At length her uncle and aunt returned, and Agnes heard that her little brother was very ill; but the doctor was of opinion that his disease was a brain fever, and therefore there was no danger of contagion. Agnes went to bed with a heavy heart, and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Wharton again ordered the sleigh and drove to "the Hemlocks." She found Mrs. Elwyn in a state bordering on distraction.

"Oh, Ellen," she said, "how I have wanted you! Lewie has had a night of dreadful suffering, and now he is unconscious. He does not know me, Ellen! He does not hear me when I call. I think he does not see. Oh, Ellen, what would life be to me if I lose my darling. And now I want you to _pray!_ You can pray, Ellen, and G.o.d answers your prayers. Pray for the life of my child! Mammy prays, but she will only say, 'The will of the Lord be done!'"

"And I can say no more, Ellen. I _do_ pray; I _have_ prayed, that your darling boy's life may be spared, if it be the will of G.o.d, but more than that I cannot say."

"And what if it be His will to take my darling from me, Ellen?"

"Then, Harriet, I hope you might learn to acquiesce without a murmur, and to say from your heart, 'It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him good.'"

"No, Ellen, never! I cannot contemplate the bare possibility of losing my boy. If you will not pray as I wish, I will try to pray myself;" and falling on her knees, she prayed for the life of her child. "Take whatever else thou wilt, oh G.o.d," she cried, "but oh, spare me my child."

"Harriet, this seems to me most horrible impiety," said Mrs. Wharton, "to ask G.o.d to grant your desires, whether agreeable to His will, or not; I should much fear if your request were granted, that it would only be to show you, that you know not what is best for yourself, and for those you love; and that you might some day wish you had left this matter in the hands of G.o.d, even if it had been His will to take your darling to Himself."

When Dr. Rodney came that morning, he found the child in a profound slumber. "This," said he, "is, I think, the crisis of the disease; on no account let him be disturbed; if he awakes conscious, he will in all human probability recover."

And they watched him in breathless stillness, Mrs. Wharton on one side of the cradle, and his mother on a low stool beside him, with her sad gaze riveted on his little face, to catch his first waking glance, and to see whether the eye then beamed with intelligence, or not.

Oh, who can imagine the agony, the terrible suspense of such watching, but those who have sat as that poor mother did, over a loved one hovering between life and death. And as Mrs. Wharton sat so silently opposite her, her thoughts were sometimes raised in prayer for her poor misguided sister; and sometimes she sat looking at her as a perfect enigma; with a heart so capable of loving devotedly, and yet so steeled against her own child, and so lovely and winning a little creature as Agnes. It was a puzzle which she had often tried to solve, in vain.

After an hour more of deep slumber, Lewie started and awoke. For a moment his glance rested with a bewildered expression upon his mother's face; and then, stretching out his little hands, he said, "Mamma!" Mrs.

Wharton's attention was fixed upon the child; but when she turned to the mother, she saw her, white as the snow, falling back upon the floor. The revulsion of feeling was too much for her; she had fainted.

When Mrs. Wharton came home that night, she said, "Agnes, my love, your little brother is better, and, with great care, he may now recover."

"Oh, aunty!" exclaimed Agnes, joyfully, "and when may I see him?"

"You must be content to remain with us without going home for some days yet, dear; for the doctor says the most perfect quiet is necessary, and you could not see Lewie if you were at home."

And now that the mind of little Agnes was comparatively free from anxiety, she entered with great delight into the preparations going on at Brook Farm for Christmas.

III.

Christmas Time.

"In the sounding hall they wake The rural gambol."--THOMSON.

And now but a week was wanting to Christmas, and all was excitement and bustle among the little folks at Brook Farm. Lewie was quite out of danger, and Agnes was as happy and as busy as any of her little cousins.

The cutter was in constant demand; for when one was particularly desirous to go over to the village on some secret expedition, that one must go alone, or only with those who were in her secret. Many were the mysterious brown-paper parcels which were smuggled into the house, and hidden away under lock and key in various closets and drawers; and there were sudden scramblings and hidings of half-finished articles, when some member of the family who "was not to see" entered the room.

"Aunty," said Agnes one day, in a confidential tone, "I should like to make a needle-book for mamma, like the one cousin Emily is making for Effie. She says she will show me, and fix it for me, and I think I can do it. Do you think mamma would like it?"

"Certainly, darling, I should think she would like it; I do not see how any mamma could help being pleased with anything her little girl made for her."

"But, aunty," said Agnes, as if speaking of a well-known and acknowledged fact, "you know mamma doesn't love me much, and perhaps it would trouble her."

The sad tone in which these words were said brought tears to the eyes of Mrs. Wharton, but still she encouraged Agnes to go on with the needle-book. It was not a very complicated affair, and Emily arranged all the most difficult parts; but still it was a work of time, and one requiring much patience and perseverance on the part of so young a child as Agnes. However, it was at length completed on the day before Christmas, and, when handed about for inspection, was much admired by all her friends. Agnes was very happy, for on Christmas day her uncle was to take her over home to see Lewie, who called for her constantly, her aunt said. Mammy had walked over too, to see her little girl, and she told her that "Lewie was greetin' for 'sister' from morn till night."

The day before Christmas came, and with it the party at Brook Farm was augmented by the arrival of Mrs. Ellison, a younger sister of Mr.

Wharton's, her husband and baby, a beautiful child of about a year old.

There was great joy at the arrival of "Aunt f.a.n.n.y," who was very lively, and always ready to enter with glee into the frolics and sports of the children.

As they were sitting at the dinner table that day, Mr. Wharton said:

"I have received certain information that Santa Claus himself is to visit us to-night, and bring his gifts in person. He desires me to inform the children, that all packages to be entrusted to his care must be handed into my study, labelled and directed, before six o'clock this evening."

Many were the wonders and speculations as to the nature and appearance of the expected Santa Claus; but they were suddenly interrupted by Robert, who exclaimed:

"Why, who comes here up the lane? It's old cousin Betty, I do declare, in her old green gig set on runners."

"I thought cousin Betty would hardly let Christmas go by without making her appearance," said Mrs. Wharton; "I have thought two or three times to-day that she might come along before night."

"Cousin Betty" was a distant relation of Mrs. Wharton's, a lonely old body, who lodged with a relative in a village about ten miles distant from Brook Farm. She was very eccentric--so much so, that she was by some thought crazy; but Mrs. Wharton was of opinion that cousin Betty had never possessed sufficient _mind_ to subject her to such a calamity. She was more silly than crazy, very good-natured, very inquisitive as to the affairs of others, and very communicative as to her own.

In a few minutes cousin Betty had received a hearty welcome, and was seated by the bright fire, asking and answering questions with the utmost rapidity.

"I've been looking for you, cousin Betty," said Mrs. Wharton.

"Have! What made you?"

"Oh, I thought you could hardly let Christmas go by without coming to see the fun."

"Did! Well, I never thought nothing about comin' till yesterday, when I sat in my little room, and I got feelin' pretty dull; and thinks I to myself, I'll just borrow Mr. White's old horse, and take my old gig, and drive up to the farm, and see the folks."

"Cousin Betty, who do you think is coming to see us to-night?" asked little Grace.

"I'm sure I can't tell, child. Who is it?"

"Why, Santa Claus himself, with all his presents around him."

"Is, hey?" said cousin Betty; "well, I shall be mighty glad to see him, I can tell you; for, old as I am, I've never seen him yet."

"I'm so glad you've come, cousin Betty!" said Effie; "we want you to go with us some day over to the farm-house, and tell us about our great-grandfather, whose house stood where the farm-house stands now; and how his house was burnt down by the Indians, and he was carried off.

Agnes wants to hear it so much."

"Does! Well, I will go over there, and tell you the story, some day. But I can't walk over there while the weather is so cold; I should get the rheumatiz."

"I'll drag you over on my sled, if that will do, cousin Betty," said Robert.

The children laughed so heartily at the picture presented to their imagination of little old cousin Betty riding on Robert's sled, that Grace actually rolled out of her chair.

"Why wouldn't it do to tell the story here, Effie?" asked Agnes.