Chapter 12

FLORA IN SEARCH OF A SERVANT HEARS A REAL GHOST STORY.

Lyndsay had charged Flora, during his absence, to inquire for a female servant, to accompany them to Canada, and take care of the baby during the voyage. Flora was very reluctant to obey this command, though she knew that it was entirely on her account that the request was made. Her health was still very bad, and her kind husband was anxious to spare her any additional fatigue and trouble. She much doubted, however, whether another added to their party would not rather increase than diminish her anxiety, and she begged hard to be allowed to do without. To this proposition Lyndsay would not listen for a moment.

"The thing is impossible, Flora," said he, very impetuously, "you cannot do without; you are not able to nurse the child. I must insist upon your hiring a woman immediately."

Flora sighed. "There will be plenty of women in the steerage of any emigrant vessel, who for the sake of a few dollars would gladly render me all the assistance I require."

"You must not trust to such contingencies."

"But, husband dear, consider the great additional expense," she said, coaxingly.

"Nonsense!--that is my affair."

"I should like to have my own way in this matter," said Flora, leaning her hand upon his shoulder, and trying to win him into compliance by sundry little caresses. "I know, John, that I am in the right."

"And those who love you, Flora, and wish to spare you fatigue and discomfort, are in the wrong. Is it not so?"

This last speech silenced his wife, but did not convince her that she was wrong. Flora, as my readers must long ago have discovered, was no heroine of romance, but a veritable human creature, subject to all the faults and weaknesses incidental to her sex. She wished to have her own way, and was ready to cry that she could not get it. Yet, had her advice been acted upon, she would have been spared a great deal of sorrow and mortification, which greatly embittered the first months of her sojourn in a foreign land.

Persons emigrating to Canada cannot be guilty of a greater blunder than that of taking out servants with them, which is sure to end in loss and disappointment; for they no sooner set foot upon the North American shores, than they suddenly become possessed with an _ultra republican_ spirit. The chrysalis has burst its dingy shell; they are no longer caterpillars, but gay butterflies, prepared to bask in the sun-blaze of popular rights. Ask such a domestic to blacken your shoes, clean a knife, or fetch a pail of water from the well at the door, and ten to one she will turn upon you as fierce as a lioness, and bid you do it yourself. If you are so imprudent as to insist on being obeyed, she will tell you to hire another in her place; she is sure of twenty situations as good as yours, to-morrow.

She is right in her assertion. Her insolent rejection of your commands would not stand at all in her way of procuring a new place. And although cleaning a lady's shoes, and bringing in a pail of water, or an armful of wood, is by no means such disgusting employment as scouring greasy pots and scrubbing the floors, she has been told that the former is degrading work not fit for a woman, and she is now in a free country, and will not submit to degradation.

The mistress, who in England was termed the _dear lady_, now degenerates into the _woman_, while persons in their own class, and even beggars seeking for alms are addressed as Ma'am and Sir. How particular they are in enforcing these titles from one another; how persevering in depriving their employers of any term of respect! One would imagine that they not only considered themselves on an equality, but that ignorance and vulgarity made them vastly superior. It is highly amusing to watch from a distance these self-made ladies and gentlemen sporting their borrowed plumes.

Some years after she had been settled in Canada, Flora picked up a note which had been thrown out as waste paper, and which was addressed to the father of a very dirty, dishonest girl, whom she had dismissed from her service for sundry petty frauds, a few weeks before. It was addressed to Edward Brady, Esqre., and ran as follows:--

"Honoured Sir,

"The company of _self_ and _lady_, is respectfully solicited at a _contribution_ ball, to be given next Thursday evening, at the Three King's Inn. Dancing to commence at eight o'clock precisely.

Stewards {Patrick Malone, Esq. {John Carroll, Esq."

All the parties herein named were persons of the very lowest class; and the titles thus pompously bestowed upon themselves, rendered the whole affair exquisitely ridiculous. At a _contribution_ ball, each person brings a share of the entertainment. Flora's maid had stolen a large quantity of sugar for her part of the feast, and was discovered in the act.

In compliance with Lyndsay's request, Flora now set diligently to work to inquire for a girl willing to emigrate with them to Canada, in the capacity of nurse to her baby. She had scarcely made her wishes public, before the cottage was beset with matrons, widows and maids, both old and young, all anxious to take a trip across the water, and try their fortunes in Canada.

The first person who presented herself as a candidate for emigration, was a coarse, fat, she-clown, with huge red fists and cheeks, "as broad and as red as a pulpit cushion." On being shown into Flora's little parlour, she stood staring at her with her arms stuck in her sides, and her wide mouth distended from ear to ear, with a grin so truly uncouth and comic, that Mrs. Lyndsay could scarcely restrain her laughter; with a downward jerk of her broad shapeless person, meant for a curtsy, she burst out in a rude vulgar voice,

"He'eard, Marm, yah wanted a gurl to go with yah to Cannadah."

"I do. Who sent you up to me?"

"Whao sent oie up? Oie sent up moisel."

"What is your name?"

"Moi neame? Is't moi neame yah wants to knowah? Wall, moi neame is Sare Ann Pack; feather warks at Measter Turners."

"Have you ever worked out, or been used to take care of children?"

"Why yees, oie 'spect oie ha'. Moother has ten on 'em. Oie be the oldest on'em. Oi've had nursing enoof, an' wants to get quit on it."

"I am afraid, Sarah, you will not suit me."

"How dew yah noa, Marm, till yah tries?"

"You are very slatternly, and I wanted a clean, tidy, active girl to nurse my baby."

"Sure moi cloes is clane enoof, and good enoof, for to live amongst the sadvidges?"

"You'll be put to no such trial," said Flora laughing, in spite of herself, "without you reckon me and my husband sadvadges. Can you wash and iron?"

"Noa. But 'spose oie cud larn."

"What work can you do?"

"'Spect anything yah sets oie to. Oie can make doomplings, milk cows, and keep the pot a bilin'."

"And what wages do you expect for such services?"

"Is it to goor to Cannadah? Oh, oie 'spects tree punds o' month for the loike o' that."

"You must stay at home then, my good girl, and boil the dumplings," said Flora. "Indeed, I cannot imagine what induced you to come up here to offer me your services. You literally can do nothing, for which you expect exorbitant wages. Why do you wish to leave your friends, to go out with strangers to Canada?"

"That's moi consarn," said the girl, with one of her gigantic expansions of mouth. "Oie he'eard 'twas a mortal good place for maids getting married. Husbands are scearce here, so oise thought, oise might as well try moi chance as the rest o'un. Won't yah take oie?" Flora shook her head.

The girl twirled the strings of her checked apron, "Mayhap, yah won't get anoder so willin' to go, as I'se be."

"Perhaps not. But I want a person of some experience--one who has been used to service, and could bring a good character from her last employer."

"Karaktah! Karaktah!" said the girl contemptuously. "What need of a karaktah in such a place as Cannadah? Folk a' go there need na karaktah, or they might jeest as well bide to whome."

This last declaration settled the matter, and Flora, not without some difficulty, got rid of the promising candidate for matrimony and emigration. Her place was instantly supplied by a tall, hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who had been impatiently waiting for Miss Pack's dismissal, in the kitchen, and who now rushed upon the scene, followed by three rude children, from six to ten years of age, a girl, and two impudent-looking boys, who ranged themselves in front of Mrs. Lyndsay, with open mouths, and eyes distended with eager curiosity, in order to attract her observation, and indulge themselves in a downright stare.

"Well, my good woman, and what is your business with me?" said Flora, not at all prepossessed by any of the group.

"Are you the mistress?" asked the woman, dropping a curtsy.

Flora answered in the affirmative.

"My business is to go to Canady; but I have not the means. I am a poor widow; my husband died of the fever three years ago, and left me with these children to drag along the best way I could. We have had hard times, I can tell you, Ma'am, and I should be main glad to better my condition, which I think I might do, if I could get out to Canady. I heard that you wanted a nurse for your baby during the voyage, and I should be glad to engage with you, if we can agree as to the terms."

"What are your terms?"

"For you, Ma'am, to pay the passage of me and the three children over, and I to attend upon you and the child."

"But, my good woman, I have only one little child for you to take charge of, and you cannot expect me, for the trifling services that you could render, to pay your passage over, and that of your family?"

"Sure, you might be glad of the chance," said the sturdy dame. "It is not everybody that would take service with you to go there. I should not trouble you longer than the voyage. I have friends of my own at Montreal, who have written for me to come out to them; and so I would long ago, if I had had the means."

"If they want you, they may pay your passage," said Flora, disgusted with the selfishness of her new acquaintance. "It would be less trouble to me to nurse my own child, than incur the responsibility of three that did not belong to me."

The woman collected her young barbarians from the different quarters of the room, where they were reconnoitring the attractions of the place, and withdrew with a scowl; and Flora's nurse, Mrs. Clarke, shortly after entered the room, with little Josephine in her arms.

"Well, nurse," said Flora, giving way to a hearty laugh, "did you see those queer people, who want me to take them out as a venture to Canada?"

"A losing speculation that would be, if we may judge by looks and manners," said the old lady; "but, indeed, Mrs. Lyndsay, it will be no easy matter to find just what you want. It is not every one to whom I would trust the dear baby."

Then sitting down in the nursing chair, and hushing Josey on her knee, she continued, "I have been thinking of you and the child a great deal since I heard you were bent on going to Canada; and if you think that I could be of any service to you, I would go with you, myself. I ask no wages--nothing of you, beyond a home for my old age."

Mrs. Clarke was a kind, amiable, good woman, but very feeble, nervous, and sickly, and very little qualified for the arduous and fatiguing life she had chosen.

"My dear nurse," said Flora, clasping her hand in her own, "I should only be too happy to have you. But you are old, and in delicate health; the climate would kill you; I much doubt whether you could stand the voyage. I cannot be so selfish as to take you from your home and friends at your time of life. But take off your hat and shawl, and we will talk the matter over."

The old woman laid the now sleeping babe in the cradle, and resumed her seat with a sigh.

"It is this want of a home which makes me anxious to go with you. It is hard to be dependent upon the caprice of brothers, in one's old age. Thirty years ago and life wore for me a very different aspect."

"Nurse," said Flora, who was very fond of the good old body, who had attended her with the greatest care and tenderness, through a long and dangerous illness; "how comes it that such a pretty woman as you must have been did not marry in your youth? I can scarcely imagine that nature ever meant you for an old maid."

"Nature never made any woman to be an old maid," said Nurse; "God does nothing in vain. Women were sent into the world to be wives and mothers; and there are very few who don't entertain the hope of being so at some period of their lives. I should not be the forlorn, desolate creature I am to-day, if I had had a snug home, and a good husband to make the fireside cheery, and children together about my knees, and make me feel young again, while listening to their simple prattle.

"I thought to have been a happy wife once," continued Nurse, sadly; "a heavy calamity that broke another heart besides mine, laid all my hopes in the dust, and banished from my mind the idea of marriage for ever. Did I never tell you the story, Ma'am? A few words will often contain the history of events that embittered a whole life. Whilst I am hemming this little pinafore for Miss Josey, I will tell you the tale of my early grief.

"My father was a native of this town, and captain of a small vessel employed in the coal-trade, which plied constantly between this port and Newcastle and Shields. He owned most of the shares in her, was reckoned an excellent sailor, and was so fortunate as to have escaped the usual dangers attendant upon the coast trade, never having been wrecked in his life,--which circumstance had won for him the nickname of 'Lucky Billy,' by which he was generally known in all the seaport towns along the coast.

"I was the eldest of a large family, and the only girl. My mother died when I was fourteen years of age, and all the cares of the household early devolved upon me; my father was very fond of me, and so proud of my good looks, that his ship was christened the _Pretty Betsy_, in honour of me.

"Father not only earned a comfortable living, but saved enough to build those two neat stone cottages on the East-cliff. We lived in the one which my brother now occupies; the other, which is divided from it by a narrow alley, into which the back doors of both open, was rented for many years by the widow of a revenue officer and her two sons.

"Mrs. Arthur's husband had been killed in a fray with the smugglers, and she enjoyed a small Government pension, which enabled her to bring up her boys decently, and maintain a respectable appearance. My father tried his best to induce Mrs. Arthur to be his second wife, but she steadily refused his offer, though the family continued to live on terms of the strictest friendship.

"Mrs. Arthur's sons, John and David, were the handsomest and cleverest lads of their class, between this and the port of Y----. They both followed the sea, and after serving their apprenticeships with my father, John got the command of the _Nancy_, a new vessel that was employed in the merchant trade, and made short voyages between this and London. David, who was two years younger, sailed with his brother as mate of the _Nancy_.

"David and I had been sweethearts from our school-days,--from a child in frocks and trowsers, he had always called me 'his dear little wife.' Time only strengthened our attachment to each other, and my father and his mother were well-pleased with the match. It was settled by all parties, that we were to be married directly David could get captain of a ship.

"Mrs. Arthur was very proud of her sons; but David, who was by far the handsomest of the two, was her especial favourite. I never saw the young sailor leave the house without kissing his mother, or return from a voyage without bringing her a present. I used to tell him, 'There was only one person he loved better than me, and that was his mother;' and he would laugh, and say,--'Not better, Betsy,--but 'tis a different love altogether.'

"I must confess I was rather jealous of his mother. I did not wish him to love her less, but to love me more. Whenever he left us for sea, he used to tell me the very last thing--'Show your love to me, dear Betsy, by being kind to my dear old mother. When you are my wife, I will repay it with interest.'

"During his absence, I always went every day to see Mrs. Arthur, and to render her any little service in my power. She was very fond of me, always calling me 'her little daughter,--her own dear Betsy.' Her conversation was always about her sons, and David in particular, which rendered these visits very agreeable to me, who loved David better than anything else under heaven. He was never out of my thoughts, I worshipped him so completely.

"It was the latter end of February that the Arthurs made their last voyage together. David was to sail as captain, in a fine merchant-ship, the first of May; and everything had been arranged for our marriage, which was to take place the tenth of April; and I was to make a bridal tour to London with my husband in the new ship. I was wild with anticipation and delight, and would let my work drop from my hands twenty times a-day, while building castles for the future. No other girl's husband would be able to rival my husband; no home could be as happy as my home; no bride so well beloved as me.

"It was the twentieth of March, 18--; I recollect it as well as if it were only yesterday. The day was bright, clear, and cold, with high winds and a very stormy sea. The _Nancy_ had been expected to make her port all that week, and Mrs. Arthur was very uneasy at her delay. She was never happy or contented when her sons were at sea, but in a constant fidget of anxiety and fear. She did not like both sailing in the same vessel. 'It is too much,' she would say--'the safety of two lives out of one family--to be trusted to one keel.' This morning she was more fretful and nervous than usual.

"'What can these foolish boys be thinking of, Betsy, to delay their voyage in this way? They will in all probability be caught in the equinoctial gales. David promised me faithfully to be back before the eighteenth. Dear me! how the wind blows! The very sound of it is enough to chill one's heart. What a stormy sea! I hope they will not sail till the day after to-morrow.'

"Now, I felt a certain conviction in my own mind that they had sailed, and were at that moment on the sea; but, I must confess, I apprehended no danger. It might be that her fears hindered me from indulging fears of my own.

"'Don't alarm yourself needlessly, dear Mother,' said I, kissing her cold, pale cheek. 'The _Nancy_ is a new ship,--the lads brave, experienced sailors. There is not the least cause for uneasiness. They have weathered far worse gales before now. They have, father says, the wind and tide in their favour. It is moonlight now o' nights; and I hope we shall see them merry and well before morning.'

"'God grant you may be right, Betsy! A mother's heart is a hot-bed of anxiety. Mine feels as heavy as lead. My dreams, too, were none of the brightest. I thought I was tossing in an open boat, in just such a stormy sea all night; and was constantly calling on David to save me from drowning; and I awoke shrieking, and struggling with the great billows that were dragging me down.'

"'Who cares for dreams?' I said. Hers, I would have it, was one of good omen; for though she fought with the storm all night, she was not drowned. So it would be with the lads: they might encounter a gale, and get a severe buffeting, but would arrive safe at last.

"'I wish it may be so,' she said, with a sigh. 'But I felt just the same sinking at the heart the night my husband was killed, when there appeared no cause for uneasiness.'

"I remained all day with the old lady, trying to raise her spirits. She paid very little attention to all my lively chat; but would stand for hours at her back-window, that commanded a view of the bay, gazing at the sea. The huge breakers came rolling and toiling to the shore, filling the air with their hoarse din. A vessel hove in sight, running under close-reefed topsails, and made signals for a pilot.

"'Ah!' I exclaimed joyfully; 'that is Captain Penny's old ship, _Molly_. If she has rode out the gale, you may dismiss your fears about the _Nancy_. They have launched the pilot-boat. See how she dances like a feather on the waves! Why, Mother dear,' I cried, turning to Mrs. Arthur, who was watching the boat, with the large tears trickling down her cheeks, 'is it not weak, almost wicked of you, to doubt God's providence in this way?'

"'Ah! how I wish it were their vessel,' she sobbed.

"'Captain Penny's wife and children would not thank you for that wish,' said I. 'How glad I am that the good old man is safe!'

"The day wore away. A long day for us both. The gale did not increase, and Mrs. Arthur at last began to listen to reason. The moon rose high and bright; and after seeing the old lady to her bed, I went home to give my father and the boys their supper.

"I found father very cross for having waited so long. 'What the devil, Betsy!' cried he, 'kept you so late? The lads and I have been starving for the last hour. When girls get sweethearts they can think of nothing else.'

"'Mrs. Arthur felt anxious about her sons, and I stayed with her.'

"'What's the old fool afraid of? This cupful of wind, Penny's old _Molly_ rode it out bravely. He told me he left the Arthurs in the river. He thought they would be in by daybreak. Come, be quick, girl. As I am to lose you so soon, I would make the most of you while you belong to me.'

"His cheerful, hearty manner helped to raise my spirits, which had been depressed by Mrs. Arthur's fretful anticipations of evil. I bustled hither and thither, laughed and sung, and cooked father's mess of fresh fish so much to his satisfaction, that he declared I should make a jewel of a wife, and that he had not made up his mind whether he would part with such a good cook. Without he married again, he was afraid he would not get such another.

"'You must be quick then,' said I, 'or you will not have me for your bridesmaid. I give you just three weeks for the courtship, for I shan't remain single one day longer to cook the wedding dinner for you.'

"'You are saucy,' said he, filling his pipe. 'Davy will have to take the helm himself, if he would keep you on the right tack. Clear the decks now, and be off to your bed. If the gale lulls, I shall sail early in the morning.'

"I removed the supper-things, and before I lighted my candle, lingered for a few minutes at the back window, to take a last view of the sea. It was a stormy but very beautiful night. The heavens were without a cloud. The full moon cast broken gleams of silver upon the restless, tossing waters, which scattered them into a thousand fragments of dazzling brightness, as the heavy surf rolled in thunder against the beach.

"'Has the gale freshened, father?' said I, anxiously.

"'Not a bit of it. Say your prayers, Betsy, and trust in Providence. Your lover is as safe in his good ship to-night, as in his bed at home.'

"He pulled me on to his knee, and kissed me, and I went up to bed with a lighter heart.

"A few minutes later I was fast asleep. I don't know how long this sleep lasted, but I awoke with hearing David Arthur calling beneath my window. His mother's window and mine both fronted the cliff, and were in a line with each other. 'Thank God! David is safe!' I cried, as I sprang joyfully from my bed, and threw open the casement.

"There he was sure enough, standing in the moonlight, directly beneath the window. His norwester flung far back on his head, his yellow curls hanging in wet masses on his shoulders, and his clothes dripping with the salt spray. The moon shone forth on his upturned face. He looked very pale and cold, and his eyes were fixed intently upon his mother's chamber-window. Before I could speak, he cried out in his rich, manly tones--

"'Mother, dearest mother, I am come home to you. Open the door, and let me in!'

"'Stay, Davy, darling--stay one moment, and I will let you in. Your mother's asleep; but I can open the back-door with my key. Oh! I'm so happy, so thankful, that you are safe.'

"I threw my clothes on as fast as I could, but my hands trembled so from excitement, that I could scarcely fasten a string. A cold chill was creeping through my whole frame, and, in spite of the joy I felt, I involuntarily burst into tears. Dashing away the unwelcome drops with the back of my hand, I bounded down the stairs, unlocked the back-door that led into the alley, and in another moment stood alone on the cliff.

"'David, where are you?' I cried. But no David was there. I glanced all round the wide, open space: not an object was moving over its surface. A deep stillness reigned all around, only interrupted by the solemn thunder of the waters, whose hollow surging against the shore rendered the solitude of the midnight hour more profound.

"Again I felt those cold chills steal through me--again the unbidden tears streamed down my cheeks.

"'What can have become of him?' said I, quite bewildered with surprise and fear; 'he must have got in at the back window!--I will go to his mother--I shall find him with her!'

"The key I held in my hand fitted both locks: I went into Mrs. Arthur's, lighted the candle that I had left on her kitchen dresser, and went up to her chamber. She started up in the bed as I opened the door.

"'Good God! Betsy,' she cried, 'is that you? I thought I heard David call me.'

"'And so he did,' I said; 'he came under the window just now, and called to you to let him in. I told him to wait till I could dress myself, and I would come down and open the door. Is he not here?'

"'No,' said his mother, her face turning as white as her cap; 'you must have been dreaming.'

"'Dreaming!' said I, rather indignantly; 'you need not try to persuade me out of my senses--I saw him with my own eyes!--heard him with my own ears! and spoke to him! What else will convince you? He has gone back to the ship for John--I will breeze up the fire, put on the kettle, and get something cooked for their supper. After buffeting about in this storm, they will be cold and hungry.'

"Mrs. Arthur soon joined me. She could not believe that I had spoken to David, though she fancied that she had heard him herself, and was in a fever of anxiety, pacing to and fro the kitchen floor, and opening the door every minute to look out. I felt almost provoked by her want of faith.

"'If the ship were in,' she muttered, 'he would have been in long ago, to tell me that all was safe. He knows how uneasy I always am when he and his brother are away. Betsy must have been deceived!'

"'Mother, dear--indeed, what I tell you is true!'

"And I repeated to her for the twentieth time, perhaps, what David had said, and described his appearance.

"Hour after hour passed away, but no well-known footstep, or dearly loved voice, disturbed our lonely vigil. The kettle simmered drowsily on the hob; Mrs. Arthur, tired out with impatient fretting at her son's delay, had thrown her apron over her head, and was sobbing bitterly. I began to feel alarmed; a strange fear seemed growing upon my heart, which almost led me to doubt the evidence of my senses--to fancy, in fact, that what I had seen might have been a dream. But, was I not there, wide awake? Had not his mother heard him speak as well as me? though her half-waking state had rendered the matter less distinct than it had been to me? I was not going to be reasoned out of my sanity in that way, because he did not choose to wait until I came down to open the door--which I thought rather unkind, when he must be well aware, that my anxiety for his safety must quite equal that of his mother.

"The red beams of the rising sun were tinging the white foam of the billows with a flush of crimson. The gale had lulled; and I knew that my father's vessel sailed with the tide. I started from my seat, Mrs. Arthur languidly raised her head--

"'My dear Betsy, will you just run across the cliff to the look-out house, and ask the sailors there if the _Nancy_ came in last night? I cannot bear this suspense much longer.'

"'I might have thought of that before,' I said; and, without waiting for hat or shawl, I ran with breathless speed to the nearest station.

"I found one old sailor kneeling upon the bench, looking intently through his telescope at some object at sea. My eyes followed the direction of the glass, and I saw distinctly, about two miles beyond the east cliff, a vessel lying dismasted upon the reef, with the sea breaking continually over her.

"'What vessel is that, Ned Jones?' said I.

"'It's the _Nancy_,' he replied, without taking his eye from the glass. 'I know her by the white stripe along her black hull. She's a perfect wreck, and both the brave lads are drowned.'

"'When did this happen?' I shrieked, shaking him frantically by the arm.

"'She struck upon the reef at half-past one this morning. Our lads got the boat off, but too late to save the crew.'

"'Good God!' I cried, reeling back, as if struck with a bolt of ice; and the same deadly cold shiver ran through me. 'It was his ghost, then, I saw.'[B]

[B] I have told this story exactly as it was told to me by Flora's nurse. The reader must judge how far the young girl's imagination may have deceived her. Whether as a dream, or a reality, I have no doubt of the truth of her tale.

"I don't know how I got back to Mrs. Arthur. I never knew. Or, whether it was from me she learned the terrible tidings of the death of her sons. I fell into a brain fever, and when I recovered my senses, Mrs. Arthur had been in her grave for some weeks.

"In thinking over the events of that fearful night, the recollection which pained me most was, that David's last thought had been for his mother,--that during his death-struggle, she was dearer to him than me. It haunted me for years. At times it haunts me still. Whenever the wind blows a gale, and the moon shines clear and cold, I fancy I can see him standing below my window, in his dripping garments, and that sad pale face turned towards his mother's casement; and I hear him call out, in the rich, mellow voice I loved so well,--'Mother, dearest mother, I have come home to you. Open the door and let me in!'"

"It was a dream, Nurse," said Flora.

"But supposing, Mrs. Lyndsay, that it was a dream. Is it less strange that such a dream should occur at the very moment, perhaps, that he was drowned; and that his mother should fancy she heard him speak as well as I?"

"True," said Flora, "the mystery remains the same, and, for my own part, I never could get rid of a startling reality; because some people choose to call it a mere coincidence. My faith embraces the spirit of the fact, and disclaims the coincidence, though after all, the coincidence is the best proof of the fact."

"This event," continued Nurse, "cast a shadow over my life, which no after sunshine ever dispelled. I never loved again, and gave up all thoughts of getting married from that hour. Perhaps I was wrong, for I refused several worthy men, who would have given me a comfortable home; and I should not now, at my time of life, have to go out nursing, or be dependent upon a cross brother, for the shelter of a roof. If you will take me to Canada with you, I only ask in return a home in my old age."

Flora was delighted with the project, but on writing about it to her husband, she found him unwilling to take out a feeble old woman, who was very likely to die on the voyage; and Flora, with reluctance, declined the good woman's offer.

It happened very unfortunately for Flora, that her mother had in her employment a girl, whose pretty feminine face and easy pliable manners, had rendered her a great favourite in the family. Whenever Flora visited the Hall, Hannah had taken charge of the baby, on whom she lavished the most endearing epithets and caresses.

This girl had formed an imprudent intimacy with a farm servant in the neighbourhood, which had ended in her seduction. Her situation rendered marriage a matter of necessity. In this arrangement of the matter, it required both parties should agree; and the man, who doubtless knew more of the girl's real character than her benevolent mistress, flatly refused to make her his wife. Hannah, in an agony of rage and contrition, had confided her situation to her mistress; and implored her not to turn her from her doors, or she would end her misery in self-destruction.

"She had no home," she said, "in the wide world--and she dared not return to her aunt, who was the only friend she had; and who, under existing circumstances, she well knew, would never afford her the shelter of her roof."

Simple as this girl appeared, she knew well how to act her part; and so won upon the compassion of Mrs. W----, that she was determined, if possible, to save her from ruin. Finding that Mrs. Lyndsay had failed in obtaining a servant, she applied to her on Hannah's behalf, and requested, as a favour, that she would take the forlorn creature with her to Canada.

Flora at first rejected the proposal in disgust: in spite of Mrs. W----'s high recommendation, there was something about the woman she did not like; and much as she was inclined to pity her, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of making her the companion of her voyage. She could not convince herself that Hannah was worthy of the sympathy manifested on her behalf. A certain fawning, servility of manner, led her to imagine that she was deceitful; and she was reluctant to entail upon herself the trouble and responsibility which must arise from her situation, and the scandal it might involve. But her objections were borne down by Mrs. W----'s earnest entreaties, to save, if possible, a fellow creature from ruin.

The false notions formed by most persons in England of the state of society in Canada, made Mrs. W---- reject, as mere bugbears, all Flora's fears as to the future consequences which might arise from her taking such a hazardous step. What had she to fear from ill-natured gossip in a barbarous country, so thinly peopled, that settlers seldom resided within a day's journey of each other. If the girl was wise enough to keep her own secret, who would take the trouble to find it out? Children were a blessing in such a wilderness; and Hannah's child, brought up in the family, would be very little additional expense and trouble, and might prove a most attached and grateful servant, forming a lasting tie of mutual benefit between the mother and her benefactress. The mother was an excellent worker, and, until this misfortune happened, a good and faithful girl. She was _weak_, to be sure; but then (what a fatal mistake) the more easily managed. Mrs. W----was certain that Flora would find her a perfect treasure.

All this sounded very plausible in theory, and savoured of romance. Flora found it in the end a dismal reality. She consented to receive the girl as her servant, who was overjoyed at the change in her prospects; declaring that she never could do enough for Mrs. Lyndsay, for snatching her from a life of disgrace and infamy. And so little Josey was provided with a nurse, and Flora with a servant.