Produced by Charles Aldarondo THE ALLEN HOUSE OR, TWENTY YEARS AGO AND NOW. By T. S. Arthur Philadelphia: 1860 PREFACE. WE point to two ways in life, and if the young man and maiden, whose feet are lingering in soft green meadows and flowery walks, will consider these two ways in sober earnest, before moving onward, and choose the one that truth and reason tell them leads to honor, success, and happiness, our book will accomplish its right work for them. It is a sad thing, after the lapse of twenty years, to find ourselves amid ruined hopes;--to sit down with folded hands and say, “Thus far life has been a failure!” Yet, to how many is this the wretched summing up at the end of a single score of years from the time that reason takes the helm! Alas! that so few, who start wrong, ever succeed in finding the right way; life proving, even to its last burdened years, a miserable failure! TWENTY YEARS AGO, AND NOW. CHAPTER I. THE rain had poured in torrents all day, and now, for the third time since morning, I came home, wet, uncomfortable and weary. I half dreaded to look at the slate, lest some urgent call should stare me in the face. “It must indeed be a case of life and death, that takes me out again to-night,” said I, as my good wife met me in the entry, and with light hands, made active by love, assisted in the removal of my great coat and comforter. “Now come into the sitting-room,” she said, “your slippers are on the rug, and your dressing-gown warmed and waiting. Tea is ready, and will be on the table by the time you feel a little comfortable. What a dreadful day it has been!” “Dreadful for those who have been compelled to face the storm,” I remarked, as I drew off my boots, and proceeded to take advantage of all the pleasant arrangements my thoughtful wife had ready for my solace and delight. It was on my lip to inquire if any one had called since I went out, but the ringing of the tea-bell sent my thought in a new direction; when, with my second self leaning on an arm, and my little Aggy holding tightly by my hand, I moved on to the dining-room, all the disagreeable things of the day forgotten. “Has any one been here?” I asked, as I handed my cup for a third replenishing. Professional habit was too strong--the query would intrude itself. “Mrs. Wallingford called to see you.” “Ah! Is anybody sick?” “I believe so--but she evaded my inquiry, and said that she wished to speak a word with the Doctor.” “She don't want me to call over to-night, I hope. Did she leave any word?” “No. She looked troubled in her mind, I thought.” “No other call?” “Yes. Mary Jones sent word that something was the matter with the baby. It cried nearly all last night, her little boy said, and to-day has fever, and lies in a kind of stupor.” “That case must be seen to,” I remarked, speaking to myself.