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'Mid the New England hills, and beneath the shadow of
their dim old woods, is a running brook, whose deep waters
were not always as merry and frolicsome as now; for years
before our story opens, pent up and impeded in their course,
they dashed angrily against their prison walls, and turned
the creaking wheel of an old saw mill, with a sullen, rebellious
roar. The mill has gone to decay, and the sturdy
men who fed it with the giant oaks of the forest, are sleeping
quietly in the village graveyard. The waters of the
mill-pond, too, relieved from their confinement, leap gaily
over the ruined dam, tossing for a moment in wanton glee
their locks of snow-white foam, and then flowing on, half
fearfully as it were, through the deep gorge overhung with
the hemlock and the pine, where the shadows of twilight
ever lie, and where the rocks frown gloomily down upon the
stream below, which, emerging from the darkness, loses

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itself at last in the waters of the gracefully winding Chicopee,
and leaves far behind the moss-covered walls, of what
is familiarly known as the “Old House by the Mill.”

'Tis a huge, old-fashioned building, distant nearly a mile
from the public highway, and surrounded so thickly by forest
trees, that the bright sunlight, dancing merrily midst the
rustling leaves above, falls but seldom on the time-stained
walls of dark grey stone, where the damp and dews of more
than a century have fallen, and where now the green moss
clings with a loving grasp, as if 'twere its rightful resting
place. When the thunders of the Revolution shook the
hills of the Bay State, and the royal banner floated in the
evening breeze, the house was owned by an old Englishman,
who, loyal to his king and country, denounced as rebels the
followers of Washington. Against these, however, he
would not raise his hand, for among them were many long
tried friends, who had gathered with him around the festal
board; so he chose the only remaining alternative, and
went back to his native country, cherishing the hope that
he should one day return to the home he loved so well, and
listen again to the musical flow of the water-brook, which
could be distinctly heard from the door of the mansion.
But his wish was vain, for when at last America was free,
and the British troops recalled, he slept beneath the sod of
England, and the old house was for many years deserted.
The Englishman had been greatly beloved, and his property
was unmolested, while the weeds and grass grew tall and
rank in the garden beds, and the birds of heaven built their
nests beneath the projecting roof, or held a holiday in the
gloomy, silent rooms.

As time passed on, however, and no one appeared to dispute
their right, different families occupied the house at intervals,
until at last, when nearly fifty years had elapsed, news

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was one day received that Madam Conway, a grand-daughter
of the old Englishman, having met with reverses at home,
had determined to emigrate to the New World, and remembering
the “House by the Mill,” of which she had heard so
much, she wished to know if peaceable possession of it
would be allowed her, in case she decided upon removing
thither, and making it her future home. To this plan no
objection was made, for the aged people of Hillsdale still
cherished the memory of the hospitable old man, whose
locks were grey while they were yet but children, and the
younger portion of the community hoped for a renewal of
the gaieties which they had heard were once so common at
the old stone house.

But in this they were disappointed, for Madam Conway
was a proud, unsocial woman, desiring no acquaintance whatever
with her neighbors, who, after many ineffectual attempts
at something like friendly intercourse, concluded to leave
her entirely alone, and contented themselves with watching
the progress of matters at “Mill Farm,” as she designated the
place, which soon began to show visible marks of improvement.
The Englishman was a man of taste, and Madam
Conway's first work was an attempt to restore the grounds
to something of their former beauty. The yard and garden
were cleared of weeds; the walks and flower-beds laid out
with care, and then the neighbors looked to see her cut
away a few of the multitude of trees, which had sprung up
around her home. But this she had no intention of doing.
“They shut her out,” she said, “from the prying eyes of
the vulgar, and she would rather it should be so.” So the
trees remained, throwing their long shadows upon the high,
narrow windows, and into the large square rooms, where
the morning light and the noon-day heat seldom found
entrance, and which seemed like so many cold, silent

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caverns, with their old-fashioned massive furniture, their
dark, heavy curtains, and the noiseless footfall of the stately
lady, who moved ever with the same measured tread, speaking
always softly and low to the household servants, who,
having been trained in her service, had followed her across
the sea.

From these, the neighbors learned that Madam Conway
had in London a married daughter, Mrs. Miller; that old
Hagar Warren, the strange looking woman, who, more than
any one else, shared her mistress's confidence had grown up
in the family, receiving a very good education, and had
nursed their young mistress, Miss Margaret, which of course
entitled her to more respect than was usually bestowed upon
menials like her; that Madam Conway was very aristocratic,
very proud of her high English blood; that, though
she lived alone, she attended strictly to all the formalities
of high-life, dressing each day with the utmost precision for
her solitary dinner; dining from off a service of solid silver,
and presiding with great dignity in her straight, high-backed
chair. She was fond, too, of the ruby wine, and her
cellar was stored with the choicest liquors, some of which
she had brought with her from home, while others, it was
said, had belonged to her grandfather, and for half a century,
had remained unseen and unmolested, while the
cobwebs of time had woven around them a misty covering,
making them still more valuable to the lady, who knew full
well how age improved such things.

Regularly each day she rode in her ponderous carriage,
sometimes alone, and sometimes accompanied by Hester, the
laughter of old Hagar, a handsome, intelligent looking girl,
who, after two or three years of comparative idleness at
Mill Farm, went to Meriden, Connecticut, as seamstress in a
family, which had advertised for such a person. With her,

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departed the only life of the house, and during the following
year there ensued a monotonous quiet, which was
broken at last for Hagar, by the startling announcement
that her daughter's young mistress had died four months
before, and the husband, a grey-haired, elderly man, had
proved conclusively that he was in his dotage, by talking of
marriage to Hester, who, ere the letter reached her mother,
would probably be the third bride of one, whose reputed
wealth was the only possible inducement to a girl like
Hester Warren.

With an immense degree of satisfaction, Hagar read the
letter through, exulting that fortune had favored her at
last. Possessed of many sterling qualities, Hagar Warren
had one glaring fault which had embittered her whole life.
Why others were rich while she was poor, she could not
understand, and her heart rebelled at the fate which had
made her what she was. But Hester would be wealthy,
nay, would, perhaps, one day rival the haughty Mrs.
Miller across the water, who had been her playmate; there
was comfort in that, and she wrote to her daughter expressing
her entire approbation, and hinting vaguely of the
possibility that she herself might sometime cease to be a
servant, and help do the honors of Mr. Hamilton's house!
To this there came no reply, and Hagar was thinking seriously
of making a visit to Meriden, when one rainy autumnal
night, nearly a year after Hester's marriage, there came
another letter sealed with black. With a sad foreboding,
Hagar opened it, and read that Mr. Hamilton had Failed;
that his house and farm were sold, and that he, overwhelmed
with mortification both at his failure, and the
opposition of his friends to his last marriage, had died suddenly,
leaving Hester with no home in the wide world,
unless Madam Conway received her again into her family.

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“Just my luck!” was Hagar's mental comment, as she
finished reading the letter, and carried it to her mistress,
who had always liked Hester, and who readily consented to
give her a home, provided she put on no airs, from having
been for a time the wife of a reputed wealthy man.
“Mustn't put on airs!” muttered Hagar, as she left the
room. “Just as if airs wasn't for anybody but high
bloods,” and with the canker worm of envy at her heart, she
wrote to Hester, who came immediately; and Hagar, when
she heard her tell the story of her wrongs, how her husband's
sister, indignant at his marriage with a sewing girl, had removed
from him the children, one a step-child and one his
own, and how of all his vast fortune there was not left for
her a penny, experienced again the old bitterness of feeling,
and murmured that fate should thus deal with her and
hers.

With the next day's mail, there came to Madam Conway
a letter, bearing a foreign postmark, and bringing the sad
news that her son-in-law had been lost in a storm, while
crossing the English Channel, and that her daughter Margaret,
utterly crushed and heart-broken, would sail immediately
for America, where she wished only to lay her weary head
upon her mother's bosom and die.

“So, there is one person that has no respect for blood,
and that is Death,” said old Hagar to her mistress, when
she heard the news. “He has served us both alike, he has
taken my son-in-law first and yours next.”

“Frowning haughtily, Madam Conway bade her be silent,
telling her at the same time to see that the rooms in the
north part of the building were put in perfect order for Mrs.
Miller, who would probably come in the next vessel. In
sullen silence Hagar withdrew, and for several days worked
half relunctantly in the “north rooms,” as Madam Conway

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termed a comparatively pleasant, airy suit of apartments,
with a balcony above, which looked out upon the old milldam,
and the water brook pouring over it.

“There'll be big doings when my lady comes,” said Hagar
one day to her daughter. “It'll be Hagar here, and Hagar
there, and Hagar everywhere, but I shan't hurry myself.
I'm getting too old to wait on a chit like her.”

“Don't talk so, mother,” said Hester. “Margaret was
always kind to me. She is not to blame for being rich, while
I am poor.”

“But somebody's to blame,” interrupted old Hagar.
“You was always accounted the handsomest and cleverest
of the two, and yet for all you'll be nothing but a drudge
to wait on her and the little girl.”

Hester only sighed in reply, while her thoughts went forward
to the future, and what it would probably bring her.
Hester Warren and Margaret Conway had been children
together, and in spite of the difference of there stations they
had loved each other dearly; and when at last the weary
traveller came, with her pale sad face and mourning garb,
none gave her so heartfelt a welcome as Hester; and during
the week when from exhaustion and excitement, she
was confined to her bed, it was Hester who nursed her with
the utmost care, soothing her to sleep, and then amusing
the little Theo, a child of two years. Hagar, too, softened
by her young misstress's sorrow, repented of her harsh
words, and watched each night with the invalid, who once
when her mind seemed wandering far back in the past,
whispered softly, “Tell me the Lord's prayer, dear Hagar,
just as you told it to me years ago when I was a little
child.”

It was a long time since Hagar had breathed that prayer,
but at Mrs. Miller's request she commenced it, repeating it

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correctly until she came to the words, “Give us this day
our daily bread,” then she hesitated, and bending forward
said, “What comes next, Miss Margaret? Is it, `Lead us
not into temptation?' ”

“Yes, yes,” whispered the half unconscious lady. “ `Lead
us not into temptation,' that's it;” then, as if there were
around her a dim foreboding of the great wrong Hagar was
to do, she took her old nurse's hand between her own, and
continued, “Say it often, Hagar, `Lead us not into temptatation;
' you have much need for that prayer.”

A moment more and Margaret Miller slept, while beside
her sat Hagar Warren, half shuddering she knew not
why, as she thought of her mistress's words, which seemed
to her, so much like the spirit of prophecy.

“Why do I need that prayer more than any one else?”
she said, at last. “I have never been tempted more than I
could bear—never shall be tempted—and if I am, old Hagar
Warren, bad as she is, can resist temptation, without that
prayer.”

Still, reason as she would, Hagar could not shake off the
strange feeling, and as she sat, half dozing in her chair, with
the dim lamplight flickering over her dark face, she fancied
that the October wind, sighing so mournfully through the
locust trees beneath the window and then dying away in the
distance, bore upon its wing, “Lead us not into temptation.
Hagar you have much need to say that prayer.”

“Aye, Hagar Warren, much need, much need!

p594-208

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