"Humph! May I ask what you intend to do?"

"Certainly. I have some money, four thousand in the bank, which will only be taken out in great necessity. As soon as possible, myself and children will begin to work. I am quite sure that I can secure a situation in the seminary three miles out of town, perhaps one also for Beatrice, my oldest daughter, and I hope before long to find something for the others."

Mr. Congreve opened his lips to speak, but was amazed beyond all comprehension, to find that he had no voice, he tried it again, then again, then broke abruptly into a hurried walk up and down the room, and flourished his scarlet handkerchief furiously.

"It was very kind of you to undertake such a long tiresome journey for our sakes, Mr. Congreve," said Mrs. Dering, beginning to feel a strange sympathy for the old gentleman who could not hide how deeply he was moved.

"Not half what I ought to do," sputtered the inconsistent old man. "I always want to help where I see it is so worthy. I am proud indeed, to see,--where's my snuff-box--that Robert's wife and daughters are so worthy of him; I--I--will you allow me to settle four thousand per annum on you and your children?"

"Oh, no; thank you so gratefully; but I could not, so long as we are well; we can work and live quite comfortably, but if I am ever in trouble, if sickness drains our savings low, I will come to you gladly, and Robert will be so pleased."

It was no use to try and hide a sniff, so Mr. Congreve made a savage thrust at his eyes and wiped them both, blew his nose long and earnestly, coughed several times without any apparent necessity, and then subsided into a chair.

"I suppose you are right, Elizabeth Dering, and I like you better for it, though,--G.o.d bless my soul!--to think of you and the little girls working for bread and b.u.t.ter, while I count my hundreds of thousands and lay up in ease and laziness. Why, it makes me feel as I never supposed I could feel over any sorrow or privation that might come to Daniel Lathrop's daughter. But you're not like your father, no, you're not, and I'm glad of it, and if I had it to do over again, I would not banish Robert for marrying you."

If Mrs. Dering felt any resentment at the thrust against her father, she gave no evidence of it, but only thought with a quiet joy, mingled with a little longing, "If Robert was only here to hear him say it."

"I want to make another offer to you," said Mr. Congreve, tapping his stick lightly on the floor, and keeping his eyes averted, "and before I make it, I want to ask that you do not decide too quick. Take all the time you want, and whatever your decision will be, it will affect my happiness quite as much as it does yours."

He stopped there, and looked at her closely, as though contemplating a possible refusal; then went on interrogatively:

"You are going to work at something that will take all of your time, and, perhaps, keep you away from home; your daughters are going to work, such of them as are able, but, from my observation, there are three of them who can do nothing in a business line. Two of them, the twins, are strong and healthy and can look after themselves, but the third, Jean, what will you do with her?"

"You have touched the point that const.i.tutes my greatest worry and perplexity," answered Mrs. Dering, quite unconscious of the thoughts in his mind. "Jean is so delicate and frail that she requires constant attention; she is a child, and must be amused, and because of her affliction she can never be unattended. I have always taught her, and being fond of her books, she is much farther advanced than most children of her age, and I regret beyond all expression that she will have to fall behind now, she----"

"No, she won't," cried Mr. Congreve, who had been growing more excited as the speech progressed, and who now jumped out of his chair with every indication of breaking into a jig. "I a.s.sure you she won't, only let me have her; she shall have the best governess and attendant that money can bring. Every luxury and comfort that can be thought of, every wish gratified as soon as expressed and I--I--"

He was obliged to stop to get his breath, and grow a little more quiet, for Mrs. Dering was leaning back in her chair, quite white with amaze and contending emotions; so Mr. Congreve settled abruptly into a chair and smoothed his voice and manner down several degrees.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he continued. "I know it is sudden and, indeed, I am quite as astonished as you are; I am, indeed; but the moment I looked at the child last night, there was something in her face and manner, that reminded me so strongly of my own little Mabel, that my heart, old and dried up as it is, went right out to her. You know, Elizabeth Dering, how I loved my child. She would have been a woman now had she lived, but the Lord saw fit to take her, and--and--I--where's my snuff-box?--I suppose, of course, 'twas best; but here's your little one, yours and Robert's, afflicted like my little Mabel, and I am able to do everything by her that the sick and afflicted need. She shall travel, have the best of medical attention, and if the dear good Lord sees fit, perhaps she may be cured."

His fierce gray eyes were completely softened and full of tears, and the way that scarlet handkerchief flew about would have puzzled the closest watcher, but Mrs. Dering saw nothing, heard nothing but his last words:--"perhaps she may be cured." Almost unconsciously she stood up and held out her hands.

"Oh, Mr. Congreve, do you mean it, indeed?"

"G.o.d bless my soul! mean it? Yes, I do, indeed. I do, with all my heart.

I'll feel like there was something for me to live longer for, and it will put new, strong life into my dried-up old being, to see a child's sunny face around my quiet home and to know that it is for her good that I live. Ha! mean it? Yes, my dear madam; I should rather say I did mean it."

It really seemed as though Mrs. Dering could not speak for the many emotions that oppressed her, but after one or two glances at her face, which caused the old gentleman to scout at the idea of her refusing, he exclaimed with a fatherly benignity which sat oddly on his crusty abruptness:

"There, there, dear child, go right off up stairs and think about it.

I'll just take a snooze right here by the fire, and then after awhile we'll talk again. I don't think the little girl will object. I said a few words to her this morning, and the idea pleased her, I am quite sure."

So Mrs. Dering retired after a few inarticulate words of thanks or joy, and after taking a tremendous tiff of snuff with such haste that it nearly strangled him, Mr. Congreve settled into a comfortable, dreamy state, where a face, long since gone from his home, looked out at him from the fire with a smile, and then beside it came another, sweet and patient, with soft eyes, and the two seemed to know each other, and as they smiled, the one that was now an angel faded slowly and left the other there looking at him with beseeching eyes.

There was the greatest commotion up stairs when Mrs. Dering told the a.s.sembled girls of Mr. Congreve's proposition. Jean instantly hid her face and began to cry, and influenced by this, the girls instantly pounced upon Mr. Congreve, and declared it should not be.

"Why do you cry, dearie?" asked Mrs. Dering.

"I don't know," answered Jean, somewhat bewildered, as she looked around on the indignant faces. "Because it seems so queer, I guess. I always thought I would be crooked, and have to go on a crutch, and Uncle Ridley,--he asked me to call him that,--says, perhaps, all the doctors can cure me, and--and it seems so good that I don't know how to be glad enough, so I just cry, you see."

Everybody "saw," figuratively speaking, for actual sight was quite impossible with the quick sympathetic tears that sprang to every one's eyes. Opinions flew about like papers in the wind, and Mrs. Dering could not make herself heard in the babel of tongues.

"Wait, girls, listen a moment," she exclaimed at last, and the commotion quieted, somewhat, to hear what she had to say.

"You know," she began, drawing Jean to her side, "I have been telling you this morning how very differently we would have to live, now; it will take all of us, working hard, to keep home comfortable, for the expenses of a family of such size are very heavy. Since realizing this, I have prayed long and earnestly to know what was best to do about Jeanie, for if I can secure the position at the seminary, I can only come home twice a week, and in the meantime, I could not bear the worry of her being here alone with you girls, even though I know you would be faithful and careful of the trust. Now comes Mr. Congreve's offer, with the promise that she shall have every attention, care and luxury, and better than all, that she shall see eminent and skillful physicians, whom we could never afford. I feel as though it was G.o.d's answer to my prayer, and that it is wicked to hesitate a moment, however much we all love our little girl, and hate to have her go so far away."

"But, oh, mama," cried Jean, with a sob of ecstatic joy and excitement, "just to think of my being straight and well, like Kittie and the rest!

I would feel like I never could thank G.o.d and Uncle Ridley enough. Oh, I _may_ go, mayn't I?"

"Yes, darling, you shall go."

So briefly was it settled.

Everybody was in raptures excepting Olive. She frowned severely, and looked bitterly pained, but she said nothing until the rest had left the room, then she came to Mrs. Dering's side. "Oh, mama, are you really going to let her go?"

"Yes, dear."

"How can you? Such a cruel, selfish, unfeeling--"

"Hush, Olive."

Olive did so instantly, and stood with her hands folded and eyes down, the very picture of bitter defiant distrust, and Mrs. Dering saw in an instant that any thing she might say in Mr. Congreve's behalf, would be wasted words, as Olive was fully prepared to misconstrue anything that the old gentleman might say or do. Nevertheless, she laid her hands on those tightly folded ones, and said gently: "Olive dear, we must be charitable and forgiving. Remember, Mr. Congreve is old and very peculiar; he always was, and one's peculiarities increase as they grow older. You heard what I said about him this morning, and you see he must be kind at heart, to have taken such a long journey, just for our sakes."

Olive made no answer, and her mother sighed a little.

"In regard to the estrangement between him and papa, I think he went to extremes, as hot pa.s.sionate tempered people are apt to do; and yet, he is not wholly at fault, for I grieve very much to say, that in the quarrel between my father and Mr. Congreve, father was much to blame; he did very wrong, and it was quite natural for Mr. Congreve to feel a violent hatred for all his family, and to object to his nephew marrying into it. That Mr. Congreve has many times repented his harsh treatment, I know to a certainty; but he is proud, as well as hasty, and pride in an old man is harder to battle with than in a young one. In speaking of papa a few minutes ago down stairs, he could not restrain the tears. He says he wrote that letter, and meant it, but that on the day he heard of papa's death, he had another letter, and the required check ready to send to him."

"I don't believe it!" interrupted Olive pa.s.sionately. "If he did, he wrote it after he heard, just so as to tell you so."

"Oh, my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dering, sadly, "how your hasty, distrustful spirit grieves me. You cannot conceive of the misery it will cause you, when you are brought to face the world, where there is so much to distrust, and so much that must be overlooked and blindly believed in. Can't you allow for others, some of the pride, the wilful temper and bitter hastiness that you know so well what it is to battle against, when I tell you that the greatest point of difference between your own and your great-uncle's disposition, is, that he is as hasty one way as you are the other; can't you be more charitable to him?"

"Oh, mama! _I_, like _him_?" cried Olive.

"Yes, dear, except that when you are once angry or hurt, you nurse your pride, and repel every advance towards a reconciliation. Mr. Congreve is more generous; if he really sees he is wrong, he is as impulsive to mend as he was pa.s.sionate to break. He is bitter and distrustful from a long and often sad and disappointed struggle with the world; you are bitter and distrustful--for what, my dear child, I never could imagine, for we all love you most tenderly, and in this grief and trouble which G.o.d has sent for some good reason, you have been an inexpressible comfort to us all."

Olive withdrew her hand from her mother's clasp, and hurried away without a word. Mrs. Dering thought she was hurt, perhaps angry, and sighed deeply; but Olive had gone to hide her tears, and resolve to do differently, but all her resolves were made without asking for higher strength and help.

CHAPTER VIII.

ODDS AND ENDS.

"My patience alive!" exclaimed Kittie, slamming the stove door open, and poking in among the ashes and cinders with wrathful haste, "if this abominable fire hasn't gone out; I never did in all my life! burnt up a bushel of kindling, too, dear me; water in the tea-kettle stone cold, not a blessed thing cooking; no more stuff in here to start the fire up, and Olive waiting for her breakfast this minute to go to the store, good _gracious_!" and having freed her mind, Kittie ran to the back stairs, jerked the door open, and shouted with much unseemly energy,--"Kathleen Dering!"