These were happy evenings, and Helen could have exclaimed with little Frank in the primer, “Oh! that winter would last forever!” And yet there were times when she as well as her parents was oppressed with a weight of anxious sorrow that was almost insupportable, on account of Louis. He came not, he wrote not—and the only letter received from him had excited the most painful apprehensions for his moral safety. It contained shameful records of his past deviations from rectitude, and judging of the present by the past, they had every reason to fear that he had become an alien from virtue and home. Mr. Gleason seldom spoke of him, but his long fits of abstraction, the gloom of his brow, and the inquietude of his eye, betrayed the anxiety and grief rankling within.
Helen knew not the contents of her brother’s letter, nor the secret cause of grief that preyed on her father’s mind, but his absence and silence were trials over which she openly and daily mourned with deep and increasing sorrow.
“We shall hear from him to-morrow. He will come to-morrow.” This was the nightly lullaby to her disappointed and murmuring heart.
Mittie likewise repeated to herself the same refrain “He will come to-morrow. He will write to-morrow.” But it was not of Louis that the prophecy was breathed. It was of another, who had become the one thought.
Helen had not forgotten her old friend Miss Thusa, whom the rigors of winter confined more closely than ever to her lonely cabin. Almost every day she visited her, and even if the ground were covered with snow, and icicles hung from the trees, there was a path through the woods, printed with fairy foot-tracks, that showed where Helen had walked. Mr. Gleason supplied the solitary spinster with wood ready out for the hearth, had her cottage banked with dark red tan, and furnished her with many comforts and luxuries. He never forgot her devoted attachment to his dead wife, who had commended to his care and kindness the lone woman on her dying bed. Mrs. Gleason frequently accompanied Helen in her visits, and as Miss Thusa said, “always came with full hands and left a full heart behind her.” Helen sometimes playfully asked her to tell her the history of the wheel so long promised, but she put her off with a shake of the head, saying—“she should hear it by and by, when the right time was at hand.”
“But when is the right time, Miss Thusa?” asked Helen. “I begin to think it is to-morrow.”
“To-morrow never comes,” replied Miss Thusa, solemnly, “but death does. When his footsteps cross the old stile and tramp over the mossy door-stones, I’ll tell you all about that ancient machine. It won’t do any good till then. You are too young yet. I feel better than I did in autumn, and may last longer than I thought I should—but, perhaps, when the ground thaws in the spring the old tree will loosen and fall—or break off suddenly near the root. I have seen such things in my day.”
“Oh! Miss Thusa,” said Helen, “I never want to hear any thing about it, if its history is to be bought so dear—indeed I do not.”
“Only if you should marry, child, before I die,” continued Miss Thusa, musingly, “you shall know then. It is not very probable that such will be the case; but it is astonishing how young girls shoot up into womanhood, now-a-days.”
“It will be a long time before I shall think of marrying, Miss Thusa,” answered Helen, laughing. “I believe I will live as you do, in a cottage of my own, with my wheel for companion and familiar friend.”