Who Are Happiest? and Other Stories

"To thin shoes," was the prompt reply of the uncle, who was present.

"I have warned you against this more than once," said the doctor, in a tone of gentle reproof.

"Oh, no; brother is mistaken," spoke up Mrs. Walton. "She wore thick-soled shoes. But the streets, as you know, were very wet yesterday, and it was impossible to keep the feet dry."

"If she had worn good, stout, sensible leather boots, as she ought to have done, the water would never have touched her feet," said Mr. Walton.

"You had on your gums?" remarked the physician, turning to Lizzy.

"They are so clumsy and unsightly—I never like to wear them," answered the patient, in a husky whisper, and then she coughed hoarsely.

The doctor made no reply to this, but looked more serious.

Medicine was prescribed and taken; and, for two weeks, the physician was in daily attendance. The inflammation first attacked Lizzy's throat—descended and lingered along the bronchial tubes, and finally fixed itself upon her lungs. From this dangerous place it was not dislodged, as an acute disease, until certain constitutional predispositions had been aroused into activity. In fact, the latent seeds of that fatal disease, known as consumption, were at this time vivified. Dormant they might have lain for years—perhaps through life—if all exciting causes had been shunned. Alas! the principle of vitality was now awakened.

Slowly, very slowly, did strength return to the body of Miss Walton. Not until the spring opened was she permitted to go forth into the open air. Then her pale cheek, and slow, feeble steps, showed too plainly the fearful shock her system had received.

A week or two after his remonstrance with his niece about her thin shoes, Mr. Walton returned home. Several letters received by him during the winter advised him of the state of Lizzy's health. In the spring her mother wrote to him—

"Lizzy is much better. The warm weather, I trust, will completely restore her."

But the old gentleman knew better. He had been a deeply interested party in a case like her's before. He knew that summer, with its warm and fragrant airs, would not bring back the bloom to her cheeks. In July came another epistle.

"The hot weather is so debilitating for Lizzy, that I am about taking her to the sea-shore."

Uncle Thomas sighed as he read this, permitted the letter to droop from before his eyes, and sat for some time gazing upon vacancy. Far back his thoughts had wandered, and before the eyes of his mind was the frail, fading form of a beloved sister, who had, years before, left her place and her mission upon the earth, and passed up higher.

"The doctor says that I must go South with Lizzy," wrote Mrs. Walton early in December, "and spend the winter. We leave for Charleston next Tuesday, and may pass over to Havana."

Uncle Thomas sighed as before, and then became lost in a sad reverie. He had been to Havana with both of his sisters. The warm South had been of use to them. It prolonged, but did not save their lives.

And so the months passed on—the seasons came and went—but health, alas! returned not to the veins of the lovely girl.

It was an autumn day, nearly two years after that fatal cold, taken in consequence of wearing thin shoes, that Mr. Walton received a letter sealed with a black seal.

"As I feared," he murmured, in a low, sad voice, gazing half-abstractedly upon the missive. He knew too well its contents. "Dear child! I saw this from the beginning."

And the old man's eyes became dim with moisture.

He had not erred in his conjecture. Lizzy Walton was dead.

THE UNRULY MEMBER

"In trouble again, I find! Ah, Flora! That restless little tongue of yours is a sad transgressor. Why will you not learn to be more careful? Why do you not place a guard upon your lips, as well as upon your actions?"

"So I do, aunt, when I think myself in the company of tattlers and mischief-makers."

"I do not think Mary Lee either a tattler or a mischief-maker," replied the aunt gravely.

"Then why did she run off to Ellen Gray, and tell her what I had said?"

"She might have done so from far different motives than those you are inclined to attribute to her," said Mrs. Marion, the aunt of Flora Mere. "And from my knowledge of her character, I feel very sure that her conduct in this has been governed by a strict regard to right principles."

"But what possible end could she have had in view in repeating to Ellen my thoughtlessly spoken words? It could do her no good."

"There she is at the door now," Mrs. Marion replied, glancing out of the window. "We will ask the question direct, as soon as Betty has admitted her."

The blood mounted to Flora's cheeks as her aunt said this, and her own eyes caught a glimpse of the young lady whose conduct she had been so strongly condemning. The aunt and her niece sat silent until Mary Lee entered.

Here we will take the opportunity to mention the cause of the unpleasant state of affairs between Flora and her young friend. On the day before, while in company with Mary Lee, and one or two other of her acquaintances, she very thoughtlessly and not exactly in the right spirit, repeated some remarks she had heard about Ellen Gray that reflected upon her rather unfavourably. Mary Lee at once attempted to vindicate her friend, but Flora maintained that the allegations were certainly true, for she had them from an undoubted source. Mary asked that source, but she declined mentioning it, on the ground that she did not wish to violate the confidence reposed in her by the individual who related the facts she had repeated.

"It would, perhaps, be better not to mention any thing of this kind," said Mary Lee, "unless the author be given, and full liberty, at the same time, to make the most free inquiries as to the truth of what is alleged."

"And get up to your ears in hot water," returned Flora, tossing her head.

"Even that would be better than to let any one suffer from an untrue statement."

"Ah! But suppose it should be true?"

"Let the guilt rest upon the right head—where it ought to rest. But save the innocent from unjust allegations. That is my doctrine."

"A very good doctrine, no doubt," Flora returned; "if you can act it out."

Here the subject was dropped. On the next morning, Mary Lee called in to see her young friend Ellen Gray. After conversing for a short time she said—

"I heard, yesterday, Ellen, that at Mrs. Harvey's party, you acted towards Mr. Evelyn with much discourtesy of manner, besides actually telling an untruth."

"I am unconscious of having done either the one or the other of these," Ellen replied, in a quiet tone.

"I believed you innocent," said Mary, with a brightening countenance. "But what ground is there for the idle, ill-natured gossip that has got on the wind?"

"Not much, if any. I declined dancing with Evelyn, as I had a perfect right to do."

"Did you tell him you were engaged for the next cotillion?"

"No, certainly not, for I had no engagement then."

"It is said that when he asked you to dance, you excused yourself on the plea that you were already engaged."

"Who says this?"

"Flora Mere."

"How does she know?"

"That I cannot tell. She declined giving her authority."

"Then, of course, I must believe her the author of the fabrication."