Part 37 (1/2)

”Louis, too,” I said, and he answered:

”Had I not found my Emily, I could never have undertaken it. You cannot know how I gathered lessons from your happy home. In my earliest years I was dissatisfied with the life which money could buy. I did not know the comforts of work and pleasure mingled, and it was here, under these grand old hills, while communing with nature, I sought and found the presence of its Infinite Creator; and your smile, your presence, was a promise to me which has been verified to the letter.”

When Clara held our wondrous blessing in the early days of its sweet life, she looked sometimes so pensively absent that I one day asked her if she did not wish Emily had come sooner.

”Ah! my Emily, mother; 'tis a wrong, wrong thought, still I cannot deny it;” and a mist covered her tender eyes. My heart stood still, for I knew she felt that her hand would not lead our little one in the first steps she should take, and the thought embittered my joy. I suppose everybody's baby is the sweetest, and I must forbear and let every mother think how we cared for and tended the little one, and how our heartstrings all vibrated at the touch of her little hand, and if she was ill or worrisome, which she was earthly enough to be, we were all robbed of our comfort till her smiles came back.

Aunt Hildy was an especial favorite, and she would sit with her so contentedly, while that dear old face, illumined by the sun of love, told our hearts it was good for baby's breath to moisten the cheek of age.

Little Halbert, as we called Hal's boy, was as proud of his cousin as could be, and my old apple tree, which was still dear, dropped leaves and blossoms on the heads of the children, who loved to sit beneath its branches.

CHAPTER XXII.

CLARA LEAVES US.

The year 1861 had dawned upon us, and Aunt Hildy had not left us as she had expected to.

I said to her, ”I believe you are better to-day than you were one year ago.” She folded her hands and looking at me, said:

”Appearances is often deceitful, Emily; I haint long to stay, neither has the saint among us. Her eyes have a strange look in them nowadays, and the veins in the lids show dreadful plain; we must be prepared for it.”

I could not talk about this, and how was I to prepare for it? I should never love her less, and could I ever bear to lose her, or realize how it would be without her? ”Over there” was so far beyond me, I could only think and sigh and wait; but the symptoms of which Aunt Hildy spoke I noticed afterward, and it was true her eyelids seemed more transparent, and her eyes had a watery light.

I knew she was weak, and since the snow had fallen was chilled more easily than before, and had ventured out but little. I did not desire to pain Louis, but feeling uneasy, could not rest until I talked with him, and he said his heart had told him the little mother would leave us ere long. ”If she lives till the fall, we will go down and see Southern Mary, if we can.” Little Emily clung very closely to Clara, and if I had not insisted on having the care of her, I believe she never would have asked for me. Mother said we should spoil her, and Ben declared she ”would make music for us by and by.” Ben was still interested in his work, and as busy as a bee the long days through.

”Thirty-three years old,” I said to him, ”are you never to be married?”

”Guess not,” he would reply laughingly, ”I can't see how Hal could get on without me, and I, in my turn, need John. What a splendid fellow he is! They all like him around us here, and I believe I shall sell out the mill to him and buy another farm to take care of. He handles logs as easily as if they were matches. He is a perfect giant in strength.”

”Yes, I know, Ben, but he never will live in a saw-mill. John is destined to be a public man; he will have calls and by and bye will stand in the high places and pour forth his eloquence. He may buy a saw-mill, but he will never keep himself in it, no matter how hard he tries.”

”So my cake is all dough, you think, so be it, sister mine;” and baby Emily received a bear hug from Uncle Ben, who, a moment later, was walking thoughtfully over the hill.

The eighteenth of March was a cold day, extraordinarily so, tempestuous and stormy. Louis had been in Boston three days, and we thought the winds were gathering a harsh welcome for his return. His visits to Boston were getting to be quite frequent nowadays, for he had found some warm friends there, who had introduced themselves by letter, and now they were making united efforts to found a home for children,--foundlings who were to be kept and well cared for, until opportunities were presented to place them with kind people in good homes. He was getting on wonderfully, and I could hardly wait for the news he would bring to us.

He came at last, and with him an immense square package looking in shape very like a large mirror or a painting, and I wondered what it could be.

Baby Emily had to be saluted cordially, and both her little arms were entwined around his neck.

”Now, now, little lady,” said Louis, ”go to thy royal mother, I have something to show thee,” and taking off the wrappings of the mysterious package, he placed two life-size portraits before us, saying as he did so:

”Companion pieces, my life's saving angels--behold yourself, my Emily, see my fairy mother,” and sure enough there we were. A glance at Clara caused me to exclaim:

”Wilmur Benton painted them.”

”Yes, both,” he replied. ”Are they not beautiful?”

”Mine is not, I am sure, Louis; but your mother's,--oh, how lovely it is, and as natural as life! It must be the one to which Mary referred.”

”It is, my Emily. I secured it long ago, and Mr. Benton has been a long time at work on yours. He is sadly afflicted, and does not look like the same man. His wife is dead, and I think he will not himself stay long. I have been to see him always when in Boston, and would have told you all before, had I not feared you might, by getting hold of one thread, find another; Hal knows all about it. But see, Emily, just see yourself as you are. I told you your eyes should speak from the canvas, and is it not as well as if my own hand had held the brush?”