"Your father told you not to go on the lake."

"He never would have known it."

"Perhaps not; but you would not have felt any better on that account."

"For my part, I hate to be tied to my father's coat-tails or mother's ap.r.o.n-string when there is any fun going on. I don't see why we shouldn't have a good time once in a while, as well as the Bunkers, who are no better than we are."

"I don't know how it is with you, but I can enjoy myself enough and obey my parents at the same time."

"Right, Frank!" exclaimed Captain Sedley, who at this moment stepped down from the grove adjoining the beach, where he had overheard a part of the conversation. "So you think, Charles, that the boys who disobey their parents enjoy themselves most."

"No, sir. I don't exactly mean that; but the Bunkers have some first-rate times with this raft," replied Charles, very much confused by the sudden appearance of Frank's father.

"But their lives are continually in danger," added Captain Sedley.

"Oh, sir, they can all swim."

"All of them?"

"Like ducks, sir."

"Suppose one of them should fall overboard half a mile from the land, where I saw them yesterday. Do you think he could swim ash.o.r.e?"

"Tim could."

"There are a great many things to be considered in such a case. His clothes might enc.u.mber him; he might have the cramp; he might get frightened."

"The others could save him."

"We do not know what they could do. Boys at play are very different from boys in the hour of peril. When I was a sailor before the mast, one of my shipmates, a very expert swimmer ordinarily, fell from the mainyard arm into the sea. Two of us jumped in to a.s.sist him; but he sank to the bottom like a lump of lead, and we never saw him again."

"That was strange," added Charles.

"He was taken unawares; he lost his self-command, and it might be so with the Bunkers. This rafting is dangerous business, and I advise you never to engage in it;" and Captain Sedley walked off towards his house.

"Father, I want to go up to the widow Weston's a little while," said Frank.

"Very well; but you must be back so as to go to bed and get up in season for your excursion to the city to-morrow."

"Come, Charley, I guess we won't go up on the raft," said Frank with a pleasant laugh.

"I guess not;" and the two boys walked towards the rude cottage of the widow Weston.

It was situated near the lake, about half a mile from Captain Sedley's.

Mrs. Weston was the widow of a poor laboring man who had died about a year before our story opens. She was the mother of four children,--three sons and a daughter. Her eldest son, who was now twenty-two years old, had been in California nearly two years, having left his home a year before the death of his father. She had received one letter from him on his arrival at San Francisco, since which she had heard nothing of him, and had given up all hopes of ever seeing him again. She had not a doubt but that he had found a grave in the golden soil of that far-off land. She mourned him as dead, and all the earthly hopes of the poor mother were concentrated in her remaining children.

Anthony, the next son, whom everybody called Tony, was now thirteen years old. He was an active, industrious boy; and all the neighbors were willing to employ him on their farms and about their houses, so that he was able to do a great deal towards supporting the family. He was a good boy, so honest and truthful, so kind-hearted, and so devoted to his poor mother, that he was a great favorite in the vicinity; and some of the richer folks, when they really had no work for him, would find something for him to do, for he was so proud and high-spirited that he would not take money he had not earned.

Mary Weston, the daughter, was eleven years of age. Like her brother, she had a sweet and gentle disposition, and did all she could to a.s.sist her poor mother in the strait of her poverty. But Mrs. Weston, though she had a hard struggle to get along, sent her daughter to school winter and summer, preferring to deprive herself of many of the comforts of life, rather than have her daughter forego the advantages of a tolerable education. Mary, though her little hands were too feeble to work much, felt that she was a burden to her toiling, self-denying parent; and though she could not persuade her to let her stay at home and help her, used all her time out of school in taking care of little Richard, then only three years old. By constantly striving to be useful, and by continually watching for opportunities to be of service to her mother, she very sensibly diminished the burden of her cares.

Poor as the widow Weston was, hard as she was obliged to struggle for a subsistence, she was happy, and her children were happy. They had no fine house, no money, no rich carpets, no beds of down, as their rich neighbor had, yet they were quite as happy as he was. The G.o.d of nature gave them the same beautiful prospect of lake and hills, and woods and rocks, to look out upon; and if these things helped to gladden their hearts, it was goodness which lay at the foundation of all their joys, and cast a ray of sunshine across the path of poverty and want. They were contented with their lot, hard and bitter as many others deemed it; and contentment made them happy,--prepared their hearts to enjoy the blessings of plenty, if G.o.d in his wisdom should ever bestow it upon them.

The boys found the family at supper, and Frank could not but contrast his evening meal with that of the poor widow's family. He had just partaken of the choicest fruits, nice cake, hot waffles and m.u.f.fins, set before him; the Westons had only brown bread and very white b.u.t.ter.

He had used silver dishes and silver forks; they ate their coa.r.s.e fare from a few half-broken plates. His father was rich, and they were very poor.

"You are welcome, Master Frank; I am glad to see you, and Master Charles too," said Mrs. Weston, rising from the table and handing them chairs. "I hope your father and mother are well."

"Very well, I thank you, ma'am," replied Frank. "I have called to see you about something, and I want to see you alone," added he in a low tone; for he did not wish Tony, who was a great deal prouder than his mother, to know the nature of his errand.

Just then Tony finished his supper, and Mrs. Weston sent him out to feed the hens.

"I have brought you a present, Mrs. Weston," continued Frank; "I hope you will accept it."

"Indeed, Master Frank, you are always very good to me; and your father and mother too," replied the widow.

"Here are seven dollars. Charles and I wish to give you this sum."

"Seven dollars!" exclaimed the widow; for to a poor woman like her this was a very large sum.

"Charles and I had saved it for the Fourth of July; but we thought how much good it would do you, who have to work so hard, and we determined to make you a present of it."

"May G.o.d bless you both!" exclaimed the widow, wiping a tear of grat.i.tude from her eye; "but I cannot think of taking your money."

"But, Mrs. Weston, you _must_ take it."

"And you give up your pleasure for a poor body like me?"

"We give the money to you because it will afford us a greater pleasure than to spend it for fire-crackers and gingerbread."

"How n.o.ble and generous! but you wrong yourselves."

"Oh, no, we don't," said Charles; and at that moment he felt happier than if all the gingerbread and fire-crackers in the world had been showered down upon him.

"Hush! here comes Tony. Not a word to him about it if you please."

"Heaven bless you, boys!" said the poor woman as she put the money in her pocket.

Frank and Charles talked a few moments with Tony about the "glorious Fourth," and then took leave of the family.

CHAPTER III

A DISAPPOINTED BOY

Captain Sedley was an early riser. Every morning at sunrise he was abroad in the pleasant grove that bordered the lake near his house. It was a favorite spot, and he had spent a great deal of time and money in bringing Art into communion with Nature in this lovely retreat. He had cleared out the underbrush, made gravel walks and avenues through it, erected a summer-house in the valley, and an observatory on the summit of the hill, which terminated on the lake side in a steep rocky precipice, at whose base the waters rippled.