Turns of Fortune | Page 5

the lofty bed with its plumes, and the
spinnet was assigned a very comfortable corner in a parlour, where the
faded stately chairs and gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to
the bright neatly-papered walls and drugget-covered floor; for in all
matters connected with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was
exceedingly frugal.
After her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she looked kind
things to her rich, and did kind things to her poor neighbours, only in a
strange, unusual way; and her charity was given by fits mid starts--not
continuously. She moved silently about her garden, and evinced much
care for her plants and flowers. Closely economical from long habit,
rather than inclination, her domestic arrangements were strangely at
variance with what could not be called public gifts, because she used
every effort in her power to conceal her munificence. She did not, it is
true, think and calculate, how the greatest good could be accomplished.
She knew but one path to charity, and that was paved with gold. She
did not know how to offer sympathy, or to enhance a gift by the
manner of giving. Her father had sacrificed everything to multiply and
keep his wealth; all earthly happiness had been given up for it; and
unsatisfying as it had been to her own heart, it had satisfied his.
Inclination prompted to give, habit to withhold; and certainly Sarah
Bond felt far more enjoyment in obeying inclination than in following
habit; though sometimes what she believed a duty triumphed over
inclination.
If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister's necessities, she did so secretly,
hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding herself from her
father's curse, by sending to her sister's child, and not her sister.
Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled far more at having
to walk out to Greenfield, than if he was accustomed to do so every day;
and one morning in particular; when he was obliged to do so while the
rain poured, he exhibited a letter, sealed with a large black seal, to the
parish-clerk, saying he wished with all his heart Miss Bond had

remained at the old manor-house up street, instead of changing; and
where was the good of taking her a mourning letter such a gloomy day?
it would be very unkind, and he would keep it "till the rain stopped;"
and so he did, until the next morning; then taking back word to the
village postmaster that Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise and four horses
instantly, which intelligence set not only the inn, but the whole village
in commotion. She, who had never wanted a post-chaise before, to
want four horses to it now, was really wonderful.
"Which road shall I take, Miss?" inquired the post-boy, turning round
in his saddle, and touching his cap.
"On straight," was the answer. Such a thrill of disappointment as ran
through the little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her departure.
"On straight!" Why, they must wait the post-boy's return before they
could possibly know which way she went. Such provoking suspense
was enough to drive the entire village demented.
Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing with
her her niece, a girl of about eight years old--her deceased sister's only
child, Mabel Graham.
The following Sunday Sarah Bond went to church, leading her young
companion by the hand; both were in deep mourning, and yet the very
least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had never seen
Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out after service, and
finding that the wind had changed to the north-east, she took off her
scarf in the church porch, and put it round the neck of the lovely girl,
who strongly remonstrated against the act. It was evident that Mabel
had been accustomed to have her own way; for when she found her
aunt was resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round, and
in a moment tore the silk into halves. "Now, dear aunt, neither of our
throats will suffer," she exclaimed; while Sarah Bond did not know
whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud the tender care
of herself. It was soon talked of throughout the village, how
wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed; how cheerful and even gay she
had become. Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how
awkwardly, she entered into it; how eagerly she sought to learn and to

make herself acquainted with every source and system of education. No
traveller in the parchy desert ever thirsted more for water than she did
for knowledge, and her desire seemed to increase with what it fed upon.
The more she had the more she required; and all this was for the sake of
imparting all she