Part 48 (1/2)

She took Mary by the hand, when she came down, with her plain mantilla and cottage bonnet on, surveyed her keenly from head to foot, and led her into the street.

They pa.s.sed down the village, the woman not deigning to notice that she was an object of curiosity, the child shrinking with that sensitive dread of observation, that always haunted her when among strangers. About the centre of the village stood a brick academy, with an open s.p.a.ce before it, and surrounded by a succession of wooden verandahs.

Aunt Hannah entered the lower story of this building, where some forty children were a.s.sembled under a female teacher, who came forward to receive her visitors.

”This little girl,” said aunt Hannah, ”we have adopted her. She must come to school.”

”What branches do you wish her to study?” inquired the teacher.

”Reading, writing, cyphering, enough to reckon up a store bill, if she should ever have one, and enough of geography to keep her from losing her way in the world.”

”Is that all?” said the teacher, ”a girl of her age ought to know those things without further teaching.”

”Like enough she does, ask her,” said aunt Hannah.

The teacher looked at Mary, who smiled, blushed, and after a moment's hesitation, said, modestly,

”I know how to read and write, and a little of the rest.”

”Very well, I will examine you presently,” said the teacher, ”yonder is an empty desk, you can take it.”

Mary advanced up the school-room, blus.h.i.+ng and trembling beneath the curious glances that followed her. So sensitively conscious was she that every movement, when strange eyes were upon her, brought its suffering. But, with true heroism, she subdued all appearance of the annoyance she felt, and, in her very meekness and fort.i.tude, there lay a charm that won more worthy affection than beauty could have done.

Thus she entered upon her school life, alone and among strangers, for aunt Hannah left her at the door. She looked around with a forlorn hope that Isabel might, like her, be sent to school, or that something might happen to take the sad weight of loneliness from her heart; but, all was new, cold and depressing, and leaning her head on the desk, she felt chilled in all her veins. There was no disposition to weep in little Mary now.

Sensitive as she was, no one ever saw her shed tears over her own sorrow; but kindness, poor child! _that_ always brought the dew sparkling up from her heart to her eyes.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

HOMESICK LONGINGS.

Oh, give me one clasp of her friendly hand, One tender glance from those gentle eyes; For my heart is alone in this mountain land, And every joy of my childhood dies.

Poor Isabel. She had found her new home dreary enough, notwithstanding its large airy rooms and elegant furniture, far too elegant for country uses, where magnificence is seldom in good taste. While nature is so beautiful, art should never appear, save to enhance its splendor.

In her whole life she had never been thoroughly homesick before, for never had her young heart been taken from all its loving support so completely as now.

Mrs. Farnham made a great effort to be kind, and to impress upon the child all the importance which she would henceforth derive from an a.s.sociation with herself, and the immense difference that must hereafter exist between her and Mary Fuller.

”Remember, my pet,” said that lady, with bland self-complacency, ”remember, my pet, that you are the protege of--of, as I may a.s.sert, of wealth and station, and though born I don't know where, and bred in the Poor-House, the fact that you have my protection is enough to overbalance that. You understand, Isabel--by the way, I think it best to call you Isabel Farnham now--with your beauty the thing will pa.s.s off without question; with that face, nothing would seem more natural than that I should be your real mamma; so, be a very good girl, and, who knows but I may have you called Miss Farnham!”

The color mounted into Isabel's face.

”No, ma'am, I would rather not; call me Isabel Chester, please, it was my father's name, and I love it, oh, how much!”

”You are a naughty, ungrateful little--well, well, I was a fool to expect anything else; Chester, as if I'd have a name in my house that has been registered on the Alms House books!”

”Is it a disgrace then, to be poor?” asked the child, innocently.

”A disgrace to be poor! certainly it is, and a great disgrace, too!”