THE DARK NIGHT;

OR,

"THE FEAR OF MAN BRINGETH A SNARE."

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY,

AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "THE TATTLER," "NELLY; OR THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.

PHILADELPHIA: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

1122 CHESTNUT STREET. NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by the AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

WESTCOTT & THOMSON, HENRY B. ASHMEAD, Stereotypers, Philada. Printer, Philada.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

THE DARK NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

ONE lovely spring morning, in the latter end of May, Osric Dennison and his sister Elsie were getting ready to go to school. The school was at Boonville, almost a mile from their father's house, though there was a "cross-lot" path which shortened the distance. And as Osric and Elsie liked to have a little time for talk and play before school, they were apt to set out from the red farmhouse as soon after breakfast as they could conveniently get away.

On this Monday morning, they were unusually early, even for the red farmhouse. There was corn-planting to do, there was the washing to get on with, and the children's elder sister Avice, who taught school in a district some miles away, and who came home every Saturday, had to get back to her place in time to begin her school at nine o'clock. So Mrs. Dennison had her breakfast on the table at six o'clock.

Osric and Elsie had done all their "chores," such as washing breakfast things, feeding pigs and fowls, etc., and it was not yet quite eight. Osric was just strapping his books together, and Elsie had finished putting up the dinner for both of them, when Avice came into the room with her hat on and her satchel in her hand.

"Has either of you children seen the book I brought home with me on Saturday—that volume of the History of England?"

"I haven't," said Osric, promptly.

"Haven't you, Elsie?" asked her sister. "I want it very much to carry back with me."

"I haven't had it, sister, but I guess I can find it," said Elsie, quietly. "I think I know where I saw it." She left the room as she spoke, and presently came back with the missing volume.

"Where was it?" asked Avice.

"On the window in the parlour. I thought I saw it there this morning."

"Well, I should have said for certain that I carried it up stairs on Saturday night," said Avice. "However, it does not matter now it is found. Good-bye, children; be good till I see you again." Avice kissed them and went quickly away, for she had no time to spare.

"Ozzy, didn't you have that book yesterday?" said Elsie, after they had set out for school and were walking soberly along the edge of the mowing lot. "I am sure I saw you reading it."

Ozzy hung his head, but said nothing.

"Didn't you have it?" repeated Elsie, as though determined to have an answer.

"Well, I meant to put it back again as much as could be," said Ozzy. "It was so interesting about the queen of Scots, and all—"

"But what made you tell sister that you did not have it, when you did?" asked Elsie.

"I was afraid she would scold," said Osric, hanging down his head again. "Mother said we must never take sister's books without asking, and I was afraid sister would tell her."

The younger Dennison children always called Avice "sister." It was a mark of respect exacted by their mother. Mrs. Dennison was a second wife, not so very much older than Avice herself, and she always treated her stepdaughter with a great deal of consideration. Avice, on her part, was very fond both of Mrs. Dennison and the children, and when she was at home in vacation-time, she always helped a great deal in the work of the farm, and did many things for the little ones.

Osric and Elsie were twins twelve years old, but strangers always took Elsie to be the elder, not only because she was taller than her brother, but because she was so much more thoughtful and sensible. Elsie was constantly watching for chances to help people. She always saw it if her mother's scissors fell on the floor, or her needle wanted threading; and if her father lost his snuff-box or glasses, or left his handkerchief up stairs, or mislaid his paper, it was Elsie who found them, and so about everything else. Her sister Avice often called her Little Helpful. It cost Elsie no great self-denial to do all these things. She really loved work for its own sake, and though she enjoyed a play-spell as much as anybody, she went back to her work or her lessons with a new zest after it. She was as truthful as daylight in everything where Osric was not concerned. She never had any "secrets" or concealments of her own, but she always hid Ozzy's faults as much as possible, and if she ever stretched a point in speaking, it was about

something which he had or had not done. She seldom did anything which required serious blame or punishment, but if she did, she never tried to evade the consequences, and would no more lie to screen herself than she would put her hand into the fire. In fact, Elsie was very brave about everything.

Osric, on the contrary, was very much of a coward. He was not afraid of horses or cows, or of guns, or of going in swimming, or anything like that, but he was greatly afraid of pain either of body or mind, and he could not endure to be found fault with. He loved Elsie more than any one else in the world, but his love for her was not sufficient to keep him from letting her bear the blame of a good many of his faults and shortcomings. Elsie was the only person from whom he would bear a word of blame, and he did not like it even from her; hence it came to pass that while Elsie had no secrets from Osric, but always told him all her plans of work or amusement, Osric did a good many things of which Elsie never knew anything unless she found them out by accident. Elsie was always rather uneasy about her brother, and carried him on her mind, as it were; thus increasing a certain anxious expression of countenance which was growing upon her, and which made her look older than her years.

Osric loved Elsie, as I have said, but he was also rather afraid of her, especially of late. Elsie had been thinking a great deal of religious matters lately. She would have liked to talk over all her thoughts and impressions with Osric, but Osric was always very uneasy when she began, and slipped away or changed the subject as soon as possible. In fact, Osric hated anything serious, and really cared for nothing except amusing himself. Amusement was the object and business of his life, and he would sacrifice almost everything before giving up any scheme which promised even a small amount of diversion. This love of amusement often made him neglect his work, and sometimes brought him into some serious trouble, but old Squire Dennison was very indulgent to his only son, and Osric usually slipped out of his scrapes very easily. Of late, however, Squire Dennison had begun to wake up to the fact that Osric was not always truthful, and he watched the boy rather more carefully.

Elsie walked on the rest of the way to school very silent and very unhappy, and very undecided in her own mind. She did not know in the least what she ought to do, or whether she ought to do anything. Sometimes, she thought she would tell her mother, but then she could not bear to have Ozzy call her a telltale, and besides, Mrs. Dennison never encouraged the children to tell of each other's faults. There did not seem to be any use in talking to Osric himself. She had tried that so many times that she was quite discouraged. He would hang his head, and excuse himself; and begin to cry, and end by keeping out of her way for two or three days. Perhaps, after all, Osric had not known exactly where the book was. She was tempted to ask him, but then she reflected that she might thus lead him to tell another lie.

She did not know what to do, and so she did nothing except walk silently along, listening to Osric's remarks, for after a few minutes, he began to talk as if nothing had happened. In fact, so long as he was not scolded or punished for them, Osric's faults never made him unhappy for any length of time.

Boonville is a very little place. You will not find it down on any map of the State, and I am not sure that even the county map takes notice of it. There are, however, three mills at Boonville, all owned by the same person—a gentleman named Francis, who resides at Hobartown, some twelve miles away. One of these mills is a grist-mill, one is a saw-mill, and the other is used for grinding plaster or gypsum, which is taken from the bank of the river about a mile below. These three mills stand together on the bank of the river near the bridge, and with the dam above, the bright sparkling water and the rows of willows above and below, they make a very pretty picture. There is a small church at Boonville made of wood and painted white, though the paint is rather the worse for wear.

A school-house stands beside it, and on the other side of the road is a pretty large grove, almost large enough to be called a wood. There are other woods about a quarter of a mile away—real woods which have never been cleared, and which run along both sides of the road more than three miles. There is an old tavern at Boonville, which was very busy long ago in the days when post-coaches ran between Albany and Buffalo, and heavy teams conveyed all the goods which did not go by the canal. The tavern is quiet enough now. The grass grows up between the stones round the door, and nobody stops there except now and then a teamster or farmer having business at the mills.

There are perhaps in all a dozen other houses in the place. In one of these lives the minister, Mr. Child, who preaches here and at Gibson Centre, three miles away; in another, a pretty white house with green blinds, a verandah, and a flower garden, lives Mr. Antis, the overseer of the mill. Most of the other houses are either painted red, or are gray for want of any paint at all. I doubt if any house in Boonville has been touched with a brush for the last ten years except that belonging to Mr. Antis, and Jeduthun Cooke's cottage down by the mill, which is almost as neat as Mr. Antis's own.

The road runs rather high above the little river on the east side, before you come to the descent which leads down to the bridge and the mill. Standing among the trees on the side of this road, and looking across the stream, you see something which strikes you as rather curious in such a place. This is neither more nor less than a handsome burial-vault built into the steep side of the hill a short distance from the river. The front of the vault is like a little gothic chapel of handsome gray stone, with thick shrubbery growing on each side. There is a grassy slope in front of the door, and a narrow and steep but well-kept carriage-road leads up to it.

This vault is the old family burial-place of General Dent, who lived in the large brick house of which you can just see the chimneys over the trees yonder. The vault was built in the time of the old general's father, and is always kept in the most perfect repair. At the time of my story, nobody had been buried in it for many years—no one, in fact, since the general's only remaining son was brought back from Virginia, where he had been travelling for his health. The children were therefore very much surprised when they came out into the road, where they had a view of the vault, to see the door of it standing open.

CHAPTER II.

AS Osric and Elsie stood looking and wondering at the unusual spectacle, they were joined by two or three of the other children—by Anna Lee and her sister Hetty, by David Parsons and his cousin Christopher or Christie, a delicate little fellow about nine years old.

"I wonder if old General Dent is dead?" said Elsie.

"I know he isn't, for I saw him riding with Miss Rebecca last night. They went by our house," said Anna, with considerable satisfaction, "and the general bowed to me."

"That's nothing; General Dent bows to everybody," said Hetty, who always liked, as she said, "to take people down. He bowed to Mrs. Cooke the other day."

"Why shouldn't he bow to Mrs. Cooke?" returned Anna, with spirit. "I am sure there is not a nicer woman in the world than Kissy Cooke. I only wish I was half as good!"

Hetty had nothing to reply to that, but she laid it up in her mind, determined to "pay" Anna for it later in the day.

"I didn't know the Dents had any relations round here," said David. "It looks kind of strange to see that dark door open, don't it? I think it looks as if it was waiting for somebody."

"I suppose it is," replied Elsie. "It didn't open itself."

"There is Jeduthun Cooke sitting in the mill door," said Osric. "Let us go and ask him. He will be sure to tell us all about it."

The children ran down the descent leading to the grist-mill, where Jeduthun Cooke was sitting in the door playing on the harmonica.

He was always making music of some kind—singing or whistling, or playing on the fife or bugle, or on the harmonica, as at present. Old Mrs. Badger, up at the tavern, said she wondered Mr. Antis would have such a noise, but the "boss" only laughed, and said the stones would not know how to run without Jeduthun's music. Jeduthun Cooke was a light-coloured quadroon who had worked steadily in Mr. Worthington's mill for the last sixteen years, except for the three years that he was in the army as bugler to a cavalry regiment. He was a tall man, and as thin, wiry, and agile as a panther, and there was a sparkle in his eye which looked as if he might have a fiery temper. Nevertheless, he had never been seen furiously angry but twice. Once was at the Badger boys, whom he found tying a bunch of crackers to the tail of the old dog at the mill. Jeduthun thrashed them both soundly, and threatened them with a ducking, to boot. The boys went to complain to their grandmother—an unwise proceeding on their part, for the old lady not only gave them a

second edition of the thrashing, but sent them to bed at five o'clock on the Fourth of July. There were both dishonour and loss in that, and the boys never forgot the lesson.

The other time Jeduthun flew into a passion, there was also a child concerned, but this time the child was the victim. An Englishman had come to work in the saw-mill, and had brought with him a little orphan nephew. There was a strong conviction among the people at Boonville that this lad was abused; but nothing was done about the matter till one morning, when Jeduthun, going down to the mill earlier than usual, heard the poor child screaming and begging for mercy. Jeduthun jumped over the gate and ran round the house to the back door. There was poor little Eben tied to a post, while his uncle was beating him unmercifully. Nobody knew exactly what happened, but when Mr. Antis, wakened by the cries of the child and screams of murder from the woman, appeared on the scene, he found Jeduthun engaged in ducking Tom Collins in the mill-dam, and with some trouble prevailed on him to let the man come out of the water before he was quite drowned. Tom Collins brought an action for assault, and Jeduthun was fined seventy-five cents, which

he cheerfully paid, remarking that he thought he had got the worth of his money. Eben was taken away from his cruel relation and placed with a farmer in the neighbourhood, and Tom Collins found it expedient to move away from Boonville.

These two instances of temper did not make Jeduthun at all less popular in the little community. He was a special favourite with the children, for whom he told stories, sung songs, and made kites, tops, and water-wheels; and then he sometimes lectured as well, and he liked nothing better than to have a dozen of the school-children round the mill door all chattering at once. He kept excellent order among his little friends, never permitting any teasing, meddling, or other bad manners, and Miss Hilliard, the school-mistress, used to say that Jeduthun was really a great help to her.

Jeduthun was sitting in the mill door playing a very sad and solemn tune on his harmonica, or mouth-organ, as it is sometimes called, and the children waited till he finished it, for they knew he did not like to be interrupted.

"That sounds like a funeral tune!" said Anna Lee.

"'Tis," said Jeduthun.

"They sung it at Mary Jane Hill's funeral over at the Springs," remarked Elsie. "It goes to the words, 'When blooming youth is snatched away.'"

"That's it, exactly," returned Jeduthun, and he sung the first verse of the hymn in such a soft, pure voice, and with such a tender solemnity, that it brought tears to the children's eyes as they listened, as well as to those of Mr. Antis,—albeit "unused to the melting mood,"—who was busy in his office.

"They'll be singing that over at the Springs to-day," remarked Jeduthun when he had finished the verse. "Miss Lilla Parmalee is going to be buried to-day."

"Oh, poor thing! Is she dead?" exclaimed Anna Lee.

"She's dead, sure enough, but you needn't call her 'poor thing' any more, Anna. She has got a long way beyond that by this time," said Jeduthun. "Yes, Miss Lilla has been in heaven two days already. They are going to bring her over here, and put her in old General Dent's vault. The Parmalees are kind of connections of the Dents, somehow. Kissy, she knows all about it. The boss was there yesterday, and last night, the general and his sister drove over. The funeral is to be at half-past one o'clock, and they'll get here about three, I expect."

"There's somebody mowing the grass before the door of the vault," remarked Osric, looking across the river.

"Yes, the general's man came down to open the door and make everything nice. Kissy, she went over yesterday to see if she could do anything. She used to work at Mr. Parmalee's before she was married. She was saying last night that she was the first one to lay Miss Lilla in her new cradle, and yesterday she helped to lay her in the coffin."

"I suppose they will have a splendid coffin?" said Mehetabel Lee.

"Oh yes. Mr. Parmalee won't spare expense, you may be sure. It's a kind of comfort to him, I expect, though it don't do her any good. They have got a coffin covered with white, with silver nails-and handles, and a great silver cross on the breast, with Miss Lilla's name, and a text of Scripture, and heaps of lovely white flowers of all kinds."

"Miss Lilla always liked white," remarked Elsie. "I hardly ever saw her wear anything else in summer, and even in quite cold weather. Don't you remember, Anna, when we were little girls, our wishing we could have such white frocks as Miss Lilla's? Kissy was doing them up, and she showed them to us."

"She had better white robes than any that money could buy," said Jeduthun, solemnly. "She had washed her robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, as Scripture says, and now she is a-wearing of them before his throne. You get such robes as those, my dears, and then you won't fear to die any more than she did."

"It must have been rather sudden at last," remarked Hetty, after a little silence. "I saw her riding out in the carriage last week, when I was over at the Springs. Let's see! why, that was only last Friday."

"Yes, she rode out the morning of the day she died, but her death wasn't sudden more than any death is sudden," replied Jeduthun. "They have been expecting it any time for the last year. In fact, Miss Lilla has never been well like other people since she was born. I never thought she would live as long as she has done."

"Such good people always seem to me to die young," said Anna.

"Well, I don't know," said David. "Look at grandmother! She is 'most a hundred, and I am sure she is as good as she can be."