As in my own way, and with such words as I could command, I recounted the manner in which the good clergyman educated me, my mother's face grew sad and tearful. She did not speak for some minutes; her gaze was downcast, and through her long dark eyelashes the tears began to steal.
"A dream," she muttered, "only a dream! Did he know mankind and know but a portion of their unfathomable baseness, he would see the impossibility of making them better, would feel the necessity of an actual hell, black as the darkest that a poet ever fancied."
As she was thus occupied in her own thoughts, a step—a well-known step—resounded on the garden-walk, and the good clergyman advanced from the wicket-gate to the porch. Even now I see that pale face, with the white hair and large clear eyes!
He advanced and took my mother cordially by the hand, and was much affected when he heard of my father's death. My mother thanked him warmly for the care which he had taken of her child.
"This child will be a woman soon, and she must be prepared to enter upon life with all the accomplishments suitable to the position which she will occupy," continued my mother; "I wish her to remain with you until she is ready to enter the great world. But she must have proper instruction in music and dancing. She must not be altogether a wild country girl, when she goes into society. But, however, my dear Mr. Walworth, we will talk of this alone."
Young as I was I could perceive that there was a mystery about my mother, her previous life, or present position, which the good clergyman did not feel himself called upon to penetrate.
She took his arm and led him into the cottage, and they conversed for a long time alone, while I remained upon the porch, buried in a sort of dreamy revery, and watching the white clouds as they sailed along the summer sky.
"I shall be absent two years," I heard my mother's voice, as leaning on the good clergyman's arm she again came forth upon the porch; "see that when I return, in place of this pretty child you will present to me a beautiful and accomplished lady."
She took me in her arms and kissed me, while Mr. Walworth exclaimed:
"Indeed, my dear madam, I can never allow myself to think of Frances' leaving this home while I am living. She has been with me so long—is so dear to me—that the very thought of parting with her, is like tearing my heart-strings!"
He spoke with undisguised emotion; my mother took him warmly by the hand, and again thanked him for the care and love which he had lavished on her child.
At length she said "Farewell!" and I watched her as she went down the garden-walk to the wicket gate, and then across the road, until she entered a by-path which wound among the hills of the Neprehaun into the valley below. She was lost to my sight in the shadows of the foliage. She emerged to view again far down the valley, and I saw her enter her grand carriage, and saw her kerchief waving from the carriage window, as it rolled away.
I watched, O! how earnestly I watched, until the carriage rose to sight on the summit of a distant hill, beyond the spire of the village church. Then, as it disappeared and bore my mother from my sight, I sat down and wept bitterly.
Would I had never seen her face again!
A year passed away.
CHAPTER IV.
MAIDENHOOD.
It was June again. One summer evening I took the path which led from the garden to the summit of the hill which rose behind the cottage. As I pursued my way upward the sun was setting, and at every step I obtained a broader glimpse of the river, the dark Palisades, and the bay white with sails. When I reached the summit, the sun was on the verge of the horizon, and the sky in the west all purple and gold. Seating myself on the huge rock, which rose on the summit, surrounded by a circle of grand old trees, I surrendered myself to the quiet and serenity of the evening hour. The view was altogether beautiful. Beneath me sloped the broad hills, clad in wheat which already was changing from emerald to gold. Farther down, my cottage home half hidden among trees. Then beneath the cottage, the homes of the village dotting the hills, among which wound the Neprehaun. The broad river and the wide bay heaving gently in the fading light, and the dark Palisades rising blackly against the gold and purple sky. A lovelier view cannot be imagined. And the air was full of summer—scented with breath of vines and blossoms and new-mown hay. As I surrendered myself to thoughts which arose unbidden, the first star came tremulously into view, and the twilight began to deepen into night. I was thinking of my life—of the past—of the future. A strange vision of the great world, struggled into dim shape before the eye of my mind.
"A year more, and I will enter the great world!" I ejaculated. A hand was laid lightly on my shoulder. I started to my feet with a shriek.
"What, Frank, don't you know me?" said a half laughing voice, and I beheld beside me a youth of some nineteen or twenty years, whose face, shaded by dark hair, was touched by the last flush of the declining day. It was Ernest, the only son of the good clergyman. I had not seen him for three years. In that time, he had grown from boyhood into young manhood. He sat beside me on the rock, and we talked together as freely as when we were but little children. Ernest was full of life and hope; his voice grew deep, his dark eyes large and lustrous, as he spoke of the prospects of his future.
"In one year, Frank, I will graduate and then—then—the great world lies before me!" His gaze was turned dreamily to the west, and his fine features drawn in distinct profile against the evening sky.
"And what part, Ernest, will you play in the great world?"
"Father wishes me to enter into the ministry, but—" and he uttered a joyous, confident laugh—"whatever part I play, I know that I will win!"
He uttered these words in the tone of youth and hope, that has never been darkened by a shadow, and then turning to me—
"And you, Frank, what part will you play in the great world?" he said.
"I know not. My career is in the hands of my only parent, who will come next year to take me hence. My childhood has been wrapped in mystery; and my future, O, who can foretell the future?"
He gazed at me, for the first time, with an earnest and searching gaze. His eyes, large and gray, and capable of the most varied expression, became absent and dreamy.
"You are very beautiful!" he said, as though thinking aloud—"O, very beautiful! You will marry rich—yes—wealth and position will be yours at once."
And as the moon, rising over the brow of the hill, poured her light upon his thoughtful face, he took my hand and said:
"Frank, why is it that certain natures live only in the future or the past—never in the present? Look at ourselves, for instance. Yonder among the trees, bathed in the light of the rising moon, lies the cottage