Year: 1876

acUer ol tIle lH,-dteS iIoiiI tHe Piy ySioSHo-
my of their houses 1 do. And when
the stage swept round the corner. | look
ed ont eagerly, for as the driver had told
me, about ten rods up the road stood
the house of Philander White. His wife
was my mothers own cousin, and I was
just thirteen years old when went there
to make my first visit. There had been
some quarrel between the two families,
two or three score years anterior to my
visit and though my mother and Mrs.
White never participated in this, the
feud of their ancestors had doubtless in
volved some coldness between them.


But to cut long story short, for the
pen and paper gossip may be more dig
nified, but not a whit better than tea
table scandal, had been an invalid all
the previous winter.


When soft April days, to which my
mother looked forward so eagerly, came,
they brought no bloom to my cheek, no
vigor to my step. My constitution
seemed to have lost all it's recuperative
power, and the doctor said


''Send her into the country, Mrs. May.
If that don't help her, she is lost to you"


Just before this Mrs. White learned
throu gh mutual friend, of my illness,
and the very day of the blunt physicians s
ultimatum brought a letter to my mother


''For the sake of my old love, it read,
'let ell that may have come between
you and ne be lost in the pleasure of
better memories The hills of Meadow
Brook are clothed again with greenness,
and now in this late May is the time for
Jennie to come to us. There is proph-
ecy of health for her in the soft wind
that lifts the edge of my paper rs I write
We know she is your all, and we will be
very tender with your darling. VIII
you not trust her for single summer q"


And before another week was passed
my trunk was packed and marked, "Phi-
lander White, Meadow Brook


l looked out, as have said, and there
sat the pleasant white house, with its
green windowb blinds, the shrubbery in
front, and the cherry-trees behind. My
heart went out to it, and at once, rs it
did, moment later, to the gentle voiced
woman and the fair, dark haired girl who
rushed out on the broad front steps and,
kissing my cheek, said


''Cousin Jennie, you are very vel
come"


But it is not all to tell you of that sum-
mer, though I look across the gray year
to its picture in the Maryland of my
memory, that 1 have taken up my pen
this morning.


Suffice it that the mountain breezes of
Meadow Rock did their work well and
when in early autumn my mother came
for her child, she could hardly identify
the rosy checked girl who rushed in with
her curls dangling about her face, aid
held mp her rosy lips for kiss.


think it must have been nearly two
months after my domestication at Aunt
Mary's, for SO I call my mothers cousin,
when Uncie Charles Brace, her husbands 8
brother, visited her. He was a minister,
and Clara and l had anticipated the gen
tleman's advent with anything but pleas
ant emotion.


Our conceived notions ef the clergy
mans elongated visage, and solemn,
puritanical manner, which we regarded
as necessary concomitants of the profes-
sion, soon vanished before the beautiful
kindling of his smile and the winning
gentleness in his manner. He was I'm
Gle Phil's youngest brother, and not
more than twenty-eight at tina t time |;
and his religion had deepened and har-
monized his fine poetic temperament,
without checking the outflow of that I'M
der-current of humor which sparkled
through his character. Uncle Charles
was soon our compa nion in our rides
and rambles, and our confident in our
girlish plans.


''You don't really mean so, Uncle
Charles" and Clara's bright face was
lifted from the roses and geraniums we
were weaving into the boquet for the
mantel. ''You doI't really think what
you just said, that in every heart there
is fountain some blossom in the hu-
man wilderness of every soul %


He PUT down his paper and came
toward us.


''I have not doubt of it, my little
girl. The story I was just reading, of
the hardened old man who cried because
q child gave him q bunch of marigolds,
corroborates my remark. The light that
is in us cannot quite become darkness :;
The hearts that might bring forth hun
dred fold for the harvest of heaven, will
never become such deserts but some
good seed will take root therein"


''I don't believe it would, though, in
Farmer Keep. You don't know him as
well as do, Uncle Charlie. He's one
of the richest men in all Meadow Brook;
he's worth thousands and thousands.
He's bachelor, you know, and lives in
the great red house on the road to Wood
bury, you remember. Well, he never
goes to church he never loved human
being in his life. Now don't think Far
mer Keep-why. Grandma Dsane, how
do you do r.


The lady whose entrance put this sud
den period to my cousins peroration,
came slowly toward the rocking-chair.
Cora drew it ont for her. She was the
Oldest lady in the village. The hair I'M