Several hours later, when the household had forgotten its grief in slumber, and nothing disturbed the stillness of the night, but an occasional frog, and the lonesome sighing of the wind through the bare trees, two persons found it extremely difficult to sleep. In Mrs.

Dering's room the fire lay in dying embers on the hearth, and in a low chair before it, sat the pale mother and widow, with no need now to hide her grief, lest other hearts were made sad, for no one was near but Jean, and she slept soundly, with sorrow lost in the oblivion of dreams.

So feeling for the first time, the liberty of tears, that poor, aching heart broke its stern control, and burying her face, the sorrowing woman wept, praying, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, that they might not be shed in bitterness or rebellion, and that her heart, through all its pain, might still feel and know, "what is, is best." When the violence of her grief had expended itself, and she could lift her face to view calmly her loss and new responsibilities, the unvoiced prayer of her heart was: "O G.o.d, help me; I cannot work alone; let me know what to do; help me to think and act aright, and strengthen my trembling faith, that whatever may come to me, I can say: 'G.o.d knows it is for the best.'"

Even as she prayed, help came to her, for Olive could not sleep, and feeling a.s.sured that her mother was awake, had come noiselessly in, and now stood by her.

"Mama, I cannot sleep either; let me stay with you."

"Olive, my child, it is past midnight."

"I know, mama," and as Olive spoke, she pushed a stool to her mother's feet, and sat down, for something in the voice a.s.sured her that she was welcome.

"Why couldn't you sleep, dear?"

"Thinking," answered Olive, gravely. "And I wanted to talk to you, mama, when we could be quite alone."

"Yes, dear."

"Will you tell me about Mr. Congreve, please?"

No curiosity prompted the question; that her mother knew; so, looking down into the grave, thoughtful face, she lowered her voice, and began:

"Mr. Congreve took papa when he was left an orphan at eight years old, and raised him, expecting to make him his heir, as he is very wealthy.

When Mr. Congreve and my father were boys they were great friends; but in early manhood, had a bitter quarrel that has never been forgiven either side, and they have hated each other fiercely ever since. When Mr. Congreve found that his nephew was in love with his enemy's daughter, he was furious with anger, and my father also objected to the match, but not so bitterly and blind to reason, as his enemy. Your father was threatened, plead with, and sworn at; but while he remained firm to his intention of marrying me, he really loved his fiery uncle, and disliked to come out in open rebellion; but a final move of Mr.

Congreve's was more than he could bear. He locked him up. Of course no man of age and reason could stand such an indignity as that, so, making his escape at night, he left without a word of any kind, and has never seen his uncle but once since. A little while after we were married, we received a letter from him, very short and bitter, saying that he could tread the path he had chosen unmolested; that we were no more to him than strangers, and that his new will left his property entire, to a cousin's child, Roger Ridley Congreve, his namesake. He says now, that when he saw papa's death in the paper, that he was touched by it, and that he has come to help us, though I don't see how he knows we need it."

"I do, mama."

"You, Olive?"

"Yes, mama." Olive's fingers were interlaced nervously and her eyes were flashing warmly as she lifted them from the low fire to her mother's face. "I know all about it, mama. Do you remember the night I talked with papa in the study about two months ago?"

"Yes."

"Well, he told me a great deal that night about his business, that he never told you, because he said he did not want to worry you with it unless he had to; he had a note of six thousand to meet in sixty days, and he was trying every way to raise it without touching your money in the bank. He said if he could not pay it, the store would go, that the home was ours, and must never go for his debts. Just a few days ago a letter came, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed it so eagerly, that I knew it was very important; it was very short, and when he finished reading it he laid his head down and groaned. He didn't know I was near, and I did not speak then, but that letter has haunted me ever since, and yesterday when you thought I was asleep, I was down at the store, and I found it in his private drawer. O mama, it was from Mr. Congreve, and so short and cruel, oh, so bitterly cruel, and I tore it all to shreds, and burnt it, and never meant to tell you, at least, not for awhile. He refused to loan papa a cent, and said he didn't care if he lost both business and home, and when I read it I believe I could almost have killed him.

To-night when he came and gave me his card I threw it in his face, and told him I _hated_ him!"

"Olive! Olive!"

"I did, I did, and I'm glad; I felt as if it would choke me to sleep with him in the house to-night, and I never want to look at him again. I would rather work my fingers off than ever have you take one penny of his money, or let him help us in any way," cried Olive, excitedly, almost forgetting the sleeping household in her energy.

Mrs. Dering put her hand to her head, bewildered with the sudden news, and Olive saw, and comprehended the look of startled trouble that rested on her face.

"We are very poor now, aren't we, mama?"

"Yes, child, yes; indeed I am quite bewildered," exclaimed Mrs. Dering, anxiously. "Did you say sixty days, Olive?"

"Yes, mama, the time is out next Friday."

"Is it possible? What shall we do!"

"Isn't letting it go, the only thing we can do?" asked Olive.

"I suppose so, but really I can hardly think, it all seems so sudden,"

and truly her sad, troubled face echoed her words.

"I have been thinking about it so long," said Olive, as though relieved to speak her thoughts. "The home is ours, and you have four thousand in the bank. It seems to me a very little for seven people to live on, but we are all strong and well, and can work."

"Yes, all strong and well but Jean," and Mrs. Dering's eyes went wistfully to the little unconscious face resting on the pillow. "She will have to be so neglected in more ways than one, if home is broken up and every one's hands and work belonging to some one else."

"Dear me," cried Olive, reproachfully. "How could I forget her! There's something more to think over, now."

"But you must think no more to-night, dear, nor must I, or we will not be fit for to-morrow's work and thought. Go to bed, and remember, G.o.d will not send us more than we can bear; we must only do the best we can and all that is left, He will provide a way for us. Good night, dear."

Next morning after breakfast, Mr. Congreve stood pulling his gloves on and eyeing the six girls from under his fierce, bushy brows, and there was something almost like amus.e.m.e.nt in the quizzical look as it swept from one face to the other.

Whatever he thought, he put it into no words, but caught up his cane, then stooped down over Jean, lying on the lounge, and whispered something in her ear. It must have been something magical, indeed, for Jean got up, took her shawl and crutch, and walked with him down to the gate, and there the astonished girls, who all rushed to the window, saw them pause, and the old gentleman lifted Jean up on the post, put her shawl up over her head, and then began talking earnestly.

"Did you ever!" cried Kittie, falling back at the amazing sight. "I thought she was afraid of him!"

"She is the only one that he has looked at kindly," said Bea, with some indications of resentment in her voice. "Was he always so fierce and queer, mama?"

"Always," answered Mrs. Dering, who was watching from another window.

"He has a kind heart, but a most exceedingly violent temper, which he seems to have under no control.

"If thwarted or vexed, he stops at nothing, but most always repents his rash acts as soon as they are committed, and, sometimes, if the humor so strikes him, there is nothing he will not do as reparation."

Olive, understanding that this little explanation was especially for her, shut her lips tightly, whereupon Kate exclaimed, "You never looked at him when you were introduced, Olive, and if you could have seen the way he frowned and glared at you, you would have shook all over."

"I don't care how he looked, nor how much he frowned. I don't like him, and I wish he was back in Virginia."

"If he isn't stingy as a miser, he'll give us something, and perhaps ask us to visit him," said Ernestine, who looked languid and pale from excessive and violent weeping, and really seemed to be the only one who was not trying to be cheerful for the others' sake.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OLD GENTLEMAN LIFTED JEAN UP ON THE POST.]

"I should like to see where papa lived when he was a boy, but I wouldn't care to have Mr. Congreve there," said Bea, who had that morning began being more womanly than usual by relieving mama of coffee-urn duties.

"He's gone!" exclaimed Kittie, from the window. "Now for the secret!

What did he say, Jean?"

"I'm not to tell," answered Jean, looking quite excited and rather pale, as she hurried in; then amazed them all again by hiding her face in Mrs.

Dering's dress and bursting into tears.

"What ever has he done?" cried Kat, bouncing excitedly out of her chair.

"Was he cross?--or perhaps he pinched you or something."

"No, he didn't," said Jean, trembling but smiling through her tears. "He was very good and kind, and didn't look near so cross as he did in here.

He said that a great many years ago he had a little girl just like me, and he kissed me, too."