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diff --git a/old/69785-0.txt b/old/69785-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index eeb91a7..0000000 --- a/old/69785-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10984 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of West Lawn and The rector of St. -Mark’s, 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: West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark’s - -Author: Mary Jane Holmes - -Release Date: January 14, 2023 [eBook #69785] - -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 WEST LAWN AND THE RECTOR OF -ST. MARK’S *** - - - - POPULAR NOVELS. - - BY - - _Mrs. Mary J. Holmes_. - - - I.—TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. - II.—ENGLISH ORPHANS. - III.—HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE. - IV.—’LENA RIVERS. - V.—MEADOW BROOK. - VI.—DORA DEANE. - VII.—COUSIN MAUDE. - VIII.—MARIAN GRAY. - IX.—DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. - X.—HUGH WORTHINGTON. - XI.—CAMERON PRIDE. - XII.—ROSE MATHER. - XIII.—ETHELYN’S MISTAKE. - XIV.—MILLBANK. - XV.—EDNA BROWNING. - XVI.—WEST LAWN. (_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. - - - All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each and sent _free_ - by mail, on receipt of price, by - - - G. W. CARLETON & CO., - New York. - - - - - WEST LAWN - AND - THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK’S. - - - BY - - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, - - AUTHOR OF - - TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.—’LENA RIVERS.—MARIAN GREY.—MEADOW BROOK.—ENGLISH - ORPHANS.—COUSIN MAUDE.—HOMESTEAD.—DORA DEANE.—DARKNESS AND - DAYLIGHT.—HUGH WORTHINGTON.—THE CAMERON PRIDE.—ROSE MATHER.—ETHELYN’S - MISTAKE.—MILLBANK.—EDNA BROWNING. - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK: - _G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_. - LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. - M.DCCC.LXXIV. - - - - - Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by - DANIEL HOLMES, - In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. - - - Maclauchlan, Stereotyper, - 145 & 147 Mulberry St., near Grand, N. Y. - - JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS, - 205–213 EAST 12TH ST., NEW YORK. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER PAGE - I.— Dora’s Diary 7 - II.— Author’s Journal 15 - III.— Dr. West’s Diary 19 - IV.— Johnnie’s Letter to Dora 27 - V.— Dora’s Diary 31 - VI.— Letters 44 - VII.— Dora’s Diary Continued 54 - VIII.— Jessie’s Diary 80 - IX.— Extract from Dr. West’s Diary 84 - X.— Dora’s Diary 87 - XI.— Richard’s Story 102 - XII.— The Shadow of Death 119 - XIII.— At Beechwood 134 - XIV.— In the Spring 146 - XV.— Waiting for the Answer 159 - XVI.— The Engagement 169 - XVII.— Extract from Dr. West’s Journal 178 - XVIII.— Poor Max 182 - XIX.— Anna 193 - XX.— Richard 209 - XXI.— The Night before the Wedding 212 - XXII.— Down by the Lake Shore 216 - XXIII.— The Bridal Day 226 - XXIV.— The Shadows of Death 235 - XXV.— Breaking the Engagement 240 - XXVI.— Giving in Marriage 254 - XXVII.— More of Marriage 263 - XXVIII.— Dora’s Diary 270 - - THE RECTOR OF ST. MARKS. - I.— Friday Afternoon 283 - II.— Saturday Afternoon 291 - III.— Sunday 299 - IV.— Blue Monday 309 - V.— Tuesday 319 - VI.— Wednesday 328 - VII.— At Newport 341 - VIII.— Showing How it Happened 354 - IX.— Anna 368 - X.— Mrs. Meredith’s Conscience 379 - XI.— The Letter Received 383 - XII.— Valencia 393 - XIII.— Christmas Day 403 - - - - - WEST LAWN. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - DORA’S DIARY. - - - “BEECHWOOD, June 12th, } - 11 o’clock P. M. } - -“At last, dear old book, repository of all my secret thoughts and -feelings, I am free to come to you once more, and talk to you as I can -talk to no one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle -than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion that to-morrow -night some other voice than mine would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, -the darling, cried himself to sleep because I was going away, while the -other children manifested in various ways their sorrow at my projected -departure. Bless them all, how I do love children, and hope if I am ever -married, I may have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me -twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—as peevish as -Margaret’s six have made her, I should rather be excused. But what -nonsense to be written by me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged -twenty-eight,—the Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went home -with me from the sewing society. But they were mistaken, for if the -family Bible is to be trusted, I was only twenty-five last Christmas, -and I don’t believe I look as old as that.” - -Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora glanced in the mirror at -a graceful little figure, with sloping shoulders and white neck, -surmounted by a well shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair, -waving just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it might -be easily coaxed; low forehead; piquant nose, with an undeniable curve -which ill-natured people call a turn-up; bright, honest eyes of -reddish-brown, like the hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever -said a disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion -remarkable for nothing except that it was natural, and just now a shade -or two paler than usual, because its owner was weary with the months and -years of care which had fallen on her youthful shoulders. - -This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the _tout ensemble_ a -little approving nod, and pushing behind her ears the heavy braids of -hair to see if the style were becoming, as somebody once had told her, -she resumed her pen and diary, as follows: - -“Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection of myself? Oh, I -know; I had been writing things about being married, for which I ought -to blush, and through which I put my pen, so— But there’s what I said of -Margaret; I’ll let that stand, for she is peevish and cross, and it’s a -relief to tell it somewhere. Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her -when I look at her now, and remember what she used to be at the dear old -home,—so beautiful, so petted, and admired. Ah me! that was twelve years -ago, and I was a little girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on -the lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking on, so happy -and so proud; and then the bonfires they kindled and the bells they rang -at nightfall in honor of the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas! -when next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my dear lost -father, who died with apoplexy, and left his affairs all in confusion, -his property, which was reputed so great, all mortgaged, and _I_ a -little beggar. Shall I ever forget John Russell’s kindness when, -hurrying home from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should be -his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret at Beechwood, where -we came eleven years ago this very June,—Margaret a splendid-looking -woman, who would not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much -more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen, who cried so -much for the dear father gone, and the old homestead sold, that people -said I looked and acted older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell. -How glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and Margaret left him -so much with me, for in my love for him I forgot to mourn for father, -and came to think of him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was -ten days old. Then those three delightful years at school, when I roomed -with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I am going to-morrow, to visit. No matter -if there were _three_ babies here instead of one when I came home; and -it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was so often -expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in fact turn nurse myself to -the wee little things. I cannot say that I was glad when Benny came, for -with the advent of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more -helpless, and more,—I wonder if it is bad to say it,—more fault-finding -with her husband, who, though the very best man in the world, is not -like,—like,—well, say like Dr. West.” - -Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that name, completely -erasing it, after which it continued: - -“I cannot tell why I should bring _him_ up as a comparison, when I do -not like him at all, even if the whole village of Beechwood is running -mad about him,—I mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him -and call him stingy. If there’s anything I hate, it’s penuriousness, -which holds so fast to a three-cent piece and hugs a battered sixpence. -Don’t I remember our fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and -how the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said to me, -‘Now, when Dr. West comes in, _you_ take possession of him. You are just -the one. He thinks more of _you_ than of all of us together. You can -sell him that dressing-gown and slippers. Ask _fifteen_ at first, and if -he demurs, fall to _ten_. They were both given, so we shall not lose. -Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his present gown and slippers are -looking, and how the ladies talk about it.’ - -“I did not believe he would come directly to my table, and, I think now, -the crowd must have pushed him there, for come he did, looking so -pleasant and kind, and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we -should realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us more. Of -course, the gown and slippers were thrust upon his notice, so cheap, -only fifteen dollars; and, of course, he declined, saying, _sotto voce_: - -“‘I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could, but I cannot afford -it.’ - -“Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to eight, but he held -out firmly, notwithstanding that I told him how forlorn he looked in his -old ones, patched and tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his -face, but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend his -things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted me to retort in a -pert, contemptuous tone: - -“‘Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy old bachelors, who -would quarrel about the pin money!’ - -“I shall never forget how white he grew, or how quickly his hand went -into his pocket, as if in quest of his purse; but it was withdrawn -without it, just as that detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along, -smelling of cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty, that -he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded into asking him to -become an example of generosity to Dr. West, and buy the gown and -slippers. I’d take it as a personal favor, I said, putting into my -hateful eyes as much flattery as I possibly could; and he bought them, -paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who said softly, sadly -like: - -“‘I’m glad you have found a purchaser. I did not wish you to be -disappointed;’ and then he walked away, while that Colby paraded his -dressing-gown and slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could -have cried with vexation. - -“Still, when later in the evening Dr. West came back and asked me to go -with him for ice-cream, I answered saucily: - -“‘Thank you; I can’t leave; and besides, I would not for the world put -you to so much expense!’ - -“If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has never appeared -natural since. I wish he knew how many times I have cried over that -affair, and how I detest that pert young Colby, who never has a patient, -and who called and called at Beechwood until Mrs. Markham, across the -way, sent in to ask who was so very sick. After that I took good care to -be engaged whenever I heard his ring. _Dr. West_,—I wonder why I will -persist in writing his name when I really do not care for him in the -least; that is, care as girls sometimes care for fine-looking men, with -good education, good morals, good manners, and a good profession. If I -could rid myself of the idea that he was stingy, I might tolerate him; -but of course he’s stingy, or why does he wear so shabby a coat and hat, -and why does he never mingle in any of the rides and picnics where money -is a necessary ingredient? Here he’s been in Beechwood three, yes, most -four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he is a -homœopathist. I’ve heard that he gives liberally to the church, and he -attends the extreme poor for nothing. So there is some good in him. I -wonder if he’ll come to say good-by. I presume not, or he would have -reserved that package sent by Johnnie, and brought it himself instead. -It is marked ‘Mrs. David West, Morrisville.’ Who in the world can Mrs. -David West be? I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and I am sure he -came from Boston. There’s the bell for midnight. I have written the -whole hour, and all of Doctor West, except the ill-natured things I said -of Margaret, and for which I am sorry. Poor Madge, as Brother John calls -her, she’s sick and tired, and cannot help being a little fretful, while -I, who never had an ache or pain, can help blaming her, and I will. I’m -sorry, Sister Maggie, for what I have written about you, and humbly ask -your pardon.” - - - - - CHAPTER II. - AUTHOR’S JOURNAL. - - -It lacked ten minutes of car-time, and the omnibus-driver was growing -impatient and tired of waiting for his passenger, when a noisy group -appeared upon the piazza: Mrs. Squire Russell, pale, languid, drooping -as usual, with a profusion of long light curls falling in her eyes, and -giving to her faded face the appearance of a poodle dog; Mr. Squire -Russell, short, fat, henpecked, but very good-looking withal, and some -half dozen little Russells, clinging to and jumping upon the young lady, -whom we recognize at once as Dora, our heroine. - -“You won’t stay long, even if Mrs. Randall does urge you,” said Mrs. -Russell, in a half-complaining tone as she drew together her white -wrapper, and leaned wearily against a pillar of the piazza. “You know I -can’t do anything with the children, and the hot weather makes me so -miserable. I shall expect you in two weeks.” - -“Two weeks, Madge! are you crazy?” said the Squire’s good-humored voice. -“Dora has not been from home in ages, while you have almost made the -tour of the Western Continent. She shall stay as long as she likes, and -get some color in her face. She used to be rosier than she is now, and -it all comes of her being shut up so close with the children.” - -“I think it is very unkind in you, Mr. Russell, to speak as if I was the -worst sister in the world, and the most exacting. I am sure Dora don’t -think so. Didn’t she go with us to Newport last summer, and wasn’t she -more than once called the belle of the Ocean House?” - -John gave a queer kind of whistle, while Dora involuntarily drew a long -breath as she remembered the dreary time she had passed at the Ocean -House, looking after _three_ nurses, six children, and her sister -Margaret, whose rooms were on the third floor, and to whom she had acted -the part of waiting-maid in general. But her thoughts were suddenly -brought back from Newport by Margaret’s next remark: - -“You needn’t charge the loss of her roses to me either, John. No one can -expect to be young-looking forever, and you must remember Dora has -passed the bloom of youth. She’s in her twenty-sixth year.” - -“Twenty-sixth year! Thunder! that’s nothing,” and Squire Russell tossed -up in the air the little Daisy crawling at his feet, while Johnnie, the -ten-year old boy, roared out: - -“Aunt Dora ain’t old. She’s real young and pretty, and so Dr. West told -Miss Markham that time she counted on her fingers, and said, so spiteful -like: ‘Yes, Miss Freeman is full thirty. Why, they’ve been here eleven -years, and she must have been nineteen or twenty when she came, for she -was quite as big as she is now, and looked as old. Yes, she’s too old -for the new minister, Mr. Kelley.’ I was so mad I could have knocked -her, and I did throw a brick at her parrot squawking in the yard. Dr. -West was as red as fire, and said to her just as he spoke to me once, -when he made me hold still to be vaccinated, ‘Miss Freeman is not -thirty. She does not look twenty, and is perfectly suitable for Mr. -Kelley, if she wants him.’ - -“‘She don’t,’ says I, ‘for she don’t see him half the time when he -calls, nor Dr. Colby either.’ - -“I was going to spit out a lot more stuff, when Dr. West put his hand to -my mouth, and told me to hush up.” - -There were roses now on Dora’s cheeks, and they made her positively -beautiful as she kissed her sister and the little ones good-by, glancing -nervously across the broad, quiet street to where a small, white office -was nestled among the trees. But though the blinds were down, the door -was not opened, while around the house in the same yard there were no -signs of life except at an upper window, where a head, which was -unmistakably that of Dr. West’s landlady, Mrs. Markham, was discernible -behind the muslin curtain. He was not coming to say good-by, and with a -feeling of disappointment Dora walked rapidly to the omnibus, which bore -her away from the house where they missed her so much, Squire John -looking uncomfortable and desolate, the children growing very cross, and -at last crying, every one of them, for auntie; while Margaret took -refuge from the turmoil behind one of her nervous headaches, and went to -her room, wondering why Dora must select that time of all others to -leave her. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - DR. WEST’S DIARY. - - - “June 13th, 10 P. M. - -“How beautiful it is this summer night, and how softly the moonlight -falls upon the quiet street through the maple-trees! On such a night as -this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden must have been ere -the trail of the serpent was there. I have often wished it had been Adam -who first transgressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a man -than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon our race. And yet, when I -remember that by woman came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given -the highest honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much faith in -woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that was good and pure and -lovely. And have I been mistaken in her? Once, yes. But that is past. -Anna is dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for her as -for a sister. How long it took to crush out my love,—to overcome the -terrible pain which would waken me from the dream that I held her again -in my arms, that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden -curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do not like curls -now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell, with all her whims and -vanity, would be tolerably agreeable to me were it not for that forest -of hair dangling about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and -braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She is no more to me -than a friend, and possibly not that. Sometimes I fancy she avoids and -even dislikes me. I’ve suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she -urged me to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought me -avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at least among the -fast young men; but my heavenly Father knows, and some time maybe _Dora_ -will. I like to call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her, -brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit more like Anna, I -never could have liked her as I do,—brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. - -“And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived. Is this Mrs. Randall -very grand, I wonder, and will Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I -knew that when I asked her to be the bearer of that package which I -might have sent by express. Perhaps she will take it herself, seeing -little Robin and so hearing of Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you -knew how much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength to -endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden uncomplainingly. - -“Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall’s brother? What a blow that -story gave me, and yet I doubted its truth, though the possibility -nearly drives me wild, and shows me the real nature of my feelings for -Dora Freeman. Let me record the event as it occurred. This morning Dora -went away to Morrisville, my old home, though she does not know that, -because, for certain reasons, I have not chosen to talk much of my -affairs in Beechwood. She went early, before many people were astir, but -I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of the train until it was -miles away, and then I awoke to the knowledge that the world had changed -with her going, that _now_ there was nothing before me but the same -monotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome chatter of my -landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markham, and the tedious sitting here alone. - -“Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in watching the house -across the street for a glimpse of Dora, in waiting for her to come out -upon the lawn where she frolicked and played with all those little -Russells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone, and in -pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on her track and would -soon discover her hiding-place, in wishing that I could spirit her away -from the cares which should fall upon another, in seeing her after the -gas was lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with the -scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window until the shadow -flitting before it disappeared with the light, and I was left to wonder -if the little maiden were kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life -and being. All this, or something like it, has formed a part of my -existence, but with Dora’s going everything changed. Clouds came over -the sun; the breeze from the lake blew cold and chilly; Mrs. Markham’s -talk was more insipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two -of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure. Dora was -gone, and in a listless mood I made my round of visits, riding over the -Berkley hills and across the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to -send that package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to her -hearing of Anna. - -“It was sunset when I came home, a warm, purple sunset, such as always -reminds me of Dora in her mature beauty. There was a stillness in the -air, and from the trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the -katydids were biping their clamorous notes. I used to like to hear them -when a boy, and many’s the time I’ve stood with _Anna_ listening to them -by the west door at home; but now there was a sadness in their tones as -if they were saying, ‘Dora’s gone; Dora’s gone,’ while the opposite -party responded, ‘And Anna too; and Anna too.’ - -“I had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first knew she was lost -forever, but to-night in the gathering twilight, with the music of my -boyhood sounding in my ears, the long ago came back to me again, -bringing with it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there -hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my eyes, and a tear -which dropped on Major’s mane, and was shed for Anna dead as well as for -Dora gone. When I reached the office, I found upon the slate a -handwriting which I knew to be Johnnie Russell’s, and for a moment I -felt tempted to kiss it, because _he_ is Dora’s nephew. This is what he -had written: - - -“‘Mother’s toock ravin’ with one of her headaches, cause auntie’s gone, -and there’s nobody to tend to the young ones. Gawly, how they’ve cut up, -and she wants you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours, with -regret, - - JOHN RUSSELL, JR.’ - - -“I like that boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora will be shocked at -his language. And so my services were needed at the big house over the -way. Usually I like to go there, but now Dora is gone it is quite -another thing, for with all my daily discipline of myself, I dislike -Mrs. Russell. I have struggled against it, prayed against it, but as -often as I see her face and hear her voice, the old dislike comes back. -There’s nothing real about her except her selfishness and vanity. Were -she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be just as -elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as carefully arranged, and her -heavy bracelets clasped as conspicuously around the wrists as if in full -dress for an evening party. To-night I found her in just this costume, -with a blue scarf thrown round her, as she reclined upon the pillow. I -knew she was suffering, from the dark rings beneath her eyes, and this -roused my sympathy. She seems to like me as a physician, and asked me to -stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough she spoke of Dora, -whom she missed so much, she said, and then with a little sigh -continued: - -“‘It is not often that I talk familiarly with any but my most intimate -friends, but you have been in our family so much, and know how necessary -Dora is to us, that you will partially understand what a loss it would -be to lose my sister entirely.’ - -“‘Yes, a terrible loss,’ I said, thinking more of myself than of her. -‘But is there a prospect of losing her?’ I asked, feeling through my -frame a cold, sickly chill, which rapidly increased as she replied: - -“‘Perhaps not; but this Mrs. Randall, whom she has gone to visit, has a -brother at West Point, you know, Lieutenant Reed, the young man with -epaulets, who was here last summer.’ - -“‘Yes, I remember him,’ I said, and Mrs. Russell continued: - -“‘He has been in love with Dora ever since she was with his sister -Mattie at school. Dora has not yet given him a decided answer, but I -know her preference for him, and as he is to be at his sister’s while -Dora is there, it is natural to fear that it may result in eventually -taking Dora away from Beechwood.’ - -“‘It may, it may,’ I responded, in a kind of absent way, for my brain -was in a whirl, and I scarcely knew what I did. - -“She must have observed my manner, for her eyes suddenly brightened as -if an entirely new idea had been suggested to her. - -“‘Now if it were some one near by,’ she continued, ‘perhaps she would -not leave me. The house is large enough for all, and Dora will marry -some time, of course. She is a kind sister, and will make a good wife.’ - -“At this point Squire Russell came in, and soon after I said good-by, -going out again into the summer night, beneath the great, full moon, -whose soft, pure light could not still the throbbing of my heart; -neither could the long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I -went one day last summer. There were quite a number of the villagers -with us, for it was a picnic, but I saw only Dora, who, afraid of the -water, stayed on the shore with me, while the rest went off in -sail-boats. We talked together very quietly, sitting on the bank, -beneath a broad grape-vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort of wreath, -as she told me of her dear old home, and how the saddest moments she had -ever known were those in which she fully realized that she was never -again to live there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the -flowers she had tended, and stranger feet tread the walks and alleys and -winding paths with which the grounds abounded. I remember how the wish -flashed upon me that I might some day buy back the home, and take her -there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-night, sitting on the -lone shore, just where she once sat, and listening to the low dash of -the waves, which, as they came rolling almost to my feet, seemed to -murmur, ‘Never, never more!’ - -“I do not believe I am love-sick, but I am very sad to-night, and the -walk down to the lake did not dispel the sadness. It may be it is wrong -in me thus to despond, when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my -most sanguine hopes. That heavy debt is paid at last, thanks to the kind -Father who raised me up so many friends, and whose healing hand has more -than once been outstretched to save when medicine was no longer of -avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when I knew it was God -who had wrought the almost miraculous change. And shall I murmur at -anything when sure of His love and protection? Be still, my heart. If it -be God’s will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain would -shelter her from all the ills of life; and if ’tis not His will, what am -_I_, that I should question His dealings?” - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - JOHNNIE’S LETTER TO DORA. - - - “BEECHWOOD, June 13th. } - In the afternoon, up in the wood-house chaimber } - where I’ve crawled to hide from the young ones. } - -“DEAR, DEAR, DARLING AUNTIE: - -“It seems to me you’ve been gone a hundred million billion years, and -you’ve no idea what a forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, -nor how the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest -row—Auntie. I didn’t mean to use that word, and I’ll scratch it right -out, but when you are away, I’ll be dar—There I was going to say it -agen. I’m a perfectly Dredful Boy, ain’t I? But I do love you, Auntie, -and last night,—now don’t you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody,—last night -after I went to bed, I cried and cried and crammed the sheet in my mouth -to keep Jim from hearing me till I most vomited. - -“Ben and Burt behave awful. Clem heard their Prayers and right in the -midst of Our father, Burt stopped and asked if Mr. John Smith, the -Storekeeper, was related to John the baptist. Clem laughed and then Ben -struck her with his fist and Burt, who is a little red pepper any How -pitched in And kicked Burt. The fuss waked up Daisy who fell out of bed -and screamed like Murder, then Tish, great Tattle Tail, must go for -Father who came up with a big Gadd and declared he’d have order in His -own house. You know the Young Ones aint a bit afraid of Him and Ben and -Burt kept on their fightin tell Clem said ‘I shall tell Miss Dora how -you act.’ That stopped ’em and the last I heard Burt was coaxing Clem: - -“‘Don’t tell Auntie. I’se good now, real good.’ - -“Maybe it’s mean in me to tell you but I want you to know just how They -carry on, hoping you’ll pick up your traps and come home. No I don’t -neither for I want you to stay and have a good time which I’m sure you -don’t have here. I wish most you was my Mother though I guess girls of -25 don’t often have great strappin Boys like me, do they? I asked Dr. -West and he looked so queer when he said, ‘It is possible but not -common.’ Why not, I wonder? Now, Auntie, I don’t want mother to die, -because she’s Mother, but if she should, _you’ll_ have father, won’t -you? That’s a nice Auntie, and that makes me think. Last night mother -had the headache and Dr. West was here. It was after the Rumpus in the -nursery and I was sitting at the head of the stairs wishing you was come -home when I heard ’em talking about you and what do you think mother -told Doctor? A lot of stuff about you and that nasty Reed who was here -last summer. She talked as if you liked him,—said he would be at Mrs. -Randall’s and she rather expected it would be settled then. _I was so -mad_, I bumped right up and down on the stairs and said Darn, Darn, as -fast as I could. Now, Auntie, I didn’t mean to lie, but I have. I’ve -told a whopper and you can bite my head off if you like. Dr’s voice -sounded just as if he didn’t want you to like that Reed and I diddent -think it right to let it go. So this morning I went over to the office -and found Dr. West looking pale as if he diddent sleep good. - -“‘Doctor,’ says I, ‘do I look like a chap that will lie?’ - -“‘Why, no,’ says he, ‘I never thought you did.’ - -“‘But I will,’ ses I, ‘and I am come to do that very thing, come to tell -you something Aunt Dora made me promise never to tell.’ - -“‘John, you mussent, I can’t hear you,’ he began, but I yelled up, ‘you -shall; I will tell; it’s about Dora and that Reed. She don’t like him.’ -Somehow he stopped hushin’ me then and pretended to fix his books while -I said how last summer I overheard this Reed ask you to be his wife, and -you told him no; you did not love him well enough, and never could, and -how you meant it too. There diddent neither of you know I was out in the -balcony, I said, until he was gone, and I _sneazed_ when you talked to -me and made me promise never to tell what I’d heard to father, nor -mother, nor nobody. I never did tell them, but I’ve told the doctor, and -I ain’t sorry, it made him look so glad. He took me, and Tish, and Ben, -and Burt, all out riding this afternoon and talked to them real nice, -telling them they must be good while you was gone. Tish and Jim are -pretty good, but Ben has broken the spy-glass and the umberill, and Burt -has set down on the kittens, and oh I must tell you; he took a big iron -spoon which he called a _sovel_ and dug up every single gladiola in the -garden! Ain’t they terrible Boys? - -“There, they’ve found where I be, and I hear Burt coming up the stairs -one step at a time, so I must stop, for they’ll tip over the ink, or -something. Dear Auntie, I do love you ever and ever so much, and if you -want my Auntie and a grown up woman I’d marry you. Do boys ever marry -their aunts? - - “Your, with Due Respect, - “JOHN RUSSELL. - -“p.s. Excuse my awful spellin. I never could spel, you know, or make the -right Capitols. - -“p.s. No. 2. Burt has just tumbled the whole length of the wood-house -stares, and landed plump in the pounding barrel, half full of water. You -orto hear him _Yell_.” - - - - - CHAPTER V. - DORA’S DIARY. - - - “MORRISVILLE, June 13th. - -“I was too tired last night to open my trunk, and so have a double duty -to perform, that of recording the events of the last two days. Can it be -that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left Beechwood and all its -cares, which, now that I am away from them, do seem burdensome? What a -delicious feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if -you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that for a time at -least I can rest; and I begin to think I need it, for how else can I -account for the languid, weary sensation which prompts me to sit so -still in the great, soft, motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, -and which stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look out -upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville? - -“It is very pleasant here, and so quiet that it almost seems as if the -town had gone to sleep and knew nothing of the great, roaring, whirling -world without. Not even a car-whistle to break the silence, for the -nearest station where I stopped, after my uneventful ride, is eight -miles from here. There was Mattie herself waiting for me on the -platform, her face as sunny as ever, and her greeting as cordial. Her -husband, Mr. Randall, is a tall, well-formed man, with broad shoulders, -which look a little like West Point discipline. It was very silly in one -to contrast him at once with Dr. West, but I did, and Dr. West gained by -the comparison, for there is an expression in his face which I seldom -see in others, certainly not in Mr. Randall. _He_ looks, as I suspect he -is, proud,—and yet he is very kind to me, treating me with as much -deference as if I were the Queen of England. They had come in their -carriage, and the drive over the green hills and through the pleasant -valleys was delightful. I could do nothing but admire, and still I -wondered that one as fond of society as Mattie should have settled so -far from the stirring world as Morrisville, and at last I asked why she -had done so. - -“‘It’s all Will’s doings,’ she answered, laughingly. ‘He is terribly -exclusive, and fancied that in Morrisville he should find ample scope -for indulging his taste,—that people would let him alone,—but they -don’t. Why, we have only lived there three months, and I am sure half -the town know just how many pieces of silver I have,—whether my dishes -are stone or French china,—what hour we breakfast,—when we go to -bed,—when we get up, and how many dresses I have. But I don’t care, I -rather like it; and then, too, Morrisville is not a very small town. It -has nearly three thousand inhabitants, and a few as refined and -cultivated people as any with whom I ever met.’ - -“‘Who are they?’ I asked, and Mattie began: - -“‘There’s the Verners, and Waldos, and Strikers, and Rathbones in town, -while in the country there’s the Kingslakes, and Croftons, and Bishops, -and Warings, making a very pleasant circle.’ - -“I don’t know why I felt disappointed that she did not mention _Mrs. -David West_ as among the upper ten, but I did, and should have ventured -to speak of that lady, if I had not been a little afraid of Mr. Randall, -who might think my associates too plebeian to suit him. - -“We were entering the town now, and as we drove through what Mattie said -was Grove Street, I forgot all about Mrs. David West in my admiration of -the prettiest little white cottage I ever saw. I cannot describe it -except that it seemed all porticoes, bay-windows, and funny little -places shooting out just where you did not expect them. One bay-window -opened into the garden, which was full of flowers, while right through -the centre ran a gurgling brook, which just at the entrance had been -coaxed into a tiny waterfall. I was in ecstasies, particularly as on a -grass-plat, under a great elm-tree, an oldish-looking lady sat knitting -and talking to a beautiful child reclining in a curious-looking vehicle, -half wagon, half chair. I never in my life saw anything so lovely as the -face of that child, seen only for a moment, with the setting sunlight -falling on its golden curls and giving it the look of an angel. The lady -interested me greatly in her dress of black, with the widow’s cap -resting on her gray hair, while her face was familiar as if I had seen -it before. - -“‘Who are they?’ I asked Mattie, but she did not know. - -“Neither did her husband, and both laughed at my evident admiration. - -“‘We will walk by here some day, and maybe you can make their -acquaintance,’ Mattie said, as she saw how I leaned back for a last -glance at the two figures beneath the trees. - -“‘There is West Lawn!’ Mattie cried at last, in her enthusiastic way, -pointing out a large stone building which stood a little apart from the -town. - -“I knew before that ‘West Lawn’ was the name of Mr. Randall’s home, and -when I saw it I comprehended at once why it was so called. It was partly -because of the long grassy lawn in front, and partly because it stood to -the westward of the village, upon a slight eminence which overlooked the -adjacent country. It is a delightful place, and Mattie says they have -made many improvements since they bought it. But it must have been -pleasant before, for it shows marks of care and cultivation given to it -years ago. Like that cottage by the brook, it has bay-windows and -additions, while I think I never saw so many roses around one spot in my -life. There is a perfect wilderness of them, in every shade and variety. -These reminded me of Dr. West, who is so fond of roses, and who said -once that he would have _his_ home literally covered with them. ‘West -Lawn’ would suit him at this season, I am sure. Here in Morrisville I -find myself thinking a great deal about Dr. West, and thinking only good -of him. I forget all I ever fancied about his littleness, and remember -instead how kind he is to the Beechwood poor, who have named at least a -dozen children after him. _Mrs. David West!_ I do not see as I shall be -able to meet her ladyship, as she evidently does not belong to the -Vernor and Randall clique. - -“But let me narrate events a little more in the order in which they -occurred, going back to last night, when we had tea in what Mattie calls -the ‘Rose Room,’ because the portico in front is enveloped with roses. -Then came a long talk, when Mr. Randall was gone for his evening paper, -and when Mattie, nestling up to me, with her head in my lap, just as she -used to do in school, told me what a dear fellow her husband was, and -how much she loved him. Then some music, I playing my poor -accompaniments while Mattie sang her favorite Scotch ballads. Then, at -an early hour for me, I went to bed, for Mattie does not like sitting up -till midnight. I have a large, airy chamber, which must have been fitted -up for a young lady, there are so many closets, and shelves, and -presses, with a darling little bath and dressing-room opening out of it. -Mattie, who came in to see that I was comfortable, told me this was the -only room in which the paper had not been changed. - -“‘It’s old-fashioned, as you see,’ she said, ‘and must have been on -before the time of Mr. Wakely, of whom we bought the house, but it is so -pretty and clean that I would not have it touched.’ - -“It is indeed pretty, its ground a pure white, sprinkled here and there -with small bouquets of violets. Just back of the dressing-table and near -the window are pencil-marks, ‘Robert, Robert, Robert,’ in a girlish -hand, and then a name which might have been ‘Annie,’ though neither of -us could make it out distinctly. Evidently this room belonged to a -maiden of that name, and while thinking about her and wondering who she -was, I fell asleep. I do not believe in haunted houses, nor witches, nor -ghosts, nor goblins, but last night I had the queerest dreams, in which -that woman and child beneath the trees were strangely mingled with Dr. -West and a young lady who came to me with such a pale, sad face, that I -woke in a kind of nightmare, my first impression being that I was -occupying some other room than mine. - -“This morning Mattie was present while I unpacked my trunk, and coming -upon that package, I said, as unconcernedly as possible, ‘Oh, by the -way, do you know such a person as Mrs. David West? I have a package for -her, entrusted to me by a—a friend in Beechwood.’ - -“‘Mrs. David West?’ and Mattie seemed to be thinking as she examined the -package, which felt like a small square box. ‘Mrs. David West? No, I -know no such person; but then I’ve only lived here three months. There’s -Bell Verner now coming in the gate. Maybe she will know, though they -have only been here since last autumn. I’ll ask her, and you be in -readiness to come down if she inquires for you, as she certainly will. -You look sweet in your white wrapper, with the blue ribbon round your -waist. I wish blue was becoming to me—Yes, yes, Dinah, I’m coming,’ and -she fluttered down to the hall, where I heard a sound of _kissing_, -accompanied with little cooing tones of endearment, such as Mattie has -always been famous for; then a whisper, and then I shut the door, for I -was sure they were talking of me. As a general thing I dread to meet -grand people, I had enough of them at Newport: and so I hated to meet -Miss Bell Verner; and after I was sent for I waited a little, half -wishing myself away from Morrisville. - -“I found her a stylish, cold-looking girl, who, after taking me in, at a -glance, from my head to my slippers, said rather abruptly: - -“‘Excuse me, Miss Freeman, but weren’t you at Newport last summer?’ - -“‘Yes,’ I answered, now scanning her, to discover, if possible, some -trace of a person seen before. - -“‘I thought so,’ she continued. ‘We were at the Atlantic. We could not -get in at the Ocean House, it was so full. Pardon me, but I am afraid I -felt slightly ill-natured at your party—the Russells, I believe—because -they took so many rooms as to shut us out entirely. If I remember -rightly, there were nine of you, together with three servants, and you -stayed two months. I used to see you on the beach, and thought your -bathing-dress so pretty. We were a little jealous, too, at our house of -Miss Freeman, who was styled the belle.’ - -“‘Oh, no,’ I exclaimed, feeling very much embarrassed, ‘I couldn’t be a -belle. I did not go much in society. I stayed with Margaret who was -sick, or helped take care of the children.’ - -“‘Oh, yes,’ she rejoined, ‘I heard of the invalid Mrs. Russell, who -exacted so much of her sweet-tempered sister. The gentlemen were very -indignant. By the way, how is Mrs. Russell?’ - -“I did not like the way she spoke of Margaret, and with as much dignity -as possible I replied that Mrs. Russell was still out of health, and I -feared would always remain so. Somehow I fancied that the fact of there -having been nine of us, with three servants, and that we stayed at the -Ocean House two months did more towards giving Miss Verner a high -opinion of me than all Mattie must have said in my praise, for she -became very gracious, so that I really liked her, and wished I had as -fine and polished an air as she carried with her. When we had talked of -the Strykers, and Waldos, and Rathbones, Mattie suddenly asked if Bell -knew a Mrs. David West in town. - -“‘Mrs. David West? Mrs. David West?’ It did seem as if Miss Verner had -heard the name, and that it belonged to a widow living on the Ferrytown -road. ‘But why do you ask?’ she said. ‘It can’t be any one desirable to -know.’ - -“Mattie explained why, and Miss Verner good-naturedly offered to -inquire, but Mattie said no, their man Peter would ascertain and take -the package. So after Miss Verner was gone, and Peter came round to -prune a rosebush, Mattie put him the same question: - -“‘Did he know Mrs. David West?’ - -“‘Yes, he knew where she lived; she had that handsome grandchild.’ - -“Of course Mattie deputed him at once to do my errand, and I consented, -though I wished so much to go myself. Running upstairs I wrote on a -card: - - -“‘Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the bearer of this -little package, which I should have brought to you myself had Mrs. -Randall known where to find you. - - “‘DORA FREEMAN, West Lawn.’ - - -“I did not see Peter again until long after dinner, and then I asked if -he had done my errand. - -“‘Yes, miss,’ he replied. ‘She was much obliged. She’s a nice woman.’ - -“‘Peter, don’t those verbenas need sheltering from the hot sun?’ Mr. -Randall called out, his manner indicating that by volunteering -information respecting Mrs. David West, Peter was getting too familiar. - -“Mr. Randall is very proud, and so is Mattie, but in a different way. If -she knew how much I wish to see Mrs. West, or at least learn something -of her, she would never rest until the wish was gratified. We took a -walk after tea to the village cemetery, of which the people are justly -proud, for it is a most beautiful spot, divesting the dark, still grave -of half its terrors. There are some splendid monuments there, one -costing I dare not tell how much. It was reared to the memory of General -Morris, for whom the town was named, but this did not impress me one -half so much as a solitary grave standing apart from all the others and -enclosed by a slender iron fence. The grass in the little yard was fresh -and green, and there were many roses growing there. The stone was a -plain slab of Italian marble, with only these words upon it: - -“‘Anna, aged 20.’ - -“Even Mattie was interested, and we leaned a long time on the gate, -speculating upon the Anna sleeping at our feet. Who was she, and whose -the hand of love which had been so often busy there? She was young, only -twenty when she died. Had many years been joined to the past since she -was laid to rest? Was she beautiful, and good, and pure? Yes, she was -all that, I fancied, and I even dared to pluck a rose-bud whose parent -stalk had taken root near the foot of the grave. I can see it now in the -glass of water where I put it after returning home. That rose and that -grave have interested me strangely, painfully I may say, as if the Anna -whom they represented were destined to cross my path, if ever the dead -can rise up a barrier between the living. - - - “June 15th. - -“A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but I have enjoyed -the quiet so much. It seems as if I never should get rested, and I am -surprised to find how tired I am, and how selfish I am growing. I was -wicked enough to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came, -bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit. She is very -sociable, and asks numberless questions about Beechwood and its -inhabitants. I wonder why I told her of everybody but Dr. West, for I -did, but of him I could not talk, and did not. - - - “SATURDAY, June 16th. - -“A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I cannot find it in -my heart to scold him on paper for his dreadful language. I will talk to -him on my return, and tell him he must be more choice of words and must -make an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural to the -Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they miss me at home, and I -cried over the letter till I was almost sick. I am sure they want me -there, and I wonder what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, -and Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until September, -Mattie and Bell saying they will then go with me to Beechwood. Just -think of those two fine ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as -expensively furnished as either Mattie’s or Bell Verner’s, and we keep -as many servants; but the children, the confusion! What would they do? -No, I must not stay, though I should enjoy it vastly. I like Bell -Verner, as I know her better. There is a depth of character about her -for which I did not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys -me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes no secret of it -either. She’s old enough, too,—twenty-eight, as she told me of her own -accord, just as she is given to telling everything about herself. -Secretly, I think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above -him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell him that story -about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad Johnnie set him right. I would not -have Lieutenant Reed for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, -good-natured, vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I think I’ll -turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how her black eyes would flash -upon him. - -“I have had a note from Mrs. David West, inviting me to come and see -her, and this is the way it reads: - - - “‘MY DEAR MISS FREEMAN: - -“‘I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing me that -package, and did I go out at all, except to church, I would thank you in -person. If you can, will you come and see me before you return to -Beechwood? I should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one -interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship. - - “‘Yours respectfully, - “‘HELEN WEST. - - “‘GROVE STREET, NO. 30.’ - - -“Nothing can be more ladylike than the handwriting, and, indeed, the -whole thing. Mrs. David West may be poor and unknown, but she is every -whit as refined and cultivated as either Mattie or Bell. I shall see -her, too, before I leave Morrisville; but why does she take it for -granted that I am interested in Dr. West? I am not, except as a good -physician; and what is she to him? Here I am puzzling my brain and -wasting the gas, when I ought to be in bed; so with one look at that -rose, which I have been foolish enough to press,—the rose from Anna’s -grave,—I’ll bid the world good-night.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - LETTERS. - - - No. 1. - _Mrs. David West’s Letter._ - -“MY DEAR RICHARD: - -“Your package of money and little note, sent by Miss Dora Freeman, was -brought to me with a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall’s colored -servant Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so much, and I -wish you had kept a part for yourself. Surely, if the commandment with -promise means anything,—and we know it does,—you, my son, will be -blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as well as your -unselfish devotion to those who have been, one the innocent, the other -the guilty, cause of so much suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as -I sometimes fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have sent us -word ere this. I have given him up, asking God to pardon his sin, which -was great. - -“And so the debt is paid at last! Dear Richard, when I read that I shed -tears of gratitude and thanksgiving that you were free from a load you -never should have borne. It was a large sum for you to earn and pay in -less than seven years, besides supporting me and Robin. He grows dearer -to me every day, and yet I seldom look at him without a great choking -sob rising to my throat. He is like his mother, and I loved her as if -she had been my daughter. O Anna, lost darling, was she as pure and -sinless when she died as when she crept into my arms and whispered of -her newly found hope in Him who can keep us all from sin? God only -knows. Alas! that her end should be wrapt in so dark a mystery; and ten -times alas! that any one should be malignant enough to blame you, who -had well-nigh died when the trouble fell upon us. - -“And so you fear you are more interested in this Dora than you ought to -be, or rather that she is far too good for you. - -“She must be very, very good, if my boy be not worthy of her. - -“Yes, the Randalls are very grand, fashionable people, as you may know -from the fact that the Verners and Strykers took them up at once. I -don’t know what influence they may have over Dora; not a bad one, I -hope. I think I saw her the other night riding by on horseback, in -company with Bell Verner. It was too dark to see her distinctly, but I -heard Miss Verner say, in reply evidently to some remark, ‘I never -trouble myself to know or inquire after any one out of our set,’ and -then they galloped on rapidly. As I am not in Miss Verner’s ‘set’ she -will not probably bring Dora to see me, but I have obviated that -difficulty by writing her a note and inviting her to call on me. Did I -do right? I am anxious to see her, for a mother can judge better than -her son of what is in woman. - - “Yours affectionately, - “HELEN WEST.” - -“By the way, did you know that Mr. Randall was the purchaser of West -Lawn, our old home? - - “H. W.” - - - No. 2. - _Extract from Dr. West’s reply._ - -“DEAR MOTHER:—Your letters do me so much good, and make me strong to -bear, though really I have perhaps as little to trouble me as do most -men of my years. If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,—if -we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd, and if we knew -that Robert, whether dead or alive, had repented of his sin, I should be -very happy. - -“There’s _Dora_, I know,—a continuous trouble, but one with which I -would not willingly dispense. You ask if you did right to invite her to -call. You seldom do wrong; but in this case, O mother, I have become a -perfect coward since Dora left me. I thought I wanted her to know all -that we know of Anna and Robin; but now the very possibility of her -hearing the little you can tell, and then giving it the natural -construction which she might, makes the cold sweat ooze out in drops -upon my face. If she comes, tell her as little as possible. It gives me -a thrill of satisfaction to know that she is at West Lawn, enjoying the -roses I planted. Dear West Lawn! but for that terrible misfortune which -prompted us to sell it, you might have belonged to Miss Bell Verner’s -set. But don’t tell Dora. I’d rather she should like me for myself, and -not for what I used to be.” * * * * - - - No. 3. - _Extract from Margaret’s letter to Dora._ - -* * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of asking to stay -longer. It’s right shabby in you to leave me so long, when you know how -much I suffer. The children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted -real cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You cannot -love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think it’s downright -ungrateful after all I’ve done for you since father died. If you care -for me at all, you’ll come in just one week from to-day. I have about -decided to go to Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and -come.” - - - No. 4. - _Extract from Mattie’s letter to Margaret._ - -“DEAR MRS. RUSSELL:—Excuse the liberty I am taking, but really if you -and your husband knew how much Dora has improved since leaving home, and -how much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her coming home -so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner all think it too bad, and I for -one veto her leaving us.” - - - No. 5. - _Extract from Mr. Randall’s letter._ - -“MRS. RUSSELL.—MADAM:—Both myself and Mrs. Randall are exceedingly loth -to part with our young guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will -do us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add I think it -your duty so to do.” - - - _Scene in Mrs. Russell’s parlor one morning about the first of July._ - -Squire John nervously fumbling his watch-chain, looking very hot and -distressed; Johnnie all swollen up, looking like a little volcano ready -to explode; Mrs. Russell crying over Mr. and Mrs. Randall’s letters, -wondering what business it was of theirs to _meddle_ and talk, just as -if she did not do her duty by Dora. Who, she’d like to know, had -supported Dora these dozen years, sending her to school, taking her to -Newport, and buying her such nice dresses? It was right mean in Dora, -and she would not stand it. Dora should come home, and John should write -that very day to tell her so, unless he liked Dora better than he did -her, as she presumed he did—yes, she knew he did. - -“Thunderation, mother, why shouldn’t he like Auntie best?” and with this -outburst, Johnnie plunged heart and soul into the contest. “Who, I’d -like to know, makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it,—a -married old chap, I mean, like father. ’Tain’t you. It’s _Auntie_, and -so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You ask ’em. Talk about what -you’ve done for Dora these dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all -that! I think _I’d dry up_ on that strain and tell what she’d done for -me. Hasn’t there been a baby about every other week since she lived -here, and hasn’t Auntie had the whole care of the brats? And at Newport -how was it? I never told before, but I will now. I heard two nice -gentlemen talking over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how mean -and selfish it was in her sister to make such a little _nigger_ of her. -They didn’t say _nigger_, but that’s what they meant. Dora ain’t coming -home, no how. You can go to Saratoga without her. Take Clem, and Daisy, -and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best of the lot. Leave me and -Burt and Ben at home. I’ll see to them, and we shall get on well -enough.” - -By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son of hers should -abuse her so, with his father standing by and never once trying to stop -him. Possibly some such idea crept through Squire John’s brain, for, -putting into his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing, he -said, “My boy, I’m astonished that you should use such shocking words as -_thunderation_, _co-boozle_, _dry up_, and the like. Your Aunt Dora -would be greatly distressed; but, Madge,” turning to his sobbing wife -and trying to wind his arm around her waist, “Johnnie is right, on the -whole; his plan is a good one. We’ll take Clem, and Rosa, too, if you -like, leaving Johnnie, Ben, and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where -she is. She was tired when she went away, and very pale. You are not -selfish, Madge; you’ll let her stay. I’ll write so now,—shall I?” and -there was a sound very much like a very large, hearty kiss, while a -moment after Johnnie, in the kitchen, was turning a round of -somersaults, striking his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and -tripping up little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for Dora. - - - No. 6. - _Extract from Johnnie’s letter to Dora._ - - “July 7th. - -“DEAR AUNTIE:—The house is still as a mouse, and seems so funny. The old -folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy, Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for -Saratoga, leaving me with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into -mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and twitted about your -being a drudge. I meant it all then, but now that she is gone, I’ll be—I -guess I’ll skip the hard words, and say that every time I rem’ber what I -said to her, there’s a thumpin’ great lump comes in my throat, and I -wish I hadn’t said it. I’ve begun six letters to tell her I am sorry, -and she only been gone two days, but I’ve tore ’em all up, and now when -you see her you tell her I’m sorry,—’cause I am, and I keep thinkin of -when I was a little shaver in petty-coats, how she sometimes took me in -her lap and said I was a preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She -says I’m the _pest_ of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor lets -me kiss her ’cause she says I slawber and wet her face, and muss her -hair and dress. But she’s mother, and I wish I hadn’t sed them nasty -things to her and maid her cry. - -“Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow a book, but when he -found it was yourn he wouldn’t take it; he said he’d write and ask -permission. - -“We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and Burt twice. I told -her if she did it agen I’d spank her, and so I will. I think I’ve got -her under, so she knows I’m man of the house. The old cat has weened her -kittens. Burt shut one of ’em up in the meal chest, and the white-fased -cow has come in, which means she’s got a calph.” - - “Yours, - “JOHNNIE.” - - - No. 7. -_Dr. West’s letter, on which he spent three hours, wasting half a dozen - sheets of note-paper, and which when finished did not please him at - all._ - -“MISS FREEMAN:—You probably do not expect me to write to you, and will -be surprised at receiving this letter. The fact is I want permission to -go to that little library, which, until this morning, I did not know was -yours. There are some books I would like to read, but will not do so -without leave from the owner. - -“I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, although _I_ miss -you very much. Of course you know your brother and sister are at -Saratoga, and that Johnnie is keeping house, as he says. If you have not -time to answer this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can read the -books or not. - - “Yours truly, - “RICHARD WEST.” - - - No. 8. -_Dora’s reply, over which she spent two hours and wasted five sheets of - note-paper._ - -“DR. WEST.—DEAR SIR:—You really were over-nice about the books, and I -should feel like scolding were it not that your fastidiousness procured -me a letter which I did not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any -book you like. - -“And so you miss me? I wonder if that is true. I should not think you -would. I’m not worth missing. I hope you will see Johnnie as often as -possible. - - “Yours respectfully, - “DORA. - -“P. S.—I am going to-morrow to see Mrs. David West.” - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - DORA’S DIARY CONTINUED. - - -“It is a long time since I wrote a word in this book; I have been so -happy and so busy withal; visits, rides, picnics, and everything. I did -not know that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here in -Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to entertain me. Mattie’s -brother Charlie is here, but he behaves like a man; does not annoy me -one bit, but flirts shockingly with _Bell Verner_, who flirts as hard in -return. He teasingly asked me one day about _Dr. West_, and when Bell -inquired who he was, he said he was ‘a country doctor of little pills; a -sort of lackadaisical chap, who read service very loud, and almost -touched the pew railing when he bowed in the Apostles’ Creed.’ - -“I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell honestly believes I -care for him, and kindly stops Lieutenant Reed when he begins his fun. I -like Bell Verner more and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over -that letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how I tried not -to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it; but they did, and there came -back such a nice response from John. What a dear, unselfish man he is, -and how smooth he made it look,—so smooth that I really felt as if doing -him a favor by staying until Johnnie’s letter was received, and I -guessed at once the storm through which they had passed. - -“Will I ever forget the day I received a letter from _Dr. West_? I could -scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there was his name, Richard West, -looking so natural. I felt the blood tingling in my veins, even though -he merely wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish man! Of -course he might. He says he misses me, and this I think is why the -letter is worth so much, and why I answered it. Perhaps it was foolish -to do so, but I can’t help it now. It is not at all likely he’ll write -again though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and what he would -say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows he wrote, for I told her, but -pretended I did not care. To-morrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David -West. - -“July 15th.—I have seen Mrs. David West; have looked into her eyes, so -like the doctor’s; have heard her voice; have seen the child; and oh! -why _am_ I so wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up that -rose from Anna’s grave and throw it to the winds? I hate this room. I -cannot bear it, for Anna used to occupy it; she haunts me continually. -She died in this room. _Richard kissed her here_, and here that child -was born. Oh, what am I to think except what I do? And yet it is all -suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman told me. I wish she had never -come here. I would rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard -what I have. - -“It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see this Mrs. David -West, and I thought of little else all the morning; but when dinner came -Mattie had been seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was -impossible for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I had anticipated -the call, and not wishing to have me disappointed, she insisted that I -should go without her, Peter acting as my escort there, while the new -cook, a Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street, would -call for me on her way home. This was the arrangement, and at about four -o’clock I started. I had in some way received the impression that Mrs. -David West lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I asked -Peter if we were right. - -“‘Yes, miss, Grove Street,—just there a ways in the neatest little -cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.’ - -“Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen that first evening -of my arrival at Morrisville, and something told me I was going straight -to that cottage with its roses, its vines, and bay-windows. The surmise -was correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there been a doubt -it would have been dispelled by the widow’s cap and the little child out -on the grass-plat, just where they were that other summer day so like -this and yet so unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I -should be suffering now. - -“‘There she is. That’s Mrs. West with Robin,’ Peter said, and the next -moment I was speaking to Mrs. David West, and before she said to me, -‘You know my son,’ I felt sure she was the doctor’s mother. - -“The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest expression beaming -in the dark eye, and the same curve of the upper lip,—said by some to be -always indicative of high breeding. The mother and son were very much -alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a softer style of -beauty. I never saw one to whom the widow’s cap was so becoming. It -seemed peculiarly adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of -grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in her manner and -speech a refinement which even Bell Verner might have imitated with -advantage. My heart went out to her at once, and by the time I was -seated in the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I -felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life. - -“‘This is Robin,’ she said, turning to the child, who I now discovered -was a cripple in its feet, and unable to walk. ‘Did Richard ever tell -you of Robin?’ - -“There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew Richard had -never told me of him, and doubted her own integrity in asking the -question. - -“‘No,’ I replied, ‘the doctor never told me of Robin, nor yet of -himself.’ - -“‘Richard is very reticent,’ she answered; and then as she saw my glance -constantly directed to Robin, she evidently tried to keep me from -talking of him by asking numberless questions about Richard, and by -telling me what a good, kind child he was to her. - -“It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive, but I can see -now how she headed me off from the dangerous ground on which I leaped at -last, for I could not resist the expression of that child’s face, and -breaking away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt by his -chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked: - -“‘Whose boy are you?’ - -“‘Papa Richard’s and grandma’s,’ he replied, and then there flashed upon -me the thought that in spite of his deep blue eyes and soft golden curls -he was like Dr. West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp, -stinging pain, as I said to myself, ‘Was Dr. West ever married?’ Surely -he would have told of that,—would at some time have mentioned his wife, -and with the pain there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr. -West than I had supposed; that I was jealous of the dead woman, the -mother of this child. Mrs. West must have divined a part of my thoughts, -for she said half laughingly, like one under restraint: - -“‘He has always called my son “Papa Richard,” as he is the only father -the child ever knew,’ and a shadow flitted across her face as she -directed my attention to a tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be -evaded; curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark concerning the -heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose little hand I now held in -mine, and said, ‘He is your grandchild?’ - -“Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing to something or -somebody for help; then they softened and tears were visible in them. - -“‘Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sorrow as well as of -comfort to me, Miss Freeman,’ and Mrs. West’s delicate hand smoothed and -unwound the golden curls clustering around Robin’s head. ‘So I used to -unwind her curls,’ she continued abstractedly. ‘Robin’s mother. I must -show you her picture when we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than -any one I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.’ - -“Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding through my flesh, -passed over me, but I listened breathlessly, while still caressing the -child she continued: - -“‘His mother was my adopted daughter: I never had one of my own. Two -sons have been born to me; one I have lost,’—and her breath came -gaspingly like speaking of the dead,—‘the other you know is Richard. To -all intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am sure no mother -ever loved her own offspring more than I did Anna. O Anna darling, Anna -darling! I never dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could—O -Anna!’ and Mrs. West’s voice broke down in a storm of sobs. - -“After this I could not ask her any more questions, and in a kind of -maze I followed her into the house, which was a perfect little gem, and -showed marks of most exquisite taste. Some of the furniture struck me as -rather too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but -little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard and seen. - -“‘That is _Anna_,’ Mrs. West said, pointing to a small portrait hanging -upon the wall just where the western sunbeams were falling upon it and -lighting it up with a wonderful halo of beauty. - -“Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything so perfectly -beautiful could ever have belonged to a human being, and with a scream -of delight I stood before the picture, exclaiming, ‘It is not possible -that this is natural!’ - -‘It is said to be,’ Mrs. West rejoined, ‘though there is a look in her -eye which I did not notice until a few months before she died. She was -crazy at the last.’ - -“‘Crazy!’ I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of pity upon the lovely -face, which seemed imbued with life. - -“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it, for after I had -told of the dark blue eyes and curls of golden hair, of the pure white -skin and full ripe lips, you, my journal, would not have the least idea -of the face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it what it -was can never be described on paper. The artist had put it on canvas, so -at least said Mrs. David West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare -loveliness and repeating again, ‘Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for long?’ - -“‘No, not long; she died when Robin was born.’ - -“‘And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,’ I ventured to say -next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she made no reply, and with my thoughts -in a tumult, I continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly -remembering the grave which had so interested me, I asked, ‘How old was -Anna when she died?’ - -“‘Just twenty,’ was the reply; while I rejoined, ‘I am sure then I have -seen her grave. It says upon the stone, “Anna, aged 20.”’ - -“‘Yes, that’s all Richard would have on the marble. It almost killed -Richard, but God has healed the wound just as He will heal all hearts -which go to Him.’ - -“I don’t know why I said what I did next, unless it were that I should -have died if I had not. The words were wrung from me almost against my -will: - -“‘Was Richard Anna’s husband?’ - -“‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!’ Mrs. West replied, -quickly. - -“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning Anna with hesitancy, -but the ‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband,’ was spoken -eagerly, decidedly, as if it were a fact she would particularly impress -upon my mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she went on, -but this time in the old, cautious manner: - -“‘I never knew who Anna’s husband was. It is a sad story, which I would -gladly forget, but Robin’s presence keeps it in my mind,’ and bowing her -head over the child, the poor woman wept passionately. - -“‘Poor grandma, don’t cry. I love you! What makes grandma cry over me so -much, and look so sorry at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?’ - -“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away the tears of her he -called grandmother. He had not talked much before, but what he said now -went through my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered: - -“‘People sometimes cry for joy.’ - -“‘But she don’t,’ he said, nodding toward Mrs. West, who left us alone -while she bathed her face and eyes. ‘She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor -Robin,” so often. I guess it’s because my feet will never walk, that she -says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to me so good, and -said God made me lame; that up in heaven there were no little cripples; -that if I loved the Saviour, and didn’t fret about my feet, I’d go up -there some day; and since then I’ve tried hard not to mind, and ever so -many times a day I say softly to myself, “Will Jesus help Robin not to -fret because he’s a poor lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way -in my mouth, but God hears just the same.’ - -“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside the lame boy, I -wound my arms around his neck, and laid his curly head upon my bosom, -just as I would have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus -afflicted. - -“‘Seems like you was most my mother,’ he said, caressing my cheek with -his soft little hand. ‘You don’t look like her much, only I dreamed once -she came to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted feet, oh! -so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and next day I told it to -grandma, and asked her if she wasn’t sure my mother was in heaven! She -did not answer until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said, “I -hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and kept on asking, until -she burst out with the loudest cry I ever heard her or anybody cry, and -said, “God knows, my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope -she’s there!” but she wouldn’t say for sure, just as she did when the -minister and Mrs. Terry’s baby died. Why not? Why didn’t she? Lady, you -look good. You look as if you prayed. Do you pray?’ - -“‘Yes,’ I answered, wondering if he would call my careless words a -prayer. - -“‘Then lady,’ and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly, wistfully at me, -‘then tell me true, is my mother in heaven, sure?’ - -“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a different -conclusion,—what could I do but answer, ‘Yes.’ He believed me, the -trustful, innocent child, clapping his hands for joy, while the picture -on the wall, wholly wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of -heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the answer given to -her boy. He did not doubt me in the least, neither did I doubt myself; -Anna was safe, whatever her sin might have been; whether the wife of one -husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely was forgiven. - -“Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and placid as ever, and -her voice as low and sweet. - -“‘You have had a sad call, I fear,’ she said. ‘Richard would not like it -if he knew how I had entertained you, but I’ll promise to do better next -time, though I cannot talk of Anna. Some day perhaps, you may know all, -but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.’ - -“She kept associating me with Richard, and though the association was -not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat, making me wonder if he had ever -told her much of me. - -“At that moment Mattie’s new cook, Mrs. Felton, appeared, curtseying -with a great deal of humility to Mrs. West, who did not seem especially -pleased to meet her. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to -caress Robin, whom she called a ‘precious lamb,’ a ‘poor, little, -stunted rosy,’ and numerous other extravagant names. - -“‘I’m back to the old place,’ she said to Mrs. West, when through with -Robin, ‘but my, such a change! ’Tain’t much such times as when you were -there, I tell you. Then we had a head; now we’ve none.’ - -“Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to come again, and -saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or she would call on me. - -“‘You might make the first advance,’ I said. ‘You have surely lived here -longer than Mrs. Randall.’ - -“‘Yes, I know,’ and her pale face flushed up to her soft grey hair. ‘But -times have changed with me. I do not go out at all.’ - -“‘Come again,’ Robin said, as I turned towards him; ‘come again, lady; I -likes you, cause you seem some like Papa Richard.’ - -“It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard, and involuntarily -I asked, ‘Why he did not say Uncle Richard? He is not your father,’ I -added, while the child’s eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied: - -“‘Then where is my father, I’d like to know?’ - -“Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and said: - -“‘Come, Miss Freeman, it’s time we were going.’ - -“With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West’s proffered hand, and -was soon out in the street with Mrs. Felton, who, when we were at a safe -distance from the house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone: - -“‘The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child not to call the -doctor papa. I’d have broke him of it long before this. It don’t sound -well, ’specially after all’s been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.’ - -“I wouldn’t question her, neither was there a necessity for it, as she -was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too. - -“‘I s’pose you know the doctor and his mother used to own West Lawn?’ -was the next remark, which brought to my mind the conversation between -her and Mrs. West. - -“‘Used to own West Lawn!’ I repeated, surprised out of my cool reserve. - -“‘To be sure they did; but, for some unaccountable reason which nobody -ever knew, they sold it about the time Anna died, and bought the place -where they live now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good -nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is to blame for -where they land. Mrs. West held her head as high as the next one, drove -her carriage, and used solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I -lived with her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pellet -then.’ - -“I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered her to go on. - -“‘I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad. She was the -sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you ever seen, and when they -took her to the hospital I felt as bad as if she’d died.’ - -“‘To the hospital? The lunatic asylum? Did she go there?’ I asked; and -Sarah Felton replied: - -“‘Oh yes; they hoped ’twould cure her. Seems’s if the trouble all come -to once. First, there was Robert, Richard’s twin, who went off, or was -murdered, and has never been heard of since.’ - -“‘Richard’s twin brother ran off? When? How long ago? How long before -Anna died, I mean?’ I asked, stopping suddenly as a new light dawned -upon me, only, alas! to fade into darkness at the answer. - -“‘Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year; for he’d been gone a good -spell before it was known to many. He didn’t live here; ’twas in New -York, and he hardly ever come home. He was a wild one, not much like -Richard, who was engaged to Anna, and that’s what I can’t make out,—why -he didn’t marry her.’ - -“We were crossing a common now, where there were rustic benches beneath -the trees; and feeling that unless I stopped I should fall, I was so -faint and sick with what I had heard, I said that I was tired; and -seating myself upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against -a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion continued: - -“‘He was engaged for years, so I’ve heard, and I know he thought a sight -of her. It was fairly sickish to see ’em together, he with his arm round -her and she a lettin’ her head, with them long curls, loll on his -shoulder. They was to be married the very day she died. ’Twas an awful -sight. I went away from them about the time they sent her to the -hospital; but I was back a spell, as the chamber-maid was took sick, and -so I was in it all. Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin’, and she -whispered something in his ear.’ - -“‘But Robin,’ I gasped; ‘Anna was surely married to somebody.’ - -“Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled her lip as she -answered: - -“‘Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very pious girl, runnin’ -Sunday-schools, belongin’ to the church, tendin’ to the poor, and all -that.’ - -“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna’s piety, but I did, and the -belief gave me comfort as I gazed up into the clear blue sky and said to -myself, ‘She is there.’ - -“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not tell Robin that his -mother was in heaven sure; but I was glad I had done so, without -reasoning in the least upon the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only -wrote bitter things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, ‘And -Richard kissed her when she was dying?’ - -“‘Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna’s room, where she died, -and where Robin was born. I didn’t see it, but them that told me did. -Richard fell as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up from -the office and heard what had happened, and six hours after, when they -said she was dyin’ and had asked for him, he had to be carried, he was -so limpsy and weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as if -there was one, but would whisper, ‘Forgive,—I can’t tell,—I promised -not. It’s all right,—all right.’ What she meant nobody knows, for she -died just that way, with Richard’s arm around her, and the doctor -a-holdin’ him, for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead he -went into a ravin’ fever, which lasted for weeks and weeks, till the -allopaths give him up. Then the homœopaths come in and cured him, and -that’s why he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the -blisterin’ and jollup kind before his sickness, but after that he -changed, and they do say he’s mighty skilful. As soon as he got well -they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West has never seemed like the same woman -since. Folks thinks they’s poor, though what’s become of the property -nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother, sendin’ her money -every now and agen.’ - -“‘But why,’ I asked, ‘did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner never hear of all -this?’ - -“‘Easy enough,’ was the reply. ‘Judge Verner only moved here last fall, -and Mr. Randall last spring. West Lawn has changed hands three times -since the doctor owned it; so it’s natural that his name shouldn’t -appear in the sale. Then, it’s seven years since it all happened, and a -gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards of three -thousand folks, don’t harp on one string forever; only them that was -interested, like me, remembers.’ - -“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why neither Bell nor -Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I thought, as I dragged my steps -homeward, hardly knowing when I reached there, and feeling glad that -Mattie was still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at -once to my own room,—Anna’s room,—where she died, with her head on -Richard’s arm, and he so weak that he had to be supported. Poor Richard! -I do pity him, knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was it? -How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast? Anna said with her -dying breath that it was all right, and I believe her. I will not cast -at her a stone. She is in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard -fell as if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened -innocence on his part. Then why this horrid feeling? Is it sorrow that -he cared for and loved her? I don’t know; everything seems so far off -that I cannot find it. What is the record? Let me see. - -“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he has met with reverses, -nobody knows what; he has a brother somewhere, nobody knows where; he -supports his mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess. -How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West would appear were it not -for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I -think,—I am very sure I did care for him more than I supposed. - - - “July 23d. - -“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest doses of -medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die. It was a heavy cold, taken -when sitting upon the common, I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she -came in to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am sure my -head would never have ached so hard if I had not heard that dreadful -story. I have thought a great deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, -and the result of it is this: _I hate Dr. West_, and never desire to see -him again! There is something wrong, and I’ve no faith in anybody. - -“There’s a letter from Margaret lying on the table. They are at the -Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller than either the United States -or Union Hall, but makes up for its size in its freshness, its quiet, -and air of homelike comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although she -complains that she does not see so many people as she would at the -larger houses, she seems contented, and speaks in raptures of her nice -large rooms and their gentlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and -that Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received, -‘as happy as a clam.’ - -“Accidentally I have heard that Robin is sick and has sent for me. I -must have slept for many hours, I think: not a heavy, stolid sleep, as I -was vaguely conscious that Mattie stole in to look at me, and that Bell -Verner, too, was here. But I did not realize it all until at last I woke -and felt that I was better. The pain from the head was gone, and the -soreness from the throat, leaving only a pleasant, tired feeling which I -rather enjoy. - -“In the other room Mattie and Bell were talking, as it seemed, of me, -for I heard Mattie say: - -“‘I wonder if she really does care about him?’ - -“‘I think she does,’ was Bell’s reply, ‘for I remember how annoyed she -was when your brother teased her by ridiculing his peculiarities. Poor -girl! I half suspect this has something to do with her illness. Mrs. -Felton has confessed having told her what she knew.’ - -“‘She has? When?’ and Mattie seemed surprised. - -“‘Why,’ returned Bell, ‘that night I sat with Dora, Mrs. Felton, you -know, was with me a part of the time, and once when Dora, in her -disturbed sleep, was talking, she moaned about Dr. West and Anna. “Poor -lamb, she’s dwellin’ on the young lady who died in this very room,” -Felton said; and when I inquired what young lady, she told me all she -knew, and more too, I think. Afterwards I asked Mrs. Stryker if she ever -heard of Anna West, and she said, “Oh yes; she died just before we came -here. Everybody was talking about it;” and then she told her story, -which, of course, differed from Mrs. Felton’s about as much as is the -difference in the social position of the two women,—Felton seeing things -from her stand-point, and Mrs. Stryker repeating them from hers. She -said Mrs. West used to give elegant parties, and Anna was always the -star of the company. She was so beautiful and attractive that young men -could not help admiring her, while Richard loved her very much, and -nobody now believes—’ - -“I covered up my head at this point, for I would not listen to any more. -After a little I heard some one coming up the stairs, not quietly, -soberly, as Mattie and Bell had come, but noisily, rapidly, two steps at -a time, trilling a few notes from some opera, and when the music ran -high, absolutely breaking into a clear, decided whistle! I was amazed, -particularly as the next moment Bell Verner said: - -“‘Hush-sh! Miss Freeman’s asleep. You’ll wake her with your boy-ways!’ - -“‘I don’t care!”’ and the whistler evidently cut a pirouette. ‘I’ll try -to wake her, unless you tell me quick who is the handsomest man in town, -the most _distingué_, for I met him just now in the street, and fell in -love at once! Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown, dreamy eyes, and the -whitest teeth! Tell me quick, Bell! You ought to know every marriageable -man between the two poles, for here you’ve been out just as many years -as you are older than I am, to wit, _ten_. Say, who was it?’ - -“‘Jessie, do be quiet. How do I know?’ Bell began, and then I knew the -noisy girl was Bell’s young sister, Jessie, who had just been graduated -in Boston, and had of course come home. - -“She was a wild, rattle-brained creature, I was sure, but her flow of -spirits suited my mood, and for the sole purpose of seeing her I called -to Bell, who, the next moment, was asking anxiously what I wanted. - -“‘I am better,’ I said. ‘Am well; and I want you to open the blinds so I -can see; then all come in where I can hear you talk. Who is that with -the cheery whistle?’ - -“‘_Eureka!_ she thinks my whistle beautiful!’ I heard from the next -room, while Bell replied: - -“‘It’s sister Jessie. She came last night, and has nearly driven us wild -already with her fun and spirits. She stopped for a few days at -Saratoga, and saw your sister. Shall I call her?’ - -“‘Yes,’ I said; and Jessie came at once,—a little fairy, hoydenish -creature, with the sauciest, merriest face, the roundest black eyes, and -a head covered with short, black curls, which shook as she talked, and -kept time with the twinkle of her eyes. - -“She kissed me heartily, and then, perching herself upon the foot of the -bed, told me about Saratoga,—what a little paradise it was at the -Clarendon,—so clean and nice; what a splendid man the proprietor was, -treating his boarders as if they were invited guests; humoring -everybody’s whim, even to muzzling the poor dog who barked at night, -thereby disturbing some nervous invalid,—told me too what a love of a -man she thought Squire Russell. - -“‘Mrs. Russell is your sister,’ she went on, ‘and so I say nothing of -her, _pro_ nor _con_, except that it must be good pious work to live -with her,’ and the curls and the eyes danced together. - -“I could not be angry, and the gypsy rattled on: - -“‘But that Mr. Russell is my _beau ideal_ of husbands. I made him -promise if he ever was a widower, he’d take me for his second wife. -There’s nothing I’d like better, I told him, than to mother his six -children. You ought to have seen my lady then!’ and the queer, little -face put on a look so like Margaret’s that I could not forebear -laughing, knowing, as I did, how shocked my sister must have been. - -“‘“Husband,” she said, “I think it’s wrong to trifle with matters so -sacred!” Whereupon the husband meekly subsided, and fanned her -connubially with the Saratoga paper. Oh, he’s a splendid fellow, but I -used to pity him evenings when I saw him standing over his wife’s chair, -looking so wistfully at the dancers. She wouldn’t let him waltz,—thought -it was very improper, and I was told made several remarks not very -complimentary to my style of tripping the light fantastic toe. She is -rather pretty, and one night when she wore a pale blue silk, with all -her diamonds and point-lace, she was the finest-looking woman in the -room.’ - -“‘She used to be very beautiful,’ I said, feeling that I must defend -her, ‘but she is sadly broken, and no wonder,—six children in twelve -years!’ - -“‘Yes, I know. It’s perfectly dreadful, but if I had forty children, I’d -let my husband waltz and smoke. Oh, I forgot, she don’t let him smoke if -she knows it, and if by chance the poor fellow drew a whiff or two down -in the office, he had to walk round the south-east corner of the -building sixteen times to air himself. There’s the gate,—who’s come?’ -and with this she bounded from the bed and ran to the window to -reconnoitre. - -“‘As I live,’ she exclaimed, drawing back from the window, ‘it’s the -very man I told you about, and he’s coming here.’ - -“‘Don’t be angry with her: she’s a crazy child,’ Bell whispered, and I -had just time to reply that I was not angry, when the peal of the -door-bell was distinctly heard, and Jessie, by leaning over the -bannisters, tried to hear what was said. - -“‘It’s about you,’ and she darted back to my side. ‘He certainly said -Miss Freeman.’ - -“I don’t know that I expected what followed, but my breath came heavily, -and I was not surprised when Sarah, the maid, came up and handed me a -card bearing the name of _Dr. West_. He was in the parlor, and if I -could not go down he wished to see Mrs. Randall. Instantly Mattie and -Bell exchanged glances, while the former said in an aside: - -“‘Can it be the child is so sick they have sent for him?’ - -“‘What child?’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is sick. Is it Robin?’ - -“‘Yes,’ Mattie answered, hurriedly. ‘We did not think best to tell you -when the message came, four days ago. Robin West is very sick, and keeps -asking for the lady who said his mother was in heaven sure. As you could -not go, I went myself, learning by that means many things concerning the -family which I never knew before. I liked Mrs. West very much. But what -shall I tell the doctor for you?’ - -“I felt irritated and annoyed that Mattie and Bell, and so many, should -know and talk about that story, and more than all I was vexed that Bell -should believe I cared for the doctor, whose heart was buried in Anna’s -grave, and I answered pettishly: - -“‘You needn’t tell him anything.’ - -“Bell looked surprised, Jessie whistled, and Mattie laughed, as she -walked downstairs to receive her visitor. - -“‘I have only known you for half an hour, Miss Dora Freeman,’ Jessie -said, saucily, ‘but if _I_ am any judge of the genus female-homo, you -are desperately in love with that man, and are jealous of somebody.’ - -“Bell shot at her a warning glance, which silenced her for a moment, and -in the pause I distinctly caught the tones of Dr. West’s familiar voice, -though I could distinguish nothing he said. He did not stay long, and -the moment his step was heard in the hall Jessie was at her post at the -window, ready to watch him as he went down the walk. I think Bell wanted -to look out, but she was far too proud, and in spite of Jessie’s -entreaties that she would come just for a minute and say if she ever saw -a more perfectly splendid man, she sat where she was and waited for -Mattie, who soon appeared, joining with Jessie in praises of Dr. West. -The most agreeable person she had ever met, she said, and she wondered I -had not told them about him. - -“I was so unamiable that I would not even ask when he came to -Morrisville, nor why he had called; but Jessie asked for me, and so I -learned that he arrived at his mother’s the night previously, and in -compliance with Robin’s repeated request that some one should go for -_the lady_, he had come himself. Robin was better, Mattie said, and if -no new symptoms appeared the doctor would return to Beechwood the next -day. - -“All this while I asked no questions and volunteered no remark, though -in my own mind I resolved that so soon as I was able, I would go to see -Robin West. I suppose I was beginning to look tired, as Bell said they -were worrying me too long, and, after some coaxing and scolding, she -persuaded her sister to leave with her. - -“‘Mind, now,’ Jessie said to me, as she stood with her hat poised on her -short, thick curls, ‘if you are sure you do not like this doctor, and -wish to be rid of him; I’ll take him off your hands, and thank you, too. -I’ve a great mind to try the effect of my charms upon him: shall I? You -see, I am not going to wait, like Bell, till I verge upon the _serious_ -yellow leaf. I am going to be married. _Au revoir!_’ and whistling ‘Hail -to the Chief,’ she bounded down the stairs, three at a time, I verily -believe, for I trembled lest she should break her neck, and felt -relieved when her gay laugh sounded upon the walk. - -“The next thing which I heard was that Dr. West was at Mr. Verner’s, -prescribing for Jessie’s father, who had been taken violently ill.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - JESSIE’S DIARY. - - -“July 24th.—The richest thing has happened; the best joke I ever heard -of; and I give myself great credit for having been the direct cause of -its happening! If there is any one thing which father hates more than -another, it is a homœopathic physician. - -“‘Quacks, humbugs, impositions, loggerheads, ignoramuses!’ - -“These are very mild names compared with what I’ve heard him call them, -declaring he would show the door to the first one who should ever come -round him with their two goblets, two spoons, two little plates for -covers, and one pill dissolved in a hogshead of water, half a drop to be -taken once in six hours! That’s the way he talked, submitting to any -amount of blistering, bleeding, drugging, and torturing, and thinking it -felt nice. But I’ve played him a trick which will do him good for the -remainder of his natural life. - -“When I came home last night from Mr. Randall’s, I found him groaning, -sweating, and almost swearing with the colic, brought on by too much -fruit at dinner, followed by two saucers of cream. He never was in such -pain in his life; he should die, he knew he should; and somebody must go -for the doctor. Of course every servant was out of sight and hearing, -and so I went myself for Dr. Lincoln, who was off in the country miles -away, and would not be home for hours. Here was a dilemma; and as I was -wondering what to do next, I saw that paragon of M.D.’s, Dr. West, -coming down the street. Instantly my decision was made; and looking as -anxious as I could, I accosted him at once, begging him to go and -prescribe for my father, Judge Verner. He looked at me a little -curiously, but acceded to my request, and in less than five minutes I -had ushered him into the room, where father was enacting a round of -_colicky_ gymnastics, and where Bell looked up in wonder, actually -starting to her feet when I introduced _Dr. West_. - -“‘Dr. Lincoln was gone, and I brought this one,’ I whispered to father, -who was in too much pain to notice particularly, and who thought it Dr. -Lincoln’s student. - -“‘I shall need some water, a spoon, and two goblets,’ the doctor said, -and I hastened to execute the orders, watching father as the stirring -process went on, and almost screaming when he swallowed the first -spoonful. - -“‘I’m afraid it ain’t strong enough, doctor. It hasn’t much taste,’ he -said, smacking his lips, as he missed the flavor of Dr. Lincoln’s -bottles. - -“‘We’ll see what effect it has,’ was the doctor’s reply; and in a few -moments down went another drop of the sweetened water; then another, and -another, until the groaning and flouncing ceased, and father lay upon -his pillow as well-behaved a patient as one would wish to see. - -“He was very quiet, and after waiting half an hour the doctor said he -did not think he was needed any longer, and would leave. - -“‘Should the paroxysms return,’ he said to Bell, ‘give him six of these -pills,’ and he placed upon the table a tiny phial, which at once caught -father’s eye and set him to raving like a madman. - -“‘Bell! Jessie!’ he gasped, as the gate closed after the doctor, ‘who -was that chap?—what persuasion, I mean? Was he a rascally—’ - -“He was in too great a rage to say the words, and so I said it for him. - -“‘He was a homœopathist, father. Didn’t he help you quick? You never -groaned a groan after the third swallow.’ - -“‘Third swallow be—no, I won’t swear, but I will say Thunder and Mars!’ -he roared; ‘have I been insulted in my own house? I won’t stand it! I’ll -gag, I’ll heave, I’ll puke, but what I’ll get rid of the stuff! Give -_me_ water for the colic,—_me!_’ - -“‘But if the water answered the purpose, why do you care?’ Bell asked, -and father gave her a look very like, ‘_Et tu Brute_.’ - -“He could not deny that he was better,—that something had helped him; -but it wasn’t sweetened water; no indeed; and I might heave it out of -the window. - -“I took up the goblet to do so, when he yelled: - -“‘Don’t be a fool because you made one of me! Set that glass down and -bring me that phial.’ - -“I obeyed, and he read on the little yellowish paper: ‘For Colic. For an -adult, take six every hour. For children from two to three, according to -age. Prepared by R. West, M.D., Beechwood.’ - -“He read it aloud twice, then asked, ‘Who the —— was _R. West, M.D._, -and how the plague came he there?’ - -“The hurricane was over, and I ventured to explain, asking if he were -not very gentlemanly and pleasant. - -“‘He’s well enough for a _fool_!’ he replied, declaring he should have -been better without the truck; that had nothing to do with it. - -“This morning I missed the little phial, and when I asked where it was, -father told me to mind my business, and then I knew he had it safe in -his vest pocket, a charm against future attacks of colic. How Bell -scolded when we were alone, and how I rolled on the floor and laughed. -Bell is smitten; I can see it in her face and manner. She does nothing -but think of Dr. West, who has returned to Beechwood. Will I ever see -him again? and does Dora Freeman hate or like him, which?” - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST’S DIARY. - - - “BEECHWOOD, July. - -“I did not see Dora after all, and I had thought so much about it, -feeling, I am afraid, more than willing that Robin should be sick, and -so give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving that -little note from Dora, I have frequently dared to build castles of what -might some day be, for something in that message led me to hope that I -am not indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my informal -letter asking the loan of a book would prove it so, so I sit and think -and wonder what the future has in store for me, until my patients are in -danger of being neglected. - -“Poor Robin, I fear he is not long for this world, and when I remember -how perfectly helpless he is, and must always remain, I say to myself: - -“‘It is well that the child should follow the mother, if indeed, as Dora -told him, she is in _heaven sure_.’ - -“Darling Dora, I am glad you told him so. You have no reason to think -otherwise. Does Dora know how much I once loved Anna? I fancy not, and -yet there are those in Morrisville who remember the sad story, but she -is not thrown much in their society. The Randalls and Verners and -Strykers form a circle into which outsiders are not often admitted. I -liked that Mrs. Randall, and so did mother. How familiar the old place -looked to me, and how natural it seemed that I should be there, and Dora -too. Will she ever be the mistress of my home? If so, that home I know -will not be West Lawn, but there is still a cherished hope of one day -redeeming that old homestead of which she talks so much. Then, _Dora_, -brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora, your little feet shall dance again upon -the greensward and your merry laugh awaken the echoes of the olden time. -Dear Dora, I trust she is not very sick, and I wish I could have seen -her. - -“Judge Verner,—by what chance came I in his presence, and that of his -regal daughter Bell? I suspected then I was the victim of a joke, -perpetrated by that saucy-looking, black-eyed elf, whom they called -Jessie, and now I am sure of it, for here this morning comes a letter -from the judge, worthy, I think, to be preserved as a curiosity. - -“‘Mr. West,’ he writes, with the _Mr._ heavily underscored, as if to -make it doubly evident that he ignored the title of Dr. in my case: -‘Enclosed find five dollars for professional services rendered to self -July 22d. If I hadn’t had such a confounded stomach-ache I suppose I -should have marched you out-doors in double-quick time, as that is what -I’ve threatened to do with all kinds of quacks; but I’m glad I didn’t, -as my remembrance of you _is_ that you are a gentleman, even if you have -a soft spot in the brain. Jessie,—that’s my youngest,—insists that your -spoon victuals did me good, and prides herself on having cajoled you -into the house,—but she needn’t tell me; I know better. Bell, -too,—that’s my eldest,—has partially gone over to the enemy, but I’ll -stick to my principles. It’s all a piece of tomfoolery, though if you’ll -never breathe a word of it to Bell, nor Jessie, there is something about -those paltry little pills in that phial that will stop the tallest kind -of a gripe! I’d like to know you better, young man, and so would my -daughters. Come here in the autumn, when the shooting is fine. We have -splendid woods for hunting, if you enjoy it. - - “‘Yours truly, - “‘THOMAS VERNER.’ - -“This is a judge’s letter, and I rather like him for it. He is not to be -convinced in a hurry, but those little pills will do the work. I’d like -to know him better, and his daughters too. There was something -fascinating in that haughty Bell’s manner, while the mischievous Jessie -attracted me at once. I may some time improve the acquaintance commenced -under so very singular circumstances.” - - - - - CHAPTER X. - DORA’S DIARY. - - -“It seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet ’tis only three short -weeks. But in that time so much has happened that I scarcely can realize -it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor left, and but -for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so constantly stirred up, I could -hardly have borne the loneliness. She is so full of life, and she has -made me laugh so much as she described her father’s conversion to -homœopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr. West. - -“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie’s laugh was hushed, -and her merry eyes were dim with tears, as she helped me array a little -crippled form for the grave. Robin is dead! I can write about it now, -can speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought of him -brought a great choking sob, and I could only weep, so fast he grew in -my love during the few days I watched over him. He was worse I heard, -and in spite of Mattie’s assertion that I was not able to endure it, I -went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look of love which -beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his arms around my neck, he -said: - -“‘I knew you’d come, for I asked God would He send you to little Robin, -and He did. You’ll stay, too, won’t you, till Robin’s dead? and you’ll -tell me again of my mother in heaven?’ - -“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a dream I had -that night, in which Anna came to me, her robes all white and pure as -are the robes of the redeemed, a halo of glory round her head, and a -look of love in her eyes as she bent over me and said: - -“‘There’s a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy, and ere many days -his baby hands will sweep its golden strings; but till that time -arrives, he wants you, Dora Freeman,—wants you to lead him down into the -river, across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For Richard’s sake, -you’ll go.’ - -“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke from what seemed -more reality than a dream. - -“‘Not for Richard’s sake,’ I said, ‘but for Anna’s;’ and so next day I -went again to where the little sick boy lay, watching and waiting for -me. - -“‘I don’t call him Papa Richard now,’ he said, when my wrappings were -removed, and I sat down beside him. ‘I told him what you said, that he -was not my father, and he told me, “No, Robin, I am not,” but he -wouldn’t say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in heaven, too?’ - -“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into some other -channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and, vain girl that I was, -laying ingenious snares for ascertaining if Richard had mentioned me -when he was home. - -“‘He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call you so?’ Robin said, -in reply to my direct interrogation as to what Richard had talked about; -and so after that I was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let -another wait upon him. ‘You seem like mother. You’ll stay,’ he kept -repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after me. - -“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little golden harp, and -stayed, while people talked, as people will, wondering what kept me at -that child’s sick-bed, and associating me at last with Richard, for -whose sake they said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip -proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told and retold in a -thousand different forms, until madcap Jessie Verner threatened to box -the first one’s ears who should say Anna West to her again. This she -told me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all that passed -between us on the subject. It seemed to be tacitly understood that -neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself were to speak of the story to me, and -they did not. Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just -what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this point surrounded -myself with so strong a barrier of reserve, that they never tried to -break it down. - -“Jessie had come to Mrs. West’s unsolicited, and it was strange how the -quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once to receive the wild young -creature, while Robin turned to her trustingly, and whispered when she -was gone: - -“‘I don’t mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at most everything, but -she wouldn’t at my poor, twisted toes.’ - -“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush of tears with which -Jessie baptized those twisted toes when first the shrivelled things met -her view; but he was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and -the feet which here had never stepped a step were treading the golden -streets. It was strange that one so young should be so sensitive about -his deformity, but he had been so from the time he first learned that he -was lame, and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would often -ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by guessed that he was -not like them. - -“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body manifests itself -in the expression of the face, but it was not so with him. A more -beautiful face I never saw, and I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping -upon his pillow, wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as -the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father, wherever he -might be. I had said in my heart that I exonerated Richard, but at times -I experienced a feeling which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West -was almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found me with Robin -on my lap, his head nestled upon my bosom, while I sang to him of the -Heavenly City, where his mother waited for him. - -“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the coach stop -before the gate, and a rapid step upon the walk. My voice must have -trembled, for Robin unclosed his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I -hushed him gently, while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation -was carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the doctor started -for the room where I was sitting, but I gave no sign of consciousness -until he was close beside me and I met the glance of his eyes,—a glance -in which for an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest; -the blood surged hotly through my veins; but thoughts of Anna, whom -dying he had kissed, holding her as I had held Robin, froze it back from -my face, which must have turned very white, for after his first words of -greeting, he said to me, ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have -been to mother. She has told me of your kindness; but Dora,’ and his -hand touched my hair lightly, ‘I fear you are overtaxing your strength. -You are very pale to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.’ - -“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling that his hand -slid from my hair, while he began speaking to Robin, who only complained -of weariness. - -“‘I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,’ Robin said, putting out his -thin fingers and playing with the heavy beard of the doctor, who had -knelt beside me the better to see the child. ‘I call you uncle all the -time because Dora wanted me to.’ - -“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson with emotions whose -nature I could not guess. I only knew they hardened me into stone, and I -was glad when at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all -necessity of talking. Richard liked Jessie; her sprightly manner amused -and rested him, I could see, and it made me half angry to hear how -merrily he laughed at her remarks, even when he knew that Robin’s days -were numbered. How I clung to that child, refusing to give him to the -care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the bed, and I felt a kind of -fierce pleasure in holding him, and in knowing that Richard knew what I -was doing for Anna’s child. - -“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and the August moon cast -its beams across the floor, even to where I sat singing the low lullaby. -And out upon the piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together, -until the sick boy whispered moaningly, ‘It’s very cold and dark in -here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the candles now.’ - -“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow, whose import I could -not mistake, and half bitterly, half reproachfully, I exclaimed: - -“‘Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin needs you.’ - -“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie; her eyes filling -with tears when she, too, saw and recognized the shadow which had -alarmed me. Robin was dying! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too, -and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard stretched out -to him. - -“‘It’s nicer here,’ he said, and there was a world of love in the soft -blue eyes as he nestled closer to me. - -‘I guess I’m dying. It’s all so dark and queer. Is it very far to -heaven, and will I lose the way?’ - -“‘No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,’ Richard answered, now -pressing so close to Robin that his shoulder touched mine, and I felt -his breath upon my hair. - -“‘And I won’t be a cripple any more? I’ll walk in heaven, and mother’s -there sure?’ was the next remark, to which there came no response, -except a moan from Mrs. West, until I answered: - -“‘Yes, _sure, Robin, sure_.’ - -“‘I’ll tell her how good you was, and how much I loved you, too. What -shall I say for you, Grandma West? What word shall I carry mother?’ - -“Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon the pillow, where -Robin’s had lain so long, and when he thus addressed her, she answered: - -“‘Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till my hair all -turned white, and tell her how if in thought I ever wronged her, I am so -sorry now.’ - -“‘I’ll tell her,’ Robin whispered; ‘and you, Uncle Richard, what for -you?’ - -“The doctor’s frame shook, and his face was white as ashes as he was -thus appealed to for a message to the dead, but he did not speak until -Robin twice repeated, ‘And what for you?’ - -“Then with a sob, he said: - -“‘Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.’ - -“‘Why! didn’t you love my mother?’ the dying boy asked, the look of -surprise for a moment mastering the look of death upon his face. - -“‘Yes, he did,’ I said. ‘He loved her better than his life. He loves her -still. Tell her so.’ - -“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression of his there -was something which subdued all my pride, and brought a rain of tears -upon my face. I did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did -Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick and faint, while -that great struggle went on between death and the little life whose lamp -had burned so feebly. - -“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard was praying -softly, and that his words were soothing to the sufferer, who suddenly -exclaimed: - -“‘I see my mother! She’s like the picture in the frame! She’s waiting -for me over there where the banks are so green! She is in heaven sure; -but I don’t see my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is my -father?’ - -“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay quietly upon his -couch, his golden curls all smooth and shining, just as Jessie had made -them, his blue eyes closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his -poor, crippled feet hidden from curious sight. - -“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I fancied did Dr. -West. All her levity was gone for the time, and in its place there came -a tender, motherly manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its -careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very child in the hands of -this girl of eighteen, while Richard, too, was brought within her -influence. He was weary with his long ride of a hundred and thirty -miles, but no one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered -everything, and when I would have worried Mrs. West with questions as to -where Robin’s clothes were kept, she hushed me gently, going about the -house in quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if she had -been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger. It was Jessie who made -Richard lie upon the lounge in the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who -arranged his pillows for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl, -and then brought him tea and toast she herself had made, and which he so -much needed after his wearisome ride. I did not marvel that he followed -her movements with eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an -ordinary interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the -dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my heart which I -suppose was jealousy, though I did not so define it, and I rather -enjoyed thinking that Anna, and Robin, and myself, were in some way -wronged by this new interest of Richard’s. I had cared for Robin to the -last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was not needed -longer, I thought, and so next morning I went home, saying to Mrs. West -and Richard, when they asked if I would soon be back: - -“‘I shall attend the funeral, of course. There is no necessity for -coming before. Jessie will do everything.’ - -“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did Richard, but he went -with me to the gate, opening it for me, and then, standing a moment as -if there was something he would say, ‘You do look tired, _Dora_,—more so -than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you have gone through. -I think I must prescribe,’ and he took my hand to feel the quickened -pulse. ‘You are feverish,’ he continued. ‘You ought to rest, but we -shall miss you so much. It’s a comfort to know you are here.’ - -“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started, but I dashed -them away, and taking the offered medicine, answered back, ‘I leave to -Jessie the task of comforter. She will do better than I.’ - -“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the street, never looking -back until the corner was reached, when, glancing over my shoulder, I -saw the doctor still standing where I had left him, leaning upon the -gate. I never remember a time when I was so childish, or more unhappy, -than I was that day and the following, which last was the day of Robin’s -funeral. There was no parade, no display,—only a few friends and -neighbors, with Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do, -while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there as director, -his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard to the grave where they -buried Robin. - -“There was something in the young man which he liked, he said, even if -he was a fool, and so he had offered no objections to Jessie’s -proceedings, and was himself doing what he could for the family. There -was room in the carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge -whispered to me: - -“‘That chap they call _Doctor_ wants you to go with them. He says, next -to his mother, the child loved you the best.’ - -“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking back into the -corner I answered no, so decidedly that the judge hastened away, -repeating his ill success to Richard, who had risen, and with his mother -on his arm was advancing to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and -reaching his hand said gently, ‘_Dora_, come with us; for Robin’s sake.’ - -“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking his other arm, -and so out into the yard, past the groups of people who speculated -curiously as to why Miss Freeman should go with the chief mourners. -Behind us came Mr. Randall’s carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and -Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather awkward position. - -“‘Mother,’ Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery, ‘it is seven -years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?’ - -“‘Yes,’ she answered sadly, while I remembered that seven years ago was -also to have been his bridal. - -“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled road, past the -willow and the cedar, past the box, the pine, and fir, to where Anna lay -sleeping? Did he look back with anguish and regret to that other day, -when, with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was falling now, -he listened to the solemn words, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ and -heard the cold earth rattle down upon the coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was -sure, and this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his lips -quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were driven from the yard, -leaving Anna and Robin there alone. - -“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could not remain quietly -in any place, but wandered uneasily about until near nightfall, when I -stole out unobserved and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna -and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed their -graves there was a rude, time-worn seat, placed upon the grass-plat -years ago, it would seem, from the names and dates carved upon it. Here -I sat down, and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all that -had transpired since I had come to Morrisville. Had I known all I was to -see and hear, would I have wished to come? I asked myself; but could -find no satisfactory answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his -memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was glad I had heard -of Anna ere I learned to think too much of Richard. Then thoughts of -Jessie arose, and I said aloud, ‘Can he ever forget Anna, who died in -his arms?’ - -“‘No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I mourn for her -always, as I mourned when we first laid her here, and I sat nearly all -the night just where you are sitting, watching the stars as they held -their first vigil over Anna’s grave, and almost impiously questioning -the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.’ - -“I knew it was Richard’s voice speaking to me, and I gave a little start -of surprise, but did not lose a word which he had spoken. - -“‘I half believed I should find you here,’ he said, sitting down beside -me, and drawing a little more about my neck the shawl which had fallen -off. ‘Something told me I should find you, and so I came quite as much -to join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the -familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here, where you have -done me and mine so much good, you will surely let me use a name which -mother and Robin adopted.’ - -“I bowed, and he went on. - -“‘You do not know how glad I am that you were with us when Robin died, -or how it lessens the smart to have you sitting with me in sight of -Robin’s grave.’ - -“‘And Anna’s?’ I said, looking at him for the first time. - -“‘Yes, Anna’s,’ he continued in the same kind tone; ‘and it is of her I -would tell you, Dora,’ and he spoke hurriedly now. ‘How much do you know -of Anna, and who told you?’ - -“‘Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,’ I answered, my voice -full of tears, which I could not repress. - -“‘Felton!’ he repeated in dismay. ‘Unless her reputation for veracity -has improved, I would not vouch for the truth of what she might say, -though she liked Anna. Shall I tell you her history, Dora?’ - -“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but I must hear the -story. I should never be happy till I had, and I answered eagerly: - -“‘Yes, tell me of Anna.’” - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - RICHARD’S STORY. - - -“He was very white, and his voice trembled, while his eyes had in them -the far-off look I had once or twice observed before. - -“‘There are some things in our family history,’ he began, ‘which I shall -omit, as they have nothing in particular to do with Anna and myself. For -instance, you know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in -different circumstances from what mother is living in now, and that we -suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one, and living in a -cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I need not say, except that Anna -was in no way connected with it. - -“‘She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when only six years old. -I was twelve, as was my twin-brother Robert. He went from us years ago, -and has never been heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the -uncertainty is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone. But I was -telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our hearts, my brother and I -quarrelling for the honor of drawing her to school. This was in her -childhood, but as she grew older Robert professed to care less for her -than I. “She was a doll-baby,” he said; “a compound of red and white, -and yellow curls.” He would not even acknowledge that she was beautiful, -but said she could not compare with the maidens of New York, where he -went to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty. His coldness -troubled me at first, but when I came to think of her as something -dearer than a sister, I was glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville, -for he was far finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and -nineteen out of twenty would have given him the preference. But he did -not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen I asked her to be my wife. -It was here, too, Dora, on this very bench, where you are sitting with -me, and it was eleven years ago this very day. - -“‘Something most always happens to me on this day—something which leaves -its impress on my mind. One year ago we went to that picnic by the lake. -Do you remember it, Dora?’ - -“‘Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully. ‘Yes, but go on with -Anna.’ - -“He was silent a moment, and then continued: - -“‘We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little dreaming how -near we were to the spot of earth where she would ere long be lying. I -have told you that I asked her to be my wife, but I have not told you -how much I loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she was worthy -of my love. Whatever happened afterward she was worthy then. You have -seen her picture. It hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever -give a correct idea of what that face was when lighted up with life, and -health, and love. I have never seen a face one half as beautiful as -Anna’s. She knew that she was beautiful, but it did not make her vain, -for she knew that God had given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and -she tried to keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her -heart pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she had unless -it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and was too easily swayed by -those in whom she had confidence. But in all essential points she was -right, serving God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to -His service.’ - -“‘Then why,’ I exclaimed, ‘when Robin asked if she was in heaven sure, -why did you hesitate to tell him yes?’ - -“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied: - -“‘I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her to be my wife. We -read of angels falling,—then why not a mortal man? though Heaven knows -that I cannot fully believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I -believed it. Mother’s religious creed and mine differ in one point, -although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child of God is a child -forever, just as no act of mine can make me cease to be my mother’s son. -But to go on. I loved her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while -for a moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon my arm and -weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she was too young to know her -own mind yet; that she loved me, and always had,—like a brother at -first, but latterly in a different way, and if I would not require her -to be my wife at once, and would promise to release her should she ever -come to think that she could not be mine, she would answer yes. And so -we were engaged. - -“‘After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so full of -anticipation was my whole being. I had been graduated the previous year, -and I was then a student in Dr. Lincoln’s office, but I boarded at home, -and saw Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left her in -the morning until I returned late in the afternoon to our fashionable -dinner, for we observed such matters then. I shut my eyes at times, and -those days come back again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look -when she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish face, -and her white robes giving her the look of an angel. I loved her too -much. I almost placed her before Him who has declared He will have no -idols there, and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married on -her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous to that time I -had not the shadow of a suspicion that Anna’s love was not wholly my -own. I well remember the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came -into my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder, parted my hair with -the other, as she was wont to do. - -“‘“Richard,” she began, “isn’t it just as wicked to act a lie as it is -to tell one?” - -“‘“I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued: - -“‘“Then you won’t be angry when I tell you what I must. I was very young -when I promised to be your wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know -what I was doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more like my -brother; and, Richard, don’t turn so white and tremble so,—I shall marry -you if you wish it; but please don’t, oh! don’t—” - -“‘She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees before me, my Anna, my -promised wife. I had thought her low-spirited for some days, but had no -thought of this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not, however, -see her so disturbed, when I had the power to relieve her, and after -talking with her calmly, dispassionately, I released her from the -engagement and she was free. I did not even hint at the possibility of -her learning to love me in time, because I fancied she would be more apt -to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope alone kept my heart from -breaking during the wretched weeks which followed, and in which Anna’s -health seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A change of air -was proposed, and she was sent to Boston, where my mother has relatives. -It was on the eve of the new year when she came back to us, with a -white, scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual, making -it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous and frightened. It -was as if some great terror were continually haunting her, or some -mighty secret, which it was death to divulge and worse than death to -cover up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require of her, and -so I said to her one day that if the thing preying upon her mind was a -dread lest I should seek to make her my wife, she might put that aside, -as I should not annoy her in that way. - -“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a look so -full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could not meet -it. - -“‘“O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could not touch her, “you -don’t know how wretched I am. It almost seems as if God had forgotten -that I did try to serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin? Is -it to _deceive_?” - -“‘I thought she referred to her relations with me, and I tried to soothe -her agitation, telling her she had not deceived me; that she had told me -frankly how she felt; that she was wholly truthful and blameless. - -“‘With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she exclaimed: - -“‘“No, no, you kill me! Don’t talk so! I am not blameless; but, oh! I -don’t know what to do! Tell me, Richard, tell me, which is worse, to -deceive, or break a solemn vow?” - -“‘I had no idea what she meant, and without directly answering her -questions I tried to quiet her, but it was a useless task. She only -wrung her hands and sobbed more passionately, saying God had cast her -off, and she was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her grief -for many days, and then she settled down into a stony calm, more -terrible than her stormy mood had been, because it was more hopeless. -She did not talk to us now except to answer questions in monosyllables, -and would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking afar off as -if in quest of some one who never came. - -“We thought when she came home that we had as much as we could bear, for -a domestic calamity had overtaken us, involving both ruin and disgrace, -unless it were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we forgot the -other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the rod. At last the asylum -was recommended, and the first of March we carried her there, taking -every precaution that her treatment should be the kindest and most -considerate.” - -“‘How long ago was that?’ I asked, starting suddenly, as a memory of the -past swept over me. - -“‘Seven years,’ he replied, and I continued: - -“‘Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for seven years this -summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a schoolmate in Utica, and one day we -went from curiosity to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like -Anna’s in the portrait. Oh yes,’ and I started again, ‘I remember now a -young girl with the most beautiful golden hair, but her face was resting -on the window-sill, and she would neither look up nor answer my -questions,—that was Anna,’ and in my excitement I could scarcely control -myself to listen, while Richard continued: - -“‘It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not answer any one. - -“‘Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after the first time she -never spoke to us; but tried to hide away where we could not see her. -She gave them no trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the -window, where she sat the live-long day, looking westward, just as she -did at home. She had written one letter, they said, and when we asked to -whom, the matron could only remember that she believed it was to -California, adding that the attendant who then took the letters to the -office had sickened since and died. It was to some imaginary person, no -doubt, she said, and so that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I -could not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said -abruptly: - -“‘“Anna, what correspondent have you in California?” - -“‘Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell at my feet -senseless. This was a mystery upon which I dwelt day and night, finding -no solution whatever to it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible -tragedy drew to a close. - -“‘Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and when she returned -her hair was almost as white as you now see it, while her whole -appearance was indicative of some great, crushing sorrow which had -fallen suddenly upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,—had -fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had kissed it abjectly, -crying piteously, “Home, mother; take poor Anna home; let her die -there.” - -“‘It was the first time she had spoken to us in months, and we could not -refuse. So she came,—the seventh day of August,—travelling by railroad -to the station, and coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her -last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at our gate, -carrying her into the house—and upstairs to her old room, which had been -made ready for her. As I laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms -tightly round my neck, and whispered, “God has forgiven me, Richard, -will you?” - -“‘I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who needed my services -more than Anna, and who lay all that evening on the lounge as white and -rigid as stone. The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope -whispered that she was getting better. The scared, wild look was gone, -and a bright, beautiful color burned upon her cheeks. Her hair, which -had been cut, was growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled -in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little, too, asking if we -had ever heard from Robert, and bidding me tell him, when he came back, -that she spoke kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth. The -next day was her birthday, the one fixed upon for our bridal. I do not -know if she remembered it, but I thought of nothing else as the warm, -still hours glided by, and to myself I said it may be some other day. -Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little dreamed of the -scathing blow in store for me; the frightful storm which was to rage so -fiercely round me, and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr. -Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private consultations with -my mother, and looking, when he came from them, stern, perplexed, -mysterious, and sorry. - -“‘Dora, you know what all this portended, but you do not know, neither -can you begin to guess, how heavy,—how full of agony was the blow which -awaited me, when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I had -been for several hours. “Anna was dying.” This was the message which -greeted me in the hall, and like lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting -on the upper landing with my mother, who had grown old twenty years -since morning. - -“‘“Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it? have they told you? do -you know?” - -“‘“Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let me go,” and I tore -away from the hands which would have held me back until I was to some -extent prepared. - -“‘I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed door I caught a -glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and her hand was beckoning. I was -half-way across the room, when a sound met my ear which took all -consciousness away, and for the next three hours I was insensible to -pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the blow had stunned me so, I -neither felt nor realized as I did afterwards. I went straight to Anna, -for she was asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as from a -polluted thing. Through all the horror she had never spoken a word, or -made the slightest sound, and this suppression of feeling was hastening -her end. Nothing but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed her -lips since, and when I went to her she could only whisper faintly, -“Forgive me, Richard. It’s all right, but I promised not to tell. It’s -right, it’s right.” Then she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my -head on your arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of -forgiveness.” - -“‘Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex more harshly than we -do, but you would not have had me refuse that dying request?’ - -“‘I should hate you if you had,’ I sobbed, while he continued: - -“‘Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a stone, but I did -not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held her on my bosom; I pushed away -the clustering curls; I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness -and assuring me all was right. I forgave her then and there as I hoped -to be forgiven; I said I would care for her baby; I received her last -injunction; I kept her in my arms until the last fleeting breath went -out, and when I laid her back upon the pillow she was dead! - -“‘Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her dying, threw over the -past a veil of charity, which only a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones -ever tried to rend. There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and -surmise, and something suspicious thrown upon me, the more readily as -people generally did not know that our engagement had been broken; but I -outlived it all, and when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a -sick-bed, and went forth among people again, they gave me only sympathy -and friendly words, never mentioning either Anna or Robin in my -presence. - -“‘During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the practice of -medicine underwent a change, and greatly to the horror of good old Dr. -Lincoln, with whom I studied, I became a homœopathist. This furnished me -with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to investigate that -mode of treatment, and gain every possible information from physicians -whom I knew to be intelligent and thorough. I went first to New York, -and after a few months commenced my new practice in Boston; thence, as -you know, I went to Beechwood. Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to -go with me, but she said: - -“‘“I would rather stay here, where people know all about it. I could not -bear to be questioned concerning Robin.” - -“‘Women are different from men; it takes them longer to rise above -anything like disgrace, and mother has never been what she was before -Anna’s death. She came in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune -added to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her health is -failing rapidly, and a change of place is necessary. For a long time -past I have had it in my mind to sell the cottage and take mother to -Beechwood. A friend of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw -him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be drawn which will -deprive us of our home.’ - -“‘And your mother!’ I exclaimed, ‘will she go to Beechwood?’ - -“‘Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I am going with mother -to California as soon as I can arrange my affairs at home. I may not -return for a long time, certainly not for a year.’ - -“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as he told me this, -while to me the world seemed changed, and I felt how desolate his going -would leave me. Still I made no comment, and after a moment he -continued: - -“‘And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most important of all. -Men do not often lay bare their secrets except to one they love! It has -cost me a great effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but -I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart I would offer -you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora, only a scar; believe me, only -a scar. It does not quicken now one pulse the faster when I remember -Anna, who was to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were -she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I know you now, I -should give you the preference. You are not as beautiful as Anna, but -you are better suited to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of -my maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you began. I was -interested in you from the first. I have watched and pitied you these -four years, wishing often that I could lighten the load you bore so -uncomplainingly, and when you came away this time, life was so dreary -and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether Dora hears of Anna or -not, I’ll tell her when she returns, and ask her to be my wife.” At -first I was a very coward in the matter, and cautioned mother against -revealing anything, but afterward thought differently. If you are to be -mine, there should be no concealments of that nature, and so I have told -you all, giving you leave to repeat it if you please. There is one -person whom I would particularly like to know it, and that is Jessie -Verner.’ - -“The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it roused the demon of -jealousy, and when he continued: - -“‘Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a right to think of and -love you during the time I am absent?’ - -“I answered pettishly: - -“‘If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with Jessie? You seem to -admire her very much.’ - -“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he was leaning against -the iron fence, where he could look me directly in the face, and where -I, too, could see him. As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression -flitted over his features, succeeded by one more serious as he replied: - -“‘I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I wished to win her, but -now that I am at the confessional, I will say that next to yourself -Jessie Verner attracts and pleases me more than any one with whom I have -met since Anna died. There is about her a life and sparkle which would -put to rout a whole regiment of blues, while her great kindness to -mother and Robin show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have -seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I never met you, -Dora, I might have turned to Jessie. Surely this should not make you -jealous.’ - -“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been crazy; certainly I -was in a most perverse, unreasonable mood, and I answered: - -“‘I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration for Jessie, -and if on so short an acquaintance you like her _almost_ as well as you -do me, whom you have known for years, it would not take long for you to -like her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you know your -mind.’ - -“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move away quickly, saying: - -“‘It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either love me or you do -not. I cannot give you up willingly. You are tired, weak, excited, and -you need not answer me now, though I hoped for something different. I -shall think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone, and -possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall repeat the question -of to-day, and ask you again to be my wife.’ - -“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his manner awed me -into silence. The sun had already set, and the night dews beginning to -fall. He was the first to notice it, and with tender care he drew my -shawl a second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in his, led me -away from Anna’s grave out into the streets, where more than one turned -to look inquiringly after us, whispering their surmise that we were -really engaged. - -“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and Mattie invited him -to tea, with Judge Verner’s family and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew -he would, but the judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of -homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he was going, when -he held my hand in his own and looked into my eyes so kindly that I -could scarcely keep back the tears which would have told him that I -loved him now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had prevented -Bell from coming, and as the judge was called away on business, the -doctor walked home with Jessie, while I watched them as far as I could -see, feeling myself grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon -his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a child. - -“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I tried one day to tell -her, but she knew it already from Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from -all blame. She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her -greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said that next to me -he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me continually, and makes me very -unamiable.” - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - THE SHADOW OF DEATH. - - - _Telegram to Dora Freeman, Morrisville._ - - - “‘SARATOGA, August 25th. - -“‘Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly live. - - “‘JOHN RUSSELL.’ - - -This is the telegram which I received this morning, and to-morrow I am -going to poor Margaret. God grant she may not be dead! Dear sister, what -would I not give if I had never written those dreadful things of her in -my journal. Poor Margaret! her married life has not been very happy with -all those children born so fast, and if she lives how much I will love -her to make amends for the past. My trunks are packed and standing in -the hall, and I am looking, for the last time it may be, on the woods -and hills of Morrisville, where the moonlight is falling so softly. I -can see a little of the cemetery in the distance, and I know where -Anna’s grave is so well. I have been there but once since that day, and -then I found Jessie with Mrs. West planting flowers over Robin. Mrs. -West loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the doctor -said; but she does shock me with her boyish, thoughtless manners, -actually whistling _John Brown_ as she dug in the yellow dirt. Jessie is -a queer compound. She and her father and Bell are going on with me to -Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he would cure Margaret. I -have been half tempted to telegraph, but finally concluded that brother -John would do so if desirable. Poor John! what will he do if he is left -alone? and does Jessie remember the foolish thing she said about his -second wife? I trust not, for that would be terrible, and Margaret not -yet dead. - - - “CLARENDON HOTEL, SARATOGA. } - _August_ 30th. } - -“My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to some one, and so I -come to you, my journal, to pour out my grief. Margaret is dead; and all -around, the gay world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the -same as if in No.—there were no rigid form, no pale Margaret gone -forever,—no wretched husband weeping over her,—no motherless little -children left alone so early. - -“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I stepped from the car into -the noisy, jostling crowd which Judge Verner pushed hither and thither -in his frantic efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How -sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng upon the -sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove along the streets, and -how anxiously I looked up at all the upper windows as we stopped before -the Clarendon, saying to myself, ‘Is this Margaret’s room, or that?’ - -“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and remembering how -curiously new-comers are inspected, I drew my veil before my face and -was following Judge Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Perfectly -splendid!’ and the next moment my hand was grasped by Dr. West. He was -waiting for us, he said; he expected us on that train, and was staying -downstairs to meet us. - -“‘And Margaret?’ I asked, clinging to his arm, and throwing off my veil -so I could see his face. - -“‘Your sister is very sick,’ he replied, ‘but your coming will do her -good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived yesterday, starting as soon as -I received your brother’s telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and -nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer to have him -remain at home, was of the least avail to keep him from coming with me. - -“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room for the keys -to our apartments. - -“‘It is very crowded here,’ he said, ‘but by a little engineering I -believe you are all comfortably provided for. Your room especially,’ and -he nodded to me, ‘is the most desirable in the building.’ - -“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going himself into a -little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous Richard, you are a great -comfort to me these dreadful days. As he had said, my own room was every -way desirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious -was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come, and was asking -continually for me. How sadly she was changed from the Margaret who -stood upon the piazza and said good-by one morning last June. The long -curls were all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so -unnaturally bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I liked her -face better than ever before. There was less of self stamped upon it, -and more of kindly interest in others. - -“‘Dora, darling sister,’ was all she said, as she wound her arms about -my neck, but never since my childhood had she called me by so endearing -a title, and I felt springing up in my heart a love mightier than any I -had ever felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the harsh -things written against my dying sister. - -“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but that soon, very -soon, she would be gone, for there was upon her face the same pinched -look I had seen on father and Robin just before the great destroyer -came. - -“‘Dora,’ she whispered at last, ‘I am so glad you are here. I was afraid -I might never see you again, and I wanted so much to tell you how sorry -I am for the past. I did not make your home with me as happy as I might. -Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much. He says I never did, -but I know better. I’ve thought it all over, lying here, and I know you -cannot be so sorry to have me die as I should if it were you.’ - -“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been happy with her,—but -she would not listen, and talked on, telling me next of the little life -which had looked for half an hour upon this world, and then floated away -to the next. - -“‘I called it Dora for you,’ she said, ‘for something told me that I -should die, and I thought you might love baby better if she bore your -name. But I am glad she died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you -will be my children’s mother,—you will care for them.’ - -“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided us, but I answered, -‘Yes, I will care for the children;’ and then, to stop her talking, I -was thinking of leaving her, when Jessie’s voice was heard in the hall, -speaking to the chamber-maid. - -“‘Who is that?’ Margaret asked, her old expression coming back and -settling down into a hard, unpleasant expression, when I replied: - -“‘That’s Jessie Verner. The family came with me, or rather I came with -them. You know her; she was here a few weeks since.’ - -“‘The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she _whistles_, and romps with the dog, -and talks to the gentlemen, and goes down the sidewalk _hip-pi-ti-hop_, -and up the stairs two at a time; and _joked_ with John about being his -second wife right before me! Actually, Dora, right before _me_!’ and -Margaret’s voice was highly indicative of her horror at this last-named -sin of Jessie’s. - -“‘It was better to joke before you than when you were absent. Jessie is -at least frank and open-hearted,’ I said, but Margaret would not hear a -word in her favor, so deeply prejudiced had she become against the young -girl, who half an hour later inquired for her with much concern, and -asked if she might see her. - -“‘I did not know,’ I said, ‘I’d ask.’ - -“‘Never, Dora, never!’ and Margaret’s lips shut firmly. ‘That terrible -girl see me! No, indeed!’ and in this she persisted to the last, Dr. -West telling Jessie that he did not think it best for her to call on -Mrs. Russell, as it might disturb her. - -“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top in the -drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and winning a host of male -admirers by her frankness and originality. Next morning I counted upon -her table as many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me -carry Margaret, with her compliments. - -“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been the previous night, -but her eyes lighted up with a gleam of pleasure when I appeared with -the flowers, and she involuntarily raised her hand to take them. - -“‘Miss Jessie sent them,’ I said, and instantly they dropped from -Margaret’s grasp, while she exclaimed: - -“‘That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight. They make me sick. I -can’t endure it!’ - -“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children’s room, and -then went back to Margaret, who kept me by her the live-long day, -talking of the years gone by, of our dead parents, and finally of the -rapidly coming time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke of -Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me messages of love, -with sundry injunctions to mind whatever I might tell them. Remembering -Johnnie’s letter, in which he had expressed so much contrition for the -saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told her of his -grief and his desire that I should do so. Margaret was beautiful then, -with the great mother-love shining out upon her face, as with quivering -lip she bade me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the past, -and only thought of him as her eldest-born and pride. - -“‘And, Dora, when I’m dead, cut off some of my curls, and give the -longest, the brightest to Johnnie.’ - -“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions until my -brain was in a whirl, so much seemed depending upon me. - -“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother John, doing -everything so clumsily and yet so kindly, that Margaret did hot send him -from her until the day was closing. Then as I came back to her after a -short absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to the -Congress Spring, she said to him softly: - -“‘Now leave me with Dora.’ - -“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush upon his cheek as -he closed the door upon us. All thought of that, however, was forgotten -in Margaret’s question: - -“‘Dora, are you engaged?’ - -“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from the window I saw Dr. -West leaning against a tree, and talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell -upon the piazza. I thought she referred to him, and I answered her no, -wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her. - -“‘I am glad,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘When I heard he was at -his sister’s in Morrisville, I thought it might end in an engagement, -particularly as he admired you so much when he visited us last summer.’ - -“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed, and that no -suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever crossed her mind, and so I -listened, while she continued: - -“‘I told you last night that you must be my children’s mother, and you -promised that you would. Tell me so again, Dora. Say that no one else -shall come between you, and if, in after years, children of your own -shall climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still for -your dead sister’s sake. Promise, Dora.’ - -“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought, the reality of -which would prove a living death, and in that interval I felt all the -sickening anguish which would surely come upon me were I to take her -place in everything. But she did _not_ mean that. She could not doom me -to such a fate, and so when she said to me again faintly, oh! so -faintly, while the perspiration stood on her white lips, and her cold -hand clasped mine pleadingly, ‘Promise, Dora, to be my children’s -mother.’ - -“I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for and be to them a mother.’ - -“‘You make me so happy,’ she replied; ‘for, Dora,’ and her dim eyes -flashed indignantly, ‘you may say it was all in a jest, but I know that -dreadful _whistling_ girl meant more than half she said. She fancied -John, and sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise out of -my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in my carriage, sporting -my diamonds, and using my dresses, the whistling hoyden!’ - -“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret’s dead body for the merry -laugh I could not repress at the mere idea of her being jealous of -Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen years of age, while brother John -was almost forty. My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going -at her request for John, who, when next we met alone, stroked my hair -kindly, saying to me: - -“‘You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy about the children.’ - -“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through every nerve, -and hurrying on to the farther end of the long hall, I sat down upon the -floor and wept bitterly as I thought, ‘What if Margaret did mean that I -should some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do so?’ - -“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices, among which I -recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr. West, while there stole over -me a mad desire to fly to him at once, to throw myself into his arms and -ask him to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the white-faced -sister going so fast from our midst. And while I sat there crouching -upon the floor, Jessie came tripping down the hall, her bright face all -aglow with excitement, but changing its expression when she saw and -recognized me. - -“‘Poor Dora!’ she whispered, kneeling beside me and pressing her warm -cheek against my own; ‘I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to -lose one’s sister. Why, only this afternoon, when I was talking and -laughing with those young men downstairs, whom I can’t endure, only I -like to have them after me, I was thinking of you, and the tears came -into my eyes as I tried to fancy how I should feel if Bell were dying -here. Death seems more terrible, don’t it, when it comes to such a place -as this, where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and fashion? I -have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked to me so Christian-like. Oh! -I wish I was as good as Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie -where your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the night, -leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you think?’ - -“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking sob, as I gazed up -into the clear evening sky, where the myriads of stars were shining, and -thought of the father and mother already gone, wondering if we should -one day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time we sat -there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not thought it possible -for her to talk. There was more to her even than to Bell I began to -realize, wishing Margaret might live to have her prejudice removed. But -that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger was on his way, -stealing noiselessly into the crowded house and gliding past the gay -throng, each one of which would some day be sent for thus. Up the -winding stair he went and through the upper halls until Margaret’s room -was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the first to detect his -presence, knowing he was there by the peculiar shadow cast by his dark -wing upon the ghastly face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse; -and Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the children. - -“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the glittering stars, -when a step came hurriedly towards us, and Dr. West’s voice said to me, -pityingly: - -“‘Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she is dying.’ - -“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared to meet it; but -now when it came it was a sudden blow, and as I rose to my feet I -uttered a moaning cry, which made the doctor lay his hand on my head, -while, unmindful of Jessie’s presence, he passed one arm round my waist, -and so led me on to where the husband and the children wept around the -dying wife and mother. The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below, -and strain after strain of the stirring music came in through the open -windows, making us shudder and grow faint, for standing there, with -death in our midst, the song and the dance were sadly out of place. For -a moment I missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard how a -few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to stop the revellers, who -silently dispersed, some to the other hotels, where there was no -dying-bed, some to the cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked -together of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jessie had -done, how much more terrible was death at such a place as this, than -when it came into the quiet bedchamber of home. And the great hotel was -silent at last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily on -a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching the pervading -spirit, and speaking only in whispers as they kept on with their labor. -And up in Margaret’s room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life -going out slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were gone -from the many windows, and the _nuns_ in the convent across the street -had ceased to tell their beads ere the chamber-maid in our hall leaned -over the bannisters, and whispered to a chamber-maid below, ‘The lady is -dead.’ - -“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to _me_, ringing in my -ears for hours after the stiffening limbs were straightened, and the -covering laid over the still, white face of her who said them. - -“‘Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to your dead sister.’ - -“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I said to myself, hugging -little Daisy in my arms, and soothing her back to the sleep which had -been broken that her mother might kiss her once more. And while I cared -for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she had for Robin. Jessie -was a blessing to us then, and we could not well have done without her. -Bell, though ten years older, was helpless as a child, while her young -sister ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved husband sobbing -so long by the side of his lost wife. In the gray dawn of the morning, -as I passed the room, I saw her standing by him, and knew she was -comforting him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he had -been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if from the dead there -came no sign of disapprobation; but no, the wife was lying there so -still, while Jessie comforted the husband. - - * * * * * - -“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen hours since she -died, and to-morrow we shall go with her back to the home she left a few -weeks since, and whither a telegram has preceded us telling them of our -loss. Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it best, -neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind, and visit me in the -winter with her sister. I shall need her then so much, for the world -will be doubly lonely,—Margaret gone, and the California sun shining -down on Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to -confess it here on paper, while more than once I have wished so much to -tell it to him,—wished he would ask me again what he did by Anna’s -grave, and I would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would say to -him: - -“‘Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret’s children are a few years -older, and then I will be yours, caring still for the little ones as I -promised I would.’ - -“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie and Bell far more than -he does with me. He is going with us to Beechwood, and then in a few -weeks’ time he too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would -but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of one who was to be -my husband, that terrible something would not haunt me as it does, -neither should I ask myself so constantly: - -“‘Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a mother I should care -for her children?’” - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - AT BEECHWOOD. - - - _The Author’s Story._ - -The great house at Beechwood was closed, and the first September -sunshine which lay so warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming -flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and curtained windows -of what had been Margaret Russell’s home, and whither they were bringing -her lifeless form. During the past week there had been hot, passionate -tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish prayers made -that God would spare the sick mother till her broken-hearted boy could -tell how sorry he was for the angry words spoken to her, and for the -many acts of disobedience which came thronging around him like so many -accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie’s heart was almost crushed when he heard -that his mother must die, and calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them -kneel with him, and ask that God would give her back to them alive. And -so with concern for Johnnie on their baby faces, rather than concern for -their mother, the two little boys prayed that “God would make mamma -well, and not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.” - -This was Ben’s idea, and it brought a world of comfort, making him ask -Johnnie “if it wouldn’t be nicer after all to have Auntie than mamma.” - -“Perhaps it would, if I hadn’t been so _sassy_ to her that morning, -twitting her about not caring for us like Auntie, and telling her to -_dry up_. Oh, oh!” and the conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in -his first real sorrow. - -To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought fraught, as he hoped, -with comfort to his brother, and pursing up his little mouth, he said: - -“Pho! I wouldn’t keel over like that ’cause I’d said _dry up_. ’Taint a -swear. It’s a real nice word, and all the boys in the street say so.” - -Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible suspense he -waited from day to day until the fatal morning when there came a -telegram which he spelled out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep -beside him, their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty -faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read: - - - “SARATOGA, August 31st. - -“Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow, on the -evening train.” - - -There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed quivering of the -lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless look in the eyes, which closed -tightly as Johnnie began to realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild -cry, he threw himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed -gleefully at the contortions of body which they fancied were made for -their amusement. At last, however, they too understood it partially, and -Ben tried to imitate his brother’s method of expressing grief by also -rolling in the grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said, -with a sigh of relief: - -“I’m plaguy glad Aunty isn’t dead too.” - -And this was all the consolation there was in that home at Beechwood. -Dora was not dead. She was coming home and would bring sunshine with -her. With a desire to have everything done in accordance with her taste, -and also with a view to honor his mother’s memory, Johnnie, roused at -last, and without a word of consultation with any one, sought the old -colored sexton, bidding him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering -lip: - -“It’s for my mother, and if you’ll toll it extra for an hour I’ll give -you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-barks in the fall.” - -It did not occur to the negro that possibly some higher authority than -Johnnie’s was needful ere he proceeded to toll for a person dead in -Saratoga, but love of gain and shag-barks predominated over other -feelings, and for a full hour and a quarter the bell from the old -church-steeple rang out its solemn tones, tolling till the villagers -wondered if it would never stop, and repaired, some of them, to the -spot, where Johnnie sat like a second Shylock, holding the sexton’s -watch and keeping accurate note of time as the old man bent to his task, -and tolled that long requiem for Margaret Russell. This done Johnnie -wended his way to a dry-goods store, and before nightfall there were -streamers of crape hanging from the gate and from every door-knob, while -a band of the same was tied around the arms of Ben and Burt, who wore -them quietly for a time and then made what they called horse blankets -for their velocipede. Poor little babies of four and five, they knew no -better, and only acted as other children do when left wholly to -themselves. Years hence they will weep for the mother scarcely -remembered, but now her death was nothing to them, except as they saw -the deep distress of Johnnie, who, long after they were sleeping in -their cribs, sobbed passionately upon his pillow, sorrowing most of all -for the angry words spoken to the mother who would never know his grief. -How long to him were the hours of the next day, when they waited for the -dead. It was also a day of peace and quiet, for owing to Johnnie’s -continual efforts there was only a single fight between the little boys, -who otherwise comported themselves with admirable propriety, asking -often when Aunt Dora would come, and if Johnnie was sure she was not -dead too? - -At last the train came screaming in, and shortly after the hearse -stopped before the gate, while the coffin was brought slowly up the walk -and placed in the darkened parlor. With a great sobbing cry Johnnie -sprang towards Dora, but suddenly checked himself, as there flashed upon -his mind that to his father belonged the first greeting of sorrow. And -who that has passed through such a scene that knows not the comfort -there is in the sympathy of a warm-hearted child! Squire Russell felt it -keenly, as he held his first-born in his arms and heard his boyish -attempts at consolation. - -“We’ll love each other more, father, now our mother’s gone. Poor father, -don’t cry so hard. If you’ll stop I’ll try to do so too. We’ve got Aunt -Dora left and all the children. Benny, come and kiss poor father, -because mother is dead.” - -Such were Johnnie’s words, and they fell soothingly on the father’s -heart, making him think he had not lost everything which made his life -desirable. He had his children still, and he had Dora too. She was in -the nursery now, with Ben and Burt clinging to her neck, and asking why -she cried when they were so glad to have her back, asking, too, what -made mamma so cold, and why she was sleeping in that long queer box on -the parlor table. They did not know what death meant, and continued -their questionings until their eyelids closed in slumber, and they -forgot the long box on the parlor table, with the mother sleeping in it. - -The night was hot and sultry, and as Dora lay tossing restlessly, she -fancied she heard a sound from the parlor, which was just beneath her -room, and throwing on her dressing-gown she went noiselessly down the -stairs to the parlor door, which was open, and saw a little form -kneeling by the coffin and talking to the unconscious dead. - -“O mother, maybe you can hear me; I’m Johnnie, and I’m so sorry I was -ever bad to you, and made your head ache so! Poor mother, I used to -think I loved Aunt Dora best, but now I know I didn’t! There’s nothing -like a mother, and I was going to tell you so when you got home, but -you’re dead and I can’t! O mother! mother! will you never know?” - -“She does; she did know, Johnnie, for I told her,” Dora said, advancing -into the room and taking the child in her arms; “I told her you were -sorry, and she forgave you freely, sending you messages of love, and -bidding me cut her longest, brightest curl for you. I did so, Johnnie; -it is in my room, and to-morrow you shall have it.” - -“Why not to-night?” Johnnie pleaded, and so his aunt brought him the -lock of hair cut from Margaret’s head, the mother’s last memento, which -Johnny took with him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that -tress of hair upon his pillow. - -It was a long procession which followed Margaret to her grave, and for -the sake of Johnnie the sexton again tolled for the dead, until the -husband and the sister wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they -returned to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing her -more than one month ago they would have thought it possible. But as the -days went by the family gradually resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for -Dora was there still: their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many -lonely hours Squire Russell experienced, it is true, but there was -always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him home after a -brief and necessary absence; that Dora would preside at his table, and -keep his children in order; that Dora, in short, would do everything -which the most faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to -Dora even more than they were wont to do; and little Daisy, taught by -Clem, the nurse-maid, called her _mamma_, a name which Ben and Burt were -quick to catch, and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the -father chanced to be present. - -At Dora’s heart there was a constant dread of some impending evil, and -when, three weeks after Margaret’s death, she stood one night alone with -Dr. West, listening to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw -herself on his protection, and thus she might be saved from danger. But -the doctor, though treating her with the utmost tenderness, had never -broached the subject of his love since that time at Anna’s grave, where -she answered him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him more -since than they did then, causing him sometimes to wonder if she did -really care for him. If not, or if the germ of her affection was as yet -very small, it was better not to press the matter, but let it take its -course; and so, trusting that absence would do all that he wished done, -he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear sister, and -hardly so, for when he would have kissed the sister, he left Dora -unkissed, fancying she would be better pleased with such a parting. His -caresses had wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so he -never touched the lips which would have paid him back so gladly, but -merely pressed the little hand which trembled in his, as he said to her, -“A year is not very long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and -you must not forget me.” Another pressure of the hand, and he was gone, -leaving the maiden far more desolate than he dreamed. Could he have -known how fast the tears came, when alone in her room she went over with -the parting and said to herself, “He does not love me now. My -waywardness has sickened him;” could he have seen her when in the early -dawn she watched him as he left the house for the last time, he would -have turned back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with -her, would have saved her from the dark storm which would bear her down -with its mighty force. - -But this he did not know, and he went his way to Morrisville, where his -mother waited for him, and where Jessie, just returned from Saratoga, -sparkled, and flashed, and flitted around him, asking him to write -occasionally to her father, and tell them of California. - -“Why not write to _you_?” he replied, and Jessie responded at once: - -“To me, then, if you like; I shall be delighted.” - -Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard this conversation, -and so there could be no harm in it, Jessie thought, while the others -thought the same, knowing that the light-hearted girl was already -corresponding with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she -care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and she made the -doctor’s stay at Morrisville much pleasanter than it would otherwise -have been, and after he was fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a -glowing account of “the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor -West, the best and most agreeable man in the world. We are going to -correspond, too,” she added in a postscript, “and that will make the -eleventh gentleman on my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I’ll be -satisfied.” - -Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen the pang with -which she read that Jessie, and not herself, was to be the recipient of -the doctor’s letters. Never had the autumn seemed so dreary to her -before; and when the first wintry snows were falling she shrank, with a -nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long, long evenings, -when there would be nothing to occupy her time, except, indeed, the -children, or the game of chess which she played nightly with her -brother. - -For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead, the squire had -recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the villagers even hinted that, -as is usual with widowers, his dress had undergone a change, being now -more youthful and stylish than in former days when Margaret was alive. -Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the social gatherings, -while the older ones grew very conscious of themselves, and the mothers -were excessively polite and gracious to the squire. He was happier than -he used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week to Margaret’s -grave, and always spoke of her as “my dear wife.” It soothed his -conscience to do this, particularly as he felt how much he enjoyed going -home from Margaret’s grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant -words, where once there had been confusion and fretful complaints. Dora -was very pretty in her mourning-garb, with the simple linen band about -her neck and wrists, for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her -dress with a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There was -not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were larger than usual, but -to the squire and the children she was very beautiful, moving among them -as their household goddess, and always speaking so lovingly and kind. - -Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr. West,—a friendly -letter, which any one might read, and which said that he was at -Marysville, with his mother, whose health was greatly improved. - -“I like the country much,” he wrote, “and if I had with me a few of my -Eastern friends I should be willing to settle here for life; but, as it -is, I find myself looking forward eagerly to the time when I shall -return and meet you all again.” - -This passage Squire John read twice, and then glanced again at the “My -Dear Dora” with which the letter commenced. - -“The doctor is very affectionate,” he said, “calling you ‘Dear Dora,’ -though perhaps he has a right, for I remember thinking he admired you.” - -Dora was bending over Daisy, whom she was rocking to sleep, and he did -not see her blushes as she replied: - -“That is a very common way of addressing people, and means nothing at -all.” - -Perhaps the squire believed this, but he was quite absent-minded the -remainder of the day, and in the evening was twice checkmated by Dora, -when his usual custom had been to checkmate her. - -Dora’s first intention was to answer the doctor’s letter at once, but -sickness among the children prevented her from doing so, and when she -was at last free to write, the disposition had in a measure left her, -and so the answer for which the doctor waited so anxiously was not sent. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - IN THE SPRING. - - -About the house at Beechwood the May flowers were blooming, and in the -maple-trees the birds were building their nests, cooing lovingly to each -other as they did so, and seeming all unconscious of the young heart -which within the doors felt that never before had there come to it a -spring so full of sorrow and harrowing dread. Jessie and Bell Verner -were both there now, and Jessie had brought two immense trunks and a -hat-box, as if her intention was to spend the entire summer. She was -just as merry and hoydenish as of old, romping with the children in the -grass and on the nursery floor, herself the veriest child among them, -while her ringing laugh woke all the echoes of the place and made even -the Squire join in it, and try to act young again. - -Both Jessie and Bell noted the change in Dora, and Jessie asked her -outright what it was that made her look so frightened, as if constantly -in fear of something; but Dora could not tell what she feared, for she -had scarcely dared to define to herself the meaning of Squire Russell’s -manner toward her. A stranger would have perceived no difference in his -treatment of her now and when his wife was living, but Dora felt the -change, and it almost drove her wild, making her one day sharply rebuke -the little Daisy for calling her mamma. - -“I am not your mother,” she said fiercely. “Your mamma is dead, and I am -only Auntie.” - -The child looked up in surprise, but called her mamma just the same, -while Dora’s eyelids closed tightly over the hot tears she thus kept -from falling. That day when Johnnie came home from school at dinner-time -he showed unmistakable marks of having been in a fight, and when -questioned by his father as to the cause of his black eye, broke out -furiously: - -“I’ve been a _lickin’_ Bill Carter, and I’ll do it again if he ever -tells such stuff about you! Why, he said you’re a going to get married -to that ill-begotten, shoulder-shotten snap-dragon of a Miss Dutton! I -told him ’twas the biggest lie, and then he said it wasn’t, that it was -true, and she was coming here to be our step-mother; that she would cut -off ’Tish’s curls, spank Ben and Burt twice a day, shake Daisy into -shoe-strings, and make Jim and me toe the mark,—the hateful!” - -“She ain’t, she shan’t,—old nasty Dutton,” and fiery Ben shook his tiny -fist at an imaginary bugbear who was to spank him twice a day. - -Jessie laughed aloud. Bell looked amused, Dora disturbed, and the Squire -very red, as he said to his son: - -“You should not mind such gossip, or allow yourself to get into a -passion. Time enough to rebel when the step-mother comes. Now go to your -room and bathe your eye.” - -Johnnie obeyed, muttering as he went: - -“There’s only one person I’d have for a step-mother any how, and that’s -Aunt Dora. Guy, wouldn’t I raise hob with anybody else!” - -“John, leave instantly!” the Squire said sternly, while his face colored -crimson, as did Dora’s also, making Bell and Jessie glance curiously at -each other, as both thought of the same thing. - -In their own room, after dinner, they discussed together the possibility -of Dora’s becoming what Johnnie wished her to be, Bell scouting the idea -as preposterous, and Jessie insisting that a girl might love Squire -Russell well enough to take him with all his children. - -“Not that I think Dora will do so,” she said, “for I fancy he is not as -much to her taste, even, as he is to mine; and I guess I’d jump in the -creek sooner than marry an old widower with half a dozen children.” - -What the two sisters were discussing privately in their room was talked -openly in the village, some of the people arguing that Dora could not do -better, while all agreed that for the Squire it would be a match every -way desirable both for his own and his children’s sake. To the Squire -himself the story was told one day, the teller hinting that the matter -was entirely settled, and asking when the marriage would take place. - -With some jocose reply, the Squire rode away, going round to Margaret’s -grave, and thence back to his home, where the evening lights were -shining, and where Dora, with Daisy in her arms, sat alone in the back -parlor, Bell and Jessie having accepted an invitation which she was -obliged to decline on account of a bad headache. - -There were strange thoughts stirring in the Squire’s breast that night, -thoughts which had haunted him for weeks and months, aye, since Margaret -died, for he could not forget her words. - -“You need not wait long. You and Dora are above people’s gossip, and it -will be so much better for the children.” - -This was what Margaret had said to him that night when misapprehending -her sister just as she was misapprehended, she had told him: - -“I have talked with Dora, and she has promised to take my place.” - -At first he had been satisfied with matters as they were, and had said -that he never could marry and love again. But gradually there had crept -into life another feeling, which prompted him to watch Dora constantly -as she moved about his house; to miss her when she was away,—to think of -her the last at night as well as first in the morning,—to wonder, with a -harassing jealousy, if Dr. West cared for Dora, or if she cared for him. -No, she did not, he thought, and made himself believe it, else he had -never said to her what he did that night, when, with Daisy in her arms, -she sat wholly in his power, and was obliged to listen to what was not -unexpected, but which, nevertheless, fell like a thunderbolt upon her, -turning her into stone, and making her grow faint and sick, just as she -did at Saratoga, when the first suspicion dawned upon her that some day -John Russell would speak to her what he was speaking now, with one hand -on her shoulder and the other on Daisy’s golden head. It was a kind, -true, fatherly heart he offered her, and she felt that he meant it all. -He cast no reflections upon his departed wife,—he merely said: - -“You knew Margaret as well as I. She was not, perhaps, as even-tempered -as a more healthy person would have been, but I loved her, remembering -always what she was when I took her from her home. You were a little -girl, then, Dora, and I never dreamed that I should some time be sueing -for your hand just as I had sued for Margaret’s.” - -Then he pleaded for his children, who loved her so much; would she be -their mother, just as she had promised Margaret she would? Then Dora -roused herself, and the face which met the Squire’s view made his heart -beat faster as he doubted what it portended. - -“I did not think Margaret meant what you ask,” Dora said, her words -coming gaspingly. “I thought she meant care for them as I have tried to -do, and will do still. I’ll stay with you, John. I’ll be your -housekeeper, but don’t ask me to be your wife. I can’t; I’m too young -for you; I’m,—O John! O Margaret!” and here the voice broke down -entirely, while Dora sobbed convulsively. - -Margaret, too, had said she could not be his wife when he asked her. -She, too, had said she was too young, and cried, but hers was not like -Dora’s crying, and Squire Russell saw the difference, feeling perplexed, -but never suspected the truth. It was natural for girls to cry, he -thought, when they received an offer of marriage, and so, with both -hands on her shoulder, he pleaded again, but this time for himself, -telling her in words which his true love made eloquent, how dear she was -to him, dearer, if possible, than his early choice, the beautiful -Margaret. And Dora believed him, for she knew he was incapable of -deception, and that made her pain harder to bear. - -“If I had supposed you cared for any one else,” he said, “I should not -have sought you, but I did not. Dr. West wrote to you, I know, and I was -foolish enough to wish he had not called you his _dear Dora_, but you -did not answer him, and of course there is but one conclusion to be -drawn from that. You do not care for him, nor he for you?” - -He put this to her interrogatively, but Dora could not speak. Once she -thought to tell him what there was between her and Dr. West, but -something kept her silent, and so in perfect good faith, kind, honest, -truthful John kept on until she answered: - -“Please leave me now; I must think, and I am so stunned and bewildered. -I’ll answer another time.” - -Squire Russell was far too good-natured to stay longer if she did not -wish it, and stooping down he kissed his sleeping child, and said: - -“Let me kiss baby’s auntie, too?” - -Dora offered no resistance, and he touched her forehead respectfully, -and then quitted the room. He had kissed her many times when Margaret -was living, but no kiss had ever burned her as this one did, for she -knew it was not a brother’s kiss, and with a sensation of loathing she -passed her hand over the place, and then wiped it with her handkerchief, -just as a rustling sound met her ear, and the next moment there was -another pleader kneeling at her feet, Johnnie, who had overheard a part -of his father’s wooing, and who took it up just where his sire had left -it; his stormy, impetuous arguments bearing Dora completely away from -herself, so that she hardly knew what she did or said. - -“You will be father’s wife, Aunt Dora; you will, you must!” Johnnie -began. “I’ve prayed for it every single day since I heard that stuff -about old Dutton. I’ve gone to mother’s grave and knelt down there, -asking that it might be. Jim and ’Tish pray so, too, for I told ’em to, -and I should make Ben and Burt, only I knew they’d tell you; and Auntie, -you will! Father’s older than you a lot, I s’pose, but he is so good, -and was so kind to mother, even when she plagued him. I never told, but -once after you went to Morrisville, she got awful, and _lammed_ him the -wust kind,—told him he was fat, and pussy, and awkward, and she was -always ashamed of him at watering-places, and a sight more. At last she -left the room, and poor papa put his head right in my lap and cried out -loud. I cried too, and said to him: - -“‘Let’s _lick_ her: I’ll help.’ - -“But he wouldn’t hear a word. Says he: - -“‘Hush, my boy; she’s your mother and my wife. She is not as she used to -be. She’s sick and nervous.’ - -“And when I asked the difference between _ugly_ and _nervous_, he made -me stop, and was just as kind to her at supper-time as ever. Tell me -such a man won’t make a good husband! He’ll be splendid, and he’s -handsomer than he was,—he has lost that look as if he was afraid -something was after him, a henpecked look, Clem called it. Poor father; -he has had so little comfort, you must make him happy, Auntie; you will, -and you’ll make us all so good. You know how like Cain we behave without -you, and how we all mind when you tell us what is right. Will you be -father’s wife and help us grow up good?” - -He had her face between his warm hands, and was looking at her so -earnestly, that for his sake Dora could almost have answered yes, but -thoughts of what being his father’s wife involved chilled her through -and through, and she answered him: - -“Johnnie, I do not believe I can.” - -For an instant the boy’s black eyes blazed fiercely at her, and then he -angrily exclaimed, “I’ll go to ruin, just as fast as I can go! I’ll -_smoke_ to-morrow, if I live, and teach Jim and Ben to do so too! I’ll -swear, and when the circus comes next week I’ll run away to that, and -take ’Tish with me; I’ll gamble; I’ll drink, and when I’m brought home -drunker’n a fool, you’ll know it is your work!” - -He looked like a young tiger as he stood uttering these terrible -threats, and Dora quailed before his flashing eyes, feeling that much he -had said was in earnest. She did not fear his swearing, or gambling, or -drinking, for the present, at least, but he might not always act his -best; he might grow surly and hard and unmanageable, even by her, unless -she yielded to his request, and this she couldn’t do. - -“Johnnie,” she began, and something in her voice quieted the excited -boy, “would you have me marry your father when I do not love him, and -just the thought of being his wife makes me almost sick?” - -Johnnie was not old enough to comprehend her meaning. He only felt that -it was not a very bad thing to be the wife of a man as good as his -father, and he answered her, “You do love him well enough, or you will, -and he so affectionate. Why he used to hug and kiss mother every day, -even when she was crosser than fury. Of course then he’ll hug you most -to death.” - -“Oh—h,” Dora groaned, the tone of her voice so indicative of disgust -that even Johnnie caught a new idea, which he afterwards acted upon; but -he would not yield his point: Dora should be his mother, and he -continued the siege until, wearied out with his arguments, Dora -peremptorily bade him leave her while she could think in quiet. - -Oh, that long, terrible thinking which brought on so racking a headache -that Dora was not seen in the parlor on the day following, but lay -upstairs in her own room, where, with the bolted door between her and -the world outside, she met and battled with what seemed her destiny! One -by one every incident connected with Margaret’s death came back to her, -and she knew now what the questionings meant, far better than she did -then, while she half expected the dead sister to rise before her and -reproach her for shrinking from her duty. Then the children came up, a -powerful argument swaying her in the direction of Squire Russell. She -could do them good; she could train them so much better than another, -and John, if she refused him, would assuredly bring another there to -rule and govern them. These were the arguments in favor of John’s suit, -while on the other side a mighty barrier was interposed to keep her from -the sacrifice. Her love for Dr. West, and the words spoken to her at -Anna’s grave; and was she not virtually engaged to him? - -“Yes,—oh yes, I am!” she cried, and then there came over her all the -doubts which had so tortured her since that time in the Morrisville -cemetery. - -Had he not spoken hastily and repented afterwards? His continued silence -on the subject would seem so; and why did he not write to her just as -did he to Jessie, who, since coming to Beechwood, had received a letter -from him which contained no mention of her, but was full of the light, -bantering matter in which he knew Jessie delighted. Dora had heard -Jessie say she was going to answer the letter that very day; and -suddenly, like a dawn of hope, there flashed over her the determination -that she, too, would write and tell him of Squire Russell’s offer; and -if he loved her still he would come to save her, or he would write, -telling her again how dear she was to him, and that he alone must call -her his wife. - -“Yes, I’ll do it,” Dora whispered; “I know he is at San Francisco, for -Jessie directs there; I’ll write to-day. It shall go in the same mail -with hers. I’ll wait two months for his reply, and then, if he answers -Jessie and ignores me, I’ll—” - -Dora set her teeth firmly together, and her breath came hurriedly, as -she paused a moment ere she added, “I’ll marry John.” - -And so with a throbbing head Dora wrote to Dr. West, telling him of the -proposal and asking what he thought of it. This was all she meant the -letter to mean, for her maidenly reserve would not suffer her to betray -her real motive if she knew it, but it was more like a pleading cry for -help, more like a wail of anguish for one she loved to save her from a -fate she had not strength to resist alone, than like a mere asking of -advice. The letter was finished, and just after dark, when sure no one -could see her, Dora stole from the house unobserved, and hastening to -the office, dropped into the box the missive of so much importance to -her. - -“It is sure to go with Jessie’s,” she said, as she wended her way back, -“so if hers is received I shall know that mine was also.” - -Alas! Jessie’s had been written the previous night, after that young -lady’s return from her visit, and while Dora’s letter was lying quietly -in the box at Beechwood awaiting the morning mail, Jessie’s was miles on -its way to New York and the steamer which would take it to California a -week in advance of the other. But Dora did not know this, neither did -she know that it contained the following paragraph: - -“There is no news, except the rumor that Squire Russell will marry his -pretty sister-in-law. Bell won’t believe a word of it, but some things -look like it. Dora is so queer. I had picked her out for you, and -believe now that she likes you, though when your name is mentioned, she -bites her words off so short and crisp that I am confounded. She is a -splendid girl, and will make a grand wife, to say nothing of -step-mother.” - -Little did Jessie suspect the harm these few comparatively harmless -lines would cause, and little did Dora suspect it either, as with a load -of pain lifted from her heart and consequently from her head, she sat -down by her open window and followed with her mind her letter’s course -to far-off California, and then imagined the quick response it would -bring back, and which would make her so happy. - -“Johnnie must be the medium between Squire Russell and me,” she said. -“I’ll tell him to-morrow that his father must wait for my definite reply -at least six weeks, and possibly two months. At the end of that time I -shall know for sure, and if the doctor does not care, there will be a -kind of desperate pleasure in marrying my brother.” - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - WAITING FOR THE ANSWER. - - -As Dora reached this conclusion there came a well-known knock upon the -door, and unfastening the bolt she admitted Johnnie, who had been up -many times that day, but had not before been permitted to enter. - -“O Auntie,” he cried, “you are better and I’m glad. I didn’t mean what I -said about swearing, and drinking, and smoking, and I was so mad at -myself that I teased Ben and Burt on purpose till they got hoppin’, and -then I lay still while both little Arabs pitched into me. My! didn’t -their feet fly like drumsticks as they kicked and struck, and pulled my -hair; but when Ben got the big carving-fork, I concluded I’d been -punished enough, and so deserted the field! But, Auntie, I do wish you -could love father. He has looked so sorry to-day, kind of white about -the mouth, and his hand trembled this noon when he carved the turkey. -Won’t you, Auntie? I’ve prayed ten times this afternoon that you might, -and I begin to have faith that you will. Dr. West, who used to talk to -me so good last summer when I was in his Sunday-school class, said we -must have faith that God would hear us.” - -Dora drew a long, sad sigh, as she wished she too had been taught of Dr. -West to pray differently from what she knew she did. Smoothing back -John’s soft, dark hair, she said: - -“Johnnie, girls cannot make a love in a minute, and this came so -suddenly upon me, I must have time to think,—six weeks or two months, -and then I will decide. Will you tell your father this for me? Tell him -I’m sorry to make him feel badly,—that I like him and always shall, even -if I am not his wife—that I know how good, how generous she is,—that he -will wait until I know my own mind better, and then if I cannot be his, -he must not mind it.” - -“I’ll tell him,” Johnnie said, while Dora continued: - -“And Johnnie, perhaps it had better be understood that nothing is to be -said about it in the mean time,—nothing to me by your father.” - -“Yes, I know, I see. I’ll fix it,” Johnnie answered. “I’ll go to father -now,” and stooping down, he kissed his aunt tenderly, then suddenly -asked, as he looked into her eyes, “You don’t mind my kissing you, do -you? That don’t make you sick?” - -“No, oh no!” she answered, and Johnnie departed on his strange errand. - -Squire Russell sat in his office or reading-room, pretending to look -over his evening paper, but his thoughts were really upstairs with Dora, -whom he had not seen that day, and whose illness troubled him greatly, -for he rightly associated it with his proposal of the previous night. -Squire Russell loved Dora with a great, warm, sheltering love, which -would shield her from all harm, and unselfishly yield to her everything, -but he had not the nice, quick perception of Dr. West, and had he been -younger he could never have satisfied the wants of her higher nature as -could the rival whose existence he did not suspect. But he loved her -very much. He must have her. He could not live without her, he thought, -and womanish man that he was, a tear was gathering in his eyes when -Johnnie entered the room abruptly, and locking the door, came and stood -beside him. - -“What do you wish, my boy?” the Squire said kindly, for he was never -impatient with his children. - -Johnnie hesitated, beginning to feel that his father’s love-affair was a -delicate matter for him to meddle with. - -“Confound it,” he began at last, “I may as well spit it out, and then -let you knock me down, or lick me, or anything you like. Father, I heard -what you said to Auntie last night, and what she said to you, and after -you was gone I took the floor and beat you all to smash. I said she must -be my mother,—she should be my mother, and all that, and set you up, I -tell you, till you’d hardly know yourself from my description. To-night -I’ve seen her again,—have just come from her room to tell you something -she bade me tell.” - -Squire Russell had turned very white at first, feeling indignant at his -son for presuming to interfere, but this feeling had disappeared now, -and he listened eagerly while Johnnie continued: - -“She says its sudden; that she can’t make a love in a minute; that she -must have six weeks or two months to decide, and then she will tell you -sure, and, father, you’ll wait; I know you will, and,—and,—well, I guess -I’d hold my tongue,—that is, I wouldn’t keep teasing her, nor say a -word; just let her go her own gait, and above all I wouldn’t act lovin’ -like, for fear she’d up and vomit. She don’t mind me kissing her, -because I’ve no beard, I don’t shave, nor carry a cane. I’m a boy, and -you are a whiskered old chap. I guess that’s the difference between us. -Father, you’ll wait?” - -Squire Russell could not forbear a smile at his son’s novel reasoning, -but he was not angry, and it made his child seem nearer, now that both -shared the same secret, and were interested in the same cause. Yes, he -would wait two, three, or four months if Dora liked, and meantime things -should continue as usual in the household. - -“And afterward, father?” Johnnie asked. “How about that? If auntie says -no, she’ll mean it, and you won’t raise a rumpus, will you? You’ll grin -and bear it like a man?” - -Yes, the Squire would do all his son required, and before Dora retired -for the night, a bit of paper was pushed under her door, on which was -written: - - -“The governor is O. K. He’ll wait and so will I; and if you must say no, -he won’t raise hob, but _I_ will. I tell you now I’ll raise the very -roof! Don’t say no, Auntie, don’t! - - “Yours Very Respectfully and Regretfully, - “JOHN H. RUSSELL.” - - -It was rather embarrassing next morning at the breakfast-table, but -Johnnie threw himself into the gap, talking loudly and rapidly to his -father of the war meeting to be held that night, wishing he was a man, -so he could enlist, and predicting, as did many a foolish one at that -period, the spring of ’61, that the immense force of 75,000, called for -by the President, would subjugate the South at once. - -The Squire talked very little, and never once glanced at Dora, who in -her heart blessed both Jessie and Johnnie, the latter for engaging his -father’s attention and the former for talking so constantly to herself -and Bell. - -Dora was very white and nervous, but this was imputed to her illness of -the previous day, and so neither Bell nor Jessie dreamed of what had -passed between her and their host, or how her heart was aching with the -terrible fear of what might be in store for her. - -It had been arranged that the Misses Verner should remain at Beechwood -for a long time, and as Bell thought four weeks came under that -definition she began to talk of returning home as early as the first of -June; but with a look of terror which startled both the girls, Dora -begged of them to stay. - -“Don’t leave me alone!” she cried, clasping Bell’s hand pleadingly. “I -shall die if you do! Oh, stay,—you would if you knew—” - -She did not say what, and Bell gazed at her wonderingly, but decided at -last to stay a few weeks longer. Nothing could please Jessie better, for -she did not particularly like Morrisville, and she did like Beechwood -very much. She liked the lake view, the hills, and the people, and she -liked the six noisy, frolicsome children, with their good-humored sire, -who treated her much as he would have treated a playful, teasing child -not his own, but a guest. Many were the gambols she had with Ben and -Burt, and little Daisy, who loved her almost as much as they loved Dora, -while upon the matter-of-fact Squire she played off many a saucy trick, -keeping him constantly on the alert with plots and conspiracies, and so -making the time seem comparatively short, while he waited for Dora’s -decision. But to Dora there was nothing which brought comfort or -diverted her for a moment from the agonizing suspense which grew more -and more dreadful as the days went swiftly by, bringing no answer to the -letter sent to Dr. West. - -“Is it anything in particular you are expecting?” Johnnie asked one day, -when she turned so white and shivered, as he returned from the -post-office, with letters for all except herself. - -“Yes,—no! Oh, I don’t know what I expect,” she answered, and leaning her -head on Johnnie’s shoulder, she wept silently, while the boy tried to -comfort her, and became from that moment almost as anxious that she -should have a letter as she seemed herself. - -Regularly each day at mail-time he was at the office, and if there -chanced to be a letter for Dora, as there sometimes was, running to her -eagerly, but saying always to himself as the weary, disappointed look -remained the same: - -“The right one has not come.” - -No, the right one had not come, and now it was more than seven weeks -since the night when Dr. West had been written to. - -Bell and Jessie were really going home at last, and their trunks stood -in the hall ready for the early morning train. Dora had exhausted every -argument for a longer stay, but Bell felt that they must go. - -“They would come again in the autumn, perhaps, or Dora should visit -them. She would need rest by that time, sure,” Bell said, and Dora -shuddered as she thought how she might never know rest or happiness -again, save as she found them in the discharge of what she was beginning -to believe was her imperative duty. - -“Letters! letters!” shouted Johnnie, running up the walk, his hand full -of documents, one of which he was closely inspecting. Spelling out the -place where it was mailed, he exclaimed, as he entered the room, “That’s -from the doctor, for it says ‘San Francisco.’” - -Instantly both Jessie and Dora started forward to claim it, the hot -blood dyeing the cheeks of the latter, but subsiding instantly, and -leaving only a livid hue as Jessie took the letter, saying: - -“It is for me.” - -Sinking back in her chair, Dora pressed her hands tightly together, as -Jessie broke the seal and read, partly to herself and partly aloud, that -message from Dr. West. - -“Is still in San Francisco, at the hotel, which is crowded with guests, -and will compare very favorably with the best houses in New York City. -Begins to think of coming home in the autumn. Mother’s health improved. -Was pleased to get my letter,” and so on. - -This was the substance of what Jessie read, until she reached a point -where she stopped suddenly, and seemed to be considering; then turning -to Johnnie, she asked him to do for her some trifling service, which -would take him from the room. When he was gone, she said to Dora: - -“Maybe you’ll scold, but it cannot now be helped. In my letter to Dr. -West, I said, or hinted, at what everybody is talking about,—that is, -you know, about your marrying Squire Russell, and this is the doctor’s -reply: ‘What you wrote of Miss Freeman took me by surprise, but it will -be a grand thing for the Squire. Tell her that if she decides to mother -those six children, she has my best wishes for her happiness. You say -you had picked her out for me. She would probably tell you differently, -as she has seemed to dislike rather than like me, and according to your -own story, bites her words off crisp and short when I am mentioned.’” - -“O Jessie, how could you? What made you tell him that? It was cruel of -you, when I do like him,” Dora cried, her face for an instant crimsoning -with passion and then growing deathly white as she felt her destiny -crushing down upon her without a hope of escape. - -“Because you do,” Jessie retorted, anxious to defend herself. “You are -just as spiteful as can be when I tease you about him, and I don’t -care!” - -Jessie was vexed at herself for having told Dr. West what she had, and -vexed at Dora for resenting it; but she never dreamed of the terrible -pain throbbing in Dora’s heart, as with a mighty effort she forced back -the piteous, despairing cry rising to her lips, and brought there a -smile instead, saying pleasantly: - -“Well, never mind it now. It does not matter; only Dr. West has been so -kind to us in sickness that I ought to like him, and do. Does he say -what time he will be home?” - -Jessie was thoroughly deceived, and after ascertaining that he merely -spoke of coming in the autumn, went to her room, as there were a few -things she must yet do for her morrow’s journey. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - THE ENGAGEMENT. - - - _Extract from Dora’s Diary._ - -“Is it _I_? _Is_ it I? Oh, IS IT I, sitting here to-night with this -pressure on my brain, this tightness about my eyes, this anguish in my -heart, this feeling of desperation urging me on to meet anything, -everything, even death itself? If he received Jessie’s letter, he did -mine, of course, for they went together; and why not answer me, instead -of sending that cold, mocking message? If people ever die of shame -surely I ought to die, for did I not almost beg of him to say again what -he said at Anna’s grave,—to tell me that he loved me and would save me? -Yes, it all comes to me now,—all that I wrote and what it meant. And he -does not respond. If he ever cared, he does not now, and he spurns my -offered love. He wishes me happiness; aye, and why should I not be -happy? Many a woman would gladly be the mother of Margaret’s six -children; and shall I, her sister, who promised so solemnly, refuse? No, -John; no, Johnnie; no, Margaret; I will grant your wish. Dr. West, when -he comes home, shall have no reason to believe that Dora Freeman ever -thought of him, or spoke of him, except in the ‘crisp, cross manner’ -which Jessie has described. John must wait a year from the time Margaret -died, but I can give him my decision now, and I will then go to Bell and -Jessie, and ask them to be my bridesmaids.” - -There was a pause made in the diary, and leaning her aching head upon -her hands, Dora thought and thought until the hardness softened, when, -resuming her pen, she wrote as follows: - -“I believe it is my duty to be John’s wife, and the mother of Margaret’s -children. It is true I did not so understand her, but that was what she -meant, and I promised solemnly. I can love John, or at least I can keep -myself from hating him, knowing how happy I make him, and I do love his -children, especially Johnnie. O Johnnie, I should die if it were not for -you!” - -The pen dropped from the trembling fingers, and again the face was -buried in the hands, while Dora nerved herself to do what she vainly -imagined was her duty. Squire Russell she knew was in the library, Bell -and Jessie in their room, Johnnie in the street, and the other children -in bed. There was nothing in the way, and she would go at once, so that -the worst might be over as soon as possible. Without a moment longer in -which to consider, she rose, and gliding down the stairs, knocked at the -library door. - -“Come in,” the Squire said, his voice and manner changing at once when -he saw who his visitor was. - -“O Dora, is it you?” he said, rising to his feet, while his face glowed -with pleasure. - -“Yes, John,” and Dora spoke hurriedly. “It is most seven weeks since I -said you must wait for my answer. I can give it now as well as any time. -I will be your wife.” - -Not a muscle changed as she said this, neither did her voice tremble, -but rang out clear and decided, and it may be a little sharp and -unnatural. Dora was very calm, far more so than the Squire, who, taken -by surprise, started, and trembled, and blushed, and stammered like some -guilty school-boy. This state of things, however, lasted only for a -moment, and then rousing himself, Squire Russell drew the unresisting -girl to his side, and kissing her forehead, said tenderly: - -“God bless you, Dora. You have made me very happy. I was beginning to -think it could not be, and was learning to live without you, but that -makes my joy the greater. God bless my Dora, and show me how to make her -happy!” - -Had the Squire followed the promptings of his nature he would have -caressed her lovingly, just as he did Margaret when she stood thus -beside him; but remembering Johnnie’s warnings, he desisted, and it was -well he did, else Dora had hated him. Now she suffered him to wind his -arms around her, while he told her again how happy she had made him, and -blessed her for it. - -“Dora,” he said, and now he smoothed her hair, “a man of forty is not -called old, and I am only that, but I am fourteen years your senior, -while my six children make me seem older still, but my heart is young, -and I will try so hard to stay with you till you too are old. I’ll go -with you wherever you wish to go, do anything you like, and never frown -upon the things which I know young girls love. I will not be an ogre -guarding my girlish wife, but a proud, happy husband, doing that wife’s -bidding.” - -Dora could not repress her tears, he spoke so kindly, so earnestly, and -she knew he meant all he was saying, while she was deceiving him. She -did not think either that she was doing very wrong in thus deceiving -him. It was her duty to be his wife, and it was not her duty to analyze -her feelings in his sight, unless he asked her for such analysis, which -he was not likely to do, for his was not a mind quick to perceive, while -suspicion was something to which he was a total stranger. He had always -admired Dora, and latterly he had learned to love her devotedly, feeling -now that his affection was in part returned, else she had not -deliberately come to him and said, “I will be your wife.” It made him -very happy to know she had said so, and in his happiness he failed to -notice the pallor of her face, the drooping of her swollen eyelids, and -her apparent wish to get as far from him as possible. Margaret had never -been demonstrative, and he hardly expected Dora to be different, so the -poor, deluded man was satisfied, and when Dora, who would have -everything settled at once, said to him: - -“We will wait a year,—till next autumn,” he knew what she meant, and -answered readily. - -“Yes, if you like, though Margaret said it did not matter how soon, the -earlier the better for the children’s sake.” - -“I’d rather it should be a year,” was Dora’s quiet reply, to which the -Squire assented, and then, though he so much wished her to stay, he -opened the door for her to pass out, as he saw that she desired it. - -Half an hour later and Bell Verner, who was just falling to sleep, was -startled by a knock, and Dora asked permission to enter. - -“What is it? Who’s come?” Jessie asked in a dreamy tone, lifting her -curly head from the pillow, just as Bell unlocked the door, and Dora -stepped into the room. - -She was very calm now and decided. The matter was fixed now beyond -recall, and she felt a great deal better. Sitting down upon the foot of -the bed, she said to Bell and Jessie: - -“I could not let you go home without telling you something which may -perhaps surprise you.” - -“Oh, I know. I can guess. You are going to marry Mr. Russell,” Jessie -cried, and Dora answered: - -“Yes. It was Margaret’s wish, expressed to both of us, but that is -nothing. I begin to feel old; oh, _so_ old,” and Dora shuddered as she -said it. “John is good and will make me a kind husband. It is true that -once, when a very young girl like Jessie, I had in my mind another idea -for a husband. All girls do in their teens, I guess, but when we get to -be twenty-six we begin to lose the fancy man and look for something -solid.” - -This she said to Bell, as if expecting her concurrence rather than that -of madcap Jessie. But the contrary was the fact, for Jessie approved the -match far more than her sister. Squire Russell was splendid, she said, -and would let a body do just as she had a mind, which was a great deal -nicer than a dictatorial, overbearing fellow of twenty-eight. Yes, she’d -give her consent, and she began to whistle, “Come haste to the wedding,” -as she nestled back among the pillows, wondering how she should feel to -be engaged to Squire Russell. Bell on the contrary saw things in their -true light, and she merely replied: - -“I am somewhat surprised, I will acknowledge, but if you love him that -is all that is necessary.” - -She was looking directly at Dora, but in the dim moonlight the white, -haggard face was not plainly discerned, and Bell continued: - -“I did think you liked Dr. West, and was positive he liked you.” - -“Oh, fie,” and Jessie sprang up again, “Dora hates him, while he,—well, -I guess he likes all the girls,—that is, likes to talk with and flatter -them; any way, he has said a great many complimentary things to me, and -I knew he meant nothing. They say his heart is buried in that grave in -Morrisville. I picked him out for Dora once, you know, and that’s all -the good it did. Marry the Squire, and let me be bridesmaid.” - -“Will you?” Dora asked. “Will you and Bell both officiate?” - -Jessie assented eagerly, but Bell hesitated. She could not make it seem -real that Dora Freeman was to become the wife of Squire Russell. -Something would prevent it. At last, however, as Dora urged a reply, she -said: - -“Perhaps I will, if when the time arrives you still wish for two.” - -The clock was striking eleven when Dora quitted the apartment of the -Misses Verner, but late as it was Johnnie was waiting for her by her -door. He had heard the glad news from his father, and he caught Dora -round the neck, exclaiming: - -“I know, I’ve heard,—the governor told me. You are,—you are my mother. I -never was so happy in my life, was you?” - -They were now in Dora’s room, where the gas was burning, disclosing to -Johnnie a face which made him start with fear, it was so unnaturally -white. - -“Auntie,” he exclaimed, bending over her, as, reclining upon the bed, -she buried her head in the pillows, “what makes you so white, when I’m -so glad, and father, too? I never saw him so pleased. Why, the tears -danced in his eyes as he told me, while I blubbered like a calf; and you -are crying, too, but not as father did, or I. O my! what is it? This is -so different. Auntie, Auntie, you are in a fit!” and Johnnie gazed -awe-struck upon the little form which shook convulsively as Dora tried -to smother her deep sobs. “I’ll go for father,” Johnnie continued, and -then Dora looked up, telling him to stay there where he was. - -“But, Auntie, what is the matter?” he asked. “Do girls always cry so -when they are engaged? What makes your tears run so like rivers, and so -big? It must hurt awfully to be engaged. O dear, dear! I am crying, -too!” and then the excited boy wound both arms around Dora’s neck and -drew her head upon his shoulder, where it lay, while Dora’s tears -literally ran in rivers down her cheeks. - -But the weeping did her good, and she grew very quiet at last, and -listened while Johnnie told her how good he was going to be, and how he -would influence the others to be good, too. - -“We will all be so happy,” he said, “that mother, if she could look at -us, would be so glad. Father will read to us winter nights, or you’ll -play chess with him and sing to us youngsters, and summers we’ll go to -lots of places, and you shall have heaps of handsome dresses. You’re not -so tall as mother, and it won’t take so many yards, so you can have -more. I mean to buy _one_ anyhow, with some money I’ve laid up. I guess -it will be red silk, like Jessie’s, and you’ll have it made low-neck, -like hers, with little short sleeves. You’ve got nice, pretty arms, -whiter than Jessie’s.” - -Remembering how much his mother had thought of dress, Johnnie naturally -concluded it to be the _Open Sesame_ to every woman’s heart, and so -talked on until she sent him away, for she would rather be alone with -her own tumultuous thoughts. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST’S JOURNAL. - - - “SAN FRANCISCO, June. - -“Do I believe it now, after the first stunning effect is over, and I sit -here alone thinking calmly of what came to me in Jessie Verner’s letter? -Do I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering as I -do the expression of her face when she sat by the two graves and I told -her of Anna? Can there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not, -and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie. Oh, was I deceived, -and did her coldness and ill-nature mean more than I was willing to -admit? It is very hard to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows -best what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He took her away, -and now He will take my Dora. It is sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I -cannot help feeling that I would rather she were lying by Anna’s side -than to see her Squire Russell’s wife. It is a most unnatural match, for -there is no bond of sympathy in their natures. Dora must be unhappy -after the novelty is gone. Darling Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus -of her now, as there is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which, -nevertheless, has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that whether -she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me. She does not care for -me. She never did, else why does she grow so cross and crisp when my -name is mentioned? Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and -built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share with me. I am -afraid to record on paper how dear she is to me, or how constantly she -has been in my mind since I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for -some reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the arrival of -every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer Jessie so soon, and send -that message to Dora? I am confident now that it was not a right spirit -which prompted me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken faith -with me,—that she should have waited at least the year,—that in some way -she was injuring me, and so vindictive pride dictated the words I sent -her. May I be forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the -bride of her sister’s husband, may she be happy with him, and never know -one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage will bring to me. - -“Our stay in California has been very pleasant, even though I have -failed thus far in what was the secret motive which led me here, the -hope of finding the man to whom that letter was addressed long years -ago, Robin’s father, and, as I believe, Anna’s husband. We have been at -this hotel just three weeks to-day, and mother likes it better than the -private boarding-house we left. Friends seem to spring up around us -wherever we go, and I believe I have nearly as many patients in San -Francisco as I ever had at home. For this good fortune, which I did not -expect, I thank my Heavenly Father, praying that the means I use may be -blessed to the recovery of those who so willingly put their lives in my -hands. - -“How that poor fellow in the next room groans, and how the sound of his -moaning makes me long to hasten to his side and alleviate, if possible, -the fever which they say is consuming him. Poor fellow, he was making -money so fast, I hear, and hoarding it so carefully for his mother, he -told his acquaintance, and now he is dying here alone, far from his -mother, who would so gladly smooth his dying pillow. I saw him when they -carried him through the hall on his arrival from the mountains, and -something in the shape of his head and the way the hair curled around -it, made me start, it was so like Robert’s. But the name, when I asked -it, drove the hope away: _John Maxwell_, or _Max_, as he is generally -called by those who know him best. He has been here for years, steadily -accumulating money, and winning, as it would seem, scores of friends. -Even the head chamber-maid, when she heard ‘young Max’ was ill, and was -to be brought here, evinced more womanly interest than I supposed her -capable of doing. He must be growing worse, his moanings increase so -fast, and there seems to be a consultation going on within his room, -while my name is spoken by some one, a friend too it would seem, for he -says: - -“‘I wish you would try him at least. I have great faith in that mode of -practice.’ - -“They are going to send for me; they are coming now to the door; they -are saying to me: - -“‘Dr. West, will you step in and see what you think of poor Max’s -case?’” - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - POOR MAX. - - -That was what they called him at the hotel, which had been to him a home -for years, and you would know by the intonation of their voices that he -was a favorite with all. He was very sick, burning with fever, and -talking at intervals of his mother, of Dick, and of another whose name -the attendants could not well make out. It was of his sweetheart, the -chamber-maid surmised, for in the pocket of his vest, which she hung -away, she had found a daguerrotype of a young girl, whose marvellous -beauty she had never seen excelled. - -“Poor Mr. Max! he must have loved her so much! I wonder where she is -to-day?” she said, softly, as she continued to scan the lovely face -smiling upon her from the worn, old-fashioned case. - -Alas! the original of that picture had for many a year been mouldering -back to dust, and poor Max, who had loved and wronged her so much, was -whispering her name in vain. He was growing worse, his nurse feared, and -so at last she sent for Dr. West, of whose skill she had heard so much, -and who in a few minutes stepped into the closely darkened room. - -“It seemed as if the light worried him,” the nurse said, in a whisper, -as she saw the doctor glance towards the curtained windows. - -“Very likely; but I should like to see him for once,” was the doctor’s -reply, as he took the hot hand in his. - -Max’s face, which, within a day or two, had grown very thin and was now -purple with fever, was turned away from the doctor, who counted the -rapid pulse, while the nurse admitted a ray of light, which shone full -upon the sick man’s pillow, and made Dr. West start suddenly, and turn -whiter even than the broad forehead round which the damp brown hair was -curling. Then he bent anxiously over his patient, turning him more to -the light, where he could see him distinctly. Did he recognize anything -familiar in that sunken face, where the beard was growing so -heavily,—anything which carried him back to his Northern home, where in -his childhood every pastime had been shared by another, and that other -his twin brother? Did he see anything which brought to him thoughts of -Anna, dead so long ago, or of Robin, who died when the last summer -flowers were blooming? Yes; and kneeling by the bedside he whispered, -“Robert, Robert, is it you?” - -The bright eyes were open and fixed upon him, but with a vacant stare, -while a second look at the flushed face brought a doubt into the -doctor’s mind. - -“He is like my brother Robert, and yet he is not like him,” he thought, -as he continued to scrutinize the features which puzzled him so much. - -“Mother will know,” he said at last; and going to his mother, he said to -her hurriedly, “Come with me, and tell if you ever saw this Max before.” - -He was greatly excited, but not more so than his mother, who felt -intuitively the shock awaiting her. - -“Open that blind wide, and put back that heavy curtain,” the doctor said -to the frightened nurse, who quickly obeyed his orders, and then waited -to see what would happen next. - -Max was talking and counting on his fingers till he came to twenty. - -“Yes, twenty, that’s it,” he said; “that’s the way the paper read; just -twenty years of age, and Dick and I are six years older. Dick loved her, -too; he ought to have married her. Dick was a trump.” - -“What does he say? What does he say? O Richard, what _does_ he say?” -Mrs. West almost screamed, as she bent down so low that the hot fever -breath lifted her silver hair. - -Richard made no answer, nor was there need, for the mother instinct -recognized the _boy_, the wayward, wandering _Robert_, mourned for as -dead during so many dreary years, while the mother-love, forgetting all -the past, cried out, “My boy, my boy, my Robert, my child! God has given -you back to me at last! Praised be His name!” - -For an instant something like reason flashed over the wasted face, but -it passed away, and to the mother’s continued murmurings of love there -came only incoherent mutterings of the mountains, the mines, and stocks -which seemed to have been substituted for the thoughts of the twenty -years and the trump of a Dick, now ministering to the mother, who had -fainted and was carried from the room. But she did not stay away long. -Her place was by Robert, she said, and she went back to his side, saying -to those around her, “He is my boy: he left me years ago, but I have -found him at last.” - -People gossip in California as well as elsewhere, and the hotel was soon -full of surmises and wonder, as people repeated to each other that the -man known as Max was Robert West, who had taken another name and come -among them, for what reason none could guess. The doctor and his mother -knew the people would talk, but they did not heed it during the days -when with agonizing suspense they hung over the bed of the prodigal, -watching for some token of amendment, and praying that the erring one -might not be taken from them now and leave the past a darker mystery -than ever. He did not talk a great deal, but when he did it was mostly -of home scenes in which Anna and Dick were always associated. - -Once when they sat alone and Mrs. West was resting in her room, Richard -said to Robert, who had spoken of Anna as of some one there with him, -“You mean your wife, Anna West; you know you married her privately.” - -For an instant the wild eyes flashed in Richard’s face, and then the -delirious man replied, “Did _she_ tell you so?” - -“Not exactly, but I inferred as much, for when she lay dying, she said, -‘Call my baby for his father,’ and when I whispered ‘Robert,’ she nodded -assent. They are both dead now, Anna and little Robin. Your wife, your -baby, which never saw its father,” Richard continued, wishing to impress -some idea upon his brother’s mind. - -But in vain, for Robert did not take the sense of what he heard, except -indeed the word _baby_, which he kept repeating to himself, laughing -insanely as he did so, “Anna’s baby; very funny,—very queer, when she -was only a child herself,” he would whisper, and that was all which -Richard achieved by speaking of the dead. - -But there came a day when the stupor passed from brain and head, leaving -the latter free from pain and the former clear and bright. He had been -sleeping, and when he woke only Richard was with him, and he was sitting -where he did not at first observe the eyes fastened so curiously upon -him, as Robert West’s heart alternately beat with hope and fear. He -could not be mistaken, he said to himself. It was no dream that his -brother had been there with him,—aye, was there still, looking older, -sadder, but his brother all the same. Dick, the kindest, best brother in -the world. - -“Richard,” he said at last very softly, and Richard started, and bent -over the sick man, whose eyes read his face for an instant, and then -filled with great hot tears, as, winding his arms around the doctor’s -neck, he sobbed, “It is my brother, ’tis Dick; and you will forgive me. -I’ve got the money safe, honestly earned, too, every cent; more than -enough to pay the debt, which I heard you were paying for me. Dear old -Dick, we will be happy yet, but tell me first that you forgive me, tell -me second how you found me, and tell me third of mother, and all—” - -He did not mention Anna, and Richard, in his reply, only answered the -questions directly put. - -“Call mother,” Robert said, when told that she was there, and in a -moment she was weeping on the pillow of her erring, but, as it would -seem, deeply repentant child, for he repeated to her what he had said to -Richard about the money, adding, “And this fall I was coming home to buy -back the dear old place, if possible; I was, mother, I was; I’ve been so -bad and wicked, but you will forgive me now, for since I left New York I -have not been guilty of a single dishonorable act. Ask the people here, -they know. They will tell you that among them all there is no one more -popular than _Max_; I go by that name,” and Robert’s face crimsoned as -he said this last. - -In his anxiety that his mother should forgive and think well of him, he -grew so much excited that all she and Richard could do was to soothe him -into quiet by assurances of forgiveness and love. He was too weak to -talk longer, and he lay perfectly still, holding his mother’s hand and -gazing into the dear face which bent so fondly over him. Once his lips -quivered with some deep emotion, and when Richard asked what he would -say, he answered: - -“Mother has changed so much,—her hair has all turned white. Was it for -_me_, mother?” - -“Not wholly, Robert; it turned about the time when we lost Anna,” was -Mrs. West answer. - -Instantly the sick man’s eyelids closed, and one after another the big -tears rolled down his sunken cheeks, leaving a red, shining track, such -as bitter, scalding tears always leave, but he made no comment, and Anna -was not mentioned again until two days had passed, and he was so much -better that he sat up in bed, propped on pillows, with his mother at his -side, half supporting him. Then suddenly breaking a silence which had -fallen upon them, he exclaimed: - -“It was an unfortunate hour that saw me installed as our great Uncle -Jason’s book-keeper and confidential clerk. He trusted me so entirely, -and there were such large sums of money daily passing through my hands, -that the temptation was a great one to a person of my expensive tastes -and habits. I cannot tell just when I took the first five dollars, -replacing it as soon as possible, and then finding the second sin so -much easier than the first. It was not a sin, I said then, as did others -of my companions who were in the habit of doing the same thing, and who -led me on from bad to worse, while all the time my uncle believed me a -pattern of honesty. If I had not heard that a part of Uncle Jason’s -fortune rightfully belonged to us, I do not believe I should have fallen -so low. As it was, I made myself think that what I took was mine, and -after I learned to gamble it was ten times worse. There is a fascination -about those dens of iniquity which you cannot understand, and it proved -my ruin. I played every night, sometimes losing, sometimes winning, and -gradually staking more and more, until at last I bet so heavily that -forgery was the consequence. I don’t know what made me do it, for I knew -I could not replace that 20,000 dollars, and when the deed was done -there was no alternative but to run away. Assuming the name of John -Maxwell, I went to England first, and then to California. Uncle Jason -had so much faith in me that you know he believed me murdered, until the -fraud was discovered, when it seems he behaved most generously, -suppressing the facts, and after an interview with you, my brother, -consented to keep the whole thing still, provided the money was in time -refunded.” - -“Who told you this?” both Richard and his mother exclaimed, but Robert -only replied: - -“I heard it, and resolved, if possible, to earn that money and pay it -back myself. The voyage out sobered me into a better man, for, mother, -your prayers, said over me when I was a child, rang continually in my -ears, until I, too, ventured to whisper each day the words, ‘Lead us not -into temptation,’ saying them at first more from habit than anything -else, and afterwards because I learned to have faith in them, learned to -believe there was something in that petition which did keep me from -falling lower. I was not good as you term goodness, and had I died I -should assuredly have been lost; but within a few short months there has -been a change, so that what I once was doing for your sakes I now do, I -trust, from higher, holier motives; and oh! I had so much need of -forgiveness, for had I not wronged everybody, and you, my brother, most -of all?” - -There was a mutual pressure of hands between the brothers, and then they -who listened hoped to hear of Anna next, but of her Robert was still -silent, and they suffered him to take his own course, following him with -breathless interest as he told of his life in the mines, and how he had -been successful beyond his most sanguine hopes,—how friends had sprung -up around him, and all things had conspired to make him happy, were it -not for the dreadful memories of the past which haunted him continually. - -“I should have written when I learned that I was safe from a felon’s -doom,” he said, “but with this information came news of so terrible a -nature that I was stunned for many months, so that I cared little what -became of me, and when feeling came back again, I said I’ll wait until I -have the money as a sure peace offering. I had it almost earned once, -two years ago, but by a great reverse I lost so much that I was -compelled to wait yet longer,—wait, as it seems, till you came here to -find me. It is all a dream to me yet that you are here, and that I, -perhaps, shall breathe again my native air, and visit the old home. Is -it greatly changed?” - -“Many would think West Lawn improved,” Richard replied, “but to us who -loved Anna it can never be the same.” - -There was another silence, and then Richard, who could no longer -restrain himself, exclaimed: - -“Robert, if you know aught which can throw a ray of light on Anna’s dark -face, in pity tell us what it is! You do know,—you must know!—Was Anna -your wife?” - -Richard could hear the beatings of his own and his brother’s heart as he -waited for the answer, which, when it came, was a decided “_Yes_, Anna -was my wife!” - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - ANNA. - - -The summer moonlight was shining into the sick-room, where, with Richard -and his mother beside him, Robert West was summoning nerve and courage -to tell the story they were waiting so anxiously to hear. With the -assertion that “Anna was my wife,” he had fainted, and since then a -night and a day had intervened, during which no word of the past had -escaped his lips. But now that he was stronger, he had said to his -mother and brother, “Sit beside me, and if I can I will tell you of -Anna.” - -They needed no second bidding, but gathered closely to him, and there, -in the quiet room, Robert West began the story, in which there was a -slight recapitulation of what he had before told, but which will help to -enlighten the reader with regard to Robert’s past. - -“I cannot remember the time when I did not love Anna,” he said, fixing -his eyes upon the ceiling. “As a boy I made no secret of it, but as I -grew older I pretended not to care for her more than for any other, and -called her a little doll, you know, but it was mere pretense, for I -loved the very air she breathed; and when I heard she was engaged to -Dick, I cried as young men of twenty-two seldom cry. You know I had then -been in New York two years, and that soon after this I was received into -Uncle Jason’s employ, and trusted by him with everything. For my -father’s sake, he trusted me, he used to say, never dreaming how unlike -the father was the son. - -“After losing Anna I cared little for my self-respect, and then first -commenced the process of taking five or ten dollars, as I chanced to -need it. This I always replaced, and so conscience was satisfied, -particularly after I found that other young men, who stood as well as -myself, did the same. I cannot account for it, but I now believe that my -apparent indifference to Anna attracted rather than repelled her, for -when I was at home I used to try the experiment of being very attentive, -just to see how she would brighten with pleasure, but it was not until -my last visit, made the August before I ran away, that the idea entered -my brain of taking her from Richard. He was gone for two weeks, you will -remember, and I improved my time to so good advantage that when I -finally left Morrisville, I had won a half promise from Anna that she -would talk with him and ask to be released. She did not promise this -willingly, for her strong sense of right made her question the justice -of such an act, and all my arguments were necessary to wring that -promise from her. We were out in the graveyard, Dick on that little -bench,—you know where.” - -“Yes, I know;” and Richard’s reply was like a groan, as Anna and Dora -came up before him, connected with that rustic bench. - -“It was a moonlight night, and we stayed there a long, long time, mother -thinking we were at some neighbor’s house, while you, my brother, were -away, never dreaming how falsely I was dealing with you. But Anna -thought of you, pleading most for you, even while she confessed her love -for me, and saying that daily interviews with you made you more like her -brother. And there I had the advantage; I was comparatively a stranger, -while the city air and manner I had studied to acquire were not without -their effect on Anna. She was almost an angel, but human still, and so -the old story was again repeated. The city fop, with sin enough upon his -soul to have driven that pure young girl from his sight forever, could -she have known it, was preferred to the country boy. But it was hard -work, and more than once I gave up in despair, as, wringing her little -hands, she cried: - -“‘O Robert, don’t tempt me so. I do love Richard, or I did before you -came, and he is so good, so noble. God will never forgive me if I -deceive him so dreadfully. Please, Robert, don’t tempt me any more.’ - -“You can imagine how I answered her. There were kisses and caresses, and -assurances that you would rather give her up than take her when her -heart was not your own, and so the victory was won, and I acted a most -cowardly part. I made Anna promise not to speak of me when talking with -you, Richard, or hint in any way that I was the cause of her changed -feelings toward you. I then returned to New York, while she asked to be -released from her engagement. She wrote to me once, bitterly condemning -herself for her deception, as she termed it, and earnestly begging -permission to tell you all, but I refused, and held her to her promise; -and so matters stood when you decided upon sending her to Boston. You -know she came first to New York to Uncle Jason’s, whose wife is both -deaf and half blind, so she was not in my way at all. After you returned -home, Dick, I was there every night, and as Uncle Jason nodded over his -paper in his study, while Aunt Eliza nodded over her knitting in the -parlor, I had every opportunity for pressing my suit, rejoicing when I -saw how I could sway Anna at my will. She was easily influenced by those -she loved and trusted—” - -Here Robert’s voice trembled, and he paused a moment ere he resumed: - -“She believed that I was good, and this belief, more than anything I -could say, led her to listen to me. She was to leave on Monday for -Boston, and on Saturday I took her for a drive through the city, and -when she returned at night she was my wife. How I accomplished it I can -hardly tell, for at first Anna refused outright, but she was finally -persuaded, and at the house of a clergyman whom I knew by reputation the -ceremony was performed. It was the original plan that when her visit was -over I should accompany her home and announce our marriage, after which -she should return with me to New York, but subsequent events made this -impossible. My uncle had commissioned me to telegraph to the friends in -Boston that I would be there on Monday with Anna, and he kindly gave me -permission to remain a few days, or even longer if I liked. This I -professed to have done, but it was a lie I told my uncle, who, believing -Anna to be Dick’s betrothed, had no suspicion that I cared for her in -the least except as my sister. After leaving her at his door on Saturday -night, I purposely did not see her again until Monday, when, according -to arrangement, I went ostensibly to accompany her to Boston. Anna knew -nothing of my real intentions, and it was some time before she -understood that we were going to Albany instead of New Haven. In much -surprise she questioned me, turning very white and bursting into tears -when the truth dawned upon her, and she saw how she was becoming more -entangled in the deception. We stayed in Albany at the City Hotel until -Thursday morning, and in those three days I was, I believe, as perfectly -happy as is possible for mortal man to be. And Anna was happy too. In -her love for me she forgot all else, and I tasted fully of the bliss it -was to call that lovely, gentle creature wife. I remained in Boston one -night, but Friday found me again in New York, while one week from the -next Saturday night,—O, mother! if I could only blot out that Saturday -night from the past, but I cannot, and I must tell you how low your boy -fell. Knowing how good and pure Anna was I resolved that henceforth my -life should be such as she could approve, and to this end I would avoid -all my old associates, I said, and never again frequent their haunts or -come in contact with them. Chief among these associates was a Stanley, -who had first taught me to play, and who had constantly hovered near me -as my evil genius. On Saturday, he came into my office, and told me of a -rare specimen from Cincinnati who was terribly conceited, but whom _I_ -could beat so easily. ‘He has heaps of money,’ he said, ‘and if you -choose you can make a fortune in an hour. Come to-night, and you are -sure to win.’ - -“Instantly there flashed over me the thought ‘if Anna could only dress -and live like the ladies of Madison Square,’ but with it came the -knowledge of how she would disapprove, and I hesitated. The temptation -was a strong one, and as I continued to listen I felt my good -resolutions giving way. Just for once, and that should be the last, I -said, consenting to join my comrade, who evidently believed all he said -of the stranger. Ten o’clock found me at Stanley’s rooms, opposite my -antagonist, whom I at once pronounced a fool. Eleven found me the winner -of a considerable amount. Twelve o’clock, my lucky star was still in the -ascendant, but when two o’clock of that Sunday morning struck, I was -ruined, and my opponent held my note for $20,000. - -“Desperate, distracted, what could I do but forge my uncle’s name for -the amount, taking the precaution to draw from three or four banks where -he had funds deposited, and this I did without a thought of the -consequences; but when I woke to the peril of my situation I was mad -with fear, and determined to run away. But first I wrote to Anna, -telling her I was going, but withheld the reason why. After the letter -was sent I was seized with a terror lest she by some means should betray -me, and so I be brought to justice. My love for her was strong, but -dread of a prison life was stronger. Of Uncle Jason I asked and received -permission to visit Morrisville for a week, and when I left him he -thought I was going home, but I went instead to Boston, reaching there -in the night, and next morning hiring a boy to take a note to Anna. She -was alone when it was delivered, as the family were out on some shopping -expedition. In much alarm she came to the Revere, where I was to meet -her, and there the horrible truth was revealed that she was the wife of -a felon. She had not received my letter, and what I told her was wholly -unexpected. She did not faint, nor scream, nor even reproach me with my -sin. She merely sank upon her knees and prayed that I might be forgiven, -while into her eyes and face there stole a look which I know now to have -been the germ of insanity which afterwards came upon her. - -“‘Anna,’ I said, when her prayer was ended and she sat with her face -upon the table, ‘I am going to England in a vessel which sails to-night, -and from there to California, assuming the name of John Maxwell, and you -must not betray me.’ - -“Betray you! O Robert!” and the face she lifted up looked as grieved as -if I had struck her. - -“‘I know you will not do it voluntarily,’ I said, ‘but you must not make -yourself liable to be questioned. No one knows I am here. No one knows -you are my wife, and no one must know it. Not yet, at least not till it -is settled somehow, and I come back to claim you, or send for you to -join me.’ - -“Again she looked wistfully at me, and I continued: ‘If Uncle Jason knew -you were my wife, he would question and cross-question you until he -frightened it out of you, and I should be captured. I deserve to go to -prison, I know, but Anna, darling, think how terrible for one so young -to be shut out from this world, wearing my life away. Promise, Anna, and -I will be a better man; I will earn enough to pay it back. Promise, if, -indeed, you love me.’ - -“I was kneeling at her feet, sueing almost for my life. I was her -husband, and she loved me, erring as I was, and she promised at last to -keep her marriage a secret until I said she might tell. I ought to have -been satisfied with her word, but each moment the dread of arrest grew -greater, and taking the Bible which lay upon the table, I said, ‘Swear -with your hand on this.’ - -“Then she hesitated, but I carried my point, and with her hand on the -book she loved so much, she took an oath not to tell, and fell fainting -to the floor. I restored her as soon as possible, and led her through -obscure streets back to Mr. Haverleigh’s dwelling. I dared not kiss her -as I parted with her at the gate, for it was broad day, but I shall -never forget the look in her eyes as they rested on my face, while she -said, ‘Good-by, Robert. Ask God daily to forgive you as I shall do.’ - -“I wrung her cold, damp hand, and hurried away, seeing the Haverleigh -carriage drive up the street just as I turned into another, and knew -that Anna must have been safe in her room when the family returned.” - -“Poor Anna,” sobbed Mrs. West. “That was the time when Rosa Haverleigh -found her upon the floor totally unconscious. She was never herself -after that, and as they could not rouse her to an interest in anything, -they sent her back to us, a white-faced, frightened, half crazed -creature even then. O Robert, my son, how much sorrow you have wrought,” -and the poor mother wept piteously as she remembered the young girl whom -she in thought had wronged, and who she now knew had died for the erring -Robert, and kept silence even when to do so was to bring disgrace and -death upon herself. - -“Truly Anna died a martyr’s death,” Richard murmured, feeling now how -glad he was that he had held her in his arms and kissed her quivering -lips with the kiss of forgiveness, when all else stood aloof as from a -sinful thing. - -“Yes, a martyr’s death,” Robert repeated sadly; “and some time you will -tell me how she died and about her child, but now I hasten on with the -part which concerns myself. I went to England and then to California, -working in the gold mines like a dog, and literally starving myself for -the sake of gain. I _would_ pay that debt, I said, and I would yet be -worthy of Anna. It was some time in October that I stumbled upon a -Boston paper in which was a notice of Anna’s death, put in by the -Haverleighs, I presume, as they were greatly attached to her. I knew it -was my Anna, and that I had killed her, and for a time reason and life -forsook me. I was sick for weeks, and when I came back to life, -_Stanley_, the man who first taught me to sin, was taking care of me. -He, too, had come to the land of gold, finding me by mere chance, and -knowing at once that I was not John Maxwell, as I had given out. But he -betrayed no secrets, and since then has proved the old adage that there -is honor even among thieves. By some means he had ascertained that in -consideration of a sum of money paid by you, together with your promise -of the whole, Uncle Jason had concluded to say nothing of my forgery. He -had also heard that West Lawn was sold, and I knew well what prompted -this sacrifice, and cursed myself for the sinful wretch I was. Stanley -did not remain in California longer than spring, but returned to New -York, from which place he has occasionally written and given me tidings -of home. At my request he has at four different times been to -Morrisville, and reported to me what he learned. In this way I heard of -_Robin_, and I know that thoughts of him have helped to make me a better -man. - -“By some strange chance Stanley was there when Robin died, and mingling -with those who followed my child to the grave, he saw you, mother, and -Dick, and a young lady was with you, he said, a fair young girl, whom -Dick called Dora. Is she to be your wife?” and he turned towards -Richard, who, with a half moan, replied, “I hoped so once, but I have -lost her now.” - -Robert pressed the hands of his brother in token of sympathy, and then -continued: “I never saw my boy, but I wept bitterly when I heard he was -dead, while my desire to return was materially lessened; but this -feeling wore away, and I came again to look eagerly forward to the time -when with the gold in my hand I could go back and pay the heavy debt I -owe you.” - -“Did you never hear directly from Anna?” Richard asked, remembering the -letter sent to California. - -“Yes, once; and it made me for a time almost as mad as my darling. I was -up in the mountains when I read it, and the live-long night I lay upon -the ground, crying as men are not apt to cry. I have that letter now. It -is in my wallet. Would you like to see it?” - -A moment after Dr. West held in his hand a worn, yellow paper, on which -were traced the last words ever written by the unfortunate Anna, words -which made the doctor’s chest heave with anguish as he read them, while -his mother sobbed hysterically. A part of this letter we transcribe for -the reader: - -* * * “I am in a mad-house, darling, where are so many, many crazy -people, and they say that I am crazy too. It’s only the secret in my -head and heart which makes them burn so cruelly. Richard and mother -brought me here. Poor Richard looks so white and sorry, and speaks so -kindly of you, wondering where you are, that once I bit my tongue until -it bled, to keep from telling what I knew. If I had not promised with my -hand upon the Bible, I am sure I should tell, but that oath haunts me -day and night, and I dare not break it, so now I never talk, and I was -glad when they brought me here, for it was safer so. It was dreadful at -first, and sometimes I most wished I could die, but God is here just as -He is in Morrisville, and at last I prayed to Him as I used to do. You -see I forgot to pray for a while, it was so terrible, and I thought I -was lost forever, but I’ve found God again, and I don’t mind the -dreadful place. Everybody is kind to me, everybody says ‘poor girl,’ and -you need not worry because I am here. I pray for you every minute, and -God will hear and save you, because He has promised, and God never lies. -Dear, darling Robert, if I dared tell you something, it might perhaps -bring you home to spare me from the shame which is surely coming, unless -I tell, and that I’ve sworn not to do. It makes me blush to write it, -and so I guess I won’t; but just imagine, if I was your wife before all -the world, and we were living somewhere alone, and Richard did not love -me, as I know he does, and folks called me Mrs. West instead of poor -Anna, and you always hurried home at night to see me, wouldn’t it be -nice if we had a little baby between us to love, you because it was -Anna’s, and I because it was Robert’s! But now, O Robert, what shall I -do, with you away, and that Bible oath in my heart. God will help me, I -hope, and perhaps take me home to him, where they know I am innocent. -Poor Richard, I pity him most when he comes to know it, but God will -care for him, and when I am gone he will find some other one more worthy -than I for him to love. - -“There came a young girl here yesterday, not to stay, for her brains all -were sound, but with some more to look at us, and as they reached my -door I heard the attendant whisper something of me, while the stranger -came up to me and said: - -“‘Poor girl, does your head ache very hard?’ and she put her hand so -gently on my hair; but I would not look up, and she went on with her -companion, who called her Dora. I don’t know why her voice made me think -of Richard, but it did, it was so soft and pitiful, just like his when -he speaks to me. It made me cry, and I prayed carefully to myself, ‘God -send to Richard another love, with a voice and manner like Dora.’” * * * - -Richard could read no farther, but dropping the letter upon the bed, he -buried his face in his hands and moaned: - -“Darling Anna, your prayer will never be answered, but I thank you for -it all the same, and I am so glad that I never forsook nor quite lost -faith in you. O Anna! O Dora! Dora!” - -The last name was wrung from him inadvertently, but Robert caught it up -and said: - -“Was the Dora who was with you at Robin’s grave the same of whom Anna -speaks?” - -“I think so,—yes, I am sure, for she once told me of a visit made to the -asylum, and related an incident similar to this which Anna mentions.” - -“Then Dick,” and Robert spoke reverently but decidedly, “then she will -be yours. Anna prayed for it once, and I have implicit faith in Anna’s -prayers. They followed me over land and sea, bringing me at last to the -fountain of all peace.” - -Richard made no reply to this, but asked reproachfully why his brother -did not hasten home after receiving that touching message from Anna. - -“The letter was a long time coming,” Robert said. “And as I was not -expecting it, I never inquired at the post-office until I saw it -advertised. It was then the first of September, and Anna was already -dead, but this I did not know, and I was making up my mind to brave even -a prison for her sake, when I saw that paper which told me of her death. -The rest you know, except, indeed, the debt of gratitude I owe to you -and mother for all your kindness to my wife and boy, and for the love -with which you have ever cherished me. If I get well, I trust my life -will show that a wretch like me can reform. I have money enough to pay -the debt with interest, and, Richard, it is all yours, earned for you, -and hoarded as carefully as miser ever hoarded his gains. But now tell -me of Anna at the last. Did no one suspect she was my wife?” - -“No one but myself, and I did not till she was dying,” Richard replied. -“No one dreamed of questioning her of you, and so she was spared that -pain.” - -And then he told Robert the sad story which our readers already know, -the story of Anna’s death, of Robin’s birth, and his short life, while -Robert, listening to it, atoned for all the wrong by the anguish he -endured and the tears he shed, as the narrative proceeded. At last, when -it was finished, he sank back upon his pillow, wholly exhausted with -excitement and fatigue. - -For weeks after that he hovered so near the verge of death that even the -mother despaired, and looked each day to see the life go out from her -child, who in his boyhood had never been so dear to her as now. But -youth and a strong constitution triumphed, and again the fever abated, -leaving the sick man as weak and helpless as a child, but anxious for -the day when he would be able to make the homeward voyage. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - RICHARD. - - -So absorbed was Mrs. West in Robert that she seldom noticed Richard, and -so she paid no heed when he one day came into the sick-room, looking -whiter even than his brother, by whose side he sat down as usual, doing -for him the many offices he had been accustomed to perform, and except -for his suffering face, giving no token of the terrible pain which wrung -his heart when he that morning read in Jessie’s letter that the worst he -had feared was true, and that Dora was to be married in September. - -“For a person just engaged she acts very strangely,” Jessie wrote, “and -Bell will insist that she does not love her future lord, but is marrying -him from some mistaken sense of duty. What do you think?” - -Dr. West could not tell what he thought, he only knew that his brain -grew giddy, and his soul faint and sick as he realized that Dora was -lost to him forever. Never even when Anna died had he suffered so keen a -pang as now, when in the solitude of his chamber he tried to pray, while -the words he would utter died away in unmeaning sounds. But God, who -readeth the inmost secrets of the heart, knew what his poor sorrowing -child would ask, and the needed strength to bear was given all the same. - -It was very tedious now, waiting in that sick-room, for there crept into -Richard’s mind the half conviction that if he would see Dora for only -one brief moment, he could save her from the sacrifice. But Robert’s -improvement was slow, and day after day went by, until at last there -came a morning when there was put into Richard’s hand a soiled, -worn-looking letter, whose superscription made his heart for an instant -stop its beatings, for he recognized Dora’s handwriting, and -involuntarily pressed the missive to his lips ere he broke the seal. It -had been weeks and weeks upon the road, lying for a long time in another -office, but it had come to him at last; he had torn the envelope open; -he was reading Dora’s cry for help, written so long ago, a cry to which -he gave a far different interpretation from what she had intended. - -“Oh, why did I not speak to her again!” he exclaimed; “why was I -permitted to form so wrong an estimate of woman’s character? But it is -not yet too late. The wedding is to be the 15th of September, Jessie -wrote. A steamer sails from here in a few days, and Robert must be able -by that time to leave California, or if he is not I shall leave him -behind with mother and fly to Dora. Oh if I could go to-day!” - -An hour later, and Robert knew all there was to know of Dora as -connected with his brother, and warmly approved the plan of sailing in -the Raritan. I shall grow stronger on the sea, he said, and the result -proved that he was right, for when at last the Raritan was loosened from -her moorings and gliding swiftly over the blue waters of the Pacific, he -lay on her deck, drinking in new strength and vigor with each freshening -breeze. But with Richard it was different. Now that they were really -off, and Robert needed comparatively little of his help, he sank beneath -the load of anxiety and excitement, and taking to his berth, scarcely -lifted his head from the pillow while the ship went gliding on towards -home and Dora Freeman. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI. - THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING. - - -Never had a summer passed so slowly to Dora Freeman as had the last, and -yet now that it was gone, it seemed to her scarcely more than a week -since the night she had said words from which resulted all the busy -preparations going on around her: the bridal dresses packed away in -heavy travelling trunks, for they were going to Europe too,—the perfect -happiness of Johnnie, who, twenty times each day, kissed her tenderly, -whispering, “I am so glad that you are to be my mother”—the noisy -demonstrations of the younger ones, and the great joy which beamed all -over the Squire’s honest face each time he looked at his bride-elect and -thought how soon she would be his. Gradually the pressure about Dora’s -heart and brain had loosened, and she did not feel just as she had done -when she first promised to be Squire Russell’s wife. She had accustomed -herself to the idea, until each thought did not bring a throb of pain, -while the excitement of getting ready, and the anticipated tour to -places she had never expected to see, had afforded her some little -satisfaction. She knew that the world generally looked at her in wonder, -while Bell and Mattie totally disapproved, both framing some excuse for -not being present at the wedding. But as is usually the case opposition -only helped the matter by making her more determined to do what she -really believed to be her duty. Besides this she was strengthened and -upheld by Johnnie, who was to be the companion of her travels, and who -always came between her and every sharp, rough point, smoothing the -latter down and making all so bright and easy that she blessed him as -her good angel. Owing to his constant vigilance, his father was not -often very demonstrative of his affection, except by looks and deeds -done for her gratification, but still there were times when, Johnnie -being off guard, the father acted the fond lover to the pale, shrinking -girl, who, shutting her teeth firmly together, suffered his caresses -because she must, but gave him back no answering token of affection. -Sometimes this quiet coldness troubled him, particularly as Letitia and -Jimmie both asked him at different times why Auntie cried so much,—“did -everybody just before they were married? Did mother?” - -After Jessie came, Dora felt a great deal better, for Jessie made the -future anything but gloomy. Jessie was like a brilliant diamond, -flashing and sparkling, and singing and dancing and whistling until the -house seemed like a different place, and even Squire Russell wished he -could keep her there forever. - -And now it was the day before the bridal. Every trunk was packed, and -everything was ready for the ceremony, which was to occur at an early -hour in the morning, as the bridal pair were to take the first train for -New York. Jessie upon the grassy lawn was romping with the children, and -occasionally addressing some saucy, teasing remark to the -bridegroom-elect, who was smoking his cigar demurely beneath the trees, -and wishing Dora would join them. But Dora was differently employed. -With the quiet which had suddenly fallen upon the household, a terrible -reaction had come to her, and as if waking from some horrid nightmare, -she began to realize her position, to feel that only a few hours lay -between herself and a living death. Vaguely, too, she began to see how, -with every morning mail, there had come a shadowy hope that something -might be received from Dr. West, that in some way he would yet save her -from Squire Russell. But for months no news had been received of him by -any one, and now the last lingering hope had died, leaving only a -feeling of despair. She could not even write a line in her journal, and -once she thought to burn it, but something stayed the act, and ’mid a -rain of tears, she laid it away, resolving never to open its lids again -until her heart ached less than it was aching now. - -“I shall get over it, I know,” she moaned, as she seated herself by the -window. “If I thought I should not, I would go to Squire Russell before -the whole world, and on my knees would beg to be released; but I am -tired now, and excited, and everything looks so dark,—even my pleasant -chamber is so close that I can scarcely breathe. I wonder if the breeze -from the lake would not revive me. I’ll try it,—I’ll go there. I’ll sit -where Richard and I once sat. I’ll listen to the music of the waves just -as I listened then, and if this does not quiet me, if the horror is -still with me,—perhaps—” - -There was a hard, terrible look in Dora’s eyes as the evil thought first -flashed upon her, a look which grew more and more desperate as she began -to wonder how deep the waters were near the shore, and if the verdict -would be “accidental drowning,” and if Dr. West would care. - -Alas for Dora! the tempter was whispering horrible things to her, and -she, poor, half-crazed girl, was listening to him as she stole from the -back door, and took her way across the fields to where the waters of the -lake lay sparkling in the September sun now low in the western horizon. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII. - DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE. - - -The shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore tell no tales of what they -see, neither do the mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing the -pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her griefs, knowing there -was no listening human ear, and forgetting for a time that there was an -eye which kept watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding sand -she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where she and Richard sat, -and so she chose the projecting trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where -her feet could touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once -she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding it there till -it was wet through to see what the feeling was! - -Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that, but only remembered -how desolate, how miserable she was, vainly imagining that to rest -beneath the waters lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain, -the misery, and woe. - -The sun was going down the west now very fast, and out upon the bosom of -the lake, at some distance from the shore, it cast a gleam like -burnished gold, and Dora, gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she -could but reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would be -well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed her disordered mind, -and so she sat and watched the shining spot, until there came to her a -memory of the night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine -round Anna’s picture looked like the bed of fire upon the lake. - -“They are in heaven,” she said; adding mournfully, “and where is that -heaven?” - -“Not where they go who take their lives in their own hands,” seemed -whispered in her ear, and with a shudder she woke to the great peril of -her position. - -“Save me, O God!” she sobbed, as she moved cautiously back from her seat -upon the tree, breathing freer when she knew that beneath her there was -no dark, cold water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure. - -She had dipped them there until both hose and slippers were dripping -wet, but this she did not heed, and once off from the tree, she sat down -where Richard sat, and tried to look the present calmly in the face,—to -see if there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but accept -them. With her head bowed down, she did not hear the footstep coming -through the woods, and drawing near to her; but when a strange voice -said interrogatively, “Miss Freeman?” she started and uttered a nervous -cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger. And yet it was so -like to Dr. West, that she looked again to reassure herself. - -“I am Robert West,” the man began, abruptly. “I am Richard’s brother. He -sent me here,—he sent me to _his Dora_, and you are she.” - -For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through Dora’s heart, but -it quickly passed, as she answered Robert: - -“You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell’s wife to-morrow.” - -Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a part of what the -reader already knows, telling her of Anna, of his own sin, and -exonerating Richard from all blame. Then he told her of the meeting in -California, of his long illness,—of Richard’s anguish when he heard that -she was to be married,—of the reaction when that letter so long in -coming was received,—of his haste to embark for home, and his illness -during the voyage,—illness which made him so weak that he was brought -from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother’s arms. - -“But he has reached here in safety,” Robert continued. “He arrived -perhaps an hour ago. He is at his old boarding-place, Miss Markham’s, -and mother is there with him. He knows you are not married yet, and -would have come to you himself, but for his illness, which made it -impossible, and so he sent me to say that even as he loves you, so he -believes that you love him, and to beg of you not to sacrifice your -happiness to a mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when I -inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going towards the lake, -and as she pointed me the way, I came on until I found you. Miss -Freeman, you know my brother, and know that there lives no better, more -upright man, or one who will make you happier as your husband. You have -heard my errand, and now what word shall I take back to Richard, or will -you go yourself and see him?” - -Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his story; hope, joy, and -despair alternately succeeding each other in her heart as she listened. -At a glance, too, she took in all the difficulties of her position, and -saw how impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was in her mind -when Robert asked if she would go to Richard, and with a bitter moan she -answered: - -“No, no; oh no! he has come too late. I cannot break my word to John, -and he trusting me so fully. Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot -be now.” - -Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for the poor heart-broken -girl beside him, but her answer was just the same: - -“It might have been, but cannot be now.” - -At last as it grew darker around them, and the night dew made Dora -shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and said: - -“You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is imprudent to stay here longer in -the damp night air. I am satisfied that you do not know what you are -saying, and so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with the -whole.” - -In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her betrothed might be -spared this pain. - -“Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the disgrace,—for to-morrow -morning early is the wedding, and everybody knows. Why, our passage to -Europe is secured, and we must go.” - -“Not if I have the power to prevent it,” was Robert’s reply, as he led -her across the fields, still insisting that he should see Squire -Russell. - -At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she said, “I will tell -him myself; I can do it more gently, and it will not hurt so much. Don’t -go to him, but leave it with me.” - -“Will you tell him all and ask to be released?” Robert said, making her -stand still while she replied, “I’ll tell him all, how I love Richard -best; but I shall not ask to be released.” - -Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard of Squire Russell he -believed he would never require of Dora so great a sacrifice. - -“I shall be here with the early dawn,” he said, as he left her at the -gate. - -Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted upon the house -across the street, where she knew was Dr. West. There was a light -shining from the windows of the upper room, while the figure of a woman -wearing a widow’s cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro. - -“That is Richard’s room,” she whispered, feeling an intense desire to -fly at once to his side and assert her right to stay there. - -Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked slowly to the house, -meeting in the door with Johnnie, who, wild with excitement, exclaimed, -“Hurrah, guess who has come! Dr. West,—and I have been in to see him. -He’s whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his chin fairly shook when -I told him I was to have a new mother to-morrow, and what do you think, -that woman, his mother, put me out of the room and said too much talking -hurt him. Did you know he was here?” - -“Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where’s your father?” Dora asked, feeling that if -she waited longer her courage would give way. - -“Father’s in the library, and he’s ordered us youngsters to keep out. I -guess he’s expecting you, for he asked lots of times where you was, and -nobody knew, Jessie’s over there,” and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in -the direction of the doctor’s window. - -Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on till she came to -the library door. It was shut, and as she stood there trembling, she -caught the sound of a voice praying within, a voice which trembled with -happiness and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had given to -him Dora. - -“I can’t; oh, I can’t,” Dora sighed, as, faint and sick, she leaned -against the wall, while that prayer proceeded. - -Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could not talk with -him that night, she went up to her room, and in the garments all damp -and stained with night dew, and the slippers wet with the waters of the -lake, she sat down by the open window and watched the light across the -way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that Robert was with her. -They were talking, too, of her, for she heard her name coupled with Dr. -West’s, while Jessie said, “It’s dreadful, and I do so pity Squire -Russell,—he is such a nice, good man.” - -And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly knowing what was best, or -what she ought to advise. She had been present when Robert returned from -his interview with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she was gone -she came to know the whole, expressing great surprise, and wounding -Richard cruelly by saying, “It has gone so far that I do not believe it -can be prevented.” - -But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora’s promise to talk with -Squire Russell that night. - -“Then he will give her up,” Jessie exclaimed, “he is so generous and so -wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity him!” and in the heat of her great -pity Jessie would almost have been Dora’s substitute, if by that means -she could have saved the Squire from pain. - -She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind, affable, pleasant -ways, all the more because they were so exactly the opposite of her -father’s quick, brusque, nervous manner. The door of the library was -open now, and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed so -much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or prepare him for it -if it had not. I’ll see Dora first, she thought, and she hastened up to -Dora’s door, but it was locked, while to her whispered question, “Have -you told him yet?” Dora answered, “No, no, not yet; I can’t to-night. -Please leave me, Jessie; I want to be alone.” - -It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie thought, as she -turned away,—queerer than a novel ten times over. Then, as she spied -Johnnie in the parlor, the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to -see if he suspected anything; but Johnnie did not, and only talked of -Europe and the grand things he should see. Not a hint or insinuation, -however broad, would he take, and mentally styling him stupid and dull, -Jessie left him in disgust, and walked boldly into the library, -apologizing for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West, and -thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from him. The Squire was -very glad to hear, and glad also to see Jessie, who amused and -interested him. - -“I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora, but have not seen -her this evening. Where is she?” he said. - -“Locked in her room,” Jessie replied, as she took the chair he offered -her, and continued: “Dora acts queerly, but I suppose that is the way I -shall do the night before I am married. Wouldn’t I feel so funny, -though! Do you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in which -I am a side character; but to keep up the romance some tall, handsome -knight ought at the last minute to appear and carry her off.” - -“And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,” the Squire said, -playfully, as he smoothed the little black curly head moving so -restlessly. - -“Oh, I guess you would not die,” Jessie replied; “not if Dora loved the -knight the best. You would rather she should have him, and some time you -would find another Dora who loved you best of all.” - -Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic, very sorry for the -unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his hand still continued to smooth her -curls, she suddenly caught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze -darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at her manner, and to -style her mentally “a nice little girl, whom it would not be hard for -any man to love.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII. - THE BRIDAL DAY. - - -The morning was breaking in the east,—a bright, rosy morning, such as is -usual in early September,—a morning when the birds sang as gayly among -the trees as in the summer-time, and when the dew-drops glittered on the -flowers just as they had done in the mornings of the past. All night the -gas had burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all the -night the sick man had prayed that he might be prepared for what the -future had in store, whether of joy or sorrow. All night Jessie and -Johnnie had slept uneasily, dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he -repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the other that she, -instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath and stood at John Russell’s -side, and found it not so very terrible after all. All night Squire -Russell had lain awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling -of unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought no shadow of -the storm gathering round his head. All night, too, Dora,—but over the -scene of agony, contrition, remorse, terror, hope, and despair which her -chamber witnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the results. - -With the dawn the household was astir, for the elaborate breakfast was -to be served before the ceremony, which was to take place at half past -seven. In the children’s room there was first the opening of sleepy -little eyes, as Clem called out, “Come, come, wake up. This is your -father’s wedding-day.” Then there was a scampering across the floor, a -patter of tiny feet, a chorus of birdlike voices, mingled occasionally -with wrathful exclamations as Ben’s antagonistic propensities clashed -with those of Burt, who declared that “Aunt Dora was going to be -father’s mother, too, as well as theirs.” Then there were louder tones, -and finally a fight, which was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in -dressing-gown, with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish -a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for naught. - -Across the yard came Squire John from visiting Margaret’s grave, where -he had left a tear and a bouquet of flowers. Up the walk, from the front -gate, came Robert West, a look of determination on his handsome face, -which boded no good to the bridegroom-elect, who, guessing at once that -he was the doctor’s brother, greeted him cordially and bade him sit down -till the breakfast was announced. Up the same gravel walk came the woman -who was to dress the bride, and just as Robert West was stammering some -apology for being there unbidden, she asked if Miss Freeman had come -down. - -Nobody had seen her yet; nobody had heard her either, though Jessie had -been three times to her door, while Clem had been once, but neither -could get an answer. - -“Would she be apt to sleep so soundly on this morning?” Squire John -asked, just as Jessie, who had again tried the door, came running to the -head of the stairs, her brush in her hands, and her dressing-gown flying -back as she breathlessly explained to the anxious group in the hall -below how she was positive she had heard a moan as if Dora was in -distress. - -“Burst the door,” the Squire ordered, his face white as ashes, as he -hurried up the stairs, followed by Robert West. - -Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which met the ears of -all, and half crazy with fear Squire John pressed heavily against the -bolted door until it gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie, -stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaiming: - -“Dora, O Dora! what’s the matter? What makes her so sick?” and she cast -an appealing glance at her companions, who stood appalled at the change -a few hours had wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning. - -In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat or lain the entire -night, but the burning fever had dried them and stained her face with a -purplish red, while her eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no ray of -intelligence. She was lying now upon the bed, her hands pressed to her -forehead, as if the pain was there, while she moaned faintly, and -occasionally talked of the light on the wall which had troubled her so -much. - -“It would not go out,” she said to Jessie, who gently lifted up the -aching head and held it against her bosom. “It was there all the night, -and I know it burned for him. Does he know how sick I am?” - -A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West and Jessie, for they -knew that the light from Richard’s room had shone into Dora’s through -the darkness, and this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no -such suspicions, and when she asked, “Does _he_ know how sick I am?” he -bent over her tenderly, and smoothing her brown hair, said, “Poor child, -poor darling, I do know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard?” - -At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there came into her face a -rational expression, and as he continued to caress her, her lip -quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a -child would beg forgiveness of an injured parent: - -“Dear John, don’t be angry, I could not help it. I tried to come to you -last night when everybody was asleep and the clock was striking twelve. -I tried to come, but I could not find the way for the light on the wall. -I can’t, I can’t. The trunks are all packed too, and the people are -coming. Tell them I can’t.” - -“Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can’t, and it don’t make one -bit of difference, for I can wait, and I will tell the folks how sick my -Dora is,” John said, kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he -added, “She thinks I’ll be disappointed because the wedding is deferred, -and it troubles her. There’s the door-bell now. I must go down to -explain,” and he hurried away to meet the guests, who were arriving -rapidly, and who, as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more -disappointed than the bridegroom himself. - -Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as in his handsome -wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing guests, he was not -thinking of himself, but of Dora and how she might be served. - -“Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to the last lady, who -asked what doctor he would call; “but Dr. West is sick, and what can I -do?” - -“He might prescribe,” returned the lady, who was also one of Dr. West’s -adherents. “You can tell him her symptoms, and he can order medicine.” - -“Thank you; I never thought of that. I’ll go at once,” John said; and -bareheaded as he was, he crossed the street, and was soon knocking at -Mrs. Markham’s door. - -“The doctor’s worse,” she said, in reply to his inquiry. “He seems -terribly excited, and acts as if he was possessed.” - -“But I must see him,” Squire John continued. “Miss Freeman is very sick, -and he must prescribe.” - -“Ain’t there no wedding after all? Wall, if that don’t beat me!” was -Mrs. Markham’s response, as she carried to Dr. West the message which -roused him from the hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen. - -He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where he could watch the -proceedings across the street, and as Robert did not return, while one -after another the invited guests went up the walk into the house, he -gave up all as lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his -bed, whispering sadly: - -“Dora is not for me. But God knows best!” - -He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but when the message -was delivered it diffused new life at once. - -“Yes, show him up; I must talk with him,” he said, and a moment after -Squire John stood before his rival, his honest face full of anxiety, and -almost bedewed with tears as he stated all he knew of Dora’s case. “If I -could see her I could do so much better,” Richard said; “but that is -impossible to-day, so I must send,” and with hands which shook as they -had never shaken before, he gave out the medicine which he hoped might -save Dora’s life. - -“If you were able to go,” the Squire said, as he stood in the doorway, -“I would carry you myself; but perhaps it is not prudent.” - -He looked anxiously at the doctor, who replied: - -“If she gets no better, I’ll come.” - -And then as the door closed upon the Squire, he gave a great pitying -groan as he thought how trustful and unsuspicious he was. - -Holding fast to the medicine, and repeating the direction, Squire -Russell hastened back to the house, finding that Dora had been divested -of her soiled garments, and placed in bed, where she already seemed more -comfortable, though she kept talking incessantly of the light on the -wall which would not let her sleep. - -“It’s perfectly dreadful, isn’t it?” Jessie said to Robert, who, ere -going home, stepped to the door of Dora’s room. “I’m sure I don’t know -what to do. I wish Bell was here.” - -Dora heard the name, and said: - -“Yes, Bell; she knows, she understands,—she said I ought not to do it. -Send for Bell.” - -Accordingly Robert was furnished with the necessary directions, and left -the house for the telegraph office, just as the Squire entered. - -Johnnie was nearly frantic. At first he had seemed to consider that his -trip to Europe was prevented, and, boy-like, only was greatly -disappointed; but when he was admitted into the room and saw Dora’s -burning cheeks and bright, rolling eyes, he forgot everything in his -great distress for her. - -“Auntie must not die! Oh, she must not die!” he sobbed, feeling a keener -pang than any he had known when they brought home his dead mother. -Intuitively he seemed to feel that his father’s grief was greater than -his own, and keeping close to his side he held his hand, looking up into -his face, and whispering occasionally: - -“Poor father, I hope she won’t die!” - -The father hoped so too, but as the hours wore on and the fever -increased, those who saw her, shook their heads doubtingly, saying with -one accord: - -“She must have help soon, or it will come too late.” - -“Help from where? Tell me. Whom shall I get? Where shall I go?” John -asked, and the answer was always the same. “If _Dr. West_ could come, -but I suppose he can’t!” - -“He _can_! he _shall!_!” Johnnie exclaimed, as the house seemed filled -with Dora’s delirious ravings. “Father and that Mr. West can bring him -in a chair! He shall!” and Johnnie rushed across the street, nearly -upsetting Mrs. West in his headlong haste, and bursting upon Richard -with the exclamation, “She’ll die! she is dying, and you shall go! You -must,—you will! We’ll take you in this big chair!” and Johnnie wound his -arm around the doctor’s neck, while he begged of him to go and save Aunt -Dora. - -At first the doctor hesitated, but when his brother also joined in the -boy’s request, he said, “I’ll go.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV. - THE SHADOWS OF DEATH. - - -It was a novel sight to see the little procession which half an hour -later left Mrs. Markham’s house and moved across the street. Wrapped in -a blanket and reclining in the huge arm-chair which Squire John, his -coachman, and Robert West were carrying was Dr. West, while behind him -walked his mother, with Johnnie and Jim and Burt and Ben bringing up the -rear. - -“I think I had better go in alone. Too many may disturb her,” Richard -suggested, as, supported by his brother and the Squire, he reached the -upper hall and turned towards Dora’s chamber. - -All saw the propriety of this, and so only Jessie was present when -Richard first sat down by Dora’s side, and taking her hot hand pressed -it between his own, calling her by name and asking if she knew him. - -“Yes, Richard, and you have come to save me; I am so glad, and the night -was so long, with the light on the wall,” Dora replied, and over her -cheeks the tears fell refreshingly. - -“You have done her good already,” Jessie whispered to the doctor, who, -repressing his intense desire to hug the sick girl to his bosom, -proceeded carefully to examine every symptom and then to prescribe. - -She was very sick, he said, and the utmost quiet was necessary; only a -few must be allowed to see her, and no one should be admitted whose -presence disturbed her in the least. This was virtually keeping Squire -Russell away, for his presence did disturb her, as had been apparent all -the day, for she grew restless and talkative and feverish the moment he -appeared. It smote the doctor cruelly to see how meekly he received the -order. - -“Save her, doctor,” he said, “save my Dora and I will not mind giving -you all I’m worth.” - -But the power to save was not vested in Dr. West. He could only use the -means, and then with agony of soul pray that they might be blessed, that -Dora might live even though she should never be his. It was unnecessary -for him to return to Mrs. Markham’s, and yielding to what seemed best -for all, he remained at Squire Russell’s during the dreadful days of -suspense when Dora’s life hung on a thread, when Bell and Mattie, both -of whom came in answer to Robert’s telegram, bent over her pillow, -always turning away with the feeling that she must die, when Jessie, -yielding her place as nurse to more experienced hands, took the children -to the farthest part of the building, where she kept them quiet, -stifling her tears while she sang to them childish songs, or told them -fairy stories; and when Squire Russell, banished from the sick-room, sat -in the hall all the day long watching Dora’s door with a wistful, -beseeching look, which touched the hearts of those who saw it, and who -knew of the blow in store for him even if Dora lived. It was no secret -now, to five at least, that Dora could never be Squire Russell’s wife. -Mrs. West, Bell, Mattie, Jessie, and Robert all knew it, and while four -approved most heartily, _Jessie_ in her great pity hardly knew what she -should advise. She was so sorry for him sitting so patiently by the hall -window, and she wanted so much to comfort him. Sometimes, as she passed -near him, she did stop, and smoothing his hair, tell him how sorry she -was, while beneath the touch of those snowy fingers, his heart throbbed -with a feeling which prompted him to think much of Jessie, even while he -kept that tireless watch near Dora. - -It was strange how the doctor bore up, appearing better than when he -first came to Dora. It was excitement, he knew, and he was glad of the -artificial strength which kept him at her side, noting every change with -minuteness which went far toward effecting the cure for which he prayed. - -Two weeks had passed away, and then one night, just as the autumn -twilight was stealing into the room, Dora woke from a long, heavy sleep, -which Richard had watched breathlessly, for on its issue hung her life -or death. It was over now, and the hand Richard held was wet with -perspiration. Dora was saved, and burying his head upon her pillow, the -doctor said aloud: - -“I thank thee, O my Father, for giving me back my darling.” - -Richard was alone, for Bell and Mattie had both left the room to take -their supper, and there was no one present to see the look of -unutterable joy which crept into his face, when, in response to his -thanksgiving, a faint voice said: - -“Kiss me once, Richard, for the sake of what might have been, then let -me die,—here, just as I am, alone with you.” - -He kissed her more than once, more than twice, while he said to her: - -“You will not die; the crisis is past; my darling will live.” - -Neither thought of Squire Russell then, so full, so perfect was that -moment of bliss in which each acknowledged the deep love filling their -hearts with joy. Dora was the first to remember, and with a moan she -turned her face to the wall while the doctor still held and caressed the -little wasted hand which did not withdraw itself from his grasp. There -was joy in the household that night, for the glad news that Dora was -better spread rapidly, while smiles and tears of happiness took the -place of sorrow. Squire Russell was gone; business which required -attention had taken him away for several hours, and when he returned it -was too late to visit the sick-room; but he heard from Johnnie that Dora -would live, and from his room there went up a prayer of thanksgiving to -Heaven, who had not taken away one so dear as Dora. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV. - BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT. - - -“Poor Squire Russell,” Jessie kept repeating to herself, as she saw him -next morning going up to Dora, who would far rather not have seen him -until some one had told him what she knew now must be. - -But there was no longer a reason why he should not be admitted to her -presence, and so he came, his kind face bathed in tears, and glowing all -over with delight as he stooped to kiss “his lily,” as he called her, -asking how she felt, and whispering to her of his joy that she was -better. - -“I knew the doctor would help you,” he said, rubbing his hands -complacently. “You would have died but for him. We will always like Dr. -West, Dora, for he saved your life.” - -“I guess I would not talk any more now,—it tires her,” Jessie said, in a -perfect tremor of distress; and taking his arm, she led him away; then, -closing the door upon him, she went back to Dora, who was weeping -silently. - -“It seems dreadful to deceive him any longer,” Jessie said, and as Dr. -West just then came in she appealed to him to know if it were not a -shame for that nice man to be kept so in the dark. “If you and Dora love -each other, as I suppose you do, why, you’ll have each other of course, -and Squire Russell must console himself as best he can. For my part, I -pity him,” and Jessie flounced out of the room, leaving Dr. West alone -with Dora. - -For a long time they talked, Dora weeping softly while the doctor -soothed and comforted, and told her of the love cherished so many years -for the little brown-eyed girl, who now confessed how dear he was to -her, but cried mournfully when she spoke of Squire Russell. It was cruel -when he trusted and loved her so much. Perhaps, too, it was wrong, she -said. It might be her imperative duty to take charge of those children, -and then she startled the doctor by saying: - -“You know how much I love you. I am not ashamed to confess it, but I am -most afraid that when the time comes to talk with John, I shall tell him -that I will marry him.” - -“_Not by a jug full!_ I’ll tend to that myself. I know now what has been -the matter!” was almost screamed in the ears of Dr. West and Dora, as -Johnnie rushed into the room. - -He had started to come before, he said, but had been arrested at the -door by something Dora was saying to the doctor. - -“I know it’s paltry mean to listen,” he continued, “but I could not help -it, and so I stood stiller than a mouse, and heard all you had to say. -That’s why Aunt Dora has looked so white and cried so much, and didn’t -want father to kiss her. I understand. She didn’t like him, but she’s -pesky willing to have _you_ slobber over her as much as you want to,” -and the boy turned fiercely toward the doctor. “I counted, and while I -stood there you kissed her _fourteen_ times! It was smack, smack, till I -was fairly sick, and sort of mad with all the rest. I know auntie always -_has_ done right, and so I s’pose she is right now, but somehow I can’t -help feeling as if the governor was abused, and _me_ too! How, I’d like -to know, am I ever going to Europe if you don’t have father? O Auntie, -think again before you quit entirely!” and overmastered with tears, -Johnnie buried his face in the bed-clothes, begging of Dora “to think -again, and not give poor father the mitten!” - -“You are making her worse! You had better go out!” the doctor said -kindly, laying a hand on Johnnie’s shoulder; but the boy shook it off, -savagely exclaiming: - -“You let me _be_, old Dr. West. I shall stay if I have a mind to!” But -when Dora said: - -“Johnnie, Johnnie, please don’t,” he melted at once, and sobbed aloud. - -“I was mad, Auntie; and I guess I’m mad yet, but I do love you. O -Auntie, poor father! I’m going right off to tell him. He shan’t be -fooled any longer!” and the excited child darted from the room ere Dora -had time to stop him. - -Rushing down the stairs and entering the library, he called loudly for -his father, but he was not there. He had gone into the village, Jessie -said, asking if it was anything in particular which he wanted. “Yes, of -course. I want to tell him how it’s all day with him and Auntie. She -don’t like him, and she does like Dr. West. Poor father! was there ever -anything so mean?” - -Here at last was one who in part expressed her own sentiments, and the -impulsive Jessie replied: - -“It is mean, I think, and I am so sorry for your father. Of course Dora -intends to do right, and likes the doctor best, because he is not so old -as your father; but young as I am, I should not think it so awful to -marry a man of forty. Why, I think it would be rather jolly, for I could -do just as I pleased with him. Yes, I blame Dora some—” - -“I won’t have Aunt Dora blamed,” Johnnie roared, a reaction taking place -the moment any one presumed to censure her. “No, I won’t have her -blamed, so you just hush up. If she don’t want father she shan’t have -him, and I’ll lick the first one who says she shall.” - -Here Johnnie broke down entirely, and with a howling cry fled away into -the garden, leaving Jessie perfectly amazed as she thought “how very -unsatisfactory it was to meddle with a love-affair.” - -Meanwhile Johnnie had seated himself beneath a tree in a sunny, quiet -spot, where he was crying bitterly, and feeling almost as much grieved -as when his mother died. Indeed, he fancied that he felt worse, for then -there was hope in the future, and now there was none. Hearing the sound -of the gate, and thinking his father had returned, he rose at last, and -drying his eyes, repaired to the house, finding his conjecture true, for -Squire Russell had come, and was reading his paper in the library. With -his face all flushed with excitement, and his eyes red with weeping, -Johnnie went to him at once, and bolting the door, began impetuously, “I -would not mind it a bit, father. I’d keep a stiff upper lip, just as if -I did not care.” - -“What do you mean?” the Squire asked, in surprise, and Johnnie -continued: “I mean that you and Aunt Dora have _played out_, and you may -as well hang up your fiddle, for she don’t want you, and she does want -Dr. West, and that’s why she has grown poor as a shark and white as -chalk. I just found it out, standing by the door and hearing the -greatest lot of stuff,—how he asked her to marry him once, and she got -into a tantrum and wouldn’t say yes, though she wanted to all the time. -What makes girls act so, I wonder?” - -Squire Russell was too deeply interested to offer any explanation with -regard to girls’ actions, and Johnnie went on: - -“Then he went off to California, and didn’t write, as she hoped he -would, and you and I asked her to have you, and she did not want to, but -thought it was her duty, and wrote to ask the doctor, and he didn’t get -the letter for weeks and weeks, and when he did he was most distracted, -and cut stick for home; and Aunt Dora didn’t know it, and went off to -the Lake, and sat with both feet in the water, and Mr. Robert West found -her there and told her, and got her home, and she most had a fit, and, O -thunder! what a muss they have kicked up!” - -Here Johnnie stopped for breath, while his father grasped the table with -both hands, as if he thus would steady himself, while he said slowly, -with long breaths between the words, “How—was it—my son? Tell me—again. -I—I do not—think—I understand.” - -Briefly then Johnnie recapitulated, telling how he happened to find it -out, and adding, “Such kissing I never heard! _Fourteen_ smashers, for I -counted; and don’t you know, father, how, if you even touched her hand -or her hair, she would wiggle and squirm as if it hurt her? Well, I -peeked through the crack of the door, and instead of wigglin’ she -snugged up to him as if she liked it, and I know she did, for her eyes -fairly shone, they were so bright, when she looked at him. But, father, -she talked real good about you, and said that if you insisted she should -marry you just the same; but you won’t father, will you?” - -“No, my son, no. O Dora!” - -The words were a groan, while the Squire laid his face upon the table. -Instantly Johnnie was at his side comforting him as well as he was able, -and trying manfully to keep down his own choking sorrow. - -“Never mind, father, never mind; we will get along, you and I. And I’ll -tell you now what folks say, and that is, that no chap has a right to -marry his wife’s sister, which I guess is so. Don’t cry, father, don’t. -Somebody will have you, if Aunt Dora won’t. There,—there,” and Johnnie -tried in vain to hush the grief becoming rather demonstrative as the -Squire began to realize what he had lost. - -Noisy grief is never so deep as the calm, quiet sorrow which can find no -outlet for its tears, and so Squire Russell was the more sure to outlive -this bitter trial; but that did not help him now, or make the future -seem one whit less desolate. It was an hour before Johnnie left him, and -went into the hall, where he encountered Jessie, to whom he said, “I’ve -told him and he’ll do the handsome thing, but it almost kills him. Maybe -you, being a girl, can talk to him better than I,” and Johnnie went on -up to Dora’s chamber, while Jessie, after hesitating a moment, glided -quietly into the library, where Squire Russell still sat with his head -upon the table. - -Jessie was a nice little comforter, and so the Squire found her as she -stood over him, just as she did when Margaret died, smoothing his hair, -her favorite method of expressing sympathy, and saying to him so softly, -“I pity you, and I think you so good to give her up.” - -He could talk to Jessie; and bidding her to sit down, he asked what she -knew of Dora’s love-affair with the doctor, thereby learning some things -which Johnnie had not told him. - -“It is well,” he said at last; “I see that Dora is not for me; I give -her to Dr. West; and, Miss Verner,—Jessie,—I thank, you for your -sympathy with both of us. I am glad you are here.” - -Jessie was glad, too, for if there was anything she especially enjoyed, -it was the whirl and the excitement going on around her. Bowing, she too -quitted the library, and went up to corroborate what Johnnie had already -told to Dora. - -After that Squire Russell sat no more in the upper hall watching Dora’s -door, but stayed downstairs with his little children, to whom he -attached himself continually, as if he felt that he must be to them -father and mother both. Now that the crisis was past, the doctor thought -it advisable to go back to Mrs. Markham’s, his boarding-place, but he -met Squire Russell first, and heard from his own lips a confirmation of -what Johnnie had said. There was no malice in John Russell’s nature, and -he treated the doctor as cordially and kindly as if he had not been his -rival. - -“God bless you both,” he said; “I blame no one,—harbor no ill-feeling -towards any one. If Dora had told me frankly at first it might have -saved some pain, some mortification, but I do not lay it up against her. -She meant for the best. It is natural she should love you more than me. -God bless her; and doctor, if you like, marry her at once, but don’t -take her away from here yet; wait a little till I am more settled,—for -the children’s sake, you know.” - -Dr. West could not understand the feeling which prompted Squire Russell -to want Dora to stay there, but he recognized the great unselfishness of -the man whose sunshine he had darkened, and with a trembling lip he, -too, said, “God bless you,” as he grasped the hand most cordially -offered, and then hurried away. It was a week before the Squire could -command sufficient courage to have an interview with Dora, as she had -repeatedly asked that he might do. With a faltering step he approached -her door, hesitating upon the threshold, until Jessie, coming suddenly -upon him, said to him, cheerily, “It will soon be over, never mind it; -go in.” - -So he went in, and stayed a long, long time, but as they were alone, no -one ever knew all that had passed between them. The Squire was very -white when he came out, but his face shone with a look of one who felt -that he had done right, and after that the expression did not change -except that it gradually deepened into one of content and even -cheerfulness, as the days went by, and people not only came to know that -the wedding between himself and Dora would never be, but also to approve -the arrangement, and to treat him as a hero who had achieved a famous -victory. As for Dora, Jessie and Bell found her after the interview -weeping bitterly over what she called her own wicked selfishness and -John’s great generous goodness in giving her up so kindly, and making -her feel while he was talking to her that it really was no matter about -him. He was not injured so very much, although he had loved her dearly. -He still had his children, and with them he should be happy. - -“Oh, he is the best man!” Dora said; “the very best man that ever lived, -and I wish he might find some suitable wife, whom he could love better -than he did me, and who would make him happy.” - -“So do I! I guess I do!” retorted Jessie, industriously cutting a sheet -of note-paper in little slips and scattering them on the floor. “I’ve -thought of everybody that would be at all suitable, for I suppose he -must be married on account of the children; but there is nobody good -enough except—” and Jessie held the scissors and paper still a moment, -while she added, “except Bell. I think she would answer nicely. She is -twenty-nine,—almost that awful thirty,—which no unmarried woman ever -reaches, they say; and I’d like to be aunt to six children right well, -only I believe I should thrash Jim and Letitia—who, by the way, is not -very bright. Did you ever discover it, Dora?” - -Dora had sometimes thought Letitia a little dull, she said, and then she -turned to Bell to see how she fancied the idea of being step-mother to -all those dreadful children; but Bell did not fancy it at all, as was -plainly indicated by the haughty toss of her head as she replied that: - -“Thirty had no terrors for her, but was infinitely preferable to a -widower with six children.” - -Jessie whistled, while Dora smiled softly as she caught the sound of a -well-known step upon the stairs, and knew her physician was coming. - -Bell and Jessie always left her alone with him, and when they were gone -he kissed her pale cheek, which flushed with happiness, while her sunny -eyes looked volumes of love into the eyes meeting them so fondly. - -“My darling has been crying,” the doctor said. “Will she tell me why?” - -And then came the story of her interview with John, who had proved -himself so noble and good. - -“Yes, I know; he came from you to me!” the doctor replied, and into -Dora’s eyes there crept a bashful, frightened look, as she wondered if -John had said to Richard what he did to her. - -He had in part, viz., that he wished matters to proceed just as if he -had never thought of marrying Dora; that as soon as she was able he -would like to see her the doctor’s wife, and then if there were no -objections on the part of either, he would like to have her remain at -Beechwood awhile, at least until he could make some other arrangement -for his children. - -“I told him you might,” Richard said, as he imprisoned the hand which -was raised to remonstrate. “I said I knew you would be willing to stay, -and that I should like my new boarding-place very much; and now nothing -remains but for you to get well as fast as possible, for the moment the -doctor pronounces you convalescent you are to be his wife. Do you -understand?” - -He did not tell her then of the plan which was maturing, and for the -furtherance of which Robert was sent away, viz., the purchase of the -homestead whose loss Dora had so much deplored. - -There was an opening in the town for a new physician, the doctor had -ascertained; and though he would dislike to leave his many friends in -Beechwood, still, for Dora’s sake, he could do so, and he had sent -Robert to open negotiations with the present proprietor of the place -once owned by Colonel Freeman, and for which there was ample means to -pay in the sum brought by the prodigal from the mines of California. - -But this was a secret until something definite was known, and Richard -willingly acceded to the Squire’s proposition that he and Dora should -remain there until something was devised for the children. - -Of this Dora was not much inclined to talk, and as she was tired and -excited, the doctor left her at last, stopping on his way from the house -to look at little Daisy, whom Jessie held in her lap, and who seemed -feverish and sick. The doctor did not then say what he feared, but when -later in the day he came again, the child’s symptoms had developed so -rapidly, that he had no hesitancy in pronouncing it the scarlet fever, -then prevailing to an alarming extent in an adjoining town. - -Squire Russell had thought his cup full to overflowing, but in his -anxiety for Daisy, he forgot his recent disappointment, and, as a father -and mother both, nursed his suffering child, assisted by Jessie, whose -services there, as elsewhere, were invaluable. It was indeed a house of -mourning, and for weeks a dark cloud brooded over it as one after -another, Ben and Burt, Letitia and Jim, were prostrate with the disease -which Daisy had been the first to take, and from which she slowly -recovered. When Letitia was smitten down Jessie was filled with remorse, -for she remembered what she had said of the quiet child, and with a -sister’s tenderness she nursed the little girl, who would take her -medicine from no one else. From the first Ben and Burt were not very -ill, but for a time it seemed doubtful which would gain the mastery, -life or death, in the cases of Letitia and Jim. With regard to Letitia -that question was soon settled, and one October morning Jessie put -gently back upon the pillow the child who had died in her lap, kissing -her the last of all ere she went the dark road already trodden by the -mother, who in life would have chosen anybody else than Jessie Verner to -have soothed the last moments of her little girl. - -But Jessie’s work was not yet done, and while the sad procession went on -its way to the village graveyard, where Margaret was lying, she sat by -Jimmie’s side fanning his feverish cheeks, and carefully administering -the medicines which were no longer of avail. - -Two days after Jimmie, too, died in Jessie’s lap, and as she gave him -into his father’s arms the weeping man blessed her silently for all she -had been to him and his, and felt how doubly desolate he should be -without her. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI. - GIVING IN MARRIAGE. - - -There were two little graves now by Margaret’s, and in the house two -vacant chairs, and two voices hushed, while Squire Russell counted four -children where he had numbered six, and yet the unselfish man would hear -of no delay to Dora’s marriage. - -“Let it go on the same,” he said. “It will make me feel better to know -that there are around me some perfectly happy ones.” - -And so the day was appointed, and Bell and Mattie were summoned again -from Morrisville, whither the latter had gone during the children’s -illness. Judge Verner was lonely with both of his daughters absent, and -as of the two he was most accustomed to Bell, he would have been quite -content with having her back again if she had not told him how Jessie -had turned nurse to Squire Russell’s children, and was consequently in -danger of taking the disease. This roused him, and in a characteristic -letter to Jessie he bade her “not make a fool of herself any longer by -tending children with canker-rash and feeding them with sweetened water, -but to pack up her traps and come home.” - -To this the saucy Jessie replied that “she should not come home till she -was ready; that the Judge could shut up, and what he called sweetened -water was quite as strong as the medicine which once cured his colic so -soon.” Then, in the coaxing tone the Judge could never resist, she -added, “You know I’m just in fun, father, when I talk like that, but -really I must stay till after Dora is married, and you must let me, -that’s a dear, good old soul,” and so the “good old soul” was cajoled -into writing that Jessie might stay, adding in postscript, “Bell tells -me you say all sorts of extravagant things about that widower, and this -is well enough as long as they mean nothing, but for thunder’s sake -don’t go to offering yourself to him in a streak of pity. A nice wife -you would make for a widower with six children,—you who don’t know how -to darn a pair of stockings, nor make a bed so that the one who sleeps -the back side won’t roll out of the front. Mind, now, don’t be a fool.” - -“I wonder what put that idea into father’s head,” Jessie said, as she -read the letter. “I would not have Squire Russell, let alone offering -myself to him. And I do know how to darn socks. Any way, I can pull the -holes together, which is just as well as to put in a ball and peek and -poke and weave back and forth, and make lacework of it just as Bell -does. It’s a real old-maidish trick, and I won’t be an old maid anyhow, -if I have to marry Squire Russell,” and crushing the letter into her -pocket Jessie went dancing down the stairs, whistling softly for fear of -disturbing the sick children. - -That afternoon Dora found her, with her face very red and anxious, -bending over a basket of stockings and socks, which she was trying to -darn after the method most approved by Bell. “Clem had so much to do -that day,” she said, “that she had offered to help by taking the darning -off her hands.” But it was a greater task than Jessie had anticipated, -and Johnnie’s aid was called in before it was finished, the boy proving -quite as efficient as the girl, and as Clem secretly thought, succeeding -even better. This was before Letitia and Jimmie died, and since their -death the Judge had made no effort to call her home, but suffered her to -take her own course, which she did by remaining in Beechwood, where they -would have missed her so much, and where, if she could not darn socks -neatly, she made herself generally useful as the day for the wedding -approached. It was arranged to take place on Christmas Eve, and it was -Jessie who first suggested that the house should be trimmed even more -elaborately than the little church upon the common, where the ceremony -was to be performed. With Johnnie as her prime minister, Jessie could -accomplish almost anything, and when their work was done, every one -joined heartily in praise of the green festoons and wreaths, on which -were twined the scarlet berries of the mountain ash, with here and there -a blossom of purest white, purloined from the costly flowers which -Squire Russell ordered in such profusion from the nearest hothouse. Dora -took but little part in the preparations. She was very happy, but her -joy was of that quiet kind, which made her content to be still and rest, -after the turmoil and wretchedness through which she had passed. The -doctor was with her constantly, and to Jessie, who saw the look of -perfect peace upon his face and Dora’s, they seemed the impersonation of -bliss, while even Bertie noted the change in Dora, saying to her once as -she sat with the doctor: - -“You don’t look now, Auntie, as you did when you was married to pa.” - -Dora could only blush, while the doctor laughingly tossed the little -fellow upon his shoulder and carried him off to the office. If Squire -Russell suffered, it was not perceptible, and Jessie thought he had -recovered wonderfully, while Dora, too, hoped the wound had not been so -deep as even to leave a scar. He was very kind and thoughtful, -remembering everything that was needful to be done, and treating Dora as -if she had been his daughter. He wished her to forget the past; wished -to forget it himself; and by the cheerful, active course he took, he -bade fair to do so. He should give the bride away, he said, and when -Mattie Randall, to whom he was a study, asked kindly if he was sure he -was equal to it, he answered, “O yes, wholly so. I see now that Dora -would never have been happy with me. I should have laid her by Madge in -less than a year. I am glad it has all happened as it has.” - -He did seem to be glad, and when, on the night of the 24th, the little -bridal party stood waiting in the parlor for the carriages which were to -take them to the church, his face was as serene and placid as if he had -never hoped to occupy the place the doctor occupied. Through much sorrow -he had been tried and purified, until now in his heart, always unselfish -and kind, there was room for the holier, gentler feelings which only the -peace of God can give. Not in vain had he in the solitude of his chamber -writhed and groaned over the crushing pang with which he gave Dora up, -while the tears wept over his dead children were to him a holier baptism -than any received before, washing him clean and making him a -noble-minded Christian man. Margaret’s grave had during those autumn -months witnessed many an earnest prayer for the strength and peace which -were found at last, and were the secret of his composure. Just before -the sun-setting of Dora’s bridal day, he had gone alone to the three -lonely graves and laid upon the longest the exquisite cross of evergreen -and white wax berries which Jessie’s fingers had fashioned for this very -purpose, Jessie’s brain having been the first to conceive the plan. -There was also a bouquet of buds for each of the smaller graves, and -Squire Russell placed them carefully upon the sod, which he watered with -his tears; then, with a whispered prayer, he went back across the fields -to where Dora, in her bridal dress, was waiting, but not for him. He was -not the bridegroom, and he stood aside as the doctor bounded up the -stairs, in obedience to Jessie’s call that he should come and see if -ever anybody looked so sweetly as his bride, but charging him not to -touch her lest some band, or braid, or fold, or flower should give way. - -“It won’t be always so,” he said, standing off as Jessie directed. “By -and by she will be all my own, and then I can hug her,—_so_!” and in -spite of Jessie’s screams, he wound his arms around Dora’s neck, giving -her a most emphatic kiss as his farewell to Dora Freeman. “When I kiss -you again you will be Dora West,” he whispered, as he drew the blushing -girl’s arm in his, and led her down the stairs. - -The church was crowded to its utmost capacity, and it was with some -difficulty that the colored sexton had kept a space cleared for the -bridal party, which passed slowly up the aisle, while the soft notes of -the organ floated on the air. Then the music ceased, and only the -rector’s voice was heard, uttering the solemn words, “I require and -charge you both,” etc.; but there was no need for this appeal, there was -no impediment, no reason why these two hearts, throbbing so lovingly, -should not be joined together, and so the rite went on, while amid the -gay throng only one heart was heavy and sad. Robert West, leaning -against a pillar, could not forget another ceremony, where he was one of -the principal actors, while the other was Anna, beautiful Anna, over -whose head the snows of many a wintry eve had fallen, and who but for -him might have been now among the living. He had visited her grave and -Robin’s, had knelt on the turf which covered them, and sued so earnestly -for pardon, had whispered to the winds words of deepest love and -contrition, as if the injured dead could hear, and then he had gone away -to seek the man whom he had so wronged, and who for the brother’s sake -had kept his sin a secret. Uncle Jason had forgiven him, had said that -all was right, that every trace of his error was destroyed, and Robert -had mingled fearlessly again among his fellowmen, who, only guessing in -part his guilt, and feeling intuitively that he had changed, received -him gladly into their midst. - -Summoned by his brother’s letters, he had returned to Beechwood, and now -formed one of the party, who, when the rite was over, went back to the -brightly illuminated house, where the Christmas garlands, the box, and -the pine, and the fir were hung, and where the marriage festivities -proceeded rationally, quietly, save as Jessie’s birdlike voice pealed -through the house, as she played off her jokes, first upon one and then -another, adroitly trying to coax Bell and the young clergyman, Mr. -Kelly, under the mistletoe bough, and then screaming with delight as her -father and Mrs. David West were the first to pass within the charmed -circle. Jessie was alive with fun and frolic, and making Bell sit down -at the piano, she declared that somebody should dance at Dora’s wedding -if she had to dance alone. - -“Take Johnnie,” Dora said, and the two were soon whirling through the -rooms, the boy’s head coming far above the black curls of the merry -little maiden, who flashed, and gleamed, and sparkled among the -assembled guests till more than one heart beat faster as it caught the -influence of her exhilarating presence. - -Robert West dreamed of her that night; so did Mr. Kelly, the rector; and -so did Squire Russell; but the two first forgot her again next morning, -as each said good-by to the handsome, stately Bell,—a far more fitting -match for either than the black-eyed sprite who for a moment had made -their pulses quicken. But not so with the Squire. To him the house was -very desolate when he returned to it, after having accompanied the -bride, and groom, and guests to the cars, which all took for -Morrisville, whither they were going. It was Dora he missed, the -servants said, pitying him, he looked so sad, while he too believed it -was Dora; and still as he knelt that day in church, there was beside him -another face than Dora’s,—a saucy, laughing, face, which we recognize as -belonging to Jessie,—who, at that very moment, while keeping her -companions in a constant turmoil and her father in a constant scold, was -thinking of him and saying mentally: - -“Poor Squire Russell! how I pity him,—left there all alone! and how I -wonder if he misses me!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII. - MORE OF MARRIAGE. - - -The homestead where Dora’s childhood had been passed “could not be -bought for love nor money;” so Robert, the negotiator, had reported to -his brother on the morning following the latter’s marriage, and so -Richard reported to Dora, as he sat with her at Mattie Randall’s, up in -the chamber which Dora called hers, and where Anna had died. Mattie had -wished to give the bridal pair another room, but Dora would take no -other; and as Richard was satisfied, they occupied the one whose walls -had witnessed so much sorrow in the days gone by. But there was no grief -there now, nothing but perfect bliss, as Richard held his darling to his -heart and told her for the thousandth time how dear she was to him, and -how he thanked the Father of all good for giving her to him at last. In -all his joy he never forgot his God, or placed Him second to Dora, who -listened and smiled and returned his fond caresses until he told her of -his plan to buy the homestead, and how that plan had been defeated by -the refusal of the present proprietor. Then Dora hid her face in his -bosom and wept softly to the memory of her old home, which Richard had -tried so hard to buy back for her. - -“You are so good, so kind,” she said, as he asked her why she cried, and -pitied what he thought was her disappointment. “It is not that,” she -continued, as she dried her tears. “It is your thoughtful love for me. I -should be very happy at the old place, but, Richard, I am not sure that -I should not be happier in Beechwood, where I have lived so long, and -where you have so many friends. There John’s children would be nearer -me, and I must care for them.” - -And so it was arranged that Richard should buy the fine building spot to -the right of Squire Russell’s, and that until the house he would erect -should be completed, Dora should remain at home and care for the -children. - -This plan, when submitted to the Squire, met his hearty approval, and -made the future look less dreary than before. He should not be left -alone entirely, for Dora would be near to counsel and advise, and his -face was very bright and cheerful as he welcomed the travellers back -from their long trip, which lasted until February. - -Towards the latter part of April, Jessie accepted of Dora’s cordial -invitation to visit them again, and came to Beechwood, the same bright, -laughing, gleeful creature as ever, the sunshiny being in whom, the -moment he saw her seated again by his fireside, Squire Russell -recognized the want he had felt ever since she left him the winter -previous. He was so glad to have her back,—his eldest child he called -her,—and treated her much as if he had been her father, notwithstanding -that she made ludicrous attempts at dignity, on the strength of being -twenty her next birthday, which was in June. Jessie was very pretty this -spring, Squire Russell thought when he thought of her at all, and so -thought the Rector of St. Luke’s, Mr. Kelly, who came nearly every day, -ostensibly to talk with Mrs. Dr. West about some new plan for advancing -the interests of the Sunday-school, but really to catch a glimpse of -Jessie’s sparkling beauty, or hear some of her saucy sayings. But -always, when he left the house and went back to his bachelor rooms, he -said to himself, “It would never do. She is a frolicsome, pretty little -plaything, who would amuse and rest me vastly, but she would shock my -parishioners out of all the good I could ever instill into their minds. -No, it won’t do.” - -Robert West, too, whose pulse had beaten a little faster at the sight of -Jessie Verner, had given himself to his country, so there was no one to -contest the prize with Squire Russell, into whose brain the idea that he -could win it never entered until Johnnie put it there. To Johnnie it -came suddenly, making him start quickly from the book he was reading, -and hurry off to Dr. West, asking if Deacon Bowles was not a great deal -older than Mrs. Bowles, whom the villagers still called Amy, making her -seem so youthful. The doctor thought he was, but could not tell just how -many years, and as this was the point about which Johnnie was anxious, -he conceived the bold plan of calling on Mrs. Amy to ascertain, if -possible, her exact age, and also that of her husband. He found her -rocking her baby to sleep and looking very pretty and girlish in her -short hair, which she had taken a fancy to have cut off. Amy was fond of -Johnnie, and she smiled pleasantly upon him, speaking in a whisper and -keeping up a constant “sh-sh-sh” as she moved the cradle back and forth. - -“What a nice baby,” Johnnie began, as if he had never seen it before; -“but it seems funny to see you with a baby, when you look so like a -girl. You can’t be very old.” - -“Turned thirty. Sh-sh—” was the reply. - -A gratified blush mounting Amy’s cheek, while Johnnie continued: - -“Mother was thirty-two, and father was thirty-nine. He is most forty-one -now. Is the deacon older than that?” - -“Going on fifty-one. Sh-sh—” Amy replied, her “sh-sh’s” being more -decided as baby showed signs of waking. - -Johnnie had learned what he wished to know, and bidding Mrs. Bowles good -morning, he ran home, repeating to himself: - -“Turned thirty,—going on fifty-one. Ought from one is one, three from -five is two. That makes twenty-one. Most twenty,—most forty-one. Ought -from one is one, two from four is two. _That_ makes twenty-one. Jemima! -It’ll do, it’ll do!” and Johnnie ran on with all his might till he -reached home, where he found Jessie, whom he astonished with a hug which -almost strangled her. - -“It will do! it will do!” he exclaimed, as he kissed her, and when she -asked what would do, he answered, “I know, I know, but I shan’t tell!” -and he darted off, big with the important thing which he knew and should -not tell. - -That night, as Squire Russell sat in his library, Johnnie came in and -startled him with the question: - -“Father, who will take care of us when Aunt Dora is gone? Her new house -will be done in September.” - -“I don’t know, my son;” and the Squire laid down his paper, for the -question which Johnnie asked had also been troubling him. - -There was silence a moment, during which Johnnie almost twisted a button -from his jacket, and then he broke out abruptly: - -“Why don’t you get married?” - -“Married! To whom?” the Squire exclaimed; and Johnnie replied: - -“You know. The nicest girl in all creation after Aunt Dora. She isn’t -too young, neither. Amy Bowles is twenty-one years younger than the -deacon, and Jessie ain’t any more.” - -“Jessie! Jessie Verner!” the squire gasped, and Johnnie continued: - -“Yes, Jessie Verner; I most know she’ll have you. Any way, I’ll make -her. You break the ice, and I’ll pitch in! Will you, father? Will you -have Jessie?” - -“It would be better to ask first if she’ll have me,” the father replied, -rubbing his head, which seemed a little numb with the sudden shock. - -“I hear her. I’ll send her in! You ask her, father!” Johnnie exclaimed, -darting to the door, as he heard Jessie in the upper hall whistling -“three hundred thousand more.” - -As he reached the threshold he paused, while he added: - -“I guess Jessie will stand a huggin’ better than Aunt Dora, so you might -come that game on her!” and Johnnie rushed after Jessie ere his father -had time to recover his breath. - -Jessie could not at once be found, and as Johnnie would not tell her -what his father wanted of her, she was in no particular hurry to answer -the summons, so that Squire Russell had time to collect his thoughts, -and to discover that little Jessie Verner was very dear to him, and that -though he had never entertained an idea of making her his wife till -Johnnie suggested it, the idea was by no means distasteful, and if she -were willing, why of course he was. But would she come? Yes, she was -coming, for he heard her in the hall calling back to Johnnie: - -“Mind, now, if you have played me a trick you will be sorry. I don’t -believe he wants me.” - -“Yes he does; you ask him,” was Johnnie’s reply, and advancing into the -library, Jessie began innocently: - -“Johnnie said you wanted me. Do you, Squire Russell!” - -“Yes, Jessie, I do want you very much. Sit down while I tell you.” - -He drew her chair near to himself, and wholly unsuspicious, Jessie sat -down to listen, while he told her how he wanted her. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - DORA’S DIARY. - - -“May 31st, 1863.—I did not think when last I closed this book, that I -could ever be as happy as I am now,—happy in everything, happy in -Richard’s love, happy in the love of God, for my precious husband has -been the means of leading me to the source of all happiness. He says I -was a Christian before, but I cannot believe it. At least, it was a -cold, tame kind of Christian, such as I never wish to be again! Dear -Richard, how good and true he is, and how he tries to make me happy. -Every day I see some new virtue in him, and the tears often come as I -wonder why God should have blessed me above the generality of womankind. -I know I have the kindest, and best, and dearest husband in the world. -He has gone for a few days to Fortress Monroe, where Robert is at -present with his men, while Mother West has gone into the hospital as -nurse. She felt it was her duty, and we did not oppose her, knowing how -much good she would do to the poor, suffering soldiers. My heart bleeds -for them, and yet I cannot feel it the doctor’s duty to go. Somebody -must stay at home, and when I see how his patients cling to him, and how -useful he is here, I think it is his place to stay. If I am wrong and -selfish, may I be forgiven. - -“In the autumn our new house will be completed, and then I shall leave -Margaret’s family, but not alone, for Jessie is actually coming to be -John’s wife, and is now at home making her preparations. Does Margaret -know? If so, she surely feels kindly now toward the little girl, who -will make the best of mothers to the children. - -“It was very strange, and though Richard and I had laughed together over -the possibility, it took me wholly by surprise. I was sitting in my room -one night last April, waiting for Richard, when Jessie came rushing in, -her eyes red with weeping, and her frame quivering with emotion. I was -startled, particularly as she threw herself on the floor beside me, and -exclaimed: - -“‘O Dora, I’ve done the silliest thing, and father will scold, I know, -and call me a fool, and say _I_ proposed, when I didn’t, though I am -afraid I said yes too quick! Do you think I did? Tell me, do.’ - -“Then I managed to get from her that she was engaged to Squire Russell; -that Johnnie inveigled her in by saying his father wanted her; that she -asked if he did, and he told her, ‘Yes, he wanted her for his little -wife; wanted to keep her always!’ and she was so frightened. - -“‘Oh, you don’t know anything about it!’ she said. ‘I felt just as I did -once when I took chloroform to have a tooth out, and acted just so, too, -foolish like, for I talked everything and told him everything; how I was -a little bit of a body who did not know anything, who had never learned -anything, but had always done as I pleased and always wanted to; how I -could not be sober if I tried, and would not if I could; how I was more -fit to be Johnnie’s wife than his; how father was not as rich as some -thought, but had two apoplectic fits ever so long ago, and might have -another any time and die, while Bell and I would have to take care of -ourselves,—go out governesses, or something; and, maybe, if he knew that -he would not want me, but if he didn’t, and I ever had to be a -governess, perhaps he would let me come here to teach his children, and -that was so silly for me to say, and I knew it all the time, just like -chloroform. And then, O Dora, how ridiculous the next thing was. He only -laughed at the governess, and held me tighter, and I guess,—I am most -sure,—he kissed me; and I am awfully afraid I kissed him back! Do you -think I did?’ - -“I thought it quite likely, I said, and with a groan Jessie continued: - -“‘The very silliest thing of all was my telling him I could not darn his -socks, nor make his shirts, and he would have to wear big holes in them -or go without; and,—oh, do you believe, he laughed real loud, and said -he would go without? Do you think he meant it?’ - -“‘Yes, Jessie, undoubtedly he meant it,’ and Richard’s merry laugh broke -in upon us. - -“So absorbed had I been in Jessie that I had not heard the doctor, who -entered in time to hear the last of Jessie’s confession, and who at the -recital of John’s magnanimity could restrain himself no longer, but -laughed long and loud, while Jessie wept silently. At last, however, we -managed to draw from her that in spite of all her faults, every one of -which she acknowledged, even to the fact that sometimes when going to -parties she powdered her arms, and that four of her teeth were filled, -John had persisted in saying that he loved her, and could not live -without her; that as to powder, Margaret always used it; that he knew a -place on Broadway where he could get the very best article in use; that -most everybody’s teeth were either false or filled by the time they were -twenty, and he guessed she was quite as genuine as any of the feminine -genus. - -“‘Did you tell him about the cotton?’ Richard asked, wickedly, but -Jessie innocently replied: - -“‘I don’t know what you mean, but if it’s the sheets and pillow-cases I -am expected to furnish, Bell bought four pieces just before the rise, -and I know she will let me have some. Any way, I shall not ask Squire -Russell to buy them,’ and thus Richard was foiled and I was glad. - -“‘And so it is finally settled, and you are to be my little sister?’ -Richard said, and Jessie replied: - -“‘Yes; that is I told him to ask my father, and please, Dr. West, will -you write too and tell him how I did not do the courting, or ever think -of such a thing? Father will scold, I know, and maybe swear. He always -does, but I don’t care, I—’ - -“There was a call for Dr. West, who went out leaving us alone; and then -winding my arm around Jessie, I said: - -“‘And are you sure you love Squire Russell well enough to be his wife?’ - -This question threw Jessie into another impetuous outburst, and she -exclaimed: - -“‘That is just what he asked me, too; and if I had not loved him before -I should have done so when he said, “I wish you to be certain, Jessie, -so there need be no after-repentance. I have borne one disappointment,” -and he looked so white and sad. “A second would kill me. If I take you -now, and then have to give you up, my life will go with you. Can you -truly say you love me, Jessie, and are perfectly willing to be mine?” - -“I was foolish then, Dora, for I told him straight out how it was very -sudden; but the knowing he loved me brought into life a feeling which -kept growing and growing so fast, that even in a few minutes it seemed -as if I had loved him all my life. He is so good and kind, and will let -me do just as I please. Don’t you believe he will?” - -“I had no doubt of it, and I smoothed her short curls while she told me -how sorry she was that she ever thought Letitia stupid, or Jimmie less -interesting than the others. - -“‘It seems as if they died just to be out of my way, and I do so wish -they were back.’ - -“Then she said that the wedding was to be the 25th of June, her -twentieth birthday, that is, if her father consented; that John had -promised to take her to Europe some time, but not this year, and they -were going instead to the White Mountains, to Newport, and lots of -places, and Johnnie was going with them. Then she settled her bridal -_trousseau_, even to the style of her gaiters, declaring she would not -have those horrid square toes, if they were fashionable, for they made -one’s foot so clumsy, and she put up her fairy little feet, which looked -almost as small as Daisy’s. Dear little Jessie, of whom I once was -jealous! What a child she is, and what a task she is taking upon -herself! But her heart is in it, and that makes it very easy. Had I -loved John one half as well as she seems to love him, I should not now -be Richard’s wife, waiting for him by the window as I wait for him many -nights, knowing that though he chides me for sitting up so late, he is -usually pleased to find me so, and kisses me so tenderly as he calls me -a naughty girl, and bids me hurry to bed. - -“JUNE 28th.—The house is very still these days, for John and Johnnie are -gone, and with them all the bustle, the stir, and the excitement which -has characterized our home for the last few weeks. I invited Bell to -return with me from the wedding, but her father said no, he could not -spare both his daughters; and so she stayed, her tears falling so fast -as she said to me at parting: ‘You cannot guess how lonely I am, knowing -Jessie will never come home to us again, just as she used to come.’ - -“Poor Bell, I pity her; but amid her tears I saw, as I thought, a -rainbow of promise. As the clergyman at Morrisville chanced to be -absent, Mr. Kelly went down with us to perform the ceremony, and if I am -not mistaken he will go again and again until he brings Bell away with -him. The wedding was a quiet affair, save as Jessie and Johnnie laughed -and sported and played. The bride and groom were, however, perfectly -happy, I know, which was more than could be said for the Judge. At first -he had, as Jessie predicted, said all kinds of harsh things about the -match, but Bell and Jessie won him over, until he was ready to receive -his son-in-law with the utmost kindness, which he did, acting the -polite, urbane host to perfection, and only breaking down when Jessie -came to say good-by. Then he showed how much he loved his baby, as he -called her, commending her so touchingly to her husband’s patient care, -because ‘she was a wee, helpless thing,’ that we all cried, Richard and -all, while the Squire could not resist giving his fairy bride a most -substantial hug, right before us all, as he promised to care for her as -tenderly as if she were his little Daisy instead of his little wife. I -have no fears for them. It is a great responsibility which Jessie has -assumed, but her sunny nature, which sees only the brightest side, and -the mighty love which her husband and Johnnie have given her, will -interpose between her and all that otherwise might be hard to bear. God -bless her. God keep her in all her pleasant journeyings, and bring her -safely back to us, who wait and watch for her as for the refreshing -rain. - -“DECEMBER 24th, 1863—CHRISTMAS EVE.—Just one year I have been Richard’s -wife, and in that time I cannot recall a single moment of sadness, or a -time when Richard’s voice and manner were not just as kind and loving as -at first. My noble husband, how earnestly I pray that I may be worthy of -him, and make him as happy as he makes me. We are in our new home now, -and I cannot think of a single wish ungratified. Everything is as I like -it. The furniture is of my own and Richard’s selecting, and is as good -as our means would afford,—not grand and costly like Mattie’s and -Jessie’s, but plain and nice, such as the furniture of a village -doctor’s wife ought to be. And Richard’s mother is with us now, resting -from the toils of life as nurse in the hospital. We would like so much -to keep her, but she says ‘No, not till the war is over; then if my life -is spared, I will come back to live and die with my children.’ - -“Captain Robert is coming to-night and to-morrow all take their -Christmas dinner with me; I said all, meaning John and Jessie, with -their four children, and Mr. Kelly, with his bride, Isabel. She has been -here just a week in the parsonage, which the people bought and fitted up -when they heard their clergyman was to bring his wife among them. Judge -Verner, too, is there, or rather at Squire Russell’s, where the children -call him grandpa, and where he seems very fond of staying. He will -divide his time between his daughters, and if that apoplectic fit of -which Jessie spoke ever does make its appearance, Richard will be near -to attend him, for the Judge will have no other physician. ‘Homœopathy -is all a humbug,’ he says, ‘but hanged if he will take any other -medicine.’ He has great pride now in Mrs. Squire Russell, who certainly -has developed into a wonderfully domestic woman, so that Richard even -cites her for my example. Perfectly happy at home, she seldom cares to -leave it, but stays contentedly with the children, to whom she is a -mother and a sister both. Johnnie calls her Jessie, but to the others -she is mamma to all intents and purposes, and could Margaret know, she -would surely bless the whistling, hoydenish girl, who is all the world -now to husband and children both. - -“Dear Jessie! I might write volumes in her praise, but this is the very -last page of my journal, kept for so many years. The book is filled; -whatever there was of romance in my girl history is within its pages, -and here at its close I write myself a happy, happy woman. From the -church-tower on the common the clock is striking twelve, and Richard, -coming in from his long cold ride across the snow-clad hills, bids me a -merry Christmas; then glancing at what I have written, he says, ‘Yes, -darling, God has been very good to us. Let us love Him through the -coming year more than ever we have done before.’ - -“With a full heart I say Amen, and so the story is done.” - - - THE END. - - - - - THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK’S. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - FRIDAY AFTERNOON. - - -The Sunday sermon was finished, and the young rector of St. Mark’s -turned gladly from his study-table to the pleasant south window where -the June roses were peeping in, and abandoned himself for a few moments -to the feeling of relief he always experienced when his week’s work was -done. To say that no secular thoughts had intruded themselves upon the -rector’s mind, as he planned and wrote his sermon, would not be true, -for, though morbidly conscientious on many points and earnestly striving -to be a faithful shepherd of the souls committed to his care, Arthur -Leighton had all a man’s capacity to love and to be loved, and though he -fought and prayed against it, he had seldom brought a sermon to the -people of St. Mark’s in which there was not a thought of Anna Ruthven’s -soft, brown eyes, and the way they would look at him across the heads of -the congregation. Anna led the village choir, and the rector was -painfully conscious that far too much of earth was mingled with his -devotional feelings during the moments when, the singing over, he walked -from his chair to the pulpit, and heard the rustle of the crimson -curtain in the organ-loft as it was drawn back, disclosing to view five -heads, of which Anna’s was the centre. It was very wrong he knew, and on -the day when our story opens he had prayed earnestly for pardon, when, -after choosing his text, “Simon, Simon, lovest thou me?” instead of -plunging at once into his subject, he had, without a thought of what he -was doing, idly written upon a scrap of paper lying near, “Anna, Anna, -lovest thou me more than these?” the these referring to the wealthy -Thornton Hastings, his old classmate in college, who was going to -Saratoga this very summer for the purpose of meeting Anna Ruthven, and -deciding if she would do to become Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and mistress -of the house on Madison Square. With a bitter groan for the enormity of -his sin, and a fervent prayer for forgiveness, the rector had torn the -slips of paper in shreds and given himself so completely to his work, -that his sermon was done a full hour earlier than usual, and he was free -to indulge in reveries of Anna for as long a time as he pleased. - -“I wonder if Mrs. Meredith has come,” he thought, as, with his feet upon -the window-sill, he sat looking across the meadow to where the chimneys -and gable roof of Captain Humphreys’ house were visible, for Captain -Humphreys was Anna Ruthven’s grandfather, and it was there she had lived -since she was three years old. - -As if thoughts of Mrs. Meredith reminded him of something else, the -rector took from the drawer of his writing-table a letter received the -previous day, and opening to the second page, read as follows: - -“Are you going anywhere this summer? Of course not, for so long as there -is an unbaptized child, or a bedridden old woman in the parish, you must -stay at home, even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden’s -coat before we boys made him a present of a new one. I say, Arthur, -there was a capital fellow spoiled when you took to the ministry, with -your splendid talents, and rare gift for making people like and believe -in you. - -“Now, I suppose you will reply that for this denial of self you look for -your reward in heaven, and I suppose you are right; but as I have no -reason to think I have stock in that region, I go in for a good time -here, and this summer I take Saratoga, where I expect to meet one of -your lambs. I hear you have in your flock forty in all, their ages -varying from sixteen to fifty. But this particular lamb, Miss Anna -Ruthven, is, I think, the fairest of them all, and as I used to make you -my father confessor in the days when I was rusticated out in Winsted, -and fell so desperately in love with the six Miss Larkins, each old -enough to be my mother, so now I confide to you the programme as marked -out by Mrs. Julia Meredith, the general who brings the lovely Anna in -the field. - -“We, that is, Mrs. Meredith and myself, are on the best of terms. I -lunch with her, dine with her, lounge in her parlors, drive her to the -park, take her to operas, concerts, and plays, and compliment her good -looks, which are wonderfully well-preserved for a woman of forty-five. I -am twenty-six, you know, and so no one ever associates us together in -any kind of gossip. She is the very quintessence of fashion, and I am -one of the danglers whose own light is made brighter by the reflection -of her rays. Do you see the point? Well, then, in return for my -attentions, she takes a very sisterly interest in my future wife, and -has adroitly managed to let me know of her niece, a certain Anna -Ruthven, who, inasmuch as I am tired of city belles, will undoubtedly -suit my fancy, said Anna being very fresh, very artless, and very -beautiful withal. She is also niece to Mrs. Meredith, whose only brother -married very far beneath him, when he took to wife the daughter of a -certain old-fashioned Captain Humphreys, a pillar, no doubt, in your -church. This young Ruthven was drowned, or hung, or something, and the -sister considers it as another proof of his wife’s lack of refinement -and discretion, that at her death, which happened when Anna was three -years old, she left her child to the charge of her parents, Captain -Humphreys and spouse, rather than to Mrs. Meredith’s care, and that, -too, in the very face of the lady’s having stood as sponsor for the -infant, an act which you will acknowledge as very unnatural and -ungrateful in Mrs. Ruthven, to say the least of it. - -“You see I am telling you all this, just as if you did not know Miss -Anna’s antecedents even better than myself; but possibly you do not know -that, having arrived at a suitable age, she is this summer to be -introduced into society at Saratoga, while I am expected to fall in love -with her at once, and make her Mrs. Hastings before another winter. Now, -in your straightforward way of putting things, don’t imagine that Mrs. -Meredith has deliberately told me all this, for she has not; but I -understand her perfectly, and know exactly what she expects me to do. -Whether I do it or not depends partly upon how I like Miss Anna, partly -upon how she likes me, and partly upon yourself. - -“You know I was always famous for presentiments or fancies, as you -termed them, and the latest of these is that you like Anna Ruthven. Do -you? Tell me, honor bright, and by the memory of the many scrapes you -got me out of, and the many more you kept me from getting into, I will -treat Miss Anna as gingerly and brotherly as if she were already your -wife. I like her picture, which I have seen, and believe I shall like -the girl, but if you say that by looking at her with longing eyes I -shall be guilty of breaking some one of the ten commandments,—I don’t -know which,—why, then, hands off at once. That’s fair, and will prove to -you that, although not a parson like yourself, there is still a spark of -honor, if not of goodness, in the breast of - - “Yours truly, - “THORNTON HASTINGS. - - -“If you were here this afternoon, I’d take you to drive after a pair of -bays, which are to sweep the stakes at Saratoga this summer, and I’d -treat you to a finer cigar than often finds its way to Hanover. Shall I -send you out a box, or would your people pull down the church about the -ears of a minister wicked enough to smoke. Again adieu. - - “T. H.” - - -There was a half-amused smile on the face of the rector as he finished -the letter, so like its thoughtless, light-hearted writer, and wondered -what the Widow Rider, across the way, would say of a clergyman who -smoked cigars, and rode after a race-horse with such a gay scapegrace as -Thornton Hastings. Then the amused look passed away, and was succeeded -by a shadow of pain, as the rector remembered the real import of -Thornton’s letter, and felt that he had no right to say, “I have a claim -on Anna Ruthven; you must not interfere.” For he had no claim on her, -though half his parishioners had long ago given her to him, while he had -loved her, as only natures like his can love, since that week before -Christmas, when their hands had met with a strange, tremulous flutter, -as together they fastened the wreaths of evergreen upon the wall, he -holding them up, and she driving the refractory tacks, which would keep -falling, so that his hand went often from the carpet or basin to hers, -and once accidentally closed almost entirely over the little soft white -thing, which felt so warm to his touch. - -How prettily Anna had looked to him during those memorable days, so much -prettier than the other young girls of his flock, whose hair was tumbled -ere the day’s work was done, and whose dresses were soiled and -disordered; while hers was always so tidy and neat, and the braids of -her chestnut hair were always so smooth and bright. How well, too, he -remembered that brief ten minutes, when, in the dusky twilight which had -crept so early into the church, he stood alone with her and talked, he -did not know of what, only that he heard her voice replying to him, and -saw the changeful color on her cheek as she looked modestly into his -face. That was a week of delicious happiness, and the rector had lived -it over many times, wondering if, when the next Christmas came, it would -find him any nearer to Anna Ruthven than the last had left him. - -“It must,” he suddenly exclaimed. “The matter shall be settled before -she leaves Hanover with Mrs. Meredith. My claim is superior to -Thornton’s, and he shall not take her from me. I’ll write what I lack -the courage to tell her, and to-morrow I will call and deliver it -myself.” - -An hour later, and there was lying in the rector’s desk a letter, in -which he had told Anna Ruthven how much he loved her, and had asked her -to be his wife. Something whispered that she would not refuse him, and -with this hope to buoy him up, his two miles’ walk that warm afternoon -was neither warm nor tiresome, and the old lady by whose bedside he read -and prayed was surprised to hear him as he left her door, whistling an -old love-tune which she, too, had known and sang fifty years before. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - SATURDAY AFTERNOON. - - -Mrs. Julia Meredith had arrived, and the brown farm-house was in a state -of unusual excitement; not that Captain Humphreys or his good wife, Aunt -Ruth, respected very highly the great lady who so seldom honored them -with her presence, and who always tried to impress them with a sense of -her superiority, and the mighty favor she conferred upon them by -occasionally condescending to bring her aristocratic presence into their -quiet, plain household, and turn it topsy-turvy. Still she was Anna’s -aunt, and then it was a distinction which Aunt Ruth rather enjoyed,—that -of having a fashionable city woman for her guest,—and so she submitted -with a good grace to the breaking in upon all her customs, and uttered -no word of complaint when the breakfast-table waited till eight, and -sometimes nine o’clock, and the freshest eggs were taken from the nest, -and the cream all skimmed from the pans to gratify the lady who came -very charming and pretty in her handsome cambric wrapper, with rose-buds -in her hair. She had arrived the previous night, and while the rector -was penning his letter, she was running her eye rapidly over Anna’s face -and form, making an inventory of her charms, and calculating their -value. - -“A very graceful figure, neither too short nor too tall. This she gets -from the Ruthvens. Splendid eyes and magnificent hair, when Valencia has -once taken it in hand. Complexion a little too brilliant, but a few -weeks of dissipation will cure that. Fine teeth, and features tolerably -regular, except that the mouth is too wide and the forehead too low, -which defects she takes from the Humphreys. Small feet and rather pretty -hands, except that they seem to have grown wide since I saw her before. -Can it be these horrid people have set her to milking the cows?” - -These were Mrs. Meredith’s thoughts that first evening after her arrival -at the farm-house, and she had not materially changed her mind when the -next afternoon she went with Anna down to the Glen, for which she -affected a great fondness, because she thought it was romantic and -girlish to do so, and she was far from having passed the period when -women cease caring for youth and its appurtenances. She had criticised -Anna’s taste in dress,—had said that the belt she selected did not -harmonize with the color of the muslin she wore, and suggested that a -frill of lace about the neck would be softer and more becoming than the -stiff white linen collar. - -“But in the country it does not matter,” she added. “Wait till I get you -to New York, under Madam Blank’s supervision, and then we shall see a -transformation such as will astonish the Hanoverians.” - -This was up in Anna’s room; and when the Glen was reached Mrs. Meredith -continued the conversation, telling Anna of her plans for taking her -first to New York, where she was to pass through a reformatory process -with regard to dress. Then they were going to Saratoga, where she -expected her niece to reign supreme, both as a beauty and a belle. - -“Whatever I have at my death I shall leave to you,” she said; -“consequently you will pass as an heiress expectant, and I confidently -expect you to make a brilliant match before the winter season closes, -if, indeed, you do not before we leave Saratoga.” - -“O aunt,” Anna exclaimed, her eyes flashing with unwonted brilliancy, -and the rich color mantling her cheek. “You surely are not taking me to -Saratoga on such a shameful errand as that?” - -“Shameful errand as what?” Mrs. Meredith asked, looking quickly up, -while Anna replied: - -“Trying to find a husband. I cannot go if you are, much as I have -anticipated it. I should despise and hate myself forever. No, aunt, I -cannot go.” - -“Nonsense, child. You don’t know what you are saying,” Mrs. Meredith -retorted, feeling intuitively that she must change her tactics and keep -her real intentions concealed if she would lead her niece into the snare -laid for her. - -Cunningly and carefully for the next half hour she talked, telling Anna -that she was not to be thrust upon the notice of any one,—that she -herself had no patience with those intriguing mammas who push their bold -daughters forward, but that as a good marriage was the _ultima thule_ of -a woman’s hopes, it was but natural that she, as Anna’s aunt, should -wish to see her well settled in life, and settled, too, near herself, -where they could see each other every day. - -“Of course there is no one in Hanover whom you, as a Ruthven, would -stoop to marry,” she said, fixing her eyes inquiringly upon Anna, who -was pulling to pieces the wild flowers she had gathered, and thinking of -that twilight hour when she had talked with their young clergyman as she -never talked before. Of the many times, too, when they had met in the -cottages of the poor, and he had walked slowly home with her, lingering -by the gate as if loth to say good-by, she thought, and the life she had -lived since he first came to Hanover, and she learned to blush when she -met the glance of his eye, looked fairer far than the life her aunt -marked out as the proper one for a Ruthven. - -“You have not told me yet. Is there any one in Hanover whom you think -worthy of you?” Mrs. Meredith asked, just as a footstep was heard, and -the rector of St. Mark’s came round the rock where they were sitting. - -He had called at the farm-house, bringing the letter, and with it a book -of poetry, of which Anna had asked the loan. - -Taking advantage of her guest’s absence, Grandma Humphreys had gone to a -neighbor’s after a receipt for making a certain kind of cake, of which -Mrs. Meredith was very fond, and only Esther, the servant, and Valencia, -the smart waiting-maid, without whom Mrs. Meredith never travelled, were -left in charge. - -“Miss Anna’s down in the Glen with Mrs. Meredith. Will you be pleased to -wait while I call them?” Esther said, in reply to the rector’s inquiries -for Miss Ruthven. - -“No, I will find them myself,” Mr. Leighton rejoined. Then, as he -thought how impossible it would be to give the letter to Anna in the -presence of her aunt, he slipped it into the book, which he bade Esther -take to Miss Ruthven’s room. - -Knowing how honest and faithful Esther was, the rector felt that he -could trust her without a fear for the safety of his letter, and went to -the Glen, where the tell-tale blushes which burned on Anna’s cheek at -sight of him more than compensated for the coolness with which Mrs. -Meredith greeted him. She, too, had detected Anna’s embarrassment, and -when the stranger was presented to her as “Mr. Leighton, our clergyman,” -the secret was out. - -“Why is it that since the beginning of time girls have run wild after -young ministers?” was her mental comment, as she bowed to Mr. Leighton, -and then quietly inspected his _personnel_. - -There was nothing about Arthur Leighton’s appearance with which she -could find fault. He was even finer-looking than Thornton Hastings, her -_beau ideal_ of a man, and as he stood a moment by Anna’s side, looking -down upon her, the woman of the world acknowledged to herself that they -were a well-assorted pair, and as across the chasm of twenty years there -came to her an episode in her life, when, on just such a day as this, -she had answered “no” to one as young and worthy as Arthur Leighton, -while all the time the heart was clinging to him, she softened for a -moment, and by the memory of the weary years passed with the rich old -man whose name she bore, she was tempted to leave alone the couple -standing there before her, and looking into each other’s eyes with a -look which she could not mistake. But when she remembered that Arthur -was only a poor clergyman, and thought of that house on Madison Square -which Thornton Hastings owned, the softened mood was changed, and Arthur -Leighton’s chance with her was gone. - -Awhile they talked together in the Glen, and then walked back to the -farm-house, where the rector bade them good-evening, after casually -saying to Anna: - -“I brought the book you spoke of when I was here last. You will find it -in your room, where I asked Esther to take it.” - -That Mr. Leighton should bring her niece a book did not seem strange at -all, but that he should be so very thoughtful as to tell Esther to take -it to her room struck Mrs. Meredith as rather odd, and as the practised -war-horse scents the battle from afar, so she at once suspected -something wrong, and felt a curiosity to know what the book could be. - -It was lying on Anna’s table as she reached the door on her way to her -own room, and pausing for a moment, she entered the chamber, took it in -her hands, read the title page, and then opened it where the letter lay. - -“Miss Anna Ruthven,” she said. “He writes a fair hand;” and then, as the -thought, which at first was scarce a thought, kept growing in her mind, -she turned it over, and found that, owing to some defect, it had become -unsealed, and the lid of the envelope lay temptingly open before her. “I -would never break a seal,” she said, “but surely, as her protector, and -almost mother, I may read what this minister has written to my niece.” - -And so she read what he had written, while a scowl of disapprobation -marred the smoothness of her brow. - -“It is as I feared. Once let her see this, and Thornton Hastings may woo -in vain. But it shall not be. It is my duty, as the sister of her dead -father, to interfere, and not let her throw herself away.” - -Perhaps Mrs. Meredith really felt that she was doing her duty. At all -events she did not give herself much time to reason upon the matter, -for, startled by a slight movement in the room directly opposite, the -door of which was ajar, she thrust the letter into her pocket, and -turned to see—Valencia, standing with her back to her, and arranging her -hair in a mirror which hung upon the wall. - -“She could not have seen me; and, even if she did, she would not suspect -the truth,” was the guilty woman’s thought, as with the stolen missive -in her pocket she went down to the parlor, and tried, by petting Anna -more than her wont, to still the voice of conscience, which clamored -loudly of the wrong, and urged a restoration of the letter to the place -whence it was taken. - -But the golden moment fled, and when, later in the evening, Anna went up -to her chamber, and opened the book which the rector had brought, she -never suspected how near she had been to the great happiness she had -sometimes dared to hope for, or dreamed how fervently Arthur Leighton -prayed that night, that if it were possible, God would grant the boon he -craved above all others,—the priceless gift of Anna Ruthven’s love. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - SUNDAY. - - -There was an unnatural flush on the rector’s face, and his lips were -very white, when he came before his people that Sunday morning, for he -felt that he was approaching the crisis of his fate; that he had only to -look across the row of heads, up to where Anna sat, and he should know -the truth. Such thoughts savored far too much of the world which he had -renounced, he knew, and he had striven to banish them from his mind; but -they were there still, and would be there until he had glanced once at -Anna, who was occupying her accustomed seat, and quietly turning to the -chant she was so soon to sing: “Oh, come, let us sing unto the Lord; let -us heartily rejoice in the strength of His salvation.” The words echoed -through the house, filling it with rare melody, for Anna was in perfect -tone that morning, and the rector, listening to her with hands folded -upon his prayer-book, felt that she could not thus “heartily rejoice,” -meaning all the while to darken his whole life, as she surely would if -she told him “no.” He was looking at her now, and she met his eyes at -last, but quickly dropped her own, while he was sure that the roses -burned a little brighter on her cheek, and that her voice trembled just -enough to give him hope, and help him in his fierce struggle to cast her -from his mind, and think only of the solemn services in which he was -engaging. He could not guess that the proud woman who had sailed so -majestically into church, and followed so reverently every prescribed -form, bowing in the creed far lower than ever bow was made before in -Hanover, had played him false, and was the dark shadow in his path. - -That day was a trying one for Arthur, for, just as the chant was ended, -and the psalter was beginning, a handsome carriage dashed up to the -door, and had he been wholly blind, he would have known, by the sudden -sound of turning heads, and the suppressed hush which ensued, that a -perfect hailstorm of dignity was entering St. Mark’s. - -It was the Hethertons, from Prospect Hill, whose arrival in town had -been so long expected. There was Mrs. Hetherton, who, more years ago -than she cared to remember, was born in Hanover, but who had lived most -of her life either in Paris, New York, or New Orleans, and who this year -had decided to fit up her father’s old place, and honor it with her -presence for a few weeks at least; also, Fanny Hetherton, a brilliant -brunette, into whose intensely black eyes no one could long look, they -were so bright, so piercing, and seemed so thoroughly to read one’s -inmost thoughts; also, Colonel Hetherton, who had served in the Mexican -war, and retiring on the glory of having once led a forlorn hope, now -spent his time in acting as attendant on his fashionable wife and -daughter; also, young Simon Bellamy, who, while obedient to the flashing -of Miss Fanny’s black eyes, still found stolen opportunities for -glancing at the fifth and last remaining member of the party, filing up -the aisle to the large, square pew, where old Judge Howard used to sit, -and which was still owned by his daughter. Mrs. Hetherton liked being -late at church, and, notwithstanding that the colonel had worked himself -into a tempest of excitement, had tied and untied her bonnet-strings -half a dozen times, changed her rich basquine for a thread lace -mantilla, and then, just as the bell from St. Mark’s gave forth its last -note, and her husband’s impatience was oozing out in sundry little -oaths, sworn under his breath, she produced and fitted on her fat, white -hands a new pair of Alexanders, keeping herself as cool, and quiet, and -ladylike as if outside upon the gravelled walk there was no wrathful -husband threatening to drive off and leave her, if she did not “quit her -cussed vanity, and come along.” - -Such was the Hetherton party, and they created quite as great a -sensation as Mrs. Hetherton could desire, first upon the people nearest -the door, who rented the cheaper pews; then upon those farther up the -aisle, and then upon Mrs. Meredith, who, attracted by the rustling of -heavy silk and the perfume emanating from Mrs. Hetherton’s handkerchief, -slightly turned her head at first, and as the party swept by, stopped -her reading entirely, and involuntarily started forward, while a smile -of pleasure flitted across her face as Fanny’s black, saucy eyes took -her, with others, within their range of vision, and Fanny’s black head -nodded a quick nod of recognition. The Hethertons and Mrs. Meredith were -evidently friends, and in her wonder at seeing them there, in stupid -Hanover, the great lady forgot for a while to read, but kept her eyes -upon them all, especially upon the fifth and last-mentioned member of -the party, the graceful little blonde, whose eyes might have caught -their hue from the deep blue of the summer sky, and whose long silken -curls fell in a golden shower beneath the fanciful French hat. She was a -beautiful young creature, and even Anna Ruthven leaned forward to look -at her as she shook out her airy muslin and dropped into her seat. For a -moment the little coquettish head bowed reverently, but at the first -sound of the rector’s voice it lifted itself up quickly, and Anna saw -the bright color which rushed into her cheeks, and the eager joy which -danced in the blue eyes, fixed so earnestly upon the rector, who, at -sight of her, started suddenly, and paused an instant in his reading. -Who was she, and what was she to Arthur Leighton, Anna asked herself, -while, by the fierce pang which shot through her heart as she watched -the stranger and the clergyman, she knew that _she_ loved the rector of -St. Mark’s, even if she had doubted it before. - -Anna was not an ill-tempered girl, but the sight of those gay city -people annoyed her, and when, as she sang the Jubilate Deo, she saw the -soft blue orbs of the blonde and the coal-black eyes of the brunette -turned wonderingly towards her, she was conscious of returning their -glance with as much of scorn as it was possible for her to show. Anna -tried to ask forgiveness for that feeling in the prayers which followed; -but when the services were over, and she saw a little figure in blue and -white flitting up the aisle to where Arthur, still in his robes, stood -waiting for her, an expression upon his face which she could not define -she felt that she had prayed in vain; and with a bitterness she had -never before experienced, she watched the meeting between them, growing -more and more bitter as she saw the upturned face, the wreathing of the -rose-bud lips into the sweetest of smiles, and the tiny white hand, -which Arthur took and held while he spoke words she would have given -much to hear. - -“Why do I care? It’s nothing to me,” she thought, and, with a proud -step, she was leaving the church, when her aunt, who was shaking hands -with the Hethertons, signed for her to join her. - -The blonde was now coming down the aisle with Mr. Leighton, and joined -the group just as Anna was introduced as “My niece, Miss Anna Ruthven.” - -“Oh, you are the Anna of whom I have heard so much from Ada Fuller. You -were at school together in Troy,” Miss Fanny said, her searching eyes -taking in every point as if she were deciding how far her new -acquaintance was entitled to the praise she had heard bestowed upon her. - -“I knew Miss Fuller,—yes;” and Anna bowed haughtily, turning next to the -blonde, Miss Lucy Harcourt, who was telling Colonel Hetherton how she -had met Mr. Leighton first among the Alps, and afterwards travelled with -him until their party returned to Paris, where he left them for America. - -“I was never so surprised in my life as I was to find him here. Why, it -actually took my breath for a moment,” she went on, “and I greatly fear -that, instead of listening to his sermon, I have been roaming amid that -Alpine scenery, and basking again in the soft moonlight of Venice. I -heard you singing, though,” she said, when Anna was presented to her, -“and it helped to keep up the illusion, it was so like the music heard -from a gondola that night when Mr. Leighton and myself made a voyage -through the streets of Venice. Oh, it was so beautiful,” and the blue -eyes turned to Mr. Leighton for confirmation of what the lips had -uttered. - -“Which was beautiful?—Miss Ruthven’s singing or that moonlight night in -Venice?” young Bellamy asked, smiling down upon the little lady, who -still held Anna’s hand, and who laughingly replied: - -“Both, of course, though the singing is just now freshest in my memory, -I liked it so much. You must have had splendid teachers,” and she turned -again to Anna, whose face was suffused with blushes as she met the -rector’s eyes, for to his suggestions and criticisms and teachings she -owed much of that cultivation which had so pleased and surprised the -stranger. - -“Oh, yes, I see it was _Arthur_. He tried to train me once, and told me -I had a squeak in my voice. Don’t you remember?—those frightfully rainy -days in Rome?” Miss Harcourt said, the _Arthur_ dropping from her lips -as readily as if they had always been accustomed to speak it. - -She was a talkative, coquettish little lady, but there was something -about her so genuine and cordial, that Anna felt the ice thawing around -her heart, and even returned the pressure of the fingers which had -twined themselves around her, as Lucy rattled on until the whole party -left the church. It had been decided that Mrs. Meredith should call at -Prospect Hill as early as Tuesday, at least; and, still holding Anna’s -hand, Miss Harcourt whispered to her the pleasure it would be to see her -again. - -“I know I am going to like you. I can tell directly I see a -person,—can’t I, Arthur?” and kissing her hand to Mrs. Meredith, Anna, -and the rector, too, she sprang into the carriage, and was whirled -rapidly away. - -“Who is she?” Anna asked, and Mr. Leighton replied: - -“She is an orphan niece of Colonel Hetherton’s and a great heiress, I -believe, though I never paid much attention to the absurd stories told -concerning her wealth.” - -“You met in Europe,” Mrs. Meredith said, and he replied: - -“Yes, she has been quite an invalid, and has spent four years abroad, -where I accidently met her. It was a very pleasant party, and I was -induced to join it, though I was with them in all not more than four -months.” - -He told this very rapidly, and an acute observer would have seen that he -did not care particularly to talk of Lucy Harcourt, with Anna for an -auditor. She was walking very demurely at his side, pondering in her -mind the circumstances which could have brought the rector and Lucy -Harcourt in such familiar relations as to warrant her calling him -Arthur, and appearing so delighted to see him. - -“Can it be there was anything between them?” she thought, and her heart -began to harden against the innocent Lucy, at that very moment chatting -so pleasantly of her and of Arthur, too, replying to Mrs. Hetherton, who -suggested that _Mr. Leighton_ would be more appropriate for a clergyman: - -“I shall say Arthur, for he told me I might when we were in Rome. I -could not like him as well if I called him Mr. Leighton. Isn’t he -splendid though in his gown, and wasn’t his sermon grand?” - -“What was the text?” asked Mr. Bellamy mischievously, and with a toss of -her golden curls and a merry twinkle of her eyes, Lucy replied, “Simon, -Simon, lovest thou me?” - -Quick as a flash of lightning the hot blood mounted to his face, while -Fanny cast upon him a searching glance as if she would read him through. -Fanny Hetherton would have given much to know the answer which Mr. Simon -Bellamy mentally gave to that question, put by one whom he had known but -little more than three months. It was not fair for Lucy to steal away -all Fanny’s beaux, as she surely had been doing ever since her feet -touched the soil of the New World, and truth to tell Fanny had borne it -very well, until young Mr. Bellamy showed signs of desertion. Then the -spirit of resistance was roused, and she watched her lover narrowly, -gnashing her teeth sometimes when she saw his ill-concealed admiration -for her sprightly little cousin, who could say and do with perfect -impunity so many things which in another would have been improper to the -last degree. She was a tolerably correct reader of human nature, and -from the moment she witnessed the meeting between Lucy and the rector of -St. Mark’s she took courage, for she readily guessed the channel in -which her cousin’s preference ran. The rector, however, she could not -read so well; but few men she knew could withstand the fascinations of -her cousin, backed as they were by the glamour of half a million; and -though her mother, and possibly her father too, would be shocked at the -_mésalliance_ and throw obstacles in its way, she was capable of -removing them all, and she would do it, too, sooner than lose the only -man she had ever cared for. These were Fanny’s thoughts as she rode home -from church that Sunday afternoon, and by the time Prospect Hill was -reached Lucy Harcourt could not have desired a more powerful ally than -she possessed in the person of her resolute, strong-willed cousin. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - BLUE MONDAY. - - -It was to all intents and purposes “blue Monday” with the rector of St. -Mark’s, for aside from the weariness and exhaustion which always -followed his two services on Sunday, and his care of the Sunday-school, -there was a feeling of disquiet and depression, occasioned partly by -that _rencontre_ with pretty Lucy Harcourt, and partly by the -uncertainty as to what Anna’s answer might be. He had seen the look of -displeasure on her face as she stood watching him and Lucy, and though -to many this would have given hope, it only added to his nervous fears -lest his suit should be denied. He was sorry that Lucy Harcourt was in -the neighborhood, and sorrier still for her tenacious memory, which had -evidently treasured up every incident which he could wish forgotten. -With Anna Ruthven absorbing every thought and feeling of his heart, it -was not pleasant to remember what had been a genuine flirtation between -himself and the sparkling belle he had met among the Alps. - -It was nothing but a flirtation he knew, for in his inmost soul he -absolved himself from ever having had a thought of matrimony connected -with Lucy Harcourt. He had admired her greatly and loved to wander with -her amid the Alpine scenery, listening to her wild bursts of enthusiasm, -and watching the kindling light in her blue eyes, and the color coming -to her thin, pale cheeks, as she gazed upon some scene of grandeur, and -clung close to him as for protection, when the path was fraught with -peril. - -Afterwards in Venice, beneath the influence of those glorious moonlight -nights, he had been conscious of a deeper feeling, which, had he tarried -longer at the syren’s side, might have ripened into love. But he left -her just in time to escape what he felt would have been a most -unfortunate affair for him, for sweet and beautiful as she was, Lucy was -not the wife for a clergyman to choose. She was not like Anna Ruthven, -whom both young and old had said was so suitable for him. - -“And just because she is suitable, I may not win her, perhaps,” he -thought, as he paced up and down his library, wondering when she would -answer his letter, and wondering next how he could persuade Lucy -Harcourt that between the young theological student, sailing in a -gondola through the streets of Venice, and the rector of St. Mark’s, -there was a vast difference; that while the former might be Arthur with -perfect propriety, the latter should be Mr. Leighton, in Anna’s -presence, at least. - -And yet the rector of St. Mark’s was conscious of a pleasurable emotion, -even now, as he recalled the time when she had, at his request, first -called him Arthur, her birdlike voice hesitating just a little, and her -soft eyes looking coyly up to him, as she said: - -“I am afraid that Arthur is hardly the name by which to call a -clergyman.” - -“I am not in orders yet, so let me be Arthur to you. I love to hear you -call me so, and you to me shall be Lucy,” was his reply. - -A mutual clasp of hands had sealed the compact, and that was the nearest -to a love-making of anything which had passed between them, if we except -the time when he had said good-by, and wiped away the tear which came -unbidden to her eye as she told him how lonely she should be without -him. - -Hers was a nature as transparent as glass, and the young man, who for -days had paced the ship’s deck so moodily, was fighting back the -thoughts which whispered that in his intercourse with her he had not -been all guileless, and that if in her girlish heart there was feeling -for him stronger than that of friendship, he had helped to give it life. - -Time and absence and Anna Ruthven had obliterated all such thoughts till -now, when Lucy herself had brought them back again with her winsome -ways, and her evident intention to begin just where they had left off. - -“Let Anna tell me yes, and I will at once proclaim our engagement, which -will relieve me from all embarrassments in that quarter,” the clergymen -was thinking, just as his housekeeper came up, bringing him two notes, -one in a strange handwriting, and the other in the graceful running hand -which he recognized as Lucy Harcourt’s. - -This he opened first, reading as follows: - - - “PROSPECT HILL, June —.” - -“MR. LEIGHTON.—DEAR SIR:—Cousin Fanny is to have a picnic down in the -west woods to-morrow afternoon, and she requests the pleasure of your -presence. Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do come. - - “Yours truly, - “LUCY.” - - -Yes, he would go, and if Anna’s answer did not come before, he would ask -her for it. There would be plenty of opportunities down in those deep -woods. On the whole, it would be pleasanter to hear the words from her -own lips, and see the blushes on her cheeks when he tried to look into -her eyes. - -The imaginative rector could almost see those eyes, and feel the touch -of her hand as he took the other note, which Mrs. Meredith had shut -herself in her room to write, and sent slyly by Valencia, who was to -tell no one where she had been. - -A gleam of intelligence had shone in Valencia’s eyes as she took the -note and carried it safely to the parsonage, never yielding to the -temptation to read it as she had read the one found in her mistress’s -pocket, while the family were at church. - -Mrs. Meredith’s note was as follows: - - -“MY DEAR MR. LEIGHTON:—It is my niece’s wish that I answer the letter -you were so kind as to enclose in the book left for her last Saturday. -She desires me to say that though she has a very great regard for you as -her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and she regrets -exceedingly if she has in any way led you to construe the interest she -has always manifested in you into a deeper feeling. - -“She begs me to say that it gives her great pain to refuse one as noble -and good as she knows you to be, and she only does it because she cannot -find in her heart the love without which no marriage can be happy. - -“She is really very wretched about it, because she fears she may lose -your friendship, which she prizes so much; and, as a proof that she will -not, she asks that the subject may never, in any way, be alluded to; -that when you meet it may be exactly as heretofore, without a word or -sign on your part that you ever offered her the highest honor a man can -offer a woman. - -“And I am sure, my dear Mr. Leighton, that you will accede to her -wishes. I am very sorry it has occurred, sorry for you both, and -especially sorry for you; but believe me, you will get over it in time, -and come to see that my niece is not a proper person to be a clergyman’s -wife. - -“Come and see us as usual. You will find Anna appearing very natural. - - “Yours cordially and sincerely, - “JULIE MEREDITH.” - - -This was the letter which the cruel woman had written, and it dropped -from the rector’s fingers, as, with a groan, he bent his head upon the -back of a chair, and tried to realize the magnitude of the blow which -had fallen so suddenly upon him. Not till now did he realize how, amid -all his doubts, he had still been sure of winning her, and the shock was -terrible. - -He had staked his all on Anna, and lost it; the world, which before had -been so bright, looked very dreary now, while he felt that he could -never again come before his people weighed down with so great a load of -pain and humiliation; for it touched the young man’s pride that, not -content to refuse him, Anna had chosen another than herself as the -medium through which her refusal must be conveyed to him. He did not -fancy Mrs. Meredith. He would rather she did not possess his secret, and -it hurt him to know that she did. - -It was a bitter hour for the clergyman, for strong and clear as was his -faith in God, he lost sight of it for a time, and poor, weak human -nature cried: - -“It’s more than I can bear.” - -But as the mother does not forget her child, even though she passes from -its sight, so God had not forgotten, and the darkness broke at last and -the lips could pray again for strength to bear and faith to do all that -God might require. - -“Though He slay me I will trust Him,” came like a ray of sunlight into -the rector’s mind; and ere the day was over he could say with a full -heart, “Thy will be done.” - -He was very pale, and his lip quivered occasionally as he thought of all -he had lost, while a blinding headache, induced by strong excitement, -drove him nearly wild with pain. He had been subject to headaches all -his life, but he had never suffered as he was suffering now but once, -and that on a rainy day in Rome, when, boasting of her mesmeric power, -Lucy had stood by him, and passed her hands soothingly across his -throbbing temples. - -How soft and cool they were,—but they had not thrilled him as the touch -of Anna’s did when they hung the Christmas wreaths and she wore that -bunch of scarlet berries in her hair. - -That time seemed very far away, farther even than Rome and the moonlight -nights of Venice. He did not like to think of it, for the bright hopes -which were budding then were blighted now, and dead; and with a moan, he -laid his aching head upon his pillow, and tried to forget all he had -ever hoped or longed for in the future. - -“She will marry Thornton Hastings. He is a more eligible match than a -poor clergyman,” he said, and then, as he remembered Thornton’s letter, -and that his man Thomas would be coming soon to ask if there were -letters to be taken to the office, he arose, and going to the study -table, wrote hastily: - - -“DEAR THORNE:—I am suffering from one of those horrid headaches which -used to make me as weak and helpless as a woman, but I will write just -enough to say that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free to -press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a noble girl, worthy -even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings, and if I cannot have her, I would -rather give her to you than any one I know. Only don’t ask me to perform -the ceremony. - -“There, I’ve let the secret out, but no matter, I have always confided -in you, and so I may as well confess that I have offered myself and been -refused. - - “Yours truly, - “ARTHUR LEIGHTON.” - - -The rector felt better after that letter was written. He had told his -grievance to some one, and it seemed to have lightened half the load. - -“Thorne is a good fellow,” he said, as he directed the letter. “A little -fast, it’s true, but a splendid fellow after all. He will sympathize -with me in his way, and I would rather give Anna to him than any other -living man.” - -Arthur was serious in what he said, for, wholly unlike as they were, -there was between him and Thornton Hastings one of those strong -friendships which sometimes exist between two men, but rarely between -two women, of so widely different temperaments. They had roomed together -four years in college, and countless were the difficulties from which -the sober Arthur had extricated the luckless Thorne, while many a time -the rather slender means of Arthur had been increased in a way so -delicate that expostulation was next to impossible. - -Arthur was better off now in worldly goods, for by the death of an uncle -he had come in possession of a few thousand dollars, which had enabled -him to travel in Europe for a year, and left a surplus, from which he -fed the poor and needy with no sparing hand. - -St. Mark’s was his first parish, and though he could have chosen one -nearer to New York, where the society was more congenial to his taste, -he had accepted of what God offered to him, and had been very happy -there since Anna Ruthven came home from Troy and made such havoc with -his heart. He did not believe he should ever be quite so happy again, -but he would try to do his work, and take thankfully whatever of good -might come to him. - -This was his final decision, and when at last he laid down to rest, the -wound, though deep and sore, and bleeding yet, was not quite as hard to -bear as it had been earlier in the day, when it was fresh and raw, and -faith and hope seemed swept away. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - TUESDAY. - - -That open grassy spot in the dense shadow of the west woods was just the -place for a picnic, and it looked very bright and pleasant that warm -June afternoon, with the rustic table so fancifully arranged, the -camp-stools scattered over the lawn, and the bouquets of flowers -depending from the trees. - -Fanny Hetherton had given it her whole care, aided and abetted by Mr. -Bellamy, what time he could spare from Lucy, who, endued with a mortal -fear of insects, seemed this day to gather scores of bugs and worms upon -her dress and hair, screaming with every worm, and bringing Simon -obediently to her aid. - -“I’d stay at home, I think, if I was silly enough to be afraid of a -harmless caterpillar like that,” Fanny had said, as with her own hands -she took from Lucy’s curls and threw away a thousand-legged thing, the -very sight of which made poor Lucy shiver, but did not send her to the -house. - -She was too much interested and too eagerly expectant of what the -afternoon would bring, and so she perched herself upon the fence where -nothing but ants could molest her, and finished the bouquets which Fanny -hung upon the trees until the lower limbs seemed one mass of blossoms -and the air was filled with the sweet perfume. - -Lucy was bewitchingly beautiful that afternoon in her dress of white, -with her curls tied up with a blue ribbon, and her fair arms bare nearly -to the shoulders. Fanny, whose arms were neither plump nor white, had -expostulated with her cousin upon this style of dress, suggesting that -one as delicate as she could not fail to take a heavy cold when the dews -began to fall; but Lucy would not listen. Arthur Leighton had told her -once that he liked her with bare arms, and bare they should be. She was -bending every energy to please and captivate him, and a cold was of no -consequence provided she succeeded. So like some little fairy, she -danced and flitted about, making fearful havoc with Mr. Bellamy’s wits, -and greatly vexing Fanny, who hailed with delight the arrival of Mrs. -Meredith and Anna. The latter was very pretty and very becomingly -attired in a light, airy dress of blue, finished at the throat and -wrists with an edge of soft, fine lace. She, too, had thought of Arthur -in the making of her toilet, and it was for him that the white rose-buds -were placed in her heavy braids of hair, and fastened on her belt. She -was very sorry that she had allowed herself to be vexed with Lucy -Harcourt for her familiarity with Mr. Leighton, very hopeful that he had -not observed it, and very certain now of his preference for herself. She -would be very gracious that afternoon, she thought, and not one bit -jealous of Lucy, though she called him Arthur a hundred times. - -Thus it was in the most amiable of moods that Anna appeared upon the -lawn, where she was warmly welcomed by Lucy, who, seizing both her -hands, led her away to see their arrangements, chatting gayly all the -time, and casting rapid glances up the lane as if in quest of some one. - -“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve thought of you so much. Do you know it -seems to me there must be some bond of sympathy between us, or I should -not like you so well at once. I drove by the rectory early this morning, -the dearest little place, with such a lovely garden. Arthur was working -in it, and I made him give me some roses. See, I have one in my curls. -Then, when he brought them to the carriage, I kept him there while I -asked numberless questions about you, and heard from him just how good -you are, and how you help him in the Sunday-school and everywhere, -visiting the poor, picking up ragged children, and doing things I never -thought of doing; but I am not going to be so useless any longer, and -the next time you visit some of the very miserablest, I want you to take -me with you. - -“Do you ever meet Arthur there? Oh, here he comes,” and with a bound, -Lucy darted away from Anna towards the spot where the rector stood -receiving Mrs. and Miss Hetherton’s greeting. - -As Lucy had said, she had driven by the rectory, with no earthly object -but the hope of seeing the rector, and had hurt him cruelly with her -questionings of Anna, and annoyed him a little with her anxious -inquiries as to the cause of his pallid face and sunken eyes; but she -was so bewitchingly pretty, and so thoroughly kind withal, that he could -not be annoyed long, and he felt better for having seen her bright, -coquettish face, and listened to her childish prattle. It was a great -trial for him to attend the picnic that afternoon, but he met it -bravely, and schooled himself to appear as if there were no such things -in the world as aching hearts and cruel disappointments. His face was -very pale, but his recent headache would account for that, and he acted -his part successfully, shivering a little, it is true, when Anna -expressed her sorrow that he should suffer so often from these attacks, -and suggested that he take a short vacation and go with them to -Saratoga. - -“I should so much like to have you,” she said, and her clear honest eyes -looked him straight in the face, as she asked why he could not. - -“What does she mean?” the rector thought. “Is she trying to tantalize -me? I expected her to be _natural_, as her aunt laid great stress on -that, but she need not overdo the matter by showing me how little she -cares for having hurt me so.” - -Then, as a flash of pride came to his aid, he thought, “I will at least -be even with her. She shall not have the satisfaction of guessing how -much I suffer,” and as Lucy then called to him from the opposite side of -the lawn, he asked Anna to accompany him thither, just as he would have -done a week before. Once that afternoon he found himself alone with her -in a quiet part of the woods, where the long branches of a great oak -came nearly to the ground, and formed a little bower which looked so -inviting that Anna sat down upon the gnarled roots of the tree, and -tossing her hat upon the grass, exclaimed, “How nice and pleasant it is -in here. Come sit down, too, while I tell you again about my class in -Sunday-school, and that poor Mrs. Hobbs across the millstream. You won’t -forget her, will you? I told her you would visit her the oftener when I -was gone. Do you know she cried because I was going? It made me feel so -badly that I doubted if it was right for me to go,” and pulling down a -handful of the oak-leaves above her head, Anna began weaving a chaplet, -while the rector stood watching her with a puzzled expression upon his -face. She did not act as if she ever could have dictated that letter, -but he had no suspicion of the truth, and answered rather coldly, “I did -not suppose you cared how much we might miss you at home.” - -Something in his tone made Anna look up into his face, and her eyes -immediately filled with tears, for she knew that in some way she had -displeased him. - -“Then you mistake me,” she replied, the tears still glittering on her -long eyelashes, and her fingers trembling among the oaken leaves. “I do -care whether I am missed or not.” - -“Missed by whom?” the rector asked, and Anna impetuously replied, -“Missed by the parish poor, and by you, too, Mr. Leighton. You don’t -know how often I shall think of you, or how sorry I am that—” - -She did not finish the sentence, for the rector had leaped madly at a -conclusion, and was down in the grass at her side with both her hands in -his. - -“Anna, O Anna,” he began so pleadingly, “have you repented of your -decision? Tell me that you have and it will make me so happy. I have -been so wretched ever since.” - -She thought he meant her decision about going to Saratoga, and she -replied, “I have not repented, Mr. Leighton. Aunt Meredith thinks it’s -best, and so do I, though I am sorry for you, if you really do care so -much.” - -Anna was talking blindly, her thoughts upon one subject, while the -rector’s were upon another, and matters were getting somewhat mixed -when, “Arthur, Arthur, where are you?” came ringing through the woods, -and Lucy Harcourt appeared, telling them that the refreshments were -ready. “We are only waiting for you two, wondering where you had gone, -but never dreaming that you had stolen away to make love,” she said -playfully, adding more earnestly as she saw the traces of agitation -visible in Anna’s face, “and I do believe you were. If so, I beg pardon -for my intrusion.” - -She spoke a little sharply, and glanced inquiringly at Mr. Leighton, -who, feeling that he had virtually been repulsed a second time by Anna, -answered her, “On the contrary, I am very glad you came, and so I am -sure is Miss Anna. I am ready to join you at the table. Come, Anna, they -are waiting,” and he offered his arm to the bewildered girl, who -replied, “Not just now, please. Leave me for a moment. I won’t be long.” - -Very curiously Lucy looked at Anna, and then at Mr. Leighton, who, fully -appreciating the feelings of the latter, said, by way of explanation, -“You see she has not quite finished that chaplet which I suspect is -intended for you. I think we had better leave her,” and drawing Lucy’s -arm under his own, he walked away, leaving Anna, more stunned and pained -than she had ever been before. Surely if _love_ had ever spoken in voice -and manner, it had spoken when Mr. Leighton was kneeling on the grass, -holding her hands in his. “Anna, O Anna;” how she had thrilled at the -sound of those words and waited for what might follow next. Why had his -manner changed so suddenly, and why had he been so glad to be -interrupted. Had he really no intention of making love to her; and if -so, why did he rouse her hopes so suddenly and then cruelly dash them to -the ground? Was it that he loved Lucy best, and that the sight of her -froze the words upon his lips? - -“Let him take her, then. He is welcome for all of me,” she thought; and -as a keen pang of shame and disappointment swept over her, she laid her -head for a moment upon the grass and wept bitterly. “He must have seen -what I expected, and I care most for that,” she sobbed, resolving -henceforth to guard herself at every point, and do all that lay in her -power to further Lucy’s interests. “He will thus see how little I really -care,” she said, and lifting up her head she tore in fragments the -wreath she had been making but which she could not now place on the head -of her rival. - -Mr. Leighton was flirting terribly with Lucy when she joined the party -assembled around the table, and he never once looked at Anna, though he -saw that her plate was well supplied with the best of everything, and -when at one draught she drained her glass of ice-water, he quietly -placed another within her reach, standing a little before her and trying -evidently to shield her from too critical observation. There were two at -least who were glad when the picnic was over, and various were the -private opinions of the company with regard to the entertainment. Mr. -Bellamy, who had been repeatedly foiled in his attempts to be especially -attentive to Lucy Harcourt, pronounced the whole thing “a bore,” Fanny, -who had been highly displeased with his deportment, came to the -conclusion that the enjoyment did not compensate for all the trouble; -and while the rector thought he had never spent a more thoroughly -wretched day, and Anna would have given worlds if she had stayed at -home, Lucy declared that never in her life had she had so perfectly -delightful a time, always excepting, of course, “that moon light sail in -Venice.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - WEDNESDAY. - - -There was a heavy shower the night succeeding the picnic, and the -morning following was as balmy and bright as June mornings are wont to -be after a fall of rain. They were always early risers at the -farm-house, but this morning Anna, who had slept but little, arose -earlier than usual, and leaning from the window to inhale the bracing -air and gather a bunch of roses fresh with the glittering rain-drops, -felt her spirits grow lighter, and wondered at her discomposure of the -previous day. Particularly was she grieved that she should have harbored -a feeling of bitterness towards Lucy Harcourt, who was not to blame for -having won the love she had been foolish enough to covet. - -“He knew her first,” she said, “and if he has since been pleased with -me, the sight of her has won him back to his allegiance, and it is -right. She is a pretty creature, but strangely unsuited, I fear, to be -his wife,” and then, as she remembered Lucy’s wish to go with her when -next she visited the poor, she said: - -“I’ll take her to see the Widow Hobbs. That will give her some idea of -the duties which will devolve upon her as a rector’s wife. I can go -directly there from Prospect Hill, where, I suppose, I must call with -Aunt Meredith.” - -Anna made herself believe that in doing this she was acting only from a -magnanimous desire to fit Lucy for her work, if, indeed, she was to be -Arthur’s wife,—that in taking the mantle from her own shoulders, and -wrapping it around her rival, she was doing a most amiable deed, when -down in her inmost heart, where the tempter had put it, there was an -unrecognized wish to see how the little dainty girl would shrink from -the miserable abode, and recoil from the touch of the dirty hands, which -were sure to be laid upon her dress if the children were at home, and -she waited impatiently to start on her errand of mercy. - -It was four o’clock when, with her aunt, she arrived at Colonel -Hetherton’s, and found the family assembled upon the broad piazza,—Mr. -Bellamy dutifully holding the skein of worsted from which Miss Fanny was -crocheting, and Lucy playing with a kitten, whose movements were -scarcely more graceful than her own, as she sprang up and ran to welcome -Anna. - -“Oh yes; I shall be delighted to go with you. Pray let us start at -once,” she exclaimed, when after a few moments’ conversation Anna told -where she was going. - -Lucy was very gayly dressed, and Anna smiled to herself as she imagined -the startling effect the white muslin and bright ribbons would have upon -the inmates of the shanty where they were going. There was a -remonstrance from Mrs. Hetherton against her niece walking so far, and -Mrs. Meredith suggested that they should ride, but to this Lucy -objected. She meant to take Anna’s place among the poor when she was -gone, she said, and how was she ever to do it if she could not walk so -little ways as that. Anna, too, was averse to the riding, and felt a -kind of grim satisfaction when, after a time, the little figure, which -at first had skipped along with all the airiness of a bird, began to -lag, and even pant for breath, as the way grew steeper and the path more -stony and rough. Anna’s evil spirit was in the ascendant that afternoon, -steeling her heart against Lucy’s doleful exclamations, as one after -another her delicate slippers were torn, and the sharp thistles, of -which the path was full, penetrated to her soft flesh. Straight and -unbending as a young Indian, Anna walked on, shutting her ears against -the sighs of weariness which reached them from time to time. But when -there came a half-sobbing cry of actual pain, she stopped suddenly and -turned towards Lucy, whose breath came gaspingly, and whose cheeks were -almost purple with the exertions she had made. - -“I cannot go any farther until I rest,” she said, sinking down exhausted -upon a large flat rock beneath a walnut-tree. - -Touched with pity at the sight of the heated face, from which the sweat -was dripping, Anna too sat down beside her, and laying the curly head in -her lap, she hated herself cordially, as Lucy said: - -“You’ve walked so fast I could not keep up. You do not know, perhaps, -how weak I am, and how little it takes to tire me. They say my heart is -diseased, and an unusual excitement might kill me.” - -“No, oh no!” Anna answered with a shudder, as she thought of what might -have been the result of her rashness, and then she smoothed the wet -hair, which, dried by the warm sunbeams, coiled itself up in golden -masses, which her fingers softly threaded. - -“I did not know it until that time in Venice when Arthur talked to me so -good, trying to make me feel that it was not hard to die, even if I was -so young and the world so full of beauty,” Lucy went on, her voice -sounding very low, and her bright shoulder-knots of ribbon trembling -with the rapid beating of her heart. “When he was talking to me I could -be almost willing to die, but the moment he was gone the doubts and -fears came back, and death was terrible again. I was always better with -Arthur. Everybody is, and I think your seeing so much of him is one -reason why you are so good.” - -“No, no, I am not good,” and Anna’s hands pressed hard upon the girlish -head lying in her lap. “I am wicked beyond what you can guess. I led you -this rough way when I might have chosen a smooth though longer road, and -walked so fast on purpose to worry you.” - -“To worry _me_. Why should you wish to do that?” and lifting up her -head, Lucy looked wonderingly at the conscience-stricken Anna, who could -not confess to the jealousy, but who in all other respects answered -truthfully: “I think an evil spirit possessed me for a time, and I -wanted to show you that it was not so nice to visit the poor as you -seemed to think, but I am sorry, oh so sorry, and you’ll forgive me, -won’t you?” - -A loving kiss was pressed upon her lips and a warm cheek was laid -against her own, as Lucy said, “Of course I’ll forgive you, though I do -not quite understand why you should wish to discourage me or tease me -either, when I liked you so much from the first moment I heard your -voice, and saw you in the choir. You don’t dislike me, do you?” - -“No, oh no. I love you very dearly,” Anna replied, her tears falling -like rain upon the slight form she hugged so passionately to her, and -which she would willingly have borne in her arms the remainder of the -way, as a kind of penance for her past misdeeds; but Lucy was much -better, and so the two, between whom there was now a bond of love which -nothing could sever, went on together to the low dismal house where the -Widow Hobbs lived. - -The gate was off the hinges, and Lucy’s muslin was torn upon a nail as -she passed through, while the long fringe of her fleecy shawl was caught -in the tall tufts of thistle growing by the path. In a muddy pool of -water, a few rods from the house, a flock of ducks were swimming, pelted -occasionally by the group of dirty, ragged children playing on the -grass, and who, at sight of the strangers and the basket Anna carried, -sprang up like a flock of pigeons, and came trooping towards her. It was -not the sweet, pastoral scene which Lucy had pictured to herself, with -Arthur for the background, and her ardor was greatly dampened even -before the threshold was crossed, and she stood in the low, close room -where the sick woman lay, her eyes unnaturally bright, and turned -wistfully upon them as she entered. There were ashes upon the hearth and -ashes upon the floor, a hair-brush upon the table and an empty plate -upon the chair, with swarms of flies sipping the few drops of molasses -and feeding upon the crumbs of bread left there by the elfish-looking -child now in the bed beside its mother. There was nothing but -poverty,—squalid, disgusting poverty, visible everywhere, and Lucy grew -sick and faint at the, to her, unusual sight. - -“They have not lived here long. We only found them three weeks ago; they -will look better by and by,” Anna whispered, feeling that some apology -was necessary for the destitution and filth visible everywhere. - -Daintily removing the plate to the table, and carefully tucking up her -skirts, Lucy sat down upon the wooden chair and looked dubiously on -while Anna made the sick woman more tidy in appearance, and then fed her -from the basket of provisions which Grandma Humphreys had sent. - -“I never could do that,” Lucy thought, as shoving off the little dirty -hand fingering her shoulder-knots she watched Anna washing the poor -woman’s face, and bending over her pillow as unhesitatingly as if it had -been covered with ruffled linen like those at Prospect Hill, instead of -the coarse soiled rag which hardly deserved the name of pillow-case. -“No, I never could do that,” and the possible life with Arthur which the -maiden had more than once imagined began to look very dreary, when -suddenly a shadow darkened the door, and Lucy knew before she turned her -head that the rector was standing at her back, and the blood tingled -through her veins with a delicious feeling; as, laying both his hands -upon her shoulders, and bending over her so that she felt his breath -upon her brow, he said: - -“What, my lady Lucy here? I hardly expected to find two ministering -angels, though I was almost sure of one,” and his eye rested on Anna -with a wistful look of tenderness, which neither she nor Lucy saw. - -“Then you knew she was coming,” Lucy said, an uneasy thought flashing -across her mind as she remembered the picnic, and the scene she had -stumbled upon. - -But Arthur’s reply, “I did not know she was coming; I only knew it was -like her,” reassured her for a time, making her resolve to emulate the -virtues which Arthur seemed to prize so highly. What a difference his -presence made in that wretched room. She did not mind the poverty now, -or care if her dress was stained with the molasses left in the chair, -and the inquisitive child with tattered gown and bare, brown legs was -welcome to examine and admire the bright plaid ribbons as much as she -chose. - -Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the subdued expression -of his face, as kneeling by the sick woman’s bedside he said the prayers -she had hungered for more than for the contents of Anna’s basket, which -were now purloined by the children crouched upon the hearth and fighting -over the last bit of gingerbread. - -“Hush-sh, little one,” and Lucy’s hand rested on the head of the -principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty of her face and the -authoritative tone of her voice, kept quiet till the prayer was over and -Arthur had risen from his knees. - -“Thank you, Lucy; I think I must constitute you my deaconess when Miss -Ruthven is gone. Your very presence has a subduing effect upon the -little savages. I never knew them so quiet before so long a time,” -Arthur said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reached Anna’s -ear, but brought no pang of jealousy or sharp regret for what she felt -was lost forever. - -She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving that by every means in -her power she would further her rival’s cause, and the hot tears which -dropped so fast upon Mrs. Hobbs’s pillow while Arthur said the prayer -were but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy thought, because she -felt so sorry for the suffering woman who had brought so much comfort to -her. - -“God bless you wherever you go,” she said, “and if there is any great -good which you desire, may He bring it to pass.” - -“He never will,—no, never,” was the sad response in Anna’s heart, as she -joined the clergyman and Lucy, who were standing outside the door, the -former pointing to the ruined slippers, and asking her how she ever -expected to walk home in such dilapidated things. - -“I shall certainly have to carry you,” he said, “or your blistered feet -will evermore be thrust forward as a reason why you cannot be my -deaconess.” - -He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and the party went -gayly on, Anna keeping a watchful care over Lucy, picking out the -smoothest places, and passing her arm round her waist as they were going -up a hill. - -“I think it would be better if you both leaned on me,” the rector said, -offering each an arm, and apologizing for not having thought to do so -before. - -“I do not need it, thank you, but Miss Harcourt does. I fear she is very -tired,” said Anna, pointing to Lucy’s face, which was so white and -ghastly and so like the face seen once before in Venice, that without -another word, Arthur took the tired girl in his strong arms and carried -her safely to the summit of the hill. - -“Please put me down; I can walk now,” Lucy pleaded; but Arthur felt the -rapid beatings of her heart, and kept her in his arms until they reached -Prospect Hill, were Mrs. Meredith was anxiously awaiting their return, -her brow clouding with distrust when she saw Mr. Leighton, for she was -constantly fearing lest her guilty secret should be exposed. - -“I’ll leave Hanover this very week, and remove her from danger,” she -thought, as she rose to say good-night. - -“Just wait a minute, please. There’s something I want to say to Miss -Ruthven,” Lucy cried, and leading Anna to her own room, she knelt down -by her side, and looking up in her face, began: - -“There’s one question which I wish to ask, and you must answer me -truly. It is rude and inquisitive, perhaps, but,—tell me,—has -Arthur—ever—ever—” - -Anna guessed what was coming, and with a sob, which Lucy thought was a -long-drawn breath, she kissed the pretty, parted lips, and answered: - -“No, darling, Arthur never did, and never will, but some time he will -ask you to be his wife. I can see it coming so plain.” - -Poor Anna! her heart gave one great throb as she said this, and then lay -like a dead weight in her bosom, while with sparkling eyes and blushing -cheeks, Lucy exclaimed: - -“I am so glad,—so glad. I have only known you since Sunday, but you seem -like an old friend, and you won’t mind my telling you that ever since I -first met Arthur among the Alps, I have lived in a kind of ideal world, -of which he was the centre. I am an orphan, you know, and an heiress, -too. There is half a million, they say; and Uncle Hetherton has charge -of it. Now, will you believe me, when I say that I would give every -dollar of this for Arthur’s love if I could not have it without?” - -“I do believe you,” Anna replied, inexpressibly glad that the gathering -darkness hid her white face from view as the childlike, unsuspecting -girl went on: “The world, I know, would say that a poor clergyman was -not a good match for me, but I do not care for that. Cousin Fanny favors -it, I am sure, and Uncle Hetherton would not oppose me when he saw I was -in earnest. Once the world, which is a very meddlesome thing, picked out -Thornton Hastings, of New York, for me; but my! he was too proud and -lofty even to talk to me much, and I would not speak to him after I -heard of his saying that ‘I was a pretty little plaything, but far too -frivolous for a sensible man to make his wife.’ Oh, wasn’t I angry -though, and don’t I hope that when he gets a wife she will be exactly -such a frivolous thing as I am.” - -Even through the darkness Anna could see the blue eyes flash, and the -delicate nostrils dilate as Lucy gave vent to her wrath against the -luckless Thornton Hastings. - -“You will meet him at Saratoga. He is always there in the summer, but -don’t you speak to him, _the hateful_. He’ll be calling you frivolous -next.” - -An amused smile flitted across Anna’s face as she asked, “But won’t you -too be at Saratoga? I supposed you were all going there.” - -“_Cela depend_,” Lucy replied. “I would so much rather stay here, the -dressing, and dancing, and flirting tire me so, and then you know what -Arthur said about taking me for his deaconess in your place.” - -There was a call just then from the hall below. Mrs. Meredith was -getting impatient of the delay, and with a good-by kiss, Anna went down -the stairs, and stood out upon the piazza, where her aunt was waiting. -Mr. Leighton had accepted Fanny’s invitation to stay to tea, and he -handed the ladies to their carriage, lingering a moment while he said -his parting words, for he was going out of town to-morrow, and when he -returned Anna would be gone. - -“You will think of us sometimes,” he said, still holding Anna’s hand. -“St. Mark’s will be lonely without you. God bless you and bring you -safely back.” - -There was a pressure of the hand, a lifting of Arthur’s hat, and then -the carriage moved away; but Anna, looking back, saw Arthur standing by -Lucy’s side, fastening a rose-bud in her hair, and at that sight the -gleam of hope which for an instant had crept into her heart passed away -with a sigh. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - AT NEWPORT. - - -Moved by a strange impulse, Thornton Hastings took himself and his fast -bays to Newport instead of Saratoga, and thither, the first week in -August, came Mrs. Meredith, with eight large trunks, her niece, and her -niece’s wardrobe, which had cost the pretty sum of eighteen hundred -dollars. - -Mrs. Meredith was not naturally lavish of her money, except where her -own interests were concerned, as they were in Anna’s case. Conscious of -having come between her niece and the man she loved, she determined that -in the procuring of a substitute for this man, no advantages which dress -could afford should be lacking. Besides, Thornton Hastings was a perfect -connoisseur in everything pertaining to a lady’s toilet, and it was with -him and his preference before her mind that Mrs. Meredith opened her -purse so widely and bought so extensively. There were sun hats and round -hats, and hats _à la cavalier_,—there were bonnets and veils, and -dresses, and shawls of every color and kind, with the lesser matters of -sashes, and gloves, and slippers, and fans, the whole making an array -such as Anna had never seen before, and from which she had at first -shrank back appalled and dismayed. But she was not now quite so much of -a novice as when she first reached New York, the Saturday following the -picnic at Prospect Hill. She had passed successfully and safely through -the hands of mantua-makers, milliners, and hair-dressers since then. She -had laid aside every article brought from home. She wore her hair in -puffs and waterfalls, and her dresses in the latest mode. She had seen -the fashionable world as represented at Saratoga, and sickening at the -sight, had gladly acquiesced in her aunt’s proposal to go on to Newport, -where the air was purer, and the hotels not so densely packed. She had -been called a beauty and a belle, but her heart was longing still for -the leafy woods and fresh, green fields of Hanover; and Newport, she -fancied, would be more like the country than sultry, crowded Saratoga, -and never since leaving home had she looked so bright and pretty as the -evening after her arrival at the Ocean House, when, invigorated by the -bath she had taken in the morning, and gladdened by sight of the -glorious sea and the soothing tones it murmured in her ear, she came -down to the parlor, clad in simple white, with only a bunch of violets -in her hair, and no other ornament than the handsome pearls her aunt had -given to her. Standing at the open window, with the drapery of the lace -curtain sweeping gracefully behind her, she did not look much like the -Anna who led the choir in Hanover and visited the Widow Hobbs, nor yet -much like the picture which Thornton Hastings had formed of the girl who -he knew was there for his inspection. He had been absent the entire day, -and had not seen Mrs. Meredith, when she arrived early in the morning, -but he found her card in his room, and a smile curled his lip as he -said: - -“And so I have not escaped her.” - -Thornton Hastings had proved a most treacherous knight, and overthrown -his general’s plans entirely. Arthur’s letter had affected him -strangely, for he readily guessed how deeply wounded his sensitive -friend had been by Anna Ruthven’s refusal, while added to this was a -fear lest Anna had been influenced by a thought of himself, and what -might possibly result from an acquaintance. Thornton Hastings had been -flattered and angled for until he had grown somewhat vain, and it did -not strike him as at all improbable that the unsophisticated Anna should -have designs upon him. - -“But I won’t give her a chance,” he said, when he finished Arthur’s -letter. “I thought once I might like her, but I shan’t, and I’ll be -revenged on her for refusing the best man that ever breathed. I’ll go to -Newport instead of Saratoga, and so be clear of the entire Meredith -clique, the Hethertons, the little Harcourt, and all.” - -This, then, was the secret of his being at the Ocean House. He was -keeping away from Anna Ruthven, who never had heard of him but once, and -that from Lucy Harcourt. After that scene in the Glen, where Anna had -exclaimed against intriguing mothers and their bold, shame-faced -daughters, Mrs. Meredith had been too wise a manœuvrer to mention -Thornton Hastings, so that Anna was wholly ignorant of his presence at -Newport, and looked up in unfeigned surprise at the tall, elegant man -whom her aunt presented as Mr. Hastings. With all Thornton’s affected -indifference, there was still a curiosity to see the girl who could say -“no” to Arthur Leighton, and he did not wait long after receiving Mrs. -Meredith’s card before going down to find her. - -“That’s the girl, I’ll lay a wager,” he thought of a high-colored, -showily dressed hoyden, who was whirling around the room with Ned -Peters, from Boston, and whoso corn-colored dress swept against his -boots as he entered the parlor. - -How, then, was he disappointed in the apparition Mrs. Meredith presented -as “my niece,” the modest, self possessed young girl, whose cheeks grew -not a whit the redder, and whose pulse did not quicken at the sight of -him, though a gleam of something like curiosity shone in the brown eyes -which scanned him so quietly. She was thinking of Lucy, and her -injunction “not to speak to the _hateful_ if she saw him;” but she did -speak to him, and Mrs. Meredith fanned herself complacently as she saw -how fast they became acquainted. - -“You don’t dance,” Mr. Hastings said, as she declined an invitation from -Ned Peters, whom she had met at Saratoga. “I am glad, for you will -perhaps walk with me outside upon the piazza. You won’t take cold, I -think,” and he glanced thoughtfully at the white neck and shoulders -gleaming beneath the gauzy muslin. - -Mrs. Meredith was in rhapsodies, and sat a full hour with the tiresome -dowagers around her, while up and down the broad piazza Thornton -Hastings walked with Anna, talking to her as he seldom talked to women, -and feeling greatly surprised to find that what he said was fully -appreciated and understood. That he was pleased with her he could not -deny to himself, as he sat alone in his room that night, feeling more -and more how keenly Arthur Leighton must have felt her refusal. - -“But why did she refuse him?” he wished he knew, and ere he slept he -resolved to study Anna Ruthven closely, and ascertain, if possible, the -motive which prompted her to discard a man like Arthur Leighton. - -The next day brought the Hetherton party, all but Lucy Harcourt, who, -Fanny laughingly said, was just now suffering from clergyman on the -brain, and, as a certain cure for the disease, had turned my Lady -Bountiful, and was playing the pretty patroness to all Mr. Leighton’s -parishioners, especially a Widow Hobbs, whom she had actually taken to -ride in the carriage, and to whose ragged children she had sent a bundle -of cast-off party dresses; and the tears ran down Fanny’s cheeks as she -described the appearance of the elder Hobbs, who came to church with a -soiled pink silk skirt, her black, tattered petticoat hanging down -below, and one of Lucy’s opera hoods upon her head. - -“And the clergyman on her brain? Does he appreciate his situation? I -have an interest there. He is an old friend of mine,” Thornton Hastings -asked. - -He had been an amused listener to Fanny’s gay badinage, laughing merrily -at the idea of Lucy’s taking an old woman out to air, and clothing her -children in party dresses. His opinion of Lucy, as she had said, was -that she was a pretty but frivolous plaything, and it showed upon his -face as he asked the question he did, watching Anna furtively as Fanny -replied: - -“Oh yes, he is certainly smitten, and I must say I never saw Lucy so -thoroughly in earnest. Why, she really seems to enjoy travelling all -over Christendom to find the hovels and huts, though she is mortally -afraid of the small-pox, and always carries with her a bit of chloride -of lime as a disinfecting agent. I am sure she ought to win the parson. -And so you know him, do you?” - -“Yes; we were in college together, and I esteem him so highly that, had -I a sister, there is no man living to whom I would so readily give her -as to him.” - -He was looking now at Anna, whose face was very pale, and who pressed a -rose she held so tightly that the sharp thorns pierced her flesh, and a -drop of blood stained the whiteness of her hand. - -“See, you have hurt yourself,” Mr. Hastings said. “Come to the -water-pitcher and wash the stain away.” - -She went with him mechanically, and let him hold her hand in his while -he wiped off the blood with his own handkerchief, treating her with a -tenderness for which he could hardly account. He pitied her, and -suspected she had repented of her rashness, and because he pitied her he -asked her to ride with him that day after the fast bays, of which he had -written to Arthur. Many admiring eyes were cast after them as they drove -away, and Mrs. Hetherton whispered softly to Mrs. Meredith: - -“A match in progress, I see. You have done well for your charming -niece.” - -And yet matrimony, as concerned himself, was very far from Thornton -Hastings’ thoughts that afternoon, when, because he saw that it pleased -Anna to have him do so, he talked to her of Arthur, hoping, in his -unselfish heart, that what he said in his praise might influence her to -reconsider her decision and give him a different answer. This was the -second day of Thornton Hastings’ acquaintance with Anna Ruthven, but as -time went on, bringing the usual routine of life at Newport, the drives, -the rides, the pleasant piazza talks, and the quiet moonlight rambles, -when Anna was always his companion, Thornton Hastings came to feel an -unwillingness to surrender even to Arthur Leighton the beautiful girl -who pleased him better than any one he had known. - -Mrs. Meredith’s plans were working well, and so, though the autumn days -had come, and one after another the devotees of fashion were dropping -off, she lingered on, and Thornton Hastings still rode and walked with -Anna Ruthven, until there came a night when they wandered farther than -usual from the hotel, and sat down together on a height of land which -overlooked the placid waters, where the moonlight lay softly sleeping. -It was a most lovely night, and for awhile they listened in silence to -the music of the sea, and then talked of the breaking-up which would -come in a few days, when the hotel was to be closed, and wondered if -next year they would come again to the old haunts and find them -unchanged. - -There was witchery in the hour, and Thornton felt its spell, speaking -out at last, and asking Anna if she would be his wife. He would shield -her so tenderly, he said, protecting her from every care, and making her -as happy as love and money could make her. Then he told her of his home -in the far-off city, which needed only her presence to make it a -paradise, and then he waited for her answer, watching anxiously the -limp, white hands, which, when he first began to talk, had fallen -helplessly upon her lap, and then had crept up to her face, which was -turned away from him, so that he could not see its expression, or guess -at the struggle going on in Anna’s mind. She was not wholly surprised, -for she could not mistake the nature of the interest which, for the last -two weeks, Thornton Hastings had manifested in her. But now that the -moment had come, it seemed to her that she had never expected it, and -she sat silent for a time, dreading so much to speak the words which she -knew would inflict pain on one whom she respected so highly, but whom -she could not marry. - -“Don’t you like me, Anna?” Thornton asked at last, his voice very low -and tender, as he bent over her and tried to take her hand. - -“Yes, very much,” she answered; and emboldened by her reply, Thornton -lifted up her head, and was about to kiss her forehead, when she started -away from him, exclaiming: - -“No, Mr. Hastings. You must not do that. I cannot be your wife. It hurts -me to tell you so, for I believe you are sincere in your proposal; but -it can never be. Forgive me, and let us both forget this wretched -summer.” - -“It has not been wretched to me. It has been a very happy summer, since -I knew you at least,” Mr. Hastings said, and then he asked again that -she should reconsider her decision. He could not take it as her final -one. He had loved her too much, had thought too much of making her his -own, to give her up so easily, he said, urging so many reasons why she -should think again, that Anna said to him, at last: - -“If you would rather have it so, I will wait a month, but you must not -hope that my answer will be different then from what it is to-night. I -want your friendship, though, the same as if this had never happened. I -like you, because you have been kind to me, and made my stay in Newport -so much pleasanter than I thought it could be. You have not talked to me -like other men. You have treated me as if I at least had common-sense. I -thank you for that; and I like you because—” - -She did not finish the sentence, for she could not say “Because you are -Arthur’s friend.” That would have betrayed the miserable secret tugging -at her heart, and prompting her to refuse Thornton Hastings, who had -also thought of Arthur Leighton, wondering if it were thus that she -rejected him, and if in the background there was another love standing -between her and the two men to win whom many a woman would almost have -given her right hand. To say that Thornton was not piqued at her refusal -would be false. He had not expected it, accustomed as he was to -adulation; but he tried to put that feeling down, and his manner was -even more kind and considerate than ever as he walked back to the hotel, -where Mrs. Meredith was waiting for them, her practised eye detecting at -once that something was amiss. Thornton Hastings knew Mrs. Meredith -thoroughly, and, wishing to shield Anna from her displeasure, he -preferred stating the facts himself to having them wrung from the pale, -agitated girl, who, bidding him good-night, went quickly to her room; -so, when she was gone, and he stood for a moment alone with Mrs. -Meredith, he said: - -“I have proposed to your niece, but she cannot answer me now. She wishes -for a month’s probation, which I have granted, and I ask that she shall -not be persecuted about the matter. I must have an unbiassed answer.” - -He bowed politely and walked away, while Mrs. Meredith almost trod on -air as she climbed the stairs and sought her niece’s chamber. Over the -interview which ensued that night we pass silently, and come to the next -morning, when Anna sat alone on the piazza at the rear of the hotel, -watching the playful gambols of some children on the grass, and -wondering if she ever could conscientiously say yes to Thornton -Hastings’ suit. He was coming towards her now, lifting his hat politely, -and asking what she would give for news from home. - -“I found this on my table,” he said, holding up a dainty little missive, -on the corner of which was written “In haste,” as if its contents were -of the utmost importance. “The boy must have made a mistake, or else he -thought it well to begin at once bringing your letters to me,” he -continued with a smile, as he handed Anna the letter from Lucy Harcourt. -“I have one, too, from Arthur, which I will read while you are devouring -yours, and then, perhaps, you will take a little ride. The September air -is very bracing this morning,” he said, walking away to the far end of -the piazza while Anna broke the seal of the envelope, hesitating a -moment ere taking the letter from it, and trembling as if she guessed -what it contained. - -There was a quivering of the eyelids, a paling of the lips as she -glanced at the first few lines, then with the low moaning cry, “No, no, -oh no, not that,” she fell upon her face. - -To lift her in his arms and carry her to her room was the work of an -instant, and then, leaving her to Mrs. Meredith’s care, Thornton -Hastings went back to finish Arthur’s letter, which might or might not -throw light upon the fainting-fit. - -“Dear Thornton,” Arthur wrote, “you will be surprised, no doubt, to hear -that your old college chum is at last engaged; but not to one of the -fifty lambs about whom you once jocosely wrote. The shepherd has -wandered from his flock, and is about to take into his bosom a little -stray ewe-lamb,—Lucy Harcourt by name—” - -“The deuce he is,” was Thornton’s ejaculation, and then he read on: - -“She is an acquaintance of yours, I believe, so I need not describe her, -except to say that she is somewhat changed from the gay butterfly of -fashion she used to be, and in time will make as demure a little -Quakeress as one could wish to see. She visits constantly among my poor, -who love her almost as well as they once loved Anna Ruthven. - -“Don’t ask me, Thorne, in your blunt, straightforward manner if I have -so soon forgotten Anna. That is a matter with which you’ve nothing to -do. Let it suffice that I am engaged to another, and mean to make a kind -and faithful husband to her. Lucy would have suited you better, perhaps, -than she does me; that is, the world would think so, but the world does -not always know, and if I am satisfied, surely it ought to be. - - “Yours truly, - “A. LEIGHTON.” - -“Engaged to Lucy Harcourt! I never could have believed it. He’s right in -saying that she is far more suitable for me than him,” Thornton -exclaimed, dashing aside the letter and feeling conscious of a pang as -he remembered the bright airy little beauty in whom he had once been -strongly interested, even if he did call her frivolous and ridicule her -childish ways. - -She was frivolous, too much so by far to be a clergyman’s wife, and for -a full half hour Thornton paced up and down the room, meditating on -Arthur’s choice and wondering how upon earth it ever happened. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. - - -Lucy had insisted that she did not care to go to Saratoga. She preferred -remaining in Hanover, where it was cool and quiet, and where she would -not have to dress three times a day and dance every night until twelve. -She was beginning to find that there was something to live for besides -consulting one’s own pleasure, and she meant to do good the rest of her -life, she said, assuming such a sober, nun-like air, that no one who saw -her could fail to laugh, it was so at variance with her entire nature. -But Lucy was in earnest. Hanover had a greater attraction for her than -all the watering-places in the world, and she was very grateful when -Fanny threw her influence on her side and so turned the scale in her -favor. - -Fanny was glad to leave her dangerous cousin at home, especially after -Mr. Bellamy decided to join their party at Saratoga; and as she carried -great weight with both her parents it was finally decided to let Lucy -remain at Prospect Hill in peace, and one morning in July she saw the -family depart without a single feeling of regret that she was not of -their number. She had far too much on her hands to spend her time in -regretting anything: there was the parish school to visit, and a class -of children to hear, children who were no longer ragged, for Lucy’s -money had been expended till even Arthur had remonstrated with her, and -read her a long lecture on the subject of misapplied charity. Then there -was Widow Hobbs waiting for the jelly which Lucy had promised, and for -the chapter which Lucy now read to her, sitting where she could watch -the road and see just who turned the corner, her voice always sounding a -little more serious and good when the footsteps belonged to Arthur -Leighton, and her eyes always glancing at the bit of a cracked mirror on -the wall, to see that her dress and hair and ribbons were right before -Arthur came in. It was a very pretty sight to see her thus and hear her -as she read to the poor, whose surroundings she had so greatly improved; -and Arthur always smiled gratefully upon her, and then walked back with -her to Prospect Hill, where he lingered while she played or talked to -him, or brought the luscious fruits with which the garden abounded. - -This was Lucy’s life, which she preferred to Saratoga, and they left her -to enjoy it, somewhat to Arthur’s discomfiture, for, much as he valued -her society, he would rather she had gone where the Hethertons did, for -he could not be insensible to the remarks which were being made by the -curious villagers, who watched this new flirtation, as they called it, -and wondered if their minister had forgotten Anna Ruthven. He had not -forgotten her, and many a time was her loved name upon his lips and a -thought of her in his heart, while he never returned from an interview -with Lucy that he did not contrast the two, and sigh for the olden time -when Anna was his coworker instead of pretty Lucy Harcourt. And yet -there was about the latter a powerful fascination which he found it hard -to resist. It rested him just to look at her, she was so fresh, so -bright, and so beautiful; and then she flattered his self-love by the -unbounded deference she paid to his opinions, studying all his tastes -and bringing her will into perfect subjection to his, until she could -scarcely be said to have a thought or feeling which was not a reflection -of his own. And so the flirtation, which at first had been a one-sided -affair, began to assume a more serious form, and the rector went oftener -to Prospect Hill, while the Hetherton carriage stood daily at the gate -of the parsonage, and people talked and gossiped, until Captain -Humphreys, Anna’s grandfather, concluded it was his duty as senior -warden of St. Mark’s, to talk with the young rector and know “what his -intentions were.” - -“You have none?” he said, fixing his mild eyes reproachfully upon his -clergyman, who recoiled a little beneath the gaze. “Then, if you have no -intentions, my advice to you is that you quit it and let the gal alone, -or you’ll ruin her, if she ain’t spoilt already, as some of the women -folks say she is. It don’t do no gal any good to have a chap, and -’specially a minister, gallivantin’ after her, as I must say you’ve been -after this one for the last few weeks. She’s a pretty little creeter, -and I don’t blame you for liking her. It makes my old blood stir faster -when she comes purring around me, with her soft ways and winsome face, -and so I don’t wonder at you, but when you say you’ve no intentions, I -blame you greatly. You or’to have. Excuse my plainness; I’m an old man, -and I like my minister, and don’t want him to go wrong; and then I feel -for her, left all alone by all her folks; more’s the shame to them, and -more’s the harm to you, to tangle up her affections as you are doing if -you are not in earnest; and so I speak for her just as I should want -some one to speak for Anna!” - -The old man’s voice trembled a little here, for it had been a wish of -his that Anna should occupy the parsonage, and he had at first felt a -little resentment against the gay young creature who seemed to have -supplanted her, but he was over that now, and in all honesty of heart he -spoke both for Lucy’s interest and that of his clergyman. And Arthur -listened to him respectfully, feeling when he was gone that he merited -the rebuke,—that he had not been guiltless in the matter,—that if he did -not mean to marry Lucy Harcourt he should let her alone. And he would, -he said,—he would not go to Prospect Hill again for two whole weeks, nor -visit at the cottages where he was sure to find her; he would keep -himself at home; and he did, and shut himself up among his books, not -even going to make a pastoral call on Lucy when he heard that she was -sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking dangerously charming in her blue -riding-habit with the white feather streaming from her hat. Very -prettily she pouted, too, as she chided him for his neglect, and asked -why he had not been to see her nor anybody;—there was the Widow Hobbs, -and Mrs. Briggs, and those miserable Donelsons, whom he had not been -near for a fortnight. - -“What is the reason?” she asked, beating her foot upon the carpet and -tapping the end of her riding-whip upon the sermon he was writing. “Are -you displeased with me, Arthur,” she continued, her eyes filling with -tears as she saw the expression of his face. “Have I done anything -wrong; I am so sorry if I have.” - -Her voice had in it the grieved tones of a little child, and her eyes -were very bright with the tears quivering on her long eyelashes. Leaning -back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, a position he -usually assumed when puzzled and perplexed, the rector looked at her a -moment before he spoke. He could not define to himself the nature of the -interest he took in Lucy Harcourt. He admired her greatly, and the -self-denials and generous exertions she had made to be of use to him -since Anna went away, had touched a tender chord and made her seem very -near to him. Habit with him was everything, and the past two weeks’ -isolation had shown him how necessary she had become to him. She did not -satisfy his higher wants as Anna Ruthven had done. No one could ever do -that, but she amused and soothed and rested him, and made his duties -lighter by taking half of them upon herself. That she was more attached -to him than he could wish he greatly feared, for since Captain -Humphreys’ visit he had seen matters differently from what he saw them -before, and had unsparingly questioned himself as to how far he would be -answerable for her future weal or woe. - -“Guilty, verily I am guilty in leading her on if I meant nothing by it,” -he had written against himself, pausing in his sermon to write it just -as Lucy came in, appealing to him to know why he had neglected her so -long. - -She was very beautiful this morning, and Arthur felt his heart beat -rapidly as he looked at her, and thought any man who had not known Anna -Ruthven would be glad to gather that bright creature in his arms and -know she was his own. One long, long sigh to the memory of all he had -hoped for once,—one bitter pang as he remembered Anna and that twilight -hour in the church, and then he made a mad plunge in the dark and said: - -“Lucy, do you know people are beginning to talk about my seeing you so -much?” - -“Well, let them talk; who cares?” Lucy replied, with a good deal of -asperity of manner for her, for that very morning the housekeeper at -Prospect Hill had ventured to remonstrate with her for “running after -the parson.” “Pray where is the wrong? What harm can come of it?” - -“None, perhaps,” Arthur replied, “if one could keep their affections -under control. But if either of us should learn to love the other very -much and the love was not reciprocated, harm would surely come of that. -At least that was the view Captain Humphreys took of the matter when he -was speaking to me about it.” - -There were red spots on Lucy’s face, but her lips were very white and -the buttons on her riding-dress rose and fell rapidly with the beating -of her heart as she looked steadily at Arthur. Was he going to send her -from him,—back to the insipid life she had lived before she knew him? It -was too terrible to believe, and the great tears rolled slowly down her -cheeks. Then as a flash of pride came to her aid, she dashed them away -and said to him haughtily: - -“And so for fear I shall fall in love with you, you are sacrificing both -comfort and freedom, and shutting yourself up with your books and -studies to the neglect of other duties. But it need be so no longer. The -necessity for it, if it existed once, certainly does not now. I will not -be in your way; forgive me that I ever have been.” - -Lucy’s voice began to tremble as she gathered up her riding-habit and -turned to find her gauntlets. One of them had dropped upon the floor -between the table and the rector, and as she stooped to reach it her -curls almost swept the young man’s lap. - -“Let me get it for you,” he said, hastily pushing back his chair and -awkwardly entangling his foot in her long sweeping dress, so that when -she arose she stumbled backward and would have fallen, but for the arm -he quickly passed around her. - -Something in the touch of that quivering form completed the work of -temptation, and he held it for an instant, when she said to him -pettishly: - -“Please let me go, sir.” - -“No, Lucy, I can’t let you go. I want you to stay with me.” - -Instantly the drooping head was uplifted, and Lucy’s eyes looked into -his with such a wistful, pleading, wondering look that Arthur saw or -thought he saw his duty plain, and gently touching his lips to the brow -glistening so white within their reach, he continued: - -“There is a way to stop the gossip and make it right for me to see you. -Promise to be my wife, and not even Captain Humphreys can say aught -against it.” - -Arthur’s voice trembled now, for the mention of Captain Humphreys had -brought a thought of Anna, whose eyes seemed for an instant to look -reproachfully upon that wooing. But he had gone too far to retract; he -had only to wait for Lucy’s answer. There was no deception about her; -hers was a nature as clear as crystal, and with a gush of glad tears she -promised to be the rector’s wife; and hiding her face on his bosom, told -him, brokenly, how unworthy she was of him; how foolish, and how -unsuited to the place, but promising to do the best she could not to -bring him into disgrace on account of her shortcomings. - -“With the knowledge that you love me I can do anything,” she said, and -her white hand crept slowly into the cold, clammy one which lay so -listlessly on Arthur’s lap. - -He was already repenting, for he felt that it was sin to take that warm, -trusting, loving heart in exchange for the cold, half lifeless one he -should render in return, and in which scarcely a pulse of joy was -beating, even though he held his promised wife; and she was fair and -beautiful as ever promised wife could be. - -“But I can make her happy, and I will,” he thought, pressing the warm -fingers which quivered to his touch. - -But he did not kiss her again; he could not for the eyes, which still -seemed looking at him and asking what he did. There was a strange spell -about those phantom eyes, and they made him say to Lucy, who was now -sitting demurely at his side: - -“I could not clear my conscience if I did not confess that you are not -the first woman whom I have asked to be my wife.” - -There was a start, and Lucy’s face was pale as ashes, while her hand -went quickly to her side, where the heartbeats were visible, warning -Arthur to be careful how he startled one whose life hung on so slender a -thread as Lucy’s; so, when she asked, “Who was it, and why did you not -marry her? Did you love her very much?” he answered indifferently, “I -would rather not tell you who it was, as that might be a breach of -confidence. She did not care to be my wife, and so that dream was over -and I was left for you.” - -He did not say how much he loved her who had discarded him, but Lucy -forgot the omission, and asked, “Was she very young and pretty?” - -“Young and pretty both, but not as beautiful as you,” Arthur replied, -his fingers softly putting back the golden curls from the face looking -so trustingly into his. - -And in that he answered truly. He had seen no face as beautiful of its -kind as Lucy’s was, and he was glad that he could tell her so. He knew -how that would please her and partly make amends for the tender words -which he could not speak,—for the phantom eyes still haunting him so -strangely. - -And Lucy, who took all things for granted, was more than content, -although she wondered that he did not kiss her again, and wished she -knew the girl who had come so near being in her place. But she respected -his wishes too much to ask after what he had said, and she tried to make -herself glad that he had been so frank with her and not left his other -love-affair to the chance of her discovering it afterwards, at a time -when it might be painful to her. - -“I wish I had something to confess,” she thought; but from the score of -her flirtations, and even offers, for she had not lacked for them, she -could not find one where her own feelings had been enlisted in ever so -slight a degree until she remembered Thornton Hastings, who for one -whole week had paid her such attentions as had made her dream of him, -and even drive round once on purpose to look at the house on Madison -Square where the future Mrs. Hastings was to live. - -But his coolness afterwards, and his comments on her frivolity had -terribly angered her, making her think that she hated him, as she had -said to Anna. Now, however, as she remembered the drive and the house, -she nestled closer to Arthur and told him all about it, fingering the -buttons on his dressing-gown as she told him it, and never dreaming of -the pang she was inflicting as Arthur thought how mysterious were God’s -ways, and wondered that He had not reversed the matter and given Lucy to -Thornton Hastings, rather than to him, who did not half deserve her. - -“I know now I never cared a bit for Thornton Hastings, though I might if -he had not been so mean as to call me frivolous,” Lucy said, as she -arose to go; then suddenly turning to the rector, she added: “I shall -never ask who your first love was, but would like to know if you have -quite forgotten her?” - -“Have you forgotten Thornton Hastings?” Arthur asked, laughingly; and -Lucy replied, “Of course not; one never forgets, but I don’t care a pin -about him now, and did I tell you, Fanny writes that rumor says he will -marry Anna Ruthven?” - -“Yes,—no,—I did not know; I am not surprised;” and Arthur stooped to -pick up a book lying on the floor, thus hiding his face from Lucy, who, -woman-like, was glad to report a piece of gossip, and continued: - -“She is a great belle, Fanny says; dresses beautifully and in perfect -taste, besides talking as if she knew something, and this pleases Mr. -Hastings, who takes her out to ride and drive, and all this after I -warned her against him and told her just what he said of me. I am -surprised at her!” - -Lucy was drawing on her gauntlets, and Arthur was waiting to see her -out, but she still lingered on the threshold, and at last said to him: - -“I wonder you never fell in love with Anna yourself. I am sure, if I -were you I should prefer her to me. She knows something and I do not, -but I am going to study; there are piles of books in the library at -Prospect Hill, and you shall see what a famous student I will become. If -I get puzzled will you help me?” - -“Yes, willingly,” Arthur replied, wishing that she would go, before she -indulged in any more speculation as to why he did not love Anna Ruthven. - -But Lucy was not done yet; the keenest pang was yet to come, and Arthur -felt as if the earth was giving way beneath his feet, when, as he lifted -her into the saddle and took her hand at parting, she said: - -“You remember I am not going to be jealous of that other girl. There is -only one person who could make me so, and that is Anna Ruthven; but I -know it was not she, for that night we all came from Mrs. Hobbs’s and -she went with me upstairs, I asked her honestly if you had ever offered -yourself to her, and she told me you had not. I think you showed a lack -of taste; but I am glad it was not Anna.” - -Lucy was far down the road ere Arthur recovered from the shock her last -words had given him. What did it mean, and why had Anna said he never -proposed? Was there some mistake, and he the victim of it? There was a -blinding mist before the young man’s eyes, and a gnawing pain at his -heart as he returned to his study and went over again with all the -incidents of Anna’s refusal, even to the reading of the letter which, he -already knew by heart. Then, as the thought came over him that possibly -Mrs. Meredith played him false in some way, he groaned aloud, and the -great sweat-drops fell upon the table where he leaned his head. But this -could not be, he reasoned. Lucy was mistaken. She had not heard aright. -Somebody surely was mistaken, or he had committed a fatal error. - -“But I must abide by it,” he said, lifting up his pallid face. “God -forgive the wrong I have done in asking Lucy to be my wife when my heart -belonged to another. God help me to forget the one and love the other as -I ought. She is a lovely little girl, trusting me so wholly that I can -make her happy,—and I will!—but Anna,—O Anna!” - -It was a despairing cry, such as a newly-engaged man should never have -sent after another than his affianced bride; and Arthur thought so too, -fighting back his first love with an iron will, and after that hour of -anguish burying it so far from sight that he went that night to Captain -Humphreys and told of his engagement; then called upon his bride-elect, -and tried so hard to be satisfied, that, when at a late hour he returned -to the parsonage, he was more than content; and by way of fortifying -himself still more, wrote the letter which Thornton Hastings read at -Newport. - -And that was how it happened. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - ANNA. - - -Through the rich curtains which shaded the windows of a room looking out -on Fifth Avenue the late October sun was shining; and as its red light -played among the flowers on the carpet, a pale young girl sat watching -it and thinking of the Hanover hills, now decked in their autumnal -glory, and of the ivy on St. Mark’s, growing so bright and beautiful -beneath the autumnal frosts. Anna had been very sick since that morning -in September when she sat on the piazza at the Ocean House and read Lucy -Harcourt’s letter. The faint was a precursor of fever, the physician -said when summoned to her aid; and in a tremor of fear and distress Mrs. -Meredith had had her removed at once to New York, and that was the last -Anna remembered. From the moment her aching head had touched the soft -pillows in Aunt Meredith’s home, all consciousness had fled, and for -weeks she had hovered so near to death that the telegraph-wires bore -daily messages to Hanover, where the aged couple who had cared for her -since her childhood wept, and prayed, and watched for tidings from their -darling. They could not go to her, for Grandpa Humphreys had broken his -leg, and his wife could not leave him; so they waited with what patience -they could for the daily bulletins which Mrs. Meredith sent, -appreciating their anxiety, and feeling glad withal of anything which -kept them from New York. - -“She had best be prayed for in church,” the old man said; and so, Sunday -after Sunday, Arthur read the prayer for the sick, his voice trembling -as it had never trembled before, and a keener sorrow in his heart than -he had ever known when saying the solemn words. - -Heretofore the persons prayed for had been comparative strangers,—people -in whom he felt only the interest a pastor feels in all his flock; but -now it was _Anna_, whose case he took to God, and he always smothered a -sob during the moment he waited for the fervent response the -congregation made, the _Amen_ which came from the pew where Lucy sat -being louder and heartier than all the rest, and having in it a sound of -the tears which dropped so fast on Lucy’s book, as she asked that her -dear friend might not die. Oh, how he longed to go to her! But this he -could not do, and so he had sent Lucy, who bent so tenderly above the -sick girl, whispering loving words in her ear, and dropping kisses upon -the lips which uttered no response, save once, when Lucy said, “Do you -remember Arthur?” - -Then they murmured faintly: “Yes,—Arthur,—I remember him, and the -Christmas song, and the gathering in the church. But that was long ago; -there’s much happened since then.” - -“And I am to marry Arthur,” Lucy had said again; but this time there was -no sign that she was understood, and that afternoon she went back to -Hanover loaded with tickets for the children of St. Mark’s and new books -for the Sunday-school, and accompanied by Valencia, who, having had a -serious difference with her mistress, Mrs. Meredith, had offered her -services to Miss Harcourt, and been at once accepted. - -That was near the middle of October; now it was the last, and Anna was -so much better that she sat up for an hour or more and listened with -some degree of interest to what Mrs. Meredith told her of the days when -she lay so unconscious of all that was passing around her, never heeding -the kindly voice of Thornton Hastings, who more than once had stood by -her pillow with his hand on her feverish brow, and tokens of whose -thoughtfulness were visible in the choice bouquets he sent each day, -with notes of anxious inquiry when he did not come himself. Anna had not -seen him yet since her convalescence. She would rather not see any one -until strong enough to talk, she said. And so Thornton waited patiently -for the interview she had promised him when she should be stronger, but -every day he sent her fruit, and flowers, and books which he thought -would interest her, and which always made her cheeks grow hot and her -heart beat regretfully, for she knew of the answer she must give him -when he came, and she shrank from wounding him. - -“He is too good, too noble, to have an unwilling wife,” she thought; but -that did not make it the less hard to tell him so, and when at last she -was well enough to see him, she waited his coming nervously, starting -when she heard his step, and trembling like a leaf as he drew near her -chair. - -It was a very thin, wasted hand which he took in his, holding it for a -moment between his own, and then laying it gently back upon her lap. He -had come for the answer to a question put six weeks before, and Anna -gave it to him,—kindly, considerately, but decidedly. She could not be -his wife, she said, because she did not love him as he ought to be -loved. - -“It is nothing personal,” she added, working nervously at the heavy -fringe of her shawl. “I respect you more than any man I ever -knew,—except one; and had I met you years ago,—before—before—” - -“I understand you,” Thornton said, coming to her aid. “You have tried to -love me, but you cannot, because your affections are given to another.” - -Anna bowed her head in silence; then, after a moment, she continued: - -“You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling you this at once. I -did not know then but I could love you; at least, I meant to try, for -you see this other one,”—the fingers got terribly tangled in the fringe -as Anna gasped for breath and went on,—“he does not know, and never -will,—that is,—he never cared for me, nor guessed how foolish I was to -give him my love unsought.” - -“Then it is _not_ Arthur Leighton, and that is why you refused him too,” -Mr. Hastings said involuntarily; and Anna looked quickly up, her cheeks -growing paler than they were before, as she replied: “I don’t know what -you mean. I never refused Mr. Leighton,—never!” - -“You never refused Mr. Leighton?” Thornton exclaimed, forgetting all -discretion in his surprise at this flat contradiction. “I have Arthur’s -word for it, written to me last June, while Mrs. Meredith was there, I -think.” - -“He surely could not have meant it, because it never occurred; there is -some mistake,” Anna found strength to say; and then she lay back in her -easy-chair panting for breath, her brain all in a whirl as she thought -of the possibility that she was once so near the greatest happiness she -had ever desired, and which was lost to her now. - -He brought her smelling-salts; he gave her ice-water to drink, and then, -kneeling beside her, he fanned her gently, while he continued: “There -surely _is_ a mistake, and, I fear, a great wrong, too, somewhere. Were -all your servants trusty? Was there no one who would withhold a letter -if he had written? Were you always at home when he called?” - -Thornton questioned her rapidly, for there was a suspicion in his mind -as to the real culprit, but he would not hint it to Anna unless she -suggested it herself. And this she was not likely to do. Mrs. Meredith -had been too kind to her during the past summer, and especially during -her recent illness, to allow of such a thought concerning her; and in a -maze of perplexity she replied to his inquiries: “We keep but one -servant,—Esther,—and she I know is trusty. Besides, who could have -refused him for me? Grandfather would not, I know, because—because—” she -hesitated a little, and her cheeks blushed scarlet as she added, “I -sometimes thought he wanted it to be.” - -If Thornton had previously had a doubt as to the other man who stood -between himself and Anna, that doubt was now removed, and laying aside -all thoughts of self, he exclaimed: - -“I tell you there is a great wrong somewhere. Arthur never told an -untruth; he thought that you refused him; he thinks so still, and I -shall never rest till I have solved the mystery. I will write to him -to-day.” - -For an instant there swept over Anna a feeling of unutterable joy as she -thought what the end might be; then, as she remembered Lucy, her heart -seemed to stop its beating, and with a moan she stretched her hands -towards Thornton, who had risen as if to leave her. - -“No, no, you must not interfere,” she said. “It is too late, too late. -Don’t you remember Lucy? don’t you know she is to be his wife? Lucy must -not be sacrificed for me. _I_ can bear it the best.” - -She knew she had betrayed her secret, and she tried to take it back, but -Thornton interrupted her with, “Never mind now, Anna. I guessed it all -before, and it hurts my self-pride less to know that it is Arthur whom -you prefer to me. I do not blame you for it.” - -He smoothed her hair pityingly, while he stood over her a moment, -wondering what his duty was. Anna told him plainly what it was. He must -leave Arthur and Lucy alone. She insisted upon having it so, and he -promised her at last that he would not interfere. Then taking her hand, -he pressed it a moment between his own and went out from her presence. -In the hall below he met with Mrs. Meredith, who he knew was waiting -anxiously to hear the result of that long interview. - -“Your niece will never be my wife, and I am satisfied to have it so,” he -said; then, as he saw the lowering of her brow, he continued, “I have -long suspected that she loved another, and my suspicions are confirmed, -though there’s something I cannot understand,” and fixing his eyes -searchingly upon Mrs. Meredith, he told what Arthur had written and of -Anna’s denial of the same. “Somebody played her false,” he said, rather -enjoying the look of terror and shame which crept into the haughty -woman’s eyes, as she tried to appear natural and express her own -surprise at what she heard. - -“I was right in my conjecture,” Thornton thought as he took his leave of -Mrs. Meredith, who could not face Anna then, but paced restlessly up and -down her spacious rooms, wondering how much Thornton suspected, and what -the end would be. - -She had sinned for naught; Anna had upset all her cherished plans, and -could she have gone back for a few months and done her work again, she -would have left the letter lying where she found it. But that could not -be now. She must reap as she had sown, and resolving finally to hope for -the best and abide the result, she went up to Anna, who, having no -suspicion of her, hurt her ten times more cruelly, by the perfect faith -with which she confided the story to her, than bitter reproaches would -have done. - -“I know you wanted me to marry Mr. Hastings,” Anna said, “and I would if -I could have done so conscientiously, but I could not, for I may confess -it now to you. I did love Arthur so much, and I hoped that he loved me.” - -The cold, hard woman, who had brought this grief upon her niece, could -only answer that it did not matter. She was not very sorry, although she -had wanted her to marry Mr. Hastings, but she must not fret about that -now, or about anything. She would be better by and by, and forget that -she ever cared for Arthur Leighton. - -“At least,” and she spoke entreatingly now, “you will not demean -yourself to let him know of the mistake. It would scarcely be womanly, -and he may have gotten over it. Present circumstances seem to prove as -much.” - -Mrs. Meredith felt now that her secret was comparatively safe, and with -her spirits lighter she kissed her niece lovingly and told her of a trip -to Europe which she had in view, promising that Anna should go with her, -and so not be at home when the marriage of Arthur and Lucy took place. - -It was appointed for the 15th of January, that being the day when Lucy -came of age, and the very afternoon succeeding Anna’s interview with Mr. -Hastings the little lady came down to New York to direct about her -bridal trousseau making, in the city. She was brimming over with -happiness and her face was a perfect gleam of sunshine, when she came -next day to Anna’s room, and throwing off her wrappings plunged at once -into the subject uppermost in her thoughts, telling first how she and -Arthur had quarrelled,—“not quarrelled as uncle and aunt Hetherton and -lots of people do, but differed so seriously that I cried and had to -give up, too,” she said. “I wanted you for bridesmaid, and do you think, -he objected; not objected to you, but to bridesmaids generally, and he -carried his point, so that we are just to stand up stiff and straight -alone, except as you’ll all be round me in the aisle. You’ll be well by -that time, and I want you very near to me,” Lucy said, squeezing the icy -hand, whose coldness made her start and exclaim, “Why, Anna, how cold -you are, and how pale you are looking. You have been so sick, and I am -so well; it don’t seem quite right, does it? And Arthur, too, is so thin -that I have coaxed him to raise whiskers to cover the hollows in his -cheeks. He looks a heap better now, though he was always handsome. I do -so wonder that you two never fell in love, and I tell him so most every -time I see him, for I always think of you then.” - -It was terrible to Anna to sit and hear all this, and the room grew dark -as she listened, but she forced back her pain, and stroking the curly -head almost resting on her lap, and said kindly, “You love him very -much, don’t you, darling,—so much that it would be hard to give him up?” - -“Yes, oh yes, I could not give him up now, except to God. I trust I -could do that, though once I could not, I am sure,” and nestling closer -to Anna, Lucy whispered to her of the hope that she was better than she -used to be,—that daily intercourse with Arthur had not been without its -effect, and now she believed she tried to do right from a higher motive -than just to please him. - -“God bless you, darling,” was Anna’s response, as she clasped the hand -of the young girl, who was now far more worthy to be Arthur’s wife than -once she had been. - -If Anna had ever had a thought of telling Arthur, it would have been put -aside by that interview with Lucy. She could not harm that pure, loving, -trusting girl, and she sent her from her with a kiss and a blessing, -praying silently that she might never know a shadow of the pain which -she was suffering. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - MRS. MEREDITH’S CONSCIENCE. - - -She had one years before, but since the summer day when she sent from -her the white-faced man, whose heart she knew she had broken, it had -been hardening,—searing over with a stiff crust which nothing, it -seemed, could penetrate. And yet there were times when she was softened -and wished that much which she had done might be blotted out from the -great book in which even she believed. There was many a misdeed recorded -there against her, she knew, and occasionally there stole over her a -strange disquietude as to how she should confront them when they all -came up before her. Usually she could cast such thoughts aside by a -drive down gay Broadway, or at most by a call at Stewart’s, but the -sight of Anna’s white face and the knowing what made it so white were a -constant reproach, and conscience gradually wakened from its torpor, -enough to whisper of the only restitution in her power, that of -confession to Arthur. But from this she shrank nervously. She could not -humble herself thus to any one, and she would not either, she said. Then -came the fear lest by another than herself her guilt should come to -light. What if Thornton Hastings should find her out? She was half -afraid he suspected her now, and that gave her the heaviest pang of all, -for she respected Thornton highly, and it would cost her much to lose -his good opinion. She had lost him for her niece, but she could not -spare him from herself, and so in sad perplexity, which wore upon her -visibly, the autumn days went on until at last she sat one morning in -her dressing-room and read in a foreign paper: - -“Died at Strasburg, Aug. 31st, Edward Coleman, Esq. aged 46.” - -That was all, but the paper dropped from the trembling hands, and the -proud woman of the world bowed her head upon the cold marble of the -table and wept aloud. She was not Mrs. Meredith now, she was Julia -Ruthven again, and she stood with Edward Coleman out in the grassy -orchard where the apple-blossoms were dropping from the trees, and the -air was full of the insects’ hum and the song of mating birds. Many -years had passed since then. She was the wealthy Mrs. Meredith now, and -he was dead in Strasburg. He had been true to her to the last, for he -had never married, and those who had met him abroad had brought back the -same report of a “white-haired man, old before his time, and with a -tired, sad look on his face.” That look she had written there, and she -wept on as she recalled the past and murmured softly: “Poor Edward, I -loved you all the while, but I sold myself for gold, and it turned your -brown locks snowy white,—poor darling,—” and her hands moved up and down -the folds of her cashmere robe as if it were the brown locks they were -smoothing just as they used to do. Then came a thought of Anna, whose -face wore much the look which Edward’s did when he went slowly from the -orchard and left her there alone with the apple-blossoms dropping on her -head, and the hum of the bees in her ear. - -“I can at least do right in that respect,” she said. “I can undo the -past to some extent and lessen the load of sin upon my shoulders. I will -write to Arthur Leighton; I surely need tell no one else,—not yet, at -least, lest he has outlived his love for Anna. I can trust to his -discretion and to his honor too; he will not betray me, unless it is -necessary, and then only to Anna. Edward would bid me do it if he could -speak; he was some like Arthur Leighton.” - -And so with the dead man in Strasburg before her eyes, Mrs. Meredith -nerved herself to write to Arthur Leighton, confessing the fraud imposed -upon him, imploring his forgiveness, and begging him to spare her as -much as possible. - -“I know from Anna’s own lips how much she has always loved you,” she -wrote in conclusion, “but she does not know of the stolen letter, and I -leave you to make such use of the knowledge as you shall think proper.” - -She did not put in a single plea for poor little Lucy dancing so gayly -over the mine just ready to explode. She was purely selfish still with -all her qualms of conscience, and only thought of Anna, whom she would -make happy at another’s sacrifice. So she never hinted that it was -possible for Arthur to keep his word pledged to Lucy Harcourt, and as -she finished her own letter and placed it in an envelope with the one -which Arthur had sent to Anna, her thoughts leaped forward to the -wedding she would give her niece,—a wedding not quite like that she had -designed for Mrs. Thornton Hastings, but a quiet, elegant affair, just -suited to a clergyman who was marrying a Ruthven. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - THE LETTER RECEIVED. - - -Arthur had been spending the evening at Prospect hill. The Hethertons -were there now, and would remain till after the 15th; and since they -came the rector had found it even pleasanter calling there than it had -been before with only his bride-elect to entertain him. Sure of Mr. -Bellamy, Fanny had laid aside her sharpness and was exceedingly witty -and brilliant, while, now that it was settled, the colonel was too -thorough a gentleman to be otherwise than gracious to his future nephew, -and Mrs. Hetherton was always polite and ladylike, so that the rector -looked forward with a good deal of interest to the evenings he usually -gave to Lucy, who, though satisfied to have him in her sight, still -preferred the olden time when she had him all to herself, and was not -disquieted with the fear that she was not learned enough for him, as she -often was when she heard him talking with Fanny and her uncle of things -she did not understand. This evening, however, the family were away and -she received him alone, trying so hard to come up to his capacity, -talking so intelligibly of the books she had been reading, and looking -so lovely in her crimson winter dress, besides being so sweetly -affectionate and confiding that for once since his engagement Arthur was -more than content, and returned her modest caresses with a warmth he had -not felt before. He was learning to love her very much, he thought, and -when at last he took his leave and she went with him to the door there -was an unwonted tenderness in his manner as he pushed her gently back, -for the first snow of the season was falling and the large flakes -dropped upon her hair, from which he brushed them carefully away. - -“I cannot let my darling take cold,” he said, and Lucy felt a strange -thrill of joy, for never before had he called her his darling, and -sometimes she had feared that the love she received was not as great as -the love she gave. - -But she did not think so now, and in an ecstasy of joy she stood in the -deep recess of the bay-window watching him as he went away through the -moonlight and the feathery cloud of snow, wondering why, when she was so -happy, there should cling to her a haunting presentiment that she and -Arthur would never meet again just as they had parted. Arthur, on the -contrary, was troubled with no such presentiment. Of Anna he hardly -thought, or, if he did, the vision was obscured by the fair picture he -had seen standing in the door with the snow-flakes resting on its hair -like pearls in a golden cabinet. And Arthur thanked his God that he was -beginning at last to feel right, that the solemn vows he was so soon to -utter would not be a mockery. It was Arthur’s wish to teach to others -how dark and mysterious are the ways of Providence, but he had not -himself half learned that lesson in all its strange reality; but the -lesson was coming on apace; each stride of his swift-footed beast -brought him nearer and nearer to the great shock waiting for him upon -his study-table, where his man had put it. He saw it the first thing on -entering the room, but he did not take it up until the snow was brushed -from his garments and he had seated himself by the cheerful fire blazing -on the hearth. Then sitting in his easy-chair and moving the lamp nearer -to him, he took Mrs. Meredith’s letter and broke the seal, starting as -if a serpent had stung him when in the note enclosed he recognized his -own handwriting, the same he had sent to Anna when his heart was as full -of hope as the brown stalks, now beating against his windows with a -dismal sound, were full of fragrant blossoms. Both had died since then, -the roses and his hopes, and Arthur almost wished that he, too, were -dead when he read Mrs. Meredith’s letter and saw the gulf he was -treading. Like the waves of the sea his love for Anna came rolling back -upon him, augmented and intensified by all that he had suffered, and by -the terrible conviction that it could not be, although, alas, “it might -have been.” He repeated these words over and over again, as, stupefied -with pain, he sat gazing at vacancy, thinking how true was the couplet: - - “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, - The saddest are these,—_it might_ have been.” - -He could not pray at first, his brain was so confused; but when the -white, quivering lips could move and the poor aching heart could pray, -he only whispered: “God help me to do right,” and by that prayer he knew -that for a single instant there had crept across his mind the -possibility of sacrificing Lucy, the girl who loved and trusted him so -much; but only for an instant. He would not cast her from him, though to -take her now, knowing what he did, was almost death itself. “But God can -help me, and he will,” he cried,—then falling upon his knees, with his -face bowed to the floor, the rector of St. Mark’s prayed as he had never -prayed before, first for himself, whose need was greatest, then for -Lucy, that she might never know what making her happy had cost him, and -then for Anna, whose name he could not speak. “That other one,” he -called her, and his heart kept swelling in his throat and preventing his -utterance so that the words he would say never reached his lips. But God -heard them just the same, and knew his child was asking that Anna might -forget him, if to remember him was pain,—that she might learn to love -another far worthier than he had ever been. He did not think of Mrs. -Meredith; he had no feeling of resentment then; he was too wholly -crushed to care how his ruin had been brought about, and long after the -wood-fire on the hearth had turned to cold, gray ashes, he knelt upon -the floor and battled with his grief; and when the morning broke it -found him still in the cheerless room, where he had passed the entire -night and from which he went forth strengthened as he hoped to do what -he fully believed to be his duty. - -This was on Saturday, and the Sunday following there was no service at -St. Mark’s. The rector was sick, the sexton said, hard sick, too, he had -heard, and the Hetherton carriage with Lucy in it drove swiftly to the -parsonage, where the quiet and solitude awed and frightened her as she -entered the house and asked the housekeeper how Mr. Leighton was. - -“It is very sudden,” she said. “He was perfectly well when he left me on -Friday night. Please tell him I am here.” - -The housekeeper shook her head. Her master’s orders were that no one but -the doctor should be admitted, she said, repeating what Arthur had told -her in anticipation of just such an infliction as this. But Lucy was not -to be denied; Arthur was hers; his sickness was hers; his suffering was -hers, and see him she would. - -“He surely did not mean me, when he asked that no one should be -admitted. Tell him it is I; it is Lucy,” she said, with an air of -authority, which in one so small, so pretty, and so childish only amused -Mrs. Brown, who departed with the message, while Lucy sat down with her -feet upon the stove and looked around the sitting-room, thinking that it -was smaller and poorer than the one at Prospect Hill, and how she would -remodel it when she was mistress there. - -“He says you can come,” was the word Mrs. Brown brought back, and with a -gleam of triumph in her eye and a toss of the head which said, “I told -you so,” Lucy went softly into the darkened room and shut the door -behind her. - -Arthur had half expected this and had nerved himself to meet it, but the -cold sweat stood on his face and his heart throbbed painfully as Lucy -bent over him and said, “Poor, dear Arthur, I am so sorry for you, and -if I could I’d bear the pain so willingly.” - -He knew she would; she was just as loving and unselfish as that, and he -wound his arms around her and drew her closer to him, while he -whispered, “My poor little Lucy, my poor little Lucy. I don’t deserve -this from you.” - -She did not know what he meant, and she only answered him with kisses, -while her hands moved caressingly across his forehead, just as they had -moved years ago in Rome when she soothed the pain away. There certainly -was a mesmeric influence emanating from those hands, and Arthur felt its -power, growing very quiet and at last falling away to sleep while the -passes went on, and Lucy held her breath lest she should waken him. She -was a famous nurse, the physician said, when he came, and he constituted -her his coadjutor and gave his patient’s medicine into her care. - -It was hardly proper for her niece to stay at the rectory, Mrs. -Hetherton thought, but Lucy was one who could trample down proprieties, -and it was finally arranged that, in order to avoid all comment, Fanny -should stay with her. - -So, while Fanny went to bed and slept Lucy sat all night in the -sick-room with Mrs. Brown, and when the next morning came she was -looking very pale, and languid, but very beautiful withal. At least such -was the mental compliment paid her by Thornton Hastings, who was passing -through Hanover and stopped over a train to see his old college friend -and perhaps tell him what he began to feel it was his duty to tell him -in spite of his promise to Anna. She was nearly well now and had driven -with him twice to the park, but he could not be insensible to what she -suffered, or how she shrank from hearing the proposed wedding discussed, -and in his intense pity for her he had half resolved to break his word -and tell Arthur what he knew. But he changed his mind when he had been -in Hanover a few hours and watched the little fairy, who, like some -ministering angel, glided about the sick-room, showing herself every -whit a woman, and making him repent that he had ever called her -frivolous or silly. She was not either, he said, and with a magnanimity -for which he thought himself entitled to a good deal of praise, he felt -that it was very possible for Arthur to love the gentle little girl who -smoothed his pillows so tenderly, and whose fingers threaded so lovingly -the dark brown locks when she thought he—Thornton—was not looking on. -She was very coy of _him_, and very distant towards him, for she had not -forgotten his sin, and she treated him at first with a reserve for which -he could not account. But as the days went on and Arthur grew so sick -that his parishioners began to tremble for their young minister’s life, -and to think it perfectly right for Lucy to stay with him even if she -was assisted in her labor of love by the stranger from New York, the -reserve all disappeared, and on the most perfect terms of amity she and -Thornton Hastings watched together by Arthur’s side. - -Thornton Hastings learned more lessons than one in that sick-room where -Arthur’s faith in God triumphed over the terrors of the grave which at -one time seemed so near, while the timid Lucy, whom he had only known as -a gay butterfly of fashion, dared before him to pray that God would -spare her promised husband, or give her grace to say “Thy will be done.” -Thornton could hardly say that he was skeptical before, but any doubts -he might have had touching the great fundamental truths on which a true -religion rests were gone forever, and he left Hanover a changed man in -more respects than one. - -Arthur did not die, and on the Sunday preceding the week when the -Christmas decorations were to commence he came again before his people, -his face very pale and worn, and wearing upon it a look which told of a -new baptism,—an added amount of faith which had helped to lift him above -the fleeting cares of this present life. And yet there was much of earth -clinging to him still, and it made itself felt in the rapid beatings of -his heart when he glanced towards the pew where Lucy knelt and knew that -she was giving thanks for him restored again. - -Once in the earlier stages of his convalescence he had almost betrayed -his secret by asking her which she would rather do, bury him from her -sight, feeling that he loved her to the last, or give him to another now -that she knew he would recover. - -There was a frightened look in Lucy’s eyes as she replied: - -“I would ten thousand times rather see you dead, and know that even in -death you were my own, than to lose you that other way. O Arthur, you -have no thought of leaving me now?” - -“No, darling, I have not. I am yours always,” he said, feeling that the -compact was sealed forever, and that God blessed the sealing. - -He had written to Mrs. Meredith, granting her his forgiveness, and -asking that if Anna did not already know of the deception she might -never be enlightened. And Mrs. Meredith had answered that Anna had only -heard a rumor that an offer had been made her, but that she regarded it -as a mistake, and was fast recovering both her health and spirits. Mrs. -Meredith did not add her surprise at Arthur’s conscientiousness in -adhering to his engagement, nor hint that her attack of conscience was -so safely over; she was glad of it, for she still had hope of that house -on Madison Square; but Arthur guessed at it and dismissed her from his -mind, and waited with a trusting heart for whatever the future might -bring. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - VALENCIA. - - -Very extensive preparations were making at Prospect Hill for the double -wedding to occur on the 15th of January. After much debate and -consultation, Fanny had decided to take Mr. Bellamy then, and thus she, -too, shared largely in the general interest and excitement which -pervaded everything. Both brides-elect were very happy, but in a widely -different way, for while Fanny was quiet and undemonstrative Lucy seemed -wild with joy and danced gayly about the house, now in the kitchen, -where the cake was made, now in the chamber, where the plain sewing was -done, and then flitting to her own room in quest of Valencia, who was -sent on divers errands of mercy, the little lady thinking that as the -time for her marriage was so near it would be proper for her to stop -in-doors and not show herself in public quite so freely as she had been -in the habit of doing. So she remained at home, and they missed her in -the back streets and by-lanes, and the Widow Hobbs, who was still an -invalid, pined for a sight of her bright face, and was only half -consoled for its absence by the charities which Valencia brought, the -smart waiting-maid putting on a great many airs and making Mrs. Hobbs -feel keenly how greatly she thought herself demeaned by coming to such a -heathenish place. The Hanoverians, too, missed her in the streets, but -for this they made ample amends by discussing the preparations at -Prospect Hill and commenting upon the bridal trousseau, which was sent -from New York the week before Christmas, thus affording a most fruitful -theme of comment for the women and maids engaged in trimming the church. -There were dresses of every conceivable fashion, it was said, but none -were quite so grand as the wedding-dress itself,—a heavy white silk -which “could stand alone,” and trailed a full yard behind. It was also -whispered that, not content with seeing the effect of her bridal robes -as they lay upon the bed, Miss Lucy Harcourt had actually tried them on, -wreath, veil, and all, and stood before the glass until Miss Fanny had -laughed at her for being so vain and foolish, and said she was a pretty -specimen for a sober clergyman’s wife. For all this gossip the villagers -were indebted mostly to Valencia Le Barre, who, ever since her arrival -at Prospect Hill, had been growing somewhat dissatisfied with the young -mistress she had expected to rule even more completely than she had -ruled Mrs. Meredith. But in this she was mistaken, and it did not -improve her never very amiable temper to find that she could not with -safety appropriate more than half her mistress’ handkerchiefs, collars, -cuffs, and gloves, to say nothing of perfumery and pomades; and as this -was a new state of things with Valencia, she chafed at the -administration under which she had so willingly put herself, and told -things of her mistress which no sensible servant would ever have -reported. And Lucy gave her plenty to tell. Frank and outspoken as a -child, she acted as she felt and _did_ try on the bridal dress, did -scream with delight when Valencia fastened the veil and let its fleecy -folds fall gracefully around her. - -“I wonder what Arthur will think. I so wish he was here,” she had said, -ordering a glass brought, that she might see herself from behind, and -know just how much her dress trailed, and how it looked beneath the -costly veil. - -She was very beautiful in her bridal robes, and she kept them on till -Fanny began to chide her for her vanity, and even then she lingered -before the mirror as if loth to take them off. - -“I don’t believe in presentiments,” she said, “but do you know it seems -to me just as if I should never wear this again,” and she smoothed -thoughtfully the folds of the heavy silk she had just laid upon the bed. -“I don’t know what can happen to prevent it, unless Arthur should die. -He was so pale last Sunday, and seemed so weak that I shuddered every -time I looked at him. I mean to drive round there this afternoon,” she -continued. “I suppose it is too cold for him to venture out, and he has -no carriage, either.” - -Accordingly she went to the rectory that afternoon, and the women in the -church saw her as she drove by, the gorgeous colors of her -carriage-blanket flashing in the wintry sunshine, and the long white -feather in her hat waving up and down as she nodded to them. There was a -little too much of the lady patroness about her to suit the plain -Hanoverians, especially those who were neither high enough nor low -enough to be honored with her notice; and as they returned to their -wreath-making and gossip, they wondered under their breath if it would -not on the whole have been better if their clergyman had married Anna -Ruthven, instead of the fine city girl with her Parisian manners. As -they said this, a gleam of intelligence shot from the gray eyes of -Valencia Le Barre, who was there at work in a most unamiable mood. - -“_She_ did not like to stain her hands with the nasty hemlock, more than -other folks,” she had said, when, after the trying on of the bridal -dress, Lucy had remonstrated with her for some duty neglected, and then -bidden her go to the church and help if she was needed. - -“I must certainly dismiss you unless you improve,” Lucy had said to the -insolent girl, who went unwillingly to the church, where she sat tying -wreaths when the carriage went by. - -She had thought many times of the letter she had read, and more than -once when particularly angry it had been upon her lips to tell her -mistress that she was not Mr. Leighton’s _first_ choice, if indeed she -was his choice at all; but there was something in Lucy’s manner which -held her back, besides which she was rather unwilling to confess to her -own meanness in reading the stolen letter. - -“I _could_ tell them something if I would,” she thought, as she bent -over the hemlock boughs, and listened to the remarks; but for that time -she kept her secret and worked on moodily, while the unsuspecting Lucy -went her way, and was soon alighting at the parsonage-gate. - -Arthur saw her as she came up the walk, and went out to meet her. He was -looking very pale and miserable, and his clothes hung loosely upon him, -but he welcomed her kindly, and lead her in to the fire, and tried to -believe that he was glad to see her sitting there with her little -high-heeled boots upon the fender, and the bright hues of her balmoral -just showing beneath her dress of blue merino. She went all over the -house as she usually did, suggesting alterations and improvements, and -greatly confusing good Mrs. Brown, who trudged obediently after her, -wondering what she and her master were ever to do with the gay-plumaged -bird, whose ways were so unlike their own. - -“You must drive with me to the church,” she said at last to Arthur. -“Fresh air will do you good, and you stay moped up too much. I wanted -you to-day at Prospect Hill, for this morning the express from New York -brought—” she stood up on tiptoe to whisper the great news to him, but -his pulses did not quicken in the least, even when she told him how -charming was the bridal dress. - -He was standing before the mirror, and glancing at himself, he said half -laughingly, half sadly, “I am a pitiful-looking bridegroom to go with -all that finery. I should not think you would want me, Lucy.” - -“But I do,” she answered, holding his hand and leading him to the -carriage, which took him swiftly to the church. - -He had not intended going there as long as there was an excuse for -staying away, and he felt himself grow sick and faint when he stood amid -the Christmas decorations, and remembered the last year, when he and -Anna had fastened the wreaths upon the wall. They were trimming the -church very elaborately in honor of him and his bride-elect, and white -artificial flowers, so natural that they could not be detected from the -real, were mixed with scarlet leaves and placed among the mass of green. -The effect was very fine, and Arthur tried to praise it, but his face -belied his words, and after he was gone, the disappointed girls declared -that he looked more like a man about to be hung, than one so soon to be -married. - -It was very late that night when Lucy summoned Valencia to comb out her -long, thick curls, and Valencia was tired and cross and sleepy, and -handled the brush so awkwardly, and snarled her mistress’s hair so -often, that Lucy expostulated with her sharply, and this awoke the -slumbering demon, which, bursting into full life, could no longer be -restrained, and in amazement which kept her silent, Lucy listened, while -Valencia vulgarly taunted her with “standing in Anna Ruthven’s shoes,” -and told all she knew of the letter stolen by Mrs. Meredith, and the one -she carried to Arthur. But Valencia’s anger quickly cooled, and she -trembled with fear when she saw how deathly white her distress grew, and -even heard the loud beating of the heart which seemed trying to burst -from its prison, and fall bleeding at the feet of the poor, wretched -girl, around whose lips the white foam gathered as she motioned Valencia -to stop, and whispered “I am dying.” - -She was _not_ dying, but the fainting-fit which ensued was more like -death than that which had come upon Anna when she heard that Arthur was -lost. Once they really thought her dead, and in an agony of remorse -Valencia hung over her, accusing herself as a murderess, but giving no -other explanation to those around her than: - -“I was combing her hair when the white froth spirted all over her -wrapper, and she said that she was dying.” - -And that was all the family know of the strange attack which lasted till -the dawn of day, and left upon Lucy’s face a look as if years and years -of roguish had passed over her young head, and left its footprints -behind. Early in the morning she asked to see Valencia alone, and the -repentant girl went to her, prepared to take back all she had said, and -declare the whole a lie. But something in Lucy’s manner wrung the truth -from her, and she repeated the story again so clearly, that Lucy had no -longer a doubt that Anna was preferred to herself, and sending Valencia -away, she moaned piteously: - -“Oh, what shall I do? What is my duty?” - -The part which hurt her most of all was the terrible certainty that -Arthur did not love _her_, as he loved Anna Ruthven. She seemed -intuitively to understand it all, and see how in an unguarded moment he -had offered himself to save her good name from gossip, and how ever -since his life had been a constant struggle to do his duty by her. - -“Poor Arthur,” she sobbed, “yours has been a hard lot, trying to act the -love you did not feel; but it shall be so no longer, for I will set you -free.” - -This was her final decision, but she did not reach it till a day and -night had passed, during which she lay with her face turned to the wall, -saying she wanted nothing except to be left alone. - -“When I can, I’ll tell you,” she had said to Fanny and her aunt, who -insisted upon knowing the cause of her distress. “When I can, I’ll tell -you all about it. Leave me alone till then.” - -So they ceased to worry her, but Fanny sat constantly in the room -watching the motionless figure, which took whatever she offered, but -otherwise gave no sign of life until the morning of the second day, when -it turned slowly towards her, and the livid lips quivered piteously and -made an attempt to smile as they said: - -“I can tell you now. I have made up my mind.” - -Fanny’s eyes were dim with the truest tears she had ever shed when -Lucy’s story was ended, and her voice was very low as she asked: - -“And you mean to give him up at this late hour?” - -“Yes, I mean to give him up. I have been over the entire ground many -times, even to the deep humiliation of what people will say, and I have -come each time to the same conclusion. It is right that Arthur should be -released, and I shall release him.” - -“And what will _you_ do?” Fanny asked, gazing in wonder and awe at the -young girl, who answered: “I do not know; I have not thought. I guess -God will take care of that.” - -And God _did_ take care of _that_, and inclined the Hetherton family to -be very kind and tender towards her, and kept Arthur from the house -until the Christmas decorations were completed and the Christmas -festival was held. Many were the inquiries made for Lucy on Christmas -Eve, and many thanks and wishes for her speedy restoration were sent to -her by those whom she had so bountifully remembered. Thornton Hastings, -too, who had come to town and was present at the church on Christmas -Eve, asked for her with almost as much interest as Arthur, who bade -Fanny tell her that he should call on her on the morrow after the -morning service. - -“Oh, I cannot see him here! I must tell him at the rectory in the very -room where he asked me to be his wife,” Lucy said, when Fanny reported -Arthur’s message. “I am able to ride there, and it will be fine -sleighing to-morrow. See, the snow is falling now,” and pushing back the -curtain Lucy looked drearily out upon the fast-whitening ground, sighing -as she remembered the night when the first snow-flakes were falling, and -she stood watching them with Arthur at her side. - -Fanny did not oppose her cousin, and with a kiss upon the blue-veined -forehead, she went to her own room and left her to think for the -hundredth time _what_ she should say to Arthur. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - CHRISTMAS DAY. - - -The worshippers at St. Mark’s on Christmas morning heard the music of -the bells as the Hetherton sleigh dashed by, but none of them knew -whither it was bound or dreamed of the scene which awaited the rector -when after the services were over he started towards home. Lucy had kept -to her resolution, and just as Mrs. Brown was looking at the clock to -see if it was time to put her fowls to bake, she heard the hall door -open softly, and almost dropped her dripping-pan in her surprise at the -sight of Lucy Harcourt, who looked so mournfully at her as she said: - -“I want to go to Arthur’s room,—the library, I mean.” - -“Why, child, what is the matter? I heard you was sick, but did not -s’spose ’twas anything very bad. You are paler than a ghost,” Mrs. Brown -exclaimed, as she tried to unfasten Lucy’s hood and cloak and lead her -to the fire. - -But Lucy was not cold, and would rather go at once to Arthur’s room. So -Mrs. Brown made no objection, though she wondered if the girl was crazy -as she went back to her fowls and Christmas pudding, and left Lucy to -find her way alone to Arthur’s study, which looked so like its owner, -with his dressing-gown across the lounge just where he had thrown it, -his slippers on the rug, and his arm-chair standing near the table, -where he had sat when he asked Lucy to be his wife, and where she now -sat down, panting heavily for breath and gazing drearily around with the -look of a frightened bird when seeking for some avenue of escape from an -appalling danger. There _was_ no escape, and with a moan she laid her -head upon the writing-table, and prayed that Arthur might come quickly -while she had sense and strength to tell him. She heard his step at -last, and rose up to meet him, smiling a little at his sudden start when -he saw her there. - -“It’s only I,” she said, shedding back the curls from her pallid face -and grasping the chair to steady herself and keep from falling. “I am -not here to frighten or worry you. I’ve come to do you good,—to set you -free. O Arthur, you do not know how terribly you have been wronged, and -I did not know it either till a few days ago! She never received your -letter,—Anna never did. If she had she would have answered yes and been -in my place now; but she is going to be there. I give you up to Anna. -I’m here to tell you so. But O Arthur, it hurts,—it hurts—” - -He knew it hurt by the agonized expression of her face, but he could not -go near her for a moment, so great was his surprise at what he saw and -heard. But when the first shock for them both was past, and he could -listen to her more rational account of what she knew and what she was -there to do, he refused to listen. He knew it all before, and he would -not be free; he would keep his word, he said. Matters had gone too far -to be so suddenly ended; he held her to her promise, and she must be his -wife. - -“Can you tell me truly that you love _me_ more than Anna?” Lucy asked, a -ray of hope dawning for an instant upon her heart, but fading into utter -darkness as Arthur hesitated to answer her. - -He _did_ love Anna best, though never had Lucy been so near supplanting -her as at that moment when she stood before him and told him he was -free. There was something in the magnitude of her generosity which -touched him closely, and made her dearer to him than she had ever been. - -“I can make you very happy,” he said at last, and Lucy replied, “Yes, -but how with yourself? Would you be happy too? No, Arthur, you would -not, and neither should I, knowing what I do. It is best that we should -part, though it almost breaks my heart, for I have loved you so much.” - -She stopped for breath, and Arthur was wondering what he should say -next, when a cheery whistle sounded near, and Thornton Hastings appeared -in the door. He had just returned from the post-office, whither he had -gone after church, and not knowing any one but Arthur was in the -library, had come there at once. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said, when he saw Lucy; and he was hurrying -away, but Lucy called him back, feeling that in him she would find a -powerful ally to aid her in her task. - -Appealing to him as Arthur’s friend, she repeated Valencia’s story -rapidly, and then went on: “Anna never knew of that letter,—or she would -have answered yes. I know she loves him, for I can remember a thousand -things which prove it, and I know he has loved her best all the time, -even when trying so hard to love me. Oh, how it hurts me to think he had -to _try_ to love me who loved him so much. But that is all past now. I -give him up to Anna, and you must help me as if I were your sister. Tell -him it is best. He must not argue against me, for I feel myself giving -way through my great love for him, and I know it is not right. Tell him, -Mr. Hastings; plead my cause for me; say what a true woman ought to say, -for, believe me, I am in earnest in giving him to Anna.” - -There was a ghastly hue upon her face, and her features looked pinched -and rigid, but the terrible heartbeats were not there. God in His great -mercy kept them back, else she had surely died under that strong -excitement. Thornton thought she was fainting, and going hastily to her -side, passed his arm around her and put her in the chair; then standing -by her, he said just what first came into his mind to say. It was a -delicate matter in which to interfere, but he handled it carefully, -telling frankly what had passed between himself and Anna, and giving as -his opinion, that she loved Arthur to-day just as well as before she -left Hanover. - -“Then it is surely right for Arthur to marry her, and he must!” Lucy -exclaimed vehemently, while Thornton laid his hand pityingly upon her -head, and said, “And only you be sacrificed.” - -There was something wonderfully tender in the tone of Thornton’s voice, -and Lucy glanced quickly at him while her eyes filled with the first -tears she had shed since she came into the room. - -“I am willing; I am ready; I have made up my mind, and I shall never -unmake it,” she answered, while Arthur put in a feeble remonstrance. - -But Thornton was on Lucy’s side, and did with his cooler judgment what -she could not; and when at last the interview was ended, there was no -ring on Lucy’s forefinger, for Arthur held it in his hand, and their -engagement was at an end. Stunned with what he had passed through, he -stood motionless while Thornton drew Lucy’s cloak about her shoulders, -fastened her fur, tied on her satin hood, and took such care of her as a -mother would take of a suffering child. - -“It is hardly safe to send her home alone,” he thought, as he looked -into her face and saw how weak she was. “As a friend of both I ought to -accompany her.” - -She was indeed so weak that she could scarcely stand, and Thornton took -her in his arms and carried her to the sleigh; then springing in beside -her, he made her lean her tired head upon his shoulder as they drove to -Prospect Hill. She did not seem frivolous to him now, but rather the -noblest type of womanhood he had ever met. Few could have done what she -had, and there was much of warmth and fervor in the clasp of his hand as -he bade her good-by, and went back to the rectory. - - * * * * * - -Great was the consternation and surprise in Hanover when it was known -that there was to be but one bride at Prospect Hill on the night of the -15th, and various were the surmises as to the cause of the sudden -change; but strive as they might, the good people of the village could -not get at the truth, for Valencia held her peace, while the Hethertons -were far too proud to admit of their being questioned, and Thornton -Hastings stood a bulwark of defence between the people and the -clergyman, and managed to have the pulpit at St. Mark’s supplied for a -few weeks, while he took Arthur away, saying that his health required -the change. - -“You have done nobly, darling,” Fanny Hetherton had said to Lucy when -she received her from Thornton’s hands and heard that all was over. -Then, leading her half-fainting cousin to her own cheerful room, she -made her lie down while she told her of the plan she had formed when -first she heard what Lucy’s intentions were. “I wrote to Mr. Bellamy -asking if he would take a trip to Europe, so that you could go with us, -for I knew you would not wish to stay here. To-day I have his answer -saying he will go; and what is better yet, father and mother are going, -too.” - -“Oh I am so glad! I could not stay here now,” Lucy replied, sobbing -herself to sleep, while Fanny sat by and watched, wondering at the -strength which had upheld her weak little cousin in the struggle she had -been through, and feeling, too, that it was just as well, for after all -it was a mésalliance for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poor -clergyman. - - * * * * * - -There was a great wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the 15th, but -neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again at the St. Denis, -in New York, and she was alone in her chamber fighting back her tears, -and praying that now the worst was over she might be withheld from -looking back and wishing the work undone. She went with the bridal party -to New York, where she tarried for a few days, but saw no one but Anna, -for whom she sent at once. The interview lasted more than an hour, and -Anna’s eyes were swollen with weeping when at last it ended; but Lucy’s -face, though white as snow, was very calm and quiet, and wore a -peaceful, placid look which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks -later, and the steamer Java bore her away across the water, where she -hoped to outlive the storm which had beaten so piteously upon her. -Thornton Hastings and Anna went with her on board the ship, and for -their sakes she tried to appear natural, succeeding so well that it was -a very pleasant picture, which Thornton kept in his mind, of a frail -little figure standing upon the deck, holding its water-proof together -with one hand, and with the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and -himself. - -More than a year later Thornton Hastings followed that figure across the -sea, and found it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the moonlit -streets, and listening to the music which came so oft from the passing -gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness, and the face was even -more beautiful than it had been before, for the light frivolity was -gone, and there was in its stead a peaceful, subdued expression which -made Lucy Harcourt more attractive than she had ever been. At least so -Thornton Hastings thought, and he lingered at her side, and felt glad -that she gave no outward token of agitation when he said to her: - -“There was a wedding at St. Mark’s in Hanover just before I left. Can -you guess who the happy couple were?” - -“Yes, Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on Christmas -eve. I am so glad it has come around at last.” - -Then she questioned him of the bridal,—of Arthur,—and even of Anna’s -dress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed, or was healing -very fast, and that soon only a scar would remain to tell where it had -been. - -And so the days went on beneath the sunny Italian skies, until one -glorious night in Rome, when they sat together amid the ruins of the -Colosseum, and Thornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each -had loved another, expressing himself as glad that in his case the -matter had ended as it did, and then asking Lucy if she could -conscientiously be his wife. - -“What! You marry a frivolous plaything like me?” Lucy asked, her woman’s -pride flashing up once more, but this time playfully, as Thornton knew -by the joyous light in her eye. - -She told him what she meant, and how she had hated him for it, and then -they laughed together, but Thornton’s kiss smothered the laugh on Lucy’s -lips, for he guessed what her answer was, and that this, his second -wooing, was more successful than his first had been. - - * * * * * - -“MARRIED, in Rome, on Thursday, April 10th, THORNTON HASTINGS, ESQ., of -New York City, to MISS LUCY HARCOURT, also of New York, and niece of -Colonel James Hetherton.” - -Anna was out in the rectory garden bending over a bed of hyacinths when -Arthur brought her the paper and pointed to the notice. - -“Oh, I am so glad, so _glad_, so GLAD!” she exclaimed, emphasizing each -successive glad a little more, and setting down her foot as if to give -it force. “I have never dared be quite as happy with you as I might,” -she continued, leaning lovingly against her husband, “for there was -always a thought of Lucy, and what a fearful price she paid for our -happiness. But now it is all as it should be, and, Arthur, am I very -vain in thinking that she is better suited to Thornton Hastings than I -ever was, and that I do better as your wife than Lucy would have done?” - -A kiss was Arthur’s only answer, but Anna was satisfied, and there -rested upon her face a look of perfect content as all that warm spring -afternoon she walked in her pleasant garden, thinking of the newly -married pair in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the open window of -the library where Arthur was, busy with his sermon, his pen moving all -the faster for the knowing that Anna was just within his call,—that by -turning his head he could see her dear face, and that by and by, when -his work was done, she would come in to him, and with her loving words -and winsome ways make him forget how tired he was, and thank Heaven -again for the great gift bestowed when it gave him Anna Ruthven. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration: 1874. 1874. 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Do. 1 50 - - THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. Do. Do. 1 50 - - - Julie P. Smith’s Novels. - WIDOW GOLDSMITH’S DAUGHTER $1 75 - - CHRIS AND OTHO 1 75 - - TEN OLD MAIDS [in press] 1 75 - - THE WIDOWER 1 75 - - THE MARRIED BELLE 1 75 - - - Artemus Ward’s Comic Works. - ARTEMUS WARD—HIS BOOK $1 50 - - ARTEMUS WARD—HIS TRAVELS 1 50 - - ARTEMUS WARD—IN LONDON 1 50 - - ARTEMUS WARD—HIS PANORAMA 1 50 - - - Fanny Fern’s Works. - POLLY AS IT FLIES $1 50 - - GINGERSNAPS 1 50 - - CAPER-SAUCE (new) 1 50 - - A MEMORIAL.—By James Parton 2 00 - - - Josh Billings’ Comic Works. - JOSH BILLINGS’ PROVERBS $1 50 - - JOSH BILLINGS ON ICE 1 50 - - JOSH BILLINGS FARMER’S ALMINAX, 25 - cts. - - (In paper covers.) - - - Verdant Green. - A racy English college story—with numerous comic illustrations $1 50 - - - Popular Italian Novels. - DOCTOR ANTONIO.—A love story of Italy. By Ruffini $1 75 - - BEATRICE CENCI.—By Guerrazzi. With a steel Portrait 1 75 - - - M. 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With illustrations by Gustave Dore $1 50 - - - Victor Hugo. - LES MISERABLES.—English translation from the French. Octavo $2 50 - - LES MISERABLES.—In the Spanish language 5 00 - - - Algernon Charles Swinburne. - LAUS VENERIS, AND OTHER POEMS.—An elegant new edition $1 50 - - FRENCH LOVE-SONGS.—Selected from the best French authors 1 50 - - - Robert Dale Owen. - THE DEBATEABLE LAND BETWEEN THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT $2 00 - - THREADING MY WAY.—Twenty-five years of Autobiography 1 50 - - - The Game of Whist. - POLE ON WHIST.—The late English standard work $1 00 - - - Mansfield T. Walworth’s Novels. - WARWICK $1 75 - - LULU 1 75 - - HOTSPUR 1 75 - - STORMCLIFF 1 75 - - DELAPLAINE 1 75 - - BEVERLY. (New.) 1 75 - - - Mother Goose Set to Music. - MOTHER GOOSE MELODIES.—With music for singing, and illustrations $1 50 - - - M. M. 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Loth 1 75 - - LOYAL UNTO DEATH 1 75 - - BESSIE WILMERTON.—Westcott 1 75 - - PURPLE AND FINE LINEN.—Fawcett 1 75 - - EDMUND DAWN.—By Ravenswood 1 50 - - CACHET.—Mrs. M. J. R. Hamilton 1 75 - - MARK GILDERSLEEVE.—J. S. Sauzade 1 75 - - FERNANDO DE LEMOS.—C. Gayaree 2 00 - - CROWN JEWELS.—Mrs. Moffat 1 75 - - A LOST LIFE.—By Emily Moore 1 50 - - AVERY GLIBUN.—Orpheus C. Kerr 2 00 - - THE CLOVEN FOOT. Do. 1 50 - - ROMANCE OF RAILROAD.—Smith 1 50 - - ROBERT GREATHOUSE.—J. F. Swift 2 00 - - FAUSTINA.—From the German 1 50 - - MAURICE.—From the French 1 50 - - GUSTAV ADOLF.—From the Swedish 1 50 - - ADRIFT WITH A VENGEANCE 1 50 - - UP BROADWAY.—By Eleanor Kirk 1 50 - - MONTALBAN 1 75 - - LIFE AND DEATH 1 50 - - CLAUDE GUEUX.—By Victor Hugo 1 50 - - FOUR OAKS.—By Kamba Thorpe 1 75 - - ADRIFT IN DIXIE.—Edmund Kirke 1 50 - - AMONG THE GUERILLAS. Do. 1 50 - - AMONG THE PINES. Do. 1 50 - - MY SOUTHERN FRIENDS. Do. 1 50 - - DOWN IN TENNESSEE. Do. 1 50 - - - Miscellaneous Works. - WOOD’S GUIDE TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK.—Beautifully and fully - illustrated $1 00 - - BILL ARP’S PEACE PAPERS.—Full of comic illustrations 1 50 - - A BOOK OF EPITAPHS.—Amusing, quaint, and curious. (New) 1 50 - - SOUVENIRS OF TRAVEL.—By Madame Octavia Walton LeVert 2 00 - - THE ART OF AMUSING.—A book of home amusements, with illustrations 1 50 - - HOW TO MAKE MONEY; and how to keep it.—By Thomas A. Davies 1 50 - - BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN.—With illustrations by Cruikshank (paper) 25 - cts - - BEHIND THE SCENES; at the “White House.”—By Elizabeth Keckley 2 00 - - THE YACHTSMAN’S PRIMER.—For amateur sailors. T. R. Warren (paper) 50 - cts - - RURAL ARCHITECTURE.—By M. Field. With plans and illustrations 2 00 - - LIFE OF HORACE GREELEY.—By L. U. Reavis. With a new steel - Portrait 2 00 - - WHAT I KNOW OF FARMING.—By Horace Greeley 1 50 - - PRACTICAL TREATISE ON LABOR.—By Hendrick B. Wright 2 00 - - TWELVE VIEWS OF HEAVEN.—By Twelve Distinguished English Divines 1 50 - - HOUSES NOT MADE WITH HANDS.—An illustrated juvenile, illust’d by - Hoppin 1 00 - - CRUISE OF THE SHENANDOAH—The Last Confederate Steamer 1 50 - - MILITARY RECORD OF CIVILIAN APPOINTMENTS in the U. S. Army 5 00 - - IMPENDING CRISIS OF THE SOUTH.—By Hinton Rowan Helper 2 00 - - NEGROES IN NEGROLAND. Do. Do. Do. (paper - covers) 1 00 - - - - - CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. - - - =A New Edition.= - -Among the numerous editions of the works of this greatest of English -Novelists, there has not been until now _one_ that entirely satisfies -the public demand.... Without exception, they each have some strong -distinctive objection, ... either the shape and dimensions of the -volumes are unhandy—or, the type is small and indistinct—or, the paper -is thin and poor—or, the illustrations [if they have any] are -unsatisfactory—or, the binding is bad—or, the price is too high. - -A new edition is _now_, however, published by G. W. Carleton & Co. of -New York, which, it is believed, will, in every respect, completely -satisfy the popular demand.... It is known as - - “=Carleton’s New Illustrated Edition.=” - -The size and form is most convenient for holding, ... the type is -entirely new, and of a clear and open character that has received the -approval of the reading community in other popular works. - -The illustrations are by the original artists chosen by Charles Dickens -himself ... and the paper, printing, and binding are of the most -attractive and substantial character. - -The publication of this beautiful new edition was commenced in April, -1873, and will be completed in 20 volumes—one novel each month—at the -extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as follows:— - - 1—THE PICKWICK PAPERS. - 2—OLIVER TWIST. - 3—DAVID COPPERFIELD. - 4—GREAT EXPECTATIONS. - 5—DOMBEY AND SON. - 6—BARNABY RUDGE. - 7—NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. - 8—OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. - 9—BLEAK HOUSE. - 10—LITTLE DORRIT. - 11—MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. - 12—OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. - 13—TALE OF TWO CITIES. - 14—CHRISTMAS BOOKS. - 15—SKETCHES BY “BOZ.” - 16—HARD TIMES, ETC. - 17—PICTURES OF ITALY, ETC. - 18—UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. - 19—EDWIN DROOD, ETC. - 20—ENGLAND and CATALOGUE. - -Being issued, month by month, at so reasonable a price, those who -_begin_ by subscribing for this work, will imperceptibly soon find -themselves fortunate owners of an entire set of this _best edition of -Dickens’ Works_, almost without having paid for it. - -A Prospectus furnishing specimen of type, sized-page, and illustrations, -will be sent to any one _free_ on application—and specimen copies of the -bound books will be forwarded by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of -price, $1.50, by - - G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, - Madison Square, New York. - - - - - THREE VALUABLE BOOKS, - - - All Beautifully Printed and Elegantly Bound. - - - =I.—The Art of Conversation,= - -With Directing for Self-Culture. An admirably conceived and entertaining -work—sensible, instructive, and full of suggestions valuable to every -one who desires to be either a good talker or listener, or who wishes to -appear to advantage in good society. Every young and even old person -should read it, study it over and over again, and follow those hints in -it which lead them to break up bad habits and cultivate good ones. ⁂ -Price $1.50. Among the contents will be found chapters upon— - -ATTENTION IN CONVERSATION.—SATIRE.—PUNS.—SARCASM.—TEASING.—CENSURE.— -FAULT-FINDING.—EGOTISM.—POLITENESS.—COMPLIMENTS.—STORIES.—ANECDOTES.— -QUESTIONING.—LIBERTIES.—IMPUDENCE.—STARING.—DISAGREEABLE SUBJECTS.— -SELFISHNESS.—ARGUMENT.—SACRIFICES.—SILENT PEOPLE.—DINNER CONVERSATION.— -TIMIDITY.—ITS CURE.—MODESTY.—CORRECT LANGUAGE.—SELF-INSTRUCTION.— -MISCELLANEOUS KNOWLEDGE.—LANGUAGES. - - - =II.—The Habits of Good Society.= - -A Handbook for Ladies and Gentlemen. With thoughts, hints, and anecdotes -concerning social observances, nice points of taste and good manners, -and the art of making oneself agreeable. The whole interspersed with -humorous illustrations of social predicaments, remarks on fashion, etc. -⁂ Price $1.75. Among the contents will be found chapters upon— - - GENTLEMEN’S PREFACE. - LADIES’ PREFACE.—FASHIONS. - THOUGHTS ON SOCIETY. - GOOD SOCIETY.—BAD SOCIETY. - THE DRESSING-ROOM. - THE LADIES’ TOILET.—DRESS. - FEMININE ACCOMPLISHMENTS. - MANNERS AND HABITS. - PUBLIC AND PRIVATE ETIQUETTE. - MARRIED AND UNMARRIED LADIES. - DO DO GENTLEMEN. - CALLING ETIQUETTE.—CARDS. - VISITING ETIQUETTE.—DINNERS. - DINNER PARTIES. - LADIES AT DINNER. - DINNER HABITS.—CARVING. - MANNERS AT SUPPER.—BALLS. - MORNING PARTIES.—PICNICS. - EVENING PARTIES.—DANCES. - PRIVATE THEATRICALS. - RECEPTIONS.—ENGAGEMENTS. - MARRIAGE CEREMONIES. - INVITATIONS.—DRESSES. - BRIDESMAIDS.—PRESENTS. - TRAVELLING ETIQUETTE. - PUBLIC PROMENADE. - COUNTRY VISITS.—CITY VISITS. - - - =III.—Arts of Writing, Reading, and Speaking.= - -An exceedingly fascinating work for teaching not only the beginner, but -for perfecting every one in these three most desirable accomplishments. -For youth this book is both interesting and valuable; and for adults, -whether professionally or socially it is a book that they cannot -dispense with. ⁂ Price $1.50. 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