Twilight

Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.18 #106 (Mar 1859).

It was a pleasant afternoon in early June, and in a cool, comfortable apartment, in a quiet, unpretending-looking house, just on the outskirts of one of our pretty New England villages, three persons were gathered together for an early tea. We have said that the room was cool and comfortable; but perhaps its most distinguishing characteristic was its air of primitive neatness and old-fashioned simplicity. The furniture was sufficient, but plain; every thing necessary to comfort, but nothing for ornament, luxury, or fashion; no tapestry carpets, yielding softly beneath the noiseless tread; no tasseled and fringed drapery curtains; no luxurious divans; no graceful tabourets or ottomans; no piano or harp; no mirrors; no gas-fixtures; no bronze and gold; no quaint old china. The plain walls, unrelieved by a single picture, were covered with a neat paper, of alternate stripes of darker and lighter shades of dove-color; the carpet, unfaded and spotless, was a small, neat pattern of green and dove-color; the stiff, cane-seated chairs held their straight backs against the wainscot, in prim and exact regularity; an unyielding-looking sofa, in mahogany and hair-cloth, unsuggestive of ease or comfort, stood upon the hearth, with arms akimbo, and toes turned out, and back to the fire-place, like some sturdy Englishman in after-dinner meditation; and in an opposite corner stood a long, narrow, eight-day mahogany clock, with a great white, moonfaced dial-plate, like a coffin set up on end, with the pale, unspeculative face of its occupant looking placidly out of the upper window, and pleasantly numbering off on its attenuated fingers the hours and moments yet remaining to the living.
        But if the room could boast of no superfluities the same could not be said of the table, which, covered with a snowy white cloth, and furnished with the whitest of granite-ware, was literally piled with a profusion of domestic produce and home-made delicacies, which, seldom or never admitted to city tea-tables, are the pride and delight of rural house-keepers. Long golden bars of "diet-bread" piled up, cob-house fashion, balanced thick wedge-like slices of dark, rich-looking "loaf-cake," clammy with fruit and redolent of cloves; delicate "flapjacks" lay, zealously perspiring under a sense of their own goodness, and a melting crust of powdered sugar and spice, opposite to hot rolls, white and feathery in their yeasty lightness; slices of cold boiled ham, cut by no Vauxhall pattern, smiled in calm self-possession, as if they knew "the fat was so white and the lean was so ruddy;" custards, with their rich golden surfaces concealed by a thick brown coat of grated nutmeg (which would shock the fastidious taste as a work of supererogation), were supported on either side by pellucid honey welling from the comb, and fragrant homemade butter; cool, crisp radishes raised their meek green heads above the transparent glass, through which they gleamed like scarlet goldfish in the pure iced water below, and "seasoned apple-sauce" and preserved quinces turned corners with cheese and olives.
        But we are lingering too long over this appetizing table, while the dramatis personæ are waiting to be introduced. At the head of the table sat a mild, pleasant-looking woman, of middle life, rather short and stout, dressed in a dove-colored silk gown and close Quaker cap and handkerchief. This was Mrs. Cobb, the mistress of the establishment, and widow and sole relict of the late lamented John Cobb, a very respectable hardware dealer and estimable member of the Society of Friends. Mrs. Cobb, his widow, was a model of propriety: she wore only the drabest of gowns, the closest of close caps, and the stiffest of black satin bonnets; she used the Quaker phraseology with unflinching pertinacity, and thee'd and thou'd with a friendly disregard for all grammatical rules, which would have made Lindley Murray gnash his teeth in anguish. Yet there was something—an undescribable something—it might have been a shade less of the leaden immobility of feature, and rigid, statue-like repose of manner, said to be the result of that strong self-control which is one of the early and most admirable lessons of that sect, which suggested that, though every way worthy, Mrs. Cobb was not "to the manner born."
        And it was so; Mrs. Cobb had been born of "the world's people," and as Betsy Appleton, the only and indulged child of wealthy parents, she was a sprightly, gay, pretty girl: but destiny, chance, or propinquity (or whatever power it may be which rules the matrimonial affairs of this world), had fixed her affections on John Cobb, a handsome and worthy young Friend; and the predilection being fully returned, in spite of the opposition of the parents on both sides, or rather in consequence of it—for opposition is the aliment of rebellious love—she married him, and turning her back to the world's vanities, was admitted to the religious sect to which her husband belonged, and henceforward, as Paul said of himself, that "after the most straitest sect of his religion he lived a Pharisee," so did Mrs. Cobb in her daily round fulfill all the requirements of Quaker law. Nor was there any insincerity, any leaven of hypocrisy, in all this; for Mrs. Cobb's love had so ennobled and dignified its object that the consequence was obvious and natural—her mind became the reflection of his, she thought what he thought, she believed what he believed. He was too wise to be deceived, and too good to err. He was to her church and priest, pope and prophet; she followed his lead unquestioning, sure that the way must be right if John Cobb went before! Nor was this a light and transient sentiment, fading with the years which gave it birth; not so, for the love of youth had stood the test of time; she had loved and obeyed him in health, she nursed him through sickness, and honored him in death. She still quoted him, as precedent and authority, on all occasions, continually volunteering the information that "husband thought, husband said, husband did, husband did not," until one of her young neighbors roguishly observed she believed Aunt Betsy Cobb really thought there never was but one husband in the world, and she had had him!
        But stern Death, which severs so many strong, sweet ties, had taken the husband from his devoted and appreciative wife. John Cobb was dead and Aunt Betsy reigned in his stead, or rather, she would have reigned if she had known how; but like many gentle-hearted but unreflecting women, her unlimited trust in another had weakened her own powers. She had so accustomed herself to lean upon another she was unable to stand alone; and when the strong prop was removed she drooped like a flowering vine torn from its trellis. Firmly believing that "husband" knew every thing, that whatever he thought, or said, or planned, or did, was ever the "wisest, discreetest, best," she had never concerned herself about out-of-door matters. "Sure thee knows best, John Cobb," or, "I'd do just as thee thinks right thyself, husband," was the most cogent advice or opinion she had ever given him; and in her bereavement she found herself utterly unfit to meet the demands made upon her. She could not keep accounts, she could not calculate the price of a load of wood or hay; the cleaning out of the well and the re-shingling of the wood-shed were awful mysteries which she shrunk from undertaking. She was sadly at a loss how to direct the planting of her garden or the mowing of "the homestead lot;" and when the county commissioners, contemplating the opening of a new street where the store of the late John Cobb stood, called on her to obtain her estimate of its value, she was at her wit's end. Feeling her own weakness, conscious of her own inability to defend herself from imposition and wrong, she took a suddenly exaggerated view of her own danger and the peculant propensity of mankind in general, and felt herself a prey to unlimited encroachments and cheating without measure or end. In this dread emergency there came to her aid her uncle, Mr. Lemuel Wood, her mother's brother, a kindhearted, worthy, but rather eccentric old bachelor.
        There has been one individual put on record who made a fortune by attending to his own affairs. It may be so, but certainly that man was not Lemuel Wood; for he had a decided penchant for helping others, while his own affairs (if he had any) were left to take care of themselves. He came to the widow's aid, and being of a quiet temper and a cheerful, trusting spirit, he reassured and comforted her, helping her wisely and well, bringing her triumphantly through the commissioners' business, paying her taxes, buying her stores, and shoveling her paths, literally and figuratively; in short, taking upon himself the whole burden of the outdoor department with such zeal and judgment that his grateful niece felt she could not live without him: and thus, as time wore on, gradually and imperceptibly to both of them, he had become a fixture in the house and the nominal head of the family, speaking of our garden and our house with exactly the same sense of ownership that Mrs. Cobb herself had. This was the person who now sat in the post of honor at table opposite to her, and aided her in her hospitable attentions to their guest. He was a short, rather stout-built man, a little beyond middle life, with a fair, broad, ruddy face, sandy whiskers, and laughing brown eyes.
        The third person in the trio was Miss Alice Gracie, a young lady from the city, a newly-arrived guest, or rather a new boarder. Since John Cobb's final withdrawal from business by the hand of Death had somewhat lessened the annual income of the property, his widow had decided upon taking one or more lady boarders, partly, perhaps, in hopes of female companionship, and still more, because her forte being the culinary department, she naturally wanted some one to enjoy and praise its results. "Husband" had, unknown to himself or his wife, become a little epicurean in his habits, and as to please him was to please herself she had become a great proficient in the cooking line; and as we all love to do what we are conscious we do best, so her soups and her sauces, her cakes and confections, had become matters of serious importance to her. Husband had had good taste; he had always praised with judgment or suggested with discrimination; but Uncle Lem, though his gastronomic performances were often great in their way, was not appreciative or refined. He came to table to satisfy his hunger—for he was healthy and hearty—not to ruminate and pronounce judgment on the food set before him. He ate and drank thankfully, and doubtless he gave praise, for he was a good man; but his sense of his indebtedness rose to a higher source of good than Aunt Betsy. But what was the comfort in cooking for a man who did not know if the cranberry sauce was made with loaf sugar or brown, who could not distinguish between allspice and mace, and did not clearly know crumb sauce from drawn butter!
        So Mrs. Cobb had decided to take a boarder, and Miss Gracie, a young lady governess, whose city pupils had gone with their parents on the summer tour in search of health and amusement, which fashion now so imperiously demands, having leisure to rest and recruit herself, had preferred the rural quiet and home-comforts which Mrs. Cobb's house seemed to offer, to the more showy, more expensive, and less substantial accommodations of a fashionable watering-place. She had just arrived, and it was for her refreshment after her day's ride that this early and profuse meal had been prepared.
        "Do thee take another cup of tea, Alice," said the hostess, lifting up the tea-pot as she spoke. "Sure thee needs it after thy long ride; and do take some more of the griddles, will thee? Thee hain't got any thing on thy plate hardly. Uncle Lem, won't thee pass the rolls to Alice Gracie, if thee pleases, and give her a little more of that ham near thee. Do thee try it, Alice. I think thee'll find it good. Husband used to say he never ate any ham only at home. I always boil mine five hours, and then I put it into the oven after that. Why, thee don't eat any thing! I'm afraid thee don't like our country fare. I wish I had some fruit for thee, but our berries haven't come yet. Try a bit of the cake, do; thee need not be afraid of it, it's home made. Sure thee must get up a better appetite, or I shall not take board of thee, that's a sure thing. Uncle Lem, pass the radishes, please. Why, Alice, thee ought to be downright hungry after thy long ride. Now take another cup of tea, won't thee? There's plenty in the pot, hot and strong. Husband used to say the last cup was always the best, hottest, and strongest. Uncle Lem, pass the cream, please."
        Here the voluble hostess discovered that the water-pot needed replenishing, and turning her head in the direction of an open door communicating with the kitchen, she called aloud, "Twilight! Twilight!" But no answer being made to this call, she gently murmured, "Trial!" and called again, "Ruthy! Ruthy! is thee there?"
        This had the effect of "calling up," as toast-givers term it, a tall, lank, grim-looking, elderly maiden, sallow in complexion generally, and sallowest under the eyes—as if she had been preserved in brandy many years, and then dried off without washing—with very little hair, and that little of a decidedly pepper-and-saltish expression. She was dressed in a large-flowered, many-hued calico, with a thick white collar; and held in her hand a half-grown blue-yarn stocking, dependent from three needles—the fourth one being projected from her head in front, after the very unique and fanciful fashion in which the unicorn is wont to wear his horn when he is seen in public fighting with the lion for the British crown. Standing just outside the threshold, she leaned one hand against the side of the door-way and thrust her horned head into the room, and asked the unnecessary question, "Did you call?"
        "Yes, Ruthy," said Mrs. Cobb, mildly; "I wanted Twilight; does thee know where she is?"
        "Out in the garden, I guess; she mostly always is—shall I call her?" said the grimly Ruth.
        "No, no; you needn't," here interposed Uncle Lem; "don't you call her; let her run, poor thing! I guess the fresh air won't do her a mite of hurt—

                'All the world over, chicken and child,
                Grow the better for running wild!'"

        "Don't thee, Uncle Lem; be quiet, will thee, please! No, Ruthy, thee need not call her; I only wanted a little more water in the pot; thee can bring it thyself; and when Twilight comes in thee may tell her I wanted her."
        "And much good that'll do, I guess!" muttered the Unicorn; but she brought the water, and then asked, in a sort of grim obligingness, if any thing else was likely to be wanted.
        "No, thank thee, Ruthy; that will do; that is all, thank thee."
        When the kind little hostess had twice in vain offered Miss Gracie every several article of food on the table, and had satisfied herself by actual experiment that no amount of urging would induce her to eat more, she rose from the table, saying, "I suppose, Alice, thee'll like to see thy room? I will show it to thee now. Uncle Lem, will thee take up Alice Gracie's trunk, please?"
        "Oh! do not you take that trouble," said Miss Gracie, kindly; "it is very heavy, I am afraid."
        "Oh! it's no trouble, that isn't," said Mr. Wood, laughing, and lifting the trunk with ease; "and if it was, why,

                "A man who can not fetch and carry
                Is neither fit to hang or marry.'"

        "Don't thee, Uncle Lem, please," mildly suggested the widow; and preceded by her hostess, who carried her carpet-bag, and followed by Uncle Lem and her trunk, Miss Gracie went up to take possession of her chamber.
        She found it, like the rooms below, cool, airy, and scrupulously neat, but very plainly furnished. It had four windows, a good closet, a commodious wardrobe, and bureau. The bed-linen was delicately nice, and the wash-stand abundantly furnished. Alice was used to boarding-houses, and her practiced eye took in all these advantages at a glance; and she thought, when she had unpacked her books and her writing-desk, and had put her dressing-case and trinket-boxes on the table, with a few flowers on the bureau, the room would look quite home-like and pleasant, and she could be very comfortable there.
        In the mean time her good little landlady was running glibly on: "I'm so glad thee likes thy chamber, Alice; I hoped thee would. I guess we'll put thy trunk on these two chairs—that'll be handy for thee. Uncle Lem, open the blinds of that window, won't thee? the sun has gone from there now, I guess. Alice, thee'll find these drawers all empty for thee, and here's plenty of napkins on the stand, and if thee wants more, see here—there's plenty more in this little drawer; and here's fresh water for thee—why, no, there is not, either; and I told Twilight to be sure and put some. Careless girl! I dare say she forgot it—she is a trial!"
        "No, she ain't, neither," said Uncle Lem. "No more of a trial than all gals are; all gals are trials to somebody—you was a trial yourself, Betsy, at her age. I remember when you was a real trial."
        "Well! maybe thee's right," said Mrs. Cobb, with a mingled smile and sigh; "but I'm sober enough now, and I do wish Twilight was not so careless—if she would only think a little more."
        "Poor thing! I guess thinking wouldn't add much to her comfort; and besides, Betsy, I guess that

                'A wise old head on a gal's young shoulders
                Would sooner shock than please beholders.'"

        "Well! I guess thee's right there, Uncle Lem;" said Mrs. Cobb, laughing.
        "Right? to be sure I am; and now give me the pitcher and I will go and get the water."
        "No, indeed you need not," said Miss Gracie; "I do not want any at present; I shall not use it."
        "Oh! don't you mind me, Miss Gracie; exercise is good for me, it'll make me grow—

                'It's good for the pump, and good for me,
                The more we're worked the better we'll be.'"

        "I hope, Alice, thee won't mind Uncle Lem's queer ways," said Mrs. Cobb, as he left the room, pitcher in hand; "he can't help it, it comes as natural to him as his breath; and when thee knows him better thee'll like him; I know thee will, for he is real kind-hearted and obliging."
        Here Mr. Wood came up again with the water. "And now," he said, "I am going down to the village; can I do any thing for you?"
        Alice thanked him; but she had no commissions, and he departed.
        "And now, Alice," said Mrs. Cobb, "I shall leave thee too; I have some little matters to attend to. Be sure and make thyself at home here; if thee wants any thing, just open thy door and call Twilight, and if she is not there, Ruthy or I shall be sure to hear thee; and don't thee want for any thing in this house."
        Alice thanked the kind little woman, and said she thought she would unpack her trunk, and then, as the evening was so fine, she would walk in the garden. Left alone, Alice busied herself a few moments in unpacking her carpet-bag and dressing-case, and then, deciding she was too tired to unpack her trunk, she sauntered to one of the windows and took a survey through its closed blinds.
        The window commanded a distant view of some fine hills, and a nearer view of the garden and of the back-yard, which was perfectly neat and orderly. A long wood-pile, commencing just under the window where Alice stood, ran nearly down to the garden boundary; behind it was a long whitewashed wall; and between this wall and the wood-pile was a narrow of about three feet in width, left probably for the convenience of placing or removing the logs. At the extreme end of this narrow passage-way (which Miss Gracie noticed could not be seen from any part of the house but the very window at which she stood) her eye rested upon a diminutive little figure, doing—what? Alice could not make out, though she looked long and earnestly.
        The child, or girl—for Alice was at fault what to term her—was so muffled and concealed by the old loose sack she wore that no suggestive outline betrayed, by the sharpness of its angle or the roundness of its contour, the age of the wearer, and the face was equally puzzling. It was a face of rare and remarkable beauty—a fresh complexion of clear, brilliant brunette; large, magnificent dark eyes, softened by long silken lashes which swept the crimson cheek; soft, shining black hair, whose loose silken ringlets the wind had tossed into a mass of confusion; and a small mouth, whose mobile expression displayed teeth of dazzling whiteness, but small and even as kernels of new corn in the row. But the eyes, in their mingled fire and softness, had a depth of tenderness, a maturity of thought and feeling almost womanly; while the expression of the small rosy mouth, with its dimpling smiles, was soft and even infantile in its sweetness. What was she doing?
        A large sheet of wrapping paper was fastened to the wall, and the little one, with something she held in her hand, was apparently drawing upon the paper; but what Miss Gracie could not see, as the surface of the paper did not come within her range of vision, though the child's face did. Wholly absorbed in her occupation, whatever it might be, the little one went on. At times she would pause, as if at a loss how to proceed, casting up her eyes, as if she sought inspiration;—then again, as though the needed inspiration had come, with eager smile, and many an unnecessary flourish of the little sun-browned hand, and many a strange contortion of the rose-bud mouth, the young artist would proceed; then pausing again, with head thrown back, and look askant, she would survey the work with an amusing air of satisfied criticism, and rubbing the little benumbed wrist, stiff with its evidently unwonted labor, she would re-commence; sometimes pressing her hands over her eyes as if in abstract reflection, or as if trying to recall some lost idea, then a smile of joy irradiating her face as if the momentous difficulty had been suddenly solved; and when some apparently successful stroke had been made, or some particularly happy effect had been produced, she would clasp her hands joyfully together—or mutely. clap her elbows upon her sides, like a victorious gamecock about to crow forth his triumph and delight.
        What could the girl be doing? Miss Gracie's curiosity was excited, and leaving her chamber she went into the yard, and passing quietly down in front of the wood-pile to the other end, where the removal of some of the logs had lowered it sufficiently for her to see across it, she had, while unseen herself, a full view of the little performer and her work. To her surprise she found it was not artistic, but literary; the child was writing, not drawing, as she had supposed. On the sheet of yellow paper, traced in charcoal, with all that seemingly superfluous care and labor, were four well-known lines of doggerel rhyme, probably familiar in every New England kitchen, written in letters of all shapes and sizes. The following is a copy:

                "ANN TWILITE HEAR SHE LIZ
                NUBBUDDy LAfS AN NUBBUDDy CRIS
                WARE SHEZE gORN AN HOW SHE fAiRS
                NUBBUDDy NOSE AN NUBBUDDy CARES"

But the "cares" of poor little Twilight were not destined to be ended then and there; for as Alice, bending forward to obtain a better view, leaned her hand lightly on the wood, one of the logs suddenly gave way under the slight pressure and fell to the ground with a loud crash. At the unexpected sound the little girl, whose back had been turned toward the intruder, suddenly started, and, in turning to run away, came in contact with a projecting end of the wood, which catching her clothes, she fell heavily. In one moment Miss Gracie, passing round the barrier of logs, went to the assistance of the little girl, exclaiming, kindly and compassionately,
        "My poor child! are you hurt?"
        "No, marm!" said the child, who had already regained her feet, but, afraid to pass the intruder, was standing and rubbing the little round arm, which showed a severe abrasion of the skin; "I ain't hurt none, I guess; but you scart me awfully."
        "I am sorry for that," said the young lady, smiling. "But are you sure you are not hurt? Let me see."
        "Oh! that ain't nothing—that ain't; I don't mind it not a mite;" said the little girl, who stood as if prepared to fly, blushing, and stealing from beneath her long silken lashes bashful, wistful glances at the kind inquirer.
        "And so," said Alice, "I suppose you are the little girl I have heard them call Twilight?"
        The girl nodded, "That's what folks calls me."
        "It is a pretty name," said Alice, "but rather an odd one; I do not think I ever heard it before."
        To this no answer seemed required, and evidently Twilight thought so, for she did not offer any; but glancing shyly up at the face of her new acquaintance, it seemed to occur to her that it was now her turn to investigate; and she said, suddenly,
        "I guess you're the new boarder that's coming to live with Aunt Betsy—ain't you?"
        "I believe I am," said Miss Gracie, kindly.
        "Well, and you're a lady—ain't you?" was the next inquiry.
        "I hope so," said Miss Gracie, smiling at the earnest simplicity of the question.
        "Oh, I guess you be; Ruthy said she guessed so, cause you'd got such a real nice trunk."
        Alice Gracie laughed. It was the first time she had ever imagined her claims to gentility were derivable from her trunk; and the thought crossed her mind that, if her social position were to be inferred from her amount of baggage, few persons would give her the title which Twilight had.
        "And you," she said, turning again to the child, "you are Mrs. Cobb's niece, I suppose."
        "Me?" said Twilight, "why—no indeed; I guess I ain't."
        "Oh! then you are Mr. Wood's niece, are you?"
        "Why—no marm, I ain't," said Twilight, laughing merrily; "I ain't niece to neither of 'um; I ain't nubbody's niece. What made you think I was?"
        "Because you said Aunt Betsy—and so I concluded you were niece, of course."
        Twilight looked amused.
        "Why, no; I ain't," she repeated. "I ony calls her Aunt Betsy 'cause she's a Friend—Quakers some calls 'um, but she calls 'um Friends—and so she tells Ruthy and I to call her Aunt Betsy; and so I call Uncle Lem Uncle Lem, 'cause mostly every body does. But I ain't nothing to 'um ony their bound gal. They took me out of the work-'us—that's all I am to um."
        "And where are your parents, my poor child?"
        Twilight did not speak; but the changing color, the drooping of the eyelid, and the trembling of the red lip, warned Alice not to pursue that inquiry.
        "And who did that, I wonder?" she said next, pointing to the paper on the wall, and kindly wishing to divert the girl's attention from her last unfortunate question.
        "Me!" said Twilight, with a quick, bright flush on her face, and a pretty air of mingled pride and bashfulness, as one who modestly owns to some grand achievement; "I done it!"
        "Indeed! and what is it?"
        "Why, it's po'try—and it's real pretty. Can you read it—can you?" she said, advancing with a look of eager inquiry—"Can you read it?"
        "Oh yes, I can read it," said Miss Gracie, glancing at the paper.
        "Can you—can you? and is it writing—real writing--such as letters has in 'um?" said Twilight.
        "Why, no—not exactly," said Miss Gracie. "It is more like printing, such as you see in books; these are printing letters, not writing hand."
        The little girl's countenance fell. "I thought it was writing," she said, falteringly, and stopped.
        "But what did you write it for, my dear?"
        "Cause I wanted to learn to write; and 'cause—"
        "But what made you choose those lines? Will you tell me?"
        "'Cause I think they are just like me," said Twilight, hesitating; "I ain't got no folks, nor nobody to care for me; and I think they are real jolly—don't you?"
        Jolly! those wretched lines of miserable doggerel! whose expression of utter desolation and abandonment almost redeems them from vulgarity, and half raises them to the dignity of pathos. Jolly! surely Mark Tapley himself could scarcely have found a better illustration of his favorite word.
        "But, Twilight," said Miss Gracie, who was deeply interested in the little friendless stranger—"but, Twilight, do you not know that if you—"
        Here the voice of Ruth called sharply from the house for Twilight; and hastily snatching down the paper, folding, and concealing it in the crevice between two logs, Twilight darted by Miss Gracie and ran to answer the summons, and Alice pursued her way into the garden.
        The following day was Sunday; and Miss Gracie, who really loved the country, had taken a long early morning walk, and attended divine service morning and afternoon. On her return from church in the afternoon, finding her room warm, she took her books and went down stairs, intending to sit and read on the piazza at the back of the house, but she found it already occupied. At the southern end, where the afternoon sun, glancing round the corner of the house, traced a broad angle of sunlight on the floor, lay old Tiger, the house-dog, enjoying the Sabbath stillness, although one half-opened eye told of the faithful and unslumbering watch he still kept over the premises. At the other, and more shady end of the piazza, sat Mr. Lemuel Wood, taking the Sunday afternoon nap which was part and parcel of his week's religion; for, like many worthy but uncultivated persons, he entertained an almost superstitious reverence for the sacred day, although he did not exactly know how to spend its hallowed hours. He conscientiously "remembered the Sabbath day;" but not knowing how to "keep it holy," he took refuge in obeying the rest of the commandment—"in it thou shalt do no work"—this he could understand and obey. To keep his ever-active hands and energies idle was a cross to him, but he did it. He would have stopped thinking too, if he could, but that he could not do; and as his busy brain seemed to increase its activity in proportion to the enforced idleness of his hands; and as "all next week's work" would rise up tempting him, so, when the public services of the day were over, he was wont to seek refuge in sleep. And if, as we are told, "the motive makes the deed," surely we may trust that for him rest was acceptable worship.
        He now sat leaning back in his great armchair, which was reared up on its hind legs and tipped back against the house, while his lower limbs, by some curious and apparently painful distortion, were twisted round the front legs of the chair, his huge feet resting upon the side rungs. He had thrown his ample red bandana handkerchief over his bald head, drawing it down over his face far enough to protect his eyes and nose from the impertinent investigation of the too-curious flies, but leaving the lower part of the face free for the necessary operations of breathing and snoring. He had laid aside his Sunday coat, and, with his thumbs hooked into the arm-holes of his vest, and his short plump fingers just meeting over his rotund figure, he looked the very personification of indolent comfort.
        Half-way between the man and dog—on the wooden steps which led to the garden and yard—sat Twilight; and here too might be traced the influence of Sunday. Her person and clothing were scrupulously neat; there was no attempt at dress—for the child's poor means evidently forbade that—but the abundant silky black hair, which had the purple brilliancy of the raven's wing, had been combed and brushed till its undulating surface caught the light like burnished steel; its soft, wavy curls had been gathered back from her fair, rounded temples, and secured on either side by a small knot of carnation-colored ribbon, so minute that it looked almost like a chance-dropped blossom amidst the shining curls. Her dress was of the simplest kind, and of a coarse dark stuff; its sober hue, and quaint, old-fashioned make, were plainly suggestive of Aunt Betsy's friendly hand; but the pretty coquettish grace with which it was worn—that was as surely Twilight's own. A pin or two here, and a plait there, and the coarse fabric had yielded to the lithe form it clad; and the heavy folds fell round her hoopless, crinolineless little figure with an easy grace a city belle might have attempted in vain. In her lap she held a few gathered wild-flowers of the most common kinds—butter-cups, violets, dandelions, clovertops, whiteweed, and the different grasses; and upon the step above her, and formed of the same simple materials, was a wreath she had just constructed.
        Miss Gracie's eye was caught at once by the graceful arrangement of the flowers, and the simple but almost artistic combination of colors.
        "Did you make that?" she said, pleasantly, drawing near the steps; "it is very pretty!"
        "No, it ain't; that ain't nothing," said Twilight, blushing deeply, and sweeping with a sudden motion of her little sunburnt hand all the flowers into her lap as she spoke—"That ain't nothing; ony I hadn't nothing else to do."
        "Oh! I am sorry you have broken up that pretty wreath," said Alice. "I should have liked it upon my dressing-table. I love flowers dearly, and I am sure you do, or you could not make such a pretty wreath."
        Twilight smiled and nodded her head, but she did not speak.
        "They are very beautiful, and very curious and wonderful too," said Miss Gracie, drawing out a clover blossom from the mass in her young companion's lap, and holding it up admiringly before her; 'and we ought to be very thankful to the kind Friend whose love gave them to us, had not we?"
        Twilight looked at her with a timid, wondering look, but did not speak.
        "You can tell me who gave you all those beautiful flowers, can't you?" continued Alice, seriously.
        *"Nubbody didn't give 'um to me," said Twilight. "I went and picked 'um for myself."
        "Yes, I know; you picked them yourself, I dare say; but I mean, who gave them for you to pick?"
        "Well, nubbody didn't; they wasn't nubbody's flowers: I got 'um out in the lane; nubbody don't never give 'um to me; they don't grow in nubbody's garding; them don't—them's wild-flowers."
        "Yes; but I mean, who makes them, in the land and garden too—don't you know?"
        "Why, nubbody don't make 'um," said Twilight, laughing; "I guess they couldn't; they grows."
        "But who is it that makes them grow, Twilight?"
        "Well," said the little girl, reflecting, "I guess, if any body does, it's Uncle Lem and me, for he goes and makes the holes and I pop in the seeds; and we had a real good time doing of it, didn't we, Uncle Lem? Oh! he's asleep, I guess; ain't he?" said she, glancing over her shoulder at the silent figure in the corner.
        Miss Gracie looked in that direction, too. Uncle Lem did not speak or move; but from a slight nervous twitching of the uncovered portion of his face, she judged his sleep was not so profound as he wished it to appear.
        There was a short silence; for, strangely puzzled by the child's manner, comparing the stupid ignorance of her answers with her remarkably intelligent face, Miss Gracie sat curiously contemplating her, and wondering if it were possible this could be the simulation of a clever but roguish child; and the little girl, evidently thinking the conversation had come to a natural termination, had quietly taken up her flowers again. But as Alice met the gaze of the full, soft eye, and noted the sweet, truthful expression of the whole face, she felt ashamed of her suspicion; and drawing nearer again, she said,
        "Twilight, you said just now you had nothing to do. Have you no Sunday lesson to learn?"
        "Me!" said the girl, looking up at her in surprise at the question. "No, I guess I hain't."
        "Do not you have Sunday lessons usually, my dear?"
        "No, indeed; never."
        "And why not, I wonder? I suppose you know how to read; do not you?"
        "Well," said Twilight, reddening, "I can read some."
        "I hope so, indeed. Such a nice, tall girl as you are ought to be able to read pretty well."
        "Well, I don't," said Twilight, sadly; "I used to."
        "But you ought to be able to read better. You have not forgotten what you have learned, I hope?"
        Twilight did not answer; she hung her head and blushed.
        "Will you tell me why it is that you de not read as well as you used to do?"
        "Cause."
        "That is no answer at all, Twilight. Can't you give me a better one than that?"
        "Cause I could read in Taffy's book," she said, at last. "He teached me to read in his book."
        "And you can not read so well in any other book?" said Alice. "Is that it?"
        Twilight nodded; and from the far-off corner of the piazza came the low-murmured words:

                "There's many a one, if the truth were known,
                Can read no Bible except his own."

        Alice turned round, but Mr. Wood's singular attitude remained unchanged.
        "But, Twilight," continued Miss Gracie, "if you can not read very well, can not you say some little hymns? I dare say you have been taught to repeat some hymns."
        "No," said Twilight, "I hain't."
        "Well, then," persisted Miss Gracie, "you can, at least, say your prayers, I hope?"
        Another shake of the little drooping head.
        "Speak, my child," said the young lady; "do not shake and nod your head in that way. That is not polite or pretty. Tell me: can not you say your prayers?"
        "No, marm," said the girl, sadly and timidly. "I guess I hain't got none."
        Alice was shocked.
        "Twilight," she said, "I am surprised at this! Surely you can say 'Our Father'—can't you?"
        "Why, yes," said Twilight, "to be sure, I s'pose I can say that."
        "I thought so," said Alice, encouragingly. "Well, then, let me hear you say that—will you?"
        "Say what?"
        "Why, say 'Our Father.'"
        "'Our Father,'" repeated the child, smiling.
        "Very well; go on. What next?" said Miss Gracie.
        But Twilight hesitated.
        "'Our Father who art in heaven,'" suggested Alice; and "'Our Father who art in heaven,'" repeated Twilight, with parrot-like repetition; and again she made a full stop.
        "Go on, child!" said the young teacher, somewhat impatiently. "What comes next?"
        "Our mother," faltered the child.
        "For shame, Twilight!" said Miss Gracie, now fully convinced the girl was deceiving her. "You know better, you careless girl!—you do—you must know better. You know very well that there is no mother in heaven."
        "There is—there is!" exclaimed Twilight, suddenly springing up and facing her young teacher, with stamping foot, and clenching hand, and writhing lip, while her dilating eyes seemed to flash actual fire, and her round cheek crimsoned with rage. "Oh! there is—there is; I know there is! Taffy said so; Taffy knowed; he seen her hisself, of'en and of'en, and I seen her picter, too! You're a real ugly, bad, wicked woman to say so; and I don't like you—I don't love you—and I won't talk to you!"
        And flinging violently away from Miss Gracie's detaining hand, she fled like a young Ate down the garden, and disappeared; leaving Alice standing mute and motionless on the steps, confounded at this unexpected termination of her missionary efforts.
        A prolonged "w-h-e-w!" from the end of the piazza caused Miss Gracie to turn in the direction of Uncle Lem. That worthy individual, having suffered his chair to transmigrate, like the soul of Indur, from the biptd to the quadruped condition, was now sitting bolt upright, and wide awake, with his great open palms resting on either knee, and looking at her with a puzzled expression.
        "Spunky! ain't she?" he said, at last, in answer to Alice's look of mute appeal. "But, you see,

                'When all the ground is covered with weeds,
                It's late in the day to be sowing good seeds.'"

        "Very true," said Alice, walking gravely up to him. "But how came the weeds there, Mr. Wood? You have heard our conversation, I conclude?"
        "Wa'al, yes, I guess I did—most on't. You see I was only sort of cat-napping."
        "I thought so. And now tell me: is it possible that, in this Christian land, a child can have grown up to that girl's age such a little heathen?"
        "Wa'al," said Uncle Lem, moving uneasily and apologetically in his chair; "wa'al, I don't know 'bout the heathen; she don't act much like one, any way—Twilight don't."
        "Perhaps not; but her ignorance is heathenish—is not it, Mr. Wood?"
        "Wa'al, may be it is; I can't say. But I run of a notion you didn't understand each other. You see, I take it that Twilight come of outlandish folks—furriners, you know."
        "And what does that prove, Mr. Wood?"
        "Wa'al, nothing, as I knows of; that is, it don't just prove nothing. But I've an idee, in a general way, that them furriners, mostly allers, is Papishes and Romanites."
        "Roman Catholics? Perhaps so. But what of that? Roman Catholics, though they may differ very widely from us in belief, are still Christians."
        "Wa'al, I don'no but what they are; I don't say they ain't. But didn't you ever chance to hear or know that them sort of folks mostly allers calls our Lord's mother 'Queen of Heaven,' and sometimes 'Mother of Heaven?'"
        "So they do; you are right," said Alice, catching at this very possible solution of the matter. "I never thought of that before. I dare say that was what she meant, poor little thing! and I may have shocked her sense of reverence quite as much as she did mine. Thank you for the hint, Mr. Wood. I will go and seek her, and try to explain to her, poor little girl!"
        And passing down the steps, all strewn with the wild flowers which Twilight had scattered in her hasty flight, Miss Gracie walked thoughtfully down the garden. At the extreme end she heard a passionate sobbing; and there, prostrate on the green turf under the apple-trees, lay poor little Twilight, with her face buried in the fresh grass. Before Miss Gracie could make up her mind how to address her the child's quick ear caught the sound of her steps, and, rising, she came directly toward her. But oh! what a change in that young face! The storm of passionate anger had been washed away by a more passionate sorrow. Pale even to the lips, with a look of settled woe pitiful to behold, she came to Alice's side, and lifting up those soft eyes, now trembling through tears, like violets heavy with rain-drops, she said, with humble, penitent manner, and a voice which faltered in its low, pleading tones,
        "Please, marm, to forgive me; I spoke real bad to you. I oughter been ashamed to speak to you so; and I'm real sorry—please, will you forgive me?"
        "My dear child," said Miss Gracie, placing her hand kindly on the girl's shoulder, as she spoke.
        "No, no!" interrupted Twilight, withdrawing herself nervously from the caressing hand; "I ain't a dear child—I know I ain't—I'm an awful wicked, bad gal! I was ugly to you—I know I was—real ugly—I always am when I haves a tantrum. Miss White used to say I was. But I'm real sorry, and I won't never speak so to you agin, if I can help it—ony—please marm, don't say that agin, 'cause it hurts me so here, I can't hardly breathe."
        And she laid her hand upon her poor, little throbbing heart as she spoke.
        "You see, marm," continued the child, drawing nearer to Alice, and speaking in a low, confiding tone, 'most other gals has folks; some haves father and mother both; some haves one, and some haves t'other; but they mostly all on 'um has somebuddy—ony me. I ain't got neither, nor nobuddy. But Taffy said my folks had gone to heaven; and he said, if I was good, real good, somebuddy there—maybe 'twas the King, or the President maybe—would be like to hear on't, and send for me to come and see my folks. And I have been just as good as ever I knowed how; and I thought maybe they'd send for me to come next Thanksgiving Day—folks does, you know—and now—and now, you see—I've been, and went, and had one of my tantrums; and somebuddy or uther will be sure to tell him; and then I know he'll say, 'She's an ugly gal, and cross—we don't want her here;' and he won't ask me to Thanksgiving, and I shan't see my folks."
        And again the passionate, despairing sorrow rained down her sweet young face.
        "Listen to me, Twilight," said Alice, who now comprehended the true nature of the case; "you did not understand me. When I spoke of your 'Father in Heaven,' I did not mean your earthly father, I meant God; but you were thinking of your father and mother who are dead, and gone to heaven, where I trust you will one day be sent for to meet them."
        "Do you—do you?" said the child, the glad light of hope breaking over her pale face; "do you believe it too? Oh! I am so glad," and catching Alice's hand she covered it with eager kisses.
        "But, Twilight," said Miss Gracie, "when I spoke of our 'Father in heaven' I meant God! Do you know who He is?"
        "No," said Twilight, hesitatingly, "not much, I guess. I've heerd tell a little about him; but that was a good while ago, and I don't remember much about it."
        "He is the great King you spoke of just now," said Alice, thinking this the quickest way to the heart of her little listener; "and it is He who will one day send for you to come and see your dear father and mother."
        "You don't!" said Twilight. "Why! and do you know him, then?"
        "I know more of him than you do, my poor child," said Miss Gracie, reverently; "and I think I can teach you how to serve and please Him."
        "Can you?" said the eager child. '*Oh! do, do; and I'll do a'most any thing in the world for you if you will."
        "Very well," said Alice, smiling, "I will try. And now, first sit down here and talk with me a little while. I want to know why you have not been to church to-day?"
        "Me! to church?" said Twilight, in evident surprise at the question. "Why, I never goes."
        "Never go to church?"
        "Why: no, never."
        "But why not?"
        "Why," said Twilight, looking up with an amused smile, "how should I go to church? who would take me? You know Aunt Betsy, she'sa Friend. Well, she goes to Friends' meeting; and Friends' meeting-house is way out of the village—'most two miles t'other side of Piper's Mills; and so she allers rides. The Popeses they keep a team, and they allers calls for her and takes her with them. I couldn't go with them, I guess. Catch 'um asking me to ride in their carry-haul! I should laugh!"
        "But Mr. Wood, he goes to the Brick Church. Why not go with him?"
        "Cause he never asked me to; and I guess he wouldn't let me if I asked him. I did ask Ruthy a good many times to lem'me go with her. I knowed I couldn't go Sunday mornings, 'cause Ruthy gets the dinner ready, and then she goes, and I stay by and see to it; but I asked her to lem'me go some afternoon; but she said no—I couldn't be spared. But that warn't the true reason, I know."
        "And what was the true reason, Twilight?"
        "Well! she didn't want to be seen walking and setting with me, and have folks a-saying she wasn't fit for no better company than a work'us gal! and I don'no as I should nuther, if I was her. But twice, when Ruthy staid at home 'cause she'd the toothache, I slipped out unbeknownst to her, and run down to the church. I didn't darst to go in, 'cause I didn't know any body, but I went into the grave-yard when nobody wasn't looking, and set on old Tim Goddard's grave, that's close up under the windows; and I heard 'um sing and play the music ever so plain. Oh! wasn't that real jolly?"
        Again that strangely inappropriate word. Jolly for a little girl to sit on a pauper's grave and listen to psalm singing! And as Miss Gracie looked at the neglected child, and thought of the little desolate creature creeping noiselessly into the church-yard, and sitting as an outcast among the graves, listening by stealth to the music of the sanctuary, from which her pariah-caste excluded her, the tears rose to her eyes, and she mentally resolved that, by the grace and help of the merciful "All-Father," she would try to lead this little stray lamb of Christ's fold back to the "still waters and green pastures" to which she belonged.
        "Twilight," she said, after a moment's silent self-communing, "I should like to take you to church with me."
        "Sakes alive!" said Twilight. "Why! Miss Gracie, marm! if I ain't fit company for our Ruthy I am a deal unfitter for you. Why, you forget I am a work-'us gal, and you a lady!"
        "I do not think any thing of that, Twilight. If you are only a good girl now, there is no disgrace in your having been in the Work-house."
        "Ain't there, though?" said Twilight. "Well! I thought there was, 'cause whenever I go to the village for Aunt Betsy, and the free school is out, the boys calls out 'Work'-us gal! work'-us gal!' and then I run just as tight as I can clip it."
        "They are very wrong to do it, Twilight; and when they do, it is more of a disgrace to them than to you. But we will not talk about them; I have something more to say to you. If you really want to learn to read and write I will teach you; I have taught a great many little girls. Do you wish to learn?"
        For one moment surprise kept Twilight speechless, and then, bursting into contrite tears, she sobbed out,
        "And I was ugly to you!"
        "Never mind that," said Alice. "You did not understand me. I know you will not speak so again."
        "Never! never!" sobbed the little girl. "But stop one minit, marm. Them little gals as learn of you is rich ones, isn't they?"
        "The children of rich parents you mean? Yes."
        "And yours is a pay school, ain't it?"
        "Yes!" said Miss Gracie, wishing to see what the child intended. "Yes! I am paid for teaching them."
        "Then I can't come, marm. Thank you just the same for being willing to teach me; but I haven't got a red cent. I had a quarter of a dollar once; Uncle Lem giv it to me last Fourth of July—he's real good to me—but I ain't got that now."
        "And what did you buy with it, Twilight?"
        "Well!" said Twilight, hesitating and blushing; "I didn't buy nothing with it."
        "And where is it, then?"
        "Well, I gave it to the little beggar gal, 'cause she said her mother was sick. But that wouldn't be nothing to you if I had it; and I ain't got nothing else in the world—ony one thing—and Taffy told me never to give that away; and so I can't; and I wouldn't, if he hadn't told me."
        "But, Twilight," said Miss Gracie, "I do not wish you to pay me any thing. If you will try to learn, and are a good girl, that is all the pay I want."
        "Really—really, sartin true?" said Twilight, again catching Alice's hand, and kissing it repeatedly. "Oh! won't I be good? Try me, try me; I do so want to learn. Taffy used to say, 'Be a good gal, and try to learn to read and write, and be a lady;' but when I told Miss White she laughed at me, and said, small chance of that, she guessed."
        A short consultation upon ways and means was then held. It appeared that Aunt Betsy usually took a nap. from three o'clock till five in the afternoon, during which time Twilight was at leisure; and it was settled she should come into Miss Gracie's room every day at that hour, and receive instruction. To make all secure, Alice informed Aunt Betsy of the plan, and the good Quakeress did not object; only saying, "Sure! it's very good of thee, if thee's willing to take the trouble; but I guess thee'll find her a trial." So the lessons commenced the next day.
        During the week Alice looked over her own wardrobe, and selected a printed muslin dress, which she altered for Twilight, and bought her a simple straw hat, trimming it with one of her own discarded ribbons; and when the next Sunday afternoon came, and the delighted girl was dressed, with her soft, burnished, black curls dancing round her fresh young face, she certainly did look pretty enough to justify the very innocent pleasure with which she surveyed herself, peeping into the little, foot-square looking-glass in her small bedchamber. The first verdict in favor of her improved appearance was rendered by the grimly Ruth:
        "Why, Twilight," she said, turning upon her with a suddenness which made the sensitive child start—"Why! my gracious! if you don't look real ladyfied! I wouldn't a known you, hardly! You look real genteel; I declare you do; and your gown ain't half as smart as mine is, nuther!"
        "Thank you, Ruthy," said Twilight, with her soft, silvery laugh, and she hurried down to the piazza to exhibit herself to Uncle Lem. Mr. Wood deliberately raised the silken vail which concealed his slumberous beauties, and holding it suspended, like a crimson cloud above his head, by a thumb and finger at the two corners, he took a full and calm survey of the flushed and excited little girl.
        "Smart as a new sixpence!" he said at last. "Why, Twilight, you do look good enough to kiss!"
        "Do I?" said the delighted girl, and bending down, with childlike innocence, she presented her fresh, glowing young cheek to the laughing lips of the old man, who, though rather taken by surprise, gave her a very hearty and fatherly salute; bidding her always to mind and be as good as she looked, and he guessed she would do. Then, as she turned away, he muttered, half inaudibly,

                "Time, and chance, and a favoring sky,
                Can turn a grub to a butterfly!"

        But the little transformed grub did not hear him; she was already out of hearing. Skipping across the piazza to the other end, where her sole playmate, "old Tige," basking in the sun, was calmly enjoying his afternoon siesta, she knelt down before him, lifted his broad, rough head in both her hands, looked for a moment full and steadily into his honest, intelligent, but sleepy eyes; gave him a significant nod, which set all her soft curls flying about her face; then, replacing his big head back on his huge paws as she found it, she gave it one affectionate pat, and walked demurely into the parlor, where Miss Gracie was waiting for her.
        Alice received her with a pleasant smile, and a quiet "Are you ready, Twilight?" unembellished by one word of admiration or praise; and they set out at once upon their walk. Upon the way Miss Gracie tried to lead the thoughts of her little companion in a religious direction, and to awaken in her some sense of the service in which they were about to engage. Twilight listened to her in respectful attention, but as she made no answer Miss Gracie was unable to judge whether her remarks were comprehended or not. They reached the church; and as they crossed the porch Twilight fell modestly back, and laying a gently-detaining hand upon Alice's arm, asked, nervously and breathlessly,
        "Where must I go?"
        "With me, of course," said Alice; and, taking her blushing companion by the hand, she walked quietly up to her own seat and placed Twilight beside her.
        It must be confessed that, for a few moments, Alice watched her young prosclyte in some anxiety; and she was gratified and surprised, though she couldn't forbear smiling, at the child's quiet, lady-like demeanor. No idly-wandering glances, no impertinent stare, betrayed the eager curiosity of a vulgar mind; calm, grave, and self-possessed, Twilight seemed to melt into the time and place, as if church-going had been her daily habit. When the services commenced—and, fortunately for our young heroine, they were of a simple, practical nature, taken from the New Testament history—she listened with earnest eyes and avaricious ears, which seemed to devour every word; and Alice, watching her absorbed attention, was reminded of the thirsty desert, when first it receives into its bosom the genial and revivifying rain, which is to array it in beauty and gladness and teach it to "blossom as the rose." The music, too, seemed deeply to interest her; but for Alice, the closing wonder was the greatest.
        When the last hymn was given out—and it was that sweet hymn of Heber's, "I would not live always"—the congregation, as is not unusual in rural districts, all rose, and from various parts of the house many who could sing joined with the choir. The first verse was half sung when Miss Gracie became aware of a voice close at her side, low, soft, and trembling, but sweet and rich as the breath of violets, which, gradually gaining confidence and volume, swelled out into freer harmony. Trembling with apprehension, Alice dared not turn round. She was a teacher of music, and was herself no indifferent performer; and as the soft, mellow tones swelled gradually higher and clearer she held her breath in nervous anxiety, for she feared the young singer, embarrassed by the notice she was evidently drawing upon herself, must falter, and might possibly break down. But still, pure and clear as liquid amber, higher and higher, triumphantly ascended the rich, golden harmony; and as Alice, listening, heard each note rendered with a truth and fidelity rare even in more experienced vocalists, her apprehension gradually gave way, and at last she ventured to steal one glance at the singer. That look reassured her—no fear for Twilight! for there was no self-consciousness about her. Wholly absorbed in the music, with her soft, dark eyes fixed upon the organ-loft, and the rapt expression of a St. Cecilia on her young face, she was singing, as the wild bird sings, because the irrepressible flood of music within her could no longer be restrained.
        When the hymn was ended she gave a quiet little sigh of contented enjoyment, and left the church with Miss Gracie. Together they walked in silence for some time; and then, when the throng had lessened, and they were comparatively alone, Alice ventured to say, quietly,
        "I did not know that you could sing, Twilight."
        "Didn't you?" said Twilight, carelessly, as if it were a matter of no importance either way.
        "But I have never heard you singing about the house," said Alice.
        "No, indeed!" said Twilight. "I guess Aunt Betsy wouldn't like that—Friends don't, you know; and so I ony sing when I'm in the lane, and sometimes when I'm weeding in the garden. Uncle Lem, he likes singing, but he don't like my songs; he likes 'Hail Columby,' and such like; but he says my songs Taffy learned me are all 'Bosh!'"
        "But when did you learn the hymn you sung in church?"
        "Oh! that song? Why! they sung it both them two times I sat out under the window, you know."
        "And have you never heard it since?"
        "No; but I've sung it to myself lots of times; I think it's real pretty."
        And then passing on to the rest of the service, she asked question after question till her kind teacher was half bewildered. The wondrous tale of "Redemption's birth" had taken strong hold of her fancy and affection. Happier in that one respect than other and more favored children, the wonderful Bible narrative had never been hackneyed to her ear by wearisome and senseless repetition; she had never been called upon to parse from its hallowed pages, or to translate its quaint phraseology; and it came to her warm, fresh heart and fervent imagination with all the charm of a fairy tale, but heightened and dignified by its solemn reality. And so intense was her interest, and so eager her inquiries, that Alice knew not which to wonder at most, the acute intelligence of her remarks or the simplicity of her questions.
        From that time, too, the daily lessons went on uninterruptedly; but Alice, who had become nearly as much interested in them as Twilight was herself, was struck with the apparent inequality of her powers. She had a quick, almost intuitive perception, and a strong, retentive memory; but her chief delight was in her writing lessons. To learn to write seemed to be a passion with her, and her nervous, trembling desire to learn sometimes defeated its object.
        One day she brought Miss Gracie a letter, and stood by her while she read it.
        "Oh, can't you read complete!" she said, as Alice folded up the letter. "Oh! I wish I could read a letter all myself. Do you think," she said, in trembling eagerness, "I ever will?"
        "Yes, indeed," said Alice, kindly; "I am sure you will. You are coming on very fast indeed; and when I go back to the city I will write a letter to you all for yourself, and send it by the post. I will write it very plain, and I am sure you will be able to read it yourself."
        Twilight said, "Thank you." But the kindly-meant promise did not seem to give her the pleasure her teacher had expected it would; for she knew that, to most young persons, the first letter received by mail, and bearing their own superscription, is an important and gratifying event.
        In reading, Twilight's progress was unaccountably slow; she spelled with readiness, but it seemed difficult for her to learn to distinguish the proper sound of the letters; and one day, when she had been unusually puzzled with the pronunciation of a word, Miss Gracie suddenly remembered what Mr. Wood had said about her belonging to Papists and foreigners. She had taken the idea at the time that he meant to say she was the child of Irish parents; but now the circumstance recurred to her with a new significance, and she said, rather abruptly:
        "How very oddly you do pronounce some words, Twilight! I should almost think you were a little foreigner."
        "Well," said the child, blushing deeply as she spoke, "I guess I be."
        "Are you really? Oh, then, that accounts for it. And what are you?"
        "I guess," said Twilight, hesitatingly, and with a timid, uneasy glance at the face of the inquirer, as if furtively noting the effect of her communication—"I guess I'm a Welshman."
        There was something in this absurd answer so utterly at variance with the sweet face and the low, trembling tones of her who made it, that for one moment Miss Gracie's strong sense of the ridiculous prevailed, and she laughed in spite of herself. But one glance at the blushing and tearful face of poor little Twilight touched a tender chord; and regaining her gravity by a great effort, she said, pleasantly:
        "My dear child! I could not help laughing at the droll blunder you made. How can a little girl be a Welshman?"
        Twilight gave a sigh of relief which seemed to say, "Is that all?" but she did not speak.
        "Don't you see," said Alice, "you may be a Welsh child, or a Welsh girl, or a Welsh woman, if you please; but not a Welshman. But what made you think that you were a Welsh any thing?"
        "Because," said Twilight, "I suppose I am what Taffy was; and whenever he went down into the yard all the work-'us boys used to sing out, 'Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief!' But he wasn't a thief, Miss Gracie, sarten true he wasn't; he was a real honest, dear, good old man! He was now!" said she, with tearful earnestness.
        "I dare say he was," said Miss Gracie, "or he would not have taught you to be so good a girl. But what relation was he to you? Was he your father?"
        "Oh no!" said Twilight, "he wasn't my father, I know."
        "Your grandfather, then? or your uncle, perhaps?"
        "Well, I don't know what he was to me," said Twilight. "He might be my uncle; maybe he was; I don't know. But I know he was real good, and I loved him first-rate, and no mistake." And she returned to her lesson.
        A few days later, at the usual hour, Twilight made her appearance at Miss Gracie's door to say Mr. Wood wanted her to go to the village for him. "I must go," she said; "and it's ugly in me not to be more ready to do what he wants, for he is always good to me. But I sha'n't be gone long; I shall kite down there and back just as tight as ever I can go."
        As she left the room, Alice, who had the valuable habit of using odd moments, took a French book from her shelf, and began to read aloud, as she did some part of every day, to keep herself in practice. She was still reading, and was not aware any one had entered the room, when a quick aspiration close to her ear made her start, and she turned round to meet the flushed face, and eager, wide eyes of Twilight, who was looking over her shoulder.
        "Why! why! can you read like that?" cried the excited child, bending forward with clasped hands and tearful face. "Why, that's Taffy's talk; that's like Taffy's book; I can read that!"
        And catching up the book which Alice laid down, she read a sentence or two with tolerable fluency, and a pure Parisian accent.
        "Oh, how good it sounds!" she said, kissing the book as she laid it down again. "I did not know any body had such books ony Taffy."
        It was now Alice's turn to be surprised. "Why, Twilight," she said, "and so you are a French girl after all, and not a bit of a 'Welshman!'"
        "Am I?" said Twilight; "I did not know it. And was Taffy French too?"
        "I daresay he was. But suppose, instead of your lessons to-day, you sit down there and tell me all you can remember about yourself and Taffy."
        "Oh!" said Twilight, taking the seat indicated to her, "I remember a great, great, long time ago—we used to live in a town where there was lots of houses, and Taffy had a shop down stairs, and he had music things and books, and gentlemen used to come and play, and buy the music things. And there was Taffy, and Marie, and I; and Marie used to wash me, and dress me, and put me to bed. And there was somebody else, too," said she, reflectively, "somebody dressed all in white in a great big chair—I think it must have been my mother. And, one day, when I was playing, Taffy came and took me up and carried me into a dark room; and she was there—oh, so white, and her eyes shut, and her head on the chair this way. And Taffy he set me on her lap, and she kissed me, oh, ever so many times; and she cried, and Taffy and Marie cried, and so I cried, too, cause they all cried. And then—all in a minute Marie screamed out, and Taffy caught me up and carried me away, and I never saw her again. And I asked Taffy about it once a good while after, and he said it was ma chère mère, and that she died then. And then, after a good while, Marie was sick, very sick—and she died too. I can remember more about that, 'cause I was older, you know. And when they put her into the ground, Taffy took me with him; and he went and bought some flowers and let me put them on mamma's grave and on Marie's too. And then Taffy took care of me, and he used to brush my hair 'cause Marie was dead, you know. And he used to teach me to read in his book; but he did not show me how to write, 'cause his hand was lame—something ailed his arm, I guess. And one night there was a fire, and we was burned out, and Taffy was hurt, and they come and took me and him to the ospittle, and we staid there a spell, and Taffy he warn't no better. And then they took and sent us to the work-'us, and after we'd been there a spell Taffy grew badder and badder. And one night when he was real bad I sot on his bed and cried; and he told me not to cry for he was going to see mamma and Marie; and then I cried worse agin, 'cause I wanted to go too, and cause he said I mustn't. And then he gave a picter and a letter (I told you about them, how he said I must keep them as long as I lived); and he said I must read the letter very of'en 'cause ma chère mère writ it for me. I s'pose he forgot I couldn't read it, and I didn't say nothing, 'cause I didn't want to sorrow him and he so sick. And then Miss White, the matron, she come in, and said how I must go away and go to bed; and I didn't want to quit Taffy, and I cried and had a tantrum and acted real bad—I felt so. And then Taffy he called me, and he spoke weak and slow—but he said if I'd be a good gal, and go then, he would tell my mother, and maybe I would be sent for to come too; and so I went to bed, but I cried all night; and next day they said Taffy was dead!—and oh, Miss Gracie—they wouldn't let me go when they laid him in the ground, nor tell me where they put him, for I wanted to go and put some flowers on him as he and I done for mamma and Marie. I was seven years old when Taffy died, and I staid at the work-'us and did chores for Miss White, and lugged round the children, and run of errands, till the committee-men said I was old enough to be put out; Miss White wanted to keep me, but they said no. And then Aunt Betsy she wanted a gal, and she took me, and I've been here most a year now."
        "And have you got the letter and picture still, Twilight?" said Alice, as the girl paused.
        "Got 'um? why! yes, indeed! Why, I wouldn't part with 'um for nothing!" said Twilight. "Do you want to see 'um?—Maybe—maybe"—she said, as if a new idea had struck her, "maybe you can read it to me—do you think you could?"
        "Why, Twilight! have you never read it yet?"
        "How could I?" said the poor girl, mournfully. "You know I can't read writing; that's why I so terribly want to learn to write; I want to know what my mother says."
        "But could nobody read it to you?"
        "I don't know," said Twilight. "They might; but there was ony one gal at the work-'us who could read, and she was a real wicked, bad gal—Miss White said so herself. Why!" said Twilight, fixing her pure, innocent eyes upon Miss Gracie's face with a look of holy horror, "she lied and cuss'd—ony think! and I didn't want her to read my dear mother's letter—should you?"
        Again Alice was struck with the contrast between the native delicacy of the child's instincts and the low, coarse, work-house language she had been taught to use.
        "So I waited, and waited," she continued, "and one day, after I came here, I got Ruthy a letter from the post-office and I asked her if she could read it, and she said, "Yes, to be sure she conld;" and so I thought of it two days, and then I asked her if she would read a letter for me; and she said yes. But when I got it, and give it to her, she couldn't read a word of it; she said it warn't no words at all; that it was all bosh! and she flung it back to me, and said I'd as good put it right in the fire, for it wasn't no good at all!" and Twilight's voice trembled and her eyes flashed at the remembered insult.
        "Will you bringit now and let me try to read it to you?" said Alice.
        "Yes indeed," said the delighted child. "I'll go and get it; and you'll see if my mother wrote ony scrabble, won't you?"
        In a few moments she returned with a small package done up in brown paper, and reverently unfolding it, she took out a morocco case, somewhat worn, but not much soiled considering how long it had been in the hands of the busy little maid of all work.
        "I always kiss it good-night, and good-morning," she said, with a loving smile, as she handed it to Alice. Miss Gracie opened the case, which contained two delicately-painted French miniatures, and started in surprise; the two pictured faces within were so like, so wonderfully like, the little innocent face looking up into hers! On the reverse side was a curiously-formed cipher, probably the combined initials of the wedded pair, woven in their hair. Not more curiously and intimately were the threads of raven black and glossy brown blended together than the several lineaments of the two originals had been blended in their transmission to their beautiful child; there could be no doubt that these were indeed the parents of little Twilight.
        "That's mamma," said she, bending down to kiss the picture. "Is not she jolly?"
        "Jolie! très jolie! charmante!" said Miss Gracie, smiling, as she for the first time comprehended the sense in which Twilight had so often used that before inexplicable word.
        "And now for the letter," said Twilight. "Will you try if you can read it? It is rumpled some; 'cause, as I couldn't read it, I sometimes lay it on my heart at night; for I thought maybe some of the good would come out of it at night (as the sweet smell comes out of the flowers in the garden when it's dark there) and make me good."
        "This letter," said Miss Gracie, "is addressed to Mademoiselle Antoinette Elise de la Tour!"
        "Yes," said Twilight, quietly, "that's me. Taffy used to call me so; and sometimes 'petite Toinette.' And that's why they call me Ann Twilight, and Twilight—that's English for Toinette, you know."
        "The letter is in French," said Alice. "Shall I read it to you so, or in English?"
        "Just as mamma writ it," said Twilight, sinking on her knees, and with her soft eyes and her clasped hands upraised, as a devotee might kneel to listen to some oracle-breathing saint.
        The letter we shall venture to translate:

        "My DARLING ANTOINETTE, MY ORPHAN ANGEL, MY HENRI'S CHILD,—I am dying, my sweet one. I must leave you in a strange land; and you, my little deserted one, are too young to understand your loss, or to know why I weep as I clasp you to my heart. But I have little time and less strength, and I must hasten on. My faithful Eustaphie and Marie reminded me (and I bless them for the considerate thought) that the time may come when my now unconscious child will be old enough to understand what I write; and for your sake I make this last effort to communicate with you. My beloved one, your father was Antoine Henri de la Tour, second son of Etienne de la Tour, banker, Rue de —, Paris.
        "Having business which called him to America, I persuaded him to let me accompany him, and we embarked at Havre in the Susanne, Captain Thibaud, with you our only child, Pierre Eustaphie, my husband's valet, and his wife Marie, your attached bonne. On the passage our vessel came in collision with another, and was wrecked. In the suddenness of the alarm, and the darkness, many lives were lost. Your father was among them. I was saved by the devotion of Eustaphie, and you by your faithful Marie. WhenI regained my consciousness they put my baby in my arms, and told me she was fatherless. Ah! why did not the cruel sea which ingulfed my husband take to its cold rest his wife and child? But the wise God willed otherwise—may He make me more submissive! The vessel which took us off was bound for America, but not to the port to which we had been destined. They landed us here. Marie and I could speak no English—Eustaphie but little; and in my terror, my anguish, and my consequent illness, I have forgotten the name of the mercantile house with which my husband had just connected himself. Strangers and friendless in a foreign land, we subsisted for a while upon the sale of such articles of value as I had on at the time of our shipwreck. Eustaphie has now obtained a situation in a music store; his small earnings are our support. I have written home, but no answer has yet been returned. Perhaps it is not time—I am too impatient. If I could live to see you, my darling, safe in the care of your family I could die content; but I am failing too fast for that. The picture of your parents and this letter is all your poor mother can leave to her darling child; these, and the blessing of her who is ready to perish, are your only portion. I leave you in the care of our humble but faithful friends. If you ever regain your friends and home you will have ample means to repay their devotion. I leave them to you, my child; never forget the debt! But if doomed to exile and poverty, I leave you to them; I know they will share their all with you, and you must give them the love and duty due to your lost parents. And now, my precious one, farewell! He who supported the trembling wing of the lone dove, and guided her in safety over the whelming waters where no dry land appeared, can keep my little one; and to His care I commit you.
                "Your dying mother,
                                "CLAIRE ELISE DE LA TOUR."

        Carefully stitched to the top of this letter were the marriage certificate of Antoine Henri de la Tour and Claire Elise de Larny and the registry of the baptism of their child Antoinette Elise de la Tour; and below was written, in a stiff, coarse hand, unlike the delicate but trembling characters of the letter itself, the date of Madame's death, and place of burial. As Miss Gracie saw the careful solicitude with which these faithful servants had thus preserved to the orphan child all they could of evidence of her home and family, tears rose to her eyes. But before she had time to speak, the mild, pleasant voice of Aunt Betsy called up from the foot of the stairs—
        "Twilight, Twilight! has thee forgot the tea-table? I guess thee don't know it's 'most six o'clock." And Twilight, catching up her treasures, hurried away.
        Miss Gracie was rather glad of the interruption, as she wanted to be alone and think before she conversed with Twilight upon the subject. When she did she was pleased to find that all the child's thoughts were retrospective, and not prospective. She talked with reawakened tenderness of her parents, of "Taffy" and Marie, and recalled a thousand little tokens of their care and love; but not one word of the future prospects to which the letter might lead. The few years which elapsed since those sad events which her mother's letter made known had been a lifetime to her, and she spoke of them as things before the Flood—never seeming to realize that any one connected with her could be surviving still. This view Alice was careful not to dissipate; for although she had herself strong hopes of one day restoring the little girl to her family, she was too prudent to awaken hopes which might never be realized.
        After a few days' reflection Miss Gracie's course was decided upon. The first step was to remove Twilight from her lowly station, and' give her some of the advantages of education to which her birth entitled her; and Alice wrote to the Principal of the school where she had herself completed her education—an estimable woman, with whom she had ever maintained a friendly intercourse. She told her the outlines of Twilight's story, and inquired the lowest terms upon which she could be received as a pupil—Alice herself being answerable for the payment of the bills should the friends of the lost child not be found.
        A few days brought an answer: Mrs. Illersly was much interested in the little girl's history; and if she would converse with the pupils in French, and give them the French accent, she would receive her for a sum merely nominal. Alice was delighted. The next thing was to seek an interview with Mrs. Cobb and Mr. Wood, to inform them of the discovery she had made, and to ask their consent and co-operation in her plans. Aunt Betsy was yielding and quiet, as usual, She said "Sure!" and "Thee don't say so!" She was sorry to part with the handy, pleasant-tempered child; but Ruthy would like an older girl, and perhaps it would be less of a trial. Uncle Lem was more demonstrative—tears, which his manliness would fain have concealed, told how the little, lonely, gentle child had crept into his great, warm heart; but he advocated her removal.
        "It's all right," he said to Alice; "she is of your sort, not ours; she belongs to such as you, and I see you took to each other from the very first:

                'Like loves like, and love likes love;
                Eagle mates eagle, and dove seeks dove!'

Yes; she ought to go. I see it all; it's all right; and it's human nature, too," said he, trying to turn it off with a laugh that would not come—"human nature, all the world over.

                'No matter what old hen may hatch the duck's eggs,
                They'll run to the water as soon as they've legs.'"

        And now Miss Gracie ventured to tell Twilight the arrangements she had made, confining her communications to the advantages of an education, and carefully avoiding to excite any future hopes beyond the results of that. With the liberal aid of Aunt Betsy and Mr. Wood, and the skillful fingers of Twilight herself, a suitable wardrobe was procured; and when Alice left Aunt Betsy's she took her young charge with her, and making a circuit to M—, she left Mademoiselle de la Tour with Mrs. Illersly.
        When Miss Gracie returned to the city she found the father of her young pupils—the gentleman in whose family she resided, and upon whose aid and advice she had confidently counted—was still absent at the South, and she had to wait two months for his return. He advised an application to the French consul, and procured her an interview. The consul entered warmly into Miss Gracie's view of the case, and engaged to write out and make the necessary inquiries in France. He suggested the propriety of sending out copies of the letter and certificates, and also a daguerreotype of the pictures. This was reasonable, and Miss Gracie went to Mrs. Illersly's to procure them. She found Twilight well, and perfectly happy. Mrs. Illersly spoke in the kindest terms of her little pupil; and "chère Antoinette" was already the pet of teachers and scholars.
        But all this caused some detention; and then, men of business do not hurry themselves as impulsive women expect they will. The consul was courteous and kind, but spring had opened before the letters were actually sent off. Alice spent her summer vacation at Mrs. Illersly's, with Twilight; and she was delighted with her protégée's growth and improvement. Hers was the pleasure of some enthusiastic florist, who, having removed a stinted flower from the roadside, sees it blooming in his garden in stateliness and beauty; and she returned to the city to await, in feverish impatience, the expected letter from France.
        In the autumn Alice received a letter from Mrs. Illersly. Twilight was seriously indisposed—a sudden and violent inflammation of the lungs. She had called in medical advice, and would write again. The next day the accounts were more favorable—the complaint seemed yielding to treatment, and the physician saw no cause for apprehension. Alice's heart yearned to hasten to her darling; but she was not quite mistress of her own time, and besides, the consul had informed her the letters from France might be daily expected, and she concluded to wait for them, hearing daily from Mrs. Illersly.
        At the end of a week came an alarming letter. A new disease—rapid pulmonary consumption, which Twilight had inherited probably from her unfortunate mother, and the seeds of which had possibly been long dormant in her system—had developed itself, and her physician had serious fears for the result. Antoinette requested her friend to come to her.
        Alas! the same hour which brought these sad tidings brought also the long-desired letters from France. The grand parents and uncle of Twilight had been found, and rapturously acknowledged her claims. The letters of Madame de la Tour had never been received, and her family had supposed the little girl, with both her parents, had perished at sea. They now placed ample funds at the consul's disposal, and requested the child might be furnished with every thing requisite to her station, and sent out to them under the charge of responsible persons, as soon as possible. A graceful letter of warm thanks to Miss Gracie was inclosed in the one to the consul.
        Ah! with what a heavy heart did Alice read this long-desired letter, and then hasten with sad forebodings to Mrs. Illersly's! She found that Mr. Wood and Mrs. Cobb had been sent for, and were there before her. Uncle Lem was walking with troubled restlessness up and down one of the lower rooms, his usually joyous face pale and anxious. He shook Alice's hand, and tried to speak, but vainly; the usually ready words would not come, and turning away he resumed his troubled walk. Aunt Betsy was established in the sick room as head-nurse, a post for which her soft speech and quiet gentle ways admirably fitted her; and as Alice entered the chamber her close cap and dove-colored dress glided quietly from fhe easy chair where Twilight reclined just as she had so often described her young mother.
        Every precaution had been taken to prepare Twilight for the arrival of Alice, but the delight of the sensitive girl almost destroyed her remaining strength; and she lay, panting and smiling, breathless and exhausted, in the loving arms which supported her, while Alice weeping, rained down kisses on her pale brow and lips. But at last this strong emotion passed away, and she became able to converse with her friend.
        "How long ago is it, Miss Gracie," she said, "since you came first to Aunt Betsy's?"
        "More than a year," said Alice, sadly, as she mentally compared the slight, spirit-like thing she held clasped to her heart with the little, active, healthy, sun-burned child of a year ago!
        "Only a year?" said Twilight, musingly. "Only one year ago!" she continued. "Do you remember that first Sunday when I was so rude to you? and our talk in the garden, when I told you I hoped the Great King would send for me? Is that only one year ago?—and I was then a little ignorant child; I did not know what I talked about! And now! ah! dear Miss Gracie, this change is your work; you taught me to know and love the Great King—to understand who should be his messenger—and not to fear him. Dear friend!" she said, passing her arm caressingly round Alice's neck, and glancing anxiously at her face as she spoke, "I think His messenger is very near me now, and I want you to help me make ready for the long journey."
        For a moment Alice's heart stood still in mortal terror; then, strengthened by a strength not her own, she said, in low, clear tones, whose calmness surprised even herself,
        "What God wills is best; His will, not ours, be done!"
        "Oh! I'm so glad to hear you say that," said the dying girl; "I can say and feel so, too, now. But I must tell you how silly I have been. Since I came here I have read and thought so much about France, beautiful France, my father's and mother's land—that I have wanted to be rich—oh, very rich—and go there—you and I together—and see all the places my mother used to know and live in. But it is best as it is. You know, if I went to France, it would not be home—my friends are not there; but in heaven I shall find home and friends too. My father, my mother, Taffy, and Marie—and you will come too, one day, dear friend, and then we shall be parted no more! Oh! it is better as it is!"
        "I fear you are talking too much, my darling," whispered Miss Gracie.
        "Am I? I will not then," said Twilight, sweetly. "Will you sing to me, and I will try to sleep."
        And nestling lovingly as a little child in Alice's arms, she closed her eyes, while Alice, with an effort few could make, sung, with untrembling tones, Twilight's favorite hymn, "I would not live always."
        For a fortnight the two young friends walked side by side, in close, loving communion through the shadow of the dark valley—the good, brave heart of Alice supporting and cheering the young sister of her adoption; and then all that was earthly of Little Twilight was laid in the grave; and with one of those wonderful coincidences which are stranger than fiction, her childish hope was fulfilled, the messenger of the Great King called for her the night preceding Thanksgiving Day. Alice remained until the last sad duties were over, and then returned, grave but calm, trusting and submissive, to her city pupils.
        Some time later, by the orders of the French consul, a white stone marked the resting-place of the little emigrant. It bore the name and age of Mademoiselle Antoinette Elise de la Tour. Above was the sculptured emblem of a sky-lark, soaring heavenward from the low grass; and below were the words which Alice Gracie's loving heart had suggested:

TWILIGHT HAS PASSED INTO THE PERFECT DAY!