Family Pride; Or, Purified by Suffering

by Mary Jane Holmes

She did not go to Linwood the next day, nor the next; and when she went again there was in her manner a shade more of dignity, which had both amused and interested Morris. He did not know for certain that Wilford had told Katy of the confession made that memorable night when her recovery seemed so doubtful, but he more than half suspected it from the shyness of her manner and from the various excuses she now made for not coming to Linwood every day, as she had heretofore done.

"You do not need me as much as you did," she said to him one morning in September, when he complained of his loneliness, and told how he had waited for her the previous day until night shut down, and he knew she would not come. "You can see better than you did. You are able to sit up all day, and walk about a little, so if I come I am not needed," and seating herself at a respectful distance from him, Katy folded her white hands demurely over her black dress, after having first adjusted the cap worn constantly since the time when she learned that Morris' sight was improving.

"I sometimes think I need you more than I did then, and if you must stay away now, I am ungrateful enough to wish you had not come at all," Morris replied, and Katy's cheeks burned crimson as she felt that the dim eyes, seen through the green shades, were trying to study her as they had not studied her before. "What is that on your head?" Morris asked, rather abruptly. "I have tried to make it out, wondering if it were a handkerchief, and why it was worn."

"It is my cap—the widow's cap—worn for Wilford's sake," was the reply, which silenced Morris for that time, making him feel that between Katy Lennox, the girl, and Katy Cameron, the widow, there was a vast difference, and awakening in his heart a fear lest Wilford Cameron dead should prove as strong a rival as Wilford living had been.

In his great pity for Katy when she was first a widow, Morris had scarcely remembered that she was free, or if it did flash upon his mind, he thrust the thought aside as injustice to the dead; but as the months and the year went by, and he heard constantly from Helen of Katy's increasing cheerfulness, it was not in his nature never to think of what might be, and more than once he had prayed that, if consistent with his Father's will, that the woman he had loved so well should be his yet. If not, he could go his way alone, just as he had always done, knowing that it was right.

Such was the state of Morris' mind when he returned from Washington, but now it was somewhat different. The weary weeks of sickness, during which Katy had ministered to him so kindly, had not been without their effect, and if Morris had loved the frolicsome, childlike Katy Lennox much, he loved far more the gentle, beautiful woman whose character had been so wonderfully developed by suffering, and who was now far more worthy of his love than in her early girlhood.

"I cannot lose her now," was the thought constantly in Morris' mind, as he experienced more and more how desolate were the days which did not bring her to him. "It is twenty months, just, since Wilford died; and George Washington asked Martha Custis for her hand within less time than that after her husband's death," he said to himself one wet October afternoon, when he sat listening dreamily to the patter of the rain falling upon the windows, and looking occasionally across the fields to the farmhouse, in the vain hope of spying in the distance the little airy form, which, in its waterproof and cloud, had braved worse storms than this at the time he was so ill.

But no such figure appeared. He hardly expected it would, but he watched the pathway just the same, and the smoke wreaths rising so high above the farmhouse. The deacon burned out his chimney that day, and Morris, whose sight had greatly improved of late, knew it by the dense, black volume of smoke, mingled with rings of fire, which rose above the roof, remembering so well another rainy day, twenty years ago, when the deacon's chimney was cleaned, and a little, toddling girl, in scarlet gown and white pinafore, had amused herself with throwing into the blazing fire upon the hearth a straw at a time, almost upsetting herself with standing so far back and making such efforts to reach the flames. A great deal had passed since then. The little girl in the pinafore had been both wife and mother. She was a widow now, and Morris glanced across his hearth toward the empty chair he had never seen in imagination filled by any but herself.

Surely, she would some day be his own, and leaning his head upon the cane he carried, he prayed earnestly for the good he coveted, keeping his head down so long that, until it had left the strip of woods and emerged into the open fields, he did not see the figure, wrapped in waterproof and hood, with a huge umbrella over its head and a basket upon its arm, which came picking its way daintily toward the house, stopping occasionally, and lifting up the little, high-heeled Balmoral, which the mud was ruining so completely. Katy was coming to Linwood. It had been baking day at the farmhouse, and remembering how much Morris used to love her custards, Aunt Betsy had prepared him some, which she warranted to "melt in his mouth," and then asked Katy to take them over, so he could have them for tea.

"The rain won't hurt you an atom," she said, as Katy began to demur and glance at the lowering sky. "You can wear your waterproof boots and my shaker, if you like, and I do so want Morris to have them to-night."