MarR T LE;

OR,

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

AUTHOR OF “ALICE WILDE,” ‘FRONTIER ANGEL,”

LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,

THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

 

 

 
 
THE

CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

 

OH AP PH: ks
THE CITY OF WAKWAKA.

“Mercy! what have we here?”

As he uttered this exclamation, Hugh Fielding pulled at his
horse’s bridle so suddenly that the animal was very nearly
thrown upon his kaunches, which was fortunate, for, had he
taken another step forward, it would have been into the
bosom of a little child asleep and alone upon the prairie.

The rider remained in his saddle a moment, gazing with
astonishment down upon the ground where, half-covered by
the tall grass and gorgeous blossoms, this vision had startled
him. The infant, not more than a year of age apparently,
was a little girl in a white frock, the sleeves of which were
looped up with corals; she had round, rosy limbs, and a sweet
face. A few flowers were grasped in one hand, the other was
under her cheek; one shoe was on, the other lost, while her
little mantle of blue silk was crumpled beneath her feet. As
if in protection, a rose-bush leaned over her, from some of
whose fullest blossoms the leaves had dropped into her golden
hair.

It was not strange that Mr. Fielding was surprised, for he
was eighteen miles from any habitation ; and his piercing eye,
darting its glances in every direction, could detect not the
slightest trace of any other human being. He dismounted
from his horse and took the little one in his arms, who opened

 
 

  

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

a pair of bright eyes and looked vaguely around, then wistful:
ly into his face.
“Mamma!” she cried, in a plaintive voice, again and again,.

but she did not otherwise cry, or make those active demonstra-
tions of grief which her finder dreaded.

Hugh was a man of thirty-three, and ought to have been
the father of several such pretty creatures of his own; but he
was a bachelor, reserved, taciturn, “ unskilled in all tue arts
and wiles” of soothing infants. He was touched almost to
tears by the evident grief and forlornness of the little thing.
She seemed to pine with hunger, too. He placed her upon the
saddle, while he examined the contents of a brown bag which
he had stored with provisions at the last settlement. Dried
venison, hard bread—ah, here were some soda-crackers !—gor-
ry food for the baby that was still perhaps dependent upon a
mother’s bounty for sustenance. But she was too hungry to
be particular; she seized upon the cracker, and ate it with a
relish, and, after finishing what was given her, looked at her
new friend and smiled, That confiding smile went straight to
his heart and stirred in it a new sensation.

What was to be done? Ofcourse, he thought not for an
instant of abandoning the child to the destruction of solitude;
but a baby-girl was not the most desirable companion for a
man going into a new country to hunt and fish, and dwell
alone wherever his fancy might prompt him to wander. A
sudden thought that the parents might also be sleeping some-
where in the vicinity, improbable as it was, occurred to him;
and he forthwith halloed so lustily that his charge began to
cry with fright, when he left off and began soothing her, pat-
ting her golden head, with some rather ineffectual efforts at
baby-talk. ‘

Mounting his horse again, and keeping her in his arms, he
took a circuit of a mile around the spot, hoping to find the
lost guardians. But the tiny shoe which mated the one upon
her foot, and a blue ribbon-sash hanging upon the thorps of a
rose-bush, were all that he discovered.

Something in the color of the blue scarf, and something in
the color of the baby’s eyes, which were a soft, bright, dark
hazel, reminded him of a history in his past life which it was
& part of his purpese in coming West to forget. He thought

 
 

  
  

    

CAMPING ON THE PRAIRIE. 7
it very ridiculous in himself to connect things sv remote from
each other, even in fancy; nevertheless, he Grew the child
closer to his heart and spoke to it in the softest tone of his
deep and musical voice.

But what was to bedone? The sun was going down be:
hind the earth as into @ sea of emerald and jasper. He had
meant to pass the prairie before night; but now he thought it
best to remain where he was, in the faint hope that some one
would come to claim his charge. He had come upon a little
brook trickling through the grass in a gully, as he described
the circle of a mile, with a little clump of trees to which he
could fasten his horse, making it a desirable place upon which
to camp out. Here he alighted and began preparations for
the night. His little companion, left to herself upon the
grass, commenced again her plaintive cry after “mamma,
mamma!” Occasionally, in the course of preparing his sup-
per, he would try to beguile her away from the one desire
which yearned in her forlorn little heart, but in vain. Like a
dove moaning in the wilderness, she kept up her sorrowful
cry. A few sticks broken from the dead branch of a tree
furnished him with materials for a fire, which he kindled upon
the ground, the prairie grass ‘being too green to endanger its
burning. In a little tin-pot he boiled a cup of tea, a portion
of which he sweetened for the child, but she was too much
grieved to be induced to partake of it. His steed, who had
quenched his thirst in the stream, cropped at his leisure the
fragrant blossoms and rich verdure about his feet.

By the time the meal of tea, toasted crackers, and dried
meat was over, twilight had descended over the scene, and the
infant had sobbed her poor, weary little self to sleep. Mr.
Fielding took a blanket from his portmanteau, and, being
nearly as tired as she, took the sleeper to his bosom tenderly,
wrapped the blanket about them, and, with some of theif
traps for a pillow, disposed himself for the night,

Before slumber stole upon his conjectures, he had concluded
that the mystery might be accounted for by the fact that the
Indians had lately been troublesome, and that there were re-
ports at the last settlements of their having been seen prow::
ing about the neighborhood for the past few days.

How sad and terrible it must be if some emigrant family had

   
 

8 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

been attacked by them, the father murdered, the mother borne
off into slavery, and the child left to perish! What agony
must not that mother at this moment be enduring! Was
she young and beautiful? Had she eyes like those of the in-
fant whose soft breath played over his cheek? Thete had
been no traces of any murderous struggle about the spot where
he found the babe; but they might have taken it with thém
some distance and thrown it away at last, because it impeded
their flight. Thus mused the traveler until his fancies melted
into indistinct visions; and, with only his horse for guard and
his gun for defense, he slumbered as sweetly upon the wide
plain as he had ever done in the spacious halls of a luxurious
civilization.

A kiss upon his cheek and the caress of a soft hand awoke
him in the morning; and he dreamed for a blissful moment
thnt he was a married man.

“ Dear Myrtle,” he said, in a rapturous tone, at which the
baby laughed, asif familiar with the name, thereby awakening
him to a sense of his situation. Quickly the sweet dream van-
ished; and, as he sprang to his feet, ready dressed, for a mo-
ment a cloud of pain was upon his brow; but it faded present-
ly as he became absorbed in his culinary preparations, while
his companion sat upon the blanket and watched his move-
ments with a pretty curiosity.

After breakfast, the two resumed their journey, Mr. Field-
ing thinking it useless to wait there any longer. The child
sat quietly in front of him, seeming to enjoy the ride, and yet
musing over some secret grief of her own; but she had no
language by which to tell either her grief or sorrow, except
her one word, “mamma.”

The hot July sun was very endurable to Mr. Fielding, who
avas almost a world-wide traveler. But he observed that it
scorched the lovely face of his companion, who had no bonnet
to shelter her from its rays; so he contrived an impromptu
shade out of his handkerchief.
| It was nearly noon when they reached the city of Wakwa-
ka, which was, for the present, the destination of the travel-
ers. As they left the prairie and ascended a slight eminence
which gave them a view of the town and surrounding scenery,
Hugh reined in his horse and gazed for a while upon the
  

 

  

ARRIVAL AT WAKWAKA,. 9
novel prospect. A long, river-like lake, whose bright blue
waters lay smooth beneath the cloudless sky, flowed along be-
tween high banks of singular beauty. These bluff-like banks
stretched back into narrow emerald plains, from which rose
again beautiful wooded hills, between which he could catch
glimpses of another glorious prairie beyond. At the foot of
the eminence upon which he now was, along the south bank
as smooth and fair as a terrace, lay the fifty houses which
composed the present city of Wakwaka. About half of these
were of canvas, gleaming whitely in the sunlight; the rest
were of boards put rudely together, and three or four brick
buildings which did not seem completed. The fact is, this
ambitious and flourishing town had not been in existence six
months before, its exact age being five months and one week.
The virgin beauty of the lake-shore was already defaced by a
dock, from which a little steamboat had just puffed cheerily
away, leaving the group of men who had gathered at the land-
ing to look after‘her a few moments, and then turn again to
their different employments.

Mr. Fielding spurred up his horse and rode down along the
street, taking, as he passed along with his gun on his shoulder
aud a baby_in his arms, the place of the departed steamer in
the interest and curiosity of the people. ~

It is doubted if any in the motley crowd who had gathered
from various impulses of self-interest in that new city, could
more truly be called adventurers than the couple who now
made their way to the principal and in truth the only hotel.
It was Hugh Fielding’s business to seek adventure; and, as
for the little girl, she, alas, by some strange and mysterious
fortune, had been cast into a unique situation which promised
only singular experiences.

The theater chosen for her first appearance in her new
part scemed altogether appropriate. It wasa stage upon which
almost any new drama might be performed with unprecedent-
ed success. The cloth houses, the sound of hammers, the flag
fluttering from the top of the one-story hotel, the rattle of an
omuibus, the distant hills, the lovely lake, the flowers and
berries growing upon the very street of the city, formed no
more strange a jumble of objects than her life might form of
events.

 

  
 

10 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

Tne arrival of a new-comer, though of constant occurrence,
was still a matter of intense interest to the dwellers in Wak-
waka; and the crowd upon the landing proceeded across the
way and gathered about the front of the hotel to welcome with
inquisitive eyes the approach of the strangers.

Hugh was not a man to be embarrassed eyen by the noyel
charge held so gently in his arm. One glance upon the group
of shrewd, speculative, yet cool faces about him, revealed to
him the elements upon which the rapidity of Western civiliza-
tion depends.

He smiled slightly as he glanced at the house built of rough
boards with canyas wings, like some strange, unfeathered bird
just settled froma flight, and thought of how he had often
rested beneath the shadow of the Coliseum.

“Haye our new house done next week—that brick yonder,”
said the landlord, who already had his horse by the bridle, as
he detected the ‘smile. 5

“Have you any women in the house ?” asked Hugh.

“Lots of them,” was the ready response,

“Well, take this child in, and haye them provide some
bread-and-milk for her, if you please.”

The curiosity expressed in the neighboring faces gave
place to a look of admiration ag he took his handkerchief
from the head of the little girl, The extreme beauty of her
infant countenance delighted even the coarsest in the crowd.
Her golden hair curled up in short, shining ringlets, which
hung like a garland about her head, the crown of her ex-
quisite loveliness. She shrank and clung to her protector
when the landlord went to take her; but when Hugh asked
her to go, she obeyed. A woman, who had been looking
from a window, was already at the door to take her within
and minister to her comfort.

Mr, Fielding, as he dismounted, found himself in a group
of men, most of them intelligent, many educated, all ready to
ask after the world they had left, and to give all the infor-
mation desired about their new home and its prospects.
He soon related the story of the child’s being found by fim
and it was unanimously concluded that its parents had fallen
a prey to some revengeful Indians who did not dare open
warfare, but sometimes attacked unprotected cmigrants. Great
MYRTLE FIELDING. - ‘tT

pity and interest were felt; and twenty fiery hearts blazed
up with a determination to hunt out and punish the maraud-
ers, if any traces of them could be found. The next thing
proposed was that each man present should subscribe a sum
toward the proper support and education of the Child of the
Prairie (as one imaginative person proposed she should be
called); and several hundred dollars were offered on the spot.
But Mr. Fielding, with many thanks for their generosity, told
them that, although he was, and always expected to be, a
bachelor, and had hitherto regarded children as rather need-
less and unjustifiable intruders upon people’s time and com-
fort, yet, as Providence had thrown this one in his way, and
he was very well able to provide for her, and already loved
the motherless little creature, he should himself see that she
was well taken care of.

A low cheer of approval broke from some of the young men*
and they gathered about the windows and doors to get an-
other peep at the pretty heroine who was being lionized by
all the females of the house.

Hugh only waited to shake the dust of travel off him, and
partake of the dinner waiting upon a long table in the canvas
dining-hall, before he went to inquire after his charge. She
had eaten her bread and milk, and was sitting in her nurse’s
lap very patiently, making no trouble, but with two great
tears glittering upon her eyelids, ready to fall. When she
saw Hugh, she laughed, and came eagerly to his arms. It
was evident that she was a delicate flower, to be guarded
from too broad sunshine and too severe storms. She seemea
dismayed to receive so much attention from strangers, and
clung to him with an affection which made him feel how im-
possible it was for him to abandon her. —

“ What are you going to name her?” asked one.

“T believe I shall call her Myrtle,” replied Hugh.

“What makes you give her such an out-of-the-way name
as that ?” said another. “Mary would be much more to my
mind.” :

“1t was the name of a friend of mine,” he answered ; “and,
besides, the meaning of Myrtle is ‘love’—a pretty meaning for
a child’s or a woman’s name; though the name does not al
ways indicate the character,” he added, with a sigh.

 
 
 

 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

12 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

“ As true as I am born,” said the first speaker, “if the initial
on the clasp of her corals is not‘ MY! But, of course, her
name must have been Mary.”

“ Of course it was,” added the second.

“YT think Myrtle will be very pretty,” said a sweet voice in
the corner.

Hugh looked that way.

“Do you know, madam,” he inquired, “ where I could find
some kind woman who would take care of her a few days un-
til I get my plans somewhat arranged? She shall be well
rewarded.”

“J will take her with pleasure, and wish no reward, of
course, She will be company for me,” answered the lady.

With this pleasant person, who was tke young bride of a
lawyer who had come out to take advantage of the making of
® new country, and whose winning ways were well suitsd
to soothe the timid child. Mr. Fielding left his little Myrtle.

 
THREE HUNDRED ACRES. 18

OH. APP Da Ris I
MR. FIELDING’S ESTABLISHMENT.

A weEeEx from thence Mr. Fielding was settled to his heart's
content. He had succeeded in purchasing three hundred acrea
lying along the shores of the lake, and including some of its
most romantic portions, at a distance of not more than two
miles from the city. It was not his intention to live in any
community, unless it were a community of pheasants, par-
tridges, deer, and wild-turkeys ; and, if it had not been for his
finding of baby Myrtle, he would have camped out until cold
weat her, making excursions of several days’ length.

It was the fresh and wonderful loveliness of the pure waver
and its surrounding scenery, looking as if here for untold years
nature had made one of her sweetest retiring-places, that in-
duced him to stop near Wakwaka.

In a sheltered nook, protected from any stray winds which
might prove too strong for it, and overlooking the water at its
most beautiful point, he erected his canvas house. The op-
posite shore was lined with a wooded bank, a hill peering
over its shoulder in the distance; and he had but to walk a
few steps from the door to look down one of the loveliest vis-
tas in the world of prairie-land, broken by clumps of trees, and
glittering for a time with a silvery edge of water.

Mr. Fielding was a little tinged with misanthropy—as much
s0 as a man of his mingled dignity and generosity of character
could be—and there may have been some very good reason
for it. Certainly he did not look like a person to whom mis-
anthropy came by nature or inheritance.

He had intended to live alone ; but his finding of that stray
waif upon the prairie had altered his determination. So he
had two rooms to his impromptu house, one of which was oc-
cupied by a neat old lady who had consented to take charge
of his domestic affairs, including little Myrtle.

 
 
 

14 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

For a man who had criticised the palaces of the Old World,
his apartment could not be said to display that love of beauty
which was one of the strong elements of his character. A
bedstead—whose posts, so far frorn being polished by the hand
of art, wore still the shining bark with which nature had
dressed them—was fitted to receive the buffalo-skin and blank-
ets heaped upon it. A shot-gun and light rifle hung upon the
wall, except when out with their owner; and the traps of a
hnnter and the clothes of a gentleman filled the little room in-
discriminately. But, upon a home-made table in a corner,
some glimpses of a finer taste were apparent. Perhaps a
dozen favorite books of poetry and philosophy were piled upon
M, a flute lay by their side, and a brown stone mug in the cen-
ter was never without its bouquet of wild-flowers.

The wher half of the house was kitchen and parlor; and
nobody wuld guess that it was bedroom also, during the
mght, dia they not notice a little frame with blankets inside
turned up «nugly against the wall in the corner furthest from
the stove.

“TI decrare, Mrs. Muggins, this is really delightful!” said
Mr. Fielding, in his earnest, pleasant way, the first evening
they sat down to tea.

A cool wind blew over the lake and in at the door; wood-
land and water glowed in the sunset light; and he could see
it all from his place at the table.

A white cloth was on the board, and a brace of pheasants,
and fish from the lake, and golden corn pone upon that; and
upon one side sat the smart old lady, pouring tea into twc
little cups of blue earthenware, her clean cap on, and her eyes
stealing satisfied glances at the perfection with which the fish
was “done brown.” And, loveliest sight of all, at the other
side, in a high chair, bought in the city, with her bowl of
bread and milk before her, sat the beautiful baby Myrtle, smil-
ing over at her friend, and shedding sunshine over the place
by her bright, innocent countenance.

Mrs. Muggins probably thought that her companion referred
entirely to the looks of the dishes before him.

“Tam glad if you like my cooking, Mr. Fieldin’; T’ve gen-
erally ben reckoned a. purty good me at it,” she answered,
complacently.

  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
MR. FIELDING’S HOUSEKEDPER, 45

“T do like your cooking,” he responded, emphatically, as ha
helped himself to pheasant. “And J like the quiet of this
place, too; so serene, so beautiful. If one had only traveled
tc Switzerland or Italy in search of it, he would go crazy with
rapture ; but, as it is only American, I suppose it can not be
compared. I think I shall like this way of living very much,
Mrs. Muggins; and, if you and Myrtle like it as well as I, 1
think we shall get along admirably.”

“ Nobody "ll complain of you, if they don’t,” said his house-
keeper. ‘“ You must feel e’en a’most as if you was the father
of that child; and a beauty she be, poor thing! She’s no
more trouble than nothing. The ladies at the tavern made
her plenty of clothes, and I've only to take care of them
Did you say you had never been married, Mr. Fieldin’ ?”

“ Neyer, to my knowledge.”

“T declare, that’s cur’us! Such a likely man too,”

“T suppose that I ought to be married,” was the light reply ;
“but, with you to attend to my comfort, and this little crea-
ture here-to care for, I think I must get excused.”

“Did you ever meet with a disappintment ?” asked Mrs,
Muggins.

The gentleman looked down suddenly into his cup and
commenced stirring his tea,

“ Perhaps,” he answered. “ What if I had?”

“ Nothin’, only I don’t think you desarved it. I guessed as
much when I heard you a playin’ on that fife afore supper—it
sounded so heart-broken like.” ;

“Quite a compliment to my playing; but I assure you I
am far from heart-broken. There is not a soundcr-hearted
man in Wakwaka, And remember, Mrs. Muggins, I haye
not confessed to a disappointment.”

So saying, having finished his tea, he took Myrtle in his
arms, and went and sat in the door of his own room,

“The girl must haye ben a fool who cheated him,” mur-
mured the old lady, as she washed up the tea-things; “but
as like as not she died.”

In the mean time, Hugh sat holding the child on his knee.
talking to her lovingly, and trying to learn her to say some
words. Something in her dark eyes of a peculiar, smiling
sweetness thrilled him, as if once more he gazed into the eyes

 
 
 

16 THE OHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

of an older Myrtle whom he had tried to banish from his
thoughts for five long years:
“But still her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,
Her timid words of maiden welcome
Come back to him once more.”

The spell of memory was irresistible. He looked earnestly
inte the face of the child, covered her forehead with kisses,
and, drawing her golden head to his bosom, sang her softly to
sleep, while he abandoned himself to the past, which returned
to him as if it were of yesterday. Again Myrtle Vail, the girl
of eighteen, stood before him, the blush’ upon her fair cheek
creeping down upon the snowy neck until it lost itself in the
shadow of her brown tresses, while her head was slightly bent,
and her red lip trembled as she said the word which assured
him that he had not bestowed his passionate, but pure and
earnest admiration in vain. Again he felt the trembling of
the hand he had ventured to prison in his own, and again he
won the timid but soulful glance of those sweet eyes as he
tempted them to search his.

Again he endured the bitter sorrow of parting with her,
as necessury business called him to Europe for a space of near-
ly two years; and again he endured the far bitterer agony of
a return just in time to see her give her hand to a man in
every way his inferior—younger, handsomer, perhaps, in an
effeminate beauty, but vain, immature, carelessly educated, un-
fit to call forth the riches of the spirit which he had dreamed
floated beneath the service in Myrtle’s gentle character. Again
he saw the pallor overspread her face, as, looking up, after
pronouncing the yows which made her recreant to him, she
met his eyes, and thus knew, for the first time, that he had
returned.

Here he roused himself from his thoughts. He cared not

to trace his abrvyt departure from that place and his subse-
quent restless wanderings.

“Here I shall find peace, if not happiness,” he murmured,
His own voice called him back to the present. Myrtle was
asleep upon his breast, and the night air was blowing almost
too chilly upon her, :

  
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
    
Sweet,

ROGRESS OF WAKWAKL 1?

CHAPTER III.

MR. FIELDING’S HABITS AND VISITORS.

JonaAw’s gourd, which sprang up and flourished in a night,
was rivaled by the city of Wakwaka. Every time Mr. Ficld-
ing went to town he was surprised by the improvements su
rapidly made. Building materials could not be furnished ia
the abundance required; and, while good-looking brick stores
were going up, and the solid stone foundation for a fine court-
house being laid, cloth houses were still the fashion, and con-
sidered very cool and airy summer residences by the most
aristocratic.

Foresight was preparing, however, for the winter, as fast as
lumber could be obtained, or clay turned into brick, residences
more substantial. It was wonderful how the future prospect
of elegant, perhaps palatial, mansions, upon the wide and beau-
tifully situated lots they occupied, reconciled delicate ladies,
who had once been extremely fastidious, to brave the horrors
of canyas and two rooms and all the hardships of a new set-
tlement. Not such hardships as the sturdy pioneers endure
who break up the wilderness and cause it to blossom like a
rose; for Wakwaka was in daily communication with one of
the great arteries of travel of the country, and there was no
peril of fear or loneliness, nor privation of any luxuries, except
those of elegant furniture and spacious abodes.

“ And these we shall have very soon,” said the ladies ot
Wakwaka, as they laughed at their little trials, or condoled
with each other upon the absence of accustomed comforts.

And still, attracted by the growing fame of the new city,
adventurers came hurrying in from every boat: men of broken-
down fortunes; youths of courage and energy, too hopeful
and fiery to await the slower chances of an old-settled country ;
some already rich speculators; and many hardy sons of toil,
which last took up the beautiful prairie-land and turned it 1n-

 
 
   
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

 

 

i8

 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

to productive farms without cost or labor more than they
would have had to give to cultivated land in most places,

All this hurry, and growth, and strangeness, and joyful ex-
pectations produced an excitement unknown and unappreciated
where the crust of selfishness and conventionality has har-
dened. Men were met with hearty grasps of the hand, which
gave their hearts as much cheer as it gave their fingers pain.
Not that human nature was acted upon by the beautiful in-
fluences of Wakwaka to become otherwise than as it always is;
selfishness was rampant, no doubt, in many minds, shrewd,
cool, and calculating; but large prospects of rapid gains and
the absence of old-time formalities had, for a season at least,
expanded the hearts of her people.

And it can not be said but that a constant reminder of the
lavish generosity aud beauty of nature—silently spoken by her
blooming prairies rolling one after another into almost infinite
distance, her wood-crowned hills, and free, magnificent waters

-—had some effect upon the souls of those who enjoyed this

profusion of her riches,

September, October, and November drifted by in a long,
unbroken shower of golden sunshine, giving the new settlers
good time to prepare for winter.

Mr. Fielding was not altogether idle during that time. He
had his canvas house boarded up, and many little comforts
added to it; and sent East for a store of books with which to
beguile the winter evenings.

Hunting and fishing were his principal occupations.

Such sesene enjoyment had not been his for several years a3
through that glorious autumn. He was a lover of the beautt
ful in nature as well asin art. While his physical powers
were >xercised and invigorated by his out-of-doors life, his
spiritual nature was fed with the yery honey of existence.
Cloudless skies, serene and deep, hung over water and land,
rich purple mists hung at morning around the horizon, but at
mid-day it was changed to a belt of gold; every few days the
prairies changed their hues, now gorgeous with crimson, and
anon with yellow, and again with scarlet flowers. It was not
so much to startle the partridge out of the long grass, or to
chase the deer to the cover of the wood, that he slung his gun
upon his shoulder, although he kept the house well supplied
THE RED HUNTERS. = 19

wh the choicest game, as it was to be out alone in the midst
of boundless and ever-varying beauty, free to dream and to
think, while breathing in life of body and liberty of svul.

Sometimes his excursions were several days in length; bnt
a yearning after the sweet smile and prattle of little Myrtle al-
ways brought him home sooner than he had anticipated.

Her joyous cry, as she bounded to his arms, was his reward,
and he fully believed the declaration of Mrs. Muggins that the
child always “ paled and pined” in his absence.

She had learned to call him “papa;” and Mr. Fielding
sometimes laughed aloud in his solitude while fancying the as-
tonishment of his friends in various parts of the world—who
had given him up as an incorrigible bachelor, which he in-
tended still to remain—could they have a peep at him in his
cabin, with his old-lady housekeeper and his adopted daughter,
But he was happier than he had been in their frivolous so-
siety.

Prairie-fires, gleaming in the distance, and sweeping near,
illuminating the nights with fitful radiance, began to be a fea-
ure of the svenery, after the November frosts had parched
the grass to the likeness of a rustling sea of jasper.

Mr. Fielding had an imagination which was not proof
against splendor and novelty combined; and, upon one occa-
sion, when the lonely night found him wandering over a hil!
with his gun in his hand, and one of these fires sprang from
& distant wood and ran over the prairie until extinguished
by contact with the lower edge of the lake, he was guilty of
geome lines like these :— :

THE RED HUNTERS.

Out of the wood at midnight
The swift red hunters came;

The prairie was their hunting-ground;
The bisons were their game; |

Their spears were of glittering silver,
Their crests were of blue and gold ;

Iiriven by the panting winds of heaven
Their shining chariots roll’d.

Over that level racing-course—
Oh, what a strife was there !

What a shouting! what a threatening ery’
What a murmur upon the air

 
 
   
 
  
    
    
   
  
   
   
   
  
   
   
 
  
   
    
   
 
 
 
   
 
 
   

 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

Their garments over the glowing wheels
Stream’d backward red and far.

They floated their purple banners
In the face of each pale star.

Under their tread the autumn flowers
By millions withering lay ; i
Poor things that from those golden wheeis
Could nowhere shrink away !
Close and crashing together
The envious chariots roll’d;
While anon, before his fellows
Leap’d out some hunter bold.

Their black hair, thick and lowering
Above their wild eyes hung,
And about their frowning foreheads
Like wreaths of iaitiaihde clung. ?
“The bisons, lo, the bisons!”
They cried and answer’d back.
The frighten’d creatures stood aghast
To sce them on their track.

With a weary, lumbering swiftness
They seek the river’s side,

Driven by those hunters from their sleep
Into its chilling tide.

Some face the foe, with anguish
Dilating their mute eyes,

Till the spears of silver strike them low,
And dead each suppliané lies.

Now, by the brightening river,
The red hunters stand at bay—
Vain their appalling splendor—
The water shields their prey.
Into its waves with baffled rage
They leap in death’s despite—
The golden wheels roll roaring in,
Leaving the wither’d night.

While Mr. Fielding was copying this effusion the next after-
noon, some ladies called to see him; or rather they said they “ao
had come to see Myrtle; but, when young women walk two
miles to call at a house where there is a pretty child and a
yich and handsome old bachelor, people are at liberty to draw
their own conclusions as to which is the greater attraction.
For appearance’s sake, however, they praised and petted the
little creature, who was pleasing enough to give a coloring to
all their admiration; and did not fail to pay compliments to
Mrs. Muggins for the way im which she took care of ber.
a

MISS MINNIE GREGGS. 21
Some Lonbons and cakes they had for her, too, which delight.
ed her at the time, and made her ill afterward.

It is a strange fact, that when a gentleman scems to shun
their society, and especially with a shade of melancholy about
his unsociableness, the ladies are certain to be infatuated with
him; and vice versa. Whether this arises from sympathy, or
a wish to prove one’s own attractions and powers upon so
indifferent a subject, or from the interest which always clings
to any thing mysterious, or from all three combined, who shall
say? These four young women could any of them have been
surrounded by admirers, and each had her choice out of two
or three, without troubling herself to walk out to Mr. Field-
ing’s upon the small chance of attracting his attention. For,
as yet, the men were largely in advance, in point of numbers,
of the female population of Wakwaka; and, what was better,
they were all ready, or nearly ready, to provide for a wife;
and thus the girls were in no danger of that forlorn fate which
sometimes overtakes spinsters in the older States, where the
chances for getting a living are fewer, and from whence all the
enterprising young men have gone West.

It may have been the beauty of the afternoon and the beauty
of the baby, after all, which led them so far.

“Tam so fond of children; and this is such a sweet little
thing !” cried Miss Minnie Greggs, looking up to the gentleman
confidingly, and then kissing pretty Myrtle so suggestively ;
after which, she tossed back her jetty ringlets, and looked up
again for sympathy.

Mr. Fielding smiled into her saucy black eyes. He could
not help admiring the wiles which he understood.

“She is very lovely in all regards,” he said, “and becomes

more dear me all the time. J used to think children were

nuisances; but I am glad of the chance which threw this one
in my path. She has become my morning-star.”

“But don’t you think she will need some other feminine
influence in molding her character than that of Mrs. Muggins 2”
asked Miss Bluebird, sentimentally, in too low a tone for the
housekeeper’s dull ears. “Some one who will take the place
of a mother—a refined being—whose looks and tones would—”

“Resemble those of my friend, Miss Bluebird,” broke in
Minnie Gregg, with the gravity of the wickedest mischief.

 
   

22 , THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

“How can you! I declare! I shall be offended with
you,” cried that lady, blushing, while the others laughed.

Hugh did not laugh: some stern thought seemed to have
crossed his genial humor. “No, Miss Bluebird,” he answered
almost severely, “I want no influences except those of nature,
and of music, and well-chosen books about this child, with
such sentiments of truth and fidelity, purity and earnestness
of heart, as I can fnstill into her. She shall be raised outside
of society. She shall not be taught vanity and artifice; and
then, if she fails in being what I desire, I shall believe that
Mother Eve never entirely deserts her children.”

For a few moments he was rather taciturn. Miss Minnie
rallied from a remark she was afraid was intended as rather
personal, and changed the subject.

“ Have you heard the news, Mr. Fielding? ‘You have not}
You know those horrible Indians that we have all been so
afraid of ?” 3

“ We?” inquired a fearless-looking girl, who was evidently
ready for almost any kind of an impromptu adventure.

“Well, everybody else but you, then—even the men. We
are going to have a regiment stationed near us this winter to
keep the Indians at a distance. Just think of it—won’t it be
delightful? The officers will be apt to be such pleasant men,
you know. And we shall have balls, of course.”

“Thad been teazing mother to send me back to our old
home for the winter, until I heard of this,” said the other girl
of the group; “but now I am quite content to stay.”

“TY wonder why it is that the girls always have such a pas-
sion for an epaulet on a man’s shoulder,” said Mr. Fielding,
recovering his equanimity. ‘The glitter of an officer's insignia
will make any man irresistible.”

“ Because we like our opposites; and soldiers are supposed
to be brave as we are weak. We like to be defended,” said
Miss Bluebird.

“T do not like officers half as well as farmers or hunters,”
said the brave Miss Thomas, with a saucy glance at Hugh.

“By the way,” suddenly exclaimed Minnie Greggs, “I had
almost forgotten to tell you what Lieutenant Serles related to
me, last evening, about a party who were taken by the Indians.
I was telling him about you and little Myrtle. You know the

 
   
THE EMIGRANTS AND THE INDIANS, 23

men who yolunteered from here never found any traces of the
savages, But the lieutenant says that about that time and
place a party of the Indians were known to have made a de-
scent upon two emigrant wagons in the night where they had
camped at the edge of a prairie. The helpless families were
not dreaming of any danger, for the savages had not been
roublesome for a long time, and they supposed their nearness
to a settlement was sufficient security. They murdered the
two men, hitched the horses to the wagons, and drove off with
the women and children until they reached the cover of a

deep forest, where they left the wagons, and tying the w>men

to the animals, hurried them off to some secret retreat of theirs
far away from here. The child may have been thrown aside
as burdensome, or dropped .by the mother in attempting to
effect her own escape.”

“Were the names of those unfortunate persons known ?”
asked Mr. Fielding, with great interest.

“The elder of the two men was called Parker, I believe, as
ascertained at the last village they stopped at The other was
Sherwood, a young man; and his wife, they said, was young
and very beautiful.”

“Great Heaven !”

Hugh had turned as pale as death, and sank upon his chair.

“Did you know them ?” asked all, in a startled tone.

“Tam quite sure they are the same,” he said, after some
time of agitated silence. ‘Poor Myrtle, I believe I named
thee aright! I believe I gave thee thy mother’s name !”

“ What does the lieutenant think has become of the female
captives? Has no attempt been made to rescue them ?”

“Many searches have been organized. An Indian has been
arrested who declares that they were murdered when it was
found impossible to get them safely away.”

“ Circumstances seem to corroborate his account. There is
no doubt that the awful story is true.”

“Poor orphan! Henceforth thou art doubly my own,”
said Hugh, as he took the child in his arms. He was evidently
s» stricken with deep anguish that the young ladies dared not
ofer their sympathy, but retired almost in silence.

How much Mr. Fielding suffered that night will be known
only to himself and Heaven. The next day he went to

 
    

THA CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

Wakwaka and sought out the officer who had communicated
the story to Miss Greggs. The substance of the story was
corroborated by him; but he said he doubted if the name of
the younger couple was Sherwood. He had been told since
that it was Smith.

But there was something in Myrtle’s eyes which convinced
him that she was the child of the Myrtle whom once he had
thought to call his own. Her falsehood was forgotten now—
only her fearful and untimely fate was thought of.

To make assurance doubly sure, he wrote back to the East
to her friends to inquire if she and her husband had emigrated
to the West, and learned, in a mournful letter from a relative,
that they had started for that very city of Wakwaka, and
had not been heard from since.

Mr. Fielding did not tell them that he had a child supposed
to be the daughter of Myrtle. As the father and mother of
the young wife were neither of them living, he thought he
had as good a claim to her as any one now left; and he felt
that he could not resign her, at least for the present. Besides,
he had the benefit of a doubt as to whether they had really
any claims to this mysterious Child of the Prairie,

te
WINTER IN WAKWAKA, 25

CH ASP TE Re V.
MYRTLE FIELDING’S EDUCATION.

Winter came for the first time upon the city of Wakwaka,
The lake was frozen; the little steamer was safe at her moor-
ings, laid up for the season; the everlasting sound of the put-
ting up of houses was almost at an end; the communication
with other parts of the world was cut off, save by wagen’ con-
veyance; the daily mail became a weekly one; and the citi-
zens and speculators ceased to talk about wild land and city
improvements, and turned to considering the prospect of a
railroad which should connect them with the East, and be
feasible all the year round.

Railroad speculations could not engross their minds entirely,
and in their leisure hours they were ready for any kind of
gayety which could be improvised. The young girls talked
about the fort and the officers through the day, and dressed
for frolics in the evening. They had sleigh-rides and sur-
prise-parties, and weddings were not entirely wanting. Every
week they had a ball at the new brick hotel, the Wakwaka
House. The most aristocratic attended these dances (of course
they had an aristocracy, though it was not as yet clearly
defined and decidedly fenced off with the sharp palings of
ceremony), receiving attention from all respectable persons
present; while a general spirit of freshness and vivacity pre-
vailed, which made all deficiences sources of merriment, and
diffused more real pleasure than all the balls that Mrs. Poti-
phar ever gave.

_If the girls showed too decided a partiality for officers’ uni
forms, the young city beaux bore it with commendable indif-
ference, and took their harmless reyenges all in good time.

Mr. Fielding was the gentleman par excellence, however:
first, he was handsome; second, he was rich; third, he was
reserved; fourth, melancholy ; fifth, mysterious; sixth, he was

.

 
  

26 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

not a marryiug man—six good reasons why he should be
sought after. He was not perfect, although the ladies called
him so, and therefore he must be excused for the small por-
tion of his sex’s vanity which he inherited, which made him
not insensible, to the curiosity he piqued and the favorable
impressions he made. This consciousness upon the part of
the men is very detestable, and exists usually with no good
grounds to found it upon; but in his case there was much to
command attention, and he really received it with dignity
and nourished his self-complacency but very little upon it.

He could not have been called a gloomy man; and per-
haps even the melancholy the ladies invested him with was
half in their imaginations; though certainly during the first
of the season there was the pallor of suppressed sorrow upon
his brow. But his nature was a mingling of sunny geniality
with a deep reserve; the warmth breaikng out when subjects
of common interest, such as music, beauty, or art, were being
discussed, and the reserve following upon any reference to
himself personally.

The life he now lived suited him well. He had the advan-
tages of solitude and society both, When in town, he was
petted and made a favorite ; when out in his own little cabin,
he was away from the world of action as completely as if
buried in the cell of a hermit. He would have pined for
those things which make a city endurable to a gifted mind—
rich music, glorious pictures, works of art and luxury; but,
for the present, nature was all those and more to a mind sati-
ated with too much living. And then the novelty of playing
father to a little girl! It was a very pleasant family circle,
that of his home. Mrs. Muggins was as tidy as she was talka-
tive; though he had a way of checking an excess of the latter
virtue when it became wearisome. She kept little Myrtle as
neat and beautiful as a lily, so that the fastidious bachelor
could call her to his knee without fear of offence from soiled
face or soiled garments. The child was more than the amuse-
ment of his idle hours. He took almost a mother’s interest
in the unfolding of the pure flower of her soul, the new de-
yelopments of her mind, and the rapid expansion of her physi-
eal powers: And, while he delighted to teach her, she alsc
taught him—many lessons of guileless faith, and the simplicity

    
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
 

t*

  
>

TT *<

 

  

FATE OF MISS BLUEBIRD.

of fanocenes, and the loveliness of nature as God made it in
its freshness.

So, with books and his flute, hunting, and his visits to
town, the winter passed by. He stood up as groomsman at
the wedding of pretty Minnie Greggs with the young lieuten-
ant. Miss Bluebird avowed that he seemed preyed upon by
secret grief during the evening; but no one else felt assured
of it; and she could not win him to unbosom his concealed
unhappiness—which, “like a worm i?’ the bud,” fed on his
heart—to her sympathy. So, out of revenge, she shortly after
married a dry-goods merchant, who, at this present writing, is
spoken of as one of the founders of Wakwaka, and who has
retired to a residence upon the banks of the lake, adjoining
Mr. Fielding’s three hundred acres, and who can count him-
self worth two hundred thousand in Wakwaka railroad stock,
and one hundred thousand in town lots, besides his pretty
yilla and grounds where he resides.

The spring came, and other summers and winters passed,
and still Hugh Fielding lived in his cabin, hunted, fished, read,
dreamed, philosophized, and seemed to change in nothing, for
the years sat lightly upon him. He was content to be a kind
of wonder to his neighbors, and to do ashe pleased. The
city grew and thrived apace; and, as the banks of the
lake became thronged with beautiful residences, many a
glittering lure was held out to induce him to part with his
precious bit of land. But he was not to be tempted. Not an
acre would he part with. “Selfish,” said some. “ Holding
on for an enormous price,” said others. “No eye for beauty
—no taste. Allowing such an Eden to run wild] I wish J
had it,” said many a wealthy person of cultivated ideas, who
coveted his possessions.

Despite of all he had his own way about it, He did not
even “improve” the scenery, except here and there to plant a:
tree or thin one out, to have decaying timber taken off, and:
some beautiful level stretches kept clear for the strawberries
and wild-roses, and the underbrush cleared from a grove of
elms and maples which inclined down to the water’s-edge at’
one picturesque point.

Thera was only another room added to his cabin, which:
was meade necessary by the accumulation of books, pictures,

 

  
   
   
 
   
   
  
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
  

 

28 SHH CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.
and. the like, which he often sent East for. This new room,
out of respect for Myrtle, was prettily carpeted, and had a
little rocking-vhair, and flower-stand, and some other hand-
some things in it. In the mean time, while the city was
growing large, and Mrs. Muggins growing old, and every
thing advancing or retarding, of course little Myrtle did not
stand still. A will-o’-the-wisp or a butterfly would have stood
still sooner than she. She giew in size, in health, and in
beauty. The nature which threatened at first too great a de-
gree of sensitiveness and fear, hardened and grew fearless in
the fresh air and unrestrained life of her country home. In
the warm weather, she, like her “papa,” almost lived out-of-
doors. She would ramble hours by his side, and then curl
down and sleep with her head on his knee, while he read or
dreamed beneath the shade of a tree or down by the water's
edge on a cool shadowed rock. He taught her the name and
character of all the flowers of the field and trees of the forest,
so that at six years of age she was a miniature botany, bound,
as it were, in rose-leaves. He taught her, too, of the rocks,
and sands, and waters, so that, as her mind grew, every thing,
however humble, had an interest to her, and the earth was a
great “ curiosity-shop,” much more strange and delightful,
more absorbing to her fancy than the gaudy shops of the towns
in which children are taught what to covet and admire.

One favorite place she had for spending her time when
Hugh was away: a kind of fairy bower, made by an elm
whose branches upon one side held up a beautifnl wild flow-
ering vine, while upon the other was a rose-bush always in
blossom through the long summer. The open front looked
upon the lake, and a moss-covered stone made a cushioned
seat fit for a queen. The grass about it was clean, fine, and
short, and full of violets.

She never went to school; but was sometimes taken to
town to visit with other children, and had, in return, youthful
guests come to see her in the pleasant weather.

But she was educated, even in book education. Hugh pa-
tiently taught her her alphabet and to read. After that it was
only necessary for her to know that he desired her to study
any book he put into her hands, and her love gave the im:
pulse which made acquirement easy.

   

— s+

7 a abas

  
©

<—~ p+

   

    

DEATH Of THE MOUSEKEEPER. : Q9

Thus time glided on for nine years, Nine years!—a long
time ; and Mrs. Muggins was growing older and feebler all
this time ; and one day she was taken sick, and soon she died.
Myrtle grieved herself ill, and Mr. Fielding did not disdain te
drop a tear upon her humble grave, for she had been a faith:
ful seryant and very kind to his darling little girl.

He was obliged to be his own housekeeper for some time,
for another Mrs. Muggins was not easily to be found. When
she saw him fussing about in a man’s awkward way, little
Myrtle’s womanly instincts were aroused, and she put away
her at first overwhelming grief to try and aid him He
would not have believed those slender little hands could do so
much. She could lay the cloth, and sweep, dust, and brush;
toast bread, and pour out tea; and his room she took pride
in keeping in exquisite order.

He loved to watch her flitting about like a fairy put to
earthly tasks, her feet moving as if to some inward music,
and her golden hair encircling her in a halo of mystic bright
ness. The careful gravity, the pretty air of business newly
put on, were bewitching to him.

“Well, Myrtle, I think I had better not get anybody to
help us: you make such a nice little maid,” he would say.

“T like to help you very much, papa; but what will you
do when it comes washing, ironing, and churning days ?”

“Sure enough. We are not equal to all emergencies, are
we, daughter ?”

So, in course of time, a woman was found to take the place
of the departed. She was not of as quiet and nice a mold as
the beloved and respected Mrs. Muggins. Mr, Fielding did
not like her to preside at his table; and so little lady Myrtle
never gave up her place at the head of the tea-things.

Affairs did not go on as systematically as of old. Many
little nice tasks fell to the child which Mrs. Muggins used t
perform ; but, happily, she liked them.

Mr. Fielding dreaded a change. He had become so accus-
tomed to the pleasant routine of his monotonous life that he
disliked the thought of its being in any manner disturbed,
But a change came.
 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

CHAPTER V.
MRS. JONES’S NEPHEW.

~ Mn, Fretprne received word which made it absolutely in-
dispersable that he should go East and attend to his long-neg-
lected interests there, What to do with Myrtle he did not
know. He could not take her with him, for he had never
hinted to his friends of his adoption of the little girl; and, be:
sides, he had so much to do and so many places to visit. H«
dreaded the effect of the separation upon her, for he was hei

only friend; and he knew that she would feel very desolate
without him, He could have her boarded, of course; but he

did not wish to trust her in any common hands, for he ex-

pected to be away a year. Finally, he concluded to ask the

child’s advice.

“Oh, papa, take me with you! take me with you!” was at

first her passionate cry; but, when she found that that could
not very well be, she said: “ Why not put me in the seminary,
papa, where all the little girls in Wakwaka are sent? I shall
be so unhappy, I know; but my studies will be some com-
fort; and I should like to learn music, so as to play for you
when you come back.”

Hugh had an, abhorrence of boarding-schools, He believed
that many young ladies learned more lessons in dissimulation,
extravagance, envy, affectation, and exaggerated sentiment, than
they did in any thing useful. He knew the principal of the
Wakwaka school, however, and liked her well as a womall
of character and high moral purposes. He trusted.greatly, too
‘to Myrtle’s intense love of nature, and to the influence of hef
‘early years, to defend her from the frivolities he so dreaded.

In a few weeks, his arrangements were all completed; and
‘one spring morning he left his little Myrtle, weeping incon
tolably in the arms of Mrs. Dennison, her new protector.
“She must haye all that is necessary to enable her to ap

    

6

’

  
On;
an

an
101
ef

nd

yn

MYRTLE AT BOARDING-SCHOOL. 81

pear as well as the rest of your pupils: there will be no trouble
about the bills, Mrs. Dennison. And every accomplishinent
for which she seems to have a liking she must have the means
of acquiring. If she has any peculiar taste or talents, let
them develop under your judicious care, and I shall be fully
satisfied with what you do for her. Love her, if you can;
and I know you will, for she is a tender flower, and will
wither if left too solitary.”

Mr. Fielding’s voice trembled a little as he uttered the last
sentence; and he kissed poor Myrtle hastily, for fear the lady
would see the tear upon his cheek. The next instant he was
gone; and Myrtle was left to begin her new course of life.

It was many days before there was much color in her cheek,

. or light in her eye; and her kind guardian did not put her

immediately into the school routine.

Like one of, nature’s fairest flowers, her spirit expanded in
the sunlight of affection; and, as she was sweet, unoffending,
beautiful, and the probable heiress of the rich Mr. Ficlding,
every attention was showered upon her, until the smiles were
won back to her dark, luminous eyes, and the roses to her
cheeks.

The wonderful amount of unexpected knowledge pos-
sessed by her new pupil astonished Mrs. Dennison, while her
ignoranee of some of the “first branches” was equally surpris-
ing and amusing. Geography and grammar were unknown to
her, while she could talk in Latin and French, quote page after
page of classic poetry with beautiful emphasis, and tell more
about botany, ornithology, and geology, than the most ad-
vanced scholar of the school. Besides this she had many quaint
and philosophical ideas which made her appear surprisingly
precocious, but which were simply the result of her having
been made the sole companion and friend of a man of polished
education and gifted mind. Her teacher went to work to
“systematize” her acquirements, and instruct her in things
practical in the society about her.

A year seemed a great while to Myrtle. The confinement
to rules of one who had lived so free a life was, at times,
rather burdensome; and she welcomed the long vacation with
excessive delight for the liberty it gave her, but mostly because
her father was to come back to her. He came, bringing he

 
 

  

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

many beautiful presents, which, at first, she was too happy to
regard. They went out and spent two or three weeks at the
cabin, in the old way, cooking their own meals, and rambling
about the country most of tho time.

Myrtle’s joy was sadly discomfited by learning that Mr.
Fielding had escaped from the East only long enough to make
her a visit, and that he was going back for a long, long time,
as soon as her school opened. It made every moment she
spent with him still dearer. It sounded like a bell tolling at
a funeral when she was summoned back to her studies.

Events shaped themselves so unexpectedly with Mr. Field-
ing, a journey to France being among them, and a long stay
in that country to settle an estate coming to him from his
mother, that he did not return to Wakwaka, after the first
visit, for four years.

In those four years Myrtle Fielding had grown into maiden-
hood—she was little Myrtle no longer. The most lovely and
beloved of the pupils at the seminary, distinguished for grace
of manuer and purity of soul, the pride of her guardian upon
all occasions of public display, and the beauty of the school,
she still pined, in loneliness of heart, for some one to belong to,
some one who would call her daughter, and receive the lavish
affection of her heart, which now continually wasted itself in
the sands of vain regret. Such passionate, tear-bedewed let-
ters as she addressed to her adopted father would certainly
have called him to her side, had it been in his power to leave
the interests which bound him where he was.

It was a very dangerous state for a young lady's heart to be
in, this craving after love and confidence. Such stores of af-
fection, lying ready to be given away, would be very apt to
find somebody to ask for them; and, if their proper owner did
not appear in due time, some interloper might receive what
had been accumulating for his benefit. Of this danger, Myrtle
herself was most profoundly ignorant; and Mrs. Dennison,
wise and experienced as she was, had never given it a thought.
Mrs. Dennison’s young ladies were supposed to be beyond the
reach of human weakness.

Ah, Hugh Fielding! Hugh Fielding! where art thou while
this fair child of thy affections is blushing and blooming into
her sixteenth summer? Hast chou no presentiments ?

 

ek ee

 
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

a" Sern nin omnes em

_—

    
pee a penne iit,

 

a
1

2a

Se

MYRILE’S HOLIDAY. 88

One Saturday in May, Myrtle had permission to go out to
“her home,” as she still called Mr. Fielding’s place. A man
and his wife had been put in the cabin to keep things in
order ;. and, whenever the young mistress chose to go out and
spend her holiday rambling through her old haunts, she was
sure of a good dinner and a warm welcome from them.

It was a delightful day, and, as she passed along, her
guitar in her hand, her heart exulted in youthful fullness of
life. A young lady with a guitar is always romantic, ag
maidens of thirty-five who bend .gracefully over the blue-
yibboned instruments in their boudoirs are certain to know—
and owr young lady was none the less romantic for being
totally unaware of it. She, happy and beautiful, thought
nothing of effect, but strolled along, enjoying the freedom
from school, and thinking of that long looked-for, long hoped-
for father whom she was now expecting home in a very few
weeks. Then she was to leave school, and they were to live
together, and be happy, as of old.

Thinking of all this, Myrtle could hardly wait until she got
beyond the elegant residences which stretched for a mile along
Lake street, before her gayety burst forth in singing; and she
went caroling along the beautiful road, rivaling the birds who
warbled in every tree.

Arriving at her destination, she just stepped in the house
to give the woman “the news,” and invite herself to dinner,
and then fluttered out into the sunshine again, to spend the
day, like the bntterflies and flowers, in aimless pleasure.

All unambitious to please a more critical audience, she
finally rested herself in a little bower which commanded her
fayorite view of the lake, and began tuning her guitar for the
birds overhead. For a while her fingers tinkled over the
strings in wandering chords of melody; and then she began
to sing. Fresh and pure as her awn young soul, silvery as
the waters at her feet, harmonious as the air she breathed,
was her voice; and she sung now as she never could have
Jone in parlors or at “exhibitions.” All the sweetest music
which she knew came to her without effort; it appeared to
her as if the wild roses at her feet turned a little to listen,
and the birds were not backward in trilling their approval.

The elm above ber bent over her lovingly; her cheekg

 
THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

flushed with the joy of her own singing; she made such a
picture as young poets dream about but seldom realize.

Ts it any wonder, theu, that a certain youth, poet and artist
both, who happened in that vicinity at this auspicious hour,
should have felt as if he had intruded into Paradise, and held
him breathless in tremulous pleasure and surprise ?

It would seem that he had come forth double-armed against
unsuspecting Nature, for a pencil and slip of foolscap stuck
out of his coat-pocket, and a portfolio of drawing materials
was in his hand; but all thoughts of using either were ban-
ished, and he leaned against the trunk of an oak, not very far
away from the singer, scarcely knowing whether he really
saw and heard, or whether his fancy had bewitched him into
some ancient land of goddesses, or some unsubstantial Eden
out of which he could nevermore find his way.

Ah! he had indeed blundered into an Eden out of which
he should never, never more go forth with free footsteps.
But he did not know it yet.

So the young girl sung and sung for his pleasure, as well
as that of the birds, until she fairly wearied herself out. Her
guitar slid down into the grass, and she flung back her hair,
with an exclamation :

“Oh, dear! ’'m hungry! I wonder if it is dinner-time ?”

It was a very useful speech to make at that enticing period
when the youth was just looking to see her fly away in a
golden cloud—it convinced him that she was of the earth,
earthy, and gave him intense satisfaction.

At that moment she detected him, and knew by his blush
that he had been listening.

“The impudent fellow,” she murmured—as if he were to
blame.

Affecting not to see him, she gathered up her bonnet and
guitar and retreated to the house,

“Waal,” said Mrs. Jones, as she made her appearance

“your walk and the dumplins are done at the same time.
Dinner i is ‘ae ready: I'll ring the bell for the men, and we'll
set down.’

The men! Myrtle had never known of but cne man about
the premises ; and, as there was no farming to be done, she
could not conceive of the use for another. Sure enough, the

’

 
MY NEPHEW, JOHN JONES. 85

table was yet for four. She asked no questions, but waited
for the summons to dinner to gratify her curiosity in due
time. Mr. Jones came in, presently, and shook hands with
her according to his custom, “ hoping to find her flourisliin’.”

“ Where’s John ?” asked the wife, as they drew their chairs
to the table.

”

“Comin’,” said the husband, as he lifted tne cover from a
platter of fried trout.

“ Comin’” he was, for at that minute he entered the door,
doffing his straw hat with a graceful motion, and setting his
camp-stool down in a corner,

“My nephew, John Jones, Miss Fieldin’.”

Myrtle made her coldest, most queenly bow. Nevertheless,
she detected the slightest hint of a mischievous twinkle about
the eyes of her new acquaintance, which the polite gravity of
the rest of his countenance belied.

He sat down to dinner.

“You've been a strolling round, too, hain’t you, John?”
asked Mrs. Jones, as she handed him his coffee. “Did you
and Miss Fieldin’ see each other when you was out? I
reckoned you'd meet.”

“J saw Miss Fielding,” returned the young man, “ but I
can not say whether she saw me or not.”

Myrtle made no reply, being occupied with her fish.

“You've both of you such a love for rambling about and
takin’ likenesses, you ought to be acquainted. Two artists, as
you call yourselves, at my table, I s’pose I ought to feel
proud.” ‘

There was just the slightest haughty motion to Myrtle’s
head, as good Mrs. Jones spoke of an acquaintanceship with
her nephew, which proved a little innate aristocracy ; but the
young girl was sweetness itself, and eould not be forbidding
long at a time: so she smiled at the speaker, and kept her
eyes carefully from the nephew. Mrs. Jones had not the least
idea but that her handsome, wild, “smart,” fearless young rel.
ative was “fit for a queen’s” friendship; and neither was
Myrtle quite sure but that he was.

“Proud of fiddlesticks !” said her husband, testily. “If
John would quit his do-nothin’ ways of trying to make an
artist of himself, there would be somethin’ to be proud of

 
 

86 THE. CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

[ve e’cu-a’most give up all hope. If he’d quit pencils and
buch little patterin’ trash, and take to lawyerin’ or farmin’
he’d suit me better. Not that I mean to be harsh,” he added,
‘n a softer tone; “and not but makin’ picters is pretty work
for young gals.”

Myrtle caught the young gentleman’s eye, as old Mr. Jones
concluded his speech, and laughed outright in her sweet,
merry way.

“Do not make any apologies for being severe upon us,”
she said. ‘ We know it’s the fashion of the world to think
there is common sense, as they call it, in nothing but in mak-
ing money ; so we do not expect sympathy.”

“True !? responded the nephew, emphatically; and he
‘and the beautiful girl opposite him began to feel more
friendly.

“Waal, how are we to get along without money, Id like
to know ?” asked Mr. Jones, senior, but in that gentle tone

which he always used in speaking to Myrtle.

; “Oh, don’t ask me!” cried she; “I know nothing about it
—TI have never thought. I suppose papa furnishes me with
what I want; and so I have not been obliged to ask.”

“About as much as women usually know!” growled her
questioner, with a laugh. :

A general good-humor prevailed at the close of the meal,
after which Mr. Jones took his nephew off to look at thi
cattle, which gave the aunt an opportunity of telling all about
him—what a “likely” boy he was, and what great idees he
had got in his head, but how modest and good-humored he
was, for all—that he was her favorite, and she’d asked him to
come and stay with them as long as he liked—that he “ writ
verses,” and “took profiles,’—and wouldn’t, Myrtle let him
take hers for them,—they’d set great store by it, etc.; to all
which Myrtle listened with keen interest, while her eyes kept
wandering to the window looking for the return of the ob-
ject of their talk. And when his bright face and black curls
flashed past, her heart gaye a little bound, she knew not
wherefore.

To please the kind old woman she allowed him to sketch
her in crayon, and then she had to sing some of her holiest
melodies for old Mr Jones, and then—Mr, Jones, Jr., asked

9
gy

 

  

THE AVOWAL a7

her to walk out, and show him some of the pretty bits of
scenery in the neighborhood.

And, if John Jones could hardly appreciate the beauty of
the spot, as pointed out to him by the excited young creature
before him, for thinking of the clustering glory of her hair,
the faultless loveliness of her features, and the expression of
infantine innocence lighted with brilliancy of soul which
rendered them doubly attractive, it must likewise be confessed
that Myrtle caught herself at many a stolen glance at the
face of the high-spirited, interesting boy.

The next Saturday, Myrtle went again to “her home,” and
every Saturday henceforth for weeks. This was always her
custom in feasible weather; and Mrs. Dennison must not be
blamed. Could she have dreamed that the people at the
cabin had a nephew? or that her fastidious scholar could
have been pleased with an unknown John Jones? or that the
said John was an artist, and a very handsome, polite and
fascinating boy ?

A golden mist hung over Myrtle’s studies, obscuring their
meaning in a haze of splendor. Perhaps the reason of her
great and startling happiness, her unwonted moods of reverie, —
her constantly thrilling anticipations, was that she was soon to
see her father. This did indeed take up a large portion of her
thoughts; and she looked forward to the meeting with the
intensity of a four years’ old anticipation.

One Saturday she was no longer left to doubt the full mean-
ing of her late emotions. In the bower beneath the elm, in
an unexpected moment of impassioned feeling, her boy-lover
had sunk at her feet: and she had smiled upon his avowal.

She did not ask if he had position—if he had wealth—if
her father would approve—if her lover was worthy of her—if
she was doing her duty; for when did a young girl, for the
first time in love, pause to answer such questions ?

Myrtle believed as fully in the truth and worthiness of her
lover as she did in her own existence. She knew her father
would approve; and, in the mean time, she waited fur him
{n ardent expectation. °

 

  
 

 
 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRID.

CHE? Teh R= Vita
MR. FIELDING RETURNS HOME.

Again Mr. Fielding stood upon the eminence from which
he first looked down upon Wakwaka. Below him lay a city
of twenty thousand inhabitants; and on either side were gar-
dens gorgeous with cultivated flowers, tree-shadowed ayver.ues,
fine mansions, and a costly, fashionable church. Beyond was
the prairie upon which he had picked up the stray waif which
had since become the “light of his eyes,” the delight of his
existence—something to love, to plan for, to make happy.
That prairie waved with wild-grass and unnamed blossoms no
longer: it was checkered with fiells of green corn and wheat
just gilded with the June sun; and a railroad passed in a
straight, shining line across its bosom. While he lingered and
Icoked, the iron horse came shrieking and panting along it, in
place of the majestic wild steeds which once swept in their
might through the long and rustling grass,

Thoughts of the past and present stirred strangely tender
emotions in Hugh’s breast. He remenabered the little creature
he had held so closely to him as he rode over the hills; he
remembered the tragic fate of her mother, that beautiful
woman who, alone of all the women in the world, had bowed
down his heart, and whose weakness or whose falseness had
poisoned all of his existence for the last twenty years.

Thinking of all this, he hurried on, eager to greet his long-
forsaken little Myrtle—for little she still seemed to him. He
knew her better in memory than in present reality. He had
left the coach on the hill, that he might have a bette: oppor-
tunity of ‘observing the. changes in the town. As he passed
along the handsome street, he saw Mrs. Dennison’s door-plate
on a larger building than she occupied when he left, for her
school had grown with the city. He rang, and was shown

 

  
>

   

 
 

FATHER, DEAR FATHER! 39

into a receiving-room, where he sent his name to Mrs. Denni-
son and his daughter.

He sat waiting in impatient joy, eager to see his child again,
when the door opened, and she glided in. He arose to his feet
instinctively, but the words he was to have spoken were
unsaid.

It was all in vain that Myrtle had kept telling him in her
letters how much she had grown, and that she was quite a
young lady, and all that. To be sure, he had entertained a
faint idea of her having put up some of her curls and length-
ened her frocks a little, and that perhaps she would be a little
awkward in her transition state from pretty embroidered pan-
talettes to dignified long dresses. But tiis Myrtle !—the word
“daughter” died in his heart, and another word leaped up. It
was as if the vision of his early manhood—that glorious vision
which had invested life with such a brightness, only to vanish
and leave it more dark and. prosaic than before—again lived
and breathed before him. Here was the same slender and
rounded form, elate with health and an unconscious grace, the
samo brown hair falling in shadowy masses touched with gold,
the same fair face, the same eyes beaming their luminous
sweetness upon him.

“ Myrtle !” he murmured.

She hesitated a moment, as if wondering why he aia not
open his arms to receive her, and then flew to him, and flung
her arms about his neck. ‘

“Weather! dear father !” she sobbed, with a little burst of
joyful tears; and then she kissed his cheeks a dozen times,
and leaned her head on his shoulder, laughing and wiping
away the sparkling drops from her eyes.

“Father, indeed!” thought Hugh to himself, as those sof.
lips showered their kisses upon him. “Thank Heaven,
thoagh, I am not your father !”

“Are you not glad to see your little girl?” asked Myrtle,
suddenly, grieved at the silence with which he received her
raresses. “Oh, papa, you have forgotten your Myrtle !”

He yearned to take her to his breast, and kiss her with the
passionate love which was struggling in his heart; but he felt
that it would ot be a paternal kiss, and so he gave her none
He knew that her girlish timidity would shrink from so sud-

 
 

40 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

den an expression of feeling, could she be conscious of its aa
ture, and its perceptions of truth were too delicate to permix
him to deceive her. But oh, what a sweet hope had flowered
into beauty in his soul! Hugh Fielding forgot that he was
forty-eight years of age. He was as strong, as handsome, as
full of life as ever, and he forgot that he was growing old.
He did not ask himself if he was the ideal of a young girl's
lover. The surprise was too sudden, too overpowering—he
did not as yet even question his own emotions.

“No, Myrtle,” he said, “TI have not forgotten you—scarcely
for an instant. I have been as eager as you for this mecting.
But I was so surprised to find you so tall, so beautiful, so much
of a young lady.”

Myrtle blushed and laughed.

“Didn't I tell you, papa, that you would be astonished ?”

At this moment Mrs. Dennison came in, having paused to
arrange her ringlets and put on a new, coquettish little thread-
lace cap, with lilies-of-the-valley drooping from its softness,
and mingling with her still raven curls.

The beautiful and satisfactory appearance of her pupil had
had the desired effect upon Mr. Fielding, for he greeted her
with marked pleasure. His joy, his gratitude, tinged his man-
ner with rosy warmth; and she being equally gratified, they
were a happy trio.

“Would you think, Mrs. Dennison, papa was amazed to
find me grown so tall?” cried the young girl. “He imagined
T had stood still for the last four years.”

“T suppose he hardly realized that he would have a young
lady on his hands, ready to be introduced into the world. Do
not you think it a great responsibility, Mr. Fielding ?” with a
sweet smile.

“Why, yes! certainly ; it presents itself to me in a new
light,” was the rather hesitating reply.

“Oh, papa, I assure you I shall not be the least trouble,”
laughed Myrtle. “I have never teased Mrs. Dennison very
much, and I shall tease you still less.”

“ Your daughter says truly that she was never ntti troubla
tome. She seems more like a child than a pupil. It will
be a severe struggle for me to give her up to you. [ feel like
a mother to her.”

 
  

  
CROSS8-PURPOSES. 4

“You have Leen very, very kind,” murmured Myrtle, \eay-
ing her clasp of her father’s hand to glide over and give her
preceptress a kiss. ‘“ But we shall live so near that I can
come to see you every week, and you can spend the vacations
with us. Will not that be pleasant, papa ?”

“Delightful!” he replied; for whatever pleased Myrtle,
pleased him.

Myrtle had to resign her new-found treasure while he went
to his hotel to rid himself of the dust of travel. But he re-
turned, by invitation, to tea, and she had a happy evening.
Once Mrs. Dennison sent her from the room for a while upon
some excuse, for, as she told Mr. Fielding, she had an impor-
tant matter to speak of, which her interest in the dear child
prompted should be said.

‘You know,” she said, in this confidential communication,
“that Myrtle is no longer a child. She has graduated with
the first honors of my school, and must now take her place in
society, Mr. Fielding. She requires a female friend and cha-
peron: some relative of yours, perhaps, you can invite to re-
side with you for that purpose. I wish that Myrtle hada
mother; but, as that can not be, I think it well for you to
think of what I have suggested ; and more especially, as you
are only her adopted father: to be sure you think of her as
tondly and tenderly—”

“T do,” interrupted her listener.

“As if she were your own child; yet the world—since we
‘ive in the world, Mr. Fielding, we must regard its dictates.”

Hugh was really much obliged to the lady for what she had
said and hinted. He confessed that, since he had seen Myr-
tle, some idea of this difficulty had dawned dimly upon his
mind, but he had not yet had time to reflect upon it. If Mrs,
Dennis=n would consent, he should leave her pupil with her a
few wecks, until some arrangements could be made,

This plan pleased her very much. She would have an op-
portunity of impressing upon him deeply the necessity of a
mother for Myrtle.

In the mean time, as the object of this discussion came
gliding is her radiant beauty back into the room, Hugh smiled
at his inward thought of how little Mrs. Dennison knew of
his real purposes, of how little she suspected the case with

 
  

TAE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

which he could take upon himself the office of prutector
Thus do people oftentimes work at cross-purposes.

Myrtle sang and played, bewitching the heart of her bach-
elor guardian more and more; and when at last she kissed
him good-night, and he went to his dreams, they wore more
the roseate hue of twenty-two than forty-eight.

The next day, he began to display that energy which had
not particularly marked his character siace the mainspring of
hope had been withdrawn. He took Mrs. Dennison and Myr-
tle out to his place to select a situation for the mansion which
he had already partially contracted for, Of course, the elder
lady was glad to have a voice in the matter which might here-
after be of importance to her; and she took it as a very favora-
ble symptom that she was asked to make one of the party.
Hugh was only acting upon her suggestions that he must have
a chaperon for the young girl.

They alighted before the cabin door, where John Jones, the
artist, came out and assisted the ladies to alight. Did Hugh
mark the blush upon the cheeks of the young couple? Of
course he did not. Never was there a man blinder to truth
and fate than he.

After Mr. Fielding had exchanged greetings with the ten-
ants of his house, and been introduced to their nephew, he in
vited the latter to accompany them, and they started out on
their search,

The fine, artistic taste of the boy at once attracted Hugh’s
attention, and he learned that the young man was an artist by
profession. It was John himself who, with becoming modesty,
pointed out the spot which he would deem most desirable ;
and its admirable fitness striking all the rest of the party, help
ed to complete the good opinion Mr. Fielding had involunta.
ij rily formed of him,

iI “There is certainly a good deal of genius about that young
fellow,” he remarked to Myrtle, when John was busy talking
ll about pictures with Mrs. Dennison. “He has a glorious eye
| , —full of fire and frankness.”

| ; How the young girl’s heart leaped up !—while she made
i j not the least reply. Alas, Hugh flattered himself that that
i glowing cheek and drooping eye was an evidence of some
gentle emotion for him !

 
  
 
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
   
  
   
   
ANOTHER DECLARATION. 48

Learning that the young artist had made architecture his
study, Mr. Fielding gave him a commission to draw the plan
for the proposed residence, giving him a summary of what he
should like as to size, style, and expense. He was usually a
man of piercing vision, and but few things escaped his keen
apprehension ; yet, all-absorbed as he was in his own dreams,
he did not notice the expressive glance and stolen pressure of
hands with which Myrtle and the young man parted. Mrs.
Dennison, too, bewildered by gorgeous visions of a mansion
over which she was to preside, the site for which she had just
seen selected, was deaf, and -dumb, and blind to every thing
but Mr. Fielding. :

So the party drove back to town as contented with each
other as when they started out.

Myrtle was impatient to get away from the seminary, as
school-girls usually are. She did not know how to wait for
the new house. If it would not have involved the necessity
of driving John Jones away, she would have wished the cabin
immediately vacated, that they might return to their old, ro-
mantic way of living. Mrs. Dennison “vas so continually with
them that it seemed as ‘f she should never get an opportunity
of revealing to her father the weight that was on her heart—
a confidence she did not fear so much to make, since she saw
how he favored her lover. When she actually found herself
walking out to the farm alone with Mr. Fielding, her heart be-
gan to palpitate frightfully with anticipation. She found that
what she so longed to say was very hard to put into words,
after all. So they passed onward, Hugh doing most of the
talking, until they reached the bower. The sight of the spot
where her loyer had sank upon his knee at her fect impelled
her to the trial.

“Dear father,” she began, in a faltering voice, “I have
wished so much for an opportunity—”

A long pause, while she stood picking a rose to pieces, the
color suffusing cheeks and brow.

“Dear father—”

“ Never call me father again !” cried Hugh, in « sudden burst
of passionate energy.

She looked up amazed. His check was likewise flushed
and his dark eyes were looking on her with an expression
which she could nof comprehend,

 
 

  

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

“J van not endure it,” he said, grasping her hand tightly.
“Every time you have uttered that word since my return, it
has almost distracted me. Can not you guess why, Myrtle 2?”

Her eyes fell under the glow of tender light which burned
i his. She trembled with a sudden apprehension.

“Tt is because I love you with other than paternal love,
darling Myrtle. Since the first moment of my return, I have
telt how impossible it was for me to resist the torrent of pas-
sion which rushes through my heart. ‘You are to me mg
Myrtle—the Myrtle of old, whom I once loved with the fervor
of youth. It is true that your mother—for I feel that she was
your mother—was false; but, in your heart, Myrtle, there is
nothing but truth. You have not learned the ways of the
world. You are my boyhood’s dream. ‘Will you marry me?”

Poor child! how she trembled! He thought it was all
with maiden timidity, and put his arm around her and drew
her to his side. She leaned her head upon his shoulder, sob-
bing: “You are my father, Mr. Fielding. Oh, still remain so,
or you will break my heart !”

“Father!” again he exclaimed, in a voice of such concen-
trated feeling that she involuntarily looked up into his pale
face.

“T tell you I w7ll not hear it. Wife is a much dearer term
than daughter, Myrtle’— how tenderly he spoke the word
wife !—“ and, if you can not be that, I must go away again—-
back to the loveless life I led before I found you, a little sleep-
ing, helpless child, upon the prairie.”

With a great, high-hearted struggle of duty and gratitude
over youthful love, Myrtle flung her arms, in the old childish
way, about his neck.

“You shall not do that, fa— Hugh; I will be whatever
you wish. I will be your wife, Mr. Ficlding, ”

 

  
.

\ PARTING OF THE LOVERS. 45

CHAPTER VII.
THE PLOT.

Mr. Fie.pme@ was reclining at his leisure upon a knoll be-
neath a tree, half-hidden by the long grass which rustled.
around him. <A yolume of “ Shakspeare,” open at the “ Mid-
summer Night’s Dream,” had nearly dropped from his hand ;
‘or he had forgotten all about the fairies and the lovers of the
yday in musing upon his own happiness. The clink of work-
men’s hammers, as they carved and polished the stone for his
new house, smote upon his ears pleasantly ; for, as the hum of
the bee tells of summer and summer sweets, the soft tumult of
the distant work told of a home and a wife.

The first thing which roused him from his reverie was the
sound of approaching voices, conversing in low but earnest
tones. Looking up, he saw his Myrtle and the young artist
slowly walking, arm in arm, to aad fro, on the level stretch
just beneath him. At first, he could distinguish no words,
and, indeed, he did not wish nor intend to, though his curiosity
was excited by the absorbing interest with which they ap-
peared to listen and reply. At last, they paused quite near him,
and, throwing their arms about each other, sobbed like two
little children.

“A pretty scene! behold it, ye heavens and earth!” mut-
tered Hugh, between his compressed lips, his vest-buttons
ready to burst with his suppressed anger. “Is there no truth
in woman ?”

After yielding to their passionate grief for a time, Myrtle
stood back, and folded her hands tightly together. He could
see her beautiful face bathed in tears.

“Go, John,” she said, in that voice of forced calmness which
tells most plainly of despair. “I must never see you again.
You will not blame me, ever, in your thought, I know. You
will not caii me false. I shewd he fa'se to every impulse of

 
  

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

gratitude and duty did I consult owr happiness before that of
my friend, my benefactor, my more than father. You know
all that he has done for me—all the claims he has upon me.
I should rather we should both be miserable all our lives than
to be the one to inflict pain upon him. You do not ask it, do
you, John ?”

“No, no, Ido not. His claims are superior to mine. But
oh, Myrtle, it is killing me!”

“Dont say that, John. You will be happy some time, if
only to reward you for your noble sacrifice now: I know you
will. Heaven will bless you. Good-by.”

Her companion gazed at her as if he could not tear himself
away.

“Go, go, dear John. Good-by.”

“O God! Myrtle. Good-by.”

He turned from her with a listless, weary step, and went
away, leaving her leaning against a young maple-tree, looking
after him with blinded eyes.

Hugh had heard and seen it all. Slowly his anger had
melted away, as he heard this youthful pair bravely renounc-
ing what was their evident happiness for him. For the first
time, his own selfishness_appeared to him. What right had
he to require the love and duty of that young heart which had
turned so much more naturally to a more fitting mate? Yes,
he had to acknowledge, proud and conscious of his rare ac-
quirements as he was, that John Jones, with his boyish beauty
and enthusiasm and fresh feeling, was a more suitable compan-
ion than he for the fair girl who had chosen him. Yet he
had not meant to be selfish, He loved Myrtle too well for
that. Ah, it was always his fate to play the martyr—to see
the untasted cup snatched away, to know no fruition of hig
hopes. He was too much of a hero to shrink from the crisis,
He could not blight the happiness of two young souls fora
few years of bliss for himself. He would emulate the gener-
osity which he had just seen. He wanted to rise and call the
boy to return and receive from his hands the most precious
gift which he had to bestow. But when he attempted to call,
he found his throat so parched that no sound would come from
it. The disappointment war too terrible—it had come upon
him too suddenly,

 
   
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
   
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
AT THE MANSHION. 47

The clink of workmen’s hammers still smote upon his ears,
but now the sound was full of pain; he felt as if he must put
a stop to it; he wished a paralysis to seize upon that noble
building, smiting it, as it stood—fixing it forever, unfinished
and desolate—that it might never fulfil its destiny as a home
of warmth, andluxury, and comfort, the shelter of loving hearts,
the birth-place of happy children. Unfinished, and going to
decay, the unfulfilled promise of a home, showing its wealth
of rooms and splendor of proportions, only to make its ruin
the more conspicuous—would it not be like his life, thus un-
satisfactory, thus cheated of its development? A. bitterness
more bitter than that of his first disappointment welled up in
his soul. From under the shadow of the hand upon which his
forehead was drooped, he watched in silence, until the young
girl had wept herself quiet and walked away in the direction
of the town. Then he arose and sauntered listlessly toward
the new mansion. Young Jones was overseeing the work as
usual. Perceiving Mr. Fielding, he approached him.

“T have sudden and very important reasons for resigning
the charge of your work,” he began, in a low but firm Voice.

“ How, now ?” interrupted Hugh, angrily.

“T do not think I shall put you to any inconvenience by
doing so,” continued the young man; “the plans are so
minutely finished, and the work so far progressed, that it can be
finished without trouble. Besides, I have consulted an archi-
tect of Wakwaka, who promises to take my place—”

“Take your place—no one can take your place, John
Jones!” Now this'might be intended as a compliment; if it
was, it was thundered forth ina strangely savage tone.

“T assure youl shall not release you, sir; you must fulfil
your engagement with me, or forfeit the whole.”

Mr. Fielding was usually so courteous and considerate in all
his dealings, that John looked up amazed; there wag a dark
look upon his countenance which he had never before observed.

“Ah!” thought he, sadly, ‘can it be possible he is so un-
just that he has such a temper? if this is the case, poor Myrtle,
I pity you.”

“Yes, sir! you must conclude this work according te
agreement. From not one article of the contract will I ab
solye you.”

 
   

48 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIZ.

Poor Hugh! his companion little guessed what a tenipest
warred within him; and that he was only putting on a little
outside fierceness to cover a purpose the most unselfish and
pure. The only consolation he had in his solitude of heart,
was the playing of a pretty farce, by which he kept two young
people miserable for the time being, with the expectation of
surprising them with a double and overwhelming happiness
by-and-by. Not one hint did he give of the knowledge he
possessed, but exacted of the young architect the fulfilment of
his contract, thus keeping him in the vicinity so fraught, to him,
with dangerous dreams and mocking desires. Almost every
day, as the summer sped by, he would pierce the heroic breast
of the youth with some such shaft as the following :

“Hurry up the workmen, John, my boy. Don’t you know
the wedding is set for the 10th of September? We must have
wedding and house-warming at the same time.”

Or this :—

“You are doing so nicely, John, you shall come to the
wedding to pay for this. You shall dance with the bride.”

As often as twice a week his handsome open  barouche
would drive up into the new grounds; the spirited bay horses
would be checked with a gay flourish, and the owner of the
establishment would hand outits future mistress to spend a
half-hour in inspecting the progress made on the mansion, and
giving his opinion as to this improvement and that, and would
it suit her taste to have things thus and so, as if he feasted
upon their secret misery. Mr. Fielding seemed to make op-
portunities for throwing the young pair into each other's socie-
ty. Their tastes were mutually consulted, and they were left
to decide matters of minor importance to themselves. It was
cruel of the arch plotter—he knew it was, yet b« justified him-
self with glowing pictures of a future surprise in which all
this wretchedness should be blotted out in sudden splen-
dor, and he only 93 the suffering party—a suéerer whom no
one should know was wretched. It would have been hard
enough for the young couple to forget each other if they had
separated at once and forever, as ‘hey had reso‘ved todo. He
made the self-imposed task, one which humay nature rebelled
against, yet he took a strange pride in pereiving the noble
principle of both—how well they guarded their looks and

 
  

pI Et

Sea

aoa”
oe

a nae SA eee ma

' THE WEDDING-DRESS, 48

actions—how calm their voices, how innocent their greetings,
and farewells.

Myrle was acting according to the promptings of gratitude
and duty; and she did not intend to humiliate her sacrifice by
any thought or deed which should wrong the man she had
promised to marry. She meekly obeyed his suggestions as to
the preparations for the approaching marriage.

“ave you plenty of money to buy pretty things, Myrtle ?”

“T suppose so, Mr. Fielding. My purse is always supplied.
No matter how much I waste, the next time I open it, it is
full.”

““A comfortable purse, indeed. But really, ny dear, yua
are not extravagant. Have you ordered the wedding-dress /”

“Mrs. Dennison has, I believe. I trusted it to her.”

“T hope it will be a pretty one. Don’t fail to have it pretiy,
Myrtle. Do you know I am particular about ladies’ dress?
I like to see youthful and pretty creatures looking like roses
and lilies.”

“Mrs. Dennison will sce that it is all it should be—she has
the same taste, I believe.”

“And are you indifferent? Young girls usually go half-
crazy over the delight and excitement of the bridal trowsseau.”

“Why, no, Mr. Fielding, I hope I am not indifferent. I
should like to look to please you.”

How wearily the young head drooped against his shoulder !
He looked earnestly into her face. She was so beautiful—he
loved her so much—almost was he tempted to renounce his
yowed self-denial, to accept the expected sacrifice. He could
not give her up—he would not! She was his; she looked
upon herself as his wife; was it not more than man could do,
to put her into the arms of another? The arm he had ‘aid
about her waist drew her so tightly that she sighed with the
pain. It was the first time he had bestowed one caress upon
her for weeks, except a quict kiss upon the cheek at meeting
and parting. She did not know it, but there “ were farewells
m a kiss”—a farewell to all such future joy, in that one pas-
sionate embrace.

“This is the fifth of September,” said he, seating her by his
side, and studying her drooped face; “in five days, Myrtle!
It is time the wedding-dress was made.”

 
 

50 HE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

“Tt is made, and it {s beautiful enough to please you, be
you as fastidious as you may: white silk, rich and shining,
covered with costly, delicate lace; flowers on the bosom; a
wreath for my hair, and a vail of the most exquisite design.
Mrs. Dennison sent to New York for them. Mrs. Dennison
takes great interest in these things; but she does not seem in
ns good spirits lately. She says I am to be envied.”

She seemed to be talking to keep thought away, and to
prevent him saying those tender things which girls generally
love to hear. He looked at her closely while she chattered
away; her cheek was surely growing thinner, though suffused
with the bloom of excitement; there was a sadness, as of un-
shed tears, in the faltering eyes—yet she smiled, such tremu-
lous, lovely smiles, and tried hard to seem gay and glad. He
worshiped her all the more, as he saw the depths of her char-
acter thus proved by circumstance. Those gentle smiles
touched him to renew more firmly his vow to secure her hap-
piness, and let his own take care of itself.

“Tt is only five days more,” he murmured. “Let me keep
you till then; let me call you mine until then. Five days
will not rob you of many dimples which the future will not
restore to your cheeks.”

“What did you say, Mr. Fielding ?”

“J was ‘talking in my sleep’—no matter whatI said. Mrs.
Dennison has been low-spirited, has she? Well, I have a
present for her. Ask her to accept it from me as a trifling
return for her kindness to you. She must wear them to the
wedding.”

He showed her a velvet-lined box, containing a superb set
of jewels—brooch and ear-rings—a large diamond in each, set
about with small emeralds.

“ And here is my gift to you; you must wear it with the
vail and wreath,” and he placed in her hand a necklace of
pearls.

“You are too good to me—far too good to me,” murmured
Myrtle, tremulously, hardly looking at the beautiful ornament.
She felt as if she had wronged this generous man by ever
having had a thought of another, no matter how conscientiously
she now strove to forget that other.

“Qome Myrtle you look regretful, Do you not like the
vv

 

  

THER GIFTS, ieee ay

pear.s? Never mind; we will change them, then. Play for
me, now. I have not heard you sing for a fortnight.”

He led her to the piano.

“What shall I sing? have you any choice ?”

“Were is something that reads prettily; I do not think I
haye heard the music. Try it, and I will tell ycu if it pleases
me.”

So she began, in a trembling voice, which gradually steadied
itself:

“*Trpa, lady of the land,
Hath a crowd of gallant suitors;
cae who fly at her command;
<nights her slightest motion tutors:
She hath barons kneeling mute,
To hear the fortune of her proffers

All—except the honest suit
Jounxy Gorpon humbly offers.

“¢T ma, lady of the iand,

Keep your wondrous charms untroubled,
May your wide domain expand,

May your gems and gold be doubled!
Keep your lords on bended knee!

Take all earth, and leave us lonely,
All—except you take from me

Humble Jonnny Gorpon only !’”

- Whether it were the name of Johnny alone, or whether it
were the miserable fact that sie had lost her humble lover, cr
what it was that overcome poor Myrtle so, hardly had she
finished the exulting note of the more fortunate maiden in the
song, than she burst into tears, and hastily fled from the room,

“Poor child! she is getting nervous,” murmured Mrs,
Dennison, who had come into the parlor during the singing;
“don’t you think she is rather young to marry, Mr. Fielding ?
especially a person so much—so much—”

“More fitted to be her father, my dear lady. Well, per
haps so—but it is rather late to be making such reflections.
May I trouble you to take charge of this necklace, which she
has forgotten? And here is a trifle which I trust you will
honor me by wearing to the wedding.”

The lady accepted the gift with smiles, and Hugh bowed
himself out into the darkness, and walked five miles by stax
light, before he could compose himself

 

  
    

THE CHILD OF

OF As bat Petes Vela ie
MYRTLE’S MOTHER.

Tar mysterious plot by which Hugh Fielding wished to
in molate himself at the moment when he raised others to the
pixnacle of happiness, was to allow the preparations for the
wedding to go on, as if he were to be the bridegroom, and at
the fast moment, when the company was assembled, to refuse
to take that important part upon himself, but allot it to John
Tones, Jr., while he sank into the second place as groomsman.

But “the best laid plans will oft go wrong,” as this one
threavened to now, very much to his chagrin. John Jones
was not to be heard from. The day and hour that his part
ef the contract had been finished, he had vanished from the
vicinity. He was not the person to stay and lament over his
misfortunes, working himself up into frenzy by watching the
aappiness of another, which he coveted for himself.

He had disappeared, and to an artfully-put question, Myrtle
returned stich an answer, that Hugh found she was ignorant
of his whereabouts. So were the uncle and the aunt. Here
wa3 a pretty kettle of fish for a man who had laboriously con
cocted quite a different dish. Hugh did not know, after all,
but he should be under the necessity of marrying Myrtle him-
self, or delaying the wedding, which would be almost as bad,
seeing everybody was invited, the cake baked, the dress com-
pleted, the minister engaged, and the new house put in order.

“Dear suz!? said Mrs. Jones, when he went to her cabin,
to inquire about her nephew. “TI hain’t the least idee where
the boy is. He’s been gone a week now, and it wouldn’t
s’prise me a bit if he was ’way back to York. He’s seemed
homesick and discontented, lately. He was always independ-
ent, John was—goin’ and comin’ and doin’ as he pleased. Not
that he ever pleased to do any thing bad, for he didn’t; there
never was a better nor a smarter boy, that had had no more

    
%

JOHN’s DISAPPEARANCE, 53

opportunities, if I do say it, as am his aunt. He’s never had
a mother, poor boy, since he was five year old. And you
come to invite him to the weddin’? it’s mighty polite of you,
sir;.and I’m sorry he’s gone off, for I know he’d have liked
to go first-rate. He’s always taken a shine to Miss Myrtle,
and he’d like to be to her wedding, I know.”

“T don’t doubt that/” ejaculated her visitor; “and it’s
highly important he should be there. In fact, Mrs. Jones, ’m
afraid Miss Myrtle will feel as if she couldn’t get married
without he were present.”

“You don’t say so! well, it’s very kind of her, to be sure;
and I’m dreadful sorry he’s given us the slip so. Ive been
over to the new house, seein’ tv things. The carpets is all
down now, and the rooms well-aired; the kitching is furnished
ready for cookin’, and black Dinah is there seein’ to the vittals,
She'll have two more out to help her the day of the weddin’,
besides the waiters, and I’ve seen to the rooms up-stairs,
Eyery thing is looking beautiful; the new furniture is sot in
the chambers. If the fixin’s for the parlors and the liberray
come to-morrow, every thing will be ready in time. I wonder
what made John clear out just now. He hain’t eat nuthin’
for a month, and seemed to be powerful quiet, but they say
folks as write and make pictures is pet to such turns, anc
{ didn’t mind it in particular.”

““And you don’t know where a note would reach him, if J
should try to send him one ?”

“No, I don’t. He may be in York State, and he may be
in Mississippi. ’T'wouldn’t do no harm to write to Clarkville,
New York, but he couldn’t get it in time to come to the wed-
din’. Maybe he'll be back as suddingly as he went off.”

“ Well, if he don’t, I’m afraid he’ll haye cause to repent it,”
muttered the gentleman to himself, adding aloud: “I shall
look for you and Mr. Jones, at all events; don’t disappoint
me.”

“Ta! Imay look in out of the kitching, where I’m helping
Dinah, just when the ceremony’s goin’ on,” responded Mrs.
Jones, with a courtesy.

“No, but I wish you to come dressed in your best, and be
my guests, Mrs. Jones. This is an occasion when one wishes
to see all their friends rejoicing with him—and who are more
truly my friends than you and your husband.”

 
 

 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

“Tudecd, and I do not believe any one is, sc far ag that
goes,” replied she, looking at him with respect and admiration.
“Td have liked, right well, to have given Miss Myrtle suthin’
handsome as a present; but poor folks like us has nothin’ to
give that would be acceptable, so I've baked the bride-cake,
and a beauty it is! There’s a ring in it, too—a real gold ring
—which John give me to put in; and whoever gets it will be
married next, they say.”

“ Good-day, Mrs. Jones, and if you hear from your nephew,
let me know.”

“T will, immejetly, Mr. Fieldin’.”

It was too bad to ruin such a striking and romantic denoue-
ment, as Hugh had consoled himself with contriying. He
was walking to and fro across the lawn in front of the new
house, thinking of it. It wanted but two days to that set
forth in the invitations; whether to recall those, with notes
worded, “deferred till further notice,’ or whether to allow
affairs to proceed and wind up, as everybody, save himself,
expected, were the two horns of this dilemma.

“That provoking young rascal! he deserves to lose all he
might have gained,” he muttered, kicking a wild-rose in the
face, who was listening with innocent curiosity to his solilo-
quies.

“What are you treating that pretty flower so rudely for ?”
asked an arch voice at his elbow; he turned, growing red in
the face, at being caught in such an ungentlemanly act.

“Why, Myrlle! what’s brought you over here? J haven't
been able to get you near this place for a fortnight. You
seem to be growing shy of your future home.”

“Tt seems so strange to think I am to live here so soon with
you—your wife—that I am almost afraid of it But Mrs,
Dennison had occasion to consult the housekeeper about the
arrangements, and she insisted upon my coming along. She
is in the house now, deep in consultation with Aunt Dinah;
she sent me to pay my respects to you.” :

“T am very much obliged to Mrs. Dennison. Will you
take my arm for a stroll, litt’e bird ?”

How she started at the word! how pale she grew, and
hardly with happiness, though she strove to force a smile!
The little trembling hand souglt his arm, and she walked by

    

  
A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT. 55

his side, silent, pale, abstracted. He pitied her. He saw tna
effort she was making to appear to be happy. He wished the
farce were over. When he had reinstated her in her birth-
right of joy and love—when he had .crowned his queen with
the fullness of content—had beheld her supremely blessed, ex
quisitely grateful and joyous—he would be ready to retire to
the melancholy shades of perpetual old bachelorhood. They
came, in the course of their walk, to the same old oak-tree,
under whose shadow Hugh had sat, when he saw and heard the
passionate parting of the two lovers. It was evident to him that
Myrtle recalled the scene, for she leaned upon his arm more
heavily, and he guessed that she was weeping, from the way
m which her handkerchief stole to her eyes at intervals.

“Tet us sit here and rest,” said Hugh, not appearing to
notice her tears. “I’m 80 provoked, little one, to think that
John Jones has gone off, without staying to the wedding.”
At the mention of that name he felt a quiver of the hand he held.

“Why should you—I thought—I didn’t know—”

“That I cared any thing about that young scapegrace. But
Ido! TI like and respect him much, and would have beer
pleased to have him present at the ceremony. T’ve half a
mind to postpone it until he is heard from. Say, puss, dc
you think you could endure the disappointment ?”

He was looking into her face with such a queer look, half-
serious, half-sad, as to puzzle her most completely.

“Why, Hugh, what do you mean? do you really wish Mr,
Jones to be present, so much as that ?—for my part, I am
glad he is gone.”

“Then you don’t wish the ceremony deferred ?”

Again she tried to read his countenance; the proposition
was so novel a one for an ardent lover to make to his betroth-
ed, for no more urgent reason than the absence of a possible
guest,—and that guest a person whom he had never especially
favored—that she was surprised and confused.

“Tn this, as in all else, I shall defer to your superior judg-
ment,” she answered, presently.

“You are a dutiful child, Myrtle —-a dutiful child. You
consent to marry me, out of deference to my judgment; and
you are reaGy not to marry me, for the same all-powerful rea
gon. I only asked you to see what reply you would make

 
1ME CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

Well, ny little girl, I want to tell you that I chanced to wit-
ness an interview which took place between you and that
silly boy—”

“ He isn’t a boy,” interrupted Myrtle, proudly.

“ Between you and that silly young gentleman, from which
I had reason to infer that he was deeply interested in you,
and I wished him to be at your wedding.”

“Oh! My. Fielding, I did not think you could be so cruel!”
exclaimed Myrtle, looking up at him reproachfully.

‘ “Why shouldn’t I be cruel ?” he asked, setting his features
into a sternness which frightened her. “I have been cruelly
treated—twice I have been cruelly disappointed—is it not
enough to make a man reyengeful ?”

“But I have ¢rzed to do right, oh! Mr. Fielding, I have tried!” °

That innocent face turned to his with such a look of pain,
the tears streaming down the pale cheeks, made him wish to
clasp her in his arms and exclaim—

“Yes, my brave girl, and for all this girlish heroism thou
shalt have thy reward !”

While he was still debating whether it was possible for him
thus suddenly to immolate himself, another person was added
to the scene.

A lady came along the path from the cabin, looking about
as if in search of some one. When she caught sight of Myrtle,
she paused a moment and looked at her earnestly—but not
more earnestly than Hugh was now regarding her. She was
a fine-looking woman, of perhaps forty—she looked thirty-five
—and beautiful as in her earliest youth. Her bonnet wag
swinging from her arm, for the day was warm. Her hair was
put up in a classic braid behind, and clustered in rich ringlets
down either side of her face; her cheeks were as fair as a
girl’s, and flushed with exercise, her form was full but grace-
ful, and her step light.

“Ts the dead alive?” gasped Hugh.

She heard and saw him not: her eyes were upon the face
of the young girl. She threw her bonnet and scarf upon the

grass, and ran and clasped her in her arms.

“My child—my own little Minnie! say, are you not?” she
cried, holding the surprised girl away from her, so as to gaze
again upon her countenance.

    
   
 
 
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

\-
>.

Xx x
THE STRANGE LADY, So ae

“J am Myrtle—Myrtle Fielding. What do you mean?”
asked the young girl, confused by this unexpected apparition.

“Fielding!” said the lady, in a voice which thrilled to
Wugh’s inmost heart. ‘Hugh Fielding !—was it he who
found you ?”

“Tt was.”

“ And were you lost, fifteen years ago this day, upon a
prairie? Speak, speak quickly: are you my child ?”

“Are you my mother?” was the response: and the two
clasped hands and clung together as if they had longed for
cach other since the moment they were so terribly separated.

“Myrtle, do I see you again?” said a deep voice beside
them.

Both started, but it was not ows Myrtle who was addressed
this time. The lady gave one glance of those still glorious
eycs into Hugh’s, and sank fainting in his arms,

“ Forgive,” he heard her whisper, as her senses deserted
her.

Myrtle ran for water to the lake, while Hugh supported
that beautiful head upon his bosom with a strange emotion.
She was sure she saw him kissing those pale cheeks as she
hastened back with her straw hat dripping from the waye.

“Tt was too much,” said Mrs. Sherwood, as she came back
to life. “It is weak and foolish for well people to faint.
But to find my child, and to find you, Hugh!”

“Whose fault was it that you ever lost me?” he asked,
with bitterness, as the dreariness of twenty years returned
upon his heart.

“Not mine alone,” was the reply. “That I was not firm
enough in resisting the treacherous lies of a false friend whose
perfidy you could hardly conceive; that man,” she added, with
a slight shudder, “who perished so fearfully, and who was the
father of my child; for that I shall remember him with re-
spect, if not affection.”

When Mrs. Sherwood was recovered sufficiently to sit upon
the grassy knoll under the tree, and tell the story of the past,
while holding tight to her daughter’ s hand, she gave a bricf
necount, which she afterward maida more circumstantial, of
what happened after they were surprised by the Indians and
her husband murdered. Herself and her companion in suf-

 
 

=

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

fering, the wife of the other murdered man, were Griven off in
the wagon; and in an attempt to escape with her child from
the back of the vehicle, she had been detected, and jerked
back so rudely as to cause her to drop the infant. They
would not pause to pick it up, but hurried on, unmindful of
her agony.

She herself chanced to have a knife in her pocket, which
she resolved should liberate her by death, if no other chance
of succor offered; and possibly it might be of service in secur
ing her both life and liberty.

The first day, they left the wagon and journeyed on foot
through the wilderness. Her companion sank down, and
died befere night. She journeyed on, urged by the speed of
her tormentors, until the second night, when they bound her,
hungry, weary, with bleeding feet and anguished heart, to the
earth, and went off for water and food, intending to return
and camp at that place. They had stopped before reaching
water, because she could go no further. As soon as they dis-
appeared down a hill-side, leaving not one to watch her, she
cut the throngs which bound her, and ran for her life. She
did not know, when she arose, that she could place one foot
before the other; but fear and hope gave her superhuman
energy. In a few minutes she came toa stream. In this she
waded to put them at fault. The cool water soothed her
wounded feet and revived her somewhat. She ran for a long
time down the stream, until, coming to a wild place where
rocks and ravines promised places of concealment, she made
her way up the bank, and, by fortune, stumbled into a cavern,
over which she drew the vines which had before concealed it,
and lay down in the darkness, for it was now twilight. Over-
come by fatigue, she fell asleep, despite her fear of wild ani-
mals and her wilder tormentors. When she awoke it was
day.

All that day she did not dare to venture out. Some berries
were growing among the moss at the mouth of the cave, and
with a handful of these she cooled her thirst. Hearing noth-
ing to alarm her, as soon as it again came night, keeping her
knife open in her hand, she crept out, and went, as rapidly as
her strength would permit, stili further away from the place
She walked half the night and slept the rest. The next day

 

    
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 

   
MRS. SHERWOOD’S NARRATIVE. 33)

she found berries; the third, she emerged from the woods into
astrange country. A single cabin told of civilization. She
crawled to the door, and was received by an old woman,
whose husband hunted and fished for a living. There she
was ill for a month, lying on a bed of buffalo-skins; but the
people were as kind to her as they knew how to be. She
had some money, but they would not take it. When she was
able, the old man accompanied her a couple of days till they
reached the edge of a settled country, and left her. She
found out that she was a hundred wiles from the spot where
her husband was murdered. After various trifling adventures,
by begging and working, she reached her own home, where
every ore had long given her up for dead. Her child, she
had not a doubt, was dead. They told her ‘about Mr. Field-
ing’s letter, and she then Anew that her little babe had perish-
ed of fright and hunger in the solitary prairic.

It was several years before she recovered entirely from the
effects of her suffering and grief. She had never been a
happy woman. By the merest chance she had heard, only
about four weeks before, of the circumstance of a child being
found and adopted by a gentleman near Wakwaka. She had
come, impelled by a faint hope, to that city, and there had
heard more particulars.

When she ceased her brief and hurried narrative, Hugh
took the trembling hand which lay in her lap, and pressed it
between his own, as if to assure her that her troubles were
over.

“Dear father,” whispezed Myrtle in his ear, “don’t you
think you could be persuaded to Ict me pass as your little
daughter, again ?”

“Go, puss,” he said, laughing, “and find and bring back
that boy you sent off in such a hurry, some wecks agc.”

 
 

   

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

CHAPTER TX
THE DISCOVERED TREASURE.

Arrerr the story of her escape from the Indians, there ye
remained explanations to be given, which their unexpected
visitor did not long withhold from Mr, Fielding. That even-
ing, in the private parlor of the hotel at which she was stop-
ping, while Myrtle considerately engaged herself with @ book,
Mrs. Sherwood whispered a narrative in his ear, which threw
one gleam of sunshine over the clouds of the past—it could
not undo that dreary past, but it lifted it up with the one
golden glory of her truth—“ circumstance, that unspiritual
god,” had been more at fault than the heart he had regarded
as so unworthy. 2

In order to comprehend what part her story had to do with
this, it will be necessary to go back to the love affairs of this
yet romantic couple, which had terminated in making an old
bacheior of Hugh Fielding.

One lovely summer morning, after a night of welcome
showers, two young gentlemen, belonging to good society ot
the old Knickerbocker order, rode out of the city in search
of the health and enjoyment to be won by fresh air and vigor-
ous exercise. Both were good riders and had fine animals;
and they were not unconscious of the many admiring glances
which turned to follow them. There was a peculiar exhila-
ration in the atmosphere, cleared of impurity by the electric
fires of the vanished storm; they passed along by steep-roofed
houses and green fields, where now all is city lots covered
with monotonous brick blocks. They could see the river
gleaming, now upon this side, now upon that; and they can-
tered on until they reached the old King’s bridge, where the
Harlem plays the part of a clasp to link the glittering neck-
lace of the two broad streams. It was seldom they rode se
far as this; but now, the mood being on them, the cool air,
the absence of dust, the freshness of the foliage, combining to

S- Se

    

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THE GIRL ON THE PORCH. 61

make an excursion delightful, they resolved tc continue on the
road until weary.

They had gone a few miles further, finding constant objects
of interest, and being especially pleased with some of the old-
fashioned stone farm-houses, when one of them exclaimed, in
a suppressed voice :

“Took—look! Did you ever see any thing equal to that,
Fielding ?”

“Look at what, Sherwood 2?”

“ At that girl on the porch, of course.”

They had just emerged from a clump of cedars, which bor-
dered either side of the highway, and came in sight of one of
those quaint cottages they had been admiring—built of cobble-
stone, With steep gables, small windows, and long porch. There -
are no words of ours which will so well describe the sight
they beheld, as these words from Tennyson’s “ Gardener’s
Daughter :”

“Far up the porch there grew an Eastern rose
That, flowering high, the last night’s gale had caught,
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft—
Gowned in pure white, that fitted to the shape—
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.
A single stream of all her soft brown hair
Poured on one side: the shadow of the flowers
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering,
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist—
Ah, happy shade !—and still went wavering down;
But, ere it touched a foot that might have danced ,
The greensward into greener circles, dipt,
And mixed with shadows of the common ground!
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunned
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom,
And doubled his own warmth against her lips
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast
As never pencil drew. Half-light, balf-shade »
She stood, a sight to make an old man young.” \

Moved by the same involuntary impulse, the young men
checked their horses to prolong the pleasure of this’ lovely
vision; when she, perceiving them, and that they paused
before the gate, dropped the rose-vine, and stood, doubtful, as
if not knowing whether to retire or await their errand. Sher
wood, the younger and bolder of the two, who never lacked
wit in an emergency, took advantage of: this hesitation by
drawing nearer to the gate, and then taking off his hat:

 
 

THY CHILD OF TITE PRAIRIE.

“Pardon us, mademoiselle; we only wished for a glass of
water. We have ridden out from the city, and are very
thirsty, or, indeed, we should be sorry to trouble a stranger.”

“The cup of cold water is free to all,” she answered, smil-
ing slightly at the extreme humility of his apology.

“Then, please, let us help ourselves. We see where it can
be found,” he said, blushing and laughing; and springing from
his horse, he threw the rein to his friend, and bounded over
the fence into the yard, at the end of the porch, where, the
grass worn away from its vicinity, stood the well-curb, a great
old apple-tree overshadowing it, and the bucket swinging from
the tall sweep. His slender white. hands were not wanting
in strength; he pulled down the sweep and drew up the
bucket defily. Scarcely had the silvery treasure come drip-
ping and sparkling into the light, before a servant appeared
with a tray bearing a pitcher and two goblets, which the
maiden had retired within the house to order. It did not
take a second glance to assure the gentlemen that pitcher and
tray were of solid silver, and the goblets of cut glass. Charles
Sherwood had the pleasure of quaffing the delicious spring-
water beside the fountain from which he had drawn it, while
Hugh Fielding, left in charge’of both horses, had to take his
from the hand of the tidy maid-servant. It was surprising
how much they contrived to drink, and how mueh time it
took in quenching their thirst, while stolen glances sought the
porch and windows in hopes of another glimpse of that young
beauty.

She kept within; but in her place came to the steps an old
gentleman, who greeted the strangers cheerfully, inquiring the
news from the city; and who was easily led, by their civil
and gracious answers, into more of that informal friendliness
with which farmers, and others living away from the cold
etiquette of towns, are apt to be overflowing. Hugh, who
had character enough to appreciate fine qualities in others,
was charmed with the old gentleman; he kept on talking
until the name of the other chanced to be mentioned, when he
was glad to find that he had been an acquaintance of his own
father’s. He knew, through the talk of his own family, that
the Vails were old and respected Knickerbockers. His branch
had always clung to the country, but had kept ap much of

 
ENICKERBOCKER HOSPITALITY : 63

the polish and enlightenment of the city. On the part of the
other, when he learned that the young man was a Fielding,
son Of Hugh Fielding, he expressed his pleasure at their
chance meeting.

While the three still kept up an animated conversation, the
sound of a horn was heard in the back yard.

“Dinner is just on the table, young gentlemen. I shall
think it uncivil of you if you refuse to rest and dine with us,
before returning upon your long ride. You will feel the need
of some refreshment before you reach home.”

Sherwood smothered a smile at the mention of dinner. He
had been consulting his watch, and found that it was just high
noon. It had been their intention to beg or buy a bowl of
bread and milk for lunch, at some farm-house, and be home,
bathed, dressed and rested, for their dinner hour. However,
call it by what name they might, breakfast, lunch, or dinner,
a meal at that very hour of high noon would not be unaccept-
able to appetites sharpened by a ride of eighteen miles. The
thought of the opportunity this would probably afford of
meeting the exquisite creature whom they had interrupted in
her morning employment of training the storm-blown roses,
thrilled both their hearts. So that it was with an alacrity
which lingered for few expressions of fear of intruding, that
they accepted the proffered hospitality.

They were permitted, at their own request, to make their
tuilet at the kitchen door, washing in the bowl which stood
on a bench outside, and wiping on the long roller. Then they
passed through the kitchen, where a table for the hands was
spread, into a dining-room—a long, low apartment, deliciously
cool and dim, with roses peeping in at the threo windows, a
Turkey carpet on the floor, and the furniture of rich, heavy
mahogany, of an old-fashioned pattern.

Here their host introduced them to his daughter, and to a
sister. f his own, a kindly-looking spinster, who, the wife
being dead several years, occupied the position of head of the
household. These three seemed to comprise the family.

The table was laid with extreme neatness and a good deal
of luxury; the linen was fine, the china handsome, and the
silver almost cumbrous in its richness. The cider which
furmed the drink was equal to some of the champagne they

 
   

64 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

might have had in the city ; the boiled ham which made the
first course, the stewed chickens which followed, and the
custards which came in as dessert, all had the country excel-
lence which the skill of cities can not rival; while the coffee
which closed the repast, dispensed to them in delicate cups of
ancient porcelain, tinct with the whitest of crystal sugar and
golden with real cream, diffused an aroma of enchantment
over the whole.

Sherwood forgot to smile at the horribly early hour; and
as for Hugh Fielding, he was silently blessing the stars which
had sent them upon this unstudied excursion, to crown it with
this unlooked-for, delightful adventure. While not at all in-
sensible to the charms of the dinner, his very soul was
absorbed in contemplation of the young maiden sitting oppo-
site to him, eating her dinner and taking an occasional part
in the conversation with a manner of mingled ease and modesty.

Accustomed to the society of refined women, he saw in
her a refinement like that of a perfect pearl which needs no
touch from the jeweler’s hand—a delicate, transparent pure-
ness of mind gleaming through a person of equal loveliness.
If she lacked an air of fashion, she had a way of her own,
much better; and she was too intelligent, too really accom-
plished, to be in any danger of the embarrassments of igno-
rance. Her dress was suited to her character ; it was simple
and not of the latest style, but of costly material, being of th¢
finest India mull, with ruffles of real lace.

Sherwood ate more than Fielding, and talked less; it was
not in his selfish mould to exert himself to reward their host
for the great pleasure he was giving them; he was contented
to dine, to look at Miss Vail, and be courteous ; while Hugh,
animated by the brilliant concatenation of the bright morn-
ing, the pleasant ride, the new acquaintance and the beautiful
maiden, and grateful fora hospitality which had led him into
this Eden, endeavored to do hon¢r to his hosts by rendering
himself as delightful as possible. He listened with deference
and talked with ability. He had that truly polite manner
which at once engaged the favor of the old gentleman; who
avowed himself, at the close of the repast, obliged to his
young friends for the lively gout they had given to his dinner -
hoped they would call whenever they felt disposed to ride so

 
  

PoE ae ie ee TD
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THE RIDE HOMEWARD. 65

far, and made them welcome to the future acquaintance of his
household.

It is not therefore to be supposed that Mr. Vail kept
“onen house” to all strangers who chanced that way. Oh,
o0! he had caution and prudence enough for common pur-
poses; but it happened that he was familiar, by hearsay, with
the reputation of one of his guests, whose father, as we have
said, he had once known quite well; he had heard, in some
indirect manner which he did not trouble to recall, of Hugh’s
excellent character and talents; the fact that Charles Sher-
wood was in his company, was guaranty of is resnectability ;
and thus a chance meeting was the beginning of a friendly
acquaintance.

The young men rode back to town that afternoon, feeling
as if an angel had opened some little side gate and given them |
unexpected permission to make a morning call in Paradise.
Sherwood was full of conversation, praising the beauty of the
young lady and the charming, home-like air of the quaint
old country-place. But Hugh was unusually silent; he had
been impressed too deeply to be willing to express his feelings
to another. There was a tinge of romance in his character,
an earnestness and enthusiasm which had never been quite
satisfied wth the sympathy of any of the women he had met,
accomplished and good as many of them were. All this long
hidden spring of passion within him had burst its bounds at
the sight of Myrtle Vail, overflowing his heart and fancy with
silver tides of delight.

When he had seen her exquisite manners, heard her gentle
conversation, looked earnestly into her eyes, he knew that he
had at last met his ideal of feminine perfection. He wanted
no long weeks or months of observation to asstire him that it
would “be prudent” to allow himself to “ fall in love.” He
did love, already, and because he could not help it. All his
wonder, all his trouble, as they rode slowly homeward, was—
whether he could possibly hope to attract her as she had
attracted him. Some men, with his advantages, would have
felt no diffidence on this sco.2; but true merit and pure love
are usually timid of their own worth; and the fact that he
was courted in brilliant society, did not make him any the
holder when he thought of his new acquaintance.

3 cs

 
   

66 THER CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

Unhappily for herself and them, the country inaiden made
two conquests on that memorable day. Charles was equally
impressed with Hugh; though in a different manner, in ac-
cordance with his different character. It was the unusual,
overpowering beauty and graceful ways of the girl which in-
fatuated him; made him avow himself “ smitten,” “in Jove,”
“ desperate,” and all that; yet if these charms of hers had
not been supported by the substantial surroundings of
good family and evident prosperity, they would have farled
of their full effect. While Hugh would have taken her, she
being the same as she was, had she come barefvoted like the
beggar-maid whom King Cohopua made his queen, fur Charles
she would have had to come accredited with the rank of a
bona fide princess.

And there was this one little thing to excuse him: he had
his suecess in life yet to achieve. While Hugh was rich and
independent, practicing his profession simply for the dignity
of having something to do, with family and friends to help
him up the ladder of ambition, he, Charles, was poor, strug-
gling into a slow practice as a lawyer, where older and abler
men held the ground; and, while moving, by virtue of his
friends, among those wealthier than himself, feeling many of
the stings of keeping up a position above his means. For
instance, the horse which he rode this day was not his own,
but Hugh’s; he would not have dared indulge in the expen-
sive luxury of a morning’s ride, had not his kind and delicate
friend placed an animal at his disposal with the air of one
receiving a favor, saying that he did not care to go out alone,
and that his rides were dreary without a lively companion.
For bosom friends, men usually choose their opposites; and
Hugh really liked the gay and not altogether good young
man, better than any other of his associates.

Now, as they rode along tcgether, it pleased him to listen
to the gay praises which he would not have cared himself to
have uttered. Charles was always so infatuated with every
pretty face, and so extravagant in his habits of talk, that he
did not think of him as seriously impressed. And, after the
little excursion was over, for the next few days, when the
two met, but little mention was made of it. That it was
because the hearts of both were too full of it, neither at first
guessed of the other.

     
    

   
 

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A DOUBLE CONQUEST 6?

Hugh vexed his ingenuity with an excuse for repeating his
visit at the house of Mr. Vail; and no good device arising to
relieve him of his embarrassment, he boldly decided to make
no other claim than his desire to further an acquaintance
whose beginning had given him so much pleasure. If Myrtle
guessed that it was herself who had the power to craw him
so far, so much the better; she would then, by her manner,
either encourage or discourage him. Unwilling to have even
his dearest friend detect the secret, until he knew whether his
suit would be favored, he galloped off one afternoon without
the usual invitation to Charles to accompany him. Again a
light morning shower had made the roads in such perfection
as to provoke and justify the ride. At a speed which tried
the endurance of his horse, he hurried toward the spot from
which his thoughts had hardly been absent; as he neared
the turn in the road which would bring him in sight of the
mansion, he checked his course, going slowly forward, hesitat-
ing between fear and eagerness. <A cold feeling of amaze-
ment and jealousy dashed him in the face as it came in view.
There was a group of persons upon the porch, enjoying the
light wind, rose-perfumed and fresh with recent rain, so grate-
ful on a summer afternoon. Mr. Vail, paper and spectacles
in hand, unused, was leaning back in an easy-chair, smiling
at some just uttered sally; his sister, with her knitting, sat
on the rustic sofa at the end of the porch; leaning over hei
father’s chair, her fleecy pink dress floating about her like a
sunset.cloud about a star, her sweet face turned attentively
to what some one was saying and doing, was Miss Vail. 1t
was the recognition of this “some one” which dismayed
Hugh. Sitting on the steps, in an attitude of careless grace,
his hat in the grass at his feet, was his friend Sherwood,
whom he had thought to leave behind in all the bliss of igno-
rance. It was some charming thing he was saying which
had brought the smile to the old gentleman’s face and secured
that air of attention from the ycung girl. His horse and
buggy stood on the opposite side of the read, where he had
,ecured them.

For an instant, Hugh was tempted to turn back. A con-
sciousness of his own desire to conceal his visit mingled with
a real pain at this discovery of another’s similar intention.
 

68 THE CHILD QF THE PRAIRIN.

His own motives revealed to him plainly those of his friend,
He felt, in a moment, that they were rivals. He was no
coward, however; and he felt that he had a right to try his
fortunes, as they had both made the discovery of this treasure
in the same day. It would be no injustice to his friend to
allow the maiden a choice of suitors. If their suits were
honorably and generously preferred, he would abide his
chance, whatever his fate might be. So he rode straight up
to the gate, dismounted, tied his horse, shook hands with his
host, who came down the walk to receive him, and faced the
ordeal. Both Charles and the young lady blushed as he
greeted them; his own color was tranquil, for he had had
time to compose himself.

“T did not know you were coming this way to-day, Sher
wood.”

“Nor I that you were. <A curious coincidence”—laughing.
“T had business with a person on an estate three or four
miles from here, and chancing so near them, I could not deny
myself the pleasure of coming the rest of the way to inquire
after the health of these friends, and thank them again for
their hospitality which conferred so much pleasure on us a
few days ago.”

“And I have come all the way from the city solely to do
myself that pleasure,” said Hugh, with his usual frankness ;
“and to prove that I prize your offer of further acquaintance,
Mr. Vail, by doing my best to promote it.”

He made a call of nearly an hour before rising to go. The
invitation to stop for tea was declined; Hugh had an engage-
ment, and must reach the city by eight o’clock, and Charles
would return in his company. Some refreshments were
served where they sat on the rose-shadowed porch, and they
departed, this time with the understanding that they were to
be future visitors. Hugh ventured to offer his hand to tha
maiden, as well as to her elders, when saying his farewells,
and the look he won from her eyes, a3 she shook hands with
him, rewarded him for the long ride he had taken to win it.
Of course, in that brief visit, where the politeness due to the
other guest would prevent any preference, if any were felt,
neither of the young men could guess what chance there
might be of either of them being particularly fayored. It was

‘
4,
md

THE FANCY’S CHOICE. ~ = 69

probable that the thought of her own part in the affair scarcely
ecurred to the inexperienced young girl. Whatever the wise
aunt or her father might suspect in the extreme civility of
their young guests, Myrtle was innocent of her conquests—
as innocent as she was of her own exceeding worth.

That these two gentlemen, directly from the gay circles of
the metropolis, should have been particularly charmed with
her quiet self, never entered her mind. She did not wonder
that they thought the old homestead pleasant, or her father
interesting, or her aunt a lady, for she thought the same her-
self. Their opinion of herself scarcely caused her a question ;
she had been too recently a child to consider herself of much
importance.

And yet, why did Mr. Fielding look at her so when he
went away? She had dreamed of him very often since their
first meeting ; many times the sewing had lain idle in her lap,
or the rose dropped from her listless fingers, while she recalled
each sentence he had spoken, every inflection of his voice, his
eyes, his smile. She regarded him as superior to any man
she had ever met, and so handsome, and so learned—yet when
she mentioned the visit to her father and aunt, it was always
easiest to speak of Mr. Sherwood.

“Mr. Sherwood is very delightful, and witty, and all that,”
her aunt had said; “just the person to please foolish girls, I
suppose; but Z like Mr. Fielding much better. There is some
‘Jamina to his character.”

And Myrtle had blushed with pleasure to find her good
opinion confirmed by her aunt’s, and had kept a happy silence.

After this second visit, she was haunted by the dark eyes
of Mr. Fielding. She had no clue to their meaning, for the
password which lets young souls into Eden—“love”—had
never been whispered to her. She only knew that they
warmed her through like sunshine, and made her heart leap
up and her own glance fall—that even in remembrance they
had power to make her cheeks burn, and her pulse beat fast.

She began to muse apart, and to start and blush when she
heard the sudden clatter of horses’ hoofs along the road.
There was some new power in life which gave to the air she
breathed a fresher sweetness, and made her glance linger
songer upon the sunset, the blue sky, the opening flowers.

 
 
 

0 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

In the mean time, what of the ride homeward of the two
xiends? Hugh allowed his horse to keep beside the buggy;
shey chatted together as usual; there was no apparent inter-
ruption of friendly feeling ; yet each was conscious of a change.
Something had come between them. ‘The visible fact that
each had intended to keep his visit a secret from the other,
petrayed the first break in the confidence which had existed.
One of them began to nourish a bitterness which a careless
observer would have said was inconsistent with his apparently
trifling character. But Charles Sherwood, fond of Juxury and
gayety, was therefore the more determined to place himself
in a situation where he could have the very cream of life,
without the labor to which he was now obliged to apply him-
self. A wife, young, beautiful and rich, had been the load-
star of his course. If love, too, could be had, so much the
better. He was now as much in love as was possible to his
nature. It seemed to him a wrong inflicted upon him by the
fates that Hugh should step in to rob him of the advantage he
hoped to gain—Hugh, who had already so many of the best
things of life, and who could marry almost any woman he
might honor with his regard. Why should ve have taken it
into his head to surrender his hitherto impregnable heart to
this little country girl? Why? Plainly because he, Charles,
had become interested in her. Fate was always snatching
from him every chance treasure he picked up. Reflections
like this, growing more passionate and bitter, disturbed him.
Having once planted the thistle of envy, it grew and rankled
in his breast.

In those days it was still the custom of all classes of the
community to celebrate “Independence Day.” The old
Knickerbockers had not then given up this pleasant privilege
entirely to boys and. servants. A very short time after their
second visit to the old homestead, the friends joined a party
of young people in getting up a grand frolic for the Fourth
of July, to be held at King’s Bridge.

“You needn’t trouble yourself to ride out to Mr. Vail’s; I
went yesterday, and secured the consent of Miss Myrtle to
attend the pic-nic. I am invited to come out the day before,
so as to be in season at the bridge on the morning. Gat
ahead of you again, Hugh. ‘You must be more alert.”

 
   
 
  
 
 
 
    
  
   
  
   
    
  
  
   
 
 
 
    
  
 
   
    
   

   

THE PIO-NIC. n

The air of triumph with which Charles made this announce-
ment, some three or four days before the Fourth, was
vexing to the soul of Hugh. All his anticipated pleasure
vanished. He had intended to solicit the presence of Miss
Vail as the crowning grace of the festival. He had dreamed
of the bliss of being with her all that summer day amid the
woods, and rocks, and waterfalls of the picturesque spot they
had chosen—of perhaps an opportunity of whispering the first
of those assurances which should drop into her ear and heart
to bud and blossom, and prepare the way for the final declara-
tion soon to follow.

Instead of this, his rival had secured the golden opportunity.
Not even pride sufficed him to conceal his chagrin. He would
take no lady now, but a young married sister whose husband
was temporarily absent, and could not be her escort.

The morning of “ Independence Day” was glorious enough
to justify the roar of artillery with which it was saluted; and
what was better, the day kept the promise of the morning.
The affair at King’s Bridge was as brilliant as its projectors
desired. It was

“A pie-nic! a pic-nie! so happy together!
All elegant women and good-looking men !”
And through all the hours of the festival, no sudden thunder-
shower came to make of it
“A pie-nie! a pic-nie! so wretched together!

i All draggle-tailed women and cross-looking men!”

It was the realization of an ideal pic-nic, at which everybody
was as happy as he or she anticipated, except. poor Hugh.
The shadow of disappointment hung over him, though there
was not a cloud in the sky. All day the shadow was visible
upon his face. He devoted himself to no one but his own
pretty sister. Once, as he brought her an ice, and stood by
her while she was “ trifling with it,” he encountered the eyes
of Myrtle Vail bent on them both with a fixed, interested
gaze. Charles was by her side, twining her a wreath from a
grape-vine close at hand, but she did not appear to be hearing
whatever he was saying. His sister had already inquired who
the lovely young stranger was; he had hoped to make the
two ladies acquainted on this day, and win some opinion
from his sister in approval of bis own liking. He had been
 
 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

so out of spirits that he had not exerted himself to bring about

the introduction. Now, when he met Myrtle’s questioning
glance, he offered his companion his arm, and walked over to
where she stood.

“Your sister?” said Myrtle, aside to Mr. Ficlding, after
being presented to Mrs. Manning. “I thought it was your—
your—she is so very young to be a bride,” she added, blushing.

“My what? my betrothed ?” replied Hugh, with a smi‘e.
“Well, that is a person whose acquaintance I have yet to
make. I wish I could hope for one as good and as pretty.”

“She would be hard to find,” said Myrtle, with an admiring
glauce at the lovely young wife, and an air of utter uncon-
sciousness of her own far more perfect beauty.

“She might be hard to win, but not so hard to find,” wax
the earnest answer, in a tone which even she could not entirely
fail to comprehend was meant for herself; she had not art
enough to pretend to misunderstand; but, covered with
blushes, she turned to conceal them by taking from Mr. Sher-
wood the wreath he had finished.

This littie action of a bashful girl Hugh received as intended
to convey discouragement; his spirits again fell; leaving his
sister to chat. with the friends, he wandered off disconsolately.
In the conversation which followed, Mrs. Manning discovered
that one of the city families with whom she was on visiting
terms was related to Miss Vail, who came occasionally to see
them, do her shopping, and enjoy some of the amusements
of the town. Charmed with Myrtle, she urged her to make
one of those visits soon, that she might have the pleasure of
seeing her at her own house; the promise was given; which
in the cool October weather was kept,

 
 
   
   
   
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
 
 

34

  
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a
a.
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A LOVER IN DESPAT.

CHAPTER X.
THE RIVALRY.

“Mywrne, you must not refuse me. I can not bear it.
Why is it? Do you doubt my standing, my character, my
prospects, or my love? I know that I am now comparatively
poor, but I shall not always be. I shall succeed in my pro-
fession. I shall make you proud of me.”

“Tt is not that, Mr. Sherwood. It is not because you are
not more than worthy of me in every respect—that I do not
honor and respect you. Ido. It is only that—that—”

~ You love another,” he burst forth, fiercely. “TI see it all.
You iove Hugh Fielding, and you despise me.”

The couple stood in the orchard which skirted one side of
the old homestead. Charles had made many visits, more than
Hugh, since the Fourth of July, and now, during one of these,
he had taken advantage of an expedition into the orchard
after a basket of peaches, to say what he had long desired.

Myrtle’s cheeks grew redder than the fruit or the boughs
above her head, as he made this last accusation, in a bitter,
passionate tone. For an instant she looked down; the next
she raised her eyes:

“T have said that I do not despise you, Mr. Sherwood. I
haye, thus rar, regarded you very higity, and I wish to be
able to continue to do so.”

It seemed as if her quiet dignity only drove him deeper into
despair.

“TI do not want your regard—-I can not vear it, Myrtle. I
want all or nothing. Yes, I know—you would have loved
me had it not been for Hugh. He is my superior in every
thing—in manners, in mind, in fortune. I do not wonder
that’you prefer him. It is always so. He is my rival in
eyery thing. It ought to have been enough for him that he
possessed every thing to make his life brilliant, that he outshone
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   

  

"4 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

me everywhere, without his stepping in to rob me of that
dearest treasure, those riches for which I would give all the
rest of the world—your love, Myrtle. It is enough to make
me hate him.”

“You must not talk to me about Mr. Fielding. There is
nothing between us to justify it,” said the maiden turning
toward the house.

“Stop one moment—one moment. Has he not ‘old yor
that he loved you? Then perhaps Iam mistaken. Perhaps
he does not love you. He is fickle—that every one knows—
and I did suppose him engaged to a lady of Philadelphia; but
3 had heard nothing of it recently, and I thought—I did not
see how he could Help falling at your foet. Do not think toc
much of him, Myrtle, let me warn you. He has only tc
solicit a woman’s heart to obtain it, and he knows his powei
While I—you are my all, my only. Ah, Myrtle, retract what
you haye said; give me some leave to hope.”

“T can not, Mr. Sherwood; you only distress me.”

She was walking on; he ground his teeth in passion and
anger as he walked behind her; he had wooed her persistently
and audaciously from the first; he could not give her up.
Yet there was, at present, nothing more to be said; he took
the basket from her arm, and they returned to the house in
silence. His mortification was too great for him to attempt
to conceal it; he refused the invitation to stay to tea, riding
home supperless.

If he was deeply chagrined himself, he had also left an
arrow in the bosom of another; all that eyening Myrtle sat
by her chamber window, thinking not so much of her “ first
offer,” as of the sting in Mr. Sherwood’s assertion—‘“ He has
only to solicit a woman’s heart to obtain it, and he knows his
power.” She was covered with confusion to think that the
secret she had not acknowledged to her owa most hiddex
thoughts had been rudely dragged forth by another; and her
pride was up in aris at the suggestion that Mr. Fielding
knew that he had only to ask it and it would be his. Sup-
posing Mr. Fielding really had breathed to her such words
of love as Charles had done, would he not have had a very
different answer? ‘The maiden hid her face, even from the
tender light of the holy stars, as her heart answered her, ko

 

NWN

a
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ya

THE BETROTHAL. 75

concealed her burning cheeks on her folded arms. She
would not dream of it; it was unmaidenly. She would not
allow herself to imagine the sweet thrill which would have
trembled through her being—ould have trembled, for now,
were he to speak, she would be slow and cold to answer. If
he was so skilled in winning women’s hearts, he should find
that hers was hard to yield to his triumphant dictation.

Foolish child! Like dead leaves before a rushing wind,
her idle fancies of doubt and pride were swept away, when,
in less than a week from that evening, Hugh, with all the
uimidity yet earnestness of real love, placed his fortune and
happiness in her hands. She never thought of pride when
she yielded to the joy which filled her as she allowed him to
see that she loved him. She never wondered that he had
chosen er, when he could have made a more brilliant choice ;
yet she was modest and humble as the Jilies-of-the-valley in
her own secluded garden. It seemed to her, as to him, the
most proper and natural thing in the world, the only right
tuing, that they should love each other. They had a blissful
confidence that they were made for one another; they had
that blissful faith which is the star of youth and love.

Myrtle’s father and aunt had no objections to urge against
her loyer; they consented to the betrothal, fecling that she
had chosen well. Indeed, the aunt was quite happy to find
that her own predilections in favor of the graver suitor had
also been those of her niece; she had feared that the volatile,
not entirely trustworthy Charles would win, with his wit and
grace, the fancy of the untried girl.

So that when Myrtle nade her long-talked-of October visit
to her relatives in the city, she was the betrothed of Hugh,
whose sister and family called upon her, were satisfied with
her, and helped to make her visit agreeable. It was not pro-
posed to allow the engagement to become public, as Myrtle’s
family objected to her marrying for at least a year, she being
so young. It was not displeasing to Hugh to observe that
wherever she went she was liked and admired. She attended
several evening gatherings, and at those places she met Mr.
Sherwood, but not at other times, saving a formal call upon
her arrival. In the mean time the coldness between the two
friends increased; that is, Charles avoided his successful rival,

 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
    
  
  
 
 

  

%6 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

came seldom to his house or office, and had no more confi
dences to make. Hugh understood that his own happiness
and hopes would be a painful subject to them, and so allowed
the intercourse to drop.

Myrtle’s visit in the city was prolonged from week to week,
her friends urging her stay, and her heart being no ways loth ;
for winter, with its rough roads, did not promise so well for
frequent excursions into the country as the summer had done,
unless the sleighing season should be a good one.

But there came suddenly a shock to her pleasure. Hugh
was summoned to New Orleans on important business, which,
if he did it the justice his clients expected in employing him,
would keep him fully six months. At first he resolved to
decline the business, but it was an affair in which he had
already become complicated, which he understood better than
a new lawyer could very well do, and in which friends and
old clients had placed large interests in his care. Under these
circumstances, it seemed proper that he should not consult
his own pleasure too entirely. He quieted Myrtle’s regret ag
much as possible by assurances of the healthiness of New
Orleans in the winter, of the long and frequent letters he
should write, and of the resolve he had made that this parting
over, it should be the last—he would not wait, he averred, for
the close of their year of betrothal—the roses of June should
blossom beneath their honeymoon; and he kissed away the
tears which fell lightly over her blushes.

And so they parted; their present trouble illumined by
glowing hope. Alas! neither of them foresaw how .iong
would be that parting, and how strange would be their re-
union. That only in a second youth would they fulfill the
promise of the first.

The news which gave regret to the lovers gave pleasure to
Charles. When Hugh came to bid him good-hy, before sail-
ing, a purpose came into his mind to turn this absence to
good account. Even while he pressed the hand of his unsus-
picious friend, a hope that he should be able to steal his
coveted treasure away from him sprung up in his bosom.
Instead of being pulled up by the roots and thrown out in
fear and self-reproach, it was watered and tended with a care
which caused it to flourish into baleful strength. A nature

  
THE TREACHEROUS FRIEND. *»

given over to envy is easily blinded to truth and justice.
What Charles Sherwood coveted, that, he persuaded himself,
he ought to obtain, He formed a settled purpose to instill
doubt of her absent lover into Myrtle’s heart, and to occupy
the place there from which he should drive out his rival. In
furtherance of this object, he renewed his intimacy with Hugh,
by writing him a letter, proposing that they should keep up a
correspondence through the winter. He further suggested,
that as Myrtle, now in her own home, was not near any post-
office, and as the small village at which the Vails usually
obtained their mail matter was not very reliable during the
season of bad roads, Hugh had better direct her letters under
cover to him. Should he think best to do so, he would take
every trouble to send a special messenger with them imme-
diately when he could not take them himself.

Hugh, himself as frank as the sunshine, approved of this
suggestion, thanking his friend for the kindness. It can easily
be seen that Charles had now an opportunity for practicing a
duplicity of which his peculiar moral organization rendered
him capable. Madly in love, and urged by ambition and
envy, as well as by passion, having yielded to the first tempt-
ation there was no receding from the guilt upon which he
had entered. :

Having withheld Hugh’s letters until Myrtle was sick with
anxiety, he managed very cleverly to comfort her with the
assurance that neither sickness nor accident had befallen him
—there could be nothing serious the matter—fe had heard
from him, and his relatives had occasional missives, in which
he avowed himself benefited by the climate, and highly pleased
with the gay society into which he had been tempted to go,
first by curiosity to observe Southern manners, and finally by
interest. He threw out not the faintest suspicion, whispered
not one word of doubt which might arouse her resentment ;
only, when the poor child’s face grew white, and her lips
quivered with the unspoken question, “If he has written to
others, why not to me?” he looked at her sadly and pityingly.

All that wretched winter there came to her no tidings, only»
through others, of how well he was, and how brilliant was
New Orleans. Not one line from him—not one word—only
once or twice, his regards, and formally through the medium

 
 

"8 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIG.

of Mr. Sherwood. This was worse than neglect—-it was
insult.

By spring the young lady was ready to receive the sympa-
thy which Charles now for the first time ventured to speak;
her heart, half broken, and wounded almost to death in its
sensitive pride, turned to listen to his ayowal that he had
feared from the first that business in New Orleans was only a
pretense of Fielding’s, to shake off the chains with which he
nad too hastily bound himself.

“Did I not warn you, Myrtle, that he was vain of his many
triumphs, and that he loved to prove his power? His success
‘is too pleasing to his egotism; he is unwilling yet to fetter
himself; and having, in a moment of enthusiasm at your
Jeauty, sought your ayowal of love, he now recedes from his
position in this unmanly manner. It is like him. Myrtle, I
am sure your pride teaches you to despise him. Prove to
him that you, too, can be careless and forgetful—that your
heart, also, was but lightly touched—that heart which he casts
aside, but which I would have thrown my own beneath the
wheel of fate, but to have protected froma pang. It is I who
fave loved you, who have suffered, who have watched your
pale face and sad eyes this winter, with a feeling of contempt
for the man who could wantonly dim their girlish luster. It
is I only who have truly loved you. Oh, Myrtle, your own
pain ought to teach you how to pity mine. Let me comfort
you—let me be the shield to your pride. I do not ask you to
‘ove me—not yet. Only let me love you unrebuked—only
compassionate what I have endured in watching your course
with another.”

Day by day his importunity grew more passionate; and as
time dragged by, he excited all the resentment of her gentle
aature against her fancied wrongs, while he pleaded power-
‘ally his own cause. Miserable to the depths of her soul, the
more so that she was undecided if her present motives were
‘ight, she allowed him to persuade her. The fear that when
Mr. Fielding returned he would, if he saw her at all, read in
her changed appearance what she had suffered on his account,
more even than her real pity for Mr. Sherwood, final'y inducez
her to accept his repeated offers.

The same motive xrged her to consent to a speedy

is
vs

 

 
   

THE ILL-FATED MARRIAGE. %
marriage. This latter step Charles had reason to be solicitous
about. He knew that Hugh, latterly anxious at not héaring
from his betrothed, would seize the first opportunity of return,
Me was glad enough to learn, in a late letter, in which Hugh
expressed extreme anxicty at the loss of Myrtle’s missives,
“which she must have sent,” he said, that an unexpected turn
of affairs had compelled a tiresome, and to him almost un-
bearable delay, of two months more. Before the expiration
of those two months, he resolved that marriage should make
all secure. An explanation would then be improbable if not
impossible. ‘To this speedy wedding, Myrtle, too, in her restless
uneasiness, consented. In vain her judicious aunt warned her
against hasty resolves and fickleness of mind. For once the
sweetest of dispositions was wayward, and the gentlest of wills
was inexorable. To conceal from herself and others the want
of confidence she felt in her own resolves, she was as brilliant
and capricious as a butterfly. Her good futher, unskilled in
woman’s wiles, could not read this new leaf in his daughter’s
character. He was glad to see her more like herself than she
had recently been; he liked Charles only second to his former
estimate of Hugh; he was anxious for his only darling’s hap-
piness, and sought to secure it, by making the best of her
present relations. He gave her freely money for every thing
she desired. Curiously—if it were not too true to human
nature to be curious—the maiden who had broidered her
wedding-garments in secret, pondering over her happiness as
something too precious to be alluded to, when she expected
to marry the man she loyed, now that she had formed this
new engagement, was willing it should be as public as possi-
ble, and was busy with plans for a brilliant wedding. She
wanted beautiful clothes, a fine party, and a trip to Saratoga,
then the most fashionable of summer resorts.

So it chanced that, one morning in June, the anniversary
of the day upon which the two friends had rode forth first to
the old homestead, many carriages were rolling in that
direction.

The day was propitious; a fit day for a bridal, brilliant,
fragrant, full of the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers,
The quaint house was all a-bloom, to its very gables, with
roses; and inside, the charm of taste and exquisite neatness

 

  
 
 

80 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

had thrown a fresh grace upon all the rich, old-fashioned
rooms.

The guests came willingly. Myrtle, in her chamber, heard
the approach of each carriage; felt that the hour was drawing
nigh, but she had lost herself in a reverie, and sat, with a
light shawl thrown over her shoulders, heedless of the pleas-
ant labor of dressing which was yet to be done. One of the
young ladies, a neighbor and friend, who was to stand as
bridesmaid, haying completed her own toilette, peeped impa-
tiently through the curtains.

“Why Myrtle, there is the clergyman—and there is Mr.
Sherwood himself, just arriving! It is after eleven, and the
ceremony is fixed for twelve.”

Her aunt also came in and chided her for being dilatery.
With an effort like that with which a live man buried strives
to cast off the earth which is killing him, she threw off the
cold, clod-like feeling which all the morning had weighed her
down. With a laugh only a little too gay to be natural for a
bride, she began her hurried preparations. She was glad to
be hurried, as it gave her less time to think.. As it was, the
bridegroom knocked twice at the door before the vail was
over her hair, the bouquet on her bosom.

Gay, animated, looking and acting his best, none of his
friends doubted that Charles Sherwood was perfectly satisfied
with his choice. He, too, was a little feverish in his brilliancy.
He was impatient to see Myrtle, to call her his own; he
dreaded lest some accident should yet snatch her from him.

When she came out of her chamber and stood beside him
in her bridal attire, the feeling of remorse and self-reproach
which had constantly gnawed within him vanished in exulta-
tion. She was so beautiful, that to make her his, by any means,
was a triumph so great as to overwhelm the voice of conscience.

As the couple and their attendants came before the minis-
ter, those who ho not previously met the bride no longer
wondered at the satisfaction in the manner of the bridegroom.
And of all the company who gazed upon the handsome couple,
only the sad, apprehensive aunt guessed that she was not
as happy as her partner. The flush upon her cheek was deep
aud warm; doubtless the drooped lashes shadowed shining
worlds of joy.

  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

ayy

—

eal

  
i

oo Se se OE er ao

UGH FIELDING’S RETURN. 81

The ceremony was completed. The binding words had
been spoken, and the relatives were kissing the bride and
wishing the couple joy, when the clatter of horse’s hocfs,
which ceased at the gate, attracted attention. The windows
were opea, the curtains looped back with garlands of tlowers,
and Myrtle’s eyes followed those of many others to the gate,
where the rider was dismounting. The bridegroom felt a
slight, nervous clutch of the hand resting on his arm, which
caused him also to look forth.

“Some friend has arrived too late,” said one of the com-
pany. ;

The friend who had arrived too late was Hugh Fielding.
Too late, indeed!

Dressed in the garments of a traveler, rusty from a sea
voyage and dusty from the hasty morning’s ride, he cast a
surprised glance at the collection of carriages and other eyi-
dences of an unusual occurrence. The thought that some one
might be dead was perhaps the fear which for an instant
checked his steps; but a glance at the gay windows banished
that fancy, and he hastened on. It was the aunt who mct
him at the hall door.

“You have come at a strange time,” she said, pressing his
hand to express her silent sympathy. ‘Let me tell you,
before you go in, Myrtle and Charles have just been married.”

He stood in the vestibule, from which a pair of folding.
doors opened into the low, square parlor. Raising his eyes,
he saw the bridal pair, where they stood at the head of the
room receiving the congratulations of the company. Sher.
wood was pale as death, and looking down. For an instant
his eyes met those of the bride; the sudden agony in his own
was answered by a terrified, questioning appeal from hers.
It was but an instant—swiftly as the appearance of a ghost,
he came and went. It might almost have been a fancy. Od
Mr. Vail rubbed his spectacles, doubting his senses; sighed
and shook his head, as the little cloud of dust disappeared
along the edge of the grove.

To the guests the incident had not much meaning. Those
who knew the unexpected visitor, laid his sudden return and
the momentary embarrassment of the bridegroom to the score
of former jealousies. Some went so far as to say they had

 
   

$3 THE CHILD OF THE PRATRIB.
hearc. rumors of an engagement once existing between the
bride and Mr. Fielding. The interesting event of the wedding-
breakfast fortunately occurred in season to divert ittention
in that direction.

By an effort of which she did not before know she was Ca-
pable, Myrtle maintained her outward composure. She only
wished that all was over, the scene, the day, the future, life
itself. If she could, in the first misery of her false position,
haye rushed from it into the grave, she would have been glad
to have hidden herself there.

Yes, in the moment during which she had looked into
Hugh’s eyes, she had read his truth there. Whatever acci-
dent might have been the cause of his seeming perfidy, she
now saw that he had not been false; and she only wondered
that any proof whatever had ever caused her to doubt him.
She had loved him because he was noble and frank; she saw
him again, noble and truthful still, in every expression of the
worshiped face—and oh, with such a wretchedness there, the
result of her own conduct. She despised her own weakness.
She felt the wickedness of her actions, in the false vows she
had just taken—vows which, now, it would be more hopeless
than ever to attempt to keep rightly. She did not care to
know what had kept her from hearing from him. She must
put aside all thoughts of it now. By her want of faith she
had ruined the happiness of both. Now there was only left
to drink, without undignified grimace, the bitter cup she had
steeped for herself.

She did not suspect the bad part her husband had played
in the matter. Utter hatred and contempt of the man she
vowed to love and honor was not as yet forced upon her.
She still felt as if, in the mischief which had been wrought by
her waywardness, it was her duty to make him as-happy as
she could.

And so this wedding-day, to outward appearance so unu-
sually promising, to her was the most wintry of her life.
After the breakfast, the wedded pair set off for Saratoga.
For six weeks the bride was the beauty of the season.

When Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood returned to New York, Mr.
Fielding had sailed for Europe. He had loved, according to
the strength of his nature. He had planted his hopes once,

    

 
   
    
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
   
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

  

THE FRUITS OF EV1L-DOING. 83

aod when they were so rudely uprooted and cast away, ho
planted no second harvest. When he had arrived from New
Orleans, the anxiety he felt to learn the cause of the non-re-
ception of letters, along with the sweet wish to gaze agaiy
upon the face he loved, had been paramount to all other con-
siderations. Without waiting to see his clients, and with only
a brief call at his own home to obtain his favorite swift horse,
jie had ridden to the old homestead.

The impression he there received of the caprice of woman

SS ie was deep enough to nearly make a misanthrope of a most
o-}m cheerful and generous man. As unwitting as Myrtle of the
{ deception which had been practiced, he set down her broken

engagement to the fact that she could not withstand, during
his absence, the graces and flatteries of his friend. He blamed
Charles Sherwood for his unfriendly course much less than
he did the girl who had allowed herself to be wooed and won
in his absence. The blow to his happiness was fatal to hig
ambition. He resolved to go to Europe simply to get rid of
the slow days and months; and here he remained until time
had dulled the sharpness of the first pang. When he returned
2 to America, he made no inquiries after the false and lost ; his
[ parents were dead, his sister was happy with her own little
family, he cared not to resume the profession of the law; he
had money enough for all his tastes and wants. Urged by
that restlessness which comes of having no fixed purpose in
life, he started off on a wild, romantic journey through tho
unpeopled regions of the West.

  

 
  

 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

CALA ROR
FEARS OF SORROW.

In the mean time, the curse of evil-doing seemed to have
descended upon Charles Sherwood. Nothing prospered with
him, according to his liking. Mr. Vail, the father of his wife,
died; and then came forward a relative, who had revived a
Jong-dormant defect in the title of the property he left; and,
despite the earnest resistance of her husband, himself well
versed in the intricacies of the law, the possessions of Mrs.
Sherwood were swept from her. The beautiful farm—which
had grown and increased in value every year—the old home-
stead, was taken from her and occupied by others. This was
a severer blow to her husband than to her. He had married
her as much for her wealth as for love. The money which
she brought him he invested with characteristic want of
prudence, and lost it all. At his profession he did not par-
ticularly thrive. Fond as he was of the peculiar atmosphere
of a metropolis, he was forced to the conclusion that the only
remedy for his failing fortunes lay in emigrating to the West.

The fame of the marvelous growth of Wakwaka reached
him; he knew that a lawyer, well versed in the business of
land-titles, etc., would be apt to do well; and by purchasing
valuable property which might come in his way he should
grow rich with the growth of the town, and might yet count
up his hundreds of thousands.

To Mrs. Sherwood the West had no great terrors. The
death of her father weighed upon her spirits, more than the
loss of property. Her dear, good aunt, her second mother,
disliked Charles so much that she refused to live with them—
there did not seem a tie to bind her to her birthplace. To
heighten the depression of spirits with which she struggled,
many facts to which she could not shut her eyes had arisen
to impair her confidence in her husband, and to arouse her

 
  
  
   
 
 
    
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

<

s—

— —~»

  
 

 

a

aay

 

 
  

MARRIAGE WITHOUT LOVE. 85
suspicions of the part he had played in his desperate purpose
to win her hand. She strove with the dislike which these
discoveries occasioned ; but she could not teach herself to love
him. Only upon the beautiful child, with which God had
blessed her, in the midst of her desolation, was her soul poured
out in passionate love. The babe was innocent, was hers—
she could love it without stint.

The disastrous termination of the journey which the Sher-
woods, in company with another married couple wishing to
emigrate, began with so much expectation, is already known.
For Charles Sherwood, the gay, the graceful, the pet of society,
to lose his life at the hands of murderous savages, was a
strange and terrible decree of Providence. The agony of the
mother when that tender babe was cast aside upon the soli-
tary prairie—the little, loving child which had been given to
her in recompense for the loss of all other love—mothers may
faintly guess at, but words would hardly venture to picture.
That she escaped with her life, a broken-hearted woman, is
almost miraculous ; but thus it was, and for long years her
life was scarcely touched with one gilding ray of sunshine.

He, upon his part, was uneasy lest she should become aware
of his guilt and should despise him. The same selfishness
which had induced him to obtain her at all hazards, made
him, now that she was his, determine that she should love
and honor him, whether her heart would or no. He could
not but feel that he had won an empty promise—that the
bright eye dimmed beneath his endeavor to compel its fond-
ness, the fair cheek paled instead of blooming into warmer
beauty. He was restless and impatient. He had the wife he
had coveted—but not her love—her soul was as distant from
his as if they moved in different spheres. His restlessness
made him constantly demand tokens of affection from her,
If she did not fly to meet him when he came, if she did not
constantly demonstrate affection by words and caresses, he
was angry, accusing her of coldness and dislike. Poor
Myrtle! married, without love, to one so exacting and capri-
cious, hers was a hard part to play well and gracefully. She
did her best, trying conscientiously to do her duty.
| Bat of all the cruel stings with which he used to wound
her in his yexed moods, was the accusation which he

  

  
 

 

86 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

sometimes made, when he fund her pale or depressed, that she
still loved Hugh Fielding. One would suppose he would
have ayoided this subject for his own sake if not for hers.
But with a kind of mad folly, he would drag it up when it
shoud have been kept from sight. The sharpness of the pain
he thus inflicted upon his wife was in the fact which she could
not conceal from herself, that his accusation was too true—
that she did love him, though she struggled now with her love,
firmly bent to destroy it. At times Charles would falter,
when, after this maddest taunt of hers, he saw her face slowly
whiten, and her eyes fix upon his with haughty scorn, as if
she despised him for tearing the vail from the sorrow of her
heart—a sorrow which Ae had fixed there.

Ore of the motives which had also helped him to his deci-
sion to emigrate, was the hope that when he made entirely
new associations for his wife, the past would huve less influ-
ence over her—he might, in time, win her affections—and also
a dread of encountering the man whom he had wronged, who
might at any time return from abroad; when, they both moy-
sng in the same circles, it would be impossible for them to
entirely avoid each other.

Perhaps Myrtle was moved by somewhat similar feelings ,
she may have thought that it would be easier to fulfill her
duties in a new and novel sphere, than here, where there was
so much to wound and exasperate. She consented readily
to the proposition made to go to the West.

Doubtless Myrtle would have sunk under the weight ot
accumulated misfortune had it not been for the tender cher-
ishing of the poor, blighted flower by her aunt, who once
more took her to her bosom with all the kindness of a mother.
This aunt, after their ejection from their home and her refusal
to live with the Sherwoods, had taken up her abode in a
small village at some distance from the city, and from their
former residence. Supported by a small patrimony of her
own, she was enabled to offer a shelter to the child, who, not
yet twenty years of age, was a widow and childless, who had
so recently lost her father, and whose worldly possessions had
likewise been nearly all swept away.

Their change of abode was probably the reason why the
etter of inquiry which wes sent from Wakwaka, after the

k

 
  

ee

 

a oo

  
asian an

en " SECLUSION, 87

finding of the bake upon the prairie, never received any
answer.

Year after year rolled away in the deep scclusion of
Myrtle’s home. Yet even in the quict manner of her living
she could not escape entirely the admiration which her beauty
excited. More than one man, good and true, would haye
considered it the dearest privilege of his life to have brought
the flush of love and hope back to the pearly cheek, the light
to the downcast eye—to have persuaded her to lay aside the
black weeds which she always wore, for the bridal white more
befitting her youth. It was the common belief that the sud-
den and awful manner of her husband’s death had grieved
her too terribly for her heart to recover itself. But had the
truth been known, it would have told a different story—it
would have shown that heart a hopeless mourner over the
grave of another love. The suitors who plead to be allowed
to brighten her future years, honored the constancy which
drove them to despair—but they did not suspect that it was
a constancy to the living, not the dead.

Occasionally Myrtle dreamed wild dreams of the possibil-
ity of Hugh returning to her, now that her husband was dead.
If, indeed, he had loved her so much, would he not return to
her, with the wish to restore their former relations? Ob, if
she could see him now, she would sink at his feet and compel
him to pity and pardon the doubt and pride which had led
to their estrangement. Then, over the mad, fond vision would
sweep the cloud and shut it from sight—Hugh would never
seek her, never trust her, who, he believed, had trifled with
and betrayed his love. More than once she formed the res-
olution to seek him out and explain to him the circumstances
which caused her hasty marriage. These would not excuse
her guilt and folly in wedding a man she did not love; but
they would prove her neither so false nor so fickle as she had
seemed.

Upon these circumstances there fell, after a few years, a
startling light which made plain all that had been doubtful to
Mrs. Sherwood. Of course, all the possessions of the little
family which they had with them in their wagon, at the time
of their capture by the Indians, were lost; but among the
property left behind for future transportation was a chest of

 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
    
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
      

————————

 

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

her husband’s papers, which was afterward delivered to her.
These papers she had never fully examined, as there was sup-
posed to be nothing valuable among them; but one day,
when oppressed by intolerable loneliness, to drive from her
mind the thought of her lost child, her blighted life, her pres-
ent weariness, she unlocked the chest and began turning over
the various bundles with no other purpose than to pass away
the lagging hours. Presently her attention was arrested by
a package of old letters, post-marked New Orleans and
directed in Hugh’s handwriting to Charles Sherwood.

It is said that “murder will out.” There certainly is a
strange infatuation which possesses those who commit crime
to preserve the tokens of their guilt-as it were for their own
conviction. It must have been this peculiar influence which
induced Mr. Sherwood to treasure up these letters which he
more naturally, it would be supposed, had committed to the
flames.

Myrtle’s heart gave a bound, and then stood still. She
lifted up the package with a nervous hand, letting it fall into
her lap. The past rushed over her as vividly as if it were
yesterday those letters were penned. It was some time before
she could venture to untie the faded ribbon which bound
them. Even then she hesitated. There might be things in
those pages which Hugh would not have wished her to see—
which her husband himself would have withheld from her.
It was from no idle curiosity she wished to read them—it wag
from an agonizing desire to ascertain for herself the reasons
for Hugh’s silence, and if the suspicions she had entertained
of her husband’s guilt in the matter were correct.

While she hesitated, the bundle in her lap falling apart,
revealed a smaller package folded within, the superscriptions
of which were to her maiden name. The truth flashed over
her, sudden and blinding as the lightning from heaven. Her
head sunk on her breast; for a time she felt as she did on
that fearful wedding-day, when she looked up after the cere-
mony to meet the silent question in the eyes of Hugh.

After an hour of motionless apathy, she seized those letters
once so wildly looked for and waited for in vain, pressing
them to her lips and heart. One by one she read them all
apd over and over. Sitting there on the floor of her little

 

 

ae
    

assent * he

   

THE MISSING LETTERS. 88
chamber, with the gold of sunset streaming in upon her head,
she forgot that she was not Myrtle Vail, seventeen, betrothed,
reading the messages of him who was longing to fly to her
side, to make her his wife. She forgot that she was Mrs
Sherwood, a widow, loveless and lonely. In the joy and
excitement of her dream, she looked again almost the young
maiden; rich roses flushed her cheeks, her eyes swam in lus-
trous tears, and tender smiles flitted over her face as she hung
over the impassioned ayowals of her lover. How little had
the writer foreseen the fate of those letters, when he, eager
and expectant, had poured out his soul in them—that now
and here, for the first time, the eyes for which they were
intended, should rest upon them. Could Hugh have seen her
then, as she blushed along the lines, as she kissed his name at
the closes, those ten weary years would have been swept out of
their lives—all would have been well. Alas! the light faded in
the sunset sky, and from the face of the woman who had been
lost in this sweet dream the light faded, the night came—no
spirit went between them to warn Hugh of what might still
be—he, too, on the western prairie, watched the stars come
up, while the child of Myrtle fell asleep on his knee, her fair
hair blowing across his breast.

For weeks after this, her aunt was alarmed for the health
of Myrtle. The excitement had been almost too great for
her; she was much prostrated. The human heart can hardly
continue its daily burden without sympathy; and to this kind
counselor Myrtle revealed the letters, and perhaps, in thus
sharing her feelings with another, prevented the illness which
seemed to threaten her. Distressed as she was at the evi-
dence of the sin of one now dead, and far removed either from
her anger or forgiveness—filled with deep regret at her own
want of faith and the folly of her hasty marriage—there was
yet a strange happiness to her in this confirmation of Mr.
Fielding’s love, this certainty that he had been true. Those
precious, ill-fated missives were cherished as fondly as ever
lovye-letters were.

Finally, with the approval of her aunt, she concluded to
address a letter to Mr. Fielding, stating the feeling under
which she had committed the rash act which had destroyed
their happiness, explaining the false part his friend had

en ey
 

90 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

played, and asking him if he would visit her where she
resided. She did not know his address; the last she had
heard of him he was in Europe, but he might have returned
to New York, where, he being so well known, the post-office
officials would probably deliver the letter to his friends, in
case of his absence, and they would forward it to him. At
jeast it was worth a trial. So the word was sent. Myrtle
looked long for an answer, which never came. At times she
would believe he was far away, and had not received it;
again her face would burn with blushes to think how clearly
her missive had betrayed that she loved him still, when he,
perhaps, utterly condemned her, or had forgotten her. Grad-
ually all hope faded out. Hugh Fielding became to her as
one dead, whose memory was sacredly cherished. The calm
of resignation had settled over her life, when, suddenly, she
was startled out of all calm, all rest, by chance tidings of the
child she had mourned as lost for so many years. Her aunt
was too aged and enfeebled now to accompany her; but she,
searcely sleeping or eating, set out on her journey, resolved to
trace up the faint clue to its starting-point—to find her child
or to satisfy herself that it had really perished. Thus it was
she had been down to Wakwaka, and had found there more
than she had anticipated.

It is not strange that, with all this long record to go over,

the reunited lovers talked until Myrtle the second was fast -

asleep in the arm-chair, and the gray of dawn began to
obscure the stars looking in at the window. Myrtle the
second, yawning and peeping sleepily through half-shut lids,
regarded the couple upon the sofa as rather old—quite beyond
the delightful era of romance and passion. Oh, if they could
guess how she and John felt—if they could only be in love!
Ak, little girl, these older lovers walked this night in a world
of sentiment and feeling as fresh as ever opened to more
youthful feet. They had gone back over the past, and taken
up their youth again.

“Myrtle, see, our little girl is fast aslecp. She will take
cold, with no shawl over her. The stars, too, are fading. I
must say good-night, but I shall come back soon for your
decision.”

Myrtle, junior, was shaken gently out of a delightful dream

 

She
   

     
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
   

MYRTLE’S DREAM. 91
into which she had glided—a dream of her papa, Fielding,
who, coming to place a wreath of white roses in her hair,
turned suddenly, as he approached, into John Jones, artist,
who bent over and was just about to—what? She never
knew, for at that moment mamma Sherwood drew her out
of her dream most provokingly, and they went to their bed.
room together by the pale light of the morning star.
Poor John! could Azs fortunes receive such a sudden gild
ine ag had Mr. Fielding’s, how well it would enable our story
“ to end. But no one knew his present whereabouts, or what
was in store for him, an] Myrtle dropped to sleep with a
aigh,

 

 
    
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
 
    
 
 
 
  
 
  

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a

    
       

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE.

CHAPTER XII,
THE HAPPY CONSUMMATION.

Mynx. did not return with Mrs. Dennison that afternoon ,
but the rest of that day and evening were spent with het
newly-found mother, in a private parlor of the hotel.

“Tsn’t it odd? I wish you could wear my wedding-dress,
mother, but I guess it will hardly fit you.”

“ And if it would, it would scarcely be appropriate. Tt will
not be long before you will need it yourself, I fear!”

It was Myrtle’s turn now to blush.

“ Seven o’clock. Hugh was to be here at seven;” and the
lady looked at the tiny watch in her belt as impatiently as if
she were sweet sixteen, instead of fair and forty.

“ And here he is,” said he, stepping in at the moment.

“T have come for your answer, Mrs. Sherwood. You know
you arrived just in time to help me out of an embarrassing di-
lemma. ‘The cards are all out for a wedding—shall there be
one—or must there be cake baked to no purpose? Dinah will
be in despair, and everybody disappointed. I, for one, shall
go wild with disappointment.”

“Tt seems a strange exchange,” murmured the blushing
widow, looking at her lovely daughter.

“ But appropriate, I am convinced,” continued the gentleman.

“Oh, mamma, do not refuse. You expect to consent some-
time, and the sooner the better. It will be so charming! We
will surprise every one! I will not even confide it to Mrs.
Dennison. No one will know who the bride really is to be,
until we take our places upon the floor. I will wear my
dress, and be your bride-maid. Oh! I think it will be very
charming!” Hugh looked at her radiant countenance; he
had not seen her so much like her own self since he had re-
fused to her the relation of father; ne realized more vividly

than ever what a foolish thing he would have done to have
shadowed and chilled that sunny brightness.
“Tf it’s jealousy of your daughter which causes you to hesi

>

 

ls ie tek

G,:

SSesup oan
 

*

THE EXPLANATION. 93

tals, Y atsure you that I have had no intention of marrying
her,’ uvre both vhe laies showed their surprise in their ex-
vressiou. “ But ret me sit here, on this sofa, where I can talk
at ease, and Pll teil you all about it. I was just on the point
of explamnig myself to. this little girl here, when you come to
the rescue, my dear lady. ‘You must know that I overheard
a certain tear-bedewed and magnificently-heroic interv.ew be-
tween two good-looking young people, who mutually avowed
their willingness to break their own hearts, and their firm
determination to secure the happiness of a certain selfish
old bachelor at the price of all their hopes, wishes, and peace
of mind generally.”
“Why, Mr. Fielamg!’ murmured the youngest listener.
“Not being minded to permit such suicidal proceedings,
and being touched by the degree of devotion shown for the
wretched old bachelor, I secretly interested myself in their
case. The youth was about to tly the country, but I detained
him by force of a contract which I held between us, thinking
that wken the time had come to sacrifice the ogre who—”
“Now, father, I won’t hear to such slander,” again inter-
rupted the young girl, and he felt a soft hand upon either
cheek, and a kiss impeded the progress of his narrative.
“Who stood between them and felicity, that I should

need his aid in carrying out my little plot, which was

nothing less romantic than to lead the mourning bride
before the priest, only to act as god-father, and give her away
to the melancholy youth, suddenly summoned from the slough
of despond to the mountain-top of happiness.”

“Ts it possible !” again interposed the wondering voice.

“TJ confess now, that there was a touch of the dramatic in
my little scheme; but it consoled me for my own loss, and
gave me comfort and amusement in dreaming it out, when,
otherwise, I might have been falling into a decline. However,
my pretty plot was all disarranged by the flight of the princi-
pal actor, and I was in a fine state of alarm and perplexity,
when your ladyship appeared upon the stage. I was actually
afraid that I should have to marry the little minx myself, tc
stop the gossips who had been invited, and to keep the bride
cake from being a total loss !”

“What a delightful man you are, Mr. Fielding! If John
yaly knew of it,” murmured Myrtle to herself, in a whisper.

 
  

THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE,

 
 
 
     

“What did you suy, my child»

“Oh, nothing, papu. I was just thinking—

“What a pity it was that John had run away. It ¢ a pity,
fndeed. We might have two weddings in one, and save
time, trouble, and expense, you know.”
| “What is the name of this future son-in-law of mine ?”

i asked Mrs. Sherwood, with a smile.

i “John Jones, Jr.,” answered Mr. Fielding. “A beautiful
i name,” he added, maliciously, “ very aristocratic, and to a ro-
mantic young girl, I should think it would be encugh of itself, .
Some of his relatives are fashionable people. That was his aunt I

Hi introduced to you, in the cabin, Mrs, Sherwood.”

i “ What's in a name ?” asked Myrtle, with a flushing cheek.

: “Td marry a man, if I loved-him, if his name was Nebuchad

i nezzer. And as for his aunt, she’s as warm-hearted and ex- ~
! cellent a woman as there is in the world. She’d be much
i

 
       
       
   
   
   
   
   
   
     
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
  
   
  
 
 
 

truer to me in sickness or misfortune than any of these ‘ fash-
ionable relatives’ would. John is poor now, dear mother, but
he will soon be independent, if not rich, with bis genius— ~.
for he has genius, mamma—and I love him, which is enough. ze
There’s nothing should ever induce a young girl to marry ex-
cept love—”
“Or duty,” interposed Mr Fielding. i
“T don’t know,” answered Myrtle, “I may have carried my
sense of duty too far—I think now I did. No matter—I
know you will love John, and be proud of him, mamma.”
“T don’t doubt it, my darling. I wish he were here thia
evening. I shall be the last person to oppose you upon
grounds of riches or policy. It was that part, played by de

 

ception, which blighted my life,” she sighed, and looked away

sadly, as at a dreary past which she saw in space before her. 4
“Do not talk of blight,” said Hugh; “ your life shall blos- ~ >

som again. We will forget that we are not as young as Myr-

tle and John. We will think it is in frolic only that we call

them our children—as little girls do their dolls,"—she smiled

—“ and now, I take it for granted, that I have your consent > nm

vo have the arrangements proceed.” oom
Mrs. Dennison was surprised at the excessive lightness of — ., m

spirits of her fair charge the day preceding the wedding: 4 a

Wrides elect are usually thoughtful, if not positively mel en

  
 

Laan

THE WEDDING-PARTY. 95

ancholy, at the near approach of so important an event ;
but Myrtle was like a thistle-down, dancing upon a summer
breeze. No one was made acquainted with the fact that the
lady at the hotel was her mother; Mrs. Sherwood passed for
an intimate friend of Mr. Fielding’s, who had been invited to
the coming festival.

At last the important evening arrived; gay parties wen
from Wakwaka out to the brilliantly-illuminated new mansion
where the ceremony was to be performed. The large parlors
were thronged ; curiosity and interest were at the height; the
usual buzz and flutter which precedes the entrance of the
bridal-party took place. To Mrs. Dennison was assigned the
honor of receiving the guests—a situation she was eminently
qualified to fill gracefully. That lady herself was not entirely
at ease in her mind. She was too keen an observer not to
see that something mysterious was hovering about. When she
had stepped into Myrtle’s dressing-room to herself put the fin-
ishing touches to her toilet, the young girl had playfully re-
fused to have her vail put on.

“Wait until the last moment,” she said; “ Mrs. Sherwood
will arrange it for me, if I wish it.”

Mrs. Dennison cast a jealous look at that lady, and retired.
It was no wonder that she felt hurt to find herself supplanted
by this stranger, after years of motherly care~of her pupil.
Besides, the lady-was about her own age, and much hand-
somer; she was obliged to confess to herself that Mrs. Sher-
wood was beautiful, as she saw her that evening, flitting about
Siyrtle, arranging her hair and dress. She wore, the strange
tady did, a rich full dress of dove-color, without any ornament,
gave her own splendid hair, fastened with a gold comb, and’
decked with a few scarlet flowers. <A flush, as soft and fitful
us that of youth, hovered on her cheeks, and her eyes were
brilliant and tender. ‘

“You look lovely to-night, mother,” whispered Myrtle.

There was but one thing which dissatisfied the young giri
now; which was the absence of her own lover, whom she
wanted to stand with her as groomsman, she being bride-
maid to her mother. In his place she was obliged to accept
a young gentleman of the village, agreeable and graceful
enough, and only not perfect because he was nc} John Jones.

 
THE CHILD OF TH PRAIRIE.

When the bridal-party cume into the thronged parlors, #
silence fell upon the assembly, surprise was the one emoti
with which the guests beheld Hugh Fielding taking as |
wife that strange lady by his side, unknown to every one vi
them, and Myrtle playing the part of bridemaid.

One person there was in that throng with whom ‘surprise ,
was also infinite joy. Standing out upon the portico, too sad
to enter, not wishing to be seen. yet unable to stay away, lin-
gered John Jones, who had returned to the scenes of his disap-
pointment upon the day set to seal his unhappiness, thinking
that he would steal one secret glance at the bride, in her
beauty, then retreat to darkness and solitude, without disturb-
ing her serenity by a sight of his wretchedness.

But as this meaning change in the programme dawned upon
him, he lingered in a dream of joy, doubting his senses, ob-
truding further through the window into the room.

“Law suz!” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, who had made her way
forward to congratulate “the happy pair,” and to express her
yonder at the turn events had taken; “if there ain’t Jehn a
peeking in the window!”

“You don’t say so! nothing could be more fortunate! run,
child, and get your vail,” exclaimed Mr. Fielding.

The blushing youth was dragged in by the exultant bride-
sroom, regardless of traveling attire, or stammered excuses;
Myrtle’s timid refusals were set at naught.

“This night, or never, his bride thou shalt be!” cried
Hugh. Some one brought the bridal vail and orange wreath
from the chamber; the young pair stood up, and before they
could realize their own delicious, unexpected happiness, they
were receiving congratulations as Mr. and Mrs. John Jones.

Need any thing further be said of all the world of conject-
ure and romantic gossip which floated about that evening f
That double wedding is still fresh in the memory of the
guests, and the history of the beautiful Child of the Prairie
is cherished among the annals of the city of Wakwaka.

Spee spe st

a

THE END