Project Gutenberg Australia Title: Collected Stories Author: Sylvanus Cobb Jr. * A Project Gutenberg Australia eBook * eBook No.: 1100441.txt Language: English Date first posted: May 2011 Date most recently updated: May 2011 This eBook was produced by: Maurie Mulcahy Project Gutenberg Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Title: Collected Stories Author: Sylvanus Cobb Jr. ====================================== CONTENTS: BADGE OF OFFICE. Published in The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser, Tuesday, 23 May, 1893. THE BOTTOMLESS JUG. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday 27 January, 1887. A SEASON OF HORROR. THE STORY OF A BRAVE WOMAN. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday 15 December, 1887. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday, 19 December, 1889. THE PARSON'S EXPERIMENT. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday, 27 February, 1890. PHIL'S DARLING. Published in the Bathurst Free Press and Mining Journal, Saturday 3 October, 1891. ====================================== BADGE OF OFFICE. Published in The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser, Tuesday, 23 May, 1893. Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., the author of countless tales of romance and adventure, was a printer by trade, and on one occasion especially his printer's stick served him a good turn. At seventeen years of age he had entered the navy, where his duties were arduous and monotonous. He was serving on the sloop-of-war Fairfield, when it was cruising along the African coast, and one day, desperately tired of his duties, he stood leaning against a gun, his old composing stick in his hand. "What's that?" asked an abrupt voice, and turning with a start, young Cobb saw that the captain was watching him. "It's a printer's stick, sir," was the reply. "Are you a printer?" "That's my profession, sir." "Do you know anything about proof-reading? Could you take a manuscript, and punctuate and arrange it, so that a printer would know just how to put it in type?" "I could once, sir, and I think I have not forgotten." "What are you doing now?" "I am on duty here, in charge of your cabin, sir, and of the ship's time." "Yes I know. Mr. Dodd," he called to the officer of the deck, "will you have this man relieved? As soon as you are at liberty," he added, addressing the young man, "report to me in my cabin." The youth did so, and was given a mass of notes referring to various voyages and travels in foreign lands, to be sorted and arranged for the printer. This work occupied him during the entire voyage. Thus he had found thanks to his printer's stick, the easiest berth on board the ship. ________________________________________________________________ THE BOTTOMLESS JUG. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JUN. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday 27 January, 1887. I saw it hanging up in the kitchen of a thrifty, healthful, sturdy farm in Oxford County, Maine--a bottomless jug! The host saw that the curious thing had caught my eye, and he smiled. 'You are wondering what that jug is hanging up there for, with its bottom knocked out!' he said. 'My wife, perhaps, could tell you the story better than I can; but she is bashful, and I ain't, so I'll tell it. 'My father, as you are probably aware, owned this farm before me. He lived to a good old age, worked hard all his life, never squandered money, was a shrewd, careful trader, and a good calculator; and, as men were accounted in his day and generation, he was a temperate man. I was the youngest boy; and when the old man was ready to go--and he knew it--the other boys agreed that, since I had stayed at home and taken care of the old folks, the farm should be mine. And to me it was willed. I had been married then three years. 'Well, father died--mother had gone three years before--and left the farm to me, with a mortgage on it of two thousand dollars! I'd never thought so much of it before; but I thought of it now. I said to Molly--my wife--'Molly,' says I; 'look here! Here's father had this farm in its first strength of soil, with all its magnificent timbers; and his six boys, as they grew up, equal to so many men, to help him; and he has worked hard--worked early and late--and yet look at it! A mortgage of two thousand dollars! What can I do? And I went to that old jug--it had its bottom in then--and took a good stiff drink of old Medford rum from it. 'I noticed a curious look on the face of my wife just then, and I asked her what she thought of it; for I supposed, of course, she was thinking of what I'd been talking about! And so she was. Says she: 'Charles, I've thought of this a good deal; and I have thought of a way in which I believe we can clear that mortgage off before five more years are ended.' 'Says I, 'Molly, tell me how you'll do it.' 'She thought for a little while, and then she said, with a funny twinkling in her blue eyes, says she, 'Charles, you must promise me this, and promise me solemnly and sacredly. Promise me that you will never again bring home for the purpose of drinking for a beverage at any one time more spirit of any kind than you can bring in that old jug--the jug that your father has used ever since I knew him, and which you have used since he was done with it.' 'Well, I knew that father used once in a while, especially in haying time, and in the winter when we were at work in the woods, to get an old gallon jug filled, so I thought she meant that I should never buy more than two quarts at a time. I thought it over, and after a little while told her I would agree to it. 'Now mind,' said she, 'you are never--never--to bring home for a common beverage more spirit than you can bring in that identical jug.' And I gave her the promise. 'And before I went to bed that night I took the last pull at that jug. As I was turning it out for a sort of a night-cap Molly looked up, and says she, 'Charley, have you got a drop left? I told her there was just about a drop. We'd have to get it filled on the morrow. And then she said, if I had no objection, she would drink that last drop with me. I never shall forget how she brought it out--'That LAST DROP!' However, I tipped the old jug bottom up, and got about a great spoon-full, and Molly said that was enough. She took the tumbler and poured a few drops of hot water into it, and a bit of sugar, and then she tinkled her glass against mine, just as she'd seen us boys do when we'd been drinking good luck, and says she, 'Here's to the old brown jug!' 'Sakes alive! I thought to myself that poor Molly had been drinking more of the rum than was good for her; and I tell you, it kind o' cut me to the heart. I forgot all about how many times she'd seen me when my tongue was thicker than it ought to be, and my legs not quite so steady as good legs should be; but I said nothing. I drank the sentiment--'To the old brown jug!' and let it go. 'Well, I went just after that and did my chores, and then went to bed; and the last thing I said before leaving the kitchen--this very room where we now sit--'We'll have the old brown jug filled to-morrow.' An then I went off to bed. And I have remembered ever since that I went to bed that night, as I had done hundreds of times before, with a buzzing in my head that a healthy man ought not to have. I didn't think of it then, nor had I ever thought of it before; but I've thought of it a good many times since, and have thought of it with wonder and awe. 'Well I got up next morning and did up my work at the barn, then came in and ate breakfast, but not with such an appetite as a farmer ought to have, and I could think even then that my appetite had begun to fail me. However, I ate breakfast, and then went out and hitched up the old mare; for, to tell the plain truth I was feeling the need of a glass of spirits, and I hadn't a drop in the house. I was in a hurry to get to the village. I got hitched up and then came in for the jug. I went for it to the old cupboard, and took it out, and--- 'Did you ever break through the thin ice, on a nipping cold day, and find yourself, in an instant, over your head in the freezing water? Because that was the way I felt at that moment. The jug was there, but the bottom was gone. Molly had been and taken a sharp chisel and a hammer; and with a skill that might have done credit to a master-workman, she had clipped the bottom clean out of the jug, without even cracking the edges or the side! I looked at the jug and then I looked at Molly. And then she burst out. She spoke--Oh! I never had heard anything like it!--No, nor have ever heard anything like it since. She said: 'Charles! There's where the mortgage on this farm came from! It was brought home in that jug--two quarts at a time! And there's where all the debt has been! And there's where your white, clear skin, and your clear, pretty eyes, are going! And in that jug, my husband, your appetite is going! Oh! let the bottom stay out for ever! Let it be as it is, dear heart! and remember your promise to me.' 'And then she threw her arms around my neck, and burst into tears. She couldn't speak more. 'And there was no need. My eyes were opened, as though by magic. In a single minute the whole scene passed before me. I saw all the mortgages on all the farms in our neighbourhood; and I thought where the money had gone. The very last mortgage father had ever made had been to pay a bill held against him by a man who had filled his jug for years! Yes--I saw it all, as it passed before me--a flitting picture of rum!--rum!--rum!--debt!--debt!--debt!--and in the end---Death! And I returned my Molly's kiss, and, said I: 'Molly, my own! I'll keep the promise! I will--so help me heaven!' 'And I have kept it. In less than five years, as Molly had said, the mortgage was cleared off; my appetite came back to me; and now we've got a few thousand dollars out at interest. There hangs the old jug, just as we hung it up on that day; and from that time there hasn't a drop of spirit been brought into this house, for a beverage, which that bottomless jug wouldn't have held! 'Dear old jug! We mean to keep it; and to hand it down to our children for the lesson it can give them--a lesson of life--of a life happy, peaceful, prosperous, and blessed!' And as he ceased speaking, his wife, with an arm drawn tenderly around the neck of her youngest boy, murmured a fervent: 'AMEN!' ________________________________________________________________ A SEASON OF HORROR. THE STORY OF A BRAVE WOMAN. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday 15 December, 1887. One evening, at a social gathering, the conversation turned upon the subject of insanity, and especially of its treatment. Two of our number had recently been privileged to visit the State Insane Asylum at Worcester, and were loud in their praises of its management. For more than half an hour the conversation went on, and I noticed that our hostess listened with an absorbing interest, occasionally closing her eyes and clasping her hands tightly in her depth and intensity of feeling; but not a word did she speak until a gentleman present had remarked, or had given it as his opinion, that since the death of Dr. Samuel B. Woodward there had been no superintendent at the Worcester Asylum equal to him. Then it was that our hostess--Mrs Agnes Appleton--spoke. Her dark brown eyes shone with an unusual lustre; her lips were compressed; and I could see plainly that she was feeling deeply. Something in her manner--a half uttered exclamation like a repressed sigh--had attracted the attention of those who sat near her, and when she saw them looking at her she said: 'My friends, the subject under discussion and the mention of the name of Doctor Woodward recalls to my mind the most terrible experience I ever knew--a season of horror so frightful and so stunning that it is a wonder my nervous system was not shattered and wrecked for life.' Of course after that she must tell the story, which she was perfectly willing to do; and in a very short space of time her guests were assembled around her, ready for the entertainment. Mrs. Appleton was now a woman past the middle age, small and compact of frame, with one of the most winning and interesting faces I ever saw. It was not what you would at first glance call beautiful, nor even handsome; but it was good and true and pure, with the sweetest little mouth and the most captivating eyes that can be imagined. Her husband was a heavy contractor, and wealthy. She had five living children; two daughters married, and moved to a short distance from her; with another daughter, younger, and two sons, younger still, at home. As soon as the last chair had been put in place, and the last auditor had found a comfortable position, she recommenced her story, which was in substance as follows: 'At the time of which I am about to speak I was seven-and-twenty years of age. The anniversary of my birthday occurred on Wednesday, the fifth of June; and on the evening of that day Charles, my husband, and I rode into Worcester for the purpose of attending a concert, given by a company travelling. We were living in an adjoining town at the time, eight miles distant. 'Of the concert I will only say it was excellent. I had heard better singing, but not often, nor much of it. 'We left the hall at half-past ten o'clock, with a moon very near its full to light us home; and as the heavens were entirely cloudless, we had light in plenty. 'Nothing unusual occurred during the drive until we arrived at the outskirts of our village; and there, where a small water-course lay under the road, with a row of willows on either hand, we were hailed by a man who staggered directly out before our horse, thereby coming very near to upsetting us; and if my husband had not been holding a tight rain, the horse would certainly have thrown us out. As it was, however, Charles quickly brought the animal to a stand, and then turned his attention to the intruder. 'I am free to confess that I screamed aloud in a great fright, for I had felt sure that we had been attacked by a highwayman; and a larger and stronger man than he was at our horse's head I thought I had never seen.' 'Hush!' said Charles, giving me a gentle nudge. 'Its only poor Allan McDougald.' 'And so it proved. As soon as the horse had been brought to a stand, the strange man asked if we could direct him home; and I then saw plainly enough who he was. Charles asked me to hold the reins a moment while he got out. The man had laid hold upon the bridge, and did not seem inclined to let it go. In fact, he was so badly intoxicated that he stood on his feet with difficulty. However, Charles got him away from the horse's head, and led him to a grassy spot by the roadside and sat him down; but he would not stay down. He wanted to go home. 'Finally, my husband told me if I would drive home he would take care of the unfortunate. He thought he could lead him to his own dwelling without much trouble. And so it was done. I drove on, reaching home safely, there our groom was ready to take the team; and half-an-hour later Charles rejoined me in our comfortable sitting-room. He had been obliged to use considerable strategy, and some force, to get old McDougald to his home, but he had succeeded, and had delivered him into his wife's tender, loving care. 'Alas, poor Bessie McDougald. Hers was a sad fate; Allan, her husband, was one of the handsomest men I ever knew, and one of the strongest. He was over six feet tall, and muscular in proportion. He was Scottish born, and Scottish at heart. He was a currier by trade, and for years the principle part of his work had been the shiving, or, as most people call it, skiving of leather. 'In doing this, the workman bends forward over an inclined beam or table, with his head thrown as far downwards as to cause a rush of blood in that direction; and for a man so tall as he was, the position was more than uncomfortable. 'It became at length alarming, and the doctors told him he must stop it, and let others perform that part of the labor. 'But the mischief had been done. He was not yet insane; but there was a decided tendency to mental aberration. He had been for many years addicted to drink, having periodical spells of drinking hard, and at such times, when under the influence of liquor, his reason left him, and he was becoming dangerous. 'During one of these fits he had been taken into the Lunatic Asylum, and Doctor Woodward had kept him until he became perfectly sober, and had then talked kindly and plainly to him of his habit. He said to him: 'McDougald, just so sure as you continue this habit of drink will you, in a fit of mania, one of these days, commit a murder. I see plainly that your insane instinct leads you in that dangerous direction.' 'The man came home, and for nearly two years did not drink a drop. The first he drank after that was about a month previous to the evening of which I have spoken. But on that occasion his friends had taken him at once in hand, and had succeeded in getting him sober on the third day. This was the second fall; and our experience of the evening was the first intimation we had of it. 'Poor Bessie!' said my husband, as we were preparing for retiring. 'Allan is the craziest I ever saw him. He says he shall certainly kill somebody before long. I asked him,' Charles went on, 'what he meant, why he should wish to kill anybody? He looked me in the eye with a frightened expression; then put his lips to my ear, and told me, in a whisper, that somebody was bewitching him--little demons--imps of the Evil One, he said, were the cause of his drinking. Then with a curious nod and a wink, he said he should certainly find them. He said if they were his own children, he'd kill them.' 'And did you leave him alone with Bessie and his children? I cried, in great alarm.' 'He told me to have no fear. He had left two of his fellow workmen with him; and they would take care of him; and they could easily call more help, should it be needed.' 'That, you will remember, was Wednesday evening. When my husband came home the next day to dinner, I asked him if he had heard from Allen McDougald. He said, yes, he had called there, and had seen his wife. She had told him that Allen had brandy hidden somewhere, under lock and key, and had drank several times that morning before the fact had been discovered. The two men who had remained with him on the previous evening arrived at the house to take care of him just as he--my husband--was coming away.' 'That was on Thursday. On Friday morning, after breakfast, as Charles was ready to leave me, he said he did not expect that he should be home to dinner. Business called him to Worcester, and he might not get through so as to be at home before late in the afternoon. 'Be a good little girl, and don't let anybody harm you,' he said, as we gave our parting kisses, and he was gone. 'I remember what a thrill of pain shot through my heart as the thought came to me: 'Suppose he should come home and find some of us dead.' 'But I put away the foolish fancy and sang at my work. 'I had got the breakfast things cleared away; dishes washed and put up; and then sat down to my sewing. I was altering over a new dress, trying to make a new one out of it. We weren't quite so well off in money matters in those days, as we became later, and I always tried to do my share towards saving. 'My children were sitting around me--three of them--two occupying their little chairs, while the third--the youngest--sat on the carpet at my feet. 'They were all my children then, and all girls. Mary, the oldest, was six; Stella, was four, and my little Edna, on the carpet, was only two. 'We had no night-latch to the outer door. We had talked of putting on one, but had never got around to it. Sometimes when alone with the children, I would turn the key in the lock, but for a long time--certainly for more than a year--no such thing as a tramp had been seen in our neighbourhood. That it was a quiet place, and we had little occasion for alarm. 'Well, as I have said, I sat at my sewing--it may have been an hour after my husband had left me--when I heard the front outer door open, and directly afterwards a heavy footfall on the floor of the hall; I thought it, at the moment, the heaviest step I had ever heard. I was on the point of rising--I had laid aside my work--when the door of the sitting room--I was sitting at the front window nearest the door, and not two yards distant from it--the door was opened, and Allan McDougald came in, turning, as he crossed the threshold, and carefully closing the door behind him. Then he turned and faced me.' At this point the narrator paused, and pressed both hands over her heart, shuddering from tip to toe. She gained her breath after a little time, and went on: 'The first thing I saw in the man's face, it was that of a demon incarnate. His eyes were wild and staring, with, I fancied, a startled, frightened look; his lips were bloodless, with little flecks of froth standing on them. The next thing I saw was in his right hand a large, long sharp-bladed carving knife!' 'You can imagine my feelings better than I can describe them. All I can say is, such horror I had never conceived of! 'Agnes Appleton,' he said, fiercely, 'I have sworn that if I could find the children that have put the demons into me I would kill them. I am full of them! The man that our Saviour found possessed hadn't half so many as have possessed me; and your three little imps have done it. Don't you make any noise, don't you interfere, because if you do I must kill you first. You may look at them once more--just once. Come?' 'And with that he made a motion towards my Mary--my eldest--and I knew that he meant every word he had said. Both Mary and Stella were clinging to me with piteous cries. The little cherub on the carpet did not understand. 'Had I been alone, and had the maniac's aim been my own life, I should not have saved it. My strength would not have endured. But what cannot a mother do for her little ones? The sight of my children, and the thought--the presence--of the mortal danger, gave me a strength that was wonderful, I felt strong in limb, and strong at heart. 'Not more than a month previous to that that time my husband and I had spent an evening in company with Doctor Woodward; and he had related numerous instances of his dealing with raving maniacs; and one of them had been a case almost exactly like my own at that moment; and I remembered how he had conquered. To be sure, he had had help at hand when he had gained his first and most important point, which I had not; but if I could by any means delay the man's fell purpose, something might occur to help me. It could not be that the Lord would forsake me in my great need. 'At all events my heart was uplifted; and I prayed to him earnestly.' 'Allan,' said I, calling him by his Christian name, and speaking with a calmness that so electrified me that it gave me new strength, 'let us not spill their blood on this new carpet.' I then hushed the children and got them quiet. Then I looked up into the maniac's strong eyes, and found a shade of speculation in them. 'Where will you go then?' he asked me. 'I told him, into the next room, beyond the hall; and I rose and led the way. He followed me at once. We reached the hall; I crossed it, and opened the door of a sort of lumber room, where there was a carpenter's bench, a chest of tools, and various things of the kind. It was to be a parlor, when finished; but up to that time my husband had used it for his work-room. I looked to see if he had followed. Yes--he was close behind me. I pointed to a lot of shavings scattered near the bench and said to him--O! my strength still served me, but I could feel my heart aching--I said: 'There, Allan if you will gather up those shaving into a pile, they will hide the work so that nobody shall know it.' 'Would he do it? Yes! He appeared to have no suspicion. It was as Dr. Woodward had said. In his one insane intent he was ready to grasp and accept everything that promised him help. I waited until he had stooped to the shavings; and then, with all the speed I could command, I ran from the room; there was a bolt on the outside of the door, put there to protect the rest of the house when the windows of that room were not secure. This I slipped; then on into the sitting-room, where I caught up my little Edna, and bade the others to follow me. Then out at the front door, into--the arms of my husband! I only saw him, and that he had other men with him, and--that was the last. 'When I came to myself I was on the sofa in the sitting-room, with my husband and my children by me. I had been only half an hour unconscious, and my joy on finding my loved one safe uplifted me at once. For a few days I felt the results of the terrible shock; and there are times when I fancy I feel them still. 'My husband had been on his way to the railway station, when a little son of Allan McDougald overtook him, and told him that papa had gone to his house, or had gone that way, with a big knife in his hand. He turned and sped homeward as swiftly as possible, overtaking the maniac's fellow workmen--three of them--in quest of him. He--McDougald--had just broken open the door which I had bolted when they entered the hall, and it required the use of the club, freely used on the hands that held the knife, before they secured him. 'So you will see, but for the information--the instruction--I had received from Dr. Woodward, I should doubtless have been made childless--and O! how horribly! The memory horrifies me even to the present time. As for for Allan McDougald, he lived six years after that; and I believe another drop of spirits did not pass his lips.' ________________________________________________________________ THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JUN. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday, 19 December, 1889. Mr. John Nettleby had been married just five years, and during that time he had enjoyed a great life of domestic bliss, for he had found a very good wife in Susan Perkins. She was a neat, tidy, bustling woman, full of spirit and affection and very fond of her husband. While she had been Susan Perkins, John looked in vain for a blemish in her character or disposition, but when she became Mrs. Susan Nettleby, she began to betray a symptom which John had never before noticed. Simply, she was very apt to be jealous. To be sure, before marriage, Susan had suffered some half dozen crying spells because her lover had been very attentive to other feminines; but then he was pleased with that, for it proved how fondly Susan loved him, and, he thought, how fearful she was of losing him. "But," he said to himself, "after we are married, then she'll be sure of me, and such little things won't be noticed." But he was mistaken. It happened very unfortunately for John that he was a handsome man, and very fond of company, and living in the very town where he was born and brought up, it was impossible for him to move along the pathway, even of married life, without some friendly familiarity with the good-natured females of his acquaintance. If he stopped in the street to converse even a minute with one of his feminine schoolmates, and Mrs. Nettleby could find it out, she was sure to catechise him closely, and it most generally wound up with a sardonic laugh on John's part, and a real good cry on Susan's. John argued and argued in vain, for his protestations were not believed and matters became worse instead of better. One evening, Mabel Brown called and took tea with Susan, and remained until quite late. Mabel was a pretty, laughter-loving girl, and John had, unfortunately for him, often spoken of her beauty and gentleness. The clock struck ten before Mabel arose to depart. John went to the door, and found that great, black clouds had spread themselves all over the heavens, and that, consequently, it was very dark. Of course he could not think of such a thing as allowing Mabel to go home alone, and he offered to accompany her. He met his wife's fierce, admonitory look, but he took little heed of it. Mabel joked and laughed in high glee at the idea and even after she and her escort had reached the street, Mrs. Nettleby could hear her tongue running 'like a mill clipper,' as she termed it. Mr. Brown's house was not a great distance off, and John meant to hurry right home; but when he reached the place, he found the old gentleman up, and he was asked to walk in. "Guess not." "Who's hot?" cried Mr. Brown, from the sitting room. "Ah--it is you, is it?" he added, hurrying into the hall. "Just the man I wanted to see. Come in a moment." "But----" "No buts, now, Nettleby, but come in, for I have business." So John went in, and Mabel sat down close by. Now John Nettleby was a house-painter by trade, and Brown wanted his house painted as soon as possible. John agreed to do it the next week, if the weather was favourable, and the next thing was to ascertain the amount of materials. "I'm going to town to-morrow," said Brown, "and must get my paints, and how much must I have? I had intended to call in and see you in the morning, but this will save me all that trouble." So Mr. Brown made an estimate of something near the amount of surface he had to paint, and then Nettleby estimated the amount of white lead, oil and other matters that would be wanted. All this took up time--over half an hour--and when John reached his house, he was thinking of the profitable job he had just undertaken. But his thoughts were turned into another channel before long. He found his wife waiting for him. "Well," she uttered in tones something like the snapping of a frosty nail, "you've done it now, haven't you?" "Eh?" returned John. "Done what?" "Done what? And you don't know what you've done! Oh, John Nettleby, you'll kill me! You are breaking my heart by inches." "For mercy's sake, Susan, tell me what has happened now? What have I done?" "What? Oh, wretch, wretch! Where have you been this last hour?" "At Mr. Brown's." "Oh, and you don't blush to tell it! Misery! Misery!" "Why, Susan Nettleby, what has possessed you? I've been doing some business with Mr. Brown." "Can you look me in the face and tell me that?" "Why, it's so. I've engaged to paint his house." "You have! You've engaged to paint Mr. Brown's house?" "I have." "And you'll be near your dear Mabel, now!" "Oh, you're jealous, are you! You think I am in love now, with Mabel Brown?" "I know it, sir, I know it! Oh! oh! oh!" "There--I'd be a fool and done with it. Here have I been married to you five years, and you have never seen one thing in me out of the way. Yet you will be jealous at every little thing, and make misery for us both. Why will you do so?" "Why will I? And isn't your spending an hour with Mabel Brown at this time of night something to be jealous of. I'd like to know?" "But I haven't been with Mabel. It's her father that I have been talking with. And I've been engaging work, to earn money to feed and clothe you." "Oh, that's right. Twist away. You feed and clothe me? I'd like to know what I do? Oh, I knew you'd stop with her when you went away. I knew it! I saw the love in your eye." Argument was useless now. John swore that he cared nothing for Mabel Brown, while Susan declared that he did. "Very well," said the poor man, after he had been told for the twentieth time that he loved Mabel better than he did his own wife, "very well, Susan, let it go so. If there is a man in the world who could stand and hear such stuff from your lips as I have heard tonight, and then love you after it, I should like to see him." At this, Mrs. Nettleby burst into a furious flood of tears and her husband went off to bed. It was several days before this storm passed over, and even after John had commenced to paint Mr. Brown's house, his wife would often pass and repass the premises, to see if her husband was steady at his work. Once she saw Mabel out, holding his brush for him while he mixed some paint, and on that evening the domestic wind changed, and a squall passed over. It was some weeks after this that the cap sheaf was put upon Mrs. Nettleby's jealousy. One noon her husband threw off his working clothes, and put on a nicer suit. She asked him where he was going, and he replied that he had some business to attend to. He went away, and she, with her jealousy beginning to move within her, commenced to wonder where he had gone. Of course all her conjectures took the darkest sides and shades of human probabilities, and soon she had made up her mind that there was something in the wind. About five o'clock, Mrs. Mason, a female friend, called in on a short visit. Various matters were talked over, and at length the visitor said: "By the way, Mrs. Nettleby, who was that woman I saw your husband with this afternoon?" Susan's eyes snapped in a moment, and her soul was in arms. "Woman?" she uttered. "Yes. I saw him coming up from the railway station with a female leaning on his arm." "Do you mean that, Mrs. Mason? Did you see my husband with a woman on his arm?" "I did--not over an hour since." "Oh, the wretch! the wretch!" "But it may have been a friend, Susan, or perhaps some----" "Yes--it was a friend. Ah! Mrs. Mason, you don't know how I suffer. You don't----" "Is it possible, my dear Mrs. Nettleby, that you husband is unfaithful?" "Doesn't this look like it?" "But I never would have believed that of John Nettleby," the woman said, seriously. "This female may have been----" "Ah! Mrs. Mason, you don't know anything about that man, now, if he had been going on any honourable business he would have told me." "But perhaps he did not think of it." "Yes, he did. Oh, the wretch! He came home, and dressed up, and when I asked him where he was going he would not tell me. Oh, I cannot live so!" Mrs. Mason made her escape as soon as possible, but there was a smile upon her face as she stood in the hall, and before she left she said, quietly: "I fear, Susan, that you will make your husband unfaithful, if he is not so now. Were I to accuse my husband of impropriety without knowing of what I spoke, or were I to betray a jealousy of his movements, I am sure I should drive all his love away, and then it would be no wonder if he should seek for that comfort in the companionship of others which he could not find at home." "But your husband ain't my husband, Mrs. Mason." This was said rather severely, and, without answering, the visitor left. From the time until her husband returned, Mrs. Nettleby suffered much, but she formed a new resolution for this time. She was resolved that she would not catch her husband in the very midst of his faithlessness. So she made up her mind that she would not say anything of what she had heard until she could find out some clew to his villainy--some direct proof of his wickedness. It was hard for her to bridle her tongue, but she did it. At the usual supper hour John came. He was all smiles and joy. Mrs N. came near giving way to her passion. Oh, the villain! See the smile on his face, and the joy on his false, black heart. Even in his own house and before his own wife, he hesitates not to show the ecstacy he feels in his guilty love! After supper Mr. Nettleby arose and put on his hat. It was almost sundown, and what could be his business out again? "I shall be back soon, my love," he said, smiling with real kindness and joy. "Oh, you will--eh?" the wife uttered, in a tone than which none could be more contemptuous. "I shall most assuredly," he replied, moving to her side and attempting to kiss her. But she pushed him off with indignation. "Put not your polluted lips to mine, sir!" "Susan!" "Away, touch me not!" Mr. Nettleby gazed a moment into his wife's face, and then, without another word, he turned from the apartment. As soon as he had gone the wife hurried away to her dressing room, and threw on her bonnet and shawl as quickly as possible, and in a few moments more she was in the street. She looked down towards the centre of the village, and she saw her husband making his way down with quick steps, and, with steps of her own, fully as quick, she followed him. At length she saw him enter the hotel, and then she walked more slowly. She followed him fully determined now to discover all. She entered the hotel. The sun was just sinking when she reached the broad hall into which she had seen her husband enter, and, having assured herself that she was not seen by him, she made her way on to the kitchen, where were one or two females with whom she was acquainted. She found the landlady herself there, and as soon as she could command herself, she called her to one side. "Mrs. Varnum--excuse me--but my husband is in this house." "He is," replied the landlady. "And--and--there's a female with him?" "He brought a lady with him this afternoon." "He did.--Yes, I know it. Where is that woman's room?" "Do you wish to see her?" "I wish to see my husband, madam." For a single moment a flush of anger appeared on Mrs. Varnum's face, but she soon drove it away, and a faint, pitying smile took its place. "You will find the lady's room at number fifteen, just at the head of the stairs," she said, and then returned to her work. Mrs. Nettleby started off in quest of her vile partner. Number fifteen was easily found, and, as she stopped near the door, she heard voices. She listened, and one of them was a female voice, the other, her husband's. Her fire was up now, and, having given her teeth one good gritting, and her hands a good clenching, she threw open the door and stalked into the room. Mercy--what a sight. There, upon a board sofa, sat her own husband, and by his side--close to him--sat a woman. There was not light enough in the apartment to enable Mrs. Nettleby to distinguish countenances plainly, but she knew that the woman was handsome. "And so you have business, Mr. Nettleby!" the mad wife hissed out, with doubly-refined and extra-concentrated venom. "This is your business, is it?" "Susan!" uttered Mr. Nettleby, at first seeming to doubt whether or not his wife could be in earnest. "Don't call me Susan, you poor, mean, dirty, sneaking, despicable, rascally, contemptible wretch you! Now you'll plead innocence again, won't you? You'll be like a babe, I s'pose. Oh, yes! 'Tisn't likely butter would melt in your mouth! Oh, you nasty, low, miserable, creeping, rotten-hearted villain!" Both the gentleman and his companion seemed thunderstruck, but the Xantippe gave them little opportunity to think, for as soon as she could gain breath she turned to the woman. "And you," she uttered while her teeth gritted like two rocks, "you are in fine business aren't you? I would like to know what you think of yourself, you low, sunken, degraded creature! How will you ever dare to show your face by daylight again? But you hain't got no shame, you poor, miserable, degraded, dirty thing!" "Susan," spoke the woman, in a tone of pain and surprise--"Susan, is this you!" Mrs. Nettleby started back aghast, and a deadly pallor overspread her face. Then she bent forward and gazed eagerly into the face of her who had spoken. A few moments she stood thus, and then, with a low deep groan of shame, she tottered forward, and sank down upon her knees, with her face hidden in the woman's lap. "Oh, Susan! Susan!" "Forgive me! Forgive me! Oh, my mother, I did not know it was you!" "But you knew it was your husband, my child. You knew him." "Oh--I did not--I--I--Oh, forgive me!" "And have you no faith in your husband's honor?--no confidence in his love!" But Susan began to cry, and her mother clasped her to her bosom and kissed her, and for the present the matter was passed over. Susan had not seen her mother before for four long years. The very next year after she was married her parents moved, and she had not seen them since. Before long the door was opened again, and when Susan looked up she saw a tall, stout, manly form, and when she heard his voice she knew it was her father. She arose and uttered a low cry of joy, and was, on the next moment, clasped to his loving bosom. Shortly after this the party started for John's dwelling. It was some time before Susan could be herself, but even then she could not be wholly happy, and through the whole long evening she suffered much grief. "Ah, John, you could not keep the secret after all, eh?" said Mr. Perkins, toward the latter part of the evening. "What secret, father?" asked Susan, without reflection. "Why, when I sent the telegraphic despatch to John this forenoon I just hinted to him not to let you know it, but to meet us at the station. He met us there, and as I had imperative business at the upper mills, I told him to take your mother to the hotel and let her stop there until I came, and then we would take you by surprise. But he could not hold it, it seems." "Ah," interposed the mother, as she saw her daughter's face mantling with shame, "Susy found us out. She mistrusted there was something in the wind." Poor Susan! she now saw she had wronged her husband, and she saw, too, why he had been so happy when he came home to supper. She resolved in her heart if she could ever get over this she would never be jealous again. It was a week after that, and Susan and her mother sat alone together in the same little sitting-room of the former. Her beloved visitors were to return on the next day. "And now, my child," said her mother in continuation of a subject already broached, "what have you ever seen in John to give you cause for jealousy?" "Why----" "Ah, Susan, none of that. Speak promptly. If, by one single act of his life he has given you just cause to distrust his faith, you have not forgotten it. Now, tell me has ever he done so?" "No, mother, he has not." "And, yet, you see how you would have ruined him." "But he has been cold, mother; and he almost treated me with neglect, at times." "And why should he not? Why, Susan, if I should--or, rather, if I had at your age, spoken but once to my husband as you admit you had spoken to John before he ever showed any neglect, he would have spurned me from him at once. Oh, my child, if you would ruin your husband let him see that your confidence is lost in him. If you should drive him from you, let him see that you are jealous of him." "I see it all, mother--I see it, and I will do so no more." On the evening of the next day, John Nettleby and his wife were left alone with their two little children. The little ones were put to bed. At last Susan tremulously said--"John, we will never be unhappy again." Her voice trembled, and the tears started down her cheeks, and she buried her face in his bosom. The husband knew what she meant, but he could only wind his arms about her, and draw her more closely to him. And the husband's hopes were blessed, for Susan courted the green-eyed monster no more. ________________________________________________________________ THE PARSON'S EXPERIMENT. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. Published in the Kilmore Free Press (Vic.), Thursday, 27 February, 1890. The small parish at Fallowdale had been for some time without a pastor. The members were nearly all farmers, and they had not much money to bestow upon the support of a clergyman; yet they were willing to pay for anything that could promise them any due return of good. In course of time it happened that the Rev. Abraham Surely visited Fallowdale, and as a Sabbath passed during his sojourn, he held a meeting in a small church. The people were pleased with his preaching, and some of them proposed inviting him to remain with them and take charge of their spiritual welfare. Upon the merits of this proposition there was a long discussion. Parson Surely had signified his willingness to take a permanent residence at Fallowdale, but the members of the parish could not so readily agree to hire him. 'I don't see the use of hiring a parson,' said Mr. Sharp, an old farmer of the place. 'He can do us no good. If we've got any money to spare, we'd better lay it up for something else. A parson can't learn me anything.' To this it was answered that stated religious meetings would be of great benefit to the younger people, and also a source of real social good to all. 'I don't know 'bout that,' said Sharp, after he had heard the arguments against him. Sharp was one of the wealthiest men in the parish, and consequently one of the most influential. 'I've hearn tell,' he continued, 'of a parson that could pray for rain, and have it come at any time. Now if we could hit upon such a parson as that, I would go in for hiring him.' This opened a new idea to the unsophisticated minds of Fallowdale. The farmers often suffered from long droughts, and, after arguing awhile longer, they agreed to hire Parson Surely upon the condition that he should give them rain whenever they wished for it, and, on the other hand, that he would also give them fair weather when required. Deacons Smith and Townsend were deputised to make this arrangement known to the parson, and the people remained in the church while their messengers went upon their errand. When the deacons returned, Mr. Surely accompanied them. He smiled as he entered the church, and, with a grateful bow, saluted the people there assembled. 'Well, my friends,' he said, as he ascended the platform in front of the desk, 'I have heard your request to me, and, strange as it may appear, I have come to accept your proposal; but I can do it only on one condition, and that is, that your request for a change of weather must be unanimous.' This appeared very reasonable, since every member of the parish had a deep interest in the farming business, and ere long it was arranged that Mr. Surely should become the pastor of Fallowdale, and that he should give the people rain whenever they asked for it. When Mr. Surely returned to his lodgings, his wife was utterly astounded upon learning the nature of the contract her husband had entered into; but the pastor only smiled, and bade her wait for the result. 'But you know you cannot make it rain,' persisted Mrs. Surely; 'and you know, too, that the farmers here will be wanting rain very often when there is none for them. You will be disgraced.' 'I will teach them a lesson,' quietly returned the pastor. 'Ay--that you cannot be so good as your word; and when you have taught it to them they will turn you off.' 'We shall see,' was Mr Surely's reply as he took up a book and commenced reading. This was a signal for his wife to desist from further conversation on the subject, and she at once obeyed. Time flew on, and at length the hot days of midsummer were at hand. For three weeks it had not rained, and the young corn was beginning to curl up beneath the effects of the drought. In this extremity the people bethought themselves of the promise of their pastor, and some of them hastened to his dwelling. 'Certainly,' returned Mr. Surely. 'If you will call a meeting of the members of the parish, I will be with you this evening.' With this the applicants were perfectly satisfied, and forthwith, they hastened to call the flock together. 'Now you'll see the hour of your disgrace,' said Mrs. Surely after the visitors had gone. 'Oh, I am very sorry you ever undertook to deceive them so.' 'I did not deceive them.' 'Yes, you surely did.' 'We shall see,' responded the pastor. 'So we shall see,' added the lady. The hour for the meeting came around, and Parson Surely met his people at the church. They were all there--most of them anxious, and the remainder curious. 'Now, my friends,' said the pastor, arising upon the platform, I have come to hear your request. What is it?' 'Ay--rain--rain,' repeated half a dozen voices. 'Very well. Now, when will you have it?' 'This very night. Let it rain all night long,' said Sharp, to which several others immediately assented. 'No, no, not to-night,' cried Deacon Smith. 'I have six or seven tons of well-made hay in the field, and I would not have it wet for anything.' 'So do I have hay out,' added Mr Peck. 'We won't have it rain to-night.' 'Then let it be to-morrow.' 'It will take me all day to-morrow to get my hay in,' said Smith. Thus the objections came up for the two succeeding days, and at length, by way of compromise, Mr. Sharp proposed that they should have rain in just four days. 'For,' said he, 'by that time all the hay which is now cut can be got in, and we need not cut any----' 'Stop, stop,' uttered Mrs. Sharp, pulling her worthy husband smartly by the sleeve. 'That is the day we set to go to Snowhill. It musn't rain then!' This was law for Mr. Sharp, so he proposed that the rain should come in one week, and then resumed his seat. But this would not do. Many of the people would not have it put off so long. 'If we can't have rain before then we'd better not have it at all,' said they. In short, the meeting resulted in just no conclusion at all, for the good people found it utterly impossible to agree upon a time when it should rain. 'Until you can make up your mind upon this point,' said the pastor, as he was about leaving the church, 'we must all trust in the Lord.' And after this the people followed him from the place. Both Deacon Smith and Mr. Peck got their hay safely in, but on the very day Mr. Sharp and his wife were to start for Snowhill it began to rain in right good earnest. Sharp lost his visit, but he met the disappointment with good grace, for his crops smiled at the rain. Ere another month had rolled by another meeting was called for a petition for rain, but this time the result was the same as before. Some wanted the rain immediately--some in one, some in two, and some in three days, while others wanted it put off longer. So Mr. Surely had not yet occasion to call for rain. One year rolled by, and up to that time the people of Fallowdale had never once been able to agree upon the exact kind of weather they would have, and the result was that they began to open their eyes to the fact that this world would be a strange place if its inhabitants could govern it. While they had been longing for a power they did not possess they had not seen its absurdity, but now that they had, in good faith, tried to apply that power, under the belief that it was theirs, they saw clearly that they were getting beyond their sphere. They say that Nature's laws were safer in the hands of Nature's God than in the hands of Nature's children. On the last Sabbath in the first year of Mr. Surely's settlement at Fallowdale he offered to give up his connection with the parish, but the people would not listen to it. They had become attached to him and the meeting, and they wished him to stay. 'But I can no longer rest under our former contract with regard to the weather,' said the pastor. 'Nor do we wish you to,' returned Sharp. 'Only preach to us and teach us and our children how to live, and help us be social and happy.' 'And,' added the pastor, with a tear of pride in his eye as he looked for an instant into the face of his now happy wife, 'all things above our proper sphere we will leave with God, for He doeth all things well.' ________________________________________________________________ PHIL'S DARLING. A Serio Comic Sketch. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. Published in the Bathurst Free Press and Mining Journal, Saturday 3 October, 1891. Philip Rushwood came down to Greyland, in the early spring time, and hired two rooms of Aunt Betty Warren, and engaged board with her. Phil was an artist, and a good one. He was in his thirtieth year, but he did not look it. He was a bright-faced, cheery, fun-loving fellow, and would pass for a handsome man. His father had left him a moderate fortune; so his work was a matter of pleasure and satisfaction rather than of necessity. He had hired the only two rooms Aunt Betty had to spare, one for a studio and reading room, and the other for a sleeping room. The old lady must keep one apartment--a nice one--for a spare room, in which to put a chance visitor; and herself and niece occupied the remainder of the dormitory of the small cottage. Aunt Betty Warren was a maiden lady, just three-score years of age; as bright and smart as a cricket; and she was far from being a homely woman. In her youth she must have been pretty, though never burdened with brains; and some of the prettiness of her youth remained with her. Her heart was tender and impressionable. Since the full blooming of her womanhood she had fallen in love a dozen times, and had fancied people in love with her; but, alas, not one had remained loyal. There was one other member of the family besides the servant. We speak of a niece. She was Lizzie Warren, child of a younger brother of Aunt Betty, and now an orphan. She was twenty years of age; a lithe, graceful, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl, who, Phil declared off hand, came nearer to his ideal of the goddess Electra than any other girl he had even seen. Lizzie taught the primary school in the village, and played the organ in church on Sundays; and ere long after the advent of Phil Rushwood she began to learn to paint. Philip was a good musician, and possessed an excellent tenor voice. Naturally, as he attended church every Sabbath, he took his place in the choir, and he was, without question, the best singer there. The love that grew and strengthened between Philip and Lizzie was deep, fervent and quiet, and very enjoyable. They did not talk of it, but they lived it, and each knew and felt the love of the other long before a word had been spoken. Phil, in his great-hearted, generous, outspoken way, made much of Aunt Betty. She was good to him; did everything for him she could do; and he really loved her. His mother had not been dead a great many years, and in some respects Aunt Betty seemed to fill her place. One day, in a funny mood, Phil called her his Old Darling. It pleased her immensely. Pretty soon she began to take extra pains with her false curls, and she dyed her silvery looks that escaped from beneath the borders of her lace cap. Next Aunt Betty wanted to learn to paint, and she asked Phil--she called him Philip, as he had asked her to--she asked him to teach her. It struck him comically; but he saw that the old lady was in earnest and very eager, and he would not have hurt her feelings for the world. So he gave her lessons. He first drew for her a house and an old well curb and a tree; then he mixed the colors for her, and gave it to her to paint. "There, you dear old soul, do you paint that, and let us see what you will make of it. I can tell in just what direction you will require instruction." And he patted her on the shoulder, where-at she blushed like a school-girl. One evening, when Phil had been two months an inmate of Betty's cottage, he took a letter from the post-office informing him of the dangerous sickness of his best and dearest male friend--a brother artist, who had been in Europe with him, and who had shared his studio for years. Jack Atterby was sick; perhaps dying; and he asked to see Phil Rushwood once more before the end came. Philip left his studio in Aunt Betty's charge. He thought it would please her. And he said to her, "You will let your niece work at my easel, and with my implements, as much as she pleases." And he said to Lizzie that she should make herself perfectly at home in his sanctum while he was gone, and not be afraid of using up his oils and pigments. He went; where he found Jack Atterby dying; but he was conscious, and recognised his dear old Phil; and his last hours were happier because Philip was with him. After Jack was gone, and his mortal remains had been laid away, Phil felt peculiarly sad and lonesome. He wanted a friend to take Jack's place. The death of his chum had left a great void in his life. His thoughts went to Lizzie Warren. He was confident she loved him. As for himself, he loved her with his whole heart. He had loved her since the first hour he spent with her. He felt it was time he should settle down, and make a home of his own. If Lizzie would share it with him, it might be an Elysium. Very nearly an hour he gave to serious, concentrated thought on the subject, in the privacy of his own chamber; at the end of which time his mind was made up--his resolve taken; and, before he went to his rest, he sat down and wrote. He offered to Lizzie Warren his hand and all that he possessed. His heart was already hers, and could never be another's. Might he call her his darling--his wife? "You need not answer me by post, as I cannot tell you where your answer would find me," he wrote in conclusion. "I shall leave day after to-morrow, and shall not return to the city before joining you. A still, small voice seems to whisper in my ear, HOPE. And in that hope I must find comfort until your own lips can speak." When he had folded the important missive, and placed it in a government envelope and carefully sealed it, he bethought him how he should superscribe it. Thinking the dear one's true name was Elizabeth, he thought it would be hardly proper--it would appear too much of a liberty--for him to use the familiar abbreviation--Lizzie. So, after due deliberation, he wrote, "MISS ELIZABETH WARREN, Greyland," and on the following morning he consigned it to the post. Ah! if he could have known! But he did not. He did not even dream. The only Miss Elizabeth Warren in Greyland--or, for that matter, anywhere in that section of country--was Aunt Betty. And Aunt Betty took the letter from the office; she opened it; she read it; and, strange as it may appear, she was not surprised. "The darling!" she cried, pressing the sheet to her withered lips. "I knew he loved me; but I did not quite look for this." That evening, when Lizzie came home from her school, she wondered what could have possessed her dear aunt. "Aunt, what is it? What has happened? Do you expect company that you are so finely dressed? Will you not tell me?" The old lady tittered and giggled, and almost danced. She was like one electrified. But not a word of explanation would she give. "Wait! wait! Miss Curiosity, and you'll find out." That was all. And so it went on for three mortal days. On Saturday evening the stage-coach stopped at the front garden gate, and Philip Rushwood alighted, and came in with his gripsack in his hand. It was not yet dark; the sun had not quite gone from sight, though it was dipping below the horizon. Phil dropped his bag in the hall, and turned to extend his hand to Lizzie, who had came to welcome him. He had expected--he knew not what; but, certainly, not the quiet, lady-like, utterly unconscious greeting which she gave him. His heart sank to zero. O! how he had deceived himself! evidently, she cared for him not a particle. But a greeting was coming. In the centre of the cozy little drawing-room stood Aunt Betty, her brown ringlets shimmering with an extra gloss, and dressed in her best silk. Something in the old lady's appearance, and in the look she gave him, so surprised Phil that his speech was for the moment suspended, and in that moment she exclaimed: "Philip! my own! Oh! let me hear your sweet lips call me darling once again! You now I am yours! O, my Philip!" And she would have thrown her arms around his neck, but he put out his hands, with an impulsive movement, and turned, with a sacred look on his face, to the niece. "Miss Warren, what does she mean?" "Philip! Philip! do not cast me off?" The old woman caught his hand, and held it fast. "O, Philip! how can you?" "Aunt Betty! My dear, dear old friend! What do you mean? I do not understand." "O! you naughty, naughty man! Didn't you write me a letter full of love? Behold that!" And she showed him the letter. Phil looked at it; then looked at the old woman; and then looked at the young. "Is your name Elizabeth?" to Aunt Betty. "Yes! It is!" "And yours?" to the niece. "I am plain Lizzie, so christened at the font." "Oh, what a horrible mistake!" and with a groan the poor man sank into a chair, and sat for a little time with his head in his hands. By and by he looked up. "Aunt Betty, I don't know how I am ever to make amends to you for the pain I have unwittingly given. The most I can do is to explain and then leave you. That letter I wrote to your niece. I thought her name was Elizabeth, that the Lizzie was a familiar abbreviation, But you can hardly claim the came of Lizzie also. I certainly use that name in the body of the letter. You understand the mistake now, I am sure; and I am sure that you will forgive me when you have had time to think of it. For the present I will leave you. I will seek quarters at the tavern, and in the----" "O! no, no! Don't do that! I--I--am--Let me go off by myself and think." She had reached the door, and there stopped. Presently she turned and came back. "Lizzie! don't you never, so long as you live, speak one word of this ridiculous affair. Will you promise?" "Yes, aunt, with all my heart." "Then listen to me: I am an old fool! But don't you two call me so. You won't, will you?" They both solemnly promised. "There, Lizzie--there's your letter. It's yours now." And with that the old lady was gone. And we will simply add, by the time the Sabbath day had departed, with its quiet, its rest, and its religious lessons, Aunt Betty had regained her wonted spirits, and none could have suspected, on looking at her, the wonderful ordeal through which she had passed. As for Lizzie, she had read her letter, and Phil found all the joys and comforts he had promised himself in a happy home, with his darling to share it with him. THE END Project Gutenberg Australia