Part 2

As he opened the door, he started back in surprise at the changed appearance of the room. It occurred to him, for a moment, that he had strayed into the wrong place; but the sight of Floy, sitting at the window, re-assured him, and he went in.

“What is all this?” he inquired in a bewildered tone.

Floy enjoyed his surprise. She told him in what manner she had effected the change, and asked him if he did not like it.

He could not do otherwise than answer in the affirmative; and, in truth, an unusual sense of comfort came over him as he sat down and looked about him.

Floy had taken possession of the flour, and was already kneading it.

“Now,” said she, after this was done, “I must put it down by the fire to rise; that will not take long; and then it will be ready to bake.”

“Have you got any shirts for me?” she inquired after a while.

“Yes,” said Martin, recollecting himself, and unrolling a bundle which he had placed on the table. “There are half a dozen for you to begin on; and, if you do them well, you can have some more.”

Floy looked pleased.

“Now,” said she, “I shall have something to do when you are away.”

“You like to be doing something?” said Martin, inquiringly.

“Oh, yes! I can’t bear to be idle.”

Martin did not go out again that afternoon. About six o’clock, Floy set the table, and placed upon it a plate of warm cakes which might have pleased the palate of an epicure. It was the best meal the miser had tasted for years, and he could not help confessing it to himself. Floy was gratified at the appetite with which he ate.

Thus matters went on. The presence of the little girl seemed to restore Martin to a part of his former self. He was no longer so grasping and miserly as before. Through little Floy’s ministry, he began to have more of a relish for the comforts of life, and less to grudge the expense necessary to obtain them.

It was not many weeks before he fell sick, in consequence of imprudent exposure to the rain. At first he did not regard it; but a fever set in, and he was confined to his bed.

At the urgent solicitation of Floy, he consented to have a physician called, though not without something of reluctance at the thought of the fee.

Then it was that he began to appreciate more fully the importance of Floy’s services. Ever ready to minister to his wants, no one could wish a more faithful or attentive nurse. As she sat by his bedside in the long days through which his sickness was protracted, busily engaged with her sewing, he would lie for hours, watching the motion of her busy fingers with pleased interest. Occasionally—for he had nothing else to do—his mind would wander back to the scenes of his early manhood, and he would sigh over the recollection of the happiness which might have been his. Then his thoughts would be borne along the dreamy years which had intervened, unlighted by the rays of friendship, and uncheered by the presence of affection. The image of his daughter, whom he had cast off, and of whose after-fate he knew nothing, came up before him, and he could not repel it. A change, a beneficial and salutary change, was rolling over his mind,—the fruit of those long involuntary hours of sickness and self-communing.

On the first day succeeding his recovery, he invited Floy to go out with him. It was an unusual request, and Floy hardly knew what to make of it. She got her bonnet, however (for shawl she had none), and complied. It was a chilly March day, and the thin dress which she had worn from the time of her coming to Kendrick’s was but an ill protection against the weather. She shivered involuntarily.

“You are cold,” said Martin; “but you will not need to go far.”

He led the way into a dry-goods store.

“Have you any warm shawls suitable for a little girl?” he inquired. He selected one, and paid for it. “Show me some dress-patterns,” he continued.

Two different ones were chosen. Martin paid for them.

“Can you direct me,” he inquired, “to any good dressmaker’s?”

The clerk had at first been inclined to laugh at the old man, whose attire, though warmer, was no better looking than Floy’s; but the promptness with which he paid for his purchases, and the glimpse which had in this way been obtained of a well-filled pocket-book, inspired him with a feeling of respect, and he readily complied with his request.

“Now,” said Martin cheerfully to Floy, “we will have you a little better dressed, so that you need not fear the cold.”

“I am sure,” said Floy, gratefully, “that I am much obliged, and I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“You have already,” said the old man with feeling. “I don’t know how I should have got along without you when I was sick.”

“Floy,” said Martin, thoughtfully, as they came out from the dressmaker’s, “although you have been with me for some time, I have never thought to ask your name,—I mean your other name besides Floy.”

“My name is not Floy,” said the child. “They only call me so. My real name is Florence,—Florence Eastman.”

“Florence Eastman!” said the old man, starting back in uncontrollable agitation. “Who was your mother? Tell me quick!”

“Her name,” said the child, somewhat surprised, “was Florence Kendrick.”

“Who was her father?”

“Martin Kendrick.”

“And where is he? Did you ever see him?”

“No,” said Floy, shaking her head. “He was angry with mother for marrying as she did, and would never see any of us.”

“And your mother?” said Martin, striving to be calm. “Is she dead?”

“Yes,” said Floy, sorrowfully. “First, my father died, and we were left very poor. Then mother was obliged to work very hard, sewing; and finally she took a fever, and died, leaving me alone in the world. For a week, I wandered about without a home; but at last you took me in. I don’t know what would have become of me if you had not,” said she, gratefully.

“Floy,” said Martin, looking at her steadfastly, “do you know my name?”

“No,” said Floy. “I have often wondered what it was, but never liked to ask you.”

“Then,” said he, in an agitated tone, “you shall know now. I am Martin Kendrick, your GRANDFATHER!”

Floy was filled with amazement, but, after a moment, threw herself into his arms. “Will you forgive mother?” she asked.

“I will! I have! But, alas! she has much more to forgive me. Would that she were still alive!”

Every day, Martin Kendrick became more alive to the claims of affection. His miserly habits gave way, and he became more considerate in his dealings with his tenants. The old house, in which he lived so many years, was torn down; and he bought a neat cottage just out of the city, where he and Floy live happily together. Floy, who has been sent to school, exhibits uncommon talent, and is fitting for the station she will soon assume as the heiress of her grandfather.

MY CASTLE.

“I have a beautiful castle, With towers and battlements fair; And many a banner, with gay device, Floats in the outer air.

“The walls are of solid silver; The towers are of massive gold; And the lights that stream from the windows A royal scene unfold.

“Ah! could you but enter my castle, With its pomp of regal sheen, You would say that it far surpasses The Palace of Aladeen;—

“Could you but enter as I do, And pace through the vaulted hall, And mark the stately columns, And the pictures on the wall;—

“With the costly gems about them, That send their light afar, With a chaste and softened splendor, Like the light of a distant star!”

“And where is this wonderful castle, With its rich emblazonings, Whose pomp so far surpasses The homes of the greatest kings?”

“Come out with me at morning, And lie in the meadow-grass, And lift your eyes to the ether blue, And you will see it pass.

“There! can you not see the battlements; And the turrets stately and high, Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds, And lost in the arching sky?”

“Dear friend, you are only dreaming; Your castle so stately and fair Is only a fanciful structure,— A castle in the air.”

“Perchance you are right. I know not If a phantom it may be; But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel That it lives, and lives for me;—

“For, when clouds and darkness are round me, And my heart is heavy with care, I steal me away from the noisy crowd, To dwell in my castle fair.

“There are servants to do my bidding; There are servants to heed my call; And I, with a master’s air of pride, May pace through the vaulted hall.

“And I envy not the monarchs With cities under their sway; For am I not, in my own right, A monarch as proud as they?

“What matter, then, if to others My castle a phantom may be, Since I feel, in the depth of my own heart, That it is not so to me?”

MISS HENDERSON’S THANKSGIVING DAY.

Thanksgiving Day dawned clearly and frostily upon the little village of Castleton Hollow. The stage which connected daily with the nearest railroad station (for as yet Castleton Hollow had not arrived at the dignity of one of its own) came fully freighted, both inside and out. There were children and children’s children, who, in the pursuit of fortune, had strayed away from the homes where they first saw the light; but who were now returning, to revive, around the old familiar hearth, the associations and recollections of their early days.

Great were the preparations among the housewives of Castleton Hollow. That must indeed be a poor household which, on this occasion, could not boast its turkey and plum-pudding,—those well-established dishes; not to mention its long rows of pies,—apple, mince, and pumpkin,—wherewith the Thanksgiving board is wont to be garnished.

But it is not of the households generally that I propose to speak. Let the reader accompany me, in imagination, to a rather prim-looking brick mansion, situated on the principal street, but at some distance back, being separated from it by a front yard. Between this yard and the fence ran a prim-looking hedge, of very formal cut, being cropped in the most careful manner, lest one twig should, by chance, have the presumption to grow higher than its kindred. It was a two-story house, containing in each story one room on either side of the front door; making, of course, four in all.

If we go in, we shall find the outward primness well supported by the appearance of things within. In the front parlor—we may peep through the door, but it would be high treason, in the present moistened state of our boots, to step within its sacred precincts—there are six high-backed chairs standing in state, two at each window. One can easily see, from the general arrangement of the furniture, that from romping children, unceremonious kittens, and unhallowed intruders generally, this room is most sacredly guarded.

Without speaking particularly of the other rooms,—which, though not furnished in so stately a manner, bear a family resemblance to “the best room,”—we will usher the reader into the opposite room, where he will find the owner and occupant of this prim-looking residence.

Courteous reader! Miss Hetty Henderson. Miss Hetty Henderson, let me make you acquainted with this lady (or gentleman), who is desirous of knowing you better.

Miss Hetty Henderson, with whom the reader has just passed through the ceremony of introduction, is a maiden of some thirty-five summers, attired in a sober-looking dress of irreproachable neatness, but most formal cut. She is the only occupant of the house, of which, likewise, she is proprietor. Her father, who was the village physician, died some ten years since; leaving to Hetty,—or perhaps I should give her full name, Henrietta,—his only child, the house in which he lived, and some four thousand dollars in bank-stock, on the income of which she lived very comfortably.

Somehow, Miss Hetty had never married; though, such is the mercenary nature of man, the rumor of her inheritance brought to her feet several suitors. But Miss Hetty had resolved never to marry,—at least, this was her invariable answer to matrimonial offers; and so, after a time, it came to be understood that she was fixed for life,—an old maid. What reasons impelled her to this course were not known; but possibly the reader will be furnished with a clew before he finishes this narrative.

Meanwhile, the invariable effect of a single and solitary life combined attended Hetty. She grew precise, prim, and methodical, to a painful degree. It would have been quite a relief if one could have detected a stray thread even upon her well-swept carpet; but such was never the case.

On this particular day,—this Thanksgiving Day of which we are speaking,—Miss Hetty had completed her culinary preparations; that is, she had stuffed her turkey and put it in the oven, and kneaded her pudding; for, though she knew that but one would be present at the dinner, her conscience would scarcely have acquitted her if she had not made all the preparations to which she had been accustomed on such occasions.

This done, she sat down to her knitting; casting a glance every now and then at the oven, to make sure that all was going on well. It was a quiet morning; and Miss Hetty’s thoughts kept time to the clicking of her knitting-needles.

“After all,” thought she, “it’s rather solitary taking dinner alone, and that on Thanksgiving Day. I remember, a long time ago, when my father and my brothers and sisters were living, what a merry time we used to have round the table. But they are all dead; and I—I alone—am left.”

Miss Hetty sighed; but, after a while, the recollections of those old times returned. She tried to shake them off; but they had a fascination about them, after all, and would not go at her bidding.

“There used to be another there,” thought she,—“Nick Anderson. He too, I fear, is dead.”

Hetty heaved a thoughtful sigh, and a faint color came into her cheeks. She had reason. This Nicholas Anderson had been a medical student, apprenticed to her father; or rather placed with him, to be prepared for his profession. He was perhaps a year older than Hetty, and had regarded her with more than ordinary warmth of affection. He had, in fact, proposed to her, and had been conditionally accepted on a year’s probation. The trouble was, he was a little disposed to be wild, and, being naturally of a lively and careless temperament, did not exercise sufficient discrimination in the choice of his associates. Hetty had loved him as warmly as one of her nature could love. She was not one who would be drawn away beyond the dictates of reason and judgment by the force of affection. Still, it was not without a feeling of deep sorrow,—deeper than her calm manner led him to suspect,—that, at the end of the year’s probation, she informed Anderson that the result of his trial was not favorable to his suit, and that henceforth he must give up all thoughts of her.

To his vehement asseverations, promises, and protestations, she returned the same steady and inflexible answer; and, at the close of the interview, he left her, quite as full of indignation against her as of grief for his rejection.

That night, his clothing was packed up, and lowered from the window; and, when the next morning dawned, it was found that he had left the house, never, as was intimated in a slight note pencilled and left on the table in his room, to return again.

* * * * *

While Miss Henderson’s mind was far back in the past, she had not observed the approach of a man, shabbily attired, accompanied by a little girl apparently some eight years of age. The man’s face bore the impress of many cares and hardships. The little girl was of delicate appearance; and an occasional shiver showed that her garments were too thin to protect her sufficiently from the inclemency of the weather.

“This is the place, Henrietta,” said the traveller at length, pausing at the head of the gravelled walk which led up to the front door of the prim-looking brick house.

Together they entered; and a moment afterwards, just as Miss Hetty was preparing to lay the cloth for dinner, a knock sounded through the house.

“Goodness!” said Miss Hetty, fluttered. “Who can it be that wants to see me at this hour?”

Smoothing down her apron, and giving a look at the glass to make sure that her hair was in order, she hastened to the door.

“Will it be asking too much, madam, to request a seat by your fire for myself and little girl for a few moments? It is very cold.”

Miss Hetty could feel that it _was_ cold. Somehow, too, the appealing expression of the little girl’s face touched her. So she threw the door wide open, and bade them enter.

Miss Hetty went on preparing the table for dinner. A most delightful odor issued from the oven; one door of which was open, lest the turkey should overdo. Miss Hetty could not help observing the wistful glance cast by the little girl towards the tempting dish as she placed it on the table.

“Poor little creature!” thought she. “I suppose it is a long time since she has had a good dinner.”

Then the thought struck her, “Here I am alone to eat all this. There is quite enough for half a dozen. How much these poor people would relish it!”

By this time the table was arranged.

“Sir,” said she, turning to the traveller, “you look as if you were hungry as well as cold. If you and your little daughter would like to sit up, I should be happy to have you.”

“Thank you, madam!” was the grateful reply. “We are hungry, and shall be much indebted to your kindness.”

It was rather a novel situation for Miss Hetty,—sitting at the head of the table, dispensing food to others beside herself. There was something rather agreeable about it.

“Will you have some of the dressing, little girl? I have to call you that; for I don’t know your name,” she added, in an inquiring tone.

“Her name is Henrietta; but I generally call her Hetty,” said the traveller.

“What!” said Miss Hetty, dropping the spoon in surprise.

“She was named after a very dear friend of mine,” said he, sighing.

“May I ask,” said Miss Hetty, with excusable curiosity, “the name of this friend? I begin to feel quite an interest in your little girl,” she added, half apologetically.

“Her name is Henrietta Henderson,” said the stranger.

“Why, that is my name!” ejaculated Miss Hetty.

“And she was named after you,” said the stranger, composedly.

“Why, who in the world are you?” she asked, her heart beginning to beat unwontedly fast.

“Then you don’t remember me?” said he, rising, and looking steadily at Miss Hetty. “Yet you knew me well in bygone days,—none better. At one time, it was thought you would join your destiny to mine——”

“Nick Anderson!” said Miss Hetty, rising in confusion.

“You are right. You rejected me because you did not feel secure of my principles. The next day, in despair at your refusal, I left the house, and, ere forty-eight hours had passed, was on my way to India. I had not formed the design of going to India in particular; but, in my then state of mind, I cared not whither I went. One resolution I formed,—that I would prove by my conduct that your apprehensions were ill founded. I got into a profitable business. In time, I married; not that I had forgotten you, but that I was solitary, and needed companionship. I had ceased to hope for yours. By and by, a daughter was born. True to my old love, I named her Hetty, and pleased myself with the thought that she bore some resemblance to you. Afterwards my wife died; misfortunes came upon me; and I found myself deprived of all my property. Then came yearnings for my native soil. I have returned (as you see), not as I departed, but poor and care-worn.”

While Nicholas was speaking, Miss Hetty’s mind was filled with conflicting emotions. At length, extending her hand frankly, she said,—

“I feel that I was too hasty, Nicholas. I should have tried you longer. But, at least, I may repair my injustice. I have enough for us all. You shall come and live with me.”

“I can only accept your generous offer on one condition,” said Nicholas.

“And what is that?”

“That you will be my wife!”

A vivid blush came over Miss Hetty’s countenance. She “couldn’t think of such a thing,” she said. Nevertheless, an hour afterwards the two united lovers had fixed upon the marriage-day.

* * * * *

The house does not look so prim as it used to do. The yard is redolent with many fragrant flowers. The front door is half open, revealing a little girl playing with a kitten.

“Hetty,” says a matronly lady, “you have got the ball of yarn all over the floor. What would your father say if he should see it?”

“Never mind, mother; it was only kitty that did it.”

Marriage has filled up a void in the heart of Miss Hetty. Though not so prim, or perhaps careful, as she used to be, she is a good deal happier. Three hearts are filled with thankfulness at every return of MISS HENDERSON’S THANKSGIVING DAY.

LITTLE CHARLIE.

A violet grew by the river-side, And gladdened all hearts with its bloom; While over the fields, on the scented air, It breathed a rich perfume. But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky, And its portals were opened wide; And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side.

Not far away, in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy. He wandered one day to the river’s verge, With no one near to save; And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave.

The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy; For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy. The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door: We heed them not; for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more.

We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart, that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there. We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door; But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,— We shall never hear them more!

We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours; We will speak his name in a softened voice, And cover his grave with flowers; We will think of him in his heavenly home,— His heavenly home so fair; And we will trust with a hopeful trust That we shall meet him there.

BERTHA’S CHRISTMAS VISION.

It was the night before Christmas. Snow was falling without; and the wind dashed the cold flakes, in eddying whirls, into the faces of those wayfarers whom business or pleasure kept out thus late. They drew their warm garments more closely about them, and hurried onward; little heeding the pelting of the storm while the vision of a cheerful hearth and a merry family circle danced before their eyes and warmed their hearts. Merry St. Nicholas, too, the patron saint of children, was abroad. It was a busy night with him. Thousands of parcels must be made up, and showered down as many chimneys into expectant stockings, before the morrow’s dawn. So he gives the reins to his coursers, and speeds swiftly along,—

“through forest and brake; Through deep, drifting snow; over river and lake; Over hill, over dale, where the keen northern blast, With fierce, angry moaning, drives fearfully past.”