John Tincroft, bachelor and benedict

by George E. Sargent

There were times, indeed, when the memory of her recent loss cast an additional shade over her young life at this time; but it was not an entirely dark shade; for dearly as she had loved, and still loved her mother, the cloud had a silver lining—there was hope, nay, even certainty and glory behind it. Her darling, departed mother was "not lost," no, not lost, only "gone before."

"I don't know how those who have no hope sorrow when they mourn for the dead," said Helen one day to her friend Mrs. Tincroft. "But I know what a blessed thing it is to feel sure that those who 'sleep in Jesus' are safe and happy; and we have only to be followers of them to meet with them again—in another and better world, dear."

The two ladies were in Helen's pretty room when the serious and confidential talk occurred of which this formed a part. The room was quite fit to be called a lady's bower now; for by Sarah's undiminished attentions, with an occasional unloosing of John's purse-strings, all manner of pretty feminine ornaments—useful and useless—had found their way into it. As I have said, it was a pleasant room, with a southern aspect, and by day the sun shone into it cheerily, sufficiently screened by the Venetian verandah without, while the pretty flower garden below had begun to put on a very lovely aspect, with promise of other and more gorgeous hues as the summer advanced.

I do not know what led Sarah and Helen to the strain of conversation just noted. It might be the revival of vegetation after the winter sleep of nature; or perhaps Helen's reminiscences had wandered back to the far-off land where her mother lay buried. But I know that her simple observation was to be like the little mustard seed, "the smallest of all seeds," which when cast into the ground grows, and "when it is grown is the greatest among herbs."

And I may remark that Sarah and Helen, notwithstanding the difference in their ages, were extremely well suited to each other in pleasant companionship. At first, strange as it may seem, the woman of forty had felt as though she must stand a little in awe of the girl of fifteen; but she soon discovered that this fear was groundless.

In this respect Helen's unacquaintance with what are called the accomplishments of modern education was an advantage to her; for she could not, even accidentally and unintentionally, place herself, or seem to be placed, in this respect, on higher ground than her hostess.

And then her charming simplicity, combined with natural good breeding, was perfectly enrapturing to Mrs. Tincroft, who, I am afraid, had not met with much of either of these desirable commodities in the few female acquaintances she had ever known or made.

On the other hand, Helen was equally pleased with Sarah. It is no reflection on the present condition Of society in Australian towns to say that a good many years ago there was little in the female portion of it, any more than in the male, to give an idea of high polish. Perhaps what was missing in this kind of varnish was gained in sincerity. But of this, I am not at all sure; and let this be as it may, the young Helen had had so little experience of anything above the rough and homely manners of life in the bush, that she was unconscious of the little defects in her hostess which I have rather hinted at than described. All this would have gone for but little, however, if the overflowings of Sarah's kindly maternal, or otherwise better, instincts had not positively overwhelmed the motherless girl with a sense of grateful obligation. No wonder, therefore, that the two were, almost from the first, mutually pleased with each other, and that, before long, strong affection sprang up between them.

What added to this hidden sympathy between the matron and the maiden was the fact that both of them were nice quiet listeners. For instance, Mrs. Tincroft could sit for hours—if Helen had chosen to have all the talk to herself for so long—hearing of the child-woman's life in the bush, and of the strange adventures connected with bush life in general.

And especially poor dear Sarah was never tired of being told, again and again, of that passage of arms (traditionally as far as the narratress was concerned) in which her father came to the rescue of her mother, and which led, to their after acquaintance. It was with thrilling interest—(if such a hackneyed expression may be used here, but in this case, it being an appropriate expression, it may, I hope, be used)—it was with thrilling interest, then, that Sarah listened, with all her ears, as we sometimes say, to the account given by Helen of her mother's bravery and presence of mind.