A few questions he asked to avoid being questioned himself; a few remedies he tried, to appease the mother's heart, whose mournful eyes were on him like a spell.

"Water," said Daisy, faintly, as she languidly opened her eyes.

"G.o.d be thanked," said Ruth, overcome by the sound of that blessed little voice, which she never expected to hear again, "G.o.d be thanked."

The young doctor returned no answering smile, as Ruth and Harry grasped his hand; but he walked to the little window and looked out upon the gray dawn, with a heavy sigh, as the first faint streak of light ushered in the new-born day.

Still the fire-light flashed and flickered--now upon the old doctor, who had fallen asleep in his arm chair; now upon Ruth's bowed head; now upon Daisy, who lay motionless in her mother's lap, (the deadly paleness of her countenance rendered still more fearful by the dark blood-stains on her night dress;) then upon Harry, who, kneeling at Daisy's side, and stifling his own strong heart, gazed alternately at mother and child; then upon Dinah, who, with folded arms, stood like some grim sentinel, in the shadow of the farther corner; the little mantle clock, meanwhile, ticking, ticking on--numbering the pa.s.sing moments with startling distinctness.

Oh, in such an hour, when wave after wave of anguish dashes over us, where are the infidel's boasted doubts, as the tortured heart cries out, instinctively, "save, Lord; or we perish!"

Slowly the night waned, and the stars paled. Up the gray east the golden sun slowly glided. One beam penetrated the little window, hovering like a halo over Daisy's sunny head. A quick, convulsive start, and with one wild cry (as the little throat filled to suffocation), the fair white arms were tossed aloft, then dropped powerless upon the bed of Death!

CHAPTER XXIII.

"There can be no sorrow greater than this sorrow," sobbed Ruth, as the heavy sod fell on Daisy's little breast.

In after years, when bitterer cups had been drained to the dregs, Ruth remembered these, her murmuring words. Ah! mourning mother! He who seeth the end from the beginning, even in this blow "remembered mercy."

"Your daughter-in-law is quite crushed by her affliction, I hear," said a neighbor to old Mrs. Hall.

"Yes, Mrs. Jones, I think she is," said the old lady complacently. "It has taken right hold of her."

"It died of croup, I believe," said Mrs. Jones.

"Well, they _say_ so," said the old lady. "It is _my_ opinion the child's death was owing to the thriftlessness of the mother. I don't mourn for it, because I believe the poor thing is better off."

"You surprise me," said Mrs. Jones. "I always had the impression that young Mrs. Hall was a pattern mother."

"People differ," said the old lady, raising her eyebrows, compressing her lips, and looking mysteriously at the ceiling, as if she _could_ tell a tale, were she not too charitable.

"Well, the amount of it is," said the garrulous old doctor, emerging from the corner; "the amount of it is, that the mother always thought she knew better than anybody else how to manage that child. Now, you know, Mis. Jones, I'm a physician, and _ought_ to know something about the laws that govern the human body, but you'll be astonished to hear that she frequently acted directly contrary to my advice, and this is the result; that tells the whole story. However, as Mis. Hall says, the child is better off; and as to Ruth, why the Lord generally sends afflictions where they are _needed_;" and the doctor returned to his corner.

"It looks very lonely at the Glen since they moved away," remarked Mrs.

Jones. "I suppose they don't think of coming back."

"How?" replied the doctor, re-appearing from his corner.

"I suppose your son and his wife have no idea of returning to the Glen,"

said Mrs. Jones.

"No--no. Ruth is one of the uneasy kind; it's coming and going--coming and going with her. She fancied everything in doors and out reminded her of Daisy, and kept wandering round, trying to be rid of herself. Now that proves she didn't make a sanctifying use of her trouble. It's no use trying to dodge what the Lord sends. We've just got to stand and take it; if we don't, he'll be sending something else. Them's my sentiments, and I consider 'em scripteral. I shouldn't be surprised if _Harry_ was taken away from her;--a poor, miserable thing she'd be to take care of herself, if he was. She couldn't earn the salt to her porridge. Thriftless, Mis. Jones, thriftless--come of a bad stock--can't expect good fruit off a wild apple tree, at least, not without grace is grafted on; that tells the whole story."

"Well; my heart aches for her," said the kind Mrs. Jones. "Mrs. Hall is very delicately organized,--one of those persons capable of compressing the happiness or misery of a lifetime into a few moments."

"Stuff," said the doctor, "stuff; don't believe it. _I'm_ an example to the contrary. I've been through everything, and just look at me;" and the doctor advanced a pace or two to give Mrs. Jones a better view of his full-blown peony face, and aldermanic proportions; "don't believe it, Mis. Jones; stuff! Fashion to be sentimental; nerves a modern invention. Ridiculous!"

"But," said the persistent Mrs. Jones, "don't you think, doctor, that--"

"Don't think anything _about_ it," said the doctor. "Don't want to _hear_ anything about it. Have no patience with any woman who'd let a husband sell a farm at such a sacrifice as Harry's was sold, merely because there was a remote chance she would become insane if she staid there. Now, I've enough to do--plenty to do, but, still, I was willing to superintend that farm a little, as my doing so was such a help to Harry. Well, well; they'll both go to the dogs, that's the amount of it.

A rolling stone gathers no moss. Harry was good for something before he married Ruth; had a mind of his own. Ruth aint the wife for him."

"He did not appear to think so," replied the obstinate Mrs. Jones.

"Everybody in the village says, 'what a happy couple they are.'"

"_O-o-h_--my!" hissed the old lady, "did you _ever_, doctor? Of course, Mrs. Jones, you don't suppose Harry would be such a fool as to tell people how miserable he was; but _mothers_, Mrs. Jones, _mothers_ are keen-sighted; can't throw dust in a _mother's_ eyes."

"_Nor in mine_," retorted the independent Mrs. Jones, with a mock courtesy to the old lady, as she walked out the door, muttering as she went down the road, "Sally Jones will tell her the truth if n.o.body else will."

"Mis. Hall," said the doctor, drawing himself up so straight as to snap off his waist-band b.u.t.ton, "this is the last time that woman ever crosses _my_ threshold. I shall tell Deacon Smith that I consider her a proper subject for church discipline; she's what the bible calls 'a busy body in other men's matters;' a character which both you and I despise and abominate, Mis. Hall."

CHAPTER XXIV.

The _first-born_! Oh, other tiny feet may trip lightly at the hearth-stone; other rosy faces may greet us round the board; with tender love we soothe their childish pains and share their childish sports; but "Benjamin is not," is written in the secret chamber of many a bereaved mother's heart, where never more the echo of a childish voice may ring out such liquid music as death hath hushed.

Spring had garlanded the earth with flowers, and Autumn had withered them with his frosty breath. Many a Summer's sun, and many a Winter's snow, had rested on Daisy's grave, since the date of our last chapter.

At the window of a large hotel in one of those seaport towns, the resort alike of the invalid and pleasure-seeker, sat Ruth; the fresh sea-breeze lifting her hair from temples thinner and paler than of yore, but stamped with a holier beauty. From the window might be seen the blue waters of the bay leaping to the bright sunlight; while many a vessel outward and inward bound, spread its sails, like some joyous white-winged sea bird. But Ruth was not thinking of the sapphire sky, though it were pa.s.sing fair; nor of the blue sea, decked with its snowy sails; for in her lap lay a little half-worn shoe, with the impress of a tiny foot, upon which her tears were falling fast.

_A little half-worn shoe!_ And yet no magician could conjure up such blissful visions; no artist could trace such vivid pictures; no harp of sweetest sounds could so fill the ear with music.

Eight years since the little Daisy withered! And yet, to the mother's eye, she still blossomed fair as Paradise. The soft, golden hair still waved over the blue-veined temples; the sweet, earnest eyes still beamed with their loving light; the little fragile hand was still outstretched for maternal guidance, and in the wood and by the stream they still lingered. Still, the little hymn was chanted at dawn, the little prayer lisped at dew-fall; still, that gentle breathing mingled with the happy mother's star-lit dreams.

A little, bright-eyed creature, crept to Ruth's side, and lifting a long, wavy, golden ringlet from a box on the table near her, laid it beside her own brown curls.

"Daisy's in heaven," said little Katy, musingly. "Why do you cry, mamma?

Don't you like to have G.o.d keep her for you?"

A tear was the only answer.

"_I_ should like to die, and have you love _my_ curls as you do Daisy's, mother."

Ruth started, and looked at the child; the rosy flush had faded away from little Katy's cheek, and a tear stole slowly from beneath her long lashes.

Taking her upon her lap, she severed one tress of her brown hair, and laid it beside little Daisy's golden ringlet.

A bright, glad smile lit up little Katy's face, and she was just throwing her arms about her mother's neck, to express her thanks, when, stopping suddenly, she drew from her dimpled foot one little shoe, and laid it in her mother's palm.

'Mid smiles and tears Ruth complied with the mute request; and the little sister shoes lay with the twin ringlets, lovingly side by side.