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Queechy

<h1> Chapter II. </h1> <blockquote> Have you seen but a bright lily grow,   Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow,   Before the soil hath smutch'd it? </blockquote> <blockquote> Ben Jonson. </blockquote> Where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can find a way--a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can travel. By the time they reached their own door Fleda's spirits were at par again. "I am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she said as she jumped down; "I'm so hungry. I guess we are both of us ready for supper, don't you think so?" She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings and then came down to the kitchen, where standing on the broad hearth and warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that foundations so established could not be shaken. The blazing fire seemed to welcome her home and bid her dismiss fear; the kettle singing on its accustomed hook looked as if quietly ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand times; just in the same position, with that collected air of grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an intent but most un-careful face. A face it was that always had a rare union of fineness and placidness. The table stood spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every corner of the room, and Pleda began to feel as if she had been in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from which she was very glad she had awoke. "What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?" said she. "Muffins!--O let me bake them, will you? I'll bake them." "Now Fleda," said Cynthy, "just you be quiet. There ain't no place where you can bake 'em. I'm just going to clap 'em in the reflector--that's the shortest way I can take to do 'em. You keep yourself out o' muss." "They won't be muffins if you bake 'em in the reflector, Cynthy; they aren't half so good. Ah, do let me I I won't make a bit of muss." "Where'll you do 'em?" "In grandpa's room--if you'll just clean off the top of the stove for me--now do, Cynthy! I'll do 'em beautifully and you won't have a bit of trouble.--Come!" "It'll make an awful smoke, Flidda; you'll fill your grandpa's room with the smoke, and he won't like that, I guess." "O he won't mind it," said Fleda. "Will you, grandpa?" "What, dear?"--said Mr. Ringgan, looking up at her from his paper with a relaxing face which indeed promised to take nothing amiss that she might do. "Will you mind if I fill your room with smoke?" "No, dear!" said he, the strong heartiness of his acquiescence almost reaching a laugh,--"No, dear!--fill it with anything you like!" There was nothing more to be said; and while Fleda in triumph put on an apron and made her preparations, Cynthy on her part, and with a very good grace, went to get ready the stove; which being a wood stove, made of sheet iron, with a smooth even top, afforded in Fleda's opinion the very best possible field for muffins to come to their perfection. Now Fleda cared little in comparison for the eating part of the business; her delight was by the help of her own skill and the stove-top to bring the muffins to this state of perfection; her greatest pleasure in them was over when they were baked. A little while had passed, Mr. Ringgan was still busy with his newspaper, Miss Cynthia Gall going in and out on various errands, Fleda shut up in the distant room with the muffins and the smoke; when there came a knock at the door, and Mr. Ringgan's "Come in!"--was followed by the entrance of two strangers, young, well-dressed, and comely. They wore the usual badges of seekers after game, but their guns were left outside. The old gentleman's look of grave expectancy told his want of enlightening. "I fear you do not remember me, Mr. Ringgan," said the foremost of the two coming up to him,--"my name is Rossitur--Charlton Rossitur--a cousin of your little grand-daughter. I have only"-- "O I know you now!" said Mr. Ringgan, rising and grasping his hand heartily,--"you are very welcome, sir. How do you do? I recollect you perfectly, but you took me by surprise.--How do you do, sir? Sit down--sit down." And the old gentleman had extended his frank welcome to the second of his visitors almost before the first had time to utter, "My friend Mr. Carleton." "I couldn't imagine what was coming upon me," said Mr. Ringgan, cheerfully, "for you weren't anywhere very near my thoughts; and I don't often see much of the gay world that is passing by me. You have grown since I saw you last, Mr. Rossitur. You are studying at West Point, I believe." "No sir; I was studying there, but I had the pleasure of bringing that to an end last June." "Ah!--Well, what are you now? Not a cadet any longer, I suppose." "No sir--we hatch out of that shell lieutenants." "Hum.--And do you intend to remain in the army?" "Certainly sir, that is my purpose and hope." "Your mother would not like that, I should judge. I do not understand how she ever made up her mind to let you become that thing which hatches out into a lieutenant. Gentle creatures she and her sister both were.--How was it, Mr. Rossitur? were you a wild young gentleman that wanted training?" "I have had it sir, whether I wanted it or no." "Hum!--How is he, Mr. Carleton?--sober enough to command men?" "I have not seen him tried, sir," said this gentleman smiling; "but from tho inconsistency of the orders he issues to his dogs I doubt it exceedingly." "Why Carleton would have no orders issued to them at all, I believe," said young Rossitur; "he has been saying 'hush' to me all day." The old gentleman laughed in a way that indicated intelligence with one of the speakers,--which, appeared not. "So you've been following the dogs to-day," said he. "Been successful?" "Not a bit of it," said Rossitur. "Whether we got on the wrong grounds, or didn't get on the right ones, or the dogs didn't mind their business, or there was nothing to fire at, I don't know; but we lost our patience and got nothing in exchange." "Speak for yourself," said the other. "I assure you I was sensible of no ground of impatience while going over such a superb country as this." "It is a fine country," said Mr. Ringgan,--"all this tract; and I ought to know it, for I have hunted every mile of it for many a mile around. There used to be more game than partridges in these hills when I was a young man;--bears and wolves, and deer, and now and then a panther, to say nothing of rattlesnakes." "That last mentioned is an irregular sort of game, is it not?" said Mr. Carleton smiling. "Well, game is what you choose to make it," said the old gentleman. "I have seen worse days' sport than I saw once when we were out after rattlesnakes and nothing else. There was a cave, sir, down under a mountain a few miles to the south of this, right at the foot of a bluff some four or five hundred feet sheer down,--it was known to be a resort of those creatures; and a party of us went out,--it's many years ago now,--to see if we couldn't destroy the nest--exterminate the whole horde. We had one dog with us,--a little dog, a kind of spaniel; a little white and yellow fellow,--and he did the work! Well, sir,--how many of those vermin do you guess that little creature made a finish of that day?--of large and small, sir, there were two hundred and twelve." "He must have been a gallant little fellow." "You never saw a creature, sir, take to a sport better; he just dashed in among them, from one to another,--he would catch a snake by the neck and give it a shake, and throw it down and rush at another;--poor fellow, it was his last day's sport,--he died almost as soon as it was over; he must have received a great many bites. The place is known as the rattlesnakes' den to this day, though there are none there now, I believe." "My little cousin is well, I hope," said Mr. Rossitur. "She? yes, bless her I she is always well. Where is she? Fairy, where are you?--Cynthy, just call Elfieda here." "She's just in the thick of the muffins, Mr. Ringgan." "Let the muffins burn! Call her." Miss Cynthia accordingly opened a little way the door of the passage, from which a blue stifling smoke immediately made its way into the room, and called out to Fleda. whose little voice was heard faintly responding from the distance. "It's a wonder she can hear through all that smoke," remarked Cynthia. "She," said Mr. Ringgan, laughing,--"she's playing cook or housekeeper in yonder, getting something ready for tea. She's a busy little spirit, if ever there was one. Ah! there she is. Come here, Fleda--here's your cousin Rossitur from West Point--and Mr. Carleton." Fleda made her appearance flushed with the heat of the stove and the excitement of turning the muffins, and the little iron spatula she used for that purpose still in her hand; and a fresh and larger puff of the unsavoury blue smoke accompanied her entrance. She came forward however gravely and without the slightest embarrassment to receive her cousin's somewhat unceremonious "How do, Fleda?"--and keeping the spatula still in one hand shook hands with him with the other. But at the very different manner in which Mr. Carleton rose and greeted her, the flush on Fleda's cheek deepened, and she cast down her eyes and stepped back to her grandfather's side with the demureness of a young lady just undergoing the ceremony of presentation. "You come upon us out of a cloud, Fleda," said her cousin. "Is that the way you have acquired a right to the name of Fairy?" "I am sure, no," said Mr. Carleton. Fleda did not lift up her eyes, but her mounting colour shewed that she understood both speeches. "Because if you are in general such a misty personage," Mr. Rossitur went on half laughing, "I would humbly recommend a choice of incense." "O I forgot to open the windows!" exclaimed Fleda ingenuously. "Cynthy, won't you please go and do it? And take this with you," said she, holding out the spatula. "She is as good a fairy as I want to see," said her grandfather, passing his arm fondly round her. "She carries a ray of sunshine in her right hand; and that's as magic-working a wand as any fairy ever wielded,--hey, Mr. Carleton?" Mr. Carleton bowed. But whether the sunshine of affection in Fleda's glance and smile at her grandfather made him feel that she was above a compliment, or whether it put the words out of his head, certain it is that he uttered none. "So you've had bad success to-day," continued Mr. Ringgan. "Where have you been? and what after? partridges?" "No sir," said Mr. Carleton, "my friend Rossitur promised me a rare bag of woodcock, which I understand to be the best of American feathered game; and in pursuance of his promise led me over a large extent of meadow and swamp land this morning, with which in the course of several hours I became extremely familiar, without flushing a single bird." "Meadow and swamp land?" said the old gentleman. "Whereabouts?" "A mile or more beyond the little village over here where we left our horses," said Rossitur. "We beat the ground well, but there were no signs of them even." "We had not the right kind of dog," said Mr. Carleton. "We had the kind that is always used here," said Rossitur; "nobody knows anything about a Cocker in America." "Ah, it was too wet," said Mr. Ringgan. "I could have told you that. There has been too much rain. You wouldn't find a woodcock in that swamp after such a day as we had a few days ago. But speaking of game, Mr. Rossitur, I don't know anything in America equal to the grouse. It is far before woodcock. I remember, many years back, going a grouse shooting, I and a friend, down in Pennsylvania,--we went two or three days running, and the birds we got were worth a whole season of woodcock.--But gentlemen, if you are not discouraged with your day's experience and want to try again, I'll put you in a way to get as many woodcock as will satisfy you--if you'll come here to-morrow morning I'll go out with you far enough to shew you the way to the best ground I know for shooting that game in all this country; you'll have a good chance for partridges too in the course of the day; and that ain't bad eating, when you can't get better--is it, Fairy?" he said, with a sudden smiling appeal to the little girl at his side. Her answer again was only an intelligent glance. The young sportsmen both thanked him and promised to take advantage of his kind offer. Fleda seized the opportunity to steal another look at the strangers; but meeting Mr. Carleton's eyes fixed on her with a remarkably soft and gentle expression she withdrew her own again as fast as possible, and came to the conclusion that the only safe place for them was the floor. "I wish I was a little younger and I'd take my gun and go along with you myself," said the old gentleman pleasantly; "but," he added sighing, "there is a time for everything, and my time for sporting is past." "You have no right to complain, sir," said Mr. Carleton, with a meaning glance and smile which the old gentleman took in excellent good part. "Well," said he, looking half proudly, half tenderly, upon the little demure figure at his side, "I don't say that I have. I hope I thank God for his mercies, and am happy. But in this world, Mr. Carleton, there is hardly a blessing but what draws a care after it. Well--well--these things will all be arranged for us!" It was plain, however, even to a stranger, that there was some subject of care not vague nor undefined pressing upon Mr. Ringgan's mind as he said this. "Have you heard from my mother lately, Fleda?" said her cousin. "Why yes," said Mr. Ringgan,--"she had a letter from her only to-day. You ha'n't read it yet, have you, Fleda?" "No grandpa," said the little girl; "you know I've been busy." "Ay," said the old gentleman; "why couldn't you let Cynthia bake the cakes, and not roast yourself over the stove till you're as red as a turkey-cock?" "This morning I was like a chicken," said Fleda laughing, "and now like a turkey-cock." "Shall I tell mamma, Fleda," said young Rossitur, "that you put off reading her letter to bake muffins?" Fleda answered without looking up, "Yes, if he pleased." "What do you suppose she will think?" "I don't know." "She will think that you love muffins better than her." "No," said Fleda, quietly but firmly,--"she will not think that, because it isn't true." The gentlemen laughed, but Mr. Carleton declared that Fleda's reasoning was unanswerable. "Well, I will see you to-morrow," said Mr. Rossitur, "after you have read the letter, for I suppose you will read it sometime. You should have had it before,--it came enclosed to me,--but I forgot unaccountably to mail it to you till a few days ago." "It will be just as good now, sir," said Mr. Ringgan. "There is a matter in it though," said Rossitur, "about which my mother has given me a charge. We will see you to-morrow. It was for that partly we turned out of our way this evening." "I am very glad you did," said Mr. Ringgan. "I hope your way will bring you here often. Won't you stay and try some of these same muffins before you go?" But this was declined, and the gentlemen departed; Fleda, it must be confessed, seeing nothing in the whole leave-taking but Mr. Carleton's look and smile. The muffins were a very tame affair after it. When supper was over she sat down fairly to her letter, and read it twice through before she folded it up. By this time the room was clear both of the tea equipage and of Cynthia's presence, and Fleda and her grandfather were alone in the darkening twilight with the blazing wood fire; he in his usual place at the side, and she on the hearth directly before it; both silent, both thinking, for some time. At length Mr. Ringgan spoke, breaking as it were the silence and his seriousness with the same effort. "Well dear!" said he cheerfully,--"what does she say?" "O she says a great many things, grandpa; shall I read yon the letter?" "No dear, I don't care to hear it; only tell me what she says." "She says they are going to stay in Paris yet a good while longer." "Hum!"--said Mr. Ringgan. "Well--that ain't the wisest thing I should like to hear of her doing." "Oh but it's because uncle Rossitur likes to stay there, I suppose, isn't it, grandpa?" "I don't know, dear. Maybe your aunt's caught the French fever. She used to be a good sensible woman; but when people will go into a whirligig, I think some of their wits get blown away before they come out. Well--what else?" "I am sure she is very kind," said Fleda. "She wants to have me go out there and live with her very much. She says I shall have everything I like and do just as I please, and she will make a pet of me and give me all sorts of pleasant things. She says she will take as good care of me as ever I took of the kittens. And there's a long piece to you about it, that I'll give you to read as soon as we have a light. It is very good of her, isn't it, grandpa? I love aunt Lucy very much." "Well," said Mr. Ringgan after a pause, "how does she propose to get you there?" "Why," said Fleda,--"isn't it curious?--she says there is a Mrs. Carleton here who is a friend of hers, and she is going to Paris in a little while, and aunt Lucy asked her if she wouldn't bring me, if you would let me go, and she said she would with great pleasure, and aunt Lucy wants me to come out with her." "Carleton!--Hum--" said Mr. Ringgan; "that must be this young man's mother?" "Yes, aunt Lucy says she is here with her son,--at least she says they were coming." "A very gentlemanly young man, indeed," said Mr. Ringgan. There was a grave silence. The old gentleman sat looking on the floor; Fleda sat looking into the fire, with all her might. "Well," said Mr. Ringgan after a little, "how would you like it, Fleda?" "What, grandpa?" "To go out to Paris to your aunt, with this Mrs. Carleton?" "I shouldn't like it at all," said Fleda smiling, and letting her eyes go back to the fire. But looking after the pause of a minute or two again to her grandfather's face, she was struck with its expression of stern anxiety. She rose instantly, and coming to him and laying one hand gently on his knee, said in tones that fell as light on the ear as the touch of a moonbeam on the water, "You do not want me to go, do you, grandpa?" "No dear!" said the old gentleman, letting his hand fall upon hers,--"no dear!--that is the last thing I want!" But Fleda's keen ear discerned not only the deep affection but something of regret in the voice, which troubled her. She stood, anxious and fearing, while her grandfather lifting his hand again and again let it fall gently upon hers; and amid all the fondness of the action Fleda somehow seemed to feel in it the same regret. "You'll not let aunt Lucy, nor anybody else, take me away from you, will you, grandpa?" said she after a little, leaning both arms affectionately on his knee and looking up into his face. "No indeed, dear!" said he, with an attempt at his usual heartiness,--"not as long as I have a place to keep you. While I have a roof to put my head under, it shall cover yours." To Fleda's hope that would have said enough; but her grandfather's face was so moved from its wonted expression of calm dignity that it was plain his hope was tasting bitter things. Fleda watched in silent grief and amazement the watering eye and unnerved lip; till her grandfather indignantly dashing away a tear or two drew her close to his breast and kissed her. But she well guessed that the reason why he did not for a minute or two say anything, was because he could not. Neither could she. She was fighting with her woman's nature to keep it down,--learning the lesson early! "Ah well,"--said Mr Ringgan at length, in a kind of tone that might indicate the giving up a struggle which he had no means of carrying on, or the endeavour to conceal it from the too keen-wrought feelings of his little granddaughter,--"there will be a way opened for us somehow. We must let our Heavenly Father take care of us." "And he will, grandpa," whispered Fleda. "Yes dear!--We are selfish creatures. Your father's and your mother's child will not be forgotten." "Nor you either, dear grandpa," said the little girl, laying her soft cheek alongside of his, and speaking by dint of a great effort. "No," said he, clasping her more tenderly,--"no--it would he wicked in me to doubt it. He has blessed me all my life long with a great many more blessings than I deserved; and if he chooses to take away the sunshine of my last days I will bow my head to his will, and believe that he does all things well, though I cannot see it." "Don't, dear grandpa," said Fleda, stealing her other arm round his neck and hiding her face there,--"please don't!--" He very much regretted that he had said too much. He did not however know exactly how to mend it. He kissed her and stroked her soft hair, but that and the manner of it only made it more difficult for Fleda to recover herself, which she was struggling to do; and when he tried to speak in accents of cheering his voice trembled. Fleda's heart was breaking, but she felt that she was making matters worse, and she had already concluded on a mature review of circumstances that it was her duty to be cheerful. So after a few very heartfelt tears which she could not help, she raised her head and smiled, even while she wiped the traces of them away. "After all, grandpa," said she, "perhaps Mr. Jolly will come here in the morning with some good news, and then we should be troubling ourselves just for nothing." "Perhaps he will," said Mr. Ringgan, in a way that sounded much more like "Perhaps he won't!" But Fleda was determined now not to seem discouraged again. She thought the best way was to change the conversation. "It is very kind in aunt Lucy, isn't it, grandpa, what she has written to me?" "Why no," said Mr. Ringgan, decidedly, "I can't say I think it is any very extraordinary manifestation of kindness in anybody to want you." Fleda smiled her thanks for this compliment. "It might be a kindness in me to give you to her." "It wouldn't be a kindness to me, grandpa." "I don't know about that," said he gravely. They were getting back to the old subject. Fleda made another great effort at a diversion. "Grandpa, was my father like my uncle Rossitur in any thing?" The diversion was effected. "Not he, dear!" said Mr. Ringgan. "Your father had ten times the man in him that ever your uncle was." "Why what kind of a man is uncle Rossitur, grandpa?" "Ho dear! I can't tell. I ha'n't seen much of him. I wouldn't judge a man without knowing more of him than I do of Mr. Rossitur. He seemed an amiable kind of man. But no one would ever have thought of looking at him, no more than at a shadow, when your father was by." The diversion took effect on Fleda herself now. She looked up pleased. "You remember your father, Fleda?" "Yes grandpa, but not very well always;--I remember a great many things about him, but I can't remember exactly how he looked,--except once or twice." "Ay, and he wa'n't well the last time you remember him. But he was a noble-looking man--in form and face too--and his looks were the worst part of him. He seemed made of different stuff from all the people around," said Mr. Ringgan sighing, "and they felt it too I used to notice, without knowing it. When his cousins were 'Sam' and 'Johnny' and 'Bill,' he was always, that is, after he grew up, 'Mr. Walter.' I believe they were a little afeard of him. And with all his bravery and fire he could be as gentle as a woman." "I know that," said Fleda, whose eyes were dropping soft tears and glittering at the same time with gratified feeling. "What made him be a soldier, grandpa?" "Oh I don't know, dear!--he was too good to make a farmer of--or his high spirit wanted to rise in the world--he couldn't rest without trying to be something more than other folks. I don't know whether people are any happier for it." "Did he go to West Point, grandpa?" "No dear!--he started without having so much of a push as that; but he was one of those that don't need any pushing; he would have worked his way up, put him anywhere you would, and he did,--over the heads of West Pointers and all, and would have gone to the top, I verily believe, if he had lived long enough. He was as fine a fellow as there was in all the army. I don't believe there's the like of him left in it." "He had been a major a good while, hadn't he, grandpa?" "Yes. It was just after he was made captain that he went to Albany, and there he saw your mother. She and her sister, your aunt Lucy, were wards of the patroon. I was in Albany, in the legislature, that winter, and I knew them both very well; but your aunt Lucy had been married some years before. She was staying there that winter without her husband--he was abroad somewhere." Fleda was no stranger to these details and had learned long ago what was meant by 'wards' and 'the patroon.' "Your father was made a major some years afterwards," Mr. Ringgan went on, "for his fine behaviour out here at the West--what's the name of the place?--I forget it just now--fighting the Indians. There never was anything finer done." "He was brave, wasn't he, grandpa?" "Brave!--he had a heart of iron sometimes, for as soft as it was at others. And he had an eye, when he was roused, that I never saw anything that would stand against. But your father had a better sort of courage than the common sort--he had enough of that--but this is a rarer thing--he never was afraid to do what in his conscience he thought was right. Moral courage I call it, and it is one of the very noblest qualities a man can have." "That's a kind of courage a woman may have," said Fleda. "Yes--you may have that; and I guess it's the only kind of courage you'll ever be troubled with," said her grandfather looking laughingly at her. "However, any man may walk up to the cannon's mouth, but it is only one here and there that will walk out against men's opinions because he thinks it is right. That was one of the things I admired most in your father." "Didn't my mother have it too?" said Fleda. "I don't know--she had about everything that was good. A gweet, pretty creature she was, as I ever saw." "Was she like aunt Lucy?" "No, not much. She was a deal handsomer than your aunt is or ever could have been. She was the handsomest woman, I think, that ever I set eyes upon; and a sweet, gentle, lovely creature. You'll never match her," said Mr. Ringgan, with a curious twist of his head and sly laughing twist of his eyes at Fleda;--"you may be as good as she was, but you'll never be as good-looking." Fleda laughed, nowise displeased. "You've got her hazel eyes though," remarked Mr. Ringgan, after a minute or two, viewing his little granddaughter with a sufficiently satisfied expression of countenance. "Grandpa," said she, "don't you think Mr. Carleton has handsome eyes?" "Mr. Carleton?--hum--I don't know; I didn't look at his eyes. A very well-looking young man though--very gentlemanly too." Fleda had heard all this and much more about her parents some dozens of times before; but she and her grandfather were never tired of going it over. If the conversation that recalled his lost treasures had of necessity a character of sadness and tenderness, it yet bespoke not more regret that he had lost them than exulting pride and delight in what they had been,--perhaps not so much. And Fleda delighted to go back and feed her imagination with stories of the mother whom she could not remember, and of the father whose fair bright image stood in her memory as the embodiment of all that is high and noble and pure. A kind of guardian angel that image was to little Fleda. These ideal likenesses of her father and mother, the one drawn from history and recollection, the other from history only, had been her preservative from all the untoward influences and unfortunate examples which had surrounded her since her father's death some three or four years before had left her almost alone in her grandfather's house. They had created in her mind a standard of the true and beautiful in character, which nothing she saw around her, after of course her grandfather, and one other exception, seemed at all to meet; and partly from her own innate fineness of nature, and partly from this pure ideal always present with her, she had shrunk almost instinctively from the few varieties of human nature the country-side presented to her, and was in fact a very isolated little being, living in a world of her own, and clinging with all her strong outgoings of affection to her grandfather only; granting to but one other person any considerable share in her regard or esteem. Little Fleda was not in the least misanthropical; she gave her kindly sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they could possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her: her spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there was no affinity. She was in truth what her grandfather had affirmed of her father, made of different stuff from the rest of the world. There was no tincture of pride in all this; there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could merely have told you that she did not care to hear these people talk, that she did not love to be with them; though she would have said so to no earthly creature but her grandfather, if even to him. <ANTIMG src="images/illus03.jpg" height-obs="250" alt="'I wasn't thinking of myself in particular.'" title="'I wasn't thinking of myself in particular.'" /> "I wasn't thinking of myself in particular." "It must be pleasant," said Fleda, after looking for some minutes thoughtfully into the fire,--"it must be a pleasant thing to have a father and mother." "Yes dear!" said her grandfather, sighing,--"you have lost a great deal! But there is your aunt Lucy--you are not dependent altogether on me." "Oh grandpa!" said the little girl laying one hand again pleadingly on his knee;--"I didn't mean--I mean--I was speaking in general--I wasn't thinking of myself in particular." "I know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in his own and moving it softly up and down on his knee. But the action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern anxiety. Fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder, speaking from a heart filled too full. "I don't want aunt Lucy--I don't care about aunt Lucy; I don't want anything but you, grandpa. I wish you wouldn't talk so." "Ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her,--he couldn't bear to look at her,--"it's well it is so. I sha'n't last a great while--it isn't likely--and I am glad to know there is some one you can fall back upon when I am gone." Pleda's next words were scarcely audible, but they contained a reproach to him for speaking so. "We may as well look at it, dear," said he gravely; "it must come to that--sooner or later--but you mustn't distress yourself about it beforehand. Don't cry--don't, dear!" said he, tenderly kissing her. "I didn't mean to trouble you so. There--there--look up, dear--let's take the good we have and be thankful for it. God will arrange the rest, in his own good way. Fleda!--I wouldn't have said a word if I had thought it would have worried you so." He would not indeed. But he had spoken as men so often speak, out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness, forgetting that they are wringing the cords of a delicate harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they find the instrument all out of tune,--more often not knowing it ever. It is pity,--for how frequently a discord is left that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to the end, is gradually unstrung. Poor Fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led to all this trouble she almost made up her mind with a certain heroine of Miss Edgeworth's, that "it is best never to mention things." Mr. Ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done. And after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon Mr. Ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as if the Panorama of life were there. She little heeded at first her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a purpose. "Ain't it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered Mr. Ringgan when he thought the purpose was effected. "Shall I tell Cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa?" said the little girl rousing herself. "Yes dear.--Stop,--what if you and me was to have some roast apples?--wouldn't you like it?" "Well--yes, I should, grandpa," said Fleda, understanding perfectly why he wished it, and wishing it herself for that same reason and no other. "Cynthy, let's have some of those roast apples," said Mr. Ringgan, "and a couple of bowls of milk here." "No, I'll get the apples myself, Cynthy," said Fleda. "And you needn't take any of the cream off, Cynthy," added Mr. Ringgan. One corner of the kitchen table was hauled up to the fire, to be comfortable, Fleda said, and she and her grandfather sat down on the opposite sides of it to do honour to the apples and milk; each with the simple intent of keeping up appearances and cheating the other into cheerfulness. There is however, deny it who can, an exhilarating effect in good wholesome food taken when one is in some need of it; and Fleda at least found the supper relish exceeding well. Every one furthermore knows the relief of a hearty flow of tears when a secret weight has been pressing on the mind. She was just ready for anything reviving. After the third mouthful she began to talk, and before the bottom of the bowls was reached she had smiled more than once. So her grandfather thought no harm was done, and went to bed quite comforted; and Fleda climbed the steep stairs that led from his door to her little chamber just over his head. It was small and mean, immediately under the roof, with only one window. There were plenty of better rooms in the house, but Fleda liked this because it kept her near her grandfather; and indeed she had always had it ever since her father's death, and never thought of taking any other. She had a fashion, this child, in whom the simplicity of practical life and the poetry of imaginative life were curiously blended,--she had a fashion of going to her window every night when the moon or stars were shining to look out for a minute or two before she went to bed; and sometimes the minutes were more than any good grandmother or aunt would have considered wholesome for little Fleda in the fresh night air. But there was no one to watch or reprimand; and whatever it was that Fleda read in earth or sky, the charm which held her one bright night was sure to bring her to her window the next. This evening a faint young moon lighted up but dimly the meadow and what was called the "east-hill," over-against which the window in question looked. The air was calm and mild; there was no frost to-night; the stillness was entire, and the stars shone in a cloudless sky. Fleda set open the window and looked out with a face that again bore tokens of the experiences of that day. She wanted the soothing speech of nature's voice; and child as she was she could hear it. She did not know, in her simplicity, what it was that comforted and soothed her, but she stood at her window enjoying. It was so perfectly still, her fancy presently went to all those people who had hushed their various work and were now resting, or soon would be, in the unconsciousness and the helplessness of sleep. The helplessness,--and then that Eye that never sleeps; that Hand that keeps them all, that is never idle, that is the safety and the strength alike of all the earth and of them that wake or sleep upon it,-- "And if he takes care of them all, will he not take care of poor little me?" thought Fleda. "Oh how glad I am I know there is a God!--How glad I am I know he is such a God! and that I can trust in him; and he will make everything go right. How I forget this sometimes! But Jesus does not forget his children. Oh I am a happy little girl!--Grandpa's saying what he did don't make it so--perhaps I shall die the first--but I hope not, for what would become of him!--But this and everything will all be arranged right, and I have nothing to do with it but to obey God and please him, and he will take care of the rest. He has forbidden us to be careful about it too." With grateful tears of relief Fleda shut the window and began to undress herself, her heart so lightened of its burden that her thoughts presently took leave to go out again upon pleasure excursions in various directions; and one of the last things in Fleda's mind before sleep surprised her was, what a nice thing it was for any one to bow and smile so as Mr. Carleton did! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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