The dark night

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Osric and Elsie were twins twelve years old, but strangers always took Elsie to be the elder, not only because she was taller than her brother, but because she was so much more thoughtful and sensible. Elsie was constantly watching for chances to help people. She always saw it if her mother's scissors fell on the floor, or her needle wanted threading; and if her father lost his snuff-box or glasses, or left his handkerchief up stairs, or mislaid his paper, it was Elsie who found them, and so about everything else. Her sister Avice often called her Little Helpful. It cost Elsie no great self-denial to do all these things. She really loved work for its own sake, and though she enjoyed a play-spell as much as anybody, she went back to her work or her lessons with a new zest after it. She was as truthful as daylight in everything where Osric was not concerned. She never had any "secrets" or concealments of her own, but she always hid Ozzy's faults as much as possible, and if she ever stretched a point in speaking, it was about something which he had or had not done. She seldom did anything which required serious blame or punishment, but if she did, she never tried to evade the consequences, and would no more lie to screen herself than she would put her hand into the fire. In fact, Elsie was very brave about everything.

Osric, on the contrary, was very much of a coward. He was not afraid of horses or cows, or of guns, or of going in swimming, or anything like that, but he was greatly afraid of pain either of body or mind, and he could not endure to be found fault with. He loved Elsie more than any one else in the world, but his love for her was not sufficient to keep him from letting her bear the blame of a good many of his faults and shortcomings. Elsie was the only person from whom he would bear a word of blame, and he did not like it even from her; hence it came to pass that while Elsie had no secrets from Osric, but always told him all her plans of work or amusement, Osric did a good many things of which Elsie never knew anything unless she found them out by accident. Elsie was always rather uneasy about her brother, and carried him on her mind, as it were; thus increasing a certain anxious expression of countenance which was growing upon her, and which made her look older than her years.

Osric loved Elsie, as I have said, but he was also rather afraid of her, especially of late. Elsie had been thinking a great deal of religious matters lately. She would have liked to talk over all her thoughts and impressions with Osric, but Osric was always very uneasy when she began, and slipped away or changed the subject as soon as possible. In fact, Osric hated anything serious, and really cared for nothing except amusing himself. Amusement was the object and business of his life, and he would sacrifice almost everything before giving up any scheme which promised even a small amount of diversion. This love of amusement often made him neglect his work, and sometimes brought him into some serious trouble, but old Squire Dennison was very indulgent to his only son, and Osric usually slipped out of his scrapes very easily. Of late, however, Squire Dennison had begun to wake up to the fact that Osric was not always truthful, and he watched the boy rather more carefully.

Elsie walked on the rest of the way to school very silent and very unhappy, and very undecided in her own mind. She did not know in the least what she ought to do, or whether she ought to do anything. Sometimes, she thought she would tell her mother, but then she could not bear to have Ozzy call her a telltale, and besides, Mrs. Dennison never encouraged the children to tell of each other's faults. There did not seem to be any use in talking to Osric himself. She had tried that so many times that she was quite discouraged. He would hang his head, and excuse himself; and begin to cry, and end by keeping out of her way for two or three days. Perhaps, after all, Osric had not known exactly where the book was. She was tempted to ask him, but then she reflected that she might thus lead him to tell another lie.

She did not know what to do, and so she did nothing except walk silently along, listening to Osric's remarks, for after a few minutes, he began to talk as if nothing had happened. In fact, so long as he was not scolded or punished for them, Osric's faults never made him unhappy for any length of time.

Boonville is a very little place. You will not find it down on any map of the State, and I am not sure that even the county map takes notice of it. There are, however, three mills at Boonville, all owned by the same person—a gentleman named Francis, who resides at Hobartown, some twelve miles away. One of these mills is a grist-mill, one is a saw-mill, and the other is used for grinding plaster or gypsum, which is taken from the bank of the river about a mile below. These three mills stand together on the bank of the river near the bridge, and with the dam above, the bright sparkling water and the rows of willows above and below, they make a very pretty picture. There is a small church at Boonville made of wood and painted white, though the paint is rather the worse for wear.

A school-house stands beside it, and on the other side of the road is a pretty large grove, almost large enough to be called a wood. There are other woods about a quarter of a mile away—real woods which have never been cleared, and which run along both sides of the road more than three miles. There is an old tavern at Boonville, which was very busy long ago in the days when post-coaches ran between Albany and Buffalo, and heavy teams conveyed all the goods which did not go by the canal. The tavern is quiet enough now. The grass grows up between the stones round the door, and nobody stops there except now and then a teamster or farmer having business at the mills.

There are perhaps in all a dozen other houses in the place. In one of these lives the minister, Mr. Child, who preaches here and at Gibson Centre, three miles away; in another, a pretty white house with green blinds, a verandah, and a flower garden, lives Mr. Antis, the overseer of the mill. Most of the other houses are either painted red, or are gray for want of any paint at all. I doubt if any house in Boonville has been touched with a brush for the last ten years except that belonging to Mr. Antis, and Jeduthun Cooke's cottage down by the mill, which is almost as neat as Mr. Antis's own.

The road runs rather high above the little river on the east side, before you come to the descent which leads down to the bridge and the mill. Standing among the trees on the side of this road, and looking across the stream, you see something which strikes you as rather curious in such a place. This is neither more nor less than a handsome burial-vault built into the steep side of the hill a short distance from the river. The front of the vault is like a little gothic chapel of handsome gray stone, with thick shrubbery growing on each side. There is a grassy slope in front of the door, and a narrow and steep but well-kept carriage-road leads up to it.

This vault is the old family burial-place of General Dent, who lived in the large brick house of which you can just see the chimneys over the trees yonder. The vault was built in the time of the old general's father, and is always kept in the most perfect repair. At the time of my story, nobody had been buried in it for many years—no one, in fact, since the general's only remaining son was brought back from Virginia, where he had been travelling for his health. The children were therefore very much surprised when they came out into the road, where they had a view of the vault, to see the door of it standing open.