’Mid the New England hills, and beneath the shadow of their dim old woods, is a running brook whose deep waters were not always as merry and frolicsome as now; for years before our story opens, pent up and impeded in their course, they dashed angrily against their prison walls, and turned the creaking wheel of an old sawmill with a sullen, rebellious roar.  The mill has gone to decay, and the sturdy men who fed it with the giant oaks of the forest are sleeping quietly in the village graveyard.  The waters of the mill-pond, too, relieved from their confinement, leap gayly over the ruined dam, tossing for a moment in wanton glee their locks of snow-white foam, and then flowing on, half fearfully as it were, through the deep gorge overhung with the hemlock and the pine, where the shadows of twilight ever lie, and where the rocks frown gloomily down upon the stream below, which, emerging from the darkness, loses itself at last in the waters of the gracefully winding Chicopee, and leaves far behind the moss-covered walls of what is familiarly known as the “Old House by the Mill.”

’Tis a huge, old-fashioned building, distant nearly a mile from the public highway, and surrounded so thickly by forest trees that the bright sunlight, dancing merrily midst the rustling leaves above, falls but seldom on the time-stained walls of dark gray stone, where the damp and dews of more than a century have fallen, and where now the green moss clings with a loving grasp, as if ’twere its rightful resting-place.  When the thunders of the Revolution shook the hills of the Bay State, and the royal banner floated in the evening breeze, the house was owned by an old Englishman who, loyal to his king and country, denounced as rebels the followers of Washington.  Against these, however, he would not raise his hand, for among them were many long-tried friends who had gathered with him around the festal board; so he chose the only remaining alternative, and went back to his native country, cherishing the hope that he should one day return to the home he loved so well, and listen again to the musical flow of the brook, which could be distinctly heard from the door of the mansion.  But his wish was vain, for when at last America was free and the British troops recalled, he slept beneath the sod of England, and the old house was for many years deserted.  The Englishman had been greatly beloved, and his property was unmolested, while the weeds and grass grew tall and rank in the garden beds, and the birds of heaven built their nests beneath the projecting roof or held a holiday in the gloomy, silent rooms.

As time passed on, however, and no one appeared to dispute their right, different families occupied the house at intervals, until at last, when nearly fifty years had elapsed, news was one day received that Madam Conway, a granddaughter of the old Englishman, having met with reverses at home, had determined to emigrate to the New World, and remembering the “House by the Mill,” of which she had heard so much, she wished to know if peaceable possession of it would be allowed her, in case she decided upon removing thither and making it her future home.  To this plan no objection was made, for the aged people of Hillsdale still cherished the memory of the hospitable old man whose locks were gray while they were yet but children, and the younger portion of the community hoped for a renewal of the gayeties which they had heard were once so common at the old stone house.

But in this they were disappointed, for Madam Conway was a proud, unsociable woman, desiring no acquaintance whatever with her neighbors, who, after many ineffectual attempts at something like friendly intercourse, concluded to leave her entirely alone, and contented themselves with watching the progress of matters at “Mill Farm,” as she designated the place, which soon began to show visible marks of improvement.  The Englishman was a man of taste, and Madam Conway’s first work was an attempt to restore the grounds to something of their former beauty.  The yard and garden were cleared of weeds, the walks and flower-beds laid out with care, and then the neighbors looked to see her cut away a few of the multitude of trees which had sprung up around her home.  But this she had no intention of doing.  “They shut me out,” she said, “from the prying eyes of the vulgar, and I would rather it should be so.”  So the trees remained, throwing their long shadows upon the high, narrow windows, and into the large square rooms, where the morning light and the noonday heat seldom found entrance, and which seemed like so many cold, silent caverns, with their old-fashioned massive furniture, their dark, heavy curtains, and the noiseless footfall of the stately lady, who moved ever with the same measured tread, speaking always softly and low to the household servants, who, having been trained in her service, had followed her across the sea.

From these the neighbors learned that Madam Conway had in London a married daughter, Mrs. Miller; that old Hagar Warren, the strange-looking woman who more than anyone else shared her mistress’ confidence, had grown up in the family, receiving a very good education, and had nursed their young mistress, Miss Margaret, which of course entitled her to more respect than was usually bestowed upon menials like her; that Madam Conway was very aristocratic, very proud of her high English blood; that though she lived alone she attended strictly to all the formalities of high life, dressing each day with the utmost precision for her solitary dinner-dining off a service of solid silver, and presiding with great dignity in her straight, high-backed chair.  She was fond, too, of the ruby wine, and her cellar was stored with the choicest liquors, some of which she had brought with her from home, while others, it was said, had belonged to her grandfather, and for half a century had remained unseen and unmolested, while the cobwebs of time had woven around them a misty covering, making them still more valuable to the lady, who knew full well how age improved such things.

Regularly each day she rode in her ponderous carriage, sometimes alone and sometimes accompanied by Hester, the daughter of old Hagar, a handsome, intelligent-looking girl, who, after two or three years of comparative idleness at Mill Farm, went to Meriden, Conn., as seamstress in a family which had advertised for such a person.  With her departed the only life of the house, and during the following year there ensued a monotonous quiet, which was broken at last for Hagar by the startling announcement that her daughter’s young mistress had died four months before, and the husband, a gray-haired, elderly man, had proved conclusively that he was in his dotage by talking of marriage to Hester, who, ere the letter reached her mother, would probably be the third bride of one whose reputed wealth was the only possible inducement to a girl like Hester Warren.

With an immense degree of satisfaction Hagar read the letter through, exulting that fortune had favored her at last.  Possessed of many sterling qualities, Hagar Warren had one glaring fault, which had imbittered her whole life.  Why others were rich while she was poor she could not understand, and her heart rebelled at the fate which had made her what she was.

But Hester would be wealthy-nay, would perhaps one day rival the haughty Mrs. Miller across the water, who had been her playmate; there was comfort in that, and she wrote to her daughter expressing her entire approbation, and hinting vaguely of the possibility that she herself might some time cease to be a servant, and help do the honors of Mr. Hamilton’s house!  To this there came no reply, and Hagar was thinking seriously of making a visit to Meriden, when one rainy autumnal night, nearly a year after Hester’s marriage, there came another letter sealed with black.  With a sad foreboding Hagar opened it, and read that Mr. Hamilton had failed; that his house and farm were sold, and that he, overwhelmed with mortification both at his failure and the opposition of his friends to his last marriage, had died suddenly, leaving Hester with no home in the wide world unless Madam Conway received her again into her family.

“Just my luck!” was Hagar’s mental comment, as she finished reading the letter and carried it to her mistress, who had always liked Hester, and who readily consented to give her a home, provided she put on no airs from having been for a time the wife of a reputed wealthy man.  “Mustn’t put on airs!” muttered Hagar, as she left the room.  “Just as if airs wasn’t for anybody but high bloods!” And with the canker-worm of envy at her heart she wrote to Hester, who came immediately; and Hagar-when she heard her tell the story of her wrongs, how her husband’s sister, indignant at his marriage with a sewing-girl, had removed from him the children, one a stepchild and one his own, and how of all his vast fortune there was not left for her a penny-experienced again the old bitterness of feeling, and murmured that fate should thus deal with her and hers.

With the next day’s mail there came to Madam Conway a letter bearing a foreign postmark, and bringing the sad news that her son-in-law had been lost in a storm while crossing the English Channel, and that her daughter Margaret, utterly crushed and heartbroken, would sail immediately for America, where she wished only to lay her weary head upon her mother’s bosom and die.

“So there is one person that has no respect for blood, and that is Death,” said old Hagar to her mistress, when she heard the news.  “He has served us both alike, he has taken my son-in-law first and yours next.”

Frowning haughtily, Madam Conway bade her be silent, telling her at the same time to see that the rooms in the north part of the building were put in perfect order for Mrs. Miller, who would probably come in the next vessel.  In sullen silence Hagar withdrew, and for several days worked half reluctantly in the “north rooms,” as Madam Conway termed a comparatively pleasant, airy suite of apartments, with a balcony above, which looked out upon the old mill-dam and the brook pouring over it.

“There’ll be big doings when my lady comes,” said Hagar one day to her daughter.  “It’ll be Hagar here, and Hagar there, and Hagar everywhere, but I shan’t hurry myself.  I’m getting too old to wait on a chit like her.”

“Don’t talk so, mother,” said Hester.  “Margaret was always kind to me.  She is not to blame for being rich, while I am poor.”

“But somebody’s to blame,” interrupted old Hagar.  “You was always accounted the handsomest and cleverest of the two, and yet for all you’ll be nothing but a drudge to wait on her and the little girl.”

Hester only sighed in reply, while her thoughts went forward to the future and what it would probably bring her.  Hester Warren and Margaret Conway had been children together, and in spite of the difference of their stations they had loved each other dearly; and when at last the weary traveler came, with her pale sad face and mourning garb, none gave her so heartfelt a welcome as Hester; and during the week when, from exhaustion and excitement, she was confined to her bed, it was Hester who nursed her with the utmost care, soothing her to sleep, and then amusing the little Theo, a child of two years.  Hagar, too, softened by her young mistress’ sorrow, repented of her harsh words, and watched each night with the invalid, who once, when her mind seemed wandering far back in the past, whispered softly, “Tell me the Lord’s prayer, dear Hagar, just as you told it to me years ago when I was a little child.”

It was a long time since Hagar had breathed that prayer, but at Mrs. Miller’s request she commenced it, repeating it correctly until she came to the words, “Give us this day our daily bread”; then she hesitated, and bending forward said, “What comes next, Miss Margaret?  Is it ’Lead us not into temptation?”

“Yes, yes,” whispered the half-unconscious lady. “’Lead us not into temptation,’ that’s it.”  Then, as if there were around her a dim foreboding of the great wrong Hagar was to do, she took her old nurse’s hand between her own, and continued, “Say it often, Hagar, ‘Lead us not into temptation’; you have much need for that prayer.”

A moment more, and Margaret Miller slept, while beside her sat Hagar Warren, half shuddering, she knew not why, as she thought of her mistress’ words, which seemed to her so much like the spirit of prophecy.

“Why do I need that prayer more than anyone else?” she said at last.  “I have never been tempted more than I could bear-never shall be tempted-and if I am, old Hagar Warren, bad as she is, can resist temptation without that prayer.”

Still, reason as she would, Hagar could not shake off the strange feeling, and as she sat half dozing in her chair, with the dim lamplight flickering over her dark face, she fancied that the October wind, sighing so mournfully through the locust trees beneath the window, and then dying away in the distance, bore upon its wing, “‘Lead us not into temptation.’  Hagar, you have much need to say that prayer.”

Aye, Hagar Warren-much need, much need!