Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/152

 GILLIAN. BY

H38. AN)!

8. BTIPHENS.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens, in the Clerk’s Ofﬁce of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.] cosrluum no! no: 6L

C H A P T E R I I.

When Daniel Hart was left alone, he sat for a moment stunned by the news that had fallen so suddenly upon him. At ﬁrst he could not believe in its truth. His sister alive, her husband and child beneath his roof, and she absent no one knew where. How could this be ?—why had her friends so long been allowed to think her dead? What had she done or suﬂ'ered that this singular state of things should-exist?

Daniel Hart thought over these things till the great, brave heart in his bosom swelled heavily, and he arose from his chair, pacing up and down the room with his hands locked behind him, and the balls of his two thumbs pressed against each other, as was his habit when drawn to deep or disagreeable reﬂection. He was not aware that the tramp of his heavy shoes resounded through the house, but kept on step, step, step, like a sentinel on duty, till at last the door opened, and the bright face of Gillian Bentley looked in.

“Ah, it is you, uncle Daniel, and all alone,” she said, closing the door after her. “I’m so glad. Everything seems strange and still here, I cannot sleep try ever so much. Don’t look at me so, indeed I tried, but the moon came blink ing in through the hickory branches, and up I sprang, put on my dressing-gown, huddled myself into a shawl, and sat down by the open window till I am quite chilled through.”

“It was dangerous business,” said Hart, with a quiver in his voice. “Like your mother, too, very like your mother, gal."

“Ah, I was thinking of her, my poor mother, when the moonlight came in: it seems as if she must be somewhere in this old house waiting for me, uncle Hart. You’re not, I am sure, by the way you walk. Do sit here in this great chair, and let me snuggle down on the footstool by your knee, while you tell me about my mother—my splendid, beautiful mother, for I have her features here deep, deep in my heart. It was the ﬁrst memory of my life buried there, uncle g Daniel."

Gillian throw one arm over the farmer’s shoulder, and with a little gentle force led him back to the oak chair, while she sunk down to the stool at his feet with the grace and sweep of a bird of paradise when it settles to rest.

“There now, uncle Daniel, just imagine me your daughter Hannah ten years old, determined to be naughty and keep you up half the night, while I make believe that you’ve given me one good scolding, and made up as a dutiful papa is bound to do."

“Wall,” said uncle Daniel, and a broad smile swept over his face, spite of the trouble that spoke in his voice. “Wall, now, what shall we talk abouL‘I—what can an old chap like me have to say to a ﬁne lady that comes down at mid might in her silks and satins like a queen, and wants to make believe sociable? It’s like a fed cock coming in among a lot of guinea hens and turkey gobblers; they have nothing to do but give up the yard and huddle under some old cart out of the way.”

“Am I so very unlike everybody here then?" said Gillian, in atone of childish mortiﬁoation. “What is it, my poor old dressing-gown and this shawl?—indeed I’d nothing else. Somebody packed them on the very top of the trunk.”

With a pretty ﬂush on her face, and a degree of eager haste, which proved her quite earnest in her shame, she wrapped the blue silk dressing-gown, with its soft facing of swan’s-down, close about her, and strove to cover it under the rich folds of a camel’s-hair shawl with a delicate golden ground, and overrun with great palm leaves, in which a thousand gorgeous tints struggled into contrast, or slept in harmony.

“There now, dear uncle, that I am getting respectable, please tell me if I look the least bit like my poor mamma?"

The old man gazed down on that bright face till his eyes ﬁlled with tears. He did not speak, but lifted his hand and laid it on her head.

“A little,” said Gillian, smiling through the mist that shone in her eyes. “Just the least little bit, please; say that much.”

“Yes, gal, you’re like our Sarah—just as a wild rose from the swamp puts you in mind of a damask rose in the garden. I should a known