Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Chapter I: Beauty
 Chapter II: The word
 Chapter III: The grave
 Chapter IV: Joy
 Back Cover

Title: The water lily
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00049546/00001
 Material Information
Title: The water lily
Physical Description: 118 p., 8 leaves of plates : ill. ; 18 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Myrtle, Harriet, 1811?-1876
Browne, Hablot Knight, 1815-1882 ( Illustrator )
Bolton, Thomas, fl. 1851-1893 ( Engraver )
Miller, James, d. 1883 ( Publisher )
Publisher: James Miller
Place of Publication: New York (779 Broadway)
Publication Date: 1879
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Kindness -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Juvenile literature -- 1879   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1879
Genre: Juvenile literature   ( rbgenr )
fiction   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- New York -- New York
Statement of Responsibility: by Harriet Myrtle ; with twenty illustrations by Halbot K. Browne.
General Note: Illustrations engraved by Thomas Bolton.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00049546
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 001555970
oclc - 22497661
notis - AHG9599

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
    Table of Contents
        Page 7
        Page 8
    Chapter I: Beauty
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
    Chapter II: The word
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        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
    Chapter III: The grave
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85-86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    Chapter IV: Joy
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111-112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
    Back Cover
        Cover 3
        Cover 4
Full Text

\ <'- k

,:: . ..

S m-,e'r

" YE" k










I HAVE written this little Tale with a hope to give
pleasure, but not to give pleasure only. The times
we live in are destined to be chronicled hereafter as
fraught with important events in the world's history.
Great struggles, great sufferings, noble aims, charac-
terize them. Only a few years will roll on before you,
who now look with curiosity or interest at passing
events, will have to take a part in them. May I hope
that I have suggested thoughts, or awakened feelings,
by the aid of my WATER LILY," that will strengthen
in you an earnest spirit, and help you to do your duty
when your time comes.
H. M.


IV. JOY .. .. .92




THE old gray towers of Ludlow Hall rise in
the midst of a lovely and romantic country, and
look venerable and noble at all seasons, whether
the wintry wind careers around them, or the


clear summer sky bends gently over them,
while the summer air ruffles the dark ivy that
clings to the walls. Ancient trees, the growth
of centuries, standing like strong guards round
about, spread their branches far and wide, cast-
ing cool shadows on the sloping lawns; the
deer repose under them, and the rooks wheel
above their tops with that soothing, monoto-
nous chorus, that mingles with the rustling of
their leaves. A beautiful lake bounds the park
in one direction, reflecting the calm heavens on
its surface. Little wooded islands rise in the
midst of it, and graceful swans with arching
necks glide along its waters. Beyond the lake
rise the rocky peaks of the mountains. In
other directions, tufted woods and wild forest
bound the view. The sound of the village
clock, hidden behind the trees, is heard at in-
tervals, and here and there the thatched roof
of a cottage peeps out from a glade or grassy
space; but a spot more silent and secluded can
scarcely be found anywhere.

._.. . .-



If you were asked to guess to whom this
remote old place belonged, you would fix on
some reverend couple with snow-white hair,
who took pleasure in seeing their grandchil-
dren seated round their board, and kept up old
customs, and drove out in a stately family
coach, and kept up the family dignity. What
would you say if you were told that the pos-
sessor of Ludlow Hall was really a young girl
of fifteen ? But so it was.
It was now five years since the death of both
her father and mother, within a few months of
each other, had left Dora Ludlow an orphan;
yet for these five years she had lived in her
beautiful home, the object of constant love and
care. Mrs. Wilmot, a widow lady, of a gentle
and amiable disposition, took charge of her edu-
cation; and Mr. Trevor, the guardian whom her
father had chosen for her, spent many months
of each year with them, during which he de-
voted himself to the promotion of such im-
provements in the condition of the tenants and


laborers on the estate as his own enlightened
views prompted, and strove to open her mind
to subjects connected with these things. It
seemed, however, as if these good influences did
not succeed in producing in her the dispositions
which her father had so earnestly desired. She
became wayward and proud; showed little
sympathy with any one, least of all with the
poor, and was often listless and dull. Perhaps
she had been too exclusively the object of in-
terest to every one around her from the mo-
ment of her birth; perhaps no one quite under-
stood her nature, and the best way to nurture
it and turn it to goodness. Certain it was that
at fifteen she was neither an amiable nor a hap-
py girl. The only person who seemed able to
exert a good influence over her, was her cousin
Helen Ferrars. Helen was eight years older
than Dora, and was very different to her in
character; but this, as often happens, seemed
only to increase the affection between the cous-
ins. Helen was full of life and energy; liked


nothing so much as to be actively useful, and
was as gay as she was, active. When with her,
Dora's cold, indifferent manner changed, and
she even became cheerful, but she seemed un-
able to do more than appreciate and admire
Helen; she never seemed to think of imitating
her or joining in her many pursuits.
A two months' happy companionship was
now drawing to a close. Helen had been sum-
moned home, and Dora was not only miserable
at losing her, but angry. She thought Helen
might stay longer if she would. She could not
agree that the simple wish of Mrs. Ferrars (ex-
pressed, it was true, strongly), in a letter that
came the day before, should be sufficient to de-
prive her of this dear friend that very afternoon.
Helen had said from the first that she must go;
but Dora did not believe her. Mr. Trevor was
expected the next day, after an absence longer
than usual. He had been abroad ever since
Helen came. She knew Helen liked to hear
him talk; she knew he would be sorry Helen


was gone. It would be no pleasure now to
hear him describe his travels. She did not care
whether he came or not, and if he did she would
not listen to him. It was cruel. It showed
hardness of heart and obstinacy. One week
more was all she asked, and that Helen might
ask Mrs. Ferrars to grant if she chose.
The cousins sat together in an oriel window
of the grand old library, rich in antique carving
that surrounded the bookcases full of valuable
books, and fine old pictures, and mirrors, and
rich furniture that harmonized well with the
dark polished oak of the walls and the fretted
roof; but their hearts ached and their eyes
swam with tears, and all the luxuries of the
world were as nothing to them, for the sorrow
of anger and bitterness was added to that of
parting. Helen was prepared for her journey.
The carriage would be announced in half an
hour; but it was not yet too late so Dora
thought to change the day of departure.
She had said, however, all she could say, and


now sat silent and moody. Helen tried to take
her hand, but she drew it proudly away: "Do

-'--4 '.x\

"_ .' .. ;. -. '..
[ ,' : -^- ', ,, .

"Dear Dora!" Helen answered, while the
,", }-:' - ,, I, ,
"" '.'l, '. . = % .,' i '. I


tears overflowed and slowly trickled down her
cheeks, "you would not treat me in this way if
you knew the pain you cause. I do love you;
you know I do; but I must not disobey my
mother's desire. She would not have been so
urgent without good cause. I wish I could
stay this other week; I wish it much. Do not
add to my sorrow at leaving you by these re-
But Dora neither spoke nor changed her
proud, cold manner; nor did she even look up
when a third person entered from the terrace
outside, and laid a hand affectionately on her
shoulder, though that hand was cold and trem-
bling. Helen, however, rose hastily, and said
in a tone of kindness and interest, "What is it,
Mrs. Wilmot ? Are you ill, or have you heard
any bad news ?"
"No, I cannot exactly call it bad news, Miss
Ferrars. I have suffered for some months more
than I can describe, and have been unable to
make up my mind what to do; but now before


you go, I must settle it. A letter to-day has
decided me. Dora I must leave you and go
to my children."
Dora started, and her face flushed with anger,
rather than with any other emotion.
"Leave me !" she cried. "You cannot mean
that you also will leave me !"
"It is a grief to me greater than words can
express, Dora," continued Mrs. Wilmot, and her
lips quivered so that she could scarcely speak;
"but my first duty, sacred as I have considered
my duty towards you, must be my children -
my little girls. They have hitherto been well
cared for; now circumstances have occurred
which prevent this. If 1 stay here, they may,
indeed they must be neglected. I must, there-
fore, go to them. I suffer much, but I have one
source of consolation."
"What consolation ?" asked Dora.
"It will sound a strange one--my failure
"Failure! how? what do you mean, Mrs.
Wilmot ?"


"I have--no one knows but myself how
earnestly striven to make you such as your
parents would have had you. I have failed.
Another may succeed better. Oh! I trust and
believe another will succeed better."
Helen took Mrs. Wilmot's hand, too much
affected to speak. Dora became very pale, but
sat erect and immovable, and said nothing; and
the rustling of the wind among the trees on the
terrace was for many minutes the only sound
in the room. It was Dora who at last broke
the silence.
"I know how full of faults I am," she said;
"but you are not to blame for that. You have
done all you could. No one else will do half
as well."
"Do not say so, Dora. Let me hope other-
wise. Do not take away my only source of
consolation. Let me believe that another, more
happy, more skilful than I, will know how to
touch the springs of feeling in your fine na-


"I do not like you to say what you do not
think. Do not praise me or say I have a fine
nature, but stay with me. The children will
find some one to take care of them. They do
not want you as I do. They cannot, at their
age, love you as I do."
Dora," said Helen, gently passing one arm
round her waist, "this is a great trial for you,
but bear it well. I feel persuaded that Mrs.
Wilmot would not lightly have come to this
decision. She would not leave you unless she
knew it to be her duty. Do not press her to
stay, but strengthen her to go, and resolve to
do the best in your new circumstances. Do
not, as she says, take away her only consola-
Dora moved so as to detach herself from
Helen's arm, with a countenance as pale and
immovable as before, but she pressed her hand
on her chest, as if to keep down some rising
emotion. In the silence that succeeded the
carriage was announced



"I must go," said Helen; "but you do not
know, dear girl, what grief it is to me to leave
you feeling as you now feel. Let us hope, Mrs.
Wilmot, that some other plan may be thought
of. Do not let us consider this separation de-
cided on."
"It is decided on," said Dora; "no more need
be said on the subject. Do not let me detain
you, Helen; you will miss the train."
Saying this in a low but steady voice, she
busied herself in adjusting Helen's shawl, hand-
ing her gloves to her, and showing her such
mere politeness, and received her parting kisses
more like a statue than a living being. As
Helen, however, held her hand in a firm grasp,
she followed her to the entrance hall, saw her
into the carriage, listening to her parting ex-
pressions of affection and sympathy as though
she did not hear them, and remained under the
spacious portal without a word or gesture until
the sound of the wheels was heard in the dis-
tance, and the servants had left the hall. Then


she stepped out on the gravelled courtyard,
passed through an arched gateway at one angle

-'-~-1.'-' I -

to a broad terrace and began to pace along it
with hurried steps.
I ---.'

to a broad terrace, and began to pace along it
with hurried steps.


Her pretty Italian greyhound sprang to her
side, and bounded about her, but she took no
notice of him; a splendid peacock spread his
gorgeous tail in the sun, as if to command her
admiration, but she did not look at him; rare
exotic plants, ranged in order by the marble
balustrade, glanced every lovely color, and
shed forth delicious perfumes as if to greet her,
but she did not perceive them. She rapidly
descended a flight of steps and passed between
the two fountains that flung their delicate jets
of water, like diamond threads, high in the
sunny air, and received them again in feathery
foam to repose in their deep white marble
basins, where the cool water lay surrounded
by fantastic forms of river gods and tritons
and shells, garlanded with creeping plants and
emerald mosses, and the waters seemed to
murmur soothing words in her ear, but she
did not hear them. She passed under the
stately cedars, and among the graceful deo-
doras, and the tall elegant cypresses, and the


polished evergreens, without a glance at them;
and as her feet sank in the soft turf, and the
air loaded with sweet scents fanned her cheek,
these were the thoughts that chased each other
through her troubled spirit:-
"I am sick and weary of my life. No one
loves me, no one cares to be near me, and I
care little for any one or anything. I fancy I
love Helen, but after all what is she to me?
What is there here for me to do? I have no
interest in life. When I wake in the morning
I have nothing to look forward to. My mas-
ters come and go. I read, I sing, I play: the
same round of monotonous employment goes
on day after day. Mrs. Wilmot pretends that
she feels affection for me, but that is all shallow
pretence. Would she leave me for two mere
children, if she did ? Helen says she loves me,
and I feel yes, I feel I love her; and if she
would stay with me, would live with me, she
might make me good, like herself, for I know
well I am not good now; but she refuses.


Well! let her do as she pleases!" and Dora
drew herself up, and walked on with erect
head and proud step, but her lip quivered,
and a tear gathered in her eye, which she
dashed angrily away. "Mr. Trevor, too,-I
could be fond of him, and he often says he
will come and live here much more soon, but
he is too good for me, and has strange notions
about all sorts of things with which I have no
sympathy; and yet my father loved him, and
my mother too. My mother! she would have
made me a different being. Oh, I think I
should like to die and go to her!" and Dora
threw herself on a rustic seat near the margin
of the lake close to a tangled thicket of under-
wood, and shaded by weeping-birches with
silvery stems and quivering leaves, shedding
fragrance as they trembled. She sat long, lost
in vague and melancholy dreams, with her
eyes fixed on the grassy carpet at her feet,
yet seeing nothing there, for their sight was
turned inward, and reflected only one image-


herself; but something white that moved to-
wards her from out of the thicket, and came
so near as even to touch the hem of her dress,
attracted her attention, and she became aware
of its presence. It was a large white flower,
lying between two round, dark green leaves.
The circlet of pure spiral petals enclosing a
golden chalice, in which lay a drop of clear
water, seemed to point upwards to her face
appealingly; and as she looked down at it in
return, a perception of Beauty for the first
time in her life woke within her soul. She sat
with clasped hands and parted lips gazing at
the flower, unable to move, and forgetting in
her wonder at its loveliness to feel wonder at
the strangeness of its approach.
A slight rustling, however, in the bushes
made her lift her eyes, and she saw first a
small thin hand stretch towards the stalk, and
then a pale face with two large blue eyes that
stared as if in surprise at her presence there;
but in a minute, as if reassured at an involun-


tary smile round her mouth, this pale face
smiled too; and then she saw creeping out
from the bushes a little boy very poorly clad,
who held up the flower towards her and said,
"You may have it, lady, if you like it so
Dora made no answer; her eyes had now
ceased to gaze on the flower, and were fixed
on the child who held it. He might be eight
years old. His features were small and deli-
cate, his fair hair curled round his forehead,
and a bright spiritual light shone in his eyes.
An hour before Dora would have seen nothing
about him but the garb that showed him to be
a little peasant to whom she would have given
a shilling or a new suit of clothes, but now she
perceived in him something akin to that beauty
which had charmed her in the flower. His face
seemed to her like the face of an angel.
Seeing her so continue to look at him lov-
ingly, the child smiled again, a brighter smile
than before, and again offered her the flower.

- ;.---.-- -.- -' i--.





"No, I cannot take it from you," she replied.
"But, lady, I can find another. I can show
you where they grow, if you like."
Dora, seeing he was so earnest, accepted it,
and holding it carefully between its cool leaves,
she rose and asked him to show her the place
where it grew; so the boy, first extricating
from the thick bushes a long wreath of wild
clematis, to gather which had indeed been the
cause of his going among their tangled branches,
led her through a narrow path, often looking
back to see if she followed, and carefully push-
ing away the brambles and straggling sweet-
briers that crossed the way, lest they should
catch her dress or hurt her. They soon reached
an opening in the wood, and Dora found her-
self in a spot which she had never before
visited. It was a shady nook, enclosing a deep
though narrow inlet from the lake, where the
water lay still and dark, under steep rocky
banks constantly moistened by trickling
streams that descended from the heights


above with murmuring sounds. Large feathery
ferns grew in the clefts, beside twisted roots
of the trees whose branches nearly met over-
head; and the surface of this miniature lake
was studded with water-lilies.
Dora stood silent on the mossy brink beside
her little companion, and he, as if he under-
stood her, was silent too. The flickering light
shed through the leaves brought down with
it bright sunbeams that played first on one
flower, then on another, making them resplen-
dent by turns; and in the sunbeams large
blue dragon-flies flashed to and fro, like fiery
gems borne on lacy wings. Dora raised her
eyes from the beauty at her feet to that over-
head, and saw the clear blue sky through the
green leaves, and a white cloud sail slowly
across; then she fixed them again on the
water, the lilies, and the dragon-flies. Had
she then never turned her eyes on these ob-
jects before? Yes, truly; but we may have
eyes and yet see not. The inner life, where


dwells the perception of beauty, saw them now
for the first time. To the herds and flocks that
graze on the mountain-side, the grandest view
which earth can show is a blank: the grass would
taste as sweet, their life would pass as pleas-
antly in a field bounded by four walls: and
the unawakened spirit sees only like the ani-
mals. It is one of our noblest faculties to per-
ceive and to feel beauty. Let us cherish the
gift, with deep love to the Giver.
"How wonderful all this is? thought Dora.
"What a blessing is life! "- and she started,
for she remembered her sensations so short a
time before, and now they seemed in her rec-
ollection like a strange and troubled dream.
She looked round bewildered and saw the large
eyes of the child fixed on her again.
"I have taken your lily," said she, fancying
that the half-painful expression in his face arose
from his loss, but it was only his sympathy
with her bewilderment. "Can you not gather
another ?"


He began to try, but there was not one
within his reach, and he had just assured her
he could wait till to-morrow, when a footstep
was heard on the path, and a young country-
man appeared, whom he called to his aid. "It
.is my brother Hugh, lady," he said, as if he di-
vined she wished to know who this new-comer
might be.
Hugh touched his hat respectfully to the
young lady, and then laid down his axe and
billhook, and waded into the water quite re-
gardless of wetting his boots, gathered a lily
which he gave to his little brother, and then
taking him by the hand told him it was time to
go home, and led him away down a glade in
the forest, the little fellow laden with his wreath
and his flower, often looking back and smiling
to Dora, till they had both disappeared among
the trees.
Shall I ever see him again?" thought Dora.
"I wish I had asked where he lives. He looks
thin and pale. Perhaps he is ill, or very poor,

S-- -- -'-,-, --.

" r A-



and I might do something to help him and do
him good. I must find him out." Already
sympathy awakened by beauty had given her
an aim, a purpose beyond herself, and she no
longer felt she had nothing to live for. As she
stood thinking of the child, and looking the
way he had gone, the forest glade seemed so
lovely and so tempting that her steps were
almost unconsciously led towards it, and yet
she looked back, afraid to leave the water-lilies,
and the surrounding banks with their mosses
and ferns, lest the charm that had so overcome
her spirit should melt away. But as she moved
on, the charm moved with her. A soft green
light, falling through the overarching trees,
was diffused all round about her; a fresh aro-
matic scent, such as green leaves give off in
sunshine, invigorated her whole being; pale
wood-flowers grew among the short grass at
her feet; little white moths flitted among the
bushes; wreaths of briony, ivy, and honey-
suckle formed exquisite drapery on the tree-


trunks; dark masses of green holly with glossy
leaves, contrasted with the light feathery beeches
and the rich color of the oaks and elms; and a
little stream flowing over its pebbly bed kept
up a continual tinkling music, undisturbed by
any sound except the light whisper of the wind
among the trees, the distant cooing of a dove,
and the occasional clear carol of a robin, for
the other birds had ceased their song with the
spring. Dora wandered on by mossy paths, or
stood still to gaze into the depths of the forest,
or seated herself on the roots that, here and
there, formed a net-work on the ground. She
thought she must have been here before, yet
everything seemed new to her, and everything
filled her with delight. It seemed to her also,
that when she was a little child she used to
come here with her mother; and a longing for
love and sympathy arose within her. Oh my
mother! she inwardly exclaimed, "if I could
only see you once again!" A golden ray flash-
ing through the trees made her thrill and


tremble as though her strong wish had been
answered by a spiritual presence; and she saw
that the whole scene was lighted up with a
glory from the setting sun. She rose surprised
at the length of time that must have passed
since she came out, when she was startled by
perceiving a figure, at no great distance, seated
on a rocky ledge. But a moment's observation
reassured her, and she ran towards him, ex-
claiming, Mr. Trevor! how glad I am to see
He held out his hand to her; but without
speaking continued to gaze earnestly in her
"My dear girl, it is happiness to me indeed
to see you again," said he at last, "and to see
you as you are now. I could fancy I saw your
father's eyes looking into mine the very light
that shone in them when he talked it is
wonderful!" and Mr. Trevor made her sit beside
him, and remained silent, as if lost in thought,
for some time. Dora also was silent, but her


whole soul was full of thought and feeling: her
eyes wandered from the kind friend by her side,
in whose presence she felt a sort of repose, and
confidence, to the exquisite and constantly
changing beauty of the woods, as the gorgeous
light of sunset faded away, and a deep solemn
gloom fell gently over all things. It seemed to
her that the branches, swaying slowly overhead,
gave her a blessing, and a sudden flash of joy
rushed through her. To live to exist in such
a world as this what a boon it was and
to be the possessor of all this beauty to call
it hers She started up and asked Mr. Trevor
to return to the house with her. "When did
you arrive ?" she said. "Oh, it is so pleasant to
see you again and are not you glad to come ?
Have you seen anywhere in all your travels
such a beautiful place as this?"
Mr. Trevor rose, drew her arm within his, and
told her he was indeed happy to come again,
and that this was indeed a lovely place; but
that when she had seen more of this rich and


beautiful world of ours, she would give up com-
parisons in despair. And then he began to tell
her about all he had seen since he left her -
about mountains, and lakes, and noble rivers -
about rocks and snowy heights about im-
mense pine forests, and the great ever-chang-
ing sea -and about Italian skies, and orange-
groves, and vineyards, and the rich splendors
of the South.
Shall I ever see all this ? thought she. Oh,
what a blessing is life And as she thought so,
the old gray towers of the Hall appeared in
sight with the full moon rising over them. The
deep shadows of the trees lay on the grass, but
their tops were silvered by the light. It was a
beautiful home to return to; but the sight re-
called Helen, Mrs. Wilmot, and the grief which
had so oppressed Dora's spirit in the morning.
A slight feeling of shame arose within her. To
relieve it she began to tell Mr. Trevor of Mrs.
Wilmot's intention to leave her.
"I know it all," said he. Mrs. Wilmot was


uneasy about you when I arrived, and told me
the events of the morning. It was to seek you,
I wandered off into the wood and found you -
but very unlike what I expected. I find she
does not know my Dora."
"Ah! but perhaps you think too well of me.
I hardly know myself; or what it is that has
made me feel so happy as I do at this moment,
or so strangely different to what I did this
morning; but I hope I hope I shall not dis-
appoint you. Do you really think, though, that
Mrs. Wilmot will leave me ?"
"You would not wish her to neglect her duty
to her children ?"
Dora blushed; she would have said that she
could not imagine that anything such little chil-
dren could want could be of the same impor-
tance as her own training and education; but
the very words "little children," as they rose in
her mind, made her think of that pale child and
his lily. She was silent, and raised the flower
which she still held, so as to bring it into the


moonbeams. It looked more beautiful than
ever so; and in gazing on it she quite forgot
what she was going to have said, and only re-
plied, "I am very sorry to lose her. She is very
good and very kind, and I love her very much.
She has promised me not to go for a month.
She thinks she can make such arrangements as
will satisfy her for that period. We must then
think what is best to do. I cannot think what
to do It would be so sad to have a stranger
with me, and Helen did not seem to think she
could return soon. Indeed, I was so unkind
to her, I hardly think she will care to come
They were walking across the lawn now
under the cedars, and the stars looked down
through the dark branches overhead. They
reached the fountains, glancing in the moon-
light, and stood between the marble basins, lis-
tening to the murmuring sounds of the water
as it fell into them.
"Dora," said Mr. Trevor, "is not this peaceful
and beautiful ?"


Oh, yes! I am not able to tell you how I
feel it."
"Let us not desecrate such a scene by anx-
ious and troubled thoughts. Let us do what is
right, and have faith and hope for the future.
Perhaps a way will be found to avert the evil,
or turn it to good."
As he spoke he led her up the steps to the
terrace, and they saw the light streaming
through the windows of the library, and Mrs.
Wilmot standing within, ready to receive them
with her sweet, gentle welcome.

as she looked at Dora, that, strangely enough,
the very consolation that she had fancied she
should carry away with her in the feeling that
she was unable to be a guide to her pupil, and
that another would supply her place more effi-
ciently, was fading away, so changed did Dora


seem, so ready to receive good influences from
her, and to give her sympathy instead of cold
reserve. There was a brightness in Dora's
eyes, and a life and spirit about her. She had
risen early, and had wandered among her flower-
beds, joyously singing, a most unusual light-
ness of heart for her. Her studies had gone on
with vigor and earnestness, and pleasant con-
versation had never flagged during leisure in-
tervals all day. Mrs. Wilmot could not compre-
hend the change.
It was towards evening that Dora was seated
within sound of the fountains which now seemed
to speak an intelligible language to her ear,
when she saw her guardian approaching, in
company with the young woodman whom her
little favorite boy had called his brother. She
rose to meet them, interested in their conver-
"This young man," said Mr. Trevor, "who is
one of the under-foresters here, makes me a
singular request. He desires to have a window


opened at the end of his cottage to please his
little brother, who likes the view there so much
that he lies on the damp grass in the morning
at sunrise and at night in the moonlight; and
as the child is ill, he fears he will injure himself
by it."
"Is he, indeed, very ill ?" said Dora.
The young woodman said that someway his
brother had grown thinner and weaker every
day since spring, and the doctor said he could
do nothing for him; but he hoped if he could
have this window it would please him, and he
would be content to sit in the house and not
catch cold as he did now.
Dora whispered to her guardian that she
should like to visit this cottage and judge what
had better be done; and as he was obliged to re-
turn to town the following morning he begged
her to do so, and put the affair entirely in her
Having received the necessary directions, she
set out for the cottage next morning, and found


it without much difficulty at the top of a steep
ascent on the edge of the forest. It was very
small, consisting of one room, with a door and
window in front looking straight upon the for-
est, and so close to the great trunks of the trees
with their thick canopy of leaves that nothing
else could be seen from it. All this Dora ob-
served from the outside, for the door was locked,
Hugh being probably out at work, and Johnny
- so she had learned the little boy was named
- with him, or near him, amusing himself in
his way with the flowers, or trying to help with
the work. The old housekeeper at the hall
had told her that these brothers were orphans,
- the eldest and youngest of a large family left
alone, for all the rest lay in the church-yard;
and that Hugh was father and mother too to
the little one, and as good a workman as any
about the place. Dora could see through the
window that the room was very neat and clean,
though it was scantily furnished; but where
was the view she had heard of? Nothing could


she see but tingled th'ickets everywhere. She
searched narrowly at the angle of the little

/ j -_- . .

"i ; /-,.^-I ",.-( .' ,'

-"' -

building, and found an opening in the under-
wood, where a path had been trodden so nar-
row and so closely overhung by the leaves that


she had to grope her way through it; but she
was rewarded for her trouble. She found her-
self on a narrow ledge of ground covered with
short turf at the end of the cottage, and on the
edge of an almost perpendicular precipice. In
the valley below lay the lake, the forest, the
park with its spreading trees, under which the
deer lay in the shade, and the old gray towers
of her own lordly home; opposite to her rose
the mountains, rearing their granite peaks up-
wards to the cloudless sky.
The sudden revelation of such a scene of
beauty and grandeur made Dora stand almost
breathless, while admiration and delight filled
her heart. "And all that beauty down in the
soft valley is mine!" thought she. Her spirit ex-
ulted in the thought-"I will be worthy of my
high place; I will be noble and active; I will
gain knowledge; I will protect the weak and
ignorant;" and she cast her eyes downwards,
as if in pity of these, the poor and lowly, and
saw at her feet the water-lily, which the child


had brought home. e' had sunk a wooden
bowl among the thick ivy that clothed the
ground, filled it with water, and there placed
the bright flower, which opened its petals to
the light as freely as in its parent lake.
Dora sank down on a little heap of dry moss,
the seat, probably, of the child whose little
world of pure enjoyment she had thus invaded.
Something she could not define troubled her,
and she looked round as if to seek an answer
to that which was in her heart. An old book
in the hollow of an ancient tree close by caught
her eye as she did so. She took it out, and as
she laid it on her knee it opened as if at a
favorite place often read, and her eye fell on
the words, "Consider the lilies how they grow;
they toil not, they spin not, and yet I say unto
you that Solomon in all his glory was not ar-
rayed like one of these." Long did that book
lie on Dora's knee; long did she ponder the
words while her eye rested now on the wide
landscape, now on the flower, now on the


mountain tops, and then was raised to the clear
heavens above. Had she never opened that
book before? Yes, truly; she had read it even
daily, but now she read it with an awak-
ened spirit; a light seemed shed upon the
pages, and by it she saw, as the only realities,
things before disregarded and despised by her.
The poor in spirit, the humble, the pure in
heart, the servants of all,- greatest because
they serve most, these became to her' ex-
alted, while the proud, the cold, the worldly,
sunk into insignificance. The words which had
first struck her had taken a wider yet hidden
meaning, teaching the worth of the soul, and
how a pure, heavenly spirit may expand into
fulness of beauty, while the worldly state is
lowly. She bent her head, and leaning on the
old tree, with closed eyes, uttered words, though
without sound, and while her lips moved, tears
escaped sometimes from beneath the closed
eyelids. When she once more looked over the
lordly domain it was no longer with pride, but


trembling humility. She deposited the book
where she had found it, and placed near it a

.- a -- -- .

*'E ^ ?. -

s: K

small basket, full of fresh eggs and fruit, which


she had brought for the little boy, fancying
such food might suit his delicate frame; over
all she laid some beautiful roses from her gar-
den, and wrote on a scrap of paper, For little
Johnny." Having fastened this to the basket
she turned to go, moving gently and silently
like one who leaves a holy place, and took the
path homeward through the forest.
But she was so wrapt in her new thoughts
that she wandered through the devious paths
at random, and at last found she had entirely
lost the way. She tried in vain to find it, sur-
rounded as she was by trees, with no outlet in
any direction, when she heard the strokes of
an axe, and determined to follow the sound and
thus obtain a direction. As she approached, the
sounds ceased, but voices succeeded, and she
presently saw Hugh, with Johnny by his side,
standing near a fallen tree just felled. Johnny's
voice was plaintive, and he held something be-
tween his hands on which he gazed piteously.
Dora drew near and found that he was cherish-

--- -i -f.

_72M 7_



ing a young dove, which had fallen to the
earth when the tree came down; the nest still
remained in one of the branches, but the parents
had flown away, and the companion young one
lay dead on the grass.
Johnny remembered "the lady" well, but he
could give her no smiles this time, so full of sor-
row was he about the doves; and he asked her
advice what to do. She thought that if they
placed the nest in a neighboring tree and set
the little bird in it, the parents would come
to it; so they did this, and hid behind a thick
holly to see the event, Hugh meanwhile going
to work at some distance. They soon fell into
a whispered conversation, for Dora wished to
persuade her little friend that it would be bet-
ter for him and Hugh to move into a larger
cottage, which she would let them have; but
he could not bear to think of it. He said they
were "so happy, oh! so happy in their own
home, and he did so like to play among the
trees and sit in a place of his own he had be-


sides." Then Dora asked him if he would like
a window made so that he could always see out
over the valley even if he were sitting in the
room? He started up at this and clapped his
little hands for joy, and then his lips quivered
and he began to cry.
"Why, Johnny, what is it? Are you un-
"No, only it is because I can do nothing for
anybody; and every one is so good to me.
Hugh works all day and does everything for
me, and now he has asked to have the window
only to please me, and I cannot help him at
all. I used to carry things and lop off little
branches, and bring home the tools, but now I
am so tired I cannot; I am always so tired now."
Dora comforted the poor little fellow, and
told him Hugh loved to take care of him and
did not want any return; and besides, "who
knows but what some day you may be of use
to Hugh," said she; and then she told him the
story of the little dog Fido, who was sad be-


cause he could do nothing for his master, and
because the sheep could give his fleece, and
the cow her milk, and the horse could carry
him, but he could do nothing; and yet that
little dog saved his master's life, for he had
barked and awoke him when a heavy beam
was going to fall on his head. Johnny listened
attentively, and brightened up at this story,
and remembering the little dove, peeped out
to see how things went on, but looked back
again to shake his head and say that the little
thing was shivering and fluttering its wings,
and the old ones did not come to it. So now
Dora thought he had better take it home and
feed it, and when it could fly alone, which it
was very near doing, he could bring it back
to its own trees, and perhaps it would find its
parents. This was a happy idea. They took
the little thing out of the deserted nest, and
Johnny carried it tenderly in his hands; and
they buried the dead one in a thick bed of
moss, and then set out to gain the path which


would lead Dora home, Johnny walking before
to pilot her, and when they reached it she
bade him good-bye, and with a light step pur-
sued her way.
The window was soon made,-a large pretty
lattice that would open to admit the fresh air;
and Hugh, to make it look prettier still, trained
some of the ivy round it, and Dora sent two
beautiful plants to stand, one on each side, so
as not to hide the view. With these to water,
and his dove to feed and rear, and the beauti-
ful valley always before his eyes, Johnny was
full of joy, and was easily persuaded to stay
at home and not to follow Hugh in all weath-
ers. Dora too would often visit him, and carry
him presents of fruit and flowers; nourishing
food she sent him too, for she saw with grief
that he rapidly grew worse. She had con-
sulted a physician, and he had prescribed for
the poor little fellow, but he told her little
could be done beyond what she had been
doing. Hugh said few words, but showed his


deep gratitude by many signs, and kept up
hope still, for his little brother was twined


around his very heart-strings. As to Dora the
little attentions she paid to him were sources
of real happiness to her. When he heard her


foot on the path he would come to the door
with his dove, now quite tame, on his finger,
and greet her with such a bright smile that
it would seem to her the light of the spiritual
world was already upon him, and she could
feel the meaning of the words spoken of such
little ones, "their angels do always behold the
face of my Father." As she sat, which she
often did, beside this child on his seat of moss,
if the day were dry and warm, or in the room
and read to him, or told him stories, or taught
him poetry, and listened to his remarks, or
looked in his pure eyes, she was reminded
of that little child who was set in the midst
to teach the disciples the way to the kingdom
of heaven. She became conscious that he lived
in a loving communion with that Holy One
who, when He walked this earth, suffered such
"to come to him." She felt that to the child
at her side He was not only a divine teacher,
who left it eighteen centuries since, whom we
must follow now, but a living, beloved shep-


herd and king, not remote, but always pres-
ent, though unseen. She had learned to in-
terpret his words already, but now she was led
to Himself, and love to Him awoke in her
spirit, pure and bright, leading her to the
Father, and making life and duty clear to her.
But her favorite little boy, in spite of all
her care, grew daily worse. It seemed as
though a blight had fallen on the young life,
or perhaps, as sometimes happens, the intel-
ligence was too active for the bodily strength,
the spirit too bright for the physical nature
to bear. His trembling limbs had ceased to be
able to follow Hugh to the forest at all, and
then he became restless and feverish at nights,
and Dora sent him a pretty little bed, with
soft pillows and white curtains and sheets and
coverlid, to stand near the window, so that he
might see the view while he lay there; and
now he said he felt so well there that he
would rather not get up except for a little
while when Hugh could wrap him round


warmly and carry him under the trees that
he might look up at the blue sky through the
leaves. Then Dora found that he must not be
left alone, and she would not allow Hugh to
go out to work, except for an hour or two to
give him healthful exercise, while she took his
place by the little patient boy. At these times
she devised many ways of pleasing him. Be-
sides reading to him and telling him stories,
she would sing to him in a sweet, low tone, and
this, beyond all other things, soothed him. She
enticed the birds, too, to his window, by feed-
ing them there, and a robin became so tame
as to hop in and out at his pleasure, and even
perch on the head of his bed and sing there.
The dove was his constant companion. Fresh
flowers he always had beside him. The bright
smile often came over his face as he looked
at all these things which he had loved through-
out his short span of life, and especially when
some fresh aspect of nature threw new lights
and shadows over the valley, or when the


rising sun lighted the mountain-tops, or the
rich glow of sunset came on, or the twilight
deepened, and the stars began to appear and
the moon rose. But above all it came bright
and heavenly when he heard the sound of his
dear lady's foot approaching the door. His
gratitude to her and his love for her were
boundless, sometimes amounting even to pain,
so that he would, as he grew weaker, shed
tears and become over-excited when she en-
This state was always succeeded by suffer-
ing, and then it was that his singular patience
was most affecting. One day when Dora ex-
pressed her grief to see him so ill, she dis-
covered the source of his fortitude. He did
not complain, lady," he said, "though when he
suffered so much, oh, so much, they all for-
sook him and fled; and I have only to bear
such a very little, and I have you and Hugh
to be kind to me." After a few minutes he
drew her head close to him and said, "Dear
lady, be kind to poor Hugh."


"I will-I will, be sure of it," said Dora;
"but you must try to get better and make
him happy yourself."
No, I am going to die, lady," he said, very
gravely; then again whispering to her, he
added, "Will you take my little dove back to
its own trees when I am dead? and let it fly,
but put some food for it, for fear it should
not be able to find some at first; and if you
could bring me a water-lily to-morrow; I want
to see one once more."
Dora could not answer, tears blinded her,
and she felt a choking in the throat which
prevented utterance. She did not however
forget the request. She went to that beauti-
ful nook near the lake where she had never
been, so it happened, since the first day she saw
this child who had exercised so extraordinary
an influence over her. The day was cloudy, and
under the thick shade of the trees a darkness
almost solemn filled the place, and not a breath
of wind stirred the leaves. One single water-


i F.
i 4 I I .I II I, ,,', i I
'1 'l- SI

I l A I i Illl .



lily only remained of all the numbers that had
been there. Dora stretched her hand towards
it and gathered it, and then it seemed to her
as if death settled on the place, and a strange
sensation of awe came upon her. She hastened
onwards along the forest glade, anxious to give
the flower she had secured to the little boy.
and to feel cheered by his smile. A bright
sunbeam shot through the clouds and lighted
up the cottage as she approached. It seemed
a good omen. Perhaps she should find him
better. She entered. He was indeed better.
He had passed through the dark valley, and
was already with Him he loved and revered
with all the power of his child's heart. The
-brightness and beauty of heaven were on his
face. He was dead.
The brightness and beauty of that face en-
tered into the spirit of her who stood watch-
ing it, imparting a strength and peace never
to be forgotten. She laid the lily she had
brought beside his small white hand, now as


cold and white as it, and a prayer mingled
with praise went up from her heart too sacred
for utterance. That flower and that child had
been to her gifts more precious than mines
of treasure. Both were soon to fade from her
sight, but their influence would be upon her
She was recalled to earth by a low sound.
It was the plaintive cooing of the dove. She
turned round and saw that it had settled on
the shoulder of poor Hugh, who stood behind
her, his face hid against the wall, and his
strong frame convulsed with anguish. She laid
her hand on his arm. "May heaven bless
you, lady," he said in broken accents. "I
cannot thank you; but if I could die twenty
times to serve you, I would." She told him
he should never want a friend; that she
would care for him; that he must come and
live for a while at the Hall.
"I shall not leave him a moment, lady," he
said, "while he is here. When he is laid in


the church-yard with the rest, I do not care
where I go."
Dora resolved to send the kind old house-
keeper to him to do what could be done to
soothe his sore grief, and then, often looking
back pityingly on him, went homewards. She
left the dove with him. It would have been
impossible yet to fulfil that dying request, and
if the gentle child could have spoken, she knew
he would have said, "Leave it with poor

SORA had stood by the
/ Igrave of her favorite
child, and heard the
solemn and beautiful
$ words of the funeral
service. The mourn-

S' j- by one, the earth had
been closed in, the bell
S had ceased to "toll
[, i "-_ slowly"; but she still
-- sat on a ledge of rock
:F-" close by, leaning against
I'''' the silvery stem of a
--l--- weeping-birch, at the
:-' very roots of which
.. ",.r. the little coffin was
laid. A recent shower had made the leaves


give out their delicious fragrance to the sunny
air, as they trembled in the breeze and cast a
flickering net-work of shadows over the narrow
mound of damp earth. Her last care had been
to consign Hugh to the charge of the old gar-
dener and his wife, who had followed him to
the grave of his lost darling. Hugh could not
bear to return to the empty cottage, nor could
he endure the thought of the forest. "I should
miss his pretty ways, and his low voice, and
his dear pale face at every turn," he said.
"Let me work in the gardens for a while."
So the gardener and his wife, who lived in a
cheerful cottage at the angle of the garden-
wall, covered with bright creepers and gay
with geraniums and fuchsias, offered him their
spare room if he would become their lodger,
and in compliance with his young lady's direc-
tions, he was taken into service in the gar-
dens. Every one respected Hugh, and he
could have found a home in any cottage
round about, but this entire change suited
him 'well.


Dora's only companion, as she sat, full of
many thoughts that made her bend her head
towards the ground, and at intervals raise her
eyes to the leafy canopy above, through which
the blue sky seemed to gaze down tenderly
upon her, was the robin, which she had tamed
at the cottage, and which now always lighted
on her shoulder or her hand whenever she
walked out, and flew in and out of her win-
dow at his pleasure. He had found her as
she sat here, and now he hopped lightly over
the new-made grave, now perched on her
hand, now took his station on a branch of
the birch tree and poured forth his clear
song joyously.
The sound of approaching feet roused her;
it was for these she had waited. It was the
old gardener, followed by Hugh and another
assistant, bringing soft turf and various plants.
Under her direction the turf was laid over the
grave, and at the head and foot they placed
a white lily; not the pale water-lily, opening


its chalice among cold waters, but the loveliest
of the tribe which raises its head towards
the sun, and sheds its rich perfume far and
wide, and has been called the flower of heaven.
Around all they made a light trellis of pine-
boughs, and planted roses to trail on it. Dora
saw that Hugh's tears dropped fast as he worked,
but he put in nearly every root with his own
hands, and when all was done he still lingered
on the spot. Dora understood that he wished
to say something to her, but was unable to
speak. At last he murmured slowly and trem-
blingly, "Thank you, and bless you, lady."
Dora replied steadily, for her great feeling
had raised her above grief. "What I have
done here is only a poor attempt to show my
gratitude to your little brother. He had the
true riches and imparted of his treasure to
me. May you and I always remember him,
and thank God that we knew him here for a
time, and live so, that, though dead, he may
yet speak to us; so shall we meet him again,
a pure spirit in heaven."


Hugh turned and walked slowly away, tak-
ing these words into his heart; and Dora con-
tinued to look after him with kindly interest
and sympathy till she saw him join the gar-
dener, who seemed to speak cheerfully and
encouragingly to him. As she also turned to
go, she found that Mrs. Wilmot was at her
side, her expression full of feeling. Dora
pressed her hand.
"How soon I must lose her too!" thought
Mrs. Wilmot passed through the little en-
closure to look at the lilies; they stood in
the bright sunlight, and contrasted strongly
with her black dress and her pale melancholy
face which was bent lovingly on Dora.
"Those bright flowers are like her two little
girls that will soon be at her side," thought
Dora again. "How could I ever wish to keep
her away from them! Where will she take
them ? Will she make them very good and
happy ? Oh yes that is certain, if only they


are gentle enough to be guided by her. I
wish I could help her with them."
A thought flashed through her mind so sud-
denly it almost made her start. She smiled,
the color mounted to her cheeks, her eyes
grew bright with a new hope. "How could
it be," said she to herself, "that it never oc-
curred to me before ?"
She had soon seated Mrs. Wilmot at her
side on the rock; but two hours passed, and
they still sat there. Dora would not move
till she had conquered every objection,
smoothed away every difficulty, engaged to
win Mr. Trevor's consent; and it was resolved
between them that the two little girls should
become inmates of Ludlow Hall, and enjoy
the advantage of their mother's love and care
without taking her from her pupil. It would
be such a delight to Dora to have them, to
help to teach them, to play with them, to see
them enjoying all the pleasures of the lovely
country around. She never knew till the last


few weeks how fond she was of children. They
should be such a happy family; and when
Helen came next, how joyous it would be!
They sat together hand in hand on the
rocky ledge by the little grave, no longer
only a governess and pupil, but two friends
knit together in bonds of sympathy, looking
forward to years of happy companionship, with
interests and pursuits in common. Mrs. Wil-
mot's countenance, usually sad and anxious,
brightened; her heart expanded; she talked
as Dora had never heard her talk before, and
it became apparent that this newly found
friend would prove to her a guide and a safe
anchor whereon to lean, helping her to per-
form nobly and well the new duties and oc-
cupations which began to open to her view.
At last they rose to go. Softly, with light
tread, they left the spot hallowed to both
their hearts by grateful memories and bright
hopes; and as Dora stood at the gate of the
church-yard, and threw a last look back upon


the grassy mound, with its lilies and its grace-
ful tree bending over it so tenderly, it seemed
to her as though the pure child had spoken
to her from his grave, and had given her a
mother and two little sisters to love and
cherish. Then again her thoughts flew to
Helen, as they always did in sorrow and in
joy, and she felt certain of her sympathy in
this new plan. In fact, now that the idea had
occurred to herself, she began to think Helen
had wished it and even tried to suggest it,
and that when Mr. Trevor had said, "Perhaps
some way may be found to avert the evil or
turn it to good," he also had thought of it.
"How I wish they were both here," said she
to herself, "to know that at last I have pro-
posed it."
The remainder of the day passed in peace-
ful and pleasant occupations; but as evening
approached, Dora left Mrs. Wilmot to write
letters and decide on fresh arrangements pre-
paratory to bringing little Alice and Mary


" home," as she loved to call it, and went out
alone. She had yet to fulfil Johnny's request
about the dove, which was still at the cottage;
and thither she went.
The cottage was shut up, and all remained
in the same order as when Hugh and the
friends who assisted him to go through his
sad task in the morning, and followed him to
Johnny's grave, had left it. The little bed,
covered with white, stood near the window in
its accustomed place, empty. The old Bible,
and a hollow shell containing flowers, which
had especially pleased the little boy, were yet
on a small table beside it; the books which
she had given to him, and out of which she
had often read to him, were on the shelf; the
pictures which it had amused him to look at,
hung on the walls; the simple furniture stood
around. The setting sun threw a glory over
the splendid view from the lattice window; no
sound was there, no living creature, except the
dove which was still perched in its usual place,
at the head of the bed.


"This cottage must not be touched," thought
Dora, as she looked around. "No one else
must inhabit it, and I must ask Hugh to let
me keep in it all that reminds me of that
sweet child. We will build a new cottage for
Hugh, and furnish it with all he wants, when
he wishes to settle in one; but this shall be
my little church, a place I will come to when
I want to be alone, when I feel that I am
in danger of forgetting any of the lessons I
learned here. If my love grows cold, and my
desire to serve grows languid, then I will come
here and learn again."
Dora had seated herself in her old place
near the little bed as she thought these things.
The sun went down, and the bright glow grad-
ually faded from the sky; a solemn twilight
settled over the scene, but it had no gloom
in it, only calm and peace; and ever as it
darkened, brighter and brighter glowed the
evening star above the spot whence the sun
had departed. Dora rose to go, stroking the


dove which had settled on her hand, and
which began to answer her with its murmur-
ing, caressing sounds.
"You must come away, little dove," said
she; "you have lost your kind friend and
preserver, and what could you do here all
alone! Come! you and I must go into the
woods, and you shall make a happy life for
yourself among the green leaves."
She drew the curtain across the window,
went out and fastened the door, and took the
winding mossy path into the wood, with the
dove still on her hand. The twilight deepened
almost into night as she advanced, and the
tree-stems stood around her dark and massive,
but -every now and then some opening showed
her the clear evening sky with its bright star.
She tried to find the place where the dove's
nest had been built, and when she had found
it, she set the pretty little thing on a branch
that drooped over the very spot where the
root of his own tree had once been, but he


fluttered a moment among the leaves, and
then lighted on her hand again. She then
strewed some food on the ground for him; he
pecked a little, but he was soon once more
on her hand. Again she placed him in the
tree and turned to go, but it was in vain;
he was too tame, he had been too long used
to be cared for and fostered, and she found
that she must take him home with her, at
least for the present.
Unconsciously she took the path that led
to that seat near the thicket where the white
flower first touched the hem of her dress, and
its beauty entered her heart. She sat down,
and once again her eyes became fixed on the
grassy carpet at her feet, without seeing any-
thing there, for their gaze was inward. But
what a difference there was between their
range of vision then and now! Only a few
weeks had passed in time, but ages in signifi-
cance. Then she saw only herself, neglected,
wronged, unhappy, justly irritated against


friends, circumstances, and prospects; she was
weary of a world in which she saw nothing
to interest her; she had no sympathy with
anything, or any creature; love lay dormant
in her heart, she seemed to feel none. Now,
if she thought of herself at all, it was as one
so richly endowed with good gifts, so favored
by circumstances, that she shrank and trem-
bled with humble awe at her unworthiness;
and instead of complaints that others did not
do enough for her, the only feeling was, what
could she do enough for others? how could
she minister to them,-how could she try to
make them also happy? Life had become so
rich to her, there seemed to be such treasures
in it to be explored and understood and en-
joyed, that she felt time was too short for
all she had to do and to feel; the world
seemed to her so full of beauty, such a glori-
ous habitation in which we are placed by our
beneficent Creator, that she felt a longing de-
sire to make herself more in harmony with it


more deserving of the privilege of being one
of its inhabitants; immortal life had become
so clear to her, the spiritual world so real,
that she felt she had not faculties to approach
to a comprehension of that Love, awful in its
infinity, which had called her into being, and
made her an heir of such an inheritance.
Love to the Creator, and through him to his
whole creation, burned within her; but she
seemed like an atom in infinite space.
She closed her eyes and strove to raise and
sustain her spirit by close communion with
Him who alone can lead to the Father, -the
Mediator between God and man.
"What shall I do ?" asked her grateful heart.
"How can I be thy disciple ? How can I grow
into thy likeness ? Thou knowest that I love
A low moaning sound startled her and made
her open her eyes; she saw only the dim
woods round her, becoming indistinct in the
fading light; but the sound became louder and


came nearer, the melancholy wailing of a
child, and in the midst of it a voice spoke in
her heart and said, "Lovest thou me? Feed
my lambs."
She rose and again looked round. Louder
and more plaintive came the cries, and then
a harsh voice, and then louder cries. She
ran towards the spot whence they came, and
saw that on a path where a right-of-way to
the public passed immediately behind the trees,
a woman was walking along with weary feet,
heavily laden, with a basket on one arm and
a baby on the other, and that behind her
there ran and stumbled a little girl whose
piteous complaints had roused her; and the
cries went on: "Mother, mother, take me up,"
she sobbed.
The woman who was already overloaded,
dusty, and heated, could not, it was evident,
take up the child, and yet its case was piti-
ful. It was lame with its long journey, and
pale with fatigue; but its mother herself,


85 86





weary to the last point of endurance, had lost
her temper, and only gave harsh words in
return for its appeal for help. She now put
down her basket and lifted her hand, but her
hand was caught by Dora.
"Do not strike your child," said she. "Poor
little creature! she is very tired."
The woman, startled by the sudden appear-
ance of Dora from the thicket and by her
firm grasp, burst into tears herself, and said
that she was worn out with the child's fretting,
and that "it was impossible for her to carry
her and the baby too; Sally knew that; and
besides they were only half a mile from home
now, so she ought to be quiet and come on."
"I will carry her home," said Dora; and
stooping down, she gently lifted the little girl
from the ground, wiped away her tears, parted
her hair on her forehead, and told her that
she would soon be home, and that mother
would not be angry with her any more, so
she must not cry."


The poor woman stammered out a hundred
apologies, and said she could not think of
letting the young lady take so much trouble
and carry Sally; but Dora was resolute, and
they walked on, the woman leading the way.
It led over a stile and through a cornfield;
and before they had gone many steps, Sally
had quite forgotten her sorrows, and was
smiling and chatting, though what she said
Dora could scarcely make out at all in her
childish talk. One language, however, they
understood together. There was still light
enough in the open field to see the corn-
flowers and bright red poppies near the path,
and Dora gathered a number of them and put
into Sally's little hand, together with some ears
of corn. These, with the dove, which now
perched on the lady's shoulder, were quite
enough to amuse and delight the child all the
way; and soon, baby, who watched all their
proceedings over his mother's shoulder, must
stroke the dove and have some flowers too.

. .....




In this manner they reached a second stile,
and then crossing a grass field saw a cottage,
out of the window, of which a cheerful light
streamed, and as Sally announced "that was
home," Dora bounded on with her light burden,
which seemed nothing to her strong young
arms, put her down at the door, and then
returned in time to take baby and his flowers
and give him a little notice too, which he
seemed to consider his due.
Four other children, two boys and two girls,
came out of the cottage as they approached,
and Dora was struck by their healthy appear-
ance and the cleanliness of their clothes.
Everything too in the cottage was neat and
clean; and the poor mother whose daily toil
kept it so, setting down her basket, now wel-
comed her with a grateful smile.
Dora understood enough of the probable
daily life of this mother, half to excuse the
harshness of her behavior to her child; but
yet her heart bled to remember it. "This


is a good mother, I can see," thought she;
"and yet she is harsh, and uses loud words to
her children. Oh, it is very sad! Think of
Johnny as he used to sit at his window, and
imagine such addressed to him! I fear it is
too common with them all. Can I do any-
thing to remedy it?"
She could not think of anything at the mo-
ment, so she took a kind leave, accepting,
however, the pressing entreaty of the woman
that her eldest boy should show her the near-
est way to the gate that led to the flower-
garden at the hall, and walked homewards
feeling rather melancholy; but after she had
reached the gate, and dismissed her attendant
with a little present and kind thanks, and be-
gan to cross the velvet lawn under the stars,
which now glittered in the sky, many new
thoughts and plans suggested by this mother
and her children arose in her mind. The
murmur of the waters as she passed, the whis-
pering of the leaves in the breeze, the delicious


scents of the flowers in the dewy air, all
seemed to revive her spirits, and in her heart
the words "Lovest thou me ? Feed my lambs!"
ever grew more and more distinct, and assumed
a clearer meaning.

S *,____ -_____ I1



IT was scarcely a week from this period
when the usual morning post brought a letter
from Mr. Trevor to Dora, as she and Mrs. Wil-
mot sat at breakfast. Dora's face brightened
over the first words, which related to Alice


and Mary, and her proposal to bring them to
Ludlow Hall.
"He is delighted with our plan; he rejoices
in it, dear Mrs. Wilmot; I was sure of it;
and he will bring them himself in a fortnight,
he says and here is more -
Dora rose from her seat in her excitement,
and made an exclamation of pleasure.
"I have such a surprise for you, Mrs. Wil-
mot," she cried. "Mr. Trevor is married, and
he will bring, not only our children, but his
bride home. Like her! Yes, to be sure I shall.
I must like, and love, too, any one Mr. Trevor
has chosen. I wonder whether she will like
me and the children. She is sure to be fond
of you, because Mr. Trevor admires everything
you do and say. What a delightful party we
shall be! Look at poor you and me all alone
here, and think how much better the table
will be filled soon!" and Dora began gayly
to set chairs for then all round the breakfast-
table, and one more- for Helen whom she never


forgot. "She must come soon; she promised
me in her last letter she would. Nothing can
be quite happy without her, you know, Mrs.
Wilmot," she said.
They sat together for an hour conjecturing,
wondering, forming plans and projects, and
ended as they began, by complaining that a
fortnight was very long to wait. Still, how
much had to be done in that time to be ready
for them! With this thought Dora ran off in
search of Mrs. Harrison the housekeeper, with-
out whose aid nothing of this kind could be
accomplished. After many a discussion as to
the allotment of rooms to each, Dora resolved
to go over the house, much to Mrs. Harrison's
joy, for she often grieved that her young lady
took so little interest in seeing it; and while
she went for the keys, Dora engaged Mrs.
Wilmot to accompany them and give advice.
"My own dear room, with Helen's on one
side, and yours on the other, we must keep
just as they are," said she. Mrs. Harrison,


however, added that there was a room next
to Mrs. Wilmot's, and opening out of it by a
door now locked up, that she thought would
be "the very thing for the young ladies"; so
to this they went. It was panelled with carved
wood, painted white, and relieved with gilding,
but this decoration, which had once been ele-
gant, was soiled and dimmed by time; the win-
dows looked over the flower-garden. They all
agreed that this room would suit little Alice
and Mary exactly, and Dora begged to be in-
trusted with fitting it up. Mr. Trevor had put
the charge of any preparations required entirely
in her hands, she said, and she should like to
make it very pretty for them. She directed
Mrs. Harrison to send for the workmen to
restore the walls and ceiling to their orig-
inal appearance; and began to fancy how it
would look when she had provided everything
to suit the idea of innocence and purity she
had in her mind.
To choose for the new-married pair seemed


a more difficult task. They traversed the long
corridors, opening door after door; but still
Dora was dissatisfied with all. One seemed
to her too unquiet, because the old tapestry'
pictured wild scenes of mountain regions,
where huntsmen chased savage animals; an-
other seemed gloomy, from the darkness of
the oak panelling, and the heavy crimson
velvet of the furniture; another had not a
sufficiently beautiful view. At last Mrs. Wil-
mot remembered that Mr. Trevor had espe-
cially admired a set of rooms, the centre one
of which was situated in the large tower, and
the smaller dressing-rooms opening off it were
contained in two turrets that rose on each side
of the tower. These rooms were a part of
the oldest portion of the house. Mrs. Harri-
son led. the way to them immediately, and
Dora was satisfied with them at last, the more
as she remembered visiting them with Helen,
and having been led by her to admire the
view of the lake and mountains from the win-

_. .- .

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