Part 28 (1/2)

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 fas.h.i.+onable 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?”