Mildred at Home: With Something About Her Relatives and Friends.

"Father, dear, dear father," they said, "oh, do not be so distressed! it may not be true."

"Alas, alas! I dare not hope it," he groaned. "My boys – my boys; would God I had died for you! My sons, oh, my sons! Such a fate! such a terrible fate!"

"But, dear father, think how happy they are now," said Mildred, weeping as she spoke.

"Yes, there is great and undeserved mercy mingled with the terrible affliction," he replied; "'they cannot return to me, but I shall go to them.' Thanks be unto God for that blessed hope! But my wife – your mother! this will kill her!"

"Dear father," said Mildred, "do not forget the precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

"We have all agreed to try to hide it from her till she is stronger," the doctor remarked. "We will have to school ourselves to look and act and speak as if no such news had reached our ears."

"An impossible task, I fear," sighed Mr. Keith. "Marcia and I have had no secrets from each other since we were married, and it will be no easy task for me to conceal my anguish of heart from her now; but, God helping me, I will."

To father and daughters the next few days were a severe ordeal, for it was difficult indeed to hide their bitter grief from the love-sharpened eyes of the tender wife and mother; they were cheerful when they could force themselves to be so; and when tears would have their way they talked of Fan, and seemed to be mourning afresh over her early death, or spoke of Ada in her far distant home, and how faint was the hope that she would ever be with them again.

Mrs. Keith seemed somewhat surprised at these renewed manifestations of grief that had appeared to be softened by the lapse of time; but asking no questions, she simply talked to them of Fan's blessedness and the good work Ada was doing for the Master, and of the time when they would again be a united family in the glorious land where partings are unknown.

She was regaining strength every day, and in seeing that they felt well rewarded for their efforts at self-control and encouraged to persevere with them; and they did, though at times – especially when she would speak of Rupert and Don, talking hopefully of soon hearing of their safe arrival in California – it was almost beyond their power; and they were compelled to find some pretext for leaving the room, that for a short space they might let grief have its way.

Mildred was sitting with her mother one morning, her babe asleep by her side in the cradle that been occupied successively by herself and all her brothers and sisters, Percy quietly busied with a picture-book.

The two ladies had their sewing, and Annis was conning her lessons on the farther side of the room.

The door-bell rang, and Celestia Ann ushered in a woman, a resident of the town with whom the ladies had never had any acquaintance, though they knew her by name. Her call was therefore a surprise; but they gave her a pleasant good-morning and a polite invitation to be seated.

She sat down, made a few remarks about the weather and the state of the roads, then, looking Mrs. Keith full in the face, said, "I s'pose you've heard the news about the last party that set off from here for Californy?"

Mildred made a warning gesture, but it was too late, and doubtless would not have been heeded even could it have been given in time.

"What news?" Mrs. Keith asked, in a startled tone, while Annis rose and came forward in an excited manner, her eyes wild with affright.

"So you haven't heard?" pursued the caller, with the satisfaction of the newsmonger in a fresh customer for her wares. "Well – "

"Mrs. Slate," interrupted Mildred, "I must beg you will say no more; we have heard a vague report, which may be entirely untrue, but have been trying to keep it from mother, for she is too weak to bear it."

"What is it, Mildred, my child, what is it?" gasped the poor invalid, turning deathly pale.

"Dear mother, don't ask; it would only distress you, and may be all a lie," Mildred said, going to her and putting her arms about her in tender, loving fashion.

"Tell me, my child, tell me; it is useless to try to keep me in ignorance now; suspense would be worse than the direst certainty," faltered the mother.

"But there is no certainty, mother dear," Mildred said pityingly, her tears falling fast as she spoke; "oh, be content not to hear what can but give you pain!"

"She'd ought to know," said Mrs. Slate; "she's got to hear it sooner or later, and what's the use of puttin' her off so? I'll tell you, Mrs. Keith. They say the train was attacked by the Injins and most o' the men killed, your two boys among the rest. I felt it my duty to come and tell you about it, in case you hadn't heard, and to call your attention to the fact that this appears to be the way Providence has taken for to punish you for bringin' 'em up to care so much for gold; and – "

"Leave the house this instant, and never venture to darken its doors again!" cried Mildred, supporting her fainting mother with one arm, while she turned, full of righteous indignation, toward her tormentor with a stamp of her foot to enforce the order she could not refrain from giving.

"I've only done my dooty," muttered the woman, rising and sailing from the room with her head in the air.

"O mother, mother!" sobbed Mildred. "Annis, help me to lay her on the lounge, and run for Charlie. I think he's at home in the office. The cruel, cruel creature! how could she! oh, how could she!"

Annis, wildly weeping, hastened to obey. "O Milly, Milly, is mother dying? Is it true about the boys?"

"She has only fainted, and it is only a report about the boys, that may not be at all true," Mildred said. "Now call Celestia Ann to help me, and you run for Charlie as fast as you can. O Zillah," in a tone of relief as the door opened and Mrs. Ormsby came in, "I'm glad you've come. Run to mother's room and get the bottle of ammonia."

Greatly startled and alarmed by the glimpse she had got of her mother's white, unconscious face, Zillah ran to do her sister's bidding, while Celestia Ann, summoned by Annis, hastened to render all the assistance in her power, and poor, terrified Annis flew like the wind in search of the doctor.

She found him in, and, though scarcely able to articulate, made him understand that his presence was wanted with all speed.

She darted back, and he caught up his medicine-case and followed close at her heels.

Mrs. Keith still lay white and insensible, the three women busy about her with half-despairing efforts to restore her to consciousness.

They began to fear it was something more than an ordinary faint. Had that sudden, cruel announcement taken her life? Happy for her were it so; but oh, how could husband and children spare her?

Mildred turned upon her husband a look of agonized inquiry.

"Do not be alarmed, love," he said, "she will revive presently, I trust."

Some moments of trying suspense ensued; then her eyes opened wide and glanced about from one to another.

"What has happened?" she asked, in feeble accents; "have I been worse?"

"In a faint, mother; but you have come out of it now, and I hope will be none the worse after a little," the doctor answered cheerfully. But ere the words had left his lips memory had resumed her sway.

"Oh, my sons!" she cried, "my Rupert and Don! Can it be true that I shall see them no more upon earth? Have they been cut off in the pride and beauty of their early manhood by a savage foe? O Lord, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I, for my heart is overwhelmed!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting her streaming eyes to heaven.

"Dear mother," sobbed Mildred, leaning over her in tenderest solicitude, "if they are gone from earth, it is to the better land, where pain and sin and sorrow are unknown, and where you will one day join them and all your loved ones. But it may not be true; there is no certainty yet; it is but a rumor."

"Then how cruel to tell me," she sighed; "and to add that I was to blame for their going. Ah, God knows I have tried to train them for heaven, and not to set their affections upon the perishing things of time and sense."

"Yes, mother, your children can all testify to that," Mildred said; Zillah adding, "Indeed we can; if any of us are worldly-minded it is not the fault of either of our parents. And it was not the love of gold that sent our dear brothers on that journey; one was seeking health, the other went to take care of him and with a longing for change and exciting adventure."

At that moment Mr. Keith came in with a letter in his hand. His face was brighter and happier than they had seen it for many days, eagerness and anxiety mingling with its gladness.

"From Don to you, my dear," he cried, holding the letter high, with its address toward her.

"Oh, then it is not true! not true!" was the simultaneous, joyful exclamation from his daughters; and Mildred, embracing the weeping invalid, said, "Do you hear, dearest mother? A letter from Don, and you may dry your tears."

Her husband held it out to her with a glad and loving smile.

She grasped it eagerly, but in vain her trembling fingers essayed to tear it open.

"Let me, dear wife," he said, taking it gently from her.

"Read it," she said feebly; "my eyes are dim. Oh, my Rupert! is he living also?"

Mr. Keith glanced down the page, let the letter fall, and dropped his face into his hands with a heart-rending groan.

Zillah snatched it from the floor, her hand trembling like an aspen leaf, her face overspread with a deathly pallor.

"My son, my son, my first-born son!" sobbed Mrs. Keith, "gone, gone in that dreadful way! Yet, thank God that dear Don is left. And blessed be His holy name that He lives and reigns, and none can stay His hand or say unto Him, What doest thou?"

"Read, some one," groaned the father; "I cannot!"

Zillah silently handed the letter to the doctor, and he read it in low, moved tones, often interrupted by the bitter weeping of his listeners.

Rupert's death was a heavy blow; for a time his parents seemed wellnigh crushed by it, yet not a murmur was ever heard from either; the language of their lips and lives was, "'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.'"

The manner of their son's death made it the hardest blow they had ever received; yet as the months rolled on they learned to speak calmly and tenderly of him as having gone before to the heavenly home whither they themselves would soon follow.

Don's letter received a reply in due season. It said his speedy return would be joyfully welcomed, yet as he was now on the ground, he was free to stay for a time if such were his choice; so he remained, fascinated by the hope of success in his search for gold, and feeling a great repugnance to going back and facing his townsmen without having secured at least a moderate portion of that which he had come so far to find.

Chapter Thirteenth

"No day discolored with domestic strife;No jealousy, but mutual truth believ'd,Secure repose, and kindness undeceived."– Dryden.

Months and years glided swiftly by, bringing to the Keiths only such changes as they will bring to all: added gray hairs and wrinkles, and a decrease of strength, vigor, and energy to the old people; to the younger married ones, an added staidness and dignity of demeanor and more olive-branches about their tables; while Annis had grown from the merry, romping child into a tall, slender maiden, even more comely than the child had been, but with a quieter step and often a dreamy, far-away look in the sweet blue eyes.

She was the joy of her parents' hearts, the very light of their eyes, the only child left at home; for Cyril, having completed his college course, had entered a theological seminary and was preparing to go into the ministry.

There had been all along a constant interchange of letters with their relatives at the Oaks, particularly brisk on the part of Annis and Elsie, and they each knew almost as much of the thoughts, feelings, and experiences of the other as though they had lived together all these years.

Letters from the Oaks were always joyfully welcomed, yet were esteemed as nothing in comparison with those that came occasionally from Ada and Don, the former of whom had become the happy mother of two children, whom she described as very sweet and lovable, adding that she had a great longing to show them to her father and mother. And it was perhaps not greater than the desire of the grandparents to see them, though that was far outweighed by their thirst for a sight of the mother's face.

Mildred was still the devoted daughter she had been in earlier days, nor less faithful in all that concerned the welfare of husband and children. She looked well to the ways of her household, nor ever ate the bread of idleness. She was a careful housekeeper, allowing no waste, yet most liberal in paying for every service done for her or hers, and never stinting in the provision for the wants of her family.

Her table was always bountifully provided, her house neat and clean, her children well and tastefully dressed, her husband's wardrobe carefully looked to; nor did she neglect the souls, minds, or bodies of her children. Their physical well-being was to her a matter of very great importance, and while assiduously cultivating their minds and hearts, letting them never want for mother-love and tender caresses, she watched over the health of each with untiring vigilance.

And she had her reward in their rosy cheeks, bounding steps, constant flow of animal spirits, and devoted love to their parents, especially their mother; also in their kindness and affection toward each other.

They were a very happy family, a joy of heart to Mr. and Mrs. Keith, as were Zillah's children also, she having greatly improved in her management as a mother since the babyhood of her first child.

It was spring-time again, the evenings still cool enough for a little fire to be very enjoyable. In Dr. Landreth's cosey sitting-room a bright wood fire blazed cheerily on the open hearth. The doctor himself sat over it alone and in meditative mood.

Mildred had left the room a moment before to see her children to bed, a duty she never neglected, and not only a duty, but a pleasure also, for it gave opportunity for many a sweet interchange of demonstrations of affection and many a childish confidence to mother which otherwise might have been withheld; also – the young hearts being warm, the feelings tender – she found it the best of all seasons for sowing good seed that might one day spring up and grow and bear fruit unto everlasting life.

The doctor's meditations seemed not unpleasant, if one might judge from the calm and placid expression of his countenance; yet occasionally there was a passing shade of doubt or anxiety.

He looked up with a smile as Mildred re-entered the room. "Come and sit by my side, dear wife," he said, "and let us have a little confidential chat. Do you know what I have been thinking, sitting here alone?" he asked, as she took the offered seat and his arm stole round her waist in very lover-like fashion.

"No, my dear; how should I?" she answered, with a smile. "Of your patients, I presume; some case of obscure and difficult diagnosis."

"Ah, you are wide of the mark," he returned, with a light laugh. "No; my thoughts were principally of the presiding genius of my happiest of homes, and I am ready to echo the words of the wise man, 'A prudent wife is from the Lord.' 'Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.'"

"You're satisfied with yours?" she said inquiringly, and with a glad look up into his face.

"More than satisfied! Milly, love, you are my greatest earthly treasure; dearer far to me now than the day we were married, though then I was sure I loved you as never man loved woman before."

"How you gladden my heart, my dearest and kindest of husbands," she said, in low, moved tones. "And my experience is the same as yours; I loved you dearly when we were married, but I love you ten times as dearly now. How sweet it is to live together as we do, with hearts so closely united, and ever sharing each other's joys and sorrows! Burdens thus divided are so much easier to bear, while joys are doubled in the sharing."

"Yes, it is so," he said.

"'Then come the wild weather – come sleet or come snow,We will stand by each other, however it blow;Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain,Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.'"

They talked of their children, now three in number; of their various dispositions, and the best mode of managing and training each.

After that, breaking a pause in the conversation, the doctor said, "By the way, Milly, I received a letter to-day from a second cousin of mine, telling me that a daughter of hers, a young lady, is in poor health, needing change of climate and scene, her physician says, and asking if I am willing to take her under my care for a time, probably until next fall. My love, would you like to take her into the family?"

"I am quite willing if it is your wish, my dear," Mildred answered, but with a slight sigh; they were so happy and peaceful by themselves, and this stranger might prove an element of discord.

"It is not my wish if at all unpleasant to you, wife," he said, with affectionate look and tone. "I fear it may add to your cares and labors; yet Flora Weston may prove one of those bright, merry, winsome young things that are like a fresh breeze in a house."

"Perhaps so; and we are told to use hospitality one to another without grudging," Mildred added, with a pleasant look and smile. "Write her at once, Charlie, if you feel inclined. I am glad of an opportunity to show some attention to a relative of yours."

"Just like you, Milly," he responded, with a gratified look.

The letter was sent the next day, and a few weeks later Miss Weston arrived.

She seemed a rather commonplace girl, quiet and undemonstrative. Mildred found it a task to entertain her, even with the assistance her mother and sisters could give, and they did all that lay in their power. She did not sew, she cared very little for reading, she had strength for only very short walks; she was no talker, and seldom seemed to care to listen.

Annis soon voted her an intolerable bore, yet, to relieve Milly, spent several hours of every day in her society. The doctor did his share by taking her with him whenever he drove into the country. He made many attempts to draw her out, both then and when he had an evening at home, but, not succeeding, finally came to the conclusion that there was nothing in her.

He would have wholly regretted having invited her but that her health presently began to improve under his treatment.

Meanwhile Flora was silently observing all that went on in the family, especially studying Mildred; and at length her manner – which had at first been very cold and distant – gradually changed till there was at times a warmth of affection in it.

"You are so kind to me, Cousin Mildred," she said one day; "you have never neglected anything that could add to my comfort, and have always shown so much sympathy for my invalidism; far more than ever my own mother did," she added, in a bitter tone. "Mother is very good and pious, but she has never taken any care of her children's health; she is duly anxious about our souls, but neglects our bodies. I must acknowledge that I came here strongly prejudiced against you, simply because I had heard you were very pious, and the way I have been brought up had made me hate piety, hate the Bible and prayer."

"O Flora! and you the child of a Christian mother!" cried Mildred, in a shocked tone.

"Yes, I believe mother is a real Christian, and I don't wonder you are shocked at what I have said. But if she had brought me up as you do your children, I am sure I should have felt quite differently. Is it any wonder I hate the Bible when, instead of being entertained when good with beautiful stories out of it, I was always punished when particularly naughty by being forced to read a certain number of chapters in proportion to the extent of my delinquency, and commit so many verses to memory; besides being prayed over – a long tedious prayer, half of which I did not understand?"

"I have always tried to make the Bible a delight to my children," said Mildred, "and I think it is. O Flora, I feel very sorry for you that you do not appreciate its beauty and sweetness! Are you not old enough now to put away your unfortunate prejudice and learn to love it as God's own word given to teach us how to obtain eternal life – telling the old, old story, the sweet, sweet story of Jesus and His love?"

"I have begun to like it better since I came here," Flora answered, with an abashed look. "I have really enjoyed the Bible stories I have overheard you telling the children; and somehow religion seems a lovelier thing as I see it exhibited in your life and the lives of Cousin Charlie and your parents and sisters, than as my mother practises it."

"It grieves me to hear a daughter speak so of her mother," Mildred said gently.

"I don't mean to be unkind or disrespectful toward her," replied Flora, "but I wish to make you understand how I came to feel such a prejudice against piety, and against you because I had been told you were very pious.

"I am quite sure mother is good and sincere, and not at all puffed up and self-righteous; but I think she makes great mistakes which prejudice people against her religion.

"Now, my father is not a pious man, and some things mother does, and her refusal to do some other things, have so turned him against religion that he never goes inside of a church-door.

"For one thing, mother won't dress like other ladies. He wants to see her well dressed, but she makes it a part of her religion to go looking old-fashioned and really dowdy. Father buys her handsome things, and she won't wear them; she gives them away or cuts them up for the children, and I don't wonder he won't go to church with her. I am pretty sure he might have become a regular attendant if she would only have dressed to suit him.

"And sometimes she gets out of her warm bed, in a cold winter night, and goes off into a room where there is no fire, and stays there for an hour or more – in her bare feet and her night-dress – praying. Then she comes back chilled through; probably has a dreadful cold the next day, and that makes father mad, and he lays it all to her religion.

"I love my mother, Cousin Mildred, but I can't help blaming her for at least a part of my sufferings. As I have told you, she has never taken any care of her children's health; if our food was improperly cooked, it was a matter of no importance; and just so if our clothing, beds, or bedding were left unaired, or if any other sanitary measure were disregarded. We were often forced to eat and sleep in a close, almost stifling atmosphere; we wore our winter clothes into the heat of summer, and our thin summer clothing far on into the damp, cold days of autumn and early winter.

"Then, too, when I began to complain of this dreadful pain in my back, no notice was taken, and I was expected to do as much as if I were perfectly well and strong; she would not hire as much help as she might, as father was quite willing she should, and I was often left to do everything while she spent hours at a time in her closet.

"I've thought sometimes that life would have been easier for me if I'd had a worldly-minded mother who would have taken some care of my health. And I expected to find you the same kind of Christian, but you are very different."

"I fear the difference is not all in my favor," Mildred said.

"But don't you think health ought to be taken care of?" asked Flora. "I have noticed that you are very careful of your children's, as well as of their morals and manners."

"Yes," Mildred said, "I think the Bible teaches very plainly that we are to be careful of our bodies. 'What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?' Health is one of God's good gifts and not to be despised; it is one of the greatest of temporal blessings; besides, to be careless of it is to lessen our ability to work for God, and probably to shorten our lives; which we certainly have no right to do.

"But, Flora, perhaps I am not so different from your mother as you think; I, too, love to spend an hour alone in communion with my best Friend; and I do not find it time lost, for thus I gather strength for the duties, trials, and temptations of life. I never could meet them without the strength and wisdom that He gives in answer to prayer."