Lewie by Cousin Cicely

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"She's much to be blamed, no doubt, Bridget, and yet there's excuses to
be made for my mistress," said Mammy, mildly. "She's young yet in years,
no but twenty-two; and she's nothing but a child in her ways and her
knowledge. She never knew the blessing of a mither's care, puir thing;
and up to the very day she was married, her life was passed at one o'
them fashionable boarding-schules, where they teach them to play on
instruments, and to sing, and to dance, and to paint, and to talk some
unchristian tongue that's never going to do them no good for this life
nor the next. But they never give them so much as a hint that they've
got a soul to be saved, and they take no pains to fit them to be wives
and mothers. My mistress was but fifteen years old when she ran away
with Master Harry. Poor dear Master Harry! It was the only fulish thing
I ever knew him to do, was running away wi' that chit of a schule-girl.
He met her, I think, at a ball that was given at this schule, and Master
Harry was over head and ears in love in a minute; and after two or three
meetings and a few notes passing, they determined on this runnin' away
folly. I think it was them novels she was always readin' put it in her
head. It wouldn't do, you know, to be like other folks, but they must
have a little kind of a romance about it. Puir, fulish, young things!"

"You see, I was living with old Mr. Elwyn then," continued Mammy;
"indeed, I've been in the family ever since I came over from Scotland,
quite a lassie, thirty-one years ago come next April. I left them,
besure, when I married; but as my gude-man lived but two years, I was
soon back in my old home again. Old Mr. Elwyn, Master Harry's father,
had lost his property before this time; but his brother, 'Uncle Ben,' as
they called him, was very rich. They all lived together--'Uncle Ben,'
old Mr. Elwyn, Master Harry and Miss Ellen, that's Mrs. Wharton. Miss
Ellen was a few years older than Master Harry, and she was the
housekeeper. But Master Harry, bless you! was only twenty years old,
when he walked in one morning, and told his father he was married. I
never shall forget the time there was then! The old gentleman was
complaining, and had had a bad night, though Master Harry did not know
that. Well, the sudden shock threw him into an apoplectic fit; and two
days after, he had another, and died. Master Harry was almost distracted
then: he called himself his father's murderer; and, indeed, I think he
was never what you might call well from that time."

"But you never saw any one so angry as Mr. Benjamin Elwyn was. He had
always intended to make master Harry his heir, but his conduct in this
foolish affair enraged him so that he said he would leave him nothing.
At first the young folks lived with her father, but he soon died,
leaving his daughter a little property settled on herself. But it was
not enough to support them, and so Master Harry had to apply to old Mr.
Benjamin Elwyn again, and the old man gave him this place, and enough to
live on pretty comfortably here. He told Master Harry that perhaps
something might be made of his baby wife yet, if he brought her away
from the follies of the city, to a country place like this, and tried to
improve her mind; and so they have lived here ever since, till last
year, when poor master Harry died."

"And what do ye think is the raison that the misthress thrates little
Miss Agnes the way she does?"

"Well, I can hardly tell you, Bridget. In the first place, I have often
heard her say that she couldn't abide _girls_, and bating other reasons,
I think she would have been disappointed on her own account, you know,
to have the first child a girl. But, besides this, I have heard that Mr.
Benjamin Elwyn quite forgave Mr. Harry, and promised him that if his
oldest child was a boy, and he named it after him, he would leave him
the bulk of his property. I cannot tell you how bitterly disappointed
my young mistress was, when her first born proved to be a girl. She was
but sixteen years old then, you know, Bridget, and she acted like a
cross, spoiled baby. She cried herself into a fever, and she wouldn't
let the poor, helpless baby, come into her sight. I think she never
loved her; and from the time of Master Lewie's birth, she has seemed to
dislike her more and more."

"But how the father loved her, Mrs. McCrae!"

"Aye, indeed he did; he never could be easy a minute without her. It was
a sore day for my poor bairn, when it pleased God to take her father;
poor man! But He knows best, Bridget, and He orders all things right."

Here Mammy was summoned by the bell, and despatched to bring little
Agnes down; to accompany her aunt and cousins to their home.

As Agnes was riding along, seated so comfortably by the side of her kind
aunt, in the large covered sleigh, with the rosy, smiling faces of her
little cousins, Grace and Effie, opposite her, she could scarcely
believe that she was the same little girl, who, but an hour or two
before, was walking so sadly up and down the desolate North Room, and
trying to persuade herself that she was "not alone." Agnes was naturally
of a lively, cheerful disposition, and like any other little girl of six
years of age, she soon forgot past sorrow in present pleasure, though,
at times, the sudden remembrance of her dear little baby brother, lying
so ill at home, would cause a sigh to chase away the smile of pleasure
beaming on her lovely face.

It was but little more than two miles from "The Hemlocks," Mrs. Elwyn's
residence, to "Brook Farm," the home of the Wharton's, and, as Matthew
had received orders to drive very rapidly, it seemed to Agnes that her
ride was just begun, when they turned into the lane that led up to her
Uncle Wharton's house. And now the pillars of the piazza appear between
the trees, and now the breakfast room windows, and more bright young
faces are looking out, and little chubby hands are clapped together, as
the sleigh is discovered coming rapidly up the lane, and the cry
resounds through the house, "They've come! they've come! and Agnes is
with them!"

A bright, cheerful wood fire was burning in the pleasant, great
breakfast room, and the party who had just arrived were soon surrounded
by smiles of welcome, while busy little fingers were assisting them to
untie their bonnets, and unfasten their cloaks. In a few moments the
door opened, and a pale, but lovely looking girl, in deep mourning,
entered the room. She was a niece of Mr. Wharton's, and, having lately
been left an orphan, by the death of her mother, she had been brought by
her kind uncle, to his hospitable home, where she was received by all as
a member, henceforth, of their family.

"Well, aunty," said she, after stooping to kiss Agnes, "you are back
sooner than I expected."

"Yes, dear, I was obliged to hurry; little Lewie is very ill, I fear. By
the way, Harry, run and tell Matthew that just as soon as he is warm, he
must drive as fast as possible to the village, and ask Dr. Rodney to
get directly into the sleigh, to go to your Aunt Elwyn's; and tell him
to call for me, as he comes back."

"Why, mamma, are you going back there again?" asked Effie.

"Yes, love, I must go back, and remain with your Aunt Harriet to-day. I
only came home to make some arrangements for the family. I want your
papa to drive over for me to-night, after the little ones are all in
bed; and I desire the rest of you to keep out of my way till I have
changed my dress. I do not know yet what is the matter with Lewie. How
do you feel, Emily?"

"Much better, thank you, aunty; I am quite prepared to play lady of the
house in your absence."

"Well, do put aside those books, dear: your health is the most important
thing now. I wish I could leave you so busy with household concerns as
to give you not a moment's time for reading."

"Dear aunty, I do not think the books hurt me; and you certainly would
not have me grow up a dunce, would you?"

"No fear of that, dear; and I by no means wish you to give up your books
altogether, but only to lay them aside till you get a little color in
these pale cheeks. I shall lay my commands on your uncle not to give you
any more assistance in your studies till I give him permission."

"Well, I'll be very good, aunty, and I've promised the boys to take a
run with them over to the pond, and see them skate; and besides, we are
all invited to an entertainment in a certain snow palace, which is
nearly finished, and which I have promised to grace with my presence."

Just then two fine handsome boys, the pictures of health and good
nature, rushed in. These were Robert and Albert Wharton, home from
school for the Christmas holidays.

"Mother, what will you give us for our entertainment?" they cried.

"Have you a table and seats?" she asked.

"Yes, all made of snow," said Albert. "But don't let us tell her all
about it, Bob; I want to surprise her."

"I think your entertainment, to be in keeping with your furniture, ought
to be of snow and icicles," said Mrs. Wharton; "but, whatever it is, I
am sorry that I cannot visit your snow palace to-day."

"Oh! that's too bad, mother; it will spoil all our fun. But, say, will
you give us something to eat?"

"Yes; I leave Emily mistress of the keys for to-day, and you may call
upon her for pies, cake, or anything the store-room contains; only be a
little moderate, and don't leave us entirely destitute."

"It won't be half so pleasant without you, mother," said Robert; "but we
shall have quite as many as our palace can accommodate, if all these go.
Hallo! here's Agnes! Why, Aggy, how do you do? I didn't see you before."

At this moment the sleigh was seen coming up the lane, and Mrs. Wharton
hastened to get ready to accompany the doctor to the Hemlocks.

"I want to whisper to you, dear mother, one minute," said little Grace.

"What more Christmas secrets?" asked her mother.

A whispered consultation here took place, some request being urged with
great eagerness by Grace; and the pleasant "Yes, yes," from her mother,
made her bright eyes dance with joy.

As Mrs. Wharton was driving from the door, Albert called out:

"Mother, may the baby go with us?"

"Yes, if Kitty will wrap him up well," was the answer, and the sleigh
flew down the lane, and was soon out of sight.

Agnes was now hurried off by her young cousins to inspect the various
preparations for Christmas, and was made the repository of some most
important secrets, "of which she must not give a hint for the world."
She saw the purse Effie was knitting for Albert, and the guard-chain
Grace was weaving for Robert, and the mittens for Harry, and the socks
for the baby, and the pen-wiper for papa, and the iron-holder for mamma;
and then Effie took her aside alone, to show her something she was
making for Grace; and Grace took her aside alone, to show something she
had bought with "her own money" for Effie; and there was a beautiful
book for Cousin Emily. "And we cannot show you yet whether we have
anything for you, Agnes, because, you know, we always keep our secrets
till Christmas comes," they said.

"There comes papa from the mill," cried Effie, looking out of the
window; "let's run down and see him. How surprised he will be to find
mamma gone, and Agnes here!"

Mr. Wharton came in with his usual cheerful manner; and soon as he was
warming his feet by the fire, he had Agnes on one knee, and Harry on the
other, and the rest of the noisy little tribe round him, eagerly telling
the events of the day, and the pleasant anticipations for the afternoon.

"Oh, papa," said Effie, "I've got something I want to say to you, if
you would only come in the other room a few minutes, or if the children
would only be kind enough to go out of this room a little while."

"Won't it keep, Effie, till I warm my feet?" asked her father; "because,
if it will not, I suppose I must go now."

"Oh no, papa, I will wait patiently," said Effie.

In a few minutes her father said, "Now, Effie, for that important
secret;" and they went together into another room.

"This is what I wanted to say, papa," said Effie: "you know poor Agnes
never has any money of her own; and I know, when she sees us all giving
presents to each other, she will feel badly, if she cannot give
something too; and I want to know if you won't give her a little money,
and let her go to the village with us the next time we go, and get some
materials to make something out of?"

Mr. Wharton answered by putting his hand in his pocket, and giving Effie
some silver for Agnes, with which she went off perfectly happy.

And now little Grace put in her curly head, and said, "Effie, when you
are through with papa, I've got something to say to him too."

The sum and substance of Grace's communication was this: "she had seen
something at a store in the village, with which she was sure her mamma
would be perfectly charmed, but she hadn't _quite_ enough money to
purchase it; she only wanted _ten cents_ more." And she too went off
with a smiling face.

Emily now came in jingling her keys and called them all to dinner.

As soon as possible after dinner, the boys laden with a basket of good
things, which Emily had provided for them, started off for the snow
palace, one of them carrying the dinner-horn, which was used in the
summer, to call the men to the farm-house to their meals. When the
entertainment was ready the horn was to sound. In the meantime, the
children were sitting around the fire, waiting impatiently for the
signal, to call them to the palace of snow.

"Cousin Emily," said Agnes, for she too said "Cousin Emily," though
there was no relationship, in fact, between them, "Cousin Emily, I wish
I knew _what_ to read and study. I do want to know something, and I
don't know anything but my Bible, and my little book of hymns. Mammy
taught me to read, or I should'nt have known anything at all," she added
sadly.

"Well, Agnes," that is the best knowledge you could possibly have, said
Emily, "though I am far from thinking other studies unimportant; but, if
I can help you in any way, I will gladly lend you books, and tell you
how to study."

"Oh! will you, cousin Emily?" said Agnes, her face brightening; "how
happy I shall be! aunty has taught Effie and Grace, and they have
studied Geography and History, and they can cipher, and I don't know
anything at all about those things; why, even little Harry knows more
than I do."

"But you can beat us all in Bible knowledge, I know, Agnes," said Emily,
"and, in a very little time, you will catch up to the other children,
for aunty has little leisure time to devote to them. But there! I hear
the horn! call Kitty, to bring the baby, and we'll all start."

And now all warmly wrapped in cloaks and hoods, the little party left
the side piazza, and walked down towards the pond. The path was well
broken, as the boys travelled it so often, on their way to the pond and
the snow palace, and the little party went briskly on. Emily and Agnes
headed the procession, then came Effie and Grace, dragging a box-sled in
which the baby was comfortably stowed, and Kitty, the nurse, brought up
the rear, leading little Harry. The two boys met them at some distance
from the snow palace, and told them they must go through the labyrinth
before they could reach the place of entertainment.

The labyrinth was composed of paths, cut in the deep snow, winding in
and out, and circling about in all directions, till, at length, the
foremost of the party halted before the entrance to the snow palace. The
boys had, indeed, been industrious, and the new comers stared in
amazement, at the results of their labor. They found themselves, on
entering the palace, in a room high enough for the tallest of the party
to stand upright in, and of dimensions large enough to seat them all
comfortably around the square block of snow which formed the centre
table. The seats were of the same material, and were substantial enough,
while the extreme cold weather lasted. On the table was placed the
entertainment provided by Emily, to which the party did all possible
justice, considering that they had just risen from a plentiful dinner at
home. After the feast, Robert and Alfred entertained them with feats of
agility on the ice, dragging one or the other of the children after them
upon the sled, and when they returned home, even Emily's usually pale
cheeks were in a glow.

Towards evening Agnes began to be uneasy, and to watch at the window for
her aunt's return. "I will not see aunty, cousin Emily," she said, "but
I cannot go to bed till I hear how Lewie is to-night."

At length her uncle and aunt returned, and Agnes heard that her little
brother was very ill; but the doctor was of opinion that his disease was
a brain fever, and therefore there was no danger of contagion. Agnes
went to bed with a heavy heart, and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Wharton again
ordered the sleigh and drove to "the Hemlocks." She found Mrs. Elwyn in
a state bordering on distraction.

"Oh, Ellen," she said, "how I have wanted you! Lewie has had a night of
dreadful suffering, and now he is unconscious. He does not know me,
Ellen! He does not hear me when I call. I think he does not see. Oh,
Ellen, what would life be to me if I lose my darling. And now I want you
to _pray!_ You can pray, Ellen, and God answers your prayers. Pray for
the life of my child! Mammy prays, but she will only say, 'The will of
the Lord be done!'"

"And I can say no more, Ellen. I _do_ pray; I _have_ prayed, that your
darling boy's life may be spared, if it be the will of God, but more
than that I cannot say."

"And what if it be His will to take my darling from me, Ellen?"

"Then, Harriet, I hope you might learn to acquiesce without a murmur,
and to say from your heart, 'It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to
Him good.'"

"No, Ellen, never! I cannot contemplate the bare possibility of losing
my boy. If you will not pray as I wish, I will try to pray myself;" and
falling on her knees, she prayed for the life of her child. "Take
whatever else thou wilt, oh God," she cried, "but oh, spare me my
child."

"Harriet, this seems to me most horrible impiety," said Mrs. Wharton,
"to ask God to grant your desires, whether agreeable to His will, or
not; I should much fear if your request were granted, that it would only
be to show you, that you know not what is best for yourself, and for
those you love; and that you might some day wish you had left this
matter in the hands of God, even if it had been His will to take your
darling to Himself."

When Dr. Rodney came that morning, he found the child in a profound
slumber. "This," said he, "is, I think, the crisis of the disease; on no
account let him be disturbed; if he awakes conscious, he will in all
human probability recover."

And they watched him in breathless stillness, Mrs. Wharton on one side
of the cradle, and his mother on a low stool beside him, with her sad
gaze riveted on his little face, to catch his first waking glance, and
to see whether the eye then beamed with intelligence, or not.

Oh, who can imagine the agony, the terrible suspense of such watching,
but those who have sat as that poor mother did, over a loved one
hovering between life and death. And as Mrs. Wharton sat so silently
opposite her, her thoughts were sometimes raised in prayer for her poor
misguided sister; and sometimes she sat looking at her as a perfect
enigma; with a heart so capable of loving devotedly, and yet so steeled
against her own child, and so lovely and winning a little creature as
Agnes. It was a puzzle which she had often tried to solve, in vain.

After an hour more of deep slumber, Lewie started and awoke. For a
moment his glance rested with a bewildered expression upon his mother's
face; and then, stretching out his little hands, he said, "Mamma!" Mrs.
Wharton's attention was fixed upon the child; but when she turned to the
mother, she saw her, white as the snow, falling back upon the floor. The
revulsion of feeling was too much for her; she had fainted.

When Mrs. Wharton came home that night, she said, "Agnes, my love, your
little brother is better, and, with great care, he may now recover."

"Oh, aunty!" exclaimed Agnes, joyfully, "and when may I see him?"

"You must be content to remain with us without going home for some days
yet, dear; for the doctor says the most perfect quiet is necessary, and
you could not see Lewie if you were at home."

And now that the mind of little Agnes was comparatively free from
anxiety, she entered with great delight into the preparations going on
at Brook Farm for Christmas.

III.

Christmas Time.

"In the sounding hall they wake
The rural gambol."--THOMSON.

And now but a week was wanting to Christmas, and all was excitement and
bustle among the little folks at Brook Farm. Lewie was quite out of
danger, and Agnes was as happy and as busy as any of her little cousins.
The cutter was in constant demand; for when one was particularly
desirous to go over to the village on some secret expedition, that one
must go alone, or only with those who were in her secret. Many were the
mysterious brown-paper parcels which were smuggled into the house, and
hidden away under lock and key in various closets and drawers; and there
were sudden scramblings and hidings of half-finished articles, when
some member of the family who "was not to see" entered the room.

"Aunty," said Agnes one day, in a confidential tone, "I should like to
make a needle-book for mamma, like the one cousin Emily is making for
Effie. She says she will show me, and fix it for me, and I think I can
do it. Do you think mamma would like it?"

"Certainly, darling, I should think she would like it; I do not see how
any mamma could help being pleased with anything her little girl made
for her."

"But, aunty," said Agnes, as if speaking of a well-known and
acknowledged fact, "you know mamma doesn't love me much, and perhaps it
would trouble her."

The sad tone in which these words were said brought tears to the eyes of
Mrs. Wharton, but still she encouraged Agnes to go on with the
needle-book. It was not a very complicated affair, and Emily arranged
all the most difficult parts; but still it was a work of time, and one
requiring much patience and perseverance on the part of so young a
child as Agnes. However, it was at length completed on the day before
Christmas, and, when handed about for inspection, was much admired by
all her friends. Agnes was very happy, for on Christmas day her uncle
was to take her over home to see Lewie, who called for her constantly,
her aunt said. Mammy had walked over too, to see her little girl, and
she told her that "Lewie was greetin' for 'sister' from morn till
night."

The day before Christmas came, and with it the party at Brook Farm was
augmented by the arrival of Mrs. Ellison, a younger sister of Mr.
Wharton's, her husband and baby, a beautiful child of about a year old.
There was great joy at the arrival of "Aunt Fanny," who was very lively,
and always ready to enter with glee into the frolics and sports of the
children.

As they were sitting at the dinner table that day, Mr. Wharton said:

"I have received certain information that Santa Claus himself is to
visit us to-night, and bring his gifts in person. He desires me to
inform the children, that all packages to be entrusted to his care must
be handed into my study, labelled and directed, before six o'clock this
evening."

Many were the wonders and speculations as to the nature and appearance
of the expected Santa Claus; but they were suddenly interrupted by
Robert, who exclaimed:

"Why, who comes here up the lane? It's old cousin Betty, I do declare,
in her old green gig set on runners."

"I thought cousin Betty would hardly let Christmas go by without making
her appearance," said Mrs. Wharton; "I have thought two or three times
to-day that she might come along before night."

"Cousin Betty" was a distant relation of Mrs. Wharton's, a lonely old
body, who lodged with a relative in a village about ten miles distant
from Brook Farm. She was very eccentric--so much so, that she was by
some thought crazy; but Mrs. Wharton was of opinion that cousin Betty
had never possessed sufficient _mind_ to subject her to such a
calamity. She was more silly than crazy, very good-natured, very
inquisitive as to the affairs of others, and very communicative as to
her own.

In a few minutes cousin Betty had received a hearty welcome, and was
seated by the bright fire, asking and answering questions with the
utmost rapidity.

"I've been looking for you, cousin Betty," said Mrs. Wharton.

"Have! What made you?"

"Oh, I thought you could hardly let Christmas go by without coming to
see the fun."

"Did! Well, I never thought nothing about comin' till yesterday, when I
sat in my little room, and I got feelin' pretty dull; and thinks I to
myself, I'll just borrow Mr. White's old horse, and take my old gig, and
drive up to the farm, and see the folks."

"Cousin Betty, who do you think is coming to see us to-night?" asked
little Grace.

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