said number two. 'Well, now! _this_ is what I call a be-a-utiful country! Western farmers must have an easy life of it.' You can imagine with what feelings I listened to these men. There I was, longing for the sight of a hill with the longing of a homesick child for its mother."

"I am afraid you are prejudiced, George," said Mr. Leslie, with a smile. "You dwell upon the heat of August in Ohio, but you say nothing about the other eleven months of the year."

"The other eleven months are beautiful, I must acknowledge," replied Mr. Vinton. "As soon as the frosts come, nothing can surpa.s.s the climate; colored October, hazy November, and bright, open December are all perfect. Any New Englander,--even you, Mr. Gay,--would be obliged to yield the palm to the West in respect of winter climate."

"No sir," replied the Boston bachelor emphatically; "I would yield no palm under any circ.u.mstances. I even prefer a Boston east wind to the mildest western zephyr."

"Oh, you are prejudiced!" said Bessie, laughing.

"Of course I am, Miss Darrell. It is a characteristic of Ma.s.sachusetts Bay. We do not deny it,--on the contrary we are rather proud of it."

Thus, in many conversations, the dog-days pa.s.sed along.

"It seems to me we do nothing but talk," said Bessie, after a long evening on the piazza with several visitors.

"The dog-days were intended for conversation," said Hugh. "Our hands and our brains are busily employed all the rest of the year, but when the thermometer gets up into the nineties, the tongue talks its share and gives the other members a rest."

"I hope you don't mean to insinuate that our brains are not employed in our conversation," said Bessie.

"Not much brain in dog-day conversation," said Hugh, laughing. "I know that I have been talking nonsense this evening, and from what I have overheard, I suspect the others have not done much better."

"Oh, you slanderer!" cried Bessie.

"But nonsense is appropriate to the season, Queen Bess. We don't eat much solid food now; then how can we hear much solid talk! Aunt Faith's 'trifle' is the chief of our diet, and the result is, naturally, trifling conversation."

August was a happy month to Aunt Faith. She rejoiced in Sibyl's happiness, and she rejoiced in the triumph of unselfish love and Christian humility over the worldliness and ambition which had sullied her niece's good qualities. Sibyl was not impulsive; it was not an impulse which had led her to renounce a life of fashionable gayety and wealth for Mr. Leslie. It was a sudden realization of the truth, a sudden conviction of the strength of her own feelings, a sudden horror of the wickedness of falsifying them, and a sudden appreciation of the hollowness of worldly ambition when brought face to face with death.

There was no hesitating vacillation in Sibyl's character. She had been self-deceived, but, as soon as she felt the truth, she threw aside errors with all her might, and gave herself up boldly, wholly and heartily to her new life. Aunt Faith understood her niece thoroughly, and she knew there would be no danger of a relapse into the mistakes of the past; other faults, other temptations would a.s.sail her, but these were harmless. Having once seen and realized the falsity of worldliness when compared with religion, the worthlessness of mere money, when compared with true affection, Sibyl could never forget the lesson, for firm reason and resolve were parts of her nature.

Aunt Faith saw, also, that Sibyl was very happy. She was calm as usual, but there was a new light in her eyes, and a new glow on her cheeks. She found a new pleasure in instructing the children of the Chapel Sunday School, and her scholars loved her dearly; she went about among the poor, and devoted much of her time and means to their service. She a.s.sisted in the household work; not the light graceful labors which generally fall to the daughters, but the real burden of the day, lifting it from Aunt Faith's patient shoulders with cordial good will; and in all she did there was a new charm,--the charm of a rare humility, the most difficult of all Christian graces to a proud, self-reliant spirit.

One afternoon, towards the end of August, Aunt Faith found Sibyl resting on the lounge in the sitting-room. The house was still, the children were in the garden, and Bessie and Hugh had gone up to the studio; Sibyl had been out visiting the sick all the morning, and, wearied with the walk, she had thrown herself down on the lounge for a rest before tea-time.

"Do I disturb you, dear?" said Aunt Faith, as she entered.

"Oh, no, aunt. I am not sleeping, only resting."

"I fear you are doing too much, Sibyl."

"I think not, aunt. I know how much I can bear, and I would not be so foolish as to overwork myself. It would be a poor preparation for the life to which I look forward with so much hope."

"It will be a pleasant life, I hope, my dear child."

"Oh aunt! pleasant seems too cold a word to express it! I never knew what life was before; I was blind and deaf to real beauty and real happiness. I thought of nothing but money, ease and social fame. I shudder to think how near I came to bartering my life for what I supposed would give me the most happiness; whereas, now I know how great would have been my misery, and how surely and quickly I should have discovered it. I was entirely blinded, but now I see plainly; it is as though a great ray of light had come into my heart to show me life as it really is, and myself as I really am."

"G.o.d be thanked for this--mercy, my child."

"I thank Him daily and hourly, Aunt Faith. It was a narrow escape, and no one can appreciate how great was the danger but myself. If I had gone astray I might, indeed, have come back to Him at last, but through what trials, what bitter suffering! Now, I feel that my feet are upon a firm rock, and although trouble and temptation will of course come to me, I know that if I cry for help, it will not be refused." Sibyl's face glowed as she spoke, and Aunt Faith offered up a silent thanksgiving that one of her little band had found the safe abiding place, that one of the souls given into her charge had entered the only safe pathway in the many roads leading across this troubled earth.

"How is Margaret Brown to-day, Sibyl?" she asked, after a pause.

"Much better, aunt. I sat with her for an hour or two, and she asked me to read to her."

"The children are well now, I believe?"

"Yes; we are going to keep them in the country until cold weather; Margaret must not be allowed to work at present."

"Mr. Leslie has not asked for the remainder of the sum I promised to give him," said Aunt Faith; "I suppose Mrs. Chase must have given more than he expected."

Sibyl blushed deeply. "No, aunt," she said in a low tone, "I gave him my pearls as a thank-offering, perhaps I ought to say a sin-offering."

Aunt Faith bent over and kissed the suffused cheek; then the two had a long conversation about the future, and gradually and surely a more joyous tone crept into their words, as is apt to be the case when the talkers hear in the distance the sound of future wedding-bells. The marriage was to take place before December, and Mr. Leslie had already selected the little house which was to be their home; Aunt Faith, with true housewifely interest, was already making plans for the furniture and stores of fair linen, which her old-fashioned ideas deemed a necessary part of the household outfit, and even Bessie had set her unskilful fingers to the work of manufacturing various little ornaments to brighten the simple rooms. But her chief present was to be a picture representing the piazza of the old stone house with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Tom, and herself sitting or standing in their accustomed att.i.tudes, while Sibyl going down the garden-walk with Mr. Leslie, turned her head for a farewell smile, and Gem threw a bunch of roses after her. Bessie prided herself upon this picture; the likenesses were all completed save Hugh's, for the first object was to finish his portrait before he went East, and from that she could fill in the other face at her leisure.

"You are all so kind to me, Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, as the long conversation came to a close; "I am so happy in your love, and so happy in the future opening before me; it is almost too much happiness."

Aunt Faith possessed a fund of native humor which neither age nor care had been able to subdue. As her niece rose to go to her room, she said with a merry glance, "By the way, Sibyl, how about the smell of the flannels from the kitchen on washing-days?"

"I will have them washed at the extreme end of the back garden,"

replied Sibyl, echoing Aunt Faith's laugh, as she escaped from the room.

The thirty-first of August came,--Hugh's last day at home. His departure was hastened by his wish to return to Sibyl's wedding; he hoped to get initiated into the duties of his new position, conquer the first difficulties, and gain a few days of leisure for a short visit home before the busy winter season commenced. Mr. Hastings, the second-cousin who had offered Hugh a place in his counting-room, was a New York merchant, a stern, practical man, who expected full measure of work from all his subordinates. Yet, with all his rigor, he had a kind heart in his breast, and was inclined to treat his young relative with favor: he had seen him but once, when, during school-life, Hugh had spent a vacation at his house; but the old man had been more pleased than he would acknowledge, with the boy's overflowing spirits and bright intellect. He had no sons; his daughters were married, and the next year he had written to Aunt Faith proposing to take Hugh into his business on the completion of his education, promising, if the young man stood the test well, that he would give him a small share of the profits after a certain period, and intimating that there would be no bar to his becoming a partner eventually, if he showed the proper qualifications. The business men among Aunt Faith's acquaintances told her that this was a fine opening for Hugh, that the house of J. B.

Hastings & Co. stood well in New York, and that they would gladly accept such an opportunity for their sons. Hugh himself was pleased with the idea, and, when it was finally decided that he should go, he wrote a letter full of enthusiastic thanks and hopes to Mr. Hastings, and finished his remaining two years at college with many pleasant visions of his future life floating in his brain.

"'Tis the last day of summer, left blooming alone," chanted Tom, as he entered the dining-room where the rest of the family were at breakfast. "To-morrow Hugh will be gone,--to-morrow Estella Camilla Wales must pine in vain for her mistress, who will be engrossed in decimal fractions, and to-morrow I must take down from the dusty shelf that dismal old _Latin Prose_. I wonder who cares for _Romulus_ and _Remus_? I don't!"

"Don't talk about it beforehand," said Gem; "let's pretend it's the very first day of vacation."

"Oh, what dismal faces!" said Aunt Faith, laughing. "School is not such a trial after all. I should be sorry to hear you spell deficiency, 'd-e-f-i-s-h-u-n-s-y,' as Annie Chase did, Gem."

"Or to say, '_il est la plus mauvais garcon que je sais de_,' as Jennie Fish did," added Gem, laughing at the remembrance.

"Or like Ed. Willis in the Bible cla.s.s, last term," said Tom. "Mr.

Stone was talking about the Jews and Gentiles. 'I'm not a Gentile,'

said Ed. getting real mad; 'I'm a Presbyterian.'"

Everybody laughed at this story, and Aunt Faith said "You are as liable to make mistakes as the rest, children, so do not complain about your lessons, but rather try to make them a pleasure.

School-days will be soon over," and she looked at Hugh with a half sigh.

"Come along, Gem," said Tom, when he had finished his breakfast.

"Let's have all the fun we can to-day; let's crowd it in, and pack it down tight. We'll get all the B. B.'s and have a regular training day in the back yard."

The children vanished, and their merry voices came back through the open windows where the others still sat at the table.

"The boat leaves at seven," said Hugh, pushing away his plate, and leaning back in his chair. "I am something like Tom; I feel like '_crowding_' my last day with pleasant things, and 'packing them in tight.' I hardly know where to begin."

"I will tell you; begin with the morning and give it to me in the studio," said Bessie.

"Oh no," said Sibyl; "Hugh is going to finish that bracket for me."

"Hugh will not go away without keeping his promise to me; there is some unfinished reading for him in my room," said Aunt Faith with a smile.