Her bright future ...

Chapter I. Katheeinh

** Full yellow lies the harvest field,

Adown the broad hillside.”

A wide field, crowned with waving grain rapidly falling before the exertions of a band of tired harvesters.

Two children, a slender dark-eyed girl, and a boy, stand near the edge of the field watching, with eager eyes, the movements of a self-raking reaper. Half fascinated, and a little frightened, they press back and away, as it comes around and passes them — the sharp sickle gleaming in the sun, the long arms of the rake, like those of an industrious giant, gathering the fallen grain and leaving it in long, straight rows of gavels, ready for the binders. They press close behind the reaper, for the field is wide, and there are dark clouds in the west, though overhead the sun is blazing in almost tropical splendor.

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The harvesters make a motley crowd, being representatives from many climes. “Jim,” Mr. Seymour’s hired man is driving the reaper. He is captain of the band — a stalwart “Hoosier,” six feet in height, with a broad face beaming with good-humor under his torn straw hat.

The inevitable “son of Erin” is here, and a rollicking, muscular fellow he is, leading the binders, and only pausing for an occasional pull at the brown jug which stands in a shady fence corner. Its contents are not strong, being only water sweetened with molasses, and flavored with plenty of ginger ; but Patrick Kernon takes a long draught and winks roguishly over his shoulder to his comrades, as if it was the strongest whisky ever distilled.

Close behind Patrick come two voluntary exiles from “fair France.” Nicholas Goddrice is a slim, picturesque youth, with melancholy, southern eyes, and clear dark skin. He would make a handsome brigand, but his tastes are quiet and peaceable. Hypolite Antione is a different typ« of French peasantry, a great hulking fellow, with dangerously low forehead, and little, restless eyes, with the expression of a wild beast in them.

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Coarse-minded and brutal, he is not pleasant to look at — is even repulsive.

That slow, conscientious worker is Steinburg, Mr. Seymour’s German tenant; and the man in heavy, blue woolen clothes, who works beside him, is Eric Olafson, lately arrived from Norway. His large blue eyes have a bewildered expression ; he has evidently not yet grown accustomed to our hurrying American ways.

The remaining man, wearing the ruffled calico shirt, with sleeves rolled above the elbow and held in place by pink elastics, is a Yankee, as one can see at a glance. He and Jim are rivals for the favor of Lyddy, the “ maid of all work ” at the brown farm-house. She is coming down the path through the orchard now, a blue gingham sun-bonnet pushed back from her comely face, and a large basket on her plump arm. The men stop work as she comes into the field, and gather around the lunch-basket. Katherine and Tom come with the men, and Lyddy takes them under her care most affectionately.

An odd, interesting face is Katherine’s — not exactly pretty, it is not nearly blooming enough for that; but full of promise in her

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dawning womanhood ; a sweet oval face, with only the faintest tinge of color in the cheeks ; but it will never be called cold, with those starry, eloquent eyes ; and the long lashes are black as midnight.

She looks anxious and troubled to-day.

“ Oh, Lyddy ! has mother awakened yet?” she asks earnestly. “ I smoothed her forehead and bathed her head with camphor till she fell asleep. Then I came down here with Tom, for he wanted me to see how well the new reaper worked.”

“Jest you rest easy about your poor ma, Miss Kathie,” answers Lyddy, “for she was sleeping like a baby the last I knowed about it.”

“But she may awake and want me, Lyddy ; so I think I had better return to the house,” says the young girl, gravely; and she walks sedately up the orchard path to the house.

Jim has finished eating, and is carefully exam ining the reaper before commencing work again

“ Tom,” he calls to the lad who is standing av a little distance, “ you jest run up to the house, and fetch me the wrench that hangs in the woodshed. This gearing is out of fix, somehow ; and, say! tell your pa to come down.” Then turning

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to the men : “ I’m afeard I’ve melted a box, and, if I have, why, we can’t work any more to-night. I don’t like the looks of them thunder-heads in the west, either. We’d best shock up what we’ve got down, for it looks to me ez if we was in for a bad night, and mebby a wet day to-morrow.”

Mr. Seymour has strolled leisurely down to the field, and now takes in the situation at a glance.

“Well, Jim, have you broken the reaper already ? What is the trouble, anyhow ? ” he asks.

“ Oh, nothin’,” growls Jim, mournfully ; “ there’s a box melted, that’s all, and somebody’s got to go to Elgin and git it fixed, and it’s goin’ to rain pitchforks in less than three hours time.”

“Well, well, my man! make the best of it,” says Mr. Seymour soothingly, not much disturbed by the accident. “ I will go to Elgin to-morrow, myself.”

Jim makes no response to this offer, but his honest face clouds over as he walks to where the horses are patiently standing, and gives “ old Bay’s” bridle a jerk, which is entirely uncalled for.

“ Yes!” he says between his teeth, “ You'll go, I’ll bet you will, and we shan’t ketch sight of yon

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agin for one three days, neither, and right in the middle of harvestin’, too.”

Mr. Seymour walks back to the house with more alacrity than he has shown for weeks, and prepares to leave home.

u Jim, is father going to Elgin ? I do hope he won’t go. Can’t you stop him, Jim ? ” asks Tom, a tremble of anxiety in his voice, young though he is.

“ Stop him ! Tom, the devil can’t stop your father when he gits one of them wild hankerin’ spells on him, and this broken reaper gives him jest the excuse he wants,” says Jim.

The boy looks very sad.

“ Never you mind, Tom ! You ain’t to blame. No more am I only mind you don’t foller in his steps when you grow up, and so break your mother’s heart entirely.”

“ There’s no danger of that, Jim,” the boy answers quietly. He is only a child in years, yet, as he says this, his face looks curiously manly and determined. These young Seymours are strange, precocious children. The lonely life of a prairie farm has helped to make them unlike most children of their age. But the shadow which darkant their childhood, making them anxious and

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wise beyond their years, is their father’s intemperance. Every thing about the place shows the neglect of the master ; from the tumble-down fence which separates the western fields and the highway, to the brown farm-house, standing in the center of Mr. Seymour’s fair, broad acres, and full a mile from the nearest neighbors.

Through a wilderness of trees, an avenue, half a mile in length, leads from highway to house. In midsummer the air is heavy with fragrance from the drooping white blossoms of the locust trees. There is a wild beauty about the avenue these Summer nights, when a full moon is in the wide heavens, and the wind blows fresh from the south, spicy with the scent of pennyroyal and sweet wild herbs.

Katherine used to wander there alone in the twilight, listening to the twitter of sleepy birds, and nursing her odd, poetic fancies. She was a strange child, given to day-dreams. Flowers, to her, had expression, even as faces have. Daisies looked full of innocent surprise, while creamy June roses were so heavy with love and languor that they drooped ; tiger-lilies were warm-hearted things, though always jealoua.

Woman and poet, her life could not fail to be one of suffering; as yet, she did not know much of life, but was as pure as the flowers she loved so well. Her mother was a refined New England lady ; and, when failure in business caused Mr. Seymour to seek this wild, western farm, she bore her trials bravely, and solaced herself educating her children. They were usually very happy, though for the past four years Mr. Seymour’s habits of intemperance had increased, and this was why so slight a thing as a a reaper out of repair brought a cloud over the entire family — the invalid wife, Katherine, Tom, and even Jim and Lyddy, the faithful servants.

Mr. Seymour went to Elgin, and, as Jim had predicted, did not return for three days. Meanwhile the laborers were idle. The anxious wife grew daily weaker ; Katherine tried hard to seem cheerful, but cried herself to sleep each night, thinking of her mother’s death-stricken face.

Oh, what a dark cloud it was !

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Chapter II. A Noble Soul

“The parting of the sweetest soul That ever looked with human eyes."

Walter, the eldest sod, had been with them in former years, — a brave, helpful youth, tenderly devoted to his mother, a comforter and friend to the younger children.

The year that he died was a memorable one to Katherine ; from his death dates the dawn of her womanhood. She had been a dreamy, care -free child, but all the latent strength of her earnest character came to the surface in time of trial; after his death she was friend, companion and comforter to the gentle mother she loved so passionately. From that time she cast aside childish things, *and bore her share ol life’s responsibilities bravely.

Walter had worked very hard all Summer, exposure and severe labor had weakened his

undeveloped frame, and he had been very

B * ill with malarial fever ; but youth and his mother’s good care were bringing him safely through.

He was sitting up one night, for the first time in weeks, and was looking at his absent sister’s photograph ; he seemed too languid to express any enthusiasm, although it was an admirable likeness of her.

“ I think I will go back to bed, mother. I am weaker than I thought,” he said wearily, when the door opened noisily, and Mr. Seymour came into the room. Walter turned paler as he met his father’s wild eyes, for he saw Mr. Seymour was in one of his worst moods. Glancing at the boy’s pallid face, the intoxicated man walked unsteadily toward his wife. He invariably abused his most faithful friends when he had been drinking.

“ Why don’t you speak to me, madam?” he said in a threatening way. “ You should have beeu preparing your husband’s supper, instead of staying here with this sickly young fool.”

“Oh, Alfred! please be calm! Poor Walter has been so very sick, you know,” was the gentle answer. But the demon had done its work well,

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and the half-crazed man grew more violent and quarrelsome.

“ Why don’t you attend to me, madam ? I’ll make you, then,” he shouted, and raised his hand to strike her. That cruel blow never fell upon her, though there rang through the house a heartbroken cry. Katherine will never forget how her mother’s voice sounded that night, — never !

Brave, faithful Walter had rushed forward, weak as he was, and taken the blow aimed at his mother. Crushed to the floor, lie lay perfectly still, with white face and closed eyes. Was he dead? No. So much excitement in his weak state had overpowered him. That was not the worst. On his blue-veined temple there was a dark, purplish mark, where his head had struck the sharp corner of a bureau. It is needless to relate how the anguished mother bent over her son during all that long, terrible night.

It was a cloudy Autumn morning. He had lain in a death-like swoon for hours, his finely proportioned head thrown back upon the pillow, his kindly, dark eyes closed, and the heavily fringed lids drooping upon the wan cheeks. They opened the door to admit air, and the wailing notes of a distant swamp-bird, floating in, made the inner silence mournfully impressive. Suddenly his eyes opened ; there was a conscious look in them. He murmured something. “ Where is father ? ” Ah ! poor, faithful heart ! It turns with divine forgiveness and love to him who has so ruthlessly wasted the fair, young life.

Katherine brought her father to the room. He is quite sober now. His drawn, agonized face does not look as it did a few hours since.

“ So you wanted to see me, my boy!” he says, trying hard to speak calmly, his tender heart and loving nature showing itself now he was sober. As he takes Walter’s wasted hand in his own, he breaks down utterly, and sobs aloud.

“ Oh, don’t! father, please don’t!” says Walter feebly. “ I don’t blame you in the least, father. I only want to tell you not to grieve too much over what happened last night; you were not yourself ; you did not know what you were doing. I forgive you, father, freely, and pray that God may bless and help you.” Then, after a pause : “ I think I am dying ;

every thing looks strange and dim, and it

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seems so hard to breathe. But I want to beg of you to be kind to mother. Oh ! do promise me that, father ; I can’t rest easy until you do. If you must drink, stay away from home until you are sober ; you may strike her sometime when I am not here to stand between.”

Mr. Seymour’s voice is half-choked with sobs : “ I’ll do the best I can, my dear boy,” he says.

It is a few minutes before Walter speaks again. Then he raises his eyes to his mother’s face, and the old bright smile is in them.

“ Mother, I stood b} r you till the last.” To Katherine, who is weeping : “ Don’t cry, little sister ! God is on my side, and I am on His.”

He closed his eyes wearily, and they thought all was over, as the painful breathing grew almost inaudible. Once again those speaking eyes opened, to give them all the last loving look. Then the true heart ceased to beat.

More of a hero in his truthful beautiful character, in the toil and hardship borne so uncomplainingl)', in his unselfish devotion to his family, than many a soldier who falls on the field of battle : Walter Seymour was dead.

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Chapter III. Motherless

• Alas, the cloud grows darker.*

Katherine and Tom sat in the orchard, talking about their mutual troubles. The children’s faces were very sober ; over their heads the birds sang gaily, as if trying to call them away from sad thoughts.

The saucy blackbirds chattered heartlessly, and the robin in the apple-tree sang as if his throat had suddenly changed into a silver lute ; two yellow harvest apples fell from the bough into the long grass at their feet, all unheeded.

How sorrowful the past few weeks had been ! Their mother was much worse ; another hemorrhage had left her completely prostrated ; all who looked at her felt that the leaves of the coming Autumn would fall upon her grave. That day when the reaper was out of order, Mr. Seymour had gone to Elgin, and drank deeply. He had

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not been so reckless before since Walter’s death. He now cast prudence and conscience to the winds, and was absent from home most of the time. It was a rainy season, and had it not been for faithful Jim, most of the grain would have been lost or badly damaged, as Mr. Seymour neglected every thing, now that the mad passion for drink was upon him. He forgot his sick anxious wife, his children, indeed every duty toward home, man and God.

When sober, he possessed many noble qualities. Fascinating in manners, when he chose to be agreeable his easy independent grace won people’s liking. Strangers felt his refinement and mental strength, and instinctively paid him homage. His tenants looked upon him as a superior being ; he was a just and generous landlord. His personal appearance put to flight all one’s preconceived idea of an intemperate man. Deacon Dewey, a shining light in the Linden Center church — a neighbor of Mr. Seymour’s, and a man who had never, in all his life, drank any thing stronger than tea — looked far more like a drunkard than did Mr. Seymour.

The traditional drunkard in temperance stories, is represented with weak, watery^ eyes, a red and bloated face, slouching gait, etc. Mr. Seymour showed none of these outward indications of dissipation. In brief, Nature had gifted him with rare manly beauty ; and though for days he would break every law of physical well-being, a little quiet, with sober living, would restore the clear tints to his complexion, his nerves would become composed, his eyes clear and bright. Had you called upon him then, you would have been received with the cordial courtesy of an accomplished gentleman, which he was by birth and education ; and you would scarcely have believed that a few glasses of wine could change such a polished man into a half-crazed demon.

Sadly conscious of his violence and irresponsibility when under the influence of liquor, he kept his word to Walter, and was absent from his wife’s sick room most of the time.

It was very lonely for the children. Lyddy moved softly around the house, and never crooned long ballads to them now.

“ Fd rather stay out here than in the Louse, Kathie, it’s so awful still up there now '* said Tom

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dolefully, as the children sat under the old apple-tree.

“ It is because mother is so sick, Tom. Do you know, I sometimes fear she will never get well ? ”

Tom’s lips tremble at these words, and he turns away to conceal his tears ; he is a manly little fellow, and half-ashamed to let Katherine see his grief.

“ Dear brother,” she says softly, taking the orown hands in her own, “ I will always love you, and if mother dies you must come to me with all your troubles. I will try to do by you as she would have done.”

“ You are always kind to me, Kathie,” he says, “ I don’t see how you could treat me any more kindly than you do ”

Lyddy here interrupts the children’s talk. Standing in the porch she calls to them, “ Oh, Miss Katherine ! Katherine ! ” The girl springs to her feet, and bounds away like a deer.

“ What is it, Lyddy ? Is mother worse ? ” she asks breathlessly.

“ Wall, she’s awful poorly. Miss Katherine, you come inhere,” — beckoning Katherine to come

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into the pantry. Lyddy’s eyes were swollen and red with weeping.

“ Oh, dear! Miss Katherine” — she says to the young girl who had followed her — “ the doctor has jest left, and when he saw your ma he looked dreadful solemn, and he says we must send for your sister right away — and — Oh, dear ! how shall I tell you the rest ?” and she burst out weeping.

Katherine’s eyes grew larger and darker, and her hands clenched convulsively in the effort to be composed.

“ Lyddy,” she says in a whisper, “ I know it all. Mother is dying.”

“ Yes,” answered Lyddy. “ I dreaded to tell you, but the doctor said she could not live until Sunday. He said she might go any time. Oh, Kathie ! I am so sorry for you and Tom.”

“I know you are, Lyddy,” says Katherine gravely. “ Have you sent for Helen?”

“Well, please tell Jim to saddle Firefly, and be ready to carry a dispatch to Elgin for me.”

Mechanically she wrote the dispatch, and then stole softly into her mother’s room. Dur-

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2 7 ing that long night, she remained at the bedside of her dying mother — a patient figure, watchful and quiet, but dumb to all Lyddy’s entreaties that she should try and get a little rest. “ I will stay with my mother while I can,” was her answer to all appeals.

Good Doctor Gardiner came early in the morning.

“You are an early riser, my little maid!” he said, looking down upon her kindly. Something in the expression of her face made the doctor’s glasses grow misty, as he laid a kindly hand upon the brown braids.

“ Poor child ! ” he said softly ; “ you are far too womanly for your years.”

That afternoon Helen came — a very sad homecoming. Few words were spoken by the sisters, but a long, close pressure of the hand told their sympathy for each other, and strengthened them to bear the coming bereavement.

Mr. Seymour did not stand by his wife’s death-bed. They had sent for him, and the children knew by their mother’s wistful eyes, how she P nged for his presence in that supreme hour.

Jim had found him in one of his worst orgies, singing and muttering to himself. He was in no condition to stand in that hushed chamber, where the angel of death hovered.

It was in the early dawning of a Summer mom that the gentle soul found peace, and Katherine realized she was motherless.

CHAPTER IV. I HE UNBIDDEN GUEST, though in silence, wishing joy."

Helen Seymour was a tall graceful blonde, beautiful in a cool northern way, and possessing a clear strong intellect, which made her a most agreeable companion. Although at school, she was engaged to be married at the time of her mother’s death. Her betrothed was a man of high standing, and some wealth — a merchant in the village of Linden Center. He met her at the house of her uncle, Robert Seymour, had fallen in love, offered his hand, and had been accepted.

Mrs. Seymour’s death, of course, delayed the nuptials ; but after a year had passed, Mr. Gaylord begged for an early marriage day, and Helen yielded to his request. She was making preparations for the coming June, when an unexpected sorrow fell upon them. Helen was mending her father’s coat one day, and found in the pocket a

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letter, addressed in a woman’s hand-writing. Her bright face grew serious as she read it carefully, and called Katherine to her side. To Helen, who knew the sly and designing nature of the woman who wrote it, the device was very transparent. It read as follows :

Mr. Seymour.

Dear Sir : Your strange language at my father’s house last Thursday evening demands an explanation. Will you do me the favor of calling, and explaining what was meant ? Please call as soon as possible, for I am very unhappy about it

Truly yours,

Jane Crossby.

This was all ; and, although apparently harmless, even a little prudish, Helen Seymour knew full well it was intended to lead her father into an intimate acquaintance.

Mr. Seymour rented his farm to good tenants soon after his wife’s death, and removed to Linden Center, where there was an excellent academy, and Katherine and Tom were improving the educational advantages.

Among the many ladies who called upon Helen, the one she liked the least was Jane

Crossby ; a strange, deep woman, with an unnaturally soft voice, and cold, steely blue eyes. The woman called twice at Mr. Seymour’s, much to Helen’s surprise, as she had never returned the first, and indeed had treated her with very cold courtesy, not wishing to encourage further acquaintance.

After reading this note, however, she was in no doubt as to Jane Crossby’s object in seeming so friendly.

Father Crossby, as he was called in the village, had two daughters. Both were far past girlhood, being, in fact, middle-aged women. Jane, the elder, had studied medicine, and for five years practiced it in St. Louis. She finally returned to her father’s house, much to the sorrow of the family. She was a strange, wierd woman, and a mystery even to those who knew her best.

Mr. Seymour, while under the influence of liquor, was in the habit of calling at nearly every house in town, much to the shame and sorrow of his family, who tried in vain to keep him quietly at home, at such times.

One night he called at Father Crossby’s, and behaved in the ridiculous manner natural to a drunken man. He used strong language in the course of his conversation ; yet a lady would no more have thought of calling him to an account for it, under the circumstances, than of holding a lunatic responsible for his ravings.

Jane Crossby, among other episodes of her adventurous life, had been a hospital nurse during the war, and heard worse language than Mr. Seymour used without a blush upon her impassive mask-like face, or a quickened beat of her sluggish pulse. But now that there was an object to be gained, she thought it wise to be dignified.

Mr. Seymour oalled upon her, and apologized for his conduct ; and of course, she forgave him. She even made herself so agreeable, that he repeated his visit. The final result was that he one day brought Jane Crossby home as his wife.

Helen greeted her step-mother so haughtily, that the woman hated her ever after ; and made home so unpleasant, that she was obliged to take refuge with her uncle, Robert Seymour.

After her departure, Mrs. Seymour’s hatred fell upon Katherine, and made the sensitive girl’s life a burden. Mrs. Seymour forbade any communication between the sisters, and tyrannized relentlessly over poor Katherine.

When June came — leafy beautiful June, the month of all the year which Katherine loved, — Helen Sej^mour was married. Katherine’s heart yearned for her sister, those Summer days. Many and bitter were the tears she shed in secret. Appeal to her father was useless, as he seemed completely under the control of his wife. So the sisters rarely saw each other, though living in the same village.

A few days before the wedding, a gossiping neighbor was telling Katherine about the bridal outfit. “Of course you’ll go to the weddin’, Kathie,” said Mrs. Weeks, crossing her arms over the gate, and settling herself for a long chat. “ Your uncle Robert is goin’ to make a splendid weddin’ for Helen, and her clothes are just beautiful. Miss Baker was up there the other day, and they showed her the veil. She said it was the handsomest thing she ever saw — real lace, and fine as a cob-web. Your aunt, Mrs. Judge Fielding, sent it from New York. Helen will look like a Queen — she’s as handsome as one. You’ll go

to the weddin’, Kathie, of course.”

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“ I am afraid my step-mother will not allow me to go, Mrs. Weeks! But I shall try, for Oh! I do so want to see Helen married. She is my only sister, you know,” answered Kathie.

“Wall,

A mother’s a mother all the days of her life,

A father’s a father till he gets a new wife,”

quoted Mrs. Weeks, shaking her head solemnly. Just then her twins began quarrelling. The good lady rushed into the house to separate them, and Kathie went sorrowfully home.

She pondered long upon what Mrs. Weeks had told her, and that night dreamed she was “first bridesmaid ” at Helen’s wedding, dressed in pink tarletan, with rose-buds in her hair; but when she came where the minister stood, she glanced down and saw that her white satin slippers had changed into rough leather shoes, and her dress into old brown calico, much too short for her, and which she vainly tried to give a proper length, by pulling it down. She was weeping with disappointment when she awoke from her dream.

The day before the wedding was a glorious one, fragrant with the scent of roses, and musical with the songs of birds, so numerous in that little treerobed village. Timidly the young girl went to her father with her request.

“ Oh ! father ! I do so want to see Helen married. Can I go up to the church to-night?”

“ Your sister has been very ungrateful, Kathie,” he answered gravely. “ I have spent a great deal of money for her education, she has left my house, and now speaks of me very disrespectfully.”

“ But, father,” she pleaded, “ I only ask to go the church to see her married. I could not go to the ‘ reception’ at the house, for it will be quite grand, I suppose, and I haven’t any dress suitable ; at the church no one would notice me.”

“ Well, well, don’t annoy me any more, child. Go ask your mother, and if she is willing, I am,” was the reply ; and Katherine, with a faint heart, went to her step-mother.

She found her hard and unyielding as granite, deaf to all her eager entreaties.

“If you go to Helen Seymour’s wedding, you can never come back to this house, Katherine ! ” was Mrs. Seymour’s answer. Katherine gave up the hope, and went sorrowfully about her tasks.