Hephzibah

Emmeline B. Wells

Originally published 1889–1890 in The Woman’s Exponent

Hephzibah originally published serially in The Woman’s Exponent between 1 Jun 1889 and 15 Sep 1890.

Electronic edition produced by the Mormon Texts Project.

Volunteers who helped with this book: Ben Crowder, Meridith Crowder, Tanya Ross, Tod Robbins, Kathy Bunn.

Version 1.0

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

Chapter 1

“Truth is stranger than fiction.”

When the artist would paint a picture, whether it is to be ideal or a scene from nature, he collects material, draws an outline sketch, coloring it as he proceeds with his work, touching it here and there, viewing it in all lights, shading or softening according to his fancy, making it a study and an art. He has positive material to work with, and also his own delicate sense of the beautiful to aid him in his pleasant task. It is the exquisite taste and skill with which he combines and links together substances with thoughts, that give beauty and tone to the picture.

The author has no such actual helps in beautifying and embellishing his work; it is simply all thoughts, intermingled with fancies or remembrances, perhaps faint as shadows. These blended with realities form the pen-picture, but the design is only in the mind, and all the solid work must be done by his own brain. Ideas emanating largely from fancy wrought into pictures of real life, but all in a very imperceptible form, until they are, by the delicate and diligent aid of the author, caught in their airy flight and placed on paper by the helpful aid of pen and ink.

It is a picture of this kind the writer now undertakes to sketch. The planning, designing, and embellishing, all has to be done in the mind’s eye ere it is engraven on paper. The materials are only fragments culled from memory’s worn and defaced tablets, woven together with the fine spun thread of imagination in the golden loom of fancy.

If the picture be true to life, there will be some heavy dark shading, yet here and there a ray of sunlight with mellow tinges; occasionally a storm will sweep over the scene and from its very intensity will be almost perceptible; then, too, there will be singing birds, and babbling brooks, and murmuring seas with tides coming in, and many things odd and strange, yet withal some touches of pathetic sweetness; the holy calm of summer twilight, moonlight scenes, and stars peeping out in the distance, like bright harbingers of future hope.

Whatever of a study the story may be, it will be more real than ideal, more American than foreign, more modern than antique, and the readers interest may thus be somewhat intensified.

A village nestled down among the hills,

With quaint old fashion’d houses low and brown;

And picture-like some old neglected mills,

In days gone by, the pride of all the town.

In one of the inland towns of the Old Bay State, half a century ago, there was situated an exceedingly romantic little village. A rural picture, nestled down among the rocky hills in a hollow, that had once been a thickly wooded dell. Around it on the south and west rose gentle undulating fields where sleek cattle grazed, sheep nibbled, and young calves and lambs frisked and gamboled in innocent glee, for very joy of living. Wild flowers bloomed in shady nooks and by the winding brooks; northward it was sheltered by a heavy timbered woodland, that rose steep and high; and trees the growth of centuries stood in their proud magnificence, the monarchs of the forest. Hard maple, oak, birch, and pine, grew there in great abundance, and from these leafy woods the sawmills further up among the hills were well supplied.

Eastward stretched out in the distance, long lines and broad plains of rich meadow and pasture lands; and afar off one might discern the church spires and peaked roofs of the houses in another sleepy old town. It was not a noisy bustling village, but staid and restful. One could well fancy that old, old echoes still lingered in the hills, and the people were too “proper” to waken them; there was such method and precision in everything, and the women always spoke low and gently, in soft, modulated tones.

There were a few unpretentious houses, most of them low and old and brown; an old furnace and forge, the delight of the village boys; but the principal feature of the place was an old woolen mill, situated in the centre of the little cluster of dwellings, on a clear placid stream of water that bounds over its rocky bed, on through the town. Twenty years before, the mill was running “full time” and paid well, employing three score of hands. The old furnace, too, was bright and glowing then, a brawny arm uplifted, and the sound of the hammer at the forge, the sparks flying hither and yon, gave life and activity to the scene.

The times had changed. The old settlers whose industry and thrift had turned the wilderness into fields and gardens, had grown careworn and tired, or were sleeping in quiet resting places in the churchyard near by. Many of the young, ambitious sons in the pride of manhood had gone fortune-hunting into new localities, where there were other lands to subdue and make fertile; or, weary of the quiet atmosphere that brooded over their native village, had grown restless and sought the bustle of the great, busy world, in some large city or enterprising town, and so the old mill stood still.

The children wondered why the great building was empty and forsaken, and thought how splendid it would be to see the large, old-fashioned wheels that seemed so lazy, turn over and over in the deep, still water, sending it dashing and foaming over their ponderous sides. It was not strange that the children queried and asked numberless questions, for it was a curious old place, and rumors were afloat—no one knew from whence they came—that the old mill was haunted, that at night witches met there to hold high revelry. But somehow the children did not seem to be afraid, and were never forbidden to play there.

Adjoining the mill was a carding machine which still did regular duty, turning out in great abundance the soft, white rolls that were spun on the great wheels in all the country houses, by the domesticated pretty girls. Young ladies then were quite as proud of their skill in spinning, knitting, and household employments, as our modern mesdemoiselles are of their music and drawing. Tripping back and forth, to and from the spinning wheel, drawing out the soft, fleecy rolls through the pretty taper fingers, shows of one’s hands as well and figure, more than sitting at the piano.

The handsome, little wheels for spinning tow and linen were really beautiful, and the ideal picture of a lady spinning flax, twirling her pretty distaff between her slender fingers, her dainty foot upon the treadle, has been the theme of poetry and of song. Some writers tell us our Puritan grandmothers were very “plain folk,” but methinks they were also very proud.

The mill had been built at an early period in the settlement of the village, and in fact had been the origin of the country itself; for one by one, the people had gathered there, to get employment in the factory. Now the owner and proprietor had retired from the busy pursuits of active life, and the mill was allowed to stand idle. The master was weary with many years and in the “paternal mansion” he sat and rested from his arduous labors.

Long after he had withdrawn from the daily vocations once so diligently pursued, he still entertained his friends and neighbors in the most hospitable fashion at the old farmhouse. He never wearied of reciting over and over again to his guests, stories of his life—how his father came there a boy, when the country was new and wild. His family had been large landowners in the city of Boston, but as the town was enlarged, and the population increased, they sold their land, piece by piece, and came into the backwoods to settle, where there was more room and less temptation for a large family of boys, and subsequently they had built the mill. He delighted in recounting the hardships and privations of pioneer life, and dwelt upon his father’s hatred of the British and the Roman Catholics.

No wonder he was proud of liberty, for he had fought bravely for it in perilous places, and had endured much privation and fatigue. To him freedom was dearer than life; to obtain that precious boon he had faced death at the point of the bayonet. His favorite phrase, which he very frequently repeated to his children and friends, was one familiar to all American citizens: “Taxation without representation is tyranny.”

The honors conferred upon him he considered fairly earned, and was proud of his handsome uniform and heavy, clumsy sword, which he always exhibited on training days. His military air on such occasions quite awed the children, and they looked upon him with a degree of reverence mingled with enthusiasm, for what heart does not beat a little faster when the drums beat and the soldiers parade, that has the blood of the patriots in its veins.

But the most interesting of all the old major’s stories, especially to the young folks, was how his father fell in love with the daughter of a general in the British army. As he expressed it, his magnificent figure, his manliness and courage, made him master of the situation, and he won his sweetheart in spite of the high sense of filial duty she entertained and her aristocratic father’s remonstrances. Differences were cast aside and distinctions leveled by the magical charm of true love, and when the war was over, and the armies of the king had been vanquished, the haughty general returned to his native shore, leaving his only daughter—the heir to his wealth and the pride of his ancestral home—with her unsophisticated “Yankee” husband.

The officer’s daughter had received superior educational advantages, and her accomplishments were far beyond those of the country girls among whom her lot had been cast; but she never manifested the least consciousness of the fact. She had married the man of her choice, and gracefully adapted herself to the habits and customs of the people who were from henceforth to be her people. A genuine lady born and bred, she assumed no rights or privileges more than her neighbor, but bore herself modestly as wife and mother, honoring the position she had gladly accepted.

She played the harp and sung like a bird. Her costly silks and creamy laces, which she wore with such an air of refinement, were the admiration of the ladies all the country round. It is needless to recount her good deeds; her heart was generous, and her lord was rich, and their bounties were liberally dispensed.

It was during their young married life that the old factory was built and the village grew, “in a manner speaking,” and prosperity and success, domestic and financial, attended the happy couple. He was tall and strong, and she was so petite that she could stand without stooping under his outstretched arm.

His love was like that of the knights of olden time, who were ever ready to break a lance in love’s defense; and often, when beside the hearthstone of the wide, old fireplace on a wintry night, he would sit by her as she dallied with her knitting, for women’s hands are scarce ever quiet, and as he would recount over and again the chapter of incidents upon the battlefield—how he had suffered with his comrades in arms, and how many had died of the wounds received from the enemy—his blood would rise to fever heat, as he seemed to see the dreadful tragedies enacted over again, and starting to his feet with clenched hands and eyes of fire, he would vow eternal enmity to the foe.

But, his eye chancing to rest upon his fair, young wife, and remembering the sacrifices she had made for him, all the anger would die out of his face, and a change such as an angel’s presence might bring where discord reigned, would be swift as transition. Dropping low his eyes, suffused with tears, his passionate voice changed to low and tremulous tones, he would exclaim entreatingly, “Forgive me, darling—for your dear sake I will refrain from recrimination. Your father was a brave and valiant soldier, though he fought on the wrong side; but he was the soul of honor, and though it wounded his pride to see you marry one he considered inferior, one of the rebels he had been sent across the sea to subdue, yet he loved his child too well to wreck her happiness, and recognized that love conquers when the sword has failed.”

This was nearly a hundred years ago now, and both are lying in the old churchyard under the mossy sods, with broken tombstones overgrown with tangled rose vines in the sleepy town, whose church steeples can yet be seen from the village, where their wedded life was spent. The lady died in the full bloom of motherhood, many years before her “lord,” and left him lonely and sorrowful, in the prime of his life at the old manor house.

Long years after, a change had been wrought in all that pertained to the village and its inhabitants. The home of the major and his once young and beautiful wife, had grown old and gray, and well befitted its owner; ’twas a rambling country dwelling, gambrel-roofed, the eaves projecting wide, and the swallows had built their nests year after year in the same nooks and corners, until they seemed as much at home as the inmates of the house.

Outside ’twas quaint in design of no particular architecture, rather rudely built, but withal substantial, and like its master had seen much service—the storms of many winters had beaten upon its walls and it was weather-worn; inside it was roomy, home-like and commodious; the large wide open fireplace bespoke warmth and comfort, especially when great logs of wood were piled on the heavy fire-dogs and blazed up fitfully, and the tall, thin, tallow candles burned with a flickering light, and shadows flitted hither and thither in the long, low rooms with their sombre walls—then the house had almost a legendary appearance, and one susceptible of illusions might readily have been induced to believe the frightful stories of ghosts and witches that were the regular winter pastime on a festive evening in the country houses.

The furniture of the place was in harmony with its other appointments, oaken and dark and heavy-made—tall chests of drawers with awkward brass knobs reached from the floor to the ceiling, filled with the family linen that had once been the pride of the fair young mistress; tables we should call clumsy now; and chairs and sofas straightbacked and uncomfortable, corresponded well with the other articles of furniture.

In the long dining room, the principal living room in the days of the first master and mistress, when the children were around them, was a tall majestic clock, inside which one might have stood upright with perfect ease; the large brass pendulum swung to and fro as leisurely as when it counted the merry hours for the happy family that dwelt within these now almost deserted rooms. The great broad face looked knowing and wise, as much as to say, “I keep the family chronology. I have marked the time of births, of marriages and deaths faithfully for four-score years. I guard the honor of the house and know its history.” Many times in years after when the long, low room was deserted, and a neighbor would drop in, the old clock was like a familiar friend, and its tick, tick in the quiet of the old house seemed to break the deep silence that rested upon it.

Chapter 2

Deserted halls where all was once so bright,

Now so neglected, shadowy and gray;

For she who made the home so full of light

Can come no more, to chase the gloom away.

After six and twenty years of uninterrupted domestic felicity, the master was left alone with his five boys. No daughter had been born to them to bear the semblance of the beautiful wife and mother, though the father had ardently longed for one, to be the light and comfort of his home. Many were the plans the happy couple laid, in that past which was gone forever now—to train and educate a little girl, should the fates be so propitious as to grant them this desire.

The husband thus bereft of his treasure yearned more than ever for womanly companionship. His mother had been dead many years, he had never known what it was to have a sister, and now his wife, the beloved of his heart, the companion of his youth, and the pride of his home, was gone forever. He could not be reconciled to his loss, and he gave himself up to sad and gloomy reveries that made him old before his time, and totally unfitted him for the duties devolving upon him as the father and only parent to his family of boys.

The boys grew to manhood and entered upon the busy, practical pursuits of life; and one by one left the paternal roof to which the father clung so tenaciously. The orchard and fields were neglected, the garden grew to weeds, and the fine old cherry trees were the sport of the birds and the unruly urchins of the neighborhood. The beehives demanded some little attention once or twice a year, but the master never gave any orders to his servants, so the fine estate was left to ruin.

The old gentleman sat in his chimney corner in her room, the one she whom he so loved had occupied, and drank his tea and ate his tasteless meals (scarce realizing what he did) on the same round table with snowy linen where so many times in the olden days they two had sat and chatted over the romantic past and sketched out the golden future. There was the queer cupboard filled with quaint old china, a few pieces of silverware seldom ever washed, a chest of drawers packed with linen that was never aired.

For years the master lived on and on in the same dull, stupid, monotonous way until he was nearly a hundred years old. Once or twice a year the eldest son and heir, long ago tired of the factory which had fallen into a ruin, the namesake of his father and father’s father, Elisha, would come up from Boston to look after the property and see that no one carried away the valuables; and each time he anticipated renting the estate to some thrifty young farmer, who would make it pay a good interest, as well as keep it in repair. “No! No!” was invariably the answer. “Wait until I am gone.”

A younger son resided in the village, but his family was large, though he like his father had married late in life, and had not been very successful in his enterprise, had met with heavy losses, and the eldest son hated him and would not allow any interference on his part in regard to the homestead. This was the condition of affairs three score years ago and more, at the time our story opens, and the village was as described in the opening paragraph. Four score years and more had flown since the old major first saw the light of day, and those he knew in early life, one by one had gone until none remained of the loved and cherished companions of his youth, and he felt,

“Like one who treads alone, some banquet hall deserted

Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed.”

He was much alone; occasionally his grandchildren who lived near the homestead would come in and listen to his strange stories, but his heart seemed cold and dead, and he never kissed or caressed them—in fact, they worried him, so the old woman used to say who waited on him. The little things wondered at his indifference and often asked, “What ails Grandpa?” And Mamma would explain how he mourned for her he had so tenderly loved, his wife; and that no daughter had come into the home to fill the vacancy.

And it may be strange to state that none of his son’s wives suited him—he thought them all too commonplace. They could not enter into his feelings and views; and had no patience with his whims. He talked much to himself and often fancied that his darling, the light of his life, sat by him as in days gone by.

One wintry day when the snow was deep upon the ground, he was sitting by the little corner fireplace toying with his silver snuff box and musing as though holding sweet communion with her he loved, and a little child beautiful and bright came running in and roused him from his dreamy reverie, exclaiming, “News! Grandpa! Good news!”

The poor old man, half dreaming, said, “No, my son, she has not come back, she cannot come. I have called her often, but all in vain.”

“But Grandpa,” reasoned the child, “Papa sent me to tell you to come over—you must come, it’s to see the new baby. It came at sunrise this morning, and Papa wants you to drink to its good health and long life, for it is a girl, and you are to name it.”

Hearing this and beginning to understand the situation, the aged man took his hat and cane, and off he strode with the little one to the house of his son, a short distance away—only a few minutes’ walk—and with the impatience of a child he entered.

The son welcomed his father warmly, and after seating him comfortably by the fire, explained why he had sent for him on such a cold, raw day.

“Father,” said he, “we have had sons and daughters, six in number; this is the seventh and perchance may be the last in your lifetime, and I want you to name it,” and filling the glass with purple wine, he handed it to his venerable father, who taking it drank to “Hephzibah,” and said, “I shall not live long, and she who was born today shall bear the name of her I loved so well and mourn so sincerely. The wee little creature shall be called for her grandmother, who was ‘the pride of the village.’”

And then he uttered, possibly unknown to himself, a prophecy that she should become learned and wise, and that in all the village none should excel her in the road to fame. But of all this no one thought much at the time, but years afterwards the saying came back to their remembrance with increased significance.

Dinner was served, and the old major grew talkative. A tender chord had been touched by repeating the name he loved so well, for how dear the plainest names become when associated with those precious to our hearts, we all know. The children inquired what Grandpa named the baby sister, and when they were told ’twas Hephzibah, they thought it “dreadful, horrid,” and even cried to think so sweet a little baby should have such a terrible name given to it. But Grandpa was inexorable, and tears and entreaties were of no avail, and as if to make peace, he said she should have all the fine embroidered laces her grandmother had wrought with her own dainty fingers, the chests of linen, the elegant, old china, the silverware and spoons, and all the silks and ribbons so long packed away out of sight, that no woman was permitted to handle, much less to wear. All this and more he promised on the day of her birth to the unconscious little one.

He grew quite enthusiastic on the subject and by and by said to his son, “It may be she will marry her cousin Elisha and have the homestead, and we shall see the village prosper again, for Elisha will have money.”

This was too much for the father, who, though poor compared to his eldest brother, was proud, and replied bitterly, “No! He would scorn a village girl, and my brother’s son shall not look down upon my child.”

“Ah, well, well, how foolish to differ about her marriage on the day of her birth, strange indeed; I cannot understand why we should thus drift off into the future of one scarce yet initiated into life; it may be all owing to her name. It may be,” said Grandpa quietly, “but it is many a long day since I have been so aroused as to dwell upon the future of anyone, not even my own sons, and to be thus exercised is ‘passing strange.’”

And so the two—father and son—talked on; a channel of communication opened between them that had been closed for years. From that very day the old major seemed to have taken a new lease of life. The advent of the little stranger had indeed created a change, and he watched her from day to day, fancying he could see some resemblance to that other Hephzibah for whom she was christened.

As soon as she was old enough to run about he insisted that she should remain with him at the old homestead. Much as the parents esteemed him, they could not consent to such an arrangement, but allowed little Hephzibah to visit at the old home regularly with one of her elder sisters.

His love for the little one was so strong he could not endure to be separated from her, but kept her near him in the musty, old, deserted house, until she was about as antique in her manners as the aged veteran himself. When other little girls were sewing “over and over” or hemming by a thread, she would sit and tell them long stories, and amuse them by the hour together, and when they asked her where she learned so many pretty tales, she would answer, “In the old manor house,” talking to herself.

Poetry unwritten was in her heart and soul, and the realities of life were a perfect blank to her ideal nature. Her practical New England mother wondered what could be done to bring the child down from the airy heights, where she soared unconsciously, to the level of the earth, and make her understand the need of actual labor in the work-a-day world.

Her hair, which was a mass of bright brown waves, was never smooth, and her white dimity aprons, made so neat and nice, were soon crumpled and soiled; “generally untidy” was her mother’s idea of the child’s appearance.

At school, however, she progressed rapidly, and was a favorite with her playmates; but at night, she kept the household wide awake with her memorizing ballads and improvising meaningless rhymes.

Thus time passed on; the semiannual visits of the eldest son from Boston continued as regular as ever, and it came to his ears that little Hephzibah was to be the heiress of the treasures and jewels of his dead mother. It nettled him sorely, for he had pleaded in vain to obtain them for his wife. His father would never consent that anyone should ever possess them save those of his own blood, and so he had thought his daughter would some day inherit them. “Why not?” he said to himself. “It is the proper thing and in the direct line.” He could not bear the thought that the youngest son’s daughter should ever wear his mother’s jewels. He was too haughty to do more than barely recognize his brother, and as for the wife and children, he never deigned to notice them.

One summer when he came as usual he brought with him his son Elisha, who, not knowing his aristocratic father’s aversion to the villagers, romped and played with his country cousins. The grandfather was delighted and inadvertently said to his son one day when he happened to see him with little Hephzibah, “That boy had better marry his cousin Hephzibah and take possession here when he’s of age.”

“My son marry that country cousin of his? Never! I would disown him. Let her marry one of her own class.”

This quite enraged the old major, who knew full well that her father was much more honorable and generous than his city brother; and not only so, but that the younger son’s wife was of a much better family than the other daughter-in-law, and his hot temper rose, and he replied, “She is too good for your son, for now I remember who his mother was.”

Angry words followed between the two, and they were never afterwards reconciled to each other. Little Elisha did not comprehend why his father was not willing he should play with Hephzibah, and persisted in being in her company, and begged his father to leave him in the country, because he should be unhappy if he must go back to Boston without his favorite cousin.

His girl cousin, however, was not nearly so fond of him. In fact, she loved to play by herself and ransack old closets and garrets, or wherever there were old things, for which she seemed to have an unbounded passion. She would sit for hours together among the rubbish and dress her dolls and talk to them as if they were conscious of all she said. She dwelt as much in a world of her own, as did her aged grandfather, and they suited each other admirably. Out of doors as well as in, she enjoyed every nook and corner. The orchard resounded with her sweet voice in merry song and laughter, and there was not a tree she had not climbed.

Her mother would sometimes say, speaking of the fanciful child, “Hephzibah has no more idea of eating and drinking regularly, than the fairies and wood nymphs of which she is always talking and dreaming. Her ways are shiftless,” she would invariably add, “and that is what the world will never overlook.”

But the matter rested there, and the child grew more unlike other girls every day. She could not appreciate her mother’s fears and apprehensions about the future, and while she was left to her fine-spun fancies and Grandpa’s curious stories, with the old house and grounds to ramble through at will, she cared not; an unsophisticated child of nature, with a mind so rich in imagery that all the earth wore radiant robes of glory for her, and the star-bespangled heavens were mysteries she never cared to have explained, but only to gaze on and worship from a distance. Little she dreamed that in a few short years, life would reveal itself in a thousand glowing transports, and alas! in all its cold and hard realities as well; but so it proved.

Ere long an event transpired that changed all the current of Hephzibah’s life. Her father died suddenly, without a settlement of any sort for his large family. The widowed mother with three younger children, and not one old enough to render much assistance in the way of help or support, was more than ever engrossed with the cares of life. Alas! how heavy fall such burdens on women.

The widow left so utterly dependent, with ten children looking to her maintenance, took up her burden heroically and never faltered. Some said, “The children’s rich uncle will provide for them,” but Mrs. H. always answered, “No! We do not want his money; but if I were a man with power to act, I would see they had their own, of which he has robbed them.”

And this was true, for the eldest brother taking advantage of the old major’s idiosyncrasies, had managed to obtain possession of all his ready means, and used it in his own business and then represented that he supported his father, and consequently all there was worth claiming belonged to him alone.

One of the sons had died while quite young; another gone they knew not whither, for he never wrote nor sent one word to comfort his aged father; and the third lived a gay bachelor life in the city of Boston. Neither of these cared for the paternal estate, nor the heirlooms of the family; therefore the eldest son had full sway after his youngest brother’s death.

He had always been annoyed about his large family, and living so near the old home, he feared his influence, but now he breathed freely again, for he was gone where he could no more trouble him about worldly affairs. Inwardly he congratulated himself that the “coast was clear,” although he made some pretensions to a desire to help the widow and lighten her load of care.

The widow really thought that in consideration of the circumstances, the uncle would take Hephzibah to Boston and educate her, but no such offer was made, nor hint of such a thing given. The very next morning after his brother’s funeral, the rich merchant bade them all goodbye ceremoniously, and, without a word of consolation, left for his own luxurious home, knowing too that they were entitled to a support at least, from the estate he had charge of.

Chapter 3

She wandered fancy free, o’er hill and dale,

Or lingered lovingly beside the brook,

This little wood-nymph of the lowly vale,

Culling wild flowers from ev’ry sheltered nook.

Mrs. Hathaway was a woman of strong characteristics, tall and dignified in figure, though gentle and womanly in manner and bearing. Her mind decidedly practical in the full sense of the term, she proved equal to the emergency that had overtaken her so unexpectedly. She took into consideration just what was necessary to be done to economize and live within her means, and lost no time in carrying her plans into execution. Her close attention to the business of her husband, for the purpose of helping him, had given her an experience that but few women in that day had the opportunity of acquiring.

From the time of her husband’s death she was so engrossed with cares and responsibilities that the younger children were left to themselves, and Hephzibah had ample opportunity to pursue her idle ways, or only to visit the old home and wait on Grandpa to hat and cane, and enjoy the freedom of the orchard, garden, meadows and woods she loved so well. She was far enough advanced in her studies to read everything that came in her way and was passionately fond of books and stories—she really believed in fairies and elves and wondered why she could not be visited by them.

Her grandpa gave her the most perfect liberty to rummage over the musty old letters and manuscript stowed away as useless in the garret. Tied up in bundles carefully, though faded, soiled, and covered in dust, were the writings and correspondence of her grandmother for whom she was named, and she would feast upon these with childish delight, gleaning here and there, out of the way and romantic ideas that accorded with her own peculiar notions.

The neighbors looked on in utter amazement and wondered what would become of this precocious child who was subject to no control, and who had withal such seemingly exalted notions, that it totally unfitted her for the companionship of children of her own age. Mrs. Hathaway would sometimes say to the old major, “What shall we do with Hephzibah, she holds herself so above our country ways?”

“Strange child very, not at all like other children. Time will develop her more fully—she will make her way in the world.” But he stubbornly refused to make the sacrifice of her company, or listen to any plan suggested to induce her to conform to the usual manner or condition of little girls. “I cannot part with her,” he would repeat over and over.

In spite of her oddity and her quaint notions she was more sought after than any of all the village children. She could repeat more verses and tell more wonderful stories, and knew where all the birds’ nests were and when they were ready to fly, and she never tired of talking in her own way, to old and young, and with all her lack of conformity to other people’s ways she was a general favorite in the village.

Even her mother became convinced at last that Hephzibah was of a different temperament and organization and unlike the rest of the family, and she said to her older daughters who were solicitous about the child, “She cannot conform to our habits of discipline, she must not be forced to submit; Grandpa would say, ‘She is like her grandmother’s family; she has the Hastings blood in her veins. We shall see what the future will unfold.’” What a puzzle the child was to them all!

“What can Hephzibah do with all these fine aristocratic notions without money?” said her rich uncle to the mother on one occasion when paying his regular visit to the homestead. He found her installed there as though she were actually the mistress of ceremonies, positively receiving her uncle on his arrival with the air of a little duchess bred and born.

He undertook to remonstrate with his father, telling him how absurd it was to have “that child assuming so much authority, where she had no rights,” but all to no purpose; the old man’s affection for her was almost an adoration.

So the selfish uncle appealed to the mother; he knew her to be wise and discriminating and he carefully inquired what course she intended to take in regard to Hephzibah’s future. “She cannot go on long in the way she is doing now,” he said, “for she will soon be developing into womanhood and you have too many boys and girls to give her any special advantages; by and by you will not be able to control her at all—if indeed you are now, which appears doubtful—and the child is far too delicate and sensitive as well as too proud to push her own way in the world. You are certainly doing her a great injustice; she must go away from here to school, where she will be properly controlled. Once gone from his sight, Father will forget all about it, just like a child, and she will familiarize herself with other scenes, and it will change everything for the better.”

The uncle seemed to think his sister-in-law coincided with his views, and acquiesced in the scheme of sending Hephzibah away, but she did not—far from it, nor did she intend to follow his advice in the least. When he had gone, she soliloquized thus: “It would never do to send the child away while her grandpa lives—it would break her heart, and the old gentleman would refuse to be comforted and mourn himself to death. She must remain until time brings some change about.”

Friends of the family one after another came to offer advice, until Mrs. Hathaway grew weary of their solicitations, and her replies were such as to convince them she knew best herself what to do with her own. And though some of the persistent ones felt self-condemned, yet they tried to make amends for seeming interference by praising the child’s ability, and would say, “We are all interested in her future, for we can see she has more than ordinary talent and it should be developed in other ways than hiding herself away in nooks and corners and talking to the brooks and birds and trees.”

Mrs. Hathaway was perfectly well aware of the situation of affairs, and anxious to have her little daughter receive an education in the best schools. And she knew, better than any one else could, as mothers almost invariably do, that Hephzibah could not submit to be sent away from Grandpa among strangers, and at the same time conform to the rigid discipline of the schoolroom. She loved her little girl with all the warmth of her generous motherly heart, and her interest in the child grew more intense still when she learned how others felt concerning the child’s future, and that she was such a general favorite in the village. However, she would not yield in the least and pursued the even tenor of her way, regardless alike of their admiration of the child or advice concerning her welfare.

And what of Hephzibah? She was totally unaware of it all and still indulged her childish peculiarities; she never played as other children did, or much with them at all, though she had likes and dislikes, strong ones too, among her playmates as well as older people; the boys of her own age were rather fond of annoying and frightening her when they found her alone in the fields, but even the mischievous boys held her somehow in a sort of adoration, and would bring her the earliest wild violets and longest-stemmed water lilies she loved so well, and thus even the most bashful ones manifested their boyish appreciation of her love of the beautiful in nature.

Descended from the staunch old Puritan stock, with all their severity of character, it seemed strange that without any predilection on the part of her parents, she should possess such enthusiasm on subjects so foreign to the habits and customs, as well as the disposition, of the people with whom she associated and among whom she dwelt.

But with all her weird fancies and rose-colored aspirations, she had inherited from the Pilgrim forefathers and foremothers those traits and attributes that must ever lie at the foundation of whatever is lofty in motive or purpose—honesty, integrity, and a conscientiousness in all her thoughts and feelings, that gave a moral tone and balance to the ideal and spiritualistic and kept her within the bounds of reason even when, as she grew in years, impulse uncontrolled would have led her into a labyrinth of difficulties.

Chapter 4

Weird fancies do possess us now and then,

And even child-life has its histories

Which older grown we fain recall again,

Remembering how sweet its mysteries.

Alas, another change awaited Hephzibah. Following close upon her father’s death, the aged veteran of the village, once “the young master” at the mill, and for so many years almost the sole occupant of the old farmhouse where our little heroine had roamed at will, the dear old grandpa whom she loved so fondly, passed quietly to his rest as though falling asleep.

The villagers who had known him all their lives, could scarcely mourn for one who had outlived his usefulness, though they honored his memory with many encomiums of praise, for his good deeds, his uprightness, his sterling integrity, and for his patriotism and military title nobly earned in his country’s defense.

And little Hepsie, as she was now almost invariably called by the children her playmates, was disconsolate and refused to be comforted—in fact, so wild and uncontrollable was her grief that her philosophical mother was puzzled. There was so much in the child’s nature that seemed “from the world apart,” that it was difficult to tell what one ought to do under the circumstances. This the mother knew, for she had studied Hepsie as she would a problem in algebra and found her a much more subtle thing to deal with, because she was constantly revealing new phases of character. It was more like a game of chess between mother and daughter, and Hepsie always managed to keep her mother in a state of perplexity, of which the child was totally unconscious.

“I cannot live without my grandpa,” she sobbed between her screams. “He cannot be without me—let me be buried in the same grave! He will never be happy without me. He loved me best of all the world.”

Such random expressions and then the crying was pitiful. In vain her mother and brothers and sisters reasoned and explained. She wept floods of tears, and when at last she could weep no more, she fell asleep only to awaken in a maze, as it were, thinking she was in the old house and Grandpa there with her as before this terrible shock had come upon her. Mrs. Hathaway tried to make her understand how happy would be the reunion of Grandpa and his wife, whose name she bore and whom he had so tenderly loved, and cherished her memory so faithfully. The child gave herself up to paroxysms of grief, piteous to those who loved her, and her mother now more than ever fully realized that some change must be made in Hepsie’s life.

Meantime the oldest son arrived from Boston to attend the funeral and look after the property. He paid little attention to the widow of his brother whom he had defrauded, though keeping up some appearance of respect to preserve the dignity of his father’s family, perhaps; but when all was over, and the family tomb re-opened to receive the remains and sealed up again, and such ceremonies performed as were absolutely necessary, and affairs settled, then he sent adrift the two old people who had lived so many years at the farm and were devoted to the old major, with a bare pittance, not caring if they went to “the poor house” or not. They had done faithful service and were at least entitled to their living.

His sister-in-law courageously spoke in their defense but he cruelly resented it by saying, “The very roof that shelters you and yours rightfully belongs to me.”

“You shall not have it,” she retorted, “not if there is law in the land to protect the rights of the widow and the fatherless.”

He felt he had gone too far, but he was not proud to recall his words, and walked away saying he did not care ever to set foot in the village again. Before leaving, however, he barred the widows of the old home and put heavy locks upon the doors and told the neighbors it would soon be taken down.

Hephzibah had looked upon the old house as her own—her grandpa had often told her she should have the homestead and all the beautiful old laces, linen, etc.—and now ’twas shut against her, and uncle Elisha had carried away everything valuable. The child rebelled and called him cruel and hardhearted, and protested against being robbed, but all to no purpose.

A new era now began in Hepsie’s history. She was just commencing to merge from childlife into the realm of girlhood. Her mother was keenly conscious of the change and seriously resolved to break the spell that clung around her and the associations so closely intertwined with her affections, and sent her away to school, where new scenes and surroundings would break the spell and give activity to her dormant energies.

Mrs. Hathaway had a friend in whom she reposed great confidence, living in a town about thirty miles away, the wife of clergyman, who had no daughter of her own, and whose superior education and accomplishments would be a great advantage to Hepsie in developing her unformed character.

And so ’twas settled at home with the family, and preparations were rapidly made for the journey. Letters were interchanged between Mrs. Hathaway and Mrs. Grosvenor, and the latter was given instructions in regard to disciplining the mind and character of the eccentric child whose guidance she was about to undertake.

The new dresses and other wearing apparel awakened but little interest in this unsophisticated child, but the thought of leaving the dear old places, the familiar scenes where she had spent her happy childhood, almost overcame her and she wept bitterly when she was reminded that she was going among strangers. However, she was just beginning to learn that life was not all made up of fancies, and indeed the death of her grandfather had worked a radical change in the tenor of her thoughts. She was more serious and contemplative and earth was not quite so rosy-hued nor the future so unreal as heretofore.

One delightful May morning when the lilacs were in bloom, and the fragrance of the apple blossoms sweet upon the air, she dressed herself with more than usual care, for this was to be her advent out into the great world, albeit only to an adjoining town, whither she had never been. She tripped lightly down the stairs though her heart was sad, and out into the grove at the back to say adieu to the trees and rocks and brook, for she had loved them all with a childish simplicity.

She gathered a bunch of violets and pinning them daintily on her black dress, she went in to say goodbye to the brothers and sisters, weeping bitterly all the time.

Her breakfast was untasted, though the choicest morsels had been prepared for her, and a nice lunch for the journey. Gloomy forebodings were in her mind at the thoughts of leaving her dear ones and going forth alone. She had never seen Mrs. Grosvenor, and the idea she formed of her was not at all prepossessing.

Finally the moment came—the sound of the carriage wheels—and the lumbering old coach drove up. Hepsie kissed them all goodbye and climbed into the stage, her eyes full of tears and her throat with sobs. The driver cracked his whip with a great flourish and the four fine horses darted forward down the road.

Looking out back of the coach window, she saw her stately undemonstrative mother going up the lilac walk slowly and wiping her eyes with her apron. Hepsie was rather glad her mother wept, for she thought grown women never cried, except when someone was dead. Her own tears were falling fast, but childish grief is not of long duration, and she soon forgot her trouble in the excitement of the journey, the lovely scenery through which they were passing, and the strange faces around her.

There were two or three other passengers and one old lady in green spectacles, who asked Hepsie inquisitively where her mother was; then, seeing the black crape on her dress, she said, “Oh, your mother’s dead, poor thing! And I s’pose your going to your rich relations.”

“My mother isn’t dead, and I’m going to school, and I haven’t any relatives except my uncle and cousins in Boston, and they are too proud to care for us! I hate my uncle anyway, for he has locked up my grandpa’s house, and says he’ll have it pulled down; and that’s the reason I’m sent away, because I cried so much for Grandpa and the old house.”

“Well, well, to be sure, what a chatterbox. And,” added the old lady, “you’ll soon forget all about it.”

“No, I shan’t,” said Hepsie. “He was the grandest man you ever saw.”

“I never saw him,” said the lady.

“Well, if you ever had seen him, you would think so, and everybody at the ‘Old Furnace’ thought so.”

“Well, I never,” said the green spectacled lady again. “What are you talking about, the Old Furnace? Was Major Hathaway your grandfather, the man who owned the old factory at B—? Well, I do declare—no wonder you thought him grand. Why, everybody in these parts knew him. And as for his wife, though she died long ago, when I was a little girl I almost worshiped her. She was a rare beauty, but what an ugly name she had—Hephzibah.”

“That’s my name,” said the child quickly, “but they call me Hepsie nowadays?”

“Well? Well! I never did,” the old lady repeated again and again, under her breath. “Why, he was very old—ninety-six or seven he must have been.”

Hepsie had wakened early that morning and she had become so exhausted with crying that after answering many more of the lady’s interrogations, she fell fast asleep in the coach and forgot her great sorrow.

It was late in the afternoon ere they reached the place of destination, and the old lady in the green spectacles had been put down at one of the towns on the way. The stage driver had been directed where to leave Hepsie, and arriving at the parsonage just outside the centre of the town of M—, he stopped and lifted the little girl out.

Mrs. Grosvenor was in waiting and came out to meet her. The driver lifted down the little hair trunk that contained Hepsie’s wardrobe and carried it up the steps.

She had never been away from home alone before and was so timid that she trembled with fright. Besides, she had been forewarned that she could not “put on airs” with Mrs. Grosvenor.

The lady inquired kindly if she were tired, and asked concerning her mother’s health, and then ushered her into a large, square sitting room, so antique and curious in style as to cause her to compare it with Grandpa’s dining room in the old, old house, from which she was now as she believed shut out forever. Everything was bewilderingly strange.

After partaking some refreshment, as it was not time for “tea,” Hepsie walked out into the garden, and there again she was reminded of the farm. The shrubbery was charming and the apple blossoms’ dainty perfume scented all the air. The ground was covered with pretty pink and white leaves, and the garden seemed like a fairy bower.

The house itself—viewing it from the outside—was quite as romantic as the one she loved so well, and Hepsie found herself wondering if the long dark passages under the sloping sides of the gambrel roof, contained as many old papers as there were at her grandfather’s, and if so, whether Mrs. Grosvenor would let her rummage them over, and sit and read all day in the garret as she used to do sometimes in the past.

When night came, the house seemed gloomy and Hepsie wondered and was awed by the stillness, for at home the children made merry music with their chatter and laughter.

The minister for the husband of Mrs. Grosvenor was the Rev. Erasmus Grosvenor. He looked very solemn and spoke only to “Deborah,” for so he designated his wife, and Hepsie queried whether he loved her, he spoke so coldly; for the child had heard her grandpa talk a great deal about love, and of his undying love for her grandmother; and though she could not know exactly what love meant, still it embodied her childish idea of true happiness.

Mrs. Grosvenor was occupied with some plain needlework, and Hepsie scarcely knew what to do with her hands and was very restless. Besides, she wanted to ask a lot of questions, but she dare not for the silence to her was something painful. Finally prayer was offered in such a stately way, and not the least impressive to the child, and Hepsie was informed it was time for her to retire.

Mrs. Grosvenor showed her to a little low chamber, a long way from the sitting room, and the hall and stairways were so dark that she shivered with fear, for she was in some respects a coward, and the stories of ghosts and giants were vivid in her mind. The woman took no notice of the child; she had been requested to discipline her and considered this was the proper course to take. It required firmness and she was just the one to undertake such a task.

The little room was still as the grave, and the bed looked as though no one had ever slept in it. Mrs. Grosvenor put the candle down and said, “Goodnight,” and in a moment Hepsie fell to soliloquizing as usual. “I’m sure I can’t sleep—what a dismal place this is, how quiet and gloomy. So this is the beginning of the discipline Mother said Mrs. Grosvenor would give me.” And by this time she had burst into tears, childish relief, and ofttimes a blessed relief to older children too, when the heart is full to overflowing. Poor Hepsie imagined herself cruelly treated, and at once conceived the idea of writing her life and making this the first chapter. She repeated over and over the multiplication table and then all the verses she knew, and while thus engaged fell fast asleep.

Chapter 5

Childhood, how passing sweet its radiant hours;

The loves and friendships of our early youth;

Enchantment dwelt within its fairy bowers;

Adorned with germs of purity and truth.

Morning came, a lovely morn, and Hepsie unpacked her little trunk and made ready for the Sabbath, for this was Saturday. After that, she wanted to take a walk, and as her mother had told her to ask Mrs. Grosvenor’s consent to everything, she asked the lady’s permission.

She spent most of the day in the garden, and Mrs. Grosvenor in addition to her domestic duties, assisted the Rev. Erasmus in preparing his sermon. Hephzibah was keen in her perceptions, and she discovered on her first day at the parsonage, that Mrs. Grosvenor wrote much of the sermon herself. If she left “the study” for a minute or two to attend to domestic affairs, the Rev. Erasmus, in dressing gown and slippers, would open the door of his study, and in his blandest tone, call “Deborah.”

The next morning was the Sabbath, and in a minister’s house, especially in New England, there was always a peculiarly subdued atmosphere on Sunday. Mrs. Grosvenor had considerable worry in fixing her husband off to meeting in time, and she was too busy to go herself as minister’s wives very often are; and after all the sermon was left, over which so much time had been spent.

Mrs. Grosvenor found it out when she went to dust her husband’s study and arrange his papers, for this was part of her work after all he had gone, and she hastily arrayed herself as became the minister’s wife, in her very best silk dress and lace bonnet, and hurried up the street towards the church. At the door she met the deacon, and slipping the package into his hands, she hastened home again, that her husband’s dinner might be ready for him when he returned.

Poor little Hepsie wondered as one naturally would what the minister could do without his wife. She wrote a letter to her mother that day according to promise; it was her first letter, and she was very precise in making it both neat and correct, and after telling her mother how unhappy she was to be so far from home, she told her as a great secret, that Mrs. Grosvenor she was sure wrote the sermons for her husband to preach in the pulpit on Sundays.

When the little letter was finished, she signed her name with a flourish of her pen underneath as she had seen her brother do, and folded it neatly; there were no envelopes in those days, and so she sealed it with a pretty pink wafer, and carried it to the post office herself, as though it was a great treasure.

Monday was another eventful day for the child. The principal of the girls department at the high school was apprised of Hepsie Hathaway’s coming, and Mrs. Grosvenor had told Hepsie that Miss Elliott was “a most amiable person.” Hepsie went through the ordeal of questioning as to her age, residence, studies, and former teachers, and was finally ushered into a large hall filled with girls older and larger than herself.

It did not take her long to get initiated into the ways of the school, and she was so quick and diligent that she excelled in all her classes and became a general favorite. The girls depended upon her for help in mathematics and composition, and she was so fond of astronomy or the geography of the heavens, that the young men quite admired her, and looked upon her as superior to other girls.

Though Hepsie was very small for her age, she was now constantly associated with older girls, and was sought after by them as companion and friend, and yet they were a very different type from herself; full of fun and nonsense and fond of having a good time—sometimes perpetrating practical jokes, which were very annoying to Hepsie’s unsophisticated nature.

They were mostly girls with “lots of pin money;” while little Hepsie had none to spend except as Mrs. Grosvenor suggested. Therefore their little friend could not “chub” with them in buying sweetmeats and dainties; in fact, she cared very little about that sort of thing, and would rather ramble over the beautiful hills, and along the pebbly streams, and linger in the grand, old woods, among the rocks and moss; listening to the sighing pines, musing, soliloquizing, and imagining the unrivaled future, than partake the most tempting meal they could offer her.

The child had strange presentiments concerning her destiny, which haunted her unmistakably, and which she would fain have unraveled, if possible, but as yet it was intangible, only a myth. The cultivated people with whom she was being brought in daily contact at the minister’s house, and her constant associations with Mrs. Grosvenor herself, could not fail to develop her rapidly—she was such an impressionable, thoughtful child.

These conditions were good for Hephzibah and modified her idea of life very much; though, child as she was, she saw much that seemed little in accord with the minister’s teachings from the pulpit on the Sabbath Day and much also that her sensitive conscience disapproved. How keen the perceptions of children to judge right from wrong, is not always remembered or recognized—one cannot be too careful in the example set before children.

Hepsie saw much during her sojourn at the minister’s home that was never forgotten. The young, newly fledged preachers who “exchanged pulpits” occasionally with Mr. Grosvenor were anxious to convert Hepsie and wanted her to get a newehart. Poor thing! She could not comprehend it, and one day she told Mrs. Grosvenor that it was quite a puzzle to her about this “new heart,” and why did she need it. Grandpa had thought her good enough, and that she was tired of being told she was a sinner, and so on.

Mrs. Grosvenor asked the child how and when she had been worried on this subject, and she replied, “Whenever you leave the room for anything, the moment I am alone with one of the young ministers, I grow cold all over, because I know he will inquire if I have had a change of heart yet.”

Mrs. Grosvenor was troubled; her eyes were opened, and from that day Hepsie was never left alone with any strange minister.

About this time, a few of the most popular girls in the school entered into a sort of compact together, and they included Hepsie in the number. They only wanted seven, and no more were to be admitted. This society had some restrictions and a great many privileges and, schoolgirl like, they were full of enthusiasm.

Marriage was the principle aim of the Association, because one of the stipulations was, that as soon as one of them married, she should be excused from the obligations previously incumbent upon her, and Hepsie fancied they would all leave her, unless they should decide to remain single; but this was not a part of the programme; they decided not only to marry, but that each one should marry a man with a title of eminence—Rev., Prof., D.D., M.D. or A.M.

Poor little Hepsie heard this and shuddered. She thought of the Rev. Erasmus, his selfishness, and the many petty foibles so apparent in his character, and as she was devotedly attached to the seven, she felt bound in honor to speak out. “Would you love a man that was cross, and disagreeable, and never satisfied? Wait upon him, work for him, plan for his pleasure, though he never thought you were tired, or sick, or wanted rest or peace? Who always sat in the parlor when company came, and talked while his wife cooked the supper and made all ready for the comfort of his distinguished guests as he calls them?”

All this and much more came like a crash from the little one, whom they had never dreamed could assert herself like that. The girls were amazed, and so was Hepsie, at her own courage. She broke down then and began to cry as children do when overwrought—as we all do when the very fountains of our hearts are stirred.

She felt like a culprit, too. What right had she to betray family secrets? She loved Mrs. Grosvenor, for tho’ she had been strict, yet she had been diligent and true to her trust, and Hepsie only knew what her perception told her. She was quite vexed with herself for her freedom.

“Don’t cry,” said sweet-tempered tenderhearted Jane. “What do you know about love or things of that kind? Why, you’re still in short dresses and pantalettes. Your opinion indeed, fie child. My brother will be a Rev. someday. He’s at Yale now, such a fine fellow—all the girls admire him, and anyone might thank her lucky stars to get him and his title.”

This was Miss Fay. Her father was an esquire and she was as haughty as though he had been a baron. It amounts to almost the same thing—a ’squire in a country village is held in as high esteem almost as titled aristocrats in the old world.

Nevertheless, Miss Fay was not a great favorite, but she was kind of a leader and she could ill book the interposition of a little opinionated child like Hepsie Hathaway. After all she felt in her heart the child was more than a match for her. Hepsie did know something about love, albeit it was only an intuition, and she herself could not have defined her own delicate sense of the divine sentiment.

Unwittingly she had touched a chord in the heart of each of these young and blooming maidens, so much older and wiser in the ways of the world. It was the very outburst of spontaneity.

Chapter 6

The sobbing, moaning, murmuring sea

Brought to her heart a sadness, a distress;

That seem’d prophetic of her destiny,

O’ershadowing her future happiness.

After Hepsie had spoken so much like an oracle, the girls seemed to pay greater deference to her opinion on all matters under discussion in their private “club,” and the child was more than ever surprised.

Jane, who had been so sympathetic at the first announcement of Hepsie’s description of the life of “ministers’ wives,” took her under her especial protection as it were, and as the other girls held Miss Jane in high esteem, it gave “the little one” some prestige.

Miss Jane W. was the youngest daughter of a very wealthy man, who in addition to the title of colonel was a squire too in his native town and a representative to the legislature in the city of Boston; and these imaginative schoolgirls fancied Boston the nearest place to heaven. So Miss Jane, who was very unpretentious in her way and never had an opinion to give, was nevertheless an influential friend.

It afterwards transpired that in matters pertaining to their beaux, the girls always consulted Hepsie, and Miss Ray with all her arrogance was quite confidential with “the girl in pantalettes,” telling her much of her preferences and roguerries and always binding her to secrecy. All the girls came confidentially to Hepsie, perhaps because she was so childish, and they felt they must tell someone, as girls do when they begin “to fall in love,” and even women are not so much better in this respect. Hepsie was rather shy of giving opinions after her first outbreak, but she was intrusted with many secrets, and as she had none of her own to give or to keep, they were not at all burdensome. It was another chapter of experience for her; she learned to be wise, for had she not been very cautious, serious trouble might have arisen between these romantic schoolgirls, who kept up such flirtations for pastime. The girls trusted her implicitly and, hearing from all sides, she was able to make such suggestions as seemed wonderful to them, not knowing how well “the little one” was posted.

Everything went on about the same for some time at the school, and at the parsonage. As Hepsie advanced in her studies and developed in other ways correspondingly, Mrs. Grosvenor opened her heart more and more to her, and confided to her keeping many things that to one quick to discern and intuitive by nature were like new revelations day by day. Hepsie began to think any condition preferable to being the wife of a village clergyman, with constant burdens laid upon her to bear thanklessly, though this position had already been proposed as the most appropriate for one like her. The husband always to be considered, the wife seldom if ever.

In her heart she resolved never to marry a minister. Still, nothing could have been better for a child so peculiarly organized, than the mental and moral strength given to her highest and best aspirations through the intimate association with this cultivated, refined, and accomplished woman, who had also the time to devote to her training. It counterbalanced in a great degree the excessive indulgence of the old major, and in later years, long after Mrs. Grosvenor had been laid in the silent tomb, Hepsie had cause to remember with gratitude her wise teachings and instructions. And had it not been for the balance of character thus attained, she might have grown morbidly disconsolate under the accumulation of sorrows that for a time hung over her devoted head.

Hepsie studied so hard and was withal so delicate that Mrs. Hathaway decided to give her the benefit of the sea air at vacation. Indeed, some change was “absolutely necessary,” as Mrs. Grosvenor had informed her mother, and to take her home would only have been to call up old memories that it was really thought had died out, so engrossed did the child appear to be in the present.

Once having made up her mind, Mrs. Hathaway—though she could ill afford to spare the means—was yet firmly determined upon making the journey. Mrs. Grosvenor gave Hepsie special instruction as to her “manners,” feeling anxious that Mrs. Hathaway should be pleased with her discipline, as well as having an ambition that the little girl should be perfect in her deportment on her own account, for she loved the child, and had already predicted a bright career for her little favorite.

Mrs. Grosvenor undertook all preparations in the way of dress, which was very little, however; yet to Hepsie it was quite an exciting affair, as she had never before been to a dressmaker’s establishment, and it was about as trying as her first day at the high school. She went through it all like one in a dream, and when she came home was so bewildered, she could not have told whether the dresses she had been measured for, were green, purple, red, or blue.

The summer vacation came and Mrs. Hathaway did not keep Hepsie waiting long, but a day or two after school closed she made her appearance at the parsonage ready for the journey.

Poor little Hepsie, her pent-up emotions were too much for her, and instead of kissing and embracing her mother in the regular way, she fainted in her arms. It was quite a scene, but both the ladies were undemonstrative, and so the affair was passed over with but little comment.

Hepsie went to bed early after the excitement, as they were to start in good time the following morning; and indeed in the Rev. Erasmus Grosvenor’s house, every one kept good hours. Hepsie was told daily that “early to bed and early to rise” was a habit that must be cultivated, and she knew well it was a regular custom in New England homes; but some way it did not suit her. She was erratic in her habits and tastes and was very unwilling to submit to the severe rules of life laid down for her guidance. It would scarcely do to tell how she passed the hours before retiring after being sent up to bed, during the time she was under the careful scrutiny of Mrs. Grosvenor, but suffice to say, she seldom went to bed without an hour or two of rehearsal either in reading or reciting. She was also given to scribbling, and child as she was, she had already written “verses,” though they were securely hidden away in her trunk and she felt too sensitive to submit them to the eye of anyone, not even Mrs. Grosvenor, and as for her own mother, she stood too much in awe of her even to think of doing such a thing.

The two friends so long separated had much to say to each other that night, for many events had transpired since they last met. But the conversation soon turned upon Hepsie and everything else was waived. The child’s future was as it were analyzed beforehand, but with all their farsightedness, they did not discern the realities that fairly crowded upon her within a very few years.

The morning was a fair one, and when the lumbering old stage drove up, Hepsie felt a great sob rise in her throat, almost choking her. She could not speak to her dear friend; a presentiment that she was parting from her forever came over her, and she went out of the quaint, old house silent as death. The goodbyes were hurried, for the coachman was impatient and they were soon on their way.

They passed through some charming scenery and village after village, each one prettier than the other, and as Mrs. Hathaway was familiar with the places, she gave Hepsie interesting descriptions, so the time passed swiftly away.

Night was coming on and Mrs. Hathaway told Hepsie they would stay at a friend’s house in B—, as she did not like “putting up at a tavern.”

It happened that the house where they spent the night was another of those old-fashioned ones, just to Hepsie’s liking; and tired as she was, she took notice of the quaint, odd furniture and crockery ware, and it was all engraven upon her memory. It was her first “out,” for the other journey had been to school and she was in too much sorrow then at the loss of her grandpa, to appreciate either scenery or architecture. Hepsie was elated at the idea of traveling and seeing fresh sights; there had been so much sameness in her school life, and she had such passionate longings for “the far away or the far off.”

The next day they arrived at their destination and found all in readiness for their coming. It was not a bit like what Hepsie had anticipated, and she was sorely disappointed over it, but when she had rested a little, and her mother took her to the seashore, she was enchanted. Her joy knew no bounds; her spirits were so exuberant that she was scarcely able to control her emotions; and when she saw the ladies and gentlemen day after day promenading leisurely along the beach, she wondered how they could keep so quiet and self-contained.

The ocean had a peculiar effect upon her; she could not have described it, but it was like a fascination or a spell, and awakened poetic emotions that had never been called forth in her regular school life; in fact it had been the special aim of her tutors and friends, to keep her under control; here was an expression or a sympathy with her emotional nature. The murmur of the sobbing sea answered to some tender chord that quivered in her soul, and the vibration was electrical in its effect. Sauntering on the beach in the twilight, she often felt that in the uncertain future the ocean would, in some way she could not comprehend now, be associated with her life history; and so indeed it proved. Not from any acquaintance formed there, however, for she was still too young for “affairs of the heart,” if indeed her mother had not been her daily escort. But there was little danger of young men wishing to show the slightest preference while the girls’ mothers were on the alert. However, the seashore is said to be the very place for lovemaking, and it does indeed seem fraught with all the sublimely tender and sympathetic in the nature and heart of humanity.

Hepsie however had love affairs—serious ones, too—at a very tender age; and therefore the patient reader, who perchance thinks this very tame and prosy, will find ere long “a genuine love story,” decidedly pathetic, and by no means uninteresting.

Chapter 7

In youth’s sweet springtime, O, how grand and true,

The aspirations of a fresh young heart;

And the bright vision, fancy opes to view,

Strange forecasts of the future life impart.

While Mrs. Hathaway was at the seaside with her little daughter, she tried to make a study of the disposition and temperament of the child, and her maternal love for the little one deepened more and more, as she carefully watched her day by day and found her exceptionally bright and knowing. She took counsel with herself in the matter and considered it well, for she saw plainly that an ordinary education would not satisfy the intense longing that Hepsie manifested for something beyond what seemed to be quite sufficient for her young companions. The mother learned from Hepsie herself in a sort of desultory way (for she would not have thought it proper to tell her she had such wonderful ideas of confidence and friendship) that the older girls who had been Hepsie’s classmates at school, were meditating matrimony, and thought more of making love, than of grammar or mathematics; the child’s mind reached so far beyond her years, she feared lest she might become involved in some of the plots and schemes these giddy school girls thought daring and romantic. She scarcely saw her way clear to remove her, either, for there had been a sort of understanding when Hepsie left the parsonage, that she should return to attend the same school the ensuing year.

Sometimes fate opens the way when all our planning seems of no avail, and so it proved in this matter, which to Mrs. Hathaway was a very serious one.

“Mrs. Grosvenor was ill,” the news came in a letter from home while they were still at the seashore; “the minister was in despair.”

Much as Mrs. Hathaway dreaded the effect of the news upon Hepsie, she felt it was absolutely her duty to tell her all she had learned about Mrs. Grosvenor’s condition. She did not manifest the least sorrow herself, taking pains to conceal her agitation, but Hepsie to her utter astonishment received the message as though she had known it beforehand.

After a few moments of thoughtfulness, she said as though talking to herself, “That ends my life at the dear old parsonage;” and immediately in a burst of emotion, her tears falling fast, she ejaculated between her sobs, “I knew she couldn’t endure it much longer—he has killed her by inches.”

Then, as though a new thought had arisen, she remembered the minister’s utter dependence upon his wife, and turning to her mother she almost screamed in her excitement, “Who’ll help him with his sermons now? The whole congregation will find out how it was he could preach such sermons: Oh, I knew it was because a woman gave him her thoughts and polished every sentence with her beautiful sentiments; women do most of the polishing in this world, don’t they?”

“It is scarcely proper for a little child to judge one like him—you do not know all,” replied the mother. “Besides, Mrs. Grosvenor is not dead, only ill, and may soon recover. Let us hope so, at least.”

“But she will die! I knew I should never see her dear face again. Everyone that I set my heart on dies—my dear old grandpa, he was a man among men, not at all like the Rev. Mr. Grosvenor!”

“I am glad you have a standard of excellence to look up to in mankind, but you have only spoken of two men, and in your opinion one of them is all good and the other all bad. That will not do—there is no perfection on this earth, but most people have more good than evil in their natures. How strange it seems that you should set up a standard at your age for ministers to live up to. They are the ones to teach us the way of life and salvation,” was the mother’s reply.

“Mrs. Grosvenor used to say to her husband that he preached too much about eternal punishment, and too little about heaven. Oh, I’ve heard them discussing the sermons over and over again. She wanted him to tell the people about love—the love of God, and of the blessed Savior—but he always wanted to have ‘strong doctrine to give to poor sinners on the Sabbath day,’ so he said. I tell you, Mother, she knew as much about the Bible as he did, and a great deal more about love. she often told me how dearly her father loved her, and what a good man and true Christian he was, ‘not at all like my husband,’ she would say, and then explain after that he was more tenderhearted than most men. He was a minister, too, now I remember, and it was arranged that she must marry a minister though she was opposed to it. She told me so in confidence, and often when we have been alone she has talked to me in such a way that I felt sure she had at some time in her life a real sweetheart.”

Mrs. Hathaway allowed Hepsie to talk on about ministers, and love, and like topics on which her mind seemed to rest, thinking it would keep her from grieving, and all the time she was learning more of the girl’s real nature, though she knew perfectly well the story of Mrs. Grosvenor’s life, before and after marriage, and she did not wonder that her daughter put this and that together, until she wove a pretty little romance out of the life of her dear friend.

Before many days another letter came, saying Mrs. Grosvenor had passed away, and as if to confirm Hepsie’s words it also stated that the Rev. Erasmus Grosvenor was so overcome with grief that he would give up his position at N—, and go away from his home and all that reminded him of his “dearly beloved Deborah.”

Hepsie mourned sincerely in a childish way, and bemoaned the necessity of leaving the school and her particular friends to whom she was so devotedly attached to go among strangers again, for her mother, who had already thought the matter over, informed her it would be farther away than before. Hepsie was partly prepared for the message that came, on account of the presentiment she felt the morning she left the parsonage; and yet she had tried to believe there was nothing in it.

At the seaside she had not made any new friends. In fact, they were not her style—the little girls of her own age were not at all companionable, and the older ones were occupied with other matters than noticing children. Indeed, Mrs. Hathaway herself did not care for the society of the fashionable people who assembled there; she was altogether too matter of fact, and as soon as she felt Hepsie had somewhat recruited, was only anxious to get away.

The eldest daughter of the family had married while Hepsie was at school, and Mrs. Hathaway intended to entrust the child to her care now that Mrs. Grosvenor was gone, and meantime made inquiries by letter what school advantages there were in the town for Hepsie. And having received word that there was a Select School for young ladies, she felt satisfied it would be a suitable place, and that the influence would be favorable, as there would be less flirtation and coquetting among the girls, although Mrs. Hathaway was not very well posted upon what had transpired in this regard at the high school. In New England in that day, Select Schools for young ladies only—which included little girls in short dresses, and which by the by were worn until they were fifteen years old—and Young Ladies’ Seminaries were considered the most “proper” places for girls; colleges were not then open to young women. In fact, it was just about the advent of the women’s rights period—and right here we might add that Hepsie’s mother was already tinged with the ideas that have since become so pronounced and have produced such radical changes in matters pertaining to women.

Poor little Hepsie was very timid about going to strange places, and she had never seen her sister’s husband, and indeed did not know anything of the town which was a much larger one and in another county, but her mother was quite imperative as to her going and she knew perfectly well that it would be no use to attempt to dissuade her when once she made up her mind.

Hepsie wrote letters to the girls of the “Club” telling them that she was going to another school, and that owing to the changes at the Parsonage, she was not to return to N— at all, and bidding them a fond farewell such as schoolgirls “love to linger over,” and promising eternal fidelity, she felt she was ready for anything. She did not expect answers to these letters, and in those days postal service was a very different affair to what it is now. They did not make railroad connections; the mail went by stage, and really Hepsie only knew of one railroad, and that line ran from Boston to Albany.

Mrs. Hathaway did not like to take Hepsie home at all, not even for a visit, but she saw no other way; some needful preparation must be made, and it was impossible for her to remain away from home any longer, and the visit to the seaside had been prolonged, for Hepsie had begged for one more day until a week had elapsed and it was nearly time to commence the fall term of school.

Hannah (the married sister) was delighted at the thought of Hepsie’s coming and could scarcely wait the time even though she was a young bride just gone to housekeeping. Mrs. Hathaway gave Hannah strict instructions concerning her little sister, telling her she had far outgrown in ideas the village girls of her own age, and how important it would be to advise her in the choice of books and companions, and impress her with exalted ideas of what would be expected of her in the future.

The journey home was without any particular incident, and once there the busy mother was involved in household duties, and Hepsie had a grand opportunity to roam over the hills and through the woods and fields. And first of all she wended her way to the old homestead, where she would sit for hours under the sweeping boughs of the great elm trees pondering on the past and dreaming of the future; many were her childish fancies, and girl-like somehow a hero of her own ideal creation was always intermingled with the years to come.

The house was occupied now by cousins, three or four times removed, so she had an opportunity to go in and out at will, though neither her mother or any of the family had crossed the threshold since the day of the old major’s funeral. The idea of pulling down had been abandoned as it was only valued as real estate. Hepsie, unlike the others, dwelt in an ideal realm, and clung with fondness and tenacity to the old home and all its attractions.

“Strange,” her mother remarked when she came to notice it, “she has so much ideality that I am completely at a loss to know what to do with her. She cannot be dealt with the same as the other children, and I am puzzled to know what course to pursue.”

But Hepsie meantime was catching butterflies and enjoying the summer hours and sunshine and was happy in the very consciousness of living in the beautiful world.

Chapter 8

Once more goodbye, to loving friends and dear,

A fond adieu to meadows, groves and brook;

Now other scenes, the lonely heart must cheer,

Nor backward turn with one regretful look.

The preparations for Hepsie’s departure were completed, and with a sorrowful countenance, she heard the announcement that all was ready for her journey.

“I must go over all the dear places once more, mother, and say goodbye, perhaps forever. There are hills to climb and goldenrod to gather—I’ll wear a bunch of it; and in the meadows there are daisies still—I’ll have a handful of them. Tomorrow morning I must go to the grove and hear the birds sing again. And then the brook I love so much—there are fine ferns there, I’ll take a few of those, and then you know, mother, I have so many friends to part with, old and young, I’m going so far, and it will be years, perhaps, before I come back, didn’t you say so?”

“Yes, I said you had better stay three or four years there, but we shall come to see you sometimes.”

“But you can’t bring all the lovely places with you. Oh, I must go over them once more!”

Her mother listened in astonishment. “Why, Hepsie, you’ve been at home for weeks, and going here and there through the village, saying your tender things to young and old, and roaming in the hills, filling the house with autumn leaves and brown and yellow vines and twining them about the rooms in your own queer way. You cannot take such rubbish with you—besides, the hills there are full of them. And you will be very near the river, the beautiful Connecticut.”

“Yes,” interposed Marion, an older sister, “but Hepsie loves our little brook here at home more than she will ever love the grandest river. That’s where she gets her inspiration from!”

“What, to make verses?” chimed in one of the boys. “Oh, yes, I know, she talks to herself down there. I’ve often heard her, and she told me that she believed that if there ever were true fairies, they were in the hemlock grove, down by that brook.”

“Jamie, you said you wouldn’t tell,” cried Hepsie, and then she burst into tears. These were her childish secrets, and she did not like them told, not even in her own home.

The mother heard the children talk on among themselves, but she made no comment, wise woman indeed. Yet deep down in her heart half-consciously a thought, a hope was lurking, that some day Hepsie might be all her grandpa had promised on the day of her birth.

The evening was passed in talking over the affair uppermost in the minds of all the family: Hepsie’s going away again to another school. Each one had something to say before parting for the night or some advice to give, and many plans were laid for the morrow.

Early in the morning Hepsie and her brothers were off to the grove to hear the birds sing and gather the ferns, and all day long she was going hither and thither taking leave of all she held so dear, outdoors and in. One might set out for Egypt and the Nile in our day, and not feel the breaking up and leave taking so much as little Hepsie did, going away fifty miles to school. Albeit Hepsie loved school, and wanted to go, for she had “great expectations” in her own way.

We will not linger over the day, the last day at home for a time, but simply state that there was little eating or sleeping among the children, and Mrs. Hathaway was profoundly quiet.

Morning came and the house was soon astir. It was an autumn morning and the trees were many colored, the scarlet maples flashed in the mellow sunlight, and the hills were fairly regal in their gorgeous coloring.

The parting was soon over, though many tears were shed, and long after the coach was out of sight, the children hung about the gateway, to try and catch one more glimpse of the fine horses.

Mrs. Hathaway had entrusted Hepsie to the care of a friend who was going to the county town whither Hepsie was bound, and so she had no misgivings concerning her safety. The ride was simply delightful, and once she ceased weeping, she enjoyed every moment. The many colored hills and woods, the sumac, mountain ash, and maple, and other bright tints of shrubbery were a perfect picture as they drove rapidly over the road. Bridges were crossed and hills climbed, pretty villages were passed, and at noon the stage drove into a town where there were a goodly number of church steeples and many large and handsome buildings.

On and on the stage rattled until the tavern was reached; there the passengers alighted and horses were put up. Dinner at the tavern, for those who wished it, then fresh horses and another start. Hepsie had a delicate lunch with her, and she could not even swallow a little of that. A great sob was in her throat, notwithstanding all her mental resolves and the beautiful scenes on every side. Her mother’s friend did not say much to the child, and she was glad, for her own thoughts were company.

Late in the evening they arrived and found the sister and husband waiting when the stage drove into town. Hannah took the child in her arms, embracing her too fondly, almost, for Hepsie was not accustomed to such caresses from grown people. She scarcely knew if she liked it, so “proper” had been her training.

Everything was new and strange, but this time instead of an old romantic house and furnishings, it was altogether modern and stylish. The sister plied the child with questions about home and the village folks, talking on of home affairs until the tired girl was half asleep in bed; then, kissing her softly, she left the room, thinking to herself what a sweet girl her little sister had grown and how she had improved since she had seen her last.

When Hepsie woke, she was thinking of the ordeal she must soon go through of entering school again. Her timidity was painful, and she suffered much in her feelings that no one knew or would have guessed, she seemed so composed outwardly. Hannah (or Mrs. Severance it was now) had promised to go with her to see Miss Andrews, the principal teacher, and make all necessary arrangements.

“Oh, what a beautiful woman! So sweet-mannered, and dignified—I’m sure I shall love her quite as well as Miss Elliott, though she was a ‘a most amiable person’ (quoting Mrs. Grosvenor’s words), but then I shall miss the club,” said Hepsie to her sister, after her first day at the new school.

“And who is Miss Elliott, pray tell? You know, Hepsie, you’ve been away from home so long that you must explain who these people are you talk so much about—it’s all Greek to me. Here you’ve been telling me about Miss Fay, who boasted of her brother at Yale and called you ‘opinionated, the girl in pantalettes,’ etc. I should like to know something more about your ‘club’—what was it? All those girls are to marry ministers, doctors, lawyers, or professors of some sort. You too, I suppose, entered into a compact, did you?”

“Well, yes, we did, but then I’ll be too far away now to know what they do. Of course they’ll write to me sometimes—Jane and Lucy will, I know—and as for Miss Fay, why, she can’t write even an essay by herself.”

“You don’t answer my questions, little sister. Now please tell me first, who is Miss Elliott?”

“I’ll begin at the beginning. Miss Elliott was the Preceptress at the high school at M— and a perfect lady, very wise, you know, but she couldn’t see everything that was going on there, with all her learning. She didn’t dream that the girls were carrying on flirtations under her very eyes. Besides, how could she understand it? She was an old maid!”

“Oh, then old maids are not supposed to be wise in love matters? How is that?”

“Mrs. Grosvenor said single women had no experience compared to one who married and had a family. I don’t think Miss Elliott had even been in love. She was always so quiet and self-possessed and never betrayed any emotion whatever happened in the schoolroom.”

“Little sister, I’m afraid your ideas are very fallacious, especially about love. These giddy schoolgirls have filled your head with nonsense.”

“It wasn’t the girls who gave me my impressions, you know. Hannah, I read all my grandmother’s love letters in the old garret when I was a very little girl. She knew what real love was. And then besides, Mrs. Grosvenor, a minister’s wife and a minister’s daughter too, she used to talk to me by the hour together.”

“Not about love, I should think?” said Hannah. “Minister’s wives generally are very religious and serious, and they have work to do that demands their time and energies. They haven’t much left for lectures on love.”

“Mrs. Grosvenor used to talk to me, Hannah, in the long evenings when the Rev. Erasmus was asleep taking his rest and snoring, and she was busy sewing, mending, or darning always.”

“And pray what were you doing all the time? Were you idle and she so industrious?”

“Oh, no, I was making lace, or knitting, or doing some little thing. Mrs. Grosvenor thought it a sin to be idle, but sometimes when she was talking, I used to let my work fall out of my hands to listen. Besides, wasn’t I learning all the time? She used to say, ‘Hepsie, these are life lessons for you out of my own experience.’”

“You are well posted about love, perhaps from reading love letters written ages ago, but I must say I don’t quite agree with you about old maids, notwithstanding your authority on the subject. I might differ with even a minister’s wife or daughter—their opportunities are often very limited for observation. Our family have lived within a stone’s throw of the parsonage all our lives, and since my remembrance there have been half a dozen different ministers engaged to preach in the village church. I don’t think either of their wives knew much about love. But never mind—discussing these opinions now, tell me about Miss Fay. She seems to have antagonized you.”

“Miss Fay is as proud as a peacock and wears handsome dresses and elegant hats and all that—but she was very glad to get ‘the girl in pantalettes’ to help her get her lessons.”

“But Hepsie, that isn’t telling me who she is.”

“Maybe not, but at school we didn’t know much about that. We judged the girls by their deportment and what they could do. However, I know all about Miss Fay—she’s ’Squire Fay’s daughter. They live at M— and have a fine house. She is not pretty, and I don’t believe they’re very great people; Mrs. Grosvenor didn’t care for them at all. She said Mrs. Fay was not a lady, though the ’squire is a very influential man in the town.”

“It appears to me you’re always quoting Mrs. Grosvenor, but tell me, hasn’t Miss Fay another name? You always speak of the other girls of the Club as Jane, Lucy, Sarah, and so on, how is it?”

“It was always Miss Fay at school. She’s an only daughter, and her name is a very odd one—Mehitable. Her father calls her Hettie.”

“Mehitable? That’s as ugly a name as yours!”

“Hephzibah is a very grand name, Hannah, and just think of the lady I’m named for—what a superior woman she was, and everyone loved her. Hephzibah Hastings, afterwards Hathaway—a curious combination of names, three grand ones together.”

“I am very glad you like your name, little sister. It doesn’t make much difference, but I remember how we all cried when Grandpa named you, such a sweet baby you were.”

“And now I’ve grown out of the sweetness, I suppose, and am full of all sorts of outre ideas, and not a bit like other girls—that’s what I often hear. The Club girls said that was the reason they invited me to join them. Not very flattering, either.”

This conversation and other similar ones from time to time gave Mrs. Severance an insight into Hepsie’s character, though the child was very careful never to talk when Mr. Severance was present—she did not like him, though she had no good reason to give, and somehow she never liked to mention him to her sister. She could not understand how it was her sister had chosen him, and yet they seemed perfectly satisfied with each other.

Hepsie was fast developing now, and her originality made her a most agreeable companion and her progress in her studies was very remarkable. Occasionally she received letters from the “club girls” as she called them but they were full of their beaux, and Hepsie was too far off to have the same interest in their affairs as formerly. Her sister’s husband was a musician, and Mrs. Severance a fine singer, and in the winter evenings a few friends, musical ones, were in the habit of meeting there for recreation. No parties, no theatres, no public gatherings for the girls were allowed.

Miss Andrew’s girls were entirely under her control in this respect, as much as if they lived under one roof. She was their escort over the hills, through the woods or river paths. She too was musical in her tastes and a magnificent singer, so she sometimes allowed herself an evening at Mrs. Severance’s, much to Hepsie’s delight, for then she felt she had her teacher all to herself, selfish love, and Miss Andrew’s partiality for the child was readily seen on these occasions. In fact, she scarcely talked of anything else. She was very, very fond of Hepsie as well as very proud of her as a student.

And it was at this school that Hepsie’s compositions and essays, and the comments made upon them by the teachers, created quite a sensation and awoke considerable envy among the less fortunate girls. But we must not linger too long over details, for we are reaching the important period, the turning point in the future life of this romantic schoolgirl.

Chapter 9

How beautiful in youth the golden dreams,

That love and fancy to our vision bring,

With what bright radiance all the future gleams

While we just taste at the Pierian Spring.

To Hepsie her school days were full of joyous anticipation as well as happiness in the present, for she loved her studies and pored over her books when others of the class were totally absorbed in frivolity and fashion, and in discussing social matters, for they were more anxious to appear well and gain popularity than to obtain knowledge to prepare them for lives of future usefulness.

Hepsie was a long way from home and did not often see any of her own family except the sister with whom she was staying; and this good sister was much troubled in her mind over her, because of her inclination to wander in the fields and woods and give her time so much to solitude instead of actual life, of which she very well knew there would be great need in the girl’s future. She was practical herself, content to “settle down” and leave all matters of great moment to her husband, which Hepsie noticed and with her individuality could not altogether countenance.

On one occasion, when her sister had reproved her mildly for not giving more attention to her wardrobe, which she sadly neglected for her books and also to take long walks in the beech woods not far away, she instead of replying to her sister’s questioning of how she spent her time, very impertinently for one so much younger, began catechizing Mrs. Severance.

“Why do you spend all your time waiting upon a man who is not as ‘smart’ as you are, and who never allows you to have any say at all when he is talking, even about things you know so much better than he does? You’ll settle down here, I suppose all your life, and never know nor realize what is going on in the great world outside, while your husband will attain a name and distinction among men, possibly, and his wife, far more capable, shine only in his light.”

“How very wise you think yourself, little one,” replied the sister. “Having chosen my husband out of all the world, I am quite content he should shine as my bright particular star, at least.”

“But he is not willing you should shine—that is the point! Equality of husband and wife is the standard for me.

“What about St. Paul—does he not say wives should be submissive, and also that they should learn of their husbands at home?” said Mrs. Severance in reply. “Mrs. Grosvenor used to teach her husband—how does that agree with St. Paul’s ideas?”

“In fact, she told me a great deal about women helping their husbands, minister’s wives, and others, and she believed that women could teach the scriptures publicly, and that the Savior thought more of women than ministers do in our day, and that He paid them more respect.”

“Hepsie, you are hardly old enough to expound the scriptures tho’ you were under the tutelage of an authority on such matters like Mrs. Deborah Grosvenor.”

“I am not exactly an oracle, perhaps, but my ideas about women are very exalted ones, and I’m quite sure girls ought to have greater advantages than they do nowadays.”

“Oh, what would you like then, pray tell? You for instance expect to be a teacher, and from what you have just been saying possibly you intend to teach the scriptures as well?”

“I may. At any rate, I believe in it, and I’m sure Mother can quote more scripture from memory than any minister I have heard. They have it written down in their sermons, but Mother knows the Bible by heart, and more than that, she is not very well satisfied with our minister at home. She says his sermons are dry and cold. She often speaks of the prophecies of Isaiah and Jeremiah and believes many of them are yet to be fulfilled, and wonders that the great divines of the day don’t see these things as she does.”

“Hepsie, you astonish me. The other day you wanted to convince me you knew all about love, and now you are discussing religion and the scriptures—what next, I wonder?”

“Next, I suppose I must darn stockings, and mend gloves and so forth to get back into your good graces, for I can see you think me very conceited, though you are too clever to say so. It is a good thing you don’t know all I think—you would want to send me away to someone who could modify me, no doubt.”

“Never mind, Hepsie. You will grow older and wiser in time. And although you can’t go to college, you can in another year, at any rate go to a Ladies’ Seminary and finish.”

And so from time to time the two sisters talked of the advantages and pursuits of men and women. Hannah was conservative and thought her sister a born radical, and she tried in her quiet way to make her understand how impossible of fulfillment many of her theories were. But a great change was coming, of which either of the sisters had no foreshadowing or premonition.

And Hepsie, when she had heard her mother talk of the scriptures in a half-prophetic way, little knew how her mother’s mind was being wrought upon to examine the Bible herself, and how by careful investigation and prayer she had arrived at the conclusion that the ministers of the day were in error.

Here for the present we will leave the sisters and go back to the quiet village nestled among the hills described in our opening chapter.

* * * *

There came to the good old town of B— on a gray November day in the year 1841, two strangers, evidently travelers as their appearance betokened. They inquired at the post office where they would be likely to get a hall to preach in, or if it would be possible to get an opportunity to preach in the village church—the postmaster, who by the by was the leader of the choir, the singing master of the little village, began to wonder, as neither their manner nor their grammar so to speak savored of college-bred ministers, and he began plying them, Yankee-like, with questions.

“What denomination do you belong to? Methodists, I presume, as you do not have the appearance to me of either Baptists, Presbyterians or Congregationalists.”

Before they had time to answer him, he informed them that the church was occupied by a Congregationalist and he did not believe any Methodist would be allowed to preach in it.

“Well,” said one of the strangers, “we are not Methodists, and we would like to see your minister and ask permission to preach in the pulpit. We have something to tell the people—good tidings for them.”

“What good tidings?” said Uncle Rufus, as he was called throughout the village. “New doctrine? Where did you come from and what is this you want to tell the people?”

The strangers hesitated a little, but finally replied, “The doctrines we preach are the same as taught in the New Testament by the Savior and his apostles, and we have come without purse or scrip more than a thousand miles to preach to the people, and we want a place to speak in. We hope to have an audience tonight here in this village.”

“I’ll go with you to the Reverend Edward M—,” replied Uncle Rufus, “but it’s not much use, I’m afraid, he’s awful strict regular orthodox, wouldn’t let a Methodist come inside his pulpit. For my part I don’t care much for religion, and I’m not afraid to hear Universalists, even.” This with an emphasis as though Universalists were the most heterodox of all the denominations.

A few steps brought them to the minister’s door, and as Uncle Rufus was with the strange men, they were invited into the parlor. And then he remembered that he had never asked their names nor ascertained where they were from. However, he was not in the least disconcerted and said to the minister, “Here are two strangers come to ask permission to preach in the church tonight.” The Rev. E. M. turned upon them and without ceremony said, “Who are you that you come without even sending me your names and ask such a privilege?”

“We are elders sent to preach the everlasting gospel, and we are not ashamed of our names or our profession.”

“Elders, Baptists are you? And what new thing have you to tell?”

“We are not Baptists but missionaries called and ordained by proper authority.”

“This,” said the younger man of the two, “is Elder Farr and my name is Simmonds and we are Latter-day Saints.”

“Oh, I understand. ‘Mormons,’ from Nauvoo, I presume. You cannot preach in my church. You believe in the golden Bible and in Joe Smith who claims to be a prophet.”

The elders tried to explain about the Book of Mormon and also that Joseph Smith was a true prophet, but all to no purpose—the minister was furious.

His wife, hearing the confusion, came to learn what was the matter. She asked the strangers to be seated, and as if to atone for the rudeness of her husband, made some inquiries and appeared interested in their mission. It was all to no purpose—her husband was determined. She suggested that the schoolhouse would hold quite a number of people, and they could most likely have the privilege of holding a meeting there.

The elders thanked Mrs. M. for the suggestion and rose to go, but the minister’s anger had been aroused and he vented his ill will by saying, “I don’t want to hear your false doctrine and shall use my influence against your teachings while you remain here in town. My wife shall not go to the meeting, I will not in any way give countenance to men sent out without means to pay their way, and I can assure you the people of B— know better than to be carried away by the romance of a golden Bible.”

The elders saw how useless it was to expostulate and were anxious to go. They were convinced that Mrs. M. was anxious to hear them, from the interest she had manifested, but after his declaration that his wife should not go, they could only thank her for her courtesy and were glad to leave the house where such a furore had been raised.

Uncle Rufus too was glad to get away, and was now more determined to aid them in getting a place to preach in, for he was rather fond of variety, and in a sober staid New England village there was not much change in those days. And he had begun to think, like some others, that their minister, orthodox though he was, did not quite understand the needs of the people.

On the way as they walked along, he asked more questions and elicited considerable information, and became deeply interested in their conversation. He helped them secure the schoolhouse and managed to spread the news through the village that two “Mormon” elders all the way from Nauvoo were going to preach and there would be something worth hearing.

Chapter 10

What wonders, and what change’s time hath wrought

E’en down among the old New England hills

New light and revelation hath been taught,

That ev’ry fibre of one’s being thrills.

And sure enough, the Mormon elders preached in the little Puritanical village—in the schoolhouse—and a large number of people gathered to hear what new thing they had to tell. And forsooth, they found only the same old story of salvation through the Messiah who would yet come in power and great glory to possess the kingdom.

But the strangest part of all was that no one seemed to have comprehended the Bible until these Mormon elders gave them a key by means of which they could unlock the sayings of the Savior and his apostles, and the Bible seemed to them a new book. Even on the first evening many were impressed with the truths uttered by these unlearned men, and several applied for baptism at the close of the first meeting. So plain had been the explanations given in regard to the remission of sins through baptism and the laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost, that those who received the glad tidings with willing hearts rejoiced, and were exceedingly glad and desired that others who had not heard should have the opportunity of hearing the same inspired teachings.

On the following day the news spread through the village and the town like wildfire, that two strangers preaching new doctrines had made such a sensation and created so much enthusiasm among the staid and quiet people, that several of the members of the Congregational Church, and some who had never made a profession of any religion, were to be baptized in a pond just a little way south of the village.

The minister on whom the elders had called the day before was so excited over the news when he heard it, that he went from house to house among his parishioners to ascertain particulars, and if possible to protect them from the snares of the adversary of souls, and to induce them to use their utmost endeavors “to persuade the deluded ones to give up such foolish notions as having their sins remitted by going down into the water, for it was only a species of Catholicism, this promise to remit sins.” But it was all in vain. The seed had been scattered, and it found root and grew and flourished and eventually bore good fruit.

There had never been at any time in the history of the oldest inhabitant of that little village such an exciting time. The baptisms were performed as the people who had been converted requested, though the weather was cold in that section of country even in November, but none of those who had asked to be baptized seemed in the least to fear the cold water.

It was a glorious sight to gaze upon these baptisms in this quiet country place and the confirmation afterwards at a house nearby where they went to change their clothing. The new converts hovered around the elders plying them with questions almost innumerable, so earnest were they in their desires to gain further information.

Finally, after remaining about three days, preaching every evening and answering questions throughout the day, the elders traveled onward, leaving those whom they had baptized in charge of a brother, a resident there, whom they appointed to preside for a few days until they should return and resume the work so successfully begun.

Among the very first who believed the truths taught by the elders was Mrs. Hathaway, who had been looking forward to just such an event as had transpired—the coming of a prophet and the restoration of all things.

The minister brought to bear all his learning, wisdom, and influence to show up the errors and misinterpretations of scripture, as he called their preaching and logic. But those who had heard knew it was not sophistry or delusion, and that there was no such misinterpretation of scriptural truths as he represented, for they were told by the elders to take the literal meaning of the word of God.

The conflict between the church people and those who had accepted the idea of new revelation was a bitter one, and the consequence was a gradual division that at last became permanent. One cannot help feeling that the commandment given to the Saints to gather unto one place is necessary, when it is considered how indignant and revengeful the people become towards those who accept the principles of “Mormonism,” so called, but in reality the true gospel.

Meantime, though persecution raged, one might say, yet the Saints met together and the gifts of the gospel were poured out in a wonderful manner—not only in the gift of tongues and the interpretation thereof, but in the healing of the sick and afflicted, so much so that doctors became alarmed as well as ministers.

In a neighborhood about five miles from the village on a farm, the mistress of the house, the mother of a large family, had lain ill for many years. Eminent physicians had pronounced her ailments incurable, and her family had given up all hopes of her ever coming downstairs again.

The husband of the sick woman heard the Mormon elders preach and repeat the saying of the Savior to his disciples: Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel &c.—and he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved. . . &c.—and these signs shall follow them that believe, in my name they shall cast out devils, shall speak with new tongues, and if they lay hands on the sick they shall recover, and so forth.

Mr. W. pondered over these words and he believed them. The elders also said many had been healed under the administration of the elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the present day, as well as in former times. Faith seemed at once to be implanted in the heart of Mr. W.; he sought an interview with the elders, he invited them to his house, he listened to their teachings, and he soon became converted to the doctrines they taught.

He told them of the condition of his wife and asked them if there was a possibility of her being healed by faith. The elders answered, “If she is not appointed unto death, and if she will believe sufficiently to allow us to administer to her in the ordinance of the laying on of hands, she will be raised up and you will have her in your midst again fully restored.”

Mr. W. listened in astonishment, yet he believed, and accordingly he took the elders with him up into the chamber of the sick woman and introduced them to his afflicted wife, saying, “These are the elders of whom I told you, who preach repentance and baptism by immersion and the laying on of hands, not only for confirmation and the gift of the Holy Ghost but also for the healing of the sick and afflicted even as in the days of the Savior. Are you willing to listen to them, and if you can comprehend as I do the truth of these things, we will ask for baptism at their hands?”

The elders remained a short time conversing with the sick woman, and she received their teaching with the humility of a little child, and her faith was such that she desired baptism, but how could she obtain it? She asked, “I am not able to sit up or to be dressed—how can I be baptized?” The tears flowed down her pallid cheeks.

One of the elders replied, “Mrs. W., if you have faith in our administration, we will lay hands upon your head and ask our Heavenly Father to heal you, and you shall be restored to health and go down into the waters of baptism, return again to your home, and go about your daily work as you did before this illness came upon you.”

“I will exercise faith, for I believe you are men of God. I see it in your countenances, and I feel a power such as I have never experienced before. Oh, if my boys were only here to see you and to hear you as I do, what would they say?”

Her husband interposed, saying the boys should be written to immediately, and that she must not trouble about them—they would come home and hear for themselves.

Finally the elders administered to her and she was healed. The following day with her husband and two or three of the younger children she walked a little distance from the house, to where there was a running stream of water, and they were all baptized and confirmed into the Church, and the words spoken to her by the elders were literally fulfilled.

This manifestation of the power of healing caused a great commotion. Many of the people round about were well acquainted with Mrs. W.’s condition and could not account for the miracle that had been wrought, for they knew some power had been exercised in her behalf.

Her two eldest sons who were away in college were sent for to come home, that they might know for themselves of this wonderful change. One of them, the eldest, was preparing for the ministry; the other, to graduate in medicine. They came home; they heard the teaching of the elders, and the testimony of their mother upon the healing power manifest through the holy priesthood, and they soon became convinced it was something which far exceeded the learning of the world. They gave up their worldly professions, they became converted to the gospel which their parents had embraced, and they too were baptized, and afterwards ordained, and proclaimed the glad tidings and truths and taught them to all who would hear.

But the young men with whom they had studied would not accept the message they brought and ridiculed them for believing what they knew and testified to be the truth. It was hard for them, but they found immediately after their baptism that they could not finish the studies they had intended at the college—prejudice was too bitter, and all sorts of rumors concerning the “Mormons” were retailed at large. But these young men had counted the cost and had decided to serve God and preach the everlasting gospel, revealed again through Joseph Smith, instead of accepting earthly honors and false creeds.

And here for a little time we will leave them, rejoicing in their newfound faith, enjoying the gifts and blessings pertaining thereto.

Chapter 11

And many listen’d, and a few obeyed,

The precious message which the elders brought;

And willing sacrifice these converts made,

Counting their worldly wealth and gain as naught.

The history of the introduction of the gospel as taught by the Latter-day Saints, into the village of B— in the Old Bay State, is similar in many respects to that of other small towns in New England and elsewhere. Evil reports began to be circulated immediately after the elders had succeeded in making a few converts, concerning the Prophet Joseph Smith and his followers. And when argument failed to dissuade those who had been converted, or who were favorably disposed towards the doctrines taught, these false rumors were repeated and brought to bear in trying to convince those who were believing, that the people called “Mormons” were low, ignorant, and deluded, without any of the refinement of modern civilization. Every story that imagination could conjure up was carried from house to house and from town to town, to destroy the influence of the elders in proclaiming the truth as revealed from heaven.

But the time was ripe for the dissemination of the knowledge of the gospel, the good seed was being sown, and according to the parable of the Savior in the New Testament, some fell upon good ground and some did not, etc.

The latter-day work was spreading and many were converted thereto. The news that the elders had been preaching in Boston and Salem, and that many had not only been baptized in those cities but had actually gathered with the “Mormons” to Nauvoo, seemed to add strength and give courage to the converts in these smaller towns; for the ministers, doctors, and judges, etc., had said that only in the places away from the centers of wealth and culture could such foolish doctrines flourish and find followers, or such uncouth and unlearned men be able to obtain an audience. But here were the facts published in the papers, that in cultured Boston, sermons were preached, discussions held, and a branch of the Church built up, and families had gone west to the latter-day Zion. The particular village and adjacent ones with which the story we are relating is directly connected, were about sixty and sixty-five miles from Boston, and Boston ideas were a sort of understood authority on all great questions.

The preaching of the everlasting gospel, as it was called by the new converts, was successfully promulgated by the local elders, and among these were the two young men fresh from college. They used such excellent language and were so earnest and eloquent in speaking and charming in manner, that many young people were attracted to the meetings and became numbered among the little band of Saints.

Among this number was one of the young girls who had attended the high school at M— and was also one of the “Club” of seven. She was four years older than Hepsie and quite capable of appreciating the truths the elders taught. She too had been brought up in the Congregational Church but, like Hepsie, had never been convinced that a change of heart was necessary to her—the simple methods of faith, repentance, and baptism, etc., were much more real. She complied with these conditions and gave up the hopes she had entertained of distinguishing herself in the world of letters, for she fully realized the sacrifice she was making.

But there was one sentiment she had cherished that was not easily eradicated. She was in love. The young man to whom she was engaged was studying for a profession, she was proud of his attainments, and she hoped to convince him of the truth she had received, and that eventually, if not immediately, he might go with her to the far west, and that her dream of happiness which had been so fondly cherished might be realized.

It had been a genuine love affair. Letters had also been interchanged, for they dwelt in different places and the engagement had been announced to friends and kindred.

Like many older and wiser than this young girl, she had fancied in her enthusiasm that her affiance would see as she did when he heard the sound of the true gospel. But alas! she was doomed to disappointment. She sent for him to come to the village, for he lived miles away in another town, and he attended several meetings, but he could not see things as Miss Reynolds did, or was too proud to give up his ambition or the place he hoped to win among men of rank. This was a sad blow to the young girl, and even her mother and grandmother felt she had been too ready to make a sacrifice which was likely to involve so much.

Yet this young girl with every prospect of a happy marriage, and her heart overflowing with love for the object of her affections, was still true to her integrity in the midst of this severe trial, and bore up bravely. Very few ever knew what it cost her to put aside Love’s fond dream, and take up the cross, for she already knew that henceforth she must stand firm and steadfast, and alone, for she felt then that none other could ever be to her a companion for life—so little we see of the future, when our hearts are pained with sorrow, when our “gold is being tried in the furnace.”

Miss Reynolds was Miss Fay’s cousin, the girl who had looked with disdain almost upon Hepsie when she asserted herself so on the subject of love. She had a great deal to say to her cousin about the matter when she saw her after the engagement was broken off, and this fact made it harder still for Miss Reynolds to endure the final separation.

“How blind you must be to your own interest and future welfare,” said Miss Fay the first time she met her after hearing the news, “to discard a lover like Henry—and unite yourself with a people so unpopular as the Mormons! I am utterly astonished—why, when, Aunt Rachel told me you had been baptized, I sat down and cried like a child. We were such friends, you know, as well as being first cousins; and even your mother doesn’t approve of it, nor Grandma, either, and as for my mother, your own aunt too, she is horrified.”

All this in one breath, as it were before Miss Reynolds could possibly reply, but she summoned courage to speak as soon as her cousin stopped speaking. “You know very well that I did not break the engagement. Moreover, that I love Henry as truly as you love Ralph, and expected to be his wife someday; but he would not countenance my association with Mormons, even, and when he knew I had joined the Church of Latter-day Saints, he was furious. Although I entreated him to listen to my explanations on the subject, he would not, and so we have parted in anger after all our vows of eternal constancy to each other. I never expect to see him again,” mournfully replied Miss Reynolds.

“Then it will be your own fault, for he will be willing to make up. It’s only a love quarrel—if you’ll renounce your foolish notions about this new religion and be sensible, I’ll manage Henry with Ralph’s help,” said Miss Fay.

“I don’t want you to do any thing of the sort. If he could be so cruel as he has proved himself, now, what might not happen during a long lifetime? I congratulate myself that we were not already married—the struggle then would have been a much greater one. But one thing I must have back again from Henry, and that is my letters and the notes I have written him long ago, you know. They must not fall into anyone else’s hands,” said Miss Reynolds.

“Do you wish me to ask for them, or shall Ralph tell him to return them?” said her cousin inquiringly.

“I think I will wait awhile,” said Miss Reynolds. “He may send them to me. He has gone home now to A— and he will talk everything over with his sister, who was aware of our engagement, and she never liked it very well, I fancy. Hepsie Hathaway was a great favorite of hers, and she would have been very proud of Hepsie; I have no doubt she could manage this affair of mine—getting my letters back. You know, she was always diplomatic. She liked to manage other girls’ love affairs and never had any of her own. She’s far too young yet to be seriously in love—but we shall see in time,” said Miss Reynolds.

“By the by, cousin Lucy, that reminds me of having been told that Mrs. Hathaway had been baptized by a Mormon elder—is that true? Hepsie is still away at school isn’t she?” said Miss Fay.

“Yes, she is, and making rapid progress in her studies, but her mother has sent for her to come home to hear the Mormon elders preach, who are expected here from Boston now in a few days. And it is also true that Mrs. Hathaway has been baptized—the ceremony was performed for us both on the same day, the same elder officiating. Mrs. Hathaway’s two youngest girls were also baptized, my cousin Clarissa, and the two sons of Mr. W. who left college and came home when they heard their mother had been healed by the power of God through the administrations of the elders,” said Lucy.

“Do you mean Miss Clarissa the old maid?”

“I certainly do. She is not very old, either,” replied her cousin rather doubtfully.

“Not very old! Why, she was an old maid when we were children, cousin mine; but she’ll get married out west, no doubt, when she goes to Nauvoo. Is that the place you talk so much about going to when ‘the way opens’?”

“Now, Hettie, she is not thinking of that, but of the new truths she has found, and she rejoices as we all do in meeting together to sing and pray. Marrying is out of the question.”

“Yes, here perhaps. Because she has let the time go by, she is out of date, but in the west I have heard even old maids find husbands. But I’m more interested at present in these young men just from college—I have heard the eldest son is very handsome, dark complexion, a good figure, fine eyes, and quite polished in his manners. And you say, cousin, that he has been baptized by a Mormon elder? I can scarcely believe my senses.”

“Cousin, you need not trouble yourself about his beauty or his manners while you have Ralph. There are fine-looking Mormons doubtless married and single.”

“Cousin Lucy!” cried Miss Fay excitedly, “if you can secure Mr. W., I’ll forgive you for breaking off with Henry, and you can if you will, for you are more than his equal in every respect. And what a handsome couple you would be, and how all the girls would envy you.”

“Cousin dear,” said Lucy Reynolds solemnly, “I have no heart for joking. Every time I think of Henry, my courage almost fails me, and you must not talk to me of marriage with anyone. Henceforth my life shall be devoted to the interests of the Church, and I hope to see my mother and grandmother converted to the same faith that I have espoused. And you, my dear cousin, whom I have always so fondly loved, my playmate from my childhood, let me entreat you to come and hear the preaching of these elders, and you too will be convinced of the grand truths they proclaim. Promise me you will come.”

“I cannot—my mother will not permit it, and Ralph would be more offended than Henry is, were I to consent to go to a Mormon meeting.”

And so the two cousins separated for a time, one lighthearted and indifferent to religion, the other with a hope buoyant in her soul that God would overrule all things for good to those who trust Him; and yet sad when she recalled the separation from her lover, her affianced husband.

Chapter 12

Faith that alone withstands the heaving tide

Of fond emotions in the human heart,

Can sacrifice ambition, vanquish pride,

And conquer love, must be of heav’n a part.

How true it is that “man proposes but God disposes,” and we in our own hearts sometimes decide upon a course of life entirely different to that which circumstances afterwards as it were compels us to follow. Many young lovers have fondly dreamed of a blissful future but have been cut off from its fulfillment in one way or another, just when the charmed cup of happiness seemed within their grasp.

Occasionally such events are the result of the obstinacy or pride of one or the other. There are also many other causes, but more often, perhaps, it is on account of a distinctive difference in the position in society or in the religious views. It is always better and safer so far as possible to associate with those who are of the same faith. It is true that in many instances differences may spring up after marriage, and that may be unavoidable, but true happiness cannot exist where vital principles are in question and opposing views entertained. Many young people have separated as these two did and, looking at the matter seriously, have taken up the duties of life, and with the devotion that characterizes a genuine faith have been all the nobler because of the self-sacrifice.

In some instances we speak of these things as fate and also as a dispensation of Providence, but in this case, as in some others of which we have known, the woman never forgot in after years the sacrifice she made in giving up this young lover of hers, who had set her heart all aflame. But she could not and would not deceive herself into the belief that man’s love could compensate for that joy she felt in her newfound love of truth—and tho’ it was hard struggle, yet she conquered. That her cousin’s intercession made it all the harder for her, it is scarcely necessary to say.

Hettie’s badinage about young Mr. W., the one just converted, weighed nothing with Lucy. Her religion was first, and she avowed her indifference to marriage in the strongest terms.

It was true, however, that the young man referred to was looked upon even by the newly converted “Mormon” girls in the village as a most desirable and agreeable companion, and they liked to hear him in his eloquent though humble manner bear his testimony to the gospel he had embraced.

It was true that Mrs. Hathaway had sent for Hepsie and also her married daughter Mrs. Severance to come home and hear the elders preach. So sure was she that they would be impressed, that she wrote in the most positive way; and as they knew nothing of the doctrines or principles, they were almost as eager to hear, as Mrs. Hathaway was to have them. They made the journey in their own carriage instead of the stage, and only arrived in time get a warm supper (for the weather was cold), and attend the evening meeting, which was held in the district schoolhouse.

Hepsie was overjoyed to be at home for a short time, and on meeting her mother, noticed immediately the change in her appearance and, childlike, exclaimed, “Oh, Mother, how beautiful your eyes are tonight—how they sparkle! And you ever so much younger—what has happened?”

“My dear little girl, this is what has happened—I have found the true gospel, that the Savior and his apostles taught, and it has given me great joy. I have been baptized for the remission of my sins, and have had hands laid upon my head for the reception of the Holy Ghost, and I feel so happy. I want you and Hannah and all my children and friends to feel as I do and rejoice with me. Tonight you will hear the elders preach from the Bible and not spiritualize its sayings as the sectarian world do, and their priests and ministers.”

“But,” said Mrs. Severance, “I have heard that the ‘Mormons’ have another Bible, and that they believe its teachings as implicitly as we do the sacred scriptures, and that it is a golden Bible, and that Joseph Smith pretended to dig it up out of a hill in the State of New York, and to translate it himself, tho’ he was only an ignorant, uncultivated, and uncouth young man. He pretends God spoke to him and that he heard his voice.”

“Well, that is all true. It is not a pretense. But you shall hear for yourself this very night, and you will be convinced by the testimony of truth, as I have been, that this new religion is not a delusion, but the everlasting gospel, and that the elders who proclaim it are not deceivers. But every man and every woman is at liberty to judge of the truths proclaimed, whether they be of man or from God.”

At this point Mrs. Severance spoke. “Mother, you know how sure you were, years ago, that you had experienced a real change of heart? And your conversion was looked upon by our minister as quite an event because of your pronounced opinions upon all religious subjects, and especially upon the old prophets. I was only a girl then, about as old as Hepsie, perhaps, but I remember very well hearing good old M. Ridelle, who used to change pulpits with Mr. Spooner, say to Mrs. Spooner one night, ‘Mrs. Hathaway a Congregationalist? You surprise me!’”

Mrs. Hathaway replied very quietly that she had always felt sure that the scriptures admitted of no private interpretation, and now she had other authority than her own assertion.

“What other authority?” inquired Mrs. Severance.

“The authority of the elders who have been sent out to preach repentance and baptism and other points of doctrine. But I want you to hear for yourselves.”

Hepsie was half-bewildered. She was weary with the journey and annoyed with Mrs. Severance, whom she thought disrespectful to her mother. And she wanted to remain at home, but her mother would not consent to it, and so they all went on that memorable evening and heard the elders preach. This was almost weeks after the first baptisms had been performed, and there was considerable excitement over the affair in this quiet old town.

Uncle Rufus still continued to befriend the elders and was very hospitable in entertaining them, but he showed no signs of being converted. Uncle Rufus was quite a character in his way and was never afraid to speak his mind either upon religion or politics. His wife was very pious, quite the opposite, and as a natural consequence they were not one; in fact all the villagers knew that Aunt Lydia “kept to herself”—that is to say, she occupied her own apartments and Uncle Rufus did as he pleased with the rest of the house. But when it came to Mormon elders, the good wife objected, though naturally enough Rufus carried the day and as the house was a spacious one, she neither heard or saw them, as she had emphatically declared that she “could not endure the sight of men who went about sponging off hard-working people. It was against her principles—she was brought up to work for her living.”

But we must go back to the “Mormon” meeting. It opened with the hymn:

“Glorious things of thee are spoken

Zion city of our God!

He whose word cannot be broken

Chose thee for His own abode.”

Hepsie delighted with the singing. It was so lively, she thought, and so different from that she had been accustomed to hear in the churches, for in those days in the old towns in New England, the tunes were rather commonplace and the choir girls (and Hepsie was one of them) often wearied of the monotonous old psalm tunes with their long meters. And the reader must remember that at that period the usual method of “pitching a tune” was with “a tuning fork.”

After the singing prayer was offered—and that, too, was entirely different from the prayers Hepsie had heard either in the churches or at the parsonage of the Rev. Erasmus Grosvenor—the preaching was upon the first principles of the gospel, and references were made to the New Testament almost exclusively.

Hepsie was not so attentive as she ought to have been. She was excited, and nervous, and it was so new and strange. She watched the countenances of the speakers, and the effect of the discourse upon her mother who seemed so intensely exercised that it was apparent to all with whom she associated.

After the meeting closed, the people crowded around making inquiries and some applying for baptism. Mrs. Hathaway was greatly disappointed when Mr. Severance and wife both protested that they were not in the least impressed and did not intend to spend their time to hear such foolishness. In vain, Mrs. Hathaway entreated them to stay and talk to the elders, or even listen to her. No amount of persuasion would induce him ever to sit and hear such talk again, said Mr. Severance, and what he said, his dutiful wife Hannah acquiesced in.

Mrs. Hathaway saw it was useless to persuade, though she could not help manifesting her disappointment. But she thought then, for hope was buoyant in her breast, that in time they would be convinced that she was right. She had been such a wise mother and her children looked up to her with great reverence—indeed, she had actually supplied the father’s place so far as that is possible.

“My boys will believe as I do, I am sure they will,” she said with a great degree of confidence, after they had returned from the meeting and were talking with each other around the fire.

The room where they were seated was long and low, with oak paneling and very little that was bright in it, except as the fitful blaze of the pine knots in the wide fireplace reflected on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. There were tall brass and irons and they shone brightly, and the hearthstone was a brilliant red. There was no carpet, but a painted floor and rugs laid down for warmth, as it was wintertime.

Hepsie glanced around as if she expected to see a change in the room, but she only observed the shadows and glimmers from the firelight. She remarked to her mother, “How weird everything looks in this room. Or is it because I have just come home, and it is strange after being away so long?”

“It is only your childish fancy. We thought you would like the fire of pine knots and so we piled it up high tonight to gratify you, and would not light either lamps or candles, knowing your love of shadows.”

The great clock that stood in the corner struck the midnight hour before Hepsie had retired or would confess to weariness, so much did she enjoy the play of the firelight and the pictures she saw in the burning coals.

Her mother, too, was a fair picture to gaze upon, for Hepsie was beginning to comprehend true womanliness. She remembered years after the very dress she wore, and how she admired for almost the first time in her life, her magnificent figure and bearing. She began to see now how it was that Mrs. Hathaway had been disliked by her husband’s family—it was envy. She thought that night she had never looked upon her like before. Her forehead was high and her wavy hair clustered round it gracefully. Her mouth was perfect in shape and outline, lips cherry, and her eyes were heaven’s own blue; around her neck, which was well-proportioned, she wore a string of amber beads, and over her shoulders a heavily embroidered crape shawl. Her dress was a soft grey pongee.

As Hepsie looked intently into her mother’s wonderfully expressive eyes, she thought, as she many times thought afterwards, “Would I could paint her portrait, and write her life history.”

Such women were those who knew the sound of the gospel when it was first preached in their hearing: they needed no testimony beyond their own conscience and convictions. But time would fail to tell the lives of women like this one. Their record is laid up in the archives of the angels, and the world knows them not.

Chapter 13

How buoyant are the hopes that youth inspires!

Yea, rich in faith, this land of fairy dreams,

Wherein one cherishes, such fond desires,

That all the future bright with promise seems.

Hepsie Hathaway went back to school without being especially impressed with anything she had heard from the elders. In fact, the girl was too much absorbed in her studies and her thirst for book knowledge to realize the importance of the gospel. While at home, she had been in a sort of bewilderment—it was all so strange and sudden—astonished to find her mother so changed, and her former schoolmate Lucy Reynolds, a convert to the new faith; and surprised when she learned from the girl’s own lips that her engagement was broken off. She was scarcely able to grasp the situation, and really, things had not been clearly presented to her.

“How strangely things do happen in this world, Lucy,” said Hepsie to her friend, who had come in to say goodbye and to confide in Hepsie, whom she was sure would feel some sympathy for her in the struggle she was making. “I never could have believed you could give up Henry’s love for the sake of a difference in religion.”

“I gave him up for the truth,” replied Lucy quickly, “and I trust I shall be faithful to the cause I have espoused. It is something higher and better than our ministers preach, Hepsie, and cannot be compared with the favor of men, or the riches of the world.”

“And yet you could not convince Henry, with all your eloquence, and your own heart pleading for him, too, and such devotion as you have always shown him? I do not see how he could give you up. I cannot understand him—nor you, either, Lucy, for that matter. I thought love overcame all obstacles, all differences in rank, in sentiment, and in religion.”

“You see now how mistaken you were, my little friend—and I hope you will be a true friend to me in this, for you can do me a great favor if you will?”

“What is it, pray?” the girl responded quickly.

“Never mind now, dear, you will be coming home again soon, and then I will tell you all.” And so they parted.

During the journey back to her sister’s, Hepsie was silent and thoughtful, as she had heard so much in a few hours, and it had all been so unexpected. Mr. Severance kept up an incessant talking about the “Mormons,” his wife seemingly acquiescing in what he said, though in a very different spirit from his. Hepsie inwardly resented the way in which he alluded to the elders, knowing her mother looked up to them with such reverence and had entertained them at her own house. She thought her sister altogether too passive, but she kept her own counsel until after they reached their destination.

Then she broke out abruptly, after the fashion of young girls, “Hannah, why didn’t you speak up for Mother’s friends when Samuel abused them so? What right had he to call them hypocrites and deceivers? What does he know about the Bible compared to—”

Before she could finish the sentence, her amiable sister, always self-possessed and equal to the occasion, said in the mildest tone, “How old are you, Hephzibah Hathaway?”

“Oh, I suppose you think I am too young to express myself as I do sometimes. But really, Hannah, how do you know that these men are not called to preach the everlasting gospel? Mother says they are, and although I don’t know for myself, I believe her testimony.”

Mrs. Severance was confounded. She had always taught Hepsie obedience, and now she was puzzled how to answer the girl.

At that moment Mr. Severance entered the room and instantly guessed there was some unpleasantness, judging by the silence and the peculiar expression on the countenances of his wife and her sister. “What’s the matter? Are you two discussing ‘Mormon’ doctrine?”

“Not exactly,” replied Mrs. Severance, “but Hepsie thinks Mother is right.”

“Oh, she does, and so I suppose these ‘Mormon’ elders will be ducking her under the water some of these cold days. I would rather see her dead.”

“Oh, husband,” remonstrated Mrs. Severance, “how dreadful you talk. Hepsie has opinions of her own, child as she is, and the best way is to let the subject alone—she will forget it all the sooner.”

Hepsie relapsed into silence. She would not argue with this man whom she so thoroughly disliked. She wondered how Hannah could respect him, much less love him, for to her, his very presence was hateful.

The conversation was not renewed for several days, and things took their usual course. Hepsie became more absorbed in her studies and no message came from home about the work, which was all this time spreading rapidly in the town, only such a short distance away.

It was near the close of the term, and Hepsie had been very diligent and was making every preparation for the last day, expecting to pass a successful examination. She had even spoken to her sister about her dress, and manifested considerable interest in the matter of her appearance, as visitors were expected from other towns. It would be quite an event in the quiet life of a country schoolgirl. Hepsie was fully aware that Miss Andrews expected her to carry off the honors and the prize.

All the enthusiasm of her ambitious nature was aroused. She could not sleep. She was restless and excited, though she was also confident of success. It was almost the first time in her life when she had been over-anxious about her wearing apparel, and she hunted up the finest old lace and the prettiest ribbons, to complete her toilet.

Meantime, a letter came from her mother requesting her to come home, as an elder who had been baptizing a great number in Boston, Salem, and Lynne was expected and Hepsie must hear him. This was rather trying, but she kept the matter secret from her sister and went on with her preparations. Somehow she was not as lighthearted as before, and her mother’s urgent plea for her to come home kept ringing in her ears.

At last the morning came for the examination. The hall was beautifully decorated and Miss Andrews, in the gayest of spirits and the grandest of dresses, Hepsie thought, welcomed little Hepsie with a kiss as she came forward with her usual good morning to the teacher she so dearly loved. As she saw her hesitation, she assured her how confident she was that she would not fail.

Hepsie was like one in a dream all that day; she did not see the sea of faces around her, and the voices seemed afar off, for all the time she fancied that she could hear her mother calling to her to come home, and in imagination she could see a little group gathered for “the baptism,” in the brook close to the dear old place—the brook upon the mossy banks of which she had sat so often dreaming of the future, and where she had plucked the sweet-scented violets in springtime, and watched the speckled trout darting hither and thither. All these visions came and went as she recited the lessons she had learned so perfectly for the occasion.

Hepsie scarcely knew how she got through that day—only once was she self-conscious, and that was when Miss Andrews called upon her for the essay. She read it with all the eloquence and grace of expression possible in one so young. Her voice was clear and her tones finely modulated. It was the climax, the crowning moment of the day.

The applause was more than her delicate and overwrought nature could stand. She reeled and would have fallen had not a gentleman near, noticing her nervous condition, quickly stepped forward and supported her until a glass of water was brought.

When she revived and, arousing herself, realized the ordeal was passed, and summoning to her aid that strong willpower that proves so effectual when called into action, she was herself again.

Remarks from the visitors came next. Hepsie heard all the comments and the criticisms of these men of learning on the work of the young ladies. She felt embarrassed when her efforts were praised and she ardently wished for the exercises to close, that she might be alone in her own room and “cry it out.” The prizes were distributed and the school dismissed. Almost every one of the scholars were in tears, and the dignified teacher much affected.

After the school closed, two of three of the gentlemen with Miss Andrews came forward to congratulate Hephzibah, asking Miss Andrews numerous questions as to the plans for her future, and predicting a brilliant career for the little girl, if her health did not fail under the strain of study.

Hannah heard all and treasured it up, often telling her sister afterwards how proud she was of her on that examination day. Hepsie herself cared little for it, her heart was elsewhere.

Chapter 14

A winter day, and cold the wind and shrill,

The snow was falling, when a little band

Came slowly winding down a gentle hill,

And by an ice-bound brook in groups they stand.

Hepsie Hathaway needed repose after the examination, which had been very trying to one so sensitive to influences, but events were crowding fast upon her and she little dreamed what changes the next few months would bring in her life.

A day or two after the school had closed, Miss Andrews the preceptress called and bade her favorite pupil goodbye. It was a sad leave-taking for Hepsie, for although Miss Andrews assured her she would return sometime, Hepsie felt she should not see her dear teacher again, and could not refrain from telling her so in the most impulsive way. She gave the girl many parting instructions, telling what she should expect of her in the next few years, and finished by saying, “You will far surpass me in a literary way. Let me hear from you by letter,” and so they parted, never to meet again.

On the following Monday Hepsie was at home with her mother and little brothers and sisters. Mrs. Hathaway was so happy in her newfound faith, she talked of nothing else.

In fact, it was the topic of conversation throughout the whole village, old and young, and ere long forty or more had been baptized. A branch of the Church was organized and regular meetings were held. Many striking instances of the gift of healing had been manifested, and great interest aroused upon that particular point of doctrine.

The elder of whom Mrs. Hathaway had written to Hepsie had visited B— and returned to Boston but was expected again shortly, and Lucy Reynolds as well as Hepsie’s mother and others felt sure she would be converted under his teaching.

Hepsie listened to them but did not enter into their enthusiasm on the subject as her mother had anticipated. She exhorted her, wept over her, and prayed for her, and still made no perceptible impression.

Lucy Reynolds had confided in Hepsie concerning the matter of obtaining her letters from Henry, and the girl had promised to use every honorable effort to get possession of them. The opportunity came, Henry learning from his sisters that Hepsie had gone home. He paid a visit to the village to find out how Lucy was and how affairs were, for he had heard a rumor that Mr. W., just graduated, was going to marry Lucy and take her out west among the Mormons.

He called Hepsie to ascertain whether these reports were true. It was just what Hepsie wanted—to see him and talk with him and, if possible, secure the letters. During his call she inquired how he could have given Lucy up so easily.

He replied, “Hepsie, I loved Lutie” (for so he called her) “better than I ever shall love again, but I could not think of associating with a girl who had no more respect for herself than to join such a low, degraded sect as the Mormons.”

“Well, but suppose your sisters were to be converted to the new religion?” said Hepsie.

“I would disown them or my mother either!”

Hepsie felt this was the moment and she proceeded to open the budget. “Henry, as you so thoroughly despise the Mormons and all that pertains to them, you certainly do not care to keep anything of theirs?”

“I don’t understand you—I never had anything belonging to one of them, neither would I!”

“But you have, Henry, I can prove it to you. And moreover I want you to promise to give them to me!”

“Give you what I have not or ever had? Impossible!”

“It is not impossible and it is quite true—Lucy is a Mormon and you have her letters. You have broken the engagement so sacred to you two—you will not even see her, although you came to see me because you knew I would be in her confidence, and you certainly do not want the letters. Lucy has the same ideas of propriety in all things she had before her baptism and she does not think it proper for a young man who is not her friend even to have letters written when they were under promise of marriage to each other.”

Henry was silent and almost sorrowful. Tenderhearted little Hepsie nearly relented, but she summoned up courage and continued as she saw he made no attempt to speak. “Henry, do you think it right to keep a young lady’s letters—love letters, too—under such circumstances? Have the goodness to answer. And besides, do you feel that you have been manly in summarily breaking this engagement because of a difference in belief? You will never get Lucy’s equal, go where you will, and I don’t believe you will ever be happy, either.”

Slowly and evidently somewhat affected with the scene, Henry rose to go and, holding out his hand to Hepsie, said, “Lucy has a friend in you, Hepsie, and I admire your ‘grit,’ but look out the ‘Mormons’ don’t capture you too.”

“But the letters, Henry?”

“She shall have them, Hepsie. And mine,” he added, “she may burn. Goodbye, Hephzibah—don’t give up your bright future for Mormonism. Remember, I warn you.”

How was it that everyone who came to see Hepsie warned her to beware of the faith her mother had accepted? It was so contrary to all the teachings of her lifetime—children were instructed to give heed to the advice of parents, to follow their example. Now things seemed to have suddenly changed.

Today, when Henry pled with Hepsie not to yield up her bright future, her emotions were aroused and her sense of honor as she thought impeached. She felt her mother, who had stood so high in the estimation of all, must know as much or more of right and wrong, truth and error, as Henry, and in fact she almost despised him for his lack of courage in giving Lucy up.

She began to wonder what sort of men and women composed society and whether it was all false, a mere sham without honest foundations to stand upon. She recalled the days when she sat on the “old settle” by her grandfather, and his tales of daring courage and how love overcame all—and for a moment she felt as though the foundation stones upon which her theories had been built were giving way. Yet in this even her trouble was more for her friend than herself, although she could now plainly see that unless she received the faith her mother had embraced, separation was sure to come.

Sometimes fate or an unknown power decides for us peremptorily matters over which we hesitate, and so it was with Hepsie. Ever since she had returned from the school, her mother had sought to impress her with the truths of the gospel, and on the other hand messages were being continuously sent her, and friends urging her not to be baptized by a ‘Mormon.’

One Sunday morning Elder McG. walked into the meeting unexpectedly and was invited to speak. It was in the house of one of the members whose family had all been converted. The sermon was an eloquent and inspirational one, such as Hepsie had never heard, and the entire congregation were almost electrified.

Several people came forward after meeting and asked for baptism, and after some consultation it was decided the ice should be cut in Mrs. Hathaway’s brook and the ceremony performed there. The evening was spent in hearing explanations of doctrine from Elder McG., and it was late when the company of inquirers dispersed. The morning dawned at last but Hepsie had never closed her eyes, so intensely was she wrought upon by what she had listened to.

Two powers were warring her. One said, “Obey your mother, go down into the waters of baptism in the little brook that always seemed a sanctuary.” The other said, “Do not heed the sayings of your mother or the elders—a brilliant future awaits you. You must not make this sacrifice.” This and much more the tempter whispered in her ear.

When the time came, she went with the others who had gathered at Mrs. Hathaway’s down the hill to the edge of the water or ice, and as she stood there, all the time the same subtle powers were striving with her.

Two or three of the chief men of the village came and spoke to her. “Are you doing this of your own free will and choice?”

She only replied in monosyllables and heeded not the crowd. The wind blew fierce and whistled down through the hemlock grove above a sort of chant. It soothed her. She felt the sympathy it brought—it was like a strain of rare old music, and it gave her fresh courage.

Seven had already been immersed, and her name was called. Someone took hold of her arm—it was one she had known and reverenced, one who had been specially kind to her, the father of her dear friend and champion, Jane—the most influential man in the county.

“Hepsie,” he said, “come away—you are but a child. You must not make this great sacrifice—”

The sentence was unfinished. Hepsie saw the elder standing in the icy stream waiting for her. She went towards him, it was but a step. Her heart gave a great sob. The words were pronounced with great solemnity. In a moment it was over.

The crowd dispersed, and the little band of men and women had gone up one after another when the ordinance had been performed, to the house to change clothing. Hepsie was the last. Silently she returned to the house and was soon ready, seated with the others for confirmation. It had been an exciting time. Hepsie’s mother, cool and collected as she had always seemed, had been very nervous, lest at the last moment Hepsie should waver and refuse as some others had done after having come prepared to go into the water.

Hepsie did not at all comprehend the situation—she had no conception of the obstacles that would beset her path more and more from this time forward.

Chapter 15

The springtime came with all its loveliness,

And to the village maidens pleasures brought,

Betrothals—promises of happiness;

O love, how many changes thou hast wrought!

The first few days that followed Hepsie’s baptism were spent very quietly. She felt deeply, but said little.

Elder McG., noticing the quietude of her demeanor, divined the cause and sought an opportunity for conversation. Finding her alone, he addressed himself to her in such a way that she could not avoid answering. “Do you comprehend, Hepsie, the great importance of the obligations you have taken upon yourself in becoming a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and have you a knowledge of its doctrines?”

The girl opened wide her great blue eyes and looked him in the face innocently, yet with surprise. “Mr. —” she said, “I know nothing, except that I have been obedient to the wishes of my mother and have forsaken all else. My school-friends will not recognize me now—they are lost to me, as they are to Lucy Reynolds.”

“But you have accepted something better, higher, and purer than the wisdom and learning of the world.”

“How am I to know that the everlasting gospel will make me wiser and better and purer? Tell me that if you can.”

“By prayer and humility,” the elder answered, and he explained, in the most eloquent manner, doctrines and principles entirely new to her, but which she grasped quickly. He related circumstances concerning life at Nauvoo, and told her much of Joseph the Prophet. Like Mary of old, she pondered these things in her heart. From time to time she heard the local elders speak in the meetings of the branch, and she became better acquainted with the truths of the gospel.

Meantime other young people (though older than Hepsie) were making rapid strides in advancement, and a company of Saints were preparing to go to Nauvoo. The spring was opening and, early in April, about forty of those who had received the gospel were expecting to start. Among these were several unmarried men and maidens, and the fathers and mothers thought it would be advisable to have those who were old enough, marry. Perhaps, being New Englanders, they preferred their sons and daughters to marry there rather than in the “Great West,” of which, in those days, eastern people had many peculiar and crude ideas. So those young folks were paired off, so to speak. “Matches are made in heaven,” it is said; but of these few, it is doubtful—at least so thought Lucy Reynolds and her little friend Hepsie.

“It’s a great pity,” said the child one day to Miss Reynolds, “that you are not going to be married to young Mr. W., instead of that scheming old maid C. A. She has no education, no sentiment. And I doubt if she is sincere in religion, even. She will never make him happy, but you could and would.”

“How is it, Hepsie,” said Miss Reynolds, “that you are always interesting yourself in love affairs? One would think you an oracle, the way you deliver opinions. But how do you know Mr. W. is going to marry C.? He surely will not.”

“Oh, yes, he will—she has talked it over with Mother. And more than that, his brother S. is going marry Miss M. L., and she is far worse.”

“Well, I am surprised,” replied Lucy.

“Do you suppose love has anything to do with the affair?”

“I am sure I can’t tell, but it may be better so; they are marrying for principle, and that ought to be right.”

“We shall see, Lucy. But then, you broke your engagement for principle—and I suppose you are ready to marry for principle.”

“Hepsie, you jump at conclusions; I am not likely to marry at all. And if I do, I hope to be a truly devoted wife.”

The girls talked on in this strain until interrupted by Mrs. Hathaway, who came to tell them four or five marriages would be solemnized on Sunday next, and on Tuesday the company would start for Nauvoo. She added, “How I wish I could take my family and go with them. I long to see Nauvoo and the Prophet, and hear his voice.” But she knew that she could not go then. Yet the spirit of the gathering was upon her, and she tried to impress Hepsie with it. The child had not partaken sufficiently of the spirit of the gospel to enjoy and appreciate its blessings and privileges. At present her mind was occupied with these “ill-assorted marriages,” as she termed them, and the lack of true love she fancied there was in the unions about to be formed.

“I shall be glad when they are all gone to Nauvoo,” she said one day to Lucy. “I know you will feel much happier. You seem so downhearted now, and if Mr. W. had asked you to be his wife and taken you with him, you would not need mourn for Henry.”

“Hepsie, child, I thought you believed in love—can one overcome it so soon?”

“Yes, with a little pride. When a man slights you because of your belief, let him see you can look higher. Show him you have some spirit, if you are a Mormon.”

“We shall see in time, my dear. You see, you are not in love, and never have been, and yet think you know more than those who have had an experience. Don’t you know, child, that one must have experience in a matter before judging it?”

“You have had a kind of sad experience, Lucy. I am afraid I should not come out of the furnace of trial so good and noble as you have.”

Poor Hepsie little dreamed what the future had in store for her. The weddings were celebrated, notwithstanding Hepsie’s serious objections, which, as the parties knew nothing of, could not affect them in the least.

On the Saturday evening Lucy Reynolds called on Hepsie to inquire if she intended going to meeting to see the marriage ceremonies performed.

“No, indeed, I am not,” Hepsie replied excitedly. “Besides, I am going away to school so far that I shall be a perfect stranger and try to devote all my time to study, and let love affairs alone.”

“Where are you going, child? To Boston? It seems to me you ought not to go without advice from the elders.”

“Mother has talked it over with Elder McG., and he says it will be best, and that when Mother is ready to go to Nauvoo, I shall be qualified to teach in one of the great institutions of learning that will be built there, for the Prophet Joseph Smith believes in the most perfect education. I am to take drawing lessons and vocal music, too, at the high school at G—.”

“I am sorry you are going, Hepsie. I wish we could all go to Nauvoo now. I have no other wish at present, but Father is away in Maine and does not even know that we have been baptized, and we cannot leave Grandmother, you know. She will not listen to a ‘Mormon’ elder, and so the prospect looks dark for us.”

On Sunday, according to previous arrangement, the meeting was held at the residence of one of the local elders a little distance out from the village, and the marriages were solemnized after the close of the services. Five couples were united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The two young graduates, fresh from college, were married to the young ladies of whom Lucy and Hepsie had spoken as unsuitable companions for those refined and learned young men. It was a red-letter day in the new branch, and there was great rejoicing among those assembled on the auspicious occasion. The gifts of the gospel were manifest, and many testimonies of the truth were added to those already received for the strengthening of this little band of humble Latter-day Saints.

Mrs. Hathaway went home rejoicing in the glorious truths she had heard, and soon after her return opened up a conversation with Hepsie, who had remained away from the meeting, contrary to her mother’s wishes. She related full particulars of the marriage ceremonies, dwelling especially on the impressiveness of the service as compared with marriages witnessed elsewhere. She was full of faith, zealous in the interests of the cause she had recently espoused, and to her everything pertaining to the gospel seemed sublime and precious. The prejudices of sectarianism that are often so strong and hard to overcome, had no weight with her; she cast them aside as so many broken chains of superstition that had held her in bondage, and buckled on the new and bright armor of the gospel, without the least doubt or hesitation.

“If you had only heard, Hepsie, the powerful speaking of those very young girls, in the gift of tongues and interpretation, it would have been a convincing testimony to you, and you could never have forgotten the glow of their countenances. Indeed, it was heavenly. But better, almost, than all else that I have heard, and much as I have enjoyed the teaching and preaching of the elders from time to time, I have never heard anything that affected me so much as what Elder V. said today about baptism for the dead.”

Hepsie was thoroughly aroused now. Though she had listened listlessly before, her attitude and expression betrayed the interest she felt in the subject. Every feature of her striking face beamed with enthusiasm as she exclaimed, “What can we do for the dead? What do you mean, Mother? Can we talk to them?”

In a moment her mother saw the drift of her thoughts and hastened to explain: “You are familiar with the Bible and have read it through carefully. Do you not remember in the Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, where it says, ‘Else what shall they do which are baptized for the dead, if the dead rise not at all? Why then are they baptized for the dead?’ To me, this principle surpasses in grandeur any other I have heard, extending into the ages of the past and giving the living, power to redeem the dead.” Mrs. Hathaway had spoken eloquently, and Hepsie was gradually coming to a knowledge of the truth. Unconsciously, almost, her senses were being quickened. Little by little her mind was expanding to grasp the priceless treasures offered so freely, and which the pride of the world and her ambition had nearly hidden from her view.

On the Tuesday following, as had been expected, a company of about forty persons, men, women, and children, members of the Church in the village of B—, started on their journey to Nauvoo. Traveling by land in wagons, they were joined by several others from adjacent towns, so that the company numbered about eighty souls.

This was early in the spring of 1842. It was an event of much significance to those interested, and caused quite an excitement in the quiet village, where erstwhile, year after year, things had gone on so regularly. Now there had come a new departure, and naturally enough it aroused the indignation of the clergy, and provoked much animated discussion.

Chapter 16

Sweet April, with her lovely smiling face,

Shining thro’ tears fair as the rainbow’s sheen,

Gentle and charming, with a winsome grace,

Decks all her courtly train in living green.

The month of April opened in the little unpretending country town of which we have been talking with a great deal of unusual activity. The fitting up of wagons and teams with provisions and clothing for the Far West was an event of special importance in those days to the quiet stay-at-home people, and the neighbors, friends, and relatives had much to say in disapproval. The very heart of the town seemed to be moving when this goodly company took up their journey. But as from time immemorial it has ever been, so it proved in this case—the excitement and hubbub, “the nine days’ wonder,” subsided and things settled down again to the utmost quietude. Though it may be as well to state here that the village never became afterwards what it had been in other days, for many of the very best and brightest men and women went with that little band of pilgrims, and their places were not filled.

It was the time of year when the woods and groves and meadows were full of music, and all nature was donning her beautiful vestments of early spring. The charms and attractions of this happy season never be fitly expressed in words—the heart, the soul, all that is best, purest, and highest yearns to burst the narrow bounds that confine the human mind, and in a language only understood in feeling and longing sing with the birds on the topmost bough of the tallest tree, or climb the highest mountain peak to pour forth in a flood of soul-music the exuberance that wells up and fills to overflowing the great heart of nature.

Hephzibah Hathaway, young as she was, felt the bursting of buds, the leaping of fountains, the springing tender grasses, the perfume of violets, the fragrance of lilacs, and the aroma of the pine woods, as one feels the influence of a joy that surpasses all description. Her whole being was enraptured or, one might say, en rapport with the condition of nature. She was not then conscious of the intense sympathy which she afterwards knew existed in her soul with the great universe.

She was so much in love with these influences and objects that what was said to her of practical life left little impression. The days flew round and the time for her departure arrived before she had made the least mental preparation.

Then followed another scene of parting, breaking away from scenes and places so dear and so beloved. Another fond and lingering farewell to those precious ones beneath the maternal roof and to go again among utter strangers. For the time, she had almost forgotten her books, so absorbed was she in the haunts of her childhood, but one fine morning, the dew yet fresh on the soft, clinging, tangled grass, she marched down the long lane to the roadside, where her trunk had been carried to wait the stage, Mother and children all around her, and without any outward demonstration of regret, though a great sob was in her throat, she said her adieux.

The mother was less composed. “Hepsie, my dear child,” she said, almost at the last moment, “you will not forget to pray that you may remain steadfast to the faith you have embraced and pray daily, morning and evening, that you may be preserved from temptation to renounce the principles of truth, for I know and testify to you that this gospel we have accepted is the only one that will secure to us eternal life.”

Hepsie was not so firm as her mother wished, but she promised to try and do all in her power to keep in the right path and not listen to the false statements and reports that were circulated about Joseph Smith and his followers.

The ponderous old stagecoach came dashing along and the last goodbyes were said and the scene finished. Hepsie did not dare look back, but began surveying the faces of those around her in the stage. A few miles’ ride and the silence began to be irksome to a restless girl, and a lady near commenced asking questions that soon led to an interesting conversation.

“Is this your first experience of leaving home?” asked the lady.

“Oh, no, I’ve been away most of the time since I was a little girl.”

“And pray what are you now? Little enough to be sure and look no more than eleven years at the most.”

“I am fourteen and mean to teach in a year or two more. Indeed, it is expected of me.”

“You will have to grow rapidly and mature considerably if you expect to occupy the position of a country school teacher. It requires physical strength—remember that—and you look very delicate.”

Hepsie wanted to say that she intended to go to Nauvoo and teach in some great institution of learning there, but she had resolved before leaving home not to mention Nauvoo, Joseph Smith, or the “Mormon” doctrines. Therefore she remained silent, which was in her case perhaps the better way.

We shall pass over the year Hepsie remained at the high school in G— and merely state that the girl applied herself exclusively to her studies, that she made rapid progress and won the love, esteem, and approbation of her teachers and many of the students. At this institution after a public examination, Hepsie received a certificate of graduation, which was proof of her ability to teach, but the law in Massachusetts in those days required every teacher to be carefully examined in the district where the school was to be taught. Hepsie, however, felt perfectly sure, young and inexperienced as she was, that she should not fail when the time came for a more specific examination.

She had never betrayed by any word her peculiar faith. She was studying with a fixed purpose in view and adhered to it strictly. Many times she was lonely and felt the need of encouragement in her struggles with her own heart, in regard to the principles she had embraced, and of which she knew so little, but she kept her Bible with her, and a new light shone from its pages whenever she read it with a prayerful heart. And in any conversation with regard to religion she was able to give such answers as were applicable to the questions asked.

Her mother’s prayers were no doubt of much avail, for she was a woman of great force of character, remarkable energy and activity, rich in faith, and abounding in zeal in the good cause she had so ardently espoused. Hepsie realized in after years, that the providences of God were over her in those days, and she knew her mother’s prayers had been heard on high. How often do we come to an understanding of the silent forces exercised in our behalf, years after those who were the active agents in bringing about the desired results, lie cold and silent in the tomb, or have, in other words, passed on “to that better land,” ere we could make recognition of their spiritual help.

Examination over, Hepsie felt as much reluctance to leave school and return home as she had in coming away to the strange scenes and people. She lay awake nights beforehand, wondering how everything would be, and how she would be received by her old friends and former schoolmates. In those days letters were less frequently interchanged than now, and Hepsie knew very little concerning what had transpired at home since her departure.

There was no one coming to accompany Hepsie home, though her mother had written to have the principal make some arrangements about the journey. She would be quite alone, as the students going in her direction expected to travel in private conveyances.

Although Hepsie had been somewhat exclusive during this last year of school, she had made some very dear friends, and it was hard to leave them. Some were going to the south to teach, and others thought of teaching at, or near home in New England. Hepsie expected soon to go to Nauvoo, though she did not say so to her classmates. When the question was asked, “What you going to do, Hepsie?” she replied invariably, “To teach somewhere, perhaps, not yet.”

Farewells were interchanged as one after another would start for home. Hepsie’s turn soon came. Fellow students and teachers joined in predicting for her a brilliant career, for she had excelled in literary pursuits and especially so in composition.

The morning was dismal and cold, making the girl all the more gloomy. The stage was crowded and she felt the more lonely. The day wore on and at last the slow old coach stopped at Mrs. Hathaway’s gate. The anxious friends were eagerly waiting and as the girl alighted, she felt as much embarrassed as when going among strangers—perhaps even more so, for she knew that remarks and criticisms would be made upon her manners, her appearance, etc., and she dreaded to be the object of village gossip, as all sensitive people do.

Her mother was the first to greet and caress her, and one after another commented freely, “The child has not grown at all—she looks as if she had been starved.” “Did you like the school?” These and a hundred other similar questions poured in upon her. She was tired and nervous and yet there was no escape; she had been gone a year almost and they were all anxious to know what improvement she had made, and the girl was obliged to submit to their scrutiny and questionings.

The next event of importance—for we must hasten on with this story—was, what was Hepsie to do. Her mother had thought of this before she came home and decided that teaching would be the proper thing—New England women like Mrs. Hathaway believe in putting one’s education to practical use.

Things had settled down at home and Hepsie was getting used to her own family and the village people, and as the spring began to open up, she renewed her visits to the old accustomed places. Mrs. Hathaway feared she was giving her time too much to idle dreaming. Hepsie was aware that her mother wanted to talk to her and sought to avoid it, but it had to come.

One day when they were alone, Mrs. Hathaway spoke out. “Hepsie, do you intend to get a school? For if you do, it’s high time you set about it. All the schools around here are taken and the three Bancroft girls have each secured a situation. Rosie is younger than you are and has not had the training you have had.”

Hepsie’s heart beat very fast and she colored up to the eyes but she summoned up courage and replied. “I do expect to teach, and I suppose it means going away from home again, but I will not ‘board round.’”

“Where are you going to look for a place, board round or not? Lucy Reynolds has the district nearest here, Miss Bancroft teaches on the hill, Susan on the other side in the east district,” and Mrs. Hathaway went through the list of all the places near.

Hepsie thought a moment and then said, “I’ll try Beechwoods. I haven’t heard that school was taken—have you?”

Mrs. Hathaway had not, and so Hepsie on the same day wrote a letter to one of the trustees, whom she had known all her life.

In a day or two he paid a visit to see the girl herself and find out what her capabilities were. He came in the morning and Hepsie was already out in the orchard, for the young buds were just beginning to put in an appearance. She had to be sent for, and while the old gentleman waited in the parlor he asked Mrs. Hathaway how old her daughter was who seemed so anxious to teach.

“She is just fifteen.”

“Does she know anything about discipline?” inquired Mr. M.

This was a difficult question, for Mrs. Hathaway had an idea that she knew about as much of discipline as the birds. However, she managed to reply indirectly that she had always expected to be a teacher, and all her training had been with that end in view.

Here Hepsie appeared upon the scene, and good old Mr. M. greeted her cordially, but his first remark afterwards was calculated to dampen her ardor. “Hepsie, or Miss Hathaway I suppose you are now, as all the older girls are married, you do not look more than eleven years old, though your mother has just told me you are fifteen. I’m afraid the folks at Beechwoods will think you’re too young, but we shall see. I’ve come to engage you. There isn’t much time to spare. Next Monday morning the school must open. You’ll have to be examined you know, and you must have a certificate of good moral character from your minister here.”

Hepsie thought this was rather soon to begin and besides, she had never worn long dresses yet. Mr. M. didn’t seem to notice it, and she assured herself she would look much taller and older when her skirts were long. After some further conversation and explanations, terms were agreed upon, also the boarding place, and Mr. M. took his leave, saying at the last moment, “Mrs. Hathaway, she’s too young to teach, but then we’ll try it if she passes the examination.

Chapter 17

’Tis early morn and thro’ the air there floats

Odors of pine woods rich and rare perfume;

The birds are pouring forth their sweetest notes

And fresh young buds are bursting into bloom.

After Hepsie’s brief conversation with the trustee, she thought it necessary, in view of her engagement to teach, to put on a more serious air and deport herself in a womanly fashion. Just turned fifteen, still in short dresses, and always among the rocks and brooks and orchards, shadowy lanes and singing birds were her chief attractions, but she took in the situation and resolved to put off childish ways and begin a new page in her history.

She examined her slender wardrobe and reported to her mother concerning her wearing apparel. “I have two or three French cambrics and muslins that will be light and dainty for summer wear, if the skirts can be lengthened a trifle, and with new ribbons, laces, and gloves I can do very well for a few weeks,” suggested Hepsie. “And I shall have my own money soon, you know, and can buy what I like.”

“That is all right, my little daughter, but I’ve been thinking over a much more serious matter, and it puzzles me somewhat, I must confess.”

“What is it, Mother? Can I help you? Is it about going to Nauvoo? Because I am in no hurry—I should like to try teaching nearer home at first.”

“It is about the certificate from the minister. You understand that although we are such near neighbors and friends, he has never spoken to me since the day you were baptized. He does not consider Mormons upright and moral, you know.”

“That is more than a year now, and living next house but one. Well, he must give me the certificate—there is no reason why he should not, and if he refuses I’ll ask the ’Squire. His word is as good.”

“He hates Mormons just as much as the minister does, and his wife is far more bitter than dear Mrs. M. In fact, I do believe she would have been a believer in our doctrines but for his forbidding her to attend the meetings,” said Mrs. Hathaway in reply.

“There is no time to lose,” said Hepsie. “I’ll go this very day—there is nothing like trying. I do not believe in failure.”

Mrs. Hathaway knew better than Hepsie how bitter the prejudice was in the little village, for she had felt it more keenly since the larger number of converts had left for Nauvoo. One obstacle after another had come in her way to prevent her selling out and going where she could be among the Saints and have congenial society.

Hepsie carried out her intention. She hastened immediately to the minister’s cottage, and Mrs. M., who was in the front yard among the lilacs, welcomed her most tenderly.

“So glad to see you, Hepsie. You are back from school—have you finished?”

Before Hepsie could answer, she asked half a dozen more questions and invited her in, but Hepsie declined, saying she had so much to do, and had come over on purpose to see the minister.

“Tell me first,” said Mrs. M. eagerly, “how is your mother? For I have the most profound respect for her and admiration of her moral courage in maintaining her position in the faith for which she has made such sacrifices.”

Hepsie realized the truth of these words and knew they came from the heart. With tears in her eyes and thanking Mrs. M. for her sympathy, she followed the good lady to her husband’s study and was ushered into the august presence of the Reverend man. “Miss Hathaway—Hepsie,” he said as he rose from his table to meet the girl pale and trembling, “have you come back repentant to ask advice?”

“Oh, no, I have come on quite a different matter. It is to ask for a certificate from you of moral character—I am engaged to teach at Beechwoods and shall need one.”

The minister was like one bewildered. “Teach?” said he. “You are only a child yourself and much in need of being taught. You astonish me—a young girl in short dresses and a Mormon asking for a certificate to teach? You will not be allowed to promulgate any of your Mormon doctrines in a New England school.”

“Oh, as to that I know so little myself that it would be quite impossible,” replied Hepsie.

“It is the more fortunate for you that you know so little, but I must consult with ’Squire W. about the certificate. I’m not sure it would be the proper thing to do. I was in hopes you would come home after a year’s absence among Christian people with a change of heart and convert your mother from the errors into which she has fallen, and become a member of the church in which you might have such a great and powerful influence, that needs the help and support of just such refined and educated young women.”

All this time poor Hepsie was trembling and shivering, not speaking out as she would have done had she not wanted the certificate. Her heart was bursting with indignation, yet she must not be in the least seemingly disrespectful, lest she should lose the little item on paper that was to be so much to her.

Finally, after more pressing interrogatories, and assurances from Mrs. M. that she would get the certificate the next day, she began to be more self-possessed and turned to leave the study, when the minister broke out anew in the most excited way, “How is it that your people have taken away more than half of my congregation? Your mother is at the bottom of all this—she is the strong pillar of Mormonism in this place, and you could influence her, perhaps, to give up this nonsense about going to Nauvoo. And the village might become more flourishing, as it was before those ranting Mormon elders came here in November two years ago.”

Hepsie appreciated fully the embarrassment of the situation. She could not retaliate, not even defend her own mother. She saw that Mrs. M. understood her difficulty and she knew her to be such a strong-minded, thoroughly good woman, that it was some relief to think she would be stoutly defended if she could once get away. She tried to say “good morning” in the midst of the minister’s harangue, but it was quite impossible.

Mrs. M. put a stop to the scene at last by saying, “Husband, you can scarcely be aware how you are wounding the feelings of this dear child. She is not answerable for any of the mistakes made by the Mormons and has had nothing to do with their leaving to go to Nauvoo. It’s all folly to talk in that way—she came for a certificate and ought to have it at once.”

By this time Hepsie was in tears. One great sob after another had welled up until she could no longer control her emotions. Mrs. M. put her arms around her tenderly and said, “Poor child, never mind, come with me. You shall have the certificate now.” And they left the study together.

Once out of the minister’s presence, Hepsie ceased sobbing and, Mrs. M. leaving her alone, returned to the study. Five minutes after, she came in with the little slip of white paper on which a few words were written and signed by Edward Morton D. D.

Mrs. M. handed the certificate to her and said, while entwining her in her arms, “You are a brave girl and deserve success. You know how to control yourself, and that is a great thing in a teacher. I shall be proud to hear you have done well and I am sure you will.”

Then followed the usual goodbyes and “remember me to your dear mother,” and Hepsie flew down the yard and out into the great wide road. She could not go home until she recovered her composure. Her mother must not know what had transpired. The fresh morning air soon cooled her heated brow, and when she came in to her mother’s room shortly after, no one would have guessed the struggle she had gone through. She held up the paper and Mrs. Hathaway inquired, “How did the minister receive you, and how is his wife and family? Did he demur at all because you were a Mormon?”

“Not exactly,” replied the girl. “He talked about seeing the ’Squire first, but Mrs. M. insisted on my not having to wait.”

“Very kind of her,” replied the mother. “She is much superior to him in nobility of character and in personal attainments. They could never live on the salary he receives if she were not always economizing and helping in various ways.”

“I’m sorry for her and for all minister’s wives that I’ve ever seen—the husband gets the honor and the wife contrives to manage the house and does half the brain work—the best half, too. I hope if I ever marry it will not be a minister,” Hepsie retorted sharply.

“I hope you’ll marry a Mormon elder and devote your life and talents to the latter-day work,” said Mrs. Hathaway enthusiastically.

“Wait until we go to Nauvoo, Mother. I shall not marry until I’m twenty-one or more—my guardian would not allow it, you know, and he’ll stop my going to Nauvoo if he can. I have never even hinted such a thing to him—have you, Mother?”

“No, Hepsie, but I shall not brook any interference in that matter.”

Here the conversation ended, either mother or daughter little realizing what lay before them in the near future. Preparations were hurriedly made for Hepsie, and on Monday morning the open carriage came to convey her to Beechwoods.

Her heart was in a great flutter, but her mother knew it not—outwardly she was cool and dignified. And away she went to pass the trying ordeal of a specific examination. She had no idea what questions would be asked nor who would be present.

The little wagon drew up in front of an old farmhouse, she recalled in a moment as the residence of the trustee. The front door opened and in a moment more she was ushered into an old-fashioned square parlor, where sat in state awaiting her Mr. Merriam himself.

Chapter 18

The little schoolhouse shelter’d ’neath a hill,

And troops of children playing round the door;

A morn in June serene, and calm, and still.

Sweet picture in fond mem’ry evermore.

Hephzibah Hathaway went through the examination as she always did that sort of thing, with outward composure though her heart beat wildly, and she fancied Mr. M. must hear it.

She trembled a little when he asked her to write a line or two, that he might judge of her penmanship, and he added, “Anything you like Miss Hathaway.” She recalled a copy given her at school that had made quite an impression upon her at the time, and she wrote without a moment’s hesitation, “A man may smile and smile and yet be a villain,” and handed the paper to Mr. M., who smiled shrewdly as he said, “Why did you write that?”

“It was the first thing I thought of—isn’t it correctly quoted?”

“Yes, and it’s a true saying, and one all pretty girls should remember.”

“I shall never forget that copy,” said Hepsie.

“Nor the lesson it teaches?” added the gentleman.

“For that, I don’t know.”

“I trust you will never have a practical lesson on the subject,” replied the grave and scholarly man, and forthwith proceeded without comment to write out the certificate.

All this time a tumult was going on in Hepsie’s heart and head, for the quiet demeanor of Mr. M. throughout the interview left her in doubt as to the result. He moved towards her and as she rose to meet him, he handed the official paper, and said, “My child, you are the youngest applicant for the situation of a teacher I have ever examined, but I have no hesitation in saying you are qualified for the position, and your courage is extraordinary for one of your years.”

Hepsie felt she was not so brave as Mr. M. imagined, for she dare not look at the certificate until she was out of sight of the house where she had undergone such a mental strain.

A few minutes’ drive brought her to the gate of a similar old farmhouse to the one she had just left, spacious and embowered in shrubbery, with great elm trees outside that reminded her of those at her dear old grandfather’s, and the past came back to her with vivid force. A very prim elderly lady came out to meet her, with such a sweet face and a motherly welcome which made her completely at ease.

“Poor child,” she said, “how delicate you do look to come here to teach the rough country boys and girls, many of them bigger than you, and likely older.”

Mrs. Pearce meantime led the way in through the open door and hall and showed her the great, square room with the white muslin curtains and a snowy counterpane on the comfortable-looking bed so homelike, but Hepsie paused on the threshold a moment and gazed on the sanded floor—her detestation, it always set her teeth on edge. The good lady did not observe it.

Then she saw the fireplace filled with fresh green boughs and, knowing she would be expected to say something, falteringly said, “How nice and fresh everything is. I like an east room.”

“Yes,” said the good lady, “Mr. Beamen told us you were a dainty little piece and not used to farm folks like us, and that you objected to boarding round. He wanted us to watch over you and see that no ‘Mormons’ came around here. For my part, I don’t know nothin’ about Mormons or what they’re like.”

Hepsie wondered what she ought to say but silence seemed the only way to avoid questioning, and she manifested no interest whatever, though her thoughts were busy with conjectures as to what it all meant. Was she then to be watched like a prisoner? She could not comprehend it.

She inquired the way to the schoolhouse and Mrs. Pearce offered to go with her. “I’ll go down the hill and show you the way. The children’s waitin’ for you with great bunches of roses and youngsters this long time.”

Hepsie was relieved when Mrs. Pearce “pinted out” the little red schoolhouse and left her to her own thoughts. The children flocked around their new teacher with their sweet “good mornings,” and Hepsie entered upon her new duties with a determination that whatever difficulties she might have to encounter, she would persevere.

Day after day she pursued her vocation, and weary and exhausted with her toil to which she was so unaccustomed, after returning home she would throw herself down upon the bed and weep, the only outlet she had for nervousness and pent-up emotions.

After resting a few moments she would wander away into the beautiful meadows that adjoined the grounds, a part of the “Pearce Farm.” The good old people scarcely knew what to think of her. “Such fancies,” the old lady would say. “Even wanted me to take the sand off the floor. Couldn’t stand it, and as for victuals no matter what we have she only eats like a bird.” Such were some of the comments made to the neighbors, part of which always reached Miss Hathaway.

It was a lonely place; the families were scattered; there was no society for Hepsie, and naturally enough she sauntered about in search of wild flowers, and the songs of many birds was the only music.

Even on Sunday it was five miles to the nearest meetinghouse, and Hepsie did not care to hear the orthodox minister after having heard the “Mormon elders.” It was all so tame—there was nothing edifying or elevating in it. She preferred to sit in her own room and read or write and to take long walks alone. Farmer Pearce and his wife were not sectarians, made no profession of religion, and never attended any place of worship.

It may well be imagined that a temperament like Hepsie’s could not long endure this monotony—a reaction was bound to follow. She was restless. Teaching children their ABCs or arithmetic, grammar, geography, reading, writing, history, and composition was not enough to satisfy an ambition like Hepsie’s. She longed for something more.

She had been used to the companionship of others—her equals and her superiors, her sisters, her mother. Mrs. Grosvenor and her former teachers had been an incentive to her, and now she realized how much this association of intelligent people had enriched her life.

Three months of drudgery she felt would be so long—how could she endure it? Yet she enjoyed the roses and pinks and peonies and even the southern wood in the front yard, and the children brought her fresh wild flowers every day, and the robins sang at her windows every morning early. Those were not the days of trains and daily mails, and Hepsie did not even have the opportunity of going home on Saturday. In fact, there was really no conveyance, yet she was only ten miles away.

She had never been allowed to read novels, and all her ideas of love were very crude, but for want of suitable employment for the mind, or perhaps a presentiment of the future, Hephzibah allowed her thoughts to drift away into the realms of fancy and center upon love. The girl actually needed some stimulus for a brain like hers, that she could not find in a country schoolhouse, and its being a romantic spot, and the time of roses and of love, she allowed her imagination to anticipate the coming of a lover. At any rate, he came.

It was much like a presentiment. The fields were gay with lilies and daisies. Buttercups and cowslips besprinkled the meadows. The groves were tuneful with the songs of birds all day long and in the midsummer nights, the whippoorwill and other night-birds made melody. Fate held out open arms to respond to the unconscious aspirations of the little maiden, and while the roses were yet in bloom and the hay lay fresh in the meadows, she met him, whom she recognized intuitively to be connected with her destiny. ’Twas strange, ’twas wonderful, and it was unavoidable. It came about in such a queer way that poor unsophisticated, confused Hephzibah could not tell whether to be glad or sorry, whether it was true love or only romance. No girl, it seemed to her, had ever been wooed in such a fashion.

Returning from school one hot, sultry summer’s day, Farmer Pearce introduced to her a young man “just from abroad,” he said. In shaking hands with him a peculiar emotion such as the girl had never before experienced thrilled through her like an electric shock, or a warning or presentiment, and to herself silently she said, “That man has something to do with my future destiny, my fate.”

Had she avoided him, as she felt inclined to do, much deep sorrow might have been spared her, but who knows if out of this crucible she was not tested and prepared to enter upon a higher and grander life work.

The young people just introduced found many subjects of conversation equally interesting to both, and they talked late into the night. The farmer and his wife sat and listened as if enchanted. The door was open toward the grove and the night-birds sang their clearest, highest notes, with occasionally a minor key, a mournful sound that seemed to Hephzibah like the note of sadness mingled with the deepest joy.

Harold, the stranger, who was both poetical and musical in his nature, involuntarily repeated those exquisite lines of Byron’s which so many lovers have quoted since:

“It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale’s high note is heard;

It is the hour when lover’s vows

Seem sweet in every whisper’d word.”

This was the first meeting of the young people, but it was most auspicious for Harold. He fell desperately in love and did not hesitate to ask when he could see Miss Hathaway again, before they parted that midsummer night.

Chapter 19

When love comes in the balmy summer hours,

While all the earth with conscious pleasure teems,

We linger in fair Eden’s charmed bowers,

And ponder o’er, and o’er, love’s happy dreams.

The “Pearce Farm” was just the place for love-making—secluded, quiet, and peaceful. The great square front yard was full of old-fashioned flowers in bloom, and the house was fragrant all day long with the perfume of honey-suckle and sweetbrier that clustered about the doorways.

Hay-making is said to be love-making time, and now the new-mown hay lay sweet and fresh in the meadows, and this young stranger from abroad was in search of a wife (though Hepsie knew it not). He determined to make love while the opportunity was favorable—his heart was touched with “Cupid’s arrow.” The girl was simplicity itself to him and suited his mood, after his experience in the world.

Only twice afterwards did they meet, ere almost without an engagement they were wed. The question that decided Hephzibah’s fate was asked one lovely afternoon when they were sauntering through the meadows, just as the sun was gaily lighting up the western sky. Harold had been in a very poetic mood, and very tender withal after the fashion of an ardent admirer, of which Hepsie had not the slightest practical idea.

When he asked her if she loved him well enough to be his wife, she looked down and sighed. She knew not what answer to make, and in place of any reply he caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, and declared he could not live if she refused to marry him. Hepsie struggled to free herself from his embrace. She knew not what to say. It was true that she was fascinated by his charming presence, but she felt more like weeping than rejoicing.

She begged him to give her time to think it all over—it had been so sudden, such a surprise. She had not dreamed of any declaration. She could scarcely believe it was true. “I must see my mother,” she said. “She will understand better than I do—I cannot answer now, school has not closed yet. There are many things to be considered. Oh, no, I cannot marry a stranger. You must not come again, my heart tells me so.”

Harold replied with the firmness of one who knew his influence, “Hepsie, you are mine now, if love can make us one. But I will not come again, since you will have it so. Goodnight. I’ll not go in.”

By this time they had reached the door. “Goodnight.” He clasped her to his bounding heart and was gone in a moment.

She had not spoken again. she listened to the sound of the horse’s hoofs as he rode away in the still, calm twilight, and she felt as though all was over. Stealing quietly into her room, she threw herself down upon the bed and wept bitterly. The great round moon shone in upon the bare floor and the shadows of the tall elm trees were like ghosts to her weird imagination. By and by sleep came to her relief, and the morning found her calm and self-possessed.

At breakfast Farmer Pearce, who was a man of very few words, said, “Miss Hathaway, you were late coming in from your evening walk. I heard the horse’s hoofs down the rocky hill, and by the by, young Harvey is a Mormon. Though his father is an old friend of mine, yet on your account I can’t encourage his visits here. Mr. Beamen charged me to keep Mormons away from you. I’m sorry for Harold—he’s desperately smitten.”

Hepsie felt so embarrassed she could not speak, but Mrs. Pearce came to the rescue in her cool way. “Let Miss Hathaway alone, ’Lihu. She knows how to take care of herself, and as for Mr. Beamen, he put her in our care, and I’ll answer for’t—she’ll not fall in love with neither young Harvey with his polishes, nor Bancroft neither. I know somethin’ about girls—she’s no fool.”

After this defense Hepsie felt excused from any reply. She went to her room to dress for school and Farmer Pearce went out to his haying, but the dear old lady followed Hepsie and said, “Don’t mind my old man. He’s very fond of you, Miss Hathaway, and he thinks you’re too good for Mr. Bancroft—he likes young Harvey, only you know his folks are ‘Mormons,’ rich as they are, and they mean to go to Nauvoo soon. I guess they’d like Harold to get him a wife and go along with um.”

Hepsie had hard work to keep still, but she could not talk about it. “I must go now, Mrs. Pearce. Don’t worry about me. I never was like other people, and I can’t please everybody either.”

Hepsie was very much dissatisfied with herself, and she thought over and over what had transpired. She felt she was in no wise responsible for the coming of this young man, nor had she tried to win his love. She had wanted companionship, to be sure, and everything had seemed to turn the tide of affairs in his favor. She felt a little lonely when she thought that he would not come to Beechwoods again, and a trifle piqued too.

Mr. Bancroft renewed his attention, following her about, so that she decided not to take any more walks, much as she needed the change. He gave her to understand that he knew Mr. Harvey had been unceremoniously dismissed and that Farmer Pearce would not allow him to come there, and he intimated that his love was not very deep, for he had also paid his addresses to another young lady, “one of your friends and of your faith too.” Evidently he expected this would rouse Hepsie’s indignation or jealousy if she really had an affection for Harold. But he failed; the girl was non-committal. Not even the old farmer or his wife could find out whether she was in love or not. Meanwhile, Mr. Bancroft pressed his attentions upon her. Though he must have known she disliked him, he expected to win in the end by persistence, as many lovers had done.

Before school closed, Miss Hathaway had received two or three letters from Miss Reynolds in reference to Harold and one anonymous one warning her to beware of young Harvey. She knew the handwriting, however, though the author had sought to disguise it. She only answered one letter but that was shown to Harold and confirmed him in his determination to marry her.

We have not space to tell all the tumult of emotions that pervaded the heart of Hepsie during the last three weeks of the school. It was a curious experience for so young a girl. Her sister, Mrs. Severance, and others had heard of the young stranger’s visits and had visited her to warn her against marrying a “Mormon.” She had made up her mind that she would not be over-persuaded either way, and each conversation she had with friend or relative always resulted in a flood of tears.

School closed at last and Hepsie returned home the following day. Gradually she was let into the secret—her own secret—that she was to be married. It was quite understood; everyone knew except herself; all the arrangements had been made before her return. The Harveys were going to Nauvoo and many other families from adjoining villages. There seemed to be a special Providence in this affair and everything tended in the direction of the union of Harold and Hepsie. Had the girl become more acquainted with him, the marriage might never have been solemnized, but it was all managed, as it were, without “common consent.”

Hepsie had argued with her mother thus: “It will mar all my plans for future action. Everything will have to be changed henceforth—all the golden vision of my rose-hued future, my ambition to become an author, must be buried in oblivion.” And she reasoned with herself, “Will his love be sufficient to compensate me for all that I have looked forward to—the dreams of my child-life, the ambition of my girlhood?” She was not quite satisfied. It was like a sacrifice after all.

A quiet wedding in a country village, the one where Hephzibah was born and where three generations of the family had taken an active part. The morning was very beautiful. Many and fervent were the congratulations of the villagers and friends, and yet there was a degree of disappointment apparent. It was not what had been expected, for many friends had foretold for her a brilliant future. It really seemed inconsistent that she should marry young and settle down like other people to commonplace pursuits.

It was strange after the ceremony was over, and the people had dispersed, for there was neither wine nor wedding cake, or “a marriage feast” of any kind. It was very strange that the bride should have chosen of all places in the world to take Harold for a ramble to “the paternal mansion.” It was not exactly in keeping with bridal garments, but it proved to be a premonition of the future.

Harold was enthusiastic in expressing his newfound happiness, but Hepsie could not rejoice. She could only see the old house as it had been, her grandpa sitting by the fire or under the shade of the elms, and feel his hands upon her head, caressing her in the most endearing terms.

Soon after the marriage, the young couple took up their abode with Mr. and Mrs. Harvey, who were busy making preparations for gathering with the Saints to Nauvoo. Hepsie soon found that a great deal was expected of her, more than she was equal to perform. It was a frequent remark of Mrs. Harvey’s, “I’m surprised you have such shiftless ways, with all our money I would not have brought up a girl in such an idle lackadaisical manner as you have been.”

Chapter 20

O, happy youth, how beautiful it seems—

Without a care, and all its bright array

Of glorious visions—where the future gleams

In rainbow tints, o’er-arching all the way.

The young bride found her position as a daughter-in-law very irksome. She had never really been controlled—she had been guided, sometimes restrained, but absolute control she had never known. Mrs. Harvey was imperious. She never allowed anyone to exercise their freedom—husband, sons, daughter-in-law, all must submit to her. Hepsie discovered this fact in the first few days after her marriage, and determined to resist the authority of a mother-in-law.

“I will not be spoken to as your mother addresses me. I have never been accustomed to such treatment—I shall rebel against all such authority. I would rather go out and teach and earn my own living than be under her control,” said the young wife to Harold a few days after the marriage.

“My darling, Mother does not mean to be harsh with you. She only wants you to conform to her ways and be more womanly, and not pine after your mother and your own old home and all that sort of sentiment—she doesn’t comprehend it. But one thing is sure, she shall not interfere with you—we’ll go on a wedding tour and avoid all this, and by the time we come back perhaps she’ll have changed her views,” said the young bridegroom.

“But Harold, where can we go? I cannot go among my friends—they’ve all discarded me on account of Mormonism. And now your father says we are not to start for Nauvoo until spring. Oh, how I wish we were going now. I’m sick of waiting. Out there we could have a house of our own, if it were built of logs, and we should be so happy, if we could only be left alone.”

“Hepsie, my dear, I can fix all this. I’ll speak to Mother. She must not make you uncomfortable. And we’ll have the wedding tour anyway. I know where to go, and there will be lots of parties in town this winter, and we shall have a jolly time.”

Poor little Hepsie, she had no idea what a jolly time meant to Harold, though he was her husband. However, time went by quickly, and one party after another was given, to which Harold and his young wife were invited, and always attended, but Hepsie had no enjoyment whatever in these things. She longed for the springtime to come when they could start for Nauvoo. She was entirely out of her element, and she could not be content.

The wedding tour, as they called it, was taken in mid-winter, and Hepsie really enjoyed that—a handsome sleigh, a fine horse, and full strings of new bells, and only herself and Harold, who knew all about driving. The cold frosty air as they flew over the snow from village to village and town to town was exhilarating.

Our modern young ladies would think this a very primitive wedding tour, and so it was, but happiness does not consist in a costly trousseau or elegant wedding presents, or even a trip to Paris, though that is very delightful. But Hepsie fully enjoyed this winter pastime of sleigh riding and visiting Harold’s relatives, uncles, aunts, and cousins by the dozens, old-fashioned folks with college-bred sons, and academized daughters living in country homes with every convenience and ample entertainment for dozens or scores of guests, and the hearty welcome with which they were everywhere greeted by the Spooners, the Danforths, the Merrimans, and others, some living in Massachusetts, some in Vermont, and others in Connecticut.

The quaint places and funny stories of relationships, and the vivid descriptions of “the good old days” of the past pleased Hepsie, and in the long winter evenings she would sit and listen to the lively conversation, for as they traveled from one place to another, the evenings were the times of social intercourse and goodly cheer withal, and she would imagine all those tales told over again in books, as she had once expected to gather up just such material to write her novels.

Very little was ever said about religion, for the Harveys’ relatives, though they were numerous, were not religious. And Harold, though he had been baptized, knew less about Mormonism than Hepsie, and she, though convinced and somewhat earnest and naturally spiritual, had never received a strong testimony.

It was quite understood everywhere they went that Harold and his wife were going to Nauvoo early in the spring, but they met no prejudice, and in fact the cousins generally said, “Oh, how I wish we were going out to the far west, too.” Illinois, then, to these New England people seemed such a long way towards the setting sun.

This bridal trip occupied nearly a month, and when they returned, the house was all confusion with packing boxes, chests, trunks, etc. Mrs. Harvey, the mother-in-law, was much annoyed that Harold had been away so long when there was so much to be done. “And besides,” said she, “the horse and sleigh are to be sold, and it is too late now to get a good price for a sleigh. You’re just like the Harveys,” she added, addressing Harold; “you know how to spend means, but not how to save. You don’t take after the Spooners at all.”

Hepsie trembled. She knew Mrs. Harvey would have something to say to her, and she immediately resolved to defend her position. Alas for Hepsie, Mrs. Harvey waited until Harold had left the room and then commenced a tirade of abuse such as she was accustomed to use in scolding her two bound girls—orphans they were and Hepsie had frequently befriended them when their tasks were over-hard. If this were an essay instead of a story, one might moralize on the condition of children “bound out,” until they are of age.

But to return to Hepsie, Mrs. Harvey began, “I’ve no patience with such lovesick nonsense as you’ve put into Harold’s head. You are only children, anyway, and ought to be told what to do. You, Mrs. Harvey as you think yourself, could have overlooked Hattie and Maria and the cook if you had stayed at home. Though for that matter you make the cook more extravagant. But I can’t tolerate idleness in my son’s wife—besides, you’re making him think that writing verses and singing songs is of more consequence than earning your own living. Harold isn’t of age and he shall not have a cent of our money to waste on you. I expect both of you to do your part now, and after we go to Nauvoo, your being delicate will not excuse you from doing your share.”

This was more than Hepsie expected and as she could not answer for crying, “she flounced upstairs,” as Mrs. Harvey told Harold afterwards, “without any ceremony.”

Harold found his wife in tears as usual, but he also learned “that she would not and could not any longer stay there.”

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I shall go home,” she replied. “If you choose to take me, very well. If not, I will walk. It’s only five miles, and I prefer to go through the woods alone to being here in the midst of luxury.”

Harold was sure she meant to go, so he informed his mother that Hepsie was going home to stay until the time of departure for the anticipated journey. Hepsie could hear what passed between them, all the sharp words on both sides, but she did not relent.

Finally, with the most bitter tone, Mrs. Harvey added, “It’s a great pity you didn’t marry your cousin Mary. She was desperately in love with you, and it’s plain to be seen Hepsie is not in love, or she would have been jealous of Mary when you paid her so much attention.” Mrs. Harvey knew very well when she made this stinging speech that she had planted a thorn in the heart of Harold, at least, and she hoped in Hepsie’s too. She knew Harold loved his wife. Moreover, she had urged the marriage. She had promised to be a mother to the girl, who had at least made some sacrifice in marrying, even if the Harveys were better off, as she was often reminded by the mother-in-law.

It is not our intention to go into particulars in regard to all that transpired, but on a beautiful day early in the month of April, when the birds in the groves were singing their matin melodies, Hepsie bade a long and last farewell to the dear old places she loved so much and nevermore expected to see. Her mother and the younger children were intending to gather with the Saints early in the fall of the same year. This fact alleviated somewhat the pain of parting with them. The older brothers and sisters were married (save one brother) and lived some distance away, so she did not see them to say goodbye. These farewells would have been sad as they disapproved her course, and she was not equal to the strain upon her nervous system. The Thanksgiving previous they had all met in the old home, and even then a presentiment pervaded them that they would never all meet again.

Hepsie tried to be brave when she turned to take leave, but the tears would fall—and she realized in a slight degree that she was going forth to encounter unknown difficulties, yet believed she had a strong arm to lean upon.

A private conveyance took them to Springfield, Mass., where the party, numbering between forty and fifty people, were waiting at the station for the train to Albany. They were nearly all strangers to Hepsie and almost to each other, and Hepsie felt her heart fail as she gazed round for one encouraging look. It seemed to her there was not a sympathetic face to be seen. Harold’s mother cast upon her a withering glance. It was the first time they had met since that unfortunate day when the young couple returned from their journey. Mrs. Harvey calculated Harold’s wife would come to her and make things right, but she kept her distance. Seldom a word passed between them, and then in the most commonplace way.

The trip to Albany was rapid and the company stayed overnight at a hotel, and indeed it was late the next day before they were on board the Erie canal boat bound for Buffalo. Traveling in those days at the best was not what it is today with every convenience and luxury possible to reach by the inventive genius and skill of man.

After reaching Buffalo, N. Y., which took nine days, the rest of the journey was by steamboat, making several changes at points on the way.

A description of the journey, incidents, and scenery, and also the company, would be very interesting, but we must hasten to finish the story without much detail. Friends met the Saints at the upper landing at Nauvoo and the company dispersed.

Some of the party had been very attentive and kind to young Mrs. Harvey, among them an old maid from New Haven who seemed lonely herself and even more homesick than Hepsie. She used to say, “Poor little thing, you’re only a child, not fit to be married. Your husband knows little more than yourself—and as for his mother, she hasn’t a spark of human feeling.”

Hepsie would not open her heart even to Miss B. She accepted her attentions and tasted her delicacies, but was as silent as the grave in regard to her own feelings. When the company separated, each to go in different directions, Hepsie lost sight of the friends who had been the kindest and tenderest upon the journey. She was so ill and homesick that anything at all was too much for her to endure. She could scarcely think for herself. Harold had waited upon her, had anticipated almost her every wish, had carried her in his arms often, and when worn out with fatigue she had fainted, he would call the elders to administer to her. No husband could be more gentle or more thoughtful. Yet the child’s heart was almost broken.

The Harveys had relatives in Nauvoo and went direct to their home. Here the subject was always the gospel and Hepsie listened intently to the conversation. Her spirits revived somewhat on reaching the city of Nauvoo, and her faith was greatly strengthened. She immediately felt the influence that pervaded the holy city.

The very first evening after their arrival, the principle of tithing was referred to and Mrs. Harvey inquired, “Will we be required to pay one-tenth of all we have to the Church?”

Her sister replied emphatically, “Yes, it is for the building of the temple and other public purposes.”

“Well, I shall not consent to it,” replied Mrs. Harvey. “Elias will, of course—he would have given away all he had before now if I had not prevented it. Don’t tell him it’s the law. I’ll see to it he shall not do it!”

Hepsie had always felt Mrs. Harvey was not true to her integrity, and now she seemed to comprehend her ultimate apostasy.

Their first Sunday in Nauvoo, Joseph the Prophet preached, and Hepsie knew the moment he stepped upon the platform and she saw his magnificent presence and the influence he brought with him upon the whole congregation, that he was in very deed a Prophet of God.

Chapter 21

Misfortunes fall upon the brave and true,

We know not how to solve the mystery;

’Tis well the future’s hidden from our view,

Whereon is written our life’s history.

The Harveys had arrived in Nauvoo when great events were pending. The tranquility of the city was much disturbed, the Prophet was being threatened, and traitors were planning destruction to the work of the Lord. William Law, who had been Joseph’s counselor and intimate friend, had just been excommunicated from the Church and was the leader of a band of wicked men who had also been Latter-day Saints, but were now arrayed against the Prophet and his followers.

A newspaper was being started by apostates, to be called The Nauvoo Expositor, in which all kinds of evil reports concerning the people of Nauvoo and vicinity would be circulated throughout the state of Illinois, arousing the indignation of the people and causing mobbings, etc., which, commencing on the outskirts, soon caused the people in Nauvoo to feel that even there, with a city charter and such protection as the law afforded, they were insecure.

Mr. and Mrs. Harvey were filled with fear and dismay and would not remain in Nauvoo.

It was a time of great doubt with some of the halfhearted people. The Harveys were afraid of losing their worldly possessions, and finally decided to buy a farm at Laharpe about twenty miles out from the city.

Mrs. Harvey, senior, knew very well that Hepsie would not go with them willingly, for she had heard her express herself so strongly in her belief in the divinity of the work.

One day while making some preparations for removal, Mrs. Harvey inquired in this way: “Hepsie, are you going with us out to the farm and help Harold get a start in the world? I want to get him out of Nauvoo. He’s too much carried away now with the parading and mustering of the Nauvoo legion, standing guard at night, and sleeping in Joseph’s barn when off-duty. He shan’t have any of our means to waste in this manner, I can tell ye.”

Hepsie said nothing. She had learned like Mr. Harvey that silence was best, especially if she intended to carry her point in the end, which she certainly did.

Her silence was construed to be stubbornness. Mrs. Harvey added, “You have nothing much of your own, but what you have I shall pack up with our things, for you’ll have to go; there’s no other way.”

As usual when disagreeable subjects were broached, Hepsie rushed upstairs to give vent to her grief in tears and prayers, as she invariably did when very unhappy, and now she was full almost to bursting. She could scarcely have answered Mrs. Harvey had she tried.

While she was weeping and sobbing, she heard Harold come in. She could hear his mother in her loudest tones questioning him about going. “And so, my boy, you persist in remaining in Nauvoo whatever comes? Well, you will have to stay alone—I shall take Hepsie. She can’t be left alone at night, while you’re off on duty as you call it, and besides, she can’t do anything any more than a doll. I wish you would be reasonable and come, but I know you’ll be glad to by and by, for the worst hasn’t come yet.”

He laughed merrily and only answered her, “Well, Mother, we shall see,” and bounded upstairs, finding Hepsie in a flood of tears. “What’s the matter, little one?” said he in a voice so cheery as to make all around seem as though a flood of sunlight broke in suddenly. “What makes you fret so much?” And he added, “You are so changed.”

“Your mother says we shall go with her to Laharpe and leave this beautiful city where I expected to be so happy, but I will not go. I’ll give up everything first.”

“Everything?” Harold said.

“Yes, Harold. Everything but you and my religion.”

“You may be called upon to do that if you remain firm and steadfast. But never mind, cheer up! Mother has to scold and use a little authority now and then—it’s her nature. She means all right. We’ll get the best of her yet. Come out a little while for a walk, it will do you good and cheer your spirits wonderfully. You get so gloomy shut up here and I’m always away.”

They went out together. The day was a charming one in early June. They chose the most beautiful paths near the river and they conversed together more seriously upon the principles of truth than they had ever done before.

While Harold had been associated with members of the Nauvoo legion, some of them veterans in the cause, and all staunch Latter-day Saints, he had learned more concerning the gospel than ever before, and he spoke to his wife of these things—of the principles of eternal marriage by which husband and wife could be joined in the holy bond of matrimony not only for this life but for eternity to come, forever and forever.

They had wandered away some distance from home and were in a beautiful, shady, grassy, picturesque place near the river. Steamboats were plying up and down, and Hepsie’s thoughts turned backward to the sea, and her presentiments when a child at the seashore. But Harold could always drive away melancholy. He was so buoyant and hopeful, it was almost impossible to be even pensive in his presence. And yet he was poetical; he repeated stanza after stanza to Hepsie during that walk, which was one of the red-letter days to her. He assured her that as soon as peace prevailed in the city again and he could speak to the Prophet, they would have a marriage ceremony performed by the Prophet himself which would unite them more closely together, and hereafter nothing could ever separate them. They vowed eternal constancy then and there and yet in her heart of hearts Hepsie had those strange misgivings that had haunted her since her first acquaintance with Harold.

“Little one, why are you so pensive? I know you are not happy a moment when I’m away, but only think how noble it is ‘to be on duty,’ and you must think of my being one to protect our great leader and General as well as Prophet, seer, and revelator.”

Then they talked of Joseph, his wonderful power, his magnificent appearance mounted on his white horse, giving orders to the men.

And so they chatted until the evening shades began to gather and they were about to turn their steps homeward when Harold’s poetic nature burst forth in the song,

“We parted in silence, we parted at night,

On the banks of that lonely river,

Where the moonbeams shed their silvery light,

We met—and we parted forever!

And the cold pale moon, and the stars above,

Told many a touching story

Of friends long passed to the kingdom of rest

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.”

“We parted in silence, our cheeks were wet

With the tears that were past controlling

We vowed we would never, no, never forget

And those vows at the time were consoling.

But the lips that echoed that vow of mine

Are as cold as that lonely river

And that sparkling eye, the spirit’s shrine,

Has shrouded its fire forever.”

“And now on the midnight sky I look,

And my heart grows full to weeping;

Each star to me is a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.

We parted in silence, we parted in tears,

On the banks of that lonely river;

But the odor and bloom of those bygone years

Shall hang round its waters forever.”

The last words of the song died away upon his lips. The voice was scarcely audible, and the young wife was again in tears.

“Let us go home, Hepsie. I ought not to have sung that song. It always impresses me with sad forebodings, but then I never yield to superstitions of any kind. We shall never be parted, never! I pledge myself anew to you today for time and all eternity. You know I never loved before, and it was love at first sight with me. And you know, too, that I have never felt so of your love, never could quite fathom it.”

“That’s because it’s too deep, Harold! And girls are taught to hide their love, to be undemonstrative.”

“Hepsie, you are evasive. You do not say to me frankly, ‘Harold, I love you better than all else in the world!’”

“But Harold, you forget I have given up ‘all else’ as you say for you, and you are all I have.”

“Is it not enough? Does not every wife leave her home and friends for her husband?”

“Then you do not think I have made a sacrifice, Harold?”

“Well, in one sense, yes! But Hepsie, there will be other opportunities for you, and greater ones than you would have had in a little New England village. Mormonism opens a wide field for intellectual attainments, only ‘we have fallen upon troublous times’ just now. I must stand guard again to night and you will be alone upstairs, but my heart is always with you.”

This was the substance of the conversation, though much was said of their present and future life.

After their return home, and supper over, Harold bade his wife “goodnight,” and she was left alone. She ever remembered that night and in after years the memory of promises made would flash before her vivid imagination, waking thoughts of that which might have been, had fortune smiled upon her youthful days, but it was not so.

We are not giving a history, only giving some incidents in the life of Hephzibah, and at this time she was sorely troubled. Yet her faith grew stronger every day in the Prophet Joseph Smith and his divine mission, and Harold’s too seemed firmer, but his mother was now a bitter apostate, and day and night murmured against the Prophet and those who associated with him, and repeated all the evil reports and calumnies that were afloat.

Since Hepsie came to Nauvoo she had been to visit some of the company who had left the village of B— in 1842 and, among others, the young people who had married rather hastily just before coming away. She did not find them very congenial society, especially the two young college graduates and their wives. The eldest one, whom she ardently hoped would have married Lucy Reynolds, informed her that he was soon going back east with his wife and baby. And she felt that Lucy had been spared this sorrow, at least—better be single after a broken engagement, than have an apostate husband. The other brother was not much better; he thought of going back, to return again when things had quieted down.

Hepsie wrote to Lucy and told her of her visit, and that the two Mr. W.’s would return home or settle somewhere in the east and possibly use an influence against the gospel, and warned her to beware, for they would bring evil and false reports; they had become embittered and were working against the Saints.

Those who are familiar with the events that took place about that time are aware how one unpleasant occurrence followed another until the crisis came. Hepsie was near the Main Street of the city and heard much that was going on. She was unaccustomed to any excitement of this nature, away from her mother and her husband in the midst of danger, as it seemed to her—no wonder if her whole nervous system was shaken to its center. There was one good sister who sometimes comforted her with words of faith and hope, and whenever Harold could come home for a few minutes she felt reassured. Hepsie never forgot the time the Nauvoo Expositor was destroyed, and the feeling that prevailed among the people.

* * * *

The facts in this case are well-known to the Saints, and we only speak of it in its effect upon Hepsie.

The depression of spirits she suffered about this time was almost beyond endurance. She was ill in body and mind, and yet her faith increased. She could not but feel that a special providence was over her. She saw very little of Harold but realized he was in the performance of what he thought duty, and if she was not reconciled to his absence, she tried to bear it courageously.

Mrs. Harvey had things packed up to move away, but halted between going and staying, wondering in which the most danger was likely to be involved. She upbraided Hepsie daily, telling her Harold would not be so headstrong in Mormonism if it were not for her, and Hepsie, when she felt her loneliness most deeply, was rather proud of Harold’s nobility in maintaining his place among the young men, who were ready to brave any danger in case of emergency.

Joseph’s going to Carthage to deliver himself up with the others who were accused, spread dismay and consternation through the city of Nauvoo. The people were almost wild—hundreds, yes, thousands would gladly have gone in his stead. They mourned even then and when the dreadful news of the massacre came it was as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the midst of the city, and a dark cloud hung like a sable pall over all, that none seemed able to pierce. The beautiful city was deluged in tears as it were, mourning and lamentation on every hand.

Those who were there can never forget the dreadful scenes, and it is impossible to describe the occurrences so as to convey a definite idea of the tragedy, to those who view it from a distance in a pen picture.

The people were advised to be calm, to keep the peace and trust to the law to avenge their wrongs, and there was less excitement than there was agonizing sorrow. Bowed down with grief at the cruel martyrdom of their prophet and patriarch, the Saints awaited the return of the apostles, who were away from home at the time, with anxious expectancy. The only apostle there except John Taylor, who lay wounded and helpless, was Willard Richards, and the Saints listened to his advice and to that of others who had been Joseph’s staunch friends.

Shortly after the martyrdom the Harveys left Nauvoo, but Hepsie and Harold refused to go, notwithstanding threats and entreaties at the last moment from Mrs. Harvey. They were really left almost destitute, for Mrs. Harvey had carried out her intention of taking with her what Hepsie had brought from her own home, at the time of her marriage.

Poor Hepsie, however, felt relieved when they were gone and almost for the first time since leaving home breathed freely. Harold was in the gayest of spirits, he was young and strong, and his father had given him some money, unbeknown to his mother.

They commenced housekeeping on a very small scale, most of the things except furniture being lent them, by a woman Hepsie had formerly known who lived in an adjacent village, but was a member of the same branch of the Church; and when the Harveys went away, she came a friend indeed and offered them assistance, which circumstances almost compelled them to accept.

Harold put the money he had into a commission business with two other young men on Main Street, and he had every hope of success in the enterprise. Hepsie had many misgivings and presentiments. She had no idea what kind of young men they were except that Harold never mentioned them or wanted her to see them.

But she was now really ill—they lived near the river bank and Hepsie began to have the ague, which more than ever increased their troubles and embarrassments. They were obliged to have help in the house, and week after week the poor little wife seemed to grow weaker, paler, and more helpless. She scarcely knew when Harold came or went. He was affectionate, tender, and gentle. He used to lift her up in his strong arms and treat her as one would a child.

Meantime, messages came from Laharpe begging them to leave Nauvoo and come there, but even had Harold wished to go, Hepsie was too ill to be moved.

Letters came occasionally from New England—Lucy Reynolds’ engagement was announced, and finally the news of her marriage to a good young man, a member of the Church who had come up from New Haven to B— on business and fallen in love with Miss Reynolds. Hepsie’s mother wrote that she had been obliged to put off coming to Nauvoo in the fall as she had expected, on account of some technicality in the law that had been overlooked regarding the sale of the property. Hepsie grieved for her mother—it was a great disappointment—but she was patient and hopeful through all. Looking back upon it afterwards, she often marveled that she survived so many nervous shocks.

One beautiful Sabbath morning, a son was born in that lowly home. Such a wee little thing, and the child mother was too ill to think at first, but by and by she realized that the crisis was past, which she had been looking forward to. She was almost surprised to find she was still living. And Harold was there—his the only face she recognized amongst them all. Strangers were around her bed, and she knew by the pitying accents and tones of sympathy that she had been down almost into the valley of the shadow of death.

Baby had soft wavy brown hair and such lovely eyes, but he was sick, too. She worried about him and tried very hard to help a little with him, but it was very little she could do. She thought more about her mother now, but it was all of no avail. She realized in its fulness what it meant to be a stranger, and yet friends were kind. She named Baby herself, and she enjoyed having him with her. But it was not long, for on another lovely Sabbath morning five weeks from the day he was born, he passed peacefully away from earth and those who loved him so devotedly.

Chapter 22

Alone, and weary, among strangers too,

What consolation could a hope impart,

Only the thought that duty, stern and true,

Implanted by religion in the heart.

Young Mrs. Harvey grew gradually convalescent, though she seemed scarcely to realize her delicate condition. She mourned for her baby—it would have been company for her in the lonely hours, when she lay so weary day after day, thinking how her bright hopes had been blighted one by one, and wondering if she could ever recover.

She tried to get faith enough to be healed under the administration of the elders, who came very often, and it always comforted her for a time. One day she recalled the circumstance of Brigham Young’s coming to administer to her at a time when she was suffering great pain, and the words came fresh to her mind that he had spoken on that occasion: “Thou shalt rise up from this bed of affliction and live yet many years to do good.” It was like new life to her, and she laid hold of the promise, and began to gain strength until she was able to sit up and move about the house.

The weather was growing colder. Winter was coming on, and somehow she felt the strangest presentiments. Whenever she mentioned this to Harold, he would whistle and sing and tell her it was only because she was nervous and low-spirited, but he never quite satisfied her with regard to himself. He was attentive and affectionate always, but his manner grew more and more restless, and Hepsie was not in a condition to understand. Had she been well and strong in body and mind and able to go out, she might possibly have known more and averted the serious consequences that followed, but fate it seemed would have it so, and she was powerless under the circumstances.

One day Harold came home at dinner time and called his wife aside to say, “Hepsie, I am going away to stay two or three weeks, going to St. Louis on business for the store. Now don’t cry,” as he saw her lips quiver and the tears come to her eyes, “or I shall never have the courage to go, and it is really necessary. You must be brave and try to get better fast while I’m gone. You’ll not be so thin and pale when I come home.”

Hepsie could not speak. Harold embraced her fondly again and again as though loth to leave her. “Come with me to the riverside,” he said.

She threw a shawl around her and in a moment they stood on the bank of the great river that flowed so near their dwelling. “Once more goodbye, sweetheart, wife, darling,” as if the words choked him, and he was gone—gone with her kisses on his lips.

She watched him in the distance, his fair hair shining like burnished gold, his overcoat on his arm, while her tears and sobs were pitiful. She never forgot how he looked then, as she saw him going away, though as she believed only for a short time. Alas, how strangely things occur in this world, and we know not why ’tis so.

The three weeks went by and Hepsie watched and waited, in good faith, never for one moment doubting him, though a great pain was always in her heart.

She had striven hard to be composed, to regain strength. She could read and write a little now; during these days of waiting, she had so longed for a letter from Harold, and wondered why he did not write. In his abrupt departure, she had not thought to ask him to write, and she had no idea where to address a letter should she write one. So she had nothing to do but wait, and no letter came.

Hope began to grow less, and yet she had no one to whom she could, or would, go for comfort except the Lord. Prayers and tears were her only outlet for the grief she felt so keenly.

One day a man, who knew so little of this patient young wife, or of woman’s nature, one would think, said to her in the most careless way, “Mrs. Harvey, don’t you think your husband has given you the slip?” She heard no more—the shock was too much for her to bear.

While Hepsie lived, she never forgot those words. It was as if a knife entered her heart at first, and then she fell upon the floor in a deadly faint. When she came to herself again she tried to think what had happened. Gradually it dawned upon her and she recalled the cruel words, and she felt sure, hard as it was to bear, it must be the truth, else why had he not written to her? But we will leave the poor little wife for a few days alone with her terrible sorrow.

It is impossible to paint in words the anguish she endured in the days that followed, but she was not left long to herself. She was stricken sorely. Her heart was bruised indeed if not broken, no one to appeal to. It was hard for her to rally sufficiently to think, but she summoned all her latent powers and thought over all those who had come from her native village, but there was not one among them all to whom she could go. Ill and alone in a strange city, her pride kept her apart from those who would have helped her. Or shall we say an overruling Providence marked out her course. “If Mother would only come now, or if Lucy Reynolds were but here,” she would repeat over and over to herself.

One evening a neighbor had come in for a few minutes, thinking to offer consolation. Before scarcely anything had been said, a loud knock at the door startled her. She rushed to open it, thinking surely it was Harold, but no, it was an utter stranger.

“Mrs. Harvey,” said the stranger, addressing her by name, “I have come for you,” telling her his name.

“Oh, you are my husband’s partner. Have you brought me a letter or news of him? Is he ill? Must I go to him?”

The man was young, and was not prepared to answer these hurried questions. In fact, he was somewhat alarmed. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Harvey,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “I have come with a message from my mother—she will explain all. Come with me—it is but a short distance, only in Main Street.”

“Tonight?” said Hepsie, beginning to feel timid, “and with you alone?”

“Yes, you need have no fear,” and turning to the sister who was in the room, he said, “Mrs. J., you know my mother, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I know Mrs. S—y quite well. There is nothing to fear. However, as Mrs. Harvey is weak and nervous, I will go with her.”

Thus reassured, Hepsie put on her things. It was a cold night. She wore her long cloak with sleeves and all trimmed with fur which came down to her feet—it had been made new for her wedding tour, the cape nearly as large as the cloak itself, she was almost lost in her wraps. Pale as death and trembling with nervous excitement, she locked the door behind her and went out the dark street.

She did not speak a word until they reached the house which was only a very little way, and Mrs. J. left her at the door, saying, “It will be better for you to go in alone.” Hepsie felt relieved, not knowing what she was about to hear.

Mr. S. opened the door and Hepsie was ushered into a warm, light room where sat two young men and an elderly lady who came forward quickly and almost took her in her outstretched arms, saying, “Dear me, honey, so young, so sick. Sit ye down, I’ll take care of you and nurse you up.”

Hepsie could not speak—she was more puzzled than ever. “What could it mean?” she said to herself—the cold night air and the warm room had a peculiar effect upon her. Her head was dizzy. She was bewildered and completely overcome.

The old lady took off her wraps, all the time calling her “honey” and “poor little thing.”

Finally Hepsie summoned courage enough to say, “Have you no news for me? Why am I to stay here?”

The young men looked from one to the other and then at the mother, and neither spoke. Finally, in tender tones, Mrs. S. said, “You must wait until morning—you are too ill. Come with me,” and she almost carried her to the next room, undressed her, and laid her in bed, then brought hot rocks to warm her feet and gave her warm drink.

Hepsie had no idea what it was, but she felt the sympathy of this gentle motherly woman soothe her, and she soon fell asleep, but only to wake again in a tumult of fears and tremulous emotions. Mrs. S. was in bed with her and the hardwood coals were burning on the hearth. The room was full of shadows, all strange and new.

Mrs. S., finding she had wakened, rose and brought her more warm drink. Hepsie was reluctant to take it, but the good woman said, “Honey, you must take this, it’s only valerian. You’ll sleep if you take it, and let me rub you, too, you’re cold as marble.”

No mother could have been gentler or more thoughtful than was this strange woman to little Hepsie. Her heart was drawn out in pity for her lonely and helpless condition.

The next morning Mrs. S. was early astir, leaving Hepsie dozing half between sleeping and waking. She was preparing the breakfast when the boys came down and asked if she had told Hepsie anything.

“No, indeed, she can’t bear it yet—you must leave it all to me. Depend on’t she’d die if you told her now.”

The boys, as Mrs. S. called them, were glad to let their mother have her way, for they could not carry out the request Harold had made of them in a letter they had received. They had never seen a woman like Hepsie before and had no idea how to convey sad messages. It was well for Hepsie that they hesitated, or at least she thought so afterwards, else the shock would have been too great had it come all at once.

Within two or three days, little by little, Mrs. S. had carefully given Hepsie to understand that she was not dependent upon them, that Harold had provided this home for her until she would be strong enough to go away, or some other arrangement could be made. Hepsie was becoming aware by degrees, thanks to the thoughtfulness of Mrs. S., that she was left alone, and she felt utterly forsaken and helpless.

It was a heavy blow to fall upon one so feeble and childish. “Nervous prostration will certainly follow.” So said good Mrs. S. to her boys. “She is the most amiable and daintiest little woman I have ever seen. How young Harvey could go and forsake such a wife, I can’t see. I’ve no patience with such fellows.”

“Mother, he couldn’t help it,” said Hezekiah, the youngest of the three. “I’ve told you so before—he wept like a child when he left Charlie and me at the landing, and begged we would watch over his wife until she was well. But we didn’t dare to go near her until that letter came, and then I was dumb before her pale face, thinking of her great sorrow.”

Many conversations were held between mother and sons about Hepsie during the short time she was with them, of which Hepsie knew very little. She seemed more dead than alive so far as any activity was concerned. Languid and listless, she let the days slip by, and seemed almost content to let Mrs. S. wait upon her without even thinking for herself.

But another change was coming. Although Mrs. S. was careful to avoid anything objectionable to Hepsie, yet she had noticed of late that the boys spoke of going away, leaving Nauvoo, and they were fast becoming disaffected in their faith. She felt the influence was making an impression on Mrs. S., but she had no idea that she could make any change until she was able to teach, which seemed the only alternaiive, and so she kept silence.

One day after the boys had gone out and by the by Mrs. S. had been reasoning sharply with them in the next room at breakfast time, and Hepsie was praising the buckwheat cakes she was trying hard to eat, and thanking Mrs. S. for her patient care and waiting and tending upon her, Mrs. S. inquired, “How would you like to go over the river with us to live? These are troublous times here, and there will be serious trouble here by spring, and I don’t like being here without the boys, and they won’t stay.”

And as she saw Hepsie did not reply, she said, “We don’t want to leave you here. The boys love you as their own sister. Won’t you come and go with us? Only thirty miles to Farmington and I’ll take good care of you.”

Chapter 23

There’s One above who watches o’er us all,

Who even hears the lonely raven’s cry,

He notes each little sparrow if it fall,

And to the humble He is ever nigh.

To Mrs. S.’s question Hepsie knew not what answer to make, she was so completely taken by surprise. She felt as though she had turned to stone. The last hope seemed gone; Mrs. S. had told her she was not dependent, that provision had been made for her until spring, and it was not yet Christmas time.

She sat like a statue. Mrs. S. did not repeat the question then, and Hepsie did not even ask an explanation. She saw preparations were being made during the next few days, and finally, when nearly everything had been packed up, Mrs. S. ventured to speak again.

“I’ll pack up your things, Mrs. Harvey,” she said. “We are going very soon, and you’ll have to go too, for we can’t think of leaving you here—the city is likely to be burned by the mob.”

Slowly and deliberately, as if each word cost a great effort, Hepsie answered. “No, Mrs. S., I cannot go with you and leave Nauvoo. I shall stay here if I die in the street. I have left all that was near and dear to gather with the Saints, and I will not forsake my religion now, not for anything that could be offered me.”

“But you cannot work, you have no money, you are too proud to ask assistance. It is useless to remonstrate—you must come with us. We cannot refund the means your husband invested in the business, for it is all gone.”

Hepsie waited breathlessly until Mrs. S. finished the sentence and then in the most positive tone and manner said, “Leave my few things out—I cannot go. I prefer to die.”

Years afterwards, when the young wife recalled the scenes through which she passed at that particular time, she wondered at the courage which carried her through and felt perfectly sure that a power which she did not then comprehend, sustained her in the midst of trials and difficulties such as few so young are left to endure alone.

That night before retiring, Mrs. S. had finished packing bureaus, trunks, and boxes, leaving only the necessaries for the breakfast. She spoke to Hepsie again in the most pleading manner. “Let me put up your things, too. I feel very tenderly for you—I never have had a daughter, and you are so weak and nervous, and the boys promised your husband to take care of you until you could teach. Come with us. I’ll do all I can to make you comfortable, and you can get good wages as a teacher in Iowa as soon as you are well. Do come with us—I can’t leave you here alone.”

It was all to no purpose—Hepsie was determined. She never forgot that night; sleep she could not. She realized that Mrs. S. as well as the boys had the spirit of apostasy. She had already had an experience of that kind with Harold’s mother, and she felt that she could face anything rather than that. She prayed fervently that the way might be opened up for her to escape from this trial.

She looked out into the deserted streets. All was quiet. The stars were shining out clear in the midnight sky. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?” she exclaimed aloud.

And instantly, as it were, a feeling of peace came over her, and she became calm, though she never closed her eyes in sleep until the grey dawn of morning, when from sheer exhaustion she fell into a profound sleep.

Mrs. S. was greatly troubled and, rising early, she talked over the matter with the boys. “Mrs. Harvey will not go over the river with us, boys—she will not leave Nauvoo. She is a thorough little saint. She believes implicitly in the Prophet Joseph and in Brigham Young—such devotion I have never seen in one so young. My heart aches for her—what will become of her left here alone? Is there anything we can do, boys?”

The young men looked from one to the other, and finding no solution to the question, Ezekiel, the eldest, a lawyer of some repute, said, “Well, Mother, leave her something to eat, and I think after two or three days she’ll come to us.”

“No, she won’t,” replied Charles. “Harold said when he went away, ‘It’s no use asking my wife to go with me—she would sooner die than give up her religion.’”

“It’s enough to make any one believe that Mormonism is true,” said Hezekiah, the younger.

“And it is true,” interposed the mother.

“Well, suppose it is—we are as safe over the river as we are here until the storms are all past,” said the eldest.

When Hepsie rose in the morning, Mrs. S. repeated what had been said, thinking Hepsie might decide after all to go, but she remained firm as ever, and no amount of persuasion or entreaty could induce her to change her mind. Hepsie knew not what she could do, but she was as firm as the hills in her resolve to stay in Nauvoo, let what would come.

The day was a gloomy one. Mrs. S. was more tender to Hepsie than ever, and several times Hepsie felt great sobs in her throat that choked her utterance, but she would not allow Mrs. S. or the boys to know how she felt.

“We are going tonight, Mrs. Harvey. We shall sleep at Montrose and go on to our destination tomorrow. I do not feel that it is prudent for you to remain here alone. Will you go to Mrs. J. if you are so opposed to leaving the city? She is a fine woman, a good Mormon, and very well able to give you a home.”

Hepsie could not speak, she was too full of sorrow. Encouraged by her silence, Mrs. S. went on to say, “Mrs. J. has an unmarried son, and she is very fond of you. You’ll marry again sometime, and he’s a nice young man. My boys either of them would gladly marry you, I know that.”

Before Mrs. S. could say more, Hepsie fairly shrieked, “Oh, Mrs. S., don’t! You’ll kill me if you talk like that!”

Hepsie was now more than ever determined to break up all communication with the family—to be told almost in a breath that either of the boys who had been associated with Harold had ever had such thoughts about her was overpowering. “Why should I struggle for life when fate seems against me?” said Hepsie to herself. “If death would only come to my relief. . . But no, I must face the world alone and so totally unprepared.”

Mrs. S. felt she had said too much, and strove to soothe and pacify the poor child.

The boys were away and, towards evening, Hepsie partly regained her composure. At dusk she went out a few moments for a walk and to be alone under the shining stars and the clear cold moon. She had always loved to gaze upon these beauteous orbs of night, and on this particular night she was more than ever impressed with the glory and grandeur of the starry heavens. Many thoughts passed through her mind which we have not space to record here, but not for one moment did she lose her self-possession, young and inexperienced as she was. Remember, gentle reader, she was left entirely alone, no relative, no friend to whom she could go.

After strolling for a few moments near the house she felt more calm and peaceful in her spirits, and concluded she would go in and remain alone if the family carried out their intention to cross the river that night.

In the hall she hesitated a moment, thinking she heard familiar voices, and on coming into the dimly lighted and bare room, she saw and heard two strange ladies conversing with Mrs. S. They came towards her as she entered with greetings, but evidently much shocked to see her so changed. She recognized them as two of the sisters who had joined the company of Saints in which she traveled at Albany, N. Y., on the way up to Nauvoo. They were both from New Haven, Conn.

After making some inquiries as to her health, the married lady said, “Mrs. Harvey, we have come to offer you a home. We heard that Mrs. S. was going to leave the city, and we knew that in your delicate state, you were not equal to any great change. We are both of us anxious to have you.”

Noticing that Hepsie was rather confused, Mrs. F. explained still further. “We do not want you to feel we offer you charity. We sympathize with you because of your youth and your loneliness.”

All this time the old maid, for such she was, remained silent, and Hepsie knew not what reply to make. Mrs. S. came to her aid by saying, “Mrs. Harvey, you’d better accept this offer for the present—you’re too ill to be alone, and I’ve been telling these ladies how much you need nursing and attention.”

This was the opportunity for Miss B.; she saw the hesitancy of Hepsie and she put forward a claim. “Mrs. F.,” she said, “would take you right home and as soon as you are able you could teach the children and do light sewing, but I want someone for company. I’m all alone and I need society.”

Hepsie took in both situations momentarily. She remembered the two children of Mrs. F., a boy and girl, and how unmanageable they were on the journey, and she made up her mind that she would go with Miss B. if she went away at all. The ladies both presented their claims, and dependent as she was, they both seemed anxious to secure her.

Finally she said, as if to give them an opportunity to take in all the situation, “I want you to know beforehand that I am not able to wait upon myself at all, and ague is still troubling me—you see how thin I am, and it will take me all this winter to recover, I’m sure. Besides, I am not fit for company; I am too low-spirited and melancholy myself.”

“I’ll see to that,” said Miss B., “and wait upon you until you are well.”

“And so would I,” said Mrs. F., “and would think it only a pleasure.”

Hepsie seemed unwilling to make the choice seem selfish, so she said, “I’ll go with Miss B. She needs me for company. And I’ll come to you, Mrs. F., when I am quite well—you have both husband and children, and Miss B. has no one.”

Mrs. S. was sorry to part from her. She loved her, and she admired her spirit and the courage she had shown in remaining with the Saints. She called her “honey” over and over and told Miss B. what she must do for her and how to nurse her up. “I’ll send the boys over with your things as soon as they come in. They’ll be awfully disappointed to find you’re gone.” And Mrs. S., who was a woman of years with bachelor sons, actually cried at parting with Hepsie, though she had only been with her such a short time.

Who can picture the feelings of Hepsie as she went out that night? Though the place had not been a home to her, it had been a refuge, a shelter. The inmates had been most kind and tender, but now she was to go among strangers again.

This woman was a peculiar type—Hepsie had noticed that when on their journey to Nauvoo. She remembered how much she had talked of money, and her queer ways, and she wondered if she could endure to live with her and eat and sleep with her.

The three ladies went out together and as it was but a few steps to Miss B.’s house, they were soon at the door.

“I’ve bought these two houses, Mrs. Harvey. This one I live in; the other there is rented. I’ve plenty of means—you needn’t worry while you’re with me. I took a real fancy to you on the canal boat, when we were crossing York state—you put me in mind of my sister Elizabeth. She was just such another as you, delicate and full of romance, wrote verses and so on. But come in and rest—I know you’re tired,” and she unlocked the door.

“I’ll say good night now,” said Mrs. F. “I live on Temple Hill, you know. It’s rather a long walk, would have been too much for you tonight, Mrs. Harvey, but I’ll see you again soon. We’re both from one place, you know—Maria and I. That is, she lived in Bethany just out of New Haven, but we were in the same branch.”

Almost as soon as Hepsie had taken off her wraps, a knock at the door announced the arrival of her trunks and other odd things. Miss B. answered the door but Hezekiah and Charley insisted on seeing Hepsie. Miss B– told them she was tired and would see them in the morning, but they were persistent, and finally Hepsie came to the door and shook hands with them, wishing them prosperity and happiness, and adding, “I shall never forget your mother—she has been so good to me.”

It was rather an affecting interview, this parting, and Hepsie felt now that she had parted not only from Harold but those who were his friends, and when she closed the door after them, she felt such a keen sense of loneliness, that she shivered from her head to her feet with a nervous spasm.

Miss B. had a great deal to say that night. In fact, Hepsie thought she would never tire. she was not like dear Mrs. S. trying to nurse her up, but talked incessantly of herself and her money, what she had lent to the Prophet Joseph Smith and also to Brigham Young, and Hepsie began to think she had come from one apostate to another.

Finally, tired of hearing only repinings, she aroused herself sufficiently to say, “Well, Miss B., if you feel distressed about your money, why don’t you have it refunded?”

“Oh, as for that, I know it’s safe enough and I shall get a good interest.”

Hepsie concluded it was her disagreeable way of looking at things and there and then conjectured that the old maid had a sinister motive in taking her in. I wonder what she should want me for. Is it to keep me until Harold comes back and she can get money for boarding and waiting upon me? She knows how generous-hearted he is and that he buys the most expensive things. But no, it couldn’t be that. What can it be? Perhaps my similarity to her dead sister, as she says, and for my society. If for the latter I fear she will be disappointed.

Hepsie realized the difference between Miss B. and the kind motherly care Mrs. S. had given her from the first. She was shaking with cold and excitement, yet Miss B. made no effort to warm her or administer sedatives. She lay awake until morning thinking over her miraculous escape, for she had fully expected to be left alone in the house, which at any moment she might be compelled to leave without a shelter to go to.

Hepsie acknowledged that night the goodness of her Father in heaven in providing this temporary home, where she might have food and a refuge until some other change should come about. Ever after during her life, she felt assured that her guardian angel was near on that occasion, and kept her from yielding to the entreaties and arguments of those who professed the utmost sympathy for her lonely condition. She gave the Lord the glory, for she felt in herself that she had no power, only through Him. That night in her prayer, she acknowledged the goodness of God in her behalf, though she said nothing to Miss B. who had been the instrument in the Lord’s hands of giving her safety and repose.

The early morning found her wide awake and weak from nervous exhaustion, and Miss B. with all her self-appreciation knew not what to do. “Mrs. Harvey, will you have a doctor called to prescribe for you? You are so ill and weak.”

“Oh, no,” replied Hepsie, “I have not had a physician through all my illness, only Mrs. Billings. She has such faith. But I shall be better by and by. The ordeal of last night was too much for me in my weak state.”

Chapter 24

Locked in the secret chamber of her heart,

A living sorrow, nursed by silent grief;

Henceforth thro’ all her life to be apart,

Whatever else might come to bring relief.

The next few days after Hepsie was installed in the home of Miss B. as companion, were very sad and sober ones. The weather was unpleasant and Hepsie was so low-spirited that it seriously affected her health, and Miss B. grew nervous and almost irritable. It was just Christmas time too, but there were no signs of festivities in Nauvoo. No gay shop windows, not even on Main Street. Everything seemed to wear a somber and desolate appearance.

Hepsie’s grief was something new and strange to her newfound friend. She could not comprehend how she could cry day and night too, and reproached her rather severely on two or three occasions, showing very little sympathy for her forlorn condition, except to give her food and shelter. It was just as well, however, for to the young wife, no one perhaps could have said exactly the right things, and she seemed to desire most of all to be left to herself.

“How can you grieve yourself to death for a man who has treated you so cruelly? Such a helpless creature as you are, too, taking you away from everyone you loved and cared for. I should hate him. Why, it’s all I can do to endure being alone as I am, and for that matter I came of my own accord and had nobody to leave that I cared a cent for, so I’ve nothing to go back to.”

“But,” said Hepsie, “you came for your religion, didn’t you? And you can’t give that up whatever trials you may have. I know you are lonely and I’m sorry you’re disappointed in me. I am not companionable, and perhaps I never shall be again, but I mean to get well, and then I expect to teach and earn my own living.”

“You’ll not teach here in Nauvoo—there’s no prospect of future prosperity here. The people will have to move from this place, I’m pretty sure of that. Why, Joseph was making every calculation on going into the wilderness before he was killed. Don’t you know that he even crossed over the river in the night to go, and Emma and some of his friends induced him to come back again!”

“No, I did not know it. I never had an idea of the people leaving here—this is the gathering place, and the temple is to be finished and dedicated—that must be done,” said Hepsie.

“Nauvoo is full of apostates, and many are somewhat disaffected, who have not declared themselves open enemies. A fire is smoldering, just about ready to burst. The crisis may come at any time, and I’m not at all certain that the temple will be completed.”

“But Miss B., you will keep with the Saints, go or stay with them, wherever their lot may be cast?”

“Mrs. Harvey, you are very confiding, notwithstanding your having been left so utterly dependent. I should think you would be embittered beyond trusting anyone again. I positively don’t appreciate such devotion.”

“My trust and faith is in my religion, not in man. Henceforth my life and labor shall be given to the cause I have embraced.”

“You cannot do anything at present—look at your poor thin face and colorless hands, totally unfit and unprepared for work of any sort.”

“I am not discouraged, however,” replied Hepsie. “I know now that my Heavenly Father protects me, since He sent you to me on that dreadful night when I was about to be left so utterly alone.”

Christmas and the New Year came and went—not, however, without awakening intense emotions in Hepsie’s heart, and stirring its inner fountains to their utmost depths, no one to speak to except Auntie, as she called Miss B. She was full of bitter repinings that were as unpleasant as the weather was cold and disagreeable, and there was nothing to call either of them outside.

Such intense loneliness, and Hepsie waiting, longing, and praying for a letter from Harold or from home, yet dreading to receive one lest it should confirm her suspicions. She knew the dear ones in the home nest would write if they knew what to say, but her lips were sealed. She could not speak of her circumstances, lest it should seem like a complaint. Day after day she looked anxiously for news from Harold. She could not believe he had gone from her heart forever. She looked forward to his return at some future time when a full explanation would be made, and at night she often dreamed of the fulfillment of her bright hopes and ardent wishes.

The dreamy life she led, and the queer companionship of her protectress, together with the condition of her nervous system, tended to pronounced melancholy, but she struggled in prayer and the exercise of the best faculties she possessed and conquered in part.

One evening there came a letter in the familiar handwriting she knew so well. Poor child, she trembled so it was with difficulty she broke the seal. Her tears were falling in great drops like rain, and it was hours before she could finish reading it.

Harold had written to her as though he had not wounded her beyond recovery. His words were tender, but hard as it seemed to the tenderhearted wife, she felt they were hollow and meaningless. He called her “Hepsie, my darling wife.” How could he write like that, knowing as he must that he had separated her from her dear ones, and that henceforth an insurpassable chasm lay between them that could never be spanned?

Miss B. wanted to know what news from far away—she had guessed from Hepsie’s excited manner that it was from Harold. It was useless to question her, however; silence seemed to Hepsie the best safeguard. Then and forever after the contents of that letter remained locked in her own heart and were never revealed to friend or foe. Yet, looking back after the space of many years and recalling the sweet and tender words expressed therein, and remembering that sweet summertime among the New England hills when all things wore the couleur de rose, she marveled that she had not given up all for him and the promises he held out to her of fidelity and devotion. It was the spiritual nature that conquered and kept her from yielding to Harold’s entreaties to come to him in the sunny southern islands.

A few days later another letter came, and finally the third and last, for never again by word or message of any kind did Harold make known to her any personal knowledge of himself or his after life.

The words he had written met with no response from her lips or hand, though we may not know what impression they made, or what answering echo they found hidden deep down in her wounded woman’s heart. But she lived through all—cold and impenetrable, seemingly, but as the spring days grew warm and bright, a faint color came back to her pale lips and cheeks.

A final separation from Harold was inevitable. He was not coming back, and she had such an innate conviction of the divine mission of Joseph Smith the Prophet, and the truths revealed through him of the everlasting gospel, that she could not consent to leave Nauvoo and the chosen people of God, though she should henceforth be left dependent upon her own exertions.

A letter from Lucy Reynolds stating that she was about to start for Nauvoo comforted her somewhat, and another soon after from her mother saying, “We expect to come in September,” seemed to awaken new life in her dormant faculties.

She talked much to Miss B. of her mother, telling her of her wonderful faith, her knowledge of the scriptures, and of her arguments with learned men, especially ministers, who had ridiculed the idea of Joseph Smith, an uneducated youth, being a Prophet of God. She sought to inspire in Miss B. a greater degree of faith, for it was very irksome to be associated with one so unbelieving and worldly-minded, one who had no spiritual life and who was always dwelling on the dark side of things. She longed intensely for her mother, full of faith and energy, thinking no sacrifice too great to make for her religion.

During the winter she had gone out a few times, only to meetings and lecture in the Masonic Hall—it was not far, but it was almost too much for her, and Miss B. never wanted to go with her. But Hepsie kept alive a spark of living faith that enabled her to hold on to the truths of which she had become so thoroughly convinced since coming to Nauvoo. Even though there had been many stumbling blocks in her pathway, yet her faith never wavered.

Just before the news came from the east of Lucy Reynolds’ and her husband’s coming, she received a verbal message from the Harveys, Harold’s father, mother, and brother, to come to them at Laharpe. They fully believed if she would, Harold could be induced to return home once more. Harold’s father would come for her with an easy conveyance, and she should be waited upon until she was fully recovered. “If she had not been so obstinate about leaving Nauvoo,” Mrs. Harvey’s message said, repeating her very words, “Harold would not have gone away, Baby would have been living, and much sorrow averted.”

This message stung Hepsie to the very center of her soul, but with her accustomed outward serenity she answered the brother and sister who had brought her the word (they were professed Latter-day Saints). “I cannot leave Nauvoo—on that point I am still as determined as ever. If Harold comes, he will find me here if I am living at all.”

“But,” added the stranger, “the Saints will certainly be driven from here into the western wilds. You are not equal to such hardships.”

“If this people go from Nauvoo I shall go too. My home hereafter shall be with the Saints. It is useless to ask me to go backward—I cannot.”

“And you would give up your husband and all? His family are well off—you would never have to lift your finger. Mrs. Harvey says you have decided literary taste. There would be every opportunity for you as a writer to make yourself known better here in Illinois than in New England where there are so many, you understand.”

Hepsie knew these were Mrs. Harvey’s own words, but they made no impression upon her.

“Then am I to say to the Harveys who wished me to urge you to come, that you refuse to accept their proposals?”

“Say to the Harveys, I will not leave Nauvoo though I should die of starvation in the street.”

“And nothing more,” said the stranger.

“Only my love to Harold’s brother, Oney Andre.”

Chapter 25

Always and ever the moan of the sea,

Sobbing and sighing, she seemed to hear

A subtle foreboding of what was to be;

Sleeping or waking, it filled her with fear.

When the strangers who had brought the message had left with Hepsie’s decided answer in the negative, she felt that the associations of her married life were ended—that a new epoch for her must begin. The name was all that was left, except the terrible sorrow that hung about her like a funeral pall. She experienced some regret on account of Harold’s brother, who had shown so much real affection for her that Mrs. Harvey was accustomed to say, “One cannot tell which loves Hepsie the most, Harold or Oney.”

How hard it was for Hepsie to face the world alone, can never be told in words. One thing only was left: her faith in God. She prayed unceasingly for divine help, for sublime courage, and it was given her.

Miss B. had a cousin in Nauvoo whose children came occasionally to visit her, and they had noticed “the pale sick young lady” at Auntie’s, as they called her, and had spoken of her at home. The mother had become somewhat interested and desirous of knowing who her “old maid cousin” had taken to, as she knew her eccentricities.

She sent word by the boys that she would like to meet this young stranger, and told them to ask Auntie to come up and see her, and bring Mrs. Harvey with her.

The answer to the message was: “Tell your mother she need not waste her sympathy on Mrs. Harvey—I’ll take care of her. She never has troubled about me. It’s only because she’s young and pretty, but she can go if she likes. She’ll be sorry if she does, that’s all.”

Hepsie heard it all, and she felt keenly the bitterness of spirit that would deprive her of a little enjoyment, when she was so much in need of a change.

It was not long, however, until an opportunity came for her to meet Miss B.’s cousin. It was quite unlooked for, and no one could have been to blame in the matter but fate, and it proved fatal to Hepsie, as far as the friendship of Miss B. was concerned. After Hepsie’s introduction to Miss B.’s cousin, which was purely incidental, she became quite familiar with the family.

Miss B. became highly indignant and one day burst out in her anger, “If you like cousin Ann so well, you’d better take up your abode there—you’re no good to me, and I’m tired of your going backwards and forwards all the time. I can live without you, but it’s very ungrateful, when you know what I’ve done for you, taking you in and waiting on you.”

Hepsie could not reply; she was too deeply wounded. Her sobs and tears were her only answer, and she resolved then, whatever the consequences might be, that she would not remain longer with one who manifested such a spirit.

It was true, she had become interested in Miss B.’s cousin, for she was a woman of great faith and never wearied of explaining the principles of the gospel, and of telling Hepsie about Joseph the Prophet and the days of Kirtland, the wonderful manifestations in the temple, and the scenes of persecution through which the early converts had passed in Ohio and in Missouri. All this had a peculiar charm for Hepsie, and she felt her faith increased and her spiritual strength renewed day by day as she listened to the conversation of this good, devout woman.

Finally Mrs. W., knowing how unsuited she must be to her queer cousin, said to her one day, “You might have a little school here, a sort of governess like. You would be your own mistress in the matter, and if a better opportunity came, you would be at liberty to accept it.”

Hepsie realized the great difference in the spirit of these two cousins—one was full of zeal in the gospel, the other constantly finding fault with everything. She accepted the offer Mrs. W. made, though she never mentioned any remuneration except the privilege of a home.

She dreaded telling Miss B., but it was unavoidable. In the gentlest way possible, she explained the matter, but her motives were all misconstrued and finally, when she saw how useless words were, she burst into tears and cried until she was really unfit for anything.

Miss B. was so very much annoyed that she said many disagreeable things, and her manner was so offensive that it made Hepsie still more anxious to go where she could do something to pay her way. She was not in need of clothes, and therefore cared very little whether she earned money or not, for the present. Miss B. wound up at last by saying: “I took a fancy to you at first, and as for cousin Ann, she’s got so many of her own, big and little, she’ll not trouble about you. But it’s just like her. She came and took my sister Elizabeth away once when we were girls, wanted her to go out west to Ohio with her, tried to win her affections away from her own family, and you’ve always reminded me of my sister. Now she’ll take you away and leave me alone again.”

Little by little Hepsie was learning some of the hard lessons of life, and all the time grieving at night. Even after a peaceful day, her pillow would be wet with tears—such a sense of loneliness even in the midst of congenial companionship.

She never tired of hearing Mrs. W. talk of Mormonism, but all the time, deep down in her heart, was the longing to see her mother, though she knew she could not unbosom her feelings even to her, and the intense desire to know the fate of her absent one. She did not wish or expect him to return, yet she longed to hear of his welfare. His last letter was from the West Indies, and he had spoken of “roving on the wild sea.” She intuitively felt he was out upon the ocean; he had dwelt much in times past on his love for the music of the ocean, and in former days had written a song of the sea, and called it “Memory,” that he was very fond of singing. She also recollected her emotions as she sauntered on the beach in the twilight when a child, and the sort of presentiment she had then, that the sea would be in some way associated with her life. she dreamed of the sea and its “bounding billows,” and she fancied she could hear its sobs, the echo of her own. She longed sometimes to fly away that she might listen to the reality. It would, at least, be a sort of sympathy she need not repel. In her calmer moments she knew such a thing to be impracticable, and that henceforth labor in the great work-a-day world was to be her portion.

She taught a few children in a desultory sort of a way for a little time, and then was engaged to teach a school in the eastern part of the city, in a log schoolhouse. This time there was no other way but to board around by the week, but this was among the Latter-day Saints. Once she had refused to do this, but many things had changed since that time, and this opening seemed to her providential indeed—another new experience.

Just before Hepsie went away to teach the school, Lucy Reynolds and her husband arrived in Nauvoo, and rented rooms near Mrs. W.’s, where Hepsie was staying. Hepsie found Lucy the same dear old friend, but Lucy was terribly disappointed that she would not confide in her, and in consequence of this there was a temporary estrangement between them.

Lucy told her much of her mother’s affairs and the anxiety she had felt on her account, thinking to draw Hepsie out on the subject, but it was of no avail. In regard to her troubles she was as silent as the grave. Work, now she was better, seemed the best remedy for both body and mind.

Hepsie was greatly interested in her school. She had some large girls in whom she felt the deepest interest, knowing how soon they too would be likely to enter married life, and remembering her own experience, she sought to instill into their minds moral truths and impress them with the realities of true womanhood. Her mind was absorbed during school hours, but when her tasks were completed she resumed her accustomed methods of daydreaming, and imagined all sorts of extraordinary things, almost believing she should hear news of Harold, though she never made inquiry of anyone likely to know. In fact, she had heard nothing of the S—ys, Harold’s former partners, and she was confident, had the Harveys heard from him, they would not have communicated with her.

She was not in the habit of writing home now, for what could she say? One after another of her brothers, sisters, and schoolfriends had expressed in writing to her, indignation against Harold, and denounced his conduct, blaming Mormonism for all. She could not endure such reproaches, so she gave them all up. In September her mother would come, her term of school would close the last of August, and she would be at liberty.

Occasionally she scribbled verses, but none of them appeared in print, except on one occasion—some verses on friendship she had sent to a friend, had appeared in an English journal. Hepsie was astonished, for she had not thought herself in a condition of mind to write, but it was true—they had been accepted, and there they were with her signature attached. Had she sent them herself, she would only have given her initials or a fictitious name; however, she consoled herself by thinking no one knew her scarcely, for she was very modest about her writing, and afraid of criticism.

The weary summer months dragged along, very little like that other summer, two years before, when she had been so lighthearted and full of expectancy. There were many rumors of mobs in the outlying districts around Nauvoo, and many actual disgraceful wrongs perpetrated against the Saints, and work on the temple seemed to enrage those who had arrayed themselves in opposition to the Church. Hepsie had no fears or misgivings when she heard of mobs coming almost to Nauvoo and the threats they made of putting an end to Mormonism, destroying the temple and so on; she felt her courage rise and almost forgot her individual troubles in those of her people.

Her school had closed. She had said her farewell to the children and had gone to stay with Mrs. W. temporarily, looking forward to her mother’s coming, counting the days and the hours almost, weary of waiting, when one bright afternoon, a girl came running towards the house.

Hepsie was standing in the doorway, repeating over to herself, “When will Mother come?”

The girl almost stunned her with the news. “Your mother has arrived! She is at Brother P.’s and wants you to come immediately.”

Hepsie fairly flew over the ground in her excitement, and at sight of her mother as she crossed the threshold she fainted dead away. When she came to herself, she knew it was the tumult of recollections that crowded upon her brain at sight of her mother’s face that had overwhelmed her and overpowered her.

The meeting was an embarrassing one after all, much as Hepsie had calculated upon it, bringing up the trying ordeals through which Hepsie had passed since leaving her childhood’s home, the baby’s birth and death, the sorrow of that time and what followed. Then Mrs. Hathaway had many questions to ask relative to the situation in Nauvoo, and poor little Hepsie had to act as sort of guide and instructor to her mother. Everything was so different to New England ways, habits, and customs, and Mrs. Hathaway, though well acquainted with the theory of her religion, knew very little of the practical side, such as one learns by coming in contact with those of the faith in the daily associations of life. But Mrs. Hathaway had her religion at heart, and therefore difficulties were easier for her, than those not so firmly rooted and grounded therein.

Towards the latter part of September, Hepsie’s friend Lucy had a little daughter born, and she was so absorbed in her mother duties and housekeeping that Hepsie lost sight of her for a time. So it is the dearest friends get separated through circumstances, though the strong ties that bind them need not necessarily be dissolved.

Chapter 26

In all the shifting scenes and toils of life,

Where’er her fortune, or her lines were cast,

Battling for right ’mid all the storms and strife,

Buoyant and hopeful even to the last.

The fall and winter following Mrs. Hathaway’s arrival in Nauvoo were of special note in the history of the Church, and each and every event that transpired made upon her a deep and lasting impression, as also upon Lucy Reynolds and her husband, for though they were staunch Latter-day Saints, they were totally unacquainted with the spirit of mobocracy that pervaded Nauvoo and its suburbs, and one might almost say Hancock County, and the state of Illinois.

During that winter the Nauvoo Temple was so far completed as to be ready for ordinances, and this seemed to arouse the evil passions of the wicked mobs beyond all reason. Persecution raged to the very extreme, and an exodus of some of the Saints, especially the leaders of the Church and their families, was talked of early in the winter. So many occurrences took place about this time that it is impossible to do more than barely touch upon them; and that is perhaps sufficient for the story we are writing.

The Saints who were in good standing were anxious to receive their blessings in the beautiful temple that had been built at such great expense, under such trying circumstances. While many of those who worked upon it were so poor they were scantily supplied with the necessaries of life, yet they had toiled on, determined to finish the Lord’s house.

Brigham Young, who by virtue of his position as President of the Quorum of the Twelve was really the leader of the people, was desirous that as many of the Saints as could, should have the privilege of the blessings to be given in the House of the Lord, while there was still an opportunity granted them, for, prophet as he was, he foresaw the hindrances that would follow.

Day after day the temple was crowded with brethren and sisters. It was a grand and beautiful sight and one that can never be forgotten while memory lasts, not only inside the magnificent and holy edifice, but to see the Saints flocking up the broad steps and to the doors of the temple as we had read of in ancient days during the short time they were permitted to work therein.

Hephzibah had many excellent opportunities of becoming familiar with the highest and most exalted principles and truths pertaining to the gospel, as well as to the great and grand work which was being performed in the temple. It really seemed that she had been mysteriously led without her own volition into a channel of association whereby she might obtain certain great blessings and privileges not only for herself, but for her mother, who was such a devout and faithful exemplar of the first principles taught by the elders and also so intelligent concerning the prophecies of scriptures, which she had so carefully studied. Coming to Nauvoo at a time when one great event was crowding thick upon another, without being known except by a few, she (Mrs. Hathaway) would not have had the privilege of going into the temple as she so much desired, had it not been that the way had been opened for her through Hepsie’s misfortunes and sorrows, that had thrown her into the society of those who “went in and out of the temple day and night.”

Hepsie realized now it was in her power to get the privilege of temple ordinances for her dear mother who had been so zealous and earnest an adherent to the gospel ever since it was first preached in the little country village in New England, though she had not had the opportunity of gathering to Nauvoo in the lifetime of the Prophet and hearing his voice for herself, which she had so ardently desired.

It was a great comfort to Hepsie that she could assist her mother in this way spiritually, even at the time, but in years afterward she realized more fully how surely the hand of Providence had guided her in ways she knew not, and against which her spirit and her pride had woefully rebelled, though she had kept silence, and none knew except herself knew the struggles she had undergone in her heart and soul.

All this time she had heard nothing from the Harveys. She knew now that she had hoped against hope with regard to Harold. She felt confident in her own mind that he was dead, though no word or message came save the still, small whisper down in the depths of her own soul which told her plainly that she was free and at liberty to make choice of another if she so desired. She did not know whether she cared for this freedom or not—she had passed through so many trying ordeals that she seemed only to think of peace. She had been so completely subdued and remolded that she was not sure if she still possessed any of the romantic characteristics of former days. She had given up everything—all her girlfriends, all her associates. Once she had thought that would be impossible—even Lucy Reynolds seemed more her mother’s friend than hers. What did it all mean? Mrs. Hathaway quickly discerned after her arrival the great change that had taken place in Hepsie, though she rejoiced that it had increased instead of lessening her faith.

“Hepsie,” she said one day when they were alone together, “what has made such a radical change in you? It seems incredible to me (and I am your mother) that you should have lost your ambition to be a writer, or teacher, your poetical taste, your aspirations for fame, that we once thought so firmly rooted and grounded in your nature from early childhood. Can you explain what has caused it? Is it Harold’s unfaithfulness?”

Hepsie’s lip quivered. Her eyelids trembled. Her whole soul convulsed with peculiar emotions. she knew not what to answer, but feeling as she always had her mother’s superiority, and recognizing her right to question, she collected her scattered thoughts and replied hastily. “Don’t question me, Mother. I can’t bear to talk of these things now. Everything in this world has changed for me—henceforth my religion shall be my all.”

Mrs. Hathaway never questioned Hepsie again, but she saw and felt that she was absorbed as it were in something that engrossed her thoughts and occupied her mind to the exclusion of all else. She remarked to Lucy Reynolds (now Mrs. Adams) one day when they were talking, “Can you tell me, Lucy, what has come over Hepsie to work such an entire change in her?”

“No,” replied Lucy, “unless it is the temple work and the exalting nature of the principles taught by the apostles and elders concerning a spiritual exaltation through sacrifice, that she seems to think so far in advance of all the learning and wisdom of the world.”

Shortly after the conversation between Mrs. Hathaway and Lucy, Hepsie said to her mother in a sort of casual way, “The leaders of the Church and their families are preparing to leave Nauvoo and go forth into the wilderness to seek a place of refuge from their oppressors, as the Pilgrims did. Only instead of crossing the sea, they will go over the great American desert.”

Mrs. Hathaway looked up from her sewing in surprise, exclaiming, “And do you think of undertaking this journey?”

“Why, Mother, would it be such a dreadful thing to do? There are many young women going, and there is nothing to hinder my trying a new experience. There will be plenty of toil and hardship connected with it, no doubt, but to travel through an unknown country will be interesting in the extreme!”

“And do you take into consideration that you will be leaving your mother and all your own kindred?” And Mrs. Hathaway almost broke down as she said it. Hepsie had scarcely seen her mother weep in her lifetime, and it was almost too much for her. She had not thought she would take it so to heart, and it was a few minutes before she could reply, and when she did, it was with a great effort she maintained her composure, but she felt she must speak out.

Choking down her sobs and looking up at her mother’s sorrowful face, she said, “Something tells me I must go, Mother—”

And before she could finish the sentence, her mother interrupted her, saying, “And something tells me if you go we shall never meet again.”

By this time mother and daughter were both in tears. It was indeed a trying scene. Hepsie felt as she had expressed herself that she was impelled to go by some irresistible force, and she hoped to make a satisfactory explanation to her mother, though it almost broke her heart to be separated from her again so soon. Words seemed powerless to express her feelings. Her great love for her mother made it very hard for her to decide, and yet the whisperings of her own heart were all the time urging her forward.

Lucy (Mrs. Adams) coming in put a stop to the conversation for a few minutes, but ere long Lucy said, “Hepsie, is it true that you are going away to Upper California beyond the Rocky Mountains?”

Hepsie made no reply. But Mrs. Hathaway, who was specially anxious to know what had made Lucy inquire, said excitedly, “Who says Hepsie is going away?”

“Oh, Brother Kimball says so, and I’ve heard others say it too. I thought ’twas all settled. I only wish I was going, but we can’t go yet. But we’ll be sure to follow after.”

“Then you approve of this move and expect that all the Saints will go as soon as they can?” Mrs. Hathaway said, anxious to know what her opinion was.

“Most certainly. Why, Brother Kimball says it’s the grandest move the Church has ever made. There they’ll be free to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences, with none to molest or make afraid.”

“I am very glad to hear Brother Kimball’s views. I know they must be correct, though that does not reconcile me to parting with Hepsie, and I am not prepared to go now in such haste.”

“It is not expected that widows will go with young children this winter,” said Mrs. Adams, who seemed as anxious to tell all she knew about the matter as Hepsie was to keep silence on the subject, “but the Church will send for the widows and children, the aged, and those who cannot go now, as soon as they get located. Really, Hepsie, are you going? Because if you are, I’m sure you are expecting to be married again.”

Hepsie was now fully aroused—no one had ever mentioned marriage to her in presence of her mother, and she resented such an insinuation as though it were an insult. In the bitterest tone she said, “Lucy Adams, how dare you talk to me like that! Am I not already married? And have I not suffered enough for a lifetime?”

“Oh, as to that,” replied the incorrigible Lucy, “you were never so desperately in love with Harold that it need to hinder you from marrying again. And in all probability he’s dead, anyway. I saw his brother the other day, and he declares Harold is dead, or he would have come back before now, for he wrote him a letter and said he would come back for you within a year if he lived, and the year is long past now.”

Even Mrs. Hathaway felt this was too much upon such a painful subject, and addressing Mrs. Adams, said, “You are simply torturing Hepsie beyond all endurance. She has no thought of marriage, I am positive.”

What Mrs. Adams had said about Harold’s death had its effect upon Hepsie—she could not dismiss the subject from her mind by night or by day, and she resolved to ascertain if possible whether he was living or dead.

After that day Hepsie felt she could never meet Lucy again. She was anxious to go and to get away from all those who would be likely to mention Harold’s name to her. Meantime, she made the matter a subject of constant prayer in her heart as she performed her daily duties, and she struggled with her feelings to know how to bear the separation from her mother, which she knew was inevitable if she concluded to accept the offer she had to go with the first company, who were to leave the beautiful city of Nauvoo in midwinter.

She never thought of the hardships to be encountered; the journey had no fears for her. To be with those who had the word of the Lord, with prophets and apostles, to be always gaining a knowledge of those things that pertain to eternal life and the advancement of the Latter-day work was her object.

She tried by persuasion and entreaty to reconcile her mother, believing in her heart and assuring her that she would, by going forward herself, be able to advance her interests and help her more than if she stayed behind. “I am no longer a child,” she said, “but able to think and act for myself, relying upon my Heavenly Father for guidance and protection.”

Chapter 27

Sad was the parting, weary was the way

The Pilgrims trod, while journeying along;

Many the trials encountered day by day;

And yet at eve the merry dance and song,

The drooping spirits cheer’d and hope grew bright;

And when they knelt upon the ground to pray,

They seem’d to see a resting place in sight,

And holy angels, guarding all their way.

Hepsie felt that parting thus from her mother, after all she had suffered alone, was indeed a test of her faith and sincerity. She prayed fervently for strength and firmness to take this final step, that seemed to her a cross—a sacrifice greater than any she had voluntarily made. And she was doing this herself. It appeared much harder since her mother had spoken her feelings on the subject—in fact prophesied of the future—and it did look cruel, yet an irresistible impulse led her on. When alone, she questioned her own heart as to the motives which induced her to take what looked to others to be “a leap in the dark.”

Was it because Harold’s unfaithfulness had killed out all affection, and made her cold and distrustful, and desirous of burying herself among those who were not akin to her and could have no claim upon her love or gratitude? Sometimes she felt afraid it was so—that she was selfish—and then there would come over her a wave of singular emotions, so exalting in their nature, that she seemed wafted into a celestial atmosphere, where all human love was swallowed up in the great river of life that flowed ever onward, connecting the seen with the unseen, the real with the ideal, the earthly with the eternal. At such times her thoughts would take the most lofty flights, that made the present appear like a shadowy myth compared to the glory to be attained by sacrifice and compliance with the will of God, which under certain influences seemed so plain to her understanding. This knowledge was so sacred in its character and its effect upon her was such that she did not dare to explain it to any one if she had been inclined, not even her mother.

To Hepsie it was above and beyond all the education the world could give, and to which in the past she had aspired with so much enthusiasm. No sacrifice looked too great if she could only endure it in view of the promises held out to her in connection with the principles she had been taught. Hepsie realized in a very small degree what sacrifice and endurance meant, but she was naturally hopeful and, having had some sharp trials that cut very keen and close into her heartstrings, she naturally enough thought these lessons had paved the way for higher ones. And so indeed it proved.

There were some discouragements thrown in her pathway, and there were those beside her mother who tried to hinder her from leaving Nauvoo with the first company. There were offers of this kind and that, and objections raised of various kinds, but these had no weight whatever—she had set her face westward and was not to be thwarted in her purpose for trifles.

One young friend and companion used every effort in her power to hinder her from undertaking the journey. When she saw how immovable Hepsie was, she accused her of never having truly loved Harold, and went so far as to say, “You dare not face his father and mother. You are going away without seeing them; they have been told that you are going, and they mean to put a stumbling block in your way, for you are still his wife whatever you may think, and they are determined you shall not go. They know very well if you do, Harold will never come back. What have you to say to them? Will you be answerable for his utter ruin?

Hepsie quickly replied, “My religion has taught me to love my enemies, and although I am far from perfect in that lesson which the Savior taught, yet I am not afraid to meet Harold’s parents; I know I have not wronged Harold or them. My conscience is clear and you can tell them so.”

“Well, Hepsie, they’ve sent for you to come out to Laharpe and see them. There’s a carriage waiting at Uncle Jo’s for you now—will you go? Have you no fears that you may be persuaded to remain? They will offer you great inducements to stay with them. You know they have lots of money.”

“Katie, their money weighs nothing with me. They would not give one cent to Harold and me when they knew how destitute we were before Baby was born, but I can forgive them even that. I will go, if you will go with me, and they shall see I am not a moral coward, and could face the whole world were it necessary to prove my sincerity in my religion. Will you go with me? You know them all, and I should even be glad to see Oney once more and leave a message with him for Harold should he ever return, tho’ my heart tells me he never will!”

“Yes, Hepsie, I’ll go and tell the folks at Uncle Joe’s that we’ll go, and mind, you must be ready early tomorrow morning—it’s a long drive.”

Hepsie had many reflections that night and such strange dreams. She had not told anyone where she was going except her mother, and she had objected, saying, “Hepsie, my dear, you overestimate your strength. You will break down, and your nerves are already shattered. Oh, that dreadful woman, why did I ever trust you with her?”

“Mother, I am going,” said Hepsie, “to show Mrs. Harvey that I am converted to a faith that more than compensates me for Harold’s absence. And perhaps, my dear mother, his lack of manhood has been my salvation; for I could never have been modified, subdued, changed as I am nor have seen the frivolity of worldly things as I do now, if I had not passed through “a fiery furnace,” if I had not been left utterly alone and friendless, as well as destitute, and only One above to look to and lean upon. I will tell this to the Harveys and who knows but it may be a testimony to warn them and save them from apostasy.”

Her mother replied, “Hepsie, I shall not object to the free exercise of your will in the matter, nor in regard to your going away. I comprehend now that you have received light and knowledge beyond most young people of your age, and I am prepared to consent to your going away with the main body of the Church. I shall make no remonstrance hereafter.” This concession on the part of Mrs. Hathaway was very consoling to Hepsie.

On the following morning Hephzibah and her friend Kate P. left the city for Laharpe; it was late in the day when they arrived at the Harvey residence, for sure enough it had been, as Kate said beforehand, a long drive. They were cold and tired, and the reception they received was also a very cool one.

Mrs. Harvey detected almost immediately that Hepsie had not come to stay, and she resented her bringing Kate with her. But Hepsie was prepared for the encounter, such as it was.

“Oh, I can see plainly that you’re not a bit humbled by your trouble. You’re just as proud as ever. Pride and poverty don’t go well together, though.”

These and similar sayings were the greetings she received, and the only comfort the visit afforded her was a word or two with Harold’s brother. He assured her of his brotherly affection and also that he still believed Mormonism was true and hoped some day his mother would be convinced of her error in persuading his father to leave Nauvoo. He told Hepsie he felt sure Harold was dead from things he had dreamed concerning him; and Hepsie, knowing his delicate spiritual temperament, felt he must be right.

It would be too much to detail items of this visit, but Hepsie and Kate went back to Nauvoo fully convinced of the apostasy of Mrs. Harvey, and she was the ruling spirit in the household. When they parted, Mrs. Harvey said to Hepsie, “I suppose if you’re not married to one of the heads of the Church you’re going to be, and you’ll never see Harold again, or have a dollar of our money.”

But her words had no effect upon the young woman except to disgust her with her oft-repeated allusions to money. On the way home Hepsie said to Kate, “Don’t tell Mother how we were treated—it will make her so indignant and unhappy. Besides, Mother and the children will be left here when we go away, and we don’t know what may transpire. You know, the Harveys spoke highly and kindly of Mother and they might do her a favor. She may need it, for if, as they say, the remainder of the Saints are likely enough to be driven after we are gone, who can tell what she may need. And it is better for her not to know. Anyway, it couldn’t do any good and it might do harm.”

Kate however didn’t see fit to promise, and as soon as she had an opportunity, told Mrs. Hathaway everything except that Mrs. Harvey accused Hepsie of being married to one of the heads of the Church. She knew that would be going a little too far, if she meant to retain Hepsie’s friendship, and she was anxious to have her favor, for she knew that Hepsie’s influence would be a blessing. She herself had questioned her about the gossip referred to on the journey home, and became convinced that whatever step Hepsie intended to take, she was terribly in earnest; and if she ever married again, the marriage would be solemnized upon a higher platform than either Mrs. Harvey the elder or Mrs. Hathaway could appreciate at present.

Chapter 28

Our lives are full of mystery so deep

We cannot fathom all the years may bring;

The angels have some secrets which they keep;

We hear the music, not the words they sing.

Hepsie returned to Nauvoo with a heavy heart concerning the future of Harold’s relatives. She felt, however, that she had discharged her duty and given them the benefit of her testimony; and a strong one it was. Her conscience was clear whatever might transpire in the future, even were Harold to return. She had left a message with his brother that would touch his heart, if he had a spark of true affection left therein, for he knew how great a sacrifice she had made in leaving her home, knew all her aspirations, all her expectations, and how willing she had been to endure toil and hardship with him for the sake of the gospel. All this Oney would repeat to Harold should he ever return.

The few days that were left Hepsie after her return to make final preparations for the journey into the wilderness (as it was termed), were very busy ones. In fact, she did not give a decided answer to those with whom she was going until the night before leaving the city. A great mental struggle was going on in Hepsie’s mind, notwithstanding her outward composure. Her farewell to her mother was a terrible ordeal, and yet she went through it with apparent calmness. No one ever knew but herself what the effort cost her. Her mother must not know, she said over and over to herself.

Even after Hephzibah had left Nauvoo and had, as she supposed, met all the opposition that could be brought to bear against the course she was taking, there was still one more effort made to induce her to remain within the borders of civilization.

It is well understood by those acquainted with Mormon history, that at the time of the exodus from Nauvoo, the company took away with them what was known as the famous Nauvoo brass band under the direction of Capt. Wm. Pitt. The music of the band helped to cheer the Saints upon their journey, and while encamped on Sugar Creek dispelled the first dark hours of gloom that hung over the Saints, who had just left their homes, orchards, gardens, and worldly possessions to go into a new and uncivilized region, not knowing what was to befall them, only to trust in One whose power is above all earthly power. And with unswerving faith, the leaders of the Church took upon themselves the task of searching for a resting place for their people.

While in Iowa, the citizens of Farmington who knew of their journeyings (many of them had been Mormons and apostatized) sent for the brass band to come over and give them some music. It was well known that Pitts’ was the best band anywhere in the vicinity, and the Farmington folks were very glad of this opportunity to have a concert. Accordingly, the band and some of the young people who were singers consented to this arrangement. The occasion was quite a jovial one considering all the peculiarities of the circumstances.

Hephzibah was one of the invited guests, and as she realized it was perhaps the last time she would have an opportunity of participating in an entertainment of the kind for a long time to come, she consented to make one of the party. She was not prepared, however, for what followed.

She had forgotten all about the S—ys and their going over to Farmington to settle, and was utterly surprised when during the afternoon one of them came up to her unawares, and in a voice that seemed familiar accosted her with, “Say, Mrs. Harvey, how came you here with these wandering pilgrims? We had never heard a word of you since we left Nauvoo just before that Christmas, and we all thought you had gone back east to your own folks by this time. Say, where have you been, and why didn’t you write? We’ve talked a heap about you. Charlie has never got over leaving you there—nor none of us, for that matter.”

Hepsie was so astonished and overwhelmed that she could scarcely reply at all, but she managed to tell him she was on her way to the great western wilderness with the company of the Saints, and that she had perfect faith in the enterprise, and should not falter, whatever might come.

The young man, who was no other than one of Harold’s former partners in business, urged and entreated Hepsie with all the persuasive eloquence he possessed to stay there. “You’ll die of the perils and hardships by the wayside, and it will be your own fault. You could teach here and get a splendid salary. Stay with us—Mother would be so pleased to have you once more. She never tires of praising you, talks of your wonderful memory, your patience and forbearance, and your utter helplessness, though so young, yet so enthusiastic in religion, that you would not listen to those who were older and wiser. Why, Mother says your reading was like poetry, and your songs so full of sympathy that tears were the only expression of her appreciation. Oh, Mrs. Harvey, do stay with us. I offer you everything—my home, my heart. I shall never love anybody as I love you. Never! Tho’ I never dared to say so even to myself, because you were the wife of my friend, but believe me, I love you as I never can love again.”

With all Hepsie’s experience and her theories on the subject of love, this was too much for her. She was so embarrassed that she could not reply—her cheeks seemed all aflame, her lips were dry and tongue parched. She felt as if she was going to faint, but tears came to her relief, and were more potent than any mere words could have been.

“Oh, I see,” said Hezekiah. “You cannot forget Harold. He was good and noble and your ideal, but I feel sure he is dead—we never hear from him. Why do you go away with this great sorrow in your heart?”

By this time Hepsie had regained her voice and, thanking the young man for his kindness of heart and telling him to marry someone who could give him her whole heart and undivided affection, she tried to break off the conversation, but he persistently refused to go and added, “Mrs. Harvey, if you ever want a friend—if you should grow tired of a wanderer’s life—let me know. There are three of us and we would each one of us be willing to leave all else for you.”

This was Hepsie’s moment and she improved it. “Would you give up all else and come back to the faith and travel with the Saints into the wilderness for my sake?”

“Well, no, not that, Mrs. Harvey, that could not be. We have renounced Mormonism, you know—we could not go back to that.”

“Well, that proves that your love is selfish, shallow, and not genuine. Love does not stop for sacrifices. It surmounts every obstacle. It is self-denying. We must part—I shall go back to the camp tonight, and tomorrow we shall pursue our journey westward. What awaits me I know not, but my faith in the future of my people is unshaken. Heaven help those who doubt and faint by the wayside.”

And now, dear patient reader, we must bring this story to a close. It is a true one, and therefore you cannot expect it to end with the same sort of glowing highly colored denouement as a sensational novel, but if you have followed the principal character in the story, and taken in all the details and episodes, you will have startling facts enough with a vivid imagination to conjecture a sequel equal to that of many of the romances of modern times, and this the writer will leave each of you to follow out his or her own inclinations in the matter, and settle Hephzibah’s future as you may think proper to decide from the testimony given.

There are one or two main points that should be stated in the closing chapter, as they really relate to the moral of the story itself. After Hepsie parted with her mother to come across the Mississippi, she never did see her again—she died of the hardships when the Saints were driven out of Nauvoo in the summer of 1846, and was laid in an unknown grave by the wayside, which fulfilled Mrs. Hathaway’s words and affirmed the presentiment.

Harold never returned but died at sea and was buried in the ocean, according to his brother’s presentiment and the foreshadowing of Hephzibah when a child.

His parents never returned to the Church, and his brother died very young—no doubt, Hepsie thought, because it was impossible with his disposition to rise above the opposition he had to contend with; he sank into a sort of melancholy and went into a decline. He was a beautiful character but lacked the strong elements necessary to battle with unpleasant surroundings.

The schoolmates of Hepsie for whom she had such a strong attachment early in life did not all marry ministers or doctors or lawyers, or men with high-sounding titles, as they had declared they would. In fact, two or three of them still live in single blessedness to this day, and visit among their cousins and relatives, and are very sedate and proper. Jane the esquire’s daughter, plain and unpretentious as she was, married a rich man “away down in Maine,” who afterwards figured conspicuously in politics at home and finally went as senator from his state to Congress.

Miss Fay, whose Christian name was Mehitable, as Hepsie once explained to her sister Hannah, and who dubbed Hepsie as “the girl in pantalettes,” failed to secure the one she loved, and married in haste to repent at leisure. Instead of wealth and position, she was obliged to earn her own living and adopted the stage as a profession.

Lucy (Reynolds) Adams and her husband kept the faith, and though they did not leave Nauvoo with the first company, they were among the first to locate in the valley of the Great Salt Lake and lived and died true to the principles they had embraced in their youth.

The young college graduates in whom Hepsie and Lucy took such an interest, both apostatized before the Saints left Nauvoo and went back east, one to practice law and the other medicine.

Many of the incidents written here proved prophetic, and there are those living who could testify to the same, but as we are not dealing specially with this matter, we leave it to the intuition of the reader. That there is a Providence that overrules and controls our destinies is an undeniable fact, and yet we are left our free agency, paradoxical as it may seem. It is not predestination, but it is the guiding power of Him who holds the destinies of men and of nations, that we can rely upon, if we put ourselves in the position to obtain His favor and support. He leaves us free to choose the good and refuse the evil, if we will. And He knows how to bring us nearer to Him by chastening and through fiery trials, and yet He will not forsake us but will be our ever-present help in time of need. The most beautiful characters are those that have been purified through suffering and have borne it patiently.

“For gold must be tried by fire

And a heart must be tried by pain.”

The lessons that Hephzibah learned out of the schools were very difficult, but they were a much higher grade than those taught in the halls of learning. She had talked largely of love while very young, and she had sipped a little at the spring she had thought overflowing with the precious draught—just enough to taste its sweetness, but behold, it had turned to bitterness afterwards, and even the cup from which she drank was tarnished, and so she cast it aside that her lips might not be cankered. And it is not strange if after such bitter experiences in her search for a pure and enduring love, she was wise enough to know the true metal from the glittering and showy enameled tinsel, and to be able to choose wisely in her riper years, and to teach some vital truths to those who had not the same opportunities of gaining wisdom, or of knowing how near the false can imitate the true by having had so striking a contrast.

Having known the bitter, Hepsie ought certainly to have drunk freely of life’s sweetness, but alas, how often are the bitter and the sweet strangely commingled.

THE END