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SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER, ,218.]
PUBLISHED EVERYSATURDAY MORNING
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grltttircito.
The Mistress of St. John's
'When Miss Catherine had sealed • her lot
kers, she rose and called little Tib, her maid.
immediately there bustled round the partly
open door the quickest and bfflghtest
little servant ever seen. She was going out,
for Elie was clad in a little duffle cloak; her
bonnet was snug and warm, and she had a
■mall basket on her arm.
"I think it has got colder since the morn
ing, Tib," said Miss Catherine, as she
gathered the letters together— "much
colder."
"Yes, ma'am. The frosty wind bites at
your nose like a wolf; but I shan't mind it:
the roads are hard, and I can run."
"Do so; but first go up stairs, and, fetch
that dark blue Ivollen handkerchief from my
upper drawor, and that old boa from the
closet."
"Lawk, ma'am!" said. Tib, guessing the
intent, "I'm warm enough, thank you, and
running 'll make me a deal warmer."
A kindly shake of the head, and an im
perative wave of the hand, warned Tib that
her mistress' bidding must be done. So she
went into the hall, and ran up the great,
carved, wainscot staircase, and soon came
down again with handkerchief and boa.—
These her mistress took, and put the one
over Tib's bonnet and the other round Tib's
throat; and when this was finished she re
ferred to Tib's errand.
"Got Snibson to put on what stamps are
necessary, and carefully post them, as they
are Christmas-letters to friends; and here's
eighteen-pence, wnich will, perhaps, be
money enough; then get a pound of candles
and a pound of sugar; call at the town li
bniry for the book I was to hare; and last
thing, get a small piece of roasting•beef—
say four or five pounds—at Ccbb's shop, and
tell both him and Bolt that they shall hare
their accounts as soon as I hear from Mr.
Mitt, or the commissioners."
"&lt, dear, ma'am," spoke Tib, "they
both said, when I was there last, that you
was'nt to trouble yourself at all about the
little you owed 'em; but you, was to bare
.evaritbing Fon needed; indeed, old Mr.
Cobb quite danghed at the thought of your
sending a message about such a little bill
as fifteen shillings. He said, if it was
fifteen,or fifty ?Davis it would be the same
to hiin; for 'ye.u'd lust be as welcome to
the best jointewt of his shop as though you
did'nt owe s shilling."
"The people are all very good to me in
these says of trouble," said Catharine.
"And please ma'am," hesitatod
"won't you have one pound of plums and
e.urrants—one pound.? It won't be a great
•tleall; :and it won't be Christmas-like, Miss
Catherine. if you don't have a pudding."
"No, Tibby, no! Christmas puddings and
solitary hearths are sad things side-by-side.
We',re You to be at he - me to-morrow we'd
have one; but as your old aunt has sent to
ask yeuZyou'd better go. Now make haste
or you'll not reach the town in time for post,
and if you'll be quick back again I'll keep
the tea' hot, for you."
At this Tib hal something to say,' it
might be peen; -still,sbe went onward to the
parletdogroand them, when there, and her
faco was . hidden. Aaid falteringly, "If you
please, 'ma'am, Mrs. Throwly said if the
might aias 'Cold, I might just as well step' in
and take a cup there?"
"Nothing more?" asked Miss Cranbrook,
with's iinild.
"Yes,: ma'am—:that Joe might sae me
home.,; for the . road, with so much wood
about it, was wild like, at night."
"This is- the first time you and I have
found it 'out, Tib, though we have lived
three years - together. But Joe is a good
lad; and so I'll be no hindrance—only, Tib
by, you mustn't leave your mistress till
these shadows are a little gone."
"I ain't ii-going, missis," replied Tibby,
with a choked voice; "I'm sure I ain't; and
so you aeed'ut be fretting about it."
Saying - thus, Tib hurried from the house,
crossed the quaint . precincts of the old school
house; then the frost-bound road, and so in
to the woodland which lay opposite, and by
which the road was shortened to the town.
Catherine, like her little maid, had kept
back some point for hesitation; for, no soon
er bad she watched Tib across the road,
than she hurried after her, and opening the
rude gate which led into the wood, went
onward a few paces, till she stood beneath
the shadow of sore holliee, and where her
low call met Tib's ear.
"Don't come back. Tib; but you can ask
at Cobb's or Bolt's how Mr. Farquhar is,
and if he is better. There, now, go on;
that's a/1."
She did not let the little maid see her fnce,
even if she could have done so, in the hoar
shadows of the boughs, but went as slowly
back to the old school-house of St. John's
as though it was a summer's evening—as
though no wind blew icy from the north.—
Once more in the old wainscoted ball,
she repaired to the kitchen, where a fire
burned brightly, and where little Tib had
left things in exquisite daintiness; and there
she set the toe-things, and carried them
also
into the parlor, and made tea, though it
was yet early, and sat over it, lost in deep
thought, till nothing but the firelight shone
through the shadows of the room. Then
she took it forth, and set it by, and laid sup
per for old Kit (the man that milked the
cow, and attended to the land and garden.)
Then lighting her lamp, and sweeping the
parlor-hearth, she sat down to her needle—
her rarely-plied needle, except upon labors
of love of this sort, which WlO that of fab
ricating Tib a collar, for her Christmas-box.
As this was near completed she worked
though pre-occupied by sad and
weary thoughts, her soul struggling through
some hidden darknesses of mortal life, as a
dismantled ship through a dark and stormy
sea.
EIEI
What bitter things, at best, aro human
festivals! how strewn with the wrecks of
broken hopes! how chequered with the vis
ions of things that might have been, and
never were! flow countless aro the men
and women who hide such wrecks and vis
ions in their souls! and how, worse than all
do women, who sit by solitary fires, go back
upon these steps of shipwrecked Time!
In the meanwhile, little 'Lb made her
way through the mile-and-a-half of pictur
esque old woods to the little town, of one
main street, and one or two smaller branch
ing from it. Though on this small scale,
there was tiny market-house, and a grand
range of ancient buildings, called King
Edward's School; and every house seemed
to have a garden; and, finally, being situa
ted in one of the nearest southern counties,
the little town was not snore than thirty or
forty miles from London; yet, in a country
rich with ancient parks and woods, it was
as quiet and remote as the way round for
miles was picturesque with English land
scape loveliness.
The post-office was at a little draper's
shop, wherein Deborah Snibson, the mis
tress, was helping divers customers to half.
yards of calico and ribbon; hurrying in so
doing, fur the post-hour was at hand. See
ing Tib she nodded to her, and bid her sit
down; but more calico and ribbon custom
ers arriving, and the inexorable hour close
upon striking, she bid them wait while she
attended to the letters. Taking those Tib
had laid upon the counter, she proceeded
to weigh and place on them the necessary
stamps.
"Well, Tib, and how's Miss Cranhrook?"
asked Mrs. Deborah, as she proceeded in
her duty—for everybody in this little town
knew little Tib, and that she came from the
old school-house at St. John's.
"But poorly," replied Tib. "Her spirits
go down, now the winter-days are so long
and still."
"Ay, and I don't wonder at it," said De
borah indignantly; "she's had enough, and
got enough still to make a sore heart. I
only wonder when those folks up in London
will settle matters about the old school
house at St. John's?"
"I'm sure I wonder whenl" echoed more
than one customer; and little Tib sighed.
For a minute or so no ono spoke; then, as
Deborah began to handle the letters Tib had
laid down, she came to one or more heavier
than the rest—enclosed, in fact, in official
envelopes of large size.
"Now I dare say," said Deborah, weigh
ing the largest in her hand, "that this con
tains something nice as a. Christmas remem
brance—as half 'em do, one may be pretty
certain, for I never knew Miss Cranbrook to
forgot a friend."
"No, and she don't," replied little Tib,
enthusiastically, "though I can't say as
folks remember her half enough. But I
should just like you to see inside that letter,
for there are two as bautiful pair of worked
sleeves as you over se'ed. They are for the
daughters of Dr. Musgrave, - who were so
kind to missis when she was in London in
London in the spring. That other letter
has a collar in it for somebody else; for,
though she don't like her needle, missis
cannot, as she says, be always sitting at
her books; so she may just as well spare
such stray minutes for her friends; and she
don't forgot ono of 'em, I can tell you, Mrs.
Snibson," quoth little Tib, rising, like a
little singing -bird, higher and higher in her
note of praise; "for we've been making old
Kit two new shirts; and others, that ain't
nigh as old, or nigh as good, have been
thought of too, I'm sure; though it aint for
'em hardly to say so."
"Deborah smiled, and looked up tenderly
into the hooded face. "If the mistress of
St.. John's is good, so is the little maid,"
elm thought. She now came to the Last let
ter—the smallest of all—and she read half
aloud, half to herself, the superscription:
"Oliver Romney, Esq., Trinity College,
Cambridge." "And pray my dear," she
added, "how is Mr. Oliver? and has Miss
Catherine heard of late?"
"No, she ain't," answered Tib; and it
frets her sadly. She even risks this letter,
thinking if he is not at Cambridge it may
be sent on; for be has rooms there still."
"Well, she need'nt fear of gratitude there
if all accounts be true. And, bless me: to
4 4N0 ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY - :PLEITRE..sb LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY:MORNING, JANUARY 15, 1859.
think his father only kept a little druggist's
shop in this town, and ho, what he is—fur
they do say his brain and ed'cation is won
derful! A gentleman told me so not a long
while ago. Yes, it was a poor little drug
gist's-shop, just round the corner. and the
lad went a good while to St. John's."
Nevertheless, Deborah Snibson, check
your wonder; it is out of poor shops, and
poor houses of many kinds, that much mar
vel-working intellect comes—not out of pal
aces or halls, or from the titled rank's; be
very sure of that.
The letters being safe now, in the post
hag, little Tib rose to go; Deborah begging
to be respectfully remembered to her mis
tress, and that her thanks be conveyed for
a basket of pears sent a week before.
Tib was turning from the door, when the
post-mistress called her back.
"Ah, I nearly forgot it; but just tell
your mistress that there was a gentle
man at the 'Crown,' the other day, and
he made great inquiries, both there and
about the town, as to the old place at St.
John's, as well as of herself. Nobody could
learn his purpose, though Tom, the waiter,
says that he thinks lie came from Oxford,
from what he dropped. And Tib, tell your
mistress, as well, that Mr, Rogers, the
steward, was down, from Sutton place, the
other day, and told me that Sir Richard is
coming to England for a short time, as the
Queen has made him ambassador to a differ
ent country to where ho now is." Laden
with this news Tib went.
She now proceeded to the little market
house, in a room above which was kept a
fair-sized library of ancient books, be
queathed—through a long course of years—
by sundry town's-folks, for the free use of
such as might like to read them. Few were
the applicants so that the keeper thereof had
an easy life of it; for, with the exception of
the learned mistress of St. John's, and a
few nighboring parsons, a customer knocked
rarely at the nail-studded door. Opening
this, and ascending a little, crooked stair
case,-Tib presented horself, in a minute sort
of anti-chamber, wherein old Jerry Clamp,
the custodian, and his wife were getting
their tea. From whatever cause derived,
the old man bad a very acrid nature; and
on occasions of festivals, such as this of
Christmas, when men at least assume cheer
fulness if they even do not feel it, his mood
was always trebly bitter. And, strange to
say, Mrs. Jerry shared this strange cynic
ism. So, when little Tib wished him "a
happy Christmas" and asked for the book,
he began to growl.
"Happy Christmas!" he ejaculated; "don't
wish it here, girl. This is'nt the place nor
the folks. Its all right enough, however,
for such as have lots of money, and lots to
eat, and lots to drink. Ha! ha! that ain't
here. And as to the book, it's a very little
one—a nice little handy book to carry on a
winter's night like this!"
Ile took up the guttering candle as he
spoke, and going into an adjacent room, re
turned directly with an enormous folio, which
he delivered to the little maid with a grin.
"There," he said, "the road and the load
will do."
"I can do a deal for my missis," quoth
Tib, "but I don't think I can curry this.
But please sir, I know a nice young man,
who'll be coming our way, I dare say, to
night, and he'll call fur it, please sir, and
bring it."
"Very well," growled the cynic, "very
well, only mind ho ain't a minute after
eight, he'll land the door closed. For I'cc
got my Chrstmas to keep—bread and water
by the light of a rushlight. And mind.
young woman, tell your missis, from me,
that reading such books as this can load
but to a place I won't name—though it's a
rev warm ono—and Mr. Dodd, the vicar,
as was hero today, says so. Bal hal pretty
things ha' been taught at St. John's, if all
accounts be true."
Tib, indignat at this, was about to reply,
but Mr. Clamp slammed to the door, and
she had to creep her way down into the
street. Nor was she distressed at Mr.
Clamp's prospective supper of bread and
water, such being a pleasant fiction of his
cynicism; for he was a miser, and could
dine off bank-notes, if be so willed.
In a few minutes little Tib stood in Bolt
the grocer's shop. That worthy, being
somewhat at leisure; and prone to chat,
served her with what she asked for, and then
inquired if she had forgotten matters for the
pudding.
"Please, no sir," answered Tib ruefully,
the old aunt as has got a bit of money has
sent for me this Christmas, and missis will
make me go; so she aint a-going to have a
pudding, and that is just what it is."
"But she must," said Bolt: "the mistress
at John's must never go without a pudding.
Folks that don't ta.gte Christmas fare ain't
no luck in the new year, and so you must
make the pudding, Tib, and I'll find fruit
and sugar."
"I can make a pudding, sir," said Tib,
triumphantly; "but you see, sir, the dear
missis may-be would not boil it; for, ten to
one she won't even roast the beef that I
shall take home from Cobb's, but sit in deep
sadness by the fire all day: par-tik-lar if she
don't get letters in the morning."
"Tib," said the kindly grocer, emphati
cally, and clutching a pound weight that
lay hard by, as though for demonstration,
"a way to duty is always to be found. So
you must get up early and make the pud
ding, and put it on to boil before you go;
and by the time she finds it. it rosy be done.
So here's the fruit, of which, if a word. is
said, you can say it 'II be all right in the bill
—ha! ha?" And, amused at his own: joke,
whatever it might be, the merry little grocer
weighed and papered his finest raisins and
choicest currants.
When these were in the basket, she asked
'rib what fruit she liked most. Now it hap
pened that all little Tib's tastes had latterly
become merged into those or Joe; and there
fore, though her liking was for raisins, Joe's
was for figs, and so she modestly replied—
"lf you please, figs, sir."
Whereupon Bolt papered a pound of figs,
and laid them, with a shilling, on the coun
ter. "There my girl, there they are, as well
as a shilling to buy a top-knot."
Tib courtseyed her thanks and prepared
to go. She was closing the door, when the
grocer, calling her back a step or two, said,
"My respects to your mistress, And a happy
Christmas day, in spite of all. And just
say that some frosty morning soon, I shall
lie walking the way of the old school house,
and I will, with her honored leave step in
and have a chat about the school affairs;
and that, meanwhile, she isn't to think a bit
about the little bill—it's nothing—its noth
ing." He waited till the little maid bad
closed the door, and, then, he added, as if
carrying on the sentence in continuous
breath, "no more it is. There aro debts in
this world that can alone be summed up and
paid in Heaven, and this is one. 'For didn't
she teach my nephew Richard noble things?
Didn't she make him master in Latin and
difficult figures, in spite of bigoted trustees,
who would have kept the poor town's lads
to the Delectus and the Rule of Three, if
they could. And through this knowledge
he has become a well-to-do gentleman; and
so Heaven reward her, for I cannot—l can
not—"and the old man dropped a tear.
True, Bolt, our soul's growth can only
come by knowledge; and, therefore, glorifi
cation be to those who hold the divine cup
to all who are athirst.
When Cobb, the butcher—and very fat
and Fallstaff-like ho was—heard little Tib's
order for the beef, he whetted his knife on
his steel, and laughed to such a prodigal
amount as to bring his ruddy complexion to
the color of mulberries; whereupon as he
leant against a bench, quite out of breath—
though still whetting his knife—a little shut
ter opening from a comfortable parlor was
slid back, and a kindly voice cried—
" Cobb, dear, hush! remember the apo
plexy."
At as early a date as he might, the butch
er attended to this injunction; and then, re
pairing to the little cavity, whispered some
thing. At this, a spruce little woman made
her appearance, and the butcher, giving his
knife a final whet, sent it like a sword into
a large sirloin, and cut off a portion, which
certainly, at the least did not weigh less
than ten pounds. Ile made feint to weigh
it, and then brought it to Tib's basket.
"It is a very large piece, sir." said the
little maid, "and missis said only four or
five pounds."
"We always give good weight at Christ
mas, lass—Oh! oh!" and here Cobb went
purple again, and his little wife, punching
him nn the back, cried—
"Mind the apoplexy, dear."
aq the good old butcher would say no
inure, Tib was obliged to put the beef into
the basket; and when Mrs. Cobb sent her
dutiful respec:s, and expressed her hope
that when Miss Cranbrook came to town she
would honor her by stepping in, and tasting
the Christmas ale, little Tib went, first ask
ing, however, the point relating to her mis
tress' last words.
"Why, Mr. Farquhar is very bad—so bad
that he cannot see another week. My boy
heard this when he was up at the house this
morning." At this instant some customers
entered, so, with this reply to her question
she departed.
Mrs. Throwley's cottage was in one of the
little off-streets or lanes, just where the pret
ty rural town (merged into the wooded
country. She was a widow, and earned her
bread by the culture of a field or two, and
by keeping a cow; and her eldest boy, Joe,
worked under the steward at Sutton Place—
a noble hall, at about the distance of a mile
from the town. She had two other boys be
side Joe, and very glad she was that he,
who was so good a son, had sot his heart on
so good's girl as little Tib; though she was
a poor orphan, and one who had known
much of the world's adversity, till. Miss
Craubrook had befriended her. So, think
ing that Tib would come to tea on this
Christmas Eve, she had made groat prepar
ation of cake, and muffins, and slices of ham
—set in the picture of a cleanly kitchen, the
best tea things, and a rousing fire. But,
before Tib could see these for herself, she
was met by Joe, who kissed the frost off her
face, and led her in in great triumph.
Then, after a good deal was said all round,
the tea was made and the muffins brought
into requisition.
After talking about many things—espe
cially about Sutton Place, where Mrs.
Throwley had once lived servant—little Tib
related her perplexity about the pudding.
Mrs. Throwley listened. but said little; but
when Joe had started off to the library, fur
the book, she broached what had been mean
while passing in her brain. •
"You see, Tib," Pli e said, "that your old
aunt is a miserly sort of body, and would be
glad enough, I dare say, if you did not go
to dinner; and so, to be them a little before
ten-time would do very well. Now, as I had
a goose sent me yesterday, I intend to roast
it; and if so:be you would dine here between
twelve and one, why we could put by. the
nicest part,with potatoes and greens, and
apple-sauce. I could make a little pudding
too, in a shape; for you know I am a good
cook; and we would keep all hot by placing
the dishes over a couple of milking-pails
filled with boiling water, as I shall hare
plenty in the back-house copper. And then,
my idea is, if Joe could borrow his master's
light-cart and drive you to your aunt's; you
could, on your way, turn down the lane to
St. John's, and there you could steal into
the buck door, and put the little dinner
neatly on a tray, and carry it into the par
lor, and say—"lf you please, ma'am, would
you accept this dinner from little Tib?"
"Oh! it's a nice thought," said the girl,
her eyes sparkling with joy at the idea of
giving pleasure to her mistress; "but she is
so independent that she will accept favors
from no ono. And I should not like to of
fend her, or hurt her feelings in any way."
"You won't, I think; for she is too good
and too kind to mistake your meaning. So
I would try—that I would."
So Tib acquiescing, matters were so ar
ranged, as the young girl felt sure her mis
tress would not object to her dining with
Joe and his mother. Moreover, just to give
a coloring to the idea that the present was
little Tib's, the plums and other things were
consigned to Mrs. Throwley; and Joe soon
returning with the lage book, and it being
eight o'clock, ho and Tib set forth, as soon
as something more in the way of refresh
ment had been partaken of.
It was pleasant walking through the moon
lit frosty woods, with the hoar frost shining
like silver on the great bellies, and the scar
let berries, looking more scarlet by the con
trast. When she got home, the little maid
found the kitchen-fire bright, and her mis
tress in the parlor, quietly reading; but she
said little of her errands till Joe bad rested
and was gone. Then she carried in suppers
and told her mistress what Mrs. Snibson
had said about the return of Sir Richard
Sutton, to Sutton Place; and of the visits
and inquiries of the stranger from Oxford.
Both circumstances seemed to surprise Miss
Cranbrook much. Not a word, however,
was said on either side with respect to Mr.
Farquhar, till Tib coming in to make report
that the house was safe, and to wish her
mistress good-night, she related what she
had heard. To this, Miss Cranbrook mado
no reply, other than an abrupt "Good-night;"
so Tib closed the door, and went to bed--
there to find, npon her little dressing-table,
the lovely collar her mistress Lad worked.
for her Christmas box.
Fur a lung time after the little maid had
left the room, Catharine sat just as though
what she had listened to had rendered her
incapable of motion. Eventually, however,
she arose, and unlocking an old-fashioned
escrituric, took thence a letter. This she
brought to the table; and re•seating herself,
read it over and over again; then it dropped
from her hand, fluttering to the floor, and
lay. Then pressing her face in her hands,
her hands in turn upon the table, she sat
till far into the night, with all the weight
upon her soul of the desolation of this
; Christmas eve.
When Tib went to her mistress la the
morning, she found her far from well; so
site made breakfast and took it to her.
Af
ter this, Miss Cranbrook seemed better, and,
rising, came down to her pleasant, parlor,
wherein the brightest of fires shorn., and
which Tib (by way of showing it was a fes
tive time) bad dressed with holly and Christ
mas
flowers. The latter then came in, to
propose to stay at home, as her mistress was
not well; for she had already told her of the
proposal to dine with Joe and his mother,
and to go afterwards to the old aunt's--a
plan to which Miss Cranbrook had assented,
and thought good. She would therefore lis
ten to nothing Tib would say, but bid her
hasten and get dressed and go.
"I would rather be alone to-day, Tib,"
site said; "much rather. And if I need to
dine, I can boil an egg, or take a crust of
bread and cheese; so make haste and go."
Tib, having her own reasons for not wish-'
ing to press the subject of dinner, said noth
ing more; but, dressing and putting on the
pretty collar, went down to take her leave.
"If you please, =Cm, Isbell leave my warm
shawl and basket, till about two o'clock,
when I will call for them; for Joc will drive
this way."
"Very wall, Tit); I shall be glad to see
you."
As soon as her little maid was gone, Cath
arine put on her garden bonnet, and went
forth to walk up and down an old terrace,
from which there was a lengthened view of
the road. Here she remained until she saw
the postman approaching from the little ,
town; then, opening the rustic wicket, she ,
went forth to meet him. But he did not be
gin to look at his letters, or unbind the
string which fostened them; so, even before i
she was close to him, her heart died down.
She had so expected letters; had so prayed
for them; her Christmas would be so demo- ,
late without!
"No letters, Smith?"
"No, ma'am, not one; lenatways, that is I
all the post-missis gave me."
Catharine looked them through. Every
neighbor of hers, in the cottages and the , "It i< very good of you to come," he said
farms around, seemed to be blessed by the at length. "at such a season, and on such a
tender remembrances of other.; only she night; but I thought you would. We hare
was forgotten—she to whom existence Lad had many bitter and solitary hours—and of
been a perpetual sacrifice, in all instances ! somewhat willful causing; if I mistake not."
save one; and even in that, perhaps, if I "We hare; and when seasons. such as
rightly viewed! But hiding her disappoint- this come round. regret arises chiefly Lc-
$1,50 PER. YEAR. IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IP NOT IN ADVANCE
mem, as usual, by an effort of her ir.di will.
she chatted cheerfully to the old met n:
him call on the morrow, when Tib wmld he
at home, and 1111.90 some ale. She then,
reaching the wicket, wished him good duy,
and returned to the house. Here once more
in the parlor, she sank down ir. her chair
and wept aloud.
"Forgotten--forgotten: Alone!" sho said.
"Even by my dear Andrew, above all:"
And the morning, which had been hither
to so bright, began to be darkened by de
scending snow; so that the day sympathized,
as it seemed, with the terrible depression
which lay upon her soull It was weakness,
all this—seeing her noble life, and the har
vest coming of the immortal seed she had
sown; but low in estate, from many causes,
her spirit (usually so strong and full of
faith) was bowed by the seeming desolation
of the time and scene.
In the meanwhile it would have been de•
lightful to have watched little 'rib's pro
gresses: how Joe met her when not far into
the woods; how he made pretest of kissing
away the frost. just as he bad dune the
night before; how in due time they reached
the town; how dinner was ready early; how
capital the goose and pudding •both proved,
and how the nicest part of the wise bird was
put aside; till, finally, with the pudding in
the cart, Tib, Joe, and his little brother—
were on the way to St. John's. Here ar
rived in the lane, a few yards off the old
school-house, Joe and Tib alighted, and
carrying each a seething burden, went soft
ly round to the court-yard in the rear. Here
Tib, reaching the kitchen by a side door,
she had purposely left unfastened, went
softly about like a little mouse, whilst Jue
watched her through the window, and laid
a snowy napkin on a tray, with silver and
glass and other necessaries, and then set the
nice hot dishes thereon, and went softly to
wards the parlor-door. Opening it, she put
her head within, and said, "It's me, missis."
"Come in, Tib, I am glad to see you:"
And Miss Cranbrook spoke as she lay qui
escent on her couch beside the fire.
So Tib, half frightened and much flur•
ried, hurried in, and set the tray upon the
table. "If you please, miss's," she said,
deprecatingly (and not daring to look at
her mistress,) "I hare brought you a piece
of goose and a little pudding, and I -hope
you won't be offended with your little Tib.-
(At this precise moment, Tib having wound
herself up quite to a pitch, burst into tears;)
"for, oh! I couldn't bear that you should be
without dinner, and, please ma'am, Mr.
Belt gave me the fruit, and said I was to
make a pudding, for I said you wasn't going
to have one—and so, please, I've brought
it. And I won't stay more now, ma'am.
fur Joe's waiting, and I'll sure and be home
early." So saying, and without once look
ing at her mistress. she hurried from the
EZIM
When Cranbrook hnd recovered
from he'r great astonishment at this appear
ance of little Tib with so flee it dinner, she
wondered what could have prompted so
sweet a thought: forgetting. in so doing.
what her own acts were. To please 'Eh,
rather than from inclination, she tasted a
little of bath go.-,7c arid puldieg; Ilea
r 7 e , ! tly_• tray eway, anti re:l:nal la the
parlor.
The cold was greater—the fro-. 0 more in
tense—the snow fell thicker end thicker 114
day began to wane. All at once she heard
the sound of wheels in the lane. and a min
ute or "so after. some one knocked upon the
porch-door. Hastening, to open it. she
welcomed in Mr. Acton, an eminent sur
geon, living at the distance of some miles.
Ire said but little, till he was seated by the
fire: then he asked her to accompany him to
FCC Mr. Farquhar.
"lie is dying,'' said the surgeon. thought
fully, and, as he says that a few minutes
speech would be to him the greatest human
consolation, I hope you will not object to
EMI
"It is many years since I saw him," said
Catharine, thoughtfully, 'and as though to
herself.
"It is; and, like you. he is utterly alone.
You will therefore surely conic."
"I will; I owe it to him!" And Catherine
hastened from the room, to put on her cloak
and bonnet.
As she went, the surgeon could but look
with curiosity at the expressive end still
handsome face, though some fifty years had
left their traces there, and tinged her hair
with grey.
They were soon on the way to the coun
try-house where Mr. Farquhar lived.
Leavingthe servant in charge of the vehicle,
they alighted at some little distance from it,
and approached by a wooded path, gained
a private door. This was opened by nn
elderly man-servant, who led them up a
stone staircase, and ushered them into
room, half bed-chamber, half-sitting room.
Here, in an easy-chair by the fire, sat a gen
tleman about sixty years of age. his hair
like Miss Cranbrook's. was tinged with
grey, and be seemed a little hunch-backed.
When :kir. Acton bad placed Catharine
a chair, he withdrew.
The gentleman held forth his hand: but
Catharine was for some minutes too moved
to take it.
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,455.
cause I possibly gave pain to you, Mr.
Farquhar. Otherwise, Ido not doubt that
I hare attained a highor and more lasting
happiness—that is taking the average of
years as they glide by—than had I followed
the promptings of a more personal and eel-
Gbh kind.'•
"Undoubtedly. These victories cost us
much; but the reward is great. Only tell
Inc how it was, cud what was the reason
of your refusal twenty or so years ago."
"It was this:—My father was, as you
may hare heard, a country gentleman of
good fortune; I and a brother were his only
children. lie gave me a fine education; for
I had a taste for books, and this I found my
only fortune when ho died suddenly and my
brother's dissipation of the estate left me
penniless. Such being the case, I bad to
seek my bread; and I went as tuteress to
the only bun of Sir Richard Sutton, a
neighbor and old friend of my family.
Amongst the occasional visitors there was a
somewhat eminent political character. We
talked :ouch: we had sympathies akin: and
L liked him. On more than one occasion
ho said emphatically, ''At present circum
stances prevent me, but I will make you
an offer as soon as I can." I made no re
ply to this whenever it was said—neither
assent nor dissent. Still, I believed that
he spoke in good faith, nod that his honor
was irreproachable. Three years after this
I saw you: you hired this house of Sir
Richard: you Nisited Sutton Place. Al
most us soon as yor saw me you made an
offer. It cannot be said that I refused, for
I repulsed you by absence rather than by
words. I did not know then what you
were, or the quality of your noble heart.
Moreover, you were :a stranger to me—
brusque in manner, and a little too author
itatir c to wits."
"I was somewhat a huncehaelt," Enid.
Mr. Farquhar; "perhaps that was it."
"No: in truth, no. But I felt myself
bound to another—CV= thou,gh indirectly.
You should have had patience, and you
Would have won me; for I liked you oveu
then. As it was—"
"As it was," ho interrupted, wringing
his hands,—"as it was, I cursed my life
and yours. In my mad disappointment—
in my haste to show you that there were
others whom I could win—l married 0,,
heartless shrew, who in six weeks left rtre,.
and whom I have never since seen nor
heard of, except as it has concerned money
matters. Bitterly have I rued that haste."
"And bitterly, at times, have I rued my
pride, and my false estimation of another's
honor. Soon after you discontinued your
visits to Sutton Place I left there also. I
had an enemy in the chaplain—since be
come the master of an Oxford College; and
he, r have strong reason to believe, poisoned
Sir Richard's ears as to the heterodoxy of
the knowledge I was imparting to his boy.
So 1 left, and went to London, end began a
literary life. If men who pursue the higher
departments of knowledge find money come
slowly in. so, necessarily, must a woman,
whose hindrences ore so formidable. After
two years' struggle I returned to the coun
try, and led the tnistresship of St.
.liihn's, which was then vacant, and of
which a trosineship belonged to my family.
It is, as yoI/ know, a branch of the old
Grammar School in our little country town
and intended fur the preparation of boys
between six and ten years old.
When I had brought the school into some
kind of organization I tray very happy; fur
the ;old ticlic,bliouse had always been a
los els place. lint the payment ultimo salary
soon fell into azrears, owing to the bad
management of the trustees; and now for
eighteen years I have been struggling on
pith the merest pittance, and but for the
earnings of toy pen. I lutist have starved.
Some dill teen hundred pounds is due. and.
with that I have of eat in repairs to the buil. -
ing,-,"and other things, is upwards of sixteen
hundred pound‘. For the last six months
the school has been closed, and the whole
business is now in the hands of the newly
organized Charities Commission• When
last I heard, it was intimated to me that
St. John's will be sold. If so, and I am
paid, I shall, with what is due, buy the
old place. It is endeared to me by a thou
sand memories, and there I wish to die.
Since his father's death, my old pupil, Sir
Richard Sutton, has written to me in the
kindest manner. lie says lie owes to me
all which is valuable in life, and that when
he comes to England he shall bring me 'his
two little sons to do by them as I did by
the father, and he will pay me handsomely.
If this be so, St. •John's will be no longer
Fol:tary. I shall lie independent, and be
able to pursue, at leisure intervals, the as
sistance I have now been rendering to my
beloved Oliver."
.'What I have seen of him," said Mr.
Farquhar, g'l like much. lie appears to
be an extraordinary young man. A gen
tleman who was here from town, a few
.7ass since, says that his forthcoming book
is likely to be a masterpiece. I see that it
is advertised."
"Indeed: This is news to me," said
Catharine; for, to my bitter disappointment.
I had neither letter nor paper from him this
morning. Indeed, I suppose he means to
surprise me. for be be has been silent for
for come weeks. But I attributed it to tl.e
illness of his relative, a miserly old trades
man in London, who, for some years has
allowed him a genlemanly income. and at
his death will leave him a considerable for
tune."