"Good night. Frank!" and gayly kissing her hand, Helen trips out of the room.
Frank Leland laid his head upon his pillow within the walls of a large brick mansion, where the hum of city life penetrated, even through the thick plate-glass and rich window-hangings. But a miracle; no sooner did soft sleep seal his eye-lids, than he found himself in Arcadian scenes—shepherdesses tripped gracefully before him with their flocks; beautiful maidens led him through flowery fields and shady groves; and the little birds up in the trees, and the little romantic fishes down in the brooks, all sang of love and happiness.
PART III.
Sit down with me under this spreading tree, and let us view the charming scene which surrounds us. O, never mind the cows, this is their pasture-ground; and see, mid-leg the brook yonder, just released from plough, stands the patient ox. Ah! the ducks and geese seem to dispute his right. Observe how they shake their wings, as if in defiance, and dip their beautiful crests within the sparkling ripples; now, how proudly they plume their feathers, and float with head erect so gracefully down the silver stream. Do you see yonder old farm-house, so old that it seems bending under the weight of years? Look at its low, brown eaves, its little narrow windows, half-hidden by ivy and honey-suckle; see the old-fashioned double door, and the porch, with its well-worn seats. Do you see the swallows skimming around the chimney; and don't you hear the hum of the bees—there, under that old elm you may see their hives, filled, too, with luscious honey. There is the well, with its old sweep, and the "moss-covered bucket," too; and look at the corn-crib, and the old barn—and what a noisy set of fowls around it, cackling, clucking and crowing, as if they owned the soil; and how the pigs are scampering through the clover-field; ah! the little wretches, they have stolen a march, or rather a caper; at them, old Jowler, at them, my fine fellow, you will soon turn them back to their pen, obstinate as they are.
Do you not admire those venerable trees which seem to shelter the old house from the rude assaults of the tempest, and to keep out the glare of the sun-beams from its chambers. Through what a thicket of currant-bushes, and rose-bushes, and lilacs, and snow-balls, the path winds from the porch to the little gate—is it not a most charming spot? Now look over the brow of the hill—there, you can see the spire of the village church; and if you will walk a few paces further to yonder green knoll, you will see a cluster of pretty dwellings, and comfortable farm-houses, scattered through the valley.
"Hark! don't you hear a merry laugh? so merry and joyous that it can only proceed, I am sure, from a happy heart. Keep still—for here comes two laughing country-girls—no, as I live, one of them is—no, it can't be—yes, it is, the rich young heiress, Ursula Lovel! quick, draw behind the tree, and let us hear what she says.
"And so, Hetty, your mother thinks I am the most awkward child she ever saw, and wonders where I was brought up, not to know how to knead bread, and churn, and milk;" and again that merry laugh goes ringing through the air.
"Yes, Miss Ursula; and she wishes—I declare I can hardly keep from laughing—she wishes you would stick to your cap-making, and not attempt to bake again, for you burned up three loaves."
"Yes, and burned my fingers, too. Well, it is too bad; let me see, yesterday I let a pan of milk fall on the old cat, and fed the hens with beans, and old Jowler with meal and water; then, this morning I beat the eggs and put them into the bread, and the yeast into the pumpkin-pies. Too bad! too bad! Why at this rate, Hetty, I shall cost your good old parents a fortune!"
"Never mind, Miss Ursula, for mother says, and so does father, that you are the dearest, prettiest, and best girl they ever knew; and they already love you almost as well as they do me—only they feel sorry for you; and mother says if you could not make caps, she don't know what would become of you, you are so dreadful shiftless."