Thankful Rest written by Annie S. Swan

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By-and-by, old white-haired Dr. Goldthwaite came in with Carrie on
his arm, and they took their places silently; and in a very few
minutes Frank had uttered the irrevocable words, and the wedding was
over. Then Mr. and Mrs. George Keane received abundant
congratulations, and they adjourned to partake of breakfast. In the
hall stood a quantity of baggage labelled "Mrs. Keane," which seemed
very formidable, but was not much after all, considering the
travellers were going to Europe. Yes; the young pair were to have a
six months' tour before settling down at Pendlepoint, and some felt
as if Carrie were going away for ever. She looked very grave and sad;
and when she came down ready to go, broke down utterly bidding her
mother good-bye.

"Now then, this will never do," said Judge Keane, with that comical
smile of his. "George, get your wife into the carriage, or we shall
have her rueing she ever promised to follow you."

Carrie smiled through her tears, and shook her finger at the judge.
Then, as she turned to go, a light touch fell upon her arm, and a low
voice whispered tremulously,--

"May God bless you all your life, Mrs. Keane."

It was Lucy, her great eyes shining with unspeakable love and
tenderness.

"Never Mrs. Keane to you, Lucy, my pet," she whispered back. "Carrie
always, and always. Write to me."

Then she was hurried out to the carriage, forgetting in the
excitement of the moment that she possessed no address to give. The
door closed upon them, the coachman sprang to the box, and the next
moment they were gone. They had embarked together on the sea of life,
and the voyage bade fair to be a happy and prosperous one.

"I don't like weddings," said Judge Keane discontentedly. "They are
miserable, heart-breaking things at the best."

"Time was when you did not think so, judge," said the doctor, with a
twinkle in his eye.--"Eh, little one?"

It was Lucy whom the doctor addressed, and she answered timidly, "It
is very sad to give away those we love, as you have done to-day,
sir."

"Wait till somebody wants to take you away, my lady," laughed the
judge. "There'll be an earthquake at Thankful Rest."

"I never heard any one speak as you do, Judge Keane," said Lucy, with
a dignity which dumfoundered Tom; and she moved away and sat down by
Mrs. Goldthwaite, and began to talk to her about Carrie.

"What makes you look so sober, Tom Hurst?" queried Minnie Keane's
voice at his elbow a few minutes later.

"Shall I tell you, Minnie?"

"You must," was the calm reply.

"It seems to me, then," he said very slowly, "that Lucy is growing
up, and I don't like it. Do you?"

"I don't mind. Everybody grows up and marries, and goes to Europe,
and dies after a bit; that's about what life amounts to--not much, is
it?"

Tom laughed, he couldn't help it; but after a bit he answered
gravely, "I am afraid to grow up myself, Minnie."

"Why?"

"Because a man has so much responsibility, so much to do for God: I
don't think it will be very easy."

"Oh, I do!" answered Minnie. "Just do all you can, with all your
might; that's what mamma says, and it's the easiest way."

"So it is," said Tom. "I shan't forget that, Minnie."

And neither he did.

XVI.

FIVE YEARS AFTER.

Again it was sweet spring-time at Thankful Rest. The garden was gay
with tender leaves and blossoms, and the orchard white with bloom.
There the birds made sweet melody as of yore; and, as of yore, the
sunny river brawled and whispered and played as it hurried through
the meadow to the sea.

At five o'clock in the afternoon Aunt Hepsy was in the kitchen, busy
as usual; her hands knew no idleness. Two teacups and a plate of cake
stood on the table, the remnants of the early tea she and Lucy had
taken a little while before. Presently a light step sounded in the
lobby, and Lucy came in dressed for walking. Five years make a great
change; for she had grown from a slight, diminutive girl, to a tall,
lithe, graceful young lady, just on the verge of womanhood.

"Ye look like a picter, by all the world," said Aunt Hepsy, pausing
to admire her; and Lucy's answer was a silvery laugh, so full of
perfect happiness and content, that a silent bird on the window ledge
caught the infection and burst into song.

"I'm going to the post-office to see if there's a letter from Tom,
Aunt Hepsy," she said; "and then to Dovecot, to see Mrs. George
Keane. I'll be back sure before dark."

"Ye'd better," said Aunt Hepsy, with something of her ancient
grimness. "The house ain't worth livin' in when ye're out."

Lucy came close to Aunt Hepsy, and laying her gloved hands on her
shoulders, bent tender, beaming eyes on her face. "It makes me so
thankful, auntie, to think you miss me, and are glad when I come
back. I don't suppose there's a happier girl anywhere than I am."

"Nor a happier pair than ye make yer uncle an' me," said Aunt Hepsy
softly. "Off ye go, ye waste my time like anything; time was when I'd
make ye fly round considerable if ye'd ventured."

Lucy laughed, and went her way, turning aside as she went through the
paddock for a pleasant word with Uncle Josh ploughing in the low
meadow. He stopped his team to watch the pretty girlish figure out of
sight. Crossing the bridge she met Ebenezer going with a letter to
Thankful Rest. It was for her, and in Tom's handwriting. There was no
need for her to go down to the town, and she turned in the direction
of the Dovecot, which was the name of the pretty home occupied by
George Keane and his wife. It was midway between the Red House and
the parsonage, and fifteen minutes' leisurely walking brought her to
it. Miss Goldthwaite had been married four years past, and had one
little son, the joy and torment of her life. He was in bed, however,
when Lucy called, so there was a chance of a moment's quiet talk.

"I have had a letter from Tom to-night, Carrie," she said when the
first greetings were over. "His picture has sold for five hundred
dollars."

"O Lucy, I am so glad. Such a success for a young artist! How proud
Robert will be of his pupil."

Lucy's eyes beamed her pride, though she said very little.

"Frank is here," said Mrs. Keane after a moment. "He is out somewhere
with George; let us find them, and communicate the good news. What
will Aunt Hepsy say?"

They rose and went out into the sweet spring twilight and found Mr.
Goldthwaite and Mr. George Keane in the garden at the back. There
were warm congratulations from both, and an hour slipped away in
discussing the artist, his work and prospects, till Lucy remembered
her promise to Aunt Hepsy, and said that she must be going. Mr.
Goldthwaite would return too, he said, as it was growing late. His
sister fancied Lucy's company was an inducement to him to leave so
early, but she discreetly held her peace.

It was almost dark, though the lamp was not lit at Thankful Rest,
when Lucy reached home.

"You've kept your time," said Aunt Hepsy well pleased. "Did ye come
home alone?"

"No, Aunt Hepsy," answered Lucy very low, and the semi-darkness hid
her face. "Mr. Goldthwaite was at Dovecot, and walked home with me."

"Mrs. Keane's folks all well?" asked Aunt Hepsy, suspecting nothing.

"Yes; and O Aunt Hepsy, I have a letter from Tom: his picture in the
exhibition has sold for five hundred dollars."

Aunt Hepsy uplifted her hands in mute amazement.

"Marcy on us," she exclaimed at last. "What a power o' money for a
picter! Is't true, Lucy?"

"Yes, quite true; and he has got such praise for it," said Lucy
joyfully. "Aren't you proud of him, Aunt Hepsy?"

"I guess I am," said Aunt Hepsy. "Five hundred dollars! Dear, dear!
What will Josh say to this? Does he say anything about coming home
soon?"

"I'll read you the letter when the lamp's lighted, auntie," said
Lucy.

"Well, light it, there's a good child; it's 'most time anyway. I've
been idle a good half-hour."

But Lucy did not seem in any hurry. She hovered about in an odd,
restless kind of way, and finally came behind Aunt Hepsy's chair, and
folded her hands on her shoulder.

"What is it, child?" said Aunt Hepsy wonderingly. "Summat you have to
tell me, I reckon. Anything in Tom's letter ye haven't told me?"

"No, Aunt Hepsy," and Lucy's voice fell very low now. "I want to tell
you--I have promised to be Mr. Goldthwaite's wife."

"Bless me, Lucy, 'tain't true?" cried Aunt Hepsy, starting up; and
seeing in Lucy's downcast face confirmation of her words, she sank
back to her chair, and for the first and only time in her life Aunt
Hepsy went off into hysterics.

In the tender gloaming of an August evening Tom and Lucy Hurst stood
together within the porch at Thankful Rest. They had been at
Pendlepoint visiting old friends, and, after walking slowly home,
lingered here talking of old times, and loath to leave the soft
beauty of the summer night. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow
was Tom Hurst now, towering a head above his sister, who stood very
close to him, her head leaning against his shoulder.

"Do you remember what a pair of miserable little creatures stood just
here five years ago, Lucy?" he said half laughingly, half earnestly.

"Yes," said Lucy softly. "What a difference between then and now."

There was a moment's silence. Tom's eyes watched the stars peeping
out one by one in the opal sky, his heart full of the happiness of
the present and all the hope and promise of the future.

Presently Aunt Hepsy, ever watchful for Lucy now, called to them to
come in, for the dews were falling.

"Tom, has not God cast our lines in pleasant places, and given us a
goodly heritage?" said Lucy softly as they turned to obey the
summons.

"Ay," answered Tom, his voice softening also. "May He help us to be
truly grateful for His goodness all our lives, Lucy."

THE END.

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