she spent there. She graduated — that the 
reader has already anticipated, and with the 
highest honors of her class—those who knew 
her well would have been disappointed if it 
had not been so. 
The auniversarv exercises were over at 
last and the diplomas awarded. Re and her 
bosom friend and chum, Ida Nelson, were 
in their room preparing for their departure 
from Westlake. When all was ready, Ke, 
throwing herself into a chair, said, 
“ Well, Ida, we are through. What do 
you mean to do now ? How long we have 
labored for these diplomas, and yet what do 
they amount to 1 ” 
“ I do not t hink I shall trouble myself 
much about mine,” replied Ida. “I have 
an invitation from an uncle ill New York 
and think I shall accept it. I wish you could 
go along, Re. Ilis home on the Hudson is 
said to he a perfect paradise. What do you 
mean to do?” 
“I think I shall try to be a woman,” re¬ 
plied the imperturbable Re. 
“ Be a woman! I am sure that will not 
he difficult.” 
“Yes, hut I use the word in its Highest 
sense. Yon know my independent views. 
Woman, now-a-days, is left out of the ac¬ 
count in making up the sum total of the 
world’s worth. I do not think that is right, 
and mean to do what 1 can toward setting 
the world straight. 1 am yet too young to 
begin my life-career, .and shall probably 
teucii two or three years, and then I will be 
ready to make my life ‘real’ and ‘earnest.’ 
Before Ida had time to reply, a bevy of 
girls burst into the room to congratulate 
them upon the successes of the morning, 
and the subject was dropped. 
Re returned to Brookside, but she did not 
teach. Tile sirens that sang in the midst of 
the sea were not more seductive to lure sail¬ 
ors away from the path <>f duty than were 
the rural haunts of her childhood’s home to 
lure Re Weldon away from her ambitious 
hopes and projects, An occasional article 
in the Weekly Wonder, their local county 
paper, was all she found lime for; and the 
next, spring, when her father’s failing health 
rendered him no longer able to manage the 
intricate concerns of the farm, Re volun¬ 
teered to take his place, and was duly in¬ 
stalled the Farmer of Brookside. She did 
not pretend that it was wholly according to 
her tastes, but her olden time, “tom boy” 
propensities led her to want to show what 
she could do. She Had not overestimated 
her ability as a manager. Her farming was 
an entire success, and, her spirits elated by 
present prosperity, she employed her spare 
moments in preparing several addresses to 
deliver when an opportunity offered. It came 
sooner than even she expected. It is human 
to worship success. Re Weldon was looked 
upon as being a heroine, and tins “Sol¬ 
diers' Aid Society” invited her to speak for 
the benefit, of their cause. She accepted, 
and had the pleasure of knowing that the 
Society realized more from her effort than 
from any other during the entire winter. 
But Re did not fail to observe that her audi- 1 
cnee was less select, than she would have 
liked it to he. And when she spoke a sec* 
ond time for the same cause, a few months 
afterward, she was astonished to find that 
her lecture failed to “ draw,” nor was she re¬ 
ceived with the same manifestations of ap¬ 
plause that greeted her “ first appearance.” 
How could this be accounted for? She was 
almost led to doubt her ability as a public 
speaker. 
But nothing daunted by this ill omen, she 
plunged deeper than ever into her literary 
labors. Her articles in the Weekly Wonder 
had become a specialty in that paper. Al¬ 
though thrown oil’hastily, they were looked 
for with eager interest by hosts of her warm 
friends. And in the meantime she was pre¬ 
paring a new lecture, “ Ideas of Woman in 
Politics,” which she hoped to make the 
finest as well as the ablest of her literary 
productions. She was fast becoming an en¬ 
thusiast an that subject, and it was not to be 
wondered at that in this address, which was 
to lie her master-piece; she overleaped the 
conservatism of the present and anticipated 
the times that were to be when woman was 
enfranchised. A few extracts from some of 
her letters to Her friend Ida Nelson will 
best tell this part of our story. 
“ Dearest Ida,” she wrote in midsummer 
two years after they left the seminary, “you 
don’t know how flurried I am to-day. 
Father is still an invalid, and occasionally 1 
•am needed out of doors to see that things 
are going on as they should. We are in the 
midst of hay harvest. From my window, ns 
I write, I can sec a dozen men In the meadow 
mowing, raking and stacking the well-cured 
grass. 
“ But I have the oddest tiling to tell you ! 
You have heard me speak of Charley 
Clark, who was my teacher the year before 
I first went to Westlake. Well, he is here 
to-day, and at this moment 1 see him mount¬ 
ed on a stack of hay down in the meadow. 
He does not appear a day older than he did 
five years ago! His coming was so uncx*- 
pected, and it is such a busy time that I 
hardly know wbat to do or think. He was 
in the parlor during the forenoon. He seems 
to think I have improved amazingly. You 
know we call our farm ‘Brookside.’ In 
leafing over my music, he came upon Ten¬ 
nyson’s ‘Brook Song,’ and asked me to sing 
it for him. His admiration of it apparently 
was unbounded. I agree with him in think¬ 
ing the song sweet and Brookside charming, 
but I do not think I shall like Mr. Charles 
Clark. 
“ He is on his way to C-, and is to 
leave on the evening train. I shall feel re¬ 
lieved when he is gone.” 
Two months later, September 15, she 
again wrote; 
“Ida, darling, I have just finished my 
article for the Weekly Wonder, and you 
better think it is spicy this week! I felt 
‘wrought up’ and could not help making 
it so. 
“ Mr. Clark has been here again. Now, 
I know I do not like him. Presuming on 
the intimacy of our old-time acquaintance, I 
showed him some of my Wonder articles. 
They were 1 very good,’ lie said ! I wonder 
if he is not the least bit, jealous! I casually 
mentioned my new lecture—* My Ideas,’ as 
I call it. He insisted that I should read it 
to him, and I did. Fatal concession ! He 
combated every one of my 1 ideas.’ He says 
the tendency of the ’times is to elevate the 
dignity of woman, but not by seating her on 
a political throne. Zknoiua conquered and 
Semi ram (h reigned, and Catherine of Rus¬ 
sia extended her empire in semi-barbarous 
ages, lie says; Elizabeth was great only at 
the dawning of the better era. of English 
history, and Victoria’s headship of the 
England of to-day, he insists, is a failure. 
According to this Sir Oracle, Joan of Arc 
was a myth—a vulgar ruse employed by a 
defeated king to infuse new hope and 
courage inlo his desponding soldiery. As 
human society advances and superstition 
disappears, woman, he says, is seen less and 
less on the theater of events, and the women 
who head the ‘ woman’s movement’ of the 
present day ‘ are not the noblest and best of 
their sex 1’ He is in favor of mixed schools 
and the opening of colleges and universities 
to the admission of female students. 
“‘But, Mr. Clark,’ said I, interrupting 
him, ‘ what would you have au educated 
woman do ? ’ 
“There is one field,” he replied, “that 
will always be open to her and in which she 
can do the world infinite service—the school 
room. And by the means of the press she 
may speak to the world from the seclusion 
of her study and, it may be, control its des¬ 
tiny without mingling in its turmoils and 
tragedies.” “But,” he added, alter a little 
pause, “ the field where her influence must 
continue to be most strongly felt is the home 
circle 1 Nature intended woman to bo a 
helper rather than a leader.” Just then 
mother called me, and I assure you I Imve 
not often obeyed her summons with more 
alacrity. I hate to hear such narrow-con¬ 
tracted views of a great and growing ques¬ 
tion. “ When I returned to the parlor, the 
subject was not resumed. In some respects 
I rather like Oiiarley Clark and cannot 
help wishing he were one of us on the ques¬ 
tion. 1 have heard that lie has become a 
promising lawyer. "When he was here 
before bo was on his way to 0-where he 
was engaged in a real estate case before Hie 
Supreme Court, and he tells me lie gained 
it triumphantly. But 1 don’t think 1 can 
forgive his strictures on my ‘ ideas.’ Like 
men generally, he thinks a woman is a no¬ 
body. Perhaps lie will live to see his error.” 
And two months later: 
“ ‘The melancholy days are come, 
The saddest of the year.’ 
The leaves dry, withered and falling to 
the ground, are rustling everywhere. I feel 
gloomy. Nothing goes to suit me. 1 have 
not had time fora month to write an article 
for the Weekly Wonder, and my lecture is 
still unfinished. After all, 1 believe Mr. 
Clark was about half right. I am begin¬ 
ning to think the ‘ woman’s movement’ a fail¬ 
ure. I sometimes wonder whether ‘ strong- 
minded’ is not another name for the misan¬ 
thropy arising from disappointment. 
“I have not seen my Sir Oracle since Sep¬ 
tember. I would kind o’ like to know wliat 
he really did think of my ‘Ideas.’ ” 
Six weeks later when the Christinas holi¬ 
days made every one “ merry,” Re wrote in 
a merrier tone. I will quote one paragraph. 
“ Ida dearest, I received your letter long 
ago. * * * * Mr. Clark is here, as lively 
and merry as ever. He came on Thursday. 
The subject of that lecture has not yet been 
broached. He seems to avoid it and I do 
not mean to introduce it. Well, let it be a 
buried subject. I have had so much to see 
to that I have hardly looked at it for three 
months.” 
The next letter in this series is dated full 
three months later. One or two paragraphs 
will he inserted here because they add finis 
to Re’s “ tom-boy” cxperince; 
“ My dearest Ida. This is a glorious day 
in early spring. 1 feel joyous and happy. 
Nature is awakening from the long sleep of 
winter. Everything seems bright and beau¬ 
tiful. Brookside is a pleasant place at any 
seasou of the year, but in the spring time it 
is a paradise. 
“ I may as well come to it first as last— 
Charley Clark is bere! It is bis third 
visit since the holidays. Last night, we had 
a long talk about my unfinished life plan— 
my * tom-boy ambition,’ as I sometimes style 
it. You may be surprised, but I mean to 
give it all up. I shall not cease to study or 
quit writing. >1}' view of woman’s wrongs 
I think was correct in the main ; hut mine 
may not have been the best plan to amelior¬ 
ate her condition. 
“Can you not come to Brookside about 
the middle of next, month ? I would like to 
have you stay two or three weeks. I am to 
be married on May-Day, and 1 want you to be 
here, oh! so much. You cau come if you 
will. Now do not. disappoint me.” 
And thus ended Re’s “ tom-boy ambition.” 
Since then four years have elapsed. I met 
Mr. and Mrs. Clark at their beautiful sub¬ 
urban home not a month ago; and when I 
looked upon domestic life ns transfigured in 
their home circle, I could not help feeling 
glad there was a Charley Clark to deprive 
the world of the honor of producing a second 
Susan B. Anthony. 
Hillsboro’, ill., 1871. 
- +++■ - 
MABEL’S STOBY. 
WHAT SHE EOST AND GAINED. 
We lived far away in the country in a 
rustic district. My father was postmaster 
of the little place, and kept a few groceries 
for sale. But ho had enough to do to main¬ 
tain his family scantily and clothe them de¬ 
cently. 1 was sixteen, and housekeeper; my 
mother was dead, and I was the eldest of 
us Jour children. The rest being younger, 
I strove to do my best for them. 
My one great trouble then was my clothes. 
Other young girls of our station that 1 asso¬ 
ciated with dressed better than 1 could, and 
it grieved me. Vanity begins earlier than 
that in the female heart. I had made up 
and re-made every article of my mother’s 
wardrobe for the children or for me, ami had 
worked up every shred to the best advan¬ 
tage: and now that, was all gone, and I did 
need a new dress for the coming winter. I 
made my shoes last as long as other girls 
did, for 1 knew my father needed every six¬ 
pence he could earn, and I dreaded wanting 
anything. Not. that lie ever was cross, hut 
he often sighed, and looked so pained and 
sorrowful when PL tskcd /for money that I 
tried to do with ujnJHq i# possible. 
But here it was the last of October; my 
summer dresses, poor enough at all times, 
looked very thin and paltry now. One Sat¬ 
urday afleinoon I shall never forget. It is 
what 1 am going to tell of. My work all 
done, the children at play in the orchard, I 
combed out my long, brown hair, put on my 
best cotton frock, selected a plain linen col¬ 
lar of my own making, and pinned it round 
my neck with an old breastpin, the only bit 
of jewelry I had ever owned. With me, I 
think it was an instinct to dress well. Not 
line; only neat. Then, taking out my last 
winter’s best frock, I sat. down by the win¬ 
dow to sec what I could do at renovating it. 
It was a light blue merino—very light in¬ 
deed now—and 1 kllew it was loo short for 
me, as I was still grow ing, and was very 
shabby. But by turning and putting in a 
wide hand of trimming which 1 hud, I 
thought it might be made to answer; sol set 
to work with a will. 
The work was vexing. I was trying to do 
what scarcely could be done; and as I sat 
sewing and contriving, 1 felt fit to cry over 
our poverty. Just then the dog on the shop 
sill set up a loud barking, and I looked to 
see what it was at. A man w as coining in 
at the gale with a pack on his hack ; a trav¬ 
eling peddler, 1 knew. He smiled and came 
in, although I said I did not want anything; 
and the children seeing him, came running 
in too. 
“ I cannot afford to buy; indeed I can¬ 
not,” I kept saying. But the man only kept 
on smiling, and opened his pack on the par¬ 
lor floor. And it was too great a treat to 
me to see the tilings, to make great opposi¬ 
tion. 
The first that came out was just the very 
tiling I had most longed for—a beautiful 
fine French merino, of a dark crimson color. 
I had once seen a dress of this kind, but 
none had ever been offered for sale in our 
little place that could equal this in shade or 
texture. 
The peddler looked at me with his keen 
black eyes as I knell down to feel the prize 
I had no hope of winning. “ The lady will 
buy,” he said ; but I shook my head, and 
crossing my hands behind me, stood tip reso¬ 
lutely, trying hard not to long for the mucli- 
desired piece of goods. 
“ Not buy 1” he exclaimed in a broken 
language of some sort, I could not tell 
whether German or French ; and lie looked 
so astonished, even pitiful, that I felt sorry 
at once, and confessed that I had no money, 
and could not purchase. 
“ But the beautiful young lady have some 
old silver—old jewelry—old silk dresses— 
just good as money?” said he. 
I laughed at the idea, but lie only opened 
anot her package to display to the boys some 
dumb watches with very gay chains, and 
handing them each one, lie took out a small 
doll for my little sister, and told them to run 
away now, “ till sister bought her dress.” I 
motioned to the boys to stay near the door¬ 
step, and then taking up the much coveted 
dress piece, I again examined it. Satan was 
tempting me, or some vexatious spirit that 
does duty for him, and never had I been so 
sorely beset. How could I let it go, yet bow 
pay for it ? 
The black eyes never left my face, but the 
fellow was respectful, only bowing lower as 
lie said, “ You think it good ?” 
“ Oil, yes I” I replied, “ too good for me.” 
“ Not so,” he said. “ It suits you much, 
aud you shall have cheap.” 
“ 1 tell you I have no money.” 
“ No matter, I trust. You give me some¬ 
thing to keep for you, and I come again,” he 
said. 
“ But I have nothing,” 1 insisted. Still he 
only seemed more eager; said something of 
hard times, of having to stay at the tavern, 
and expenses over Sunday, of being so “ very 
tire ’’—and I with the merino in my hand nil 
the while. 
Suddenly he stepped close to me, pointed 
ing to the poor brooch I wore. I could give 
him that, lie said :—that is, lend it to him in 
trust until lie came again. Did 1 think much 
of it, he asked. 
I laughed as 1 undid it. I did not think 
much of it, but it was ull the jewelry I pos¬ 
sessed in the world. I showed him my name 
on the back, “ Mabel.” But it was worn 
nearly illegible now. 
“ Nearly quite," said he, turning it about 
in his bands. “Itverv poor.” 
And this was true ; the poor thin gold, if 
it was gold, was all dinted and mashed flat, 
the original pin gone, and a needle tied in 
by the eye with a thread served to fasten it. 
One large stone was set in the center as 
large as a pea, surrounded by nine smaller 
ones, but one of these was lost out long ago, 
and I had often tried to find a piece of while 
glass to fit the small cavity, but bad failed. 
The stones were all glass', as I believed. Some 
of the girls in Hie village would ask me why 
1 wore the old-fash ion oil thing ; and then I 
would show them the dim “ Mabel" on the 
m 
back, and tell them I had been mimed after 
the name there. Some one lmd given my 
mother the pin for me when I was born ; 
and she, mother, said I should bear the same 
name. The peddler kept it in his hand, and 
I noticed that his fingers trembled. 
“I’ll bring it you back in three months’ 
time,” said he; “’twon’t be o’no good tome, 
but I’ll take it on trust. Or, if you can 
pay sooner, I shall lie about the neighbor¬ 
hood all next week, and shall sleep each 
night at the inn.” 
Be you very sure I did not hesitate long; 
Ihe temptation was too great; so, thrusting 
the old pin carelessly into his breast pocket, 
he tied tip his bundles, and with low bows 
left the house. 
I could scarcely believe in my good luck. 
I spread out my new frock on the bed, and 
held it before me to try the effect. And then 
1 began to repent. My father, I knew, 
would not give me one cross look; lmt still 
1 did hale to tell him of the twelve shillings 
I owed the peddler. I would be so saving 
for the next three months that he would lose 
nothing by my bargain, for I’d scrape it to¬ 
gether myself. 
When I picked up the linen band to put 
it round my neck, I did not know how to 
fasten it at first without that familiar old pin ; 
then I recollected how often Hie girls had 
told me that a how of ribbon would look su 
much prettier. So, looking up a small piece 
of black velvet, 1 formed a bow, aud felt 
more than satisfied. 
My father did not get borne to tea or to 
supper. 1 put the children to bed after their 
slices of bread and treacle and a good wash¬ 
ing. 
At ten o’clock a note came, saying some 
business had detailed my father; that I had 
better close the house and retire. This was 
nothing very Unusual, as his business mat¬ 
ters often kept him late. 1 was quite a staid 
little woman in management, and did as I 
was bid. My father would come in with his 
latch-key. On Sunday morning at breakfast 
the children showed him their watches and 
doll. I said nothing about the dress, for it 
struck mo he was looking anxious. 
“Where’s your breastpin, Mabel?” he 
asked, as the children ran out before the door 
after breakfast. 
The breastpin ! I was frightened at once. 
He had never asked after it or noticed it be¬ 
fore. He must have heard of what I’d done 
and was angry. 
“ Father, 1 have not got it!’’ I exclaimed 
at once, ready to cry. 
“ Not got it! What do you mean, child ? 
You surely wore it. yesterday!’’ 
“ Yes, sir,” 1 replied, “ and it’s all safe. I 
was just going to tell you about it when you 
frightened me.” 
“Well, I don’t wish to frighten you, my 
dear; I had no thought of such a thing. 
Calm yourself, Mabel, while I tell you of a 
letter 1 received yesterday, and then you 
can get the pin at your leisure. You can 
get it?” 
“ I can get it, father; or, rather, you can. 
But I hope you will not blame me. What 
have you heard about it?” 
“ Well, my dear, listen. We have never 
attached any value to that old pin, only that 
a good, kind woman gave it to your nnv . r 
to keep for you, and so we did keep ? be¬ 
cause of that. She was a stranger to us, 
poor lady, and was in distress, and your 
mother was kind to her. But she left the 
place soon after you were born, aud we never 
heard more of her. Yesterday, however, I 
got a letter from a long distance, asking 
about that very pin, and describing it, even 
to the nameou the back. It is very valuable, 
Mabel.” 
My heart was beating ten strokes where it 
should have beat but one. 
“ The pin we have set no store by is of 
great value, Mabel. The ceuter diamond 
alone is worth what to us poor people would 
he a fortune. And it is all yours, my clear; 
you can convert the diamond into money 
and be at ease for life.” 
What with the overpowering surpise and 
what with fear of my father’s anger, I faint¬ 
ed. When I came to myself on the sofa 
in the parlor, the children were there, ami it 
was too late to go to church, i fell bewil¬ 
dered, and trembled yet, but listened atten¬ 
tively to my lather as he read the important 
letter from London. Then I sprang up 
wildly. 
“ Oh, father, father, go down to the Black 
Horse I” I exclaimed. “The peddler is 
there, and he has my pin ” 
My father’s first thought was that the good 
fortune had turned my brain. I explained 
all to him. lie was very kind, never scold¬ 
ing me; but, as to finding the pin and the 
peddler, he knew more of the world than 
iiis foolish child, and was not so hopeful. 
However, he thought it best to go, and 
for me to go with him. So in a lew mo¬ 
ments we were walking down to the Black 
Horse. The landlord was silting alone in 
his front porch, smoking quietly. He looked 
surprised when we walked up the steps, but 
very politely invited us into the parlor, ex¬ 
plaining that his women folks had gone to 
church. 
“ Is there a peddler staying with you, Mr. 
Ford?” began my father. 
“ A peddler ?—no,” exclaimed the land¬ 
lord, as if the question vexed him. “ I have 
not seen a peddler lor three weeks, and the 
one that was hero then did not. pay his bill.” 
I must have turned very pale at tills, and 
felt faint again. Mr. Ford wanted me to 
take a cordial. My lather turned it off, say¬ 
ing I was tired. Then lie said that 1 had 
made a little bargain with a peddler the day 
before, and that we wished to settle with 
him. 
“Got cheated, I warrant,” said the blufl 
old landlord; “but no such man came to 
this house yesterday. I do recollect now 
that Joe, my ostler, said he saw a fellow 
with a big black box or bundle come up the 
bank from the creek just after the stage 
passed; but 1 didn’t pay any attention to 
him.” 
My father gave up all hope at once; but i 
could not believe my fortune was gone. He 
tried to comfort me, saying I was just as 
well off ns before, and bad a new dress into 
the bargain. How 1 hated the thought ol 
my beautiful merino 1 
Well, it is of no use to prolong my story, 
or tell you of all the efforts made to catch 
the adroit thief. He was no peddler, but a 
clerk in that very law office from which the 
letter was sent telling Us of the diamonds, 
lie managed to delay the letter to my father 
for a post or two; hastened away himself, 
and obtained my pin. 
We never found him; we never heard of 
him. He must have got off somewhere over 
the sea with his prize. My poor, toiling 
father, always gentle, did not reproach me; 
but ever to this day the regret lies heavily 
on my mind; for what might I not have 
done for him and the dear children with all 
that money ? 
And the lady who had given me the pin 
did not know until she was dying the value 
it was of; and that Caused the stir. Ah me! 
it was one of those chances in life that per¬ 
haps we all miss on occasion; “the tide in 
the affairs of men that taken at the flood 
leads on to fortune.” And about my crim¬ 
son dress ? For a long while, shabby though 
I was, 1 could not look at it or let it be made 
up. But time soothes troubles. And I 
must say that it made a charming gown ; 
and one who was an artist saw me in it and 
made mo his wife. So perhaps it all hap* 
pened for the best. 
But, I’m sure I hope that wicked peddler 
—who made believe to speak like a foreigner 
the better to take me in—came to be hanged 1 
-♦♦♦- 
Curiosity is a thing that makes us look 
over other people’s affairs, uud overlook our 
own. Xenocrates, reprehending curiosity, 
said it is as rude to intrude into another 
man’s house with your eyes as with your 
