The Thorn in the Nest. Finley Martha

doorway swinging a broad-brimmed hat by its strings, her beautiful uncovered hair glittering like burnished gold in the sunbeams sifting down upon it through the leaves of the overshadowing trees, as they stirred restlessly to and fro in the pleasant summer breeze.

      She was in a happy mood, light-hearted and free from care as the birds warbling overhead, and had been humming snatches of song till interrupted by Clare's question.

      "You have been here nearly a week now," pursued that lady in precisely the tone she would have used to one of her children, "don't you think it is time to begin to make yourself useful? Life was never meant for a perpetual holiday."

      Nell's cheek crimsoned.

      "What would you have me do? offer my services as assistant to Silvy the cook, Maria the nurse-maid, or Tig the stable boy?" she asked in a slightly sarcastic tone.

      "Silvy is an excellent cook, and it might not be at all amiss for you to take some lessons of her," said Clare. "But there are other employments. The children need instruction, and you ought to be able to give it. Then there are spinning and sewing."

      "I don't know anything about spinning."

      "I'll teach you, in return for the lessons you give the children in spelling, reading and writing."

      "Very well, we'll talk of it when I come back from my walk," Nell answered, tying on her hat.

      She was willing enough to make herself useful, but Clare's manner was irritating.

      Her annoyance was, however, soon forgotten in the prattle of the children, and the beauty of the woods.

      They wandered about till weary, then sat down on a log to rest.

      "Now if I only had a book," remarked Nell.

      "Why didn't you bring one?" asked Bess.

      "I don't mean a Sunday book, such as those on the shelves in the sitting-room," was the half scornful reply.

      "Aunt Nell, there are some other kinds of books up in the garret."

      "What kinds?"

      "Oh, I don't know; stories, I believe, but not fit for me to read, mother says."

      Nell rose eagerly. "Come, let us go back," she said, "I must see those books. But how came they there?"

      Bess explained as they wended their homeward way, she walking soberly by her aunt's side, the boys racing on before, climbing and jumping over stumps and logs.

      The major had formerly been in the mercantile business, and in the garret were stowed away boxes of goods – a medley of many odds and ends which had fallen to his share in the division of unsold stock made by himself and partner in the winding up of the joint concern.

      The garret was the favorite resort of the children when kept within doors by stormy weather, and Bess had made herself well acquainted with the contents of the boxes, turning them over and over in search of "pretty things" with which to bedeck her dolls and herself.

      The books proved to be novels – "Claremont" complete in several volumes and an odd volume of "Peregrine Pickle."

      Nell seized upon them with delight and carried them off to her bed-room. Books were rare luxuries in those days, there were no newspapers or magazines published in that region of country, and as yet there was no regular mail.

      Nell read and re-read "Claremont," devoting to its perusal every spare moment when she could steal away unobserved to the solitude of her room, and carrying a volume with her in her rambles with the children.

      Then she took up "Peregrine Pickle," but with sore disappointment that the first volume was missing; so much so that she at length plucked up courage to ask her brother what had become of it; though quite fearful that he would disapprove of her reading it.

      "Well," he said with a smile, "I suppose my former partner has it, and somebody is probably as anxious for this as you are for it. I'm sorry, for your sake, that we were so careless in dividing our stock."

      "It is just as well," said Clare; "time can be more profitably employed than in the reading of such trash."

      "I consider it a very innocent amusement," replied the major, shortly; not over-pleased with the remark, seeing that it called a flush of wounded feeling to Nellie's fair cheek. "I remember that I enjoyed reading it myself. If it were in my power to get it for you, Nell, you should have it."

      She thanked him with a look, then rose and left the room.

      "This is but a dull place for her after Philadelphia," he said to his wife. "I have no doubt she misses the weekly newspaper and many another source of entertainment which she enjoyed there, but must do without here."

      "Probably; but she is no worse off in regard to those things than any of the rest of us," said Clare coolly.

      "You forget, my dear, that you have me," returned the major with playful pleasantry. "And the children," he added, taking his youngest on his knee. "We're worth a good deal, aren't we, Ralph?"

      The major so sincerely regretted his sister's disappointment that it was frequently in his thoughts during the next week, and he was seriously considering the feasibility of sending to Philadelphia or New York for a box of books such as she would find both entertaining and instructive, when the want was supplied in an unlooked for manner.

      Dr. Clendenin and his friend Dale had pushed forward their office building as fast as possible and taken possession.

      Making a call upon Kenneth one afternoon, the major found him unpacking books and arranging them upon shelves he had had put up along the wall.

      "Books!" cried the major. "You have quite a library. All medical works?"

      "Oh, no," said Kenneth. "Will you step up and look at them? My stock is not large, but valuable, to me at least, and I hope to add to it from time to time."

      "Valuable! yes, indeed, to a lover of literature," remarked the major running his eye over the titles. "Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Dryden, Gray, Goldsmith, Gibbon, Plutarch, Rollins, etc., etc. Poetry, history, fiction are well represented, and I see you have a goodly supply of religious works of the best class, also. Medical books, too, in plenty, but of their quality I am no judge."

      "Yes, I shall not want for good companionship here in my somewhat rough bachelor quarters," Kenneth answered, surveying his treasures with an air of quiet content. "But I do not mean to be selfish, major, make yourself at home among my friends."

      "Thank you," returned the major heartily, wishing that Nell had been included in the invitation; when Kenneth, as if in answer to his thoughts, said, "The ladies of your family, too, might find something here to enjoy."

      Then the major told of Nell's disappointment, and half an hour later was on his way home, carrying her the "Vicar of Wakefield," and the assurance that Dr. Clendenin's entire library was at her service.

      Nell's face sparkled with delight at the news, and the sight of the book.

      "How kind in him!" she said. "I'll handle them with the greatest care."

      For many months those books and the talks with their owner which naturally grew out of their perusal, were her greatest enjoyment; for as yet she had very few companions near her own age.

      But as the town grew there was a corresponding increase in its young society and in the sources of amusement and entertainment open to her. She had many admirers and Kenneth stepped quietly aside, as one who had no desire to win the prize.

      Mrs. Lamar did not understand it, no more did Dale, or Nell herself, though Kenneth had never comported himself as a lover and she had not consciously thought of him.

      There were other things about Kenneth that puzzled Dale. He seemed to have some secret grief; there were times when his look and manner betokened inexpressible sadness, though he always shook it off and assumed an air of cheerfulness on being spoken to.

      Dale's curiosity was piqued, and indeed he would have rejoiced to give all the sympathy and comfort that might be in his power; but there was a quiet, reserved dignity about Kenneth that forbade any intrusion into his private affairs.

      He rarely spoke of himself or