"Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some
time in our home. I am such a genuine rustic you would scarcely
recognize me. Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up,
churning as fast as the dasher can fly and singing at the top of my
voice. Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live
with me, and vowed I should not make a 'drudge' of myself. Drudge,
indeed! because I chose to do something with my own hands for my
husband! I told her I would 'drudge,' as she called it, just as long
as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I
read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all
domestic pursuits, even cooking, are dignified as a labor of love;
whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further
argumentation on the subject.
"How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their
fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking
strawberries or arranging curds for tea! Come and see me; do,
Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant; that is, I would be, if
I could only know something of Uncle Guy. It is almost five years
since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing
from him. This is the only sorrow I have. Sometimes I fear he must
have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it. I want to
see him very much; my heart aches when I think about him. Dear Uncle
Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best. Can't you tell
me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives?
Ernest says he will walk into our house some day without any
intimation of his coming. Oh, I hope so! I endeavor to believe so!
Do write to me. I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish
you were as happy as your friend, "PAULINE."
Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from
Clara, and mused for some moments. They were both happily married,
and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had
onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so
entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously
favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or
obstacles? Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined,
and set up another image for worship? Was Time the conquering
iconoclast? Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year
rolled on? She had little leisure, however, for these reflections;
the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a
family who were anxious to take possession immediately. Such
articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an
auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the
last load removed. To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and
commenced boarding once more. Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were
undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the
sorrow which oppressed her. Here she had spent five years in
peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a
writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her
flowers. The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the
face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home. Home! if it
consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is
shed upon its humble hearth! A palatial mansion, or sequestered
cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name. Home!
the heart's home! who shall compute its value? But Beulah must
relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others. Would
this content her? Was she to be always homeless? True, she was to
reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless
orphan still, without claims upon one living being. The grave had
closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was
without ties in the world. These thoughts passed through her mind as
she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away.
Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask: "Are we homeless? Where shall we wander?" She stroked his head, and
went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she
had so carefully tended. An early frost had nipped the buds, but the
chrysanthemums were in all their glory--crimson, white, and orange.
She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long,
lingering look, turned away. The black mourning veil was thrown back
from a pale, calm face: and as she walked on, reflecting upon the
future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed: "Why should I wish it otherwise? The arms of a merciful God will
shield me, under all circumstances. My life was not given for a mere
holiday. So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well. Ah,
truly, I can say:"