Afloat and Ashore Read Free Page B

parting
advice of our dying parent, and to be impressed with a scene that is
always healthful, if rightly improved. "You baptized these two dear
children, good Mr. Hardinge," she said, in a voice that was already
enfeebled by physical decay, "and you signed them with the sign of the
cross, in token of Christ's death for them; and I now ask of your
friendship and pastoral care to see that they are not neglected at the
most critical period of their lives—that when impressions are the
deepest, and yet the most easily made. God will reward all your
kindness to the orphan children of your friends." The excellent
divine, a man who lived more for others than for himself, made the
required promises, and the soul of my mother took its flight in peace.
    Neither my sister nor myself grieved as deeply for the loss of this
last of our parents, as we did for that of the first. We had both
seen so many instances of her devout goodness, had been witnesses of
so great a triumph of her faith as to feel an intimate, though silent,
persuasion that her death was merely a passage to a better state of
existence—that it seemed selfish to regret. Still, we wept and
mourned, even while, in one sense, I think we rejoiced. She was
relieved from, much bodily suffering, and I remember, when I went to
take a last look at her beloved face, that I gazed on its calm
serenity with a feeling akin to exultation, as I recollected that pain
could no longer exercise dominion over her frame, and that her spirit
was then dwelling in bliss. Bitter regrets came later, it is true,
and these were fully shared—nay, more than shared—by Grace.
    After the death of my father, I had never bethought me of the manner
in which he had disposed of his property. I heard something said of
his will, and gleaned a little, accidentally, of the forms that had
been gone through in proving the instrument, and of obtaining its
probate. Shortly after my mother's death, however, Mr. Hardinge had a
free conversation with both me and Grace on the subject, when we
learned, for the first time, the disposition that had been made. My
father had bequeathed to me the farm, mill, landing, sloop, stock,
utensils, crops, &c. &c., in full property; subject, however, to my
mother's use of the whole until I attained my majority; after which I
was to give her complete possession of a comfortable wing of the
house, which had every convenience for a small family within itself,
certain privileges in the fields, dairy, styes, orchards, meadows,
granaries, &c., and to pay her three hundred pounds currency, per
annum, in money. Grace had four thousand pounds that were "at use,"
and I had all the remainder of the personal property, which yielded
about five hundred dollars a-year. As the farm, sloop, mill, landing,
&c., produced a net annual income of rather more than a thousand
dollars, besides all that was consumed in housekeeping, I was very
well off, in the way of temporal things, for one who had been trained
in habits as simple as those which reigned at Clawbonny.
    My father had left Mr. Hardinge the executor, and my mother an
executrix of his will, with survivorship. He had also made the same
provision as respected the guardians. Thus Grace and I became the
wards of the clergyman alone on the death of our last remaining
parent. This was grateful to us both, for we both truly loved this
good man, and, what was more, we loved his children. Of these there
were two of ages corresponding very nearly with our own; Rupert
Hardinge being not quite a year older than I was myself, and Lucy, his
sister, about six months younger than Grace. We were all four
strongly attached to each other, and had been so from infancy,
Mr. Hardinge having had charge of my education as soon as I was taken
from a woman's school.
    I cannot say, however, that Rupert Hardinge was ever a boy to give his
father the delight that a studious, well-conducted, considerate and
industrious child, has it so much in his power to yield to