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Ancient Technologies and
Archaeological Materials
Page Intentionally Left Blank
Ancient Technologies and
Archaeological Materials
Edited by

Sarah U. Wisseman
University of Illinois
Urbana-Champaign

and

Wendell S. Williams
Case Western Reserve University
Cleveland, Ohio

~l Routledge
~~ Taylor & Francis Group
LON DON AND N EW YORK
First published 1994 by Taylor & Francis
Second printing 1996
Reprinted 2004 by Taylor & Francis
Published 2013 by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 USA

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

Copyright © 1994by OPA (Overseas Publishers Association) Amsterdam B.V.

Published in The Netherlands under license by Taylor & Francis.

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or
by any information storage or retrieval system , without permission in
writing fro m the publisher.

Cover illustration: Drawing after a Corinthian clay plaque of the sixth

century B.C. (courtesy Charles Stout).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ancient technologies and archaeological materials I edited by Sarah U.

Wisseman and Wendell S. Williams.
p. em.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 2-88124-631-1 (hardcover).- ISBN 2-88124-632-X (softcover)
1. Archaeology. 2. Technology- History. I. W isseman, Sarah
Underhill. II. Williams, Wendell S., 1928-
CC175.A535 1993
930.1-dc20 93-30738
CIP
 CONTENTS

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
Acknowled gments..... ................ ................ .. ix

I. INTRODUCT ION
1. Why Study Artifacts? An Interdisciplina ry Approach
Sarah U. Wisseman, Wendell S. Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

II. ANCIENT TECHNOLOGIES AND EXPERIMENTAL

ARCHAEOLOGY
2. From Pots to People: Ceramic Production
in the Ancient Mediterranean
Sarah U. Wisseman. ................ ................ . 17
3. The Diffusion of Technological Knowledge:
A Case Study in North American Ceramic Analysis
Thomas J. Riley, Philip Hopke, Rodger Martin,
James Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
4. Invention, Thought, and Process: Strategies
in Iron Tool Production
Charles Keller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

5. Classics and Technology: A Reevaluation

of Heron's First Century A.D. Steam Engine
Paul Keyser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

III. ORGANIC MATERIALS AND THE

RECONSTRUCTION OF EARLY ENVIRONMENTS
6. Can Elemental Analysis of Archaeological
Skeletons Determine Past Diet and Health?
Linda L. Klepinger .. .. .. . . . .. . .. .. . .. . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . 87
7. Plants and People: An Introduction to
Paleoethnobot any
Margaret van de Guchte, Richard Edging . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
vi CONTENTS

8. History, Identification, and Characterization

of Old World Fibers and Dyes
Mastura Raheel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

IV. MUSEUMS AND MONUMENTS

9. Science and the Art Museum: The Analysis
of Archaeological Materials
Wendell S. Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
10. X-Ray Vision: The Recovery of Early
Medieval Ironwork
Barbara Oehlschlaeger-Garvey, Henry Maguire,
Wendell S. Williams, Richard Keen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
11. Saving the Monuments of the Athenian Acropolis
Eric C. Freund . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
12. Imaging the Past: Nondestructive Analysis
of an Egyptian Mummy
Sarah U. Wisseman .................................. 217
Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
Glossary of Technical Terms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
Index ................................................... 245
 PREFACE

This book is a user-friendly introduction to the interface between

archaeology and the natural sciences. It is intended as a secondary
textbook for undergraduates in interdisciplinary courses in anthro-
pology, archaeological science, museum studies, or materials sci-
ence. Ancient Technologies and Archaeological Materials will also be
useful to graduate students (e.g., engineers) taking a course outside
their major field, and to archaeologists, curators, and scientists in a
variety of settings (universities, museums, government agencies,
and laboratories) who are engaged in interdisciplinary research.
Portions of Ancient Technologies and Archaeological Materials have
already been used in interdisciplinary courses at the University of
Illinois at Urbana-Champaign (in the department of anthropology
and in the program on science, technology, and society) and at Case
Western Reserve University (in the department of Materials Science
and Engineering). Similar courses are taught at the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology (The Center for Materials Research in Ar-
chaeology and Ethnology) and at the University of Arizona at Tuc-
son (the Culture, Science and Technology Program in the College of
Engineering).
Because of the breadth of topics covered in these courses, more
than one text is usually employed. Ancient Technologies and Archaeo-
logical Materials falls between descriptive archaeological textbooks
for anthropology undergraduates, and the monographs and sympo-
sium proceedings on scientific analysis of archaeological specimens
for professional archaeologists, chemists, and materials scientists. It
is similar in scope to Science and the Past (Bowman 1991), published
by the Trustees of the British Museum, but it differs in its inclusion
of organic materials and case studies in New World archaeology.
This book should precede, or be used in conjunction with, volumes
such as the American Chemical Society series (Archaeological
Chemistry), Julian Henderson's Scientific Analysis in Archaeology
(1989), and selected articles from journals such as Archaeometry, Ar-
cheomaterials, or the Journal of Archaeological Science.
The volume is divided into four sections. Selections of a general
nature (e.g., bone analysis) are supplemented with specific case
studies (e.g., nondestructive analysis of an Egyptian mummy).
viii PREFACE

Section I is an introductory essay describing the contents of the

book and the anthropological and archaeological concepts upon
which it is based.
Essays in the second section, "Ancient Technologies and Experi-
mental Archaeology," deal with the evaluation of early technologies
from the different perspectives of the anthropologist, the field ar-
chaeologist, the modem craftsman, and the classical scholar.
The third section, "Organic Materials and the Reconstruction of
Early Environments," provides examples of recent analyses of or-
ganic remains (bones, seeds and plant skeletons, and fibers) used by
archaeologists to learn how humans interacted with their environ-
ment at different times and locations.
The fourth section, "Museums and Monuments," treats some of
the concerns of conservation scientists, museum curators and cul-
tural resource managers. Analytical techniques which provide max-
imum information about structure, composition, dating, and
authenticity without harming display-quality artifacts are empha-
sized. Techniques for analyzing building stone threatened or
damaged by pollutants on buildings at Mesa Verde National Monu-
ment and the Acropolis in Athens are also discussed.
Each chapter includes not only "References" but also "Suggested
Readings." The former are the works referred to in the text, whereas
the latter are additional readings recommended by the authors and
editors as appropriate introductions to their fields.
A Glossary of Technical Terms concludes the volume.

References
Archaeological Chemistry, various authors and editors, published by the
American Chemical Society, vols. 1-5.
Bowman, S. (Ed.) (1991). Science and the Past. British Museum Press.
Henderson, J. (1989). Scientific Analysis in Archaeology. Oxford University
Committee for Archaeology, Monograph No. 19, UCLA Institute of Ar-
chaeology, Archaeological Research Tools 5. Oxford and Los Angeles.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book owes its origin to the University of Illinois' Program on

Ancient Technologies and Archaeological Materials (ATAM), and to
an interdisciplinary course, ''Materials and Civilization," initiated
by the editors and offered on the Urbana-Champaign campus in
1987 and 1988.
The ATAM Program was founded in 1977 by anthropologist
Thomas Riley, ceramic scientist David Payne, and classicist James
Dengate, as an interdisciplinary research unit of the graduate col-
lege specializing in the application of instrumental methods from
physics, chemistry, materials science and geology to the solution of
archaeological problems. Unlike many other American university
programs which focus on one laboratory technique or class of ma-
terials, ATAM expanded into a comprehensive organization with
faculty and staff participation from many academic units, muse-
ums, and laboratories on research projects ranging from Egyptian
mummies to Mesa Verde sandstone.
The "Materials and Civilization" course evolved into a team-
teaching effort in which the number of volunteer lecturers outnum-
bered the students. We incorporated museum exhibit preparation,
laboratory demonstrations in dating and microanalytical tech-
niques, and practical sessions in flint-knapping, pottery making,
and blacksmithing into the curriculum. The enthusiastic response
we received from students and faculty inspired several subsequent
regular course offerings (e.g., "Introduction to Preindustrial Tech-
nology: Milestones in Ancient Ceramics and Metalworking") with
co-sponsors in the departments of anthropology, classics, and sci-
ence, technology and society, and the campus honors program.
The ATAM faculty has published numerous technical articles in a
variety of journals, but this book is the first publication targeted for
a more general audience.
This volume would not have been possible without the contribu-
tions and support of many individuals at the University of Illinois.
In fact, much of our research over the years was accomplished with
very limited funds, by the goodwill and effort of dedicated scholars
who donated their artifacts, time and equipment. We thank espe-
cially the following people and departments who contributed in
X ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

some way to this book: Linda Klepinger (anthropology); Thomas

Riley, Stanley Ambrose, Charlie Keller, Norman and Sibby Whitten,
Don Lathrap (deceased), Demitri Shimkin (deceased) (anthropol-
ogy); Suzanne Hoban (ATAM); James Dengate (classics); Barbara
Bohen (World Heritage Museum); Stephen Prokopoff, Margaret
Sullivan, and Eunice Maguire (Krannert Art Museum); David
Lawrance (National Center for Supercomputing Applications);
Richard Keen (College of Veterinary Medicine); Cameron Begg
(geology); John Woodhouse and Joyce McMillan (materials research
laboratory); Philip Hopke (Institute for Environmental Studies);
Allen Weller and Henry Maguire (art history); Jack Harlan and
Theodore Hymowitz (agronomy); Eric Freund (urban and regional
planning); John Isaacson (CERL); Don Frith and Ron Kovatch
(ceramics); Carl Altstetter, James Nelson, Arthur Friedberg
(deceased), and Charles Wert (materials science and engineering);
Sheldon Landsberger (nuclear engineering); Mastura Raheel (textile
science); and Kenneth Rinehart and Mark Proefke (school of chemi-
cal sciences). We are grateful for the invaluable support and en-
couragement provided to ATAM by successive deans of the
graduate college of the University of Illinois - particularly Ned
Goldwasser, Roger Clark, Ted Brown, and Judith Liebman. We also
acknowledge the agencies who have funded some of the analyses
mentioned in this book, namely the National Endowment for the
Humanities, which supported the technical analyses of several ob-
jects from the Krannert Art Museum under the direction of Yanda
Vitali from the University of Toronto; the U.S. National Park Service
for the study of Mesa Verde sandstone; the University of Illinois
Research Board, which has funded studies on Ecuadorian and
Roman pottery; and the Construction Engineering Research Labo-
ratory (CERL), U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which funded our
program for several years of intensive research on early-Illinois pot-
tery and archaeometric techniques. Finally, we express appreciation
to the staff of the Conservation Laboratory at the Cincinnati Art
Museum for their cooperation in the analysis of several objects.
For permission to print photographs, we acknowledge: the Amer-
ican Association of Textile Chemists and Colorists (chapter 8); the
World Heritage Museum (chapters 9, 10, and 12); the Krannert Art
Museum (chapters 2 and 9); the Cincinnati Art Museum (chapter 9);
and Thomas J. Riley (chapter 7, Fig. 7.2). For permission to include
portions of previously published articles, we acknowledge: Eric
Freund, whose chapter 11 appeared in an earlier form in the Con-
struction Spedfier (July 1987); Thomas J. Riley and the Department of
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xi

the Army, construction engineering research laboratory, for there-

vised version (chapter 3) of an article from Instrumental Techniques in
Archeological Research (1988); Birkhauser Verlag for the radically
revised chapter on the University of Illinois mummy; and Springer
Verlag for Paul Keyser's revised chapter on Heron's Steam Engine.
The specific citations are included in the references for each chapter.
Special thanks to Dorothy Williams and Linda Klepinger for
proofreading and to Charles Stout for timely graphics.
Page Intentionally Left Blank
 I.

Introduction
Page Intentionally Left Blank
 Chapter
ONE

Why Study Artifacts?

An Interdisciplinary
Approach
Sarah Wisseman
Program on Ancient Technologies and
Archaeological Materials (ATAM),
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign

Wendell Williams
Materials Science and Engineering,
Case Western Reserve University

This book explores the intersections between anthropo-

logy, classical archaeology, and materials science. Its central premise
is an anthropological one, that the study of material remains -
pottery, building stones, textiles, etc. - reveals cultural information
about the people who made and used them. If culture is defined as
human behavior, "the learned body of tradition that ties a society
together" (Thomas 1989: 128), then culture can encompass every-
thing from eating habits to decorative art. In the context of technol-
ogy, culture can mean the rituals associated with procuring raw clay
or with smelting iron, or it may mean the organizational structure of
a craft workshop according to social status and division of labor.

3
4 S. U. WISSEMAN AND W. S. WILLIAMS

The anthropological study of technology includes not only the

materials and techniques used to make artifacts or build buildings,
but the cognitive strategies and decision-making of the craftsmen.
Choices made in the production of an object reflect adaptations to the
artisan's physical environment. For example, forging an iron sword
may take longer on days with cold temperatures and high wind
(factors which affect the fire used to heat the iron) than on a warm,
still day even though the identical process is used on both days. Such
processes can be experienced first-hand by the archaeologist who
attempts to replicate ancient objects using local materials and rea-
sonable approximations of ancient tools and working conditions.
The experimental approach (also termed "experimental archaeol-
ogy") forces the scholar to work through a technology step-by-step
without skipping phases as one inevitably does when merely visu-
alizing that technology. The maker of a pot or an iron tool becomes
familiar not only with the advantages and limitations of the material
(ancient or modern), but also with the changes of direction that are
necessary as a response to changing conditions (e.g., temperature
fluctuations). This approach has been moderately successful for the
study of ceramics, metalworking, stone tools, and various types of
early architecture (Coles 1973; Ingersoll et al. 1977).
One of the more spectacular successes is the work of Nicholas
Toth, an Indiana University anthropologist who made his own stone
tools and demonstrated their use on animal carcasses (Toth 1987).
Toth's experiments are invaluable sources of information about
every phase of stone tool making, from the identification of suitable
rock outcrops to the specific use of tools for cutting flesh or scraping
hide.
Similar work has been conducted at the University of Toronto,
where students of Ursula Franklin made replicas of stone tools and
used them to carve up a frozen bear carcass (Franklin, personal
communication). The students learned that certain tools were better
for cutting skin, others for scraping bone, etc.
Many other studies have been conducted on different materials,
especially ceramics (see Chapter 2). For example, Karen D. Vitelli and
her students at Indiana University have been engaged for several
years in replication of the manufacturing and firing of Greek Neo-
lithic pottery (Vitelli 1984).
Experimental archaeology also encompasses research on the pro-
perties of bone, clay, stone, metal, etc., using modern materials and
facilities. Studying the fracture patterns of bone or the behavior of
modern clay under different firing conditions educates the archae-
WHY STUDY ARTIFACTS? 5

ologist about what to look for in ancient artifacts. Similarly, studying

patterns of reuse of modem materials and products (as in Michael
Schiffer's work at the University of Arizona) can shed light on an-
cient reuse and recycling (Gould and Schiffer 1981).
How technological knowledge is transmitted or communicated is
another important area of investigation. Transmission of knowledge
falls into at least two categories: transfer from one person to another
in the same society, and transmission of techniques, decorative
schemes, and functions between different societies across space and
time.
Basket-weaving may be learned by a daughter from her mother or
aunt, but how is this accomplished? Even in modern (traditional)
workshops, transmission of technological knowledge is often by a
nonverbal apprenticeship in which one learns by watching and do-
ing rather than by reading a blueprint or a how-to manual. Both the
physical skills and the cognitive processes are transmitted; the chal-
lenge for the archaeologist or historian examining an ancient artifact
is to work backwards from the final product to the human behavior
used to make it.
Diffusion of technology from one society to another is an equally
complex problem, one that generates heated discussion among an-
thropologists and archaeologists. Pottery found at two contemporary
sites may be so similar in form and decoration that the researcher
assumes they were made in the same ceramic workshop. Several
questions must then be answered: Are the clays used in making both
sets of pottery the same? If not, what is the evidence for cultural
contact between the two societies that accounts for the similarities in
pottery? What is the mechanism of diffusion: trade of finished
products from one site to the other, or transmission of information by
intermarriage, exchange of prisoners of war, or other form of contact?
Are the similarities in ceramics echoed in other aspects of the two
cultures such as burial customs or house plans? Some of these ques-
tions are unanswerable due to lack of archaeological or historical
data, but others, such as the composition of the clay, can be addressed
using modem analytical techniques borrowed from chemistry, geol-
ogy, and nuclear physics.
The above example highlights another basic anthropological
premise: artifacts do not exist in a vacuum because the behaviors and
conditions that produced them are tied to other aspects of the culture
under investigation. The economics of production (who made the
artifacts for what market) may reflect social organization. For in-
stance, the use of slaves in ancient Greek pottery workshops for
6 S. U. WISSEMAN AND W. S. WILLIAMS

menial tasks such as stoking the kiln and turning the wheel enabled
the master potters to mass-produce certain vase forms which were
then exported all over the Mediterranean. Settlement patterns and
population density can also reflect social status, as in the size and
position of the Potter's Quarter in ancient Athens.
Population patterns are in tum tied to subsistence strategies for
living in a particular environment. Climate and vegetation can be
deduced through analyses of plant skeletons and seeds, and this
information contributes to our understanding of early agriculture
and diet. Additional data on nutrition, health, and disease can be
obtained through the structural and chemical analyses of ancient
bone.
The above discussion highlights only a few of the questions com-
mon to the difficult and time-consuming process of extracting
cultural information from archaeological finds. Successful interpre-
tation and integration of data depends on many factors: context and
completeness of the finds, the analytical techniques employed, and
the training of the researcher and his ability to communicate his
conclusions to others.

1HE NATURE OF 1HE EVIDENCE

Archaeological excavation is by its very nature destructive of cultural
and historical evidence. Once the layers of artifacts and debris
deposited by different peoples are disturbed, future scientists must
depend on written and photographic records of the excavated area;
they cannot re-excavate or apply new techniques to examine what is
no longer there. The work of Heinrich Schliemann, the German
businessman who uncovered the ancient city of Troy is a classic
example. His notorious north-south trench destroyed much valuable
evidence at Troy in the late 1800s. Fortunately, archaeological me-
thods have improved with careful trenching, methodical record-
keeping, and detailed photography. However, even the best qualified
excavators rarely complete all they wish to do at a site before time or
funds run out, or before natural or man-made complications inter-
vene.
Even under ideal circumstances, excavations produce only frag-
mentary evidence of past civilizations. What remains is determined
both by the nature of the artifacts and the nature of the site. Ceramic
and stone artifacts preserve some of the earliest cultural information
because they neither corrode nor decay. Metal (e.g., iron) and bone
artifacts, on the other hand, present more problems because they are
WHY STUDY ARTIFACTS? 7

altered over time by exposure to moisture and chemicals in the soil

and therefore must be cleaned and stabilized before analysis.
A historical site may yield architectural remains, ceramic and
metal artifacts, organic deposits of foodstuffs, or inscriptions, but
rarely all of the above. A prehistoric site may produce very different
and more limited sorts of evidence: stone tools, animal dung, charred
wooden beams, post holes, or almost invisible plant remains in the
soil. Again, the nature of the evidence is incomplete, and the ar-
chaeologist's attempt at reconstructing the history of the site is like
building a jigsaw puzzle with many pieces missing.
Interpretation of the finds depends upon knowing the archaeologi-
cal context (level and position within a site) and being able to draw
comparisons with similar objects found at other sites. Fitting artifacts
into their historical setting also means understanding how ancient
craftsmen located and selected their raw materials and then em-
ployed them effectively to produce useful objects. The archaeologist
must know both the local geology to locate possible sources of raw
material, and the local ecological and climatic conditions to recon-
struct ancient working conditions. The ecological data can be crucial
in understanding why certain crafts were seasonal: pottery, for in-
stance, could not be produced in large quantities in winter when
snow buried the clay sources or during monsoons when rain made
firing impossible (Arnold 1985).
If literary evidence is available in the form of references to or
descriptions about craft industries, then the archaeologist may use
this as background information to help interpret archaeological data.
Far more common, however, is the situation where only the objects
themselves remain to tell their story. Archaeologists may then tum to
ethnographic studies, which are detailed observations of craft pro-
cesses in modem non-industrial cultures. They can then extrapolate
backwards in time to draw some tentative conclusions about how
things were made. For example, studying how Pueblo pottery is
made today gives the archaeologist a very good idea of how it was
done in earlier periods in the American Southwest.
While well-trained field archaeologists may excavate their own
sites, they cannot hope to interpret and publish all their finds
without some assistance from other specialists. Thirty years ago they
might have collaborated with a physical anthropologist for bone
analysis, a conservator for pottery reconstruction, and an epigrapher
to decipher inscriptions. Today, in addition, archaeologists may also
tum to a materials scientist to analyze the composition of the ceramic
and metal artifacts, a specialist in stable isotope analysis to extract
Another random document with
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until he opened his eyes in his own cabin and perceived, with the
dazed wonder of returning consciousness, that the old sailor,
Williams, and the ship’s doctor, Mr French, were bending over him.

‘You’ll do now,’ remarked the doctor as he held a cordial to his lips.

‘Is she safe?’ was all Richard Egerton said in reply, as he looked at
his splintered arm. They thought he meant the ‘Star of the North.’
‘Oh yes, she’s safe enough now, sir,’ replied the old seaman; ‘but
we’ve had an awful time of it, and no mistake. We’ve lost our top-
gallant mast, and our spars and hen-coops have been washed
overboard, and one of the boats got adrift in the squall, and the
poor “Star” is stript of half her toggery.’
‘But are any of the passengers injured?’
‘No one but yourself, sir; but two of our best men went over with
the mast, and Ralph White has broke his leg, and there’ll be a tidy
little bill for some one to pay when we gets into port again.’
‘And that reminds me, Williams, that I must go and look after poor
White,’ said the doctor. ‘I think I may leave my patient in your care
now. All you have got to do is to see that he lies there till I come
back again.’
‘I’ll look after the gentleman, doctor, never you fear,’ replied the
old seaman as Mr French left the cabin.
‘It was an awful hurricane, Williams,’ remarked Egerton, with a
sigh of remembrance, as he turned uneasily upon his pillow.
‘You may well say that, sir; and it’s just a miracle as we’re still
afloat.’
‘How little we thought, as we talked together on deck an hour or
two ago, that death was so close at hand for some of us.’
 ‘Ay, indeed, and with that smiling, burning, treacherous blue sky
above us. You have seen some of the dangers now, sir. I suppose
you ain’t going, in the face of this storm, to hold to Bill’s song, that
“Whatever is, is best.”’
‘Yes, I am, Williams,’ replied the young man firmly.
‘What! with our tight little ship knocked to pieces in this fashion,
and your arm broken in two places?’
‘Just so, Williams. Heaven sent both the storm and the accident.
They must be for the best.’
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ exclaimed the old sailor in sheer amazement.
The announcement seemed to have taken all the wind out of his
sails, and he sat staring at the wounded man as if he had charge of
a lunatic.
‘How comes it that you are attending on me?’ asked Egerton, as
Williams handed him a glass of water.
‘Well, sir, I seem to have took a fancy to your way of talking; so
when they wanted some one here to help the doctor with your arm I
offered to come, that’s all.’
‘It was very good of you. You told me this morning that you had
had troubles, and prayer had never availed to get you out them. Do
you mind telling me what those troubles are?’
‘Not a bit, sir, if I sha’n’t tire you; but it is a long story. I had a
sweetheart when I was a young chap—most young chaps have, you
know, sir—I daresay you’ve had one yourself before now—and I had
a school-mate, too, by name—well! we’ll call him Robert—and we
both loved the girl dearly; but he got her, sir, and I had to go to the
wall.’
‘That was very unlucky for you.’
‘Well, it was unfortunate, though he courted her above-board, and
all was fair enough at the time. But the worst of it was that he
turned out a regular bad ’un, and ill-treated his wife shamefully arter
he’d married her. When I came home from sea, it used to make my
blood reg’lar boil to hear poor Lottie tell how he’d beaten and kicked
and starved her, for he’d taken to drink, you see, sir, and all his love
had gone like a flash of lightning.’
‘Was he a sailor too?’
‘Yes, sir, and once, when I come off a long voyage to China and
Australy, and round home by San Francisco, I heard that Lottie was
a widder and in great distress, without hardly a bit of money. Well, I
looked her up pretty sharp, as you may guess, and I found it was all
true.’
‘And then you married her.’
‘No, I didn’t sir. I’ve never been married. I don’t deny I asked her,
but she wouldn’t have me, nor no one. She said it was too late, and
she was dyin’, which sure enough she was. But she had a child, sir—
little Dickey—such a dear little chap, with blue eyes—just like her
own—and pretty yeller curls; and when she died she left him on my
hands, and lor’, how fond I was of that little creetur! He took his
poor mammy’s place in my heart altogether.’
The old sailor stopped here, and drew his hand across his eyes.
‘Did he die too, Williams?’ inquired Egerton.
‘Not as I knows of, sir. He may be dead or livin’. It’s all the same to
me now. That was the time I used to pray, Mr Egerton, night and
day, that the little feller I was so proud on might grow up a good
man and a good son to me and a comfort to my old age, and when I
lost him I chucked up religion altogether.’
‘How did you lose him?’
‘In the crudest of ways, sir. He had grow’d up beside me five
years, and I had done everythink for him; and when he’d put his two
little arms round my neck and kiss me, and look so like his poor
mother—who was the only sweetheart I ever had, Mr Egerton—I
used to thank the Lord, with tears in my eyes, for His goodness to
me. But it was all a delusion, sir.’
 ‘Tell me the end of it.’
‘The end of it was that, when my pretty Dickey was a smart little
feller of about ten years old, I got him a place as ship-boy aboard
the ‘Lady Bird,’ and we sailed for the Brazils together, as proud and
’appy as the days was long. And I was a teachin’ the boy everythink,
Mr Egerton, and he was gettin’ that ’cute and handy—when, in an
evil moment, that man whom we all thought dead and buried,
turned up again somewhere down by Rio Janeiro, and claimed his
boy of me.’
‘What! the father?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course he had the right to do it, and that’s what the
skipper tried to make me understand; but it broke my heart entirely.
He thought he’d make money out of the lad’s wages, and so he took
him away from me, who was just like a father to him; and his
screams, as we parted, have never left my ears since. And when I
heard afterwards that the brute ill-treated Dickey, just as he’d done
his poor mammy, I nearly went mad. The men calls me sulky, and
“Old Contrairy,” and sich like names; but many’s the time when they
think me cross, I’m only dreaming over that time ag’in and cursin’
them as brought me to sich a pitch. I shall never see my pretty
Dickey ag’in, sir, till I meets ’im up above; and I shall owe Robert
Hudson a grudge to the day of my death for robbin’ me of him in
that there cruel manner.’
‘Who did you say?’ cried Egerton, starting up in his berth.
‘Please to lie down, sir? The doctor will be arter me if I lets you
knock about in that manner. The name slipped out unawares, for
’tain’t of no use raking it up ag’in. It has nothin’ to do with my story.’
‘But, pray, tell it me again?’
‘It was Robert Hudson, sir.’
‘But Robert Hudson was the name of my father!’
‘Your father, sir! But, beggin’ your pardon, how can that be, when
you’re called Egerton?’
 ‘I know I am; but I took the name from a relation who left me his
money on condition that I did so. My real name is Richard Hudson,
and I was brought up to the sea and adopted by my mother’s
cousin, Henry Egerton, because my father treated me so brutally. He
was had up by the police for thrashing me till I fainted, and then the
magistrates gave me over to the guardianship of Mr Egerton——;
and, Williams, can it possibly be?’
‘Sir, sir! don’t keep me in suspense. What was the maiden name of
your mother?’
‘Charlotte Erskine, and she was born in Essex.’
‘At Pinfold?’
‘That is the place. My grandfather had the “Peartree Farm” there,
and she is buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Mr Egerton used often
to take me to see her grave.’
‘Oh, sir! this is very, very wonderful! Is it possible you can be my
little Dickey?’
‘It is quite true that I am the son of Robert and Charlotte Hudson,
and that if I had not changed my name, we should have recognised
each other before now. Do not think I have forgotten you, Williams?
I cannot remember the face of my sailor friend; but I have never
forgotten all his kindness to me. But surely I used to call you “Caleb”
in those days, and have always thought of you by that name since.’
‘True, enough, sir, that’s me—Caleb Williams, and I can hear your
sweet little voice a-callin’ Caleb from the top of the house to the
bottom now; you was never long out of my arms, Mr Egerton. Day
and night you was on this bosom, as you may say, and my heart’s
been as empty as a dried gourd since I lost sight of you. And so
you’re my own boy—leastways, what I used to call my own—and
I’ve been a nussin’ you again as I used to nurse you in the olden
times. Oh, bless the Lord for all His mercies!’ cried the old seaman,
as he fairly broke down, and sobbed with his face in his hands.
 They talked for a long time over the past; Richard Egerton being
scarcely less affected than old Williams, as, one by one, little
incidents and reminiscences came to light to confirm their several
identities, and make him see still more clearly how much he owed to
the old man who sat beside him.
‘And now, Caleb,’ he said, when the evening shadows had
deepened into dusk, ‘this will be your last voyage. I cannot let you
work any more. You know that I have riches, and you must share
them.’
‘Oh, sir, you are too good!’
‘Don’t call me “sir” again, please. Call me Richard, Caleb, or
“Dickey,” or anything that pleases your fancy; but the man who
acted as a father to me when I had worse than none, shall never
address me as though I were his superior. What was it you prayed
for me to become, Caleb, in those days when I used to sit on your
knee with my little hands clasped about your neck?’
‘A good man and a good son, my dear, dear boy,’ quavered the old
seaman.
‘Well, I will try, at all events, to fulfil the last clause. My cousin
Egerton, who was a rich tradesman, has left me all his property. I
have land and houses in Barbadoes, and I intend to settle there; at
least, for the next few years. You must come and live with me. You
will find plenty of work on the estate to employ your time, if you
wish to work; and if you wish to rest, you shall be idle. My father has
been dead in reality for many years past, so that we shall be left
alone and in peace this time to end our days together.’
‘And there is no one else, my dear boy?’ inquired Williams
anxiously.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You are not married, nor likely to be?’
‘I am not married, nor likely to be. There is no one else,’ repeated
Richard Egerton, with a bitter sigh.
 ‘Don’t sigh like that, sir.’
‘Dickey, please, Caleb.’
‘Dickey, then—my little Dickey, as I loved so hearty. To think I
should have found you again arter all these years—grow’d to such a
fine man, too—and in that awful storm! It beats everythink I ever
heard of.’
‘Whatever is, is best,’ replied Egerton. ‘You won’t grumble again,
will you, Caleb, because the answer to your prayer may be delayed a
little?’
‘Don’t mention it, my boy. I feels ashamed even to remember it.’
‘You see that even the hurricane has borne its good fruit as well as
its evil. Without it we might never have been made known to each
other.’
‘It’s bin a marciful interposition of Providence from beginning to
end,’ said old Williams, wiping his eyes. ‘But I should like to see you
a bit more cheerful, Dickey. There has been a sad look in your face
the last four days, which I couldn’t help noticin’, and now that I
knows you to be who you are, I sha’n’t rest satisfied till you smiles in
the old way again.’
Egerton was just about to answer him, when a gentle knock
sounded on the cabin door, which stood ajar in consequence of the
heat.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded the old sailor gruffly.
‘It is only I,’ responded a soft, trembling voice, which Egerton at
once recognised as that of Amy Herbert. ‘I came to inquire how Mr
Egerton is getting on, and if I can do anything for him.’
‘No, miss, thank ye, you can’t do nothin’; he’s a-goin’ on very
nicely, and I’m here,’ responded Williams.
‘May I speak to him for a minute?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Richard eagerly, raising himself to a sitting position.
 The young lady pushed open the cabin door and stood on the
threshold, blushing like a rose. She looked very beautiful, although
her eyes were swollen with crying, and her dress and hair were in
disorder.
‘I felt I could not sleep until I had thanked you for what you did
for me, Mr Egerton,’ she uttered tearfully. ‘You endangered your own
life to save mine, who have done nothing to deserve such a sacrifice
on your part.’
‘Ay, that he did!’ interrupted Williams.
‘It is nothing—nothing,’ said Egerton faintly, for the sight of her
had upset all his courage. ‘You could not help it. It is not your fault if
—if—’
‘If—what?’ demanded Amy Herbert.
He turned his eyes towards her, and a new hope ran through his
veins like a reviving cordial. ‘Caleb, my dear old friend,’ he exclaimed
tenderly, ‘leave me for five minutes to myself.’
‘What! all alone with the lady?’ returned Caleb, regarding Miss
Herbert as though she were a dangerous animal.
‘Yes, for one moment only. I have something to say for her ear
alone.’
He had sprung off the berth in his excitement, and was about to
quit the cabin.
‘Don’t go out, then, my dear boy, for mercy’s sake,’ said Williams,
‘for you’ve lost a deal of blood, and are weaker than you think for.
Will you promise me?’
‘I do promise, if you will only go.’
The old man shambled out of the cabin as he spoke, and the two
were left alone.
‘I want so much to tell you,’ said Egerton, speaking with some
difficulty, ‘what I had not the courage to say this morning, that I
know it is not your fault. The blame rests entirely on me. It was my
presumption—my madness, if you will—that led me on to speak to
you as I did, and I acquit you of all blame. I know you feel for my
disappointment now—and I thought it would make you easier to
hear this—that is all.’
‘Oh, if I could only make you understand!’ she sobbed.
‘Pray don’t distress yourself. I do understand it all. How can you
help it if you find it impossible to love me?’
‘But I do not—I mean, I can—that is to say, I did not mean—’
stammered the girl, colouring scarlet at the admission she had been
betrayed into making.
‘Am I to understand that you did not mean what you said this
morning?’ exclaimed the young man as he grasped her hand. ‘Amy,
you have given me fresh life. Oh, do not take it back again! Say if
you love me!’
Her maidenly bashfulness struggled for a moment with her
probity, but the latter conquered.
‘Yes, I do love you! It was my egregious vanity and love of
conquest that made me trifle with your feelings this morning. I have
been very miserable ever since. I have hoped you would speak to
me again, and when I saw you risk your life for my sake, I wished
that I might have died for you instead.’
‘O Amy, Amy! Your words are opening heaven to me. Darling, is it
possible that you will be my wife?’
‘If you can forgive my heartless rejection of you, Richard. If you
can believe that I am true in saying that I hated each word even as I
uttered it. If you still think me worthy of being your life-companion, I
will give you a very different answer now.’
‘You have made me the very happiest man on earth,’ he cried
exultantly, as he folded her in his arms.
‘Lor’, sir!—I mean my boy, Dickey—you mus’n’t be a-goin’ on like
this!’ exclaimed old Caleb, appearing on the scene when least
expected. ‘The doctor’s particular orders was that you were to keep
quiet and not bounce about.’
‘Caleb, my dear friend, I will be as quiet as your heart can wish
now, for mine is at rest. Don’t stare so. Come here, and sit down
again, whilst I explain to this young lady all that you have been to
me, and tell you all that I trust she will very soon be to me.’
‘Oh, we’re to have a missus arter all, then!’ cried the old sailor
meaningly. ‘Why, I thought you told me just now, my boy, that you
warn’t a-goin’ to be spliced!’
‘Ah, Caleb, the storm has sent me a wife as it brought you a son.
Had it not been for that awful hurricane, and the peril in which it
placed this precious life, I am not quite sure if we should ever have
been so happy as we are this evening. Never mind my wounded arm
and the gash upon my cheek; Miss Herbert says she shall like it all
the better for a scar. The wound in my heart is healed, Caleb, and
life looks very fair for us all henceforward. And yet you could not
believe “Old Contrairy,”’ he added playfully, that ‘Whatever is, is
best.’
THE END.
 ‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’
I came down to breakfast one morning last autumn, and found a
letter on the table from my old friend Bessie Maclean.
Bessie and I were girls at school together, and continued our
intimacy after we left, until we married and went to different parts of
the country. Marriage is a terrible breaker up of old ties; not only by
reason of the separation which generally ensues, but because of the
new duties it entails. We had both married the men of our hearts,
however, and in comfortable circumstances; and so far all was well.
But little by little our correspondence, which at first had been so
voluminous and detailed, became scanty and irregular.
Bessie had half-a-dozen children to occupy her time and attention;
and I—I had my dear husband to fill up the measure of my life, and
felt myself a wicked and ungrateful woman if I even wished for
more.
But—there is always a ‘but’ in the happiest worldly existence, is
there not?—Dick and I had no children; and the disappointment had
sometimes caused me to shed bitter tears. In secret though; I had
never told my husband one-half I felt upon the subject.
Of course he twitted me with it sometimes in a playful manner,
which showed that the fact did not sink very deep into his heart,
whatever it did in mine. Yet I had thought occasionally that he
looked more thoughtful than usual when children were in the room:
and the idea made me thoughtful too. Especially I had noticed it
when we paid our first visit to Bessie in her new house; for I must
tell you that a few months before my story commences, Tom
Maclean had bought a large farm in the vicinity of the town where
the gaol stands, of which my husband is the governor. Of course,
after so long a separation, Bessie and I were delighted to find we
had become near neighbours again; and as soon as ever the
Macleans were settled, they invited us both over to Poplar Farm, to
stand sponsors to the latest arrival—a little boy whom they called
Richard, after my Dick, God bless him! Poplar Farm was ten or
twelve miles from Chesterwick, however, so I had not seen my
friends more than five or six times since the christening day; and the
visits I had paid them had not quite realised the expectations I had
formed of meeting Bessie again.
I suppose it was my vile envious nature, or perhaps the quiet life I
have led with Dick has made me selfish; but it seemed to me as
though all the time my old school-fellow spent with me was devoted,
not to our friendship, or reminiscences of our girlish days, but to
talking about her children and telling me of their accomplishments or
complaints, or consulting me as to their dresses or amusements. Of
course I was pleased at first to be introduced to her fine brood of
boys and girls; but I could hardly be expected to feel as much
interest in them as their mother did, and I was sorely disappointed
to find she had lost so much of hers in me. She did not seem to care
to hear anything about my husband, or how we loved each other in
our happy, peaceful home; nor did she even talk much about Tom,
with her affection for whom I could have sympathised better than
with any other. But he appeared to be almost forgotten or
overlooked in her maternal care for the little ones; and she was
more anxious that Lily’s new hat should become her, or Charley’s
medicine be swallowed without a fit of obstinacy, than that Mr
Maclean should appreciate his dinner, or have his evening hours
undisturbed for settling his accounts. I have observed the same
thing—oh! scores of times—amongst my married female
acquaintances; and the fact has done more to reconcile me to the
want of a family than any other.
 Not that I believe that the charge of a hundred children could ever
make me forget my darling’s wants—but there, this is not a love
story, so I must try and keep my Dick’s name out of it as much as
possible.
I had received several letters from Bessie during the last month,
which had rather surprised me, as she had grown very lazy at
correspondence, as I have said before, and naturally, taking up her
residence at Poplar Farm had not made her write oftener, excepting
when she required the benefit of my experience with regard to the
advantages of her new home. Her two last letters, however, had
been written in a very unaccountable strain; and if I had not known
she was comfortably and happily situated, I should have imagined it
was just the reverse.
‘Another letter from Bessie!’ I exclaimed, as I broke the seal.
‘What on earth can she want now? I suppose she has found out
somebody sells whiter flour than Watkins, or better tea than Amyott?
I almost believe, Dick, she regrets having left Lincolnshire.’
‘I don’t know why she should,’ replied Dick, as he commenced a
raid upon the breakfast-table; ‘for, according to Maclean’s account,
they lived in a perfect swamp there. But why can’t the woman look
after her own flour and tea? Why is she to worry you about
everything in this fashion?’
‘Oh! I suppose she thinks, as I have no children, I cannot possibly
have anything to do,’ I said, laughing; ‘for I heard her remark, with
regard to Mrs Anderson, who is in the same plight as myself, that it
must be quite a charity to give her any employment!’
‘Like her impudence,’ growled Dick—(I don’t think Bessie is a
favourite with my husband; perhaps I talked too much about her
beforehand),—‘I should let her know to the contrary if I were you,
Dolly. I believe, with all her fuss and bustle, that you do twice her
work in half the time.’
‘Ah! I have only one baby to look after, you see, though he’s a big
one,’ I said, as I gave his head a squeeze with my disengaged hand;
‘but goodness me, Dick, this letter is worse than the last even.
Bessie seems really in low spirits now. She says that Mr Maclean’s
business will take him away from home for a few nights next week,
and she wants me to go over and spend them with her in—yes, she
actually calls Poplar Farm—“this gloomy ramshackle old place.”’
‘It’s old enough,’ said Dick, ‘and all the better for it; but it’s not
“ramshackle.” Better walls and roof were never built than those of
Poplar Farm. It stands as steady as the gaol.’
‘But about my going to her, Dick—can you spare me?’
‘Can I spare you!’ repeated my husband in that tone of voice that,
after ten years’ marriage, has still the power to make my heart beat
faster. ‘Of course I can! I could spare you for good and all, if
someone would only be obliging enough to take you off my hands;
but there’s no such luck in store for me. Only mind the days don’t
stretch themselves into weeks, sweetheart!’
‘Into weeks!’ I replied, indignantly. ‘Have I ever stayed weeks
away from you yet, Dick? I’m not even sure that I shall go at all.’
‘Yes! you’d better go, Dolly; Bessie Maclean is selfish and
egotistical, and somewhat of a fool; but I daresay she’s nervous at
the idea of remaining in that isolated home by herself, particularly as
it is all so strange to her. And you don’t know what fear is, old
woman!’
‘I wish she could overhear the character you give her,’ I answered,
laughingly. But Dick was right. I am not a nervous woman, and if I
had been, he would have cured me of it long before. Living in a
gaol, and having, of my own free will, constant access to the
prisoners, had effectually dispersed any ladylike unreasonable fears I
may once have thought womanly and becoming, and made me
ashamed of starting at shadows. So, having sent an affirmative
answer to my friend’s appeal, I set out for Poplar Farm, when the
time came, with as much confidence in my powers of protection as
though I had been of the sterner sex.
Dick drove me over in the curricle.
 It was a bright November morning: one of those days when the
air is crisp and exhilarating without being in the least degree cold; a
day on which one feels younger, and more hopeful and capable of
good—on which one’s sorrows seem too paltry for consideration, and
one’s happiness far more than one deserves. I experienced this
sensation in the fullest sense, as I crept as close as I could to my
husband’s side, and smuggled one hand beneath his arm.
‘Holloa!’ cried Dick; ‘why, what’s this? Repenting of your promise
already, eh? Oh! you spoony woman, I’m ashamed of you!’
I was repenting it, but I did not tell him so. It is good for people
who love very much to part sometimes, if only to teach them how
great a blessing they possess in each other’s affection.
As we drove up the long-neglected drive of Poplar Farm, I could
not help thinking that Bessie was right in considering it gloomy. The
sun had disappeared again behind an autumn cloud. The trees had
shed most of their leaves, which lay in sodden heaps along the
paths, and a chilly wind had commenced to blow. I drew my cloak
closer against my shoulders, and told Dick what I thought.
‘Nonsense, Dolly!’ he replied. ‘The place is well enough; and when
Maclean has had time to put it in order, will be one of the prettiest
farms in the county. I only wish I had the money to buy such
another. But naturally it does not look its best when the trees are
bare.’
‘Stop!’ I cried, suddenly; ‘there’s the baby. Let me get down and
kiss him. That must be the new nurse carrying him, Dick. But what a
lugubrious looking young person she is!’
My husband had good-naturedly drawn up by this time, and I had
scrambled down to meet my little godson, who was about three
months old. But as soon as I had pulled aside the veil that covered
his face, I started with surprise.
‘Oh! how he has gone off!’ I exclaimed.
 The baby, who had been so fat and dimpled and red-faced last
time I saw him, was now drawn and white and thin. The change was
apparent so that even Dick could see it from the box-seat.
‘Whew!’ he whistled; ‘why, what’s the matter with the little chap—
is he ill?’
‘Oh no! he’s not ill. He is perfectly well. You don’t think he looks ill,
madam?’ said the girl who was carrying him, anxiously.
‘I don’t think I ever saw a child so changed in my life,’ I answered,
in my blunt fashion. ‘Are you the wet-nurse Mrs Maclean told me she
had engaged for him?’
‘Yes, madam,’ she said, in a very low voice.
I raised my eyes, and examined her then for the first time
thoroughly; and I could not help observing what a remarkable-
looking girl she was. She had the very palest and clearest of
complexions—so colourless that it looked like the finest white wax,
and her skin was of the texture of satin. Her large, clear, grey eyes,
which shone with a limpid light, like agates with water running over
them, had a startled look, which might almost have been mistaken
for fear, and her delicately cut mouth drooped in the most pathetic
manner. To add to the mournfulness of her appearance, her hair was
almost completely hidden beneath her cap, and her dress was the
deepest widow’s mourning. I made a few indifferent remarks about
the child, kissed it, and jumped up to my seat again. The nurse was
not the person I felt to whom to speak on the subject of the baby’s
appearance. She made a deep reverence as the carriage moved off,
and I saw she was a very superior sort of young woman; but of
what account was that, where little Dick’s health, and perhaps his
life, was concerned?
‘Bessie’s a greater fool than I took her for,’ I exclaimed,
indignantly, as we drove on towards the house.
‘What’s in the wind now?’ said Dick.
 ‘Fancy, choosing a wet-nurse for a baby all crape and bombazine
and tears. Why, that girl looks as if she cried night and day. I knew
Bessie had been weak enough to be persuaded by the doctor to give
up nursing baby herself, but she might have exercised a little
discretion in the choice of a substitute. The child is half the size he
was last month.’
‘What a lot we know about babies!’ said Dick, in his chaffing way.
‘I should hope I know more than half the mothers I meet,’ I
continued, with some warmth. ‘I should be ashamed to be as
ignorant as Bessie herself, for instance, though she has had six
children,’ I added, with a little droop in my voice.
‘My own Dolly!’ said Dick, fondly; and when he says those words
in that voice, I don’t care for anything else in all the wide, wide
world. He wouldn’t stay—even to dismount from his box, for we
knew Mr Maclean had already left the house, and he thought our
chatter would get on better without him, added to which he had
duties demanding him at home. So I gave him one long, long kiss,
and let him go; and as soon as he was out of sight, turned into the
door of Poplar Farm.
Bessie was in the dining-room, where the dinner was already
spread, surrounded by her batch of self-willed unruly children. As
she came forward to meet me, I saw that she looked tired and worn
out, and that her dress was untidy and neglected.
‘It is so good of you to come, Dolly,’ was her greeting, ‘for I am so
worried I don’t know what I should have done without you.’
‘I am very glad to be of use, Bessie; but what worries you—the
baby?’
‘Dear me! no. It is something quite different. Why should baby
worry me? He has his wet-nurse, and she takes him completely off
my hands.’
‘He is so pulled down,’ I said unhesitatingly, for I took an interest
in my little godson. ‘I met him just now in the drive, and hardly
recognised the child. Are you satisfied his nurse does him justice?’
‘Oh, perfectly so. She is a most estimable young woman, so quiet
and ladylike in her way of speaking. Did you notice her eyes? such a
remarkable colour; and her hands are as white as yours or mine.’
‘But the baby does not appear to be thriving. He can’t inherit her
eyes or her hands, you know, and if he could, I don’t see that they
would be much use to him. What’s her name? Where did you find
her?’
‘She’s a Mrs Graham; and she was recommended to me from the
Lying-in Hospital at Chesterwick. I’m sorry you don’t think baby
looks well. Perhaps the change has pulled him down a little, though I
really can’t see it myself.’
I daresay she did not. Bessie is that sort of woman that never will
see anything until it has actually occurred. If her children died, she
would make as great a fuss over them—perhaps more—than
mothers who have guarded theirs from their infancy upwards; yet
she will let them eat improper food, and get damp feet, and remain
out in the burning sun without any covering to their heads; and if
you remonstrate with her, her invariable excuse is, that they have
always done so before and got no harm. As if the fact of a wrong
being permitted should make it a right; or because we have fallen
from the top of a house once without injury, we may cast ourselves
thence headlong each day without impunity.
I really never did think, when Bessie and I were girls together,
that she would turn out such a ninny.
‘What has worried you then, since it is not the baby?’ I demanded
presently.
‘Hush! I can’t tell you before the children. It’s an awful business,
and I wouldn’t have them hear of it for worlds. Will you lay your
bonnet aside, and have dinner with us as you are? or I’m afraid it
may get cold. Lily—Charley—Tommy, lay down these toys, and come
to the table at once. Put Bessie up on her high chair; and somebody
go and call Annie. Ah! Dolly, my dear, how well you have kept your
figure! What would I not give to be as slim and neat as you are.’
And although, of course, I would not compare one advantage with
the other, yet I must say that the pleasures of having a family would
possess a great drawback to me, if I were compelled at the same
time to become as rotund and untidy in appearance as poor Bessie
is at present. And I believe the chief thing Tom Maclean fell in love
with was her pretty rounded little figure. Alas! alas!
But I am keeping the early dinner waiting. As soon as it was
despatched, with the usual accompaniments of cutting up the
children’s meat, wiping their mouths, and preventing their throwing
the tumblers at each other’s heads, Mrs Maclean rose and offered to
show me to my bedroom. It was next to her own, and
communicated with it by a door.
‘This dear old place!’ I exclaimed as I entered it; ‘you are making it
very pretty, Bessie. Aren’t you glad that you have come into such a
handsome property, instead of having been stuck down in a modern
villa, with the plaster on the walls only half-dry?’
But Bessie did not appear to appreciate my congratulations.
‘Dolly,’ she said, as she sunk down into a chair, ‘I would change
Poplar Farm for the poorest little villa that was ever built.’
‘My dear girl, what do you mean?’
‘Mean! That the house is haunted, Dolly—’
I confess it; I could not help it: I burst into the loudest and rudest
laugh imaginable.
Poplar Farm haunted! What an absurdly unreasonable idea! Why,
the last tenants had only just moved out in time to let the Macleans
come in, and the house had been freshly papered and painted from
basement to attic. There was not a nook nor a corner for a ghost to
hide in.
 I could not help laughing; and what is worse, I could not stop
laughing, until my friend was offended.
‘You may laugh as much as you like,’ she said at last; ‘but I have
told you nothing but the truth. Do you mean to say that you
consider such a thing impossible?’
‘No! I won’t go as far as that; but I think it is very uncommon, and
very unlikely to occur to—to—to—’
Here I was obliged to halt, for the only words I could think of
were, ‘to anyone so material as yourself;’ and I couldn’t quite say
that. For though I do not deny the possibility of apparitions, I believe
that the person who is capable of perceiving them must be
composed of more mind than matter, and there is nothing spiritual
nor æsthetic about poor Bessie.
‘What is the ghost like, and who has seen it?’ I demanded, as
soon as I could command my countenance.
‘Several of the servants and myself,’ replied Bessie; ‘and Tom
might have seen it, too, if he were not so lazy. But one night when
the noises were close to our door, he refused to rouse himself even
to listen to them, and told me to go—Well, dear, I really can’t repeat
what he said; but husbands do not always use the politest language
when out of temper, you know!’
‘Noises! Then the ghost has been heard as well as seen?’
‘Oh yes! and such mournful noises, too. Such weeping and
wailing, enough to break one’s heart. The first time I saw it, Dolly, I
thought I should have died of fright.’
‘Tell me all about it.’
‘I had been sitting up late one Saturday night mending the
children’s socks for Sunday, and Tom had been in bed for a good two
hours. Everybody was in bed but myself, and I thought, as I carried
my single candle up the dark staircase, how silent and ghastly
everything appeared. As I turned into the corridor, I heard a gasping
sound like a stifled sob. At first I could hardly believe my ears; but
when it was repeated, my heart seemed to stand still. I was
hesitating whether to go back or forward, and trembling in every
limb, when it—this dreadful thing—crossed me. It sprung up, I don’t
know from where, in the darkness, and just looked at me once and
rushed away. I nearly sunk to the ground, as you may well imagine.
I had only just time to get inside my own door, when I tumbled right
across the bed, and Tom had to get up and pick up the candlestick,
and help undress me; and really, by the way he went on about it,
you’d have thought it was all my fault.’
‘What was it like? that is the main thing, Bessie.’
‘My dear, you don’t suppose I looked at it more than I was
absolutely obliged. I know it was dressed all in white, with snow-
white hair hanging over its face, and fearful staring eyes. It’s a
perfect wonder to me I stand alive here now.’
‘And it has been seen since then?’
‘Oh, several times, and we hear it every night as regularly as
possible about two o’clock in the morning. The cook has seen it—so
has the housemaid; and not a servant amongst them would fetch a
glass of water from downstairs after ten o’clock, if we were all dying
for want of it.’
‘A pleasant state of affairs,’ I ejaculated; ‘and will you take no
steps to investigate the mystery, and dissolve the household fears?’
‘What steps could I take?’
‘Sit up for the apparition, and speak to it; and if it won’t answer,
take hold of it and see if it is flesh and blood or air.’
‘My dear Dolly, I would rather die.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll wake me up when the sounds begin to-night,’ I
answered, ‘for I am curious to hear them.’
But I didn’t tell Bessie that I would be the one to ‘bell the cat;’ for,
though I have little fear, I have no foolhardiness; and if her ghost
turned out to be a real one, I had no wish to interfere with it.
 In the evening, as much with a view of pointing out the baby’s
condition to Bessie as for any other reason, I asked her to
accompany me to the nursery, and see him put to bed. I found that
he slept in a room alone with his wet-nurse, who was engaged in
bathing the little creature as we entered. Mrs Graham looked very
pretty and delicate as she bent over the bath, attending to the child;
but I observed that she never once smiled at nor played with him, as
nurses usually do with infants during the process of washing. Little
Dick was certainly very attenuated and languid, and even his mother
seemed to observe it when pointed out to her. Mrs Graham listened
to our conversation with rather an anxious expression on her
countenance, and I thought by drawing her out we might gain some
clue to the baby’s ill health.
‘Is your own child strong and vigorous?’ I asked her.
‘My own child is dead, madam,’ she replied.
‘It was your first, I presume? You appear very young.’
‘It was my first. I was twenty last birthday.’
She seemed unwilling to be more communicative, and I did not
like to enter directly on the subject of her husband’s death. Poor
child! she might have loved him as I did Dick. So, as Bessie had
sauntered into the general nursery and left us alone together, I
ventured to sound her on another matter, which I thought might be
having a secret effect upon her.
‘Have you seen anything of this apparition the servants speak of,
Mrs Graham?’
‘No, madam,’ she replied, quietly.
‘It is very foolish of people to be frightened of they really don’t
know what; but no one seems to have been brave enough to try and
find out the reason of the mysterious noises heard at night here. You
have heard them, perhaps?’
‘No, madam,’ she said again, without further comment.
 ‘Would it alarm you to see or hear it?’ I had forced her now to say
something in reply.
‘I think not,’ she answered, ‘I think if spirits can come back from
the dead, they must do so only in sympathy with those they have
left behind; and, if that is possible, and I thought this one came for
me, I should only be too thankful to have a glimpse of its face, or to
hear the sound of its voice. I think those people who have so much
fear of spirits can never have known what it is to lose any one they
would lay down their lives to follow wherever it might lead them.’
She spoke in a low, mournful cadence that touched my heart. Poor
girl! she was thinking of her husband and her own desolate
condition. I felt for and sympathised with her, and before I left the
nursery I took her thin hand and pressed it. She looked surprised,
but I had only to say, ‘I love my own husband as my life,’ to see the
tears run into her eyes, and to know she understood me. Still she
was by no means a proper person to perform the part of a mother
towards little Dick, and I resolved before I left Poplar Farm to try and
persuade Bessie to change her.
The rest of the day passed rather monotonously. I worked at one
of Dick’s shirts, and wondered how I ever could have thought Bessie
such a charming companion, whilst she alternatively indulged and
scolded her very unpleasant young family. At last they were all
despatched to bed, and as soon as decency would permit, I yawned
and said I should like to follow their example. So we were all packed
away by ten o’clock, my last act having been to pay a visit to Mrs
Graham’s room, where I had left her fast asleep with my little
godson tucked in snugly on her arm. Bessie lay awake for some time
talking of the celebrated ghost, but I was too sleepy to be a good
listener, and am afraid I dropped off in the midst of her recital. When
I waked again, it was by dint of feeling her shake my arm.
‘Dolly! Dolly!’ she was exclaiming, in a low, hurried voice. ‘Listen!
there is the sound, and close against the door.’
END OF VOL. I.
 NOTICE.
IMPORTANT NEW WORK by the Author of
“Recommended to Mercy.”
In 2 vols., Crown 8vo, 18s.
Early in June will be published a New Work by
MRS. HOUSTOUN,
Author of “Barbara’s Warning,”
Entitled

MEMORIES OF
WORLD-KNOWN MEN,
Containing Personal Recollections of
WORDSWORTH, JOHN WILSON CROKER,
THEODORE HOOK, WILLIAM IV., the late
LORD DERBY, MRS. NORTON, HARRISON
AINSWORTH, and other well-known personages.
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
 June, 1883.

F. V. WHITE & CO.’S SELECT

NOVELS.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each.
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THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. By Florence Marryat, Author of “Love’s

Conflict,” “Phyllida,” “A Broken Blossom,” &c., &c., &c.
“‘The Root of all Evil’ is quite up to Miss Marryat’s reputation, and can be
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ALLERTON TOWERS. By Annie Thomas (Mrs. Pender Cudlip), Author of

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* A BROKEN BLOSSOM. By Florence Marryat, Author of “Phyllida,”

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* SWEETHEART AND WIFE. By Lady Constance Howard, Author of

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she pictures.”—Life.
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* TWO MEN AND A MAID. By Harriett Jay, Author of “The Queen of

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PHYLLIDA. By Florence Marryat, Author of “My Sister the Actress,” “A

Broken Blossom,” &c., &c., &c.
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SOME OF OUR GIRLS. By Mrs. Eiloart, Author of “The Dean’s Wife,”
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