Part 13 (1/2)

XIV.

A GREAT CHANGE.

You will be wondering what Tom had been about during his sister's illness; but he was still in ignorance of it, his friends thinking it best to wait till the crisis was past. It fell to Aunt Hepsy's lot to send the news, and her letter was such a curiosity in its way that I cannot do better than set it down just as it was.

”THANKFUL REST, _April 18th, 18--_.

”MY DEAR NEPHEW,--I daresay you'll wonder to hear from me, an' will maybe feel skeered; so, to relieve you, I may as well say at once that Lucy's been sick, very sick, but she's getting round nicely now, thank the Lord. She is in bed yet, and I'm writing this beside her.

She sends her love, and says she'll write to-morrow. I guess I'll let her do it in about a month. I want to ask you to forgive me for being so hard on you when you lived here. I hope you don't bear your old aunt any grudge. Lucy, G.o.d bless her, won't hear me abuse myself, so it's a relief to do it to you, though you are a boy. I keep that picter you drew of me that I slapped you for, an' I'll look at it when I feel my pesky temper gettin' up. I suppose ye'll be so took up with your paintin' ye couldn't never think of coming back to Thankful Rest. It wouldn't be good for you, if you're getting on any way with Mr. Robert Keane. But you'll come right away in summer, an' see what a different place Lucy has made of Thankful Rest, an' how precious she is to your uncle an' me. I guess she's one of the Lord's messengers, sent to do what all the preachin' in the world couldn't.

I reckon I'll finish up. It has took me an hour to write this, I'm so slow with the pen. Give my respects to Mr. Robert Keane; and when he comes to Thankful Rest in summer, maybe he'll get a better welcome than he got before. So no more at present. From your affectionate aunt,

”HEPSEY”

That letter reached Boston Avenue in the evening, when Tom was poring over a book of instructions for young artists. He was in his own sanctum, which Mr. Keane had given him when he came--a tiny apartment next the artist's studio, and commanding from its window the finest view in Philadelphia. Tom seized the letter from the servant's hand.

He had written twice to Lucy, and was anxiously wondering at her delay in answering, for Lucy had always been a faithful and punctual correspondent.

You would have laughed had you seen the varying expressions on Tom's face as he read Aunt Hepsy's epistle;--concern at first to hear Lucy was ill; relief to find her recovering; and, last of all, mute, dumfoundered amazement at Aunt Hepsy.

Mr. Keane opened his studio by-and-by and looked out.

”Well, Tom, news from Lucy at last, my boy?” he asked.

”No, sir,” said Tom soberly, yet with an odd twinkle in his eye; and then he held out the open letter, saying simply, ”Read that, Mr.

Keane.”

Mr. Keane smiled too as he read. ”Lucy has conquered, as I thought she would,” he said. ”See, Tom, what an influence a meek, gentle, loving spirit like Lucy's has in the world. You and I with our fiery tempers sink into nothingness beside her.”

”You, Mr. Keane!” echoed Tom in amazement. ”I don't think you have a temper at all.”

”Haven't I?” The artist's smile grew sad. ”There was a boy once who was expelled from three schools for impertinence and insubordination, and put his parents to the expense of keeping a tutor for him at home. That tutor, Tom, was a man of splendid talents, which his delicate health forbade him to exercise as he desired. His pupil killed him, Tom; the worry and anxiety lest he should not come up to the parents' expectation, combined with what he had to bear from the boy himself, broke his health down, and he died. That boy was _me_.”

Tom sat wondering, while Mr. Keane, walking to and fro, continued slowly--”I went to see him when he was dying, in his poor lodging: he was very poor, you must understand, but n.o.body durst offer him anything, lest he should feel hurt or insulted. As long as I live, Tom, I shall never forget that night. I saw then clearly how wicked I had been, and how what I thought manly independence befitting my station was only the cowardice of a spirit as far beneath his as earth is beneath heaven. That was a lesson I never forgot; and since that night I have tried, with G.o.d's help, to use the legacy he left me.”

”What was it?” asked Tom breathlessly.

Mr. Keane lifted Lucy's Bible from the side-table, and turning over the pages held it out to Tom, his finger pointing to the place.

”Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.”

”Tom,” said Mr. Keane one morning a few days later, ”I believe you are going to Pendlepoint tomorrow?”

”What?” Tom nearly bounded off his chair. The longing to go home to Lucy for a day or two had well-nigh overcome him since Aunt Hepsy's letter came; but he had tried to stifle it, and had applied himself with double energy to his studies.

”If you don't wish to go, of course I have no more to say,” began Mr.

Keane; but Tom interrupted him--

”O sir, you don't mean me to go home for good and all, I hope; have I disappointed you? I have tried so hard, sir.”