I had made my confession, for a confession I had felt it was, involving for my own share no small amount of carelessness, and some little pride and self-will; all of which “little foxes” had opened the way to the commission of actual crime in another.

It was the day after that on which my uncle and aunt had arrived at the Point, mild, soft, and sunny; only the September haze upon sea and sky to tell that the lingering summer was near its end.

We sat upon the piazza, these two dear newcomers, my sister Milly, and I. Father off upon some business; mother in the house attending to Norman, who had come home with a sprained wrist; the children at play upon the beach with Mammy, and their faithful pages, Bill and Jim, in attendance. I had stipulated, with a fanciful idea that I was making some righteous atonement, that I should be the one to relate the sad story of my diamond earrings; and hence no one had until now mentioned the subject in the hearing of my uncle and aunt.

The opportunity was propitious, the audience lenient and sympathetic; and seated on the piazza-step, with my head resting against aunt Emily’s knee, and, as the tale proceeded, her dear hand tenderly stroking my hair and cheek, I had told the story to its minutest particular, taking, as the sober sight of after days has shown me, more than the necessary amount of blame upon myself.

So my uncle and aunt now said; and, while inexpressibly shocked at such heartless wickedness in one so young as the guilty girl, they would not allow that their “own Amy” was at all blameworthy in the matter, and only congratulated themselves and me upon the recovery of the earrings. My name, and the likeness I bore to the Amy Rutherford in heaven, would have pleaded for and won me absolution in a far worse case than this; and they at once set themselves to work to demolish my almost morbid fancies in connection with the theft of the jewels. The very fact that I had now told them all was a relief, and my elastic spirits at once began to rise from the weight which had burdened them during the last few weeks.

“So that is the hero of your tale?” said uncle Rutherford, looking thoughtfully down upon the beach where the little ones were enjoying themselves to the utmost, and having matters all their own way, as usual. Jim was lying prone upon the beach, while Allie and Daisy were industriously covering him with sand; Bill assisting by filling their pails for them. This was a daily amusement, and never palled.

“So that is your hero?” he repeated. “And what do you mean to do with him, Milly?” he asked, turning to my sister. “Such a fellow should have a chance in life.”

“He thinks he has it since he has been here,” answered Milly; “since he has been among respectable people and surroundings, provided and cared for, and taught. He and Bill both talk as if they needed no greater advantages than those they possess already. As to what I mean to do with him, dear uncle, well, it is less what I mean to do with him, than what he means to do with himself. His own ambitions are soaring, and quite beyond any plans that I could form for him; his aim being the head of the government of our country, with the powers of an autocrat, and no responsibility to any one. Nor is his mind disturbed with any doubts that he will be able to achieve this dignity, provided that he continues to ‘have his chance.’ At present he is content with learning his duties as a house and table servant, believing those to be but stepping-stones towards his goal.”

“To say nothing of his ambitious views regarding Milly herself,” I interrupted. But my remark was ignored as unworthy of the gravity of the subject.

“But he should have some schooling, a boy such as he is, do not you think so?” asked uncle Rutherford; adding, “Whatever his aims and ambitions may be, he can achieve nothing without some education.”

Milly hesitated for a moment, unwilling to make mention of all that she was doing for Jim and his confrere; and I spoke for her.

“Milly is spending a goodly portion of her worldly substance in that way,” I said. “The boys go to a teacher for two hours every evening, and are both making quite remarkable progress in the three R’s; and Bill had singing-lessons all last winter, and I believe Milly intends that he shall continue them when we go back to the city.”

“H’m’m,” said uncle Rutherford. “Very good, so far as it goes; but I mean something more thorough and far-reaching than this.” And Milly’s eyes lighted, for she knew that uncle was already planning some means of substantial advancement for her protege.

“If you are going to give him any further ‘chance,’” I said, “Columbia itself will not bound his ambition. He, too, will sigh because there is but one world for him to conquer.”

“H’m’m,” said uncle Rutherford again, with his eyes still fixed thoughtfully upon the incipient candidate for presidential honors, who, having shaken himself free from the sand, and risen to his feet, was now tumbling rapidly over in a series of “cart-wheels;” another performance in which the souls of our children delighted, and in which he was an expert. But he uncle Rutherford said nothing more at present; and we were all left in ignorance as to what benevolent plan tending Jim-wise he might be pondering.

For a man otherwise so charming and considerate, uncle Rutherford had the most exasperating way of exciting one’s curiosity and interest to the verge of distraction, and then calmly ignoring them.

But now I suddenly bethought myself of Jim’s “peanut plan,” which, truth to tell, had passed entirely from my mind since the day I had first heard of it; and, with an eye to further prepossessing uncle Rutherford in the boy’s favor, I forthwith unfolded his scheme for the benefit of the helpless young Blairs. My uncle was amused, but, as I could see, was pleased, too, with Jim’s gratitude and appreciation of the good which had fallen to his own lot.

“Amy,” said uncle Rutherford presently, apropos of some further allusion which was made to my tale, and to Captain Yorke’s share in it, “Amy, I am going to invite Captain and Mrs. Yorke to visit New York this winter, and,” with a twinkle in his eye, “shall depend upon you and Milly to escort them hither and thither to see the city lions.”

“Invite them to your house?” I inquired, in not altogether approving surprise, for the idea of Captain and Mrs. Yorke as visitors in uncle Rutherford’s house was somewhat incongruous; while the vision of Milly and myself escorting them about was not attractive in my eyes, fond though I was, in a certain way, of the old man and his dear motherly wife.

“Not to my own house, no,” answered uncle Rutherford, with an assumption of gravity which by no means imposed upon me, “for I do not expect to have any house of my own this coming winter, or, I should say, not to occupy my own house; for, Amy, as my boys will pass the winter abroad, and your aunt and I would feel lonely without them, we have been persuaded by some kind friends, with a whole houseful of troublesome young people, to make our home with them, and help to keep their flock in order. So Captain Yorke and ”

But he was interrupted, as I fell upon him in an ecstasy of delight, worthy of Allie or Daisy, enchanted to learn that we were to have the inexpressible pleasure of having him and aunt Emily to spend the winter with us; a pleasure which I would willingly have earned by any amount of ciceroneship to the old sailor and his wife. The subject had not been mooted before the younger portion of the family, but had been discussed and settled in private conclave among our elders; so it was a most agreeable surprise to each one and all of us.

“But about Captain and Mrs. Yorke?” I said, at length, when my transports had somewhat subsided, and calmness was once more restored. “You do not really mean that you are going to bring them to the city, and to our house?”

And all manner of domestic and social complications presented themselves to my mind’s eye, in view of such an arrangement. For uncle Rutherford, in his far-reaching desire to benefit and make others happy, was given to ways and plans which, at times, were too much even for his ever-charitable, generous wife; and which now and then would sorely try the souls of those less interested, but who, nolens volens, became the victims of his benevolent schemes.

No one was better aware of uncle Rutherford’s proclivities in this way, or more in dread of them, than my young brother Norman, who had just joined our circle, fresh from mother’s surgery, and with his arm in a sling. For Norman’s bump of benevolence was not as large as that of some other members of the family, and he was inclined to look askance upon uncle Rutherford’s demands upon his heart and his purse. These, to tell the truth, were not infrequent; for our uncle, believing that young people should be led to the exercise of active and unselfish charity, and seeing that Norman was inclined to shirk such claims, was constantly presenting them to the boy, with a view to training him in the way he should go in such matters.

“Uncle Rutherford gives with one hand, and takes away with the other,” Norman had said, grumblingly, only this same morning, in my hearing.

“You had better say he takes with one hand, and gives seven-fold with the other,” said Douglas, resentfully; for he inherited, to the fullest extent, the family generosity. “Nor, I saw the skins of your flints hanging out to dry this morning.”

Whereupon Douglas dodged a book aimed at his head, and left his shot to work what execution it might.

Norman had caught my last words, and taken in their meaning, and his delight at the prospect of a visit from Captain Yorke was almost as great as Milly’s and mine in view of the stay of our uncle and aunt at our home; being incited, probably, by the thought of the “jolly fun” which he and Douglas could extract from the old man while piloting him about the city.

“I certainly do not intend to bring the old people to your house, Amy,” said uncle Rutherford; “but your aunt is anxious that Mrs. Yorke should see some good physician, who may be able to relieve her from her lameness before she is entirely crippled; and we shall therefore propose that they come to the city after we are fairly settled there, when we will provide comfortable quarters for them, and put Mrs. Yorke under proper treatment. There is a fitness to all things, my child; and Captain and Mrs. Yorke would probably feel as much embarrassed as your guests, as we should be in having them with us.”

“I was only thinking ” I began, then stopped.

“You were only thinking that your quixotic old uncle was about to inflict a somewhat trying experience upon you,” said uncle Rutherford, in answer to the unspoken thought. “But he has a modicum of sense left yet, Amy.”

Truth would not allow me to enter a disclaimer, for this had been my very thought. Any slight embarrassment which I might have felt, however, was relieved by a little diversion in my favor, as uncle Rutherford said,

“Here is Fred Winston coming over from the hotel.”

“Yes, he is generally coming over, and never going back,” said Norman, with what I chose to consider a saucy glance in my direction; but I ignored both speech and glance, as I welcomed the new-comer.

Now be it understood, that this young man was neither a gossip nor news-monger; but, being at present a resident of the largest hotel in the place, he was, from the force of circumstances, apt to be the hearer of various items of interest, and these, for reasons which seemed good to himself, he usually considered it necessary to bring over to the homestead as soon as possible after they came to his knowledge. Indeed, our boys basely slandered him, by crediting him with the invention of sundry small fictions as an excuse for coming over to our house. Nevertheless, he was always a welcome guest with each one and all of the family, and with none more than with these saucy boys.

“Mr. Rutherford,” he said now, when he had settled himself in such comfort as he might upon the next lowest step to that on which I was seated, and addressing himself to my uncle, who, by virtue of his interest in, and proprietorship of, a great portion of the Point, was regarded by most people as a sort of lord of the manor, “Mr. Rutherford, have you heard what has befallen Captain Yorke?”

“I have heard nothing,” answered uncle Rutherford. “No misfortune, I hope.”

Mr. Winston slightly raised his eyebrows, as he answered, laughingly, “I do not know whether he considers it in the light of a misfortune or a blessing; but I know very well how I should feel had such an affliction fallen to my lot, that it was an unmitigated calamity; while Miss Milly, again, would probably consider it as the choicest of blessings. It seems that the old man had a reprobate son, who, many years since, went off to parts unknown; and his parents have heard nothing of him since, that is, until to-day, when a woman, claiming to be his widow, appeared with five children. She had his “marriage lines,” as she called them, a letter from the prodigal himself to his father, and other papers, which appear to substantiate her claim; and the old couple have admitted it, and received the whole crowd. ’Matildy Jane’ is sceptical, derisive, and not amiable. Nor can one be surprised that she is not pleased at this addition to her household cares and labors, for I have not told the worst. The woman is apparently in the last stages of consumption; one of the children is blind; another has hip-disease; and a third looks as if it would go the way its mother is going. There is a sturdy boy of fourteen or so, the eldest of the family, and another chubby, healthy rogue, in the lot; but they really looked like a hospital turned loose. Brayton and I had gone down for bait, and were talking to the captain, when they arrived.”

“Don’t, don’t, Mr. Winston!” exclaimed Norman. “Milly will adopt the crowd, and have them here amongst us. That is her way, you know.”

“And what did the captain say?” I asked, fully agreeing with Mr. Winston, that this must be, for the old seaman, an appalling misfortune. “Imagine, if the thing is true, and these people dependent upon him, the utter up-turning of the even tenor of his way, of all their ways. I sympathize with ‘Matildy Jane.’ What did the captain say?”

“He asked me to read his son’s letter to him, for he is not apt, it would appear, in deciphering writing; and, indeed, it was more or less hieroglyphical, then gazed for a few moments at the dilapidated crew, dilapidated as to health, I mean; for they are clean and decent, and fairly respectable looking, and said, ’Well, ye do all seem to be enj’yin’ a powerful lot of poor health among ye.’ Then he turned into the house, saying that he must ‘see what mother said,’ giving neither word of welcome nor refusal to admit the claim of the strangers; and presently Mrs. Yorke appeared, in a state of overwhelming excitement, and, nothing doubting, straightway fell upon the new arrivals with an attempt to take the whole quintette into her ample embrace. No need of proofs for her; and, seeing this, the captain’s doubts were dispersed, and he began a vigorous hand-shaking with each and every one of those present, including Brayton and myself, and repeating the process, until Brayton and I, feeling ourselves to be intruders in the midst of this family scene, made good our escape. Not, however, before ‘Matildy Jane’ had appeared, with tone, look, and manner, which you who know ’Matildy Jane’ do not need to have described, denouncing the woman and children as ‘ampostors,’ and bidding them begone.”

“And you do not think that the woman is a fraud?” asked aunt Emily.

“I do not, Mrs. Rutherford; and neither did Brayton,” answered Fred Winston. “And, besides the letter and marriage certificate which were in her possession, making good her pretensions, she had an honest face, and appeared respectable, far too much so for the wife of such a scallywag as old Yorke’s son is said to have been.”

“If the Yorkes allow her claim, and take in this numerous family, it will interfere with your plans for Mrs. Yorke, uncle,” I said.

“Not at all,” said uncle Rutherford, who, when he had once made up his mind to a thing, would move heaven and earth to carry it out, and who often insisted upon benefiting people against their will. “Not at all. The new family can be left here to keep Matilda Jane company while her father and mother are away. There is all the more reason now that Mrs. Yorke should be cured of her lameness; and I believe that it can be done.”

Blessed with the most sanguine of dispositions, as well as with the kindest and most generous of hearts, he always believed, until it was proved otherwise, that the thing he wished could be done.

“Milly,” said aunt Emily, suddenly turning to my sister, “will you come down to the Yorkes’ with me?”

Milly assented readily; and the two kindred spirits set forth together.

“The blessed creatures!” said Fred Winston. “What unlimited possibilities the arrival of this infirmary opens up to them. I knew that they would be off at once to inquire into the condition of the sick and wounded.”

“And to find out how many candidates there may be for the hospital cottage and other refuges,” I added.

But the two good Samaritans, as they afterwards reported, were not so appalled by the state of things at the Yorkes’ cottage, as Mr. Winston’s tale had prepared them to be. Perhaps matters had improved since he had left two hours since, or the stricken family had at once accommodated themselves to the change in their circumstances. Certain it is that aunt Emily and Milly found peace and serenity reigning: Mrs. Yorke with the little cripple in her capacious lap, coddling and petting her as the good soul well knew how to do; the captain piloting the blind child about the house and garden, familiarizing him with different objects, by which he might learn his own way about by his acute sense of touch; the youngest a teething, not consumptive, baby fast asleep; and even the recalcitrant “Matildy Jane” tolerably pleasant and good-natured beneath the fascinations of a handsome, sturdy urchin four years old, who, undaunted by her hard face and snappish voice, insisted upon following her around, and “helping” her in her manifold occupations. He was a boy who did not know how to be snubbed, and had fairly won his way with his ungracious aunt, by sheer persistence in his unwelcome attentions. To all her hospitable intimations that he and his family had brought an immense addition to her cares and labors, which certainly was true, he opposed smiles and caresses, and assurances that so long as he was there he would share and lighten all these; appearing to think that she complained and scolded only to draw forth his sympathy and aid.

Who could stand out against such a fellow? Not even “Matildy Jane.” And she had succumbed; at least, so far as he was concerned.

The mother of the helpless group, pale, feeble, and careworn though she was, had already shown herself eager to lessen, so far as possible, the burden she had brought upon the family of her husband, and sat peeling potatoes from a huge basket on the one side, while a pan of apples, duly pared and quartered, stood awaiting the oven upon the other. Plainly Matilda Jane had had no scruples of delicacy in availing herself of the services of her newly arrived sister-in-law.

“What are you going to do with them all, Captain Yorke?” asked Milly, pityingly, as she stood beside the old sailor in the porch, while aunt Emily interviewed Mrs. Yorke and the widow. “This is such a care for you.”

“Do with ’em?” repeated the veteran, apparently quite undismayed by the prospect before him. “Waal, I reckon we’ve got to be eyes an’ backs an’ lungs to ’em, for they’ve run mighty short of them conveniences. Let alone Theodore, an’ that feller over there,” nodding towards the kitchen-door, within which Matilda Jane was to be seen mixing biscuit, with the boy beside her, his round, fat arms up to the elbows in the dough, with which he was bedaubing himself and every thing about him, unrestrained by his subdued aunt, “let alone that feller over there, there ain’t the makin’ of a hull one among ’em. I guess they’ve got to be took care of; an’, if the Almighty hadn’t a meant us to do it, he wouldn’t a sent ’em here. Them’s my opinions, an’ me an’ Mis’ Yorke we ain’t the ones to throw back his orderin’s an’ purposin’s in his face. They do seem a bit like a hospital full, though, don’t they?” he added, unconsciously expressing Mr. Winston’s view of the situation. “Me an’ Mis’ Yorke, we foun’ out the truth of the Scriptur’ sayin’, how sharper than an achin’ tooth it is to have a thankless child, an’ Tom, I don’t min’ sayin’ it to you, he was thankless enough, though he’s dead an’ gone, an’ his old father ain’t the one to cast stones at him now. But me an’ Mis’ Yorke, we don’t want to make out the truth of that other Scriptur’, that the sins of the father shall be visited on the children, leastways, not Tom’s children; they ain’t to blame for his short-comin’s; an’, meanin’ no disrespec’ nor onbelief, that Scriptur’ do always seem to me a little hard on the children. Maybe who knows them youngsters will ha’ brought a blessin’ with ’em; an’ my opinions is they has, when I see Mis’ Yorke a cuddlin’ an’ croonin’ over that little hunchback. Now she’s awful contented an’ easy-minded like to have somethin’ to pet, for she’s allers a hankerin’ after babies an’ them sort of critters. We was kinder took aback, for sartain, when Maria, her name’s Maria, Tom’s widder’s is, when she come right in with the hull crowd followin’, an’ John Waters’ wagon, what they come from the station in, standin’ at the gate, an’ all the luggage in it; an’ them gentlemen was here gettin’ bait an’ askin’ about the fishin’, an’ Matildy Jane she kinder flew out, an’ one of the little ones was hollerin’, an’ it was all kinder Bedlamy. But it’s all come right now; an’ Maria, she’s a willin’ soul, an’ if Jabez,” the old man’s son-in-law, and a power in the household, “if Jabez an’ Charlotte don’t be grumpy over it, we’ll all get along as pretty as a psalm-book. Jabez, he an’ Charlotte has gone to Millville for the day, an’ all this is unbeknownst to them.”

Clearly, the captain was somewhat in dread of Jabez and Jabez’s opinions; but Milly had no fear that the strangers would be sent adrift in deference to these.

But something must be done to help the old people with the burden which had so suddenly fallen upon them. The gray-haired seaman was comparatively vigorous still, but his sea-faring days were over; and while he had put by a sum sufficient to keep him, his good wife, and “Matildy Jane” in comfort, this unlooked for addition to the family, helpless and crippled as the grandchildren were, would be too great a drain upon his little fund. As this had been placed in father’s hands for investment, we knew to a fraction what he had to depend upon, and that it was not enough to provide for all. The sturdy independence of the captain would no doubt revolt against the idea of receiving any actual pecuniary assistance, as would that of his wife; but some way must be contrived of lessening their responsibilities and cares. Jabez Strong and his wife must share these, although he might and probably would be “grumpy;” but even then it would be hard to meet all demands, without depriving the old couple of their accustomed comforts. The cheerful, it-will-all-come-right spirit in which they had received the intruders, I could not look upon them in any other light, made us all the more anxious to do this; and, before night, Milly and I were exercising our brains with all manner of expedients for accomplishing it without hurting their pride and their feelings.

Meanwhile, our elders, with less of enthusiasm perhaps, but in a more practical spirit, were considering the same matter; and the little ones, our Allie and Daisy, having also heard of the influx of children at the Yorkes’ cottage, had laden themselves with toys and picture-books, and persuaded mammy to escort them thither. Our little sisters had so burdened themselves, that they needed assistance to transport all these gifts to Captain Yorke’s house; and they could not look for any great amount of this from mammy, who had all she could do to convey her own portly person, and the enormous umbrella without which she never stirred, as a possibly needed protection against sun or rain, as the case might be. So they begged that Bill and Jim might act as carriers, coaxing Thomas to spare them from pantry duty, a matter not attended with much difficulty, as the old butler was only too willing to indulge them on all occasions, even to the length of taking double work on his own shoulders.

They all set forth on their errand of charity in high glee; but Jim returned from the expedition with a face and air of such portentous gravity, so different from his usual happy-go-lucky bearing, that Milly was moved to ask if any thing unpleasant had occurred.

“Captain Yorke nor his folks didn’t do nothin’, Miss Milly,” answered Jim.

“Who, then?” asked Milly.

“Well, no one, Miss Milly,” he replied. “I was on’y thinkin’ what a lot of ’em there was, an’ it bothers me.”

“So many Yorkes, do you mean?” queried Milly, rather wondering at his evident perturbation.

“Such a many blind an’ hunchback an’ sick folks,” he said; “an’ how are they all goin’ to be done for. The more you try to do for some of ’em, the more of ’em seem to come up. There’s Matty and Tony Blair, who me an Bill has took into our keepin’ soon as we get to the city; an’ now here comes a Yorke hunchback, an’ a Yorke blind, an’ a Yorke sick baby, all sudden like; an’ I say that’s pretty hard on the olé captain. I like the captain firstrate, I do, Miss Milly; an’ I don’t like to see him put upon that way. Some of us ought to see to ’em for him, but you can’t do for all.”

“No, Jim,” Milly said, soothingly, to the young philanthropist, “we cannot do for all who need; but, if each one does his or her mite, we can among us greatly lighten the load of human suffering; and that is what we must all try to do, without making ourselves unhappy over that which is beyond our reach or means.”

“You did a mighty big mite, when you did for Bill an’ me, Miss Milly,” said her pupil and protege, looking gratefully at her. “There ain’t no halfway ’bout you, Miss Milly. But I would like to help Captain Yorke, if I could; an’ I was thinkin’, could I do up them sums again ‘bout the peanuts, an’ get out a share for the Yorkes.”

Milly laughed, for she had heard of Jim’s plans, and of the various objects which were to be benefited by the “peanut-undertaking;” and, as frequent new claims and claimants appeared to share in the profits, she argued that the proportion of each would be small.

“Jim,” she said, “I think I would not undertake to help the Yorkes as well as all the other people you have upon your list. They shall not be allowed to suffer, you may be sure; Mr. Rutherford and Mr. Livingstone will see to that.”

“Miss Milly,” he answered, reproachfully, “I on’y didn’t reckon up Captain Yorke an’ his folks before, ’cause they hadn’t need of it. Now they will, with all that raft of broke-up children on ’em; an’ do you think I’d go to passin’ ’em over when they was so good to me? No, that I wouldn’t; I ain’t never goin’ to forget how Mis’ Yorke nussed me, an’ made much of me, when I was sick there in her house; an’ they were good to me, too, when I was a little chap, an’ got shipwrecked on to the shore. Miss Milly, do you know,” hesitatingly, “I’d liever take some out of the ’lection expenses share, than to pass over the Yorkes. I would, really, Miss Milly.”

Truly, our Milly was reaping a rich fruit of generosity, loyalty, and earnest endeavor, from the seed of self-sacrifice and charity which she herself had shown in faith and hope. And this, too, in ground which the on-lookers had judged to be so hardened and stony that no harvest was to be gathered therefrom. Oh, my Milly, sweet soul,

“Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know.”