The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"But mind, the necessaries must be reduced to the lowest point," he added, with that sorrowful smile I had learned to know so well. "Vevette cannot carry her story books nor her carved wheel, nor madame her rose-bushes or her poultry, or Mrs. Grace her precious marmalade. A very few clothes and the jewels and a little money are all we can take with us."

These words fell coldly upon my ear and heart. I was familiar enough with the idea of flight, but I had not realized that flight meant leaving behind all my most cherished possessions—my beloved books, my lute, my pet cows, all that I treasured most. I went up to my pretty little room, and, sitting down, I wept as if my heart would break for a while. Then I knelt down and prayed, with all sincerity and earnestness, that I might have grace cheerfully to abandon all I had, yea and mine own life also, if need be, for the kingdom of heaven's sake.

And after a while, feeling comforted and strengthened, I arose and began looking over my possessions, to see what should be taken and what left. I do not think that in this I was foolish or even childish. It is not seldom that very little things bring home to us the bitterness of grief. I have seen a lady who was perfectly cool, collected, and sweet-tempered through all the dangers of a terrible storm and shipwreck and the miseries of dreadful sea-sickness, protracted for weeks, break down in an agony of grief because the little dog she had brought from France was swept overboard from the wreck an which she might herself go down at any moment.

But poor Mrs. Grace was destined to take a longer journey than that we proposed, and to find a refuge where neither danger nor home-sickness can enter—where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. She had been for several weeks confined to her bed.

One day my father and mother, Andrew and myself set out for a long walk over the domain. It was rather a silent and sorrowful expedition, for, though no one said so, we all felt that it might be a last farewell. We called at Simon Sablot's farm, and any father confided to Simon certain weighty deposits and an important secret concerning his own affairs, and told him where certain valuable packages would be found in case he should be obliged to send for them.

I should say that for several nights my father and Andrew had been busily occupied in conveying to places of safety so much of our stock of plate as could be removed without suspicion. This was the more easy because we used very little silver every day, the rest being secured in a strong closet which opened from my father's room. We went through the orchards and the little vineyard, visited the old people at the lonely grange, walked through the chestnut wood and filled our pockets with the nuts, which were just ripening and falling.*

* The fine chestnut-tree at the south end of the house is from one of these nuts. I trust no one will over cut it down.—G. C.

"There is a fine harvest of chestnuts at least," said my mother, sighing. "I hope some one will be the better for them."

My father pressed the hand that lay on his arm, but he could not trust himself to speak. The moment was an unspeakably bitter one to him. He had taken great pains with his estate, and had laid out much money in improvements, not only for his own profit but still more for the good of his tenants. Every field and tree and vine, yea, every bush and stone, was dear to his heart, and though he did not hesitate—no, not for a moment, when he had to choose between these things and the kingdom of heaven—yet he could not but feel the wrench when he had to tear himself away from them. I sometimes fear, in these days when the church and the world are so mixed together that it is rather hard to see any division line between them, that people will utterly lose the meaning of such places of Scripture as the tenth chapter of St. Matthew.

We had not reached the tower when Julienne came running to meet us, her face as pale as her cap.