xt7gxd0qrx72 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7gxd0qrx72/data/mets.xml Holmes, Mary Jane, 1825-1907. 189  books b92-207-30909343 English M.A. Donohue, : Chicago : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Family pride, or, Purified by suffering  / by Mary J. Holmes. text Family pride, or, Purified by suffering  / by Mary J. Holmes. 189 2002 true xt7gxd0qrx72 section xt7gxd0qrx72 




        Purified by Suffering.

            MARY J. HOLMES,
Author of "Dora Deane," "The English Orphans," "Homestead
   on the Hillside," "Tempest and 3unshine," "Lena Rivers,"
        " Meadowbrook," "Cousin Maude," etc., etc.



at C IatCA  
  He ,'WBOUN

Made in U. S. A.


         FAMILY PRIDE.

                    CHAPTER I.
  Uncle Ephraim Barlow, deacon of the orthodox church
in Silverton, Massachusetts, was an old-fashioned man,
clinging to the old-time customs of his fathers, and look-
ing with but little toleration upon what he termed the
"new-fangled notions" of the present generation. Born
and reared amid the rocks and hills of the Bay State,
his nature partook largely of the nature of his surround-
ings, and he grew into manhood with many a rough point
adhering to his character, which, nevertheless, taken as a
whole, was, like the wild New England scenery, beautiful
and grand. None knew Uncle Ephraim Barlow but to
respect him, and at the church where he was a worshiper
few would have been missed more than the tall, muscular
man, with the long, white hair, who Sunday after Sunday
walked slowly up the middle aisle to his accustomed seat
before the altar, and who regularly passed the contribu-
tion box, bowing involuntarily in token of approbation
when a neighbor's gift was larger than its wont, and
gravely dropping in his own ten cents-never more, never
less-always ten cents-his weekly offering, which he
knew amounted in a year to just five dollars and twenty
cents. And still Uncle Ephraim was not stingy, as the
Silverton poor could testify, for many a load of wood and
bag of meal found entrance to the doors where cold and
hunger would have otherwise been, while to his minister
he was literally a holder up of the weary hands, and a
comforter in the time of trouble.
  Hlis helpmeet, Aunt Hannah, like that virtuous woman


mentioned in the Bible, was cne "who seeketh wool and
flax, and worketh willingly with her hands, who riseth
while yet it is night, and giveth meat to her household."
Indeed, for this last stirring trait Aunt Hannah was
rather famous, especially on Monday mornings, when
her washing was invariably swinging on the line ready
to greet the rising sun.
  TMiss Betsy Barlow, too, the deacon's maiden sister,
was a character in her way, and was surely not one of
those vain, frivolous females to whom the Apostle Paul
had reference when he condemned the plaiting of hair
and the wearing of gold and jewels. Quaint, queer and
simple-hearted, she had but little idea of any world this
side of heaven, except the one bounded by the "huckle-
berry" hills and the crystal waters of Fairy Pond, which
from the back door of the farmhouse were plainly seen,
both in the summer sunshine and when the intervening
fields were covered with the winter snow.
  The home of such a trio was, like themselves, ancient
and unpretentious, nearly one hundred years having
elapsed since the solid foundation was laid to a portion of
the building. Unquestionably, it was the oldest house in
Silverton, for on the heavy, oaken door of what was
called the back room was still to be seen the mark of a
bullet, left there by some marauders who, during the
Revolution, had encamped in that neighborhood. George
Washington, too, it was said, had once spent a night
beneath its roof, the deacon's mother pouring for him
her Bohea tea and breaking her home-made bread. Since
that -ime several attempts had been made to modernize
-the house. Lath and plaster had been put upon the rafters
and paper upon the walls, wooden latches had given place
to iron, while in the parlor, where Washington had slept,
there was the extravagance of a knob, a genuine porce-
lain knob, such, as Uncle Ephraim said, was only fit for
the gentry who could afford to be grand. For himself,
he was content to live as his father did; but young folks,
he supposed, must in some things have their way, and so
when his pretty niece, who had lived with him from child-
hood to the day of her marriage, came back to him a
widow, bringing her two fatherless children and a host
of new ideas, he good-humoredly suffered her to tear





down some of his household idols and replace them with
her own. And thus it was that the farmhouse gradually
changed its appearance both outwardly and in, for young
womanhood which had but one glimpse of the outer
world will not settle down quietly amid fashions a century
old. And Lucy Lennox, when she returned to the farm-
house, was not quite the same as when she went away.
Indeed, Aunt Betsy in her guileless heart feared that she
had actually fallen from grace, imputing the fall wholly
to Lucy's predilection for a certain little book on whose
back was written "Common Prayer," and at which Aunt
Betsy scarcely dared to look, lest she should be guilty of
the enormities practiced by the Romanists themselves.
Clearer headed than his sister, the deacon read the black-
bound book, finding therein much that was good, but
wondering why, when folks promised to renounce the
pomps and vanities, they did not do so, instead of acting
more stuck up than ever. Inconsistency was the under-
lying strata of the whole Episcopal Church, he said, and
as Lucy, without taking any public step, had still declared
her preference for that church, he, too, in a measure,
charged her propensity for repairs to the same source
with Aunt Betsy; but, as he could really see no sin in
what she did, he suffered her in most things to have her
way. But when she contemplated an attack upon the
huge chimney occupying the center of the building, he
interfered; for there was nothing he liked better than the
bright fire on the hearth when the evenings grew chilly
and long, and the autumn rain was falling upon the roof.
The chimney should stand, he said; and as no amount
of coaxing could prevail on him to revoke his decision,
the chimney stood, and withi it the three fireplaces, where,
in the fall and spring, were burned the twisted knots too
bulky for the kitchen stove. This was fourteen years
ago, and in that lapse of time Lucy Lennox had gradually
fallen in with the family ways of living, and ceased to talk
of her cottage in Western New York, where her husband
had died and where were born her daughters, one of
whom she was expecting home on the warm July day
when our story opens.
  Kate, or Katy Lennox, our heroine, had been for a year
an inmate of Canandaigua Seminary, whither she was



sent at the expense of a distant relative to whom her
father had been guardian, and who, during her infancy,
had also had a home with Uncle Ephriam, her mother
having brought her with her when, after her husband's
death, she returned to Silverton. Dr. Morris Grant he
was now, and he had just come home from a three years'
sojourn in Paris, and was living in his own handsome
dwelling across the fields toward Silverton village, and
half a mile or more from Uncle Ephraim's farmhouse.
He had written from Paris, offering to send his cousins,
Helen and Kate, to any school their mother might select,
and as Canandaigua was her choice, they had both gone
thither a year ago, Helen, the eldest, falling sick within
the first three months, and returning home to Silverton,
satisfied that the New England schools were good enough
for her. This was Helen; but Katy was different. Katy
was more susceptible of polish and refinement-so the
mother thought; and as she arranged and rearranged the
little parlor, lingering longest by the piano, Dr. Morris'
gift, she drew bright pictures of her favorite child, won-
dering how the plain farmhouse and its inmates would
seem to her after Canandaigua and all she must have
seen during her weeks of travel since the close of the
summer term. And then she wondered next why Cousin
Morris was so much annoyed when told that Katy had
accepted an invitation to accompany Mrs. Woodhull and
her party on a trip to Montreal and Lake George, taking
Boston on her homeward route. Surely Katy's move-
ments were nothing to him, unless-and the little, ambi-
tious mother struck at random a few notes of the soft-
toned piano as she thought how possible it was that the
interest always manifested by the staid, quiet Morris
Grant for her light-hearted Kate was more than a broth-
erly interest, such as he would naturally feel for the
daughter of one who had been to him a second father.
But Katy was so much a child when he went away to
Paris that it could not be. She would sooner think of
the dark-haired Helen, who was older and more like him.
  "It's Helen, if anybody," she said aloud, just as a voice
at the window called out: "Please, Cousin Lucy, relieve
me of these flowers. I brought them over in honor of
Katy's return."





  Blushing guiltily, Mrs. Lennox advanced to meet a tall,
dark-looking man, with a grave, pleasant face, which,
when he smiled, was strangely attractive, from the sud-
den lightipg up of the hazel ceys and the glitter of the
white, even teeth disclosed so fully to view.
  "Oh, thank you, Miorris! Kitty will like them, I am
sure," Mrs. Lennox said, taking froes his hand a bouquet
of the choice flowers which grew only in the hothli use
at Linwood. "Come in for a moment, please."
  "Nlo, thank you," the doctor replicd. "lThere is a case
of rheumatism just over the hill, ai-d I muSt not be idle
if I would retain the practice given tor me. Not that I
make anything but good will as yet, for only the Silvt; ton
poor dare trust their lives in my inexperienced hr'.tds.
But I can afford to wait," and with another flash of the
hazel eyes Morris walked away a pace or two, but, as if
struck with some sudden thought, turned back, and
fanning his heated face with his leghorn hat, said, hesi-
tatingly: "By the way, Uncle Ephraini's last payment on
the old mill falls due to-morrow. Tell him, if he says
anything in your presence, not to mind unless it is per-
fectly convenient. He must be somewhat straitenc-i just
now, as Katy's trip cannot have cost hini a small sumn."
  The clear, penetrating eyes were looking full at: Mrs.
Lennox, who for a moment felt slightly piqued that AMor-
ris Grant should take so much oversight of her uncle's
affairs. It was natural, too, that he should, she knew,
for, widely different as were their tastes and positions in
life, there was a strong liking between the old man and
the young, who, from having lived nine years in the
family, took a kindly interest in everything pertaining
to them.
  "Uncle Ephraim aid not pay the bills," AIrs. Lennox
faltered at last, feeling intuitively how Morris' delicate
sense of propriety would shrink from her next communi-
cation. "Mrs. Woodhull wrote that the expense should
be nothing to me, and as she is fully able, and makes so
much of Katy, I did not think it wrong."
  "Lucy Lennox ! I am   astonished !" was all Morris
could say, as the tinge of wounded pride dyed his cheek.
  Kate was a connection-distant, it is true; but bis blood
was in her veins, and his inborn pride shrank from re-



cesIving so much from strangers, while he wondered at her
iiother, feeling more and more convinced that what he
had so long suspected was literally true. Mrs. Lennox
was weak, Mrs. Lennox was ambitious, and for the sake
of associating her daughter with people whom the world
had placed above her she would stoop to accept that upon
which she had no claim.
  "AIrs. Woodhull was so urgent and so fond of Katy;
and then, I thought it well to give her the advantage of
being with such people as compose that party, the very
first in Canandaigua, besides some from New York," Mrs.
Lennox began in self-defense, but Morris did not stop to
hear more, and hurried off a second time, while Mrs. Len-
nox looked after him, wondering at the feeling which she
called pride, and which she could not understand. "If
Katy can go with the Woodhulls and their set, I certainly
shall not prevent it," she thought, as she continued her
arrangement of the parlor, wishing so much that it was
more like what she remembered Mrs. Woodhull's to have
been, fifteen years ago.
  Of course that lady had kept up with the times, and
if her old house was finer than anything Mrs. Lennox
had ever seen, what must her new one be, with all the
modern improvements and, leaning her head upon the
mantel, Mrs. Lennox thought how proud she would be
could she live to see her daughter in similar circum-
stances to the envied Mrs. Woodhull, at that moment in
the crowded car between Boston and Silverton, tired, hot,
and dusty, worn out, and as nearly cross as a fashionable
lady can be.
  A call from Uncle Ephraim aroused her, and going
out into the square entry she tied his gingham cravat, and
then handing him the big umbrella, an appendage he took
with him in sunshine and in storm, she watched him as
he stepped into his one-horse wagon and drove briskly
away in the direction of the depot, where he was to meet
his niece.
  "I wish Cousin Morris had offered his carriage," she
thought, as the corn-colored and white wagon disappeared
from view. "The train stops five minutes at West Sil-
verton, and some of those grand people will be likely to
see the turnout," and with a sigh as she doubted whether





it were not a disgrace as well as an inconvenience to be
poor, she repaired to the kitchen, where sundry savory
smells betokened a plentiful dinner.
  Bending over the sink, with her cap strings tucked
back, her sleeves rolled up, and her short, purple calico
shielded from harm by her broad, motherly check apron,
Aunt Betsy stood cleaning the silvery onions, and occa-
sionally wiping her dim old eyes as the odor proved too
strong for her. At another table stood Aunt Hannah,
deep in the mysteries of the light, white crust which was
to cover the tender chicken boiling in the pot, while in
the oven bubbled and baked the custard pie, remembered
as Katy's favorite, and prepared for her coming by Helen
herself-plain-spoken, blue-eyed Helen-now out in the
strawberry beds, picking the few luscious berries which
almost by a miracle had been coaxed to wait for Katy,
who loved them so dearly. Like her mother, Helen had
wondered how the change would impress her bright little
sister, for she remembered well that even to her obtuse
perceptions there had come a pang when, after only three
months abiding in a place where the etiquette of life was
rigidly enforced, she had returned to their homely ways,
and felt that it was worse than vain to try to effect a
change. But Helen's strong sense, with the help of two
or three good cries, had carried her safely through, and
her humble home amid the hills was very dear to her now.
But she was Helen, as the mother had said; she was dif-
ferent from Katy, who might be lonely and homesick,
sobbing herself to sleep in her patient sister's arms, as
she did on that first night in Canandaigua, which Helen
remembered so well.
  "It's better, too, now, than when I came home," Helen
thought, as with her rich, scarlet fruit she went slowly
to the house. "Morris is here, and the new church, and
if she likes she can teach in Sunday school, though maybe
she will prefer going with Uncle Ephraim. He will be
pleased if she does," and, pausing by the door, Helen
looked across Fairy Pond in the direction of Silverton
village, where the top of a slender spire was just visible-
the spire of St. John's, built within the year, and mostly,
as it was whispered, at the expense of Dr. Morris Grant,
who, a 7ealous churchman himself, had labored success-



fully to instill into Helen's mind some of his own peculiar
views, as well as to awaken in AMrs. Lennox's heart the
professions which had lain dormant for as long a time
as the little black-bound book had lain on the cupboard
shelf, forgotten and unread.
  How the doctor's views were regarded by the deacon's
family we shall see, perhaps, by and by. At present our
story has to do with Helen, holding her bowl of berries
by the rear door and looking across the distant fields.
Witi one last glance at the object of her thoughts she
re-entered the house, where her mother was arranging
the square table for dinner, bringing out the white stone
china instead of the mulberry set kept for everyday use.
  "We ought to have had some silver forks before Katy
came home," she said, despondingly, as she laid by each
plate the three-tined forks of steel, to pay for which Helen
and Katy had picked huckleberries on the hills and dried
apples from the orchard.
  "Never mind, mother," Helen answered, cheerily; "if
Katy is as she used to be, she will care more for us than
for silver forks, and I guess she is, for I imagine it would
take a great deal to make her anything but a warm-
hearted, merry little creature."
  This was sensible Helen's tribute of affection to the
little, gay, chattering butterfly, at that moment an occu-
pant of Uncle Ephraim's corn-colored wagon, and riding
with that worthy toward home, throwing kisses to every
barefoot boy and girl she met, and screaming with delight
as the old familiar waymarks met her view.
  "There are the oxen, the darling oxen, and that's Aunt
Betsy, with her dress pinned up as usual," she cried, when
at last the wagon stopped before the door, and the four
women stepped hurriedly out to meet her, almost smoth-
ering her with caresses, and then holding her off to see
if she had changed.
  She was very stylish in her pretty traveling dress of
gray, made under Mrs. Woodhull's supervision, and
nothing could be more becoming than her jaunty hat,
tied with ribbons of blue, while the dainty kids, bought to
match the dress, fitted her fat hands charmingly, and the
little high-heeled boots of soft prunella were faultless in
their style. She was very attractive in her personal ap-





pearance, and the mental verdict of the four females re-
garding her intently was something as follows: Mrs.
Lennox detected unmistakable marks of the grand society
she had been mingling in, and was pleased accordingly;
Aunt Hannah pronounced her "the prettiest creeter she
had ever seen ;" Aunt Betsy decided that her hoops were
too big and her clothes too fine for a Barlow; while Helen,
who looked beyond dress, or style, or manner, straight
into her sister's soft, blue eves, brimming with love and
tears, decided that Katy was not cleanged for the worse.
Nor was she. Truthful, loving, simple-hearted and full
of playful life she had gone from home, and she camne
back the same-never once thinking of the difference be-
tween the farmhouse and Mrs. Wroodhull's palace, or if
she did, giving the preference to the former.
  "It was perfectly splendid to get home," she said, hand-
ing her gloves to Helen, her sunshade to her mother, her
satchel to Aunt Hannah, and tossing her bonnet in the
vicinity of the water pail-from which it was saved by
Aunt Betsy, who, remembering the ways of her favorite
child, put it carefully in the press, examining it closely
first and wondering how much it cost.
  Deciding that "it was a good thumpin' price," she re-
turned to the kitchen, where Katy, dancing and curveting
in circles, scarcely stood still long enough for them to
see that in spite of boarding school fare, of which she
had complained so bitterly, her cheeks were rounded, her
eyes brighter, and her lithe little figure fuller than of old.
She had improved in looks, but she did not appear to
know it, or to guess how beautiful she was in the fresh
bloom of seventeen, with her golden hair waving around
her childish forehead, and her deep, blue eyes laughing
so expressively with each change of her constantly vary-
ing face. Everything animate and inanimate pertaining
to the old house was noticed bv her. She kissed the kit-
ten, squeezed the cat, hugged the dog, and hugged the
little goat, tied to his post in the clover yard and trying
so hard to get free. The horse, to whom she fed hand-
fuls of grass, had been already hugged. She did that the
first thing after strangling Uncle Ephraim as she alighted
from the train, and some from the car window saw it,
Wo, smiling at what they termed the charming simplicity



of an enthusiastic schoolgirl.  Blessed youth! blessed
early girlhood, surrounded by a halo of rare beauty! It
was Katy's shield and buckler, warding off many a cold
criticism which might otherwise have been passed upon
  They were sitting down to dinner now, and the deacon's
voice trembled as, with the blessing invoked, he thanked
God for bringing back to them the little girl, whose head
was for a moment bent reverently, but quickly lifted itself
up as its owner, in the same breath with that in which
the deacon uttered his amen, declared how hungry she
was, and went into rhapsodies over the nicely cooked
viands which loaded the table. The best bits were hers
that day, and she refused nothing until it came to Aunt
3etsy's onions, once her special delight, but now declined,
greatly to the distress of the old lady, who, having been
on the watch for "quirks," as she styled any departure
from long-established customs, now knew she had found
one, and with an injured expression withdrew the offered
bowl, saying sadly: "You used to eat 'em raw, Catherine;
what's got into you "
  It was the first time Aunt Betsy had called a name so
obnoxious to Kate, especially when, as in the present case,
great emphasis was laid upon the "rine," and from past
experience Katy knew that her good aunt was displeased.
Her first impulse was to accept the dish refused; but
when she remembered her reason for refusing, she said,
laughingly: "Excuse me, Aunt Betsy, I love them still,
but-but-well, the fact is, I am going by and by to run
over and see Cousin Morris, inasmuch as he was not
polite enough to come here, and you know it might not
be so pleasant."
  "The land!" and Aunt Betsy brightened. "If that's
all, eat 'em. 'Tain't noways likely you'll get near enough
to him to make any difference-only turn your head when
you shake hands."
  But Katy remained incorrigible, while Helen, who
guessed that her impulsive sister was contemplating a
warmer greeting of the doctor than a mere shaking of his
hands, kindly turned the conversation by telling how
Morris was improved by his tour abroad, and how much
the poor people thought of him.





  "He is very fine looking, too," she said, whereupon
Katy involuntarily exclaimed: "I wonder if he is as hand-
some as Wilford Cameron Oh, I never wrote about
him, did I " and the little maiden began to blush as she
stirred her tea industriously.
  "Who is Wilford Cameron" asked Mrs. Lennox.
  "Oh, he's Wilford Cameron, that's all; lives on Fifth
Avenue is a lawyer-is very rich-a friend of Mrs.
Woodhull, and was with us in our travels," Katy an-
swered, rapidly, the red burning on her cheeks so brightly
that Aunt Betsy innocently passed her a big feather fan,
saying she looked mighty hot."
  And Katy was warm, but whether from talking of Wil-
ford Cameron or not none could tell. She said no more
of him, but went on to speak of Morris, asking if it were
true, as she had heard, that he built the new church in
  "Yes, and runs it, too," Aunt Betsy answered, ener-
getically, proceeding to tell what goin's-on they had, with
the minister shiftin' his clothes every now and ag'in, and
the folks all talkin' together. Morris got me in once,"
she said, "and I thought meetin' was left out half a dozen
times, so much histin' round as there was. I'd as soon
go to a show, if it was a good one, and I told Morris so.
He laughed and said I'd feel different when I knew 'em
better; but needn't tell me that prayers made up is as
good as them as isn't, though Morris, I do believe, will
get to heaven a long ways ahead of me, if he is a 'Pis-
  To this there was no response, and being launched on
her favorite topic, Aunt Betsy continued:
  "If you'll believe it, Helen here is one of 'em, and has
got a sight of 'Piscopal quirks into her head. Why, she
and Morris sing that talkin'-like singin' Sundays when
the folks git up and Helen plays the accordeon."
  "Melodeon, aunty, melodeon," and Helen laughed mer-
rily at her aunt's mistake, turning the conversation again,
and this time to Canandaigua, where she had some ac-
  But Katy was so much afraid of Canandaigua, and
what talking of it might lead to, that she kept to Cousin
Morris, asking innumerable questions about him, his




house and grounds, and whether there were as many
flowers there now as there used to be in the days when
she and Helen went to say their lessons at Linwood, as
they had done before Morris sailed for Europe.
  "I think it right mean in him not to be here to see
me," she said, poutingly, "and I am going over as quick
as I eat my dinner."
  But against this all exclaimed at once. She was too
tired, the mother said. She must lie down and rest, while
Helen suggested that she had not yet told them about
her trip, and Uncle Ephraim remarked that she would
not find Morris home, as he was going that afternoon
to Spencer. This last settled it. Katy must stay at home;
but instead of lying down or talking much about her
journey, she explored every nook and crevice of the old
house and barn, finding the nest Aunt Betsy had so long
looked for in vain, and proving to the anxious dame that
she was right when she insisted that the speckled hen had
stolen her nest and was in the act of setting. Later in
the day, and a neighbor passing by spied the little maiden
riding in the cart off into the meadow, where she sported
like a child among the mounds of fragrant hay, playing
her jokes upon the sober deacon, who smiled fondly upon
her, feeling how much lighter the labor seemed because
she was there with him, a hindrance instead of a help, in
spite of her efforts to handle the rake skillfully.
  "Are you glad to have me home again, Uncle Eph"
she asked, when once she caught him regarding her with
a peculiar look.
  "Yes, Katy-did, very glad," he answered. "I've missed
you every day, though you do nothing much but bother
  "Why did you look funny at me just now" Katy con-
tinued, and the deacon replied: "I was thinking how
hard it would be for such a highty-tighty thing as you
to meet the crosses and disappointments which lie all
along the road which you must travel. I should hate to
see your young life crushed out of you, as young lives
sometimes are."
  "Oh, never fear for me. I am going to be happy all
my life long. WVilford Cameron said I ought to be," and
Katy tA-ed into the air a wisp of the new-made hay.




  "1 don't know who Wilford Cameron is, but there's
no ought about it," the deacon rejoined. "God marks
out the path for us to walk in, and when he says it's best,
we know it is, though some are straight and pleasant
and others crooked and hard."
  "I'll choose the straight and pleasant, then-why
shouldn't I " Kate asked, laughingly, as she seated her-
self upon a rock near which the hay cart had stopped.
  "Can't tell what path you'll take," the deacon answered.
"God knows whether you'll go easy through the world,
or whether he'll send you suffering to purify and make
you better."
  "Purified by suffering," Kate said aloud, while a
shadow involuntarily crept for an instant over her gay
  She could not believe she was to be purified by suffer-
ing. She had never done anything very bad, and humn-
ring a part of a song learned from Wilford Cameron,
she followed after the loaded cart, returning slowly to
the house, thinking to herself tflat there must be somne-
thing great and good in tne sulfering which should purify
at last, but hoping she was not the one to whom this
great good should come.
  It was supper time ere long, and after that was over
Kate announced her intention of going now to Linwood,
Morris' home, whether he were there or not.
  "I can see the housekeeper and the birds and flowers,
and maybe he will come pretty soon," she said, as she
swung her straw hat by the string and started from the
  "Ain't Helen going with you" Aunt Hannah asked,
while Helen herself looked a little surprised.
  But Katy would rather go alone. She had a heap to
tell Cousin Morris, and Helen could go next time.
  "Just as you like;" Helen answered, good-naturedly;
but there was a half-dissatisfied, wistful look on her face
as she watched her young sister tripping across the fields
to call on Morris Grant.




                   CHAPTER II.
  Morris had returned from Spencer, and in his dress-
ing-gown and slippers was sitting by the window of his
cheerful library, looking out upon the purple sunshine
flooding the western sky, and thinking of the little girl
coming so rapidly up the grassy lane in the rear of the
house. He was going over to see her by and by, he said,
and he pictured to himself howv she must look by this
time, hoping that he should not find her greatly changed,
for Morris Grant's memories were very precious of the
playful child who, in that very room where he was sitting,
used to tease and worry him so much with her lessons
poorly learned, and the never-ending jokes played off
upon her teacher. He had thought of her so often when
across the sea, and, knowing her love of the beautiful,
he had never looked upon a painting or scene of rare
beauty that he did not wish her by his side sharing in
the pleasure. He had brought her from that far-off land
many little trophies which he thought she would prize,
and which he was going to take with him when he went
to the farmhouse. He never dreamed of her coming there
to-night. She would, of course, wait for him. Helen
had, even when it was more her place to call upon him
first. How, then, was he amazed when, just as the sun
was going down and he was watching its last rays linger-
ing on the brow of the hill across the pond, the library
door was opened wide and the room seemed suddenly
filled with life and joy, as a graceful figure, with reddish,
golden hair, bounded across the floor, and winding its
arms around his neck gave him the hearty kiss which
Katy had in her mind when she declined Aunt Betsy's
favorite vegetable.
  Morris Grant was not averse to being kissed, and yet
the fact that Katy Lennox had kissed him in such a way
awoke a chill of disappointment, for it said that to her
he was the teacher still, the elder brother, whom, as a
Ohid, she had in her prettv way loaded with caresses.


  "Oh, Cousin Morris I" she exclaimed, and, stil holding
his hand: "Why didn't you come over at noon, you
naughty, naughty boy But what a splendid-looking man
you've got to be, though! and what do you think of me"
she added, blushing for the first time, as he held her off
from him and looked into the sunny face.
  "I think you wholly unchanged," he answered, so
gravely that Katy began to pout as she said: "And you
are sorry, I know. Pray, what did you expect of me, and
what would you have me be"
  "Nothing but what you are-the same Kitty as of old,"
he answered, his own bright smile breaking all over his
sober face.
  He saw that his manner repelled her, and he tried to
be natural, succeeding so well that Katy forgot her first
disappointment, and making him sit by her on the sofa,
where she could see him distinctly, she poured forth a
volley of talk, telling him, among other things, how much
afraid of him some of his letters made her-they were so
serious and so like a sermon.
  "You wrote me once that you thought of being a min-
ister," she added. "Why did you change your mind It
must be splendid, I think, to be a young clergyman-in-
vited to so many tea-drinkings, and having all the girls in
the parish after you, as they always are after unmarried
  Into Morris Grant's eyes there stole a troubled light
as he thought how little Katy realized what it was to be
a minister of God-to point the people heavenward and
teach them the right way. There was a moment