Re AoA. The Baldwin Library University RmB «si Florida THE COUSINS. THE “COUSINS: A TALE OF EARLY LIFE BY MARIA J. M‘INTOSH AUTHOR OF ‘‘CONQUEST AND SELF-CONQUEST,” ‘‘ PRAISE AND PRINCIPLE,” ETC, LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE MISS M‘INTOSH'S STORIES FOR THE YOUNG. een Gees EMILY HERBERT. ROSE AND LILLIE STANHOPE, MAGGIE AND EMMA. THE COUSINS. PREFACE. in offering this little volume to the public, the Author thinks it due to them and herself to state that it isa child’s book, and nothing more. It was commenced some years ago, as one of a series of tales then in course of publication. From causes wholly unimportant to the public, that series was discontinued, and this manuscript was consequently laid aside. It has lately been re- sumed and completed, and is now presented as a simple narrative of the events of childhood, intended to show the beauty and excellence, even in its earliest dawn upon the soul, of that charity which “envieth not, vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly.” CONTENTS. CLapter Page I. THE FIRST HOME . : ‘ . 7 Il. THE VOYAGE . 5 3 is Be P40) III. THE NEW HOME . ; . . 26 Iv. NEW HABITS . ; ° i Dt ¥. THE FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL . ‘ 56 VI. THE VISITORS . ‘ . > «, 69 VII. THE FARM . i , . 3 79 VIII. COUNTRY PLEASURES . 6 . - 90 IX. THE BOWER . . . . . 100 X. VANITY A BAD GUIDE e ° - 108 XI. THE GOOD PHYSICIAN « . . 120 XII. THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL . . - 148 XIII. THE PREMIUM ; e ° e 163 XLV. CHRISTMAS EVE . e e - 188 THE COUSINS. CHAPTER I. MARY’S FIRST HOME. Many Mowsray and Lucy Lovett were cousins, They had often heard of each other, and Cousin Lucy and Cousin Mary had been-familiar words with them as soon as they could speak; yet they never met till they were more than nine ycars old. Mr. Mowbray, the father of Mary, was a native of the State of Georgia; and though he was educated at a Northern college, and married a Northern lady—the sister of Lucy’s father, Mr. Lovett—he returned, after his marriage, to his own home, and there, in Georgia, was Mary Mowbray born, and there did she spend the first nine years of her life: and that first home Mary 8 VHE CUUSINS. still loves better than any other place in the world, and nothing pleases her more than to sit down of an evening, and talk over with some friend all its delights. Mary lives now with her Uncle ard Aunt Lovett in New York, and she always begins her description of her childhood’s home by saying that the house was not at all like New-York houses. ‘It was not built,” she says, “of brick or stone, but of wood.” She calls the houses in New-York one-sided, because they have rooms, generally, only on one side of the hall or entrance, while her father’s house had rooms on both sides—large rooms, and several of them, so that it covered more than twice as much ground as most of the houses in New-York do. There were no marble mantle-pieces in it, she confesses, nor shining black grates; but, then, she adds, the fireplaces were not such little things, casting, as she speaks, a somewhat contemptuous glance at her uncle’s. They were wide and high, and when a fire was needed in them, which was not often, it was not made of little picces of black coal, but of great logs of oak wood and sticks of pitch pine, or, as Mary calls it, light wood, which MARY'S FIRST HOME. 9 made such a bright, cheerful blaze, that children might play by it a whole winter’s evening with- out thinking of a candle or lamp. But these were only the smallest part of the pleasures of that dear home. Its greatest enjoyments were not to be found within doors. These were in standing, guarded by her ‘‘ Maumer,” as she still calls her black nurse, on the river’s edge, to see her father’s fisherman paddle out in his canoe and throw his lines for fish, or, in the still evening, as the boat glided noiselessly along, cast his net for shrimp or prawn, or in long rambles through the fields and along roads bordered on each side by woods; and sometimes she was allowed to extend her rambles into these woods in search of jessamines, in the early spring, and of blackberries and whortle- berries in summer. And oh, the beauty and the fragrance of those woods! I have been almost tempted myself to spend one winter, at least, in that far Southern land, when I have heard Mary describe them, with their clumps of honey-suckle, their wreaths of yellow jessamine twining from tree to tree, the white fringe-tree waving its long snowy tendrils over the crimson flowers of the 10 THE COUSINS. red-bud, and the myrtles, and the bays, and the laurels, and the wild orange, and the wild olive, and the spring violets, and—and—a thousand others, whose names I cannot pretend to remem- ber, but which Mary rattles off, mingling trees, and shrubs, and vines, and plants in most bewil- dering confusion. Then, when she leaves the woods and comes home again, it is to tell you of the orange-groves, which often showed the golden fruit of the last year and the white flowers of this gleaming together from its polished dark-green leaves, and of the birds—the red-bird, with its one clear, sweet note—the black-bird, with his merry whistle, and the mocking-bird, that prince of songsters. ‘Not one poor bird shut up in a cage,” she says—and here she is apt to cast the same glance at her aunt’s birdcage which she had given to her uncle’s fireplace—‘“ but dozens of them flying from bough to bough, and tree to tree, and singing so joyously—just as if they were so happy that they could not help it.” But Mary had remembrances of her home which touched me more than all these things. She told of her mother’s reading and praying by the bed- MARY'S FIRST HOME. 11 side of the sick and dying negro; of her taking Mary with her on Sunday to the house which the negroes called their ‘“‘ Prayer House,” and gather- ing the children of her husband’s plantation there, to teach them hymns and Scripture texts, and to pray with them. Once, when describing these scenes, Mary dropped her head on her aunt’s lap and burst into tears. It was long before she could explain why she wept. At length she said that it was because she remembered waking in the night and hearing some one whispering by the side of her little crib; that she was frightened at first, till, opening her eyes, she saw, by the shaded night-lamp, that it was her own dear mother kneeling down and praying softly for her. Do you not pity Mary for having so kind and tender a mother taken away from her? Mrs. Mowbray was ill for many weeks before her death. She knew she would never be well again, ahd, though satisfied that this was right and best for her, since her heavenly Father or- dered it, there was one earthly care of which she could not quite free herself. This care was for Mary. Mr. Mowbray was a very tender and in- 12 THE COUSINS. dulgent father, but he could scarcely be expected to devote himself to the education of a little girl as a mother would have done. Mr. Mowbray had neither mother nor sister to whose charge the motherless Mary might be confided, and he rejoiced almost as much as his wife did, when her brother. Mr. Lovett, having received intelligence of her ex- treme and hopeless illness, came to visit her, and begged that he might be permitted to take his niece home with him. In Mrs. Lovett they both knew that Mary would find a devoted an1 conscientious friend. Had this plan been communicated to Mary under any ordinary cireumstanres, she would pro- bably have refused her consent to it; but when her mother, in a still, darkened chamber, propped up in bed by pillows, called her to her side, and in a low, husky voice told her that God, who had given her a kind mother so long, was about to take her to Himself; that she was to go home with her Uncle Lovett, in order that her Aunt Lovett might take the place to her of this dear lost mother, and charged her to love and honour this good uncle and aunt, and always to remember MARY’S FIRST HOME. 13 that their wishes were the wishes of her own mother, Mary was awed, and had no power nor wish to object to anything. She could only weep in anguish over the thought of parting for ever with her from whom she had never parted, even for a few hours, without tears. The promises which Mary made then to her mother could not be easily forgotten. Till this time, being shy and timid in her disposition, and having seen little of her uncle, she had been very reserved in her man- ner to him; but after this she would sit on his knee and hang around his neck as lovingly as if he were her father; and soon after her mother’s death she gave avery strong proof of her readiness to be controlled by his wishes. We have spoken of Mary’s Maumer. This was a negro woman, who had nursed and attended on her always from her birth, and as she was kind and affectionate, Mary had become very much attached to her, and Mr. Mowbray had intended to send her to her uncle’s house with her, but to this Mr. Lovett objected. ‘She is a very good woman,” he said, ‘‘and takes great care of Mary —too great care, for she is now old encugh to 14 THE COUSINS. take care of herself; in my house she will not need a nurse: but this is not all. In Mary’s new home she must learn many new habits and un- learn many old ones. This cannot be always pleasing to her, and her nurse, being too ignorant to understand my reasons, would listen to her complaints, increase her dissatisfaction, and, per- haps, often teach her to evade my wishes. You can see how much more difficult this would make the task of her improvement both to her and to me.” Mr. Mowbray acknowledged the truth of this statement; yet he was so unaccustomed to deny any of Mary’s wishes, that he could not bear to disappoint her, and Mr. Lovett found that Mary’s cheerful compliance was necessary to the accom- plishment of his design. Calling her to him, he placed her on his knee, and said, ‘‘ You told me the other day you loved me. Now I want to know what you meant by loving me—how you feel to- wards a person that you love?” Mary hesitated a moment, and then, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, said, “T feel so.” MARY’S FIRST HOME. 15 “ That is very pleasant now, but I might be ill —so ill that even to touch me would give me pain; you would not kiss me then, but you would still love me, would you not?” “Yes.” “And how would you prove that you loved me?” After a little thought, Mary answered, “By doing whatever you told me to do.” “Very good! And you would do this, not be- cause you were afraid of me, but because you liked to do it—because you wished to give me pleasure —to make me happy. Is it not so?” “Yes.” “Then we have found out that to love a person is to wish to make them happy. Do you believe that I love you ?” “ Yes.” “Then you believe that I wish to make you happy; and if I should ask anything unpleasant from you, you would know that I had some good reason for it, for I could not love you and yet desire to make you uncomfortable; and now I am going to ask you to show your love for me by 16 THE COUSINS. giving up a great pleasure to gratify me. I can- not very well explain to you my reasons for asking this; yet, while you believe that I love you, you must know that they are good reasons. Whom would you like, most of all, to have go home with us 2” “Father !’ said Mary, looking smilingly around at Mr. Mowbray, who sat silent, but attentive, in the same room. ‘Ah! but you know that father cannot go, so that is a pleasure I cannot ask you to give up; but whom, next to father, would you most de- sire >” ‘*Maumer.” “T thought so; and now I wish you to leave Maumer. Do you love me well enough to gratify me in this?” There were a few minutes of silence, during which Mary sat with a downcast face, her lip quivering, and her bosom heaving with scarce- suppressed sobs. At length Mr. Lovett said, “Speak, Mary ! remember, I only ask this—I do not command it. Shall Maumer go or stay?” Mary looked up in his face, and said, with a MARY'S FIRST HOME. 1% ? great effort, ‘She must stay;” and, unable longer to control herself, dropped her head upon his bo- som, and sobbed convulsively. “ Lovett!’ said Mr. Mowbray, “I cannot in- flict such suffering on my child. Your family are all strangers to her, and she was always fearful of strangers; her nurse had better go with her.” Mr. Lovett caressed Mary tenderly and sooth- ingly, while he replied to this: ‘I know it must be severe suffering to Mary to part with an old friend, and such a kind friend as her Maumer, and I love her too well to inflict such suffering on her for any slight cause. Even now, important as my reasons are, if Mary finds it too difficult to grant my request, I will not urge it.” Mr. Mowbray took Mary from her uncle’s knee into his own arms, and said, ‘You hear what your uncle says, my daughter; nurse shall go if you wish it.” “No, papa, I don’t want her to go now.” Mr. Mowbray was afraid that there was a little anger about this decision, and that when it passed away, Mary would repent. He was, therefore, anxious to learn her reason for it, and asked her B 18 THE COUSINS: earnestly, “Why not—why do you not want her now to go?” ‘Because I know that poor mamma doesn’t wish her to go,” whispered Mary, leaning her head on her father’s shoulder. Surprised and overcome by this unexpected mention of his wife, Mr. Mowbray could not speak for a few seconds. When he could com- mand himself sufficiently, he asked gently, “‘ How can you tell, dear Mary, what mamma wishes about this; she never spoke to you of it, did she?” “No; but you know she said that Uncle Lo- yett’s wishes were her wishes too.”’ A fervent embrace was the only answer which Mr. Mowbray could make to his child, but Uncle Lovett praised her, and called her his good child; and, soothed and comforted, Mary went almost cheerfully to communicate to her nurse the new arrangement. To reconcile her to this arrange- ment was quite impossible. By turns she wept over Mary and railed against Mr. Lovett, saying often, ‘“‘T tink he is a bery hard case, dat de poor child must go to strange people, and not eben hab MARY’S FIRST HOME. 19 poor Maumer wid ’em to see if dey treat ’em good _or bad.” Mr. Lovett was very indulgent to the old wo- man’s expression of her feelings, for he knew that parting with Mary was a severe trial to her, and that she could not understand his motives; but her intemperate language showed Mr. Mowbray - how correct Mr. Lovett’s views had been, since every unpleasant task imposed upon Mary during the course of her education would: probably have excited her anger against those who were her directors. 20 THE COUSINS. CHAPTER 1 THE VOYAGE. Mr. Loverr and Mary came by sea to New York. It was January, but the weather was mild for the season, and very calm, so that, though their voy- age was long, it was not unpleasant. They spent twelve days on board the ship. Mary was sea- sick only for a few hours, during which her Uncle Lovett nursed her as tenderly as her Maumer, or even her mother, could have done. He carried her on deck in his arms, told her stories of her cousins Lucy, and Charles, and Emma, and read to her from some little books which her father had bought for her in Savannah. “When she be- came sufficiently accustomed to the motion of the ship to stand alone, and walk on the deck, he had many a romp with her there. He was on the THE VOYACR 21 watch, too, for all the wonders of the sea, that he might show them to her. When a dolphin was caught, he ran down stairs and brought her up quickly, that she might see the beautiful colours of the dying fish. He pointed out to her, ata distance, a jet of water spouting up from the calm sea, and told her it was thrown out from the nos- trils of the small species of whale called the Grampus.. But the most interesting to Mary of all she saw at sea were the little birds, which the sailors told her were called Mother Carey’s chick- ens. She was never weary of watching them, as they rested for a moment lightly on the crest of one wave, and then flew off to another. She pitied as much as she wondercd at them, and, though assured that this was their native home, she could not but think that they would be much more comfortable on shore, fed and housed as her pet pigeons were, or flying among the woods, and gathering their food in the fields of her home. As they approached the shore, there were other objects which interested and surprised Mary. It was quite early when, to speak as sailors do, “they made Sandy Hook,” which is tke first point 22 THE COUSINS. of land you pass in coming from the sea to New York. Early as it was, Mr. Lovett, who wished Mary to see the light-house, while its light still beamed upon the water, like a large and brilliant star, wrapped her up warmly and took her on deck with him. It wasa cold day, and the air had a sharp, cutting feeling, which Mary had never experienced before. It made the tears come in her eyes, but she had too much curiosity about the land they were approaching, and which it would soon be light enough for her to see dis- tinctly, to be willing to leave the deck. Mr. Lo- vett gathered together all the blankets, and cloaks, and shawls he could, and, getting a little nook for her, sheltered from the wind by the bales of cotton with which the vessel was freighted, he suffered her to stay with him. As the light from the light-house grew dim, what had seemed to Mary to be great clouds lying along the edge of the sky, so low that they touched the water, became more distinct in form and colour. They were the hills of Neversink, in New Jersey. Mary, who had lived always in a level country, and who had never seen a hill of THE VOYAGE. 23 half the height of these, clapped her hands, and cried, ‘Oh! Uncle Lovett, see the mountains— the mountains !” Uncle Lovett smiled, but he did not undeceive Mary; for he said to himself, ‘‘When she sees a mountain, she will readily enough perceive the difference.” The wind was fair and the vessel sailed fast, so that they soon came to that part of the bay called the Narrows. Hitherto they had only had land on one side of the vessel, but now Long Island was on one side and Staten Island on the other. Mary knew very little of Long Island. Mr. Lovett only raised her up once to see that it was there, and then covered her up again in her sheltered nook, from which she could only see the shore of Staten Island. There had been a great deal of snow, and the whole country was white with it. “Uncle Lovett,” said Mary, who had never seen snow, which rarely falls in Georgia, ‘do they never have any grass here, and is the sand always so white?” Mr. Lovett made her observe that what she 24 THE COUSINS. thought was sand was on the trees and houses as well as on the ground, and then he told her it was snow, and related some pleasant stories of his snow-balling, and making snow men and snow houses, when he was a little boy. There is a telegraph on Staten Island, and when they passed it, her uncle showed Mary how its great arms were moving about, and explained to her that the signs which were thus made were care- fully observed in New York, and conveyed the intelligence there that a ship was coming up, and even what ship it was. You will readily believe that, with observing all these things, and watching: the vessels going and coming, which seemed to her very numerous, though they were fewer than there would have been in a summer’s day, Mary did not find her sail from Sandy Hook to the city tedious. But from the time that the steeples of New York became visible, Mary could see nothing but them, and think of nothing but her new home, and the unknown aunt and cousins who were to welcome her to it. I am sure that all my readers who may have been obliged to leave their own THE VOYAGE. 25 dear homes, and their fathers and mothers, to go among strangers, will feel for Mary, and will desire to know something about this home, and the reception she was likely to meet at it. We will, therefore, leave Uncle Lovett to get a car- riage, and to see his and Mary’s trunks put on it, and to lift Mary into it, and, following her him- self, to drive to No. 96 part of the city, where we will go before him, and take a peep at the house, and at Aunt Lovett and the children. street, in the upper 26 THE SOUSINS CHAPTER 111. THE NEW HOME. THe house does not seem very large, but the steps, or, as we must say, now that we are in New York, ‘the stoop,” looks very nice and tidy. The door is quite clean, and the knobs of the lock are as bright as silver. Now we will go within the house. You need not take hold of the bell-handle: I can take you in without ring- ing. Now wearein. The hall is not very wide, but the floorcloth which covers it is spotlessly clean; and as we look up the stairs, the brass rods which confine the carpet shine as if they had just been cleaned. The parlour doors are open. There is no fire to be seen in either of the grates, yet the rooms are warm, though the air was so frosty out of doors. Ah! I see now THE NEW HOME. 27 what makes them warm: there stands the drum —there must be a stove in the hall below. Al this will be quite new to Mary. It would be long before she would suspect, if not told, in seeing that bronzed-looking statue standing on a square pedestal, and having an arch over it, that statue, and pedestal, and arch were all hollow, and that the heated air from the stove below ascended into them, and was distributed from them through these upper rooms. But there seem to be persons speaking below us: let us go down. Now we are in the basement, and is it not a pleasant room, with the sun shining so brightly on the windows, whose white muslin curtains shade, but do not shut out, his rays? The canary and mocking-bird do not want any shade, and so they are hung inside the curtains; and how they twitter and jump from side to side of their perches, as if they longed to get out and have more of the golden light. There is a little fire in the grate, not because it is needed, however, for the door is open, and there in the hall stands’ the Nott stove. Most people have some whims, 28 THE COUSINS. and it is one of Uncle Lovett’s few whims that he cannot feel warm unless he sees the fire. Aunt Lovett delights to gratify even his whims, and so she always keeps a little fire in this room when he is at home, and she has had it made here for several days past, with the hope that he would come before night to enjoy it. And there sits Aunt Lovett herself, with her foot on the cradle, in which little Emma, a baby of only eight months old, lies sleeping. She is teaching Charles, a boy of four years old, to spell, and is, at the same time, sewing on a dress which seems to be intended for a little girl, probably for Lucy, who sits beside her, busy, too, with her needle. But Charles has done his lesson, and, as he goes to put his book away, Lucy drops her work to talk a little. ‘Mamma, I wonder if they will come to- day?” “‘T hope so, Lucy, but they will certainly not come any sooner for your laying your work aside, Remember, that skirt must be finished to-day.” Lucy measures the skirt to see how much she has done, and discovering that more than half yet THE NEW HOME. 29 remains unhemmed, she sews very industriously for several minutes; then the needle is held suspended while she asks, ‘‘Mamma, did you not say that Cousin Mary had never been to school ?”” “Yes, Lucy, I did; and I told you so that, should you find. your cousin less advanced in her education than yourself, you should not consider it as a proof that she was less capable, but only as a reason for being more indulgent to her, and for endeavouring to help her forward in her lessons.” A few minutes more of silence succeeded, and then Lucy says, ‘“‘ Mamma, I had one hundred and twenty credit marks for good lessons, and seventy-three for punctual attendance, the last quarter.” “The credit marks for punctual attendance, Lucy,” answers her mother, “‘ should have been given, I think, to your father and me, for making you get up often against your will, and hurrying you to school.” But a carriage drives to the door. Charles, who has been looking out of the window, claps 30 THE COUSINS. his hands, and cries ‘Papa, papa!’’ Mrs. Lovett starts up. Lucy. drops her work and dances about, and the baby, awoke by the bustle, holds out her dimpled hands to be taken up, and laughs aloud at the antics of Charles and Lucy, doubtless supposing them to be enacted solely for her amuse- ment, Mr. Lovett came at once to the basement with Mary. His wife and children crowded around him to give him their welcome home. As soon as he had returned their affectionate greetings, he presented his companion to them, saying to Mrs. Lovett, “1 have brought you another daughter: this is our little Mary. To Mary he said, ‘‘Here are Cousin Lucy and Cousin Charles, Mary. I hope you will all love each other very much, and be very happy toge- ther.” “T love Cousin Mary,”’ cried Charles, hugging and kissing her with such earnestness that he almost threw her down. Lucy kissed her too, but more quietly; and even Emma, whom her father had taken from the cradle, seemed, by her laughter, and her soft toncs, to invite the stranger THE NEW HOME. 31 to be sociable; but Mary could not so soon be sociable. She had never been more than a few miles from her father’s house before, and every- thing here seemed so strange and so new to her, that she felt her distance from home and the change in her condition far more than she had done when on the wide sea, with no companion but her uncle. Then her uncle had talked to her about being soon at home, but now they were at his home, and Mary thought it could never be home to her. Her lip began to quiver, and the tears rushed into her eyes. She remembered her Maumer, and thought if she had been there, how she would have thrown herself into her arms and sobbed out all her sorrows. Mrs. Lovett saw something of Mary’s feelings, and thought them very natural. She pitied the poor motherless child, thus sent away from all she had ever known, and seating herself, she drew Mary affectionately to ber, and, placing her on her lap, said, ‘‘Come sere, my dear little girl, let me take off your wrappings, and warm your hands by this fire. You must be very cold.” Her veice was so soft and gentle that 82 THE COUSINS. Mary gained courage to look up in her face. Mrs, Lovett was quite touched by the anxious, be- seeching expression of Mary’s eyes, and, bending her head down to hide her own tears, she pressed her lips tenderly on her forehead. But Mary had seen those tears, and, feeling at once that she had found a friend, she dropped her head on her aunt’s bosom, and wept there as confidingly as she could have done in her Maumer’s arms. Mrs. Lovett did not ask Mary what she was crying for, or tell her that she must not cry, but she soothed and caressed her, parting her hair from her forehead, and calling her her dear little girl, till the sobs began to die away. Then she asked her some questions about her voyage—such questions as only required yes or no for an answer; and Mr. Lovett, taking Charles on one knee—J’mma was already on the other—told him of the dolphin, and the Grampus, and Mother Carey’s chickens, and of what Cousin Mary thought and said when she saw them, till Mary became interested too, and sat upon her aunt’s lap, and listened, and smiled, and was comforted. For some time there was no work and no study THE NEW HOME. 33 for Charles and Lucy; but after dinner, which was served at two o'clock, Mrs. Lovett said, “Come, Lucy, your skirt must be finished: two hours’ steady work will complete it, and then you can get your tea-set, and the cook shall bake you some little cakes, and your cousin and you may have a tea-party.” Lucy did not like the beginning of this sentence, but towards the last of it her eyes sparkled, and she cried joyfully, ‘“‘Oh, thank you, mamma!” and was seated at her work in a minute. For an hour her needle went quite fast, and she lost no time, except now and then a very little in mea- suring how much she had done. During this hour Charles had said another lesson to his mother had talked to Mary, and romped with Emma, who was creeping about the floor. Mary had played with Emma, and made acquaintance with the mocking-bird and the canary, and pulled off the only rose on Mrs. Lovett’s pet rose-bush, which seemed a very trifling affair to her, who had been accustomed to see perfect trees of the same rose blooming all winter in the open air. As the afternoon wore away, Lucy began to c 84 THE COUSINS. look at the windows, as if she feared the daylight would be gone before her task was done, and | Mary to watch the progress of the work with a doubt whether there was much prospect of an snjoyment which depended on its completion. At length Mary drew near her cousin, and in- quired, ‘Is it ’most done?” “Almost done!’ exclaimed Lucy, correcting her cousin’s ’most, without, perhaps, observing it. “¢ Almost done! no, indeed! I wish it were.” **Sew more and measure less, Lucy, and it soon will be,"’ said Mrs. Lovett, gently. “Can you hem, Cousin Mary?” asked Lucy, after a few minutes’ silent application to the necdle. “Oh! yes.” Now those who remember that Mary had been accustomed to ramble in the woods, and watch the fishermen, and that she was her father’s petted plaything, will easily believe that she had not spent much time in sewing, yet she was quite right in saying that she could hem. Mrs. Mow- bray had taught her daughter to sew very neatly, though she could not induce her to do much of it THE NEW HONE, 36 inaday. To hem around the skirt of a dress would have seemed to Mary like sailing around the world, the hemming one side of a pocket handkerchief in a day having been the greatest feat she had ever performed with the needle. “T wish Harriet Freeman were here!” said Lucy. She paused awhile, expecting to be asked why she wished it; but as no one thought of this, she added, ‘‘She is so good—she would help me directly.” Mary was too quick of understanding not to read this hint as it was intended, and she replied, “Tf I had a thimble I would help you.” “T can lend you a thimble. Mamma, Cousin Mary wants to help me; can’t she have my gold thimble just this afternoon ?’’ “Tf she wishes to help you, certainly. Do you wish it, my dear?’”? asked Mrs. Lovett, who had been engaged with the baby, and had not heard the previous conversation between the cousins. There was some charm in sewing, for the first time in her life, with a gold thimble, and Mary answered ‘‘ Yes, ma’am,”’ more readily than Lucy, perhaps, expected. The thimble—a birthday pre- c2 36 THE COUSINS. sent to Lucy from her grandmother—was produced, and Mary threaded her needle. “Shall I give you half to do?” asked Lucy. Mary looked frightened, for half of what was yet to be done on the skirt seemed to her a great deal. Mrs. Lovett marked the expression of her face, and said, “Oh! no, Lucy, a quarter of it will help you very much; besides, you could not get along so well with your cousin Werking so near to you.” A quarter was marked, and Mary’s labours began. She was really desirous to sew very fast, both from a good-natured wish to help her cousin, and for her own credit’s sake; but steady appli- cation to anything is not easy for one who has becn accustomed only to amuse herself, and before Mary’s one quarter was finished, Lucy exclaimed, ‘‘T have done!” then, looking over Mary, she added, “Oh, dear me! why, you have almost a finger to do yet!” “JT will do that,” said Mrs. Lovett kindly, taking the work from Mary’s hand. After ex- amining the sewing, she added, “your Cousin THE NEW HOME. oT Mary’s work is much better than yours, Lucy. It is ve1.7 neat, indeed.”’ “But 1 did mine more than three times as fast. I think hers ought to be best.” There was a little roughness in Lucy’s manner, as if she was vexed at her mother’s praise of her cousin. Mrs. Lovett took no notice of it, except by looking steadily at her for a moment, which Lucy understood as a reproof, for she hung her head, and looked ashamed. It was in a somewhat diffident tone that she asked, a few minutes after, ‘Mamma, may we have our tea-party now ?”” She was reassured by her mother’s cheerful reply, ‘Certainly; you and your cousin can set out your table in this corner, where you will be out of the way, and lay your cloth on it, while I get your cups, and saucers, and plates down from the shelf.” In a moment the little folks were all in motion. The table was soon arranged ; the tea-set, washed by Mrs. Lovett herself, was put upon it; the servant brought in the cakes which the cook had made for them; and when Mr. Lovett returned from a visit he had been making, he found Mary, 38 THE COUSLNS. and Lucy, and Charles, and Lucy’s doll seated at table. He placed a chair for himself at one cor- ner of the table, and ate a cake, and drank a cup of tea with them, declaring both to be excellent. The party went on very merrily, till Charles, having helped himself to butter with his own knife, Lucy scized his arm, exclaiming, “‘ Why, Charles, don’t you know that it is very rude to put your own knife in the butter?” Poor Charles, who had been playing the gentleman of the party to his own perfect satisfaction, hung his head, and Icoked quite abashed. Nor was he the only person made to feel unpleasantly by Lucy’s ill-timed repreof. Mary’s knife, too, had been in the butter, and she feared that Lucy had seen it, and intended her observations for her as well as for Charles. This was a mistake. Lucy knew nothing of Mary’s misdemeanour. Indeed, her rebuke to Charles was chiefly intended to display, to her newly-arrived cousin, her acquaintance with the rules of conduct observed among polite persons, and she was sincerely grieved at the evident gloom her lesson had cast over the party. ““My daughter,” said Mr. Lovett, “Charles THE NEW HOME. 39 was certainly wrong to put his knife in the but- ter; but Charley,” placing his hand affectionately on the little boy’s head as he spoke, ‘‘has not been much in society; he will know better one of these days.” Charles was consoled, and re- turned his father’s kind’ glance with a bright, happy smile. Mr. Lovett continued: ‘If Charles was wrong in what he did, you were far more wrong in your manner of correcting him. Re- member, after this, Lucy, that love is the best of all teachers, and anger the worst.” It was now Lucy’s turn to feel abashed, but Mr. Lovett practised his own rule, and did not long allow his daughter to think him angry with her. His kind and pleasant manner soon dis- persed the little cloud, and the remainder of the evening passed away cheerfully. At nine o'clock Lucy and Mary went up stairs to a small room "beside Mr. and Mrs. Lovett’s, in which they were to sleep together. Both of these little girls had been taught al- ways, before they lay down to sleep, to remember their Father in heaven, and to ask His pardon for the faults of the day, and His kind care through 40 THE COUSINS. the night. As Mary whispered, in low, soft tones, her simple prayer on this first evening in her new home, she felt that the words, “I pray God to bless my uncle, and aunt, and cousins,” which she had learned from her mother, and had repeated every evening from her infancy, had new meaning in them. It was for the first time a real prayer, for there was love in it. OVELTTES. 41 CHAPTER IV. NOVELTIES. Tux next morning, when there was just daylight enough to show distinctly the objects in the room in which Mary and Lucy slept, Mrs. Lovett stood by their bedside. “Lucy, get up, my child! get up, or you will not have time to put your room in order before breakfast.” ‘Oh, mamma, it’s so soon!” and Lucy rubbed her eyes, and made a vain attempt to open them. “‘T have been out of bed for an hour, Lucy. Come, I will help you up.” And Mrs. Lovett lifted her daughter playfully from the bed, and placed her on the floor. Mary slept on without stirring. Mrs. Lovett leaned over her, intending to awake her, but re- 42 THE COUSINS. membering her voyage, and remarking the depth of her slumbers, she said, ‘‘I will not awake your cousin yet, Lucy ; she is probably fatigued by her voyage. Let her sleep till you are ready to make the bed, and then call her.” Mrs. Lovett turned from the bed, but before she reached the door, Lucy said, sulkily, “‘ Mam- ma, must I make the bed for Cousin Mary every day ?” “No, Lucy, you must make it for yourself; and if you do not wish your cousin to sleep with you, she shall have another room, and I will make her bed.” Lucy looked ashamed, yet her ill-humour was not conquered, for she still muttered, as. if speak- ing to herself, “I don’t see why Cousin Mary can’t make a bed as well as I!” “Lucy !” said Mrs. Lovett, “you grieve me by such selfishness! When you wept for the death of your cousin’s mother, and hoped .your papa would bring her home, I. hoped you would take pleasure in being kind to her, and that you would be willing to do for her a far greater service than allowing her to sleep in your bed after you had NOVELTLES. 43 made it.” Mrs. Lovett paused, but, as Lucy did not reply, she resumed—“I wish your cousin’s new home to be pleasant to her; yet much of the attendance, and many of the indulgences to which she has been accustomed, she cannot have here. She will not be less happy—nay, I think she will be more happy for this, if ‘she sces that we love her, and strive, by our attentions, to prevent her missing them. This kindness on our part will make her love us too, and learn our habits, in order that she may help us; so that on both sides the labours will be from love, which makes ali labour light.” At. this moment Mary moved, and half opening her eyes, and, perhaps, seeing Mrs. Lovett dimly, said, ‘Mother!’ Lucy’s heart was touched ; the love which her mother’s words had failed to awaken stirred within her, and she said, ‘‘ Do not get up yet, cousin; the room will be warmer pre- sently, and I will call you in time.” When Mary did get up, Lucy assisted her very cheerfully in dressing herself. She then une covered the bed, and rang the bell for the servant. Jane, the servant, came in, and, turning over the 44 THE COUSINS. bed, arranged it for the clothes, which, after she had gone out again, Lucy spread upon it very carefully, walking around the bed several times to be sure that they did not hang lower on one side than on the other. She had not yet disposed the heavy quilt to her perfect satisfaction, when Mrs. Lovett again entered. Both Mary and Lucy had thick and curling hair, and, as they could not well comb and brush it themselves, Mrs. Lovett had come to do it for them. As soon as she had finished doing this, they went with her, first into her own room for Emma, and then down into the basement, where Mr. Lovett was seated, with a Bible and hymn-book on the table beside him. Charles called the cook and Jane, and when all were seated, Mr. Lovett read two verses of a hymn. Mrs. Lovett, Lucy, and the servants had each a hymn-book. Charley looked on his mo- ther’s book, though we doubt whether he could vead many of the words correctly, and Lucy, having found the hymn, held her book so that her cousin could sing with her. After the hymn, Mr. Lovett read a part of a chapter in the New Testa- ment, and then, knecling down, he thanked God NOVELTIES. 45 for his care of them all during the night, and prayed him to bless and be good to them through the day. There was nothing strange to Mary in this mode of beginning the day, for her father had been accustomed to do the same. After breakfast Mr. Lovett went out. He was a lawyer, and when he was in New York, gene- rally passed the whole day at his office in Wall- street. Mrs. Lovett, when the breakfast-table had been put away, was for some time engaged in the kitchen, and, during her absence, Lucy and Charles devoted themselves to the amusement of Emma, who was seated in the cradle. A ‘‘mau- mer” for Emma seemed to Mary a great want in her .uncle’s household, and she proposed to her aunt to send to Georgia for one; but Mrs. Lovett assured her it was not requisite, as Emma was not accustomed to be cari 2d in the arms in the house, and when she was uoroad Jane always carried her. About twelve o’clock, when the air was warm- est and the sun brightest, Mrs. Lovett sent Emma out with Jane, and she went out with Charles, and Lucy, and Mary. They walked first round 4 46 THE COUSINS. large enclosure, planted with trees and laid out in plots, which Lucy told her cousin were covered with grass in summer. They were now white with snow. This enclosure was called Washington Park. They then passed into Broadway. Mary had never seen so many houses in all her life to- gether as she saw on that morning, nor dreamed of so many people as were hurrying through Broadway. She asked her aunt who each person was that passed them at first, but she soon found, to her surprise, that of most of them Mrs. Lovett knew as little as herself. We have not time to tell you of all the novelties which Mary found in her present abode. She goon, as her Aunt Lovett had predicted, began to do many things she had never done before, in order to help her kind friends; and, as the exercise of grateful and affectionate feelings is always pleasant, Mary became industrious, and acquired habits of regular employment without any dis- agreeable constraint. Mary and Lucy often surprised each other by their different modes of speaking. That Mary used many very singular expressions cannot be NOVELTIES. 47 . denied ; nor will it seem very wonderful, if it be remembered that she had passed much of her time with her “ Maumer,” and been surrounded, at the period when she was learning to talk, with untaught negroes. But, had Lucy been as clear- sighted to her own faults as to those of others, she would not have assumed so arrogant an air of superiority to Mary on this subject, for she was not herself free from inaccuracies of language, as will be proved by the anecdote we are about to relate. Charles was one morning busily engaged in making a kite, in which employment he scattered papers and twine about the room, with little re- gard to the fact that his sister had just been. put- ting it in order by their mother’s wish. “Charles!” exclaimed Lucy, angrily, ‘what is the use of my putting the parlour in order, if you will make such a muss 2” “A muss!’ thought Mary, who was present; “what can that be?’ Mouse came nearer the word than any other she had ever heard, and she supposed that. Charles must be cutting a paper mouse. Still she was not quite satisfied with this 48 THE COUSINS. idea, and she would have addressed her question to Lucy, had she not feared to excite that taunting laugh which always made her so angry. Lucy left the room in a few minutes, and she then ap- plied to Charles. “« What are you cutting, Charles?” “TI am making a kite, Cousin Mary; did you ever see a kite sailing up, up as high as the clouds ?” “No, Charley; but I thought Lucy said you were making a mouse.” ‘“‘ Well, she did say I was making a muss.” “JT am sure that kite does not look like our mice.” “4 mice!” said Charley, who did not very well understand the distinctions of number, or of different orders of animals ; ‘oh, no, she did not mean @ mice ; mices are little rats, are they not?” “Well, what did she mean?” asked Mary, more confused than ever, and scarcely taking time, from her inquiries, to laugh at the blunders of Charles. ‘Oh, she meant a—a muss; Cousin Mary, you must ask papa; he will tell you all about it.” And Mary did ask her uncle in the evening, NOVELTIES. 49 when Lucy was not present. He laughed heartily at her story, and then bade her call Lucy, saying she must explain the word, as it was one he never used. When Lucy came, he said to her, “My daughter, your cousin says you told her thif morning that Charles was making a mouse in the parlour, and she wants to know what kind ot mouse it was.” Mr. Lovett spoke very seriously, but Lucy knew there was a laugh under his grave looks, and, like a, great many older and wiser people, Lucy could not bear to be laughed at. Her face flushed with anger, and she replied in a rude tone, “TI think Cousin Mary had better learn to speak properly herself before she laughs at me. I do not say, ‘Do don’t, and enty, and—’ ”’ she stopped abruptly, for her father had seized her arm, and was looking into her face with a sternness he seldom assumed to his children. As Lucy ceased speaking and hung her head, the sternness passed away from Mr. Lovett’s face, and its expression became deeply sorrowful as he said, ‘I was only disposed to laugh, Lucy, at your incorrect language, but I can scarcely forbear weeping at your improper temper.” D 50 THE COUSINS. Mary was: quite* grieved at the disagreeable feclings her innocent question had excited. Side- ling up to ‘Uncle Lovett, she put her hand on him, and said softly, -‘ Do don’t-be vexed with Cousin Lucy.” “TJ will not,” said’ Uncle Lovett, “if Cousin Lucy will show me that she is not vexed with you.” Mary drew near to Lucy, and, putting her arm timidly round her neck, said, “You are not vexed with me—are you, cousin?” Lucy’s-““No” was not very frank, but Mr. Lovett: said, ‘Then I am not vexed either, and you shall come here,’” lifting Lucy to one knee as he spoke, * “and Cousin Mary here,” placing ‘her on the other, “and we will have-a lecture on language ; you shall give us the’ meaning of muss, and she shall give us the: meaning of: do don’é, ‘and then’ I will tell you what I think of them both.” Tn ‘a moment the ill humour and the sorrow had all vanished. from ‘the faces of the little girls, who entered:heartily into what seemed to them a very amusing play. Lucy commenced the definitions, and, as she wasa lively and witty child, she gave” NOVELTIES. 61 & very amusing accountiof all that was meant by muss. ‘ When a great many people are collected in the street, and they: begin to shout, and run about in different directions, that is a muss; ‘and when there has been:a great deal of ‘snow,. and it thaws, and the streets are muddy, then they. are all in-a muss ; :and: when the: cook leaves:the dirty dishes on the table, and the pots and kettles on the hearth, there isa great muss inthe, kitchen ; and when Charles cuts papers: over) the carpet,’ and..leaves: his :ball}on..one chair, and his kite on another, he makes.a muss}: and: when mamma, up- sets her work-basket, she makes a,muss ;.and when papa—when papa gets downto his office, I guess he makes a muss sometimes.” ; This was all very archly said, and not only the girls, but Mr. Lovett:,too; laughed merrily atthe conclusion., When. the laugh was.over, Mr. Lovett said, ‘‘ Well, Lawyer Lucy, you have argued your case, and have certainly. made all:you could of a muss. Now. we will hear:Lawyer Mary plead for ‘do.don’'t.. What. have: you, to say for it,, Mary?” »Mary’s: ideas: of .“‘ do don’t,” seemed not. so clear -as: Lucy’s.-of. a: muss, for. she: hesitated, aa D2 52 THE COUSINS. if she did not know exactly how to express her meaning. “When do you use ‘do don’t,’ Mary?” asked Mr. Lovett. ‘When I want to beg a person not to do some-~ thing.” “You said to me just now ‘do don’t’ be vexcd; can you not ask the same thing in other words ?” Mary thought for a moment, and then said, “ Please not to be vexed.” “Very well,” said Mr. Lovett; “now I under- stand what you mean; but let me tell you what ‘do don’t’ seems to others to mean. Please to be —Please not to be vexed. And now both causes have been heard, Judge Lovett will pronounce sentence. Muss he declares to be inelegant, and altogether unnecessary, since there is some good and true English word expressing each thing for which it is used. ‘Do don’t’ he thinks quite in- admissible, because it commands two directly op- posite things, to do, and not to do, at the same time ; so he condemns these two faulty expressions to be banished for ever from the company of Miss Lucy Lovett and Miss Mary Mowbray; but the NOVELTIES. 58 court will take a recess, as I see mamma is pre- paring to pour out tea.” Thus did this kind father and uncle endeavour to improve his children in a cheerful, pleasant manner, correcting at once their faults of language or manner, and their worse faults of temper and fecling. He was often deeply pained at a display of vanity and selfishness in Lucy, which made her always anxious for praise herself, and jealous of any praise bestowed on another. These faults in Lucy had increased greatly during the last year, a part of which she had passed away from home. Her absence was caused by a severe illness, from which she suffered the summer before Mary’s arrival in New Youk, and which left her so feeble that her physician advised that she should travel. To travel at that time was scarcely possible for Mr. and Mrs. Lovett, and they gladly accepted the offer of a friend to take Lucy with his own family to Saratoga. She spent some weeks with these friends at the Springs, and afterwards at Niagara. At both these places Lucy met with thoughtless people, who, amused by the silly, af- fected airs caused by her excited vanity, were 54 THE COUSINS. ever ready to flatter her: by. saying “How pretty,” or “ How graceful,” or ‘‘How sensible a child Tucy Lovett is!” I said these people were thoughtless; I should: have said they were cruel, for a moment’s amusement to themselves, to cherish a great: evil in a child. “When they had laughed a while over Lucy’s vanity and credulity, they forgot her, but she did not forget them or their praises. ‘She returned home with her health restored, and, perhaps, many persons: would have said, with her manners improved. Lucy had for- merly been rather careless about her dress; she was now very attentive to it, and, but for her mother’s good taste and firmness, she would often have adorned herself ina way that would have been quite ridiculous. She now entered-a room casily, and conversed quite as readily as her father and mother. In truth, Lucy was no-longer. a little girl; she was a little lady, but:a vain and sclfish lady, expecting all to be occupied with-her, and hurt and offended when she'saw others obtain more notice than herself. Never had Mr. and Mrs. Lovett grieved over their daughter’s illness as they now gricved over her faults. We have NOVELTIES. 55 eaid that Mary Mowbray was a shy, timid child. There could not be a more perfect contrast than between Lucy and herself in company. She was bashful, awkward, and silent. Mr. and Mrs. Lovett would have gladly seen her more at ease, but they felt her awkwardness to be a less evil than Lucy’s vanity; yet even this evil they hoped that Lucy’s affectionate heart and good under- standing would overcome, aided, as these were, by their constant teachings, in which they: ever prayed God to direct them aright. Poor Lucy ! it required severer trials than her tender parents could have inflicted on her, to destroy this ‘root of evil.”” within her. 66 THE COUSINS. CHAPTER V. FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL. Wx must begin a new chapter, for we are going to describe a very important event in Mary Mow- pray’s life. The first day at school! what girl does not remember it—does not recollect how her heart sank within her, as father, or mother, or friend, left her there alone with strangers. So felt Mary, when, about a fortnight after her arrival in New York, her Aunt Lovett left her at Mrs. Butler’s school with her Cousin Lucy. ‘‘ With her Cousin Lucy !” my readers exc.aim; ‘why, then, she was not alone.” Ah! but I doubt whether Mary found much comfort. from the presence of Cousin Lucy. If, from want of acquaintance with the rules of a school, or want of education, she should commit any error, Mary FIRS1 DAY AT SCHOOL. 57 knew that not one of all the strangers around her would detect it more quickly, laugh at it more pro- vokingly, or report it at home so eagerly as Cousin Lucy. ‘ How ill-natured Lucy must have been!” you are all ready to say. No, my young friends, Lucy was not ill-natured, but always ready to display her own superiority, even at the expense of wounding the feclings of another. The first morning of Mary’s school life was passed in such an examination of her acquirements as might enable her teacher to assign her a place in the various classes of which her school was composed. To Mrs. Butler’s first question, ‘To what studies have you ever attended, my dear ?” Mary found it very difficult to reply. She looked up and looked down, grew red and grew pale, but said not a word. Lucy Lovett, who neglected no opportunity of showing her information on any subject, called from a distant part of the room, ‘‘Mrs. Butler, Cousin Mary never studied at all; she never was at school.” Mrs. Butler saw the workings of quick feeling, as well as of quick temper, in the tears that sprang to Mary’s eyes, and the deep red that burned in 58 THE COUSINS. her cheeks as Lucy thus published her want of education. Mrs. Butler’s manner was always gentle, but it was dignified as well as gentle, and ‘Lucy’s eye sank abashed beneath the grave ex- pression of hers, as she said, ‘‘ When I desire any information from you, Miss Lovett, I will address myself to you.” She: then drew Mary nearer to her, saying, “I know, my dear, that you have not heen to school, and perhaps you have not had vregular lessons at home; but: you have read.some “books, have you'not?” » Yes,-ma’am,’’: ¥ “« And what were they? Can you not tell me something of them ?”’ ““T have read. Early Lessons, and the Parent’s Assistant, and Peter Parley’s books— all Peter Parley’s books.” ‘‘ Then you have read his history of the United States?” “Yes, ma’am; and. I have read a much larger history of the United States than that.” “Perhaps, then, you can tell.me in what part of the United Statcs the first settlement was made ?” FIRST’ DAY “AT SCHOOL. 59 “ At Jamestown, in Virginia.” “ By whom ?” “By English people.” “Under whose command ??”: ‘Under Captain Smith’s.’?: In this way, by a kind;and gentle manner, Mrs. Butler drew from her little pupil an ‘account.of the first settlement of most of the colonics, and of the most remarkable events occurring afterward:in the history: of the United States.:o She :then’ asked, «Did you ever read any other history?’ “Yes, ma’am, I read:some in the History of England.” By a few judicious questions, Mrs. Butler found that Mary was well acquainted with the most im- portant facts in early English History. « For this information, Mary was: indebted rather to her mother’s wisdom and perseverance than toherown. Mrs. Mowbray had insisted on her daughter's reading a small portion. of ;history to: her every day, when she would explain to her whatever she did not understand, and.would often impress ‘an important circumstance on her mind by telling her some pleasant story about it. 60 THE COUSINS. “And now,” asked Mrs Butler, at length, ‘‘ can you tell me what England is—whether it is a con- tinent or—” “Tt is an island,” answered Mary, without waiting for the conclusion of the question. “ And in what geography did you learn that ?” “