Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

They were bitterly disappointed, for Katy's baby had been anticipated quite as much as Katy herself, Aunt Betsy bringing from the woodshed chamber a cradle which nearly forty years before had rocked the deacon's only child, the little boy, who died just as he had learned to lisp his mother's name. As a momento of those days the cradle had been kept, Katy using it sometimes for her kittens and her dolls, until she grew too old for that, when it was put away beneath the eaves whence Aunt Betsy dragged it, scouring it with soap and sand, until it was white as snow. But it would not be needed, and with a sigh the old lady carried it back, thinking "things had come to a pretty pass when a woman who could dance and carouse till twelve o'clock at night was too weakly to take care of her child," and feeling a very little awe of Katy who must have grown so fine a lady.

But all this passed away as the time drew near when Katy was to come, and no one seemed happier than Aunt Betsy on the morning when Whitey was eating his oats, and the carriage stood on the greensward. The sky above and the earth beneath were much as they were that other day when they were expecting Katy, but Helen's face was not as bright, or her steps as buoyant. She could not forget who was there one year ago, and all the morning painful memories had been tugging at her heart as she remembered the past, and wondered at the gloomy silence which Mark Ray had maintained toward her ever since the day when the Seventh Regiment left New York, followed by so many prayers and tears. He had returned, she knew, but neither from his mother nor himself had there ever come a word or message for her, while Bell Cameron, who wrote to her occasionally, had spoken of his attentions to Juno as becoming more pointed than ever.

"I have strong hopes that in time Juno will be quite a woman," Bell added. "She is not so proud and sarcastic as she used to be, and all the while Mark was gone she seemed very much depressed, so that I began to believe she really liked him. You would hardly recognize her in her new phase, she acts so humble like, as if she were constantly asking forgiveness; and this, you know, is something novel for her."

After this letter Helen sat herself resolutely at work to forget all that had ever passed between herself and Mark, succeeding so well that Silverton and its duties ceased to be very irksome, until the anniversary of the morning when he had twined the lily in her hair, and looked such fancies in her heart. It was well for her that too many things were claiming her attention to allow of solitary regrets.

Katy's room was to be arranged, Katy's "box bed," as Aunt Betsy called it, to be fixed, flowers to be gathered for the parlor and vegetables for the dinner, so that her hands were full, up to the moment when Uncle Ephraim drove away from the door, setting old Whitey into a canter, which, by the time the "race" was reached, had become a rapid trot, the old man holding up his reins and looking proudly at the oat-fed animal, speeding along so fast.

He did not have long to wait this time, for the train came rolling across the meadow, and while his head was turned toward the car where he fancied she might be, a pair of arms were thrown impetuously around his neck, and a little figure, standing on tiptoe, almost pulled him down in its attempts to kiss him.

"Uncle Eph! oh, Uncle Eph, I've come! I'm here," a young voice cried; but the words the deacon would have spoken were smothered by the kisses which pressed upon his lips, kisses which only came to an end when a voice said, rather reprovingly: "There, Katy, that will do. You have almost strangled him."

Wilford had not been expected, and the expression of the deacon's face was not a very cordial greeting to the young man who hastened to explain that he should only stop till the next train, and then go on to Boston. In his presence the deacon was not quite natural, but he lifted in his arms his "little Katy-did," looking straight into her face, where there were as yet no real lines of care, only shadows, which told that in some respects she was not the same Katy he had parted with two years before. There was a good deal of the city about her dress and style, and the deacon felt a little overawed at first; but this wore off as on their way to the farmhouse, she, sitting partly in his lap and partly in her husband's, kept one hand upon his neck, her snowy fingers occasionally playing with his silvery hair, while she looked at him with her loving old smile, and asked questions about the people he supposed she had forgotten, nodding to everybody she met, whether she knew them or not, and at last, as the old house came in sight, hiding her face in a gush of happy tears upon his neck, not Wilford's. That gentleman was watching her in silence, wishing she were less impulsive, and wondering at the strong home-love he could not understand. To him there was nothing pleasant in that low, humble farmhouse, or in the rocks and hills which overshadowed it; while, with the exception of Helen, the women gathered at the door as they came up were very distasteful to him. But with Katy it was different. They were her rocks, her hills, her woods, and more than all, they were her folks into whose arms she threw herself with an impetuous rush, scarcely waiting for old Whitey to stop, but with one leap clearing the wheel and springing first to the embrace of her mother. It was a joyful meeting, and when the first excitement was over Katy inspected the improvements, approving all, and thanking Wilford for having done so much for her comfort.

"I shall sleep so nicely here," she said, tossing her hat into Helen's lap, and lying down at once upon the bed it had taken so long to make. "Yes, I shall rest so nicely, knowing I can wear my wrapper all day long. Don't look so horrified, Wilford," she added, as she caught his eye. "I shall dress me sometimes; but you don't know what a luxury it is to feel that I need not unless I like."

"Didn't you rest at New London?" Helen asked, when Wilford had left the room.