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diff --git a/old/69780-0.txt b/old/69780-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8379c34..0000000 --- a/old/69780-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13447 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mrs. Hallam’s companion, by Mary -Jane Holmes - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Mrs. Hallam’s companion - And the spring farm, and other tales - -Author: Mary Jane Holmes - -Release Date: January 13, 2023 [eBook #69780] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. HALLAM’S -COMPANION *** - - - - - - POPULAR NOVELS - - BY - - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. - - - TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. - ENGLISH ORPHANS. - HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. - ’LENA RIVERS. - MEADOW BROOK. - DORA DEANE. - COUSIN MAUDE. - MARIAN GREY. - EDITH LYLE. - DAISY THORNTON. - CHATEAU D’OR. - QUEENIE HETHERTON. - BESSIE’S FORTUNE. - MARGUERITE. - DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. - HUGH WORTHINGTON. - CAMERON PRIDE. - ROSE MATHER. - ETHELYN’S MISTAKE. - MILBANK. - EDNA BROWNING. - WEST LAWN. - MILDRED. - FORREST HOUSE. - MADELINE. - CHRISTMAS STORIES. - GRETCHEN. - DR. HATHERN’S DAUGHTERS. (_New._) - - “Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books - are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the - sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention - to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.” - - - Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, $1.50 each, and sent _free_ by mail on - receipt of price, - - BY - G. W. DILLINGHAM, PUBLISHER - SUCCESSOR TO - G. W. CARLETON & CO., New York. - - - - - MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION. - AND - THE SPRING FARM, - AND OTHER TALES. - - - BY - - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES - - AUTHOR OF - - “TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” “’LENA RIVERS,” “GRETCHEN,” “MARGUERITE,” “DR. - HATHERN’S DAUGHTERS,” ETC., ETC. - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK: - - _G. W. Dillingham, Publisher_, - - MDCCCXCVI. - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. - - [_All rights reserved._] - - - - - CONTENTS - - - MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION - Chapter Page - I. The Hallams 9 - II. The Homestead 24 - III. Mrs. Hallam’s Applicants 36 - IV. Mrs. Fred Thurston 40 - V. The Companion 49 - VI. On the Teutonic 58 - VII. Reginald and Phineas Jones 67 - VIII. Rex at the Homestead 79 - IX. Rex Makes Discoveries 90 - X. At Aix-les-Bains 95 - XI. Grace Haynes 108 - XII. The Night of the Opera 114 - XIII. After the Opera 122 - XIV. At the Beau-Rivage 131 - XV. The Unwelcome Guest 139 - XVI. Tangled Threads 144 - XVII. On the Sea 149 - XVIII. On Sea and Land 158 - XIX. “I, Rex, Take Thee, Bertha 163 - - THE SPRING FARM. - I. At the Farm House 169 - II. Where Archie Was 174 - III. Going West 180 - IV. On the Road 184 - V. Miss Raynor 194 - VI. The School Mistress 199 - VII. At the Cedars 205 - VIII. Max at the Cedars 209 - IX. “Good-Bye, Max; Good-Bye.” 218 - X. At Last 225 - - THE HEPBURN LINE. - I. My Aunts 235 - II. Doris 246 - III. Grantley Montague and Dorothea 254 - IV. Aleck and Thea 268 - V. Doris and the Glory Hole 278 - VI. Morton Park 280 - VII. A Soliloquy 291 - VIII. My Cousin Grantley 293 - IX. Grantley and Doris 298 - X. Thea at Morton Park 307 - XI. The Crisis 317 - XII. The Missing Link 322 - XIII. The Three Brides 332 - XIV. Two Years Later 336 - - MILDRED’S AMBITION. - I. Mildred 339 - II. At Thornton Park 345 - III. Incidents of Fifteen Years 352 - IV. At the Farm House 358 - V. The Bride 365 - VI. Mrs. Giles Thornton 374 - VII. Calls at the Park 380 - VIII. Mildred and her Mother 387 - IX. Gerard and his Father 395 - X. In the Cemetery 399 - XI. What Followed 405 - XII. Love versus Money 409 - XIII. The Will 414 - XIV. Mildred and Hugh 418 - XV. The Denouement 424 - XVI. Sunshine After the Storm 431 - - - - - MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - THE HALLAMS. - - -Mrs. Carter Hallam was going to Europe,—going to Aix-les Bains,—partly -for the baths, which she hoped “would lessen her fast-increasing -avoirdupois, and partly to join her intimate friend, Mrs. Walker Haynes, -who had urged her coming and had promised to introduce her to some of -the best people, both English and American. This attracted Mrs. Hallam -more than the baths. She was anxious to know the best people, and she -did know a good many, although her name was not in the list of the four -hundred. But she meant it should be there in the near future, nor did it -seem unlikely that it might be. There was not so great a distance -between the four hundred and herself, as she was now, as there had been -between Mrs. Carter Hallam and little Lucy Brown, who used to live with -her grandmother in an old yellow house in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, and -pick berries to buy herself a pair of morocco boots. Later on, when the -grandmother was dead and the yellow house sold, Lucy had worked first in -a shoe-shop and then in a dry-goods store in Worcester, where, attracted -by her handsome face, Carter Hallam, a thriving grocer, had made her his -wife and mistress of a pretty little house on the west side of the city. -As a clerk she had often waited upon the West Side ladies, whom she -admired greatly, fancying she could readily distinguish them from the -ladies of the East Side. To marry a Hallam was a great honor, but to be -a West-Sider was a greater, and when both came to her she nearly lost -her balance, although her home was far removed from the aristocratic -quarters where the old families, the real West-Siders, lived. In a way -she was one of them, she thought, or at least she was no longer a clerk, -and she began to cut her old acquaintances, while her husband laughed at -and ridiculed her, wondering what difference it made whether one lived -on the east or west side of a town. He did not care whether people took -him for a nabob, or a fresh importation from the wild and woolly West; -he was just Carter Hallam, a jolly, easy-going fellow whom everybody -knew and everybody liked. He was born on a farm in Leicester, where the -Hallams, although comparatively poor, were held in high esteem as one of -the best and oldest families. At twenty-one he came into the possession -of a few thousand dollars left him by an uncle for whom he was named, -and then he went to the Far West, roughing it with cowboys and ranchmen, -and investing his money in a gold-mine in Montana and in lands still -farther west. Then he returned to Worcester, bought a small grocery, -married Lucy Brown, and lived quietly for a few years, when suddenly one -day there flashed across the wires the news that his mine had proved one -of the richest in Montana, and his lands were worth many times what he -gave for them. He was a millionaire, with property constantly rising in -value, and Worcester could no longer hold his ambitious wife. - -It was too small a place for her, she said, for everybody knew everybody -else’s business and history, and, no matter how much she was worth, -somebody was sure to taunt her with having worked in a shoe-shop, if, -indeed, she did not hear that she had once picked berries to buy herself -some shoes. They must go away from the old life, if they wanted to be -anybody. They must travel and see the world, and get cultivated, and -know what to talk about with their equals. - -So they sold the house and the grocery and traveled east and west, north -and south, and finally went to Europe, where they stayed two or three -years, seeing nearly everything there was to be seen, and learning a -great deal about ruins and statuary and pictures, in which Mrs. Hallam -thought herself a connoisseur, although she occasionally got the Sistine -Chapel and the Sistine Madonna badly mixed, and talked of the Paul -Belvedere, a copy of which she bought at an enormous price. When they -returned to America Mr. Hallam was a three times millionaire, for all -his speculations had been successful and his mine was still yielding its -annual harvest of gold. A handsome house on Fifth Avenue in New York was -bought and furnished in the most approved style, and then Mrs. Hallam -began to consider the best means of getting into society. She already -knew a good many New York people whom she had met abroad, and whose -acquaintance it was desirable to continue. But she soon found that -acquaintances made in Paris or Rome or on the Nile were not as cordial -when met at home, and she was beginning to feel discouraged, when chance -threw in her way Mrs. Walker Haynes, who, with the bluest of blood and -the smallest of purses, knew nearly every one worth knowing, and, it was -hinted, would for a _quid pro quo_ open many fashionable doors to -aspiring applicants who, without her aid, would probably stay outside -forever. - -The daughter and grand-daughter and cousin of governors and senators and -judges, with a quiet assumption of superiority which was seldom -offensive to those whom she wished to conciliate, she was a power in -society, and more quoted and courted than any woman in her set. To be -noticed by Mrs. Walker Haynes was usually a guarantee of success, and -Mrs. Hallam was greatly surprised when one morning a handsome coupé -stopped before her door and a moment after her maid brought her Mrs. -Walker Haynes’s card. She knew all about Mrs. Walker Haynes and what she -was capable of doing, and in a flutter of excitement she went down to -meet her. Mrs. Walker Haynes, who never took people up if there was -anything doubtful in their antecedents, knew all about Mrs. Hallam, even -to the shoe-shop and the clerkship. But she knew, too, that she was -perfectly respectable, with no taint whatever upon her character, and -that she was anxious to get into society. As it chanced, Mrs. Haynes’s -funds were low, for business was dull, as there were fewer human moths -than usual hovering around the social candle, and when the ladies of the -church which both she and Mrs. Hallam attended met to devise ways and -means for raising money for some new charity, she spoke of Mrs. Hallam -and offered to call upon her for a subscription, if the ladies wished -it. They did wish it, and the next day found Mrs. Haynes waiting in Mrs. -Hallam’s drawing-room for the appearance of its mistress, her -quick-seeing eyes taking in every detail in its furnishing, and deciding -on the whole that it was very good. - -“Some one has taste,—the upholsterer and decorator, probably,” she -thought, as Mrs. Hallam came in, nervous and flurried, but at once put -at ease by her visitor’s gracious and friendly manner. - -After a few general topics and the mention of a mutual friend whom Mrs. -Hallam had met in Cairo, Mrs. Haynes came directly to the object of her -visit, apologizing first for the liberty she was taking, and adding: - -“But now that you are one of us in the church, I thought you might like -to help us, and we need it so much.” - -Mrs. Hallam was not naturally generous where nothing was to be gained, -but Mrs. Haynes’s manner, and her “now you are one of us,” made her so -in this instance, and taking the paper she wrote her name for two -hundred dollars, which was nearly one-fourth of the desired sum. There -was a gleam of humor as well as of surprise in Mrs. Haynes’s eyes as she -read the amount, but she was profuse in her thanks and expressions of -gratitude, and, promising to call very soon socially, she took her leave -with a feeling that it would pay to take up Mrs. Hallam, who was really -more lady-like and better educated than many whom she had launched upon -the sea of fashion. With Mrs. Walker Haynes and several millions behind -her, progress was easy for Mrs. Hallam, and within a year she was “quite -in the swim,” she said to her husband, who laughed at her as he had done -in Worcester, and called Mrs. Haynes a fraud who knew what she was -about. But he gave her all the money she wanted, and rather enjoyed -seeing her “hob-a-nob with the big bugs,” as he expressed it. Nothing, -however, could change him, and he remained the same unostentatious, -popular man he had always been up to the day of his death, which -occurred about three years before our story opens. - -At that time there was living with him his nephew, the son of his only -brother, Jack. Reginald,—or Rex as he was familiarly called,—was a young -man of twenty-six, with exceptionally good habits, and a few days before -his uncle died he said to him: - -“I can trust you, Rex. You have lived with me since you were fourteen, -and have never once failed me. The Hallams are all honest people, and -you are half Hallam. I have made you independent by my will, and I want -you to stay with your aunt and look after her affairs. She is as good a -woman as ever lived, but a little off on fashion and fol-de-rol. Keep -her as level as you can.” - -This Rex had tried to do, rather successfully, too, except when Mrs. -Walker Haynes’s influence was in the ascendant, when he usually -succumbed to circumstances and allowed his aunt to do as she pleased. -Mrs. Haynes, who had profited greatly in a pecuniary way from her -acquaintance with Mrs. Hallam, was now in Europe, and had written her -friend to join her at Aix-les-Bains, which she said was a charming -place, full of titled people both English and French, and she had the -_entrée_ to the very best circles. She further added that it was -desirable for a lady traveling without a male escort to have a companion -besides a maid and courier. The companion was to be found in America, -the courier in London, and the maid in Paris; “after which,” she wrote, -“you will travel _tout-à-fait en princesse_. The _en princesse_ appealed -to Mrs. Hallam at once as something altogether applicable to Mrs. Carter -Hallam of New York. She was a great lady now; Sturbridge and the old -yellow house and the berries and the shoe-shop were more than thirty -years in the past, and so covered over with gold that it seemed -impossible to uncover them; nor had any one tried, so far as she knew. -The Hallams as a family had been highly respected both in Worcester and -in Leicester, and she often spoke of them, but never of the Browns, or -of the old grandmother, and she was glad she had no near relatives to -intrude themselves upon her and make her ashamed. She was very fond and -very proud of Reginald, who was to her like a son, and who with the -integrity and common sense of the Hallams had also inherited the innate -refinement and kindly courtesy of his mother, a Bostonian and the -daughter of a clergyman. As a rule she consulted him about everything, -and after she received Mrs. Haynes’s letter she showed it to him and -asked his advice in the matter of a companion. - -“I think she would be a nuisance and frightfully in your way at times, -but if Mrs. Haynes says you must have one, it’s all right, so go ahead,” -Rex replied, and his aunt continued: - -“But how am I to find what I want? I am so easily imposed upon, and I -will not have one from the city. She would expect too much and make -herself too familiar. I must have one from the country.” - -“Advertise, then, and they’ll come round you like bees around honey,” -Rex said, and to this suggestion his aunt at once acceded, asking him to -write the advertisement, which she dictated, with so many conditions and -requirements that Rex exclaimed, “Hold on there. You will insist next -that they subscribe to the Thirty-Nine Articles, besides believing in -foreordination and everything in the Westminster Catechism. You are -demanding impossibilities and giving too little in return. Three hundred -dollars for perfection! I should say offer five hundred. ‘The -higher-priced the better’ is Mrs. Walker Haynes’s motto, and I am sure -she will think it far more tony to have an expensive appendage than a -cheap one. The girl will earn her money, too, or I’m mistaken; for Mrs. -Haynes is sure to share her services with you, as she does everything -else.” - -He spoke laughingly, but sarcastically, for he perfectly understood Mrs. -Walker Haynes, whom his outspoken uncle had called “a sponge and a -schemer, who knew how to feather her nest.” Privately Rex thought the -same, but he did not often express these views to his aunt, who at last -consented to the five hundred dollars, and Rex wrote the advertisement, -which was as follows: - - “WANTED, - - “A companion for a lady who is going abroad. One from the country, - between twenty and twenty-five, preferred. She must be a good - accountant, a good reader, and a good seamstress. She must also have a - sufficient knowledge of French to understand the language and make - herself understood. To such a young lady five hundred dollars a year - will be given, and all expenses paid. Address, - - “MRS. CARTER HALLAM, - “No. — Fifth Avenue, New York,” - -When Rex read this to his aunt, she said: - -“Yes, that will do; but don’t you think it just as well to say _young -person_ instead of _young lady_?” - -“No, I don’t,” Rex answered, promptly. “You want a lady, and not a -_person_, as you understand the word, and I wouldn’t begin by insulting -her.” - -So the “lady” was allowed to stand, and then, without his aunt’s -knowledge, Rex added: - -“Those applying will please send their photographs.” - -“I should like to see the look of astonishment on aunt’s face when the -pictures come pouring in. There will be scores of them, the offer is so -good,” Rex thought, as he folded the advertisement and left the house. - -That night, when dinner was over, he said to his aunt: “I have a project -in mind which I wish to tell you about.” - -Mrs. Hallam gave a little shrug of annoyance. Her husband had been full -of projects, most of which she had disapproved, as she probably should -this of Rex, who continued: - -“I am thinking of buying a place in the country,—the real country, I -mean,—where the houses are old-fashioned and far apart, and there are -woods and ponds and brooks and things.” - -“And pray what would you do with such a place?” Mrs. Hallam asked. - -Rex replied, “I’d make it into a fancy farm and fill it with blooded -stock, hunting-horses, and dogs. I’d keep the old house intact so far as -architecture is concerned, and fit it up as a kind of bachelor’s hall, -where I can have a lot of fellows in the summer and fall, and hunt and -fish and have a glorious time. Ladies will not be excluded, of course, -and when you are fagged out with Saratoga and Newport I shall invite -you, and possibly Mrs. Haynes and Grace, down to see the fox-hunts I -mean to have, just as they do in the Genesee Valley. Won’t it be fun?” - -Rex was eloquent on the subject of his fancy farm. He was very fond of -the country, although he really knew but little about it, as he was born -in New York, and had lived there all his life with the exception of two -years spent at the South with his mother’s brother and four years at -Yale. His aunt, on the contrary, detested the country, with its woods, -and ponds, and brooks, and old-fashioned houses, and she felt very -little interest in Rex’s fancy farm and fox-hunts, which she looked upon -as wholly visionary. She asked him, however, where the farm was, and he -replied: - -“You see, Marks, who is in the office with me, has a client who owns a -mortgage on some old homestead among the hills in Massachusetts. This -mortgage, which has changed hands two or three times and been renewed -once or twice, comes due in October, and Marks says there is not much -probability that the old man,—I believe he is quite old,—can pay it, and -the place will be sold at auction. I can, of course, wait and bid it off -cheap, as farms are not in great demand in that vicinity; but I don’t -like to do that. I’d rather buy it outright, giving the old fellow more -than it is worth rather than less. Marks says it is a rambling old -house, with three or four gables, and stands on a hillside with a fine -view of the surrounding country. The woods are full of pleasant drives, -and ponds where the white lilies grow and where I can fish and have some -small boats.” - -“But where is it? In what town, I mean?” Mrs. Hallam asked, with a -slight tremor in her voice, which, however, Rex did not notice as he -answered: - -“I don’t remember where Marks’s client said it was, but I have his -letter. Let me see.” And, taking the letter from his pocket, he glanced -at it a moment, and then said, “It is in Leicester, and not more than -five or six miles from the city of Worcester and Lake Quinsigamond, -where I mean to have a yacht and call it the Lucy Hallam for you. Why, -auntie, it has just occurred to me that you once lived in Worcester, and -Uncle Hallam, too, and that he and father were born in Leicester. Were -you ever there,—at the house where father was born, I mean? But of -course you have been.” - -Rex had risen to his feet and stood leaning on the mantel and looking at -his aunt with an eager, expectant expression on his face. She was pale -to her lips as she replied: - -“Yes, I was there just after I was married. Your uncle drove me out one -afternoon to see the place. Strangers were living there then, for his -father and mother were dead. He was as country mad as you are, and -actually went down upon his knees before the old well-sweep and bucket.” - -“I don’t blame him. I believe I’d do the same,” Rex replied, and then -went on questioning her rapidly. “What was the house like? Had it a big -chimney in the centre?” - -Mrs. Hallam said it had. - -“Wide fireplaces?” - -“Rather wide,—yes.” - -“Kitchen fireplace, with a crane?” - -“I don’t know, but most likely.” - -“Little window-panes, and deep window-seats?” - -“I think so.” - -“Big iron door-latches instead of knobs?” - -“Yes, and a brass knocker.” - -“Slanting roof, or high?” - -“It was a high gabled roof,—three or four gables, and must have been -rather pretentious when it was new. - -“Rex,”—and Mrs. Hallam’s voice trembled perceptibly,—“the gables and the -situation overlooking the valley make me think that the place you have -in view is possibly your father’s old home.” - -“By Jove,” Rex exclaimed, “wouldn’t that be jolly! I believe I’d give a -thousand dollars extra for the sake of having the old homestead for my -own. I wonder who the old chap is who lives there. I mean to go down and -see for myself as soon as I return from Chicago and we get the lawsuit -off our hands which is taking all Marks’s time and mine.” - -Mrs. Hallam did not say what she thought, for she knew there was not -much use in opposing Rex, but in her heart she did not approve of -bringing the long-buried past up to the present, which was so different. -The Homestead was well enough, and Leicester was well enough, for Hallam -had been an honored name in the neighborhood, and Rex would be honored, -too, as a scion of the family; but it was too near Worcester and the -shoe-shop and the store and the people who had known her as a -working-girl, and who would be sure to renew the acquaintance if she -were to go there. She had no relatives to trouble her, unless it were a -certain Phineas Jones, who was so far removed that she could scarcely -call him a relative. But if he were living he would certainly find her -if she ventured near him, and cousin her, as he used to do in Worcester, -where he was continually calling upon her after her marriage and -reminding her of spelling-schools and singing-schools and circuses which -he said he had attended with her. How distasteful it all was, and how -she shrank from everything pertaining to her early life, which seemed so -far away that she sometimes half persuaded herself it had never been! - -And yet her talk with Rex about the old Homestead on the hill had -stirred her strangely, and that night, long after her usual hour for -retiring, she sat by her window looking out upon the great city, whose -many lights, shining like stars through the fog and rain, she scarcely -saw at all. Her thoughts had gone back thirty years to an October day -just after her return from her wedding trip to Niagara, when her husband -had driven her into the country to visit his old home. How happy he had -been, and how vividly she could recall the expression on his face when -he caught sight of the red gables and the well-sweep where she told -Reginald he had gone down upon his knees. There had been a similar -expression on Rex’s face that evening when he talked of his fancy farm, -and Rex was in appearance much like what her handsome young husband had -been that lovely autumn day, when a purple haze was resting on the hills -and the air was soft and warm as summer. He had taken her first to the -woods and shown her where he and his brother Jack had set their traps -for the woodchucks and snared the partridges in the fall and hunted for -the trailing arbutus and the sassafras in the spring; then to the old -cider-mill at the end of the lane, and to the hill where they had their -slide in winter, and to the barn, where they had a swing, and to the -brook in the orchard, where they had a water-wheel; then to the well, -where he drew up the bucket, and, poising it upon the curb, stooped to -drink from it, asking her to do the same and see if she ever quaffed a -sweeter draught; but she was afraid of wetting her dress, and had drawn -back, saying she was not thirsty. Strangers occupied the house, but -permission was given them to go over it, and he had taken her through -all the rooms, showing her where he and Jack and Annie were born, and -where the latter had died when a little child of eight; then to the -garret, where they used to spread the hickory-nuts and butternuts to -dry, and down to the cellar, where the apples and cider were stored. He -was like a school-boy in his eagerness to explain everything, while she -was bored to death and heard with dismay his proposition to drive two or -three miles farther to the Greenville cemetery, where the Hallams for -many generations back had been buried. There was a host of them, and -some of the headstones were sunken and mouldy with age and half fallen -down, while the lettering upon them was almost illegible. - -“I wonder whose this is?” he said, as he went down upon the ground to -decipher the date of the oldest one. “I can’t make it out, except that -it is seventeen hundred and something. He must have been an old -settler,” he continued, as he arose and brushed a patch of dirt from his -trousers with his silk handkerchief. Then, glancing at her as she stood -listlessly leaning against a stone, he said, “Why, Lucy, you look tired. -Are you?” - -“No, not very,” she answered, a little pettishly; “but I don’t think it -very exhilarating business for a bride to be visiting the graves of her -husband’s ancestors.” - -He did not hunt for any more dates after that, but, gathering a few wild -flowers growing in the tall grass, he laid them upon his mother’s grave -and Annie’s, and, going out to the carriage standing by the gate, drove -back to Worcester through a long stretch of woods, where the road was -lined on either side with sumachs and berry-bushes and clumps of -bitter-sweet, and there was no sign of life except when a blackbird flew -from one tree to another, or a squirrel showed its bushy tail upon the -wall. He thought it delightful, and said that it was the pleasantest -drive in the neighborhood and one which he had often taken with Jack -when they were boys; but she thought it horribly lonesome and poky, and -was glad when they struck the pavement of the town. - -“Carter always liked the country,” she said to herself when her reverie -came to an end, and she left her seat by the window; “and Rex is just -like him, and will buy that place if he can, and I shall have to go -there as hostess and be called upon by a lot of old women in sun-bonnets -and blanket shawls, who will call me Lucy Ann and say, ‘You remember me, -don’t you? I was Mary Jane Smith; I worked in the shoe-shop with you -years ago.’ And Phineas Jones will turn up, with his cousining and -dreadful reminiscences. Ah me, what a pity one could not be born without -antecedents!” - - - - - CHAPTER II. - THE HOMESTEAD. - - -It stood at the end of a grassy avenue or lane a little distance from -the electric road between Worcester and Spencer, its outside chimneys -covered with woodbine and its sharp gables distinctly visible as the -cars wound up the steep Leicester hill. Just what its age was no one -knew exactly. Relic-hunters who revel in antiquities put it at one -hundred and fifty. But the oldest inhabitant in the town, who was an -authority for everything ancient, said that when he was a small boy it -was comparatively new, and considered very fine on account of its gables -and brass knocker, and, as he was ninety-five or six, the house was -probably over a hundred. It was built by a retired sea-captain from -Boston, and after his death it changed hands several times until it was -bought by the Hallams, who lived there so long and were so highly -esteemed that it came to bear their name, and was known as the Hallam -Homestead. After the death of Carter Hallam’s father it was occupied by -different parties, and finally became the property of a Mr. Leighton, -who rather late in life had married a girl from Georgia, where he had -been for a time a teacher. Naturally scholarly and fond of books, he -would have preferred teaching, but his young wife, accustomed to -plantation life, said she should be happier in the country, and so he -bought the Homestead and commenced farming, with very little knowledge -of what ought to be done and very little means with which to do it. -Under such circumstances he naturally grew poorer every year, while his -wife’s artistic tastes did not help the matter. Remembering her father’s -plantation with its handsome grounds and gardens, she instituted -numerous changes in and about the house, which made it more attractive, -but did not add to its value. The big chimney was taken down and others -built upon the outside, after the Southern style. A wide hall was put -through the centre where the chimney had been; a broad double piazza was -built in front, while the ground was terraced down to the orchard below, -where a rustic bridge was thrown across the little brook where Carter -and Jack Hallam had built their water-wheel. Other changes the ambitious -little Georgian was contemplating, when she died suddenly and was -carried back to sleep under her native pines, leaving her husband -utterly crushed at his loss, with the care of two little girls, Dorcas -and Bertha, and a mortgage of two thousand dollars upon his farm. For -some years he scrambled on as best he could with hired help, giving all -his leisure time to educating and training his daughters, who were as -unlike each other as two sisters well could be. Dorcas, the elder, was -fair and blue-eyed, and round and short and matter-of-fact, caring more -for the farm and the house than for books, while Bertha was just the -opposite, and, with her soft brown hair, bright eyes, brilliant -complexion, and graceful, slender figure, was the exact counterpart of -her beautiful Southern mother when she first came to the Homestead; but -otherwise she was like her father, caring more for books than for the -details of every-day life. - -“Dorcas is to be housekeeper, and I the wage-earner, to help pay off the -mortgage which troubles father so much,” she said, and when she was -through school she became book-keeper for the firm of Swartz & Co., of -Boston, with a salary of four hundred dollars a year. Dorcas, who was -two years older, remained at home as housekeeper. And a very thrifty one -she made, seeing to everything and doing everything, from making butter -to making beds, for she kept no help. The money thus saved was put -carefully by towards paying the mortgage coming due in October. By the -closest economy it had been reduced from two thousand to one thousand, -and both Dorcas and Bertha were straining every nerve to increase the -fund which was to liquidate the debt. - -It was not very often that Bertha indulged in the luxury of coming home, -for even that expense was something, and every dollar helped. But on the -Saturday following the appearance of Mrs. Hallam’s advertisement in the -New York _Herald_ she was coming to spend Sunday for the first time in -several weeks. These visits were great events at the Homestead, and -Dorcas was up as soon as the first robin chirped in his nest in the big -apple-tree which shaded the rear of the house and was now odorous and -beautiful with its clusters of pink-and-white blossoms. There was -churning to do that morning, and butter to get off to market, besides -the usual Saturday’s cleaning and baking, which included all Bertha’s -favorite dishes. There was Bertha’s room to be gone over with broom and -duster, and all the vases and handleless pitchers to be filled with -daffies and tulips and great bunches of apple-blossoms and a clump or -two of the trailing arbutus which had lingered late in the woods. But -Dorcas’s work was one of love; if she were tired she scarcely thought of -it at all, and kept steadily on until everything was done. In her -afternoon gown and white apron she sat down to rest awhile on the piazza -overlooking the valley, thinking as she did so what a lovely place it -was, with its large, sunny rooms, wide hall, and fine view, and how -dreadful it would be to lose it. - -“Five hundred dollars more we must have, and where it is to come from I -do not know. Bertha always says something will turn up, but I am not so -hopeful,” she said, sadly. Then, glancing at the clock, she saw that it -was nearly time for the car which would bring her sister from the -Worcester station. “I’ll go out to the cross-road and meet her,” she -thought, just as she heard the sharp clang of the bell and saw the -trolley-pole as it came up the hill. A moment more, and Bertha alighted -and came rapidly towards her. - -“You dear old Dor, I’m so glad to see you and be home again,” Bertha -said, giving up her satchel and umbrella and putting her arm caressingly -around Dorcas’s neck as she walked, for she was much the taller of the -two. - -It was a lovely May afternoon, and the place was at its best in the warm -sunlight, with the fresh green grass and the early flowers and the apple -orchard full of blossoms which filled the air with perfume. - -“Oh, this is delightful, and it is so good to get away from that close -office and breathe this pure air,” Bertha said, as she went from room to -room, and then out upon the piazza, where she stood taking in deep -inhalations and seeming to Dorcas to grow brighter and fresher with each -one. “Where is father?” she asked at last. - -“Here, daughter,” was answered, as Mr. Leighton, who had been to the -village, came through a rear door. - -He was a tall, spare man, with snowy hair and a stoop in his shoulders, -which told of many years of hard work. But the refinement in his manner -and the gentleness in his face were indicative of good breeding, and a -life somewhat different from that which he now led. - -Bertha was at his side in a moment, and had him down in a rocking-chair, -and was sitting on an arm of it, brushing the thin hair back from his -forehead, while she looked anxiously into his face, which wore a more -troubled expression than usual, although he evidently tried to hide it. - -“What is it, father? Are you very tired?” she asked, at last, and he -replied; - -“No, daughter, not very; and if I were the sight of you would rest me.” - -Catching sight of the corner of an envelope in his vest pocket, with a -woman’s quick intuition, she guessed that it had something to do with -his sadness. - -“You have a letter. Is there anything in it about that hateful -mortgage?” she said. - -“It is all about the mortgage. There’s a way to get rid of it,” he -answered, while his voice trembled, and something in his eyes, as he -looked into Bertha’s, made her shiver a little; but she kissed him -lovingly, and said very low: - -“Yes, father. I know there is a way,” her lips quivering as she said it, -and a lump rising in her throat as if she were smothering. - -“Will you read the letter?” he asked, and she answered: - -“Not now; let us have supper first. I am nearly famished, and long to -get at Dor’s rolls and broiled chicken, which I smelled before I left -the car at the cross-roads.” - -She was very gay all through the supper, although a close observer might -have seen a cloud cross her bright face occasionally, and a look of pain -and preoccupation in her eyes; but she laughed and chatted merrily, -asking about the neighbors and the farm, and when supper was over helped -Dorcas with her dishes and the evening work, sang snatches of the last -opera, and told her sister about the new bell skirt just coming into -fashion, and how she could cut over her old ones like it. When -everything was done she seemed to nerve herself to some great effort, -and, going to her father said: - -“Now for the letter. From whom is it?” - -“Gorham, the man who holds the mortgage,” Mr. Leighton replied. - -“Oh-h, Gorham!” and Bertha’s voice was full of intense relief. “I -thought perhaps it was —— but no matter, that will come later. Let us -hear what Mr. Gorham has to say. He cannot foreclose till October, -anyhow.” - -“And not then, if we do what he proposes. This is it,” Mr. Leighton -said, as he began to read the letter, which was as follows: - - “BROOKLYN, N. Y., May —, 18—. - - “MR. LEIGHTON: - - “DEAR SIR,—A gentleman in New York wishes to purchase a farm in the - country, where he can spend a part of the summer and autumn, fishing - and fox-hunting and so on. From what he has heard of your place and - the woods around it, he thinks it will suit him exactly, and in the - course of a few weeks proposes to go out and see it. As he has ample - means, he will undoubtedly pay you a good price, cash down, and that - will relieve you of all trouble with the mortgage. I still think I - must have my money in October, as I have promised it elsewhere. - - “Very truly, - “JOHN GORHAM.” - -“Well?” Mr. Leighton said, as he finished reading the letter, and looked -inquiringly at his daughters. - -Bertha, who was very pale, was the first to speak. “Do you want to leave -the old home?” she asked, and her father replied, in a choking voice, -“No, oh, no. I have lived here twenty-seven years, and know every rock -and tree and shrub, and love them all. I brought your mother here a -bride and a slip of a girl like you, who are so much like her that -sometimes when I see you flitting around and hear your voice I think for -a moment she has come back to me again. You were both born here. Your -mother died here, and here I want to die. But what is the use of -prolonging the struggle? I have raked and scraped and saved in every -possible way to pay the debt contracted so long ago, the interest of -which has eaten up all my profits, and I have got within five hundred -dollars of it, but do not see how I can get any further. I may sell a -few apples and some hay, but I’ll never borrow another dollar, and if -this New York chap offers a good price we’d better sell. Dorcas and I -can rent a few rooms somewhere in Boston, maybe, and we shall all be -together till I die, which, please God, will not be very long.” - -His face was white, with a tired, discouraged look upon it pitiful to -see, while Dorcas, who cried easily, was sobbing aloud. But Bertha’s -eyes were round and bright and dry, and there was a ring in her voice as -she said, “You will _not_ die, and you will not sell the place. Horses -and dogs and fox-hunts, indeed! I’d like to see that New Yorker plunging -through the fields and farms with his horses and hounds, for that is -what fox-hunting means. He would be mobbed in no time. Who is he, I -wonder? I should like to meet him and give him a piece of my mind.” - -She was getting excited, and her cheeks were scarlet as she kissed her -father again and said, “Write and tell that New Yorker to stay where he -is, and take his foxes to some other farm. He cannot have ours, nor any -one else. Micawber-like, I believe something will turn up; I am sure of -it; only give me time.” - -Then, rising from her chair, she went swiftly out into the twilight, -and, crossing the road, ran down the terrace to a bit of broken wall, -where she sat down and watched the night gathering on the distant hills -and over the woods, and fought the battle which more than one unselfish -woman has fought,—a battle between inclination and what seemed to be -duty. If she chose, she could save the farm with a word and make her -father’s last days free from care. There was a handsome house in Boston -of which she might be mistress any day, with plenty of money at her -command to do with as she pleased. But the owner was old compared to -herself, forty at least, and growing bald; he called her Berthy, and was -not at all like the ideal she had in her mind of the man whom she could -love,—who was really more like one who might hunt foxes and ride his -horses through the fields, while she rode by his side, than like the -commonplace Mr. Sinclair, who had asked her twice to be his wife. At her -last refusal only a few days ago he had said he should not give her up -yet, but should write her father for his co-operation, and it was from -him she feared the New York letter had come when she saw it in her -father’s pocket. She knew he was honorable and upright and would be kind -and generous to her and her family, but she had dreamed of a different -love, and she could not listen to his suit unless it were to save the -old home for her father and Dorcas. - -For a time she sat weighing in the balance her love for them and her -love for herself, while darkness deepened around her and the air grew -heavy with the scent of the apple-blossoms and the grove of pine-trees -not far away; yet she was no nearer a decision than when she first sat -down. It was strange that in the midst of her intense thinking, the -baying of hounds, the tramp of horses’ feet, and the shout of many -voices should ring in her ears so distinctly that once, as some bushes -stirred near her, she turned, half expecting to see the hunted fox -fleeing for his life, and, with an impulse to save him from his -pursuers, put out both her hands. - -“This is a queer sort of hallucination, and it comes from that New York -letter,” she thought, just as from under a cloud where it had been -hidden the new moon sailed out to the right of her. Bertha was not -superstitious, but, like many others, she clung to some of the -traditions of her childhood, and the new moon seen over the right -shoulder was one of them. She always framed a wish when she saw it, and -she did so now, involuntarily repeating the words she had so often used -when a child: - - “New moon, new moon, listen to me, - And grant the boon I ask of thee,” - -and then, almost as seriously as if it were a prayer, she wished that -something might occur to keep the home for her father and herself from -Mr. Sinclair. - -“I don’t believe much in the new moon, it has cheated me so often; but I -do believe in presentiments, and I have one that something will turn up. -I’ll wait awhile and see,” she said, as the silvery crescent was lost -again under a cloud. Beginning to feel a little chilly, she went back to -the house, where she found her father reading his evening paper. - -This reminded her of a New York _Herald_ she had bought on the car of a -little newsboy, whose ragged coat and pleasant face had decided her to -refuse the chocolates offered her by a larger boy and take the paper -instead. It was lying on the table, where she had put it when she first -came in. Taking it up, she sat down and opened it. Glancing from page to -page, she finally reached the advertisements, and her eye fell upon that -of Mrs. Hallam. - -“Oh, father, Dorcas, I told you something would turn up, and there has! -Listen!” and she read the advertisement aloud. “The very thing I most -desired has come. I have always wanted to go to Europe, but never -thought I could, on account of the expense, and here it is, all paid, -and five hundred dollars besides. That will save the place. I did not -wish the new moon for nothing. Something has turned up.” - -“But, Bertha,” said the more practical Dorcas, “what reason have you to -think you will get the situation? There are probably more than five -hundred applicants for it,—one for each dollar.” - -“I know I shall. I feel it as I have felt other things which have come -to me. Theosophic presentiments I call them.” - -Dorcas went on: “And if it does come, I don’t see how it will help the -mortgage due in October. You will not get your pay in advance, and -possibly not until the end of the year.” - -“I shall borrow the money and give my note,” Bertha answered, promptly. -“Anybody will trust me. Swartz & Co. will, anyway, knowing that I shall -come back and work it out if Mrs. Hallam fails me. By the way, that is -the name of the people who lived here years ago. Perhaps Mrs. Carter -belongs to the family. Do you know where they are, father?” - -Mr. Leighton said he did not. He thought, however, they were all dead, -while Dorcas asked, “If you are willing to borrow money of Swartz & Co., -why don’t you try Cousin Louie, and pay her in installments?” - -“Cousin Louie!” Bertha repeated. “That would be borrowing of her proud -husband, Fred Thurston, who, since I have been a bread-winner, never -sees me in the street if he can help it. I’d take in washing before I’d -ask a favor of him. My heart is set upon Europe, if Mrs. Hallam will -have me, and you do not oppose me too strongly.” - -“But I must oppose you,” her father said; and then followed a long and -earnest discussion between Mr. Leighton, Dorcas, and Bertha, the result -of which was that Bertha was to wait a few days and consider the matter -before writing to Mrs. Hallam. - -That night, however, after her father had retired, she dashed off a -rough draught of what she meant to say and submitted it to Dorcas for -approval. It was as follows: - - “MRS. HALLAM: - - “MADAM,—I have seen your advertisement for a companion, and shall be - glad of the situation. My name is Bertha Leighton. I am twenty-two - years old, and was graduated at the Charlestown Seminary three years - ago. I am called a good reader, and ought to be a good accountant, as - for two years I have been book-keeper in the firm of Swartz & Co., - Boston. I am not very handy with my needle, for want of practice, but - can soon learn. While in school I took lessons in French of a native - teacher, who complimented my pronunciation and quickness to - comprehend. Consequently I think I shall find no difficulty in - understanding the language after a little and making myself - understood. I enclose my photograph, which flatters me somewhat. My - address is - - “BERTHA LEIGHTON, - “No. — Derring St., Boston, Mass.” - -“I think it covers the whole business,” Bertha said to Dorcas, who -objected to one point. “The photograph does not flatter you,” she said, -while Bertha insisted that it did, as it represented a much more -stylish-looking young woman than Mrs. Carter Hallam’s companion ought to -be. “I wonder what sort of woman she is? I somehow fancy she is a snob,” -she said; “but, snob me all she pleases, she cannot keep me from seeing -Europe, and I don’t believe she will try to cheat me out of my wages.” - - - - - CHAPTER III. - MRS. HALLAM’S APPLICANTS. - - -Several days after Mrs. Hallam’s advertisement appeared in the papers, -Reginald, who had been away on business, returned, and found his aunt in -her room struggling frantically with piles of letters and photographs -and with a very worried and excited look on her face. - -“Oh, Rex,” she cried, as he came in, “I am so glad you have come, for I -am nearly wild. Only think! Seventy applicants, and as many photographs! -What possessed them to send their pictures?” - -Rex kept his own counsel, but gave a low whistle as he glanced at the -pile which filled the table. - -“Got enough for an album, haven’t you? How do they look as a whole?” he -asked. - -“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Such a time as I have had reading their -letters, and such recommendations as most of them give of themselves, -telling me what reverses of fortune they have suffered, what church they -belong to, and how long they have taught in Sunday-school, and all that, -as if I cared. But I have decided which to choose; her letter came this -morning, with one other,—the last of the lot, I trust. I like her -because she writes so plainly and sensibly and seems so truthful. She -says she is not a good seamstress and that her picture flatters her, -while most of the others say their pictures are not good. Then she is so -respectful and simply addresses me as ‘Madam,’ while all the others -_dear_ me. If there is anything I like, it is respect in a servant.” - -“Thunder, auntie! You don’t call your companion a servant, do you?” Rex -exclaimed, but his aunt only replied by passing him Bertha’s letter. -“She writes well. How does she look?” he asked. - -“Here she is.” And his aunt gave him the photograph of a short, -sleepy-looking girl, with little or no expression in her face or eyes, -and an unmistakable second-class air generally. - -“Oh, horrors!” Rex exclaimed. “This girl never wrote that letter. Why, -she simpers and squints and is positively ugly. There must be some -mistake, and you have mixed things dreadfully.” - -“No, I haven’t,” Mrs. Hallam persisted. “I was very careful to keep the -photographs and letters together as they came. This is Bertha -Leighton’s, sure, and she says it flatters her.” - -“What must the original be!” Rex groaned. - -His aunt continued, “I’d rather she’d be plain than good-looking. I -don’t want her attracting attention and looking in the glass half the -time. Mrs. Haynes always said, ‘Get plain girls by all means, in -preference to pretty ones with airs and hangers-on.’” - -“All right, if Mrs. Haynes says so,” Rex answered, with a shrug of his -shoulders, as he put down the photograph of the girl he called -Squint-Eye, and began carelessly to look at the others. - -“Oh-h!” he said, catching up Bertha’s picture. “This is something like -it. By Jove, she’s a stunner. Why don’t you take her? What splendid eyes -she has, and how she carries herself!” - -“Read her letter,” his aunt said, handing him a note in which, among -other things, the writer, who gave her name as Rose Arabella Jefferson, -and claimed relationship with Thomas Jefferson, Joe Jefferson and -Jefferson Davis, said she was a member in good standing of the First -Baptist Church, and spelled Baptist with two _b_’s. There were also -other mistakes in orthography, besides some in grammar, and Rex dropped -it in disgust, but held fast to the photograph, whose piquant face, -bright, laughing eyes, and graceful poise of head and shoulders -attracted him greatly. - -“Rose Arabella Jefferson,” he began, “blood relation of Joe Jefferson, -Thomas Jefferson, and Jefferson Davis, and member in good standing in -the First Baptist Church, spelled with a _b_ in the middle, you never -wrote that letter, I know; and if you did, your blue blood ought to -atone for a few lapses in grammar and spelling. I am sure Mrs. Walker -Haynes would think so. Take her, auntie, and run the risk. She is from -the country, where you said your companion must hail from, while -Squint-Eye is from Boston, with no ancestry, no religion, and probably -the embodiment of clubs and societies and leagues and women’s rights and -Christian Science and the Lord knows what. Take Rose Arabella.” - -But Mrs. Hallam was firm. Rose Arabella was quite too good-looking, and -Boston was country compared with New York. “Squint-Eye” was her choice, -provided her employers spoke well of her; and she asked Rex to write to -Boston and make inquiries of Swartz & Co., concerning Miss Leighton. - -“Not if I know myself,” Rex answered. “I will do everything reasonable, -but I draw the line on turning detective and prying into any girl’s -character. - -He was firm on this point, and Mrs. Hallam wrote herself to Swartz & -Co., and then proceeded to tear up and burn the numerous letters and -photographs filling her table. Rose Arabella Jefferson, however, was not -among them, for she, with other pretty girls, some personal friends and -some strangers, was adorning Rex’s looking-glass, where it was greatly -admired by the housemaid as Mr. Reginald’s latest fancy. - -A few days later Mrs. Hallam said to Rex, “I have heard from Swartz & -Co., and they speak in the highest terms of Miss Leighton. I wish you -would write for me and tell her I have decided to take her, and that she -is to come to me on Friday, June —, as the Teutonic sails the next -morning.” - -Reginald did as he was requested, thinking the while how much he would -rather be writing to Rose Arabella, _Babtist_ and all, than to Bertha -Leighton. But there was no help for it; Bertha was his aunt’s choice, -and was to be her companion instead of his, he reflected, as he directed -the letter, which he posted on his way down town. The next day he -started for the West on business for the law firm, promising his aunt -that if possible he would return in time to see her off; “and then,” he -added, “I am going to Leicester to look after my fancy farm.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - MRS. FRED THURSTON. - - -Bertha waited anxiously for an answer to her letter; when it did not -come she grew very nervous and restless, and began to lose faith in the -new moon and her theosophical presentiments, as she called her -convictions of what was coming to pass. A feeling of dread began also to -haunt her lest, after all, the man with the bald head, who called her -Berthy, might be the only alternative to save the homestead from the -auctioneer’s hammer. But the letter came at last and changed her whole -future. There was an interview with her employers, who, having received -Mrs. Hallam’s letter of inquiry, were not surprised. Although sorry to -part with her, they readily agreed to advance whatever money should be -needed in October, without other security than her note, which she was -to leave with her father. - -There was another interview with Mr. Sinclair, who at its close had a -very sorry look on his face and a suspicion of suppressed tears in his -voice as he said, “It is hard to give you up, and I could have made you -so happy, and your father, too. Good-bye, and God bless you. Mrs. -Thurston will be disappointed. Her heart was quite set upon having you -for a neighbor, as you would be if you were my wife. Good-bye.” - -The Mrs. Thurston alluded to was Bertha’s cousin Louie, from the South, -who, four years before had spent part of a summer at the Homestead. She -had then gone to Newport, where she captured Fred Thurston, a Boston -millionaire, who made love to her hotly for one month, married her the -next, swore at her the next, and in a quiet but decided manner had -tyrannized over and bullied her ever since. But he gave her all the -money she wanted, and, as that was the principal thing for which she -married him, she bore her lot bravely, became in time a butterfly of -fashion, and laughed and danced and dressed, and went to lunches and -teas and receptions and dinners and balls, taking stimulants to keep her -up before she went, and bromide, or chloral, or sulfonal, to make her -sleep when she came home. But all this told upon her at last, and after -four years of it she began to droop, with a consciousness that something -was sapping her strength and stealing all her vitality. “Nervous -prostration,” the physician called it, recommending a change of air and -scene, and, as a trip to Europe had long been contemplated by Mr. -Thurston, he had finally decided upon a summer in Switzerland, and was -to sail some time in July. Mrs. Thurston was very fond of her relatives -at the Homestead, and especially of Bertha, who when she was first -married was a pupil in Charlestown Seminary and spent nearly every -Sunday with her. After a while, however, and for no reason whatever -except that on one or two occasions he had shown his frightful temper -before her, Mr. Thurston conceived a dislike for Bertha and forbade -Louie’s inviting her so often to his house, saying he did not marry her -poor relations. This put an end to any close intimacy between the -cousins, and although Bertha called occasionally she seldom met Louie’s -husband, who, after she entered the employment of Swartz & Co., rarely -recognized her in the street. Bread-winners were far beneath his notice, -and Bertha was a sore point between him and his wife, who loved her -cousin with the devotion of a sister and often wrote, begging her to -come, if only for an hour. - -But Bertha was too proud to trespass where the master did not want her, -and it was many weeks since they had met. She must go now and say -good-bye. And after Mr. Sinclair left her she walked along Commonwealth -Avenue to her cousin’s elegant house, which stood side by side with one -equally handsome, of which she had just refused to be mistress. But she -scarcely glanced at it, or, if she did, it was with no feeling of regret -as she ran up the steps and rang the bell. - -Mrs. Thurston was at home and alone, the servant said, and Bertha, who -went up unannounced, found her in her pleasant morning room, lying on a -couch in the midst of a pile of cushions, with a very tired look upon -her lovely face. - -“Oh, Bertha,” she exclaimed, springing up with outstretched hands, as -her cousin came in, “I am so glad to see you! Where have you kept -yourself so long? And when are you coming to be my neighbor? I saw Mr. -Sinclair last week, and he still had hopes.” - -Bertha replied by telling what the reader already, knows, and adding -that she had come to say good-bye, as she was to sail in two weeks. - -“Oh, how could you refuse him, and he so kind and good, and so fond of -you?” Louie said. - -Bertha, between whom and her cousin there were no domestic secrets, -replied: - -“Because I do not love him, and never can, good and kind as I know him -to be. With your experience, would you advise me to marry for money?” - -Instantly a shadow came over Louie’s face, and she hesitated a little -before she answered: - -“Yes, and no; all depends upon the man, and whether you loved some one -else. If you knew he would swear at you, and call you names, and storm -before the servants, and throw things,—not at you, perhaps, but at the -side of the house,—I should say no, decidedly; but if he were kind, and -good, and generous, like Charlie Sinclair, I should say yes. I did so -want you for my neighbor. Can’t you reconsider? Who is Mrs. Hallam, I -wonder? I know some Hallams, or a Hallam,—Reginald. He lives in New -York, and it seems to me his aunt’s name is Mrs. Carter Hallam. Let me -tell you about him. I feel like talking of the old life in Florida, -which seems so long ago.” - -She was reclining again among the cushions, with one arm under her head, -a far-away look in her eyes, and a tone in her voice as if she were -talking to herself rather than to Bertha. - -“You know my father lived in Florida,” she began, “not far from -Tallahassee, and your mother lived over the line in Georgia. Our place -was called Magnolia Grove, and there were oleanders and yellow jasmine -and Cherokee roses everywhere. This morning when I was so tired and felt -that life was not worth the living, I fancied I was in my old home -again, and I smelled the orange blossoms and saw the magnolias which -bordered the avenue to our house, fifty or more, in full bloom, and Rex -and I were playing under them. His uncle’s plantation joined ours, and -when his mother died in Boston he came to live with her brother at -Grassy Spring. He was twelve and I was nine, and I had never played with -any boy before except the negroes, and we were so fond of each other. He -called me his little sweetheart, and said he was going to marry me when -he was older. When he was fourteen, his uncle on his father’s side, a -Mr. Hallam, from New York, sent for him, and he went away, promising to -come back again when he was a man. We wrote to each other a few times, -just boy and girl letters, you know. He called me Dear Louie and I -called him Dear Rex, and then, I hardly know why, that chapter of my -life closed, never to be reopened. Grandfather, who owned Magnolia -Grove, lost nearly everything during the war, so that father, who took -the place after him, was comparatively poor, and when he died we were -poorer still, mother and I, and had to sell the plantation and move to -Tallahassee, where we kept boarders,—people from the North, mostly, who -came there for the winter. I was sixteen then, and I tried to help -mother all I could. I dusted the rooms, and washed the glass and china, -and did a lot of things I never thought I’d have to do. When I was -eighteen Rex Hallam came to Jacksonville and ran over to see us. If he -had been handsome as a boy of fourteen, he was still handsomer as a man -of twenty-one, with what in a woman would be called a sweet graciousness -of manner which won all hearts to him; but as he is a man I will drop -the sweet and say that he was kind alike to everybody, old and young, -rich and poor, and had the peculiar gift of making every woman think she -was especially pleasing to him, whether she were married or single, -pretty or otherwise. He stopped with us a week, and because I was so -proud and rebellious against our changed circumstances, and so ashamed -to have him find me dusting and washing dishes, I was cold and stiff -towards him, and our old relations were not altogether resumed, although -he was very kind. Sometimes for fun he helped me dust, and once he wiped -the dishes for me and broke a china teapot, and then he went away and I -never saw him again till last summer, when I met him at Saratoga. Fred, -who was with him in college, introduced us to each other, supposing we -were strangers. You ought to have seen the look of surprise on Rex’s -face when Fred said, ‘This is my wife.’ - -“Why, Louie,” he exclaimed, “I don’t need an introduction to you,” then -to my husband, “We are old friends, Louie and I;” and we told him of our -early acquaintance. - -“For a wonder, Fred did not seem a bit jealous of him, although savage -if another man looked at me. Nor had he any cause, for Rex’s manner was -just like a brother’s, but oh, such a brother! And I was so happy the -two weeks he was there. We drove and rode and danced and talked -together, and never but once did he refer to the past. Then, in his -deep, musical voice, the most musical I ever heard in a man, he said, ‘I -thought you were going to wait for me,’ and I answered, ‘I did wait, and -you never came.’ - -“That was all; but the night before he went away he was in our room and -asked for my photograph, which was lying upon the table. He had quite a -collection, he said, and would like to add mine to it, and I gave it to -him. Fred knew it and was willing, but since then, when he is in one of -his moods, he taunts me with it, and says he knew I was in love with Rex -all the time,—that he saw it in my face, and that Rex saw it, too, and -despised me for it while pretending to admire me, and because he knew -Rex despised me and he could trust him, he allowed me full liberty just -to see how far I would go and not compromise myself. I do not believe it -of Rex: he never despised any woman; but it is hard to hear such things, -and sometimes when Fred is worse than usual and I have borne all I can -bear, I go away and cry, with an intense longing for something -different, which might perhaps have come to me if I had waited, and I -hear Rex’s boyish voice just as it sounded under the magnolias in -Florida, where we played together and pelted each other with the white -petals strewing the ground. - -“I am not false to Fred in telling this to you, who know about my -domestic life, which, after all, has some sunshine in it. Fred is not -always cross. Every one has a good and a bad side, a Jekyll and Hyde, -you know, and if Fred has more Hyde than Jekyll, it is not his fault, -perhaps. I try him in many ways. He says I am a fool, and that I only -care for his money, and if he gives me all I want I ought to be -satisfied. Just now he is very good,—so good, in fact, that I wonder if -he isn’t going to die. I believe he thinks I am, I am so weak and tired. -I have not told you, have I, that we, too, are going to Europe before -long? Switzerland is our objective point, but if I can I will persuade -Fred to go to Aix, where you will be. That will be jolly. I wonder if -your Mrs. Hallam can be Rex’s aunt.” - -“Did you ever see her?” Bertha asked, and Louie replied: - -“Only in the distance. She was in Saratoga with him, but at another -hotel. I heard she was a very swell woman with piles of money, and that -when young she had made shoes and worked in a factory, or something.” - -“How shocking!” Bertha said, laughingly, and Louie rejoined: - -“Don’t be sarcastic. You know I don’t care what she used to do. Why -should I, when I have dusted and washed dishes myself, and waited on a -lot of Northern boarders, with my proud Southern blood in hot rebellion -against it? If Mrs. Hallam made shoes or cloth, what does it matter, so -long as she is rich now and in the best society? She is no blood -relation to Rex, who is a gentleman by birth and nature both. I hope -Mrs. Carter is his aunt, for then you will see him; and if you do, tell -him I am your cousin, but not how wretched I am. He saw a little in -Saratoga, but not much, for Fred was very guarded. Hark! I believe I -hear him coming.” - -There was a bright flush on her cheeks as she started up and began to -smooth the folds of her dress and to arrange her hair. - -“Fred does not like to see me tumbled,” she said, just as the portière -was drawn aside and her husband entered the room. - -He was a tall and rather fine-looking man of thirty, with large, fierce -black eyes and an expression on his face and about his mouth indicative -of an indomitable will and a temper hard to meet. He had come in, he -said, to take Louie for a drive, as the day was fine and the air would -do her good; and he was so gracious to Bertha that she felt sure the -Jekyll mood was in the ascendant. He asked her if she was still with -Swartz & Co., and listened with some interest while Louie told him of -her engagement with Mrs. Carter Hallam, and when she asked if that lady -was Rex’s aunt, he replied that she was, adding that Rex’s uncle had -adopted him as a son and had left a large fortune. - -Then, turning to Bertha, he said, “I congratulate you on your -prospective acquaintance with Rex Hallam. He is very susceptible to -female charms, and quite indiscriminate in his attentions. Every woman, -old or young, is apt to think he is in love with her.” - -He spoke sarcastically, with a meaning look at his wife, whose face was -scarlet. Bertha was angry, and, with a proud inclination of her head, -said to him: - -“It is not likely that I shall see much of Mr. Reginald Hallam. Why -should I, when I am only his aunt’s hired companion, and have few charms -to attract him?” - -“I am not so sure of that,” Fred said, struck as he had never been -before with Bertha’s beauty, as she stood confronting him. - -She was a magnificent-looking girl, who, given a chance, would throw -Louie quite in the shade, he thought, and under the fascination of her -beauty he became more gracious than ever, and asked her to drive with -them and return to lunch. - -“Oh, do,” Louie said. “It is ages since you were here.” - -But Bertha declined, as she had shopping to do, and in the afternoon was -going home to stay until it was time to report herself to Mrs. Hallam. -Then, bidding them good-bye, she left the house and went rapidly down -the avenue. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - THE COMPANION. - - -Bertha kept up very bravely when she said good-bye to her father and -Dorcas and started alone for New York; but there was a horrid sense of -loneliness and homesickness in her heart when at about six in the -afternoon she rang the bell of No. — Fifth Avenue, looking in her sailor -hat and tailor-made gown and Eton jacket of dark blue serge more like -the daughter of the house than like a hired companion. Peters, the -colored man who opened the door, mistook her for an acquaintance, and -was very deferential in his manner, while he waited for her card. By -mistake her cards were in her trunk, and she said to him, “Tell Mrs. -Hallam that Miss Leighton is here. She is expecting me.” - -Mrs. Hallam’s servants usually managed to know the most of their -mistress’s business, for, although she professed to keep them at a -distance, she was at times quite confidential, and they all knew that a -Miss Leighton was to accompany her abroad as a companion. So when Peters -heard the name he changed his intention to usher her into the -reception-room, and, seating her in the hall, went for a maid, who took -her to a room on the fourth floor back and told her that Mrs. Hallam had -just gone in to dinner with some friends and would not be at liberty to -see her for two or three hours. - -“But she is expecting you,” she said, “and has given orders that you can -have your dinner served here, or if you choose, you can dine with Mrs. -Flagg, the housekeeper, in her room in the front basement. I should go -there, if I were you. You’ll find it pleasanter and cooler than up here -under the roof.” - -Bertha preferred the housekeeper’s room, to which she was taken by the -maid. Mrs. Flagg was a kind-hearted, friendly woman, who, with the quick -instincts of her class, recognized Bertha as a lady and treated her -accordingly. She had lived with the Hallams many years, and, with a -natural pride in the family, talked a good deal of her mistress’s wealth -and position, but more of Mr. Reginald, who had a pleasant word for -everybody, high or low, rich or poor. - -“Mrs. Hallam is not exactly that way,” she said, “and sometimes snubs -folks beneath her; but I’ve heard Mr. Reginald tell her that civil words -don’t cost anything, and the higher up you are and the surer of yourself -the better you can afford to be polite to every one; that a gold piece -is none the less gold because there is a lot of copper pennies in the -purse with it, nor a real lady any the less a lady because she is kind -of chummy with her inferiors. He’s great on comparisons.” - -As Bertha made no comment, she continued, “He’s Mrs. Hallam’s nephew, or -rather her husband’s, but the same as her son;” adding that she was -sorry he was not at home, as she’d like Miss Leighton to see him. - -When dinner was over she offered to take Bertha back to her room, and as -they passed an open door on the third floor she stopped a moment and -said, “This is Mr. Reginald’s room. Would you like to go in?” - -Bertha did not care particularly about it, but as Mrs. Flagg stepped -inside, she followed her. Just then some one from the hall called to -Mrs. Flagg, and, excusing herself for a moment, she went out, leaving -Bertha alone. It was a luxuriously furnished apartment, with signs of -masculine ownership everywhere, but what attracted Bertha most was a -large mirror which, in a Florentine frame, covered the entire chimney -above the mantel and was ornamented with photographs on all its four -sides. There were photographs of personal friends and prominent artists, -authors, actors, opera-singers, and ballet-dancers, with a few of horses -and dogs, divided into groups, with a blank space between. Bertha had no -difficulty in deciding which were his friends, for there confronting -her, with her sunny smile and laughing blue eyes, was Louie’s picture -given to him at Saratoga, and placed by the side of a sweet-faced, -refined-looking woman wearing a rather old-style dress, who, Bertha -fancied, might be his mother. - -“How lovely Louie is,” she thought, “and what a different life hers -would have been had her friendship for Reginald Hallam ripened into -love, as it ought to have done!” Then, casting her eyes upon another -group, she started violently as she saw herself tucked in between a -rope-walker and a ballet-dancer. “What does it mean? and how did my -picture get here?” she exclaimed, taking it from the frame and wondering -still more when she read upon it, “Rose Arabella Jefferson, Scotsburg.” - -“Rose Arabella Jefferson!” she repeated. “Who is she? and how came her -name on my picture? and how came my picture in Rex Hallam’s possession?” -Then, remembering that she had sent it by request to Mrs. Hallam, she -guessed how Rex came by it, and felt a little thrill of pride that he -had liked it well enough to give it a place in his collection, even if -it were in company with ballet-girls. “But it shall not stay there,” she -thought. “I’ll put it next to Louie’s, and let him wonder who changed -it, if he ever notices the change.” - -Mrs. Flagg was coming, and, hastily putting the photograph between -Louie’s and that of a woman who she afterwards found was Mrs. Carter -Hallam, she went out to meet the housekeeper, whom she followed to her -room. - -“You will not be afraid, as the servants all sleep up here. We have six -besides the coachman,” Mrs. Flagg said as she bade her good-night. - -“Six servants besides the coachman and housekeeper! I make the ninth, -for I dare say I am little more than that in my lady’s estimation,” -Bertha thought, as she sat alone, watching the minute-hand of the clock -creeping slowly round, and wondering when the grand dinner would be over -and Mrs. Hallam ready to receive her. Then, lest the lump in her throat -should get the mastery, she began to walk up and down her rather small -quarters, to look out of the window upon the roofs of the houses, and to -count the chimneys and spires in the distance. - -It was very different from the lookout at home, with its long stretch of -wooded hills, its green fields and meadows and grassy lane. Once her -tears were threatening every moment to start, when a maid appeared and -said her mistress was at liberty to see her. With a beating heart and -heightened color, Bertha followed her to the boudoir, where, in amber -satin and diamonds Mrs. Hallam was waiting, herself somewhat flurried -and nervous and doubtful how to conduct herself during the interview. -She was always a little uncertain how to maintain a dignity worthy of -Mrs. Carter Hallam under all circumstances, for, although she had been -in society so long and had seen herself quoted and her dinners and -receptions described so often, she was not yet quite sure of herself, -nor had she learned the truth of Rex’s theory that gold was not the less -gold because in the same purse with pennies. She had never forgotten the -shoe-shop and the barefoot girl picking berries, with all the other -humble surroundings of her childhood, and because she had not she felt -it incumbent upon her to try to prove that she was and always had been -what she seemed to be, a leader of fashion, with millions at her -command. To compass this she assumed an air of haughty superiority -towards those whom she thought her inferiors. She had never hired a -companion, and in the absence of her mentor, Mrs. Walker Haynes, she did -not know exactly how to treat one. Had she asked Rex, he would have -said, “Treat her as you would any other young lady.” But Rex held some -very ultra views, and was not to be trusted implicitly. Fortunately, -however, a guest at dinner had helped her greatly by recounting her own -experience with a companion who was always getting out of her place, and -who finally ran off with a French count at Trouville, where they were -spending the summer. - -“I began wrong,” the lady said. “I was too familiar at first, and made -too much of her because she was educated and superior to her class.” - -Acting upon this intimation, Mrs. Hallam decided to commence right. -Remembering the picture which Rex called Squint-Eye, she had no fear -that the original would ever run off with a French count, but she might -have to be put down, and she would begin by sitting down to receive her. -“Standing will make her too much my equal,” she thought, and, adjusting -the folds of her satin gown and assuming an expression which she meant -to be very cold and distant, she glanced up carelessly, but still a -little nervously, as she heard the sound of footsteps and knew there was -some one at the door. She was expecting a very ordinary-looking person, -with wide mouth, half-closed eyes, and light hair, and when she saw a -tall, graceful girl, with dark hair and eyes, brilliant color, and an -air decidedly patrician, as Mrs. Walker Haynes would say, she was -startled out of her dignity, and involuntarily rose to her feet and half -extended her hand. Then, remembering herself, she dropped it, and said, -stammeringly, “Oh, are you Miss Leighton?” - -“Yes, madam. You were expecting me, were you not?” Bertha answered, her -voice clear and steady, with no sound of timidity or awe in it. - -“Why, yes; that is—sit down, please. There is some mistake,” Mrs. Hallam -faltered. “You are not like your photograph, or the one I took for you. -They must have gotten mixed, as Rex said they did. He insisted that your -letter did not belong to what I said was your photograph and which he -called Squint-Eye.” - -Here it occurred to Mrs. Hallam that she was not commencing right at -all,—that she was quite too communicative to a girl who looked fully -equal to running off with a duke, if she chose, and who must be kept -down. But she explained about the letters and the photographs until -Bertha had a tolerably correct idea of the mistake and laughed heartily -over it. It was a very merry, musical laugh, in which Mrs. Hallam joined -for a moment. Then, resuming her haughty manner, she plied Bertha with -questions, saying to her first, “Your home is in Boston, I believe?” - -“Oh, no,” Bertha replied. “My home is in Leicester, where I was born.” - -“In Leicester!” Mrs. Hallam replied, her voice indicative of surprise -and disapprobation. “You wrote me from Boston. Why did you do that?” - -Bertha explained why, and Mrs. Hallam asked next if she lived in the -village or the country. - -“In the country, on a farm,” Bertha answered, wondering at Mrs. Hallam’s -evident annoyance at finding that she came from Leicester instead of -Boston. - -It had not before occurred to her to connect the Homestead with Mrs. -Carter Hallam, but it came to her now, and at a venture she said, “Our -place is called the Hallam Homestead, named for a family who lived there -many years ago.” - -She was looking curiously at Mrs. Hallam, whose face was crimson at -first and then grew pale, but who for a moment made no reply. Here was a -complication,—Leicester, and perhaps the old life, brought home to her -by the original of the picture so much admired by Rex, who had it in -mind to buy the old Homestead, and was sure to admire the girl when he -saw her, as he would, for he was coming to Aix-les-Bains some time -during the summer. If Mrs. Hallam could have found an excuse for it, she -would have dismissed Bertha at once. But there was none. She was there, -and she must keep her, and perhaps it might be well to be frank with her -to a certain extent. So she said at last, “My husband’s family once -lived in Leicester,—presumably on your father’s farm. That was years -ago, before I was married. My nephew, Mr. Reginald” (she laid much -stress on the _Mr._, as if to impress Bertha with the distance there was -between them), “has, I believe, some quixotic notion about buying the -old place. Is it for sale?” - -The fire which flashed into Bertha’s eyes and the hot color which -stained her cheeks startled Mrs. Hallam, who was not prepared for -Bertha’s excitement as she replied, “For sale! Never! There is a -mortgage of long standing on it, but it will be paid in the fall. I am -going with you to earn the money to pay it. Nothing else would take me -from father and Dorcas so long. We heard there was a New York man -wishing to buy it, but he may as well think of buying the Coliseum as -our home. Tell him so, please, for me. Hallam Homestead is _not_ for -sale.” - -As she talked, Bertha grew each moment more earnest and excited and -beautiful, with the tears shining in her eyes and the bright color on -her cheeks. Mrs. Hallam was not a hard woman, nor a bad woman; she was -simply calloused over with false ideas of caste and position, which -prompted her to restrain her real nature whenever it asserted itself, as -it was doing now. Something about Bertha fascinated and interested her, -bringing back the long ago, with the odor of the pines, the perfume of -the pond-lilies, and the early days of her married life. But this -feeling soon passed. Habit is everything, and she had been the -fashionable Mrs. Carter Hallam so long that it would take more than a -memory of the past to change her. She must maintain her dignity, and not -give way to sentiment, and she was soon herself, cold and distant, with -her chin in the air, where she usually carried it when talking to those -whom she wished to impress with her superiority. - -For some time longer she talked to Bertha, and learned as much of her -history as Bertha chose to tell. Her mother was born in Georgia, she -said; her father in Boston. He was a Yale graduate, and fonder of books -than of farming. They were poor, keeping no servants; Dorcas, her only -sister, kept the house, while she did what she could to help pay -expenses and lessen the mortgage on the farm. All this Bertha told -readily enough, with no thought of shame for her poverty. She saw that -Mrs. Hallam was impressed with the Southern mother and scholarly father, -and once she thought to speak of her cousin, Mrs. Louie, but did not, -and here she possibly made a mistake, for Mrs. Hallam had a great -respect for family connections, as that was what she lacked. She had -heard of Mrs. Fred Thurston, as had every frequenter of Saratoga and -Newport, and once at the former place she had seen her driving in her -husband’s stylish turnout with Reginald at her side. He was very -attentive to the beauty whom he had known at the South, and Mrs. Hallam -had once or twice intimated to him that she, too, would like to meet -her, but he had not acted upon the hint, and she had left Saratoga -without accomplishing her object. Had Bertha told of the relationship -between herself and Louie, it might have made some difference in her -relations with her employer. But she did not, and after a little further -catechising Mrs. Hallam dismissed her, saying, “As the ship sails at -nine, it will be necessary to rise very early; so I will bid you -good-night.” - -The next morning Bertha breakfasted with Mrs. Flagg, who told her that, -as a friend was to accompany Mrs. Hallam in her coupé to the ship, she -was to go in a street-car, with a maid to show her the way. - -“Evidently I am a hired servant and nothing more,” Bertha thought; “but -I can endure even that for the sake of Europe and five hundred dollars.” -And, bidding good-bye to Mrs. Flagg, she was soon on her way to the -Teutonic. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - ON THE TEUTONIC. - - -Bertha found Mrs. Hallam in her state-room, which was one of the largest -and most expensive on the ship. With her were three or four ladies who -were there to say good-bye, all talking together and offering advice in -case of sickness, while Mrs. Hallam fanned herself vigorously, as the -morning was very hot. - -“Are you not taking a maid?” one of the ladies asked, and Mrs. Hallam -replied that Mrs. Haynes advised her to get one in Paris, adding, “I -have a young girl as companion, and I’m sure I don’t know where she is. -She ought to be here by this time. I dare say she will be more trouble -than good. She seems quite the fine lady. I hardly know what I am to do -with her.” - -“Keep her in her place,” was the prompt advice of a little, -common-looking woman, who was once a nursery governess, but was now a -millionaire, and perfectly competent to advise as to the proper -treatment of a companion. - -Just then Bertha appeared, and was stared at by the ladies, who took no -further notice of her. - -“I am glad you’ve got here at last. What kept you so long?” Mrs. Hallam -asked, a little petulantly, while Bertha replied that she had been -detained by a block in the street cars, and asked if there was anything -she could do. - -“Yes,” Mrs. Hallam answered. “I wish you would open my sea trunk and -satchel, and get out my wrapper, and shawl, and cushion, and toilet -articles, and salts, and camphor. I am sure to be sick the minute we get -out to sea.” And handing her keys to Bertha, she went with her friends -outside, where the crowd was increasing every moment. - -The passenger-list was full, and every passenger had at least half a -dozen acquaintances to see him off, so that by the time Bertha had -arranged Mrs. Hallam’s belongings, and gone out on deck, there was -hardly standing room. Finding a seat near the purser’s office, she sat -down and watched the surging mass of human beings, jostling, pushing, -crowding each other, the confusion reaching its climax when the order -came for the ship to be cleared of all visitors. Then for a time they -stood so thickly around her that she could see nothing and hear nothing -but a confused babel of voices, until suddenly there was a break in the -ranks, and a tall young man, who had been fighting his way to the plank, -pitched headlong against her with such force that she fell from the -seat, losing her hat in the fall, and striking her forehead on a sharp -point near her. - -“I beg your pardon; are you much hurt? I am so sorry, but I could not -help it, they pushed me so in this infernal crowd. Let me help you up,” -a pleasant, manly voice, full of concern, said to her, while two strong -hands lifted her to her feet, and on to the seat where she had been -sitting. “You are safe here, unless some other blunderhead knocks you -down again,” the young man continued, as he managed to pick up her hat. -“Some wretch has stepped on it, but I think I can doctor it into shape,” -he said, giving it a twist or two, and then putting it very carefully on -Bertha’s head hind side before. “There! It is all right, I think, -though, upon my soul, it does seem a little askew,” he added, looking -for the first time fully at Bertha, who was holding her hand to her -forehead, where a big bump was beginning to show. - -Her hand hid a portion of her face, but she smiled brightly and -gratefully upon the stranger, whose manner was so friendly and whose -brown eyes seen through his glasses looked so kindly at her. - -“By Jove, you are hurt,” he continued, “and I did it. I can’t help you, -as I’ve got to go, but my aunt is on board,—Mrs. Carter Hallam; find -her, and tell her that her awkward nephew came near knocking your brains -out. She has every kind of drug and lotion imaginable, from morphine to -Pond’s extract, and is sure to find something for that bump. And now I -must go or be carried off.” - -He gave another twist to her hat and offered her his hand, and then ran -down the plank to the wharf, where, with hundreds of others, he stood, -waving his hat and cane to his friends on the ship, which began to move -slowly from the dock. He was so tall that Bertha could see him -distinctly, and she stood watching him and him alone, until he was a -speck in the distance. Then, with a feeling of loneliness, she started -for her state-room, where Mrs. Hallam, who had preceded her, was looking -rather cross and doing her best to be sick, although as yet there was -scarcely any motion to the vessel. - -Reginald, whose train was late, had hurried at once to the ship, which -he reached in time to see his aunt for a few moments only. Her last -friend had said good-bye, and she was feeling very forlorn, and -wondering where Bertha could be, when he came rushing up, bringing so -much life and sunshine and magnetism with him that Mrs. Hallam began to -feel doubly forlorn as she wondered what she should do without him. - -“Oh, Rex,” she said, laying her head on his arm and beginning to cry a -little, “I am so glad you have come, and I wish you were going with me. -I fear I have made a mistake starting off alone. I don’t know at all how -to take care of myself.” - -Rex smoothed her hair, patted her hand, soothed her as well as he could, -and told her he was sure she would get on well enough and that he would -certainly join her in August. - -“Where is Miss Leighton? Hasn’t she put in an appearance?” he asked, and -his aunt replied, with a little asperity of manner: - -“Yes; she came last night, and she seems a high and mighty sort of -damsel. I am disappointed, and afraid I shall have trouble with her.” - -“Sit down on her if she gets too high and mighty,” Rex said, laughingly, -while his aunt was debating the propriety of telling him of the mistake -and who Bertha was. - -“I don’t believe I will. He will find it out soon enough,” she thought, -just as the last warning to leave the boat was given, and with a hurried -good-bye Rex left her, saying, as he did so: - -“I’ll look a bit among the crowd, and if I find your squint-eyed damsel -I’ll send her to you. I shall know her in a minute.” - -Here was a good chance to explain, but Mrs. Hallam let it pass, and Rex -went his way, searching here and there for a light-haired, weak-eyed -woman answering to her photograph. - -But he did not find her, and ran instead against Bertha, with no -suspicion that she was the girl he had told his aunt to sit on, and for -whom that lady waited rather impatiently after the ship was cleared. - -“Oh!” she said, as Bertha came in. “I have been waiting for you some -time. Did you have friends to say good-bye to? Give me my salts, please, -and camphor, and fan, and a pillow, and close that shutter. I don’t want -the herd looking in upon me; nor do I think this room so very desirable, -with all the people passing and repassing. I told Rex so, and he said -nobody wanted to see me in my night-cap. He was here to say good-bye. -His train got in just in time.” - -Bertha closed the shutters and brought a pillow and fan and the camphor -and salts, and then bathed the bruise on her forehead, which was -increasing in size and finally attracted Mrs. Hallam’s attention. - -“Are you hurt?” she asked, and Bertha replied, “I was knocked down in -the crowd by a young man who told me he had an aunt, a Mrs. Hallam, on -board. I suppose he must have been your nephew.” - -“Did you tell him who you were?” Mrs. Hallam asked, with a shake of her -head and disapproval in her voice. - -“No, madam,” Bertha replied. “He was trying to apologize for what he had -done, and spoke to me of you as one to whom I could go for help if I was -badly hurt.” - -“Yes, that is like Reginald,—thinking of everything,” Mrs. Hallam said. -After a moment she added, “He has lived with me since he was a boy, and -is the same as a son. He will join me in Aix-les-Bains in August. Miss -Grace Haynes is there, and I don’t mind telling you, as you will -probably see for yourself, that I think there is a sort of understanding -between him and her. Nothing would please me better.” - -“There! I have headed off any idea she might possibly have with regard -to Rex, who is so democratic and was so struck with her photograph, -while she,—well, there is something in her eyes and the lofty way she -carries her head and shoulders that I don’t like; it looks too much like -equality, and I am afraid I may have to sit on her, as Rex bade me do,” -was Mrs. Hallam’s mental comment, as she adjusted herself upon her couch -and issued her numerous orders. - -For three days she stayed in her state-room, not because she was -actually sea-sick, but because she feared she would be. To lie perfectly -quiet in her berth until she was accustomed to the motion of the vessel -was the advice given her by one of her friends, and as far as possible -she followed it, while Bertha was kept in constant attendance, reading -to her, brushing her hair, bathing her head, opening and shutting the -windows, and taking messages to those of her acquaintances able to be on -deck. The sea was rather rough for June, but Bertha was not at all -affected by it, and the only inconvenience she suffered was want of -sufficient exercise and fresh air. Early in the morning, while Mrs. -Hallam slept, she was free to go on deck, and again late in the evening, -after the lady had retired for the night. These walks, with going to her -meals, were the only recreation or change she had, and she was beginning -to droop a little, when at last Mrs. Hallam declared herself able to go -upon deck, where, by the aid of means which seldom fail, she managed to -gain possession of the sunniest and most sheltered spot, which she held -in spite of the protestations of another party who claimed the place on -the ground of first occupancy. She was Mrs. Carter Hallam, and she kept -the field until a vacancy occurred in the vicinity of some people whom -to know, if possible, was desirable. Then she moved, and had her reward -in being told by one of the magnates that it was a fine day and the ship -was making good time. - -Every morning Bertha brought her rugs and wraps and cushions and -umbrella, and after seeing her comfortably adjusted sat down at a -respectful distance and waited for orders, which were far more frequent -than was necessary. No one spoke to her, although many curious and -admiring glances were cast at the bright, handsome girl who seemed quite -as much a lady as her mistress, but who was performing the duties of a -maid and was put down upon the passenger-list as Mrs. Hallam’s -companion. As it chanced, there was a royal personage on board, and one -day when standing near, Bertha, who was watching a steamer just -appearing upon the horizon, he addressed some remark to her, and then, -attracted by something in her face, or manner, or both, continued to -talk with her, until Mrs. Hallam’s peremptory voice called out: - -“Bertha, I want you, Don’t you see my rug is falling off?” - -There was a questioning glance at the girl thus bidden and at the woman -who bade her, and then, lifting his hat politely to the former, the -stranger walked away, while Bertha went to Mrs. Hallam, who said to her -sharply: - -“I wonder at your presumption; but possibly you did not know to whom you -were talking?” - -“Oh, yes, I did,” Bertha replied. “It was the prince. He speaks English -fluently, and I found him very agreeable.” - -She was apparently as unconcerned as if it had been the habit of her -life to consort with royalty, and Mrs. Hallam looked at her wonderingly, -conscious in her narrow soul of an increased feeling of respect for the -girl whom a prince had honored with his notice and who took it so coolly -and naturally. But she did not abate her requirements or exactions in -the least. On the contrary, it seemed as if she increased them. But -Bertha bore it all patiently, performing every task imposed upon her as -if it were a pleasure, and never giving any sign of fatigue, although in -reality she was never so tired in her life as when at last they sailed -up the Mersey and into the docks at Liverpool. - -At Queenstown she sent off a letter to Dorcas, in which, after speaking -of her arrival in New York and the voyage in general, she wrote, “I -hardly know what to say of Mrs. Hallam until I have seen more of her. -She is a great lady, and great ladies need a great deal of waiting upon, -and the greater they are the greater their need. There must be something -Shylocky in her nature, and, as she gives me a big salary, she means to -have her pound of flesh. I am down on the passenger-list as her -companion, but it should be maid, as I am really that. But when we reach -Paris there will be a change, as she is to have a French maid there. It -will surprise you, as it did me, to know that she belongs to the Hallams -for whom the Homestead was named and who father thought were all dead. -Her husband was born there. Where she came from I do not know. She is -very reticent on that point. I shouldn’t be surprised if she once worked -in a factory, she is so particular to have her position recognized. Such -a scramble as she had to get to the captain’s table; though what good -that does I cannot guess, inasmuch as he is seldom there himself. I am -at _Nobody’s_ table, and like it, because I am a nobody. - -“Do you remember the letter father had, saying that some New Yorker -wanted to buy our farm and was coming to look at it? That New Yorker is -cousin Louie’s Reginald Hallam, of whom I told you, and Mrs. Carter’s -nephew; not in the least like her, I fancy, although I have only had the -pleasure of being knocked down by him on the ship. But he was not to -blame. The crowd pushed him against me with such force that I fell off -the seat and nearly broke my head. My hat was crushed out of all shape, -and he made it worse trying to twist it back. He was kindness itself, -and his brown eyes full of concern as they looked at me through the -clearest pair of rimless glasses I ever saw. He did not know who I was, -of course, but I am sure he would have been just as kind if he had. I -can understand Louie’s infatuation for him, and why his aunt adores him. - -“But what nonsense to be writing with Queenstown in sight, and this -letter must be finished to send off. I am half ashamed of what I have -said of Mrs. Hallam, who when she forgets what a grand lady she is, can -be very nice, and I really think she likes me a little. - -“And now I must close, with more love for you and father than can be -carried in a hundred letters. Will write again from Paris. Good-bye, -good-bye. - - “BERTHA. - -“P. S. I told you that if a New Yorker came to buy the farm you were to -shut the door in his face. But you may as well let him in.” - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - REGINALD AND PHINEAS JONES. - - -After bidding his aunt good-bye, Reginald went home for a few moments, -and then to his office, where he met for the first time Mr. Gorham, the -owner of the Leighton mortgage, and learned that the place was really -where his father used to live and that the Homestead was named for the -Hallams. This increased his desire to own it, and, as there was still -time to catch the next train for Boston, he started for the depot and -was soon on his way to Worcester, where he arrived about four in the -afternoon. Wishing to make some inquiries as to the best means of -reaching Leicester, he went to a hotel, where he found no one in the -office besides the clerk except a tall, spare man, with long, light hair -tinged with gray, and shrewdness and curiosity written all over his -good-humored face. He wore a linen duster, with no collar, and only an -apology for a handkerchief twisted around his neck. Tipping back in one -chair, with his feet in another, he was taking frequent and most -unsuccessful aims at a cuspidor about six feet from him. - -“Good-afternoon,” he said, removing his feet from the chair for a -moment, but soon putting them back, as he asked if Reginald had just -come from the train, and whether from the East or the West. Then he told -him it was an all-fired hot day, that it looked like thunder in the -west, and he shouldn’t wonder if they got a heavy shower before night. - -To all this Reginald assented, and then went to the desk to register, -while the stranger, on pretense of looking at something in the street, -also arose and sauntered to the door, managing to glance at the register -and see the name just written there. - -Resuming his seat and inviting Rex to take a chair near him, he began: -“I b’lieve you’re from New York. I thought so the minute you came in. I -have traveled from Dan to Beersheba, and been through the war,—was a -corp’ral there,—and I generally spot you fellows when I first put my eye -on you. I am Phineas Jones,—Phin for short. I hain’t any real -profession, but am jack at all trades and good at none. Everybody knows -me in these parts, and I know everybody.” - -Rex, who began to be greatly amused with this queer specimen, bowed an -acknowledgment of the honor of knowing Mr. Jones, who said, “Be you -acquainted in Worcester?” - -“Not at all. Was never here before,” was Rex’s reply, and Phineas -continued: “Slow old place, some think, but I like it. Full of nice -folks of all sorts, with clubs, and lodges, and societies, and no end of -squabbles about temperance and city officers and all that. As for -music,—my land, I’d smile to see any place hold a candle to us. Had all -the crack singers here, even to the diver.” - -Rex, who had listened rather indifferently to Phineas’s laudations of -Worcester, now asked if he knew much of the adjoining towns,—Leicester, -for instance. - -“Wa-all, I’d smile,” Phineas replied, with a fierce assault upon the -cuspidor. “Yes, I would smile if I didn’t know Leicester. Why, I was -born there, and it’s always been my native town, except two or three -years in Sturbridge, when I was a shaver, and the time I was to the war -and travelin’ round. Pleasant town, but dull,—with no steam cars nigher -than Rochdale or Worcester. Got stages and an electric car to -Spencer;—run every half hour. Think of goin’ there?” - -Rex said he did, and asked the best way of getting there. - -“Wa-all, there’s four ways,—the stage, but that’s gone; hire a team and -drive out,—that’s expensive; take the steam cars for Rochdale, or -Jamesville, and then drive out,—that’s expensive, too; or take the -electric, which is cheaper, and pleasanter, and quicker. Know anybody in -Leicester?” - -Rex said he didn’t, and asked if Phineas knew a place called Hallam -Homestead. - -“Wa-all, I’d smile if I didn’t,” Phineas replied. “Why, I’ve worked in -hayin’-time six or seven summers for Square Leighton. He was ’lected -justice of the peace twelve or fifteen years ago, and I call him Square -yet, as a title seems to suit him, he’s so different-lookin’ from most -farmers,—kind of high-toned, you know. Ort to have been an aristocrat. -As to the Hallams, who used to own the place, I’ve heard of ’em ever -since I was knee-high; I was acquainted with Carter; first-rate feller. -By the way, your name is Hallam. Any kin?” - -Rex explained his relationship to the Hallams, while the smile habitual -to Phineas’s face, and which, with the expressions he used so often, had -given him the _sobriquet_ of Smiling Phin, broadened into a loud laugh -of genuine delight and surprise, and, springing up, he grasped Rex’s -hand, exclaiming: “This beats the Dutch! I’m glad to see you, I be. I -thought you was all dead when Carter died. There’s a pile of you in the -old Greenville graveyard. Why, you ’n’ I must be connected.” - -Rex looked at him wonderingly, while he went on: “You see, Carter -Hallam’s wife was Lucy Ann Brown, and her great-grandmother and my -great-grandfather were half-brother and sister. Now, what relation be I -to Lucy Ann, or to you?” - -Rex confessed his inability to trace so remote a relationship on so hot -a day, and Phineas rejoined: - -“’Tain’t very near, that’s a fact, but we’re related, though I never -thought Lucy Ann hankered much for my society. I used to call her -cousin, which made her mad. She was a handsome girl when she clerked it -here in Worcester and roped Carter in. A high stepper,—turned up her -nose when I ast her for her company. That’s when she was bindin’ shoes, -before she knew Carter. I don’t s’pose I could touch her now with a -ten-foot pole, though I b’lieve I’ll call the fust time I’m in New York, -if you’ll give me your number. Blood is blood. How is the old lady?” - -Here was a chance for Rex to inquire into his aunt’s antecedents, of -which he knew little, as she was very reticent with regard to her early -life. He knew that she was an orphan and had no near relatives, and that -she had once lived in Worcester, and that was all. The clerkship and the -shoe-binding were news to him; he did not even know before that she was -Lucy Ann, as she had long ago dropped the _Ann_ as too plebeian; but, -with the delicacy of a true gentleman, he would not ask a question of -this man, who, he was sure, would tell all he knew and a great deal -more, if urged. - -“I wonder what Aunt Lucy would say to being visited and cousined by this -Yankee, who calls her an old lady?” he thought, as he said that she was -very well and had just sailed for Europe, adding that she was still -handsome and very young-looking. - -“You don’t say!” Phineas exclaimed, and began at once to calculate her -age, basing his data on a spelling-school in Sturbridge when she was -twelve years old and had spelled him down, a circus in Fiskdale which -she had attended with him when she was fifteen, and the time when he had -asked for her company in Worcester. Naturally, he made her several years -older than she really was. - -But she was not there to protest, and Rex did not care. He was more -interested in his projected purchase than in his aunt’s age, and he -asked if the Hallam farm were good or bad. - -“Wa-all, ’taint neither,” Phineas replied. “You see, it’s pretty much -run down for want of means and management. The Square ain’t no kind of a -farmer, and never was, and he didn’t ort to be one, but his wife -persuaded him. My land, how a woman can twist a man round her fingers, -especially if she’s kittenish and pretty and soft-spoken, as the -Square’s wife was. She was from Georgy, and nothin’ would do but she -must live on a farm and have it fixed up as nigh like her father’s -plantation as she could. She took down the big chimbleys and built some -outside,—queer-lookin’ till the woodbine run up and covered ’em clear to -the top, and now they’re pretty. She made a bath-room out of the -but’try, and a but’try out of the meal-room. She couldn’t have niggers, -nor, of course, nigger cabins, but she got him to build a lot of other -out-houses, which cost a sight,—stables, and a dog-kennel.” - -“Dog-kennels!” Rex interrupted, feeling more desirous than ever for a -place with kennels already in it. “How large are they?” - -“There ain’t but one,” Phineas said, “and that ain’t there now. It was -turned into a pig-pen long ago, for the Square can’t abide dogs; but -there’s a hen-house, and smoke-house, and ice-house, and house over the -well, and flower-garden with box borders, and yard terraced down to the -orchard, with brick walls and steps, and a dammed brook——” - -“A what?” Reginald asked, in astonishment. - -“Wa-all, I should smile if you thought I meant disrespect for the Bible; -I didn’t. I’m a church member,—a Free Methodist and class-leader, and -great on exhortin’ and experiencin’, they say. I don’t swear. You spelt -the word wrong, with an _n_ instead of two _m_’s, that’s what’s the -matter. That’s the word your aunt Lucy Ann spelt me down on at the -spellin’-school. We two stood up longest and were tryin’ for the medal. -I was more used to the word with an _n_ in it than I am now, and got -beat. What I mean about the brook is that it runs acrost the road into -the orchard, and Mis’ Leighton had it dammed up with boards and stones -to make a waterfall, with a rustic bridge below it, and a butternut tree -and a seat under it, where you can set and view nature. But bless your -soul, such things don’t pay, and if Mis’ Leighton had lived she’d of -ruined the Square teetotally, but she died, poor thing, and the Square’s -hair turned white in six months.” - -“What family has Mr. Leighton?” Rex asked, and Phineas replied: - -“Two girls, that’s all; one handsome as blazes, like her mother, and the -other—wa’all, she is nice-lookin’, with a motherly, venerable kind of -face that everybody trusts. She stays to hum, Dorcas does, while——” Here -he was interrupted by Rex, who, more interested just then in the farm -than in the girls, asked if it was for sale. - -“For sale?” Phineas replied. “I’d smile to see the Square sell his farm, -though he owes a pile on it; borrows of Peter to pay Paul, you know, and -so keeps a-goin’; but I don’t believe he’d sell for love nor money.” - -“Not if he could get cash down and, say, a thousand more than it is -worth?” Rex suggested. - -Staggered by the thousand dollars, which seemed like a fortune to one -who had never had more than a few hundred at a time in his life, Phineas -gasped: - -“One thousand extry! Wa-all, I swan, a thousand extry would tempt some -men to sell their souls; but I don’t know about it fetchin’ the Square. -Think of buyin’ it?” - -Rex said he did. - -“For yourself?” - -“Yes, for myself.” - -“_You_ goin’ to turn farmer?” and Phineas looked him over from head to -foot. “Wa-all, if that ain’t curi’s. I’d smile to see you, or one of -your New York dudes, a-farmin’ it, with your high collars, your long -coats and wide trouses and yaller shoes and canes and eye-glasses, and -hands that never done a stroke of hard work in your lives. Yes, I -would.” - -Rex had never felt so small in his life as when Phineas was drawing a -picture he recognized as tolerably correct of most of his class, and he -half wished his collar was a trifle lower and his coat a little shorter, -but he laughed good-humoredly and said, “I am afraid we do seem a -useless lot to you, and I suppose we might wear older-fashioned clothes, -but I can’t help the glasses. I couldn’t see across the street without -them.” - -“I want to know,” Phineas said. “Wa-all, they ain’t bad on you, they’re -so clear and hain’t no rims to speak of. They make you look like a -literary feller, or more like a minister. Be you a professor?” - -Rex flushed a little at the close questioning, expecting to be asked -next how much he was worth and where his money was invested, but he -answered honestly, “I wish I could say yes, but I can’t.” - -“What a pity! Come to one of our meetin’s, and we’ll convert you in no -time. What persuasion be you?” - -Reginald said he was an Episcopalian, and Phineas’s face fell. He hadn’t -much faith in Episcopalians, thinking their service was mere form, with -nothing in it which he could enjoy, except that he did not have to sit -still long enough to get sleepy, and there were so many places where he -could come in strong with an Amen, as he always did. This opinion, -however, he did not express to Reginald. He merely said, “Wa-all, -there’s good folks in every church. I do b’lieve the Square is pious, -and he’s a ’Piscopal. Took it from his Georgy wife, who had a good many -other fads. You have a good face, like all the Hallams, and I b’lieve -they died in the faith. Says so, anyway, on their tombstones; but -monuments lie as well as obituaries. But I ain’t a-goin’ to discuss -religious tenants, though I’m fust-rate at it, they say. I want to know -what _you_ want of a farm?” - -Rex told him that he had long wished for a place in the country, where -he could spend a part of each year with a few congenial friends, hunting -and fishing and boating, and from what he had heard of the Homestead, he -thought it would just suit him, there were so many hills and woods and -ponds around it. - -“Are there pleasant drives?” he asked, and Phineas replied: - -“Tip-top, the city folks think. Woods full of roads leading nowhere -except to some old house a hundred years old or more, and the older they -be the better the city folks like ’em. Why, they actu’lly go into the -garrets and buy up old spinning-wheels and desks and chairs; and, my -land, they’re crazy over tall clocks.” - -Rex did not care much for the furniture of the old garrets unless it -should happen to belong to the Hallams, and he asked next if there were -foxes in the woods, and if he could get up a hunt with dogs and horses. - -Phineas did not smile, but laughed long and loud, and deluged the -cuspidor, before he replied: - -“Wa-all, if I won’t give up! A fox-hunt, with hounds and horses, tearin’ -through the folks’s fields and gardens! Why, you’d be mobbed. You’d be -tarred and feathered. You’d be rid on a rail.” - -“But,” Rex exclaimed, “I should keep on my own premises. A man has a -right to do what he pleases with his own,” a remark which so affected -Phineas that he doubled up with laughter, as he said: - -“That’s so; but, bless your soul, the Homestead farm ain’t big enough -for a hunt. It takes acres and acres for that, and if you had ’em the -foxes wouldn’t stop to ask if it’s your premises or somebody else’s. -They ain’t likely to take to the open if they can help it, but with the -dogs to their heels and widder Brady’s garden right before ’em they’d -make a run for it. Her farm jines the Homestead, and ’twould be good as -a circus to see the hounds tearin’ up her sage and her gooseberries and -her violets. She’d be out with brooms and mops and pokers; and, besides -that, the Leicester women would be up in arms and say ’twas cruel for a -lot of men to hunt a poor fox to death just for fun. They are great on -Bergh, Leicester women are, and they might arrest you.” - -Reginald saw his fox-hunts fading into air, and was about to ask what -there was in the woods which he could hunt without fear of the widow -Brady or the Bergh ladies of the town, when Phineas sprang up, -exclaiming: - -“Hullo! there’s the Square now. I saw him in town this mornin’ about -some plasterin’ I ort to have done six weeks ago.” - -And he darted from the door, while Rex, looking from the window, saw an -old horse drawing an old buggy in which sat an old man, evidently intent -upon avoiding a street-car rapidly approaching him, while Phineas was -making frantic efforts to stop him. But a car from an opposite direction -and a carriage blocked his way, and by the time these had passed the old -man and buggy were too far up the street for him to be heard or to -overtake them. - -“I’m awful sorry,” he said, as he returned to the hotel. “He was alone, -and you could of rid with him as well as not and saved your fare.” - -Rex thanked him for his kind intentions, but said he did not mind the -fare in the least and preferred the electric car. Then, as he wished to -look about the city a little, he bade good-bye to Phineas, who -accompanied him to the door, and said: “Mabby you’d better mention my -name to the Square as a surety that you’re all right. He hain’t traveled -as much as I have, nor seen as many swells like you, and he might take -you for a confidence man.” - -Rex promised to make use of his new friend if he found it necessary, and -walked away, while Phineas looked after him admiringly, thinking, -“That’s a fine chap; not a bit stuck up. Glad I’ve met him, for now I -shall visit Lucy Ann when she comes home. He’s a little off, though, on -his farm and his fox-hunts.” - -Meanwhile, Reginald walked through several streets, and at last found -himself in the vicinity of the electric car, which he took for -Leicester. It was a pleasant ride, and he enjoyed it immensely, -especially after they were out in the country and began to climb the -long hill. At his request he was put down at the cross-road and the -gabled house pointed out to him. Very eagerly he looked about him as he -went slowly up the avenue or lane bordered with cherry-trees on one -side, and on the other commanding an unobstructed view of the country -for miles around, with its valleys and thickly wooded hills. - -“This is charming,” he said, as he turned his attention next to the -house and its surroundings. - -How quiet and pleasant it looked, with its gables and picturesque -chimneys under the shadow of the big apple-tree in the rear and the big -elm in the front! He could see the out-buildings of which Phineas had -told him,—the well-house, the hen-house, the smoke-house, the ice-house -and stable,—and could hear the faint sound of the brook in the orchard -falling over the dam into the basin below. - -“I wish I had lived here when a boy, as my father and uncle did,” he -thought, just as a few big drops of rain fell upon the grass, and he -noticed for the first time how black it was overhead, and how -threatening were the clouds rolling up so fast from the west. - -It had been thundering at intervals ever since he left Worcester, and in -the sultry air there was that stillness which portends the coming of a -severe storm. But he had paid no attention to it, and now he did not -hasten his steps until there came a deafening crash of thunder, followed -instantaneously by a drenching downpour of rain, which seemed to come in -sheets rather than in drops, and he knew that in a few minutes he would -be wet through, as his coat was rather thin and he had no umbrella. He -was still some little distance from the house, but by running swiftly he -was soon under the shelter of the piazza, and knocking at the door, with -a hope that it might be opened by the girl who Phineas had said “was -handsome as blazes.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. - - -The day had been longer and lonelier to Dorcas than the previous one, -for then she had gone with Bertha to the train in Worcester, and after -saying good-bye, had done some shopping in town and made a few calls -before returning home. She had then busied herself with clearing up -Bertha’s room, which was not an altogether easy task. Bertha was never -as orderly as her sister, and, in the confusion of packing, her room was -in a worse condition than usual. But to clear it up was a labor of love, -over which Dorcas lingered as long as possible. Then when all was done -and she had closed the shutters and dropped the shades, she knelt by the -white bed and amid a rain of tears prayed God to protect the dear sister -on sea and land and bring her safely back to the home which was so -desolate without her. That was yesterday; but to-day there had been -comparatively nothing to do, for after an early breakfast her father had -started for Boylston, hoping to collect a debt which had long been due -and the payment of which would help towards the mortgage. After he had -gone and her morning work was done, Dorcas sat down alone in the great, -lonely house and began to cry, wondering what she should do to pass the -long hours before her father’s return. - -“I wish I had Bertha’s room to straighten up again,” she thought. “Any -way I’ll go and look at it.” And, drying her eyes, she went up to the -room, which seemed so dark and close and gloomy that she opened the -windows and threw back the blinds, letting in the full sunlight and warm -summer air. “She was fond of air and sunshine,” she said to herself, -remembering the many times they had differed on that point, she -insisting that so much sun faded the carpets, and Bertha insisting that -she would have it, carpets or no carpets. Bertha was fond of flowers, -too, and in their season kept the house full of them. This Dorcas also -remembered, and, going to the garden, she gathered great clusters of -roses and white lilies, which she arranged in two bouquets, putting one -on the bureau and the other on the deep window-seat, where Bertha used -to sit so often when at home, and where one of her favorite books was -lying, with her work-basket and a bit of embroidery she had played at -doing. The book and the basket Dorcas had left on the window-seat with -something of the feeling which prompts us to keep the rooms of our dead -as they left them. At the side of the bed and partly under it she had -found a pair of half-worn slippers, which Bertha was in the habit of -wearing at night while undressing, and these she had also left, they -looked so much like Bertha, with their worn toes and high French heels. -Now as she saw them she thought to put them away, but decided to leave -them, as it was not likely any one would occupy the room in Bertha’s -absence. - -“There, it looks more cheerful now,” she said, surveying the apartment -with its sunlight and flowers. Then, going down-stairs she whiled away -the hours as best she could until it was time to prepare supper for her -father, whose coming she watched for anxiously, hoping he would reach -home before the storm which was fast gathering in the west and sending -out flashes of lightning, with angry growls of thunder. “He will be -hungry and tired, and I mean to give him his favorite dishes,” she -thought, as she busied herself in the kitchen. With a view to make his -home-coming as pleasant as possible, she laid the table with the best -cloth and napkins and the gilt band china, used only on great occasions, -and put on a plate for Bertha, and a bowl of roses in the centre, with -one or two buds at each plate, “Now, that looks nice,” she thought, -surveying her work, with a good deal of satisfaction, “and father will -be pleased. I wish he would come. How black the sky is getting, and how -angry the clouds look!” Then she thought of Bertha on the sea, and -wondered if the storm would reach her, and was silently praying that it -would not, when she saw old Bush and the buggy pass the windows, and in -a few moments her father came in looking very pale and tired. He had had -a long ride for nothing, as the man who owed him could not pay, but he -brightened at once when he saw the attractive tea-table and divined why -all the best things were out. - -“You are a good girl, Dorcas, and I don’t know what I should do without -you now,” he said, stroking Dorcas’s hair caressingly, and adding, “Now -let us have supper. I am hungry as a bear, as Bertha would say.” - -Dorcas started to leave the room just as she heard the sound of the bell -and knew the electric car was coming up the hill. Though she had seen it -so many times, she always stopped to look at it, and she stopped now and -saw Reginald alight from it and saw the conductor point towards their -house as if directing him to it. “Who can it be?” she thought, calling -her father to the window, where they both stood watching the stranger as -he came slowly along the avenue. “How queerly he acts, stopping so much -to look around! Don’t he know it is beginning to rain?” she said, just -as the crash and downpour came which sent Rex flying towards the house. - -“Oh, father!” Dorcas exclaimed, clutching his arm, “don’t you know, Mr. -Gorham wrote that the New Yorker who wanted to buy our farm might come -to look at it? I believe this is he. What shall we do with him? Bertha -told us to shut the door in his face.” - -“You would hardly keep a dog out in a storm like this. Why, I can’t see -across the road. I never knew it rain so fast,” Mr. Leighton replied, as -Rex’s knock sounded on the door, which Dorcas opened just as a vivid -flash of lightning lit up the sky and was followed instantaneously by a -deafening peal of thunder and a dash of rain which swept half-way down -the hall. - -“Oh, my!” Dorcas said, holding back her dress; and “Great Scott!” Rex -exclaimed, as he sprang inside and helped her close the door. Then, -turning to her, he said, with a smile which disarmed her at once of any -prejudice she might have against him, “I beg your pardon for coming in -so unceremoniously. I should have been drenched in another minute. Does -Mr. Leighton live here?” - -Dorcas said he did, and, opening a door to her right, bade him enter. -Glancing in, Rex felt sure it was the best room, and drew back, saying, -apologetically, “I am not fit to go in there, or indeed to go anywhere. -I believe I am wet to the skin. Look,” and he pointed to the little -puddles of water which had dripped from his coat and were running over -the floor. - -His concern was so genuine, and the eyes so kind which looked at Dorcas, -that he did not seem like a stranger, and she said to him, “I should say -you were wet. You’d better take off your coat and let me dry it by the -kitchen fire or you will take cold.” - -“She _is_ a motherly little girl, as Phineas Jones said,” Rex thought, -feeling sure that this was not the one who was “handsome as blazes,” but -the nice one, who thought of everything, and if his first smile had not -won her his second would have done so, as he said, “Thanks. You are very -kind, but I’ll not trouble you to do that, and perhaps I’d better -introduce myself. I am Reginald Hallam, from New York, and my father -used to live here.” - -“Oh-h!” Dorcas exclaimed, her fear of the dreaded stranger who was -coming to buy their farm vanishing at once, while she wondered in a -vague way where she had heard the name before, but did not associate it -with Louie Thurston’s hero, of whom Bertha had told her. - -He was one of the Hallams, of whom the old people in town thought so -much, and it was natural that he should wish to see the old Homestead. -At this point Mr. Leighton came into the hall and was introduced to the -stranger, whom he welcomed cordially, while Dorcas, with her hospitable -instincts in full play, again insisted that he should remove his wet -coat and shoes before he took cold. - -“They are a little damp, that’s a fact; but what can I do without them?” -Reginald replied, beginning to feel very uncomfortable, and knowing that -in all probability a sore throat would be the result of his bath. - -“I’ll tell you,” Dorcas said, looking at her father. “He can wear the -dressing-gown and slippers Bertha gave you last Christmas.” And before -Rex could stop her she was off up-stairs in her father’s bedroom, from -which she returned with a pair of Turkish slippers and a soft gray -cashmere dressing-gown with dark blue velvet collar and cuffs. - -“Father never wore them but a few times; he says they are too fine,” she -said to Rex, who, much against his will, soon found himself arrayed in -Mr. Leighton’s gown and slippers, while Dorcas carried his wet coat and -shoes in triumph to the kitchen fire. - -“Well, this is a lark,” Rex thought as he caught sight of himself in the -glass. “I wonder what Phineas Jones would say if he knew that instead of -being taken for a confidence man I’m received as a son and a brother and -dressed up in ‘the Square’s’ best clothes.” - -Supper was ready by this time, and without any demur, which he knew -would be useless, Rex sat down to the table which Dorcas had made so -pretty, rejoicing now that she had done so, wondering if their guest -would notice it, and feeling glad that he was in Bertha’s chair. He did -notice everything, and especially the flowers and the extra seat, which -he occupied, and which he knew was not put there for him, but probably -for the handsome girl, who would come in when the storm was over, and he -found himself thinking more of her than of the blessing which Mr. -Leighton asked so reverently, adding a petition that God would care for -the loved one wherever and in whatever danger she might be. - -“Maybe that’s the girl; but where the dickens can she be that she’s in -danger?” Rex thought, just as a clap of thunder louder than any which -had preceded it shook the house and made Dorcas turn pale as she said to -her father: - -“Oh, do you suppose it will reach her?” - -“I think not,” Mr. Leighton replied; then turning to Rex, he said, “My -youngest daughter, Bertha, is on the sea,—sailed on the Teutonic this -morning,—and Dorcas is afraid the storm may reach her.” - -“Sailed this morning on the Teutonic!” Rex repeated. “So did my aunt, -Mrs. Carter Hallam.” - -“Mrs. Carter Hallam!” and Dorcas set down her cup of tea with such force -that some of it was spilled upon the snowy cloth. “Why, that is the name -of the lady with whom Bertha has gone as companion.” - -It was Rex’s turn now to be surprised, and explanations followed. - -“I supposed all the Hallams of Leicester were dead, and never thought of -associating Mrs. Carter with them,” Mr. Leighton said, while Rex in turn -explained that as Miss Leighton’s letter had been written in Boston and -he had addressed her there for his aunt it did not occur to him that her -home was here at the Homestead. - -“Did you see her on the ship, and was she well?” Dorcas asked, and he -replied that, as he reached the steamer only in time to say good-bye to -his aunt, he did not see Miss Leighton, but he knew she was there and -presumably well. - -“I am sorry now that I did not meet her,” he added, looking more closely -at Dorcas than he had done before, and trying to trace some resemblance -between her and the photograph he had dubbed Squint-Eye. - -But there was none, and he felt a good deal puzzled, wondering what -Phineas meant by calling Dorcas “handsome as blazes.” She must be the -one referred to, for no human being could ever accuse Squint-Eye of any -degree of beauty. And yet how the father and sister loved her, and how -the old man’s voice trembled when he spoke of her, always with pride it -seemed to Rex, who began at last himself to feel a good deal of interest -in her. He knew now that he was occupying her seat, and that the -rose-bud he had fastened in his button-hole was put there for her, and -he hoped his aunt would treat her well. - -“I mean to write and give her some points, for there’s no guessing what -Mrs. Walker Haynes may put her up to do,” he thought, just as he caught -the name of Phineas and heard Mr. Leighton saying to Dorcas: - -“I saw him this morning, and he thinks he will get up in the course of a -week and do the plastering.” - -“Not before a week! How provoking!” Dorcas replied, while Rex ventured -to say: - -“Are you speaking of Phineas Jones? I made his acquaintance this -morning, or rather he made mine. Quite a character, isn’t he?” - -“I should say he was,” Dorcas replied, while her father rejoined: - -“Everybody knows Phineas, and everybody likes him. He is nobody’s enemy -but his own, and shiftlessness is his great fault. He can do almost -everything, and do it well, too. He’ll work a few weeks,—maybe a few -months,—and then lie idle, visiting and talking, till he has spent all -he earned. He knows everybody’s business and history, and will sacrifice -everything for his friends. He attends every camp-meeting he can hear -of, and is apt to lose his balance and have what he calls the power. He -comes here quite often, and is very handy in fixing up. I’ve got a -little job waiting for him now, where the plastering fell off in the -front chamber, and I dare say it will continue to wait. But I like the -fellow, and am sorry for him. I don’t know that he has a relative in the -world.” - -Rex could have told of his Aunt Lucy, and that through her, Phineas -claimed relationship to himself, but concluded not to open up a subject -which he knew would be obnoxious to his aunt. Supper was now over, but -the rain was still falling heavily, and when Rex asked how far it was to -the hotel, both Mr. Leighton and Dorcas invited him so cordially to -spend the night with them, that he decided to do so, and then began to -wonder how he should broach the real object of his visit. From all -Phineas had told him, and from what he had seen of Mr. Leighton, he -began to be doubtful of success, but it was worth trying for, and he was -ready to offer fifteen hundred dollars extra, if necessary. His coat and -shoes were dry by this time, and habited in them he felt more like -himself, and after Dorcas had removed her apron, showing that her -evening work was done, and had taken her seat near her father, he said: - -“By the way, did Mr. Gorham ever write to you that a New Yorker would -like to buy your farm?” - -“Yes,” Mr. Leighton replied, and Rex continued: - -“I am the man, and that is my business here.” - -“Oh!” and Dorcas moved uneasily in her chair, while her father answered, -“I thought so.” - -Then there was a silence, which Rex finally broke, telling why he wanted -that particular farm and what he was willing to give for it, knowing -before he finished that he had failed. The farm was not for sale, except -under compulsion, which Mr. Leighton hoped might be avoided, explaining -matters so minutely that Rex had a tolerably accurate knowledge of the -state of affairs and knew why the daughter had gone abroad as his aunt’s -companion, in preference to remaining in the employ of Swartz & Co. - -“Confound it, if I hadn’t insisted upon aunt’s offering five hundred -instead of three hundred, as she proposed doing, Bertha would not have -gone, and I might have got the place,” he thought. - -Mr. Leighton continued, “I think it would kill me to lose the home where -I have lived so long, but if it must be sold, I’d rather you should have -it than any one I know, and if worst comes to worst, and anything -happens to Bertha, I’ll let you know in time to buy it.” - -He looked so white and his voice shook so as he talked that Rex felt his -castles and fox-hunts all crumbling together, and, with his usual -impulsiveness, began to wonder if Mr. Leighton would accept aid from him -in case of an emergency. It was nearly ten o’clock by this time, and Mr. -Leighton said, “I suppose this is early for city folks, but in the -country we retire early, and I am tired. We always have prayers at -night. Bring the books, daughter, and we’ll sing the 267th hymn.” - -Dorcas did as she was bidden, and, offering a Hymnal to Rex, opened an -old-fashioned piano and began to play and sing, accompanied by her -father, whose trembling voice quavered along until he reached the -words,— - - “Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee - For those in peril on the sea.” - -Then he broke down entirely, while Dorcas soon followed, and Rex was -left to finish alone, which he did without the slightest hesitancy. He -had a rich tenor voice; taking up the air where Dorcas dropped it, he -sang the hymn to the end, while Mr. Leighton stood with closed eyes and -a rapt expression on his face. - -“I wish Bertha could hear that. Let us pray,” he said, when the song was -ended, and, before he quite knew what he was doing, Rex found himself on -his knees, listening to Mr. Leighton’s fervent prayer, which closed with -the petition for the safety of those upon the deep. - -As Rex had told Phineas Jones, he was not a professor, and he did not -call himself a very religious man. He attended church every Sunday -morning with his aunt, went through the services reverently, and -listened to the sermon attentively, but not all the splendors of St. -Thomas’s Church had ever impressed him as did that simple, homely -service in the farm house among the Leicester hills, where his “Amen” to -the prayer for those upon the sea was loud and distinct, and included in -it not only his aunt and Bertha, but also the girl whom he had knocked -down, who seemed to haunt him strangely. - -“If I were to have much of this, Phineas would not be obliged to take me -to one of his meetings to convert me,” he thought, as he arose from his -knees and signified his readiness to retire. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - REX MAKES DISCOVERIES. - - -It was Mr. Leighton who conducted Rex to his sleeping-room, saying, as -he put the lamp down upon the dressing-bureau: “There’s a big patch of -plaster off in the best chamber, where the girls put company, so you are -to sleep in here. This is Bertha’s room.” - -Rex became interested immediately. To occupy a young girl’s room, even -if that girl were Squint-Eye, was a novel experience, and after Mr. -Leighton had said good-night he began to look about with a good deal of -curiosity. Everything was plain, but neat and dainty, from the pretty -matting and soft fur rug on the floor, to the bed which looked like a -white pin-cushion, with its snowy counterpane and fluted pillow-shams. - -“It is just the room a nice kind of a girl would be apt to have, and it -doesn’t seem as if a great, hulking fellow like me ought to be in it,” -he said, fancying he could detect a faint perfume such as he knew some -girls affected. “I think, though, it’s the roses and lilies. I don’t -believe Squint-Eye goes in for Lubin and Pinaud and such like,” he -thought, just as he caught sight of the slippers, which Dorcas had -forgotten to remove when she arranged the room for him. - -“Halloo! here are Cinderella’s shoes, as I live,” he said, taking one of -them up and handling it gingerly as if afraid he should break it. -“French heels; and, by Jove, she’s got a small foot, and a well-shaped -one, too. I wouldn’t have thought that of Squint-Eye,” he said, with a -feeling that the girl he called Squint-Eye had no right either in the -room or in the slipper, which he put down carefully, and then continued -his investigations, coming next to the window-seat, where the -work-basket and book were lying. “Embroiders, I see. Wouldn’t be a woman -if she didn’t,” he said, as he glanced at the bit of fancy work left in -the basket. Then his eye caught the book, which he took up and saw was a -volume of Tennyson, which showed a good deal of usage. “Poetical, too! -Wouldn’t have thought that of her, either. She doesn’t look it.” Then -turning to the fly-leaf, he read, “Bertha Leighton. From her cousin -Louie. Christmas, 18—.” - -“By George,” he exclaimed, “that is Louie Thurston’s handwriting. Not -quite as scrawly as it was when we wrote the girl and boy letters to -each other, but the counterpart of the note she sent me last summer in -Saratoga, asking me to ride with her and Fred. And she calls herself -cousin to this Bertha! I remember now she once told me she had some -relatives North. They must be these Leightons, and I have come here to -find them and aunt’s companion too. Truly the world is very small. Poor -little Louie! I don’t believe she is happy. No woman could be that with -Fred, if he _is_ my friend. Poor little Louie!” - -There was a world of pathos and pity in Rex’s voice as he said, “Poor -little Louie!” and stood looking at her handwriting and thinking of the -beautiful girl whom he might perhaps have won for his own. But if any -regret for what might have been mingled with his thoughts, he gave no -sign of it, except that the expression of his face was a shade more -serious as he put the book back in its place and prepared for bed, where -he lay awake a long time, thinking of Louie, and Squint-Eye, and the -girl he had knocked down on the ship, and Rose Arabella Jefferson, whose -face was the last he remembered before going to sleep. - -The next morning was bright and fair, with no trace of the storm visible -except in the freshened foliage and the puddles of water standing here -and there in the road, and Rex, as he looked from his window upon the -green hills and valleys, felt a pang of disappointment that the place he -so coveted could never be his. Breakfast was waiting when he went down -to the dining-room, and while at the table he spoke of Louie and asked -if she were not a cousin. - -“Oh, yes,” Dorcas said, quickly, a little proud of this grand relation. -“Louie’s mother and ours were sisters. She told Bertha she knew you. -Isn’t she lovely?” - -Rex said she was lovely, and that he had known her since she was a -child, and had been in college with her husband. Then he changed the -conversation by inquiring about the livery-stables in town. He would -like, he said, to drive about the neighborhood a little before returning -to New York, and see the old cemetery where so many Hallams were buried. - -“Horses enough, but you’ve got to walk into town to get them. If old -Bush will answer your purpose you are quite welcome to him,” Mr. -Leighton said. - -“Thanks,” Rex replied. “I am already indebted to you for so much that I -may as well be indebted for more. I will take old Bush, and perhaps Miss -Leighton will go with me as a guide.” - -This Dorcas was quite willing to do, and the two were soon driving -together through the leafy woods and pleasant roads and past the old -houses, where the people came to the doors and windows to see what fine -gentleman Dorcas Leighton had with her. Every one whom they met spoke to -Dorcas and inquired for Bertha, in whom all seemed greatly interested. - -“Your sister must be very popular. This is the thirteenth person who has -stopped you to ask for her,” Rex said, as an old Scotchman finished his -inquiries by saying, “She’s a bonnie lassie, God bless her.” - -“She is popular, and deservedly so. I wish you knew her,” was Dorcas’s -reply; and then as a conviction, born he knew not when or why, kept -increasing in Rex’s mind, he asked, “Would you mind telling me how she -looks? Is she dark or fair? tall or short? fat or lean?” - -Dorcas answered unhesitatingly, “She is very beautiful,—neither fat nor -lean, tall nor short, dark nor fair, but just right.” - -“Oh-h!” and Rex drew a long breath as Dorcas went on: “She has a lovely -complexion, with brilliant color, perfect features, reddish-brown hair -with glints of gold in it in the sunlight, and the handsomest eyes you -ever saw,—large and bright and almost black at times when she is excited -or pleased,—long lashes, and carries herself like a queen.” - -“Oh-h!” Rex said again, knowing that Rose Arabella Jefferson had fallen -from her pedestal of beauty and was really the Squint-Eye of whom he had -thought so derisively. “Have you a photograph of her?” he asked, and -Dorcas replied that she had and would show it to him if he liked. - -They had now reached home, and, bringing out an old and well-filled -album, Dorcas pointed to a photograph which Rex recognized as a -facsimile of the one his aunt had insisted belonged to Miss Jefferson. -He could not account for the peculiar sensations which swept over him -and kept deepening in intensity as he looked at the face which attracted -him more now than when he believed it that of Rose Arabella of -Scotsburg. - -“I wish you would let me have this. I am a regular photo-fiend,—have a -stack of them at home, and would like mightily to add this to the lot,” -he said, remembering that the one he had was defaced with Rose -Arabella’s name. - -But Dorcas declined. “Bertha would not like it,” she said, taking the -album from him quickly, as if she read his thoughts and feared lest he -would take the picture whether she were willing or not. - -It was now time for Rex to go, if he would catch the next car for -Worcester. After thanking Mr. Leighton and Dorcas for their hospitality -and telling them to be sure and let him know whenever they came to New -York, so that he might return their kindness, he bade them good-bye, -with a feeling that although he had lost his fancy farm and fox-hunts, -he had gained two valuable friends. - -“They are about the nicest people I ever met,” he said, as he walked -down the avenue. “Couldn’t have done more if I had been related. I ought -to have told them to come straight to our house if they were ever in New -York, and I would if it were mine. But Aunt Lucy wouldn’t like it. I -wonder she didn’t tell me about the mistake in the photographs when I -was on the ship. Maybe she didn’t think of it, I saw her so short a -time. I remember, though, that she did say that Miss Leighton was rather -too high and mighty, and, by George, I told her to sit down on her! I -_have_ made a mess of it; but I will write at once and go over sooner -than I intended, for there is no telling what Mrs. Haynes may put my -aunt up to do. I will not have that girl snubbed; and if I find them at -it, I’ll——” - -Here he gave an energetic flourish of his cane in the air to attract the -conductor of the fast-coming car, and posterity will never know what he -intended doing to his aunt and Mrs. Walker Haynes, if he found them -snubbing that girl. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - AT AIX-LES-BAINS. - - -There was a stop of a few days at the Metropole in London, where Mrs. -Hallam engaged a courier; there was another stop at the Grand in Paris, -where a ladies’ maid was secured; and, thus equipped, Mrs. Hallam felt -that she was indeed traveling _en prince_ as she journeyed on to Aix, -where Mrs. Walker Haynes met her at the station with a very handsome -turnout, which was afterwards included in Mrs. Hallam’s bill. - -“I knew you would not care to go in the ’bus with your servants, so I -ventured to order the carriage for you,” she said, as they wound up the -steep hill to the Hôtel Splendide. - -Then she told what she had done for her friend’s comfort and the -pleasure it had been to do it, notwithstanding all the trouble and -annoyance she had been subjected to. The season was at its height, and -all the hotels were crowded, especially the Splendide. A grande duchesse -with her suite occupied the guestrooms on the first floor; the King of -Greece had all the second floor south of the main entrance; while -English, Jews, Spaniards, Greeks, and Russians had the rooms at the -other end of the hall; consequently Mrs. Hallam must be content with the -third floor, where a salon and a bedchamber, with balcony attached, had -been reserved for her. She had found the most trouble with the salon, -she said, as a French countess was determined to have it, and she had -secured it only by engaging it at once two weeks ago and promising more -per day than the countess was willing to give for it. As it had to be -paid for whether occupied or not, she had taken the liberty to use it -herself, knowing her friend would not care. Mrs. Hallam didn’t care, -even when later on she found that the salon had been accredited to her -since she first wrote to Mrs. Haynes that she was coming and asked her -to secure rooms. She was accustomed to being fleeced by Mrs. Haynes, -whom Rex called a second Becky Sharp. The salon business being settled, -Mrs. Haynes ventured farther and said that as she had been obliged to -dismiss her maid and had had so much trouble to fill her place she had -finally decided to wait until her friend came, when possibly the -services of one maid would answer for both ladies. - -“Gracie prefers to wait upon herself,” she continued, “but I find it -convenient at times to have some one do my hair and lay out my dresses -and go with me to the baths, which I take about ten; you, no doubt, who -have plenty of money, will go down early in one of those covered chairs -which two men bring to your room. It is a most comfortable way of doing, -as you are wrapped in a blanket quite _en déshabille_ and put into a -chair, the curtains are dropped, and you are taken to the bath and back -in time for your first _déjeûner_, and are all through with the baths -early and can enjoy yourself the rest of the day. It is rather -expensive, of course, and I cannot afford it, but all who can, do. The -Scrantoms from New York, the Montgomerys from Boston, the Harwoods from -London, and old Lady Gresham, all go down that way; quite a high-toned -procession, which some impertinent American girls try to kodak. I shall -introduce you to these people. They know you are coming, and you are -sure to like them.” - -Mrs. Haynes knew just what chord to touch with her ambitious friend, who -was as clay in her hands. By the time the hotel was reached it had been -arranged that she was not only to continue to use the salon, but was -also welcome to the services of Mrs. Hallam’s maid, Celine, and her -courier, Browne, and possibly her companion, although on this point she -was doubtful, as the girl had a mind of her own and was not easily -managed. - -“I saw that in her face the moment I looked at her, and thought she -might give you trouble. She really looked as if she expected me to speak -to her. Who is she?” Mrs. Haynes asked, and very briefly Mrs. Hallam -told all she knew of her,—of the mistake in the photographs, of -Reginald’s admiration of the one which was really Bertha’s, and of his -encounter with her on the ship. - -“Hm; yes,” Mrs. Walker rejoined, reflectively, and in an instant her -tactics were resolved upon. - -Possessed of a large amount of worldly wisdom and foresight, she boasted -that she could read the end from the beginning, and on this occasion her -quick instincts told her that, given a chance, this hired companion -might come between her and her plan of marrying her daughter Grace to -Rex Hallam, who was every way desirable as a son-in-law. She had seen -enough of him to know that if he cared for a girl it would make no -difference whether she were a wage-earner or the daughter of a duke, and -Bertha might prove a formidable rival. He had admired her photograph and -been kind to her on the boat, and when he met her again there was no -knowing what complications might arise if, as was most probable, Bertha -herself were artful and ambitious. And so, for no reason whatever except -her own petty jealousy, she conceived a most unreasonable dislike for -the girl; and when Mrs. Haynes was unreasonable she sometimes was guilty -of acts of which she was afterwards ashamed. - -Arrived at the hotel, which the ’bus had reached before her, she said to -Bertha, who was standing near the door, “Take your mistress’s bag and -shawl up to the third floor, No. —, and wait there for us.” - -Bertha knew it was Celine’s place to do this, but that demoiselle, who -thus far had not proved the treasure she was represented to be, had -found an acquaintance, to whom she was talking so volubly that she did -not observe the entrance of her party until Bertha was half-way up the -three flights of stairs, with Mrs. Hallam’s bag and wrap as well as her -own. The service at the Splendide was not the best, and those who would -wait upon themselves were welcome to do so, and Bertha toiled on with -her arms full, while Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. Haynes took the little coop of -a lift and ascended very leisurely. - -“This is your room. I hope you will like it,” Mrs. Haynes said, stopping -at the open door of a large, airy room, with a broad window opening upon -a balcony, where a comfortable easy-chair was standing. Mrs. Hallam sank -into it at once, admiring the view and pleased with everything. The -clerk at the office had handed her a letter which had come in the -morning mail. It was from Rex, and was full of his visit to the -Homestead, the kindness he had received from Mr. Leighton and Dorcas, -and the discovery he had made with regard to Bertha. - -“I wonder you didn’t tell me on the ship that I was right and you -wrong,” he wrote. “You did say, though, that she was high and mighty, -and I told you to sit on her. But don’t you do it! She is a lady by -birth and education, and I want you to treat her kindly and not let Mrs. -Haynes bamboozle you into snubbing her because she is your companion. I -sha’n’t like it if you do, for it will be an insult to the Leightons and -a shame to us.” Then he added, “At the hotel in Worcester I fell in with -a fellow who claimed to be a fortieth cousin of yours, Phineas Jones. Do -you remember him? Great character. Called you cousin Lucy Ann,—said you -spelled him down at a spelling-match on the word ‘dammed,’ and that he -was going to call when you got home. I didn’t give him our address.” - -After reading this the view from the balcony did not look so charming or -the sunlight so bright, and there was a shadow on Mrs. Hallam’s face -caused not so much by what Rex had written of the Homestead as by his -encounter with Phineas Jones, her abomination. Why had he, of all -possible persons, turned up? And what else had he told Rex of her -besides the spelling episode? Everything, probably, and more than -everything, for she remembered well Phineas’s loquacity, which sometimes -carried him into fiction. And he talked of calling upon her, too! “The -wretch!” she said, crushing the letter in her hands, as she would have -liked to crush the offending Phineas. - -“No bad news, I hope?” Mrs. Haynes said, stepping upon the balcony and -noting the change in her friend’s expression. - -Mrs. Hallam, who would have died sooner than tell of Phineas Jones, -answered, “Oh, no. Rex has been to the Homestead and found out about -Bertha, over whom he is wilder than ever, saying I must be kind to her -and all that; as if I would be anything else.” - -“Hm; yes,” Mrs. Haynes replied, an expression which always meant a great -deal with her, and which in this case meant a greater dislike to Bertha -and a firmer resolve to humiliate her. - -It was beginning to grow dark by this time. Reentering her room, Mrs. -Hallam asked, “Where is Celine? I want her to open my trunk and get out -a cooler dress; this is so hot and dusty.” - -But Celine was not forthcoming, and Bertha was summoned in her place. At -the Metropole Bertha had occupied a stuffy little room looking into a -court, while at the Grand in Paris she had slept in what she called a -closet, so that now she felt as if in Paradise when she took possession -of her room, which, if small and at the rear, looked out upon grass and -flowers and the tall hills which encircle Aix on all sides. - -“This is delightful,” she thought, as she leaned from the window -inhaling the perfume of the flowers and drinking in the sweet, pure air -which swept down the green hillside, where vines and fruits were -growing. She, too, had found a letter waiting for her from Dorcas, who -detailed every particular of Reginald’s visit to the Homestead, and -dwelt at some length upon his evident admiration of Bertha’s photograph -and his desire to have it. - -“I don’t pretend to have your psychological presentiments,” Dorcas -wrote, “but if I had I should say that Mr. Hallam would admire you when -he sees you quite as much as he did your picture, and I know you will -like him. You cannot help it. He will join you before long.” - -Bertha knew better than Dorcas that she should like Rex Hallam, and -something told her that her life after he came would be different from -what it was now. For Mrs. Hallam she had but little respect, she was so -thoroughly selfish and exacting, but she did not dislike her with the -dislike she had conceived in a moment for Mrs. Haynes, in whom she had -intuitively recognized a foe, who would tyrannize over and humiliate her -worse than her employer. During her climb up-stairs she had resolved -upon her course of conduct towards the lady should she attempt to -browbeat her. - -“I will do my best to please Mrs. Hallam, but I will not be subject to -that woman,” she thought, just as some one knocked, and in response to -her “Come in,” Mrs. Haynes appeared, saying, “Leighton, Mrs. Hallam -wants you.” - -“Madam, if you are speaking to me, I am _Miss Leighton_,” Bertha said, -while her eyes flashed so angrily that for a moment Mrs. Haynes lost her -self command and stammered an apology, saying she was so accustomed to -hearing the English employees called by their last names that she had -inadvertently acquired the habit. - -There was a haughty inclination of Bertha’s head in token that she -accepted the apology, and then the two, between whom there was now war, -went to Mrs. Hallam’s room, where Bertha unlocked a trunk and took out a -fresher dress. While she was doing this, Mrs. Hallam again stepped out -upon the balcony with Mrs. Haynes, who said; - -“It is too late for _table d’hôte_, but I have ordered a nice little -extra dinner for you and me, to be served in our salon. I thought you’d -like it better there the first night. Grace has dined and gone to the -Casino with a party of English, who have rooms under us. The king is to -be there.” - -“Do you know him well?” Mrs. Hallam asked, pleased at the possibility of -hobnobbing with royalty. - -“Ye-es—no-o. Well, he has bowed to me, but I have not exactly spoken to -him yet,” was Mrs. Haynes’s reply, and then she went on hurriedly, “I -have engaged seats for lunch and dinner for you, Grace and myself in the -_salle-à-manger_, near Lady Gresham’s party, and also a small table in a -corner of the breakfast-room where we can be quite private and take our -coffee together, when you do not care to have it in your salon. Grace -insists upon going down in the morning, and of course, I must go with -her.” - -“You are very kind,” Mrs. Hallam said, thinking how nice it was to have -all care taken from her, while Mrs. Haynes continued: - -“Your servants take their meals in the servants’ hall. Celine will -naturally prefer to sit with her own people, and if you like I will -arrange to have places reserved with the English for your courier -and—and——” - -She hesitated a little, until Mrs. Hallam said, in some surprise: - -“Do you mean Miss Leighton?” - -Then she went on. “Yes, the courier and Miss Leighton; he seems a very -respectable man,—quite superior to his class.” - -Here was a turn in affairs for which even Mrs. Hallam was not prepared. -Heretofore Bertha had taken her meals with her, nor had she thought of a -change; but if Mrs. Walker Haynes saw fit to make one, it must be right. -Still, there was Rex to be considered. Would he think this was treating -Bertha as she should be treated? She was afraid not, and she said, -hesitatingly, “Yes, but I am not sure Reginald would like it.” - -“What has he to do with it, pray?” Mrs. Haynes asked, quickly. - -Mrs. Hallam replied, “Her family was very nice to him, and you know he -wrote me to treat her kindly. I don’t think he would like to find her in -the servants’ hall.” - -This was the first sign of rebellion Mrs. Haynes had ever seen in her -friend, and she met it promptly. - -“I do not see how you can do differently, if you adhere to the customs -of those with whom you wish to associate. Several English families have -had companions, or governesses, or seamstresses, or something, and they -have always gone to the servants’ hall. Lady Gresham has one there now. -Miss Leighton may be all Reginald thinks she is, but if she puts herself -in the position of an employee she must expect an employee’s fare, and -not thrust herself upon first-class people. You will only pay -second-class for her if she goes there.” - -Lady Gresham and the English and paying second-class were influencing -Mrs. Hallam mightily, but a dread of Rex, who when roused in the cause -of oppression would not be pleasant to meet, kept her hesitating, until -Bertha herself settled the matter. She had heard the conversation, -although it had been carried on in low tones and sometimes in whispers. -At first she resolved that rather than submit to this indignity she -would give up her position and go home; then, remembering what Mrs. -Hallam had said of Reginald, who was sure to be angry if he found her -thus humiliated, she began to change her mind. - -“I’ll do it,” she thought, while the absurdity of the thing grew upon -her so fast that it began at last to look like a huge joke which she -might perhaps enjoy. Going to the door, she said, while a proud smile -played over her face, “Ladies, I could not help hearing what you said, -and as Mrs. Hallam seems undecided in the matter I will decide for her, -and go to the servants’ hall, which I prefer. I have tried first-class -people, and would like a chance to try the second.” - -She looked like a young queen as she stood in the doorway, her eyes -sparkling and her cheeks glowing with excitement, and Mrs. Haynes felt -that for once she had met a foe worthy of her. - -“Yes, that will be best, and I dare say you will find it very -comfortable,” Mrs. Hallam said, admiring the girl as she had never -admired her before, and thinking that before Rex came she would manage -to make a change. - -That night, however, she had Bertha’s dinner sent to her room, and also -made arrangements to have her coffee served there in the morning, so it -was not until lunch that she had her first experience as second-class. -The hall, which was not used for the servants of the house, who had -their meals elsewhere, was a long room on the ground-floor, and there -she found assembled a mixed company of nurses, maids, couriers, and -valets, all talking together in a babel of tongues, English, French, -German, Italian, Russian, and Greek, and all so earnest that they did -not see the graceful young woman who, with a heightened color and eyes -which shone like stars as they took in the scene, walked to the only -vacant seat she saw, which was evidently intended for her, as it was -next the courier Browne. But when they did see her they became as silent -as if the king himself had come into their midst, while Browne rose to -his feet, and with a respectful bow held her chair for her until she was -seated, and then asked what he should order for her. Browne, who was a -respectable middle-aged man and had traveled extensively with both -English and Americans, had seen that Bertha was superior to her -employer, and had shown her many little attentions in a respectful way. -He had heard from Celine that she was coming to the second salon, and -resented it more, if possible, than Bertha herself, resolving to -constitute himself her protector and shield her from every possible -annoyance. This she saw at once, and smiled gratefully upon him. No one -spoke to her, and silence reigned as she finished her lunch and then -left the room with a bow in which all felt they were included. - -“By Jove, Browne, who is that person, and how came she here? She looks -like a lady,” asked an English valet, while two or three Frenchmen -nearly lost their balance with their fierce gesticulations, as they -clamored to know who the grande mademoiselle was. - -Striking his fist upon the table to enforce silence, Browne said: - -“She is a Miss Leighton, from America, and far more a lady than many of -the bediamonded and besatined trash above us. She is in my party as -madam’s companion, and whoever is guilty of the least impertinence -towards her in word or look will answer for it to me; to _me_, do you -understand?” And he turned fiercely towards a wicked-looking little -Frenchman, whose bad eyes had rested too boldly and too admiringly upon -the girl. - -“_Mon Dieu, oui, oui, oui!_” the man replied, and then in broken English -asked, “Why comes she here, if she be a lady?” - -It was Celine who answered for Browne: - -“Because her mistress is a cat, a nasty old cat,—as the English say. And -there is a pair of them. I heard them last night saying she must be put -down, and they have put her down here. I hate them, and mine most of -all. She tries to get me cheap. She keeps me fly-fly. She gives me no -_pourboires_. She sleeps me in a dog-kennel. Bah! I stay not, if good -chance come. _L’Amèricaine_ hundred times more lady.” - -This voluble speech, which was interpreted by one to another until all -had a tolerably correct idea of it, did not diminish the interest in -Bertha, to whom after this every possible respect was paid, the men -always rising with Browne when she entered the dining-hall and remaining -standing until she was seated. Bertha was human, and such homage could -not help pleasing her, although it came from those whose language she -could not understand, and who by birth and education were greatly her -inferiors. It was something to be the object of so much respect, and -when, warmed by the bright smile she always gave them, the Greeks, and -the Russians, and the Italians, not only rose when she entered the hall, -but also when she passed them outside, if they chanced to be sitting, -she felt that her life had some compensations, if it were one of -drudgery and menial service. - -True to her threat, Celine left when a more desirable situation offered, -and Mrs. Hallam did not fill her place. “No need of it, so long as you -have Miss Leighton and pay her what you do,” Mrs. Haynes said; and so it -came about that Bertha found herself companion in name only and -waiting-maid in earnest, walking demurely by the covered chair which -each morning took Mrs. Hallam to her bath, combing that lady’s hair, -mending and brushing her clothes, carrying messages, doing far more than -Celine had done, and doing it so uncomplainingly that both Mrs. Hallam -and Mrs. Haynes wondered at her. At last, however, when asked to -accompany Mrs. Haynes to the bath, she rebelled. To serve her in that -way was impossible, and she answered civilly, but decidedly, “No, Mrs. -Hallam. I have done and will do whatever you require for yourself, but -for Mrs. Haynes, nothing. She never spares an opportunity to humiliate -me. I will not attend her to her bath. I will give up my place first.” -That settled it, and Bertha was never again asked to wait upon Mrs. -Haynes. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - GRACE HAYNES. - - -“Bravo, Miss Leighton! I did not suppose there was so much spirit in -you, when I saw you darning madam’s stockings and buttoning her boots. -You are a brick and positively I admire you. Neither mamma nor Mrs -Hallam needs any one to go with them, any more than the sea needs water. -But it is English, you know, to have an attendant, and such an -attendant, too, as you. Yes, I admire you! I respect you! Our door was -open, and I heard what you said; so did mamma, and she is furious; but I -am glad to see one woman assert her rights.” - -It was Grace Haynes, who, coming from her bedroom, joined Bertha, as she -was walking rapidly down the hall and said all this to her. Bertha had -been nearly two weeks at Aix, and, although she had scarcely exchanged a -word with Grace, she had often seen her, and remembering what Mrs. -Hallam had said of her and Reginald, had looked at her rather -critically. She was very thin and wiry, with a pale face, yellow hair -worn short, large blue eyes, and a nose inclined to an upward curve. She -was a kind-hearted, good-natured girl, of a pronounced type both in -dress and manner and speech. She believed in a little slang, she said, -because it gave a point to conversation, and she adored baccarat and -rouge-et-noir, and a lot more things which her mother thought highly -improper. She had heard all that her mother said of Bertha, and, quick -to discriminate, she had seen how infinitely superior she was to Mrs. -Hallam and had felt drawn to her, but was too much absorbed in her own -matters to have any time for a stranger. She was a natural flirt, and, -although so plain, always managed to have, as she said, two or three -idiots dangling on her string. Just now it was a young Englishman, the -grandson of old Lady Gresham, whom she had upon her string, greatly to -the disgust of her mother, with whom she was not often in perfect -accord. - -Linking her arm in Bertha’s as they went down the stairs, she continued, -“Are you going to walk? I am, up the hill. Come with me. I’ve been dying -to talk to you ever since you came, but have been so engaged, and you -are always so busy with madam since Celine went away. Good pious work -you must find it waiting on madam and mamma both! I don’t see how you do -it so sweetly. You must have a great deal of what they call inward and -spiritual grace. I wish you’d give me some.” - -Grace was the first girl of her own age and nation who had spoken to -Bertha since she left America, and she responded readily to the friendly -advance. - -“I don’t believe I have any inward and spiritual grace to spare,” she -said. “I only do what I hired out to do. You know I must earn my wages.” - -“Yes,” Grace answered, “I know, and I wish I could earn wages, too. It -would be infinitely more respectable than the way we get our money.” - -“How do you get it?” Bertha asked, and Grace replied, “Don’t you know? -You have certainly heard of high-born English dames who, for a -consideration, undertake to hoist ambitious Americans into society?” - -Bertha had heard of such things, and Grace continued, “Well, that is -what mamma does at home on a smaller scale; and she succeeds, too. -Everybody knows Mrs. Walker Haynes, with blood so blue that indigo is -pale beside it, and if she pulls a string for a puppet to dance, all the -other puppets dance in unison. Sometimes she chaperons a party of young -ladies, but as these give her a good deal of trouble, she prefers people -like Mrs. Hallam, who without her would never get into society. Society! -I hate the word, with all it involves. Do you see that colt over there?” -and she pointed to a young horse in an adjoining field. “Well, I am like -that colt, kicking up its heels in a perfect abandon of freedom. But -harness it to a cart, with thills and lines and straps and reins, and -then apply the whip, won’t it rebel with all its might? And if it gets -its feet over the traces and breaks in the dash-board who can blame it? -I’m just like that colt. I hate that old go-giggle called society, which -says you mustn’t do this and you must do that because it is or is not -proper and Mrs. Grundy would be shocked. I like to shock her, and I’d -rather take boarders than live as we do now. I’d do anything to earn -money. That’s why I play at baccarat.” - -“Baccarat!” Bertha repeated, with a little start. - -“Yes, baccarat. Don’t try to pull away from me. I felt you,” Grace said, -holding Bertha closer by the arm. “You are Massachusetts born and have a -lot of Massachusetts notions, of course, and I respect you for it, but I -am Bohemian through and through. Wasn’t born anywhere in particular, and -have been in your so-called first society all my life and detest it. We -have a little income, and could live in the country with one servant -comfortably, as so many people do; but that would not suit mamma, and so -we go from pillar to post and live on other people, until I am ashamed. -I am successful at baccarat. They say the old gent who tempted Eve helps -new beginners at cards, and I believe he helps me, I win so often. I -know it isn’t good form, but what can I do? If I don’t play baccarat -there’s nothing left for me but to marry, and that I never shall.” - -“Why not?” Bertha asked, becoming more and more interested in the -strange girl talking so confidentially to her. - -“Why not?” Grace repeated. “That shows that you are not in it,—the swim, -I mean. Don’t you know that few young men nowadays can afford to marry a -poor girl and support her in her extravagance and laziness? She must -have money to get any kind of a show, and that I haven’t,—nor beauty -either, like you, whose face is worth a fortune. Don’t say it isn’t; -don’t fib,” she continued, as Bertha tried to speak. “You know you are -beautiful, with a grande-duchesse air which makes everybody turn to look -at you, even the king. I saw him, and I’ve seen those Russians and -Greeks, who are here with some high cockalorums, take off their hats -when you came near them. Celine told me how they all stand up when you -enter the _salle-à-manger_. I call that genuine homage, which I’d give a -good deal to have.” - -She had let go Bertha’s arm and was walking a little in advance, when -she stopped suddenly, and, turning round, said, “I wonder what you will -think of Rex Hallam.” - -Bertha made no reply, and she went on: “I know I am talking queerly, but -I must let myself out to some one. Rex is coming before long, and you -will know then, if you don’t now, that mamma is moving heaven and earth -to make a match between us; but she never will. I am not his style, and -he is far more likely to marry you than me. I have known him for years, -and could get up a real liking for him if it would be of any use, but it -wouldn’t. He doesn’t want a washed-out, yellow-haired girl like me. -Nobody does, unless it’s Jack Travis, old Lady Gresham’s grandson, with -no prospects and only a hundred pounds a year and an orange grove in -Florida, which he never saw, and which yields nothing, for want of -proper attention. He says he would like to go out there and rough it; -that he does not like being tied to his grandmother’s apron-strings; and -that, give him a chance, he would gladly work. I have two hundred -dollars a year more. Do you think we could live on that and the -climate?” - -They had been retracing their steps, and were near the hotel, where they -met the young Englishman in question, evidently looking for Miss Haynes. -He was a shambling, loose-jointed young man, but he had a good face, and -there was a ring in his voice which Bertha liked, as he spoke first to -Grace and then to herself, as Grace presented him to her. Knowing that -as a third party she was in the way, Bertha left them and went into the -hotel, while they went down into the town, where they stayed so long -that Lady Gresham and Mrs. Haynes began to get anxious as to their -whereabouts. Both ladies knew of the intimacy between the young people, -and both heartily disapproved of it. Under some circumstances Mrs. -Haynes would have been delighted to have for a son-in-law Lady Gresham’s -grandson. But she prized money more than a title, and one hundred pounds -a year with a doubtful orange grove in Florida did not commend -themselves to her, while Lady Gresham, although very gracious to Mrs. -Haynes, because it was not in her nature to be otherwise to any one, did -not like the fast American girl, who wore her hair short, carried her -hands in her pockets like a man, and believed in women’s rights. If Jack -were insane enough to marry her she would wash her hands of him and send -him off to that orange grove, where she had heard there was a little -dilapidated house in which he could try to live on the climate and one -hundred a year. Some such thoughts as these were passing through Lady -Gresham’s mind, while Mrs. Haynes was thinking of Grace’s perversity in -encouraging young Travis, and of Reginald Hallam, from whom Mrs. Hallam -had that morning had a letter and who was coming to Aix earlier than he -had intended doing. Nearly all his friends were out of town, he wrote, -and the house was so lonely without his aunt that she might expect him -within two or three weeks at the farthest. He did not say what steamer -he should take, but, as ten days had elapsed since his letter was -written, Mrs. Hallam said she should not be surprised to see him at any -time, and her face wore an air of pleased expectancy at the prospect of -having Rex with her once more. But a thought of Bertha brought a cloud -upon it at once. She had intended removing her from the second-class -_salle-à-manger_ before Rex came, but did not know how to manage it. - -“The girl seems contented enough,” she thought, “and I hear has a great -deal of attention there,—in fact, is quite like a queen among her -subjects; so I guess I’ll let it run, and if Rex flares up I’ll trust -Mrs. Haynes to help me out of it, as she got me into it.” - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. - - -It was getting rather dull at the Hôtel Splendide. The novelty of having -a king in their midst, who went about unattended in citizen’s dress, and -bowed to all who looked as if they wished him to bow to them, was -wearing off, and he could go in and out as often as he liked without -being followed or stared at. The grand duchess, too, whose apartments -were screened from the great unwashed, had had her Sunday dinner-party, -with scions of French royalty in the Bourbon line for her guests, and a -band of music outside. The woman from Chicago, who had flirted so -outrageously with her eyes with the Russian, while his little wife sat -by smiling placidly and suspecting no evil because the Chicagoan -professed to speak no language but English, of which her husband did not -understand a word, had departed for other fields. The French count, who -had beaten his American bride of three weeks’ standing, had also gone, -and the hotel had subsided into a state of great respectability and -circumspection. - -“Positively we are stagnating, with nothing to gossip about except Jack -and myself, and nothing going on in town,” Grace Haynes said to Bertha, -with whom she continued on the most friendly terms. - -But the stagnation came to an end and the town woke up when it was known -that Miss Sanderson from San Francisco was to appear in opera at the -Casino. Everybody had heard of the young prima donna, and all were -anxious to see her. Mrs. Hallam took a box for Mrs. Haynes, Grace, and -herself, but, although there was plenty of room, Bertha was not included -in the party. Nearly all the guests were going from the third floor, -which would thus be left entirely to the servants, and Mrs. Hallam, who -was always suspecting foreigners of pilfering from her, did not dare -leave her rooms alone, so Bertha must stay and watch them. She had done -this before when Mrs. Hallam was at the Casino, but to-night it seemed -particularly hard, as she wished to see Miss Sanderson so much that she -would willingly have stood in the rear seats near the door, where a -crowd always congregated. But there was no help for it, and after seeing -Mrs. Hallam and her party off she went into the salon, and, taking an -easy-chair and a book, sat down to enjoy the quiet and the rest. She was -very tired, for Mrs. Hallam had kept her unusually busy that day, -arranging the dress she was going to wear, and sending her twice down -the long, steep hill into the town in quest of something needed for her -toilet. It was very still in and around the hotel, and at last, overcome -by fatigue and drowsiness, Bertha’s book dropped into her lap and she -fell asleep with her head thrown back against the cushioned chair and -one hand resting on its arm. Had she tried she could not have chosen a -more graceful position, or one which showed her face and figure to -better advantage, and so thought Rex Hallam, when, fifteen or twenty -minutes later, he stepped into the room and stood looking at her. - -Ever since his visit to the Homestead he had found his thoughts -constantly turning to Aix-les-Bains, and had made up his mind to go on a -certain ship, when he accidentally met Fred Thurston, who was stopping -in New York for two or three days before sailing. There was an -invitation to dinner at the Windsor, and as a result Rex packed his -trunk, and, securing a vacant berth, sailed for Havre with the Thurstons -a week earlier than he had expected to sail. Fred was sick all the -voyage and kept his berth, but Louie seemed perfectly well, and had -never been so happy since she was a child playing with Rex under the -magnolias in Florida as she was now, walking and talking with him upon -the deck, where, with her piquant, childish beauty, she attracted a -great deal of attention and provoked some comment from the censorious -when it was known that she had a husband sick in his berth. But Louie -was guiltless of any intentional wrong-doing. She had said to Bertha in -Boston, that she believed Fred was going to die, he was so good; and, -with a few exceptions, when the Hyde nature was in the ascendant, he had -kept good ever since. He had urged Rex’s going with them quite as -strongly as Louie, and when he found himself unable to stay on deck, he -had bidden Louie go and enjoy herself, saying, however: - -“I know what a flirt you are, but I can trust Rex Hallam, on whom your -doll beauty has never made an impression and never will; so go and be -happy with him.” - -This was not a pleasant thing to say, but it was like Fred Thurston to -say it, and he looked curiously at Louie to see how it would affect her. -There was a flush on her face for a moment, while the tears sprang to -her eyes. But she was of too sunny a disposition to be miserable long, -and, thinking to herself, “Just for this one week I will be happy,” she -tied on her pretty sea-cloak and hood, and went on deck, and was happy -as a child when something it has lost and mourned is found again. At -Paris they separated, the Thurstons going on to Switzerland, and Rex to -Aix-les-Bains, laden with messages of love to Bertha, who had been the -principal subject of Louie’s talk during the voyage. In a burst of -confidence Rex had told her of Rose Arabella Jefferson’s photograph, and -Louie had laughed merrily over the mistake, saying: - -“You will find Bertha handsomer than her picture. I think you will fall -in love with her; and—if—you—do——” she spoke the last words very slowly, -while shadow after shadow flitted over her face as if she were fighting -some battle with herself; then, with a bright smile, she added, “I shall -be glad.” - -Rex’s journey from Paris to Aix was accomplished without any worse -mishap than a detention of the train for three hours or more, so that it -was not until his aunt had been gone some time that he reached the -hotel, where he was told that Mrs. Hallam and party were at the Casino. - -“I suppose she has a salon. I will go there and wait till she returns,” -Rex said, and then followed a servant up-stairs and along the hall in -the direction of the salon. - -He had expected to find it locked, and was rather surprised when he saw -the open door and the light inside, and still more surprised as he -entered the room to find a young lady so fast asleep that his coming did -not disturb her. He readily guessed who she was, and for a moment stood -looking at her admiringly, noting every point of beauty from the long -lashes shading her cheeks to the white hand resting upon the arm of the -chair. - -“Phineas was right. She is handsome as blazes, but I don’t think it is -quite the thing for me to stand staring at her this way. It is taking an -unfair advantage of her. I must present myself properly,” he thought, -and, stepping into the hall, he knocked rather loudly upon the door. - -Bertha awoke with a start and sprang to her feet in some alarm as, in -response to her “Entrez,” a tall young man stepped into the room and -stood confronting her with a good deal of assurance. - -“You must have made a mistake, sir. This is Mrs. Hallam’s salon,” she -said, rather haughtily, while Rex replied: - -“Yes, I know it. Mrs. Hallam is my aunt, and you must be Miss Leighton.” - -“Oh!” Bertha exclaimed, her attitude changing at once, as she recognized -the stranger. “Your aunt is expecting you, but not quite so soon. She -will be very sorry not to have been here to meet you. She has gone to -the opera. Miss Sanderson is in town.” - -“So they told me at the office,” Rex said, explaining that he had -crossed a little sooner than he had intended, but did not telegraph his -aunt, as he wished to surprise her. He then added, “I am too late for -dinner, but I suppose I can have my supper up here, which will be better -than climbing the three flights of stairs again. That scoop of an -elevator has gone ashore for repairs, and I had to walk up.” - -Ringing the bell, he ordered his supper, while Bertha started to leave -the salon, saying she hoped he would make himself comfortable until his -aunt returned. - -“Don’t go,” he said, stepping between her and the door to detain her. -“Stay and keep me company. I have been shut up in a close railway -carriage all day with French and Germans, and am dying to talk to some -one who speaks English.” - -He made her sit down in the chair from which she had risen when he came -in, and, drawing another near to her, said, “You do not seem like a -stranger, but rather like an old acquaintance. Why, for a whole week I -have heard of little else but you.” - -“Of me!” Bertha said, in surprise. - -He replied, “I crossed with Mr. and Mrs. Fred Thurston. She, I believe, -is your cousin, and was never tired of talking of you, and has sent more -love to you than one man ought to carry for some one else.” - -“Cousin Louie! Yes, I knew she was coming about this time. And you -crossed with her?” Bertha said, thinking what a fine-looking man he was, -while there came to her mind what Louie had said of his graciousness of -manner, which made every woman think she was especially pleasing to him, -whether she were old or young, pretty or plain, rich or poor. He talked -so easily and pleasantly and familiarly that it was difficult to think -of him as a stranger, and she was not sorry that he had bidden her stay. - -When supper was on the table he looked it over a moment, and then said -to the waiter, “Bring dishes and napkins enough for two;” then to -Bertha, “If I remember the _table d’hôtes_ abroad, they are not of a -nature to make one refuse supper at ten o’clock; so I hope you are ready -to join me.” - -Bertha had been treated as second-class so long that she had almost come -to believe she _was_ second-class, and the idea of sitting down to -supper with Rex Hallam in his aunt’s salon took her breath away. - -“Don’t refuse,” he continued. “It will be so much jollier than eating -alone, and I want you to pour my coffee.” - -He brought her a chair, and before she realized what she was doing she -found herself sitting opposite him quite _en famille_, and chatting as -familiarly as if she had known him all her life. He told her of his -visit to the Homestead, his drive with Dorcas, and his meeting with -Phineas Jones, over which she laughed merrily, feeling that America was -not nearly so far away as it had seemed before he came. When supper was -over and the table cleared, he began to talk of books and pictures, -finding that as a rule they liked the same authors and admired the same -artists. - -“By the way,” he said, suddenly, “why are you not at the opera with my -aunt? Are you not fond of music?” - -“Yes, very,” Bertha replied, “but some one must stay with the rooms. -Mrs. Hallam is afraid to leave them alone.” - -“Ah, yes. Afraid somebody will steal her diamonds, which she keeps -doubly and trebly locked, first in a padded box, then in her trunk, and -last in her room. Well, I am glad for my sake that you didn’t go. But -isn’t it rather close up here? Suppose we go down. It’s a glorious -moonlight night, and there must be a piazza somewhere.” - -Bertha thought of the broad, vine-wreathed piazza, with its easy-chairs, -where it would be delightful to sit with Reginald Hallam, but she must -not leave her post, and she said so. - -“Oh, I see; another case of the boy on the burning deck,” Rex said, -laughing. “I suppose you are right; but I never had much patience with -that boy. I shouldn’t have stayed till I was blown higher than a kite, -but should have run with the first sniff of fire. You think I’d better -go down? Not a bit of it; if you stay here, I shall. It can’t be long -now before they come. Zounds! I beg your pardon. Until I said _they_, I -had forgotten to inquire for Mrs. Haynes and Grace. They are well, I -suppose, and with my aunt?” - -Bertha said they were, and Rex continued: - -“Grace and I are great friends. She’s a little peculiar,—wants to vote, -and all that sort of thing,—but I like her immensely.” - -Then he talked on indifferent subjects until Mrs. Hallam was heard -coming along the hall, panting and talking loudly, and evidently out of -humor. The elevator, which Rex said had been drawn off for repairs, was -still off, and she had been obliged to walk up the stairs, and didn’t -like it. Bertha had risen to her feet as soon as she heard her voice, -while Rex, too, rose and stood behind her in the shadow, so his aunt did -not see him as she entered the room, and, sinking into the nearest -chair, said, irritably: - -“Hurry and help me off with my things. I’m half dead. Whew! Isn’t that -lamp smoking? How it smells here! Open another window. The lift is not -running, and I had to walk up the stairs.” - -“I knew it stopped earlier in the evening, but supposed it was running -now. I am very sorry,” Bertha said, and Mrs. Hallam continued: - -“You ought to have found out and been down there to help me up.” - -“I didn’t come any too soon,” Rex thought, stepping out from the shadow, -and saying, in his cheery voice, “Halloo, auntie! All tuckered out, -aren’t you, with those horrible stairs! I tried them, and they took the -wind out of me.” - -“Oh, Rex, Rex!” Mrs. Hallam cried, throwing her arms around the tall -young man, who bent over her and returned her caresses, while he -explained that he did not telegraph, as he wished to surprise her, and -that he had reached the hotel half an hour or so after she left it. - -“Why didn’t you come at once to the Casino? There was plenty of room in -our box, and you must have been so dull here.” - -Rex replied: “Not at all dull, with Miss Leighton for company. I ordered -my supper up here and had her join me. So you see I have made myself -quite at home.” - -“I see,” Mrs. Hallam said, with a tone in her voice and a shutting -together of her lips which Bertha understood perfectly. - -She had gathered up Mrs. Hallam’s mantle and bonnet and opera-glass and -fan and gloves by this time; and, knowing she was no longer needed, she -left the room just as Mrs. Haynes and Grace, who had heard Rex’s voice, -entered it. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - AFTER THE OPERA. - - -The ladies slept late the next morning, and Rex breakfasted alone and -then went to the salon to meet his aunt, as he had promised to do the -night before. It was rather tiresome waiting, and he found himself -wishing Bertha would come in, and wondering where she was. As a young -man of position and wealth and unexceptionable habits, he was a general -favorite with the ladies, and many a mother would gladly have captured -him for her daughter, while the daughter would not have said no if asked -to be his wife. This he knew perfectly well, but, he said, the daughters -didn’t fill the bill. He wanted a real girl, not a made-up one, with -powdered face, bleached hair, belladonna eyes, and all the obnoxious -habits so fast stealing into the best society. Little Louie Thurston had -touched his boyish fancy, and he admired her more than any other woman -he had ever met; Grace Haynes amused and interested him; but neither she -nor Louie possessed the qualities with which he had endowed his ideal -wife, who, he had come to believe, did not exist. Thus far everything -connected with Bertha Leighton had interested him greatly, and the two -hours he had spent alone with her had deepened that interest. She was -beautiful, agreeable, and real, he believed, with something fresh and -bright and original about her. He was anxious to see her again, and was -thinking of going down to the piazza, hoping to find her there, when his -aunt appeared, and for the next hour he sat with her, telling her of -their friends in New York and of his visit to the Homestead, where he -had been so hospitably entertained and made so many discoveries with -regard to Bertha. - -“She is a great favorite in Leicester,” he said, “and I think you have a -treasure.” - -“Yes, she serves me very well,” Mrs. Hallam replied, and then changed -the conversation, just as Grace knocked at the door, saying she was -going for a walk into town, and asking if Rex would like to go with her. - -It was a long ramble they had together, while Grace told him of her -acquaintances in Aix, and especially of the young Englishman, Jack -Travis, and the Florida orange grove on which he had sunk a thousand -dollars with no return. - -“Tell him to quit sinking, and go and see to it himself,” Rex said. -“Living in England or at the North and sending money South to be used on -a grove, is much like a woman trying to keep house successfully by -sitting in her chamber and issuing her orders through a speaking tube, -instead of going to the kitchen herself to see what is being done -there.” - -Rex’s illustrations were rather peculiar, but they were sensible. Grace -understood this one perfectly, and began to revolve in her mind the -feasibility of advising Jack to go to Florida and attend to his business -himself, instead of talking through a tube. Then she spoke of Bertha, -and was at once conscious of an air of increased interest in Reginald, -as she told him how much she liked the girl and how strangely he seemed -to be mixed up with her. - -“You see, Mrs. Hallam tells mamma everything, and so I know all about -Rose Arabella Jefferson’s picture. I nearly fell out of my chair when I -heard about it; and I know, too, about your knocking Miss Leighton down -on the Teutonic——” - -“Wha-at!” Rex exclaimed; “was that Ber—Miss Leighton, I mean?” - -“Certainly that was Bertha. You may as well call her that when with me,” -Grace replied. “I knew you would admire her. You can’t help it. I am -glad you have come, and I hope you will rectify a lot of things.” - -Rex looked at her inquiringly, but before he could ask what she meant, -they turned a corner and came upon Jack Travis, who joined them, and on -hearing that Rex was from New York began to ask after his orange grove, -as if he thought Reginald passed it daily on his way to his business. - -“What a stupid you are!” Grace said. “Mr. Hallam never saw an orange -grove in his life. Why, you could put three or four United Kingdoms into -the space between New York and Florida.” - -“Reely! How very extraordinary!” the young Englishman said, utterly -unable to comprehend the vastness of America, towards which he was -beginning to turn his thoughts as a place where he might possibly live -on seven hundred dollars a year with Grace to manage it and him. - -When they reached the hotel it was lunch-time, and after a few touches -to his toilet Rex started for the _salle-à-manger_, thinking that now he -should see Bertha, in whom he felt a still greater interest since -learning that it was she to whom he had given the black eye on the -Teutonic. “The hand of fate is certainly in it,” he thought, without -exactly knowing what the _it_ referred to. Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. Haynes -and Grace were already at the table when he entered the room and was -shown to the only vacant seat, between his aunt and Grace. - -“This must be Miss Leighton’s place,” he said, standing by the chair. “I -do not wish to keep her from her accustomed seat. Where is she?” and he -looked up and down both sides of the long table, but did not see her, -“Where is she?” he asked again, and his aunt replied “She is not coming -to-day. Sit down, and I will explain after lunch.” - -“What is there to explain?” he thought, as he sat down and glanced first -at his aunt’s worried face, then at Grace, and then at Mrs. Haynes. - -Then an idea occurred to him which almost made him jump from his chair. -He said to Grace: - -“Does Miss Leighton lunch in her room?” - -“Oh, no,” Grace replied. - -“Doesn’t she come here?” he persisted. - -“Your aunt will explain. I would rather not,” Grace said. - -There was something wrong, Rex was sure, and he finished lunch before -the others and left the salon just in time to see Bertha half-way up the -second flight of stairs. Bounding up two steps at a time, he soon stood -beside her, with his hand on her arm to help her up the next flight. - -“I have not seen you this morning. Where have you kept yourself?” he -asked, and she replied: - -“I have been busy in your aunt’s room.” - -“Where is her maid?” was his next question, and Bertha answered: - -“She has been gone some time.” - -“And _you_ fill her place?” - -“I do what Mrs. Hallam wishes me to.” - -“Why were you not at lunch?” - -“I have been to lunch.” - -“_You have!_ Where?” - -“Where I always take it.” - -“And _where_ is that?” - -There was something in Rex’s voice and manner which told Bertha that he -was not to be trifled with, and she replied, “I take my meals in the -servants’ hall, or rather with the maids and nurses and couriers. It is -not bad when you are accustomed to it,” she added, as she saw the -blackness on Reginald’s face and the wrath in his eyes. They had now -reached the door of Mrs. Hallam’s room, and Mrs. Hallam was just leaving -the elevator in company with Mrs. Haynes, who very wisely went into her -own apartment and left her friend to meet the storm alone. - -And a fierce storm it was. At its close Mrs. Hallam was in tears, and -Rex was striding up and down the salon like an enraged lion. Mrs. Hallam -had tried to apologize and explain, telling how respectful all the -couriers and valets were, how much less it cost, and that Mrs. Haynes -said the English sent their companions there, and governesses too, -sometimes. Rex did not care a picayune for what the English did; he -almost swore about Mrs. Haynes, whose handiwork he recognized; he -scorned the idea of its costing less, and said that unless Bertha were -at once treated as an equal in every respect he would either leave the -hotel or join her in the second-class salon and see for himself whether -those rascally Russians and Turks and Frenchmen looked at her as they -had no business to look. - -At this point Bertha, who had no suspicion of what was taking place in -the salon, and who wished to speak to Mrs. Hallam, knocked at the door. -Rex opened it with the intention of sending the intruder away, but when -he saw Bertha he bade her come in, and, standing with his back against -the door, went over the whole matter again and told her she was to join -them at dinner. - -“And if there is no place for you at my aunt’s end of the table there is -at the other, and I shall sit there with you,” he said. - -He had settled everything satisfactorily, he thought, when a fresh -difficulty arose with Bertha herself. She had listened in surprise to -Rex, and smiled gratefully upon him through the tears she could not -repress, but she said, “I cannot tell you how much I thank you for your -sympathy and kind intentions. But really I am not unhappy in the -servants’ hall, nor have I received the slightest discourtesy. Browne, -our courier, has stood between me and everything which might have been -unpleasant, and I have quite a liking for my companions. And,”—here her -face hardened and her eyes grew very dark,—“nothing can induce me to -join your party as you propose while Mrs. Haynes is in it. She has -worried and insulted me from the moment she saw me. She suggested and -urged my going to the servants’ hall against your aunt’s wishes, and has -never let an opportunity pass to make me feel my subordinate position. I -like Miss Haynes very much, but her mother ——” there was a toss of -Bertha’s head indicative of her opinion of the mother, an opinion which -Rex fully shared, and if he could he would have turned Mrs. Haynes from -the hotel bag and baggage. - -But this was impossible. He could neither dislodge her nor move Bertha -from her decision, which he understood and respected. But he could take -her and his aunt away from Aix and commence life under different -auspices in some other place. He had promised to join a party of friends -at Chamonix, and he would go there at once, and then find some quiet, -restful place in Switzerland, from which excursions could be made and -where his aunt could join him with Bertha. This was his plan, which met -with Mrs. Hallam’s approval. She was getting tired of Aix, and a little -tired, too, of Mrs. Haynes, who had not helped her into society as much -as she had expected. Lady Gresham, though civil, evidently shunned the -party, presumably because of Grace’s flirtation with Jack, while very -few desirable people were on terms of intimacy with her, and the -undesirable she would not notice. In fresh fields, however, with Rex, -who took precedence everywhere, she should do better, and she was quite -willing to go wherever and whenever he chose. That night at dinner she -told Mrs. Haynes her plans, and that Rex was to leave the next day for -Chamonix. - -“So soon? I am surprised, and sorry, too; Grace has anticipated your -coming so much and planned so many things to do when you came. She will -be so disappointed. Can’t we persuade you to stop a few days at least?” -Mrs. Haynes said, leaning forward and looking at Rex with a very -appealing face, while Grace stepped on her foot and whispered to her: - -“For heaven’s sake, don’t throw me at Rex Hallam’s head, and make him -more disgusted with us than he is already.” - -The next morning Rex brought his aunt a little, black-eyed French girl, -Eloïse, whom he had found in town, and who had once or twice served in -the capacity of maid. He had made the bargain with her himself, and such -a bargain as he felt sure would ensure her stay in his aunt’s service, -no matter what was put upon her. He had also enumerated many of the -duties the girl was expected to perform, and among them was waiting upon -Miss Leighton equally with his aunt. He laid great stress upon this, -and, in order to secure Eloïse’s respect for Bertha, he insisted if the -latter would not go to the same table with Mrs. Haynes she should take -her meals in the salon. To this Bertha reluctantly consented, and at -dinner she found herself installed in solitary state in the handsome -salon and served like a young empress by the obsequious waiter, who, -having seen the color of Reginald’s gold, was all attention to -Mademoiselle. It was a great change, and in her loneliness she half -wished herself back with her heterogeneous companions, who had amused -and interested her, and to some of whom she was really attached. But -just as dessert was served Rex came in and joined her, and everything -was changed, for there was no mistaking the interest he was beginning to -feel in her; it showed itself in ways which never fail to reach a -woman’s heart. At his aunt’s earnest entreaty he had decided to spend -another night at Aix, but he left the next morning with instructions -that Mrs. Hallam should be ready to join him whenever he wrote her to do -so. - -“And mind,” he said, laying a hand on each of her shoulders, “don’t you -bring Mrs. Haynes with you, for I will not have her. Pension her off, if -you want to, and I will pay the bill; but leave her here.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - AT THE BEAU-RIVAGE. - - - “BEAU-RIVAGE, OUCHY, SWITZERLAND, August 4, 18—. - “To MISS BERTHA LEIGHTON, Hôtel Splendide, - Aix-les-Bains, Savoie. - “Fred is dying, and I am ill in bed. Come at once. - “LOUIE THURSTON.” - -This was the telegram which Bertha received about a week after Rex’s -departure for Chamonix, and within an hour of its receipt her trunk was -packed and she was ready for the first train which would take her to -Ouchy. Mrs. Hallam had made no objection to her going, but, on the -contrary, seemed rather relieved than otherwise, for since the -revolution which Rex had brought about she hardly knew what to do with -Bertha. The maid Eloïse had proved a treasure, and under the combined -effects of Rex’s _pourboire_ and Rex’s instructions, had devoted herself -so assiduously to both Mrs. Hallam and Bertha that it was difficult to -tell which she was serving most. But she ignored Mrs. Haynes entirely, -saying that Monsieur’s orders were for _his_ Madame and _his_ -Mademoiselle, and she should recognize the rights of no third party -until he told her to do so. In compliance with Rex’s wishes, very -decidedly expressed, Mrs. Hallam now took all her meals in the salon -with Bertha, but they were rather dreary affairs, and, although sorry -for the cause, both were glad when an opportunity came for a change. - -“Certainly it is your duty to go,” Mrs. Hallam said, when Bertha handed -her the telegram, while Mrs. Haynes also warmly approved of the plan, -and both expressed surprise that Bertha had never told them of her -relationship to Mrs. Fred Thurston. - -They knew Mrs. Fred was a power in society, and Mrs. Haynes had met her -once or twice and through a friend had managed to attend a reception at -her house, which she described as magnificent. To be Mrs. Fred -Thurston’s cousin was to be somebody, and both Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. -Haynes became suddenly interested in Bertha, the latter offering her -advice with regard to the journey, while the former suggested the -propriety of sending Browne as an escort. But Bertha declined the offer. -She could speak the language fluently and would have no difficulty -whatever in finding her way to Ouchy, she said, but she thanked the -ladies for their solicitude and parted with them, apparently, on the -most amicable terms. Grace accompanied her to the station, and while -waiting for the train said to her confidentially, “I expect there will -be a bigger earthquake bye-and-bye than Rex got up on your account. Jack -and I are engaged. I made up my mind last night to take the great, -good-natured, awkward fellow and run my chance on seven hundred dollars -a year. It will come off early in the autumn, and we shall go to Florida -and see what we can do with that orange grove. Jack will have to work, -and so shall I, and I shall like it and he won’t, but I shall keep him -at it, trust me. Can you imagine mother’s disgust when I tell her? She -really thinks that I have a chance with Rex. But that is folly. Play -your cards well. I think you hold a lore hand. There’s your train. Write -when you get there, Good-bye.” - -There was a friendly parting, a rush through the gate for the carriages, -a slamming of doors, and then the train sped on its way, bearing Bertha -to a new phase of life in Ouchy. - -Thurston had been sick all the voyage, and instead of resting in Paris, -as Rex had advised him and Louie had entreated him to do, he had started -at once for Geneva and taken a severe cold on the night train. Arrived -at the Beau-Rivage in Ouchy, he refused to see a physician until his -wife came down with nervous prostration and one was called for her. -Louie had had rather a hard time after Rex left her in Paris, for, as if -to make amends for his Jekyll mood on the ship, her husband was -unusually unreasonable, and worried her so with sarcasm and taunts and -ridicule that her heart was very sore when she reached Ouchy. The -excitement of the voyage, with Reginald as her constant companion, was -over, and she must again take up the old life, which seemed drearier -than ever because everything and everybody were so strange, and she -found herself constantly longing for somebody to speak a kind and -sympathetic word to her. In this condition of things it was not strange -that she succumbed at last to the extreme nervous depression which had -affected her in Boston, and which was now so intensified that she could -scarcely lift her head from the pillow. - -“I am only tired,” she said to the physician, a kind, fatherly old man, -who asked her what was the matter. “Only tired of life, which is not -worth the living.” And her sad blue eyes looked up so pathetically into -his face that the doctor felt moved with a great pity for this young, -beautiful woman, surrounded with every luxury money could buy, but whose -face and words told a story he could not understand until called to -prescribe for her husband; and then he knew. - -Thurston had made a fight against the illness which was stealing over -him and which he swore he would defy. Drugs and doctors were for silly -women like Louie, who must be amused, he said, but he would have none of -them. “Only exert your will and you can cheat Death himself,” was his -favorite saying, and he exerted his will, and went to Chillon, rowed on -the lake in the moonlight, took a Turkish bath, and next day had a -chill, which lasted so long and left him so weak that he consented to -see the doctor, but raved like a madman when told that he must go to bed -and stay there if he wished to save his life. - -“I don’t know that I care particularly about it. I haven’t found it so -very jolly,” he said; then, after a moment, he added, with a bitter -laugh, “Tell my wife I am likely to shuffle off this mortal coil, and -see how it affects her.” - -He was either crazy, or a brute, or both, the doctor thought, but he -made him go to bed, secured the best nurse he could find, and was there -early the next morning to see how his patient fared. He found him so -much worse that when he went to Louie he asked if she had any friends -near who could come to her, saying, “If you have, send for them at -once.” - -Louie was in a state where nothing startled her, and without opening her -eyes she said, “Am I going to die?” - -“No,” was the doctor’s reply, and she continued, “Is my husband?” - -“I hope not, but he is very ill and growing steadily worse. Have you any -friend who will come to you?” - -“Yes,—my cousin, Miss Leighton, at Aix,” Louie answered; and she -dictated the telegram, which the doctor wrote after asking if she had no -male friend. - -For a moment she hesitated, thinking of Reginald, who would surely come -if bidden, and be so strong and helpful. But that would not do; and she -answered, “There is no one. Bertha can do everything.” - -So Bertha was summoned, and the day after the receipt of the telegram -she was at the Beau-Rivage, feeling that she had not come too soon when -she saw how utterly prostrated Louie was, and how excited and -unmanageable Thurston was becoming under the combined effects of fever -and his dislike of his nurse, who could not speak a word of English, -while he could understand very little French. Frequent altercations were -the result, and when Bertha entered the sick-room there was a fierce -battle of words going on between the two, Victoire trying to make the -patient take his medicine, while Fred sat bolt upright in bed, the -perspiration rolling down his face as he fought against the glass and -hurled at the half-crazed Frenchman every opprobrious epithet in the -English language. As Bertha appeared the battle ceased, but not until -the glass with its contents was on the floor, where Thurston had struck -it from Victoire’s hand. - -“Ah, Bertha,” he gasped, as he sank exhausted upon his pillow, “did you -drop from heaven, or where? and won’t you tell this idiot that it is not -time to take my medicine? I know, for I have it written down in good -English. Blast that French language, which nobody can understand! I -doubt if they do themselves, the gabbling fools, with their _parleys_ -and _we-we’s_.” - -It did not take Bertha long to bring order out of confusion. She was a -natural nurse, and when the doctor came and she proposed to take -Victoire’s place until a more suitable man was found, her offer was -accepted. But it was no easy task she had assumed, and after two days -and nights, during which she was only relieved for a few hours by John, -Thurston’s valet, when sleep was absolutely necessary, she was -thoroughly worn out. Leaving the sick man in charge of John, she started -for a ramble through the grounds, hoping that the air and exercise would -rest and strengthen her. The Thurston rooms were at the rear of a long -hall on the second floor, and, as the other end was somewhat in shadow, -she only knew that some one was advancing towards her as she went -rapidly down the corridor. Nor did she look up until a voice which sent -a thrill through every nerve said to her, “Good-afternoon, Miss -Leighton. Don’t you know me?” Then she stopped suddenly, while a cry of -delight escaped her, as she gave both her hands into the warm, strong -ones of Rex Hallam, who held them fast while he questioned her rapidly -and told her how he chanced to be there. He had joined his party at -Chamonix, where they had stayed for several days, crossing the -Mer-de-Glace and making other excursions among the mountains and -glaciers. He had then made a flying trip to Interlaken, Lucerne, and -Geneva, in quest of the place to which he meant to remove his aunt, and -had finally thought of Ouchy, where he knew the Thurstons were, and to -which he had come in a boat from Geneva. Learning at the office of his -friend’s illness, he had started at once for his room, meeting on the -way with Bertha, whose presence there he did not suspect. While he -talked he led her near to a window, where the light fell full upon her -face, showing him how pale and tired it was. - -“This will not do,” he said, when he had heard her story. “I am glad I -have come to relieve you. I shall write to Aix to-day that I am going to -stay here, where I can be of service to Fred and Louie, and to you too. -You will not go back, of course, while your cousin needs you. And now go -out into the sunshine, and bye-and-bye I’ll find you somewhere in the -grounds.” - -He had taken matters into his own hands in his masterful way, and Bertha -felt how delightful it was to have some one to lean upon, and that one -Rex Hallam, whose voice was so full of sympathy, whose eyes looked at -her so kindly, and whose hands held hers so long and seemed so unwilling -to release them. With a blush she withdrew them from his clasp. Leaving -her at last, he walked down the hall, entering Louie’s room first and -finding her asleep, with her maid in charge. For a moment he stood -looking at her white, wan face, which touched him more than her fair -beauty had ever done, for on it he could read the story of her life, and -a great pity welled up in his heart for the girl who seemed so like a -lovely flower broken on its stem. - -“Poor little Louie!” he said, involuntarily, and at the sound of his -voice Louie awoke, recognizing him at once, and exclaiming: - -“Oh, Rex! I was dreaming of you and the magnolias. I am so glad you are -here! You will stay, won’t you? I am afraid Fred is going to die, he is -so bad, and then what shall I do?” - -She gave him her hand, which he did not hold as long as he had held -Bertha’s, nor did the holding it affect him the same. Bertha’s had been -warm and full of life, with something electrical in their touch, which -sent the blood bounding through his veins and made him long to kiss -them, as well as the bright face raised so eagerly to his. Louie’s hand -was thin and clammy, and so small that he could have crushed it easily, -as he raised it to his lips with the freedom of an old-time friend, and -just as he would have done had Fred himself been present. He told her he -should stay as long as he was needed, and after a few moments went to -see her husband, who was beginning to grow restless and to fret at -Bertha’s absence. But at sight of Reginald his mood changed, and he -exclaimed joyfully: - -“Rex, old boy, I wonder if you know how glad I am to see you. I do -believe I shall get well now you are here, though I am having a big -tussle with some confounded thing,—typhoid, the doctor calls it; but -doctors are fools. How did you happen to drop down here?” - -Rex told him how he chanced to be there, and that he was going to stay, -and then, excusing himself, went in quest of Bertha, whom he found -sitting upon a rustic seat which was partially concealed by a clump of -shrubbery. It was a glorious afternoon, and Rex, who was very fond of -boating, proposed a row upon the lake, to which Bertha consented. - -“I have had too many races with Harvard not to know how to manage the -oars myself,” he said, as he handed Bertha into the boat, and dismissing -the boy, pushed off from the shore. - -It was a delightful hour they spent together gliding over the smooth -waters of the lake, and in that time they became better acquainted than -many people do in years. There was no coquetry nor sham in Bertha’s -nature, while Rex was so open and frank, and they had so much in common -to talk about, that restraint was impossible between them. Poor Rose -Arabella Jefferson was discussed and laughed over, Rex declaring his -intention to find her some time, if he made a pilgrimage to Scotsburg on -purpose. Then he spoke of the encounter on the ship, and said: - -“I can’t tell you how many times I have thought of that girl before I -knew it was you, or how I have wanted to see her and apologize properly -for my awkwardness. Something seems to be drawing us together -strangely.” Then he spoke again of his visit to the Homestead, while -Bertha became wonderfully animated as she talked of her home, and Rex, -watching her, felt that he had never seen so beautiful a face as hers, -or listened to a sweeter voice. “I wonder if I am really falling in -love,” he thought, as he helped her from the boat, while she was -conscious of some subtle change wrought in her during that hour on Lake -Geneva, and felt that life would never be to her again exactly what it -had been. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - THE UNWELCOME GUEST. - - -Thurston was very ill with typhoid fever, which held high carnival with -him physically, but left him mentally untouched. One afternoon, the -fifth after Rex’s arrival, the two were alone, and for some time Fred -lay with his eyes closed and an expression of intense thought upon his -face. Then, turning suddenly to Rex, he said, “Sit close to me. I want -to tell you something.” - -Rex drew his chair to the bedside, and Fred continued, “That idiot of a -doctor has the same as told me I am going to die, and, though I don’t -believe him, I can’t help feeling a little anxious about it, and I want -you to help me get ready.” - -“Certainly,” Rex answered, with a gasp, entirely misunderstanding Fred’s -meaning, and wishing the task of getting his friend ready to die had -devolved on some one else. “We hope to pull you through, but it is -always well to be prepared for death, and I’ll help you all I can. I’m -afraid, though, you have called upon a poor stick. I might say the -Lord’s Prayer with you, or, better yet,” and Rex grew quite cheerful, -“there’s a young American clergyman in the hotel. I will bring him to -see you. He’ll know just what to say.” - -“Thunder!” Fred exclaimed, so energetically that Rex started from his -chair. “Don’t be a fool. I shall die as I have lived, and if there is a -hereafter, which I doubt, I shall take my chance with the rest. I don’t -want your clergy round me, though I wouldn’t object to hearing you say, -‘Our Father.’ It would be rather jolly. I used to know it with a lot of -other things, but I quit it long ago,—left all the praying to Louie, who -goes on her knees regularly night and morning in spite of my ridicule. -Once, when she was posing beautifully, with her long, white -dressing-gown spread out a yard or so on the floor, I walked over it on -purpose to irritate her, but didn’t succeed. I never did succeed very -well with Louie. But it is more my fault than hers, although I was -fonder of her than she ever knew. She never pretended to love me. She -told me she didn’t when she promised to marry me, and when I asked her -if any one stood between us she said no, but added that there was -somebody for whom she could have cared a great deal if he had cared for -her. I did not ask her who it was, but I think I know, and she would -have been much happier with him than with me. Poor Louie! maybe she will -have a chance yet; and if she does I am willing.” - -His bright, feverish eyes were fixed curiously on Rex, as he went on, -“It’s for Louie and her matters I want help, not for my soul; that’s all -right, if I have one. Louie is a child in experience, and you must see -to her when I am gone, and stand by her till she goes home. There’ll be -an awful row with the landlord, and no end of expense, and a terrible -muss to get me to America. My man, John, will take what there is left of -me to Mount Auburn, if you start him right. Louie can’t go, and you must -stay with her and Bertha. If Mrs. Grundy kicks up a row about your -chaperoning a handsome girl and a pretty young widow,—and, by Jove, -Louie will be that,—bring your aunt to the rescue; that will make it -square. And now about my will. I made one last summer, and left -everything to Louie on condition that she did not marry again. That was -nonsense. She will marry if the right man offers;—wild horses can’t hold -her; and I want you to draw up another will, with no conditions, giving -a few thousands to the Fresh Air Fund and the Humane Society. That will -please Louie. She’s great on children and horses. What is it about a -mortgage on old man Leighton’s farm? Louie wanted me to pay it and keep -Bertha from going out to service, as she called it. But I was in one of -my moods, and swore I wouldn’t. I am sorry now I didn’t. Maybe I have a -soul, after all, and that is what is nagging me so when I think of the -past. I wish I knew how much the mortgage was.” - -“I know; I can tell you,” Rex said, with a great deal of animation, as -he proceeded to narrate the particulars of the mortgage and his visit to -the Homestead, while Fred listened intently. - -“Ho-ho,” he said, with a laugh, when Rex had finished. “Is that the way -the wind blows? I thought maybe—but never mind. Five hundred, is it? -I’ll make it a thousand, payable to Bertha at once. You’ll find -writing-materials in the desk by the window. And hurry up; I’m getting -infernally tired.” - -It did not take long to make the will, and when it was finished, Rex and -Mr. Thurston’s valet John and Louie’s maid Martha, all Americans, -witnessed it. After that Fred, who was greatly exhausted, fell into a -heavy sleep, and when he awoke Bertha was alone with him. He seemed very -feverish, and asked for water, which she gave him, and then bathed his -forehead and hands, while he said to her faintly, “You are a trump. I -wish I’d made it two thousand instead of one; but Louie will make it -right. Poor Louie! she’s going to be so disappointed. It’s a big joke on -her. I wonder how she will take it.” - -Bertha had no idea what he meant, and made no reply, while he continued, -“Say, how does a fellow feel when he has a soul?” - -Bertha felt sure now that he was delirious, but before she could answer -he went on, “I never thought I had one, but maybe I have. I feel so -sorry for a lot of things, and mostly about Louie. Tell her so when I am -dead. Tell her I wasn’t half as bad a sort as she thought. It will be -like her to swathe herself in crape, with a veil which sweeps the -ground. Tell her not to. Black will not become her. Think of Louie in a -widow’s cap!” - -Weak as he was, he laughed aloud at the thought of it, and then began to -talk of the prayer which had “forgive” in it, and which Rex was to say -with him. - -“Do you know it?” he asked, and, with her heart swelling in her throat, -Bertha answered that she did, and asked if she should say it. - -He nodded, and Rex, who at that moment came unobserved to the door, -never forgot the picture of the kneeling girl and the wistful, pathetic -expression on the face of the dying man as he tried to say the words -which had once been familiar to him. - -“Amen! So be it! Finis! I guess that makes it about square. Tell Louie I -prayed,” he whispered, faintly, and never spoke again until the early -morning sunlight was shining on the lake and the hills of Savoy, when he -started suddenly and called, “Louie, Louie! Where are you? I can’t find -you. Oh, Louie, come to me.” - -But Louie was asleep in her room across the long salon, and when, an -hour later, she awoke, Bertha told her that her husband was dead. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - TANGLED THREADS. - - -As Thurston had predicted, there was a great deal of trouble and no end -of expense; but Rex attended to everything, while Bertha devoted herself -to Louie, who had gone from one hysterical paroxysm into another until -she was weaker and more helpless than she had ever been, but not too -weak to talk continually of Fred, who, one would suppose, had been the -tenderest of husbands. All she had suffered at his hands was forgotten, -wiped out by the message he had left for her and by knowing that his -last thoughts had been of her. But she spurned the idea of not wearing -black, and insisted that boxes of mourning dresses and bonnets and caps -should be sent to her on approbation from Geneva and Lausanne, until her -room looked like a bazaar of crape, and not only Bertha and Martha, the -maid, but Rex was more than once called in for an opinion as to what -would be most suitable. It was rather a peculiar position in which Rex -found himself,—two young ladies on his hands, with one of whom he was in -love, while the other would unquestionably be in love with him as soon -as her first burst of grief was over and she had settled the details of -her wardrobe. But he did not mind it; in fact, he found it delightful to -be associated daily with Bertha, and to be constantly applied to for -sympathy and advice by Louie, who treated him with the freedom and -confidence of a sister, and he would not have thought of a change, if -Bertha had not suggested it. She had been told of the bequest which -secured the Homestead from sale and made it no longer necessary for her -to return to Mrs. Hallam, and she wrote at once asking to be released -from her engagement, but saying she would keep it if her services were -still desired. - -It was a very gracious reply which Mrs. Hallam returned to her, freeing -her from all obligations to herself, while something in the tone of the -letter made Bertha suspect that all was not as rose-colored at Aix as it -had been, and that Mrs. Hallam would be glad to make one of the party at -Ouchy. This she said to Rex, suggesting that he should invite his aunt -to join them, and urging so strongly the propriety of either bringing -her to him, or going himself to her, that he finally wrote to his aunt -to come to him, and immediately received a reply that she would be with -him the next day. Rex met her at the station in Lausanne, and Bertha -received her at the hotel as deferentially and respectfully as if she -were still her hired companion, a condition which Mrs. Hallam had made -up her mind to ignore, especially as it no longer existed between them. -Taking both Bertha’s hands in hers, she kissed her effusively and told -her how much better she was looking since she left Aix. - -“And no wonder,” she said. “The air there was not good, and either that -or something made me very nervous, so that I did things for which I am -sorry, and which I hope you will forget.” - -This was a great concession which Bertha received graciously, and the -two were on the best of terms when they entered Louie’s room. Louie had -improved rapidly during the week, and was sitting in an easy-chair by -the window, clad in a most becoming tea-gown fashioned at Worth’s for -the first stages of deep mourning, and looking more like a girl of -eighteen than a widow of twenty-five. Notwithstanding her husband’s -assertion that black would not become her, she had never been half so -lovely as she was in her weeds, and her face was never so fair as when -framed in her little crêpe bonnet and widow’s cap, which sat so jauntily -on her golden hair. “Dazzlingly beautiful and altogether irresistible,” -was Mrs. Hallam’s opinion as the days went by, and Louie grew more and -more cheerful and sometimes forgot to put Fred’s photograph under her -pillow, and began to talk less of him and more to Rex, whose attentions -she claimed with an air of ownership which would have amused Bertha if -she could have put from her the harrowing thought of what might be a -year hence, when the grave at Mount Auburn was not as new, or Louie’s -loss as fresh, as they were now. - -“He cannot help loving her,” she would say to herself, “and I ought to -be glad to have her happy with him.” - -But she was not glad, and it showed in her face, whose expression Rex -could not understand. Louie’s was one of those natures which, without -meaning to be selfish, make everything subservient to them. She was -always the centre about which others revolved, and Rex was her willing -slave, partly because of Thurston’s dying charge, and partly because he -could not resist her pretty appealing ways, and would not if he could. -But he never dreamed of associating his devotion to her with Bertha’s -growing reserve. She was his real queen, without whom his life at Ouchy -would have been very irksome, and when she suggested going home, as -Dorcas had written urging her to do, he protested against it almost as -strenuously as Louie. She must stay, both said, until she had seen -something of Europe besides Aix and Ouchy. So she stayed, and they spent -September at Interlaken and Lucerne, October in Paris, and November at -the Italian lakes, where she received a letter from Grace, written in -New York and signed “Grace Haynes Travis.” - -“We were married yesterday,” she wrote, “and to-morrow we start for our -Florida cabin and orange grove, near Orlando, where so many English -people have settled. Mother gave in handsomely at the last, when she -found there was no help for it, and I actually won over Lady Gresham, -who used to think me a Hottentot, and always spoke of me as ‘that -dreadful American girl.’ She invited mother and me to her country house, -The Limes, near London, and suggested that Jack and I be married there. -But I preferred New York; so she gave us her blessing and a thousand -pounds, and mother, Jack, and I sailed three weeks ago in the Umbria. -When are you coming home? and how is that pretty little Mrs. Thurston? I -saw her once, and thought her very lovely, with that sweet, clinging, -helpless manner which takes with men wonderfully. I have heard that she -was an old flame of Rex Hallam’s, or rather a young one, but I’ll trust -you to win him, although as a widow she is dangerous; so, in the words -of the immortal Weller, I warn you, ‘Bevare of vidders.’” - -There was much more in the same strain, and Bertha laughed over it, but -felt a pang for which she hated herself every time she looked at Louie, -whose beauty and grace drew about her many admirers besides Rex, in -spite of her black dress and her frequent allusions to “dear Fred, whose -grave was so far away.” She was growing stronger every day, and when in -December Rex received a letter from his partner saying that his presence -in New York was rather necessary, she declared herself equal to the -journey, and said that if Rex went she should go too. Consequently the -1st of January found them all in London, where they were to spend a few -days, and where Rex brought his aunt a letter, addressed, bottom side -up, to “Mrs. Lucy Ann Hallam, Care of Brown, Shipley & Co., London. -_Post Restant._” - -There was a gleam of humor in Rex’s eyes as he handed the missive to his -aunt, whose face grew dark as she studied the outside, and darker still -at the inside, which was wonderful in composition and orthography. -Phineas Jones had been sent out to Scotland by an old man who had some -property there and who knew he could trust Phineas to look after it and -bring him back the rental, which he had found it hard to collect. After -transacting his business, Phineas had decided to travel a little and -“get cultivated up, so that his cousin Lucy Ann shouldn’t be ashamed of -him.” Had he known where she was, he would have joined her, but, as he -did not he wrote her a letter, which had in it a great deal about -Sturbridge and the old yellow house and the huckleberry pasture and the -circus and the spelling-school, all of which filled Mrs. Hallam with -disgust. She was his only blood kin extant, he said, and he yearned to -see her, but supposed he must wait till she was back in New York, when -he should pay his respects to her at once. And she wouldn’t be ashamed -of him, either. He knew what was what, and had hob-a-nobbed with -nobility, who took a sight of notice of him. He was going to sail the -10th in the Germanic, he said, and if she’d let him know when she was -coming home he’d be in New York on the wharf to meet her. - -As it chanced, the Germanic was the boat in which the Hallam party had -taken passage for the 10th, but Mrs. Hallam suddenly discovered that she -had not seen enough of London; Rex could go, if he must, but she should -wait for the next boat of the same line. Rex had no suspicion as to the -real reason for her change of mind, and, as a week or two could make but -little difference in the business calling him home, he stayed, and when -the next boat of the White Star line sailed out of the docks of -Liverpool it carried the party of four: Louie, limp and tearful as she -thought of her husband who had been with her when she crossed before; -Mrs. Hallam, excited and nervous, half expecting to see Phineas pounce -upon her, and haunted with a presentiment that he was somewhere on the -ship; and Rex, with Bertha, hunting for the spot where he had first seen -her and knocked her down. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - ON THE SEA. - - -It was splendid weather for a few days, and no one thought of being -sea-sick, except Mrs. Hallam, who kept her room, partly because she -thought she must, and partly because she could not shake off the feeling -that Phineas was on board. She had read the few names on the -passenger-list, but his was not among them, nor did she expect to find -it, as he had sailed two weeks before. Still, she would neither go on -deck nor into the dining-saloon, and without being really ill, kept her -berth and was waited upon by Eloïse, who was accompanying her home. -Louie, who was still delicate and who always shrank from cold, stayed -mostly in the salon. But the briny, bracing sea air suited Bertha, and -for several hours each day she walked the deck with Rex, whose arm was -sometimes thrown around her when the ship gave a great lurch, or when on -turning a corner they met the wind full in their faces. Then there were -the moonlight nights, when the air was full of frost and the waves were -like burnished silver, and in her sealskin coat and cap, which Louie had -bought for her in Geneva, Bertha was never tired of walking and never -thought of the cold, for, if the exercise had not kept her warm, the -light which shone upon her from Rex’s eyes when she met their gaze would -have done so. Perhaps he looked the same at Louie,—very likely he -did,—but for the present he was hers alone, and she was supremely happy -while the fine, warm weather lasted and with it the companionship on -deck. But suddenly there came a change. - -Along the western coast of the Atlantic a wild storm had been raging, -and when it subsided there it swept towards the east, gathering force as -it went, and, joined by the angry winds from every point of the compass, -it was almost a cyclone when it reached the Teutonic. But the great ship -met it bravely, mounting wave after wave like a feather, then plunging -down into the green depths below, then rising again and shaking off the -water as if the boiling sea were a mere plaything and the storm gotten -up for its pastime. The passengers, who were told that there was no real -danger, kept up their courage while the day lasted, but when the night -came on and the darkness grew deeper in the salon, where nearly all were -assembled, many a face grew white with fear as they listened to the -howling of the wind and the roaring of the sea, while wave after wave -struck the ship, which sometimes seemed to stand still, and then, -trembling in every joint, rose up to meet the angry waves which beat -upon it with such tremendous force. - -Early in the day Louie had taken to her bed, where she lay sobbing -bitterly, while Bertha tried to comfort her. As the darkness was -increasing and the noise overhead grew more and more deafening, Rex -brought his aunt to the salon, where, like many of the others, she sat -down upon the floor, clinging to one of the chairs for support. Then he -went to Louie and asked if he should not take her there too. - -“No, no! oh, no!” she moaned. “I’d rather die here, if you will stay -with me.” - -Just then a roll of the ship sent her out upon the floor, where every -movable thing in the room had gone before her. After that she made no -further resistance, but suffered Bertha to wrap her waterproof around -her, and was then carried by Rex and deposited upon one end of a table, -where she lay, too much frightened to move, with Rex supporting her on -one side and Bertha on the other. And still the storm raged on, and the -white faces grew whiter as the question was asked, “What will the end -be?” In every heart there was a prayer, and Rex’s mind went back to that -night at the Homestead and the prayers for those in peril on the deep. -Were they praying now, and would their prayers avail, or would the sad -news go to them that their loved one was lying far down in the depths of -the sea? - -“Oh, if I could save her!” he thought, moving his hand along upon the -table until it touched and held hers in a firm clasp which seemed to -say, “For life or death you are mine.” - -Just then Louie began to shiver, and moaned that she was cold. - -“Wait a minute, darling,” Bertha said, “and I will bring you a blanket -from our state-room, if I can get there.” - -This was no easy task, for the ship was plunging fearfully, and always -at an angle which made walking difficult. Twice Bertha fell upon her -knees, and once struck her head against the side of the passage, but she -reached the room at last, and, securing the blanket, was turning to -retrace her steps, when a wave heavier than any which had preceded it -struck the vessel, which reeled with what one of the sailors called a -double X, pitching and rolling sidewise and endwise and cornerwise all -at once. To stand was impossible, and with a cry Bertha fell forward -into the arms of Rex Hallam. - -“Rex!” she said, involuntarily, and “Bertha!” he replied, showering -kisses upon her face, down which the tears were running like rain. - -She had been gone so long that he had become alarmed at her absence, and -with great difficulty had made his way to the state-room, which he -reached in time to save her from a heavy fall. Both were thrown upon the -lounge under the window, where they sat for a moment, breathless and -forgetful of their danger, Bertha was the first to speak, saying she -must go to Louie, but Rex held her fast, and, steadying himself as best -he could, drew her face close to his, and said, “This is not a time for -love-making, but I may never have another chance, and, if we must die, -death will be robbed of half its terrors if you are with me, my darling, -my queen, whom I believe I have loved ever since I saw your photograph -and thought it was poor Rose Arabella Jefferson.” - -He could not repress a smile at the remembrance of that scion of the -Jeffersons, but Bertha did not see it. Her head was lying upon his -breast, and he was holding to the side of the door to keep from being -thrown upon the floor as he urged his suit and then waited for her -answer. Against the windows and the dead-lights the waves were dashing -furiously, while overhead was a roar like heavy cannonading, mingled -with the hoarse shouts of voices calling through the storm. But Rex -heard Bertha’s answer, and at the peril of his limbs folded her in his -arms and said, “Now we live or die together; and I think that we shall -live.” - -Naturally they forgot the blanket and everything else as they groped -their way back to the door of the salon, where Rex stopped suddenly at -the sound of a voice heard distinctly enough for him to know that some -one was praying loudly and earnestly, and to know, too, who it was whose -clear, nasal tones could be heard above the din without. - -“Phineas Jones!” he exclaimed. “Great Cæsar! how came he here?” And he -struggled in with Bertha to get nearer to him. - -Phineas had been very ill in Liverpool, and when the Germanic left he -was still in bed, and was obliged to wait two weeks longer, when he took -passage on the same ship with Mrs. Hallam. Even then he was so weak that -he did not make up his mind to go until an hour before the ship sailed. -As there were few passengers, he had no difficulty in securing a berth, -where during the first days of the voyage he lay horribly sea-sick and -did not know who were on board. He had been too late for his name to be -included in the passenger-list, and it was not until the day of the -storm that he learned that Mrs. Hallam and Rex and Bertha were on the -ship. To find them at once was his first impulse, but when the cyclone -struck the boat it struck him, too, with a fresh attack of sea-sickness, -from which he did not rally until night, when he would not be longer -restrained. Something told him, he said, that Lucy Ann needed him,—in -fact, that they all needed him in the cabin, and he was going there. And -he went, nearly breaking his neck. Entering the salon on his hands and -knees, he made his way to the end of the table on which Louie lay, and -near which Mrs. Hallam was clinging desperately to a chair as she -crouched upon the floor. It was at this moment that the double X which -had sent Bertha into Rex’s arms struck the ship, eliciting shrieks of -terror from the passengers, who felt that the end had come. Steadying -himself against a corner of the table, Phineas called out, in a loud, -penetrating voice: - -“Silence! This is no time to scream and cry. It is action you want. Pray -to be delivered, as Jonah did. The captain and crew are doing their -level best on deck. Let us do ours here, and don’t you worry. We shall -be heard. The Master who stilled the storm on Galilee is in this boat, -and not asleep, either, in the hindermost part. If He was, no human -could get to Him, with the ship nearly bottom side up. He is in our -midst. I know it, I feel it; and you who are too scart to pray, and you -who don’t know how, listen to me. Let us pray.” - -The effect was electric, and every head was bowed as Phineas began the -most remarkable prayer which was ever offered on shipboard. He was in -deadly earnest, and, fired with the fervor and eloquence which made him -so noted as a class-leader, he informed the Lord of the condition they -were in and instructed Him how to improve it. Galilee, he said, was -nothing to the Atlantic when on a tear as it was now, but the voice -which had quieted the waters of Tiberias could stop this uproar. He -presumed some of them ought to be drowned, he said, but they didn’t want -to be, and were going to do better. Then he confessed every possible sin -which might have been committed by the passengers, who, according to his -statement, were about the wickedest lot, take them as a whole, that ever -crossed the ocean. There were exceptions, of course. There were near and -dear friends of his, and one blood kin, on board, for whom he especially -asked aid. He had not looked upon the face of his kinswoman for years, -but he had never forgotten the sweet counsel they took together when -children in Sturbridge, and he would have her saved anyway. Like -himself, she was old and stricken in years, but—— - -“Horrible!” came in muffled tones from something at his feet, and, -looking down, he saw the bundle of shawls, which, in its excitement, had -loosened its hold on the chair and was rolling down the inclined plane -towards the centre of the room. - -Reaching out his long arm, he pulled it back, and, putting his foot -against it, went on with what was now a prayer of thanksgiving. Those -who have been in a storm at sea like the one I am describing, will -remember how quick they were to detect a change for the better, as the -blows upon the ship became less frequent and heavy and the noise -overhead began to subside. - -Phineas was the first to notice it, and, with his foot still firmly -planted against the struggling bundle to keep it in place, he exclaimed, -in a voice which was almost a shriek: - -“We are saved! We are saved! Don’t you feel it? Don’t you hear it?” - -They did hear it and feel it, and with glad hearts responded to the -words of thanksgiving which Phineas poured forth, saying the answer to -his prayer had come sooner than he expected, and acknowledging that his -faith had been weak as water. Then he promised a forsaking of their -sins, and a life more consistent with the doctrine they professed, for -them all, adapting himself as nearly as he could to the forms of worship -familiar to the different denominations he knew must be assembled there. -For the Presbyterians there was a mention made of foreordination and the -Westminster Catechism, for the Baptists, immersion, for the Methodists, -sanctification, for the Roman Catholics, the Blessed Virgin; but he -forgot the Episcopalians, until, remembering, with a start, Rex and Lucy -Ann, he wound up with: - -“From pride, vainglory and hypocrisy, good Lord deliver us. Amen.” - -The simple earnestness of the man so impressed his hearers that no one -thought of smiling at his ludicrous language, and when the danger was -really over and they could stand upon their feet, they crowded around -him as if he had been their deliverer from deadly peril, while Rex -introduced him as his particular friend. This stamped him as somebody, -and he at once became a sort of lion. We are all more or less -susceptible to flattery, and Phineas was not an exception; he received -the attentions with a very satisfied air, thinking to himself that if -his recent prayers had so impressed them, what would they say if they -could hear him when fully under way at a camp-meeting? - -“Where’s your aunt?” he asked Rex, suddenly, while Rex looked round for -her, but could not find her. - -More dead than alive, Mrs. Hallam had clung to the chair in momentary -expectation of going down, never to rise again, and in that awful hour -it seemed to her that everything connected with her life had passed -before her. The old, yellow house, the grandmother to whom she had not -always been kind, the early friends of whom she had been ashamed, the -husband she had loved, but whom she had tried so often, all stood out so -vividly that it seemed as if she could touch them. - -“Everything bad,—nothing good. May God forgive it all!” she whispered -more than once, as she lay waiting for the end and shuddering as she -thought of the dark, cold waters so soon to engulf her. - -In this state of mind she became conscious that some one was standing so -close to her that his boots held down a portion of her dress, but she -did not mind it, for at that moment Phineas began his prayer, to which -she listened intently. She knew it was an illiterate man, that his boots -were coarse, that his clothes were saturated with an odor of cheap -tobacco, and that he belonged to a class which she despised because she -had once been of it. But as he prayed she felt, as she had never felt -before, the Presence he said was there with him, and thought nothing of -his class, or his tobacco, or his boots. He was a saint, until he spoke -of Sturbridge and his blood kin who was old and stricken in years. Then -she knew who the saint was, and as soon as it was possible to do so she -escaped to her state-room, where Rex found her in a state of great -nervous excitement. She could not and would not see Phineas that night, -she said. Possibly she might be equal to it in the morning. With that -message Phineas, who was hovering around her door, was obliged to be -content, but before he retired, every one with whom he talked knew that -Mrs. Hallam was his cousin Lucy Ann, whom he used to know in Sturbridge -when she was a girl. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - ON SEA AND LAND. - - -Naturally the captain and officers made light of the storm after it was -over, citing, as a proof that it was not so very severe, the fact that -within four hours after it began to subside the ship was sailing -smoothly over a comparatively calm sea, on which the moon and stars were -shining as brightly as if it had not so recently been stirred to its -depths. The deck had been cleared, and, after seeing Louie in her berth, -Bertha went up to join Rex, who was waiting for her. All the past peril -was forgotten in the joy of their perfect love, and they had so much to -talk about and so many plans for the future to discuss that the midnight -bells sounded before they separated. - -“It is not very long till morning, when I shall see you again, nor long -before you will be all my own,” Rex said, holding her in his arms and -kissing her many times before he let her go. - -She found Louie asleep, and when next morning Bertha arose as the first -gong sounded, Louie was still sleeping, exhausted with the excitement of -the previous day. She was evidently dreaming, for there was a smile on -her lips which moved once with some word Bertha could not catch, -although it sounded like “Rex.” - -“I wonder if she cares very much for him,” Bertha thought, with a twinge -of pain. “If she does, I cannot give him up, for he is mine,—my Rex.” - -She repeated the name aloud, lingering over it as if the sound were very -pleasant to her, and just then Louie’s blue eyes opened and looked -inquiringly at her. - -“What is it about Rex?” she asked, smiling up at Bertha in that pretty, -innocent way which children have of smiling when waking from sleep. “Has -he been to inquire for me?” she continued; and, feeling that she could -no longer put it off, Bertha knelt beside her and told her a story which -made the bright color fade from Louie’s face and her lips quiver in a -grieved kind of way as she listened to it. - -When it was finished she did not say a word, except to ask if it was not -very cold. - -“I am all in a shiver. I think I will not get up. Tell Martha not to -come to me. I do not want any breakfast,” she said, as she turned her -face to the wall. - -For a moment Bertha lingered, perplexed and pained,—then started to -leave the room. - -“Wait,” Louie called, faintly, and when Bertha went to her she flung her -arms around her neck and said, with a sob, “I am glad for you, and I -know you will be happy. Tell Rex I congratulate him. And now go and -don’t come back for ever so long. I am tired and want to sleep.” - -When she was alone, the little woman buried her face in the pillows and -cried like a child, trying to believe she was crying for her husband, -but failing dismally. It was for Rex, whom she had held dearer than she -knew, and whom she had lost. But with all her weakness Louie had a good -deal of common sense, which soon came to her aid. “This is -absurd,—crying for one who does not care for me except as a friend. I’ll -be a woman, and not a baby,” she thought, as she rung for Martha to come -and dress her. An hour later she surprised Bertha and Rex, who were -sitting on a seat at the head of the stairs, with a rug thrown across -their laps, concealing the hands clasped so tightly beneath it. Nothing -could have been sweeter than her manner as she congratulated Rex -verbally, and then, sitting down by them, began to plan the grand -wedding she would give them if they would wait until poor Fred had been -dead a little longer, say a year. - -Rex had his own ideas about the wedding and waiting, but he did not -express them then. He had settled in his own mind when he should take -Bertha, and that it would be from the old house in which he began to -have a feeling of ownership. - -Meanwhile Mrs. Hallam had consented to see Phineas, whom Rex took to her -state-room. What passed at the interview no one knew. It did not last -long, and at its close Mrs. Hallam had a nervous headache and Phineas’s -face wore a troubled and puzzled expression. He would never have known -Lucy Ann, she had altered so, he said. Not grown old, as he supposed she -would, but different somehow. He guessed she was tuckered out with -fright and the storm. She’d be better when she got home, and then they’d -have a good set-to, talking of the old times. He was going to visit her -a few days. - -This accounted for her headache which lasted the rest of the voyage, so -that she did not appear again until they were at the dock in New York. -Handing her keys to Rex, she said, “See to my trunks, and for heaven’s -sake—keep that man from coming to the house, if you have to strangle -him.” - -She was among the first to leave the ship, and was driving rapidly home, -while Phineas was squabbling with a custom-house officer over some -jewelry he had bought in Edinburgh as a present for Dorcas, and an -overcoat in London for Mr. Leighton, and which he had conscientiously -declared. - -“I’m a class-leader,” he said, “and I’d smile to see me lie, and when -they asked me if I had any presents I told ’m yes, a coat for the -’Square, and some cangorms for Dorcas, and I swan if they didn’t make me -trot ’em out and pay duty, too; and they let more’n fifty trunks full of -women’s clothes go through for nothin’. I seen ’m. Where’s Lucy Ann? I -was goin’ with her,” he said to Rex, who could have enlightened him with -regard to the women’s clothes which “went through for nothin’,” but -didn’t. - -“Mr. Jones,” he said, buttonholing him familiarly as they walked out of -the custom-house, “my aunt has gone home. She is not feeling well at -all, and, as the house is not quite in running order, I do not think -you’d better go there now. I’ll take you to dine at my club, or, better -yet, to the Waldorf, where Mrs. Thurston and Miss Leighton are to stop, -and to-morrow we will all go on together, for I’m to see Mrs. Thurston -home to Boston, and on my way back shall stop at the Homestead. I am to -marry Miss Bertha.” - -“You be! Well, I’m glad on’t; but I do want to see Lucy Ann’s house, and -I sha’n’t make an atom of trouble. She expects me,” Phineas said, and -Rex replied, “I hardly think she does. Indeed, I know she doesn’t, and I -wouldn’t go if I were you.” - -Gradually the truth began to dawn upon Phineas, and there was a pathos -in his voice and a moisture in his eyes as he said, “Is Lucy Ann ashamed -of _me_? I wouldn’t have believed it, and she my only kin. I’d go -through fire and water to serve her. Tell her so, and God bless her.” - -Rex felt a great pity for the simple-hearted man to whom the glories of -a dinner at the Waldorf did not quite atone for the loss of Lucy Ann, -whom he spoke of again when after dinner Rex went with him to the hotel, -where he was to spend the night. - -“I’m an awkward critter, I know,” he said, “and not used to the ways of -high society, but I’m respectable, and my heart is as big as an ox.” - -Nothing, however, rested long on Phineas’s mind, and the next morning he -was cheerful as ever when he met his friends at the station, and -committed the unwonted extravagance of taking a chair with them in a -parlor car, saying as he seated himself that he’d never been in one -before, and that he found it tip-top. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - “I, REX, TAKE THEE, BERTHA.” - - -The words were said in the old Homestead about a year from the time when -we first saw Bertha walking along the lane to meet her sister and -holding in her hand the newspaper which had been the means of her -meeting with Rex Hallam. The May day had been perfect then, and it was -perfect now. The air was odorous with the perfume of the pines and the -apple-blossoms, and the country seemed as fresh and fair as when it -first came from the hands of its Creator. The bequest which Fred had -made to Bertha, and which he wished he had doubled, had been quadrupled -by Louie, who, when Bertha declined to take so much, had urged it upon -her as a bridal present in advance. With that understanding Bertha had -accepted it, and several changes had been made in the Homestead, both -outside and in. Bertha’s room, however, where Rex had once slept, -remained intact. This he insisted upon, and it was in this room that he -received his bride from the hands of her bridesmaids. It was a very -quiet affair, with only a few intimate friends from Worcester and -Leicester, and Mrs. Hallam from New York. Bertha had suggested inviting -Mrs. Haynes, but Rex vetoed that decidedly. She had been the direct -cause of so much humiliation to Bertha that he did not care to keep her -acquaintance, he said. But Mrs. Haynes had no intention to be ignored by -the future Mrs. Rex Hallam, and one of the handsomest presents Bertha -received came from her, with a note of congratulation. Louie and Phineas -were master and mistress of ceremonies, Louie inside and Phineas -outside, where he insisted upon caring for the horses of those who drove -from Worcester and the village. - -He’d “smile if he couldn’t do it up ship-shape,” he said, and he came at -an early hour, gorgeous in swallowtail coat, white vest, stove-pipe hat, -and an immense amount of shirt-front, ornamented with Rhine-stone studs. -In his ignorance he did not know that a dress-coat was not just as -suitable for morning as evening, and had bought one second-hand at a -clothing-store in Boston. He wanted to make a good impression on Lucy -Ann, he said to Grace, who had been at the Homestead two or three days, -and who, declaring him a most delicious specimen, had hobnobbed with him -quite familiarly. She told him she had no doubt he would impress Lucy -Ann; and he did, for she came near fainting when he presented himself to -her, asking what she thought of his outfit, and how it would “do for -high.” She wanted to tell him that he would look far better in his -every-day clothes than in that costume, but restrained herself and made -some non-committal reply. Since meeting him on the ship she had had time -to reflect that no one whose opinion was really worth caring for would -think less of her because of her relatives, and she was a little ashamed -of her treatment of him. Perhaps, too, she was softened by the sight of -the old homestead, which had been her husband’s home, or Grace Travis’s -avowal that she wished she had just such a dear codger of a cousin, -might have had some effect in making her civil and even gracious to the -man who, without the least resentment for her former slight of him, -“Cousin Lucy Ann”-ed her continually and led her up to salute the bride -after the ceremony was over. - -There was a wedding breakfast, superintended by Louie, who, if she felt -any regret for the might-have-been, did not show it, and was bright and -merry as a bird, talking a little of Fred and a great deal of Charlie -Sinclair, whom business kept from the wedding and whose lovely present -she had helped select. The wedding trip was to extend beyond the Rockies -as far as Tacoma, and to include the Fair in Chicago on the homeward -journey. The remainder of the summer was to be spent at the Homestead, -where Rex could hunt and fish and row to his heart’s content, if he -could not have a fox-hunt. Both he and Bertha wished a home of their own -in New York, but Mrs. Hallam begged so hard for them to stay with her -for a year at least that they consented to do so. - -“You may be the mistress, or the daughter of the house, as you please, -only stay with me,” Mrs. Hallam said to Bertha, of whom she seemed very -fond. - -Evidently she was on her best behavior, and during the few days she -stayed at the Homestead she quite won the hearts of both Mr. Leighton -and Dorcas, and greatly delighted Phineas by asking him to spend the -second week in July with her. In this she was politic and managing. She -knew he was bound to come some time, and, knowing that the most of her -calling acquaintance would be out of town in July, she fixed his visit -at that time, making him understand that he could not prolong it, as she -was to join Rex and Bertha in Chicago on the 15th. Had he been going to -visit the queen, Phineas could not have been more elated or have talked -more about it. - -“I hope I sha’n’t mortify Lucy Ann to death,” he said, and when in June -Louie came for a few days to the Homestead, he asked her to give him -some points in etiquette, which he wrote down and studied diligently, -till he considered himself quite equal to cope with any difficulty, and -at the appointed time packed his dress-suit and started for New York. - -This was Monday, and on Saturday Dorcas was surprised to see him walking -up the avenue from the car. - -He’d had a tip-top time, he said, and Lucy Ann did all she could to make -it pleasant. - -“But, my!” he added, “it was so lonesome and grand and stiff; and didn’t -Lucy Ann put on the style! But I studied my notes, and held my own -pretty well. I don’t think I made more than three or four blunders. I -reached out and got a piece of bread with my fork, and saw a -thunder-cloud on Lucy Ann’s face; and I put on my dress-suit one morning -to drive to the Park, but took it off quicker when Lucy Ann saw it. -Dress-coats ain’t the thing in the morning, it seems. I guess they ain’t -the thing for me anywhere. But my third blunder was wust of all, though -I don’t understand it. Between you ’n’ I, I don’t believe Lucy Ann has -much company, for not a livin’ soul come to the house while I was there, -except one woman with two men in tall boots drivin’ her. Lucy Ann was -out and the nigger was out, and I went to the door to save the girls -from runnin’ up and down stairs so much. I told her Mis’ Hallam wa’n’t -to home, and I rather urged her to come in and take a chair, she looked -so kind of disappointed and tired, and curi’s, too, I thought, as if she -wondered who I was; so I said, ‘I’m Mis’ Hallam’s cousin. You better -come in and rest. She’ll be home pretty soon.’ - -“‘Thanks,’ she said, in a queer kind of way, and handed me a card for -Lucy Ann, who was tearin’ when I told her what I’d done. It was the -servants’ business to wait on the door when Peters was out, she said, -and on no account was I to ask any one in if she wasn’t there. That -ain’t my idea of hospitality. Is’t yours?” - -Dorcas laughed, and said she supposed city ways were not exactly like -those of the country. Phineas guessed they wasn’t, and he was glad to -get where he could tip back in his chair if he wanted to, and eat with -his knife, and ask a friend to come in and sit down. - -A few days later Dorcas and her father, with Louie, started for Chicago -to join the Hallams. For four weeks they reveled in the wonders of the -beautiful White City. After that Mrs. Hallam returned to her lonely -house in New York, while Rex and Bertha and Louie went back to the old -Homestead. There they spent the remainder of the summer, and there -Bertha lingered until the hazy light of October was beginning to hang -over the New England hills and the autumnal tints to show in the woods. -Then Rex, who had spent every Sunday there, took her to her new home, -where her reception was very different from what it had been on her -first arrival. Then she was only a hired companion, dining with the -housekeeper and waiting on the fourth floor back for her employer to -give her an audience. Now she was a petted bride, the daughter of the -house, with full authority to go where she pleased, do what she pleased, -and make any change she pleased, from the drawing-room to the handsome -suite which had been fitted up for her. But she made no change, except -in Rex’s sleeping-apartment, where she did take the pictures of -ballet-dancers, rope-walkers, and sporting men from the mirror-frame, -and substituted in their place those of her father, Dorcas, and Grace. -She would have liked to remove her own picture, with “Rose Arabella -Jefferson” written upon it, but Rex interfered. It seemed to him, he -said, a connecting link between his bachelor life and the great joy -which had come to him, and it should stay there, Rose Arabella and all. - -Mr. Leighton and Dorcas have twice visited Bertha in her home, and been -happy there because she was so happy. But both were glad to go back to -the old house under the apple-trees and the country life which they like -best. Bertha, on the contrary, takes readily to the ways of the great -city, although she cares but little for the fashionable society that is -so eager to take her up, and prefers the companionship of her husband -and the quiet of her home to the gayest assemblage in New York. -Occasionally however, she may be seen at some afternoon tea, or dinner, -or reception, where Mrs. Hallam is proud to introduce her as “my -nephew’s wife,” while Mrs. Walker Haynes, always politic and persistent, -speaks of her as “my friend, that charming Mrs. Reginald Hallam.” - - - - - THE SPRING FARM. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - AT THE FARM HOUSE. - - -It was a very pleasant, homelike old farm house, standing among the New -England hills, with the summer sunshine falling upon it, and the summer -air, sweet with the perfume of roses and June pinks, filling the wide -hall and great square rooms, where, on the morning when our story opens, -the utmost confusion prevailed. Carpets were up; curtains were down; -huge boxes were standing everywhere, while into them two men and a boy -were packing the furniture scattered promiscuously around, for on the -morrow the family, who had owned and occupied the house so long, were to -leave the premises and seek another home in the little village about two -miles away. In one of the lower rooms in the wing to the right, where -the sunshine was the brightest and the rose-scented air the sweetest, a -white-faced woman lay upon a couch looking at and listening to a lady -who sat talking to her, with money and pride and selfishness stamped -upon her as plainly as if the words had been placarded upon her back. -The lady was Mrs. Marshall-More, of Boston, whose handsome country house -was not far from the red farm house, which, with its rich, -well-cultivated acres, had, by the foreclosure of a mortgage she held -upon it, recently come into her possession, or rather into that of her -half brother, who had bidden it off for her. - -Mrs. Marshall-More had once been plain Mrs. John More, but since her -husband’s death, she had prefixed her maiden name, with a hyphen to the -More, making herself Mrs. Marshall-More, which, she thought, had a very -aristocratic look and sound. She was a great lady in her own immediate -circle of friends in the city, and a greater lady in Merrivale, where -she passed her summers, and her manner toward the little woman on the -couch was one of infinite superiority and patronage, mingled with a show -of interest and pity. She had driven to the farm house that morning, -ostensibly to say good-bye to the family, but really to go over the -place which she had coveted so long as a most desirable adjunct to her -possessions. What she was saying to the white-faced woman in the widow’s -cap was this: - -“I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, and I hope you do not blame me -for foreclosing the mortgage. I had to have the money, for Archie’s -college expenses will be very heavy, and then I am going to Europe this -summer, and I did not care to draw from my other investments.” - -“Oh, no, I blame no one, but it is very hard all the same to leave the -old home where I have been so happy,” Mrs. Graham replied, and Mrs. -Marshall-More went on: “I am glad to hear you say so, for the Merrivale -people have been very ill-natured about it and I have heard more than -once that I hastened the foreclosure and intend to tear down the old -house and build a cottage, which is false.” - -To this Mrs. Graham made no reply, and Mrs. Marshall-More continued: - -“You will be much better off in the village than in this great rambling -house, and your children will find employment there. Maude must be -eighteen, and ought to be a great help to you. I hear she is a -sentimental dreamer, living mostly in the clouds with people only known -to herself, and perhaps she needed this change to rouse her to the -realities of life.” - -“Maude is the dearest girl in the world,” was the mother’s quick protest -against what seemed like disapprobation of her daughter. - -“Yes, of course,” was Mrs. Marshall-More’s response. “Maude is a nice -girl and a pretty girl and will be a great comfort to you when she wakes -up to the fact that life is earnest and not all a dream, and in time you -will be quite as happy in your new home as you could be here, where it -must be very dreary in the winter, when the snow-drifts are piled up to -the very window ledges, and the wind screams at you through every -crevice.” - -“Oh-h,” Mrs. Graham said, with a shudder, her thoughts going back to the -day when the blinding snow had come down in great billows upon the -newly-made grave in which she left her husband, and went back alone to -the desolate home where he would never come again. - -It had been so terrible and sudden, his going from her. Well in the -morning, and dead at night; killed by a locomotive and brought to her so -mangled that she could never have recognized him as her husband. People -had called him over-generous and extravagant, and perhaps he was, but -the money he spent so lavishly was always for others, and not for -himself, and as the holder of the heavy mortgage on his farm had been -content with the interest and never pressed his claim, he had made no -effort to lessen it, even after he knew it passed into the hands of Mrs. -Marshall-More, who had often expressed a wish to own the place known as -the Spring Farm, and so-called from the numerous springs upon it. She -would fill it with her city friends and set up quite an English -establishment, she said; and now it was hers, to all intents and -purposes, for though the deed was in her brother’s name, it was -understood that she was mistress of the place and could do what she -liked with it. Of the real owner, Max Gordon, her half-brother, little -was known, except the fact that he was very wealthy and had for years -been engaged to a lady who, by a fall from a horse, had been crippled -for life. It was also rumored that the lady had insisted upon releasing -her lover from his engagement, but he had refused to be released, and -still clung to the hope that she would eventually recover. Just where he -was at present, nobody knew. He seldom visited his sister, although she -was very proud of him and very fond of talking of her brother Max, who, -she said, was so generous and good, although a little queer. He had -bidden off the Spring Farm because she asked him to do so, and a few -thousand dollars more or less were nothing to him; then, telling her to -do what she liked with it, he had gone his way, while poor Lucy Graham’s -heart was breaking at the thought of leaving the home which her husband -had made so beautiful for her. An old-fashioned place, it is true, but -one of those old-fashioned places to which our memory clings fondly, and -our thoughts go back with an intense longing years after the flowers we -have watered are dead, and the shrubs we have planted are trees pointing -to the sky. A great square house, with a wing on either side, a wide -hall through the center and a fireplace in every room. A well-kept lawn -in front, dotted with shade trees and flowering shrubs, and on one side -of it a running brook, fed by a spring on the hillside to the west; -borders and beds and mounds of flowers;—tulips and roses and pansies and -pinks and peonies and lilies and geraniums and verbenas, each blossoming -in its turn and making the garden and grounds a picture of beauty all -the summer long. No wonder that Lucy Graham loved it and shrank from -leaving it, and shrank, too, from Mrs. Marshall-More’s attempts at -consolation, saying only when that lady arose to go, “It was kind in you -to come and I thank you for it; but just now my heart aches too hard to -be comforted. Good-bye.” - -“Good-bye, I shall call when you get settled in town, and if I can be of -any service to you I will gladly do so,” Mrs. Marshall-More said, as she -left the room and went out to her carriage, where she stood for a moment -looking up and down the road, and saying to herself, “Where can Archie -be?” - - - - - CHAPTER II. - WHERE ARCHIE WAS. - - -A long lane wound away to the westward across a strip of land called the -mowing lot, through a bit of woods and on to a grassy hillside, where, -under the shade of a butternut tree, a pair of fat, sleek oxen were -standing with a look of content in their large, bright eyes as if well -pleased with this unwonted freedom from the plough and the cart. Against -the side of one of them a young girl was leaning, with her arm thrown -across its neck and her hand caressing the long, white horn of the dumb -creature which seemed to enjoy it. The girl was Maude Graham, and she -made a very pretty picture as she stood there with her short, brown hair -curling in soft rings about her forehead; her dark blue eyes, her -bright, glowing face, and a mouth which looked as if made for kisses and -sweetness rather than the angry words she was hurling at the young man, -or boy, for he was only twenty, who stood before her. - -“Archie More,” she was saying, “I don’t think it very nice in you to -talk to me in that patronizing kind of way, as if you were so much my -superior in everything, and trying to convince me that it is nothing for -us to give up the dear old place where every stone and stump means -somebody to me, for I know them all and have talked with them all, and -called them by name, just as I know all the maiden ferns and water -lilies and where the earliest arbutus blossoms in the spring. Oh, -Archie, how can I leave Spring Farm and never come back again! I think I -hate you all for taking it from us, and especially your uncle Max.” - -Here she broke down entirely, and laying her face on the shining coat of -the ox began to cry as if her heart would break, while Archie looked at -her in real distress wondering what he should say. He was a city-bred -young man, with a handsome, boyish face, and in a way very fond of -Maude, whom he had known ever since he was thirteen and she eleven, and -he first came to Merrivale to spend the summer. They had played and -fished together in the brook, and rowed together on the pond and -quarreled and made up, and latterly they had flirted a little, too, -although Archie was careful that the flirting should not go too far, for -he felt that there was a vast difference between Archie More, son of -Mrs. Marshall-More, and Maude Graham, daughter of a country farmer. And -still he thought her the sweetest, prettiest girl he had ever seen, a -_jolly lot_ he called her, and he writhed under her bitter words, and -when she cried he tried to comfort her and explain matters as best he -could. But Maude was not to be appeased. She had felt all the time that -the place need not have been sold, that it was a hasty thing, and though -she did not blame Archie, she was very sore against Mrs. Marshall-More -and her brother, and her only answer to all Archie could say, was: - -“You needn’t talk. I hate you all, and your uncle Max the most, and if I -ever see him I’ll tell him so, and if I don’t you may tell him for me.” - -Archie could keep silent and hear his mother blamed and himself, but he -roused in defense of his uncle Max. - -“Hate my uncle Max,” he exclaimed. “Why, he is the best man that ever -lived, and the kindest. He knew nothing of you, or how you’d feel, when -he bought the place; if he had he wouldn’t have done it; and if he could -see you now, crying on that ox’s neck, he would give it back to you. -That would be just like him.” - -“As if I’d take it,” Maude said, scornfully, as she lifted up her head -and dashed the tears from her eyes with a rapid movement of both hands. -“No, Archie More, I shall never take Spring Farm as a gift from any one, -much less from your uncle Max; but I shall buy it of him some day if he -keeps it long enough.” - -“You?” Archie asked, and Maude replied, “Yes, I, why not? I know I am -poor now, but I shall not always be so. People call me crazy, a dreamer, -a crank, and all that, because they cannot see what I see; the people -who are with me always, my friends; and I know their names and how they -look and where they live; Mrs. Kimbrick, with her fifty daughters, all -Eliza Anns, and Mrs. Webster, with her fifty daughters, all Ann Elizas, -and Angeline Mason, who comes and talks to me in the twilight, wearing a -yellow dress; they are real to me as you are, and do you think I am -crazy and a crank because of that?” - -Archie said he didn’t, but he looked a little suspiciously at the girl -standing there so erect, her eyes shining with a strange light as she -talked to him of things he could not understand. He had heard of this -Mrs. Kimbrick and Mrs. Webster before, with their fifty daughters each, -and had thought Maude queer, to say the least. He was sure of it now as -she went on: - -“Is the earth crazy because there is in it a little acorn which you -can’t see, but which is still there, maturing and taking root for the -grand old oak, whose branches will one day give shelter to many a tired -head? Of course not; neither am I, and some time these brain children, -or brain seeds, call them what you like, will take shape and grow, and -the world will hear of them, and of me; and you and your mother will be -proud to say you knew me once, when the people praise the book I am -going to write.” - -“A book!” and Archie laughed incredulously, it seemed so absurd that -little Maude Graham should ever become an author of whom the world would -hear. - -“Yes,” she answered him decidedly. “A book! Why not? It is in me; it has -been there always, and I can no more help writing it than you can help -doing,—well, nothing, as you always have. Yes, I shall write a book, and -you will read it, Archie More, and thousands more, too; and I shall put -Spring Farm in it, and you, and your uncle Max. I think I shall make him -the villain.” - -She was very hard upon poor Max, whose only offense was that he had -bidden off Spring Farm to please his sister, but Archie was ready to -defend him again. - -“If you knew uncle Max,” he said, “you would make him your hero instead -of your villain, for a better man never lived. He is kindness itself and -the soul of honor. Why, when he was very young he was engaged to a girl -who fell from a horse and broke her leg, or her neck, or her back, I’ve -forgotten which. Anyhow, she cannot walk and has to be wheeled in a -chair, but Max sticks to her like a burr, because he thinks he ought. I -am sure I hope he will never marry her.” - -“Why not?” Maude asked, and he replied: - -“Because, you see, Max has a heap of money, and if he never marries and -I outlive him, some of it will come to me. Money is a good thing, I tell -you.” - -“I didn’t suppose you as mean as that, Archie More! and I hope Mr. Max -will marry that broken-backed woman, and that she will live a thousand -years! Yes, I do!” - -The last three words were emphasized with so vigorous blows on the back -of the ox, that he started away suddenly, and Maude would have fallen if -Archie had not caught her in his arms. - -“Now, Maude,” he said, as he held her for a moment closely to him, -“don’t let’s quarrel any more. I’m going away to-morrow to the -Adirondacks, then in the fall to college, and may not see you again for -a long time; but I sha’n’t forget you. I like you the best of any girl -in the world; I do, upon my honor.” - -“No, you don’t. I know exactly what you think of me, and always have, -but it does not matter now,” Maude answered vehemently. “You are going -your way, and I am going mine, and the two ways will never meet.” - -And so, quarreling and making up, but making up rather more than they -quarreled, the two went slowly along the gravelly lane until they -reached the house where Mrs. Marshall-More was standing with a very -severe look upon her face, as she said to her son: - -“Do you know how long you have kept me waiting?” - -Then to Maude: - -“Been crying? I am sorry you take it so hard. Believe me, you will be -better off in the village. Neither your mother nor you could run the -farm, and you will find some employment there. I hear that Mrs. Nipe is -wanting an apprentice and that she will give small wages at first, which -is not usual with dressmakers. You’d better apply at once.” - -“Thank you,” Maude answered quickly. “I do not think I shall learn -dressmaking,” and Maude looked at the lady as proudly as a queen might -look upon her subject. “Mrs. More, do you think your brother would -promise to keep Spring Farm until I can buy it back?” she continued. - -The idea that Maude Graham could ever buy Spring Farm was so -preposterous that Mrs. Marshall-More laughed immoderately, as she -replied, “Perhaps so. I will ask him; or you can do it yourself. I don’t -know where he is now. I seldom do know, but anything addressed to his -club, No. —, —— Street, Boston, will reach him in time. And now we must -go. Good-bye.” - -She offered the tips of her fingers to the girl who just touched them, -and then giving her hand to Archie said, “Good-bye, Archie, I am sorry -we quarreled so, and I did not mean half I said to you. I hope you will -forget it. Good-bye; I may never see you again.” - -If Archie had dared he would have kissed the face which had never looked -so sweet to him as now; but his mother’s eyes were upon him and so he -only said “Good-bye,” and took his seat in the carriage with a feeling -that something which had been very dear had dropped out of his life. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - GOING WEST. - - -It was a very plain but pretty little cottage of which Mrs. Graham took -possession with her children, Maude and John, who was two years younger -than his sister. As most of the furniture had been sold it did not take -them long to settle, and then the question arose as to how they were to -live. A thousand dollars was all they had in the world, and these Mrs. -Graham placed in the savings bank against a time of greater need, hoping -that, as her friends assured her, something would turn up. “If there was -anything I could do, I would do it so willingly,” Maude was constantly -saying to herself, while busy with the household duties which now fell -to her lot and to which she was unaccustomed. During her father’s life -two strong German girls had been employed in the house and Maude had -been as tenderly and delicately reared as are the daughters of -millionaires. But now everything was changed, and those who had known -her only as an idle dreamer and devourer of books, were astonished at -the energy and capability which she developed. But these did not -understand the girl or know that all the stronger part of her nature had -been called into being by the exigencies of the case. Maude’s love for -her mother was deep and unselfish, and for her sake she tried to make -the most and the best of everything. Stifling with a smile born of a sob -all her longings for the past, she turned her thoughts steadily to the -one purpose of her life,—buying Spring Farm back! But how? The book she -was going to write did not seem quite so certain now. Her brain children -had turned traitors and flown away from the sweeping, dusting, -dishwashing and bedmaking which fell to her lot and which she did with a -song on her lips lest her mother should detect the heartache which was -always with her, even when her face was the brightest and her song the -sweetest. She had written to Archie’s uncle without a suspicion that she -did not know his real name. As he was a brother of Mrs. More, whose -maiden name was Marshall, his must be Marshall too, she reasoned, -forgetting to have heard that Mrs. More was only a half-sister and that -there had been two fathers. Of course, he was Max Marshall, and she -addressed him as follows: - - “MERRIVALE, July —, 18—. - - “MR. MAX MARSHALL: - - “DEAR SIR,—I am Maude Graham, and you bought my old home, Spring Farm, - and it nearly broke my own and mamma’s heart to have it sold. I don’t - blame you much now for buying it, but I did once, and I said some hard - things about you to Archie More, your nephew, which he may repeat to - you. But I was angry then at him and everybody, and I am sorry that I - said them. I am only eighteen and very poor, but I shall be rich some - day,—I am sure of it,—and able to buy Spring Farm, and I want you to - keep it for me and not sell it to any one else. It may be years, but - the day will come when I shall have the money of my own. Will you keep - the place till then? I think I shall be happier and have more courage - to work if you write and say you will. - - “Yours truly, “MAUDE GRAHAM.” - -After this letter was sent and before she had reason to expect an -answer, Maude began to look for it, but none came, and the summer -stretched on into August and the house at Spring Farm was shut up, for -Mrs. Marshall-More was in Europe, and Maude’s great anxiety was to find -something to do for her own and her mother’s support. Miss Nipe, the -dressmaker, would give her a dollar a week while she was learning the -trade, and this, with the three dollars per week which her brother John -was earning in a grocery store, would be better than nothing, and she -was seriously considering the matter, when a letter from her mother’s -brother, who lived “out West,” as that portion of New York between the -Cayuga Bridge and Buffalo was then called, changed the whole aspect of -her affairs and forged the first link in the chain of her destiny. He -could not take his sister and her children into his own large family, he -wrote, but he had a plan to propose which, he thought, would prove -advantageous to Maude, if her mother approved of it and would spare her -from home. About six miles from his place was a school, which his -daughter had taught for two years, but as she was about to be married, -the position was open to Maude at four dollars a week and her board, -provided she would take it. - -“Maude is rather young, I know,” Mr. Ailing wrote in conclusion, “but no -younger than Annie was when she began to teach, so her age need not -stand in the way, if she chooses to come. The country will seem new and -strange to her; there are still log-houses in the Bush district; indeed, -the school-house is built of logs and the people ride in lumber wagons -and are not like Bostonians or New Yorkers, but they are very kind, and -Maude will get accustomed to them in time. My advice is that she -accept.” - -At first Mrs. Graham refused to let her young daughter go so far from -home, but Maude was persistent and eager. Log-houses and lumber wagons -had no terrors for her. Indeed, they were rather attractions than -otherwise, and fired her imagination, which began at once to people -those houses of the olden time with the Kimbricks and the Websters, who -had forsaken her so long. Four dollars a week seemed a fortune to her, -and she would save it all, she said, and send it to her mother, who -unwillingly consented at last and fortunately found a gentleman in town -who was going to Chicago and would take charge of Maude as far as -Canandaigua, where she was to leave the train and finish her journey by -stage. But on the evening of the day before the one when Maude was to -start, the gentleman received word that his son was very ill in Portland -and required his immediate presence. - -“I can go alone,” Maude said courageously, though with a little sinking -of the heart. “No one will harm me. Crossing the river at Albany is the -worst, but I can do as the rest do, and after that I do not leave the -car again until we reach Canandaigua.” - -“Don’t feel so badly, mamma,” she continued, winding her arms around her -mother’s neck and kissing away her tears. “I am not afraid, and don’t -you know how often you have said that God cared for the fatherless, and -I am that, and I shall ask Him all the time I am in the car to take care -of me, and He will answer. He will hear. I’m not a child. I am eighteen -in the Bible and a great deal older than that since father died. Don’t -cry, darling mamma, and make it harder for me. I must go to-morrow, for -school begins next Monday.” - -So, for her daughter’s sake, Mrs. Graham tried to be calm, and Maude’s -little hair trunk was packed with the garments, in each of which was -folded a mother’s prayer for the safety of her child; and the morning -came, and the ticket was bought, and the conductor, with whom Mrs. -Graham had a slight acquaintance, promised to see to the little girl as -far as Albany, where he would put her in charge of the man who took his -place. Then the good-byes were said and the train moved on past the -village on the hillside, past the dear old Spring Farm which she looked -at through blinding tears as long as a tree-top was in sight, past the -graveyard where her father was lying, past the meadows and woods and -hills she loved so well, and on towards the new country and the new life -of which she knew so little. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - ON THE ROAD. - - -Those were the days when the Boston train westward-bound moved at a -snail’s pace compared with what it does now, and twenty-four hours -instead of twelve were required for the trip from Merrivale to -Canandaigua, so that the afternoon was drawing to a close when the cars -stopped in Greenbush and the passengers alighted and rushed for the boat -which was to take them across the river. This, and re-checking her -trunk, was what Maude dreaded the most, and her face was very white and -scared and her heart beating violently as she followed the crowd, -wondering if she should ever find her trunk among all that pile of -baggage they were handling so roughly, and if it would be smashed to -pieces when she did, and if she should get into the right car, or be -carried somewhere else. She had lost sight of the conductor. Her head -was beginning to ache, and there was a lump in her throat every time she -thought of her mother and John, who would soon be taking their simple -evening meal and talking of her. - -“I wonder if I can bear it,” she said to herself, as she sat in the -cabin the very image of despair, clasping her hand-bag tightly and -looking anxiously at the people around her as if in search of some -friendly face, which she could trust. - -She had heard so much before leaving home of wolves in sheep’s or rather -men’s clothing, who infest railway trains, ready to pounce upon any -unsuspecting girl who chanced to fall in their way, and had been so much -afraid that some of the wolves might be on her train, lying in wait for -her, that she had resolutely kept her head turned to the window all the -time with a prayer in her heart that God would let no one speak to and -frighten her. And thus far no one had spoken to her, except the -conductor, but God must have deserted her now, for just as they were -reaching the opposite shore, a gentleman, who had been watching her ever -since she crouched down in the shadowy corner, and who had seen her wipe -the tears away more than once, came up to her and said, “Are you alone, -and can I do anything for you?” - -“Yes,—no; oh, I don’t know,” Maude gasped as she clutched her bag, in -which was her purse, more tightly, and looked up at the face above her. - -It was such a pleasant face, and the voice was so kind and reassuring, -that she forgot the wolves and might have given him her bag, purse, -check and all, if the conductor had not just then appeared and taken her -in charge. Lifting his hat politely the stranger walked away, while -Maude went to identify her trunk. - -“Will you take a sleeper?” the conductor asked. - -And she replied: “Oh, no. I can’t afford that.” - -So he found her a whole seat in the common car, and telling her he would -speak of her to the new conductor, bade her good-bye, and she was left -alone. - -Very nervously she watched her fellow passengers as they came hurrying -in,—men, mostly, it seemed to her,—rough-looking men, too, for there had -been a horserace that day at a point on the Harlem road, and they were -returning from it. Occasionally some one of them stopped and looked at -the girl in black, who sat so straight and still, with her hand-bag held -down upon the vacant seat beside her as if to keep it intact. But no one -offered to take it, and Maude breathed more freely as the crowded train -moved slowly from the depot. After a little the new conductor came and -spoke to her and looked at her ticket and went out, and then she was -really alone. New England, with its rocks and hills and mountains, was -behind her. Mother, and John, and home were far away, and the lump in -her throat grew larger, and there crept over her such a sense of -dreariness and homesickness, that she would have cried outright if she -dared to. There were only six women in the car besides herself. All the -rest were _wolves_; she felt sure of that, they talked and laughed so -loud, and spit so much tobacco-juice. They were so different from the -stranger on the boat, she thought, wondering who he was and where he had -gone. How pleasantly he had spoken to her, and how she wished——She got -no further, for a voice said to her: - -“Can I sit by you? Every other seat is taken.” - -“Yes, oh, yes. I am so glad,” Maude exclaimed involuntarily in her -delight at recognizing the stranger, and springing to her feet she -offered him the seat next to the window. - -“Oh, no,” he said, with a smile which would have won the confidence of -any girl. “Keep that yourself. You will be more comfortable there. Are -you going to ride all night?” - -“Yes, I am going to Canandaigua,” she replied. - -“To Canandaigua!” he repeated, looking at her a little curiously; but he -asked no more questions then, and busied himself with adjusting his bag -and his large traveling shawl, which last he put on the back of the -seat,, more behind Maude than himself. - -Then he took out a magazine, while Maude watched him furtively, thinking -him the finest looking man she had ever seen, except her father, of -whom, in his manner, he reminded her a little. Not nearly so old, -certainly, as her father, and not young like Archie either, for there -were a few threads of grey in his mustache and in his brown hair which -had a trick of curling slightly at the ends under his soft felt hat. Who -was he? she wondered. The initials on his satchel were “M. G.,” but that -told her nothing. How she hoped he was going as far as she was, she felt -so safe with him, and at last, as the darkness increased and he shut up -his book, she ventured to ask: - -“Are you going far?” - -“Yes,” he replied, with a twinkle of humor in his blue eyes, “and if -none of these men get out, I am afraid I shall have to claim your -forbearance all night, but I will make myself as small as possible. -Look,” and with a laugh he drew himself close to the arm of the seat, -leaving quite a space between them; but he did not tell her that he had -engaged a berth in the sleeper, which he had abandoned when he found her -there alone, with that set of roughs, whose character he knew. - -“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these ye have done -it unto me,” would surely be said to him some day, for he was always -giving the cup of water, even to those who did not know they were -thirsting until after they had drunk of what he offered them. Once he -brought Maude some water in a little glass tumbler, which he took from -his satchel, and once he offered her an apple which she declined lest -she should seem too forward; then, as the hours crept on and her eyelids -began to droop, he folded his shawl carefully and made her let him put -it behind her head, suggesting that she remove her hat, as she would -rest more comfortably without it. - -“Now sleep quietly,” he said, and as if there were something mesmeric in -his voice, Maude went to sleep at once and dreamed she was at home with -her mother beside her, occasionally fixing the pillow under her head and -covering her with something which added to her comfort. - -It was the stranger’s light overcoat which, as the September night grew -cold and chill, he put over the girl, whose upturned face he had studied -as intently as she had studied his. About seven o’clock the conductor -came in, lantern in hand, and as its rays fell upon the stranger, he -said, “Hello, Gordon, you here? I thought you were in the sleeper. On -guard, I see, as usual. Who is the lamb this time?” - -“I don’t know; do you?” the man called Gordon replied. - -“No,” the conductor said, turning his light full upon Maude; then, “Why, -it’s a little girl the Boston conductor put in my care; but she’s safer -with you. Comes from the mountains somewhere, I believe. Guess she is -going to seek her fortune. She ought to find it, with that face. Isn’t -she pretty?” and he glanced admiringly at the sweet young face now -turned to one side, with one hand under the flushed cheek and the short -rings of damp hair curling round her forehead. - -“Yes, very,” Gordon replied, moving uneasily and finally holding a -newspaper between Maude and the conductor’s lantern, for it did not seem -right to him that any eyes except those of a near friend should take -this advantage of a sleeping girl. - -The conductor passed on, and then Gordon fell asleep until they reached -a way station, where the sudden stopping of a train roused him to -consciousness, and a moment after he was confronted by a young man, who, -at sight of him, stopped short and exclaimed: - -“Max Gordon, as I live! I’ve hunted creation over for you and given you -up. Where have you been and why weren’t you at Long Branch, as you said -you’d be when you wrote me to join you there?” - -“Got tired of it, you were so long coming, so I went to the Adirondacks -with Archie.” - -“Did you bring me any letters?” Max replied, and his friend continued, -“Yes, a cart load. Six, any way,” and he began to take them from his -side pocket. “One, two, three, four, five; there’s another somewhere. -Oh, here ’tis,” he said, taking out the sixth, which looked rather -soiled and worn. “I suppose it’s for you,” he continued, “although it’s -directed to Mr. Max Marshall, Esq., and is in a school-girl’s -handwriting. It came long ago, and we chaps puzzled over it a good -while; then, as no one appeared to claim it, and it was mailed at -Merrivale, where your sister spends her summers, I ventured to bring it -with the rest. If you were not such a saint I’d say you had been -imposing a false name upon some innocent country girl, and, by George, I -believe she’s here now with your ulster over her! Running off with her, -eh? What will Miss Raynor say?” he went on, as his eyes fell upon Maude, -who just then stirred in her sleep and murmured softly, “Our Father, who -art in Heaven.” - -She was at home in her little white-curtained bedroom, kneeling with her -mother and saying her nightly prayer, and, involuntarily, both the young -men bowed their heads as if receiving a benediction. - -“I think, Dick, that your vile insinuation is answered,” Max said, and -Dick rejoined, “Yes, I beg your pardon. Under your protection, I s’pose. -Well, she’s safe; but I must be finding that berth of mine. Will see you -in the morning. Good-night.” - -He left the car, while Max Gordon tried to read his letters as best he -could by the dim light near him. One was from his sister, one from -Archie, three on business, while the last puzzled him a little, and he -held it awhile as if uncertain as to his right to open it. - -“It must be for me,” he said at last, and breaking the seal he read -Maude’s letter to him, unconscious that Maude was sleeping there beside -him. - -Indeed, he had never heard of Maude Graham before, and had scarcely -given a thought to the former owners of Spring Farm. His sister had a -mortgage upon it; the man was dead; the place must be sold, and Mrs. -More asked him to buy it; that was all he knew when he bid it off. - -“Poor little girl,” he said to himself. “If I had known about you, I -don’t believe I’d have bought the place. There was no necessity to -foreclose, I am sure; but it was just like Angie; and what must this -Maude think of me not to have answered her letter. I am so sorry;” and -his sorrow manifested itself in an increased attention to the girl, over -whom he adjusted his ulster more carefully, for the air in the car was -growing very damp and chilly. - -It was broad daylight when Maude awoke, starting up with a smile on her -face and reminding Max of some lovely child when first aroused from -sleep. - -“Why, I have slept all night,” she exclaimed, as she tossed back her -wavy hair; “and you have given me your shawl and ulster, too,” she -added, with a blush which made her face, as Max thought, the prettiest -he had ever seen. - -Who was she, he wondered, and once he thought to ask her the question -direct; then he tried by a little _finessing_ to find out who she was -and where she came from, but Maude’s mother had so strongly impressed it -upon her not to be at all communicative to strangers, that she was -wholly non-committal even while suspecting his design, and when at last -Canandaigua was reached he knew no more of her history than when he -first saw her, white and trembling on the boat. She was going to take -the Genesee stage, she said, and expected her uncle to meet her at Oak -Corners in Richland. - -“Why, that is funny,” he said. “If it were not that a carriage is to -meet me, I should still be your fellow-traveler, for my route lies that -way.” - -And then he did ask her uncle’s name. She surely might tell him so much, -Maude thought, and replied: - -“Captain James Alling, my mother’s brother.” - -Her name was not Alling, then, and reflecting that now he knew who her -uncle was he could probably trace her, Max saw her into the stage, and -taking her ungloved hand in his held it perhaps a trifle longer than he -would have done if it had not been so very soft and white and pretty, -and rested so confidingly in his, while she thanked him for his -kindness. Then the stage drove away, while he stood watching it, and -wondering why the morning was not quite so bright as it had been an hour -ago, and why he had not asked her point-blank who she was, or had been -so stupid as not to give her his card. - -“Max Gordon, you certainly are getting into your dotage,” he said to -himself. “A man of your age to be so interested in a little unknown -girl! What would Grace say? Poor Grace. I wonder if I shall find her -improved, and why she has buried herself in this part of the country.” - -As he entered the hotel a thought of Maude Graham’s letter came to his -mind, and calling for pen and paper he dashed off the following: - - CANANDAIGUA, September —, 18—. - - MISS MAUDE GRAHAM,—Your letter did not reach me until last night, when - it was brought me by a friend. I have not been in Boston since the - first of last July, and the reason it was not forwarded to me is that - you addressed it wrong, and they were in doubt as to its owner. My - name is Gordon, not Marshall, as you supposed, and I am very sorry for - your sake and your mother’s that I ever bought Spring Farm. Had I - known what I do now I should not have done so. But it is too late, and - I can only promise to keep it as you wish until you can buy it back. - You are a brave little girl and I will sell it to you cheap. I should - very much like to know you, and when I am again in Merrivale I shall - call upon you and your mother, if she will let me. - - With kind regards to her I am - Yours truly, - “MAX GORDON.” - -The letter finished, he folded and directed it to Miss Maude Graham, -Merrivale, Mass., while she for whom it was intended was huddled up in -one corner of the crowded stage and going on as fast as four fleet -horses could take her towards Oak Corners and the friends awaiting her -there. Thus strangely do two lives sometimes meet and cross each other -and then drift widely apart; but not forever, in this instance, let us -hope. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - MISS RAYNOR. - - -About a mile from Laurel Hill, a little village in Richland, was an -eminence, or plateau, from the top of which one could see for miles the -rich, well-cultivated farms in which the town abounded, the wooded hills -and the deep gorges all slanting down to a common centre, the pretty -little lake, lying as in the bottom of a basin, with its clear waters -sparkling in the sunshine. And here, just on the top of the plateau, -where the view was the finest, an eccentric old bachelor, Paul Raynor, -had a few years before our story opens, built himself a home after his -own peculiar ideas of architecture, but which, when finished and -furnished, was a most delightful place, especially in the summer when -the flowers and shrubs, of which there was a great profusion, were in -blossom, and the wide lawn in front of the house was like a piece of -velvet. Here for two years Paul Raynor had lived quite _en prince_, and -then, sickening with what he knew to be a fatal disease, he had sent for -his invalid sister Grace, who came and stayed with him to the last, -finding after he was dead that all his property had been left to her, -with a request that she would make the Cedars, as the place was called, -her home for a portion of the time at least. And so, though city bred -and city born, Grace had stayed on for nearly a year, leading a lonely -life, for she knew but few of her neighbors, while her crippled -condition prevented her from mingling at all in the society she was so -well fitted to adorn. As the reader will have guessed, Grace Raynor was -the girl, or rather woman, for she was over thirty now, to whom Max -Gordon had devoted the years of his early manhood, in the vain hope that -some time she would be cured and become his wife. A few days before the -one appointed for her bridal she had been thrown from her horse and had -injured her spine so badly that for months she suffered such agony that -her beautiful hair turned white; then the pain ceased suddenly, but left -her no power to move her lower limbs, and she had never walked since and -never would. But through all the long years Max had clung to her with a -devotion born first of his intense love for her and later of his sense -of honor which would make him loyal to her even to the grave. Knowing -how domestic he was in his tastes and how happy he would be with wife -and children, Grace had insisted that he should leave her and seek some -other love. But his answer was always the same. “No, Grace, I am bound -to you just as strongly as if the clergyman had made us one, and will -marry you any day you will say the word. Your lameness is nothing so -long as your soul is left untouched, and your face, too,” he would -sometimes add, kissing fondly the lovely face which, with each year, -seemed to grow lovelier, and from which the snowy hair did not in the -least detract. - -But Grace knew better than to inflict herself upon him, and held fast to -her resolve, even while her whole being went out to him with an intense -longing for his constant love and companionship. Especially was this the -case at the Cedars, where she found herself very lonely, notwithstanding -the beauty of the place and its situation. - -“If he asks me again, shall I refuse?” she said to herself on the -September morning when Maude Graham was alighting from the dusty stage -at Oak Corners, two miles away, and the carriage sent for Max was only -an hour behind. - -How pretty she was in the dainty white dress, with a shawl of scarlet -wool wrapped around her, as she sat in her wheel chair on the broad -piazza, which commanded a view of the lake and the green hills beyond. -Not fresh and bright and glowing as Maude, who was like an opening rose -with the early dew upon it, but more like a pale water lily just -beginning to droop, though very sweet and lovely still. There was a -faint tinge of color in her cheek as she leaned her head against the -cushions of her chair and wondered if she should find Max the same -ardent lover as ever, ready to take her to his arms at any cost, or had -he, during the past year, seen some other face fairer and younger than -her own. - -“I shall know in a moment if he is changed ever so little,” she thought, -and although she did not mean to be selfish, and would at any moment -have given him up and made no sign, there was a throb of pain in her -heart as she tried to think what life would be without Max to love her. -“I should die,” she whispered, “and please God, I shall die before many -years and leave my boy free.” - -He was her boy still, just as young and handsome as he had been thirteen -years ago, when he lifted her so tenderly from the ground and she felt -his tears upon her forehead as she writhed in her fearful pain. And now -when at last he came and put his arms around her and took her face -between his hands and looked fondly into it as he questioned her of her -health, she felt that he was unchanged, and thanked her Father for it. -He was delighted with everything, and sat by her until after lunch, -which was served on the piazza, and asked her of her life there and the -people in the neighborhood, and finally if she knew of a Capt. Alling. - -“Capt. Alling,” she replied; “why, yes. He lives on a farm about two -miles from here and we buy our honey from him. A very respectable man, I -think, although I have no acquaintance with the family. Why do you ask?” - -“Oh, nothing; only there was a girl on the train with me who told me she -was his niece,” Max answered indifferently, with a vigorous puff at his -cigar, which Grace always insisted he should smoke in her presence. “She -was very pretty and very young. I should like to see her again,” he -added, more to himself than to Grace, who, without knowing why, felt -suddenly as if a cloud had crept across her sky. - -Jealousy had no part in Grace’s nature, nor was she jealous of this -young, pretty girl whom Max would like to see again, and to prove that -she was not she asked many questions about her and said she would try -and find out who she was, and that she presumed she had come to attend -the wadding of Capt. Alling’s daughter, who was soon to be married. This -seemed very probable, and no more was said of Maude until the afternoon -of the day following, which was Sunday. Then, after Max returned from -church and they were seated at dinner he said abruptly, “I saw her -again.” - -“Saw whom?” Grace asked, and he replied, “My little girl of the train. -She was at church with her uncle’s family. A rather ordinary lot I -thought them, but she looked as sweet as a June pink. You know they are -my favorite flowers.” - -“Yes,” Grace answered slowly, while again a breath of cold air seemed to -blow over her and make her draw her shawl more closely around her. - -But Max did not suspect it, and pared a peach for her and helped her to -grapes, and after dinner wheeled her for an hour on the broad plateau, -stooping over her once and caressing her white hair, which he told her -was very becoming, and saying no more of the girl seen in church that -morning. The Allings had been late and the rector was reading the first -lesson when they came in, father and mother and two healthy, buxom -girls, followed by Maude, who, in her black dress looked taller and -slimmer than he had thought her in the car, and prettier, too, with the -brilliant color on her cheeks and the sparkle in the eyes which met his -with such glad surprise in them that he felt something stir in his heart -different from anything he had felt since he and Grace were young. The -Allings occupied a pew in front of him and on the side, so that he could -look at and study Maude’s face, which he did far more than he listened -to the sermon. And she knew he was looking at her, too, and always -blushed when she met his earnest gaze. As they were leaving the church -he managed to get near her, and said, “I hope you are quite well after -your long journey, Miss——.” - -“Graham,” she answered, involuntarily, but so low that he only caught -the first syllable and thought that she said _Grey_. - -She was Miss Grey, then, and with this bit of information he was obliged -to be content. Twice during the week he rode past the Alling house, -hoping to see the eyes which had flashed so brightly upon him on the -porch of the church, and never dreaming of the hot tears of homesickness -they were weeping in the log school-house of the Bush district, where -poor Maude was so desolate and lonely. If he had, he might, perhaps, -have gone there and tried to comfort her, so greatly was he interested -in her, and so much was she in his mind. - -He stayed at the Cedars several days, and then finding it a little -tiresome said good-bye to Grace and went his way again, leaving her with -a vague consciousness that something had come between them; a shadow no -larger than a man’s hand, it is true, but still a shadow, and as she -watched him going down the walk she whispered sadly, “Max is slipping -from me.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE SCHOOL MISTRESS. - - -The setting sun of a raw January afternoon was shining into the dingy -school-room where Maude sat by the iron-rusted box stove, with her feet -on the hearth, reading a note which had been brought to her just before -the close of school by a man who had been to the postoffice in the -village at the foot of the lake. It was nearly four months since she -first crossed the threshold of the log school-house, taking in at a -glance the whole dreariness of her surroundings, and feeling for the -moment that she could not endure it. But she was somewhat accustomed to -it now, and not half so much afraid of the tall girls and boys, her -scholars, as she had been at first, while the latter were wholly devoted -to her and not a little proud of their “young school ma’am,” as they -called her. Everybody was kind to her, and she had not found “boarding -round” so very dreadful after all, for the fatted calf was always killed -for her, and the best dishes brought out, while it was seldom that she -was called upon to share her sleeping-room with more than one member of -the family. And still there was ever present with her a longing for her -mother and for Johnnie and a life more congenial to her tastes. Dreaming -was out of the question now, and the book which was to make her famous -and buy back the old home seemed very far in the future. Just how large -a portion of her thoughts was given to Max Gordon it was difficult to -say. She had felt a thrill of joy when she saw him in church, and a -little proud, too, it may be, of his notice of her. Very minutely her -cousins had questioned her with regard to her acquaintance with him, -deploring her stupidity in not having ascertained who he was. A -relative, most likely, of Miss Raynor, in whose pew he sat, they -concluded, and they told their cousin of the lady at the Cedars, Grace -Raynor, who could not walk a step, but was wheeled in a chair, sometimes -by a maid and sometimes by a man. The lady _par excellence_ of the -neighborhood she seemed to be, and Maude found herself greatly -interested in her and in everything pertaining to her. Twice she had -been through the grounds, which were open to the public, and had seen -Grace both times in the distance, once sitting in her chair upon the -piazza, and once being wheeled in the woods by her man-servant, Tom. But -beyond this she had not advanced, and nothing could be farther from her -thoughts than the idea that she would ever be anything to the lady of -the Cedars. Max Gordon’s letter had been forwarded to her from -Merrivale, but had created no suspicion in her mind that he and her -friend of the train were one. She had thought it a little strange that -he should have been in Canandaigua the very day that she arrived there, -and wished she might have seen him, but the truth never dawned upon her -until some time in December, when her mother wrote to her that he had -called to see them, expressing much regret at Maude’s absence, and when -told where she was and when she went, exclaiming with energy, as he -sprang to his feet, “Why, madam, your daughter was with me in the -train,—a little blue-eyed, brown-haired girl in black, who said she was -Captain Alling’s niece.” - -“He seemed greatly excited,” Mrs. Graham wrote, “and regretted that he -did not know who you were. He got an idea somehow that your name was -_Grey_, and said he received your letter with you asleep beside him. He -is a splendid looking man, with the pleasantest eyes and the kindest -voice I ever heard or saw.” - -“Ye-es,” Maude said slowly, as she recalled the voice which had spoken -so kindly to her, and the eyes which had looked so pleasantly into her -own. “And that was Max Gordon! He was going to the Cedars, and Miss -Raynor is the girl for whom he has lived single all these years. Oh-h!” - -She was conscious of a vague regret that her stranger friend was the -betrothed husband of Grace Raynor, who, at that very time, was thinking -of her and fighting down a feeling as near to jealousy as it was -possible for her to harbor. In the same mail with Maude’s letter from -her mother there had come to the Cedars one from Max, who said that he -had discovered who was his _compagnon da voyage_. - - “She is teaching somewhere in your town,” he wrote “and I judge is not - very happy there. Can’t you do something for her, Grace? It has - occurred to me that to have a girl like her about you would do you a - great deal of good. We are both getting on in years, and need - something young to keep us from growing old, and you might make her - your companion. She is very pretty, with a soft, cultivated voice, and - must be a good reader. Think of it, and if you decide to do it, - inquire for her at Captain Alling’s. Her name is Maude Graham. - - Yours lovingly, - “MAX.” - -This was Max’s letter, which Grace read as she sat in her cosy -sitting-room with every luxury around her which money could buy, from -the hot house roses on the stand beside her to the costly rug on which -her chair was standing in the ruddy glow of the cheerful grate fire. And -as she read it she felt again the cold breath which had swept over her -when Max was telling her of the young girl who had interested him so -much. And in a way Grace, too, had interested herself in Maude, and -through her maid had ascertained who she was, and that she was teaching -in the southern part of the town. And there her interest had ceased. But -it revived again on the receipt of Max’s letter and she said, “I must -see this girl first and know what she is like. A woman can judge a woman -better than a man, but I wish Max had not said what he did about our -growing old. Am I greatly changed, I wonder?” - -She could manage her chair herself in the house, and wheeling it before -a long mirror, she leaned eagerly forward and examined the face -reflected there. A pale, sweet face, framed in masses of snow white -hair, which rather added to its youthful appearance than detracted from -it, although she did not think so. She had been so proud of her golden -hair, and the bitterest tears she had ever shed had been for the change -in it. - -“It’s my hair,” she whispered sadly,—“hair which belongs to a woman of -sixty, rather than thirty-three, and there is a tired look about my eyes -and mouth. Yes, I am growing old, oh, Max——,” and the slender fingers -were pressed over the beautiful blue eyes where the tears came so fast. -“Yes, I’ll see the girl,” she said, “and if I like her face, I’ll take -her to please him.” - -She knew there was to be an illumination on Christmas Eve in the church -on Laurel Hill, and that Maude Graham was to sing a Christmas anthem -alone. - -“I’ll go, and hear, and see,” she decided, and when the evening came -Grace was there in the Raynor pew listening while Maude Graham sang, her -bright face glowing with excitement and her full, rich voice rising -higher and higher, clearer and clearer, until it filled the church as it -had never been filled before, and thrilled every nerve of the woman -watching her so intently. - -“Yes, she is pretty and good, too; I cannot be deceived in that face,” -she said to herself, and when, after the services were over and Maude -came up the aisle past the pew where she was sitting, she put out her -hand and said, “Come here, my dear, and let me thank you for the -pleasure you have given me. You have a wonderful voice and some time you -must come and sing to me. I am Miss Raynor, and you are Maude Graham.” - -This was their introduction to each other, and that night Maud dreamed -of the lovely face which had smiled upon her, and the voice, which had -spoken so kindly to her. - -Two weeks afterwards Grace’s note was brought to her and she read it -with her feet upon the stove hearth and the low January sun shining in -upon her. - -Miss Raynor wanted her for a companion and friend, to read and sing to -and soothe her in the hours of languor and depression, which were many. - - “I am lonely,” she wrote, “and, as you know, wholly incapacitated from - mingling with the world, and I want some one with me different from my - maid. Will you come to me, Miss Graham? I will try to make you happy. - If money is any object I will give you twice as much as you are now - receiving, whatever that may be. Think of it and let me know your - decision soon. - - “Yours very truly, - “GRACE RAYNOR.” - -“Oh,” Maude cried. “Eight dollars a week and a home at the Cedars, -instead of four dollars a week and boarding around. Of course I will go, -though not till my present engagement expires. This will not be until -some time in March,” and she began to wonder if she could endure it so -long, and, now that the pressure was lifting, how she had ever borne it -at all. - -But whatever may be the nature of our surroundings, time passes quickly, -and leaves behind a sense of nearly as much pleasure as pain, and when -at last the closing day of school came, it was with genuine feelings of -regret that Maude said good-bye to the pupils she had learned to love -and the patrons who had been so kind to her. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - AT THE CEDARS. - - -It had cost Grace a struggle before she decided to take Maude as her -companion, and she had been driven past the little log house among the -hills and through the Bush district, that she might judge for herself of -the girl’s surroundings. The day was raw and blustering, and great banks -of snow were piled against the fences and lay heaped up in the road -unbroken save by a foot path made by the children’s feet. - -“And it is through this she walks in the morning, and then sits all day -in that dingy room. I don’t believe I should like it,” Grace thought, -and that night she wrote to Maude, offering her a situation with -herself. - -And now, on a lovely morning in April, when the crocuses and snowdrops -were just beginning to blossom, she sat waiting for her, wondering if -she had done well or ill for herself. She had seen Maude and talked with -her, for the latter had called at the Cedars and spent an hour or more, -and Grace had learned much from her of her former life and of Spring -Farm, which she was going to buy back. Max’s name, however, was not -mentioned, although he was constantly in the minds of both, and Grace -was wondering if he would come oftener to the Cedars if Maude were -there. She could not be jealous of the girl, and yet the idea had taken -possession of her that she was bringing her to the Cedars for Max rather -than for herself, and this detracted a little from her pleasure when she -began to fit up the room her companion was to occupy. Such a pretty room -it was, just over her own, with a bow window looking across the valley -where the lake lay sleeping, and on to the hills and the log -school-house which, had it been higher, might have been seen above the -woods which surrounded it. A room all pink and white, with roses and -lilies everywhere, and a bright fire in the grate before which a willow -chair was standing and a Maltese kitten sleeping when Maude was ushered -into it by Jane, Miss Raynor’s maid. - -“Oh, it is so lovely,” Maude thought, as she looked about her, wondering -if it were not a dream from which she should presently awake. - -But it was no dream, and as the days went on it came to be real to her, -and she was conscious of a deep and growing affection for the woman who -was always so kind to her and who treated her like an equal rather than -a hired companion. Together they read and talked of the books which -Maude liked best, and gradually Grace learned of the dream life Maude -had led before coming to Richland, and of the people who had deserted -her among the hills, but who in this more congenial atmosphere came -trooping back, legions of them, and crowding her brain until she had to -tell of them, and of the two lives she was living, the ideal and the -real. She was sitting on a stool at Grace’s feet, with her face flushed -with excitement as she talked of the Kimbricks, and Websters, and -Angeline Mason, who were all with her now as they had been at home, and -all as real to her as Miss Raynor was herself. Laying her hand upon the -girl’s brown curls, Grace said, half laughingly, “And so you are going -to write a book. Well, I believe all girls have some such aspiration. I -had it once, but it was swallowed up by a stronger, deeper feeling, -which absorbed my whole being.” - -Here Grace’s voice trembled a little as she leaned back in her chair and -seemed to be thinking. Then, rousing herself, she asked suddenly, “How -old are you, Maude?” - -“Nineteen this month,” was Maude’s reply, and Grace went on: “Just my -age when the great sorrow came. That was fourteen years ago next June. I -am thirty-three, and Max is thirty-seven.” - -She said this last more to herself than to Maude, who started slightly, -for this was the first time his name had been mentioned since she came -to the Cedars. - -After a moment Grace continued: “I have never spoken to you of Mr. -Gordon, although I know you have met him. You were with him on the train -from Albany to Canandaigua; he told me of you.” - -“He did!” Maude exclaimed, with a ring in her voice which made Grace’s -heart beat a little faster, but she went calmly on: - -“Yes; he was greatly interested in you, although he did not then know -who you were; but he knows now. He is coming here soon. We have been -engaged ever since I was seventeen and he was twenty-one; fourteen years -ago the 20th of June we were to have been married. Everything was ready; -my bridal dress and veil had been brought home, and I tried them on one -morning to see how I looked in them. I was beautiful, Max said, and I -think he told the truth; for a woman may certainly know whether the face -she sees in the mirror be pretty or not, and the picture I saw was very -fair, while he, who stood beside me, was splendid in his young manhood. -How I loved him; more, I fear, than I loved God, and for that I was -punished,—oh, so dreadfully punished. We rode together that afternoon, -Max and I, and I was wondering if there were ever a girl as happy as -myself, and pitying the women I met because they had no Max beside them, -when suddenly my horse reared, frightened by a dog, and I was thrown -upon a sharp curb-stone. Of the months of agony which followed I cannot -tell you, except that I prayed to die and so be rid of pain. The injury -was in my spine, and I have never walked in all the fourteen years -since. Max has been true to me, and would have married me had I allowed -it. But I cannot burden him with a cripple, and sometimes I wish, or -think I do, that he would find some one younger, fairer than I am, on -whom to lavish his love. He would make a wife so happy. And yet it would -be hard for me, I love him so much. Oh, Max; I don’t believe he knows -how dear he is to me.” - -She was crying softly now, and Maude was crying, too; and as she -smoothed the snow-white hair and kissed the brow on which lines were -beginning to show, she said: - -“He will never find a sweeter face than yours.” - -To her Max Gordon now was only the betrothed husband of her mistress, -and still she found herself looking forward to his visit with a keen -interest, wondering what he would say to her, and if his eyes would -kindle at sight of her as they had done when she saw him in the church -at Laurel Hill. He was to come on the 20th, the anniversary of the day -which was to have been his bridal day, and when the morning came, Grace -said to Maude: - -“I’d like to wear my wedding gown; do you think it would be too much -like Dickens’ Miss Havershaw?” - -“Yes, yes,” Maude answered, quickly, feeling that faded satin and lace -of fourteen years’ standing would be sadly out of place. “You are lovely -in those light gowns you wear so much,” she said. - -So Grace wore the dress which Maude selected for her; a soft, woolen -fabric of a creamy tint, with a blue shawl, the color of her eyes, -thrown around her, and a bunch of June pinks, Max’s favorite flowers, at -her belt, Then, when she was ready, Maude wheeled her out to the piazza, -where they waited for their visitor. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - MAX AT THE CEDARS. - - -The train was late that morning and lunch was nearly ready before they -saw the open carriage turn into the grounds, with Max standing up in it -and waving his hat to them. - -“Oh, Maude,” Grace said, “I would give all I am worth to go and meet -him. Isn’t he handsome and grand, my Max!” she continued, as if she -would assert her right to him and hold it against the world. - -But Maude did not hear her, for as Max alighted from the carriage and -came eagerly forward, she stole away, feeling that it was not for her to -witness the meeting of the lovers. - -“Dear Max, you are not changed, are you?” Grace cried, extending her -arms to him, with the effort to rise which she involuntarily made so -often, and which was pitiful to see. - -“Changed, darling? How could I change in less than a year?” Max -answered, as he drew her face down to his bosom and stroked her hair. - -Grace was not thinking of a physical change. Indeed she did not know -what she did mean, for she was not herself conscious how strong an idea -had taken possession of her that she was losing Max. But with him there -beside her, her morbid fears vanished, and letting her head rest upon -his arm, she said: - -“I don’t know, Max, only things come back to me to-day and I am thinking -of fourteen years ago and that I am fourteen years older than I was -then, and crippled and helpless and faded, while you are young as ever. -Oh, Max, stay by me till the last. It will not be for long. I am growing -so tired and sad.” - -Grace hardly knew what she was saying, or why, as she said it, Maude -Graham’s face, young and fair and fresh, seemed to come between herself -and Max, any more than he could have told why he was so vaguely -wondering what had become of the girl in black, whom he had seen in the -distance quite as soon as he had seen the woman in the chair. During his -journey Grace and Maude had been pretty equally in his mind, and he was -conscious of the feeling that the Cedars held an added attraction for -him because the latter was there; and now, when he began to have a faint -perception of Grace’s meaning, though he did not associate it with -Maude, he felt half guilty because he had for a moment thought any place -where Grace was could be made pleasanter than she could make it. Taking -her face between his hands he looked at it more closely, noticing with a -pang that it had grown thinner and paler and that there were lines about -the eyes and the mouth, while the blue veins stood out full and distinct -upon the forehead. Was she slowly fading? he asked himself, resolving -that nothing should be lacking on his part to prove that she was just as -dear to him as in the days when they were young and the future bright -before them. He did not even speak of Maude until he saw her in the -distance, trying to train a refractory honeysuckle over a tall frame. -Then he said: - -“Is that Miss Graham, and do you like her as well as ever?” - -“Yes, better and better every day,” was Grace’s reply. “It was a little -awkward at first to have a stranger with me continually, but I am -accustomed to her now, and couldn’t part with her. She is very dear to -me,” she continued, while Max listened and watched the girl, moving -about so gracefully, and once showing her arms to the elbows as her wide -sleeves fell back in her efforts to reach the top of the frame. - -“She oughtn’t to do that,” Grace said. “She is not tall enough. Go and -help her, Max,” and nothing loth, Max went along the terrace to where -Maude was standing, her face flushed with exercise as she gave him her -hand and said, “Good-morning, Mr. Gordon. I am Maude Graham. Perhaps you -remember me.” - -“How could I forget you,” sprang to Max’s lips, but he said instead, -“Good-morning, Miss Graham. I have come to help you. Miss Raynor thinks -it is bad for your heart to reach so high.” - -Maude could have told him that her heart had not beaten one half as fast -while reaching up as it was beating now, with him there beside her -holding the vine while she tied it to its place, his hand touching hers -and his arm once thrown out to keep her from falling as she stumbled -backward. It took a long time to fix that honeysuckle, and Max had -leisure to tell Maude of a call made upon her mother only a week before. - -“Spring Farm is looking its loveliest, with the roses and lilies in -bloom,” he said, “and Angie, my sister, is enjoying it immensely. She -has filled the house with her city friends and has made some changes, of -which I think you would approve. Your mother does, but when she wanted -to cut down that apple-tree in the corner I would not let her do it. You -remember it, don’t you?” - -“Oh, Mr. Gordon,” Maude exclaimed, “don’t let her touch that tree. My -play-house was under it, and there the people used to come to see me.” - -He did not know who the people were, for he had never heard of Maude’s -brain children,—the Kimbricks and the Websters,—and could hardly have -understood if he had; but Maude’s voice was very pathetic and the eyes -which looked at him were full of tears, moving him strangely and making -him very earnest in his manner as he assured her that every tree and -shrub should be kept intact for her. - -“You know you are going to buy it back,” he continued laughingly, as -they walked slowly toward the house where Grace was waiting to be taken -in to lunch. - -“Yes, and I shall do it, too. You will see; it may be many years, but I -trust you to keep it for me,” Maude said, and he replied, “You may trust -me with anything, and I shall not disappoint you.” - -The talk by the honeysuckle was one of many which took place while Max -was at the Cedars, for Grace was too unselfish to keep him chained to -her side, and insisted that he should enjoy what there was to enjoy in -the way of rides and drives in the neighborhood, and as she could not -often go with him she sent Maude in her stead, even though she knew the -danger there was in it, for she was not insensible to Max’s admiration -for the girl, or Maude’s interest in him. - -“If Max is true to me to the last, and he will be, it is all I ask,” she -thought, and gave no sign of the ache in her heart, when she saw him -going from her with Maude and felt that it was in more senses than one. -“If he is happy, I am happy, too, she would say to herself, as she sat -alone hour after hour, while Max and Maude explored the country in every -direction. - -Sometimes they drove together, but oftener rode, for Maude was a fine -horsewoman and never looked better than when on horseback, in the -becoming habit which Grace had given her and which fitted her admirably. -Together they went through the pleasant Richland woods, where the grass -was like a mossy carpet beneath their horses’ hoofs, and the singing of -the birds and the brook was the only sound which broke the summer -stillness, then again they galloped over the hills and round the lake, -and once through the Bush district, up to the little log house which Max -expressed a wish to see. It was past the hour for school. Teacher and -scholars had gone home, and tying their horses to the fence they went -into the dingy room and sat down side by side upon one of the wooden -benches, and just where a ray of sunlight fell upon Maude’s face and -hair, for she had removed her hat and was fanning herself with it. She -was very beautiful, with that halo around her head, Max thought, as he -sat watching and listening to her, as in answer to his question, “How -could you endure it here?” she told him of her terrible homesickness -during the first weeks of her life as a school-teacher. - -“I longed so for mother and Johnnie,” she said, “and was always thinking -of them, and the dear old home, and—and sometimes—of you, too, before I -received your letter.” - -“Of me!” Max said, moving a little nearer to her, while she went on: - -“Yes, I’ve wanted to tell you how angry I was because you bought our -home. I wrote you something about it, you remember, but I did not tell -you half how bitter I felt. I know now you were not to blame, but I did -not think so then, and said some harsh things of you to Archie; perhaps -he told you. I said he might. Did he?” - -“No,” Max answered, playing idly with the riding whip Maude held in her -hand. “No, Archie has only told me pleasant things of you. I think he is -very fond of you,” and he looked straight into Maude’s face, waiting for -her reply. - -It was surely nothing to him whether Archie were fond of Maude, or she -were fond of Archie, and yet her answer was very reassuring and lifted -from his heart a little shadow resting there. - -“Yes,” Maude said, without the slightest change in voice or expression. -“Archie and I are good friends. I have known him and played with him, -and quarreled with him ever since I was a child, so that he seems more -like a brother than anything else.” - -“Oh, ye-es,” Max resumed, with a feeling of relief, as he let his arm -rest on the high desk behind her, so that if she moved ever so little it -would touch her. - -There was in Max’s mind no thought of love-making. Indeed, he did not -know that he was thinking of anything except the lovely picture the -young girl made with the sunlight playing on her hair and the shy look -in her eyes as, in a pretty, apologetic way she told him how she had -disliked him and credited him with all the trouble which had come upon -them since her father’s death. - -“Why, I thought I hated you,” she said with energy. - -“Hated me! Oh, Maude, you don’t hate me now, I hope;—I could not bear -that,” Max said, letting the whip fall and taking Maude’s hand in his, -as he said again, “You don’t hate me now?” - -“No, no; oh, no. I—oh, Mr. Gordon,” Maude began, but stopped abruptly, -startled by something in the eyes of the man, who had never called her -Maude before, and whose voice had never sounded as it did now, making -every nerve thrill with a sudden joy, all the sweeter, perhaps, because -she knew it must not be. - -Wrenching her hand from his and springing to her feet she said, “It is -growing late, and Miss Raynor is waiting for us. Have you forgotten -_her_?” - -He had forgotten her for one delirious moment, but she came back to him -with a throb of pain and self-reproach that he had allowed himself to -swerve in the slightest degree from his loyalty to her. - -“I am not a man, but a traitor,” he said to himself, as he helped Maude -into her saddle and then vaulted into his own. - -The ride home was a comparatively silent one, for both knew that they -had not been quite true to the woman who welcomed them back so sweetly -and asked so many questions about their ride and what they had seen. -Poor Grace; she did not in the least understand why Maude lavished so -much attention upon her that evening, or why Max lingered longer than -usual at her side, or why his voice was so tender and loving, when he at -last said good-night and went to his own room, and the self-castigation -which he knew awaited him there. - -“I was a villain,” he said, as he recalled that little episode in the -school-house, when to have put his arm around Maude Graham and held her -for a moment, would have been like heaven to him. “I was false to Grace, -although I did not mean it, and, God helping me, I will never be so -again.” Then, as he remembered the expression of the eyes which had -looked up so shyly at him, he said aloud, “Could I win her, were I free? -But that is impossible. May God forgive me for the thought. Oh, why has -Grace thrown her so much in my way? She surely is to blame for that, -while I——well, I am a fool, and a knave, and a sneak.” - -He called himself a great many hard names that night, and registered a -vow that so long as Grace lived, and he said he hoped she would live -forever, he would be true to her no matter how strong the temptation -placed in his way. It was a fierce battle Max fought, but he came off -conqueror, and the meeting between himself and Maude next morning was as -natural as if to neither of them had ever come a moment when they had a -glimpse of the happiness which, under other circumstances, might perhaps -have been theirs. Maude, too, had had her hours of remorse and -contrition and close questioning as to the cause of the strange joy -which had thrilled every nerve when Max Gordon called her Maude and -asked her if she hated him. - -“Hate him! Never!” she thought; “but I have been false to the truest, -best woman that ever lived. She trusted her lover to me, and——” - -She did not quite know what she had done, but whatever it was it should -not be repeated. There were to be no more rides, or drives, or talks -alone with Max. And when next day Grace suggested that she go with him -to an adjoining town where a fair was to be held, she took refuge in a -headache and insisted that Grace should go herself, while Max, too, -encouraged it, and tried to believe that he was just as happy with her -beside him as he would have been with the young girl who brought a -cushion for her mistress’ back and adjusted her shawl about her -shoulders and arranged her bonnet strings, and then, kissing her fondly, -said, “I am so glad that you are going instead of myself.” - -This was for the benefit of Max, at whom she nodded a little defiantly, -and who understood her meaning as well as if she had put it into words. -Everything was over between them, and he accepted the situation, and -during the remainder of his stay at the Cedars, devoted himself to Grace -with an assiduity worthy of the most ardent lover. He even remained -longer than he had intended doing, for Grace was loth to let him go, and -the soft haze of early September was beginning to show on the Richland -hills when he at last said good-bye, promising to come again at -Christmas, if it were possible to do so. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - GOOD-BYE, MAX; GOOD-BYE. - - -It was a cold, stormy afternoon in March. The thermometer marked six -below zero, and the snow which had fallen the day before was tossed by -the wind in great white clouds, which sifted through every crevice of -the house at the Cedars, and beat against the window from which Maude -Graham was looking anxiously out into the storm for the carriage which -had been sent to meet the train in which Max Gordon was expected. He had -not kept his promise to be with Grace at Christmas. An important lawsuit -had detained him, and as it would be necessary for him to go to London -immediately after its close, he could not tell just when he would be at -the Cedars again. - -All through the autumn Grace had been failing, while a cold, taken in -November, had left her with a cough, which clung to her persistently. -Still she kept up, looking forward to the holidays, when Max would be -with her. But when she found he was not coming she lost all courage, and -Maude was alarmed to see how rapidly she failed. Nearly all the day she -lay upon the couch in her bedroom, while Maude read or sang to her or -talked with her of the book which had actually been commenced, and in -which Grace was almost as much interested as Maude herself. Grace was a -careful and discriminating critic, and if Maude were ever a success she -would owe much of it to the kind friend whose sympathy and advice were -so invaluable. A portion of every day she wrote, and every evening read -what she had written, to Grace, who smiled as she recognized Max Gordon -in the hero and knew that Maude was weaving the tale mostly from her own -experience. Even the Bush district and its people furnished material for -the plot, and more than one boy and girl who had called Maude -schoolma’am figured in its pages, while Grace was everywhere, permeating -the whole with her sweetness and purity. - -“I shall dedicate it to you,” Maude said to her one day, and Grace -replied: - -“That will be kind; but I shall not be here to see it, for before your -book is published I shall be lying under the flowers in Mt. Auburn. I -want you to take me there, if Max is not here to do it.” - -“Oh, Miss Raynor,” Maude cried, dropping her MS. and sinking upon her -knees beside the couch where Grace was lying, “you must not talk that -way. You are not going to die. I can’t lose you, the dearest friend I -ever had. What should I do without you, and what would Max Gordon do?” - -At the mention of Max’s name a faint smile played around Grace’s white -lips, and lifting her thin hand she laid it caressingly upon the girl’s -brown hair as she said: - -“Max will be sorry for awhile, but after a time there will be a change, -and I shall be only a memory. Tell him I was willing, and that although -it was hard at first it was easy at the last.” - -What did she mean? Maude asked herself, while her thoughts went back to -that summer afternoon in the log school-house on the hill, when Max -Gordon’s eyes and voice had in them a tone and look born of more than -mere friendship. Did Grace know? Had she guessed the truth? Maude -wondered, as, conscience-stricken, she laid her burning cheek against -the pale one upon the pillow. There was silence a moment, and when Grace -spoke again she said: - -“It is nearly time for Max to be starting for Europe, or I should send -for him to come, I wish so much to see him once more before I die.” - -“Do you think a hundred trips to Europe would keep him from you if he -knew you wanted him?” Maude asked, and Grace replied: - -“Perhaps not. I don’t know. I only wish he were here.” - -This was the last of February, and after that Grace failed so fast, that -with the hope that it might reach him before he sailed, Maude wrote to -Max, telling him to come at once, if he would see Grace before she died. -She knew about how long it would take her letter to reach him and how -long for him to come, allowing for no delays, and on the morning of the -first day when she could by any chance expect him, she sent the carriage -to the Canandaigua station, and then all through the hours of the long, -dreary day, she sat by Grace’s bedside, watching with a sinking heart -the pallor on her lips and brow, and the look she could not mistake -deepening on her face. - -“What if she should die before he gets here, or what if he should not -come at all?” she thought, as the hours went by. - -She was more afraid of the latter, and when she saw the carriage coming -up the avenue she strained her eyes through the blinding snow to see if -he were in it. When he came before he had stood up and waved his hat to -them, but there was no token now to tell if he were there, and she -waited breathlessly until the carriage stopped before the side entrance, -knowing then for sure that he had come. - -“Thank God!” she cried, as she went out to meet him, bursting into tears -as she said to him, “I am so glad, and so will Miss Raynor be. She does -not know that I wrote you. I didn’t tell her, for fear you wouldn’t -come.” - -She had given him her hand and he was holding it fast as she led him -into the hall. She did not ask him when or where he received her letter. -She only helped him off with his coat, and made him sit down by the fire -while she told him how rapidly Grace had failed and how little hope -there was that she would ever recover. - -“You will help her, if anything can. I am going to prepare her now,” she -said, and, going out, she left him there alone. - -He had been very sorry himself that he could not keep his promise at -Christmas, and had tried to find a few days in which to visit the Cedars -between the close of the suit and his departure for England. But he -could not, and his passage was taken and his luggage on the ship, which -was to sail early in the morning, when, about six o’clock in the -evening, Maude’s letter was brought to him, changing his plans at once. -Grace was dying,—the woman he had loved so long, and although thousands -of dollars depended upon his keeping his appointment in London, he must -lose it all, and go to her. Sending for his luggage, and writing a few -letters of explanation, the next morning found him on his way to the -Cedars, which he reached on the day when Maude expected him. - -She had left Grace asleep when she went to meet Max, but on re-entering -her room found her awake and leaning on her elbow in the attitude of -intense listening. - -“Oh, Maude,” she said, “was it a dream, or did I hear Max speaking to -you in the hall? Tell me is he here?” - -“Yes, he is here. I sent for him and he came,” Maude replied, while -Grace fell back upon her pillow, whispering faintly: - -“Bring him at once.” - -“Come,” Maude said to Max, who followed her to the sick-room, where she -left him alone with Grace. - -He stayed by her all that night and the day following, in order to give -Maude the rest she needed, but when the second night came they kept the -watch together, he on one side of the bed, and she upon the other, with -their eyes fixed upon the white, pinched face where the shadow of death -was settling. For several hours Grace slept quietly. Then, just as the -gray daylight was beginning to show itself in the corners of the room, -she awoke and asked: - -“Where is Max?” - -“Here, darling,” was his response, as he bent over her and kissed her -lips. - -“I think it has grown cold and dark, for I can’t see you,” she said, -groping for his hand, which she held tightly between her own as she went -on: “I have been dreaming, Max,—such a pleasant dream, for I was young -again,—young as Maude, and wore my bridal dress, just as I did that day -when you said I was so pretty. Do you remember it? That was years -ago,—oh! so many,—and I am getting old; we both are growing old. You -said so in your letter. But Maude is young, and in my dream she wore the -bridal dress at the last, and I saw my own grave, with you beside it and -Maude, and both so sorry because I was dead. But it is better so, and I -am glad to die and be at rest. If I could be what I once was, oh! how I -should cling to life! For I love you so much! Oh, Max, do you know, can -you guess how I have loved you all these years, and what it has cost me -to give you up?” - -Max’s only answer was the hot tears he dropped upon her face as she went -on: “You will not forget me, that I know; but some time,—yes, some -time,—and when it comes, remember I was willing. I told Maude so. Where -is she?” - -“Here!” and Maude knelt, sobbing, by the dying woman, who went on: “She -has been everything to me, Max, and I love her next to you. God bless -you both! And if, in the Heaven I am going to, I can watch over you, I -will do it, and be often, often with you, when you think I’m far away. -Who was it said that? I read it long ago. But things are going from me, -and Heaven is very near, and the Saviour is with me,—closer, nearer than -you are, Max; and the other world is just in sight, where I soon shall -be, free from pain, with my poor, crippled feet all strong and well, -like Maude’s. Dear Maude! tell her how I loved her; tell her——” - -Here her voice grew indistinct, and for a few moments she seemed to be -sleeping; then, suddenly, opening her eyes wide, she exclaimed, as an -expression of joy broke over her face: “It is here,—the glory which -shineth as the noonday. In another moment I shall be walking the golden -streets. Good-bye, Max; good-bye.” - -Grace was dead, and Maude made her ready for the coffin, her tears -falling like rain upon the shrivelled feet and on the waxen hands which -she folded over the pulseless bosom, placing in them the flowers her -mistress had loved best in life. She was to be buried in Mt. Auburn, and -Maude went with the remains to Boston, as Grace had requested her to do, -caring nothing because Mrs. Marshall-More hinted broadly at the -impropriety of the act, wondering how she could have done it. - -“She did it at Grace’s request, and to please me,” Max said; and that -silenced the lady, who was afraid of her brother, and a little afraid of -Maude, who did not seem quite the girl she had last seen in Merrivale. - -“What will you do now? Go back to your teaching?” she asked, after the -funeral was over. - -“I shall go home to mother,” Maude replied, and that afternoon she took -the train for Merrivale, accompanied by Max, who was going on to New -York, and thence to keep his appointment in London. - -Few were the words spoken between them during the journey, and those -mostly of the dead woman lying under the snow at Mt. Auburn; but when -Merrivale was reached, Max took the girl’s hands and pressed them hard -as he called her a second time by her name. - -“God bless you, Maude, for all you were to Grace. When I can I will -write to you. Good-bye.” - -Only for a moment the train stopped at the station, and then it moved -swiftly on, leaving Maude standing upon the platform with her mother and -John, while Max resumed his seat, and pulling his hat over his eyes, -never spoke again until New York was reached. A week later and a ship of -the Cunard line was plowing the ocean to the eastward, and Max Gordon -was among the passengers, silent and abstracted, with a bitter sense of -loneliness and pain in his heart as he thought of the living and the -dead he was leaving behind,—Grace, who was to have been his bride, dead -in all her sweetness and beauty, and Maude, who was nothing to him but a -delicious memory, alive in all her freshness and youthful bloom. He -could hardly tell of which he thought the more, Grace or Maude. Both -seemed ever present with him, and it was many a day before he could rid -himself of the fancy that two faces were close against his own, one cold -and dead, as he had seen it last, with the snowy hair about the brow and -a smile of perfect peace upon the lips which had never said aught but -words of love to him,—the other glowing with life and girlish beauty, as -it had looked at him in the gathering darkness when he stood upon the -car step and waved it his good-bye. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - AT LAST. - - -Five years had passed since Grace was laid in her grave in Mt. Auburn, -and Max was still abroad, leading that kind of Bohemian life which many -Americans lead in Europe, when there is nothing to call them home. And -to himself Max often said there was nothing to call him home, but as -often as he said it a throb of pain belied his words, for he knew that -across the sea was a face and voice he was longing to see and hear -again, a face which now visited him in his dreams quite as often as that -of his dead love, and which he always saw as it had looked at him that -summer afternoon in the log house among the Richland hills, with the -sunlight falling upon the rings of hair, and lending a warmer tint to -the glowing cheeks. Delicious as was the memory of that afternoon, it -had been the means of keeping Max abroad during all these years, for, in -the morbid state of mind into which he had fallen after Grace’s death, -he felt that he must do penance for having allowed himself for a moment -to forget her, who had believed in him so fully. - -“Grace trusted me, and I was false to her and will punish myself for it, -even if by the means I lose all that now makes life seem desirable,” he -thought. - -And so he stayed on and on, year after year, knowing always just where -Maude was and what she was doing, for Archie kept him informed. -Occasionally he wrote to her himself,—pleasant, chatty letters, which -had in them a great deal of Grace,—his lost darling, he called her,—and -a little of the places he was visiting. Occasionally, too, Maude wrote -to him, her letters full of Grace, with a little of her life in -Merrivale, for she was with her mother now, and had been since Miss -Raynor’s death. A codicil to Grace’s will, bequeathing her a few -thousand dollars, made it unnecessary for her to earn her own -livelihood. Indeed, she might have bought Spring Farm, if she had liked; -but this she would not do. The money given for that must be earned by -herself, paid by the book she was writing, and which, after it was -finished and published, and after a few savage criticisms by some -dyspeptic critics, who saw no good in it, began to be read, then to be -talked about, then to sell,—until finally it became the rage and was -found in every book store, and railway car, and on almost every parlor -table in New England, while the young authoress was spoken of as “a star -which at one flight had soared to the zenith of literary fame,” and this -from the very pens which at first had denounced “Sunny Bank” as a -milk-and-watery effort, not worth the paper on which it was written. - -All Mrs. Marshall-More’s guests at Spring Farm read it, and Mrs. -Marshall-More and Archie read it, too, and both went down to -congratulate the author upon her success, the latter saying to her, when -they were alone: - -“I say, Maude, your prophecy came true. You told me you’d write a book -which every one would read, and which would make mother proud to say she -knew you, and, by Jove, you have done it. You ought to hear her talk to -some of the Boston people about Miss Graham, the authoress. You’d -suppose you’d been her dearest friend. I wonder what Uncle Max will say? -I told you you would make him your hero, and you have. I recognized him -at once; but the heroine is more like Grace than you. I am going to send -it to him.” - -And the next steamer which sailed from New York for Europe carried with -it Maude’s book, directed to Max Gordon, who read it at one sitting in a -sunny nook of the Colosseum, where he spent a great part of his time. -Grace was in it, and he was in it, too, he was sure, and, reading -between the lines what a stranger could not read, he felt when he had -finished it that in the passionate love of the heroine for the hero he -heard Maude calling to him to come back to the happiness there was still -for him. - -“And I will go,” he said. “Five years of penance have atoned for five -minutes of forgetfulness, and Grace would bid me go, if she could, for -she foresaw what would be, and told me she was willing.” - -With Max to will was to do, and among the list of passengers who sailed -from Liverpool, March 20th, 18—, was the name of Maxwell Gordon, Boston, -Mass. - - * * * * * - -It was the 2d of April, and a lovely morning, with skies as blue and air -as soft and warm as in the later days of May. Spring Farm, for the -season, was looking its loveliest, for Mrs. Marshall-More had lavished -fabulous sums of money upon it, until she had very nearly transformed it -into what she meant it should be, an English Park. She knew that Maude -had once expressed her intention to buy it back some day, but this she -was sure she could never do, and if she could Max would never sell it, -and if he would she would never let him. So, with all these _nevers_ to -reassure her, she went on year after year improving and beautifying the -place until it was worth far more than when it came into her hands, and -she was contemplating still greater improvements during the coming -summer, when Max suddenly walked in upon her, and announced his -intention of going to Merrivale the next day. - -“But where will you stay? Both houses are closed only the one at Spring -Farm has in it an old couple—Mr. and Mrs. Martin—who look after it in -the winter,” she said, and Max replied: - -“I will stay at Spring Farm with the Martins. I want to see the place.” -And the next day found him there, occupying the room which, by a little -skillful questioning of Mrs. Martin, he learned had been Maude’s when -her father owned the farm. - -Miss Graham was home, she said, and at once launched out into praises of -the young authoress of whom Merrivale was so proud. - -“And to think,” she said, “that she was born here in this very house! It -seems so queer.” - -“And is the house more honored now than when she was simple Maude -Graham?” Max asked, and the old lady replied: - -“To be sure it is. Any house can have a baby born in it, but not every -one an authoress!” and with that she bustled off to see about supper for -her guest. - -Max was up early the next morning, wondering how soon it would be proper -for him to call upon Maude. He had no thought that she would come to -him, and was somewhat surprised when just after breakfast her card was -brought up by Mrs. Martin, who said she was in the parlor. Maude had -heard of his arrival from Mr. Martin, who had stopped at the cottage the -previous night on his way to the village. - -“Mr. Gordon in town! I supposed he was in Europe!” she exclaimed, -feeling herself grow hot and cold and faint as she thought of Max Gordon -being so near to her. - -That very afternoon she had received the first check from her publisher, -and been delighted with the amount, so much more than she had expected. -There was enough to buy Spring Farm, if Max did not ask too much, and -she resolved to write to him at once and ask his price. But that was not -necessary now, for he was here and she should see him face to face, and -the next morning she started for Spring Farm immediately after their -breakfast, which was never served very early. - -“Will he find me greatly changed, I wonder,” she thought, as she sat -waiting for him, her heart beating so rapidly that she could scarcely -speak when at last he came and stood before her, the same man she had -parted from five years before save that he seemed a little older, with a -look of weariness in his eyes. - -But that lifted the moment they rested upon her. - -“Oh, Maude,” was all he could say, as he looked into the face he had -seen so often in his dreams, though never as beautiful as it was now. -“Maude,” he began at last, “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you -again, or how glad I am for your success. I read the book in Rome. -Archie sent it to me, and I have come to congratulate you.” - -He was talking so fast and pressing her hands so hard that he almost -took her breath away. But she released herself from him, and, -determining to have the _business_ off her mind as soon as possible, -began abruptly: - -“I was surprised to hear of your arrival, and glad, too, as it saves me -the trouble of writing you. I can buy Spring Farm now. You know you -promised to keep it for me. What is your price?” - -“How much can you give?” Max asked; and without stopping to consider the -strangeness of the question, Maude told him frankly the size of the -check she had received, and asked if it were enough. - -“No, Maude,” Max said, and over the face looking so anxiously at him -there fell a cloud of disappointment as Maude replied: - -“Is it much more you ask?” - -“Yes, a great deal more,” and Max seated himself beside her upon the -sofa, for she was now sitting down; “but I think you can arrange it. -Don’t look so sorry; It is _you_ I want, not your money. Will you give -me yourself in return for Spring Farm?” - -He had her hands again, but she drew them from him, and covering her -face with them, began to cry, while he went on: - -“Five years is a long time to wait for one we love, and I have waited -that length of time, with thoughts of you in my heart, almost as much as -thoughts of Grace, whom I loved dearly while she lived. But she is dead, -and could she speak she would bid you grant me the happiness I have been -denied so many years. I think she knew it would come some day. I am sure -she did, and she told me she was willing. I did not mean to ask you -quite so soon, but the sight of you, and the belief that you care for me -as I care for you, has made me forget all the proprieties, and I cannot -recall my words, so I ask you again to be my wife, to give me yourself -as the price of Spring Farm, which shall be your home as long as you -choose to make it so. Will you, Maude? I have come thousands of miles -for your answer, which must not be no.” - -What else he said, or what she said, it is not necessary for the reader -to know; only this, that when the two walked back to the cottage Maude -said to her mother, “I am to marry Mr. Gordon in June, and you will -spend the summer in our old home, and John will go to college in the -fall.” - -It was very bad taste in Max to select the 20th of June for his wedding -day, and she should suppose he would remember twenty years ago, when -Grace Raynor was to have been his bride, Mrs. Marshall-More said to -Archie, when commenting upon her brother’s approaching marriage, which -did not altogether please her. She would far rather that he should -remain single, for Archie’s sake and her own. And still it was some -comfort that she was to have for her sister one so famous as Maude was -getting to be. So she went up to Merrivale early in June and opened her -own house, and patronized Maude and Mrs. Graham, and made many -suggestions with regard to the wedding, which she would have had very -fine and elaborate had they allowed it. But Maude’s preference was for a -quiet affair, with only a few of her more intimate friends present. And -she had her way. Archie was there, of course, and made himself master of -ceremonies. He had received the news of Maude’s engagement with a keener -pang of regret than he had thought it possible for him to feel, and -suddenly woke up to a consciousness that he had always had a greater -liking for Maude than he supposed. But it was too late now, and casting -his regrets to the winds he made the best of it, and was apparently the -gayest of all the guests who, on the morning of the 20th of June, -assembled in Mrs. Graham’s parlor, where Max and Maude were made one. - -Aunt Maude, Archie called her, as he kissed her and asked if she -remembered the time she cried on the neck of the brown ox, and declared -her hatred of Max and all his relations. - -“But I did not know him then; did I, Max?” Maude said; and the bright -face she lifted to her husband told that she was far from hating him -now. - -There was a short trip to the West and a flying visit to Richland and -the Cedars, so fraught with memories of the past and of Grace, whose -grave on the wedding day had been one mass of flowers which Max had -ordered put there. “Her wedding garment,” he said to Maude, to whom he -told what he had done. “She seems very near to me now, and I am sure she -is glad.” - - * * * * * - -It was a lovely July day, when Max and Maude returned from their bridal -journey and took possession of the old home at Spring Farm, where Mrs. -Graham met them with a very different expression upon her face from what -it wore when we first saw her there years ago. The place was hers again, -to enjoy as long as she lived; and if it had been beautiful when she -left it, she found it far more so now, for Mrs. Marshall-More’s -improvements, for which Max’s money had paid, were mostly in good taste, -and never had the grounds looked better than when Max and Maude drove -into them on this July afternoon. Although a little past their prime, -there were roses everywhere, and the grassy walks, which Mrs. More had -substituted in place of gravel, were freshly cut, and smooth and soft as -velvet, while the old-fashioned flowers Maude loved so well, were -filling the air with their perfume, and the birds in the maple tree -seemed carolling a welcome to the bride so full were they of song. - -And here we shall leave her, happy in her old home and in her husband’s -love, which is more to her than all the world beside. Whether she will -ever write another book we do not know, probably she will, for where the -brain seeds have taken root it is hard to dislodge them, and Maude often -hears around her the voices of new ideal friends, to whom she may some -time be compelled to give shape and name, as she did to the friends of -her childhood. - - - - - THE HEPBURN LINE. - - - - - CHAPTER I.—DORIS’S STORY. - MY AUNTS. - - -I had come from my mother’s burial to the rector’s house, where I was to -stay until it should be known what disposition would be made of me by my -father’s aunts, the Misses Morton, who lived at Morton Park, near -Versailles, Kentucky. Of these aunts I knew little, except that there -were three of them now, but there had been four, and my -great-grandfather, an eccentric old man, had called them respectively, -Keziah, Desire, Maria and Beriah which odd names he had shortened into -Kizzy and Dizzy, Rier and Brier. My father, who had lived with them when -a boy, had often talked of Morton Park, and once when he was telling me -of the grand old house, with its wide piazza and Corinthian pillars, its -handsome grounds and the troop of blacks ready to come at his call, I -had asked him why he didn’t go back there, saying I should like it -better than our small cottage, where there were no grounds and no -Corinthian pillars and no blacks to wait upon us. For a moment he did -not answer, but glanced at my mother with a look of unutterable -tenderness, then, drawing us both closely to him, he said, “If I go -there I must leave you behind; and I would rather have mamma and you -than all the blacks and Corinthian pillars in the world.” - -Although very young, I felt intuitively that Morton Park was not a -pleasant topic of conversation, and I rarely spoke of it to him after -that, but I often thought of it, with its Corinthian pillars for which I -had a great reverence, and of the blacks, and the maple-trees, and the -solid silver from which my aunts dined every day, and wondered when they -were so rich why we were so poor and why my father worked as hard as I -knew he did, for he often lay upon the couch, saying he was tired, and -looking very pale about his mouth, with a bright red spot on either -cheek. I heard some one call these spots “the hectic,” but did not know -what this meant until later on, when he stayed in bed all the time and -the doctor said he was dying with quick consumption. Then there came a -day when I was called from school and hurried home to find him dead,—my -handsome young father, who had always been so loving to me, and whose -last words were, “Tell little Doris to be a good girl and kind to her -mother. God bless her!” - -The blow was so sudden that for a time my mother seemed stunned and -incapable of action, but she was roused at last by a letter from my Aunt -Keziah, to whom she had written after my father’s death. I say a letter, -but it was only an envelope containing a check for a hundred dollars and -a slip of paper with the words, “For Gerold’s child,” and when my mother -saw it there was a look on her face which I had never seen before, and I -think her first impulse was to tear up the check, but, reflecting that -it was not hers to destroy, she only burned the paper and put the money -in the bank for me, and then went bravely to work to earn her living and -mine, sometimes taking boarders, sometimes going out to nurse sick -people, and at last doing dressmaking at home and succeeding so well -that I never knew what real poverty was, and was as happy and free from -care as children usually are. - -My father had been an artist, painting landscapes and portraits when he -could find sale for them, and, when he could not, painting houses, barns -and fences, for although he had been reared in the midst of luxury, and, -as I now know, belonged to one of the best families in Kentucky, he held -that all kinds of labor, if necessary, were honorable, and was not -ashamed to stand in his overalls side by side with men who in birth and -education were greatly his inferiors. At the time of his death he had in -his studio a few pictures which had not been sold. Among them was a -small one of the house in Morton Park, with its huge white pillars and -tall trees in front, and one or two negroes playing under the trees. -This I claimed for my own, and also another, which was a picture of his -four aunts taken in a group in what seemed to be a summer-house. “The -Quartette,” he called it, and I had watched him with a great deal of -interest as he brought into seeming real life the four faces so unlike -each other, Aunt Kizzy, stern and severe and prim, with a cap on her -head after the English style, which she affected because her grandfather -was English,—Aunt Dizzy, who was very pretty and very youthfully -dressed, with flowers in her hair,—Aunt Rier, a gentle, matronly woman, -with a fat baby in her lap which I did not think particularly -good-looking,—and Aunt Brier, with a sweet face like a Madonna and a -far-away look in her soft gray eyes which reminded one of Evangeline. -Behind the four was my father, leaning over Aunt Rier and holding a rose -before the baby, who was trying to reach it. The picture fascinated me -greatly, and when I heard it was to be sold, with whatever other effects -there were in the studio, I begged to keep it. But my mother said No, -with the same look on her face which I had seen when she burned Aunt -Kizzy’s letter. And so it was sold to a gentleman from Boston, who was -spending the summer in Meadowbrook, and I thought no more of it until -years after, when it was brought to my mind in a most unexpected manner. - -I was ten when I lost my father, and fourteen when my mother, too, died -suddenly, and I was alone, with no home except the one the rector kindly -offered me until something should be heard from my aunts. My mother had -seemed so well and active, and, with her brilliant color and beautiful -blue eyes and chestnut hair which lay in soft waves all over her head, -had been so pretty and young and girlish-looking, that it was hard to -believe her dead, and the hearts of few girls of fourteen have ever been -wrung with such anguish as I felt when, after her funeral, I lay down -upon a bed in the rectory and sobbed myself into a disturbed sleep, from -which I was roused by the sound of voices in the adjoining room, where a -neighbor was talking with Mrs. Wilmot, the rector’s wife, of me and my -future. - -“Her aunts will have to do something now. They will be ashamed not to. -Do you know why they have so persistently ignored Mr. and Mrs. Gerold -Morton?” - -It was Mrs. Smith, the neighbor, who asked the question, and Mrs. Wilmot -replied, “I know but little, as Mrs. Morton was very reticent upon the -subject. I think, however, that the aunts were angry because Gerold, who -had always lived with them, made what they thought a misalliance by -marrying the daughter of the woman with whom he boarded when in college. -They had in mind another match for him, and when he disappointed them, -they refused to recognize his wife or to see him again.” - -“But did he have nothing from his father? I thought the Mortons were -very rich,” Mrs. Smith said, and Mrs. Wilmot answered her, “Nothing at -all, for his father, too, had married against the wishes of _his_ -father, a very hard and strange man, I imagine, who promptly -disinherited his son. But when the young wife died at the birth of her -child, the aunts took the little boy Gerold and brought him up as their -own. I do not at all understand it, but I believe the Morton estate is -held by a long lease and will eventually pass from the family unless -some one of them marries somebody in the family of the old man who gave -the lease.” - -“They seem to be given to misalliances,” Mrs. Smith rejoined; “but if -they could have seen Gerold’s wife they must have loved her, she was so -sweet and pretty. Doris is like her. She will be a beautiful woman, and -her face alone should commend her to her aunts.” - -No girl of fourteen can hear unmoved that she is lovely, and, although I -was hot with indignation at my aunts for their treatment of my father -and their contempt for my mother, I was conscious of a stir of -gratification, and as I went to the washstand to bathe my burning -forehead I glanced at myself in the mirror. My face was swollen with -weeping, and my eyes were very red, with dark circles around them, but -they were like my mother’s, and my hair was like hers, too, and there -was an expression about my mouth which brought her back to me. I was -like my mother, and I was glad she had left me her heritage of beauty, -although I cared but little whether it commended me to my aunts or not, -as I meant to keep aloof from them, if possible. I could take care of -myself, I thought, and any hardship would be preferable to living with -them, even should they wish to have me do so, which was doubtful. - -To Mrs. Wilmot I said nothing of what I had overheard, but waited in -some anxiety for Aunt Kizzy’s letter, which came about two weeks after -my mother’s death. It was directed to Mr. Wilmot, and was as follows: - - “MORTON PARK, September 10, 18—. - - “REV. J. S. WILMOT: - - “DEAR SIR,—Your letter is received, and I have delayed my reply until - we could give our careful consideration as to what to do, or rather - how to do it. We have, of course, no option in the matter as to _what_ - to do, for naturally we must care for Gerold’s daughter, but we shall - do it in the way most agreeable to ourselves. As you will have - inferred, we are all elderly people, and I am old. I shall be sixty - next January. Miss Desire, my sister, is forty-seven. (Between her and - myself there were two boys who died in infancy.) Maria, my second - sister, would, if living, be forty-five, and Beriah is nearly - thirty-eight. Thus, you see, we are no longer young, but are just - quiet people, with our habits too firmly fixed to have them broken in - upon by a girl who probably talks slang and would fill the house with - noise and chatter, singing at most inopportune moments, banging the - doors, pulling the books from the shelves and the chairs into the - middle of the rooms, and upsetting things generally. No, we couldn’t - bear it, and just the thought of it has given me a chill. - - “We expect to educate the girl,—Doris, I think you called her,—but it - must be at the North. If there is a good school in Meadowbrook, - perhaps it will be well for her to remain there for a while, and if - you choose to retain her in your family you will be suitably - remunerated for all the expense and trouble. When she is older I shall - place her in some institution where she will receive a thorough - education, besides learning the customs of good society. After that we - may bring her to Morton Park. For the present, however, I prefer that - she should remain with you, for, as you are a clergyman, you will - attend to her moral training and see that she is staunch and true in - every respect. I hate deception of all kinds, and I wish her to learn - the Lord’s Prayer and the Ten Commandments and the Creed, and to be - confirmed at the proper age. She is about ten now, is she not? - - “Enclosed you will find a check sufficient, I think, for the present - necessities. If more is needed, it will be sent. Please let me know if - there is a good school in Meadowbrook, and if there is none, will you - kindly recommend one which you think suitable? - - “Yours truly, - “MISS KEZIAH MORTON.” - -This was the letter which I read, looking over Mr. Wilmot’s shoulder, -and growing more and more angry as I read, it was so heartless and cold, -with no word of real interest or sympathy for me, who was merely a -burden which must be carried, whether she were willing or not. - -“I’ll never accept a penny from her,” I exclaimed, “and you may tell her -so. I’d rather scrub than be dependent upon these proud relatives, who -evidently think me a heathen. The Lords Prayer, indeed! and I fourteen -years old! I wonder if she thinks I know how to read!” - -I was very defiant and determined, but after a little I grew calmer, and -as the graded school in Meadowbrook, which I had always attended, was -excellent of its kind, and the Wilmots were glad to have me with them, I -consented at last that a letter to that effect should be forwarded to -Kentucky. But when Mr. Wilmot suggested that I, too, should write and -thank my aunt for her kindness, I stoutly refused. I was not thankful, I -said, neither did I think her kind as I understood kindness, and I could -not tell a lie. Later, however, it occurred to me that as she had said -she wished me to be true and staunch, and that she hated deception, it -might be well to let her know just how I felt towards her, so as not to -occupy a false position in the future. Accordingly I wrote a letter, of -which the following is a copy: - - “MEADOWBROOK, MASS., September—, 18—. - - “MISS KEZIAH MORTON: - - “DEAR MADAM,—Mr. Wilmot has told you that there is a good school in - Meadowbrook and that he is glad to keep me in his family. He wished me - also to thank you for your kindness in furnishing the means for my - education, and if I really felt thankful I would do so. But I don’t, - and I cannot pretend to be grateful, for I do not think your offer was - made in kindness, but because, as you said in your letter, you had no - option except to care for me. You said, too, that you did not like - deception of any kind, and I think I’d better tell you how I feel - about accepting help from you. Since my mother died I have - accidentally heard how you treated her and neglected my father because - of her, and naturally I am indignant, for a sweeter, lovelier woman - than my mother never lived. When she died and left me alone, there was - a leaning in my heart towards you and the other aunts, because you - were the only relatives I have in the world, and if you had shown the - least sympathy for me I could have loved you so much. But in your - letter you never said one word of pity or comfort. You offered to - educate me, that was all. But I prefer to care for myself, and I can - do it, too. I am fourteen, and can earn my own living. I can make - dresses, as mother did after father died, or I can do second work - until I have enough to pay for my schooling. And I would rather do it - than be indebted to any one, and if, when you get this, you think best - to change your mind, I shall be glad. But if you do not, I shall try - to improve every moment and get a thorough education as soon as - possible, and when I can I shall pay you every dollar you expend for - me, and you need have no fears that I shall ever disgrace my father’s - name, or you either. - - “I used to think that I should like to see Morton Park, as it was once - my father’s home, but since reading your letter I have no desire to go - there and bang doors, and pull the books from the shelves, and sing, - whether invited to or not, and shock you with slang. I suppose I do - use some,—all the girls do, and example is contagious,—and I am fond - of singing, and would like nothing better than to take lessons in - vocal and instrumental music, but I am not quite a heathen, and can - hardly remember when I did not know the Lord’s Prayer, and Ten - Commandments, and Creed. But I have not been confirmed, and do not - intend to be until I am a great deal better than I am now, for I - believe there is something necessary to confirmation besides mere - intellectual knowledge. Father and mother taught me that, and they - were true Christians. - - “Father used sometimes to tell me of his home and his aunts, who were - kind to him, and so, perhaps, you would like to know how peacefully he - died, and how handsome he was in his coffin, just as if he were - asleep. But mother was lovelier still, with such a sweet smile on her - face, and her dear little hands folded upon her bosom. There were - needle-pricks and marks of the hard work she had done on her fingers, - but I covered them with great bunches of the white pond-lilies she - loved so much, and then kissed her good-bye forever, with a feeling - that my heart was broken; and, oh, it aches so now when I remember - that in all the world there is no one who cares for me, or on whom I - have any claim. - - “I don’t know why I have written this to you, who, of course, have no - interest in it, but guess I did it because I am sure you once loved - father a little. I do not expect you to love me, but if I can ever be - of any service to you I will, for father’s sake; and something tells - me that in the future, I don’t know when or how, I shall bring you - some good. Until then adieu. - - “DORIS MORTON.” - -I knew this was not the kind of letter which a girl of fourteen should -send to a woman of sixty, but I was indignant and hot-headed and young, -and felt that in some way I was avenging my mother’s wrongs, and so the -letter was sent, unknown to the Wilmots, and I waited anxiously for the -result. But there was none, so far as I knew. Aunt Kizzy did not answer -it, and in her letter to Mr. Wilmot she made no reference to it. She -merely said she was glad I was to live in a clergyman’s family under -religious influence, and added that if I had a good voice and he thought -it desirable I was to have instruction in both vocal and instrumental -music. - -It did not occur to me to connect this with anything I had written, but -I was very glad, for I was passionately fond of music, as I was of books -generally. And so for two years I was a pupil in the High School in -Meadowbrook, passing from one grade to another, until at last I was -graduated with all the honors which such an institution could give. - -During this time not a word had ever been written to me by my aunts. The -bills had been regularly paid through Mr. Wilmot, to whom Aunt Kizzy’s -letters were addressed, and at the end of every quarter a report of my -standing in scholarship and deportment had been forwarded to Kentucky. -And that was all I knew of my relatives, who might have been -Kamschatkans for anything they were to me. - -About six months before I was graduated, Mr. Wilmot was told that I was -to be sent to Madame De Moisiere’s School in Boston, and then, three -months later, without any reason for the change, I learned that I was to -go to Wellesley, provided I could pass the necessary examination. Of -this I had no fears, but the change disappointed me greatly, as I had -heard glowing accounts of Madame De Moisiere’s School from a girl friend -who had been there, and at first I rebelled against Wellesley, which I -fancied meant nothing but hard study, with little recreation. But there -was no help for it. Aunt Keziah’s law was the law of the Medes and -Persians, and one morning in September I said good-bye to Meadowbrook -and started for Wellesley, which seemed to me then a kind of -intellectual prison. - - - - - CHAPTER II.—BERIAH’S STORY. - DORIS. - - - MORTON PARK, June —, 18—. - -Ten o’clock at night, and I have brought out my old book for a little -chat. I am sure I don’t know why I continue to write in my journal, when -I am nearly forty years old, unless it is because I began it nineteen -years ago, on the day after I said good-bye to Tom forever and felt that -my heart was broken. It was just such a moonlight night as this when we -walked under the elms in the Park and he told me I was a coward, because -I would not brave Kizzy’s wrath and marry out of the “accursed Hepburn -line,” as he called it. Well, I _was_ afraid of Kizzy, and shrank from -all the bitterness and trouble which has come to us through that Hepburn -line. First, there was my brother Douglas, twenty-five years older than -I am, who, because he married the girl he loved, instead of the one he -didn’t, was sent adrift without a dollar. Why didn’t my father, I -wonder, marry into the line himself, and so save all this trouble? -Probably because he was so far removed from the crisis now so fast -approaching, that he ventured to take my mother, to whom he was always -tender and loving, showing that there was kindness in his nature, -although he could be so hard on Douglas and the dear little wife who -died when Gerold was born. Then came the terrible time when both my -father and mother were swept away on the same day by the cholera, and -six months after Douglas died, and his boy Gerold came to live with us, -He was two years my senior, and more like my brother than my nephew, and -I loved him dearly and spoke up for him when Kizzy turned him out, just -as Douglas had been turned out before him. Had I dared I would have -written to him and assured him of my love, but I could not, so great was -my dread of Keziah, who exercises a kind of hypnotic power over us all. -She tried to keep Desire from the man of her choice, and might have -succeeded, if death had not forestalled her. She sent Tom away from me, -and only yielded to Maria, who had a will as strong as her own and -married whom she pleased. But she, too, died just after her husband, who -was shot in the battle of Fredericksburgh, and we have no one left but -her boy Grant, who is almost as dear to me as Gerold was. - -Grant is a young man now, and I trust he will marry Dorothea, and so -break the evil spell which that old man must have put upon us when to -the long lease of ninety years given to my grandfather he tacked that -strange condition that if before the expiration of the lease a direct -heir of Joseph Morton, of Woodford County, Kentucky, married a direct -heir of Amos Hepburn, of Keswick, England, only half the value of the -property leased should revert to the Hepburn heir, while the other half -should remain in the Morton family. If no such marriage has taken place, -uniting the houses of Morton and Hepburn, then the entire property goes -to the direct heir of the Hepburns. I believe I have stated it as it is -worded in that old yellow document which Keziah keeps in the family -Bible and reads every day with a growing dread of what will soon befall -us unless Grant marries Dorothea, who, so far as we know, stands first -in the Hepburn line, and to whom the Morton estate will go if it passes -from our hands. - -I have sometimes doubted if that clause would stand the test of law, and -have said so to Keziah, suggesting to her to take advice on the subject. -But she treated my suggestion with scorn, charging me with wishing to be -dishonest, and saying that even if it were illegal it was the request of -Amos Hepburn, and father had instilled it into her mind that a dead -man’s wish was law, and she should abide by it. Neither would she allow -me to ask any legal advice, or talk about the matter to any one. - -“It is our own business,” she said, “and if we choose to give up our -home it concerns no one but ourselves.” - -But she does not expect to give it up, for our hopes are centred on -Grant’s marrying Dorothea; and as one means of accomplishing this end he -must be kept from Doris and all knowledge of her. - -Poor little orphaned Doris! I wonder what she is like, and why Keziah is -so hard upon her! She is not to blame because her father married the -daughter of his landlady, whom Keziah calls a cook. How well I recall a -morning two or three years ago when, at the tick of the clock announcing -eight, Kizzy and Dizzy and I marched solemnly down to breakfast just as -we have done for the last twenty years and shall for twenty more if we -live so long, Keziah first in her black dress and lace cap, with her -keys jingling at her side, Desire next, in her white gown and blue -ribbons, which she will wear until she is seventy, and I, in my chintz -wrapper of lavender and white, colors which Tom said were becoming to me -and which I usually select. I can hear the swish of our skirts on the -stairs, and see the round table with its china and glass and flowers, -and old Abe, the butler, bringing in the coffee and toast, and a letter -for Keziah, who read it twice, and then, folding it very deliberately, -said, “Gerold’s widow is dead and has left a little girl, and a Rev. Mr. -Wilmot has written to know what is to be done with her.” - -“Oh, bring her here, by all means!” both Dizzy and I exclaimed in a -breath, while Keziah’s face, which is always severe and stern, grew more -so as she replied, in the tone from which there is no appeal, “She will -stay where she is, if there is a decent school there. I shall educate -her, of course; there is no alternative; but she cannot come here until -she is sufficiently cultivated not to mortify us with her bad manners, -as blood will tell. I have never forgiven her mother for marrying -Gerold, and I cannot yet forgive this girl for being that woman’s -daughter.” - -Both Desire and myself knew how useless it was to combat Keziah when her -mind was made up. So we said nothing more about the child, and kept as -much as possible out of Keziah’s way, for when she is disturbed she is -not a pleasant person to meet in a _tete-a-tete_. We knew she wrote to -Mr. Wilmot, and that he replied, and then, two days after, when we went -down to breakfast, we found another letter for Keziah. It was from -Doris, and Keziah read it aloud, while her voice and hands shook with -wrath, and Desire and I exchanged glances of satisfaction and touched -each other slyly with our feet in token of sympathy with the child, who -dared write thus to one who had ruled us so long that we submitted to -her now without a protest. It was a very saucy letter, but it showed the -mettle of the girl, and I respected her for it, and my heart went out to -her with a great pity when she said, “If you had shown the least -sympathy for me I could have loved you so much, but you did not. You -offered to care for me because you felt that you must, but you never -sent me one word of pity or comfort.” - -“Oh, Keziah,” I exclaimed at this point, “is that true? Did you write to -Mr. Wilmot and say no word to the child?” - -“I never say what I do not feel,” was Keziah’s answer, as she read on, -and when she had finished the letter she added, “She is an ungrateful -girl, fitter for a dressmaker or maid, no doubt, than for anything -higher. But she is a Morton, and must not be suffered to do a menial’s -work. I shall educate her in my own way, but shall not recognize her -socially until I know the kind of woman into which she develops. Neither -must you waste any sentimentality upon her, or make any advances in the -shape of letters, for I will not have it. Let her stand alone awhile. -She seems to be equal to it. And——” here she hesitated, while her pale -cheek flushed a little, as she continued, “she is older than I supposed. -She is fourteen,—very pretty, or beautiful, I think Mr. Wilmot said, and -that does not commend her to me. You know how susceptible Grant is to -beauty, and there must be no more mistakes. The time is too short for -that. Grant is going to Andover, which is not far from Meadowbrook, and -if he knew of this girl, who is his second cousin, nothing could keep -him from seeing her, and there is no telling what complications might -arise, for she is undoubtedly designing like her mother, who won Gerold -from the woman he should have married. Consequently you are to say -nothing to Grant of this girl; then, if he chances to meet her and -trouble comes of it, I shall know the hand of fate is in it.” - -“But, Keziah,” I remonstrated, “you surely cannot expect that Grant will -never know anything of Doris? That is preposterous!” - -“He need know nothing of her until matters are arranged between him and -Dorothea, who is only fifteen now, while he is eighteen,—both too young -as yet for an engagement. But it must be. It shall be!” - -She spoke with great energy, and we, who knew her so well, felt sure -that it would be, and knew that so far as Grant or any of us were -concerned, Doris was to remain a myth until such time as Keziah chose to -bring her home. But if we could not speak of her to Grant, Desire and I -talked of her often between ourselves, and two or three times I began a -letter to her, but always burned it, so great was my fear of Keziah’s -displeasure should she find it out. We knew the girl was well cared for -and happy, and that she stood high in all her classes, for the very best -of reports came regularly from her teachers, both with regard to -deportment and to scholarship. Perhaps I am wrong, but I cannot help -thinking that Keziah would have been better pleased if some fault had -been found in order to confirm her theory that blood will tell. But -there has been none, and she was graduated with honor at the High School -in Meadowbrook, and every arrangement was made for her to go to Madame -De Moisiere’s school in Boston, where she particularly wished to go, -when suddenly Keziah changed her mind in favor of Wellesley, where Doris -did not wish to go. “She is bitterly disappointed, and I shall be glad -if you can think best to adhere to your first plan,” Mr. Wilmot wrote, -but did not move Keziah a whit. It was either Wellesley or some -out-of-the-way place in Maine, which I do not recall. Doris has chosen -Wellesley, of course, while Dizzy and I have put our wits to work to -find the cause of the change, and I think we have found it. Dorothea has -suddenly made up her mind to go to Madame De Moisiere. - -“I don’t care for books, any way,” she wrote. “I am a dunce, and -everybody knows it and seems to like me just as well. But old Gardy -thinks I ought to go somewhere to be finished, and so I have chosen De -Moisiere, where I expect to have no end of fun provided I can hoodwink -the teachers, and I think I can. Besides, as you may suspect, the fact -that Grant has finished Andover and is now in Harvard has a good deal to -do with my choice, for he will call upon me, of course. I shall be so -proud of him, as I hear he is very popular, and all the girls will be -green with envy!” - -“The dear rattle-brained child,” Keziah said, chuckling over the letter, -as she would not have chuckled if it had been from Doris,—“the dear -rattle-brained child! Of course Grant must call, and I shall write to -the professors, giving my permission, and to Madame asking her to allow -him to see her.” - -Poor, innocent Kizzy! It is so many years since she was at -boarding-school, where she was kept behind bars and bolts, and she knows -so little how fast the world has moved since then, that she really -believes young people are kept as closely now as they were forty years -ago. What would she say if she knew how many times Grant was at Madame’s -while he was at Andover and during his first year at Harvard, and how -many flirtations he has had with the girls, whom he calls a jolly lot. -All this he confided to Dizzy and myself, when at the vacation he came -home, fresh and breezy and full of fun and frolic and noise, making our -quiet house resound with his college songs and Harvard yells, which I -think are hideous, and rather fast, if not low. But Kizzy never utters a -word of protest, and pays without questioning the enormous bills sent to -her, and seems gratified to know that his rooms are as handsome and his -turnout as fine as any in Cambridge. - -Grant has the first place in Kizzy’s heart, and Dorothea the next, and -because she is going to Madame De Moisiere, Doris must not go, for -naturally she would fall in with Dorothea, and through her with Grant, -who would not be insensible to his pretty cousin’s charms, and who would -resent his having been kept from her so long. Mr. Wilmot has written -that she is exceedingly beautiful, with a manner which attracts every -one, while some of her teachers have written the same. Dorothea, on the -contrary, is rather plain. “Ugly as a hedge fence,” Grant once said of -her in a fit of pique, declaring that if he ever married, it would be to -a pretty face. And so he must not see Doris until he is engaged to -Dorothea, as it seems likely he soon will be, and Doris is going to -Wellesley, where Kizzy thinks Grant has never been and never can go -without her permission! Deluded Kizzy! Grant knows at least a dozen -Wellesley girls, each one of whom he designates a brick. Will he find -Doris, I wonder? I cannot help hoping so. Ah, well, the world is a queer -mixture, and _nous verrons_. - -It is growing late, and everybody in and around the house is asleep, -except myself and Nero, the watch-dog, who is fiercely baying the moon -or barking at some thieving negro stealing our eggs or chickens. The -clock is striking twelve, and I must say good-night to my journal and to -Tom, if he is still alive, and to dear little Doris: so leaning from my -window into the cool night air, I will kiss my hand to the north and -south and east and west, and say God bless them both, wherever they are. - - - - - CHAPTER III.—DORIS’S STORY. - GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. - - -It was a lovely morning in September when, with Lucy Pierce, a girl -friend, I took the train for Boston, where I was to spend the night with -Lucy’s aunt, who lived there, and the next day go to Wellesley. Soon -after we were seated, a young man who had formerly lived in Meadowbrook, -but was now a clerk in some house in Chicago and was going to Boston on -business, entered the car, and after the first greetings were over, said -to us, “I saw you get in at Meadowbrook, and have come to speak with you -and have a little rest. The through sleeper from Chicago and Cincinnati -is half full of school-girls and Harvard boys, who have kept up such a -row. Why, it was after twelve last night before they gave us a chance to -sleep. They are having a concert now, and a girl from Cincinnati, whom -they call Thea, and who seems to be the ringleader, is playing the -banjo, while another shakes a tambourine, and a tall fellow from -Kentucky, whom they call General Grant, is whistling an accompaniment. I -rather think Miss Thea is pretty far gone with the general, the way she -turns her great black eyes on him, and I wouldn’t wonder if he were a -little mashed on her, although she is not what I call pretty. And yet -she has a face which one would look at twice, and like it better the -second time than the first; and, by Jove, she handles that banjo well. I -wish you could see her.” - -When we reached Worcester, where we were to stop a few minutes, Lucy and -I went into the sleeper, from which many of the passengers had alighted, -leaving it free to the girls and the Harvards, who were enjoying -themselves to their utmost. The concert was at its height, banjo and -tambourine-players and whistler all doing their best, and it must be -confessed that the best was very good. Thea was evidently the centre of -attraction, as, with her hat off and her curly bangs pushed back from -her forehead, her white fingers swept the strings of the banjo with a -certain inimitable grace, and her brilliant, laughing eyes looked up to -the young man, who was bending over her with his back to me so I could -not see his face. I only knew he was tall and broad-shouldered, with -light brown hair which curled at the ends, and that his appearance was -that of one bred in a city, who has never done anything in his life but -enjoy himself. And still he fascinated me almost as much as Thea, who, -as I passed her, said to him, with a soft Southern accent, “For shame, -Grant,—to make so horrid a discord! I believe you did it on purpose, and -I shall not play any more. The concert is ended; pass round the hat;” -and, dropping her banjo on her lap and running her fingers through her -short hair until it stood up all over her head, she leaned back as if -exhausted and fanned herself with her sailor hat. With the exception of -her eyes and hair, she was not pretty in the usual acceptation of the -term. But, as young Herring had said, one would turn to look at her -twice and like her better the second time than the first, for there was -an irresistible charm in her manner and smile and voice, which to me -seemed better than mere beauty of feature and complexion. - -When he reached the depot in Boston I saw her again, and then thought -her very pretty as she stood upon the platform, taking her numerous -parcels from “General” Grant, with whom she was gayly chattering. - -“Now mind you come soon. I shall be so homesick till I see you. I am -half homesick now,” she said, brushing a tear, either real or feigned, -from her eyes. - -“But suppose they won’t let me call? They are awfully stiff when they -get their backs up, and they are not very fond of me,” the young man -said, and she replied, “Oh, they will, for your aunt and Gardy are going -to write and ask permission for me to see you, so that is fixed. _Au -revoir._” And, kissing her fingers to him, she followed her companions, -while Grant went to look for his baggage. - -He had been standing with his back to me, but as he turned I saw his -face distinctly and started involuntarily with the thought that I had -seen him before, or somebody like him. Surely there was something -familiar about him, and the memory of my dead father came back to me and -was associated with this young man, thoughts of whom clung to me -persistently, until the strangeness and novelty of Wellesley drove him -and Thea from my mind for a time. - -Of my student life at Wellesley, I shall say but little, except that as -a student I was contented and happy. I loved study for its own sake, and -no task was too long, no lesson too hard, for me to master. I stood high -in all my classes, and was popular with my teachers and the few girls -whom I chose as my friends. And still there was constantly with me a -feeling of unrest,—a longing for something I could not have. Mordecai -sat in the gate, and my Mordecai was the restrictions with which my Aunt -Keziah hedged me round, not only in a letter written to my teachers, but -in one which she sent to me when I had been in Wellesley three or four -weeks. I was not expecting it, and at the sight of her handwriting my -heart gave a great bound, for she was my blood relation, and although I -had no reason to love her, I had more than once found myself wishing for -some recognition from her. At last it had come, I thought, and with -moist eyes and trembling hands I opened the letter, which was as -follows: - - “DEAR DORIS,—It has come to my knowledge that a great deal more - license is allowed to young people than in my day, and that young men - sometimes call upon or manage to see school-girls without the - permission of their parents or guardians. This is very reprehensible, - and something I cannot sanction. I am at a great expense for your - education, in order that you may do credit to your father’s name, and - I wish you to devote your entire energies and thoughts to your books, - and on no account to receive calls or attentions of any kind from any - one, and especially a Harvard student. My orders are strict in this - respect, and I have communicated them to your Principal. You can, if - accompanied by a teacher, go occasionally to a concert or a lecture in - Boston, but, as a rule you are better in the building, and must have - nothing to do with the Harvarders. Your past record is good and I - expect your future to be the same, and shall be pleased accordingly. I - shall send your quarter’s spending money to Miss ——, who will give it - to you as you need it, and I do this because I hear that girls at - school are sometimes given to buying candy by the box,—French candy, - too,—and sweets by the jar, and to having _spreads_, whatever these - may be. But you can afford none of these extravagancies, and, lest you - should be tempted to indulge in them, I have removed the possibility - from your way by giving your allowance to Miss ——, and I wish you to - keep an account of all your little incidental expenses, and send it to - me with the quarterly reports of your standing. - - “I have arranged with the Wilmots for you to spend your vacations with - them. But when your education is finished, if your record is as good - as it has been, you will come to us, of course, if we have a home for - you to come to. There is a dark cloud hanging over us, and whether it - will burst or not I cannot tell. If it does, you may be obliged to - earn your own living, and hence the necessity for you to get a - thorough education. I am thankful to say that, for people of our - years, your aunts and myself are in comfortable health. If you wish to - write me occasionally and tell me of your life at Wellesley, you can - do so, but you must not expect prompt replies, as people at my time of - life are not given to voluminous correspondence. - - “Yours truly, - “KEZIAH MORTON.” - -I had opened the letter with eager anticipations of what it might -contain, but when I finished it my heart was hardening with a sense of -the injustice done me by treating me as if I were a little child, who -could not be trusted with my own pocket money, and who was to give an -account for every penny spent, from a postage stamp to a car fare. And -this at first hurt me worse than the other restrictions. I did not know -much about the Harvard boys or spreads, and I did not care especially -for French candy and sweets, but now that they were so summarily -forbidden, I began to want them and to rebel against the chains which -bound me, and as the weeks and months went on, I became more and more -conscious of a feeling of desolation and loneliness, which at times made -me very unhappy. In Meadowbrook I had been so kindly cared for by the -Wilmots that, except for the sense of loss when I thought of my mother, -I had not fully realized how alone I was in the world; but at Wellesley, -when I heard my companions talk of their homes and saw their delight -when letters came to them from father or mother or brothers or sisters, -I used to go away and cry with an intense longing for the love of some -one of my own kindred and friends. I had no letters from home and no -home to go to during the vacations except that of the Wilmots, who -always made me welcome. I stood alone, a sort of _goody-goody_, as the -girls called me when I resisted their entreaties to join in violation of -the rules. I took no part in what Aunt Keziah called spreads. I seldom -saw a Harvard student, but heard a good deal about them and learned that -they were not the monsters Aunt Kizzy thought them to be. - -My room-mate, Mabel Stearns, had a brother in Harvard, whose intimate -friend was called General Grant, but whose real name was Grantley -Montague, Mabel said, adding that he was a Kentuckian and belonged to a -very aristocratic family. He was reported to be rich, spending his money -freely, and while always managing to have his lessons and stand well -with the professors, still arranging to have a hand in every bit of fun -and frolic that came in his way. I heard, too, of Dorothea Haynes, who -was at Madame De Mosiere’s, She was a great heiress and an orphan, and -lived in Cincinnati with her guardian, whom she called old Gardy, who -gave her all the money she wanted, and whose instructions were that, as -she was delicate, she was not to have too many lessons or study too -hard. Like Grantley Montague, she was very popular, and no one had so -many callers from Harvard. Prominent among these was Grantley Montague, -who was very lover-like in his attentions. Happy Dorothea Haynes, I -thought, envying her for her money,—which was not doled out to her in -quarters and halves,—envying her for her freedom, and envying her most -for her acquaintance with Grantley Montague, who occupied much of my -thoughts, but who seemed as far removed from me as the planets from the -earth. - -I never went anywhere, except occasionally to a concert, or a lecture, -and to church. I seldom saw anyone except the teachers and students -around me, and, although I was very fond of my books, time dragged -rather monotonously with me until I had been at Wellesley about two and -a half years, when Mabel who had spent Sunday in Boston came back on -Monday radiant and full of news which she hastened to communicate. -Grantley Montague and her brother Fred were soon to give a tea-party -under the auspices of her married sister, who lived in Cambridge, and -who was to be assisted by two or three other ladies. I had heard of -these receptions, where Thea Haynes usually figured so prominently in -wonderful costumes, but if any wish that I might have part in them ever -entered my mind, it was quickly smothered, for such things were not for -me, fettered as I was by my aunt Keziah’s orders, which were not relaxed -in the least, although I was now nineteen years of age. How then was I -surprised and delighted when with Mabel’s invitation there came one for -me! It was through her influence, I knew, but I was invited, and for a -few moments I was happier than I had ever been in my life. Then came the -thought expressed in words, “Can I go?” - -“Certainly,” Mabel said; “you have only to write your aunt, who will say -yes at once, if you tell her how much you desire it, and Miss —— will -give her permission gladly, for you are the model scholar. You never get -into scrapes, and have scarcely had an outing except a few stupid -lectures or concerts with a teacher tacked on, and I don’t believe you -have spoken to a Harvarder since you have been here. Of course she will -let you go; if she don’t, she’s an old she-dragon. Write to her at once, -and blarney her a little, if necessary.” - -I did not know how to blarney, and I was horribly afraid of the -she-dragon, as Mabel called her, but I wrote her that day, telling her -what I wanted, and how much pleasure it would give me to go. It was the -first favor I had asked, I said, and I had tried so hard to do what I -thought would please her, that I hoped she would grant it, and, as there -was not very much time for delay, would she please telegraph her answer? -I signed myself, “Your affectionate niece, Doris Morton,” and then -waited, anxiously, for a reply. I knew about how long it took for a -letter to reach Morton Park, and on the fourth day after mine was sent I -grew so nervous that I could scarcely eat or keep my mind upon my -lessons. Encouraged by Mabel, I had come to think it quite sure that my -aunt would consent, and had tried on my two evening dresses to see which -was the more becoming to me, crimson surah with creamy trimmings, or -cream-colored cashmere with crimson trimmings. Mabel decided for the -cashmere, which, she said, softened my brilliant color, and I sewed a -bit of lace into the neck and fastened a bow of ribbon a little more -securely, and was smoothing the folds of the dress and wondering what -Grantley Montague would think of it and me, when there was a knock at my -door and a telegram was handed me. I think the sight of one of those -yellow missives quickens the pulse of every one, and for a moment my -heart beat so fast that I could scarcely stand. I was alone, for Mabel -had gone out, and, dropping into a chair, I opened the envelope with -hands which shook as if I were in a chill. Then everything swam before -my eyes and grew misty, except the one word _No_, which stamped itself -upon my brain so indelibly that I see it now as distinctly as I saw it -then, and I feel again the pang of disappointment and the sensation as -if my heart were beating in my throat and choking me to death. I -remember trying to cry, with a thought that tears might remove the -pressure in my head, which was like a band of steel. But I could not, -and for a few moments I sat staring at the word _No_, which for a time -turned me into stone. Then I arose and hung up the dress I was not to -wear, and put away the long gloves I had bought to go with it, and was -standing by the window, looking drearily out upon the wintry sky, when -Mabel came in, full of excitement and loaded with parcels. - -She had been shopping in Boston, and she displayed one after another the -slippers and fan and handkerchief she had bought for the great occasion -of which she had heard so much. Grantley Montague, she said, was sparing -no pains to make it the very finest affair of the season, and Thea -Haynes was having a wonderful costume made, although she already had a -dozen Paris gowns in her wardrobe. Then, as I did not enter very -heartily into her talk, she suddenly stopped, and, looking me in the -face, exclaimed, “What is it, Dorey? Has the answer come?” - -I nodded, and spying the dispatch on the table, she snatched it up and -read _No_, and then began pirouetting wildly around the room, with -exclamations not very complimentary to my aunt. - -“The vile old cat!” she said. “What does she mean by treating you so, -and you the model who never do anything out of the way, and have never -been known to join in the least bit of a lark? But I would spite the -hateful old woman. I’d be bad if I were you. Suppose you jump out of the -window to-night, or do something to assert your rights. Will you? A lot -of us will help.” - -She had expressed aloud much that had passed through my mind during the -last hour. What was the use of being a _goody-goody_, as I was so often -called? Why not be a _bady-bady_ and taste forbidden fruit for once? I -had asked myself, half resolving to throw off all restraint and see how -bad I could be. But when I thought of my teachers, who trusted me and -whom I loved, and more than all when I remembered my dead mother’s -words, “If your aunts care for you, respect their wishes as you would -mine,” my mood changed. I would do right whatever came; and I said so to -Mabel, who called me a milksop and sundry other names equally -expressive, and declared she would not tell me a thing about the -reception. But I knew she would, and she did, and for days after it I -heard of little else than the _perfectly elegant_ affair. - -“Such beautiful rooms,” she said, “with so many pictures, and among them -such a funny one of four old women sitting in a row, like owls on a -pole, with a moon-faced baby in the lap of one of them, and a young man -behind them. It has a magnificent frame, and I meant to have asked its -history, but forgot it, there was so much else to look at.” - -I wonder now that I did not think of my father’s picture of his four -aunts, which was sold to a Boston dealer years before; but I did not, -and Mabel rattled on, telling me of the guests, and the dresses, -especially that of Thea Haynes, which she did not like; it was too low -in front and too low in the back, and fitted her form too closely, and -the sleeves were too short for her thin arms. - -“But then it was all right because it was Thea Haynes, and she is very -nice and agreeable and striking, with winning manners and a sweet -voice,” she said. “Everybody was ready to bow down to her, except -Grantley Montague, who was just as polite to one as to another, and who -sometimes seemed annoyed at the way she monopolized him, as if he were -her special property. I am so sorry you were not there, as you would -have thrown her quite in the shade, for you are a thousand times -handsomer than she.” - -This was of course flattering to my vanity, but it did not remove the -feeling of disappointment, which lasted for a long time and was not -greatly lessened when about a week after the reception I received from -Aunt Keziah a letter which I knew was meant to be conciliatory. She was -sorry, she said, to have to refuse the first favor I had ever asked, but -she had good reasons, which she might some time see fit to tell me, and -then she referred again to a shadow which was hanging over the family, -and which made her morbid, she supposed. I had no idea what the shadow -was, or what connection it had with my going to Grantley Montague’s -reception, but I was glad she was making even a slight apology for what -seemed to me so unjust. She was much pleased with the good reports of -me, she said, and if I liked I might attend a famous opera which she -heard was soon to be in Boston, and I could have one of those long wraps -trimmed with fur such as young girls wore to evening entertainments, and -a new silk dress, if I needed it. That was very kind, and Mabel, to whom -I showed the letter, declared that the dragon must have met with a -change of heart. - -“I’d go to the opera,” she said, “and I’d have the wrap trimmed with -light fur, and the gown a grayish blue, just the color of your eyes when -you are excited. There are some lovely patterns at Jordan & Marsh’s, and -sister Clara will help you pick it out, and we’ll have a box and go with -Clara, and I’ll do your hair beautifully, and you’ll see how many -glasses will be leveled at you.” - -Mabel was always comforting and enthusiastic, and I began to feel a good -deal of interest in the box and the dress and the wrap and the opera, -which I enjoyed immensely, and where so many glasses were turned towards -me that my cheeks burned as if I were a culprit caught in some wrong -act. But there was something lacking, and that was Grantley Montague, -whom I fully expected to see. Neither he nor Thea was there, and I heard -afterwards that she was ill with a cold and had written a pathetic note, -begging him not to go and enjoy himself when she was feeling so badly -and crying on her pillow, with her nose a sight to behold. Mabel’s -brother, who reported this to her, added that when Grantley read the -note he gave a mild little swear and said he reckoned he should go if he -liked. But he didn’t, and I neither saw him then, nor any time -afterwards, except in the distance, during my stay at Wellesley. - -He was graduated the next summer, and left for Kentucky, with the -reputation of a fair scholar and a first-rate fellow who had spent quite -a fortune during his college course. Thea Haynes also left Madame’s, -where she said she had learned nothing, generously adding, however, that -it was not the fault of her teachers, but because she didn’t try. Some -time during the next autumn I heard that she had gone to Europe with her -guardian and maid and a middle-aged governess who acted as chaperon, and -that Grantley Montague was soon to join her in a trip to Egypt. After -that I knew no more of them except as Mabel occasionally told me what -she heard from her brother, who had also left Harvard and was in San -Francisco. To him Grantley wrote in February that he was with the Haynes -party, which had been increased by a second or third cousin of Thea’s, a -certain Aleck Grady, who was a crank, and perfectly daft on the subject -of a family tree and the missing link in the Hepburn line. - -“If he finds the missing link,” Fred wrote to his sister, “Grant says it -will take quite a fortune from Thea, or himself, or both; and he seems -to be a little anxious about the link which Aleck Grady is trying to -find. I don’t know what it means. Think I’ll ask him to explain more -definitely when I write him again.” - -Neither Mabel nor I could hazard a guess with regard to the missing link -or the Hepburn line, and I soon forgot them entirely in the excitement -of preparing for my graduation, which was not very far away. I had hoped -that one of my aunts at least would be present, and had written to that -effect to Aunt Keziah, telling her how lonely it would be for me with no -relative present, and how earnestly I wished that either she or Aunt -Desire or Aunt Beriah would come. I even went so far as to thank her for -all she had done for me and to tell her how sorry I was for the saucy -letter I wrote to her six years ago. I had often wanted to do this, but -had never quite made up my mind to it until now, when I hoped it might -bring me a favorable response. But I was mistaken. - -It was not possible for herself or either of her sisters to come so far, -she wrote. She appreciated my wish to have her there, she said, and did -not esteem me less for it. But it could not be. She enclosed money for -my graduating dress, and also for my traveling expenses, for after a -brief rest in Meadowbrook I was going to Morton Park, in charge of a -merchant from Frankfort, who would be in New York in July and would meet -me in Albany. And so, with no relative present to encourage me or be -proud of me, I received my diploma and more flowers than I knew what to -do with, and compliments enough to turn my head, and then, amid tears -and kisses and good wishes, bade farewell to my girl friends and -teachers, one of whom said to me at parting: “If all our pupils were -like you, Wellesley would be a Paradise.” - -A model in every respect they called me, and it was with quite a high -opinion of myself that I went to Meadowbrook, where I spent a week, and -then, bidding a tearful good-bye to the friends who had been so kind to -me, I joined Mr. Jones at Albany, and was soon on my way to Kentucky. - - - - - CHAPTER IV.—GRANTLEY MONTAGUE’S STORY. - ALECK AND THEA. - - - HOTEL CHAPMAN, FLORENCE, April —, 18—. - -Nearly everybody keeps a diary at some time in his life, I think. Aunt -Brier does, I know, and Thea, and Aleck,—confound him, with his Hepburn -lines and missing links!—and so I may as well be in fashion and commence -one, even if I tear it up, as I probably shall. Well, here we are in -Florence, and likely to be until Thea is able to travel. Why did she go -tearing around Rome night and day in all sorts of weather, spooning it -in the Coliseum by moonlight and declaring she was _oh, so hot_, when my -teeth were chattering with cold, and I could see nothing in the beauty -she raved about but some old broken walls and arches, with shadows here -and there, which did not look half as pretty as the shadows in the park -at home? Europe hasn’t panned out exactly as I thought it would, and I -am getting confoundedly bored. Thea is nice, of course,—too nice, in -fact,—but a fellow does not want to be compelled to marry a girl any -way. He’d rather have some choice in the matter, which I haven’t had; -but I like Thea immensely, and we are engaged. - -There, I’ve blurted it out, and it looks first-rate on paper, too. Yes, -we are engaged, and this is how it happened. Ever since I was knee-high -Aunt Keziah has dinged it into me that I must marry Thea, or her heart -would be broken, and the Mortons beggared. I wish old Amos Hepburn’s -hand had been paralyzed before he added to that long lease a condition -which has brought grief to my Uncle Douglas and cousin Gerold, who -married an actress, or a cook, or something, because he loved her more -than he did money. By George, I respect him for his independence, and -wish I were more like him, and not a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow who -does not know how to do a single useful thing or to earn a dollar. - -Well, the time is drawing near for that lease to expire, and unless a -direct heir of Joseph Morton, my great-grandfather, marries a direct -heir of Amos Hepburn, the entire Morton estate will revert to the -Hepburn heir. Now, I am a direct heir of Joseph Morton, and Thea is old -Hepburn’s direct heir, which means, according to the way it was -explained in the lease, that she is the eldest child, whether son or -daughter, of the eldest child, and so on back to the beginning, when -there were three daughters of old Amos. Thea comes from the second of -these daughters, for where the first one is the Lord only knows. Aleck -Grady descends from old Amos’s third daughter, and has no chance while -Thea lives. Nor does he pretend to want any, as he has money enough of -his own. He joined our party uninvited in Egypt, and has bored us to -death with his family tree, and the missing link, which link means the -eldest daughter of old Hepburn, of whom nothing is known after a certain -date. And it is she and her descendants, if there are any, he is trying -to hunt up. He is a shrewd fellow, and a kind of quack lawyer, too, and -once told me that he did not think the long lease would hold water a -minute in the United States, and asked if Aunt Keziah had consulted a -first-class lawyer, and when I told him that she had not,—that it had -been a rule in our family not to talk about the lease to any one until -compelled to do so, and that even if she knew the document was invalid -she would consider herself bound in honor to respect it as her father -had done before her and enjoined her to do,—he shrugged his shoulders -and said, “_Chacun à son goût_; but I should dispute that lease inch by -inch, and beat the Hepburns too.” - -“Why, then,” I asked, “are you so anxious to find the _missing link_, as -you call it? I always supposed that for some reason you wanted to throw -Thea out of the property.” - -With that insinuating smile of his which Thea thinks so winning and I -think so disgusting, he replied, “My dear fellow, how you mistake me! I -don’t care a picayune who gets the Morton money, if you are fools enough -to give it up. But I do care for my ancestors; in fact, I have a real -affection for my great-aunt Octavia, and am most anxious to know what -became of her and her progeny. I have her as far as New York, where all -trace of her is lost. Would you like to see the family tree?” - -As I had seen it half a dozen times and knew exactly where Octavia -failed to connect, I declined, and then the conversation turned upon -Thea, who, Aleck said, was a very nice girl, but a little too fast, and -had about her too much gush and too much powder to suit him. It was -strange why girls would gush and giggle and plaster their faces with -cosmetics and blacken their eyebrows until they looked like women of the -town, he said, appealing to me for confirmation of his opinion. I had -more than half suspected him of designs on Thea, and I flamed up at once -in her defense, telling him she neither gushed, nor powdered, nor -blackened,—three lies, as I knew,—but I was angry, and when, with that -imperturbable good humor which never fails him, he continued: “Don’t get -so mad, I beg. I am older than you, and know human nature better than -you do, and I know you pretty well. Why, I’ve made you quite a study. -Thea, in spite of her powder and gush, is a splendid girl, and will make -a good wife to the man she loves and who loves her, but she is not your -ideal, and pardon me for suggesting that I don’t believe that you would -marry her if it were not for that clause about the eldest heir, which I -don’t think is worth the paper it is written on,”—I could have knocked -him down, he was so cool and patronizing, and was also telling me a good -deal of truth. But I would not admit it, and insisted that I would marry -Thea if there had never been any Hepburn line and she had not a dollar -in the world. - -“Why don’t you propose, then, and done with it? She is dying to have -you,” he said, and I declared I would, and that night I asked her to be -my wife, and I have not regretted it either, although I know she is not -my ideal. - -But who is my ideal, and where is she, if I have one? I am sure I don’t -know, unless it is the owner of a face which I have seen but twice, but -which comes back to me over and over again, and which I would not forget -if I could, and could not if I would. The first time I saw it was at a -concert in Boston, not long before I left college. I was in the -dress-circle, and diagonally to my right was an immense bonnet or hat -which hid half the audience from me. Late in the evening it moved, and I -saw beyond it a face which has haunted me ever since. It was that of a -young and beautiful girl, who I instinctively felt belonged to a type -entirely different from the class of girls whom I had known while at -Harvard, and who, without being exactly fast in the worst acceptation of -the term, had come so near the boundary-line between propriety and -impropriety that it was difficult to tell on which side they stood. But -this girl was different, with her deep-blue eyes and her wavy hair which -I was sure had never come in contact with the hot curling-tongs, as -Thea’s does, while her complexion, which reminded me of the roses and -lilies in Aunt Keziah’s garden, owed none of its brilliancy to -cosmetics, as Aleck says most complexions do. She was real, and -inexpressibly lovely, especially when she smiled, as she sometimes did -upon the lady who sat beside her, and who might have been her mother, or -her chaperone, or some elderly relative. When the concert was over I -hurried out, hoping to get near her, but she was lost in the crowd, and -I only saw her once again, three weeks later, in an open street-car -going in the opposite direction from the one in which I was seated. In -her hand she held a paper parcel, which made me think she might possibly -be a seamstress or a saleslady, and I spent a great deal of time -haunting the establishments in Boston which employed girls as clerks, -but I never found her, nor heard of her. She certainly was not at -Moisiere’s and I don’t think she was at Wellesley, as I am sure I should -have heard of her through Fred, who had a sister there. Once I thought I -would tell him about her, but was kept from doing so by a wish to -discover her myself, and when discovered to keep her to myself. But I -have never seen her since the day she went riding so serenely past me, -unconscious of the admiration and strange emotions she was exciting in -me. Who was she, I wonder; and shall I ever see her again? It is not -likely; and if I do, what can it matter to me, now that I am engaged to -Thea? - -In her letter of congratulation Aunt Keziah, who was wild with delight, -wrote to me that nothing could make her so happy as my marriage with -Thea, and that she knew I would keep my promise, no matter whom I might -meet, for no one of Morton blood ever proved untrue to the woman he -loved. Of course I shall prove true; and who is there to meet, unless it -is my Lost Star, as I call her, for whom I believe I am as persistently -searching as Aleck is for the missing link, for I never see a group of -young American girls that I do not manage to get near enough to see if -she is among them, and I never see a head of chestnut-brown hair set on -shoulders just as hers was that I don’t follow it until I see the face, -which as yet has not been hers. And in this I am not disloyal to Thea, -whom I love better than any girl I have ever known, and whom I will make -happy, if possible. She has been ill now nearly four weeks, but in a few -days we hope to move on to Paris, where we shall stay until June, then -go to Switzerland, and some time in the autumn sail for home, and the -aunts who have vied with each other in spoiling me and are the dearest -aunts in the world, although so unlike each other,—Aunt Keziah, with her -iron will but really kind heart, Aunt Dizzy, with her invalid airs and -pretty youthful ways which suit her so well in spite of her years, and -Aunt Brier, whose name is a misnomer, she is so soft and gentle, with -nothing scratchy about her, and who has such a sad, sweet face, with a -look in her brown eyes as if she were always waiting or listening for -something. I believe she has a history, and that it is in some way -connected with that queer chap, Bey Atkins they called him, whose dress -was half Oriental and half European, and whom I met at Shepheard’s in -Cairo. I first saw him the night after our return from the trip up the -Nile. He registered just after I had written the names of our party, at -which he looked a long time, and then fairly shadowed me until he had a -chance to speak to me alone. It was after dinner, and we were sitting -near each other in front of the hotel, when he began to talk to me, and -in an inconceivably short space of time had learned who I was, and where -I lived, and about my aunts, in whom he seemed so greatly interested, -especially Aunt Brier, that I finally asked if he had ever been to -Morton Park. - -“Yes,” he answered, knocking the ashes from his cigar and leaning back -in the bamboo chair in the graceful, lounging way he has,—“yes, years -ago I was in Versailles and visited at Morton Park. Your aunt Beriah and -I were great friends. Tell her when you go home that you saw Tom Atkins -in Cairo, and that he has become a kind of wandering Ishmael and wears a -red fez and white flannel suit. Tell her, too—” but here he stopped -suddenly, and, rising, went into the street, where his dragoman was -holding the white donkey he always rode, sometimes alone and sometimes -with a little girl beside him, who called him father. - -Of course, then, he is married, and his wife must be an Arab, for the -child was certainly of that race, with her great dark eyes and her tawny -hair all in a tangle. I meant to ask him about her, but when next day I -inquired for him, I was told that he had gone to his home near -Alexandria, where, I dare say, there is a host of little Arabs, and a -woman with a veil stretched across her nose, whom he calls his wife. - -Alas for Aunt Brier if my conjecture is right! - - - - - CHAPTER V.—BERIAH’S STORY. - DORIS AND THE GLORY HOLE. - - -It is a long time since I have opened my journal, for there is so little -to record. Life at Morton Park goes on in the same monotonous routine, -with no change except of servants, of which we have had a sufficiency -ever since the negroes became “ekels,” as our last importation from -Louisville, who rejoiced in the high-sounding name of Helena Maude, -informed us they were. Such things make Keziah furious, for she is a -regular fire-eater, but I shall admit their equality provided they spare -my best bonnet and do not insist upon putting their knives into our -butter. Helena Maude is a pretty good girl, and when some of her friends -come to the front door and ask if Miss Smithson lives here I tell them -yes, and send them round to the cabins and say nothing to Keziah, who -for the last few weeks has been wholly absorbed in other matters than -colored gentry. - -Doris is coming home to-morrow, and just the thought of it makes me so -nervous with gladness that I can scarcely write legibly. I think it was -a struggle for Keziah to consent to her coming, and she only did so -after she heard Grant was engaged to Dorothea. I never saw Keziah as -happy as she was upon the receipt of Grant’s letter, for his marriage -with Dorothea means keeping our old home, and she allowed Helena Maude -to whistle “Marching Through Georgia” as she cleared the table, and did -not reprove her. It was soon after this that she announced her intention -to bring Doris to Morton Park after her graduation, and that night Dizzy -and I held a kind of jubilee in our sitting-room, we were so glad that -at last Gerold’s daughter was coming to her father’s old home. - -We need young blood here to keep us from stagnating, and although -Grantley will be with us in the autumn, and possibly Dorothea, we know -what they are, and are anxious for something new and fresh and pretty -like Doris. I have a photograph of her, and it stands before me as I -write, a picture of a wondrously beautiful young girl, with great -earnest eyes confronting mine so steadfastly, and masses of soft, -natural curls all over her head after the fashion of the present day. I -know they are natural, although Keziah says they are the result of hot -tongs, and that she shall stop it at once, for she will not have the gas -turned on half the time while the irons are heating. That is Dorothea’s -style; but she is in the Hepburn line, and is to marry Grant, which -makes a difference. - -Doris sent such a nice letter to Keziah, asking pardon for the saucy -things she wrote to her years ago, and begging that some one of us would -come to see her graduated. How I wanted to go! but Keziah said we could -not afford it, as she intended buying a new upright Steinway in place of -the old spindle-legged thing on which she used to thrum when a girl. We -have heard that Doris is a fine musician, but Keziah will not admit that -the piano was bought for her. Dorothea will visit us in the autumn, she -says, and she wishes to make it as pleasant as possible for her. Dizzy -and I both know what Dorothea’s playing is like, and that it does not -matter much whether it is on a Steinway or a tin pan, but we are glad -for something modern in our ancient drawing-room, where every article of -furniture is nearly as old as I am, and where the new Steinway is now -standing with one of Keziah’s shawls thrown over it to keep it from the -dust. - -For once in our lives Dizzy and I have waged a fierce battle with -Keziah, who came off victor as usual. The battle was over Doris’s room, -which Keziah thinks is of little consequence. Looking at our house from -the outside, one would say it was large enough to accommodate a dozen -school-girls; but looks are deceptive, and it seems it can hardly -accommodate one. There is a broad piazza in front, and through the -centre a long and wide hall, after the fashion of most Southern houses. -On the south side of the hall are the drawing-room and sitting-room, -with fireplaces in each. On the north side are the dining-room and -Keziah’s sleeping-room, where she usually sits and receives her intimate -friends. On the floor above are also four rooms,—Dizzy’s and mine, which -open together on the north side of the hall, and on the other side -Grantley’s, and the guest-room, which has not been occupied in fifteen -years, for when Dorothea is here she has always had a cot in my room or -Dizzy’s. At the end of the hall is a small room, ten by twelve perhaps, -and communicating with the guest-chamber, for which it was originally -intended as a dressing-room, but which we use as a store-room for a most -heterogeneous mass of rubbish, such as broken chairs and stands and -trunks and chests, and old clothes and warming-pans and water-bags and -Grantley’s fishing-tackle. The Glory Hole, we call it, though what the -name has to do with the room I have no idea. There is a tradition that -Gerold, when he first looked into it, exclaimed, “Oh, glory, what a -hole!” and hence the name, which clung to it even after it was cleared -of its rubbish for him, for he once occupied it when a little boy, and -now it is to be his daughter’s. - -Dizzy and I pleaded for the large guest-chamber, but Keziah said that -was reserved for Dorothea who, as an engaged young lady, was too old to -sleep in a cot. And nothing we could say was of any avail to turn her -from her purpose. The Glory Hole was good enough for the daughter of a -cook, she said, and so the room has been emptied of its contents, and, -except that it is so small, it is quite presentable, with its matting -and muslin hangings and willow chair and table by the window, under -which there is a box of flowers, as one often sees in London. Just where -she will put her trunk or hang her dresses I don’t know,—possibly in my -closet, which is large enough for us both. She will be here to-morrow -afternoon, and Keziah is nearly ill with dread of her coming, and -worrying as to what she will be like, and whether she will bring a -banjo, and worst of all, if she will want to ride a bicycle! This -bicycle-riding is in Kizzy’s mind the most disreputable thing a woman -can do, and the sight of a girl on a wheel, or a boy either, for that -matter, is like a red flag to a bull, especially since the riders have -taken to the sidewalks. She will never turn out, she declares, and I -have seen her stand like a rock and face the enemy bearing down upon -her, and once she raised her umbrella with a hiss and a shoo, as if she -were scaring chickens. I dare say Thea will have one as soon as she -lands in America, but for Doris there are no bicycles, or banjoes, or -hot irons,—nothing but the Glory Hole. Poor little Doris! - -I hope she will be happy with us, and I know I am glad because she is -coming. So few have ever come home to make me glad, and the one who -could make me the gladdest will never come again, for somewhere in the -wide world the sun is shining on his grave, I am sure, or he would come -back to me, and I should bid him stay, or rather go with him, whether to -the sands of Arabia or to the shores of the Arctic Sea. My hair is -growing gray, the bloom has faded from my cheek, and I shall be -forty-four my next birthday, and it is twenty-four years since I saw -Tom; but a woman’s love at forty-four is just as strong, I think, as a -girl’s at twenty, and there is scarcely a night that I do not hear in my -dreams the peculiar whistle with which he used to summon me to our -trysting-place after Kizzy had forbidden him the house, and I see again -his great, dark eyes full of entreaty and love, and hear his voice -urging me to do what, if it were to do over again, I would do. That is -an oddly-worded sentence; but I am too tired to change it, and will -close my journal until after I have seen Doris. - - - - - CHAPTER VI.—DORIS’S STORY. - MORTON PARK. - - -I have been here four weeks, and begin to feel quite like the daughter -of the house, with some exceptions. I am in love with Aunt Beriah, very -intimate with Aunt Desire, and not as much in awe of Aunt Keziah as I -was at first. It was a lovely afternoon when the coach from Frankfort -set me down at the gate to the Morton grounds, where a little, -brown-eyed, brown-haired lady was waiting for me. She had one of the -sweetest faces I ever saw, and one of the sweetest voices, too, as she -came towards me, holding out both her soft white hands, and saying to -me, “I am sure you are Doris, and I am your aunt Beriah. Welcome to -Morton Park!” - -It was not so much what she said as the way she said it, which stirred -me so strangely. It was the first word of affection I had heard from my -own kin since my mother died, and, taking her hands in mine, I kissed -them passionately, and cried like a child. I think she cried a little, -too, but am not sure. I only know that she put her arm around my neck -and said, soothingly, “There, there, dear. Don’t cry, when I am so -glad.” - -Then taking my bag and umbrella, she gave them to a colored girl, whom -she called Vine, and who, after bobbing me a courtesy, disappeared -through the gateway. - -“It is not far, and I thought you would like to walk,” Aunt Brier said, -leading the way, while I followed her into the park, at the rear of -which stood the house, with its white walls and Corinthian pillars, -looking so cool and pleasant in the midst of grass and flowers and -maples and elms, with an immense hawthorn-tree in full bloom. - -“Oh, this is lovely, and just as papa told me it was,” I exclaimed, and -then, stopping short, Aunt Brier drew me close to her, and scrutinizing -me earnestly, said, with a tremor in her voice, “Yes, Gerold told you of -his old home. I was so fond of him. We were like brother and sister, and -I was so sorry when he died. You are not as much like him as I fancied -you were from your photograph.” - -“No?” I said, interrogatively, wondering if she were disappointed in me; -but she soon set me right on that point by saying, “Gerold was -good-looking, but you are beautiful.” - -I had been told that so often, and I knew it so well without being told, -that I did not feel at all elated. I was only glad that she liked my -looks, and replied, “And you are lovely, and so young, too. My great -aunt ought to look older.” - -She smiled at that, and said, “I am nearly forty-four, and feel -sometimes as if I were a hundred. But there is Kizzy on the piazza. I -think we’d better hurry. She does not like to wait for anything.” - -I had never really known what fear of any person was, but I felt it now, -and my heart beat violently as I hastened my steps towards the spot -where Aunt Keziah stood, stiff and tall and straight, and looking very -imposing in her black silk gown and lace cap set on a smooth band of -false hair, a bunch of keys dangling at her belt, and a dainty -hemstitched handkerchief clasped in her hands. In spite of her sixty odd -years, she was a handsome woman to look at, with her shoulders thrown -back and her chin in the air as if she were on the alert and the -defensive. Her features were clearly cut, her face smooth and pale, -while her bright black eyes seemed to look me through as they traveled -rapidly from my hat to my boots and back again, evidently taking in -every detail of my dress, and resting finally on my face with what -seemed to be disapproval. - -“How do you do, Miss Doris?” she said, with a quick shutting together of -her thin lips, and without the shadow of a smile. - -I had cried when Aunt Brier spoke to me, but I did not want to cry now, -for something of the woman’s nature must have communicated itself to -mine and frozen me into a figure as hard and stiff as she was. It was a -trick of mine to imitate any motion or gesture which struck me forcibly, -and I involuntarily threw my shoulders back and my chin in the air, and -gave her two fingers just as she had given me, and told her I was quite -well, and hoped she was the same. For a moment she looked at me -curiously, while it seemed to me that her features did relax a little as -she asked if I were not very tired with the journey and the dusty ride -in the coach from Frankfort. - -“It always upsets me,” she said, suggesting that I go at once to my room -and rest until dinner, which would be served sharp at six, “and,” she -added, “we never wait for meals; breakfast at half-past seven in the -summer, lunch at half-past twelve, dinner at six.” - -Then she made a stately bow, and I felt that I was dismissed from her -presence, and started to follow Aunt Beriah into the hall just as two -negroes came up the walk bringing one of my trunks, which had been -deposited at the entrance to the park. - -“Mass’r Hinton’s man done fotchin’ t’other trunk on his barrer,” the -taller negro said, in response to a look of inquiry he must have seen on -my face, and instantly Aunt Kizzy’s lips came together just as they had -done when she said, “How do you do, Miss Doris?” - -“Two trunks?” she asked, in a tone which told me that I had brought -altogether too much luggage. - -“Yes,” I replied, stopping until the negroes came up the steps. “Perhaps -I ought to have brought but one, but I have so many books and things, -and, besides, one trunk was father’s and one mother’s, and I could not -give either up. This was father’s, which he said you gave him when he -went to college. See, here is his name.” And I pointed to “Gerald -Morton, Versailles, Ky.,” on the end of the stout leather trunk, which -had withstood the wear of years. - -“Yes, I remember it,” she said, in a voice so changed and with so -different an expression on her face that I scarcely knew her as she bent -over the trunk, which she touched caressingly with her hand. “You have -kept it well,” she continued; then, to the negroes, “Take it up-stairs, -and mind you don’t mar the wall nor the banisters. Look sharp, now.” - -“Mass’r Hinton’s man” had arrived with the wheelbarrow and the other -trunk, a huge Saratoga, with mother’s name upon it, “Doris Morton, New -Haven, Ct.,” but this Aunt Keziah did not touch. Indeed, it seemed to me -that she recoiled from it, and there was an added severity in her tone -as she told the man to be careful, and chided him for cutting up the -gravel with the wheelbarrow. - -“I’s couldn’t tote it, missis; it’s too heavy,” he said, as he waited -for one of the other blacks to help him take it up the stairs. - -I had reached the upper hall and was standing by the door of my room, -while Aunt Beriah said, apologetically, “I am sorry it is so small: -perhaps we can change it bye-and-bye.” - -It was really a very pretty room, but quite too small for my trunks -unless I moved out either the bedstead, or the bureau, or the washstand, -and, as I could not well dispense with either of these, I looked rather -ruefully at my aunt, who said, “There is a big closet in my room where -you can hang your dresses and put both your trunks when they are -unpacked.” And that was where I did put them, but not until after two -days, for I awoke the next morning with the worst headache I ever had in -my life, and which, I suppose, was induced by the long and rapid journey -from Meadowbrook, added to homesickness and crying myself to sleep. I -could not even sit up, and was compelled to keep my room, where Aunt -Beriah nursed me so tenderly and lovingly, while Aunt Kizzy came three -times a day to ask how I was, and where I first saw my aunt Desire, who -had been suffering with neuralgia and was not present at dinner on the -night of my arrival. She sent me her love, however, and the next day -came into my room, languid and graceful, with a pretty air of invalidism -about her, and a good deal of powder on her face, reminding me of a -beautiful ball-dress which has done service through several seasons and -been turned and made over and freshened up until it looks almost as well -as new. Her dress, of some soft, cream-colored material was artistically -draped around her fine figure and fastened on the left side with a -ribbon bow of baby blue, and her fair hair, in which there was very -little gray, was worn low on her neck in a large, flat knot, from which -a few curls were escaping and adding to her youthful appearance. If I -had not known that she was over fifty, I might, in my darkened room, -easily have mistaken her for a young girl, and I told her so when after -kissing me and telling me who she was, she sank into the rocking-chair -and asked me if she looked at all as I thought she would. - -With a merry laugh, which showed her white, even teeth, she said, “I -like that. I like to look young, if I am fifty, which I will confess to -you just because Kizzy will be sure to tell you; otherwise, torture -could not wring it from me. A woman is as old as she feels, and I feel -about twenty-five. Nor do I think it is necessary to blurt out my age -all the time, as Kizzy does. It’s no crime to be old, but public opinion -and women themselves have made it so. Let two of them get to saying -nasty things about a third, and they are sure to add several years to -her age, while even men call a girl right old before she is thirty, and -doesn’t that prove that although age may be honorable it is not -desirable, and should be fought against as long as possible? And I -intend to fight it, too, and thus far have succeeded pretty well, or -should, if it were not for Kizzy, who has the most aggravating way of -saying to me, ‘You ought not to do so at your time of life,’ and ‘at -your age,’ as if I were a hundred.” - -I listened to her in amazement and admiration too. She was so pretty and -graceful and earnest that although I thought her rather silly, and -wished that in her fight against time she did not make up quite so much -as I knew she did, I was greatly drawn towards her, and for a while -forgot my headache as she told me of her ailments, which were legion, -and with which Aunt Kizzy had little sympathy. “Kizzy thinks all one has -to do is to exercise his will and make an effort, as Mrs. Chick insisted -poor Fanny should do in ‘Dombey and Son,’” she said, and then went on to -give me glimpses of their family life and bits of family history, all of -which were, of course, very interesting to me. Aunt Brier, I heard, had -been engaged, when young, to a very fine young man, but Aunt Kizzy broke -up the match because she wished Beriah to marry some one in the Hepburn -line, which was frightfully tangled up with the Morton line. - -“It would take too long to explain the tangle,” she said, “and so I -shall not try. It estranged your father from us, and his father before -him, because each took the woman of his choice in spite of the line.” - -Then she told me of her own dead love, to whose memory she had been -faithful thirty years, and who so often visited her in her dreams that -he was as much a reality now as the day he died. - -“And that is why I try to keep young, for where he has gone they know no -lapse of time, and if he can see me, as I believe he can, I do not want -to look old to him,” she said, with a pathetic sob, while her white -hands worked nervously. - -Then she told me that I was in the Glory Hole, which my father had so -named, and told me, too, that she and Beriah had fought for the larger -room, but had given in to Kizzy, as they always did. - -“I believe she has an invisible cat-o’-nine-tails which makes us all -afraid of her,” she added; “but, really, when you get down to the kernel -it is good as gold, and you can get there if you try. Don’t seem afraid -of her, or fond of her, either. She hates gush, and she hates cowardice -and deceit; but she adores manner and etiquette as she knew it forty -years ago, and dislikes everything modern and new.” - -She did not tell me all this at one sitting, for she came to see me -twice during the two days I kept my bed, and at each visit told me so -much that I felt pretty well informed with regard to the family history, -and began to lose my dread of Aunt Keziah and to feel less nervous when -I heard her quick step and sharp voice in the hall. I knew she meant to -be kind, and knew, too, that she was watching me curiously and trying to -make up her mind as to what manner of creature I was, and whether I was -feigning sickness or not. As she had never had a hard headache in her -life, she did not know how to sympathize with one who had, and at the -close of the second day she made me understand that mine had lasted long -enough and that all I required now was an effort and fresh air, and that -she should expect me down to breakfast the next morning. And as I was -better, I made the effort, and at precisely half-past seven followed my -three aunts down the stairs in a methodical, military kind of way, which -reminded me of the school in Meadowbrook, where we used to march to the -sound of a drum and a leader’s call of “Left, right; left, right,” Aunt -Kizzy in this case being the leader and putting her foot down with an -energy which marked all her movements. - -The table was laid with great care, and Aunt Keziah said grace with her -eyes open and upon black Tom, who was slyly purloining a lump of sugar -from the bowl on the sideboard, and who nearly choked himself in his -efforts to swallow it in time for his Amen, which was very audible and -made me laugh in spite of my fear of Aunt Kizzy. When breakfast was over -I was invited into her room, where I underwent a rigid cross-examination -as to what I had learned at school, as well as done and left undone. I -was also told what I could do and not do at Morton Park. There was a new -Steinway in the drawing-room, on which I could practice each day from -nine to ten and from three to four, but at no other time unless -specially invited. Nor was I to sing unless asked to do so, while -humming to myself was out of the question, as something very -reprehensible. I was never to cross my feet when I sat down, nor lean -back in my chair, nor put my hands upon the table, and above all things -she hoped I did not whistle, and had not acquired a taste for banjoes -and bicycles, as she heard some young ladies had. - -With her sharp eyes upon me I was forced to confess that I could whistle -a little and play the banjo, and had only been kept from buying one by -lack of means, and also that when in Meadowbrook I had tried to ride a -wheel. - -“A Morton on a wheel and playing a banjo!” she exclaimed, in horror. -“Surely, surely, you did not inherit this low taste from your father’s -family. It is not the Morton blood which whistles and rides on wheels. -It is your——” - -Something in my face must have checked her, for she stopped suddenly and -stared at me, while I said, “Aunt Kizzy, I know you mean my mother, and -I want to tell you now that in every respect she was my father’s equal, -and was the sweetest, loveliest woman I ever saw, and my father was so -fond of her. I know you were angry because he married her, and you were -very unjust to her, but she never said a word against you, and now she -is dead I will hear nothing against her. She was my mother, and I am -more like her than like the Mortons, and I am glad of it.” - -This was not very respectful language, I knew, and I half expected her -to box my ears, but she did nothing of the kind, and it seemed to me as -if her expression softened towards me as she went on asking questions -about other and different matters, and finally dismissed me with the -advice that I should lie down awhile, as I looked pale and tired. That -was four weeks ago, and since that time I have learned to know her -better, and have found many good points which I admire. She has never -mentioned my mother to me since that day, but has asked me many -questions about my father and our home in Meadowbrook. In most things, -too, I have my own way and am very happy, for Aunt Keziah has withdrawn -some of her restrictions. I practice now when I like, and sing when I -please, and even hum a little to myself, and once, when she was gone, I -whistled “Annie Rooney” to my own accompaniment, with Aunts Dizzy and -Brier for audience. I have seen a good many of the Versailles people, -and have had compliments enough on my beauty to turn any girl’s head. I -have learned every nook and corner of the house and park, and become -quite attached to my Glory Hole, which I really prefer to the great room -adjoining it, with its high-post bedstead and canopy, and its stiff -mahogany furniture, which Aunt Kizzy says is nearly a hundred years old. - -It looks a thousand, as does the furniture in the next room beyond, -which puzzles me a little, it smells so like a man, and a young man, -too. By this I mean that there is in it a decided odor of tobacco and -cigars, and the leather-covered easy-chair looks to me as if some man -had often lounged in it, while I know there are a smoking-jacket and a -pair of men’s slippers there. - -Funny that such things should be in this house of the Vestal Virgins, as -I call them, and bye-and-bye I shall get to be one, I suppose, and tend -the sacred fires, and go on errands of mercy, unless, indeed, I fall in -love and am buried alive, as were the erring Vestals of old, which God -forbid. - -I wish that room did not bother me as it does. I think it is kept locked -most of the time, but two days ago I saw Rache cleaning it, and walked -in, as a matter of course, and smelled the cigars, and saw the jacket -and the slippers in the closet, and asked Rache whose room it was. She -stammers a little, and I could not quite make out what she said; and -just as I was going to repeat my question Aunt Kizzy appeared and with a -gesture of her hand waived me from the room, which remains to me as much -a mystery as ever. I could, of course, ask one or all of my aunts about -it, but by some intuition I seem to know that they do not care to talk -about it. Indeed, I have felt ever since I have been here that there is -something they are keeping from me, and I believe it is connected with -this room, which may have been my father’s, or grandfather’s, or -great-grandfather’s, although the smell is very much like the cigars of -the Harvard boys, and that smoking-jacket had a modern look. But, -whatever the mystery is, I mean in time to find it out. - - - - - CHAPTER VII.—KEZIAH’S STORY. - A SOLILOQUY. - - -Doris is here, and has been for four weeks, and in spite of myself I am -drawn to her more and more every day. I did not want her to come, and I -meant to be cold and distant to her, but when she looked at me with -something in her blue eyes like Gerold, I began to soften, while the -sight of Gerold’s trunk unnerved me wholly. I gave it to him when he -first went away to college, and I remember so well how pleased he was, -and how he put his arms around me and kissed me, as he thanked me for -it, and said, “Auntie, the trunk is so big that I shall not bring it -home at my vacations, but leave it in New Haven. So when you see it -again it will be full of honors, and I shall be an A. B., of whom you -will be so proud.” - -God forgive me if I have done wrong; that was twenty-five years ago, and -Gerold is dead, and his trunk was brought back to me by his daughter, -whose face is not his face, although very, very beautiful. I acknowledge -that to myself, and rebel against it a little, as I mentally contrast it -with Dorothea’s and wonder what Grant will think of it. I have surely -done well to keep him from all knowledge of her until he was engaged to -Dorothea, and even now I tremble a little for the result when he is -thrown in contact with her every day, for aside from her wonderful -beauty there is a grace and charm about her that Dorothea lacks, and had -I seen her before she came here I should have kept her at the North -until after Grant’s marriage, which I mean shall take place as early as -Christmas. - -He is coming home sooner than I expected; indeed he sails in two or -three days, and I must tell her at once that she has a cousin, and in -some way put her on her honor not to try to attract him. It is a -difficult thing to do, for the girl has a spirit of her own, and there -is sometimes a flash in her eyes which I do not like to meet. I saw it -first when I said something derogatory of her mother. How her eyes -blazed, and how grand she was in her defense, and how I respected her -for it! - -Ah me, that Hepburn lease! What mischief it has wrought, and how the -ghosts of the past haunt me at times, when I remember the stand I have -taken to save our house from ruin! Beriah says I am a monomaniac on the -subject, and also that she doubts the validity of the lease. But that -does not matter. My father bade me respect Amos Hepburn’s wishes, and I -shall, to the letter, if Grant does not marry Dorothea. - -I must stop now and superintend the opening of a box which by some -mistake Grant left at Cambridge and did not think necessary to have -forwarded to us until recently, when he gave orders to have it sent us -by express, It has in it a little of everything, he wrote, and among the -rest a picture which he thinks will interest and puzzle us as it has -him. I hear Tom hammering at the box, and must go and see to it. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII.—DORIS’S STORY. - MY COUSIN GRANTLEY. - - -I have solved the mystery of that room with the smell of cigars and the -smoking-jacket. It does belong to a man, and that man is Grantley -Montague, and Grantley Montague is my second cousin. Aunt Kizzy told me -all about him this morning, and I am still so dazed and bewildered and -glad and indignant that I can scarcely write connectedly about it. Why -was the knowledge that Grant was my cousin kept from me so long, and -from him, too, as he is still as ignorant as I was a few hours ago? Aunt -Kizzy’s explanation was very lame. She said if he had known that he had -a cousin at Wellesley when he was in Harvard, nothing could have kept -him from seeing me so often that we should both have been interrupted in -our studies,—that she did not approve of students visiting the girls -while they were in school,—and that she hardly knew why she did not tell -me as soon as I came here. This was not very satisfactory, and I believe -there is something behind; but when I appealed to Aunts Dizzy and -Beriah, and said I was hurt and angry, Aunt Brier did not answer at all, -but Aunt Dizzy said, “I don’t blame you, and I’d have told you long ago -if I had not been so afraid of Kizzy;” and that is all I could get from -her. - -But I know now that Grant is my cousin; and this is how it happened. -This morning, as I was crossing the back piazza, I saw Tom opening a box -which had come by express and which Aunt Kizzy was superintending. -Taking a seat on the side piazza, I thought no more about it until I -heard Aunt Kizzy say, very hurriedly and excitedly, “Go, boy, and call -Miss Desire and Miss Beriah,—quick,” and a moment after I heard them -both exclaim, and caught the sound of my father’s name, Gerold. Then I -arose, and, going around the corner, saw them bending over a picture -which I recognized at once, and in a moment I was kneeling by it and -kissing it as I would have kissed my father’s hand had it suddenly been -reached to me. - -“Oh, the picture!” I cried. “It is my father’s; he painted it. I saw him -do it. He said it was a picture of his aunties, and this is himself. -Dear father!” And I touched the face of the young man who was standing -behind the woman with the baby in her lap. - -Aunt Kizzy was very white, and her voice shook as she asked me to -explain, which I did rapidly and clearly, telling all I knew of the -picture, which had been sold to some gentleman from Boston for fifty -dollars. - -“And,” I added, “that fifty dollars went to pay his funeral expenses, -poor dear father. He was ill so long, and we were so poor.” - -I was crying, and in fact we were all crying together, Aunt Kizzy the -hardest of all, so that the hemstitched handkerchief she always carried -so gingerly was quite moist and limp. I was the first to recover myself, -and asked: - -“How did it get here? Whose box is this?” - -“Our nephew’s, Grantley Montague, who was graduated at Harvard last year -and is now in Europe. He left this box in Cambridge by mistake, and it -was not sent to us until yesterday. We are expecting him home in a short -time. He must have bought the picture for its resemblance to us, -although he could not have known that it was painted for us.” - -It was Aunt Kizzy who told me this very rapidly, as if anxious to get it -off her mind, and I noticed that she did not look at me as she spoke, -and that she seemed embarrassed and anxious to avoid my gaze. - -“Grantley Montague,—your nephew! Then he is my cousin!” I exclaimed, -while every particular connected with the young man came back to me, and -none more distinctly than the telegram, No, sent in response to my -request that I might attend his tea-party. - -I know that my eyes were flashing as they confronted Aunt Kizzy, who -stammered out: - -“Your second cousin,—yes. Did you happen to see him while at Wellesley?” - -She was trying to be very cool, but I was terribly excited, and, losing -all fear of her, replied: - -“No; you took good care that I should meet no Harvard boys; but I saw -Grantley Montague once on the train, and I heard so much about him, but -I never dreamed he was my cousin. If I had, nothing would have kept me -from him. Did he know I was there?” - -“He knows nothing of you whatever,” Aunt Kizzy said. “I did not think it -best he should as it might have interfered with the studies of you both. -He is coming soon, and you will of course make his acquaintance.” - -I was sitting upon the box and crying bitterly, not only for the -humiliation and injustice done to me, but from a sense of all I had lost -by not knowing that Grantley was my cousin. - -“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said, when she asked why I cried. “It would -have made me so happy, and I have been so lonely at times, with no one -of my own blood to care for me, and I should have been so proud of him; -and when he invited me to his party, why didn’t you let me go? I did -everything to please you. You did nothing to please me!” - -I must have been hysterical, for my voice sounded very loud and -unnatural as I reproached her, while she tried to soothe me and explain. -But I would not be soothed, and kept on crying until I could cry no -longer, and still, in the midst of my pain, I was conscious of a great -joy welling up in my heart, as I reflected that Grantley was my cousin, -and that I should soon see him in spite of Aunt Kizzy, who, I think, was -really sorry for me and did not resent what I said to her. She had me in -her room for an hour after lunch, and tried to smooth the matter over. - -“You are very pretty,” she said, “and Grant is very susceptible to a -pretty face, and if he had seen yours he might have paid you attentions -which would have turned your head, and perhaps have done you harm as -they would have meant nothing. They couldn’t mean anything; they must -mean nothing.” - -She was getting more and more excited, and began to walk the floor as -she went on: - -“I may as well tell you that I dread his coming. He is very -magnetic,—with something about him which attracts every one. Your father -had it, and your grandfather before him, and Grant has it, and you will -be influenced by it, but it must not be. Oh, why did I let you come -here, with your fatal beauty, which is sure to work us evil? or, having -come, why are you not in the Hepburn line?” - -I thought she had gone crazy, and stared at her wonderingly as she -continued: - -“I can’t explain now what I mean, except that Grant _must_ marry money, -and you have none. You have only your beauty, which is sure to impress -him, but it must not be. Promise me, Doris, to be discreet, and not try -to attract him,—not try to win his love.” - -“Aunt Keziah! What do you take me for!” I exclaimed, indignantly, and -she replied: - -“Forgive me; I hardly know what I am saying; only it must not be. You -must not mar my scheme, though if you were in the line, I’d accept you -so gladly as Grantley’s wife.” And then, to my utter amazement, she -stooped and kissed me, for the first time since I had known her. - -A great deal more she said to me, and when the interview was over, there -was on my mind a confused impression that I was not to interfere with -her plan of marrying Grantley to a rich wife,—Dorothea Haynes, probably, -although no mention was made of her,—and also that I was to treat him -very coldly and not in any way try to attract him. The idea was so -ludicrous that after a little it rather amused than displeased me, but -did not in the least lessen my desire to see the young man who had been -the lion at Harvard, and whom I had seen in the car whistling an -accompaniment to Dorothea’s banjo. - -I have told Aunts Desire and Beriah of that incident, and of nearly all -I had heard with regard to Grantley and Dorothea, but the only comment -they made was that they had known Miss Haynes since she was a child, -that she had visited at Morton Park, and would probably come there again -in the autumn. Once I thought to ask if she were engaged to Grantley, -but the wall of reserve which they manage to throw about them when the -occasion requires it, kept me silent, and I can only speculate upon it -and anticipate the time when I shall stand face to face with Grantley -Montague. - - - - - CHAPTER IX.—THE AUTHOR’S STORY. - GRANTLEY AND DORIS. - - -It was one of those lovely summer days, neither too hot nor too cold, -which sometimes occur in Kentucky even in August. The grounds at Morton -Park were looking their best, for there had been a heavy shower the -previous night, and since sunrise three negroes had been busy mowing and -rolling and pruning and weeding until there was scarcely a twig or dead -leaf to be seen upon the velvet lawn, while the air was sweet with the -odor of the flowers in the beds and on the broad borders. Mas’r Grantley -was expected home on the morrow, and that was incentive enough for the -blacks to do their best, for the negroes worshiped their young master, -who, while maintaining a proper dignity of manner, was always kind and -considerate and even familiar with them to a certain extent. Within -doors everything was also ready for the young man. Keziah had indulged -in a new cap, Dizzy in a pretty tea-gown, while Beriah had spent her -surplus money for a new fur rug for Grant’s room, which had been made -very bright and attractive with the decorations which had come with the -picture in the box from Cambridge. As for Doris, she had nothing new, -nor did she need anything, and she made a very pretty picture in her -simple muslin dress and big garden-hat, when about four o’clock she took -a book and sauntered down to a summer-house in the rear of the grounds, -near the little gate which opened upon the turnpike and was seldom used -except when some one of the family wished to go out that way to call -upon a neighbor or meet the stage. - -Taking a seat in the arbor, Doris was soon so absorbed in her book as -not to hear the stage from Frankfort when it stopped at the gate, or to -see the tall young man with satchel in one hand and light walking-cane -in the other who came up the walk at a rapid rate and quickened his -steps when he caught a glimpse of a light dress among the green of the -summer-house. Grantley, who had been spending a little time with -Dorothea at Wilmot Terrace, which was a mile or more out of Cincinnati, -had not intended to come home until the next day, but there had suddenly -come over him an intense longing to see his aunts and the old place, -which he could not resist, while, to say the truth, he was getting a -little tired of constant companionship with Dorothea and wished to get -away from her and rest. It was all very well, he said to himself, to be -kissed and caressed and made much of by a nice girl for a while, but -there was such a thing as too much of it, and a fellow would rather do -some of the love-making himself. Dorothea was all right, of course, and -he liked her better than any girl he had ever seen, although she was not -his ideal, which he should never find. He had given that up, and the -Lost Star did not now flit across his memory as often as formerly, -although he had not forgotten her, and still saw at times the face which -had shone upon him for a brief moment and then been lost, as he -believed, forever. He was not, however, thinking of it now, when, -wishing to surprise his aunts, he dismounted from the stage at the gate -and came hurrying up the walk,—the short cut to the house. Catching -sight of Doris’s dress, and thinking it was his aunt Desire, he called -out in his loud, cheery voice, “Hello, Aunt Dizzy! You look just like a -young girl in that blue gown and big hat with poppies on it. Are you -glad to see me?” - -In an instant Doris was on her feet and confronting him with the bright -color staining her cheeks and a kindling light in her blue eyes as she -went forward to meet him. She knew who it was, and, with a bright smile -which made his heart beat rapidly, she offered him her hand and said, “I -am not your aunt Dizzy, but if you are Grantley Montague I am your -cousin, Doris Morton,—Gerald Morton’s daughter,—and I am very glad to -see you.” - -For the first time in his life Grantley’s speech forsook him. Here was -his Lost Star, declaring herself to be his cousin! What did it mean? -Dropping his satchel and taking off his soft hat, with which he fanned -himself furiously, he exclaimed, “Great Scott! My cousin Doris! Gerold -Morton’s daughter! I don’t understand you. I never knew he had a -daughter, or much about him any way. Where have you kept yourself, that -I have never seen or heard of you, and why haven’t my aunts told me of -you?” - -He had her hand in his, as he led her back to the summer-house, while -she said to him. “A part of the time I have been at Wellesley. I was -there when you were at Harvard, and used to hear a great deal of you, -although I never dreamed you were my cousin till I came here.” - -This took his breath away, and, sitting down beside her, he plied her -with questions until he knew all that she knew of her past and why they -had been kept apart so long. - -“By Jove, I don’t like it,” he said. “Why, if I had known you were at -Wellesley I should have spent half my time on the road between there and -Harvard——” - -“And the other half between Harvard and Madame De Moisiere’s?” Doris -said, archly, as she moved a little from him, for he had a hand on her -shoulder now. - -“What do you mean?” he asked, quickly, while something of the light -faded from his eyes, and the eagerness from his voice. - -“I heard a great deal about you from different sources, and about Miss -Haynes, too; and I once saw you with her in the train whistling an -accompaniment to her banjo,” Doris replied. - -“The dickens you did!” Grant said, dropping Doris’s hand, which he had -held so closely. - -It is a strange thing to say of an engaged young man that the mention of -his betrothed was like a breath of cold wind chilling him suddenly, but -it was so in Grant’s case. With the Lost Star sitting by him, he had for -a moment forgotten Dorothea, whose farewell kiss was only a few hours -old. - -“The dickens you did! Well, I suppose you thought me an idiot; but what -did you think of Dorothea?” he asked, and Doris replied: - -“I thought her very nice, and wished I might know her, for I felt sure I -should like her. And she is coming to Morton Park in the autumn. Aunt -Brier told me. - -“Yes, I believe she is to visit us then,” Grant said, without a great -deal of enthusiasm, and then, changing the conversation, he began to ask -about his aunts, and what Doris thought of them, and if she were happy -with them, and when she first heard he was her cousin, and how. - -She told him of the box and the picture which had led to the disclosure, -and which she had recognized at once. - -“And your father was the artist!” he exclaimed. “By Jove, that’s funny! -How things come round! I found it in a dealer’s shop and bought it -because it looked so much like my aunts, although I did not really -suppose they were the originals, as I never remembered them as they are -on the canvas. And that moon-faced baby was meant for me, was it? What -did you think of him?” - -“I didn’t think him very interesting,” Doris replied; and then they both -laughed, and said the pleasant nothings which two young people who are -pleased with each other are apt to say, and on the strength of their -cousinship became so confidential and familiar that at the end of half -an hour Doris felt that she had known Grant all her life, while he could -scarcely have told how he did feel. - -Doris’s beauty, freshness, and vivacity, so different from what he had -been accustomed to in the class of girls he had known, charmed and -intoxicated him, while the fact that she was his cousin and the Lost -Star bewildered and confused him; and added to this was a feeling of -indignation that he had so long been kept in ignorance of her existence. - -“I don’t like it in Aunt Kizzy, and I mean to tell her so,” he said, at -last, as he rose to his feet, and, picking up his satchel, went striding -up the walk towards the house, with Doris at his side. - -It was now nearly six o’clock, and Aunt Kizzy was adjusting her cap and -giving sundry other touches to her toilet preparatory to dinner, when, -glancing from her window, she saw the young couple as they emerged from -a side path, Doris with her sun-hat in her hand and her hair blowing -about her glowing face, which was lifted towards Grant, who was looking -down at her and talking rapidly. Miss Kizzy knew Doris was pretty, but -never had the girl’s beauty struck her as it did now, when she saw her -with Grant and felt an indefinable foreboding that the Hepburn line was -in danger. - -“Doris is a flirt, and Grant is no better, and I’ll send for Dorothea at -once. There is no need to wait until autumn,” she said to herself, as -she went down stairs and out upon the piazza, where Beriah and Desire -were already, for both had seen him from the parlor and had hurried out -to meet him. - -“Hello, hello, hello,” he said to each of the three aunts, as he kissed -them affectionately. “I know you didn’t expect me,” he continued, as, -with the trio clinging to him and making much of him, he went into the -house,—“I know you didn’t expect me so soon, but the fact is I was -homesick and wished to see you all and so I came. I hope you are glad. -And, I say, why in the name of all that is good didn’t you ever tell me -I had a cousin,—and at Wellesley, too? And why did you never tell me -more of Cousin Gerold, who, it seems, painted that picture of you all? -It’s awfully queer. Hello, Tom, how d’ye?” he added, as a woolly head -appeared in the doorway and a grinning negro answered: - -“Jes’ tol’able, thanky, Mas’r Grant. How d’ye youself?” - -Keziah was evidently very glad of this diversion, which turned the -conversation away from Doris, who had remained outside, with a feeling -that for the present the aunts must have Grant to themselves. How -handsome and bright and magnetic he was, and how gay he made the dinner -with his jokes and merry laugh! Once, however, it seemed to Doris that a -shadow flitted across his face, and that was when Miss Keziah asked -after Dorothea. - -“Oh, she’s right well,” he answered, indifferently, and when his aunt -continued: - -“Didn’t she hate to have you leave so abruptly?” he replied, laughingly: - -“She paid me the compliment of saying so, but I reckon Aleck Grady will -console her for awhile.” - -“Who is Aleck Grady?” Miss Morton asked, and Grant replied: - -“Have I never written you about Aleck Grady? A good fellow enough, but -an awful bore, and a second cousin of Thea’s, who joined us in Egypt and -has been with us ever since.” - -Beriah had heard of him, but Miss Morton could not recall him, and -continued to ask questions about him as if she scented danger from him -as well as from Doris. Was he in the Hepburn line and really Thea’s -cousin, and did she like him? - -At the mention of the Hepburn line Grant’s face clouded, and he answered -rather stiffly: - -“He _is_ in the Hepburn line, one degree removed from Thea, and he is -hunting for a missing link, which, if found, will knock Thea into a -cocked hat.” - -Miss Morton knew about the missing link herself; indeed, she had once -tried to trace it, but had given it up with the conviction that it was -extinct, and if she thought so, why, then, it was so, and Aleck Grady -would never find it. But he might be dangerous elsewhere, and she -repeated her question as to whether Thea liked him or not. - -“I dare say,—as her cousin,” Grant replied, adding, with a view to tease -his aunt, “and she may get up a warmer feeling, for there is no guessing -what will happen when a young man is teaching a girl to ride a bicycle, -as he is teaching Thea.” - -“Ride a bicycle! Thea on a bicycle! Thea astride of a wheel!” Miss -Morton exclaimed, horrified and aghast at the idea. - -Was the world all topsy-turvy, or had she lived so long out of it that -she had lost her balance and fallen off? She did not know, and she -looked very white and worried, while Grant laughed at her distress and -told her how picturesque Thea looked in her blue gown and red shoes and -jockey cap, adding: - -“And she rides well, too, which is more than can be said of all the -girls. But it is of no use to kick at the bicycles; they have come to -stay, and I mean to get Doris one as soon as I can. She must not be left -out in the cold when Thea and I go racing down the turnpike. She will be -splendid on a wheel.” - -“God forbid!” came with a gasp from the highly scandalized lady, while -Doris’s eyes shone with a wonderful brilliancy as they looked their -thanks at Grant. - -With a view to change the conversation, Beriah began to question Grant -of his trip to Egypt, without a suspicion of the deep waters into which -she was sailing. After describing some of the excursions on the donkeys, -Grant suddenly exclaimed: - -“By the way, Aunt Brier, I met an old acquaintance of yours in Cairo, -Tom Atkins, who said he used to visit Morton Park. Do you remember him?” - -Beriah was white to the roots of her hair, and her hand shook so that -her coffee was spilled upon the damask cloth as she answered, faintly: - -“Tom Atkins? yes, I remember him.” - -It was Keziah who came to the rescue now by giving the signal to leave -the table, and so put an end for the time being to the conversation -concerning Tom Atkins; but that evening, after most of the family had -retired, as Grant sat smoking in the moonlight at the end of the piazza, -a slender figure clad in a gray wrapper with a white scarf on her head -stole up to him and said, very softly and sadly: - -“Now, Grant, tell me about Tom.” - -Grant told her all he knew, and that night Beriah wrote in her diary as -follows: - -“Tom is alive, and wears a fez and a white flannel suit, and has a -little, dark-eyed, tawny-haired girl whom he calls Zaidee. Of course -there is or has been an Oriental wife, and Tom is as much lost to me as -if he were sleeping in his grave. I am glad he is alive, and think I am -glad because of the little girl Zaidee. It is a pretty name, and if she -were motherless I know I could love her dearly for Tom’s sake, but such -happiness is not for me. Ah, well, God knows best.” - - - - - CHAPTER X.—DORIS’S STORY. - THEA AT MORTON PARK. - - -Thea is here, and has brought her wheel and her banjo and her pet dog, -besides three trunks of clothes. The dog, whom she calls Cheek, has -conceived an unaccountable dislike to Aunt Kizzy, at whom he barks so -furiously whenever she is in sight that Thea keeps him tied in her room -except when she takes him into the grounds for exercise. Even then he is -on the lookout for the enemy, and once made a fierce charge at her -shawl, which she had left in the summer-house and which was not rescued -from him until one or two rents had been made in it. Thea laughs, and -calls him a bad boy, and puts her arms around Aunt Kizzy’s neck and -kisses her and tells her she will send Cheek home as soon as she gets a -chance, and then she sings “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” which she says is all -the rage, and she dances the skirt dance with Grant, to whom she is -teaching a new step, which shows her pretty feet and ankles and consists -mostly of “one-two-three-kick.” And they do kick, or Grant does, so high -that Aunt Kizzy asks in alarm if that is quite proper, and then Thea -kisses her again and calls her “an unsophisticated old darling who -doesn’t know the ways of the world and must be taught.” Her banjo lies -round anywhere and everywhere, just as do her hat and her gloves and -parasol, and Aunt Kizzy, who is so particular with me, never says a -word, but herself picks up after the disorderly girl, who, with Grant, -has turned the house upside down and filled it with laughter and frolic. -Her wheel stays at night in a little room at the end of the piazza, with -Grant’s, for he has one, and with Thea he goes scurrying through the -town, sometimes in the street and sometimes on the sidewalk, to the -terror of the pedestrians. Thea has already knocked down two negroes and -run into the stall of an old apple-woman, who would have brought a suit -if Aunt Kizzy had not paid the damages claimed. - -What do I think of Thea? I love her, and have loved her from the moment -she came up to me so cordially and called me Cousin Doris, and told me -Grant had written her all about me, and that because I was at Morton -Park she had come earlier than she had intended doing, and had left her -old Gardy and Aleck Grady disconsolate. “But,” she added, quickly: -“Aleck is coming soon, and then it will be jolly with four of us, Grant -and you, Aleck and me, and if we can’t paint the town red my name is not -Thea.” - -I don’t suppose she is really pretty, except her eyes, which are lovely, -but her voice is so sweet and her manners so soft and kittenish and -pleasing that you never stop to think if she is handsome, but take her -as she is and find her charming. She occupies the guest-room of course, -and I share it with her, for she insisted at once that my cot be moved -in there, so we could “talk nights as late as we pleased.” Aunt Kizzy, -who does not believe in talking late, and always knocks on the wall if -she hears me move in the Glory Hole after half-past nine, objected at -first, saying it was more proper for young girls to room alone, but Thea -told her that propriety had gone out of fashion with a lot of other -stuff, and insisted, until the Glory Hole was abandoned and used only -for toilet-purposes. - -“Just what it was intended for,” Thea said, “and the idea of penning you -up there is ridiculous. I know Aunt Kizzy, as I always call her, and -know exactly how to manage her.” - -And she does manage her beautifully, while I look on amazed. The first -night after her arrival she invited me into her room, where I found her -habited in a crimson dressing-gown, with her hair, which had grown very -long, rippling down her back, and a silver-mounted brush in one hand and -a hand-glass in the other. There was a light-wood fire on the hearth, -for it was raining heavily, and the house was damp and chilly. Drawing a -settee rocker before the fire, she made me sit down close by her, and, -putting her arm around me and laying my head on her shoulder, she said, -“Now, Chickie,—or rather Softie, which suits you better, as you seem -just like the kind of girls who are softies,—now let’s talk.” - -“But,” I objected, “Aunt Kizzy’s room is just below, and it’s nearly ten -o’clock, and she will hear us and rap.” - -“Let her rap! I am not afraid of Aunt Kizzy. She never raps me; and if -you are so awfully particular, we’ll whisper, while I tell you all my -secrets, and you tell me yours,—about the boys, I mean. Girls don’t -count. Tell me of the fellows, and the scrapes you got into at school.” - -It was in vain that I protested that I had no secrets and knew nothing -about fellows or scrapes. She knew better, she said, for no girl could -go through any school and not know something about them unless she were -a greater softie than I looked to be. - -“I was always getting into a scrape, or out of one,” she said, “and it -was such fun. Why, I never learned a blessed thing,—I didn’t go to -learn, and I kept the teachers so stirred up that their lives were a -burden to them, and I know they must have made a special thank-offering -to some missionary fund when I left. And yet I know they liked me in -spite of my pranks. And to think you were stuffing your head with -knowledge at Wellesley all the time, and I never knew it, nor Grant -either! I tell you he don’t like it any better than I do. And Aunt -Kizzy’s excuse, that you would have neglected your studies if you had -known he was at Harvard, is all rubbish. That was not the reason. Do you -know what the real one was?” - -I said I did not, and with a little laugh she continued, “You _are_ a -softie, sure enough;” then, pushing me a little from her, she regarded -me attentively a moment, and continued, “Do you know how very, very -beautiful you are?” - -I might have disclaimed such knowledge, if something in her bright, -searching eyes had not wrung the truth in part from me, and made me -answer, “I have been told so a few times.” - -“Of course you have,” she replied. “Who told you?” - -“Oh, the girls at Wellesley,” I answered, beginning to feel uneasy under -the fire of her eyes. - -“Humbug!” she exclaimed. “I tell you, girls don’t count. I mean boys. -What boy has told you you were handsome? Has Grant? Honor bright, has -Grant?” - -The question was so sudden that I was taken quite aback, while conscious -guilt, if I can call it that, added to my embarrassment. It was three -weeks since Grant came home, and in that time we had made rapid strides -towards something warmer than friendship. We had ridden and driven -together for miles around the country, had played and sung together, and -walked together through the spacious grounds, and once when we sat in -the summer-house and I had told him of my father’s and mother’s death -and my life in Meadowbrook and Wellesley, and how lonely I had sometimes -been because no one cared for me, he had put his arm around me, and, -kissing my forehead, had said, “Poor little Dorey! I wish I had known -you were at Wellesley. You should never have been lonely;” and then he -told me that he had seen me twice in Boston, once at a concert and once -in a street-car, and had never forgotten my face, which he thought -beautiful, and that he had called me his Lost Star, whom he had looked -for so long and found at last. And as he talked I had listened with a -heart so full of happiness that I could not speak, although with the -happiness there was a pang of remorse when I remembered what Aunt Keziah -had said about my not trying to win Grant’s love. And I was not trying; -the fault, if there were any, was on his side, and probably he meant -nothing. At all events, the scene in the summer-house was not repeated, -and I fancied that Grant’s manner after it was somewhat constrained, as -if he were a little sorry. But he had kissed me and told me I was -beautiful, and when Thea put the question to me direct, I stammered out -at last, “Ye-es, Grant thinks I am handsome.” - -“Of course he does. How can he help it? And I don’t mind, even if we are -engaged.” - -“Engaged!” I repeated, and drew back from her a little, for, although I -had suspected the engagement, I had never been able to draw from my -aunts any allusion to it or admission of it, and I had almost made -myself believe that there was none. - -But I knew it now, and for a moment I felt as if I were smothering, -while Thea regarded me curiously, but with no jealousy or anger in her -gaze. - -“You are surprised,” she said at last. “Has neither of the aunts told -you?” - -“No,” I replied, “they have not, but I have sometimes suspected it. And -I have reason to think that such a marriage would please Aunt Kizzy very -much. Let me congratulate you.” - -“You needn’t,” she said, a little stiffly. “It is all a made-up affair. -Shall I tell you about myself?” And, drawing me close to her again, she -told me that at a very early age she became an orphan, with a large -fortune as a certainty when she was twenty-one, as she would be at -Christmas, and another fortune coming to her in the spring, if she did -not marry Grant, and half in case she did. “It’s an awful muddle,” she -continued, “and you can’t understand it. I don’t either, except that one -of my ancestors, old Amos Hepburn, of Keswick, England, made a queer -will, or condition, or something, by which the Mortons will lose their -home unless I marry Grant, which is not a bad thing to do. I have known -him all my life, and like him so much; and it is not a bad thing for him -to marry me, either. Better do that than lose his home.” - -“Would he marry you just for money?” I asked, while the spot on my -forehead, which he had kissed, burned so that I thought she must see it. - -But she was brushing her long hair and twisting it into braids, and did -not look at me as she went on rapidly: “No, I don’t think he would marry -me for my money unless he liked me some. Aleck wouldn’t, and Grant -thinks himself vastly superior to Aleck, whom he calls a bore and a -crank; and perhaps he is, but he is very nice,—not handsome like Grant, -and not like him in anything. He has reddish hair, and freckles on his -nose, and big hands, and wears awful baggy clothes, and scolds me a good -deal, which Grant never does, and tells me I am fast and slangy, and -that I powder too much. He is my second cousin, you know, and stands -next to me in the Hepburn line, and if I should die he would come in for -the Morton estate, unless he finds the missing link, as he calls it, -which is ahead of us both. I am sure you will like him, and I shall be -so glad when he comes. I am not half as silly with him as I am without -him, because I am a little afraid of him, and I miss him so much.” - -As I knew nothing of Aleck, I did not reply, and after a moment, during -which she finished braiding her hair and began to do up her bangs in -curl-papers, she said, abruptly, “Why don’t you speak? Don’t you -tumble?” - -“What _do_ you mean?” I asked, and with very expressive gestures of her -hands, which she had learned abroad, she exclaimed, “Now, you are not so -big a softie as not to know what _tumble_ means, and you have been -graduated at Wellesley, too! You are greener than I thought, and I give -it up. But you just wait till I have coached you awhile, and you’ll know -what tumble means, and a good many more things of which you never -dreamed.” - -I said I did not like slang,—in short, that I detested it,—and we were -having rather a spirited discussion on the subject, and Thea was talking -in anything but a whisper, when suddenly there came a tremendous knock -on the door, which in response to Thea’s prompt “_Entrez_” opened wide -and disclosed to view the awful presence of Aunt Kizzy in her night-cap, -without her false piece, felt slippers on her feet, a candle in her -hand, and a look of stern disapproval on her face as she addressed -herself to me, asking if I knew how late it was, and why I was keeping -Thea up. - -“She is not keeping me up. I am keeping her. I asked her to come in -here, and when she said we should disturb you I told her we would -whisper, and we have until I was stupid enough to forget myself. I’m -awfully sorry, but Doris is not to blame,” Thea explained, generously -defending me against Aunt Kizzy, towards whom she moved with a graceful, -gliding step, adding, as she put her arm around her neck, “Now go back -to bed, that’s a dear, and Doris shall go too, and we’ll never disturb -you again. I wonder if you know how funny you look without your hair!” - -I had never suspected Aunt Kizzy of caring much for her personal -appearance, but at the mention of her hair she quickly put her hand to -her head with a deprecatory look on her face, and without another word -walked away, while Thea threw herself into a chair, shaking with -laughter and declaring that it was a lark worthy of De Moisiere. - - * * * * * - -Four weeks have passed since I made my last entry in my journal, and so -much has happened in that time that I feel as if I were years older than -I was when Thea came, and, as she expressed it, “took me in hand.” I am -certainly a great deal wiser than I was, but am neither the better nor -the happier for it, and although I know now what _tumble_ means, and all -the flirtation signs, and a great deal more besides, I detest it all, -and cannot help feeling that the girl who practices such things has lost -something from her womanhood which good men prize. Old-maidish Thea -calls me, and says I shall never be anything but a _softie_. And still -we are great friends, for no one can help loving her, she is so bright -and gay and kind. As for Grant, he puzzles me. I have tried to be -distant towards him since Thea told me of her engagement, and once I -spoke of it to him and asked why he did not tell me himself. I never -knew before that Grant could scowl, as he did when he replied, “Oh, -bother! there are some things a fellow does not care to talk about, and -this is one of them. You and Thea gossip together quite too much.” - -After that I didn’t speak to Grant for two whole days. But he made it up -the third day in the summer-house where he had kissed me once, and would -have kissed me again, but for an accident. - -“Doris,” he said, as he took my face between his hands and bent his own -so close to it that I felt his breath on my cheek,—“Doris, don’t quarrel -with me. I can’t bear it. I——” - -What more he would have said I do not know, as just then we heard Thea’s -voice near by calling to Aleck Grady, who has been in town three weeks, -stopping at the hotel, but spending most of his time at Morton Park, and -I like him very much. He seems very plain-looking at first, but after -you know him you forget his hair and his freckles and his hands and -general awkwardness, and think only how thoroughly good-natured and kind -and considerate he is, with a heap of common sense. Thea is not quite -the same when he is with us. She is more quiet and lady-like, and does -not use so much slang, and acts rather queer, it seems to me. Indeed, -the three of them act queer, and I feel queer and unhappy, although I -seem to be so gay, and the house and grounds resound with laughter and -merriment all day long. Aleck comes early, and always stays to lunch, if -invited, as he often is by Thea, but never by Aunt Kizzy, who has grown -haggard and thin and finds a great deal of fault with me because, as she -says, I am flirting with Grant and trying to win him from Thea. - -It is false. I am not flirting with Grant. I am not trying to win him -from Thea, but rather to keep out of his way, which I cannot do, for he -is always at my side, and when we go for a walk, or a ride, or a drive, -it is Aleck and Thea first, and necessarily Grant is left for me, and, -what is very strange, he seems to like it, while I——Oh, whither am I -drifting, and what shall I do? I know now all about the Morton lease and -the Hepburn line, for Aunt Kizzy has told me, and with tears streaming -down her cheeks has begged me not to be her ruin. And I will not, even -if I should love Grant far more than I do now, and should feel surer -than I do that he loves me and would gladly be free from Thea, who -laughs and sings and dances as gayly as if there were no troubled hearts -around her, while Aleck watches her and Grant and me with a quizzical -look on his face which makes me furious at times. He has talked to me -about the missing link and the family tree, which he offered to show me, -but I declined, and said impatiently that I had heard enough about old -Amos Hepburn and that wretched condition, and wished both had been in -the bottom of the sea before they had done so much mischief. With a -good-humored laugh he put up his family tree and told me not to be so -hard on his poor old ancestor, saying he did not think either he or his -condition would harm the Mortons much. - -I don’t know what he meant, and I don’t know anything except that I am -miserable, and Grant is equally so, and I do not dare stay alone with -him a moment, or look in his eyes for fear of what I may see there, or -he may see in mine. - -Alas for us both, and alas for the Hepburn line! - - - - - CHAPTER XI.—THE AUTHOR’S STORY. - THE CRISIS. - - -It came sooner than the two who were watching the progress of affairs -expected it, and the two were Kizzy and Dizzy. The first was looking at -what she could not help, with a feeling like death in her heart, while -the latter felt her youth come back to her as she saw one by one the -signs she had once known so well. She knew what Grant’s failure to marry -Thea meant to them. But she did not worry about it. With all her fear of -Keziah, she had a great respect for and confidence in her, and was sure -she would manage somehow, no matter whom Grant married. And so in her -white gown and blue ribbons she sat upon the wide piazza day after day, -and smiled upon the young people, who, recognizing an ally in her, made -her a sort of queen around whose throne they gathered, all longing to -tell her their secret, except Doris, who, hearing so often from her Aunt -Keziah that she was the cause of all the trouble, was very unhappy, and -kept away from Grant as much as possible. But he found her one afternoon -in the summer-house looking so inexpressibly sweet, and pathetic, too, -with the traces of tears on her face, that, without a thought of the -consequences, he sat down beside her, and, putting his arms around her, -said: - -“My poor little darling, what is the matter, and why do you try to avoid -me as you do?” - -There was nothing of the coquette about Doris, and at the sound of -Grant’s voice speaking to her as he did, and the touch of his hand which -had taken hers and was carrying it to his lips, she laid her head on his -shoulder and sobbed: - -“Oh, Grant, I can’t bear it. Aunt Kizzy scolds me so, and I—I can’t help -it, and I’m going to Meadowbrook to teach or do something, where I shall -not trouble any one again.” - -“No, Doris,” Grant said, in a voice more earnest and decided than any -she had ever heard from him. “You are not going away from _me_. You are -mine and I intend to keep you. I will play a hypocrite’s part no longer. -I love _you_, and I do not love Thea as a man ought to love the girl he -makes his wife, nor as she deserves to be loved; and even if you refuse -me I shall not marry her. It would be a great sin to take her when my -whole soul was longing for another.” - -“Grant, are you crazy? Don’t you know you must marry Thea? Have you -forgotten the Hepburn line?” Doris said, lifting her head from his -shoulder and turning towards him a face which, although bathed in tears, -was radiant with the light of a great joy. - -Had Grant been in the habit of swearing, he would probably have -consigned the Hepburn line to perdition. As it was, he said: - -“Confound the Hepburn line! Enough have been made miserable on account -of it, and I don’t propose to be added to the number, nor do I believe -much in it, either. Aleck does not believe in it at all, and we are -going to look up the law without Aunt Kizzy’s knowledge. She is so -cursed proud and reticent, too, or she would have found out for herself -before this time whether we are likely to be beggared or not. And even -if the lease holds good, don’t you suppose that a great strapping fellow -like me can take care of himself and four women?” - -As he had never yet done anything but spend money, it seemed doubtful to -Doris whether he could do anything or not. But she did not care. The -fact that he loved her, that he held her in his arms and was covering -her face with kisses, was enough for the present, and for a few moments -Aunt Kizzy’s wrath and the Hepburn line were forgotten, while she -abandoned herself to her great happiness. Then she remembered, and, -releasing herself from Grant, stood up before him and told him that it -could not be. - -“I am not ashamed to confess that I love you,” she said, “and the -knowing that you love me will always make me happier. But you are bound -to Thea, and I will never separate you from her or bring ruin upon your -family. I will go away, as I said, and never come again until you and -Thea are married.” - -She was backing from the summer-house as she talked, and so absorbed -were she and Grant both that neither saw nor heard anything until, -having reached the door, Doris backed into Thea’s arms. - -“Hello!” was her characteristic exclamation, as she looked curiously at -Doris and then at Grant, who, greatly confused, had risen to his feet, -“And so I have caught you,” she continued, “and I suppose you think I am -angry; but I am not. I am glad, as it makes easier what I am going to -tell you. Sit down, Grant, and hear me,” she continued authoritatively, -as she saw him moving towards the doorway, opposite to where she stood, -still holding Doris tightly. “Sit down, and let’s have it out, like -sensible people who have been mistaken and discovered their mistake in -time. I know you love Doris, and I know she loves you, and she just -suits you, for she is beautiful and sweet and fresh, while I am neither; -I am homely, and fast, and slangy, and sometimes loud and forward.” - -“Oh, Thea, Thea, you are not all this,” Doris cried. - -But Thea went on: “Yes, I am; Aleck says so, and he knows, and that is -why I like him so much. He tells me my faults straight out, which Grant -never did. He simply endured me because he felt that he must, until he -saw you, and then it was not in the nature of things that I could keep -him any longer. I have seen it, and so has Aleck; and this morning, -under the great elm in the far part of the grounds, we came to an -understanding, and I told the great, awkward, ugly Aleck that I loved -him better than I ever loved Grant; and I do,—I do!” - -She was half crying, and breathing hard, and with each breath was -severing some link which had bound her to Grant, who for once felt as -awkward as Aleck himself, and stood abashed before the young girl who -was so boldly declaring her preference for another. What could he say? -he asked himself. He surely could not remonstrate with her, or protest -against what would make him so happy, and so he kept silent, while -brushing the tears from her eyes, she continued, “I don’t know when it -began, or how, only it did begin, and now I don’t care how ugly he is, -nor how big his feet and hands are. He is just as good as he can be, and -I am going to marry him. There!” - -She stopped, quite out of breath, and looked at Doris, whose face was -very white, and whose voice trembled as she said: - -“But, Thea, have you forgotten the _lease_?” - -“The lease!” Thea repeated, bitterly. “I hate the very name. It has -worked so much mischief, and all for nothing, Aleck says, and he knows, -and don’t believe it would stand a moment, and if it does we have -arranged for it, and should the Morton estate ever come to me through -Aunt Kizzy’s foolish insistence, I shall deed it straight back to her, -or to you and Grant, which will be better. It is time old Amos Hepburn -was euchred, and I am glad to do it. Such trouble as he has brought to -your grandfather, your father, and to me, thrusting me upon one who did -not care a dime for me!” - -“Thea, Thea, you are mistaken. I did care for you until I saw Doris, and -I care for you yet,” Grant said, and Thea replied: - -“In a way, yes. But you were driven to it by Aunt Kizzy, and so was I. -Why, I do not remember a time when I did not think I was to marry you, -and once I liked the idea, too, and threw myself at your head, and -appropriated you in a way which makes me ashamed when I remember it. -Aleck has told me, and he knows, and will keep me straight, while you -would have let me run wild, and from a bold, pert, slangy girl I should -have degenerated into a coarse, second-class woman, with only money and -the Morton name to keep me up. You and Doris exactly suit each other, -and your lives will glide along without a ripple, while Aleck’s and mine -will be stormy at times, for he has a will and I have a temper, but the -making up will be grand, and that I should never have known with you. I -am going to tell Aunt Kizzy now, and have it over. So, Grant, let’s say -good-bye to all there has been between us, and if you want to kiss me -once in memory of the past you can do so. Doris will not mind.” - -There was something very pathetic in Thea’s manner as she lifted her -face for the kiss which was to part her and Grant forever, and for an -instant her arms clung tightly around his neck as if the olden love were -dying hard in spite of what she had said of Aleck; then without a word -she went swiftly up the walk, leaving Grant and Doris alone. - - - - - CHAPTER XII.—DORIS’S STORY. - THE MISSING LINK. - - -How can I write when my heart is so full that it seems as if it would -burst with its load of surprise and happiness? Grant and I are engaged, -and so are Thea and Aleck, and of the two I believe Thea is happier than -I, who am still so stunned that I can scarcely realize what a few hours -have brought to me,—Grant, and—and—a fortune! And this is how it -happened. - -Grant was saying things to me which I thought he ought not to say, when -Thea came suddenly upon us and told us she loved Aleck better than she -did Grant, whom she transferred to me in a rather bewildering fashion, -while I accepted him on condition that Aunt Kizzy gave her consent. She -did not appear at dinner that night, and the next morning she was -suffering from a severe headache and kept her room, but sent word that -she would see Thea and Grant after breakfast. This left me to Aleck, who -came early and asked me to go with him to the summer-house, where we -could “talk over the row,” as he expressed it. Love had certainly -wrought a great change in him, softening and refining his rugged -features until he seemed almost handsome as he talked to me of Thea, -whom he had fancied from the time he first saw her. - -“She is full of faults, I know,” he said, “but I believe I love her the -better for them, as they will add variety to our lives. She and Grant -would have stagnated, as he did not care enough for her to oppose her in -any way. Theirs would have been a marriage of convenience; ours will be -one of love.” - -And then he drifted off to the Morton lease and Hepburn line and family -tree. - -“You have never seen it, I believe,” he said, taking from his pocket a -sheet of foolscap and spreading it out upon his lap. He had offered to -show it to me before, but I had declined examining it. Now, however, I -affected to be interested, and glanced indifferently at the sheet, with -its queer looking diagrams and rows of names, which he called branches -of the Hepburn tree. “I have not made it out quite ship-shape, like one -I saw in London lately,” he said, taking out his pencil and pointing to -the name which headed the list, “but I think you will understand it. You -have no idea what a fascination there has been to me in hunting up my -ancestors and wondering what manner of people they were. First, here is -Amos Hepburn, the old curmudgeon who leased that property to your -grandfather ninety years ago. He married Dorothea Foster, and had three -daughters, Octavia, Agrippina, and Poppæa.” - -“Octavia, Agrippina, and Poppæa,” I exclaimed. “What could have induced -him to give these names to his daughters?” - -“Classical taste, I suppose,” Aleck said. “No doubt the old gentleman -was fond of Roman history, and the names took his fancy. If he had had a -son he would probably have called him Nero. Poppæa, the youngest, is my -maternal ancestress. I inherit my beauty from her.” - -Here he laughed heartily, and then went on: - -“Agrippina, the second daughter, was Thea’s great-grandmother, and -called no doubt after the good Agrippina, and not the bad one, who had -that ducking in the sea at the hands of her precious son. As to the -eldest daughter, she ought to have felt honored to be named for the poor -little abused Empress Octavia; and then it is a pretty name.” - -“Yes, indeed,” I said, “and it is _my_ middle name, which my grandmother -and my great-grandmother bore before me.” - -“That’s odd,” he rejoined, looking curiously at me. “Yes, very odd. -Suppose we go over Thea’s branch of the tree first, as that is the -oldest line to which a direct heir can be found, and consequently gives -her the Morton estate. First, Agrippina Hepburn married John Austin, and -had one child, Charlotte Poppæa, who married Tom Haynes, and bore him -one daughter, Sophia, and two sons, James and John. This John, by the -way, I have heard, was the young man whom Miss Keziah wished your Aunt -Beriah to marry, and failing in that she wished your father to marry -Sophia. But neither plan worked, for both died, and James married -Victoria Snead, of Louisville, and had one daughter, Dorothea Victoria, -otherwise Thea, my promised wife, and the great-great-grandaughter of -old Amos Hepburn. As I, although several years older than Thea, am in -the third and youngest branch of the tree, I have no claim on the Morton -estate; neither would Thea have, if I could find the missing link in the -first and oldest branch, that of Octavia, who was married in Port Rush, -Ireland, to Mr. McMahon, and had twins, Augustus Octavius, and Octavia -Augusta. You see she, too, was classically inclined, like her father. -Well, Augustus Octavius died, and Octavia Augusta married Henry Gale, a -hatter, in Leamington, England, and emigrated to America in 18—, and -settled in New York, where all trace of her is lost. Nor can I by any -possible means find anything about her, except that Henry Gale died, but -whether he left children I do not know. Presumably he did, and their -descendants would be the real heirs to the Morton property, if that -clause holds good. Do you see the point? or, as Thea would say, do you -tumble?” - -He repeated his question in a louder tone, as I did not answer him, but -sat staring at the unfinished branch of the Hepburn tree. I did tumble -nearly off the seat, and only kept myself from doing so entirely by -clutching Aleck’s arm and holding it so tightly that he winced a little -as he moved away from me, and said: “What’s the matter? Has something -stung you?” - -“No,” I replied, with a gasp, and a feeling that I was choking, or -fainting, or both. - -I had followed him closely through Agrippina’s line, and had felt a -little bored when he began on Octavia’s, but only for an instant, and -then I was all attention, and felt my blood prickling in my veins and -saw rings of fire dancing before my eyes, as I glanced at the names, as -familiar to me as old friends. - -“Aleck,” I whispered, for I could not speak aloud, “these are all my -ancestors, I am sure, for do you think it possible for two Octavias and -two McMahons to have been married in Port Rush and had twins whom they -called Octavia Augusta and Augustus Octavius, and for Augustus to die -and Octavia to marry a Mr. Gale, a hatter, in Leamington, and emigrate -to New York?” - -It was Aleck’s turn now to stare and turn pale, as he exclaimed: - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean,” I said, “that my great-grandmother’s name was Octavia, but I -never heard that it was also Hepburn, or if I did I have forgotten it. I -know, though, that she married a McMahon and lived at Port Rush. I know, -too, that Mrs. McMahon had twins, whose names were Augustus Octavius and -Octavia Augusta. Augustus died, but Octavia, who was my grandmother, -first married a Mr. Gale, a hatter, in Leamington, and then came to New -York, where he died. She then went to Boston, married Charles Wilson, -and moved to New Haven, where my mother, Dorothea Augusta, was born, and -where she married my father. I have a record of it in an old English -book, which, after my grandmother’s death, was sent to my mother with -some other things.” - -“Eureka! I have found the missing link, _and you are it_! Hurrah!” Aleck -exclaimed, springing to his feet and catching me up as if I had been a -feather’s weight. “I was never more surprised in my life, or glad -either. To think here is the link right in Miss Kizzy’s hands! Wouldn’t -she have torn her hair if Grant had married Thea? By Jove, it would have -been a joke, and a sort of retributive justice, too. I must tell her -myself. But first let’s be perfectly sure. You spoke of a record. Do you -happen to have it with you?” - -“Yes, in my trunk,” I said, and, excusing myself for a few moments, I -flew to the house, and soon returned with what had originally been a -blank-book and which my grandmother had used for many purposes, such as -recording family expenses, names of people who had boarded with her, and -when they came, what they paid her, and when they left; dates, too, of -various events in her life, together with receipts for cooking; and -pinned to the last page was an old yellow sheet of foolscap, with the -name of a Leamington bookseller just discernible upon it. On this sheet -were records in two or three different handwritings. The first was the -birth in Leamington of Augustus Octavius and Octavia Augusta, children -of Patrick and Octavia McMahon, who were married in Port Rush, April -10th, 18—. Then followed the death of Augustus and the marriage of -Octavia to William Gale, of Leamington. Then, in my grandmother’s -handwriting, the death of Mr. Gale in New York, followed by a masculine -hand, presumably that of my grandfather, Charles Wilson, who married -Mrs. Octavia Gale in Boston, and to whom my mother, Dorothea Augusta, -was born in New Haven. I remember perfectly well seeing my mother record -the date of her marriage with my father and of my birth on the sheet of -foolscap after it came to her with the other papers from my grandmother, -but when or why it was pinned into the blank-book I could not tell. I -only knew it was there, and that I had kept the book, which I now handed -to Aleck, whose face wore a puzzled look as, opening it at random, he -began to read a receipt for ginger snaps. - -“What the dickens has this to do with Cæsar Augustus and Augustus -Cæsar?” he asked, while I showed him the sheet of paper, which he read -very attentively twice, and compared with his family tree. “You _are_ -the Link, and no mistake!” he said. “Everything fits to a T, as far as -my tree goes. Of course it will have to be proven, but that is easily -done by beginning at this end and working back to where the branch -failed to connect. And now I am going to tell Miss Morton and Grant. -Will you come with me?” - -“No,” I replied, feeling that I had not strength to walk to the house. - -I was so confused and stunned and weak that I could only sit still and -think of nothing until Grant’s arms were around me and he was covering -my face with kisses and calling me his darling. - -“Aleck has told us the strangest story,” he said, “and I am so glad for -you, and glad that I asked you to be my wife before I heard it, as you -know it is yourself I want, and not what you may or may not bring me. -Aunt Kizzy is in an awful collapse,—fainted dead away when she heard -it.” - -“Oh, Grant, how could you leave her and come to me?” I asked, -reproachfully, and he replied, “Because I could do no good. There were -Aunts Dizzy and Brier, and Thea, and Aleck, and Vine, all throwing water -and camphor and vinegar in her face, until she looked like a drowned -rat. So I came out and left them.” - -“But I must go to her,” I said, and with Grant’s arm around me I went -slowly to the house and into the room where Aunt Kizzy lay among her -pillows, with an expression on her face such as I had never seen before. -It was not anger, but rather one of intense relief, as if the tension of -years had given way and left every nerve quivering from the long strain, -but painless and restful. Thea was fanning her; Aunt Brier was bathing -her forehead with cologne; Aunt Dizzy was arranging her false piece, -which was somewhat awry; while Aleck was still energetically explaining -his family tree and comparing it with the paper I had given him. At -sight of me Aunt Kizzy’s eyes grew blacker than their wont, while -something like a smile flitted across her face as she said, “This is a -strange story I have heard, and it will of course have to be proved.” - -“A task I take upon myself,” Aleck interrupted, and she went on to -catechise me rather sharply with regard to my ancestors. - -“It is strange that your father did not find it out, if he saw this -paper.” - -“He did not see it, for it was not sent to us until after his death,” I -said, while Aunt Dizzy rejoined, “And if he had it would have conveyed -no meaning to him, as I do not suppose he ever troubled himself to trace -the Hepburn line to its beginning or knew that Mrs. McMahon was a -Hepburn. I have no idea what my great-grandmother’s name was before she -was married. For me, I need no confirmation whatever, but accept Doris -as I have always accepted her, a dear little girl whose coming to us has -brought a blessing with it, and although I am very fond of Thea, and -should have loved her as Grant’s wife, I am still very glad it is to be -Doris.” - -She was standing by me now, with her hand on my shoulder, while Aunt -Brier and Thea both came to my side, the latter throwing her arms around -my neck and saying, “And I am glad it is Doris, and that the Hepburn -line is torn into shreds. I believe I hate that old Amos, who, by the -way, is as much your ancestor as mine, for we are cousins, you know.” - -She kissed me lovingly, and, putting my hand in Aunt Kizzy’s, said to -her, “Aren’t you glad it is Doris?” - -Then Aunt Kizzy did a most extraordinary thing for her. She drew me -close to her and cried like a child. - -“Yes,” she said, “I am glad it is Doris, and sorry that I have been so -hard with everybody, first with Beriah, and then with Gerold, whom I -loved as if he had been my own son, and who it seems married into the -Hepburn line and I did not know it. And I have loved you, too, Doris, -more than you guess, notwithstanding I have seemed so cross and cold and -crabbed. I have been a monomaniac on the subject of the Hepburn lease. -Can you forgive me?” - -I could easily answer that question, for with her first kind word all -the ill feeling I had ever cherished against her was swept away, and, -putting my face to hers, I kissed her more than once, in token of peace -between us. - -That afternoon Aleck started North with his family tree and my family -record, and, beginning at the date of my mother’s marriage, worked -backward until the branch which had been broken with the Gales in New -York was united with the Wilsons of New Haven, “making a beautiful -whole,” as he wrote in a letter to Thea, who was to me like a dear -sister, and who, with her perfect tact, treated Grant as if they had -never been more to each other than friends. Those were very happy days -which followed, and now, instead of being the least, I think I am the -most considered of all in the household, and in her grave way Aunt Kizzy -pets me more than any one else, except, of course, Grant, whose love -grows stronger every day, until I sometimes tremble with fear lest my -happiness may not last. We are to be married at Christmas time, and are -going abroad, and whether I shall ever write again in this journal I -cannot tell. Years hence I may perhaps look at it and think how foolish -I was ever to have kept it at all. There is Grant calling me to try a -new wheel he has bought for me, and I must go. I can ride a wheel now, -or do anything I like, and Aunt Kizzy does not object. But I don’t think -I care to do many things, and, except to please Grant, I do not care -much for a wheel, being still, as Thea says, something of a _softie_. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII.—AUNT DESIRE’S STORY. - THE THREE BRIDES. - - -I am too old now to commence a diary; but the house is so lonely with -only Keziah and myself in it that I must do something, and so I will -record briefly the events of the last few weeks, or rather months, since -the astounding disclosure that Doris and not Thea was the direct heir in -the Hepburn line. Nothing ever broke Keziah up like that, transforming -her whole nature and making her quite like other people and so fond of -Doris that she could scarcely bear to have her out of sight a moment, -and when Grant and Doris were married and gone she cried like a baby, -although some of her tears, let us hope, were for Beriah, who will not -come back to live with us again, while Doris will. - -And right here let me speak of Beriah’s little romance, which has ended -so happily. Years ago she loved Tom Atkins, but Kizzy separated them, in -the hope that Brier would marry John Haynes, of the Hepburn line, as -possibly she might have done, for she was mortally afraid of Kizzy. But -John had the good taste to die, and Brier remained in single blessedness -until she was past forty, when Tom, who she supposed was dead, turned up -unexpectedly in Cairo. Grant, who was there at the time, made his -acquaintance and brought a message from him to Brier, who, after -receiving it, never seemed herself, but sat for hours with her hands -folded and a look on her face as if listening or waiting for some one, -who came at last. - -It was in November, and the maple-leaves were drifting down in great -piles of scarlet in the park, and in the woods there was the sound of -dropping nuts, and on the hills a smoky light, telling of “the -melancholy days, the saddest of the year.” But with us there was -anything but sadness, for two brides-elect were in the house, Doris and -Thea, who were to be married at Christmas, and whose trousseaus were -making in Frankfort and Versailles. Thea had expressed a wish to be -married at Morton Park on the same day with Doris, and, as her guardian -did not object, she was staying with us altogether, while Aleck came -every day. So we had a good deal of love-making, and the doors which -used to be shut promptly at half-past nine were left open for the young -people, who, in different parts of the grounds, or piazza, told over and -over again the old story which, no matter how many times it is told, is -ever new to her who hears and him who tells it. - -One morning when Aleck came as usual, he said to Grant, “By the way, do -you remember that chap, half Arab and half American, whom we met in -Cairo? Atkins was the name. Well, he arrived at the hotel last night, -with that wild-eyed little girl and two Arabian servants, one for him, -one for the child. He used to know some of your people, and is coming -this morning to call, with his little girl, who is not bad-looking in -her English dress.” - -We had just come from breakfast, and were sitting on the piazza, Grant -with Doris, and Brier with that preoccupied look on her face which it -had worn so long. But her expression changed suddenly as Aleck talked, -and it seemed to me I could see the years roll off from her, leaving her -young again; and she was certainly very pretty when two hours later, in -her gray serge gown with its trimmings of navy blue, and her brown hair, -just tinged with white, waving softly around her forehead, she went down -to meet Tom Atkins, from whom she parted more than twenty years ago. We -had him to lunch and we had him to dinner, and we had him finally almost -as much as we did Aleck, and I could scarcely walk in any direction that -I did not see a pair of lovers, half hidden by shrub or tree. - -“‘Pears like dey’s a love-makin’ from mornin’ till night, an’ de ole -ones is wuss dan de young,” I heard Adam say to Vine, and I fully -concurred with him, for, as if he would make up for lost time, Tom could -not go near Brier without taking her hand or putting his arm around her. - -Just what he said to her of the past I know not, except that he told her -of dreary wanderings in foreign lands, of utter indifference as to -whether he lived or died, until in Athens he met a pretty Greek, whom, -under a sudden impulse, he made his wife, and who died when their little -Zaidee was born, twelve years ago. After that he spent most of his time -in Egypt, where he has a palatial home near Alexandria, with at least a -dozen servants. Last winter he chanced to meet Grant at Shepheard’s -Hotel in Cairo, and, learning from him that Beriah was still unmarried, -he decided to come home, and, if he found her as unchanged in her -feelings as he was, he would ask her a second time to be his wife. So he -came, and the vows of old were renewed, and little Zaidee stayed with us -altogether, so as to get acquainted with her new mamma that was to be. -She is a shy, timid child, who has been thrown mostly with Arabs and -Egyptians, but she is very affectionate, and her love for Beriah was -touching in its intensity. - -When Thea heard of the engagement she begged for a triple wedding, and -carried her point, as she usually does. “A blow-out, too,” she said she -wanted, as she should never marry but once, and a _blow-out_ we had, -with four hundred invitations, and people from Cincinnati, Lexington, -Louisville, Frankfort, and Versailles. There were lanterns on all the -trees in the park, and fireworks on the lawn, and two bands in different -parts of the grounds, and the place looked the next morning as if a -cyclone or the battle of Gettysburg had swept over it. The brides were -lovely, although Doris, of course, bore off the palm for beauty, but -Thea was exceedingly pretty, while Beriah reminded me of a Madonna, she -looked so sweet and saintly, as she stood by Tom, who, the moment the -ceremony was over, just took her in his arms and hugged her before us -all. Zaidee was her bridesmaid, while Kizzy was Doris’s and I was -Thea’s, and in my cream-colored silk looked, they said, nearly as young -as the girls. - -The next morning the newly married people left _en route_ for Europe, -and the last we heard from them they were at Brindisi, waiting for the -Hydaspes, which was to take them to Alexandria. Doris will come back to -live with us again in the autumn, but Brier never, and when I think of -that, and remember all she was to me, and her patience and gentleness -and unselfishness, there is a bitter pain in my heart, and my tears fall -so fast that I have blurred this sheet so that no one but myself can -read it. I am glad she has Tom at last, although her going from us makes -me so lonely and sad and brings back the dreary past and all I lost when -Henry died. But some time, and that not very far in the future, I shall -meet my love, dead now so many years that, counting by them I am old, -but, reckoned by my feelings, I am still young as he was when he died, -and as he will be when he welcomes me inside the gate of the celestial -city, and says to me in the voice I remember so well, “I am waiting for -you, darling, and now come rest awhile before I show you some of the -glories of the heavenly world, and the people who are here, Douglas, and -Maria, and Gerold, and all the rest who loved you on earth, and who love -you still with a more perfect love, because born of the Master whose -name is love eternal.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV.—DORIS’S STORY. - TWO YEARS LATER. - - -It is just two years since that triple wedding, when six people were -made as happy as it is possible to be in this world, Aunt Brier and Mr. -Atkins, Aleck and Thea, and Grant and myself, on whom no shadow has -fallen since I became Grant’s wife and basked in the fullness of his -love, which grows stronger and more tender as the days go on. He is now -studying hard in a law office in town, determined to fit himself for -something useful, and if possible atone for the selfish, useless life he -led before we were married. We spent a year abroad, going everywhere -with Aleck and Thea, and staying a few weeks in Mr. Atkins’s elegant -villa near Alexandria, where everything is done in the most luxurious -and Oriental manner, and Aunt Brier was a very queen among her subjects. -When the year of travel was ended we came back to Morton Park, where a -royal welcome awaited us, and where Aunt Kizzy took me in her arms and -cried over me a little and then led me to my room, or rather rooms, one -of which was the Glory Hole, which had been fitted up as a boudoir, or -dressing-room, while the large, airy chamber adjacent, where Thea used -to sleep, had also been thoroughly repaired and refurnished, and was -given to us in place of Grant’s old room. - -And here this Christmas morning I am finishing my journal, in which I -have recorded so much of my life,—more, in fact, than I care to read. I -wish I had left out a good deal about Aunt Kizzy. She is greatly changed -from the grim woman who held me at arm’s length when I first came from -school, and of whom I stood in fear. We have talked that all over, and -made it up, and every day she gives me some new proof of her affection. -But the greatest transformation in her came some weeks ago, with the -advent of a little boy, who is sleeping in his crib, with a -yellow-turbaned negress keeping watch over him. Aunt Kizzy calls herself -his grandmother, and tends him more, if possible, than the nurse. Grant -laments that it is not a girl, so as to bear some one or two of the -queer names of its ancestors. But I am glad it is a boy, and next Sunday -it will be christened Gerold Douglas, for my father and grandfather, and -Aleck and Thea will stand for it. They have bought a beautiful place a -little out of town and have settled down into a regular Darby and Joan, -wholly satisfied with each Other and lacking nothing to make them -perfectly happy. Aunt Brier and Mr. Atkins are also here, staying in the -house until spring, when they will build on a part of the Morton estate -which Mr. Atkins has bought of Grant. Oriental life did not suit Aunt -Brier, and, as her slightest wish is sacred to her husband, he has -brought her to her old home, where, when Aleck and Thea are with us, we -make a very merry party, talking of all we have seen in Europe, and -sometimes of the Hepburn line, which Aleck says I straightened,—always -insisting, however, that it did not need straightening, and that the -obnoxious clause in the lease would never have stood the test of the -law. Whether it would or not, I do not know, as we have never inquired. - - - - - MILDRED’S AMBITION. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - MILDRED. - - -The time was a hot morning in July, the place one of those little -mountain towns between Albany and Pittsfield, and the scene opens in a -farm house kitchen, where Mildred Leach was seated upon the doorstep -shelling peas, with her feet braced against the doorjamb to keep her -baby brother, who was creeping on the floor, from tumbling out, and her -little sister Bessie, who was standing outside, from coming in. On the -bed in a room off the kitchen Mildred’s mother was lying with a -headache, and both the kitchen and the bedroom smelled of camphor and -vinegar, and the vegetables which were cooking on the stove and filling -the house with the odor which made the girl faint and sick, as she -leaned against the door-post and longed, as she always was longing, for -some change in her monotonous life. Of the world outside the mountain -town where she was born she knew very little, and that little she had -learned from Hugh McGregor, the village doctor’s son, who had been away -to school, and seen the President and New York and a Cunarder as it came -sailing up the harbor. On his return home Hugh had narrated his -adventures to Mildred, who listened with kindling eyes and flushed -cheeks, exclaiming, when he finished, “Oh! if I could see all that; and -I will some day. I shall not stay forever in old Rocky Point. I hate -it.” - -Mildred was only thirteen, and not pretty, as girls usually are at that -age. She was thin and sallow, and her great brown eyes were too large -for her face, and her thick curly hair too heavy for her head. A mop her -brother Tom called it, when trying to tease her; and Mildred hated her -hair and hated herself whenever she looked in the ten by twelve glass in -her room, and never dreamed of the wonderful beauty which later on she -would develop, when her face and form were rounded out, her sallow -complexion cleared, and her hair subdued and softened into a mass of -waves and curls. Her father, John Leach, was a poor farmer, who, -although he owned the house in which he lived, together with a few acres -of stony land around it, was in one sense a tenant of Mr. Giles -Thornton, the proprietor of Thornton Park, for he rented land enough of -him to eke out his slender income. To Mildred, Thornton Park was a -Paradise, and nothing she had ever read or heard of equaled it in her -estimation, and many a night when she should have been asleep she stood -at her window, looking off in the distance at the turrets and towers of -the beautiful place which elicited admiration from people much older -than herself. To live there would be perfect bliss, she thought, even -though she were as great an invalid as its mistress, and as sickly and -helpless as little Alice, the only daughter of the house. Against her -own humble surroundings Mildred was in hot rebellion, and was always -planning for improvement and change, not only for herself, but for her -family, whom she loved devotedly, and to whom she was giving all the -strength of her young life. Mrs. Leach was a martyr to headaches, which -frequently kept her in bed for days, during which time the care and the -work fell upon Mildred, whose shoulders were too slender for the burden -they bore. - -“But it will be different some time,” she was thinking on that hot July -morning when she sat shelling peas, sometimes kissing Charlie, whose fat -hands were either making havoc with the pods or pulling her hair, and -sometimes scolding Bessie for chewing her bonnet strings and soiling her -clean apron. - -“You must look nice when Mrs. Thornton goes by,” she said, for Mrs. -Thornton was expected from New York that day, and Mildred was watching -for the return of the carriage, which half an hour before had passed on -its way to the station. - -And very soon it came in sight,—a handsome barouche, drawn by two -shining black horses, with a long-coated driver on the box, and Mr. and -Mrs. Thornton and the two children inside,—Gerard, a dark, handsome boy -of eleven, and Alice, a sickly little girl, with some spinal trouble -which kept her from walking or playing as other children did. Leaning -back upon cushions was Mrs. Thornton,—her face very pale, and her eyes -closed, while opposite her, with his gold-headed cane in his hand, was -Mr. Thornton,—a tall, handsome man who carried himself as grandly as if -the blood of a hundred kings was flowing in his veins. He did not see -the children on the doorsteps, until Gerard, in response to a nod from -Mildred, lifted his cap, while Alice leaned eagerly forward and said, -“Look, mamma, there’s Milly and Bessie and the baby. Hello, Milly. I’ve -comed back;” then he said quickly, “Allie, be quiet; and you Gerard, why -do you lift your cap to such people? It’s not necessary;” and in these -few words was embodied the character of the man. - -Courteous to his equals, but proud and haughty to his inferiors, with an -implicit belief in the Thorntons and no belief at all in such people as -the Leaches, or indeed in many of the citizens of Rocky Point, where he -owned, or held mortgages on, half the smaller premises. The world was -made for him, and he was Giles Thornton, of English extraction on his -father’s side and Southern blood on his mother’s, and in his pride and -pomposity he went on past the old red farm house, while Mildred sat for -a moment looking after the carriage and envying its occupants. - -“Oh, if I were rich, like Mrs. Thornton, and could wear silks and -jewels; and I will, some day,” she said, with a far-off look in her -eyes, as if she were seeing the future and what it held for her. “Yes, I -will be rich, no matter what it costs,” she continued, “and people shall -envy me, and I’ll make father and mother so happy? and you, Charlie”—— - -Here she stopped, and parting the curls from her baby brother’s brow, -looked earnestly into his blue eyes; then went on, “you shall have a -golden crown, and you, Bessie darling, shall have,—shall have,—Gerard -Thornton himself, if you want him.” - -“And I lame Alice?” asked a cheery voice, as there bounded into the -kitchen a ten year old lad, who, with his naked feet, sunny face and -torn straw hat, might have stood for Whittier’s barefoot boy. - -“Oh, Tom,” Mildred cried, “I’m glad you’ve come. Won’t you pick up the -pods while I get the peas into the pot? It’s almost noon, and I’ve got -the table to set.” - -Before Tom could reply, another voice called out, “You have given Gerard -to Bessie and Alice to Tom; now what am I to have, Miss Prophetess?” - -The speaker was a fair-haired youth of seventeen, with a slight Scotch -accent and a frank, open, genial face, such as strangers always trust. -He had stopped a moment at the corner of the house to pick a rose for -Mildred, and hearing her prophecies, sauntered leisurely to the -doorstep, where he sat down, and fanning himself with his big hat, asked -what she had for him. - -“Nothing, Hugh McGregor,” Mildred replied, with a little flush on her -cheek. “Nothing but that;” and she tossed him a pea-pod she had picked -from the floor. - -“Thanks,” Hugh said, catching the pod in his hand. “There are two peas -in it yet, a big and a little one. I am the big, you are the little, and -I’m going to keep them and see which hardens first, you or I.” - -“What a fool you are,” Mildred said, with increased color on her cheek, -while Hugh pocketed the pod and went on: “A crown for Charlie, Gerard -for Bessie, Allie for Tom, a pea-pod for me, and what for you, my -darling?” - -“I am not your darling,” Mildred answered quickly; “and I’m going to -be,—mistress of Thornton Park,” she added, after a little hesitancy, -while Hugh rejoined: “As you have given Gerard to Bessie, I don’t see -how you’ll bring it about, unless Mrs. Thornton dies, a thing not -unlikely, and you marry that big-feeling man, whom you say you hate -because he turned you from his premises. Have you forgotten that?” - -Mildred had not forgotten it, and her face was scarlet as she recalled -the time the past summer when, wishing to buy a dress for Charlie, then -six months old, she had gone into one of Mr. Thornton’s pastures after -huckleberries, which grew there so abundantly, and which found a ready -market at the groceries in town. In Rocky Point, berries were considered -public property, and she had no thought that she was trespassing until a -voice close to her said, “What are you doing here? Begone, before I have -you arrested.” - -In great alarm Mildred had seized her ten quart pail, which was nearly -full, and hurried away, never venturing again upon the forbidden ground. - -“Yes, I remember it,” she said, “but that wouldn’t keep me from being -mistress of the Park, if I had a chance and he wasn’t there. Wouldn’t I -make a good one?” - -“Ye-es,” Hugh answered slowly, as he looked her over from her head to -her feet. “But you’ll have to grow taller and fill out some, and do -something with that snarly pate of yours, which looks this morning like -an oven broom,” and with this thrust at her bushy hair Hugh disappeared -from the door just in time to escape the dipper of water which went -splashing after him. - -“Oven broom, indeed!” Mildred said indignantly, with a pull at the -broom; “I wonder if I am to blame for my hair. I hate it!” - -This was Mildred’s favorite expression, and there were but few things to -which she had not applied it. But most of all she hated her humble home -and the boiled dinner she put upon the table just as the clock struck -twelve, wondering as she did so if they knew what such a dish was at -Thornton Park, and what they were having there that day. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - AT THORNTON PARK. - - -Meanwhile the barouche had stopped under the grand archway at the side -entrance of the Park house, where a host of servants was in waiting; the -butler, the housekeeper, the cook, the laundress, the maids, the -gardener and groom and several more, for, aping his English ancestry and -the custom of his mother’s Southern home before the war, Mr. Thornton -kept about him a retinue of servants with whom he was very popular. He -paid them well and fed them well, and while requiring from them the -utmost deference, was kind in every way, and they came crowding around -him with words of welcome and offers of assistance. Mrs. Thornton went -at once to her room, while Alice was taken possession of by her nurse, -who had come from the city the night before, and who soon had her charge -in a little willow carriage, drawing her around the grounds. Gerard, who -was a quiet, studious boy, went to the library, while Mr. Thornton, -after seeing that his wife was comfortable, joined his little daughter, -whose love for her country home he knew, and to whom he said, “I suppose -you are quite happy now?” - -“Yes, papa,” she replied, “only I want somebody to play with me. Ann is -too big. I want Milly Leach. She was so nice to me last summer. Can’t I -have her, papa?” - -For Alice to want a thing was for her to have it, if possession were -possible, and her father answered her: - -“Yes, daughter, you shall have her,” without knowing at all who Milly -Leach was. But Alice explained that she was the girl who lived in the -little red house where Ann had often taken her the summer before to play -with Tom and Bessie. And so it came about that Ann was sent that -afternoon to the farm house with a request from Mr. Thornton that -Mildred should come for the summer and amuse his daughter. Three dollars -a week was the remuneration offered, for he always held out a golden -bait when the fish was doubtful, as he thought it might be in this case. -Mrs. Leach was better, and sitting up while Mildred combed and brushed -the hair much like her own, except that it was softer and smoother, -because it had more care and there was less of it. - -“Oh, mother,” she cried, when Ann made her errand known, “can’t I go? -Three dollars a week! Only think, what a lot; and I’ll give it all to -you, and you can get that pretty French calico at Mr. Overton’s store. -May I go?” - -“Who will do the work when I’m sick?” Mrs. Leach asked, herself a good -deal moved by the three dollars a week, which seemed a fortune to her. - -“I guess they’ll let me come home when you have a headache,” Milly -pleaded, and on this condition it was finally arranged that she should -go to the Park for a time at least, and two days after we saw her -shelling peas and longing for a change, the change came and she started -out on her career in her best gingham dress and white apron, with her -small satchel of clothes in her hand and a great lump in her throat as -she kissed her mother and Bessie and Charlie, and would have kissed Tom -if he had not disappeared with a don’t-care air and a watery look in his -eyes, which he wiped with his checked shirt sleeve, and then, boy-like, -threw a green apple after his sister, hiding behind the tree when she -looked around to see whence it came. - -It was a lovely morning, and Thornton Park lay fair and beautiful in the -distance as she walked rapidly on until a familiar whistle stopped her -and she saw Hugh hurrying across the fields and waving his hat to her. - -“Hello!” he said, as he came to her side, “I nearly broke my neck to -catch you. And so you are going to be a hired girl. Let me carry that -satchel,” and he took it from her while she answered hotly, “I ain’t a -hired girl. I’m Allie’s little friend; that’s what she said when she -came with Ann last night and we made the bargain, and I’m to have three -dollars a week.” - -“Three dollars a week! That is big,” Hugh said, staggered a little at -the price. “But, I say, don’t go so fast. Let’s sit down awhile and -talk;” and seating himself upon a log, with Mildred beside him and the -satchel at his feet, he went on: “Milly, I don’t want you to go to -Thornton Park. Won’t you give it up? Seems as if I was losing you.” - -“You never had me to lose,” was the girl’s reply, and Hugh continued: - -“That’s so; but I mean that I like you better than any girl I ever knew; -like you just as I should my sister if I had one.” - -Here Milly elevated her eyebrows a little, while Hugh went on: “And I -don’t want you to go to that fine place and learn to despise us all, and -the old home by the brook.” - -“I shall never do that, for I love father and mother and Tom and Bessie -and Charlie better than I do myself. I’d die for them, but I do hate the -old house and the poverty and work, and I mean to be a grand lady and -rich, and then I’ll help them all, and you, too, if you’ll let me.” - -“I don’t need your help, and I don’t want to see you a grand lady, and I -don’t want you to be snubbed by that proud Thornton,” Hugh replied, and -Milly answered quickly, with short, emphatic nods of her head: - -“I sha’n’t be snubbed by him, for if he sasses me I shall sass him. I’ve -made up my mind to that.” - -“And when you do may I be there to hear; but you are a brick, any way,” -was Hugh’s laughing rejoinder, and as Milly had risen to her feet, he, -too, arose, and taking up the satchel walked with her to the Park gate, -where he said good-bye, but called to her after a minute, “I say, Milly, -I have that pea-pod yet, and _you_ are beginning to wilt, but I am as -plump as ever.” - -“Pshaw!” was Mildred’s scornful reply, as she hurried on through the -Park, while Hugh walked slowly down the road, wishing he had money and -could give it all to Milly. - -“But I shall never be rich,” he said to himself, “even if I’m a lawyer -as I mean to be, for only dishonest lawyers make money, they say, and I -sha’n’t be a cheat if I never make a cent.” - -Meanwhile Milly had reached the house, which had always impressed her -with a good deal of awe, it was so stately and grand. Going up to the -front door she was about to ring, when the same voice which had ordered -her from the berry pasture, said to her rather sharply: - -“What are you doing here, little girl?” - -“I’m Mildred Leach, and I’ve come to be Allie’s little friend,” Mildred -answered, facing the speaker squarely, with her satchel in both hands. - -“Oh, yes; I know, but go to the side door, and say Miss Alice instead of -Allie,” Mr. Thornton replied as he began to puff at his cigar. - -Here was _sass_ at the outset, and remembering her promise to Hugh, -Milly gave a vigorous pull at the bell, saying as she did so: - -“I sha’n’t call her Miss, and I shall go into the front door, or I -sha’n’t stay. I ain’t dirt!” - -This speech was so astounding and unexpected, that instead of resenting -it, Mr. Thornton laughed aloud, and as a servant just then came to the -door, he sauntered away, saying to himself: - -“Plucky, by Jove; but if she suits Allie, I don’t care.” - -If Mr. Thornton had a redeeming trait it was his love for his wife and -children, especially little Alice, for whom he would sacrifice -everything, even his pride, which is saying a great deal, and when, an -hour later, he found her in the Park with Mildred at her side making -dandelion curls for her, he was very gracious and friendly, asking her -how old she was, and giving her numerous charges with regard to his -daughter. Then he went away, while Mildred looked admiringly after him, -thinking how handsome he was in his city clothes, and how different he -was from her father. - -“It’s because he’s rich and has money. I mean to have some, too,” she -thought, and with the seeds of ambition taking deeper and deeper root, -she began her life at Thornton Park, where she soon became a great -favorite, not only with Alice, but with Mrs. Thornton, to whom she was -almost as necessary as to Alice herself. - -Regularly every Saturday night her three dollars were paid to her, and -as regularly every Sunday morning she took them home, where they were -very acceptable, for Mr. Leach had not the least idea of thrift, and his -daughter’s wages tided over many an ugly gap in the household economy. -Mrs. Leach had the French calico gown, and Charlie a pair of red shoes, -and Bessie a new white frock, and Tom a new straw hat, but for all that -they missed Mildred everywhere, she was so helpful and willing, even -when rebelling most against her condition, and when in September Mrs. -Thornton proposed that she should go with them to New York, Mrs. Leach -refused so decidedly that the wages were at once doubled, and six -dollars a week offered in place of three. Money was nothing to Mrs. -Thornton, and as what she set her mind upon she usually managed to get, -she succeeded in this, and when in October the family returned to the -city, Mildred went with them, very smart in the new suit Mrs. Thornton -had given her, and very red about the eyes from the tears she had shed -when saying good-bye to her home. - -“If I’d known I should feel this way, I believe I wouldn’t have gone,” -she had thought, as she went from room to room with Charlie in her arms, -Bessie holding her hand, and Tom following in the rear, whistling “The -girl I left behind me,” and trying to seem very brave. - -On a bench by the brook which ran back of the house Mildred at last sat -down with Charlie in her lap, and looking at the water running so fast -at her feet, wondered if she should ever see it again, and where Hugh -was that he did not come to say good-bye. She had a little package for -him, and when at last he appeared, and leaping across the brook, sat -down beside her, she gave it to him, and said with a forced laugh: - -“A splint from the oven broom. You used to ask for one, and here ’tis.” - -He knew what she meant, and opening the paper saw one of her dark curls. - -“Thanks, Milly,” he said, with a lump in his throat. “I’ll keep it, and -the peas, too, till you come back. When will that be?” - -“I don’t know; next summer, most likely; though perhaps I shall stay -away until I’m such a fine lady that you won’t know me. I’m to study -with Allie’s governess and learn everything, so as to teach some time,” -she said. - -“Here’s the carriage,” Tom called round the corner, and kissing Charlie -and Bessie and Tom, who did not resist her now, and crying on her -mother’s neck, and wringing her father’s hard hand and saying good-bye -to Hugh, she went out from the home where for many a long year she was -not seen again. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN YEARS. - - -At first the inmates of the farm house missed the young girl sadly; but -they gradually learned to get on very well without her, and when in the -spring word came that Mrs. Thornton was going to Europe and wished to -take Mildred with her, offering as an inducement a sum far beyond what -they knew the girl’s services were worth, and when Mildred, too, joined -her entreaties with Mrs. Thornton’s, telling of the advantage the -foreign life would be to her, as she was to share in Alice’s -instruction, the father and mother consented, with no thought, however, -that she would not return within the year. When Hugh heard of it he went -alone into the woods, and sitting down near the chestnut tree, where he -and Milly had often gathered the brown nuts together, thought the matter -out in his plain, practical way. - -“That ends it with Milly,” he said. “Europe will turn her head, and if -she ever comes home she will despise us more than ever and me most of -all, with my gawky manners and big hands and feet.” - -Then, taking from his pocket a little box, he opened it carefully, and -removing a fold of paper looked wistfully at the contents. A curl of -dark-brown hair and a gray pod with two peas inside,—one shriveled and -harder than the other, and as it seemed to him harder and more shriveled -than when he last looked at it. - -“It’s just as I thought it would be,” he said, “She will grow away from -me with her French and German and foreign ways, unless I grow with her,” -and for the first time in his life Hugh felt the stirring of a genuine -and laudable ambition. “_I_ will make something of myself,” he said. “I -have it in me, I know.” - -The curl and the peas were put away, and from that time forward Hugh’s -career was onward and upward, first to school in Pittsfield, then to -college at Amherst, then to a law office in Albany, and then ten years -later back to Rocky Point, where he devoted himself to his profession -and won golden laurels as the most honorable and prominent lawyer in all -the mountain district. Rocky Point had had a boom in the meantime, and -now spread itself over the hillside and across the pasture land, almost -to the red farm house which stood by the running brook, its exterior a -little changed, as blinds had been added and an extra room with a bow -window, which looked toward the village and the brook. And here on -summer mornings fifteen years after Mildred went away a pale-faced woman -sat, with her hair now white as snow, combed smoothly back from her -brow, her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes turned towards the -window through which she knew the sun was shining brightly, although she -could not see it, for Mrs. Leach was blind. Headache and hereditary -disease had done their work, and when her husband died she could not see -his face, on which her tears fell so fast. For more than two years he -had been lying in the cemetery up the mountain road, and beside his -grave was another and a shorter one, nearly level with the ground, for -it was twelve years since Charlie died and won the golden crown which -Milly had promised him that day when the spirit of prophecy was upon -her. - -During all these years Mildred had never come back to the old home which -bore so many proofs of her loving remembrance, for every dollar she -could spare from her liberal allowance was sent to her people. Mrs. -Thornton had died in Paris, where Alice was so far cured of her spinal -trouble that only a slight limp told that she had ever been lame. At the -time of Mrs. Thornton’s death there was staying in the same hotel an -English lady, a widow, who had recently lost her only daughter, a girl -about Mildred’s age, with something of Mildred’s look in her eyes. To -this lady, whose name was Mrs. Gardner, Mildred had in her helpful way -rendered many little services and made herself so agreeable that when -Mrs. Thornton died the lady offered to take her as her companion and -possibly adopted daughter, if the girl proved all she hoped she might. -When this proposal was made to Mr. Thornton he neither assented nor -objected. The girl could do as she pleased, he said, and as she pleased -to go she went, sorry to leave Alice, but glad to escape from the -father, whose utter indifference and apparent forgetfulness of her -presence in his family, had chafed and offended her. Rude he had never -been to her, but she might have been a mere machine, so far as he had -any interest in or care for her. She was simply a servant, whose name he -scarcely remembered, and of whose family he knew very little when Mrs. -Gardner questioned him of them. - -“Very poor and very common; such as would be called peasantry on the -continent,” he said, and Mildred, who accidentally overheard the remark, -felt the hot blood stain her face and throb through her veins as she -registered a vow that this proud, cold man, who likened her to a -peasant, should some day hold a different opinion of her. - -She was nearly fifteen now, and older than her years with her besetting -sin, ambition, intensified by her life abroad, and as she saw, in the -position which Mrs. Gardner offered her an added round to the ladder she -was climbing, she took it unhesitatingly, and went with her to -Switzerland, from which place she wrote to her mother, asking pardon if -she had done wrong, and enclosing fifty pounds which she had been saving -for her. - -“Taken the bits in her teeth,” was Hugh’s comment, when he heard of it, -while Mr. and Mrs. Leach mourned over their wayward daughter, whose -loving letters, however, and substantial gifts made some amends for her -protracted absence. - -She had gone with Mrs. Gardner as a companion, but grew so rapidly into -favor that the lady began at last to call her daughter, and when she -found that her middle name was Frances, to address her as Fanny, the -name of the little girl she had lost, and to register her as Miss -Gardner. To this Mildred at first objected as something not quite -honorable, but when she saw how much more attention Fanny Gardner -received than Mildred Leach had done, she gave up the point, and became -so accustomed to her new name that the sound of the old would have -seemed strange to her had she heard it spoken. Of the change, however, -she never told her mother, and seldom said much of Mrs. Gardner, except -that she was kind and rich and handsome, with many suitors for her hand, -and when at last she wrote that the lady had married a Mr. Harwood, and -spoke of her ever after as Mrs. Harwood, the name Gardner passed in time -entirely from the minds of both Mr. and Mrs. Leach, who, being very -human, began to feel a pride in the fact that they had a daughter -abroad, who was growing into a fine lady and could speak both German and -French. - -From point to point Mildred traveled with the Harwoods, passing always -as Mrs. Harwood’s adopted daughter, which she was to all intents and -purposes. And in a way she was very happy, although at times there came -over her such a longing for home that she was half resolved to give up -all her grandeur and go back to the life she had so detested. They were -at a villa on the Rhine, not very far from Constance, when she heard of -Charlie’s death, and burying her face in the soft grass of the terrace -she sobbed as if her heart were broken. - -“Oh, Charlie,” she moaned, “dead, and I not there to see you. I never -dreamed that you would die; and I meant to do so much for you when you -were older. I wish I had never left you, Charlie, my darling.” - -Could Mildred have had her way she would have gone home then, but Mrs. -Harwood would not permit it, and so the years went on until in Egypt she -heard of her father’s death, and that her mother was blind. It was Tom -who wrote her the news, which he did not break very gently, for in a way -he resented his sister’s long absence, and let her know that he did. - -“Not that we really need you,” he wrote, “for Bessie sees to the house, -which is fixed up a good deal, thanks to you and mother’s Uncle Silas. -Did you ever hear of him? I scarcely had until he died last year and -left us five thousand dollars, which makes us quite rich. We have some -blinds and a new room with a bay window and a girl to do the work; so, -you see, we are very fine, but mother is always fretting for you, and -more since she was blind, lamenting that she can never see your face -again. Should we know you, I wonder? I guess not, it is so long since -you went away, thirteen years. Why, you are twenty-six! Almost an old -maid, and I suppose an awful swell, with your French and German and -Italian. Bessie can speak French a little. She is eighteen, and the -handsomest girl you ever saw, unless it is Alice Thornton, whose back is -straight as a string. She comes to Thornton Park every summer with -Gerard, and when she isn’t here with Bessie, Bessie is there with her. -Mr. Thornton is in town sometimes, high and mighty as ever, with a face -as black as thunder when he sees Gerard talking French to Bessie, for it -was of him she learned it. I have been away to the Academy several -quarters, and would like to go to college, but shall have to give that -up, now father is dead. Did I tell you I was reading law with Hugh? He -is a big man every way, stands six feet in his slippers, and head and -shoulders above every lawyer in these parts. Why, they sometimes send -for him to go to Albany to try a suit. I used to think he was sweet on -you, but he has not mentioned you for a long time, except when mother -got blind, and then he said, ‘Milly ought to be here.’ But don’t fret; -we get along well enough, and you wouldn’t be happy with us. - - “Yours, - “Tom.” - -When Mildred read this letter she made up her mind to go home at any -cost, and would have done so, if on her return from Naples she had not -been stricken down with a malarial fever, which kept her an invalid for -months, and when she recovered from it there had come into her life a -new excitement which absorbed every other thought, and led finally to a -result without which this story would never have been written. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - AT THE FARM HOUSE. - - -It was fifteen years since Milly Leach sat shelling peas on the doorstep -where now two young girls were sitting, one listening to and the other -reading a letter which evidently excited and agitated her greatly. It -was as follows: - - “LANGHAM’S, LONDON, MAY —, 18—. - - “DEAR ALICE,—You will probably be surprised to hear that I am going to - be married to a Miss Fanny Gardner, whom I first met in Florence. She - is twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and the most beautiful woman I ever - saw, and good as she is beautiful. You are sure to like her. The - ceremony takes place at —— church in London, and after the wedding - breakfast at her mother’s town house we shall go for a short time to - Wales and Ireland and then sail for home. - - “I suppose you and Gerard are at the Park, or will be soon, and I want - you to see that everything is in order. We shall occupy the suite of - rooms on the south side of the house instead of the east, and I’d like - to have them refurnished throughout, and will leave everything to your - good taste, only suggesting that although Miss Gardner’s hair is - rather a peculiar color,—golden brown, some might call it,—she is not - a blonde; neither is she a brunette; and such tints as soft French - grays and pinks will suit her better than blue. The wedding day is - fixed for June —. Shall telegraph as soon as we reach New York, and - possibly write you before. - - “Your loving father, - “GILES THORNTON.” - -“Oh—h,” and the girl who was listening drew a long breath. “Oh—h! Going -to be married,—to Fanny Gardner. That’s a pretty name. She’s English, I -suppose. I guess you’ll like her;” and Bessie put her hand, half -pityingly, half caressingly upon the arm of her friend, down whose -cheeks two great tears were rolling. - -“Yes,” Alice replied; “but it is so sudden, and I’m thinking of mother. -I wonder what Gerard will say. There he is now. Oh, Gerard,” she called, -as a young man came through the gate and seating himself upon a lower -step took Bessie’s hand in his and held it while the bright blush on her -lovely face told what he was to her. - -“What’s the matter, Allie?” he said to his sister. “You look solemn as a -graveyard.” - -“Papa is going to be married,” Alice replied, with a sob. - -“Wha—at!” and Gerard started to his feet. “Father married! Why, he is -nearly fifty years old. Let me see,”—and taking the letter from Alice he -read it aloud, commenting as he read. “Twenty-seven or twenty-eight; not -much older than I am, for I am twenty-five; quite too young for me to -call her mother. ‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw.’ He must be hard -hit. ‘Ceremony takes place——’ Why, girls, it’s to-day! It’s past. I -congratulate you, Allie, on a stepmother, and here’s to her health from -her son;” and stooping over Bessie he kissed her before she could -remonstrate. - -Just then Hugh McGregor came up the walk, and taking off his straw hat -wiped the perspiration from his face, while he stood for a moment -surveying the group before him with a quizzical smile upon his lips. -Fifteen years had changed Hugh from the tall, awkward boy of seventeen -into the taller, less awkward man of thirty-two, who, having mingled a -good deal with the world, had acquired much of the ease and polish which -such mingling brings. Handsome he could not be called; there was too -much of the rugged Scotch in him for that, but he had something better -than beauty in his frank, honest face and kindly blue eyes, which -bespoke the man who could be trusted to the death and never betray the -trust. He, too, had received a letter from Mr. Thornton, whose business -in Rocky Point he had in charge, and after reading it had gone to -Thornton Park with the news. Finding both Alice and Gerard absent, he -had followed on to the farm house where he was sure they were. - -“I see you know it,” he said, pointing to the letter in Gerard’s hand. -“I have heard from your father and came to tell you. Did you suspect -this at all?” - -“No,” Alice replied; “he has never written a word of any Miss Gardner. I -wonder who she is.” - -“I don’t know,” Hugh answered slowly, while there swept over him the -same sensation he had experienced when he first saw the name in Mr. -Thornton’s letter. - -It did not seem quite new, and he repeated it over and over again but -did not associate it with Mildred although she was often in his mind, -more as a pleasant memory now, perhaps, for the feelings of the man were -not quite what the boy’s had been, and in one sense Milly had dropped -out of his life. When she first went away, and he was in school, -everything was done with a direct reference to making of himself -something of which Milly would be proud when she came back. But Milly -had not come back, and the years had crept on and he was a man honored -among men, and in his busy life had but little leisure for thought -beyond his business. It was seldom now that he looked at the dark brown -curl, or the little pea in the pod, hard as a bullet, and shriveled -almost to nothing. But when he did he always thought of the summer day -years ago and the young girl on the steps and the sound of the brook -gurgling over the stones as it ran under the little bridge. And it all -came back to him now, with news of Mr. Thornton’s bride, though why it -should he could not tell. He only knew that Milly was haunting him that -morning with strange persistency, and his first question to Bessie was, -“When did you hear from your sister?” - -“Last night. She is in London, or was,—but wrote she was going on a -journey and then was coming home. I shall believe that when I see her. -Mother has the letter, and will be glad to see you,” was Bessie’s reply, -and Hugh went into the pleasant, sunny room where the blind woman was -sitting, with her hands folded on her lap and a listening expression on -her face. - -“Oh, Hugh,” she exclaimed, “I am glad you have come. I want to talk to -you.” - -Straightening her widow’s cap, which was a little awry, as deftly as a -woman could have done, he sat down beside her, while she continued, as -she drew a letter from her bosom, where she always kept Milly’s last. “I -heard from Milly last night. I am afraid she is not happy, but she is -coming home by and by. She says so. Read it, please.” - -Taking the letter he began to read: - - “LONDON, May —, 18—. - -“DARLING MOTHER:—I am in London, but shall not stay long, for I am going -on a journey, and it may be weeks, if not months, before I can write you -again. But don’t worry. If anything happens to me you will know it. I am -quite well and—oh, mother, I never loved you as I do now or needed your -prayers so much. Pray for me. I can’t pray for myself, but I’d give half -my life to put my arms around your neck and look into your dear, blind -eyes, which, if they could see, would not know me, I am so changed. My -hair fell out when I was so sick in Naples, and is not the same color it -used to be. Everything is different. Oh, if I could see you, and I shall -in the fall, if I live. - -“Give my love to Tom and Bessie, and tell Hugh,——No, don’t tell him -anything. God bless you, darling mother. Good-bye, - - “From - “MILDRED F. LEACH.” - -Hugh’s face was a study as he read this letter, which sounded like a cry -for help from an aching heart. Was Milly unhappy, and if so, why? he -asked himself as he still held the letter with his eyes fixed upon the -words “Tell Hugh——No, don’t tell him anything.” Did they mean that in -her trouble she had for a moment turned to him, he wondered, but quickly -put that thought aside. She had been too long silent to think of him -now; and he was content that it should be so. His liking for her had -been but a boy’s fancy for a little girl, he reasoned, and yet, as he -held the letter in his hand, it seemed to bring Milly very near to him, -and he saw her plainly as she looked when entering Thornton Park that -morning so long ago. “I felt I was losing her then. I am sure of it -now,” he was thinking, when Mrs. Leach asked what he thought of Milly’s -letter, and where he supposed she was going, and what ailed her. - -Hugh was Mrs. Leach’s confidant and oracle, whom she consulted on all -occasions, and Tom himself was no kinder or tenderer in his manner to -her than this big-hearted Scotchman, who soothed and comforted her now -just as he always did, and then, without returning to the young people -by the door he went out through the long window of Mrs. Leach’s room and -off across the fields to the woods on the mountain side, where he sat -down upon a rocky ledge to rest, wondering why the day was so -oppressive, and why the words “Tell Hugh” should affect him so -strangely, and why Mildred seemed so near to him that once he put up his -hand with a feeling that he should touch her little hard, brown hand, -browned and hardened with the work she hated so much. It was not often -that he indulged in sentiment of this kind, but the spell was on him, -and he sat bound by it until the whistle from the large shop had called -the workmen from their dinners. Then he arose and went down the mountain -road to his office, saying to himself: “I wonder where she is to-day, -when I am so impressed with a sense of her nearness that I believe she -is thinking of me,” and with this comforting assurance, Hugh was very -patient and kind to the old woman whose will he had changed a dozen -times, and who came to have it changed again, without a thought of -offering him any remuneration for his trouble. - -Meantime the group by the door had been joined by Tom, who had grown -into just the kind of man Whittier’s barefoot boy would have grown into -if he had grown at all,—a frank, sunny-faced young man, whom every old -woman and young girl liked, and whom one young girl loved with all the -intensity of her nature, caring nothing that he was poor and one whom -her proud father would scorn as a son-in-law. They were not exactly -engaged,—for Alice said her father must be consulted first, and they -were waiting for him, while Gerard, who could wait for nothing where -Bessie was concerned, was drinking his fill of love in her blue eyes, -with no thought or care as to whether his father would oppose him or -not. - -“Hello, you are all here,” Tom said, as he came round the corner and -laid his hand on Allie’s shoulder; then, glancing at her face, he -continued: “Why, you’ve been crying. What’s the matter, Allie?” - -“Oh, Tom, papa is married to-day,—to Fanny Gardner, an English girl with -golden-brown hair and only twenty-eight years old and very handsome, he -says. I know I shall hate her,” Alice sobbed, while Tom burst into a -merry laugh. - -“Your father married to a girl with golden-brown hair, which should be -gray to match his,—that is a shame, by Jove. But, I say, Allie, I’m glad -of it, for with a young wife at Thornton Park, you will be _de trop_, -don’t you see?” And just as Gerard had done to Bessie so Tom did to -Alice—kissed her pale face, with his best wishes to the bride, who was -discussed pretty freely, from her name to the furniture of her room, -which was to harmonize with the complexion of one who was neither a -blond nor a brunette, but very beautiful. - -For the next few weeks there was a great deal of bustle and excitement -at Thornton Park, where Bessie went every day to talk over and assist in -the arrangement of the bridal rooms, which were just completed when -there came a telegram from New York saying that the newly married pair -had arrived and would be home the following day. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - THE BRIDE. - - -A Cunard steamer had landed its living freight at the wharf, where there -was the usual scramble and confusion, as trunks and boxes were opened -and angry, excited women confronted with their spoils by relentless -custom house officers, bent upon doing their duty, unless stopped by the -means so frequently employed upon such occasions. Outside the long -building stood an open carriage in which a lady sat, very simply but -elegantly attired, with money, and Paris, and Worth showing in every -article of her dress, from her round hat to her dainty boots, which -could not be called small, for the feet they covered harmonized with the -lady herself, who was tall and well proportioned, with a splendidly -developed figure, on which anything looked well. There was a brilliant -color in her cheeks, and her brown eyes were large and bright and -beautiful, but very sad as they looked upon the scenes around her -without seeming to see anything. Nor did their expression change when -she was joined by an elderly man, who, taking his seat beside her, said -first to the driver: - -“To the Windsor,” and then to her, “I was longer than I thought I should -be; those rascally officers gave me a world of trouble, but we shall -soon be at the hotel now. Are you very tired?” - -The question was asked very tenderly, for Giles Thornton was greatly in -love with his bride of a few weeks. He had first met her in Florence, -where she was recovering from the long illness which had lasted for -months and made her weak as a child and almost as helpless. During her -sickness her hair had fallen out, and owing to some unusual freak of -nature it had come in much lighter than it was before and not so curly, -although it still lay in wavy masses upon her head, and here and there -coiled itself into rings around her forehead. The Harwoods were staying -at the same hotel with Mr. Thornton, and it was in the Boboli Gardens -that he first met her as she was being wheeled in an invalid chair by -her attendant. - -“Will he know me?” was her first thought when he was presented to her. - -But there was no fear of that, for Mildred Leach had passed as wholly -out of his mind as if he had never seen her, and if she had not there -was no danger of his recognizing the girl who had been his daughter’s -companion in this lovely woman whose voice and manner and appearance -were indicative of the refinement and cultivation to which for years she -had been accustomed. To him she was Miss Gardner, an English girl, and -during the half hour he walked by her chair in the gardens, he felt his -heart throb as it had never throbbed since he buried his wife. He had -loved her devotedly and had never thought to fill her place until now -when love did its work at first sight, and when two weeks later the -Harwoods left Florence for Venice and Switzerland, he was with them, to -all intents and purposes Mildred’s lover, although he had not openly -announced himself as such. - -To Mrs. Harwood Mildred had said, “Don’t tell him who I am. I prefer to -do that when the time comes. I am going to punish him for calling my -father a peasant when you inquired about him. I heard him. I have not -forgotten.” - -And so Mr. Thornton went blindly to his fate, which came one day in -Ouchy in the grounds of the Beau-Rivage, where Mildred was sitting -alone, with her eyes fixed upon the lake and the mountains beyond, and -her thoughts back in the old farm house, with her mother and Bessie and -Tom and Hugh, of whom she had not heard a word for months. - -“He has forgotten me,” she said to herself, “and why shouldn’t he? I was -never much to him, and yet”—— - -She did not get any farther, for there was a footstep near; some one was -coming, and in a moment Mr. Thornton said to her, “Alone, Miss Gardner, -and dreaming? May I dispel the dream and sit beside you a moment?” - -Mildred knew then what was before her, as well as she did half an hour -later, during which time Giles Thornton had laid himself and his fortune -at her feet, and what was harder than all to meet, had made her believe -that he loved her. She knew that he admired her, but she had not counted -upon his love, which moved her a little, for Mr. Thornton was not a man -to whom one could listen quietly when he was in earnest and resolved to -carry his point, and for an instant Mildred wavered. It was something to -be Mrs. Giles Thornton, of Thornton Park, and ought to satisfy her -ambition. With all her beauty and social advantages, she as yet had -received no eligible offer. It was known that she had no money, and only -an Italian count and the youngest son of an English earl had asked her -hand in marriage. But both were poor, and one almost an imbecile, from -whom she shrank in disgust. Mr. Thornton was different; he was a -gentleman of wealth and position, and as his wife she would for a part -of the year live near her family. But with the thought of them there -came the memory of an overgrown, awkward boy, whose feet and hands were -so big that he never knew what to do with them, but whose heart was so -much bigger than his feet and hands, that it bore down the scale and Mr. -Thornton’s chance was lost for the time being. - -“Hugh may never be anything to me,” she thought, “but I must see him -before I give myself to any one.” - -Then turning to Mr. Thornton, she said, “I thank you for your offer, -which I believe is sincere, and that makes it harder for me to tell you -what I must. Do you remember a girl, Mildred Leach, who was your -daughter’s little friend, as she called herself, for she was as proud as -you, and would not be a maid?” - -“Ye-es,” Mr. Thornton stammered, as he looked wistfully into the -beautiful face confronting him so steadily. “I had forgotten her -entirely, but I remember now. She left us to go with an English lady, a -Mrs. Gardner. Why, that is Mrs. Harwood,—and,—and,—oh, you are not she!” - -“Yes, I am,” was Mildred’s reply, and then very rapidly she told her -story, not omitting her having overheard him liken her parents to -peasants when speaking of them to Mrs. Gardner. “I determined then,” she -said, “that if possible I would one day humble your pride, but if I have -done so, it has not given me the satisfaction I thought it would, and I -am sorry to cause you pain, for I believe you were in earnest when you -asked me to be your wife, which I can never be.” - -“No,” he answered slowly, like one who had received a blow from which he -could not at once recover. “No, you can never be my wife; Mildred Leach; -it does not seem possible.” - -Then he arose and walked rapidly away, and when the evening boat left -Ouchy for Geneva he was on it, going he cared but little where, if by -going he could forget the past as connected with Mildred Leach. - -“I cannot marry her family,” he said many times during the next few -months, when he was wandering everywhere and vainly trying to forget -her, for always before him was the face he had never admired so much as -when he last saw it, flushed and pale by turns, with a wondrous light in -the brown eyes where tears were gathering. “If it were not for her -family, or if I could separate her from them, I would _not_ give her -up,” he had often thought when in the following May he met her again at -the Grand Hotel in Paris, where the Harwoods were stopping. - -He could not tell what it was which impressed him with the idea that she -had changed her mind, as she came forward to meet him, saying she was -glad to see him, and adding that Mr. and Mrs. Harwood had gone to the -opera. She seemed very quiet and absent minded at first, and then -rousing herself, said to him abruptly, “You did not stop long enough in -Ouchy for me to inquire after my family. You must have seen them often -since I left home.” - -“Yes,—no,” he answered in some embarrassment; “I have of course been to -Thornton Park, but I do not remember much about them. I believe your -father rents, or did rent, some land of me, but am not sure, as my agent -attends to all that.” - -“My father is dead,” Mildred answered so sharply as to make him jump and -color painfully, as if guilty of a misdemeanor in not knowing that her -father was dead. - -“I beg your pardon. I am very sorry. I,—yes,—am very sorry,” he began; -but she cut him short by saying, “Do you know Hugh McGregor?” - -“Oh, yes. I know him well,” and Mr. Thornton brightened perceptibly. “He -is my lawyer, and attends to all my business in Rocky Point; a fine -fellow,—a very fine fellow. Do you know him?” - -“Yes,” Mildred replied, while her breath came heavily, “I know him, and -I hear he is to marry my sister Bessie.” - -“Oh, indeed,” and as if memory had suddenly come back to him, Mr. -Thornton seemed immensely relieved. “I remember now,—Bessie Leach; -that’s the girl I have sometimes seen with Alice. Gerard taught her -French,—a very pretty girl. And Mr. McGregor is engaged to her? I am -very glad. Any girl might be proud to marry him.” - -Mildred made no reply to this, and Mr. Thornton never guessed the dreary -emptiness of her soul as she sat with her hands clasped tightly -together, thinking of the man whom any girl would be proud to marry. A -few months before she would have said that he was nothing more to her -than the friend of her childhood, but she had recently learned her -mistake, and that the thought of seeing him again was one of the -pleasantest anticipations of her home going. There had come to the hotel -a Mr. and Mrs. Hayford from America, who sometimes spent their summers -at Rocky Point, where Mrs. Hayford was once a teacher. As Mildred had -been her pupil, she remembered her at once, after hearing the name, and -would have introduced herself but for a conversation accidentally -overheard between Mrs. Hayford and a friend who had also been at Rocky -Point, and to whom she was retailing the news, first of New York and -then of Rocky Point, where she had spent a few days in April prior to -sailing. - -“Do you remember that Hercules of a lawyer, Hugh McGregor, whom you -admired so much?” was asked. “They say he is engaged to Bessie Leach, a -girl much younger than himself, but very pretty,—beautiful, in fact, -and—— - -Mildred heard no more, but hurried away, with an ache in her heart that -she could not quite define. Tom had intimated that Gerard was interested -in Bessie, and now Hugh was engaged to her. Well, it was all right, she -said, and would not admit to herself how hard the blow had struck her -and how she smarted under it. And it was just when the smart was at its -keenest that Mr. Thornton came again across her path, more in love, if -possible, than ever, and more intent upon making her his wife. He had -fought a desperate battle with his pride and had conquered it, and -within twenty-four hours after meeting her in Paris, she had promised to -marry him, and when her pledge was given she was conscious of a feeling -of quiet and content which she had scarcely hoped for. In his character -as lover Mr. Thornton did not seem at all like the man she had feared in -her childhood, nor if he felt it did he gave the slightest sign that he -was stooping from his high position. She had been very frank with him -and had made no pretension of love. “I will be true to you,” she said, -“and try to please you in everything. I am tired of the aimless life I -have led so many years, and I think Mrs. Harwood is a little tired of me -too. She says I ought to have married long ago, but I could not marry a -fool even if he had a title. I shall be so glad to go home to my -friends, although I am so changed they will never know me.” - -Then she added laughingly: “Wouldn’t it be great fun not to write them -who I am and see if they will recognize me?” - -She did not really mean what she said, or guess that it harmonized -perfectly with a plan which Mr. Thornton had in mind, and was resolved -to carry out, if possible. If he could have had his wish he would not -have gone to Rocky Point at all, but his children were there and -Mildred’s heart was set upon it, and he must meet the difficulty in some -way. He could marry Mildred, but not her family, and he shrank from the -intimacy which must necessarily exist between the Park and the farm -house when it was known who his wife was. In his estimation the Leaches -were nobodies, and he could not have them running in and out of his -house and treating him with the familiarity of a son and brother, as he -was sure they would do if he did not stop it. If Mildred would consent -to remain incognito while at the Park the annoyance would be prevented, -and this consent he tried to gain by many specious arguments. His real -reason, he knew, must be kept from sight, and so he asked it as a -personal favor, saying it would please him very much and be a kind of -excitement for her. - -“Possibly you will be recognized,” he said; “and if so, all right; if -not, we will tell them just before we go to New York in the autumn and -enjoy their surprise.” - -He did not add that, once away from Rocky Point, it would probably be -long before he took her there again. He only talked of the plan as a -joke, which Mildred did not quite see. She was willing to keep the -secret until she met them, but to keep it longer was absurd and foolish, -she said, and involved a deception, which she abhorred. - -“I accepted you partly that I might be near them and see them every -day,” she said, “and am longing to throw my arms around mother’s neck -and tell her I have come back.” - -“And so you shall in time, but humor my whim for once. You will not be -sorry,” Mr. Thornton pleaded, and Mildred consented at last, and felt in -a measure repaid when she saw how happy it made Mr. Thornton, whose real -motive she did not guess. - -This was the last of April, and six weeks later Mildred was Mrs. Giles -Thornton, traveling through Scotland and Wales and trying to believe -herself happy in her husband’s love and the costly gifts he lavished -upon her. She had been courted and admired as Fanny Gardner, but the -deference paid her now and her independence were very sweet to her, and -if she could have forgotten Hugh and been permitted to make herself -known to her family, she would have been content at least on the morning -when she left New York and started for Thornton Park. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - MRS. GILES THORNTON. - - -She was very lovely in all the fullness of her matured beauty as she -stepped from the train at Rocky Point, and with her large bright eyes -swept the crowd of curious people gathered to see her, not one of whom -she recognized. A handsome open carriage from Brewster’s, sent up a few -days before for this occasion, was waiting for them, and with a half bow -to those who ventured to salute her husband, Mildred seated herself in -it and was driven through the well-remembered street, her heart beating -so loudly that she could hear it distinctly as she drew near the top of -the hill from which she knew she would see her old home and possibly her -mother. And when the hill top was reached and she saw the house with its -doors opened wide, and from the upper window of what had been hers and -Bessie’s room a muslin curtain blowing in and out, she grew so white -that her husband laid his hand on hers, and said, “Don’t take it so -hard, darling. You are doing it to please me.” - -“Yes, but it seems as if I must stop here,” she answered faintly as she -leaned forward to look at the house around which there was no sign of -life, or stir, except the moving of the curtain and the gambols of two -kittens playing in the doorway where Mildred half expected to meet the -glance of Bessie’s blue eyes and see the gleam of Charlie’s golden hair. - -But Charlie was lying on the mountain side, and Bessie, although out of -sight, was watching the carriage and the beautiful stranger in whom she -saw no trace of her sister. - -“I’ve seen her,” Bessie said, as she went into her mother’s room, “and -she is very lovely, with such a bright color on her cheeks. And so young -to be Mr. Thornton’s wife! I wonder if she loves him. I couldn’t.” - -“No. I suppose you prefer Gerard,” Mrs. Leach replied, while Bessie -answered blushingly, “Of course I do. Poor Gerard! How angry his father -will be when he knows about Tom and me, too. Gerard was going to tell -him at once, but I persuaded him to wait until the honeymoon was over. -Just two months I’ll give him, and during that time I mean to cultivate -Mrs. Thornton and get her on my side. I hope she is not proud like him. -She did not look so.” - -Bessie had been at the Park that morning helping Alice give the last -touches to the rooms intended for the bride. These had been finished in -the tints which Mr. Thornton had prescribed. Everything was new, from -the carpets on the floors to the lace-canopied bedstead of brass. There -were flowers everywhere in great profusion, roses mostly of every -variety, and in a glass on a bracket in a corner, Bessie had put a bunch -of June pinks from her own garden, explaining to Alice that her mother -had sent them to the bride, as they were her favorite flowers and would -make the rooms so sweet. Everything was finished at last, and after -Bessie was gone Alice had nothing to do but to wait for the coming of -the carriage which she soon saw entering the Park. Mildred’s face was -very white and her voice trembled as she saw Alice in the distance and -said, “I can’t bear it. I came near shrieking to the old home that I was -Mildred. I must tell Alice. I cannot be so hypocritical. There is no -reason for it.” - -“No, no,” and Mr. Thornton spoke a little sternly. “It is too late now, -and you have promised. I wish it and have my reason. Ah, here we are, -and there are Alice and Gerard.” - -They had stopped under the great archway at the side entrance where -Gerard and Alice were waiting for them and scanning the bride curiously -as she alighted and their father presented her to them,—not as their -mother, but as “Mrs. Thornton, my wife.” - -All Mildred’s color had come back and her face was glowing with -excitement as she took Alice’s hand; then unable to control herself, she -threw her arms around the neck of the astonished girl and burst into a -flood of tears, while Mr. Thornton looked on in dismay, dreading what -might follow. He was himself beginning to think it a very foolish and -unnatural thing to try to keep his wife’s identity from her people, but -he was not a man to give up easily, and once in a dilemma of his own -making he would stay in it at any cost. - -“She is very tired and must go to her room,” he said to his daughter, -who was crying herself, and holding Mildred’s hands in her own. - -Had Mildred tried she could have done nothing better for her cause than -she had done. Alice had been very doubtful as to whether she should like -her new mother or not, but something in the eyes which looked so -appealingly into hers, and in the tears she felt upon her cheek, and the -clasp of the arms around the neck, disarmed all prejudice and made of -her a friend at once. As for Gerard, he had never meant to be anything -but friendly, and when the scene between the two ladies was over he came -forward with the slow, quiet manner natural to him and said, “Now it is -my turn to welcome Mrs. Thornton, who does not look as if she could have -for a son a great six-footer like me. But I’ll call you mother, if you -say so.” - -“No, don’t,” Mildred answered, flashing on him a smile which made his -heart beat rapidly and brought a thought of Bessie, who sometimes smiled -like that. - -Leading the way to Mildred’s rooms, Alice said, as she threw open the -door, “I hope you will like them.” - -“Like them! They are perfect,” was Mildred’s answer, as she walked -through the apartments, feeling that it must be a dream from which she -would bye-and-bye awaken. “And so many roses,” she said, stopping here -and there over a bowl or cluster of them until, guided by the perfume, -she came upon the pinks her mother had sent to her. - -Taking up the glass she held it for an instant while Alice said, “June -pinks, perhaps you do not have them in England. They are old-fashioned -flowers, but very sweet. A friend of mine, Bessie Leach, brought them -for you from her mother, who is blind.” - -There was a low cry and a crash as the finger-glass fell to the floor -and Mildred sank into the nearest chair, white as ashes, with a look in -her eyes which startled and frightened Alice. - -“It is the heat and fatigue of the voyage. I was very sea-sick,” Mildred -said, trying to smile and recover herself, while Alice went for a towel -to wipe up the water trickling over the carpet, and wondering if Mrs. -Thornton was given to faintings and hysterics like this. - -“She don’t look like it,” she thought, as she picked up and carried out -the bits of glass and the pinks which had done the mischief. - -When lunch was served Mildred was too ill to go down. A severe headache -had come on, and for a time Alice sat by her couch bathing her forehead -and brushing her hair, which was more a mottled than golden brown, for -it was darker in some places than others, especially when seen in -certain lights and shadows. But this only added to its beauty, and Alice -ran her fingers through the shining mass, admiring the color and the -texture and admiring the woman generally and answering the many -questions which were asked her. Hungry at heart to hear something of her -family, Mildred said to her, “Tell me of your friends. Have you any -here? Girl friends, I mean.” - -“Only one with whom I am intimate,” Alice replied, and then as girls -will she went off into rhapsodies over Bessie Leach, and in a burst of -confidence concluded by saying, “You must not tell papa, for he is not -to know it yet, but Bessie is to be my sister. She is to marry Gerard.” - -“Marry Gerard!” and Mildred raised herself upon her elbow and shedding -her heavy hair back from her face stared at Alice with an expression in -her eyes which the girl could not understand, and which made her wonder -if her stepmother, too, were as proud as her father and would resent -Gerard’s choice. - -This called forth another eulogy upon Bessie’s beauty and sweetness, -with many injunctions that Mildred should not repeat to her husband what -had been told her. - -“Nobody knows it for certain but Mr. McGregor and ourselves,” she added, -and then, turning her face away so that it could not be seen, Mildred -said, “Mr. McGregor? That is your father’s attorney. Is he a married -man?” - -The question was a singular one, but Alice was not quick to suspect, and -answered laughingly, “Hugh McGregor married! Why, I don’t suppose he has -ever looked twice at any girl. He is a confirmed old bachelor, but very -nice. Father thinks the world of him.” - -“Yes, oh, yes,” Mildred moaned, as she clasped her hands over her -forehead where the pain was so intense. - -“You are worse. You are white as a sheet; let me call papa,” Alice -cried, alarmed at the look of anguish in the dark eyes and the gray -pallor of the face which seemed to have grown pinched and thin in a -moment. - -But her husband was the last person whom Mildred wished to see then, and -detaining Alice she said, “Don’t call him, please. It will soon pass -off, and don’t think me ungrateful, either, but I’d rather be alone for -a while. I may sleep and that will do me good.” - -And so, after darkening the room, Alice went out and left the wretched -woman alone in her grief and pain. - -“Mrs. Hayford was mistaken. Hugh is not engaged to Bessie, and I am Mrs. -Giles Thornton,” she said, a little bitterly. “My ambition ought to be -satisfied. I have made my own bed and must lie in it, and go on lying, -too!” - -She smiled faintly at her own joke and then continued: “If I had only -resisted and come back Mildred Leach! But it is now too late, and Hugh -will always despise me for the deception. Oh, Hugh!” - -There was a spasmodic wringing of the hands, and then, as if ashamed of -herself Mildred said, “I must not, will not be faithless to my husband, -who loves me, I know, and I will be worthy of his love and make him -happy, so help me Heaven!” - -The vow was made and Mildred would keep it to the death. The might have -been, which has broken so many hearts when the knowledge came too late, -was put away and buried deep down in the inmost recesses of her soul, -and when two hours later she awoke from a refreshing sleep and found her -husband sitting by her, she put her hand in his just as she had never -put it before, and did not shrink from him when he stooped down to -caress her. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - CALLS AT THE PARK. - - -It was early the next morning when Mildred arose and stepping out upon -the balcony looked toward the town which had changed so much since she -was there last. Across the noisy little river which went dashing along -in its rocky bed at the foot of the mountain, one or two tall stacks of -manufactories were belching forth their smoke, while new churches and -hotels and villas dotted what had been pasture lands when she went away. -Standing upon tiptoe she could see the chimney top of her old home, and -just over it, up the mountain road, the evergreens in the cemetery where -her father and Charlie were lying. - -“I’ll go there some day alone and find their graves,” she was thinking -when her husband joined her. - -“I am sure you are better, you look so fresh and bright; but it is time -you were getting ready for breakfast,” he said, as he gave her a little -caress. - -And Mildred was very bright when she at last went with her husband to -the breakfast-room, a half-opened rose which he had gathered for her at -her throat, and another at her belt. It was her first appearance at her -own table, and Mr. Thornton led her proudly to her seat behind the -coffee urn and looked at her admiringly while she assumed the rôle of -mistress as naturally as if she had all her life been accustomed to her -present surroundings. Alice had kissed her effusively as she came in, -hoping she was quite well and thinking her more beautiful than on the -previous day. Gerard, who was less demonstrative but more observant than -his sister, greeted her cordially and then sat watching her, curious and -puzzled by something in her face or manner or voice which seemed -familiar to him. - -“She is dazzlingly lovely. I wonder how Bessie will look beside her,” he -thought, as after breakfast he started for the farm house as was his -daily custom. - -It was very warm that morning and Mildred had seated herself with a book -upon the shaded balcony opening from her room, when word was brought her -that her husband wished to see her on the front piazza. - -“There’s a gentleman with him,—Mr. McGregor,” the servant said, and -Mildred felt as if her heart had suddenly risen in her throat, making -her choke and gasp for breath. - -She knew he would come some time, but had not expected him so soon, and -she shook like a leaf as she stood a moment before her mirror. - -“He will never know me,” she said, as side by side with the reflection -of herself she saw the girl of fifteen years ago; sallow and thin and -slight, with eyes too big for her face, and hair too heavy for her head; -the girl with the faded calico dress and high-necked apron, who seemed -to walk beside her as she descended the broad staircase and went through -the hall and out upon the piazza, where she heard her husband’s voice, -and Hugh’s. - -“I came on business, and intended calling later, but I shall be glad to -see Mrs. Thornton,” she heard him say, and then the smothered, choking -sensation left her, and, with a little unconscious nod to the other -Mildred at her side, she whispered: - -“I shall pull through.” - -Hugh was standing half-way down the piazza, leaning against a column, -with his straw hat in his hand, fanning himself, just as she had seen -him do a hundred times when they were boy and girl together, and he was -looking at the shadowy Mildred at her side just as he now looked at her, -the tall, elegant, perfectly self-possessed woman, coming slowly towards -him, every movement graceful, and every action that of one sure pf -herself, and accustomed to the admiration she saw in his eyes,—the same -kind, honest blue eyes which she remembered so well, but which had in -them no sign of recognition as he came forward to meet her, and offering -her his hand, welcomed her to Rocky Point, “and America,” he added, -while a blood-red stain crept up from her neck to her ear as she felt -the deception she was allowing. Hugh was not as polished as Mr. -Thornton, nor were his clothes as faultless and fashionable, but he was -every whit a gentleman, and looked it, too, as he stood for a moment -talking to Mildred in the voice she knew so well and which had grown -richer and deeper with the lapse of time, and moved her strangely as she -listened to it again. - -“I think I should have known him anywhere,” she thought, as she answered -his remarks, her own voice, in which the English accent was predominant, -steady and firm, but having in it occasionally a tone which made Hugh -start a little, it was so like something he had heard before, but could -not define. - -There was nothing in this English woman, as he believed her to be, which -could remind him of Mildred Leach, who was never once in his mind during -the few minutes he was talking with her. And still she puzzled him, and -all that morning, after his return to his office, her lovely face and -especially her eyes haunted him and looked at him from every paper and -book he touched, and he heard the tone, which had struck him as -familiar, calling to him everywhere, and bringing at last a thought of -Mildred Leach and the July morning when she had shelled her peas by the -door, and given him a pod as a souvenir. Where was she now, he wondered, -and would she come back in the autumn? Probably not. She had held out -similar promises before only to break them. She was weaned entirely from -all her old associations, and it did not matter, he said to himself, -wondering, as he often did, why he had so long kept in his mind the -little wayward girl, who had never done anything but tease and worry -him, and tell him of the great things she meant to do. - -“She has been a long time doing it, unless she calls a life of -dependence a great thing,” he said, and then his thoughts drifted to -Thornton Park and the bride, who was troubled with no more calls that -day, and so had time to rest and go about her handsome house and -grounds, much handsomer than when she first rang the front door bell and -was told to go to the side entrance by the man who was her husband now, -and prouder of her than of all his other surroundings. - -The next day there were many visitors at the Park, mostly strangers to -Mildred, although a few of them had been known to her in childhood, but -like Hugh, they saw no resemblance in her to the “oldest Leach girl,” as -she was called by the neighbors who remembered her. Of the bride there -was but one verdict, “The most elegant and agreeable woman that has ever -been in Rocky Point,” was said of her by all, for Mildred, while bearing -herself like a princess, was so gracious and friendly that she took -every heart by storm. - -It was late in the day when Bessie started to make her call with Tom. -Dinner was over and Mildred, who, with her husband and Gerard and Alice, -was sitting upon the piazza, saw them as they turned an angle in the -shrubbery and came up the avenue. - -“Oh, there’s Bessie,” Allie cried, springing to her feet, while -Mildred’s heart began to beat wildly as she glanced at Mr. Thornton, on -whose brow there was a dark frown, the first she had seen since she was -his wife, and this quieted her at once, for she readily guessed its -cause. She knew he had not married her family, and had begun to suspect -that he meant to keep her from them as much as possible. - -“But he cannot do it,” she thought, and turning to him she said in a low -tone, “They are mine; my own flesh and blood, and for my sake treat them -politely. It is the first favor I have asked of you.” - -There was something in her eyes which made him think she might be -dangerous if roused, and for aught he knew she might bring the whole -family there to live, or leave him for them, and swallowing his pride, -he went forward to meet his visitors with so much cordiality that Tom, -who had never received the slightest civility from the great man, -thought, to himself, “By Jove, she’s made him over.” - -“My wife, Mrs. Thornton; Miss Leach and Mr. Leach,” Mr. Thornton said, -and Mildred’s hand, cold and nerveless, was taken by a hand as white and -soft as her own, while Bessie’s blue eyes looked curiously at her, and -Bessie was saying the commonplace things which strangers say to each -other. - -“How lovely she is,” Mildred thought, hardly able to restrain herself -from folding the sunny, bright-faced girl in her arms and sobbing and -crying over her. - -But Tom was speaking to her now, and she was conscious of a feeling of -pride as she looked at the tall, handsome, manly fellow, and knew he was -her brother. Tom was like his mother, and Bessie like her father, while -Mildred was like neither, and one could scarcely have seen any -resemblance between them as they sat talking together until the moon -came up over the hill and it was time to go. Bessie had devoted herself -to Mildred, who fascinated her greatly, and who had adroitly led her to -talk of herself and her home and her mother. Mildred spoke of the pinks, -her voice trembling as she sent her thanks and love to the blind woman -whom she was soon coming to see. - -“Oh, I’m so glad,” Bessie exclaimed, in her impulsive way, “and mother -will be glad too. She sent the pinks because they are her favorite -flowers and she says they remind her of Milly, who used to love them so -much; that’s my sister, who has been abroad many years. I scarcely -remember her at all.” - -“Oh,” came like a moan from Mildred, who felt as if a blow had struck -her heart, it throbbed so painfully at the mention of her old name by -the sister who did not know her, and for an instant she was tempted to -scream out the truth and bring the foolish farce to an end. - -Then she felt her husband’s hand on her arm and the power of his will -overmastering her, and keeping her quiet. But she was glad when the -interview was over and she was free to go by herself and sob out her -anguish and shame and regret, that she had ever lent herself to this -deception. Of the two, Bessie and Tom, she had felt more drawn toward -the latter, of whom any sister might be proud, and when bidding him -good-night she had held his hand with a pressure which surprised him, -while her lips quivered and her eyes had in them a wistful look, as if -she were longing to say, “Oh, Tom; my brother.” And Tom had felt the -magnetism of her eyes and manner, and he said to Alice, who, with -Gerard, walked with them to the Park gate, “I say, Allie, your -stepmother is a stunner, and no mistake, and I do believe she took a -fancy to me. Why, I actually thought she squeezed my hand a little, and -she looked as if she’d like to kiss me. It wouldn’t hurt me much to kiss -her.” - -“Oh, Tom; and right before Allie,” Bessie said laughingly, and Tom -replied, “Can’t a fellow fall in love with his stepmother-in-law, if he -wants to?” and the arm he had thrown around Alice tightened its hold -upon her. - -Here they all laughed together and went on freely discussing the woman, -who, on her knees in her room was praying to be forgiven for the lie she -was living, and for strength to meet her mother, as that would be the -hardest ordeal of all. Once she resolved to defy her husband and -proclaim her identity, but gave that up with the thought that it was not -very long until September, and she would wait at least until she had -seen her mother. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - MILDRED AND HER MOTHER. - - -It was several days before Mildred went to the farm house, from which -her husband would have kept her altogether if he could have done so. His -determination to separate her as much as possible from her family had -been constantly increasing since his return, and he had fully made up -his mind to leave Rocky Point by the first of September and advertise -the Park for sale, thus cutting off all chance for intimacy in the -future when it was known who she was. She could do for her family all -she pleased, he thought, but she must not be intimate with them, and on -his way to the house, for he drove her there himself, he reminded her -again of her promise, saying to her very kindly, as he helped her to -alight: - -“I can trust you, Milly, and am sorry for you, for I know it will be -hard to meet your mother and keep silence.” - -It was harder than Mildred herself had anticipated, for the sight of the -familiar place, the walk, the garden, and the brook, where she had waded -barefoot many a time in summer and drawn her sled in winter with Hugh at -her side, nearly unmanned her, and every nerve was quivering as she rang -the bell in the door of the little, square entry, with the steep, narrow -stairs winding up to the chambers above. It was Bessie who answered the -ring, blushing when she saw her visitor and apologizing for her -appearance. The hired girl was gone for a day or two, leaving her maid -of all work, and as this was baking day she was deep in the mysteries of -pastry and bread, with her long, bib apron on and her hands covered with -flour. - -“Never mind me,” Mildred said, as she took in the situation. “It was -thoughtless in me to come in the morning. Please keep to your work while -I talk with your mother. I will call upon you some other time. Oh, -Gerard, you here?” she continued, as through the door opening into the -kitchen she saw the young man seated by the table pitting cherries which -Bessie was to make into pies. “That’s right; help all you can,” she -added with a smile, glad he was there, as it would leave her alone and -freer with her mother, whom she found in the bright, sunny room, built -partly with the money she had sent. - -Mrs. Leach was always very neat and clean, but this morning she was -particularly so, in her black cambric dress and spotless white apron, -with the widow’s cap resting on her snowy hair. Her hands were folded -together, and she was leaning back in her chair as if asleep, when -Mildred’s voice roused her, and a moment after Bessie said: - -“Here, mother, is Mrs. Thornton, and as I am so busy I will leave her -with you for a little while.” - -Suddenly, as if she had been shot, Mrs. Leach started forward, and -rubbing her eyes, in which there was an eager, expectant look, said: - -“I must have been dozing, for I dreamed that Milly had come and I heard -her voice in the kitchen. Mis’ Thornton here, did you say? I am very -proud to meet her;” and the hands were outstretched, groping in the -helpless way habitual with the blind. And Mildred took the hands in hers -and drawing a chair to her mother’s side sat down so close to her that -Mrs. Leach felt her hot breath stir her hair and knew she was being -looked at very closely. But how closely she did not dream, for Mildred’s -soul was in her eyes, which scanned the worn face where suffering and -sorrow had left their impress. And what a sad, sweet face it was, so -sweet and sad that Mildred involuntarily took it between her hands and -kissed it passionately; then, unable to control herself, she laid her -head on her mother’s bosom and sobbed like a little child. - -“What is it? Oh, Mrs. Thornton, you scare me. What makes you cry so? Who -are you?” Mrs. Leach said, excitedly, for she was frightened by the -strange conduct of her visitor. - -“You must excuse me,” Mildred said, lifting up her head. “The sight of -you unnerved me, for my,—my mother is blind?” - -She did not at all mean to say what she knew would involve more -deception of a certain kind, but she had said it and could not take it -back, and it was a sufficient explanation of her emotion to Mrs. Leach, -who said: - -“Your mother blind! Dear,—dear,—how did it happen, and has she been so -long? Where does she live, and how could she bear to have you leave her? -Dear, dear!” - -“Don’t talk of her now, please. I can’t bear it,” Mildred replied, and -thinking to herself, “Homesick, poor thing,” Mrs. Leach, whose ideas of -the world were narrowed to her own immediate surroundings, began to talk -of herself and her family in a desultory kind of way, while Mildred -listened with a feeling of half wonder, half pain. - -All her associations while with Mrs. Harwood had been with -highly-cultivated people, and in one sense her mother was new to her and -she realized as she had never done before how different she was from Mr. -Thornton and herself. “But she is my mother, and nothing can change my -love for her,” she thought, as she studied her and the room, which was -cozy and bright, though very plainly furnished as compared with the -elegant boudoir where she had made her own toilet. There was the tall -clock in the corner which had ticked away the hours and days she once -thought so dreary and lonely; the desk between the windows, where her -father used to keep his papers, and his old, worn pocketbook, in which -there was never much money, and on the bed in another corner was a -patchwork quilt, a few blocks of which Mildred had pieced herself, -recognizing them now with a start and a throb of pain as she saw in two -of them bits of the frock she had bought for Charlie with the berries -picked in her husband’s pasture. She had been turned out then as a -trespasser where she was mistress now, and there were diamonds on her -white hands, which had once washed potatoes for dinner, her special -abomination, and her gown had cost more than all her mother’s wardrobe. -And there she sat in a kind of dream, while the other Mildred of years -ago sat close beside her, confusing and bewildering her, so that she -hardly heard half her mother was saying about Tom and Bessie, the -dearest children in the world. But when at last her own name was -mentioned she started and was herself again, and listened as her mother -went on: - -“I’ve another girl, Mildred by name, but I call her Milly. She’s been in -Europe for years, and has been everywhere and speaks French and German, -and writes such beautiful letters.” - -She was evidently very proud of her absent daughter, and the lady beside -her, whose pallid face she could not see, clasped her hands and held her -breath as she continued: - -“I never s’posed she’d stay so long when she went away, or I couldn’t -let her go; but somehow or other she’s staid on and on till she’s been -gone many a year; many a year has Milly been gone, fifteen years come -fall, and now ‘tain’t likely I should know her, if I could see. You -won’t be offended, Mis’ Thornton, if I say that something about you -makes me think of Milly; something in your voice at first, and you laid -your head on my neck and cried just as she used to when things went -wrong and fretted her, which they mostly did, for she wasn’t meant to be -poor, and was always wantin’ to be rich and grand. I guess she is grand -now she’s been in foreign places so much, but she’s comin’ home in the -fall; she wrote me so in her last letter. You’ll call on her, won’t -you?” - -“Yes,” Mildred stammered, scarcely able to keep herself from crying out: -“Oh, mother, I _have_ come. I am Milly,” but a thought of her husband -restrained her, and thinking how she would make amends in the future, -when freed from her promise of secrecy, she listened again, while her -mother talked of her father and Charlie, and lastly of Hugh McGregor, -who was a great favorite with the old lady. - -“Jest like my own boy,” Mrs. Leach said, “and so kind to Tom. He lent -him money to go to school, and helps him a sight in his law books, and -helps on the farm, too, when he gets time, which is not often, for Hugh -is a first-rate lawyer and pleads at the bar like a judge. I believe -he’s comin’. Yes, I hear his step,” and her face lighted up as Hugh -appeared in the open door. - -“Good-morning, Mrs. Leach,” he called cheerily. “I beg your pardon, good -morning, Mrs. Thornton,” and he bowed deferentially to the lady as he -came in with a cluster of lovely roses, which he laid in Mrs. Leach’s -lap, saying, “Here are some of Milly’s roses. They opened this morning -and I brought them to you. Shall I give one to Mrs. Thornton?” - -“Yes, do; the fairest and best. I think she must be like them, though I -can’t see her,” Mrs. Leach replied, and selecting one of the finest, -Hugh offered it to Mildred, whose cheeks rivaled it in color, as she -held it near them to inhale its perfume. - -It was of the variety known as “Souvenir d’un Ami,” and the original -stock had been bought by Mrs. Leach two or three years before with some -money sent her by Mildred, whose name she had given to the rose. This -she explained to Mildred, adding that Mr. McGregor was so fond of the -rose that he had taken a slip from her garden and planted it under his -office window. - -“He calls it Milly’s rose,” she added, “for he and Milly were great -friends, as children. Hugh, ain’t there something about Mis’ Thornton -that makes you think of Milly?” - -Mildred’s face was scarlet, but she tried to hide it by bending her head -very low as she fastened the rose to the bosom of her dress, while Hugh -answered laughingly, “Why, no. Milly was small and thin, and a child -when we saw her, while Mrs. Thornton is——” here he stopped, confused and -uncertain as to what he ought to say next. But when Mildred’s eyes -flashed upon him expectantly, he added very gallantly, “Mrs. Thornton is -more like Milly’s roses.” - -“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. McGregor. I will remember it and keep -Milly’s rose, too,” Mildred said, with a little dash of coquetry, and a -ring in her voice which made Hugh think of the Milly who, he supposed, -was thousands of miles away. - -Just then there was the sound of wheels stopping before the house, and -Gerard, with his apron still tied around his neck, for he was not yet -through with his culinary duties, came to the door, saying, “Mrs. -Thornton, father is waiting for you.” - -“Yes, I’ll be there directly,” Mildred replied, rising hurriedly to say -good-bye, and giving her hand to her mother, who fondled it a moment and -then said to her, “Your hands are soft as a baby’s, and there are many -rings on your fingers. I think I know how they look, and I have felt -your hair, but not your face. Tom and Bessie say it is handsome. Would -you mind my feeling it? That’s my way of seeing.” - -Mildred was glad that Hugh had stepped in to the next room and could not -see her agitation, as she knelt beside the blind woman, whose hands -moved slowly over her face and then up to her hair, where they rested a -moment as if in benediction, while she said, “You are lovely, I am sure, -and good, too, and your poor blind mother must miss you so much. Didn’t -she hate to part with you?” - -“Yes, oh, yes, and my heart is aching for her. Please bless me as if you -were my mother and I your daughter Milly,” was Mildred’s sobbing reply, -her tears falling like rain as the shaking hands pressed heavily upon -her bowed head, while the plaintive voice said slowly, “God bless you, -child, and make you happy with your husband, and comfort your poor -mother while you are away from her. Amen.” - -“Will you tell Mrs. Thornton I am in a hurry?” Mr. Thornton said to -Bessie, loudly enough for Mildred to hear, and wiping her tears away, -she went out through the side door where her husband was standing, with -a frown upon his face, caused not so much by her delay as by the glimpse -he was sure he had caught of his son, in the kitchen, with a checked -apron tied round his neck and a big cherry stain on his forehead. - -Nor did the sight of his wife’s flushed cheeks and red eyes help to -restore his equanimity, and although he said nothing then, Mildred felt -that he was displeased, as he helped her into the phaeton and took his -seat beside her. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - GERARD AND HIS FATHER. - - -Gathering up the reins and driving very slowly, he began: - -“Was that Gerard whom I saw tricked out as a kitchen cook?” - -“Gerard was there. Yes,” Mildred answered, and he continued in that -cool, determined tone which means more than words themselves, “Is he -often there? Is he interested in your sister? If he is, it must stop. I -tell you it must stop,” he added more emphatically as his wife made no -reply. “I married you because——” he paused a moment and looked at the -woman sitting at his side in all her glowing beauty, and then went on in -a softer tone,—“because I loved you more than I loved my pride, which, -however, is so great, that it will not quietly submit to my son’s -marrying your sister.” - -“Does he intend to?” Mildred asked so coolly that it exasperated him, -and he replied, “He will not with my consent, and he will hardly dare do -so without it. Why, he has scarcely a dollar of his own, and no business -either. More’s the pity, or he wouldn’t be capering round a kitchen in -an old woman’s apron.” - -“I think it was Bessie’s,” Mildred said quietly, and angrier than ever, -her husband continued. “You told me in Paris that your sister was -engaged to Mr. McGregor.” - -“It was a mistake,” Mildred said, her heart beating heavily as she -thought of all the mistake had done for her. - -“Yes,” Mr. Thornton repeated, “I ventured to rally Hugh a little this -morning, and he denied the story while something in his manner aroused a -suspicion which the sight of Gerard confirmed. What was he doing there?” - -“Pitting cherries for Bessie,” Mildred said with provoking calmness, and -he continued, “I tell you it shall not be. Gerard Thornton must look——” -here he stopped, not quite willing to finish the sentence, which Milly, -however, finished for him—“must look higher than Bessie Leach?” - -“Yes, that’s what I mean, although I might not have said it, for I do -not wish to wound you unnecessarily; but I tell you again it must not -be, and you are not to encourage it, or encourage so much visiting -between my children and the Leach’s. Why, that girl,—Bessie, I think is -her name,—is at the Park half the time. Heavens! What would it be if -they knew who you were! I was wise to do as I did, but I am sorry I came -here at all, and I mean to return to New York earlier than I intended, -and if necessary, sell the place. That will break up the whole -business.” - -To this Mildred made no reply, but sat thinking, with a growing -conviction that she now knew her husband’s real reason for wishing to -keep her identity a secret during their stay at the Park. It was to -prevent the intimacy which he knew would ensue between her and her -family, if they knew who she was, and with all the strength of her will -she rebelled against it. “I will not encourage the young people, but he -shall not keep me from my mother,” she thought, and the face at which -her husband looked a little curiously as he helped her from the phaeton, -had in it an expression he did not understand. - -“I believe she’s got a good deal of the old Harry in her after all, but -I shall be firm,” he thought, as he drove to the stable and gave his -horse to the groom. - -Lunch was nearly over when Gerard appeared, the cherry stains washed -from his face, but showing conspicuously on his nails and the tips of -his fingers, from which he had tried in vain to remove them. - -“Why, Gerard, what have you been doing to your hands?” Alice asked, and -with an amused look at Mildred, he replied, “Stoning cherries with -them,” while his father hastily left the table. - -“Gerard,” he said, pausing a moment in the doorway, “Come to the library -after lunch. I want to see you.” - -“Yes, sir,” Gerard answered, feeling as certain then of what was coming -as he did twenty minutes later when his father asked abruptly, “How old -are you?” - -“Twenty-five last May.” - -“Twenty-five,—yes; and been graduated three years, and no business yet. -Nothing to do but wear a kitchen apron and stone cherries for Bessie -Leach. I saw you. I don’t like it, and as soon as we are in New York I -shall find something for you to do.” - -At the mention of Bessie, Gerard had stiffened, for his father’s tone -was offensive. But his answer was respectful: “I shall be glad of -something to do, sir, although I do not think myself altogether to blame -for having been an idler so long. When I left college you know I was in -so bad health that you and the doctor both, fearing I had inherited my -mother’s malady, prescribed perfect rest and quiet for a long time. But -I am strong now and will do anything you think best. I prefer law, and -would like to go into Mr. McGregor’s office. I can get on faster there -than in New York.” - -“Yes, and see Bessie Leach oftener,” Mr. Thornton began angrily. “I tell -you I will not have it. The girl is well enough and pretty enough, but I -won’t have it, and if you are getting too much interested in her, quit -her at once.” - -“Quit Bessie!” Gerard said. “Quit Bessie! Never! She has promised to be -my wife!” - -“Your wife!” Mr. Thornton repeated, aghast with anger and surprise, for -he never dreamed matters had gone so far. - -“Yes, my wife. I was only waiting for you to know her better to tell you -of our engagement,” Gerard replied, and then for half an hour, Mildred, -who was in her room over the library, heard the sound of excited -voices,—Gerard’s low and determined, and his father’s louder and quite -as decided. - -And when the interview was over, and her husband came up to her, he -said: - -“I am very sorry, my darling, because, in a way, the trouble touches you -through your sister; but you must see that it is not a suitable match -for my son. She is not you, and has not had your advantages. She is a -plain country girl, and if Gerard persists in marrying her he will have -no help from me, either before or after my death.” - -“You mean you will disinherit him?” Mildred asked, and he replied: - -“Yes, just that; and I have told him so, and given him the summer in -which to make up his mind. He has some Quixotic idea of studying law -with McGregor, which will of course keep him here after we have gone. I -don’t intend to live in a quarrel, and shall say no more to him on the -subject, or try to control his actions in any way. If he goes with us to -New York, all right; and if he chooses to stay here, I shall know what -to do.” - -A slight inclination of Mildred’s head was her only reply, until her -husband said: - -“Do you think Bessie would marry him if she knew he was penniless?” - -And then she answered proudly: “I do,” and left the room, saying to -herself as she went out into the beautiful grounds, whose beauty she did -not see: “What will he do when he hears of Alice and Tom? Three Leaches -instead of one. Poor Tom! Poor Bessie! And I am powerless to help them.” - - - - - CHAPTER X. - IN THE CEMETERY. - - -As Mr. Thornton had said, he did not like to live in a quarrel, and -after his interview with his son, he tried to appear just as he had done -before, and when Bessie came to the Park, as she often did, he treated -her civilly, and insensibly found himself admiring her beauty and grace, -and thinking to himself, “If she had money she might do.” - -Upon Mildred he laid no restrictions with regard to her intercourse with -her family, feeling intuitively that they would not be heeded. And thus -she was free to see her mother as often as she liked, and it was -remarked by the villagers that the proud mistress of Thornton Park went -more frequently to the farm house than anywhere else. Many a morning she -spent in the pleasant room, listening while her mother talked, mostly of -Mildred, whose long silence was beginning to trouble her. - -“It is weeks since I heard from her. She said in her last letter it -might be some time before she wrote again, but I am getting anxious,” -she would say, while Mildred comforted her with the assurance that no -news was good news, and that perhaps her daughter was intending to -surprise her by coming upon her unexpectedly some day. - -“I am certain of it; I am something of a prophet, and I know Milly will -come,” she would say, as she smoothed her mother’s snowy hair, or -caressed her worn face, which always lighted up with gladness when she -came, and grew sadder when she went away. - -By some strange coincidence, it frequently happened that Hugh called -upon Mrs. Leach when Mildred was there, and always stopped to talk with -her. But Mildred was never quite at ease with him. Her eyes never met -his squarely, while her brilliant color came and went as rapidly as if -she were a shy school-girl confronted with her master instead of the -elegant Mrs. Thornton, whose beauty was the theme of every tongue, -stirring even him a little, but bringing no thought of Mildred, of whom -he sometimes spoke to her mother. As yet Milly had found no chance to -visit her father’s and Charlie’s graves, which she knew she could find -without difficulty, as her mother had told her of the headstones which -Tom had put there in the spring. But she was only biding her time, and -one afternoon in August, when she had been in Rocky Point six weeks or -more, she drove up the mountain road to call upon some New Yorkers who -were stopping at the new hotel. It was late when she left the hotel, and -the full moon was just rising as she reached the entrance to the -cemetery on her return home. Calling to the driver to let her alight, -she bade him go on and leave her, saying she preferred to walk, as the -evening was so fine. Mildred had already won the reputation among her -servants of being rather eccentric, and thinking this one of her cranks, -the man drove on, while she went into the grounds, where the dead were -lying, the headstones gleaming white through the clump of firs and -evergreens which grew so thickly as to conceal many of them from view, -and to hide completely the figure of a man seated in the shadow of one -of them not very far from the graves to which she was making her way. -Hugh had also been up the mountain road on foot, and coming back had -struck into the cemetery as a shorter route home. As he was tired and -the night very warm, he sat down in an armchair under a thick pine, -whose shadow screened him from observation, but did not prevent his -outlook upon the scene around him. He had heard the sound of wheels -stopping near the gate, but he thought no more of it until he saw -Mildred coming slowly across the yard diagonally from the gate, holding -up her skirts, for the dew was beginning to fall, and making, as it -seemed to him, for the very spot where he was sitting. At first he did -not recognize her, but when removing her hat as if its weight oppressed -her she suddenly raised her head so that the moonlight fell upon her -face, he started in surprise, and wondered why she was there. Whose -grave had she come to find? Some one’s, evidently, for she was looking -carefully about her, and afraid to startle her, Hugh sat still and -watched, a feeling like nightmare stealing over him as she entered the -little enclosure where the Leaches were buried. He could see the two -stones distinctly, and he could see and hear her, too, as leaning upon -the taller and bending low so that her eyes were on a level with the -lettering, she said, as if reading. “John Leach, and Charlie; these are -the graves. Oh, father! Oh, Charlie! do you know I have come back after -so many years only to find you dead? And I loved you so much. Oh, -Charlie, my baby brother!” - -Here her voice was choked with sobs, and Hugh could hear no more, but he -felt as if the weight of many tons was holding him down and making him -powerless to speak or move, had he wished to do so. And so he sat -riveted to the spot, looking at the woman with a feeling half akin to -terror and doubt, as to whether it were her ghost, or Mildred herself -weeping over her dead. As her smothered sobs met his ear and he thought -he heard his own name, he softly whispered, “Milly,” and stretched his -arms towards her, but let them drop again at his side and watched the -strange scene to its close. Once Mildred seemed to be praying, for she -knelt upon the grass, with her face on her father’s grave, and he heard -the word “Forgive.” - -Then she arose and walked slowly back to the road, where she was lost to -view. As long as he could see the flutter of her white dress Hugh looked -after her, and when it disappeared from sight he felt for a few moments -as if losing his consciousness, so great was the shock upon his nervous -system. Mrs. Thornton was Mildred Leach,—the girl he knew now he had -never given up, and whose coming in the autumn he had been looking -forward to with so much pleasure. She had come, and she was another -man’s wife, and what was worse than all she was keeping her identity -from her friends and daily living a lie. Did her husband know it, or was -he, too, deceived? - -“Probably,” Hugh said, with a feeling for an instant as if he hated her -for the deception. But that soon passed away, and he tried to make -himself believe that it was a hallucination of his brain and he had not -seen her by those two graves. He would examine them and see, for if a -form of flesh and blood had been there the long, damp grass would be -trampled down in places. It was trampled down, and in the hollow between -the graves a small, white object was lying. - -“Her handkerchief. She has been here,” he whispered, as he stooped to -pick it up. “If her name is on it I shall know for sure.” - -There was a name upon it, but so faintly traced that he could not read -it in the moonlight, which was now obscured by clouds. A storm was -rising, and hastening his steps towards home he was soon in his own room -and alone to think it out. Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, he -held it to the light and read “M. F. Thornton.” There could be no -mistake. It was Mrs. Thornton he had seen in the cemetery, but was it -Mildred? “M. F.,” he repeated aloud, remembering suddenly that Mildred’s -name was Mildred Frances, which would correspond with the initials. - -“It is Milly,” he continued, “but why this deception? Is she ashamed to -have her family claim her? Ashamed to have her husband know who she was; -and did she pass for Fanny Gardner in Europe?” - -Again a feeling of resentment and hatred came over him, but passed -quickly, for although he might despise and condemn, he could not hate -her. She had been too much to him in his boyhood, and thoughts of her -had influenced every action of his life thus far. Just what he had -expected, if he had expected anything, he did not know, but whatever it -was, it was cruelly swept away. He had lost her absolutely, for when his -respect for her was gone, she was gone forever, and laying his head upon -the table he wrestled for a few moments with his grief and loss, as -strong men sometimes wrestle with a great and bitter pain. - -“If she were dead,” he said, “it would not be so hard to bear. But to -see her the beautiful woman she is,—to know she is Mildred and makes no -sign even to her poor, blind mother, is terrible.” - -He was walking the floor now, with Milly’s handkerchief held tightly in -his hands, wondering what he should do with it. - -“I’ll keep it,” he said. “It is all I have left of her except the lock -of hair and the peas she gave to me. What a fool I was in those days,” -and he laughed as he recalled the morning when Milly threw him the pod -which he had not seen in a year. - -But he brought it out now, and laughed again when he saw how hard and -shriveled were both the peas. - -“Stony and hard like her. I believe I’ll throw them away and end the -tomfoolery,” he said. - -But he put them back in the box, which he called a little grave, and -took up next the curl of tangled hair, comparing its color in his mind -with Mrs. Thornton’s hair, which, from its peculiar, mottled appearance, -had attracted his notice. How had she changed it, he wondered, and then -remembering to have heard of dyes, to which silly, fashionable women -sometimes resorted, he was sure that he hated her, and putting the box -away went to bed with that thought uppermost in his mind, but with -Milly’s handkerchief folded under his pillow. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - WHAT FOLLOWED. - - -When Hugh awoke the next morning it was with a confused idea that -something had gone out of his life and left it a blank, and he asked -himself what it was and why he was feeling so badly. But memory soon -brought back a recollection of the secret he held and would hold to the -end, for he had no intention of betraying Mildred or charging her with -deception, if, indeed, he ever spoke to her again. He had no desire to -do so, he thought, and then it came to him suddenly that there was to be -a grand party at Thornton Park that night, and that he had ordered a -dress suit for the occasion. - -“But I shall not go,” he said to himself, as he made his hurried toilet. -“I could not bear to see Milly tricked out in the gewgaws and jewels for -which she sold herself.” - -And firm in this resolution, he went about his usual duties in his -office, clinching his fist and setting his teeth when several times -during the day he heard Tom Leach talking eagerly of the party, which he -expected to enjoy so much. Tom did not ask if Hugh was going, expecting -it as a matter of course, and Hugh kept his own counsel, and was silent -and moody and even cross for him, and at about four o’clock sat down to -write his regret. Then, greatly to his surprise, he found how much he -really wanted to see Mildred once more and study her in the new -character she had assumed. - -“I shall not talk with her and I don’t know that I shall touch her hand, -but I am half inclined to go,” he thought, and tearing up his regret, he -decided to wait awhile and see; and as a result of waiting and seeing, -nine o’clock found him walking up the broad avenue to the house, which -was ablaze with light from attic to basement, and filled with guests, -who crowded the parlors and halls and stairways, so that it was some -little time before he could fight his way to the dressing-room, which -was full of young men and old men in high collars, low vests and -swallow-tails, many of them very red in the face and out of breath with -their frantic efforts to fit gloves a size too small to hands unused to -them, for fashionable parties like this were very rare in Rocky Point. - -Mildred had not wished it, as she shrank from society rather than -courted it, but Gerard and Alice were anxious for it, and Mr. Thornton -willing, and under the supervision of his children cards were sent to so -many that the proud man grew hot and cold by turns as he thought of -having his sacred precincts invaded by Tom, Dick and Harry, and the rest -of them, as he designated the class of people whom he neither knew, nor -cared to know. But Alice and Gerard knew them, and they were all there, -Tom and Bessie with the rest, Tom by far the handsomest young man of all -the young men, and the one most at his ease, while Bessie, in her pretty -muslin dress, with only flowers for ornament, would have been the belle -of the evening, but for the hostess, whose brilliant beauty, heightened -by the appliances of dress, which so well became her fine figure, -dazzled every one as she stood by her husband’s side in her gown of -creamy satin and lace, with diamonds flashing on her white neck and arms -and gleaming in her hair. How queenly she was, with no trace of the -storm which had swept over her the previous night, and Hugh, when he -descended the stairs and first caught sight of her, stopped a few -moments, and leaning against the railing, watched her receiving her -guests with a smile on her lips and a look in her eyes which he -remembered now so well, and wondered he had not recognized before. And -as he looked there came up before him another Milly than this one with -the jewels and satin and lace, a Milly with tangled hair and calico -frock and gingham apron, shelling her peas in the doorway and predicting -that she would some day be the mistress of Thornton Park. She was there -now, and no grand duchess born to the purple could have filled the -position better. - -“Thornton chose well, if he only knew it,” Hugh thought, and, mustering -all his courage he at last went forward to greet the lady. And when she -offered her hand to him he took it in spite of his determination not to -do so, and looked into her eyes, which kindled at first with a strange -light, while in his there was an answering gleam, so that neither would -have been surprised to have heard the names Milly and Hugh -simultaneously spoken. But no such catastrophe occurred, and after a few -commonplaces Hugh passed on and did not go near her again until, at a -comparatively early hour, when he came to say good-night. - -Mildred had removed her glove to change the position of a ring which cut -her finger, and was about putting it on again when Hugh came up, -thinking that at the risk of seeming rude he would not again take the -hand which had sent such a thrill through him when earlier in the -evening he held it for an instant. But the sight of it, bare and white -and soft as a piece of satin, unnerved him and he grasped it tightly, -while he made his adieus, noting as he did so the troubled expression of -her face as she looked curiously at him. - -“Does she suspect I know her?” he thought as he went from the house, but -not to his home. - -It was a beautiful August night, and finding a seat in the shrubbery -where he could not be seen, he sat there in the moonlight while one -after another carriages and people on foot went past him, and finally, -as the lights were being put out, Tom Leach came airily down the walk, -singing softly. “Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet -Alice, with hair so brown.” - -“Tom’s done for,” Hugh thought, little dreaming how thoroughly he was -done for in more respects than one. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - LOVE VERSUS MONEY. - - -Tom had been the last to leave the house, for he had lingered awhile to -talk to Alice, with whom he was standing in the conservatory, partially -concealed by some tall vases and shrubs, when Mr. Thornton chanced that -way. Thinking his guests all gone and hearing the murmur of voices, he -stopped just in time to see Tom’s arm around his daughter’s waist and to -hear a sound the meaning of which he could not mistake, as the young -man’s face came in close proximity to that of his daughter. To say that -he was astonished is saying very little. He was horrified and disgusted, -and so indignant that his first impulse was to collar the audacious Tom -and hurl him through the window. But not wishing a scene before the -servants, he restrained himself, and went quietly away, with much the -same feeling which prompted Cæsar to say, “_Et tu, Brute!_” Since his -interview with his son he had never mentioned Bessie’s name to him, or -raised any objection to her coming to his house as often as she liked. -But he had watched her closely, and had been insensibly softened by her -girlish beauty and quiet grace of manner. There was nothing of the -plebeian in her appearance, and he was beginning to think that if -Gerard’s heart were set upon her, rather than have a bitter quarrel he -might possibly consent to the marriage, although it was not at all what -he desired. The young couple could live at the Park house, and in the -spring he would go abroad for an indefinite length of time, and thus -separate himself and wife entirely from her family. In Europe, with her -refinement and money, Alice would make a grand match and possibly marry -an earl, for titles, he knew, could be bought, and he had the means to -buy them. With a daughter who was My Lady, and a son-in-law who was My -Lord, he could afford to have a Leach for his daughter-in-law, and -Gerard’s star was rising when he came so unexpectedly upon a scene which -at once changed him from a relenting father into a hard, determined man, -whom nothing could move. - -Mildred was asleep when he went to his room, but had she been awake he -would have said nothing to her. His wrath was reserved for his daughter, -who poured his coffee for him next morning, as Mildred had a headache, -and was not out of her bed. Gerard, too, was absent, and the meal was a -very silent, cheerless one, for Alice felt that something was the matter -and trembled when, after it was over, her father asked her to step into -the library, as he wished to speak with her alone. - -“Alice,” he began, “I want to know the meaning of what I saw last -night?” - -“What did you see?” she asked, her heart beating rapidly but bravely as -she resolved to stand by Tom. - -“I am no spy on other people’s actions, but I was passing the -conservatory and saw Tom Leach kiss you, and I think, yes, I’m very sure -you kissed him back; at all events you laid your head on his shoulder in -a very disreputable way, and I want to know what it means.” - -Alice, who had some of her father’s nature, was calm and defiant in a -moment. The word disreputable had roused her, and her answer rang out -clear and distinct, “It means that Tom and I are engaged.” - -“Engaged! You engaged to Tom Leach!” Mr. Thornton exclaimed, putting as -much contempt into his voice as it was possible to do. “Engaged to Tom -Leach! Then you are no daughter of mine.” - -Mr. Thornton had never liked Tom, whose frank, assured manner towards -him was more like that of an equal than an inferior, and for a moment he -felt that he would rather see Alice dead than married to him. Just then -Gerard came to the door, but was about to withdraw when his father -called him in and said inquiringly, “Your sister tells me she is engaged -to Tom Leach. Did you know it?” - -“Yes, I imagined something of the kind,” was Gerard’s reply, as he -crossed over to his sister and stood protectingly by her side, while his -father, forgetting his softened feelings towards Bessie, went on: “And -you? I gave you time to consider your choice. Have you done so?” - -“I have.” - -“And it is——?” - -“To marry Bessie,” was Gerard’s answer, while Alice’s came with it: “And -I shall marry Tom.” - -Such opposition from both his children roused Mr. Thornton to fury, and -his look was the look of a madman, as he said, “That is your decision. -Then hear mine. I shall disinherit you both! I can’t take away from you -the few thousands your mother left you, but I can do as I like with my -own. Now, what will you do?” - -“Marry Bessie.” - -“Marry Tom,” came simultaneously from the young rebels, and with the -words, “So be it,” their father left the room, and a few minutes later -they saw him galloping rapidly down the avenue in the direction of the -town. - -He did not return to lunch, and when he came in to dinner he seemed very -absent-minded and only volunteered the remark that he was going to New -York the next day to see that their house was made ready for them within -a week. As Mildred’s headache was unusually severe she had kept her bed -the entire day and knew nothing of the trouble until just at twilight, -when Alice, who felt that she must talk to some one, crept up to her, -and laying her head on the pillow beside her, told of her father’s anger -and threat and asked if she thought he would carry it out. - -“No,” Mildred answered. “He will think better of it, I am sure,” and -Alice continued, “Not that I care for myself, but I wanted to help Tom.” - -“Do you love him so much that you cannot give him up?” Mildred asked. - -“Love him! Why, I would rather be poor and work for my living with Tom, -than have all the world without him,” Alice replied, while the hand on -her head pressed a little heavily as she went on: “Papa is so proud. You -don’t know how contemptuously he says _those Leaches_, as if they were -too low for anything, and all because they happen to be poor, and -because——Did I ever tell you that Bessie’s sister Mildred, who has been -so long in Europe, was once,—not exactly a servant in our family, for -she took care of me,—my little friend, I called her, and was very fond -of her. But I suppose father does not wish Gerard and me to marry into -her family. Are you crying?” Alice asked suddenly, as she heard what -sounded like a sob. - -“Yes,—no,—I don’t know. I wish I could help you, but I can’t,” Mildred -answered, while the tears rolled down her cheeks like rain. - -Every word concerning her family and herself had been like a stab to -her, and she felt how bitterly she was being punished for her deception. -Once she decided to tell Alice the truth, and might have done so if she -had not heard her husband’s step outside the door. That broke up the -conference between herself and Alice, who immediately left the room. - -The next morning Mr. Thornton started for New York, where he was absent -for three or four days, and when he returned he complained of a headache -and pain in all parts of his body. He had taken a severe cold, he said, -and went at once to his bed, which he never left again, for the cold -proved to be a fever, which assumed the typhoid form, with its attendant -delirium, and for two weeks Mildred watched over and cared for him with -all the devotion of a true and loving wife. True she had always been, -and but for one memory might have been loving, too, for Mr. Thornton had -been kind and indulgent to her, and she repaid him with every possible -care and attention. He always knew her in his wildest fits of delirium, -and would smile when she laid her cool hand on his hot head, and -sometimes whisper her name. Gerard and Alice he never knew, although he -often talked of them, asking where they were, and once, during a -partially lucid interval, when alone with Mildred, he said to her, “Tell -the children I was very angry, but I am sorry, and I mean to make it -right.” - -“I am sure you do,” Mildred replied, little guessing what he meant, as -his mind began to wander again, and he only said, “Yes,—all right, and -you will see to it. All right,—all right.” - -And these were the last words he ever spoke, for on the fourteenth day -after his return from New York, he died, with Mildred bending over him -and Mildred’s hand in his. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - THE WILL. - - -When Mr. Thornton left Gerard and Alice after his threat of -disinheritance, he went straight to the office of Hugh McGregor, and -asking to see him alone, announced his intention of making his will. - -“It’s time I did it,” he said with a little laugh, and then as Hugh -seated himself at his table, he dictated as follows: - -To a few charitable institutions in New York he gave a certain sum; to -his children, Gerard and Alice, a thousand dollars each, and the rest of -his property he gave unconditionally to his beloved wife, Mildred F. -Thornton. - -“Excuse me, Mr. Thornton,” Hugh said, looking up curiously from the -paper on which he was writing, “isn’t this a strange thing you are -doing, giving everything to your wife, and nothing to your children. -Does she know,—does she desire it?” - -“She knows nothing, but I do. I know my own business. Please go on. -Write what I tell you,” Mr. Thornton answered impatiently, and without -further protest Hugh wrote the will, which was to make Mildred the -richest woman in the county, his hand trembling a little as he wrote -Mildred F., and thought to himself, “That is Milly’s name. She did not -deceive him there. Does he know the rest?” - -“You must have three witnesses,” he said, when the legal instrument was -drawn up. - -“Tom Leach is in the next room. I saw him. He will do for one,” Mr. -Thornton said, with a grim smile, as he thought what a ghastly joke it -would be for Tom to witness a will which cut Alice off with a mere -pittance. “Have him in.” - -So Tom was called, together with another man who had just entered the -office. A stiff bow was Mr. Thornton’s only greeting to Tom, who -listened while the usual formula was gone through with, and then signing -his name, Thomas J. Leach, went back to his books, with no suspicion as -to what the will contained or how it would affect him. - -“I will keep the paper myself,” Mr. Thornton said, taking it from Hugh, -with some shadowy idea in his brain that it might be well to have it -handy in case he changed his mind and wished to destroy it. - -But death came too soon for that, and when he died his will was lying -among his papers in his private drawer, where it was found by Gerard, -who without opening it, carried it to Mildred. There had been a funeral -befitting Mr. Thornton’s position and wealth, and he had been taken to -Greenwood and laid beside his first wife, and after a few days spent in -New York the family came back to their country home, which they -preferred to the city. Bessie, Tom and Hugh met them at the station, the -heart of the latter beating rapidly when he saw Mildred in her widow’s -weeds, and helping her alight from the train, he went with her to her -carriage, and telling her he should call in a few days on business, -bowed a little stiffly and walked away. - -Since drawing the will he had been growing very hard towards Mildred, -whose identity he did not believe her husband knew, else he had not -married her, and as he went back to his office after meeting her at the -station he wondered what Gerard would think of the will, half hoping he -would contest it, and wondering how long before something would be said -of it to him. It was not long, for the second day after his return from -New York, Gerard found it and took it to Mildred. - -“Father’s will,” he said, with a sinking sensation, as if he already saw -the shadow on his life. - -Mildred took the paper rather indifferently, but her face blanched as -she read it, and her words came slowly and thick as she said, “Oh, -Gerard, I am so sorry, but he did not mean it to stand, and it shall -not. Read it.” - -Taking it from her, Gerard read with a face almost as white as hers, but -with a different expression upon it. She was sorry and astonished, while -he was resentful and angry at the man whose dead hand was striking him -so hard. But he was too proud to show what he really felt, and said -composedly, “I am not surprised. He threatened to disinherit us unless -we gave up Bessie and Tom, and he has done so. It’s all right. I have -something from mother and I shall be as glad to work for Bessie as Tom -will be to work for Alice. It’s not the money I care for so much as the -feeling which prompted the act, and, by George,” he continued, as he -glanced for the first time at the signatures, Henry Boyd, Thomas J. -Leach, Hugh McGregor, “if he didn’t get Tom to sign Alice’s death -warrant. That is the meanest of all.” - -What more he would have said was cut short by the violent fit of -hysterics into which Mildred went for the first time in her life. And -she did not come out of it easily either, but sobbed and cried -convulsively all the morning, and in the afternoon kept her room, seeing -no one but Alice, who clung to her as fondly as if she had been her own -mother. Alice had heard of the will with a good deal of composure, for -she was just the age and temperament to think that a life of poverty, if -shared with the man she loved, was not so very hard, and besides she had -in her own right seven hundred dollars a year, which was something, she -reasoned, and she took her loss quite philosophically, and tried to -comfort Mildred, whose distress she could not understand. Mildred knew -by the handwriting that Hugh had drawn the will, and after passing a -sleepless night she arose early the next morning, weak in body but -strong in her resolve to right the wrong which had been done to Gerard -and Alice. - -“I am going to see Mr. McGregor,” she said to them when breakfast was -over, and an hour or two later her carriage was brought out, and the -coachman ordered to drive her to Hugh’s office and leave her there. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - MILDRED AND HUGH. - - -Tom was at work that morning on the farm, and as the other clerk was -taking a holiday, Hugh was alone when he received his visitor, whose -appearance there surprised him, and at whom he looked curiously, her -face was so white and her eyes, swollen with weeping, so unnaturally -large and bright. But she was very calm, and taking the seat he offered, -and throwing back the heavy veil whose length swept the floor as she -sat, she began at once by saying: - -“You drew my husband’s will?” - -“Yes, I drew it,” he answered curtly, and not at all prepared for her -next question, which seemed to arraign him as a culprit. - -“Why did you do it?” and there was a ring in her voice he could not -understand. - -“Why did I do it?” he repeated. “Don’t you know that lawyers usually -follow their client’s wishes in making their wills?” - -“Yes, but you might have dissuaded him from it. You knew it was wrong.” - -“You don’t like it then?” he asked, but repented the question when he -saw the effect upon her. - -Rising to her feet and tugging at her bonnet strings as if they choked -her, she looked steadily at him and said: - -“Don’t like it? What do you take me for? No, I don’t like it, and if I -had found it first, I think,—I am sure I should have torn it to pieces.” - -She had her bonnet off, and was tossing it toward the table as if its -weight oppressed her. But it fell upon the floor, where it might have -lain if Hugh had not picked it up, carefully and gingerly, as if half -afraid of this mass of crape. But it was Milly’s bonnet, and he brushed -a bit of dust from the veil, and held it in his hand, while she pushed -back her hair from her forehead, and wiping away the drops of -perspiration standing there went on: - -“Do you know why he made such a will?” - -“I confess I do not. I expressed my surprise at the time, but he was not -a man to be turned from his purpose when once his mind was made up. May -_I_ ask why he did it?” Hugh said, and Mildred replied: - -“Yes;—he was angry with Gerard and Alice, because of—of—Tom and Bessie -Leach. The young people are engaged and he accidentally found it out.” - -“Yes, I see;—he thought a Thornton too good to marry a Leach. Do you -share his opinion?” Hugh asked, while the blood came surging back to -Mildred’s white face in a great red wave, but left it again, except in -two round spots which burned on either cheek. - -Hugh was torturing her cruelly, and she wrung her hands, but did not -answer his question directly. She only said, as she took the will from -her pocket and held it towards him, “It is all right? It is legally -executed?” - -“Yes, it is all right.” - -“And it gives everything to me to do with as I please?” - -“Yes, it gives everything to you to do with as you please. You are a -very rich woman, Mrs. Thornton, and I congratulate you.” - -His tone was sarcastic in the extreme, and stung Mildred so deeply that -she forgot herself, and going a step nearer to him cried out, “Oh, Hugh, -why are you so hard upon me? Why do you hate me so? Don’t you know who I -am?” - -Hugh had not expected this, for he had no idea that Mildred would ever -tell who she was, and the sound of his name, spoken as she used to speak -it when excited, moved him strangely. He was still holding her black -bonnet, the long veil of which had become twisted around his boot, and -without answering her at once he stooped to unwind it and then put the -bonnet from him upon the table as if it had been a barrier between him -and the woman, whose eyes were upon him. - -“Yes,” he said at last, very slowly, for he was afraid his voice might -tremble, “You are Mrs. Thornton now; but you were Mildred Leach.” - -“Oh, Hugh, I am so glad!” Mildred cried, as she sank into her chair, and -covering her face with her hands, sobbed like a child, while Hugh stood -looking at her, wondering what he ought to do, or say, and wishing she -would speak first. But she did not, and at last he said: - -“Mrs. Thornton, you have often puzzled me with a likeness to somebody -seen before I met you. But I had no suspicion of the truth until I saw -you in the cemetery at your father’s grave. I am no eavesdropper, but -was so placed that I had to see and hear, and I knew then that you were -Mildred, come back to us, not as we hoped you would come, but——” - -His voice was getting shaky, and he stopped a moment to recover himself. -Then, taking from his side pocket the handkerchief he had carried with -him since the night he found it, he passed it to her, saying: - -“I picked it up after you left the yard. Have you missed it?” - -“Yes,—no. I don’t remember,” she replied, taking the handkerchief, and -drying her eyes with it. Then, looking up at Hugh, while the first smile -she had known since her husband died broke over her face, she continued: -“I am glad you know me; I have wanted to tell you and mother and -everybody. The deception was terrible to me, but I had promised and must -keep my word.” - -“Then Mr. Thornton knew? You did not deceive him?” Hugh asked, conscious -of a great revulsion of feeling towards the woman he had believed so -steeped in hypocrisy. - -“Deceive him?” Mildred said, in some surprise. “Never,—in any single -thing. I am innocent there. Let me explain how it happened, and you will -tell the others, for I can never do it but once. I am so tired. You -don’t know how tired,” and she put her hands to her face, which was -white as marble, as she commenced the story which the reader already -knows, telling it rapidly, blaming herself more than she deserved and -softening as much as possible her husband’s share in the matter. - -“He was very proud, you know,” she said, “and the Leaches were like the -ground beneath his feet. But he loved me. I am sure of that, and he was -always kind and good, and tried to make up for the burden he had imposed -upon me. Yes, my husband loved me, knowing I was a Leach.” - -“And you loved him?” Hugh asked, regretting the words the moment they -had passed his lips, and regretting them more when he saw their effect -upon Mildred. - -Drawing herself up, she replied: - -“Whether I loved him or not does not matter to you, or any one else. He -was my husband, and I did my duty by him, and he was satisfied. If I -could have forgotten I should have been happy, and I tell you truly I am -sorry he is dead, and if I could I’d bring him back to-day.” - -She was now putting on the bonnet which made her a widow again, and made -her face so deathly white that Hugh was frightened and said to her: - -“Forgive me, Mrs. Thornton. It was rude in me to ask that question. -Forget it, I beg of you. You are very pale. Can I do anything for you?” - -“No,” she answered, faintly. “I am only tired, that’s all, and I must -get this business settled before I can rest. I have come to give the -money back to Gerard and Alice, and you must help me do it.” - -“I don’t quite understand you,” Hugh said. “Do you mean to give away the -fortune your husband left you?” - -“Yes, every farthing of it. I can never use it. It would not be right -for me to keep it. He was angry when he made that will. He did not mean -it, and had he lived he would have changed it. That was what troubled -him when he was ill and he tried to tell me about it,” and very briefly -she repeated what her husband had said to her of his children. - -“I did not understand him then, but I do now. He knew I would do right; -he trusted me,” she continued, her tears falling so fast as almost to -choke her utterance. - -“But,” said Hugh, “why give it all? If Mr. Thornton had made his will -under different conditions, he would have remembered you. Why not divide -equally? Why leave yourself penniless?” - -“I shall not be penniless,” Mildred replied. “When I was married Mr. -Thornton gave me fifteen thousand dollars for my own. This I shall keep. -It will support mother and me, for I am going back to her as soon as all -is known. And you will help me? You will tell mother and Bessie and Tom, -and everybody, and you will be my friend, just for a little while, for -the sake of the days when we played together?” - -Her lips were quivering and her eyes were full of tears as she made this -appeal, which no man could have withstood, much less Hugh, who would -have faced the cannon’s mouth for her then, so great was his sympathy -for her. - -“Yes, I will do all you wish, but not to-day. The will must be proved -first, and you are too tired. I will see to it at once, and then if you -still are of the same mind as now I am at your service. Perhaps it will -be better to say nothing for a few days.” - -“Yes, better so,—you—know—best—stand—by—me,—Hugh,” Mildred said, very -slowly, as she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes in the weary -way of a child going to sleep. - -Hugh thought she was going to faint, her face was so pinched and gray, -and he said, excitedly: - -“Mildred, Mildred, rouse yourself. You must not faint here. I don’t know -what to do with people who faint. You must go home at once. Your -carriage is gone but I see a cab coming. I will call it for you.” - -Darting to the door, he signaled the cab, to which he half led, half -carried Mildred, who seemed very weak and was shaking with cold. -Rallying a little, she said to him: - -“Thank you, Hugh. I’d better go home. I am getting worse very fast and -everything is black. Is it growing dark?” - -This was alarming. He could not let her go alone, and springing in -beside her, Hugh bade the cabman drive with all possible speed to the -Park and then go for a physician. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - THE DENOUEMENT. - - -Nothing could have happened better for Mildred and her cause than the -long and dangerous illness which followed that visit to Hugh’s office. -It was early September then, but the cold November rain was beating -against the windows of her room when at last she was able to sit up and -carry out her purpose. She had been very ill, first with the fever taken -from her husband, and then with nervous prostration, harder to bear than -the fever, for then she had known nothing of what was passing around -her, or whose were the voices speaking so lovingly to her, or whose the -hands ministering to her so tenderly, Bessie, who called her sister, and -Alice, who was scarcely less anxious and attentive than Bessie herself. -She did not even know the white-haired woman who sat by her day after -day, with her blind eyes turned toward the tossing, moaning, babbling -figure on the bed, whose talk was always of the past, when she was a -girl and lived at home, and bathed her mother’s head and cooked the -dinner and scolded Tom and Bessie and kissed and petted Charlie. Of Hugh -she seldom spoke, and when she did it was in the old, teasing way, -calling him a red-haired Scotchman and laughing at his big hands and -feet. To all intents and purposes she was the Mildred whom we first saw -shelling peas in the doorway, and the names of her husband and Gerard -and Alice never passed her lips. Every morning and evening Hugh walked -up the avenue, and ringing the bell asked, “How is Mrs. Thornton?” Then -he would walk back again with an abstracted look upon his face, which to -a close observer would have told of the fear tugging at his heart. The -possibility that Mildred could ever be anything to him, if she lived, -did not once enter his mind, but he did not want her to die, and the man -who had seldom prayed before, now learned to pray earnestly for -Mildred’s life, as many others were doing. - -Hugh had done his work well, and told Mildred’s story, first to her -mother, Bessie and Tom, then to Gerard and Alice, and then to everybody, -giving it, however, a different coloring from what Mildred had done. She -had softened her husband’s part in the matter and magnified her own, -while he passed very lightly over hers, and dwelt at length upon the -pride and arrogance of the man who, to keep her family aloof, wrung from -her a promise, given unguardedly and repented of so bitterly. Thus the -sympathy of the people was all with Mildred, who, as the lady of -Thornton Park, had won their good opinion by her kindness and -gentleness, and gracious, familiar manner. That she was Mrs. Giles -Thornton did not harm her at all, for money and position are a mighty -power, and the interest in, and sympathy for her were quite as great, if -not greater, than would have been the case if it were plain Mildred -Leach for whom each Sunday prayers were said in the churches and for -whom inquiries were made each day until the glad news went through the -town that the crisis was past and she would live. Hugh was alone in his -office when the little boy who brought him the morning paper said, as he -threw it in, “Mis’ Thornton’s better. She knows her marm, and the doctor -says she’ll git well.” Then he passed on, leaving Hugh alone with the -good news. - -“Thank God,—thank God,” he said. “I couldn’t let Milly die,” and when a -few minutes later one of his clerks came into the front office, he heard -his chief in the next room whistling Annie Laurie, and said to himself, -with a little nod, “I guess she’s better.” - -It had been a very difficult task to tell Mildred’s story to Mrs. Leach -and Tom and Bessie, but Hugh had done it so well that the shock was not -as great as he had feared it might be. As was natural, Mrs. Leach was -the most affected of the three, and within an hour was at Mildred’s -bedside, calling her Milly and daughter and kissing the hot lips which -gave back no answering sign, for Mildred never knew her, nor any one, -until a morning in October, when, waking suddenly from a long, -refreshing sleep, she looked curiously about her, and saw the blind -woman sitting just where she had sat for days and days and would have -sat for nights had she been permitted to do so. Now she was partially -asleep, but the words “Mother, are you here?” roused her, and in an -instant Mildred was in her mother’s arms, begging for the pardon which -was not long withheld. - -“Oh, Milly, my child, how could you see me blind and not tell me who you -were?” were the only words of reproof the mother ever uttered; then all -was joy and peace, and Mildred’s face shone with the light of a great -gladness, when Tom and Bessie came in to see her, both very kind and -both a little constrained in their manner towards her, for neither could -make it quite seem as if she were their sister. - -Gerard and Alice took it more naturally, and after a few days matters -adjusted themselves, and as no word was said of the past Mildred began -to recover her strength, which, however, came back slowly, so that it -was November before she was able to see Hugh in her boudoir, where Tom -carried her in his arms, saying, as he put her down in her easy-chair, -“Are you sure you are strong enough for it?” - -“Yes,” she answered, eagerly. “I can’t put it off any longer. I shall -never rest until it is done. Tell Hugh I am ready.” - -Tom had only a vague idea of what she wished to do, but knew that it had -some connection with her husband’s will, the nature of which he had been -told by Gerard. - -“She’ll never let that stand a minute after she gets well,” Tom had -said, but he never guessed that she meant to give up the whole. - -Hugh, who had been sent for that morning, came at once, and found -himself trembling in every nerve as he followed Tom to the room where -Mildred was waiting for him. He had not seen her during her sickness, -and he was not prepared to find her so white and thin and still so -exquisitely lovely as she looked with her eyes so large and bright, and -the smile of welcome on her face as she gave him her hand and said, “We -must finish that business now, and then I can get well. Suppose I had -died, and the money had gone from Gerard and Alice.” - -“I think it would have come back to them all the same,” Hugh replied, -sitting down beside her, and wondering why the sight of her affected him -so strangely. - -But she did not give him much time to think, and plunging at once into -business, told him that she wished to give everything to Gerard and -Alice, dividing it equally between them. - -“You know exactly what my husband had and where it was invested,” she -said, “and you must divide it to the best of your ability, giving to -each an equal share in the Park, for I think they will both live here. I -wish them to do it, for then we shall all be near each other. I shall -live with mother and try to atone for the wrong I have done. I have -enough to keep us in comfort, and shall not take a cent of what was left -me in the will.” - -This was her decision, from which nothing could move her, and when at -last Hugh left her she had signed away over a million of dollars and -felt the richer for it, nor could Gerard and Alice induce her to take -back any part of it after they were told what she had done. - -“Don’t worry me,” she said to them. “It seemed to me a kind of atonement -to do it, and I am so happy, and I am sure your father would approve of -it if he could know about it.” - -After that Mildred’s recovery was rapid, and on the first day of the new -year she went back to the farm house to live, notwithstanding the -earnest entreaties of Gerard and Alice that she should stay with them -until Tom and Bessie came, for it was decided that the four should, for -a time at least, live together at the Park. But Mildred was firm. - -“Mother needs me,” she said, “and is happier when I am with her. I can -see that she is failing. I shall not have her long, and while she lives -I shall try to make up to her for all the selfish years when I was away, -seeking my own pleasure and forgetting hers.” - -And Mildred kept her word and was everything to her mother, who lived to -see, or rather hear, the double wedding, which took place at St. Jude’s -one morning in September, little more than a year after Mr. Thornton’s -death. The church was full and there was scarcely a dry eye in it as -Mildred led her blind mother up the aisle, and laid her hand upon -Bessie’s arm in response to the question, “Who giveth this woman to be -married to this man?” It was Mildred who gave Alice away, and who three -weeks later received the young people when they came home from their -wedding journey, seeming and looking much like her old self as she did -the honors of the house where she had once been mistress, and joining -heartily in their happiness, laughingly returned Tom’s badinage when he -called her his stepmother-in-law. Then, when the festivities were over, -she went back to her mother, whom she cared for so tenderly that her -life was prolonged for more than a year, and the chimes in the old -church belfry were ringing for a Saviour born, when she at last died in -Mildred’s arms, with Mildred’s name upon her lips and a blessing for the -beloved daughter who had been so much to her. The night before she died -Mildred was alone with her for several hours, and bending over her she -said, “I want to hear you say again that you forgive me for the -waywardness which kept me from you so long, and my deception when I came -back. I am so sorry, mother.” - -“Forgive you?” her mother said, her blind eyes trying to pierce the -darkness and look into the face so close to hers. “I have nothing to -forgive. I understand it all, and since you came back to me you have -been the dearest child a mother ever had. Don’t cry so, Milly,” and the -shaky hand wiped away the tears which fell so fast, as Mildred went on: - -“I don’t know whether the saints at rest ever think of those they have -left behind; but if they do, and father asks for me, tell him how sorry -I am, and tell Charlie how I loved him, and how much I meant to do for -him when I went away.” - -“I’ll tell them. Don’t cry,” came faintly from the dying woman, who said -but little more until the dawn was breaking, and she heard in the -distance the sound of the chimes ringing in the Christmas morn. Then, -lifting her head from Mildred’s arm, she cried joyfully: - -“The bells,—the bells,—the Christmas bells. I am glad to go on his -birthday. Good-bye, Milly. God bless you; don’t cry.” - -They buried her by her husband and Charlie, and then Mildred was all -alone, except for the one servant she kept. Bessie and Alice would -gladly have had her at the Park, but she resisted all their entreaties -and gave no sign of the terrible loneliness which oppressed her as day -after day she lived her solitary life, which, for the first week or two, -was seldom enlivened by the presence of any one except Gerard and Tom, -who each day plowed their way through the heavy drifts of snow which -were piled high above the fence tops. A terrible storm was raging on the -mountains, and Rocky Point felt it in all its fury. The trains were -stopped,—the roads were blocked,—communication between neighbor and -neighbor was cut off, and though many would gladly have done so, few -could visit the lonely woman, who sat all day where she could look out -toward the graves on which she knew the snow was drifting, and who at -night sat motionless by the fire, living over the past and shrinking -from the future which lay so drearily before her. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. - - -It was the last day, or rather the last night of the storm. The wind had -subsided, and when the sun went down there was in the west a tinge of -red as a promise of a fair to-morrow. But to Mildred there seemed no -to-morrow better than to-day had been, and when after her early tea she -sat down in her little sitting-room, there came over her such a sense of -dreariness and pain as she had never before experienced. Once she -thought of her husband, who had been so kind to her, and whispered -sadly: - -“I might have learned to love him, but he is dead and gone; everybody is -gone who cared for me. Even Hugh has disappointed me,” and although she -did not realize it this thought was perhaps the saddest of all. Hugh had -disappointed her. During the two years since her return to the farm -house, she had seen but little of him, for it was seldom that he called, -and when he did it was upon her mother, not herself. - -But he had not forgotten her, and there was scarcely a waking hour of -his life that she was not in his mind, and often when he was busiest -with his clients, who were increasing rapidly, he saw in the papers he -was drawing up for them, her face as it had looked at him when she said: - -“Oh, Hugh, don’t you know me?” He was angry with her then, and his heart -was full of bitterness towards her for her deception. But that was gone -long ago, and he was only biding his time to speak. - -“While her mother lives she will not leave her,” he said; but her mother -was dead, and he could wait no longer. “I must be decent, and not go the -very first day after the funeral,” he thought, a little glad of the -storm which kept every one indoors. - -But it was over now, and wrapping his overcoat around him, and pulling -his fur cap over his ears he went striding through the snow to the farm -house, which he reached just as Mildred was so absorbed in her thoughts -that she did not hear the door opened by her maid, or know that he was -there until he came into the room and was standing upon the hearth rug -before her. Then, with the cry, “Oh, Hugh, is it you? I am glad you have -come. It is so lonesome,” she sprang up and offered him her hand, while -he looked at her with a feeling of regret that he had not come before. -He did not sit down beside her, but opposite, where he could see her as -they talked on indifferent subjects,—the storm,—the trains delayed,—the -wires down,—the damage done in town,—and the prospect of a fair day -to-morrow. Then there was silence between them and Mildred got up and -raked the fire in the grate and brushed the hearth with a little broom -in the corner, while Hugh watched her, and when she was through took the -poker himself and attacked the fire, which was doing very well. - -“I like to poke the fire,” he said, while Mildred replied, “So do I;” -and then there was silence again, until Hugh burst out: - -“I say, Milly, how much longer am I to wait?” - -“Wha—at?” Mildred replied, a faint flush tinging her face. - -“How much longer am I to wait?” he repeated; and she answered, “Wait for -what?” - -“For you,” and Hugh arose and went and stood over her as he continued: -“Do you know how old I am?” - -Her face was scarlet now, but she answered laughingly, “I am thirty. You -used to be four years older than myself, which makes you thirty-four.” - -“Yes,” he said. “As time goes I am thirty-four, but measured by my -feelings it is a hundred years since that morning when I saw you going -through the Park gate and felt that I had lost you, as I knew I had -afterwards, and never more so than when I saw you in the cemetery and -knew who you were.” - -“Why are you reminding me of all this? Don’t you know how it hurts? I -know you despised me then, and must despise me now,” Mildred said, with -anguish in her tones as she, too, rose from her chair and stood apart -from him. - -“I did despise you then, it’s true,” Hugh replied, “and tried to think I -hated you, not so much for deceiving us as for deceiving your husband, -as I believed you must have done; but I know better now. Your record has -not been stainless, Milly, and I would rather have you as you were -seventeen years ago on the summer morning when you were a little girl of -thirteen shelling peas and prophesying that you would one day be the -mistress of Thornton Park. You have been its mistress, and I am sorry -for that, but nothing can kill my love, which commenced in my boyhood, -when you made fun of my hands and feet and brogue and called me freckled -and awkward, and then atoned for it all by some look in your bright eyes -which said you did not mean it. I am awkward still, but the frecks and -the brogue are gone, and I have come to ask you to be my wife,—not -to-morrow, but some time next spring, when everything is beginning new. -Will you, Milly? I will try and make you happy, even if I have but -little money. - -“Oh, Hugh! What do I care for money. I hate it!” - -It was the old Mildred who spoke in the old familiar words, which Hugh -remembered so well, but it was the new Mildred who, when he held his -arms towards her, saying “Come,” went gladly into them, as a tired child -goes to its mother. - -It was late that night when Hugh left his promised bride, for there was -much to talk about, and all the incidents of their childhood to be lived -over again, Hugh telling of the lock of hair and the pea-pod he had kept -with the peas, hard as bullets now, especially the smaller one, which he -called Mildred. - -“But, do you know, I really think it has recently begun to change,” Hugh -said, “and I shall not be surprised to find it soft again——” - -“Just as I am to let you see how much I love you,” Mildred said, as she -laid her beautiful head upon his arm, and told him of the rumor of his -engagement to Bessie, which had been the means of making her Mrs. -Thornton. - -“That was the only secret I had from my husband,” she said. “I told him -everything else, and he took me knowing it all, and I believe he loved -me, too. He was very kind to me,—and——” - -She meant to be loyal to her husband, and would have said more, if Hugh -had not stopped her mouth in a most effective way. No man cares to hear -the woman who has just promised to marry him talk about her dead -husband, and Hugh was not an exception. - -“Yes, darling, I know,” he said. “But let’s bury the past. You are mine -now; all mine.” - -Hugh might be awkward and shy in many things, but he was not at all shy -or awkward in love-making when once the ice was broken. He had waited -for Mildred seventeen years, and he meant to make the most of her now, -and he stayed so long that she at last bade him go, and pointed to the -clock just striking the hour of midnight. - -No one seemed surprised when told of the engagement. It was what -everybody expected, and what should have been long ago, and what would -have been, if Mildred had staid at home, instead of going off to Europe. -Congratulations came from every quarter and none were more sincere than -those from the young people at the Park, who wanted to make a grand -wedding. To this Hugh did not object, for in his heart was the shadow of -a wish to see Mildred again as he saw her that night at the party in -jewels and satins and lace. But she vetoed it at once. A widow had no -business with orange blossoms, she said, and besides that she was too -old, and Hugh was old, too, and she should be married quietly in church, -in a plain gray traveling dress and bonnet. And she was married thus on -a lovely morning in June, when the roses were in full bloom, and the -church was full of flowers, and people, too,—for everybody was there to -see the bride, who went in Mildred Thornton and came out Mildred -McGregor. - -And now there is little more to tell. It is three years since that -wedding day, and Hugh and Mildred live in the red farm house, which is -scarcely a farm house now, it has been so enlarged and changed, with its -pointed roofs and bow windows and balconies. Brook Cottage they call it, -and across the brook in the rear there is a rustic bridge leading to the -meadow, where Mr. Leach’s cows used to feed, but which now is a garden, -or pleasure ground, not so large, but quite as pretty as the Park, and -every fine afternoon at the hour when Hugh is expected from his office, -Mildred walks through the grounds, leading by the hand a little -golden-haired boy, whom she calls Charlie for the baby brother who died -and whom he greatly resembles. And when at last Hugh comes, the three go -back together, Hugh’s arm around Milly’s waist and his boy upon his -shoulder. They are not rich and never will be, but they are very happy -in each other’s love, and no shadow, however small, ever rests on -Milly’s still lovely face, save when she recalls the mad ambition and -discontent which came so near wrecking her life. - -In the Park three children play, Giles and Fanny, who belong to the -Thorntons, and a second Mildred Leach, who belongs to Tom and Alice. - -One picture more, and then we leave them forever near the spot where we -first saw them. Gerard and Bessie,—Alice and Tom,—have come to the -cottage at the close of a warm July afternoon, and are grouped around -the door, where Mildred sits, with the sunlight falling on her hair, a -bunch of sweet peas pinned upon her bosom, and the light of a great joy -in her eyes as she watches Hugh swinging the four children in a hammock, -and says to Bessie “I never thought I could be as happy as I am now. God -has been very good to me.” - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES’ NOVELS. - - - =Over a MILLION Sold.= - -As a writer of domestic stories, which are extremely interesting, Mrs. -Mary Holmes is unrivalled. Her characters are true to life, quaint, and -admirable. - - Tempest and Sunshine. - English Orphans. - Homestead of the Hillside. - ’Lena Rivers. - Meadow Brook. - Dora Deane. - Cousin Maude. - Marian Grey. - Edith Lyle. - Dr. Hathern’s Daughters. - Daisy Thornton. - Chateau D’Or. - Queenie Hetherton. - Darkness and Daylight. - Hugh Worthington. - Cameron Pride. - Rose Mather. - Ethelyn’s Mistake. - Millbank. (_New._) - Edna Browning. - West Lawn. - Mildred. - Forrest House. - Madeline. - Christmas Stories. - Bessie’s Fortune. - Gretchen. - Marguerite. - - Price $1.50 per Vol. - - - =AUGUSTA J. 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Sand 1 50║ - ║=Galgano’s Wooing=—Stebbins 1 25║ - ║=Stories about Doctors=—Jeffreson 1 50║ - ║=Stories about Lawyers.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Doctor Antonio=—By Ruffini 1 50║ - ║=Beatrice Cenci=—From the Italian 1 50║ - ║=The Story of Mary= 1 50║ - ║=Madame=—By Frank Lee Benedict 1 50║ - ║=A Late Remorse.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Hammer and Anvil.= Do. 2 50║ - ║=Her Friend Laurence.= Do. 2 50║ - ║=L’Assommoir=—Zola’s great novel 1 00║ - ║=Mignonnette=—By Sangrée 1 00║ - ║=Jessica=—By Mrs. W. H. White 1 50║ - ║=Women of To-day.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=The Baroness=—Joaquin Miller 1 50║ - ║=One Fair Woman.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=The Burnhams=—Mrs. G. E. Stewart 2 00║ - ║=Eugene Ridgewood=—Paul James 1 50║ - ║=Braxton’s Bar=—R. M. Daggett 1 50║ - ║=Miss Beck=—By Tilbury Holt 1 50║ - ║=A Wayward Life= 1 00║ - ║=Winning Winds=—Emerson 1 50║ - ║=The Fallen Pillar Saint=—Best 1 25║ - ║=An Errald Girl=—Johnson 1 50║ - ║=Ask Her, Man! Ask Her!= 1 50║ - ║=Hidden Power=—T. H. Tibbles 1 50║ - ║=Parson Thorne=—E. M. Buckingham 2 50║ - ║=Errors=—By Ruth Carter 1 50║ - ║=The Abbess of Jouarre=—Renan 1 00║ - ║=Bulwer’s Letters to His Wife= 2 00║ - ║=Sense=—A serious book. Pomeroy 1 50║ - ║=Gold Dust= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Our Saturday Nights= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Nonsense=—A comic book Do. 1 50║ - ║=Brick Dust.= Do. Do. 1 50║ - ║=Home Harmonies.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Vesta Vane=—By L. King, R. 1 50║ - ║=Kimball’s Novels=—6 vols. Per Vol. 1 00║ - ║=Warwick=—M. T. Walworth 1 50║ - ║=Hotspur.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Lulu.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Stormchif.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Delaplaine.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Beverly.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=Zahara.= Do. 1 50║ - ║=The Darling of an Empire= 1 50║ - ║=Clip Her Wing, or Let Her Soar= 1 50║ - ║=Nina’s Peril=—By Mrs. Miller 1 50║ - ║=Marguerite’s Journal=—For Girls 1 50║ - ║=Orpheus C. Kerr=—Four vols. in one 2 00║ - ║=Perfect Gentleman=—Lockwood 1 25║ - ║=Purple and Fine Linen=—Fawcett 1 50║ - ║=Pauline’s Trial=—L. D. Courtney 1 50║ - ║=Tancredi=—Dr. E. A. Wood 1 50║ - ║=Measure for Measure=—Stanley 1 50║ - ║=A Marvelous Coincidence= 50║ - ║=Two Men of the World=—Bates 50║ - ║=A God of Gotham=—Bascom 50║ - ║=Congressman John=—MacCarthy 50║ - ║=So Runs the World Away= 50║ - ║=Birds of a Feather=—Sothern 1 50║ - ║=Every Man His Own Doctor= 2 00║ - ║=Professional Criminals=—Byrnes 5 00║ - ║=Heart Hungry.= Mrs. Westmoreland 1 50║ - ║=Clifford Troupe.= Do. 50║ - ║=Price of a Life=—R. F. Sturgis 1 50║ - ║=Marston Hall=—L. Ella Byrd 1 50║ - ║=Conquered=—By a New Author 1 50║ - ║=Tales from the Popular Operas= 1 50║ - ║=The Fall of Kilman Kon= 1 50║ - ║=San Miniato=—Mrs. C. V. Hamilton 50║ - ║=All for Her=—A Tale of New York 1 50║ - ╚══════════════════════════════════════════╝ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 3. 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