"You shall be welcome to use them as freely as you like," said the owner--an offer which Frank gratefully accepted.

The engravings were tastefully framed in black walnut. One represented one of Raphael's Madonnas. Another was a fine photograph, representing a palace in Venice. Several others portrayed foreign scenes. Among them was a street scene in Rome. An entire family were sitting in different postures on the portico of a fine building, the man with his swarthy features half-concealed under a slouch hat, the woman holding a child in her lap, while another, a boy with large black eyes, leaned his head upon her knees.

"That represents a Roman family at home," explained Henry Morton.

"At home!"

"Yes, it is the only home they have. They sleep wherever night finds them, sheltering themselves from the weather as well as they can."

"But how do they get through the winter? should think they would freeze."

"Nature has bestowed upon Italy a mild climate, so that, although they may find the exposure at this season disagreeable, they are in no danger of freezing."

There was another engraving which Frank looked at curiously. It represented a wagon laden with casks of wine, and drawn by an ox and a donkey yoked together. Underneath was a descriptive phrase, "Caro di vino."

"You don't see such teams in this country," said Mr. Morton, smiling.

"In Italy they are common enough. In the background you notice a priest with a shovel-hat, sitting sideways on a donkey. Such a sight is much more common there than that of a man on horseback. Indeed, this stubborn animal is found very useful in ascending and descending mountains, being much surer-footed than the horse. I have ridden down steep descents along the verge of a precipice where it would have been madness to venture on horseback, but I felt the strongest confidence in the donkey I bestrode."

Frank noticed a few Latin books in the collection. "Do you read Latin, Mr. Morton?" he inquired.

"Yes, with tolerable ease. If I can be of any a.s.sistance to you in carrying on your Latin studies, it will afford me pleasure to do so."

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Morton. I tried to go on with it by myself, but every now and then I came to a difficult sentence which I could not make out."

"I think we can overcome the difficulties between us. At any rate, we will try. Have no hesitation in applying to me."

Before closing this chapter, I think it necessary to narrate a little incident which served to heighten the interest with which Frank regarded his new friend, though it involved the latter in a shadow of mystery.

Mrs. Frost did not keep what in New England is denominated "help." Being in good health, she performed the greater part of her household tasks una.s.sisted. When washing and house-cleaning days came, however, she obtained outside a.s.sistance. For this purpose she engaged Chloe to come twice a week, on Monday and Sat.u.r.day, not only because in this way she could help the woman to earn a living, but also because she found her a valuable and efficient a.s.sistant.

Henry Morton became a member of the little household at the farm on Thursday, and two days later Chloe came as usual to "clean house."

The young man was standing in the front yard as Chloe, with a white turban on her head, for she had not yet laid aside her Southern mode of dress, came from the street by a little path which led to the back door.

Her attention was naturally drawn to the young man. No sooner did she obtain a full view of him, than she stopped short and exclaimed with every appearance of surprise, "Why, Ma.s.s' Richard, who'd'a' thought to see you here. You look just like you used to do, dat's a fac'. It does my old eyes good to see you."

Henry Morton turned suddenly.

"What, Chloe!" he exclaimed in equal surprise. "What brings you up here?

I thought you were miles away, in Virginia."

"So I was, Ma.s.s' Richard. But Lor' bless you, when de Link.u.m sogers come, I couldn't stay no longer. I took and runned away."

"And here you are, then."

"Yes, Ma.s.s' Richard, here I is, for sure."

"How do you like the North, Chloe?"

"Don't like it as well as de Souf. It's too cold," and Chloe shivered.

"But you would rather be here than there?"

"Yes, Ma.s.s' Richard. Here I own myself. Don't have no oberseer to crack his whip at me now. I'se a free woman now, and so's my little Pomp."

The young man smiled at the innocent mistake.

"Pomp is your little boy, I suppose, Chloe."

"Yes, Ma.s.s' Richard."

"Is he a good boy?"

"He's as sa.s.sy as de debble," said Chloe emphatically. "I don't know what's goin' to 'come of dat boy. He's most worried my life out."

"Oh, he'll grow better as he grows older. Don't trouble yourself about him. But, Chloe, there's one favor I am going to ask of you."

"Yes, Ma.s.s' Richard."

"Don't call me by my real name. For some reasons, which I can't at present explain, I prefer to be known as Henry Morton, for some months to come. Do you think you can remember to call me by that name?"

"Yes, Ma.s.s'--Henry," said Chloe, looking perplexed.

Henry Morton turned round to meet the surprised looks of Frank and his mother.

"My friends," he said, "I hope you will not feel distrustful of me, when I freely acknowledge to you that imperative reasons compel me for a time to appear under a name not my own. Chloe and I are old acquaintances, but I must request her to keep secret for a time her past knowledge concerning me. I think," he added with a smile, "that she would have nothing to say that would damage me. Some time you shall know all. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite so," said Mrs. Frost. "I have no doubt you have good and sufficient reason."

"I will endeavor to justify your confidence," said Henry Morton, an expression of pleasure lighting up his face.

CHAPTER XVIII. THANKSGIVING AT THE FARM

The chill November days drew to a close. The shrill winds whistled through the branches of the trees, and stirred the leaves which lay in brown heaps upon the ground. But at the end of the month came Thanksgiving--the farmer's Harvest Home. The fruits of the field were in abundance but in many a home there were vacant chairs, never more, alas!

to be filled. But he who dies in a n.o.ble cause leaves sweet and fragrant memories behind, which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of him.

Thanksgiving morning dawned foggy and cold. Yet there is something in the name that warms the heart and makes the dullest day seem bright. The sunshine of the heart more than compensates for the absence of sunshine without.

Frank had not been idle.

The night before he helped Jacob kill a turkey and a pair of chickens, and seated on a box in the barn they had picked them clean in preparation for the morrow.

Within the house, too, might be heard the notes of busy preparation.

Alice, sitting in a low chair, was busily engaged in chopping meat for mince pies. Maggie sat near her paring pumpkins, for a genuine New England Thanksgiving cannot be properly celebrated without pumpkin pies.

Even little Charlie found work to do in slicing apples.

By evening a long row of pies might be seen upon the kitchen dresser.

Brown and flaky they looked, fit for the table of a prince. So the children thought as they surveyed the attractive array, and felt that Thanksgiving, come as often as it might, could never be unwelcome.