Part 9

Mildred spent every spare moment with her mother, doing all in her power for her comfort of body and to cheer and interest her and keep her mind from dwelling upon the absent dear ones.

Dr. Landreth too was exceedingly kind to his mother-in-law, for whom he had a very strong and filial affection. He would have willingly sacrificed his own comfort at any time for hers, and was more than willing to have Mildred constantly with her while she was so feeble and ailing; while all his skill and medical knowledge were exerted for her benefit.

One evening Mildred, helping her mother to bed, remarked, "I wonder what has become of Charlie; he hasn't been in to see you this afternoon."

"Perhaps that is an evidence that he thinks me a great deal better," Mrs. Keith answered, in a playful tone. Then, more seriously, "He has been very, very good to me, Mildred; you must tell him I appreciate his kindness."

"He knows you do, mother," Mildred answered; "but indeed it is a real pleasure to him to do anything in his power for you; he says you are the only mother he has ever known, and a very dear and precious one."

"No doubt he would have been in this afternoon if he had not been prevented. I fear somebody is very ill."

A few minutes later Mildred, passing out of the house on her way to her own home, met her husband at the gate.

He gave her his arm almost without a word, nor did he speak during their short walk; but Mildred's thoughts were busy, and she scarcely noticed his silence.

It was too dark in the street to see his face, but on entering their own sitting-room, where a bright light was burning, she caught sight of it, and its pale, distressed look struck terror to her heart.

"O Charlie, what is it?" she cried, dropping her cloak upon the floor and throwing off her bonnet, then putting her arms about his neck and gazing with frightened, questioning eyes into his that were full of anguish.

"My darling, I don't know how to tell you," he said hoarsely, holding her close.

"My brothers?" she gasped, turning pale as death.

He bowed a silent assent.

"What--what is it?" she asked, scarcely able to articulate.

"The very worst," he said. "Yet stay; it may not be true; but there is a dreadful report about town, that the train was attacked by Indians and several killed--"

"Rupert and Don among them?" she faltered, half-inquiringly, as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"Yes; but, Milly dear, it may be altogether untrue."

She was clinging to him and weeping as if her very heart would break, her whole frame shaking with sobs.

"My brothers, my brothers! my dear, dear brothers!" she cried. "O Charlie, Charlie, why did they ever go into such fearful danger?"

"I thought it for the best, love, when I advised it," he said in a pained tone; "but if I could have foreseen--"

"Dear husband, I forgot it was by your advice," she sobbed; "forgive me; I should never think of blaming you."

"Thank you, love, I can hardly help blaming myself, though reason tells me I am innocent. Ah, if I could but have foreseen--"

"But you could not; no mortal could. Both killed? Both gone? Oh, it is too, too terrible!"

The door flew open and Zillah rushed in, closely followed by Wallace.

He was deathly pale, and his eyes were full of tears. She was weeping aloud.

"O Milly, Milly!" she cried, "was there ever anything so terrible? It will kill mother; she can never stand it in her weak state."

"We must manage to keep it from her," the doctor said.

"How can we? She will see it in our faces," sobbed Zillah.

"We must control our features; we must banish every expression of grief from them and from our words and voices when in her presence. Her life may depend upon it, for she is very feeble just now."

"We will all try," Wallace said, with a heavy sigh. "Let none of us venture into her presence until we are sure of ourselves."

"It will be very difficult, but I believe God will give us strength," said Mildred, "if we ask it in faith. Oh, it is an awful, awful thing!" she cried, a fierce paroxysm of grief sweeping over her; then, as she grew calmer, "but we have strong consolation in the certain knowledge that they were of those who trust in the imputed righteousness of Christ; that they had made their peace with God and were ready for the summons home."

"Yes," said Wallace, "we sorrow not as those without hope; and dear mother, who lives so near the Master, and realizes so fully the blessedness of those who have gone to be forever with Him, will, I doubt not, be able to bear up under this new trial, terrible as it is, when she has regained her usual health."

"No doubt of it," the doctor said.

"But oh, it is so terrible, so terrible!" sobbed Zillah; "far worse than any of the many trials that have come to us in the last two or three years."

"Does father know?" asked Mildred. "Has he heard?"

Neither the doctor nor Wallace could answer the question; they had not seen him since early in the day.

But while they were saying so the door-bell rang and he came in, bent, bowed down, aged with grief, till he looked an older man by ten--twenty years than when they had seen him last.

With a moan of unspeakable anguish he dropped into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands.

His daughters flew to him and enfolded him in loving arms, tears of sympathy streaming down their cheeks.

"Father, dear, dear father," they said, "oh, do not be so distressed! it may not be true."

"Alas, alas! I dare not hope it," he groaned. "My boys--my boys; would God I had died for you! My sons, oh, my sons! Such a fate! such a terrible fate!"

"But, dear father, think how happy they are now," said Mildred, weeping as she spoke.

"Yes, there is great and undeserved mercy mingled with the terrible affliction," he replied; "'they cannot return to me, but I shall go to them.' Thanks be unto God for that blessed hope! But my wife--your mother! this will kill her!"

"Dear father," said Mildred, "do not forget the precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

"We have all agreed to try to hide it from her till she is stronger," the doctor remarked. "We will have to school ourselves to look and act and speak as if no such news had reached our ears."

"An impossible task, I fear," sighed Mr. Keith. "Marcia and I have had no secrets from each other since we were married, and it will be no easy task for me to conceal my anguish of heart from her now; but, God helping me, I will."

To father and daughters the next few days were a severe ordeal, for it was difficult indeed to hide their bitter grief from the love-sharpened eyes of the tender wife and mother; they were cheerful when they could force themselves to be so; and when tears would have their way they talked of Fan, and seemed to be mourning afresh over her early death, or spoke of Ada in her far distant home, and how faint was the hope that she would ever be with them again.

Mrs. Keith seemed somewhat surprised at these renewed manifestations of grief that had appeared to be softened by the lapse of time; but asking no questions, she simply talked to them of Fan's blessedness and the good work Ada was doing for the Master, and of the time when they would again be a united family in the glorious land where partings are unknown.

She was regaining strength every day, and in seeing that they felt well rewarded for their efforts at self-control and encouraged to persevere with them; and they did, though at times--especially when she would speak of Rupert and Don, talking hopefully of soon hearing of their safe arrival in California--it was almost beyond their power; and they were compelled to find some pretext for leaving the room, that for a short space they might let grief have its way.

Mildred was sitting with her mother one morning, her babe asleep by her side in the cradle that been occupied successively by herself and all her brothers and sisters, Percy quietly busied with a picture-book.

The two ladies had their sewing, and Annis was conning her lessons on the farther side of the room.

The door-bell rang, and Celestia Ann ushered in a woman, a resident of the town with whom the ladies had never had any acquaintance, though they knew her by name. Her call was therefore a surprise; but they gave her a pleasant good-morning and a polite invitation to be seated.

She sat down, made a few remarks about the weather and the state of the roads, then, looking Mrs. Keith full in the face, said, "I s'pose you've heard the news about the last party that set off from here for Californy?"

Mildred made a warning gesture, but it was too late, and doubtless would not have been heeded even could it have been given in time.

"What news?" Mrs. Keith asked, in a startled tone, while Annis rose and came forward in an excited manner, her eyes wild with affright.

"So you haven't heard?" pursued the caller, with the satisfaction of the newsmonger in a fresh customer for her wares. "Well--"

"Mrs. Slate," interrupted Mildred, "I must beg you will say no more; we have heard a vague report, which may be entirely untrue, but have been trying to keep it from mother, for she is too weak to bear it."

"What is it, Mildred, my child, what is it?" gasped the poor invalid, turning deathly pale.

"Dear mother, don't ask; it would only distress you, and may be all a lie," Mildred said, going to her and putting her arms about her in tender, loving fashion.

"Tell me, my child, tell me; it is useless to try to keep me in ignorance now; suspense would be worse than the direst certainty," faltered the mother.

"But there is no certainty, mother dear," Mildred said pityingly, her tears falling fast as she spoke; "oh, be content not to hear what can but give you pain!"

"She'd _ought_ to know," said Mrs. Slate; "she's got to hear it sooner or later, and what's the use of puttin' her off so? I'll tell you, Mrs. Keith. They say the train was attacked by the Injins and most o' the men killed, your two boys among the rest. I felt it my duty to come and tell you about it, in case you hadn't heard, and to call your attention to the fact that this appears to be the way Providence has taken for to punish you for bringin' 'em up to care so much for gold; and--"

"Leave the house this instant, and never venture to darken its doors again!" cried Mildred, supporting her fainting mother with one arm, while she turned, full of righteous indignation, toward her tormentor with a stamp of her foot to enforce the order she could not refrain from giving.

"I've only done my dooty," muttered the woman, rising and sailing from the room with her head in the air.

"O mother, mother!" sobbed Mildred. "Annis, help me to lay her on the lounge, and run for Charlie. I think he's at home in the office. The cruel, cruel creature! how could she! oh, _how could_ she!"

Annis, wildly weeping, hastened to obey. "O Milly, Milly, is mother dying? Is it true about the boys?"

"She has only fainted, and it is only a report about the boys, that may not be at all true," Mildred said. "Now call Celestia Ann to help me, and you run for Charlie as fast as you can. O Zillah," in a tone of relief as the door opened and Mrs. Ormsby came in, "I'm glad you've come. Run to mother's room and get the bottle of ammonia."

Greatly startled and alarmed by the glimpse she had got of her mother's white, unconscious face, Zillah ran to do her sister's bidding, while Celestia Ann, summoned by Annis, hastened to render all the assistance in her power, and poor, terrified Annis flew like the wind in search of the doctor.

She found him in, and, though scarcely able to articulate, made him understand that his presence was wanted with all speed.

She darted back, and he caught up his medicine-case and followed close at her heels.

Mrs. Keith still lay white and insensible, the three women busy about her with half-despairing efforts to restore her to consciousness.

They began to fear it was something more than an ordinary faint. Had that sudden, cruel announcement taken her life? Happy for her were it so; but oh, how could husband and children spare her?

Mildred turned upon her husband a look of agonized inquiry.

"Do not be alarmed, love," he said, "she will revive presently, I trust."

Some moments of trying suspense ensued; then her eyes opened wide and glanced about from one to another.

"What has happened?" she asked, in feeble accents; "have I been worse?"

"In a faint, mother; but you have come out of it now, and I hope will be none the worse after a little," the doctor answered cheerfully. But ere the words had left his lips memory had resumed her sway.

"Oh, my sons!" she cried, "my Rupert and Don! Can it be true that I shall see them no more upon earth? Have they been cut off in the pride and beauty of their early manhood by a savage foe? O Lord, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I, for my heart is overwhelmed!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting her streaming eyes to heaven.

"Dear mother," sobbed Mildred, leaning over her in tenderest solicitude, "if they are gone from earth, it is to the better land, where pain and sin and sorrow are unknown, and where you will one day join them and all your loved ones. But it may not be true; there is no certainty yet; it is but a rumor."

"Then how cruel to tell me," she sighed; "and to add that I was to blame for their going. Ah, God knows I have tried to train them for heaven, and not to set their affections upon the perishing things of time and sense."

"Yes, mother, your children can all testify to that," Mildred said; Zillah adding, "Indeed we can; if any of us are worldly-minded it is not the fault of either of our parents. And it was not the love of gold that sent our dear brothers on that journey; one was seeking health, the other went to take care of him and with a longing for change and exciting adventure."

At that moment Mr. Keith came in with a letter in his hand. His face was brighter and happier than they had seen it for many days, eagerness and anxiety mingling with its gladness.

"From Don to you, my dear," he cried, holding the letter high, with its address toward her.

"Oh, then it is not true! not true!" was the simultaneous, joyful exclamation from his daughters; and Mildred, embracing the weeping invalid, said, "Do you hear, dearest mother? A letter from Don, and you may dry your tears."

Her husband held it out to her with a glad and loving smile.

She grasped it eagerly, but in vain her trembling fingers essayed to tear it open.

"Let me, dear wife," he said, taking it gently from her.

"Read it," she said feebly; "my eyes are dim. Oh, my Rupert! is he living also?"

Mr. Keith glanced down the page, let the letter fall, and dropped his face into his hands with a heart-rending groan.

Zillah snatched it from the floor, her hand trembling like an aspen leaf, her face overspread with a deathly pallor.

"My son, my son, my first-born son!" sobbed Mrs. Keith, "gone, gone in that dreadful way! Yet, thank God that dear Don is left. And blessed be His holy name that _He_ lives and reigns, and none can stay His hand or say unto Him, What doest thou?"

"Read, some one," groaned the father; "I cannot!"

Zillah silently handed the letter to the doctor, and he read it in low, moved tones, often interrupted by the bitter weeping of his listeners.

Rupert's death was a heavy blow; for a time his parents seemed wellnigh crushed by it, yet not a murmur was ever heard from either; the language of their lips and lives was, "'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.'"

The manner of their son's death made it the hardest blow they had ever received; yet as the months rolled on they learned to speak calmly and tenderly of him as having gone before to the heavenly home whither they themselves would soon follow.

Don's letter received a reply in due season. It said his speedy return would be joyfully welcomed, yet as he was now on the ground, he was free to stay for a time if such were his choice; so he remained, fascinated by the hope of success in his search for gold, and feeling a great repugnance to going back and facing his townsmen without having secured at least a moderate portion of that which he had come so far to find.

Chapter Thirteenth.

"No day discolored with domestic strife; No jealousy, but mutual truth believ'd, Secure repose, and kindness undeceived." --DRYDEN.

Months and years glided swiftly by, bringing to the Keiths only such changes as they will bring to all: added gray hairs and wrinkles, and a decrease of strength, vigor, and energy to the old people; to the younger married ones, an added staidness and dignity of demeanor and more olive-branches about their tables; while Annis had grown from the merry, romping child into a tall, slender maiden, even more comely than the child had been, but with a quieter step and often a dreamy, far-away look in the sweet blue eyes.

She was the joy of her parents' hearts, the very light of their eyes, the only child left at home; for Cyril, having completed his college course, had entered a theological seminary and was preparing to go into the ministry.

There had been all along a constant interchange of letters with their relatives at the Oaks, particularly brisk on the part of Annis and Elsie, and they each knew almost as much of the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of the other as though they had lived together all these years.

Letters from the Oaks were always joyfully welcomed, yet were esteemed as nothing in comparison with those that came occasionally from Ada and Don, the former of whom had become the happy mother of two children, whom she described as very sweet and lovable, adding that she had a great longing to show them to her father and mother. And it was perhaps not greater than the desire of the grandparents to see them, though that was far outweighed by their thirst for a sight of the mother's face.

Mildred was still the devoted daughter she had been in earlier days, nor less faithful in all that concerned the welfare of husband and children. She looked well to the ways of her household, nor ever ate the bread of idleness. She was a careful housekeeper, allowing no waste, yet most liberal in paying for every service done for her or hers, and never stinting in the provision for the wants of her family.

Her table was always bountifully provided, her house neat and clean, her children well and tastefully dressed, her husband's wardrobe carefully looked to; nor did she neglect the souls, minds, or bodies of her children. Their physical well-being was to her a matter of very great importance, and while assiduously cultivating their minds and hearts, letting them never want for mother-love and tender caresses, she watched over the health of each with untiring vigilance.

And she had her reward in their rosy cheeks, bounding steps, constant flow of animal spirits, and devoted love to their parents, especially their mother; also in their kindness and affection toward each other.

They were a very happy family, a joy of heart to Mr. and Mrs. Keith, as were Zillah's children also, she having greatly improved in her management as a mother since the babyhood of her first child.

It was spring-time again, the evenings still cool enough for a little fire to be very enjoyable. In Dr. Landreth's cosey sitting-room a bright wood fire blazed cheerily on the open hearth. The doctor himself sat over it alone and in meditative mood.

Mildred had left the room a moment before to see her children to bed, a duty she never neglected, and not only a duty, but a pleasure also, for it gave opportunity for many a sweet interchange of demonstrations of affection and many a childish confidence to mother which otherwise might have been withheld; also--the young hearts being warm, the feelings tender--she found it the best of all seasons for sowing good seed that might one day spring up and grow and bear fruit unto everlasting life.

The doctor's meditations seemed not unpleasant, if one might judge from the calm and placid expression of his countenance; yet occasionally there was a passing shade of doubt or anxiety.

He looked up with a smile as Mildred re-entered the room. "Come and sit by my side, dear wife," he said, "and let us have a little confidential chat. Do you know what I have been thinking, sitting here alone?" he asked, as she took the offered seat and his arm stole round her waist in very lover-like fashion.

"No, my dear; how should I?" she answered, with a smile. "Of your patients, I presume; some case of obscure and difficult diagnosis."

"Ah, you are wide of the mark," he returned, with a light laugh. "No; my thoughts were principally of the presiding genius of my happiest of homes, and I am ready to echo the words of the wise man, 'A prudent wife is from the Lord.' 'Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.'"

"You're satisfied with yours?" she said inquiringly, and with a glad look up into his face.

"More than satisfied! Milly, love, you are my greatest earthly treasure; dearer far to me now than the day we were married, though then I was sure I loved you as never man loved woman before."

"How you gladden my heart, my dearest and kindest of husbands," she said, in low, moved tones. "And my experience is the same as yours; I loved you dearly when we were married, but I love you ten times as dearly now. How sweet it is to live together as we do, with hearts so closely united, and ever sharing each other's joys and sorrows! Burdens thus divided are so much easier to bear, while joys are doubled in the sharing."

"Yes, it is so," he said.

"'Then come the wild weather--come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow; Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.'"

They talked of their children, now three in number; of their various dispositions, and the best mode of managing and training each.

After that, breaking a pause in the conversation, the doctor said, "By the way, Milly, I received a letter to-day from a second cousin of mine, telling me that a daughter of hers, a young lady, is in poor health, needing change of climate and scene, her physician says, and asking if I am willing to take her under my care for a time, probably until next fall. My love, would you like to take her into the family?"

"I am quite willing if it is your wish, my dear," Mildred answered, but with a slight sigh; they were so happy and peaceful by themselves, and this stranger might prove an element of discord.

"It is not my wish if at all unpleasant to you, wife," he said, with affectionate look and tone. "I fear it may add to your cares and labors; yet Flora Weston may prove one of those bright, merry, winsome young things that are like a fresh breeze in a house."

"Perhaps so; and we are told to use hospitality one to another without grudging," Mildred added, with a pleasant look and smile. "Write her at once, Charlie, if you feel inclined. I am glad of an opportunity to show some attention to a relative of yours."

"Just like you, Milly," he responded, with a gratified look.

The letter was sent the next day, and a few weeks later Miss Weston arrived.

She seemed a rather commonplace girl, quiet and undemonstrative. Mildred found it a task to entertain her, even with the assistance her mother and sisters could give, and they did all that lay in their power. She did not sew, she cared very little for reading, she had strength for only very short walks; she was no talker, and seldom seemed to care to listen.