Hannah/Chapter 3

This is no sensational or exceptional history, but one that might happen—does happen—continually. The persons therein described are just ordinary people, neither ideally good nor extraordinarily bad. Not so weak as to be the mere sport of circumstances, yet human enough to be influenced thereby, as we all are. In short, neither heroes nor heroines, but men and women—the men and women of whom society is mainly composed, and for which it has to legislate.

Hannah Thelluson was no heroine, Bernard Rivers no hero; and they had not lived many days under the same roof before they made that mutual discovery—more especially as they had plenty of spare time in which to make it; for, the fine autumn melting in continuous rain, no visitors came near the House on the Hill—not even from the Moat House. Miss Thelluson had called there, as she promised; but the family were out driving. Next day a footman brought her the cards of Lady and the Misses Rivers, with an apology for not calling, on account of the rain.

"They will ask you to dinner next; my people are very particular on points of etiquette," observed Mr. Rivers, evidently annoyed.

But Hannah was not annoyed at all. Not even when the invitation never came, and the rain cleared up; yet somehow or other she had been nearly three weeks at Easterham without having once met her brother-in-law's family.

Of Mr. Rivers himself she had enough and to spare. It is a severe trial for any two people to be thrown on one ​another's exclusive society—at meal-times, and all other times that politeness requires—striving in a hopeless manner to make conversation, eager to find out and seize upon the smallest point of mutual interest which will break the dull monotony of the time. What they were to her brother-in-law Hannah could not tell, but to her the first four days seemed like fourteen.

It was not from the dullness, which she would have put up with, being a very patient woman; but Mr. Rivers sometimes vexed her exceedingly. His desultory, lazy way of hanging about the house, his variableness, his irritability, and, above all, his indifference and carelessness about every body and every thing, were—to a woman who all her life had found plenty to do, and if she could not find work, made it—utterly incomprehensible.

"But I suppose it is because I am a woman, and have never been used to live with any man—except my father, and he was not a man; he was an angel!"

So she argued with herself, and "did her duty," as she considered it, to the full; placing herself at Mr. Rivers's beck and call every hour in the day, following him about obediently, as he evidently liked to be followed; for his craving after sympathy and his horror of solitude were almost painful to witness: in short, trying to devote herself to him as a nurse does to a sickly, naughty child—naughty because sickly. But she did not enjoy this task. His unhappy, restless face made her heart ache; his aimless, useless life afflicted her conscience. A man, a father, a clergyman—surely he was made for better things. If Heaven had taken away his delights, his duties still were left him. He ought to rouse himself.

And one day, driven almost to desperation by the way in which he had done nothing, hour after hour, but moon about and "bother" her, as an idle, melancholy man does bother a busy woman—and Hannah had not been twenty-four hours in that chaotic, headless house before her head and hands were quite full of business—she ventured to hint this.

​"Work!" he answered. "I have no work; nothing that I care to do. She always did every thing with me; we went about the parish together; she used to call herself my curate in petticoats; and the curate was much more useful than the vicar, I believe. Oh, Hannah! you knew what she was, but you never knew what she was to me!"

A tender idealization, perhaps; but the sister felt it deeply. Every memory of poor Rosa was most sacred to her heart too.

"But," she reasoned, "is there nothing you could do, if only for Rosa's sake? She could not bear to see the parish neglected, as you say it is. She would like you to look after the poor and the sick, and carry them comfort."

"I carry comfort!"

"Those can who have known sorrow."

The widower looked at her, uncomprehendingly, with his wild, wistful, miserable eyes—this woman so quiet, so gentle, yet somewhat sad too.

"You have known sorrow?"

"I have."

"Can you teach me how to bear mine?"

What she answered was very little, but it was to the purpose; something like what the Lord said to the man sick of palsy—what He says to every man who is sinking under the paralysis of grief—"Rise up and walk!" She told him in plain words, that instead of sitting at home to mourn, he ought to go out and work.

"I would, only I have no heart to go alone. There is an endless number of parish visits due—where she always went with me. If—"

He hesitated. Hannah hesitated too. It seemed usurping so pointedly the place of the dead; and yet—that dreary, helpless, appealing look of the lonely man!

"If you like—that is, if you do not dislike my coming, and I can be of any use to you—"

"Would you go with me? That would be so very kind. Only this muddy, damp day—"

​"Oh, I never mind mud or rain!"

"Nor trouble, nor fatigue, nor any thing else unpleasant, so long as you can do a kindness. She always said so, and now I have found it out for myself."

Hannah smiled. Until now she had no idea whether her brother-in-law liked her or not, and she was not above the pleasantness of being liked. "Suppose, then, I go and put on my bonnet at once?" And as she did so she caught a sight of her own face in the glass, smiling. "If he likes me I may get some influence over him, so as to make my duty easier. And I will try to see his faults less plainly, and his good points plainer, as people should who are obliged to live together. How shall I be able to teach my little girlie to love her father if I do not love him myself a little? I may in time!"

And she went down stairs with a more cheerful heart.

After that nearly every day she and "the parson" went out together, and he made her acquainted with all the poor people in the village. Only the poor. The few big houses there were, taking their cue from the biggest of all—the Moat House—or from some other mysterious reason, into which Miss Thelluson did not care to penetrate, but which apparently annoyed Mr. Rivers a good deal—of these she saw nothing. They did not call.

Little she cared. Every minute of her day was occupied. Household affairs, parish work, the endless help that her brother-in-law soon came to expect from her. Often Hannah smiled to herself at finding that before her new life had lasted twenty days, she was growing a busier woman than ever—too busy to heed outside things. Besides, in addition to all this, there had come over her a change which made her feel as if outside things never could affect her any more. She had fallen in love.

Smile not, readers—masculine readers especially—who think that we women can fall in love with nothing but your noble selves. The object of Hannah's passion was only—a baby!

People say that babies are all alike; but it is to those ​who do not discriminate them or love them, who take no interest in that wonderful and most pathetic sight—the growth of a human soul. Ay, and a child's soul begins to grow almost as soon as it is born. Within three months—mothers know—you can almost see it growing. At least in most children.

Now, at nine months old, little Rosie Rivers was an actual, individual character, with an individual soul. It had shone out of her eyes that very first morning when she opened and fixed them on her aunt, who sat beside her, watching for her waking. And when Hannah took the little white bundle in her arms, Rosie first drew herself back, and with grave, sad, appealing eyes, intently contemplated the stranger. "Who are you? What do you want with me? Are you going to be kind to me?" said the mute little face as plain as any words. Then, as if satisfied with her investigation, she slowly dropped her head on her aunt's shoulder, and Hannah pressed her passionately to her breast.

Thus they fell in love—the woman and the child—and the love grew day by day in a miraculous—no! in not any miraculous way. Children have a heavenly instinct in finding good people, and people that love them, in whom they may safely trust. Ere two days were over Rosie would leave any body to go to her aunt's arms. As for Hannah, she could not get enough of her felicity. Had she not longed for this, ay, ever since she had dressed up her big doll in her own half-worn baby-clothes, and caressed it with all a mother's devotedness, at eleven years old? To have a baby—a baby of her very own, as it were (for nurse had given warning at once), it was perfect content. Every minute that she could steal from Rosie's father she gave to the child: she would have liked to be in the nursery all day long. When wearied out with Mr. Rivers's restlessness, saddened by his gloomy face, she would fly for refuge to that sunshiny room—her own room—which she had made as cozy and pretty as she could, and find it a heaven of peace; for the bright little face, the happy ​little voice, were something nearer heaven than any thing her life had as yet ever known.

It might not have been the same with all children; but the poor, motherless Rosie was a very original child. Small, quiet, gentle, pale, there was yet in the baby mouth a firm little will of its own; and in the serious eyes a strange out-looking, as if seeing something grown-up people could not see—seeking, perhaps, the mother she was never to know. Very soon Hannah learned to think that tiny face unlike all the faces she had ever beheld. Not that it was pretty—poor Rosie was wholly unworthy, physically, of her handsome father and beautiful mother—but it had such a world of changeful meanings in it; it was such a wonderful thing to study and marvel over. In its peaceful, heavenly dumbness it seemed to come to the lonely, shut-up woman like a face out of the unknown world.

Such a companion Rosie was, too! Miss Thelluson was accustomed to big pupils; and, fond as she was of children, they sometimes worried her; but this soft silent creature, with its pretty ways; its speechless yet intelligible wants, only soothed her, and that inexpressibly. She would sit or lie for hours on the nursery floor with Rosie crowing over her, investigating her watch, her keys, her hair, her dress, with that endless pursuit of knowledge under difficulties peculiar to infants who are just catching hold of the key of mystery which unlocks to them the marvelous visible world.

And the world invisible—even that seemed to be very near about this little child. The words, "in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven," were always coming into Hannah's mind; and the awful punishment of those who sin against "one of these little ones," seemed to be only natural and just.

"You seem very fond of that baby," said Mr. Rivers, one day, when she had tried to make it an attractive drawing-room guest for about a quarter of an hour.

"Fond of"—what an idle, unmeaning word! Why, ​Rosie was a treasure that one of God's angels had dropped into her arms straight from the Father's house, and bade her cherish it and make it into an immortal soul, fit for His kingdom on earth, which is one with His kingdom in heaven. This was how Hannah felt when she watched the child. But she said nothing. How could Mr. Rivers, or any man, understand? Who could put into any father's face the mother-look of the Virgin Mary?

As she stood there, with Rosie leaning across her shoulder, and patting auntie's cheek with that little dimpled hand, Mr. Rivers, who had traveled half over Europe, and knew every Madonna by heart, called her to look at herself, for she and the child were just the picture of a certain Holy Family he named.

The color came painfully into Hannah's cheek. She, too, like Mary, could have sung her Magnificat; all to herself—her quiet, lonely self. What had she done that Heaven should send her this blessing—she, a solitary woman of thirty years old? As she carried away little Rosie—who was quite too much for papa, except in the character of a Raffaelesque bambino, and for about the space of ten minutes—she clasped the child passionately to her heart. It had never beat so warmly, so hopefully, since her Arthur died.

This was on a Sunday morning, the first sunshiny Sunday since her arrival; and as Miss Thelluson and her brother-in-law walked together through the bright-looking village, all the neighbors turned out in their best clothes to go to church and criticise the stranger. Easterham was a sufficiently small place for every body to know every body; and Hannah was fully aware she was running the gauntlet of innumerable eyes—"upper-class" eyes: among the poor she was already well known. But this was the first time she had taken her public place in the parish—the first time, for many a long year, that she had walked to church arm in arm (country fashion, he offered bis, and she accepted it) with a man, and a man that belonged to her. It felt—not exactly uncomfortable, but—strange. ​Her brother-in-law, however, seemed quite at ease, and every person who came up to speak to him he carefully introduced to "My sister—Miss Thelluson." Sometimes it was "sister-in-law," but always pointedly "sister."

"He is not in the least ashamed of me—no more than he was of his wife," thought she, with a certain comfort. For if she had been much given to mind outside things it might have struck her that this handsome young man, with his Norman ancestry, his easy fortune, and his position as heir-presumptive to one of the first families in the county, was a strong contrast to a quiet, rather old-fashioned governess—even though she was his wife's sister. But if she had also been a duchess he could not have shown her more tender politeness; and Hannah was grateful.

It was only when he looked toward the wicket-gate which divided the church from the Moat House, of which it seemed originally to have been a mere appurtenance, that his countenance fell.

"I see my people coming. We must stop and speak to them. It will be best, as you sit in the same pew, and as—as we may have to go to lunch. They generally expect me on Sundays."

"But not me—oh, I hope not. I want to be at home to give Rosie her dinner." And Hannah, with a nervousness for which she despised herself, shrank back from the fashionable elderly lady and her four fashionable daughters, who seemed to fill up the whole of the yew avenue, quite shutting out little old Sir Austin, who came tottering after on his gold-headed stick.

"Never mind Rosie, for once. If they ask you, do not refuse, pray," whispered Mr. Rivers. He seemed either excessively fond of, or painfully subservient to, his family—a family which appeared to Hannah very much like most other county families—well-looking, well-bred, well-educated, and exceedingly well-dressed. Among the odd fancies that flitted across her mind—she had had a keen sense of humor, and even a slight turn for satire, in her ​youth—was the comical suggestion, What would they be without their clothes?—that is, how would they look or feel if dressed like work-house women, or laborers' wives, or, still worse, in the red chemise of Charlotte Corday, or the white sheet of Jane Shore? They looked so very proper—those five ladies, sweeping one after the other down the church aisle, and kneeling, not a fold awry in their draperies, round their respectable square pew—that to imagine them placed in tragical or anywise exceptional circumstances, where the trappings of worldly formality had dropped off them, and they had to feel and act like common creatures of flesh and blood, seemed a thing impossible.

Foolish thoughts these were, perhaps; but they were partly owing to her brother-in-law's sermon, which was exceedingly commonplace. He had said himself, overnight, that he felt not the slightest interest in his sermons, and only did them mechanically, not believing them at all. It looked like it; and as Miss Thelluson listened—or rather tried hard not to, for listening irritated her so—she wished that, instead of being in church, she were sitting on the sunny lawn beside that little white daisy with a pink hood, which, as she kissed it before leaving, had looked up to her with eyes in which were written the best sermons in the world—eyes that seemed as if only an hour ago they had seen the angels.

As Hannah thought of them she forgot Lady Rivers, with her withered, but still red—ah! far too red—cheeks, and the Misses Rivers, with their fashionable clothes. What were they to her? Had she not her baby—her little Rose of June? The dainty, soft, round, innocent thing! how sweet she must be looking now in her midday sleep at home! It was the first time that, even in thought, Miss Thelluson had called her brother-in-law's house "home." She did so now, for her baby was there.

Her baby, and no one else's; for no one seemed to take the smallest interest in it. After service the procession of five silk gowns, with women inside them, sailed slowly ​back down the yew avenue, and through the garden to the beautiful old Moat House; but nobody asked after baby. Neither grandmamma nor aunt seemed to remember there was such a creature in the world. Hannah hugged herself half indignantly, half exultingly, in the fact. Her baby was all her own.

The Rivers family were perfectly polite to her. The invitation to lunch was given, and—chiefly because of the anxiety she saw in her brother-in-law's eyes—accepted; so they sat down all together in the grand old dining-room, with generations of defunct Riverses watching them from the walls. The conversation was quite general, and rather insipid; indeed, Hannah could not help thinking how very dull was the company of grown-up people after that of her baby. Her baby! whose dumb intelligence was such an infinite mystery, such an endless interest. She longed to be back at home with Rosie; nevertheless she did her best, for Mr. Rivers's sake, to be pleasant; and when—he having a christening and a funeral, though there was no second service—he asked her to wait for him, that they might walk home together, she sat down again to endure another hour of the foolish heart-ache which mothers understand when they are kept away for a good many hours from the helpless creature that depends on them so entirely.

The bright day had settled into autumnal rain, so the family party gathered round the fire—doing nothing, of course, as it was Sunday. Sir Austin openly fell asleep; Lady Rivers took up a huge Bible and "meditated"—nodding a good deal at intervals; the girls began sotto voce that desultory gossiping which is supposed to be so much more Sabbatical than books or work. They were all pretty girls—nay, rather pleasant girls, these four paternal aunts of little Rosie; and her maternal aunt tried hard to get acquainted with them, and find out what was really in them. But, of late years, Hannah's life had been so much spent with children, and so little with young ladies, that she found herself completely at sea, and watching these ​specimens of modern womanhood with the grave, perplexed criticism of an elder generation.

"Will my Rosie grow up thus?" she thought to herself. "Will she talk about 'jolly,' and 'green,' and 'the maternal parent,' and 'the governor?' Will there come into her little innocent head such very odd ideas about love and marriage?" (One of the girls was engaged, and the others evidently hoped to be ere long.) "Is she to grow up a little Miss Rivers, after the pattern of these?"

Not if auntie can help it, answered auntie's quiet, strong heart, as the awfulness of her self-imposed duty, extending far into future years, came upon her with double force. A boy would have belonged to his father, and been made naturally and wholly a Rivers; but a girl—this little unwelcome girl—was hers and Rosa's. Might baby not grow up to be the foundress of a new family, the mother of many sons? This childish old maid, whose race was done, built up no end of castles in the air for her niece Rosie. In which, I am afraid—and yet in time to come Miss Thelluson was not sorry, but glad of this—Rosie's father had not the slightest share.

She fell into such a dream about the child—even in the midst of the young ladies' chatter—that she quite started when Lady Rivers, suddenly waking up, and most anxious to appear as if she had never been sleeping, put a sudden question.

"By-the-by, Miss Thelluson, I hear you have discharged Anne Savage, and taken a new nursery-maid?"

"Mrs. Savage gave me warning herself; but I was not sorry, as I prefer a younger woman," said Hannah, quietly.

"That, pardon me, is a mistake. I always made a point that my head nurse should be over forty."

"But you had a nursery full of children; I have only Rosie."

"Oh, by-the-by, how is Rosie?" cried one of the girls. But as she did not wait for an answer, Hannah never gave it.

​"And who is your new nurse?" said grandmamma, in a rather severe, grandmotherly tone.

"Grace Dixon, sister, I believe, to those Dixons of whom the village is so full. It was Mrs. John Dixon, the blacksmith's wife, who recommended her to me. She said you knew the family well."

"Miss Thelluson seems to have acquainted herself with Easterham people as if she had lived here all her days—or meant to do so," said the eldest Miss Rivers, who was at times a little sharp of speech. She was nearly twenty-eight, and still Miss Rivers, which she did not like at all.

"No; I do not mean to live at Easterham all my days," returned Hannah, glad of an opportunity to remove any false impression the family might have of her coming to take entire possession of her brother-in-law, and rule rampant over him all the rest of his life, as evidently they thought he might be ruled. "On the contrary, I earnestly hope my stay here will be short—that your brother may soon find a good wife, and need me no more."

"So you approve of second marriages?"

"Yes," said Hannah, swallowing down a slight pang. "Yes. In a case like this, most decidedly. I think the wisest thing Mr. Rivers could do would be to marry again, after due time; that is, if he married the right woman."

"What do you mean by 'the right woman?'" asked, Lady Rivers.

"One who will make a good mother as well as a good wife. In his first choice a man has only to think of himself; in a second marriage he has usually to consider not only himself, but his children."

"I don't fancy Bernard will be in any haste to marry again. He was very, very fond of poor, Rosa."

It was Adeline, the youngest, who said this; and Hannah's heart warmed to her—the first who had called her dead sister "Rosa," or, indeed, spoken of her at all. To Adeline she turned for information about the Dixon family, and especially about the girl Grace, whom she had taken chiefly upon instinct, because she had a kind, sweet, ​good face—a sad face too, as if she had known trouble; and had, indeed, begged for the place, because "her heart was breaking for want of a child to look after."

"What an odd thing to say! Well, my heart wouldn't break for that, at any rate," laughed Adeline. "But really I can tell you nothing about the poor people of Easterham. We have no time to go about as your sister did. Bernard ought to know. Here he comes."

Hannah looked up, almost glad to see Mr. Rivers return. His society was not lively, but it was less dull than that of his sisters. Just to keep conversation going—for it had reached a very low ebb—she explained to him the matter under discussion; but he seemed to have forgotten all about it.

"If you remember, I brought the girl into your study, and you liked her appearance, and said I might engage her at once."

"Did I? Then, of course, it is all right. Why talk it over any more? I assure you, girls, one of Miss Thelluson's great merits is that she does not talk things over. As I always tell her, she can act for herself, and never need consult me on any thing."

"But you ought to be consulted," broke in Lady Rivers, "and in this matter especially. My dear Bernard, are you aware that in your position you ought to be very cautious? Miss Thelluson, a stranger, is, of course, ignorant of certain facts, otherwise Grace Dixon is the very last person she ought to bring into your household."

"Why so? The Dixons are an excellent family—have lived at Easterham Farm half as long as the Riverses have lived at the Moat House."

"It is the more pity," said Lady Rivers, drawing herself up. "My dear Bernard, you have surely forgotten; and the subject is a little awkward to speak of before Miss Thelluson and the girls."

Hannah sat silent, expecting one of those sad stories only too common in all villages. And yet Grace Dixon looked so sad—so innocent—and her kindly and very re​spectable sisters had not seemed in the least ashamed of her.

"I can not guess what you mean, Lady Rivers," said Bernard, irritably. "I know nothing against the Dixons. The daughters were all well conducted, and the sons—"

"It was one of the sons. But perhaps I had better not mention it?"

The good lady had a habit of "not mentioning" facts, which, nevertheless, she allowed to leak out patently enough; and another habit of saying, in the sweetest way, the most unpleasant things. Her step-son had winced under them more than once to-day, as Hannah noticed he did now. Still he replied, with perfect politeness:

"I think you had better mention it. It can not be any thing very bad, or I should have remembered it. Though I do forget things often—often," he added, relapsing into his usual dreary manner.

"If you will rouse yourself you surely will remember this, and the discussion there was about it one evening here—a discussion in which your wife took part and gave her opinion, though it was an opinion contrary to your own and mine."

Bernard's countenance changed, as it did at the slightest mention of his lost darling. "Yes; I recall the matter now," he said, and stopped suddenly.

But Lady Rivers went on triumphant. "The scandal, Miss Thelluson—though I must apologize for referring to it before you—was just this; one of the brothers Dixon lost his wife, and six months after wanted to marry her sister, who had been keeping his house. He actually came to Mr. Rivers, as her clergyman, and asked him to marry them. A marriage, you understand, within the forbidden degrees—between a man and his deceased wife's sister."

She looked hard at Hannah, as if expecting her to be confused; but she was not—no more than when Lady Dunsmore had referred, though in a much more direct way, to the same subject. It was one so entirely re​moved from herself and her own personality that she felt no more affected by it than she should have been if, in Lord Dunsmore's drawing-room, she had heard some one telling a story of how a father eloped with his children's governess. Of course such things were, but they did not concern her in the least.

Her entire innocence and composure seemed to shame even Lady Rivers; to Mr. Rivers, though at first he had colored sensitively, they gave self-possession at once.

"Yes," he said, "I remember the whole story now. Dixon did come and ask me to marry him to his sister-in-law, which, of course, I refused, as it was against both the canon law and the law of the land."

"And the law of God also," said Lady Rivers, sharply.

"That I did not argue; it was no business of mine. I was rather sorry for the man—he seemed to have no ill intent; but the marriage was impossible. However, this does not concern the rest of the Dixon family or the new nurse-maid. What about her?"

But as often as he tried to slide away from the unpleasant topic his step-mother pertinaciously slid back again.

"Excuse me; I think it does concern the rest of the family. No one can touch pitch without being defiled, and a scandal like this affects every one connected with it. How did it end, Bernard?"

"I can not tell. Probably Dixon went to some other and less scrupulous clergyman, or some distant parish, where they could put up bans and be married without being known; or, probably, he went back and they lived together without being married at all. Such cases happen continually. But why speak of them? Is it necessary to speak of unpleasant things?"

Yet the way he himself spoke of them, with a mixture of directness and grave simplicity, as only a pure-hearted man ever does speak, struck Hannah much. Also his quiet way of getting over an extremely awkward position, which to avoid would have been more awkward still. But Lady Rivers would not let him alone.

​"And I suppose you think now, as I remember Mrs. Bernard did at the time, that you were wrong in refusing to marry the man?"

"No; I was right. I have been similarly applied to many times since, for the poor have strangely confused notions on this point, and I have always refused. The law makes these people brothers and sisters; therefore they can not possibly be married. But, my dear Lady Rivers, let us leave a topic which really does not concern us. The matter of moment now, Aunt Hannah," turning toward her with the smile of a worried man who knows that there, at least, he shall find rest, "is, that you and I must leave this warm fireside and walk home through the wet together; unless, indeed, we make up our minds to swim."

The perfect freedom, and yet friendly respect of his manner, healed over all the discourtesies which Lady Rivers had so remorselessly inflicted. Miss Thelluson rose, thankfully enough, and they two started off in the pelting rain, for nobody ever thought of ordering the Moat House carriage on a Sunday. Besides, Hannah never minded weather, and the storm seemed almost to do her brother-in-law good. Like all really manly men, he was roused and cheered by the necessity of fighting against something; perhaps, also, of protecting something. He wrapped his sister-in-law well up, and sustained her steps carefully against the wild equinoctial blast, which was almost like pressing against a stone wall.

After they quitted the Moat House Mr. Rivers never referred to the matter which had been so obstinately and unpleasantly discussed in their presence. He seemed at once to accept it and ignore it, as those should whom fate has placed in any anomalous or difficult position that lays them open to many annoyances, which must, nevertheless, be borne, and are best borne with complete indifference. Hannah took her lesson from him—not without a certain respect, deeper than she had yet felt—and did the same.

​They parted in the hall, he to go into his study, she to run eagerly up stairs, drawn thither by the little merry voice which was heard through the nursery door chattering its utterly unintelligible English. Hannah's face bright- ened into something almost like beauty at the sound. Ro- sie's father stopped to say,

"You are getting very fond of my child."

"It would be strange if I were not. Is she not my niece—my own flesh and blood? And, besides, I don't think there ever was such a child!” cried foolish Aunt Hannah. "Just look there!"

The little round rosy face—it was rosy now, having grown so already in the pleasant new nursery, and un- der incessant loving care—was looking through the bal- usters, making a vain effort to say, "Peep!" at least so Rosie's imaginative female worshipers declared it to be. Behind appeared Grace Dixon's pale, kind, sweet looks, moved almost into cheerfulness by the brightness of baby's. A pretty sight; and for the first time it seemed to bring a ray of sunshine into the widower's household. He sighed, but his sigh was less forlorn.

"How happy the child looks! Poor Rosie, she is not in the least like her mother—except in that sunshiny na- ture of hers. I hope she may keep it always."

"I hope so too, and I believe she will. I did not think her pretty at first; but never—never was there such a touching child."

"It is your doing, then."

"And Grace's, too. She has been quite different even these few days since Grace had her. I hope "—and here Hannah could not help coloring a little—"I hope you will not require me to send away Grace?"

"No." Mr. Rivers paused a minute, and then said, gravely: "I am sorry that any thing should have vexed you to-day. Do not mind grandmamma; she speaks thoughtlessly sometimes, but she means no harm. She likes interfering now and then; but you can bear that, I know. Remember, I will always uphold you in matters ​concerning Rosie or the household, or any thing else that you think right."

"Thank you," replied Hannah, warmly. She shook cordially the hand he gave, and ran up stairs to "auntie's darling" with a light heart.