"I understand what you mean, Tom. No; where your father and I were born, and where we were married, the country was thickly settled. All the children went to school, and there were no such cabins as the one we live in, but nice, framed houses of wood, stone, or brick."

"Were there no poor people there?"

"Yes, as many as there are here,–a great many in the large cities,–and they found it very hard getting along."

"Were yours and father's folks very poor?" 80

"No; they were in comfortable circumstances."

"Then why, mother, did you come west, and why do we live as we do now?"

As she did not at once reply, the lad, busy once more with his own thoughts, forgot that he had asked the question. He had often revolved the matter in his own mind, but had never before ventured to speak of it. His mother's conversation with him, after his injury by the gun, had shown him the folly of his plan of leaving home clandestinely; but dissatisfaction with his lot grew with his growth and strengthened with his strength. It was a great mystery to him how his mother could consent to live so, for so many years. He would look at the black and crazy loggery, with its clay "chinking," that was ever more cracking, and crumbling, and falling to the floor, leaving holes between the logs, through which the wind and rain entered; and the one rickety chair, and the rude benches and boxes for sitting accommodations, and the bedsteads, composed of rough oaken slabs, spiked at the head and side to the walls, and a rough post at the unsupported corner, and the cracked and rusted stove and leaky funnel; and then he would look at his mother, who, despite her coarse and dingy dress, seemed so superior to her condition; and the more he realized the contrast, the 81 more he marvelled. When he was younger, he had noticed this incongruity between his gentle mother and her wretched surroundings; and now he sometimes wished he could be insensible to it, it made him so unhappy. How restless he became–how like a caged eaglet, as he pondered the subject by night and by day–none knew save the watchful friend who moved so gently about the dark-lighted cabin, and kept so uncomplainingly at her tasks.

And his father seemed to him, in his way, as much of a mystery as his mother. Was he contented with the roving life he led? and did he never realize the deprivations of his wife and children? Did father and mother ever know brighter days? and were they never to see them again? And was it duty for him to keep on in the same way, sacrificing every rising aspiration and pure taste, and getting nothing in return but poor food and clothing, a comfortless home, and a mind undeveloped and unfurnished?

Seated on the end of a box, shelling corn by drawing the ears against the back of a broken scythe, he had been working and thinking through the evening, while the children slept, with no one to notice his absent-minded labor but his ever-wakeful mother.

"I will not endure it," he mentally exclaimed; and, by way of emphasis, he drew the ear of 82 corn he held against the edge of the scythe with unusual force, at the same instant springing to his feet with a cry of pain, and a finger in his mouth, upsetting his seat, and sending the contents of the box rolling across the floor, and into the gaping cracks.

"O, I've scraped my finger awfully!" he said, with grimaces that added nothing to his personal attractions.

"Why, how did you do it, my son?" asked the mother, although she knew very well.

"Why, you see, I was thinking about something, and pulled my finger, instead of the cob, against the edge."

Mrs. Jones laid back the strip of bleeding flesh into the place from which it had thus unceremoniously been torn, and from which it hung by a bit of skin, and carefully bound up the wound.

Then, sweeping the scattered kernels into a heap, and restoring them to the box, she seated herself in a little dislocated chair, and said,–

"There, don't shell any more now, Tom; I have something to say to you. You asked why we came west. The time has come when you had better know something of our history; it may help you decide your course of action.

"Your father and I were born in Connecticut, 83 in the same town. We attended school together in our early childhood, and often played together. Both of our families were respectable–your father's quite so, although not so well off as to property as mine. He was a bright, promising boy, quick to learn, warm-hearted, and conscientious. I never knew him guilty of any of the petty meannesses too common among school children. He was sensitive to a fault, but had high notions of honor, and despised falsehood and deception in any form. When I was seventeen I became secretly engaged to him. My parents did not suspect this, nor did any of the household, except a younger sister, to whom I confided my secret. I now think it would have been better for all concerned had I from the first been open in the matter, and frankly stated to my mother what my preference was. But I knew that he was not their choice for me. They were ambitious to have me marry brilliantly, as the phrase went,–that is, wealthily and in style,–and he was young, and had his fortune to carve out pretty much for himself. He knew what their hopes were concerning me, matrimonially, and, that I might be perfectly free to break the engagement, should I repent of it, rarely saw me, nor did any correspondence pass between us. My regard for him did not lessen on this account, for I understood his motives. When he was of 84 age, his father died, leaving him a thousand dollars as his portion. With this he went into business, with good prospects, in a neighboring city. I shall never forget how earnestly he spoke, one evening, as we parted after a brief interview.

"'Mary,' said he, 'I will be rich. I've set my mind on that; and then your father won't be ashamed to own me as a son-in-law, and I shall come and claim you.'

"It seemed noble and heroic for him to speak thus; but my heart smote me with foreboding, and I answered,–

"'But what if you do not succeed?'

"'I will succeed;' he replied, impetuously. 'What a man wills he can do.'

"Ah, how foolish and sinful it is to worship money and show, as my parents did; how much suffering it has caused me! and how equally unwise and presumptuous it was for a young man, stung by the pride of others, to make that the rule of his life, and go forth in his own strength to build up a fortune, so that he might demand me of my parents as an equal, and thus gratify his own pride! I see it now, but not clearly then.

"Joseph, for a time, was prosperous. Everything he turned his hand to was remunerative; 85 and when we met, his manner was confident and hopeful.

"'Let the old gentleman look down upon me now if he chooses,' he would say; 'he won't always do it.'

"He had been a year in business when a partnership was proposed to him by a man of education and gentlemanly appearance. Joseph spoke to me about it, and I said,–

"'You are doing well enough now. Why not be contented to go alone? I have often heard that partnerships are poor ships to sail in.'

"'Well,' said he, 'there's something in his appearance that I do not quite like, and I think I shall not take him in.'

"But as the man came with the highest testimonials as to his character, ability, and influence, with the hope of greatly enlarging his business, a copartnership was entered into. Mr. Jacques, the partner, was Joseph's senior in age–a stout, robust man, with a high forehead, light hair, always carried a cane, was jovial, and good-natured in the extreme, fond of telling a good story, but sharp in trade. I met him on one occasion, and there was something in the turn of his eye–a restless, jerking, selfish expression–that made me shrink from him. Joseph was proud of his acquisition, and, remembering my caution, 86 asked me what I thought of him. I well remember the reply that leaped to my lips.

"'Didn't you say that he was religious?'

"'He professes to be,' said he.

"'I fear that it is only a cloak to his real character. If he is a Christian, I do not know what grace has done for him; but if I do not misread his face, he is constitutionally dishonest.'

"But every thing went on smoothly, and Joseph would say to me when we met,–

"'My partner loves scandal a little too well–is apt to talk against others; but one thing I'm sure of–he's honest.'

"One morning, some months after this conversation, I chanced to meet Joseph as he was going to the office; he looked pale and careworn.

"'O,' said he, 'I have had the most singular exercise of mind. Some folks are troubled with sleeplessness; but I never was until last night. I went to bed feeling as well as usual, but could not sleep. I was not unusually tired, had taken a light supper, and saw no reason why I should be so wakeful. I turned and tossed in bed, and shut my eyes; but all in vain. I even laid my finger on my wrist, that the counting of my pulse might, by the monotony, induce slumber; when, suddenly, before my mind's eye stood my partner; it seemed as real as life; and with the appearance 87 came little remarks of his, little acts and words, which, as they ranged themselves along like the links in a chain, revealed him to me, against my will, as a deceiver and a dishonest man.'

"He was much excited, and hurried to town. Mr. Jacques, as I afterwards learned, was there before him, and met him with his bland smile and well-turned compliments; and, strange as it may seem, scarcely an hour had passed before he had charmed away every shadow of suspicion. Matters now went on as before for a few weeks, when Joseph had another sleepless night, and a more convincing unfolding of his partner's real character; and the next night, after the office had been closed, he spent in examining the books of the concern, and detected a number of artfully-contrived fraudulent entries in the handwriting of his partner, for, according to agreement, the latter kept the accounts. Further revelations showed that he had been gradually abstracting the stock. As soon as Mr. Jacques saw that he was being found out, his gentleness and politeness were all gone, and he raged like a beast of prey. Joseph attached his furniture at his dwelling, but found it had all been made over to his son–a young lawyer in the city; meanwhile the dishonest man had fled with his ill-gotten gains, leaving the business in a frightfully complicated 88 state. The result was, as is often the case when a man begins to go down in his affairs, although he may be ever so deserving and innocent, there are enough to give him a push. It was so with him. In vain did Joseph, by his books, show that he was doing well up to the cruel embezzlements, and that if he was dealt leniently with, he could recover his standing, and go on as prosperously as before; his creditors, one after another, ferociously pounced upon him; he got through one trouble only to meet another, until utter failure came. The effect on Joseph was lamentable in the extreme. He sat by his fire at home, day after day, for weeks, with his head buried in his hands, in utter despair. Had some kind friend stepped forward and started him anew, what a deed of mercy it would have been! But the men whom he accommodated with money, when prosperous, turned their backs upon him now.

"Recovering somewhat from the shock, he sought again and again for employment; but his short-sighted and relentless creditors would factorize his earnings, and thus oblige him to leave."

"Factorize!" asked Tom, interrupting her; "what is that?"

"Why," said the mother, "if a man owes another, the creditor attaches his wages, and when 89 the man presents his bill to his employer, he finds that he cannot pay him anything. In vain he went to distant places to earn a subsistence. Shrewd lawyers were put upon his track; he was ferretted out, until, discouraged, he came to me one day, and said,–

"'Mary, the hounds are after me from morning till night. They dog my steps wherever I go, and give me no chance to retrieve my fortunes. I am going to the west; and it isn't right to hold you to your engagement any longer, for I can never, on my part, fulfil it. The odds are against me here, and, what is worse, I've lost my courage and hope; I have come to bid you good by.'

"'If you do not care for me any longer,' I said, 'say so. You've struggled hard, and have merited a better result; it isn't your fault that you have failed. God forbid that I should break my promise. If you must go west, you are not going alone. I shall go with you, and shall this very night tell my parents all about my engagement, and get their consent to our marriage.'

"He shook his head. But feeling that it had been cowardly in me not to have mentioned the subject before, whatever the result might have been, in a few words I frankly, and with a composure that surprised myself, told them the whole story. My father was a quick-tempered, imperious 90 man, and my mother lived only for this world: the result you can easily imagine. But I felt that my duty was plain; and we were quietly married. Having a little money of my own, joining it with what your father had by him, we started towards the setting sun. But what was that?" said Mrs. Jones, stopping in her recital, as a strange sound fell upon her ear.

It was a long, fiendish yell, swelling upon the still night air over the unbroken solitudes of the prairie; it was most appalling. Tom and his mother hastened to the window; they saw a noble buck, his antlers held aloft, flying with his utmost speed, pursued by two dark-looking objects, that gained rapidly on him.

"It's the gray wolf," said Tom, "chasing a deer. How I wish I had a rifle! I could bring one of them down easy as not,"–as they dashed by, with short, quick yells, following their prey into the woods that skirted the river.

"I hope the poor creature will escape," said Mrs. Jones, with a sigh; and she resumed her narrative. "I was not long in seeing, on our journey out, that a dreadful change had been wrought in your father by his business troubles. It had given him an unconquerable disgust of society, which he has not yet outgrown, making him uneasy and restless wherever he has been; and this, Tom, is the secret of his wandering 91 life; and this is why I never feel that I can complain at any of the changes in our hard, unsettled career as a family."

Tom, who had listened absorbed to this before unread chapter in the family history, was deeply moved, and, while the tears filled his eyes, asked, in tremulous tones,–

"Do you think father'll ever get over it, mother?"

"Tom," replied she, "your father has a true heart and a good mind, and I believe that, in some way, good will yet come out of this long-continued trial. He's taken a great liking to the missionary; and Mr. Payson seems to understand him better than most, and I am praying that the acquaintance may lead to something brighter for him; and, Tom," she added, "I have told you this that you may see a new reason for not being in haste to leave your father and mother. There is one passage in the Bible I often think of, which directs us to both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of God. Your father's mistake, when he went into business, was, that he was in too great haste to accomplish his own will. This is apt to be the error of the young. They are sanguine of success, and they rush into the battle of life without waiting to put on the armor of faith. What the young want in setting out, Tom, is a Guide and a Helper, who 92 cannot err, and will not forsake them. An old man in our town used to say, 'Never try to kick open the door of Providence.' I want you, Tom, to wait patiently till Providence opens the door for you. Then you need not be afraid to go forward."

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