"It isn't exactly a parsonage," Father Morgan said, "and yet it is; at least the minister lives in it, and is welcome to, of course, for it belongs to his wife; but if another minister should come in his place, why then I suppose it couldn't be called a parsonage."
At present there is no prospect that another minister will come in Mr. Butler's place. The people like both him and his wife. That is a strange statement, I am aware—almost an unnatural story; and yet every one knows that there are a few parishes left in which the people continue to stand by a faithful pastor even after a lapse of years. Dorothy had certain advantages. To be sure, Mr. Butler had done what is supposed to be an unwise thing—married the daughter of one of his parishioners; but it will be remembered that in her early girlhood she had almost no acquaintances with the people of the village. She had not mingled with them in any capacity. They knew no more of her character, and almost as little of her life, as they would have done had she lived a thousand miles away; and, somehow, the one whom they used, on rare occasions, to speak of as "that Morgan girl," seemed to the people an entirely different person from their minister's wife, as in truth she was. So, as if to verify the promise about "all things working together for good," the very obscurity in which Dorothy had spent her girlhood worked well for her in her present sphere. So Dorothy reigned in the new house, and ruled it well, and her mother had grown used to looking upon her as a married woman and a housekeeper, ay, and a mother.
Lewis Morgan had not a little to do with the successful ministrations of his brother-in-law. When he, after his period of mental depression and discouragement, rallied at the time of Dorothy's conversion, and tasted anew the joy of working for Christ, he took what perhaps I may reverently term a new lease of spiritual life, and gave himself up to joyful service, since which time he had been eagerly busy for the Master, the refrain of his song still being, "How sweet the work has been!" Imagine what such a wide-awake, prudent, faithful Christian could be to a pastor. Imagine the alert eyes he could have to the needs, and the wishes, and the whims of the people. Imagine the kind suggestions he could offer to a pastor younger than himself, who not only thoroughly respected, but loved him as a brother. Certainly Lewis Morgan, heavy though the cross had been to give up what is called active work for Christ, was yet as active in his way, and perhaps fully as successful, as though he were from the pulpit preaching the gospel. I make that distinction because Lewis Morgan, in his class, in the prayer-meeting, in his daily life, was assuredly preaching the gospel.
The renovated farmhouse was still large enough for the two families. Yet the new house—the other new house—was in process of building. Louise's plan again. One of the prettiest of houses; but that too was in the village, and it was planned with special reference to the needs of Dr. John Morgan. Yes, he was going to settle down in the little village. No, I forget; the word "little" really does not apply to it very well. It had, during these years in which I remember I have said almost nothing about it, sprung into life and growth, aided by the junction of another railroad, and a large machine-shop; and Dr. John had accepted a partnership with the gray-haired physician who had held the practice in village and on hillside for miles around during the space of forty years. Just as soon as the new house was finished and furnished (and it was nearly done), he was going to begin housekeeping.
Every cheery, sweet-smelling room in the Morgan farmhouse had a sort of gala look on this afternoon of which I write. They were such pretty rooms! I wish I could describe them to you—simple, quiet-toned, in keeping with the wide-stretching green fields and the glowing flowers, and so pretty! Bright, clear carpets, in tasteful hues and graceful patterns; muslin curtains, looped with ribbons to match the carpets; easy-chairs, nearly every one of them of a pattern peculiar to itself; wide, low couches, with luxurious pillows, inviting you to lounge among them; books and papers and pictures in profusion; Louise's piano and Louise's guitar in convenient positions, and Louise's tasteful finger-touches everywhere. Who can describe a simple, pretty room? It is easy to tell the colour of the carpet, and the position of the furniture; but where is the language in which to describe that nameless grace, speaking of comfort and ease and home, that hovers over some rooms, and is utterly lacking in others?
Upstairs, in the room that was once Louise's, and which she had vacated now for the more sunny side of the house, special care had been exercised. It was a fair pink and white abode; the carpet was a sprinkling of pink moss-rose buds on a mossy ground; the white curtains were looped with pink ribbons; the cool, gray furniture, of that peculiar tint of gray that suggests white, was adorned with delicate touches of Louise's skill, in the shape of moss-rose buds that matched the carpet; the toilet-stand was a mass of delicate white drapery, through whose thinness a suspicion of pink glowed; and the very china had been deftly painted in the same pattern; easy-chairs and large old-fashioned rockers occupied cosy nooks, and Louise, her face aglow with merry satisfaction, had adorned them with the veritable tidies which she had brought from home as a bride, or with others made after a like pattern, to look like the identical ones. She was arranging real roses with unsparing hand in the mantel vases, on the little toilet-table, wherever she could find a spot for a vase to stand. Then came Nellie and stood in the door—herself a vision of beauty—in flowing curls, and spotless white garments, made after the latest and most approved fashion for young misses of thirteen, and with a flutter of blue ribbons about her, from the knot fastened in some deft way among the curls to the dainty bows perched on her slippers. She made a little exclamation, indicative of her happy satisfaction in the appearance of all about her, and Louise turned.
"Will this do for a bride?" she asked, her smiling eyes taking in Nellie as a very satisfactory part of the picture.
"It is too lovely for anything," Nellie said in genuine girl parlance; "and it looks just exactly like Estelle."
Louise laughed; she had been thinking something very like that herself. Don't imagine that I think I have startled you now with a bit of news; I have given you credit for penetration enough to have surmised, long ago, that the gala day was in honour of a coming bride, and the bride none other than Estelle herself. I did not propose to say much about that; such things are so constantly occurring in all well-regulated families that you would have been stupid, indeed, not to have foreseen it.
Louise did not, however; she had been as blind as a bat about it, though the old story was lived right before her very eyes. Glad eyes they were, however, when they took in the facts. Louise loved her brother John. Was he not the one whom God used at last to bring her darling Estelle to a knowledge of his love?