Lucy Maud Montgomery - "Kilmeny of the Orchard"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Life of John of Barneveld, 1613 15"

Bertrand Russell - "The Problems of Philosophy"

John Hay - "Pike County Ballads and Other Poems"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Old Homestead

A >> Ann S. Stephens >> The Old Homestead



Produced by Wendy Crockett, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team




THE OLD HOMESTEAD

A STORY OF NEW ENGLAND FARM LIFE.

BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

AUTHOR OF "FASHION AND FAMINE," "THE REIGNING BELLE," "THE GOLD
BRICK," "MABEL'S MISTAKE," "THE WIFE'S SECRET," "BELLEHOOD AND
BONDAGE," "LORD HOPE'S CHOICE," "BERTHA'S ENGAGEMENT," "THE CURSE
OF GOLD," "NORSTON'S REST," "A NOBLE WOMAN," "THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS,"
"THE HEIRESS," "MARRIED IN HASTE," "PALACES AND PRISONS," "DOUBLY
FALSE," "MARY DERWENT," "THE REJECTED WIFE," "RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY,"
"THE OLD COUNTESS," "SILENT STRUGGLES," "WIVES AND WIDOWS," ETC.

"THE OLD HOMESTEAD" is a superb story of quaint New England farm life
in the vein now so popular both in fiction and on the stage. With
an absorbing plot, effective incidents and characters entirely true
to nature, it holds attention as very few stories do. It possesses
all that powerful attraction which clings to a romance of home, the
family fireside and the people who gather about it. Simplicity and
strength are happily combined in its pages, and no one can begin it
without desiring to read it through. All the works of Mrs. Ann S.
Stephens are books that everybody should read, for in point of real
merit, wonderful ingenuity and absorbing interest they loom far above
the majority of the books of the day. She has a thorough knowledge
of human nature, and so vividly drawn and natural are her characters
that they seem instinct with life. Her plots are models of
construction, and she excels in depicting young lovers, their trials,
troubles, sorrows and joys, while her love scenes fascinate the young
as well as the old. In short, Mrs. Stephens' novels richly merit both
their vast renown and immense popularity, and they should find a place
in every house and in every library.




CHAPTER I.

THE FATHER'S RETURN.


She kneels beside the pauper bed,
As seraphs bow while they adore!
Advance with still and reverent tread,
For angels have gone in before!

"I wonder, oh, I wonder if he will come?"

The voice which uttered these words was so anxious, so pathetic with
deep feeling, that you would have loved the poor child, whose heart
gave them forth, plain and miserable as she was. Yet a more helpless
creature, or a more desolate home could not well be imagined. She
was very small, even for her age. Her little sharp features had no
freshness in them; her lips were thin; her eyes not only heavy, but
full of dull anguish, which gave you an idea of settled pain, both
of soul and body, for no mere physical suffering ever gave that depth
of expression to the eyes of a child.

But all was of a piece, the garret, and the child that inhabited it.
The attic, which was more especially her home, was crowded under the
low roof of a tenant house, which sloped down so far in front, that
even the child could not stand upright under it, except where it was
perforated with a small attic window, which overlooked the chimneys
and gables of other tenement buildings, hived full of poverty, and
swarming with the dregs of city life.

This was the prospect on one side. On the other a door with one hinge
broken, led into a low open garret, where smoke-dried rafters slanted
grimly over head, like the ribs of some mammoth skeleton, and loose
boards, whose nails had rusted out, creaked and groaned under foot.
They made audible sounds even beneath the shadowy tread of the little
girl, as she glided toward the top of a stair-case unrailed and out
in the floor like the mouth of a well. Here she sat down, supporting
her head with one hand, in an attitude of touching despondency.

"I wonder oh, I wonder, if he will come!" she repeated, looking
mournfully downward.

It was a dreary view, those flights of broken stairs, slippery and
sodden with the water daily carried over them. They led by other
tenement rooms, which sent forth a confusion of mingled voices, but
opened with a glimpse of pure light upon the street below.

But for this gleam of light, breaking as it were, like a smile through
the repulsive vista, Mary Fuller might have given up in absolute
despair, for she was an imaginative child, and glimpses of light like
that came like an inspiration to her.

After all, what was it that kept the child chained for an hour to
one spot, gazing so earnestly down toward the opening? Did she expect
any one?

No, it could not be called expectation, but something more beautiful
still--FAITH.

Most persons would call it presentiment; but presentiment is not the
growth of prayer, or the conviction which follows that earnest
pleading when the soul is crying for help.

"Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for
of such is the kingdom of heaven."

Again and again Mary Fuller had read these words, and always to creep
upon her knees and ask God to let her come, for she was scarcely more
than a little child.

But even upon her knees the trouble of her soul grew strong. She felt
as if the air around whispered--

"But you are not a little child--they have no sins of disobedience
to confess--no vengeful thoughts or unkind words to atone for as you
have."

And all the evil that had yet taken growth in a soul planted among
evil arose before the child, to startle her from claiming the
privilege of her childhood.

But though she did not know it, those very feelings were an answer
to the unrevealed want that had become clamorous in her soul; it was
the promise of a bright revelation yet to come; her heart was being
unfolded to the sunshine, leaf by leaf, and God's angels might have
smiled benignly as they watched the development of good in that little
soul, amid the depressing atmosphere that surrounded it.

From the day that her poor father left home and went up to the
hospital a pauper to die there, these feelings had grown stronger
and stronger within the bosom of the child. His words, unheeded at
the time, came back to her with power. The passages read over so often
to a careless ear from his Bible, seemed to have taken music in their
remembrance, that haunted her all the time.

She did not know it, but the atmosphere of prayers, unheard save in
heaven, was around her. From its pauper bed at Bellevue a strong
earnest soul was pleading for that child, and thus God sent his angel
down to trouble the waters of life within her.

As we grow good, a sense of the beautiful always awakens within us;
and this became manifest in Mary Fuller. For the first time the
squalid misery of her home became a subject of self-reproach, and
with a thoughtful cloud upon her brow, she set herself patiently to
work drawing out all the scant elements of comfort that the place
afforded. Out of this grew a longing for the presence of her father,
that he too might enjoy the benefit of her exertion.

Never in her life had she so yearned for a sight of that pale face.
It seemed as if the trouble and darkness in her soul must turn to
light when he came. With this intense desire arose a thought that
he might return home without warning. The thought grew into hope,
and at last strengthened into faith.

Mary Fuller not only believed that her father would come, but she
felt sure he would be with her that very night. Thus she sat upon
the stairs waiting.

But time wore on, and anxiety made the child restless. She began to
doubt--to wonder how she could have expected her father without one
word or promise to warrant the hope. That which had been faith an
hour before, grew into a sharp anxiety. She folded her arms upon her
knees, and burying her face upon them, began to cry.

At last she arose with her eyes full of tears, and walked sadly into
the attic room where she sat down looking with sorrow on all the
little preparations that she had made. She crept to the window, and
clinging with both hands to the sill, lifted herself up to see, by
the shadows that lay among the chimneys, and the slanting gold of
the sunshine which, thank God, warms the tenement house and the palace
towers alike, how fast the hours wore on.

"Oh, the sun is up yet, and the long chimney's shadow is only half
way to the eves," she exclaimed, hopefully, dropping down from the
window, while a flush, as of joyful tears, stole around her eyes.

"Is there anything else I can do?" and she looked eagerly around the
room.

It had been neatly swept. A fire burned in the little coffee-pot stove
that occupied one corner, and the hum of boiling water stole out from
a tea-kettle that stood upon it.

"Everything nice and warm as toast--won't he like it--clean sheets
upon the bed, and--and--oh, I forgot--it always lay back of his
pillow--he mustn't miss it"; and opening a worn Bible that had seen
better days, she found a passage that cheered her heart like a
prophecy, and read it with solemn attention as she walked slowly
across the room.

She placed the Bible reverently beneath the single pillow arranged
so neatly on the bed, and turned away murmuring--

"At any rate, I will have everything ready."

She opened the drawer of a pine table and looked in. Everything was
in order there, and the table itself; she employed another minute
in giving its spotless surface an extra polish; then arranged a
fragment of carpet before the bed, and sat down to wait again.

It would not do; her poor little heart was getting restless with
impatience. She went into the open garret closing the door after her,
that no heat might escape, and sat down on the upper flight of stairs
again. How she longed to run down--to hang about the door-step, and
even go as far as the corner to meet him! But this would be
disobedience. How often had he told her never to loiter in the street
or about the door? So she sat, stooping downward, and looking through
the gleams of light that came through the open hall over flights of
steps below, thrilled from head to foot with loving expectation. Half
an hour--an hour--and there poor Mary Fuller sat, her heart sinking
lower and lower with each moment. At last she arose, went back to
her room with a dejected air, and sat down by the stove weary with
disappointment.

An old house cat that lay by the stove looked at her gravely, closed
her eyes an instant as if for reflection, and leaped into her lap.
Anything--the fall of a straw would have set Mary Fuller to crying
then, and she burst into a passion of tears, rocking herself back
and forth and moaning out--

"He will not come--it is almost dark now--he will not come. Oh, dear,
how can I wait--how can I wait!"

As she moaned thus, the cat leaped from her lap and walked into the
garret, stood a moment at the head of the stairs, and came back again
looking at his little mistress wistfully through the door.

Mary started up. Surely, that was his step! No! there was no firmness
in it. Whoever mounted those stairs, moved with a staggering, unsteady
walk, like that of a drunken person.

Mary turned very pale and hardly breathed.

"Oh, if it should be mother," she thought, casting a startled look
back into the little room, "staggering, too!" and trembling with
affright, she stole softly to the top of the stairs and looked down.

A gush of welcome broke from her lips. She held out her arms,
descending rapidly to meet him.

"Father! oh, my blessed, blessed father!"

They came up slowly, the deathly pale man leaning partly on his stick,
partly on the shoulder of the child, whose frame shivered with joy
beneath his pressure, and whose eyes, beaming with affection, were
uplifted to his.

"Not here, don't sit down here," she cried, resisting his impulse
to rest at the head of the stairs. "I have got a fire--the room is
warm--just five steps more--don't stop till then!"

He moved on, attempting to smile, though his lips were blue and his
emaciated limbs shivered painfully.

"There, sit down, father: I borrowed this rocking-chair of Mrs. Ford;
isn't it nice? Let me put the pillow behind your head. Are you very
sick, father?"

His lips quivered out, "Yes, very!"

She stooped down and kissed his forehead, then knelt by his side and
kissed his hands, also, with such reverential affection.

"Oh, father, father, how sorry I am; you will stay with us--you will
stay at home now--they have let you grow worse at the hospital; but
I--your own little girl--see if I don't make you well. You will not
go to Bellevue again, father."

"No, I shall never go back again; the doctors can do nothing for me,
but I could not die without seeing you again--that wish was stronger
than death."

"Oh, father, don't."

The sick man looked down upon her with his glittering eyes, and a
pathetic smile stole over his lips. An ague chill seized upon him,
and ran in a shiver through his limbs; but it had no power to quench
that smile of ineffable affection--that solemn, sweet smile, that
said more softly than words--

"Yes, my child, your father must die here in his poverty-stricken
home."

"No, no!" cried Mary, in fond affright; for the look affected her
more than his words; "it is only the cold, your clothes are so thin,
dear father--it is only the cold; a good warm cup of tea will drive
it off. Here is the kettle, boiling hot; besides, you are hungry--ah,
I thought of that; here are crackers and a dear little sponge-cake,
and such nice bread and butter; of course, it's only the cold and
the hunger. I always feel as if I should die the next minute, when
we've gone without anything to eat a day or two; nothing is so
discouraging as that."

She ran on thus, striving to cheat her own aching heart, while she
cheered the sick man. As if activity would drive away her fear, she
bustled about, put her tea to drawing by the stove, spread the little
table, and pulled it close to her father, and strove, by a thousand
sweet caressing ways, to entice him into an appetite. The sick man
only glanced at the food with a weary smile; but seizing upon the
warm cup of tea, drank it off eagerly, asking for more.

This was some consolation to the little nurse; and she stood by,
watching him wistfully through her tears, as he drained the second
cup. It checked the shivering fit somewhat, and he sat upwright a
moment, casting his bright eyes around the room.

"Isn't it nice and warm?" said Mary, as he leaned back.

The sick man murmured softly--

"Yes, child, it feels like home. God bless you. But your mother--did
she help to do this?"

Mary's countenance fell. She shrunk away from the glance of those
bright, questioning eyes.

"Mother has not been home in five or six days," she said, gently.

The sick man turned his head and closed his eyes. Directly, Mary saw
two great tears press through the quivering lashes, followed by a
faint gasping for breath.

"I have prayed--I have so hoped to see her before"--

He broke off; and Mary could see, by the glow upon his face, that
he was praying then.

She knelt down, reverently, and leaned her forehead upon the arm of
his chair.

After a little, Fuller opened his eyes, and lifting one pale hand
from his knee, laid it on his child's shoulder.

"Mary!"

She looked up and smiled. There was something so loving and holy in
his face, that the child could not help smiling, even through her
tears.

"Mary, listen to me while I can speak, for in a little while I shall
be gone."

"Not to the hospital again--oh, not there!"

"No, Mary, not there; but look up--be strong, my child, you know what
death is!"

"Oh, yes," whispered the child with a shudder.

"Hush, Mary, hush--don't shake so--I must die, very, very soon, I
feel," he added, looking at his fingers and dropping them gently back
to her shoulder; "I feel now that it is very nigh, this death which
makes you tremble so."

Mary broke forth into a low, wailing sob.

"Hush! stop crying, Mary; look up!"

Mary lifted her eyes, filled with touching awe, and choked back the
agony of her grief.

"Father, I listen."

Oh, the holy love with which those eyes looked down into hers!

"Have you read the Bible that I left behind for you?"

"Yes, father; oh, yes, morning and night."

"Then, you know that the good meet again, after death?"

"But I--I am not good. Oh, father, father, I cannot make myself good
enough to see you again; you will go, and I shall be left behind--I
and mother!--I and mother!"

"Have you been patient with your mother--respectful to her?" he asked,
sadly.

"There--there it is. I have tried and tried, but when she strikes
me, or brings those people here, or comes home with that horrible
bottle under her shawl, I cannot be respectful--I get angry and long
to hide away when she comes up stairs."

"Hush, my child, hush; these are wicked words!"

"I know it, father; it seems to me as if no one ever was so
wicked--try ever so much, I cannot be good. I thought when you came"--

"Well, my child."

"I thought that you would tell me how, and you talk of--. Don't,
father, don't; I want you so much."

"It is God who takes me," said Fuller, gently; "He will teach you
how to be good."

"Oh, but it takes so long; I have asked and asked so often."

Again that beautiful smile beamed over the dying man's face.

"He will hear you--He has heard you--I felt that you had need of me,
and came; see how God has answered your want in this, my child!"

"But I can do nothing alone; when you are with me, I feel strong;
but if you leave me, what can I do?"

"Pray without ceasing; and in everything give thanks," said that faint
gentle voice once more.

"But I have prayed till my heart seemed full of tears."

"They were sweet tears, Mary."

"No, no; my heart grew heavy with them; and--mother, how could I give
thanks when she came home so--!"

"Hush, hush, Mary--it is your mother!"

"But I can't give thanks for that, when I remember how she let you
suffer--how miserable everything was--how she left you to starve,
day by day, spending all the money you had laid up in drink!"

"Oh, my child, my child!" cried the dying man, sweeping the tears
from his eyes with one pale hand, and dropping it heavily on her
shoulder.

She cowered beneath the pressure.

"It is wrong--I know it," she said, clasping her hands and dropping
them heavily before her, as if weighed down by a sense of her utter
unworthiness. "But oh, father, what shall I do! what _shall_ I do!"

"Honor your mother!"

"How can I honor her, when she degrades and abuses us all!"

"God does not make you the judge of your parents, but commands you
unconditionally to honor them."

Mary dropped her eyes and stooped more humble downward. She saw now
why the darkness had hung so long over her prayers. Filled with
unforgiving bitterness against her mother she had asked God to forgive
her, scarcely deeming her fault one to be repented of. A brief
struggle against the memory of bitter ill-usage and fierce wrong
inflicted by her mother, and Mary drew a deep free breath. Her eyes
filled, and meekly folding her hands she held them toward her father.

"What shall I do, father?"

He drew her toward him, and a look of holy faith lay upon his face.

"Listen to me, Mary; God may yet help you to save this woman, your
mother and my wife; for next to God I always loved her."

"But what can I do? She hates me because I am so small and ugly. She
will never let me love her, and without that what can a poor little
thing like me do?"

"My child, there is no human being so weak or so humble that it is
incapable of doing good, of being happy, and of making others happy
also. The power of doing good does not rest so much in what we
possess, as in what we are. Gentle words, kind acts are more precious
than gold. These are the wealth of the poor; more precious than
worldly wealth, because it is never exhausted. The more you give,
the more you possess."

A strange beautiful light came into Mary's eyes, as she listened.

"Go on, father, say more."

She drew a deep breath.

"Then the good are never poor!"

"Never, my child."

"And never unhappy?"

"Never utterly miserable, as the wicked are--never without hope."

"Oh, father, tell me more; ask God to help me--He will listen to you."

He laid his pale hands upon her head, and as a flower folds itself
beneath the night shadow, Mary sunk to her knees. She clasped her
little hands, and dropping them upon her father's knee, buried her
face there; then the lips of that dying man parted, and the last
pulses of his life glowed out in a prayer so fervent, so powerful
in its faith, that the very angels of heaven must have veiled their
faces as they listened to that blending of eternal faith and human
sorrow.

Mary listened at first tremblingly, and with strange awe; then the
burning words began to thrill her, heart and limb, and yielding to
the might of a spirit which his prayer had drawn down from heaven.
She also broke forth with a cry of the same holy anguish; and the
voice of father and child rose and swelled together up to the throne
of God.

As he prayed, the face of the sick man grew sublime in its paleness,
and the death sweat rolled over it like rain, while that of the child
grew strangely luminous. Gradually mouth, eyes and forehead kindled
with glorious joy, and instead of that heart-rending petition that
broke from her at first, her voice mellowed into soft throes and
murmurs of praise.

The sick man hushed his soul and listened; his exhausted voice broke
into sighs, and thus, after a little time, they both sunk into
silence--the child filled with strange ecstasy--the father bowing
with calm joy beneath the hand of death.

"Let me lie down. I am very, very weak," he said, attempting to rise.

Mary stood up and helped him. She had grown marvellously strong within
the last hour, and her soul, better than that slight form, supported
the dying man.

He lay down. She placed the pillow under his head and knelt again.
It seemed as if her heart could give forth its silent gratitude to
God best in that position.

He laid his hand upon her head. It was growing cold.

"And you are willing now that I should die?"

"Yes, my father, only---," and here a human throb broke in her voice,
"if I could but go with you!"

"No, my child, it is but a little time, at most. For _her_ sake be
content to wait."

"Father, I am content."

"And happy?"

"Very, very happy, father!"

The dying man closed his eyes, and a faint murmur rose to his lips.

"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes
have seen thy salvation."

His hand was still upon her head, and there it rested till the purple
shadows died off into cold grey tints, and upon his still face there
rose a smile pure as moonlight, luminous as waters that gush from
the throne of heaven.

The same holy spirit must have touched the living and the dead, for
when the little girl lifted her face, the pale, pinched features were
radiant as those of an angel. She had gone close to the gate of heaven
with her father, soul and body. She was bathed in the holy light that
had gushed through the portals.




CHAPTER II.

THE MAYOR AND THE POLICEMAN.


When the strong man turns, with a haughty lip,
On poverty, stern and grim,
When he seizes the fiend with a ruthless grip,
Ye need not fear for him.
But when poverty comes to a little child,
Freezing its bloom away--
When its cheeks are thin and its eyes are wild,
Give pity its gentle sway.

It was a bitter cold night--a myriad of stars hung in the sky, clear
and glittering, as if burnished by the frost. The moon sent down a
pale, freezing brilliancy that whitened all the ground, as if a
sprinkling of snow had fallen, but there was not a flake on the earth
or in the air. Little wind was abroad, but that little pierced through
mufflers and overcoats, like a swarm of invisible needles, sharp and
stinging. It was rather late in the evening, and in such weather few
persons were tempted abroad. Those who had comfortable hearths
remained at home, and even the street beggars crept within their
alleys and cellars; many of them driven to seek shelter in their
rags, without hope of fire or food.

But there was one man in New York city, who could neither seek rest
nor shelter till a given time, however inclement the weather might
be. With a thick pilot cloth overcoat buttoned to the chin, and his
glittering police star catching the moonbeams as they fell upon his
breast, he strode to and fro on his beat, occasionally pausing, with
his eyes lifted towards the stars, to ponder over some thought in
his mind, but speedily urged to motion again by the sharp tingling
of his feet and hands.

A feeling and thoughtful man was this policeman; he possessed much
originality of mind, which had received no small share of cultivation.
He had been connected with a mercantile house till symptoms of a
pulmonary disease drove him from his desk; then, by the kind aid of
a politician, who had not entirely lost all human feelings in the
council chamber, he was enrolled in the city police. To a mind less
nobly constructed, this minor position might have been a cause of
depression and annoyance, but John Chester, though not yet thirty-two,
had learned to think for himself. He felt that no occupation could
degrade an honorable man, and that gentlemanly habits, integrity and
intelligence were certain to shine out with greater lustre when found
in the humbler spheres of life.