"It provokes me when I think of it," answered f.a.n.n.y; "and how you can flatter them so, calling their dresses becoming, and their poetry beautiful, I cannot imagine, when you know, Alice, that it is all a lie."

"Well," said Alice, laughingly, "I do it for fun. It is so amusing to see their languishing airs; and then, f.a.n.n.y, to tell the truth, I have no objection to people's playing the fool, if it makes them feel better."

"But I shall hate you, by-and-by," said f.a.n.n.y, "for being a hypocrite."

"Guess it won't be any put out to you," replied Joshua; "for you are as full of hate as an egg is of meat."

CHAPTER II

THE KIND "GOOD-MORNING"--THE HIGH HILL--UNEXPECTED MEETING--ROMANCE AND REALITY--THE GOOD FARMER--IMPRESSIONS OF CHILDHOOD--WORSHIPING--BEARING THE CROSS.

"Good-morning, Mr. Graffam," said Emma, who was in the garden when the poor man of the plain pa.s.sed along the road on his way to the mills.

We have before said that morning was not the time for this man to talk, and now he felt inclined, as usual, to pa.s.s this early salutation without notice; but it had been a long time since he had been accosted in that manner. It was no uncommon thing for people to address him in this way: "Good-morning, Pete! Feel sober after your last night's high, eh?" But a respectful "Good-morning, Mr. Graffam," now met his ear. "Can it be," thought the fallen man, "that I am still _Mr._, or are they mocking me?" He looked up, but saw neither jest nor scorn upon the fair face looking over the garden-wall.

"Good-morning, sir," repeated Emma; "it is a fine morning."

Poor Graffam looked with his dull swollen eyes upon the bright-blue sky, and then upon the wood-crowned hill, and the shaded dell, where the waters rippled and murmured, and the birds sang cheerily, and his heart caught some apprehension of beauty, for he answered slowly, "So it is, miss,--a very fine morning."

"And pray, how is your dear little babe, sir?" asked Emma, in a voice of tender concern.

This question seemed fully to rouse him. There was a glance both of surprise and intelligence in his eye, as he replied, "The child is very sick;" and then repeated, as though it were a fact new to himself, "Yes, that poor child is very sick indeed."

"I was at your house yesterday," continued Emma, "and promised Mrs.

Graffam that I would bring a good old lady living with us to see her; but I am not well enough to go to-day."

"Sorry if you are sick," murmured Graffam.

"Thank you," said Emma. "I was going to ask if you would have the kindness just to call at the gate tonight, and take a small package for Mrs. Graffam?"

"I will," said he, with a tone and manner something like self-respect and respect for his wife,--"I will, miss, with pleasure;" and he pulled his old hat from his head, and bowed low, while Emma bade him good-by.

"Go out upon the hills, my love," called Mrs. Lindsay from her window to Emma; "it will do you no good to be tying-up flowers, and talking with ragged old men by the roadside. Put on your bonnet, and walk briskly over the bridge, and let me see you from my window upon the top of yonder hill."

Emma cheerfully obeyed, and though she felt extremely languid, compelled herself to walk briskly as her mother had desired; but coming to the foot of the hill she paused, and looked doubtfully upon its steep sides and lofty top. "It reminds me of 'the Hill Difficulty,'"

thought Emma; "but the Christian pilgrim did not allow himself to stop and think over the difficulties, but 'addressed himself to his journey.' So must I:" and ceasing to look at the top, but only at the place for her feet, step by step, she at length gained the summit, and waved her handkerchief toward the house. The signal was answered from her mother's window, and then she sat down upon a rock to rest. But the morning was too dazzlingly beautiful there. She felt oppressed by the glory of distant mountains, sparkling rivers, and wide-spread fields of corn and grain; but looking down a gentle slope of the hill she saw a delightful place--it was a bend of the little brook gliding through the meadow-ground of Appledale. The pines had cast their spiral leaves there, so that the hill-side and the borders of the rill looked as though covered with sunlight, though there was in fact nothing but shade, for the trees cl.u.s.tered together, and locked their green arms, as if to shut the brook from day-light; yet close upon the borders of that brook Emma saw a large flat rock, around which the waters played, looking so cool and inviting that she longed to be there. She put her hand into her pocket, and found, to her joy, that the dear companion of her rambles was there: it was her Bible. Happy for Emma, she had learned to prize its gentle converse above that of human tongues; and now, sitting down upon her feet, she smiled to see how gla.s.sy the pine leaves had made the hill-slope, for she could slide along with but little exertion, and soon found herself upon the broad flat rock.

Taking her little Bible, she was just turning to some pa.s.sages Dora had marked, when she heard a deep sigh, and saw, to her surprise, Susan Sliver seated upon a moss-turf, crying bitterly.

"I am close to Sliver Crook," thought Emma, now for the first time noticing the house not far beyond the trees. "This may be Miss Susan's place of retirement, and I have no right here; but I cannot get away now without being seen; and then she seems unhappy. I should be glad to comfort her, if I could without----"

Just at that moment Susan looked up, and saw Emma, who sprang from the rock, and running toward her, said: "I was not aware of a trespa.s.s upon your grounds, Miss Sliver. You will pardon me. It looked so inviting here, that I was constrained to come down from the hill."

Susan, however, did not appear at all embarra.s.sed at being caught in tears.

She wiped her face with her ap.r.o.n, and then Emma saw an open book upon her knee. "My dear Miss Lindsay," said Susan, "it is no intrusion. I am glad to find a congenial spirit anywhere. My joy at this meeting is inexpressible; for now I know that there is one in this cold-hearted place, one beside my sister Margaret, who can appreciate my feelings."

Emma was silent; for she did not understand what those feelings were, or whether she appreciated them or not.

"Prom my childhood," continued Susan, "I have been among the people of my race, but not of them. I have stood alone, in a shroud of thoughts, which were not their thoughts; but few understand me, my dear, for I live in an ideal world, and whatever calls me back to this gross creation, makes me perfectly miserable: say, my dear Miss Lindsay, are these your feelings?"

"Alas, no," replied Emma; "I love the world too well, and have spent many wretched, sleepless nights because I was unwilling to leave it: but that time is pa.s.sed. If I have any fear now, it is that my work on earth will not be well done before I am called away."

Susan turned a wondering eye upon the pale, weary-looking girl, and for a moment forgot her intense sympathy for herself. "You are sick," said she, with an expression of real interest and concern.

"Yes," replied Emma, "that is evident. My friends have tried to hide it from me, and from themselves. They have sent me from place to place, but death is following me everywhere. _I_ never felt it so surely as I do this morning:" and Emma laid her head upon the moss-turf beside Susan. She looked like a faded lily, as she lay there; her white dress scarcely more white than the forehead and cheek upon which her dark damp hair rested heavily. Susan took a handkerchief from her pocket, and wrung it in the clear, cool waters of the brook, and kneeling upon the ground beside Emma, wiped her pale face, and tucking up her sleeves, chafed her poor withered arms, until Emma revived.

"Thank you," said she; "I was a little faint. Mamma is so desirous for me to exercise in the open air, that I go every day to the farthest limit of my strength. I was not able to climb that hill this morning."

Susan made no reply, but sat looking mournfully into her face. All the morning she had been weeping over the sorrows of an imaginary being whom she had found in a novel wandering about, and falling at every step into the most superlative misery. It was hard for Susan to read, and not identify herself with this beautiful suffering shadow; but now she had come from her ideal world, and was forced, for a time, to forget both the shadow and herself. Close to her father's old farm-house, and in the woods of Sliver-Crook, she saw what, described in a romance, would have been pathetic enough, but which, seen in reality, called out from her heart the good rational sympathy which, though buried in sentimental rubbish, was not dead.

"Do you really think," said she, bending over Emma, "that you must----"

Emma smiled, as she replied, "What difficulty we find in p.r.o.nouncing that word! One would think that there was a sting in the very _name_ of death: and so there is, Miss Sliver, until G.o.d gives us the victory, through Jesus Christ."

"Jesus was a beautiful character," said Susan, taking up Emma's Bible, beside which the red-covered novel lay blushing as if in an agony of shame. "I have often felt," she continued, "a strong desire to visit the places hallowed by his personal ministry; the garden where he kept his sad night-watch, Miss Lindsay; the Mount of Olives, and the clear-gliding Kedron. O," continued Susan, enthusiastically, "I should like to stand where the Marys stood, on the dreadful day of his crucifixion, and visit the tomb where they went, bearing sweet spices.

O, wouldn't it be delightful?"

"Yes," replied Emma, languidly; "but we should not find him there now,--upon Calvary, or the Mount of Olives; by the sweet-gliding Kedron, or in the Garden of Gethsemane,--unless we were like him, meek and lowly, and such can find him anywhere, Miss Sliver. The spirit of Jesus would hallow _this_ book, making it blessed and holy like the waters of Kedron; and this high hill might be to us what the Mount of Olives was to the disciples--for that was sacred only because Jesus talked with them there. Dora told me last night that the Holy Spirit could make any place holy."

Susan was silent. Emma had spoken words to which something within bore witness as truth, and she knew not what to say. Emma, too, lay musing for some time; and then raising her head, and resting it upon her hand, she said: "How wonderfully self-denying Jesus was, Miss Sliver. n.o.body appreciated the Saviour when he was upon earth, not even the disciples; yet this was nothing to him, for he did not seek his own glory. He went cheerfully about his Father's work, never thinking of himself, and never feeling himself degraded by the presence of a poor, sick, sinful mult.i.tude."

"I know it," said Susan, thoughtfully; "but the world will never see another Jesus, Miss Lindsay."

"O, it will, it will," replied Emma, with animation. "When human hearts are willing to let his Spirit dwell in them, human hands will do the work which Jesus did; and so his kingdom will come, and the world will see and acknowledge their King."

A shrill blast from a horn, at the farm-house across the brook, now interrupted their conversation.

"It is time for me to go home," said Susan; "but I shall not consent to leave you to climb that hill again today--you must go to our house, and stay until you are rested."

This kind decision of manner, so unlike anything she had before seen in Susan Sliver, quite interested Emma. She did not feel averse to a further acquaintance, and taking her arm they crossed the rustic bridge, and were soon at the farm-house. An elderly man, wearing a Quaker hat, had just entered, and Emma heard him talking to a good-looking old lady, who, both warm and tired, was vehemently beating a minute pudding. "Thee looks tired, Sarah; where are the girls?"

"Can't say where Susan is," was the reply. "Margaret is up stairs, sewing."

"Well, there is a time for everything, and the girls are old enough to know it; but here comes Susan. Come, Susan, thee ought to be helping thy mother these hot days; but who is this friend?"

"Mrs. Lindsay's daughter," said Susan.

Emma might have saved her graceful courtesy this time; for the old gentleman did not return it by taking off his broad-brimmed hat: yet she felt the sincere politeness of his manner, as, offering his hand, he said, "I am glad to see thee, child; how is thy mother?"

"Very well, thank you," said Emma, taking a seat upon the cushioned chair, which Susan brought and placed near the open door.

The old lady was not less cordial in her manner toward their visitor; but she seemed in a great hurry to get dinner upon the table, for the men were coming from the field, and the sun had crossed the noon-mark.

Emma was glad to see Susan taking hold to help her mother; and presently Margaret came down stairs, dressed a little too much, and a little too girlish, but appearing very kind and good-natured.