"She is a noble little girl," said Mr. Dickinson, "and her father shall be my gardener, and have the house and garden, and six hundred dollars, and another hundred besides for Jessie's sake; and if you will excuse me, ma'am, I will order my horse and ride over to Mr. Graham's at once. I may overtake the child."
How happy Harriet looked—how Mary jumped and danced—how William, springing into his uncle's arms, kissed him, declaring he loved him better than he had ever done in his life, you may all imagine without my telling. As soon as they were still enough for me to be heard, I begged that Mrs. Temple would excuse me, and that Mr. Dickinson would order my carriage and permit me to accompany him, as I would not miss seeing Jessie's joyful surprise for any thing.
The carriage was ordered, and in a very few minutes we were on the road to Mr. Graham's. We looked eagerly at every turn for Jessie's straw bonnet and plaided gingham dress, but nothing was seen of her. As we could not overtake her, and did not wish to startle Mr. Graham's family by driving unexpectedly to his house, we determined to leave the carriage at mine and walk quietly over. We had gone but a few steps from my door when we met Mr. Graham. He colored, on seeing Mr. Dickinson, and would have turned off without stopping to speak to us. I was sure from this, he had seen Jessie and heard her story, and that he felt a little hurt that Mr. Dickinson should have been so angry with her, for an accident which she could not help. Before he could get out of our way, Mr. Dickinson was up with him and said, "Excuse me for stopping you, Mr. Graham, but I have come to apologize to your little girl for my anger to-day, which I find was very unreasonable. I was told, sir, before she came to my house, that she had been taught to be careful in a garden. I find she has been well taught in more important things. She is a noble child, sir. I shall ask her to appoint my gardener, and if she offer the place to her father I hope he will not refuse it, for I shall be pleased to have in my employment a man so well principled as I am sure he must be."
Mr. Graham was quite confused, and stood a little while looking at Mr. Dickinson, as if he did not understand him; then seizing his hand, he said in a hoarse voice, while his lip trembled like a child's, "God bless you, sir—God bless you. You have saved me from the greatest sorrow I ever had—not that I minded the money so much, sir, for thank God, I am strong yet, and could work for it again—but my mother, sir—my poor old mother, it would have killed her, sir. I always thought it would, and this morning when I summoned courage to tell her about it, though she tried to talk cheerfully, I saw she was struck down, and I knew if we went away, we should leave her behind—she would never live to go—and now, oh sir! I can only say again, God bless you!"
Mr. Graham could not say another word, for the tears came in spite of him, and covering his face with his hands, he turned away from us, as if he did not like that we should see him weep. He need not have been ashamed, for I was sobbing, and even Mr. Dickinson's voice trembled as he said, "It is your daughter you must bless, Mr. Graham; but we will leave you now, sir, for I am quite anxious to make my peace with Jessie."
We both passed on, knowing that Mr. Graham would rather be by himself while he was so agitated.
CHAPTER XII.
A GOOD CONSCIENCE MAKES ALL PLEASANT.
When we asked at the house for Jessie, we were told she was not there, having followed her grandmother, who, before she returned, had walked out. On inquiring in what direction they had gone, we were shown a footpath which led first across a field and then through a wood, down to a stream of water on which a saw-mill had been built many years ago. The old mill had been long out of order, and the spot where it stood was so shut in by trees, and was so still, that but for the occasional sound of a wagon rumbling over a bridge not far off, or the merry whoop of a child at play in the wood, you might have fancied, when there, that there was not another person within miles of you. Mr. Dickinson and I both knew the place well, and we walked on quite briskly, he leading the way, for the path was too narrow for even two persons to walk side by side. We were quite silent, for Mr. Dickinson never talked much, and I was engaged with my own pleasant thoughts. In less than ten minutes we came in sight of the old mill, and the open space around it. In this open space, near to the stream, one large old oak had been left standing, the roots of which grew out of the ground and then bent down into it again, so as to form quite a comfortable seat. As we came near this tree, we heard a child's voice speaking, and Mr. Dickinson, supposing that Jessie was just telling her tale to her grandmother, motioned to me to stop. As I was quite sure that Jessie would tell the simple truth, I had no hesitation in doing this. Mrs. Graham was seated on the root of which I have told you. Her face was towards the water, and she was leaning back against the body of the tree. She had brought her knitting with her, and her needles were moving as quickly and as constantly as if she had been in her parlor at home. As we stood we had a good side view of her, though she could only see us by turning quite around. As Jessie sat on the grass at her grandmother's feet, she was quite hidden from us, except the back of her head, a part of her dress, and one hand which rested on Mrs. Graham's lap. We soon found that Jessie's story must have been told before we came, for her voice ceased as I obeyed Mr. Dickinson's sign to stop, and Mrs. Graham replied to her, "Yes, Jessie, this is one of the places that I spoke to you of yesterday evening that I love so well. Many a pleasant hour have I passed with your dear grandfather under these shady trees, talking of old friends and of our home across the sea, and this morning when I heard that we were to go to a new home among strangers, I came here to mourn that I must leave it. But, Jessie, this was wrong, and now I feel it was, for while my child and my child's children are true and honest, I have much more cause to be grateful than to grieve. If we carry with us good consciences we shall find some prettiness in every place and some good in every person."