Citation
The cousins

Material Information

Title:
The cousins a tale of early life
Series Title:
Routledge's juvenile library
Creator:
McIntosh, Maria J ( Maria Jane ), 1803-1878
George Routledge and Sons ( Publisher )
Woodfall and Kinder ( Printer )
Place of Publication:
London
Publisher:
George Routledge and Sons
Manufacturer:
Woodfall and Kinder
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
192 p., [1] leaf of plates : col. ill. ; 16 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Cousins -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Pride and vanity -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children and death -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Love -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Onlays (Binding) -- 1875 ( rbbin )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1875 ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1875
Genre:
Onlays ( rbbin )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) ( rbbin )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Funding:
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
Statement of Responsibility:
by Maria J. M'Intosh.

Record Information

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:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
002227695 ( ALEPH )
50255243 ( OCLC )
ALG7995 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text





Re AoA.





The Baldwin Library

University
RmB «si
Florida











THE COUSINS.



THE “COUSINS:

A TALE OF EARLY LIFE

BY
MARIA J. M‘INTOSH

AUTHOR OF ‘‘CONQUEST AND SELF-CONQUEST,” ‘‘ PRAISE AND
PRINCIPLE,” ETC,

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE





MISS M‘INTOSH'S

STORIES FOR THE YOUNG.

een Gees

EMILY HERBERT.
ROSE AND LILLIE STANHOPE,
MAGGIE AND EMMA.

THE COUSINS.





PREFACE.

in offering this little volume to the public, the
Author thinks it due to them and herself to state
that it isa child’s book, and nothing more. It
was commenced some years ago, as one of a series
of tales then in course of publication. From
causes wholly unimportant to the public, that
series was discontinued, and this manuscript was
consequently laid aside. It has lately been re-
sumed and completed, and is now presented as
a simple narrative of the events of childhood,
intended to show the beauty and excellence, even
in its earliest dawn upon the soul, of that charity
which “envieth not, vaunteth not itself, is not
puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly.”



CONTENTS.

CLapter Page
I. THE FIRST HOME . : ‘ . 7
Il. THE VOYAGE . 5 3 is Be P40)

III. THE NEW HOME . ; . . 26
Iv. NEW HABITS . ; ° i Dt
¥. THE FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL . ‘ 56
VI. THE VISITORS . ‘ . > «, 69

VII. THE FARM . i , . 3 79

VIII. COUNTRY PLEASURES . 6 . - 90
IX. THE BOWER . . . . . 100
X. VANITY A BAD GUIDE e ° - 108
XI. THE GOOD PHYSICIAN « . . 120

XII. THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL . . - 148

XIII. THE PREMIUM ; e ° e 163

XLV. CHRISTMAS EVE . e e - 188



THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER I.
MARY’S FIRST HOME.

Many Mowsray and Lucy Lovett were cousins,
They had often heard of each other, and Cousin
Lucy and Cousin Mary had been-familiar words
with them as soon as they could speak; yet they
never met till they were more than nine ycars
old. Mr. Mowbray, the father of Mary, was a
native of the State of Georgia; and though he
was educated at a Northern college, and married
a Northern lady—the sister of Lucy’s father, Mr.
Lovett—he returned, after his marriage, to his
own home, and there, in Georgia, was Mary
Mowbray born, and there did she spend the first
nine years of her life: and that first home Mary



8 VHE CUUSINS.

still loves better than any other place in the
world, and nothing pleases her more than to sit
down of an evening, and talk over with some
friend all its delights. Mary lives now with her
Uncle ard Aunt Lovett in New York, and she
always begins her description of her childhood’s
home by saying that the house was not at all like
New-York houses. ‘It was not built,” she says,
“of brick or stone, but of wood.” She calls the
houses in New-York one-sided, because they have
rooms, generally, only on one side of the hall or
entrance, while her father’s house had rooms on
both sides—large rooms, and several of them, so
that it covered more than twice as much ground
as most of the houses in New-York do. There
were no marble mantle-pieces in it, she confesses,
nor shining black grates; but, then, she adds, the
fireplaces were not such little things, casting, as
she speaks, a somewhat contemptuous glance at
her uncle’s. They were wide and high, and
when a fire was needed in them, which was not
often, it was not made of little picces of black
coal, but of great logs of oak wood and sticks of
pitch pine, or, as Mary calls it, light wood, which



MARY'S FIRST HOME. 9

made such a bright, cheerful blaze, that children
might play by it a whole winter’s evening with-
out thinking of a candle or lamp. But these were
only the smallest part of the pleasures of that dear
home. Its greatest enjoyments were not to be
found within doors. These were in standing,
guarded by her ‘‘ Maumer,” as she still calls her
black nurse, on the river’s edge, to see her father’s
fisherman paddle out in his canoe and throw his
lines for fish, or, in the still evening, as the boat
glided noiselessly along, cast his net for shrimp or
prawn, or in long rambles through the fields and
along roads bordered on each side by woods; and
sometimes she was allowed to extend her rambles
into these woods in search of jessamines, in the
early spring, and of blackberries and whortle-
berries in summer. And oh, the beauty and the
fragrance of those woods! I have been almost
tempted myself to spend one winter, at least, in
that far Southern land, when I have heard Mary
describe them, with their clumps of honey-suckle,
their wreaths of yellow jessamine twining from
tree to tree, the white fringe-tree waving its long
snowy tendrils over the crimson flowers of the



10 THE COUSINS.

red-bud, and the myrtles, and the bays, and the
laurels, and the wild orange, and the wild olive,
and the spring violets, and—and—a thousand
others, whose names I cannot pretend to remem-
ber, but which Mary rattles off, mingling trees,
and shrubs, and vines, and plants in most bewil-
dering confusion. Then, when she leaves the
woods and comes home again, it is to tell you of
the orange-groves, which often showed the golden
fruit of the last year and the white flowers of this
gleaming together from its polished dark-green
leaves, and of the birds—the red-bird, with its
one clear, sweet note—the black-bird, with his
merry whistle, and the mocking-bird, that prince
of songsters. ‘Not one poor bird shut up in a
cage,” she says—and here she is apt to cast the
same glance at her aunt’s birdcage which she had
given to her uncle’s fireplace—‘“ but dozens of
them flying from bough to bough, and tree to
tree, and singing so joyously—just as if they
were so happy that they could not help it.”

But Mary had remembrances of her home which
touched me more than all these things. She told
of her mother’s reading and praying by the bed-



MARY'S FIRST HOME. 11

side of the sick and dying negro; of her taking
Mary with her on Sunday to the house which the
negroes called their ‘“‘ Prayer House,” and gather-
ing the children of her husband’s plantation there,
to teach them hymns and Scripture texts, and to
pray with them. Once, when describing these
scenes, Mary dropped her head on her aunt’s lap
and burst into tears. It was long before she
could explain why she wept. At length she
said that it was because she remembered waking
in the night and hearing some one whispering by
the side of her little crib; that she was frightened
at first, till, opening her eyes, she saw, by the
shaded night-lamp, that it was her own dear
mother kneeling down and praying softly for
her. Do you not pity Mary for having so kind
and tender a mother taken away from her?

Mrs. Mowbray was ill for many weeks before
her death. She knew she would never be well
again, ahd, though satisfied that this was right
and best for her, since her heavenly Father or-
dered it, there was one earthly care of which she
could not quite free herself. This care was for
Mary. Mr. Mowbray was a very tender and in-



12 THE COUSINS.

dulgent father, but he could scarcely be expected
to devote himself to the education of a little girl
as a mother would have done. Mr. Mowbray had
neither mother nor sister to whose charge the
motherless Mary might be confided, and he rejoiced
almost as much as his wife did, when her brother.
Mr. Lovett, having received intelligence of her ex-
treme and hopeless illness, came to visit her, and
begged that he might be permitted to take his niece
home with him. In Mrs. Lovett they both knew
that Mary would find a devoted an1 conscientious
friend.

Had this plan been communicated to Mary
under any ordinary cireumstanres, she would pro-
bably have refused her consent to it; but when
her mother, in a still, darkened chamber, propped
up in bed by pillows, called her to her side, and
in a low, husky voice told her that God, who had
given her a kind mother so long, was about to
take her to Himself; that she was to go home with
her Uncle Lovett, in order that her Aunt Lovett
might take the place to her of this dear lost
mother, and charged her to love and honour this
good uncle and aunt, and always to remember



MARY’S FIRST HOME. 13

that their wishes were the wishes of her own
mother, Mary was awed, and had no power nor
wish to object to anything. She could only weep
in anguish over the thought of parting for ever
with her from whom she had never parted, even
for a few hours, without tears. The promises
which Mary made then to her mother could not
be easily forgotten. Till this time, being shy and
timid in her disposition, and having seen little of
her uncle, she had been very reserved in her man-
ner to him; but after this she would sit on his
knee and hang around his neck as lovingly as if
he were her father; and soon after her mother’s
death she gave avery strong proof of her readiness
to be controlled by his wishes.

We have spoken of Mary’s Maumer. This was
a negro woman, who had nursed and attended on
her always from her birth, and as she was kind
and affectionate, Mary had become very much
attached to her, and Mr. Mowbray had intended
to send her to her uncle’s house with her, but to
this Mr. Lovett objected. ‘She is a very good
woman,” he said, ‘‘and takes great care of Mary
—too great care, for she is now old encugh to



14 THE COUSINS.

take care of herself; in my house she will not
need a nurse: but this is not all. In Mary’s new
home she must learn many new habits and un-
learn many old ones. This cannot be always
pleasing to her, and her nurse, being too ignorant
to understand my reasons, would listen to her
complaints, increase her dissatisfaction, and, per-
haps, often teach her to evade my wishes. You
can see how much more difficult this would make
the task of her improvement both to her and to
me.”

Mr. Mowbray acknowledged the truth of this
statement; yet he was so unaccustomed to deny
any of Mary’s wishes, that he could not bear to
disappoint her, and Mr. Lovett found that Mary’s
cheerful compliance was necessary to the accom-
plishment of his design. Calling her to him, he
placed her on his knee, and said, ‘‘ You told me
the other day you loved me. Now I want to know
what you meant by loving me—how you feel to-
wards a person that you love?”

Mary hesitated a moment, and then, throwing
her arms around his neck and kissing him, said,
“T feel so.”



MARY’S FIRST HOME. 15

“ That is very pleasant now, but I might be ill
—so ill that even to touch me would give me
pain; you would not kiss me then, but you would
still love me, would you not?”

“Yes.”

“And how would you prove that you loved
me?”

After a little thought, Mary answered, “By
doing whatever you told me to do.”

“Very good! And you would do this, not be-
cause you were afraid of me, but because you liked
to do it—because you wished to give me pleasure
—to make me happy. Is it not so?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have found out that to love a person
is to wish to make them happy. Do you believe
that I love you ?”

“ Yes.”

“Then you believe that I wish to make you
happy; and if I should ask anything unpleasant
from you, you would know that I had some good
reason for it, for I could not love you and yet
desire to make you uncomfortable; and now I am
going to ask you to show your love for me by



16 THE COUSINS.

giving up a great pleasure to gratify me. I can-
not very well explain to you my reasons for asking
this; yet, while you believe that I love you, you
must know that they are good reasons. Whom
would you like, most of all, to have go home with
us 2”

“Father !’ said Mary, looking smilingly around
at Mr. Mowbray, who sat silent, but attentive, in
the same room.

‘Ah! but you know that father cannot go, so
that is a pleasure I cannot ask you to give up;
but whom, next to father, would you most de-
sire >”

‘*Maumer.”

“T thought so; and now I wish you to leave
Maumer. Do you love me well enough to gratify
me in this?”

There were a few minutes of silence, during
which Mary sat with a downcast face, her lip
quivering, and her bosom heaving with scarce-
suppressed sobs. At length Mr. Lovett said,
“Speak, Mary ! remember, I only ask this—I do
not command it. Shall Maumer go or stay?”

Mary looked up in his face, and said, with a



MARY'S FIRST HOME. 1%

?

great effort, ‘She must stay;” and, unable longer
to control herself, dropped her head upon his bo-
som, and sobbed convulsively.

“ Lovett!’ said Mr. Mowbray, “I cannot in-
flict such suffering on my child. Your family are
all strangers to her, and she was always fearful
of strangers; her nurse had better go with her.”

Mr. Lovett caressed Mary tenderly and sooth-
ingly, while he replied to this: ‘I know it must
be severe suffering to Mary to part with an old
friend, and such a kind friend as her Maumer, and
I love her too well to inflict such suffering on her
for any slight cause. Even now, important as my
reasons are, if Mary finds it too difficult to grant
my request, I will not urge it.”

Mr. Mowbray took Mary from her uncle’s knee
into his own arms, and said, ‘You hear what
your uncle says, my daughter; nurse shall go if
you wish it.”

“No, papa, I don’t want her to go now.”

Mr. Mowbray was afraid that there was a little
anger about this decision, and that when it passed
away, Mary would repent. He was, therefore,

anxious to learn her reason for it, and asked her
B



18 THE COUSINS:

earnestly, “Why not—why do you not want her
now to go?”

‘Because I know that poor mamma doesn’t
wish her to go,” whispered Mary, leaning her
head on her father’s shoulder.

Surprised and overcome by this unexpected
mention of his wife, Mr. Mowbray could not
speak for a few seconds. When he could com-
mand himself sufficiently, he asked gently, “‘ How
can you tell, dear Mary, what mamma wishes
about this; she never spoke to you of it, did
she?”

“No; but you know she said that Uncle Lo-
yett’s wishes were her wishes too.”’

A fervent embrace was the only answer which
Mr. Mowbray could make to his child, but Uncle
Lovett praised her, and called her his good child;
and, soothed and comforted, Mary went almost
cheerfully to communicate to her nurse the new
arrangement. To reconcile her to this arrange-
ment was quite impossible. By turns she wept
over Mary and railed against Mr. Lovett, saying
often, ‘“‘T tink he is a bery hard case, dat de poor
child must go to strange people, and not eben hab



MARY’S FIRST HOME. 19

poor Maumer wid ’em to see if dey treat ’em good
_or bad.”

Mr. Lovett was very indulgent to the old wo-
man’s expression of her feelings, for he knew that
parting with Mary was a severe trial to her, and
that she could not understand his motives; but
her intemperate language showed Mr. Mowbray
- how correct Mr. Lovett’s views had been, since
every unpleasant task imposed upon Mary during
the course of her education would: probably have
excited her anger against those who were her
directors.



20 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER 1
THE VOYAGE.

Mr. Loverr and Mary came by sea to New York.
It was January, but the weather was mild for the
season, and very calm, so that, though their voy-
age was long, it was not unpleasant. They spent
twelve days on board the ship. Mary was sea-
sick only for a few hours, during which her Uncle
Lovett nursed her as tenderly as her Maumer, or
even her mother, could have done. He carried
her on deck in his arms, told her stories of her
cousins Lucy, and Charles, and Emma, and read
to her from some little books which her father
had bought for her in Savannah. “When she be-
came sufficiently accustomed to the motion of the
ship to stand alone, and walk on the deck, he had
many a romp with her there. He was on the



THE VOYACR 21

watch, too, for all the wonders of the sea, that he
might show them to her. When a dolphin was
caught, he ran down stairs and brought her up
quickly, that she might see the beautiful colours
of the dying fish. He pointed out to her, ata
distance, a jet of water spouting up from the calm
sea, and told her it was thrown out from the nos-
trils of the small species of whale called the
Grampus.. But the most interesting to Mary of
all she saw at sea were the little birds, which the
sailors told her were called Mother Carey’s chick-
ens. She was never weary of watching them, as
they rested for a moment lightly on the crest of
one wave, and then flew off to another. She
pitied as much as she wondercd at them, and,
though assured that this was their native home,
she could not but think that they would be much
more comfortable on shore, fed and housed as her
pet pigeons were, or flying among the woods, and
gathering their food in the fields of her home.

As they approached the shore, there were other
objects which interested and surprised Mary. It
was quite early when, to speak as sailors do,
“they made Sandy Hook,” which is tke first point



22 THE COUSINS.

of land you pass in coming from the sea to New
York. Early as it was, Mr. Lovett, who wished
Mary to see the light-house, while its light still
beamed upon the water, like a large and brilliant
star, wrapped her up warmly and took her on
deck with him. It wasa cold day, and the air
had a sharp, cutting feeling, which Mary had
never experienced before. It made the tears
come in her eyes, but she had too much curiosity
about the land they were approaching, and which
it would soon be light enough for her to see dis-
tinctly, to be willing to leave the deck. Mr. Lo-
vett gathered together all the blankets, and cloaks,
and shawls he could, and, getting a little nook
for her, sheltered from the wind by the bales of
cotton with which the vessel was freighted, he
suffered her to stay with him.

As the light from the light-house grew dim,
what had seemed to Mary to be great clouds
lying along the edge of the sky, so low that they
touched the water, became more distinct in form
and colour. They were the hills of Neversink,
in New Jersey. Mary, who had lived always in
a level country, and who had never seen a hill of



THE VOYAGE. 23

half the height of these, clapped her hands, and
cried, ‘Oh! Uncle Lovett, see the mountains—
the mountains !”

Uncle Lovett smiled, but he did not undeceive
Mary; for he said to himself, ‘‘When she sees a
mountain, she will readily enough perceive the
difference.”

The wind was fair and the vessel sailed fast,
so that they soon came to that part of the bay
called the Narrows. Hitherto they had only had
land on one side of the vessel, but now Long
Island was on one side and Staten Island on the
other. Mary knew very little of Long Island.
Mr. Lovett only raised her up once to see that it
was there, and then covered her up again in her
sheltered nook, from which she could only see
the shore of Staten Island. There had been a
great deal of snow, and the whole country was
white with it.

“Uncle Lovett,” said Mary, who had never
seen snow, which rarely falls in Georgia, ‘do
they never have any grass here, and is the sand
always so white?”

Mr. Lovett made her observe that what she



24 THE COUSINS.

thought was sand was on the trees and houses as
well as on the ground, and then he told her it
was snow, and related some pleasant stories of
his snow-balling, and making snow men and
snow houses, when he was a little boy. There is
a telegraph on Staten Island, and when they
passed it, her uncle showed Mary how its great
arms were moving about, and explained to her
that the signs which were thus made were care-
fully observed in New York, and conveyed the
intelligence there that a ship was coming up, and
even what ship it was.

You will readily believe that, with observing
all these things, and watching: the vessels going
and coming, which seemed to her very numerous,
though they were fewer than there would have
been in a summer’s day, Mary did not find her
sail from Sandy Hook to the city tedious. But
from the time that the steeples of New York
became visible, Mary could see nothing but them,
and think of nothing but her new home, and
the unknown aunt and cousins who were to
welcome her to it. I am sure that all my readers
who may have been obliged to leave their own



THE VOYAGE. 25

dear homes, and their fathers and mothers, to go
among strangers, will feel for Mary, and will
desire to know something about this home, and
the reception she was likely to meet at it. We
will, therefore, leave Uncle Lovett to get a car-
riage, and to see his and Mary’s trunks put on it,
and to lift Mary into it, and, following her him-
self, to drive to No. 96
part of the city, where we will go before him,
and take a peep at the house, and at Aunt Lovett
and the children.



street, in the upper



26 THE SOUSINS

CHAPTER 111.
THE NEW HOME.

THe house does not seem very large, but the
steps, or, as we must say, now that we are in
New York, ‘the stoop,” looks very nice and tidy.
The door is quite clean, and the knobs of the
lock are as bright as silver. Now we will go
within the house. You need not take hold of
the bell-handle: I can take you in without ring-
ing. Now wearein. The hall is not very wide,
but the floorcloth which covers it is spotlessly
clean; and as we look up the stairs, the brass
rods which confine the carpet shine as if they
had just been cleaned. The parlour doors are
open. There is no fire to be seen in either of
the grates, yet the rooms are warm, though the
air was so frosty out of doors. Ah! I see now



THE NEW HOME. 27

what makes them warm: there stands the drum
—there must be a stove in the hall below. Al
this will be quite new to Mary. It would be
long before she would suspect, if not told, in
seeing that bronzed-looking statue standing on a
square pedestal, and having an arch over it, that
statue, and pedestal, and arch were all hollow,
and that the heated air from the stove below
ascended into them, and was distributed from
them through these upper rooms. But there
seem to be persons speaking below us: let us
go down.

Now we are in the basement, and is it not a
pleasant room, with the sun shining so brightly
on the windows, whose white muslin curtains
shade, but do not shut out, his rays? The canary
and mocking-bird do not want any shade, and so
they are hung inside the curtains; and how they
twitter and jump from side to side of their
perches, as if they longed to get out and have
more of the golden light. There is a little fire
in the grate, not because it is needed, however,
for the door is open, and there in the hall stands’
the Nott stove. Most people have some whims,



28 THE COUSINS.

and it is one of Uncle Lovett’s few whims that
he cannot feel warm unless he sees the fire.
Aunt Lovett delights to gratify even his whims,
and so she always keeps a little fire in this room
when he is at home, and she has had it made
here for several days past, with the hope that he
would come before night to enjoy it. And there
sits Aunt Lovett herself, with her foot on the
cradle, in which little Emma, a baby of only
eight months old, lies sleeping. She is teaching
Charles, a boy of four years old, to spell, and
is, at the same time, sewing on a dress which
seems to be intended for a little girl, probably
for Lucy, who sits beside her, busy, too, with
her needle. But Charles has done his lesson,
and, as he goes to put his book away, Lucy drops
her work to talk a little.

‘Mamma, I wonder if they will come to-
day?”

“‘T hope so, Lucy, but they will certainly not
come any sooner for your laying your work aside,
Remember, that skirt must be finished to-day.”

Lucy measures the skirt to see how much she
has done, and discovering that more than half yet



THE NEW HOME. 29

remains unhemmed, she sews very industriously
for several minutes; then the needle is held
suspended while she asks, ‘‘Mamma, did you
not say that Cousin Mary had never been to
school ?””

“Yes, Lucy, I did; and I told you so that,
should you find. your cousin less advanced in her
education than yourself, you should not consider
it as a proof that she was less capable, but only
as a reason for being more indulgent to her,
and for endeavouring to help her forward in her
lessons.”

A few minutes more of silence succeeded, and
then Lucy says, ‘“‘ Mamma, I had one hundred
and twenty credit marks for good lessons, and
seventy-three for punctual attendance, the last
quarter.”

“The credit marks for punctual attendance,
Lucy,” answers her mother, “‘ should have been
given, I think, to your father and me, for making
you get up often against your will, and hurrying
you to school.”

But a carriage drives to the door. Charles,
who has been looking out of the window, claps



30 THE COUSINS.

his hands, and cries ‘Papa, papa!’’ Mrs. Lovett
starts up. Lucy. drops her work and dances
about, and the baby, awoke by the bustle, holds
out her dimpled hands to be taken up, and laughs
aloud at the antics of Charles and Lucy, doubtless
supposing them to be enacted solely for her amuse-
ment,

Mr. Lovett came at once to the basement with
Mary. His wife and children crowded around
him to give him their welcome home. As soon
as he had returned their affectionate greetings, he
presented his companion to them, saying to Mrs.
Lovett, “1 have brought you another daughter:
this is our little Mary.

To Mary he said, ‘‘Here are Cousin Lucy and
Cousin Charles, Mary. I hope you will all love
each other very much, and be very happy toge-
ther.”

“T love Cousin Mary,”’ cried Charles, hugging
and kissing her with such earnestness that he
almost threw her down. Lucy kissed her too,
but more quietly; and even Emma, whom her
father had taken from the cradle, seemed, by her
laughter, and her soft toncs, to invite the stranger



THE NEW HOME. 31

to be sociable; but Mary could not so soon be
sociable. She had never been more than a few
miles from her father’s house before, and every-
thing here seemed so strange and so new to her,
that she felt her distance from home and the
change in her condition far more than she had
done when on the wide sea, with no companion
but her uncle. Then her uncle had talked to her
about being soon at home, but now they were at
his home, and Mary thought it could never be
home to her. Her lip began to quiver, and the
tears rushed into her eyes. She remembered
her Maumer, and thought if she had been there,
how she would have thrown herself into her arms
and sobbed out all her sorrows.

Mrs. Lovett saw something of Mary’s feelings,
and thought them very natural. She pitied the
poor motherless child, thus sent away from all
she had ever known, and seating herself, she
drew Mary affectionately to ber, and, placing her
on her lap, said, ‘‘Come sere, my dear little
girl, let me take off your wrappings, and warm
your hands by this fire. You must be very
cold.” Her veice was so soft and gentle that



82 THE COUSINS.

Mary gained courage to look up in her face. Mrs,
Lovett was quite touched by the anxious, be-
seeching expression of Mary’s eyes, and, bending
her head down to hide her own tears, she pressed
her lips tenderly on her forehead. But Mary had
seen those tears, and, feeling at once that she had
found a friend, she dropped her head on her aunt’s
bosom, and wept there as confidingly as she could
have done in her Maumer’s arms. Mrs. Lovett
did not ask Mary what she was crying for, or tell
her that she must not cry, but she soothed and
caressed her, parting her hair from her forehead,
and calling her her dear little girl, till the sobs
began to die away. Then she asked her some
questions about her voyage—such questions as
only required yes or no for an answer; and Mr.
Lovett, taking Charles on one knee—J’mma was
already on the other—told him of the dolphin,
and the Grampus, and Mother Carey’s chickens,
and of what Cousin Mary thought and said when
she saw them, till Mary became interested too,
and sat upon her aunt’s lap, and listened, and
smiled, and was comforted.

For some time there was no work and no study



THE NEW HOME. 33

for Charles and Lucy; but after dinner, which
was served at two o'clock, Mrs. Lovett said,
“Come, Lucy, your skirt must be finished: two
hours’ steady work will complete it, and then you
can get your tea-set, and the cook shall bake you
some little cakes, and your cousin and you may
have a tea-party.”

Lucy did not like the beginning of this sentence,
but towards the last of it her eyes sparkled, and
she cried joyfully, ‘“‘Oh, thank you, mamma!”
and was seated at her work in a minute. For an
hour her needle went quite fast, and she lost no
time, except now and then a very little in mea-
suring how much she had done. During this
hour Charles had said another lesson to his mother
had talked to Mary, and romped with Emma, who
was creeping about the floor. Mary had played
with Emma, and made acquaintance with the
mocking-bird and the canary, and pulled off the
only rose on Mrs. Lovett’s pet rose-bush, which
seemed a very trifling affair to her, who had been
accustomed to see perfect trees of the same rose
blooming all winter in the open air.

As the afternoon wore away, Lucy began to

c



84 THE COUSINS.

look at the windows, as if she feared the daylight
would be gone before her task was done, and |
Mary to watch the progress of the work with a
doubt whether there was much prospect of an
snjoyment which depended on its completion.
At length Mary drew near her cousin, and in-
quired, ‘Is it ’most done?”

“Almost done!’ exclaimed Lucy, correcting
her cousin’s ’most, without, perhaps, observing it.
“¢ Almost done! no, indeed! I wish it were.”

**Sew more and measure less, Lucy, and it
soon will be,"’ said Mrs. Lovett, gently.

“Can you hem, Cousin Mary?” asked Lucy,
after a few minutes’ silent application to the
necdle.

“Oh! yes.”

Now those who remember that Mary had been
accustomed to ramble in the woods, and watch
the fishermen, and that she was her father’s petted
plaything, will easily believe that she had not
spent much time in sewing, yet she was quite
right in saying that she could hem. Mrs. Mow-
bray had taught her daughter to sew very neatly,
though she could not induce her to do much of it



THE NEW HONE, 36

inaday. To hem around the skirt of a dress
would have seemed to Mary like sailing around
the world, the hemming one side of a pocket
handkerchief in a day having been the greatest
feat she had ever performed with the needle.

“T wish Harriet Freeman were here!” said
Lucy. She paused awhile, expecting to be asked
why she wished it; but as no one thought of this,
she added, ‘‘She is so good—she would help me
directly.”

Mary was too quick of understanding not to
read this hint as it was intended, and she replied,
“Tf I had a thimble I would help you.”

“T can lend you a thimble. Mamma, Cousin
Mary wants to help me; can’t she have my gold
thimble just this afternoon ?’’

“Tf she wishes to help you, certainly. Do you
wish it, my dear?’”? asked Mrs. Lovett, who had
been engaged with the baby, and had not heard
the previous conversation between the cousins.

There was some charm in sewing, for the first
time in her life, with a gold thimble, and Mary
answered ‘‘ Yes, ma’am,”’ more readily than Lucy,
perhaps, expected. The thimble—a birthday pre-

c2



36 THE COUSINS.

sent to Lucy from her grandmother—was produced,
and Mary threaded her needle.

“Shall I give you half to do?” asked
Lucy.

Mary looked frightened, for half of what was
yet to be done on the skirt seemed to her a great
deal. Mrs. Lovett marked the expression of her
face, and said, “Oh! no, Lucy, a quarter of it
will help you very much; besides, you could not
get along so well with your cousin Werking so
near to you.”

A quarter was marked, and Mary’s labours
began. She was really desirous to sew very fast,
both from a good-natured wish to help her cousin,

and for her own credit’s sake; but steady appli-

cation to anything is not easy for one who has
becn accustomed only to amuse herself, and before
Mary’s one quarter was finished, Lucy exclaimed,
‘‘T have done!” then, looking over Mary, she
added, “Oh, dear me! why, you have almost a
finger to do yet!”

“JT will do that,” said Mrs. Lovett kindly,
taking the work from Mary’s hand. After ex-
amining the sewing, she added, “your Cousin



THE NEW HOME. oT

Mary’s work is much better than yours, Lucy.
It is ve1.7 neat, indeed.”’

“But 1 did mine more than three times as fast.
I think hers ought to be best.”

There was a little roughness in Lucy’s manner,
as if she was vexed at her mother’s praise of her
cousin. Mrs. Lovett took no notice of it, except
by looking steadily at her for a moment, which
Lucy understood as a reproof, for she hung her
head, and looked ashamed. It was in a somewhat
diffident tone that she asked, a few minutes after,
‘Mamma, may we have our tea-party now ?””

She was reassured by her mother’s cheerful
reply, ‘Certainly; you and your cousin can set
out your table in this corner, where you will be
out of the way, and lay your cloth on it, while I
get your cups, and saucers, and plates down from
the shelf.”

In a moment the little folks were all in motion.
The table was soon arranged ; the tea-set, washed
by Mrs. Lovett herself, was put upon it; the
servant brought in the cakes which the cook had
made for them; and when Mr. Lovett returned
from a visit he had been making, he found Mary,



38 THE COUSLNS.

and Lucy, and Charles, and Lucy’s doll seated at
table. He placed a chair for himself at one cor-
ner of the table, and ate a cake, and drank a cup
of tea with them, declaring both to be excellent.
The party went on very merrily, till Charles,
having helped himself to butter with his own
knife, Lucy scized his arm, exclaiming, “‘ Why,
Charles, don’t you know that it is very rude to
put your own knife in the butter?” Poor Charles,
who had been playing the gentleman of the
party to his own perfect satisfaction, hung his
head, and Icoked quite abashed. Nor was he the
only person made to feel unpleasantly by Lucy’s
ill-timed repreof. Mary’s knife, too, had been in
the butter, and she feared that Lucy had seen it,
and intended her observations for her as well as
for Charles. This was a mistake. Lucy knew
nothing of Mary’s misdemeanour. Indeed, her
rebuke to Charles was chiefly intended to display,
to her newly-arrived cousin, her acquaintance
with the rules of conduct observed among polite
persons, and she was sincerely grieved at the
evident gloom her lesson had cast over the party.
““My daughter,” said Mr. Lovett, “Charles



THE NEW HOME. 39

was certainly wrong to put his knife in the but-
ter; but Charley,” placing his hand affectionately
on the little boy’s head as he spoke, ‘‘has not
been much in society; he will know better one
of these days.” Charles was consoled, and re-
turned his father’s kind’ glance with a bright,
happy smile. Mr. Lovett continued: ‘If Charles
was wrong in what he did, you were far more
wrong in your manner of correcting him. Re-
member, after this, Lucy, that love is the best of
all teachers, and anger the worst.”

It was now Lucy’s turn to feel abashed, but
Mr. Lovett practised his own rule, and did not
long allow his daughter to think him angry with
her. His kind and pleasant manner soon dis-
persed the little cloud, and the remainder of the
evening passed away cheerfully. At nine o'clock

Lucy and Mary went up stairs to a small room
"beside Mr. and Mrs. Lovett’s, in which they were
to sleep together.

Both of these little girls had been taught al-
ways, before they lay down to sleep, to remember
their Father in heaven, and to ask His pardon for
the faults of the day, and His kind care through



40 THE COUSINS.

the night. As Mary whispered, in low, soft
tones, her simple prayer on this first evening in
her new home, she felt that the words, “I pray
God to bless my uncle, and aunt, and cousins,”
which she had learned from her mother, and had
repeated every evening from her infancy, had new
meaning in them. It was for the first time a
real prayer, for there was love in it.



OVELTTES. 41

CHAPTER IV.
NOVELTIES.

Tux next morning, when there was just daylight
enough to show distinctly the objects in the room
in which Mary and Lucy slept, Mrs. Lovett stood
by their bedside.

“Lucy, get up, my child! get up, or you will
not have time to put your room in order before
breakfast.”

‘Oh, mamma, it’s so soon!” and Lucy rubbed
her eyes, and made a vain attempt to open them.

“‘T have been out of bed for an hour, Lucy.
Come, I will help you up.” And Mrs. Lovett
lifted her daughter playfully from the bed, and
placed her on the floor.

Mary slept on without stirring. Mrs. Lovett
leaned over her, intending to awake her, but re-



42 THE COUSINS.

membering her voyage, and remarking the depth
of her slumbers, she said, ‘‘I will not awake your
cousin yet, Lucy ; she is probably fatigued by her
voyage. Let her sleep till you are ready to make
the bed, and then call her.”

Mrs. Lovett turned from the bed, but before
she reached the door, Lucy said, sulkily, “‘ Mam-
ma, must I make the bed for Cousin Mary every
day ?”

“No, Lucy, you must make it for yourself;
and if you do not wish your cousin to sleep with
you, she shall have another room, and I will make
her bed.”

Lucy looked ashamed, yet her ill-humour was
not conquered, for she still muttered, as. if speak-
ing to herself, “I don’t see why Cousin Mary
can’t make a bed as well as I!”

“Lucy !” said Mrs. Lovett, “you grieve me by
such selfishness! When you wept for the death
of your cousin’s mother, and hoped .your papa
would bring her home, I. hoped you would take
pleasure in being kind to her, and that you would
be willing to do for her a far greater service than
allowing her to sleep in your bed after you had



NOVELTLES. 43

made it.” Mrs. Lovett paused, but, as Lucy did
not reply, she resumed—“I wish your cousin’s
new home to be pleasant to her; yet much of the
attendance, and many of the indulgences to which
she has been accustomed, she cannot have here.
She will not be less happy—nay, I think she will
be more happy for this, if ‘she sces that we love
her, and strive, by our attentions, to prevent her
missing them. This kindness on our part will
make her love us too, and learn our habits, in
order that she may help us; so that on both sides
the labours will be from love, which makes ali
labour light.”

At. this moment Mary moved, and half opening
her eyes, and, perhaps, seeing Mrs. Lovett dimly,
said, ‘Mother!’ Lucy’s heart was touched ;
the love which her mother’s words had failed to
awaken stirred within her, and she said, ‘‘ Do not
get up yet, cousin; the room will be warmer pre-
sently, and I will call you in time.”

When Mary did get up, Lucy assisted her very
cheerfully in dressing herself. She then une
covered the bed, and rang the bell for the servant.
Jane, the servant, came in, and, turning over the



44 THE COUSINS.

bed, arranged it for the clothes, which, after she
had gone out again, Lucy spread upon it very
carefully, walking around the bed several times
to be sure that they did not hang lower on one
side than on the other. She had not yet disposed
the heavy quilt to her perfect satisfaction, when
Mrs. Lovett again entered. Both Mary and Lucy
had thick and curling hair, and, as they could not
well comb and brush it themselves, Mrs. Lovett
had come to do it for them. As soon as she had
finished doing this, they went with her, first into
her own room for Emma, and then down into the
basement, where Mr. Lovett was seated, with a
Bible and hymn-book on the table beside him.
Charles called the cook and Jane, and when all
were seated, Mr. Lovett read two verses of a
hymn. Mrs. Lovett, Lucy, and the servants had
each a hymn-book. Charley looked on his mo-
ther’s book, though we doubt whether he could
vead many of the words correctly, and Lucy,
having found the hymn, held her book so that her
cousin could sing with her. After the hymn, Mr.
Lovett read a part of a chapter in the New Testa-
ment, and then, knecling down, he thanked God



NOVELTIES. 45

for his care of them all during the night, and
prayed him to bless and be good to them through
the day. There was nothing strange to Mary in
this mode of beginning the day, for her father had
been accustomed to do the same.

After breakfast Mr. Lovett went out. He was
a lawyer, and when he was in New York, gene-
rally passed the whole day at his office in Wall-
street. Mrs. Lovett, when the breakfast-table
had been put away, was for some time engaged in
the kitchen, and, during her absence, Lucy and
Charles devoted themselves to the amusement of
Emma, who was seated in the cradle. A ‘‘mau-
mer” for Emma seemed to Mary a great want in
her .uncle’s household, and she proposed to her
aunt to send to Georgia for one; but Mrs. Lovett
assured her it was not requisite, as Emma was not
accustomed to be cari 2d in the arms in the house,
and when she was uoroad Jane always carried
her.

About twelve o’clock, when the air was warm-
est and the sun brightest, Mrs. Lovett sent Emma
out with Jane, and she went out with Charles,
and Lucy, and Mary. They walked first round 4



46 THE COUSINS.

large enclosure, planted with trees and laid out in
plots, which Lucy told her cousin were covered
with grass in summer. They were now white
with snow. This enclosure was called Washington
Park. They then passed into Broadway. Mary
had never seen so many houses in all her life to-
gether as she saw on that morning, nor dreamed
of so many people as were hurrying through
Broadway. She asked her aunt who each person
was that passed them at first, but she soon found,
to her surprise, that of most of them Mrs. Lovett
knew as little as herself.

We have not time to tell you of all the novelties
which Mary found in her present abode. She
goon, as her Aunt Lovett had predicted, began to
do many things she had never done before, in
order to help her kind friends; and, as the exercise
of grateful and affectionate feelings is always
pleasant, Mary became industrious, and acquired
habits of regular employment without any dis-
agreeable constraint.

Mary and Lucy often surprised each other by
their different modes of speaking. That Mary
used many very singular expressions cannot be



NOVELTIES. 47

. denied ; nor will it seem very wonderful, if it be
remembered that she had passed much of her time
with her “ Maumer,” and been surrounded, at
the period when she was learning to talk, with
untaught negroes. But, had Lucy been as clear-
sighted to her own faults as to those of others,
she would not have assumed so arrogant an air of
superiority to Mary on this subject, for she was
not herself free from inaccuracies of language, as
will be proved by the anecdote we are about to
relate.

Charles was one morning busily engaged in
making a kite, in which employment he scattered
papers and twine about the room, with little re-
gard to the fact that his sister had just been. put-
ting it in order by their mother’s wish.

“Charles!” exclaimed Lucy, angrily, ‘what
is the use of my putting the parlour in order, if
you will make such a muss 2”

“A muss!’ thought Mary, who was present;
“what can that be?’ Mouse came nearer the
word than any other she had ever heard, and she
supposed that. Charles must be cutting a paper

mouse. Still she was not quite satisfied with this



48 THE COUSINS.

idea, and she would have addressed her question
to Lucy, had she not feared to excite that taunting
laugh which always made her so angry. Lucy
left the room in a few minutes, and she then ap-
plied to Charles.

“« What are you cutting, Charles?”

“TI am making a kite, Cousin Mary; did you
ever see a kite sailing up, up as high as the
clouds ?”

“No, Charley; but I thought Lucy said you
were making a mouse.”

‘“‘ Well, she did say I was making a muss.”

“JT am sure that kite does not look like our
mice.”

“4 mice!” said Charley, who did not very
well understand the distinctions of number, or of
different orders of animals ; ‘oh, no, she did not
mean @ mice ; mices are little rats, are they not?”

“Well, what did she mean?” asked Mary, more
confused than ever, and scarcely taking time, from
her inquiries, to laugh at the blunders of Charles.

‘Oh, she meant a—a muss; Cousin Mary, you
must ask papa; he will tell you all about it.”

And Mary did ask her uncle in the evening,



NOVELTIES. 49

when Lucy was not present. He laughed heartily
at her story, and then bade her call Lucy, saying
she must explain the word, as it was one he never
used. When Lucy came, he said to her, “My
daughter, your cousin says you told her thif
morning that Charles was making a mouse in the
parlour, and she wants to know what kind ot
mouse it was.”

Mr. Lovett spoke very seriously, but Lucy knew
there was a laugh under his grave looks, and, like
a, great many older and wiser people, Lucy could
not bear to be laughed at. Her face flushed with
anger, and she replied in a rude tone, “TI think
Cousin Mary had better learn to speak properly
herself before she laughs at me. I do not say,
‘Do don’t, and enty, and—’ ”’ she stopped abruptly,
for her father had seized her arm, and was looking
into her face with a sternness he seldom assumed
to his children. As Lucy ceased speaking and
hung her head, the sternness passed away from
Mr. Lovett’s face, and its expression became deeply
sorrowful as he said, ‘I was only disposed to
laugh, Lucy, at your incorrect language, but I can
scarcely forbear weeping at your improper temper.”

D



50 THE COUSINS.

Mary was: quite* grieved at the disagreeable
feclings her innocent question had excited. Side-
ling up to ‘Uncle Lovett, she put her hand on him,
and said softly, -‘ Do don’t-be vexed with Cousin
Lucy.”

“TJ will not,” said’ Uncle Lovett, “if Cousin
Lucy will show me that she is not vexed with
you.”

Mary drew near to Lucy, and, putting her arm
timidly round her neck, said, “You are not vexed
with me—are you, cousin?”

Lucy’s-““No” was not very frank, but Mr. Lovett:
said, ‘Then I am not vexed either, and you shall
come here,’” lifting Lucy to one knee as he spoke, *
“and Cousin Mary here,” placing ‘her on the
other, “and we will have-a lecture on language ;
you shall give us the’ meaning of muss, and she
shall give us the: meaning of: do don’é, ‘and then’ I
will tell you what I think of them both.”

Tn ‘a moment the ill humour and the sorrow had
all vanished. from ‘the faces of the little girls, who
entered:heartily into what seemed to them a very
amusing play. Lucy commenced the definitions,
and, as she wasa lively and witty child, she gave”



NOVELTIES. 61

& very amusing accountiof all that was meant by
muss. ‘ When a great many people are collected
in the street, and they: begin to shout, and run
about in different directions, that is a muss; ‘and
when there has been:a great deal of ‘snow,. and it
thaws, and the streets are muddy, then they. are
all in-a muss ; :and: when the: cook leaves:the dirty
dishes on the table, and the pots and kettles on
the hearth, there isa great muss inthe, kitchen ;
and when Charles cuts papers: over) the carpet,’
and..leaves: his :ball}on..one chair, and his kite on
another, he makes.a muss}: and: when mamma, up-
sets her work-basket, she makes a,muss ;.and when
papa—when papa gets downto his office, I guess
he makes a muss sometimes.” ;

This was all very archly said, and not only the
girls, but Mr. Lovett:,too; laughed merrily atthe
conclusion., When. the laugh was.over, Mr. Lovett
said, ‘‘ Well, Lawyer Lucy, you have argued your
case, and have certainly. made all:you could of a
muss. Now. we will hear:Lawyer Mary plead for
‘do.don’'t.. What. have: you, to say for it,, Mary?”

»Mary’s: ideas: of .“‘ do don’t,” seemed not. so
clear -as: Lucy’s.-of. a: muss, for. she: hesitated, aa
D2



52 THE COUSINS.

if she did not know exactly how to express her
meaning.

“When do you use ‘do don’t,’ Mary?” asked
Mr. Lovett.

‘When I want to beg a person not to do some-~
thing.”

“You said to me just now ‘do don’t’ be vexcd;
can you not ask the same thing in other words ?”

Mary thought for a moment, and then said,
“ Please not to be vexed.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Lovett; “now I under-
stand what you mean; but let me tell you what
‘do don’t’ seems to others to mean. Please to be
—Please not to be vexed. And now both causes
have been heard, Judge Lovett will pronounce
sentence. Muss he declares to be inelegant, and
altogether unnecessary, since there is some good
and true English word expressing each thing for
which it is used. ‘Do don’t’ he thinks quite in-
admissible, because it commands two directly op-
posite things, to do, and not to do, at the same
time ; so he condemns these two faulty expressions
to be banished for ever from the company of Miss
Lucy Lovett and Miss Mary Mowbray; but the



NOVELTIES. 58

court will take a recess, as I see mamma is pre-
paring to pour out tea.”

Thus did this kind father and uncle endeavour
to improve his children in a cheerful, pleasant
manner, correcting at once their faults of language
or manner, and their worse faults of temper and
fecling. He was often deeply pained at a display
of vanity and selfishness in Lucy, which made her
always anxious for praise herself, and jealous of
any praise bestowed on another. These faults in
Lucy had increased greatly during the last year,
a part of which she had passed away from home.
Her absence was caused by a severe illness, from
which she suffered the summer before Mary’s
arrival in New Youk, and which left her so feeble
that her physician advised that she should travel.
To travel at that time was scarcely possible for
Mr. and Mrs. Lovett, and they gladly accepted
the offer of a friend to take Lucy with his own
family to Saratoga. She spent some weeks with
these friends at the Springs, and afterwards at
Niagara. At both these places Lucy met with
thoughtless people, who, amused by the silly, af-

fected airs caused by her excited vanity, were



54 THE COUSINS.

ever ready to flatter her: by. saying “How pretty,”
or “ How graceful,” or ‘‘How sensible a child
Tucy Lovett is!” I said these people were
thoughtless; I should: have said they were cruel,
for a moment’s amusement to themselves, to
cherish a great: evil in a child. “When they had
laughed a while over Lucy’s vanity and credulity,
they forgot her, but she did not forget them or
their praises. ‘She returned home with her health
restored, and, perhaps, many persons: would have
said, with her manners improved. Lucy had for-
merly been rather careless about her dress; she
was now very attentive to it, and, but for her
mother’s good taste and firmness, she would often
have adorned herself ina way that would have
been quite ridiculous. She now entered-a room
casily, and conversed quite as readily as her father
and mother. In truth, Lucy was no-longer. a
little girl; she was a little lady, but:a vain and
sclfish lady, expecting all to be occupied with-her,
and hurt and offended when she'saw others obtain
more notice than herself. Never had Mr. and
Mrs. Lovett grieved over their daughter’s illness
as they now gricved over her faults. We have



NOVELTIES. 55

eaid that Mary Mowbray was a shy, timid child.
There could not be a more perfect contrast than
between Lucy and herself in company. She was
bashful, awkward, and silent. Mr. and Mrs.
Lovett would have gladly seen her more at ease,
but they felt her awkwardness to be a less evil
than Lucy’s vanity; yet even this evil they hoped
that Lucy’s affectionate heart and good under-
standing would overcome, aided, as these were,
by their constant teachings, in which they: ever
prayed God to direct them aright. Poor Lucy !
it required severer trials than her tender parents
could have inflicted on her, to destroy this ‘root
of evil.”” within her.



66 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER V.
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL.

Wx must begin a new chapter, for we are going
to describe a very important event in Mary Mow-
pray’s life. The first day at school! what girl
does not remember it—does not recollect how her
heart sank within her, as father, or mother, or
friend, left her there alone with strangers. So
felt Mary, when, about a fortnight after her arrival
in New York, her Aunt Lovett left her at Mrs.
Butler’s school with her Cousin Lucy.

‘‘ With her Cousin Lucy !” my readers exc.aim;
‘why, then, she was not alone.” Ah! but I
doubt whether Mary found much comfort. from
the presence of Cousin Lucy. If, from want of
acquaintance with the rules of a school, or want
of education, she should commit any error, Mary



FIRS1 DAY AT SCHOOL. 57

knew that not one of all the strangers around her
would detect it more quickly, laugh at it more pro-
vokingly, or report it at home so eagerly as Cousin
Lucy. ‘ How ill-natured Lucy must have been!”
you are all ready to say. No, my young friends,
Lucy was not ill-natured, but always ready to
display her own superiority, even at the expense
of wounding the feclings of another.

The first morning of Mary’s school life was
passed in such an examination of her acquirements
as might enable her teacher to assign her a place
in the various classes of which her school was
composed. To Mrs. Butler’s first question, ‘To
what studies have you ever attended, my dear ?”
Mary found it very difficult to reply. She looked
up and looked down, grew red and grew pale, but
said not a word. Lucy Lovett, who neglected no
opportunity of showing her information on any
subject, called from a distant part of the room,
‘‘Mrs. Butler, Cousin Mary never studied at all;
she never was at school.”

Mrs. Butler saw the workings of quick feeling,
as well as of quick temper, in the tears that sprang
to Mary’s eyes, and the deep red that burned in



58 THE COUSINS.

her cheeks as Lucy thus published her want of
education. Mrs. Butler’s manner was always
gentle, but it was dignified as well as gentle, and
‘Lucy’s eye sank abashed beneath the grave ex-
pression of hers, as she said, ‘‘ When I desire any
information from you, Miss Lovett, I will address
myself to you.” She: then drew Mary nearer to
her, saying, “I know, my dear, that you have not
heen to school, and perhaps you have not had
vregular lessons at home; but: you have read.some
“books, have you'not?”
» Yes,-ma’am,’’: ¥

“« And what were they? Can you not tell me
something of them ?”’

““T have read. Early Lessons, and the Parent’s
Assistant, and Peter Parley’s books— all Peter
Parley’s books.”

‘‘ Then you have read his history of the United
States?”

“Yes, ma’am; and. I have read a much larger
history of the United States than that.”

“Perhaps, then, you can tell.me in what part
of the United Statcs the first settlement was
made ?”



FIRST’ DAY “AT SCHOOL. 59

“ At Jamestown, in Virginia.”

“ By whom ?”

“By English people.”

“Under whose command ??”:

‘Under Captain Smith’s.’?:

In this way, by a kind;and gentle manner, Mrs.
Butler drew from her little pupil an ‘account.of the
first settlement of most of the colonics, and of the
most remarkable events occurring afterward:in the
history: of the United States.:o She :then’ asked,
«Did you ever read any other history?’

“Yes, ma’am, I read:some in the History of
England.”

By a few judicious questions, Mrs. Butler found
that Mary was well acquainted with the most im-
portant facts in early English History. « For this
information, Mary was: indebted rather to her
mother’s wisdom and perseverance than toherown.
Mrs. Mowbray had insisted on her daughter's
reading a small portion. of ;history to: her every
day, when she would explain to her whatever she
did not understand, and.would often impress ‘an
important circumstance on her mind by telling her
some pleasant story about it.



60 THE COUSINS.

“And now,” asked Mrs Butler, at length, ‘‘ can
you tell me what England is—whether it is a con-
tinent or—”

“Tt is an island,” answered Mary, without
waiting for the conclusion of the question.

“ And in what geography did you learn that ?”

“
“In what, then?”

“In a map.”

A succession of questions followed, and here,
again, it was found that Mary had learned a great
deal of the situation of different places, the
boundaries and relative size of countries, and the
names of great rivers and high mountains, by
merely playing, as she considered it, with a map
at her mother’s feet. Great was Lucy’s surprise,
and, we fear, scarcely less great her dissatisfaction,
when she found Mary placed in the same class
with herself in geography. But a yet more mor-
tifying surprise awaited her; and when Mrs,
Butler said to Mary, ‘‘ You seem so well ac-
quainted with the History of the United States,
that I think I may place you with a higher class,
which has just commenced the History of Eng-



FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 63

land,’ Lucy reddened, and pouted, and almost
wept with discontent.

She was a little consoled, however, at the result
of Mary’s examination in arithmetic, for it was
found that, though she could add and subtract, and
multiply and divide, she knew no rules, and no
table but the multiplication table. In spelling
and defining words, too, Mary was often at fault,
doing the first very imperfectly, and the last
scarcely at all.

‘¢ Well, Mary, how do youlike school, or, rather
how do you like your teacher, for you scarcely
know anything of school yet?’ inquired Mr.
Lovett, when the little girls returned home in the
afternoon.

“Qh! I like her very much, Uncle Lovett;
she was so good to me; she called me my dear,
and she said I had learned a great deal of his-
tory, and she put me in the English History
class.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, giving vent to the feclings
which had been painfully suppressed at school,
“and she put Cousin Mary in my geography class,
and I think it was very partial in her.”



62 THE COUSINS.

“Did not: Mrs.. Butler examine your cousin in
geography before she placed her there *”

“Yes; but Cousin Mary said herself she never
had studied a:gecgraphy; she only learned what
she knew from ’playing with maps; and if people
can learn so easily as that, I don’t see the use’ of
going to school and studying, and I never mean to |
study any more !”

Lucy was very much excited, or she would
hardly have ventured to speak to her father in the:
way she was now doing. Her voice was raised, her
face flushed, and, as she aes her ae she
burst into' tears. : i

Mr. Lovett: rose from his tb and, taking his
daughter’s hand, led her up stairs to a little room
which was called:his library. Before leaving her
there; he pointed-out to her the hateful character:
of that envy which’ caused: her’present unhappi-:
ness. dh SEE

“Tucy!’ he said, “I am grieved at your
sorrow, but far more grieved at its wicked: cause.
I have brought you here, ‘not:to punish you, but
that you! might, in this quiet room by yourself,
think how sinful your feelings are, and repentof.



FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 63

them, and ask God’s pardom:for them. If you:
will examine those feelings closely, my dear child,

you will see that. they are like those which, we

learn inthe Bible, belong to,the wicked one—to

Satan. Your cousin has done you no harm, has :
done nothing.;to displease you; yet you are

angry with her, and..though you may. not be»
willing to acknowledge it, you hate her in your

heart. !”? md

‘
“My child, we hate those to whom we wish evil,’
whose misfortunes would give us pleasure ; now
I fear that in your present temper you would take.
pleasure in your cousin’s mortification. I will
not ask you to answer the question to me, but I
wish you to answer it-to yourself, whether you
would not be glad at anything which would make
her Jess pleasing in my eyes or in those of Mrsi!:
Butler. If this be so, you have the feelings to-
wards her which Cain had towards his brother
Abel; whom he hated because he thought that his»
father Adam, and-even the just and holy God,’
were partial to him, preferring him to hinself’;
and remember, my dear daughter, that: these feel-



64 THE COUSINS.

ings, not being resisted by Cain, made him e
murderer.”

Had Mr. Lovett spoken harshly to Lucy, she
would probably have continued to feel angry, to
think hardly of her cousin, and to believe that she
herself had been treated very badly, and was little,
if at ali, to blame; but he was so affectionate, and
spoke so tenderly to her, that all her anger passed
away ; and then she could see that Mary had been
quite innocent, and that, in truth, her own feelings
had been like those of Cain. When her father
solemnly reminded her to what those feelings had
led Cain, she shuddered, and said, softly, ‘Oh,
papa! I am very sorry.”

“« Then, my daughter,” said Mr. Lovett, kiss-
ing her tenderly, ‘let us tell our heavenly Father
that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you.
and to take this evil temper of envy and hatred
away from you.”

The father and daughter knelt down together
and prayed, and when they rose up, they went
down stairs, quict and thoughtful, but happy.
When they entered the parlour, Mary was seated
on a low bench, with a book in her lap. Lucy



FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 68

dropped her father’s hand, and sat down by Mary
and put her arm around her. The colour came
up quickly into Mary’s cheeks, and she moved, as
if she wanted to push away her cousin’s arm, for
she had seen Lucy’s unjust feelings, and resented
them; and she thought now that Lucy caressed
her, not because she liked her, but in order to
please her father. As she turned, however, her
eye rested on Lucy’s face, and she saw that tears
were in her eycs, that the angry expression had
passed from her countenance, ‘and that she looked
gentle and loving. Mary’s resentment was gone
in a moment; she put her arm around Lucy’s
neck and kissed her, and for the first time Lucy
and Mary really loved cach other.

That evening at eight o’clock Lucy closed her
books, having committed all her lessons perfectly,
while Mary still sat, turning from one to the
other of hers, yawning over them, and thinking
studying lessons a very wearisome business. As
Lucy passed her father to lay her books on the
shelf, he said, in a whisper, ‘Could you not help
Cousin Mary ?”

Lucy returned cheerfully to the table, and did

E



66 THE COUSINS.

help her cousin so effectually, that in half an hour
Mary too could put her books aside, and fecl that
her tasks were done.

«And now,” said Mr. Lovett, ‘come here, ;
and I will answer for you a question which Lucy
asked this morning, and which, I suspect, Mary
has very often felt a wish to ask this evening—
what is the use of study?” Mr. Lovett’s ex-
planations were always so pleasantly given, that
in a moment both little girls stood at his side
with smiling but attentive faces.

“ First,” began Mr. Lovett, “let me say that
nothing can be learned without trouble. Even
Mary did not learn what she knows without a
great deal of trouble.”

“Qh, yes I did!” interrupted Mary; “I never
had any trouble at all.”

“Ah! that may be; you never had any trouble,
but your kind mamma had a great deal, in order
to make things so simple and plain to you that
your learning them should seem like playing.
Very few people are willing, or have the Icisure
necessary to give so much attention to one child
as she gave to you; theiefore, if children wish to



FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 67

learn anything, they must generally take some
trouble themselves; they must study. But even
if every child could have such an attentive
teacher, it would be far better for them to study.”

“What! if they could learn without it?” ex-
elaimed both children.

“Yes, even if they could learn without it.
Can you tell me what it is to study ?”

“To read your lessons over and over till you
know them,” said Lucy.

«But suppose, while reading your lessons over,
you are thinking of something else; would that
be study?”

There was no answer to this, and Mr. Lovett
continued: ‘To study is to fix your mind earnestly
on any subject, to think intently upon it. The
power to do this, like every other power we have,
improves with exercise. Do you remember how
awkwardly you held a needle when you first
began to sew? Now you do it easily. Just so
great will be the difference in this power of study-
ing between one who exerciscs it and one who does
not: and as there are many things with which
sensible men and women desire to be acquainted

BE 2



68 THE COUSINS.

that cannot be well understood without study, I
think you will agree with me that it is better for
little boys’and girls to exercise this important
power, even though they could learn without it.”

Lucy and Mary acknowledged that Mr. Lovett
had answered very satisfactorily the question,
“« What is the use of study?” We have heard
other girls besides Lucy and Mary ask the same
question, and we hope they will be as well satis-
fied with the answer.



Lucy’s FRIENDS. 69

CHAPTER VI.
LUCY’S FRIENDS.

Ar the same school with Lucy and Maryw a
young girl named Ann Noel, who, wanting talent,
or industry and perseverance enough to become
a good scholar, had yet sufficient shrewdness to
perceive Lucy’s weak point, and, by flattering her
vanity, to obtain her aid in the performance of
her tasks at school. Her flattery became doubly
grateful when Lucy had ascertained that she lived
in a very handsome house, which was furnished
with great elegance; but when Lucy had heard
Miss Ann Noel play a very simple tune in very
bad time on a beautiful rosewood piano, and had
been informed by her that she attended a dancing-
school where they sometimes gaye fancy balls,
and that to the next fancy ball she intended to



70 THE COUSINS.

wear a lace dress looped up with roses, she began
to consider it quite an honour to be permitted to
perform Miss Ann Noel’s sums, to write out for
her the answers required by her lesson in geogra- |
phy and history, and to furnish her every week
with a composition, which she was quite satisfied
to show as her own.

Lucy and Mary had been frequently invited to
pass the Saturday, which was always a holyday
in their school, at Mr. Noel’s house. To these
invitations Mrs. Lovett had always replied that
she seldom allowed her children to visit without
her. At length Miss Ann Noel proposed that,
since her friend Luey could not come to her, she
would come to Lucy, and bring her brother, a
boy of nine years, with her. As Mrs. Lovett
really knew nothing against the children, she did
not think it necessary to mortify Lucy by de-
clining this proffered visit, and, on the following
Saturday, Emma’s cradle was removed up stairs,
and the basement was relinquished to Lucy and
Mary, and Miss Ann and Master Thomas Noel.
Mary was not particularly pleased with these.
visitors. Still she had assisted Lucy in her pre-



LUCY’S FRIENDS. 71

parations for them, and brought out her toys, and
did her best to amuse them. Before we relate
the result of these efforts, we would remind our
young readers of what we have said of Mary’s
inaccuracies of language. Her desire to please
her Uncle Lovett had done much to overcome
these, but still they were not wholly forgotten ;
and when Mary was excited, so that she spoke
rapidly and without thinking, she often used
them.

For the first hour after the arrival of Master
and Miss Noel, things went on very well. She
dressed the dolls in the style most approved at
fancy balls, and he amused himself with a dis-
sected map of the sovereigns of England; but
when once he had succeeded in putting it to-
gether, the map was thrown aside, and, wander-
ing listlessly about the room, he stopped near the
bird-cages. _ After teasing the canary a minute,
he asked Mary what they fed it on. She told
him hemp and canary seed, sugar, and occasionally
something green.

‘But flies—don’t you give it flies?”

If Mary had been allowed sometimes to use



72 THE COUSINS.

incorrect language, no one had been more care-
fully taught the far more important lesson that
she should love and oe kind to all the creatures
of God, and she could only exclaim in her horror,
“Flies !”

“Yes; we catch flies for our birds at home,
and they pick them out of our fingers, and eat
them.”

“What! eat the poor flies ?”

“Yes, eat them; and here’s a fly now; I’:
catch it, and you shall see how quickly this little
fellow will nibble it up.”

“Oh, no—do don’t /” exclaimed Mary, clasping
her hands in a perfect agony of affright for the
poor fly ; ‘do don’t !”

“Do! well, I am doing it as fast as I can,”
said the rude and taunting boy, pursuing the fly
as he spoke.

“‘Oh, don’t—please don’t; the bird loves sugar
a heap better—indeed it does, and I'll get you
some sugar for it.”

“A heap! how high a heap?” and again his
sneering laugh made the colour grow brighter on
Mary’s cheeks; but the poor fly had been chased



Lucy’s FRIENDS. 73

to the window, it seemed almost caught, and
Mary forgot herself.

“ Aunt Lovett would @ heap rather it should eat
sugar; en’t it, Cousin Lucy !”

“A heap, en’t it—now do don’t,” said the in-
sulting boy, dancing up to her, and flourishing
his poor, struggling captive in her face. Miss
Noel had greeted every specimen of her brother’s
wit with a loud laugh. This Mary did not mind
much—not very much—but now her Cousin Lucy
laughed too, and this did wound her bitterly.

“Where did she learn to talk so?’ asked Miss
Ann Noel, contemptuously.

Lucy, vexed and mortified that her cousin
should do or say anything that might be thought
ungenteel before the rich and fashionable Noels,
and anxious to clear her own family of the
charge, answered hastily, “Oh! at the South;
you know every body there learns to talk like the
negroes.”

This was too much for Mary’s endurance. She
threw off all restraint, and stood with her eyes
dilated, her cheeks glowing, and her whole frame
quivering with passion, while she exclaimed,



74 THE COUSINS.

“They don’t! they don’t talk like negroes any
more than you do; and if they did, the negroes
are a great deal better than you—a great deal
better ; and I love them better, and I would
rather talk like them, and I will talk like them ;
I will say do don’t, buckra, en’t it, neber, yerre,
cungo—” *

Mary was stringing together every negro ex-
pression she had ever heard, and many which she
had never used. How much longer the list
would have been we know not, but Mary felt a
hand laid softly on her head, and, looking up, she
met the grave, earnest eyes of Uncle Lovett.
Completely overpowered by her emotions, she
cast herself into his arms, sobbing, ‘‘ Oh, let me
go home! let me go home to my own papa, where
nobody will laugh at me.”

“Nobody shall laugh at you here, my dear
child; nobody would laugh at you who was not

* Do don’t, which is not a negro expression, but only a
provincialism common to the people of the South, has been
already explained; duckra means white man or woman;
en’t it, is it not so; nedber, never; yerre, hear; cungo,
come, let us go.



LUCY’S FRIENDS. 75

too rude to deserve your notice. Come with me
up stairs, and I will show you these beautiful
prints, and something yet more beautiful, which
IT have in this box. I was bringing them for the
amusement of your visitors; but I cannot suppose
that a young gentleman who finds entertainment
in catching flies, or young ladies who take
pleasure in wounding the feelings of others, could
derive any enjoyment from such things.”

Saying this, Mr. Lovett left the room, carrying
the still weeping Mary in his arms. Soon after-
ward, Mrs. Lovett entered the basement with
Emma, and seated herself there. Lucy knew,
from this movement, that her mother was not
pleased with her present companions, or willing
to trust her alone with them. They evidently
did not like the restraint of Mrs. Lovett’s pre-
sence, and their dissatisfied glances and impolite
manners made Lucy so uncomfortable, that she
was not sorry to hear them say, immediately after
dinner, that they must return home. They soon
took their leave; and though Lucy had grieved
her cousin, displeased her parents, and offended
against her own sense of right to please them,



76 THE COUSINS,

they so connected her with the disagreeable
events of the day that they parted from her very
coldly, and without inviting her to return their
visit. Neither did Mrs. Lovett ask to sce them
again, and Lucy felt that her intercourse with
them was at an end. You will think that she
had no great reason to regret that, and yet Lucy
did regret it ; for so silly had her vanity and love
of admiration made her, that she thought she de-
rived some credit from being the friend of a girl
who was so rich as Miss Noel, and was always
dressed so handsomely, and who could go to fancy
balls and wear lace frocks.

“And for such a disagreeable, ill-bred girl as
that, Lucy, you could treat your cousin un-
kindly,” said Mrs. Lovett, sorrowfully, as the
door was closed on the visitors.

Lucy had endured many disappointments during
this day, and her spirits were so depressed, that,
when she attempted to answer her mother, she
burst into tears, and sobbed out, ‘I didn’t do any-
thing to Cousin Mary, mamma; I only laughed a
little at what Tom Noel said; and Cousin Mary
did say a great many strange words.”



LUCY’S FRIENDS. v7

“Not stranger than ‘you hadn’t ought to,’
which Master Tom Noel more than once repeated
since I came in, or ‘you ben’t going, be you?’ which
his sister said to you just before she went awiy ;
why did you not laugh at these ?”

“T didn’t think it would be right to laugh at
my company.”

“And do you think it was right to laugh at
your cousin, whom her dying mother sent here,
believing she would find only friends in her uncle’s
house? ‘You may lose your father and mother,
Lucy, and be sent with Mary to her home. What
would you think, in such a case, of her laughing
at you, or encouraging her friends to laugh atyou?”’

‘*T could not help their laughing, mamma.”

“Yes, Lucy; had you been more affectionate
to Mary when they began to treat her rudely, and
shown, by your seriousness, your disapproval of
their conduct to her, it would have checked them,
and, what you may think of more consequence,
they would have respected you far more than they
now do.”

Lucy wept on silently for a few minutes, and
then said, ‘I am very sorry, mamma.”



78 THE COUSINS.

“ Do you feel that you have done wrong, Lucy,
and are you sorry for that, or are you only sorry
for having displeased me ?”

“T am sorry I did anything to vex Cousin
Mary, mamma.”

“Then tell your cousin so,” said Mrs. Lovett,
giving her daughter a kiss of forgiveness.

Mary had dined up stairs with Charles, and
Lucy found her in noisy, merry play with him.
Mary’s anger towards her cousin. had softened,
and, had it not, she could not have withstood
Lucy’s weeping overtures towards reconciliation ;
80 peace was again established between them.



THER FARM. 19

CHAPTER VIL.
THE FARM.

AND now we are going into the country, for sum-
mer has come, and the air of the city is hot and
disagreeable, and Emma droops, and grows pale
and languid, no longer springing into her father’s
outstretched arms, but just smiling her acknow-
ledgment of his invitation, while her head rests
on her mother’s shoulder. Mary Mowbray is
charmed at the thought of spending the summer in
the country, for she thinks of long rambles in the
flowery woods, and all the pleasures of the country
at home. Some of these pleasures she will not
find, but she will have others instead, of which
she knows nothing. Such, to her, will be the
fields of new-mown hay, with its vanilla-like per-
fume, the spicy clover, and the honeyed buck-



~ 86 THE COUSINS.

wheat. Lucy would have liked another journcy
to Saratoga better than the quict farm which her
father had chosen for the summer retreat of his
family. This farm was three or four miles distant
from the country town of N , Which is situated



about thirty miles up the Hudson, or, as the New
Yorkers call it, the North River. The farm house
was of stone, built roughly, and looking weather-
stained and smoked without, but withinit wasclean,
neat, and comfortable. he rooms were large, the
walls very white, the floors covered with bright
home-made carpeting, and the white pine tables,
and even the rush-bottomed chairs, were spotless.
The house was built nearly at the foot of a hill,
up the side of which extended the apple orchard.
On one side of the house ran a clear brook, which,
a little lower down, was made to turn a saw-mill
belonging to the same farmer; and on the other
side, separated by a narrow road, was a clover-
field. Beyond this might be seen waving the just
ripening wheat and rye. All looked new to Mary;
and full of curiosity, she asked a thousand ques-
tions of her uncle. After dinner he walked out,

and she turned to her aunt for information. Mrs,



THE FARM. 81

Lovett, finding that she could not fully satisfy
her, referred her to Mrs. Nye, the farmer’s wite,
who was in the parlour, “fixing up things a little,’
to use her own words. This good woman was
quite pleased at Mary’s interest in the farming,
and she asked her if she would like “ te go round
a bit”? with her, and see the chickens and the
little ducks. There were few things Mary would
have liked better, and this her Aunt Lovett saw,
though she was too bashful to express all her
pleasure. Charles, too, begged to go, but Lucy,
when invited, drew back, saying she did not care
to see ducks and chickens. Good Mrs. Nyo’s
calico bonnet, coarse dress, and stout shoes did
not recommend her to the companionship of a fine
lady, such as Lucy Lovett always strove to ap-
pear.

Charles and Mary cared for none of these things,
so they walked down to the brook, and saw the
ducks sail along upon it with a slow, graceful
motion, arching their necks as if to look at their own
image in the clear water ; then, dipping their bills
and fluttering their wings, throw a sparkling
shower over their glossy backs. Then they tock

PF



82 THE COUSINS.

a peep at the chickens, and saw Mrs. Nye feed
them. This Mrs. Nye was avery good-natured
woman, and, sceing that the children liked their
ramble, she took them to the saw-mill, which was
then at work. There she showed them the wheel
which, in turning, moved the saws up and down;
and greatly surprised they were to see how quickly
those saws would make their way through boards
more than an inch thick. Farmer Nye was at
the mill himself, and he answered all Charley’s
questions, and laughed heartily at some of
them.

““T mean to come back here to-morrow,” said
Charley.

“Then, my little man, you will have it all to
yourself, for I shall not be here myself to-mor-
row.”

“Where are you going?” asked the little boy,
who had already made himself quite at home.

“Tf the sun shines I shall be in the hay-field.
Did you never hear ‘make hay when the ‘sun
shines ??”

“Yes; and may I go there too? I should like
to go to the hay-field.”



THE FARM. 83

“ Yes, you may go if you'll help work.”.

“Well, I'll help,” said Charley, stepping with
more dignity at the thought of his importance in
being able to help work.

“Can’t I go too?” asked Mary, pulling Mrs.
Nye by the apron and looking timidly at the
farmer ; “can’t I go too ?”

“You; I am afeard you'd be tired; besides,
little ladies don’t like to make hay: it spoils their
clothes.”

“Oh! I don’t mind that,” said Mary, whose
earnestness overcame her bashfulness, ‘I don’t
mind that; andI know I shouldn't get tired, for I
used to go to the cotton-house and the barn where
they thrashed rice, when I was at home, and I
never got tired, though I helped sometimes to pick
the cotton.”

‘Why, where was your home? I thought you
lived in New York.”

“So I do now; but I mean my papa’s home in
Georgia.”

“In Georgia! why, how far the child has come!”
exclaimed the farmer. ‘Well, which home do
you like best, little miss ?””

F2



84 THE COUSINS.

“J like my papa’s home best,” said Mary,
“but I like this better than New York,” she
added, looking around on the green and flowery
fields.

“You like this better than New York, do you*”’
repeated the farmer, smiling with pleasure at the
preference given to hishome. ‘“ Well, since you
like the country so well, I think I must let you
go to the hay-field too.”

“‘ And now,” said Mrs. Nye, ‘‘ suppose you help
me pick some raspberries for tea?”

Both children gave a glad consent, and away
they went to the garden, stopping at the kitchen,
that Mrs. Nye might get a basket. One side of
the garden was hedged with raspberry-bushes,
which were now covered with the rich ripe ber-
ries, and on the other side clusters of the trans-
parent red and white currants were hanging thickly
from their slender stalks. Mrs. Nye soon had
her basket filled with raspberries, though it is
doubtful whether Charles put quite as many in as
he took out. Mary, however, picked very steadily,
and when they were going in, Mrs. Nye gave her
a handful of the berries. She was quite pleased



THE FARM. 85

at this, for she thought of her Cousin Lucy, who
certainly looked, when they entered the parlour,
as if she needed something to cheer her. Lucy
was yawning, half.asleep, over the pictures in a
Farmer’s Magazine which she had picked up, and
which was the only thing she could find to amuse
her, as her father had not yet returned from his
walk, and her mother was too much occupied with
Emma to unpack her books or toys.

“Here, Cousin Lucy,” exclaimed Mary, pre-
senting her offering as soon as she entered, ‘“ here
are some raspberries.”

“T picked them!” said Charley. ‘Cousin Mary,
and I, and Mrs. Nye picked some too,” he added,
“and I am going to make hay to-morrow. Did
you ever make hay, mother?”

‘No, sir,” said the smiling Mrs. Lovett,
“never.”

“Well, Cousin Mary and I ure going to make
hay to-morrow. I promised Mr. Nye to help him,
and Cousin Mary begged to go too—”

“But you begged to go too, Charley,” said Mary;
“you begged to go before Mr. Nye said anything
about your helping him.”’



86 THE COUSINS.

“Yos, but then he said I might go if I would.
help him, but that girls couldn’t help, because it
would spoil their clothes.”

“But afterward, you know, he said I-might go,
when I told him I didn’t mind about spoiling the
clothes.”

“ But I am‘afraid I must say something against
that ; I doubt whether all the hay you and Charles.
will make will pay for spoiling.your clothes.
However,” added Mrs. Lovett, as she saw. the
blank faces of: the disappointed pair, “‘ we, will
think about that; it will be time enough. to detcr-
mine aoout it to morrow. Let me hear now what
you have seen this afternoon.”

An animated description of Mrs. Nye’s poultry-
yard and garden, and of Farmer Nye’s saw-mill,
followed ;. and do you not. think that Lucy, when
she heard their pleasant account, and saw their
bright faces, and thought of her own sleepy, -
weary afternoon, regretted the foolish pride and
self-conceit which had made her refuse to go out
with Mrs. Nye?

While Mary was yet in the midst of her praises
of good, kind Mrs. Nye and her raspberries,



THE FARM. 87

Charles, who was looking out of a window, cried
out, ‘Oh! see the cow—the beautiful spotted
cow !”

All eyes were attracted to the window, and
there was a very pretty, gentle-looking cow,
walking quietly along the:road towards the house;
and, following her with a switch in her hand,
which, however, she seemed to have no occasion
to use, was a little girl, with just such a calico
bonnet, such a coarse dress, and such stout shoes
as those. worn by Mrs. Nye. The bonnet had
fallen entirely from her head, and hung by ‘its
strings around her neck. On one arm she car-
ried a calico bag, evidently containing books, ‘and
on the'other an empty basket.

“What a pretty little girl!’ said Mrs. Lovett,
as'she saw the glossy, waving brown hair, the
glowing, healthy. complexion, and, what pleased
her most, the frank, smiling expression of her
face.

“That is my daughter Clara, ma’am,” said the
pleased Mrs. Nye, who had heard her through
the open window of the parlour, as ‘she stood in.
the yard below.



88 THE COUSINS.

‘*She seems to have books with her, Mrs. Nye;
has she been to school ?”

“Yes, ma’am, she goes to school every day
except Saturday; and when she is coming home
in the evening, as she passes the pasture, she just
drives the cow along with her, and that puts me
in mind to go and milk the poor thing; she seem-
ed to want it bad enough.” Mrs. Nye turned
away to look for her pails.

“Aunt Lovett, don’t you think Mrs. Nye
would let me go and sce her milking the cow ?”
said Mary.

“Ask her, my dear; there, she is passing the
window.”

Mary looked wishfully at her, but could not
summon courage to call; but Charles cried out
from his window, “Mrs Nye, won’t you let
Cousin Mary and me come with you ?”

“Oh, yes, come along.’

“And Cousin Lucy,” said Mary, looking doubt-
fully at Lucy.

“And sister Lucy too,” sung out Charles to the
now distant Mrs. Nye.

“Yes, oh yes!” was returned; and this time



THE FARM. 89

Lucy was as ready as any to get her bonnet and
run to the orchard, where the cow was quietly
eating hay out of the hand of pretty Clara Nye,
while Mrs. Nye knelt beside her, and drew the
rich, foaming milk into her clean, bright pail.



20 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER VIII.
COUNTRY PLEASURES.

Tun next morning’s sun rose as brightly as even
Farmer Nye could have desired, and long before
Mary and Charles were awake, he and his mea
were in the field cutting the grass with their long
seythes, and laying it down to dry. Charles was
quite vexed when he heard this from Mrs. Nye ;
but she comforted him by saying that they would
all come home to their dinners at twelve o’clock,
and that he could go with them when they re-
turned to their labours. Accordingly, while the
men were dining, Mrs. Nye came to see if the
children would like to go. They might ride to
the field, she said, in the empty cart, which was
going to bring back some hay that had been cured
already. ‘Mr. Nye,” she added, “will drive to



COUNTRY PLEASURES. 91:

the school and take Clara in, and’ they will -have,:
I dare say, quite'a nice time.”’

A shout of delight from Charles, and the be-
seeching looks of Lucy and Mary, seemed ‘to put
any objection from Mr. and: Mrs. Lovett out of
the question ; but they hed no desire to object ;
for Mr. Lovett: thought the ride;to: the field, and)
the sport in the open air, would be: healthy. as
well as pleasant. «The children» read ‘consent: in
hisismiling face‘before he spoke, and, long before
the cart came to the gate, they were on the steps ~
awaiting it. Mr. Lovett said it was quite a treat
to see such joyous faces as theirs were when,
waving their hands to Emma, they drove off.
Not-less joyous was that of Clara Nye, when her
father, having obtained an afternoon’s holiday for
ner from her teacher, lifted her into. the. cart
beside-them.. Lucy was generally more sociable.
with strangers:than Mary, but she was not yet
quite recorciled to Clara’s coarse dress, and she.
remained silent.and reserved. Had. Clara Nye
been coarse and vulgar in her manners, we would
not ‘have blamed Tiucy for this reserve, but she
was a gentle, pleasing, unaffected girl, with a great’



92 THE COUSINS.

deal more true politeness than Lucy’s fashionable
friend, Miss Ann Noel. Mary felt much more
at ease with her than she had done with any
of her cousin’s favourites in New York, who had
never seemed to her children like herself, but
little men and women. Accordingly, Mary began
the conversation with Clara, asking her, ‘‘ Did you
ever see them make hay ?”

“‘Oh, yes, a great many times.”

‘¢ Did you ever help make it?’ asked Charley.

“‘Yes,” said Clara; ‘father, didn’t I help last
year some ?”

“To be sure you did.”

“But didn’t you spoil your clothes? Your
father told my cousin Mary that making hay
would spoil girls’ clothes.”

“Ah! but my girl’s clothes are none of your
flimsy things, like your cousin’s and your sister’s
there; they’re stout, strong clothes, made to wear
in the country,” said Farmer Nye, looking at
Lucy’s and Mary’s muslin dresses as slightingly
as Lucy had done at Clara’s.

They were soon at the hay-field, and for two
hours they ran about in the sweet, balmy air and



COUNTRY PLEASURES. 93

the bright sun as busy as the bees, and as sportive
as the butterflies that flew around them; some-
times turning over the hay, and sometimes over-
turning each other. As no one could be hurt by
a fall on the hay, the overturns only caused 2
laugh. When the cart was loaded with hay,
Farmer Nye sent a man home with it, while he
led the children by what he called a ‘ short cut,”
through a lane, another field, and an orchard,
home. They were quite in time to sce the milk-
ing again.

This had been a very happy day to the whole
party, and we doubt whether Lucy would not
have preferred her ride in the cart, her two
hours’ merry sport in the hay-field, and her walic
home through the flowery lane and orchard, to
being dressed up among a crowd of gay people,
even though she had heard two or three out of
that crowd say, ‘‘ What a pretty girl Lucy Lovett
is ?”

‘When Saturday—Clara’s hclyday—came, Lucy
and Mary were very desirous to know how she
would cmploy her time; so immediately after
breakfast they went in search of her. They



94 THE COUSINS. .

found her churning the butter, and when that
was done, she told them she was going to sew
till dinner-time, and after dinner her mother had
promised to take them all into a wood where
there were a great many blackberries. Nothing
could be more delightful in the children’s eyes,
and back they ran to Mrs. Lovett with the report.
It did not seem to her quite so unobjectionable
as to them. Their clothes, she thought, would
be torn to pieces by the blackberry-briers, and
their thin summer slippers seemed very unsuit-
able for walking in a wood where the ground
could scarceiy fail to be damp.

‘“‘T wish I had some clothes like Clara Nye’s,”
said Mary; ‘her father says her clothes were
made on purpose to wear in the country.’ Lucy
turned away with a pouting lip, thinking, per-
haps, that not even the pleasures of a black-
berry-gathering could repay her for wearing such
clothes.

“That is a very wise wish, Mary,” said Mr.
Lovett; then, turning to his wife, he added, ‘‘ We
should have thought of this before; the country
will be of no service to them unless they can be



COUNTRY PLEASURES. 95

out in the air, and these thin slippers and fine
frocks will scarce endure a day’s walking through
woods, and dusty or muddy roads.”

“T thought so entirely of poor little Emma’s
wants that I quite forgot theirs,” said Mrs. Lovett;
“but, if I could get some strong calico, I could
soon make them each a walking-suit.”’

“‘T dare say I could get some for you at N——,”
said Mr. Lovett, naming the country town near
them. “If Farmer Nye can let me have a horse,
I will try this morning. While I go to ask him,
measure their slippers for me, and I will bring
them each a pair of thick shocs. I can easily be
back to dinner, so cheer up,” putting a hand on
cach little downcast head; “ with your feet well
protected from damp, we must run the risk of
torn dresses for once, and let you go for the black-
berries.”

Mary clapped her hands with pleasure, ex-
claiming, “Thank you, thank you, Uncle Lovett'”
but Lucy remained silent. When her father had
left the room, and her mother asked for her slipper
to measure its length, she said, sulkily, “I don’t

want to wear great coarse shocs like Clara Nve’s.”



96 THE COUSINS.

Mrs. Lovett hesitated a moment, and then said,
“Give me your slipper, Lucy; your father will
get the shoes for you, and then you shall have
your choice between wearing them or staying at
home.”’ Lucy gave her slipper very reluctantly.

Mr. Lovett got the horse and went to N: ,
and returned to dinner, with two pairs of thick
leather boots, some strong calico, and some coarse
linen check, out of which, he said, a sort of carman’s
frock. might be made for Charles, which would
keep his clothes clean when at play out of doors.

As soon as Mary had dined, she was busy with
her shoes, putting in the strings and lacing them
up, talking all the time of pleasant remembrances
of blackberrying in Georgia, and her equally plea-
sant expectations from it here. During all this
time, Lucy sat at the table, looking very uncom-
fortable. She still continued there when Clars
Nye, with her bonnet on and a basket in her hand,
made her appearance at the door, asking if they



were ready.

“T am almost ready, Clara,” said Mary, quickly.
“T have only to put on my bonnet, and to get—
oh! I haven’t any basket.”’



COUNTRY PLEASURES. 97

‘* Never mind that—I’ll lend you a basket; but,
Lucy, are not you going too?”

Lucy looked at her mother and said nothing.
“‘ Answer, my dear,” said Mrs. Lovett; “it de-
yends on yourself: here are your shoes,” holding
them out to her as she spoke.

Lucy hung her head, and her face grew red as she
muttered, “I don’t want to wear those ugly shoes.”

“Then, Lucy, you must stay at home; but think
well of it; your afternoon will be very lonely
when Mary, and Clara, and Charles have all gone.”

Lucy burst into tears. Mary took.the shoes
from her aunt, and, going up to her, said, “‘ Don’t
ery, Cousin Lucy; Tl put the strings in your
shoes, and you can soon be ready; and they are
very nice shoes, indeed, when you get them on:
just look at mine,” and she held out her foot.
But Lucy would not look at anything. She wept
on, and Mr. Lovett, taking the shoes from Mary,
and giving Charles his hat from the shelf, told
them to go. Mary still lingered a moment at the
oor, but Lucy did not move; Clara called to her,
and soon the blackberry-party was out of sight
and hearing.



98 THE COUSINS,

Mary thought sadly at first of Lucy’s loneliness
and vexation, but it:was impossible to think sadly
long on such a bright, beautiful afternoon, with
chirping birds and gay flowers all around her.
When they arrived at the blackberries, the only
thought for some time was whe should first have
a full basket.

They were about haif wa, bome again, when
Mary exclaimed, “Oh, I am 30 glad! there’s
Cousin Lucy.”

She was quite right. Coming towards them
through the winding footpath, hidden every now
and then by the thick green boughs, and again,
as the path turned, standing out clearly: before
them, were Cousin Lucy and Uncle Lovett. As
they drew near, Lucy hung her head. She had
on the thick shoes, and probably thought: they
would remember how unwilling she had been to
wear them. The joyful greeting she received
from the little folks of the party must soon have
put her at ease.

“Mrs. Nye, does this wood belong to Mr. Nye?”
asked Mr. Lovett.

“Yes, sir—at least a part of it does.”



COUNTRY PLEASURES. gO

““You have some fine large trees here, and I
have been thinking that, with his permission, I
would like to put up a swing on one of them for
these young people.”

“To be sure, sir! there’s nothing to hinder you,
if you would like to do it. Nobody likes to see
children happy better than my good man.”

You may believe that few propositions could
have been more popular with the children than
this of a swing in a beautiful shady wood



Full Text







Re AoA.


The Baldwin Library

University
RmB «si
Florida








THE COUSINS.
THE “COUSINS:

A TALE OF EARLY LIFE

BY
MARIA J. M‘INTOSH

AUTHOR OF ‘‘CONQUEST AND SELF-CONQUEST,” ‘‘ PRAISE AND
PRINCIPLE,” ETC,

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE


MISS M‘INTOSH'S

STORIES FOR THE YOUNG.

een Gees

EMILY HERBERT.
ROSE AND LILLIE STANHOPE,
MAGGIE AND EMMA.

THE COUSINS.


PREFACE.

in offering this little volume to the public, the
Author thinks it due to them and herself to state
that it isa child’s book, and nothing more. It
was commenced some years ago, as one of a series
of tales then in course of publication. From
causes wholly unimportant to the public, that
series was discontinued, and this manuscript was
consequently laid aside. It has lately been re-
sumed and completed, and is now presented as
a simple narrative of the events of childhood,
intended to show the beauty and excellence, even
in its earliest dawn upon the soul, of that charity
which “envieth not, vaunteth not itself, is not
puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly.”
CONTENTS.

CLapter Page
I. THE FIRST HOME . : ‘ . 7
Il. THE VOYAGE . 5 3 is Be P40)

III. THE NEW HOME . ; . . 26
Iv. NEW HABITS . ; ° i Dt
¥. THE FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL . ‘ 56
VI. THE VISITORS . ‘ . > «, 69

VII. THE FARM . i , . 3 79

VIII. COUNTRY PLEASURES . 6 . - 90
IX. THE BOWER . . . . . 100
X. VANITY A BAD GUIDE e ° - 108
XI. THE GOOD PHYSICIAN « . . 120

XII. THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL . . - 148

XIII. THE PREMIUM ; e ° e 163

XLV. CHRISTMAS EVE . e e - 188
THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER I.
MARY’S FIRST HOME.

Many Mowsray and Lucy Lovett were cousins,
They had often heard of each other, and Cousin
Lucy and Cousin Mary had been-familiar words
with them as soon as they could speak; yet they
never met till they were more than nine ycars
old. Mr. Mowbray, the father of Mary, was a
native of the State of Georgia; and though he
was educated at a Northern college, and married
a Northern lady—the sister of Lucy’s father, Mr.
Lovett—he returned, after his marriage, to his
own home, and there, in Georgia, was Mary
Mowbray born, and there did she spend the first
nine years of her life: and that first home Mary
8 VHE CUUSINS.

still loves better than any other place in the
world, and nothing pleases her more than to sit
down of an evening, and talk over with some
friend all its delights. Mary lives now with her
Uncle ard Aunt Lovett in New York, and she
always begins her description of her childhood’s
home by saying that the house was not at all like
New-York houses. ‘It was not built,” she says,
“of brick or stone, but of wood.” She calls the
houses in New-York one-sided, because they have
rooms, generally, only on one side of the hall or
entrance, while her father’s house had rooms on
both sides—large rooms, and several of them, so
that it covered more than twice as much ground
as most of the houses in New-York do. There
were no marble mantle-pieces in it, she confesses,
nor shining black grates; but, then, she adds, the
fireplaces were not such little things, casting, as
she speaks, a somewhat contemptuous glance at
her uncle’s. They were wide and high, and
when a fire was needed in them, which was not
often, it was not made of little picces of black
coal, but of great logs of oak wood and sticks of
pitch pine, or, as Mary calls it, light wood, which
MARY'S FIRST HOME. 9

made such a bright, cheerful blaze, that children
might play by it a whole winter’s evening with-
out thinking of a candle or lamp. But these were
only the smallest part of the pleasures of that dear
home. Its greatest enjoyments were not to be
found within doors. These were in standing,
guarded by her ‘‘ Maumer,” as she still calls her
black nurse, on the river’s edge, to see her father’s
fisherman paddle out in his canoe and throw his
lines for fish, or, in the still evening, as the boat
glided noiselessly along, cast his net for shrimp or
prawn, or in long rambles through the fields and
along roads bordered on each side by woods; and
sometimes she was allowed to extend her rambles
into these woods in search of jessamines, in the
early spring, and of blackberries and whortle-
berries in summer. And oh, the beauty and the
fragrance of those woods! I have been almost
tempted myself to spend one winter, at least, in
that far Southern land, when I have heard Mary
describe them, with their clumps of honey-suckle,
their wreaths of yellow jessamine twining from
tree to tree, the white fringe-tree waving its long
snowy tendrils over the crimson flowers of the
10 THE COUSINS.

red-bud, and the myrtles, and the bays, and the
laurels, and the wild orange, and the wild olive,
and the spring violets, and—and—a thousand
others, whose names I cannot pretend to remem-
ber, but which Mary rattles off, mingling trees,
and shrubs, and vines, and plants in most bewil-
dering confusion. Then, when she leaves the
woods and comes home again, it is to tell you of
the orange-groves, which often showed the golden
fruit of the last year and the white flowers of this
gleaming together from its polished dark-green
leaves, and of the birds—the red-bird, with its
one clear, sweet note—the black-bird, with his
merry whistle, and the mocking-bird, that prince
of songsters. ‘Not one poor bird shut up in a
cage,” she says—and here she is apt to cast the
same glance at her aunt’s birdcage which she had
given to her uncle’s fireplace—‘“ but dozens of
them flying from bough to bough, and tree to
tree, and singing so joyously—just as if they
were so happy that they could not help it.”

But Mary had remembrances of her home which
touched me more than all these things. She told
of her mother’s reading and praying by the bed-
MARY'S FIRST HOME. 11

side of the sick and dying negro; of her taking
Mary with her on Sunday to the house which the
negroes called their ‘“‘ Prayer House,” and gather-
ing the children of her husband’s plantation there,
to teach them hymns and Scripture texts, and to
pray with them. Once, when describing these
scenes, Mary dropped her head on her aunt’s lap
and burst into tears. It was long before she
could explain why she wept. At length she
said that it was because she remembered waking
in the night and hearing some one whispering by
the side of her little crib; that she was frightened
at first, till, opening her eyes, she saw, by the
shaded night-lamp, that it was her own dear
mother kneeling down and praying softly for
her. Do you not pity Mary for having so kind
and tender a mother taken away from her?

Mrs. Mowbray was ill for many weeks before
her death. She knew she would never be well
again, ahd, though satisfied that this was right
and best for her, since her heavenly Father or-
dered it, there was one earthly care of which she
could not quite free herself. This care was for
Mary. Mr. Mowbray was a very tender and in-
12 THE COUSINS.

dulgent father, but he could scarcely be expected
to devote himself to the education of a little girl
as a mother would have done. Mr. Mowbray had
neither mother nor sister to whose charge the
motherless Mary might be confided, and he rejoiced
almost as much as his wife did, when her brother.
Mr. Lovett, having received intelligence of her ex-
treme and hopeless illness, came to visit her, and
begged that he might be permitted to take his niece
home with him. In Mrs. Lovett they both knew
that Mary would find a devoted an1 conscientious
friend.

Had this plan been communicated to Mary
under any ordinary cireumstanres, she would pro-
bably have refused her consent to it; but when
her mother, in a still, darkened chamber, propped
up in bed by pillows, called her to her side, and
in a low, husky voice told her that God, who had
given her a kind mother so long, was about to
take her to Himself; that she was to go home with
her Uncle Lovett, in order that her Aunt Lovett
might take the place to her of this dear lost
mother, and charged her to love and honour this
good uncle and aunt, and always to remember
MARY’S FIRST HOME. 13

that their wishes were the wishes of her own
mother, Mary was awed, and had no power nor
wish to object to anything. She could only weep
in anguish over the thought of parting for ever
with her from whom she had never parted, even
for a few hours, without tears. The promises
which Mary made then to her mother could not
be easily forgotten. Till this time, being shy and
timid in her disposition, and having seen little of
her uncle, she had been very reserved in her man-
ner to him; but after this she would sit on his
knee and hang around his neck as lovingly as if
he were her father; and soon after her mother’s
death she gave avery strong proof of her readiness
to be controlled by his wishes.

We have spoken of Mary’s Maumer. This was
a negro woman, who had nursed and attended on
her always from her birth, and as she was kind
and affectionate, Mary had become very much
attached to her, and Mr. Mowbray had intended
to send her to her uncle’s house with her, but to
this Mr. Lovett objected. ‘She is a very good
woman,” he said, ‘‘and takes great care of Mary
—too great care, for she is now old encugh to
14 THE COUSINS.

take care of herself; in my house she will not
need a nurse: but this is not all. In Mary’s new
home she must learn many new habits and un-
learn many old ones. This cannot be always
pleasing to her, and her nurse, being too ignorant
to understand my reasons, would listen to her
complaints, increase her dissatisfaction, and, per-
haps, often teach her to evade my wishes. You
can see how much more difficult this would make
the task of her improvement both to her and to
me.”

Mr. Mowbray acknowledged the truth of this
statement; yet he was so unaccustomed to deny
any of Mary’s wishes, that he could not bear to
disappoint her, and Mr. Lovett found that Mary’s
cheerful compliance was necessary to the accom-
plishment of his design. Calling her to him, he
placed her on his knee, and said, ‘‘ You told me
the other day you loved me. Now I want to know
what you meant by loving me—how you feel to-
wards a person that you love?”

Mary hesitated a moment, and then, throwing
her arms around his neck and kissing him, said,
“T feel so.”
MARY’S FIRST HOME. 15

“ That is very pleasant now, but I might be ill
—so ill that even to touch me would give me
pain; you would not kiss me then, but you would
still love me, would you not?”

“Yes.”

“And how would you prove that you loved
me?”

After a little thought, Mary answered, “By
doing whatever you told me to do.”

“Very good! And you would do this, not be-
cause you were afraid of me, but because you liked
to do it—because you wished to give me pleasure
—to make me happy. Is it not so?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have found out that to love a person
is to wish to make them happy. Do you believe
that I love you ?”

“ Yes.”

“Then you believe that I wish to make you
happy; and if I should ask anything unpleasant
from you, you would know that I had some good
reason for it, for I could not love you and yet
desire to make you uncomfortable; and now I am
going to ask you to show your love for me by
16 THE COUSINS.

giving up a great pleasure to gratify me. I can-
not very well explain to you my reasons for asking
this; yet, while you believe that I love you, you
must know that they are good reasons. Whom
would you like, most of all, to have go home with
us 2”

“Father !’ said Mary, looking smilingly around
at Mr. Mowbray, who sat silent, but attentive, in
the same room.

‘Ah! but you know that father cannot go, so
that is a pleasure I cannot ask you to give up;
but whom, next to father, would you most de-
sire >”

‘*Maumer.”

“T thought so; and now I wish you to leave
Maumer. Do you love me well enough to gratify
me in this?”

There were a few minutes of silence, during
which Mary sat with a downcast face, her lip
quivering, and her bosom heaving with scarce-
suppressed sobs. At length Mr. Lovett said,
“Speak, Mary ! remember, I only ask this—I do
not command it. Shall Maumer go or stay?”

Mary looked up in his face, and said, with a
MARY'S FIRST HOME. 1%

?

great effort, ‘She must stay;” and, unable longer
to control herself, dropped her head upon his bo-
som, and sobbed convulsively.

“ Lovett!’ said Mr. Mowbray, “I cannot in-
flict such suffering on my child. Your family are
all strangers to her, and she was always fearful
of strangers; her nurse had better go with her.”

Mr. Lovett caressed Mary tenderly and sooth-
ingly, while he replied to this: ‘I know it must
be severe suffering to Mary to part with an old
friend, and such a kind friend as her Maumer, and
I love her too well to inflict such suffering on her
for any slight cause. Even now, important as my
reasons are, if Mary finds it too difficult to grant
my request, I will not urge it.”

Mr. Mowbray took Mary from her uncle’s knee
into his own arms, and said, ‘You hear what
your uncle says, my daughter; nurse shall go if
you wish it.”

“No, papa, I don’t want her to go now.”

Mr. Mowbray was afraid that there was a little
anger about this decision, and that when it passed
away, Mary would repent. He was, therefore,

anxious to learn her reason for it, and asked her
B
18 THE COUSINS:

earnestly, “Why not—why do you not want her
now to go?”

‘Because I know that poor mamma doesn’t
wish her to go,” whispered Mary, leaning her
head on her father’s shoulder.

Surprised and overcome by this unexpected
mention of his wife, Mr. Mowbray could not
speak for a few seconds. When he could com-
mand himself sufficiently, he asked gently, “‘ How
can you tell, dear Mary, what mamma wishes
about this; she never spoke to you of it, did
she?”

“No; but you know she said that Uncle Lo-
yett’s wishes were her wishes too.”’

A fervent embrace was the only answer which
Mr. Mowbray could make to his child, but Uncle
Lovett praised her, and called her his good child;
and, soothed and comforted, Mary went almost
cheerfully to communicate to her nurse the new
arrangement. To reconcile her to this arrange-
ment was quite impossible. By turns she wept
over Mary and railed against Mr. Lovett, saying
often, ‘“‘T tink he is a bery hard case, dat de poor
child must go to strange people, and not eben hab
MARY’S FIRST HOME. 19

poor Maumer wid ’em to see if dey treat ’em good
_or bad.”

Mr. Lovett was very indulgent to the old wo-
man’s expression of her feelings, for he knew that
parting with Mary was a severe trial to her, and
that she could not understand his motives; but
her intemperate language showed Mr. Mowbray
- how correct Mr. Lovett’s views had been, since
every unpleasant task imposed upon Mary during
the course of her education would: probably have
excited her anger against those who were her
directors.
20 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER 1
THE VOYAGE.

Mr. Loverr and Mary came by sea to New York.
It was January, but the weather was mild for the
season, and very calm, so that, though their voy-
age was long, it was not unpleasant. They spent
twelve days on board the ship. Mary was sea-
sick only for a few hours, during which her Uncle
Lovett nursed her as tenderly as her Maumer, or
even her mother, could have done. He carried
her on deck in his arms, told her stories of her
cousins Lucy, and Charles, and Emma, and read
to her from some little books which her father
had bought for her in Savannah. “When she be-
came sufficiently accustomed to the motion of the
ship to stand alone, and walk on the deck, he had
many a romp with her there. He was on the
THE VOYACR 21

watch, too, for all the wonders of the sea, that he
might show them to her. When a dolphin was
caught, he ran down stairs and brought her up
quickly, that she might see the beautiful colours
of the dying fish. He pointed out to her, ata
distance, a jet of water spouting up from the calm
sea, and told her it was thrown out from the nos-
trils of the small species of whale called the
Grampus.. But the most interesting to Mary of
all she saw at sea were the little birds, which the
sailors told her were called Mother Carey’s chick-
ens. She was never weary of watching them, as
they rested for a moment lightly on the crest of
one wave, and then flew off to another. She
pitied as much as she wondercd at them, and,
though assured that this was their native home,
she could not but think that they would be much
more comfortable on shore, fed and housed as her
pet pigeons were, or flying among the woods, and
gathering their food in the fields of her home.

As they approached the shore, there were other
objects which interested and surprised Mary. It
was quite early when, to speak as sailors do,
“they made Sandy Hook,” which is tke first point
22 THE COUSINS.

of land you pass in coming from the sea to New
York. Early as it was, Mr. Lovett, who wished
Mary to see the light-house, while its light still
beamed upon the water, like a large and brilliant
star, wrapped her up warmly and took her on
deck with him. It wasa cold day, and the air
had a sharp, cutting feeling, which Mary had
never experienced before. It made the tears
come in her eyes, but she had too much curiosity
about the land they were approaching, and which
it would soon be light enough for her to see dis-
tinctly, to be willing to leave the deck. Mr. Lo-
vett gathered together all the blankets, and cloaks,
and shawls he could, and, getting a little nook
for her, sheltered from the wind by the bales of
cotton with which the vessel was freighted, he
suffered her to stay with him.

As the light from the light-house grew dim,
what had seemed to Mary to be great clouds
lying along the edge of the sky, so low that they
touched the water, became more distinct in form
and colour. They were the hills of Neversink,
in New Jersey. Mary, who had lived always in
a level country, and who had never seen a hill of
THE VOYAGE. 23

half the height of these, clapped her hands, and
cried, ‘Oh! Uncle Lovett, see the mountains—
the mountains !”

Uncle Lovett smiled, but he did not undeceive
Mary; for he said to himself, ‘‘When she sees a
mountain, she will readily enough perceive the
difference.”

The wind was fair and the vessel sailed fast,
so that they soon came to that part of the bay
called the Narrows. Hitherto they had only had
land on one side of the vessel, but now Long
Island was on one side and Staten Island on the
other. Mary knew very little of Long Island.
Mr. Lovett only raised her up once to see that it
was there, and then covered her up again in her
sheltered nook, from which she could only see
the shore of Staten Island. There had been a
great deal of snow, and the whole country was
white with it.

“Uncle Lovett,” said Mary, who had never
seen snow, which rarely falls in Georgia, ‘do
they never have any grass here, and is the sand
always so white?”

Mr. Lovett made her observe that what she
24 THE COUSINS.

thought was sand was on the trees and houses as
well as on the ground, and then he told her it
was snow, and related some pleasant stories of
his snow-balling, and making snow men and
snow houses, when he was a little boy. There is
a telegraph on Staten Island, and when they
passed it, her uncle showed Mary how its great
arms were moving about, and explained to her
that the signs which were thus made were care-
fully observed in New York, and conveyed the
intelligence there that a ship was coming up, and
even what ship it was.

You will readily believe that, with observing
all these things, and watching: the vessels going
and coming, which seemed to her very numerous,
though they were fewer than there would have
been in a summer’s day, Mary did not find her
sail from Sandy Hook to the city tedious. But
from the time that the steeples of New York
became visible, Mary could see nothing but them,
and think of nothing but her new home, and
the unknown aunt and cousins who were to
welcome her to it. I am sure that all my readers
who may have been obliged to leave their own
THE VOYAGE. 25

dear homes, and their fathers and mothers, to go
among strangers, will feel for Mary, and will
desire to know something about this home, and
the reception she was likely to meet at it. We
will, therefore, leave Uncle Lovett to get a car-
riage, and to see his and Mary’s trunks put on it,
and to lift Mary into it, and, following her him-
self, to drive to No. 96
part of the city, where we will go before him,
and take a peep at the house, and at Aunt Lovett
and the children.



street, in the upper
26 THE SOUSINS

CHAPTER 111.
THE NEW HOME.

THe house does not seem very large, but the
steps, or, as we must say, now that we are in
New York, ‘the stoop,” looks very nice and tidy.
The door is quite clean, and the knobs of the
lock are as bright as silver. Now we will go
within the house. You need not take hold of
the bell-handle: I can take you in without ring-
ing. Now wearein. The hall is not very wide,
but the floorcloth which covers it is spotlessly
clean; and as we look up the stairs, the brass
rods which confine the carpet shine as if they
had just been cleaned. The parlour doors are
open. There is no fire to be seen in either of
the grates, yet the rooms are warm, though the
air was so frosty out of doors. Ah! I see now
THE NEW HOME. 27

what makes them warm: there stands the drum
—there must be a stove in the hall below. Al
this will be quite new to Mary. It would be
long before she would suspect, if not told, in
seeing that bronzed-looking statue standing on a
square pedestal, and having an arch over it, that
statue, and pedestal, and arch were all hollow,
and that the heated air from the stove below
ascended into them, and was distributed from
them through these upper rooms. But there
seem to be persons speaking below us: let us
go down.

Now we are in the basement, and is it not a
pleasant room, with the sun shining so brightly
on the windows, whose white muslin curtains
shade, but do not shut out, his rays? The canary
and mocking-bird do not want any shade, and so
they are hung inside the curtains; and how they
twitter and jump from side to side of their
perches, as if they longed to get out and have
more of the golden light. There is a little fire
in the grate, not because it is needed, however,
for the door is open, and there in the hall stands’
the Nott stove. Most people have some whims,
28 THE COUSINS.

and it is one of Uncle Lovett’s few whims that
he cannot feel warm unless he sees the fire.
Aunt Lovett delights to gratify even his whims,
and so she always keeps a little fire in this room
when he is at home, and she has had it made
here for several days past, with the hope that he
would come before night to enjoy it. And there
sits Aunt Lovett herself, with her foot on the
cradle, in which little Emma, a baby of only
eight months old, lies sleeping. She is teaching
Charles, a boy of four years old, to spell, and
is, at the same time, sewing on a dress which
seems to be intended for a little girl, probably
for Lucy, who sits beside her, busy, too, with
her needle. But Charles has done his lesson,
and, as he goes to put his book away, Lucy drops
her work to talk a little.

‘Mamma, I wonder if they will come to-
day?”

“‘T hope so, Lucy, but they will certainly not
come any sooner for your laying your work aside,
Remember, that skirt must be finished to-day.”

Lucy measures the skirt to see how much she
has done, and discovering that more than half yet
THE NEW HOME. 29

remains unhemmed, she sews very industriously
for several minutes; then the needle is held
suspended while she asks, ‘‘Mamma, did you
not say that Cousin Mary had never been to
school ?””

“Yes, Lucy, I did; and I told you so that,
should you find. your cousin less advanced in her
education than yourself, you should not consider
it as a proof that she was less capable, but only
as a reason for being more indulgent to her,
and for endeavouring to help her forward in her
lessons.”

A few minutes more of silence succeeded, and
then Lucy says, ‘“‘ Mamma, I had one hundred
and twenty credit marks for good lessons, and
seventy-three for punctual attendance, the last
quarter.”

“The credit marks for punctual attendance,
Lucy,” answers her mother, “‘ should have been
given, I think, to your father and me, for making
you get up often against your will, and hurrying
you to school.”

But a carriage drives to the door. Charles,
who has been looking out of the window, claps
30 THE COUSINS.

his hands, and cries ‘Papa, papa!’’ Mrs. Lovett
starts up. Lucy. drops her work and dances
about, and the baby, awoke by the bustle, holds
out her dimpled hands to be taken up, and laughs
aloud at the antics of Charles and Lucy, doubtless
supposing them to be enacted solely for her amuse-
ment,

Mr. Lovett came at once to the basement with
Mary. His wife and children crowded around
him to give him their welcome home. As soon
as he had returned their affectionate greetings, he
presented his companion to them, saying to Mrs.
Lovett, “1 have brought you another daughter:
this is our little Mary.

To Mary he said, ‘‘Here are Cousin Lucy and
Cousin Charles, Mary. I hope you will all love
each other very much, and be very happy toge-
ther.”

“T love Cousin Mary,”’ cried Charles, hugging
and kissing her with such earnestness that he
almost threw her down. Lucy kissed her too,
but more quietly; and even Emma, whom her
father had taken from the cradle, seemed, by her
laughter, and her soft toncs, to invite the stranger
THE NEW HOME. 31

to be sociable; but Mary could not so soon be
sociable. She had never been more than a few
miles from her father’s house before, and every-
thing here seemed so strange and so new to her,
that she felt her distance from home and the
change in her condition far more than she had
done when on the wide sea, with no companion
but her uncle. Then her uncle had talked to her
about being soon at home, but now they were at
his home, and Mary thought it could never be
home to her. Her lip began to quiver, and the
tears rushed into her eyes. She remembered
her Maumer, and thought if she had been there,
how she would have thrown herself into her arms
and sobbed out all her sorrows.

Mrs. Lovett saw something of Mary’s feelings,
and thought them very natural. She pitied the
poor motherless child, thus sent away from all
she had ever known, and seating herself, she
drew Mary affectionately to ber, and, placing her
on her lap, said, ‘‘Come sere, my dear little
girl, let me take off your wrappings, and warm
your hands by this fire. You must be very
cold.” Her veice was so soft and gentle that
82 THE COUSINS.

Mary gained courage to look up in her face. Mrs,
Lovett was quite touched by the anxious, be-
seeching expression of Mary’s eyes, and, bending
her head down to hide her own tears, she pressed
her lips tenderly on her forehead. But Mary had
seen those tears, and, feeling at once that she had
found a friend, she dropped her head on her aunt’s
bosom, and wept there as confidingly as she could
have done in her Maumer’s arms. Mrs. Lovett
did not ask Mary what she was crying for, or tell
her that she must not cry, but she soothed and
caressed her, parting her hair from her forehead,
and calling her her dear little girl, till the sobs
began to die away. Then she asked her some
questions about her voyage—such questions as
only required yes or no for an answer; and Mr.
Lovett, taking Charles on one knee—J’mma was
already on the other—told him of the dolphin,
and the Grampus, and Mother Carey’s chickens,
and of what Cousin Mary thought and said when
she saw them, till Mary became interested too,
and sat upon her aunt’s lap, and listened, and
smiled, and was comforted.

For some time there was no work and no study
THE NEW HOME. 33

for Charles and Lucy; but after dinner, which
was served at two o'clock, Mrs. Lovett said,
“Come, Lucy, your skirt must be finished: two
hours’ steady work will complete it, and then you
can get your tea-set, and the cook shall bake you
some little cakes, and your cousin and you may
have a tea-party.”

Lucy did not like the beginning of this sentence,
but towards the last of it her eyes sparkled, and
she cried joyfully, ‘“‘Oh, thank you, mamma!”
and was seated at her work in a minute. For an
hour her needle went quite fast, and she lost no
time, except now and then a very little in mea-
suring how much she had done. During this
hour Charles had said another lesson to his mother
had talked to Mary, and romped with Emma, who
was creeping about the floor. Mary had played
with Emma, and made acquaintance with the
mocking-bird and the canary, and pulled off the
only rose on Mrs. Lovett’s pet rose-bush, which
seemed a very trifling affair to her, who had been
accustomed to see perfect trees of the same rose
blooming all winter in the open air.

As the afternoon wore away, Lucy began to

c
84 THE COUSINS.

look at the windows, as if she feared the daylight
would be gone before her task was done, and |
Mary to watch the progress of the work with a
doubt whether there was much prospect of an
snjoyment which depended on its completion.
At length Mary drew near her cousin, and in-
quired, ‘Is it ’most done?”

“Almost done!’ exclaimed Lucy, correcting
her cousin’s ’most, without, perhaps, observing it.
“¢ Almost done! no, indeed! I wish it were.”

**Sew more and measure less, Lucy, and it
soon will be,"’ said Mrs. Lovett, gently.

“Can you hem, Cousin Mary?” asked Lucy,
after a few minutes’ silent application to the
necdle.

“Oh! yes.”

Now those who remember that Mary had been
accustomed to ramble in the woods, and watch
the fishermen, and that she was her father’s petted
plaything, will easily believe that she had not
spent much time in sewing, yet she was quite
right in saying that she could hem. Mrs. Mow-
bray had taught her daughter to sew very neatly,
though she could not induce her to do much of it
THE NEW HONE, 36

inaday. To hem around the skirt of a dress
would have seemed to Mary like sailing around
the world, the hemming one side of a pocket
handkerchief in a day having been the greatest
feat she had ever performed with the needle.

“T wish Harriet Freeman were here!” said
Lucy. She paused awhile, expecting to be asked
why she wished it; but as no one thought of this,
she added, ‘‘She is so good—she would help me
directly.”

Mary was too quick of understanding not to
read this hint as it was intended, and she replied,
“Tf I had a thimble I would help you.”

“T can lend you a thimble. Mamma, Cousin
Mary wants to help me; can’t she have my gold
thimble just this afternoon ?’’

“Tf she wishes to help you, certainly. Do you
wish it, my dear?’”? asked Mrs. Lovett, who had
been engaged with the baby, and had not heard
the previous conversation between the cousins.

There was some charm in sewing, for the first
time in her life, with a gold thimble, and Mary
answered ‘‘ Yes, ma’am,”’ more readily than Lucy,
perhaps, expected. The thimble—a birthday pre-

c2
36 THE COUSINS.

sent to Lucy from her grandmother—was produced,
and Mary threaded her needle.

“Shall I give you half to do?” asked
Lucy.

Mary looked frightened, for half of what was
yet to be done on the skirt seemed to her a great
deal. Mrs. Lovett marked the expression of her
face, and said, “Oh! no, Lucy, a quarter of it
will help you very much; besides, you could not
get along so well with your cousin Werking so
near to you.”

A quarter was marked, and Mary’s labours
began. She was really desirous to sew very fast,
both from a good-natured wish to help her cousin,

and for her own credit’s sake; but steady appli-

cation to anything is not easy for one who has
becn accustomed only to amuse herself, and before
Mary’s one quarter was finished, Lucy exclaimed,
‘‘T have done!” then, looking over Mary, she
added, “Oh, dear me! why, you have almost a
finger to do yet!”

“JT will do that,” said Mrs. Lovett kindly,
taking the work from Mary’s hand. After ex-
amining the sewing, she added, “your Cousin
THE NEW HOME. oT

Mary’s work is much better than yours, Lucy.
It is ve1.7 neat, indeed.”’

“But 1 did mine more than three times as fast.
I think hers ought to be best.”

There was a little roughness in Lucy’s manner,
as if she was vexed at her mother’s praise of her
cousin. Mrs. Lovett took no notice of it, except
by looking steadily at her for a moment, which
Lucy understood as a reproof, for she hung her
head, and looked ashamed. It was in a somewhat
diffident tone that she asked, a few minutes after,
‘Mamma, may we have our tea-party now ?””

She was reassured by her mother’s cheerful
reply, ‘Certainly; you and your cousin can set
out your table in this corner, where you will be
out of the way, and lay your cloth on it, while I
get your cups, and saucers, and plates down from
the shelf.”

In a moment the little folks were all in motion.
The table was soon arranged ; the tea-set, washed
by Mrs. Lovett herself, was put upon it; the
servant brought in the cakes which the cook had
made for them; and when Mr. Lovett returned
from a visit he had been making, he found Mary,
38 THE COUSLNS.

and Lucy, and Charles, and Lucy’s doll seated at
table. He placed a chair for himself at one cor-
ner of the table, and ate a cake, and drank a cup
of tea with them, declaring both to be excellent.
The party went on very merrily, till Charles,
having helped himself to butter with his own
knife, Lucy scized his arm, exclaiming, “‘ Why,
Charles, don’t you know that it is very rude to
put your own knife in the butter?” Poor Charles,
who had been playing the gentleman of the
party to his own perfect satisfaction, hung his
head, and Icoked quite abashed. Nor was he the
only person made to feel unpleasantly by Lucy’s
ill-timed repreof. Mary’s knife, too, had been in
the butter, and she feared that Lucy had seen it,
and intended her observations for her as well as
for Charles. This was a mistake. Lucy knew
nothing of Mary’s misdemeanour. Indeed, her
rebuke to Charles was chiefly intended to display,
to her newly-arrived cousin, her acquaintance
with the rules of conduct observed among polite
persons, and she was sincerely grieved at the
evident gloom her lesson had cast over the party.
““My daughter,” said Mr. Lovett, “Charles
THE NEW HOME. 39

was certainly wrong to put his knife in the but-
ter; but Charley,” placing his hand affectionately
on the little boy’s head as he spoke, ‘‘has not
been much in society; he will know better one
of these days.” Charles was consoled, and re-
turned his father’s kind’ glance with a bright,
happy smile. Mr. Lovett continued: ‘If Charles
was wrong in what he did, you were far more
wrong in your manner of correcting him. Re-
member, after this, Lucy, that love is the best of
all teachers, and anger the worst.”

It was now Lucy’s turn to feel abashed, but
Mr. Lovett practised his own rule, and did not
long allow his daughter to think him angry with
her. His kind and pleasant manner soon dis-
persed the little cloud, and the remainder of the
evening passed away cheerfully. At nine o'clock

Lucy and Mary went up stairs to a small room
"beside Mr. and Mrs. Lovett’s, in which they were
to sleep together.

Both of these little girls had been taught al-
ways, before they lay down to sleep, to remember
their Father in heaven, and to ask His pardon for
the faults of the day, and His kind care through
40 THE COUSINS.

the night. As Mary whispered, in low, soft
tones, her simple prayer on this first evening in
her new home, she felt that the words, “I pray
God to bless my uncle, and aunt, and cousins,”
which she had learned from her mother, and had
repeated every evening from her infancy, had new
meaning in them. It was for the first time a
real prayer, for there was love in it.
OVELTTES. 41

CHAPTER IV.
NOVELTIES.

Tux next morning, when there was just daylight
enough to show distinctly the objects in the room
in which Mary and Lucy slept, Mrs. Lovett stood
by their bedside.

“Lucy, get up, my child! get up, or you will
not have time to put your room in order before
breakfast.”

‘Oh, mamma, it’s so soon!” and Lucy rubbed
her eyes, and made a vain attempt to open them.

“‘T have been out of bed for an hour, Lucy.
Come, I will help you up.” And Mrs. Lovett
lifted her daughter playfully from the bed, and
placed her on the floor.

Mary slept on without stirring. Mrs. Lovett
leaned over her, intending to awake her, but re-
42 THE COUSINS.

membering her voyage, and remarking the depth
of her slumbers, she said, ‘‘I will not awake your
cousin yet, Lucy ; she is probably fatigued by her
voyage. Let her sleep till you are ready to make
the bed, and then call her.”

Mrs. Lovett turned from the bed, but before
she reached the door, Lucy said, sulkily, “‘ Mam-
ma, must I make the bed for Cousin Mary every
day ?”

“No, Lucy, you must make it for yourself;
and if you do not wish your cousin to sleep with
you, she shall have another room, and I will make
her bed.”

Lucy looked ashamed, yet her ill-humour was
not conquered, for she still muttered, as. if speak-
ing to herself, “I don’t see why Cousin Mary
can’t make a bed as well as I!”

“Lucy !” said Mrs. Lovett, “you grieve me by
such selfishness! When you wept for the death
of your cousin’s mother, and hoped .your papa
would bring her home, I. hoped you would take
pleasure in being kind to her, and that you would
be willing to do for her a far greater service than
allowing her to sleep in your bed after you had
NOVELTLES. 43

made it.” Mrs. Lovett paused, but, as Lucy did
not reply, she resumed—“I wish your cousin’s
new home to be pleasant to her; yet much of the
attendance, and many of the indulgences to which
she has been accustomed, she cannot have here.
She will not be less happy—nay, I think she will
be more happy for this, if ‘she sces that we love
her, and strive, by our attentions, to prevent her
missing them. This kindness on our part will
make her love us too, and learn our habits, in
order that she may help us; so that on both sides
the labours will be from love, which makes ali
labour light.”

At. this moment Mary moved, and half opening
her eyes, and, perhaps, seeing Mrs. Lovett dimly,
said, ‘Mother!’ Lucy’s heart was touched ;
the love which her mother’s words had failed to
awaken stirred within her, and she said, ‘‘ Do not
get up yet, cousin; the room will be warmer pre-
sently, and I will call you in time.”

When Mary did get up, Lucy assisted her very
cheerfully in dressing herself. She then une
covered the bed, and rang the bell for the servant.
Jane, the servant, came in, and, turning over the
44 THE COUSINS.

bed, arranged it for the clothes, which, after she
had gone out again, Lucy spread upon it very
carefully, walking around the bed several times
to be sure that they did not hang lower on one
side than on the other. She had not yet disposed
the heavy quilt to her perfect satisfaction, when
Mrs. Lovett again entered. Both Mary and Lucy
had thick and curling hair, and, as they could not
well comb and brush it themselves, Mrs. Lovett
had come to do it for them. As soon as she had
finished doing this, they went with her, first into
her own room for Emma, and then down into the
basement, where Mr. Lovett was seated, with a
Bible and hymn-book on the table beside him.
Charles called the cook and Jane, and when all
were seated, Mr. Lovett read two verses of a
hymn. Mrs. Lovett, Lucy, and the servants had
each a hymn-book. Charley looked on his mo-
ther’s book, though we doubt whether he could
vead many of the words correctly, and Lucy,
having found the hymn, held her book so that her
cousin could sing with her. After the hymn, Mr.
Lovett read a part of a chapter in the New Testa-
ment, and then, knecling down, he thanked God
NOVELTIES. 45

for his care of them all during the night, and
prayed him to bless and be good to them through
the day. There was nothing strange to Mary in
this mode of beginning the day, for her father had
been accustomed to do the same.

After breakfast Mr. Lovett went out. He was
a lawyer, and when he was in New York, gene-
rally passed the whole day at his office in Wall-
street. Mrs. Lovett, when the breakfast-table
had been put away, was for some time engaged in
the kitchen, and, during her absence, Lucy and
Charles devoted themselves to the amusement of
Emma, who was seated in the cradle. A ‘‘mau-
mer” for Emma seemed to Mary a great want in
her .uncle’s household, and she proposed to her
aunt to send to Georgia for one; but Mrs. Lovett
assured her it was not requisite, as Emma was not
accustomed to be cari 2d in the arms in the house,
and when she was uoroad Jane always carried
her.

About twelve o’clock, when the air was warm-
est and the sun brightest, Mrs. Lovett sent Emma
out with Jane, and she went out with Charles,
and Lucy, and Mary. They walked first round 4
46 THE COUSINS.

large enclosure, planted with trees and laid out in
plots, which Lucy told her cousin were covered
with grass in summer. They were now white
with snow. This enclosure was called Washington
Park. They then passed into Broadway. Mary
had never seen so many houses in all her life to-
gether as she saw on that morning, nor dreamed
of so many people as were hurrying through
Broadway. She asked her aunt who each person
was that passed them at first, but she soon found,
to her surprise, that of most of them Mrs. Lovett
knew as little as herself.

We have not time to tell you of all the novelties
which Mary found in her present abode. She
goon, as her Aunt Lovett had predicted, began to
do many things she had never done before, in
order to help her kind friends; and, as the exercise
of grateful and affectionate feelings is always
pleasant, Mary became industrious, and acquired
habits of regular employment without any dis-
agreeable constraint.

Mary and Lucy often surprised each other by
their different modes of speaking. That Mary
used many very singular expressions cannot be
NOVELTIES. 47

. denied ; nor will it seem very wonderful, if it be
remembered that she had passed much of her time
with her “ Maumer,” and been surrounded, at
the period when she was learning to talk, with
untaught negroes. But, had Lucy been as clear-
sighted to her own faults as to those of others,
she would not have assumed so arrogant an air of
superiority to Mary on this subject, for she was
not herself free from inaccuracies of language, as
will be proved by the anecdote we are about to
relate.

Charles was one morning busily engaged in
making a kite, in which employment he scattered
papers and twine about the room, with little re-
gard to the fact that his sister had just been. put-
ting it in order by their mother’s wish.

“Charles!” exclaimed Lucy, angrily, ‘what
is the use of my putting the parlour in order, if
you will make such a muss 2”

“A muss!’ thought Mary, who was present;
“what can that be?’ Mouse came nearer the
word than any other she had ever heard, and she
supposed that. Charles must be cutting a paper

mouse. Still she was not quite satisfied with this
48 THE COUSINS.

idea, and she would have addressed her question
to Lucy, had she not feared to excite that taunting
laugh which always made her so angry. Lucy
left the room in a few minutes, and she then ap-
plied to Charles.

“« What are you cutting, Charles?”

“TI am making a kite, Cousin Mary; did you
ever see a kite sailing up, up as high as the
clouds ?”

“No, Charley; but I thought Lucy said you
were making a mouse.”

‘“‘ Well, she did say I was making a muss.”

“JT am sure that kite does not look like our
mice.”

“4 mice!” said Charley, who did not very
well understand the distinctions of number, or of
different orders of animals ; ‘oh, no, she did not
mean @ mice ; mices are little rats, are they not?”

“Well, what did she mean?” asked Mary, more
confused than ever, and scarcely taking time, from
her inquiries, to laugh at the blunders of Charles.

‘Oh, she meant a—a muss; Cousin Mary, you
must ask papa; he will tell you all about it.”

And Mary did ask her uncle in the evening,
NOVELTIES. 49

when Lucy was not present. He laughed heartily
at her story, and then bade her call Lucy, saying
she must explain the word, as it was one he never
used. When Lucy came, he said to her, “My
daughter, your cousin says you told her thif
morning that Charles was making a mouse in the
parlour, and she wants to know what kind ot
mouse it was.”

Mr. Lovett spoke very seriously, but Lucy knew
there was a laugh under his grave looks, and, like
a, great many older and wiser people, Lucy could
not bear to be laughed at. Her face flushed with
anger, and she replied in a rude tone, “TI think
Cousin Mary had better learn to speak properly
herself before she laughs at me. I do not say,
‘Do don’t, and enty, and—’ ”’ she stopped abruptly,
for her father had seized her arm, and was looking
into her face with a sternness he seldom assumed
to his children. As Lucy ceased speaking and
hung her head, the sternness passed away from
Mr. Lovett’s face, and its expression became deeply
sorrowful as he said, ‘I was only disposed to
laugh, Lucy, at your incorrect language, but I can
scarcely forbear weeping at your improper temper.”

D
50 THE COUSINS.

Mary was: quite* grieved at the disagreeable
feclings her innocent question had excited. Side-
ling up to ‘Uncle Lovett, she put her hand on him,
and said softly, -‘ Do don’t-be vexed with Cousin
Lucy.”

“TJ will not,” said’ Uncle Lovett, “if Cousin
Lucy will show me that she is not vexed with
you.”

Mary drew near to Lucy, and, putting her arm
timidly round her neck, said, “You are not vexed
with me—are you, cousin?”

Lucy’s-““No” was not very frank, but Mr. Lovett:
said, ‘Then I am not vexed either, and you shall
come here,’” lifting Lucy to one knee as he spoke, *
“and Cousin Mary here,” placing ‘her on the
other, “and we will have-a lecture on language ;
you shall give us the’ meaning of muss, and she
shall give us the: meaning of: do don’é, ‘and then’ I
will tell you what I think of them both.”

Tn ‘a moment the ill humour and the sorrow had
all vanished. from ‘the faces of the little girls, who
entered:heartily into what seemed to them a very
amusing play. Lucy commenced the definitions,
and, as she wasa lively and witty child, she gave”
NOVELTIES. 61

& very amusing accountiof all that was meant by
muss. ‘ When a great many people are collected
in the street, and they: begin to shout, and run
about in different directions, that is a muss; ‘and
when there has been:a great deal of ‘snow,. and it
thaws, and the streets are muddy, then they. are
all in-a muss ; :and: when the: cook leaves:the dirty
dishes on the table, and the pots and kettles on
the hearth, there isa great muss inthe, kitchen ;
and when Charles cuts papers: over) the carpet,’
and..leaves: his :ball}on..one chair, and his kite on
another, he makes.a muss}: and: when mamma, up-
sets her work-basket, she makes a,muss ;.and when
papa—when papa gets downto his office, I guess
he makes a muss sometimes.” ;

This was all very archly said, and not only the
girls, but Mr. Lovett:,too; laughed merrily atthe
conclusion., When. the laugh was.over, Mr. Lovett
said, ‘‘ Well, Lawyer Lucy, you have argued your
case, and have certainly. made all:you could of a
muss. Now. we will hear:Lawyer Mary plead for
‘do.don’'t.. What. have: you, to say for it,, Mary?”

»Mary’s: ideas: of .“‘ do don’t,” seemed not. so
clear -as: Lucy’s.-of. a: muss, for. she: hesitated, aa
D2
52 THE COUSINS.

if she did not know exactly how to express her
meaning.

“When do you use ‘do don’t,’ Mary?” asked
Mr. Lovett.

‘When I want to beg a person not to do some-~
thing.”

“You said to me just now ‘do don’t’ be vexcd;
can you not ask the same thing in other words ?”

Mary thought for a moment, and then said,
“ Please not to be vexed.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Lovett; “now I under-
stand what you mean; but let me tell you what
‘do don’t’ seems to others to mean. Please to be
—Please not to be vexed. And now both causes
have been heard, Judge Lovett will pronounce
sentence. Muss he declares to be inelegant, and
altogether unnecessary, since there is some good
and true English word expressing each thing for
which it is used. ‘Do don’t’ he thinks quite in-
admissible, because it commands two directly op-
posite things, to do, and not to do, at the same
time ; so he condemns these two faulty expressions
to be banished for ever from the company of Miss
Lucy Lovett and Miss Mary Mowbray; but the
NOVELTIES. 58

court will take a recess, as I see mamma is pre-
paring to pour out tea.”

Thus did this kind father and uncle endeavour
to improve his children in a cheerful, pleasant
manner, correcting at once their faults of language
or manner, and their worse faults of temper and
fecling. He was often deeply pained at a display
of vanity and selfishness in Lucy, which made her
always anxious for praise herself, and jealous of
any praise bestowed on another. These faults in
Lucy had increased greatly during the last year,
a part of which she had passed away from home.
Her absence was caused by a severe illness, from
which she suffered the summer before Mary’s
arrival in New Youk, and which left her so feeble
that her physician advised that she should travel.
To travel at that time was scarcely possible for
Mr. and Mrs. Lovett, and they gladly accepted
the offer of a friend to take Lucy with his own
family to Saratoga. She spent some weeks with
these friends at the Springs, and afterwards at
Niagara. At both these places Lucy met with
thoughtless people, who, amused by the silly, af-

fected airs caused by her excited vanity, were
54 THE COUSINS.

ever ready to flatter her: by. saying “How pretty,”
or “ How graceful,” or ‘‘How sensible a child
Tucy Lovett is!” I said these people were
thoughtless; I should: have said they were cruel,
for a moment’s amusement to themselves, to
cherish a great: evil in a child. “When they had
laughed a while over Lucy’s vanity and credulity,
they forgot her, but she did not forget them or
their praises. ‘She returned home with her health
restored, and, perhaps, many persons: would have
said, with her manners improved. Lucy had for-
merly been rather careless about her dress; she
was now very attentive to it, and, but for her
mother’s good taste and firmness, she would often
have adorned herself ina way that would have
been quite ridiculous. She now entered-a room
casily, and conversed quite as readily as her father
and mother. In truth, Lucy was no-longer. a
little girl; she was a little lady, but:a vain and
sclfish lady, expecting all to be occupied with-her,
and hurt and offended when she'saw others obtain
more notice than herself. Never had Mr. and
Mrs. Lovett grieved over their daughter’s illness
as they now gricved over her faults. We have
NOVELTIES. 55

eaid that Mary Mowbray was a shy, timid child.
There could not be a more perfect contrast than
between Lucy and herself in company. She was
bashful, awkward, and silent. Mr. and Mrs.
Lovett would have gladly seen her more at ease,
but they felt her awkwardness to be a less evil
than Lucy’s vanity; yet even this evil they hoped
that Lucy’s affectionate heart and good under-
standing would overcome, aided, as these were,
by their constant teachings, in which they: ever
prayed God to direct them aright. Poor Lucy !
it required severer trials than her tender parents
could have inflicted on her, to destroy this ‘root
of evil.”” within her.
66 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER V.
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL.

Wx must begin a new chapter, for we are going
to describe a very important event in Mary Mow-
pray’s life. The first day at school! what girl
does not remember it—does not recollect how her
heart sank within her, as father, or mother, or
friend, left her there alone with strangers. So
felt Mary, when, about a fortnight after her arrival
in New York, her Aunt Lovett left her at Mrs.
Butler’s school with her Cousin Lucy.

‘‘ With her Cousin Lucy !” my readers exc.aim;
‘why, then, she was not alone.” Ah! but I
doubt whether Mary found much comfort. from
the presence of Cousin Lucy. If, from want of
acquaintance with the rules of a school, or want
of education, she should commit any error, Mary
FIRS1 DAY AT SCHOOL. 57

knew that not one of all the strangers around her
would detect it more quickly, laugh at it more pro-
vokingly, or report it at home so eagerly as Cousin
Lucy. ‘ How ill-natured Lucy must have been!”
you are all ready to say. No, my young friends,
Lucy was not ill-natured, but always ready to
display her own superiority, even at the expense
of wounding the feclings of another.

The first morning of Mary’s school life was
passed in such an examination of her acquirements
as might enable her teacher to assign her a place
in the various classes of which her school was
composed. To Mrs. Butler’s first question, ‘To
what studies have you ever attended, my dear ?”
Mary found it very difficult to reply. She looked
up and looked down, grew red and grew pale, but
said not a word. Lucy Lovett, who neglected no
opportunity of showing her information on any
subject, called from a distant part of the room,
‘‘Mrs. Butler, Cousin Mary never studied at all;
she never was at school.”

Mrs. Butler saw the workings of quick feeling,
as well as of quick temper, in the tears that sprang
to Mary’s eyes, and the deep red that burned in
58 THE COUSINS.

her cheeks as Lucy thus published her want of
education. Mrs. Butler’s manner was always
gentle, but it was dignified as well as gentle, and
‘Lucy’s eye sank abashed beneath the grave ex-
pression of hers, as she said, ‘‘ When I desire any
information from you, Miss Lovett, I will address
myself to you.” She: then drew Mary nearer to
her, saying, “I know, my dear, that you have not
heen to school, and perhaps you have not had
vregular lessons at home; but: you have read.some
“books, have you'not?”
» Yes,-ma’am,’’: ¥

“« And what were they? Can you not tell me
something of them ?”’

““T have read. Early Lessons, and the Parent’s
Assistant, and Peter Parley’s books— all Peter
Parley’s books.”

‘‘ Then you have read his history of the United
States?”

“Yes, ma’am; and. I have read a much larger
history of the United States than that.”

“Perhaps, then, you can tell.me in what part
of the United Statcs the first settlement was
made ?”
FIRST’ DAY “AT SCHOOL. 59

“ At Jamestown, in Virginia.”

“ By whom ?”

“By English people.”

“Under whose command ??”:

‘Under Captain Smith’s.’?:

In this way, by a kind;and gentle manner, Mrs.
Butler drew from her little pupil an ‘account.of the
first settlement of most of the colonics, and of the
most remarkable events occurring afterward:in the
history: of the United States.:o She :then’ asked,
«Did you ever read any other history?’

“Yes, ma’am, I read:some in the History of
England.”

By a few judicious questions, Mrs. Butler found
that Mary was well acquainted with the most im-
portant facts in early English History. « For this
information, Mary was: indebted rather to her
mother’s wisdom and perseverance than toherown.
Mrs. Mowbray had insisted on her daughter's
reading a small portion. of ;history to: her every
day, when she would explain to her whatever she
did not understand, and.would often impress ‘an
important circumstance on her mind by telling her
some pleasant story about it.
60 THE COUSINS.

“And now,” asked Mrs Butler, at length, ‘‘ can
you tell me what England is—whether it is a con-
tinent or—”

“Tt is an island,” answered Mary, without
waiting for the conclusion of the question.

“ And in what geography did you learn that ?”

“
“In what, then?”

“In a map.”

A succession of questions followed, and here,
again, it was found that Mary had learned a great
deal of the situation of different places, the
boundaries and relative size of countries, and the
names of great rivers and high mountains, by
merely playing, as she considered it, with a map
at her mother’s feet. Great was Lucy’s surprise,
and, we fear, scarcely less great her dissatisfaction,
when she found Mary placed in the same class
with herself in geography. But a yet more mor-
tifying surprise awaited her; and when Mrs,
Butler said to Mary, ‘‘ You seem so well ac-
quainted with the History of the United States,
that I think I may place you with a higher class,
which has just commenced the History of Eng-
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 63

land,’ Lucy reddened, and pouted, and almost
wept with discontent.

She was a little consoled, however, at the result
of Mary’s examination in arithmetic, for it was
found that, though she could add and subtract, and
multiply and divide, she knew no rules, and no
table but the multiplication table. In spelling
and defining words, too, Mary was often at fault,
doing the first very imperfectly, and the last
scarcely at all.

‘¢ Well, Mary, how do youlike school, or, rather
how do you like your teacher, for you scarcely
know anything of school yet?’ inquired Mr.
Lovett, when the little girls returned home in the
afternoon.

“Qh! I like her very much, Uncle Lovett;
she was so good to me; she called me my dear,
and she said I had learned a great deal of his-
tory, and she put me in the English History
class.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, giving vent to the feclings
which had been painfully suppressed at school,
“and she put Cousin Mary in my geography class,
and I think it was very partial in her.”
62 THE COUSINS.

“Did not: Mrs.. Butler examine your cousin in
geography before she placed her there *”

“Yes; but Cousin Mary said herself she never
had studied a:gecgraphy; she only learned what
she knew from ’playing with maps; and if people
can learn so easily as that, I don’t see the use’ of
going to school and studying, and I never mean to |
study any more !”

Lucy was very much excited, or she would
hardly have ventured to speak to her father in the:
way she was now doing. Her voice was raised, her
face flushed, and, as she aes her ae she
burst into' tears. : i

Mr. Lovett: rose from his tb and, taking his
daughter’s hand, led her up stairs to a little room
which was called:his library. Before leaving her
there; he pointed-out to her the hateful character:
of that envy which’ caused: her’present unhappi-:
ness. dh SEE

“Tucy!’ he said, “I am grieved at your
sorrow, but far more grieved at its wicked: cause.
I have brought you here, ‘not:to punish you, but
that you! might, in this quiet room by yourself,
think how sinful your feelings are, and repentof.
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 63

them, and ask God’s pardom:for them. If you:
will examine those feelings closely, my dear child,

you will see that. they are like those which, we

learn inthe Bible, belong to,the wicked one—to

Satan. Your cousin has done you no harm, has :
done nothing.;to displease you; yet you are

angry with her, and..though you may. not be»
willing to acknowledge it, you hate her in your

heart. !”? md

‘
“My child, we hate those to whom we wish evil,’
whose misfortunes would give us pleasure ; now
I fear that in your present temper you would take.
pleasure in your cousin’s mortification. I will
not ask you to answer the question to me, but I
wish you to answer it-to yourself, whether you
would not be glad at anything which would make
her Jess pleasing in my eyes or in those of Mrsi!:
Butler. If this be so, you have the feelings to-
wards her which Cain had towards his brother
Abel; whom he hated because he thought that his»
father Adam, and-even the just and holy God,’
were partial to him, preferring him to hinself’;
and remember, my dear daughter, that: these feel-
64 THE COUSINS.

ings, not being resisted by Cain, made him e
murderer.”

Had Mr. Lovett spoken harshly to Lucy, she
would probably have continued to feel angry, to
think hardly of her cousin, and to believe that she
herself had been treated very badly, and was little,
if at ali, to blame; but he was so affectionate, and
spoke so tenderly to her, that all her anger passed
away ; and then she could see that Mary had been
quite innocent, and that, in truth, her own feelings
had been like those of Cain. When her father
solemnly reminded her to what those feelings had
led Cain, she shuddered, and said, softly, ‘Oh,
papa! I am very sorry.”

“« Then, my daughter,” said Mr. Lovett, kiss-
ing her tenderly, ‘let us tell our heavenly Father
that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you.
and to take this evil temper of envy and hatred
away from you.”

The father and daughter knelt down together
and prayed, and when they rose up, they went
down stairs, quict and thoughtful, but happy.
When they entered the parlour, Mary was seated
on a low bench, with a book in her lap. Lucy
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 68

dropped her father’s hand, and sat down by Mary
and put her arm around her. The colour came
up quickly into Mary’s cheeks, and she moved, as
if she wanted to push away her cousin’s arm, for
she had seen Lucy’s unjust feelings, and resented
them; and she thought now that Lucy caressed
her, not because she liked her, but in order to
please her father. As she turned, however, her
eye rested on Lucy’s face, and she saw that tears
were in her eycs, that the angry expression had
passed from her countenance, ‘and that she looked
gentle and loving. Mary’s resentment was gone
in a moment; she put her arm around Lucy’s
neck and kissed her, and for the first time Lucy
and Mary really loved cach other.

That evening at eight o’clock Lucy closed her
books, having committed all her lessons perfectly,
while Mary still sat, turning from one to the
other of hers, yawning over them, and thinking
studying lessons a very wearisome business. As
Lucy passed her father to lay her books on the
shelf, he said, in a whisper, ‘Could you not help
Cousin Mary ?”

Lucy returned cheerfully to the table, and did

E
66 THE COUSINS.

help her cousin so effectually, that in half an hour
Mary too could put her books aside, and fecl that
her tasks were done.

«And now,” said Mr. Lovett, ‘come here, ;
and I will answer for you a question which Lucy
asked this morning, and which, I suspect, Mary
has very often felt a wish to ask this evening—
what is the use of study?” Mr. Lovett’s ex-
planations were always so pleasantly given, that
in a moment both little girls stood at his side
with smiling but attentive faces.

“ First,” began Mr. Lovett, “let me say that
nothing can be learned without trouble. Even
Mary did not learn what she knows without a
great deal of trouble.”

“Qh, yes I did!” interrupted Mary; “I never
had any trouble at all.”

“Ah! that may be; you never had any trouble,
but your kind mamma had a great deal, in order
to make things so simple and plain to you that
your learning them should seem like playing.
Very few people are willing, or have the Icisure
necessary to give so much attention to one child
as she gave to you; theiefore, if children wish to
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. 67

learn anything, they must generally take some
trouble themselves; they must study. But even
if every child could have such an attentive
teacher, it would be far better for them to study.”

“What! if they could learn without it?” ex-
elaimed both children.

“Yes, even if they could learn without it.
Can you tell me what it is to study ?”

“To read your lessons over and over till you
know them,” said Lucy.

«But suppose, while reading your lessons over,
you are thinking of something else; would that
be study?”

There was no answer to this, and Mr. Lovett
continued: ‘To study is to fix your mind earnestly
on any subject, to think intently upon it. The
power to do this, like every other power we have,
improves with exercise. Do you remember how
awkwardly you held a needle when you first
began to sew? Now you do it easily. Just so
great will be the difference in this power of study-
ing between one who exerciscs it and one who does
not: and as there are many things with which
sensible men and women desire to be acquainted

BE 2
68 THE COUSINS.

that cannot be well understood without study, I
think you will agree with me that it is better for
little boys’and girls to exercise this important
power, even though they could learn without it.”

Lucy and Mary acknowledged that Mr. Lovett
had answered very satisfactorily the question,
“« What is the use of study?” We have heard
other girls besides Lucy and Mary ask the same
question, and we hope they will be as well satis-
fied with the answer.
Lucy’s FRIENDS. 69

CHAPTER VI.
LUCY’S FRIENDS.

Ar the same school with Lucy and Maryw a
young girl named Ann Noel, who, wanting talent,
or industry and perseverance enough to become
a good scholar, had yet sufficient shrewdness to
perceive Lucy’s weak point, and, by flattering her
vanity, to obtain her aid in the performance of
her tasks at school. Her flattery became doubly
grateful when Lucy had ascertained that she lived
in a very handsome house, which was furnished
with great elegance; but when Lucy had heard
Miss Ann Noel play a very simple tune in very
bad time on a beautiful rosewood piano, and had
been informed by her that she attended a dancing-
school where they sometimes gaye fancy balls,
and that to the next fancy ball she intended to
70 THE COUSINS.

wear a lace dress looped up with roses, she began
to consider it quite an honour to be permitted to
perform Miss Ann Noel’s sums, to write out for
her the answers required by her lesson in geogra- |
phy and history, and to furnish her every week
with a composition, which she was quite satisfied
to show as her own.

Lucy and Mary had been frequently invited to
pass the Saturday, which was always a holyday
in their school, at Mr. Noel’s house. To these
invitations Mrs. Lovett had always replied that
she seldom allowed her children to visit without
her. At length Miss Ann Noel proposed that,
since her friend Luey could not come to her, she
would come to Lucy, and bring her brother, a
boy of nine years, with her. As Mrs. Lovett
really knew nothing against the children, she did
not think it necessary to mortify Lucy by de-
clining this proffered visit, and, on the following
Saturday, Emma’s cradle was removed up stairs,
and the basement was relinquished to Lucy and
Mary, and Miss Ann and Master Thomas Noel.
Mary was not particularly pleased with these.
visitors. Still she had assisted Lucy in her pre-
LUCY’S FRIENDS. 71

parations for them, and brought out her toys, and
did her best to amuse them. Before we relate
the result of these efforts, we would remind our
young readers of what we have said of Mary’s
inaccuracies of language. Her desire to please
her Uncle Lovett had done much to overcome
these, but still they were not wholly forgotten ;
and when Mary was excited, so that she spoke
rapidly and without thinking, she often used
them.

For the first hour after the arrival of Master
and Miss Noel, things went on very well. She
dressed the dolls in the style most approved at
fancy balls, and he amused himself with a dis-
sected map of the sovereigns of England; but
when once he had succeeded in putting it to-
gether, the map was thrown aside, and, wander-
ing listlessly about the room, he stopped near the
bird-cages. _ After teasing the canary a minute,
he asked Mary what they fed it on. She told
him hemp and canary seed, sugar, and occasionally
something green.

‘But flies—don’t you give it flies?”

If Mary had been allowed sometimes to use
72 THE COUSINS.

incorrect language, no one had been more care-
fully taught the far more important lesson that
she should love and oe kind to all the creatures
of God, and she could only exclaim in her horror,
“Flies !”

“Yes; we catch flies for our birds at home,
and they pick them out of our fingers, and eat
them.”

“What! eat the poor flies ?”

“Yes, eat them; and here’s a fly now; I’:
catch it, and you shall see how quickly this little
fellow will nibble it up.”

“Oh, no—do don’t /” exclaimed Mary, clasping
her hands in a perfect agony of affright for the
poor fly ; ‘do don’t !”

“Do! well, I am doing it as fast as I can,”
said the rude and taunting boy, pursuing the fly
as he spoke.

“‘Oh, don’t—please don’t; the bird loves sugar
a heap better—indeed it does, and I'll get you
some sugar for it.”

“A heap! how high a heap?” and again his
sneering laugh made the colour grow brighter on
Mary’s cheeks; but the poor fly had been chased
Lucy’s FRIENDS. 73

to the window, it seemed almost caught, and
Mary forgot herself.

“ Aunt Lovett would @ heap rather it should eat
sugar; en’t it, Cousin Lucy !”

“A heap, en’t it—now do don’t,” said the in-
sulting boy, dancing up to her, and flourishing
his poor, struggling captive in her face. Miss
Noel had greeted every specimen of her brother’s
wit with a loud laugh. This Mary did not mind
much—not very much—but now her Cousin Lucy
laughed too, and this did wound her bitterly.

“Where did she learn to talk so?’ asked Miss
Ann Noel, contemptuously.

Lucy, vexed and mortified that her cousin
should do or say anything that might be thought
ungenteel before the rich and fashionable Noels,
and anxious to clear her own family of the
charge, answered hastily, “Oh! at the South;
you know every body there learns to talk like the
negroes.”

This was too much for Mary’s endurance. She
threw off all restraint, and stood with her eyes
dilated, her cheeks glowing, and her whole frame
quivering with passion, while she exclaimed,
74 THE COUSINS.

“They don’t! they don’t talk like negroes any
more than you do; and if they did, the negroes
are a great deal better than you—a great deal
better ; and I love them better, and I would
rather talk like them, and I will talk like them ;
I will say do don’t, buckra, en’t it, neber, yerre,
cungo—” *

Mary was stringing together every negro ex-
pression she had ever heard, and many which she
had never used. How much longer the list
would have been we know not, but Mary felt a
hand laid softly on her head, and, looking up, she
met the grave, earnest eyes of Uncle Lovett.
Completely overpowered by her emotions, she
cast herself into his arms, sobbing, ‘‘ Oh, let me
go home! let me go home to my own papa, where
nobody will laugh at me.”

“Nobody shall laugh at you here, my dear
child; nobody would laugh at you who was not

* Do don’t, which is not a negro expression, but only a
provincialism common to the people of the South, has been
already explained; duckra means white man or woman;
en’t it, is it not so; nedber, never; yerre, hear; cungo,
come, let us go.
LUCY’S FRIENDS. 75

too rude to deserve your notice. Come with me
up stairs, and I will show you these beautiful
prints, and something yet more beautiful, which
IT have in this box. I was bringing them for the
amusement of your visitors; but I cannot suppose
that a young gentleman who finds entertainment
in catching flies, or young ladies who take
pleasure in wounding the feelings of others, could
derive any enjoyment from such things.”

Saying this, Mr. Lovett left the room, carrying
the still weeping Mary in his arms. Soon after-
ward, Mrs. Lovett entered the basement with
Emma, and seated herself there. Lucy knew,
from this movement, that her mother was not
pleased with her present companions, or willing
to trust her alone with them. They evidently
did not like the restraint of Mrs. Lovett’s pre-
sence, and their dissatisfied glances and impolite
manners made Lucy so uncomfortable, that she
was not sorry to hear them say, immediately after
dinner, that they must return home. They soon
took their leave; and though Lucy had grieved
her cousin, displeased her parents, and offended
against her own sense of right to please them,
76 THE COUSINS,

they so connected her with the disagreeable
events of the day that they parted from her very
coldly, and without inviting her to return their
visit. Neither did Mrs. Lovett ask to sce them
again, and Lucy felt that her intercourse with
them was at an end. You will think that she
had no great reason to regret that, and yet Lucy
did regret it ; for so silly had her vanity and love
of admiration made her, that she thought she de-
rived some credit from being the friend of a girl
who was so rich as Miss Noel, and was always
dressed so handsomely, and who could go to fancy
balls and wear lace frocks.

“And for such a disagreeable, ill-bred girl as
that, Lucy, you could treat your cousin un-
kindly,” said Mrs. Lovett, sorrowfully, as the
door was closed on the visitors.

Lucy had endured many disappointments during
this day, and her spirits were so depressed, that,
when she attempted to answer her mother, she
burst into tears, and sobbed out, ‘I didn’t do any-
thing to Cousin Mary, mamma; I only laughed a
little at what Tom Noel said; and Cousin Mary
did say a great many strange words.”
LUCY’S FRIENDS. v7

“Not stranger than ‘you hadn’t ought to,’
which Master Tom Noel more than once repeated
since I came in, or ‘you ben’t going, be you?’ which
his sister said to you just before she went awiy ;
why did you not laugh at these ?”

“T didn’t think it would be right to laugh at
my company.”

“And do you think it was right to laugh at
your cousin, whom her dying mother sent here,
believing she would find only friends in her uncle’s
house? ‘You may lose your father and mother,
Lucy, and be sent with Mary to her home. What
would you think, in such a case, of her laughing
at you, or encouraging her friends to laugh atyou?”’

‘*T could not help their laughing, mamma.”

“Yes, Lucy; had you been more affectionate
to Mary when they began to treat her rudely, and
shown, by your seriousness, your disapproval of
their conduct to her, it would have checked them,
and, what you may think of more consequence,
they would have respected you far more than they
now do.”

Lucy wept on silently for a few minutes, and
then said, ‘I am very sorry, mamma.”
78 THE COUSINS.

“ Do you feel that you have done wrong, Lucy,
and are you sorry for that, or are you only sorry
for having displeased me ?”

“T am sorry I did anything to vex Cousin
Mary, mamma.”

“Then tell your cousin so,” said Mrs. Lovett,
giving her daughter a kiss of forgiveness.

Mary had dined up stairs with Charles, and
Lucy found her in noisy, merry play with him.
Mary’s anger towards her cousin. had softened,
and, had it not, she could not have withstood
Lucy’s weeping overtures towards reconciliation ;
80 peace was again established between them.
THER FARM. 19

CHAPTER VIL.
THE FARM.

AND now we are going into the country, for sum-
mer has come, and the air of the city is hot and
disagreeable, and Emma droops, and grows pale
and languid, no longer springing into her father’s
outstretched arms, but just smiling her acknow-
ledgment of his invitation, while her head rests
on her mother’s shoulder. Mary Mowbray is
charmed at the thought of spending the summer in
the country, for she thinks of long rambles in the
flowery woods, and all the pleasures of the country
at home. Some of these pleasures she will not
find, but she will have others instead, of which
she knows nothing. Such, to her, will be the
fields of new-mown hay, with its vanilla-like per-
fume, the spicy clover, and the honeyed buck-
~ 86 THE COUSINS.

wheat. Lucy would have liked another journcy
to Saratoga better than the quict farm which her
father had chosen for the summer retreat of his
family. This farm was three or four miles distant
from the country town of N , Which is situated



about thirty miles up the Hudson, or, as the New
Yorkers call it, the North River. The farm house
was of stone, built roughly, and looking weather-
stained and smoked without, but withinit wasclean,
neat, and comfortable. he rooms were large, the
walls very white, the floors covered with bright
home-made carpeting, and the white pine tables,
and even the rush-bottomed chairs, were spotless.
The house was built nearly at the foot of a hill,
up the side of which extended the apple orchard.
On one side of the house ran a clear brook, which,
a little lower down, was made to turn a saw-mill
belonging to the same farmer; and on the other
side, separated by a narrow road, was a clover-
field. Beyond this might be seen waving the just
ripening wheat and rye. All looked new to Mary;
and full of curiosity, she asked a thousand ques-
tions of her uncle. After dinner he walked out,

and she turned to her aunt for information. Mrs,
THE FARM. 81

Lovett, finding that she could not fully satisfy
her, referred her to Mrs. Nye, the farmer’s wite,
who was in the parlour, “fixing up things a little,’
to use her own words. This good woman was
quite pleased at Mary’s interest in the farming,
and she asked her if she would like “ te go round
a bit”? with her, and see the chickens and the
little ducks. There were few things Mary would
have liked better, and this her Aunt Lovett saw,
though she was too bashful to express all her
pleasure. Charles, too, begged to go, but Lucy,
when invited, drew back, saying she did not care
to see ducks and chickens. Good Mrs. Nyo’s
calico bonnet, coarse dress, and stout shoes did
not recommend her to the companionship of a fine
lady, such as Lucy Lovett always strove to ap-
pear.

Charles and Mary cared for none of these things,
so they walked down to the brook, and saw the
ducks sail along upon it with a slow, graceful
motion, arching their necks as if to look at their own
image in the clear water ; then, dipping their bills
and fluttering their wings, throw a sparkling
shower over their glossy backs. Then they tock

PF
82 THE COUSINS.

a peep at the chickens, and saw Mrs. Nye feed
them. This Mrs. Nye was avery good-natured
woman, and, sceing that the children liked their
ramble, she took them to the saw-mill, which was
then at work. There she showed them the wheel
which, in turning, moved the saws up and down;
and greatly surprised they were to see how quickly
those saws would make their way through boards
more than an inch thick. Farmer Nye was at
the mill himself, and he answered all Charley’s
questions, and laughed heartily at some of
them.

““T mean to come back here to-morrow,” said
Charley.

“Then, my little man, you will have it all to
yourself, for I shall not be here myself to-mor-
row.”

“Where are you going?” asked the little boy,
who had already made himself quite at home.

“Tf the sun shines I shall be in the hay-field.
Did you never hear ‘make hay when the ‘sun
shines ??”

“Yes; and may I go there too? I should like
to go to the hay-field.”
THE FARM. 83

“ Yes, you may go if you'll help work.”.

“Well, I'll help,” said Charley, stepping with
more dignity at the thought of his importance in
being able to help work.

“Can’t I go too?” asked Mary, pulling Mrs.
Nye by the apron and looking timidly at the
farmer ; “can’t I go too ?”

“You; I am afeard you'd be tired; besides,
little ladies don’t like to make hay: it spoils their
clothes.”

“Oh! I don’t mind that,” said Mary, whose
earnestness overcame her bashfulness, ‘I don’t
mind that; andI know I shouldn't get tired, for I
used to go to the cotton-house and the barn where
they thrashed rice, when I was at home, and I
never got tired, though I helped sometimes to pick
the cotton.”

‘Why, where was your home? I thought you
lived in New York.”

“So I do now; but I mean my papa’s home in
Georgia.”

“In Georgia! why, how far the child has come!”
exclaimed the farmer. ‘Well, which home do
you like best, little miss ?””

F2
84 THE COUSINS.

“J like my papa’s home best,” said Mary,
“but I like this better than New York,” she
added, looking around on the green and flowery
fields.

“You like this better than New York, do you*”’
repeated the farmer, smiling with pleasure at the
preference given to hishome. ‘“ Well, since you
like the country so well, I think I must let you
go to the hay-field too.”

“‘ And now,” said Mrs. Nye, ‘‘ suppose you help
me pick some raspberries for tea?”

Both children gave a glad consent, and away
they went to the garden, stopping at the kitchen,
that Mrs. Nye might get a basket. One side of
the garden was hedged with raspberry-bushes,
which were now covered with the rich ripe ber-
ries, and on the other side clusters of the trans-
parent red and white currants were hanging thickly
from their slender stalks. Mrs. Nye soon had
her basket filled with raspberries, though it is
doubtful whether Charles put quite as many in as
he took out. Mary, however, picked very steadily,
and when they were going in, Mrs. Nye gave her
a handful of the berries. She was quite pleased
THE FARM. 85

at this, for she thought of her Cousin Lucy, who
certainly looked, when they entered the parlour,
as if she needed something to cheer her. Lucy
was yawning, half.asleep, over the pictures in a
Farmer’s Magazine which she had picked up, and
which was the only thing she could find to amuse
her, as her father had not yet returned from his
walk, and her mother was too much occupied with
Emma to unpack her books or toys.

“Here, Cousin Lucy,” exclaimed Mary, pre-
senting her offering as soon as she entered, ‘“ here
are some raspberries.”

“T picked them!” said Charley. ‘Cousin Mary,
and I, and Mrs. Nye picked some too,” he added,
“and I am going to make hay to-morrow. Did
you ever make hay, mother?”

‘No, sir,” said the smiling Mrs. Lovett,
“never.”

“Well, Cousin Mary and I ure going to make
hay to-morrow. I promised Mr. Nye to help him,
and Cousin Mary begged to go too—”

“But you begged to go too, Charley,” said Mary;
“you begged to go before Mr. Nye said anything
about your helping him.”’
86 THE COUSINS.

“Yos, but then he said I might go if I would.
help him, but that girls couldn’t help, because it
would spoil their clothes.”

“But afterward, you know, he said I-might go,
when I told him I didn’t mind about spoiling the
clothes.”

“ But I am‘afraid I must say something against
that ; I doubt whether all the hay you and Charles.
will make will pay for spoiling.your clothes.
However,” added Mrs. Lovett, as she saw. the
blank faces of: the disappointed pair, “‘ we, will
think about that; it will be time enough. to detcr-
mine aoout it to morrow. Let me hear now what
you have seen this afternoon.”

An animated description of Mrs. Nye’s poultry-
yard and garden, and of Farmer Nye’s saw-mill,
followed ;. and do you not. think that Lucy, when
she heard their pleasant account, and saw their
bright faces, and thought of her own sleepy, -
weary afternoon, regretted the foolish pride and
self-conceit which had made her refuse to go out
with Mrs. Nye?

While Mary was yet in the midst of her praises
of good, kind Mrs. Nye and her raspberries,
THE FARM. 87

Charles, who was looking out of a window, cried
out, ‘Oh! see the cow—the beautiful spotted
cow !”

All eyes were attracted to the window, and
there was a very pretty, gentle-looking cow,
walking quietly along the:road towards the house;
and, following her with a switch in her hand,
which, however, she seemed to have no occasion
to use, was a little girl, with just such a calico
bonnet, such a coarse dress, and such stout shoes
as those. worn by Mrs. Nye. The bonnet had
fallen entirely from her head, and hung by ‘its
strings around her neck. On one arm she car-
ried a calico bag, evidently containing books, ‘and
on the'other an empty basket.

“What a pretty little girl!’ said Mrs. Lovett,
as'she saw the glossy, waving brown hair, the
glowing, healthy. complexion, and, what pleased
her most, the frank, smiling expression of her
face.

“That is my daughter Clara, ma’am,” said the
pleased Mrs. Nye, who had heard her through
the open window of the parlour, as ‘she stood in.
the yard below.
88 THE COUSINS.

‘*She seems to have books with her, Mrs. Nye;
has she been to school ?”

“Yes, ma’am, she goes to school every day
except Saturday; and when she is coming home
in the evening, as she passes the pasture, she just
drives the cow along with her, and that puts me
in mind to go and milk the poor thing; she seem-
ed to want it bad enough.” Mrs. Nye turned
away to look for her pails.

“Aunt Lovett, don’t you think Mrs. Nye
would let me go and sce her milking the cow ?”
said Mary.

“Ask her, my dear; there, she is passing the
window.”

Mary looked wishfully at her, but could not
summon courage to call; but Charles cried out
from his window, “Mrs Nye, won’t you let
Cousin Mary and me come with you ?”

“Oh, yes, come along.’

“And Cousin Lucy,” said Mary, looking doubt-
fully at Lucy.

“And sister Lucy too,” sung out Charles to the
now distant Mrs. Nye.

“Yes, oh yes!” was returned; and this time
THE FARM. 89

Lucy was as ready as any to get her bonnet and
run to the orchard, where the cow was quietly
eating hay out of the hand of pretty Clara Nye,
while Mrs. Nye knelt beside her, and drew the
rich, foaming milk into her clean, bright pail.
20 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER VIII.
COUNTRY PLEASURES.

Tun next morning’s sun rose as brightly as even
Farmer Nye could have desired, and long before
Mary and Charles were awake, he and his mea
were in the field cutting the grass with their long
seythes, and laying it down to dry. Charles was
quite vexed when he heard this from Mrs. Nye ;
but she comforted him by saying that they would
all come home to their dinners at twelve o’clock,
and that he could go with them when they re-
turned to their labours. Accordingly, while the
men were dining, Mrs. Nye came to see if the
children would like to go. They might ride to
the field, she said, in the empty cart, which was
going to bring back some hay that had been cured
already. ‘Mr. Nye,” she added, “will drive to
COUNTRY PLEASURES. 91:

the school and take Clara in, and’ they will -have,:
I dare say, quite'a nice time.”’

A shout of delight from Charles, and the be-
seeching looks of Lucy and Mary, seemed ‘to put
any objection from Mr. and: Mrs. Lovett out of
the question ; but they hed no desire to object ;
for Mr. Lovett: thought the ride;to: the field, and)
the sport in the open air, would be: healthy. as
well as pleasant. «The children» read ‘consent: in
hisismiling face‘before he spoke, and, long before
the cart came to the gate, they were on the steps ~
awaiting it. Mr. Lovett said it was quite a treat
to see such joyous faces as theirs were when,
waving their hands to Emma, they drove off.
Not-less joyous was that of Clara Nye, when her
father, having obtained an afternoon’s holiday for
ner from her teacher, lifted her into. the. cart
beside-them.. Lucy was generally more sociable.
with strangers:than Mary, but she was not yet
quite recorciled to Clara’s coarse dress, and she.
remained silent.and reserved. Had. Clara Nye
been coarse and vulgar in her manners, we would
not ‘have blamed Tiucy for this reserve, but she
was a gentle, pleasing, unaffected girl, with a great’
92 THE COUSINS.

deal more true politeness than Lucy’s fashionable
friend, Miss Ann Noel. Mary felt much more
at ease with her than she had done with any
of her cousin’s favourites in New York, who had
never seemed to her children like herself, but
little men and women. Accordingly, Mary began
the conversation with Clara, asking her, ‘‘ Did you
ever see them make hay ?”

“‘Oh, yes, a great many times.”

‘¢ Did you ever help make it?’ asked Charley.

“‘Yes,” said Clara; ‘father, didn’t I help last
year some ?”

“To be sure you did.”

“But didn’t you spoil your clothes? Your
father told my cousin Mary that making hay
would spoil girls’ clothes.”

“Ah! but my girl’s clothes are none of your
flimsy things, like your cousin’s and your sister’s
there; they’re stout, strong clothes, made to wear
in the country,” said Farmer Nye, looking at
Lucy’s and Mary’s muslin dresses as slightingly
as Lucy had done at Clara’s.

They were soon at the hay-field, and for two
hours they ran about in the sweet, balmy air and
COUNTRY PLEASURES. 93

the bright sun as busy as the bees, and as sportive
as the butterflies that flew around them; some-
times turning over the hay, and sometimes over-
turning each other. As no one could be hurt by
a fall on the hay, the overturns only caused 2
laugh. When the cart was loaded with hay,
Farmer Nye sent a man home with it, while he
led the children by what he called a ‘ short cut,”
through a lane, another field, and an orchard,
home. They were quite in time to sce the milk-
ing again.

This had been a very happy day to the whole
party, and we doubt whether Lucy would not
have preferred her ride in the cart, her two
hours’ merry sport in the hay-field, and her walic
home through the flowery lane and orchard, to
being dressed up among a crowd of gay people,
even though she had heard two or three out of
that crowd say, ‘‘ What a pretty girl Lucy Lovett
is ?”

‘When Saturday—Clara’s hclyday—came, Lucy
and Mary were very desirous to know how she
would cmploy her time; so immediately after
breakfast they went in search of her. They
94 THE COUSINS. .

found her churning the butter, and when that
was done, she told them she was going to sew
till dinner-time, and after dinner her mother had
promised to take them all into a wood where
there were a great many blackberries. Nothing
could be more delightful in the children’s eyes,
and back they ran to Mrs. Lovett with the report.
It did not seem to her quite so unobjectionable
as to them. Their clothes, she thought, would
be torn to pieces by the blackberry-briers, and
their thin summer slippers seemed very unsuit-
able for walking in a wood where the ground
could scarceiy fail to be damp.

‘“‘T wish I had some clothes like Clara Nye’s,”
said Mary; ‘her father says her clothes were
made on purpose to wear in the country.’ Lucy
turned away with a pouting lip, thinking, per-
haps, that not even the pleasures of a black-
berry-gathering could repay her for wearing such
clothes.

“That is a very wise wish, Mary,” said Mr.
Lovett; then, turning to his wife, he added, ‘‘ We
should have thought of this before; the country
will be of no service to them unless they can be
COUNTRY PLEASURES. 95

out in the air, and these thin slippers and fine
frocks will scarce endure a day’s walking through
woods, and dusty or muddy roads.”

“T thought so entirely of poor little Emma’s
wants that I quite forgot theirs,” said Mrs. Lovett;
“but, if I could get some strong calico, I could
soon make them each a walking-suit.”’

“‘T dare say I could get some for you at N——,”
said Mr. Lovett, naming the country town near
them. “If Farmer Nye can let me have a horse,
I will try this morning. While I go to ask him,
measure their slippers for me, and I will bring
them each a pair of thick shocs. I can easily be
back to dinner, so cheer up,” putting a hand on
cach little downcast head; “ with your feet well
protected from damp, we must run the risk of
torn dresses for once, and let you go for the black-
berries.”

Mary clapped her hands with pleasure, ex-
claiming, “Thank you, thank you, Uncle Lovett'”
but Lucy remained silent. When her father had
left the room, and her mother asked for her slipper
to measure its length, she said, sulkily, “I don’t

want to wear great coarse shocs like Clara Nve’s.”
96 THE COUSINS.

Mrs. Lovett hesitated a moment, and then said,
“Give me your slipper, Lucy; your father will
get the shoes for you, and then you shall have
your choice between wearing them or staying at
home.”’ Lucy gave her slipper very reluctantly.

Mr. Lovett got the horse and went to N: ,
and returned to dinner, with two pairs of thick
leather boots, some strong calico, and some coarse
linen check, out of which, he said, a sort of carman’s
frock. might be made for Charles, which would
keep his clothes clean when at play out of doors.

As soon as Mary had dined, she was busy with
her shoes, putting in the strings and lacing them
up, talking all the time of pleasant remembrances
of blackberrying in Georgia, and her equally plea-
sant expectations from it here. During all this
time, Lucy sat at the table, looking very uncom-
fortable. She still continued there when Clars
Nye, with her bonnet on and a basket in her hand,
made her appearance at the door, asking if they



were ready.

“T am almost ready, Clara,” said Mary, quickly.
“T have only to put on my bonnet, and to get—
oh! I haven’t any basket.”’
COUNTRY PLEASURES. 97

‘* Never mind that—I’ll lend you a basket; but,
Lucy, are not you going too?”

Lucy looked at her mother and said nothing.
“‘ Answer, my dear,” said Mrs. Lovett; “it de-
yends on yourself: here are your shoes,” holding
them out to her as she spoke.

Lucy hung her head, and her face grew red as she
muttered, “I don’t want to wear those ugly shoes.”

“Then, Lucy, you must stay at home; but think
well of it; your afternoon will be very lonely
when Mary, and Clara, and Charles have all gone.”

Lucy burst into tears. Mary took.the shoes
from her aunt, and, going up to her, said, “‘ Don’t
ery, Cousin Lucy; Tl put the strings in your
shoes, and you can soon be ready; and they are
very nice shoes, indeed, when you get them on:
just look at mine,” and she held out her foot.
But Lucy would not look at anything. She wept
on, and Mr. Lovett, taking the shoes from Mary,
and giving Charles his hat from the shelf, told
them to go. Mary still lingered a moment at the
oor, but Lucy did not move; Clara called to her,
and soon the blackberry-party was out of sight
and hearing.
98 THE COUSINS,

Mary thought sadly at first of Lucy’s loneliness
and vexation, but it:was impossible to think sadly
long on such a bright, beautiful afternoon, with
chirping birds and gay flowers all around her.
When they arrived at the blackberries, the only
thought for some time was whe should first have
a full basket.

They were about haif wa, bome again, when
Mary exclaimed, “Oh, I am 30 glad! there’s
Cousin Lucy.”

She was quite right. Coming towards them
through the winding footpath, hidden every now
and then by the thick green boughs, and again,
as the path turned, standing out clearly: before
them, were Cousin Lucy and Uncle Lovett. As
they drew near, Lucy hung her head. She had
on the thick shoes, and probably thought: they
would remember how unwilling she had been to
wear them. The joyful greeting she received
from the little folks of the party must soon have
put her at ease.

“Mrs. Nye, does this wood belong to Mr. Nye?”
asked Mr. Lovett.

“Yes, sir—at least a part of it does.”
COUNTRY PLEASURES. gO

““You have some fine large trees here, and I
have been thinking that, with his permission, I
would like to put up a swing on one of them for
these young people.”

“To be sure, sir! there’s nothing to hinder you,
if you would like to do it. Nobody likes to see
children happy better than my good man.”

You may believe that few propositions could
have been more popular with the children than
this of a swing in a beautiful shady wood
700 THE COUSINS.

CHAPTER IX.
THE BOWER

Tux dresses tor Mary and Lucy, and the apron for
Charles, were soon made. ‘ And now,” said Mr.
Lovett, the day after they were finished, “dress
yourselves for work, and come with me into the
wood.” Even Lucy made no objection to wearing
her substantial dress with such an object in view,
and the party were soon equipped. Mr. Lovett
borrowed a hatchet from Farmer Nye, and looked
very workman-like as he led the way, wearing a
white jacket, and carrying the hatchet on his
shoulder.

It was not long before he began to use it; for,
about a quarter of a mile from the house, he turned
aside from the path, lopping away the branches
and shrubbery, and working his way gradually to-
THE BOWER. 101

wards a large black walnut tree, which might be
seen from a distance over-topping the wood.
Though it was only a few yards from the path,
and Mr. Lovett did not undertake to make a very
clear or wide road to it at first, he was nearly an
hour in reaching it, so thick were the tangled
boughs and underbrush which opposed his progress;
but when he reached it he felt quite repaid for his
work by a sight of the beauty around him. The
tree grew on a small hillock. Its large roots and
dense shade seemed to have banished from its im-
mediate neighbourhood all growth larger than the
blue harebell and yellow dandelion, whieh sprung
up in patches here and there, insinuating them-
selves even into the crevices of the roots. This
tree seemed to bound Mr. Nye’s wood on the west;
for beyond it, on that side, the ground sloped
suddenly down for some feet to a sort of dingle,
through which ran a clear, sparkling spring, sing-
ing as it passed over the pebbly surface. On the
farther side of this spring was another thick wood,
surrounded by a rude fence. The ground con-
tinued to sink beyond the fence for such a distance
that from the little hillock you might catch
102 THE COUSINS.

glimpses of the western sky, and see the setting
sun gleaming through the foliage of the nearer
trees. In descending to the spring, they found
the ground near it covered with various coloured
mosses as soft and bright as velvet. Though they
could not see any house, Mr. Lovett thought there
was a farm within that wood, and not far away,
for he heard/the barking of dogs, and occasionally
a voice apparently speaking to some one at a dis-
tance. Mr. Lovett scated himself on one of the
gnarled roots of the walnut tree, and, while he
rested there, the children plucked some of the
flowers, and looked around for berries. They
found only a few whortleberry bushes, the fruit of
which was not yet ripe. They could not extend
their search very far before Mr. Lovett called out
that he was going back. ‘ As he went he widened
and cleared yet farther the path he had commenced,
and made the children throw out of the way the
branches and brush he cut away, as well as the
dead wood which already lay on the ground, so
that, when they reached the old footpath, they
left behind them a clean as well as clear way to
the walnut tree. Dinner was ready for them
TUE BOWER. 103

when they reached home, and you may believe
that, after such a morning’s work, they were quite
ready to eat it.

The next day the children expected to be
again summoned to the wood, when they saw Mr.
Lovett put on his working jackct, but he smilingly
bade them amuse themselves at home, adding that
he should not go further than Mr. Nye’s saw mill
himself. For a week after this he continued to
go out without them, seemingly spending all his
time at the saw mill. One evening he came in so
late that they had taken their tea without him.
When the children came to bid him good night,
he said, ‘‘I have something very pretty to show
io those who can get up early enough to take a
walk to-morrow before breakfast.’ ‘I will!”
and ‘I will!’ sounded joyously in the voice of
each of the party as they withdrew.

And they kept their words, standing in the
yard all ready for their walk, when the only signs
of the sun were the crimson and gold with which
a few light clouds, lying on the eastern sky, were
tinted by his approaching beams. Mr. Lovett

soon joined the children, and, after ascertaining
104 THE COUSINS.

that they all wore thick shoes, he sct off briskly
in the direction of the wood.

“Oh! I know what it is; papa has put up the
swing. Have you not, papa?” exclaimed Lucy.

“Yes, I have put up the swing.”

General expressions of delight followed, and
Mr. Lovett’s followers pressed so closely upon him
that he was compelled to quicken his footsteps.
At the rate they now walked it took them but a
few minutes to reach the walnut tree, and there
was the swing hung on one of its largest branches,
made of a large, strong rope, of whose breaking
they need not fecl afraid, and with a good seat in
it. But the swing, with all its excellence, at-
tracted less attention than some other objects
under the walnut tree. Several low seats were
there with backs to them, and a table, and the
children almost believed that both seats and table
were a part of the tree, for they were just the
colour of its trunk. The legs of both the chairs
and table were made of unbarked wood, and the
seats, and back of the chairs, and top of the table
of grape vines twisted and braided fantastically
together. When they had admired these new
THE BOWER. 106

wonders, and placed themselves by turns on each
of the seats, to be satisfied that they would really
bear sitting on, and were not, as Charles suggested,
only ‘play chairs,” Mr. Lovett called their at-
tention to the table, saying, as he pointed to its
top, “ Here is something you have not secn.”

They came nearer, and read the words, “ Lucy’s
and Mary’s Bower,” in very rude letters, and
very irregular in size, it is true, but still sufficiently
distinct, formed by the twisted vines.

?

“ And where’s mine!’ asked Charley, with a
countenance expressive of disappointment.

“Here, my son,” said Mr. Lovett, leading him
to the swing, and showing him his name painted
on the board which formed its seat.

Never did a kind design meet with a more
grateful reception than this. All were delighted,
and it was with difficulty Mr. Lovett could per-
suade them, after swinging till he at least was
tired, to return home. As they took a last look at
the furniture of their beautiful bower, Mary ex-
claimed, ‘I wish Clara had come with us.”

“T wish I could give a tea party here,” said
Lucy.
106 THE COUSINS.

«Well, let us give one,” replied her cousin.

Lucy laughed snecringly as she replied, ‘‘ Who
shall we ask to it ?””

“Why, Uncle and Aunt Lovett, and Mr. and
Mrs. Nye, and Clara. You know we could get
Mrs. Nye to send some chairs here for the grown
people.”

“And what should we have for tea?” asked
Lucy still laughingly.

“We could have raspberries and currants; and
I dare say, Farmer Nye would give us some of the
nice cherries Aunt Lovett likes so much, and
Mrs. Nye would give us some milk and some
biscuits—”

‘‘ And plates, and cups and saucers, and spoons,
and send them there for us, and all that trouble
for mamma and papa, and Clara Nye that we see
every day. No, Cousin Mary, if you choose to
do it you may; but that was not the kind of
party I meant.”

“And what kind of party did you mean, then,
Cousin Lucy ?”’

“ ‘Why, I meant to have lamps hung among the
branches of the walnut tree as they do in the
THR BOWER. 107

public gardens in New York, and for you and me
to be dressed up, and have all the girls we liked
come to spend the evening with us, and have re-
freshments handed about as they have at parties
in New York.”

Mary said nothing, but she thought she would
rather haye Uncle and Aunt Lovett, and Clara,

than such visitors as her cousin Lucy would lke.
168 THE COUSINS,

CHAPTER X.
VANITY A BAD GUIDE.

You will not doubt that Lucy and Mary were
often at their bower. When Clara was at home,
she delighted in being there with them. They
would swing cach other a while, and then they
would either play with their dolls, dressing them,
and taking them to visit each other, or they
would get up a little feast of different fruits,
making leaves of various sizes their dishes and
plates, cups and saucers. Sometimes they would
entertain cach other with stories which they had
either read or heard, and sometimes with relat-
ing circumstances which had happened to them-
selves, or describing places which they had seen,
or persons with whom they had associated. Clara
would tell of the changes which the different
VANITY A BAD GUIDE. 109

seasons brought to the employments and enjoy-
ments of the country ; Mary would grow eloquent
in her description of her Southern home; and
Lucy would picture the beauties and wonders of
Niagara, the gay scenes she had witnessed at
Saratoga, and those of which she had heard in
New York, but only heard, since her father and
mother did not permit her to be present at
them.

“ Would not you like to go to such a party?”
she said to Clara one day, after one of her most
brilliant descriptions.

Clara shook her head, and Mary, taking courage
from that silent negative, said, ‘‘I would not;
I should be so afraid all the time of doing some-
thing to make the people laugh at me, that I
should not have any comfort at all.”

““T should not be afraid,” said Clara; “ but,
from what you tell me, these fine pecple don’t
play, and Jaugh, and talk asI like to do, and I
should soon get tired of them, I think.”

“And you would not be afraid of them?”
questioned Mary, with surprise.

“No!” said Clara, smiling; “I used to feel
110 THE COUSINS.

as you say when I saw strangers, and was afraid
to look them in the face; but my teacher told me
that, though I might think this was being very
humble, I was mistaken; that indeed it was vanity
that made me fecl so.”

“Vanity! I don’t see how that could be,” said
Mary.

“Why, she said, if I was really humble, I
would not suppose that people were noticing me,
and thinking of me all the time. She said that
strangers scldoni paid much attention to what
children said or did, unless they saw that they
wished to be noticed.”

“That may be with some children,” said Lucy,
“but it is not so with all; for I am sure, Cousin
Mary, you have secn that strangers often take
notice of me. Even persons that did not know
my papa and mamma have asked who I was, and
talked to me a great deal, when they have met me
at other houses.”

“But maybe, Cousin Lucy, they thought you
wanted to be noticed,” said Mary, simply.

Lucy’s face grew red, and she would, perhaps,
have made an angry answer to this, but Clara
VANILY A BAD GUIDE. 11t

interrupted her by saying, “My teacher taught
me some pretty lines to show that, if I was hum-
ble, I would not be afraid of what people might
say of me.”

Clara then repeated :

“ He that is down needs fear no fall,
fle that is low no pride ;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.”

Mary became thoughtful; for she said to her-
self, “If all this be so, then I, who have always
blamed Cousin Lucy’s vanity so much, may be
vain myself.” On Lucy the conversation had
made less impression, and she said to Clara, ‘T
should not think you often saw any strangers
here to be afraid of?”

“Oh yes, we do; in the summer time we have
almost always some strange folks at our house;
and Mr. Smith over there,” pointing to the wood
below them, “takes boarders, and Mr. Stevens on
the other side too, and their boarders sometimes
come over to see ours.”

“They have not had any boarders this summer,

pd?

have they?
112 THE COUSINS.

“Not till this week: father told mother last
night that Mr. Smith told him yesterday that he
had some grand people from New York at his
house; he said they had brought their carriage
and horses with them, and their own help. They
have a sick baby, so Mr. Smith didn’t mind their
bringing somebody to ’tend that ; but they brought
a woman to cook, too, just as if Mrs. Smith
couldn’t cook good enough for them.”

‘What seemed so unreasonable to Clara was with
Lucy quite a recommendation to Mr. Smith’s
boarders. ‘I shouldn’t wonder,” said she to
Mary, “if it was the Nocls. Ann told me in
New York, her little brother was sick, and she
knew we were coming here, and so she may have
begged her father to come where she could be
near me—you know we are so intimate.” Lucy
spoke to Mary, but what she said was really meant
to show Clara that she had friends of the same
class with these “grand folks” at Mr. Smith’s.
Neither Mary nor Clara replied to her; for, while
Clara cared little about the matter, Mary was
silently hoping that their neighbours would prove
to be more civil people than Ann and Tom Noel.
VANITY A BAD GUIDE. 113

“J do wish I could see some of them—if it
was only the coachman I should know him, for I
have been in Mr. Noel’s carriage.” This was
intended as a still farther proof of Lucy’s inti-
macy.

“T can’t show you the people,” said Clara,
“but I can show you the house they are staying
at, if you will come a little way over the fence,
and into that wood below.”

Lucy rose at once to accompany Clara, but
Mary stopped her, saying, ‘‘ Cousin Lucy, you
know Aunt Lovett said you must be careful not to
get your feet wet, because you had acold already.”
We fear Mary thought as much of preventing the
recognition of the Noels as she did of enforcing
obedience to Aunt Lovett’s commands.

Her remonstrance had little effect on Lucy,
who exclaimed impatiently, “Dear me! Cousin
Mary, how can I wet my feet with such thick
shoes as these on?”

The next moment she was down the slope which
led to the spring with Clara. They crossed the
spring on some stepping-stones a little below the

walnut-tree. Clara then proceeded up again on
H
114 THE COUSINS.

the other side of the spring, till she was above the
walnut-tree, before she turned to the fence:
“What are you going this way for, Clara? I
thought we were to climb the fence?”

“‘So we are—but I am going up here to get on
to dry ground; if you crossed down there, you
would wet your feet in spite of your shoes-—yes!
and lose your shoes too, if they were not tied fast.
T lost one of mine there once.”

They climbed the low fence easily enough, and
proceeded along the edge of the wood for about
fifty yards, when Clara, who was leading the way,
stopped and said, ‘Here, now, you can see Mr.
Smith’s house plain enough.” Lucy stepped up
to her side, and saw a long, low farm-house, built
very much like Farmer Nye’s, but scarcely so
pleasantly situated. “I do wish some of them
would come out of doors. I could easily see, at
this distance, if it was any one I knew.”

“Tt is only a little way,” said Clara, good-
naturedly; “if you want to see them so very
much, and don’t think your father and mother
will scold, we can go there.”

“Qh, no!” exclaimed Lucy, shrinking back ;
VANITY A BAD GUIDE. 115

“JT would not have them see me dressed so, for the
world. Why, if Ann Noel was to see me with
such shoes on, I don’t think she would speak to
me. At any rate, she would tell all the girls at
school about it, and I should never hear the end
of it.”

Before Clara could reply, they heard a voice
not far from them say, “I know it was not far
from this tree that I set it yesterday, and it caught
two birds.”

Lucy and Clara looked round, and saw a boy
and girl just entering the wood a short distance
below them, having come probably from the rear
of the farm-house while they were looking at its
front. With her mind full of her friends the
Noels, it is not surprising that, in the one rapid
glance she allowed herself, Lucy should have seen,
in the handsomely dressed young master and miss
before her, Tom and Ann Necl. Flight was her
first thought, and away she bounded, neither
waiting for nor listening to Clara, who kept shout-
ing to her, ‘Keep higher up, Lucy! you will get
in the bog.”

The attention of the strangers had been at-
116 THE COUSINS.

tracted by Lucy’s running; and, crying, ‘“ Catch
her! catch her!” the boy started in pursuit.
The sound of pursuit only increased Lucy’s speed.
Her pursuer wisely kept on the dry ground, and
she turned yet lower down. She was within a
few steps of the fence, when she found herself in
the bog of which Clara had vainly warned her.
She looked hastily around: the trees were thick
around her, for she had penetrated deeper into the
wood; but through them she could see the white
dress of the boy, who was evidently seated on the
fence, intending to intercept her when she should
have crossed it. She must go on; she could not
stand there in the bog. Suddenly she remem-
bered what Clara had said about losing her shoes.
The next moment Lucy had stooped down and
untied hers, and, rushing through the bog, sinking
to her ancle at every step, she reached the fence
without shoes, and with her stockings, and even
her dress, wet and muddy.

“Oh, Lucy! how could you go there!” ex-
claimed Clara, as she saw her condition, and came
forward to help her in getting up to the dry
ground on which she herself stood. The boy
VANITY A BAD GUIDE. 117

eame too, and held out his hand to her, but he
laughed as he did so, at her doleful plight, ask-
ing, “‘ What made you run so?—what were you
afraid of ?”

Lucy was puzzled to reply. He was a stranger
to her. She could not tell him she had been
afraid of being seen shabbily dressed by her fashion-
able acquaintances, and, for perhaps the first time
in her life, Lucy seemed awkward, reserved, and
shy.

“Where are your shocs, Lucy? Can’t I get
them for you?” inquired Clara.

“Oh, no, Clara! they are in the bog, and you
would only leave yours there, if you tried to get
them.”

«Then come up to Mary, and I wili run home
and bring you another pair.”

“Where is your home?” asked the boy. “Is
it near? I dare say my sister can lend you a pair
of shoes.”

“Oh, thank you! but my home is just by; I
shall soon be there,” said Lucy, quickly, anxious
to escape being scen by any others.

“Well, then, good-by—don’t run away from us
118 THE COUSINS.

again—we won't trouble you.” The lad recrossed
the fence and proceeded homeward, leaving the
mortified Lucy to feel that her folly had made a
much more unpleasing impression on the children
of the “grand folks” at Farmer Smith’s than any
coarseness of apparcl could have done.

But there was little time for thought, whether
agrecable or disagreeable. It was now the first
week in September. For some days the weather
had been unusually cool, and Lucy was already
thoroughly chilled by her wet stockings. Assisted
by Clara, she made her way to the walnut-tree
slowly, for every pebble and stick hurt her feet,
unaccustomed as she was to walk without shoes.
They did not find Mary. Mary disliked meeting
Master and Miss Noel quite as much as Lucy did,
though for other reasons; and as she thought, if
Lucy met them, they would very probably return
with her, she had hastened home very soon after
being left by Clara and her cousin.

Lucy threw herself on a seat under the walnut-
tree as soon as she arrived there, and, rubbing
her cold and bruised feet, burst into tears of
mingled pain and shame, sobbing out, “Oh,
VANITY A BAD GUIDE. 119

Clara! I cannot walk another step witbout
shoes.”

“Well, you need not. I will run home for
your shoes, and be back ina minute. Don’t ery,

now, Lucy; Ill be back before you can count
“ten.” ‘The last words were shouted from a dis-
tance as Clara ran homeward. ut quickly as
she went, and quickly as Mr. Lovett himself
hastened to Lucy, on hearing her condition, with
shoes and a warm shawl, the time scemed long to
the poor girl, who remained alone in the wood,
wet and cold, with no better comforter than the
recollection of her own folly.
4120 THE COUSINS

CHAPTER XI.
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN.

None who have read the last chapter can be
surprised to learn that, in spite of every precaution
used by her kind and anxious parents, Lucy
Lovett passed a night of restlessness and pain.
In the early morning, when her mother came to
her bedside, she found her skin parched, and her
face flushed with fever; and though she slept,
her frequent moans showed that she was not un-
conscious of pain. Before evening her symptoms
were so alarming, that Mr. Lovett determined to
send by the steamboat, which would leave N——
the next morning, for his physician from New
York. When the second morning came, there
was nothing to make him alter his design. Lucy
was now delirious with fever, and the lightest
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 121

and most tender touch would at times make her
shrick with agony. It was late in the evening
of this second day when the physician, Dr. Foster,
arrived. He proceeded, after a few minutes’ con-
versation with Mr. Lovett, to his patient’s room.
Dr. Foster had known Lucy from her infancy,
and, as he had always been very kind in his man-
ner to her, she was much attached to him. As
he now advanced to her bed, she turned her cyes
on him with apparent intelligence.

“How d’ye do, Lucy?” said the doctor, in
such cheerful tones, that they sounded strangely
in that room, where only pain and sorrow had
been heard for so many hours. Perhaps their
cheerfulness made Lucy recognise them; for,
though she had not seemed to know any one
during the day, she replied, “How d’ye do,
doctor ?”’

“How do you feel now?” said Dr. Foster,
taking her hand. She shrank from his touch,
and said, “You hurt me; I am all bruised where
T fell.”

“Did she fall?” asked the doctor.

Lucy seemed to catch the word “fall,” snd
122 THE COUSINS.

she repeated it: “ Fall—fall—He that is low—no
fall—no fall—no—He that is low, no fear ;’’ with
a perplexed expression of face she shook her
head, and muttered, ‘I can’t remember it.”

“ Does any one know what she wishes to say?”
asked Dr. Foster.

“Yes, sir. It is a verse Clara Nye said to us
the evening Cousin Lucy was taken ill.” Mary
Mowbray spoke as she had never before done to
a stranger; but she could not think of herself
now—she could only think of her cousin.

“ And can you repeat it, my dear?” asked Dr.
Foster.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then stand here, and repeat it slowly and
distinctly.”

You will say this was a great trial for a shy
child. It would have been, if the object had
been to exhibit hersclf—if the desire for praise
had entered into her motives; but again Mary’s
heart was full of her cousin, and without a mo-
ment’s hesitation she stepped gently to the place
Dr. Foster had pointed out, and repeated, as he
had desired her, slowly and distinctly,
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 123

“We that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Ilave God to be his guide.’”’

The good effect was visible on Lucy. The
low, confused muttering, which had shown the
continuance of her vain attempt to recollect the
stanza, died away as Mary commenced, and her
face lost its painfully-perplexed expression.

“You have done your cousin a great service by
that,” said Dr. Foster.

“Lucy has frequently tried to repeat that stanza
since she has been ill,”’ said Mrs. Lovett.

“She should always, at such times, have it
repeated for her; these vain efforts at recollection
do her harm.”

“Mary, you must teach it to me, that I may
obey the doctor’s direction.”

“Please, Aunt Lovett, let me always say it
for Cousin Lucy; you do so many things for
her, and I can only do this one.” The tears
that glistened in Mary's eyes showed her ear-
nestness, and Mrs. Lovett did not refuse her

request.
124 THE COUSINS.

For more than a month Dr. Foster made fre-
quent visits to Mr. Nye’s, where Mr. and Mrs.
Lovett were watching tenderly and patiently by
the bed which they often feared would be Lucy’s
bed of death. At length the fever declined, the
pain abated; her mind no longer wandered in
delirium, and the physician pronounced her out
of danger. Weeks of languor and pain were yet
to pass ere Lucy could spend a whole day out of
bed ; but this was not the worst. When she was
taken out of bed, wrapped carefully up, and
placed on a low chair for the first time, Luey
found that her feet did not reach the floor, as
they had formerly done, from the same chair.
Lucy attributed this to her weakness, which made
it impossible for her to sit erect; but her father,
and mother, and Dr. Foster knew that her limbs
had been contracted by the severe rheumatism
from which she had so long suffered. The doctor
hoped, if there was no return of the rheumatism,
that.this contraction would be overcome, in one
so young as Lucy, in a few months; but this
was only a hope, and till it was overcome, Iucy
must walk on crutches, if she walked at all.
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 125

A sad prospect, this, to one to whom personal
appearance had always been so important.

We’ have said that Lucy Lovett was still for
weeks compelled to spend a part of her time daily
in bed. During these weeks Mr. Lovett was
almost constantly by her side, and their conver-
sations were often exceedingly interesting. Lucy
was now ten years old. Her understanding was
good, and she was therefore capable of reflection.
Though her mind had been too much affected
during her illness to permit her to have any very
distinct recollections of its events, there were
yet confused remembrances of great suffering on
her part, and bursts of tender sorrow from those
around her. There was enough to make Lucy
feel that she had been very near death. Then
she thought of the cause of all this; that it was
not, as her friends supposed, an accident, but that
she had purposely, from a silly vanity—the very
remembrance of which made her blush—thrown
off her shoes, and ineurred all that exposure to
wet and cold which had been followed by such
terrible consequences.

“Papa,” said she one day, ‘‘I have been very
ill, have I not ?”
126 THE COUSINS.

“‘ Yes, my dear child, very ill.”

‘Did not you think I was going to die, papa?”

“Yes, Lucy, we feared so more than once.”

A shudder passed over the form of the little
girl as she said, “Oh, papa, it would have been
very terrible if I had died then /”

Her father kissed her tenderly, and then said,
“Tt would have been very sad to us, Lucy; but
why would it have been more terrible to you
then than at any other time ”

“Because, papa, I made myself ill; so it
would have been like killing myself, and all for
such a silly thing. Oh, papa, I have been very
wicked. I hardly know how to tell you how
wicked I have been !’’

“Have you told your heayenly Father, Lucy,
and asked him to forgive you ?”

«Yes, papa, I have tried to tell Him, but I want
you to tell Him too.” This was said in a whisper.

“Well, now, my love, let me hear what weighs
so heavily on your conscience. What did you
mean by saying that, if you had died in your late
illness, you would have killed yourself?’

Lucy gave her father a very plain account of
THE GOOD PILTYSICIAN. V2

all which had happened to her, or passed jn her
mind the last evening she was out, commencing
with Mary’s remonstrance to her on ueglecting
her mother’s caution to her in regard to wet
feet. This was a confession very mortifying to
Lucy’s pride, and therefore you may be sure that
it was not made without a great effort; and tears
were in her eyes as she said, in conclusion, ‘“ And
so, papa, when I told you my shoes came off in
the bog, I told a story; for I untied them, and
drew my feet out of them. Do you think God
can forgive me for telling such a wicked story
for such a silly thing ?”

“My dear daughter, God can and will for-
give every sin which we heartily repent and
forsake.”

Lacy was silent a while, and then, in a trem-
bling voice, she said, ‘“‘Papa, you always said
you could trust to my truth; but you can never
trust me again, I am afraid.”

“As truly as ever, my daughter,” said Mr.
Lovett, kissing her tenderly. ‘Had I detected
you, Lucy, in the least unacknowledged and un-
repented falsehood, I could not have trusted to
128 THE COUSINS.

your word in future, as I have done hitherto;
but, in confessing and repenting your departure
from truth, you restore yourself to my perfect
confidence. And yet, my dear child, while I
assure you of my forgiveness, and of what, I hope,
is yet more important to you, the forgiveness of
our heavenly Father, if with real sorrow for your
faults you earnestly ask for it, I would by no
means lessen your sense of those faults. I would
not have you think it a light thing to disobey
your mother, to fling away your own health, and
almost your life, and to tell an untruth.”

Mr. Lovett paused, and Lucy said, ‘Oh, papa,
I know I was very wicked.”

“But now, my dear child, that all these faults
have been forgiven you, and that our kind Father
has given you back the life of which you were so
careless, I am sure your gratitude to Him, and
your affection for your parents, will make you
desire to avoid such evil in future, will it not ?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Then, Lucy, we must look for its cause : those
faults had all one cause; they sprang from one

root, and only by destroying that can you be sure
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 129

that they will not appear again. Do you know,
Lucy, what that one root was ?””

“‘T believe so, papa.”

“ What do you believe? Whisper it to me, if
you are ashamed to speak out.” And Mr. Lovett
put his car close to Lucy’s lips.

She whispered, ‘ Vanity!’

“Yes, my dear child, it was vanity! It was
loving the praise of men more than the praise of
God. The natural consequence of this is to make
you place more value on the outward show, on
which man looks, than on the pure heart, on which
God looks. You have, I fear, thought of vanity,
till now, as a very little sin; but now, dear Lucy,
you sec how it debases the whole character; that
it not only makes you unfaithful to God, but in-
sincere to man. Do you sce this, Lucy?”

“‘T believe so, papa, but I am not sure.”

“Tet me make it clear to you. A vain per-
son desires praise aboye all things, docs he not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, men can only praise what they see ;
is this not so?’

“Yes.”
130 THE COUSINS.

“Do men see the heart, or do they only see the
outward action?”

“They only see the outward action.”

“Then is it not clear to you that a vain person
will think more of appearing good than of being
so—of hiding his wrong feelings from man than
of making them right with God; and, is not this
the way to become insincere ?””

‘Yes, papa; and now I see why I was more
ready to tell you a story than tc let you know
the wrong things I had done; this was my
vanity too. Oh, papa, I hope God will never let
me be vain again!’

“Ts that so strong a desire, Lucy, that you
would be willing God should do whatever he saw
was necessary to guard you from this terrible evil?”

“T think so, papa.”

‘Suppose our heavenly Father should see that
vanity is so bound up in your heart, that to root
it out will be a very difficult work for you, if you
go out at once among your young companions,
and that, to make it easier for you, he should
keep you yet longer down on a sick bed, could
you be resigned to this?”
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 131

‘‘T don’t know, papa; I would try.”

“Would you not be willing, my daughter,
to suffer some more bodily pain to get rid of
such an evil as vanity? Remember, you haye
seen and felt that it leads the heart away
from God, and even debases it by falsehood to
man.”

“Oh, yes, papa, I would bear a great deal
more pain! I would bear anything to get quite
rid of it.”

“You would bear anything, Lucy? Suppose
our Father were to see that the most certain
way to overcome this evil was by touching what
you have always valued so much—your personal
appearance ; that he was to take away your good
looks, and give you a very plain, or even a dis-
agreeable face; or that he was to make you a
cripple, so that you could not walk without
crutches ; could you bear these things ?”’

“They would be very hard, papa,” said Lucy,
doubtingly.

“Worse, Lucy, than an evil in your heart,
which would make you, in time, so false that
your own father could not trust you ?”

12
132 THE COUSINS.

“Oh, no, papa! they would be better than that,
and I would try to bear them.”

Mr. Lovett put his arm tenderly around his
daughter as he said, “God, my child, has been
very good to you; for, though he has seen it
necessary to afflict you farther, he has mercifully
set a limit to the affliction. Instead of inflicting
on you some suffering which would endure for
life, Dr. Foster thinks that, in a few weeks, or
months at farthest, you will be able to walk again
as well as ever.”

“Will it be so long as that, papa, before I am
strong cnough to walk?”

“Not before you are strong enough, Lucy; but
it is not only your weakness, my child, which
prevents your walking.”

The faint tinge of colour which had begun to
show itself in Lucy’s cheeks in the last week or
two, faded away, leaving her very pale, as she
said, in an agitated tone, “What else is it,
papa?”

“You know, my daughter, that your limbs
have been cramped by rheumatism, and that you
cannot stretch them out fully in bed. “While they
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 133

continue so, you will not be able to stand or walk
without support.”

Mr. Lovett purposely avoided saying anything
about crutches at present, and, as support only
seemed to Lucy to mean her father’s help, she
reconciled herself to the prospect of a few weeks,
or even months, of confinement more readily than
he had feared she would. With Lucy’s present
views of her own great unworthiness, and of
God’s goodness in having restored her to life from
the very gates of death, she could not be impatient
at the thought of longer confinement; besides, if
any impatient thoughts did arise, her conscience
rebuked them, by reminding her that all her suf-
ferings had been the effect of her own wrong-
doing.

A fortnight passed away after this conversation.
Lucy’s health continued to improve. She felt
stronger, and each day spent more and more time
out of bed. Her limbs were carefully and fre-
quently rubbed, yet there was no unbending of
those cramped sinews, and nothing more had been
said of her walking. Mary had never loved her

cousin so well as now. Not only did her sym-
134 THE COUSINS.

pathy with Lucy’s sufferings make her feel more
tenderly towards her, but she found Lucy a more
amiable and pleasant companion than she had
ever done before. Clara Nye agreed with her in
this opinion, and also spent much of her time in
the sick-room. They were seated together there
one morning in cheerful conversation, when Mr.
Lovett centered, and said pleasantly to Lucy,
“Well, daughter, when are you going to make
your first experiment in walking ?”

“Now, papa, if you choose,” replied Lucy.

“Well, dear child, you know I told you you
could not walk, for some time to come, without
support.”

“T know you did, papa; and so now I can
lcan on you on one side, and Cousin Mary or Clara
will come on my other side.”’

Mr. Lovett listened to her with a sad smile,
and then, shaking his head, s id, ‘‘ That will not
ao, my child.” He stooped down, and, throwing
open the cloak in which Lucy was wrapped, he
told her to try to put her feet to the floor. She
found she could, by no possibility, put one of them

down straight with the sole standing on the floor.
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 135

“Do you not sce now, my dear child, that one of
your feet is quite uscless to you in its present
state; that you are, for the present, in the condi-
tion of one who has only one foot. Now, do you
know how persons who have but one foot walk ?”

“On crutches! oh, papa!’ and Lucy sank back
in her chair, and, covering her face with her
hands, sobbed aloud. Nor did she weep alone.
Mary and Clara wept with her, and, in spite of
all her father’s efforts to scem cheerful, tears
glistened in his eyes, and for some minutes he
strove in vain to speak to Lucy; he could only
soothe her by his tender caresses. As soon as Mr.
Lovett could subdue his emotion, he said, “Lucy,
do you remember our conversation on the great
evils of vanity?’ Luey could not answer, and,
after pausing a moment, Mr. Lovett continued:
“You thought then, that, to destroy so great an
evil, the source cf so much sin and so much suffer-
ing to you, you would be willing to bear any-
thing which God might sce necessary.”

“Oh! but, papa, I never thought of this.”

“Then, Lucy, would you rather keep your
vanity than endure this?” .
136 THE COUSINS.

“Oh, papa, I never should be vain again—I
am sure I never should.”

“Lucy, when Dr. Foster went away, you
thought yourself so well that you did not need
any medicine, yet he left many nauseous doses
for you, and you have continued to take them.
Now God, the good Physician, the Physician of
your soul, sees that you have a very terrible
disease there. You think it cured; but He knows
that the disease is not wholly removed—that you
require more medicine. Are you not willing to
take it from Him ?”

“Oh, papa! to be a poor cripple—to walk on
crutches—”

“Ts very humbling to vanity, my dear child,
though it should be only for a few weeks.”

There was comfort in that last thought, and
Lucy grew more composed; yet it was several
days before she could be induced to try the
crutches which her father had already pro-~
vided for her, and many more before she could
even look upon them without tears. Already,
however, the medicine of the good Physician

had effected some change in Lucy’s feelings, and
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 13?

although she could not subdue her sorrow, she
exerted herself, not unsuccessfully, to check all
fretfulness and impatience.

It was November, and the weather was quite
cold, when Mr. Lovett’s family returned to the
city. Lucy had by this time become so much
accustomed to her crutches that she moved easily
with them in her own room, but she had not
yet ventured to try them abroad. Dr. Foster,
on visiting her in New York, advised that she
should walk out every day, as exercise in the
open air was necessary to the recovery of her
health, and the frequent use of her cramped limbs
gave the only hope of overcoming her lameness.
Searcely any degree of pain and illness could
have been so terrible to Lucy as this demand that
she should walk out. She had shrunk from it in
the country ; how much more she must do so in
the city, where there were hundreds in every
street to gaze at, perhaps to ridicule, the lame
girl, may be easily imagined. This distressing
apprehension was another painful consequence
of Lucy’s vanity. She had been so much accus-
tomed to consider herself as an object of gencral
138 THE COUSINS.

attention ; to think of the display she was making
of her dress, and looks, and gait in her walks, that
it was now well nigh impossible for her to regard
these walks in any other light than as mortifying
exhibitions of her infirmity. Mr. Lovett was
unwilling to trust Lucy to the care of any other
person in her first efforts at using her crutches
on the pavements, and one morning, soon after
their arrival in the city, he said cheerfully to
her, ‘‘Come, my daughter, you cannot have a
pleasanter day for beginning your walks. Put
on your cloak and bonnet, and I will go with you.”

Lucy turned qzite pale, and remained per-
fectly still for a minute or two. Then, putting
out her hand for her crutch, she seemed about
to rise from her chair, but again, as if the effort
were too great for her, she fell back, and, cover-
ing her face with her hands, burst into tears.
Mr. Lovett did not attempt to check her weeping,
but, when her sobs began to abate, he said gently,
“Tt will be painful, I know, at first, my child,
but it will soon become easy.”’

“Oh, father! father! I cannot go; everybody
will laugh at me.”
THE GOOD PilYSiciaN. 139

“Not everybody, Luey; for only those who
have very cruel hearts, as well as very baa
manners, could laugh at the afflictions of a fel-
low-ereature.”

“ But some will laugh at me, father.”

“Tt is possible, Lucy: but, if they do, by
whose appointment will that happen? By whom
are all things ordained, Lucy ?”

“ By God,” said Lucy, with hesitation.

“True, my child; and all God’s appointments
are in love. It will still be medicine from your
good Physician ; will you not take it, Lucy?”

“But, father, I am sure Iam not vain now.”

“Perhaps you do not very well understand
what it is to be vain, Lucy. What is vanity, in
your opinion, my daughter ?”

“To think a great deal of ourselves,’ Lucy
replied, after a slight pause.

Mr. Lovett shook his head smilingly; and,
with some interest, Lucy asked, “‘ What is it,
then, father ?”

“To have an excessive desire that others should
think a great deal of us; such a desire as will

make us do everything with a view to their
140 THE COUSINS.

opinion; will make us dress, and talk, and act,
in order to attract their admiration, and, there-
fore, will cause us to dread, above all things, their
ridicule and contempt. Now, my dear child, do

you not see that if, as you think, your vanity—



your excessive desire for admiration—was de-
stroyed wholly, you would not be so much dis-
tressed at the idea of being laughed at?”

Lucy hung her head in silence. Mr. Lovett,
too, remained for some time silent, with his eyes
fixed on Lucy, in painful thought; at length he
said, ‘Lucy, I desire, above all things, for you,
that you may be beautiful; Lucy looked up in
surprise ; “but the beauty I ask for you is the
‘beauty of holiness ;’ constantly I pray that the
deformities of your sovl may be taken away, and
that our gracious Saviour may be able to present
you before the throne of his Father without spot
or blemish. If I should tell you, Lucy, that you
would certainly, by walking out, be cured of
this contraction in your muscles, which disfigures
your person, would you not go without hesitation,
even though the whole city were assembled to
see you? Answer me truly, my daughter.”
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 14]

After a little pause, Lucy said, ‘Yes, father
if I were perfectly certain ; but—”

“But I am perfectly certain, Lucy, that you
will be cured of a far worse evil—of one that
disfigures your soul, and would in time destroy
all its loveliness, if you will resist this excessive
regard for what others will think of you, and
submit yoursclf gently and patiently to the dis-
cipline of your heavenly Father, remembering
that all you suffer is only medicine from your
good Physician. Now, Lucy, if you care as
much to have a beautiful soul as a beautiful body
—as much to please the holy God and all good
beings as to excite the admiration of your imper-
fect. fellow-creatures, you cannot, I think, refuse
to go with me.” Mr. Lovett paused, that Lucy
might think over what he had said, and, when
he thought she had had sufficient time for this,
he asked, “Shall I ring for Margarct to get your
cloak and bonnet ?”

“Yes, father,” said Lucy, very softly.

Mr. Lovett’s house was not far from Wash-
ington Park, and he went there, because he

thought the walking would be pleasanter to Lucy
142 THE COUSINS.

than in the more crowded streets. There were
only a few children trundling their hoops in
the wide walks, and though Lucy looked sadly
at them at first, contrasting their light, active
movements with her own limping gait, she soon
forgot them in her enjoyment of the bright, warm,
sunshine, and the clear, bracing air, and in the
beauty of the many-coloured leaves which the
breeze every moment swept from the trees upon
her path. Her walk, on the whole, had been so
pleasant that she was sorry when her father,
looking at his watch, said that his hour had
passed, and they must return home.
THE REAUTIFUL SOUL. 143

CHAPTER XII.
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL.

Tux weather was very fine, and for a fortnight
Lucy continued to walk every morning with
evident benefit to her health, and, doubtless,
with a favourable influence on her lameness,
though that was not yet perceptible. As she
had never received a rude word, or even look,
in her walks, her confidence daily increased,
and she began to congratulate herself that she
had ceased to dread the ridicule of others, and
thus overcome the last symptom of vanity. It
was not long before her self-complacency was
most painful disturbed.

Mary had recommenced her attendance at Mrs.
Butler’s school, although she went with great
reluctance, at first, without Lucy. As Wash-
144 THE COUSINS.

ington Park was on her way to school, Xr,
Lovett and Lucy, after they began their walks,
‘ould set out with her in the morning, and walk
with ker across the park to its northern gate,
when, with a cheerful good-by to Uncle Lovett,
and a kiss to Lucy, she would trip merrily on.
One morning, just as they were entcring the
park, Mr. Lovett met an acquaintance, who stop-
ped to speak to him. Fearing that Mary was
already late, Mr. Lovett, who was carrying her
bag of books, handed them to her, saying, ‘‘ You
had better go on, my child.”

“Father, may I walk to the gate with Cousin
Mary, and then come back here to you?” asked
Lucy.

Mr. Lovett assented, and the little girls passed
together through the gate, which he held open
for them. They went quictly and pleasantly
across the park, and parted, as usual, at its far-
ther gate. After watching Mary’s progres: fo
a short time, Lucy turned to rejoin her father.
She hoped to see him coming towards her, but
he was not in sight. It was the first time Lucy
had been alone in her walks, and she looked
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 145

around with something very like fear beating
at her heart. Perhaps it was this very ap-
pearance of timidity which attracted the notice
of two rude boys, one of whom exclaimed,
‘Old Mother Hippity-Hop! Old Mother Hippity-
Hop !”

The other, laughing boistcrously, called out,
“Hit him on the head with your crutch, lame
girl—hit him on the head with your crutch !”

“She can’t catch me—Old Mother Hippity-
Hop!” the cruel boy who had first addressed
her continued to cry, while he ran around her,
now springing almost within her reach, and
then bounding off in the most provoking man-
ner possible. Lucy stopped short, and turned to
face her tormentor. If he truly read the pas-
Sionate sparkle of her eye, the quivering of her
frame, and the decp, crimson flush upon her
cheek, he might well have feared to come within
her reach, for, had Lucy’s strength been equal
to her will, she would have struck him to the
earth at her feet, and cared little, for the moment,
whether he ever rose agein.

Let us never forget, whcu we are tempted te

K
146 THE COUSINS.

do wrong, my dear young fricnds, that we cannot
foresce all the evil consequences of any wrong
act. It will bring forth ever deeper and deeper
evil; evil in oursclves, evil in those to whom
we have done the wrong, and evil oftentimes in
those who only witnessed it. In this case, rude
and unkind as this boy was, he could not con-
ceive the hundredth part of the misery he in-
’ flicted on the sensitive Lucy, who dreaded ridicule
beyond all other suffering, nor could he form any
idea of the bitter, murderous passion which his
taunts had awakened. At first Lucy could not.
speak, but at length she cried out, in a voice
full of rage, “You are a coward—a mean coward!
I wish you would dare to come near me, that I
might strike you down!”
“Tucy!” said a calm, grave voice beside her.
As she turned, exclaiming, ‘‘Oh, papa, I am

so glad you have come!” the boys ran quickly
away. Mr. Lovett did not pursue them, for,
shocked by the expression he had overhcard frora
Lucy, he was occupicd wholly with her. With
a manner almost fiercely impetuous, she related

her grievances, looking up from time to time
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 147

into the grave face of her father, as he walked
in perfect silence by her side. This silence
vexed Lucy yet more. She wanted to hear her
father express his detestation of those boys, and
his determination to punish them. At length,
unable longer to suppress these emotions, she
burst into tears, exclaiming, “ Poor me! every-
body may laugh at me, and call me what they
will: I have nobody to care for it—even my
own father does not care.”

They were just then passing one of the benches
placed in the park, and, scating himself on it,
and drawing Lucy beside him, Mr. Lovett said,
“Youu mistake, Lucy ; your father loves you
too well not to care a great deal for anything
which distresses you; but I have a subject of
deeper care. How can I think of anything clse,
when I have just heard my own dear daughter
say such terrible words? when I have scen in
her the spirit of a murderer—a spirit so ugly
and deformed—so unlike the loveliness of Him
who, ‘when he was reviled, reviled not again?’ ”

“T can't help it; I know I am ugly—ngly in
body and soul; it is of no use trying to be better ;

K 2
148 THE COUSINS.

and I only wish I was in my grave, where
nobody could see me.”

Nothing but great passion could have given
Luey courage to make such a speech to her
father; and even passion had not so completely
blinded her to its consequences but that she
trembled a little as she thought of the anger it
would excite. She did not dare to look up at
her father, who remained quite silent for a
while; but when he did speak, instead of the
angry rebuke she had expected, Lucy only heard,
in tones of the tenderest pity, ‘My poor child!
I can only pray for you; but take courage,
diuey; we have, in our Saviour, a High Priest
who can be touched with a feeling of our infir-
mities, and he will intercede for you; and
God, who pitieth us even as a father pitieth
his children, will give you a loving and gentle
heart.”

As these gentle words stole softly and ten-
derly into Lucy’s ears, her heart seemed changed
within her; and though she continued to weep,
it was with sorrow rather than with anger.
She drew nearer to her father on the scat,
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 149

and rested her head against his shoulder, and
as Mr. Lovett bont down and pressed his lips
to her forehead, she whispered, ‘Oh, papa, I
have been very wicked, and I am very sorry.”

“Say so to your heavenly Father, dear Lucy,
and he will forgive you,” said Mr. Lovett, as
he kissed her again.

Lucy returned home humbled and sorrowful,
thinking so much of the evil in her own heart,
and of what her father had said of the com-
passionate tenderness of the Saviour, that she
had quite forgotten the boys whose rudeness
had caused this scene, until her fathcr, at part-
ing, said to her, “Do not forget, when you pray
for yourself, my daughter, to ask God to pardon
those wicked boys. You know we must for-
give our enemies, if we would have Him to
forgive us.”

The next morning, when Mr. Lovett saw
Lucy ready for her walk, he said, ‘‘My daughter,
if you are willing, instead of going with
Cousin Mary this morning, we will make a
visit.”

**Make a visit, papa!” exclaimed Lucy, with a
150 THE COUSINS.

countenance which said very plainly, ‘I would
rather not |”

“Yes; but do not be frightened, my dear, at
the idea of making a visit; it is only to one
of your mamma’s poor friends, who, she heard
yesterday, has been very ill since we were in
the country. As she is one who suffers very
much, and who has very little of this world’s
goods, I thought it would please you to go with
me, and take her some niceties which mamma
has prepared for her; but if you do not wish
to go—”

“Oh, yes, papa, I should like it very much,”
said Luey, who had often attended her mother
on her charitable errands, and who was very
compassionate to the poor.

Mrs. Lovett put some cakes and some light
biscuits into a pretty covered basket, and Mr.
Lovett taking it on his arm, Lucy and he set
out together. Instead of going in the direction
of Washington Park, Mr. Lovett turned away
from it; and after walking several blocks, he
stopped at a gate, and, opening it, passed through
into an alley which led to an old house, with steps
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 15i

on the outside of the house ascending to two
or three different stories. ‘The door leading to
the first story was not fastened, and they entered
at once, without knocking, into a narrow passage,
and, looking through an open door on their
left hand, saw a number of washerwomen busy
at their tubs in different parts of a large room.
One of these women was very neat in her person,
and seemed quiet in her manners, and, as she
looked up for a moment at the strangers, Lucy
saw that she had a modest, agrecable coun-
tenance. The others were talking loudly, and
were very slovenly in their appearance. One
of them was a young girl, seemingly about seven-
teen years of age. Lucy was struck by her
bright black eyes, her curling hair, and her fine
colour. At the first glance she said to herself,
“How pretty she is!” but the next moment she
felt that her appearance was not pleasant, for her
hair was rough and uncombed, her face far from
clean, and her frock torn in the back, and hang-
ing half off of one shoulder. As she caught Mr.
Lovett’s eye resting on her for a moment, she
hung her head on one side with a simpering
62 LHE COUSINS.

smile, which. showed more self-conceit than
modesty.

“Poes Eliza Bennet live here?” asked My.
Lovett.

The loud talking ceased, and those who had
been engaged in it stood staring at the strangers
in a very rude manner; but the one who had
been the most quict stepped forward, wiping her
hands on her apron, and said, ‘Yes, sir, she
is in that room,” pointing to a door at the farther
end of the passage.

Mr. Lovett thanked her, and with a courtesy
and a smiling ‘You're welcome, sir,” she went
back to her work. She had neither curling hair,
nor bright black eyes, nor fine complexion;
yet Lucy thought, as she turned away, that she
would much rather look like her than like the
young woman who had attracted her admiration
for an instant. Mr. Lovett knocked at the door
which had been pointed out to him, and it was
almost immediately opened by a girl scarcely
older than Lucy herself. This girl had on her
cloak and bonnet, and went out with a bundle

in her hand as soon as she had set chairs for the
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 153

visitors; but Lucy had scarcely scen her, 59
entirely had her attention been engaged by the
woman who came forward to receive her father.
She was apparently about fifty years of age,
and wore a plain cap, which only showed a little
of her black hair, mixed with grey, smoothly
brushed back behind her ears. Her complexion
was sallow and unhealthy, and her features
plain; yet her countenance was so peaceful and
so kind in its expression, so full of a humble,
cheerful spirit, that it gave one pleasure to look
at it. But Lucy only saw this afterward; at
first she could sce nothing but her crooked and
bent back—for Eliza Bennet’s spine had been
injured—and she could not stand erect, while a
large hump upon one shoulder made her appear
to be bowing down under a heavy burden. She
often suffered severe illness, and almost always
endured great pain from this spinal injury; yet
hor dress, though coarse, was scrupulously clean,
and put on with neatness and care, and her
room was in perfect order. The stove was jet
black, and highly polished ; the hearth was bright,

the rag carpet was well swept, the painted cup-
154 THE COUSINS.

board, and cherry table, and four straw-bottomed
chairs were free from all smear or dust, and the
bed, on its low, painted bedstead, was covered
with a clean patchwork quilt.

Eliza Bennet welcomed Mr. Lovett very warmly,
and received Lucy, whom he introduced to her
as his daughter, with great kindness. Some
time was taken up in questions about her health,
and accounts of Mr. Lovett’s country excursion,
and of the engagements which had kept him
from seeing her since his return to the city. At
length he said to her, ‘‘ You have moved here
since I saw you last.”

“Yes, sir, and sorry enough I was to leave
. the old place, where I had lived so long; but
the landlord wanted to pull down the house and
build a better—so I had to go.”

“You seem to have a comfortable room here,”’
said Mr. Lovett.

“Oh, yes, sir, very comfortable indeed; and
T have a kind friend living here, which is a great
pleasure; but I have one trial here, sir, which I
have thought, if it would not be too great a liberty,
T should like to speak of to you or your good lady.”
THR BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 155

“Pray let me hear what it is, Miss Bennet,
if you think I can help you at all in getting rid
of it.”

“Why, you see, sir, it is about my niece Kate,
the little girl that went out just as you came in.
She has lived with me ever since her mother
died, and that was when she was only two years
old, so that I may well say I feel to her as if she
was my own. Well, sir, she is a good child in
the main, and a pretty child too, and that last it
is that makes my trial.”

Mr. Lovett smiled, and said, ‘‘ Why, Miss
Bennet, you do not regret that she is pretty,
do you?”

‘Oh, no, sir; I have always felt very grateful
to Him who made her for all His good gifts to
her; and I have tried in my poor. way, sir, to
teach her that she was to be thankful to Him for
good looks as well as for every other pleasant
thing, and that this, like every other gift of God,
was to be devoted to His service.”

Lucy, who had been listening very attentively,
did: not understand how good looks could be
devoted to the service of God, and she turned
156 THE COUSINS.

to her father with an inquiring expression.
Mr. Lovett noticed it, and, in order that she
might hear the answer, he asked Miss Bennet,
“How can good looks be devoted to the service
of God ?”

“Why, it seems to me, sir, that the greatest
value of good looks is, that they make us agree-
able to others, and give us an opportunity of
acquiring influence over them; and if we use
that influence for good, we are doing God service
—are we not, sir?”

“Yes, you are very right; we are doing the
most acceptable service to God when we acquire
influence over our fellow-creatures, in order that
we may make them better and happier.”

“ Well, sir, that is what I think our good looks
were given us for; but there are some thought-
less people in this house, with whom my poor
Kate likes, naturally enough, to stop and talk
sometimes, instead of sitting all the time with
asick body like me; and they put silly notions
in her head, talking of her beauty, as if it was
something to be proud of, and as if it would
make other people think much of her, whether
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. L5e

whe acted well or ill. At first Kate used te
see how foolish they were, and tell me what they
said ; but lately she says less, and I am afraid
she thinks a great deal more of what they tell
her, for I have seen her two or three times
looking in the glass when she did not know my
eyes were on her, and I find that she likes a
little bit of finery, which these people some-
times give her, better than her own clean but
plain dress; and I want to get her away from
here, sir, for I know that, like every other bless-
ing, good looks, if they are abused, may become
a great curse.”

“And where do you wish her to go, Miss
Bennet?” asked Mr. Lovett.

“Tf I could have my choice for her, sir, I
would send her to service in some good family
where she would be kept from bad company, and
be taught what would be useful to her here
and hereafter.”

“JT will speak to Mrs. Lovett about it, Miss
Bennet, and we will both do what we can to
procure a good place for Kate.”

“Thank you, sir—thank you kindly; that is
158 THE COUSINS.

just what I wanted. I could not go myself to
seck a place for her, and it was not every one’s
recommendation I was willing to take; but X
know what you call good will be good indeed.”

After a short conversation about other things,
Mr. Lovett said, ‘‘You have never seen my
daughter before, I believe ?”

‘No, sir, I never have.”

Eliza Bennet looked earnestly in Lucy’s face,
as if to see whom she resembled, and then, laying
her usad gently on hers, said kindly, “My dear
youug lady, you have a pleasant face like ny
Kete. I hope you will not make it the servant
of the Evil One, by letting it raise up a silly
vanity in your mind. Pardon me for speaking
80 freely to you.”’

Lucy did not answer, but Mr. Lovett said,
“She is obliged to you, Miss Bennet, and so
am I, for your excellent advice; but my poor
Lucy’s misfortune’—here Mr. Lovett put his
arm tenderly around his child — ‘makes her
think herself in more danger of becoming cnvious
of the personal graces of others than vain of

her own.”
THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL. 159

‘“T hope not, my dear young lady; I hope
there is no danger of that, for envy is a very
miserable feeling, as well as a very sinful one;
and you know it leads to ‘hatred and all un-
charitableness.’ Ah! sir, that is the easily-beset-
ting sin of poor deformed creatures like me;
and I feel something as if I longed to speak
to such all over the world, and tell them how
much happier they would be if they would
only see their heavenly Father’s hand in every-
thing; then they would adore his power and
goodness in the beautiful, and submit to his
merciful chastisement in themselves. I long
to tell them, too, that there is a beauty which.
may be theirs—the best of all beauty, the
beauty of the soul. And do you know, siz, I
think sometimes that this beauty shines through
the body, as it were, and makes the plainest
face pleasant.”

“Tt docs, Miss Bennet, it does,” said Mr.
Lovett, as he looked in her face, animated by
her good and benevolent fecling, and thought
there was a great deal of the soul’s beauty there.
Lucy must have had the same thought, for,
160 THE COUSINS.

while they were on their way home, she said,
“Papa, don’t you think Miss Bennet has a
beautiful soul ?”

In a few days Lucy again visited Miss Bennet
with her mother, who went to announce her
intention of taking Kate into her own family
as a seamstress, and occasionally to take care.
of Emma, who was now able to walk, and there-
fore did not need a very strong nurse. This
arrangement gave great pleasure to Miss Bennet
Lucy was quite as much interested in her
second visit as she had been in her first; and
she often afterward repeated these visits, some-
times spending the whole morning with Miss
Bennet, to whose room her father would take
her on his way to his office, leaving her mother
to call for her at noon. By only leading Lucy
to speak of her illness and its consequences,
Miss Bennet, without asking any disagreeable
questions, or making any observations that would
embarrass her young visitor, learned much of
her feclings and trials. Miss Bennet had herself
experienced the same, only much more severely ;
because, while Lucy had at least the hope of
THE BEAUTIFUL soun. 161

being one day better, she knew that the cause
of her sufferings could never be removed, that
she must always be a poor cripple. Miss Bennet
was almost as old as Lucy when the passing of
a cart over her caused the injury to her spine,
and she had never forgotten the misery of finding
herself suddenly afflicted with helplessness and
deformity. She had experienced all Lucy’s
dread of ridicule, all her temptation to envy
aud hatred of those who had been more fortunate
than herself, and all her fierce anger towards
those who had unkindly noticed her infirmity.
Miss Bennet related all this to Lucy, who listen-
ed with the most intense interest, because, in
everything that was described, she thought she
saw herself. Afterward Miss Bennet told her
how, by the teaching of a pious mother, she had
learned the sin and danger of such feelings,
and how she had tried to overcome them, and
had prayed for her heavenly Father’s aid. Lucy
saw, by this little history, that Miss Bennet
had often felt discouraged, and had exclaimed, as
she had so lately done, ‘“‘It is of no use trying
to be better; yet that, by persevering, she had
L
162 THE COUSINS.

at last conquered her sinful and unhappy feelings,
had resigned herself gently and patientiy to the
will of her merciful Father, and had learned to
love all her fellow-creatures as the work of His
hands, and to pity those who were wicked and
cruel, as suffering from a far worse evil than
that which afflicted her—from a deformed soul.
As Lucy heard these things, she felt new hope
and courage stealing into her heart, and she made
new efforts to overcome her own unhappy feel-
ings. She became every day more and more
attached to Miss Berinct, and so often had occa-
sion to repeat to herself, ‘‘Miss Bennet has a
beautiful soul,” that at length she began to think,
“Miss Bennet has a beautiful face.”
TE PREMIUM. 163

CHAPTER XIil.
THE PREMIUM.

Ox, Cousin Lucy!” exclaimed Mary, as she
entered the parlour one day a little after three
o'clock, without stopping to take off her bonnet,
or lay aside her bag of books, “how sorry I
am that you are not going to school now: Iam
sure you would get the first premium in every-
thing. Mrs. Butler is going to have an exami-
nation the week before Christmas, and she has
such beautiful premiums—a work-box—a beau-
tiful work-box, with thimble, and scissors, and
everything in it, for the young lady that does
the handsomest piece of fancy-work ; and a gold
pencil-case for the one that writes the best copy ;
and a—”

“Oh, Cousin Mary, you make my head ache

L 2
164 THE COUSINS.

talking so fast and so loud; I am sure I don’t care
about the work-box, or the pencil-case, or anything
else at Mrs. Butler’s school: I don’t go to it now.”

Mrs. Lovett raised her eyes from her work and
looked at Lucy, not angrily, but sorrowfully, as
if she pitied her for having such feclings; for
Mrs. Lovett saw that it was not Mary’s loud
talking, but Lucy’s envy of those who had it in
their power to obtain such premiums, which had
discomposed her. As Lucy caught her mother’s
look, the colour came into her face, and she hung
her head. Presently she too began to understand
her own feelings, and Mrs. Lovett saw, as she
rose to leave the room, that tears were in her
eyes. She was not sorry to see Lucy go away,
for she knew that she had been accustomed, of
late, when anything disturbed her, to go to her
own room, where she could think of it quictly,
and could pray for right feelings, and she almost
always came back from these visits to her room
feeling better and happier. And so it happened
now. Mary had just put away her bonnet and
books, and commenced a game of romps with

Emma, when Lucy came in the parlour again.
THE PREMIUM. 165

“Hush, Emma!” said Mary, as she saw her
cousin entering; ‘‘Sister Lucy has a headache,
and we must not make a noise.”

“T am better now, Cousin Mary,” said Lucy,
“and I want to hear more about the premiums.
What are your class to have ?”

““We are to have two premiums: one in his-
tory—that will be a portfolio, and Mrs. Butler
says we can keep our notes on history in it;
and one to the author of the best composition—
that is the one I like best of all; it is to be a
handsome morocco case, made like a bookcase,
with glass doors, and in it are Miss Edgeworth’s
‘Popular Tales’ and ‘Parent’s Assistant.’ Oh!
I wish you were going to school, for I know you
would get that."

‘Perhaps you will get it,” said Lucy.

‘‘T—oh, no! I do not hope for that, though I
think I may get the one in history; I mean to
try for it.”

“But you will have to write a composition, will

you not?” asked Lucy.
“Yes; and I want you to tell me what I shail

write about; see, here is the list of subjects.”
166 THE COUSINS.

After carefully considering the list, Lucy said,
“T think you talk best about the ‘ Pleasures of
Home,’ Cousin Mary; suppose you take that for
your subject ?”

“That was the very one I liked best,” said
Mary. Uncle and Aunt Lovett also, on being
consulted, thought this an excellent subject, and
so Mary’s choice was determined.

For the three or four weeks intervening between
this time and that appointed for Mrs. Butler’s
examination, all was excitement and preparation
on the part of her scholars; and Lucy sympa-
thized with the excitement, both on Mary’s ac-
count and because of the awakening of many
pleasant memories within herself. Pleasant as
the memories were, there was sadness attending
them, on account of their contrast with her pre-
sent situation. Her talents, her industry, and her
love of display had always made her the most
eager in her preparation for such examinations,
and the most joyful in her anticipation of their
results. The affliction which had obliged her to
relinquish her school had probably never been
more painful to her than now, that it detained
THE PREMIUM. 167

her from what she had always regarded as a scene
of triumph. Her regret, however, was never
afterward permitted, we think, to degenerate into
cnvy of her more fortunate companions, or if it
did for a moment assume so dark a colouring, she
too sincerely loathed the fecling, and had acquired
too much power over herself to permit it to be
evident in look, word, or action. She took great
interest in Mary’s preparations, hearing her recite
her historical lessons again and again without
weariness, and even offering to assist her in her
composition ; an offer which Mary very honour-
ably declined, saying, “You know, Cousin Lucy,
it would not be my composition if you helped me
with it.”

A few days after this offer had been made and
refused, Mr. Lovett, on returning home somewhat
earlier than usual, found Mary alone, with a slate
before her, and a pencil in her hand. To his
question of “Where are your aunt and cousins ?”’
she answered, “They are gone to walk, sir.”

There was something in her tones which made
Mr. Lovett look closely at her, and he saw in an
instant that her face was flushed, and her lip
168 THE COUSINS.

trembling with an emotion that she could scarcely
forbear manifesting by tears.

“Why did you not go with them?” he asked.

Mary turned away her head, and passed her
hand over her eyes as she answered, in a very
unsteady voice, “I stayed to write my composi-
tion.”’

“And how much have you written?”

This question was more than Mary could bear,
and, abandoning all effort at self-control, she sob-
bed out, ‘“‘I have not written any at all, and I
don’t think I ever shall write any about the
pleasures of home. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t know what to say! Have you forgotten
already all you used to tell us last winter of the
pleasures of your home in Georgia.”

“No, I have not forgotten any of it, Uncle
Lovett, but—’ Mary paused, and looked per-
plexed.

“But what? Speak on, Mary. Tell me why
you cannot write what you have so often said.”

“T never talked about the pleasures of home,
Uncle Lovett; I only told you what I did when
I was there.”
THE PREMIUM. 169

“You told us of things that had been pleasant
to you, did you not, Mary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then these were your pleasures at home.”

“But how can I write about them?” asked
Mary, with reviving spirits.

“Just as you talked about them ; tell what your
pleasures were, and how much you enjoyed them:
can you not do this?”

“Oh, yes, but then, Uncle Lovett, if that is
what we are to do, everybody’s pleasures of home
will be a different thing. I thought we were all
to write about the same thing.”

“There is something alike in the pleasures
of every home—something without which no
home could be pleasant: can you tell what that
ig?”

Mary thought for a long time, but she puzzled
herself in vain; she could not think of any one
thing that was to be found in the pleasures of
evcry home. Mr. Lovett looked on with a smiling
face, shaking his head at her guesses, and when
at last she exclaimed, “I give it up, Uncle Lovett
—I can’t guess,” he bade her write her composi-
170 THE COUSINS.

tion, and if she had not discovercd it when that
was done, he would tell it to her.

“ But you must remember,” he added, “ that
you have two homes, very different in most things.
Perhaps when you have described the pleasures
of each, and shown how much they differ, you
may see some one thing in which they are alike.”

It was nearly a week after this, that Mary came
to the breakfast-room with an unusually bright
expression of countenance, and as scon as Mr.
Lovett appeared, she exclaimed, “ I have found
it out, Uncle Lovett—I am sure I have found it
out!”

“ And, pray, what have you found out, my little
discoverer ?”

“T have found out what my two homes are
alike in. At my first home, my poor mamma,
and papa, and Maumer loved me, and took care
of me; and here you, and Aunt Lovett, and
Cousin Lucy, and Charles, and Emma love me:
so homes must be alike in having people to
love and be kind to you. Is not that it, Uncle
Lovett ?” :

“Yes, Mary, that is it: it is kindness, leve,
be

TRE PREMIUM. 171

which makes home pleasant; and as Jesus Christ
taught us to love and be kind to each other, the
home of the Christian will always be the happiest
home.”

A fortnight before the examination, Mary had
accomplished the greatest labour of her life; she
had written her composition, and with almost as
much trepidation as she afterward felt in giving
it to Mrs. Butler, she read it to Lucy, that she
might hear her opinion of its merits. Mary, fol-
lowing the suggestion of Mr. Lovett, had told,
sith the utmost simplicity, of the pleasures she
had enjoyed in her carly home; of rambling
through its woods, which were green even in
winter with the dark pine, and cedar, and live
oak, and in spring and summer were bright with
flowers of a thousand hues; of watching its wa-
ters as they danced beneath the beams of the carly
morning sun, or as the moonlight lay like a long
column of gold upon them; of listening to the
birds as they trilled forth their merry songs, and
of those sweet hours when, wearied with her
rambles, she sat at her mother’s feet, and learned
from her gentle teaching to raise her heart from
172 THE COUSINS.

the beautiful things of carth to the Father in
heaven who made them all. Then she referred
to her present home, where she had neither woods
nor waters, birds nor flowers, and yet, to use her
own expression, was as happy as the day was long,
because, though almost all else was wanting which
had delighted her in her other home, she had
still the kindness and love which she had expe-
rienced there. All this was, as we have already
remarked, simply told; but it was told with feel-
ing, and Lucy liked it very much, though she
thought a great deal more might be said of the
pleasures of home.

“Do you not think I have written enough?”
asked Mary, in a disappointed tone, for she was
too weary of her labours to be pleased at the
thought of renewing them.

“Oh, yes, I think your composition is quite
long enough; and it is so good, that I should not
wonder at all if you should get the premium.”

Mary turned away with a bashful smile. She
began to have some hope herself that the beauti-
ful miniature bookcase, with Miss Edgeworth’s
delightful stories, might be hers.
TUE PREMIUM. 173

Lucy, for many days, could think of nothing
fhat interested her so much as Mary’s composition
—what she had said, and, still more, what she
had left unsaid, of the pleasures of home. This
last occurred to her so often, that at length she
resolved to write down her thoughts, and so make
a composition of her own. In this she succeeded
so well, that afew days before the examination
she showed Mary an essay longer than hers on the
same subject, in which not one of the enjoyments
described by her was referred to. Lucy had cele-
brated home as the place where all the kindly and
genersus feelings were awakened and exercised,
and where they met their full and sweet reward
in grateful affection. She had described the young
and thoughtless as sometimes casting a longing,
lingering look, even from the midst of their
feverish gayeties, back to its pure and peaceful
enjoyments. There the man, worn and wearied
with the cares and sorrows of life, sought rest
from his burdens; the sick thirsted for the air of
home, for the looks and voices they had known
there; and from the bed of death the parting
spirit fondly turned to home, the scenes of its
174 THE COUSINS.

earliest and purest delights. Nor did the influ-
ence of home cease with life. The blessed in
“eaven must often look back to its instructions
and its examples as the sources of their joys—the
first spring of that full river of delights of which
they drink. Lucy had not written, like Mary,
from her own feelings and her own observations.
Most of her ideas had been suggested by things
heard or read at various times; but they were
very good ideas, and well expressed for a girl of
her age; and as Mary listened to them, she felt
that if Lucy’s composition could only be shown to
Mrs. Butler, it would certainly gain the prize.
At first she rejoiced that her cousin’s absence
from school had removed from her so dangerous
arival; but Mary’s was a truly generous nature,
and before she had time to express this thought
in words, she was ashamed of it—ashamed that
she could have been so selfish as to forget her
cousin’s sorrow in her own joy, and that she could
feel pleasure in winning by an accident what, in
her opinion, another justly deserved. Mary said
nothing to Lucy of what she had thought at first,
or of what she now felt; but she did not cease
THE PREMIUM. 178

to reproach herself until she had formed a scheme
by which to make amends for her momentary
injustice.

“You do not say how you like my composi-
tion,” said Lucy, somewhat disappointed, as well
as surprised, by her long silence.

“ T like it so well, Cousin Lucy, that lam going
to beg for it; you will not want it, and if you
would only give it to me, I—I would be very
glad.”

“ But what do you want with it?’ asked Lucy,
who, knowing that Mary was too honourable and
truthful to show what another had written as her
own, was quite perplexed by her request, espe-
cially as she had made it very earnestly, and with
evident embarrassment, blushing and stammering
all the while.

“J cannot tell you what I want with it, Cousin
Lucy; but, if you will only lend it to me for a
weck or two, Iwill give it back to you again,”
was Mary’s reply.

“Well, there it is; but 1 do wish I knew what
you wanted with it.”

“ You shall know in time.”
176 THE COUSINS.

The next day Mrs. Butler called upon Mary’s
class for their compositions, as she desired to
leave them a day or two in the hands of those who
were to decide on their merits. When Mary was
summoned, she went up to Mrs. Butler, and
trembling with eagerness, and with her heart throb-
bing quick and hard, said, timidly, ‘I wrote a
composition, ma’am, but Cousin Lucy has written
one a great deal better than mine, and—and—if
you please, I would rather give you Cousin Lucy’s
than mine.”

“T do not understand you,” Mrs. Butler re-
plied; “do you wish to give what your cousia
has written as yours ?”

“Oh, no, ma’am!’? and the colour glowed in
Mary’s cheek at the thought of being suspected of
such a thing; “but I know Cousin Lucy’s com-
position is the best, and I should not like to get
the prize only because she could not show it, and
so I thought, ma’am, if you would be so kind as
let me, I would rather keep mine, and let Cousin
Lucy have my chance.”

“That was a very generous thought, and I
should be pleased to gratify you; but there is
THE PREMIUM. 17?

no chance about this; it is a trial of the relative
merits in composing of the members of your
class, and, as your cousin does not now belong
to that class, I cannot do as you wish. Have you
your own composition with you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mary, and slowly and
reluctantly she drew it forth. She had already
ventured a great deal for one so bashful, but
she was very loath to relinquish a project on
which she had thought with so much satisfae-
tion, and, as she handed her own composition,
she could not help adding, though in a low,
constrained voice, “‘ You cannot take Cousin
Lucy's?”

“Not instead of yours,” said Mrs. Butler,
smiling; ‘but I should be glad to have it with
yours.”

Mary gave them both, looking up in her
teacher’s face as she did so with eyes that seemed
to say, ‘I wish I knew what you intended to
do with it.’ The good-humoured smile with
which Mrs. Butler met that look satisfied Mary
that her intentions were kind.

The great day at last arrived for which Mary

M
'78 THE COUSINS.

and her companions at school had been so long
preparing. It was bright and still, though cold,
and, at an earlier hour than usual, the young
scholars began to assemble. It was a pleasant
sight, that group of young girls, dressed with
more than usual neatness, their eyes sparkling
with pleased expectation, and their manners full
of lively cordiality. How rapidly and how
earnestly they talked, my young readers will
easily imagine without any aid from me. There
were two or three among them attired in great
elegance. Among these, Miss Ann Noel, wearing
a lilac silk skirt and a claret-coloured velvet
spencer, with a profusion of stiff curls, and a
pair of light satin slippers, attracted, perhaps, the
most attention. If her showy dress excited any
envy among her companions, we are sure that,
before the day was over, the feeling was ex-
changed for the deepest pity, as she was found
so ignorant on every subject, that one rather
cross old gentleman. whispered so loudly that
many heard him, “that the young lady with
a frock and jacket of different colours reminded
him, with her fine dress and her silly answers,
THE PREMIUM. 179

of the fools who were kept of old by great people,
and who always wore many colours.”

Lucy had so far overcome her dread of ob-
servation that she herself proposed to accompany
Mary. When the cousins entered the school.
room, a number of their young acquaintances were
already collected, by many of whom Lucy had
not been seen since her illness. Mary held the
door carefully open for her as she entered, and,
the unusual sound of her crutches attracting
attention, every eye was turned towards her.
From the lips of one, and one only, proceeded
an unfecling titter; that one was Miss Ann
Noel, for whom Lucy had once felt such over-
weening admiration, on account of the advantages
bestowed on her by her father’s wealth. If
Lucy heard her laugh, she did not seem to heed
it; and Mary, though she turned on her a coun-
tenance glowing with indignation, said nothing,
from delicate regard to her cousin’s feelings.
In a moment Lucy was surrounded by her for-
mer companions, each of whom was anxious to
offer some attention to the poor lame girl.
There were few who had not been offended in

u%2
isa THE COUSINS.

former times by her vanity and sclfishness, but
all seemed now forgotten, and there was some-
thing so engaging in the gentleness, and even
humility, with which she received their kind
greetings, that what at first was pity became, in
their sensitive young hearts, affection ere the
morning was passed.

This school was limited in the number of its
pupils. There were only about thirty young
ladies to be examined, and these only in the
higher branches of an accomplished English
education, in French and Italian. A few played
some showy pieces upon the harp and piano, or
exhibited their paintings and fancy-work. By
three o’clock nothing remained of the business
of the day except the distribution of the prizes.

Can you not feel, my young reader, how the
heart of each successful candidate throbbed with
timid pleasure as she heard her name announced ?
Can you not see the quick, cager glance cast
by her on the friends who were there to witness
her triumph, the glowing cheeks and downcast
eyes with which she went forward to receive
the prize. and the light, gay movement with
THE PREMIUM. 18.

which she returned to ler seat? Mary received
the portfolio, the prize in English History, and
it was pleasant to see the affectionate gratulation
with which she was hailed by Lucy on her return
to her seat beside her. But the last rewards
bestowed were those which seemed to excite
most anxiety in the pupils, and most interest in
the visitors. These were to be given to those
young ladies whose compositions had been pro-
nounced the best. ‘The names of the favoured
writers had been kept profoundly secret, and it
was only when the pieces to which the prize had
been awarded was read by one of the gentlemen
who had been appointed judges that the secret
was revealed. There were four classes in the ex-
ercise of this art, and for each of these classes a
premium had been provided. The colour might
have been seen to deepen on Mary Mowbray’s
cheeks, and her eyes to turn with an eager glance
to the reader, as he announced “the prize essay
of the third class.” As he began to read, Mary’s
eyes sank to the floor, and were not lifted again
till he had finished. The composition was hers.

Mary obeyed Mrs. Butler's summons to come
182 THE COUSINS.

forward and receive her premium with less alac-
rity than the tempting nature of that premium
would have secmed to demand; for, though
pleased for herself, she was disappointed for
Lusy.

“Take these volumes, my dear child,” said
Mrs. Butler, affectionately, ‘“‘as a reward of your
diligence, and a token of my approbation. I
have a reward also to offer you for the generosity
with which you exerted yourself to obtain for
another the privilege of contending for this
prize, even at the expense of losing it yourself.
Though I could not gratify you by making one
who is not now a member of the class a candidate
for its honours, I have been much pleased by
reading the composition you handed me, and I have
here a little present for your cousin, Miss Lovett,
which will mark my interest in her, and my
pleasure in her continued improvement of her
mind, even while unable to attend school. The
reward which I think most appropriate for your
generous conduct is, that you shall have the
pleasure of giving that book to your cousin.”

Mary could scarcely wait to hear this some-
THE PREMIUM. 183

what long speech to an end. Forgetful of her
own premium, she eagerly clasped the book—
which was a handsomely-bound copy of Robinson
Crusoe, illustrated by fine engravings—and hasten-
ed with it to Lucy, her face glowing with joyful
emotion. To Lucy all this had been a great
surprise, and the tears which sprang to her eyes,
as she threw her arms around Mary’s neck and
kissed her, were caused more by sympathy with
her cousin’s generous affection than by pleasure
at Mrs. Butler’s handsome present, gratifying as
that was.

The day had been hitherto all of pleasure, but
it was not to end without some painful emotion.
Mary and Lucy were returning home by their
usual route through Washington Park, attended
by several of their young companions, when some
one approached Lucy from behind, and touched
her on the arm. She turned quickly, and saw
beside her the wicked boy who had annoyed her
so much by his taunts once before. With a mis-
chievous laugh he sprang away from her, crying,
“Now, don’t beat me with your crutch, old Mo-
ther Hippity-Hop !”
184 THE COUSINS.

Lucy had often lately tried to imagine herself
in just such circumstances, and to apply to those
circumstances Miss Bennet’s and her father’s les-
sons; yet at first she could not remember that
this boy was displaying a deformity of soul far
more hideous than hers of the body, and that she
ought, therefore, to pity him. She could only
think and grieve that her young acquaintances
saw her exposed to such humiliation—the jeer and
mock of a rude boy, and she grew pale, and tears
of bitter mortification rushed to her eyes. She
might have used angry words, but before she had
time to speak, Mary was uttering the most bitter
invectives which indignation could suggest, and
Lucy, therefore, had time to recover her self-
command, and to recollect what had seemed right
to her when she had thought on these things in
the stillness of her own room. Silently in her
own heart she asked God to help her in doing
right, and this is a prayer which is never rejected
by our heavenly Father. In a moment or two,
before they had time to cross half the Park,
through which the boy continued to follow them,

her colour came again, and she said “ Hush,
THE PREMIUM. 188

Cousin Mary! don’t speak so to him: it only
makes him worse. He don’t really hurt me, you
know, and papa says I ought to be sorry for him,
for that he can never have learned what was
right.”

She had scarcely spoken thus when the boy
dashed round in front of the little party, fol-
lowed by a gentleman who had heard his inso-
lence, and was resolved to punish it. The gentle-
man seized him by the arm, and lifted a cane to
strike him, but Lucy, lropping one of her crutches,
caught him by the sleeve, exclaiming, “ Pray,
sir, do not strike him; he does not know any
better, and I dare say he will not do so again.”

The gentleman to whom Lucy spoke was a
Christian, and, angry as he was, he did not forget
that it was right to forgive injuries. He looked
kindly at Lucy, and said, ‘‘ You are right, my
dear child; but we must not let this boy continue
to act so wickedly and cruelly. Where do you
live, sir?” ‘

“At No. — Centre-strect,” said the boy, sulkily.

“Do you go to Sunday-school ?”

**T go sometimes.”
186 THE COUSINS.

«To what church ?”

TS church.”

“¢ Who is your teacher?”

“Mr. Foster.”

‘¢T will go to that church on Sunday morning



next, and if you are not there, I will on Monday
have you up before the police for your rude-
ness.”

He loosed his hold of the boy, and, offering his
hand to Lucy, said, “I hope you will always be
kind and forgiving as you have been to-day ;”
and then, looking pleasantly round upon all the
little girls, he passed on. Butt he boy lingered,
and when the gentleman had gone, he sprang
forward, and, picking up ‘Lucy’s crutch, he
handed it to her, saying, ‘‘ You were very good
to beg for me, and I beg your pardon, and I won’t
never call you names again.”

«Thank you,” Lucy replied, ‘for it does make
me feel very bad, though I know I ought not to
eare for it; and you will go to the Sunday-school,
TE hope.”

“T ain’t so sure about that.”

“T wish you would.”
THE PREMIUM. 187

“Do you? Well, then, if you want me to go,
Twill.”

The boy turned away as he made this promise,
and Lucy went on her way with such a glow of
pleasure at her heart as she had scarcely exer
Imown before. How different were these from
the feelings which his last attack on her had pro-
duced! Such, my dear young readers, are the
effects on others, and on our own souls, of that
lovely, gentle, forgiving temper which Christ
teaches.
188 ‘HE COUSINS.

CHAPTER XIV.
CHRISTMAS EVE.

Ir was Christmas eve, and Mr. and Mrs. Lovett,
and Mary, and Lucy, were sitting around a bright
coal fire in the parlour, examining the Christmas
presents that had just been brought home for
Charles and Emma, who had gone to bed in happy
anticipation of what the morrow would bring
them. When the toys had all been arranged to
the best advantage, Mr. Lovett asked Mary to give
them some account of how she had been accustomed
to spend Christmas in Georgia.

“A great many of our relations used always to
spend Christmas at our house,”’ she said, “and, as
they came the day before, our Christmas eve was
very pleasant; the grown people laughed and
talked, and were almost as noisy and as full of fun
CURISTMAS EVE. 189

as we children were. But the part I liked best
was to go in the yard and see the negroes standing
there around a great fire, and getting the beef,
and rice, and molasses, which were served out to
them as a present at such times. They are very
merry at Christmas, for then they have three
days’ holiday to go round and see their friends,
and amuse themselves; and in the night they
used to come and fire off a gun under our windows,
and play a fiddle, and call out, ‘Merry Christmas,
maussa!’ ‘Merry Christmas, missis!’ ‘ Merry
Christmas, Miss Mary!’ In the morning, there
they were again at the house wishing us ‘Merry
Christmas!’ and if they could say it before we
could speak to them, we had to make them a
present. Papa used to tell me I must be sure to
let them catch me, and then he would give me a
bright red handkerchief, or a check apron, or some
tobacco for them.”

They were still talking on the same subject,
Lucy asking questions, and Mary answering them,
when there was a quick, loud peal of the door
bell. The door was opened, a gentleman’s step
was heard; he entered the parlour, and, before
190 THE COUSINS.

any one else had discovered who he was, Mary had
sprung with a glad ery into his arms. It was Mr.
Mowbray. For a few seconds, Mary and he could
think only of each other. When at length he placed
her on the floor to give his hands to his friends, a
strange voice was heard exclaiming, “ Bless my
soul, how de chile grow!” and Mary turned quickly
to throw her arms around Maumev’s neck, and kiss
her again and again. Lucy looked on with sur-
prise ; for, less accustomed to negroes than Mary
was, their appearance was disagrecable to her,
and, having only been acquainted with hired
nurses, she could not understand the strong at-
tachment existing between her cousin and the
faithful old servant who had always taken care of
her.

It was hearing of Lucy’s condition which had
brought Mr. Mowbray to New York thus unex-
pectedly. He had urged on Mr. Lovett the ad-
vantages of a warm climate for a disease such ag
hers, and had affectionately invited him to bring
his whole family south for the winter. Mr. Lo-
vett had replied that, sensible as he was of the
Yenefits of a sea-voyage and warmer temperature
CHRISTMAS EVE. 191

to Lucy, he must decline the invitation, as his
business would not permit him to be absent from
New York; and as Lucy seemed to be recovering
where she was, Mrs. Lovett was not willing to
leave him alone for a whole winter. Mr. Mow-
bray had, consequently, determined to come on
himself for Mary and Lucy, and had brought
Maumer to take care of them on their voyage.
All objections having been thus removed, and the
change greatly approved by Lucy’s physician, in
little more than three weeks after Mr. Mowbray’s
arrival in New York the cousins were in Georgia
together.

Delighted was Mary to introduce Cousin Lucy
to her home; and, though Lucy missed there
some conveniences to which she had been accus-
tomed, she found many pleasures hitherto un-
known to her. They lived much abroad, because
exercise was thought essential to Lucy, who im-
proved daily in that balmy air and warm sun-
shine. So rapidly, indeed, did her contracted
limbs relax themselves, that in the early part of
March she no longer needed a crutch to follow
Mary through the woods, which were draped
192 THE COUSINS.

with jessamines and carpeted with violets. Early
in May Lucy and Mary returned to New York,
and took their places again at Mrs. Butler’s schoct.
This second parting from Mary was less painful
to Maumer, for her short visit to Mr. Lovett’
house had satisfied her that “her child” was
kindly treated, and had made her very unwilling
to live herself where, to use her own language,
there were none of her own people.

Lucy carried her crutches back with her, and
keeps them in herroom. “TI like them,” she says,
“because they,were my good medicine.”

Watch over your own hearts, my dear young
readers, and carefully guard against that vanity
whose root is selfishness, and whose fruits are
‘envy, malice, and all uncharitableness.”’



Woodfall and Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London,

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