“Marion Gray. I picked her up in the wood. A splendid addition to our train, for she can beg charity and a night’s lodging; and then the easiest thing in the world is just to find out where they keep the key, and let us in. Hush! hush! she’s coming to.”
These words were spoken by a withered hag of seventy and the man who had stolen her. Slowly Marion opened her eyes, and what was her horror to find herself in a gypsy camp!
I will skip over the five long years of pain and suffering, and come to the end of my story. Five years have passed, and the new king sits on his royal throne, judging and condemning a band of gypsies. They are all condemned but one young girl, who stands with downcast eyes before him; but when she hears her doom, she raises her dark flashing eyes on the king. A piercing shriek is heard, the crown and sceptre roll down the steps of the throne, and Marion Gray is clasped in her father’s arms!
Another dear friend was Miss Mary. She was a small, brisk woman, with “New England” written all over her. She used to stay with us a good deal, helping my mother in household matters, or writing for our father; and we all loved her dearly. She had the most beautiful hair, masses and masses of it, of a deep auburn, and waving in a lovely fashion. She it was who used to say, “Hurrah for Jackson!” whenever anything met her special approval; and we all learned to say it too, and to this day some of us cheer the name of “Old Hickory,” who has been in his grave these fifty years. Miss Mary came of seafaring people, and had many strange stories of wreck and tempest, of which we were never weary. Miss Mary’s energy was untiring, her activity unceasing. She used to make long woodland expeditions with us in the woods around the Valley, leading the way “over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier,” finding all manner of wild-wood treasures,—creeping-jenny, and ferns and mosses without end,—which were brought home to decorate the parlors. She knew the name of every plant, and what it was good for. She knew when the barberries must be gathered, and when the mullein flowers were ready. She walked so fast and so far that she wore out an unreasonable number of shoes in a season.
Speaking of her shoes reminds me that at the fire of which I spoke in a previous chapter, at the Institution for the Blind, Miss Mary was the first person to give the alarm. She had on a brand-new pair of morocco slippers when the fire broke out, and by the time it was extinguished they were in holes. This will give you some idea of Miss Mary’s energy.
Then there was Mr. Ford, one of the very best of our friends. He was a sort of factotum of our father, and, like The Bishop in the “Bab Ballads,” was “short and stout and round-about, and zealous as could be.” We were very fond of trotting at his heels, and loved to pull him about and tease him, which the good man never seemed to resent. Once, however, we carried our teasing too far, as you shall hear. One day our mother was sitting quietly at her writing, thinking that the children were all happy and good, and possessing her soul in patience. Suddenly to her appeared Julia, her hair flying, eyes wide open, mouth ditto,—the picture of despair.
“Oh, Mamma!” gasped the child, “I have done the most dreadful thing! Oh, the most dreadful, terrible thing!”
“What is it?” exclaimed our mother, dropping her pen in distress; “what have you done, dear? Tell me quickly!”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” sobbed the child; “I cannot!”
“Have you set the house on fire?” cried our mother.