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[Illustration: Hazeley Family. Page 23.]




    THE HAZELEY FAMILY
    BY
    Mrs. A. E. JOHNSON

    _PHILADELPHIA_
    American Baptist Publication Society
    _1420 CHESTNUT STREET_




    THE HAZELEY FAMILY

    BY

    MRS. A. E. JOHNSON
    _Author of Clarence and Corinne_

    PHILADELPHIA
    AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
    1420 CHESTNUT STREET




    Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1894, by the
    AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
    In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




CONTENTS.


                                       PAGE

    CHAPTER I.
    THE HAZELEY HOME,                     5

    CHAPTER II.
    FLORA AT HOME,                       15

    CHAPTER III.
    RUTH RUDD,                           26

    CHAPTER IV.
    FLORA'S FIRST SUNDAY,                37

    CHAPTER V.
    THE BEGINNING,                       46

    CHAPTER VI.
    SOME RESULTS,                        58

    CHAPTER VII.
    A VISIT TO MAJOR JOE,                67

    CHAPTER VIII.
    MORE RESULTS,                        79

    CHAPTER IX.
    RUTH'S NEW HOME,                     89
    CHAPTER X.
    LOTTIE PIPER,                        97

    CHAPTER XI.
    CHANGES,                            106

    CHAPTER XII.
    LED AWAY,                           117

    CHAPTER XIII.
    IN THE HOSPITAL AND OUT AGAIN,      124

    CHAPTER XIV.
    A CHAPTER OF WONDERS,               132

    CHAPTER XV.
    GOING HOME,                         142

    CHAPTER XVI.
    LOTTIE'S TRIALS,                    151

    CHAPTER XVII.
    MORE SURPRISES,                     162

    CHAPTER XVIII.
    A CHRISTMAS INVITATION,             171

    CHAPTER XIX.
    A HOMELY WEDDING,                   180




THE HAZELEY FAMILY.




CHAPTER I.

THE HAZELEY HOME.


Sixteen-year-old Flora Hazeley stood by the table in the dingy little
dining room, looking down earnestly and thoughtfully at a shapely,
yellow sweet potato.

It was only a potato, but the sight of it brought to its owner, not only
a crowd of pleasant memories, but a number of unpleasant anticipations.
Hence, the earnest, thoughtful expression on her young face.

Flora was the only daughter. She had two brothers, one older and one
younger than herself, Harry and Alec, aged respectively, eighteen and
thirteen. The mother was of an easy-going, careless disposition, and
seemed indifferent to the management of her household. Especially did
she dislike responsibility of any kind. She was well pleased, therefore,
to receive one day a letter from her sister, Mrs. Graham, a childless
widow, offering to take Flora, who was then just five years old,
promising to rear her as if she had been her own daughter.

Mrs. Graham was well off. In her case this meant that she lived in a
pretty home of her own, with a nice income, not only supporting herself
in comfort, but permitting her to provide a home for her elder sister
for many years, who had entire charge of the housekeeping. This sister,
Mrs. Sarah Martin, was also a widow and childless. The resemblance went
no further, for they differed, not only in manner, but opinions,
thoughts, and character.

Mrs. Graham, after a great deal of careful thought, had come to the
conclusion to adopt her little niece. In fact she had often thought it
over ever since the child first began to walk, and call her by name. She
was a sensible woman, and it always annoyed her when she would visit her
sister to see the careless way in which the children were being trained.
Seeing this, she had long wished to take and train Flora according to
her own idea of what constituted the education of a girl.

"It will be so much worse for her than for the boys," she had said one
day to Mrs. Martin. "I do dislike to see such a bright little child
brought up to be good for nothing; and that is just the way in which it
will be, if I do not take charge of her myself."

The latter clause was intended to draw indirectly from her sister an
opinion of such a proceeding, for Mrs. Martin was by no means partial to
children. However, it was received with the indifferent observation:

"Esther never did have any interest in children anyhow. She never had
any idea how to take care of herself, much less anybody else," to which
was added a remark to the effect that if her sister Bertha chose to
burden herself with a troublesome child, she was sure she had nothing to
do with the matter, and did not intend to have.

Mrs. Graham was rather surprised to have her suggestion received so
coolly. She had expected a great deal of trouble in getting Sarah to
consent, even provisionally. She was very glad to meet no more serious
opposition, for, although she had fully decided in her own mind
regarding the matter, yet her peace-loving nature dreaded unpleasant
scenes. She purposely and entirely overlooked the expression of stern
determination in the sharp-featured countenance of her sister, and
forthwith resolved to send for Flora without further loss of time.

Thus it was that Flora Hazeley changed homes. She was not legally
adopted by her aunt, but was simply taken with the understanding she
would be returned to her parents in case Mrs. Graham should in any way
change her mind, or weary of her charge. This provision was inserted by
Mrs. Martin, who determined, in spite of her seeming indifference, not
to be ignored by her sister, upon whose bounty she considered she had a
primary claim.

For eleven years Flora lived in the pretty home of her Aunt Bertha. Her
time was filled by various occupations, school, caring for the flowers
in the garden, and dreaming under the old peach tree, which never bore
any peaches, but grew on contentedly in the farthest corner of the yard.

However, these were by no means the only ways in which Flora spent her
time, for Mrs. Martin, notwithstanding her stern resolve not to have
anything to do with her, had suddenly taken an equally stern
determination to do her share toward "bringing sister Esther's child up
properly."

This was fortunate for Flora. Aunt Sarah instructed her thoroughly and
carefully in the details of housekeeping, cooking, serving, washing, in
fact, everything she knew herself. How fortunate it was that she learned
how to do these things, Flora realized some time afterward, as Mrs.
Martin had intended she should. While she was learning them, Flora's
progress was due rather more to the awe she felt of her stern aunt than
to the desire to excel.

Mrs. Martin was ever ready to scold and find fault. Mrs. Graham never
criticised, but always had a bright smile and something pleasant to say.
As a natural consequence, she was dearly loved by her niece.

Mrs. Hazeley, Flora's mother, delighted to be relieved of her
troublesome little girl, settled down more contentedly than ever, to
enjoy the quiet of her daughter's absence, and became daily more and
more indisposed to exert herself in order to make her home attractive.

It was usually pretty quiet now, because neither of the boys stayed in
the house a moment longer than necessity demanded. Mr. Hazeley was
employed on the railroad, and consequently was away from home a great
deal. Mrs. Hazeley did little but turn aimlessly about, making herself
believe that she was a very hard-working woman and then imagining
herself much fatigued, found it necessary to rest often and long. She
was at heart a good woman, when that organ could be reached, but
possessed a weak, vacillating disposition, entirely lacking the gentle
firmness of her sister, Mrs. Graham, or the uncompromising energy of
Mrs. Martin.

Mr. Hazeley had long ceased to complain of his home and its management,
for his words had no further effect than to bring upon himself a storm
of tearful scolding, which drove him out of the house to seek more
genial quarters. He was by nature a peaceable man, and when he found
that neither ease nor peace could be had at home, remained there as
little as possible. In fact, as Mrs. Hazeley's sisters had often said,
"if the whole family did not go to ruin, it would not be Esther's
fault."

Flora's life at her aunt's pleasant home had been a very happy one, and
the time passed rapidly away. She was nearly through school, and looked
eagerly forward into the future, that to her was so full of brightest
hopes. It was her ambition to be of some use in the world. Just what she
wanted to do, she did not know--she had not yet determined; but that it
was to be something great and good, she was confident, for small things
did not enter into her conception of usefulness.

Aunt Bertha was her confidante for all her plans, or rather, dreams; she
could do nothing without Aunt Bertha, for had not she the means? Flora
felt sure nothing great could be done without money, that is, nothing
she would care to do.

But, alas! Her summer sky, so promising and brilliant with hopes and
indefinite plans, was suddenly overcast. Aunt Bertha was taken ill one
day; the doctor said it was prostration, and he feared she might not
rally. Flora was told. Her Aunt Bertha, whom she loved so dearly, and
who loved her so much! Must she die? "I love her far more than my
mother," she whispered to herself. This seemed very disloyal in Flora.
But in truth, she had little cause to love the mother who had been so
eager to relinquish her claim, and who, in all these years, had never
expressed a wish to have her daughter at home.

During her sister's illness, Aunt Sarah spent her time in constant
attendance upon her. She was cold, stern, and unapproachable as ever,
giving the child little information in regard to the sick one who had
been so kind to her. She was not allowed to enter the sick room during
the first of her aunt's illness, although Mrs. Graham had often asked to
see her niece.

One day, just before the spirit passed away, the sick woman called her
sister, and said in a weak, trembling voice:

"Sister, I suppose you know I cannot live long, and that my will is
made."

Mrs. Martin silently nodded.

"Well," continued Mrs. Graham, "I have left everything to you--I thought
it would be best."

Again a silent nod.

"But, Sarah, I want you to promise one thing; that you will see Flora
has what she needs to carry out her plans. The dear child has so longed
to carry out some of her plans. I want her to have means to make
whatever she may decide upon a success. And one more thing," she
continued, pausing for breath, and looking pleadingly into the face
above her, "I do hope, Sarah, that you will keep Flora here with you. Do
not send her back to her home. I have left all I own in your hands, and
I trust to you, sister, to do what I wish."

This long expression of her wishes had so taxed the fast-failing
strength of the invalid, that she sank back, exhausted. No answer was
expected, and Mrs. Martin was silent; and silent too, because she had
not the slightest intention of doing as her sister wished. It was truly
heartless; but Mrs. Martin was one of those people who do not present
the harsh side of their nature in all its intensity until the reins of
power are placed in their hands. So long as Mrs. Graham held the
purse-strings, she acquiesced with as much grace as possible in her
sister's plans. Was not the money Mrs. Graham's to do with as she
pleased? It was quite a different thing, however, to feel that now
everything would be in her hands to use as she chose. No matter if the
donor was still looking into her face, her mind was made up that things
should be ordered in the future according to her good pleasure. It was
not at all her wish to burden herself with Esther's child, and forthwith
she decided that back to her home Flora should go. However, she did not
allow these unworthy thoughts to disturb the last moments of her
tender-hearted sister, by giving expression to them. So good Mrs. Graham
passed peacefully away.

Flora was allowed to see her shortly before she died. The kind voice
whispered words of comfort, telling her that Aunt Sarah would take care
of her. These words fell unnoticed at the time upon the ear of the
sobbing girl, who had been so accustomed to have Aunt Bertha think and
plan for her.




CHAPTER II.

FLORA AT HOME.


Mrs. Graham's life had been a quiet, unobtrusive, but truly Christian
one. She had neglected no opportunity to implant in her young niece a
love and reverence for holy things; and now that she was about to die,
she felt that she had nothing to regret, that she had left no duty
unfulfilled, so far as Flora's training was concerned. It was with a
heart full of peace that she commended her charge to the "One above all
others" and took her leave of earth.

Flora was almost inconsolable. She had no one to comfort her, for Aunt
Sarah was as distant as ever, being entirely too much occupied with
plans for the future to care about Flora. Her mother came to the
funeral, but neither was overjoyed to see the other after their long
separation. It could scarcely be otherwise. Natural affection had never
been conspicuous in the Hazeley home, and the influence of these years
apart had not helped matters at all. Indeed, they were little more to
each other than strangers.

After they returned from the cemetery, however, Aunt Sarah informed
Flora she was to return with her mother to her former, and as she deemed
it, rightful home. The feelings with which the girl received this
intelligence were by no means pleasant ones. But there was no use in
crying or fretting about it, for when Aunt Sarah said a thing, she meant
it, and could not be induced to alter her decision, even if Flora had
felt inclined to ask her to do so. This she had no thought of doing, for
she was not at all anxious to make her home with her cold, distant aunt.

"It is too bad!" she exclaimed, as she thought of all the bright helpful
plans she and Aunt Bertha had made together, and which they had hoped to
be able to carry out. "It is too bad!" she sobbed, as she bent over her
trunk in her pretty little bedroom, the tears falling on the tasteful
dresses, and the many loving tokens that had been given her by the dear
hands now at rest beneath the unfeeling earth in the churchyard.

Mrs. Martin was surprised that Flora's mother made no objection to
taking her daughter home. The truth was Mrs. Hazeley had been wanting
this very thing for some time. It was not, however, because of any
particularly affectionate or motherly feeling toward her child; but she
had been thinking that Flora, of whose ability she had heard much, would
be a very great help to her in caring for the house. Thus it was that
Flora returned to the home she had left eleven years before.

Just as the train was preparing to leave the station, Lottie Piper, one
of Flora's friends and admirers, came running to the car, and tossed
something through the open window into Flora's lap, saying hurriedly and
pantingly, as she pressed the hand held out to her:

"There, Flora, take that. Don't laugh. I raised it all myself, and I
want you to have it; but don't eat it! Keep it to remember me by.
Good-bye," she called, as the train moved off.

Flora waved her handkerchief out of the window to Lottie, until her arm
was tired. As she looked about the cars her attention was attracted by a
titter from the opposite side. At first she could not understand why the
girl who sat there should look at her and smile. As her neighbor gazed
at her lap, Flora's eyes followed, and there she saw the cause of the
merriment in Lottie's parting gift--a yellow sweet potato.

At first she felt inclined to be provoked with Lottie for bringing such
a thing and causing her to be laughed at. However, the remembrance of
her parting words, "I raised it all myself; but don't eat it!" made her
smile in spite of herself. This encouraged the girl opposite to slip
over to the seat beside Flora, as Mrs. Hazeley was occupying the one in
front, and the two girls, although entire strangers to each other,
chatted away busily, until the train stopped at one of the stations,
where the girl and her father, who sat farther back, left the car. Soon
after, Flora found herself at home, Bartonville and Brinton being but a
short distance apart.

This brings us to the opening of our story.

It was Lottie's potato that lay upon the table, and Flora had been
wondering what to do with it. The memories it awakened were of Brinton
and the many pleasant strolls and romps she had enjoyed with Lottie in
her father's fields, which joined Mrs. Graham's, of Aunt Bertha herself,
and much more.

"But what am I to do with the potato?" she questioned. "I am not to eat
it. I don't care to, either. Oh! I know, I will plant it in a jar of
water and let it grow. That would please Lottie, I guess."

She soon found a jar such as she wanted, and after washing it clean and
bright, filled it full of clear water, and carefully placed the potato,
end up, in it, and then looked about for a suitable place for it.

"That window has a good broad seat," she said to herself; "and it is
sunny, but the glass is so grimy! However, it will do. Better yet, I
will open the window."

This was more easily said than done, for, although the weather was still
warm--it being September--the window did not appear to have been opened
for some time.

Flora struggled and pushed, and at length succeeded in opening it,
making noise enough as she did so, to attract the attention of a young
girl who was passing. She stopped, looking up, inquiringly.

Flora was heated with her exertions and the thought of having attracted
attention, so that before she realized what she was doing, she was
smiling and saying:

"This old window was very hard to raise, but I was determined to do it."

"No," said the girl, looking as if she was not quite sure that it was
the right thing to say.

"What is that in the jar?" she asked, as she came closer, and looked at
the potato curiously, and then at Flora in a friendly way that pleased
her.

"This," said Flora, patting the vegetable; "it is a potato."

"But what have you put it in there for?" persisted the girl.

"To grow, to be sure."

"Will it grow?"

"Of course it will," replied Flora, with an important air. "See! water
is in this jar, and soon this potato will sprout, send roots down and
leaves up, and then--and then--it will just keep on growing, you know."
And Flora felt sure that she had put quite an artistic finish to her
description of potato culture.

"Oh, yes," cried her new acquaintance, with an intelligent light in her
eyes; "I know very well what will happen then."

"What?" asked Flora, rather dubiously.

"Why, little sweet potatoes will grow on the roots, of course."

"I--I don't think they will," said Flora, hesitatingly, not being well
versed on the subject.

"Yes; but they must--they always do," returned the girl, positively.

"Well, but there would be no room in the jar for potatoes to grow," said
Flora.

"That's so." And the girl looked puzzled; then they both laughed, not
knowing what else to do.

"What is your name?" asked Flora, by way of changing the subject, for
she was a little fearful she might be asked to explain why little sweet
potatoes would not grow in her jar.

"My name is Ruth Rudd," was the answer. "What is yours?"

"Flora Hazeley."

"Is it? Well, I live just back of your house, on the next street.
Good-bye. I guess I will see you some other time." And she hurried away.

"She is a real nice girl," Flora thought, as she turned away from the
window; "I hope I can see her again."

She stood for an instant looking about the room. It was nicely
furnished, but it looked neglected and untidy, and Flora, having been so
long accustomed to the attractiveness and order of her aunt's house,
felt home-sick. Her loneliness came over her in a great wave of
feeling, and running through the kitchen, out of the door, went into
the yard, which was a good-sized one, but so filled with rubbish and
piles of boards, scarcely noticed through her tears, that she met with
many a stumble before she reached the farther end. She wanted some quiet
place in which to sit and think, as she used to do under the old peach
tree at Brinton. She was sure she "could think of nothing in that
house," and the best she could do was to seat herself on an old block at
the very back of the yard. She felt she could think better out in the
open air, under the sky, for she was a great lover of nature, and loved
to look at the blue sky. The sun was under a cloud, but the air was warm
and pleasant.

How different were her thoughts now from what they had been under the
old peach tree! Then she had reveled in rose- dreams; now she was
confronted by gray realities. Her thoughts went rapidly over her life
since Aunt Bertha's death.

She had been here not quite a week, and she found it such a different
place from the home she had so lately left, that she was almost
unwilling to call it "home." But while she considered her present home
not very desirable, she had given no thought to the inmates, whether or
not they had found in _her_ a very desirable addition to the circle.

She was young, and she soon wearied of her sombre thoughts, which could
avail her nothing, and she glanced at the houses on each side of her
own. There was a marked difference. It was not in the style of the
building, for hers was the most attractive. It was, however, in the
general appearance, and Flora felt she would like to begin at the
topmost shingle and pull her home down to the ground. But the thought
came to her that then she would have no home. She knew there was no room
for her with Aunt Sarah, who was, no doubt, at this very moment enjoying
her absence.

"No, indeed, I do not want to live with Aunt Sarah," she thought; and
then began to wonder vaguely if she had not better go to work and try to
make her present home a more congenial one.

The more she thought about it, the better the idea pleased her. Just as
she was endeavoring to decide upon something definite to do, she was
startled by seeing a board in the fence, just behind her, pushed aside.
Before she could move, a round, fat, little face was thrust through the
opening, and a pair of inquisitive brown eyes were fastened upon her.
For a moment they looked, and then the owner squeezed through, and stood
still, eyeing Flora complacently.

"Well, and who are you? and what do you mean by coming in here that
way?" asked Flora, amused at the odd-looking little creature.

"I'm Jem," answered the <DW40>, coolly; "and I didn't mean nuffing."

"Jem? I thought you were a girl," said Flora, looking at the quaint,
short-waisted dress, that reached almost down to the copper toed shoes,
and the funny, little, short white apron, tied just under the fat arms,
which were squeezed into sleeves much too tight for them.

"So I am a girl," answered Jem, indignantly; "don't you see I've gut a
napron on wif pockets in?" And she thrust her chubby little fingers into
one of them.

"But you said your name was 'Jem,' and that's a boy's name," persisted
Flora, enjoying her odd companion.

"'Tain't none," was the sententious reply; "it's short for 'Jemima';
that's what my really name is."

"Well, Jemima, what do you want in here?"

"Nuffing."

"Nothing? Well, that isn't in here."

"There ain't anythin' else's I can see," retorted Jem, turning down the
corners of her mouth very far, and looking about disdainfully.

Flora laughed outright at this, but her visitor's countenance lost none
of its solemnity.

"You do not seem to admire my yard, Jem."

"Don't see anythin' to remire," retorted Jem. "You'd just ought to peep
in ours," and she moved over to the fence, and pulling away the board
with a triumphant air, motioned Flora to look. Flora looked, but the
first thing she saw was not the yard, but the young girl with whom she
had been talking not an hour since.




CHAPTER III.

RUTH RUDD.


Ruth, standing by a long wooden bench, in the neat, brick-paved yard,
was engaged in watering some plants that were her especial pride.

Hearing a noise at the fence, she turned, and recognizing Flora, smiled
and asked:

"Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," replied Flora, smiling in return. "I think I will."

Jem looked on wonderingly as her sister and the visitor, whom she
considered her especial property, chatted.

She could not understand how they knew each other. At length, as they
took no notice of her, she determined to assert herself; so, going up to
Flora, she demanded:

"What do you think of _my_ yard?"

"Oh," said Flora, recollecting for what purpose they had come, "I like
it very much indeed, Jem."

"It's a pretty good yard, I think," said Jem, with much emphasis on the
pronoun. "Come and look at the flowers, and I'll tell you the names of
them." And she drew Flora nearer the bench.

"This is a gibonia," she continued, pointing with her fat finger to the
flower named.

"You mean a 'begonia,' don't you, Jem?" said Flora.

"Yes," answered Jem, without changing countenance in the least, or
seeming in any way abashed; "and this is a gerangum."

"A geranium," corrected Flora. "Yes, I see."

"And this is a chipoonia," pointing to a petunia, "and--Oh, there's
Pokey!" and breaking away in the midst of her explanations, she gave
chase to a fat little gray kitten that just then scampered across the
yard, and into the house.

"What