession more readily, and greeted Ms son
coldly and calmly, as if after an ordinary ab-sence.
" When did yon arrive ? " lie asked in a
low voice, as Lanrence gave place to him to
ap23roach the bed.
" Only a few minntes ago, sir," Laurence
replied in the same tone, and with a struggle
to steady his voice to his father's calmness.
" I only received my sister's letter at midnight,
and have been riding since three this morning.
I am glad I am not too late."
" You are in time—barely ; " Mr. Douglass
answered coldly. " Your grandmother is dying
now, and will not probably recognize you again.
Your absence at this period was unfortunate, to
say the least."
This was the only allusion made to it, at
that time, or ever after. Mr. Douglass's man-ner
was the same to his son as it had been be-fore
his departure ; no one could detect a shade
of difference ; he seemed completely to have
ignored the three weeks of unauthorized ab-sence
from his home and j^rotection.
Laurence vaiuly puzzled himself to under-stand
this strange forbearance, and a thousand
conflicting suggestions with regard to it agi-tated
his mind, as he sat near him through the
long dreary day in the darkened death-chamber.
Mr. Douglass scarcely left the room : Laurence
A HOUSEHOLD STOKY. 93
never once stirred from the bedside ; but for all
the absorbing interest which bound him there,
his thoughts still wandered away into troubled
ponderings upon his father's behavior, and his
own future action. What should he do? was
the restless question that rose up continually,
even before his grandmother's dying face.
How could he remain now, after all that had
happened ? Yet how could he go away again,
and leave Miriam alone in her new sorrow?
and whither indeed could he go? What did
his father mean ? and what would be the end
of all?
Miriam likewise pondered the same things
in her heart, only she had a hidden strength to
endure the restless anxiety.
It was late in the afternoon, and the wintei
sunset streamed with a faint subdued glow
throuo;h the darkened windows. The children
clustered round the bed, and beyond them were
groups of the negroes from house and field and
quarter, who had come to see "ole mistis"
once more. Minerva sobbing bitterly, Jupe
standing by with a troubled look, the little twins
hiding themselves aflrightedly in Aunt Com-fort's
gown.
Mr. Douglass was standing by the bed, half
ijliising grandmamma's head from the pillow, a
relief that she needed now. Laurence with trem-bling
hands supported her on the other side.
94: DOTJGLAss faem;
One long, sobbing respiration struggled up from
her heart, then two or three soft breathings,
each shorter and fainter than the other ; and
with the last of these the prisoned sonl was freed
from its wearj bondage of flesh. There was no
more awakening on earth, no more knowlege of
human j)ain, or view of human sorrow.
Mr. Donglass laid the poor head reverently
back upon the pillow ; Miriam weeping sorrow-fully,
kissed the closed lips and the eyes sealed
for everlasting slumber ; and the negroes broke
forth into loud wailing and lamentation for " ole
mistis."
It echoed mournfully through the house, dy-ing
away in the distance, as one after another
they left the room. Mr. Douglass went to his
study, Laurence to his own room, and the chil-dren,
with Lily and Geranium, grouped together
round the nursery fire, in their vague, half-terrified
grief. Only Miriam stayed in the de-solate
room, while Minerva and Aunt Comfort
did their last work for the mistress who should
no more need their service.
Miriam looked out of the window away to the
graveyard, where the snow lay glistening in the
last sunset rays. She thought of the new grave
to be opened there, and the darkness and dreari-ness
of its narrow limit ; but another thought drew
her look upward to the sky, flashing in golden
brilliance ; and suddenly to her heart came the
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 95
words, " 'brought out of darkness into marvellous
light.'''' They left a trustful peace with her, which
comforted her through all the lonely night.
The third day after was appointed for the
burial, and the great parlor was filled again as
it had not been since the summer-time. From far
and near friends and relatives of the family came
to pay the last honor to its oldest member. The
burial service was said, the funeral sermon
spoken, and again a sorrowful procession wound
through the broad hall, and across the wintry
lawn into the graveyard. But for her who was
laid at rest there, there was no more sorrow.
The corruptible had put on incorruptible, the
poor mortal was already clothed with immortal-ity.
And Miriam, even in the midst of her
yearning sense of loneliness and orj^hanhood,
thanked God that her grandmother, weary and
burdened with many years, at last " rested from
her labors."
She leaned upon Laurence's arm as they went
back to the house, and he supported her with
tender care ; for the grief and anxiety of the
past weeks, and her sleepless vigils since her
grandmother's illness, had worn upon her very
much. Even since all need for watching was
over, she had scarcely slept at all ; and her pale
face, heavy eyes, and drooping figure bespoke
her complete mental and physical exhaustion.
Mr. Douglass himself noticed it at last, and
96 DOUGLASS FABM ;
with unusual consideration sent lier away to her
room. And Miriam, thoroughly worn out, and
feeling now as if every thing had come to an
end, was glad to go. A long, profound sleep,
over which Aunt Comfort kept careful guard
to see that nothing disturbed it, proved a great
refreshing to her. She felt better when she
woke than she had for many days before, and
as her eyes opened upon Laurie, whose face she
could see dimly in the twilight beside her, she
was almost happy again. She lay still for a lit-tle
while, keeping her eyes closed, but feeling
Laurie's hand softly clasping hers, and trying
to recall the memories which her long uncon-sciousness
had scattered.
He bent over and kissed her presently, ask-ing
softly, '' Are you awake, Minnie ?
"
" Oh yes, and I feel so much better," she an-swered.
" My sleep has done me good. Have
you been waiting here long, Laurie ?
"
" JN^ot very, I am glad if you are better.
You have been looking so wretchedly since I
came back, I could not bear to see you."
Miriam pressed her brother's hand grate-fully
: " I will not look so any more then," she
said ; " now that you are here, I do not mean to
look or feel wretched again. But indeed, Laurie,
I could not help it while you were gone. It
was the dreariest time in all my life ; I do not
think I could bear to live through it again,
A HOUSEHOLD STORY. 97
witii all its cruel siipense and anxiety, and
all the shame and misery I felt. You do
not know, Laiu-ie, liow terrible your going away
in that fashion was to me !
"
" Was it a pleasure-trip to me, either ? " Lau-rence
asked with some heat. " What else could
I do ? I would not stay in any man's house, if
he were twenty times my father, and submit
tamely to such injustice and oppression. I^o !
and you must not think that I have come to
stay now, Miriam. I have thought it all over,
and I have determined, that if my father will
not withdraw his interdict against Hoger, and
allow me to be something more than a slave in
my own home, I will leave it again, and make
freedom and independence for myself else-where
! '.'
He spoke indignantly, with a boy's pride
and self-confidence ; but Miriam listened with
grief and alarm.
" Tou cannot mean that, Laurie," she ex-claimed
eagerly. "You surely will not go
away again, and separate yourself from father
for ever and entirely ! He has been kind to you
since you came back ; he has not spoken one
harsh word ; you never have determined to do
60 wrong and wild a thing again !
"
" It is nether wi'ong nor wild when it is un-avoidable,"
Laurence answered. " My father
has not said a harsh word to me it is true, but
5
98 DOUGLASS fajbm;
then lie scarcely could wliile grandmamma lay-dead
in tlie house. He has hardly spoken to-me
in any way, and has given me no opportu-nity
to say any thing to him. But I must speak
to him soon, and that as I never have done be-fore.
If he is my father, I have nevertheless
some rights which he must respect. If he will
not, then I shall feel myself free from any obe-dience
to him, and then I shall go away and try
my own strength in a battle with the world."
His strength ! The slender figure was erect
and manly, and the boy's heart beat high with
more than boyish courage and steadfastness ; but
for all that he had little idea of the world he
talked of " battling " with, and his self-confident
strength would have proved strange weakness
in the encounter. Miriam, though she was
younger, and with less experience, still, maybe,
had yet a far wiser appreciation of the difficul-ties
before him. She knew too that it was all
wrong, and no provocation could justify him in
thus casting off the duty of honor and obedience
which he owed to his parents. But he had rea-soned
plausibly, he had spoken calmly ; and in
the mental weakness and confusion which ac-companied
her lack of physical strength, she
scarcely knew how to answer or argue with
him.
She lay still without speaking for a while, and
Laurence was silent, waiting for her reply. Tlie
A HOUSEHOLD STOEY. 99
short twilight had deepened almost into dark-ness
around them, and he did not see the bitter
tears, half j)assionate, half despairing, which had
gathered in her eyes and rolled slowly, uncared-for,
over her face. At that moment she felt so
desolate, so almost hopeless, in her sense of utter
powerlessness to prevent this evil, or any other.
Laurence stooped down presently to the pil-low,
and laid his cheek against Miriam's, all wet
with her tears. They startled him, and he drew
his arms round her, and raised her up in them
tenderly, till her head rested upon his breast.
Her grief distressed him, and he longed to
soothe it, for he knew he had been the cause of
it. Miriam hid her face upon his shoulder, say-ing
with a half sob, in answer to his entreaties
'' not to cry "
—
" I am so weak still, Lamie—^I cannot help it.
It breaks my heart, the thought of yom* going
away again. Indeed, I cannot, cannot bear it !
"
And then the bm-st of grieving sorrow, which
she could not any way restrain, and which shook
her whole frame, troubled and perplexed Lau-rence
greatly. His pride and resolve ah-eady be-gan
to waver before the influence of tliis strong
emotion. But Miriam conquered it soon with
a great effort of will, checked the struggling
sobs, and dashed away her tears. She raised
herself up, and said pleadingly,
100 DOUGLASS fakm;
" You must not be vexed witli me, Laurie, I
will not clo so again. It was only because I was
so weak, and couldn't lielp it."
" Tes, you bave just worn yourself out with
every tbing lately," Laurence answered, glad of
an excuse to cbange tbe subjectoftbeir conver-sation.
" You are almost sick, and you bad
better go to bed regularly, and not tbink of com-ing
down stairs to-nigbt. I will go away, for
you must not be excited witb any more talk-ing."
But Miriam clung to bim : " 'No, you must not
leave me yet. I bave not said any tbing to you
tbat I wanted to say, and it will not do me any
good to go to bed, if I keep tbis trouble witb
me. Stay, Laurie."
" Well, Minnie, wbat do you want to say ?
"
He sat down beside ber again, and sbe took botb
bis bands in bers, and looked steadily into bis
eyes, ber own full of sorrowful earnestness. " I
bardly know wbat I want to say," sbe began, " be-cause
I cannot tbink clearly enougb now to argue
witb you. I only know tbat you are all wrong,
Laurie—tbat you baven't any rigbt to dictate to
fatber bow be sball treat you—and mucb less to
break away from bis control because be may
not cboose to accept your dictation. He is your
fatber, and you must obey bim, because it is
God's word."
A HOUSEHOLD STOET. 101
" But not if lie is unjust, unkind, and com-mands-
wrong things!" Laurence interrupted
hastily.
"There is no 'if;'" Miriam said simply,
" only ' Honor thy father and mother !
' And
if you were only to obey when it was easy and
pleasant to yourself, there would not be much
need for the commandment. But you can see
all that as well as I, Laurie. I cannot argue, I
am only asking you, praying you, for my sake,
for yom- own, for mother's sake, Laurie, not to
go away. Promise me—for mother's sake !
"
" For mother''s sake ! Miriam—you Always
say that," the boy answered with a sort of im-patient
compunction in his tone, "because
you know I cannot resist it ; and yet why should
it be for mother's sake ? JN^othing that I do can
aflect her now ; she can neither know of, nor be
troubled by any of om- unhappiness or wicked-ness."
" Who knows, Laurie ? She may be near
us at this very minute ; she may be allowed to
know all that concerns us, and have an angel's
charge over us ! I think of such a thing so
often, I cannot tell you. Many a time I have
fancied that I felt her presence near me, and it
has been to me such a comfort, and yet such a
warning. But if this is all a fancy even, we
can still remember what was her will and de-sire,
and for the sake of all she was to us, try to
102 DOUGLASS FAKM ;
avoid doing what we know would pain and dis-tress
lier if slie were in onr midst. Yonr plan
carried out, would almost break her heart, Lau-rie."
" There would be no need for such a plan,
if she were here," he murmured gloomily.
" Then let her memory be powerful as her
presence to prevent the need of it now," Miriam
pleaded. " Dear Laurie, for mother's sake, pro-mise
me !
"
" After all, what am I to promise ? " Lau-rence
said irresolutely. " That I will stay at
home,* when perhaps I shall not be allowed to
stay ! For in spite of all his calmness with me,
I do not believe that father has forgiven, any
more than he has forgotten, my going away as
I did. Perhaps for a punishment he will send
me off now, himself! I know it cannot be long
before I am called to account for it in some
way."
This was a new fear to Miriam, and it struck
a sudden chill to her heart. In her eager plead-ing
to prevent Laurence's action, she had for-gotten
to think what might be her father's
course; but now she could not but acknow-ledge
that it would be impossible for him to
pass over in silence so open and wilful a con-tempt
of his authority. What would he do ? •
She trembled at the thought of his power, and
how he might use it ; but she would not let her
A HOUSEHOLD STOKT. 103
brother see how anxious and disturbed she really
felt. She answered quietly,
'' ISTever mind that, Lanrie, now ; that is
done, and cannot be recalled, so we must take
the consequences, whatever they may be. If
father is harsh and unkind, you must bear it
patiently, because you have done wrong. Only
promise me, not for any temptation, to do the
same wrong thing again."
" I do not see it to be such a wicked thing
as you seem to think, Minnie ; " Laurence re-plied,
rising to go. " And it isn't very clear to
me how I am to act. But you have persuaded
me—and for your sake, and mother's, I will
promise what you wish. Good night, Minnie.
I will not go away till father sends me."
He left her alone, and she lay still in the
darkness, pondering this thought. Would his
father send him away ? and where ? Had he,
in all this quietness, only been devising some
plan of punishment and mortification more ef-fectual
than any that had occurred before ? Or
might it be possible after all, that he would for-give
this crowning act of rebellion ? She scarce-ly
dared to hope it ; but she could not come to
any satisfying conclusion by all her troubled
turning of the matter, and so she tried to put it
out of her mind, and only think of and be
thankful for the promise she had won from her
brother.
104: DOTJGLASS FAEM
;
" It was only for motlier's sake tliat he gave
it at last," slie said to herself, "After all,
tliongli we cannot see her, she is not lost to us
jet, for even her memory will do ns good all
the days of our lives !
"
She hnelt down, and prayed in earnest
thankfulness, that this sweet influence might
abide with them always. That the spirit of
love and peace embodied in each memory of
the lost mother, might win each and all into
perfect union ; and at last into a knowledge of
the only sure foundation of happiness, the only
true and unfailing source of consolation.
There was comfort beyond ex23ression in this
pouring out of every emotion, every trouble,
fear, and desire, to her Heavenly Father. It
was growing dail