CHAPTER XX.

"Methought I was there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had-But man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had."-MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

MRS EVELYN drove down to the boat with Fleda, and did not leave her till she was safely put in charge of Mrs Renney. Fleda immediately retreated to the innermost depths of the ladies' cabin, hoping to find some rest for the body at least, if not forgetfulness for the mind.

The latter was not to be. Mrs Renney was exceeding glad to see her, and bent upon knowing what had become of her since those days when they used to know each other.

in

"You're just the same, Miss Fleda, that you used to beyou're very little altered-I can see that-though you're looking a good deal more thin and pale-you had very pretty roses your cheeks in those times. Yes, I know, I understood Mrs Evelyn to say you had not been well; but, allowing for that, I can see you are just yourself still-I'm glad of it. Do you recollect, Miss Fleda, what a little thing you was then?" "I recollect, very well," said Fleda.

"I'm sure of another thing-you're just as good as you used to be," said the housekeeper, looking at her complacently. "Do you remember how you used to come into my room to see me make jelly? I see it as well as if it was yesterday;— and you used to beg me to let you squeeze the lemons; and I never could refuse you, because you never did anything I didn't want you to. And do you mind how I used to tie you up in a big towel, for fear you would stain your dress with the acid, and I'd stand and watch to see you putting all your strength to squeeze 'em clean, and be afraid that Mrs Rossitur would be angry with me for letting you spoil your hands; but you used to look up and smile at me so, I couldn't help myself, but let you do just whatever you had a mind? You don't look quite

so light and bright as you did in those times;-but, to be sure, you ain't feeling well! See here-just let me pull some of these things onto this settee, and you put yourself down there and rest-pillows-let's have another pillow-there, how's that?"

How is

Oh, if Fleda might have silenced her! She thought it was rather hard that she should have two talkative companions on this journey of all others. The housekeeper paused no longer than to arrange her couch and see her comfortably laid down. "And then Mr Hugh would come in to find you and carry you away he never could bear to be long from you. Mr Hugh, Miss Fleda? he used to be always a very delicatelooking child. I remember you and him used to be always together he was a very sweet boy! I have often said I never saw such another pair of children. How does Mr Hugh have his health, Miss Fleda?"

"Not very well, just now," said Fleda, gently, and shutting her eyes that they might reveal less.

There was need; for the housekeeper went on to ask particularly after every member of the family, and where they had been living, and as much as she conveniently could about how they had been living. She was very kind through it all, or she tried to be; but Fleda felt there was a difference since the time when her aunt kept house in State Street and Mrs Renney made jellies for her. When her neighbours' affairs were exhausted, Mrs Renney fell back upon her own, and gave Fleda a very circumstantial account of the occurrences that were drawing her westward; how so many years ago her brother had married and removed thither; how lately his wife had died; what, in general, was the character of his wife, and what, in particular, the story of her decease; how many children were left without care, and the state of her brother's business which demanded a great deal; and how, finally, she, Mrs Renney, had received and accepted an invitation to go on to Belle Rivière and be housekeeper de son chef. And as Fleda's pale worn face had for some time given her no sign of attention, the housekeeper then hoped she was asleep, and placed herself so as to screen her and have herself a good view of everything that was going on in the cabin.

But poor Fleda was not asleep, much as she rejoiced in being thought so. Mind and body could get no repose, sadly Too worn to sleep, per

as the condition of both called for it.

haps;-too down-hearted to rest. She blamed herself for it, and told over to herself the causes, the recent causes, she had of joy and gratitude; but it would not do. Grateful she could be, and was; but tears that were not the distillation of joy came with her gratitude; came from under the closed eyelid in spite of her; the pillow was wet with them. She excused herself, or tried to, with thinking that she was weak and not very well, and that her nerves had gone through so much for a few days past, it was no wonder if a reaction left her without her usual strength of mind. And she could not help thinking, there had been a want of kindness in the Evelyns to let her come away to-day to make such a journey, at such a season, under such guardianship. But it was not all that; she knew it was not. The journey was a small matter; only a little piece of disagreeableness that was well in keeping with her other meditations. She was going home, and home had lost all its fair-seeming; its honours were withered. It would be pleasant indeed to be there again to nurse Hugh; but nurse him for what?—life or death ?—she did not like to think; and beyond that she could fix upon nothing at all that looked bright in the prospect; she almost thought herself wicked, but she could not. If she might hope that her uncle would take hold of his farm like a man, and redeem his character and his family's happiness on the old place that would have been something; but he had declared a different purpose, and Fleda knew him too well to hope that he would be better than his word. Then they must leave the old homestead, where at least the associations of happiness clung, and go to a strange land. It looked desolate to Fleda, wherever it might be. Leave Queechy!-that she loved unspeakably beyond any other place in the world; where the very hills had been the friends of her childhood, and where she had seen the maples grow green and grow red, through as many coloured changes of her own fortunes; the woods where the shade of her grandfather walked with her and where the presence even of her father could be brought back by memory; where the air was sweeter and the sunlight brighter, by far, than in any other place, for both had some strange kindred with the sunny days of long ago. Fleda turned her face from Mrs Renney, and leaving doubtful prospects and withering comforts for a while, as it were, out of sight, she wept the fair outlines and the red maples of Queechy as if they had been all she had to regret. They had

Poor

never disappointed her. Their countenance had comforted her many a time, under many a sorrow. After all, it was only fancy choosing at which shrine the whole offering of sorrow should be made. She knew that many of the tears that fell were due to some other. It was in vain to tell herself they were selfish; mind and body were in no condition to struggle with anything.

It had fallen dark some time, and she had wept and sorrowed herself into a half-dozing state, when a few words spoken near aroused her.

"It is snowing," was said by several voices.

Going very slow, ain't we?" said Fleda's friend, in a suppressed voice.

66

Yes, 'cause it's so dark, you see; the Captain durstn't let her run."

Some poor witticism followed from a third party about the 'Butterfly's' having run herself off her legs the first time she ever ran at all; and then Mrs Renney went on.

"Is the storm so bad, Hannah ?"

66

'Pretty thick-can't see far ahead-I hope we'll make out to find our way in-that's all I care for."

"How far are we?"

"Not half way yet-I don't know-depends on what headway we make, you know;—there ain't much wind yet, that's a good thing."

"There ain't any danger, is there?"

This, of course, the chambermaid denied, and a whispered colloquy followed, which Fleda did not try to catch. A new feeling came upon her weary heart—a feeling of fear. There was a sad twinge of a wish that she were out of the boat, and safe back again with the Evelyns; and a fresh sense of the unkindness of letting her come away that afternoon so attended. And then, with that sickness of heart, the forlorn feeling of being alone, of wanting some one at hand to depend upon, to look to. It is true, that, in case of real danger, none such could be a real protection; and yet not so neither, for strength and decision can live and make live, where a moment's faltering will kill; and weakness must often falter of necessity. "All the ways of the Lord are mercy and truth" to his people; she thought of that, and yet she feared, for his ways are often what we do not like. A few moments of sick-heartedness and trembling-and then Fleda mentally folded her arms about a few

T

other words of the Bible, and laid her head down in quiet again." The Lord is my refuge and my fortress: my God: in him will I trust."

And then what comes after

"He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler."

Fleda lay quiet till she was called to tea.

"Bless me, how pale you are!" said the housekeeper, as Fleda raised herself up at this summons- -"do you feel very bad, Miss

Fleda ?"

Fleda said, “No.”

"Are you frighted?" said the housekeeper-" there's no need of that-Hannah says there's no need-we'll be in by and by."

"No, Mrs Renney," said Fleda, smiling. "I believe I am not very strong yet.”

The housekeeper and Hannah both looked at her with strangely touched faces, and again begged her to try the refreshment of tea. But Fleda would not go down, so they served her up there, with great zeal and tenderness. And then she waited patiently and watched the people in the cabin, as they sat gossipping in groups or stupefying in solitude; and thought how miserable a thing is existence where religion and refinement have not taught the mind to live in somewhat beyond and above its everyday concerns.

Late at night the boat arrived safe at Bridgeport. Mrs Renney and Fleda had resolved to stay on board till morning, when the former promised to take her to the house of a sister she had living in the town; as the cars would not leave the place till near eleven o'clock. Rest was not to be hoped for meantime in the boat, on the miserable couch, which was the best the cabin could furnish; but Fleda was so thankful to have finished the voyage in safety, that she took thankfully everything else, even lying awake. It was a wild night. The wind rose soon after they reached Bridgeport, and swept furiously over the boat, rattling the tiller chains, and making Fleda so nervously alive to possibilities that she got up two or three times to see if the boat were fast to her moorings. It was very dark, and only by a fortunately placed lantern, she could see a bit of the dark wharf and one of the posts belonging to it, from which the lantern never budged; so, at last quieted, or tired out nature, had her rights, and she slept.