Here, people choose their own clergymen, and of course it is their business to support them. But in nearly the whole of Europe, rulers are so very paternal as to take that trouble and responsibility off the shoulders of the people: they are kind enough to do all their thinking for them. The subjects pay very heavy taxes; and from these, and from old endowments, all the expenses of the national establishments are discharged. They look at it in the same light as your parents do, when they pay your school-bills--it's a duty they owe you to see that you are properly taught; but it would be very weak in them to consult you as to which teacher you preferred, and what school you chose to go to--they're the best judges, of course."

"But, Aunt Lucy! you surely don't mean to say that the governments are the best judges as to what church the people shall attend, and what ministers they shall have?"

"I do not mean to say that is my opinion, of course--that would be rather anti-American, and not at all Aunty-Lucyish. No, no; I stand up for the rights of conscience, and approve of treating grown men, and children too, as if they had reason and common sense; and then they will be far more likely to possess it, than if they are always kept under an iron rule. But, on the other side of the water, they have not so exalted an opinion of the ma.s.s of the people as we have; and the government, in some form--either through ecclesiastical boards, or inspectors of churches, or members of the aristocracy--exercises the power of filling vacant churches. This is the reason why it is important to have an uncle; in other words, some influential person to aid you in rising."

"Even the _memory_ of an ill.u.s.trious uncle is sometimes a stepping-stone," remarked Charlie Bolton. "The late Emperor Louis Napoleon is an example--lucky fellow; his uncle's name and fame got him a throne--with the help of considerable cheating."

"Not so lucky, if you look at his end," said John. "But from other and quite disinterested motives, I intend to keep as close to _my_ uncle as he. I shall very soon begin to subscribe myself John Wyndham, Junior, and I am determined to be like you, uncle--as like as your own shadow."

"Then you will be an ill.u.s.trious example of failure, my boy--for my shadow, although always near me, is generally cast down, which I never am--and it always looks away from the sunny side, you know, which I don't do. Besides, a shadow has no particular character: any one's shadow would suit me as well as my own."

"I intend to be an original, for my part!" cried Cornelia, laughing. "I won't be cast in anybody's mould, as if I were a bullet--not I!"

"That's right, my dear original!" said her uncle, pinching her rosy, dimpled, laughter-loving cheek. "The grave world always wants a pert little Cornelia to tease it out of its peculiarities: people in old times kept their jesters, and you're nearly as good!"

"Why, uncle! you insult me! you've quite mistaken my character; I intend to be the dignified Miss Wyndham!"

"Oh, pray, spare us that infliction!" replied her uncle, laughingly, jumping into the carriage.

Mr. Wyndham met with good success. He arrived at Mr. Roscoe's door at the moment that gentleman was about to leave home. Alice Bolton, who was an especial favorite of his, introduced her uncle; and when he understood that they had private business with him, he led them up to his library, where, hanging over the mantle-piece, Mr. Wyndham immediately saw a portrait, the counterpart of the one in his possession, although evidently taken some years before the miniature.

Involuntarily, he stopped before it, and gazed earnestly. Mr. Roscoe sighed. "Here is all that remains," said he, "of a dear and only brother. I value this picture more than any thing else in my house, except its living furniture." "Had your brother no family, sir? no wife or child?" rejoined Mr. Wyndham. "That is rather a tender subject, my dear sir," answered Mr. Roscoe: "one that has caused me much sorrow, and some self-reproach. He left a wife and child, indeed, who were to join me in America. I have reason to think they sailed; but from that day to this, I have heard no tidings from them. Would to G.o.d I knew their fate!

whether the unknown ship in which they took pa.s.sage went down at sea, or what else may have happened, I know not. All my efforts to unravel the mystery have been in vain." "Perhaps I can help you," said Mr. Wyndham, with that peculiarly benevolent smile, which opened all hearts to him, as if by magic. "You recognize this countenance?" continued he, holding up to him little Maggie's medallion. "My brother Malcom! tell me, sir, tell me where you got this; it was his wife's!" "His sweet little daughter--your niece, Margaret Roscoe--handed it to my wife a few days ago. She knows not she has an uncle living: her mother is dead, and she is dwelling in comparative poverty near my house." "I cannot doubt it, from this picture--although it is all a mystery still. But I must see her--my dear brother's child. I will order up my carriage immediately, and beg you to take seats in it. I must see her as soon as possible."

"On that very account I have made arrangements for you to come out to The Grange in mine," replied Mr. Wyndham. "We can explain all things by the way; and you can return whenever you say the word. You will find Old Caesar quite at your disposal."

"I gratefully accept your offer, my dear sir, and can never be sufficiently thankful to you, if you indeed restore to me my brother's child. I will order my carriage to follow us to The Grange."

Accordingly, he acquainted his family, in few words and great haste, with the discovery that had been made, and left Carrie, Alan, and Malcom in an intense state of excitement, at the idea of regaining the long-lost cousin. The three then drove immediately to Mrs. Norton's little cottage, where the gentle and womanly child was busily engaged at her work--

"St.i.tch, st.i.tch, st.i.tch, Band, gusset, and seam--"

striving, by her small, but active fingers, to aid in the support of that family which had sheltered her in adversity. As the door opened, she raised her deep blue eyes--the very reflection of her father's. The work fell from her hands; that face reminded her of home, of her grandfather, of her unknown uncle. They have recognized each other; the ties of blood speak out in their hearts; the long-severed are now united.

I will not attempt to raise the veil which hides from the world the strongest and purest affections of our nature: they were never intended for the common eye. But now, after the first rapture of meeting had subsided, there arose a tumult within the soul of our affectionate and grateful little Maggie: her heart urged her in two opposite directions.

She felt, in an ardent and uncommon degree, that instinctive love of kindred which is implanted in our nature, and manifested so strongly by the natives of Scotland; but, on the other hand, grat.i.tude and duty appeared to bid her stay with her benefactors. Mr. Roscoe perceived the struggle, and it raised his little niece highly in his estimation. He told her that it was not his wish to separate her entirely from the family to which she was so warmly attached; that she should come very frequently to see them, and that, as his niece, she would find it was in her power to aid them more effectually than she could do as their adopted daughter. Mrs. Norton, although with tears in her eyes, told her that she could not now dare to detain her; her duty was clear, to follow her uncle, who filled her father's place. Having made the arrangement to call for her in the afternoon, Mr. Roscoe accompanied Mr. Wyndham and Alice to the Grange, where he dined, and spent the intermediate time; greatly to the pleasure of our young party, who could not have felt sure of Maggie's future happiness, had they not themselves experienced the attractive influence of his kind, gentlemanly, and paternal manner.

After dinner, the two gentlemen had a little private conversation about Mrs. Norton. They wished to place her above poverty, and yet to do so in a way which should not mortify her feelings of independence. Mr. Roscoe remarked that "he had it in his power to bring Frederic forward in business; and that, if he were an industrious and intelligent lad, he should enjoy as good an opportunity of rising in the world as the son of the richest merchant in the land. He would see to it that the girls had the best advantages of education; and if they showed sufficient talent, they should be trained for teachers. But, meantime, what was to be done for Mrs. Norton? Would she accept from him an annuity, which, after all, was only a small return for her kindness to his brother's child?"

Mr. Wyndham thought that it would be a better plan to establish her in a neat dwelling and well-furnished shop, either in the country or in the city, where Frederic could board with her. He knew, from his wife's account, that she had an acquaintance with business, and had thought of setting her up, himself, in a small way: he should be happy to aid in the good work. But Mr. Roscoe insisted that the debt was all his own, and that no one should share with him the privilege of helping her; and, accordingly, this plan was determined upon as combining the most efficient a.s.sistance to the widow, with a regard to her self-respect.

In the evening, after the excitement produced by the unexpected turn in the fortunes of little Maggie and of her generous protectors had somewhat subsided, our happy party drew up to the fire, which crackled and blazed as if conscious of the animation it imparted to the group around it.

"What game shall we play to-night?" said Cornelia, who possessed such an active mind as to think it stupid and "poking," unless some visible fun was in progress. She never could think the fire was burning, unless the sparks flew right and left.

"What do you say to 'Who can he be?" asked Mary. "'Tis a game, partly of my own invention, that I think may prove entertaining. I've seen a set of historical cards, in which a description is read of a general, king, or other ill.u.s.trious character; and any one having the card on which the corresponding name is printed, calls it out, and gains the other one. But if a beautiful Queen of Egypt, who lived a short time before the Christian era, is portrayed, it's quite as well for boys who own a Moses or a Mary of Scotland, not to be in too great a hurry to speak."

"We wouldn't be such dunces, I hope," cried Harry. "But, Cousin Mary, what's your improvement? I don't see any cards here at all."

"Oh no: I think when people have brains, they can play much better without them. My plan is, for a person to describe the individual, naming the country and age in which he lived, what gained him distinction, and every thing else that is interesting; and then any one of the circle can guess who the hero is, having the privilege of asking one question previously. If the conjecture be correct, the guesser describes another character, and so the game proceeds. Or, if you prefer it, you can narrate one well-known anecdote of your hero, and then three questions are allowed previous to a guess. I call it 'Who can he be?'"

"I think I shall like it," said Ellen. "If you please, I'll begin. Once there lived a Roman Emperor--he was a nephew, like Louis Napoleon and Cousin John. We often say people lived in the year one: he certainly did. He was a great patron of literature and the fine arts, and was a munificent friend to Virgil. Who can he be?"

"I can tell you, without asking my question," cried Tom. "Augustus was eminently the nephew, and succeeded his uncle, Julius Caesar, in the Empire. He was reigning at the time of our Saviour's birth, and of course lived in the year one: every thing fits--he's the man."

"You are right. Now 'tis your turn, brother Tom."

"The first of the English poets--who wrote splendid poetry, if only one could read it. 'Tis such hard, tough, jaw-breaking English, that it is little wonder his very name shows we must use the muscles of our mouths when we attempt it. He lived soon after the time of Wickliffe, and imbibed some of his ideas. Who can he be?"

"Who but Chaucer?" said Cornelia. "Now who is the hero who was almost elected King of Poland, but who lost that honor through the interference of a queen of England, unwilling to lose the brightest jewel of her crown by parting with him? He is mortally wounded on the battle-field, and thirsting for water. His soldiers procure some, with great difficulty, and he is about to raise it to his lips, when he sees the longing eye of a dying man, at his side, fixed upon it. 'He wants it more than I,' said he, and gave it to the poor fellow. Who can he be?"

"We are allowed three questions to an anecdote," said Alice, "but none are required here. There is only one Sir Philip Sydney. But who was the selfish queen, unwilling to have her n.o.blest subject exalted beyond her control?"

"None other than good Queen Bess," answered Cornelia.

"And who is the poet that has immortalized Sydney's sister, in the following lines?

"'Underneath this marble hea.r.s.e Lies the subject of all verse: Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother-- Death, ere thou hast slain another Good, and fair, and wise as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee!'"

"Was it 'rare Ben Jonson?'" cried Charlie Bolton.

"Even so, Charlie: now, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"I intend to disprove the a.s.sertion of Alice, that there is only one Sir Philip Sydney. Who was that other equally valiant knight, and much sweeter poet, who used to sing his own verses, accompanying himself upon the harp; and could thereby soothe the most troubled spirit? On one occasion, this brilliant genius, whose romantic adventures might fill a volume, and who subsequently became a king, was in exile, and was hidden, with some devoted followers, in a large cave. The enemies of his country were encamped around, and lay, in strong force, between his hiding-place and the small town where he had spent his childish years, which they also garrisoned. While in this situation, cut off from all intercourse with his home and friends, his heart turned to them with an intense longing; and in a moment of thoughtlessness, he said before three of his captains, 'Oh, what would I not give, could I once more drink water from the well, outside the gate of my native town!' At the peril of their lives, the gallant men fought their way through the hosts of the enemy, and returned with the water. But the poet-warrior would not drink: he poured it out as a libation to G.o.d, saying, 'Can I indeed drink the blood of these n.o.ble friends, who have risked their lives to gratify my idle whim? I cannot do it.' Now, who can be this poet, warrior, and king?"

"Did he live about a thousand years before the Christian era?" said Amy.

"He did."

"It was the sweet Psalmist of Israel, David, son of Jesse, the Bethlehemite. Now, who is the man that long ago published a book of jests, said to be greatly studied now-a-days by diners-out and professed wits, and endlessly copied into other works of a similar character. His reputation is so high, that many anecdotes are called by his name. Who can he be?"

"Is it Punch?" said Lewis.

"How silly!" cried Harry, with the knowing look of a boy two years older: "Punch is a newspaper. Was it Hood?"

"No: do you all give it up?"

"Yes: we can't imagine who he can be."

"Joe Miller, of jesting memory."

"Now let us try another game," said Gertrude. "Of course, Cousin Mary has an endless store at her disposal."

"Let us try 'Elements,'" Mary answered. "I will throw my handkerchief at some one, calling out water, air, or earth; and the person who catches it must immediately name an animal living in or upon the element. But if I say _fire_, you must be silent. The answer should be given before I count ten; and then the one in possession of the handkerchief must throw it to another, carrying on the game. Any one who repeats an animal that has been already mentioned, pays a forfeit--except that I think forfeits are stupid things."

"Instead of that," said Charlie, "let the unlucky wight who makes the greatest number of blunders, have the privilege of proposing the first game to-morrow."