



Produced by Roger Frank, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.

                                  OR,
                            LOVE AND PRIDE.

                           By MARY J. HOLMES

                                  1878

                                  ----




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER I.--THE INMATES OF THE FARM-HOUSE.
    CHAPTER II.--MR. GRAHAM AND JESSIE.
    CHAPTER III.--EIGHT YEARS LATER.
    CHAPTER IV.--JESSIE AND ELLEN.
    CHAPTER V.--WALTER AND JESSIE.
    CHAPTER VI.--OLD MRS. BARTOW.
    CHAPTER VII.--HUMAN NATURE.
    CHAPTER VIII.--A RETROSPECT.
    CHAPTER IX.--NELLIE.
    CHAPTER X.--A DISCLOSURE.
    CHAPTER XI.--THE NIGHT AFTER THE BURIAL.
    CHAPTER XII.--A CRISIS.
    CHAPTER XIII.--EXPLANATIONS.
    CHAPTER XIV.--THE STRANGER NURSE.
    CHAPTER XV.--GLORIOUS NEWS.
    CHAPTER XVI.--THANKSGIVING DAY AT DEERWOOD.
    CHAPTER XVII.--CONCLUSION.

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CHAPTER I.--THE INMATES OF THE FARM-HOUSE.


Old Deacon Marshall sat smoking beneath the maple tree which he had
planted many years before, when he was scarcely older than the little
girl sitting on the broad doorstep and watching the sun as it went down
behind the western hills. The tree was a sapling then, and himself a
mere boy. The sapling now was a mighty tree, and its huge branches swept
the gable roof of the time-worn building, while the boy was a
gray-haired man, sitting there in the glorious sunset of that bright
October day, and thinking of all which had come to him since the morning
long ago, when, from the woods near by, he brought the little twig, and
with his mother's help secured it in its place, watching anxiously for
the first indications of its future growth.

Across the fields and on a shady hillside, there were white headstones
gleaming in the fading sunlight. He could count them all from where he
sat,--could tell which was his mother's, which his father's, and which
his fair-haired sister's. Then there came a blur before his eyes, and
great tears rolled down his furrowed cheek, as he remembered that in
that yard there were more graves of his loved ones than there were
chairs around his fireside, even though he counted the one which for
years had not been used, but stood in the dark corner of the kitchen,
just where it had been left that dreadful night when his only son was
taken from him. On the hillside there was no headstone for that boy, but
there were two graves, which had been made just as many years as the
arm-chair of oak had stood in the dark corner, and on the handsome
monument which a stranger's hand had reared, was cut the name of the
deacon's wife and the deacon's daughter-in-law.

Fourteen times the forest tree had cast its leaf since this last great
sorrow came, and the old man had in a measure recovered from the
stunning blow, for new joys, new cares, new loves had sprung into
existence, and few who looked into his calm, unruffled face, ever
dreamed of the anguish he had suffered. Time will soften the keenest
grief, and in all the town there was not apparently a happier man than
the deacon; though as often as the autumn came, bringing the frosty
nights and hazy October days, there stole a look of sadness over his
face, and the pipe, his never-failing friend, was brought into
requisition more frequently than ever.

"It drove the blues away," he said; but on the afternoon of which we
write, _the blues_ must have dipped their garments in a deeper dye than
usual, for though the thick smoke curled in graceful wreaths about his
head, it did not dissipate the gloom which weighed upon his spirits as
he sat beneath the maple, counting the distant graves, and then casting
his eye down the long lane, through which a herd of cows was wending its
homeward way. They were the deacon's cows, and he watched them as they
came slowly on, now stopping to crop the tufts of grass growing by the
wayside, now thrusting their slender horns over the low fence in quest
of the juicy cornstalk, and then quickening their movements as they
heard the loud, clear whistle of their driver, a lad of fourteen, and
the deacon's only grandson.

Walter Marshall was a handsome boy, and none ever looked into his frank,
open face, and clear, honest eyes, without turning to look again, he
seemed so manly, so mature for his years, while about his slightly
compressed lips there was an expression as if he were constantly seeking
to force back some unpleasant memory, which had embittered his young
life and fostered in his bosom a feeling of