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Page 2
BY MRS. S.C. HALL.
NEW-YORK. C.S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY.
BOSTON: J.H. FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON-STREET.
1851.
CONTENTS
TURNS OF FORTUNE 9
"ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS" 63
"THERE IS NO HURRY" 143
TURNS OF FORTUNE
CHAPTER I.
"Hush, Sarah!" exclaimed old Jacob Bond, as he sat up in his bed,
while the wind clattered and whistled through the shivering window
frames. "Hush! Is that Brindle's bark?"
"No, father; it is one of the farm dogs near the village. Lie down,
dearest father; it is a cold night, and you are trembling."
"I don't know why I should feel cold, Sarah," he replied, pointing his
shadowy fingers towards the grate, where an abundant fire blazed; "I
am sure you have put down as much wood as would roast an ox."
"It is so very cold, father."
"Still, we must not be wasteful, Sarah," he answered; "wilful waste
makes woful want." Sarah Bond covered the old man carefully over,
while he laid himself stiffly down upon his pallet, re-muttering his
favourite proverb over and over again.
She then drew the curtains more closely, and seated herself in an
old-fashioned chair beside a little table in front of the fire.
The room had been the drawing-room of the old house in which Mr. Bond
and his daughter resided, but for the sake of saving both labour and
expense, he had had his bed removed into it; and though anything but
comfortable, a solitary, impoverished, and yet gorgeous appearance
pervaded the whole, such as those who delineate interiors, loving
small lights and deep shadows, would covet to convey to their canvass.
The bed upon which the old man lay was canopied, and of heavy crimson
damask. In the dim light of that spacious room, it looked to the
worn-out eyes of Sarah Bond more like a hearse than a bed. Near it
was an old spinnet, upon which stood a labelled vial, a tea-cup, and
a spoon. When Sarah seated herself at the table, she placed her elbows
upon it, and pressed her folded hands across her eyes; no sigh or moan
escaped her, but her chest heaved convulsively; and when she removed
her hands, she drew a Bible toward her, trimmed the lamp, and began to
read.
The voice of an old French clock echoed painfully through the chamber.
Sarah longed to stop it, and yet it was a companion in her watchings.
Once, a shy, suspicious, bright-eyed mouse rattled among the cinders,
and ran into the wainscot, and then came out again, and stared at
Sarah Bond, who, accustomed to such visits, did not raise her eyes
to inquire into the cause of the rustling which in a few more moments
took place upon a tray containing the remnants of some bread and
cheese, her frugal supper.
"Sarah," croaked Mr. Bond; "what noise is that?"
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