Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. HILDAâS MASCOT A Tale of âMaryland, My Marylandâ BY Mary E. Ireland Halftones by Donald Gardner The Saalfield Publishing Co. Chicago ââ AKRON, OHIO ââ New York Copyright, 1902 BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY To Her Dear Young Friend, MARY LOUISE GRAHAM, This story of âHildaâs Mascot,â companion to âTimothy and His Friends,â is affectionately dedicated by The Author. Washington, D. C. Contents CHAPTER IâTHE EBONY BOX CHAPTER IIâHILDAâS AUNT ASHLEY CHAPTER IIIââMY LADYâS MANORâ AND ITS MYSTERY CHAPTER IVâA VISIT TO FRIEDENHEIM CHAPTER VâHILDAâS NEW CARE-TAKER CHAPTER VIâHILDA A LITERAL FOLLOWER OF BUNYAN CHAPTER VIIâHILDAâS WELCOME TO MY LADYâS MANOR CHAPTER VIIIâLETTERS WHICH BRING A TRIAL TO HILDA CHAPTER IXâAT THE GYPSY ENCAMPMENT CHAPTER XâAN OFFER OF MARRIAGE CHAPTER XIâHILDAâS LETTERS TO HER OLD HOME CHAPTER XIIâJERUSHA FLINT AND HILDA CHAPTER XIIIâHILDA BY THE MERRYMAN FIRESIDE CHAPTER XIVâARCHIE FINDS A PACKAGE CHAPTER XVâHILDAâS HOME CHAPTER IâTHE EBONY BOX One evening many years ago a man, accompanied by a girl and a boy, was passing slowly along one of the streets of Baltimore that led to an orphan asylum. He was above medium height, and although past thirty, was youthful, almost boyish in appearance, with his fair complexion, blonde hair and slight moustache; a handsome man save for the pallor and attenuation of his clear-cut features and the look of hopeless grief in his fine eyes. His left hand, white and shapely, held that of the little boy who was chatting merrily, and in his right was a packageâof which, though bulky, he appeared as oblivious as though his hand were empty. Beside him walked the girl, whose watchful interest in the package betokened ownership, though intrusted for a time to anotherâs care, but for the safety of which she was responsible. She had the clear olive complexion, black hair and the brilliant black eyes of the boy, but unlike him, was thin and almost as pallid as the man. But there was no lassitude in her movements; instead they were full of energy, and her meagre face, while intelligent and attractive, lacked repose and the promise of patient endurance of lifeâs trials and disappointments. âWe never were on this street before,â she commented, after walking several squares in silence. âWhere are we going; tell me?â There was no response, and she continued, âDoes mamma know that you are taking Horace and me away from her? Why donât you talk?â A sigh, almost a groan, escaped the lips of the man, and he whispered some words which the children did not understand. An angry flush arose to the girlâs face, and her eyes sparkled with the tears that filled them. âI wonât go one step further unless you tell me where we are going,â she said, halting and stamping her foot impatiently. The man seemed to rouse from his abstraction with effort, and in a voice scarcely audible to the eager listener, replied, âWe are going where you will see many children, where you will have enough to eat, a comfortable bed and good clothes; you will have a much better home than the one you are leaving.â âBut I have good clothes now and pretty ones,â and she looked with an air of satisfaction upon the package. âWill mamma come?â The man trembled with suppressed emotion, which was noticed by the boy, who looked up into his face and waited for the answer. âYour mother will be given a home where she will suffer no more sorrow nor distress of body or mind,â he answered, and again relapsed into silence until they reached the asylum, were admitted and stood in the presence of the matron. âHave you brought these children for admission?â she asked. The man nodded; he could not summon voice to speak. âWhere is your permit?â For answer he turned as quickly as his weakness would allow, placed the package upon a chair and left the building. âWell, this is a strange proceeding, I must say,â commented the matron, looking from the window at the retreating figure passing down the walk with uncertain steps. âIs that man your father?â Something in the tone and manner aroused the quick temper of the girl and she refused to answer, and silenced the boy by a look when appeal was made to him. âWhat is your name?â continued the matron, turning again to her. âJerusha Flint.â âHow old are you?â âTen last June.â âIs the boy your brother?â âYes.â âWhat is his name and age?â âHorace Flint, and six years.â âWhere is your mother?â was next asked. âAt home, sick.â âWho sent you here?â âNobody; we came to have a good home and plenty to eat. I have pretty clothes in there; I helped mamma make them,â and she nodded complacently toward the package on the chair. âYou helped indeed,â smiled the matron, glancing down at the diminutive creature before her. âI did help! I can sew!â cried Jerusha, trembling with anger and weakness; âmamma taught me, and says I sew well for a child. See, here is my thimble,â and she took it from her pocket and placed it upon her thin finger. âYes, for a child; we do not expect much from a girl of ten. Let me see your clothes.â This request brought a gratified smile to the grave lips of the little girl; she untied the package with deft fingers and took from it a pink cashmere gown, soft and fine in texture, made in the latest style and with artistic skill. âWho gave you this lovely dress, child?â âMamma, I told you. We made it out of one she wore at boarding-school, and this, and this,â and she took up one of dark blue cashmere, and one of crimson, both of the finest grade. âBut, child, these beautiful dresses will be of no use here.â âThey _will_ be of use,â cried Jerusha excitedly. âI heard mamma say that if my grandfather would take me to his home I would wear pretty clothes like these every day.â âBut you are not at your grandfatherâs; you are in an orphan asylum, and must wear that uniform.â âWhat is an asylum, and what is a uniform?â was asked wonderingly. âCome to the school-room and I will show you,â and leading the way, she opened the door into a large room where a number of children were studying their lessons for the next day. âNow you see the way the girls dress here, and you will dress the same if you stay.â âBut I will not dress that way, and I will wear my pretty dresses or I will not stay.â âWe will see first whether you can stay,â commented the matron coldly. âIn the meantime you will remain in this room and listen to the children during the half hour they study, then you can go with them to the playground,â and she signalled to one of the teachers to give the newcomer a place. That place was beside Diana Strong, an orphan a few years older than Jerusha, and tall for her age. She had flaxen hair, pale blue eyes, a sallow complexion and a long upper lip, which, however, did not conceal the large front teeth. But withal, there was an expression in her plain face of such genuine kindness and sympathy for everybody and everything that all felt comfortable in her presence. The matron had in the meantime returned to the reception-room and conducted Horace to the boysâ department of the institution where, in a short time, he was as much at home as if he had known no other. Investigations made the next day by the managers gave, after strict research, confirmation that Jerusha Flint and her brother were really objects of charity. The mother had died a few days after the little family of four had taken possession of a miserable home, the children had been taken away by someone, and the place was tenantless. That was all the neighbors knew of the matter, so nothing was left to do, even if otherwise desired, but to keep them in the asylum. A few evenings after this conclusion was reached, the matron, in her quiet, comfortable room, was about to enjoy her evening meal after the labors of the day. The children of all ages and sizes were in their white-robed beds after their simple supper of bread and milk, and were sleeping perhaps more sweetly than if in more luxurious homes. A tap upon the door was followed by the entrance of an old friend, a trained nurse from one of the city hospitals, who was cordially invited to break bread with the hostess. âI will,â she assented, âbut first I must tell you of this,â and she took from its wrappings an ebony box of curious workmanship, inlaid with pearl, beautiful in design and finish. âWhere did you get it?â asked the matron, taking it in her hand. âIt was put in my care by a patient at the hospital who said he had brought a girl here named Jerusha Flint, and her brother Horace. He asked me to bring it to you to keep safely and give it to Jerusha when she is sixteen. He said she had often been shown by her mother how to open it, and would remember how it is done; you see it has no key.â âDid he say that he is the father of these children?â âNo. I have told you all that he said; for he became delirious, and although he talked to himself in a low tone or a whisper, there was nothing connected enough to let us know who he is. All I can say is that with his blonde hair, deep blue eyes and tinge of color in his face, now that he has fever, he is as handsome as a picture.â âI wonder how long he will remain in the hospital?â âUntil he is carried out, if I am not greatly mistaken. He has brain fever, his system is completely run down and the doctors say that he has suffered a severe nervous shock. There is no hope whatever of his recovery.â âHas he no friends, I wonder?â âNo one has called to see him. The doctor found a letter in his pocket, addressed and sealed, but not stamped. He asked me to write to the gentleman whose name and address was upon it, and inform him that a man who had taken two children named Flint to an orphan asylum was lying at the hospital dangerously ill. I did so, enclosing the letter, but there was no reply to either.â âIn his delirious talk does he say nothing of his past life?â âYes, he rambles on about an elopement, and of disobedience to parents, and of the regret and misery which was its punishment, and of his bringing someone to poverty, and of a long, weary walk, and of a terrible fright, and of a key, which is, I suppose the one we found in his pocket; but he whispers most of the time, and we cannot understand him.â The matron unlocked a drawer in her desk, placed the box within, locked it, and then the two sat down to the tea, toast and other edibles which the maid placed upon the table. âDo these Flint children fret much for their parents?â asked the guest, as she sipped her tea. âThe boy is a cheery little soul, and has never shed a tear; and I do not believe that the girl grieves for them, although she has long spells of crying in some corner away from the other children. Once Diana Strong put her arm around her and asked why she wept, and received a slap in the face, and an angry request to attend to her own affairs.â âIs Diana the girl who is intending to be a trained nurse?â âYes, and if ever one was born to that calling Diana is that one. She is gentle, patient, quiet, watchful, can do with little sleep and is never happier than when in the sick-room of the asylum waiting upon someone that is ailing.â âWhen will she begin her training?â âWhen she is fourteen. As you know, the children here do nearly all the work of the institution, and in this way, beside getting a good common education, they learn housework, cooking and sewing. If the girls and boys show aptitude for any special trade or occupation, they can leave the asylum at the age of fourteen to learn it; the boys returning here as their home until they are eighteen, and the girls until they are twenty. That little Jerusha will, I am sure, wish to learn dressmaking.â âIs she fond of sewing?â âYes, and I never saw a child so adept with the needle. The sewing teacher says she is a wonder. She is fond of dress and has several beautiful gowns which she says were made over for her by her mother. Why she made three for a growing girl is more than I can understand; it was a waste of beautiful material; one at a time would have been sufficient. They fit her to perfection; but the clothes of the boy, while beautifully made, are ill-fitting and of coarse material.â âWas Jerusha willing to wear the uniform?â âNo; she refused to put it on and acted so about it that she was not allowed to go out with the other children upon their daily walk. Moreover, some of the older ones have told her that only poor children are here and she is ashamed of being with them, but I earnestly hope she will outgrow the feeling.â In this she was mistaken. Jerusha did not outgrow it; instead, the thought grew more intolerable with every passing year. She shrank from the sight of visitors, and refused to act as guide through the great building, a duty which most of the orphans considered a privilege and pleasure. She formed an attachment for no one under the roof, and saw Diana Strong depart for three yearsâ training in the hospital without one word or sign of regretâDiana who had always stood her friend, when through her violent temper and insubordination she was in difficulty with the matron or her assistants. Jerusha had inherited the haughty, imperious disposition of her mother, her motherâs father, and her motherâs grandfather, who, owing to an ebullition of temper, was forced to flee from his native country and seek refuge in America. She, like her maternal ancestors, was impetuous and irritable, resentful and unforgiving; therefore it was a foregone conclusion that in her journey through the world she would be held aloof by those who might have been her friends, and her coldness, want of affection and above all, her pride, kept her aloof from those with whom she was compelled to mingle. âLove thy neighbor as thyself,â was a creed which she did not assimilate. Horace was as different as if of another race. He had inherited the easy-going nature of his father, who had been the petted and only son in a luxurious home. Therefore the asylum and everything connected with it was, in his opinion, all that was required to keep one happy and contented. He considered it so superior to the home they had left that he wondered at Jerushaâs dissatisfaction, while she in turn was angry at his want of pride and ambition. The large playground in fair weather and the basement playroom when it stormed were the dearest spots on earth to him. He had plenty of playfellows, something never before enjoyed, for his mother refused emphatically to allow him to play with any children in the poor neighborhoods where they were compelled to live; all he knew of them was what he could see from a window. Years passed, and Jerusha looked forward with impatience to the time when she could be self-supporting and thus leave the asylum, and on the day that she was fourteen she engaged herself as apprentice to a fashionable modiste. Her employer was more than pleased with her skill, for even at that early age she could be trusted to work without oversight, and resented any that was not strictly necessary. She was glad when Horace was at last old enough to leave the asylum to learn the trade of carpenter and locksmith, and they never met during his apprenticeship that she did not urge him to be diligent in learning all that was possible that he, too, might be self-supporting and they could have a home together. There were two subjects which all who were acquainted with Jerusha found it wise not to touch upon if not wishing to have a scathing retort from her satirical tongue. One of these subjects was her early home and parentage, and the other the asylum which had fostered her helpless childhood, the home of which she grew more and more ashamed as time passed on. She never spoke of it of her own free will, and dreaded Saturday evening when she must go there to remain until Monday morning. It was during one of these visits that her sixteenth birthday dawned, and the matron gave her the little ebony work-box. Jerusha received it without betraying the least surprise and restrained her impatience to open it until she could be alone, and the matron was never rewarded for her care of it by being told what it contained. She did see, however, in the increased haughtiness and arrogance of Jerusha the influence exercised by its contents and wondered again and again what it held, which induced her to keep herself more than ever aloof from her and from every inmate of the asylum. To Jerushaâs deep chagrin the ebony box held no money or valuables as she had hoped and expected from the moment it was put in her hands. It held neither more nor less than three letters, one of them written by Mrs. Flint to her father, and returned to her enclosed in his reply. The third letter was addressed to Jerusha, and was written by Mrs. Flint, telling her âpoor, motherless little daughter, Jerusha,â of her ancestry on both sides of the house. In this letter Jerusha was instructed to forward the other two letters to her grandfather at the address given, providing the time ever came that she desired to do so. Dating from the perusal of these epistles, Jerusha refused to remain with the dressmaker, but making of necessity a home of the asylum, she commenced business for herself, finding no difficulty in obtaining patrons, some of them being the best customers of her former employer. These ladies, appreciating her skill, solicited her oversight of their toilets, and she went from one aristocratic home to another, where her word was law in regard to costumes. Being recommended by these patrons to suburban friends, she drifted to the village of Dorton, a few miles out of Baltimore. Thus while her city employers were at the seashore and the mountains, Jerusha was summering with four families in that picturesque part of Maryland, plying her art with untiring fidelity. Her favorite place of the four was âMy Ladyâs Manor,â the handsome villa of Mrs. Farnsworth, widow of Joshua Farnsworth. The next best was âFriedenheim,â the country-seat of the Courtneys; then in order came âFair Meadow,â the fine farm of the Merryman family, and lastly the colonial mansion of Dr. Lattinger, in the village of Dorton. Jerusha was industrious, capable, prompt and energetic, but she was lacking in enthusiasm in regard to her art. Many persons with but half her ability had become originators of designs for costumes, and in time owned large establishments which gave employment to many helpers. Jerusha craved no prominence in that line. It was only the force of necessity that made her willing to be self-supporting through the only work she could do well. She was too impatient and irritable to teach her craft to others. She could not direct, nor could she endure to have about her, helpers for whose mistakes she would be responsible. She had felt herself alone all her life and expected to remain so. During these years Diana Strong had finished her training as a professional nurse and was recommended by the hospital physicians as one of the best. More than once she had charge of an invalid in a wealthy home where Jerusha happened to be employed; they took their meals at the same table, but the subject of former acquaintance was a tabooed theme with Jerusha, and Diana was too amiable to go counter to her wishes. Every season that Jerusha went to Dorton she grew more anxious to abide there, and her gaze rested frequently upon a deserted brown frame dwelling of four rooms about a mile out of the village. It had not been tenanted for years, and was fast going to decay, but Jerusha saw that a few dollars spent upon it would convert it into a home, and a home was the greatest longing of her heart. She mentioned the subject to Horace several times during his apprenticeship, but he evinced no enthusiasm upon the subject. He was well satisfied with Baltimore and his asylum acquaintances there, and saw no need of change. But, as was the rule where Jerusha was concerned, she had her way, and after Horace was free to go and she had secured employment for him through her patrons at Dorton, they took up their residence in the little brown house. Jerusha had bargained that they should have it rent free for three years providing they made all necessary repairs. To this the owner agreed, and also to allow them for a nominal rent the large plot of ground back of it for a garden. At all leisure times the saw and hammer of Horace could be heard, paint and lime were not spared, and flowers sprang up at the touch of Jerusha, who at last had a home of her own. The short distance from it to the railway station, and the few miles of car ride to the city enabled them to have employment at both ends of the line, and if there was ever a moment in Jerushaâs life when she could consider herself contented, it was when after each dayâs absence she came in sight of the brown dwelling. Seasons had come and gone, and Jerusha, who never before had known attachment to person or place, was one evening sitting with Horace on the moon-lighted porch, after a busy day in the city. She was discussing further improvements, the only subject which was of interest to both, but to which Horace that evening lent but an absent-minded attention. âJerusha,â he said, as he arose to retire, âI am to be married to-morrow to one who was in the orphan asylum with us. Her name, as you will remember, is now Jennie Strong, and she is the widow of Diana Strongâs brother. I shall bring her here.â He closed the door and Jerusha was alone with her astonishment and her anger. CHAPTER IIâHILDAâS AUNT ASHLEY Miss Jerusha Flint was not the only one who appreciated the home of Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, in Dorton. Not only the villagers, but people of the surrounding neighborhood had a warm feeling for the genial and hospitable residents of the old colonial mansion, which had been for generations in the family of Mrs. Lattinger, and where she had lived all her life. The Lattingers had also frequent visitors from Baltimore, where the doctor had spent the early years of his practice, some of them being former patients who came out for the day for change of air and scene. One pleasant morning in June, Dr. Lattinger had the unexpected pleasure of a visit from a former college chum, a lawyer who had a short time before bought one of the pretty suburban homes, and, as was the doctorâs custom, he took him upon his round among his patients. âYes, doctor,â commented the visitor, when about noon they were returning to the village, on the same drive upon which they had set out, but in an opposite direction, âyou are correct in your opinion of this region of country; it is prosperous and beautiful. There are so many picturesque spots. For instance that cottage nearly covered with ivy, which we are about to pass, is a picture in itself.â âYes, it is the home of an artist, Norman Ashley, who, with his wife, came here from Baltimore that he might have natural scenery for his pictures. They are handsome young people and live an ideal life.â âThat lovely little girl amid the roses on the lawn is, I suppose, their daughter.â âNo, she is Hilda Brinsfield, the orphan niece of Mr. Ashley.â âHilda Brinsfield!â echoed the gentleman in surprise. âMy wife and I were wondering only yesterday what became of that sweet child after the death of her lovely young mother.â âThen you are acquainted with her parents?â said Dr. Lattinger with interest. âOnly for the little time I have lived in my present home. Her father, Rev. Freeman Brinsfield, was pastor of our village church, his first charge. I heard incidentally that his means had been exhausted in his college and theological course, and he was very grateful for the call. My friend also added that he came of a long line of ministers, one or more of them being pioneer missionaries. Little Hilda is a child of prayer and has the promise of being cared for.â âShe certainly has a happy home with the Ashleys, who come as near idolizing her as Christian people will allow themselves to worship anything earthly. The three pass most of this beautiful June weather in the open, Mr. Ashley taking his artist equipments, Mrs. Ashley a book and a basket of luncheon, and Hilda her doll and toys, and in the shady woods or blossoming orchard they encamp.â âTruly an ideal life; and now tell me who lives in that handsome villa just above it, but on the opposite side of the road?â âThat is the residence of Miss Anna Ashburton, and is called âMy Ladyâs Manor,â for as you probably know, most country homes in âMaryland, My Marylandâ have names, generally pretty well adapted to their appearance. It was left to her by a widowâMrs. Joshua Farnsworthâwho died a few months ago. They were not the least related, but loved each other as mother and daughter.â âHad Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth no relatives to whom she could leave her property, or who would contend for it?â âNo, her only near relativeâher sisterâthe widow of the late Judge Lacy, of Springfield, Ohio, is wealthy, has no children, and has no need of what Mrs. Farnsworth gave to her foster daughter.â âMiss Anna is elderly, I presume?â âNo, scarcely eighteen, is amiable and attractive, finely educated, a musician and artist; an orphan without a relative in the world, so far as is known.â âBut she does not live alone in that great mansion?â âYes, with the exception of a middle-aged womanâMiss Jerusha Flintâwho lived with her brother, Horace, and his family in the brown cottage we passed this morning, about a mile beyond the other end of the village, and who was more than gratified when Miss Anna invited her to make her home at âMy Ladyâs Manor.ââ âThey must live a lonely life there.â âNot at all. Miss Anna is much beloved, and has many visitors, not only from the neighborhood, but from Baltimore. Moreover, the servants, who have known and loved her from babyhood, have their comfortable quarters back of the mansion, and as Miss Annaâs library and sleeping-room windows look directly down upon the doors of their cabins, Lois, Phebe and Judy are at all hours of the day and night within call.â âIt is not likely that Miss Anna, being young and attractive, will remain long unmarried.â âIf the opinion of the neighborhood be correct, she will in the near future bestow her hand and heart upon Mr. Valentine Courtneyâthe brother-in-law of our good pastor Rev. Carl Courtney, of âFriedenheim,â the old homestead of the Courtneys. He is a lawyer, has his office in Baltimore, but makes his home at âFriedenheim.â He is one of the most useful and liberal members of his brother-in-lawâs church, and is in every respect an estimable young man.â âYou say âbrother-in-lawââand yet the Rev. Carl is a Courtney.â âYes, he is a distant relative of his wife, and of her brother, Valentine, and his home from childhood has been at âFriedenheim,â which was inherited by Mrs. Courtney.â âThat walk upon the roof of Miss Annaâs villa must give a fine view of the surrounding country.â âFine indeed, and it has a history, and a mystery. About twenty-five years ago, Mr. Joshua Farnsworth died there, it is believed, by an unknown hand.â âIn what manner?â asked his visitor, full of interest. âAs I was informed by my wife and others of the residents of the neighborhood, Mr. Farnsworth, who was in his usual excellent health the evening of his death, had gone to the village postoffice, and while perusing a letter just received, a hand was laid upon his shoulder by a stranger, who said in a low tone, âJoshua!â âMr. Farnsworth turned very pale, the two went out, and walked to âMy Ladyâs Manor,â talking earnestly. Later in the evening they were seen upon the roof, seated upon the bench that lines the ironwork balustrade, still engaged in earnest conversation, and a few hours after, the villagers were shocked to hear that Mr. Farnsworth was found there, dead, and the stranger gone, no one knew when nor where.â âBut was there no investigation as to the cause of his death?â âYes, and the verdict at the inquest was death from heart failure; but those who witnessed the meeting at the postoffice, and the villagers who saw them on the walk upon the roof believe that the stranger took his life.â âAnd you say that no one knew how and when the stranger left the place?â âNo. Judge and Mrs. Lacy were visiting there at the time. They and Mrs. Farnsworth had retired, as had the servants, all the doors and windows were locked for the night and the shutters closed; and thus they were found when about midnight search was made for Mr. Farnsworth. Not a footfall had been heard, or sound of any kind giving token of the departure of the stranger. It was, and has remained a mystery.â An elegant suburban home indeed was âMy Ladyâs Manorââa three-storied granite building, light gray in color, with sea-green cornice and shutters and partly screened by maple trees from the road leading to Dorton. From the walk upon the roof could be had a charming view of woodlands, meadows, farmhouses, country-seats, mill properties, the creek that flowed past them, and villages; among them Dorton, with its one church spire. In the distance Baltimoreâs monuments were clearly discernible, the harbor with its forest of masts, the Patapsco flecked with sails, Federal Hill and Fort McHenry; all uniting in a varied and attractive landscape. Yes, âMy Ladyâs Manorâ was one of the choice places of the neighborhood, and Jerusha Flint felt it a pleasant change to be the respected companion of its young lady owner, and, having given up her despised occupation, was blooming into youth and beauty in the sunlight of a happy home. Among Annaâs many acquaintances there was no one whose friendship she prized more than that of Mrs. Ashley. They were congenial in every way, save that Mrs. Ashley, though but a few months older, cared but little for society, where she would have been such an ornament with her fine presence, deep blue eyes, wealth of auburn hair and a complexion of matchless fairness. The company of her husband, Hilda and Anna was all she solicited, and had but a speaking acquaintance with the people of Dorton and its neighborhood, making no calls except to âMy Ladyâs Manorâ and âFriedenheim.â The Civil War was darkening the land, and Norman Ashley laid aside palette and brush to join in the struggle between the blue and the gray. He was not willing to leave his wife and Hilda in the cottage without a caretaker, and as Providence willed it, Diana Strong was indulging in a respite from hospital work in the home of Mrs. Horace Flint and was willing to assume the light duty of housekeeper at the Ashley cottage. Jerusha Flint was the negotiator in the affair, and as she generally carried to a successful issue whatever she undertook, Diana was duly installed and Mr. Ashley went to join his regiment with the comforting thought that his little family was in good hands. This separation was a terrible trial to the young husband and wife, and Anna Ashburton was Mrs. Ashleyâs faithful friend and comforter. She had also great affection for Hilda and would have her for hours at a time at the villa, to the secret displeasure of Jerusha, who had no love for any child, much less for one connected in any way with Mrs. Ashley, looked upon by Miss Flint as proud, cold and self-sufficient. Moreover, that grim tyrant, jealousy, had taken possession of Jerusha, assuring her that it was a blessed relief to the cultivated intellect of Anna Ashburton to exchange for a time her dull companionship for that of the cultured and accomplished Mrs. Ashley. The first time that Anna made an engagement with Mrs. Ashley to gather wood flowers, she invited Miss Flint to accompany them, but her courtesy was rewarded by a haughty refusal and a scornful flash of the black eyes. Anna knew that this was not intended for her, but for the waiting Mrs. Ashley down at the cottage, who knew nothing of Jerushaâs feeling in regard to her, nor did Anna think it kindness to enlighten her. On her part, Jerusha considered that in view of the information contained in her motherâs letter in the ebony box, she had a better right to be proud than had Mrs. Ashley, and therefore would not take a step out of her way to be in her company. âWhere did you first meet Mr. Ashley?â Anna asked one summer afternoon while they were arranging flowers under the shade of an oak tree, while Hilda, who always accompanied them, was busy gathering more. âIn a hail-storm in Ohio. Shall I tell you of it?â she asked. âYes,â replied Anna gleefully, âthe beginning being so romantic, it cannot fail in interest.â âYes, a little romance and a great trial; for it has partly estranged me from my sister and her husbandâDr. Cyril Warfieldâwith whom I made my home after the death of our parents. âThe estrangement is more my fault than theirs. I should not have treated them with coldness and reserve in return for their lightly expressed opposition to my marriage,â and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. âI should not have mentioned the subject; please do not continue it if it distresses you,â pleaded Anna, her eyes filling in sympathy. âI am glad you mentioned it. I have wished to tell you of myself, but never felt sufficiently acquainted until this summer, and you cannot realize what your companionship has been to me since my husband left for the battlefield. âWhile our parents lived, they, with their three childrenâSarah, Herbert and Iâresided in our old homestead in Ohio, near the village of Woodmont, a few miles from Springfield. âPapa had intrusted the property for his children to the hands of friends in whom he had confidence; but through their failure we lost heavily, and when the estate was closed there was but a remnant left of what he intended for us. âWhen Sarah, who is ten years older than I, married Cyril, she went with him to the Warfield homestead which adjoined our place, and there they have lived happily. But Cyril is in feeble health and Sarah is very anxious, fearing he will never be better. âHerbert, with his share, bought the store of a merchant in Woodmont and Sarah and Cyril took me to their home where I was treated as tenderly as are their two boys, Paul and Fred. âOne afternoon in June I had driven to the village postoffice and was returning as quickly as possible, for the appearance of the clouds betokened a storm. I had passed a turn in the road when rain came down in torrents, then hail fell fast, the wind blowing it in my face, stunning and nearly blinding me. âThe terrified pony ran. Then as the hail storm increased in violence, she crouched down and I was about to spring from the carriage when a hand restrained me. ââYou are safer there,â said Mr. Ashley, for it was he who spread the carriage robe over the pony and encouraged her to rise; then he stepped into the carriage, took the lines from my trembling hands, and, turning about, drove to the shelter of a large tree. It was all the work of a moment, and he had scarcely glanced at me until I spoke, thanking him for his assistance. ââThe storm will soon be over,â he remarked in response. âWill you allow me to see you safely home? My name is Norman Ashley and my home is in a village near Baltimore with my widowed sister, Mrs. Brinsfield. I am an artist and, with several of my fellow-artists, am traveling upon a sketching tour. They have gone further west, I remaining in Woodmont, having found some picturesque views for sketching and putting later upon canvas.â ââI do not wish to keep you so long in damp clothing,â I said. ââOh, we tramps do not mind such trifles,â he replied lightly, and as soon as the hail ceased falling we sped home. âMy sister and brother-in-law had been terribly anxious and were rejoiced to see me unhurt. They welcomed Mr. Ashley cordially, invited him to dine with us the following day, and then Cyrilâs farmer, Ben Duvall, took him in the phaeton to Woodmont.â âHe came next day, I am sure,â smiled Anna. âYes, and the next and the next; and Dr. Warfield and every member of the family enjoyed his genial society. He brought his sketch book, and every day that Cyril had leisure he took him to the prettiest spots in the neighborhood, and at other times Paul, Fred and I accompanied him in woodland rambles and watched in surprise the quickness and accuracy with which the scenes were sketched. âHis companions returned from their tour and his stay in Woodmont was ended; and the morning he called to say good-bye he presented sister Sarah with a fine oil painting from one of the sketches she had admired. âHe asked to correspond with me and letters passed between us for more than a year. Through the meeting in Springfield of a former classmate, a resident of Baltimore, Cyril learned that Mr. Ashley was a consistent church member, a Sabbath school teacher and in every way an estimable young man. Therefore the only objection that he and sister Sarah made to our marriage lay in what Mr. Ashley had considered it his duty to tell them, and me, that his only means of maintenance was in the sale of his paintings, and they feared that it was an uncertain dependence. âThe following autumn we were married and he brought me to his sisterâs home near Baltimore. She was the widow of a young minister and the mother of our loved Hilda. She was in frail health, but lingered until spring, and oh, Anna, during that winter I learned how a Christian can meet death. She had not reached her twenty-fifth year and her callers from the city were principally her former classmates, her church, Sabbath school, music and art associates, and not one, I am sure, visited her without being impressed and benefited by the sweet serenity of her manner and the almost angelic expression upon her lovely features. She was an embodiment of gratitude to God who had answered her prayers, that her life might be spared until her brother married, and that his wife would be one who would be willing to take her only child, her beloved Hilda, and one to whom she would intrust her. She blessed me with tears of joy that I proved to be that one. She gave Hilda to me and I accepted the charge, promising to do the same by her that I would were she my own child. âOne sweet morning in May she was called to come up higher, and a week or so later we left the city and came to the cottage.â âThank you for telling me of yourself and those near to you,â said Anna. âI feel that you and Hilda are dearer to me than ever, and I have interest in your sister, Mrs. Warfield, and her family. Does she resemble you?â âYes, the description of one would answer for both so far as appearance is concerned, but Sarah is more practical than I; a noble, energetic, useful woman; one to depend upon in every circumstance in life and at the same time a loving wife, mother and sister.â âThere comes Mr. Merrymanâs errand boy, Perry,â said Anna, as the boy came whistling across the field on his way to âFair Meadowâ from Dorton. âHe has a letter; perhaps it is for one of us, as he has come a little out of his way,â and both arose as he came near. âThe postmaster gave me a letter for you, Mrs. Ashley,â he said. âIt has a black border and he thought it might be one that you should have as quickly as possible. I called at your house but you were not in and I left it with Miss Diana Strong. Was that right?â âPerfectly right, Perry, and I thank you for your kindness,â and the boy passed on with the mail for the âFair Meadowâ home, whistling and halting occasionally to pluck a flower. âOh, Anna,â said Mrs. Ashley anxiously, âI am afraid that letter brings sad news of Dr. Warfield. Will you stop with me and see?â âWillingly; and I sincerely hope that your fears will not be realized.â The two ladies, followed by Hilda, hurried through the meadow and up the road to the cottage, where Anna listened to the reading of the missive which gave the intelligence that Mrs. Warfield was a widow and Paul and Fred fatherless. Mrs. Ashleyâs tears fell fast in sympathy for her sisterâs bereavement, and Anna wept with her and stayed for a time to give what comfort was in her power. âI will write to Sarah this evening,â said Mrs. Ashley, when Anna arose to go home; âI wish I had written oftener and less reservedly while Cyril lived. He was always kind to me and never knew how much I appreciated his goodness. Oh, Anna, will we never learn to be tender and considerate with our fellow pilgrims? We never appreciate them as we should until they are gone; or if we do we never let them know it.â CHAPTER IIIââMY LADYâS MANORâ AND ITS MYSTERY During that one beautiful summer Anna Ashburton remained in her childhoodâs home and scarcely a day passed that she and Mrs. Ashley did not see each other or have an exchange of messages. But one morning a lawyer from Baltimore visited âMy Ladyâs Manorâ on behalf of a client in CaliforniaâMr. Reginald Farnsworthâwho could prove beyond doubt that he was the legal owner of the property, being the only son and heir of Joshua Farnsworth by a former marriage. In vain Anna protested that she had never heard of a former marriage; in vain the Courtneys, the Merrymans, the Lattingers and other families who had known the Farnsworths and whom Anna summoned to her assistance, affirmed the same. The lawyer produced a marriage certificate and letters, which even their unwilling eyes could see were genuine. The signaturesââJoshua Farnsworth,â were fac-similes of those in the foster fatherâs letters to her foster mother, kept by Anna with reverent care. To add to the proof already given, he brought with him an old San Francisco newspaper in which was a notice of the death of the wife of Joshua Farnsworth, of that city, aged twenty-one years, leaving an infant son, Reginald. The conference ended for the time by the lawyer giving Anna a letter from his client in which he explained his reason for the delay in putting in his claim for the property. He wrote that he was but an infant when his father, Joshua Farnsworth, left San Francisco; and it was not until he was almost grown to manhood that he became anxious to know if he was yet among the living. He had made all inquiry and had advertised, but could gain no information, and for years had given up the search. But recently he had obtained the certain information that his father had been the owner of âMy Ladyâs Manor,â and he, Reginald Farnsworth, being the only child and heir, now claimed it according to law, his stepmother having only a life estate in it, not having the right to give it to anyone. He added that his wife had long wished to be nearer her mother, who resided in Philadelphia. Now the way was opened, and he requested Miss Ashburton to vacate the premises as early as convenient. âHow did he learn all this?â asked Anna, as she finished the letter. âFrom me, and I obtained it incidentally from a lawyer associate who had never heard me speak of Mr. Farnsworth, therefore was unaware of my knowing anyone of that name. He had visited a physician of your village and was told the incidents connected with this place. I wrote immediately to Mr. Reginald Farnsworth and he in turn put the case in my hands. I searched the land records of Maryland and found that Joshua Farnsworth, of San Francisco, had purchased a tract known as âMy Ladyâs Manor,â the date corresponding exactly with the year of his leaving California.â Anna Ashburton possessed a sense of honor above wishing to retain what belonged to another, and with bitter tears left âMy Ladyâs Manorâ to go to Mrs. Lacy in Springfield, and Jerusha returned to the brown cottage and her occupation, and if she grieved over the change her proud nature gave no sign. Mr. Reginald Farnsworth, apparently unconcerned as to Annaâs future, took possession of âMy Ladyâs Manorâ with its spacious grounds, woodland, meadows and orchards, having three experienced men to cultivate it and three as efficient house servants as could have been found in Maryland. But his conscience troubled him. He had allowed greed to influence him in depriving the defenceless girl of the home which had been given her in the belief that there was no other heir, and he had not the excuse of straitened circumstances to warrant the action. One evening he had been directing the cutting down of several fine maples which obstructed a favorite view. They had been planted by his father to shade a spring of clear, cool water, and, being prized by her foster mother, were dear to Anna. Feeling very weary after his walk, he went to the library, and throwing himself upon a lounge, fell asleep. When he awoke the moon was shining brightly through the large windows, making every object visible. The voices of his wife and Mrs. Lattinger were heard from the parlor, and had almost lulled him again to slumber when he was conscious of a presence in the room. Without stirring, he opened his eyes, and passing him almost within touch was an apparently old lady, a stranger to him. She was short in stature and slender, her pale face shaded by gray curls, and upon her bowed head was a lace cap with long tabs of the same costly material. Her dress was of soft black silken goods, and a white kerchief, overlaid by one of black, was crossed upon her breast. Mr. Farnsworthâs first thought was that a caller had come to the library for a book, but seeing him sleeping was returning quietly without it. He was therefore more than surprised to see her, after gliding through the door, ascend swiftly the steps leading to the attic. He arose and followed, keeping her in view until she reached a distant corner of the unfurnished back room at the end of the dwelling, when, like a shadow-picture, she disappeared. Feeling bewildered, Mr. Farnsworth descended to his bed-room adjoining the library, bathed face and hands in cold water, arranged his attire, and then sat down to reflect. He was not superstitious, but he feared that his conscience-stricken feelings had influenced
{'title': 'Hilda\'s Mascot: A Tale of "Maryland, My Maryland" by Mary E. Ireland', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}