They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door.It led into a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come, but not so spacious, and having only one other little room attached.It was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right the schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself the least commodious, in his care and regard for them.
Like the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles of furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its stack of fire-wood.
To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could, was now their pleasant care.In a short time, each had its cheerful fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old wall with a hale and healthy blush.Nell, busily plying her needle, repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent.The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which hung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home.The old man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on little patient services, and was happy.Neighbours, too, as they came from work, proffered their help; or sent their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed most.It was a busy day;and night came on, and found them wondering that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so soon.
They took their supper together, in the house which may be henceforth called the child's; and, when they had finished their meal, drew round the fire, and almost in whispers--their hearts were too quiet and glad for loud expression--discussed their future plans.Before they separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and then, full of gratitude and happiness, they parted for the night.
At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully in his bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the dying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a dream And she only now awoke.The glare of the sinking flame, reflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in the dusky roof--the aged walls, where strange shadows came and went with every flickering of the fire--the solemn presence, within, of that decay which falls on senseless things the most enduring in their nature: and, without, and round about on every side, of Death--filled her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none of terror or alarm.A change had been gradually stealing over her, in the time of her loneliness and sorrow.With failing strength and heightening resolution, there had sprung up a purified and altered mind; there had grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the portion of few but the weak and drooping.
There were none to see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from the fire and leaned pensively at the open casement; none but the stars, to look into the upturned face and read its history.
The old church bell rang out the hour with a mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing with the dead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping.
Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the church--touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and protection.Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of trees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them;others, among the graves of little children.Some had desired to rest beneath the very ground they had trodden in their daily walks;some, where the setting sun might shine upon their beds; some, where its light would fall upon them when it rose.Perhaps not one of the imprisoned souls had been able quite to separate itself in living thought from its old companion.If any had, it had still felt for it a love like that which captives have been known to bear towards the cell in which they have been long confined, and, even at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds affectionately.
It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her bed.Again something of the same sensation as before--an involuntary chill--a momentary feeling akin to fear--but vanishing directly, and leaving no alarm behind.Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of the roof opening, and a column of bright faces, rising far away into the sky, as she had seen in some old scriptural picture once, and looking down on her, asleep.It was a sweet and happy dream.The quiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the same, saving that there was music in the air, and a sound of angels' wings.After a time the sisters came there, hand in hand, and stood among the graves.And then the dream grew dim, and faded.
With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of yesterday's labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its energies, cheerfulness, and hope.They worked gaily in ordering and arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman.
He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued spirit, accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the world, which he had left many years before to come and settle in that place.His wife had died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long since lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it.
He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell; asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had led her there, and so forth.The schoolmaster had already told her story.They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his fortunes.He loved the child as though she were his own.