• TABLE OF CONTENTS
HIDE
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Frontispiece
 Title Page
 Preface
 Table of Contents
 Gloomy day
 A new alarm
 My friends use moral suasion
 The uncomfortable toilet
 Conversation
 Proclamation of peace
 Pleasant reflections at night
 House-cleaning
 Little Ruth
 The poor invalid
 The new religion
 "Father, was this conscience"






Group Title: winter at Quakerville, or, Lizzie's history of herself
Title: A winter at Quakerville, or, Lizzie's history of herself
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Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00003526/00001
 Material Information
Title: A winter at Quakerville, or, Lizzie's history of herself being incidents at the close of the last war
Alternate Title: Lizzie's history of herself
Physical Description: 126 p. : ill. ; 16 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Edwards, C. M ( Catharine M. )
Massachusetts Sabbath School Society ( Publisher )
Publisher: Massachusetts Sabbath School Society
Place of Publication: Boston
Publication Date: c1853
 Subjects
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Salvation -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children and death -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Temperance -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
War -- Attitudes -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1853   ( rbbin )
Bookplates (Provenance) -- 1853   ( rbprov )
Bldn -- 1853
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Bookplates (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
 Notes
Statement of Responsibility: by C.M. Edwards ; Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, and approved by the Committee of Publiscation.
General Note: Bound in black cloth covered boards, stamped in gold and blind.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00003526
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
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PALMM Version

Table of Contents
    Front Matter
        Page ii
    Half Title
        Page iii
    Frontispiece
        Page iv
    Title Page
        Page v
        Page vi
    Preface
        Page vii
        Page viii
    Table of Contents
        Page ix
        Page x
        Page xi
        Page xii
    Gloomy day
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
    A new alarm
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
    My friends use moral suasion
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
    The uncomfortable toilet
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
    Conversation
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
    Proclamation of peace
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
    Pleasant reflections at night
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
    House-cleaning
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
    Little Ruth
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
    The poor invalid
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
    The new religion
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
    "Father, was this conscience"
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
Full Text












A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE.
















OdI Wtam An 3Ziit.


~""-


.' f











WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE;


LIZZIE'S HISTORY OF HERSELF.


BExtqaG ImCICTDBS AT rJ COs O THS 1f LAS WAB.



BT C. Xt. EDWAfRpa
Araoa 6& faba A".nluo. 4AaA ,





WTiuen for '7s MBausachaefs 3ahsJ Sholol Sooietgy, .nJ
approved as -e Cmnittee ,rf PFNiUos.




BOSTON:
MAWSSACHSETTB SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY,
Depoitory, No. X1 CornhL


























Entered, according to Act of Congress,in the year 1868,
Br OCn sOorf H 0, DCera,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.













PREFACE.


Tar design of this work is to exemplify the
value of cultivating a meek and quiet spirit,
and the advantage of an early religious educa-
tion. Let no one, however, rest his hopes of
salvation on an amiable disposition, or a ju-
dicious training, lest in the day of account,
the great Judge should say to him as was
said to the young man in the gospel, Ye
one thing thou lackest."













CONTENTS.




CHAPTER I.

Gloomy day-Sad newC--Conaidcrato Harry-
-Thr evening hour-Tetter explained-The
bereaved family-Memory of the dead-
Horrors of war-Its effect on youthful
hears. 13

CHAPTER II.

A ew alarm -We are taken to the
country-Find a home with our friends-
Uncle Musey My dislike of him and
aun-A int ntroduced-Aunt wishes to
crop my hair-la resisted-They take
me hom-Saewhat disconteted. 21










CHAPTER III.

My friends uso moral nasilon-I tease for
books-Get Brclay's Apology-I defend
national 'war-Uncle's spiritual viita-
tion-Politones-A visit proposed. 30

SOHAPTER IV.

The uncomfortable toile The visitor's nat
ural and artiicial politeness contrasted-
Little uth--Her Medittion-The only
confect ptte6n--Cotvietion '39

ColAPTEIR V.

Conraation-- Uncle Abram gathers a mo-
al-New niito -The twins-Peace-Re-
JoiingB--Waing--Fine apparel-Adira-
tion- epature. 49

CHAPTER VI.

Proelma-liof of peao-Publo rejoicing--
Thie rival-Old Bor -Disppointue.it-
Gaetle Sui-i t th 4&1ith-rldMa-Aflt4d










family- Thank-ofrinjg---The despairing
sinner-The only Saviour. 56


CHAPTER VII.

Pleasant Refetiton at L ight-Great giesf
in the morning-A conviction of being a
oiwner-Set 4bput making mn.ejf good-
Find it dillt Givo it all up Per-
plexity. 71

CHAPTER VIII.

House-oleaning-Widowa and son-l-timed
mirth eestittion The -week past -
Solemn reflections-Tncle give me o
oel-Chris the only comobrtaer. 4' 81

CHAPTER IXS.

Lie Ruth-I visit Anna again-Improve-
nenst-Anna's faith in God-Her inu-
enoa and usefulness-I e&a her history-
Beoomet tested in her religion. 91











CHAPTER X.

The poor invalid-The happy land-Anna
points the sick man to Christ-Reada to
him--comments on the Scripturo-e be-
comes pe~teni -A. laeson to me. 101


CHAPTER XI.

The now relgion-Undle Abram compare
it with the old-I fdl they agree-Our
last itting-FoBs' death and Anmna -
Conversions-Concluion. 11










A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE.




CHAPT ER I.

Glpomy day.--ad news-Gonsidorate Harry.--The even-
ing honr.-Letter explained.-Ohe bereaved family.-
Memory of the dead.-Horror. of war,-It, effect on
youthful hearts

IT was a cold, comfortless day in Novem-
ber. As I and my little sister were standing
by the window, watching the fi atter-
ing snow-flakes, and calculat
before it would come to be slei
rate, a suppressed sob, succeeded
fected cough, broke upon my ear.
ing quickly round, I discovered my mother,
with an open letter in her hand. Itcould
not see her face, for it was avert e d
a 2~^1







A. WINTER AT QUAK.RVIBTj.l


she held the letter so as to conceal it: but
I saw that her bosom was heaving, and her
hands trembled very much. I was about
to rush to her arms, to inquire the cause of
her agitation, when our brother, a thoughtful
boy of thirteen years, beckoned me into the
other room. Leaving my little sister to
count the snow-flakes alone, I followed him
to the parlor, where he explained to me, in
whispers, that mother had just got a letter,
and he was sure it contained bad news from
father-for she had turned very pale, and
then burst into tears. He told me to be
gentle and quiet, and try to keep little sis-
ter so, and mother would tell us before
long.
It was a long, sad day to us children:
for rt listless and inactive the most
-iding again and again that
et ter. I rocked little Sarah to
y arms, and when she awoke, I
went unbidden to the closet, and prepared
her mona bread and milk. As for myself,
Swinted" no dinner, and motbr never
,, p5q of any. So we fast ta e w10le aLy.







A WXBItSB AT QUAKFR TVI. 15
But when the evening came on, brother
Harry made a nice fire, and asked mother
if he should boil the tea kettle. That
seemed to rouse her; for she arose quickly,
and set out the table, and prepared sua
per. I remember what a weight seemed
lifted from my spirits, when she lighted the
candles, and directed me to let down the
curtains, and wheel the settee to the fire.
I burst out at once into one of my rriest
moods. Hastily seizing my little sister, I
deposited her on the lounge, and then rat-
tied it across the room, with all the speed E
could make, Sarah laughing and screaming
in great glee. Harry looked reproachfully
at me, but as our mother did not reprove
my mirth, I was not to be awed by his
frown. At tea I talked and ltug d de-
termined to win my mother
cheerfulness ; but in this I
She waited on us all in silence,.a
her manner was full of tenderness to e
it was manifest to all that some great mis-
fortune had come upon us. After tea, I
swept the hearth, stirred the fire, nd., sa&









ting out the stand, I placed two tell candles
upon it. Then drawing up my mother's
arm-chair, begged her to sit-down in it.
For see," said I, how nice and bright
we look i If father was here, he would sing
'Sweet home,' don't you think he would,
mother 1"
1 said this that she might tell us if he
was sick, or wounded. A worse calamity
never entered my rind.
For a moment our- mother buried her
face in her hands, and then she burst into
such a fit of sobbing, that it quite frightened
me. Little sister, too, began to weep, and
I took her in my arms; to hide the tears
that were blinding my eyes, I nestled my
head closely in her neck. At first Harry
stood irresolute, with his hat in his hand,
as though liberating whether to go and
call assistance. Soon he rushed to mother,
and falling on his knees at her feet, begged
to know what ailed her, and what had
happened to father.
_~' Your father is dead, my poor children,"
sobbed mother, and then we all broke forth









in a wail of agony, and clung to our widow-
ed mother, as though she had power to
shield us from the sorrows of a sad orphan-
age.
Brother Harry was the first to regain his
composure. After wiping away his tears,
he drew me gently from mother, and
whispered,
Don't cry any more Lizzie; for don't
you see that she is very, very sad, and we
must try to comfort her?"
I endeavored, as well as I was able; to
repress my sobs, and soothe my little sister,
while Harry stood by mother, waiting for a
chance to comfort her. ^* -
"Dear mother," said he, I s I1 soon
be a man, and then I will take care of you
and the girls." C
Seeing how much we were distressed by
her weeping, mother made an effort to re-
gain her sad composure, and sat- leaning
her head on her hand, so that we could all
see her flushed, tear-bathed face. That,
and the renewed weight on our young
2*








A Wf.EmgB AT' QUAKlRVILU.


spirits, kept us silent, and gave us leisure
for reflection.
What those were in the minds of the rest
of the saddened group I had no means-of
knowing: but for myself they were the
most gloomy I had ever experienced. I re-
membered my father, as he looked on the
day he left us, some seven or eight months
before. He stood tall and erect, in the
military uniform he had just put on, to go
in defence of his country. I remembered
the sad, tearful smile mother gave him, as
he playfully insisted on her admiring his
new costume. I knew then that his cheer-
fulness was all assumed; for when he had
taken leave of mother, and stooped to kiss
us children, his -face was deadly pale and
he left a bright tear on my pinafore.
He had written many letters, each bear-
ing some kind message to the children,
which mother had read over and over to
us : so that our love and respect were kept
alive for him. But now that dear father
was no more; he had sickened 'and died
among strangers, amid the hardships and







A WNTrIt- AT QUAERTVILLE.


privations of a soldier; and he had come
to his death, and found a soldier's grave,
beyond the lines*of Canada.
These particulars I gathered from
my brother; and we used to spend many
solitary hours, in trying to trace, on the
map, the spot where our father reposed in
his last, long sleep. Sad as I felt, there
was one -thought which greatly comfortd
me. My father was a Christian, and I felt
sure that wherever his body might rest, his
tireless spirit had found a happy home in
the kingdom of heaven.
Another thing was a great comfort to
Harr and myself and myse and that was, our father
had not been killed in battle. We had seen
enough of the horrors of war, to make our
young blood curdle at the recital of battle
and bloodshed. From our chamber win-
dows we had listened to the hard-fought
battle between the Enterprise and the
British brig Boxer. The comnmander of
each had been killed; and while the whole
town was triumphant at the victory ob-
taiied, their bodies were carried through









the streets to the public cemetery. My
brother and I went with our father to wit-
ness the burial: and when we returned,
he told us they were young and brave offi-
cers, and looked, as they laid in their cof-
fins, like beautiful brothers. "And yet,"
thought I, they died in fierce combat with
each other;" and, child as I was, from my
inmost soul I longed for the time, when
" swords should be beaten into plough-
shares, and spears into pruning-hooks, and
the nations learn war no more."

The peaceful conqueror goes,
And triumphs o'er bi foes,
i weapons drawf from armories abov
Behold the vanished sit,
S&bmiaseve at hit feet,
And strife and hate, are hanged to peoae ad love."







A- WElqTIR- AT QUAKERVILLI. 21




CHAPTER II.

A new alarm.-We are taken to the conetry.--ind a home
with our frlends.--Uncle Munsey.-My dislike o him and
aunnt.-Am inrodnued.-Ant wishes to crop my hair--
Is rceted--They take me home.-Somewhat discon-
tented.

SCARCELY had we recovered from the shock
occasioned by the news of .our father's
death, ere we were filled with alarm at the
report, that our town would probably be
fired into by a British fleet. .At first our
mother gave no credence to the report,.and
tried to keep us children in ignorance of it,;
but as the news spread, and reached the
country, her brothers hurried to remove her
from the scene, if not of danger at least of
excitement and terror. We were all taken
to the country, and because we had no
home there of our own, we found an asy-
lum with our friends. Mother was invited
to spend the winter with her brother, and









keep little Sarah with her. Brother Harry
found a home and employment with one of
the village traders. Mother hardly knew
how to dispose of me; for uncle James had
a large flock of nestlings, and I was as a
wild colt among them. At length a Quaker
uncle of hers sent word he would take the
restless little girl, and, in a few days, he
and his wife would come in a sleigh for
her.
"Lizzie shan't go to uncle Abram';,"-
said Leonard, (the only one of my cousins
who dbuld come up, to me in our sports,)
"'for aunt Deborah will cut off her pretty
curls, and put one of those hideous caps on
her-and they will thee' and 'thou' her to
death before the spring."
For shame, Leonard," said his mother,
uncle and aunt Mussey are very good
people. It is better that Lizzie go with
them; you are so wild you will spoil her,
and quite craze her mother."
"But I shall run, and hop, and do what
I please among them," said I; "they shall







A WINTER AT QUAXKVILT.


see that I am not to be made a little Quak-
eress of."
My mother looked reprovingly at me.
" I hope," said she, that my little girl
Will remember that she has no home, and
be grateful to those kind people who give
her one."
But I shan't be thankful if they don't
allow me any amusement said I; and I
won't stay with them." "=-
Again that reproving look came over my
mother's countenance; but this time there
was sorrow in it, and for a moment- I was
subdued.
"I will be good and thankful," said I,
"and a Quakeress ;" and I kissed her pale
cheek, and then bounded away at the beck
of Leonard, while aunt Susan said I was a
perfect "Madcap."
A few days after, as we children were
having a riotous game of blindman's-buff,
in the square chamber, we heard the jin-
gling, or rather tinkling, of sleigh-~ells.
There was no music in them, only a quiet
warning of their approach.









I know those bells," said Leonard,
dashing off his blinder ; there are but two
of them, and one says thee and the other
thou."
The little ones all hurried down to see
uncle Abraham, while I lingered behind.
Somehow I had contracted a dislike to the
worthy couple, and was in no haste[to greet
them.
I heard uncle Abraham call each of the
children by name, as he shook hands with
them, and then he inquired for me.
"Where is thy other daughter, Eliza,"
said he to mother : the one Deborah talks
of taking ? "
Leonard offered to fetch me; but when I
heard his step on the stairs, I ran round,
and descending the back way, was in the
room before he could find me.
How does thee do T' said uncle Abram,
taking my hand.
Aunt Deborah peered at me through her
glasses, and over her glasses, and I thought
with no very favorable glance. I didn't so
much wonder; for in mywild chase my curls










were blown all over my head and face,
which was as flushed and mirthful as
health and glad spirits could-make it.
Thee had better cut off her hair, Eliza,"
said aunt Deborah at length; it seems to
give her trouble."
"Oh, no," said I, looking at Leonard,
64 they don't trouble me a bit."
Mother took out her side comb, and
smoothed my curls in a silent, half-sad
manner.
Thee would look much more like a
sober little girl, if thy hair was smooth, or
put under a cap."
I laughed outright, for I was thinking
how funny I should look with a strapped
cap like aunt Deborah.
But Lizzie is not a sober little girl,"
said cousin Leonard; she is a wild gip-
sey, and might as well look like what she
is."
There is sense in the remark of the
child," said uncle Abram ; "we must learn
to put the inner man in a.right fra at
then it will be easy to subdue theater
3 (1.







26 A wVUMfla AT QUalratEVLEf.
man. But come, Susan," continued he,
"thee must give us an early tea, for we
have a long ride back and must start
early."
Aunt Susan bustled round, and soon had
a nice supper smoking on the table; after
which we set out for Quakerville, am my
waggish cousin called the home of fucle
Abraem.
As we rode along up hill and down, the
quiet old horse never once breaking his
patient trot, I didn't wonder that Leonard
knew the sound of those bells. I was al-
most lulled to sleep by their drowsy tinkle,
constantly repeating thee and thou--thee
and thou." Once in the old mansion, my
very ears seemed to ache from its quiet-
ness, and I was glad when aunt Deborah
warmed a big blanket and put me to bed.
Farewell, child !" said uncle Abram to
my good-night courtesy. I hope theewill
have a quiet night, and a quiet life."
"Guess I shall," thought I, "if I spend
it with you I had forgotten that the
eat, of quiet was within.







A WtiTfli ATi QfAlrtVnflta. 27

Aunt Deborah found me much more use-
ful than she expected. Having no children
to play with, my restless, active nature
found amusement in household labors.
Besides, I had been taught in school to sew
with great neatness. This pleased aunt
De ah more than all the rest; for her
eyet rer growing dim with age, so that it
was difficult for her to do her finer needle-
work. I never saw her look so pleased, as
when I had nicely hemmed a cambric cra-
vat, for uncle to wear to the yearly meet-
ing.
Thee is a very tidy little girl," said she;
"now if thee were only a little more quiet
and obedient, what a comfort it would be."
Aunt Deborah had that morning urged
me to lay aside my mourning frock for
special occasions, and put on a brown stuff
one she had made from one of hers.
It would better become thy condition,"
said she, "and then if thee would have thy
hair cut in thy neck, how much more pro-
per it would look."
I had resisted her wishes with a ood









deal of childish willfulness; for I wanted
to let Leonard know how firm I was, and
I meant to tell him all about it. But after
aunt Deborah gave up the contest, I was
sorry; and that was why I had been dili-
gent and particular in my sewing. Ant's
commendation, backed by that gent e-
proach, opened my heart still more.-
I am sure," thought I, I do not wish
to make good aunt Deborah uncomfortable;
and after all it does not signify what one
wears here behind te hills."
So I went at once and put on the brown
dress.
I am pleased with thy spirit now, Liz-
zie," said uncle Abram; and for a reward
thou shalt go with me to the barn chamber
to fetch some corn; thy dress has not been
suitable for such amusement before."
"But if you had told me I might do
that," said I, the brown dress would have
been on long ago."
Dare say," said uncle, "but little peo-
ple must learn to do right, without hope of
reward."









In the afternoon I made another com-
promise.
A lady came over with a little girl, on
whose head was a silken net. There,
aunt Deborah," whispered I, "if I only
had tch a pretty net I would wear it, and
put y curls up under the ribbon."
Ait caught at the idea at once;
Naomi," said she, will thee make a
net for my little girl, like the one thine
weareth ?"
Naomi promised, and in due time it was
completed. Adorned in this and a long
checked apron, I seemed to myself a per-
fect Quakeress. Happy for me had I pos-
sessed the meek and quiet spirit, which
characterizes that worthy sect.
8*













CHAPTER III-.

My friends ae moral anasion.--I tease for bon Get
Barclay's Apology--I defend national war.--Uno spir
ritual visitation-Politeness.-A visit proposed.

UNDER existing circustances, nothing
could have been more^ unate than my
temporary sojourn wi uncle Mussey's
family. Having never had children of
their own, I hardly know how they came
to possess such a knowledge of human
nature, in its early developments. Certain
it is, their treatment of my disposition was
the very best that could have been adopted.
Duty was always made plain before me,
and then I was left to the decisions of my
own conscience, which seldom allowed me
to wander far from the path of Right. The
only thing that gave them trouble, was my
inquietude, my restless anxiety for some
thing to do. Uncle's stock of books was







A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE. S1

not calculated to afford me much amuse-
ment, for, from a child, I had been accus-
tomed to read every thing within the limits
of my comprehension. This taste had been
gratified as much as possible while my
father lived; for both he and my mother
wereanxious to have their children intelli-
gent and well-behaved.
Oh, how I wish I had something to
read," said I one day, when it was dull
and stormy.
Thee has the best of books," said aunt
Deborah, pointing to- the Bible.
But I don't want to read the best of
books all the time," said I peevishly.
Uncle smiled. "Well," said he, "if
thee has tired of the best, thee shall have
the next best and he laid Barclay's
Apology on the table before me.
As might be expected, that did not inter-
est me long.
The Apology don't seem to thy taste,"
said uncle, as I closed it, and stood looking
out of the window.
Why, no;" I answered, halftshatat









to own it :was above my comprehension.
" It is terribly long, seems to me, for just an
apology; and then there are no pictures in
it. If you will just let me go back to uncle
James', I will borrow his Tales of the Revo-
lution; for that is very interesting, and all
full of pictures."
I should think thee had seen enough
of war and its pictures, child."
So I have, uncle," I answered; for it
was war that took poor father from us,
when he had that bad cough; and it was
war that drove us from our nice little house
and made mother look so pale and sad.
But you know we must have wars, uncle."
"And why must we have wars, Liz-
zie? "
I had so often heard the subject of our
national grievances discussed, and had do
often talked with brother Harry on the sub-
ject, that I felt quite competent to instruct
uncle Abram. So I enumerated all the
circutn tances I could remember ; and then
I taakegagle if he would not fight
*I s' sa not," said he, quietly.









But where did the war begin, uncle? "
It began in the hearts of wicked men,
Lizzie,'' said he. If every one did right,
and loved his neighbor as himself, there
would be no war- It is because people are
restless and unquiet, and not content with
what God allows them."
But they won't do right, uncle, and
therefore must be made to. You know
how tTey oppressed and abused the Ameri-
cans. What could they do V7 and I looked
in the old man's face, thinking I had fairly
won the argument.
He shook his head.
Seems to me," said he, there is a bet-
ter way to subdue our enemies than taking
their lives. I could not enjoy an indepen-
dence purchased in that way. There can-
not be much quiet within men, with murder
and bloodguiltiness on the hands. Should
our people become victorious, they will not
as a nation render praise to God."
I knew then that uncle Abram was not
talking to me, for he was looking in"o th e
re, and aunt Deborah had, laid dowiNer







A WITEfl AT QUAKEEVILLE.


knitting, and with folded hands was attend-
ing to the moving of the spirit."
Ah no, no!" said he, they will say,
as did the king of Babylon, it is by the
might of my power that I have subdued
that great nation, and made myself a praise
in the whole earth.' And in the days of her
prosperity will the people of this landuse
oppression, and perpetrate robbery; they
will vex the poor and needy, yea, and op-
press the stranger wrongfully."
I did not exactly like the turn affairs had
taken, and thought I should not volunteer
my instruction again. For, though I en-
joyed talking with uncle Abram, I hadn't
much sympathy with his spiritual commu-
nications. Have since learned to appreci-
ate his simple, quiet faith, and labor of
love; and though I have never received in-
struction or edification from any of the
" modern spiritualists," I am free to ac-
knowledge that uncle Abramwas a medium,
through whom I learned many important
truths, which influenced my after life and
character. Nor was his spiritual visitant









noisy, inconsistent, or distracting, making
its appeals through the outward senses. On
the contrary, it was gentle and quiet, and
influenced the inner man. Good old man,
I seem to see thee now, bearing testimony
by the movings of the spirit against the fol-
lies and wickedness of the age. I seem to
hear thy trembling voice, saying, "Be-
loved, believe not every spirit, but try the
spirits whether they are of God, because
many false prophets have gone out into the
world."
Much as I had learned to love my vener-
able' relatives, there were some things
that annoyed me exceedingly. Among
these was what I considered their total
want of politeness. I had not then learned
that Christian courtesy is the only true
politeness, or to distrust the hollow profes-
sions of the world. My parents had taught
us to bow and courtesy our acknowledg-
ments;. to put sir and ma'am to our
answers; and never to address At person
older than ourselves without some handle
to his name, I remembered when 1my









father compelled We to apologize to his
brother's son (a tall youth of fourteen.) for
calling him simple "Amos," without pre-
fixing the "cousin" to it. Perhaps that
was the reason I took such an antipathy to
"apologies" of all kinds. Certain it is, I
was never called to make another myself,
by omitting any of the rules of etiquette
usually prescribed for little girls. But
here, at Quakerville, my politeness was
quite thrown away. My good friends did
not seem to notice it at all; and, what
made it more annoying, I was most profuse
of it when I was a little angry; and every
one knows how provoking it is not to be
noticed on such occasions. '
I think jt sounds funny," sai II, one
day when Naomi's daughter had called,
" to hear that little girl calling all the mar-
ried people by their given names."
c It is the way she has been taught,"
said aunt, quietly.
It don't sound very respectfuttAid I,
with bitterness.







A WINNER AT QUAKRVETLLE.


And yet she reminded thee of a duty in
expression,"-said aunt Deborah.
I blushed scarlet. The fact was, when
Ruth was about to depart, she had kindly
invited me to visit her; and I, with con-
siderable display, had promised that I would
certainly come, and very soon, to spend the
day.
"If thy aunt permitteth," said little
Ruth, innocently.
It was for what I considered her want of
politeness that I was angry; or rather I
was dissatisfied with myself for trying to
show off before her.
Thee should not touch a sore place,
Deborah," said uncle, who was always
more lenient than aunt. Sach things will
work their own cure."
Then turning to me, he said, good-natur-
edly,-
Ruth has not been much among the
people of the world; perhaps if thy brother
is coming with neighbor HaskelPs daugh-
ters, thee had better invite her to make one
of the party."







88 A WNTR AT QUAKELVTILLE.

This arrangement restored me to gdod
humor at once.
I shall be happy to," said I, "for I like
Ruth very well, and I dare say that the
Misses Haskells will be glad to meet with
her."
With this very proper remark, I dismissed
the subject; though I could not help ob-
serving that uncle's gray eyes twinkled in
an unwonted manner, and aunt smiled on
the stocking-heel she was taking off.







A WINTER AT QUAKERVIIJU. 89





CHAPTER rV.

The unnomfortaTble toilet-The visitors-Naturl and arti-
ficial politeness oontrasted.-Little Ruth.--Her nmdiation
-The only correct pattern.-Conviotion

Ar length the day appointed for my young
visitors arrived, and I was early up, mak-
ing preparations for their reception. Uncle
Abram made a great roaring fire in thf
square room, and aunt made pies, tarts,
and doughnuts. Aunt gave me permission
to put on my mourning frock, at the same
time congratulating me on having saved it
so nicely. I was so pleasant and happy
that I answered,
1" I see now that you knew best about it:
had it not been for you, it would have been
spoiled before now : and now I am going
to take off my net, and curl my hair,
wouldn't you, Aunt Deborah Z"
Why, no, child, I would not, and that










thou very well knowest; but if thee thinks
it will make thee happier, thee mayest act
thy pleasure."
I thanked aunt, and ran to make my
toilet. But somehow my curls didn't suit


at all. My hair
glossy, and did not
By dint of wetting
ed in getting some
felt cold and snak
would gladly have
restored -them to t
there were sleighs


lad become moist and
want to crinkle again.
and twisting, I succeed-
draggling curls, which
e-like on my neck. I
combed them out, and
heir silken fetters: but
coming down the long


hill, and I had to hasten and finish my
toilet.
Aunt didn't seem the least hurried: she
had just time enough to finish her work,
close her pantry door, and put on a clean
cap, when she was ready to go to the door
with me to receive the visitors..
Oh, what a nice little party! There
were cousin lIeonard-and his two sisters in
one sleigh, and brother Harry, and Ellen
and Maria Haskell in the other. They all
walked into the house; I mean the girls







A WINTfE AT QUAKrRVILEI.,


Harry and Leonard were helping uncle
take care of the horses. I was glad of
that, when I came to see the Haskell girls.
U' How do you do, girls V? said aunt.
"Pretty well, I thank you," said Miss
Helen and Maria, with a peculiar and
coarse pronunciation of the word pretty,
and down they went in a courtesy, looking
like aunt's yarn winders, when the last
threads came off.
I assisted them to take off their cloaks
and hoods, and then, oh, how I wished my
curls hidden, or cut off,-any where that
they might not be visible. For there were
those coarse awkward girls, with red freck-
led faces, and their fiery red hair, all curled
and crisped with curling tongs, while here
and there it had been singed by the perilous
process. They had on scarlet bombazette
frocks, and round their clumsy waists wide
blue sashes, which hung almost to theia
feet. I meant to have lI*t the room, when
uncle came in, that I might not have seen
their salutation to him; but aunt had given
4*









me some thread to hold as she wound it,
and4 was obliged to stay.
How does thee do," said uncle, extend-
ing his hand to Miss Helen.
Pretty well, I thank you," said she,
without noticing his hand, and going down
into that awful courtesy.
And thee, Maria, how is thy health 3"
Pretty well, I thank you."
And how are thy parents ahd friends !"
asked uncle.
Another c Pretty well, I thank you,"
and another swimming courtesy, completed
my confusion; especially when uncle looked
archly at me, as much as to say, Thy
friends are vastly polite."
It was a great relief to my feelings when
little Ruth came tripping along, bright and
rosy, and I hastened to meet her at the
door.
I have brought thee a, little cream for
the coffee, Aunt ieborah ;" and she handed
it to her, smiling and graceful.
Dost thou know these little friends,
anth W'said uncle.









Yes,' said she, and then she turned
pleasantly and said, I hope I see you well
this morning : I think I have met with you
11, except"--
My brother," said I, presenting Harry.
Little Ruth extended her hand, which
brother cordially took, and then, with ha-
bitual politeness, he took her shawl and
handed it to me, she smiling and chatting
away quite at ease. I couldn't help con-
trasting the little quakeress with the Has-
kell girls. I had always thought her pretty,
even in her home-made stuff gown; but
now she had on a light drab, of fine mate-
rial, and a white muslin apron, while her
dark brown hair was parted smoothly'on
her snowy forehead, and was confined with
a bright blue ribbon, just the color.of her
eyes. She looked so fresh and clean and
pure, that I didn't wonder when cousin
Leonard whispered, that Ruth was the
prettiest girl in all creation."
While aunt was preparing dinner, we
adjourned to the square room, to amuse our-
selves as we thought best. There We








A WITITER AT QUAKERVfLLE.


found a huge tray of rosy apples, waiting
to be distributed. Miss Helen and Maria
rushed upon them at once.
"See what monstrous apples, Helen,"
said Maria; I declare, they are larger
than those in the store, which father is so
stingy of; I'll have what I want now, and
no thanks to him."
So saying, she put several of.$he nicest
in her pocket, and directed her Oster to do
the same.
We took but little comfort through the
day : for whatever play we commenced
was disturbed by the boisterous habits of
the Haskells, or totally broken up by their
quarreling with each other. Indeed, they
made themselves so disagreeable, that had
it not been for little Ruth, I think they
would have been rudely treated by the rest
of the children.
I declare," said Maria, I like to have
laughed myself to death, to see that old
quaker sitting half an hour without saying
any thing over his dinner. If he wanted
toqask a blessing, why didn't he do it?"







A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE. 45

We had all been shocked and disgusted
at hearing the girls giggle at uncle's silent
grace; and now as they alluded to it, there
was a general murmur of disapprobation.
It was not much to laugh yourself to
death about," said cousin Emily.
I1 shall be careful who I take to visit
with me, for the future," muttered Harry.
"I wish to my heart you had laughed
yourself to death," said Leonard, audibly.
"I think that is an untruth, Leonard,"
said Ruth, gently; thee should be careful
how thou sayest untruths."
I don't know about its being untrue,"
said Leonard; if girls have no more
politeness than to laugh at -such a time, it
is not much matter what becomes of
them."
It was certainly very uncivil," said
ILuth, with characteristic bluntness; bu
1 suppose Maria is not used to our ways,
and was tempted to laugh. It certainly
is aty worthy of death."
If Miss Ruth, will forgive sch rude-
ness," said Harry, "I think we will pot









quarrel about it; especially with such an
example before us :" and my brother looked
at the little quakeress complacently.
She said he was kind and considerate;
and good humor was restored to the little
party.
After tea our friends left us, all but Ruth.
She stood out on the hard snow with me,
to see them ride down one steep hill and
up another, the noble horses dashing off as
though they really enjoyed the fun.
What rude disagreeable girls those
are !" said I ; I wonder Harry could in-
vite them tocome with him."
They are quite young, thee knows, and
will be likely to improve as thby become
older."
c" Young ?" said I; they are larger
than either of us; if I had such a clumsy
form, I would arveaself."
;' That : S he ,'widn'g, Lizzie ; we
should -content with what God gives us,
saq JS ook down upon those less gifted
oa hearty I. Do yo
ruto a hearty laugh. Do you









know," said 1, why you were invited to
spend the day with my visitors ?"
Thee wanted to make me happy, I
suppose," said Ruth, smiling.
No," said 1, I wished to teach you
politeness. I fancied you was too blunt,
and I thought of course that the Misses
Haskells were lady-like, and would be a
reproach to you."
'"It was kind in thee, I'm sure," said
little Ruth; and I have enjoyed myself
very much. I know but little about the
ways of the world; mother says it is not
necessary; for if I learn to feel kind to
everybody, my manners will do very well.
But I suppose I am as thou sayest, very
blunt."
No," said I, that was my mistake.
Harry says you are the best behaved little
girl he has seen in the country; and wants
me to be just Itke o."
Oh, no," said le, smiling, thy brother
should not say that, though I am glad he
likes me; but thee could not be little Ruth,
nor could I be Lizzie; but there is one ex-







48 A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE.

ample that we should both follow, and the
nearer we come to that, the nearer right
we shall be."
I knew then that the gentle little girl
was thinking of the Saviour, and I began
to feel how superior she was to me in every
thing that is excellent and of good report.








A WINTER AT QUAtVITflE.


CHAPTER V.

Conversstion.-tnlci Abra gathers a mora--tew visi-
tors.-The tins.-Peace.-- ojoings.-Warning.--Fine
apparel.-Admiration.--fDepartiure-

AFTER my little party, I felt much more
humble, and tried to cultivate a quiet, gen-
tle disposition. Ruth often called on me;
I visited her, and our friends encouraged
our intimacy. Uncle Abram said we
could improve each other's characters if
we tried."
I improve Ruth," said I, laughing.
SWhy I thought her perfection already,
and if I took her for my model, I should
become perfect too."
"In that thou hast erred," said uncle;
" there is but one pattern for poor tail
creatures; though we have a right to$8
twice the virtues we admire in others' aIc
make them our own; but if we make these
6









persons our models we shall probably adopt
their failings, and engraft them on our na-
tures, and thus fail of improving our own
characters. But if each takes for his ex-
ample the Great Teacher, he may approach
much nearer that state of perfection. Do
you undenderstand me, child ?"
Oh, yes, uncle," said I, "it is-like the
patchwork I was making; aunt gave me a
square for a pattern; it was a stiff paste-
board one; and I could cut nicely by that;
but at last it got lost among the pieces in
the basket, and to save the trouble of find-
ing it, I took to cutting one square by
another. Of course I varied a little in each,
and- when the pasteboard square again
turned up, I found I had spoiled a great
many. I was half frightened to death, but
still I couldn't help laughing to see how
little they looked like the pattern."
Uncle seemed much interested in my
confession, and then as I expected drew a
lengthy moral from it.
"Ah, Lizzie! that is an illustration of
men's conduct, constantly measuring therm









selves by themselves, and comparing them-
selves anong themselves, which is not ac-
cording to the rule which God hath distrib-
uted to us. I hope child," continued my
uncle, that thee will keep that lesson in
thy mind,, lest in taking erring m6rtals for
patterns, thou wilt find in the end that
thou hast come far short of the example
given as a model for us. I was not con-
scious of uncle's remarks making a great
impression at the time; but my mind has
often reverted to them since, and I think
the lesson proved valuable."
One day Mr. Haskell and wife called on
Aunt Deborah. They had with them a
pair of twins, a son and daughter of about
three years. They were beautiful children,
and I had a nice time while they remained.
Their mother was a coarse, loud-spoken
woman, with great crimson bows in her
cap, which matchled completely with the
color of her cheeks. The father, to6C was
fat and boisterous, and his breath smelt of
ardent spirit. They were not constant
visitors at Uncle Muzzy's, but only called









on that occasion to warm the children, who
had become chilled in riding over the hills.
With his usual hospitality, uncle insisted
that they should stop and dine; and aunt
soon had the square table spread, and load-
ed with a bountiful country dinner. In the
course of the conversation, Mr. Haskell
alluded to a merry-making that was to
come off in honor of the proclamation of
peace.
"I think you might go into that thing,
Mr. Muzzy," said he, slapping uncle on his
knee in a familiar manner, "you are so
much in favor of peace.'-
Thou sayest true, friend Haskell," said
uncle, "I am in favor of peace, and thank
God that it is again restored to our land:
but.I hardly think it necessary to get up a
riot to show my gratitude."
A riot? No," roared Mr. Haskell,
laughing; not exactly a riot, but we are
to have illuminations, and a fancy ball:
for my part 1 am glad enough to have a
prospect of business again, so that I shall
go into it with pay whole soul. You can-









not think public rejoicings inconsistent on
such an occasion."
"I agree with you, neighbor Haskell,
that this nation has great cause of gratitude
to God, who hath wrought deliverance for
us, and brought us out from under the yoke
of our oppressors. It seems to me, that the
people are not preparing suitable returns to
Almighty God, for his favors bestowed
upon us."
My uncle said this with great solemnity,
and for a moment the worldly man seemed
awed by his remarks. Mrs. Haskell then
expressed her opinion.
For my part," said she, I don't think
there is any harm in people's having a little
fun now and then. What is the use of
one's slaving and working, if they are not
to spend their money in what gives them
pleasure."
"t And do you expect to get much pleas-
ure, neighbor, I mean lasting pleasure V
asked Uncle Abram, gently.
"I'm sure I do," retorted the other; "I
mean to dance the moon down, and as he








A rwnTEr AT QUAKERVTLLT.


don't set till sunrise, I think 'twill last some
time, and the lady laughed a loud shrill
laugh which sounded strangely in that
quiet house."
Uncle sat a few moments in silence; but
I saw from the trembling of- his hand, as
he laid it on the golden locks of little Adda
Haskell, that he was gathering inspiration-
Neighbor," said he, at length, "I would
not mar thy enjoyment, or give thee need-
less alarm, but the spirit moveth me to
warn thee against going to that strange
meeting; I fear evil will come of it."
" And as untle spoke, He drew httle Char-
ley towards him, and encircled them both
with his brawny arms.
I declare, Mr. Muzzy," said the lady,
you are enough to give one the horrors.
I must be off before you scare me into giv-
ing up the ball; for I can't afford to buy
these fine things for nothing."
So saying, she drew from her basket a
pattern of gaily flowered silk, and some
laces and gauzes. Aunt Deborah admired







A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE. 55
them in her cool quiet way, and then the
couple departed with their little ones, leav-
ing me in strange wonderment, how such
sweet buds ever ,grew upon such a rude
stock.


-ii~~













CHAPTER VI.

Proclamation of peace--Public rejoicings-The rival vil-
Iuges-Old Boreas.-Disappointment,--Gentle susion--
Tie sleigh-ride.-Afflioted famly--Tlank-offering.-The
despairing saner--The only Saviour.

IT was a cold blustering morning in March,
that I was awakened by the sound of heavy
artillery at the upper village of our town,
echoed back by the inhabitants of the lower
village, between whom and those of the
upper there had long existed a bitter rivalry,
born of envy and jealousy. The upper
village could boast the heaviest cannon,
but to judge from the successive peals at
the lower, they had more pieces, and so on
the whole, the two seemed pretty fairly
balanced. Old Boreas, too, did what he
could with his loud gusts, and made quite
as much noise in celebrating peace, as the
best of them. Indeed, he became quite a
formidable party, neither joining one, or the










other of the rival villages, but fighting like
the revolutionary soldier on his own hook,
and rare sport did he make of. it, with the
light snow that had fallen through the
night.
"Oh, Uncle Abram!" said I, as I de-
scended to breakfast, L"how will Harry
come after me, through all these drifts V
"Well, if he don't, thee shall have a
place by this warm fire all day," said
uncle, smiling.
But uncle, I couldn't be contented at
all, for they are to have splendid illumina-
tions in the evening. Even Uncle James
is to have a candle at every square of glass,
and they say the street will be as light as
day; and beside, all of us children were
going to Mr. Haskell's to spend the eve-
ning, as Mr. and Mrs. Haskell are going to
a ball, and have made arrangements for
the girls to have a party at home."
But thy mother, Lizzic,-she would
never consent to that," said Aunt Deborah,
grasping her coffee-pot, and looking steadily
in my face.









Oh, she would, I am sure," said I, "l if
I coaxed her very much; for Mrs. Haskell
has made nice cakes, and we are to have a
great time."
Lizzie," answered Uncle Abram, thy
brother will not come for thee to-day; the
roads round these hills are much drifted,
and will not probably be broken in seaon,
and now it rests with thee child, whether
thy disappointment shall prove a blessing
to thee or otherwise."
A blessing V" said I; what blessing is
it to be cooped up behind these hills, and
blocked in with snow-drifis, when all the
rest of the young people are going to be so
happy and I burst into a flood of pas-
sionate tears, and without tasting my break-
fast left the table. My good friends did
not attempt to detain me, or reproach me
with my folly; on the contrary they pro-
ceeded with their breakfast, now and then
making gentle remarks to each other. At
its close aunt set the coffee-pot to the fire,
and heaping a plate of the good things from
the table, she set them in the reflector.









This arrangement I knew to be for my
special benefit, but I paid no attention to it,
but sat by the window, coaxing the tears
that had quite ceased to flow. Once I took
the broom, and attempted to sweep the
floor, but uncle took it gently frbm my
hand, saying, Thee must not work till
thd9 ast broken thy fast, lest thee should
faint" All the forenoon, I indulged in a
sullen silence, neither working or eating.
But when aunt's warm dinner began to
diffuse a grateful fragrance over the old
kitchen, I was glad to facilitate its opera-
tions. With a bountiful meal, good humor
was restored, and I began to chatter and
laugh.
I am glad my little girl is in better
spirits," said uncle; "and now, come here
to the south window." I went.
Dost thou see that long level lane," said

Of course I saw it. "Well, now, why
didn't that get blocked up7"
"Because no one wants to gothere, I
suppose," said I, smartly.










9' Oh yes, child," said Uncle Abram,
smilingly I want to go there, and
thought of asking two little girls to go with
me."
What, Ruth and IT' and I jumped up
in my glee, saying, Oh yes, let me go and
see Granny.Foss with you," and I rT for
my cloak and hood.
Stop Lizzie," said Aunt; "thee must
not go empty-handed; thee wished to cele-
brate this day, and shall have the privilege;
thee shall make a thank-offering to God '"
And how, auntyT? said I, and why
go to Granny Foss's to do it'"
I will tell thee, child. Neighbor Foss is
aged and very infirm. Her only son has
just returned from the war, an invalid;-and
Anna, her grand-daughter is a cripple.
They are very poor," continued aunt Debo-
rah, and must have assistance, and
thy uncle is going to carry them some pro.
visions, and te the shall take something to
Anna."
But how will that be a thank-offering
to God?" I asked.








A WINTER AT QUAKERVILLE. 61

"Don't thee remember what the Great
Teacher says," Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto one of the least of these, ye
have done it unto me.' "
Thus said my kind aunt, as she went on
selecti ig from her ample store-room, a great
var ty of necessaries, both for the inner
an d ter man.
"But Aunt Deborah,"' said 1, there is
one thing about it. These things are not
mine, and therefore 1 cannot give them,
only as from you."
But thee can give smiles, and kind
words, said aunt, which will be better than
all the rest."
The road which was at first very level,
soon began to descend, down, down, as
though it would never stop. Old Dobbin
seemed quite too antic for a quaker', horse,
and didn't mind his heavy load at all.
Little Ruth was in high spirits, and stood
up in her gray cloak against the front of
the sleigh, trying to look like a-basgof flour.
As for me, in the reaction of my spirits, I









was a perfect madcap; I told Ruth about
my eating a dish of pouts for my breakfast,
and nearly starving before dinner.
But they served to digest thy disap-
pointment," said uncle smilingly, "and af-
ter all perhaps were beneficial I don't
think I shall try any more," said I; "but
is this neighbor Foss's ? What a poodrttle
house !"
Hush Lizzie," said Ruth, and looking,
I saw a poor pale looking creature, gather-
ing up an arm full of wood he had been
splitting. He was a young man of about
twenty-two; so emaciated that it seemed
to me that his bones must come through
his skin every time he moved.
Thee ought not to be doing that, John,"
said uncle, is it necessary 7"
Why, not exactly," said the pale in-
valid, with a ghastly smile, but as it was
so pleasant, I thought I would cut a little,
lest we should get out."
"Can't thee learn to trust Providence
yet asked uncle.
Providence has done but little for me so










far," said he, shaking his head; but walk
into the house young ladies."
So saying, he pulled a string, which
lifting the latch, admitted us to the presence
of the old lady and her grand-daughter.
The poor woman, though bent with age,
and shaking with palsy, advanced, and
shook uncle by the hand, and then reached
chairs to Ruth and myself.
How is thy health to-day ?" asked
uncle.
SPrej comfortable," said she.
AndARca, how is she? I have brought
some little girls to see thee."
By this time I had got rid of my snow
blindness, and could see that Anna was
the loveliest looking girl I had ever seen.
She rose from the chair on which she was
sitting, and leaning on a crutch, came for-
ward .- greet us, and take our hoods. "* I
am glad to see you, Ruth," said she, in the
sweetest voice, "is this your sister 3"
"Oh no, Anna, I have no sister, thou
knowest; but Lizzie is a friend who is
staying with Aunt Deborah Muzzy."









Not knowing what else to say, I asked
Anna if she had been long lame, when she
lifted her dress, and showed me the poor
stump of an ankle, minus a foot.
"Oh, how do you live with but one foot-
said I, eagerly; I should think you would
be wretched all the time."
I am used to it," said she softly;
glancing to her grandmother, and were
it not that my work. is so much needed,
I should not mind it at alL."
": Thy grandmother is more feeble,"
whispered Ruth
Oh yes, and poor uncle Join is so sick,
and sleeps so little."
I am sure none of you should work,"
said Ruth, and people ought not to allow
it."
They are all so very kind," sighed
Anna; "'tis but right for us to diowhat we
can."
By this time uncle had -unloaded his
bags, and boxes, and jugs, and sat converse with the invalid man-" I learned
from their conversation, that the poor










creature was very low-spirited, and des-
ponding, and there was a mingling of self-
reproach with all thoughts of the past.
Had I not been such a cursed fool,"
muttered he, I might have been well now,
and our folks not dependent on charity."
"Johnny, don't talk so," said the old
lady, when the good neighbor is so kind; I
am sure we ought to be thankful to him.
6"1 am grateful for Mr. Muzzy's kind-
ness, mother," said John, in a softer tone,
" but % don't prevent my regretting the
course e taken. I should have staid
at home wMen you entreated me to, and
cleared off the mortgage from our little
farm, and saved my health to take care of
you and Anna--but 'tis gone now-all
gone-and the sooner I am gone the better,
before I wear you both out."
OhbJohnny, Johnny," sobbed his moth-
er, don't say that; yon have always been
a good son to me; what if you did go to
the wars, it was not because you wished
to neglect me." You must try to.think
what a good boy you were."
A*









That is a long time ago, mother."
Not very long, I am sure, Johnny; you
cannot have been very wicked since; don't
think about that Johnny, but think what a
kind, obedient child you were, and what a
comfort it is to me to have you back again;
and we will nurse you well,and then you
will be happy again."
Not here, mother, not here; and the
sooner you understand that the better, I am
going to leave you, never to come back;"
and the sick man drew a long bbr eth and
leaned back in his chair, as tj it was
a relief to have undeceived the r woman.
I was glad that uncle Abram was there, to
help her bear the great burden of her grief.
"John says true," remarked my uncle,
after a pause; the sooner thee gets thy
mind made up respecting him, the better.
He cannot be long for this world ;. d thy
care must be to make him as comfortable
as circumstances will permit; he must want
for nothing. That care I will take upoxf
myself. And thee, John, must begin to
pyepai6 thy mind gradually for the change










that must come upon thee. Endeavor to
cultivate a spirit of quiet commune with
thy own heart on thy bed, and be still."
Much more of the same kind of advice
my good uncle offered, while I sat looking
at the poor panting creature, and wonder-
ing how long it would take to prepare his
mind for the change they talked of; and
whether there would be time enough. I
suppose he thought so too; for once he
groaned audibly, and seemed the most
wretched man I ever saw. The old lady
kept acll time whining of the virtues of
his childhood, which impressed me with
the belief that she could recollect but few
since. I don't know whether I thought, in
the language of Job, that they were all
miserable comforters, but it seemed to me
that none of their remarks were quite suited
to his case and I was glad when Anna
hobbled to his side, and laid her thin hand
caressingly on his shoulder. Just at that
moment the old lady seemed to have new-
ly discovered some articles in our donation
very acceptable; for she began to over-










whelm uncle with thanks and blessings.
This gave Anna the opportunity she seemed
to want, of talking with her uncle; which
she did in a low but very earnest voice; at
the same time smoothing back the tangled
locks from a high pale forehead. I ob-
served that the expression of fierce despair
passed from his countenance, though I
could not-make out what she was saying,
till the old lady paused to take breath,
and then I heard her distinctly repeating,

one but Jesau, none but Jes
Can do helpless sinners good.

As the poor woman seemed desirous that
we should take tea with them, uncle
directed Ruth and me to prepare the
supper.
Thee had better make some unleavened
bread," said he, "as the loaf thou hast
brought is suitable for invalid stomachs."
This was a feat which neither Ruth of
myself had ever undertaken ; but nr1le in-
sisted, that, as it was a donatioanviit, twe









only should do the work; and so we put
our heads together, and divided the res.
ponsibility between us; and at last de-
posited some very respectable looking
biscuits in the old dutch oven. Granny
Foss then brought from her bed-room an
ancient damask cloth, of rather doubtful
color; but as she assured us it was only
yellow from laying, we cheerfully spread
it, and took up the biscuits which wereeven
more yellow than the cloth. As we had
been some time in our operations (for the
old lady -would have her cracked china
brought out, and it had to be washed,) she
gave the same excuse for the biscuits that
had served for the cloth; and as I remem-
bered the consolation she had offered her
son, it seemed that nothing was disposed to
remain good with those people.
After tea, we toolcleave of the little cir-
cle, promising to visit etlet, again soon.
As little Anna stood leaning on her crutch,
I whispered,
I will ask Aunt Deborah, and come
over and stay two or three days."








70 A WIKNTE AT QUAKERVILMl.

And when she leaves, I will come and
help thee nurse thy poor uncle," said
Ruth, who the whole afternoon, had been
wiping her eyes.
Thank you both," said Anna, taking
our hands at parting.














CHAPTER VII.

fPlsant refectons at night-Great grief in the morning.
-A conviction of being a sinner--Set about making
myself good.-Find it difflult n-Gve it 1a up.--Perplex-


I ntA so much to tell Aunt Deborah
about Granny Foss, and the sick young
man, and sweet Anna, that I sat up much
later than usual.
Now, tell me truly," said uncle, "if thee
don't feel quite as happy, as if thou had
spent the evening at neighbor Haskell'."
Why, I didn't mind going there," said
I, for I don't exactly like those girls; but,
1 should like to have seen the illuminations,
and been with Harry and my cousins; but
I am quite happy now, I have had so nice
a time, and guess I shall learn to be con-
tented and quiet."
I hope thee will," said uncle; bIt t










must be gradually; we have to go on to
perfection thou knowest."
I was about to ask Uncle Abram, if he
thought there would be time for poor John
Foss to grow good; but the old clock in the
corner of the kitchen gave warning that it
would soon strike ten, and aunt hurried me
off to bed. In consequence of my late
vigils, I slept very long the next morning.
The first thing that aroused me was a
sleigh coming to the door; and then I heard
earnest conversation between uncle and
some strange voice. Next came Aunt
Deborah to the stairs, and in an agitated
voice bade me rise, and dress quickly.
My first thought was of young Foss, and
that he was worse; for my aunt was often
called in sickness. When I entered the
kitchen, uncle was walking the fltor, and
aunt was trying to comfort him. o
I.am sure Abram," said she, "thee did
what thee could; they would not heed thy
warning."
"It was therefore that I quenched the
, sprit," said he, with strong symptoms of









agitation ; I should have cried aloud, and
not spared, for I foresaw that evil was
coming upon that house."
I was too much frightened to inquire
what had happened but aunt soon in-
formed me. It was a long story about a
house left to the care & a party of wild
thoughtless children, who after they had
exhausted their wits in play, and their
strength in exercise, had fallen asleep,
leaving the fire uncared for, which had
found means to communicate itself to the
dwelling, and those sweet infants of Mrs.
Haskell's -had perished in the flames.
Scarcely did the last words reach my ears,
ere there was a whirling in my brain, and
for a while I thought myself sinking down
through the floor. When I revived, I was
laying in uncle's arms, while aunt was
bathing my forehead with camphor,
"Thee has been faint," said she, "and
must now go into my room, and lie down."
I insisted that I was quite well again,
and wanted to hear more about the burned
children, and whether Harry was safe and








if the Haskell people were much grieved.
Aunt promised to tell me all she knew, af-
ter the color came back to my face; and I
had to submit to lie down, and was soon
fast asleep. When I again awoke, I saw
my mother and Harry in the next room,
and mother was -telling aunt of being
warned of God in a dream, that my
brother's life was in danger, and she sent
for him to come to her at nine in the eve-
ning, else he must have perished, as his
bed was in the attic. She then told of poor
Mrs. Haskell, who was on the floor dancing
when tle awful tidings was brought; and
of Mr. Haskell made furious by-the wine he
had drank. He rushed into the flames,
and was with difficulty saved from the fate
of his innocent babes. I remember, as I
lay there still weak and languid, that
I thought of the mercy of God, who,
in his Providence, had interposed to
.keep re with my kind, careful friends;
and I felt that I was not thankful enough
to my Maker, and that a long road lay
:1ttween me and that state of qqiet qsbmis-







A WINTER AT QUAXBUVILTL


sion to Him, which I was conscious of
wanting. "Even after I had risen, and sat
leaning my head on mother's lap, while
Harry stood over me telling of the glorious
illuminations, my spirits were sad and de-
pressed; and I am sure that young as I was,
I had begun to experience that inward void
the world was never designed to filL And
when my dear mother, in her quiet way,
remarked, that we had something beside
public rejoicings to think of, I looked up,
and wondered if she felt as sad and de-
pressed as I did. I have said that my
father was a Christian. My mother said he
was, and told us of that good place where
he had gone, and where we should go, if
we were good. She taught us too to re-
member the Sabbath to keep it holy, and to
keep the commandments of God, even as
our father had, that we too might be good
Christians. And every night we said our
prayers, before retiring to rest. Buttmioce
I had been with Uncle Muzzy, there
seemed to be a great work before me;
beginning of which I could not understand,







A WIMSUR AT QUTAKIRVIT-LI-


but the end was to be peace and perfection.
Somehow I felt that I had lost my old re-
ligion, and could get nothing to take its
place. Uncle Abram and aunt seemed con-
tented and happy in theirs; and it sat easy
upon them; but it seemed quite as unsuited
to my wants and capacity, as their gar-
ments would have been to my little body.
I had often heard uncle tell of the long
toilsome process, by which he had risen
from a penniless boy, to his present com-
parative affluence. With all uncle's be-
nevolence, he maintained that the road to
wealth was, as Franklin remarked, easy as
the road to mill."
"I had," said he, "but seven dollars,
when I commenced business; but by
saving all my earnings, by degrees I
became comfortable and independent."
Much in the same way it seemed to me,
he had laid up treasures for that country
where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt;
and where thieves do not break through
awd steal.'
SLittle by little" said I, "people have









to grow good one good deed after another
is saved up, till at last they amass a for-
tune; this is called treasure in heaven.
The interest of that investment is peace
and happiness here, while she principal is
saved for them, and at the close of life they
obtain it again, to enjoy it forevermore"
I know not in what language I should
have communicated my thoughts at that
time; but such were the ideas that floated
in my mind, during the few days that the
public mind was excited with the calami-
ties of the Haskells. My friends thought
me indisposed; and aunt wanted to get a
neighbor to stay with me, on the day of the
funeral ; but I begged they would take me.
In the mean time, I made what effort I
could-to be good; I was gentle, sober, and
thoughtful, I sat alone in my chambt, ex-
amining my heart, when good aunt Debo-
rah thought I .was asleep; asked p unt
grace over my meals, and even b to
practice on thee and thou; and' soon in-
dulged a hope that I was really making
some small investments towards thal
r.- "^








ure which would not wax old. The week
after-the funeral, I spent with my mother,
in the family of my cousins. There I had
ample opportunity to practice the new sys-
temi I had adopted; and for the first few
days was very exemplary. I reproved
Leonard for his want of reverence; Emily
for peevishness; and became quite a model
of self-denial, and good works. My good-
ness, however, (such as it was,) become
like the morning cloud, or the early dew;
" it soon passed away." For as my health
became good, there was a reaction in my
spirits, and at length I threw off my self-
imposed restraints, and became, as aunt
Susan said, myself again."
What has come over you," said Leon-
ard, one afternoon, when I had quite ex-
hausf4 myself with antics. "I thought
you was becoming quite a little quakeress;
and now you are the wildest of the whole
set.F on shan't go back to get spoiled
agiC'
S" Uncle Abram's folks have not spoiled
ntB, said I; "they spoil no one; but the







A WIrFlB AT QUAKERVIIE.


fact is, I have been trying to grow good, as
uncle Abram says, laying a foundation of
good works,' but somehow I have to take
a great deal of pains about it."
And so you have concluded to give the
whole matter up, oh l"
"I might as well," said I; "'tis such
hard work; and then, if I do a single
wrong, the whole has to go for nothing."
Just so; said Leonard, sympathetic-
ally; now I advise you to do as Sam did
yesterday: he has been saving coppers in a
strong box, the last winter, but every time
he went to the village, he must shake out
one to buy candy. At one time he had as
many as thirty; but yesterday he discov-
ered there were but three or four; so he
smashed the strong box, took the coppers,
and treated us all to candy, and that was
the end of it."
I laughed heartily at the anecdote and
comparison, and the next day returned to
uncle Abram's, gay and thoughtless as
ever. As I rode along through the splashy
rods, old Dobbin taking into account'al(









the circumstances, and then choosing his
own pace, I had time for ample reflection;
" Cousin Leonard's comparison seemed a
very befitting one to my case. It is a
fact," said I mentally; like Sam I have
smashed the strong box, and expended the
last of my hoarded treasures, (which was
my sobriety,) in a treat for my cousins.
What shall I do next? "








A WINTER Arf QUAKlRVILTM.


CHAPTER VIII.

HKone-oleaning--Widow sad so.-fll-timed mIrtt--Restt-
tntionm-The week p.t.-Solemn releotion.--Uncl gives
me oonnlse-Christ the only comforter.

WHEN I returned to aunt Deborah's, I found
them all in a bustle, preparing for their
annual house-cleaning. An indigent widow
of the Society of Friends had been brought
to assist in the operation, taking with her a
little boy, whom I found at once a kindred
spirit.
"Thy son will save us a great many
steps, Leah," said aunt, "I am glad thee-
took him over with thee."
Yes, if we can keep him steady here,"
said she. Asher, don't take' sb mucl'
wood at once, and then drop it along; thee
should learn to make less noise going
about." ) '
I wonder why von oalle4k.th &








A WINTER AT QUAKV1LLl.


Asher," said I; his name should have
been Gad."
And why Gad 7" said Leah, who had
come to think I was very smart, and
witty.
Because he never moves without mak-
ing me think c a troop cometh,' said I.
And thee is no whit behind," said aunt
Deborah, laughing; "and now thou and
he may go and gather all the pewter into
this basket for scouring."
I took the basket and started off in pur-
suit of Asher, who had already darted
through the long entry toward the diniig-
room. Boy, boy," said I, where are
you ?" But no boy responded to my call.
A few moments more, and I was greeted
with a pint of water through the open win-
dow. Without a moment's reflection, I
seized a mug, and ran to the pump, where
we spent the next half hour in brisk Hydro-
pathic sparring, until the clothes of each
were perfectly saturated with water. I'll
giTjii up, I'll give it up," said I, running
ish all in abiver. -









Then Gad-like, I have overcome at the
last," shouted the mischievous fellow.
Very soon aunt Deborah, and her Leah,
discovered our situation, and the game we
had been playing; and each gave utterance
to her displeasure, according to her respect-
ive character. Asher was smartly beaten
by his mother, which, like aunt Chloe's
beatings, only seemed to knock so much
more fun out of him; at least it did not (to
judge by the merry twinkling of his dark
eye,) in any way diminish the quantity
within. I almost wished that aunt Debo-
rah had treated me to the same punish-
ment, for there was on her countenance an
expression of sorrow, and anger rather
ominous, as she quietly told me to change
my dress, and come to the kitchen fir9.
"I1 wish these people would scold, and
say bitter things -when I do wrong," said
I mentally, as I went sullenly to my cham-
ber; for then there would be an end to it;
for scolding people always say things to
regret; and then one don't feel so bad for
his faults. But this having to worry about









it a day or two, and then be called to judg-
ment, seems like paying for it twice." Be-
forareturning to the porch, I had resolved
on a course to conciliate my kind aunt.
Let me scour the pewter," said I, I
will make it look like silver, and Asher
shall help me."
And peradventure, I shall find you
throwing your soap and sand at each
other."
Not so, aunt Deborah," said Asher;
" thee shall see how sober I can be."
With this assurance, aunt walked away
to superintend the cleaning of the dairy.
An hour after, when she returned, I saw a
gleam of satisfaction on her sober face, as
she surveyed the long table filled with bur-
nished pewter, all paraded so as to reflect
the rays of the noonday sun.
What do you think of that!" said I,
determined to elicit praise from her.
"I think it a pity," said she, "that
people who know what is right, should do
so many wrong things."









Harder work," said I, to atone for
sins, than to commit them-"
"The way of transgressors is hard,"
whispered Asher, gravely, and shaking his
head.
Much in the same way was the week
spent, that Leah and her son remained
with us. There was something so conge-
nial in hip droll, frolicksome spirit, that I
was always being led into scrapes which
cost me a great deal of penance to satisfy
my conscience. At length that busy season
came to an end, and Leah and her son,
were taken home. The old farm-house
had received a thorough ablution; every
closet, hole, and cranny, had been peered
into by the sharp eye of aunt Deborah;
and every speck of dirt, magnified by her
glasses, had been removed. It was a bright
April evening; and as I wandered from
room to room, uttering interjections, just to
hear the echoes, thrown back from the
walls, a strange feeling came over me. I
sat down in the middle of the bright pol-
ished floor, and gave way to perfect rush







A W TMraa AT QtAKrRVZLLT.


of reflections. I was somewhat weary in
body; and from the unnatural mirth in
which I had indulged for the last week,
depressed in spirit. Never did the chirping
of the cricket in the hearth sound so lonely,
or the first spring notes of the frogs as they
came through the open window. I had
always been a great reader of the Bible,
both Old and New Testaments, so that I
was often quoting it in my playful sea-
sons. What wonder then, that I should
find passages which followed me in my
moments of serious reflection. On this
occasion, the following passage, suggested
perhaps by our week's exercises, was con-
tinually running through my mind : W hen
the unclean spirit has gone out of a man, he
walketh through dry places, seeking rest,
and findeth none. Then he saith, I will
return into my house whence I came out;
and when he is come, he findeth it empty,
swept and garnished. Then goeth he, and
taketh with himself seven other spirits more
wicked than himself, and they entqr in and
dwell there; and the last state of that man









is worse than the first. Even so shall it be
also unto this wicked generation." Young
as I was, I knew that there was a deep
meaning behind the literal significance of
those words; and for want of a commen-
tator, conscience was assisting my poor
benighted understanding with its own ap-
plications. I was thinking of my strong
box, broken open, and all my good works,
and pious resolves scattered to the winds.
Just then uncle Abram came softly through
the dining-room, calling my name. "Where
is the child," said he, in a playful tone
"lost! gone!" and as the echoes 'lost,
gone,' came back through the empty rooms,
I covered my face with my hands, and
burst into tears.
"What aileth thee, child? said uncle,
quietly, taking a chair from the closet,
where they had been piled for safe keeping
during the cleansing. He smoothed back
the hair from my burning face, never onoe
chiding me, or pressing an answer. At
length, when the violence of my sobs










had abated, he again asked, Why weepest
thou, Lizzie?"
I don't know," said I, attempting to
smile through my tears, at the same -time
laying my hand on my breast; "but there
was weeping in here, and so I let it come.7
It is the longings of a restless mind,"
said uncle. "The wicked are like a trou-
bled sea, whose waters cast up mire and
dirt. There is no peace to the wicked,'
saith my God. But when the mind begins
to settle down to the evidence of Eternal
Truth in one's own breast, the warfare
ceaseth; the peace of God ruleth in the
heart; because they have put on humble-
ness of mind, meekness, kindness, long-
suffering. Dost thou understand, child'"
Why yes, I knowwhat you say," said
I; but I doh't know how these things are
brought about."
Like Nicodemus, thou art saying, how
can these things be and like the Great
Teacher, I 'must answer, 'That which is
born of the Spirit, is Spirit.' The Spirit of
God alone can ical all thy spiritual nala-










dies; and then thou wilt possess a meek
and quiet spirit, which in the sight of God
is of great price. Thy heart then will be
like our dwelling. Thou rememberest how
it looked a few days ago; all dirt and con-
fusion; but now how sweet and pure; we
have only to arrange the furniture, and
then it will be ready for any neat and tidy
friend. Just so it is with the human
heart."
Yes," said I, smiling. "But if you
go and turn in that drove of pigs with their
mother, how would it look;k"
'Uncle looked up in surprise, I should
think," said he, that its last state would
be worse than its first. I see that thou art
a thinking child, and that thy soul feels
empty. Won't thee try to furnish it ac-
cording to the precepts of the Word? Tell
me, Lizzie, is it not as I have said ?"
Why yes," said I, it is -empty enough,
especially since I have wept so much: but
I have strong- doubts of its a.nsing."
Why did not my kind uncle then speWlCof
the Blood of Sprinkling, which cleantsth
8*









from all sin7 Why did he not whisper of
the Great Sacrifice I Of the Holy of Ho-
lies, entered into once for all ? It was all I
wanted, all for which my spirit panted,
though as yet I was unacquainted with its
longings.
Just then, aunt Deborah come to call
her husband: "* Abram," said she, dost
thou see the sun just setting, and thy chores
undone 1 Who will look to the calves, and
lambs "
"I was caring for one lamb," said uncle,
rising; and now, child, thee had better
retire and get rested, and don't forget to
invite the good Spirit into thy heart." So
saying, he left the room, and I went to my
chamber.













CHAPTER IX.

Little Ruth.-I visit Anna aga~n.-Improvementn-Anna
faith in God.-Her Influence and seraflness.-I lear her
history-Beoome interested in her religion.

"I WONDER why Ruth don't come over;
she has not been in, since I came from
uncle James's." This remark I made one
morning, as I stood by the window, wist-
fully looking up the long road to her
dwelling.
Ruth is at neighbor Foss's," said aunt
Deborah; didn't thee know that?"
No, indeed," said I, a burning blush
overspreading my face at the recollection,
that I was the first one who promised Anna
to get permissionand come to assist in
nursing the young man, and the invalid
and infirmnmother.
Naomi sa continued aunt, that
you both promised to assist them, which I
think was kind in you; and now thee must







A WINTER AT QUAKERVItT*.-


try to redeem thy promise, when Ruth
returns. For I hear John -is so nervous
and irritable, he will not have a nurse
hired."
Accordingly, the next day, uncle took
me in the old chaise to go and take Ruth's
place; and as usual, loaded me with
good things, and charges to take care of
them, and myself, and make each as useful
as possible. Be careful, and not squander
thy strength unnecessarily," said he ;
" there are many people whd think their
health and strength their own, and that
they may waste it in exercise which profit-
eth nothing; but they should remember it
is all the Lord's, and only lent to them, to
be used in His service.
Rtgh was overjoyed to see me. I was
getting tired," said she, for thee knows I
don't work much at hoe ; but here I have
been very indiutrious."
"I should think you had," said I, look-
ing round the little bit oo house; "for
indeed you have quite changed the place."








A WrINTS AT QUAKERVILLE.


All this was said in an under tone in
Anna's bed-room, where Ruth had taken
me to lay offmy things.
She then led me into the back-room,
which-she had fitted up for a sitting-room,
by day, and for the sick man by night. I
was astonished at the renovation there.
All the old clothes had been removed from
the walls, and they had been covered with
a plain clean paper, while curtains of the
same were hung over the two little win-
dows. These were rolled up; and across
the lower part there was drawn snowy
home-made linen, which I knew Ruth must
have brought from home. Nor was I mis-
taken; both those and the paper, were
donations from the little quakeress; the
former having been purchased with her
own pocket-money. The tiny bit of a
closet, looked, not as I had seen it last;
the shelves were scoured white as wood
could be made; and the scanty china
arranged so as to tell wonderfully.
By the side of the cupboard hung a little







A WIfTER AT QUAflRVlLLE.


glass, and that was decked with fresh ever-
green, as was also the profle of Granny
Foss, taken with a broad standing ruff,
and her young husband with long flowing
hair. Among other improvements, I no-
ticed two old chairs which had been
stuffed and covered with drab, for the
use of the invalids, with a little neat rug at
each, for the comfort of their cold feet. In
one sat poor John Foss, so pale and
shadowy, that, it seemed to me, his with-
ered old mother might have again borne
him in her arms. By his side was a
rickety stand, covered with a clean cloth,
and on it lay, to my satisfaction, an
open Bible. Somehow it seemed to do me
good to see him, as he leaned forward in a
fit of coughing, lay his hand on its sacred
page; and I wondered if he did not pant
and gasp less, with it lying there.
Near the door sat the old lady, in the
other stuffed chair, alternately directing the
girls, and comforting her son; and I no-
ticed that she was, as ever, pointing him









backward for comfort; ever extolling the
virtues of his childhood, spite of the bitter
groans she extorted from the wretched
man.
Little Anna was paler and prettier than
when I saw her last. And oh, so patient,
and gentle, as she hobbled about on her
crutch, now soothing, with gentle whis-
pered words, the sick man, now adjusting
the cap, and handkerchief of the trembling
grandmother, and then trying to lighten
the labors of the brisk little Ruth, in the
outer room. Isaw with pleasure that her
influence over her uncle had not dimin-
ished; and while she was bathing his fore-
head, I took the opportunity to slip out,
and learn of Ruth, how I could best be
useful.
Have you done all this?" said I;
" why you have made quite a palace of
this old hut! a
Oh, I didn't do it all," said she.
" Anna is very diligent and tasty, and
helped a great deal; thee cannot think









what a good girl she is, she seems really
spiritually minded."
"And the sick man," said I, in a
whisper, "what of him 7 Does he seem
very -- .
Unquiet, thou meanest," answered
Ruth; yes, very much so. I hope he
will come to a more peaceful frame of
mind before long. Friend Gould called, a
man of a very godly spirit. John would
not converse with him. But Anna seems
to have great influence over him. She
reads and sings to him, and talks of com-
ing in a moment, as it were, to a quiet
frame of mind."
Does she? said" I, drawing Ruth
without the door, now that would be
really nice; for do you know that it seems
to me, that it is a long hard road, to learn
to be good, little by little? Now if there
was only little cross road, as there is from
uncle Abram's to your house, it would be
better if we were pushed for time, as John
seems to be."









But we need not be pushed for time,
thou knowest we should learn to do with
our might whatever our hands find to do;
and then, when we are called to lay down
our bodies, we shall be ready for the
change,"
I assented, inwardly hoping, I might
hear Anna talk of her views of these things.
One reason was, I had often heard aunt
Deborah and others tell about Anna. She
was an orphan child. KWhen about eight
years of age, she had met with the accident
which resulted in the amputation of her
foot. It was afterwards that I learned
more of her history. Her kind mother, then
living, nursed her with the greatest care,
day and night, through the long sickness
following; rocking her in her arms, bear-
ing Jher from room to room, and gently
soothing her with sweet songs of the better
land,-that land where. God Shall wipe
a ay all tears from the eyes, and there
be no more death, neither sorrow, nor
cryintfneither shall there be any more









pain :-untl the little girl began to feel
that the tabernacle of God is with men.
Yea, and with children too, when they
learn to serve and trust him.
But, poor Anna! her faith-had to be tried
in the crucible of affliction; and well had
it borne the process. Scarcely had she
recovered, even comparative health, before
her mother was taken from her. Always
delicate, her health sank under so much
care, and labor; and she died, leaving
Anna almost helpless as an infant. But
the dear girl, in her holy faith, was able to
sit by the dying bed, and point the finger
of triumph to the glorious land of which
her mother had told her. It was Anna,
who had bent over her, and heard her last
whispered words. How the dear girl cher-
ished them in her heart, and how often she
repeated, Oh, death, where is thy sting,
oh, grav, where is thy victory The
sting of death is sin, the strength ofof"
the law, but thanks be to God Wbo0 *
us. the victory, through our iaJ us
Christ."









And now Anna was an orphan; for her
father had died in her infancy. So she
came to reside with her grandmother, and
that had been her home for the last four
years. Here her religion had beef exem-
plified, in her patient dutiful behavior to
the old lady, who had grown queiulous
and childish; and latterly also to her uncle,
who was drawing near a world whose
prospects were all dark to him. What
wonder then that Anna became an inter-
esting study to any one attentively observ-
ing her ?
After Ruth had given me instruction
relative to what I should do, and cautioned
me to keep out of sight of the sick man as
much as possible, she departed, and I un-
dertook to take care of the house, and do
the necessary labor. This was not a hard
task, for now that the case of the family
made known the matrons of the
settlement took it upon the, to
revisions ready cooked for our
hy would gladly have furnished'










an efficient nurse and house-keeper; but,
as aunt Deborah had hinted, the sick man
had become so irritable die was willing to
see no one but those he considered as
Anna's company.








A WINTfB AT QUAAERVILLL-


CHAPTER X.

The poor invalid.-The happy land--Anna pointe tlh ok
man to Chriat.-eadn to him.-Commenta ont the Script-
re.--He beomes penitent--A leson to me.

Ir was now that I had the opportunity for
which I had often wished, of watching
Anna; of seeing her calm submission to her
lot; her patience under confinement, priva-
tion, and suffering, (forAnna was still a suf-
frerr); Vpr gentleness to the invalid, who
was often harsh even to her; and her
respectful demeanor to the old lady; who
was fast becoming any thing but agreeable.
What do you trouble yourself to gather
those things for, Anna7" said John, one
hen she was placing some fresh/
and vines around the room. /
4hey are cool and refreshing," said
Atna, "e and seem to purify this sick-
a*




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