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THE birds were singing again in the old orchard;
and Archy Brandle stood by the work-bench in
his little shop, thoughtfully holding a cog-wheel,
when his mother looked in.

“Can't you make it go, my son?” said the smiling
widow.

“Can't help thinking about her!” starting from his revery.
“Ain't it too bad?”

“In one sense 'tis, and in one sense it's good enough for
her. If she had only married you, now” —

“Oh! don't mention that, ma; 'tain't no use!” And, with
tears in his eyes, the genius pretended to study his cog-wheel.

The widow, who had never forgiven Lucy for rejecting her
son, regarded him with a tender, aggrieved look.

“After all, it was a narrer escape for you, Archy! She
couldn't a' been a very good girl: she never was good enough
for you. I must say, though,” she relentingly added, “I
pity her from the bottom of my heart.”

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“I wonder if the' ain't suthin' I can make for her,” said
Archy. “D'ye 'spose she's got a cradle?”

“Mos' likely, by this time. But the idee” — Mrs. Brandle
smiled discouragingly — “of your making a cradle for
her baby!”

“I might git up one” — Archy kindled with the conception—
“to go by clock-work; warranted to rock a baby to
sleep by once winding up. I've a good notion!”

“That's an idee, my son. But, then, you wouldn't like to
go and offer her a cradle, would you, now! What would she
think?”

“Of course!” said the genius, blushing. “I only jest
mentioned it. I wish folks would stop talking about her so:
she's better'n half of 'em, anyway, I know. But I did think
better of Guy Bannington, after he got to be a spiritualist.”

“Wal, it's with spirit'alists as 'tis with other denominations:
they ain't all on 'em jest what they should be, no
more'n other folks. There's always wolves to creep into a fold
that's open to 'em; 'specially a fold that hain't got its walls
built up yit. But come, my son, I want you to go of an
errant to the village now: we'll talk when ye come back.”

“Ye in a hurry?” said Archy. “For I'd like to wait and
have a hunk of that gingerbread, when it's done: I'm re'l
kind o' faint.”

“Why 'tain't in the ov'm yit; and I can't make it up till
ye fetch some molasses. I thought there was a plenty; but,
come to tip up the jug, I can't git enough to ketch a good
smart fly.”

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Archy rolled down his sleeves, put on his coat, and, taking
the jug from his mother's hand, started for the village.

The molasses was soon got, and he set out to return. It
was one of the sweetest days in early spring; a summer-like
warmth swimming and glimmering in the soft air. To shorten
the distance, he crossed the fields, carrying the jug. Jehiel's
house was in sight; and glancing at it furtively, thinking
of Lucy, he forgot that his mother and the gingerbread were
waiting. An indescribable flood of feelings rushed over him,
which seemed somehow blended with the singing of the robins.
For the robins return not alone when the winter is past;
but with them return thoughts of other days, warm-breasted,
winged thoughts, singing of the loves and joys and losses
with which the scents and sounds of spring-time are forever
associated.

Already the infant herbage was pushing its myriad tiny
fingers through the dead mother's threadbare vest. It appeared
freshest and greenest where the snow had just melted
away; like the lurking hopes which put forth from never-dying
roots, and clothe the heart with blessings, even when the cold
white mask of the winter of despair is upon it. A comparison
which Archy might have perceived, but that his mind was
never cunning in analogies, and that now he had something
far less poetical to attend to.

A flock of sheep was nibbling here and there; when out
from among them walked one of their number, advanced deliberately
a few paces towards him, and stopped. Archy

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stopped also, with trepidation; glancing around him for a
weapon, and muttering, —

“Oh, mighty! it's 'Hiel's pet lamb!” Once a favorite
play-fellow, now an enemy; with which he had had many a
merry tussle before he (the lamb) had got horns, and he
(Archy) had found his butting dangerous.

The cosset was now a stout ram; and what had been taught
him in sport he was inclined to practise in earnest. Archy,
who had fought more than one battle with him, and come to
grief, stood tremblingly facing him, until the animal stamped
with his fore-foot, showing signs of rage; while the flock stood
looking on wonderingly, like ladies at a tournament.

Archy's heart failed him, and he set out to run; but his
legs were no match for Billy's, which followed swiftly. Accordingly
he halted, and placed his hope in dodging. When
within a few yards of him, the cosset paused an instant, drew
in his nose, threw down his horns to a stiff level with his neck,
then darted forward like a forked thunderbolt. Instinctively,
with the agility which terror inspired, the genius leaped aside,
and the thunderbolt rushed past him, butting empty space.

“Help, help!” he screamed, appalled by the tremendous
strength of the full-grown animal, “Help! — murder!”

Billy turned, backed off a few steps, and came again.
This time he grazed the legs of Archy, who seized his woolly
tail with one hand, clinging to the jug with the other, and
calling vociferously, —

“Murder! MURDER! Oh! will the spirits help?”

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The spirits evidently would not, or could not, under the
circumstances. Archy stumbled, losing his hold; a part of
the caudal wool coming away in his hand. He had scarcely
regained his balance, when Billy wheeled, and came again
with a wicked leer. Too late to dodge, he retreated backwards,
holding the jug before him, his only defence. Thunderbolt
struck jug,—a dull crash; and thunderbolt, boy, and
jug went down miscellaneously together.

A moment after, Archy scrambled to his feet. Dismay
was in his countenance, and the handle of the jug in his
hand. At a little distance was Billy, blinded, bathed in molasses,
and flirting his head with snuffs and snorts of rage.

The genius cast a heart-sick glance at the shattered jug and
its spattered contents; then took to his heels, never stopping
to look back until he had tumbled himself over a wall.
Then he rallied, and contemplated himself ruefully, and bemoaned
the molasses, and wept as he thought of his mother
and the gingerbread. What should he do? The brook was
pouring not far below, the sound of which suggested needful
ablutions; and he wandered down towards it disconsolately.

“Oh, my gracious!” he said, standing on a stone by a
clump of willows, and regarding himself again as he bent
over the water. “Ain't I a sight!”

He had abandoned his hat on the battle-field: but he still
clung to the jug-handle tenaciously; and an equally useless
portion of the jug's contents clung to him, smearing his
hands, and variegating his light-colored fustian trousers with

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enormous streaks; while his cassimere jacket, once blue as
the sea, but long since faded, showed its “gray and melancholy
waist” studded with an archipelago of molasses
islands.

“Ain't I a sight?” he repeated with solemn depth of emphasis,
glancing cautiously around him. “I wouldn't have
any one see me now for all” —

His voice died in his throat, leaving his mouth wide open
with consternation, as his eye fell upon a young woman within
three yards of him, sitting by the willows, with an infant
on her lap. She smiled at his plight, and asked him how he
did.

“I — I don't do, no how! thank ye, sir: I mean,
ma'am!” And, thinking she wished to shake hands, he advanced,
but shrunk back again, stammering, “I can't:
I'm all molasses!”

It was the first time he had seen her since evil and shame
had come upon her; the remembrance of which, together with
the innocent witness of it in her arms, would alone have been
sufficient to overwhelm him with confusion, not to speak of
his own embarrassing catastrophe. She waited for him to
recover his wits, then inquired what had happened. He awkwardly
told his story.

“Then 'twas you I heard scream?”

“Did I scream?” said Archy. “Wal, shouldn't wonder
a mite if I did. To have a bunting corset pitch into a feller
that way! Didn't I git sweetened?” — rubbing out the

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archipelago with wisps of dry grass. “I say, folks hain't
got no right to turn loose critters that run at!”

Lucy laughed with sad and gentle humor as he got down
by the brook and washed himself; then turned her eyes upon
the sleeping babe with an anxious fondness in which every
thing else was forgotten.

When, after many minutes, Archy ventured to steal a
glance at her, there she still sat, motionless, intent, watching
the babe with a mother's all-absorbing tenderness. She was
pale and worn, and how changed! — her bright, girlish
expression lost in the deep womanly look of suffering, and
of love greater than suffering; more beautiful than ever, in
the boy's eyes; and with a certain holy calm about her which
inspired him with awe.

Was this lovely being the sinner the world called her?
Where was the mark of guilt, the blush of shame? Through
the pale ashes of burnt-out happiness glowed the rapture of a
new joy, — a mother's love. In that face, Archy saw only
purity and sweetness; and the heart of him was melted.

“Archy,” — she raised her eyes with a soft luminous
look, — “would you like to see my baby?”

“Yours!” said Archy, affecting surprise from some vague
sense of delicacy.

“Why not mine, the darling?” — pressing it with ineffable
fondness. “Oh, she is just as innocent and sweet!
Come and look at her.”

He flirted the water from his hands, and rubbed them on

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his trousers, bashfully approaching; while she uncovered the
half-hidden little face.

“She is mine! — my own precious! God's gift, Archy!”
She lifted the infant on her arm, her whole being lighted up
with a noble and sweet radiance.

“Oh, the leetle, leetle, pooty thing!” exclaimed Archy
with genuine emotion.

“Is she pretty?” — she smiled proudly. “Look! —
haven't I a right to be glad and happy? She laughs at you!
Kiss her, Archy!”

“I'm 'feard I shall hurt it!” faltered Archy with mingled
pity and reverence. But she held the infant up; and he
stooped with a blush, and put his lips timidly to its cheek.

“Baby,” she said, “this is one of your mother's best
friends; one of the truest hearts in all this great sad world
you have come into, poor little soul! — She don't know it
now, Archy; but she will some day, if” —

If she lives. But the mother could not speak those words;
the thought of the babe being taken from her striking a sudden
chill into her heart.

Archy, deeply moved by the kind things she said of him,
observed her emotion also as she folded the babe to her
breast. He winked the moisture from his eyes, and said
chokingly, —

“Guess I'll go 'n' pick up my hat: may as well. Then,
if there's any thing I can make for ye, Miss — Mrs. —
Lucy,” he stammered, at a loss how to address one in her situation.

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“I forgot to ask,” she said with a smile, “how your flying-machine
gets on.”

“Hain't done much with that lately,” replied Archy. “I'm
to work on a cob-saving corn-sheller. Under impression.”

“Under impression? What's that?”

“Sperits help me.”

“Do you really think that the spirits help you, Archy?”

“Oh, yes!” said Archy ingenuously: “I know they do!”

Lucy did not laugh. Her heart was beating fast with painful
emotions.

“And are you interested in the money-digging too?”

“Wal, some. Ma says I ain't stubbid enough to work in
the shaft. But there's an awful great heap of money there, I
s'pose ye know.”

“I know nothing!” poor Lucy replied, bowing her face
over her babe.

“What! hain't nobody told you? I thought Guy or
Jehiel” —

“I believe Jehiel is at work there; but he never speaks
of it to me. It is all a wretched error, I fear, Archy.”

“Think so?” cried Archy, astonished. “You'll see!
They've got 'most to the money; and expect every day” —

At that moment a distant detonation was heard, like a clap
of dull thunder.

“That's the blast!” said Archy.

“I know the sound too well!” said Lucy, looking as if it
did not shake and tear the rocks only, but her heart also.

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“Old Doctor Biddikin has now plenty of companions in his
folly!”

“He's been flyin' around all winter like a hen with her
head cut off; fussin' about the diggins, and tryin' to git Mad
out o' jail. But then there's money there!” persisted Archy;
“though ma says she's glad I've kep' out on't, on the hull.”

“So am I. Stay at home with her, Archy: you are
blessed in having a mother and a home.”

“I know it! I think on't sometimes,” murmured Archy,
“till I can't help” — choking. “And you, Lucy!” — he
exclaimed earnestly, observing her pallor and sadness, —
“you” —

“I — I have no mother, no home!” said Lucy.

“I was goin' to say, if you want to, you can come to
our house and stop: ma'll let you, I know, if I tell her; and
we won't charge ye nothin' for your board,” gushed from the
youth's simple heart.

“I was wrong to say I had no home,” she answered after
a struggle. “Mr. and Mrs. Hedge are very kind to me.
But I thank you from my heart, dear Archy. If ever I need
shelter, I shall remember you.”

“Heard from your pa lately?” said Archy in a thick
voice, passing his sleeve across his face.

“Not for months: I fear I have lost my father too. He
would write, if he could; and some of his letters would reach
either me or Mr. Pelt, I know!”

“Who's that?” whispered Archy.

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A person fishing down the brook had come behind the willows.
He must have approached rather slyly, not to have
been seen or heard before; and he now stood pretending to
arrange his hook, while his features writhed with a grimace
which betrayed that he had been listening. Lucy leaned forward
to look, and knit her brow as she recognized red-headed
Abner Roane.

“Oh! how do you do?” said he, affecting surprise. “I've
ketched a good sizable trout here: may be you'd like it.”
And he advanced, amicably grinning.

“Ma says fresh fish is the wust thing you can eat,” whispered
Archy, blushing.

“I thank you,” said Lucy. “I have no use for it.”

“Oh! haven't ye? I'm sorry; for I ketched it 'most a
purpose for you,” said Abner fawningly.

She penetrated him with a glance which made him cringe.

“That is, I thought of you when I see what a fine trout it
was, and was wishing I could give it to somebody that would
relish it. Fine day, Miss Arlyn. Don't ye rather think
Mr. Arlyn'll be home this spring, seeing he don't write?”

“Have you any reason to expect him?” demanded Lucy.

“Only my surmises,” said Abner. “If I get any news,
shall I let you know?”

The keen expression with which she eyed him softened a
little. “If you hear any thing, if you can tell me any thing,
about him, in mercy let me know!”

“Wal, I'll bear it in mind. I rather expect we shall see

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or hear from him this spring, if he's alive. Good-morning!
You — won't take the trout? Oh, wal! never mind. I'll
let you know if I get any thing.”

And Abner proceeded down the stream, grimacing unaccountably;
furtively touching — as if he wished to make sure
he had it — a letter which he kept carefully in his pocket; a
letter which the child of old Ben Arlyn would have given
much to have.

“I don't know what he means,” she said. “I have little
hope left of ever seeing my father again.” She shuddered,
perhaps with the dread of meeting him if he should come.
“But don't think I am unblessed, Archy. I have my baby;
she is my treasure: the world may go as it will, if I can keep
her!” And she folded the infaut closely.

“Can't I do suthin' for ye?” said Archy wishfully, seeing
that she was about to go.

“Yes,” cried Lucy, rising. “When you hear people
speak ill of me and my darling, tell them how sweet she is,
and how thankful I am for her. Good-by, good, kind Archy!”

“Good — by!” — faltered Archy. “Good-by, dear little
baby!” And he stood staring with emotion as she bore
the babe away upon her breast.

She was soon out of sight. Then with a qualm he remembered
the molasses, his mother waiting, and his hat in the
field. He looked around for a club; and, having found one,
returned to the scene of the late conflict. Billy showed

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no disposition to fight, not having yet recovered from the
molasses; and, seizing his hat, Archy clapped it on his head,
hurled the club at his enemy, and ran home, eager to relate
to his mother the catastrophe of the jug and his encounter
with Lucy.

p730-349

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