“As regards the garden, the hot-beds are made ready for the winter’s sowing, and we have built a substantial hen-house and a miniature duck-pond at the foot of the raspberry patch. The yield of berries this summer was inconsiderable, owing to the vigorous pruning given to the bushes, but the growth has been fine. The trellises are all in good shape and we hope for a substantial return next summer.
“My experiment with Aunt Liza and Eph, about which I wrote you, has not been highly successful. Between the two they have managed to save about five dollars, and I’ve no doubt the community will be called upon as usual to keep the breath of life in their poor bodies until spring. For my part, since they are both able-bodied I shall give nothing. Whatever help I offer they must be made to pay for in some shape, since in that way only can they be taught independence and responsibility, and something like a solution be made of this problem of the poor whom we have always with us.
“As regards my market business, I do not think I am calculated for trade. The peculiar isolation of my life has unfitted me for contact with many-sided humanity, and for that reason I tie myself to it with a self-immolation of an Indian devotee. With not only my own way to make in the world, but that of Elsie and Gilbert, I can afford no mawkish shrinking from unpleasant things. It will never be a pleasant business for me, but as I find the newness wearing off, it grows more bearable. I have established a regular line of good customers who seem always well suited; have quite a trade in butter, which I buy from the farmers’ wives hereabout, and a slight output of eggs and chickens from our own hennery. Eph has promised to keep me supplied for the winter with game, and Lizzette and I will make our trips at six o’clock instead of four as the weather grows colder. So much for material matters.
“In our Home Club we have done fairly well. We have finished United States history, taken up the first principles of political economy, made some studies in Shakespeare and ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘Adventures of Philip,’ tried Browning and discarded him—our practical life is too short to spend in solving enigmas that, however charming they may be as poetical conceptions, have nothing perceptible to teach us—and by way of dessert, with Ruskin to fall back on, have taken up some slight studies in æstheticism, the material result of which has been innumerable ‘love bags,’ impossible ‘head-rests,’ and indescribable nothings on Elsie’s part. The best part of our efforts, however, has been the practical value of our discussions following the presentation of a ‘blossom’ or thought by each member. You will recall my previous letter regarding this. Out of this discussion has come wisdom, even beyond our hopes, and strength greater than our own. We scorn nothing here, not the simplest wayside weed, and we have learned much from each other and research. Antoine is making marvellous progress in his music. Already he is interpreting Bach and Handel, and even venturing into snatches of original composition. The lad’s soul seems to have been lit at the altar of music; for on no ordinary presumption can one compute his wonderful development. Strength and a greater degree of comeliness seems to have come into his long thin arms and bent shoulders, while there is a constant glow in his dark eyes and an unusual gayety in his laugh. Lizzette is in a fervor of happiness and pride, and seems not to be able to do enough for us. Elsie has caught Antoine’s faculty for whistling, and often makes a good second to the bird-like notes with which he accompanies his violin. It is a rare treat to listen to them as I am listening now—Elsie at the organ, Antoine with his violin nestled lovingly under his chin, and his deft bow bringing out with marvellous power its almost human tones, and both whistling! Elsie grows daily more charming and more expansive, and music seems to be with her, as with Antoine, the expression of much that is restless, wayward, and beautiful in her soul. Gilbert is docile and patient; but I notice a growing uneasiness and distaste for his work that must be met and overcome in some way. I have been thinking of putting him in the manual-training school in the city, but have not yet solved the problem of ways and means. I think you may perhaps be pained to find that we do not attend church. In the first place, the purchase of the organ rendered necessary the most rigid economy in dress—in fact, Elsie and I wear nothing but calico, and Gilbert’s clothes are growing decidedly seedy. In the second place, we went once to St. Paul’s, in the city, and have had no heart to go since. My poor father long before his death used to declaim against the growing tendency to exclusiveness in the churches. In the simplicity of my country living, I thought him unnecessarily apprehensive. The house of God was indeed to me so much a sanctuary I thought worldliness was left at the outer door; but I found my mistake upon entering the door of St. Paul’s. The free seats, high-backed and uncushioned, were portioned off from the others with a wide aisle. In them were gathered a little handful of people like ourselves, evidently the world’s toilers and God’s poor. The cushioned seats were filled with a richly-dressed congregation. The altar was superbly decorated in white and gold, and the clergyman, as white and high-bred-looking as his æsthetic surroundings, preached a sermon on the ‘Beauty of the ideal.’ He found his text in the Bible, but he found nothing else there. The Bread of Life was not in it. I glanced around the congregation; those in the free seats sat with blankly staring countenances, evidently victims to a sense of duty. The occupants of the cushioned seats leaned luxuriously back and listened with a well-bred air of interest; but as far as I could see not one face glowed with an intensity of feeling or asked for anything more than the rhetorical flourish. We remained through the communion service, but did not partake of it. I think the divine symbols would have choked me, my heart was so hot and bitter within me. Clearly my father was right. The church of to-day is not for the masses, nor of the masses, and yet I feel sure that there is a great heart of humanity underlying all this worldliness, and perhaps waiting patiently for the time to ripen when the crust of wealth-worship, caste, and place-hunting shall be burned through with the white heat of its fires. God loves his chosen, and they are of all the earth; some day he shall call them together! We spend our Sundays at home. Elsie and Antoine render beautifully those old arks of safety, ‘Come! Ye Disconsolate’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of My Soul.’ We read, talk, study, and open our hearts to the sweet graces of love and charity, and so we forget that outside there is a world which scorns our poverty and our calloused hands. Once in a while, drawn by the music, old Aunt Liza and Eph—who by the way begrudges the Sunday that takes him away from his hunting—make an addition to our number. I don’t try to do any so-called missionary work with them, although Eph says suspiciously he ‘specs dat’s what it all means, anyhow!’ On the whole, life is very pleasant with us. I am growing so accustomed to its methodical rounds that I have no time for anything like regret or vain aspirations.
“With the best wishes for the prosperity of the school and the welfare of our good friend Dr. Ely, I am
Sincerely your friend,
“Margaret Murchison.”
CHAPTER VIII.
The ground was covered with snow, and with the thermometer registering ten degrees below zero everything creaked, tingled, and snapped in the frosty air. A keen, cutting wind whistled down from the North and made the comfortably-housed mortal shiver with dread at thought of being exposed to its rude blast. In the little house at Idlewild the three drew around the stove and discussed, gravely apprehensive, Margaret’s dread trip to market in the morning.
“Don’t go!” exclaimed Elsie. “It will be so bitter cold that precious few will venture out to buy.”