CHAPTER V.

A GOLDEN WEDDING.

Hitherto they had been a most decorous crew, but the next morning

something in the air seemed to cause a general overflow of spirits, and

they went up the river like a party of children on a merry-making.

Sylvia decorated herself with garlands till she looked like a mermaid;

Mark, as skipper, issued his orders with the true Marblehead twang; Moor

kept up a fire of pun-provoking raillery; Warwick sung like a jovial

giant; while the Kelpie danced over the water as if inspired with the

universal gayety, and the very ripples seemed to laugh as they hurried

by.

"Mark, there is a boat coming up behind us with three gentlemen in it,

who evidently intend to pass us with a great display of skill. Of course

you won't let it," said Sylvia, welcoming the prospect of a race.

Her brother looked over his shoulder, took a critical survey, and nodded

approvingly.

"They are worth a lesson, and shall have it. Easy, now, till they pass;

then hard all, and give them a specimen of high art."

A sudden lull ensued on board the Kelpie while the blue shirts

approached, caught, and passed with a great display of science, as

Sylvia had prophesied, and as good an imitation of the demeanor of

experienced watermen as could be assumed by a trio of studious youths

not yet out of their teens. As the foam of their wake broke against the

other boat's side, Mark hailed them--

"Good morning, gentlemen! We'll wait for you above there, at the bend."

"All serene," returned the rival helmsman, with a bow in honor of

Sylvia, while the other two caused a perceptible increase in the speed

of the "Juanita," whose sentimental name was not at all in keeping with

its rakish appearance.

"Short-sighted infants, to waste their wind in that style; but they pull

well for their years," observed Mark, paternally, as he waited till the

others had gained sufficient advantage to make the race a more equal

one. "Now, then!" he whispered a moment after; and, as if suddenly

endowed with life, the Kelpie shot away with the smooth speed given by

strength and skill. Sylvia watched both boats, yearning to take an oar

herself, yet full of admiration for the well-trained rowers, whose swift

strokes set the river in a foam and made the moment one of pleasure and

excitement. The blue shirts did their best against competitors who had

rowed in many crafts and many waters. They kept the advantage till near

the bend, then Mark's crew lent their reserved strength to a final

effort, and bending to their oars with a will, gained steadily, till,

with a triumphant stroke, they swept far ahead, and with oars at rest

waited in magnanimous silence till the Juanita came up, gracefully

confessing her defeat by a good-humored cheer from her panting crew.

For a moment the two boats floated side by side, while the young men

interchanged compliments and jokes, for a river is a highway where all

travellers may salute each other, and college boys are "Hail fellow!

well met" with all the world.

Sylvia sat watching the lads, and one among them struck her fancy. The

helmsman who had bowed to her was slight and swarthy, with Southern

eyes, vivacious manners, and a singularly melodious voice. A Spaniard,

she thought, and pleased herself with this picturesque figure till a

traitorous smile about the young man's mouth betrayed that he was not

unconscious of her regard. She colored as she met the glance of mingled

mirth and admiration that he gave her, and hastily began to pull off the

weedy decorations which she had forgotten. But she paused presently, for

she heard a surprised voice exclaim--

"Why, Warwick! is that you or your ghost?"

Looking up Sylvia saw Adam lift the hat he had pulled over his brows,

and take a slender brown hand extended over the boat-side with something

like reluctance, as he answered the question in Spanish. A short

conversation ensued, in which the dark stranger seemed to ask

innumerable questions, Warwick to give curt replies, and the names

Gabriel and Ottila to occur with familiar frequency. Sylvia knew nothing

of the language, but received an impression that Warwick was not

overjoyed at the meeting; that the youth was both pleased and perplexed

by finding him there; and that neither parted with much regret as the

distance slowly widened between the boats, and with a farewell salute

parted company, each taking a different branch of the river, which

divided just there.

For the first time Warwick allowed Mark to take his place at the oar,

and sat looking into the clear depths below as if some scene lay there

which other eyes could not discover.

"Who was the olive-colored party with the fine eyes and foreign accent?"

asked Mark, lazily rowing.

"Gabriel André."

"Is he an Italian?"

"No; a Cuban."

"I forgot you had tried that mixture of Spain and Alabama. How was it?"

"As such climates always are to me,--intoxicating to-day, enervating

to-morrow."

"How long were you there?"

"Three months."

"I feel tropically inclined, so tell us about it."

"There is nothing to tell."

"I'll prove that by a catechism. Where did you stay?"

"In Havana."

"Of course, but with whom?"

"Gabriel André."

"The father of the saffron youth?"

"Yes."

"Of whom did the family consist?"

"Four persons."

"Mark, leave Mr. Warwick alone."

"As long as he answers I shall question. Name the four persons, Adam."

"Gabriel, sen., Dolores his wife, Gabriel, jun., Catalina, his sister."

"Ah! now we progress. Was señorita Catalina as comely as her brother?"

"More so."

"You adored her, of course?"

"I loved her."

"Great heavens! what discoveries we make. He likes it, I know by the

satirical glimmer in his eye; therefore I continue. She adored you, of

course?"

"She loved me."

"You will return and marry her?"

"No."

"Your depravity appalls me."

"Did I volunteer its discovery?"

"I demand it now. You left this girl believing that you adored her?"

"She knew I was fond of her."

"The parting was tender?"

"On her part."

"Iceberg! She wept in your arms?"

"And gave me an orange."

"You cherished it, of course?"

"I ate it immediately."

"What want of sentiment! You promised to return?"

"Yes."

"But will never keep the promise?"

"I never break one."

"Yet will not marry her?"

"By no means."

"Ask how old the lady was, Mark?"

"Age, Warwick?"

"Seven."

Mark caught a crab of the largest size at this reply, and remained where

he fell, among the ruins of the castle in Spain, which he had erected

with the scanty materials vouchsafed to him, while Warwick went back to

his meditations.

A drop of rain roused Sylvia from the contemplation of an imaginary

portrait of the little Cuban girl, and looking skyward she saw that the

frolicsome wind had prepared a practical joke for them in the shape of a

thunder-shower. A consultation was held, and it was decided to row on

till a house appeared, in which they would take refuge till the storm

was over. On they went, but the rain was in greater haste than they, and

a summary drenching was effected before the toot of a dinner-horn guided

them to shelter. Landing they marched over the fields, a moist and

mirthful company, toward a red farm-house standing under venerable elms,

with a patriarchal air which promised hospitable treatment and good

cheer. A promise speedily fulfilled by the lively old woman, who

appeared with an energetic "Shoo!" for the speckled hens congregated in

the porch, and a hearty welcome for the weather-beaten strangers.

"Sakes alive!" she exclaimed; "you be in a mess, ain't you? Come right

in and make yourselves to home. Abel, take the men folks up chamber, and

fit 'em out with anything dry you kin lay hands on. Phebe, see to this

poor little creeter, and bring her down lookin' less like a drownded

kitten. Nat, clear up your wittlin's, so's't they kin toast their feet

when they come down; and, Cinthy, don't dish up dinner jest yet."

These directions were given with such vigorous illustration, and the old

face shone with such friendly zeal, that the four submitted at once,

sure that the kind soul was pleasing herself in serving them, and

finding something very attractive in the place, the people, and their

own position. Abel, a staid farmer of forty, obeyed his mother's order

regarding the "men folks;" and Phebe, a buxom girl of sixteen, led

Sylvia to her own room, eagerly offering her best.

As she dried and redressed herself Sylvia made sundry discoveries,

which added to the romance and the enjoyment of the adventure. A smart

gown lay on the bed in the low chamber, also various decorations upon

chair and table, suggesting that some festival was afloat; and a few

questions elicited the facts. Grandpa had seven sons and three

daughters, all living, all married, and all blessed with flocks of

children. Grandpa's birthday was always celebrated by a family

gathering; but to-day, being the fiftieth anniversary of his wedding,

the various households had resolved to keep it with unusual pomp; and

all were coming for a supper, a dance, and a "sing" at the end. Upon

receipt of which intelligence Sylvia proposed an immediate departure;

but the grandmother and daughter cried out at this, pointed to the still

falling rain, the lowering sky, the wet heap on the floor, and insisted

on the strangers all remaining to enjoy the festival, and give an added

interest by their presence.

Half promising what she wholly desired, Sylvia put on Phebe's second

best blue gingham gown for the preservation of which she added a white

apron, and completing the whole with a pair of capacious shoes, went

down to find her party and reveal the state of affairs. They were

bestowed in the prim, best parlor, and greeted her with a peal of

laughter, for all were _en costume_. Abel was a stout man, and his

garments hung upon Moor with a melancholy air; Mark had disdained them,

and with an eye to effect laid hands on an old uniform, in which he

looked like a volunteer of 1812; while Warwick's superior height placed

Abel's wardrobe out of the question; and grandpa, taller than any of his

seven goodly sons, supplied him with a sober suit,--roomy,

square-flapped, and venerable,--which became him, and with his beard

produced the curious effect of a youthful patriarch. To Sylvia's relief

it was unanimously decided to remain, trusting to their own penetration

to discover the most agreeable method of returning the favor; and

regarding the adventure as a welcome change, after two days' solitude,

all went out to dinner prepared to enact their parts with spirit.

The meal being despatched, Mark and Warwick went to help Abel with some

out-door arrangements; and begging grandma to consider him one of her

own boys, Moor tied on an apron and fell to work with Sylvia, laying the

long table which was to receive the coming stores. True breeding is

often as soon felt by the uncultivated as by the cultivated; and the

zeal with which the strangers threw themselves into the business of the

hour won the family, and placed them all in friendly relations at once.

The old lady let them do what they would, admiring everything, and

declaring over and over again that her new assistants "beat her boys and

girls to nothin' with their tastiness and smartness." Sylvia trimmed the

table with common flowers till it was an inviting sight before a viand

appeared upon it, and hung green boughs about the room, with candles

here and there to lend a festal light. Moor trundled a great cheese in

from the dairy, brought milk-pans without mishap, disposed dishes, and

caused Nat to cleave to him by the administration of surreptitious

titbits and jocular suggestions; while Phebe tumbled about in every

one's way, quite wild with excitement; and grandma stood in her pantry

like a culinary general, swaying a big knife for a baton, as she issued

orders and marshalled her forces, the busiest and merriest of them all.

When the last touch was given, Moor discarded his apron and went to join

Mark. Sylvia presided over Phebe's toilet, and then sat herself down to

support Nat through the trying half hour before, as he expressed it,

"the party came in." The twelve years' boy was a cripple, one of those

household blessings which, in the guise of an affliction, keep many

hearts tenderly united by a common love and pity. A cheerful creature,

always chirping like a cricket on the hearth as he sat carving or

turning bits of wood into useful or ornamental shapes for such as cared

to buy them of him, and hoarding up the proceeds like a little miser for

one more helpless than himself.

"What are these, Nat?" asked Sylvia, with the interest that always won

small people, because their quick instincts felt that it was sincere.

"Them are spoons--'postle spoons, they call 'em. You see I've got a

cousin what reads a sight, and one day he says to me, 'Nat, in a book I

see somethin' about a set of spoons with a 'postle's head on each of

'em; you make some and they'll sell, I bet.' So I got gramper's Bible,

found the picters of the 'postles, and worked and worked till I got the

faces good; and now it's fun, for they do sell, and I'm savin' up a lot.

It ain't for me, you know, but mother, 'cause she's wuss'n I be."

"Is she sick, Nat?"

"Oh, ain't she! Why she hasn't stood up this nine year. We was smashed

in a wagon that tipped over when I was three years old. It done

somethin' to my legs, but it broke her back, and made her no use, only

jest to pet me, and keep us all kind of stiddy, you know. Ain't you seen

her? Don't you want to?"

"Would she like it?"

"She admires to see folks, and asked about you at dinner; so I guess

you'd better go see her. Look ahere, you like them spoons, and I'm

agoin' to give you one; I'd give you all on 'em if they wasn't promised.

I can make one more in time, so you jest take your pick, 'cause I like

you, and want you not to forgit me."

Sylvia chose Saint John, because it resembled Moor, she thought; bespoke

and paid for a whole set, and privately resolved to send tools and rare

woods to the little artist that he might serve his mother in his own

pretty way. Then Nat took up his crutches and hopped nimbly before her

to the room, where a plain, serene-faced woman lay knitting, with her

best cap on, her clean handkerchief and large green fan laid out upon

the coverlet. This was evidently the best room of the house; and as

Sylvia sat talking to the invalid her eye discovered many traces of that

refinement which comes through the affections. Nothing seemed too good

for "daughter Patience;" birds, books, flowers, and pictures were

plentiful here though visible nowhere else. Two easy-chairs beside the

bed showed where the old folks oftenest sat; Abel's home corner was

there by the antique desk covered with farmers' literature and samples

of seeds; Phebe's work-basket stood in the window; Nat's lathe in the

sunniest corner; and from the speckless carpet to the canary's clear

water-glass all was exquisitely neat, for love and labor were the

handmaids who served the helpless woman and asked no wages but her

comfort.

Sylvia amused her new friends mightily, for finding that neither mother

nor son had any complaints to make, any sympathy to ask, she exerted

herself to give them what both needed, and kept them laughing by a

lively recital of her voyage and its mishaps.

"Ain't she prime, mother?" was Nat's candid commentary when the story

ended, and he emerged red and shiny from the pillows where he had

burrowed with boyish explosions of delight.

"She's very kind, dear, to amuse two stay-at-home folks like you and me,

who seldom see what's going on outside four walls. You have a merry

heart, miss, and I hope will keep it all your days, for it's a blessed

thing to own."

"I think you have something better, a contented one," said Sylvia, as

the woman regarded her with no sign of envy or regret.

"I ought to have; nine years on a body's back can teach a sight of

things that are wuth knowin'. I've learnt patience pretty well I guess,

and contentedness ain't fur away, for though it sometimes seems ruther

long to look forward to, perhaps nine more years layin' here, I jest

remember it might have been wuss, and if I don't do much now there's all

eternity to come."

Something in the woman's manner struck Sylvia as she watched her softly

beating some tune on the sheet with her quiet eyes turned toward the

light. Many sermons had been less eloquent to the girl than the look,

the tone, the cheerful resignation of that plain face. She stooped and

kissed it, saying gently--

"I shall remember this."

"Hooray! There they be; I hear Ben!"

And away clattered Nat to be immediately absorbed into the embraces of a

swarm of relatives who now began to arrive in a steady stream. Old and

young, large and small, rich and poor, with overflowing hands or trifles

humbly given, all were received alike, all hugged by grandpa, kissed by

grandma, shaken half breathless by Uncle Abel, welcomed by Aunt

Patience, and danced round by Phebe and Nat till the house seemed a

great hive of hilarious and affectionate bees. At first the strangers

stood apart, but Phebe spread their story with such complimentary

additions of her own that the family circle opened wide and took them in

at once.

Sylvia was enraptured with the wilderness of babies, and leaving the

others to their own devices followed the matrons to "Patience's room,"

and gave herself up to the pleasant tyranny of the small potentates, who

swarmed over her as she sat on the floor, tugging at her hair, exploring

her eyes, covering her with moist kisses, and keeping up a babble of

little voices more delightful to her than the discourse of the flattered

mammas who benignly surveyed her admiration and their offspring's

prowess.

The young people went to romp in the barn; the men, armed with

umbrellas, turned out _en masse_ to inspect the farm and stock, and

compare notes over pig pens and garden gates. But Sylvia lingered where

she was, enjoying a scene which filled her with a tender pain and

pleasure, for each baby was laid on grandma's knee, its small virtues,

vices, ailments, and accomplishments rehearsed, its beauties examined,

its strength tested, and the verdict of the family oracle pronounced

upon it as it was cradled, kissed, and blessed on the kind old heart

which had room for every care and joy of those who called her mother. It

was a sight the girl never forgot, because just then she was ready to

receive it. Her best lessons did not come from books, and she learned

one then as she saw the fairest success of a woman's life while watching

this happy grandmother with fresh faces framing her withered one,

daughterly voices chorusing good wishes, and the harvest of half a

century of wedded life beautifully garnered in her arms.

The fragrance of coffee and recollections of Cynthia's joyful

aberrations at such periods caused a breaking up of the maternal

conclave. The babies were borne away to simmer between blankets until

called for. The women unpacked baskets, brooded over teapots, and kept

up an harmonious clack as the table was spread with pyramids of cake,

regiments of pies, quagmires of jelly, snow-banks of bread, and gold

mines of butter; every possible article of food, from baked beans to

wedding cake, finding a place on that sacrificial altar.

Fearing to be in the way, Sylvia departed to the barn, where she found

her party in a chaotic Babel; for the offshoots had been as fruitful as

the parent tree, and some four dozen young immortals were in full riot.

The bashful roosting with the hens on remote lofts and beams; the bold

flirting or playing in the full light of day; the boys whooping, the

girls screaming, all effervescing as if their spirits had reached the

explosive point and must find vent in noise. Mark was in his element,

introducing all manner of new games, the liveliest of the old and

keeping the revel at its height; for rosy, bright-eyed girls were

plenty, and the ancient uniform universally approved. Warwick had a

flock of lads about him absorbed in the marvels he was producing with

knife, stick, and string; and Moor a rival flock of little lasses

breathless with interest in the tales he told. One on each knee, two at

each side, four in a row on the hay at his feet, and the boldest of all

with an arm about his neck and a curly head upon his shoulder, for Uncle

Abel's clothes seemed to invest the wearer with a passport to their

confidence at once. Sylvia joined this group and partook of a quiet

entertainment with as childlike a relish as any of them, while the merry

tumult went on about her.

The toot of the horn sent the whole barnful streaming into the house

like a flock of hungry chickens, where, by some process known only to

the mothers of large families, every one was wedged close about the

table, and the feast began. This was none of your stand-up, wafery,

bread and butter teas, but a thorough-going, sit-down supper, and all

settled themselves with a smiling satisfaction, prophetic of great

powers and an equal willingness to employ them. A detachment of

half-grown girls was drawn up behind grandma, as waiters; Sylvia

insisted on being one of them, and proved herself a neat-handed Phillis,

though for a time slightly bewildered by the gastronomic performances

she beheld. Babies ate pickles, small boys sequestered pie with a

velocity that made her wink, women swam in the tea, and the men,

metaphorically speaking, swept over the table like a swarm of locusts,

while the host and hostess beamed upon one another and their robust

descendants with an honest pride, which was beautiful to see.

"That Mr. Wackett ain't eat scursely nothin', he jest sets lookin' round

kinder 'mazed like. Do go and make him fall to on somethin', or I shan't

take a mite of comfort in my vittles," said grandma, as the girl came

with an empty cup.

"He is enjoying it with all his heart and eyes, ma'am, for we don't see

such fine spectacles every day. I'll take him something that he likes

and make him eat it."

"Sakes alive! be you to be Mis' Wackett? I'd no idee of it, you look so

young."

"Nor I; we are only friends, ma'am."

"Oh!" and the monosyllable was immensely expressive, as the old lady

confided a knowing nod to the teapot, into whose depths she was just

then peering. Sylvia walked away wondering why persons were always

thinking and saying such things.

As she paused behind Warwick's chair with a glass of cream and a round

of brown bread, he looked up at her with his blandest expression, though

a touch of something like regret was in his voice.

"This is a sight worth living eighty hard years to see, and I envy that

old couple as I never envied any one before. To rear ten virtuous

children, put ten useful men and women into the world, and give them

health and courage to work out their own salvation as these honest souls

will do, is a better job done for the Lord, than winning a battle, or

ruling a State. Here is all honor to them. Drink it with me."

He put the glass to her lips, drank what she left, and rising, placed

her in his seat with the decisive air which few resisted.

"You take no thought for yourself and are doing too much; sit here a

little, and let me take a few steps where you have taken many."

He served her, and standing at her back, bent now and then to speak,

still with that softened look upon the face so seldom stirred by the

gentler emotions that lay far down in that deep heart of his; for never

had he felt so solitary.

All things must have an end, even a family feast, and by the time the

last boy's buttons peremptorily announced, 'Thus far shalt thou go and no

farther,' all professed themselves satisfied, and a general uprising

took place. The surplus population were herded in parlor and chambers,

while a few energetic hands cleared away, and with much clattering of

dishes and wafting of towels, left grandma's spandy clean premises as

immaculate as ever. It was dark when all was done, so the kitchen was

cleared, the candles lighted, Patience's door set open, and little Nat

established in an impromptu orchestra, composed of a table and a chair,

whence the first squeak of his fiddle proclaimed that the ball had

begun.

Everybody danced; the babies stacked on Patience's bed, or penned behind

chairs, sprawled and pranced in unsteady mimicry of their elders.

Ungainly farmers, stiff with labor, recalled their early days and

tramped briskly as they swung their wives about with a kindly pressure

of the hard hands that had worked so long together. Little pairs toddled

gravely through the figures, or frisked promiscuously in a grand

conglomeration of arms and legs. Gallant cousins kissed pretty cousins

at exciting periods, and were not rebuked. Mark wrought several of these

incipient lovers to a pitch of despair, by his devotion to the comeliest

damsels, and the skill with which he executed unheard-of evolutions

before their admiring eyes; Moor led out the poorest and the plainest

with a respect that caused their homely faces to shine, and their scant

skirts to be forgotten. Warwick skimmed his five years partner through

the air in a way that rendered her speechless with delight; and Sylvia

danced as she never danced before. With sticky-fingered boys, sleepy

with repletion, but bound to last it out; with rough-faced men who paid

her paternal compliments; with smart youths who turned sheepish with

that white lady's hand in their big brown ones, and one ambitious lad

who confided to her his burning desire to work a sawmill, and marry a

girl with black eyes and yellow hair. While, perched aloft, Nat bowed

away till his pale face glowed, till all hearts warmed, all feet beat

responsive to the good old tunes which have put so much health into

human bodies, and so much happiness into human souls.

At the stroke of nine the last dance came. All down the long kitchen

stretched two breathless rows; grandpa and grandma at the top, the

youngest pair of grandchildren at the bottom, and all between fathers,

mothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, while such of the babies as were

still extant, bobbed with unabated vigor, as Nat struck up the Virginia

Reel, and the sturdy old couple led off as gallantly as the young one

who came tearing up to meet them. Away they went, grandpa's white hair

flying in the wind, grandma's impressive cap awry with excitement, as

they ambled down the middle, and finished with a kiss when their tuneful

journey was done, amid immense applause from those who regarded this as

the crowning event of the day.

When all had had their turn, and twirled till they were dizzy, a short

lull took place, with refreshments for such as still possessed the power

of enjoying them. Then Phebe appeared with an armful of books, and all

settled themselves for the family "sing."

Sylvia had heard much fine music, but never any that touched her like

this, for, though often discordant, it was hearty, with that

under-current of feeling which adds sweetness to the rudest lay, and is

often more attractive than the most florid ornament or faultless

execution. Every one sang as every one had danced, with all their might;

shrill children, soft-voiced girls, lullaby-singing mothers, gruff boys,

and strong-lunged men; the old pair quavered, and still a few

indefatigable babies crowed behind their little coops. Songs, ballads,

comic airs, popular melodies, and hymns, came in rapid succession. And

when they ended with that song which should be classed with sacred

music for association's sake, and standing hand in hand about the room

with the golden bride and bridegroom in their midst, sang "Home," Sylvia

leaned against her brother with dim eyes and a heart too full to sing.

Still standing thus when the last note had soared up and died, the old

man folded his hands and began to pray. It was an old-fashioned prayer,

such as the girl had never heard from the Bishop's lips; ungrammatical,

inelegant, and long. A quiet talk with God, manly in its straightforward

confession of short-comings, childlike in its appeal for guidance,

fervent in its gratitude for all good gifts, and the crowning one of

loving children. As if close intercourse had made the two familiar, this

human father turned to the Divine, as these sons and daughters turned to

him, as free to ask, as confident of a reply, as all afflictions,

blessings, cares, and crosses, were laid down before him, and the work

of eighty years submitted to his hand. There were no sounds in the room

but the one voice often tremulous with emotion and with age, the coo of

some dreaming baby, or the low sob of some mother whose arms were empty,

as the old man stood there, rugged and white atop as the granite hills,

with the old wife at his side, a circle of sons and daughters girdling

them round, and in all hearts the thought that as the former wedding had

been made for time, this golden one at eighty must be for eternity.

While Sylvia looked and listened a sense of genuine devotion stole over

her; the beauty and the worth of prayer grew clear to her through the

earnest speech of that unlettered man, and for the first time she fully

felt the nearness and the dearness of the Universal Father, whom she had

been taught to fear, yet longed to love.

"Now, my children, you must go before the little folks are tuckered

out," said Grandpa, heartily. "Mother and me can't say enough toe thank

you for the presents you have fetched us, the dutiful wishes you have

give us, the pride and comfort you have allers ben toe us. I ain't no

hand at speeches, so I shan't make none, but jest say ef any 'fliction

falls on any on you, remember mother's here toe help you bear it; ef any

worldly loss comes toe you, remember father's house is yourn while it

stans, and so the Lord bless and keep us all."

"Three cheers for gramper and grammer!" roared a six-foot scion as a

safety valve for sundry unmasculine emotions, and three rousing hurras

made the rafters ring, struck terror to the heart of the oldest

inhabitant of the rat-haunted garret, and summarily woke all the babies.

Then the good-byes began, the flurry of wrong baskets, pails and bundles

in wrong places; the sorting out of small folk too sleepy to know or

care what became of them; the maternal cluckings, and paternal shouts

for Kitty, Cy, Ben, Bill, or Mary Ann; the piling into vehicles with

much ramping of indignant horses unused to such late hours; the last

farewells, the roll of wheels, as one by one the happy loads departed,

and peace fell upon the household for another year.

"I declare for't, I never had sech an out an out good time sense I was

born intoe the world. Ab'ram, you are fit to drop, and so be I; now

let's set and talk it over along of Patience fore we go toe bed."

The old couple got into their chairs, and as they sat there side by

side, remembering that she had given no gift, Sylvia crept behind them,

and lending the magic of her voice to the simple air, sang the fittest

song for time and place--"John Anderson my Jo." It was too much for

grandma, the old heart overflowed, and reckless of the cherished cap

she laid her head on her "John's" shoulder, exclaiming through her

tears--

"That's the cap sheaf of the hull, and I can't bear no more to-night.

Ab'ram, lend me your hankchif, for I dunno where mine is, and my face is

all of a drip."

Before the red bandana had gently performed its work in grandpa's hand,

Sylvia beckoned her party from the room, and showing them the clear

moonlight night which followed the storm, suggested that they should

both save appearances and enjoy a novel pleasure by floating homeward

instead of sleeping. The tide against which they had pulled in coming up

would sweep them rapidly along, and make it easy to retrace in a few

hours the way they had loitered over for three days.

The pleasant excitement of the evening had not yet subsided, and all

applauded the plan as a fit finale to their voyage. The old lady

strongly objected, but the young people overruled her, and being

re-equipped in their damaged garments they bade the friendly family a

grateful adieu, left their more solid thanks under Nat's pillow, and

re-embarked upon their shining road.

All night Sylvia lay under the canopy of boughs her brother made to

shield her from the dew, listening to the soft sounds about her, the

twitter of a restless bird, the bleat of some belated lamb, the ripple

of a brook babbling like a baby in its sleep. All night she watched the

changing shores, silvery green or dark with slumberous shadow, and

followed the moon in its tranquil journey through the sky. When it set,

she drew her cloak about her, and, pillowing her head upon her arm,

exchanged the waking for a sleeping dream.

A thick mist encompassed her when she awoke. Above the sun shone dimly,

below rose and fell the billows of the sea, before her sounded the

city's fitful hum, and far behind her lay the green wilderness where she

had lived and learned so much. Slowly the fog lifted, the sun came

dazzling down upon the sea, and out into the open bay they sailed with

the pennon streaming in the morning wind. But still with backward glance

the girl watched the misty wall that rose between her and the charmed

river, and still with yearning heart confessed how sweet that brief

experience had been, for though she had not yet discovered it, like

"The fairy Lady of Shalott,

She had left the web and left the loom,

Had seen the water lilies bloom,

Had seen the helmet and the plume,

And had looked down to Camelot."