It was rather a novel situation for Miss Hetty—sitting at the head of the table, dispensing food to others beside herself. There was something rather agreeable about it.
“Will you have some of the dressing, little girl? I have to call you that; for I don’t know your name,” she added, in an inquiring tone.
“Her name is Henrietta; but I generally call her Hetty,” said the traveller.
“What!” said Miss Hetty, dropping the spoon in surprise.
“She was named after a very dear friend of mine,” said he, sighing.
“May I ask,” said Miss Hetty, with excusable curiosity, “the name of this friend? I begin to feel quite an interest in your little girl,” she added, half apologetically.
“Her name is Henrietta Henderson,” said the stranger.
“Why, that is my name!” ejaculated Miss Hetty.
“And she was named after you,” said the stranger, composedly.
“Why, who in the world are you?” she asked, her heart beginning to beat unwontedly fast.
“Then you don’t remember me?” said he, rising, and looking steadily at Miss Hetty. “Yet you knew me well in bygone days—none better. At one time, it was thought you would join your destiny to mine——”
“Nick Anderson!” said Miss Hetty, rising in confusion.
“You are right. You rejected me because you did not feel secure of my principles. The next day, in despair at your refusal, I left the house, and, ere forty-eight hours had passed, was on my way to India. I had not formed the design of going to India in particular; but, in my then state of mind, I cared not whither I went. One resolution I formed—that I would prove by my conduct that your apprehensions were ill founded. I got into a profitable business. In time, I married; not that I had forgotten you, but that I was solitary, and needed companionship. I had ceased to hope for yours. By and by, a daughter was born. True to my old love, I named her Hetty, and pleased myself with the thought that she bore some resemblance to you. Afterwards my wife died; misfortunes came upon me; and I found myself deprived of all my property. Then came yearnings for my native soil. I have returned (as you see), not as I departed, but poor and care-worn.”
While Nicholas was speaking, Miss Hetty’s mind was filled with conflicting emotions. At length, extending her hand frankly, she said—
“I feel that I was too hasty, Nicholas. I should have tried you longer. But, at least, I may repair my injustice. I have enough for us all. You shall come and live with me.”
“I can only accept your generous offer on one condition,” said Nicholas.
“And what is that?”
“That you will be my wife!”
A vivid blush came over Miss Hetty’s countenance. She “couldn’t think of such a thing,” she said. Nevertheless, an hour afterwards the two united lovers had fixed upon the marriage-day.
* * * * *
The house does not look so prim as it used to do. The yard is redolent with many fragrant flowers. The front door is half open, revealing a little girl playing with a kitten.
“Hetty,” says a matronly lady, “you have got the ball of yarn all over the floor. What would your father say if he should see it?”
“Never mind, mother; it was only kitty that did it.”
Marriage has filled up a void in the heart of Miss Hetty. Though not so prim, or perhaps careful, as she used to be, she is a good deal happier. Three hearts are filled with thankfulness at every return of Miss Henderson’s Thanksgiving Day.
LITTLE CHARLIE.
A violet grew by the river-side,
And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;
While over the fields, on the scented air,
It breathed a rich perfume.
But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
And its portals were opened wide;
And the heavy rain beat down the flower
That grew by the river-side.
Not far away, in a pleasant home,
There lived a little boy,
Whose cheerful face and childish grace
Filled every heart with joy.
He wandered one day to the river’s verge,
With no one near to save;
And the heart that we loved with a boundless love
Was stilled in the restless wave.
The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,
And we bade farewell to joy;
For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie
To the grave of the little boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree
That shadows the open door:
We heed them not; for we think of the voice
That we shall hear no more.
We think of him at eventide,
And gaze on his vacant chair
With a longing heart, that will scarce believe
That Charlie is not there.
We seem to hear his ringing laugh,
And his bounding step at the door;
But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought—
We shall never hear them more!
We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,
In the pleasant summer hours;
We will speak his name in a softened voice,
And cover his grave with flowers;
We will think of him in his heavenly home—
His heavenly home so fair;
And we will trust with a hopeful trust
That we shall meet him there.
