"No doubt; give it to me, and you shall never see or hear of it again. I like old trinkets, and I'll never tell the story of that one, on my honor as a gentleman," said d.i.c.k, in a tone that appeased my wrath at once.

"Do you really want it?" I asked, pleased and surprised, yet still a little suspicious of some new joke.

"I do, because, although it will never go again, it will always remind me of some of the happiest hours and minutes of my life, Pen."

There was no fun in d.i.c.k's eyes as he said that, and I was glad to hide the sudden color in my cheeks by running away to get the poor old watch.

But I found there _was_ a surprise, and a very pleasant one, in store for me; for, as I thrust the shabby box into d.i.c.k's pocket, he handed me a little parcel prettily tied up with white ribbons, saying in his most captivating way, "Fair exchange is no robbery, you know, so you must take this, and then we shall be square."

"It looks like wedding cake," I said, surveying it with curiosity, and wondering why Geordie and the girls did not stop to see the mystery unfolded.

"No, that comes later, dear," answered d.i.c.k, in a tone that made me devote myself to the white ribbons with sudden zeal.

A blue velvet case appeared, and I could not resist saying, in a voice more tender than reproachful, "You extravagant man! I know it is something costly and beautiful in return for the disgracefully mean gift I gave you."

"Bless your innocent heart, did you think you could hide any thing from me? Geordie couldn't keep a secret, and I'm only paying his debt, Pen dear, with the sort of interest women like," d.i.c.k answered, with an audacious arm around my waist and a brown beard close to my cheek.

As I did not refuse the offered interest, he added, in a softer tone, "My own debt I never can settle unless with all my worldly goods I thee endow; my heart you have had for years. Say yes, dear, and be my little _chatelaine_."

Never mind what I said, but I a.s.sure you if it had not been for d.i.c.k's arm I should have gone under the table, when, a few minutes later, I lifted the blue velvet lid and saw a dainty watch luxuriously lying on its white satin bed.

BY THE RIVER.

A LEGEND OF THE a.s.sABET.

CHAPTER I.

In the shadow of the bridge a boy lay reading on the gra.s.s,--a slender lad, broad-browed and clear-eyed, barefooted and clad in homespun, yet happy as a king; for health sat on his sunburned cheeks, a magic book lay open before him, and sixteen years of innocence gave him a pa.s.sport to the freshest pleasures life can offer.

"Nat! Nat! come here and see!" cried a shrill voice from among the alders by the river-side.

But Nat only shook his head as if a winged namesake had buzzed about his ears, and still read on. Presently a twelve-years child came scrambling up the bank, dragging a long rod behind her with a discontented air.

"I wish you'd come and help me. The fish won't bite and my line is in a grievous snarl. Don't read any more. I'm tired of playing all alone."

"I forgot you, Ruthy, and it was ill done of me. Sit here and rest while I undo the tangle," and Nat looked up good-naturedly at the small figure before him, with its quaint pinafore, checked linen gown, and buckled shoes; for this little maid lived nearly a hundred years ago and this lad had seen Washington face to face.

"Now tell me a story while I wait. Not out of that stupid play-book you are always reading, but about something that really happened, with naughty children and nice folks in it, and have it end good," said Ruth, beginning a dandelion chain; for surely it is safe to believe that our honored grandmothers enjoyed that pretty pastime in their childhood.

Nat lay in the gra.s.s, dreamily regarding the small personage who ruled him like a queen and whom he served with the devotion of a loyal heart.

Now the royal command was for a story, and, stifling a sigh, this rustic gentleman closed the book, whose magic had changed the spring morning to a Midsummer Night's Dream for an hour, and set himself to gratify the little damsel's whim.

"You liked the last tale about the children who were lost. Shall I tell one about a child who was found? It really happened, and you never heard it before," he asked.

"Yes; but first put your head in my lap, for there are ants in the gra.s.s and I like to see your eyes shine when you spin stories. Tell away."

"Once upon a time there was a great snow-storm," began Nat, obediently pillowing his head on the blue pinafore.

"Whereabouts?" demanded Ruth.

"Don't spoil the story by interrupting. It was in this town, and I can show you the very house I'm going to tell about."

"I like to know things straight along, and not bounce into a snow-storm all in a minute. I'll be good. Go on."

"Well, it snowed so hard that people stayed indoors till the storm had beat and blown itself away. Right in the worst of it, as a farmer and his wife sat by the fire that night, they heard a cry at the door. You see they were sitting very still, the man smoking his pipe and the woman knitting, both thinking sorrowfully of their only son, who had just died."

"Don't have it doleful, Nat," briskly suggested Ruth, working busily while the narrator's hands lay idle, and his eyes looked as if they actually saw the little scene his fancy conjured up.

"No, I won't; only it really was like that," apologized Nat, seeing that sentiment was not likely to suit his matter-of-fact auditor. "When the cry came a second time, both of these people ran to the door. No one was to be seen, but on the wide step they saw a little mound not there an hour before. Brushing off the snow, they found a basket; and, when they opened it, there lay a little baby, who put out its arms with a pitiful cry, that went to their hearts. The woman hugged it close, fed it, and hushed it to sleep as if it had been her own. Her husband let her do as she liked, while he tried to find where it came from; but no trace appeared, and there was no name or mark on the poor thing's clothes."

"Did they keep it?" asked Ruth, tickling Nat's nose with a curly dandelion stem, to goad him on, as he lay silent for a moment.

"Yes, they kept it; for their hearts were sore and empty, and the forlorn baby seemed to fill them comfortably. The townsfolk gossiped awhile, but soon forgot it; and it grew up as if it had been born in the farmer's house. I've often wondered if it wasn't the soul of the little son who died, come back in another shape to comfort those good people."

"Now don't go wandering off, Nat; but tell me if he was a pretty, nice, smart child," said Ruth, with an eye to the hero's future capabilities.

"Not a bit pretty," laughed Nat, "for he grew up tall and thin, with big eyes and a queer brow. He wasn't 'nice,' either, if you mean good, for he got angry sometimes and was lazy; but he tried,--oh! yes, he truly tried to be a dutiful lad. He wasn't 'smart,' Ruth; for he hated to study, and only loved story books, ballads, and plays, and liked to wander round alone in the woods better than to be with other boys.

People laughed at him because of his queersome ways; but he couldn't help it,--he was born so, and it would come out."

"He was what Aunt Becky calls shiftless, I guess. She says you are; but I don't mind as long as you take care of me and tell me stories."

The boy sighed and shook his head as if a whole swarm of gnats were annoying him now. "He was grateful, anyhow, this fellow I'm telling about; for he loved the good folks and worked on the farm with all his might to pay them for their pity. He never complained; but he hated it, for delving day after day in the dirt made him feel as if he was nothing but a worm."

"We are all worms," Deacon Hurd says; "so the boy needn't have minded,"

said Ruth, trying to a.s.sume a primly pious expression, that sat very ill upon her blooming little face.

"But some worms can turn into b.u.t.terflies, if they get a chance; so the boy did mind, Ruthy." And Nat looked out into the summer world with a longing glance, which proved that he already felt conscious of the folded wings and was eager to try them.

"Was he a G.o.d-fearing boy?" asked Ruth, with a tweak of the ear; for her friend showed signs of "wandering off" again into a world where her prosaic little mind could not follow him.

"He didn't _fear_ G.o.d; he loved Him. Perhaps it was wrong; but somehow he couldn't believe in a G.o.d of wrath when he saw how good and beautiful the world was and how kind folks were to him. He felt as if the Lord was his father, for he had no other; and when he was lonesomest that thought was right comfortable and helpful to him. Was it wrong?" asked Nat of the child.

"I'm afraid Aunt Becky would think so. She's awful pious, and boxed my ears with a psalm-book last Sabbath, when I said I wished the lions would bite Daniel in the den, I was so tired of seeing them stare and roar at him. She wouldn't let me look at the pictures in the big Bible another minute, and gave me a long hymn to learn, shut up in the back bed-room. She's a G.o.dly woman, Deacon Hurd says; but I think she's uncommon strict."

"Shall I tell any more, or are you tired of this stupid boy?" said Nat, modestly.

"Yes, you may as well finish. But do have something happen. Make him grow a great man, like Whittington, or some of the story-book folks, it's so nice to read about," answered Ruth, rather impatiently.

"I hope he did something better than trade cats and be lord mayor of London. But that part of the story hasn't come yet; so I'll tell you of two things that happened, one sad and one merry. When the boy was fourteen, the good woman died, and that nearly broke his heart; for she had made things easy for him, and he loved her dearly. The farmer sent for his sister to keep house, and then the boy found it harder than ever to bear his life; for the sister was a notable woman, well-meaning, but as strict as Aunt Becky, and she pestered the lad as Aunt pesters me.

You see, Ruthy, it grew harder every year for him to work on the farm, for he longed to be away somewhere quiet among books and learned folk.

He was not like those about him, and grew more unlike all the time, and people often said: 'He's come of gentle blood. That's plain to see.' He loved to think it was true,--not because he wanted to be rich and fine, but to find his own place and live the life the Lord meant him to. This feeling made him so unhappy that he was often tempted to run away, and would have done it but for the grat.i.tude that kept him.

"Lack-a-daisy! What a bad boy, when he had good clothes and victuals and folks were clever to him! But did he ever find his grand relations?"