Tiger Lily, and Other Stories
Date: 2020-01-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; American; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tiger Lily, and Other Stories

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: Tiger Lily, and Other Stories

Author: Julia Thompson von Stosch Schayer

Release date: January 1, 2020 [eBook #61068]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Carlos Colón, The Library of Congress and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIGER LILY, AND OTHER STORIES ***

Transcriber's Notes:

Blank pages have been eliminated.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original.

A few typographical errors have been corrected.

The cover page was created by the transcriber and can be considered public domain.

TIGER LILY
AND OTHER STORIES

BY

JULIA SCHAYER

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1883

Copyright, 1883, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

Trow's
Printing and Bookbinding Company
201-213 East Twelfth Street
NEW YORK

CONTENTS.

PAGE
Tiger Lily, | 1
Thirza, | 89
Molly, | 127
A Summer's Diversion, | 159
My Friend Mrs. Angel, | 195

TIGER-LILY.

The shrill treble of a girl's voice, raised to its highest pitch in anger and remonstrance, broke in upon the scholarly meditations of the teacher of the Ridgemont grammar school. He raised his head from his book to listen. It came again, mingled with boyish cries and jeers, and the sound of blows and scuffling. The teacher, a small, fagged-looking man of middle age, rose hastily, and went out of the school-house.

Both grammar and high school had just been dismissed, and the bare-trodden play-ground was filled with the departing scholars. In the centre of the ground a group of boys had collected, and from this group the discordant sounds still proceeded.

"What is the meaning of this disturbance?" the master asked, coming near.

At the sound of his voice the group fell apart, disclosing, as a central point, the figure of a girl of thirteen or fourteen years. She was thin and straight, and her face, now ablaze with anger and excitement, was a singular one, full of contradictions, yet not inharmonious as a whole. It was fair, but not as blondes are fair, and its creamy surface was flecked upon the cheeks with dark, velvety freckles. Her features were symmetrical, yet a trifle heavy, particularly the lips, and certain dusky tints were noticeable about the large gray eyes and delicate temples, as well as a peculiar crisp ripple in the mass of vivid red hair which fell from under her torn straw hat.

Clinging to her scant skirts was a small hunch-backed boy, crying dismally, and making the most of his tears by rubbing them into his sickly face with a pair of grimy fists.

The teacher looked about him with disapproval in his glance. The group contained, no doubt, its fair proportion of future legislators and presidents, but the raw material was neither encouraging nor pleasant to look upon. The culprits returned his wavering gaze, some looking a little conscience-smitten, others boldly impertinent, others still (and those the worst in the lot) with a charming air of innocence and candor.

"What is it?" the master repeated. "What is the matter?"

"They were plaguing Bobby, here," the girl broke in, breathlessly,—"taking his marbles away, and making him cry—the mean, cruel things!"

"Hush!" said the teacher, with a feeble gesture of authority. "Is that so, boys?"

The boys grinned at each other furtively, but made no answer.

"Boys," he remarked, solemnly, "I—I'm ashamed of you!"

The delinquents not appearing crushed by this announcement, he turned again to the girl.

"Girls should not quarrel and fight, my dear. It isn't proper, you know."

A mocking smile sprang to the girl's lips, and a sharp glance shot from under her black, up-curling lashes, but she did not speak.

"She's allers a-fightin'," ventured one of the urchins, emboldened by the teacher's reproof; at which the girl turned upon him so fiercely that he shrank hastily out of sight behind his nearest companion.

"You are not one of my scholars?" the master asked, keeping his mild eyes upon the scornful face and defiant little figure.

"No!" the girl answered. "I go to the high school!"

"You are small to be in the high school," he said, smiling upon her kindly.

"It don't go by sizes!" said the child promptly.

"No; certainly not, certainly not," said the teacher, a little staggered. "What is your name, child?"

"Lilly, sir; Lilly O'Connell," she answered, indifferently.

"Lilly!" the teacher repeated abstractedly, looking into the dusky face, with its flashing eyes and fallen ruddy tresses,—"Lilly!"

"It ought to have been Tiger-Lily!" said a pert voice. "It would suit her, I'm sure, more ways than one!" and the speaker, a pretty, handsomely-dressed blonde girl of about her own age, laughed, and looked about for appreciation of her cleverness.

"So it would!" cried a boyish voice. "Her red hair, and freckles, and temper! Tiger-Lily! That's a good one!"

A shout of laughter, and loud cries of "Tiger-Lily!" immediately arose, mingled with another epithet more galling still, in the midst of which the master's deprecating words were utterly lost.

A dark red surged into the girl's face. She turned one eloquent look of wrath upon her tormentors, another, intensified, upon the pretty child who had spoken, and walked away from the place, leading the cripple by the hand.

"Oh, come now, Flossie," said a handsome boy, who stood near the blonde girl, "I wouldn't tease her. She can't help it, you know."

"Pity she couldn't know who is taking up for her!" she retorted, tossing the yellow braid which hung below her waist, and sauntering away homeward.

"Oh, pshaw!" the boy said, coloring to the roots of his hair; "that's the way with you girls. You know what I mean. She can't help it that her mother was a—a mulatto, or something, and her hair red. It's mean to tease her."

"She can help quarrelling and fighting with the boys, though," said Miss Flossie, looking unutterable scorn.

"She wouldn't do it, I guess, if they'd let her alone," the young fellow answered, stoutly. "It's enough to make anybody feel savage to be badgered, and called names, and laughed at all the time. It makes me mad to see it. Besides, it isn't always for herself she quarrels. It's often enough for some little fellow like Bobby, that the big fellows are abusing. She is good-hearted, anyhow."

They had reached by this time the gate opening upon the lawn which surrounded the residence of Flossie's mother, the widow Fairfield. It was a small, but ornate dwelling, expressive, at every point, of gentility and modern improvements. The lawn itself was well kept, and adorned with flower-beds and a tiny fountain. Mrs. Fairfield, a youthful matron in rich mourning of the second stage, sat in a wicker chair upon the veranda reading, and fanning herself with an air of elegant leisure.

Miss Flossie paused. She did not want to quarrel with her boyish admirer, and, with the true instinct of coquetry, instantly appeared to have forgotten her previous irritation.

"Won't you come in, Roger?" she said, sweetly. "Our strawberries are ripe."

The boy smiled at the tempting suggestion, but shook his head.

"Can't," he answered, briefly. "I've got a lot of Latin to do. Good-by."

He nodded pleasantly and went his way. It lay through the village and along the fields and gardens beyond. Just as he came in sight of his home,—a square, elm-shaded mansion of red brick, standing on a gentle rise a little farther on,—he paused at a place where a shallow brook came creeping through the lush grass of the meadow which bounded his father's possessions. He listened a moment to its low gurgling, so suggestive of wood rambles and speckled trout, then tossed his strap of books into the meadow, leaped after it, and followed the brook's course for a little distance, stooping and peering with his keen brown eyes into each dusky pool.

All at once, as he looked and listened, another sound than the brook's plashing came to his ears, and he started up and turned his head. A stump fence, black and bristling, divided the meadow from the adjoining field, its uncouth projections draped in tender, clinging vines, and he stepped softly toward it and looked across. It was a rocky field, where a thin crop of grass was trying to hold its own against a vast growth of weeds, and was getting the worst of it,—a barren, shiftless field, fitly matching the big shiftless barn and small shiftless house to which it appertained.

Lying prone among the daisies was Lilly O'Connell, her face buried in her apron, the red rippling mane falling about her, her slender form shaking with deep and unrestrained sobs.

Roger looked on a moment and then leaped the fence. The girl rose instantly to a sitting position, and glared defiance at him from a pair of tear-stained eyes.

"What are you crying about?" he asked, with awkward kindness.

Her face softened, and a fresh sob shook her.

"Oh, come!" said Roger; "don't mind what a lot of sneaks say."

The girl looked up quickly into the honest dark eyes.

"It was Florence Fairfield that said it," she returned, speaking very rapidly.

Roger gave an uneasy laugh.

"Oh! you mean that about the 'Tiger-Lily'?"

"Yes," she answered, "and it's true. It's true as can be. See!" And for the first time the boy noticed that her gingham apron was filled with the fiery blossoms of the tiger-lily.

"See!" she said again, with an unchildish laugh, holding the flowers against her face.

Roger was not an imaginative boy, but he could not help feeling the subtle likeness between the fervid blossoms, strange, tropical outgrowth of arid New England soil, and this passionate child of mingled races, with her ruddy hair, and glowing eyes and lips. For a moment he did not know what to say, but at last, in his simple, boyish way he said:

"Well, what of it? I think they're splendid."

The girl looked up incredulously.

"I wouldn't mind the—the hair!" he stammered. "I've got a cousin up to Boston, and she's a great belle—a beauty, you know. All the artists are crazy to paint her picture, and her hair is just the color of yours."

Lilly laid the flowers down. Her eyes fell.

"You don't understand," she said, slowly. "Other girls have red hair. It isn't that."

Roger's eyes faltered in their reassuring gaze.

"I—I wouldn't mind—the other thing, either, if I were you," he stammered.

"You don't know what you'd do if you were me!" the girl cried, passionately. "You don't know what you'd do if you were hated, and despised, and laughed at, every day of your life! And how would you like the feeling that it could never be any different, no matter where you went, or how hard you tried to be good, or how much you learned? Never, never any different! Ah, it makes me hate myself, and everybody! I could tear them to pieces, like this, and this!"

She had risen, and was tearing the scarlet petals of the lilies into pieces, her teeth set, her eyes flashing.

"Look at them!" she cried wildly. "How like me they are, all red blood like yours, except those few black drops which never can be washed out! Never! Never!"

And again the child threw herself upon the ground, face downward, and broke into wild, convulsive sobbing.

Young Roger was in an agony of pity. He found his position as consoler a trying one. An older person might well have quailed before this outburst of unchild-like passion. He knew that what she said was true—terribly, bitterly true, and this kept him dumb. He only stood and looked down upon the quivering little figure in embarrassed silence.

Suddenly the girl raised her head, with a flash of her eyes.

"What does God mean," she cried, fiercely, "by making such a difference in people?"

Roger's face became graver still.

"I can't tell you that, Lilly," he answered, soberly. "You'll have to ask the minister. But I've often thought of it myself. I suppose there is a reason, if we only knew. I guess all we can do is to begin where God has put us, and do what we can."

Lilly slowly gathered her disordered hair into one hand and pushed it behind her shoulders, her tear-stained eyes fixed sadly on the boy's troubled face.

The tea-bell, sounding from the distance, brought a welcome interruption, and Roger turned to go. He looked back when half across the meadow, and saw the little figure standing in relief upon a rocky hillock, the sun kindling her red locks into gold.

A few years previously, O'Connell had made his appearance in Ridgemont with wife and child, and had procured a lease of the run-down farm and buildings which had been their home ever since. It was understood that they had come from one of the Middle States, but beyond this nothing of their history was known.

The wife, a beautiful quadroon, sank beneath the severity of the climate, and lived but a short time. After her death, O'Connell, always a surly, hot-headed fellow, grew surlier still, and fell into evil ways. The child, with a curious sort of dignity and independence, took upon her small shoulders the burden her mother had laid aside, and carried on the forlorn household in her own way, without assistance or interference.

That she was not like other children, that she was set apart from them by some strange circumstance, she had early learned to feel. In time she began to comprehend in what the difference lay, and the knowledge roused within her a burning sense of wrong, a fierce spirit of resistance.

With the creamy skin, the full, soft features, the mellow voice, and impassioned nature of her quadroon mother, Lilly had inherited the fiery Celtic hair, gray-green eyes, and quick intelligence of her father.

She contrived to go to school, where her cleverness placed her ahead of other girls of her age, but did not raise her above the unreasoning aversion of her school-mates; and the consciousness of this rankled in the child's soul, giving to her face a pathetic, hunted look, and to her tongue a sharpness which few cared to encounter.

Those who knew her best—her teachers, and a few who would not let their inborn and unconquerable prejudice of race stand in the way of their judgment—knew that, with all her faults of temper, the girl was brave, and truthful, and warm-hearted. They pitied the child, born under a shadow which could never be lifted, and gave her freely the kind words for which her heart secretly longed.

There was little else they could do, for every attempt at other kindness was repelled with a proud indifference which forbade further overtures. So she had gone her way, walking in the shadow which darkened and deepened as she grew older, until at last she stood upon the threshold of womanhood.

It was at this period of her life that the incidents we have related occurred. Small as they were, they proved a crisis in the girl's life. Too much a child to be capable of forming a definite resolve, or rather, perhaps, of putting it into form and deliberately setting about its fulfilment, still the sensitive nature had received an impression, which became a most puissant influence in shaping her life.

A change came over her, so great as to have escaped no interested eyes; but interested eyes were few.

Her teachers, more than any others, marked the change. There was more care of her person and dress, and the raillery of her school-mates was met by an indifference which, however hard its assumption may have been, at once disarmed and puzzled them.

Now and then, the low and unprovoked taunts of her boyish tormentors roused her to an outburst of the old spirit, but for the most part they were met only with a flash of the steel-gray eyes, and a curl of the full red lips.

One Sunday, too, to the amazement of pupils and the embarrassment of teachers, Lilly O'Connell, neatly attired and quite self-possessed, walked into the Sunday-school, from which she had angrily departed, stung by some childish slight, two years before. The minister went to her, welcomed her pleasantly, and gave her a seat in a class of girls of her own age, who, awed by the mingled dignity and determination of his manner, swallowed their indignation, and moved along—a trifle more than was necessary—to give her room.

The little tremor of excitement soon subsided, and Lilly's quickness and attentiveness won for her an outward show, at least, of consideration and kindness, which extended outside of school limits, and gradually, all demonstrations of an unpleasant nature ceased.

When she was about sixteen her father died. This event, which left her a homeless orphan, was turned by the practical kindness of Parson Townsend—the good old minister who had stood between her and a thousand annoyances and wrongs—into the most fortunate event of her life. He, not without some previous domestic controversy, took the girl into his own family, and there, under kind and Christian influences, she lived for a number of years.

At eighteen her school-life terminated, and, by the advice of Parson Townsend, she applied for a position as teacher of the primary school.

The spirit with which her application was met was a revelation and a shock to her. The outward kindness and tolerance which of late years had been manifested toward her, had led her into a fictitious state of content and confidence.

"I was foolish enough," she said to herself, with bitterness, "to think that because the boys do not hoot after me in the street, people had forgotten, or did not care."

The feeling of ostracism stung, but could not degrade, a nature like hers. She withdrew more and more into herself, turned her hands to such work as she could find to do, and went her way again, stifling as best she might the anguished cry which sometimes would rise to her lips:

"What does God mean by it?"

Few saw the beauty of those deep, clear eyes and pathetic lips, or the splendor of her burnished hair, or the fine curves of her tall, upright figure. She was only odd, and "queer looking"—only Lilly O'Connell; very pleasant of speech, and quick at her needle, and useful at picnics and church fairs, and in case of sickness or emergencies of any kind,—but Lilly O'Connell still,—or "Tiger-Lily," for the old name had never been altogether laid aside.

Ten years passed by. The good people of Ridgemont were fond of alluding to the remarkable progress and development made by their picturesque little town during the past decade, but in reality the change was not so great. A few new dwellings, built in the modern efflorescent style, had sprung up, to the discomfiture of the prim, square houses, with dingy white paint and dingier green blinds, which belonged to another epoch; a brick block, of almost metropolitan splendor, cast its shadow across the crooked village street, and a soldiers' monument, an object of special pride and reverence, adorned the centre of the small common, opposite the Hide and Leather Bank and the post-office.

Beside these, a circulating library, a teacher of china-painting and a colored barber were casually mentioned to strangers, as proofs of the slightness of difference in the importance of Ridgemont and some other towns of much more pretension.

Over the old Horton homestead hardly a shadow of change had passed. It presented the same appearance of prosperous middle age. The great elms about it looked not a day older; the hydrangeas on the door-step flowered as exuberantly; the old-fashioned roses bloomed as red, and white, and yellow, against the mossy brick walls; the flower-plots were as trim, and the rustic baskets of moneywort flourished as green, as in the days when Mrs. Horton walked among them, and tended them with her own hands. She had lain with her busy hands folded these five years, in the shadow of the Horton monument, between the grave of Dr. Jared Horton and a row of lessening mounds which had been filled many, many years—the graves of the children who were born—and had died—before Roger's birth.

A great quiet had hung about the place for several years. The blinds upon the front side had seldom been seen to open, except for weekly airings or semi-annual cleanings.

But one day in mid-summer the parlor windows are seen wide open, the front door swung back, and several trunks, covered with labels of all colors, and in several languages, are standing in the large hall.

An unwonted stir about the kitchen and stable, a lively rattling of silver and china in the dining room, attest to some unusual cause for excitement. The cause is at once manifest as the door at the end of the hall opens, and Roger Horton appears, against a background composed of mahogany side-board and the erect and vigilant figure of Nancy Swift, the faithful old housekeeper of his mother's time.

The handsome, manly lad had fulfilled the promise of his boyhood. He was tall and full-chested; a trifle thin, perhaps, and his fine face, now bronzed with travel, grave and thoughtful for his years, but capable of breaking into a smile like a sudden transition from a minor to a major key in music.

He looked more than thoughtful at this moment. He had hardly tasted the food prepared by Nancy with a keen eye to his youthful predilections, and in the firm conviction that he must have suffered terrible deprivations during his foreign travels.

Truly, this coming home was not like the comings-home of other days, when two dear faces, one gray-bearded and genial, the other pale and gentle-eyed, had smiled upon him across the comfortable board. The sense of loss was almost more than he could bear; the sound of his own footsteps in the cool, empty hall smote heavily upon his heart.

The door of the parlor stood ajar, and he pushed it open and stepped into the room. Everything was as it had always been ever since he could remember—furniture, carpets, curtains, everything. Just opposite the door hung the portraits of his parents, invested by the dim half-light with a life-like air which the unknown artist had vainly tried to impart.

Roger had not entered the room since his mother's funeral, which followed close upon that of his father, and just before the close of his collegiate course.

Something in the room brought those scenes of bitter grief too vividly before him. It might have been the closeness of the air, or, more probably, the odor rising from a basket of flowers which stood upon the centre-table. He remembered now that Nancy had mentioned its arrival while he was going through the ceremony of taking tea, and he went up to the table and bent over it. Upon a snowy oval of choicest flowers, surrounded by a scarlet border, the word "Welcome" was wrought in purple violets.

The young man smiled as he read the name upon the card attached. He took up one of the white carnations and began fastening it to the lapel of his coat, but put it back at length, and with a glance at the painted faces, whose eyes seemed following his every motion, he took his hat and went out of the house.

His progress through the streets of his native village took the form of an ovation. Nearly every one he met was an old acquaintance or friend. It warmed his heart, and took away the sting of loneliness which he had felt before, to see how cordial were the greetings. Strong, manly grips, kind, womanly hand-pressures, and shy, blushing greetings from full-fledged village beauties, whom he vaguely remembered as lank, sun-burned little girls, met him at every step.

He noticed, and was duly impressed by, the ornate new dwellings, the soldiers' monument, and the tonsorial establishment of Professor Commeraw. But beyond these boasted improvements, it might have been yesterday, instead of four years ago, that he passed along the same street on his way to the station. Even Deacon White's sorrel mare was hitched before the leading grocery-store in precisely the same spot, and blinking dejectedly at precisely the same post, he could have taken his oath, where she had stood and blinked on that morning.

Before the tumble-down structure where, in connection with the sale of petrified candy, withered oranges, fly-specked literature, and gingerpop, the post-office was carried on, sat that genial old reprobate, the post-master, relating for the hundredth time to a sleepy and indifferent audience, his personal exploits in the late war; pausing, however, long enough to bestow upon Horton a greeting worthy of the occasion.

"Welcome home!" said Mr. Doolittle, with an oratorical flourish, as became a politician and a post-master; "welcome back to the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

Whereupon he carefully seated himself on the precarious chair which served him as rostrum, and resumed his gory narrative.

A little further on, another village worthy, Fred Hanniford, cobbler, vocalist, and wit, sat pegging away in the door of his shop, making the welkin ring with the inspiring strains of "The Sword of Bunker Hill," just as in the old days. True, the brilliancy of his tones was somewhat marred by the presence of an ounce or so of shoe-pegs in his left cheek, but this fact had no dampening effect upon the enthusiasm of a select, peanut-consuming audience of small boys on the steps.

He, too, suspended work and song to nod familiarly to his somewhat foreignized young townsman, and watched him turn the corner, fixing curious and jealous eyes upon the receding feet.

"Who made your boots?" he remarked sotto voce, as their firm rap upon the plank sidewalk grew indistinct, which profound sarcasm having extracted the expected meed of laughter from his juvenile audience, Mr. Hanniford resumed his hammer, and burst forth with a high G of astounding volume.

As young Horton came in sight of Mrs. Fairfield's residence, he involuntarily quickened his steps. As a matter of course, he had met in his wanderings many pretty and agreeable girls, and, being an attractive young man, it is safe to say that eyes of every hue had looked upon him with more or less favor. It would be imprudent to venture the assertion that the young man had remained quite indifferent to all this, but Horton's nature was more tender than passionate; early associations held him very closely, and his boyish fancy for the widow's pretty daughter had never quite faded. A rather fitful correspondence had been kept up, and photographs exchanged, and he felt himself justified in believing that the welcome the purple violets had spoken would speak to him still more eloquently from a pair of violet eyes.

He scanned the pretty lawn with a pleased, expectant glance. Flowers were massed in red, white and purple against the vivid green; the fountain was scattering its spray; hammocks were slung in tempting nooks, and fanciful wicker chairs, interwoven with blue and scarlet ribbons, stood about the vine-draped piazza. He half expected a girlish figure to run down the walk to meet him, in the old childish way, and as a fold of white muslin swept out of the open window his heart leaped; but it was only the curtain after all, and just as he saw this with a little pang of disappointment, a girl's figure did appear, and came down the walk toward him. It was a tall figure, in a simple dark dress. As it came nearer, he saw a colorless, oval face, with downcast eyes, and a mass of ruddy hair, burnished like gold, gathered in a coil under the small black hat. There was something proud, yet shrinking, in the face and in the carriage of the whole figure. As the latch fell from his hand the girl looked up, and encountered his eyes, pleased, friendly and a trifle astonished, fixed full upon her.

She stopped, and a beautiful color swept into her cheeks, a sudden unleaping flame filled the luminous eyes, and her lips parted.

"Why, it is Lilly O'Connell!" the young man said, cordially, extending his hand.

The girl's hand was half extended to meet his, but with a quick glance toward the house she drew it back into the folds of her black dress, bowing instead.

Horton let his hand fall, a little flush showing itself upon his forehead.

"Are you not going to speak to me, Miss O'Connell?" he said, in his frank, pleasant way. "Are you not going to say you are glad to see me back, like all the rest?"

The color had all faded from the girl's cheeks and neck. She returned his smiling glance with an earnest look, hesitating before she spoke.

"I am very glad, Mr. Horton," she said, at last, and, passing him, went swiftly out of sight.

The young man stood a moment with his hand upon the gate, looking after her; then turned and went up the walk to the door, and rang the bell. A smiling maid admitted him, and showed him into a very pretty drawing-room.

He had not waited long when Florence, preceded by her mother, came in. She had been a pretty school-girl, but he was hardly prepared to see so beautiful a young woman, or one so self-possessed, and so free from provincialism in dress and manner. She was a blonde beauty, of the delicate, porcelain-tinted type, small, but so well-made and well-dressed as to appear much taller than she really was. She was lovely to-night in a filmy white dress, so richly trimmed with lace as to leave the delicate flesh-tints of shoulders and arms visible through the fine meshes.

She had always cared for Roger, and, being full of delight at his return and his distinguished appearance, let her delight appear undisguisedly. Although a good deal of a coquette, with Roger coquetry seemed out of place. His own simple, sincere manners were contagious, and Florence had never been more charming.

"Tell us all about the pictures and artists and singers you have seen and heard," she said, in the course of their lively interchange of experiences.

"I am afraid I can talk better about hospitals and surgeons," said Horton. "You know I am not a bit æsthetic, and I have been studying very closely."

"You are determined, then, to practise medicine?" Mrs. Fairfield said, with rather more anxiety in her tones than the occasion seemed to demand.

"I think I am better fitted for that profession than any other," Horton answered.

"Y-yes," assented Mrs. Fairfield, doubtfully, looking at her daughter.

"I should never choose it, if I were a man," said Florence, decidedly.

"It seems to have chosen me," Horton said. "I have not the slightest bent in any other direction."

"It is such a hard life," said Florence. "A doctor must be a perfect hero."

"You used to be enthusiastic over heroes," said Horton, smiling.

"I am now," said Florence, "but——"

"Not the kind who ride in buggies instead of on foaming chargers and wield lancets instead of lances," laughed Horton, looking into the slightly vexed but lovely face opposite, with a great deal of expression in his dark eyes.

"Of course you would not think of settling in Ridgemont," remarked Mrs. Fairfield, blandly, "after all you have studied."

"I don't see why not," he answered.

"But for an ambitious young man," began Mrs. Fairfield.

"I'm afraid I am not an ambitious young man," said Horton. "There is a good opening here, and the old home is very dear to me."

Florence was silently studying the toe of one small sandalled foot.

"Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, who always endeavored to fill up pauses in conversation,—"to be sure, Ridgemont is improving. Don't you find it changed a good deal?"

"Why, not very much," Horton answered. "Places don't change so much in a few years as people. I met Lilly O'Connell as I came into your grounds. She has changed—wonderfully."

"Y-yes," said Mrs. Fairfield, rather stiffly. "She has improved. Since her father died, she has lived in Parson Townsend's family. She is a very respectable girl, and an excellent seamstress."

Florence had gone to the window, and was looking out.

"She was very good at her books, I remember," he went on. "I used to think she would make something more than a seamstress."

"I only remember her dreadful temper," said Florence, in a tone meant to sound careless. "We called her 'Tiger-Lily,' you know."

"I never wondered at her temper," said Horton. "She had a great deal to vex her. I suppose things are not much better now."

"Oh, she is treated well enough," said Mrs. Fairfield. "The best families in the place employ her. I don't know what more she can expect, considering that she is—a——"

"Off color," suggested Horton. "No. She cannot expect much more. But it is terrible—isn't it?—that stigma for no fault of hers. It must be hard for a girl like her—like what she seems to have become."

"Oh, as to that," said Florence, going to the piano and drumming lightly, without sitting down, "she is very independent. She asserts herself quite enough."

"Why, yes," broke in her mother, hastily. "She actually had the impudence to apply for a position as teacher of the primary school, and Parson Townsend, and Hickson of the School Board, were determined she should have it. The 'Gazette' took it up, and for awhile Lilly was the heroine of the day. But of course she did not succeed. It would have ruined the school. A colored teacher! Dreadful!"

"Dreadful, indeed," said Horton. He rose and joined Florence at the piano, and a moment later Mrs. Fairfield was contentedly drumming upon the table, in the worst possible time, to her daughter's performance of a brilliant waltz.

The evening terminated pleasantly. After Horton had gone, mother and daughter had a long confidential talk upon the piazza, which it is needless to repeat. But at its close, as Mrs. Fairfield was closing the doors for the night, she might have been heard to say:

"You could spend your winters in Boston, you know."

To which Florence returned a dreamy "Yes."

The tranquillity of Ridgemont was this summer disturbed by several events of unusual local interest. Two, of a melancholy nature, were the deaths of good old Parson Townsend and of Dr. Brown, one of the only two regular physicians of whom the town could boast. The latter event had the effect to bring about the beginning of young Dr. Horton's professional career. The road now lay fair and open before him. His father had been widely known and liked, and people were not slow in showing their allegiance to the honored son of an honored father.

Of course this event, being one of common interest, was duly discussed and commented upon, and nowhere so loudly and freely as in the post-office and cobbler's shop, where, surrounded by their disciples and adherents, the respective proprietors dispensed wit and wisdom in quantities suitable to the occasion.

"He's young," remarked the worthy post-master, with a wave of his clay pipe, "an' he's brought home a lot o' new-fangled machines an' furrin notions, but he's got a good stock of Yankee common-sense to back it all, an' I opine he'll do."

And such was the general verdict.

His popularity was further increased by the rumor of his engagement to Miss Florence Fairfield. Miss Fairfield being a native of the town, and the most elegant and accomplished young woman it had so far produced, was regarded with much the same feeling as the brick block and the soldiers' monument; and as she drove through the village streets in her pretty pony phaeton, she received a great deal of homage in a quiet way, particularly from the masculine portion of the community.

"A tip-top match for the young doctor," said one. "She's putty as a picter an' smart as lightnin', an' what's more, she's got 'the needful.'"

"Well, as to that," said another, "Horton ain't no need to look for that. He's got property enough."

To which must be added Mr. Hanniford's comments, delivered amidst a rapid expectoration of shoe-pegs.

"She's got the littlest foot of any girl in town, an' I ought to know, for I made her shoes from the time she was knee-high to a grasshopper till she got sot on them French heels, which is a thing I ain't agoin' to countenance. She was always very fond o' my singin', too. Says she,'You'd ought to have your voice cultivated, Mr. Hanniford,' says she, 'it's equal, if not superior, to Waktel's or Campyneeny's, any time o' day.' Though," he added, musingly, "as to cultivatin', I've been to more'n eight or ten singin'-schools, an' I guess there ain't much more to learn."

The death of Parson Townsend brought about another crisis in the life of Lilly O'Connell. It had been his express wish that she should remain an inmate of his family, which consisted now of a married son and his wife and children. But, with her quick intuition, Lilly saw, before a week had passed, that her presence was not desired by young Mrs. Townsend, and her resolution was at once taken.

Through all these years she had had one true friend and helper—Priscilla Bullins, milliner and dress-maker.

Miss Bullins was a queer little frizzed and ruffled creature, with watery blue eyes, and a skin like yellow crackle-ware. There was always a good deal of rice-powder visible in her scant eyebrows, and a frost-bitten bloom upon her cheeks which, from its intermittent character, was sadly open to suspicion, but a warm heart beat under the tight-laced bodice, and it was to her, after some hours of mental conflict, that Lilly went with her new trouble. Miss Bullins listened with her soul in arms.

"You'll come and stay with me; that's just what you'll do, Lilly, and Jim Townsend's wife had ought to be ashamed of herself, and she a professor! I've got a nice little room you can have all to yourself. It's next to mine, and you're welcome to it till you can do better. I shall be glad of your company, for, between you and me," dropping her voice to a confidential whisper, "I ain't so young as I was, and, bein' subject to spells in the night, I ain't so fond of livin' alone as I used to be."

So Lilly moved her small possessions into Miss Bullin's spare bedroom, and went to work in the dingy back shop, rounding out her life with such pleasure as could be found in a walk about the burying-ground on Sundays, in the circulating library, and in the weekly prayer-meeting, where her mellow voice revelled in the sweet melodies of the hymns, whose promises brought such comfort to her lonely young heart.

From the window where she sat when at work she could look out over fields and orchards, and follow the winding of the river in and out the willow-fringed banks. Just opposite the window, a small island separated it into two deep channels, which met at the lower point with a glad rush and tumult, to flow on again united in a deeper, smoother current than before.

Along the river bank, the road ran to the covered bridge, and across it into the woods beyond. And often, as Lilly sat at her work, she saw Miss Fairfield's pony phaeton rolling leisurely along under the overhanging willows, so near that the voices of the occupants, for Miss Fairfield was never alone, now, came up to her with the cool river-breeze and the scent of the pines on the island. Once, Roger Horton happened to look up, and recognized her with one of those grave smiles which always brought back her childhood and the barren pasture where the tiger-lilies grew; and she drew back into the shadow of the curtain again.

Doctor Horton saw Lilly O'Connell often; he met her flitting through the twilight with bulky parcels, at the bedsides of sick women and children, and even at the various festivals which enlivened the tedium of the summer (where, indeed, her place was among the workers only), and he would have been glad to speak to her a friendly word now and then, but she gave him little chance. There was a look in her face which haunted him, and the sound of her voice, rising fervid and mournful above the others at church or conference-meeting, thrilled him to the heart with its pathos. Once, as he drove along the river-side after dark, the voice came floating out from the unlighted window of the shop where he so often saw her at work, and it seemed to him like the note of the wood-thrush, singing in the solitude of some deep forest.

Before the summer was over, something occurred to heighten the interest which the sight of this solitary maiden figure, moving so unheeded across the dull background of village life, had inspired.

It was at a lawn party held upon Mrs. Fairfield's grounds, for the benefit of the church of which she was a prominent member. There was the usual display of bunting, Chinese lanterns, decorated booths, and pretty girls in white. A good many people were present, and the Ridgemont brass band was discoursing familiar strains. Doctor Horton, dropping in, in the course of the evening, gravitated naturally toward an imposing structure, denominated on the bills the "Temple of Flora," where Miss Fairfield and attendant nymphs were disposing of iced lemonade and button-hole bouquets in the cause of religion. The place before the booth was occupied by a group of young men, who were flinging away small coin with that reckless disregard of consequences peculiar to very youthful men on such occasions. All were adorned with boutonnières at every possible point, and were laughing in a manner so exuberant as might, under other circumstances, have led to the suspicion that the beverage sold as lemonade contained something of a more intoxicating nature.

Miss Fairfield was standing outside the booth, one bare white arm extended across the green garlands which covered the frame-work. She looked bored and tired, and was gazing absently over the shoulder of the delighted youth vis-à-vis.

Her face brightened as Doctor Horton was seen making his way toward the place.

"We were laughing," said the young man who had been talking with her, after greetings had been exchanged,—"we were laughing over the latest news. Heard it, Doctor?"

Dr. Horton signified his ignorance.

He was abstractedly studying the effect of a bunch of red columbine nodding at a white throat just before him. He had secured those flowers himself, with some trouble, that very day, during a morning drive, and he alone knew the sweetness of the reward which had been his.

"A marriage, Doctor," went on the youth, jocosely. "Marriage in high life. Professor Samuel Commeraw to Miss Lilly O'Connell, both of Ridgemont."

Horton looked up quickly.

"From whom did you get your information?" he asked, coolly regarding the young fellow.

"From Commeraw himself," he answered, with some hesitation.

"Ah!" Dr. Horton returned, indifferently. "I thought it very likely."

"I don't find it so incredible," said Miss Fairfield, in her fine, clear voice. "He is the only one of her own color in the town. It seems to me very natural."

Dr. Horton looked into the fair face. Was it the flickering light of the Chinese lanterns which gave the delicate features so hard and cold a look?

He turned his eyes away, and as he did so he saw that Lilly O'Connell, with three or four children clinging about her, had approached, and, impeded by the crowd, had stopped very near the floral temple. A glance at her face showed that she had heard all which had been said concerning her.

The old fiery spirit shone from her dilated eyes as they swept over the insignificant face of the youth who had spoken her name. Her lips were contracted, and her hand, resting on the curly head of one of the children, trembled violently.

She seemed about to speak, but as her eyes met those of Doctor Horton, she turned suddenly, and, forcing a passage through the crowd, disappeared.

Dr. Horton lingered about the flower-booth until the increasing crowd compelled Miss Fairfield to to resume her duties, when he slipped away, and wandered aimlessly about the grounds. At last, near the musicians' stand, he saw Lilly O'Connell leaning against a tree, while the children whom she had in charge devoured ice-cream and the music with equal satisfaction. Her whole attitude expressed weariness and dejection. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast, her lips drawn like a child's who longs to weep, yet dares not.

Not far away he saw, hanging upon the edge of the crowd, the tall form of Commeraw, his eyes, alert and swift of glance as those of a lynx, furtively watching the girl, who seemed quite unconscious of any one's observation.

Some one took Horton's attention for a moment, and when he looked again both Lilly, with her young charge, and Commeraw were no longer to be seen. He moved away from the spot, vaguely troubled and perplexed.

The brazen music clashed in his ears the strains of "Sweet Bye-and-Bye," people persisted in talking to him, and at last, in sheer desperation, he turned his steps toward the temple of Flora. It was almost deserted. The band had ceased playing, people were dispersing, the flowers had wilted, and the pretty girls had dropped off one by one with their respective cavaliers. The reigning goddess herself was leaning against a green pillar, looking, it must be confessed, a little dishevelled and a good deal out of humor, but very lovely still.

"You must have found things very entertaining," she remarked, languidly. "You have been gone an hour at least."

"I have been discussing sanitary drainage with Dr. Starkey," Horton answered, taking advantage of the wavering light to possess himself of one of the goddess's warm white hands, and the explanation was, in a measure, quite true.

Miss Fairfield made no other reply than to withdraw her hand, under the pretext of gathering up her muslin flounces for the walk across the lawn. Horton drew her white wrap over the bare arms and throat, and walked in silence by her side to the hall door. Even then he did not speak at once, feeling that the young lady was in no mood for conversation, but at last he drew the little white figure toward him, and said:

"You are tired, little girl. These church fairs and festivals are a great nuisance. I will not come in to-night, but I will drive round in the morning to see how you have slept."

To his surprise, the girl turned upon him suddenly, repulsing his arm.

"Why," she began, hurriedly, "why are you always defending Lilly O'Connell?"

She shot the question at him with a force which took away his breath. She had always seemed to him gentleness itself. He hardly recognized her, as she faced him with white cheeks and blazing eyes.

"It was always so," she went on, impetuously, "ever since I can remember. You have always been defending her. No one must speak of her as if she were anything but a lady. I cannot understand it, Roger! I want to know what it means—the interest you show, and always have shown, in that—that girl!"

Horton had recovered himself by this time. He looked into the angry face with a quiet, almost stern, gaze. The girl shrank a little before it, and this, and the quiver of her voice toward the close of her last sentence, softened the resentment which had tingled through his veins. Shame, humiliation, not for himself, but for her, his affianced wife, burned on his cheeks.

"What interest, Florence?" he said, repeating her words. "Just that interest which every honest man, or woman, feels in a fellow-creature who suffers wrongfully. Just that—and nothing more."

Her lips parted as if to retort, but the steadiness of her lover's gaze disconcerted her. He was very gentle, but she felt, as she had once or twice before, the quiet mastery of his stronger nature, and the eyes fell. He took both her hands and held them awhile without removing his eyes from her face.

"Good-night, Florence," he said, at last, almost with sadness.

She would have liked to let him see that she was sorry for her ill-temper, or rather for the manifestation of it, but she was only overawed, not penitent, and bent her head to his parting kiss without a word.

Two or three evenings later, Doctor Horton received an urgent summons from one of his patients, who lived at the end of a new and almost uninhabited street. A lamp at the corner of the main street lighted it for a short distance, beyond which the darkness was intense. When just opposite the lamp, and about to cross over, he observed a woman pass swiftly across the lighted space in the direction toward which he was himself going. There was no mistaking the erect figure and graceful gait—it was Lilly O'Connell. After an instant of wondering what could have brought her there at such an hour, for it was late, according to village customs, he changed his intention as to crossing, and kept down the other side.

The sight of this girl brought back afresh that brief, unpleasant scene with Florence, which he had tried to forget, but which had recurred to him very often, and always with a keen sting of pain and shame. His faith in the woman he loved was so perfect! Should hers be less in him? For him there was no happiness without repose. To doubt, to be doubted, would end all. He walked on in the darkness, lost in such thoughts, and quite forgetting where he was, but all at once he became aware of other footsteps behind him, and involuntarily looking back, he saw, just on the edge of the lamp-lit space, the figure of a man—a tall figure, with a certain panther-like grace of movement. There was but one such in the town, that of Commeraw, the mulatto.

The sight gave him a disagreeable shock. That he was following Lilly O'Connell he had no doubt. Could it be true, then, the rumor to which he had given so little credence? He remembered, now, that he had seen this fellow hanging about at various times and places when she was present. Might it not have been pretence—her proud indifference and scornful evasion of his advances? He asked himself, with a hot flush of mortification, the same question which Florence had put to him. It was true that he had many times openly defended her. He had been forced to do so by that quality of his nature which moved him always to espouse the cause of the weak. Perhaps he had elevated this girl to a higher plane than she deserved to occupy. After all, it would not be strange if her heart, in its longing for sympathy, had turned toward this man of her dead mother's race. Then her face, so sensitive, so overshadowed with sadness, came before him, and he could not think of it in juxtaposition with the brutal face of Commeraw. He banished the thought with disgust.

In the meantime, the man could be seen creeping along, a black shadow thrown into faint relief against the white sand of the overhanging bank. There was something furtive and stealthy in his actions which excited Horton's fears. He saw that he had at last overtaken the girl, and he quickened his own pace until he was so near that the sound of their voices came over to him.

"There is no other answer possible," she was saying. "You must never speak to me in this way again."

She would have gone on, but the man placed himself before her. There was a deliberation in the way he did so which showed his consciousness of power.

"This is a lonesome place," he said, with a short, cruel laugh.

She made no answer.

The man muttered an imprecation.

"You are not going to leave me so," he said. "Curse it! why do you treat me so, as if I were a dog? What are you more than I am? Are you so proud because you have a few more drops of their cursed white blood in your veins than I have? What will that help you? Do you imagine it will get you a white husband?"

"Let me pass!" interrupted the girl, coldly. "You can kill me if you like. I would rather die than give you any other answer. Will you let me pass?" and she made another swift motion to go by him.

A savage cry came from his lips. He sprang toward her. She made no outcry. The two shadows struggled for a moment in deadly silence, but it was only for a moment. Quick as thought, Horton flung himself upon the man, who, taken thus by surprise, loosened his hold upon the girl, shook himself free, and, with a fierce oath, fled.

Lilly staggered back against the bank.

"Do not be afraid," said Horton, panting. "The fellow will not come back."

"Doctor Horton!" she said, faintly.

"Yes, it is Doctor Horton. Where were you going? I will see you in safety."

"I was on my way to watch with Mrs. Lapham," she answered, in firmer tones.

"I am going there too," said Horton. "If you feel able, go on, I will follow after awhile. Or will you go home?"

She came forward, walking a little slowly.

"I will go on; she expects me."

And in a few moments she had disappeared from sight.

Horton remained where she had left him for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he proceeded on his way. An old woman admitted him to the house, and he went into the sick-room. Lilly O'Connell was sitting by the cradle of the youngest child, which lay across her lap. She greeted him with a bow, and averted her head, but the glimpse he had of her face showed him that it was not only pale, but drawn as if with physical pain.

As he was about to leave his patient's side he looked toward her again, and his eyes fell upon the arm which supported the child's head. About the sleeve, a handkerchief, stained with blood, was tightly bound.

He went over to the corner where she was sitting.

"Will you come into the next room?" he said. "I would like to give you some directions about the medicine."

She gave him a quick, upward glance, arose, laid the baby in the arms of the old woman, and followed him mutely into the adjoining room, where a light was burning on the table, and stood before him, waiting for him to speak.

"You are hurt," he said, taking the bandaged arm in his hand. "That fellow has wounded you."

"I suppose he meant to kill me," she answered, leaning with the disengaged arm against the table.

Horton unbound the handkerchief. The blood was oozing from a deep flesh cut below the elbow. With skilful fingers, he ripped open the sleeve and turned it back from the fair round arm. Then, with the appliances the country doctor has always at hand, he dressed the wound. When he had finished, Lilly drew the sleeve down and fastened it over the bandage.

Horton looked into her face. She was deadly pale, and her hands, which had touched his once or twice during the operation, were like ice.

"You are weak and unstrung. You have lost a great deal of blood. Sit down, Miss O'Connell."

She did so, and there was a little silence. The young man's nerves were still thrilling with the excitement of the last hour. For the moment, this girl—sitting there before him, this fair girl with her hard, cruel destiny—filled him completely.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, at length.

"Do?" she repeated. "Nothing."

"You will let this villain escape justice?" he said. "You will take no measures to protect yourself?"

Lilly raised her head. A look of intense bitterness swept across her face.

"I shall not do anything," she said. "Doctor Horton, you have always been good to me. As far back as I can remember, you have been my friend. I want you to promise me not to speak of what has happened to-night."

Horton bit his lips in perplexity.

"I do not think I have any right to make such a promise," he said, after a little pause. "This was an attempt at murder."

She rose and came close up to him.

"You must promise me. Do you not see?" she went on, passionately. "If I were any one else, it would be different—do you not understand? To have my name dragged before the public—I could not bear it! I would rather he killed me outright!"

Doctor Horton walked the floor excitedly.

"It is a terrible thing," he said. "I cannot blame you, but it does not seem right. Think the matter over. Perhaps you will feel differently. In the meantime, I will do nothing without your consent."

"Thank you, Doctor Horton," she said.

A feeble call came from the sick-room, and she turned away. Soon after, Doctor Horton left the house.

The next day Commeraw's shop remained closed, and it was discovered that he had fled the town. Numerous debts and embarrassments which came to light sufficiently accounted for his departure, and were also ample guarantee against his return. In this way, the question which had vexed Doctor Horton's mind was unexpectedly settled.

He did not see Lilly O'Connell for several days, but met her at last on the street in such a way that she could not well avoid him.

"It goes against my sense of justice that that scoundrel should escape so easily," he said, after having made professional inquiries after the wounded arm, "but at least you will now be safe," and, touching his hat respectfully, he turned to leave her. At that instant, Miss Fairfield's phaeton dashed around the corner. The occupant drew the reins slightly and regarded the two with a flash of the turquoise eyes; then, bowing coldly, she gave her horse a touch of the whip and dashed on again.

When Horton appeared at Mrs. Fairfield's that evening, however, Florence received him with unusual sweetness, and when chided playfully for the coldness of her greeting on the street, replied only with a light laugh.

The next morning rain was falling steadily, but it did not prevent Miss Fairfield from appearing in Miss Bullins's shop, taut and trim in her blue flannel suit, the yellow hair and delicate rose-tinted face finely relieved against the black velvet lining of her hat. She found Lilly O'Connell in attendance and the shop otherwise unoccupied, as she had expected. She was very gracious. She brought with her a parcel containing costly linen and laces, which she wished made into mysterious garments after the imported models inclosed.

"My dresses will be made in Boston," she explained, with a conscious blush, "but I want these things made under my own supervision—and I want you to make them."

What was it in her crisp, clear tones which gave the common words so subtle an effect? The two girls looked each other full in the face for a moment. Miss Fairfield was the first to look away.

"You do your work so beautifully, you know," she added, with a very sweet smile.

There was nothing more to say, yet she sauntered about the shop awhile, looking at the goods displayed, or out into the rainy street.

"I'm sorry to see you looking so badly," she said, at last, turning her eyes suddenly upon the pale face behind the counter. "But I don't wonder, either. It is natural you should take it hard."

Again the gray eyes met the blue in that mute encounter.

"I don't think I know what you mean," said Lilly, her fingers tightening upon the laces she was folding.

Miss Fairfield raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, of course," she went on, sympathetically, "of course, you don't like to talk about it, but I'm sure you are not in the least to blame. It was shameful of Commeraw to go off the way he did. I am really sorry for you. Good-morning!"

A moment later, when she was well outside, a little laugh broke from her lips. It had been very well done—even better than she had meant to do it.

The new minister, a susceptible young man, meeting her at this moment, thought he had never seen his fair parishioner looking so charming.

Just after, he was equally struck by another face, framed in reddish-golden hair, which was gazing out from the milliner's window at the murky sky. Its set, hopeless expression startled him.

"What a remarkable face!" he reflected. "It is that girl whose voice I noticed the other evening." And, being a well-meaning young man, he mentally added, "I really must speak with her, next conference-meeting."

Summer passed tranquilly away, autumn ran its brief course; and in November, when the days were getting toward their shortest and dreariest, something happened which startled quiet Ridgemont out of the even tenor of its way. The small-pox broke out among the operatives in the paper-mill, and spread so rapidly during the first days as to produce a universal panic. The streets were almost deserted; houses were darkened, as if by closed shutters one might shut out the fatal guest. Those who were compelled to go about, or whose social instinct overcame their fear, walked the streets with a subdued and stealthy air, as if on the lookout for an ambushed foe.

The village loafers were fewer in number, and their hilarity was forced and spasmodic. Jokes of a personal nature still circulated feebly, but seemed to have lost their point and savor, and the laughter which followed had a hollow ring. Mr. Hanniford was visibly depressed, and the sallies which his position as local humorist compelled him to utter were of a ghastly description. He still endeavored to enliven his labors with his favorite ditty, but it had lost perceptibly in force and spirit.

Mr. Doolittle, the post-master, bore himself with a dignified composure truly admirable, going fishing more persistently and smoking more incessantly than ever.

"What you want, boys," he remarked, with great earnestness, to the few faithful retainers whom the potent spell of gingerpop rendered insensible to other considerations,—"what you want is to take plenty of exercise in the open air, and smoke freely. Tobacco is a great—a—prophylactic."

Meetings of citizens were held, and all the usual sanitary means adopted and put in execution. An uninhabited farm-house, whose rightful owner was in some unknown part of the world, was chosen for hospital uses, and thither all victims of the disease were carried at once. From the beginning, Dr. Horton had been most prompt and active in suggesting prudential measures, and in seeing them carried out. By universal consent, he was invested with full powers. Dr. Starkey, the only other physician, on the ground of failing health, willingly submitted to the situation. The young physician's entire energies were aroused. He worked indefatigably, sparing neither strength nor pocket; for among the victims were several heads of families, whose sickness—and, in a few cases, whose death—left want and misery behind them.

One of the greatest obstacles encountered was the scarcity of nurses, most of those responding to the call becoming themselves victims in a few days. Two men only—veteran soldiers—were equal to the occasion, and acted in multifarious capacities—as drivers of the ambulance, housekeepers, cooks, nurses, undertakers, and grave-diggers.

On the evening when the certainty of the outbreak was established, Dr. Horton, after a day of excessive labor, went around to Mrs. Fairfield's. It was a dark, rainy evening, and the house seemed strangely cheerless and silent. A faint light shone from one upper window, and he fancied, as he reached the steps, that he saw a girlish figure leaning against the window-sash. The housemaid who admitted him, after a second ring, did so with a hesitating and constrained air, eyed him askance as she set her lamp upon the parlor table, and retreated hastily.

He was kept waiting, too, as it seemed to him, an unnecessarily long time. He was tired and a little unstrung. He was in that mood when the touch of a warm, tender hand is balm and cordial at once, and the delay fretted him. He could hear muffled footfalls over his head, and the murmur of voices, as he wandered about the room, taking up various small articles in a listless way, to throw them down impatiently again; pulling about the loose sheets of music on the piano, and wondering why so lovely a creature as Florence need to be so scrupulously exact about her toilet, with an impatient lover chafing and fretting not twenty paces away. But at last there was a sound of descending footsteps, a rustling of skirts, and the door opened to admit—Mrs. Fairfield. She, at all events, had not been spending the precious moments at her toilet-table. Something must have thrown her off her guard. She was negligent in her attire, and certain nameless signs of the blighting touch of Time were allowed to appear, it may be safely asserted for the first time, to the eyes of mortal man. She was also flustered in manner, and, after giving Dr. Horton the tips of her cold fingers, retreated to the remotest corner of the room, and sank into an easy-chair. He noticed as she swept by him that her person exhaled camphor like a furrier's shop.

"It's dreadful, isn't it?" she murmured, plaintively, holding a handkerchief saturated with that drug before her face. "Perfectly dreadful!"

Dr. Horton was at first puzzled, and then, as the meaning of her remark came to him, a good deal amused. He had not felt like laughing, all day; but now he was obliged to smile, in the palm of his hand, at the small, agitated countenance of his future mother-in-law, seen for the first time without "war-paint or feathers."

"It is certainly a misfortune," he said, reassuringly; "but it is not wise to become excited. The disease is confined at present to the lower part of the town, and, with the precautions which are to be taken, it will hardly spread beyond it."

Mrs. Fairfield shook her head incredulously.

"There's no telling," she murmured, sniffing at her handkerchief with a mournful air.

"I have only a few moments to stay," the young man said, after a slight pause. "I have to attend a citizens' meeting. Is not Florence well?"

"Y-yes, she is well," came in hesitating and muffled accents from behind the handkerchief. "She is not ill, but she is terribly upset by the state of things, poor child! She has such a horror of disease! Why, she can't bear to come near me when I have one of my sick headaches. So sensitive, you know. So——"

A light had gradually been breaking upon Horton's mind. He colored, and stepped forward a little. He had not been asked to sit down, and was still in overcoat and gloves.

"I think," he said, slowly, looking Mrs. Fairfield full in the face,—"I suppose I know what you mean. Florence will not come down. She is afraid to—to see me."

Mrs. Fairfield fidgeted in her chair, and a red spot burned in her sallow cheek.

"You must not think strange of it, Roger," she began, volubly. "You know how delicately organized Florence is. So nervous and excitable. And it would be such a misfortune—with her complexion!"

Dr. Horton took one or two turns across the room. He was not apt to speak on impulse, and he waited now. He stopped before a portrait of Florence, which hung over the piano. The tender face looked out upon him with the soft, beguiling smile about the small, curved lips, which had become so dear to him. Above it was a bunch of gorgeous sumac, which he had gathered for her one heavenly day, not long ago; and on the piano-rack stood the song she had taught him to believe the sweetest song in all the world:

"Du bist wie eine Blume,

So schön, so hold, so rein."

He looked at the face again. She was "like a flower." How could he have found it in his heart to blame her, even by the remotest thought?

"I'm sure," came the plaintive voice again, "you ought not to blame her. I think it's perfectly natural."

Dr. Horton turned toward her, with a cheerful smile.

"Yes, it is quite natural. Of course I have taken every precaution; but it was wrong of me to come without finding out how she felt. Tell her I will not come again until"—he paused, with an unpleasant feeling in his throat—"until she wishes me to come."

"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, rising with an alacrity which betrayed how great was her relief, "you must know what a trial it is to her, Roger. The poor girl feels so badly. You are not angry?" giving her hand, but holding the camphorated handkerchief between them.

"No," Dr. Horton said, taking the reluctant fingers a moment, "not at all angry."

He went away into the outer darkness, walking a little heavily. The house-door shut behind him with a harsh, inhospitable clang, and as he went down the steps the wind blew a naked, dripping woodbine-spray sharply against his cheek, giving him a curiously unpleasant thrill.

When he was part way down the walk, he looked back. At the upper window the girlish figure was still visible, the face still pressed against the pane. His heart bounded at the sight, and then sank with a sense of remoteness and loss for which, a moment later, he chided himself bitterly.

Mrs. Fairfield waited only until she believed Roger was off the grounds, when she threw open all the windows in the room, sprinkled everything liberally with carbolic acid, and went up-stairs to her daughter.

She found Florence standing at the window where she had left her.

"What did he say?" she asked, without looking around.

"Oh, he was very reasonable," Mrs. Fairfield answered, seizing the camphor-bottle from the bureau, "very, indeed. He said it was wrong in him to have come under such circumstances, and he would not come again until the danger was over. Roger always was so sensible."

Tears rolled from the girl's eyes down over her blue cashmere wrapper, and she bit her lips to keep back the sobs which threatened to break out.

"Hannah says three more cases were reported to-night," said her mother, re-entering, after a short absence.

An exclamation escaped the girl's lips, and she wrung her fingers nervously.

"We'd better go, hadn't we?" said Mrs. Fairfield.

"No!" cried the girl. "Yes! Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" and she threw herself upon the bed, crying hysterically.

The evil news being corroborated by the milkman next morning, led to another conference between mother and daughter, the result of which was that the following notes awaited Dr. Horton on his return from an exhausting day's work:

"My Dearest Roger: Do not be too much hurt or shocked to hear that mother and I have left town on the 3.30 train. We think it best. It is hard, of course; but the separation will be easier than if we were in the same place. I assure you, dear Roger, it pains me to go, dreadfully; but I cannot bear such a strain upon my nerves. Do, dearest, take care of yourself—though, of course, you won't take the disease. Doctors never do, I believe. I don't see why, I'm sure.

"Oh, how I wish you had settled in Boston, or some large place, where your practice would have been among first-class people only. Those low mill people are always breaking out with some horrid thing or other. It is too bad. We are going to stay with Aunt Kitty, in Boston. She has been wanting me to spend the winter with her. She is very gay, but of course, dearest, I shall have no interest in anything. Of course you will write.

"Your own, as ever,

"F. F."

Doctor Horton read this letter twice before opening the other, which was from Mrs. Fairfield herself, and ran as follows:

"My Dear Roger: I am sure you will not blame me for taking our darling Flossie out of harm's way, nor her for going. As I told her last night, you always were so sensible. The poor child has been in such a state, you've no idea! We feel real anxious about you. Do take every precaution, for Flossie's sake, though they say doctors never take diseases. Do wear a camphor-bag somewhere about you. I always did wish you had chosen the law—it is so much nicer. Of course Flossie will expect letters, but don't you think you had better soak the paper and envelopes in carbolic acid beforehand? They say it's very efficacious.

"Yours, affectionately,

"A. Fairfield.

"P. S.—You have no idea how the darling child's spirits have risen since we began packing. She is quite another creature.

"A. F."

Doctor Horton smiled as he read, but as he put both notes away in his desk, his face became grave and sad again.

"It is perfectly natural," he said to himself, as he went down to his lonely tea. "Perfectly so, and I am glad she has gone. But——"

The terrible disease whose presence had sent such a thrill of horror through the quiet little town had been raging for two weeks, and though the inevitable rebound from the first pressure of dread was making itself universally felt, as a topic of conversation it had lost none of its charms.

On a wild, wet afternoon, Lilly O'Connell sat in the stuffy work-room sacred to the mysteries of making and trying on the wonderful productions of Miss Bullins's scissors and needle. She was sewing the folds upon a dress of cheap mourning, while Miss Bullins sat opposite with lap-board and scissors, her nimble tongue outrunning the latter by long odds.

"What's friends for," she was saying, "if they aint goin' to stand by you when the pinch comes? Folks that's got husbands and lovers and friends a plenty don't realize their blessin's. As for Florence Fairfield, it makes me ashamed of bein' a woman—the way that girl did! They say she wouldn't even see Roger Horton to bid him good-by. I never heard the like!"

Lilly turned her head toward the window, perhaps because the dress in her hands was black, and the light dull.

"They say he's workin' himself to death for all them poor people, and he aint got nobody—no sister nor mother—to nurse him up when he comes home all tuckered out; though Nancy Swift thinks a sight of him, and she'll do her duty by him, I make no doubt. He's just like his father, and he was a good man. Florence Fairfield don't deserve her privileges, I'm afeard."

The street door opened, and with a gust of cold wind entered Widow Gatchell, the village "Sairey Gamp." She was an elderly woman, tall, stiff and dry as a last year's mullein-stalk. Her dark, wrinkled face was fixed and inexpressive, but the small black eyes were full of life. She was clothed in rusty garments, and carried a seedy carpet-sack in her hand.

"How d'ye do?" she said, in a dry voice, dropping on to the edge of a chair. "I jest come in to tell ye, if ye was drove, 'taint no matter about my bunnit. I sha'n't want it right away."

"Why not?" said Miss Bullins, looking up.

"I'm goin' to the pest-house nussin' to-morrow," returned the old woman, in the same quiet tone.

"Good land! Sarah Gatchell!" cried Miss Bullins, upsetting her lap-board. "Aint you 'most afraid?"

A quaint smile flitted across the widow's face.

"What'd I be afeared of," she said, "'s old 'n' homely 's I be? The small-pox aint agoin' to touch me. I'd 'a' gone a week ago, but I couldn't leave Mis' Merrill, an' her baby not a week old. I've jess been a-talkin' with Dr. Horton," she went on. "He says they're sufferin' for help. They's three sick women an' two children, an' not a woman in the house to do a thing for 'em. They've been expectin' two nusses from the city, but they aint come. Seems to me 'taint jest right fur men-folks to be fussin' 'round sick women an' childern."

"Oh my, it's awful!" sighed Miss Bullins, pinning her pattern crooked in her distress.

"Not a woman there?" said Lilly O'Connell, who had been listening with her hands idle in her lap.

"There'll be one there in the mornin'," said the widow, rising to go. "I'd 'a' gone to-night, but I couldn't be o' much use till I'd gone 'round the house by daylight, an' got the hang o' things."

"Wall, you've got good grit, Sarah," said the milliner, with enthusiasm. "You're as good as half a dozen common women. I declare, I'd go myself, but I shouldn't be a bit o' use. I should catch it in a day. I was always a great one for catchin' diseases."

"Aint ye well?" said Mrs. Gatchell, turning suddenly toward Lilly. "Ye look kind o' peakèd. I guess ye set still too much."

"I am perfectly well," said Lilly.

"Ye be? Wall, sewin' is confinin'. Good-by."

Lilly had no appetite for her tea, and immediately after she put on her cloak and hat, and went out. The wind had gone down as the sun set, the rain had ceased, and a few pale stars were struggling through the thin, vapory clouds.

The streets were very quiet, and she met but few people. The choir in the Orthodox Church were rehearsing, their voices ringing out clear and not inharmonious in a favorite hymn. She stopped, and bowing her head upon one of the square wooden posts, waited until the hymn closed. Then she went on her way. It was quite dark when she reached the end of her walk—the residence of Dr. Starkey. She seized the brass knocker with a firm hand, and was shown into the office. In a few moments Dr. Starkey entered.

He was an old-school physician, and an old-school gentleman as well. He would have considered it indecent to appear before the world in any other garb than a broadcloth swallow-tail coat of ancient date, and with his long neck wrapped in white lawn nearly to the point of suffocation. He entered the room, and bowed with courtly gallantry on seeing a feminine figure standing by the table; but, as Lilly looked up and the lamp-light fell upon her face and hair, there was a perceptible congealing of his manner.

"Miss—a——" he began.

"I am Lilly O'Connell," she said, simply.

"Oh—a—yes! Miss O'Connell. Hm! Sit down, Miss O'Connell,—sit down!" he added, observing her closely from under his shaggy brows.

The girl remained standing, but the doctor seated himself before the glowing grate, and placed himself in an attitude of professional attention.

"You are—indisposed?" he asked, presently, as she remained silent.

"No; I am quite well," she answered; and then, after a little pause, during which her color mounted and faded, she continued: "I have heard that there is need of more help at the hospital, and I came to ask you to take me as nurse, or anything you most need."

Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the doctor's face.

He turned square about, the withered, purple-veined hands clutching the arms of his chair tightly, a kind of choking sound issuing from his bandaged throat.

"Will you say that again?" he asked abruptly, staring with raised eyebrows at the pale, earnest face.

Lilly repeated what she had said, more firmly.

"Good heavens!" ejaculated the old man, measuring the girl from head to foot slowly.

"Child," he said, after a pause, "do you know what you are talking about?"

"I think so," the girl answered, quietly.

"No, you do not!" the old man said, almost brusquely. "It is a place to try the nerves of the strongest man, to say nothing of a woman's. It is no place for a girl—no place."

"I am not afraid," the girl said, her voice breaking. "They say I am good in sickness, and I will do any kind of work. It is dreadful to think of those poor little children and women, with no one to do anything for them but men. Oh, do not refuse!" she cried, coming nearer and holding out her hands entreatingly.

The doctor had fidgeted in his chair, uttering a variety of curious, inarticulate exclamations while she was speaking.

"But, child," he repeated, earnestly, "it would be as much as your life is worth to enter the house. You would come down in a week. You might die!"

Lilly looked up into the mottled old face, and smiled sadly.

"I am not afraid," she said again, "and there is no one to care very much. Even if I should die, it would not matter."

Dr. Starkey reflected, rubbing one shrivelled finger up and down the bridge of his nose. He knew how woman's help was needed in that abode of pestilence and death. He looked at the white, supple hands clasped over the gray cloak before him, and thought of the work which they would be required to perform, then shook his head slowly, and rose.

"No," he said, "I cannot consent."

Lilly made a motion as if to speak, but he raised his hand deprecatingly.

"It would be as bad as murder," he went on. "I respect your motive, Miss O'Connell, I do, indeed; but you are too young and too—a—delicate for the undertaking. Don't think of it any more."

He took one of the hands which dropped at her side and held it in his glazed palm, looking kindly into the downcast face. He knew the girl's whole history. He had been one of the fiercest opponents of her application for a teacher's place, and from conscientious motives solely, as he believed; but he remembered it now with sharp regret. There was nothing in this fair and womanly figure to inspire antipathy, surely. For the first time, a realizing sense of her solitary life came to him, and he was pained and sorry. He wanted to be very kind to her, but felt strangely unable to express himself.

"Don't say no one would care what befell you," he began, his gruff voice softening. "A young woman of your—a—attractions should have many friends. Consider me one, Miss O'Connell," he continued, with a blending of the sincere and the grandiose in his manner,—"consider me a friend from this day, and let me thank you again for your offer. It was very praiseworthy of you, very."

Lilly bowed—she could not trust herself to speak—and went away.

Dr. Starkey walked up and down his office several times, raised and lowered the flame of the lamp, poked the fire, looked out into the starlit night, and, with a fervent "Bless my soul! how extraordinary!" settled himself for his customary nap over the Boston paper.

Lilly hurried home through the silent streets. Miss Bullins's shop was empty of customers, and she herself, her hair bristling with crimping-pins and curl-papers, was putting things in order for the night. She studied Lilly's face with watchful anxiety, as she joined in her labors.

"I hope to gracious she aint comin' down sick!" she reflected. "You aint got backache and pains in your limbs, have you?" she inquired, with thinly veiled anxiety.

Lilly laughed.

"No, Miss Bullins; nothing of the kind."

"I thought you looked kind o' queer," said the good creature, coloring.

"I am only a little tired; not sick."

She came and stood by the old maid's chair, as she sat warming her feet at the stove, and laid her hand on the thin gray hair.

"Good-night, Miss Bullins."

"Good-night, dear. Hadn't you better drink a cup of pepper-tea before you go to bed?"

"No, thank you; I am only tired."

She sat by the window of her little bedroom over the shop a long time before lighting her lamp. Dim and dark, the river wound along, its surface gleaming here and there faintly through the leafless branches of the willows. Overhead, the solemn stars shone coldly. The houses along its banks were already dark and silent. At some involuntary movement, her hand fell upon a soft white mass of needle-work which strewed the table near her, and the contact seemed to rouse her. She rose, lit the lamp, folded the dainty, lace-trimmed garment, and made it into a parcel with some others which she took from a drawer, and went to bed. It was long before she slept, but the early morning found her asleep, with a peaceful smile upon her face.

The next day, being Saturday, was a busy one, for let Death stalk as he will, people must have their Sunday gear. The little shop was full at times, and feminine tongues and fingers flew without cessation, mixing millinery and misery in strange confusion.

"You don't say that's Mis' Belden's bonnet, with all them flowers on it? Well, I never! And she a member!"

"Why, you're a member, too, ain't you, Mis' Allen?" says another, with a glance at the first speaker's head, where feathers of various hues waved majestically.

"Oh, you mean my feathers?" was the spirited answer. "Feathers an' flowers is different things. You must draw the line somewhere, an' I draw it at feathers."

"They say one o' the women died up to the pest-house yesterday," said one woman, in the midst of an earnest discussion as to the comparative becomingness of blue roses and crimson pansies.

"Dear me!" said Miss Bullins, compassionately, "an' not a woman there to lay her out! Sarah Gatchell didn't go up till to-day."

"They don't lay 'em out," remarked the other, unconcernedly, holding a brilliant pansy against her bilious countenance. "They roll 'em up in the sheet they die on, and bury 'em in the pasture."

Lilly's hands trembled over the bonnet she was lining.

"Well, good-day, Miss Bullins. I guess I'd better take the roses. I'm most too old for red. Get it done if you can. Good-day."

It went on so all day. At one time there was a rush for the window.

"It's Doctor Horton!" cried a pretty girl. "Oh my! Ain't he sweet? He's handsomer than ever, since he got so pale. I don't see how in the world Flossie Fairfield could do as she did. They say she's afraid to have him write to her."

"She loves her good looks more'n she does him, I guess," said another.

"And they to be married in the spring," said Miss Bullins, pathetically. "Lilly, here, was making her underclo'se, and they're a sight to see,—all hand-made, and so much lace in 'em that it ain't modest, I do declare!"

"If she got her deserts she wouldn't have no use for weddin' clo'se," said another, with acerbity; "not if I was Roger Horton."

"Wall, you ain't," said her companion, drily, "an' he ain't no different from other men, I guess."

Lilly worked on with feverish haste. About four o'clock she rose and went out, pausing an instant at the door, and looking back. Miss Bullins, intent upon some button-holes for which every moment of daylight was needed, did not look up. Lilly closed the door, and went up to her room.

It was small and simple, but it was the best she had known. There were some innocent efforts at decoration, a daintiness about the bed, a few books on hanging shelves, and a pretty drapery at the one window. She looked around with a sinking heart. There was a small writing-desk upon the table, and she went to it and wrote a few lines, which she sealed and directed. She packed a few articles in a satchel, put on her cloak and hat, and stole down the stairs.

Choosing the quietest street, she walked rapidly through the village until the last house was passed, and the open country lay before her, bare and brown and desolate, except for the blue hills in the distance, which, summer or winter, never lost their beauty.

Two or three farmers, jogging homeward with their week's supplies, passed her, and one offered her a lift as far as she was going, which she declined.

A mile from the village, a road turned off to the left, winding through barren fields, until lost in the pine woods. As she turned into this, a man driving toward the village reined in and called to her, warningly:

"The pest-house is up yonder!"

She merely bowed and kept on. The man stared a moment, and whipped up his horse again. It was dark in the woods, and chilly, but she felt no fear, not even when the sere bushes by the way-side rustled, or twigs snapped as if beneath the tread of some living creature.

As she came out into comparative light she saw a buggy driven rapidly toward her. She recognized its occupant at once, and with a quick heart-throb sprang behind a clump of young pines, and dropped upon her knees.

Dr. Horton drove by, his face turned toward her place of concealment. He did not know that any human eye was upon him, and the heaviness of his spirit appeared unrepressed in every feature. His eyes followed listlessly the irregular outline of the way-side walls and bushes, but it was evident that his thoughts were not of surrounding things, otherwise he must have seen the crouching figure and the white face pressed against the rough bark of the tree whose trunk she clasped.

The girl's eyes followed him until he was lost to sight in the woods. Then she came out and pursued her way.

A curve in the road brought her in sight of the house now devoted to hospital uses. It was a two-story farm-house, black with age, shutterless and forsaken-looking. Over it hung the cloud of a hideous crime. A few years before, the owner, led on by an insane passion, had murdered his aged wife in her bed. The sequel had been a man's life ended in prison, a girl's name blasted, a dishonored family, a forsaken homestead,—for the son, to whom the property had fallen, had gone away, leaving no trace behind him. It had stood for years as the murderer had left it; its contents had been untouched by human hands; the hay had rotted in the barn; the fields were running waste. The very road itself was avoided, and the old wheel-ruts were almost effaced by grass and weeds. Swallows had possessed themselves of the cold, smokeless chimneys and sunken, mossy eaves; vagrant cats prowled about the moldering mows and empty mangers. The old well-sweep pointed like a gaunt, rigid finger toward heaven. The little strips of flower-beds beneath the front windows were choked with grass, but the red roses and pinks and columbines which the old woman had loved, still grew and bloomed in their season, and cast their petals about the sunken door-stone, and over the crooked path and neglected grass.

There were no flowers now,—only drifting masses of wet brown leaves. The setting sun had just turned the windows into sheets of blood, and down in the pasture could be seen the rough clods of several new-made graves. The silence was absolute. Faint columns of smoke, rising from the crumbling chimneys, were the only signs of human presence.

A tremor shook the girl from head to foot, and she ceased walking. After all, she was young and strong, and the world was wide; life might hold something of sweetness for her yet. It was not too late. She half turned,—but it was only for a moment, and her feet were on the door-step, and her hand on the latch.

She turned a last look upon the outer world,—the bare fields, the leafless woods, the blue hills, the fading sky. A desperate yearning toward it all made her stretch out her hands as if to draw it nearer for a last farewell. Then from within came the piteous cry of a sick child, and she raised the latch softly and entered the house. The air of the hall smote her like a heavy hand, coming as she did from the cool outer air; but guided by the cry, which still continued, she groped her way up the bare, worn stairs, pushed open a door, and entered.

The child's voice covered the sound of her entrance and, sickened by the foul air, she had leaned for some moments against the wall before Widow Gatchell, who was holding the child across her knee, turned and saw her. The old woman's hard, brown features stiffened with surprise, her lips parted without sound.

"I have come to help you," said Lilly, putting down her satchel and coming forward.

"Who sent ye?" the widow asked, shortly.

"Nobody. I offered my services, but Dr. Starkey refused to let me come. I knew you would not send me away if I once got here, and so I came."

"What was folks thinkin' of to let ye come?" asked the old woman again.

"Nobody knew it," Lilly answered.

"Wall," the widow said, "ye had no sort o' business to come, though the Lord knows they's need enough of help."

"Perhaps He sent me, Sarah," the girl said, gently. "Oh, the poor, poor baby! Let me take it."

Widow Gatchell's keen eyes swept the girl's compassionate face with a searching gaze. She rose stiffly and laid the child in her arms.

"There!" she said, drawing a long breath. "You're in for it now, Lilly O'Connell, and may the Lord have mercy on ye!"

When Dr. Horton entered the pest-house in the morning, the first person he encountered was Lilly O'Connell, coming through the hall with a tray in her hands. In her closely fitting print dress and wide apron, the sleeves turned back from her smooth, strong arms, her face earnest, yet cheerful, she was the embodiment of womanly charity and sweetness. He started as though he saw a spectre.

"Good heavens!" he said; "how came you here? Who—who permitted you to come here?"

"No one," said Lilly, supporting the waiter on the post at the foot of the stairs. "I just came. I asked Dr. Starkey to take me as nurse, but he refused."

"I know, I know," said the young man. He stepped back and opened the door, letting in the crisp morning air. "But why did you come? It is a terrible place for you."

"I came to be of use," she answered, smiling. "I hope I am useful. Ask Mrs. Gatchell. She will tell you that I am useful, I am sure."

Horton's face expressed pain and perplexity.

"It is wrong—all wrong," he said. "Where were your friends? Was there no one who cared for you, no one that you care for, enough to keep you from this wild step?"

She looked up into his face, and, for one brief moment, something in her deep, luminous eyes chained his gaze. A soft red spread itself over her cheeks and neck. She shook her head slowly, and taking up the tray, went on up the stairs.

Miss Bullins found the little note which Lilly had left for her, when, as no response came to her repeated summons to tea, she mounted the stairs to see what had happened.

She read the hastily written lines with gathering tears.

"You can get plenty of milliners and seamstresses; but those poor women and children are suffering for some one to take care of them. Forgive me for going this way, but it seemed the only way I could go. May be I shall be sick; but if I do, there is no beauty to lose, you know, and if I die, there is nobody to break their heart about it. You will be sorry, I know. I thank you, oh so much, for all your kindness to me, and I do love you dearly. May God bless you for all your goodness. If I should die, what I leave is for you to do what you please with.

"Your grateful and loving

"Lilly."

The good little woman's tears fell faster as she looked about the empty room.

"I never was so beat in my life," she confided to a dozen of her intimate friends many times over during the next week. "You could have knocked me down with a feather."

Dr. Starkey's amazement surpassed Miss Bullins's, if possible. He first heard of the step Lilly had taken from Dr. Horton. He saw her himself a day or two later, on making his tri-weekly visit to the hospital, and commended her bravery and self-sacrificing spirit in phrases something less stilted than usual.

He could not entirely banish an uneasy feeling when he looked at the fresh young face, but he became tolerably reconciled to the situation when he saw what her energy and tenderness, in cooperation with Widow Gatchell's skill and experience, were accomplishing.

As for the girl herself, the days and nights passed so rapidly, making such demands upon body and mind, as to leave no time for regret. The scenes she witnessed effaced the past entirely for the time. In the midst of all the pain, and loathsomeness, and delirium, and death, she moved about, strong, gentle and self-contained, so self-contained that the vigilant eyes of the old nurse followed her in mute surprise.

"I never see nothin' like it," she said to Dr. Horton one day. "I've known her since she was little, an' I never would 'a' believed it, though I knew she'd changed. Why, she used to be so high-strung an' techy, like, an' now she's like a lamb."

On the tenth day after her coming, Dr. Horton in making his round entered an upper chamber, where Lilly was standing by one of the three beds it contained. She had just drawn the sheet over the faces of two who had died that morning—mother and child.

The dead woman was the deserted wife of a man who had left her a year before, young, weak and ignorant, to certain want and degradation.

"I cannot feel sorry," Lilly said. "It is so much better for them than what was left for them here."

Dr. Horton hardly seemed to hear her words. He was leaning wearily against a chair behind him; his eyes were dull, and his forehead contracted as if with physical suffering.

"You are ill!" she said, with a startled gesture.

"No, only getting a little tired out. I hope the worst is over now, and I think I shall hold out."

He went about from room to room, and from bed to bed, attentive and sympathetic as ever, and then left the house. A half hour later, one of the men came into the kitchen where Mrs. Gatchell was stirring something over the fire.

"Got a spare bed?" he asked, laconically.

The widow looked up.

"'Cause we've got another patient."

"Who is it?" she asked, quickly.

"Come and see."

She followed the man to the rear of the house, where, upon a stone which had fallen from the wall, Dr. Horton was sitting, his head bent in slumber. She listened a moment to his heavy breathing, laid her hand upon his forehead, and turned silently away.

A bed was made ready, and the young doctor, still wrapped in the heavy sleep of disease, was laid upon it, and one of the men was sent for Dr. Starkey.

In the delirium which marks the first stages of the disease, young Horton would allow no one but Lilly O'Connell to minister to him. Sometimes he imagined himself a boy, and called her "mother," clinging to her hand, and moaning if she made the least effort to withdraw. At other times, another face haunted him, and another name, coupled with endearing words or tender reproaches, fell from the half-unconscious lips.

Who but a woman can comprehend the history of those days and nights of watching and waiting? Each morning found her more marble-pale; purple rings formed themselves about the large eyes, but a deep, steady light, which was not born of pain and suffering, shone in their clear depths.

At last, one night, the crisis, whose result no human judgment could foretell, was at hand. No delirium, no restlessness now—only a deep sleep, in which the tense muscles relaxed and the breath came as softly as a child's.

Widow Gatchell shared the young girl's watch, but the strain of the last month had told upon her, and toward morning she fell asleep, and Lilly kept her vigil alone. Only the ticking of the old clock in the hall and the breathing of the sleepers broke the deep silence which filled the house. The lamp threw weird shadows across the ceiling and over the disfigured face upon the pillow. Of all manly beauty, only the close-clustering chestnut hair remained, and the symmetrical hands which lay nerveless and pale, but unmarred, upon the spread.

Statue-like, the young girl sat by the bed-side, her whole soul concentrated in the unwavering gaze which rested upon the sleeper's face. A faint—ever so faint—murmur came at last from the hot, swollen lips, and one languid hand groped weakly, as if seeking something. She took it gently and held it between her own soft palms. It seemed to her fine touch that a light moisture was discernible upon it. She rose and bent over the pillow with eager eyes. A storm of raptured feeling shook her. She sank upon her knees by the bed, and pressed the hand she held close against her breast, whispering over it wild words which no ear might hear.

All at once, the fingers which had lain so inert and passive in her grasp seemed to her to thrill with conscious life, to return faintly the pressure of her own. She started back.

A ray of dawning light crept under the window-shade and lay across the sick man's face. His eyes were open, and regarding her with a look of perfect intelligence.

The girl rose with a smothered cry, and laid the drooping hand upon the bed. The dark, gentle eyes followed her beseechingly. It seemed as if he would have spoken, but the parched lips had lost their power.

She went to the sleeping woman and touched her shoulder.

"Sarah, I think he is better," she said, her voice trembling.

Instantly, the old nurse was on the alert. She went to the bed, and laid her hand upon the sick man's forehead and wrist, then turned toward Lilly, with a smile.

"Go and take some rest," she said in a whisper. "The crisis has passed. He will live."

Dr. Horton's recovery was not rapid, but it was sure.

From the hour of his return to consciousness, Lilly O'Connell had not entered his room.

When a week had passed, he ventured to question his faithful attendant, Widow Gatchell, in regard to her. For twenty-four hours he had missed the step and voice he had believed to be hers, passing and repassing the hall outside his door. The old woman turned her back abruptly and began stirring the already cheerful fire.

"She ain't quite so well to-day," she answered, in a constrained voice.

The young man raised his head.

"Do you mean that she is sick?" he asked hastily.

"She was took down last night," the widow answered, hesitating, and would have left the room; but the young man beckoned her, and she went to his side.

"Let everything possible be done for her," he said. "You understand—everything that can be done. Let Mason attend to me."

"I'll do my part," the old nurse answered, in the peculiarly dry tone with which she was accustomed to veil her emotions.

Dr. Starkey, who, since the young doctor's illness, had been, perforce, in daily attendance, was closely questioned. His answers, however, being of that reserved and non-committal nature characteristic of the profession, gave little satisfaction, and Horton fell into a way of noticing and interpreting, with the acute sense of the convalescent, each look of his attendant, each sound which came to him, keeping himself in a state of nervous tension which did much toward retarding his recovery.

Three or four days had passed in this way, when one morning, just at daybreak, Dr. Horton was roused from his light sleep by sounds in the hall outside his door—hushed voices, shuffling footsteps, and the sound of some object striking with a heavy thud against the balusters and wall. He raised himself, his heart beating fast, and listened intently. The shuffling steps moved on, down the creaking stairs and across the bare floor below. A door opened and shut, and deep silence filled the house again. He sank back upon his pillow, faint and bewildered, but still listening, and after some moments, another sound reached his ears faintly from a distance—the click of metal against stones and frozen mold.

He had already been able, with some assistance, to reach his chair once or twice a day; now he rose unaided, and without consciousness of pain or weakness, found his way to the window, and pushed aside the paper shade with a shaking hand.

It was a dull, gray morning, and a light snow was falling, but through the thin veil he could see the vague outlines of two men in the pasture opposite, and could follow their stiff, slow motions. They were filling in a grave.

He went to his bed and lay back upon it with closed eyes. When he opened them, Widow Gatchell was standing by him with his breakfast on a tray.

Her swarthy face was haggard, but her eyes were tearless, and her lips set tightly together. He put his hand out and touched hers.

"I know," he said, softly.

The woman put the tray on the table, and sank upon a chair. She cleared her throat several times before speaking.

"Yes," she said, at last, in her dry, monotonous voice. "She is gone. We did all we could for her, but 'twarn't no use. She was all wore out when she was took. Just afore she died she started up and seized hold o' my hand, her eyes all soft an' shinin', an' her mouth a-smilin'. 'Sarah,' says she, 'I shall know the meaning of it now!' The good Lord only knows what she meant—her mind was wanderin', most likely—but them was her last words, 'I shall know the meanin' of it now, Sarah!'"

The old woman sat a while in silence, with the strange repressed look which watching by so many death-beds had fixed upon her face; then, arranging the breakfast upon the stand, went out again.

It snowed persistently all day. From the chair by the window, Doctor Horton watched it falling silently, making everything beautiful as it fell,—rude wall, and gnarled tree, and scraggy, leafless bush,—and covering those low, unsightly mounds with a rich and snowy pall. He watched it until night fell and shut it from his sight.

Lilly O'Connell's was the last case. The disease seemed meantime to have spent its force, and in a few weeks the unbroken silence of midwinter rested over the drear and forlorn spot.

Doctor Horton was again at home. He was thin, and his face showed some traces of the disease from which he had just recovered, but they were slight, and such as would pass away in time. The pleasant chamber where he was sitting was filled with evidences of care and attention, for every woman in Ridgemont, old or young, desired to show in some way her admiration and esteem for the young physician. Fruit and jellies and flowers and books filled every available place.

He was seated before a cheerful fire. Upon the table by his side lay many papers and letters, the accumulation of several weeks. One letter, of a recent date, was open in his hand. A portion of it ran thus:

"* * * It has been very gay here this season, and mother and Aunt Kitty have insisted upon my going out a great deal. But I have had no heart in it, dearest, especially since I knew that you were ill. I assure you, I was almost ill myself when I heard of it. How thankful I am that you are convalescent. I long to see you so much, but Aunt Kitty does not think I ought to return before spring. Oh Roger, do you think you are much changed? * * *"

Shading his eyes with his thin hand, he sat a long time in deep thought. At last, rousing himself, he went to his desk and wrote as follows:

"My Dear Florence: I am changed; so much that you would not know me; so much that I hardly know myself; so much, indeed, that it is better we do not meet at present.

R. H."

With a smile so bitter that it quite transformed his genial, handsome face, he read and re-read these lines.

"Yes," he said aloud, "it is the right way, the only way," and he sealed and directed the letter, and went back to his reverie by the fire.

Lilly O'Connell's death made a deep impression in the village. That which her life, with all its pain and humiliation and loneliness, its heroic struggles, its quiet, hard-won victories, had failed to do, the simple story of her death accomplished. It was made the subject of at least two eloquent discourses, and for a time her name was on every tongue. But it was only for a time, for when, in the course of years, the graves in the pasture were opened, and the poor remains of mortality removed by surviving friends to sacred ground, her grave remained undisturbed.

It was not forgotten, however. One day in June, when the happy, teeming earth was at her fairest, Dr. Horton drove out of the village, and turning into the grass-grown, untraversed road, went on to the scene of the past winter's tragedy of suffering and death. The old house was no longer in existence. By consent of the owner (whose whereabouts had been discovered), and by order of the selectmen of the town, it had been burned to the ground. Where it had stood, two crumbling chimneys rose from the mass of blackened bricks and charred timbers which filled the cellar, the whole draped and matted with luxuriant woodbine and clinging shrubs. Birds brooded over their nests in every nook and cranny of the ruin, and red roses flaunted in the sunshine and sprinkled the gray door-stone with splashes of color. The air was as sweet about it, the sky as blue above it, as if crime and plague were things which had no existence.

Dr. Horton left his horse to browse on the tender leaves of the young birches which grew along the wall, and went down into the pasture. The sod above the graves was green, and starred with small white flowers. There were fifteen graves in all, distinguished only by a number rudely cut upon rough stakes driven into the ground at their heads.

He went slowly among them until he came to one a little apart from the others, in the shadow of the woods which bordered the field. A slender young aspen grew beside it, its quivering leaves shining in the sun. Soft winds blew out from the fragrant woods, and far off in their green depths echoed the exquisite, melancholy note of the wood-thrush. At the foot of the grave, where the grass, nourished by some hidden spring, grew long and lush, a single tiger-lily spread its glowing chalice.

The young man stood there with uncovered head a long, long time. Then, laying his hand reverently upon the sod for one instant, he went away.

Several years have passed since these events. Dr. Horton is still unmarried. This is a source of great regret in the community with which he has become so closely allied, and by which he is held in universal regard and honor. There are some prematurely whitened locks upon his temples, and two or three fine straight lines just above his warm, steadfast eyes, but he is neither a morose nor a melancholy man, and there are those who confidently hope that the many untenanted rooms in the old homestead may yet open to the sunshine of a wife's smile, and echo to the music of childish voices.

It was two years before he met Miss Fairfield, she having spent that time in Europe with her mother and "Aunt Kitty." It was a chance meeting, upon Tremont Street, in Boston. He was in the act of leaving a store as she entered, accompanied by her mother. He recognized them with a friendly and courteous bow, and passed on.

Miss Fairfield leaned against the counter with a face white as snow.

"He is not—changed—so very much," she whispered to her mother.

Mrs. Fairfield, who had had her own ideas all along, kept a discreet silence.

The Fairfields spend a part of their time in Ridgemont, and the elegant little phaeton and the doctor's buggy often pass each other on the street; the occupants exchange greetings, and that is all.

Miss Fairfield is Miss Fairfield still. Always elegant and artistic in her dress, she is not quite the same, however. The porcelain tints have faded, and there is a sharpness about the delicate features, and a peevishness about the small pink lips. She is devoted to art. She paints industriously, and with fair result. Her tea-sets are much sought after, and she "spends her winters in Boston."

THIRZA.

She stood by the window, looking out over the dreary landscape, a woman of some twenty-five years, with an earnest, even melancholy face, in which the wistful brown eyes were undoubtedly the redeeming feature. Jones' Hill, taken at its best, in full parade uniform of summer green, was not renowned for beauty or picturesqueness, and now, in fatigue dress of sodden brown stubble, with occasional patches of dingy white in ditches and hollows and along the edges of the dark pine woods, was even less calculated to inspire the beholder with enthusiasm. Still, that would hardly account for the shadow which rested upon Thirza Bradford's face. She ought, in fact, to have worn a cheerful countenance. One week before she had been a poor girl, dependent upon the labor of her hand for her daily bread; to-day she was sole possessor of a farm of considerable extent, the comfortable old house at one of whose windows she was now standing, and all that house's contents.

One week before she had been called to the bed-side of her aunt, Abigail Leavitt. She had arrived none too soon, for the stern, sad old woman had received her summons, and before another morning dawned had passed away.

To her great surprise, Thirza found that her aunt had left her sole heiress of all she had possessed. Why she should have been surprised would be difficult to explain. Aunt Abigail's two boys had gone to the war and never returned, her husband had been dead for many years, and Thirza was her only sister's only child, and sole surviving relative. Nothing, therefore, was more natural than this event, but Thirza had simply never thought of it. She had listened, half in wonder, half in indifference, to the reading of the will, and had accepted mechanically the grudgingly tendered congratulations of the assembled farmers and their wives.

She had been supported in arranging and carrying out the gloomy details of the funeral by Jane Withers, a spinster of a type peculiar to New England; one of those persons who, scorning to demean themselves by "hiring out," go about, nevertheless, from family to family, rendering reluctant service, "just to accommodate" (accepting a weekly stipend in the same spirit of accommodation, it is to be supposed). With this person's assistance, Thirza had prepared the repast to which, according to custom, the mourners from a distance were invited on their return from the burying-ground. Aunt Abigail had been stricken down at the close of a Saturday's baking, leaving a goodly array upon the pantry shelves, a fact upon which Jane congratulated herself without any attempt at concealment, observing, in fact, that the melancholy event "couldn't have happened handier." In vain had Thirza protested—Jane was inflexible—and she had looked on with silent horror, while the funeral guests devoured with great relish the pies and ginger-bread which the dead woman's hand had prepared.

"Mis' Leavitt were a master hand at pie-crust," remarked one toothless dame, mumbling at the flaky paste, "a master hand at pie-crust, but she never were much at bread!" whereupon the whole feminine conclave launched out into a prolonged and noisy discussion of the relative merits of salt-risin's, milk-emptin's, and potato yeast.

That was three or four days ago, and Thirza had remained in the old house with Jane, who had kindly proffered her services and the solace of her companionship. There had been little to do in the house, and that little was soon done, and now the question of what she was to do with her new acquisition was looming up before her, and assuming truly colossal proportions. She was thinking of it now as she stood there with the wistful look upon her face, almost wishing that Aunt Abigail had left the farm to old Jabez Higgins, a fourth or fifth cousin by marriage, who had dutifully appeared at the funeral, with a look as if he had that within which passed showing, and doubtless he had, for he turned green and blue when the will was read, and drove off soon after at a tearing pace.

Jane, having condescended to perform the operation of washing up the two plates, cups, etc., which their evening meal had brought into requisition, entered presently, knitting in hand, and seated herself with much emphasis in a low wooden chair near the window. She was an erect and angular person, with an aggressive air of independence about her, a kind of "just-as-good-as-you-are" expression, which seemed to challenge the observer to dispute it at his peril. She took up the first stitch on her needle, fixed her sharp eyes upon Thirza, and, as if in answer to her thoughts, opened on her as follows:

"Ye haint made up yer mind what ye're a-goin' ter dew, hev ye?"

Thirza slowly shook her head, without looking around.

"It's kind o' queer now how things does work a-round. There you was a-workin' an' a-slavin' in that old mill, day in an' day out, only a week ago, an' now you can jest settle right down on yer own place an' take things easy."

Thirza vaguely wondered why Aunt Abigail had never "taken things easy."

"I shouldn't wonder a mite," went on Jane, with increasing animation, "I shouldn't wonder a single mite if you should git a husband, after all!"

Thirza's pale face flushed, and she made an involuntary gesture of impatience with one shoulder.

"Oh, ye needn't twist around so," said the undaunted spinster, dryly. "Ye ain't no chicken, laws knows, but ye needn't give up all hopes. Ye're twenty-five if ye're a day, but that ain't nothin' when a woman's got a farm worth three thousand dollars."

Three thousand dollars! For the first time her inheritance assumed its monetary value before Thirza's eyes. Hitherto she had regarded it merely as an indefinite extent of pastures, woods, and swamps—but three thousand dollars! It sounded like a deal of money to her, who had never owned a hundred dollars at one time in her life, and her imagination immediately wandered off into fascinating vistas, which Jane's prosaic words had thrown open before her. She heard, as in a dream, the nasal, incisive voice as it went on with the catalogue of her possessions.

"Yes, it's worth three thousand dollars, if it's worth a cent! I heerd Squire Brooks a-tellin' Orthaniel Stebbins so at the funeral. An' then, here's the house. There ain't no comfortabler one on Joneses' Hill, nor one that has more good furnitoor an' fixin's in it. Then there's Aunt Abigail's clo'es an' things. Why, ter my sartain knowledge there's no less'n five real good dresses a-hangin' in the fore-chamber closet, ter say nothin' of the bureau full of under-clo'es an' beddin'." Jane did not think it necessary to explain by what means this "sartain knowledge" had been achieved, but continued: "There's a silk warp alpacky now, a-hangin' up there, why—it's e'en-a-most as good as new! The creases ain't out on't." (Unsophisticated Jane! not to know that the creases never do go out of alpaca.) "I don't see what in the name o' sense ye're a-goin' ter dew with all them dresses. It'll take ye a life-time ter wear 'em out. If I hed that silk warp alpacky now,"—she continued musingly, yet raising her voice so suddenly that Thirza started; "if I hed that are dress, I should take out two of the back breadths for an over-skirt—yes—an' gore the others!" This climax was delivered in triumphant tone. Then lowering her voice she continued, reflectively: "Aunt Abigail was jest about my build."

Thirza caught the import of the last words.

"Jane," said she, languidly, with an undertone of impatience in her voice (it was hard to be recalled from her pleasant wanderings by a silk warp alpaca!), "Jane, you can have it."

"Wh—what d'ye say?" inquired Jane, incredulously.

"I said you could have that dress; I don't want it," repeated Thirza.

Jane sat a moment in silence before she trusted herself to speak. Her heart was beating with delight, but she would not allow the smallest evidence of joy or gratitude to escape in word or look.

"Wall," she remarked, coolly, after a fitting pause, "ef you haint got no use for it, I might take it, I s'pose. Not that I'm put tew it for clo'es, but I allers did think a sight of Aunt Abigail——"

Her remarks were interrupted by an exclamation from Thirza. The front gate opened with a squeak and closed with a rattle and bang, and the tall form of Orthaniel Stebbins was seen coming up the path. Orthaniel was a mature youth of thirty. For length and leanness of body, prominence of elbow and knee joints, size and knobbiness of extremities, and vacuity of expression, Orthaniel would have been hard to match. He was attired in a well-preserved black cloth suit, with all the usual accessories of a rustic toilet. His garments seemed to have been designed by his tailor for the utmost possible display of the joints above mentioned, and would have suggested the human form with equal clearness, if buttoned around one of the sprawling stumps which were so prominent a feature in the surrounding landscape. On this particular occasion there was an air of importance, almost of solemnity, about his person, which, added to a complacent simper, born of a sense of the delicate nature of his present errand, produced in his usually blank countenance something almost amounting to expression.

At first sight of this not unfamiliar apparition, Thirza had incontinently fled, but Jane received the visitor with becoming impressiveness.

"Good-evenin', Mr. Stebbins. Walk right into the fore-room," she remarked, throwing open the door of that apartment of state.

"No need o' puttin' yourself out, marm; the settin'-room's good enough for me," graciously responded the gentleman.

"Walk right in," repeated Jane, throwing open one shutter, and letting in a dim light upon the scene—a veritable chamber of horrors, with its hideous carpet, hair-cloth chairs and sofa, the nameless abominations on its walls, and its general air of protest against the spirit of beauty and all that goes to make up human comfort.

Mr. Stebbins paused on the threshold. There was something unusually repellent about the room, a lingering funereal atmosphere, which reached even his dull senses. He would have infinitely preferred the sitting-room; but a latent sense of something in his errand which required the utmost dignity in his surroundings prevailed, and he therefore entered and seated himself on one of the prickly chairs, which creaked expostulatingly beneath him.

"I—ahem! Is Miss Bradford in?"

This question was, of course, a mere form,—a ruse de guerre, as it were,—and Mr. Stebbins chuckled inwardly over his remarkable diplomacy. He had seen Thirza at the window, and witnessed her sudden flight; but, so far from feeling affronted by the act, it had rather pleased him. It indicated maiden shyness, and he accepted it as a flattering tribute to his powers of fascination. "She's gone to fix up her hair, or somethin'," he reflected.

When Jane came to summon her, she found Thirza sitting by the window of the fore-chamber, gazing thoughtfully out into the twilight again.

"Thirzy!" whispered the spinster, as mysteriously as if Mr. Stebbins was within possible earshot, "Orthaniel Stebbins wants ter see yer. Go right down!"

"Jane, I—sha'n't!" answered Thirza, shortly.

Jane started, and opened her small gray eyes their very widest.

"Wh-at?" she stammered.

"I mean I don't want to go down," said Thirza, more politely. "I don't wish to see him."

"Wall, if that don't beat the master!" exclaimed Jane, coming nearer. "Why, he's got on his Sunday clo'es! 'S likely 's not he's a-goin' ter propose ter ye!"

"You had better send him away, then," said Thirza.

"Ye don't mean to say ye wouldn't hev him!" gasped Jane, with a look of incredulous amazement which, catching Thirza's eye, caused her to burst into a laugh.

"I suppose I must go down," she said at last, rising. "If I don't, I shall have all Jones' Hill down upon me. Oh dear!"

Mr. Stebbins would have been surprised to see that she passed the mirror without even one glance.

"Hadn't ye better take off yer apron, an' put on a pink bow, or somethin'?" suggested Jane; "ye look real plain."

Thirza did not deign to reply, but walked indifferently away.

"Wall!" ejaculated the bewildered spinster, "I hope I may never!" And then, being a person who believed in improving one's opportunities, she proceeded at once to a careful re-examination of the "silk-warp alpacky," which hung in straight, solemn folds from a nail in the closet; it had hung precisely the same upon Aunt Abigail's lathy form.

Thirza went into the gloomy fore-room. It struck a chill to her heart, and she went straight past Mr. Stebbins, with merely a nod and a "good-evening," and threw open another shutter, before seating herself so far from him, and in such a position, that he could only see her face by an extraordinary muscular feat. Mr. Stebbins felt that his reception was not an encouraging one. He hemmed and hawed, and at last managed to utter:

"Pleasant evenin', Miss Bradford."

"Very," responded Thirza. It was particularly cold and disagreeable outside, even for a New England April.

"I guess we kin begin plantin' by next week," continued the gentleman.

"Do you really think so?" responded Thirza, in an absent sort of way.

It was not much; but it was a question, and in so far helped on the conversation. Mr. Stebbins was re-assured.

"Yes," he resumed, in an animated manner, "I actooally dew! Ye see, Miss Bradford, ye haint said nothin' tew me about the farm, so I thought I'd come 'roun' an' find out what yer plans is."

"I haven't made any," said Thirza, as he paused.

"Oh—ye haint? Well, ye know I've been a-workin' on't on shares fur yer aunt Abigail, goin' on five year, an' I'm ready ter dew the same fur you; that is——" and here Mr. Stebbins hitched a little nearer, while a smile, which displayed not only all his teeth, but no little gum as well, spread itself over his bucolic features, "that is, if we can't make no other arrangements more pleasin'."

There was no mistaking his intentions now; they spoke from every feature of his shrewdly smiling countenance, from his agitated knees and elbows, and from the uneasy hands and feet which seemed struggling to detach themselves from their lank continuations and abscond then and there.

Thirza looked her wooer calmly in the face. Her imperturbability embarrassed but did not dishearten him.

"Thar ain't no use in foolin' round the stump!" he continued. "I might jest as well come out with it, plain an' squar! I'm ready an' willin' to take the hull farm off yer hands if you're agreeable. You jest marry me, Thirzy, an' that settles the hull question slick as a whistle!" and Mr. Stebbins settled back in his chair with a look as if he had just elucidated a long-mooted problem in social science.

Thirza rose: there was a little red spot on each cheek, and an unwonted sparkle in her soft eyes; but her manner was otherwise unruffled as she answered:

"You are really very kind, Mr. Stebbins, but I think I shall find some other way out of the dilemma. I couldn't think of troubling you."

"Oh——" he stammered, "'tain't—no trouble—at all!"

But Thirza was gone.

For a moment Mr. Stebbins doubted his identity. He stared blankly at the open door awhile, and then his eyes wandered vacantly over the carpet and wall, finally coming to rest upon the toes of his substantial boots. He sat for some time thus, repeating Thirza's words as nearly as he could recall them, endeavoring to extract the pith of meaning from the surrounding fibres of polite language. Had she actually refused him? Mr. Stebbins, by a long and circuitous mental process, arrived at length at the conclusion that she had, and accordingly rose, walked out of the front door and down the narrow path, in a state of mind best known to rejected suitors. As he closed the gate he cast one sheepish look toward the house.

"I'll be darned!" he muttered, "I'll be darned if I hain't got the mitten!" and, discomfited and sore, the Adonis of Jones' Hill disappeared in the evening shadows.

Jane was watching his departure from behind the curtain of the sitting-room window. In all probability her gentle bosom had never been the scene of such a struggle as was now going on beneath the chaste folds of her striped calico gown. She could not doubt the object of Mr. Stebbins's visit, nor its obvious result. Astonishment, incredulity, curiosity, in turn possessed her.

"Waal!" she soliloquized, as the curtain fell from her trembling fingers, "the way some folks fly in the face of Providence doos beat the master!"

Thirza, too, had observed her suitor as he strode away, with an expression of scorn upon her face which finally gave way to one of amusement, ending in a laugh—a curious hysterical laugh. A moment later she had thrown herself upon the bed, and Jane, who in a state of curiosity bordering on asphyxia, came up to the door soon after, heard a sound of sobbing, and considerately went away.

Thirza had her cry out; every woman knows what that means, and knows, too, the mingled sense of relief and exhaustion which follows. It was fully an hour later when she arose and groped her way down into the sitting-room where Jane sat knitting zealously by the light of a small lamp. That person's internal struggles commenced afresh, and a feeling of indignation quite comprehensible burnt in her much-vexed bosom as Thirza, after lighting another lamp, bade her "good-night," and went out of the room, leaving her cravings for fuller information unassuaged.

Once more in her room, Thirza seated herself before the glass and began to loosen the heavy dark braids of her hair. Upon the bureau lay an open letter, and leaving the soft tresses half undone, she took it up and re-read it. When she had finished she let it fall upon her lap and fell to thinking. The letter was from her cousin Sue, and bore a foreign post-mark, and from thinking over its contents Thirza fell into reflections upon the diversity of human fate, particularly her own and Sue's. They had commenced life under very similar circumstances. Both had been born about the same time, and in the town of Millburn. Both were "only" children, the fathers of both were mechanics of the better class, and the girls were closely associated up to their fourteenth year, as play-fellows and school-mates. Sue was an ordinary sort of a girl, with a rather pretty blonde face; Thirza, a bright, original creature, with a mobile, dark face, which almost every one turned to take a second look at; a girl who, with a book, almost any book, became oblivious of all else. Her father was a man of more than ordinary intelligence, of a dreamy, speculative turn of mind, and subject to periods of intense depression. When she was about fourteen years old, Thirza went one evening to the barn to call her father to supper. Receiving no answer to her call, she entered, and there, in a dim corner, she saw something suspended from a beam,—something she could never efface from her memory. A shaft of sunlight full of dancing motes fell athwart the distorted face, whose smile she must now forever miss, and across the rigid hands which would never again stroke her hair in the old fond, proud way. In that moment the child became a woman. She went to the nearest neighbor, and without scream or sob told what she had seen—then she went to her mother. Soon after, the young girl whose school-life was thus early ended took her place at a loom in one of the great cotton-mills, and there she remained for more than ten years, the sole support and comfort of her weak, complaining mother, who from the dreadful day that made her a widow, sank into hopeless invalidism. One year previously to the commencement of this story she had been laid to rest. In the meantime Sue had grown up, and married a "smart fellow," who after a few years of successful business life in New York, had been sent by some great firm to take charge of a branch establishment in Paris.

Thirza was thinking of these things now, as she sat with Sue's gossipy letter on her lap—thinking of them wearily, and even with some bitterness. It seemed to her hard and strange that Sue should have everything, and she only her lonely, toilsome life, and her dreams. These indeed remained; no one could forbid them to her—no amount of toil and constant contact with sordid natures could despoil her of her one priceless treasure, the power to live, in imagination, brief but exquisite phases of existence which no one around her ever suspected. Books furnished the innocent hasheesh, which transported her out of the stale atmosphere of her boarding-house into realms of ever new delight.

But to-night she could not dream. The interview with Mr. Stebbins had been a rude shock, a bitter humiliation to her. She had held herself so proudly aloof from the men of her acquaintance that none had ever before ventured to cross the fine line of reserve she had drawn about her; and now, this uncouth, mercenary clown had dared pull down the barrier, and trample under foot the delicate flowers of sentiment she had cherished with such secrecy and care. Her first wooer! Not thus, in the idle dreams which come to every maiden's heart, had Thirza pictured him. That other rose before her now, and strangely enough, it took on the semblance, as it often had of late, of one she had almost daily seen—a handsome face, a true and good one, too; and yet the hot blood surged into her cheeks, and she tried to banish the image from her mind. It would not go at her bidding, however, and, as if to hide from her own eyes in the darkness, Thirza arose and put out the light.

There was no time for dreaming after this, for the question of her inheritance must be settled. So, after a day or two of reflection, Thirza drove into town and held a long consultation with Squire Brooks, the result of which was that the farm was announced for sale. It was not long before a purchaser appeared, and in due course of time Thirza found herself, for the first time in her life, in possession of a bank-book!

She returned to her place in the mill, notwithstanding, and was secretly edified in observing the effect which her re-appearance produced upon the operatives. The women watched her askance, curiously and enviously, indulging in furtive remarks upon her unchanged appearance. As an heiress something had evidently been expected of her in the way of increased elegance in dress, and its non-appearance excited comment. On the part of the men there was a slight increase of respect in their mode of salutation, and in one or two instances, an endeavor to cultivate a nearer acquaintance, an endeavor, it is needless to say, without success.

But if there was no outer change in Thirza, there was an inner change going on, which became at length a feverish restlessness, which disturbed her night and day. She found herself continually taking down from her shelves certain fascinating books, treating of foreign scenes and people; reading and re-reading them, and laying them aside with strange reluctance. Then she fell into a habit of taking her little bank-book, and figuring assiduously upon the covers. Three thousand dollars! Enough, she bitterly reflected, to keep her from the almshouse when her hands became too feeble to tend the loom, but a paltry sum, after all! Many persons, even in Millburn, spent far more than that yearly.

All at once a thought flashed upon her, a thought which took away her breath and set her brain to whirling. And yet it was not an absolutely new thought. It had haunted her under various disguises from the moment when Jane Withers, by a few words, had transmuted the barren pastures and piney woods of her farm into actual dollars; and now, after hovering about all this time, it had found a moment,—when some fascinating book had thrown her off her guard,—to spring upon and overpower her. For a moment she was stunned and overwhelmed—then she calmly closed the little bank-book, and said: "I will do it!"

In one week the whole town knew that Thirza Bradford was going to travel, and all former discussions of her affairs sank into nothing in comparison with the importance they now assumed. Among her immediate acquaintances there was considerable excitement, and their opinions were freely, if not elegantly, expressed. The men, almost without exception, pronounced her "a fool," as did the elder women, whose illusions, if they had ever entertained any, had long since been dispelled. But among the younger women there was a more or less repressed feeling of sympathy, amounting to envy. Poor girls! they, too, no doubt, indulged in secret longings which their prosaic work-a-day world failed to satisfy; and doubtless those who had themselves "aunt Abigails," or any other "expectations" of a like nature, were led into wild and wicked speculations upon the tenure of human life, for which, it is to be hoped, Thirza will not be held accountable.

It is the fashion of the day to ascribe our more objectionable peculiarities and predilections to "hereditary taint," and there is something so comforting and satisfactory in this theory, that it has attracted many adherents not otherwise of a scientific turn of mind. Millburn was not scientific; but even Millburn fell into the same way of theorizing.

"Bill Bradford," said public opinion, "was an oneasy sort of a chap,—a half crazy, extravagant critter,—and Thirzy is a chip o' the old block."

When the news reached Jones' Hill,—which it shortly did by the never-failing means of Jane Withers, who was accommodatingly helping Orthaniel's mother through a course of "soap-bilin',"—the comments were severe. Orthaniel received the tidings as he was about starting for the cow-yard, with a milk-pail in each hand. He listened, with fallen jaw, unto the bitter end. Then, giving his blue overalls an expressive hitch, he remarked ungallantly:

"That gal hain't got no more sense 'n a yaller dog!"—and he, at least, may be pardoned for so thinking.

As for Thirza, her decision once made, she troubled herself little about the "speech of people." From the moment when she had closed her little bank-book with the words "I will do it," she became, not another woman, but her real self. She went serenely about her simple preparations for her departure in a state of quiet exultation which lent a new charm to her dark face and a new grace to her step.

Squire Brooks arranged her money affairs for her,—not without remonstrance, however. It seemed to the close-fisted, elderly man a wild and wanton thing to do; but there was something in the half-repressed enthusiasm of the girl which caused the wise, prudential words to die upon his lips. When she left his office, on the evening before her departure, he watched the light-stepping figure out of sight, and then walked up to the dingy office mirror and surveyed his wrinkled visage on all sides. Carefully brushing up the sparse gray locks which had been ordered to the front, as it were, to fill the gaps created by Time's onslaughts, he shook his head deprecatingly, and with a sigh walked away from the glass, humming softly "Mary of Argyle."

As Thirza, absorbed in thought, turned into the long, shaded street which led down to her boarding-house, she was startled out of her reverie by the sound of her own name, pronounced in a friendly tone. Looking up, she saw a gentleman approaching. Her heart gave a quick leap as she recognized Warren Madison, son of the richest manufacturer of Millburn. He was no recent acquaintance. In her school days, when social distinctions weighed but little, there had been a childish intimacy and fondness between them. Time and separation, and the wide difference in their position,—which she, at least, felt most keenly,—had estranged them. Since the young man's return, after years of study and travel, to become his father's partner, she had met him very often, both in the mill and outside of it, and he had constantly shown a disposition to renew their former friendship. But poor, proud Thirza had rejected all his advances. Even now, although her cheeks tingled and her hands trembled nervously, she would have passed him with a simple nod; but somehow, before she realized it, young Madison had secured her hand and a smile, too; and, to her surprise, she found herself walking by his side, talking with something of the familiarity of the old school days.

"I have been absent for some time, and only heard to-day that you are going away," he said.

"Yes," responded Thirza. "I am going away—to Europe."

"To seek your fortune?" said he, with a smile.

"No—to spend it," said Thirza, in the same manner. "I suppose that you, like Parson Smythers and the rest of Millburn, consider it an 'extry-ordinary proceeding,'"—this with a fair imitation of the reverend gentleman's peculiar drawl.

Madison smiled.

"Don't count me among your judges, I beg of you, Thirza," he responded, more gravely. "Perhaps I understand you better than you think."

She glanced quickly up into his face,—a handsome face, frank and noble in its expression.

"Understand me?" she repeated; "I don't think any one understands me. Not that they are to blame—I am hardly worth the trouble, I suppose. I know," she continued, moved by an impulse to unburden her heart to some one, "I know that people are discussing and condemning me, and it does not trouble me at all to know it; but I don't mind saying this much to you." She caught the last two words back between her lips, but not before they had reached the young man's ears. He glanced quickly into her downcast face, with a look full of eager questioning; but this Thirza did not see, for she had turned her eyes away in confusion. "You know what my life has been," she went on impetuously. "I have never had any youth. Ever since I was a child, I have toiled to keep body and soul together. I have succeeded in feeding the one; but the other has starved. I have weighed everything in the balance. I am all alone in the world—all I had to live for is—up there." She pointed over her shoulder toward the old burying-ground. "I may be foolish,—even selfish and wicked,—but I can't help it! I am going to leave everything behind me, all the work and all the worry, and give myself a holiday. For one whole year I am going to live—really live! After that, I can bear the old life better—perhaps!"

The girl was almost beautiful as she spoke, with the soft fire in her eyes and her cheeks aglow. Her voice was sweet and full, and vibrated like a harp-string. The young man beside her did not look at her. He walked steadily forward, gazing straight down into the dusty road, and striking out almost savagely with his cane at the innocent heads of the white clover which crowded up to the road-side.

"I think I know how you feel," he said, after a while. "Why, do you know, I have often had such thoughts myself. Better one year of real life, as you say, than a century of dull routine!"

By this time they had reached the door of Thirza's boarding-house. There were faces at almost every window of the much-windowed establishment, to say nothing of those of the neighboring houses; but neither Thirza nor her companion was aware of this.

They stood on the steps a moment in silence; then he held out his hand. As she placed her own within it, she felt it tremble. Their eyes met, too, with a swift recognition, and a sharp, sweet pain went through her heart. She forced herself to turn her eyes away, and to say quietly:

"Good-evening and good-bye, Mr. Madison."

The young man dropped her hand and drew a quick breath.

"Good-bye, Thirza," he said; "may you find it all that you anticipate. Good-bye."

And the score or more pairs of inquisitive eyes at the surrounding windows saw young Mr. Madison walk calmly away, and Miss Bradford, with equal calmness, enter her boarding-house.

The next morning Thirza went away, and, the nine days' wonder being over, she was dropped almost as completely out of the thoughts and conversation of the people of Millburn as if she had never existed.

We will not accompany her on her travels. There was a time when we might have done so; but alas, for the story-writer of to-day! Picture-galleries, palaces, and châlets, noble, peasant, and brigand, gondolas, volcanoes, and glaciers,—all are as common and familiar to the reader of the period as bonbons. It is enough to say that Thirza wandered now in reality, as she had so often in fancy, through the storied scenes which had so charmed her imagination; often doubting if it were indeed herself, or if what she saw were not the baseless fabric of a vision, which the clanging of the factory bell might demolish at any moment.

Sue's astonishment when Thirza, after two months in England and Scotland, walked one day into her apartment in Paris, quite unannounced, can be imagined. She wondered and conjectured, but, as her unexpected guest was neither awkward nor badly dressed, accepted the situation gracefully, and ended by really enjoying it. After delightful Paris days, came Italy, Germany, and Switzerland, and then more of Paris, and at last came a time when inexorable figures showed Thirza plainly that she must think of returning to America.

"Thirza," protested Sue, "you really mustn't go."

For answer Thirza held up to view a travel-stained porte-monnaie.

"Perhaps we can arrange it somehow," persisted her cousin, vaguely. "You might take a situation as governess, you know;" these words were uttered doubtfully, and with a deprecating glance at the face opposite.

"Thank you!" responded Thirza. "I don't feel a call in that direction. I think, on the whole, I'd prefer weaving cotton."

"You'll find it unendurable!" groaned Sue.

"Well, que voulez-vous?" responded her cousin, lightly; a quick ear would have noted the slight tremor in her voice. "I have had a glorious holiday."

"But the going back will be simply dreadful," persisted Sue. "I wish I were rich—then you shouldn't go!"

"I hardly think that would make any difference, my dear cousin. I don't think I am eminently fitted to become a parasite," laughed Thirza.

"Do you know what you are eminently fitted for?" cried Sue, energetically.

"Sue!" cried Thirza, warningly.

"I don't care," Sue continued, daringly; "you are so set on going back to America that I half suspect——"

"Don't, Sue, please!" interrupted Thirza, with such evident signs of genuine displeasure, that Sue, who stood somewhat in awe of her cousin, ceased to banter, mentally vowing that she was "the queerest girl she had ever met with."

Thirza arose and went out into the flower-adorned balcony. She sought distraction, but somehow the surging, chattering crowd in the street below, the brilliant illumination, the far-off strains of music, did not bring her what she sought.

"If only Sue wouldn't!" she reflected, and then, between her and the sea of heads, and the lights and the flowers rose a face—the face that had troubled her meditations on Jones' Hill, that had followed her in all her wanderings, the noble face, with its blue eyes bent upon her so earnestly, so eloquently. Had she read aright, even if too late, the meaning of those eyes as they met hers at parting? The same sweet, sharp pain that was not all pain, shot through her heart, and a consciousness of something blindly missed, something perversely thrown away, came over her. Sighing, she arose, and in response to Sue's call, went in and dressed for a gay party, in which, in her present mood, she felt neither pleasure nor interest. "If people here knew what a pitiful fraud I am—what a despicable part I am acting!" she said to herself, as, well-dressed and handsome, she entered the brilliant salon.

It was all over in a few days, and Thirza was sailing homeward as fast as wind and wave and steam could carry her. The year that had passed had brought little outward change in the girl. She looked fairer and fresher, perhaps, and certain little rusticities of dress and speech and manner had disappeared—worn off, as had the marks of toil from the palms of her slender hands. But to all intents and purposes, the tall figure in its close-fitting brown suit, which during the homeward voyage sat for the most part in the vessel's stern, gazing back over the foaming path, was the same which had watched a year before with equal steadiness from the steamer's bow. The very same, and yet—the girl often wondered if she were indeed the same, and lost herself in speculations as to how the old life at Millburn would seem to her now. She recalled with inflexible accuracy the details of her existence there, and tried to look her future undauntedly in the face. But all her philosophy failed her when in imagination she found herself upon the threshold of the old mill. There, indeed, she faltered weakly, and turned back.

When at last, one evening in June, she stepped out of the train at the little station of Millburn, a crowd of bitter thoughts came rushing upon her, as if they had been lying in wait there to welcome her. She had informed no one of her coming, and it was not strange that no friendly face greeted her, and yet, as she pursued her way alone through the silent, unlighted streets, her heart grew faint within her. How poor and meagre everything seemed! The unpaved streets, the plank sidewalks, the wooden houses, and yonder, across the river, the great mills, looming grim and shapeless through the dusk! The long, glorious holiday was over—there lay her future.

Weary and sick at heart she entered her boarding-house. The old familiar aroma saluted her, the hard-featured landlady welcomed her with a feeble smile, the unwashed children with noisy demonstrations.

Her room was at her disposal, and under the plea of fatigue she kept out of sight the whole of the succeeding day, which happened to be Sunday. She lay the greater part of the day upon the old lounge, looking round upon the well-known furnishings with a weary gaze. How small and shabby the room, how hideous the wall paper, how mean and prosaic everything, and the very canaries in their cage had forgotten her, and screamed shrilly at her approach!

That was a long day—the longest of her life, she thought. But the girl was made of good stuff; she made a brave fight, and this time came off conqueror. When Monday morning came, she arose and dressed herself in the old gray working suit, smiling back encouragement to her reflection in the glass as if it had been that of another person. There was no use in putting off the evil day, she said to herself, it would only make it harder; and so, when the great bells clanged out their harsh summons, she went out into the beautiful June morning, joined the crowd which streamed across the bridge, and before the last brazen tone had died away, preliminaries were arranged, and Thirza was in her old place again.

All through the long summer days Thirza labored on at the old work, with aching limbs and throbbing pulses. The unceasing din and jar, the invisible flying filaments, the hot, oily atmosphere, the coarse chatter of the operatives, wearied and sickened her as never before. Every evening she left the mill with a slower step; deep lines began to show themselves in her face, heavy shadows to settle beneath her dark, sad eyes. Poor girl! it was all so much harder than she had anticipated. The latent forces in her nature, which, through all those years of toil, had never been called into action, were now, since her plunge into another phase of life, fully aroused, and asserted themselves in ceaseless clamor against surroundings. Besides this,—smother it, fight it, ignore it, as she might,—she was living in a state of tremulous expectancy. Again and again her heart had leaped at the sight of a figure in the distance, only to sink again into a dull throb of disappointment.

The fourth Sunday after her return, Thirza went to church for the first time. It was early when she arrived and people were just beginning to assemble. Many greeted her warmly and proffered her a seat, but she refused all, taking one far back, and at one side where she could see all who entered. The seats gradually filled, but it was not until the last strains of the voluntary were dying away that Madison, senior, the great manufacturer, and his large complacent-looking wife came in, and with an air of filling the whole edifice, marched down to their pew in the front row. The music ceased. There was a rustling of silk which was audible in every part of the little church, and Warren Madison entered, accompanied by a stately blonde girl, elegantly attired. Queen-like she swept along, and Thirza saw, as if in a dream, the smile which she bestowed upon her escort as he stood aside to allow her to enter the pew, and she saw also his face, looking handsomer and manlier than ever. Then they were seated, and only the backs of their heads were visible. Thirza's heart stood still for a moment, and then began beating so wildly that she almost feared those around her might hear it. She went through mechanically with the simple forms the service required. She even tried to follow the thread of the Rev. Mr. Smyther's labored discourse, but there, between her and the pulpit, were the nodding white plumes and the yellow braid, and the brown shapely head and broad shoulders, and oh! so near together! Interminable as the service seemed, it came to an end at last, and before the amen of the benediction had died upon the air, Thirza was in the street, hastening homeward.

The next day she stood at her loom, listlessly watching the shifting cloud-pictures in the midsummer sky, the glittering river, and the distant meadows and woods, and wishing herself away from the noise and the close air, and alone in some deep nook, where she could hide her face and think. A loud, confused mingling of voices, among which a high-pitched, girlish one was most conspicuous, rose above the clatter of the machinery, and drew her attention. She turned involuntarily toward the sound, and as quickly back again. That one glance had sufficed to show her Warren Madison, escorting a party of ladies through the mill. The blonde girl was there, looking, in her white dress, like a freshly-gathered lily. The party passed near her. She heard young Madison's voice warning the ladies to keep their draperies from the machinery; she heard the girlish voice in laughing answer, and, as they passed by, the same voice exclaiming, "Why, Warren, what a nice girl, for a mill-girl! The dark one, I mean, by the window." Then there came a little whiff of violet perfume, and they had gone—he had gone! And, even in the midst of her humiliation and anger and self-pity, she could not but be thankful that he had thus passed her by, without a word. She could not have borne it—there.

The machinery roared and clattered and groaned, the air grew closer and hotter, the silvery clouds grew denser and blacker, and little puffs of wind blew in and fanned her feverish temples; and at last the bell sounded, and she could go. Away! no matter where, so that she were out of sight of everything and everybody, so that she could be alone with her own torn, wrathful, tortured soul. Straight through the town she went, up the hill beyond, and into the old burying-ground, where her parents rested. It was the only place, alas! where she was sure of being left alone; for there is no place so given over to loneliness and solitude as a country grave-yard. Here, among the quiet sleepers, where the grass and brier-roses grew rank and tall, and undisturbed, except now and then to make room for a new-comer,—here she dared look herself in the face. And oh, the shame and scorn and loathing which that self-inspection produced! She threw herself down by the graves,—her graves,—and buried her face upon her arms. She lay there until shadows gathered about her, so still that the small brown sparrows hopped fearlessly across the folds of her dress and nestled in the grass beside her. At last she started up, and pressed her hands against her temples.

"I cannot bear it!" she cried aloud. "I thought I could; but I cannot! I must leave this place—this hateful, dreadful place——"

Was there a footstep near her in the dry grass, and was some one standing there in the dusk? She sprang to her feet and would have fled; but the figure came rapidly toward her. It was Warren Madison.

"You must pardon my following you, Thirza," he said. "I went to the house, and they told me you had come up this way. I came after you, because I have something I must say to you."

It was light enough for Thirza to see that he was very pale, and that his eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face. Trembling, bewildered, she made another attempt to pass him; but he seized her wrist and detained her.

"Thirza," he cried, "do not run away from me until you have heard what I have to say. Let me look in your face, and see if I can find what I thought I saw there when we parted that evening, more than a year ago."

He drew her toward him, and compelled her to meet his gaze. She tried to meet it with coldness and scorn; but she was weak and unnerved, and there was such pleading tenderness in his voice! She trembled, and sought feebly to withdraw her hand.

"Thirza, won't you listen? I love you! I have loved you so long—I never knew it until you went away; I never knew how much until I saw you to-day. I did not even know you had returned. Oh, Thirza, I could not have spoken a word to you before those people for worlds; but how I longed to snatch you up in my arms! If you had only looked at me, proud little statue in a gray dress!"

He compelled her to turn her face toward him.

"Thirza, was I mistaken? No, I was not!" and his voice was full of exultation. "I see the same look in your eyes again. You love me, my darling! There!" he cried, releasing her hands, "proud, cruel little woman, go! Leave me! Run away from me! I do not keep you; but, Thirza, you are mine, for all that!"

Hardly conscious of herself, Thirza stood before him, making no use of her liberty.

"Come, Thirza," said the shaking, passionate voice, "leave all the work and all the worry—your own words, darling; how often I have thought of them! Leave it all behind, and come here, to me!"

The clouds had parted, and the stars flamed out, one after another; and, as they were going home together through the starlight, the young man said:

"And did you live the 'real life' you anticipated, Thirza?"

She raised her shining face to his.

"It has just begun," she said.

MOLLY.

A small clearing on a hillside, sloping up from the little-traversed mountain-road to the forest, upon whose edge, in the midst of stunted oaks and scraggy pines stood a rude cabin, such as one comes upon here and there in the remote wilds of West Virginia. The sun, pausing just above the sharp summit of Pinnacle Mountain, threw slant rays across the rugged landscape, which spring was touching up with a thousand soft tints. A great swelling expanse of green, broken at intervals by frowning ledges, rolled off to the low-lying purple mountain ranges, whose summits still swam in sunset light, while their bases were lost in deepest shadow. Over all, a universal hush, the hush which thrills one with a sense of utter isolation and loneliness.

The man and woman who were seated before the cabin door hardly perceived these things. What their eyes saw, doubtless, was the fair promise of the corn-field which stretched along the road for some distance, the white cow with her spotted calf, and the litter of lively pigs which occupied inclosures near the cabin, and—the tiny baby, who lay, blinking and clutching at nothing, across the woman's lap. She was looking down upon the child with a smile upon her face. It was a young and handsome face, but there were shadows in the dark eyes and around the drooping lids, which the smile could not chase away—traces of intense suffering, strange to see in a face so young.

The man, a young and stalwart fellow, shaggy of hair and long of limb, had placed himself upon a log which lay beside the door-step, and was lost in contemplation of the small atom of embryo manhood upon which his deep-set blue eyes were fixed. He had been grappling for three weeks with the overpowering fact of this child's existence, and had hardly compassed it yet.

"Lord! Molly," he exclaimed, his face broadening into a smile, "jess look at him now! Look at them thar eyes! People says as babies don't know nuthin'. Durned ef thet thar young un don't look knowin'er 'n old Jedge Wessminster hisself. Why, I'm mos' afeared on him sometimes, the way he eyes me, ez cunnin' like, ez much ez ter say 'I'm hyar, dad, an' I'm agoin' ter stay, an' you's jess got ter knuckle right down tew it, dad!' Lord! look at thet thar now!" And the happy sire took one of the baby's small wrinkled paws and laid it across the horny palm of his own big left hand.

"Jess look, Molly! Now you ain't agoin' to tell me ez thet thar hand is ever agoin' to handle a ax or a gun, or—or—" pausing for a climax, "sling down a glass o' whiskey? 'Tain't possible!"

At this juncture, an inquisitive fly lit upon the small eminence in the centre of the child's visage destined to do duty as a nose. Hardly had the venturesome insect settled when, without moving a muscle of his solemn countenance, that astonishing infant, with one erratic, back-handed gesture, brushed him away. The enraptured father burst into a roar of laughter.

"I tole ye so, Molly! I tole ye so! Babies is jess a-puttin' on. They knows a heap more'n they gits credit fur, you bet!"

Something like a smile here distended the child's uncertain mouth, and something which might be construed into a wink contracted for an instant his small right eye, whereupon the ecstatic father made the welkin ring with loud haw-haws of appreciative mirth.

Molly laughed too, this time.

"What a man you are, Sandy! I'm glad you feel so happy, though," she continued, softly, while a flush rose to her cheek and quickly subsided. "I ain't been much comp'ny for ye, but I reckon it'll be different now. Since baby come I feel better, every way, an' I reckon——"

She stopped abruptly and bent low over the child.

Sandy had ceased his contemplation of the boy, and had listened to his wife's words with a look of incredulous delight upon his rough but not uncomely face. It was evidently a new thing for her to speak so plainly, and her husband was not unmindful of the effort it must have cost her, nor ungrateful for the result.

"Don't say no more about it, Molly," he responded, in evident embarrassment. "Them days is past an' gone an' furgotten. Leastways, I ain't agoin' to think no more about 'em. Women is women, an' hez ter be 'lowed fur. I don't know ez 'twas more'n I cud expect; you a-bein' so porely, an' the old folks a-dyin', an' you a-takin' on it so hard. I don't go fur ter say ez I ain't been outed more'n wunst, but thet's over'n gone; an' now, Molly," he continued cheerfully, "things is a-lookin' up. Ez soon ez you're strong ag'in, I reckon ye'll be all right. The little un'll keep ye from gittin' lonesome an' down-sperited; now won't he, Molly?"

"Yes, Sandy," said the woman earnestly, "I begin to feel as if I could be happy—happier than I ever thought of bein'. I'm goin' to begin a new life, Sandy. I'm goin' to be a better wife to ye than—I have been."

Her voice trembled, and she stopped suddenly again, turning her face away.

She was a strangely beautiful creature to be the wife of this brawny mountaineer. There was a softness in her voice in striking contrast to his own rough tones, and although the mountain accent was plainly observable, it was greatly modified. He, himself, ignorant and unsophisticated, full of the half-savage impulses and rude virtues of the region, was quite conscious of the incongruity, and regarded his wife with something of awe mingled with his undemonstrative but ardent passion. He sat thus looking at her now, in a kind of adoring wonder.

"Waal!" he exclaimed at last, "blest ef I kin see how I ever spunked up enough fur ter ax ye, anyhow! Ye see, Molly, I'd allers liked ye—allers; long afore ye ever thought o' goin' down to Richmon'."

The woman moved uneasily, and turned her eyes away from his eager face; but Sandy failed to notice this, and went on, with increasing ardor:

"After ye'd gone I missed ye powerful! I used ter go over the mounting ter ax after ye whenever I cud git away, an' when they tole me how ye war enjoyin' yerself down thar, a-arnin' heaps o' money an' livin' so fine, it mos' set me wild. I war allers expectin' ter hear ez how ye'd got merried, an' I kep' a-tellin' myself 'twa'n't no use; but the more I tole myself, the wuss I got. An' when you come home, Molly, a-lookin' so white an' mizzable like, an' everybody said ye'd die, it—why, it most killed me out, Molly, 'deed it did, I sw'ar!"

Sandy did not often speak of those days of his probation; but, finding Molly in a softened mood,—Molly, who had always been so cold and reticent, so full of moods and fancies,—he felt emboldened to proceed.

"Lord, Molly, I didn't hev no rest night nor day! Bob'll tell ye how I hung around, an' hung around; an' when ye got a little better an' come out, a-lookin' so white an' peakèd, I war all of a trimble. I don't know now how I ever up an' axed ye. I reckon I never would a-done it ef it hadn't been fur Bob. He put me up tew it. Sez Bob, 'Marm's afeard as Molly'll go back to Richmon' ag'in,' an' that war more'n I could stand; an' so I axed ye, Molly."

Sandy's face was not one adapted to the expression of tender emotion, but there was a perceptible mellowing of the irregular features and rough voice as he went on.

"I axed ye, Molly, and ye said 'Yes'; an' I ain't never hed no call to be sorry ez I axed ye, an' I hope you ain't, nuther—say, Molly?" and the great hand was laid tenderly on her arm.

"No, Sandy," said she, "I ain't had no call to be sorry. You've been good to me; a heap better'n I have been to you."

Truly, Molly was softening. Sandy could hardly credit his own happiness. He ran his fingers through the tawny fringe of his beard awhile before he answered.

"Thet's all right, Molly. I laid out to be good to ye, an' I've tried to be. Say, Molly," he continued, with a kind of pleading earnestness in his voice, "ye've done hankerin' arter the city, ain't ye? Kind o' gittin' used to the mountings ag'in, ain't ye, Molly?"

It was quite dark on the little hillside now, and Molly could turn her face boldly toward her husband.

"What makes ye keep a-harpin' on that, Sandy? I ain't hankered after the city—not for a long time," and a slight shudder ran over her. "Just put that idea out of your head, Sandy. Nothin' could ever tempt me to go to the city again. I hate it!"

She spoke with fierce emphasis, and rose to go in. Sandy, somewhat puzzled by her manner, but re-assured by her words, heaved a sigh and rose also.

The stars were out, and from a little patch of swamp at the foot of the hill came the shrill piping of innumerable frogs, and a whip-poor-will's wild, sad cry pierced the silence. The baby had long since fallen asleep. The mother laid him in his cradle, and night and rest settled down over the little cabin.

Spring had brightened into summer, and summer was already on the wane; an August morning had dawned over the mountains. Although the sun shone warmly down upon the dew-drenched earth, the air was still deliciously cool and fresh.

Molly stood in the door-way, holding in her arms the baby, whose look of preternatural wisdom had merged itself into one of infantile softness and benignity. She was holding him up for the benefit of Sandy, who, as he went down the red, dusty road, driving the white cow before him, turned now and then to bestow a grimace upon his son and heir. That small personage's existence, while perhaps less a matter of astonishment to his father than formerly, had lost none of the charms of novelty. He was a fine, robust little man, and cooed and chuckled rapturously in his mother's arms, stretching out his hands toward the scarlet blossoms of the trumpet-vine which climbed around the door-way. Mother and child made a fair picture in the twining green frame touched up with flame-like clusters of bloom—a picture which was not lost upon Sandy, who, as he passed out of sight of the cabin, shook his head, and said to himself again, as he had many and many a time before:

"Blest ef I see how I ever got up spunk enough to ax her!"

Molly watched her husband out of sight, and then let her eyes wander over the summer landscape. There was a look of deep content in her face, which was no longer pale and worn. The traces of struggle and suffering had disappeared. The past may have had its anguish, and its sins perhaps, but the present must have seemed peaceful and secure, for she turned from the door-way with a song upon her lips,—a song which lingered all the morning as she went in and out about her household tasks, trying to make more trim and bright that which was already the perfection of trimness and brightness. When she had finished her work the morning was far advanced and the sun glared hotly in at the door and window.

She had rocked the baby to sleep, and came out of the inner room with the happy mother-look upon her face. She turned to look back, to see, perhaps, if the fly-net were drawn carefully enough over the little sleeper. As she stood thus she was conscious of a human shadow which fell through the outer door and blotted out the square of sunshine which lay across the floor, and a deep voice said:

"I'd thank you for a drink of water, ma'am."

Molly turned quickly and the eyes of the two met. Over the man's face came a look of utter amazement which ended in an evil smile.

Over the woman's face came a change so sudden, so terrible, that the new-comer, base and hardened as he looked, seemed struck by it, and the cruel smile subsided a little as he exclaimed:

"Molly Craigie, by all that's holy!"

The woman did not seem to hear him. She stood staring at him with wild incredulous eyes and parted lips, from which came in a husky whisper the words:

"Dick Staples!"

Then she struck the palms of her hands together, and with a sharp cry sank into a chair. The man stepped across the threshold, and stood in the centre of the room looking curiously about him. He was a large, powerfully built fellow, and, in a certain way, a handsome one. He was attired in a kind of hunting costume which he wore with a jaunty, theatrical air.

"I swear!" he exclaimed, with a brutal laugh, as his eyes took in the details of the neat little kitchen, and came at last to rest upon the woman's white face. "I swear! I do believe Molly's married!"

The idea seemed to strike him as a peculiarly novel and amusing one.

"Molly Craigie married and settled down! Well, if that ain't a good one!" and he burst into another cruel laugh. His mocking words seemed at last to sting the woman, who had sat smitten mute before him, into action. She rose and faced him, trembling, but defiant.

"Dick Staples, what brought ye here only God knows, but ye mus'n't stay here. Ye must go 'way this minute, d'ye hear? Ye must go 'way!"

She spoke hurriedly, glancing down the road as she did so. The man stared blankly at her a moment.

"Well, now, if that ain't a nice way to treat an old friend! Why, Molly, you ain't going back on Dick you ain't seen for so long, are you? I'd no idea of ever seeing you again, but now I've found you, you don't get rid of me so easy. I'm going to make myself at home, Molly, see if I don't." And the man seated himself and crossed his legs comfortably, looking about him with a mocking air of geniality and friendliness. "Why, d——n it!" he continued, "I'm going to stay to dinner, and be introduced to your husband!"

Molly went nearer to him; the defiance in her manner had disappeared, and a look of almost abject terror and appeal had taken its place.

"Dick," she cried, imploringly, "oh, Dick, for God's sake hear me! If ye want to see me, to speak with me, I won't refuse ye, only not here, Dick,—for God's sake not here!" and she glanced desperately around. "What brought ye here, Dick? Tell me that, and where are ye stayin'?"

"Well, then," he answered surlily, "I ran up for a little shooting, and I'm staying at Digby's."

"At Digby's! That's three miles below here." She spoke eagerly. "Dick, you noticed the little meetin'-house just below here in the hollow?"

The man nodded.

"If ye'll go away now, Dick, right away, I'll meet ye in the woods. Follow the path that leads up behind the meetin'-house to-morrow mornin' between ten and eleven an' I'll meet ye there, but oh, Dick, for God's sake go away now, before—before he comes!"

The desperation in her voice and looks produced some effect upon the man apparently, for he rose and said:

"Well, Molly, as you're so particular, I'll do as you say; but mind now, don't you play me no tricks. If you ain't there, punctual, I'll be here; now see if I don't, my beauty." He would have flung his arms about her, but she started back with flaming eyes.

"None o' that, Dick Staples!" she cried, fiercely.

"Spunky as ever, and twice as handsome, I swear!" exclaimed the fellow, gazing admiringly at her.

"Are ye goin'?"

There was something in her voice and mien which compelled obedience, and the man prepared to go. Outside the door he slung his rifle over his shoulder, and looking back, said:

"Remember now, Molly, 'Meet me in the willow glen,' you know. Punctual's the word!" and with a meaning smile he sauntered down the slope, humming a popular melody as he went.

The woman stood for a time as he had left her, her arms hanging by her side, her eyes fixed upon the door-way. The baby slept peacefully on, and outside the birds were twittering and calling, and the breeze tossed the vine-tendrils in at the door and window, throwing graceful, dancing shadows over the floor and across her white face and nerveless hands. A whistle, clear and cheery, came piping through the sultry noontide stillness. It pierced her deadened senses, and she started, passing her hand across her eyes.

"God!"

That was all she said. Then she began laying the table and preparing the midday meal. When Sandy reached the cabin she was moving about with nervous haste, her eyes gleaming strangely and a red spot on either cheek. Her husband's eyes followed her wonderingly. The child awoke and she went to bring him.

"I wonder what's up now?" he muttered, combing his beard with his fingers, as he was wont to do when perplexed or embarrassed. "Women is cur'us! They's no two ways about it, they is cur'us! They's no 'countin' fur 'em no how, 'deed they ain't!"

At this point the baby appeared, and after his usual frolic with him, during which he did not cease his furtive study of Molly's face, Sandy shouldered his hoe and started for the field. As he reached the door he turned and said:

"O Molly, I seen a man agoin' across the road down by the crick; one o' them city fellers, rigged out in huntin' traps. Did ye see him?"

Molly was standing with her back toward her husband putting away the remains of the meal.

"A man like that came to the door an' asked for a drink," she answered, quietly.

"He warn't sassy nor nothin'?" inquired Sandy, anxiously.

"No—he wasn't sassy," was the answer.

Sandy breathed a sigh of relief.

"Them city fellers is mighty apt to be sassy, and this time o' year they'se allers prowlin' 'round," and bestowing another rough caress on the baby he went his way.

That evening as they sat together before the door Sandy said:

"O Molly, I'm agoin' over ter Jim Barker's by sun-up ter-morrer, ter help him out with his hoein'. Ye won't be lonesome nor nothin'?"

"No—I reckon not," replied his wife. "'Twon't be the first time I've been here alone."

Involuntarily the eyes of the husband and wife met, in his furtive questioning look which she met with a steady gaze. In the dusky twilight her face showed pale as marble and her throat pulsated strangely. The man turned his eyes away; there was something in that face which he could not bear.

And at "sun-up" Sandy departed.

Molly went about her work as usual. Nothing was forgotten, nothing neglected. The two small rooms shone with neatness and comfort, and at last the child slept.

The hour for her meeting with Staples had arrived, and Molly came out and closed the cabin door behind her—but here her feet faltered, and she paused. With her hands pressed tightly on her heart she stood there for a moment with the bright August sunshine falling over her; then she turned and re-entered the cabin, went noiselessly into the bedroom and knelt down by the sleeping child. One warm, languid little hand drooped over the cradle's edge. As her eyes fell upon it a quiver passed over the woman's white face, and she laid her cheek softly against it, her lips moving the while.

Then she arose and went away. Down the dusty road, with rapid, unfaltering steps and eyes that looked straight before her, she passed and disappeared in the shadow of the forest.

When Sandy came home at night he found his wife standing in the door-way, her dark braids falling over her shoulders, her cheeks burning, her eyes full of a fire which kindled his own slow, but ardent, nature. He had never seen her looking so beautiful, and he came on toward her with quickened steps and a glad look in his face.

"Here, Molly," said he, holding up to her face a bunch of dazzling cardinal-flowers, "I pulled these fur ye, down in the gorge."

She shrank from the vivid, blood-red blossoms as if he had struck her, and her face turned ashy white.

"In the gorge!" she repeated hoarsely—"in the gorge! Throw them away! throw them away!" and she cowered down upon the door-stone, hiding her face upon her knees. Her husband stared at her a moment, hurt and bewildered; then, throwing the flowers far down the slope, he went past her into the house.

"Molly's gittin on her spells ag'in," he muttered. "Lord, Lord, I war in hopes ez she war over 'em fur good!"

Experience having taught him to leave her to herself at such times, he said nothing now, but sat with the child upon his lap, looking at her from time to time with a patient, wistful look. At last the gloom and silence were more than he could bear.

"Molly," said he softly, "what ails ye?"

At the sound of his voice she started and rose. Going to him, she took the child and went out of the room. As she did so, Sandy noticed that a portion of her dress was torn away. He remarked it with wonder, as well as her disordered hair. It was not like Molly at all; but he said nothing, putting this unusual negligence down to that general "cur'usness" of womankind which was past finding out.

The next day and the next passed away. Sandy went in and out, silent and unobtrusive, but with his heart full of sickening fears. A half-formed doubt of his wife's sanity—a doubt which her strange, fitful conduct during these days, and her wild and haggard looks only served to confirm—haunted him persistently. He could not work, but wandered about, restless and unhappy beyond measure.

On the third day, as he sat, moody and wretched, upon the fence of the corn-field, Jim Barker, his neighbor from the other side of the mountain, came along, and asked Sandy to join him on a hunting excursion. He snatched at the idea, hoping to escape for a time from the insupportable thoughts he could not banish, and went up to the cabin for his gun. As he took it down, Molly's eyes followed him.

"Where are ye goin', Sandy?" she asked.

"With Jim, fur a little shootin'," was the answer; "ye don't mind, Molly?"

She came to him and laid her head upon his shoulder, and, as he looked down upon her face, he was newly startled at its pinched and sunken aspect.

"No, Sandy, I don't mind," she said, with the old gentleness in her tones. She returned his caress, clinging to his neck, and with reluctance letting him go. He remembered this in after times, and even now it moved him strangely, and he turned more than once to look back upon the slender figure, which stood watching him until he joined his companion and passed out of sight.

An impulse she could not resist compelled her gaze to follow them—to leap beyond them, till it rested upon the Devil's Ledge, a huge mass of rocks which frowned above the gorge. Along these rocks, at intervals, towered great pines, weather-beaten, lightning-stricken, stretching out giant arms, which seemed to beckon, and point down the sheer sides of the precipice into the abyss at its foot, where a flock of buzzards wheeled slowly and heavily about. The woman's very lips grew white as she looked, and she turned shuddering away, only to return, again and again, as the slow hours lagged and lingered. The sunshine crept across the floor never so slowly, and passed at length away; and, just as the sun was setting, Sandy's tall form appeared, coming up the slope. Against the red sky his face stood out, white, rigid, terrible. It was not her husband; it was Fate, advancing. The woman tried to smile. Poor mockery of a smile, it died upon her lips. The whole landscape—the green forests, purple hills and gray rocks—swam before her eyes in a lurid mist; only the face of her husband—that was distinct with an awful distinctness. On he came, and stood before her. He leaned his gun against the side of the cabin, and placed the hand which had held it upon the lintel over her head; the other was in his breast. There was a terrible deliberation in all his movements, and he breathed heavily and painfully. It seemed to her an eternity that he stood thus, looking down upon her. Then he spoke.

"Thar's a dead man—over thar—under the ledge!"

The woman neither moved nor spoke. He drew his hand from his breast and held something toward her; it was the missing fragment torn from her dress.

"This yer war in his hand——"

With a wild cry the woman threw herself forward, and wound her arms about her husband's knees.

"I didn't go for to do it!" she gasped; "'fore God I didn't!"

Sandy tore himself away from her clinging arms, and she fell prostrate. He looked at her fiercely and coldly.

"Take your hands off me!" he cried. "Don't tech me! Thar's thet ez mus' be made cl'ar between you an' me, woman,—cl'ar ez daylight. Ye've deceived me an' lied to me all along, but ye won't lie to me now. 'Tain't the dead man ez troubles me," he went on grimly, setting his teeth, "'tain't him ez troubles me. I'd 'a' hed to kill him myself afore I'd done with him mos' likely—ef you hadn't. 'Tain't that ez troubles me—it's what went afore! D'ye hear? Thet's what I want ter know an' all I want ter know."

He lifted her up and seated himself before her, a look of savage determination on his face.

"Will ye tell me?"

The woman buried her face upon her arms and rocked backward and forward.

"How can I tell ye,—O Sandy, how can I?" she moaned.

"Ye kin tell me in one word," said her husband. "When ye come back from Richmon' thar wuz them ez tole tales on ye. I hearn 'em, but I didn't believe 'em—I wouldn't believe 'em! Now ye've only ter answer me one question—wur what they said true?"

He strove to speak calmly, but the passion within him burst all bounds; the words ended in a cry of rage, and he seized her arm with a grip of iron.

"Answer me, answer me!" he cried, tightening his hold upon her arm.

"It was true, oh my God, it was true!"

He loosened his grasp and she fell insensible at his feet.

There was neither tenderness nor pity in his face as he raised her, and carrying her in, laid her upon the bed. Without a glance at the sleeping child he went out again into the gathering darkness.

Far into the night he was still sitting there unconscious of the passing hours or the chilliness of the air. His mind wandered in a wild chaos. Over and over again he rehearsed the circumstances attending the finding of the dead man beneath the ledge, and the discovery of the fragment of a woman's dress in the rigid fingers; his horror when he recognized the man as the one he had seen crossing the road near the cabin, and the fragment as a part of Molly's dress. He had secured this and secreted it in his bosom before his companion, summoned by his shouts, had come up. He knew the pattern too well—he had selected it himself after much consideration. True, another might have worn the same, but the recollection of Molly's torn dress arose to banish every doubt. There was mystery and crime and horror, and Molly was behind it all—Molly, the wife he had trusted, the mother of his child!

It must have been long past midnight when a hand was laid upon his shoulder and his wife's voice broke the stillness.

"Sandy," said she, "I've come—to tell ye all. Ye won't refuse to listen?"

He shivered beneath her touch but did not answer, and there in the merciful darkness which hid their faces from each other, Molly told her story from beginning to end, told it in a torrent of passionate words, broken by sobs and groans which shook her from head to foot.

"I met him in the woods," she went on. "I took him to the ledge, because I knew nobody would see us there, an' then I told him everything. I went down on my knees to him an' begged of him to go away an' leave me; for I couldn't bear to—to give ye up, an' I knew 'twould come to that! I begged an' I prayed an' he wouldn't hear; an' then—an' then—" she sobbed, "he threatened me, Sandy, he threatened to go an' tell you all. He put his wicked face close up to mine, I pushed him away an' he fell—he fell, Sandy, but God knows I didn't go fur to do it."

She stopped, her voice utterly choked with agonizing sobs, but the man before her did not move or speak. She threw herself down and clasped her arms about him.

"Sandy! husband!" she cried. "Do what ye please with me—drive me away—kill me, but remember this—I did love ye true an' faithful—say ye believe that!"

The man freed himself roughly from her arms.

"I do believe ye," he answered.

There was something horrible in his fierce repulsion of her touch, in the harsh coldness of his voice, and the woman shrank back and crouched at his feet, and neither spoke nor moved again until with the first twitter of the birds, the baby's voice mingling, the mother rose instinctively to answer the feeble summons. She was chilled to the marrow, and her hair and garments were wet with the heavy dew. Sandy sat with averted head buried in his hands. She longed to go to him, but she dared not, and she went in to the child. Weak and unnerved as she was, the heat of the room overcame her, and sitting there with the baby on her lap she fell into a deep, death-like slumber. She returned to consciousness to find herself lying upon the bed with the child by her side. Some one had laid her there, and drawn the green shade close to shut out the bright light. She started up and listened; there was no sound but the whir of insects and the warbling of birds. She arose, stiff and bewildered, and staggered to the door. Sandy was gone.

The day dragged its mournful length along and as night fell steps were heard approaching. Molly's heart gave a great leap, but it was not her husband's step—it was that of Bob, her brother, who came slowly up the path, a serious expression on his boyish face. She would have flown to meet him, but she could not stir. Her eyes fastened themselves upon him with a look that demanded everything.

The young fellow came close up to his sister before speaking.

"How d'ye, Molly, how d'ye?" he said, seating himself beside her and glancing curiously at her white, desperate face.

"What is it, Bob?" she gasped; "what is it? Ye can tell me—I can bear it."

"I ain't got nothin' much to tell," he answered with a troubled air. "I war thinkin' ez you mought hev somethin' ter tell me. Sandy he come by an' said as how he mus' go down ter Gordonsville, he an' Jim Barker, on account o' the man ez fell over the ledge."

The shudder which passed through the woman's frame escaped Bob's notice, and he continued:

"He said ez how he mus' stay till th' inquist war over, an' moughtn't be back for a day or two, an' axed me fur ter keep ye comp'ny till he comes back."

"Till he comes back!" she repeated in a whisper.

She hid her face in her hands, and Bob, who, like Sandy, was used to Molly's strange ways, did not question her further.

Days, weeks and months passed away, and Sandy King had not returned. Jim Barker, who had seen him last, knew only that he had expressed an intention to remain a few days longer in the town, and all further inquiries revealed nothing more.

Bob remained with his sister, and, after the first few weeks of excitement, settled quietly down in charge of the little farm,—"until Sandy gits back," as he always took pains to declare.

This stoutly maintained contingency was regarded by the scattered inhabitants of that region with doubt and disbelief. Sandy's mysterious disappearance excited much comment, and gave rise to endless rumors and conjectures. The current belief, however, was, that being himself a man of peaceable habits, he had found his wife's temper too "cantankerous," and had gone in search of the peace denied him beneath his own roof, such an event having occurred more than once within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

Molly knew nothing of all this. She never left her own door from the day of her husband's departure, and Bob,—warm-hearted fellow,—had stood valiantly between his sister and the prying eyes and sharp tongues which sought to pluck out the heart of her mystery, or apply venom to her bleeding wounds.

That something very serious had occurred, he, more than any other, had cause to suspect, but he respected his sister's reticence, and watched with secret pain and anxiety her increasing pallor and weakness. The hopes he had at first cherished of Sandy's return died slowly out, but he hardly confessed it, even to himself.

Autumn passed into winter, and winter into spring, and in the meantime, as Molly faded, the little boy thrived and waxed strong. He could now toddle about on his sturdy legs, and his prattle and laughter filled the lonely cabin. His mother watched his development eagerly.

"See, Bob!" she would say, "see how he walks, an' how plain he can talk! What'll Sandy say when he sees him?"

Then she would hold up before the round baby-eyes a distorted, shaggy likeness of Sandy, which he had once exhibited with great pride on his return from Gordonsville, and try to teach the baby lips to pronounce "Dad-dy."

"He'll know him when he comes, Bob, see if he don't. He'll know his own daddy, won't he, precious man? An' he'll be here by corn-plantin', Bob, sure!"

And Bob, who always entered with a great assumption of cheerfulness into all her plans, would turn away with a sinking heart.

"Ef he's ever a-comin'," he would say to himself, "he'd better come mighty soon, or——" and then something would rise in his throat, and he could never finish the sentence.

The gray-brown woods had changed to tender green and purple, the air teemed with the sounds, and the earth with the tints, of early spring. The corn was not only planted, but was already sending up sharp yellow-green spikes out of the soft red loam, and yet Sandy had not returned.

A strange woman had taken Molly's place in the household, for Molly could no longer go about—could hardly sit at the window, looking down the lonely road or over the distant hills with her eager, hollow eyes. She had never complained, and up to this time had refused to see a physician. And now when one was summoned, he only shook his head in response to Bob's questions, and hinted vaguely at mental causes beyond his reach.

She lay for the most part with closed eyes, and but for the heaving of her breast, one might have believed her no longer of the living, so white and shadow-like had she become. She seldom spoke, but not a night fell, that she did not call Bob to her side and whisper, with upturned, anxious eyes:

"I reckon he'll come to-morrow, don't you?"

One evening, after a restless, feverish day, she woke from a brief nap. Her brother was seated by her side, looking sadly into her waxen face. She started up with a strange glitter in her eyes, and seized his arm.

"Bob," she whispered, "he's comin'! He's most here! Go and meet him quick, Bob, an' tell him to hurry, to hurry, mind, or I sha'n't be here!"

The wildness in her face and voice deepened.

"Go, I tell you! Quick! He's comin'!" and she would have sprung from the bed.

"There, there, Molly," said her brother, soothingly, "jess lay right down an' be quiet, an' I'll go."

She lay upon the pillow as he placed her, panting and trembling, and he went hastily out, pausing, as he went through the kitchen, to say a few words to the woman who sat at the table, feeding the little boy.

"She's a heap wusser," he said, "an' out of her head. Keep a watch over her while I go for the doctor."

He ran quickly down the slope toward the field where the horse was tethered. As he reached the road he saw a tall form advancing through the dusk with rapid strides. Something in the gait and outline set his heart to throbbing; he stopped and waited. The man came nearer.

"Bob!"

"Sandy!"

The two men clasped hands.

"Molly?" said her husband, brokenly. For answer Bob pointed silently toward the cabin, and Sandy passed up the slope before him. As he entered the little kitchen the child stopped eating and stared with wide-open eyes at the stranger.

"Dad-dy! dad-dy!" he babbled.

Sandy saw and heard nothing, but went blindly on into the inner room.

There was a glad cry, and Molly was in her husband's arms.

"I knew ye'd come!" she said.

"Yes, darlin', I've come, an' I'll never——" The words died upon his lips, for something in the face upon his breast told him that Molly was listening to another voice than his.

A SUMMER'S DIVERSION.

"For one, I don't trust them yaller-haired, smooth-spoke women! I never see one on 'em yet that wa'n't full o' Satan."

It was Mrs. Rhoda Squires who uttered the above words; and she uttered them with considerable unnecessary clatter of the dishes she was engaged in washing. Abby Ann, a lank, dyspeptic-looking girl of fifteen or sixteen, was wiping the same, while the farmer himself was putting the finishing touches to his evening toilet. That toilet consisted, as usual, of a good wash at the pump, the turning down of his shirt-sleeves, and a brief application of the family comb, which occupied a convenient wall-pocket at one side of the small kitchen mirror—after which the worthy farmer considered himself in full dress, and ready for any social emergency likely to occur at Higgins' Four Corners.

"No," said Abby Ann, in response to her mother's remark, "she ain't no beauty, but her clo'es does fit elegant. I wish I hed the pattern o' that white polonay o' hern, but I wouldn't ask her for it—no, not to save her!" she added, in praiseworthy emulation of the maternal spirit.

"Oh, you women folks!" interposed the farmer. "You're as full of envy 'n' backbitin' as a beechnut's full o' meat. Beauty! Ye don't know what beauty means. I tell you she is a beauty,—a real high-steppin' out-an'-out beauty!"

"She's as old as I be, every bit!" snapped Mrs. Squires. "An' she hain't got a speck o' color in her cheeks—an' she's a widder at that!"

Farmer Squires turned slowly around and deliberately surveyed the wiry, stooping figure of his wife from the small, rusty "pug" which adorned the back of her aggressive little head, and the sharp, energetically moving elbows, down to the hem of her stiffly starched calico gown.

"Look-a-here, Rhody," said he, a quizzical look on his shrewd, freckled countenance, "you've seen Gil Simmonses thorough-bred? Wall—that mare is nigh onto two year older'n our old Sal, but I swanny——"

Undoubtedly the red signal which flamed from Mrs. Squires's sallow cheeks warned her husband that he had said more than enough, for he came to a sudden pause, seized upon a pair of colossal cowhide shoes, upon which he had just bestowed an unusual degree of attention in the way of polish, and disappeared in the direction of the barn.

"He's jist as big a fool as ever!" she ejaculated. "The Lord knows I didn't want no city folks a-wearin' out my carpets, an' a drinkin' up my cream, an' a-turnin' up their noses at me! But no—ever sence he heared that Deacon Fogg made nigh onto a hundred dollars last year a-keepin' summer-boarders, his fingers has been a-itchin' an' his mouth a-waterin', an' nothin' for't but I must slave myself to death the whole summer for a pack o' stuck-up——"

She paused—for a soft rustle of garments and a faint perfume filled the kitchen, and turning, Mrs. Squires beheld the object of her vituperation standing before her.

She was certainly yellow-haired, and though not "every bit as old" as her hostess, a woman whose first youth was past; yet so far as delicately turned outlines, and pearly fairness of skin go, she might have been twenty. The eyes which met Mrs. Squires's own pale orbs were of an intense, yet soft, black, heavy-lidded and languid, and looked out from beneath their golden fringes with a calm, slow gaze, as if it were hardly worth their while to look at all. A smile, purely conventional, yet sweet with the graciousness of good breeding, parted the fine, soft lips.

Her mere presence made the room seem small and mean, and Mrs. Squires, into whose soured and jealous nature the aspect of beauty and grace ate like a sharp acid, smarted under a freshly awakened sense of her own physical insignificance.

She received her guest with a kind of defiant insolence, which could not, however, conceal her evident embarrassment, while Abby Ann retreated ignominiously behind the pantry door.

"I came to ask if Mr. Squires succeeded in finding some one to take us about," said the lady. "He thought he could."

Her voice was deep-toned and sweet, her manner conciliatory.

"I believe he did," replied Mrs. Squires, curtly. "Abby Ann, go tell your father Mis' Jerome wants him."

Abby Ann obeyed, and the lady passed out into the front hall, and to the open door. A cascade of filmy lace and muslin floated from her shoulders and trailed across the shiny oil-cloth. As the last frill swept across the threshold, Mrs. Squires closed the door upon it with a sharp report.

Before the door a little girl was playing on the green slope, while an elderly woman with a grave, kindly face sat looking on.

Farmer Squires, summoned by his daughter, came round the corner of the house. He touched his straw hat awkwardly.

"They's a young feller," he said, "that lives a mile or so up the river, that has a tip-top team—a kivered kerridge an' a fust-rate young hoss. His folks has seen better days, the Grangers has, an' Rob is proud as Lucifer, but they's a big mortgage on the farm, an' he's 'mazin' ambitious ter pay it off. So when I told him about you, he said he'd see about it. He wouldn't let no woman drive his hoss, but he thought mebbe he'd drive ye round hisself. Shouldn't wonder if he was up to-night."

"I wish he might come," said the lady. "My physician said I must ride every day, and I am too cowardly to drive if the horse were ever so gentle."

"No—I guess you couldn't hold in Rob's colt with them wrists," said he, glancing admiringly at the slender, jewelled hands. "I shouldn't wonder if that was Rob now."

At this moment wheels were heard rapidly approaching, and a carriage appeared in sight. A young man was driving. He held the reins with firm hand, keeping his eyes fixed upon the fine-stepping animal, turned dexterously up the slope, brought the horse to a stand-still before the door, and sprang lightly to the ground.

He was a remarkable-looking young fellow, tall above the average, and finely proportioned. Hair and mustache were dark, eyes of an indescribable gray, and shaded by thick, black brows. A proud yet frank smile rested on his handsome face.

"Hello, Rob," said Farmer Squires. "Here's the lady that wanted ter see ye. Mister Granger, Mis' Jerome."

The lady bowed, with a trace of hauteur in her manner at first, but she looked with one of her slow glances into the young man's face, and then extended her hand, and the white fingers rested for an instant in his brown palm. Granger returned her greeting with a bow far from awkward, while a rich color surged into his sun-browned face.

"That is a magnificent horse of yours, Mr. Granger," said Mrs. Jerome. "I hope he is tractable. I was nearly killed in a runaway once, and since then I am very timid."

"Oh, he is very gentle," said Granger, caressing the fiery creature's beautiful head. "If you like, I will take you for a drive now—if it is not too late."

"Certainly, I would like it very much. Nettie," she said, turning to the woman, "bring my hat and Lill's, and some wraps."

The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Mrs. Jerome and her child were whirling over the lovely country road. Their departure was witnessed by the entire Squires family, including an obese dog of somnolent habits, and old Sal, the gray mare, who thrust her serious face over the stone wall opposite, and gazed contemplatively down the road after the retreating carriage.

"Do you think you will be afraid?" asked Granger, as he helped Mrs. Jerome to alight.

"Oh no," she answered, with a very charming smile. "The horse is as docile as he is fiery. I shall enjoy the riding immensely. Do you think you can come every day?"

"I shall try to—at least for the present."

Mrs. Jerome watched the carriage out of sight.

"How very interesting!" she was thinking. "Who would dream of finding such a face here! And yet—I don't know—one would hardly find such a face out in the world. Perhaps it will not be so dull after all. I thought they were all like Squires!"

For several succeeding weeks there was seldom a day when the fiery black horse and comfortable old carriage did not appear before the farm-house door, and but few of those days when Mrs. Jerome did not avail herself of the opportunity, sometimes accompanied by the child and Nettie, oftener by the child alone.

The interest and curiosity with which young Granger had inspired Mrs. Jerome in the beginning, deepened continually. A true son of the soil, descendant of a long line of farmers, whence came this remarkable physical beauty, this refined, almost poetic, temperament, making it impossible for him, in spite of the unconventionally of his manner, to do a rude or ungraceful act? It was against tradition, she thought,—against precedent. It puzzled and fascinated her. She found it impossible to treat him as an inferior, notwithstanding the relation in which he stood to her. Indeed, she soon ceased to think of that at all. The books which she took with her upon their protracted drives were seldom opened. She found it pleasanter to lie back in the corner of the carriage, and watch the shifting panorama of hill and forest and lake through which they were driving. That the handsome head with its clustering locks and clear-cut profile, which was always between her and the landscape, proved a serious obstruction to the view, and that her eyes quite as often occupied themselves with studying the play of those mobile lips, and the nervous tension of those sun-browned hands upon the reins, was, perhaps, natural and unavoidable.

She talked with him a great deal, too, in her careless, fluent way, or rather to him, for the conversation on Granger's part was limited to an occasional eager question, a flash of his fine eyes, or an appreciative smile at some witty turn. She talked of many things, but with delicate tact avoided such themes as might prove embarrassing to an unsophisticated mind—including books.

It was, therefore, with a little shock of surprise that she one day found him buried in the pages of Tennyson, a volume of whose poems she had left upon the carriage seat while she and Lill explored a neighboring pasture for raspberries.

He was lying at full length in the sweet-fern, one arm beneath his head, his face eager and absorbed. He did not notice her approach, and she had been standing near him for some moments before he became aware of her presence. Then, closing the book, he sprang to his feet.

"So you read poetry, Mr. Granger?" she said, arching her straight brows slightly.

"Sometimes," he answered. "I have read a good many of the old poets. My grandfather left a small library, which came into my possession."

"Then you have read Shakspere——" began the lady.

"Yes," interrupted Granger, "Shakspere, and Milton, and Pope, and Burns. Is it so strange?" he asked, turning upon her one of his swift glances. "If one plowman may write poetry another plowman may read it, I suppose."

He spoke with bitterness, a deep flush rising to his temples.

"And have you read modern authors too?"

"Very little. There is no opportunity here. There is nothing here—nothing!" he answered, flinging aside a handful of leaves he had unwittingly gathered.

"Why do you stay here, then?"

The question sprang, almost without volition, from her lips. She would gladly have recalled it the next moment.

Granger gave her another swift glance, and it seemed to her that he repressed the answer which was already upon his tongue. A strange, bitter smile came to his lips.

"Let the shoemaker stick to his last," he said, turning toward the carriage, "and the farmer to his plow."

During the homeward ride he was even more taciturn than usual. At the door, Mrs. Jerome offered him the volume of Tennyson. He accepted it, with but few words.

When he returned it, a few days later, it opened of itself, and between the leaves lay a small cluster of wild roses, and some lines were faintly marked. They were these:

"When she made pause, I knew not for delight;

Because with sudden motion from the ground

She raised her piercing orbs and filled with light

The interval of sound."

"Cleopatra!" Mrs. Jerome repeated softly, "and like her, I thought there were 'no men to govern in this wood.' Poor fellow!"

It was a few days, perhaps a week, later, when Mrs. Jerome, who to the mystification of her host and hostess had received no letters, and, to the best of their knowledge, had written none, up to this time, followed a sudden impulse, and wrote the following epistle:

"My dear friend and physician:—You advised, no, commanded me, to eschew the world for a season, utterly and completely. I have obeyed you to the letter. I will spare you details—enough that I am gaining rapidly, and, wonderful to say, I am not in the least ennuyée. On the contrary. The cream is delicious, the spring water exquisite, the scenery lovely. Even the people interest me. I am your debtor, as never before, and beg leave to sign myself,

Your grateful friend and patient,

Helen Jerome.

"P. S.—It would amuse me to know what the world says of my disappearance. Keep my secret, on your very soul.

H. J."

Midsummer came, and passed, and Mrs. Jerome still lingered. In her pursuit for health she had been indefatigable. There was hardly a road throughout the region which had been left untried, hardly a forest path unexplored, or a mountain spring untasted.

"For a woman that sets up for delicate," remarked Mrs. Squires, as from her point of observation behind the window-blinds she watched Mrs. Jerome spring with a girl's elastic grace from the carriage, "for a woman that sets up for delicate, she can stan' more ridin' around, an' scramblin' up mountains, than any woman I ever see. I couldn't do it—that's sure an' sartain!"

"It's sperrit, Rhody, sperrit. Them's the kind o' women that'll go through fire and flood to git what they're after."

"Yes, an' drag everybody along with 'em," added Mrs. Squires, meaningly.

There was one place to which they rode which held a peculiar charm for Mrs. Jerome,—a small lake, deep set among the hills and lying always in the shadow. Great pines grew down to its brink and hung far out over its surface, which was almost hidden by thickly growing reeds and the broad leaves and shining cups of water-lilies. Dragonflies darted over it, and a dreamy silence invested it. A boat lay moored at the foot of the tangled path which led from the road, and they often left the carriage, and rowed and floated about until night-fall among the reeds and lilies.

They were floating in this way, near the close of a sultry August afternoon. Lill lay coiled upon a shawl in the bottom of the boat, her arms full of lilies whose lithe stems she was twining together, talking to herself, meanwhile, in a pretty fashion of her own.

Granger was seated in the bow of the boat, with folded arms, and eyes fixed upon the dark water. His face was pale and moody. It had worn that expression often of late, and he had fallen into a habit of long intervals of silence and abstraction.

The beautiful woman who sat opposite him, idly trailing one hand, whiter and rosier than the lily it held, in the water, seemed also under some unusual influence. She had not spoken for some time. Now and then she would raise the white lids of her wonderful eyes, and let them sweep slowly over the downcast face of Granger.

The dusky water lay around them still as death, reflecting in black masses the overhanging pines. The air was warm and full of heavy odors and drowsy sounds, through which a bird's brief song rang out, now and then, thrillingly sweet.

The atmosphere seemed to Mrs. Jerome to become every moment more oppressive. A singular agitation began to stir in her breast, which showed itself in a faint streak of red upon either cheek. At last this feeling became unendurable, and she started with a sudden motion which caused the boat to rock perilously.

Granger, roused by this movement, seized the oars, and with a skilful stroke brought the boat again to rest.

"Will you row across to the other side?" the lady said. "I saw some rare orchids there which must be in bloom by this time."

Granger took up the oars again and rowed as directed. When the orchids had been found and gathered, at Mrs. Jerome's request he spread her a shawl beneath a tree, and seated himself near her.

"How beautiful it is here!" she said, after a pause. "I would like to stay and see the moon rise over those pines. It rises early to-night. You don't mind staying?" she added, looking at Granger.

"No—" he answered, slowly, "I don't mind it in the least."

"How different it must look here in winter!" she said, presently.

"Yes; as different as life and death."

"I cannot bear to think I shall never see it again," she said, after another and longer pause, "and yet I must leave it so soon!"

"Soon!" Granger echoed, with a start. "You are going away soon, then?" he asked, in a husky voice.

"Yes—very soon—in two weeks, I think."

Granger made no reply. He bent his head and began searching among the leaves and moss. His eyes fell upon one of the lady's hands, which lay carelessly by her side, all its perfections and the splendor of its jewels relieved against the crimson background of the shawl.

He could not look away from it, but bent lower and lower, until his hair and his quick breath swept across the fair fingers.

At the touch a wonderful change passed over the woman. She started and trembled violently—her face grew soft and tender. She raised the hand which was upon her lap, bent forward and laid it, hesitatingly, tremblingly, upon the bowed, boyish head.

"Robert! Robert!" she whispered.

Granger raised his head. For a moment, which seemed an age, the two looked into each other's face. Hers was full of yearning tenderness and suffused with blushes—his, rigid and incredulous, yet lighted up with a wild joy. A hoarse cry broke from his lips—he thrust aside the hand which lingered upon his head, sprang to his feet, and went away.

The color faded from Mrs. Jerome's face. She sat, for a moment, as if turned to stone, her eyes, dilated and flashing, fixed upon Granger's retreating figure. Then, with an impetuous gesture, she rose and went to look for Lill. A scream from the little girl fell upon her ears at the same moment. She had strayed out upon a log which extended far into the water, and stood poised, like a bird, upon its extreme end. Round her darted a blue-mailed dragon-fly, against which the little arms were beating in terror. Another instant, and she would be in the water. Mrs. Jerome sprang toward her, but Granger was already there. As he gave the frightened child into her mother's arms, he looked into her face. She returned his gaze with a haughty glance, and walked swiftly toward the boat. He took his seat in the bow and rowed across the lake in silence. Lill buried her scared little face in her mother's lap, and no one spoke. As they landed, a great, dark bird rose suddenly out of the bushes, and with a hideous, mocking cry, like the laugh of a maniac, swept across the water. The woman started and drew the child closer to her breast.

They drove along in silence until within a mile of the Squires' farm, when, without a word, Granger turned into a road over which their drives had never before extended. It was evidently a by-way, and little used, for grass grew thickly between the ruts. On the brow of a hill he halted.

Below, in the valley, far back from the road-side, stood an old, square mansion, of a style unusual in that region. It must have been a place of consequence in its day and generation. The roof was hipped, and broken by dormer windows, and a carved lintel crowned the door-way. An air of age and decay hung about it and the huge, black barns with sunken roofs, and the orchard, full of gnarled and barren trees, which flanked it. A broad, grass-grown avenue, stiffly bordered by dishevelled-looking Lombardy poplars, led up to the door.

Granger turned slowly, and looked full into Mrs. Jerome's face. His own was terribly agitated. Doubt, questioning, passionate appeal, spoke from every feature.

"That is the old Granger place," he said, in a strange, choked voice, with a gesture toward the house, "and that"—as a woman appeared for an instant in the door-way—"that woman——is my wife!"

The desperate look in his face intensified. His eyes seemed endeavoring to pierce into her inmost soul. His lips moved as if to speak again, but speech failed him. A quick breath escaped the lady's parted lips, and she gave him a swift, startled glance.

It was but a passing ripple on the surface of her high-bred calm. However, a smile, the slow, sweet, slightly scornful smile he knew so well, came to her lips again the next instant. She raised her eye-glasses and glanced carelessly over the scene.

"Nice old place!" she said, in her soft, indifferent way. "Quite an air about it, really!"

Granger turned and lashed the horse into a gallop. His teeth were set—his blue-gray eyes flashed.

When the door was reached he lifted the woman and her child from the carriage, and drove madly away, the impact of the wheels with the rocky road sending out fierce sparks as they whirled along.

Mrs. Jerome gathered her lilies into her arms and went slowly up to her room.

Several days passed, and Robert Granger did not appear. The harvest was now at its height, and the farmers prolonged their labors until sunset, and often later. This was the ostensible reason for his remaining away. During these days Mrs. Jerome was in a restless mood. She wandered continually about the woods and fields near the farm-house, remaining out far into the bright, dewless nights. One evening she complained of headache, and remained in-doors, sitting in négligé by the window, looking listlessly out over the orchard. Nettie came in from a stroll with Lill, and gave her mistress a letter.

"We met Mr. Granger, and he gave me this, madam," she said, respectfully, but her glance rested with some curiosity upon the face of Mrs. Jerome as she spoke.

The letter remained unopened upon her lap long after Nettie had gone with the child to her room. Finally, she tore the envelope open and read:

"What is the use of struggling any longer? You have seen, from the first day, that I was entirely at your mercy. There have been times when I thought you were coldly and deliberately trying your power over me; and there have been other times when I thought you were laughing at me, and I did not care, so long as I could see your face and hear your voice. I never allowed myself to think of the end. Now all is changed. What has happened? I am too miserable—and too madly happy—to think clearly; but, unless I am quite insane, I have heard your voice speaking my name, and I have seen in your face a look which meant—no, I cannot write it! It was something I have never dared dream of, and I cannot believe it, even now; and yet, I cannot forget that moment! If it is a sin to write this—if it is a wrong to you—I swear I have never meant to sin, and I would have kept silent forever but for that moment. Then, too, it flashed upon me for the first time that you did not know I was not free to love you. It must be that you did not know—the doubt is an insult to your womanhood—and yet, when I tried to make sure of this, how you baffled me! But still that moment remains unforgotten. What does it all mean? I must have an answer! I shall come to-morrow, at the usual time. If you refuse to see me, I shall understand. If not—what then?

"R. G."

The letter fell to the floor, and Helen Jerome sat for a while with heaving breast and hands clasped tightly over her face. Then she rose and paced up and down the chamber, pausing at length before one of the photographs with which she had adorned the bare walls. Through sombre, lurid vapors swept the figures of two lovers, with wild, wan faces, clasped in an eternal embrace of anguish. She looked at the picture a long time with a brooding face. In the dusk the floating figures seemed to expand into living forms, their lips to utter audible cries of despair.

"Even at that price?"

She shuddered as the words escaped her lips, and turned away. There was a tap at the door, and, before she could speak, a woman entered,—a spare, plain-featured woman, dressed in a dark cotton gown and coarse straw hat. There was something gentle, yet resolute, in her manner, as she came toward Mrs. Jerome, her eyes full of repressed, yet eager, scrutiny.

"Good evenin', ma'am," she said, extending a vinaigrette of filigree and crystal. "I was comin' up this way an' I thought I'd bring ye your bottle. Leastways, I s'pose it's yourn. It fell out o' Rob's pocket."

She let her eyes wander while she was speaking over the falling golden hair, the rich robe-de-chambre, and back to the beautiful proud face.

"Thank you, it is mine," said Mrs. Jerome. "Are you Robert Granger's mother?"

"No, ma'am. I am his wife's mother. My name is Mary Rogers."

Mrs. Jerome went to the window and seated herself. The hem of her dress brushed against the letter, and she stooped and picked it up, crushing it in her hand. The visitor did not offer to go. She had even removed her hat, and stood nervously twisting its ribbons in her hard, brown fingers.

"Will you sit down, Mrs. Rogers?"

The woman sank upon a chair without speaking. She was visibly embarrassed, moving her hands and feet restlessly about, and then bursting into sudden speech.

"I've got somethin' I want to say to ye, Mis' Jerome. It's kind o' hard to begin—harder'n I thought 'twould be."

She spoke in a strained, trembling voice, with many pauses.

"It's something that ought to be said, an' there's nobody to say it but me. Perhaps—you don't know—that folks round here is a-talkin' about—about you an' Rob."

Mrs. Jerome smiled—a scornful smile which showed her beautiful teeth. The woman saw it, and her swarthy face flushed.

"I don't suppose it matters to you, ma'am, if they be," she said, bitterly, "an' it ain't on your account I come. It's on Ruby's account. Ruby's my darter. Oh, Mis' Jerome,"—she dropped her indignant tone, and spoke pleadingly,—"you don't look a bit like a wicked woman, only proud, an' used to havin' men praise ye, an' I'm sure if you could see Ruby you'd pity her, ma'am. She's a-worryin' an' breakin' her heart over Rob's neglectin' of her so, but she don't know what folks is a-sayin'. I've kep' it from her so far, but I'm afeard I can't keep it much longer, for folks keeps a throwin' out 'n' hintin' round, and if Ruby should find it out—the way she is now—it'd kill her!"

She stopped, rocking herself to and fro, until she could control her shaking voice.

"I never wanted her to hev Rob Granger," she began again, speaking hurriedly, "an' I tried to hender it all I could. But 'twa'n't no use. I knew 'twould come to this, sooner or later. 'Twas in his father, an' it's in him. The Grangers was all of 'em alike—proud an' high-sperrited, an' never knowin' their own minds two days at a time. It's in the blood, an' readin' po'try an' sich don't make it no better. I knowed Ruby wa'n't no match for Rob; she's gentle an' quiet, an' ain't got much book-larnin'. But her heart was sot on him, poor gal!"

And again she paused, sobbing gently now, and wiping her eyes on her apron. Mrs. Jerome rose and went over to her. A wonderful change had passed over her. Every trace of pride and scorn had faded from her face. She was gentle, almost timid, in manner, as she stood before the weeping woman.

"Mrs. Rogers," she said, kindly, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It is all unnecessary, I assure you. It is very foolish of people to talk. I shall see that you have no more trouble on my—on this account. If I had known"—she hesitated, stammering. "You see, Mrs. Rogers, I did not even know that Robert Granger was married. If I had, perhaps——"

The woman looked up incredulously. The blood tingled hot through Mrs. Jerome's veins as she answered, with a sting of humiliation at her position.

"It may seem strange—it is strange, but no one has ever mentioned it to me until—a few days ago. Besides, as I tell you, there is no need for talk. There shall be none. You can go home in perfect confidence that you will have no further cause for trouble—that I can prevent."

Mrs. Rogers rose and took the lady's soft hand in hers.

"God bless ye, ma'am. Ye'll do what's right, I know. You must forgive me for thinking wrong of ye, but you see——"

She broke off in confusion.

"It is no matter," said Mrs. Jerome. "You did not know me, of course. Good-night."

When the door had closed upon her visitor, she stood for a while motionless, leaning her head wearily against the window-frame.

"Strange," she said to herself, "that she should have reminded me of—mother! It must have been her voice."

A breeze strayed in at the window, and brought up to her face the scent of the lilies which stood in a dish upon the bureau. She seized the bowl with a hasty gesture, and threw the flowers far out into the orchard.

Mrs. Jerome arose very early the next morning and went down for a breath of the fresh, sweet air. Early as it was, the farmer had been to the village to distribute his milk, and came rattling up the road with his wagon full of empty cans. He drove up to the door, and, with an air of importance, handed the lady a letter, staring inquisitively at her haggard face as he did so. The letter was merely a friendly one from her physician, in answer to her own, and said, among other things:

"Van Cassalear is in town. All my ingenuity was called into action in the effort to answer his persistent inquiries in regard to you. As glad as I am that you are so content, and inured to human suffering as I am supposed to be, I could not but feel a pang of sympathy for him. His state is a melancholy one. The world has long since ceased conjecturing as to your whereabouts. You are one of those privileged beings who are at liberty to do and dare. Your mysterious disappearance is put down with your other eccentricities."

Although, under ordinary circumstances, not a woman to care for a pretext for anything she chose to do, she allowed the reception of this letter to serve in the present instance as an excuse for her immediate departure—for she had resolved to go away at once.

The surprise of Mr. Squires when her intention was made known to him was great, and tinged with melancholy—a melancholy which his wife by no means shared. But his feelings were considerably assuaged by the check handed him by Nettie, for an amount far greater than he had any reason to expect.

"I might 'a' got Rob to take 'em down to the station, if I'd a-known it sooner," he remarked to his wife, in Mrs. Jerome's hearing, "but I seen him an hour ago drivin' like thunder down toward Hingham, an' he won't be back in time. I guess old Sal can drag the folks down to the station, an' I'll see if I can get Tim Higgins to take the things. Time I's about it, too. Train goes at one."

Mrs. Jerome went to her room and dressed herself in travelling attire. Leaving Nettie to finish packing, she took her hat and went out and down the road, walking very rapidly. All along the road-side August was flaunting her gay banners. Silvery clematis and crimsoning blackberry vines draped the rough stone walls; hard-hack, both pink and white, asters and golden-rod, and many a humble, nameless flower and shrub, filled all the intervening spaces; yellow birds swung airily upon the purple tufts of the giant thistles, and great red butterflies hovered across her pathway. She passed on, unheeding, until the grassy by-road was reached, into which she turned, and stood for a moment on the summit of the hill, looking down upon the Granger homestead. A woman came out as she looked, and leaned over the flowers which bloomed in little beds on each side of the door-way. Mrs. Jerome half turned, as if to retrace her steps, and then walked resolutely down the hill and up the avenue. The woman saw her coming, stared shyly from beneath her hand in rustic fashion for a moment, and then ran into the house, where she could be seen peeping from between the half-closed window-blinds.

As she came nearer the house, Mrs. Jerome slackened her steps. Her limbs trembled, she panted slightly, and a feeling of faintness came over her. The woman she had seen came again to the door, and stood there silently as if waiting for the stranger to speak—a timid, delicate young creature, with great innocent blue eyes and apple-bloom complexion. The lady looked into the shy face a moment and came forward, holding out her gloved hand.

"Are you Mrs. Granger?"

The little woman nodded, and the apple-bloom color spread to her blue-veined temples.

"I am Mrs. Jerome," she continued. "You must have heard your—husband speak of me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Granger, simply, "I've heard tell of you."

Meantime she was studying her guest with innocent curiosity—the lovely proud face, the supple figure, the quiet elegance of the toilet, with all its subtle perfection of detail. It did not irritate her as it did Mrs. Squires; it only filled her with gentle wonder and enthusiasm. She tried at length to shake off the timidity which possessed her.

"You must be real tired," she said gently. "It's a long walk. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," said the lady. "I think I am very tired. If you would be so kind as to give me a chair, I would sit here in the shade awhile."

She sank into the chair which Mrs. Granger brought, and drank eagerly the cool water which she proffered.

"Thank you," she said. "It is pleasant, here, very. How lovely your flowers are."

"Yes," said Mrs. Granger, with a show of pride, "I love flowers, and they always bloom well for me." She went to the beds and began gathering some of the choicest. At the same moment, Mrs. Rogers came through the hall. As she saw the visitor, her face flushed, and she glanced suspiciously, resentfully, from Mrs. Jerome to her daughter.

The lady rose.

"It's Mis' Jerome, mother," said Ruby, simply, "the lady that stays at Squireses."

Mrs. Jerome bowed, and a look of full understanding passed between the two. Ruby, gathering her flowers, saw nothing of it.

"I am going away, Mrs. Granger," said the lady. "Circumstances require my immediate return to the city. I came to leave a message with you for—your husband, as he is not at home. Tell him I thank him for the pleasure he has given me this summer."

"I'm real sorry you took the trouble to come down," said Mrs. Granger. "It's a long walk, an' Squires could 'a' told Rob to-night."

"Yes, I know," said the lady, consulting her watch, "but I wanted a last walk."

She held the little woman's hand at parting, and looked long into the shy face. Then, stooping, she lightly kissed her forehead, and, with the flowers in her hand, went down the grassy avenue, up the hill, and out of sight.

Robert Granger came home late in the afternoon. He drove directly into the barn, and proceeded to unharness and care for the jaded beast, which was covered with foam and dust. He himself was haggard and wild-eyed, and he moved about with feverish haste. When he had made the tired creature comfortable in his stall, he went to the splendid animal in the one adjoining and began to bestow similar attentions upon him. While he was thus engaged, Mrs. Rogers came into the stable. Her son-in-law hardly raised his eyes. She watched him sharply for a moment, and came nearer.

"Ain't ye comin' in to get somethin' to eat, Rob?"

"I have been to dinner," was the answer.

"Rob," said the woman, quietly, "ye might as well let that go—ye won't need Dick to-day."

Granger started, almost dropping the card he was using.

"What do you mean?" he asked, with an effort at indifference, resuming his work on Dick's shining mane.

"The lady's gone away," said Mrs. Rogers, steadily watching him.

"What!" cried Granger, glaring fiercely across Dick's back. "What did you say? Who's gone away?"

"The lady—Mis' Jerome," repeated the woman. "She come down herself to leave word for ye, seein' that you wa'n't at home. She was called away onexpected. Said she'd enjoyed herself first-rate this summer—an' was much obleeged to ye for your kindness."

Granger continued his labor, stooping so low that his mother-in-law could only see his shoulders and the jetty curls which clustered at his neck. She smiled as she looked—a somewhat bitter smile. She was a good and gentle creature, but Ruby was her daughter—her only child. After a moment or two she went away.

When she was out of hearing, Granger rose. He was pale as death, and his forehead was covered with heavy drops. He leaned weakly against Dick, who turned his fine eyes lovingly on his master and rubbed his head against his sleeve.

Granger hid his face upon his arms.

"My God!" he cried, "is that the answer?"

It was the answer. It was all the answer Granger ever received. He did not kill himself. He did not attempt to follow or even write to her. Why should he? She had come and had gone,—a beautiful, bewildering, maddening vision.

Neither did he try the old remedy of dissipation, as a meaner nature might have done; but he could not bear the quiet meaning of Mrs. Rogers' looks, nor the mute, reproachful face of his wife, and he fell into a habit of wandering with dog and gun through the mountains, coming home with empty game-bag, late at night, exhausted and dishevelled, to throw himself upon his bed and sleep long, heavy slumbers. Without knowing it, he had taken his sore heart to the surest and purest counsellor; and little by little those solitary communings with nature had their healing effect.

"Let him be, Ruby," her mother would say, as Ruby mourned and wondered. "Let him be. The Grangers was all of 'em queer. Rob'll come round all right in course of time."

Weeks and months went by in this way, and one morning, after a night of desperate pain and danger, Robert Granger's first-born was laid in his arms. Then he buried his face in the pillow by pale, smiling Ruby, and sent up a prayer for forgiveness and strength. True, only God and attending angels heard it, but Ruby Granger was a happier woman from that day.

Mrs. Van Cassalear was passing along the city street, leaning upon her husband's arm. It was midsummer. "Everybody" was out of town, and the Van Cassalears were only there for a day, en passant. They were walking rapidly, the lady's delicate drapery gathered in one hand, a look of proud indifference upon her face.

"Pond-lilies! Pond-lilies!"

She paused. Upon a street-corner stood a sun-burned, bare-foot boy, in scant linen suit and coarse farmer's hat. His hands were full of lilies, which he was offering for sale.

Mrs. Van Cassalear dropped her husband's arm and the white draperies fell unheeded to the pavement. She almost snatched the lilies from the boy's hands, and bowed her face over them.

The city sights and sounds faded away. Before her spread a deep, dark lake, its surface flecked with lilies. Tall pines bent over it, and in their shadow drifted a boat, and an impassioned, boyish face looked at her from the boat's prow....

"Six for five cents, lady, please!"

"Do you want the things, Helen?" said Van Cassalear, the least trace of impatience in his voice. "If you do, let me pay the boy and we'll go on. People are staring."

The lady raised her eyes and drew a deep breath.

"No," she said, "I will not have them."

She returned the lilies, with a piece of money, to the astonished boy, gathered her drapery again into her hand, and swept on.

MY FRIEND MRS. ANGEL.
A WASHINGTON SKETCH.

My acquaintance with Mrs. Angel dates from the hour she called upon me, in response to my application at a ladies' furnishing store for a seamstress; and the growth of the acquaintance, as well as the somewhat peculiar character which it assumed, was doubtless due to the interest I betrayed in the history of her early life, as related to me at different times, frankly and with unconscious pathos and humor.

Her parents were of the "poor white" class and lived in some remote Virginian wild, whose precise locality, owing to the narrator's vague geographical knowledge, I could never ascertain. She was the oldest of fifteen children, all of whom were brought up without the first rudiments of an education, and ruled over with brutal tyranny by a father whose sole object in life was to vie with his neighbors in the consumption of "black jack" and corn whiskey, and to extract the maximum of labor from his numerous progeny,—his paternal affection finding vent in the oft-repeated phrase, "Durn 'em, I wish I could sell some on 'em!" The boys, as they became old enough to realize the situation, ran away in regular succession;—the girls, in the forlorn hope of exchanging a cruel master for one less so, drifted into matrimony at the earliest possible age. Mrs. Angel, at the age of sixteen, married a man of her own class, who found his way in course of time to Washington and became a day-laborer in the Navy Yard.

It would be interesting, if practicable, to trace the subtle laws by which this woman became possessed of a beauty of feature and form, and color, which a youth spent in field-work, twenty subsequent years of maternity and domestic labor, and a life-long diet of the coarsest description, have not succeeded in obliterating. Blue, heavily fringed eyes, wanting only intelligence to make them really beautiful; dark, wavy hair, delicately formed ears, taper fingers, and a fair, though faded complexion, tell of a youth whose beauty must have been striking.

She seldom alluded to her husband at all, and never by name, the brief pronoun "he" answering all purposes, and this invariably uttered in a tone of resentment and contempt, which the story of his wooing sufficiently accounts for.

"His folks lived over t'other side the mount'n," she related, "an' he was dead sot an' de-termined he'd have me. I never did see a man so sot! The Lord knows why! He used ter foller me 'round an' set an' set, day in an' day out. I kep' a-tellin' of him I couldn't a-bear him, an' when I said it, he'd jess look at me an' kind o' grin like, an' never say nothin', but keep on a-settin' 'roun'. Mother she didn't dare say a word, 'cause she knowed father 'lowed I should have him whether or no. ''Taint no use, Calline,' she'd say, 'ye might as well give up fust as last.' Then he got ter comin' every day, an' he an' father jess sot an' smoked, an' drunk whiskey, an' he a-starin' at me all the time as if he was crazy, like. Bimeby I took ter hidin' when he come. Sometimes I hid in the cow-shed, an' sometimes in the woods, an' waited till he'd cl'ared out, an' then when I come in the house, father he'd out with his cowhide, an' whip me. 'I'll teach ye,' he'd say, swearin' awful, 'I'll teach ye ter honor yer father an' mother, as brought ye inter the world, ye hussy!' An' after a while, what with that, an' seein' mother a-cryin' 'roun', I begun ter git enough of it, an' at last I got so I didn't keer. So I stood up an' let him marry me; but," she added, with smouldering fire in her faded blue eyes, "I 'lowed I'd make him sorry fur it, an' I reckon I hev! But he won't let on. Ketch him!"

This, and her subsequent history, her valorous struggle with poverty, her industry and tidiness, her intense, though blindly foolish, love for her numerous offspring, and a general soft-heartedness toward all the world, except "niggers" and the father of her children, interested me in the woman to an extent which has proved disastrous to my comfort—and pocket. I cannot tell how it came about, but at an early period of our acquaintance Mrs. Angel began to take a lively interest in my wardrobe, not only promptly securing such articles as I had already condemned as being too shabby, even for the wear of an elderly Government employé, but going to the length of suggesting the laying aside of others which I had modestly deemed capable of longer service. From this, it was but a step to placing a species of lien upon all newly purchased garments, upon which she freely commented, with a view to their ultimate destination. It is not pleasant to go through the world with the feeling of being mortgaged as to one's apparel, but though there have been moments when I have meditated rebellion, I have never been able to decide upon any practicable course of action.

I cannot recall the time when Mrs. Angel left my room without a package of some description. She carries with her always a black satchel, possessing the capacity and insatiability of a conjurer's bag, but, unlike that article, while almost anything may be gotten into it, nothing ever comes out of it.

Her power of absorption was simply marvellous. Fortunately, however, the demon of desire which possesses her may be appeased, all other means failing, with such trifles as a row of pins, a few needles, or even stale newspapers.

"He reads 'em," she explained, concerning the last, "an' then I dresses my pantry shelves with 'em."

"It is a wonder your husband never taught you to read," I said once, seeing how wistfully she was turning the pages of a "Harper's Weekly."

The look of concentrated hate flashed into her face again.

"He 'lows a woman ain't got no call ter read," she answered, bitterly. "I allers laid off to larn, jess ter spite him, but I ain't never got to it yit."

I came home from my office one day late in autumn, to find Mrs. Angel sitting by the fire in my room, which, as I board with friends, is never locked. Her customary trappings of woe were enhanced by a new veil of cheap crape which swept the floor, and her round, rosy visage wore an expression of deep, unmitigated grief. A patch of poudre de riz ornamented her tip-tilted nose, a delicate aroma of Farina cologne-water pervaded the atmosphere, and the handle of my ivory-backed hair-brush protruded significantly from one of the drawers of my dressing-bureau.

I glanced at her apprehensively. My first thought was that the somewhat mythical personage known as "he" had finally shuffled himself out of existence. I approached her respectfully.

"Good-evenin'," she murmured. "Pretty day!"

"How do you do, Mrs. Angel?" I responded, sympathetically. "You seem to be in trouble. What has happened?"

"A heap!" was the dismal answer. "Old Mr. Lawson's dead!"

"Ah! Was he a near relative of yours?" I inquired.

"Well," she answered,—somewhat dubiously, I thought,—"not so nigh. He wasn't rightly no kin. His fust wife's sister married my oldest sister's husband's brother—but we's allers knowed him, an' he was allers a-comin' an' a-goin' amongst us like one o' the family. An' if ever they was a saint he was one!"

Here she wiped away a furtive tear with a new black-bordered kerchief. I was silent, feeling any expression of sympathy on my part inadequate to the occasion.

"He was prepared," she resumed, presently, "ef ever a man was. He got religion about forty year ago—that time all the stars fell down, ye know. He'd been ter see his gal, an' was goin' home late, and the stars was a-fallin', and he was took then. He went into a barn, an' begun prayin', an' he ain't never stopped sence."

Again the black-bordered handkerchief was brought into requisition.

"How are the children?" I ventured, after a pause.

"Po'ly!" was the discouraging answer. "Jinny an' Rosy an' John Henry has all had the croup. I've been a-rubbin' of 'em with Radway's Relief an' British ile, an' a-givin' on it to 'em internal, fur two days an' nights runnin'. Both bottles is empty now, and the Lord knows where the next is ter come from, fur we ain't got no credit at the 'pothecary's. He's out o' work ag'in, an' they ain't a stick o' wood in the shed, an' the grocer-man says he wants some money putty soon. Ef my hens would only lay——"

"It was unfortunate," I could not help saying, with a glance at the veil and handkerchief, "that you felt obliged to purchase additional mourning just when things were looking so badly."

She gave me a sharp glance, a glow of something like resentment crept into her face.

"All our family puts on black fur kin, ef it ain't so nigh!" she remarked with dignity.

A lineal descendant of an English earl could not have uttered the words "our family" with more hauteur. I felt the rebuke.

"Besides," she added, naïvely, "the store-keeper trusted me fur 'em."

"If only Phenie could git work," she resumed, presently, giving me a peculiar side-glance with which custom had rendered me familiar, it being the invariable precursor of a request, or a sly suggestion. "She's only fifteen, an' she ain't over 'n' above strong, but she's got learnin'. She only left off school a year ago come spring, an' she can do right smart. There's Sam Weaver's gal, as lives nex' do' to us, she's got a place in the printin'-office where she 'arns her twenty-five dollars a month, an' she never seen the day as she could read like Phenie, an' she's ugly as sin, too."

It occurred to me just here that I had heard of an additional force being temporarily required in the Printing Bureau. I resolved to use what influence I possessed with a prominent official, a friend of "better days," to obtain employment for "Phenie," for, with all the poor woman's faults and weaknesses, I knew that her distress was genuine.

"I will see if I can find some employment for your daughter," I said, after reflecting a few moments. "Come here Saturday evening, and I will let you know the result."

I knew, by the sudden animation visible in Mrs. Angel's face, that this was what she had hoped for and expected.

When I came from the office on Saturday evening, I found Mrs. Angel and her daughter awaiting me. She had often alluded to Phenie with maternal pride, as a "good-lookin' gal," but I was entirely unprepared for such a vision as, at her mother's bidding, advanced to greet me. It occurred to me that Mrs. Angel herself must have once looked somewhat as Phenie did now, except as to the eyes. That much-contemned "he" must have been responsible for the large, velvety black eyes which met mine with such a timid, deprecating glance.

She was small and perfectly shaped, and there was enough of vivid coloring and graceful curve about her to have furnished a dozen ordinary society belles. Her hair fell loosely to her waist in the then prevailing fashion, a silken, wavy, chestnut mass. A shabby little hat was perched on one side her pretty head, and the tightly fitting basque of her dress of cheap faded blue exposed her white throat almost too freely. I was glad that I could answer the anxious pleading of those eyes in a manner not disappointing. The girl's joy was a pretty thing to witness as I told her mother that my application had been successful, and that Phenie would be assigned work on Monday.

"He 'lowed she wouldn't git in," remarked Mrs. Angel, triumphantly, "an' as fur Columbus, he didn't want her to git in no how."

"Oh maw!" interrupted Phenie, blushing like a June rose.

"Oh, what's the use!" continued her mother. "Columbus says he wouldn't 'low it nohow ef he'd got a good stan'. He says as soon as ever he gits inter business fur hisself——"

"Oh maw!" interposed Phenie again, going to the window to hide her blushes.

"Columbus is a butcher by trade," went on Mrs. Angel, in a confidential whisper, "an' Phenie, she don't like the idee of it. I tell her she's foolish, but she don't like it. I reckon it's readin' them story-papers, all about counts, an' lords, an' sich, as has set her agin' butcherin'. But Columbus, he jess loves the groun' she walks on, an' he's a-goin' ter hucksterin' as soon as ever he can git a good stan'."

I expressed a deep interest in the success of Columbus, and rescued Phenie from her agony of confusion by some remarks upon other themes of a less personal nature. Soon after, mother and daughter departed.

Eight o'clock Monday morning brought Phenie, looking elated yet nervous. She wore the faded blue dress, but a smart "butterfly-bow" of rose-pink was perched in her shining hair, and another was at her throat. As we entered the Treasury building, I saw that she turned pale and trembled as if with awe, and as we passed on through the lofty, resounding corridors, and up the great flight of steps, she panted like a hunted rabbit.

At the Bureau I presented the appointment-card I had received. The superintendent gave it a glance, scrutinized Phenie closely, beckoned to a minor power, and in a moment the new employé was conducted from my sight. Just as she disappeared behind the door leading into the grimy, noisy world of printing-presses, Phenie gave me a glance over her shoulder. Such a trembling, scared sort of a glance! I felt as if I had just turned a young lamb into a den of ravening wolves.

Curiously enough, from this day the fortunes of the house of Angel began to mend. "He" was reinstated in "the Yard," the oldest boy began a thriving business in the paper-selling line, and Mrs. Angel herself being plentifully supplied with plain sewing, the family were suddenly plunged into a state of affluence which might well have upset a stronger intellect than that of its maternal head. Her lunacy took the mild and customary form of "shopping." Her trips to the Avenue (by which Pennsylvania Avenue is presupposed) and to Seventh Street became of semi-weekly occurrence. She generally dropped in to see me on her way home, in quite a friendly and informal manner (her changed circumstances had not made her proud), and with high glee exhibited to me her purchases. They savored strongly of Hebraic influences, and included almost every superfluous article of dress known to modern times. She also supplied herself with lace curtains of marvellous design, and informed me that she had bought a magnificent "bristles" carpet at auction, for a mere song.

"The bristles is wore off in some places," she acknowledged, "but it's most as good as new."

Her grief for the lamented Mr. Lawson found new expression in "mourning" jewelry of a massive and sombre character, including ear-rings of a size which threatened destruction to the lobes of her small ears. Her fledgelings were liberally provided with new garments of a showy and fragile nature, and even her feelings toward "him" became sufficiently softened to allow the purchase of a purple necktie and an embroidered shirt-bosom for his adornment.

"He ain't not ter say so ugly, of a Sunday, when he gits the smudge washed off," she remarked, in connection with the above.

"It must have been a great satisfaction to you," I suggested (not without a slight tinge of malice), "to be able to pay off the grocer and the dry-goods merchant."

Mrs. Angel's spirits were visibly dampened by this unfeeling allusion. Her beaming face darkened.

"They has to take their resks," she remarked, sententiously, after a long pause, fingering her hard-rubber bracelets, and avoiding my gaze.

Once I met her on the Avenue. She was issuing from a popular restaurant, followed by four or five young Angels, all in high spirits and beaming with the consciousness of well-filled stomachs, and the possession of divers promising-looking paper bags. She greeted me with an effusiveness which drew upon me the attention of the passers-by.

"We've done had oyshters!" remarked John Henry.

"'N' ice-cream 'n' cakes!" supplemented Rosy.

The fond mother exhibited, with natural pride, their "tin-types," taken individually and collectively, sitting and standing, with hats and without. The artist had spared neither carmine nor gilt-foil, and the effect was unique and dazzling.

"I've ben layin' off ter have 'em took these two year," she loudly exclaimed, "an' I've done it! He'll be mad as a hornet, but I don't keer! He don't pay fur 'em!"

A vision of the long-suffering grocer and merchant rose between me and those triumphs of the limner's art, but then, as Mrs. Angel herself had philosophically remarked, "they has to take their resks."

Phenie, too, in the beginning, was a frequent visitor, and I was pleased to note that her painful shyness was wearing off a little, and to see a marked improvement in her dress. There was, with all her childishness, a little trace of coquetry about her,—the innocent coquetry of a bird preening its feathers in the sunshine. She was simply a soft-hearted, ignorant little beauty, whose great, appealing eyes seemed always asking for something, and in a way one might find it hard to refuse.

In spite of her rich color, I saw that the girl was frail, and knowing that she had a long walk after leaving the cars, I arranged for her to stay with me overnight when the weather was severe, and she often did so, sleeping on the lounge in my sitting-room.

At first I exerted myself to entertain my young guest,—youth and beauty have great charms for me,—but beyond some curiosity at the sight of pictures, I met with no encouragement. The girl's mind was a vacuum. She spent the hours before retiring in caressing and romping with my kitten, in whose company she generally curled up on the hearth rug and went to sleep, looking, with her disarranged curly hair and round, flushed cheeks, like a child kept up after its bed-time.

But after a few weeks she came less frequently, and finally not at all. I heard of her occasionally through her mother, however, who reported favorably, dilating most fervidly upon the exemplary punctuality with which Phenie placed her earnings in the maternal hand.

It happened one evening in mid-winter that I was hastening along Pennsylvania Avenue at an early hour, when, as I was passing a certain restaurant, the door of the ladies' entrance was pushed noisily open, and a party of three came out. The first of these was a man, middle-aged, well-dressed, and of a jaunty and gallant air, the second a large, high-colored young woman, the third—Phenie. She looked flushed and excited, and was laughing in her pretty, foolish way at something her male companion was saying to her. My heart stood still; but, as I watched the trio from the obscurity of a convenient door-way, I saw the man hail a Navy Yard car, assist Phenie to enter it, and return to his friend upon the pavement.

I was ill at ease. I felt a certain degree of responsibility concerning Phenie, and the next day, therefore, I waited for her at the great iron gate through which the employés of the Bureau must pass out, determined to have a few words with the child in private. Among the first to appear was Phenie, and with her, as I had feared, the high-colored young woman. In spite of that person's insolent looks, I drew Phenie's little hand unresistingly through my arm, and led her away.

Outside the building, as I had half-expected, loitered the man in whose company I had seen her on the previous evening. Daylight showed him to be a type familiar to Washington eyes—large, florid, scrupulously attired, and carrying himself with a mingled air of military distinction and senatorial dignity well calculated to deceive an unsophisticated observer.

He greeted Phenie with a courtly bow, and a smile, which changed quickly to a dark look as his eyes met mine, and turned away with a sudden assumption of lofty indifference and abstraction.

Phenie accompanied me to my room without a word, where I busied myself in preparing some work for her mother, chatting meanwhile of various trifling matters.

I could see that the girl looked puzzled, astonished, even a little angry. She kept one of her small, dimpled hands hidden under the folds of her water-proof, too, and her eyes followed me wistfully and questioningly.

"Who were those people I saw you with last evening, coming from H——'s saloon?" I suddenly asked.

Phenie gave me a startled glance; her face grew pale.

"Her name," she stammered, "is Nettie Mullin."

"And the gentleman?" I asked again, with an irony which I fear was entirely thrown away.

The girl's color came back with a rush.

"His name is O'Brien, General O'Brien," she faltered. "He—he's a great man!" she added, with a pitiful little show of pride.

"Ah! Did he tell you so?" I asked.

"Nettie told me," the girl answered, simply. "She's known him a long time. He's rich and has a great deal of—of influence, and he's promised to get us promoted. He's a great friend of Nettie's, and he—he's a perfect gentleman."

She looked so innocent and confused as she sat rubbing the toe of one small boot across a figure of the carpet, that I had not the heart to question her further. In her agitation she had withdrawn the hand she had kept hitherto concealed beneath her cape, and was turning around and around the showy ring which adorned one finger.

"I am certain, Phenie," I said, "that your friend General O'Brien is no more a general and no more a gentleman than that ring you are wearing is genuine gold and diamonds."

She gave me a half-laughing, half-resentful look, colored painfully, but said nothing, and went away at length, with the puzzled, hurt look still on her face.

For several days following I went every day to the gate of the Bureau, and saw Phenie on her homeward way. For two or three days "General O'Brien" continued to loiter about the door-way, but as he ceased at length to appear, and as the system I had adopted entailed upon me much fatigue and loss of time, I decided finally to leave Phenie again to her own devices; not, however, without some words of advice and warning. She received them silently, but her large, soft eyes looked into mine with the pathetic, wondering look of a baby, who cannot comprehend why it shall not put its hand into the blaze of the lamp.

I did not see her for some time after this, but having ascertained from her mother that she was in the habit of coming home regularly, my anxiety was in a measure quieted.

"She don't seem nateral, Phenie don't," Mrs. Angel said one day. "She's kind o' quiet, like, as ef she was studyin' about something, an' she used to be everlastin' singin' an' laughin'. Columbus, he's a-gittin' kind o' oneasy an' jealous, like. Says he, 'Mrs. Angel,' says he, 'ef Phenie should go back on me after all, an' me a-scrapin', an' a-savin', an' a-goin' out o' butcherin' along o' her not favorin' it,' says he, 'why I reckon I wouldn't never git over it,' says he. Ye see him an' her's ben a-keepin' comp'ny sence Phenie was twelve year old. I tells him he ain't no call ter feel oneasy, though, not as I knows on."

Something urged me here to speak of what I knew as to Phenie's recent associates, but other motives—a regard for the girl's feelings, and reliance upon certain promises she had made me, mingled with a want of confidence in her mother's wisdom and discretion—kept me silent.

One evening—it was in March, and a little blustering—I was sitting comfortably by my fire, trying to decide between the attractions of a new magazine and the calls of duty which required my attendance at a certain "Ladies' Committee-meeting," when a muffled, unhandy sort of a knock upon my door disturbed my train of thought. I uttered an indolent "Come in!"

There was a hesitating turn of the knob, the door opened, and I rose to be confronted by a tall, broad-chested young man, of ruddy complexion and undecided features; a young man who, not at all abashed, bowed in a friendly manner, while his mild, blue eyes wandered about the apartment with undisguised eagerness. He wore a new suit of invisible plaid, an extremely low-necked shirt, a green necktie, and a celluloid pin in the form of a shapely feminine leg. Furthermore, the little finger of the hand which held his felt hat was gracefully crooked in a manner admitting the display of a seal ring of a peculiarly striking style, and an agreeable odor of bergamot, suggestive of the barber's chair, emanated from his person. It flashed over me at once that this was Phenie Angel's lover, a suspicion which his first words verified.

"Ain't Miss Angel here?" he asked, in a voice full of surprise and disappointment.

"No, she is not," I answered. "You are her friend, Columbus——"

"Columbus Dockett, ma'am," he responded. "Yes, ma'am. Ain't Phenie been here this evenin'?"

"No. Did you expect to find her here?"

Mr. Dockett's frank face clouded perceptibly, and he pushed his hair back and forth on his forehead uneasily, as he answered:

"I did, indeed, ma'am. I—you see, ma'am, she ain't been comin' home reg'lar of late, Phenie ain't, an' I ain't had no good chance to speak to her for right smart of a while. I laid off to see her to-night for certain. I've got somethin' partic'lar to say to her, to-night. You see, ma'am," he added, becoming somewhat confused, "me an' her—we—I—me an' her——"

He stopped, evidently feeling his inability to express himself with the delicacy the subject required.

"I understand, Mr. Dockett," I said, smilingly, "you and Phenie are——"

"That's it!" interposed Mr. Dockett, much relieved. "Yes, ma'am, that's how the matter stan's! I made sure of findin' Phenie here. Her ma says as that's where she's been a-stayin' nights lately."

I started. I had not seen Phenie for two or three weeks.

"I dare say she has gone home with one of the girls from the Bureau," I said, reassuringly.

I had been studying the young man's face in the meantime, and had decided that Mr. Dockett was a very good sort of a fellow. There was good material in him. It might be in a raw state, but it was very good material, indeed. He might be a butcher by trade, but surely he was the "mildest-mannered man" that ever felled an ox. His voice had a pleasant, sincere ring, and altogether he looked like a man with whom it might be dangerous to trifle, but who might be trusted to handle a sick baby, or wait upon a helpless woman with unlimited devotion.

"You don't have no idea who the girl might be?" he asked, gazing dejectedly into the crown of his hat. "'Tain't so late. I might find Phenie yit."

It happened, by the merest chance, that I did know where Nettie Mullin, in whose company I feared Phenie might again be found, boarded. That is to say, I knew the house but not its number, and standing as it did at a point where several streets and avenues intersect, its situation was one not easily imparted to another. I saw, by the look of hopeless bewilderment on Mr. Dockett's face, that he could have discovered the North-west Passage with equal facility.

I reflected, hesitated, formed a hasty resolution, and said:

"I am going out to attend a meeting, and I will show you where one of the girls, with whom I have seen Phenie, lives. You may find her there now."

The young man's face brightened a little. He expressed his thanks, and waited for me on the landing.

The house where Miss Mullin boarded was only a few squares away. It was one of a row of discouraged-looking houses, which had started out with the intention of being genteel but had long ago given up the idea.

It was lighted up cheerfully, however, we saw on approaching, and a hack stood before the door. I indicated to my companion that this was the house, and would have turned away, but at that moment the door opened, and two girls came out and descended the steps. The light from the hall, as well as that of a street-lamp, fell full upon them. There was no mistaking Miss Mullin, and her companion was Phenie,—in a gay little hat set saucily back from her face, the foolish, pretty laugh ringing from her lips.

The two girls tripped lightly across the pavement toward the carriage. As they did so, the door was opened from within (the occupant, for reasons best known to himself, preferring not to alight), and a well-clad, masculine arm was gallantly extended. Miss Mullin, giggling effusively, was about to enter, followed close by Phenie, when, with a smothered cry, Dockett darted forward and placed himself between them and the carriage.

"Phenie," he said, his voice shaking a little. "Phenie, where was you a-goin'?"

The young girl started back, confused.

"Law, Columbus!" she faltered, in a scared, faint voice.

In the meantime, the man in the carriage put his face out of the door, and eyed the intruder, for an instant, arrogantly. Then, affecting to ignore his presence altogether, he turned toward the two girls with a slightly impatient air, saying, in an indescribably offensive tone:

"Come, ladies, come. What are you stopping for?"

Dockett, who had been holding Phenie's little hand speechlessly, let it fall, and turned toward the carriage excitedly.

"Miss Angel is stoppin' to speak to me, sir," he said. "Have you got anything to say ag'inst it?"

The occupant of the carriage stared haughtily at him, broke into a short laugh, and turned again toward the girls.

Dockett, pushing his hat down upon his head, took a step nearer. The gentleman, after another glance, drew back discreetly, saying, in a nonchalant manner:

"Come, Miss Nettie. We shall be late."

"I suppose you're not going with us, then, Miss Angel?" said Miss Mullin, with a toss of her plumed hat.

Dockett turned, and looked Phenie steadily in the face.

"Be you goin' with them?" he asked, in a low voice.

"N—no!" the girl faltered, faintly. "I'll go with you, Columbus."

A muffled remark of a profane nature was heard to proceed from the carriage, the door was violently closed, and the vehicle rolled rapidly away.

I had kept discreetly aloof, although an interested spectator of the scene. Phenie, after one swift glance in my direction, had not raised her eyes again.

"We'll go with you where you're goin', ma'am," said Dockett, as the carriage disappeared, but I would not permit this.

"Well, good evenin', ma'am," he said; "I'm a thousand times obliged to you—good evenin'."

With an indescribable look into Phenie's pale, down-cast face,—a look made up of pain, tenderness and reproach,—he put her hand through his arm, and they went away.

As might have been expected, Phenie avoided me, after this, more carefully than ever. I was glad that she did so. I was also glad when, a week or two later, Mrs. Angel presented herself, in a towering state of indignation, to inform me that Phenie had received her discharge. In vain I reminded her that Phenie's position had been, from the beginning, a temporary one.

"I don't keer!" she persisted. "I'd like ter know what difference it would 'a' made to the Government—jess that little bit o' money! An' me a-needin' of it so! Why couldn't they have discharged some o' them women as sets all day on them velvet carpets an' cheers, a-doin' nothin' but readin' story-papers? Phenie's seen 'em a-doin' of it, time an' ag'in—an' she a-workin' at a old greasy machine!"

In vain I endeavored to prove that no injustice had been done. Mrs. Angel's attitude toward the United States Government remains, to this day, inflexibly hostile.

"Ef Columbus had let alone interferin' between Phenie an' them that was intendin' well by her, I reckon she'd 'a' been settin' on one o' them velvet cheers herself by this time," she remarked, mysteriously, "or a-doin' better still."

I looked at her sharply.

"They's a gentleman," she went on, with a foolish smile, "a gineral, as is all taken up with Phenie. He's a great friend o' the President's, you know, an' they's no knowin' what he might do for the gal, ef Columbus'd let alone interferin'."

"Then Phenie has told you of her new acquaintance?" I said, much relieved.

Mrs. Angel looked at me blankly.

"Lord, no!" she answered, "she never let on! No, indeed! But I knowed it—I knowed it all along. Sam Weaver's gal, she told me about it. I knowed she was keepin' company with him, kind o'."

"And you said nothing to Phenie?"

"Lord, no! Gals is bashful, Mis' Lawrence. No, indeed!"

"Nor say a word of all this to Columbus?" I asked again.

"What fur?" said Mrs. Angel, imperturbably.

He ain't got no call ter interfere, ef she kin do better."

I was silent a moment in sheer despair.

"Do you imagine, for one moment," I said, finally, "that if this general, as he calls himself, is really what he pretends to be, a gentleman and a friend of the President's, that he means honestly by Phenie?"

Mrs. Angel regarded me with a fixed stare, in which I discerned wonder at my incredulity, and indignation at the implied disparagement of her daughter.

"Why not?" she asked, with some heat. "Phenie was a-readin' me a story, not so long ago, about a man, a lord or somethin' like, as married a miller's daughter. The name was 'The Secrit Marriage,' or thereabouts. I'd like to know ef she ain't as good as a miller's daughter, any time o' day?"

I said no more. "Against stupidity even the gods strive in vain."

A month later, perhaps, Mrs. Angel, whom I had not seen since the interview just related, came toiling up the stairs with her arms piled high with suggestive-looking packages, and beamingly and unceremoniously entered my sitting-room. With rather more than her customary ease of manner, she deposited herself and parcels upon the lounge, and exclaimed, pantingly:

"Wall! Phenie an' Columbus is goin' ter be married Sunday week!"

"Ah!" I responded, with a sympathetic thrill, "so they have made it up again?"

"Yes, indeed!" she answered, "they've done made it up. They was one time I was most afeard Columbus was goin' to back out, though. 'Twas after that time when he come down here after Phenie, an' found her a-goin' out 'long o' that Bureau gal an' that man as called hisself a gineral!"

"So you found out the character of Phenie's friend at last?" I said.

"Columbus, he found it out. I'll tell ye how 'twas. Ye see, him an' Phenie was a-havin' of it that night after they got home. They was in the front room, but they's right smart of a crack 'roun' the do', an' you kin hear right smart ef you sets up clos't enough," she explained, naïvely.

"'Phenie,' says Columbus, kind o' humble like, 'I don't want no wife as don't like me better 'n ary other man in the world. Ef you likes that man, an' he's a good man, an' means right by ye, I ain't one ter stan' in your way; but,' says he, 'I don't believe he's no good. I've seen them kind befo', an' I don't have no confidence into him.'

"'Columbus,' says Phenie, kind o' spirited, fur her, 'you ain't got no call to talk agin' him. He's a gentleman, he is!'

"'All right!' says Columbus, chokin' up, 'all right. Mebbe he is—but I don't like this meetin' of him unbeknownst, Phenie. It ain't the thing. Now I want you ter promise me not to meet him any more unbeknownst till you knows more about him, an' you give me leave ter find out all about him, an' see ef I don't.'

"'I won't listen to no lies,' says Phenie, kind o' fiery.

"'I won't tell ye no lies, Phenie,' he says. 'I never has, an' I ain't goin' ter begin now.'

"Then he got up an' shoved his cheer back, and I had ter go 'way from the crack.

"Wall, Phenie looked real white an' sick after that, an' I felt right down sorry fur the gal, but I didn't let on I knew anything, 'cause 'twaren't my place ter speak fust, ye know! Wall, she dragged 'round fur three, four days,—that was after she was discharged, you see,—an' one evenin' Columbus he come in all tremblin' an' stirred up, an' him an' her went inter the room, an' I sat up ter the crack. An' Columbus he begun.

"'Phenie,' says he, his voice all hoarse an' shaky, 'Phenie, what would you say ef I was ter tell ye your fine gineral wasn't no gineral, an' was a married man at that?'

"'Prove it!' says Phenie.

"I had ter laugh ter hear her speak up so peart, like. I didn't think 'twas in her, and she not much more'n a child.

"'Wall,' says Columbus, 'ef I can't prove it, I knows them as kin.'

"'Wall,' says Phenie, 'when he tells me so hisself, I'll believe it, an' not befo'!'

"Then Columbus went away, an' I could see he was all worked up an' mad. His face was white as cotton. Phenie, she went to bed, an' I heerd her a-cryin' an' a-snubbin' all night. She couldn't eat no breakfast, nuther, though I made griddle-cakes, extry for her; an' she dressed herself an' went off somewheres—I didn't ask her, but I reckon she went down ter the city ter find out about that man. Wall, towards night she come home, an' I never see a gal look so—kind o' wild, like, an' her eyes a-shinin' an' her cheeks as red as pinies. She sot an' looked out o' the winder, an' looked, an' bimeby Columbus he come in, an' they went into the room. I couldn't hear rightly what they said, the chill'en was makin' sich a noise, but I heared Phenie bust out a-cryin' fit to break her heart, an' then Columbus, he—wall, Lord! I never did see sich a feller! He jess loves the groun' that gal's feet walks on!"

"He must be very forgiving," I said. "Phenie has used him badly."

"Wall, I do' know," she replied, with perfect simplicity. "I do' know as she was beholden to Columbus ef she could a-done better. The child didn't mean no harm."

Although aware of the impracticability of trying to render Mrs. Angel's comprehension of maternal duty clearer, I could not help saying:

"But why didn't you, as the girl's own mother and nearest friend, have a talk with Phenie in the beginning? You might have spared her a great deal of trouble."

Mrs. Angel's eyes dilated with surprise.

"Lord! Mis' Lawrence!" she exclaimed, "you do' know! Why, gals is that bashful! They couldn't tell their mothers sich things. Why, I'd 'a' died 'fore I'd 'a' told mine anything about—love-matters! Lord!"

"Well," I sighed, "I'm glad Phenie is going to marry so good a fellow as Columbus."

"Y—yes," she answered, condescendingly, "he's a good feller, Columbus is. He don't drink or smoke, an' he's mighty savin'."

I remarked here, as on other occasions, that Mrs. Angel regarded this being "savin'" as a purely masculine virtue.

"He's give Phenie most a hundred dollars a'ready," she continued, complacently. "They ain't no gal 'round as 'll have nicer things 'n Phenie."

A fortnight later the newly wedded pair called upon me. Phenie looked very sweet in her bridal finery, but there was something in her face which I did not like. It meant neither peace nor happiness. She looked older. There were some hard lines around her lips, and the childish expression of her lovely eyes had given place to a restless, absent look. Her husband was serenely unconscious of anything wanting—unconscious, indeed, of everything but his absolute bliss, and his new shiny hat. He wore a lavender necktie, now, and gloves of the same shade, which were painfully tight, and, with the hat, would have made life a burden to any but the bridegroom of a week's standing. Phenie had little to say, but Columbus was jubilantly loquacious.

"I've gone out o' butcherin' fur good an' all," he declared, emphatically. "Phenie didn't like it, an' no more do I. Hucksterin' is more to my mind, ma'am. It's cleaner an'—an' more genteel, ma'am. I've got a good stan', an' I mean to keep Phenie like a lady, ma'am!"

She lived but a year after this. She and her baby were buried in one grave. That was five years ago. Columbus still wears a very wide hat-band of crape, and mourns her sincerely.

Her death was a heavy blow to her mother, whose grief is borne with constant repining and unreasoning reflections. The fountains of her eyes overflow at the mere utterance of the girl's name.

"The doctors 'lowed 'twas consumption as ailed her," she often repeats, "but I ain't never got red o' thinkin' 'twas trouble as killed her. I used ter think, Mis' Lawrence," she says, with lowered voice, "that she hadn't never got over thinkin' of that man as fooled her so! I wish I could see him oncet! Says she ter me, time an' agin', 'Ma,' says she, 'I reckon I ain't a-goin' ter live long. I'm right young ter die, but I do' know as I keer!' says she."

"Did her husband ever suspect that she was unhappy?" I asked.

"Lord no, ma'am! Or ef he did he never let on! An' I never seen sich a man! There wasn't nothin' he didn't git her while she was sick, an' her coffin was a sight! An' he goes to her grave, rain or shine, as reg'lar as Sunday comes."

As I have said, several years have passed since Phenie's death, but Mrs. Angel's visits have never ceased. The lapse of time has left hardly any traces upon her comely exterior. In times of plenty, her soul expands gleefully and the brown-paper parcels multiply. In times of dearth, she sits, an elderly Niobe, and weeps out her woes upon my hearth-stone. The black satchel, too, by some occult power, has resisted the wear and tear of years and exposure to the elements, and continues to swallow up my substance insatiably as of yore. Occasionally, as I have said, something within me rises in arms against her quiet, yet persistent encroachments, but this is a transitory mood. Her next visit puts my resolutions to flight.

Standard Works of Fiction,

PUBLISHED BY

Charles Scribner's Sons.

Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett's Novels

THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S. One vol., 12mo, cloth, $1.50; paper, 90 cents.

"We know of no more powerful work from a woman's hand in the English language."—Boston Transcript.

HAWORTH'S. One vol., 12mo, cloth, $1.50.

"Haworth's is a product of genius of a very high order.—N. Y. Evening Post.

LOUISIANA. One vol., 12mo, $1.00.

"We commend this book as the product of a skillful, talented, well-trained pen. Mrs. Burnett's admirers are already numbered by the thousand, and every new work like this one can only add to their number."—Chicago Tribune.

SURLY TIM, and other Stories. One vol., 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

"The stories collected in the present volume are uncommonly vigorous and truthful stories of human nature."—Chicago Tribune.

EARLIER STORIES. Each, one vol., 16mo, paper.

Pretty Polly Pemberton. Kathleen. Each, 40 cents.

Lindsay's Luck. Theo. Miss Crespigny. Each, 30 cents.

"Each of these narratives has a distinct spirit, and can be profitably read by all classes of people. They are told not only with true art, but deep pathos."—Boston Post.

DR. J. G. HOLLAND'S POPULAR NOVELS.

Each one volume, 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

"To those who love a pure diction, a healthful tone, and thought that leads up to higher and better aims, that gives brighter color to some of the hard, dull phases of life, that awakens the mind to renewed activity, and makes one mentally better, the prose and poetical works of Dr. Holland will prove an ever new, ever welcome source from which to draw."—New Haven Palladium.

NICHOLAS MINTURN. A Study in a Story.

"Nicholas Minturn is the most real novel, or rather life-story, yet produced by any American writer."—Philadelphia Press.

SEVENOAKS. A Story of To-Day.

"As a story, it is thoroughly readable; the action is rapid, but not hurried; there is no flagging, and no dullness."—Christian Union.

ARTHUR BONNICASTLE. A Story of American Life.

"The narrative is pervaded by a fine poetical spirit that is alive to the subtle graces of character, as well as to the tender influences of natural scenes.... Its chief merits must be placed in its graphic and expressive portraitures of character, its tenderness and delicacy of sentiment, its touches of heartfelt pathos, and the admirable wisdom and soundness of its ethical suggestions."—N. Y. Tribune.

THE BAY PATH. A Tale of New England Colonial Life.

"A conscientious and careful historical picture of early New England days, and will well repay perusal."—Boston Sat. Eve. Gazette.

MISS GILBERT'S CAREER. An American Story.

The life and incidents are taken in about equal proportions from the city and country—the commercial metropolis and a New Hampshire village. It is said that the author has drawn upon his own early experiences and history for a large part of the narrative.

GEORGE W. CABLE'S NOVELS.

THE GRANDISSIMES. A Story of Creole Life. One vol., 12mo, $1.50.

"The Grandissimes is a novel that repays study. It opens to most of us an unknown society, an unknown world, absolutely fresh characters, a dialect of which we had only fragments before, and it illuminates a historical period that was in the dark.... It is in many respects the most original contribution to American fiction."—Hartford Courant.

OLD CREOLE DAYS. One vol., 16mo, extra cloth, $1.00.

"These charming stories attract attention and commendation by their quaint delicacy of style, their faithful delineation of Creole character, and a marked originality. The careful rendering of the dialect reveals patient study of living models; and to any reader whose ear is accustomed to the broken English, as heard in parts of our city every day, its truth to nature is striking."—New Orleans Picayune.

MADAME DELPHINE. One vol., square 12mo, cloth, 75 cents.

"This is one of the books in which the reader feels a kind of personal interest and is sorry that he cannot continue the acquaintance of their people after the volume is closed."—Philadelphia Inquirer.

EDWARD EGGLESTON'S NOVELS.

ROXY. One vol., 12mo, cloth, with twelve full-page illustrations from original designs by Walter Shirlaw. Price, $1.50.

"One of the ablest of recent American novels, and indeed in all recent works of fiction."—The London Spectator.

THE CIRCUIT RIDER. A Tale of the Heroic Age. One vol., 12mo, extra cloth, illustrated with over thirty characteristic drawings by G. G. White and Sol. Eytinge. Price $1.50.

"The best American story, and the most thoroughly American one that has appeared for years."—Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.

H. H. BOYESEN'S NOVELS.

FALCONBERG. A Novel. Illustrated. One vol., $1.50.

"It is a good story, out of the ordinary rut, and wholly enjoyable."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

GUNNAR. A Tale of Norse Life. One vol., square 12mo, $1.25.

"This little book is a perfect gem of poetic prose; every page is full of expressive and vigorous pictures of Norwegian life and scenery. Gunnar is simply beautiful as a delicate, clear, and powerful picture of peasant life in Norway."—Boston Post.

ILKA ON THE HILL-TOP, and Other Stories. One vol., square 12mo, $1.00.

"Mr. Boyesen's stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness, and a drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive than they are strong."—Home Journal.

TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES. A New Edition. One vol., square 12mo, $1.00.

"The charm of Mr. Boyesen's stories lies in their strength and purity; they offer, too, a refreshing escape from the subtlety and introspection of the present form of fiction. They are robust and strong without caricature or sentimentality."—Chicago Interior.

QUEEN TITANIA. One vol., square 12mo, $1.00.

"One of the most pure and lovable creations of modern fiction."—Boston Sunday Herald.

"The story is a thoroughly charming one, and there is much ingenuity in the plot."—The Critic.

For sale by all booksellers, or sent, post-paid, upon receipt of price, by

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, Publishers,
743 and 745 Broadway, New York.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIGER LILY, AND OTHER STORIES ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

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.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- TIGER LILY AND OTHER STORIES

- CONTENTS.

- TIGER-LILY.

- THIRZA.

- MOLLY.

- A SUMMER'S DIVERSION.

- MY FRIEND MRS. ANGEL. A WASHINGTON SKETCH.

- Standard Works of Fiction,

- Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett's Novels

- DR. J. G. HOLLAND'S POPULAR NOVELS.

- GEORGE W. CABLE'S NOVELS.

- EDWARD EGGLESTON'S NOVELS.

- H. H. BOYESEN'S NOVELS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE