BESSIE'S FORTUNE. 

A Novel. 

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, AUTHOR OF

TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. --DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. --MILBANK. --ENGLISHORPHANS. --LENA RIVERS. --ETHELYN'S MISTAKE. --HUGHWORTHINGTON. --MADELINE. --WEST LAWN. --MARIAN GREY--EDNA BROWNING, ETC. 

NEW YORK:_G. W. Dillingham, Publisher_, SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & CO. LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. MDCCCLXXXVIII. 

TO MY NEPHEW, WALTER H. TWICHELL

(OF WORCESTER. MASS. )

I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF BESSIE, WHICH WILL REMIND HIM OF A HAPPY YEAR IN EUROPE. 

CONTENTS

PART I. 

I. The Jerrolds of BostonII. Grey JerroldIII. LucyIV. Thanksgiving Day at Grey's ParkV. The Old Man and the BoyVI. Miss Betsey McPhersonVII. The Dinner at Which Bessie is IntroducedVIII. After The DinnerIX. The Horror at the Farm-HouseX. The InterviewXI. At the Old Man's BedsideXII. The StoryXIII. Facing itXIV. The Effect of the StoryXV. Grey and the SecretXVI. Expecting Bessie

PART II. 

I. StoneleighII. The McPhersonsIII. At Monte CarloIV. Little BessieV. At Penrhyn ParkVI. Seven Years LaterVII. Neil's DiscomfortureVIII. Jack and BessieIX. Christmas at StoneleighX. GreyXI. Christmas DayXII. The ContractXIII. The New GreyXIV. Miss McPherson and the LetterXV. From January to MarchXVI. From March to JuneXVII. Mrs. Rossiter-BrowneXVIII. The Birds which sang, and the shadows which FellXIX. What Grey and Jack DidXX. What The McPhersons DidXXI. What Daisy Did

PART III. 

I. In RomeII. FarewellIII. DeadIV. Poor DaisyV. Bessie's DecisionVI. In LiverpoolVII. On the ShipVIII. Grey and his AuntIX. Bessie is PromotedX. Bessie meets her AuntXI. Miss McPherson's HousemaidXII. Bessie's SuccessorXIII. Bessie goes to Grey's ParkXIV. Telling BessieXV. Wedding BellsXVI. Bessie's FortuneXVII. Old FriendsXVIII. Home againXIX. Joel Rogers' MonumentXX. After Five Years

BESSIE'S FORTUNE. 

PART I. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE JERROLDS OF BOSTON. 

Mrs. Geraldine Jerrold, of Boston, had in her girlhood been MissGeraldine Grey, of Allington, one of those quiet, pretty little townswhich so thickly dot the hills and valleys Of New England. Her father, who died before her marriage, had been a sea-captain, and a man of greatwealth, and was looked upon as a kind of autocrat, whose opinion was alaw and whose friendship was an honor. When a young lady, Miss Geraldinehad chafed at the stupid town and the stupider people, as she designatedthe citizens of Allington, and had only been happy when the house atGrey's Park was full of guests after the manner of English houses, wherehospitality is dispensed on a larger scale than is common in America. She had been abroad, and had spent some weeks in Derbyshire at thePeacock Inn, close to the park of Chatsworth, which she admired so muchthat on her return to Allington she never rested until the five acres ofland, in the midst of which her father's house stood, were improved andfitted up as nearly as possible like the beautiful grounds across thesea. With good taste and plenty of money, she succeeded beyond her mostsanguine hopes, and Grey's Park was the pride of the town, and thewonder of the entire county. A kind of show place it became, and MissGeraldine was never happier or prouder than when strangers were goingover the grounds or through the house, which was filled with rarepictures and choice statuary gathered from all parts of the world, forCaptain Grey had brought something curious and costly from every port atwhich his vessel touched, so that the house was like a museum, or, asMiss Geraldine fancied, like the palaces and castles in Europe, whichare shown to strangers in the absence of the family. 

At the age of twenty-two, Miss Geraldine had married Burton Jerrold, ayoung man from one of the leading banks in Boston, and whose father, Peter Jerrold, had, for years, lived on a small farm a mile or more fromthe town of Allington. So far as Geraldine knew, the Jerrold blood wasas good as the Grey's, even if old Peter did live a hermit life and weara drab overcoat which must have dated back more years than she couldremember. No one had ever breathed a word of censure against thepeculiar man, who was never known to smile, and who seldom spoke excepthe was spoken to, and who, with his long white hair falling around histhin face, looked like some old picture of a saint, when on Sunday hesat in his accustomed pew by the door, and like the publican, seemedalmost to smite upon his breast as he confessed himself to be amiserable sinner. 

Had Burton Jerrold remained at home and been content to till the barrensoil of his father's rocky farm, not his handsome face, or polishedmanners, or adoration of herself as the queen of queens, could have wona second thought from Geraldine, for she hated farmers, who smelled ofthe barn and wore cowhide boots, and would sooner have died than been afarmer's wife. But Burton had never tilled the soil, nor worn cowhideboots nor smelled of the barn, for when he was a mere boy, his motherdied, and an old aunt, who lived in Boston, took him for her own, andgave him all the advantages of a city education until he was old enoughto enter one of the principal banks as a clerk; then she died and lefthim all her fortune, except a thousand dollars which she gave to hissister Hannah, who still lived at home upon the farm, and was almost assilent and peculiar as the father himself. 

"Marry one of the Grey girls if you can, " the aunt had said to hernephew upon her death bed. "It is a good family, and blood is worth morethan money; it goes further toward securing you a good position inBoston society. The Jerrold blood is good, for aught I know, though notequal to that of the Greys. Your father is greatly respected inAllington, where he is known, but he is a codger of the strictest type, and clings to everything old-fashioned and _outre_. He has resisted allmy efforts to have him change the house into something more modern, evenwhen, for the sake of your mother, I offered to do it at my own expense. Especially was I anxious to tear down that projection which he calls alean-to, but when I suggested it to him, and said I would bring acarpenter at once, he flew into such a passion as fairly frightened me. 'The lean-to should not be touched for a million of dollars; hepreferred it as it was, ' he said; so I let him alone. He is a strangeman, and--and--Burton, I may be mistaken, but I have thought there wassomething he was hiding. Else, why does he never smile, or talk, or lookyou straight in the face? And why is he always brooding, with his headbent down and his hands clenched together? Yes, there _is_ somethinghidden, and Hannah knows it, and this it is which turned her hair greyso early, and has made her as queer and reticent as your father. Thereis a secret between them, but do not try to discover it. There may bedisgrace of some kind which would affect your whole life, so let italone. Make good use of what I leave you, and marry one of the Greys. Lucy is the sweeter and the more amiable, but Geraldine is moreambitious and will help you to reach the top. "

This was the last conversation Mrs. Wetherby ever held with her nephew, for in two days more she was dead, and Burton buried her in Mt. Auburn, and went back to the house which was now his, conscious of threedistinct ideas which even during the funeral had recurred to himconstantly. First, that he was the owner of a large house and twentythousand dollars; second, that he must marry one of the Greys, ifpossible; and third, that there was some secret between his father andhis sister Hannah; something which had made them what they were;something which had given his father the name of the half-crazy hermit, and to his sister that of the recluse; something which he must never tryto unearth, lest it bring disquiet and disgrace. 

That last word had an ugly sound to Burton Jerrold, who was moreambitious even than his aunt, more anxious that people in high positionsshould think well of him, and he shivered as he repeated it to himself, while all sorts of fancies flitted though his brain. 

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed at last, as he arose, and, walking to thewindow, looked out upon the common, where groups of children wereplaying. "There is nothing hidden. Why should there be? My father hasnever stolen, or forged, or embezzled, or set any one's house on fire. They esteem him a saint in Allington, and I know he reads his Bible allthe time when he is not praying, and once he was on his knees in hisbedroom a whole hour, for I timed him, and thought he _must_ be crazy. Of course so good a man can have nothing concealed, and yet--"

Here Burton shivered again, and continued: "And yet, I always seem to bein a nightmare when I am at the old hut, and once I told Hannah Ibelieved the house was haunted, for I heard strange sounds at night, soft footsteps, and moans, and whisperings, and the old dog Rover howledso dismally, that he kept me awake, and made me nervous and wretched, Idon't remember what Hannah said, except that she made light of my fears, and told me that she would keep Rover in her room at night on the floorby her bed, which she did ever after when I was at home. No, there isnothing, but I may as well sound Hannah a little, and will go to her atonce. "

When Mrs. Wetherby died, her nephew sent a message to his father andsister, announcing her death, and the time of the funeral. He felt ithis duty to do so much, but he did not say to them, "Come, I expectyou. " In fact, away down in his heart, there was a hope that they wouldnot come. His father was well enough in Allington, where he was known;but, what a figure he would cut in Boston, in his old drab surtout andwhite hat, which he had worn since Burton could remember. Hannah wasdifferent, and must have been pretty in her early girlhood. Indeed, shewas pretty now, and no one could look into her pale, sad face, and softdark eyes, or listen to her low, sweet voice, without being attractedto her and knowing instinctively that, in spite of her plain Quakerishdress, she was a lady in the true sense of the word. So, when she camealone to pay the last token of respect to the aunt who had never beenvery gracious to her, Burton felt relieved, though he wished that herbonnet was a little more fashionable, and suggested her buying a newone, which he would pay for. But Hannah said "no, " very quietly andfirmly, and that was the end of it. The old style bonnet was worn aswell as the old style cloak, and Burton felt keenly the differencebetween her personal appearance and his own. He, the Boston dandy, withevery article of dress as faultless as the best tailor could make it, and she, the plain countrywoman, with no attempt at style or fashion, with nothing but her own sterling worth to commend her, and this was farmore priceless than all the wealth of the Indies. Hannah Jerrold hadbeen tried in the fire, and had come out purified and almost Christlikein her sweet gentleness and purity of soul. She knew her brother wasashamed of her--whether designedly or not, he always made her feelit--but she had felt it her duty to attend her aunt's funeral, eventhough it stirred anew all the bitterness of her joyless life. 

And now the funeral was over, and she was going home that veryafternoon--to the gloomy house among the rocks, where she had grown old, and her hair gray long before her time--going back to the burden whichpressed so heavily upon her, and from which she shrank as she had neverdone before. Not that she wished to stay in that grand house, where shewas so sadly out of place, but she wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, sothat she escaped from the one spot so horrible to her. She was thinkingof all this and standing with her face to the window, when her brotherentered the room and began, abruptly:

"I say, Hannah, I want to ask you something. Just before Aunt Wetherbydied, she had a long talk with me on various matters, and among otherthings she said she believed there was something troubling you andfather, some secret you were hiding from me and the world. Is it so? Doyou know anything which I do not?"

"Yes, many things. "

The voice which gave this reply was not like Hannah's voice, but washard and sharp, and sounded as if a great ways off, and Burton could seehow violently his sister was agitated, even though she stood with herback to him. Suddenly he remembered that his aunt had also said: "Ifthere is a secret, never seek to discover it, lest it should bringdisgrace. " And here he was, trying to find it out almost before she wascold. A great fear took possession of Burton then, for he was theveriest moral coward in the world, and before Hannah could say anotherword, he continued:

"Yes, Aunt Wetherby was right. There is something; there has always beensomething; but don't tell me, please, I'd rather not know. "

He spoke very gently for him, for somehow, there had been awakenedwithin him a great pity for his sister, and by some sudden intuition heseemed to understand all her loneliness and pain. If there had been awrongdoing it was not her fault; and as she still stood with her back tohim, and did not speak, he went up to her, and laying his hand upon hershoulder, said to her:

"I regret that I asked a question which has so agitated you, and, believe me, I am sorry for you, for whatever it is, you are innocent. "

Then she turned toward him with a face as white as ashes and a look ofterror in her large black eyes, before which he quailed. Never in hislife, since he was a little child, had he seen her cry, but now, afterregarding him fixedly a moment, she broke into such a wild fit ofsobbing that he became alarmed, and passing his arm around her, lead herto a seat and made her lean her head upon him, while he smoothed herheavy hair, which was more than half gray, and she was only three yearshis senior. 

At last she grew calm, and rising up, said to him:

"Excuse me, I am not often so upset--I have not cried in years--notsince Rover died, " here her voice trembled again, but she went on quitesteadily. "He was all the companion I had, you know, and he was sofaithful, so true. Oh, it almost broke my heart when he died and left methere alone!"

There was a world of pathos in her voice, as she uttered the last twowords, "There alone, " and it flashed upon Burton that there was moremeaning in them than was at first indicated; that to live there alonewas something from which his sister recoiled. Standing before her, withhis hand still upon her head, he remembered, that she had not alwaysbeen as she was now, so quiet and impassive, with no smile upon herface, no joy in her dark eyes. As a young girl, in the days when he, too, lived at home, and slept under the rafters in the low-roofed house, she had been full of life and frolic, and played with him all day long. She was very pretty then, and her checks, now so colorless, were red asthe damask roses which grew by the kitchen door, while her wavy hair wasbrown, like the chestnuts they used to gather from the trees, in therocky pasture land. It was wavy still, and soft and luxurient, but itwas iron grey, and she wore it plain, in a knot at the back of her head, and only a few short hairs, which would curl about her forehead in spiteof her, softened the severity of her face. Just when the change began inhis sister. Burton could not remember, for, on the rare occasions whenhe visited his home he had not been a close observer, and had only beenconscious of a desire to shorten his stay as much as possible, andreturn to his aunt's house, which was much more to his taste. He shoulddie if he had to live in that lonely spot, he thought, and in his newlyawakened pity for his sister, he said to her, impulsively:

"Don't go back there to stay. Live with me. I am all alone, and musthave some one to keep my house. Von and I can get on nicely together. "

He made no mention of his father, and he did not half mean what he saidto his sister, and had she accepted his offer he would have regrettedthat it had ever been made. But she did not accept it, and she answeredhim at once:

"No, Burton, so long as father lives I must stay with him, and you willbe happier without than with me. We are not at all alike. But I thankyou for asking me all the same, and now it is time for me to go, if Itake the four o'clock train. Father will be expecting me. "

Burton went with her to the train, and saw her into the car, and boughther _Harper's Monthly_, and bade her good-by, and then, in passing out, met and lifted his hat to the Misses Grey, Lucy and Geraldine, who hadbeen visiting in Boston, and were returning to Allington. 

This encounter drove his sister from his mind, and made him think of hisaunt's injunction to marry one of the Greys. Lacy was the prettier andgentler of the two, the one whom everybody loved, and who would make himthe better wife. Probably, too, she would be more easily won than thehaughty Geraldine, who had not many friends. And so, before he reachedhis house on Beacon street, he had planned a matrimonial campaign andcarried it to a successful issue, and made sweet Lucy Grey the mistressof his home. 

It is not our purpose to enter into the details of Burton's wooing. Suffice it to say, that it was unsuccessful, for Lucy said "No, " verypromptly, and then he tried the proud Geraldine, who listened to hissuit, and, after a little, accepted him, quite as much to his surpriseas to that of her acquaintances, who knew her ambitious nature. 

"Anything to get away from stupid Allington, " she said to her sisterLucy, who she never suspected had been Burton's first choice. "I hatethe country, and I like Boston, and like Mr. Jerrold well enough. He isgood-looking, and well-mannered, and has a house and twenty thousanddollars, a good position in the bank, and no bad habits. Of course, Iwould rather that his father and sister were not such oddities: but I amnot marrying them, and shall take good care to keep them in theirplaces, which places are not in Boston. "

And so the two were married, Burton Jerrold and Geraldine Grey, andthere was a grand wedding, at Grey's Park, and the supper was served onthe lawn, where there was a dance, and music, and fireworks in theevening; and Sam Lawton, a half-witted fellow, went up in a balloon, andcame down on a pile of rocks on the Jerrold farm, and broke his leg; andpeople were there from Boston, and Worcester, and Springfield, and NewYork, but very few from Allington, for the reason that very few werebidden. Could Lucy have had her way, the whole town would have beeninvited; but Geraldine overruled her, and made herself life-long enemiesof the people who had known her from childhood. Peter Jerrold staid athome, just as Burton hoped he would, but Hannah was present, in a newgray silk, with some old lace, and a bit of scarlet ribbon at herthroat, and her hair arranged somewhat after the fashion of the times. This was the suggestion of Lucy Grey, who had more influence over HannahJerrold than any one else in the world, and when she advised the newsilk, and the old lace, and the scarlet ribbon, Hannah assented readily, and looked so youthful and pretty, in spite of her thirty years, thatthe Rev. Mr. Sanford, who was a bachelor, and had preached in Allingtonfor several years, paid her marked attention, helping her to ices, andwalking with her for half an hour on the long terrace in a corner of thepark. 

There was a trip to Saratoga, and Newport, and the Catskills, and then, early in September, Burton brought his bride to the house on Beaconstreet, which Geraldine at once remodeled and fitted up in a styleworthy of her means, and of the position she meant her husband tooccupy. He was a growing man, and from being clerk in a bank, soon cameto be cashier, and then president, and money and friends poured in uponhim, and Geraldine's drawing-rooms were filled with the elite of thecity. The fashionables, the scholars, the artists, and musicians, andwhoever was in any degree famous, met with favor from Mrs. Geraldine, who liked nothing better than to fill her house with such people, andfancy herself a second Madame De Stael, in her character as hostess. Allthis was very pleasing to Burton, who, having recovered from anysentimental feeling he might have entertained for Lucy, blessed the goodfortune which gave him Geraldine instead. He never asked himself if heloved her; he only knew that he admired, and revered, and worshiped heras a woman of genius and tact; that what she thought, he thought; whatshe wished, he wished; and what she did he was bound to say was right, and make others think so too. There had been a condescension on her partwhen she married him, and she never let him forget it; while he, too, mentally acknowledged it, and felt that, for it, he owed her perfectallegiance, from which he never swerved. 

CHAPTER II. 

GREY JERROLD. 

Just a year after the grand wedding at Grey's Park, there was born toBurton and Geraldine a little boy, so small and frail and puny, thatmuch solicitude would have been felt for him had there not been agreater anxiety for the young mother, who went so far down toward theriver of death that every other thought was lost in the great fear forher. Then the two sisters, Hannah and Lucy, came, the latter giving allher time to Geraldine, and the former devoting herself to the feeblelittle child, whose constant wail so disturbed the mother that shebegged them to take it away where she could not hear it cry, it made herso nervous. 

Geraldine did not like children, and she seemed to care so little forher baby that Hannah, who had loved it with her whole soul the momentshe took it in her arms and felt its soft cheek against her own, said toher brother one day:

"I must go home to-morrow, but let me take baby with me. His cryingdisturbs your wife, who hears him however far he may be from her room. He is a weak little thing, but I will take the best of care of him, andbring him back a healthy boy. "

Burton saw no objection to the plan, and readily gave his consent, provided his wife was willing. 

Although out of danger, Geraldine was still too sick to care for herbaby, and so it went with Hannah to the old home among the rocks, whereit grew round and plump, and pretty, and filled the house with the musicof its cooing and its laughter, and learned to stretch its fat handstoward the old grandfather, who never took it in his arms, or laid hishands upon it. But Hannah once saw him kneeling by the cradle where thechild was sleeping, and heard him whisper through his tears:

"God bless you, my darling boy, and may you never know what it is to sinas I have sinned, until I am not worthy to touch you with my finger. Oh, God forgive and make me clean as this little child. "

Then Hannah knew why her father kept aloof from his grandson, and pitiedhim more than she had done before. 

It was the first of October before Geraldine came up to Allington toclaim her boy, of whom she really knew nothing. 

Only once since her marriage had she been to the farm-house, and thenshe had driven to the door in her handsome carriage with thehigh-stepping bays, and had held up her rich silk dress as she passedthrough the kitchen into the "best room, " around which she glanced alittle contemptuously. 

"Not as well furnished as my cook's room, " she thought, but she tried tobe gracious, and said how clean every thing was, and asked Hannah if shedid not get very tired doing her own work, and praised the dahliasgrowing by the south door, and ate a few plums, and drank some water, which she said was so cold that it made her think of the famous well atCarisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight. 

"Your well must be very deep. Where is it?" she asked, not because shecared, but because she must say something. 

On being told it was in the woodshed she started for it, and mistakingthe door, was walking into a bedroom, when she was seized roughly by herfather-in-law, whose face was white as ashes, and whose voice shook, ashe said:

"Not in there; this is the way. "

For an instant Geraldine looked at him in surprise he seemed soagitated; then, thinking to herself that probably his room was indisorder, and the bed unmade, she dismissed it from her mind, and wentto investigate the well, whose water tasted like that at CarisbrookeCastle. 

Half an hour in all she remained at the farm-house, and that was theonly time she had honored it with her presence until the day when shecame to take her boy away. 

Not yet fully recovered from her dangerous illness, she assumed all theairs of an invalid, and kept her wraps around her, and shrank a littlewhen her husband put her boy in her lap, and asked her if he was not abeauty, and did not do justice to Hannah's care, and the brindle cowwhose milk he had fed upon. And in truth he was a healthy, beautifulchild, with eyes as blue as the skies of June, and light chestnut hair, which lay in thick curls upon his head. But he was strange to Geraldine, and she was strange to him, and after regarding her a moment with hisgreat blue eyes, he turned toward Hannah, and with a quivering lip beganto cry for her. And Hannah took him in her arms and hugging him to herbosom, felt that her heart was breaking. She loved him so much, he hadbeen so much company for her, and had helped to drive away in part, thehorror with which her life was invested, and now he was going from her;all she had to love in the wide world, and so far as she knew, the onlyliving being that loved her with a pure, unselfish love. 

"Oh, brother! oh, sister!" she cried, as she covered the baby's dimpledhands with kisses, "don't take him from me; let me have him; let himstay awhile longer. I shall die here alone with baby gone. "

But Mrs. Geraldine said "No, " very decidedly, for though as yet shecared but little for her child, she cared a great deal for theproprieties, and her friends were beginning to wonder at the protractedabsence of the boy; so she must take him from poor Hannah, who tied onhis scarlet cloak and cap of costly lace, and carried him to thecarriage and put him into the arms of the red-haired German woman whowas hereafter to be his nurse and win his love from her. 

Then the carriage drove off, but, as long as it was in sight, Hannahstood just where it had left her, watching it with a feeling of suchutter desolation as she had never felt before. 

"Oh, baby, baby! come back to me!" she moaned piteously. "What shall Ido without you?"

"God will comfort you, my daughter. He can be more to you than babywas, " the old father said to her, and she replied:

"I know that. Yes, but just now I cannot pray, and I am so desolate. "

The burden was pressing more heavily than ever, and Hannah's face grewwhiter, and her eyes larger, and sadder, and brighter as the days wentby, and there was nothing left of baby but a rattle-box with which hehad played, and the cradle in which he had slept. This last she carriedto her room up stairs and made it the shrine over which her prayers weresaid, not twice or thrice, but many times a day, for Hannah had earlylearned to take every care, great and small, to God, knowing that peacewould come at last, though it might tarry long. 

Geraldine sent her a black silk dress, and a white Paisley shawl intoken of her gratitude for all she had done for the baby. She also wroteher a letter telling of the grand christening they had had, and of thehandsome robe from Paris which baby had worn at the ceremony. 

"We have called him Grey, " Geraldine wrote, "and perhaps, he will visityou again next summer, " but it was not until Grey was two years old, that he went once more to the farm-house and staid for several months, while his parents were in Europe. 

What a summer that was for Hannah, and how swiftly the days went by, while the burden pressed so lightly that sometimes she forgot it forhours at a time, and only remembered it when she saw how persistentlyher father shrank from the advances of the little boy, who, utterlyignoring his apparent indifference, pursued him constantly, plying himwith questions, and sometimes regarding him curiously, as if wonderingat his silence. 

One day, when the old man was sitting in his arm-chair under the appletrees in the yard, Grey came up to him, with his straw hat hanging downhis back, his blue eyes shining like stars, and all over his face thatsweet smile which made him so beautiful. Folding his little white handstogether upon his grandfather's knee, he stood a moment gazing fixedlyinto the sad face, which never relaxed a muscle, though every nerve ofthe wretched man was strung to its utmost tension and quivering withpain. The searching blue eyes of the boy troubled him, for it seemed asif they pierced to the depths of his soul and saw what was there. 

"Da-da, " Grey said at last. "Take me, peese; I'se tired. "

Oh, how the old man longed to snatch the child to his bosom and coverhis face with the kisses he had so hungered to give him, but in hismorbid state of mind he dared not, lest he should contaminate him, so herestrained himself with a mighty effort, and replied:

"No, Grey, no; I cannot take you. I am tired, too. "

"Is you sick?" was Grey's next question, to which his grandfatherreplied:

"No, I am not sick, " while he clasped both his hands tightly over hishead out of reach of the baby fingers, which sometimes tried to touchthem. 

"Is you sorry, then?" Grey continued, and the grandfather replied:

"Yes, child, very, very sorry. "

There was the sound of a sob in the old man's voice, and Grey's blueeyes opened wider as they looked wistfully at the lips trembling withemotion. 

"Has you been a naughty boy?" he said; and, with a sound like a moan, Grandpa Jerrold replied:

"Yes, yes, very, very naughty. God grant you may never know hownaughty. "

"Then why don't Auntie Hannah sut oo up in 'e bed'oom?" Grey asked, withthe utmost gravity, for, in his mind, naughtiness and being shut up inhis aunt's bedroom, the only punishment ever inflicted upon him, wereclosely connected with each other. 

Almost any one would have smiled at this remark, but Grandpa Jerrold didnot. On the contrary there came into his eyes a look of horror as heexclaimed:

"Shut me in the bedroom! That would be dreadful indeed. "

Then, springing up, he hurried away into the field and disappearedbehind a ledge of rocks, where, unseen by any eye save that of God, hewept more bitterly than he had ever done before. 

"Why, oh, why, " he cried, "must this innocent baby's questions tortureme so? and why can I never take him in my arms or lay my hands upon himlest they should leave a stain?"

Then holding up before him his hard, toil-worn hands, he tried to recallwhat it was he had heard or read of another than himself who tried torid his hands of the foul spot and could not. 

"Only the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin, " he whisperedto himself, while his lips moved spasmodically with the prayer habitualto them; four words only, "Forgive me, Lord, forgive. "

It had always been a strong desire with Grey to be led around thepremises by his grandfather, who had steadily resisted all advances ofthat kind, until with a child's quick intuition, Grey seemed tounderstand that his grandfather's hands were something he must nottouch. 

That afternoon, however, as Mr. Jerrold was walking on the green swardby the kitchen door, with his head bent down and his hands claspedbehind him, Grey stole noiselessly up to him, and grasping the righthand in both his own, held it fast, while he jumped up and down as hecalled out to Hannah, who was standing near:

"I'se dot it, I'se dot it--dada's han', an' I sal keep it, too, and tissit hard, like dat, " and the baby's lips were pressed upon the roughhand, which lay helpless and subdued in the two small palms holding itso tight. 

It was like the casting out of an evil spirit, and Granpa Jerrold felthalf his burden rolling away beneath that caress. There was a healingpower in the touch of Grey's lips, and the stain, if stain there wereupon the wrinkled hand, was kissed away, and the pain and remorse werenot so great after that. 

Grey had conquered and was free to do what he pleased with the old man, who became his very slave, going wherever Grey liked, whether up thesteep hill-side in the rear of the house or down upon the pond near by, where the white lilies grew and where there was a little boat in whichthe old man and the child spent hours together, during the long summerafternoons. 

In the large woodshed opposite the well, and very near the window ofGranpa Jerrold's bedroom, a rude bench had been placed for the use ofpails and washbasins, but Grey had early appropriated this to himselfand persisted in keeping his playthings there, in spite of all hisgrandfather's remonstrances to the contrary. If his toys were removedtwenty times a day to some other locality, twenty times a day he broughtthem back, and arranging them upon the bench sat down by them defiantly, kicking vigorously against the side of the house in token of hisvictory, and wholly unconscious that every thud of his little heels senta stab to his grandfather's heart. 

What if he should kick through the clapboards? What if the floor shouldcave in? Such were the questions which tortured the half crazed man, ashe wiped the perspiration from his face and wondered at the perversityof the boy in selecting that spot of all others, where he must play andsit and kick as only a healthy, active child can do. 

But after the day when Grey succeeded in capturing his hands, GranpaJerrold ceased to interfere with the play-house, and the boy was left inpeace upon the bench, though his grandfather often sat near and watchedhim anxiously, and always seemed relieved when the child tired of thatparticular spot and wandered elsewhere in quest of amusement. 

There was, however, one place in the house which Grey never sought topenetrate, and that was his grandfather's bedroom. It is true he hadnever been allowed to enter it, for one of Hannah's first lessons wasthat her father did not like children in his room. Ordinarily this wouldhave made no difference with Grey, who had a way of going where hepleased; but the gloomy appearance of the room where the curtains werealways down did not attract him, and he would only go as far as the doorand look in, saying to his aunt:

"Bears in there! Grey not go. "

And Hannah let him believe in the bears, and breathed more freely whenhe came away from the door, though she frequently whispered to herself. 

"Some time Grey will know, for I must tell him, and he will help me. "

This fancy that Grey was to lift the cloud which overshadowed her, was aconsolation to Hannah, and helped to make life endurable, when at lasthis parents returned from Europe, and he went to his home in Boston. After that Grey spent some portion of every summer at the farm-housegrowing more and more fond of his Aunt Hannah, notwithstanding her quietmanner and the severe plainness of her personal appearance so differentfrom his mother and his Aunt Lucy Grey. His Aunt Hannah always wore acalico dress, or something equally as plain and inexpensive, and herhands were rough and hard with toil, for she never had any one to helpher. She could not afford it, she said, and that was always her excusefor the self-denials she practiced. And still Grey knew that shesometimes had money, for he had seen his father give her gold inexchange for bills, and he once asked her why she did not use it for hercomfort. There was a look of deep pain in her eyes, and her voice wassadder than its wont, as she replied:

"I cannot touch that money. It is not mine; it would be stealing, totake a penny of it. "

Grey saw the question troubled his Aunt Hannah, and so he said no moreon the subject, but thought that when he was a man, and had means of hisown, he would improve and beautify the old farm-house, which, thoughscrupulously neat and clean, was in its furnishing plain in the extreme. Not a superfluous article, except what had been sent from Boston, hadbeen bought since he could remember, and the carpet, and chairs, andcurtains in the best room had been there ever since his father was aboy. And still Grey loved the place better than Grey's Park, where hewas always a welcome guest, and where his Aunt Lucy petted him, ifpossible, more than did his Aunt Hannah. 

And sweet Lucy Grey, in her trailing dress of rich, black silk, withruffles of soft lace at her throat and wrists, and costly diamonds onher white fingers, made a picture perfectly harmonious with Grey'snatural taste and ideas of a lady. She was lovely as are the pictures ofMurillo's Madonnas, and Grey, who knew her story, reverenced her assomething saintly and pure above any woman he had ever known. And here, perhaps, as well as elsewhere, we may very briefly tell her story, inorder that the reader may better understand her character. 

CHAPTER III. 

LUCY. 

She was five years older than her sister Geraldine, and between the twothere had been a brother--Robert, or Robin, as he was familiarlycalled--a little blue-eyed, golden-haired boy, with a face alwayswreathed in smiles, and a mouth which seemed made to kiss and be kissedin return. He was three years younger than Lucy, who, having been pettedso long as the only child, looked somewhat askance at the brother whohad come to interfere with her, and as he grew older, and developed thatwonderful beauty and winning sweetness for which he was so remarkable, the demon of jealousy took possession of the little girl, who felt attimes as if she hated him for the beauty she envied so much. 

"Oh, I wish he was blind!" she once said, in anger, when his soft blueeyes had been extolled in her hearing and compared with her own, whichwere black as midnight and bright as the wintry stars. 

And, as if in answer to her wish, an accident occurred not long after, which darkened forever the eyes which had caused her so much annoyance. Just how it happened no one knew. The two children had been playing inthe dining-room, when a great crash was heard, and a wild cry, and Robinwas found upon the floor screaming with agony, while near him lay abroken cup, which had contained a quantity of red pepper, which thehousemaid had left upon the sideboard until ready to replenish thecaster. Lucy was crying, too, with pain, for the fiery powder was in hereyes, also. But she had not received as much as Robin, who from thathour, never again saw the light of day. 

There were weeks of fearful suffering when the little hands were tied tokeep them from the eyes which the poor baby, who was only two years anda half old, said, "Bite Robin so bad, " and which, when at last the painhad ceased, and the inflammation subsided, were found to be hopelesslyblind. 

"Blind! blind! Oh, Robin, I wish I was dead!" Lucy had exclaimed, whenthey told her the sad news, and with a bitter cry she threw herselfbeside her brother on his little bed and sobbed piteously. "Oh, Robbie, Robbie, you must not be blind! Can't you see me just a little? Try, Robbie. You must see me; _you must_. "

Slowly the lids unclosed, and the sightless eyes turned upward towardthe white face above them, and then Lucy saw there was no hope; thebeautiful blue she had so envied in her wicked moods, was burned out, leaving only a blood-shot, whitish mass which would never again in thisworld see her or any other object. 

"No, shister, " the little boy said, "I tan't see 'oo now. It 'marts someyet, but bime by I see 'oo. Don't ty;" and the little hand was raisedand groped to find the bowed head of the girl weeping in such agonybeside him. 

"What for 'oo ty so? I see 'oo bime by, " he persisted, as Lucy made noreply, but wept on until her strength was exhausted and she was takenfrom the room in a state of unconsciousness, which resulted in a lownervous fever, from which she did not recover until Robbie was as wellas he ever would be, and his voice was heard again through the house inbaby laughter, for he had not yet learned what it was to be blind andhelpless. 

Lucy had said, when questioned with regard to the accident, that she hadclimbed up in a chair to get some sugar for herself and Robin from thebowl on the shelf of the sideboard, that she saw the cup of pepper andtook it up to see what it was, and let it drop from her hand, directlyinto the face of Robin, who was looking up at her. Thus she wasanswerable for his blindness, and she grew suddenly old beyond heryears, and devoted herself to her brother, with a solicitude and caremarvelous in one so young, for she was not yet six years old. 

"I must be his eyes always as long as I live, " she said, and she seldomleft his side or allowed another to care for him in the least. 

He slept in a little cot near hers. She undressed him at night, anddressed him in the morning and gave him his breakfast, always selectingthe daintiest bits for him and giving him the larger share ofeverything. Together they wandered in the park, she leading him by thehand and telling him where they were, or carrying him in her arms, whenthe way was rough, and then, when she put him down, always kissing himtenderly, while on her face there was a look of sadness pitiful to seein one so young. 

When she was seven years old, and Robin four, her mother, who had beenan invalid, ever since the birth of Geraldine, died, and that madeLucy's burden still heavier to bear. They told her, her mother would notlive till night, and with a look on her face, such as a martyr mightwear when going to the stake, Lucy put Robin from her, and going to hermother's room, asked to be left alone with her. 

"There is something I must tell her. I cannot let her die until I do, "she said, and so the watchers went out and left the mother and childtogether. 

What Lucy had to tell, no one knew; but when at the going down of thesun, the mother was dying, Lucy's head was upon her neck, and so long aslife remained, the pale hand smoothed the dark tresses of the sobbinggirl, and the white lips whispered, softly:

"God bless my little Lucy, He knows it all. He can forgive all. Try tobe happy, and never forsake poor Robbie. "

"Never, mother, never, " was Lucy's reply, and she kept the vow to theletter, becoming mother, sister, nurse, and teacher all in one, to thelittle blind Robin, who loved her in return with all the intensity ofhis nature. 

It was the wish of Mr. Grey, that Lucy should be sent to school with thechildren of her age, but she objected strongly, as it would take her somuch from Robin; so, a governess was employed in the house and whateverLucy learned, she repeated to her brother, who drank in her lessons soeagerly, that he soon became her equal in everything except the power toread and write. Particularly was he interested in the countries ofEurope, which he hoped to visit some day, in company with his sister. 

"Not that I can ever see them, " he said, "but I shall know just how theylook, because you will describe them so vividly, and I can hear the dashof the sea at Naples, and feel the old pavements in Pompeii, and thehot lava of Vesuvius. And, oh, perhaps we will go to the Holy Land, andstand just where Christ once stood, and you will see the hills He lookedupon, and the spot on which He suffered. And I shall be so glad andsomehow feel nearer to Him. And, oh, if He could be there as He wasonce--a man, you know--I'd cry to Him louder than ever old Bartimeusdid, and tell Him I was a little blind boy from America, but that Iloved Him, and wanted Him to make me see. And He would, I know. "

Such were the dreams of the enthusiastic boy, but they were never to berealized. Always delicate as a child, he grew more and more so as hebecame older, so that at last all mental labor was put aside, and whenhe was sixteen, and Lucy nineteen, they took him to St. Augustine, wherehe could hear the moan of the sea and fancy it was the Mediterranean infar-off Italy. Lucy was of course with him, and made him see everythingwith her eyes, and took him to the old fort and led him upon the seawall and through the narrow streets and out beneath the orange trees, where he liked best to sit and feel the soft, warm air upon his face andinhale the sweet perfume of the southern flowers. 

But all this did not give him strength. On the contrary, the hecticflush on his cheek deepened daily, his hands grew thinner and paler, andthe eyelids seemed to droop more heavily over the sightless eyes. Robinwas going to die, and he knew it, and talked of it freely with hissister, and of Heaven, where Christ would make him whole. 

"It will be such joy to see, " he said to her one night when they sattogether by the window of his room, with the silvery moonlight fallingon his beautiful face and making it like the face of an angel. "Such joyto see again, and the very first one I shall look at after Christ andmother, will be old blind Bartimeus, who sat by the roadside and begged. I have not had to do that, and my life has been very, very happy, foryou have been my eyes, and made me see everything. You know I have afaint recollection of the grass, and the flowers, and the trees in thepark, and that has helped me so much; and I have you in my mind, too, and you are so lovely I know, for I have heard people talk of yoursweet face and beautiful eyes; starry eyes I have heard them called. "

"Oh, Robbie, Robbie, don't!" came like cry of pain from Lucy's quiveringlips. But Robin did not heed her, and went on:

"Starry eyes--that's just what they are, I think; and I can imagine howlovingly they look at me, and how pityingly, too. There is alwayssomething so sad in your voice when you speak to me, and I say tomyself, 'That's how Lucy's eyes look at me, just as her voice soundswhen it says brother Robbie. ' I shall know you in heaven, the moment youcome, and I shall be waiting for you, and when I see your eyes I shallsay, 'That is sister Lucy, come at last!' Oh, it will be such joy!--nonight, no blindness, no pain, and you with me again as you have beenhere, only there, I shall be the guide, and lead you through the greenpastures beside the still waters, where never-fading flowers areblooming sweeter than the orange blossoms near our window. "

Lucy was sobbing hysterically, with her head in his lap, while hesmoothed the dark braids of her hair, and tried to comfort her by askingif she ought not to be glad that he was going where there was no morenight for him, and where she, too, would join him in a little while. 

"It is not that!" Lucy cried, "though it breaks my heart to think of yougone forever. How can I live without you? What shall I do when myexpiatory work is finished?"

"Expiatory work?" Robin repeated, questioningly. "What do you mean? Whathave you to expiate?--you, the noblest, most unselfish sister in theworld!"

"Much, much. Oh, Robbie, I cannot let you die with this upon my mind, even if the confession turn your love for me into hate--and you do loveme, I have made your life a little less sad than it might have been butfor me. "

"Yes, sister, you have made my life so full of happiness that, darkenedas it is, I would like to cling to it longer, though I know heaven is somuch better. "

"Thank you, Robbie--thank you for that" Lucy said; then, lifting up herhead, and looking straight into her brother's face, she continued: "Yousay you have a faint recollection of the grass, and the flowers, andthe trees in the park. Have you also any remembrance, however slight, how I looked when we were little children playing together at home?"

"I don't know for sure, " Robin replied, while for an instant a deepflush stained his pale cheeks: "I don't know for sure. Sometimes out ofthose dim shadows of the past which I have struggled so hard to retain, there comes a vision of a little girl--or, rather, there is a picturewhich comes before my mind more distinct than the grass, and the trees, and the flowers, though I always try to put it away; but it repeatsitself over and over again, and I see it in my dreams so vividly, andespecially of late, when life is slipping from me. "

"What is the picture?" Lucy said, and her face was whiter than the oneabove her. 

"It is this, " Robin replied. "I seem to see myself looking up, withoutstretched arms, toward a little girl who is standing above me, looking down at me with a face which cannot--cannot be the one I shallwelcome to heaven and know as my sister's; for this in the picture has acruel expression on it, and there is hatred in the eyes, which are solarge and black, and stare so fixedly at me. Then there is a crash, anddarkness, and a horrible pain, and loud cries, and the eyes fade away inthe blackness, and I know no more till you are sobbing over me andbegging me to say that I can see you. I remember that, I am sure, orelse it has been told me so often that it seems as if I did; but theother, the face above me, is all a fancy and a delusion of the brain. You never looked at me that way--never could. "

Here he paused, and the girl beside him withdrew herself from him, andclasping her hands tightly together, knelt abjectly at his feet as shesaid:

"Oh, Robbie, Robbie! my darling, if you could know with what shame, andanguish, and remorse I am kneeling before you, you would pity andperhaps forgive me when I have told you what I must tell you now. Butdon't touch me--don't put your hands upon me, for that would quiteunnerve me, " she continued, as she saw the thin hands groping to findher. "Sit quite still and listen, and then, if you do not loathe me witha loathing unutterable, call me sister once more, and that will beenough. "

The old cathedral clock was striking twelve when that interview ended, and when it struck the hour of midnight again Robin Grey lay dead in theroom which looked toward the sea, and the soft south wind, sweet withthe perfume of roses and orange blossoms, kissed his white face andstirred the thick curls of golden hair clustering about his brow. As isoften the case with consumptives, his death had been sudden at the last, so sudden that Lucy scarcely realized that he was dying, until she heldhim dead upon her bosom. But so long as life lasted he kept repeatingher name in accents of unutterable tenderness and love. 

"Lucy, Lucy, my precious sister, God bless you for all you have been tome, and comfort you when I am gone, darling, darling Lucy, I love you somuch; Lucy, Lucy, Lucy where are you? You must not leave me. Give meyour hand till I reach the river-bank where the angels are waiting forme, I can see them and the beautiful city over the dark river, though Ican't see you; but I shall in heaven, and I am almost there. Good-by, good-by, Lucy. "

It almost seemed as if, he were calling to her from the other world, fordeath came and froze her name upon his lips which never moved again, andLucy's work was done. Other hands than hers cared for the dead body, which was embalmed, and then sent to its northern home. 

There were crowds of people at the church where the funeral was held andwhere Robin had been baptized. The son of Captain Grey was worthy ofrespect, and the citizens turned out _en masse_, so that there wasscarcely standing room in the aisles for all who came to see the last ofRobin. Very touchingly the rector spoke of the deceased, whose shortlife had been so pure and holy, and then he eulogized the sister who haddevoted herself so unselfishly to the helpless brother, and who, hesaid, could have nothing to regret, nothing to wish undone, so absoluteand entire had been her sacrifice. Hitherto Lucy had sat as rigid as astone, but as she listened to her own praises she moved uneasily in herseat, and once put up her hand deprecatingly as if imploring him tostop. When at last the services were over, and the curious ones hadtaken their last look at the dead, and the undertaker came forward toclose the coffin-lid, her mind, which had been strained to its utmost, gave way, and not realizing what she did or meant to do, she arosesuddenly, and gliding swiftly past her father, stepped to the side ofthe coffin, and throwing back her heavy crape vail; stooped and kissedthe eyelids of her brother, saying as she did so:

"Dear Robbie, can you see me now, and do you know what I am going todo?"

There was a glitter in her eyes which told that she was half-crazed, andher father arose to lead her to her seat beside him; but she waved himback authoritatively, and in a clear, distinct voice, which rang like abell through the church, said to the astonished people:

"Wait a little. There is something I must tell you. I have tried to putit away, but I cannot. My brain is on fire, and will never be cool againuntil I confess by Robbie's coffin; then you may judge me as you please. It will make no difference, for I shall have done my duty and ceased tolive a lie, for my life has been one long series of hypocrisies anddeceit. Our clergyman has described me as a saint, worthy of a martyr'scrown, and some of you believe him, and look upon the care I gave toRobbie as something unheard-of and wonderful. And I have let you thinkso, and felt myself the veriest hypocrite that ever breathed. Don't youknow that what I did was done in expiation of a crime, a horrid, crueldeed, for I put out Robbie's eyes. I made him blind. 

"I knew you would shudder and turn from me in loathing, " she continued, in a louder, clearer tone, as she felt the thrill of surprise which ranthrough the assembly, and grew more and more excited, "But it is thetruth, I tell you. I put out those beautiful eyes of which I was soenvious because the people praised them so much. I could not bear it, and the demon of jealousy had full possession of me, young as I was, andsometimes, when I saw him preferred to me, I wished him dead, _dead_, just as he is now. Oh, Robbie, my heart is breaking with agony andshame, but I must go on. I must tell how I hated you and the pretty babyways which made you so attractive, and when I climbed up in the chairafter the lumps of sugar and saw the cup of Cayenne pepper, and youstanding below me with wide-open eyes and outstretched hands, asking meto give, the devil look possession of me and whispered that now was mychance to ruin those eyes looking up so eagerly at me. I had heard thatred pepper would make one blind, and--and--oh, horror, how can I tellthe rest?"

Lucy's voice was like a wailing cry of agony, as, covering her whiteface with her hands, she went on:

"I held the cup toward Robbie, and said: 'Is it this you want?' and whenin his ignorance he answered: 'Yes, div me some, ' I dropped it into hishands, saying to myself, 'it is not my fault if he gets it in his eyes. '

"You know the rest, how from that moment he never looked on me or anyone again; but you do not, cannot know the anguish and remorse whichfilled my soul, when I realized what I had done. From that day to thehour of Robbie's death there has never been a moment when I would nothave given my sight--yes, my life for his. And that is why I have beenthe devoted sister, as you have called me. I was trying to atone, and Idid a little. Robbie told me so, for I confessed it all to him before hedied; I told him just how vile I was, and he forgave me, and loved mejust the same and went to sleep with my name on his lips. I can see itthere now, the formation of the word Lucy, and it will be the first heutters when he welcomes me to heaven, if I am permitted to enter there. 

"I have made this confession because I thought I ought, that you mightnot think me better than I am, I know you will despise me, but it doesnot matter; Robbie forgave and loved me to the last, and that alone willkeep me from going mad. "

She ceased speaking, and with a low, gasping sob fell forward into thearms of her father, who had stepped to her side in time to receive her. 

It was a blustering March day when they buried Robert Grey in thecemetery at Allington, while his sister, who had been taken directlyfrom the church to her home, lay unconscious in her room, only moaningoccasionally, and whispering of Robbie, whose eyes she had put out. 

"People will hate me always, " she said, when after weeks of brain fevershe was herself again. But in this she was mistaken, for the people whoknew her best loved her most, and as the years went on, and all felt theinfluence of her pure, stainless, unselfish life, they came to esteemher as almost a saint, and no house was complete which had not in itsome likeness of the sad, but inexpressibly sweet face which had a smilefor every one, and which was oftenest seen in the cheerless houses wherehunger and sickness were. There Lucy Grey was a ministering angel, andthe good she did could never be told in words, but was known and felt bythose who never breathed a prayer which did not have in it a thought ofher and a wish for her happiness. 

When Grey was first laid in her arms, and she saw in his great blue eyesa look like those other eyes hidden beneath the coffin-lid, she felt asif Robbie had come back to her, and there awoke within her a love forthe child greater even than his own mother felt for him. And yet, sowholly unselfish was her nature that she never mourned or uttered a wordof protest when, as the boy grew older, he evinced a preference for thefarm-house in the pasture, rather than for the grand old place at Grey'sPark, where, since her sister's marriage and her father's death, she hadlived alone. 

"Hannah needs him more than I do, " she would say to herself, but hersweet face was always brighter, and in her great black eyes there was asofter light when she knew he was coming to break the monotony of herlonely life. 

After her marriage, Geraldine did not often honor Allington with herpresence. It was far too quiet there to suit her, and Lucy lived toomuch the life of a recluse. No little breakfasts, no lunches, no eveningparties at which she could display her elegant Paris costumes; nothingexcept now and then a stupid dinner party, to which the rector and hiswife were invited, and that detestable Miss McPherson, who said suchrude things, and told her her complexion was not what it used to be, andthat she looked older than her sister Lucy. Miss McPherson was anabomination, and going to the country was a bore, but still Geraldinefelt obliged to visit Allington occasionally, and especially onThanksgiving day, when it is expected that the sons and daughters of NewEngland will return to the old home, and grow young again under theroof which sheltered their childhood. 

And so, on the morning when our story properly opens, Mr. And Mrs. Burton Jerrold and their son Grey, a well grown lad of fourteen, lefttheir home on Beacon street, and with crowds of other city people tookthe train for the country, to keep the festal day. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THANKSGIVING DAY AT GREY'S PARK. 

The season had been unusually warm and pleasant for New England, anduntil the morning of Thanksgiving Day the grass upon the lawn at Grey'sPark had been almost as fresh and green as in the May days of spring, for only the autumnal rains had fallen upon it, and the November windhad blown as softly as if it had just kissed the wave of some southernsea, where it is summer always. But with the dawning of ThanksgivingDay, there was a change, and the carriage which was sent from Grey'sPark to the station to meet the guests from Boston was covered withsnow, and Mrs. Geraldine shivered, and drew her fur-lined cloak moreclosely around her as she stepped from the train, and looking ruefullydown at her little French boots, said petulantly:

"Why do they never clear the snow from the platform, I wonder, and howam I to walk to the carriage? It is positively ankle deep, and I withsilk stockings on!"

Mrs. Geraldine was not in an enviable frame of mind. She had declined aninvitation to a grand dinner party, for the sake of going to Allington, where it was always snowing or raining or doing something disagreeable, and her face was anything but pleasant as she stood there in the snow. 

A very slave to her opinions and wishes, her husband always thought asshe thought, and fondly agreed with her that going to Allington was abore, and that he did not know how she was to wade through all that snowin thin boots and silk stockings, and not endanger her life by theexposure. 

Only Grey was happy; Grey, grown from the blue-eyed baby boy, who usedto dig his little heels so vigorously into the rotten base-board underthe bench in the wood-shed of the farm house, into the tall, blue-eyed, open-faced lad of fourteen, of whom it could be truly said that neverhad his parents been called upon to blush for a mean or vicious actcommitted by him. Faulty he was, of course, with a hot temper whenroused, and a strong, indomitable will, which, however, was seldomexercised on the wrong side. Honorable, generous, affectionate, and purein all his thoughts as a young girl, he was the idol of his aunts andthe pride of his father and mother, the latter of whom he treated with ateasing playfulness such as he would have shown to a sister, if he hadone. 

Mrs. Jerrold was very proud of her bright, handsome boy, and had abrilliant career marked out for him; Andover first, then Harvard, andtwo years or more at Oxford, and then some high-born English wife, forMrs. Jerrold was thoroughly European in her tastes, and toadied to theEnglish in a most disgusting manner. 

During her many trips across the water, she had been presented to thequeen, had attended, by invitation, a garden party, and a ball at whichthe Prince and Princess of Wales were present, and had spent severalweeks in the country houses of some of the wealthy English. Consequently, she considered herself quite _au fait_ with their styleand customs, which she never failed to descant upon, greatly to theamusement of her listeners, and the mortification of Grey, who was nowold enough to see how ridiculous it made his mother appear. 

Grey was delighted to go to Allington, and the grandest dinner party inthe world, with all the peers of England as guests, would have been asmall compensation for the good cheer he expected both at Grey's Park, and at the farm-house. He was glad, too, for the snow and as the expresstrain sped swiftly on, and he watched it from the window, falling inblinding sheets and covering all the hill-tops, he thought what fun itwould be on the morrow to drive his Aunt Lucy's bays over to thefarm-house after his Aunt Hannah, whom he would take for a long driveacross the country, and frighten with the rapidity with which the bayswould skim along. 

"Hurrah! There's Allington, and there's Tom, " he cried, springing up asthe train shot under the bridge near the station. "Come on, mother, Ihave your traps, great box, little box, soap-stone, and bag. Here weare! And, my eyes what a blizzard! It's storming great guns, but heregoes, " and the eager boy jumped from the car into the snow, and shookhands with Tom, his Aunt Lucy's coachman, and the baggage-master, andthe boy from the market where his aunt bought her meat, and SaulSullivan, the fiddler, the most shiftless, easy-going fellow inAllington, who wore one of Grey's discarded hats given to him theprevious year. 

"Holloa! holloa! how are you?" he kept repeating, as one after anotherpressed up to him, all glad to welcome the city boy who was so popularamong them. Hearing his mother's lamentations over the snow, he said tothe coachman: "Here, Tom, take these traps, while I carry mother to thecarriage. " Then, turning to her, he continued; "Now, little mother, itwill never do for those silk stockings to be spoiled, when there is agreat strapping fellow like me to whom you are only a feather's weight, "and lifting the lady in his arms as if she had really been a child, hecarried her to the carriage, and put her in, tucking the blankets aroundher, and carefully brushing the snow from her bonnet. "Now, father, jumpin, and let me shut the door. I'm going on the box with Tom. I like thesnow, and it is not cold. I am going to drive myself. " And in spite ofhis mother's protestations, Grey mounted to the box, and taking thereins, started the willing horses at a rapid rate toward Grey's Park, where Miss Lucy waited for them. 

Bounding up the steps, Grey dashed into the hall, and shaking the snowfrom his coat and cap, seized his aunt around the waist, and after twoor three hearty kisses, commenced waltzing around the parlor with her, talking incessantly, and telling her how delighted he was to be atGrey's Park again. 

"Only think, I have not seen you for more than a year, and I've been toEurope since, and am a traveled young man. Don't you see marks offoreign culture in me?" and he laughed mischievously, for he knew hisaunt would comprehend his meaning. "Then, too, " he continued, "I'm anAndover chap now, but find it awful poky. I almost wish I had gone toEasthampton. Such fun as the boys have there! Sent a whole car-load ofgates down to Springfield one night! I'd like to have seen theEasthamptonites when they found their gates gone, and the Springfielderswhen they opened that car. Holloa, mother! Isn't it jolly here? Anddon't you smell the mince pies? I am going to eat two pieces!" And thewild boy waltzed into the library in time to see his mother droplanguidly into an arm-chair, with the air of one who had endured all itwas possible to endure, and who considered herself a martyr. 

"Pray be quiet, and come and unfasten my cloak. You forget that yourAunt Lucy is no longer young, to be whirled round like a top. "

"Young or not, she is as pretty as a girl, any day, " Grey replied, releasing his aunt and hastening to his mother. 

Knowing her sister's dislike to the country, Miss Grey had spared nopains to make the house as attractive as possible. There was no furnace, but there were fires in every grate, and in the wide fire-place in thelarge dining-room, where the bay-window looked out upon the hills andthe pretty little pond. Lucy's greenhouse had been stripped of itsflowers, which, in bouquets, and baskets, and bowls, were seeneverywhere, while pots of azaleas, and camellias, and rare lilies stoodin every nook and corner, filling the rooms with a perfume like earlyJune, when the air is full of sweetness. 

But Mrs. Geraldine found the atmosphere stifling, and asked that awindow might be opened, and that Grey would find her smelling-saltsdirectly, as her head was beginning to ache. 

Grey knew it always ached when she was in a crank, as he called hermoods, and he brought her salts, and undid her cloak and bonnet, andkissed her once or twice, while his father, who was hot because she washot, said it was like an August day all over the house, and opened awindow, but shut it almost immediately, for a cloud of snow camedrifting in, and Mrs. Geraldine knew she should get neuralgia in such afrightful draught. 

"Come to your room and lie down. You will feel better when you arerested, " Lucy said, with a troubled look on her sweet face, as she ledthe way to the large, cheerful chamber which her sister always occupiedwhen at Grey's Park. 

"What time do you dine?" Geraldine asked, as she caught the savory smellof something cooking in the kitchen. 

"I have fixed the dinner hour at half-past two, " Lucy replied, andGeraldine rejoined:

"Half-past two! What a heathenish hour! and I do so detest earlydinners. "

"Yes, I know, " Lucy answered, in an apologetic tone, "but Hannah cannotstay late, on account of her father" then, turning to herbrother-in-law, who had just come in, she added: "You know, I suppose, that your father has not been as well as usual for several weeks. Hannahthinks he is failing very fast. "

"Yes, she wrote me to that effect, " Burton replied, "but she is easilyalarmed, and so I did not attach much importance to it. Do you think himseriously ill?"

"I don't know except from Hannah herself, as he sees no one. I was thereyesterday, but he would not allow me to enter his room. I am told thathe has taken a fancy that no one shall go into his bedroom but Hannahand the doctor. That looks as if his mind might be a little unsettled. "

Instantly there came back to Burton's mind what his aunt had said to himon her dying-bed: "There is a secret between them, but never try todiscover it, lest it should affect you, too. There may be disgrace init. " Years had passed since Burton heard these words, and much goodfortune had come to him. He had married Geraldine Grey, and had becomepresident of a bank; he had increased in wealth and distinction, untilno one stood higher on the social platform of Boston than he did. He hadbeen to the Legislature twice and to Congress once, and was the Hon. Burton Jerrold, respected by every one, and, what to his narrow mind wasbetter still, he was looked upon as an aristocrat of the bluest type. None of his friends had ever seen the queer old hermit at thefarm-house, or Hannah either for that matter, for she had seldom been inBoston since Grey was a baby, and on the rare occasions when she did goshe only passed the day, and had her lunch in the privacy of Mrs. Geraldine's room. Once or twice a year, as was convenient, Burton hadbeen to the farm-house to see his father, whom he always found the samesilent, brooding man, with hair as white as snow, and shoulders so bentthat it was difficult to believe he had ever been upright. And so, gradually, Burton had ceased to wonder at his father's peculiarities andhad forgotten his suspicions; but now they returned to him again, and heshivered as there swept suddenly over him one of those undefinablepresentiments which sometimes come to us, and for which we cannotaccount. 

"What time is Hannah coming?" he asked. 

"I hardly know, " Lucy replied; "the boy who stays here to do the outdoorwork is to bring her as soon as she can leave her father, who will haveno one with him in his room during her absence. He is very anxious tosee Grey, but I doubt if he will even let him into the bedroom. "

During this conversation Grey had listened intently, and now heexclaimed;

"I have it. My dinner will taste better if I see grandpa first, and showhim my Alpenstock, with all those names burned on it. I mean to driveover after Aunt Hannah myself. It will be such fun to surprise themboth. "

"Grey, are you crazy to think of going out in this storm?" Mrs. Jerroldexclaimed. 

But Grey persisted, and, pointing to the window, said:

"It is not snowing half as fast as it did; and look, there's a bit ofblue sky. I can go, can't I, Aunt Lucy?"

"Ye-es, if Tom is willing, " Lucy said, a little doubtfully; for shestood somewhat in awe of Tom, who did not like to harness oftener thanwas necessary. 

"Pho! I'll risk Tom, " Grey said. "Tom knows me;" and in less than tenminutes one of the bays was harnessed to the cutter, and Grey wasdriving along in the direction of the farm-house, which, for the firsttime in his life, struck him as something weird-like and dreary, standing there alone among the rocks, with the snow piled upon the roofand clinging in masses to the small window-panes. "I don't wonder motherthinks it seems like some old haunted house we read about. It is justthe spot for a lively ghost. I wish I could see one, " he thought, as hedrove into the side-yard, and, giving his horse to the care of thechore-boy, Sam, who was in the barn, he went stamping into the kitchen. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY. 

Old Mr. Jerrold had failed rapidly within a few weeks, but as long aspossible he dressed himself every day and sat in his arm-chair in thekitchen, for the front room was rarely used in winter. At one time, whenHannah saw how weak her father was growing, and knew that he must soontake to his bed, she suggested that he should occupy the south room, itwas so much more sunny and cheerful than his sleeping apartment, whichwas always dark, and gloomy, and cheerless. But her father said no verydecidedly. 

"It has been a part of my punishment to keep watch in that room allthese dreadful years, and I shall stay there till I die. And, Hannah, when I cannot get up any more, but must lie there all day and all nightlong, don't let any one in, not even Miss Grey, for it seems to me thereare mirrors everywhere, and that the walls and floor have tongues, and Iam getting such a coward, Hannah--such a coward, I am too old to confessit now. God has forgiven me; I am sure of that, and the world need notknow what we have kept so long, you and I. How long is it, Hannah? Mymemory fails me, and sometimes it seems a thousand years, I havesuffered so much, and then again it is but yesterday--last night. Howlong did you say, Hannah!

"Thirty-one years next Thanksgiving, was Hannah's reply, spoken, oh, somournfully low. 

"Thirty-one years, and you were a girl of fifteen, and your hair was sobrown and glossy, just like your mother's Hannah--just like hers, andnow it is so grey Poor child! I am so sorry for you, but God knows allyou have borne for me, and some day you will shine as a star in Hiscrown, while I, if I am permitted to enter the gates, must have thelowest seat. "

It was the last of October when this conversation took place, and thenext day but one the old man did not get up as usual, but staid in bedall that day, and the next, and the next, until it came to be understoodbetween himself and Hannah that he would never get up again. 

"Shall I send for Burton?" Hannah asked, and he replied:

"No, he does not care to come, and why trouble him sooner thannecessary? He is not like you. He is grand and high, and ashamed of hisold father, but he is my son, and I must see him once more. He will beup on Thanksgiving Day, and I shall live till then. Don't send for him. I cannot have him in this room--can't have anybody--don't let them in!Can no one see under the bed?"

"No, father, no one can see: no one shall come in, " Hannah answered. 

Then for weeks she kept her lonely watch over the half-crazed old man, who started at every sound and whispered piteously:

"Don't let them come here, Hannah. I am too old; and there is Grey--theboy--for his sake, Hannah, we will not let them come for me now!"

"No, father, they shall not come. Grey need not know, " Hannah alwaysreplied, though she had secretly cherished a hope that some time in thefuture, when the poor old father was dead, she would tell Grey and askhis help to do what she fully meant to do when her hands, bound forthirty years, should be loosened from the chain. 

She could trust Grey, could tell him everything, and feel sure that hisearnest, truthful blue eyes would took just as lovingly at her as ever, and that he would comfort and help her as no one else could do. 

Such was the state of affairs at the farm-house on the morning ofThanksgiving Day, when Hannah was making her preparations to go toGrey's Park for two hours or more, just to sit through the dinner andsee Grey, whom she had not seen since his return from Europe. 

Her father was not as well that morning. Thanksgiving was always aterrible anniversary for him, for as on that day the several members ofa family meet again around the old hearth-stone, so the ghosts of thepast all came back to torture him and fill him with remorse. 

"How it blows, " he said, as the wind shook the windows of his room, andwent screaming around the corner of the house. "How it blows, and I seemto hear voices in the storm--your voice, Hannah, as it sounded thirtyyears ago, when you cried out so loudly, and I struck you for it, andbeat old Rover, too. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, yes, father, but don't talk of it to-day; try to forget; try tothink only that Grey is here, and that you will see him to-morrow. "

"Grey, the boy with the big blue eyes which look so straight at you thatI used sometimes to wonder if he did not see into my heart and know whatI was hiding?" the old man replied. "Grey, the little boy who would siton that bench in the woodshed, and kick the floor until I sweat at everypore with fear, and whom I would not touch till he captured my hands, and held them in his soft, warm ones, and kissed them, too, my wickedold hands, kissed by Grey's baby lips. Would he touch them now if heknew? I used to think if I lived till he was a man I would tell him; andmaybe you will do it after I am dead. He is coming here to-morrow, yousay, and Burton; but Burton isn't like Grey. He is proud and worldly, and a little hard, I am afraid; but the boy, tell him how I love him;try to make him understand, and when he comes to-morrow maybe he willkiss me again. It will be for the last time. I shall never see him more. But hark, what's that? Don't you hear bells? And there is the stampingof feet at the door. Go, child, quickly, and not let them in here. "

Hannah, too, heard the sound and the opening of the kitchen door, andhurrying from her father's bedside, she called out, sharply:

"Who is it? Who's there?"

"My name is Norval, on the Grampian hills, " was replied, in thewell-remembered voice of Grey, who continued, merrily, as he approachedher: "And you, dear Aunt Hannah, you are the dame with the wonderfulname which forward and backward still reads the same. "

He did not attempt to waltz with her, as he had done with Lucy; he hadtried it once, but she went the wrong way, and he told her there was nomore dance in her than in the kitchen tongs. So now he only wound hisarms around her and kissed her many times, and when she sat down in achair, he stood over her and smoothed her hair and thought how gray ithad grown within the year. He had no suspicion that there was any secretsorrow weighing upon her, but he knew that her life was a hard one, owing to the peculiarities of his grandfather, and now as he looked ather, he felt a great pity for her, and there was a lump in his throat, as he stooped to kiss her again and said:

"Poor auntie, you look so tired and pale. Is grandpa so very sick, andmore troublesome than usual?"

Hannah had not cried in years. Indeed it was the effort of her life tokeep her tears back, but now, at the sound of Grey's sympathetic voiceand the touch of his fresh, warm lips upon her own, she broke downentirely, and for a few moments sobbed as if her heart would break, while Grey in great concern, knelt down before her, and tried to comforther. 

"What is it, auntie?" he said. "Is it because you are so lonely, and areafraid grandpa will die? I'll take care of you then, and we will go toEurope together, and you shall ride on a mule and cross theMer-de-Glace. I used to think when I was over there how we would someday go together, and I would show you everything. "

At the mention of Europe, Hannah's tears ceased, and commanding hervoice, she said, abruptly:

"Did you go to Wales?"

"Yes, we went there first. Don't you remember?"

Without answering that question, Hannah continued:

"Did you go to Carnarvon?"

"Carnarvon! I guess we did. We spent a whole day at the old castle, andwent all over it, and into the room where the first Prince of Wales wasborn. It isn't much bigger than our bath-room. But I tell you those oldruins are grand;" and with all a boy's enthusiasm over his first trip toEurope, Grey launched out into a graphic description of what, he hadseen and done, repeating everything ridiculous in order to make his AuntHannah laugh. 

"You ought to have heard father try to talk French, " he said. "It wasenough to kill one with laughing. He bought a little book and wouldstudy some phrase, and then fire it off at the waiters, screaming at thetop of his voice, as if that would make them understand better; and onceit was too funny. We were in a shop in Lucerne, and father wanted toknow the price of something, so he held it up before a little dapper manwith blue eyes and yellow hair, and said, 'Com-bi-on'--that's the way hepronounced it--'com-bi-on;' but the man didn't com-bi-on worth a cent, and only stared at him as if he thought him a lunatic. Then father triedagain, and yelled as loud as he could, '_Pree--pree!_ how much-ee, much-ee?' Then there was a glimmer of a smile on the man's face, andwhen father, wholly out of patience, roared out, 'Damnation, are you afool?' he replied, 'No, but I'm a Yankee like yourself, and the price ofthe carving is twenty-five francs;' and, sure enough, he was a chap fromMaine. After that father always asked them first if they_parlez-vous-ed_ English. Mother got on better, because she knew more ofthe language, and always gave a twist to the words which made them soundFrenchy; but she was afraid to talk much, for fear she'd make a mistakeand Miss Grundy would laugh at her. She is awfully afraid of MissGrundy, especially if the _genus homo_ happens to be English. But I didnot care. I wanted to learn, and I studied in the railway car, and atthe table, and in bed, and had a teacher when we staid long enough in aplace, and then I plunged in, mistake or no mistake, and talked toeverybody. I used to sit on the box with the driver when we drove, so asto talk to him, and you have no idea what a lot you pick up that way, orhow glad they are to help you; and now, though I do not suppose I alwaysuse good grammar or get the right accent, I can _parlez_ with the bestof them, and can speak German, too, a little. I think I have improvedsome; don't you, auntie. "

Of course she did, and she told him so, and smiled fondly upon thebright, handsome boy, knowing that in what he said of himself there wasneither conceit nor vanity, but a frankness and openness which she likedto see in him. 

"And now for grandpa, " he suddenly exclaimed, "he will think I am nevercoming. "

And before she could stop him he had entered the low, dark room, where, on the bed, pushed close to the side-wall near the woodshed, and justwhere it had stood for thirty years, the old man lay, or rather sat, forhe was bolstered upright, with chair and pillows behind him, his longwhite hair parted in the middle and combed behind his ears, and his armsfolded across his bosom. 

At Grey's abrupt entrance he started, and his face flushed for a moment, but when he saw who it was, the look of fear gave way to one of joy, andhis pale face lighted up with gladness as he welcomed the eager boy, whotold him first how sorry he was to find him so sick, and then what agrand time he had in Europe. 

"I have been to the top of Rigi, and old Pilatus and Vesuvius, andFlegere, and crossed the Mer-de-Glace and Tete Noir, and the Simplon, and they are all here on my Alpenstock; look, see! but no, you cannot, it is so dark! I'll raise the curtain. "

And Grey hastened to the window, while his grandfather cried out inalarm:

"Stop, Grey, stop. I'll call your Aunt Hannah! Hannah, come here!"

She was at his side in an instant, bending over him while he whispered:

"Is it safe? Can he see nothing, sure?"

"Nothing, father, nothing, " was the reply, and thus reassured the oldman took the Alpenstock, which had done such good service, and looked atthe queer names burned upon it, lingering longest upon the first one, "Grey Jerrold, Boston, Mass. , 18--. "

Very rapidly Grey talked of his travels, and the wonders beyond the sea. 

"But, after all, America is best, " he said, "and I am glad I am anAmerican. Boston is the place to be born in. Don't you think so, grandpa?"

"Yes, yes. Did you go to Wales? To Carnarvon?" the old man said, soabruptly that Grey stopped short and stared at him blankly. 

His Aunt Hannah had asked the same question. Could it be they were moreinterested in Carnarvon than in Mont Blanc and Vesuvius? If so, he wouldconfine himself to Carnarvon, and he began again to describe the oldcastle, and the birth-room of the first Prince of Wales. Then hisgrandfather interrupted him by asking:

"Did you hear of any family there by the name of Rogers?"

"Rogers? No. Why? Did you ever know any one by that name who lived inCarnarvon?" Grey asked, and his grandfather replied:

"Yes, a great many years ago, longer than you can remember. Joel Rogers, that was the name, and he had a sister, Elizabeth. You did not hear ofher?"

"Father, father; you are talking too much; you are getting excited andtired, " Hannah interposed in some alarm, but her father replied:

"No. I'm not afraid of Grey, now that I see his face again; it's a faceto be trusted. Grey would not harm his old grandfather. Would you, boy?"and the childish old man began to cry piteously, while Grey lookedinquiringly at his aunt, and touched his forehead meaningly, as much asto say:

"I know, I understand; a little out of his head. "

She let him think so, and laying his hand on his grandfather's hair, Grey said:

"Don't cry; of course I would not harm you, the best grandpa in all theworld. "

"No, no, Grey; the worst, the worst; and yet it does me good to know youlove and respect me, and you always will when I am dead and gone, won'tyou, even if you should ever know how bad I was, and you may sometime, for it is impressed on me this morning that in some way you will helpHannah out of it. You two, and no more. Poor Hannah. She has suffered somuch for my sake. Be good to her, Grey, when I am gone; be good toHannah. Poor Hannah. "

"Yes, grandpa, I will, " Grey said, in a tearful voice, as heinvoluntarily wound his arms around the woman he was to be good to. "Iwill always care for Aunt Hannah, and love her above all women. Don'tyou worry about that. She shall live with me when I am a man, and wewill go to Europe together. "

"Yes, to Carnarvon, perhaps, " Mr. Jerrold interposed, and then said, suddenly: "Do you remember the day you caught and kissed my old hands, and did me so much good? Would you mind kissing them again?--this one;it burns so and aches!" and he raised his thin, right hand, winch Greytook in his own, and kissed reverently and lovingly, saying as he didso:

"Poor, tired hand, which has done so much hard work, but never a badact. "

"Oh, oh! My boy, my boy, you hurt me!" grandpa cried, as he snatched hishand from Grey, who looked at him wonderingly and said:

"I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. Is your hand sore?"

"Sore? Yes, sorer than you know or guess; so sore that it aches down tomy very heart. "

"Come, Grey, I think it is time we were off. Father is getting tired andexcited. You will see him again to-morrow, " Hannah said, and her fatherrejoined:

"To-morrow! Who knows? To-day is all we can call our own, and I willbless my boy to-day. Kneel down, Grey, and let me put both hands on yourhead. "

With a feeling of awe Grey knelt beside the bed, while his grandfatherlaid his hands on his head and said:

"May God bless my boy Grey, and make him a good man--not like me, thechief of sinners, but Christlike and pure, so that he may one day reachthe eternal home where I hope to meet him, through the merits of theblood of Jesus, which cleanseth from all sin--all sin, even mine. Godbless my boy!"

It seemed like a funeral, and Grey's eyes were full of tears as he rosefrom his knees and said:

"Good-by, grandpa. We must go now, but I will come again to-morrow, andstay all day and all the next, for I do not go back to Andover tillMonday, and next summer I will spend all my vacation with you. Good-by;"and stooping, he kissed the white forehead and quivering lips, aroundwhich a smile of peace was setting. 

Then, he left the room, never dreaming that it was good-by forever. 

Once in the open air, with his Aunt Hannah by his side, the cloud whichin the sick-room had settled upon him lifted, and he talked and laughedmerrily as they drove swiftly toward Grey's Park where dinner waswaiting for them. 

CHAPTER VI. 

MISS BETSEY McPHERSON

The table was laid in the large dining-room, which faced the south, andwhose long French windows looked into the terraced flower-garden andupon the evergreens fashioned after those in the park at Versailles. When alone, Lucy took all her meals in the pleasant little breakfastroom, where only two pictures hung upon the wall, and both of Robin--onetaken in all his infantile beauty, when he was two years old, and theother at the age of fourteen, after the lovely blue eyes which smiled sobrightly upon you from the first canvas were darkened forever, and theeyelids were closed over them. This was Lucy's favorite room, for thereRobin seemed nearer to her. But Geraldine did not like it. It was likeattending a funeral all the time, she said; and so, though it was quitelarge enough to accommodate her Thanksgiving guests, Lucy had orderedthe dinner to be served in the larger room, which looked very warm andcheerful with the crimson hangings at the windows and the bright fire onthe hearth. 

After having regaled herself with a glass of sherry, a biscuit, a pieceof sponge cake, and some fruit, Mrs. Geraldine had descended to thedining-room to see a new rug, of which Lucy told her. Glancing at thetable, which was glittering with china, and glass, and silver, she begancounting:

"One, two, three, four, five, six places. You surely did not expectBurton's father?"

Lucy flushed a little, as she replied:

"Oh, no; the sixth place is for Miss McPherson. "

"Miss McPherson! What possessed you to invite her? I detest her, withher sharp tongue and prying ways. Why, she is positively rude at times, and exasperates me so, " Geraldine said, angrily; and her sisterrejoined:

"I know she is peculiar and outspoken, but at heart she is true assteel, and I thought she would be very lonely taking her Thanksgivingdinner alone. And then she will be glad to see you and inquire after herbrother's family, whom she knows you met abroad. "

"Yes, we spent a week with her brother, the Hon. John McPherson, and hiswife Lady Jane, at the house of Captain Smithers in Middlesex. MissMcPherson is, at least, well connected, " Geraldine said, mollified atonce as she recalled her intimacy with Lady Jane McPherson. 

To be acquainted with a titled lady was, in her opinion, something to beproud of, and since her return from Europe she had wearied and disgustedher friends with her frequent allusions to Lady Jane and her visit toPenrhyn Park where she had met her. And Miss McPherson was hersister-in-law, and on that account she must be tolerated and treated, atleast, with a show of friendship. So when she heard that she had arrivedshe went to meet her with a good deal of gush and demonstration, which, however, did not in the least mislead the lady with regard to her realsentiments, for she and Geraldine had always been at odds, and from thevery nature of things there could be no real sympathy between thefashionable lady of society, whose life was all a deception, and theblunt, outspoken woman, who called a spade a spade, and whose rule ofaction was, as she expressed it, the naked truth and nothing but thenaked truth. Had she worn false teeth and supposed any one thought themnatural, she would at once have taken them out to show that they werenot; and as to false hair, and frizzes, and powder, and all the manydevices used, as she said, "to build a woman, " she abominated them, andpreferred to be just what the Lord had made her, without any attempt toimprove upon his work. Once Lucy Grey had asked her why she did not callherself Elizabeth, or Lizzie, instead of Betsey, which was soold-fashioned, and she had retorted, sharply, that though of all namesupon earth she thought Betsey the worst, it was given to her by hersponsors in baptism, and Betsey she would remain to the day of herdeath. 

She was tall and angular, with large features, sharp nose, and littlebright, black, bead-like eyes, which seemed to look you through, andread your most secret thoughts. As her name indicated, she was of Scotchdescent; indeed, her grandfather was Scotch by birth, but he had movedinto England, where her father and mother, and herself were born, sothat she called herself English, though she gloried in her Scotch bloodand her Scotch face, which was unmistakable. 

After her birth, her father had bought a place in Bangor, Wales, whichhe called Stoneleigh, and there her two brothers, Hugh and John, wereborn, and her parents had died. 

She had come alone to Allington, when comparatively young, and, settlingdown quietly, had for a time watched closely the habits of the peoplearound her, and posted herself thoroughly with regard to the workingsand institutions of a Republic, and then she adopted them heartily, andbecame an out-and-out American, and only lamented that she could notvote and take part in the politics of the country. Of her past life shenever spoke, and of her family seldom. Her father and mother were dead;she had two brothers, both well enough in their way, but wholly unlikeeach other, she had once told Lucy Grey, whom she had always liked, andwith whom she was more intimate than with any one else in Allington, unless it were Hannah Jerrold. Although very proud of her family nameand family blood, she was no boaster, and no one in Allington would everhave known that one of her brothers had been in Parliament, and that hiswife was a Lady Jane Trevellian, if chance had not thrown them in theway of Mrs. Geraldine. 

Once, and once only, had she returned to her native land, and that twoor three years before our story opens. Then she had been absent three orfour months, and when she returned to Allington, she seemed grimmer andsterner than ever, and more intolerant of everything which did not savorof the "naked truth. " And yet, as Lucy Grey had said of her to hersister, she was true as steel to her friends, and at heart was one ofthe kindest and best of women, and, with the exception of Miss LucyGrey, no one in Allington was found so often in the houses of the pooras she, and though she rebuked sharply when it was necessary, and toldthem they were dirty and shiftless when they were, she made her kindnessfelt in so many ways that she was, if possible, more popular than Lucyherself, for, while Lucy only gave them money and sympathy, she helpedthem with her hands, and, if necessary, swept their floors, and washedtheir faces, and made their beds, and sometimes took their children homeand kept them with her for days. 

Such was Miss Betsey McPherson, who, as she is to figure conspicuouslyin this story, merits this introduction to the reader, and who, in herblack silk of a dozen years old, with a long, heavy gold chain aroundher neck and a cap fashioned after the English style upon her head, stood up very tall and stiff to receive Mrs. Geraldine, but did not bendher head when she saw it was that lady's intention to kiss her. 

"I know she would as soon kiss a piece of sole-leather as me, and Iwould rather kiss a flour-barrel than that powdered face, " was herthought; and so she only gave her hand to Mrs. Jerrold, who told her howglad she was to see her and how much she was pleased with her brother, the Hon. John McPherson, and his charming wife, the Lady Jane. 

"Why have you never spoken of them to us? I should be proud of suchrelatives, " she said; and Miss McPherson replied:

"Umph! What's the use? I'm no better, no worse for them. "

Just then the sound of bells was heard, and Hannah and Grey came in, andwere received most cordially by Miss McPherson, who unbent to them asshe had not done to the Boston lady. Indeed, there was something eventender in her voice as she spoke to Hannah and inquired after herfather. Then, turning to Grey, she laid one hand on his head, and takinghis chin in the other, looked searchingly in his face as she said:

"I wonder if you are the same boy I used to like so much, or has a tripto Europe spoiled you, as it does so many Americans?"

"Not a bit of it, " Grey answered, merrily. "Europe is grand; Europe isbeautiful; but she is very old, and I like young America better, withher freedom and her go-ahead, even if she is not as intenselyrespectable, and dignified, as her mother across the water. "

The dinner-bell here put an end to the conversation, and Lucy precededher guests to the dining-room, followed by her brother, who had beenmore than usually affectionate in his greeting to his sister, whom hetook in to dinner, while Grey escorted his mother and Miss McPherson. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE DINNER, AT WHICH BESSIE IS INTRODUCED. 

The soup and fish had been served, and during the interval while Mr. Jerrold carved the big turkey which Hannah had contributed, and whichshe had fattened all the summer in anticipation of Grey's return andthis very dinner, Mrs. Geraldine took occasion to introduce her favoritesubject of conversation, Europe, and its customs, which she thought soinfinitely superior to those this side the water. 

"Umph!" ejaculated Miss McPherson, with an upward toss of the chin. Then, turning to Grey, she said, "And did you, too, like all the foreignhabits?"

"No, indeed, " was Grey's reply. "Just think of having your coffee androll brought to you in the morning while you are in bed, and eating itin the smelling room, without washing your hands, and then going tosleep again. That is what I call very _narsty_, as the English say, though they do not use the word in that sense. "

"You forget that Miss McPherson is English, " Mrs. Jerrold said, and thelady in question at once rejoined:

"Never mind. I do not believe in spoiling a story for relation's sake, or country's either, and I fully agree with Grey that the Continentalhabit of breakfasting in bed, with unwashed face and hands, is a very_nasty_ one, in the American sense of the word. I never did it, andnever would. "

"You have been on the Continent, then?" Mr. Jerrold asked, and instantlythere came upon Miss McPherson's face an expression of bitter pain, asif some sad memory had been stirred; then, quickly recovering herself, she answered:

"Yes, I was at school in Paris a year, and traveled another year allover Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. It may seem strange to Grey, whoprobably cannot realize that I was ever young, to know that I, too, havemy Alpenstock as a voucher for the mountains I have climbed and thechasms I have crossed. Did you go to Monte-Carlo?"

The question was addressed to Grey, who replied:

"Yes, we were there four days. "

"Did you play?"

"No, I did not even see them play. They would not let me in; I was tooyoung, and I should not have played anyway, for I promised Aunt Lucy Iwould not, " Grey said, and Miss McPherson replied, with startlingvehemence:

"That's right, my boy! that's right! Never, never play for money so longas you live. You have no idea what perils lurk around the gaming-table, or what an accursed spot Monte-Carlo is, beautiful as it is to look at. Those lovely grounds are haunted with the ghosts of the suicides who, ruined body and soul, have rushed unprepared into the presence of theirMaker. "

None of the guests had ever seen Miss McPherson so excited, and for amoment there was silence while they gazed at her wonderingly, as she satwith lips compressed and nostrils dilated, looking intently over theirheads at something they could not see, but which evidently was veryvivid to her. 

Mrs. Geraldine was the first to speak, and she said, half laughingly:

"You are quite as much prejudiced against _Rouge et Noir_ as yourbrother, for when I told him I tried my luck at Monte-Carlo and wontwenty-five dollars, he seemed horrified, and I think it took him somehours to regard me with favor again. "

"Yes, and he had reason. The McPhersons have all good cause to abhor thevery name of gambling, " Miss McPherson replied, hitching her chair alittle further away from Geraldine as from something poisonous; then, inher characteristic way of suddenly changing the conversation, she said:"You saw my nephew, Neil McPherson?"

"Oh, yes, " Mrs. Jerrold replied. "We saw a good deal of him; he is veryfine-looking, with such gentlemanly manners for a boy. I should be gladif Grey would imitate him, " and she glanced at her son, on whose face acloud instantly fell. 

Miss McPherson saw it, and turning to him she asked:

"How did you like Neil? Boys are sometimes better judges of each otherthan older people. Did you think him very nice?"

Remembering Miss McPherson's love for the _naked truth_, Grey spoke outboldly. 

"No, madam; at first I did not like him at all. We had a fight!"

"A fight!" Miss McPherson repeated, in surprise, as did both Hannah andLucy simultaneously, while Mrs. Jerrold interposed:

"I think, Grey, I would not mention that, as it reflects no credit uponyou. "

"But he insulted me first, " Grey replied, and Miss McPherson insisted:

"Tell it, Grey, and do not omit anything, because I am his aunt. Tell itexactly as it was. I want the truth. "

Thus encouraged, Grey began: "I know I did not do right, but he made meso angry. It was the Fourth of July and we were at Melrose stopping atthe George Inn, while Mr. McPherson's family were at the Abbey Hotelclose to the old ruin. There were several Americans at our house, andbecause of that the proprietor hung out our national flag. It was such alovely morning, and when I went into the street and saw the Stars andStripes waving in the English wind, I hurrahed with all my might andthrew up my cap in the air. 

"'May I ask why you are making so much noise?' somebody said close tome, and turning round I saw a lad about my own age, wearing a tallstove-pipe hat, for he was an Eton boy. 

"His manner provoked me quite as much as his words, it was sooverbearing, and picking up my cap, I said: 'Why, it's the Fourth ofJuly, and that is the Star-spangled Banner!'

"'Star-spangled fiddlestick!' he retorted, tapping the ground with thetip of his boot. ' And so you are a Yankee? I heard there was a lot ofthem here. '

"'Yes, I'm a Yankee, ' I replied; 'a genuine down-easter and proud of ittoo, and who, are you?'

"'I? Why, I am Neil McPherson, an Eton boy, and my father is the Hon. John McPherson, and my mother is Lady Jane McPherson, ' he replied, in atone intended to annihilate me wholly. 

"But I stood my ground, and said:

"'Oh, you are Neil McPherson, are you? and your father is an honorable, and your mother a lady? Well, I am Grey Jerrold, of Boston, and myfather is an honorable, and my mother is a lady, too!"

"'Now, reely, you make me larf, ' he cried. 'Your father may be anhonorable--I believe you have such things--but your mother is not alady; there are no ladies in America--born ladies, such as we have inthe United Kingdom. And pray what have you Yankees done, except to makemoney, that you should all be so infernally proud of your country andthat rag?' pointing to the flag. 

"By this time my blood was up, and I squared up to him, saying:

"'What have we done? We have whipped Johnny Bull just as I am going tothrash you under that very flag which you were pleased to designate arag. '

"He saw I meant business, and bucked off, saying:

"'Oh, but you carn't. I'm the son of Lady Jane McPherson, you know, andyou carn't touch me. '

"'We'll see if I carn't, ' I answered, and then I pitched in and thrashedhim till he cried for quarter, and I let him go, threatening all sortsof vengeance upon me, the worst of which was that he would tell hismother and have me arrested for assault and battery. 

"That was my introduction to Neil McPherson, and I am ashamed of itnow, for I came to like him very much. "

During the recital Miss McPherson had laughed until the tears ran downher cheeks, a thing very unusual to her, while neither Hannah nor Lucycould repress a smile at Grey's earnestness, but Mr. Jerrold looked verygrave, and his wife annoyed and displeased. 

"I am glad to hear you acknowledge that you are ashamed, " Mr. Jerroldsaid; "for I was very _much_ ashamed that a son of mine should so farforget himself as to fight a stranger whom he had never seen before. But, in justice to you, I must add what you have omitted, which is thatyou went and apologized to the boy for the affront. "

"Did you?" Miss McPherson said, turning to Grey, who replied:

"Yes; and I must say that he received my rather bungling apology betterthan I supposed he would. 

"'All right, ' he said, offering me his hand; 'I dare say I was a cad tosay what I did of your flag, but you needn't have hit me quite so hard. Where did you learn boxing?'

"'I never learned it, ' I told him. 'It was natural to all the Yankees, who were born with clenched fists, ready to go at it. '

"He believed me, and said 'Reely, is that so?' and then he invited me toplay billiards with him, and we got to be good friends, and he asked allsorts of questions about America, and said that our girls were theprettiest in the world when they were young. All the English say that, and Neil had heard it forty times, so it was not original with him. Hesaid, however, that pretty as they were, his cousin, Bessie, was farprettier, that she was a most beautiful little creature, and as sweet asshe was beautiful. "

"Bessie!" Miss McPherson exclaimed, with a peculiar ring in her voice, and a manner of greater interest than she had evinced in Grey's recitalof his encounter with Neil, "Do you mean the daughter of ArchibaldMcPherson, my nephew, and did you see her? Did you see Archie?"

Grey colored, and replied;

"No, I did not, for mother wished to punish me for fighting Neil, andso when a Mrs. Smithers asked us to spend a week with the McPhersons ather home in Middlesex, I was left behind in London with some friends, but I had great fun. I went to the Tower, and the circus, and the Abbey, and the museum, and everywhere, though I was sorry not to see Bessie, who with her father and mother, was also at Captain Smithers'. "

"You saw them, then, " Miss McPherson continued, addressing herself toMrs. Jerrold, "You saw Archie, and his wife and Bessie. What is Archielike? I never saw him, but I have his wife. She was the daughter of amilliner, or dressmaker, or ballet-dancer, from Wales, in the vicinityof Bangor, or Carnarvon, I believe. "

"Carnarvon!" Hannah repeated quickly, while a sudden pallor came to herlips and forehead, but no one noticed it, and Geraldine hesitated alittle, uncertain as to how far she dared to tell the truth and not giveoffense. 

But she was soon relieved from all uneasiness on that score, by MissMcPherson, who, noticing her hesitancy, said:

"Don't be afraid to tell me exactly as it is, for were Archie ten timesmy nephew, I would rather hear the whole truth just as Grey told it ofNeil. So, then, what did you think of Archie? I have an idea he is agood-natured, good for nothing, shiftless fellow, who never earned apenny in his life, and who gets his living from any one who will give itto him. "

She spoke with a great asperity of manner, and then waited forGeraldine, who replied:

"You have stated the case in much stronger language than I should havedone, but in the main I believe you are right. Mr. Archibald McPhersonis one whom you could not possibly mistake for other than a gentleman. He is courteous, and kind, and agreeable, but very indolent, I shouldsay, for he never stands when he can sit, and never sits when he canrecline; indeed, his position is always a lounging one, and he impressedme as if he were afraid of falling to pieces if he exerted himself. "

"Just so, that is what I thought, " Miss Betsey said, emphatically. "Hetakes it from his father, rather than his mother. She, I believe, hadsome energy and snap She was a chorus singer in some opera, and I didnot like the match, though I now believe she was too good for Hugh. Andnow for Archie's wife, Daisy they call her. What of her?"

Mrs. Jerrold evidently had no scruples about freeing her mind withregard to Daisy McPherson, and she answered, promptly:

"I did not like her at all, neither did Lady Jane, and I tried my bestto keep aloof from her, but could not; she is pushing and aggressive andsweetly unconscious that she is not wanted. And yet she is exceedinglypretty, with that innocent kind of face and childish, appealing waywhich women detest, but which takes with the men, " and Mrs. Geraldineglanced sharply at her husband, who was just then very busy with hispudding, and pretended not to hear her, while she went on: "She has someaccomplishments, speaks French and German, I believe, perfectly, singssimple ballads tolerably well, but rolls her eyes frightfully, and is soconscious of herself that she disgusts you. I should call her a regularBecky Sharp, always managing to get the best of everything, and, as shetold me herself, always having on her list two or three invitations foras many weeks, to as many different places. "

"But how does she do it?" Miss Betsey asked, and Mrs. Jerrold replied:

"I hardly know, nor do the ladies themselves. Sometimes, as in the caseof Mrs. Smithers, the invitation is genuine and sincere, but oftener itis a mere form at which Daisy jumps at once, thanking the lady sweetly, and either asking her to fix a time, or more frequently fixing itherself to suit her own convenience. She has a most wonderful talent, too, forgetting presents of clothes and jewelry for herself and Bessie, and that is the way they live, for they have no means, or, at least, very little, except what she manages to get from the men by philopoenas, or bets, or games at cards and chess, where they allow her to win, because she almost begs them to let her do so. She even got five poundsfrom my husband on a wager, which he did not at first think in earnest. "

And again the black eyes flashed at Button, who now looked up from theorange he was peeling and said laughingly:

"Yes, Daisy did me out of twenty-five dollars in the neatest possiblemanner, and would have fleeced me out of twenty-five more if I had notbeen on my guard against her. She got twenty-five pounds out of LordHardy who was a guest at the Smithers', but he acted as if it were apleasure to be cheated by so pretty a woman, and she is the prettiestwoman I ever saw. "

"Umph!" Miss Betsey said again, while Geraldine continued:

"Yes, she is pretty, with a pink and white complexion, blue eyes andgolden hair, which curls naturally, and which she still wears hangingdown her back so as to show it to good advantage, and she a woman ofthirty. "

"No, Geraldine, you are mistaken, " Mr. Jerrold said, quickly. "Youforget that she was married at seventeen, and Bessie is only eight; so, at the most, Daisy cannot be more than twenty-six. "

"I am glad you know her age so well, " Mrs. Geraldine retorted, "I thinktwenty-six too old to wear one's hair streaming down the back. We wereall disgusted, and especially Lady Jane, whose room was just across thehall, directly opposite hers. She told me herself that she would neverhave accepted Mrs. Smithers' invitation had she known that adventuresswas to be there. And yet she was very kind to little Bessie. Indeed, noone could look at that child and not love her at once, and pity her, too, for the influence with which she was surrounded. "

"Yes, Bessie--tell me of her, " and Miss McPherson leaned forwardeagerly. "They pretend she was named for me. Then why not call herBetsey, if that is her name?"

"Would you call a child Betsey?" Hannah asked, joining for the firsttime in the conversation. 

"No, of course not. I think it horrid, but if I was christened Betsey, no power on earth could turn me into a Bessie; but go on and tell meabout her, " and she turned to Mrs. Geraldine, who continued:

"She has her mother's wonderful beauty, with all its refinement of herfather, and such a sweet expression that you feel like kissing her. Hereyes, like her mother's, are blue, but so clear and dark that at timesthey seemed almost black, especially when there came into them as thereoften did, a troubled look, when Daisy was relating some of heradventures, which we knew could not be true. At such times, it wascurious to watch the child as she listened with her great wide-open eyesand flushed cheeks, while her breath came in short gasps, as if she werelonging to contradict her mother, and this she sometimes did. 

"'Mamma, mamma, please, ' she would say. 'Haven't you forgotten? Wasn'tit this way?' but a look would silence her, and there would settle uponher face and about her mouth that patient, sorrowful expression pitifulto see in one so young. "

"And her father, was he fond of her?" Miss McPherson asked, and Mrs. Jerrold replied:

"Yes, very, and she of him. She seemed to recognize the differencebetween him and her mother, and kept by him most of the time. It was avery pretty sight to see her with her arms around his neck and herbright head leaning on his arm, while she looked up at him so lovinglyand sympathizingly, too, as they watched the maneuvers of her mother. Once I heard her say to him, when Daisy was flirting more than usual andattracting all eyes to her, 'I shall never do like that; but mamma isvery pretty, isn't she?'

"'Yes, darling, very pretty, ' he answered, and then they kissed eachother very quietly. I wish you could see Bessie. "

It was not often that Geraldine praised anything or anybody as shepraised this little English girl who had made a strong impression uponher, and of whom she might have said more if Miss McPherson had notrejoined:

"I did see her once, and her mother, too. I was home three years ago, you know, and I went to Aberystwyth in Wales, where I heard Archie wasstaying, but I did not make myself known to him, I was so disgusted withwhat I heard of his wife's conduct, which he allowed without a word ofprotest. But I was anxious to see the child, and one morning I sat on abench on the Marine Terrace watching a group of children playing nearme. I was almost sure that the one with the blue eyes and bright hairwas Archie's and so I called aloud, 'Betsey McPherson, are you there?'

"Instantly she came to me, and folding her hands in my lap, looked up atme with her wondering eyes and said:

"'I am Bessie McPherson, not Betsey. '

"'Weren't you christened Betsey?' I asked, and she replied:

"'Yes, but they never call me that. It's a horrid name, mamma says. '

"'Then why did she give it to you?' I said, and she answered with theutmost gravity:

"'For some old auntie in America who has money; but she never sent me athing, nor answered papa's letter. I think she is mean, don't you?'

"I did not tell her what I thought of the old auntie, though I could notrepress a smile at her frankness, which pleased me more thanprevarication would have done. 

"'Where is your papa?' I asked, and she replied:

"'At the Queen's Hotel, but it is awful expensive there, and papa sayswe can't afford it much longer. But mamma says we must stay till shefinds some place to visit. There she is now, and that is Lord Hardy withher; they are going over to the old ruins, ' and she pointed to a youngwoman in the distance, bedizened out in white muslin and blue ribbons, with her yellow hair hanging down her back, and her big straw hat in herhand instead of on her head; and she was talking and laughing andcoquetting with a short, spindle-legged chap, not much taller thanherself, and looking with his light curly hair and mustache like apoodle-dog. 

"'Who did you say he was?' I asked, and the child answered me:

"'Lord Hardy, mamma's friend. He is very rich and very nice. He gives melots of things, and sometimes buys us all first class tickets, and thenit is so grand. I don't like to go second-class, but, you see, papa isvery poor. '

"'How, then, can he afford to stop at expensive hotels?' I asked, andshe said, while a shadow came over her face:

"'We couldn't if we didn't have one small room on the top floor, whereI sleep on the lounge. I never go to _table d'hote_ but stay in my roomand eat whatever mamma can slip into her pocket without the waitersseeing her. Sometimes it is not much, and then I am so hungry; but mammawill get us an invitation to visit somebody soon, and then I can eat allI want. '"

The guests had listened very attentively to this recital, and none moreso than Grey, who leaned eagerly forward, with quivering lips andmoistened eyes, as he exclaimed:

"Poor little girl, how I wish she had some of my dinner! Why didn't youbring her home with you, away from her wicked mother?"

Miss McPherson did not reply, for there dawned upon her suddenly a fearlest she had talked too much, and her manner changed at once, while shesank into an abstracted mood, and her eyes had in them a far-off look, as if she were seeing the child who came to her upon the sands ofAberystwyth and looked into her face with eyes she had never been ableto forget, and which she could now see so plainly, though the littlegirl was thousands of miles away. 

Dinner being over Hannah said it was time for her to go home, and Lucyaccordingly ordered the sleigh to be brought to the door. 

"You will come to-morrow as early as possible, " Hannah said to herbrother, who replied:

"Yes, immediately after breakfast, for I must go back to Boston on theafternoon train, I have an engagement for Saturday. "

"So soon?" Hannah said, in a tone of disappointment: "I hoped you wouldstay longer; father will be so sorry; he has anticipated your visit somuch. "

"It is impossible. I have promised for Saturday, and must keep theappointment, " and Burton Jerrold leisurely scraped and trimmed his thumbnail, but did not explain that the appointment he must keep was with themembers of his club, who gave a dinner on Saturday. 

He knew very well that he could remain in Allington until Saturdayafternoon and then reach home in time for the dinner; but the place wasalmost as distasteful to him as to his wife, and he gladly seized uponany pretext to shorten his stay as much as possible. 

"Shall I tell father that you will come with Burton to-morrow?" Hannahasked her sister, who instantly assumed that air of invalidism which shefound so convenient when anything disagreeable was suggested for her todo. 

Drawing her shawl more closely about her, and glancing with a littleshiver at the window, she replied:

"N-no, I hardly think I shall go out to-morrow, it will be so cold, andprobably stormy; but you may expect me for a little while on Saturday, if the day is fine. "

"But _I_ shall come and stay till Monday, and I hope you have a lot ofmince pies baked up. Last Thanksgiving we were in Paris, and had peasoup, and brains, and eels, and stewed celery for dinner, " Grey said, ashe kissed his aunt and bade her good-by. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AFTER THE DINNER. 

The carriage which took Hannah home also took Miss McPherson to the doorof her dwelling, a large, old-fashioned New England house, with a widehall through the center, and a square room on either side; one thedrawing-room or parlor in which the massive furniture had not beenchanged during the twenty years and more that Miss Betsey had livedthere; the other the living room where the lady sat, and ate, andreceived her friends and where now a bright fire was burning in theFranklin stove, and the kettle was singing upon the hob, while a littleround Swiss table was standing on the Persian rug before the fire, andon it the delicate cup and saucer, and sugar bowl, and creamer, whichMiss McPherson had herself bought at Sevres years ago, when the life shelooked forward to was very different from what had actually come to her. Possibly the memory of the day when she walked through those brilliantrooms at Sevres, and bought her costly wares, softened a little hersomewhat harsh, uncompromising nature, for there was a very womanlyexpression on her usually severe face as she sipped her favorite oolong, and gazed dreamily into the fire, where she seemed to see again thesweet face of the child who had talked to her on the shores of CardiganBay, and whose innocent prattle had by turns amused, and interested, andenraged her. And, as she gazed she thought:

"Yes, Grey was right. Why didn't I take the little thing in my arms andbring her home with me? To think of her being hungry, when there isenough wasted in this house every day to feed her! And why did I so farforget myself as to talk as I did to-day--I, who am usually so silentwith regard to my affairs! Why need I have told them that Archie's wifewas a trollop. I suppose the venom is still rankling in me for the nameshe called me, 'Old Sour Krout!'" and Miss Betsey smiled grimly as sheremembered all, the child upon the terrace had said to her that summermorning three years ago, "She is truthful, at all events, " shecontinued, "and I like that, and wish I had her here. She would be acomfort to me, now that I am old, and the house has no young life in it, except my cats. There's the bedroom at the end of the hall, opening frommy room. She could have that, and I should be so happy fitting it up forher. I'd trim it with blue, and have hangings at the bed, and--"

Here she stopped, seized with a sudden inspiration, and summoning thehousemaid, Flora, to her, she said:

"Remove the tea things and bring my writing-desk. "

Flora obeyed, and her mistress was soon deep in the construction of aletter to Archibald McPherson, to whom she made the proposition that heshould bring his daughter Betsey to her, or if he did not care to crossthe ocean himself, that he place her under the charge of some reliableperson who was coming to America and who would see her safely toAllington, or, that failing, she did not know but she would come herselffor the child, so anxious was she to have her. 

 "I shall not try to conceal from you that I have seen her. You know that by the result. I did see her on the terrace, and saw your wife, too, and I liked the child, and want her for my own, to train as I please and to bring up to some useful occupation, so that, if necessary, she can earn her own living. There has been too much false pride in our family on account of birth and blood. The idea that because you are born a gentleman or lady you must not work is absurd. Would it not be more honorable to sweep the streets, or scour knives and pare potatoes, than to sponge one's living out of strangers who despise you in then hearts even when inviting you to their houses? We have men, and women too, in America who do not work but get their living from others, and we call them tramps, and have them arrested as vagrants. But that is neither here nor there. I want you to give little Betsey to me, and she, at least, will never regret it. But don't let me hope of a fortune influence you, for my will was made years ago, and not a McPherson is remembered in it. Still, if Betsey pleases me, I may add a codicil and give her a few thousands, but don't count upon it, or my death either. We are a long-lived race, and I am perfectly strong and well; so, if you let me have her, do it because you think it will be better for her, morally and spiritually, to be removed from the poisonous atmosphere which surrounds her. I liked her face; I liked her voice; I liked her frankness. I shall like her; so send her, and I will bear the expense; or write and say you can't, and that will close the book. 

 "Your aunt, Miss BETSEY McPHERSON. Allington, Mass. 

 "P. S. I shall direct this to the old home in Wales, though I have no idea you are there, as I hear your wife prefers to be traveling. "

The letter finished and directed, Miss Betsey sat a long time gazingdreamily into the fire and thinking of the past, the present, and thepossible future, when a bright-haired child might be sitting there byher side and making her life less lonely and aimless than it was now. 

Meanwhile the party at Grey's Park had gathered around the fire in thedrawing-room, and Geraldine was repeating to her sister the particularsof her presentation to the queen, shivering occasionally as she heardthe sleet and snow beating against the window, for with the going downof the sun the storm had commenced again with redoubled fury, and thewind howled dismally as it swept past the corners of the house, bearingwith it blinding sheets of snow and rain, and sounding some times likehuman sobbing as it died away in the distance. 

"Is there some one crying outside, or is it the wind?" Mr. Jerroldasked, as the sobbing seemed like a wail of anguish, while there creptover him one of those indefinable presentiments which we have all feltat times and could not explain; a presentiment in his case of comingevil, whose shadow was already upon him. 

"It is the wind, " Grey said. "What an awful storm for Thanksgivingnight!" and rising, he walked to the window just as outside there wasthe sound of a fast-coming vehicle, which stopped at the side piazza. 

A few moments later the door of the drawing-room opened, and a servantappeared with a note, which she handed to Mr. Jerrold, saying:

"Sam Powley brought this from your sister. He says your father is verybad. "

Mr. Jerrold was not greatly surprised. It seemed to him he had expectedthis, for the sobbing of the wind had sounded to him like his father'svoice calling to him in the storm. Taking the note from the girl, hetore it open and read:

 "DEAR BROTHER: On my return home I found our father much worse, indeed, I have never seen him so bad, and he insists upon your coming to him to-night, so I have sent Sam for you, with instructions to call on his return for our clergyman, Mr. Sanford, as he wishes particularly to see him. Come at once, and _come alone_. "

 "HANNAH. "

The words "come alone" were underscored, and Burton felt intuitivelythat the secret he had long suspected and which had shadowed hisfather's life, was at last coming to him unsought. He was sure of it, and knew why Hannah had written "come alone. " It meant that Grey mustnot come with him, and when the boy who had stood beside him and readthe note with him, exclaimed, "Grandpa is worse; he is going to die; letus go at once, " he said, very decidedly:

"No, my son, not to-night. To-morrow you shall go and stay all day, butnot to-night, in this storm. "

Very unwillingly Grey yielded, and saw his father depart without him. 

"How is my father? How does he seem?" Mr. Jerrold asked of the boy Sam, who replied:

"I don't know; I have not seen him. He would not even let me in thisafternoon when Miss Hannah was gone. He locked the door, and I heard himworking at something on the floor by his bed, as if trying to tear upthe plank. He was there when Miss Hannah came home and found him. Iguess he is pretty crazy. But here we are at the minister's, I was tostop for him, you know. You will have to hold the horse. I sha'n't belong, " and reining up to the gate of the rectory Sam plunged into thesnow, and wading to the door, gave a tremendous peal upon the brassknocker. 

The Rev. Mr. Sanford, who had for many years been rector of the littlechurch in Allington, was taking his evening tea with his better-half, Mrs. Martha Sanford, a little, plump, red-faced woman, with light grayeyes and yellow hair, who ruled her husband with a rod of iron, andwould have ruled his parish if they had not rebelled against her. Withall her faults, however, she took excellent care of her lord and master, and looked after his health as carefully as she did after his householdinterests; and on this particular night, because he had complained of aslight hoarseness to which he was subject, she had at once enveloped histhroat with folds of red flannel, under which was a slice of salt pork, her favorite remedy for all troubles of a bronchial nature. And, in hiswarmly wadded dressing-gown and padded slippers, the reverend man satenjoying his tea and crisp slices of toast, which Mrs. Martha preparedfor him herself, when the sound of the brass knocker startled them both, and made Mrs. Martha start so suddenly that the slice of bread she wastoasting dropped from the fork upon the hot coals, where it was soonreduced to ashes. 

"Who can be pounding like that on such a night as this?" she asked, asshe hastened to open the hall-door, which admitted such a gust of windthat she came near shutting it in Sam's face. 

But the boy managed to crowd into the hall, and shaking a wholesnow-bank of snow from his cap and coat, he began:

"If you please, ma'am, old Mr. Jerrold is very bad indeed, and MissHannah wants the minister to come right off. Mr. Burton Jerrold is outin the sleigh, waiting for him, and says he must hurry. "

"Mr. Sanford go out such a night as this! It's impossible! He is halfsick now. What does old Mr. Jerrold want?" Mrs. Sanford said, sharply;and Sam replied, as he shook down another mass of snow upon the carpet:

"Don't know; the Sacrament, mebby, as I guess he's going to die, " andthe boy advanced a step or two into the warmly lighted room, where therector, who had risen to his feet, was beginning to divest himself ofhis dressing-gown. 

"Stay back; you have brought snow enough into the hall without spoilingthe parlor carpet, too, " Mrs. Martha said, angrily; then, going to herhusband, whose purpose she divined, she continued; "Charles, are youcrazy, to think of going out in this storm?"

"But, my dear, " the rector began, meekly, "if the poor old man isdying--and Hannah would never have sent in such a storm unless shethought so--if he is dying and desires the comfort of the communion, shall I refuse it to him because of a little inconvenience to myself?No, no; I have not so learned Christ. Please bring me my coat, Martha, and my boots, and the little communion service. "

"A pretty time of day to think of that, just as the candle is burned tothe snuff, " Mrs. Martha retorted. "Here for years you have exhorted andentreated him to be confirmed, and he has resisted all your appeals withthe excuse that for him to go to the Lord's table would be a mortal sin;and now, just at the last, in such a storm, he sends for you. I considerit an insult to his Creator and to you, too. "

"Will you please bring my coat and boots and things? I can never quitefind them myself, " was all the rector said, and knowing that furtheropposition was useless, Mrs. Martha went in quest of the boots andovershoes, and coat and overcoat and muffler, and fur cap and mittens, and heavy shawl, in which she enveloped her husband, lamenting thatthere was not ready a hot soap-stone for his feet, which were sure tosuffer. 

But the little man did not need the soap-stone; he had the warmest, kindest, most unselfish heart that ever beat in a human breast, andnever thought of the storm, as he waded through the deep snow and tookhis seat beside Burton Jerrold in the sleigh, which Sam drove rapidlytoward the farm-house in the pasture. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE HORROR AT THE FARM-HOUSE. 

When Hannah reached home the gray November afternoon was already merginginto the dark night, which was made still darker by the violence of theincreasing storm, and never had Hannah's home seemed so desolate anddreary as it did when the sleigh turned from the highway into thecross-road which lead to it, and she saw through the gathering gloom thelow, snow-covered roof and the windows from which no welcoming light wasshining. It had been so bright, and cheerful, and warm in thedrawing-room at Grey's Park, and here all was cold, and cheerless, anddark, as she went into the house with a vague presentiment of the horrorawaiting her. 

Entering through the wood-shed she stumbled upon Sam, who was sitting ona pile of wood, and who said to her:

"I guess your father is mighty bad. I didn't go near him till I heardhim groaning and praying, and taking on so, that I opened the door andasked if he wanted anything. Then he jumped out of bed and told me to begone, spying on him, and he locked the door on me, and I heard him asif he was under the bed trying to tear up the floor, and I ran out here, for I was afraid. "

"Under the bed!" Hannah repeated, while a cold sweat oozed from everypore. "He must be crazy! But do not come with me to his room; it wouldmake him worse. I can manage him alone; but please make a fire in thesummer kitchen and stay there this evening. Father seems to know whenany one is in the next room and it troubles him. "

"Yes-m, " the boy replied, thinking it a very strange freak that the oldman would allow no one with him except his daughter. 

But Sam was neither quick nor suspicious, and glad of any change fromthe cold wood-shed, he started to kindle a fire in the room adjoining, which in summer was used for a kitchen, while Hannah, lighting a candle, hastened to the door of her father's room, which she found locked, whilefrom within she heard labored breathing, and a sound like tugging at aboard which evidently offered resistance. 

"Father, " she cried, in terror, "let me in! It is I, Hannah, and Sam isin the wood-shed. "

After a moment the key was turned and Hannah stepped inside, locking thedoor after her. 

In the middle of the floor her father stood, with his long white hairfalling around his corpse-like face and his eyes bright with theexcitement of delirium. The bed was moved toward the center of the roomand in the farthest corner a board of the floor had been partiallyremoved. 

"What are you doing?" Hannah asked, advancing quickly to her father. 

"Oh, Hannah, " the old man said, whimperingly; "I did so want to be surethat it was there. I dreamed it was gone, that it had never been there, and it was so real I wanted to see. I thought I'd get done before youcame, but it was so hard. I cannot get the boards up. But you can do it;go down on your knees and take the floor up just this once. I'll neverask it again. It was thirty-one years ago to-night, and when it isthirty-two I shall be dead. Go down, Hannah, I want to know if it isthere still, the horror I have slept over every night for thirty-onelong years. "

"No, father, " Hannah answered, firmly. "Ask me anything but that. Besatisfied that it _is_ there. Who should take it away, when no one knowsbut ourselves? Get into bed, father; you are shivering with cold. "

Like a conquered child the old man obeyed her and crept into bed, whileshe drew the blankets around him, and then stooping down in the darkcorner she drove the loosened board to its place, shuddering as she didso and experiencing a feeling of terror such as she had not felt beforein years. Pushing the bed back to its usual position, she sat down byher father and tried to quiet him, for he was strangely restless, andtalked of, things which made the blood curdle in her veins. 

"Hark!" he exclaimed, as a gust of wind went shrieking past the window. "What was that, Hannah, that sound like a human cry?"

"It was only the wind. A wild storm is sweeping over the hillsto-night, " she said, as she drew a little nearer to him and took hishand in hers as if to give herself courage, for she, too, fancied therewas in the wailing wind the echo of a cry she never could forget. 

"Yes, " the old man replied, "just such a storm as shook the housethirty-one years ago to-night, and above it all I hear Rover's howl andthe awful word you shouted aloud and which the winds caught up andcarried everywhere so that the world is full of it. Do you remember it, Hannah!"

Did she remember it. Ask rather could she ever forget the awful wordwhich it seemed to her was written on the very walls and doors of thehouse, and on her forehead where all the world might see it!

Ask her if she remembered, when even now, after the lapse of thirty-oneyears, she could hear so distinctly the shriek of despair, which, as herfather had said, the winds had caught up and carried over the hills andfar away, where it was still repeating itself over and over again, andwould go on forever until reparation were made, if that were possiblenow. 

It was always ringing in her ears, just as the stains were on her hands, where she felt them as she clasped her long thin fingers convulsivelyand wondered if she were going mad. 

Her father was very quiet now; he was falling asleep, and sinking onher knees beside the bed, the wretched woman moaned piteously:

"Oh, my Father in heaven, how long must I bear this burden whichto-night presses so heavily? Help me, help me, for I am so weak and sad. Thou knowest I was innocent, and I have tried so hard to do right. If Ihave failed--if I ought to have spoken in spite of the vow, forgive me, for if my sin is great, great, too, has been my punishment. 

"I cannot stay here, " she thought, as she rose from her knees. "The roomis full of phantoms which gibber at me from the dark corners, and shoutthe word in my ears as I shouted it that awful night when Rover kept mecompany. Poor old Rover, lying under the snow. If he were only here Ishould not be quite so desolate. I believe that for the first time in mylife I am a coward, " and shaking with cold, or fear, or both, Hannahleft her father's room and went into the kitchen, where Sam was stuffingthe stove with wood. 

The moment she appeared, however, he withdrew the stick he was crowdingin, and began to close some of the draughts. But she said to him:

"Don't do that, Sam. Let it burn; put on more. I am very cold. And lighta candle, Sam; three candles! It is so dark here, and the wind howls so. Does it say anything to you, Sam? Any word, I mean?"

Sam had no idea what she meant, nor, indeed, did he think if she meantany thing, for his wits came slowly. People called him stupid, and thiswas his greatest recommendation to Hannah, who could not have had abright, quick-seeing boy in her household. 

Sam suited her, and his answer to her question was characteristic ofhim. 

"No, I don't hear nothin' it says, only it screams like a panther in afit, " and Sam deliberately lighted the three candles, and placed them onthe table, while Hannah drew a hard wooden chair to the stove, andputting her feet upon the hearth, clasped her hands around her knees, and sat there till she was thoroughly warm, and her nerves were quieted. 

She was not afraid now, and taking one of the candles she went to herfather's room and found him sleeping, with a calm, peaceful expressionon his face, and another look, too, which made her heart stand still amoment, for she felt intuitively that the black shadow of death hadcrept into the room. 

Suddenly he awoke, and seeing her standing by him smiled lovingly uponher, and said:

"Is that you, Hannah? faithful always, but your work is almost done, Iam going home very soon to the dear Saviour. I am sure of it. I know it. My sins are washed away in His blood; even the stains upon my hands, which are clean and white now as were Grey's the day he caught and heldme so fast. May God bless the boy and make him a good man, and a comfortto you, my child, who have been so much to me, the best, most unselfishof daughters. And something tells me you will be happy when I am gone. Ihope so, I pray so; and now, Hannah, send for Burton. I shall not behere in the morning, and I must see him once more, and send for Mr. Sanford, too. I must see him before I die. Burton and the minister, noone else; not even the boy Grey; he must not come, for, Hannah, I amgoing to tell!"

"What, father?" Hannah gasped, and he replied:

"I am going at last to confess the whole to my son and the clergyman. Imust do it. I shall die easier. "

"But, father, " Hannah cried, in alarm, "reflect a moment. What possiblegood can it do to tell Mr. Sanford, or even Burton? It would only givehim unnecessary pain. You have kept it so long, why not let the gravebury your secret?"

"Because I cannot, " the old man answered, "I must tell Burton. I havealways intended to do it at the last, so that he might know what youhave borne. Perhaps he may be kinder, gentler with you. Burton standswell with men; high in the world, but he is not like you; he would neverhave done what you have, and I want him to know that there is asacrifice which ennobles one more than all the honors of the world, andI want Mr. Sanford to know why I could not go forward and ratify mybaptismal vows, as he has so often urged me to do, thinking me obstinatein my refusal; and I wish to hear him say that he believes I amforgiven; that Christ will receive me, even me, a--Oh, Hannah, I can notsay that word. I cannot give myself that name. I never have, you know. It was so sudden, so without forethought, and, could I live my life overagain, I think I should tell at once, and not bury the secret as I did. But hurry, Hannah. Send Sam. I have but a few hours to live. Tell themto come quickly, Burton and the minister, not Grey. "

So Hannah wrote the note to her brother, and gave it to Sam, who, in amost unwilling frame of mind, harnessed the horse, and started in thestorm for Grey's Park. 

Meanwhile, in anticipation of the coming of the guests, Hannah put herfather's room a little more to rights, lighted another candle, put morewood in the stove, and then sat down to wait the result, with a heartwhich it seemed to her had ceased to beat, so pulseless and dead it layin her bosom. She had no fear of anything personally adverse to herselfor her father arising from the telling of the secret kept so many years. It would be safe with Mr. Sanford, while her proud brother would die athousand deaths sooner than reveal it; but, oh, how cruelly he would behurt, and how he would shrink from the story, and blame her that sheallowed it to be told, especially to the clergyman--and she mightperhaps prevent that yet. So she made another effort, but her father wasdetermined. 

"I must, I must; I shall die easier, and he will never tell. We haveknown him so long. Twenty-five years he has been here, and he took to usfrom the first. Do you remember how often he used to come and read toyou on the bench under the apple tree?"

"Yes, father, " Hannah answered, with a gasp, and he went on:

"Seeing you two together so much, I used to think he had a liking foryou, and you for him. Did you, Hannah? Were you and the minister everengaged?"

"No, father, never, " Hannah replied, as she pressed her hands tightlytogether, while two great burning tears rolled down her cheeks. 

"And yet you were a comely enough lass then, " her father rejoined, as ifbent on tormenting her. "You had lost your bright color to be sure, butthere was something very winsome in your face and eyes, and manner; andhe might better have married you than the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, fussy Martha Craig, who, like the Martha of old, is troubled about manythings, and leads the minister a stirred up kind of life. "

"Mrs. Sanford is a model housekeeper, and takes good care of herhusband, " Hannah said, softly; and then, as she heard the sound ofvoices outside, she arose quickly, and went to meet her brother, and theman who, her father had said, would better have married her than the"sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Martha. "

CHAPTER X. 

THE INTERVIEW. 

The rector was full of interest and concern as he stepped into the room, and when Hannah apologized for sending for him on such a night, heanswered promptly:

"Not at all, not at all. If I can be of any comfort to you or yourfather, I should be very sorry not to come. How is he?"

Hannah did not answer him, so intent was she upon studying her brother'sface, which was anything but sympathetic, as he shook the snow from hisovercoat and warmed his hands by the stove. The Hon. Burton Jerroldliked his comfort and ease, and as he was far from easy or comfortable, he made his sister feel it by his manner, if not by his words. 

"Is father so much worse that you must send for us in this storm?" heasked, and Hannah replied:

"Yes, he is very bad. He says he is going to die, and I believe it. Hewill not last the night out, and of course I must send for you, and heinsisted that Mr. Sanford should come too. "

"Yes, certainly; I am glad he did, " the clergyman rejoined, thrustinghis hands into his coat-pocket. "He wishes the communion, I dare say, "and he placed reverently upon the table the little silver service. 

Hannah's face flushed as she replied;

"He did not mention that, I do not suppose he thinks he can receive it. What he wishes is to see you, to talk to you, to--to--"

She hesitated, her brother's countenance was so forbidding, then added, quickly:

"'He wishes to tell you something which he has kept for years, " and hervoice sank to a whisper as she glanced again at her brother. 

It was coming, then, the thing he had suspected so long, and which henever had wished to learn, and Burton Jerrold breathed hard as he said:

"But surely, Hannah, if there are family secrets to be told, I am theone to hear them, and not a stranger. Mr. Sanford can have no interestin our affairs. "

"I could not help it, brother, " Hannah said, mildly. "I tried todissuade him, but he would not listen, and Mr. Sanford is not like astranger to us. "

She turned her dark eyes full of tears upon the clergyman, who gave herback an answering glance which her brother did not observe, and wouldnot have comprehended if he had. 

"Yes, Hannah, " Mr. Sanford said, "you can trust me; be the secret one oflife or death, it is safe with me as with you. " And he gave her his handby way of affirmation. 

And Hannah took the offered hand and held fast to it as a drowning manholds to a straw, while the tears ran like rain down her pale face. 

"Hannah! Burton! Are you there, and the minister? There is no time tolose, " came feebly from the sick-room, and Hannah said:

"He is calling us; go to him, please. I will join you in a minute. "

Then she hurried to the summer kitchen, where she found Sam, who thoughthis work done, and was removing his boots preparatory to going to bed. 

"Wait, Sam, " she said. "I am sorry, for I know you are tired and sleepy, but you must sit up a while longer, and take Mr. Sanford home. I willbring you an easy-chair in which you can sleep till I want you. "

Thus speaking, she brought a large Boston rocker and a pillow for thetired boy, who, she knew, would soon be fast asleep, with no suspicionof what was about to transpire in the sick-room to which she nextrepaired, closing the door behind her. Her father had both Burton'shands in his, and was crying like a little child. 

"Oh, my son, my son, " he said, "if I could undo the past, I should nothave to turn my eyes from my own child in shame, and that I have doneever since you were a boy, and came from Boston to see us. How old washe, Hannah? How old was Burton when the terrible thing happened?"

"'Twelve, " Hannah answered, and her father went wandering on like oneout of his mind, talking of Burton when he was a boy--of his deadwife--of Hannah, who had suffered so long, and of the storm, which hesaid was like the one which swept the New England hills thirty-one yearsago that very night, when the snow fell so deep that no one came nearthe place till Monday. 

"Three whole days, " he said. "Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and I had timeto hide the dark deed so securely that it has never been suspected. "

Burton started quickly, and glanced at his sister with a look of amazedinquiry. He had thought of forgery, and theft, and embezzlement, butnever of what his father's words might imply, and the cold sweat beganto froze from the palms of his hands while a kind of nightmare creptover him, and kept him rooted to the spot as his father went on:

"But, oh! what agony of remorse I have endured! The tortures of the lostare not more intense than my sufferings have been! Think of my meetingpeople day after day with the mark of Cain upon my brow, burning thereso hotly that it seemed as if you must all see it, and know my guilt. How could I join myself to God's people with this sin unconfessed? Icould not, and yet, I feel in my heart that I am forgiven, washed in Hisblood as white as snow, so that there is rest for me in Paradise. Still, I must confess; I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister; but noone else--not Grey--no, no, not the boy Grey, who loves me so much. Hislife must not be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in mycoffin. Oh, Grey! Grey! May God bless the boy and give him every needfulhappiness, and make him so good and noble that his life will blot outthe stain upon our name. 

"Father!" Burton cried, in a choking voice; "for pity's sake, have done, and tell me what you mean! The suspense is terrible. "

"I mean, " and the old man spoke clearly and distinctly--"I mean that, thirty-one years ago to-night, in the heat of passion, I killed a man inthe kitchen yonder, and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and Ihave slept over his grave ever since!"

"A murderer!" dropped from Burton Jerrold's pale lips; and "A murderer!"was echoed in the next room by lips far whiter than Burton Jerrold's, and which quivered with mortal pain as the boy Grey started from hisstooping position over the stove and felt that he was dying. 

For Grey was there, and had been for the last few minutes, and had heardthe secret which he was not to know. 

After his father left Grey's Park, he had sat a few minutes with hismother and aunt, and then, complaining of a headache, had asked to beexcused, and gone to his room, which was at the head of some stairsleading down into a narrow hall and out into the side yard. When the boyentered his chamber, he had no intention of going to the farm-house, butas he thought of his grandfather dying, and that to-morrow might perhapsbe too late to see him alive, the wish to go there grew stronger andstronger, until it became an impulse which he could not resist. 

"Something tells me I must go, " he said; "that it is needful for me tobe there, and go I shall. I am not afraid of the snow. It cannot be morethan a foot on the level. I have waded through more banks than that, andit is only a mile from here across the fields and through the woods. Ishall not tell any one, but I am going. "

And in a few moments Grey had descended the stairs, and unlocking theouter door, locked it again, and putting the key in his pocket, startedfor the farm-house, striking into a cross-road which led across thefields, and which in summer he used often to take in preference to thehighway. It was a little nearer, and led through grassy lanes, and coolpinewoods, and pleasant pasture lands, across a stream where he had oncebuilt a dam, and had a little water-wheel which his grandfather made forhim. 

The way, however, was anything but pleasant now, with the cold, darksky, the tall, leafless trees, and the drifting snow, which he found wasmore than a foot deep on the level, except in the woods, where it hadnot fallen so thickly. But Grey was young and fearless, and he went onrapidly, until he reached the knoll from which the house was visible notfar away. It had ceased snowing by this time, and the moon, which wasnearly at its full, was struggling to show itself through a rift in thegray clouds. The wind, however, was still blowing in wild gusts, and asit swept past him he, too, fancied it had in it a human sound. 

"It is like Aunt Hannah's voice calling to me. I am glad I came, thoughI suppose father will scold, " he said, as he paused a moment to rest, and then rapidly descended the knoll to the house. 

Entering by the wood-shed door, which was first reached, he went intothe summer kitchen, and passed on into the second kitchen, where acandle was burning dimly, and where he stopped a moment by the warmstove. No one heard him, no one knew he was there; but as he stood inthe silence and darkness he heard distinctly his grandfather's voice, and this was what he heard:

"I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister; but no one else, notGrey--no, no, not, the boy Grey, who loves me so much. His life must notbe shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my coffin. Oh, Grey!Grey! May God bless him and give him every needful happiness, and makehim so good and noble that his life will blot out the stain upon ourname. "

Here Grey, who stood motionless, heard his father say:

"For pity's sake tell me what you mean; the suspense is terrible. "

And then came the awful response, which sounded through the silent roomlike the knell to all the boy's future happiness and peace of mind. 

"Thirty-one years ago to-night, in the heat of passion I killed a manin the kitchen yonder, and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and I have slept on his grave ever since!"

No wonder Grey's face grew white as the face of a corpse, while hisheart throbbed with unutterable pain as he whispered the word his fatherhad said aloud. 

His grandfather, whom he had thought so good, and loved so much, amurderer! He had killed a man in that very room, perhaps on the spotwhere the boy was standing, and Grey recoiled from the place, and lookeddown upon the floor, which gave no sign of the tragedy enacted therethirty-one years ago, and kept hidden ever since. 

Like a flash of lightning Grey saw all the past, and understood now whathad been singular in his grandfather's manner and in his Aunt Hannah's, too; for she had been privy to the deed, and had helped to keep it fromthe world, and to Grey this was the bitterest thought of all, the onewhich made him sick, and faint and dizzy, as he groped his way to thedoor, which he opened and closed cautiously, and then fell heavily uponhis face in the snow, with all consciousness for the moment blotted out. 

The chill, however, and the damp revived him almost immediately, andstruggling to his feet he started on his route back to Grey's Park alongthe same road he had come, seeing nothing, bearing nothing but that oneword, that name his father had given to his grandfather, and which he, too, had echoed. Over and over again the winds repeated it until the, woods seemed full of it, and he said to himself:

"Will it always be so? Shall I never hear anything but that again solong as I live, and I am so young, only fourteen, and I meant to be agreat and honorable man, and a good one, too. And I can still be that. God knows I am not to blame. Would he hear me, I wonder, if I should askhim now to take some of this pain away which fills my heart tobursting!"

And there, on the pure white snow, in the shadow of the leafless woods, the heart-broken boy knelt down, and with clasped hands, and the greattears streaming over his upturned face, asked God to forgive him for hisgrandfather's sin, and take the pain away, and help him to be a goodman, if he could never be great and distinguished. And God heard thatprayer made to him in the wintry night, from the depths of the boyishheart, and a feeling of quiet came over Grey as he resumed his walk. 

"I am not to blame, " he said, "and people will not think so if theyknow, which they never will, for father will not tell, nor Mr. Sanfordeither; but I shall always know, and life will never be the same to meagain. "

It certainly looked forlorn and dreary enough to him by the time hereached Grey's Park, and letting himself quietly in, he creptnoiselessly up to his bed, from which he did not rise until late thenext morning, when his Aunt Lucy came herself to call him, and told himhis grandfather was dead. 

CHAPTER XI. 

AT THE OLD MAN'S BEDSIDE. 

When the word "murderer!" dropped from Burton Jerrold's lips, his fatherstarted as if a bullet had pierced his heart, and the hot blood surgedup into his face, as he said:

"Oh, my son, my son, that you should be the first to call me by a namewhich even Hannah has never spoken, and she has known it all the time. She saw me do the deed; she helped me bury it. Poor Hannah!"

"You!" and Burton turned fiercely upon his sister, who stood like ablock of marble and almost as colorless. "You helped. Then you were anaccessory to the crime, and never spoke, never told! No wonder your hairturned white before its time!"

"Brother! brother!" Hannah cried, as she threw up her hands in ananguish of entreaty. "You do not know, you cannot guess, or you wouldnever reproach me thus. "

"But I do know that you kept silence, and that I, who thought myself sohonorable and high, am branded with disgrace, am the son of a--"

"Stay!" and the dying man gathered all his remaining strength for thereproof. "You shall not call me by that name again. You shall not speakthus to your sister, the noblest woman and the most faithful daughterGod ever gave to the world. I bound her by a solemn oath not to speak, even had she wished to, which she did not, for I was her father; yourfather, too, and I know that in some respects you are not worthy totouch the hem of her garment. Say, Mr. Sanford, " and he turned to therector, who had stood looking on, stupefied with what he heard, "didHannah do wrong, not to bear witness against me?"

"Hannah never does wrong, " the rector said, rousing himself, and going astep nearer to her he took her cold, clammy hand between his own, andheld it there, while he continued: "Mr. Jerrold, you reproach yoursister for her silence, but consider what her speaking would have donefor you! If you feel it so keenly when only you and I know of it, whatwould you have felt had the whole world been made cognizant of the fact?I do not know the circumstances of your father's crime. Probably therewas great provocation, and that it was done in self-defense, and if sothe gallows would not have been his punishment, though a prison might, and do you think that as the son of a felon you could have stood whereyou do now in the world's estimation? No; instead of reproaches, which Ido not believe spring from a sense of justice, rather thank your sisterwho has given all the brightness of her life to shield her father frompunishment and you from disgrace. "

The rector spoke more severely than was his wont, for he felt a contemptfor the man whose real character he now understood better than he hadbefore; but his words had a good effect, for Burton saw the truth therewas in them, and turning to his sister, who was sobbing piteously hesaid:

"Forgive me, Hannah, if I seemed unjust. I am so stunned and hurt that Iam not myself, and do not know what I say. I am glad you kept silent; tohave spoken would have been to ruin me; but why, having kept the secretso long, did you not keep it longer? Why did not father take it withhim to his grave? Surely no good can come from wounding and humiliatingme so cruelly. "

"Perhaps not, my son, " the old man answered, feebly. "For you it mighthave been better if I had never spoken. Possibly it is a morbid fancy, but I felt that I must confess to my minister. My conscience said so, and that I must tell you in order that you may be a comfort and help toHannah in what she means to do. "

"What does she mean to do?" Burton asked, in alarm, and his fatherreplied:

"Make restitution in some way to the friends of the man I killed, if shecan find them. "

"Oh!" and Burton set his teeth firmly together as he thought what dangerthere might be in restitution, for that would involve confession, andthat meant disgrace to the Jerrold name. "I shall prevent that if I can;it is well, after all, that I should know, " he thought; then to hisfather he said; "Who was the man? Where are his friends? Tell me allnow. "

"Yes, I will; but, Hannah, look--I thought I heard some one moving inthe next room, a few minutes ago, " the old man said, and going to thedoor, Hannah glanced around the empty kitchen which bore no trace of thewhite-faced boy who not long before, had left it with an aching heart, and who at that moment was kneeling in the snow and asking God toforgive him for his grandfather's sin. 

"There is no one there, and Sam is sleeping soundly in the room beyond, "she said, as she returned to her father's side, and taking her place byhim passed her arm around him and supported and reassured him, while hetold the story of that awful night, a story which the author will tellin her own words rather than in those of the dying man, who introduced agreat deal of matter irrelevant to the case. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE STORY. 

Forty years or more before the night of which we write, there had cometo Allington a peddler, whose home was across the sea, in Carnarvon, Wales. He was a little, cross eyed, red-haired, wiry man, with a blunt, sharp way of speaking, but was very popular with the citizens ofAllington, to whom he sold such small articles as he could convenientlycarry in a bundle upon his back; needles, pins, thread, pencils, matches, thimbles, cough lozengers, Brandreth's pills, handkerchiefs, ribbons, combs, and sometimes Irish laces and Balbriggans formed a partof his heterogeneous stock, which was varied from time to time to suitthe season, or the wants of his customers. 

Very close at a bargain, and very saving of his money, he seldom stoppedat the hotel, but passed the night at the houses of his acquaintances, who frequently made no charge for his meals or his lodgings. Especiallywas this the case at the farm-house where the peddler, whose name wasJoel Rogers, was always welcome, and where he usually staid when inAllington. Between Peter Jerrold and the peddler there was a strongfriendship, and the two often sat into the small hours of the night, while the latter told marvelous tales of his wild Welsh country, whichhe held above all other lands, and to which, the last time he was seenin Allington, he said he was about to return. 

For three days he remained in the town, selling off the most of hisstock, and then bidding his friends good-by, started late on theafternoon of Thanksgiving Day for the adjoining town, where a few debtswere owing him, and where he hoped to dispose of the rest of hismerchandise. 

As he left the village the snow began to fall heavily and this, perhaps, was why he decided to stop at the farm-house, which was not upon thehighway, but nearly half a mile from it, upon a cross-road which ledthrough Peter Jerrold's farm to the town line, and which was seldomtraveled by any one except by Peter Jerrold himself and those who cameto visit him. Thus the house stood in a most lonely, secluded spot, withonly the chimney and the top of the roof visible to the people of theneighborhood. 

Here Peter Jerrold lived with his daughter Hannah, who was now nearlyfifteen, and who had kept his house since her mother's death, whichoccurred when she was twelve years old. 

Bright, unselfish, and very pretty, Hannah was a general favorite withthe people of Allington and many were the merry-makings and frolics heldat the old farm-house by her young friends. But these were suddenlybrought to an end by a fearful sickness which came upon Hannah, and, which transformed her from the light-hearted, joyous girl of fifteen, into a quiet, reserved, white-faced woman, who might have passed fortwenty-five, and whose hair at eighteen was beginning to turn gray. Itwas the fever, the people said, and Hannah permitted them to think so, though she knew that the cause lay behind the fever, and dated from theawful night when Joel Rogers came into their kitchen, and asked forshelter from the storm, which was readily granted him. 

It was probably his last visit, he said, as it was doubtful if he everreturned to America, for he meant to settle down and die in Carnarvon, his old home, where his only sister, Elizabeth, was living. Then hetalked of his money, which, he said, was considerable, and was mostlyinvested in some slate quarries in the vicinity of Carnarvon. 

For a long time the two men sat before the wood fire, talking of Englandand Wales, eating the apples which Hannah brought them from the cellar, and drinking freely of some wine which Peter had made himself, and whichhe brought out in honor of his friend's last visit. 

This at last began to take effect, making them loud and noisy, andinclined to contradict each other, and quarrel generally, and then, asthe peddler was counting out his gold, of which he had several hundreddollars he turned suddenly to Mr. Jerrold, and said:

"By the way, you have never paid me the five dollars I loaned you whenI was here last winter. "

The latter affirmed that he had paid it in the spring, and that Hannahsaw him do it, which was the fact. But the peddler persisted in hisdemand, and grew louder and more vociferous in his language, callingboth Peter Jerrold and Hannah liars, and saying he would have his moneyif he went to law to get it. 

A violent quarrel then ensued, and such epithets as liar, cheat, andswindler were freely interchanged, and then there was a simultaneousspring at each other, the chairs were overturned and they were rollingupon the floor, dealing each other fierce blows and tearing each other'shair like wild beasts. It was the peddler who struck first, but Peter, being the stronger of the two, got his antagonist under him, and with astick of wood which was lying upon the hearth struck him upon the head, inflicting a fearful wound from which the blood flowed in torrents, staining Peter's hands and face as he pushed back his hair, and soberedhim at once. But it was too late, for when Hannah, who, during thefight, had cowered in the corner with her hands over her eyes, withdrewthem as the struggle ceased, and looked at the white, blood-stained faceover which her father was bending, she knew the man was dead, and with acry of horror, ran from the room out into the darkness, where shriekafter shriek of "_Murder! Murder!_" rang out upon the air and wasdrowned by the louder scream of the terrible storm which was sweepingover the hills that Thanksgiving night. 

Beside her in the snow crouched the house-dog, Rover, trembling withfear, and mingling his howling cry of terror with her more awful one ofmurder. The dog had been a witness of the fray, keeping close by hismistress' side, and occasionally uttering a low growl of disapproval asthe blows fell thick and fast, and when at last it was over, and thedead man lay white and still, with his blood upon the floor, Roversprang toward his master with a loud, angry bark and then fled withHannah into the storm, where he mingled his cry with hers and added tothe horror of the scene. 

"Half-crazed with what he had done, and terrified lest be should bedetected, Peter Jerrold's first idea was of self-preservation from thelaw, and the cries he had heard outside filled him with rage and fear. Staggering to his daughter's side he struck the dog a savage blow, thentaking Hannah roughly by the arm and leading her into the house, he saidto her, fiercely:

"Are you crazy, girl, that you yell out your father's guilt to theworld? You and that brute of a dog, whom I will kill and so have him outof the way! Here, you Rover, come here!" he said to the dog, who wasstanding before Hannah, bristling with anger and growling at intervals, "Come here while I finish you, " and he opened the door of the wood-shedwhere he always kept the gun he had carried in the war of 1812. 

Divining his intention Hannah stepped between him and Rover, on whosehead she laid her hand protectingly, while she said:

"Father, you will not touch the dog, if you value your own safety, forif you do, every man in Allington shall know what you have done, beforeto-morrow dawns. Isn't it enough that you have killed _him_!" and shepointed shudderingly to the inanimate form upon the floor. 

For a moment Peter Jerrold regarded her with the face of a maniac; thenhis expression changed, and with a burst of tears and sobs he fell uponhis knees at her feet, and clasping the hem of her dress abjectly in hishands, besought her to pity him, to have mercy, and save him from thegallows, for in the first frenzy of fear he felt it would be his lifethey would require if once his guilt were known. 

"I cannot die a felon's death. You do not want your poor father hung!Think of yourself; think of Burton; both so young, to carry such adisgrace all your lives. I did not mean to kill him; God knows I didn't. He provoked me so, he hit me first, and I struck harder than I thought, and he is dead. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? I cannot be hung;you will not betray me. Promise me you will not!"

She had no thought of betraying him, except as she had threatened it indefense of Rover, who now stood up erect, looking first at her, and thenat her father, as if curious to see how it would end. 

"Father, I have no wish to see you hung, " Hannah said, while her kneesshook under her at the thought. "I shall not witness against you, if Ican help it. But what will you do? How can you keep it a secret? Peoplewill know, when they see him, that he did not die by fair means. "

To her the thought of hiding the crime had not occurred, and a shudderof horror ran through her frame when her father said:

"People need not know. He was going to Europe. Let them think he hasgone, and we will bury him, you and I, where he will never be found. "

"Bury him here? Where? and Hannah's teeth chattered with fright, as shethought of living all her life in a house which held a buried secret inthe shape of a murdered man. 

"Bury him under the floor of my room, over in the corner where the bedalways stands, " the father replied so calmly that Hannah looked at himwonderingly to see if he were utterly void of feeling, that he couldspeak so quietly of what filled her with unspeakable dread. 

But he was neither callous nor unconcerned. He was merely stunned withthe magnitude and suddenness of his crime, and the natural fear of itsdetection. The repentance, the remorse were to come afterward, and bemeted out to him in such measure of bitterness as has seldom fallen tothe lot of man. Regarding his daughter fixedly for a moment, he said ina hard, reckless kind of way:

"Hannah, there is no use in whimpering now. The deed is done, and cannotbe undone; though, God is my witness, I would give my life in a momentfor the one I have taken, if I could, and I swear to you solemnly that Iwish I had been the one killed rather than the one to kill. But it wasnot to be so. I have slain my friend. The world would call it murder, asyou did, and hang me. I cannot be hung. I must hide it, bury it, and youmust help and swear on the Bible not to tell so long as I live. Will youdo it? Answer, quick, and let us get to work, for I am a very coward, and hear voices in the storm as of people coming to take me. Will youhelp me, and will you swear?"

"Oh, father, father, " Hannah cried, in an agony of entreaty; "do not askme to help! Do not ask me to swear, though I promise not to tell, if Ican avoid it. But if he is missed, if inquiry is made for him, if he istraced here, and I am questioned, am put upon my oath, I cannot tell alie, and maybe they would not hang you when they knew the circumstances. He was very unreasonable and aggravating, and called us both liars. Ican testify to that. Oh, father, consider a moment! Would it not bebetter to go at once, and confess the truth to some one who hasinfluence. Captain Grey is our friend. Tell him, and ask his advice. Go, father; now, and leave him where he lies. I shall not be afraid to stayalone, knowing you are doing right. Go, father. "

She was on her knees before him now, clasping his feet, and pleadingpiteously. But she might as well have talked to a stone. 

"Give himself up to the hangman? Never!" he answered. And she was nodaughter of his to desire his death, as she evidently did. She couldstay there in the corner with her dog, as great a sneak as herself! Hedid not wish her services; he could manage alone, he said, angrily, ashe turned from her and entered his room, where she heard him moving outhis bed, and knew that he was taking up a portion of the floor. 

Then there came over her a great blackness, and a buzzing in her headlike the sound of many bees in the summer time, and she fell upon herface, unconscious of everything. How long she lay thus she did not know, but when she came to herself again there was no light in the room exceptthat made by the dying fire upon the hearth and Rover was licking hercold face and hands, and now and then uttering a low whine as if intoken of sympathy. The body was still upon the floor near her, but fromher father's room there came a sound, the import of which she understoodperfectly. Shivering as with a chill, she moaned:

"Oh! how can I bear it? My life will be one long, living death, and Ishall always want to shriek out the dreadful thing which father says Imust keep! Can I? Ought I? And could they hang my father? I do not thinkso. They would call it manslaughter, and pardon him, for my sake--forBurton's. "

And here the poor girl groaned bitterly, as she thought of Burton, heryoung brother, whom she loved so much, and of whom she was so proud, and for whom she was so glad that he could live in Boston, amid all thefine sights of a city, which suited him better than the homely life atthe farm-house. When, after her mother's funeral, her aunt, Mrs. Wetherby, had offered to take him home with her and bring him up as herown, Hannah had felt for a time as if she could not let him go and leaveher there alone; but when she thought of all the benefit it would be tohim, and saw how much he wished it, she stifled every selfish feeling, for his sake, and saw him leave her without a sign of the pain at herheart, or the unutterable longing she had for his companionship. Andnow, as she thought of him, her bitterest pang came from the fact thatif this deed were known, he would suffer all his life from the shame ofit, and, to herself, she said:

"For Burton's sake, I must bear it always, and alone. He must never knowwhat I know. No one must ever know, and may God forgive me if I am doingwrong!" And falling upon her knees, with her head upon Rover's neck, thewretched girl prayed earnestly for grace to know what was right, andstrength to do it. 

And He who hears every sincere cry for help, even though His ear mayseem deaf, and the heavens brass, sending back the cry like an unmeaningsound, gave her the strength needful for the hour, and a feeling ofcalmness stole over her, making her quiet, and even fearless of thestiffened form lying so near her upon the floor. 

But when, a few minutes later, her father appeared in the door, with acandle in his hand, and said to her, "I have done all I can do alone;you must help me now, " the old terror came back, and staggering to herfeet, she asked:

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Help carry him into the next room, " her father replied, and thenforgetting Burton, forgetting everything, she burst out again:

"Oh, father, will it not be better to tell the truth, at once? The factthat you do so will go a long way toward clearing you. The people allrespect you so much, and they know he was quarrelsome and insulting attimes. Think, father, think!"

"I have thought, " he answered, "and I tell you I cannot be hanged!"then going swiftly to his bed-room he came back with a Bible in hishand, and standing before the white-faced girl, said to her: "I see Icannot trust you, unless you swear upon this book, never, while I live, to breathe to any living person what has been done here to-night. When Iam dead do what you like, but swear now, as you hope for heaven, neverto tell!"

And Hannah took the oath which he dictated to her, and kissed the sacredbook which seemed to burn her lips as she did so. She had sworn. Shewould keep the vow to the end, and her father knew it, and with thisfear lifted from his mind he became almost cheerful in his manner, as heexplained to her what she was to do. 

And Hannah obeyed him, and with limbs which trembled in every joint wentwith him to the attic and helped him bring down some boards which hadlain there for years and on which she and Burton had played many an hourin days gone by. She knew what he was going to do with them, and withouta word held the light while he fashioned the rude coffin in which helaid the dead man, but not until she had with her own hands reverentlyand tenderly washed the blood from the ghastly face and bound about thewound upon the temple a handkerchief which she found in his pack. Then, after the body was placed in the box, she took a pillow from herfather's bed, and putting on it a clean covering and placing it underthe peddler's head, folded his hands upon his breast, and kneelingbeside the box bowed her head upon the boards and began the Lord'sPrayer. 

It was her burial service for the dead, all she could think of, and fora moment her father stood staring at her as if stupefied with what hesaw; then his features relaxed, and falling on his knees beside her hecried out piteously:

"Oh, Father in heaven, forgive, forgive! Thou knowest I did not mean todo it. Have mercy, have mercy! Blot out my great sin, and if a prayerfor the dead is not wrong, grant that this man, my friend, whom I sentinto eternity with no time for repentance, may be among the saved;forbid that I should destroy him body and soul. Oh, help me! for thebrand of Cain is upon me, and already my punishment seems greater than Ican bear. If I could give my life for his I would do so gladly, but Icannot, and I must live on in torment forever and ever, with thisblood-stain on my hands burning like coals of fire. Oh, my heavenlyFather, have mercy! I did not mean to do it. "

His head was on the rough coffin and he was sobbing in wild abandonmentof despair, while Hannah, too, knelt beside him, with a face as white asthe dead man's and eyes into which there had come a look of fright andhorror, which would never entirely leave them until her dying day. 

In a corner of the room Rover had been lying for the last fifteen ortwenty minutes, eyeing the proceedings warily, and occasionally giving agrowl of disapproval when his master came near him, and when the bodywas lifted into the coffin, he uttered a long, deep howl which echoedthrough the house like the wail of some troubled spirit, drifting on thewings of the wind still moaning around the windows and the doors. 

"Oh, Rover, Rover, don't!" Hannah cried, going to him, and winding herarms around his neck, "Be quiet, Rover, or I shall die. "

As if he comprehended her meaning the noble brute lay down again, andresting his head upon his paws, looked on until his master gave way tohis paroxysm of grief. Then he arose, and going up to the prostrate man, licked his hair and face just as, earlier in the night, he had lickedHannah's when she lay beside him on the floor. He was only a dog, buthis sympathy was reassuring to the wretched man, who looked up, and witha faint smile, said to his daughter:

"Rover forgives and pities me. I will take it as a token that God willdo so, too; and now we must finish our work. "

As if endued with superhuman strength, Hannah helped her father carrythe body to the grave he had dug, and there they buried it, while hertears fell like rain, and her father's lips moved with the words:

"Forgive, forgive; I did not mean to kill him. "

Everything belonging to the peddler was buried with him, except aleathern bag in which was the gold he had counted in the evening, and asmall tin box fastened by a padlock, the key of which was found in hispocket, and his silver watch, which Hannah laid aside with a thought ofthe sister Elizabeth, whom he had mentioned with so much affection, andwho, he said, was to be his heir. The money and the watch belonged toher and must be kept sacredly until the day when Hannah could safelygive them to her, as she fully meant to do. For the rest there wasnothing of any value, and they buried it with him, and filled the grave, or rather the father filled it, while Hannah held the light, and Roverlooked on curiously. 

Then, when all was done, when the floor was nailed down securely, thebed moved back to its place, the blood-stains washed from the kitchenfloor, and there was nothing left to indicate the awful tragedy whichhad been enacted there, the father and daughter sat down with Roverlying between them, and talked as to how they would face it. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

FACING IT. 

On the table beside them lay the watch, the leathern bag, and the boxwhich had belonged to the deceased. In the bag there were severalhundred dollars in twenty, ten, and five dollar gold pieces, and in thebox, which Hannah unlocked, there were some papers, and tied togetherwith a faded ribbon was a lock of dark brown hair, a bit of purpleheather, a few English violets, and some leaves of ivy; while on thepaper in which they were wrapped was the date of a summer day, many, many years ago, when the dead man was young. Whatever might have beenthe romance of which this souvenir was the sign, it was buried foreverwith the past, and Hannah put it back in the box as carefully andtenderly as if it were the hand of the woman on whose head that browntress once grew. 

The next thing which met the view was a picture painted on ivory of ayoung girl who might have been sixteen or eighteen years of age, andwhose face was so beautiful that Hannah uttered an exclamation ofsurprise as she held it to the light and examined it closely. 

The dress was old-fashioned, and such as would indicate that the wearerbelonged to the middle, rather than the wealthy class, but Hannah didnot think of that, so absorbed was she in the beauty of the fresh, youngface, and the expression of the large blue eyes, which seemed to look ather so intently. The dark brown tress, so carefully wrapped in paper, and bearing the scent of English violets and heather blossoms couldnever have grown on this girl's head, for the wavy hair which fell insuch masses upon her neck was of that peculiar shade of gold, dashedwith red, seldom seen in America, and which latterly has become sofashionable, that where nature fails to produce it, art has been calledinto requisition, and achieved most wonderful success. 

"Oh, how lovely she is, " Hannah said, showing the picture to her father. "This must be his sister, the Elizabeth he was so fond of. He said onceshe was many year's younger than himself, and very beautiful. I do notwonder he loved her. "

The bundle of papers was next examined, and found to contain a fewreceipts for moneys paid in England and America, and the will of thedeceased, executed some months before, and in which he gave everythinghe possessed to his beloved and only sister, Elizabeth, her heirs andassigns forever. 

"Father!" Hannah said, with a trembling voice, as she finished readingaloud this will, "I am sure that this is his sister's picture, and wehave a duty to do. We must find Elizabeth Rogers, and put her inpossession of her own, this gold in the box, and whatever else he mayhave owned in Wales. He spoke of shares in some mines or quarries. Theseall belong to his sister, and we must not defraud her; those blue eyeswould haunt me forever. What shall we do?"

She was looking earnestly at her father, over whose face there came asudden pallor, and a hard, bitter expression, as he answered her:

"Find her! Of course! Advertise! go to Wales, if necessary, in search ofher, or get a lawyer to do it! Break your vow; tell the whole truth, asyou would have to, in order to establish his death; and get me hanged!That would be the result of restitution. "

"Oh, father, " Hannah cried in terror. "Is there no other way? If I findthis woman and give her her own, must I tell her the whole truth? Willit not be enough if I say he is dead, that I saw him die, that I helpedto lay him in his coffin? I would not mention you, or that I had afather. Surely she would be satisfied. "

"Yes, _she_ might, but not the law. I do not understand the ins and outsmyself, there are so many questions necessary to make a thing legal, butthis I am sure of; the whole thing would be ripped up, and I hanged, asI told you. No, Hannah, you cannot find this woman while I live, which, please God, may not be long. When I am gone, find her, if you like, butyou must shield me. Remember your vow, and--and--swear again, not tomove in the matter while I live. "

He was growing so excited with this new fear that his daughter shrankfrom him in alarm, and at last yielding to his importunities tookanother oath of secrecy, which doomed the blue-eyed woman in Wales to alife of poverty, if such now were her portion. 

"But what shall we do with this money?" Hannah asked. 

And her father replied:

"Keep it until you can restore it to its rightful owner without harm tome. Elizabeth may never get it, but her heirs, some child yet unborn, may be made rich by you, one day, who knows?"

Yes, some child then unborn might one day be richer for this crime, butthat did not comfort Hannah, now, and the future held no gleam of hopeor happiness for her, as she put the papers, and the watch, and thegold, and the portrait, together in the tin box, and tried to thinkwhere she could hide them. 

Owing to the storm, and the depth of the snow, no one visited the lonelyfarm-house until the Monday following the tragedy, when a neighbor camebreaking through the drifts to see how it fared with Peter, who tried toappear natural as he talked of the depth of the snow, and inquired forthe news, and mentally anathematized the dog Rover, who, the moment thestranger appeared, stretched himself before the bedroom door with akeen, watchful look in his eyes, as if he were on the alert and guardingthe terrible secret. 

And this habit, commenced that morning, was continued by the faithfulcreature up to the day of his death, which happened several years later. No matter where he was, whether chasing a rabbit through the woods orsleeping by the stable door, he seemed by some instinct to know when avisitor arrived, and hastened at once to his post, from which neitherthreats nor persuasions could dislodge him. For Hannah tried both, butwhen she coaxed he whined and whisked his big tail on the floor, andwhen she threatened he growled and showed his teeth, but staid therejust the same. 

The Monday night following the tragedy, Hannah was stricken down with alow, nervous fever, which lasted for weeks, and from which she arose themere shadow of her former self. All life and vivacity had left her, andinstead of a girl of fifteen she seemed like a woman of twenty-five, soquiet and reserved she became, with no color in her cheeks, noelasticity in her step, no joy in her voice, no brightness anywhereexcept in her large dark eyes, which shone with unusual brilliancy, andhad in them always a look which puzzled and fascinated her friends, wholittle dreamed of what those strangely bright, beautiful eyes sawconstantly before them. 

Whether sleeping or waking the picture was always there, of the dead manon the floor with the blood-stains on his face, and she felt the touchof the clammy hands which she had folded upon his breast. She could notgo to school again, for in her morbid state of mind to study wasimpossible, and so she staid at home, brooding over the past andshrinking from the future, with no companionship except that of Rover, who seemed so fully to understand and sympathize with her. Oftentimeswhen her work for the day was done, and she sat down listlessly upon alittle seat beneath the apple tree which grew in the yard, the dog wouldgo to her, and putting his head in her lap, gaze into her face with sucha human look of pity in his eyes that her tears would fall like rain, asshe wound her arms around his neck and sobbed:

"Oh, dear old Rover, you know, and you are sorry for me. What should Ido without you! What shall I do when you are gone?" and the white lipswould frame a prayer that Rover might be spared to her long, for withouthim life would be intolerable. 

And yet Hannah had no foolish fancies, filled though the house was, withthe image of the dead man. She did not believe in ghosts, and had nofear that the occupant of the hidden grave beneath the floor would comeback to trouble her; it was rather the horror of the crime, the sin, which so oppressed her, filling her with the wildest fancies, and makingher see always the dreadful word murder written everywhere upon thewalls, and the blood-stains on the floor, where no trace was visible toother eyes than hers. Sometimes in the dark night, in her lonely bedbeneath the roof, with the stars looking in upon her, she felt as if herbrain were on fire and that she was going mad with the load of anguishand guilt, for she accused herself as equally guilty with her father, inasmuch as she had witnessed the deed and was helping him to concealit. 

"But God knows I cannot help it. I am bound with bonds I cannot break, "she would cry, as she stretched her hands toward heaven in dumbsupplication for pardon and peace, which came at last to the troubledspirit. 

And though she never knew again the joy of youth which had left herforever, there came to her long intervals of rest and quiet andcomparative peace, if not happiness; and when, three years after thetragedy which had blighted her young life, she, with others of hercompanions, ratified her baptismal vows and openly confessed Christ, Hewho sees and knows the secrets of all hearts, knew that among those whoknelt to receive the rite of confirmation there was not one purer ormore sincere than she who thought herself the vilest of the vile. 

Naturally, as time rolled on, and the peddler Rogers came no more toAllington, inquiries were made for him, the people wondering if heintended remaining in Wales the remainder of his life, or would heappear in their midst again some day, with his balbriggans and Irishlinens. But as he had never been more to the citizens than a peddler ofdry-goods, he was soon forgotten, and Peter Jerrold's secret was safeunder the floor, and the tin box, with the gold and the will, was safein the niche of the huge chimney, where Hannah had hidden it, untilsuch time as it could be given into the hands of the rightful owner. Forthis Hannah fully intended doing. How, or when, or by what agency, shecould not tell, but sometime in the future, restitution would be made, either to Elizabeth or her heirs. She had calculated the interest on themoney, and resolved yearly to lay by that amount for the benefit of theRogers heirs. Everything pertaining to Carnarvon she read up, knowingperfectly its history, where it was situated, how to reach it, andalmost fancying that she knew the very house where the peddler hadlived, and where possibly Elizabeth was still living. And some day shewould find the place and give up the money and will, and tell as much ofthe past as was necessary to tell, but no more. 

And with this end in view she lived her dreary, monotonous life, whichknew no change, except on the rare intervals when her young brotherBurton, came up from Boston to spend a few days with the father andsister from whom he was growing estranged so fast; for between them andhimself there was nothing common, and he was always glad when his shortvisit was over, and he was free to return to the life more in accordancewith his taste than that at the farm-house. 

When Rover died, several years after the tragedy of which he was awitness, Hannah felt that she had lost all that made life endurable, andmourned for him as for a human friend. With all the faithful sagacity ofhis race the noble brute had clung to her, seldom quitting her side, andfrequently, when her heart was saddest, and she was weeping by herself, licking her face and hair, and uttering a kind of low cry, as if heunderstood her perfectly; and when at last he died, it was with his headin her lap, and her tears falling upon his shaggy face. Even to the lasthe was faithful to the charge he had so long assumed. A neighbor hadcome into the kitchen, and dragging himself from the mat on which he waslying, Rover crawled to the door of the bedroom, and stretched himselfin front of it, while in the dying eyes lifted to Hannah's face, therewas an expression of unutterable love and regret for the mistress he wasleaving forever. When the visitor left the house, Hannah tried to coaxthe dog back to his mat near the stove, but he was too weak to move, andso she placed a blanket under him and kneeling by his side, put his headin her lap, and held it there until he ceased to breathe. 

After his death there was nothing to relieve the tedium of Hannah'slife, and but for her trust in God her reason must have given way underthe strain, for it was not only her own sorrow, but her father's aswell, which she had to bear. With him there was no rest, day or night, and every breath was a prayer for mercy and forgiveness. 

At first he was continually haunted with a fear of detection, andfrequently in the night he would steal noiselessly to Hannah's room, andawakening her with a whisper, tell her there were men about the house, come to arrest him, and charge her with having broken her oath andbetrayed him into the hands of the law. Every possible precautionagainst a surprise was taken. Iron bolts were put on the doors, thewindows were nailed down, and the house was never for an hour leftalone. The people said the man was deranged, and pitied the young girlwho, from daily association with him, was becoming almost as peculiar ashimself. 

After a few years the aged pastor, who had so long officiated in thestone church on the common, died, and the Rev. Charles Sanford, freshfrom the Theological Seminary, was called to take his place. Full ofenergy and zeal in his work, the young rector soon made himselfacquainted with all his parishioners, and seemed to find a peculiarattraction in the inmates of the farm-house, where he spent a great dealof time, arguing with the father on the nature of the unpardonable sin, and answering the many questions his host propounded to him upon thesubject of genuine repentance and its fruits, and how far confession toman was necessary that one might be saved. 

To these discourses Hannah was always an attentive listener, and therecame gradually a new light into her dark eyes, and a faint color to herwhite cheeks, when she saw the rector coming up the walk, and met hiswinning smile. But all this was ended at last; for, after a night inJune, when she walked with the young clergyman through the pasture landunder the row of chestnut trees which grew upon the hill-side, he cameless frequently to the farm-house, and when he did come his discoursewas mostly with her father, whom he was laboring to convince that it washis duty to be confirmed. But Peter always answered him:

"No, you don't know what you ask. I am too vile, too great a sinner forthat. The very stones would cry out against me. "

The clergyman thought him crazy, and after a time abandoned the effort, and went but seldom to the farm-house, where Hannah had again enteredthe dark cloud in which his coming had made a rift, and which now seemeddarker than ever, because of the momentary brightness which had beenthrown upon it. She, too, had labored with her father as Mr. Sanford haddone, telling him of the peace which was sure to follow a dutyperformed, but he answered her:

"Never, child, never; for, don't you see, I must first confess, and thatis to put the halter around my own neck. They would hang me now, sure, for the concealment, if for nothing more. It might have been better if Ihad told at first, as you advised. I believe now they would have beenlenient toward me. A few years in prison, perhaps, and then freedom therest of my life. Oh, if I had done it. But now it is forever too late. God may forgive me. I think he will, but I can never join his churchwith this crime on my soul. "

After this Hannah said no more to him upon the subject, but bent all herenergies to soothe and rid him of the morbid, half-crazy fancies whichhad taken possession of him. 

And so the wretched years went on, until Peter Jerrold had numbered morethan three score years and ten, and suffered enough to atone many timesfor crimes far more heinous than his had been. But nature at last couldendure no more, and on the Thanksgiving night, thirty-one years afterthe event which had blighted his life, he felt that he was dying, andinsisted upon confessing his sin not only to his son, but also to hisclergyman, who has been his friend and spiritual adviser for so manyyears. 

"I shall die so much easier, " he said to Hannah, who sent for them both, and then with her arm around her father, held him against her bosom, while he told in substance, and with frequent pauses for breath, thestory we have narrated. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE EFFECT OF THE STORY. 

After the first great shock of surprise, when the word murderer droppedfrom his lips, and he reproached his sister so harshly and unreasonably, Burton Jerrold stood with folded arms, and a gloomy, unsympathetic face, as immovable at first as if he had been a stone, and listened to thetale as repeated by his father. But when the tragic part was reached, and he saw the dead man on the floor, his sister crouching in the cornerof the room, with Rover at her side, the rude coffin, the open grave, and the secret midnight burial, his breath came in long, shudderinggasps, and the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead andabout his pallid lips. And when his father said, "I buried him here inthis room, under this bed, where I have slept ever since, and he isthere now, " he started backward as suddenly as if the ghost of thepeddler had risen from the floor and confronted him. Then, staggeringforward, he would have fallen if Mr. Sanford had not caught him by thearm and supported him a moment. 

Bringing him a chair, the clergyman said to him, pityingly:

"Sit down, Mr. Jerrold, and try to compose yourself. You are not infault: no one can blame you. "

"No, no, I know it; but it hurts me just the same. The disgrace! I cannever be happy again. Oh, Hannah, why did you let him tell me? I cannotbear it, I cannot!" the wretched Burton moaned, and his father replied:

"Your sister has borne it for thirty-one years. Are you less brave thanshe?"

"I don't know. Yes, I believe I am. I have more at stake than she. Ourpositions are not the same. There is Geraldine, and Grey, I can neverlook them in the face again, knowing what I know, " Burton cried, impetuously, and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed as strongmen never sob, save when some terrible storm, which they feel themselvesinadequate to meet, is beating pitilessly upon them. 

"Oh, brother, " Hannah said, in her soft, entreating voice, "this isworse than all the rest. Don't take it so hard. It is not so bad as youthink. You will not be disgraced. Geraldine will never know: the worldwill never know. Char--Mr. Sanford is just as safe as I. He will nevertell, " and the dark eyes looked for one moment at the man whom, in herexcitement and forgetfulness, she had almost called by his Christianname, and who, in response to the call and the look, went to her side, and laying his hand upon her head, said, solemnly:

"As heaven is my witness, what I have heard here to-night shall neverpass my lips. "

Pressing his hand for an instant upon Hannah's bowed head, he withdrewit, but staid at her side until the recital was ended, and the old man, who was sinking fast, said to him, in a faint whisper:

"You know all now, and why I could not join the church. It was too lateto tell the world of my guilt. God knew it. I believe he has baptized mewith His Holy Spirit. Do you think that as His minister you can pray formy departing soul?"

"Yes, yes, " the clergyman replied, and falling upon his knees, for hesaw in the pinched face the look he could not mistake, he began theprayer for the dying one, who whispered, faintly:

"That is good, very good. And now, Hannah, the Lord's Prayer once more;it is the last. We have said it many times together, you and I, when thenight was blackest and we could think of nothing else. Where are you, Hannah?" he added, in a tone of alarm, as if he had lost her. "It isgrowing dark and I cannot see. You must not leave me now. We have kepttogether so long. "

"I am here, father; with my arm around your neck, and I am kissing yourdear face, " Hannah said, and then, bending over him, she commenced theprayer they had so often said together when no other words would come. 

Faintly the old man's voice joined hers and that of the clergyman, andonly Burton was silent. He could not pray, but sat silent, while hisfather whispered at short intervals:

"Forgive; yes, that's the good word, and I am forgiven. I feel it. Iknow it. Salvation is sure, even for me, and in heaven I shall wait andwatch for you, Hannah, the best and truest daughter a man ever had. Oh, God bless my Hannah, and grant that some joy, some happiness may come toher when I am gone; and Grey, the baby Grey, oh, bless him, too, withevery needful blessing--the baby Grey, whose little hands took thestain, the smart from mine--my Grey, whom I love so much. "

"And Burton, too!" Hannah suggested, as her father ceased speakingwithout mentioning his son. 

"Yes, " he replied, rousing a little. "And Burton, my son; God bless him. But he is not like you, Hannah, nor like Grey. He could not forgive asyou have; he will never forgive me. And yet he is very just, very good, very respectable, and the Hon. Burton Jerrold, of Boston. Tell himgood-by and God bless him from me, the murderer!"

Those were the last words he ever spoke, for though he lingered for somehours it was in a kind of stupor, from which they could not rouse him. 

Seeing that he could be of no further service, and remembering thecareful Martha, who, he knew, was sitting up for him, armed withreproaches for the lateness of the hour, and various medicines aspreventives for the cold he was sure to have taken, Mr. Sanfordsignified his intention to return home, and insisted that the boy Samshould not be awakened to drive him there. 

The storm had ceased, the moon had come out, and he greatly preferredthe walk, he said, even if the snow were deep. There were curiousthoughts crowding in the brain of the grave, quiet man, tumultuousthoughts, which spanned a score of years and brought with them keen joyas well as a bitter pain. He was standing before the kitchen fire, withHannah near him, holding the warm muffler he was to tie around hisneck. Regarding her fixedly for a moment, he said, addressing her by theold pet name which had once been so familiar to him:

"Hanny, that is why you said 'no' to me that summer night when we walkedtogether under the chestnut trees, and I felt that you had broken myheart?"

Any one who saw Hannah Jerrold at that moment would have called herbeautiful, with the sudden light which shone in her dark eyes, thebright color which, came to her cheeks, and the softness which spreaditself all over her upturned face, as she answered, promptly, and stillvery modestly:

"Yes, Charlie, that was the reason. "

For an instant these two, whom a cruel fate had separated, looked intoeach other's eyes with a look in which the love of twenty years wasembodied; then involuntarily the hands clasped, and the man and thewoman who had walked together under the chestnut trees twenty years ago, kissed each other for the first time in their lives, _she_ feeling thaton her part there was nothing unwomanly, nothing wrong in the act, and_he_ feeling that on his part there was not the shadow of infidelity tothe woman who bore his name and looked so carefully after his welfare. The one was his wife, whom he respected greatly, and to whose wishes hesacrificed every wish of his own, when he could conscientiously do so;the other was the woman he had loved in the long ago, and whose "no, "spoken so decidedly, and with no explanation except that it must be, hadsent him from her with a heart-ache from which he now knew he had neverfully recovered. 

Twelve years after that summer, the memory of which was still half joy, half pain, he had married Miss Martha Adams, of Cambridge, because amutual friend had told him he ought to do so, that a bachelor clergymanwas never as useful as a married one, and that Miss Martha, a maidenlady of thirty-five, was eminently fitted to fulfill the duties of arector's wife, for she came from a long line of clergy and for years hadrun the Sunday-school, and the sewing society, and the church generallyin the parish to which she belonged. Added to this she had some moneyand excellent health, two good things in a minister's wife as everybodyknew. 

Mr. Sanford promised his friend to think about it, and then, oneafternoon, walked across the fields to the house among the rocks andlooked again at Hannah, who was twelve years older and graver andquieter than when she won the love of his young manhood; but there wassomething inexpressibly sweet in the pale, sad face, and the large darkeyes thrilled him as they did of old, so that he found his longing forher greater, if possible, than ever. But when he said to her, "Hanny, have you ever regretted your answer to me?" and she replied, "No, never, " he turned away, and, walking back across the fields to his ownhome, wrote to his friend in Walpole, signifying his readiness to beintroduced to Miss Martha Adams. The result of this was that Martha hadbeen his wife for nearly eight years, and ruled him with a rod of iron, which she, however, sometimes covered, so that he did not feel it quiteso much as he might otherwise have done. But it pressed heavily now, asin the clear, cold night he walked slowly home through the deep, untrodden snow, which he scarcely minded, so intent were his thoughtsupon the past and what might have been. 

Alas! for the many hearts, aching in secret and sending backward vainregrets for what might have been, what should have been, but what cannever be. And, if sometimes the heart thus wrung cries out with a greatcry for the happiness it has missed, is there disloyalty to him or herwho stands where another should have stood? God only knows, and He isfar more merciful and ready to forgive his erring children than are theyto forgive each other. And he must have pitied the man who, with athought of Hannah thrilling every fiber of his heart, went back to thehome where Martha was waiting impatiently for him, with words of chidingupon her lips. 

He knew it would be so, knew she would sit up for him until morning, ifnecessary, and knew, too, that in all probability bowls of herb tea anda hot foot-bath awaited him, for Martha was careful of his health, andsometimes oppressive with her attentions, and he sighed as he drew nearhis home and saw the light, and thought, "Oh, if she would only go tobed and leave me alone awhile, and not make me talk. "

But she was up and waiting for him, in her purple flannel dressing-gown, which did not improve her ruddy complexion, and a frown on her face, which deepened into a scowl as he came in and she saw the condition ofhis boots and the lower part of his pants. 

"Charles Sanford, " she began, "do you mean to say you walked, and do youknow what time it is?"

"Yes, Martha, " he answered, meekly, "it is very late, but I could nothelp it, and I insisted upon walking rather than have the tired, sleeping boy come out in the cold. I needed the exercise. I am notcold. "

"But you _have_ taken cold. You needn't tell me, and I've got the waterready for a foot-bath, and some hot boneset tea. How did you leave Mr. Jerrold? and did he take the sacrament at last?" she said, and hereplied:

"No, he did not; he--"

But before he could say more she burst out with growing irritability:

"Not take it! Why then did he send for you on such a night, and why didyou stay so long?"

She was pouring the boiling water into the foot-tub, in which she hadput a preparation of mustard and prickly ash and red pepper, which shekept on hand for extreme cases like this, and the odor of the steam madehim sick and faint, as, grasping the mantel, he replied:

"He wished me to pray with him; he will not live till morning. Pleasedon't talk to me any more. I am more tired than I thought, and somethingmakes me very sick. "

He was as white as ashes, and with all her better, softer nature roused, for Martha was at heart a very good woman, she helped him to a chair, and bathed his head in alcohol, and rubbed his hands, and did notquestion him again. But she made him swallow the herb tea, and she kepton talking herself, wondering what Hannah would do after her father wasgone. Would she stay there alone, or live with her brother? Most likelythe former, as Mrs. Jerrold would never have her in her family, andreally, one could not blame her, Hannah was so peculiar and queer. Pitywas that she had never married; an old maid was always in the way. 

And then Mrs. Martha, as if bent on torturing her husband, to whom everyword was a stab, wondered if any man ever had wanted Hannah Jerrold forhis wife, and asked her husband if he had ever heard of any such thing. 

"I should not be likely to know it, " he replied, "for until you came, Inever heard any gossip. "

There was an implied rebuke in this answer, and it silenced Mrs. Martha, who said no more of Hannah, but as soon as possible got her lord to bed, with a soapstone at his feet and a blanket wrapped around him, in orderto make him sweat and break up the cold she was certain he had taken. 

Meanwhile at the farm-house Burton and his sister were standing togethernear the kitchen fire, where poor Grey had stood two hours before, andheard what changed the coloring of his whole life. They were speaking ofhim, and what they said was this:

"If it were only myself I might bear it, " Burton said, "though life cannever be to me again what it has been, and I shall think like Cain thatthe sin is branded on me; and I was so proud, and stood so high, andmeant to make the name of Jerrold so honorable a name that Grey and hischildren would rejoice that they bore it. Of course Grey will neverknow, but I shall, and that will make a difference. Hannah, " he added, quickly, struck by something in her face, "what did you mean, or ratherwhat did father mean by your making restitution to the peddler'sfriends? What is there to restore?"

In his recital of his crime the old man had omitted to speak of themoney and the will, or, at most, he had touched so lightly upon themthat it had escaped the notice of his son, whose mind was whollyabsorbed in one idea, and that of the body buried under the floor withina few feet of him. Hannah explained to him what her father meant, andtold him of the box and the gold, to which she had every year added theinterest--compound interest, too--so that the amount had more thanquadrupled, and she had found it necessary to have another and largerbox in which to keep the treasure. 

"That is why I have so often asked you to change bills into gold forme, " she said. "Paper might depreciate in value, or the banks go down, but gold is gold everywhere, and I have tried so hard to earn or savethe interest, denying myself many things which I should have enjoyed aswell as most women, and getting for myself the reputation of closenessand even stinginess, which I did not deserve. I had to be economicalwith myself to meet my payments, which increased as the years went on, until they are so large that sometimes I have not been able to put thewhole in the box at the end of the year, and I am behindhand now, but Ikeep an exact account, and shall make it up in time. "

"But, Hannah, I used to give you money willingly, and would have givenyou more if you had asked for it. I had no idea of this, " Burton said, and she replied:

"Yes, I know you would, but I did not like to do it, for fear you wouldthink me extravagant and wonder what I did with so much. Not a penny yougave us ever went into the box. That was my matter, not yours; and Ihave worked so hard to do it, for father was not able to look after thefarm, which of itself is poor and barren, and as he was only willing tohire a boy, I have done a man's work myself at times. "

"You, Hannah--you?" Burton said, gazing at the pale-faced, frail-lookingwoman, who had done the work of a man rather than ask money of him whosometimes spent more on one large party than she did in a whole year, and who said to him, with a sad smile:

"Yes; I have spaded the garden, and planted the corn in the field backof the hill, where no one could see me, and have helped Sam get in thehay, though I never attempted to mow; but I did lay up a bit of stonewall which had tumbled down, I have done what I could. "

Poor Hannah! No wonder that her hands, once so small and shapely, werebroad, and hard, and rough, and not much like Mrs. Geraldine's, on whichthere were diamonds enough to more than liquidate the debt due toElizabeth Rogers and her heirs; and no wonder that her dress, which sooften offended her brother's artistic and critical eye, was coarse, andplain, and selected with a view to durability rather than comeliness. She had done what she could, and what few women would have done, andBurton knew it, and was conscious of a great feeling of respect andpity, if not affection, for her, as she stood before him in a stoopingposture, with her toil-worn hands clasped together as if asking hispardon for having intruded her own joyless life upon his notice. Butabove every other feeling in his heart was the horrible fear ofexposure if she attempted restitution, and he said to her at last:

"I am sorry for you, Hannah, and I can understand how, with your extremeconscientiousness, you believed it your duty to do as you have done. Butthis must go no further. To discover Elizabeth Rogers is to confessourselves the children of a murderer, and this I cannot allow. You haveno right to visit father's sin upon Grey, who would be sure to find itout if you stirred in the matter. He is sensitive, very, and proud ofhis name. It would kill him to know what we do. "

"No, brother, it would hurt him, but not kill him. " Hannah said, withenergy; "and ever since he was a little child I have depended upon himto comfort me, to help me, as I knew he would when he was older; andsomething tells me he will find the heirs. I do not mean to tell himuntil he is a man, able to understand. "

"Hannah!" and there was fierce anger in the voice. "You are not mysister if you ever dare tell Grey this thing, or hint it to him in anyway. He must never know it, both for his own sake and mine. I could noteven look at him without shame if he knew what my father was. You havekept it thirty-one years; keep it thirty-one longer, and, as you vowedsecrecy to my father, so swear to me solemnly, as you hope for Heaven, never to tell Grey or any one. "

He had seized her wrist, and held it so tightly that she winced withpain as she cried out:

"Oh, Burton, I cannot; I must restore the money and the will. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" he repeated, growing more and more excited. "Thatwoman is dead before this, and her heirs, if she had any, scattered tothe winds. People never miss what they never had, and they will not missthis paltry sum. Promise me, that you will drop this insane idea ofrestitution and never reveal what you know, even after Geraldine and Iare dead, should you outlive us both. Think of the disgrace to theGreys. "

And so, worried, and worn, and half crazed with fatigue and excitement, Hannah bound herself again, and, had not Grey already known the secret, Elizabeth Rogers' heirs would never have heard of the tin box in thechimney, from which place Hannah brought it at last to show the contentsto her brother, who, perfectly sure that she would keep her word, couldcalmly examine the will and scan the features of the young girl upon theivory. 

"She is very lovely, " he said, "though evidently she belongs to theworking class; her dress indicates as much. But whoever she is or was, she is not like this now; she is old or dead. Put it back in the box, Hannah, and if ever you accidentally find to a certainty where theoriginal is, or her heirs, send the will and the money to her fromBoston or New York, and she will thus get her own without knowing whereit came from. "

This was rather a lame way to make restitution, but Hannah seized uponit as something feasible, and felt in a measure comforted. She wouldherself go to Europe some time, and hunt up the Rogers heirs socautiously that no suspicion could attach to her, and then, having foundthem, she would send them the will and the money she was hoarding forthem. This was a ray of hope amid the darkness--the straw to which sheclung; and the future did not seem quite so cheerless, even when, a fewhours later, she stood with her brother by the side of her dead father, who had died without a struggle or sigh, just as the chill morning wasbreaking in the east and giving promise of a fairer day than theprevious one had been. 

CHAPTER XV. 

GREY AND THE SECRET. 

Breakfast was waiting in the pleasant dining-room at Grey's Park, whereBurton Jerrold sat before the fire, with his head bent down and his faceso white and ghastly that his wife, when she came in and saw him, wasmoved with a great pity for him, though she wondered much that hissorrow should be so acute for the father he had never seemed very fondof in life. Stooping over him she kissed him softly, and said:

"I am sorry you feel so badly, Burton. Your father was old, and quiteready to die; surely that should comfort you a little. "

"Yes, yes, I know; but please don't talk to me now, " he replied, with agesture of the hand as if to silence her. 

He was not sorry for his father's death, but he was willing, nay glad, that she should think so, for he could not tell her of the load of shamefrom which he should never be free. 

"What would she say if she knew?" he asked himself, as he remembered allher pride of blood, and birth, and family. And Grey, his only boy, ofwhom he was so proud, and who, he fully expected, would some day fillone of the highest posts in the land;--what would he say if he knew hisfather was the son of a murderer? Burton would not soften the crime evenin thought, though he knew that had his father been arrested at thetime, he could only have been convicted of manslaughter, and possiblynot of that. But he called it by the hard name murder, and shuddered ashe thought of Grey. 

"But he never will know, " he said to himself, "Hannah will keep herpromise, and I do not fear Mr. Sanford, though I'd give half myfortune--yes, all--if he had not been told. Grey will never know. But_I_ know, and must meet his innocent eyes, and hear him talk of hisgrandfather as of saint. "

It was at this point in his soliloquy that Grey came slowly in, his facewhiter than his father's, with dark rings around his eyes, which wereheavy and swollen with the tears he had shed. Grey had not slept at all, for the dreadful words, "I killed a man, and buried him under my bed, "were continually ringing in his ears, while the ghost of the murderedman seemed present with him, urging him to vengeance for the wrong, until at last, when he could bear it no longer, he stretched his handsout into the darkness, and cried:

"What is it you want with me? I am not to blame, but if there is anything I can do to make it right, I'll do it, when I am man. Now, go awayand do not torment me so. "

Grey knew there was nothing there, knew that the spirits of thedeparted do not come back again, but he was not in a frame of mind toreason clearly upon anything. He only knew how wretched he was, and thatafter his promise to redress the dead man's wrongs he grew calmer andmore quiet, though there was still the terrible pain and disappointmentin his heart, especially when he thought of his Aunt Hannah, whom he hadheld so high, and whom he now felt he had loved and revered more thanany other person. 

Remembering all the past, which at times had puzzled him, and which henow understood, he was certain that she had known from the first, and sowas an accomplice. Possibly the law would not touch her, he reasoned, ashe tried to fancy what might have been had this thing been known to thepublic; but he remembered having heard of a case which happened in anadjoining town many years before, where, at the instigation of his wife, a man was killed and thrown into his own well. The wife was hung inWorcester with her three accomplices, but a woman who was in the houseat the time went free, though she was ever after known as "Old 'ScapeGallows, " and shunned accordingly. Was his Aunt Hannah like her? Wouldpeople thus call her, if they knew?

"No, no; oh, no, " he cried in agony. "She is not like that! Please God, grant that my Aunt Hannah is a good woman still. I cannot lose faith inher, and I love her so much. "

And thus the dreadful night wore to an end, and the morning found Greyburning with fever, while a sharp pain, like a knife, cut through histemples every time he moved. He was not surprised when Lucy came andtold him his grandfather was dead. He expected it, but with a moan heburied his face in his pillow, and sobbed:

"Oh, grandpa, where are you now, I wonder; and I thought you so good, sosure of Heaven. Please, God, have mercy on him. Oh, I can not bear it. Icannot bear to think that he is lost! And he loved me so, and blessed meon his death-bed. "

This was the burden of Grey's grief, for he did not stop to consider allthe years of sincere repentance which had purified the soul just gone, and made it fit for heaven, and his heart was very sore as he slowlydressed himself and went down to the breakfast-room to meet his father, who knew what he did, and who must feel it just as keenly. 

Grey's first impulse was to fall upon his neck and cry out:

"I know it. I heard it. I was there. We will bear it together, " but whenhe remembered that his grandfather had said: "that he was not to know, "he restrained himself, and said very quietly:

"Grandpa is dead. Aunt Lucy told me. When is the funeral?"

The voice was not like Grey's, and Mr. Jerrold looked up quickly to meetthe eyes which fell at once as did his own. Neither could look in theother's face with that secret which each knew and was hiding from theother. But both were outwardly calm, and the breakfast passed quietly, with no reference to the recent event occupying the minds of all. Mrs. Jerrold and her sister had expected that Grey would feel his loss keenlyand possibly be noisy in his boyish demonstrations of grief, but theywere not prepared for the torpor which seemed to have settled upon him, and which kept him indoors all day sitting by the fire over which heshivered as if in a chill, though his cheeks were crimson, and hesometimes wiped the drops of sweat from his lips and forehead. His headwas still aching terribly, and he was cold and faint, and this was asufficient reason for his declining to accompany his Aunt Lucy, when, after breakfast was over, she went with his father to the farm-house, where she spent nearly the entire day, seeing to the many little thingsnecessary for the funeral, and which Hannah could not attend to. 

Geraldine did not go. Her nerves were not equal to it and she shouldonly be in the way, she said. So she sent her love to Hannah andremained at home with Grey, who seldom spoke to her, and scarcelystirred, though occasionally his mother saw his lips move and greattears roll down his cheeks. 

"I supposed he would care, but not so much as this, " she thought, as shewatched him anxiously, wondering at the strength of his love for an oldman in whom she had never even felt interested. 

Once, moved with pity for him, she put her hand on his head, just as inthe morning she had put it on her husband's, and stooping, kissed himtenderly, saying:

"I am sorry for you, Grey. It is really making you sick. Try and notfeel so badly. Your grandfather was old and ready to die. You would nothave him back, he is so happy now. "

Just as his father had done when she tried to comfort him, so Grey did. He made a gesture for her to stop, and said piteously:

"Please don't talk to me now, I cannot bear it;" so she sat down againbeside him, while he continued to nurse the bitter thoughts crowding sofast upon him:

Was his grandfather happy now? Was it well with him in the world towhich he had gone? he kept asking himself over and over again all thatdreary day and the drearier night which followed, and which left himwhiter, sadder, if possible, than ever. 

The funeral was appointed for half past two on Saturday afternoon, andBurton, who went over in the morning, asked Grey to go with him. 

"Your Aunt Hannah will expect you. She was disappointed in not seeingyou yesterday, " but Grey said promptly:

"No, I'll wait, and go with mother. "

So Mr. Jerrold went alone with Lucy, leaving his wife and Grey to joinhim about half past one, just before the neighbors began to assemble. When Grey came in, Hannah, who was already draped in her mourning robewhich Lucy had provided for her, went up to him, and putting her armsaround him, said, very low and gently, but with no sadness in the tone:

"Oh, Grey, I am so glad you have come and sorry you are suffering sofrom headache, but I know just how you loved him and how he lovedyou--better than anything else in the world. Will you come with me andsee him now? He looks so calm and peaceful and happy, just as you neversaw him look. "

"Oh, no, no!" Grey cried, wrenching himself from her. "I cannot see him;don't ask me, please. "

"Not see your grandfather who loved you so much? Oh, Grey!" Hannahexclaimed, with both wonder and reproach in her voice. "I want you toremember him as he looks now, so different from what he was in life. "

"But I cannot, " Grey said, "I never saw any one dead; I cannot bear it, "and going from her he took a seat in the kitchen as far as possible fromthe bedroom which held so much horror for him. 

He knew his grandfather was not there, for he was lying in his coffin inthe front room, where Lucy Grey had put the flowers brought from theconservatory at Grey's Park. But the _other one_ was there, under thefloor where he had lain for thirty-one years, and Grey was thinking of_him_, wondering who he was and if no inquiries had ever been made forhim. The room was a haunted place for him, and he was glad the door wasclosed, and once, when Lucy went into it for something, he started us ifto keep her back. Then remembering that he must never be supposed toknow the secret of that room, he sank again into his chair in thecorner, where he staid until the people began to assemble, when he wentwith his mother into the adjoining room, where the coffin was and wherehe sat immovable as a stone through the service, which, was not verylong. The hymn, which had been selected by Hannah, was the onecommencing with, "Asleep in Jesus, that blest sleep, from which noneever wake to weep, " and as the mournful music filled the rooms, and thewords came distinctly to Grey's ears, he started as if struck a blow, while to himself he said:

"_Is_ he asleep in Jesus? If I only knew! Can no one tell me? Poorgrandpa!"

Then he was quiet again, and listened intently to what Mr. Sanford wassaying of the deceased. Contrary to his usual custom, the rector spokeof the dead man, who had gone down to the grave like a sheaf of grainfully ripe and meet for the kingdom of Heaven. 

"There can be no mistake, " he said, "I was with him a few hours beforehe died. I heard his words of contrition for sins committed and hisassurance that all was peace and joy and brightness beyond the tomb. Hissins, of which he repented as few ever have, were all washed away inJesus' blood, and while to-day we stand around his grave, he is safewith the Savior he loved and trusted to the end. "

What else he said, Grey did not know, for the sudden reaction in hisfeelings. Mr. Sanford was with his grandfather at the last. He had heardthe dreadful words, "I killed a man!" and yet he declared the sinnersaved. He must know, he who had stood by so many death-beds. 

"Yes, he is asleep in Jesus, " Grey whispered, while over him there stolea feeling of deep joy, mingled with remorse that he had ever doubted thegoodness of his grandfather, who had prayed for and blessed him on theThanksgiving Day which seemed so long ago. 

Grey could look upon him now, and when his Aunt Hannah and his fatherrose to take their leave of the corpse, he went with them, lingering bythe coffin after they had returned to their seats, and bending over thewhite, still face, where death had left a smile, so peaceful, soinexpressibly sweet that it touched the boy keenly, and stooping down hekissed the stiffened lips, and murmured, through his tears:

"Dear grandpa, forgive me for doubting you, I know you were good. I knowyou are in heaven. "

He spoke in a whisper and no one heard what he said, though all notedthe pallor of his face and the heavy rings about his eyes, and when thenext day it was rumored in town that he was very sick, no one wassurprised. It was brain fever, induced by the strain upon his mentalpowers, and the cold he had taken that night when, unknown to any one, he had gone to the farm-house through the storm, and returned again. 

For three weeks he lay at the very gates of death, watched and cared foras few boys have ever been cared for and watched, for he was the idol ofhearts which would break if he were to die. The farm-house was shut up, and Hannah took her post as chief nurse to the boy she loved so much, and whose condition puzzled her a little. Once, in the first days of hisillness, when, after an absence of an hour or so, she re-entered theroom, where his father was keeping watch, he lifted his bright, fever-stricken eyes to her face, and asked:

"Who was the man?"

"What man?" Hannah and her brother asked, simultaneously, a great fearin the heart of each lest the other had betrayed what Grey was not toknow. 

"Have you told him?" Burton whispered to his sister, who answered:

"You know I have not. " Then, turning to Grey, who was still looking ather, she said to him again: "What man?"

For a moment the wild, bright eyes regarded her fixedly; then thereseemed to come over the boy a gleam of reason, and he replied:

"I don't know. "

After that he never mentioned the man again, or in any way alluded tothe secret weighing so heavily upon the two who watched him soconstantly--Hannah and his father. Not a word ever passed between themeither on the subject, so anxious were they for the life of the lad, whoin his delirium talked constantly of the past, of Europe, and the ship, and the mountains he had climbed, and whose names were on hisAlpenstock. Again he was at Carnarvon, going over the old castle, andagain at Melrose, fighting on the fourth of July with Neil McPherson, who had said his mother was not a lady. Then there were quieter moods, when he talked of and to little Bessie McPherson, whom he had neverseen, but who came to him in his delirium, and, with her sunny blue eyesand golden hair, hovered around his bed, while he questioned her of thelittle room high up in the hotel, where she went without her dinner sooften, while her heartless mother dined luxuriantly. 

"Send for her and bring her here, where she can have enough to eat. Whydon't you send for Bessie?" he would say to them; and once he said it toMiss McPherson, who was standing by his bedside, and who replied:

"I have sent for her; she is coming. "

"All right!" he answered. "Stuff her when she comes. Give her all themince pie she can eat, and all the griddle cakes. She never saw any athome. "

After that he was more quiet; but every morning and evening he asked, "Has Bessie come?" and when told, "Not yet, " he would reply, "Send herto me when she comes; I want to see her. "

And so the time went on until the fever spent itself, and there came amorning when Grey awoke to perfect consciousness of the present and avague remembrance of the past. They told him how long he had been sick, and how anxious they had been. 

"Did I talk much?" he asked his Aunt Lucy, when she was alone with him. 

"Yes, most of the time, " she replied, and over his face there flitted ashadow of fear lest he had talked of things he ought not. 

"What did I say?" he asked; and she told him as nearly as she couldremember. 

"And Aunt Hannah was here all the time? Where is she now?" he inquired;and Lucy replied:

She went home last night, for the first time in two weeks. She had togo, as the snow had drifted under the eaves, and the house was leakingbadly. "

"Is she there alone?" Grey asked, with a shudder, as he thought of thathidden grave under the floor. 

"No, Sam is there, and I sent Sarah with her, " was Lucy's answer, andafter a moment Grey continued:

"Wasn't Mr. Sanford here once; in the room, I mean?"

"Yes, many times, " Lucy replied. "He prayed for you here two or threetimes, and in the church every Sunday. "

"Send for him. I want to see him. Send now, " Grey said, adding, as hesaw the expression of joy on his aunt's face, and guessed what was inher mind. "Don't think I'm awful good, or going to join the church. Itis not that, but I want to see the minister before Aunt Hannah comesback. "

Fortunately Mr. Sanford was at that very moment below. He had stopped onhis way to the post-office to inquire for Grey, at whose side he soonstood, holding the pale hand in his, and looking inquiringly into theeager face of the boy who had asked to see him alone, and who said tohim as he had to his Aunt Lucy;

"Don't think I am good, or going to join the church, for I am not, Ithank you for praying for me. I guess it helped me pull through, and Iam going to pray myself by and by, but I don't want you to talk to meabout that now. I want to ask you something. Grandpa never joined thechurch, and at the funeral you said he was good, that he was safe; didyou mean it?"

Grey's eyes were fixed earnestly upon the rector, who answered, unhesitatingly:

"I wish I were as sure of heaven as he. I know he is safe. "

"You _are_ sure?" Grey rejoined, flushing a little, for now he wasnearing the real object of his interview with the rector, "You are sure, and Aunt Hannah is sure. She ought to know. You believe her a goodwoman?"

Mr. Sanford could not understand the breathless eagerness with whichGrey awaited his reply, which came quickly, decidedly:

"Your Aunt Hannah! Yes, she is the best, the truest, the purest womanwho ever lived. She is a martyr, a saint, an angel. I never knew onelike her. "

"Thank you, " Grey said, with a look of intense relief in his eyes. "Youhave made me very happy. I wanted to feel sure, about grandpa; and now, please go. I am very tired; some time I will see you again. "

So the rector left him, feeling a little disappointed with the result ofhis interview. He had hoped that Grey wished to speak with him ofhimself, and of his new resolves for the future, when, in fact, it wasonly a wish to be reassured of his grandfather's safety, which the boypossibly doubted a little because he had never united himself with thechurch. That Hannah had anything to do with it the rector neversuspected and did not dream of the great gladness in Grey's heart as hekept repeating to himself:

"She is good, even if she did know. She is a saint, a martyr, an angel;and I distrusted her; but all my life hereafter I will devote to her byway of atonement. "

It was late in the afternoon when Hannah returned to Grey's Park, andwent up to see her nephew, of whose improved condition she had heard. 

"Oh, auntie, " he cried, when he saw her. "I am so glad to have youback;" and Hannah did not guess that the boy had her back in more waysthan one, but she kissed him, and cried over him, and told him how herheart had ached when she feared she might lose him, and how desolate theworld would be without him, while he told her how much he loved her, andhow he meant to care for her when he was a man, and take her to Europe, and everywhere. 

"And you will grow young again, " he said. "You have never had anyyouth, I guess. How old are you, auntie?"

She told him she was forty-six, and making a little mental subtractionhe thought:

"Fifteen when it happened. No, she has had no youth, no girlhood;" butto her he said: "You do not look so old, and you are very pretty still;not exactly like Aunt Lucy or mother. You are different from them both, though more like Aunt Lucy, whose face is the sweetest I ever saw exceptyours, which looks as if Christ had put His hand hard upon it and leftHis impress there. "

There were great tears upon the face where Christ had laid His hands sohard, and Grey kissed them away, and then asked about the old house, andsaid he was coming to spend the day with her just as soon as possible, and the night, too, adding, in a sudden burst of bravery and enthusiasm:

"And I'll sleep in grandpa's room, if you wish it, I am not afraidbecause he died in there. "

"No, no, " Hannah said, and her cheek paled a little. "It is notnecessary for you to sleep there. No one will ever do that again. Ishall always keep it as he left it. "

Grey knew what she meant, but made no comment, and as he seemed verytired Hannah soon left him to rest. 

Naturally strong and full of vigor, Grey's recovery was rapid, and inten days from the time the fever left him, his father drove him to thefarm-house, where Hannah was expecting him, with the south room made ascheerful as possible, and a most tempting lunch spread for him upon alittle round table before the fire. Mr. Jerrold was going to Boston thatafternoon, and so Grey was left alone with his aunt, as he wished to be, for he meant to tell her that he, too, shared her secret, and after hisfather had gone and his lunch was over, he burst out suddenly:

"Auntie, there is something I must tell you. I can't keep it any longer. I was here the night grandpa died. I was in the kitchen, and heardabout--about that under the floor!"

"Grey!" Hannah gasped, as her work dropped from her nerveless hands, which shook violently. 

"Yes, " Grey went on. "I wanted to come with father, but he said no, andso I went to my room but could not go to bed, for I knew grandpa wasdying, and I wished to see him, and I stole out the back way, and cameacross the fields and into the kitchen, where I stood warming myself bythe stove and heard you all talking in the next room. I did not mean tolisten, but I could not help it, and I heard grandpa say: 'Thirty-oneyears ago, to-night, I killed a man in the kitchen yonder, and buriedhim under the floor, under my bed, and have slept over him ever since. 'You see I remember his very words, they affected me so much, I thoughtthe floor came up and struck me in the face, and that my throat wouldburst with the lump which almost strangled me. I did not hear any more, for I ran from the house into the open air where I could breathe, andwent back to Grey's Park, and up to my room without being missed at all. I thought I should die, and that was what made me sick, and why I didnot come here till the funeral and why I did not want to see grandpa. Iwas so disappointed, so shocked, and afraid he was not in heaven, till Iheard what Mr. Sanford said, and, auntie, I must tell you all, I thoughtdreadful things of you, too, because you knew. I thought you were whatthey said '_Old 'Scape Gallows_' was, an accomplice. "

"Oh, Grey, my boy, no, no, " Hannah cried aghast. "This is worse thandeath, and from _you_. I cannot bear it. "

In an instant Grey was kneeling at her side, imploring her forgivenessand telling her he did not think this of her now. 

"I know you are good, a saint, a martyr, an angel, the best woman thatever lived. Mr. Sanford said so. "

"Mr. Sanford!" Hannah, exclaimed. "What do you mean? You have not spokento him?"

"Not of that, " Grey said. "But I sent for him, you know, and Aunt Lucythought I was going to be good and join the church, but I only wantedhim to tell me sure that grandpa was safe, and that you were good, as Iused to think you were. He never suspected I was inquiring about you, Ibrought it in so neat; but he said you were a martyr, a saint, anangel, and the best woman that ever lived, and I believed him, and loveyou so much, and pity you so much for all you must have suffered. And, now, tell me about it. Don't omit a single detail. I want to know itall. "

So she told him everything, and when the story was ended, he took herwhite face between his two hands, and kissing it tenderly, said:

"Now, I am sure you are a saint, a martyr, an angel; but the martyrdomis over. I shall take care of you, I will help you find Elizabeth Rogersor her heirs, and father shall not know. I'll go to Europe when I am aman, and inquire at every house in Carnarvon for Joel Rogers or hissister; and when I find the heirs, I will send the money to them, andthey shall never know where it came from; and if there are shares inquarries and mines, I'll manage that somehow. I am to be a lawyer, youknow, and I can find some kink which will work. "

How he comforted her with his cheery, hopeful words, and how fast thehours flew by until Tom came to take him back to Grey's Park. But Greybegged so hard to stay all night, that Hannah ventured to keep him, andTom returned without him. 

"I am not a bit afraid of the house now, and would as soon sleep ingrandpa's room as anywhere, " he said to Hannah, as they sat together inthe evening, and then they talked of her future until Grey was oldenough to take care of her, as he meant to do. 

"Shall you stay here?" he asked, and Hannah replied:

"I don't know yet what I shall do, I shall let your father decide forme. "

"You might live with us in Boston, " Grey said. "That would be jolly forme; but I don't know how you and mother would hitch together, you are sounlike. I wish I was big, and married, and then I know just where youwould go. But father will arrange it, I am sure. "

And three weeks later, when Burton came up from Boston after his son, hedid arrange it for her. 

"It is of no use, " he said to her. "I have tried meeting and minglingwith my friends, and I feel as if they saw on my face what is always inmy mind, and if I stay in Boston I shall some day scream out to thepublic that my father was a murderer. I could not help it, and I canunderstand now how Lucy was wrought upon to do what she did in churchwhen they thought her crazy. I shall be crazy, too, if I stay here, andI am going away. Geraldine likes Europe, and so do I; and as I can leavemy business as well as not, I shall shut up my house, and go abroaduntil I feel that I can look my fellowmen in the face. "

"And Grey?" Hannah asked, sorrowfully, knowing how dreary her life wouldbe with him so far away. 

"I shall take him with me, " her brother replied, "I shall put him inschool somewhere in England or Germany, and send him eventually toOxford. But you will stay here, won't you? I'd rather you would. "

"Yes, " she answered, still more sadly, for she fully understood theintense selfishness of the man, who went on:

"I shall be happier, knowing you are here, for I cannot have the housesold, or rented, or even left alone, lest by some chance the secret ofour lives should be discovered. I am almost as morbid on the subject asfather was: but with you here, I shall feel safe. You can have any onelive with you whom you choose, and I will supply you with plenty ofmoney. So I do not see why you should not in time be quite content. "

"Yes, brother, " Hannah said, very low; "but shall I not see Grey foryears?"

"Perhaps not; I don't know, " was her brother's reply, as he arose to go, without a single throb of pity for the woman who was to be left alone inthe home so hateful to him. 

But Grey, when he heard of the plan, which did not surprise him, comforted her with the assurance that he should spend all his longvacations with her, as he did not mind crossing the ocean at all. 

"I may be with you oftener than if I were in America, and then some timeI'll go to Carnarvon and begin the search. So, don't feel so badly, " hesaid to her as he saw the great tears roll down her cheeks, and guessedin part her sorrow. 

And so the necessary arrangements were made as rapidly as possible, andone Saturday about the middle of March, Hannah stood on the wharf in NewYork with a feeling like death in her heart, and saw Grey sail away andleave her there alone. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

EXPECTING BESSIE. 

After Miss McPherson had sent her letter to her nephew, Archie, askinghim to give his little daughter to her keeping, her whole nature seemedto change, and there was on her face a look of happy expectancy rarelyseen there before. Even her cook, Sarah, and her maid, Flora, noticedand discussed it as they sat together by the kitchen fire; but as MissMcPherson never encouraged familiarities with her domestics, they askedher no questions, and only wondered and speculated when she bade themremove everything from the small bedroom at the end of the upper hall, which communicated with her own sleeping apartment. But when this roomwas papered and painted, and furnished with a pretty carpet of drab andblue, and a single iron bedstead with lace hangings, and a child'sbureau and rocking-chair, and more than all when a large doll wasbought, with a complete wardrobe for it, Flora could no longer restrainher curiosity, but asked if her mistress were expecting a child. 

"Yes, " was the reply, "my grandniece, Betsey, who was named for me. Shelives at Stoneleigh, my old home in Wales, and I may get a letter anyday saying she has sailed. I shall go to New York to meet her so have mythings ready for me to start at a moment's notice. "

So confident was Miss McPherson that her nephew would be glad to havehis daughter removed from the influences around her to a home where shewas sure of enough to eat, and that his frivolous wife would be glad tobe rid of a child who must be in the way of her flirtations, that shewas constantly expecting to hear that she was coming. She did notbelieve Archie would bring her himself, but she thought he wouldprobably consign her to the care of some reliable person, or put her incharge of the captain or stewardess, and in her anxiety to have thelittle girl she had written a second letter three days after she sentthe first. In this she had suggested the stewardess of the Celtic, whomshe knew, and with whom she assured Archie he could trust his child. Butdays and weeks went by, until it was past the middle of June, and stillthere were no tidings of Bessie; at last, however, there came a foreignletter, addressed in a woman's hand to:

 "Miss Elizabeth McPherson, Allington, Worcester Co. , Mass. , U. S. A. "

The Elizabeth was an affront to the good woman, who bristled all overwith resentment, as she held the dainty envelope in her hand and studiedthe strange monogram, "D. A. M. " (Daisy Allen McPherson). 

"Swears even in her monogram! I knew she would, " was Miss Betsey'scomment, as she broke the seal and began to read, first muttering toherself, "She writes well enough. "

The letter was as follows:

 "STONELEIGH, BANGOR, June 3d. 

 "OUR DEAR AUNT. "

 "Umph! I'm not _her_ aunt, " was the mental comment, and then she read on:

 "We have just come home from Paris, where we spent several delightful weeks with a party of friends, who would gladly have kept us longer, but Archie was homesick for the old place, though what he can see in it to admire I am sure I do not know. So here we are for an indefinite length of time, and here we found both your letters, which old Anthony, who grows more and more stupid every year, failed to forward to us in Paris. As Archie leaves everything to me, he said I must answer the letters, and thank you for your offer to remove our little girl from the poisonous atmosphere you think surrounds her, and bring her up morally and spiritually. I do not know what the atmosphere of Stoneleigh used to be when you lived here, but I assure you it is very healthy now; not at all poisonous, or malarious. We have had some of the oldest yews cut down and that lets in the sunshine and fresh air, too. 

 "But I am wandering from the object of my letter, which is to say that we cannot let you have our little Bessie, even with the prospect of her learning to scour knives and pare potatoes, and possibly having a few thousands, if she does well. Archie would as soon part with his eyes as with Bessie; while nothing short of an assured fortune, and that a large one, would induce me to give her up. She is in one sense my stock in trade--"

"Heartless wretch!" dropped from the indignant lady's lips. "Her stockin trade! What does she mean? Does she play out this child for her ownbase purposes?"

Then she read on:

 "Strangers are always attracted by her, and through her we make so many pleasant acquaintances. Indeed, she quite throws me into the shade, but I am not at all jealous. I am satisfied to be known only as Bessie's mother. I am very proud of her, and hope some day to see her at least a countess. "

"Countess! Fool!" muttered Miss Betsey, and read on:

"The inclosed photograph is like her in features, but fails, I think, inexpression, but I send it, as it will give you some idea of her as sheis now. "

Here Miss Betsey stopped, and taking a card from the bit of tissue paperin which it was wrapped, gazed earnestly and with a feeling of intenseyearning and bitter disappointment upon the beautiful face, whose greatwide-open, blue eyes looked at her, just as they had looked at her onthe sands at Aberystwyth. The photographer's art had succeeded admirablywith Bessie, and made a most wonderful picture of childish innocence andbeauty, besides bringing out about the mouth and into the eyes thatpatient, half sorry expression which spoke to Miss Betsey of lonelinessand hunger far up in the fourth and fifth stories of fashionable hotels, where the little girl often ate her smuggled dinner of rolls and nutsand raisins, and whatever else her mother could convey into her pocketunobserved by those around her. 

"Yes, she looks as if a big slice of plum pudding or mince pie would doher good! Poor little thing, and I am not to have her, " Miss Betseysaid, with a lump in her throat, as she continued reading:

 "You saw her once, I know, three years ago, at Aberystwyth, though she had no idea then who the funny woman was who asked her so many questions. Why didn't you make yourself known to us? Archie would have been delighted to meet you. He never saw you, I believe. And why didn't you speak to me when I went by as Bessie says I did? Was Archie with me, I wonder? or, was it young Lord Hardy from Dublin, Archie's best friend? He was with us there, and sometimes walked with me when Archie was not inclined to go out. He is very nice, and Archie is very fond of him, while to Bessie and me he is like a brother. "

Here Miss Betsey stopped again, and taking off her spectacles haranguedthe tortoise-shell cat, who was sitting on the rug and looking at her. 

"Archie's friend! her brother! Humbug! It does make me so mad to see amarried woman with a young snipper-snapper of a fellow chasing afterher, and using her husband as a cover. Mark my words, the woman who doesthat is not a pure, good woman at heart, or in thought, though outwardlyshe may be sweet as sugar; and her husband--

"Well, he is both weak and unmanly to allow it, and is looked upon withcontempt. "

To all this Mrs. Tortoise-shell purred an assent, and the lady went onwith the letter. 

 "Bessie is wailing for me to go for a walk, and so I must bring this letter to a close. Archie sends his love, and will, with me, be very glad to welcome you to your old home, should you care to visit it. When I was a child I thought it the grandest place in the world, but it is very much run down, for we have no money with which to keep it up, and have only the two servants, Anthony and Dorothy, both of whom are getting old. And yet I do not complain of Archie for not trying to do something. Once, however, before we were married I tried to rouse him to something like energy, and caring for himself, but since seeing the world, his world I mean, for you know of course I am not what would be considered his equal socially, I have changed my mind, and do not blame him at all. Brought up as he was with an idea that he must not work, it is very hard for him to overcome early prejudices of training and education, and I think his uncle, the Hon. John, would be intensely mortified to have his nephew in trade, though he is very careful not to give him any thing toward his support, and we are so poor that even a hundred pounds would be a fortune to us. Maybe some good angel will send it to us by and by. 

 "Hoping it most devoutly, I have the honor to be, "Very sincerely, your niece, "DAISY ALLEN McPHERSON. 

 "P. S. --Bessie thanks you again for the turquois ring you sent her. "

"A hundred pounds! Five hundred dollars! and maybe she devoutly hopes Ishall be the good angel who will send it to her, but she is mistaken. DoI look like an angel?" Miss Betsey said, fiercely, addressing herselfagain to the cat. "No, they may go to destruction their own way. I washmy hands of them. I should have been glad for the little girl, but Ican't have her. She will grow up like her mother, marry some fool, haveher friend and brother dangling after her, and smuggle dinners andlunches for her children up in the attic. Well, so be it. That ends itforever!"

The letter was an insult from beginning to end, and Miss McPherson feltit as such, and with a sigh of keen regret as for something lost, sheput away the picture, and when Flora asked when little Miss Bessie wascoming, she answered curtly:

"Never!"

PART II. 

CHAPTER I. 

STONELEIGH. 

The season is June; the time fourteen years prior to the commencement ofthis story, and the place an old garden in Wales, about half way betweenBangor and the suspension bridge across Menai Straits. The garden, whichwas very large, must have been beautiful, in the days when money wasmore plenty with the proprietor than at present; but now there weremarks of neglect and decay everywhere, and in some parts of it theshrubs, and vines, and roses were mixed together in so hopeless a tanglethat to separate them seemed impossible, while the yew trees, of whichthere were several, grew dark, and thick, and untrimmed, and cast heavyshadows upon the grass plats near them. The central part of the garden, however, showed signs of care. The broad gravel walk was clean andsmooth, and the straight borders beside it were full of summer flowers, among which roses were conspicuous. Indeed, there were roses everywhere, for Anthony loved them as if they were his children, and so did thewhite-faced invalid indoors, whose room old Dorothy, Anthony's wife, kept filled with the freshest and choicest. It did not matter to herthat the sick man had wandered very far from the path of duty, and wasdying from excessive dissipation; he was her pride, her boy, whom shehad tended from his babyhood, and whom she would watch over and care forto the last. She had defended and stood by him, when he brought home apretty little brown-eyed, brown haired creature, whose only fault washer poverty and the fact that she was a chorus singer in the operas inLondon, where Hugh McPherson had seen and fallen in love with her. Twoyears she lived at Stoneleigh, happy as the singing birds which flewabout the place and built their nests in the yews, and then one summermorning she died, and left to Dorothy's care a little boy of threeweeks, who, without much attention from any one as regarded his moraland mental culture, had scrambled along somehow, and had reached the ageof sixteen without a single serious thought as to his future and withoutever having made the least exertion for himself. Dorothy and Anthony, the two servants of the place, had taken care of him, and would continueto do so even after his father's death, or, if they did not, his uncle, the Hon. John McPherson, in London, would never see him want, hethought; so, with no bad habits except his extreme indolence, whichamounted to absolute laziness, the boy's days passed on, until the hotsummer morning in June, when he lay asleep on a broad bench under theshade of a yew tree, with his face upturned to the sunlight whichpenetrated through the overchanging boughs and fell in patches upon him. Occasionally a fly or honey-bee came and buzzed about him, but neveralighted upon him, because of the watchful vigilance of the young girlwho stood by his side, shielding him from the sun's rays with her personand her while cape bonnet, which she also used to scare away theinsects, for Archie McPherson must not be troubled even in his sleep, ifcare of hers could prevent it. 

The girl who was not more than twelve in reality, though, her traininghad made her much older in knowledge and experience, was singularlybeautiful, with great blue eyes and wavy golden hair, which fell in longcurls to her waist. Her dress, though scrupulously neat and clean, andbecoming, indicated that she belonged to the middle or working class, far below the social position of the boy. But whatever inequality ofrank there was between them, she had never felt it, for ever since shecould remember anything, Archie McPherson had played with and petted andteased her, and she was almost as much at home at Stoneleigh as in thework-room of her mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Allen, who made dresses for theladies of Bangor and vicinity. 

"How handsome he is, " she said to herself, as she gazed admiringly uponthe sleeping boy, "and how white and slim his hands are. A great dealwhiter than mine, but that, I suppose, is because he is a gentleman'sson, and I have to wash dishes, and sweep and dust the rooms;" and thegirl glanced regretfully at her own hands, which, though fat andwell-shaped, were brown, and showed signs of the dusting anddish-washing required of her by her mother, whose means were verylimited, and whose dressmaking did not warrant luxury of any kind. 

"I wish my hands were white, and that I could wear diamond rings likethe ladies at the George, " she continued; "and sometime I will, if theyare only shams. Half the world does not know the difference. "

Just then a handsome carriage containing a gentleman and lady, child andnurse, and maid, turned in at the lodge gate, which Anthony opened veryrespectfully, with a pull at his forelock. 

"That's the McPhersons from London! What an ugly, proud-looking thingLady Jane is!" the girl thought, and in watching the carriage as itdrove toward the house she relaxed her vigilance so far that a huge bluebottle-fly which had been skirting around the spot, for some time, alighted squarely upon Archie's nose, and roused him from his slumber. 

Yawning lazily, and stretching his long arms, he looked up, and seeinghis companion, called out, in a tone half familiar, half patronizing, ashe would address an inferior:

"Halloo, Daze, what are you doing here?"

"Keeping the sun and the flies off from you; they bite awfully thismorning, " she answered, quietly, and Archie continued:

"Upon my word, Daze, you are a little trump, standing bareheaded in thesun to shield me! How long have you been here?"

"Half an hour, perhaps; and I was getting tired, " was the girl's reply;but Archie did not ask her to sit down beside him, for he wanted all thebench to lounge upon, and leaning upon his elbow he went on talking toher, and answering her questions jestingly, until she said:

"How is your father?"

Then there came a shadow upon the face of the boy, who replied:

"He is worse, and they have sent for Uncle John and Lady Jane. We expectthem to-day. "

"Yes, I know; they came while you were asleep. Lady Jane looks veryproud, " Daisy said, and Archie rejoined:

"She looks as she is then. I hate her!"

If Archie hated her, Daisy did too, and she answered promptly, "So doI!" though she had never seen the lady in question until that morningwhen she rode by, arching her long neck and looking curiously aroundher. 

"She thinks the world made only for her and the baby Neil, " Archie said, "and Dorothy thinks so too. She is in a great way about her comingbecause we have no servants, I don't care! Let Uncle John give us somemoney if they want style when they come to Stoneleigh. "

"That's so!" and Daisy nodded approvingly; then she went on: "Mother hasmade some lemon jelly for the dinner, because Dorothy says she makes itso nice, and I am going over this evening to wash the dishes and helpDorothy a little. "

"You? I wouldn't!" Archie said, looking reflectingly at her. 

"But she will give me a shilling toward a new sash, " was the girl'sanswer, and Archie replied:

"I'll give you the shilling; don't go, " and he put his hand in hispocket for the shilling, which Daisy knew was not there, for the povertyof the McPhersons of Stoneleigh was no secret in the neighborhood anymore than was the pride which kept them so poor. 

She had often heard both discussed by her mother's customers, and whenArchie said, as he withdrew his hand empty, "Plague on it, what a botherit is never to have any money; I wish we were not so poor. I wonder howI can make a fortune; I've thought of forty ways, " she asked saucily:

"Did you ever think of going to work?"

"To work! To work!" he repeated, slowly, as if not fully comprehendingher, "I don't think I quite know what you mean. "

"I mean, " she replied, "that if you have no money, and want some, whydon't you go to work and earn it like Giles, the tailor, or Jones, thebaker? It would not hurt you one bit. "

"That is rich!" Archie exclaimed, sitting upright for the first time andlaughing immoderately. "The best thing I have heard. Ask Lady Jane, orUncle John, or even Anthony, how they would like to have a McPhersonturn baker, or tailor, or tinker. "

"You know I did not mean you to be any of these, " the girl answered, alittle indignantly; "but you might do something. You can go to Londonand be a clerk in that big store, Marshall & Snellgrove's. That wouldnot be hard, nor spoil your hands. "

"I am afraid it would, little Daze, " the boy replied. "You will have totry again. It would never do for a McPherson to be in trade. We were notborn to it. How would _gambling_ suit you? Piles of money are made thatway. "

"Gambling!" Daisy repeated, and could Miss Betsey McPherson have seenthe scorn which flashed in the eyes of Daisy Allen, she would haveforgiven the Daisy McPherson whom she saw years after upon the terraceat Aberystwyth flirting with Lord Hardy. 

But the Daisy of the Marine Terrace was a very different person from theyoung girl who, with a hand upon each hip and her head on one side, gaveArchie a piece of her mind in terms neither mild nor selected. 

"Gambling! I'd never speak to you again if you stooped to such a thingas to play for money. You'd better a thousand times sell butcher's meatat the corner, or cry gooseberries in the street! Suppose you are agentleman, a McPherson, without money, must you either gamble, or sitstill and let some one else take care of you? It won't hurt _you_ towork any more than any body else, and you'll have to do something. Everybody says so. Suppose you do have Stoneleigh when your father dies;there are only a few acres besides the park, and they are all run down. What are you going to do?"

"Upon my word, I did not know you had so much vim. You are a regularlittle spit-fire, " Archie said, regarding her intently; then after apause, he added: "What am I going to do? I am sure I don't know, unlessI marry you and let you take care of me! I believe you could do it. "

The hands which had been pressed on Daisy's hips met suddenly togetherin a quick, nervous clasp, while there came over the girl's face a lookof wonder and surprise, and evident perplexity. Although Daisy was mucholder than her years in some things, the idea of marrying ArchibaldMcPherson, or any one else, had never entered her mind. 

Now, however, she was conscious of a new feeling, which she could notdefine, and after regarding him fixedly for a moment, without anyapparent consciousness, she answered in a very matter of fact way:

"I believe I could take care of you--somehow!"

"I know you could; so, suppose we call it a bargain, " Archie said, butbefore Daisy could reply Lady Jane's maid appeared coming down the broadwalk. 

Stopping in front of the girl and boy, and merely noticing the former bya supercilious stare, she said to the latter interrogatively:

"Mr. Archibald McPherson?"

"Present!" he answered, with a comical look at Daisy, on whom it waslost, for she was admiring the smart cap and pink ribbons of the maid, who said:

"If you are Mr. Archibald, your father wishes to see you. He said I wasto fetch you directly. "

Rising slowly Archie shook himself together, and started for the house, while Daisy looked after him with a new and thoughtful expression on herface. 

"Archie!" she called at last. "Tell Dorothy I shall not come to help herwith the dishes. I have changed my mind. I do not want the shilling. "

"All right, " was Archie's response, as he walked on never dreaming thathe had that morning sown the first germ of the ambition which was toovershadow all Daisy Allen's future life, and bear fruit a hundred-fold. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE McPHERSONS. 

The room in which Hugh McPherson was lying was the largest, and coolest, and best furnished in the house, for since he had been confined to hisbed Dorothy had brought into it everything she thought would make itmore attractive and endurable to the fastidious invalid, who, on theJune morning when his son was in the garden talking to Daisy Allen, waspropped upon pillows scarcely whiter than his thin, worn face, and wasspeaking of Archie to his brother John, who was standing before him withfolded arms, and a gloomy, troubled expression on his face. Just acrossthe room, by an open window, sat Lady Jane, pretending to rearrange abowl of roses on the table near her, but listening intently to theconversation between the two brothers. 

"I don't know what will become of Archie, " the sick man said, speakingvery slowly. "I shall leave him nothing but Stoneleigh, with a mortgageon it for four hundred pounds, and a little annuity which came throughhis mother. Strange, that from dear little Dora, who, when I marriedher, had nothing but her sweet voice and sweeter face, the boy shouldinherit all the ready money he can ever have, unless you or our sisterBetsey open your hearts to him. You used to fancy the boy, and talkedonce of adopting him, when I had that fever at Pau, and you came to seeme. "

Here Lady Jane's long neck arched itself more proudly, and John felt howintently she was awaiting his reply. 

"Yes, Hugh, " he said, "I like the boy. He is bright and intelligent; andI did think of adopting him once, but that was before Neil came. Now Ihave a son, which makes a difference. I cannot take Archie, or do verymuch for him either. You know I have very little money of my own, and Ihave no right to spend Lady Jane's. "

Here the willowy figure near the window bent very low over the roses, as if satisfied with the turn matters were taking, as John went on:

"As his uncle and guardian, I will see to him, of course, and will writeto our sister, asking her to do something for him. Perhaps she willinvite him to come to her in America, and if so, what are your wishes?Shall I let him go?"

The invalid hesitated a moment, while his common sense fought with theold hereditary pride of blood and birth, which would keep one in therank to which it had pleased God to call him, even if he starved there. The latter gained the victory, and Hugh replied:

I would rather Archie should not go to America if there is any otherway. Betsey is very peculiar in her ideas, and would as soon apprenticehim to a shoemaker as anything else. In the last letter I received fromher, she advised me to put him to some trade, and to break stone myselfon the highway, rather than do nothing. No, Archie must not go toAmerica, he may marry well, if you and Lady Jane look after him; and youwill, John. You will have a care for my boy when I am gone, and, oh, never, never let him go near the gaming-table. That has been my ruin. Keep him from that, whatever you do. "

"Why not require a promise from him to that effect? He is a truthfulboy; he will keep his word, " John said, and Hugh replied:

"Yes, yes, that's it; strange I never thought of it before. I will sendfor him at once. Call Anthony to fetch him; and, oh, John, I owe Anthonyfifty pounds; money borrowed at different times from his hard earnings. You will see that he is paid?"

"Yes, " John answered, promptly; for Anthony, who had been at Stoneleighsince he was a boy, and had been so much to him, was his favorite, andshould not suffer. 

He would pay Anthony; but when his brother mentioned other debts owingto the trades-people in Bangor, and Beaumaris, and even Carnarvon, heobjected, on the ground that he was not able, but said he would lay thematter before his sister Betsey, who was far richer than himself. 

It was at this point that Archie appeared in the door, and aftergreeting his Uncle John and the Lady Jane with the grace and courtesy sonatural to him, he went to his father's bedside, where he stoppedsuddenly, struck with an expression on the pinched, white face, whichearlier in the morning had not been there. 

"Father, " he cried, while a great fear took possession of him, "what isit? Are you worse?"

"Yes, my son, weaker--that is all--and going from you very fast--beforethe day is over, perhaps--and I want to talk to you, Archie, and to tellyou I have nothing to leave you but Stoneleigh, and that is mortgaged;nothing but the small annuity on your life from your mother's littlefortune, which came too late to do her any good. Oh, Dora! who bore withme so patiently, and loved me through all--shall I find her, I wonder?She was so good, and I am so bad! And, Archie, my ruin has been thegaming-table, which you must avoid as you would the plague. Death andeternal ruin sit there side by side. Shun it, Archie, and promise me, asyou hope for heaven, never to play for money--never!"

"But what shall I do?" Archie asked, remembering that he had intended totry his fortune at Monte Carlo, where he had heard such large sums weresometimes made. "What shall I do?"

"I don't know, my boy, " the father replied. "There will be some wayprovided. Your Uncle John will look after you as your guardian, and youraunt in America will help. But promise, and I shall die happier. "

And so, with no especial thought about it, except that his father wishedit, Archie McPherson pledged himself never to play for money under anycircumstances, and the father knew the boy would keep the pledge, andfelt that his last hours of life ware easier; for those hours were hislast, and when the sun went down the master of Stoneleigh lay dead inthe room where he had blessed his son and commended him to the care ofhis brother and Anthony, feeling, certain that the latter would be truerto the trust than the former, in whom selfishness was the predominanttrait. 

It was a very quiet, unpretentious funeral; for John McPherson, who knewthe expense of it would fall on himself, would have no unnecessarydisplay, and the third day after his death Hugh McPherson was laid torest by the side of the Dora he had often neglected, but always loved. 

As soon as the funeral was over, John returned to London with Lady Jane, having first given Archie a great deal of good advice, to the effect, that he must do the best he could with what he had, and never spend ashilling unnecessarily, or forget that he was a McPherson. 

On his arrival in London, John wrote to his sister in America, tellingher of Hugh's death; of his poverty and his debts, and asking what shewas willing to do for the boy who was left, as it were, upon the world. In due time the answer came, and was characteristic of the writer. Shewould pay the mortgage and the debts to the trades-people, rather thanhave the McPherson name disgraced, and she would take the boy and puthim in a way to earn his own living at some honest and respectableoccupation. If he did not choose to come, or her brother did not chooseto send him on account of any foolish pride and prejudice against labor, then he might take care of him or the boy might starve for all of her. This letter John and Lady Jane read together, but did not consider for amoment. With a scornful toss of her head Lady Jane declared herselfready to give of her own means toward the maintenance of the boy, ratherthan to see a McPherson degraded to manual labor and thus disgrace herson Neil, the apple of her eye. 

And so it was settled between them that Archie was to be kept inignorance of his Aunt Betsey's offer, which the low taste he hadinherited from his mother might possibly prompt him to accept. Meanwhilehe was for the present to remain at Stoneleigh, where his living wouldcost a mere pittance, and where he would pursue his studies asheretofore, under the direction of a retired clergyman, who, for anominal sum, took boys to educate. This sum, with other absolutenecessaries, John undertook to pay, feeling when all the arrangementswere made that he had done his duty to his brother's child, who wasperfectly delighted to be left by himself at Stoneleigh, where he coulddo as he pleased with Anthony and Dorothy, and his teacher, too, forthat matter, and where he was free to talk with and tease and at lastmake love to Daisy Allen, for his Uncle John paid but little attentionto him beyond paying the sum he had pledged, and having him in hisfamily at London and in Derbyshire, for a few weeks each year when itwas most convenient. 

Naturally he could not help falling in love with Daisy, who was the onlygirl he ever saw except the high-bred, milk-and-water misses whom hesometimes met in Lady Jane's drawing-room, and who, in point of beautyand grace and piquancy, could in no degree compare with the playmate ofhis childhood. 

After the morning when Daisy kept the sun from him in the old yew-shadedgarden, and he jestingly proposed to marry her, that she might take careof him, a change came over the girl, who began to develope the talentfor intrigue in which she afterward became so successful. And as apreliminary step she made herself so necessary to Archie that his lifewithout her would hardly have been endurable, and of his own accord healways shortened as much as possible, his visits to London, for he knewhow bright was the face and how warm the welcome awaiting him atStoneleigh. 

And so it came about that when Daisy was sixteen and he was twenty, heoffered himself to the girl, who pretended no surprise or reserve, butpromptly answered yes, and then suggested that their engagement be kepta secret from every one until he came of age and could do as he pleased, for Daisy well knew the fierce opposition he would meet from his proudrelatives, if once they knew that he had stooped to the daughter of adressmaker. And so well did she manage the affair that not even Dorothysuspected the real state of affairs, until one morning, when Archie, whohad been absent for two weeks on a tour through Scotland, astonished herby walking into the house with Daisy, whom he introduced as his wife andthe mistress of Stoneleigh. She, too, had been to Scotland to visit somefriends, and there the marriage was consummated, and Archie had some oneto take care of him at last. 

And when his uncle John wrote him a most angry letter denouncing him ashis nephew, and cutting off his yearly allowance, which, though small, was still something to depend upon, Daisy rose to the situation andmanaged his annuity, and managed the household, and managed him, untilenough was saved from their slender means to start on the campaign whichshe had planned for herself, and which she carried out so successfully. 

The Continent was her chosen field of action, and Monte Carlo the pointtoward which she steadily set her face; until, at last, one LovelyOctober day, five months after her marriage, Mr. And Mrs. ArchibaldMcPherson, of Stoneleigh, Wales, were registered at the Hoteld'Angleterre, and look possession of one of the cheapest rooms, untilthey could afford a better. 

"It does not matter where we sleep, or where we eat, so long as we makea good appearance outside, " she said to Archie, who shrank a little atfirst from the close, dreary room on the fifth floor, so different fromhis large, airy apartment at home, which though very plainly furnished, had about it an air of refinement and respectability in strikingcontrast to this ten by twelve hole, where Daisy made the most ravishingtoilets of the simplest materials, with which to attract and ensnare anysilly moth ready to singe its wings at her flame. She had settled thepoint that if Archie could not earn his living because he was aMcPherson, she must do it for him. Five months had sufficed to show herthat there was in him no capability or disposition for work, orbusiness, or exertion of any kind. He was a great, good-natured, easy-going, indolent fellow, popular with everybody, and very fond, andvery proud of, and very dependent upon her, with no grain of jealousy inhis nature. So, when the English swells, of which there were many atMonte Carlo, flocked around her, attracted by her fresh young beauty andthe girlish simplicity of her manners, she readily encouraged them; notbecause she cared particularly for their admiration, but because shemeant to use them for her own purpose, and make them subservient to herinterests. 

CHAPTER III. 

AT MONTE CARLO. 

Reader, have you ever been to Monte Carlo, that loveliest spot in allthe world, where nature and art have done so much; where the summerrains fall so softly, and the winter sun shines so brightly, and wherethe blue of the autumnal sky is only equaled by the blue of theMediterranean sea, whose waves kiss the beautiful shore and cool theperfumed air? If you have been there you do not need a description ofthe place, or of the mass of human beings, who daily press up the hillfrom the station, or, swarming from those grand hotels, hurry toward onecommon center, the tall Casino, whose gilded domes can he seen fromafar, and whose interior, though, so beautiful to look upon, is, as MissBetsey McPherson would express it, the very gate of hell. Perhaps, likethe writer of this story, you have stood by the long tables, and watchedthe people seated there; the white-haired, watery-eyed old men, whosetrembling hands can scarcely hold the gold they put down with suchfeverish eagerness; the men of middle age, whom experience has taught toplay cautiously, and stop just before the tide of success turns againstthem; the young men, who, with the perspiration standing thickly abouttheir pale lips, and a strange glitter in their feverish eyes as theysee hundreds swept away, still play recklessly, desperately, until allis lost, and they leave the accursed spot, hopelessly ruined, sometimesseeking forgetfulness in death, with only the silent stars looking downupon them and the restless sea moaning in their ears, lost, lost! Thereare women too, at Monte Carlo, more, I verily believe than men; oldwomen, who sit from the hour of noon to the hour of midnight; women, with their life's history written on their wrinkled, wicked faces;women, who laugh hysterically when all they have is lost, and thenborrow of their friends to try their luck again; women, who go fromtable to table with their long bags upon their arms, and who only riskfive or ten francs at a time, and stop when their unlucky star is in theascendant, or they feel that curious eyes are watching them. For thesehabitual players at Monte Carlo are very superstitious, and it takes butlittle to unnerve them. There are young women there too, who play first, to see if they can win, and when by the fall of the little ball theirgold piece is doubled, they try again and again, until the habit isfixed, and their faces are as well known in the saloons as those of theold men with the blear eyes, which find time between the plays to scanthese young girls curiously, and calculate their price. 

And among these young women, Daisy McPherson sat the morning after herarrival at Monte Carlo, with a look of sweet innocence on her face, andapparent unconsciousness of the attention she was attracting. She hadbeen among the first who entered the _salon_ at the hour of its opening, for she was eager for the contest. She did not expect Archie to play, for she knew he would not break the promise made to his dying father. But she was bound by no such vow, and she meant to make her fortune onthe spot where gold was won so easily, and alas, so easily lost. 

Rarely, if ever, had a more beautiful face been seen in that gilded denthan Daisy's, as she entered the room, leaning upon the arm of herhusband, and walking slowly from table to table to see how it was donebefore making her first venture. Not a man but turned to look at her, and when at last, with a trembling hand, she put down her five francpiece, not one but was glad when she took up two, and with a smile oftriumph tried her luck again. It is said that success always attends thenew beginner at Monte Carlo, and it surely attended Daisy, who played onand on, seldom losing, until, grown bold by repeated success, she stakedher all, one hundred and fifty francs, and doubled it at once. 

"That will do. Twelve pounds are enough for one day, " she said, anddepositing her gains in her leather bag, she took Archie's arm and leftthe room, followed by scores of admiring eyes, while many an eagerquestion was asked as to who the lovely English girl could be. 

In the ante-room outside there was a crowd of people moving in oppositedirections, and the train of Daisy's blue muslin, for those were notthe days of short dresses, was stepped upon and held until the gathersat the waist gave way and there was a long, ugly rent in one of thebottom flounces. 

"I beg your pardon, miss, for my awkwardness, but really I could nothelp myself, I was so pushed by the crowd, " was said in Daisy's ear in arich Irish brogue, and turning partly round she saw a fair-haired youngman, scarcely two years older than herself, with a look of genuinedistress upon his aristocratic but boyish face, as he continued: "I hopeI have not ruined the dress, and it is such a pretty one!"

"I am sure you could not help it, but I am awful sorry, for it is myvery best gown; but then I can afford another now, for I gained twelvepounds to-day, " Daisy said, gathering up her torn skirt, and thusshowing to good advantage her pretty feet, and the fluted ruffles on herwhite petticoat. 

"Daisy!" Archie said, reproachfully, for he did not like her speakingthus freely to a stranger, "Let's get out of this;" and he made his wayto the open air, followed by the young man who still kept apologizingfor his awkwardness, until Archie lost all patience, and said a littlehotly, "I tell you, it is of no consequence. My wife can affordanother. "

"Your wife!" the young Irishman repented with a gasp. "Is it possible? Ithought she was your sister. She looks so young. Your wife?"

"Yes, my wife! and I am Archibald McPherson, of Stoneleigh, Bangor, inWales, " Archie answered, fiercely, and with a look which he meant shouldannihilate the enemy, who, not in the least abashed, because he reallymeant no harm, lifted his soft hat very respectfully, as he replied:

"Mr. McPherson, I am glad to make your acquaintance. I was in Bangorlast year, at the George Hotel, and heard your name mentioned. I am LordFrederic Hardy, of Dublin, better known there as Ted Hardy, of HardyManor, and I am out on a spree, running myself, independent of tutorsand guardians, and all that sort of thing; bores I consider the wholelot of them, though my guardian, fortunately, is the best-natured andmost liberal old cove in the world, and gives me mostly all I want. Ithink it a streak of luck to have met you here, where I know nobody andnobody knows me, I hope we may be friends. "

His manner, so friendly and so familiar, mollified Archie, who had heardof the young Irish lord, whose income was £10, 000 a year, and who spenthis money lavishly during the few days he was at the George, whileDaisy, who held a title in great veneration, was enraptured with thisyoung peer who treated her I like an equal. And so it came that in halfan hour's time the three were the best of friends, and had made severalplans with regard to what they would do during their stay at MonteCarlo. 

The next day Daisy did not see her new acquaintance, but as she wasdressing for the _table d'hote_ dinner, which she could afford with hertwelve pounds gain, a box was brought to her room, with a note addressedto her by Lord Hardy, who wrote as follows:

 "DEAR MRS. McPHERSON: I send you a new dress in place of the one I had the misfortune to spoil yesterday Please accept it without a protest, just as if I were your brother, or your husband's best friend, as I hope to be. Yours sincerely, "TED HARDY. "

"Oh, Archie!" Daisy exclaimed, as she opened the box and held to view asoft, rich, lustrous silk of dark navy-blue, which Lord Hardy had foundin Nice, whither he had been that day, and which, in quality and style, did justice to his taste and generosity. "Oh, Archie, isn't it a beauty, and it almost stands alone?"

"Ye-es, " Archie answered, meditatively, for he rather doubted thepropriety of receiving so costly a present for his wife from a stranger, and he said so to Daisy, adding that it was of course very kind in LordHardy, but wholly uncalled for, and she'd better return it at once, ashe would not quite like to see her wear it. 

But Daisy began to cry, and said she had never had a silk dress in herlife, and this was just what she wanted, and she could make it herself, and she presumed the amount Lord Hardy paid for it was no more to himthan a few pence were to them. And so she kept it and thanked Lord Hardyvery sweetly for it with tears swimming in her great blue eyes, whenshe met him in the evening at dinner, for he had given up his luxuriousquarters at the more fashionable hotel, and had come to the same housewith the McPhersons, whose shadow he became. The navy-blue silk wasquickly made in the privacy of Daisy's apartment, and she was verycharming in it, and attracted a great deal of attention, and drove theyoung Irishman nearly crazy with her smiles and coquetries. Lord Hardytook her and her husband to drive, every day, in the most stylishturn-out the place afforded, and took them to Nice and Mentone, andintroduced them to some friends of his who were staying at the latterplace, and of whose acquaintance, slight as it was, Daisy made capitalever after. The adventuress was developing fast in her, and Lord Hardywas her willing tool, always at her beck and nod, and going everywherewith her except into the play-room itself. From that place he wasdebarred, for at Monte Carlo they have decreed that no male under ageshall enter the charmed spot, and Teddy was not twenty-one, and had saidso to the man in the office, and after that neither persuasions norbribes were of any avail. 

"Better have lied straight out, " more than one hard old man said to him, but Ted Hardy could not lie _straight out_, and so he staid out andwaited around disconsolately for Daisy, whom fortune sometimes favoredand sometimes deserted. 

One day she lost everything, and came out greatly perturbed, to reporther ill-luck to "Teddy, " as she called him now. 

"It's a shame that I can't go in. I could loan you some, you know, " LordHardy said; and Daisy replied:

"Yes; 'tis an awful shame!" Then after a moment she added; "Teddy, I'vebeen thinking. I expect my Cousin Sue from Bangor every day. "

"Ye-es, " Teddy replied, slowly, and thinking at once that a cousin Suemight be _de trop_. "Is she nice? How does she look?--any like you?"

"No; more like you, Ted. She is about your height--you are not tall, youknow; her hair is just the color of yours, and curls just like it, whileher eyes are the same. Dress you in her clothes, and you might pass forher. "

"By Jove! I see. When will she be here?" Teddy asked, and Daisyreplied:

"Just as soon as you can buy me some soft woollen goods to make her asuit, and a pair of woman's gloves and boots which will fit you, and aswitch of hair to match yours. _Comprenez vous?_"

"You bet I do!" was the delighted answer; and within twenty-four hoursthe soft woolen goods, and the boots, and gloves, and switch of hair, and sundry other articles pertaining to a woman's toilet, were inDaisy's room, from which, during the next day, issued shrieks oflaughter, almost too loud to be strictly lady-like, as Daisy fitted theactive little Irishman, and instructed him how to demean himself ascousin Sue from Bangor. 

Two days later, and there sat, side by side, at the roulette table, twofair-haired English girls, as they seemed to be, and nobody suspectedthe truth, or dreamed of the ruse which had succeeded admirably andadmitted to forbidden ground young Lord Hardy, who, in the new dresswhich fitted him perfectly, and with Daisy's linen collar, and cuffs, and neck-tie, and one of Daisy's hats perched on his head and drawn overthe forehead, where his own curly hair was kept in its place as a _bang_by numerous hair-pins, would have passed for a girl anywhere. Nobody hadchallenged him or his age as he passed in with Daisy, who was well knownby this time, and around whom and her companion, a crowd of curious onesgathered and watched them as they played, cautiously at first, for thatwas Daisy's style; then as Ted's Irish blood began to tingle withexcitement, more recklessly, until he whispered to her:

"Play high. There's no such thing as _second hand low_ here. Double yourstakes and I'll be your backer. "

And Daisy played high and won nearly every time, while the lookers-onmarveled at her luck and wondered by what strange intuition she knewjust where to place her gold. For days the pair known to the crowd as"_Les cousines Anglaises_, " played side by side, while Lord Hardymaintained his incognito perfectly, though some of the spectatorscommented on the size of his hands and wondered why he always kept themgloved. And Ted enjoyed it immensely, and thought it the jolliest larkhe ever had, and did not care a _sous_ how much he lost if Daisy onlywon. But at last her star began to wane, and her gold-pieces were sweptoff rapidly by the remorseless _croupier_, until fifty pounds went atone stroke, and then Daisy turned pale, and said to her companion:

"Don't you think we'd better stop? I believe Satan himself is standingbehind me with his evil eye! Do look and see who is there!"

"Nobody but your husband, upon my soul, " Ted whispered, after glancingback at Archie, who, with folded arms and a cloud on his brow, stoodwatching the game and longing to take his wife away. "Nobody but yourhusband, who looks black as his Satanic majesty. But never you mind, mydarlint, " he continued, adopting the dialect of his country. "Play high, and it's meself'll make good all you lose. Faith and be jabers theycan't break Ted Hardy. "

Thus reassured, Daisy played high, and her luck returned, and when sheleft the hall that night she was richer by a thousand pounds than whenshe entered it. 

The next day the McPhersons left Monte Carlo, accompanied by Lord Hardy, who went with them to Genoa, and Turin, and Milan, and the Italianlakes, and Venice, where he said good-by, for he was going to Rome, while they were to turn their faces homeward, stopping for a few weeksat Paris, which Daisy said she must see before shutting herself up atstupid old Stoneleigh, which looked very uninviting to her since she hadseen the world and found how much there was to enjoy and how muchinfluence she could exert in it. Others than Ted Hardy had beenattracted by the airy little beauty, who always managed to make themserviceable in some way, notwithstanding Archie's oft-repeated protestthat she made too free with strangers, and accepted civilities where sheought to have given rebukes. Archie had not been altogether pleased withthe campaign, and was glad when at last he drove into the old park atStoneleigh and was warmly welcomed by Dorothy and Anthony, who had madethe place as comfortable as possible with the small means at theircommand. 

CHAPTER IV. 

LITTLE BESSIE. 

"Oh, Archie, isn't it a poky old place, and doesn't it smell of rats andmust?" Daisy said, as with her husband she went through the great rooms, whose only ornament consisted in the warm fires on the hearth and thepots of chrysanthemums and late roses which Dorothy had put here andthere by way of brightening the house up a bit and making thehome-coming more cheerful for the young people. 

But it needed more than roses, and chrysanthemums, and fires to satisfyDaisy, who, forgetting the little back room in the dressmaker's shopwhence she came, and remembering only the delights of the Continent andthe excitement of Monte Carlo, and the honor, as she thought it, ofhaving a real live earl in her party, tossed her head a little and saidshe wished she was back in Paris. 

But Archie did not share her feelings. It had not been pleasant for himto see Daisy ogled and admired by men he wanted to knock down, nor hadhe quite liked the escapade at Monte Carlo, for, aside from the fearlest the fraud should be discovered, there was always before him a dreadof what his Uncle John and the Lady Jane would say, should the affairever reach their ears, as it might, for Lord Hardy was not verydiscreet, and was sure to tell of it sometime. 

As to the playing, could he have had his choice he would far rather haveplayed himself than to stand by and see Daisy do it. But his vow to hisfather could not be broken, and so he was tolerably content, especiallyas the result was so far beyond his expectations. Fifteen hundred poundswas the sum total of the gains, and Daisy, who held the purse andmanaged everything, played the lady of Stoneleigh to perfection, andmade enemies of all her former friends, her mother included, and wasonly stopped in her career of folly by the birth of her baby, who wasnot at all welcome to the childish mother. 

It was the latter part of March, and the crocuses and hyacinths werejust beginning to blossom in the garden at Stoneleigh, when the babyBessie first lay in the cradle which had rocked Archie in his infancy. They did not call her Bessie at first; for there were many discussionswith regard to the name, Archie wishing her called Dora for his mother, and Daisy inclining to Blanche, or Beatrice. 

"I'll tell you what, Archie, " she said one day. "There's that old maidaunt of yours in America, with piles of money, they say. Let's name thebaby for her, and so get some of her filthy lucre. "

"Call our baby Betsey? Are you crazy?" Archie asked. But Daisy was inearnest, and carried her point, as she always did; and when at EasterLord Hardy stopped at Stoneleigh, on his way to his home in Ireland, hewas one of the sponsors for the child, who was christened _Betsey_. 

"If I dared, I would add _Jane_ to it, for her Ladyship, which wouldmake her _Betsey Jane_; but that would be too much, " Daisy said to LordHardy, adding: "We shall call her Bessie, of course, and never Betsey. We only give her that abominable cognomen for the sake of wheedlingsomething out of that old woman in America. Archie is to write and tellher. "

So Archie wrote the best letter he could concoct, and said he had namedhis little daughter Betsey, which he hoped would please his aunt. Thishe took for approval to Daisy, who said it was very well, but insistedthat he should add a P. S. That if his aunt had fifty pounds or so ofready money, he would like to borrow it for a time, as his expenses wereheavy, and Stoneleigh needed so much repairing. At first Archie refusedutterly; it looked so much like begging, he said, but he was overruledand added the P. S. , which made Miss McPherson furious and steeled herheart against the innocent baby who bore her name. 

The request for money overmastered every gentler feeling, and the letterwas consigned to the flames and never answered. 

"Never mind, Archie, " Daisy said, as weeks went by and there came nomessage from America. "The old miser means to cut us off. Well, let her, I can manage without her, and our fifteen hundred pounds will lastawhile. After that is gone, trust me for more. "

And Archie, who was too indolent to exert himself, did trust her, and, parting with every vestige of manhood and manliness, did what she badehim do and went where she bade him go; sometimes to the most expensivehotels, where, while the money lasted they lived like princes, and whenit was gone, like rats in a hole; sometimes to Monte Carlo, where Daisywas generally successful; sometimes to Hamburg and Baden Baden, sometimes to Epsom, where she bet with Lord Hardy on the races, and gother money, whether she lost or won, for the kind-hearted Ted could neverwithstand her tears; and sometimes into the houses to which she managedto get invited, and where she staid as long as possible, or until someother house was open to her. 

Meanwhile little Bessie grew into a child of wonderful loveliness. Possessing her mother's beauty of feature and complexion and herfather's refinement of feeling, she added to them a truthful simplicityand frank ingenuousness of manner which won all hearts to her. Much asthey might despise her mother, everybody loved and pitied Bessie, whoselife was a kind of scramble, and who early learned to think and act forherself, and to know there was a difference between her father and hermother. She learned, too, that large hotels, where prices were high, meant two rolls and a cup of milk for breakfast, a biscuit or apple forlunch, and nothing for dinner except what her mother couldsurreptitiously convey into her pocket at _table d'hote_. And still, there was no merrier, happier child playing upon the sands atAberystwyth than Bessie McPherson on the summer morning when Miss BetseyMcPherson first saw her and called out:

"Betsey McPherson, is that you?"

Leaving her companions she went to the tall, peculiar looking womansitting so straight and stiff upon the bench, and laying her soft whitehands on her knee, looked curiously and fearlessly into her face, withthe remark:

"I am _Bessie_, not _Betsey_. I think that is a horrid name. "

And so the conversation commenced between the strange pair, and Bessietold of the stingy aunt in America for whom she was named, and who hadnever sent her a thing, and whom her mamma called "Old Sauerkraut. "Bessie was very communicative, and Miss McPherson learned in a fewminutes more of the Bohemian life and habits of her nephew and his wifethan she had learned at her brother's house in London, where she hadbeen staying for a few weeks, and where Mistress Daisy was not held invery high esteem. And all the time she talked, Bessie's little handswere busy with the folds of the black dress on the woman's knee, rubbingand smoothing it with the restlessness of an active, nervous child. ButMiss McPherson would hardly have minded if the hands had worn holes inher dress, so interested was she in the little creature talking to herso freely. 

"Would you like to go and live with me?" she asked at last. "You shallgo to school with children of your own age, and have all you want toeat, good bread and milk, and muffins and sirup, and--"

"_Cheux fleur au gratin?_ Can I have that? I liked that best of all theday I went to _table d'hote_ in Paris with mamma, " Bessie interrupted, and Miss McPherson replied:

"No, but you can have huckleberry pie in summer, and a sled in winter, to ride down hill. "

At the mention of the sled Bessie opened her eyes wide, and after amoment's reflection, asked:

"Can papa go, too?"

"Yes, if he will, " came hesitatingly from Miss McPherson, and the childcontinued:

"And mamma?"

"No, Heaven forbid!" was the response, spoken so decidedly that therestless hands were motionless, and into the blue eyes and about thesweet mouth there stole the troubled, half-grieved expression, which inafter years became habitual to them. 

"Don't you like my mamma?" the child said. "She is very nice and pretty, and Lord Hardy likes her, and so does papa, for he kisses her sometimes. Papa would not go without mamma, and I must not leave papa, so you see Icannot go, though I'd awfully like the sled and the pie. Where do youlive?"

Miss McPherson did not reply directly to this, but said instead:

"I am going to America in a few days and shall see your Aunt Betsey. What shall I tell her for you?"

"Tell her to send me something, " was the prompt reply, which made MissBetsey's shoulders jerk a little. 

"Send you what?" she asked, rather sharply, and Bessie, who hadcommenced the rubbing process again and was looking at her hands, replied:

"I want a turquois ring--five stones, with a pearl in the center; real, too. I don't like shams, neither does papa; but mamma don't care, if shegets the effect. If you'll never tell as long as you live and breathe, those solitaires in mamma's ears are nothing but paste, and were boughtin the Palais Royal, " and Bessie pursed up her lips so disdainfully thatMiss McPherson burst into a laugh, and stooping down, kissed the littleface as she said:

"That's right, child; never tolerate a sham; better the naked truthalways. "

In the distance Daisy, who had passed them ten minutes or so ago, wasseen returning with young Hardy and rising to her feet, Miss Betseysaid:

"I must go now, child; good-by. Try and be good and truthful and real, and stick to your father, and sometime, maybe, you'll see me again. "

Then she walked swiftly away, and Bessie saw her no more, but for daysshe talked of the queer old woman on the terrace, who had called herBetsey and who had bade her be good and truthful and real and stick toher father. 

Numerous were the questions put to her by her father and mother, relative to the stranger whose identity with the American aunt theyscarcely doubted; and Archie was conscious of a bitter pang as hereflected that she had been so near to him and yet had not tried to findhim. He had heard that she was expected in London, and he knew now howstrong had been the hope that he should meet her, and that she would dosomething for him. He was so tired and so ashamed of the life heled--now here, now there, now on the first floor, now on the fifth floorback, now plenty now penury and absolute want, according to Daisy'sluck. For Daisy managed everything and bade him take things easy andtrust to her; but he would so much rather have staid quietly atStoneleigh with but one meal a day and know how that meal was paid for, than to live what to his sense of propriety seemed a not veryrespectable life. But he had lost his chance. The one who might havemade living at Stoneleigh possible had ignored him. She had been wherehe was, and had not sought him, and his face was very gloomy thatevening as he sat in front of the hotel with Bessie in his lap, whileDaisy walked on the terrace with Lord Hardy and told him of the oldwoman on the sands who must have been the American aunt. 

One week later, there came a letter from old Anthony, saying he hadreceived a small package by express from London, directed to Miss BetseyMcPherson, care of Archibald McPherson. Should he keep it till hismaster returned, or should he forward it to Aberystwyth? Archie repliedthat he was to forward it, and two days after there came to him a smallbox, containing a lovely turquois ring, of five stones, unmistakablyreal, with a good sized pearl in the center, and on the gold band wasinscribed, "Little Betsey, 18--"

That settled the question, of the donor, and Daisy laughed till shecried over what she called the old woman's spite. 

"Nasty old cat, " she said, "why didn't she send some money instead ofthis bauble, which is a deal too large for the child? She can't wear itin years. I must say, though, that it is very beautiful, and the oldthing did herself justice when she bought it. Look, Archie, it fits meperfectly!" and she slipped it onto her finger, where it remained; for, as she said, Bessie could not wear it then, and it might as well dosomebody some good. 

Archie wrote at once to his aunt, inclosing a card on which Bessie hadprinted with infinite pains, "I got the ring; thank you ever so much. "

By some fatality this letter, which was directed to Allington, Mass. , U. S. A. , went astray, and was never received by Miss McPherson, who halfexpected it, and who, with the memory of the blue-eyed child upon thesands fresh in her mind, was prepared to answer it. But no letter cameto her, or went to Archie either, and so two people were disappointed, and the chasm widened between them, Archie imputing it to his aunt'speculiar nature, and she charging it all to that Jezebel, as shestigmatized Daisy, of whom she had heard most exaggerated accounts fromher brother's wife, the Lady Jane. 

CHAPTER V. 

AT PENRHYN PARK. 

When, three years after that summer, Mrs. Captain Smithers, of PenrhynPark, Middlesex, invited Mr. And Mrs. Archibald McPherson to spend a fewweeks at her handsome country house, and meet the Hon. John McPhersonand his wife, the lady Jane, she did it in perfect faith and with entireconfidence in Daisy as a matron of immaculate principles and spotlessreputation. She had met her the previous winter at a pension inFlorence, where Daisy, who was suffering from a severe cold on herlungs, played the role of the interesting invalid, and seldom went outexcept for a short walk in the warmest part of the day, and onlyappeared in the parlor in the evening, where she made a lovely picture, seated in a large easy-chair, with her pretty blue wrapper and her shawlof soft white wool wrapped around her. 

The guests of the house were mostly Americans, who had never heard ofDaisy, and knew nothing of Monte Carlo, or Lord Hardy, and only saw hera devoted wife and mother, and wondered vaguely how she could ever havemarried that long, lank, lazy Englishman, who had neither life norspirit in him, and whom they thought a monster, because he never seemedthe least concerned when his lovely little wife coughed the hardest, andcould scarcely speak aloud. That was the English of him, they said, andthey set upon poor Archie behind his back, and tore his reputation as ahusband into shreds, and said be neglected his sick wife shamefully, andin consequence, they were kinder and more attentive to her, and herroom was full of flowers, and fruit and bottle of port wine and sherry;and Mrs. Captain Smithers, who fully shared the opinions of her Americancousins, took the beautiful invalid to drive with her, and made much ofher, and thought her the most charming person she had ever met, andended, as Daisy meant she should, by inviting her to spend the month ofAugust at Penrhyn Park. 

"You will meet some very pleasant people, " she said, "and I shall beglad to introduce you to them. I shall ask Lady Jane McPherson and herhusband. It is a shame you have never met them. Lady Jane is ratherpeculiar, but a very good woman, and you ought to know her. "

This the kind-hearted and not very far-seeing Mrs. Smithers said, because she had received the impression that the McPhersons of Londonslighted the McPhersons of Stoneleigh, not so much for their poverty, asfor the fact that Daisy's family was not equal to their own. 

"And this I think very absurd, " she said to Daisy. "I belong to themercantile world, for my father is a Liverpool merchant, and at firstSmithers' mother and sisters were inclined to treat me coolly, thoughthey are very friendly now; so, you see, my dear, I know how it feelsnot to be in perfect accord with one's family, and I mean to do my bestfor you. I shall bring you and Lady Jane together. She is sure to likeyou. "

"Thank you. " Daisy said. "I hope she may, for Bessie's sake. She couldbe of use to her in the future; but, if you please, do not tell her sheis to meet me, or she may decline your invitation. "

"Very well, " was Mrs. Smithers' reply. "I will say nothing about you. "

And so, without mentioning all her expected guests, Mrs. Smithers askedLady Jane to visit her in August, and that lady, who had twice beforeenjoyed the hospitalities of Penrhyn Park, accepted readily, with nosuspicion that the woman whom she detested more than any creature in theworld was to be there also. 

The house at Penrhyn Park was very large and commodious, with a wing oneither side of the main building, and in these wings were situated thesleeping rooms for guests. A wide hall divided the main part, and on thesecond floor were two large, airy chambers, opposite each other, withdressing-room, and bath-room, and alcove for bed attached, and the wholefitted up elegantly. These rooms were usually given to the most honoredguests, those who rejoiced in titles, and on the occasions of her formervisits at Penrhyn, Lady Jane had occupied one, and her bosom friend, oldLady Oakley, the other. But this time there was a change, and when LadyOakley arrived with her maid, and her poodle dog, and her ear trumpet, for she was very deaf, she was assigned a room in one of the wings, herhostess telling her apologetically that she had thought it well to putthe McPhersons together as they would thus get on better, and she was soanxious for Lady Jane to like Mrs. Archie, the sweetest, most amiable ofwomen. Lady Oakley, who knew that every apartment at Penrhyn was like apalace, cared little where she was put, and settled herself in herquarters the evening before the London McPhersons were expected, Daisyhad been there a week or more, for she was prompt to the day. Theirfunds were very low; they were owing seven pounds for lodgings inLondon, besides various bills to the green-grocer, the dry-grocer, themilkman, and the baker, and had barely enough to pay for theirsecond-class tickets from London.. 

"I don't know what we are going to do, " Archie said, when alone with hiswife in the beautiful room over which Daisy had gone into ecstasies, exclaiming, as she seated herself in a luxurious easy-chair:

"Why, Archie, we are housed like princes! We have never been in a placelike this. I wish we were to stay longer than a month. I mean to managesomehow for an extension. "

A low growl was the only sound from Archie, who was busy brushing offthe dust gathered on the journey. 

"Say, isn't it nice?" she continued, and then coming into the room andwiping his face with the towel as he came, Archie replied:

"Nice enough, yes; but I don't know what we are going to do when we haveto leave here, I tell you, it makes a chap feel mighty mean not to havea shilling in his pocket, and that's just my case. How much have you?"

"Twenty shillings, " was Daisy's reply. "But never mind; trust me tofill the purse somehow. I have an idea; so, don't look so glum, and letus enjoy the present. "

"But I can't, " Archie replied; "I cannot enjoy myself, feeling all thetime that we are living upon other people, and accepting invitations wenever can return. In short, we are nothing but impostors, both of us. "

He spoke savagely, and turned to re-enter his dressing-room, in the doorof which Bessie stood, with her great blue eyes fixed wonderingly andsadly upon him. She had heard all the conversation, and there was atroubled look on her face, as she said:

"What is an impostor, papa? What does it mean?"

"It means, " he answered, "that we impose upon people every hour of ourlives, passing ourselves off for what we are not. People suppose we havemoney, when we haven't a shilling to spare, and owe everybody besides. "

"I see; it means we are shams, and not real, " Bessie said, and herbright face was overclouded with an expression pitiful to see in one soyoung. 

This was the McPhersons' first day at Penrhyn Park, but the littlepassage at arms did not at all dim Daisy's sky. Something would turn up, she knew; and at dinner something did turn up, for Mrs. Smithersmentioned to Archie that her husband had fallen in with the young Irishlord who had been for a day or two at the pension in Florence, and, remembering how intimate he was with Mr. McPherson he had invited him tospend a week at Penrhyn Park, and the young man had accepted, and wouldarrive the 10th. There was a gleam of triumph in Daisy's eyes as theymet her husband's. The presence of Lord Hardy meant money, for she hadonly to lament her poverty and talk of burying herself at Stoneleigh, and instantly the generous Irishman would insist upon relieving herpresent needs. 

"It is only a loan. You can pay me some time when your ship comes in, and really I have more than I know what to do with. "

This was always Lord Hardy's argument, to which Daisy yielded, and wenton piling up the debt which she insisted would be paid in some way, andher thoughts always turned to the old aunt in America, through whomrelief must some day come. But Archie knew better, and theirindebtedness to Lord Hardy filled him with shame, just as Daisy'sintimacy with the young man filled him with disgust, though he hadperfect faith in the Irishman, whose worst fault was an open and heartyadmiration for a married woman; and, to a certain extent, he had faithin Daisy, who, much as she might compromise her good name by flirtation, would never break her marriage vow in the letter, even if she did inspirit. In a way she would be true to him always, but the world did notknow her as he did, and he knew perfectly well how she was talked aboutand her frivolous conduct commented upon by such people as Lady Jane andher set. But he could not help himself. Daisy was master, and hesubmitted, with a feeling of humiliation which showed itself upon hisface and made him very quiet and ill at ease, except when Bessie waswith him. There was something about Bessie which restored hisself-respect and made a man of him, Bessie was his all, and to himselfhe had made a vow that she should not follow in the footsteps of hermother. 

"I will kill her first, " he said, with clenched fists and flashing eyes, and Daisy would never have known him could she have seen him when, aswas often the case, he went over by himself what he would say to her ifhe ever got his courage up. 

Taking a chair for his auditor, he would gesticulate fiercely, anddeclare that he would not stand it any longer. "Daisy McPherson, " hewould say, addressing himself to the chair, "I tell you what it is. I amashamed of myself, and of you, too, and I am going to stop it, and takeyou home, and be master of my own house, and if we cannot live on oursmall income, you can take up your dead mother's trade and make dresses, and, by Jove, I'll help you, too! I'll keep the books, and--and--"

Here he would stop, not knowing exactly what else he would do, for workwas something to which he did not take kindly. 

As the chair never offered any remonstrance, no matter how savage hewas, he usually felt better, and respected himself more after an attackupon it, and there the battle ended, for he had not the courage to dealthus with his wife, who had ruled him too long to yield her scepternow. 

Such was the condition of things between this ill-assorted pair when wefind them at Penrhyn Park, which so fully accorded with Daisy's tastesthat she at once determined to stay longer than a month, even if shewere not invited to extend her visit. She had been at the park a week ormore, enjoying all the _eclat_ of the favored guest, for Mrs. Smithers'infatuation was complete, when it was announced at the breakfast tablethat the Hon. John McPherson, with Lady Jane and Neil, would arrive thatevening in time for dinner. 

Instantly Archie's face flushed crimson, for he had not seen his unclesince his marriage, which had called forth a letter so angry in its tonethat he had never answered it, or sought for any further intercoursewith his indignant relative. 

Daisy, on the contrary, was wholly unmoved. 

"_Veni, vidi, vici_, " was her motto, which had proved true in so manyinstances that she fancied she had only to meet the haughty Lady Janeface to face and conquer her also. And yet she did feel a little nervouswhen, as the hour for the train drew near, she went to her room andcommenced her toilet for dinner. 

"Let me see, " she murmured: "they have undoubtedly heard that I am abrazen face and a minx, and awfully extravagant and flashy in style; sosimplicity in dress and modesty of demeanor will best suit me now. Imust not wear my paste diamonds, for though I've no idea Lady Jane cantell them from the real, she would think them far too expensive forpeople in our circumstances, and wonder how I got them. "

So the false diamonds were put aside, as was everything else which couldawaken an inquiry as to its cost, and a simple blue muslin was chosen, with ruching at the neck and nothing on the sleeves, which were ratherwide and showed to good advantage the beautifully rounded arms andhands, of which Daisy was so proud. Her golden curls were gathered in ashining mass at the back of her head and fastened with a comb of pinkcoral, Lord Hardy's gift, when he was in Naples with her. At her throatshe wore a blush rose and another in her belt, with no jewelry of anykind, except her wedding ring, and Bessie's turquois, which she stillappropriated. Nothing could be simpler than her whole dress, and nothingmore becoming, for it gave her a sweet girlish look, which she knewalways produced an effect. 

Meanwhile the expected guests had arrived, and Daisy heard them in thehall as they took possession of the room opposite hers. Lady Jane wasvery tired, and hot, and dusty, for she had come from Edinburgh thatday, and she glanced around her luxurious apartment with a feeling ofcomfort and relief, as she issued her orders to her maid, Lydia, andtalked to her husband. 

"Open the little trunk, Lydia, and take out my pearl-colored grenadine;I cannot wear a heavy silk to-night; and find my Valenciennes fichu andmy small diamonds, I don't suppose there is any one in particular here, unless it is Lady Oakley, and she, I presume has the room opposite this. She did, the last time we were here. John, we are really verycomfortable. Mrs. Smithers knows how to keep up an attractive house, andis a charming woman, though, of course, not quite to the manner born. Was her father an iron monger, or what?"

"He was a wholesale merchant, and worth a mint of money. Why, he couldbuy out every McPherson and Trevellian in the United Kingdom, " wasJohn's reply; and then, with a little toss of her head, Lady Jane beganher toilet, for it wanted but an hour of dinner. 

"There, that will do for me; I can finish the rest myself. And now go toBlanche's room and see to her and send Neil to me, " she said to Lydia, when she was nearly dressed. 

Lydia obeyed, and after she had gone, Lady Jane said to her husband:

"I hope Mrs. Smithers will not object to Blanche, even if she was notinvited. I really could not leave her behind. "

There was no reply from John, who was busy in the dressing-room, but afresh young voice from the doorway answered her:

"I think it was downright cheeky to bring her without an invitation. With her giggling, and her _reelys_, and her _yis-es_--all she cansay--and her white eyebrows and tow hair, she is not very ornamental, even if she has ten thousand a year. "

The speaker was Neil McPherson, the boy who on the Fourth of July hadbeen thrashed by Grey Jerrold for his sneer at the American flag, findhis comments on American ladies. He was a year older than Grey, with adark, handsome face, a pleasant smile, and winsome ways when he chose tobe agreeable. As a rule, he was very good-natured, and his manners wereperfect for a boy of fifteen; but there was in all he did or said an airof superiority, as if he felt himself quite above the majority of hiscompanions, which, indeed, was the fact. Trained by his mother frominfancy to consider the Trevellian blood the best in England outside thepale of royalty, and the McPherson blood the best outside the peerage, it was not strange that his good qualities--and he had many--should bewarped, and dwarfed, and overshadowed by an indomitable pride andsupreme selfishness, which would prompt him at any time to sacrifice hisbest friend in behalf of his own interest. And yet Neil was generally afavorite, for he was frank, and obliging, and good-humored, and verygentlemanly in his manner, and quick to render the little attentions sogratifying to the ladies, by whom he was held in high esteem as apattern boy. He was the idol of his mother, who saw no fault in himwhatever, and who had commenced already to plan for him a brilliantmarriage, or at least a marriage of money, for her own income was notlarge, and that of her husband smaller still. 

Blanche Trevellian, whom Neil had designated as tow-haired, andwhite-browed, was her grand-niece, and Neil's second cousin, and asheiress to ten thousand a year, she might develop into a desirable_parti_, notwithstanding her ordinary appearance now. And so, when thegirl became an orphan, Lady Jane offered to take charge of her, and tookher into the family as the daughter of the house, though she neverencouraged Neil to think of her as a sister. She was his cousin Blanche, and entitled to a great deal of forbearance and respect, because of hermoney, and because her mother had been the granddaughter of a duke. Neilcalled her cousin Blanche, and quarreled with and teased her, and madefun of her white eyebrows, and said her feet were too big, and herankles too small, and that on standing she always bent her knees to makeherself look short; for she was very tall and angular, and awkward everyway. 

"Wait till my cousin Bessie grows up; there's a beauty for you, " he hadsaid to his mother on his return from Stoneleigh, where he had spent afew days the winter previous, and greatly to the annoyance of hismother, he talked constantly of the lovely child who had made so strongan impression upon him. 

Lady Jane had heard much of Daisy's exploits, and as the storiesconcerning her were greatly exaggerated, she looked upon her, if notactually an abandoned woman, as one whose good name was hopelesslytarnished, and she never wished to see either her face or that of herchild. Nor did she dream how near the enemy was to her; only just acrossthe hall, in the room which she fully believed to be occupied by herfriend, old Lady Oakley, from Grosvenor Square. When her husband andNeil went out, as they did soon after the latter had expressed himselfwith regard to Blanche and been sharply reproved, they left the doorajar, and she could hear the sound of footsteps in the room opposite, where Lady Oakley was supposed to be making her toilet, just as LadyJane was making hers. 

"I believe I will go and see her, " she said to herself, when herdressing was completed and she found she had a good fifteen minutesbefore the dinner hour, and stepping across the hall she knocked atDaisy's door. 

Daisy's first impulse was to call out, "_Entrez!_" as she did on theContinent; her second, to open the door herself, which she did, disclosing to the view of her astonished visitor, not a fat, red-faceddowager of seventy, but a wonderful vision of girlish loveliness, cladin simple muslin, with a mischievous twinkle in the blue eyes which methers so fearlessly. 

"I beg your pardon, miss, " Lady Jane began, stammeringly: "I thoughtthis was Lady Oakley's room. She is my friend. I hope you will excuseme, " she continued, as she detected the smothered mirth in Daisy's eyes. 

"There is nothing to excuse, " Daisy began, in perfectly well-bred tones, "the mistake was natural. Lady Oakley did occupy this room, I believe, but she is now in the north wing, as Mrs. Smithers kindly gave this roomto me so that I might be near you; that is, if, as I suppose, you areLady Jane McPherson?" and she looked steadily at her visitor, who with aslight bridling of her long neck, bowed in the affirmative, neverdoubting that the young person before her was fully her equal, notwithstanding the plainness of her dress, every detail of which shetook in at a glance and mentally pronounced perfect. 

"Some poor earl's daughter whom Mrs. Smithers has found. She has apeculiar talent for making good acquaintances, " she thought, just asDaisy offered her hand, which she involuntarily took, but dropped as ifit had been a viper when the latter said:

"Then you are my aunt, or rather my husband's aunt, for I am Mrs. Archibald McPherson, and I am so glad to meet you. "

Had a bomb-shell exploded at Lady Jane's feet and struck her in the faceshe could not have been more astonished. Stepping quickly back from thisclaimant to her notice, her face grew pale for an instant, and thenflushed with anger, as she gasped:

"_You_, Mrs. Archibald McPherson! that--that--" she did not say what, but added, "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting Mrs. Smithers like yourself, " Daisy replied, withimperturbable gravity. "We were together in Florence, where I was sick, and she was kind enough to like me, and she invited me to spend thismonth with her, so that I might meet Archie's relatives, whom shethought I ought to know, and Lady Oakley thinks so too. She cameyesterday. "

"Yes, " Lady Jane kept repeating, as she retreated step by step till shestood in her own door, with her eyes still fixed upon Daisy, whofascinated her in spite of her deeply rooted prejudice, amounting almostto hatred. 

The creature, as she designated her, was far prettier than she hadsupposed, and might pass for a lady with those who knew nothing of herantecedents--but then her reputation as a bold, fast woman! Would it besafe or right to allow Blanche, whom she designed for Neil, to remainunder the same roof with such a person? was her first query. Still, ifMrs. Smithers, who was a power in the social world, notwithstanding herconnection with trade, had taken her up, and Lady Oakley, too, perhapsit would be better not to make a scene and show her animosity too much. She could be barely civil to the woman and cut her visit short on onepretext or another. Thus deciding, she said:

"Meeting you so suddenly has surprised me very much, Mrs. McPherson. Ihope your husband is well. I knew him when a boy. Perhaps he is in thedrawing-room. I think I will go down, as it is nearly dinnertime, " andbowing stiffly, she went down the stairs, every nerve quivering withinsulted dignity, and not quite certain whether she heard a smotheredlaugh or not from the room, where Daisy was shaking with laughter atwhat she termed the old cat's discomfiture. 

"Nasty thing!" she said "how she hates me, and how little I care! I hopeI sha'n't let her spoil my fun. I have the inside track, and I mean tokeep it!"

Thus deciding, she, too, started for the drawing-room, where the guestswere assembling for dinner, and where Mrs. Smithers, who was by naturerather officious and anxious to right everything, was explaining to LadyJane that she had invited Mr. And Mrs. Archibald McPherson to meet her, and was descanting upon the beauty and amiability of the latter, whomher ladyship was sure to like. 

"A little too much of a coquette, perhaps, " she said, "but so verypretty and piquant that she cannot help attracting admiration. "

"Yes, I know--I have seen her. I made her acquaintance in the upperhall, " Lady Jane answered, coldly, and this saved the embarrassment ofan introduction when Daisy at last appeared, perfectly self-possessedand graceful, and looking, as Lady Jane unwillingly confessed toherself, as innocent as a Madonna. 

Meanwhile Archie had sought his uncle, resolved to have the awkwardnessof their first meeting over before any prying eyes were upon them. Hefound him alone, and, mustering all his courage, went up to him andoffered his hand, as if nothing had ever occured to separate them. 

John McPherson had heard from his host that his nephew was there, andwas in a most perturbed state of mind, on his wife's account, ratherthan on his own. She would be very indignant, and perhaps do somethingrash, he feared, while, for himself he wanted to see the boy, whom hehad always liked. It was while he was thinking thus that Archie camesuddenly upon him. In his surprise, Mr. McPherson forgot everythingexcept the young man standing so humbly before him, with a look on hisface, and in his eyes, like the brother dead years ago, and who, whendying, had said, "Be kind to Archie. "

Extending both hands to his nephew, he said:

"Archie, by Jove, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, though uponmy word, you don't look so, " and he glanced curiously, and with asensation of pity, at the young man, who, though scarcely thirty-one, might have passed for forty, he was so pale and care worn, while hisclothes were threadbare and shining in places, and hung upon himloosely. But at this cordial greeting, there was a wonderfultransformation, and Archie's face grew almost boyish in its expression, and there was a moisture in his eyes as he took his uncle's hands andheld them, while he answered the questions put to him so rapidly. Remembering at last that it was his duty to reprove his nephew a little, the Hon. John said to him:

"I have been very angry with you, for your hasty marriage was not what Icould have wished. It has severed you from--us--from Lady Janecompletely. "

"Yes, I know, " Archie replied. "I supposed you would not like it; but mymarriage was for myself, and not for any one else. "

"And it has proved all you could wish?" his uncle asked, regarding himsteadily. 

Archie's face was very red, and his lips were white, as he replied:

"Daisy was very young. We ought to have waited; but she is beautiful, and greatly admired. "

"Umph! More's the pity!" John said. Then, after a moment's silence, hecontinued: "I say, Archie, how have you managed to live all these years?I hear of you everywhere I hope you have not resorted to thegaming-table?"

"Never!" came decidedly from Archie, "Do you think I would break mypromise to my father? I have never touched a card, even for amusement, though I have wanted to so much, when I needed money sadly and saw howeasily it was won at Monte Carlo. "

"Your wife plays, though!" John said sharply; and Archie replied:

"I have nothing to say on that score, except that Daisy takes care ofme. I should starve without her; for you know I was not brought up towork, and it is too late now to begin, though I believe I'd be willingto break stone on the highway, if I had the strength. "

"Yes, yes, I see, " the uncle interposed, a horrible dread seizing himlest his nephew might do something beneath a McPherson unless he wasprevented. 

"How much have you now?--how much money, I mean?"

"Just one shilling; and Daisy has, ten. If Mrs. Smithers had not invitedus here, Heaven only knows what we should have done, for Daisy will notstay at Stoneleigh; so we travel from place to place, and she managessomehow, " Archie said: and his uncle rejoined:

"And makes her name a by-word and a reproach, as I suppose you know. "

"Daisy is my wife!" Archie replied, with a dignity for which his unclemenially respected him. 

Just then the last dinner-bell rang, and rising from his seat, John puthis hand first in his vest pocket and then into Archie's hand, where heleft a twenty-pound note, saying rapidly:

"You needn't tell _her_--your wife I mean, or mine, either. A man may doas he likes occasionally. "

They were walking toward the house, arm-in-arm, and Archie's step waslighter, and his face brighter and handsomer than it had been in many aday. Indeed, he was quite his old self as he entered the drawing roomand greeted his august aunt, who received him more graciously than, shehad his wife. 

Just then Neil came in with Bessie, whom he took to his mother, saying:

"Look, mother, here is Bessie. Didn't I tell you she was a beauty?"

Then, as his mother merely inclined her head, he lifted the child inhis arms and held her close to the proud lips which touched the whiteforehead coldly, while a frown darkened the lady's face, fornotwithstanding that Bessie was so young and Neil a mere boy, shedisapproved of the liking between them lest it should interfere withBlanche. But Neil did not fancy Blanche, and he did like Bessie, andtook her in to dinner, holding her little hand while she skipped andjumped at his side and looked up in his face with those great blue eyeswhich moved him strangely now, and which in the after time were tobewilder and intoxicate and awaken in him all the better impulses of hisnature and then become the sweetest and the saddest memory of his life. 

"It is so nice to go to dinner with big people and have all you want toeat, isn't it?" she said to him, as she settled herself in her chair andadjusted her napkin with all the precision of a grown person. 

"Of course it's nice, " Neil replied, never dreaming what a real dinnerwas to this child who had so often dined on a bit of bread, a fewshriveled grapes, a fig or two and some raisins, trying hard to keep hertears back when the bread was dry and scanty and she was very hungry. 

She was very happy with Neil at her side, and she laughed and chattedwith him and told him of Stoneleigh and the white rabbit old Anthony wasrearing for him when he came at Christmas as he had promised to do. 

Dinner being over, Archie, who did not smoke, excused himself from thegentlemen who did, and taking Bessie with him, sauntered off into thegrounds till he reached the seat where he had found his uncle. Sittingdown upon it and taking Bessie in his lap he told her of his goodfortune and showed her the bank-note. 

"Oh, I am so glad!" the child exclaimed; "for now we are real, and notimpostors, are we?"

"Not in the sense of not having any money, " he replied, but there was asad, anxious expression on his face, as he looked down upon the littlegirl beside him, and thought of the future and what it might bring toher. 

"Bessie, " he said, at last, "how would you like to live at Stoneleighaltogether, and not be traveling about?"

"Oh, I'd like it so much, " Bessie said, "but I am afraid mamma wouldnot. She hates Stoneleigh, it's so dull. "

"But you and I might live there. You would be my little housekeeper andI could teach you your lessons, " Archie said, conjuring up in his mind avision of a quiet home with Bessie as his companion. 

If Daisy did not choose to stay with him she could go and come as sheliked, he thought, and then and there he decided that _his_ wanderinglife was at an end. 

The next day the party at Penrhyn Park was increased by Mr. And Mrs. Burton Jerrold from Boston: "very nice Americans, especially the lady, who might pass for an Englishwoman, " Mrs. Smithers informed her guests. 

"Yes, I know them, or rather I know their son Grey, the young cub whothrashed me so last Fourth of July when we were at Melrose, " Neilexclaimed; "but he's not a bad fellow after all, and we grew to be goodfriends, I hope he is coming, too. "

But Grey did not come, as the reader will remember, for his mother madeit a kind of punishment for his quarrel with Neil, that he should remainin London while she visited at Penrhyn Park, where she met with LadyJane McPherson, whom she admired greatly, and with Daisy, whom shedetested for the bold coquetry, which manifested itself so plainly afterthe arrival of Lord Hardy, that even Mrs. Smithers' sense of proprietywas shocked, and she began to look forward with pleasure to the day whenher house would be freed from the presence of this lady. 

The month of August was the limit of the visit, and Daisy would havegone then had there been any place to go to except Stoneleigh. But therewas not; no friendly door was open to her. She could not return toLondon, and she would not go to Stoneleigh: so, she resolved to remainwhere she was until Lord Hardy returned to his country seat in Ireland, and then she would go there and take Archie and Bessie with her. 

To carry out this purpose she began suddenly to droop and affect alanguor and weakness she was far from feeling, for she had really neverbeen better in her life, and Archie knew it, and watched her with dismayas she enacted the role of the interesting invalid to perfection. Alittle hacking cough came on, with a pain in her side, and finally, toMrs. Smithers' horror, she took to her bed the last week in August, unable to sit up, but overwhelmed with grief at her inability to travel, and fear lest she should be a burden upon her hostess, and outstay herwelcome. 

Never dreaming that it was a farce to gain time, Mrs. Smithers made thebest of it, and saw guest after guest depart, until only the WelshMcPhersons remained, and she was longing to get away herself to thenorth of Scotland, where she was due the middle of September. Fortunately Lord Hardy went home sooner than he had intended, and wroteto Daisy and her husband that his house was ready for them, and then theinvalid recovered her strength rapidly, and was able in three days toleave Penrhyn Park, and travel to Ireland with Archie, who had foughthard to return to Stoneleigh and begin the new life he had resolvedupon. But Daisy knew better than to go to Hardy Manor without him, andshe persuaded him to go with her and then to Paris, from which place shemade a flying visit to Monte Carlo, where she met with such success thatshe did not greatly object to spending the holidays at Stoneleigh, whither they went just before Christmas. 

It was at this time that Archie received his aunt's letter offering totake little Bessie and bring her up as a sensible, useful woman. For amoment Archie's heart leaped into his throat as he thought ofemancipating his child from the baneful influence around her, but whenhe remembered how desolate he should be without her, he said:

"I cannot let her go. "

Upon one point, however, he was still resolved; he would remain atStoneleigh and keep Bessie with him. Nothing could change that decision. Daisy would of course go where she pleased. He could not restrain her, and as many Englishwomen did travel alone on the Continent, she mightescape remark in that respect, and be no more talked about than if hewere with her. At first Daisy objected to this plan. It was necessaryfor her to earn their living, she said, and the least Archie could dowas to give the support of his presence. But Archie was firm, and whenin February Daisy started again on her trip, which had for itsdestination Monte Carlo and Genoa, Archie was left behind with histwenty-pound note, which he had not yet touched, and with Bessie as hisonly companion. 

CHAPTER VI. 

SEVEN YEARS LATER. 

Seven years, and from a lovely child of eight years old Bessie McPhersonhad grown to a wonderfully beautiful girl of fifteen, whose face onceseen could never be forgotten, it was so sweet, and pure, and refined, and yet so sad in its expression at times, as if she carried some burdenheavier than the care of her father, who was fast sinking into a stateof confirmed invalidism, and to whom she devoted all the freshness ofher young life, with no thought for herself or her own comfort. Andthere was a shadow on the girl's life; a burden of shame and regret forthe silly, frivolous mother, who spent so little time at home, but whoflitted from place to place on the Continent, not always in the best ofcompany but managing generally to hang on to some old dowager eitherEnglish, French, or German, and so cover herself with an appearance ofrespectability. Sometimes Lord Hardy was with her, and sometimes he wasnot, for as he grew older and knew her better, he began to weary of hera very little. Just now he was in Egypt, and before he started he senther a receipt in full for all her indebtedness to him for borrowed moneywhich he knew she could never pay. And Daisy had written to her husbandthat the debt was paid, and had given him to understand that a stroke ofunparalleled success had enabled her to do it. When her mother died twoyears before, and left a few hundreds to her daughter, Archie had urgedthe necessity of sending the whole to young Hardy, but Daisy had refusedand spent it for herself. Now, however, it was paid, and he was glad, and quite content with his uneventful life, even though, it was a lifeof the closest economy and self-denial for himself and Bessie. 

When Daisy had plenty she divided with the household at Stoneleigh, andwhen she had little she kept it for herself, and Archie and Bessieshifted for themselves--or rather the latter did, and was sometimesalmost as hungry as she had been when she ate the dry bread andshriveled grapes on the fifth floor back of some large hotel. 

Bessie understood perfectly her mother's mode of life, and knew thatthough she was not degraded in the worst sense of the word, she was anadventuress and a gambler, whom good, pure women shunned, and over whomshe mourned as a mother mourns for the child which has gone astray. Andyet Bessie's life was a comparatively happy one, for she had her father, and she had Neil, her cousin, the handsome and spirited boy from Eton, and later the dashing student from Oxford, who came sometimes toStoneleigh and made the place like heaven to the young girl bloomingthere unseen and unknown to the great world outside, and Bessie hoped tosee him soon, for she was going with her father to London, where she hadnever been since she was a child, and of which she did not remembermuch. This journey had cost Bessie a great deal of anxiety and planningas to how they could afford it; but by saving a little here and there, and by extra self-denials on her part, sufficient money for the journey, and for a week in town, was raised at last, and the trip decided upon. Bessie would have liked a new dress and hat for herself, and a new coatfor her father, but these were out of the question, so she brushed andcleaned her father's three-year-old coat, and washed and ironed hertwo-year-old Holland linen, freshened up a blue ribbon for her lastyear's hat, mended her gloves, put plenty of clean collars, and cuffs, and handkerchiefs, in her bag, borrowed Dorothy's umbrella, and wasready to start on her journey without a thought that she might look alittle old-fashioned and countrified in the gay city. They found somecheap lodgings in the vicinity of High street, Kensington, and then shesent her card to Neil, who came at once, and tried to be gay, and appearas usual, but she felt that he was ill at ease, and the old hair clothsofa and chairs looked shabbier than ever to her, when she saw hiscritical eyes upon them, and felt how out of place he was in that humbleroom, with his fashionable dress and town-bred air of elegance andluxury. 

"I say, Dot, why in the name of wonder did you stumble into such a holeas this? Could you find no better lodgings than these in all London?" hesaid to her at last. 

"Yes, Neil, " she replied, "we could find lodgings fit for the queen, butthen we have not the queen's income, and these rooms are so cheap--onlya pound a week, and the kitchen fire included, I know they are notpretty, but they are very clean and quiet, and Mrs. Buncher is so kind. "

Bessie tried to speak naturally, but there was a tremor in her voice, and the tears came to her great blue eyes as she looked up at hercousin. Neil saw the tears, and stooping over her he kissed thequivering lips, and stroking the glossy hair, said to her:

"Never mind, Bess, your face makes everything lovely, and this dingyparlor with you in it is pleasanter to me than the finest drawing-roomin Grosvenor Square. But you ought not to be here, you and your father. You should be at Trevellian House, as our guests, and if I owned it youshould; but there's a lot of old pokes staying there now, friends ofBlanche--Lord and Lady Somebody, Mother is great on the titles, youknow. "

"Yes, I know, " Bessie said, slowly; then, after a moment, she added: "Ishould like to see your mother and Miss Trevellian. I was too young atPenrhyn Park to remember much about them. Do you think they will call?"

Neil knew they would not, and he could scarcely repress a smile as hefancied the McPherson carriage, with his mother and Blanche, driving upbefore that shabby house, but he said:

"Perhaps so, though they are always so busy during the season; but I'lltell you how you can see them. Go to the park to-morrow afternoon aboutfive o'clock. They are sure to be there in their gorgeous attire, andBlanche will have her poodle-dog. "

"Shall you be there?" Bessie asked, and Neil replied:

"Yes, possibly, " while to himself he thought that he should not, for howcould he ride by with the gay throng and know that Bessie was sitting ina hired chair watching for him, and most likely making somedemonstration which would draw attention to her?

"I may, and I may not, " he continued: "but it will make no difference;you will see Blanche with her poodle and her red parasol, and you willsee the princess, if you are there about half past five or six, but forHeaven's sake don't rush forward like an idiot, as so many do, especially Americans and people from the country: it stamps you at onceas a greenhorn. "

"No, I won't, " Bessie said, humbly, for something in Neil's tone hurther; then, as she saw him consulting his watch, she said: "Oh, Neil, can't I walk with you just a little way? Father never goes out aftertea, and I do so long for some fresh air. "

Neil looked at his watch again. It was almost six, and at seven therewas a grand dinner at Trevellian house, at which he was expected to bepresent. But Bessie's blue eyes and eager face drove everything elsefrom his mind, and he was soon walking with her in the lovely Kensingtongardens, and her hand was on his arm, and his hand was on hers, and inwatching her bright face and listening to her quaint remarks, he forgothow fast the minutes were going by, and the grand dinner at home waitedfor him a quarter of an hour, and then the guests sat down without himand Lady Jane's face wore a dark, stormy look, when the son of the houseappeared smiling, handsome, and gracious, and apologizing for histardiness by saying frankly that he was in the garden, and forgot thelapse of time. 

"You must have been greatly interested. You could not have been alone, "Blanche said to him in an undertone. 

"No, I was not alone, " he replied, with great frankness. "I was with theprettiest girl in London, or out of it, either. "

"And pray who may she be?" Blanche asked. 

"My cousin Bessie. She arrived yesterday, " was Neil's reply. 

"Oh!" and Blanche's face flushed with annoyance. 

She remembered the beautiful child at Penrhyn Park, and had heard hername so often since, that the mere mention of it was obnoxious to her, and she was silent and sulky all through the long dinner, which lasteduntil nine o'clock. When it was over, and the guests were gone. LadyJane turned fiercely upon her son and asked what had kept him so late. 

"Cousin Bessie, " he answered, "She is in the city with her father, atNo. ---- Abingdon road, and I wish you would call upon them. They reallyought to be staying here, our own blood relations as they are. "

"Staying here? Not if I know myself. Is that detestable gambling womanwith them?" Lady Jane replied, with ineffable scorn. 

"No, " Neil answered her. "She is never with them, and Bessie is no morelike her than you are. She is the purest, and sweetest and best girl Iever knew, and I do not think it would hurt you or Blanche either to payher some attention;" and having said so much, the young man left theroom in time to escape Blanche's tears and his mother's anger andreproaches. 

The next day Neil was in a penitent frame of mind, for, however much hemight laugh at Blanche and her light eyebrows, and ridicule his mother'splans for him in that quarter, he was not at all indifferent to the tenthousand a year, and might perhaps wish to have it. Consequently he mustnot drive Blanche too far, for she had a temper and a will, and therewas another cousin one degree further removed than himself, agood-natured, good-looking and highly-aristocratic Jack Trevellian, whowas thirty years old, and a great favorite in the best society whichLondon afforded, and who, if a great-uncle and two cousins were to diewithout heirs, would become Sir Jack, and who, it was thought, had aneye on the ten thousand a year. So Neil was very gracious, and sugaredBlanche's strawberries for her at breakfast, and read to her afterbreakfast, and staid at home to lunch, and never mentioned Bessie, orhinted that he would much rather be sitting with her on the oldhair-cloth sofa in Mrs. Buncher's parlor than in that elegantlyfurnished boudoir, and when the hour for driving came, and his mothercomplained of a headache, and asked him to go with Blanche, he consentedreadily, but suggested that she leave her poodle at home, as one puppywas enough for her, he said. 

And so about five o'clock the McPherson carriage drove into the parknear Apsley House, and in it sat Miss Blanche, gorgeous in light-bluesilk and white lace hat, with large solitaires in her ears, her redparasol held airily over her head and her insipid face wreathed insmiles, as she talked to her companion, the handsome Neil, whose darkface was such a contrast to her own, and who reclined indolently at herside, answering her questions mechanically, but thinking always ofBessie, and wondering if she were there in the hired chair, and if shewould see him, or, what was more to the purpose, if he should see heramong the multitude which thronged the park that afternoon. 

Bessie was there, and had been for more than an hour, sitting with herfather near one of the entrances from Piccadilly, and wholly unconsciousof the attention she was attracting with her beautiful, fresh youngface, her animated gestures and eager remarks to her father as shewatched the passers-by, and wondered who was who, and wished Neil wasthere to tell her. 

"I'd like to see a real duchess, and not mistake a barmaid for one, " shesaid; and then a pleasant-looking man, who was standing near, and hadheard her remarks, came up to her, and lifting his hat politely said toArchie;

"If you will permit me, sir, I will tell the young lady who the peopleare. I know most of them. "

"Oh, thank you; I shall be so glad if you will, " Bessie replied. "Yousee, father and I are right from Wales, and it is all quite new to us. "

"Then you were never here before?" the stranger asked, looking down uponher with an undisguised admiration, which yet had nothing impertinent init. 

"Yes, years ago, when I was a mere child, and did not care for things. Now I want to see everybody--lords, and earls, and dukes, and deans, andprime ministers, and everybody. Do you know them?"

"Yes, most of them, by sight, " the stranger said slowly, and taking hisstand where he could see her as well as the passers-by, he told her thiswas a lord, and this was Disraeli, and this a grand lady of fashion, andthis a famous beauty, and this a duchess, and that Prince Leopold. 

It was a fortunate afternoon Bessie had chosen, for everybody was one inthe early June sunshine, and she enjoyed it immensely, and said out whatshe thought; that titled ladies and grand dames were very ordinarylooking people after all, and that the fat old dowager who rode in acoach and four, with powdered footman behind, and a face as red as abeet, was coarse as any fish-woman and that old Dorothy would havelooked better on the satin cushions than this representative of Englisharistocracy. 

"I wonder what you would think of the queen, " the stranger said; butbefore Bessie could reply, there was a sudden murmur among the crowd, and a buzz of expectancy, and then the princess appeared in view, ridingslowly, and bowing graciously to the right and to the left. 

Instantly there was a rush to the front, and Bessie half rose to go, too; but remembering what Neil had said about not making herself anidiot, as the Americans and country people did, she resumed her seat, and the country people and the Americans stood in her way and all shesaw of the princess was her sloping shoulders and long, slender neck, with the lace scarf tied high about it. It was too bad, and Bessie couldscarcely keep back her tears of disappointment, and was wishing she haddisregarded Neil's orders and been an idiot, when a handsome opencarriage came in sight, drawn by two splendid bays, and in it satBlanche Trevellian, with her red parasol over her head, and beside herNeil McPherson, eagerly scanning the crowd in quest of the little girl, the very thought of whom made his heart beat as Blanche had never madeit beat in all her life. 

"There they come! That's he! that's Neil, my cousin, " Bessie exclaimed, and forgetting all the proprieties in her excitement, she rose soquickly that her hat fell from her head and hung down her back, as shewent forward three or four steps and waved her handkerchief. 

Neil saw her, as did Blanche and many others, and a frown darkened hisface at this unlooked-for demonstration. Still he was struck with thewonderful picture she made, with her strikingly beautiful face lit upwith excitement, and her bright, wavy hair gleaming in the sunlight, usshe stood with uncovered head waving to him, the fashionable NeilMcPherson, whom so many knew. His first impulse, naturally, was to lifthis hat in token of recognition, but something in his meaner natureprompted him to take no notice, until Blanche said, in her mostsupercilious tone:

"Who was that brazen-faced girl? Your cousin Bessie?"

"Yes, my cousin Bessie, " Neil replied, and turned to make the bow heshould have made before. 

But Bessie had disappeared, and was sitting again by her father, adjusting her hat and hating herself for having been so foolish. 

"Neil was angry, I know. I saw it in his face, and I was an idiot, " shethought, just as the stranger, who had watched the proceeding with ahighly amused expression around the corners of his mouth, said to her:

"You know Neil McPherson, then? You called him your cousin. "

"Yes, " Bessie answered, a little proud of the relationship, "Neil is mycousin, or rather the cousin of my father, who is Mr. ArchibaldMcPherson, from Bangor, Wales. "

She meant to show her companion how respectable she was, even if herdress, which she was sure he had inspected critically, was poor and outof date, and she was not prepared for his sudden start, as he repeated:

"Mr. Archibald McPherson, of Bangor! Then you are the daughter ofthat--" he checked himself, and added, "I have met your mother at MonteCarlo, " and he drew back a step or two, as if he feared that somethingof the mother's character might have communicated itself to thedaughter. And Bessie saw the movement, and the change of expression onhis face, and her cheeks were scarlet with shame, but she lifted herclear blue eyes fearlessly to his, and said:

"Yes, mother is a monomaniac on the subject of play. It is a species ofinsanity, I think. "

Her voice shook a little, and about her mouth there settled thegrieved, sorry look which touched the stranger at once, and coming closeto her again, he said:

"Your mother is a very beautiful woman. I think she has the loveliestface I ever saw, with one exception, " and he looked straight at theyoung girl whom he had wounded, hoping this implied compliment mightatone. 

But if Bessie heard or understood him she made no sign, and sat with herhands locked tightly together and her eyes looking far away across thesea of heads and the rapidly moving line of carriages. 

This man knew her mother at her worst--not sweet, loving and kind as shewas sometimes at Stoneleigh, but as a gambler, an adventuress, a womanof whom men jested and made sport--a woman who had probably ensured andfleeced him, as Neil would have expressed it. Bessie knew all themiserable catalogue of expedients resorted to by her mother to extortmoney from her victims; cards, chess, bets, philopenas, loans she neverintended to pay, and which she accepted as gifts the instant the offerwas made, and when these failed, pitiful tales of scanty means andpressing needs, an invalid husband at home, and a daughter who must besupported. 

She knew the whole, for she had seen a letter to her father written byLady Jane, who stated the case in plain language, and, denouncing Daisyas a disgrace to the McPherson family, asked that Archie should exercisehis marital authority and keep his wife at home. 

This letter had hurt Bessie cruelly, and when next her mother came toStoneleigh she had begged of her to give up the life she was leading, and stay in her own home. 

"And so all starve together, " Daisy had answered her. "Do you know, child, that you would not have enough to eat or wear, if it were not forme? Your father has never earned a shilling in his life, and never will. It is not in him. We are owing everybody, and somebody must work. If Iam that somebody, I choose to do it in my own way, and I am not thehighly demoralized female Lady Jane thinks me to be. Her bosom friend, old Lady Oakley, plays at Monte Carlo, and so do many high-bred Englishdames, and Americans, too, for that matter. I am no worse than scores ofwomen, except that I am poor and play from necessity, while they do itfor pastime. I have never been false to your father; no man has everinsulted me that way, or ever will. If he did, I would shoot him as Iwould a dog. I cannot help being pretty any more than you; I cannot sewmyself up in a bag, and shall not try to catch the small-pox, so do notworry me again with this sickly sentiment about respectability, and theduties of a wife. I know my own business, and can protect my ownreputation. "

After this there was nothing more to be said. Daisy went back to herprofession, and Bessie took up the old life again with an added burdenof care and anxiety, and with a resolve that she would use for herselfpersonally just as little as possible of the money her mother sent them. Often and often had she speculated upon and tried to fancy the class ofmen her mother associated with, and whom Lady Jane called her victims, and now here was one beside her, speaking and acting like a gentleman, and she felt her blood tingle with bitter shame and humiliation. Had hermother fleeced _him_, she wondered, and at last, lifting her sad eyes tohis face, she said:

"Do you know my mother well? Did you ever--play with her?"

"Yes, often, " he replied; "side by side at _rouge et noir_, and at cardsand chess where she is sure to beat. She bears a charmed hand, I think, or she would not be so successful. "

He had lost money by her then, and Bessie at once found herself thinkingthat if she only knew how much, and who he was, she would pay it backpound for pound when she made a fortune. 

In a vague kind of way she entertained a belief that somewhere in theworld there was a fortune awaiting her; that little girl of fifteensummers, who sat there in Hyde Park, in her old washed linen dress andfaded ribbons, with such a keen sense of pain in her heart for themother who bore her, and pity for herself and her father. The latter hadpaid but little intention to what she was saying to her companion, forwhen he was not engrossed in the passers-by he had been half asleep, butwhen he caught the names _rouge et noir_ and cards, he roused up andsaid:

"Sir, my daughter has never played for money in her life, and neverwill. "

"I am sure she will not, " the stranger rejoined, "though many highlyrespectable ladies do;" then, as if he wished to chance the subject, heturned to Bessie and said: "If Neil McPherson is your cousin there oughtto be some relationship between you and me, for he is my cousin, too. "

"Yours?" Bessie asked, in some surprise, and he replied:

"Yes, my father and his mother were cousins. I am Jack Trevellian. Youhave probably heard him speak of me. "

"No, " Bessie replied, with a decided shake of her head, which toldplainly that neither from Neil nor any one else had she ever heard ofJack Trevellian, who felt a little chagrined that he, the man offashion, whose name was so familiar in all the higher circles of London, should be wholly unknown to this girl from Wales. 

Truly, she had much to learn. But she did not seem at all impressed now, or embarrassed either, though she looked at him more closely and decidedthat he resembled Neil, but was not nearly so good-looking, and that hewas awfully old. 

"You know my cousin Blanche, of course, " he said to her next. "You musthave seen her when you visited at Neil's father's. "

"I saw her at Penrhyn Park when I was a child, but not since then untilthis afternoon. I was never at Trevellian House, " Bessie said, and withthe mental decision: "Poor relations who are outside the ring, " JackTrevellian continued:

"She is not a beauty, though a great heiress. Rumor says Neil is engagedto her. "

"Neil engaged! No, he isn't. He would have told me; he tells meeverything; he is not engaged, " Bessie said, quickly, while a keen senseof pain thrilled every nerve as she thought what it would be to loseNeil as he would be lost if he married the proud Blanche. 

He was so much to her; something more than a brother, something lessthan a lover, for she was too young to think of such an ending to herfriendship for him, and her heart beat rapidly and her lips quivered asshe arose on the instant to go. 

"Come, father, I think we have staid long enough. You must be tired, "she said to her father; then turning to Jack, who was thinking: "Is thechild in love with Neil? What a pity!" she said to him: "Thank you, Mr. Trevellian, for telling me who the people were. It was very kind in you. I will tell Neil I met you. Good-by, " and she gave him her unglovedhand, which, though small and plump and well formed, showed that it wasnot a stranger to work. 

Dishwashing, sweeping, dusting, bed making, and many other more menialthings it had done at intervals to save old Dorothy, the only femaledomestic at Stoneleigh. But it was a very pretty hand for all that, andJack Trevellian felt a great desire to squeeze it as it lay in his broadpalm. But he did not, for something in Bessie's eyes forbade anythinglike liberty with her, and he merely said:

"I was very glad to tell you. I wish I could do something more for youwhile you stay in London. Perhaps you will let me call upon you--withNeil, " he added, as he saw a flush in Bessie's face. 

She was thinking of the old hair cloth furniture, and the room whichNeil designated a hole, and which Jack Trevellian might wonder at anddespise. Such men as he had nothing in common with Mrs. Buncher'slodgings, and she said to him, as she withdrew her hand and put on hermended gloves:

"You had better not; father and I are out so much that we might not behome, and you would have your trouble for nothing. Good-by again. "

She took her father's arm and walked away, while Jack Trevellian stoodlooking after her and thinking to himself:

"That girl has the loveliest face I ever saw. It is so full ofsweetness, and patience, and pathos, that you want to take her in yourarms and pity her, and make much of her, as a child who has been hurtand wants soothing. She is even prettier than Flossie. By Jove, if thecoronet were mine, and the money, I'd make that girl my lady as sure asmy name is Jack. Lady Bessie Trevellian! It sounds well, and what asensation she would make in society. But what a mother-in-law for a manto be saddled with. Welsh Daisy! Bah!" and with thoughts not verycomplimentary to Daisy, he left the park and walked rapidly alongPiccadilly toward Grosvenor Square and Trevellian House. 

CHAPTER VII. 

NEIL'S DISCOMFORTURE. 

Meanwhile Neil was driving on in no very enviable frame of mind. Bessie's startling demonstration had annoyed him more than he liked toconfess. Why had she made such a spectacle of herself? and how oddly shehad looked standing there in that old linen gown with her hat hangingdown her back--and such a hat! He had noticed it in the gardens andthought it quite out of style, and had even detected that the ribbonshad been ironed! But he did not think as much about it, or her gowneither, when he was alone with her, as he did now when there was all hisworld to see and Blanche to criticise, as she did unsparingly. 

"I thought you once told me she was very pretty, " she said: "but I thinkher a fright in that dowdy dress, and bare-headed, too! Did it to showher hair, no doubt! There is probably some of her mother's nature inher. "

Neil could have sworn, he was so angry with Blanche and with all theworld, especially Bessie, who had got him into this mess. He tried tomake himself believe that he had intended to take Bessie and her fatherfor a drive in the park, but he should not do it now. Probably the linengown was the only one Bessie had brought with her, and the elegant NeilMcPherson, who thought so much of one's personal appearance and whatMrs. Grundy would say, could not face the crowd with that gown at hisside, even if Bessie were in it. She would never know it, perhaps, butshe had lost her chances with Neil, who nevertheless, hated himself forhis foolish pride, and when the drive, which he shortened as much aspossible, was over, he left Blanche to go home alone, and taking a cabdrove straight to Oxford street and bought a lovely navy-blue silk and apretty chip hat, with a wreath of eglantines around it. These he orderedsent to Bessie, at No. ---- Abingdon road, and then, feeling that he wasa pretty good fellow after all, he started for home, where to hissurprise, he found his cousin Jack. 

"Why, Jack!" he exclaimed; "I thought you were in Ireland! When did youreturn?"

"This morning; and, as you see, have lost no time in paying my respectsto you all, " Jack answered, as he rose from his seat by Blanche and wentforward, with his easy, patronizing manner, which always exasperatedNeil; it had in it such an air of superiority over him, as if he were amere boy, to be noticed and made much of. 

There was always a show of friendship between these two, but no genuineliking. Still, they were now very gracious to each other, and talkedtogether until dinner was announced, when Jack offered his arm toBlanche, to whom he devoted himself so assiduously that Neil was jealousat once, even though for Blanche herself he did not care a penny. And heknew Jack did not either, except as she was surrounded by the goldenhalo of ten thousand a year. Neil had not made up his mind whether hewanted that ten thousand with the incumbrance, or not; but he certainlydid not want Jack to get it, and his brow grew cloudy, and he becamevery silent, until Jack startled him by saying:

"By the way, Neil, why have you never told me of that pretty little wildblossom hidden away in Wales?"

"Whom do you mean?" Neil asked savagely; and Jack replied:

"I mean your cousin Bessie. I stumbled upon her and her father in thepark this afternoon, and told them who some of the people were. I wasstanding by Miss McPherson's chair when you drove by--"

"And she made that rush at Neil as if she had been a mad thing; it wastoo absurd!" Blanche chimed in, and turning to Lady Jane, she describedthe scene with great minuteness of detail. "It was really tooridiculous, to see her standing there waving her handkerchief with herhead bare to show her abundant hair, and that old linen gown, which musthave seen some years' service. I was intensely mortified to have ourfriends see her, and so was Neil. "

"I beg your pardon, I was not mortified at all; I liked it, and I do notcare who saw her, " Neil said, rousing up in defense of Bessie, and lyingeasily and fluently, for Blanche's cruel remarks made him very angry. 

"Oh, you did like it, then? Your face told a different story, " Blancheretorted; while Lady Jane, forgetting her dignity, commenced a tiradeagainst both Bessie and her mother, the latter of whom she cordiallydespised. Of the girl she knew nothing, she said, but it was fair tosuppose she was like her mother, and she did not blame Blanche forfeeling shocked at such unmaidenly advances in public to a young man. 

Had Neil been a few years younger he would have called his mother afool, as he had done more than once in his boyhood; but he could not dothat now, and turning to Jack, who had been quietly eating his dinner, he said:

"Jack, what did you think of Bessie? Is she a bold hussy, and oughtBlanche to smash her red parasol because Bessie's eyes have rested uponit?"

Thus appealed to, Jack looked up, with an amused smile on his face, andsaid:

"I don't quite believe Bessie's eyes did rest on Blanche's parasol. Ithought they were on you, and envied you as a lucky dog. Seriously, though, " he continued, as he saw the thunderous gleam in Neil's eyes, and the look of triumph in Blanche's, "it did not occur to me that therewas anything bold or unmaidenly in what the young lady did, and I neversaw a more beautiful tableau than she made, standing there in thesunshine, with her bright, wavy hair, and her lovely, eager face. She isvery beautiful, and I am so glad I have seen her. They are stoppingat--" He hesitated, and looked at Neil, who, grateful for his defense ofBessie, unhesitatingly replied:

"No. ---- Abingdon road, near High street"

"Thank you, " Jack said, making a mental memorandum of the place, with aview to call, even if Bessie had said he better not. 

After this little skirmish the dinner proceeded in peace, so far asBessie was concerned, for Jack Trevellian was a kind of oracle, whoseverdict could raise one to the pinnacle of public opinion, or cast himdown to the depths, and if he said Bessie was not bold, norbrazen-faced, then she was not, though Lady Jane and Blanche dislikedher just the same. 

Neil, on the contrary, forgave her fully for the annoyance he had felt, and immediately after breakfast the next morning he started for Mrs. Buncher's. Bessie was trying on the hat when he entered. She hadreceived the box only a few moments before, and had readily guessed thatNeil was the donor, and had in part divined his motive. 

"He was ashamed of my old gown and hat; and they are rather the worsefor the wear, and looked very shabby among the fine dresses in the park. But they are the best I have, unless I make over those mother sentme--and that I cannot do, " she thought, as she remembered, with a pang, the trunkful of half-worn garments of various kinds, which her motherhad sent her from time to time, and which she could never bring herselfto wear, because of the association. They had been worn in the moralmire of Monte Carlo and other places equally disreputable, and Bessiecould no more have put them on than she could have adopted her mother'shabits. In her linen dress, which she bought with money paid her forroses by the ladies who frequented the "George, " she felt pure andrespectable. But this gift from Neil, her cousin, she surely might keep, for her father said so, and, young-girl-like, she was admiring herself, or rather the hat, before the glass, when Neil himself came in. 

"Hallo, Dot, " he said, coming quickly to her side. "At it, I see, likethe rest of your kind; but don't it become you, though! Why, you aresweet and fresh this morning as a rose from the old Stoneleigh garden, "and the tall young man stooped and kissed the blushing girl two or threetimes before she could withdraw herself from him. "Why, Bess, " hecontinued, "what a lump of dignity you are this morning! You did notused to wriggle so when I kissed you. What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened, " Bessie replied, though she knew very well therehad, for what Jack Trevellian had told her that rumor said of Neil andBlanche had opened a new channel of thought, and made her older far thanshe was before; too old for Neil to be kissing her as if she were achild. 

And then, if what Jack said was true, he had no right to kiss her, evenif she were his cousin. But was it true? She wished she knew, and aftershe had thanked Neil for the dress, and asked if he were very angry withher the day before for trying to attract his attention, and he hadassured her that he was not, she burst out:

"Oh, Neil, is it true you are to marry Miss Blanche? Mr. Jack Trevellianstood by us yesterday and told me who the people were, and he said--"

"Jack be hanged!" Neil interrupted her. "What business has he to talksuch nonsense to you? Marry Blanche? Never! What do I want of thoselight eyebrows and that pointed chin--I, who know you?"

Here he stopped, struck by something in Bessie's face which seemed tobrighten and beautify it until it shone like the face of some pure saintto whom the gate of Paradise has just been opened. Then it occurred toNeil suddenly that Bessie was not a child. She was a girl of fifteen andmore, with an experience which made her older than her years; and, selfish as he was, and much as he would like to have her look at himalways as she was looking now, he felt that he must not encourage it. Hehad told her he should never marry Blanche, but in his heart he thoughtit possible, for, as there was no money in his own family, and he couldnot exist without it, he must marry money and forget the sweet face andsoft blue eyes which moved him with a strange power and made him long tofold Bessie in his arms, and, young as she was, claim her as somethingmore than a cousin. But, always politic and cautious, he restrainedhimself, and said to her instead:

"I do not believe I shall ever marry anybody, certainly not for manyyears, and you and I will be the best of friends always, brother andsister, which is better than cousins. Do you consent?"

"Yes, " Bessie answered, falteringly, not quite understanding him, orknowing whether she should like the brother and sister arrangement aswell as the cousin. 

Then they talked together of what Bessie had seen in the park, and shetold him all Jack Trevellian had said, and how kind he was, and how muchshe liked him, until Neil felt horribly jealous of his cousin, andwished he had staid in Ireland while Bessie was in London. 

"Oh, it must be so fine to drive in a handsome carriage with the crowd. I wish I could try it. Does it cost so very much?" she asked, and Neildetested himself because he did not at once offer to take her and herfather for the coveted drive. 

"Could he do it?" he asked himself many times, deciding finally that hecould not face his fashionable friends, and, more than all, his motherand Blanche, with these country cousins--Archie, in his threadbare coat, and Bessie, in her linen gown, with the big puffs at the top of thesleeves. 

Had she been less beautiful he might venture it, but everybody wouldlook at that face and turn to look again, and wonder who she was, andquestion him about her. 

No, he couldn't do it, and so he went away at last, deciding to take theunderground road to St. James Park, and meeting, as he was entering thestation, Jack Trevellian coming out. 

"Hallo, Hallo!" was said by each to the other, while both looked alittle conscious, and Neil burst out, impulsively, "I say, Jack, whatbrings you over here?"

"The same which brought you, I dare say, " Jack replied. "I am going tocall upon your cousin. "

"The deuce you are! I thought so, " Neil answered, in a tone of voiceindicative of anything but pleasure. 

"Have you any objections?" Jack asked, and Neil replied:

"No--yes. Jack. You are as good--yes, better than most of the fellows inour set, but--" He hesitated, and Jack rejoined:

"But what? Go on. "

"By Jove, I will speak out!" Neil continued, going close to his cousin. "You are a man of the world, accustomed to all sorts of girls--girls wholaugh and flirt and let you make soft speeches to them and never thinkof you again because they know you mean nothing. But Bessie is not thatkind; she is innocent and pure as a baby, and believes all you say, and--and--by George, Jack, if you harm a hair of her head I'll beat youinto a pomace! You understand?"

"Yes, I rather think I do, " Jack answered, with a smile; "and, Neil, youare more of a man than I supposed; upon my soul you are; but never fear, I will not flirt with Bessie, I will not make love to her, unless--Ifall in love myself, in which case I cannot promise; but don't distressyourself. The Welsh rose is as safe with me as with you. Good-morning!"and so saying, he walked off in the direction of Abingdon road, whileNeil rather unwillingly bought his ticket and went through the narrowway and down the stairs to wait for the incoming train. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

JACK AND BESSIE. 

Mrs. Buncher had made an effort to brighten up her dingy parlor sinceher new lodgers took possession of it. She had washed the windows andput up clean muslin curtains, and a white towel on the small table, which was further ornamented by a bowl of lovely roses, which filled theroom with perfume and seemed to harmonize so perfectly with the fairyoung girl sitting near the table and darning what would soon have beena hole in the elbow of her father's coat. She had discovered it thatmorning, and as soon as Neil left her sat down to her task, with herpretty white apron partially covering her linen dress and greatlyimproving her appearance. Bessie always wore aprons in the morning athome, though Neil had more than once objected to it, as he said suchthings belonged to housemaids and not to ladies. 

"And I am the housemaid; I wash the dishes and lay the cloth and sweepand dust, and an apron keeps my dress clean, " Bessie had answered him, laughingly, and when she came to London she brought her best apron withher, and after Neil was gone put it on and commenced her task ofdarning. 

"Oh, if you could have a new coat; this is so worn and threadbare, " shesaid to her father, who was sitting near her in his dressing-gown. "Iwish Neil had sent you a coat instead of that dress to me. I do wish wewere rich! I would buy a lot of things, but first of all I would have adrive in the park. Wasn't it grand! I wish Neil would take us, thoughperhaps he has not the money of his own to pay for the carriage. "

"Bessie, " her father said, rousing up from the half dozing condition inwhich he was most of the time when in the house, "you are hugging adelusion with regard to Neil. He is very kind in a way, when it costshim nothing, but he would never sacrifice his comfort or his feelingsfor you or me. We are his poor relations, from the country; we are notlike his world, or that powdered piece of vanity who was with himyesterday. It would cost him nothing to take us for a drive, for thecarriage is his mother's, but you couldn't hire him to go round thatpark with us; he has that false pride, more common in women than in men, which would keep him from it. He likes you very much--at Stoneleigh, where there are none of his set to look on; but here in London it isdifferent. He might take us to many places, if he would; but he daresnot, lest he should be seen. He can send you a blue silk dress, which Ihalf wish you had returned; and he can come here and make your pulsebeat faster with his soft words and manner, which mean so little; butother attentions we must not expect from him. I tell you this, my child, because you are getting to be a woman. You were fifteen last March. Youare very beautiful, and Neil McPherson knows it, and if you had afortune he might seek to be more than your cousin; but as it is, don'tattach much importance to what he says and does, or be disappointed atwhat he does not do. "

Bessie did not reply for the great lump which had risen in her throat asher father put into words what in part she had suspected, but tried tofight down. She did not like to believe that Neil had a fault, and stillshe felt that her father might be right, and that Neil _was_ ashamed ofthem. Something in his manner since they came to London, would indicateas much, and her heart was very sore with a sense of something lost, andthere were tears on her long eyelashes as she bent over the darn, toomuch absorbed in her own thoughts to hear the step on the stairs or knowthat any one was coming until there was a tap at the open door, andlooking up she saw Jack Trevellian standing before her. Mrs. Buncher, who was her own waitress, had bidden him "go right up, " and as the doorwas ajar he stood for an instant on the upper landing and heard Archiesay:

"You were fifteen last March. You are very beautiful, and Neil McPhersonknows it, and if you had a fortune he might seek to be more than yourcousin, but as it is don't attach much importance to what he says anddoes or be disappointed at what he does not do. "

"The old cove has hit it, " Jack thought; "he understands Neil to a dot. If Bessie had a fortune he would go down before her in dead earnest;and, perhaps, I would too, for, 'pon my soul, she has the sweetest faceI ever saw. What a lovely woman she will make. "

And then, there arose before him a vision of a stately old house in thenorth country, the home of the Trevellians, and in the family vault thepresent owner, a white haired man of seventy-five was lying, and by hisside his puny eldest son, and also stalwart Harry, who looked as if abroad-ax could not kill him, and he, Jack Trevellian now the bachelorwith only 500 pounds a year, and most extravagant tastes, was there asSir Jack, and with him this little Welsh maiden, who was bending overthe threadbare coat, and trying to force back the tears her father'swords had caused her. 

"I am a knave and a murderer, " Jack thought. "Uncle Paul, and Dick, andHal would have to die, and little Flossie, whom I like so much, be leftalone, before all this could be;" then, with a premonitory cough, heknocked lightly at the open door. 

"Oh, Mr. Trevellian!" Bessie exclaimed, springing to her feet andblushing scarlet. "How you frightened me! Pray walk in. I did not expectyou. I--I--am mending father's coat. "

"Yes, I see, " he answered, offering her his hand after he had greetedher father with his most graceful, courtly manner. "I see you are. Iwonder now if you are doing it well. I used to have some experience insuch matters when I was roughing it in Australia. I am a beautifuldarner; let me try my hand, please;" and taking the coat from her beforeshe had time to recover from her astonishment, he seated himself upon achair and began industriously to ply the needle, while Bessie looked onamazed. 

"You see I am quite a tailor, " he said, pushing his thick brown hairback from his white forehead, and flashing upon her one of those raresmiles with which he always obtained the mastery and made friends evenof his enemies. 

How charming he was, and he never seemed to see the humble room, thefaded carpet, the dingy oil-cloth, or the coarse hair-cloth furniturewhich had offended Neil and made him call the place a hole. Of course, Jack did see them all; he could not help that, but he acted as if he hadall his life been accustomed to just such surroundings, and was sofamiliar and affable that both Bessie and her father were more charmedwith him than on the previous day. 

"By the way, " he said at last, when the coat was mended and approved, "Imet Neil at the station; he had been here, I suppose?"

"Yes, " Bessie replied, a painful flush suffusing her cheeks as sherecalled what her father had said of Neil. 

"I am half afraid he has forestalled me, then, " Jack continued. "I cameto ask you and your father to drive with me in the park this afternoon;that is, if Neil is not ahead of me. "

"Oh, Mr. Trevellian, " Bessie cried, turning her bright face to him, while the glad tears sprang to her eyes, and she forgot that untilyesterday she did not know there was such a person as this elegant manmaking himself so much at home with them; forgot everything except thepleasure it would be to drive with her father in Hyde Park, and "be oneof them, " as she expressed it to herself. 

"Then Neil has not asked you, and you will go with me?" Jack said, addressing himself to Archie, who replied:

"If Bessie likes--yes; and I thank you so much. You are giving mylittle girl a greater pleasure than you can ever guess. "

Meanwhile the color had all faded from Bessie's face, leaving it verypale, as she stood with clasped hands and wide-open eyes, looking firstat herself in the glass and then at Jack. She was thinking of her oldlinen dress and hat, and of her father's clothes. Neil was ashamed ofthem, her father had said, and she believed him, though it hurt hercruelly to do so. Would not Mr. Trevellian be ashamed of them too, whenhe came to realize the contrast there was between them and the people ofhis set who daily frequented the park?

"What do you say, Miss McPherson? Will you go?" Jack asked, and sheanswered quickly:

"I'd like it, so much; but I thought--I'm quite sure we had better not;"and as she thus gave up the happiness she had so coveted, she burst intotears--tears for her poverty, and tears for Neil, who had not been sokind to them as this stranger was. 

"Why, Bessie, " her father said, "what is the matter? I thought youwanted to drive. "

"I do, I do, " she sobbed; then, with a quick, impatient movement shedashed the tears from her eyes which shone like stars as she lifted thembravely to Jack Trevellian and said, with a tinge of pride in her lone:"I should enjoy the drive more than anything else in the world, and itwas kind in you to ask us; but, Mr. Trevellian, you don't know what itwould be to you to be seen there with father and me--he in his darnedcoat and I in this gown, the best I have here, or anywhere, for summer;and then, my hat; the ribbons are all faded and poor, just as we are, dear father and I;" and as she talked she stepped to her father's sideand wound her arms around his neck. 

There was a world of pathos in the low, sweet voice which said so sadly, "dear father and I, " and it moved Jack with a strange power, bringing amoisture to his eyes where tears had not been in years. 

Mastering his weakness Jack burst into a merry laugh which was good tohear, as he said:

"Is it the gown, and the hat, and the old darned coat? And do you thinkI care for trifles like these? I tell you honestly, I would rather takeyour linen gown, to drive this afternoon, with you in it, than the mostelegant dress in London and you out of it. "

And so it was arranged that they should go, and Jack staid on and on, and read aloud to Bessie, and told her of his travels in the East, andin Australia, and then, he scarcely knew how or why, he spoke of the oldTrevellian home in the north of England, near the border. TrevellianCastle it was called, he said, and it had been in the family for years. 

"I have two cousins there, " he said, "or rather second cousins, Dick andHarry, and I like them both so much, especially Hal, who is six feetthree inches high, and well proportioned. Quite a giant, in fact. Thenthere is a young girl, Florence Meredith, Flossie we call her, she is solike a playful kitten. She is not a cousin, at least to me, though shecalls me that. She is a distant relative of Sir Paul's wife, the motherof Dick and Hal, and was adopted by her when a baby, Flossie is lovely, and you remind me of her, except that she is much younger. She will makea lovely woman, and somebody's heart will ache on her account one ofthese days. "

Jack hardly knew why he was taking to Bessie of little frolicsomeFlossie Meredith, the Irish lassie, who was not in the least like BessieMcPherson, except that she was sweet, and loving, and true, and saidwhat she thought, and would have darned a coat or scrubbed the floor, ifnecessary. He only knew that he liked sitting by Bessie and that if hesat he must talk, and so he kept on and only arose to go when he heardthe rattling of tea-cups outside and guessed that Mrs. Buncher might bepreparing to bring up luncheon. 

About half-past four that afternoon Mrs. Buncher was amazed to see asmart carriage, with handsome horses and servants in livery, drive upbefore her door and still more amazed to see her lodgers take theirseats in it, Bessie and her father, side by side, and Jack Trevellianopposite them, with his back to the driver. It was a glorious Juneafternoon, and the park was, if possible, gayer and more crowed than onthe previous day. The excitement incident upon the passing of theprincess had subsided, when the carriage turned in at the Marble Archand joined the moving throng, which Jack scarcely noticed, so absorbedwas he in watching Bessie's face as it sparkled and shone with eagerjoy and excitement. How beautiful she was in spite of the brown linenand the sleeve puffs which had so annoyed Neil, and while watching herJack felt his heart thrill with a strange feeling he had neverexperienced before in all his intercourse with women, and found himselfmentally subtracting fifteen from thirty, and feeling rather appalled atthe result. 

After they had been in the park ten minutes or more and were nearing acurve, he saw a sudden flush in Bessie's face and a gleam of triumph inher blue eyes as she looked ahead of her. Neil was coming from theopposite direction, he was sure, and in a moment the McPherson turn-outappeared, with Neil sitting as Jack sat, his back to the horses and hismother and Blanche opposite. The latter saw Bessie first, and giving hera haughty stare, spoke quickly to Lady Jane, whose stare was even morehaughty and supercilious. Neither bowed even to Jack, but Neil liftedhis hat with such a look of undisguised astonishment and disapproval onhis face that Jack laughed merrily, for he understood perfectly howchagrined Neil was to see him there with Bessie. And Neil was chagrinedand out of sorts, and called himself a sneak, and a coward, while toJack he gave the name fool with an adjective prefixed. He did not evenhear what his mother and Blanche were saying of Bessie until he caughtthe words from the former, "She has rather a pretty face;" then heroused up and rejoined:

"Rather a pretty face! I should think she had. It is the loveliest faceI ever saw, and I'd rather have it beside me in the park than all thefaces in London!"

"Reely!" Blanche replied, with an upward turn of her nose. "Suppose youget out and join them; there is room for you by Jack. "

"I wish I could, " Neil growled, and then he relapsed into silence andscarcely spoke again until they returned to Grosvenor Square. 

As soon as dinner was over he started for Abingdon road, and was told byMrs. Buncher, who received him with a slight increase of dignity in hermanner, as became one before whose door carriages and servants in liveryhad stood twice in one day, that Mr. McPherson and the young lady hadgone to see "Pinafore" with the gentleman who took them to drive. 

"The deuce they have!" Neil muttered and hailing a cab he too drove tothe theater, and securing the best seat he could at that late hour, looked over the house till he found the party he was searching for, Archie, in his threadbare coat, and high, standing collar, looking alittle bored for himself, but pleased for Bessie, whose face was radiantas she watched the progress of the play. 

For once Neil forgot the puffs and the linen gown, and thought only ofthe exquisitely beautiful face and rippling golden hair, for Bessie'shead was uncovered, and Neil saw that she received quite as muchadmiration from the fashionable crowd as did Little Buttercup or theCaptain's daughter, and that Jack looked supremely happy and nodded tohis friends here and there as if to call their attention to the girlbeside him. 

"Confound him!" Neil thought. "What business has he to take charge ofBessie in this way? I'll not allow it!"

But Jack had the inside track and kept it, in spite of Neil; and duringthe ten days Bessie remained in London he took her everywhere, and whenshe left he knew much more of some parts of the city than he did before. Never in his life had he visited the Tower, which he looked upon as aplace frequented only by Americans or country people; but as, after thepark, this was the spot of all others which Bessie wished to see, hewent there with her, and joining the party waiting for their ranks to befull, followed the pompous beefeater up stairs and down stairs, and intothe lady's chamber, and saw the steps by the water-gate where Elizabethsat down when she landed there a prisoner to her sister, and saw thethumb-screws and other instruments of torture, and more fire-arms andbayonets grouped in the shape of sunflowers and roses than he hadsupposed were in the world, and climbed to the little room whereGuilford Dudley was imprisoned, and stared stupidly at the name of Janecut upon the wall, and looked down the staircase under which it was saidthe murdered princes were thrown, and horrified Bessie by asking who allthese people were he had been hearing about. 

"Of course I knew once, " he said. "Such things were thrashed into me atschool, but hanged if I have them and their history at my tongue's end, as you have. Are you not tired to death?" he asked, pantingly, andfanning himself with his soft hat as they left the gloomy building, and, after looking at the spot where Ann Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey werebeheaded, went back to the office where they dismissed their guide. 

It was a scorchingly hot day, and Jack was perspiring at every pore, butBessie was fresh and bright as ever, and eager to go to the Abbey andthe Parliament House, and possibly _somewhere else_, and Jack obeyed herwith an inward groan, and went where she wished to go, and marveled ather knowledge of and interest in everything pertaining to Westminsterand its surroundings. Never in his life had Jack Trevellian been astired as he was that night, with a back which ached so hard that heactually bought a plaster for it next morning, and, thus strengthenedand fortified, started again on his mission. Kensington Museum, theBritish Museum, the National Gallery, Crystal Palace, Hampton Court, andthe Queen's Stables were all visited by turn, and then they went for aday to Alexandra Palace, and saw an opera, a play, a ballot, twocircuses, and rope-walking, all for a shilling, which to Bessie's frugalmind was best of all. 

That night Jack was more worn out than ever, and his back ached worsethan after the Tower, and though Bessie was to leave the next day forhome, he did not go to Abingdon Road in the evening, but went to bedinstead, and deferred his good-by until the morrow. So Neil had thefield to himself, and made good use of his opportunity. Together he andBessie walked in the Kensington gardens until they were tired, and thenthey sat side by side on one of the many seats in a retired part of thegrounds, and Neil told her how sorry he was that she was going home, andhow lonely he should be without her. 

"Ye-es, " Bessie said, doubtfully. "I think you will survive;" and thenhe burst out, impulsively; "I say, Bessie, I don't want you to think mea cad and a sneak, when you go back to Stoneleigh. Don't you suppose I'dlike to have taken you round just as well--yes, better than Jack, confound him?"

"Why didn't you then? I would rather have gone with you, " Bessie said, beginning to relent at once toward the handsome, good-for-nothing Neil, who had his arm around her, and was looking into her face with his dark, expressive eyes. 

"Why didn't I?" he answered. "I am going to tell you why I didn't, andwhy Jack did. He is his own master, with money to do as he likes, and noone to question or nag him at home; while I am _not_ my own master atall, and have no money except what mother chooses to give me, and thatis not much. Father, you know, is poor, and mother holds the purse, which is not a large one, and keeps me awful short at times, especiallyafter paying my Oxford bills and a few debts I contracted the last year. There would have been no end of a row if I had asked her for money tospend on you and your father. "

"Does she then hate us so much?" Bessie asked, and Neil replied:

"She cannot hate you, as she does not know you; but, you see, she isprejudiced against your mother and visits her anger upon your innocenthead. I wanted her to call upon you and invite you to our house, and Iwanted to take you to drive in the park, but I could not; my hands weretied. Do you suppose it was pleasant for me to see Jack Trevellian doingwhat I ought to have done?"

"No, " Bessie replied, beginning to feel a great pity for Neil, who hadsuffered so much. "No, and I am glad you have told me, for I thought--Ifeared you were ashamed of us, and it hurt me a little. "

There was a tremor in her voice which made Neil tighten the clasp of hisarm around her, while he bent his head so low that his hair touched herforehead, as he exclaimed:

"Ashamed of you, Bessie! Never! How could I be ashamed of the dearest, sweetest little cousin a man ever had? I tell you I am the victim ofcircumstances!"

And bending his head still lower, "the victim of circumstances" kissedthe girlish lips, which kissed him back again in token ofreconciliation, and restored faith in him. 

Poor, tired Jack, dreaming that night that he was a circus-rider andjumping through a hoop for Bessie's pleasure, would have felt that allhis fatigue and back ache, and the plaster which caused him so muchdiscomfort, might have been spared, or at least were wasted on the girlwith whom the kiss given in the deepening twilight was more powerfulthan all he had done for her, could he have known of that scene in thegardens. But he did not know of it, and at a comparatively early hournext morning he was at Mrs. Buncher's, where Bessie greeted him with hersweetest smile and thanked him again for all he had done for them. 

"Don't speak of it, I beg; it is so very little, I only wish there wasreally something I could do to prove my willingness to serve you, " hesaid. 

They were standing alone by the window looking into the street, and asJack said this there came a troubled look on Bessie's face, find afterwaiting a moment, she said:

"There is something you can do, if you will: something which will pleaseme very much, and prove you the good man I believe you to be. "

"Command me, and it is done, " Jack said; and Bessie continued:

"If you ever meet mother again at Monte Carlo, or anywhere, don't playwith her for money; promise me this. "

"I promise, " Jack answered, unhesitatingly; and, emboldened by hispromptness, Bessie went on:

"And, oh, Mr. Trevellian, if you would never again play with any one formoney, even the smallest sum. It is gambling just the same; it iswicked; it leads to so much that is bad. It was my grandfather's ruin, and he knew it and repented bitterly, for it left his son nothing butpoverty, and that is why we are so poor, father and I; gambling did itall. "

There were tears in Bessie's eyes, and they went straight to Jack'sheart. He was not an inveterate gambler, though he had lost and wonlarge sums at Monte Carlo and Baden Baden, when the tables were openthere, and, like most Englishmen, he never played whist that somethingwas not staked; it gave zest to the game, which to him would be veryinsipid without it: but Bessie's eyes could have made him face thecannon's mouth, if need be, and he said to her at once:

"I promise that, too. I will never play again for money with anyone, but for my reward you must let me visit you at Stoneleigh sometime. "

"Oh, yes, you may, " she answered, "but I warn you it is a poor place tocome to, with only old Anthony and Dorothy to do anything. I have towork, and you may have to work, too, and do other things than mendingfather's coat. "

She spoke playfully, and Jack declared his readiness to sift cinders, orscour knives, or do anything, if she would let him come. Just then Neilarrived, not altogether pleased to find Jack there before him, standingclose to Bessie, who was looking very happy. The two young men went withher to the station, where they vied with each other in showing herattention. Jack held her traveling-bag, and her parasol and fan, andband-box containing the white chip hat, and Neil held her shawl, andumbrella, and paper bag of biscuits and seed cakes which Mrs. Buncherhad given her to eat upon the road, and when at last she was gone, andthey walked out of the station into the noisy street, each felt that thebrightness of the summer day had changed, and that somethinginexpressibly sweet had been taken from them. 

CHAPTER IX. 

CHRISTMAS AT STONELEIGH. 

Two years and a half after that visit to London, Bessie McPherson, now ayoung lady of nearly eighteen, stood by the western window of the oldhouse at Stoneleigh reading a letter from Neil. He had been atStoneleigh several times since that summer in London, and these visits, with his letters always so affectionate and bright, were the only breaksin Bessie's monotonous life. Once Jack had been there for a few days, orrather to the "George, " where he slept and took his meals, spending therest of the time with Bessie, who interested him more and more, and fromwhom he at last fled as from a positive danger. With his limited incomeand his habits, he could not hope to marry, even if Bessie would havejoined her young life with his matured one, which he doubted, and, witha great pang of regret he left her in the old Stoneleigh garden and didnot dare look back at her, sitting there with the troubled look on herface, because he was leaving, lest he should turn back and, taking herin his arms, say the words he must not say. 

And so he went his way to busy London, and heard from Blanche that thewhite-haired old earl in the north of England was dead, and the punyDick master in his place. 

"Only two between you and a fortune, " seemed whispered in his ear, andwith it came a thought of Bessie sitting under the old yew tree in thesummer sunshine and looking after him. 

"Murderer!" he said to himself again, "do you wish Dick dead and Hal, too, the finest fellow that ever lived, for the sake of a young girlwhose mind is full of a prig like Neil McPherson?"

And so he put all thoughts of Bessie aside, and wore mourning for hisgreat-uncle, and wrote a letter to the new heir, Sir Dick, and sent hislove to Flossie, and went no more to Stoneleigh. But Neil was comingagain, and his letter to Bessie was as follows:

 "LONDON, Dec, 20th, 18--, "MY SWEETEST COUSIN: and when I say that I mean it, for though Blanche is just as much my cousin as you are, and is in her way sweet as sugar, she bears no comparison to you, my little Dot, as I used to call you when you were a wee thing and let me kiss you as often as I liked. My Welsh rose I call you now, when you wear long dresses and will not let me kiss you, or at least will not kiss me as you did before you made that trip to London two years ago last June. Something happened to you then which shot you up into a woman, and I lost my little Bessie. But how absurdly I am writing, as if I were your lover, instead of your cousin, and as good as engaged to Blanche. I suppose mother would break her heart if I did not marry that £10, 000 a year. I used to say I wouldn't, you know; but, _nous verrons_; what I wish to tell you now is, that I am coming to Stoneleigh for the holidays. Mother wishes me to go with her and Blanche to some stupid place near Edinburgh, and we have had a jolly row about it, but I prefer Stoneleigh and you; so you may expect me the 23rd, on the evening train from Bangor; and please tell old Dorothy to have a roasting fire in my room, which you know is something after the stable order, and oh, if she would have plum-pudding and chicken-pie for dinner! You see, I make myself quite at home at Stoneleigh, and I have a weakness for the good things of this world. I do not believe I was cut out for a poor man. I might be poor and honest, but never poor and happy. 

 "By the way, I am to bring a friend with me, or rather he is to stop first at Carnarvon, to hunt up somebody by the name of Rogers, whom he is very anxious to find. "

"Rogers--Rogers, " Bessie repeated, thoughtfully. "Seems to me I haveheard that name before. Who is Neil's friend, I wonder? I am sorry he iscoming, for that means another fire, and another plate at table, and weare so poor. Neil is right; it is not so easy to be poor and happy asone might think, " and the look of care habitual to Bessie's facedeepened upon it, for funds were very low at Stoneleigh just then. 

It was weeks since they had received anything from Daisy, and Archie'sslender income would barely suffice for absolute necessaries, leavingnothing for extra fires and extra mouths to feed with plum-pudding andchicken-pie, and all the etceteras of a regular Christmas dinner such asNeil would expect. 

Resuming the letter at last, Bessie read on:

 "I have asked him to spend a day at Stoneleigh after he has finished his business in Carnarvon, and he has accepted and will be with us at Christmas. He is an American--Grey Jerrold, from Boston--and the right sort of a fellow, too: not a bit of a cad, if he did thrash me unmercifully the first time I ever saw him. He served me just right, and we are great friends now. He was at Eton with me and at Oxford, too, and took the wind out of all our sails in both places. No sneak about him, and though he seems more English than American from having lived with us so long, he would knock me down now if I were to say a word against his star spangled banner. His father and mother are in Boston, and he has crossed, I don't know how many times, mostly, I think, to see an old Aunt Hannah, whom he seems to worship, and whose photograph he actually kissed the day he got it at Eton. Such an old fashioned woman, too, as she must be, judging from her dress and hair; but such a sweet, patient, sorry face, with an expression about the mouth like you when 'la petite madame' is under discussion. I hear she is at Monte Carlo still. A friend saw her there flirting with and fleecing an Italian count, who has quite cut out that poodle of a Hardy. "

"Oh, Neil! oh, mother!" Bessie cried, and the look about her mouth, ofwhich Neil had spoken, was pitiable to see, as the lips quivered and thegreat tears sprang to her eyes and stood on her long lashes. "Fleecingan Italian count!" she whispered. "If mother were to send us money now, I do not believe I would touch it. "

Then she read on:

 "You are sure to like Grey Jerrold, and if you do not fall in love with him I shall be surprised. He, of course, will surrender to you at once, and he is worthy of you. I am to make some stupid calls with my mother and Blanche so good-by till Tuesday night. I only live till then. 

 "Your loving cousin, "NEIL. "

For some time after finishing Neil's letter Bessie staid by the window, very still and thoughtful, with a half-pleased, half-troubled look inher young face. She was thinking of Neil's projected visit, and planninghow she could make him comfortable, and his friend. 

"I can dispense with a fire in my room, and the boots I was going tobuy; these are not so very bad, though they do leak at times, " and sheglanced down rather ruefully at the little shabby boots in which herfeet were incased, and which she had worn so long. "I hope Neil will notnotice them, he is so fastidious about such things, " she said, with asigh; and then her thoughts went back to the summer when she had visitedLondon and met Jack Trevellian who had been so kind and done so muchfor her. 

Her mother had been home several times since then, and had spoken ofJack as a noble fellow, with nothing small in his nature. 

"But he is greatly changed from what he used to be, " she said. "When Ifirst knew him at Monte Carlo, he was almost as regular at the tables asI was myself, and a capital partner at cards; but now he never plays atall, and did not even go inside the Casino, notwithstanding I did mybest to persuade him. I think there must be some woman concerned in thechange. Well she is fortunate if she gets Jack Trevellian. I wishBessie, you had more tact, for I know he was interested in you. He isworth forty Neil McPhersons. "

"Oh, mother, please don't talk like that, " Bessie said, thinking toherself that she could tell, if she would, why he did not play asformerly, and feeling a great throb of gladness that he was keeping hispromise to her. 

If he had been coming to Stoneleigh, Bessie would not have cared for hersurroundings, or her shabby shoes for he would not have noticed them, orif he did, he would not have let her know it as Neil was sure to do. Neil was very particular and critical, and had more than once hurtBessie cruelly with his criticism upon her dress. But then he was justas severe upon Blanche, and that was some comfort, and with a sigh, asshe remembered what he had said of being as good as engaged, she put theletter aside, and went to tell Dorothy of the expected guests and toconsult with her as to the ways and means of making them comfortable. 

"Fortunately I have some money saved, of my own, and you must make it goas far as possible, and be sure that we have a good Christmas dinner, with plum-pudding and whipped cream, " she said, as she emptied into theold servant's hand what had been intended for boots and gloves, and aChristmas present for her father. 

And now the day when Neil was expected had come, and it lacked but a fewminutes of the time for the arrival of the train. Everything was ready, and the old house wore quite a festive appearance with its holiday dressof evergreens and scarlet berries, and all the flowers there were inblossom in the conservatory, which opened from the dining room, and waskept warm without extra expense. Everything which could be spared fromother parts of the house had been brought to Neil's room, where acheerful fire was burning in the grate, and where Bessie's own easychair, and couch, and bright Afghan were doing duty, and making theplace very comfortable and attractive. 

During the two years and a half which had elapsed since Bessie's visitto London, she had changed somewhat, and was more a woman than a child, with a matured and, if possible, a sweeter expression in her face, though there still lingered about her mouth that same sorry, patientlook which Jack Trevellian had wanted so much to kiss away. It was veryapparent this afternoon, as she stood by the window looking out upon thesnow which covered the garden and park, and made her shiver a little, and think of the mother who should have been at home, lightening herdaughter's burden and cheering her lonely life. 

"How happy the girls must be who have real mothers, " Bessie thought, andthen as if the regret for the mother reflected upon the father, who wasso much to her, she went up to him by the fire, and stooping over himkissed him tenderly. 

She always did that when her mother was in her mind and by some subtleintuition Archie had come to know it, and now his voice was very tenderand loving as he drew her down upon his knee, and stroking her hair, said to her:

"Good little Bessie, what should I do without you? You are very lovelyto-night in your finery. Are you glad Neil is coming?"

"Yes, very glad, " Bessie replied, blushing a little. "Very glad forNeil, but I do not think I want that American here, too. I wish Neil hadleft him from the programme. "

"Oh, yes; I remember you told me that Neil said he was coming. They aregreat friends, I believe, " Archie said. Then, after a moment, hecontinued: "I dare say he is a gentleman. You may like him very much. "

"No, I shall not, " Bessie rejoined, tapping the floor impatiently withher boot, whose shabbiness French blacking could not wholly conceal, "Ishall be civil to him, of course, as Neil's friend, but I would ratherhe did not come, spoiling everything. I see Neil so seldom that I wanthim all to myself when he is here. He is the only cousin I have, youknow. "

For a moment Archie was silent, and when at last he spoke, he said:

"Bessie, don't think too much of Neil. As I told you once in London, soI tell you now. He is too selfish by nature, and too ambitious to careparticularly for anything which cannot advance his interests. He likesyou very much, no doubt, and if you had a fortune, I dare say he wouldseek to make you his wife; but as you have not he will marry BlancheTrevellian, who has. "

"Yes, he will marry Blanche, " Bessie said, softly, and the old, tired, sorry look crept into her eyes and deepened about her mouth as shethought: "If I had a fortune! Oh, that _if_! What a big one it is in mycase. And yet it is impressed upon me that somewhere in the world there_is_ a fortune awaiting me; very far from here, it may be, but stillsomewhere; but then, Neil will be gone before I get it, and I shall notcare. "

And as it had done more than once before, a sharp pain cut throughBessie's heart as she thought what life would be with Neil making nopart of it. So absorbed had she and her father been that neither of themhad heard the train as it glided swiftly by, but when, after a fewmoments had elapsed, there was the stamping of feet outside, and acheery call to the house dog, who had set up a welcome bark, Bessiesprang from her father's knee, exclaiming:

"That's Neil; he has come, and I am so glad. "

She was out in the hall by this time, waiting expectantly, while Anthonyopened the door admitting Neil, who kissed Bessie twice, and told herhow glad he was to see her again, and how well her stuff dress of darkclaret became her, or would, if she had left off that knot of Scotchplaid ribbon at the throat, which marred the effect. 

Bessie's checks flushed at this criticism upon the ribbon she liked somuch, and had bought for this very occasion, with a view to please hercousin. He was in very high spirits, it seemed to her, as she listenedto his gay badinage and laughter. But how handsome he was in his newholiday suit, every item of which was faultless, and of the lateststyle. If his mother stinted him in other ways, she surely did not wherehis wardrobe was concerned, and he had the reputation of being one ofthe best dressed young men in London. 

When dinner was over, and he had finished his cigar which he smoked inthe presence of Bessie, she asked him of the American, who was comingthe next evening. 

"Oh, yes, Grey Jerrold, " Neil said, "and the finest specimen of a Yankeeyou ever saw. "

"I don't believe I like Yankees, " Bessie said curtly, and Neil replied:

"You will like this one; you cannot help it, every body likes him, fromthe shabbiest old woman in the railway carriage to the prettiest girl inPiccadilly. Perhaps it was a liberty I ought not to have taken, invitinghim here without consulting you first, but I wanted you to see him, andhim to see you, " and there was a vehemence in Neil's voice and mannerwhich Bessie could not understand. "He is rich, or will be by and by, "Neil said. "And the most generous chap I ever saw. He was always helpingus out of scrapes at school. He has a rich aunt in America, who keepshim well supplied with money, besides what his father gave him when hecame of age. "

"What did you say he was doing in Carnarvon?" Bessie asked, and Neilreplied:

"Hunting up some old woman, or young woman, I don't know which, as Inever paid much attention to what he did say about it, I believe, though, there is some money in the case. I wish it was for me, " Neilsaid, and then suddenly he sank into a thoughtful, abstracted mood, fromwhich he did not rouse till the clock struck ten and it was time to saygood-night. "I have not been very good company for the last hour, I havebeen worried lately and am not quite myself, " he said to Bessie, whenshe asked if he were ill and if there was anything she could do for himor send to his room. 

And Neil had been worried and exasperated and wrought upon until he washalf beside himself. His mother had wished him to accompany her andBlanche to the house of a friend near Edinburgh, and when he refused, saying he preferred to go to Stoneleigh, there had been a jolly row, ashe expressed it, and his mother had charged him with his preference forthe daughter of that bold adventuress, and had told him decidedly thatif he ever dared to marry her he should never touch a shilling of hermoney either during her life-time or after, for once assured of themarriage she would so arrange her matters that he would be as great abeggar as Archie McPherson himself. 

"A family of paupers!" she said, scornfully. "Your father has nothing togive you; absolutely nothing, and you can yourself judge, how, with yourtastes and habits, you will like living at Stoneleigh with two meals aday, as I hear they sometimes do, blacking your own boots and buildingyour own fires. "

Here Neil winced, for he knew very well that he had no fancy forpoverty, even if Bessie shared it with him But he told his mother hehad, and consigned Blanche's ten thousand a year to a place where thegold might be melted, and said he loved Bessie McPherson better thananything in life, and should marry her if he pleased in spite of ahundred mothers. But he knew he should not--knew he could not face thereality when it came to the point. He was too dependent upon what wealthwould bring him to throw it away for one girl, even if that girl wereBessie, whom he loved with all the intensity of his selfishnature--loved so much that for an hour or so after his interview withhis mother, he balanced the two questions, Blanche with ten thousand ayear, or Bessie with nothing. Naturally Blanche turned the scale, andthen to himself, he said:

"I will go to Stoneleigh and live for a few days in Bessie's presence, and then I will say good-by forever and marry Blanche as mother wishesme to do. She is not so very bad except for her eyebrows and that horriddrawl. But Bessie, oh, Bessie, how can I give her up!" and the youngman's heart cried out in pain for the sweet young girl he had loved allhis life, and who, he was sure loved him. To do Neil justice, this wasthe bitterest drop in the cup--the knowing that Bessie, too, wouldsuffer. "She has enough to bear, " he said, "without an added drop fromme, I wish she would get in love with some one else and throw meoverboard. I believe I could bear it better. There's Jack he wasawfully sweet on her in London, but he has only been to see her oncesince. He is too poor to marry, and there is no one else--yes, by Jove, there is!" and Neil started to his feet. "There is Grey Jerrold. He isjust the man for Bessie to fall in love with if she could see him, andI'll bring that about. "

It may seem strange that one so utterly selfish as Neil McPherson shouldhave devised this plan to help him in his dilemma, but this in fact wasonly another phase of his selfishness. He knew it was impossible for himto marry Bessie, and felt that it was also impossible to give her upwithout other aid than his own feeble will. If she could prefer some oneelse to himself, it would be a help, however much his self-love might bewounded, and if another than himself must taste the sweetness he socoveted he would far rather that other should be Grey Jerrold, anAmerican, even though he bore the rose away to foreign soil, than tohave one of his own countrymen flaunting his happiness in his face, Bessie and Grey were suited to each other, he thought, and he wouldbring them together; so, when he heard from Grey of his intended trip toCarnarvon, he suggested that he defer it until the holidays and spend aday or two at Stoneleigh. Then he wrote to Bessie that he was as good asengaged to Blanche, and that she would probably fall in love with Grey, who was sure to do so with her. This done, he began to anticipate thevisit, which he said to himself was to be his last, and from which hemeant to get all the happiness possible, he would kiss Bessie as oftenas he liked; he would hold her hands in his, the dear little hands whichhad worked so hard, but, which nevertheless, were so soft and pretty; hewould look into the innocent blue eyes and see them kindle and droopbeneath his gaze, and then there should be one long, never to beforgotten walk by themselves across the suspension bridge, through thestraggling old town, and along the road by the river toward Beaumaris, and he would tell her everything, all his love for her and its utterhopelessness because they were both so poor, and he would say good-byforever, and bid her marry Grey Jerrold, and so remove temptation fromhim and make it easier for him to be true to Blanche. 

It was much easier for Neil to form this plan than to be satisfied withit, and during the few days which elapsed before he started forStoneleigh he was cross and irritable and even rude at times both to hismother and Blanche, the latter of whom finally treated him with a coldindifference which made him fear a little for the ten thousand. 

"What if she should take the bits in her teeth and throw me overboard?"he thought, and at the very last, he changed his tactics and devotedhimself to the heiress with an assiduity which left her little doubt ofhis intentions. Still, to her he did not speak, though to his mother hesaid, half irritably, as if it were something wrung from him against hiswill:

"Don't trouble yourself. I intend to marry Blanche in my own good time;but I will not be hurried, and am going to Stoneleigh first. "

And he went to Stoneleigh and tried all the way there to think of Bessieas she looked in the park, in the old faded gown with the disfiguringpuffs; tried to make himself believe that she had no manner, no style, and would not pass for a great lady among people city bred; that she wasbetter suited to some quiet home such as Grey Jerrold might give her, were he happy enough to win her. Neil had no doubt that Grey would tryto win her when once he had seen her, and he began at last to feel sorrythat he had invited his friend to Stoneleigh, and to have doubts as tohis ability to give Bessie up even to him. He was sure of it when hereached Stoneleigh and saw her with the brightness on her face and thesparkle in her eye as she welcomed him. She might not be as elegant oras stylish as Blanche, who had lived in the city all her life, but shewas inexpressibly sweet and womanly, and there was in every movement agrace and quiet dignity which stamped her as a lady. And Neil recognizedit as he never had before, and fought the battle over again all throughthe silent night, and was still fighting it in the morning when he wentdown to breakfast and looked at Bessie as she poured his coffee, in hergray dress and pretty white muslin apron, with the daintily frilledpockets, and just the corner of a blue-bordered handkerchief showing inone of them. Neil liked the dress and the effect of the bluehandkerchief but he did not like the apron, it made her look so like ahousemaid, and he told her so when breakfast was over and they stood amoment alone by the fire. 

Reddening a little, Bessie answered him, laughingly; "Yes, you told meonce before that you did not like my apron, and I know it would be outof place on your mother or Blanche, but it suits me, for you see I _am_housemaid here, and clear my own table and wash my own silver and china. Dorothy is old and has the rheumatism in her feet, and I must help; so, Mr. Aristocrat, if you do not wish to see me degrade myself, just go andtake a walk, and when you come back the obnoxious apron shall be laidaside and we will practice that song you brought me. "

Neil did not go out and walk, but staid in the dining-room and smokedhis cigar, and looked at Bessie as she cleared away the breakfast dishesand washed the silver and china, with her sleeves drawn half-way to herelbows, showing her round, white arms. 

"Yes, she is just suited to America, where, I believe, the women allwear aprons and wash their own dishes, " Neil thought, as he watched herwith a strange feeling in his heart of pain and happiness; happinessthat for a few days at least she was his to look at, to love, to caress;pain that the days were so few and so short when he must leave her. 

And then there arose before him, as in a vision, a picture of a quiethome amid green hedge-rows and sunny lanes, not a home such as Blanche'swould be, with gorgeous surroundings and liveried servants everywhere, but such a home as makes a man better for living in it; a home where thehousewifely Bessie was the presiding goddess, flitting about just as shewas doing now, putting away the silver and china, brushing up thehearth, moving a chair here and another there, watering her pots offlowers in the conservatory, tea-roses and carnations and heliotrope andlilies all in bloom and filling the room with sweet perfume as if itwere the summer-time, instead of chill December with its biting blastssweeping against the windows. 

"There!" Bessie said, at last, removing her apron, pulling down hersleeves, and smoothing her bright wavy hair, "I have dismissed thehousemaid, and now I am ready to sing for you, or play chess, or dowhatever you like. "

But Neil was in no mood for singing or playing chess, or even talkingmuch, and his fit of abstraction lasted all day, or until late in theafternoon, when Bessie began to speak of getting herself in readinessfor Grey, who was to come in the evening train from Carnarvon. Then Neilroused, and as if he had nerved himself for the sacrifice, manifested agreat deal of interest with regard to Bessie's personal appearance. 

"I want you to get yourself up stunningly, " he said, "so as to make agood first appearance. I have told Grey so much about you that he mustnot be disappointed. "

"Ridiculous! I shall wear just what I wore yesterday, bow and all, for Ilike it, " Bessie said, with a little defiant toss of her head. 

She, too, had been thinking while Neil sat so silent and moody by thefire, and had decided that he had greatly changed for the worse sinceshe had seen him last--that he was hard to please, moody, exacting, andquite too much given to criticising her and her dress. 

"As if it is any of his business what I wear, " she thought, and she tooka kind of exultant satisfaction in fastening on the knot of ribbon hehad condemned and which really was very becoming to her plain, darkdress. 

"I suppose, Mr. Grey Jerrold, I must waste a clean collar and a pair ofcuffs on you, though that will be so much more for me to iron nextweek, " she said, as she stood before the mirror in her room, which wasto be given to the coming guest, "I hope, sir, you will appreciate all Iam doing for you, for I assure you it is no small matter to turn outfrom my comfortable quarters into that barn of a room where the windblows a hurricane and the rats scurry over the floor. Ugh! how I dreadit, and _you_, too!" she continued, shaking her head at the imaginaryGrey, who stood before her mind's eye, black-eyed, black-whiskered, black-faced, and a very giant in proportions, as she fancied allAmericans to be. 

Her toilet completed, she removed from the room everything which shethought would betray the fact that it was her apartment, and carriedthem with a shiver to the chamber facing the north, where the ratsscurried over the floor at night, and the wind blew a hurricane. 

"There! I am ready for your Pythias! Do you think I shall pass muster?"she said to Neil, as she entered the dining-room where he was sitting. 

It would indeed have been a very censorious, fault-finding man who couldhave seen aught amiss in the beautiful young girl, plain as her dressmight be, and for answer to her question, Neil stood up and kissed her, saying as he did so:

"He will think you perfect, though I don't like the ribbon, I don't likeany color about you except your hair and eyes. I wish you would take itoff. "

"Mr. Jerrold may think differently. I am dressed for him, and as I likeit I mean to wear it, " Bessie answered, curtly, but with a bright smile, as she looked into Neil's face. 

"Oh, well; _chacun a son gout_, " he said, consulting his watch, andadding: "It is time I was starting for the station; the train is due infifteen minutes. "

When he was gone Bessie began to feel a little nervous with regard tothe stranger coming among them. Hitherto she had thought only of theextra expense and the trouble he would give old Dorothy, whose feet andankles were badly swollen and paining her so much. 

"I may have to cook and serve the Christmas dinner myself, " she said, "and I don't mind the work; only I do not want this American fromBoston, where the women are so full of brains, to think me a meredishwasher and chimney-sweep. I wonder if he is half as nice as Neilsays he is, and if I shall like him. Of course I sha'n't, but I shalltreat him well for Neil's sake, and be so glad when he has gone. "

Then she proceeded to lay the table for supper, as they usually dined inthe middle of the day. Dorothy's feet were more active then, and Archiepreferred an early dinner. Everything was in readiness at last; thebread and the butter and the jam, with cold chicken and ham, and thekettle singing on the hearth; the curtains drawn and the bright firemaking shadows on the wall and falling upon the young girl, who, as herear caught the sound of footsteps without, ran to the window, andparting the heavy curtains, looked out into the darkness so that thefirst glimpse Grey Jerrold had of her was of her fair, eager face framedin waves of golden brown hair, and pressed against the window pane inthe vain effort to see the dreaded American. 

CHAPTER X. 

GREY. 

Between the man of twenty-three and the boy of fourteen, who had kneltupon the snow in the leafless woods and asked God to forgive him for hisgrandfather's sin, and had pledged himself to undo as far as waspossible the wrong to others that sin had caused, there was thedifference of nine years of growth, and culture, and experience, andknowledge of the world; but otherwise the boy and the man were the same, for as the Grey of fourteen had been frank, and truthful, and generous, and wholly unselfish, with a gentleness in his nature like that of atender, loving woman, so was the Grey of twenty-three whom we last sawupon the steamer which was taking him away from home and the lonelywoman watching so tearfully upon the wharf, and feeling that with hisgoing her joyless life was made more desolate. 

Since that time there had been a year's travel upon the Continent withhis parents, and then he had entered at Eton, where he renewed hisacquaintance with Neil McPherson, between whom and himself there sprungup a friendship which nothing had weakened as yet. Several times he hadbeen a guest in Neil's home, where Lady Jane treated him with the utmostcivility, and admitted that for an American he really was refined andgentlemanly. He knew Jack Trevellian, and Blanche, and all Neil'sintimate friends, and had the _entree_ to the same society with them, whenever he chose to avail himself of it, which was not very often. Hewas in Europe for study, he said, and not for society, and he devotedhimself to his books with an energy and will which put him at the headof his class in Eton, and won him an enviable reputation for scholarshipat Oxford, where he had now been for nearly four years, and where heintended to remain until his Aunt Lucy, and possibly his Aunt Hannah, crossed the sea and joined him for an extended tour. 

Then he was going home for good to settle down and marry, he said, forin all Grey's dreams of the future there was always the picture of ahappy home with some fair, sweet-faced girl in it, reigning equally asmistress with the dear Aunt Hannah, still living her solitary life inthe old farm house, and keeping watch over that hidden grave under thebedroom floor, and laying up year by year the interest on the gold whichwas one day to go to the heirs of Elizabeth Rogers, of Carnarvon, ifthey could be found. But could they? That was the question both she andGrey asked themselves as the years went on and no trace was discoveredof any such person either in or around Carnarvon, for Grey had beenthere more than once, and with all due precaution had inquired ofeverybody for the woman, Elizabeth Rogers, and finally, as he grew alittle bolder, for Joel Rogers himself, who went to America many yearsbefore. But all to no avail; both Joel and Elizabeth were myths, and thecase was getting hopeless. 

Still, Grey did not despair, and resolved that during the holidays hewould go again to the old Welsh town and try what he could do, and so itcame about that he accompanied Neil as far as Carnarvon, where heproposed to spend a day and then go over to Stoneleigh on Christmas Eve, more to please Neil, who had urged him so strongly to stop there, thanfor any particular satisfaction it would be to him to pass the day withstrangers, who might or might not care to see him. He knew there was acousin Bessie, a girl of wondrous beauty, if Neil was to be believed, and he remembered to have heard of her, years ago, when he was a boy andfirst met Neil McPherson at Melrose. Faint memories, too, he had ofhearing her talked about at the memorable Thanksgiving dinner which hadpreceded his grandfather's death and his own sickness, when they said hehad asked Miss McPherson to send for her and stuff her with mince pie, as a recompense for the many times she had gone hungry to bed becausethere was not money enough to buy dinner for three. And all this cameback to him as he stood in the station in Carnarvon waiting for thetrain. 

"She must be a young lady now seventeen or eighteen years old, " hethought; "and Neil says she is beautiful. But I dare say she is likemost English girls--with a giggle and a drawl and a supreme contempt foranything outside the United Kingdom. I fancy, too, she is tall and thin, with sharp elbows and big feet, like many of her sisters. I wonder whatshe will think of me. People say I am more English than American, whichI don't like, for if there is a loyal son of Uncle Sam in this world Iam he. I can't help this confounded foreign accent which I have pickedup from being over here so long, and I do not know as I wish to help it. Perhaps it may help me with Miss Bessie, as well as my English cutgenerally, " and Grey glanced at himself in the dingy little glass to seehow he did look. 

What he saw was a broad-shouldered, finely-formed young man, who stoodso erect, that he seemed taller than he really was. A face whichstrangers would trust without a moment's hesitancy; large dark-blueeyes, thick brown hair just inclined to curl at the ends; and a smilewhich would have made the plainest face handsome and which was Grey'schief point of attraction, if we except his voice, which, though richand full, was very sweet, and expressive of the genuine interest andsympathy he felt for every human being in distress or otherwise. Notired, discouraged mother in a railway car, trying to hush her cryinginfant, would ever fear that he would be annoyed or wish her and herchild in Jericho. On the contrary, she would, if necessary, ask him tohold her baby for a moment, and the child would go to himunhesitatingly, so great was the mesmeric power he exercised over hisfellow-creatures. This influence or power was inborn, and he could nomore have helped it than he could have helped his heartbeats. But, addedto this, was a constant effort on his part to make those with whom hecame in contact happy, to sympathize with them in their griefs, to helpthem in their needs, to sacrifice his own feelings to their pleasure, for in this way he felt that he was in part atoning for the wrong doneby the poor old man dead long ago and forgotten by nearly all who hadknown him. 

Such was the Grey Jerrold whom Neil McPherson met at the Menai stationand escorted along the road to Stoneleigh. 

"I should have driven out for you, only there is no carriage. I think Itold you that Mr. Archie McPherson is awfully poor, " he explainedapologetically as he saw Grey pull his fur cap over his ears, for thewind was blowing a gale and drifting the snow in their faces. 

"I do not think you ever told me in so many words that they were verypoor, but I had an impression that they were not rich, " Grey said, adding, "I prefer to walk, and rather enjoy battling with anorth-wester: it takes me back to New England, the very land of snowsand storms. "

They were in the park by this time, nearing the house, when suddenly thecurtains of a window parted, letting out a flood of light into thedarkness and Grey saw for an instant pressed against the pane a facewhich made his heart throb quickly with a kind of glad surprise as if itwere a face he had seen before, while with it came a thought of his AuntHannah, and the lonely old house in the pasture land in far-offAllington. A moment later, and the face was looking up to his with ahalf fearful curious expression, which was, however, changed to one ofgreat gladness as Bessie met his winning smile and the kind eyes bent sosearchingly upon her. She had no fear or dread of him now, and she gavehim her hand most cordially and bade him welcome to Stoneleigh with awarmth which made him feel at home, and put him at his ease. 

"Perhaps you would like to go to your room at once, and Neil will showyou the way, " she said to him; then, in an aside to Neil, "my room, youknow, at the head of the stairs. "

Neil looked at her in surprise, while a cloud gathered upon his brow. That Bessie should give her room to Grey seemed to him absurd, though henever stopped to ask himself where she could put him if not there Neilknew perfectly well the capabilities of the old stone house, and thatspare rooms were not as plenty as blackberries, but so long as he wasnot incommoded it was no business of his to inquire into matters; norcould he understand that an extra fire even for a day was a heavy drainon Bessie's purse. But Grey's quick ear caught Bessie's whispered words, and before he entered the warm, pretty room at the head of the stairs heknew it belonged to her, and guessed why she had given it to him. Underany circumstances he would have known by certain unmistakable signs thatit was a young girl's apartment into which he was ushered, and afterNeil left him he looked about him with a kind of awe at thechintz-covered furniture, the white curtains at the window, and thepretty little toilet table with its hanging glass in the center, and itscoverings of pink and white muslin. 

Just then, through the door, which had inadvertently been left a littleajar, he caught the sound of voices in the hall below, Neil's voice andBessie's and Neil was saying to her, disapprovingly:

"Why did you give your room to Grey? Was it necessary?"

"Yes, Neil; there was no other comfortable place for him; the north roomis so large and the chimney smokes so we could never get it warm, "Bessie said, and Neil continued:

"And so you are to sleep there and catch your death-cold?"

"Not a bit of it, " Bessie replied. "Dorothy will warm the bed with herbig warming-pan and I shall not mind it in the least. I am never cold. "

"Well, I think it a shame!" Neil said, feeling more annoyed that Greywas to sleep in Bessie's room, than that Bessie was to pass the night inthe great, cheerless north chamber with only old Dorothy's warming-panfor comfort. 

But it never occurred to him that he could give Grey his room andhimself take the cold and the dreariness of the north room, nor yet thathe could share his bed with Grey. He never thought for others when thethinking conflicted with himself, and returning to the dining-room hesat down by the fire with anything but a happy expression on his face, as he wished that he had not invited Grey to Stoneleigh. 

Something in the expression of Bessie's and Grey's faces as they lookedat each other had disturbed him, for he had read undisguised admirationin the one, and confidence and trust in the other, and knew that therewere already sympathy and accord between them, and that they were sureto be fast friends at least, just as he had told himself he wished themto be. 

Meanwhile Grey was thinking, as he made his toilet for supper, and as aresult of his thoughts he at last rang the bell which brought oldDorothy to him. 

"My good woman, " he said, flashing upon her the smile which always wonthose on whom it fell, and drawing her inside the door which he shutcautiously, "My good woman, I do not wish to be particular ortroublesome, but really I should like a room without a fire, the colderthe better. One to the north will suit me, if there is such a one. Nomatter for the furniture; a bed and wash-stand are all I require. Yousee, I have so much health and superfluous heat that I like to be cool;and then I have the--" he stopped short here, for he could not quitedeviate from the truth so far as to say he actually had the asthma, sohe added, in an undertone, "If I had the asthma I could not breathe, youknow, in this small room, pretty as it is, and upon my word it islovely. Have you no larger chamber which I can take?"

"Ye-es, " Dorothy said, slowly, with a throb of joy, as she reflectedthat her young mistress might not be deprived of her comfortablequarters after all. "There is a big chamber to the north, cold enoughfor anybody, but Miss Bessie got this ready for you. She will not likeyou to change. Do you have the _tisick_ very bad?"

Grey did not answer this question, but began to gather up his brushesand his combs, and putting them into his valise, he said, "I want thatnorth room; take me there, please, and say nothing to your mistress. "

Dorothy knew this last was impossible; she should be obliged to tellBessie; but she did not oppose the young man whose manner was somasterful, and whom she led to the great, cheerless room with its smokychimney down which the winter wind was roaring with a dismal sound, while across the hearth a huge rat ran as they entered it. 

"'Tis a sorry place, and you'll be very cold, but I'll warm your bedand give you plenty of blankets and hot water in the morning, " Dorothysaid, as she hastily gathered up the few articles belonging to Bessie, who had transferred them from her own room to this. 

"I shall sleep like a top, " Grey replied. "Much better than by the fire. This suits me perfectly, and the cold is nothing to what America cando. "

He was very reassuring; and wholly deceived by his manner, Dorothydeparted and left him to himself. 

"Whew!" he said, as a gust of wind stronger than usual struck thewindows and puffed down the chimney, almost knocking over thefire-board. "This is a clipper and no mistake. And what an old stable ofa room it is, and what a place for that dainty little Bessie to be in. She would be frozen solid before morning. I guess I shall sleep in myovercoat and boots. What a lovely face she has, and how it reminds me ofsomebody--I don't know whom, unless it is Aunt Hannah, whose face Iseemed to see right side by side with Bessie. They must be awfully poor, and I wish I had brought her something better for a Christmas presentthan this jim-crack, " and opening his valise he took out a pretty littleinlaid work-box fitted up with all the necessary appliances, even to agold thimble. 

Remembering the Christmas at home when a present was as much a part ofthat day as his breakfast, Grey had bought the box in London as a giftto Bessie, and when he caught a glimpse, as he did, of the worn basket, with its spools and scissors and colored yarns for darning, whichDorothy gathered up among other articles belonging to Bessie, he wasglad he had made the choice he did. But now, as he surveyed theapartment and felt how very poor his host and daughter must be, hewished that he could give them something better than this fanciful box, which could neither feed nor keep them warm. 

As he had finished his toilet in Bessie's room there was nothing now forhim to do except to give an extra twist to his cravat, run his fingersthrough his brown hair and then he was ready for the dining-room, wherehe found Bessie alone. As a matter of course, Dorothy had gone to Bessieand told her of the exchange, which delighted her far more than it didher mistress. 

"Mr. Jerrold in that cold, dreary room!" Bessie exclaimed. "Oh, Dorothy, why did you allow it, and what must he think of us?"

"I could not help myself, darling, for he would have his way, " Dorothyreplied. "He was that set on the cold room that you couldn't move him ajot. His breathing apparatus is out of killer; he has the _tisick_ awfuland can't breathe in a warm room. I shall give him some _cubebs_ tosmoke to-morrow. And don't you worry; he won't freeze. I'll put a bag ofhot water in the bed. He is a very nice young gentleman, if he is anAmerican. "

Bessie knew she could not help herself, but there was a troubled look onher face when Grey came in, and, approaching her as she stood by thefire, made some casual remark about the unusual severity of the weatherfor the season. 

"Yes, it is very cold, " she said, adding quickly, as she looked up athim: "Oh, Mr. Jerrold, Dorothy has told me, and I am so sorry. You donot know how cold that north chamber is, and we cannot warm it if wetry, the chimney smokes so badly. You will be so uncomfortable there. You might let the fire go down in m--, in the other room, if the heataffects you. Dorothy says you suffer greatly with asthma. "

"Yes--no, " Grey replied, confusedly, scarcely willing to commit himselfagain to the asthma. "I shall not mind the cold at all. I am accustomedto it. You must remember I come from the land of ice and snow. You haveno idea what blizzards America is capable of getting up, and ought tohear how the wind can howl and the snow drift about an old farm-house ina rocky pasture land, which I would give much to see to-night. "

There was a tone of regret in his rich, musical voice, and forgettingthat Neil had said he was from Boston. Bessie said to him:

"Is that farm-house your home?"

"Oh, no; my home proper is in Boston, " he answered her, "but I havespent some of my happiest days in that house, and the memory of it andthe dear woman who lives there is the sweetest of my life, and thesaddest, too, " he added, slowly; for, right in Bessie's blue eyes, looking at him so steadily, he seemed to see the hidden grave, and for amoment all the old bitter shame and humiliation which had once weighedhim down so heavily, and which, naturally, the lapse of years had tendedto lighten, came back to him in the presence of this young girl whoseemed so inextricably mixed up with everything pertaining to his past. 

It was like some new place which we sometimes come suddenly upon, with astrange feeling that we have seen it before, though when we cannot tell;so Bessie impressed Grey as a part of the tragedy enacted in the old NewEngland house many, many years ago, and covered up so long. He almostfelt that she had been there with him and that now she was standing bythe hidden grave and stretching her hand to him across it with an offerof help and sympathy. And so strong was this impression that he actuallylifted his right hand an instant to take in it the slender one restingon the mantel, as Bessie talked to him. 

"What would she say if she knew?" he thought, feeling that it would beeasy to tell her about it, --feeling that she was one to trust even untodeath. 

Bessie was interested in Grey, and already felt the wonderful mesmericinfluence he exercised over all who came in contact with him. In the_salons_ of fashion, in the halls of Eaton and Oxford, in the railwaycar, or in the privacy of domestic life, Grey's presence was anall-pervading power, or as an old woman whom he had once befriendedexpressed it:

"He was like a great warm stove in a cold room. "

And Bessie felt the warmth, and was glad he was there, and said to him:

"I wish you would tell me about that house among the rocks and the womanwho lives there, I am sure I should like her, and I know so little ofAmerica or the American people. You are almost the first I have everseen. "

Before Grey could answer her Neil came in, and as supper was soon afterserved, no further allusion was made to America until the table wascleared away, and the party of four were sitting around the fire, Archiein his accustomed corner with Bessie at his side, her hand on the arm ofhis chair and her head occasionally resting lovingly against hisshoulder. Neil was opposite, while Grey sat before the fire, with nowand then a shiver running down his back as the rising wind crept intothe room, even through the thick curtains which draped the rattlingwindows behind him. But Grey did not care for the cold. His thoughtswere across the sea, in the house among the rocks, and he was wonderingif his Aunt Hannah was alone that Christmas Eve, and was thinking justhow dark, and ghostly and cold was the interior of that bedroom, whosedoor was seldom opened, and where no one had ever been since hisgrandfather's death except his Aunt Hannah and himself. As if divininghis thoughts, Bessie said to him: "I wish you would tell us about thathouse among the rocks. Is it very old?"

"Yes, one of the oldest in Allington, " Grey replied, and instantlyArchie roused from his usual apathetic State and repeated:

"Allington? Did you say Allington, in Massachusetts?"

"Yes, " Grey replied. "Allington, in Massachusetts; about forty miles orso from Boston. Do you know the place?"

"My aunt lives there--the woman for whom Bessie was named, Miss BetseyMcPherson. Do you know her?"

"Yes, I used to know her well when I was so often in Allington before mygrandfather died, " Grey replied, and Neil said to him:

"What manner of woman is she? Something of a shrew, I fancy. I saw heronce when I was a boy, and she boxed my ears because I called her oldBet Buttermilk, and she said that I and all the English were fools, because I asked her if there were any wildcats in the woods behind herhouse. "

"Served you right, " Grey said, laughingly, and then continued; "She israther eccentric, I believe, but highly respected in town. My Aunt Lucyis very fond of her. Did you ever see her?" and he turned to Bessie, whoreplied:

"I saw her once at Aberystwyth, when I was a child; and she afterwardssent me this turquois ring, the only bit of jewelry I own, " and Bessieheld to the light her hand on which shone the ring Daisy had unwillinglygiven up to her on the occasion of her last visit to Stoneleigh. 

For a long time they sat before the fire talking of America and theplaces Grey had visited in Europe, and it was rather late when the partyfinally retired for the night, Neil going to his warm, comfortable roomfacing the south, and Grey to his cheerless one facing the north, withonly the cold and the damp, and the rats for his companions, if weexcept the bag of hot water he found in his bed, on which Dorothy hadput woolen sheets and which she had warmed thoroughly with her bigwarming-pan. 

"This is not very jolly, but I am glad I am here instead of Bessie, "Grey thought, and undressing himself more quickly than he had everundressed before, he plunged into the bed which was really warm andcomfortable, and was soon wrapped in the deep sleep which comes toperfect health and a good conscience. 

CHAPTER XI. 

CHRISTMAS DAY. 

When Grey awoke the next morning there was a little pile of snow on thefoot of his bed, which stood near a window, and more on the hearth, which had sifted down the chimney, while the wind was, if possible, blowing harder than on the previous night. 

"Whew!" Grey said, as he rubbed his cold nose, "I believe this beatsAllington! How shall I ever get myself together?"

Just then Anthony came in with jugs of hot water and a huge soapstone onwhich he said the young man was to stand while he dressed himself. 

"Sharp weather this, even for Wales!" he began, as he lingered a littleand put back the curtains to admit more light. 

"Sorry, sir, I cannot make you a fire. Hope the cold did not keep youawake?"

"Never slept better in my life, I did not mind the cold at all, " Greysaid, and Anthony continued:

"Yes, you like air, _Tisicky_ my old woman says, and she sent me outlast night for a pipe and some cubebs which you are to smoke three timesa day. Nothing like cubebs for your disorder. Had it long?"

"Thank you, no, sir; you are very kind, " Grey said, with a little groan, as he wondered if the confounded things would make him sick, inasmuch ashe had never smoked in his life. 

Making his toilet with all speed, and finding the soapstone and hotwater great comforts to him, he hastened down to the dining-room, wherehe found Neil, looking rather tired and worn, and out of sorts, as ifthere was something on his mind. 

Neil had not slept well at all, though, after Archie, he had the bestbed and the best room in the house, and, his fire burned all night andwas replenished by Anthony, early in the morning. He had been restless, and nervous, and had lain awake for hours, watching the flickeringfirelight on the wall, thinking of Bessie, and wondering if she wouldnot be frozen stiff before morning. 

He had known nothing of the exchange of rooms, and when he heardfootsteps in the north chamber, which adjoined his, though it did notcommunicate with it, he supposed it was Bessie, and was surprised thatshe stepped so heavily, and moved the chairs with such a jerk. 

At last, however, all was still; Bessie was asleep, no doubt, and didnot feel the cold or hear the wind as he heard it moaning through theold yew trees, and screaming around the house, as if it were somerestless spirit trying to get in. Suddenly, however, there was a soundwhich made Neil start, and listen, and raise himself on his elbow tomake sure he was not mistaken. 

"No I am not" he whispered to himself. "It is a _snore_, " and he gave agroan as he thought: "Bessie snoring! and such snores! who would imaginethat she could do anything so vulgar and unlady-like! Heavens and earth, it is enough to raise the rafters! If I did not know Bessie was inthere. I'd swear it was a man. How can a girl--and Bessie of allgirls--go it like that?" and the fastidious Neil stopped his ears withhis fingers to shut out the obnoxious sounds which grew louder as Grey'ssleep became more profound. 

There was a feeling of keen disappointment in Neil's heart, a sense ofsomething lost, or as if in some way he had been wronged, and then hethought of Blanche, and wondered if she snored, and how he could findout. 

"It would be a tearer if she did, she is so much larger and coarserevery way than Bessie, " he thought, as he finally put the pillow overhis head so that he could not hear. 

At last, however, the sound ceased as Grey, who only snored when he wasvery tired, half awoke and turned upon his side, nor was it resumedagain. But Neil could not sleep for thinking of it, and when at last hedid fall into a restless slumber, he awoke suddenly with the impressionthat Bessie was frozen to death in the next room, and that Grey Jerroldwas trying to bring her to life and calling her his darling. 

Altogether it was a bad night for Neil, and he was glad when Anthonycame in and he knew he might get up. And thus it chanced that he wasfirst in the dining-room, where he sat, gloomily regarding the fire, when Grey came in, followed in a moment by Bessie, whose sweet girlishlips, as she bade merry Christmas to the young men, did not look as ifthey could ever have emitted the sounds which were still ringing inNeil's ears, and making him shudder a little. 

"Oh, Mr. Jerrold, " she said to Grey after the morning greetings wereover, "didn't you almost freeze last night in that cold north room? Ithought of you when I was awake and heard the wind howl so dismally. "

"Never slept better in my life, I assure you; and I was far betterpleased with the cold room than I should have been with the warm one, "Grey replied. 

"Wha-at!" Neil exclaimed. "Did _you_ occupy the north room adjoiningmine?"

"Yes, " was Grey's reply; and crossing the hearth swiftly to where Bessiestood, Neil kissed her twice, as he said. 

"I am so glad!"

If Grey occupied the room, then it was Grey who snored, and not Bessie, who again went into the scales with the ten thousand a year, and wholooked up surprised, and a little displeased at this salute before astranger. 

Grey had wondered when he ought to present his Christmas gift, andglanced around the room to see if Neil's was visible; but it was not, and he concluded to wait the progress of events. 

Breakfast was late that morning, for Dorothy's rheumatic feet and ankleswere worse than usual, and locomotion was difficult and painful; butwith Bessie's assistance it was ready at last, and the family were justseating themselves at the table when there was the sound of a vehicleoutside, with voices, and a great stamping of feet, as some one enteredat the side piazza and came toward the dining-room. 

"Mother; it must be mother, " Bessie cried, but Neil had recognized avoice he knew, and said, a little curtly:

"It is not your mother; it is Jack Trevellian, " and in a moment Jackstood in the room, brushing the snow from his coat, and wishing them amerry Christmas as he shook hands with each in turn. 

"Hallo, Jerrold, and Mack, you both here? This is a surprise!" he said, as he saw the two young men, and something in his tone made the watchfulNeil suspect that it was not altogether a pleasant surprise. 

Nor was it. Jack Trevellian had never been able to forget the soft blueeyes which had shone upon him in London, or the sweet month, with itssorry expression, which asked him not to play with the mother when hemet her. No matter where he was, those eyes had haunted him, and the lowearnest voice had rung in his ears until at last he had made up his mindthat he would see her once more, and then he would go from her forever, for it would be madness to ask her to share his small income. 

The puny Dick of Trevellian Castle was dead, and Hal was master there. Only one life now between Jack and wealth and Bessie; but as once beforehe called himself a murderer, so he had done again when he heard ofDick's death, and pulling the wild thought from him he wrote to Hal justas he had written to Dick, and told him he supposed he would be marryingnow and settling down in the old home, and then there came over him sointense a longing for Bessie that he resolved upon the visit, feelingglad for the storm and the cold which would keep him in the house wherehe could have her all to himself. How then was he surprised to findboth Neil and Grey Jerrold, the latter of whom he had met many times andbetween whom and himself there was a strong liking. But Jack was one whocould easily cover up his feelings, and he greeted the young men warmly, and held Bessie's hand in his while he explained rapidly, as if anxiousto get it off his mind, that he had gone to the "George" intending totake a room there as he had done before, but had found it quite shut up, and so he added, laughingly:

"I have come here bag and baggage, and if I spend the night, as I shouldlike to, I shall have to ask for a bed, or cot, or crib, or cradle;anything will do. "

Bessie could not help glancing at Grey, who detected the troubled lookin her eyes as she assured the new arrival of her readiness to grant thehospitality he craved. In Grey's mind there could be no doubt now as towhat Neil would do. "He will offer to share his room with Jack, ofcourse, " he thought, and so, perhaps, thought Bessie; but into Neil'smind no such alternative entered; first come first served was his motto, and besides, what business had Jack to come there anyway, uninvited andunannounced? For his part, he thought it rather cheeky, and there was acloud on his face all through the breakfast, nor was it at all dispelledwhen, after the meal was over, Jack brought out a lovely seal-skin capand pair of seal-skin gloves which he had bought as a Christmas gift forBessie, and a handsomely bound edition of Shakespeare for Archie, who heknew was very fond of the poet. 

Now was Grey's time, and the work-box was produced, and Bessie's facewas a study in its surprise and delight, for Christmas presents of anyvalue were rare with her, and the cap and the gloves were just what shewanted, and the box was so beautiful that there were tears in her eyesas she thanked the donors for their kindness, and asked Neil if thegifts were not pretty. 

"Yes, very, " he said, inwardly cursing himself for an idiot that he, too, had not thought to bring anything. "I never do think till it is toolate, " he said to himself; "but then, I never have any spare money, while Grey is rich and Jack is his own master;" and entrenching himselfbehind these excuses he tried to seem at his ease, though he was veryfar from being so. 

In the course of the morning Grey managed to see Jack alone for a fewmoments, and immediately broached the subject of the bed, or cot, orcrib which the latter had bespoken. 

"I am afraid it will be a crib, " he said, "unless you share my room withme;" and then he told of the north chamber which he had insisted upontaking on account of his _phthistic_, which required so much fresh air. 

"Phthisic!" Jack repeated. "_You_ have the phthisic, when I know youhave climbed the Rigi and Montanvert, and half the mountains inSwitzerland! Why, you are the longest-winded fellow I ever knew. "

"Still, I have the asthma so terribly that I could never sleep in MissBessie's room, knowing she was freezing in that north wing, " Grey said, affecting a terrible wheeze. 

"Yes, I see, " Jack replied, a light beginning to dawn upon him. "Isee--and I am _tisicky_, too, and must have fresh air; so, old chap, ifyou'll take me in, I'm yours. "

"But you will have to smoke _cubebs_, " Grey rejoined. "You remember Mrs. Opie's 'White Lies' and the 'Potted Sprats?' My asthma has proved asprat, and there is a clay pipe at this moment waiting for me in thekitchen, and pretty soon you will see me puffing like a coal-pit. Do yousuppose they will make me vomit?"

"No doubt of it; they are awful nasty, but I will be a coal-pit too ifnecessary, " Jack said, ready for any emergency; but this was notrequired of him, and only Grey paid the penalty of the white lie, andsmoked cubebs until everything around him grew black except the starswhich danced before his eyes, and he was so dizzy he could scarcelystand. 

The day passed rapidly, and both Jack and Grey enjoyed it immensely, especially the latter, who conducted himself as if he were perfectly athome and had known Bessie all his life. 

After the dinner, which proved a great success, except that it was notserved, as Neil would like to have had it, by liveried servants insteadof the hobbling Dorothy. Bessie announced her intention of washing thedishes to save the tired old woman's feet. 

"Nonsense, Bessie, " Neil said to her, in an aside "You surely will notdo that before Jack and Grey; besides, so much dishwater will spoil yourhands, which are red enough now. "

But Bessie cared more for Dorothy than for her hands, and proceeded withher dishwashing, while Grey insisted upon helping her. 

"I know how to wipe dishes. I've done it many a time for Aunt Hannah, "he said, while Jack proffered his assistance so earnestly that the twowere soon habited in long kitchen aprons, that of Grey's having a bib, which Bessie herself pinned upon his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to doit, her bright hair almost touching his moustache, and her fingers, asthey moved upon his coat, sending strange little thrills through everynerve in his body. 

What sport they had, and how awkwardly they handled the silver and thechina, Jack assuming the Irish brogue he knew so well, and Grey theYankee dialect, with the nasal twang, which nearly drove Bessie intohysterics, and made Archie laugh as he had not laughed in years. 

Neil was disgusted, and thought the whole a most undignified proceeding, and wondered what his mother and Blanche would say could they see it, and if, after all, he had not made a mistake in coming to Stoneleighinstead of going with them. He changed his mind, however, when, afterthe dishwashing was over, and the aprons discarded, and the Irish brogueand Yankee dialect dropped, he was alone a moment with Bessie, who cameshyly up to him, and laying her hand, red with dishwater, on his arm, said to him, softly:

"Are you sick, that you seem so sober?"

"No, " he replied, taking her hand in his, and drawing her closely tohim, with his arm around her, "I am not sick, but I cannot enjoymyself--in just the way--Trevellian and Jerrold do. I think them rathertoo free and easy for strangers, and quite too familiar with you. Don'tlet them make a fool of you. "

There was something very pathetic and pleading in his voice, and it wentto Bessie's heart, and when he took her face between his two hands andkissed her lips, she kissed him back again, and then withdrew from himjust as Jack and Grey entered the room. They had been out for a littlewalk after dinner, and had returned, reporting the weather beastly, asJack Trevellian expressed it. 

"But it is jolly here, " Grey said, rubbing his hands, and holding themto the bright fire. "Just the night for whist. What do you say?" hecontinued, turning to Bessie, who, having no objection to the game asshe knew they would play it, assented readily, and the round table wasbrought out and the chairs arranged for the four. 

Then arose the question:

"With whom should Bessie play?"

"Naturally with me, as I am the eldest and the last arrival, " Jack said, while Grey rejoined, laughingly:

"I don't know about that. I think we will draw cuts for her; the longestwins, " and he proceeded to arrange three slips of paper in his hand. 

"Be fair, now. I can't trust you where a lady is concerned, " Jackreplied, while Neil maintained a dignified silence, and, when told todraw first, drew, and lost. 

"Your turn next, Trevellian. Hurry up; faint heart never won fair lady. Suppose you try that one, " Grey said, indicating, with his finger, oneof the two remaining slips. 

"I shall not do it; there is some trick about it. You have fixed them. Ishall take this, " Jack said, and he did, and lost. 

"I have won; the lady is mine, " Grey cried, exultingly, as he held upthe longest slip of paper. 

Then, leading the blushing Bessie to her chair, he took his seatopposite her, and continued;

"Now I know you English are never happy unless you play for something, and as none of us, I hope, would play for money, suppose we try for thatknot of plaid ribbon at Miss Bessie's throat. I think it exceedinglypretty. "

There was a gleam of triumph in the glance which Bessie flashed uponNeil, for she had not quite forgiven him his criticisms upon the ribbon, which both Grey and Jack seemed to admire, and which she consented togive to the victor. 

"If your side beats you will draw cuts for the prize, " Grey said toJack; "and if my side beats there is no cut about it, it is mine. "

And so the game began, Neil bending every energy to win, and feelingalmost as much excited and eager as if it were a fortune at stake, instead of the bit of Scotch ribbon he had affected to dislike. And itdid almost seem to him as if he were playing for Bessie herself; playingto keep her from Grey, the very man to whom he had said he would rathergive her than to any one else in the world, if she were not for him. Thefirst game was Grey's, the second Neil's; then came the rubber, andBessie dealt. 

"Oh, Bessie, " Neil said, in a despairing voice, when he found that hedid not hold a single trump, while Jack gave out the second time round, and Grey turned up five points, making six in all. 

Suddenly the tide turned and Neil's was the winning side until theystood six and four, and then Grey roused himself and played as he hadnever done before, carefully watching the cards as they fell, knowingexactly what had been played, and calculating pretty accurately wherethe others were, and finally coming off victorious. 

"The ribbon is mine, and I claim my own!" Grey said, with a ring in hisvoice and a warmth in his manner which brought the hot blood to Bessie'scheeks, as she took the knot from her throat and presented it to him, blushing still more when he raised it to his lips and then pinned itupon his sleeve. 

"What a cad he is! I'd like to knock him down, if he were any one butGrey, " Neil thought, and pushing back his chair from the table he saidhe had had enough of cards for one night. Whist was a stupid gameanyway, and he never had any luck. 

Neil was very quiet the remainder of the evening, though he could notaltogether resist Grey, who was at his best, and kept them all in a roarof laughter at his jokes and the stories he told of the genuine Yankeeswhom he had seen in New England, and the Johnny Bulls he had encounteredin England, and whose peculiarities of voice and expression he imitatedperfectly. Then he recited poetry, comic and tragic and descriptive; andwas so entertaining and brilliant, and so very courteous and gentlemanlyin all he did and said, that Bessie was enraptured and showed it in herspeaking face, which Neil knew always told the truth, and when at lasthe retired to his room he could not sleep, but lay awake, torn withjealousy and love and doubt as to what he ought to do. 

The next morning both Grey and Jack departed by different trains, forthe latter was going to the Scottish house where Lady Jane and Blanchewere staying, and then to Trevellian Castle to see his cousin Hal, whileGrey was going another way. And Neil said good-by without a pang, butBessie was full of regret, especially for Grey, whom she should miss somuch and to whom she said she hoped she should see him again. 

"I am sure you will, " he answered. "I am to leave Oxford next summer andjoin my Aunt Lucy, who is coming in June for a trip on the Continent. But before I go home I shall come here again, and I shall alwaysremember this Christmas as the pleasantest I ever spent, and shall keepthe knot of ribbon as a souvenir of Stoneleigh and you. Good-by, " andwith a pressure of the hand he had held in his all the time he wastalking, he was gone, and Bessie felt that something very bright andstrong and helpful had suddenly been taken from her, and nothing left inits place but Neil, who, by contrast with the American, did not seem toher quite the same Neil as before. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE CONTRACT. 

For nearly a week longer, Neil remained at Stoneleigh, growing more andmore undecided as to his future course, and more and more in love withBessie, whose evident depression of spirits after the departure of JackTrevellian and Grey Jerrold had driven him nearly wild. All the betterpart of Neil's nature was in the ascendant now, and he was seriouslydebating the question whether it were not wiser to marry the woman heloved, and share his poverty with her, than to marry the woman he didnot love, even though she had ten thousand a year. Yes, it was better, he decided at last, and one day when Archie had gone to Bangor and hewas alone with Bessie, who sat by the window engaged in the veryunpoetical occupation of darning her father's socks, he spoke his mind. 

The storm, which was raging at Christmas, had ceased, and the wintersunshine came in at the window where Bessie was sitting, lighting up herhair and face with a halo which made Neil think of the Madonnas whichhad looked at him from the walls of the galleries in Rome. 

"There!" she said, as she finished one sock, and removing from it theporcelain ball, held it up to view. "That is done, and it looks almostas good as new. "

Then she took another from the basket, and adjusting the ball inside, began the darning process again, while Neil looked steadily at her. HadGrey Jerrold been there, he would have thought her the verypersonification of what a little housewifely wife should be, and wouldhave admired the skill with which she wove back and forth, over andunder, filling up the hole with a deftness which even his Aunt Hannahcould not have excelled. But Neil saw only her soft, girlish beauty, andcared nothing for her deftness and thrift. In fact he was reallyrebelling hotly against the whole thing--the socks, the yarn, theporcelain ball, and more than all, the darning-needle she handled soskillfully. What had the future Mrs. Neil McPherson to do with suchcoarse things? he thought, as, forgetful of his mother's anger, hebegan:

"I say, Bessie, I wish you would stop that infernal weaving back andforth with that darning-needle, which looks so like an implement ofwarfare and makes me shudder every time you jab it into the wool. I wantto talk to you. "

"Talk on; I can listen and work too. I have neglected father's socks oflate and have ever so many pairs to mend, " Bessie said, pointing to thepiled-up basket, without looking at the flushed, eager face bendingclose to her. 

But when Neil took her hands in his, and removing from them the sock anddarning-needle, said to her, "Bessie, I did not mean to tell you, atleast not yet, but I cannot keep it any longer. I love you and want youfor my wife, " she looked up an instant, and then her eyes fell beforethe passionate face, and she cried:

"Oh, Neil! You are not in earnest! You do not mean what you say. Youcannot want _me_. I am so very poor. I must take care of my father, andthen--there is--there is--oh, Neil, I am sorry if it is wrong to sayit--there is my mother!"

She put the whole hard facts before him at once, her poverty, herfather, for whom she must always care, and her mother, the greatestobstacle of all. 

"I know all that. Don't you suppose I thought it out before I spoke?"Neil said, drawing her closer to him as he continued: "I am going totell you the whole truth about myself, and show you my very worst. I ama great, lazy, selfish fellow, and have never in my life done any oneany good. I have lived for myself and my pleasure alone. I am not onequarter as good as Grey Jerrold, or even Jack Trevellian. "

At the mention of Grey, Bessie gave a little start, for a thought of himseemed to cast a shadow over the sky, which for a moment had been verybright, if Neil really and truly loved her. But the shadow passed asNeil went on, rapidly:

"I never had any home training; that is, never met any opposition to mywishes. Everything bent to me until I came to believe myself supreme;but, Bessie, I know that there is in me the material for a man, something like Grey Jerrold. I speak of him because he represents to methe noblest man I ever knew, and I always feel my inferiority when I amwith him, and show at my worst by contrast. You know what I mean. Youfelt his power when he was here; the tone of his voice; the way he putthings; the indescribable something which makes him so populareverywhere, I don't know what it is. I would give the world if Ipossessed it. I have watched him many a time at Eton and at Oxford andelsewhere, when he was surrounded by a lot of London swells, young lordsand sons of earls, who would cut me dead, but who took to the Americanat once and made him more than their equal. Once I asked him how he didit and if it were not an awful bore always to consider others beforehimself. I shall never forget the expression of his face as he hesitateda moment and seemed to be looking far off at something in the past. Then he said: 'Sometimes it is hard; but long ago, when I was a boy, Imade a vow to live for others rather than myself, to try to makesomebody happy every day with a kind word or act or look, and onlythink, if I live to a good old age, how many people's lives will havebeen a little sunnier because of me. Suppose I commenced this plan atfourteen and that I live to be seventy, which is not very old, it willmake over twenty thousand, and that surely ought to atone for a greatdeal--don't you think so?--and in a way my life is a kind of atonement. 'That is what he said, or the substance of it, and I have often thoughtof it and wondered what he meant by an atonement. "

In his enthusiasm over Grey, Neil forgot for a moment what he had beensaying to Bessie, who had listened intently, and who exclaimed:

"Twenty thousand people happier because of him. Oh, Neil, that is worthmore than the crown of England I wish you--I wish we could be like him. "

"You _are_ like him, " Neil said, coming back to his original subject. "You make me think of him so much in your sweet forgetfulness ofyourself and your thoughtfulness of others, and, Bessie, I am going totry to be like him, too, if you will help me, if you will be my wife, byand by, when I have made a man of myself, and am more worthy of you. Will you, Bessie, will you promise to be my little wife when I come toclaim you?"

He had her face between his hands and was looking into her eyes wherethe tears were shining, as she said to him:

"Neil, you do not know what you ask, or all it involves. I cannot leavemy father, and there is Blanche. You are as good as engaged to her; yousaid so in your letter. "

"I know I wrote you so, " Neil said, "because I wanted to fortify myselfagainst doing just what I have done, but I shall never marry BlancheTrevellian; if you tell me no, I shall remain single forever; but youwill not, Bessie. You will not destroy my last chance to be a man. Youdo love me, I am sure, and you will love me more when you know all Imean to do. I shall not separate you from your father. He shall livewith us, and Anthony and Dorothy too; though not here at Stoneleigh, except it be in the summer when the roses are in bloom. Father has asmall house in London, in Warwick Crescent; he will let us live there, and--and--"

Here Neil stopped, for he remembered his mother's threat ofdisinheritance if he should marry Bessie, and he knew she was capable ofperforming it and if she did how was he to live even in that small housein Warwick Crescent? But Bessie's eyes were upon him; Bessie's upturnedface was between his hands, and poverty with her did not seem so veryterrible. They could manage some way, but he would be frank with her, and, he continued, at last, "Bessie, I shall not deceive you, or pretendthat mother will receive you at first, for she will not. She means me tomarry Blanche, and will be very angry for a time, and perhaps refuse togive me my present allowance, so we may be very poor; but that I shallnot mind if you are with me. Poverty will be sweet if shared with you, who, I know, are not afraid of it. "

"No, Neil, " Bessie said, getting her face free from his hands, "I am notafraid of poverty, and I do love you; but--"

"But what?" Neil cried, in alarm, as be caught her hands in his and heldthem fast, "You are not going to tell me no? Surely you are not?"

"No, Neil. I am going to tell you nothing as yet. I was only thinking, that if we are so poor, couldn't you do something? Couldn't you work?"

It was the same question put by the girl Daisy to the boy Archie yearsbefore in the old yew-shaded garden, and as the boy Archie had thenanswered the girl Daisy, so the man Neil now made reply:

"I am afraid not, my darling. It is not in the McPherson blood to work, and I dare not be the first to break the rule. "

"Don't you think Grey Jerrold would work if he were poor?" Bessie asked, and Neil replied:

"Grey is an American, and that makes a difference; every body worksthere, and it does not matter. "

"Then let us go to America and be Americans, too, " Bessie said, but Neilonly shook his head, and replied:

"I could never live in that half-civilized land of equality, where thefuture President may be buttoned up in the jacket of my bootblack. I aman out-and-out aristocrat and would rather be poor and be jostled bynobility than be rich and brush against Tom, Dick and Harry and have tobow to their wives. "

Bessie gave a little sigh, for this was not at all like Grey Jerrold, whom Neil was going to imitate; but before she could speak, hecontinued:

"We shall pull through somehow in London, and in time mother will comeround when she finds I am determined. So, Bessie, it is settled, and youpromise to be my wife when I can fix things?"

He was taking his consent too much for granted, and Bessie did not likeit, and said to him:

"No, Neil; it is not settled for sure. I can never be yours without yourmother's sanction. Think what you would be taking uponyourself--poverty, father and me!"

"The _me_ would not be so very bad, " Neil said, drawing her closely tohim, and caressing her hair as he talked, advancing argument afterargument why she should consent to a secret engagement, the greatestargument of all being the influence such an engagement would have overhim, helping him in his new resolution to be a man after the GreyJerrold order; for Grey's name was mentioned often in the strangeplighting of vows, and when at last Bessie's consent was won to beNeil's wife as soon as his mother was reconciled, her mind was almost asfull of Grey as it was of Neil, who, now that she was his, became themost tender and devoted lover during his remaining stay at Stoneleigh, and Bessie was happier than she had ever been in her life, though therewas one drawback upon her happiness: she would like to have told herfather, but Neil had said she must not, and she obeyed, wondering toherself if Grey would have bound her to secrecy. 

Grey was a good deal mixed up in Bessie's thoughts after Neil was gone, and she often found herself thinking:

"More than twenty thousand happier because of him! Could any life benobler than that, and why should not I imitate it?"

And then Bessie began the experiment of trying to make somebody happyevery day; and the butcher's boy of whom she bought the meat, and thegirl who brought the milk, and the man of whom she bought their bread, and the beggar woman who came to the door for cinders and cold bits, found an added graciousness of manner in the young girl who smiled sosweetly upon them and interested herself so kindly in their welfare, andwho, in her limited sphere, was imitating Grey Jerrold, and trying tomake a few people happier, even though she could never hope, like him, to number twenty thousand!

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE NEW GREY. 

That was what Neil signed himself in the first letter he sent to Bessieafter his return to London, and in which he assured her that he wasinstant in season and out of season in his endeavors to be like theAmerican and make himself worthy of the dearest little girl a man evercalled his wife. He had borne with perfect equanimity his mother'sfrequent ebullitions of temper; had read aloud to Blanche for two hours, when she had a headache, although he wanted so much to go to his club;and had listened daily, without a sign of impatience, to his father'stiresome talk upon politics and the demoralized condition of the countrygenerally. Then he told her how much he loved her, and how a thought ofher and her sweet face was constantly in his mind, inspiring him to anobler life than he had hitherto been living. 

And Bessie, as she read his letter, felt her love grow stronger for him, and her face grew brighter and lovelier each day, and there was a ringof gladness and hopefulness in her voice as she went singing about thehouse thinking of the future which stretched so pleasantly before her, and in which she could be always with Neil, "the new Grey. " Sometimesshe thought of the real Grey, who was still at Oxford, which Neil hadleft for good. He was not fond of study, and greatly preferred his idle, pleasant life at home, breakfasting when he pleased and as he pleased, either in bed or in the breakfast-room, lounging through the morning, playing duets with Blanche, sorting her worsteds for her, or teasing herabout the grotesque figures she was embroidering and calling shepherdboys and girls. The comfort and luxury of Trevellian House suited himbetter than Stoneleigh, and now that he was engaged and there was noprobability of his marrying Blanche, her society was not half asdistasteful to him as it had formerly been, neither were her eyebrows aslight nor her shoulder-blades as sharp, and he began to think she reallywas a good-natured kind of a girl and played splendidly. And then heremembered with a pang that Bessie did not play at all, except simpleaccompaniments to songs, and found himself wondering in a vague kind ofway what people would say to a Mrs. Neil McPherson who had noaccomplishments except a sweet voice for ballad singing and a tolerableknowledge of French and German, which she had picked up when a childleading a Bohemian life on the Continent. Bessie was neither learned, nor accomplished, nor fashionable; but she was good and pure andbeautiful, and Neil loved her with all the intensity of his selfishnature, and meant to be true to her. He wrote to her, three times aweek, long letters, full of love and tenderness, and of Grey Jerrold, with whom he corresponded. 

Once he tried to tell his mother of his engagement. She had beenspeaking to him of Blanche, talking as if everything were settled, andasking why it were not as well to announce the engagement at once. 

"Because, " Neil said to her, "I am not engaged to Blanche, and do notknow that I ever shall be. To tell you the truth, mother, I love myCousin Bessie better than any woman living, and if I had money of my ownI would marry her to-morrow. "

This was a great deal for Neil to say, knowing his mother as he did, andpossibly he might not have said it could he have foreseen the stormwhich followed his declaration. What she had once before said to himupon the subject was nothing when compared with her present anger andscorn, as she assured him again and again that if he married BessieMcPherson, she would at once cut off his allowance and leave him toshirk for himself. That was the way she expressed it, for she could bevery coarse in her language at times, even if she were a titled lady. Bessie should never enter her house as her daughter-in-law, she said, and she would not only cut off Neil's allowance during her life, but ather death would leave what little money she had to some one else--JackTrevellian, perhaps, who would represent the family far better than herscapegrace son, with his low McPherson tastes. 

After this Neil could not tell her. On the contrary, he bent everyenergy to keep the secret from her, and never again mentioned Bessie orStoneleigh in her presence, but devoted himself to Blanche in afriendly, brotherly kind of way, which kept the peace in that quarterand left him in quiet. But his thoughts were busy with plans for thefuture, when Bessie would be his wife and he disinherited, for her sake. Once he calculated the possibility of living at Stoneleigh on the meagreannuity which he knew Archie received, and which would die with him. Buthe could not do that, and he called himself a sneak for considering thematter an instant. 

"If there was something I could do which would not compromise me, " hethought. "I might become an inventor, or an author. I could do better atthat, for I have some talent for yarning, they say. Wilkie Collins andGeorge Eliot make heaps of money with their pens. Yes, I believe I'lltry it. "

And so Neil shut himself in his room for some hours each day, andcommenced the story which was to make his fortune. But as Bessie sat forhis heroine and Grey Jerrold for his hero, he became furiously jealouswhen he reached the love passages, and tearing up his manuscript indisgust, abandoned the field of authorship forever. 

Suddenly his thoughts turned to the old aunt in America, whom, his fancypainted as fabulously rich. She could help him, and perhaps if he wroteher the right kind of a letter she would. And so he set himself to thetask, which proved harder, even, than the story-writing had been. Neilknew his Aunt Betsey was very eccentric, and he hardly knew how to makeher under stand him without saying too much and so ruining his cause. 

"By Jove, I'll tell her the truth, that I want money in order to marryBessie, " he said, and he took Bessie for his starting paint, and waxedeloquent as he described her sweetness and beauty, and told of her lifeof toil and care and self-denial at Stoneleigh, with her father, whom herepresented as just on the verge of the grave. Then he told of hisengagement and his mother's fierce opposition to it, and the surepoverty which awaited him if he remained true to his cousin, as he meantto do, and then he came to the real object of his letter, and asked formoney on which to live until his mother was reconciled, as she was sureto be in time, when she knew how lovely and good Bessie was. A fewthousand pounds would suffice, he said, as he knew his father wouldallow him to occupy a house in Warwick Crescent which belonged to himand which would save his rent. And then, growing bolder as he advanced, he hinted at the possibility that his aunt might be intending to makeBessie her heir, and said if it were so he should be glad to know it, and would keep the secret religiously from Bessie until such time as hemight reveal it. A speedy answer to this letter was desired, and Neilclosed by signing himself:

"Your very affectionate nephew, Neil McPherson. "

He posted the letter himself, and feeling almost sure of a favorableresponse, went and bought Bessie a small solitaire ring, such as hecould afford, and sent it with the most loving, hopeful letter he hadyet written to her. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

MISS MCPHERSON AND THE LETTER. 

Nine years had made but little change in Miss Betsey McPherson, eithermentally or physically. As she had been at the Thanksgiving dinner wherewe first met her, so she was now, with possibly a little sharper tone inher voice and a shade more of eccentricity in her nature. As she livedalone then with her two servants, so she lived alone now, with the samecook in the kitchen, but not the same housemaid to attend her. Flora hadbeen married for five or six years to a respectable mechanic, and livedin a small white house across the common, with three children to carefor--two boys and a girl. This last she had thought to call for herformer mistress to whom she had timidly expressed her intention, askingif she would be godmother. 

"Flo is a fool to saddle her child with a name she hates, " MissMcPherson thought, but she consented to act as sponsor, and wore herbest black silk in honor of the occasion, when Sunday came and she tookher accustomed seat in church. 

But her thoughts were evidently not upon the service, for she knelt inthe wrong place, and once said aloud in her abstraction, "Let us pray, "and there was a twinkle in her round bright eyes, and a grim smile onher face when she at last arose, and straight and stiff as adarning-needle walked up the aisle, and took in her arms the little pinkand white baby who was to bear her name. It was a pretty child, and asshe held it for a moment and looked into its clear blue eyes fixed soquestioningly upon her face, there came to her the thought of anotherlittle blue-eyed girl who had come to her on the sands of Aberystwyth, and the touch of whose hands as they rubbed and patted the folds of herdress she could feel even now after the lapse of many years. That childhad said to her that Betsey was a horrid name; this child in her armswould think so, too, and hate it all her life, and when the clergyman, said, "Name this child, " she answered, in a loud, clear voice, whichrang distinctly through the church:

"Bessie McPherson!"

"No, no; oh, no!" Flora gasped in a whisper, "it is Betsey, ma'am; it isfor you. "

"Hush! I know what I am about, " was whispered back, and so BessieMcPherson, and not Betsey, was received into Christ's flock and signedwith the sign of the cross, and given to the happy mother happier thanshe dared to own because of the change of name. 

The next day five hundred dollars were placed in the Allington SavingsBank to the credit of Bessie McPherson Bowen, and the spinster washedher hands of the whole affair, as she expressed it to herself. But shecould not quite forget the child, and when on the Monday evening afterthe christening she sat by her open fire with her round tea table at herside, there was a thought of it in her mind, and she said to herself:

"I am glad I did not give it my name. Betsey is not very poetical, andthey are sure to call you Bets when they are angry at you. Bessie isbetter and sweeter every way. "

And then her thoughts went over the sea after that other Bessie, her ownflesh and blood, of whom she had not heard in years. It was very seldomthat her brother John wrote to her, and when he did he never mentionedArchie or his family, and so she knew nothing of them except that Daisywas still carrying on her business at Monte Carlo and was known as anadventuress to every frequenter of the place. But where was Bessie? MissMcPherson asked herself, us she gazed dreamily into the fire. Was shelike her mother, a vain coquette and a mark for coarse jests and vulgaradmiration?

"For the girl must be pretty, " she said, "There was the promise of greatbeauty in that face, and true, pure womanhood, too, if only she werewell brought up. "

And then through the woman's heart there shot a pang as she wondered ifshe had done right to leave Archie and his child to their poverty allthese years. Might she not have done something for them, and so perhapshave saved the daughter from sin? The little room at the head of thestairs was still kept just as it was when she was expecting Bessie. There was the big doll in the corner, the dishes on the shelf, and thesingle bed with its lace hangings was freshly made every month, and byits side each night the lonely woman knelt and prayed for the littlegirl who had come to her on the sands and looked into her eyes with alook which had haunted her ever since. But of what avail was all this?Ought she not to have acted as well as prayed? What was faith withoutworks, and if Bessie had gone to destruction, as most likely she had, was it not in part her fault? Such were the questions tormenting MissMcPherson when at last Winny came in to remove the tea things andbrought with her a letter, which she gave into her mistress' hand. Itwas Neil's letter, and Miss Betsey examined it very carefully beforeopening it, wondering who had written her from London, and experiencinga feeling that its contents would not prove altogether agreeable. Adjusting her spectacles a little more firmly on her nose, she opened itat last, and read it through very slowly, taking in its full meaning asshe read, and commenting to herself in her characteristic way. 

Two years before, she had met an old acquaintance from London, who knewNeil and disliked him, consequently the impression she had received ofhim was not altogether favorable. 

"A good-looking, well-meaning fellow, " the man had said, "but veryindolent, and selfish, and proud, with an inordinate love of money, andrespect for those who have it. "

And in this opinion the spinster was confirmed by his letter. 

"Let me see!" she said, taking off her glasses, and regarding the fireintently. "He wishes me to send him a few thousand pounds to enable himto marry his cousin and live in idleness in his father's house onWarwick Crescent until his mother is reconciled, and he wishes to knowif I intend to make Bessie my heir. No, my fine London gentleman! IfBessie ever has a fortune it will not be from me. Now, if Neil wantedthis money to set himself up in business; if he was going to work toearn his own bread and butter and support his family like an honest man, I would let him have it cheerfully. But work is the last thing he thinksabout. It would degrade him. Ugh! it makes me so mad!" and she shook herhead fiercely at the fire, as she went on:

"But the girl, if he tells the truth, is the right kind of stuff, staying at home, caring for her father, wearing shabby clothes, and evenwashing the dishes, which I have no doubt hurts him the most. I ratherlike this girl, and for her sake I will give Neil a chance, though Idon't suppose he will accept it. There are those cotton mills which Ihad to take on that debt of Carson's. They have been nothing but atorment to me for the want of a capable man to look after them. I willoffer the situation to Neil with a salary of two thousand dollars ayear, and ten per cent. Of the net profits, and I will let him have, rent free, the house which Carson occupied, and will furnish it, too, and have everything in running order when he gets here with his bride. That I call a right generous offer, but, bless your soul, do you supposehe will take it?"

And she interrogated the fire, which made no response, except that ahalf dead coal dropped into the pan and went out into blackness. 

"Of course he won't, " she continued, "for that would be doing something!But we shall see. I will write the letter to-night, " and ringing for herwriting materials the old lady began her letter to Neil, telling himwhat she would do for him if he chose to come to America and try to helphimself. 

"The work is not hard, " she wrote. "It requires more thought, andjudgment, and tact, than anything else, but it will bring you in contactwith some very second-class people--_scum_, if you choose to call themso--and with some of the excellent of the earth as well for all gradesare represented in the mills, and for what I know, the future Governorof Massachusetts is working there to-day; but if he is, you may be surehe has a book somewhere around and studies it every chance he gets, forin this way our best men are made. If you do not choose to take myoffer, I shall do nothing for you, and Bessie will be a fool to marryone who does not care enough for her to be willing to work and supporther. I have no intention of making her my heir. My will is made, and Ido not often change my mind. Still, I have a fancy for the girl--havealways had a fancy for her, and if you bring her to me on the terms Ioffer, you will never be sorry. "

This last Miss Betsey wrote because of the desire which kept growing inher heart as once it had before, to look again in Bessie's face, to hearher voice, to feel the touch of her hands; and in short, to have someone to love and be interested in, as something told her she could beinterested in and love Bessie McPherson. 

The letter was sent to Neil, and the same mail took another to awell-known banking house in London with which Miss McPherson hadbusiness relations. To this house she gave instructions that the sum ofone hundred pounds should at once be forwarded to Archibald McPherson, who was not on any account to know from whom the money came. 

When her letters were gone she began again to build castles with regardto Bessie, whom she was expecting, in spite of her lack of confidence inNeil's willingness to accept her offer. 

In fancy she furnished the large stone house on the cliff above themills, which Bessie was to occupy, and furnished it with no sparinghand. In fancy she climbed the sleep steps every day, and went in andout with the freedom of a mother, for such she meant to be to the youngcouple, both her own blood, and both seeming very near to her now whenthere was a chance of their coming to her and dispelling the lonelinessof her monotonous life. But she kept her expectations to herself, noteven telling them to Lucy Grey, or Hannah Jerrold, her most intimatefriends, both of whom noticed a change in her, but did not guess why sheseemed so much more cheerful and happy, or why she was so often inWorcester, inquiring the prices of china and glassware, and householdfurniture generally. 

Once she was very near letting it out, and that was when Hannah wasspending the afternoon with her, and said: "I have received a letterfrom Grey, who writes that he spent a day at Stoneleigh and saw yourgrandniece Bessie. "

"What did he think of her?" Miss Betsey asked, and Hannah replied:

"He thought her the loveliest creature he had ever seen. I do believe heis more than half in love with her, for I never knew him so enthusiasticover a girl before. "

"Yes, " Miss McPherson said, and remembering what she knew Grey to be andwhat she feared Neil was, she thought, "Oh, if it were Grey and Bessie;"and that night she dreamed that it was Grey and Bessie, and that shetore down the house on the cliff, overlooking the mill, and built therea palace something after the fashion of Chatsworth, except that it wasmore modern in its style and general appearance, and many pairs of eyeslike those seen on the terrace at Aberystwyth looked into hers, and manylittle hands rubbed holes in her stuff dress, and many little voicescalled her grandma the name she bade them give her in place of auntie. 

CHAPTER XV. 

FROM JANUARY TO MARCH. 

Never had Neil been more gracious or agreeable than during the intervalwhen he was waiting for the answer to his letter. He felt sure of afavorable reply and that Bessie would be his before the June roses werein bloom, and that of itself kept him in a happy frame of mind. He wasvery attentive to Blanche and very kind to his mother, and he wrote longletters to Bessie three times a week, and went to church every Sundayand gave a half-penny to every little ragged child he met, and felt thatNeil McPherson was a pretty good fellow after all. 

At last the letter came, and Neil read it in the privacy of his room, and, being alone with no one to hear, called his aunt a name whichsounded a little like swearing, and paced up and down the apartment withthe perspiration standing thickly around his white lips, and a feelingat his heart as if he were not only bitterly disappointed but had alsobeen insulted by the offer made to him. 

"An overseer in some cotton mills!--factories they call them there. Notif I know myself!" he said. "_I_ stoop to that? Never! The old woman isa fool, " (this with an adjective), "and she evidently thinks she isdoing a big thing. Two thousand dollars a year! Why, that is not muchmore than mother allows me now, and I am awfully hard up at times. No, Bessie, you must wait a little longer until something turns up, as I amsure there will. An overseer! _I!_" and Neil's voice was indicative ofthe scorn and contempt with which he regarded an overseer of cottonmills, and the vast difference he felt there was between such anindividual and himself. 

Neil was very sore and very much depressed, and his depression told uponhis health, and he became so pale and haggard that his mother wasalarmed, and insisted upon his leaving England for a time and going downto Cannes, in Southern France, where several of her friends werespending the winter. To this Neil made no objection, and wrote to Bessieof his plans, and made himself out so great an invalid that Bessie felta fear in her heart lest her lover should die and she be left in theworld alone, in case--She did not dare finish the thought, or put intowords her conviction that her father was daily growing weaker, with lesscare for or interest in any thing passing around him. This change forthe worse had commenced with a heavy cold, taken soon after theholidays, and which none of Dorothy's prescriptions could reach. It wasin vain that Bessie tried to persuade him to let her call a physician. 

"No, child, " he said, "it's nothing. I shall be better in a few days, when the weather moderates. I do not want a doctor, and if I did we aretoo poor. How much have we on hand?"

Bessie did not tell him the exact amount, for fear of troubling him inhis weak, nervous condition. 

Their Christmas hospitalities had cost them dear, and there was verylittle in the family purse with which to meet their necessities. Justafter Neil's departure there had come a letter from Daisy, who was inNice, with some Americans, whose acquaintance she had made in Paris andwhose party she had joined. 

 "These American friendships cost a great deal, " she wrote, "for they stop at the most expensive hotels, and I must have a parlor and bedroom in order to keep up appearances, so I really have nothing to spare just now; but I send you a five-pound note which I borrowed for you from Mr. Jack Trevellian, who came day before yesterday and told me of his visit to Stoneleigh. If I am any judge, he is more than half in love with you, and when I said I was going to write and regretted that I could not send you any money, as I was sure you must need it after so much company, he insisted upon loaning me twenty pounds, and when I refused so large a sum he made me take ten, which I will divide with you. It was very generous in him, and when I said I should pay him as soon as possible, he begged me never to speak of it, as he would gladly give ten times that sum to one as faithful and kind to her father as you are. Jack is a good fellow, and there is only one life between him and a, title, I hear. Try for him, Bessie; I know you can get him. Write him a little note and tell him how kind it was in him to loan me the money. That will be a beginning, but you need not say how much of it I sent you; as he designed it all for you, he might not like it if he knew I kept half. How is your father? The last time I was home I really thought he was threatened with softening of the brain, he seemed so sleepy and stupid and forgetful. Give him my love, and believe me always your affectionate mother, "DAISY McPHERSON. 

 "P. S. --I hear Lord Hardy has returned from Egypt and is expected here. I am glad, for a sight of him will do me good. He is the best friend I ever had, and the first, except, of course, your father. "

Such, in part, was Daisy's letter, which Bessie read with an achingheart and cheeks which burned with shame. She wanted money sadly, forher boots were giving out at the sides, and the butcher's bill wasunpaid, and her father needed wine and jellies to tempt his sicklyappetite and keep up his failing strength. But she would have gonebarefoot and denied herself food for a week sooner than touch thefive-pound note her mother had wrung from Jack Trevellian, her recentguest. 

"It was begged; it is a charity; it burns my hand, " she said, as sheheld the note between her thumb and finger. "I will not have it in thehouse, " and the next moment it was blackening on the fire where theindignant girl had thrown it, together with her mother's letter, whichher father must never see. 

Oh, how for an instant Bessie loathed herself as she thought of hermother and saw in fancy the whole sickening performance at Nice, thedaily jesting and badinage with those people around her--second-classAmericans, she was sure, or they would not take up her mother; but worstof all was the interview with Jack Trevellian, whose feelings had beenwrought upon until he gave her ten pounds, because of her poverty!

"Oh, it is too horrible; but I will pay it back some time, " she said, and kneeling by the firelight with her hot, tear-stained face buried inher hands, Bessie prayed earnestly that in some way see might be enabledto pay this debt to Jack Trevellian. 

In her excitement she did not then regret that she had burned the note, though she knew that it was a rash act, and that it necessitated extraself-denials which would tell heavily upon her. With strong black linenthread and a bit of leather she patched her boots; she dressed andundressed in the cold, for she would allow no fire in her room; shenever tasted meat, or tarts, or sweets, or delicacies of any kind, butcontented herself with the simplest fare, and piled her father's plate, begging him to eat, and watching him with feverish anxiety as hermother's dreadful words rang in her ears--softening of the brain! Wasthat terrible disease stealing upon him? Would the time come when thekind eyes which now always brightened when they rested on her would havein them no sign of recognition, and the lips which spoke her name solovingly utter only unmeaning words? It was terrible to contemplate, andBessie felt she would rather see him dead than an imbecile. 

"But what should I do with father gone?" she said, and her thoughtsturned to Neil, who would surely take her then, even if he took her intopoverty. 

And so in a measure Bessie was comforted, and watched her father withuntiring vigilance, and felt that he was slipping from her and that inall the world there was for her no ray of joy except in Neil's love, which she never doubted, and without which her heart would have broken, it was so full of care and pain. And it was just when her heart wassaddest because her father had that morning called her _Daisy_, and whenshe corrected him had said, "Yes, but I can't think of your name; wordsgo from me strangely at times; everything is confused, " that Neil'sletter came, bringing her fresh cause for anxiety, and seeming with itsbrevity and strangeness, to put him farther from her than he would be inCannes, whither he was going. 

That night Bessie cried herself to sleep, and was so weak and sick thenext morning that Dorothy persuaded her to stay in bed and brought herup her breakfast of toast, crisp and hot, with a fresh boiled egg and acup of tea which she declared would almost give life to a dead man. 

"But, Dolly, " Bessie said, "you should not have brought me the egg; theyare two pence apiece, and father must have them all. Can't you keep itand warm it up for him?"

"Warm up an egg! Bless the child, " and Dorothy laughed till the tearsran. "You can't warm over a boiled egg, so eat it down; it will do yougood, and you are growing so thin and pale. Here is a letter for yourfather; but as he is asleep I brought it to you. "

Taking the letter, Bessie examined the address, which was a strange oneto her. Evidently it was on business, and as nothing of that kind couldmean anything but fresh anxiety and annoyance for her father, sheresolved to know the contents and, if possible, keep them from the weakinvalid. So she broke the seal and read with astonishment that Messrs. Blank & Blank, bankers, in Lombard street, London, had been instructedby one who did not wish his name to appear, to send to Mr. ArchibaldMcPherson of Stoneleigh, Bangor, the sum of one hundred pounds, andinclosed was a check for the same. 

"Oh!" Bessie exclaimed, as she sprang up and began to dress herselfrapidly. "One hundred pounds! Why, we are rich, and father can haveeverything he wants. I wonder how much a bottle of Johannisberger winewould cost. "

Then there crept into her mind the question, who sent it? Was it theHon. John? Was it Neil? or--and Bessie's heart stood still a moment andthen beat with a heavy pain--or was it Jack Trevellian, who had donethis because of what her mother had told him of their needs? It was likehim, she knew, but if it were he, she could never touch the money, andwithout a word to her father of the letter, she wrote at once to Messrs. Blank & Blank, Lombard street, asking if it were Mr. Trevellian, andsaying if it were, she must return the check as they could not keep it. 

"Direct your answer to me, " she wrote, "as I transact all my father'sbusiness for him. "

In two days the answer come, very stiffly worded, but assuring her thatthe donor was not Mr. Trevellian and that her father need have noscruples about taking the money, and would have none did he know fromwhom it came. This satisfied Bessie, who took the letter to her father, confessing all she had done, and with him trying to guess who had beenso kind to them. 

"I can think of no one except my aunt in America, " Archie said, "and sheis not likely to remember us in this way after so many years' silence. "

"If I thought it were she I would write to her, " Bessie said, "and atall events I will write to _somebody_ and thank them, and send theletter to Messrs. Blank & Blank, in London. They know who it is and willforward it for me. "

Accordingly the next Bangor mail for London bore in it a letter fromBessie to their unknown friend. 

 "DEAR MADAM, OR SIR, whichever you may be, " she began, "I wish I could tell you how much joy and gladness, and relief, too, your generous gift of one hundred pounds brought to both father and me. God bless you for it, and may you never know the want and actual need which made your gift so very welcome that instead of shrinking from it we could only cry over it, and be glad that somewhere in the world there was somebody thinking and caring for us. Every night of my life I shall pray for you, and if I ever know who you are, and meet you face to face, I will try and thank you better than I feel that I am doing on paper. Yours gratefully and sincerely, "

 BESSIE McPHERSON, "P. S. --If, as papa half suspects, you are his Aunt Betsey, I am doubly glad, because it shows that you sometimes think of us in the old home at Stoneleigh, and I wish you would write a few words to father. It will do him so much good, and he is so sick and helpless, and lonely, and--I dare not tell you what I fear, only he sometimes forgets my name and his own, too, and calls things different from what they are. Oh, if he should die, I should die, too!"

This was sent to Messrs. Blank & Blank with instructions to forward itto the donor. But Messrs. Blank & Blank were very busy with othermatters than forwarding letters of thanks. They had just written to MissMcPherson that her orders had been obeyed and the money paid, and soBessie's letter was put aside and forgotten, for weeks and even months, when an incident occurred which brought it to their minds and it wasforwarded to Miss McPherson. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

FROM MARCH TO JUNE. 

When Bessie knew that the money was really theirs, when she had it inher hand and counted the bank-notes, her happiness knew no bounds, andshe felt richer than Blanche Trevellian ever had with fifty times thatsum. To her that hundred pounds represented so much actual good andcomfort for her father, for whom she would use nearly all of it. Butfirst she must pay Jack Trevellian, and she said to her father:

"May I have ten pounds of this to do with as I like? I promise to makegood use of it. "

"Yes, child, " he answered, "it is all yours to do with as you please. "

So she sent ten pounds to Jack, and wrote:

 "I return the money you were so good as to loan mother. Ten pounds she said it was. It was very kind in you to let her have it, and I know you meant it well. You could not mean otherwise; but please, Mr. Trevellian, for my sake don't do it again. 

 "Yours truly, "BESSIE McPHERSON. "

This done, Bessie paid the butcher and the baker and the grocer, and apart of what they were owing Anthony and Dorothy, and bought herself apair of shoes, and then religiously put by what was left to buy themedicines and dainties, the beef tea and wine and jellies and fruit, which were to nurse her father back to health physically and mentally. But it would take more than fruit or jelly to repair a constitutionnever strong and now greatly weakened by disease. Every day Archie grewweaker, while Bessie watched over and tended him with anguish in herheart and a terrible shrinking from the future when he would be goneforever. From Neil she heard often, but his letters did not do her muchgood they were so full of regret for the poverty which was keeping herfrom him and would keep her indefinitely for aught he knew. From hermother she seldom heard. That frivolous butterfly was too busy and gayto give much time or thought to her dying husband and overburdenedchild. She was still at Nice and still devoted to her American friends, the Rossiter-Brownes, as they called themselves, to the great amusementof their neighbors, who had known them when they were plain Mr. And Mrs. Isaac R. Brown, of Massachusetts, or, as they were familiarly called, Miss Brown and Ike. But they were rich people now; a turn in the wheelhad made Ike a millionaire and transformed him into Mr. Rossiter-Browne, and with his wife and his two children, Augusta and Allen, he was doingEurope on a grand scale, and Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, an ambitious butwell-meaning woman, had taken a violent fancy to Daisy, and had eveninvited her to go home with her in June, offering to defray all herexpenses out and back if she would do so. 

"And I half made up my mind to go, " Daisy wrote to Bessie in May. "Ihave often wished to see America, and shall never have a better chancethan this. Though not the most refined people in the world, theRossiter-Brownes are very nice and very kind to me. Lady June, I daresay, would call them vulgar and second-class, and I am inclined to thinkthey are what their own countrymen call _shoddy_. They have not alwaysbeen rich as they are now. Indeed, Mrs. Rossiter-Browne makes no secretof the fact that she was once poor and did her own washing, which isvery commendable in her, I am sure. By some means or other--either oil, or pork, or the war--they have made a fortune and have come abroad tospend it in a most princely manner. Mrs. Rossiter-Browne isgood-looking, and wears the finest diamonds at Nice, if I except some ofthe Russian ladies, but her grammar is dreadful, her style of dress veryconspicuous, and her voice loud and coarse. Augusta, the daughter, istwenty, and much better educated than her mother. She is rather prettyand stylish, but indolent and proud. Allen, the son, is twenty-two, tall, light-haired, good-natured, and dandified, kisses his mother nightand morning, calls her _ma_ and his father _pa_, and his sister _sis_;drives fast horses, wears an eye-glass, carries a cane, and affects theEnglish drawl. _Pere_ Rossiter-Browne is a little dapper man, with aface like a squirrel. At breakfast, which is served in their parlor, heeats with his knife, and pours his tea into his saucer in spite ofAugusta's disgust and his wife's open protestations. 

"'Now, Angeline, you shet up with your folderol, ' he will say, with themost imperturbable good humor. 'At _table dote_ I can behave with thebest of 'em, but in my own room I'm goin' to be comfortable and takethings easy like, and if I want to cool my tea in my _sasser_ I shall. Miss McPherson don't think no less of me for that, you bet. '

"They have given me a standing invitation to breakfast with them when Ilike. 

"'It don't cost no more for five than for four, ' Mr. Rossiter-Brownesays, and as juicy beefsteaks and mutton chops and real cream have abetter relish than rolls and tea, I accept their hospitality in this asin many other things. 

"They take me everywhere, and I am really quite useful to them invarious ways. None of them speak French at all except Augusta, and shevery badly. But she is improving rapidly, for I hear her read bothFrench and Italian every day, and help her with her pronunciation. ThenI have introduced them to a great many people, among whom are someEnglish lords and ladies and German barons and baronesses; and, as allAmericans dote on titles, notwithstanding their boasted democracy, soMrs. Rossiter-Browne is not an exception, but almost bursts with dignitywhen she speaks to her Yankee friends of what Lady So-and-so said to herand what she said to Baron Blank. She nearly fell on her face when Iintroduced her to Lord Hardy, who has returned from Egypt and was herefor a few days. He took to her wonderfully, or pretended that he did, and she was weak enough to think he had an eye to Augusta's charms, andasked if I supposed him serious in his attentions to her daughter, andwhat kind of a husband he would make. What an absurd idea! Lord Hardyand Augusta Browne! I laughed till I cried when I told Ted about it andasked him what he thought of it. 

"'I might do worse, ' he said, and then walked away, and that afternoontook Mrs. Browne and Augusta over to Villefranche. 

"Ted is very much changed from the boy whom I smuggled into theplay-room at Monte Carlo as my Cousin Susan, and I can't get him nearthere now. It seems that he lost a great deal of money one night, andactually left the Casino with the intention to kill himself. But he hadnot the courage to do it, though he told me he put the muzzle of thepistol to his forehead, when a thought of his mother stayed his hand andthe suicide was prevented. She was in heaven, he said, and he wanted tosee her again. If he killed himself he knew he should not, and so heconcluded to live, but made a vow never to play again, and he has keptit and become almost as big a spoony as Jack Trevellian. By the way, Isaw Trevellian the other day, and when I said something about hoping topay him his ten pounds soon, he told me _you_ had paid it. Very kind inyou, I am sure, but I don't see where you got the money. You might havekept it, as he would never have pressed me for it, and I could not payit if he did. My rooms cost me so much that I never have a shilling tospare, and I do not go to Monte Carlo often, for these Rossiter-Brownesprofess to be very religious people--Baptists, I believe--and holdgambling in great abhorrence, so, as I wish to stand well with them Ihave to play on the sly, or not at all. They have a house in New Yorkand another in the country somewhere, and a cottage at the sea-side; andthey have a maid and a courier, and Mrs. Rossiter-Browne talks asfamiliarly with both of them as she does with me, and I think feels moreat ease in their society than in mine. But she is a good woman, andsince commencing this letter I have decided to accept her invitation andaccompany her to America. They sail the last week in June, and I shallmanage to spend a few days at Stoneleigh before I go. How is yourfather? Write me soon, and if you can do so please send me a pound ortwo. I have so very little; and I had to borrow of Ted, who, I mustsay, loaned me rather unwillingly, I thought, while Trevellian, whom Itried cautiously, never took the hint at all. It must be I am going offand have not the same power over the men which I once had; and yet Mrs. Rossiter-Browne told me the other day that I was called the prettiestwoman in Nice, and said she was very proud to have me of her party. Whata fool she is, to be sure!"

This letter filled Bessie with disgust and anxiety, too, while for amoment there arose within her a feeling of rebellion and bitterresentment against the woman who got so much from life and left her tobear its burdens alone. 

"But I would far rather be what I am than what she is, " she thought, asshe wiped her tears away and stole softly to her father's room to see ifhe were still sleeping. 

He was usually in a half-unconscious condition now, seldom rousingexcept to take his meals, or when Bessie made a great effort to interesthim, and she did not guess how fast he was failing. The second week inJune Daisy came, fresh and bright and eager, and looking almost as youngas Bessie, who knew no rest day or night, and was pale and thin andworn, with a look on her face and in her eyes very sad to see in a younggirl. 

"Oh, mother, I am so glad you have come, " she cried, and laying her headin her mother's lap, she sobbed passionately for a moment, while shesaid: "And you will not go away; will not leave me here alone, with noone to speak to all day long but Dorothy. Oh, mother, the loneliness isso terrible and life is so dreary to me. "

For a moment Daisy's heart was stirred with pity for the tired, worngirl, and she half resolved to give up America and stay at home whereshe was needed. But as the days went on and she saw just what life atStoneleigh meant, she felt that she could not endure it, and, fondlystroking Bessie's hair and smoothing her pale cheek, she told her shewould not be gone long. She should return in September and wouldpositively remain at home all winter and take the care from Bessie. 

"Your father will not die, " she said. "People live years with hisdisease; he is better than when I first came home; at least he is morequiet, which is a gain. "

And so Bessie gave it up and entered at last into her mother'santicipations of her journey, and listened with some interest to whatshe had to say of the Rossiter-Brownes, the best and most generouspeople in the world, for they were not only to bear all her expenses toand from America, but Mrs. Browne had given her a twenty-pound note forany little expenditures necessary for her journey. 

"I am sure I don't know why they fancy me as they seem to, " Daisy said, "unless they have an idea that I am a much more important personage thanI am, and that to take me home as their guest will raise them in theestimation of their friends. They know the McPherson blood is good, andthey know about Lady Jane, who Mrs. Browne persists in thinking is mysister-in-law. Did I tell you that the Rossiter-Brownes' old home isnear Allington, where your father's aunt is living?"

"No, " Bessie replied, looking up with more interest in her manner. 

"Well, it is, " Daisy continued, "and I mean to beard the old woman inher den and conquer a peace. She has heaps of money, the Brownes say, and is greatly respected in spite of her oddities, and is quite anaristocrat in the little place; and, as I suspect, is far above Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who wishes to show me to her. She does not guess howthe old woman hates us all. "

And so Daisy rattled on with her small, tiresome talk, to which Bessiesometimes listened and sometimes did not. The Rossiter-Brownes were inLeamington now, but were coming through Wales on their way to Liverpool, and Mrs. Browne and Augusta were to stop for a day or two at the"George" and take Daisy with them when they left. 

"I wish we could show them some attention, " Daisy said to her daughter. "Don't you think we might manage a French tea in the garden at fouro'clock? We have some rare old china and some solid silver and Dresdenlinen, and we could get Lucy Jones to wait upon us. Do you think we cando it?"

"Perhaps we can, " Bessie replied, reflecting that a French tea in thegarden at four o'clock meant only thin slices of bread and butter, withbiscuits and possibly some little sponge cakes which would not costmuch. She could go without a pair of gloves and make the old ones do. All extras came out of poor little Bessie, but she was accustomed to it, and did not mind, and just now she was so glad to have her mother withher, for Daisy, as if a little remorseful for what she was about to do, was unusually sweet and affectionate and kind, and devoted herself toher husband as she had never done since Bessie could remember. Shewashed his face and hands and brushed his hair, and wheeled him out intothe garden under the old yew tree, where he once slept on the summermorning while she kept the sun and the flies from him. And stooping overhim, she asked if he remembered the little girl who used to come to himthere when he was a boy. 

"Yes; that was Daisy, " he said, "but I have not seen her in many a year. Where is she now?" and he looked at her in a strange, bewildered way. Then, as the brain fog lifted a little and cleared away, his chinquivered and he went on: "Oh, Daisy, Daisy; it comes back to me now, theyears that are gone, and you as you were then. I loved you so much. "

"And don't you love me now, Archie?" she asked, kneeling beside him withher white arms across his knees, while she looked into his face with theold look she could assume so easily, and which moved even this weak man. 

Laying his thin, pale hands upon her head, he burst into tears and said;

"Yes, Daisy, I have always loved you, though you have made no part of mylife these many years. "

"And have you missed me? Have you been unhappy without me?" she asked, and he replied:

"Missed you? Yes; but I have not been unhappy, for I have had Bessie. Noman could be unhappy with Bessie, I think I will go in now and find her. I am better with her; and the birds are not singing here. "

"What birds?" Daisy asked, looking curiously at him, as, with closedeyes, he leaned wearily back in his chair and replied:

"The birds which sing to me so often; birds of the future, and the past, too, I think they are, for they sing sometimes of you, but oftener ofBessie and a journey far away where she is going to be happy when we areboth gone and the winds are blowing across our graves--over there, " andhe pointed toward the little yard where his father and mother were lyingside by side, and where he soon would lie. 

For an instant Daisy shuddered, and fancied she felt an icy chill, as ifher husband's words were words of prophecy and a blast were blowing uponher from some dark, cold grave. But she was too young to die; death wasnot for her these many years; it was only waiting for this enfeebledman, whom she wheeled back to the house where Bessie was, and where thebirds he heard so often came and sang to him of green fields and flowerymeadows beyond the sea, where he saw always Bessie with a look of restand sweet content upon her face, instead of the tired, watchful, waitinglook habitual to it now. 

And so, listening to the birds, he fell asleep, as was his wont, andDaisy shook off the chill which had oppressed her, and busied herselfwith the preparations for her journey. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

MRS. ROSSITER-BROWNE. 

In due time Mrs. Rossiter-Browne and her daughter, Augusta, came to the"George, " with their maid, and took possession of the best rooms, andscattered shillings and half-crowns with a lavishness which made everyservant their slave. Of course Daisy called, bearing Bessie'scompliments and regrets, and then Mrs. Browne and Augusta came toStoneleigh in the finest turn-out which the hotel could boast, forthough the distance was short, Mrs. Browne never walked when she couldride, and on this occasion she was out for a drive, "to see the elephantof Bangor, trunk and all, for she was bound nothing should escape herwhich she ought to see, if she died for it, and she guessed she shouldbefore she got round home, as she was completely tuckered out withsight-seeing, " she said, as she sank pantingly into an easy-chair inthe large cool room, which Daisy had made very bright and attractivewith fresh muslin curtains, a rug, a table-spread, and some tidiesbrought from Nice. This room, which was only used in summer, had on thefloor a heavy Axminster, which had done service for forty years atleast, but still showed what it had been, and spoke of the formergrandeur of the place, as did the massive and uncomfortable chairs ofsolid mahogany, the old pier-glass against the wall, and the queerlyshaped sofa, on which Daisy had thrown a bright striped shawl, whichchanged its aspect wonderfully. She wished to make a good impressionupon her American friend, and she succeeded beyond her most sanguinehopes. With her ideas of the greatness and importance of the McPhersons, who, if poor, were aristocrats, Mrs. Browne was prepared to see everything _couleur de rose_, and the old wainscoted room and quaintfurniture delighted her more even than the pretty little devices withwhich Daisy had thought to make the room more modern and heighten theeffect. 

"If there's anything I dote on particularly, it's on ancestry halls, "Mrs. Rossiter-Browne said, as she looked admiringly around her. "Nowthem chairs, which a Yankee would hide in the garret, speak of a pastand tell you've been somebody a good while. I'd give the world for suchan old place as this at home; but, my land! we are that new in Americathat the starch fairly rattles as we walk. We are only a hundred yearsold, you know; had our centennial two or three years ago. That was a bigshow, I tell you; most as good as Europe, and better in some respects, for I could be wheeled in a chair and see things comfortable, while overhere, my land! my legs is most broke off, and I tell Gusty I'll have toget a new pair if I stay much longer. Think of me climbing up Pisa, andSt. Peter's, and all the Campyniles in the country, and that brass thingin Munich to boot, where I thought I should of sweltered, and all to sayyou've been there. It's a park of nonsense, I tell 'em, though I s'poseit does cultivate you, and that reconciles me to it. "

Here the lady paused for breath, and Augusta, whose face was very red, began to talk to Bessie of Wales and the wild, beautiful scenery. Shewas as well educated as most young ladies of her class, and was reallya very pretty, lady-like girl, who expressed herself well andintelligently, and was evidently annoyed by her mother's manner ofspeaking, for she tried to keep the conversation in her own hands, andBessie, who guessed her design, helped her to do so; and after a fewmoments Mrs. Browne arose to go, and, shaking out her silk flounces andpulling her hands to her ears to make sure her immense diamonds were notunclasped, because, as she said, she would not for a farm lose her_solitarys_, she said good-morning, and was driven away to see the_elephant_ of Bangor and vicinity. 

Bessie drew a long breath of relief as she saw the carriage leave thepark, and said: "Oh, mother, how can you find pleasure in her society, and are the Americans generally like her?"

"Not half as good as she, some of them, though vastly more refined andbetter educated, " Daisy replied, warming up in defense of the woman whowas so kind to her, and whom she knew to be honest and true as steel. "There are plenty of ignorant, vulgar women in England, traveling ontheir money recently acquired, who at heart are not half as good as Mrs. Browne, " she said; "and for that matter there are titled ladies too whoknow precious little more than she. Why, old Lady Oakley once sent me anote, in which more than half the words were misspelled, and hercapitals were everywhere except in the right place; but she is _mylady_, and so it is all right. I tell you Bessie, there is, after all, but little difference between the English and the Americans, who, as aclass, are better informed than we are and know ten times more about ourcountry than we do about theirs. "

Daisy grew very eloquent and earnest as she talked, but Bessie was notconvinced, and felt a shrinking from Mrs. Rossiter-Browne as fromsomething positively bad; and here she did the woman great injustice, for never was there a kinder, truer heart than Mrs. Browne's, and if, inher girlhood, she had possessed a tithe of her present fortune, shewould have made a far different woman from what she was. 

For a few days longer she staid at the "George, " and astonished theguests with the richness of her toilets and the singularity of herspeech, which was something wonderful to her hearers, who looked uponher as a specimen of Americans generally. But this she would not permit;and once, when she overheard the remark, "that's a fair sample of them, I suppose, " turned fiercely on the knot of ladies who, she knew, werediscussing her, and said:

"If it's me you are talking up and think a fair sample let me tell youthat you are much mistaken. I ain't a sample of nothin'. I am justmyself, and Uncle Sam is not at all responsible for me, unless it isthat he didn't give me a chance, when young, to go to school. I waspoor, and had to work for my livin', and my old blind mother's, too. Sheis dead this many a year; but if she could of lived till now, when Ihave so much more than I know what to do with, I'd have dressed her upin silks and satins, and brought her over the seas and flouted her inyour faces as another sample of your American cousins, who, take 'em byand large, are quite as refined as your English women, and enough sightbetter informed about everything. Why, only t'other day one of 'em askedme what language was generally spoken in New York city, and didn't aschool-girl from Edinburgh ask Gusty if the people out West were not allheathens, and if Chicago was near Boston! I tell you, ladies, folks wholive in glass houses should not throw stones. You are well enough, andnice enough, and on _voices_ you beat us all holler, for 'tis a factthat most of us pitch ours too high and talk through our noses awful, and maybe you'd do that too, if you lived in our beastly climate, but asa rule you have not an atom more learning or refinement at heart thanwe. "

Thus speaking, she sailed from the room with an air which would havebefitted a grand duchess, leaving her astonished auditors to look ateach other a moment in silence, and then to express themselves fully andfreely and unreservedly with regard to American effrontery, Americanmanners, and American slang, as represented by Mrs. Rossiter-Browne. 

It was a day or two after this that the French tea was served in theStoneleigh garden, with strawberries and cream and sponge cakes, andDaisy did the honors as hostess admirably, and Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, resplendent in garnet satin and diamonds, sat in a covered garden-chairand noted everything with a view to repeat it sometime in the garden ofher country house at home. "She'd show 'em what was what, " she thought. "She'd Let 'em know that she had traveled and had been invited out amongthe gentry, " for such she believed Daisy to be, and she anticipated witha great deal of complacency the sensation which that airy, graceful, woman would create in Ridgeville, the little place a mile or more fromAllington, where her husband's farm was situated, and where stood theonce old-fashioned house, but now very pretentious residence, which shecalled the Ridge House. She was going there direct after reaching NewYork, and thither numerous boxes had preceded her, containing picturesand statuary and other trophies of her travels abroad, and Daisy, whoseexquisite taste she knew and appreciated, was to help her arrange thenew things, and then "she'd give a smasher of a party, " she said, as shesat in her garden-chair and talked of the surprise and happiness instore for the _Ridgevillians_ when she issued cards for her gardenparty. 

"I sha'n't slight nobody at all edible to society, " she said, "for Idon't believe in that. I shall have Miss Lucy Grey, of course, fromGrey's Park, for she is the cream-dilly-cream of Allington, she and yourAunt, Miss McPherson, " turning to Daisy, "and mebby I shall ask HannerJerrold, though she never goes anywheres--that's Grey's aunt, " and nowshe nodded to Bessie, who at the mention of the name Jerrold, evinced alittle interest in what the lady was saying. 

Turning to Augusta, who was eating her strawberries and cream insilence, with a look of vexation on her face as her mother flounderedon, she said:

"I think you told me you knew Mr. Grey Jerrold?"

"Yes, " Augusta replied, "that is, he once spent a summer in Allingtonand I went to the same school with him; since then we have met severaltimes in Allington and two or three times here. Still, I really knowvery little of him. "

"Who's that you know very little of--Grey Jerrold?" Mrs. Browne chimedin. "Well, I call that droll. Have you forgot how often he used to comehome from school with you, and how he fished you out of the pond thattime you fell in? Why, he was that free at our house, that he usedalways to ask for something to eat, and would often add on, 'somethingbaked to day. ' You see, he didn't like dry victuals, such as his AuntHannah gave him. She is _tight_ as the bark of a tree, and queer too, with it all. "

It grated on Bessie's nerves to hear Mrs. Browne speak of Grey as if shewere his equal, and recognized as such at home, and she was glad whenAugusta said, quietly:

"But, mother, I was a little girl then, six or seven years old, and Greyfelt at home at our house because--"

She did not finish the sentence, as she had evidently struck against areef which her mother overleaped by saying:

"Yes, I know, Grey was always a nice boy, and not one bit stuck up likehis proud mother. I hate Geraldine Grey; yes, I do!" and Mrs. Brownemanifested the first sign of unamiability which Daisy had ever seen inher. But Daisy, who remembered perfectly the haughty woman she had metat Penrhyn Park years before, hated her, too, and so there was accordbetween her and her guest. 

"Mr. Jerrold told me of his aunt who lives in the pasture, and whom heloves very much. Do you know her?" Bessie asked, and Mrs. Brownereplied:

"Yes; that's his Aunt Hanner, the one I told you was so tight. She is anold maid, and queer, too; lives all alone, and saves and lays up everycent. I believe she wears the same black gown now for best which shewore thirteen years ago to her father's funeral. He was a queer one too;crazy, some said, and I guess 'twas true. He took a fancy to stay in oneroom all the time and would not let anybody in but Hanner, and now he isdead she keeps that room shet up and locked, some say. I was at thefuneral, and Grey, who was a boy, took on awful, and hung over thecoffin ever so long. He was sick with fever after it, and everybodythought he'd die. He was crazy as a loon. I watched with him one nightand he talked every thing you could think of, about a grave hid awaysomewhere--under his bed, he seemed to think--and made me go down on allfours to look for it. I suppose he was thinking of his grandfather solately buried. And then, he kept talking about _Bessie_ and asking whyshe did not come. "

"Bessie! Me!" the young girl exclaimed, with crimson cheeks, and Mrs. Browne replied:

"No; 'taint likely it was you; and yet, let me see! Yes, well, Ideclare; I remember now that his Aunt Lucy, who sat up with me, told meit was a little girl they had talked about before him, a grandniece ofMiss Betsey McPherson. Yes, that was you, sure! Isn't it droll, though?"

Bessie did not reply, but in her heart there was a strange feeling asshe thought that before she had ever heard of Grey Jerrold, he had beeninterested in and talked of her in his delirium and in his fevereddreams. 

Soon after this, Mrs. Browne arose to go, and said good-by to Bessie, whom she did not expect to see again, as they were to leave on themorrow for Chester, where her husband and son were to meet them. It wasDaisy's last day at home, and though she had been away many times for alonger period than it was now her intention to stay, this going wasdifferent, for the broad sea she was to cross would put an immensedistance between her and her husband and child, and she was unusuallyquiet and gentle and affectionate, telling Bessie, who seemed greatlydepressed, that the summer would pass quickly and she should be back tostay for good until the invalid was better or worse. 

The next morning when she went to say good-by to her husband he welcomedher with a smile, and with something of his old, courteous manner putout his hand to greet her. She took it between her own, and raising itto her lips, knelt beside him, and laying her head against his arm, saidto him, softly:

"Archie, I have come to say good-by, but only a little while. I shallsoon be back to stay with you always, or until you are better. "

"I shall never be any better, " he replied, never suspecting how far shewas going from him, "but go, if you like, " he continued, "and be happy. I do not mind it as I used to, for I have Bessie and the birds, who singto me now all the time. Can't you hear them? They are saying 'Archie, Archie, come, ' as if it were my mother calling to me. "

His mind was wandering now, and Daisy felt a thrill of pain as shelooked at him and felt that he was not getting better, that he wasfailing fast, though just how fast she did not guess. 

"Archie, " she said, at last, "you love me, don't you? You told me youdid in the garden the other day, but I want to hear it again. "

"Love you? You?" he said, inquiringly, as he looked at her with anunsteady, imbecile gaze as if to ask who she was that he should loveher. 

"Yes, " she said. "I am Daisy. Don't you remember the little girl whoused to come to you under the yews?"

"Yes, " and his lip trembled a little. "The girl who gave herself and herbonnet to shield me from the flies and sun. You did that then; butBessie has given herself to me, body and soul, through cold and hunger, sunshine and storm. God bless her, God bless my darling Bessie. "

"And won't you bless me, too, Archie? I should like to remember that intime to come, " Daisy said, seized by some impulse she could notunderstand. 

Archie hesitated a moment as if not quite comprehending her, thendrawing her down to him he kissed her with the old, fervent kiss he usedto give her when they were boy and girl together, and, laying his handupon her head, said tremblingly:

"Will God bless Daisy, too, and bring her at last to where I shall bewaiting for her?"

Then Daisy withdrew herself from him, and without another word went outfrom his presence and never saw him again. To Bessie, sobbing by thedoor, she said very little; there was a passionate embrace and a fewfarewell kisses and then she was gone, and twenty minutes later Bessieheard the train as it passed bearing her mother away. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE BIRDS WHICH SANG, AND THE SHADOW WHICH FELL. 

Daisy wrote to her daughter from Liverpool where they were stopping atthe Adelphi, and where Lord Hardy had joined them _en route_ for Americaand the far West. 

"He is not at all the _Ted_ he used to be, " Daisy wrote, "and it reallyseems as if he blames _me_ because he has lost so much at Monte Carlo. In fact, he says if I had not smuggled him in, he should probably neverhave played there at all. I think I shall know it when I take anotheryoung Irishman in hand. By the way, he brought me news of the death ofSir Henry Trevellian, of Trevellian Castle, in the north of England Hewas thrown from his horse and killed instantly Jack Trevellian was withhim, and, it is said, was nearly heart-broken, though by this accidenthe has become Sir Jack, and is master of a fine old place and atolerably fair fortune. He will be much sought after now, but if ever hecomes in your way again, and you play your cards well you may be my LadyTrevellian. How does that sound to you?"

"Sir Jack Trevellian, " Bessie repeated to herself, while there sweptover her a great pity for the poor young man, smitten down so suddenly, while for Jack she was glad, knowing how well he would fill the placeand how worthy he was of it. 

Of herself, as Lady Bessie Trevellian she never thought, though therecame to her a strong presentiment that she should see Jack again erelong--that he would come to tell her of his new honor, and would he justas kind and friendly and familiar as he was that day in the park whenshe first saw him more than two years ago. 

Three days later and there came another short letter from her mother, written on shipboard and sent off at Queenstown. The sea had been veryrough and the Brownes and Lord Hardy were sick in their state-rooms, aswere many of the passengers, but Daisy had never felt better in her lifeand was enjoying herself immensely. She should cable as soon as shereached New York, and she bade Bessie keep up good courage, and sent herlove and a kiss to Archie, who, if Bessie thought best, might now betold where she had gone. 

Archie was sleeping very quietly when Bessie went into his room, takingher mother's letter with her. But there was a white pinched look uponhis face which she had never seen there before, and it seemed to herthat his breath was growing shorter and more labored, as she watched himwith a beating heart until she could no longer endure the fear which hadseized upon her, and stooping down, she called aloud:

"Father, father!"

Her voice awoke him, and lifting his eyes to her face, he smiled uponher the old, loving smile she knew so well and which reassured her alittle. 

"You have slept very sweetly, and you are better, " she said to him, andhe replied:

"No, Bessie, not better. I shall never be any better in this world. There is a weakness all over me this morning, and I cannot lift my handto touch you--see?" and he tried to raise the thin, wasted hand lying sohelplessly upon the counterpane. 

Taking it in her own, Bessie felt that it was cold as ice, but sherubbed it gently, and said:

"It is only numb, I shall soon make it warm again. "

"No, Bessie; never any more warmth for me. I know it now; the end isvery near, and the birds are singing everywhere, just as they sang inthe summer mornings years ago, when I was a boy. I used to lie on thegrass under the yews, and listen to them, and think they were singing ofmy future, which I meant should be so bright. Oh, Bessie, everything hasbeen so different; everything has changed but you and the birds, singingnow to me of another future which _will_ be bright and fair. What seasonis it, Bessie? My mind wanders a little. Is it summer again in the dearold rose-scented-garden?"

"Yes, father; summer everywhere, " Bessie answered him with a chokingsob, and he continued:

"I am glad. I would rather die in the summer time just as father andmother did. Bury me by them, Bessie; with no expense, and when Daisydies lay her by me, too, in the grass where the birds are singing. Sheought to be here now--to-day; send for her, Bessie; send at once, if atelegram can reach her. "

Bessie must tell him now, and kissing his pale forehead, she said:

"A telegram cannot reach her, father, for she is on the sea, going toAmerica. "

"Gone to America! When she knew how sick I was. Oh, Daisy, Daisy, Iwould not have served you so, " the sick man cried, with a bitter cry, which rang in Bessie's ears many a day, but did not reach the heartlesswoman at that very moment coquetting with the doctor of the ship, andtapping his arm playfully with her fan as she told him she had lost herappetite for everything but champagne, and asked what he would adviseher to take. 

"She was invited to go by some friends, who bear all the expense. Shehas long wished to see America, and it was such a good opportunity thatshe took it. She will not be gone long; only through the summer, " Bessiesaid, trying to find excuse for her mother, but Archie shook his head, and replied:

"I shall not be here when she comes back; shall not be here to-morrow;and, oh, my child, what will you do? You cannot live here alone, and myannuity dies with me. Bessie, oh, Bessie, you will not pursue yourmother's course?"

"Never! so help me Heaven!" Bessie answered, as she fell on her kneesbeside him, and bowed her face in her hands. 

Surely in this extremity she might tell him of her engagement to Neil, and after a moment she said:

"Father, don't let a thought of my future trouble you. That is providedfor. I am to be Neil's wife. We settled that last Christmas, but he didnot wish me to tell you till something definite was arranged. He meantyou to live with us. We were not to be separated; he is very kind, " sheadded, earnestly, as she felt her father's surprise and possibledisapprobation in his silence. 

"And you love him? You believe he will make you happy?" Archie said, atlast, and Bessie replied:

"I love him; and I believe he will make me as happy as I can be with yougone. Oh, father, you don't like Neil! You never did. "

There was reproach in Bessie's voice, as she said this, and the sickman answered her:

"There are many noble traits in Neil's character, but he is a McPherson, with all their foolish pride of birth, and blood, and ancestors. As ifpaupers like us have any right to such nonsense! Were I to live my lifeagain, I would turn a hand-organ in the street to earn my bread if therewere no other way. Yes, Neil is very nice and good, but not the husbandI would have chosen for you. I liked the others better, Mr. Trevellian, and the American--what is his name?"

"Jerrold, Grey Jerrold, " Bessie replied, and after a moment her fathercontinued:

"Where is Neil? His place is here with you, if he is to be your husband. Send for him at once; there is no time to lose. You must not be alone, and the hours are very few, and the birds are singing so loud; send forNeil at once. "

Bessie did not know where Neil was now, as the last time she heard fromhim he was in Paris, with his mother and Blanche; but she would take thechance that he was at home, and a telegram that her father was dying andhe must come immediately was soon speeding along the wires to TrevellianHouse, in London. 

Slowly the hours of that glorious summer day went by, and Archie's pulsegrew fainter and his voice weaker, while the real birds without in theyews, and in the hedge-rows, and the imaginary birds within, sang louderand clearer, and the dying man listened to them with a rapt look in hiswhite face, and a light in his eyes which told of peace and a perfectlypainless death. 

At last the day was ended, and the shades of night crept in and aroundthe old gray house, while a darker shadow than any which night everbrings was in the sick-room where Archie lay, half unconscious, andtalking, now of Daisy, now of Bessie, and now of Neil and asking if hehad come. He had not nor any answer to the telegram, and Bessie's heartwas very heavy and sad with a sense of desertion and terribleloneliness. How could she bear to be alone with her dead father, andonly Anthony and Dorothy to counsel her? What should she do, and wherewas Neil, that he made no response to tell her he was coming? She didnot consider that, even had he received the telegram, he could notreach Stoneleigh that night. 

She did not realize anything except the dread and pain which weighed herdown, as, with her father's hand in hers, she sat waiting for the end, while the old servants stole in and out noiselessly. 

Suddenly, as she waited thus, she caught the sound of a footstepwithout, a quick footstep which seemed familiar to her, and with a cryof "Neil!" on her lips, she arose swiftly, and hastened to the outerdoor just as the tall form of a young man stood before the threshold. 

Bessie's eyes were full of tears, and the lamp on the bracket ratherblinded than helped her, and so she could not see the strangerdistinctly; but it was Neil, of course--come in response to her summons;and with a great glad cry she sprang toward the young man, and clingingconvulsively to him, sobbed out:

"Oh, Neil, Neil! I am so glad you have come, for father is dying, and Iam all alone. It is so dreadful, and what shall I do? _Oh, oh_, it isn'tNeil!" and she gave a little scream of terror and surprise, as, lookingup, she met Grey Jerrold's face bending over her instead of Neil's. 

Grey had been to Carnarvon on the old business, and, moved by a desireto see Bessie's blue eyes again, had come to the "George Hotel" to passthe night, intending to call at Stoneleigh in the morning. But hearingof Mr. McPherson's illness, he had decided to step over that night andinquire for him, and thus it was that he found himself in a very novelposition, with Bessie sobbing in his arms, which had involuntarilyopened to receive her when she made the rush toward him. 

"No, it is not Neil, " he said, trying to detain her as she drew herselffrom him. "It is Grey; but perhaps I can help you. I heard at the'George' of your father's illness, and came at once. Is he so very bad?"And, leading her to a sofa and sitting down beside her, he continued:"Tell me all your trouble, please, and what I can do for you. "

Grey's voice was very low and soft, and had in it all the tenderness andgentleness of a sympathizing woman, and it touched Bessie as Neil'swords of love could not have touched her had he been there beside her. Bursting into a fresh fit of sobbing, she told Grey of her father'sserious illness, and her loneliness and desolation, and how glad she washe had come. 

"I telegraphed to Neil, " she said, "and thought you were he, though itis not time for him to be here, even if he received the telegram. Perhaps he is not in London: do you know?"

Grey did not know, as he had not heard from Neil in some time; but hecomforted Bessie as well as he could, and said he hoped her father mightyet recover. 

"No, he cannot, " Bessie replied. "He will soon be dead, and I shall bealone, all alone; for mother has gone to America with a Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who lives in or near Allington? You know her, Ibelieve, " and Bessie looked up in time to see the look of surprise andthe half-amused smile which flitted over Grey's face as he replied:

"Mrs. Rossiter-Browne? Oh, yes, I know her. I have always known her. Sheis a good, kind-hearted woman, and your mother is safe with her. "

Bessie felt intuitively that Grey was keeping something back, which hemight have told her, but she respected him far more for speaking kindlyof Mrs. Rossiter-Browne than she would have done, if he had said, as hemight have done: "Oh, Yes, I know Mrs. Rossiter-Browne. She was foryears my Aunt Lucy's hired girl, Angeline Peters, who married IsaacBrown, the hired man, and became plain Mrs. Ike Brown, until some luckyspeculation turned the tide and gave them immense wealth, when sheblossomed out into a fine lady, and, dropping the _Ike_, adopted herhusband's middle name, _Rossiter_, with a hyphen to heighten the effect, and so became Mrs. Rossiter-Browne. "

All this Bessie learned afterward, but now she was too full of grief tocare what Mrs. Rossiter-Browne had been, or what she was. All herthoughts were with her father, whose weak voice was soon heard callingto her:

"Bessie, are you here?"

"Yes, father, " she said, going quickly into the sick-room, followed byGrey, who saw in Archie's face the look which comes once, and but once, to all, and knew that his life was numbered by hours, if not, indeed, byminutes. 

"Bessie, " the sick man said, as she bent over him "has he come? I heardsome one speaking to you. "

"Neil has not come; it is not time. It is Mr. Jerrold who is here. Hewas with us last Christmas, you remember. "

"Yes, " Mr. McPherson replied, "the American; I remember. I liked himvery much. I wish it were he rather than Neil. "

Grey looked curiously at Bessie, who knew what her father meant and thathis mind was wandering. After a few moments, during which Archieappeared to be sleeping, he started suddenly and seemed to listenintently. Then he said:

"The birds have stopped singing, but I hear other music; the songs ofthe redeemed, and my mother is there by the gate waiting for me, just asI shall wait one day for you, my child. Give me your hand, Bessie, Iwant to feel that you are with me to the last. "

She put her hand in his, and Grey noticed with a pang how small and thinit was and brown, too, with toil. Some such thought must have been inArchie's mind, for, pressing the fingers to his lips, he continued:

"Poor little tired hands, which have done so much for me. May they haverest by and by. Oh, Bessie, darling, God bless you, the dearest, sweetest daughter a man ever had. Be kind to her, young man. I leave herin your charge; there is no one else to care for her. Good-by; God blessyou both. "

He did not speak after that, though he lingered for some hours, hisbreath growing fainter, and fainter until, just as the summer morningwas stealing into the room, old Anthony, who, with his wife, had beenwatching by him, said, in a whisper:

"God help us; the master is dead!"

Bessie uttered no sound, but over her face there crept such a pallor andlook of woe that Grey involuntarily passed his arm around her and said:

"Let me take you into the air. "

She did not resist him, but suffered him to lead her into the garden, which was sweet with the perfume of roses and cool with the freshmorning dew, and where the birds were singing in the old yew trees asblithely and merrily as if no young heart were breaking in their midst. In a large rustic-chair, where Archie had often sat, Grey made Bessiesit down, and when he saw her shiver as if with cold, he left her amoment while he went to the house for a shawl and a glass of wine, andsome eau-de-cologne, which he brought to her himself. Wrapping the shawlaround her as deftly as a woman could have done, he made her taste thewine, and dipping her handkerchief in the cologne bathed her foreheadwith it and pushed back a few locks of her wavy hair, which had fallenover her face. And all the time he did not speak until Bessie said tohim:

"Thank you, Mr. Jerrold. You are so kind. I am glad you are here. Whatshould I do without you, and what shall I do anyway? What must I do?"

"Leave it all to me, " he answered her. "Don't give the matter a thought, but try and rest; and when you feel that you can, I will take you backto the house. "

"No, no, " she said quickly. "Let me stay here in the sunshine with thebirds who used to sing to him. It seems as if he were here with me. "

So he brought her a pillow for her head, and a hassock for her feet, andwrapped her shawl more closely around her, and made her taste the wineagain. Then he went back to the house and consulted Anthony and Dorothywith regard to what was to be done. The funeral was fixed for the fourthday, and Grey telegraphed to London, with instructions, that if thefamily were not in town the message should be forwarded to themimmediately. Then he cabled to Daisy, ship Celtic, New York, and lest byany chance she should miss the news at the wharf he asked that adispatch be sent to her at Allington, Mass. , care of Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who, he knew, would in all probability go at once toher country home. 

"Mrs. McPherson can return or remain where she is. I have done my dutyto her, " he thought, as he busied himself with the many details it wasnecessary to see to. "If Neil were only here, " was his constant thought, as the day wore on, and he found himself in the rather awkward positionof master of ceremonies in a strange house, deferred to and advised withnot only by Anthony and Dorothy, but by all the people who came toassist. 

But Neil did not come, and the night came and went, and it was morningagain, and Bessie, who had passed the most of the preceding day in thegarden, and had only returned to the house late in the afternoon, seemeda little brighter and fresher, with a look of expectancy in her facewhenever a train dashed by. She was watching for Neil, and when at aboutfour o'clock a carriage came through the park gates, she rose and wentswiftly to the door, meeting not Neil, but Jack Trevellian, whose faceand manner told plainly how great was his sympathy with the desolateyoung girl. He was in London, he said, and chanced to be calling at theTrevellian house where he learned that all the family, Neil included, were at Vichy, where Lady Jane had gone for the waters and bathing. Justas he was leaving, Grey's telegram was received, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis, told him that another telegram had come two days before forMr. Neil, from Stoneleigh. 

"I did not open it, " she said, "as did not suppose it of anyconsequence. He often has despatches, and as I expect him home within aweek or ten days I put it on the table in the hall. You will find itthere, " she continued, as she saw Jack unceremoniously tear open theenvelope just received, and heard his cry of surprise. 

Then, quick as thought, he read the first telegram from Bessie, tellingof her father's illness and asking Neil to come at once. 

"Poor little Bessie, alone with her dead father, " he said, and his heartthrobbed with a great pity for the girl who, he supposed, was alone, forGrey had not signed his own but Bessie's name to the message he hadsent. 

In an instant Jack's resolution was taken, and he acted upon it at once. The telegram was forwarded to Vichy, together with the fact that he wasgoing immediately to Stoneleigh, where he would await any orders theychose to send. Then he took the first train for Wales, and reachedBangor about three o'clock the next day. All this he explained afterexpressing his surprise at finding Grey there, and saying to him, good-humoredly:

"You always manage to get ahead of me. If I ever get to heaven I dobelieve I shall find you there before me. "

"I hope so, " Grey answered, laughingly, and then added: "We ought tohave heard from Vichy before this time, if they received your messageyesterday. "

"That's so, " Jack replied, adding after a moment: "It may be waiting forme at the 'George. ' They would naturally direct it there. "

And on sending to inquire if there was anything for him at the hotel, there was brought to him an envelope directed to "Sir Jack Trevellian, "received that morning, the bar-maid said. Breaking the seal, Jack readaloud:

 "VICHY, July ----, 18--. 

 "To Sir Jack Trevellian, George Hotel, Bangor, Wales:

 "It is impossible for me to come. Will write Bessie soon. Please see that everything is done decently, and send bill to me. 

 "JOHN McPHERSON. "

Nothing could have been colder or more matter of fact, and Bessie'scheeks were scarlet as she listened, while Grey involuntarily gave a lowwhistle, and turning on his heel, walked away, and Jack tore the paperin shreds, which he threw into the empty grate. Then he looked atBessie, whose face was now very white and quivering with pain anddisappointment. Jack's first impulse was to denounce Mr. McPherson forhis selfishness and neglect, but his kinder nature prevailed, and hesaid, apologetically:

"It is a long way from Vichy here, and the weather is very hot. Butnever mind. Grey and I will do all we can, and both Mr. McPherson andLady Jane will surely come to you later. "

"It is not that. I don't know what it is, only it is dreadful to bewithout one of your own kindred at such a time as this. Surely Neilmight come or write, " Bessie said, with such pathos in her voice thatJack looked sharply at her, thinking to himself:

"Is it possible she cares for him more than as a cousin? Doesn't sheknow Neil is the last one to inconvenience himself, if he can help it?Funerals are not to his taste. "

But he did not give expression to his thoughts; he said, instead:

"Perhaps Neil is not there. I hardly think he is, as he does not likeVichy. You will hear from him soon no doubt. I am sorry for your sakethat none of your relatives are here. But don't distress yourself. Greyand I will do everything. "

"I know you will, " she said; "but, Mr. Trevellian, " and she laid herhand upon his arm, "you will not send that bill to Neil's father? I haveover forty pounds. I can pay it myself. You will not send it?"

"Never!" Jack answered, emphatically, and then he went out to consultwith Grey, who was sitting in the porch staring hard at an iron postwhich Jack began to kick vigorously, as he said: "Well, Jerrold, we arein for it, you and I; and we will see it through in shape. The oldcurmudgeon! He might come as well as not if he chose. There is plenty oftime to get here, and he knows her mother is gone, for I added that tothe dispatch I sent, so as to insure his coming. And where is Neil, themilksop? He, at least, might come. I have no patience with the wholetribe. But we will do what we can for the poor little forsaken girl. "

"Yes, " Grey answered him. "We will do what we can. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

WHAT GREY AND JACK DID. 

They did everything that it was possible for two men to do under thecircumstances. They filled the old house with flowers, until it seemedlike one great garden of bloom, and the coffin they ordered would hardlyhave shamed a duke, while the undertaker had orders to send Bessie onlya very small part of the real cost of the funeral. The rest they were topay between them, though Jack at first insisted upon paying the whole. But in this Grey overruled him, and they agreed to share the expenseequally. Nothing could be kinder or more deferential than their demeanortoward Bessie, who, wholly overcome with grief and fatigue, layperfectly quiet in her room, and let them do what they liked, she was soweary and worn, and it was so good to be cared for; but on the day ofthe funeral she roused herself, and insisted upon going to the grave andseeing her father buried; so, with Grey and Jack on either side shewalked through the yew-shaded garden to the small inclosure which wasthe family burying-place, and was so full of the McPhersons that afterArchie's grave, there was only room for one more between him and thewall, and both Grey and Jack noticed this as they stood there andwondered if it would be Bessie or Daisy who some day would be broughtthere and laid in her last bed. 

"Not Bessie, " Grey thought, and there arose before him a beautiful spotfar over the sea, where the headstones gleamed white in the sunlight, and the grass was like velvet to the touch, and flowers were blooming ingay parterres and the birds were singing all day long over MountAuburn's dead. 

And "not Bessie, " Jack thought, as he, too, remembered a quiet spot awayto the north of England, where the tall monuments bore the name ofTrevellian, and where his race were buried. 

The services over at the grave, they went back to the house, and in theevening Grey said good-by, for on the morrow he was due at Liverpool tomeet his Aunt Lucy, who was coming abroad to spend a year with him intravel. 

"I shall see you again before I go to America, and it possible willbring my Aunt Lucy with me, " he said to her, when at parting he stood afew moments with her small, thin hand in his, while he spoke a few wordsto her of Him who can heal all pain and cure the sorest heart sorrow, because he has felt it all. 

Grey's piety, which was genuine, did not so often manifest itself inwords as in deeds, but he felt constrained to speak to Bessie, whosetears fell like rain as she listened to him, and who felt when he wasgone a greater sense of loneliness than before, even though Jack wasleft to her; Jack, who tried so hard to soothe her, and who was tenderand thoughtful as a brother, and gave no sign to her of the volcanoraging within when he thought of the Hon. John and Neil, neither ofwhom sent a word to the stricken girl waiting so anxiously for newsfrom them. But he wrote to them both. To the Hon. John, he said:

 "DEAR SIR:--Mr. Grey Jerrold and myself saw your nephew buried _decently_ as you suggested, but there is no bill to send you, as Miss Bessie would not allow it. I am sorry you did not find it convenient to come to the funeral. The presence of some one of her family would have been such a comfort to Miss Bessie, who, in that respect, was quite alone, though I may say that hundreds of people attended the funeral, and had the deceased been the eldest son of an earl, instead of your nephew, more respect could not have been paid him. I must leave here to-morrow for Trevellian Castle, and then Miss Bessie will be quite alone, but I dare say you and Lady Jane will soon arrive to take charge of her. 

 "Respectfully, "JACK TREVELLIAN. "

"That will settle him, " Jack thought, and taking a fresh sheet, hecommenced a letter to Neil, which ran as follows:

 "STONELEIGH, July ----. 

 "OLD BOY; Where in the name of wonder are you, that you neither come, nor write, nor answer telegrams, nor pay any more attention to your Cousin Bessie than if she were not your cousin, and you had never been pretty far gone in regard to her and afraid a chap like me would look at her! Don't you know her mother is on the sea, going to America, sick as a horse, I hope, as she ought to be, and that her father is dead and buried, and not a soul of her kin here to comfort her? But she was not deserted, I assure you, and I call it a dispensation of Providence which sent Grey Jerrold here the night before Mr. McPherson died, and a second dispensation which sent me here the day after. I never pitied anybody in my life as I did the little, tired out, girl, who stood between Jerrold and myself at the grave. And now, the day after the funeral, she is white as a piece of paper and seems as limp and exhausted, as if all the muscle were gone from her. Poor little Bessie! Foolish Bessie, too, to make the moan she does for some of her relatives to be here--for you, old chap, for I heard her say, 'Oh, if Neil were here. ' By Jove! if I'd had you by the nape of the neck, I'd have shaken you into shoestrings, for I know well what you are at--saying soft speeches to Blanche as if that were not settled long ago. But no matter, Bessie will not need attention from her relatives much longer if I can have my way. I do not mind telling _you_ that I intend to make her Lady Trevellian, if she will be that. But meantime your mother ought to take her in charge and not leave her here alone. The thing is impossible, and I have no idea that butterfly of a Daisy will come back at once. I shall not ask Bessie _now_ to be my wife, but in a week or two, I shall do so, and will then report success. I think Jerrold is hard hit, too; but I mean to get the start of him. I need not tell you that, notwithstanding I am so disgusted with you, I shall be glad to see you at Trevellian Castle whenever you choose to come. I cannot get accustomed to my change of fortune, and I am so sorry poor Hal is dead. 

 "Yours truly, JACK. "

The next day Jack left Stoneleigh, as it was necessary for him to be atthe castle, he said, alluding for the first time to his new home. 

"Yes, " Bessie replied, looking up at him with the first smile he hadseen upon her face since her father died, "you are _Sir Jack_ now. I hadscarcely thought of it before, or remembered to give you your title. "

"Don't remember it now, " he said, with a look of deep pain in his eyesand a tremor in his voice, "Believe me, I'd give worlds to bring poorHal back to life again, and you do not know what anguish I enduredduring the few moments I held him in my arms and knew that he was dying. Just an instant before and he had bandied some light jest with me, and Ihad thought how handsome he was with that bright, winning smile, whichdeath froze so soon upon his lips. It was awful, and the castle seems tobe so gloomy without him. "

"Is that young girl there still?" Bessie asked, and he replied:

"Yes, Flossie Meredith, the sweetest, prettiest little wild Irish girlyou ever saw; but she cannot stay, you know. "

"Why not?" Bessie asked, and he replied. 

"Mrs. Grundy will not let her live there alone with me. Hal was hercousin, but I am no kin to her, and so she must go back to Ireland, which she hates, unless--Bessie, " he cried, impulsively, then checkedhimself as he saw the startled look in her eyes, and added, quitecalmly: "You and Flossie would be the best of friends, and would suiteach other exactly. You are so quiet, she so wild and frolicsome. Let mebring her to see you this summer. "

"I am sure I should be so glad if you would, " Bessie said, and then Jackwent away, promising to write her from London, whither he was firstgoing. 

And in a few days his letter came, saying he had learned that Neil hadgone to Moscow with a party, and so his silence and absence wereexplained. 

 "I wrote him a savage letter, " he said, "and shall have to apologize for it when I see him, I dare say you will hear from him ere long. Remember, I am coming again to Stoneleigh very soon. 

 "Always your friend, "JACK TREVELLIAN. "

Bessie's heart beat rapidly as she read this letter, and comprehendedits meaning; but she was true to Neil and waited patiently for theletter she knew was sure to come as soon as he heard of her trouble. 

Two weeks went by, and then one lovely July day Jack came again, andsitting with her on the bench in the garden where her father once satand made love to Daisy, he told her first of his home with itswide-spreading pastures, its lovely views, its terraces and banks offlowers, and of Irish Flossie, who cried so hard because she must giveup this home and go back to her old house by the wild Irish sea, withonly a cross grandmother for company. 

"And so, Bessie, " he said, "I have come to ask you to be my wife, andmake both Flossie and myself the happiest people in England. It is toosoon after your father's death to speak of love and marriage, perhaps;but under the circumstances I trust you will forgive me, and believe itis no hasty step with me. I think I have loved you since the day I firstsaw you in the park and looked into your bright face, the fairest andtruest I ever saw. Flossie is beautiful and sweet and good, and makesone think of a playful kitten, which you wish to capture and caressawhile and then release before you get a spit and scratch; but you, Bessie, are my ideal of a woman, and I could make you so happy. Thinkwhat it would be to have no care or thought for the morrow, to donothing but rest, and you need it so much. You are so tired and worn, and up there among the hills you would grow strong, and I would surroundyou with every comfort and make you a very queen. Will you come, Bessie?Will you be my wife? and when I ask _you_ to share my home I do not meanto exclude your mother. She shall be welcome there for your sake, and wewill try to make her so happy that she will stay with us, or live hereif she chooses, and give up her wandering life. Dear Bessie, answer me. Can you not like me a little?"

As he talked Bessie had covered her face with her hands, and he couldsee the great tears dropping through her fingers. 

"Don't cry, darling, " he said, winding his arm around her and trying todraw her to him. "Don't cry, but answer me; don't you like me a little?"

"Yes, a great deal, but not that way. I think you one of the noblest, best of men, and always have thought so since I first knew you, and youwere so kind to father and me; but I cannot be your wife. "

"Oh, Bessie, don't say that, " Jack cried, with such bitter pain in hisvoice that Bessie looked quickly up at him, and asked wonderingly:

"Do you then care so much for me?"

"Care for you!" he exclaimed. "Never man cared for or loved anotherbetter than I love and care for you I have staked my all upon you. Icannot give you up. Trevellian Castle will have no charm for me if youare not its mistress. I want you there; we need you there, Flossie andI. Ah! I had forgotten _this_, " and taking a letter from his pocket hehanded it to Bessie, saying: "It is from Flossie. She knew of my errandhere and wished to send a message. I do not know what she has written, but read it, please. She may be more successful than I have been. "

Opening the letter, which was written in a bold, dashing, schoolgirlhand, Bessie read as follows:

 "Trevellian Castle, July ----. 

 "DEAR DARLING BESSIE:--I must call you that, though I have never seen you, but I have heard so much of you from Sir Jack that I feel as if I knew you, and very soon I hope to see you face to face, for you _are_ coming here as Lady Jack, and so save me from that horrid, pokey place on the Irish coast, where I never can be happy, never. I do so want to stay at the castle, but Madam Propriety says it would not be proper. I hate proper things, don't you? and I do love the castle! Such a grand old place, with lovely views from every window. Acres of green sward, smooth as satin, with shade trees here and there, and banks, and borders, and beds of flowers, and from the room I have selected as your sitting-room you can see a broad, grassy avenue nearly a mile long, with the branches of the trees which skirt it meeting overhead. Every day I gallop down that avenue, which they call by my name, on Midnight, my black horse, and I always clear the gate at a bound. I like such things, and there is not a fence or a ditch in the neighborhood which I cannot take. Hoidenish, do you call me? Well, perhaps I am, but I am a pretty nice girl, too, and I love you and want you to come here at once and be happy. Sir Jack has told me how different your life has been from mine, and how tired and worn you are; but here you shall never know weariness again. Your life shall be one long rest, in the loveliest place you ever saw, and we will all care for you so tenderly, and bring the roses back to the dear face Sir Jack says is now so pale. I am seventeen, and not a mere child, though I am not much larger than your thumb, and I can be your companion and friend, if you will only come. You must love Sir Jack. You cannot help loving him when you know how good he is! Why, if I tried real hard I could love him myself! But he looks upon me as a child, though he does not play with and tease me as Cousin Harry did. Poor Hal! There is such a pain in my heart when I think of him so strong and full of fun in the morning, and then dead before noon. Oh, Hal. Hal! My tears are falling fast for him, and I am so lonely without him. Come to me, Bessie, and you shall never have a more devoted friend than little

 "FLORENCE MEREDITH. "

There were tears in Bessie's eyes when she finished this letter, whichtold her something of the warm, loving nature of the impulsive IrishFlossie, whom she knew she could love so much, while the perfect restpromised her at Trevellian Castle looked so very pleasant to her and shewas so tired, oh, so tired in mind and body, that it seemed to her shecould gladly lie down in some quiet spot and die, if only thus she couldrest. And Jack had offered her rest and happiness and luxury with him, but she must not take it, must not consider it for a moment. She waspromised to Neil. She would be true to Neil, even though he neitherwrote nor came. She had loved him always, and tired as she was, she wasready to take up life's work again and battle and toil for him, if needbe. And when Jack said to her, "You will be my wife, Bessie?" sheanswered him, sadly, "No, I cannot. I might learn to love you in time, if I could forget the past--forget that I love another, am promised toanother. "

"Love another! Promised to another! Not Grey Jerrold?" Jack exclaimed, and Bessie answered him:

"No, not Mr. Jerrold. He never thought of me that way. It surely cannotbe wrong to tell you now, though I am pledged to secrecy for awhile. Itold father just before he died, I am plighted to my Cousin Neil, and weare only waiting for him to find something to do, or his mother to bereconciled to me, to be married. "

"Plighted to Neil! To Neil McPherson! _You_!" Jack exclaimed, and for amoment his cheek grew pale and then flushed with resentment, as hethought of this fair young girl being thus sacrificed to one who, heknew, was not worthy of her. 

Jack was fond of Neil in a certain way, but he knew him thoroughly andknew that supreme selfishness was his ruling principle, and thatBessie's life with him would be quite as hard as it had been with herfather; besides this, he could not reconcile this engagement with thefact that he knew Neil to be very attentive to Blanche Trevellian, towhom current rumor said he was certainly engaged. Hence, hisastonishment, which Bessie was quick to detect, for she answered him alittle proudly:

"Yes, I! Do you think it so very strange that Neil should have chosenme?"

"No, Bessie, " he replied; "but strange that you should have chosen him. I cannot help it, Bessie, and I do not mean to be disloyal to Neil, whenI say that he will not make you happy, and further, that you will nevermarry him. I am sure of it, and knowing that _he_ only stands in my way, I can still hope for the future, and when you are free, remember I shallcome again. Good-by, Bessie, and forgive me if I have wounded you. In mybitter disappointment I spoke out what I thought. I must go now, andwith a heavy heart, Flossie will be so disappointed, too. "

He had risen as he spoke, and offered her his hand, which she took, andlifting her eyes full of tears to his face, she said:

"I have faith in Neil; if I had not, I believe I should die. He cannothelp his mother's pride and opposition to our marriage. He is true to methrough all, and he will come to me as soon as he knows of my trouble, Iam sorry for you, Mr. Trevellian, if you really care for me, but youwill get over that feeling and be again my friend. I do not wish to loseyou, I have so few friends, oh, so few. I am sorry too, for Flossie, andinterested in her. Mr. Trevellian, why don't _you_ marry Flossieyourself and so keep her at the castle?"

"_I_ marry Flossie! That child!" Jack exclaimed, staring blankly atBessie, who smiled faintly and said:

"She is seventeen; I am eighteen, and yet you sought me!"

"Yes, I know, " Jack rejoined, "but there is a vast difference betweenyou and Flossie; she is so small and she seems so young. I did notsuppose she was seventeen. I have always looked upon her as a mere childto pet and not as a woman to marry. "

"Then look upon her in that light now, " Bessie said, but Jack only shookhis head as he replied:

"I have loved you, Bessie. I shall never love another. Farewell, and Godbless you. "

Stooping over her, he kissed her forehead, and then walked rapidly awaywith her question occasionally ringing in his ears and stirring new andstrange thoughts in his heart where the pain was still so heavy. 

"Why don't you marry Flossie?"

CHAPTER XX. 

WHAT THE McPHERSONS DID. 

They did just as little as they could, at least that portion of thefamily which was at Vichy when the news of Archie's death was receivedthere. This portion comprised the Hon. John and Lady Jane, for Neil hadalready started for Moscow with Blanche and a few other young people. 

"How very inconvenient that he should die just now when we are so farfrom Wales. It is quite impossible for you to undertake the long journeyin this hot weather; and what good could you do if you were there? Youcould not pretend to be sorry, and we are not able to do much for thegirl; Neil's trip will take all our spare cash, " Lady Jane said, as sheread the telegram received from Jack, and that decided her better-halfat once. 

If Lady Jane said he could not go, he could not, but something of hisbetter nature prompted him to say that he would pay the funeralexpenses. This, however, he kept from his wife, who, dismissingStoneleigh from her mind, resumed her daily routine of duties--baths atseven, music in the park at eight, breakfast at ten, gossip till one, sleeping till three, driving at four, dressing for dinner, dining atsix, and going to the casino in the evening. This was her life, whilethe Hon. John bathed, and smoked, and read the newspapers, and called itall a confounded bore, and wished himself at home, and thought notunfrequently of Stoneleigh and what was to become of Bessie. 

Meantime Neil was enjoying himself immensely. His mother had given himplenty of money, and his companions and surroundings were most agreeableto him. And still, he never for a moment swerved in his heart fromBessie; that is, he never harbored the thought that she would not oneday be his wife, and he still hugged the delusion that he preferredpoverty with her to riches with any other woman in all the world. Butuntil the time arrived when he must take her and poverty, he surelymight enjoy himself, and he was doing so to the best of his ability whenJack's letter came, informing him of Archie's death and of his intentionto make Bessie his wife if she would have him. 

Then Neil roused himself, and, telling his party what had happened, saidhe must start for Stoneleigh at once. Mr. McPherson was dead, and hisCousin Bessie was alone, and it was his duty to go to her; and in spiteof Blanche's entreaties and his friends' protestations against it, hestarted immediately, and, travelling day and night, reached Stoneleighon the afternoon of the day of Jack's departure. 

With a cry of glad surprise, Bessie threw herself into his arms, andwept as she had not done since her father died. 

"Oh, Neil, " she sobbed, "I am so glad, I have wanted you so much, andbeen so wretched because you neither wrote nor came. "

"But I did write you, darling, before I left Vichy, and the letter musthave gone astray, " he said, "and then the moment I got Jack's letter Istarted and came to you. Don't cry, Bessie; it hurts me to see you feelso badly. Try and be quiet, and tell me all about it, and what GreyJerrold and Jack did and said. They were both here, I understand, andboth in love with you. "

Neil spoke a little sharply now, and Bessie looked inquiringly at him, as, drawing her to a seat, he sat down beside her, and with his armaround her and her head upon his breast he went on:

"Jack wrote me all about it--that he believed Grey pretty far gone, butthat _he_ should get the start and ask you to be Lady Trevellian, and Ibelieve he will do it, too; and if he does I hope you will put him downeffectually, but don't for Heaven's sake, tell him of our engagement. That must be our secret awhile longer. I cannot meet mother'sdisapproval just yet. Do you believe, that horrid old aunt in Americawrote asking me to come out there and oversee the hands in a cottonmill. Niggers, I dare say, as I believe they are mostly that inMassachusetts, are they not?"

Bessie did not reply to this, but said to him, quietly:

"Mr. Trevellian asked me to be his wife--here--this morning, and I toldhim no, and that I was plighted to you. "

"Oh, Bessie, how could you have been so indiscreet. Now the news mustreach mother, and my life will be a burden to me, " Neil exclaimed, withso much severity in his tone that Bessie shrank a little from him as shereplied:

"I had to tell him, Neil. There was no other way to make him believe Imeant it, he was so much in earnest. He will not repeat it. He has toomuch honor in his nature for that. He is one of the best and noblest menI ever knew. "

Bessie was very earnest in her defense of Jack, and Neil grew angry atonce. 

"Maybe you prefer him to me?" he said. "By Jove, I do not blame you ifit is so. You'd better be Lady Trevellian, with plenty of money, thanplain Mrs. Neil McPherson, not knowing where I the next meal is to comefrom. Say the word and I will set you free, though it breaks my heart todo it. "

No wonder if Bessie felt that Neil's presence was productive of morepain than pleasure, or if for a moment she felt keenly the contrastbetween his manner and Jack's. But Neil's mood soon changed, and windinghis arm around her, and kissing her fondly, he called himself a bruteand a savage to wound her so, and talked of their future, when he couldbe always with her, and worked himself up to the point of proposingmarriage at once--a private marriage, of course, which must be keptsecret for an indefinite length of time, during which she would live atStoneleigh, and he would visit her often. But Bessie shrank from thisproposal, and when Neil asked what she was to do there alone, sheanswered that she could do very well until her mother came, and thenthey would manage together somehow on the little there was left, and ifnothing better offered she could go out as governess to small children. But this plan Neil repudiated with scorn. His wife must never be agoverness, never earn her own bread! The idea was preposterous; andthen he talked of the bright future before them if they waitedpatiently, and how happy he would make her; and in the morning he lefther and went back to London, and she was alone again, and lookinganxiously forward to news from her mother, and the day after Neil left aletter came from Daisy with the blackest and deepest of borders, andBessie opened it eagerly to learn where she was, and when she was cominghome. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

WHAT DAISY DID. 

She flirted with every man on the ship who would flirt with her. EvenAllen Browne was not insensible to her charms. During the last fewmonths he had developed amazingly, and had put on all the airs of afirst-class dandy. He parted his hair in the middle, carried aneye-glass and a cane, wore a long overcoat, and pants so tight that itwas a matter of speculation with his friends how he ever got into them, or being in, how he ever got out! His last purchase in London had been apair of pointed shoes, which were just coming into vogue, as was thespecies of the male gender called "dudes. "

"A dudle I call 'em, and think 'em too shaller for, anything, " was Mrs. Rossiter-Browne's comment, and she looked a little askance at her son, wondering how he would impress the Ridgevillians at home, and especiallywhat Miss Boughton would think of him. "I wouldn't make a 'tarnel foolof myself if 'twas the fashion, " she said to him when the pointed toesappeared. 

But Allen had his own ideas, and, encouraged by Daisy, who, thoughwonderfully amused at his appearance, told him he was "_tout-a-faitparisien_, " he followed his own inclinations, and, arrayed in all hisfinery, made himself the laughing-stock of the passengers. But he didnot care so long as Daisy smiled upon him, and allowed him to attendher. He walked with her on deck and brought her chair for her, and hershawl, and rug, and wrapped her feet carefully, and held the umbrellaover her head to screen her from the wind, and hovered over herconstantly, leaving his mother to stagger, or rather crawl up the stairsas best she could, with her rug, and shawl, and waterproof, and saw herumbrella turned inside out, and carried out to sea, without offering herany assistance, even when, as she expressed it, she was "sick enough todie. "

Augusta did not need his attentions, for Lord Hardy devoted himself toher, and nothing which Daisy could do availed to lure him from her side. Once when Allen said to her that "Hardy seemed pretty hard hit withGus, " her lip curled scornfully, but she dared not express her realfeelings and say how little the Irish lord cared for the girl herself. She must not offend the Rossiter-Brownes, and she smiled sweetly uponher rival, and called her "Gussie dear, " and flattered Mrs. Browne, andmade eyes at Mr. Browne, and asked him to _bet_ for her in thesmoking-room, where he spent most of his time with a set of men who arealways there, smoking, drinking, joking, and betting upon the dailyspeed of the ship, or any other trivial thing to pass away the time. So, while his son flirted with the fair lady on deck, Mr. Browne bet for herin the smoking-room with so good success, that when the losses and gainswere footed up she found herself richer by one hundred and fifty dollarsthan when she left Liverpool. Mrs. Browne did not believe in betting. Itwas as bad as gambling, she said. And Daisy admitted it, but said, with, tears in her eyes, that it would do so much good to Bessie and her sickhusband, to whom she should send every farthing as soon as she reachedNew York. 

The voyage had been unusually long, but this was their last day out. NewYork was in sight, and in her most becoming attire Daisy stood upon thedeck, looking eagerly at the, to her, new world, and wholly unconsciousof the shock awaiting her on the shore which they were slowly nearing. At last the ship reached the dock, the plank was thrown out, and athrong of passengers crowed the gangway. 

"Is Mrs. Archibald McPherson on board?" was shouted through the ship, and in a flutter of expectation Daisy went forward, announcing herselfas the lady in question. "A telegram has been waiting for you more thana week, " was the response, as the officer placed in her hand the yellowmissive whose purport he knew. 

"A message for me! Where could it have come from, I wonder, " Daisy said, as, without a suspicion of the truth, she broke the seal and read:

 "STONELEIGH, June ----. 

 "Your husband died this morning, quietly and peacefully. Bessie well, but very tired. 

 "GREY JERROLD. "

"Oh-h! Archie, my husband!" Daisy cried, bitterly as she sank down intoa chair and covered her face with her hands, while over her for a momentthere swept a great wave of regret for the man she had loved in the dayswhen she was innocent and young, and not the hard, selfish woman of theworld that she was now. "Archie is dead, dead!" she moaned, as theRossiter-Brownes gathered around her, together with Lord Hardy, who tookthe telegram from her and read it aloud, while he, too, experienced athrob of pain for the man he had known so long and esteemed so highly, even while he despised him for his weakness in suffering his wife tolead the life she had. 

How vividly it all came back to him--the day when he first saw ArchibaldMcPherson, the fair English boy, for he was scarcely more than that, with his young girl-wife, so innocent and lovely then. And she waslovely still and he pitied her, for he believed her grief genuine, mingled as it must be with remorse for the past, and laying his hand onher bowed head, he said to her, kindly:

"I am very sorry for you, and if I can do anything for you, do nothesitate to command me. "

Alas for poor weak human nature when perverted from its better side! Thesound of Teddy's voice, so different from what it had been before duringthe voyage, awoke a throb in Daisy's heart, which she would not like tohave confessed to those around her. She was free now, and who knew thatshe might not one day be mistress of that handsome place in Ireland, Lord Hardy's home, if she only played her cards well. Surely thatlow-born Yankee girl, Augusta Browne, could never be her rival, even ifshe had money. Such was the thought which flashed like lightning throughDaisy's mind as she felt the touch of Lord Hardy's hand and heard hissympathetic voice. 

Her first impulse, when she read the telegram, had been that she must goback to Bessie in the first ship which sailed, but now her decision wasreversed. Archie was dead and buried. She could do no good to him, andshe might as well stay a little while, especially as she knew Lord Hardyhad accepted Mrs. Browne's invitation to spend a few days with them atthe Ridge House. It would never do to abandon the field to Augusta, shereflected, but her tears flowed just as fast, and, to do her justice, there was a sense of bitter pain in her heart, as she sat with her headbowed down, while the Brownes and Lord Hardy stood around trying tocomfort her. Mrs. Browne offered her sal-volatile and called her "mypoor dear;" Augusta put her arms around her neck; Allen fanned hergently, and Lord Hardy asked what he could do, while Mr. Browne said itwas "plaguey hard on her, but somebody must go and see to themconfounded custom-house chaps, or they would have every dud out of theten trunks, and there'd be a pretty how-d'ye-do. "

Thus reminded of what had been a terror to her all the voyage, Mrs. Browne suggested that Daisy should leave the ship and sit on the wharfwith "Gusty to attend to her, while she helped her husband pullthrough. "

It was in vain that Mr. Browne protested against any help, telling hisbetter-half to mind her business, and saying that she'd only upseteverything with her fussiness and red face. But Mrs. Browne would notlisten. She was not going to let him lie. She had given him numerouslectures on that point during the voyage, and had always ended them withthe assertion that she wouldn't pay duty either! Just what she meant todo she did not know, but she went with her husband to the field ofcombat, and was soon hotly engaged with three officers, who, seeing hernervousness and hearing her excited voice, scented mischief, of course, and notwithstanding that she declared she was Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, ofRidgeville, a church member in good standing, and asked if they thoughtshe would do a thing she believed was wrong, they answered that her ideaof wrong and theirs might not agree, and they went to the bottom of herlargest trunk, and found the silk dress she had bought for her friend, Mrs. Boughton, who had told her "to get one _worth_ four dollars a yard, but not to give over two, and on no account pay duty. "

"I trust to your Yankee wit to get it through, " Mrs. Boughton hadwritten, citing several instances where similar things had been done andno lies told either!

And it was this particular dress at the very bottom of her trunk forwhich Mrs. Browne felt the most anxiety. But the remorseless officersfound it, and found a plush table-spread she had bought in Paris and acushion to match, and, as they held them up, they facetiously asked herto what church she belonged. 

She told them none of their business, and as her principles and patiencewere both at a low ebb by this time, and the meaning of rendering toCæsar the things which were Cæsar's did not seem at all clear to her, she whispered fiercely to her husband:

"Ike, you fool, why don't you fee 'em? I can't have 'em riddlen' allthem tother trunks, with my seal-skin, and Gusty's fur-lined cloak, andAllen's new overcoat, and that clock and mosaic table. Fee 'em high, too, and do it quick! there's that wretch now liftin' out a tray!"

To those who have witnessed similar scenes it is needless to say that bysome magic the search was stopped, and neither Mrs. Browne's seal-skin, nor Augusta's fur-lined cloak, nor Allen's overcoat were molested, andthe ten trunks were chalked and deposited in the express wagons, and theRossiter-Brownes, with Lord Hardy and Daisy, were driven to the Windsor. 

Meantime Daisy had cried a good deal, and leaned her head againstAugusta and once against Lord Hardy's arm, and sobbed:

"Oh, Teddy, you knew my Archie, and know just how good and patient hewas, and how lonely I shall be without him. Oh, what shall I do?"

Teddy did not suggest anything she could do, though he naturally thoughtshe would go home at once; and Mrs. Browne thought so, too, when she hadrecovered from her encounter with the custom-house officers and couldthink of anything. But she would not be the first to suggest itoutright. She merely said it was a pity that Mrs. McPherson could notsee anything of America except New York, which was much like any greatcity. 

"Yes, " Daisy sobbed, "such a pity, and I had anticipated so much. Oh, Mrs. Browne, I do want to do right, and you must advise me. Now that Iam here, and poor, dear Archie is dead and buried, and I can do him nogood by going back at once, do you think it would look very bad andheartless in me if I stay a little while--just long enough to see yourlovely country home, and rest? I am so tired!" and as Allen happened tobe the nearest to her, she leaned her head against him and cried aloud. 

Before Mrs. Browne could reply, Augusta asked:

"What of Bessie? Will she not be very lonely without you?"

"Nasty cat! She is as jealous as she can be, and I will stay to spiteher, " Daisy thought, but she said: "Oh, yes, I ought to go home toBessie, though she would bid me stay now that I am here; she is sounselfish, and I shall never come again. Her cousin's family in Londonwill take her directly home, so she will not be alone. Poor Bessie!"

Daisy knew that the London family would not take Bessie to their home, but it answered her purpose to say so, and seemed some excuse for herremaining, as she finally decided to do, greatly to Allen's delight andsomewhat to Mrs. Browne's surprise. Yet the glamour of Daisy's beauty, and style, and position was over her still, and she was not sorry toshow her off to the people in the hotel, and anticipated in no smalldegree what would be said by her friends at home when she showed them alive lord and an English lady like Daisy. She was going to Ridgeville ina day or two, but Daisy's mourning must first be bought, and in theexcitement of shopping, and trying on dresses and bonnets, and decidingwhich shape was the most becoming, Daisy came near forgetting "poor, dear, dead Archie, " of whom she talked so pathetically when she spoke ofhim at all. 

"Don't, I beg of you, think that I ever for a moment forget my loss, "she said to Mrs. Browne, when she had with a hand-glass studied the hangof her crape vail for at least fifteen minutes. "It hurts me to speakof him, but there is a moan in my heart for him all the time. "

And Mrs. Browne believed her, and thought she was bearing it bravely, and paid all the bills, and thought her the most beautiful creature inher weeds that she had ever seen. And truly she was a lovely littlewidow, with just enough pallor in her face to be interesting and showthat her sorrow had robbed her of some of her roses, or, as Lord Hardysuspected, that she had purposely omitted the roses, when making hertoilet, for the sake of effect. 

Lord Hardy knew the lady perfectly, and knew there was not a real thingabout her except, indeed, her hair, which was wavy and abundant still, and of which she was very proud, often allowing it to fall on her neck, and always arranging it in the most negligent and girlish manner. Onceher complexion had been her own, but the life she had led was notconducive to bloom, and much of her bright color and the pearly tint ofher skin was now the work of art, so skillfully done, however, that fewcould detect it. Mrs. Browne did not. She never suspected anything, andtook Daisy for what she seemed, and was glad Allen was so fond of her asin her society he was safe, she said, "and could not help getting kindof refined and cultivated up. "

Daisy wrote to Bessie, telling her how prostrated with grief she was, and that she should have taken the first ship home if theRossiter-Brownes had not insisted that she should stay and see a littleof America. 

"But it will not be for long, " she wrote. "I shall soon return, and Isend you thirty pounds, absolutely my own. This will last till I am withyou, and then we will contrive together how to live respectably andhappily. "

The day after the letter was sent, the Browne party started forRidgeville, reaching the Allington station about three in the afternoonof a lovely July day. 

The news of their coming had preceded them, and the Ridge House, whichwas a large, imposing mansion, had for days been the scene of muchbustle and excitement, for it was known that an Irish lord was toaccompany the family, and an English lady, who, if not titled, wasconnected with some of the best families in England. 

There was a great deal of talk and gossip among the neighbors, who hadknown the Rossiter-Brownes with out an "e" or a hyphen, when he wassimply Ike and she was Angeline, Miss Lucy Grey's hired girl. But theywere rich people now; they owned the finest house in Ridgeville, andevery room was covered with what Mrs. Browne called a Mocha carpet, andthey kept negroes instead of white servants, and the barn was full ofboxes of all sizes, which had arrived, from time to time, bearingforeign marks upon them, thus impressing the lower class with a speciesof awe as they thought how far they had come, and how much they hadprobably cost. 

Then, the family had traveled and consorted with nobility, and seen theQueen and the Pope, and in consequence of all this there was quite acrowd of people at the station when the New York express stopped thenand deposited upon the platform twelve trunks, three hat boxes, anEnglish terrier, a Dongola cat, with innumeral satchels andport-manteaus, and seven people--Mr. And Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, AugustaBrowne, Allen Browne, Daisy McPherson, a French maid, and Lord Hardy. _He_, plainly dressed in a gray suit, which did not fit him at all, butwith a decidedly aristocratic look upon his face as he glanced curiouslyat the crowd gathering around the Brownes, and greeting them with noisydemonstrations: Daisy, in deep black, with her vail thrown back from herlovely lace and a gleam of ridicule and contempt in her blue eyes asthey flashed upon Lord Hardy as if for sympathy; the French maid, inwhite apron and cap, tired, homesick and bewildered with Mrs. Browne'srepeated calls to know if she was sure she had all the bags, and shawls, and fans, and umbrellas, and the shrill voice of a little boy whoshouted to her as the train moved off, "I say, hain't you left yourbunnet in the cars; 'tain't on your head;" Allen, stunning in his long, light overcoat, tight pants, pointed shoes, cane, and eye-glasses, whichhe found very necessary as he pointed out his luggage, and in reply tothe baggage-master's hearty "How are you, my boy?" drawled out, "Quitewell--thanks--but awful tired, you know;" Augusta, in a Jersey jacket, with gloves buttoned to her elbows, and an immense hat, with twofeathers on the back; Mr. Browne in a long ulster, and soft hat, withgloves, which his wife made him wear; and Mrs. Browne, in a Paris dress, fearfully and wonderfully made, and a poke bonnet, so long and so pokeythat to see her face was like looking down a narrow lane. 

No wonder the plain people of Ridgeville, to whom poke bonnets, andjersey jackets, and long gloves, and pointed toes, were then new, werestartled, and a little abashed at so much foreign style, especially asit was accompanied by nobility in the person of Lord Hardy. At him thepeople stared curiously, deciding that he was not much to look at if hewas a lord, and wondering if he was after Augusta. 

"Her mother will bust, if he is. She has about as much as she can do tokeep herself together now. I wonder if she has forgot that she was oncea hired girl, and worked like the rest of us?" was whispered by some ofthe envious ones. 

But this was before they had received Mrs. Browne's greeting, which wasjust as cordial as of old, and her voice was just as loud and hearty. She didn't mean to be stuck up because she'd been abroad; she was ademocrat to her back-bone, she had frequently asserted, and she carriedout her principles, and shook hands with everybody, and kissed a greatmany, and thanked them for coming to meet her; and then, with herhusband, Augusta, and Lord Hardy, entered her handsome carriage and wasdriven toward home. 

The French maid went in the omnibus, while Allen drove Daisy himself inthe pony phaeton, not a little proud of the honor, and the attention hewas attracting as he took his seat beside the beautiful woman, whoseface had never looked fairer or sweeter than it did under the widow'sbonnet. 

"What a lovely pony! Is he gentle? and do you think I might venture todrive him?" Daisy asked, with a pretty affectation of girlishness, asthey left the station; and Allen instantly put the reins in her hands, and leaning languidly back, watched her admiringly, with a strangethrill of something undefinable in his heart. 

"Do we pass Miss McPherson's house?" Daisy asked and he replied:

"Yes, at a little distance; and we can go very near to it by taking theroad across the common, " and he indicated the direction. "That is theplace, with all those cherry trees, " he continued, pointing toward theunpretentious house where Miss Betsey McPherson had lived for so manyyears, and where she now sat upon the piazza, with Hannah Jerrold at herside. 

Miss Betsey had been in Boston for two weeks, and had only returned homethat morning, finding Bessie's letter of thanks, written so long ago andnot forwarded to her until one of the firm in London heard of Archie'sdeath. This letter she had read with a great feeling of pity for andyearning toward the young girl who had written it. 

"I wish I had sent her more, and I will by and by, " she thought, neverdreaming that Archie was dead, or that his wife was so near. 

She had not even heard of the arrival in New York of the Brownes, andwas talking with Hannah Jerrold, who had come over to see her, when thecarriage containing Mr. And Mrs. Browne, Augusta and Lord Hardy, cameinto view across the common. 

"Why, that's the Brownes!" she exclaimed. "Are they home? and who isthat tow-headed chap with them? Not Allen, surely?"

Hannah explained that the Brownes were expected that afternoon, and thatan Irish lord was coming with them, and that half Ridgeville had gone tothe station to meet them. 

"Irish fiddlesticks! After Augusta's money, of course, " Miss Betseyreturned, with a snort, but whatever else she might have said was cutshort by the appearance of the phaeton with Allen and Daisy in it. 

"I wonder who she is. I hope she stares well. Seems to me I have seenher before, " Miss Betsey said, adding, as Daisy half inclined her head, and smiled upon her, "Who can she be? Somebody they have picked up tomake a splurge with. A widow, at any rate. "

"Oh, yes, I remember now to have heard from the cook at Ridge House thatan English lady was to accompany the family home, and--yes, her name wasMcPherson, too--Lady McPherson, the cook called her. This is she, nodoubt. "

"Lady McPherson, " Miss Betsey repeated "There is no Lady McPhersonexcept my brother's wife, Lady Jane, and she is almost as dried up andyellow by this time as I am, while this lady is young, and--goodgracious! It is she! The Jezebel! Lady McPherson indeed!" and MissBetsey sprang to her feet so energetically as to startle her visitor, who had no idea what she meant. 

The face seen on the terrace at Aberystwyth years ago had come back toMiss Betsey, and she felt sure that she had just seen it again, smilingupon Allen Browne as it had then smiled upon Lord Hardy. But why inwidow's weeds? Was Archie dead? she asked herself, as she resumed herseat and tried to seem natural. 

Hannah saw that something ailed her; but she was too well bred to askany questions, and soon took her leave. 

Alone with her own thoughts, Miss Betsey fell to soliloquizing:

"That letter was written long ago; Archie may be dead, and this paintedgambler has gulled the Brownes and come to America as their guest, withthe snipper-snapper of a Hardy. I must find out if Archie is dead, andwhat has become of the girl. "

After she had had her tea. Miss Betsey ordered her old white horse andold-fashioned buggy to be brought round, and started for a drive, takingthe Ridgeville road and passing the house of the Brownes, where thefamily were assembled upon the wide piazza, enjoying the evening breeze. At a glance she singled out Daisy, who was reclining gracefully in anarm-chair, with a pond-lily at her throat, relieving the blackness ofher dress, and Allen Browne leaning over and evidently talking to her. 

As Miss McPherson drove very slowly, and looked earnestly toward thehouse, which was at a little distance from the road, Mrs. Browne, whowas watching her, ventured down the walk, bowing half hesitatingly, forshe had never been on terms of intimacy with Miss Betsey, of whom shestood a little in awe. 

Reining up old Whitey, the lady stopped and waited until Mrs. Brownecame to her. Then, extending her hand, she said:

"You are welcome home again. I did not know you had come until I sawyour carriage go by, and the phaetons with Allen and a lady in it, " andshe glanced toward Daisy, who, having heard from Allen that the stiff, queer-looking woman in the buggy was her aunt, had arisen to her feetfor the purpose of getting a better view of her. 

"Yes, " Mrs. Browne began, "we got home to-day, and a more tuckered outlot you never saw. Home is home, if it's ever so homely, I tell 'em. Bythe way, I'm glad you happened this way. I was goin' to send you word, I've brought home with me one of your relations, Mrs. ArchibaldMcPherson, your nephew's wife, and I hope you'll call and see her. Sheis very nice, and so pretty, too. That's her in black. "

"Ahem!" and Miss Betsey's thin lips were firmly compressed. "Ahem!yes--Mrs. Archibald McPherson. Why is she in black?"

Then followed the story of the telegram received on the Celtic, and theterrible shock it was to Daisy, who was for a time wholly overcome. 

"Seems pretty brisk now, " Miss Betsey said, glancing sharply toward theairy figure now walking up and down the piazza with Allen at its side. "Why didn't she go home at once to her daughter?"

"She did talk of it, " Mrs. Browne replied, uneasily for she detecteddisapprobation of her guest in Miss McPherson's tone. "I think she wouldof went, but it seemed a pity not to see a little of America first. Shewill not stay long, and I hope you'll call soon. I b'lieve you havenever been in my new house. "

"No, I have not. Who, may I ask, is that tow-headed man, with his hairparted in the middle?"

"Oh, excuse me, " and Mrs. Browne brightened at once. "That is LordHardy. We met him in Nice. He is going West, and we persuaded him tostop here first. He is very nice, and not at all stuck up. "

"Yes, an Irishman. I've seen him before. If he is poor, my advice is, look out for Augusta, and, anyway, have a care for your boy. Good-night. It's growing late. Get up, Whitey, " and with a jerk at the reins the oldlady drove on, while Mrs. Browne, rather crestfallen and disappointed, went slowly back to the house, wondering why she was to have a care forher _boy_, her Allen, still walking up and down at Daisy's side, andtalking eagerly to her. 

"I suppose I am meaner than dirt, but I cannot help it, I will notnotice that woman--no, not a woman, but a gambler, an adventuress, aflirt, who, if she cannot capture that Irishman, will try her luck withAllen! I hate her, but I pity the girl, and I'll send her a hundredpounds at once, " Miss Betsey soliloquized, as she went home through thegathering twilight. 

And before she slept she wrote to her bankers in London, bidding themforward to Bessie's address another hundred pounds, and charge it to heraccount. 

The next morning Miss Betsey was sitting in her hop-vine-covered porch, shelling peas for her early dinner, and thinking of Archie and thepainted Jezebel, as she designated Daisy, when a shadow fell upon thefloor, and looking up she saw the subject of her thoughts standingbefore her, with her yellow hair arranged low in her neck, and a roundblack hat set coquettishly upon her head. Miss Betsey did not manifestthe least surprise, but adjusting her spectacles from her forehead toher eyes, looked up inquiringly at her visitor, who, seating herselfupon the threshold of the door, took off her hat, and in the silverytones she could assume so well, said:

"You must excuse me, dear auntie. I could not wait for you to call, Iwanted to see you so badly, and, as Allen Browne was going to thepost-office, I rode down with him, I am Daisy--Archie's wife, or widow, for Archie is dead, you know. "

She said this very sadly and low, and there were great tears in the blueeyes lifted timidly and appealingly to the little sharp, bead like eyesconfronting her so steadily through the spectacles. How very lovely andyouthful-looking she was as she sat there in the doorway, and MissBetsey acknowledged the youth and the loveliness, but did not unbend onewhit. 

"Ahem!" she began, and the tone was not very reassuring "I knew you werehere. Mrs. Browne told me, and I saw you there with Allen yesterday. Isaw you years ago on the terrace at Aberystwyth, and remembered youwell. Was Archie very sick when you left him?"

"Yes--no, " Daisy said, stammeringly; "that is, he had been sick a longtime, but I did not think him so bad or I should never have left him. Oh, auntie, it almost killed me when I heard he was dead, and there is amoan for him in my heart all the time. "

She adopted this form of speech because it had sounded prettily toherself when she said it to Mrs. Browne, who had believed in the moan, but Miss Betsey did not. 

"Ahem!" she said; "how much time have you spent with Archie the last tenyears or so?"

"Not as much as I wish I had now. I was obliged to be away from him, "Daisy replied, and the spinster continued:

"Why?"

"My health was poor, and I was so much better out of England; and so, when people invited me, I went with them--it saved expense at home, andwe are so poor, oh! you cannot know how poor;" and Daisy clasped herhands together despairingly as she gazed up at the stern face above her, which did not relax in its sternness, but remained so hard and stonythat Daisy burst out impetuously: "Oh, auntie, why are you so cold tome. Why do you hate me so? I have never harmed you. I want you for myfriend--mine and Bessie's; and we need a friend so much in ourloneliness and poverty. Bessie is the sweetest, truest girl you everknew. "

For a moment Miss Betsey's hands moved rapidly among the pea-pods; thenremoving her spectacles and wiping them with the corner of her apron, she began:

"I mean to treat everybody civilly in my own house, but if I sayanything I must tell the naked truth. I believe Bessie is a true girl, as you say; but I have my doubts of you. I have heard much of yourcareer; have talked with those who have seen you in that hell at MonteCarlo, bandying jests with young profligates and blear-eyed old men, more dangerous than the younger ones because better skilled in evil. Isaw you myself on the terrace at Aberystwyth, flirting as no marriedwoman should flirt with that whiffet, Lord Hardy, who, it seems, is herewith you, and whom perhaps you think to capture now that you are free. But let me tell you that men seldom pick up and wear a soiled garment, particularly when they have helped to soil it. Lord Hardy will nevermarry you, and my advice is that you go home, as you ought to have doneat once. Go back to your child and be a mother to her; but, as you hopefor heaven, never try to drag her down where you are. You talk ofpoverty. You do not show it. Those diamonds in your ears never cost asmall sum, nor that solitaire upon your finger. "

"They were given to me, " Daisy sobbed, as she rose to her feet and puton her hat preparatory to leaving, while Miss Betsey continued:

"Given to you! The more shame for you to take them. Better throw themaway than wear them as a badge of degradation. Yes, throw them away, orsend them back whence they came. Wash that paint off your face. Get ridof that made-up smirk around your mouth. Remember that you are going ontoward forty. "

"Oh-h!" Daisy groaned; "I am not quite thirty-six. "

"Well, thirty-six, then, " the spinster rejoined. "There's a widedifference between thirty-six and sixteen. You are a widow; you have agrown-up daughter. You are no longer young, though you are good enoughlooking, but good looks will not support you honestly. Go home and go towork, if it is only to be a bar-maid at the George Hotel; and when I seeyou have reformed, I do not say I will not do something for you, butjust so long as you go round sponging your living and making eyes atmen--and boys, too, for that matter--not a penny of my money shall youever touch. I've said my say, and there comes the boy Allen for you. Good-morning. "

She arose to take her peas to the kitchen. The conference was ended, andwith a flushed face and wet eyes Daisy went out to the phaeton, intowhich Allen handed her very carefully, and then took his seat besideher. He noticed her agitation, but did not guess its cause, until shesaid, with a little gasping sob:

"I was never so insulted in my life as by that horrid old woman. Had Ibeen the vilest creature in the world she could not have talked worse tome. She said I was living upon your people--sponging she called it; thatI was after Lord Hardy--and--and--oh, Allen--even you--the _boy_ shecalled you, and she bade me go home and hire out as bar-maid at theGeorge Hotel in Bangor. "

"The wretch! Boy, indeed!" Allen said, bristling with indignation atthis fling at his youth, but feeling a strange stir in his young bloodat the thought of this fair creature being after him. 

Arrived at the Ridge House, Daisy went directly to her room and had theheadache all day; and gave Mrs. Browne a most exaggerated account of herinterview with her aunt, but omitted the part pertaining to Lord Hardyand Allen, the latter of whom hovered disconsolately near the door ofher room and sent her messages and a bouquet, and was radiant withdelight when after tea-time she was so far restored as to be able tojoin the family upon the piazza. It was Allen who brought a pillow forher, and a footstool, and asked if she was in a draught, and when shesaid she was, moved her chair at her request nearer to Lord Hardy, whoscarcely looked at her, and did not manifest the slightest interest inher headache, or in her. Nothing which Daisy could do was of any availto attract him to her, and she tried every wile and art upon him duringthe next few days, but to no purpose. At last, when she had been at theRidge House a week, and she had an opportunity of seeing him alone, shesaid, in a half playful, half complaining voice:

"What is it, Teddy? What has come between us that you are so cold to me?Has the fair Gusty, as her mother calls her, driven from your mind allthoughts of your old friend? You used to care for me, Teddy, in the goodold days when we were all so happy together. Don't you like me a littlenow, and I so lonely and sad, and all the more so that I have to keep upand smile before these people, who, kind as they are, bore me with theirvulgarities? Say, Teddy, are you angry with me?"

As she talked Daisy had put her hand on that of Lord Hardy, who oncewould have thrilled at its touch, but who now shrank from it assomething poisonous. He knew the woman so thoroughly that nothing shecould do or say would in the least affect him now, and when she asked ifhe were angry with her, he replied:

"Not angry, no--but, Mrs. McPherson--"

"Oh, Teddy, now I know you hate me when you call me Mrs. McPherson, "Daisy sobbed, and he continued:

"Well, Daisy, then, if that suits you better, I am not angry, but youmust know that we can never again be to each other what we were in thedays when I was foolish enough to follow where you led, even to my ruin. All that is past, and I will not reproach you more; but, Daisy, I mustspeak one word of warning. I owe so much to these kind people, whosevulgarities bore you, but do not prevent you from accepting theirhospitality. I am not blind to what you are doing. "

"And what am I doing?" Daisy asked, and he replied: "Making a fool of aboy, for mercenary purposes of your own. I have seen it ever since weleft Liverpool and I tell you I will not allow it, and if you persist inluring Allen to your side on all occasions, and throw over him theglamour of your charms, the family shall know all I know of your pastlife, even if it compromises me with you. They think you pure and good. What would they say if they knew you to be a professional gambler, anadventuress about whom men jest and smile derisively, even while theyflatter and admire you in a certain way? Bad, in the common acceptationof the word, you may not be, but your womanhood is certainly soiled, andyou are not a fit associate for a young, susceptible man, or for aninnocent girl. If you were a true woman you would have gone home atonce, to your daughter, who, rumor says, is as sweet and lovely as anangel. Go back now to her, and by fulfilling the duties of a mother tryto retrieve the past. It is not impossible. I do not mean to be harsh, and hardly know why I have said all this to you, except it were to saveAllen Browne, who is each day becoming more and more in love with you. "

"In love with me! A woman old enough to be his mother! Absurd!" Daisyexclaimed, adding scornfully: "Thanks for your lecture, which shall notbe lost on me. I have no wish to prolong my stay in this stupid place, and only wish I had never come here; and since my presence is sodistastful to you, I will go at once and leave you to prosecute yoursuit with the fair Augusta, wishing you joy with your Yankee bride andher refined family. Shall you invite them to your home in Ireland? Ifso, may I be there to see! _Addio!_" and with a mocking courtsey sheleft the room, and going to her chamber wrote to Bessie that she wascoming home immediately. Daisy had lost her game, and she knew it. Shehad nothing to expect from Miss McPherson, nothing from Lord Hardy, andas her deep mourning prevented Mrs. Browne from giving the party she hadtalked about so much, she might better be in Europe, she thought, andaccordingly she acquainted her hostess with her decision. There was afaint protest on the part of Mrs. Browne, but only a faint one, for shewas beginning to be a little afraid of her fair visitor, whom Augustadisliked thoroughly. Only Allen was sorry, for the wily woman hadstirred his boyish heart to its very depths, and when at last he saidgood-by to her, and stood until the train which bore her away was out ofsight, he felt, perhaps, as keen a pang of regret as a young man oftwenty-two ever felt for a woman many years his senior. 

Mr. Browne accompanied her to New York, and saw her on board the ship, and on his return home reported that he had left her in the cabin "asmellin' of and admirin' a basket of flowers most as big as herself, which she said a very dear friend had ordered sent to her with hislove. "

"She didn't say who 'twas, " he continued, "and I didn't ask her, but Ithought 'fool and his money soon parted, ' for they'd smell awful in aday or two, and be flung into the sea. She giv' me one of the posies forAllen. I guess it's pretty well jammed, for I chucked it into my vestpocket; here it is, " and he handed a faded rosebud to Allen, whose facewas very red, and whose eyes, as they met those of Lord Hardy, betrayedthe fact that he was the very dear friend who had ordered the flowers ashis farewell to Daisy. 

PART III. 

CHAPTER I. 

IN ROME. 

The carnival was raging through the streets of Rome, and the Corso wasthronged with masqueraders and lined with spectators--Italians, English, and Americans--all eager for the sight. Upon the balcony of a privatedwelling, for which an enormous price had been paid because it commandeda fine view of the street below, sat Miss Lucy Grey, with Grey Jerroldand a party of friends. Lucy had been in Rome three or four weeks, staying at a pension, in the Via Nazzionale, which she preferred to thefashionable and noisy hotels. 

Grey, who had taken the trip to Egypt, had only been in Rome a few days, and as there was no room for him at the pension, he was stopping at theQuirinal, near by. He had seen the carnival twice before, and cared butlittle for it; but it was new to his Aunt Lucy, and for her sake he wasthere, standing at her side and apparently watching the gay pageant asit moved by, though in reality he was scarcely thinking of it at all, for all his thoughts and interest were centered in the white, worn facehe had seen that morning in a close, dark room at the hotel, whereBessie McPherson lay dying, he verily believed. 

On the night of his arrival at the hotel, which was very full, he hadbeen given a room on the fourth floor looking into a court, and his resthad been disturbed by the murmur of voices in the room adjoining hisown. 

An Italian voice, which he was sure was a doctor's--a clear, decided, youthful voice, with a slight Irish brogue, which he knew must belong toa young girl, and an older, softer voice, often choked with tears, andoccasionally a moaning sound, and wild snatches of song, which affectedhim strangely, for this voice, broken and weak as it was, had in itsomething familiar, and he tried in vain to recall where he had heard itbefore and under what circumstances. Once he thought he heard his ownname, as if the sick girl (he felt intuitively that it was a girl) werecalling for him, and, starting up, he listened intently, but caught onlythe tones of the tearful, sobbing voice which said:

"Hush, darling, hush! We are all here; try to be quiet and sleep. "

At last, worn out with wakefulness and the fatigue of his long journeyfrom Naples, Grey fell into a deep sleep, from which he did not wakenuntil nearly ten the next morning. Dressing himself hastily he went atonce to the office and asked who occupied the room adjoining his own. 

"An English lady and her daughter, " was the reply; and the clerk, whowas not noted for suavity of manner, turned to a little bright-eyed, black haired girl, who came up, evidently with the intention ofpreferring some request. 

There was something in the toss of the curly head, and the saucy look inthe eyes, and the slightly upward turn of the nose, which alwayscommanded attention from the rudest of porters and clerks: and this oneat the Quirinal bowed respectfully to her, and was about to ask what hecould do for her, when Grey interrupted him with another question, orrather assertion and question both:

"The young lady is sick. What is the matter with her?"

A flush of annoyance passed over the clerk's face, as he replied:

"A severe cold, taken in Naples. What can I do for you, Miss Meredith?"

And he loftily bowed Grey aside to make room for the young girl, whoseblack eyes flashed upon Grey with a half-comical expression, and whoseshoulders shrugged involuntarily as she heard the clerk's explanation. 

"I will ask the names of the English lady and her daughter anothertime, " Grey thought, as he moved away to make room for the young lady. 

He had finished his breakfast, an hour later, and was making his wayfrom the winter garden into the parlor, when he again encountered theyoung girl with the bright, laughing black eyes. 

"Excuse me, " she said, flashing upon him a bright, bewildering smile. "Ilooked on the register, and found that you are Mr. Grey Jerrold, of whomI have heard Sir Jack Trevellian speak. Sir Hal, from whom Sir Jackinherited Trevellian Castle, was my cousin, and I used to live therebefore poor Hal was killed. I am Flossie Meredith, and live now with mygrandmother, at Port Rush, in Ireland. "

Grey bowed low to the vivacious little lady, who went on rapidly, gesticulating as she talked, and emphasizing what she said with mostexpressive shrugs and elevations of her eyelids and nose:

"I heard what that horrid clerk at the bureau told you ailed the younglady in No. ----. A severe cold, indeed! I should think it was. It is thetyphoid fever of the very worst form, and if you are afraid of it youhad better change your room. There are awful big cracks over and underthe door. I have stopped them up with paper as well as I can, but theair can get through, and you might take the fever. The gentleman whooccupied the room before you came, left it in a hurry when he heard ofthe fever, but I don't know where he went to escape it, for it's allover the hotel. There is an American girl on the same floor, whom theythink is dying this morning, and a young man down stairs, and two orthree more somewhere else; and yet the clerks will tell you there is nota single case of fever in the hotel. What liars they are, to be sure!Grandma is frightened almost to death, and burns sugar, and camphor, andbrimstone, as disinfectants, and keeps chloride of lime under her bed, till her room smells worse, if possible, than the hotel itself. But I amnot afraid. My room adjoins Bessie's, and I am with her half the time. "

"What did you say? What did you call the young lady?" Grey asked, excitedly, and Flossie replied:

"Bessie--Bessie McPherson, from Wales. I remember now, you must knowher, for Sir Jack told me that he once spent a Christmas at Stoneleigh, and you were there with him. "

"Yes, I know her, " Grey said, with a tremor in his voice, and a pallorabout his lips. "Tell me how long she has been sick, and who is withher. "

Then Flossie told him that immediately on her return home from America, Daisy had taken Bessie with her to Switzerland, where they spent theremainder of the summer and a part of the autumn, making their way toParis in October, and going on to Italy sometime in November; that she, Flossie, had come abroad with her grandmother and had fallen in with theMcPhersons at the Italian lakes, and kept with them ever since; thatBessie had not seemed well or happy for some weeks; and that almostimmediately after her arrival in Rome she had taken her bed and had beenrapidly growing worse until now, when the doctor gave little hope of herrecovery. 

"She does not know us, " Flossie said, "and she talks so piteously of herold home, and wants us to take her back to the garden where the birdsare singing in the yews, and where she says there is just one placebetween her father and the wall, and that is for her. Oh, Mr. Jerrold, what if she should die!"

"She must not--she shall not, " Grey answered her, energetically, and bythe sense of bitter pain in his heart he knew that Bessie McPherson wasmore to him than any other girl could ever be, and if she died the worldwould lose much of its brightness for him. 

He had never forgotten her, and over and over again in both his sleepingand waking hours there had arisen before him a vision of her face, as hehad seen it when first he went to Stoneleigh, and as he saw it therelast, pale and worn and sad, but inexpressibly lovely and sweet. Andnow, Flossie told him, she was dying, and for a moment he grew cold andfaint; then he rallied, and saying, "I will go and see Mrs. McPherson, "bade Flossie good-morning, and started for No. ----, fourth floor. 

His knock was answered by Daisy herself, whose face was very pale, andwhose eyes were swollen and red with watching and tears. All her betternature had been aroused; the mother love was in the ascendant now, andin her anxiety for her child she had forgotten much of her coquetry andwas almost womanly in her grief. 

"You are Mrs. McPherson?" Grey said to her, as she stepped out into thehall and closed the door of the sick-room. 

She bowed in the affirmative, and he continued:

"I am Grey Jerrold, I knew your husband; I was with him when he died. Ihave just heard from Miss Meredith of your daughter's illness, and havecome to offer you my services. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Daisy's tears fell like rain as she replied:

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Jerrold; it will be something to know I have afriend, for we are all alone. Neil is in Cairo, and there is no onebeside him on whom we have any claim. I have heard Bessie speak of you;only last night she called you by name in her delirium. "

"Yes, I heard her, " Grey said, explaining that he occupied the adjoiningroom, and thus had learned that there was some one sick near him. 

In an instant Daisy's face brightened as something of her old managingnature asserted itself, and in a few moments she adroitly contrived tolet Grey know how very much alone she felt with no male friend tocounsel her; how bitterly disappointed she was that the last mail fromEngland did not bring her the expected funds which she so sorely needed;how exorbitant the proprietor of the hotel was in his charges, takingevery possible advantage of her helpless condition; and how much she haddesired an adjoining room, in order that Bessie might have better air, and those who took care of her more space. 

"Not that it matters so very much, except for the air, " she added; "forI cannot afford a nurse, so there is one less breath in the room. Oh, Mr. Jerrold, it is dreadful to be sick in Rome, with no friends and verylittle money. If Neil were here, or my remittances from England wouldcome, it would be all right. "

"No nurse, " Grey exclaimed. "Have you no nurse for your daughter? Who, then, takes care of her?"

"I do, with Miss Meredith's help. She is very kind, and occasionally oneof the servants in the hotel stays with us during the night; but I hearBessie moving, and I must go. I am so glad that you are here. Good-morning. "

It is needless to say that within two hours' time Grey's room was atDaisy's disposal, and the proprietor had orders to charge the same toMr. Jerrold's account instead of Mrs. McPherson's, while Grey's ownluggage was transported to a little, close, eight-by-twelve apartment, which smelled worse than old Mrs. Meredith's could possibly have smelledwith all her burnt brimstone and camphor and chloride of lime. Thephysician, an Italian, was also interviewed, and a competent nursesecured and introduced into the sick-room, and when Daisy protested thatshe could not meet the expense, Grey said to her:

"Give yourself no uneasiness on that score; that is my business. Wecannot let Bessie die. "

And then he asked to see her. Very cautiously he entered the room, andwith a great throb of pain in his heart stood looking upon the pallidface and the bright blue eyes which met his inquiringly, but had in themno sign of recognition. Taking one of her hands in his and bending overher, Grey said, very softly:

"Do you know me, Bessie?"

There was tenderness and pity in the tone of his voice as he said thename Bessie, and the sick girl looked at him curiously, as if strugglingto recall something in the far past; then a smile broke over her faceand the lip quivered a little as she replied:

"Yes, you are Neil. I have waited for you, I am so glad you have come. "

Still holding the feverish hand which clung to his, Grey hesitated amoment, and then said:

"I am not Neil; he will be here soon. I am Grey Jerrold; don't youremember I spent a Christmas with you once?"

Again she regarded him fixedly a moment, and then she said:

"Yes, I remember Grey Jerrold, the American: he was to have had my room, but said he preferred the cold and the rats! Ugh!" and she shivered alittle, as she continued, "Where is he, Neil? He was with me when fatherdied, and was so very kind. Thank him for me, when you see him, and nowI am so tired. I cannot talk any more, but stay by me, Neil, and holdmy hand I am better with you here. "

She persisted in thinking him Neil, and Grey humored the fancy. He hadnever heard of her engagement, for Jack had not betrayed her confidence;but he knew that she and Neil were greatly attached to each other, andwere, as he thought, more like brother and sister than cousins, and, believing as he did with the world in general, that Neil was pledged toBlanche Trevellian, he had no suspicion of the real state of affairs, though he wondered that all Bessie's thoughts should be concentratedupon her absent cousin. How sick she was, and how high the fever ran, and how strangely she talked, as he sat there watching her with aterrible fear in his heart, and a constant prayer for the dear lifewhich seemed balancing so evenly in the scale for the next two or threedays, during which he was with her all the time he could spare from hisAunt Lucy, who never suspected why he seemed so abstracted and sad, orthat the fever was in the hotel where he was staying. He knew how muchafraid she was of it, and how anxious she would be for him if she knewwhere he spent the hours not given to her. So he did not tell her ofpoor little Bessie, who grew weaker and weaker every day, until at lastthe old doctor shook his head, and between the pinches of snuff which heblew about vigorously, said there was one chance in a hundred for her, and if she had any friends who wished to see her, they should be sentfor at once. But there was no one save Neil, whom Daisy expected everyday, and Grey filled his place altogether with Bessie. She always calledhim Neil, and once, with a most grieved expression on her face, she saidto him:

"Why don't you kiss me, Neil? You have not since you came. "

Daisy and Flossie had gone to dinner, and the nurse was resting a fewmoments in the adjoining room, while Grey sat by her patient; thus hewas alone with Bessie, when she startled him with the question, "Whydon't you kiss me, Neil?"

Bending over her, he said:

"Would you like me to kiss you Bessie?"

"Ye-es, " she answered, faintly, and then Grey pressed his lips to hersin a long, passionate kiss, with no thought that there was danger andpossible death in the hot breath which he felt upon his cheek as he laidit against hers. 

He thought of nothing but the sick girl before him, whom he had kissed, and whom he now knew that he loved better than anything it life; ay, whom he had loved since the Christmas-time when he first looked into herblue eyes and played for the knot of ribbon she wore at her throat. 

Grey had seen much of the world, and many bright eyes had flashed uponhim glances which mean so much, but which had never affected him. Nothing, in fact, had touched him until he saw Bessie McPherson, whom hehad remembered always, and sometimes to himself he had said:

"I will see her again. I will know her better, and if--"

He never got farther than that "if, " though he was conscious that in allhis pictures of a future home there was a face like hers as he had seenit in the old stone house at Stoneleigh. He had not sought her again, but he had found her unsought--sick, helpless, dying perhaps, and heknew how much he loved her, and how dark would be the future if she weresnatched from him. 

"Oh, Heaven, I can't let her die!" he cried; and, falling on his kneesby the bedside, he prayed long and earnestly that she might live forhim, who loved her so devotedly. 

This was the night before the second day of the carnival, when Grey feltobliged to leave her for a few hours and do duty at his Aunt Lucy'sside. Miss Grey had that morning heard rumors of fever in Rome, and withher fears aroused she signified to Grey her wish to leave the city thefollowing Monday. 

"You are looking very thin, " she said, regarding him anxiously as hebent over her chair, "and I am not feeling very well myself. It is timewe were out of Rome I am sure it is not healthy here. "

She did look pale, Grey noticed, and, as his first duty was to her, hesignified his readiness to leave with her on Monday. 

"I shall know the worst by that time, " he thought "If she is better, Ican go with a good heart; if she is dead, it matters little where I am. All places will be the same to me. "

And so it was settled that with his Aunt Lucy he should leave forFlorence on the following Monday, and with a heavy heart he said good-byto her when the festivities of the day were over, and went back to hishotel. 

CHAPTER II. 

FAREWELL. 

It was Sunday, and the gay pageant of the carnival was moving throughthe Via Nazzionale, on which the Hotel du Quirinal stands. This was thegrandest, gayest day of all, and the spectacle which the long streetpresented, as carriage after carriage, and company after company pressedon, had in it nothing of the calm, quiet repose which we are wont toassociate with Sunday. It was not Sunday to the throng of masqueradersfilling the streets, or the multitude of spectators crowding thebalconies and windows of the tall houses on either side of the way. Butto the little group of friends gathered in the room where Bessie lay itwas the holy Sabbath time, and, save when by the opening of some dooracross the hall a strain of music or shout of merriment was borne totheir ears, they would never have guessed what was passing. The feverhad burned itself out on Bessie's cheeks and left them colorless asmarble; while in her eyes, so large and heavy with restlessness andpain, there was a look of recognition, and on the pale lips a smile forthose around her. She had known them all since the early morning, when, awaking from a heavy sleep, she called her mother by name, and askedwhere she was and what had happened to her. 

The last three weeks had been a blank, and they broke it to hergradually, and told her of Grey Jerrold's presence, and how she hadmistaken him for Neil, from whom they had that day heard, and who wouldbe with them on Monday. It was Flossie who told Bessie this last, asshe kissed the white forehead, and said through her tears:

"I am so glad to see you better; it nearly broke my heart when I thoughtthat you might die--and Mr. Jerrold, too, I am sure would have died ifyou had. Oh, Bessie, I never saw this Neil, but he can not be as nice asMr. Jerrold, who, next to Sir Jack, is the best man in the world. "

"Hush, Flossie!" Bessie whispered, for she had not strength to speakaloud, "such things are over with me now. I shall never see Sir Jackagain; never see Neil, for when he comes to-morrow I shall not be here. "

"Oh, Bessie, " Flossie cried, with a great gush of tears; but Bessiemotioned her to be silent, and went on:

"Tell Sir Jack that I might have loved him had I seen him first, but itwill not matter soon whom I have loved, or who has loved me. Tell Neil, when he comes and stands beside me, and I cannot speak to him, that Iloved him to the last, and if I had lived I would have been his wifewhenever he wished it; but it is better to die, for perhaps I could nothave borne the burden and the care again. I am so tired, and the restbeyond the grave looks very sweet to me. You say Mr. Jerrold is here. Ishould like to see him and thank him for his kindness. "

Grey had not been to the room that morning, but he soon came and wasadmitted to Bessie's presence. Smiling sweetly upon him as he came in, Bessie said:

"I cannot offer you my hand, for I have no power to move it; the lifehas all gone from me--see, " and she tried in vain to lift one of thethin, transparent hands which lay so helplessly just where Flossie hadput them. 

"Don't try, " Grey said, sitting down beside her, and placing one of hisown broad, warm palms upon the little hands, as if he would thuscommunicate to them some of his own strength and vitality. "I am glad tofind you better, " he continued; but Bessie shook her head and answeredhim:

"Sane, but not better. I shall never be that; but I want to thank youfor all you have done for us--for mother and me. You were with me whenfather died I remember all you did for me then, and I prayed God tobless you for it many a time; and now, I am going where father hasgone, and shall sleep by him in the little yard at home, for they willtake me back; mother has promised--I could not rest here in Rome, lovelyas the grave-yard is. Flossie told me you were to leave to-morrow, and Iwanted to say good-by, and tell you how much good you have done me, though you do not know it. Neil told me once of your resolve to makesomebody happy every day, and I have never forgotten it, and have in mypoor way tried to do so, too, in imitation of you, but have failed somiserably; while you--oh, Mr. Jerrold, you are so noble and good. Youhave made so many happy. God bless you, and give you everything whichyou desire most. "

She was too much exhausted to talk any more, and closing her eyes, shelay as if asleep, while Grey watched her with the bitterest pain in hisheart he had ever known. Would she die? Must he give her up? Was thereyet no brightness, no happiness in the world for her, whose life hadbeen one of sacrifice and toil? He could not think so, and all his soulwent out in one continuous prayer: "Don't let Bessie die. "

All day she lay motionless as the dead, scarcely lifting even an eyelid, or showing that she was conscious of what was passing around her, savewhen her mother's low, moaning cry, "Bessie, oh, Bessie, I cannot giveyou up, " sounded through the room. Then she moved uneasily, and said:

"Don't, mother, please; God knows best. He will care for you--andyou--you--will keep your promise?"

"Yes, child; so help me God!" Daisy answered, excitedly. "I promised youto be a better woman, and I will; but oh, my Heavenly Father, don't letBessie die. "

It was the echo of Grey's prayer, and Flossie took it up and made ithers, and so the day wore on and the night stole into the quiet room, and it was time for Grey to say good-by, for he was to leave on theearly train, and he had yet much to do in settling bills both forhimself and Daisy, and providing for her needs in case Neil did notcome. 

"If I thought he would not be with you to-morrow I would stay, though todo so would greatly disappoint my Aunt Lucy, " he said to Daisy, who wasunselfish enough to bid him go, though she knew how she should misshim, and fell intuitively that twenty Neils could not fill his place. 

"I cannot ask you to stay longer. May God bless you for all you havebeen to us, " she said, as she took his hand at parting, and then turnedaway with a feeling of utter desolation in her heart. 

Only Flossie was with Bessie, who was sleeping quietly, when Greyentered the room to say farewell to the young girl, whose face looked sosmall and thin, and white as it rested upon the pillows. When her feverwas at its height and her heavy hair seemed to trouble her, herphysician had commanded it to be cut off. 

"It will all come out anyway if she lives, " he said, and so the cruelscissors had severed the long, bright tresses which had been Bessie'scrowning glory. 

But the hair, which had only been cut short, grew rapidly and lay inlittle curls all over her head making her look more like a child than agirl of nineteen. 

Flossie knew it was Grey's farewell, and guessed that he would rather bealone with Bessie, even though she were sleeping. So she arose, andoffering him her chair, stole softly out and closed the door behind her. 

For a few moments Grey sat gazing intently upon the beautiful face as ifhe would stamp its image upon his heart, so that whatever came, whetherfor weal or woe, he should never forget it; and then he prayedfervently, that, if possible, God would give back the life now ebbing solow, and that he yet might win the prize he longed for so ardently. 

"Oh, Bessie, poor, little tired Bessie, " he whispered, as he gentlytouched one of the hands near him; "if I might call you mine, might takeyou to my home across the sea, how happy I would make you. I cannot letyou die just as I know how much I love you, and something tells me youwill yet be mine. We should all love you so much, my mother, Aunt Lucy, Aunt Hannah, and all. "

And then suddenly, as his mind leaped to the future, Grey seemed to seethe old farm-house in the rocky pasture-land far away, and Bessie wasthere with him, sitting just where he had so often sat when a child, onthe little bench in the wood-shed close against the wall, beyond whichwas that hidden grave whose shadow had, in a way, darkened his wholelife. And it fell upon him now with an added blackness as he thought:

"Could I take Bessie and not tell her of that grave? I don't know; butGod will help me to do right, and all things will seem possible if Hegives Bessie to me. "

She was breathing a little more heavily now; she might be waking; hemust kiss her good-by before she was conscious of the act, and bendingover her he kissed her forehead and lips and cheeks, on which his hottears fell fast. 

"Good-by, my darling, " he whispered. "In this world you may never knowhow much I love you, but in the next, perhaps, I may be permitted totell you how it broke my heart to see you lying so low and to know thatI must leave you. Darling Bessie, good-by;" and with another kiss uponher lips he lifted up his head to meet the wondering gaze of the blueeyes, in which for an instant there was a puzzled, startled expression, then they filled with tears, and Bessie's lips quivered as she said:

"Don't, Mr. Jerrold, such words are not for me. I--don't you know?"

She hesitated a moment, and he said:

"I know nothing except that I love you with my whole heart and soul, andwhether you live or die you will be the sweetest memory of my life. Don't talk; it is not necessary, " he continued rapidly, as he saw herabout to speak. "I am not going to trouble you now; you are too weak forthat. I am here to say good-by, for I must leave to-morrow; but in thefuture, when you are well, as something tells me you will be--"

"Oh, Mr. Jerrold, listen, " Bessie began, just as the door opened andFlossie came in. 

"Time's up, " she said, smilingly, as she glanced at Bessie's flushedcheek and Grey's white face, and guessed that something exciting hadtaken place. 

When Jack Trevellian returned from his unsuccessful wooing the previoussummer, he had in strict confidence told Flossie _why_ he failed, sothat she knew of Bessie's engagement to Neil, but did not feel atliberty to communicate what she knew to Grey, even though she guessedthe nature of his feelings for Bessie. And so he was ignorant that hehad a rival, and did not in the least suspect the truth, as he oncemore said farewell and followed Flossie out into the hall. 

"Wait a minute, I have something for you, " she said to him, and, puttingher hand into her pocket, she drew out a piece of soft white paper inwhich was carefully wrapped one of the curls she had cut from Bessie'shead. "I brought this to you, thinking you might like it when you werefar away and she was dead, " she said, in a choking voice. 

"Thank you, Flossie, " he said, taking the package from her, "God blessyou for all you are to her. Write me at Venice, Hotel New York, and tellme how she is. We shall stay there a day or two before going on toVienna and Berlin. "

He wrung her hands and walked away down the broad flight of stairs, andFlossie saw him no more. 

CHAPTER III. 

DEAD. 

That was what Adolph, a messenger boy from the Quirinal, said to Greythree days later, when the latter accidentally met him in Florence andinquired for the young English girl who was so sick with the fever. Adolph had left the Quirinal for Florence, his home, on the evening ofthe same day of Grey's departure from Rome. The next afternoon the twomet accidentally on one of the bridges which cross the river Arno. 

"Dead!" Grey repeated, turning white to his lips and staggering as if hehad been smitten with a heavy blow. "How can she be dead? They told meshe was better the morning I left. When did she die?"

"A little after twelve, " the boy replied, and Grey continued:

"Did her cousin come--a young man from Naples?"

"Yes, " the boy answered, "Some gentleman was there--a big swell, whoswore awfully at the clerk about the bills; there was no end of a row. "

"The bills! What does it mean?" Grey thought, for he had paid them allup to the time of his leaving. 

Then, remembering to have heard what exorbitant sums were demanded bythe proprietors of hotels when a person died in their house, heconcluded that this must be the bill which Neil was disputing so hotly, and bidding good-day to the boy, he walked on across the river, with afeeling that life could never be to him again just what it had beenbefore. On the morning when he left the hotel he had seen the nurse, andinquired after the patient, who, she reported, had slept well and seemeda little better. And now she was dead! the girl he loved so much. Dead, in all her soft beauty, with only the suns of nineteen summers upon herhead. Dead in Rome, and he not there with her to take a last look at thefair face which, as he walked rapidly on through street after street, seemed close beside him, sometimes touching his own and making himshiver, it was so cold and dead. 

"Dead and gone! Dead and gone!" he kept repeating to himself, as hetried to fancy what was passing in the room where he had spent so manyhours and where he had kissed the girl now dead and gone forever. 

"If I were only there, " he thought. "If I could but kiss her again andhold her hand in mine, " and for a moment he felt that he must go backand take the matter away from Neil, who could swear at the expense, however great it was. 

He must go back and himself carry Bessie to the old home in Wales andbury her in the nook between the father and the wall--the spot which, when he saw it last, he little dreamed would be her grave, and she soyoung and fair. But to go back would necessitate his telling his AuntLucy of the fever, and to excite in her alarm and anxiety for hissafety. So he gave it up, but walked on mile after mile, until the nightshades were beginning to fall, and be realized how late it was, and thathis aunt must be getting anxious about him. Hailing a carriage, he wasdriven back to his hotel, and found, as he expected, his aunt alarmed athis protracted absence, and still more alarmed at the whiteness of hisface and the strange look in his eyes. He had never told her a word ofBessie, or the fever, and he would not do so now. So he merely said hehad walked too far and was tired. He should be all right in the morning, and he asked permission to retire early to his room where he could bealone with his sorrow. 

They left Florence the next day, for Miss Grey, who had made a long stopthere early in the winter, when on her way to Rome, was anxious to leaveItaly as soon as possible, fancying that the climate did not agree withGrey, who had not seemed himself since he came from Egypt and joined herin Rome. Arrived in Venice, Grey's first act was to inquire for letters, but there was nothing from Rome, nothing from Flossie, who had promisedhim to write. They were too busy with their preparations for takingBessie home. They must be on their way by this time, he thought, andwith a heavy heart he journeyed on from Venice until Vienna was reached, and there, at the Hotel Métropole, he found Jack Trevellian's nameregistered. It would be a relief to talk to him, Grey thought. He hadknown Bessie, too; and Grey must speak to some one of the sorrowweighing so heavily upon him, or the burden would break him down. 

That night in Jack Trevellian's room two young men sat opposite eachother with only a small table between them, and on it a single waxcandle, which threw a faint, glimmering light upon the white faces whichlooked so sadly at each other, as in dumb silence the two sat motionlessfor a few moments after Grey had told his news. 

"What is it, old fellow?" Jack had said, cheerily, as, after expressinghis joy and surprise at meeting his friend so unexpectedly, andmotioning him to a seat, he noticed the care-worn look upon his face andthe set expression upon his mouth. "What makes you look so like agrave-yard? Crossed in love, hey? I thought it would come to thatsometime, and knew you would be hard hit when hit at all. Tell me aboutit, do! Maybe I, too, know how it feels, " and Jack laughed a littlemeaning laugh as he remembered the time when Bessie's blue eyes hadlooked at him and Bessie's voice had said, "I cannot be your wife. "

"Hush, Jack!" and Grey put up his hand deprecatingly. "You don't knowhow you hurt me. Bessie is dead!"

"Dead! Bessie dead! Oh, Grey!" and Jack nearly leaped from his chair inhis first surprise and horror; then he sat down again, and there wassilence between the two for a moment, when he said, in a voice Greywould never have known as his: "When did she die? Tell me all about it, please, but tell it very slowly, word by word, or I shall not understandyou. I seem to be terribly unstrung, it is so sudden and awful. Bessiedead!" and he stared at Grey with eyes which did not seem to seeanything before them, but rather to be looking at something far away inthe past. 

And Grey, who was regarding him curiously, knew that mere friendship, however strong, never wore such semblance of grief as this, and thereflashed upon him the conviction that, like himself, Jack too had lovedthe beautiful girl now lost forever to them both, while a chill ranthrough his veins as he thought that possibly Jack was an acceptedlover, and that was why Bessie had shrunk from his words of love, assomething she must not listen to. She was engaged to Jack Trevellian;nothing could be plainer, and with this conviction, which each momentgathered strength in his mind, he resolved to conceal his ownheart-wound from his rival, and talk of the dead girl as if he had onlybeen her friend. Slowly, as Jack had bidden him, he told the story ofher sickness, dwelling long on Flossie Meredith's untiring devotion, butsaying nothing of the services he had rendered, saying only that he wasso glad he was there, as a gentleman friend was necessary at such a timeand in such a place, where greed is the rule and not the exception. 

"They were expecting Neil from Naples the day I left, or I should havestaid, " he said, and then into Jack's eyes there crept a strange, hardexpression, and he wiped the perspiration from his forehead and lips, ashe said:

"Neil; yes. It was his place, not yours, or mine, but, oh, Grey, if Imight have seen her; if I could have held her dead hand but for a momentand kissed her dear face--"

Here Jack stopped, for his voice was choked with sobs, and ere he knewwhat he was doing, Grey said to him:

"Jack, you loved Bessie McPherson!"

"Yes, " Jack answered him, unhesitatingly. "I do not mind telling it toyou. I think I have loved her since I first saw her, a demure, old-fashioned little thing, in the funniest bonnet and dress you eversaw, sitting with her father, in Hyde Park, and looking at thepassers-by. I watched her for some time, wondering who she was, andthen, at last, I ventured to speak to her, and standing by her chairtold her who the people were, and found out who she was, and called uponher in Abingdon Road, and then she went away, but her face haunted mecontinually, and even the remembrance of it and of her helped me to abetter life than I had lead before. You knew her mother, or rather youknew of her. Not the woman whom you saw in Rome, full of anxiety for herchild, but a vain, selfish, intriguing woman, whom no good man couldrespect, much as he might admire her dazzling beauty. Well, she had meon her string, when I met her daughter, but something Bessie said to memade me strong to resist coils and arts which Satan himself would findit hard to withstand. I used to ride with her, and flirt with her, andbet with her, and play at her side in Monte Carlo, and let her fleece meout of money, just as she did every one with whom she came in contact;but after I knew Bessie, I broke with her mother entirely, and havenever played with her or any one since for money. You remember theChristmas we spent together at Stoneleigh. You did not guess, perhaps, how much I loved her then, or that I would have asked her to be my wifeif I had not been so poor. Then her father died, and you were therebefore me, and I was horribly jealous, for I meant she should be mine. There was nothing in the way, I thought. Poor Hal was dead, and had leftme his title and estate. I could pour some brightness into her wearylife, and two weeks after the funeral I went again to Stoneleigh andasked her to marry me. "

Jack paused a moment, and leaning forward eagerly, Grey said:

"Yes, you asked her to marry you, and she consented?"

"No; oh, no" Jack groaned, "If she had, she might not now have beendead; my Bessie, whom I loved so much. She refused me, and worst of all, she told me she was plighted to Neil, her cousin. "

"To Neil! Bessie plighted to Neil! That is impossible, for he is tomarry Blanche Trevellian, so everybody says, " Grey exclaimed, consciousof a keener pang than he had experienced when he thought Jack his rival. 

"And everybody is right, " Jack replied: "he will marry Blanche, but hewas engaged to Bessie under the promise of strictest secrecy until hismother, who had threatened to disinherit him, was reconciled, or hefound something which would support him without any effort on his part, Neil McPherson would never exert himself, or deny himself either, evenfor the woman he loved, and, Grey, I speak the truth when I tell youthat I would rather know that Bessie was dead than to see her Neil'swife. "

Grey did not answer, but something in the pallor of his face and theexpression of his eyes, struck Jack suddenly, and stretching his handacross the table he said, very low and very sadly:

"Jerrold, you loved her, too. I see it in your face. "

"Yes, " Grey answered him, "I loved her, too, and would have given yearsof my life to have saved her, though not for Neil. Better far as itis--better for her, I mean, though our lives are wrecked; at least, mineis; but for you there may still be a happy future, and on the ashes ofthe dead love a new one may arise to bless you. "

"Never!" Jack answered, emphatically; then after a moment, as if histhoughts had followed Grey's, he asked:

"Do you know how long Mrs. Meredith intends remaining in Rome, or whereshe expects to go after leaving there?"

Grey replied that he did not, while a faint smile played round hismouth, as he looked at his friend, who detected the smile, andcomprehending its meaning, said, with a heightened color:

"I know you are thinking of Flossie. Bessie thought of her, too, andasked why I did not marry her. But that will never be, though, she is asbright and beautiful an Irish lassie as ever gladdened the eyes of manand the castle is so lonesome without her buzzing about and stirring upthings generally, that I have serious thoughts of inviting hergrandmother, to take up her abode there, so I can have Flossie back. Theservants adore her. But she will never be my wife. She would tire andworry me to death with her restlessness and activity. When I lost BessieI lost everything, and have nothing left but her memory--not even aflower which she has worn. "

Grey hesitated a moment, then taking from his pocket the package whichFlossie had given him, he opened it, and holding to view the long silkencurl, said to Jack:

"Flossie cut this from Bessie's head when the fever was at its height, and though there is not in the world gold enough to buy it from me, Iwill divide with you, " and parting it carefully he laid one-half of itupon Jack's hand, around which it seemed to cling with a lovingtenacity. It was strange how vividly that wavy hair brought Bessie backto the young men who had loved her so much, and who, at sight of it, broke down entirely, and laying their heads upon the table, cried for amoment, as only strong men can cry, for the dear little girl who, theyfelt sure, was lying in her grave in far off Stoneleigh. 

CHAPTER IV. 

POOR DAISY. 

Four weeks passed away, and Grey, with his Aunt Lucy, was journeyingthrough Russia, bearing with him a sense of loss and pain. The mailswere very irregular, and he had never heard a word either from Flossieor Neil, nor had he written to them. He could not yet bring himself tospeak of Bessie, even upon paper, though he sometimes felt a littleaggrieved that Neil did not write to him and tell him of his loss. Andso the weeks went on, and one day, toward the middle of April, when theEnglish skies were at their best and the hyacinths and crocuses wereblooming in the yew-shaded garden at Stoneleigh, a little band ofmourners went down the broad graveled walk to the inclosure, where inthe narrow space between Archie's grave and the wall another grave wasmade, and there in silence and in tears they buried--not Bessie--but hermother, poor, weak, frivolous Daisy, who had succumbed to the fever anddied after a three weeks' illness. 

Bessie was not dead, as the messenger boy had reported to Grey inFlorence, but the young girl from America, sick on the same floor, haddied about noon on the day of Grey's departure, and with his ratherlimited knowledge of English the boy had mistaken her for Bessie. And asher brother had arrived that morning and had sworn roundly at thefrightful bill presented to him, the boy had naturally confounded thisparty with the one for whom Grey inquired, and thus had been the causeof much needless pain and sorrow to both Jack Trevellian and Grey. Neilhad come from Naples on the morning train, very tired and worn with histrip to Egypt, and a good deal out of sorts because of a letter receivedfrom his mother in Naples in which she rated him soundly for hisextravagance, telling him he must economize, and that the check she senthim--a very small one--must suffice until his return to England, whereshe confidently expected him to marry Cousin Blanche before the seasonwas over. 

"I hear, " she wrote in conclusion, "that the widow of ArchibaldMcPherson is in Rome with her daughter, but I trust you will not allowthem to entangle you in any way. The mother will fleece you out of everyfarthing you have, while the daughter--well I do not know her, so willnot say what she may do; only keep clear of them both and shun thatcrafty woman as you would the plague. "

With this letter in his pocket and barely enough money to defray his ownexpenses for a few weeks longer, it is not to be wondered at, if Neilwas not in a very jubilant state of mind when he reached the Quirinal, and found matters as they were--Bessie very low with the fever, of whichhe had a mortal terror and her mother destitute of funds except as GreyJerrold had supplied them, or as she had borrowed from Mrs. Meredith, to whom she owed twenty pounds, with no possible means of paying. Allthis and more, she tearfully explained to Neil, who listened to her witha great sinking at his heart and a feeling that he had plunged intosomething dreadful, from which he could not escape. There was manlinessenough in his nature to make him wince a little, when he heard what Greyhad done, while at the same time he was conscious of a pang of jealousyas he reflected that only a stronger sentiment than mere friendship forBessie could have actuated Grey, generous and noble as he knew him tobe. 

"Oh, if I were rich, " he sighed, as with a conviction that he was aboutthe most abused person in the world, he went into the room where Bessielay, white, and worn, and motionless almost as the dead, for though thefever had left her she was very weak, and could only whisper herwelcome, while the great tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Neil was awfully afraid of her. There might still be infection in herbreath and infection in the room. He fancied he smelled it, andinvoluntarily put his hands to his mouth and nose, as he drew near thebed. Bessie saw the motion, and interpreted it aright. 

"Oh, Neil, " she said, with a sob, "you are not afraid of me?"

"No, certainly not; only this fever is a confounded thing when it takeshold of a great hulking fellow like myself, and just now I am verytired, " he said; then, heartily ashamed of himself as he saw the look ofdistress on Bessie's face, he bent and kissed her forehead, and told herhow sorry he was to find her so sick, and that he would not leave hertill she was strong again. 

But all the time he talked he fidgeted in his chair, and kept looking atthe door as if anxious to escape into the fresher air. 

"Do you think there is any danger?" he said to Flossie, whom heencountered in the adjoining room. 

Flossie knew he was afraid, and there was mischief in the merry Irishlassie's heart, as she replied:

"Danger, oh, no, if she is kept quiet and carefully nursed, the doctorsays she will soon get well enough to be moved. "

"Yes, I know that, of course, " Neil stammered. "I mean, is there anydanger of my taking it from her--from the room--from the air, you know?

"Are you afraid of it?" Flossie asked him, very demurely, and hereplied:

"N--no; yes--I believe I am. Does that make any difference?"

"I should say it did, very decidedly, " Flossie answered, with greatearnestness and evident concern. "Mr. Jerrold was not one bit afraid, and he was in there all the time;" this, with a saucy twinkle in herblack eyes, as she saw the flush in Neil's face and guessed its cause. "You did not kiss her, of course?" she continued, with the utmostgravity. 

"Yes, I did, " he answered promptly. "Do you think--do you think--"

"Yes I do, " she said, decidedly, adding to herself: "I think you are afool!" To him she continued: "I'll tell you what to do. Grandma isafraid, like you, so I know all the preventives. Let me burn a match ortwo under your nose so that the fumes will saturate your face; that willcounteract any bad effects from the kiss, and to prevent contagionhereafter, get a good sized leek. You can find one at any grocer's: putit in a bit of cloth, with a piece of camphor-gum, and wear it over thepit of your stomach. You may even brave the small-pox with that aboutyour person. "

"But won't it smell awfully?" Neil asked, with a shudder, as he thoughtof wearing about his person an obnoxious leek, whose odor he abominated. 

"It will smell some, but what of that? You can endure a great deal inorder to feel safe, " Flossie replied. 

Neil could endure a great deal where his personal safety was concerned, and wholly deceived by Flossie's manner, he submitted to the burntmatches, which nearly strangled him, and brought on so violent a fit ofcoughing as made him fear lest he should burst a blood-vessel. 

"I guess you are all right as far as the kiss is concerned, " Flossiesaid, nearly bursting with merriment. "And now for the leek and camphor. I'll fix it for you. "

He found the leek and the camphor and Flossie tied them up for him in abit of linen and bade him be quite easy in his mind, as with thesedisinfectants he was impervious to the plague itself. 

"What a coward he is, to be sure!" she said, as she watched him hurryingdown the hall to his room with his disinfectants. "Sir Jack told me hewas a milksop and not half worthy of Bessie, and he was right. I thinkhim an idiot. Leeks, indeed! Won't he smell, though, when the leek getswarmed through and begins to fume! Phew!" and the little nose went uphigher than its wont as Flossie returned to the sick-room. 

That night Neil wrote to his mother the exact condition of affairs, telling her how he had found his aunt and cousin, whom he could notleave without being stigmatized as a brute; telling her what Grey haddone for them; telling her that they owed old Mrs. Meredith twentypounds, and that unless she wished a subscription paper to be startedfor them in the hotel, among the English, many of whom were heracquaintances, she must send money to relieve their necessities, and paytheir bills. Neil felt almost sure that this last would touch hismother, when nothing else could reach her, and he was right. Neither shenor her husband cared to have their friends contribute to the needs ofany one who bore their name, and the letter which Lady Jane sent to herson contained sixty pounds, which she bade him use to the best possibleadvantage, adding that he was to leave Rome as soon as he could, withany show of decency. This, Neil would gladly have done if he could, butwhen his mother's letter arrived it found him plunged into acomplication of difficulties from which he could not extricate himself. Daisy had suddenly been stricken down with the fever, which developed sorapidly and assumed so violent a form that Neil's strength, and courage, and patience were taxed to the utmost, and he might have succumbedentirely, if it had not been for Flossie, who was equal to anyemergency, and who resisted all her grandmother's efforts to get her outof the fever-hole, as she designated the hotel. 

Flossie would not go so long as Bessie needed her. She was not afraid, she said, and every morning her eyes were just as saucy and mirthful, and the roses on her cheek just as bright, as if she had not been uphalf the night, soothing the wildly delirious Daisy, and encouragingNeil, who, as the days went by, rose a little in her estimation. Hethrew the obnoxious leek from his window, when, as Flossie hadpredicted, its fumes became intolerable, and he gave up the large, sunnyroom which he had occupied at first, and took a smaller, less expensiveone, and he learned to deny himself many things before that terriblefever had burned itself out. He gave up _table d'hote_ and lunch, andtook to the restaurants outside. He gave up driving on the Pincian Hill, or having carriages at all, and patronized the street-cars and omnibuseswhen he went out for an airing, as Flossie insisted that he should doeach day. 

"I do believe I could make something of him in time, " the energeticlittle lady thought. "But, dear me! Bessie would humor all his fancies, and be a perfect slave to his caprices; even now she will not let himwait upon her much, for fear of tiring him. "

And so the days went on until two weeks were gone, and then one Aprilmorning it was whispered among the few guests remaining in the hotel, that death was again in the house, and more trunks were packed in haste, and more people left, until the fourth floor was almost as silent as theroom in which Daisy lay dead, with a strange beauty in her face, towhich had returned, as it sometimes does, all the freshness andloveliness of youth, so that she looked like some fair young girl as shelay upon her pillow, with her hands upon her bosom, just as she hadfolded them, when at the last she said to those around her:

"It is growing late. I think I will retire; good-night;" then, claspingher hands together, she began the prayer of her childhood: "Now I lay medown to sleep, " repeating the whole distinctly, while, with the words, "I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take, " she went to meet the God who is sopitiful and kind, and who knew all the good that was in her, and knew, too, what thoughts of remorse for the past and prayers for forgivenesshad been in her heart during the few lucid intervals which had beengiven to her. She had been delirious most of the time, and in herdelirium had talked of things which made poor Bessie shudder, theyrevealed to her so much more of her mother's past than she had everknown. 

Monte Carlo was the field to which her fancy oftenest took flight, andthere, at the gaming-table she sat again, going through the excitementof the olden time, losing and winning--winning and losing--sometimeswith Teddy at her side, and sometimes with men of a baser, lower type, with whom she bandied jests, until the scene was too horrible even forthe iron-nerved Flossie to endure. Then, there were moments of perfectconsciousness, when she knew and spoke rationally to those about her, and tried to comfort Bessie, who insisted upon having a lounge takeninto the room so that she might see her mother, if she could notminister to her. 

Once, startled by the expression of the faces around her, Daisy said:

"Why do you all look so sorry? Am I very sick? Am I going to die? Oh, _am_ I going to die? I cannot die. I cannot! Don't let me die! Don't;don't. "

It was like the cry of a frightened child begging a reprieve frompunishment, and that piteous "Don't! don't!" rang in Bessie's ears longafter the lips which uttered the words were silent in death. 

During their journeyings together, Daisy had shown the best there was inher and had really seemed trying to reform. When, on her return fromAmerica, she had suggested that they go abroad, saying she would sellher diamonds to defray the expenses, Bessie had refused at first, andhad only consented on condition that her mother abandoned all her oldhabits of life, and neither played nor bet, nor practiced any of herwiles upon the opposite sex for the purpose of extorting money fromthem. And all this Daisy promised. 

"I'll be as circumspect as a Methodist parson's wife, " she said; and shekept her word as well as it was possible for her to do. 

She neither played, nor bet, nor coaxed money from her acquaintances bypretty tales of poverty, and if she sometimes bandied familiar jestswith her gentlemen friends, Bessie did not know it, and there wasspringing up in her heart a strong feeling of respect for her motherwho, just as the new life was beginning, was to be taken from her. 

"Oh, mamma, " she sobbed, putting her poor, pale, face close to that ofthe dying woman, for Neil had taken her in his arms and laid her besideher mother "oh, mamma, how can I give you up. " Then, as the greaterfear for her mother's future overmastered every other feeling, she said:"Speak to me, mother; tell me you are not afraid; tell me you are sorry;tell me, oh, my Heavenly Father, if mother must die, forgive her all thepast and take her to Thyself. "

"Yes, " Daisy murmured, moving a little uneasily, "Forgive me all thepast--and there is so much to forgive. I am sorry, and most of all forArchie and Bessie, whom I neglected so long. Oh, how pleasant the oldhome at Stoneleigh looks to me now. Bury me by Archie in the grass, itis so quiet there; and now it is getting late. I think I will retire. Good-night!"

And then, folding her hands together, she said the "Now I lay me, " andFlossie, who was bending over her, knew that she was dead, and motioningto Neil, bade him take Bessie away. 

Neil was very tender and very kind and loving to the poor little girlquivering with pain, but uttering no sound and shedding no tear as shelay passive in his arms, but he felt that he was badly abused, and thatthe burden laid upon him was heavier than he could bear. Could he havehad his way, Daisy would have been buried in the Protestant cemetery, inRome. This would have been far less expensive and have saved him no endof trouble. But when he suggested it to Bessie, she said "No" sodecidedly that he gave it up and nerved himself to meet what he nevercould have met but for Flossie, who, as far as she could, managedeverything, even to battling fiercely with the proprietor, whose billshe compelled him to lessen by several hundred francs, and when hedemanded payment for four dozen towels which he said had been ruined, she insisted upon taking the towels, which she said were hers, if shepaid for them. Never had portier or clerk encountered such a tempest asshe proved to be, and they finally surrendered the field and let herhave her own way, shrugging their shoulders significantly, as theycalled her "_la petite diable Irelandaise_. "

It was old Mrs. Meredith who furnished the necessary funds, for therewas no time to send to England. Neil telegraphed to his father, askinghim to go down to Stoneleigh and meet them on their arrival with thebody. But the Hon. John was suffering with the gout, and only Anthonyand Dorothy were there, when Neil and Flossie and Bessie came, thelatter utterly exhausted and unable to sit up a moment after enteringthe house. So they took her to her old room, which Dorothy had made ascomfortable and pleasant as she could; and there Bessie lay, weak as alittle child, while the kind neighbors came again and stood in theyew-shaded cemetery where Daisy was buried and where there was room forno more of the McPhersons. 

"Now what?" Flossie said to Neil, when the burial was over and they satalone in the parlor; "now what are you going to do?" and when heanswered, gloomily, "I am sure I don't know, " she flashed her black eyesupon him and replied: "You don't know? Then let me tell you; marryBessie at once. What else can you do? Surely you will not leave her herealone?"

"I know I ought not to leave her here, " Neil said, despondingly. "But Icannot marry her now. "

"Why not?" Flossie asked him sharply, and he replied:

"I cannot marry her and starve, as we surely should do. I have no meansof my own, and mother would turn me from her door if I brought herBessie as my wife. As it is, I dread going to her with all these heavybills. It was a foolish thing to bring Mrs. McPherson home, and I saidso at the time. That woman has been a curse to every one with whom sheever came in contact. "

"Oh, mamma, poor mamma, I wish I, too, were dead, as you are, " moaned, or rather gasped a little white-faced girl who was standing just outsidethe door, and had heard all Neil was saying. 

Bessie had remained upstairs as long as she could endure it, and whenshe heard voices in the parlor and knew that Neil and Flossie werethere, she arose, and, putting on a dressing-gown and shawl, crept downstairs to go to them. But Flossie's question arrested her steps, andleaning against the side of the door, she heard all their conversation, and knew the bitterness there was in Neil's heart toward her mother, less by what he said, than by the tone of his voice as he said it, forthere was in it a cold, hard ring which made her shiver and sent herback to the bed she had quitted, where she lay for hours, until she hadthought it out and knew what she meant to do. But she said nothing ofher decision either to Neil or Flossie, the latter of whom left her thenext day to join her grandmother, in London. 

Neil waited a few days longer, loath to leave Bessie and dreading to gohome and meet what he knew he must meet when he told his mother theamount of her indebtedness to Mrs. Meredith, who had signified her wishto be paid as soon as possible. 

Naturally dull of perception as he was, Neil was vaguely conscious of achange in Bessie's manner, but he attributed it to grief for the loss ofher mother, wondering a little that she could mourn so deeply, a death, which, to him, seemed a relief, for Daisy was not a person whom he wouldcare to acknowledge as his mother-in-law. 

Bessie could not forget the words she had overheard, and though theymight be true, she knew Neil ought not to have spoken them to acomparative stranger, and she began to realize, as she never had before, that in Neil's nature there was much which did not accord with hers. Many and many a time thoughts of Grey Jerrold filled her mind, and inher half-waking hours at night, she heard again his voice, so full ofsympathy, and felt an inexpressible longing to see him again, and hearhim speak to her. Still, she meant to be loyal to Neil, and on themorning of his departure, when he was deploring his inability to marryher at once, she lifted her sad eyes to him and said:

"Is there nothing you can do to help yourself? I will do my part gladly, and it cannot cost us much to live--just us two. "

The next moment her face was crimson, as she reflected that what she hadsaid, seemed like begging Neil to marry her, and his answer was not veryreassuring. 

"There is _nothing_ for me to do; absolutely nothing. "

"Don't other men find employment if they want it?" Bessie asked, and hereplied:

"Yes, if they want it; but I do not. You know as well as I the prejudiceamong people of my rank against clerkships, and trade, and the like. Asa rule the McPhersons do not work. "

"But I am not ashamed to work, and I am as much a McPherson as you, "Bessie answered him, emboldened for once to say what she thought. 

"Yes, " he answered, slowly, "and I am sorry for it. You told me at onetime you thought of going out as governess. Never harbor that ideaagain, if you care for me. I cannot have people pointing out my wife asone who had taught their children. "

Bessie bowed her head silently as if in acquiescence, and Neil neversuspected what was passing in her mind, nor dreamed that a tide was setin motion which would take Bessie away from him forever. 

CHAPTER V. 

BESSIE'S DECISION. 

"And so you have determined to go to America?" Neil said to Bessie aboutfour weeks later, when he came to Stoneleigh in obedience to a letterfrom Bessie telling him she wished to see him on a matter of importance. 

"Yes, " she replied, "I am going to America. My passage is engaged, and Isail in two weeks, in company with a Mrs. Goodnough, of Bangor, a niceold lady, who will take good care of me. "

"Well, " and Neil stroked his mustache thoughtfully, "I am not sure butthat it is a good idea to beard the old woman in her den. You will belikely to succeed where others would fail, and when you are sure of herfortune send for me. "

There was a levity in his manner which Bessie resented, and she said tohim, quickly:

"If by the 'old woman' you mean my Aunt Betsey, I would rather you didnot speak of her thus. She has been kind to father and me--very kind. But it is not her fortune I am going after. It is my own! I have alwaysthought I had one somewhere, and as it does not seem to be here, it maybe in America. But, jesting aside. I am going to find something to do. It is no disgrace to work there, and your friends will never know. "

"I am not sure of that, " Neil said. "But what do you mean to do?"

"Anything I can find, " Bessie answered, decidedly. 

Neil only smiled and thought how sure it was that once with her aunt shewould become a favorite, and eventually, an heiress to the fortune he sogreatly coveted. 

He should miss her, he knew, and still it would be a relief not to haveher on his mind, as she would be, if left alone at Stoneleigh. So, onthe whole, she had done wisely when she planned to go to America, and hedid not oppose her, but said he would be in Liverpool the 25th, to seeher off. He did not ask if she had the necessary funds for the voyage;he had trouble enough on that score, and was not likely soon to forgetthe scene, or rather succession of scenes, enacted at Trevellian House, when Mrs. Meredith's bills were presented to his mother, who, but forshame's sake, would have repudiated them at once as something she wasnot lawfully obliged to pay. 

Neither did he inquire who Mrs. Goodnough was, and did not know that shewas a poor woman who had worked in the fields, and was going out to NewYork, not as first-class passenger nor even second, but as steerage, andBessie's ticket was of the same nature. She had but little money, andwhen she heard from Mrs. Goodnough, who was a friend of Dorothy's, andwho had once been in America, that a steerage passage was oftentimesvery comfortable, and that many respectable people took it because ofits cheapness, she put aside all feelings of pride, and said to Mrs. Goodnough:

"I will go steerage with you, " and from this plan she never swerved. 

But she would not tell Neil then; time enough at the last when he cameto see her off, and must, of course, know the truth. 

She knew he would be very angry, and probably insist upon paying thedifference, but she could take no more money from him, and her blood washot whenever she reflected what she had heard him say to Flossie of thebills incurred in Rome, and which she meant to pay to the uttermostfarthing, if her life was spared and she found something to do in thenew world, where to work was not degrading. But she must know theamount, and she timidly asked Neil to tell her how much it was. 

"Enough! I assure you. Those Italians are rascals and cheats--the wholeof them; but it need not trouble you, the debt is paid, " he said, alittle bitterly. But Bessie insisted upon knowing, and finally wrungfrom him that two hundred and fifty pounds would probably cover thewhole indebtedness. 

"Bringing mother home and all?" Bessie asked, and he replied:

"Yes, bringing her home and all; that was a useless expense. "

He spoke before he thought, and when he saw how quickly the tears cameto Bessie's eyes, he repented the act, and stooping down to kiss her, said:

"Forgive me, Bessie, I did not mean to wound you; but mother did fret soabout the bills. You know she did not like your mother. "

"Tell her I shall pay them all, " Bessie answered, as she withdrewherself from the arm he had thrown round her. "My mother was my own, andwith all her faults I loved her, and I believe she was a good woman atthe last. I should die if I did not. "

"Yes, oh yes, of course, " Neil said, feeling very awkward and uncertainwhat to say next. 

At last he asked, rather abruptly, if Bessie knew where Jack Trevellianand Grey Jerrold were, saying he had never heard from either of themsince he was in Rome. 

Bessie replied that Flossie had written that Sir Jack was somewhere inthe Bavarian Alps leading a kind of Bohemian life, and that he hadwritten to his steward at Trevellian Castle that he should not be homeuntil he had seen the Passion Play, then in process of presentation atOberammergau. 

"He never writes Flossie, " Bessie said; "neither does she know where Mr. Jerrold is. She wrote to him at Venice, but he did net answer herletter. Perhaps he has gone home. "

Neil said it was possible, adding, that she would probably see him inAmerica, as his Aunt Lucy lived in Allington. 

"But you are not to fall in love with him, " he continued, laughingly. "You are mine, and I shall come to claim you as soon as you write me youhave found that fortune you are going after. Do your best, little Bess, and if you cannot untie the old maid's purse strings nobody can. "

Bessie made no reply, but in her heart there was a feeling which bodedno good to Neil, who left her the next day, promising to come down toLiverpool and see her off. 

CHAPTER VI. 

IN LIVERPOOL. 

It was a steady down-pour, and the streets of Liverpool, always blackand dirty, looked dirtier and blacker than ever on the day when NeilMcPherson walked restlessly up and down the entrance hall of theNorth-western Hotel, now scanning the piles of baggage waiting to betaken to the Germanic, and then looking ruefully out upon the rainfalling so steadily. 

"It is a dreary day for her to start, poor little girl. I wish I hadmoney of my own, and I would never let her go, " he said to himself, ashe began to realize what it would be to have Bessie separated from himthe breadth of the great ocean. 

Selfish and weak as we have shown Neil to be, he loved Bessie betterthan he loved anything except himself, and there was a load on his heartand a lump in his throat every time he thought of her. She was to sailthat afternoon at three, and he had come from London on the nightexpress to meet her and say good-by. His father, and mother, and Blanchewere staying at a gentleman's house, a few miles from the city, and hewas to join them there in the evening, and make one of a largedinner-party given in honor of Lady Jane. He had told his mother thatBessie was going to America, and in her delight at the good news she didnot oppose his going to see her off, and actually handed him afive-pound note, which he was to give to Bessie with her best wishes fora pleasant voyage and happiness in the new world. 

Thus armed and equipped, Neil waited until a whiz and a shriek outsidetold him the train from Chester was in, and, going out, he stood at thegate when Bessie came through, accompanied by Mrs. Goodnough, whocarried her bag and waterproof, and who courtesied very low to Neil. Never had the latter seen Bessie look as lovely, as she did to him thenin her simple traveling-dress of black, which brought out so clearly thedazzling purity of her complexion, and seemed to intensify the deep blueof her large, sad eyes. 

"Oh, Bessie!" he exclaimed, taking her hand and putting it under hisarm, "how can I let you go? Where is Mrs. Goodnough? and who is thiswoman bobbing up and down and staring so at me?"

Neil had a great contempt for people like Mrs. Goodnough, and whenBessie said to him, in a low tone, "It is my _compagnon du voyage_. Sheis rough-looking, but kind and good. I wish you would speak to her, " heanswered, quickly:

"That woman! You going out with her! Why, she looks like a fish-woman!She is only fit to be a steerage passenger!"

"She is a steerage passenger, and I am steerage, too, " Bessie said, veryquietly, while Neil dropped her hand as if it had burned him. 

"Bessie, what do you mean?" he exclaimed, glancing down upon her andstopping suddenly. 

"Let us go inside. Do not make a scene here, please, " Bessie answeredhim, in a low, firm voice, while her cheek grew a shade paler andsomething shone in her eyes which Neil had never seen there before. 

"A private parlor, please; a small one will answer, " he said to theclerk at the bureau; and in a few moments he was sitting with Bessie athis side, asking her to tell him what she meant by saying she wassteerage, too. 

"It means, " she began, unfalteringly, "that I have no money for a firstclass ticket, which costs more than three times as much as steerage. Many respectable people go out that way, and it is very comfortable. TheGermanic is a new boat, and all the apartments are clean and nice, I amnot ashamed of it. I am ashamed of nothing, except the debt I owe yourmother, and that I had to borrow five pounds of Anthony, who insistedupon giving it to me but I would not take it. Why do you look at me sostrangely, Neil? Do you think I have committed the unpardonable sin?"

"Bessie, " Neil began, huskily, and in a voice choked with passion, "thisis the drop too much. I knew you had some low instincts, but neverdreamed you could stoop to this degradation, which affects me as much asit does you. But it is not too late to change, and you must do it. "

"No, Neil, I cannot. I have barely enough to get there as it is, " shereplied, and he continued:

"Mother sent you five pounds with her compliments. Will that do? Here itis, " and he offered her the note, which she put aside quickly, as shesaid:

"I cannot take that from your mother. Give it back to her, and, if youthink she meant it well, thank her for me, and tell her I shall pay thewhole some day when I earn it. "

She emphasized the last words, and, more angry than before, Neilexclaimed:

"Earn it! Why will you persist in such nonsense, as if you were a commonchar-woman? You know as well as I that you are going to Aunt Betsey withthe hope to get some of her money, as you unquestionably will. "

"Neil, I am not, " Bessie answered, firmly. "I am going to America, because there I can work and be respected, too, while here, according toyour code, I cannot. "

"Then, for Heaven's sake, go decently, and not herd with a lot ofcattle, for emigrants are little better; and do not make yourself aspectacle for the other passengers to gaze upon and wonder about, asthey will be sure to do. If you have no pride for yourself, you have noright to disgrace me. How do you think it will sound, some day, thatNeil McPherson's wife went out as steerage? Have you no feeling aboutit?"

"Not in that way--no, " Bessie replied. "It seems to me I have been inthe steerage all my life, and this can be no worse. Lady Bothwaite wentthus to Australia to see how it fared with the passengers. "

"Yes, and got herself well laughed at as a lunatic, " Neil rejoined. Then, after a pause, he continued, excitedly: "But to come to thepoint--you must either give up this crazy plan or me. I can have noshare in this disgrace, which the world would never forget, and whichmother would never forgive. My wife must not come from the steerage. "

He spoke with great decision, for he was very angry, and for a momentthere was perfect silence between them, while Bessie regarded himfixedly, with an expression on her face which made him uneasy, for hedid not quite mean all he had said to her, and there was a strongclinging of his heart to this fragile little girl, who said at last, very softly and low:

"You mean it, Neil?--mean what you say?"

"Yes, " he answered her. "You must choose steerage or me!"

"Then, Neil, " she continued, taking off her engagement-ring and puttingit into his hand, "I am afraid it must be steerage. There is your ring;it is all ended between us. And it is better that it is so. I havethought for some time that we could not be happy together with ourdissimilar tastes. I should always be doing something you did not like, and which I could not think was wrong. Besides this, we need not deceiveourselves longer with the hope that your mother will ever give herconsent to our marriage, for she will not, and as we cannot marrywithout it, I think it better that we should part; not in anger, Neil, "and she laid her hand caressingly upon his arm. "We have loved eachother too well for that. We will be friends always, as we are cousins, but never man and wife. We are free, both of us;" and as she spoke therekept coming over her a most delicious sense of relief, as if some burdenwere being rolled from her, and the expression of her face was not thatof a young girl who has just broken with the man she loved. 

And Neil felt the change in her, and rebelled against it, saying that hewould not give her up though she went steerage a hundred times, and inhis excitement he offered to marry her that day, if she were willing, and take her at once to his mother, who would not shut the door againstthem, when she knew the deed was done. 

But Bessie was resolute, and Neil was obliged to abide with herdecision, but his face was very gloomy, and there was a sense of painand loss in his heart when at last he entered the carriage which was totake Bessie to the wharf. 

Mrs. Goodnough was to attend to the luggage and see that it was onboard, consequently Neil was spared all trouble, as Bessie meant heshould be. The rain was still falling, and there were many cabs andhansoms crowding the dock when Neil and Bessie reached it. 

"Where will you go? With the steerage gang? If so, for Heaven's sakekeep your veil over your face. I should not like to have any friend ofmine, who might chance to be here, see you, " Neil said, impatiently, andBessie replied:

"I shall stay by Mrs. Goodnough till the tug takes us out. There she isnow, in the distance, I can make my way to her very well alone, and asit is raining hard, we had better say good-by here in the carriage. Youcannot help me any, and--" she hesitated an instant, and then added:"You might be recognized. "

Neil hated himself cordially, and called himself a sneak and a coward, but he followed Bessie's advice, and drawing up the window of thecarriage, clasped her to his bosom as he said farewell, telling her itwas not forever, that she was his still, and he should come for her someday, and claim her promise to him. 

Bessie did not contradict him. She knew he was suffering greatly, andshe pitied him, while all the time there was in her heart a little songof gladness that she was free. Taking his face between her hand, shekissed it tenderly, and said:

"Good-by, Neil, and may God bless you and make you a good and noble man. I know you will never forget me. Too much has passed between us forthat; but you will learn to be very happy without me. Good-by. "

She touched his lips again; then, opening the door herself, she sprangto the ground before he could stop her. 

"Don't get out; good-by, " she said, waving him back as he was about toalight, and opening her umbrella and pulling the hood of her waterproofover her head, she started in the direction of Mrs. Goodnough, leavingNeil with such a tumult of thought crowding his brain as nearly drovehim wild. 

If he had not fancied that he saw one of his London acquaintances in thedistance, he might have followed Bessie, but he could not be seen, forfear that the reason for his being there should come out, and it becomeknown that a McPherson was allowed to go to America as a steeragepassenger; so he sat a moment and watched the little figure with thewaterproof hood over its head making its way to where a rough-lookingwoman was standing, with an immense cotton umbrella over her sun-bonnetand evidently waiting for some one. And so Bessie vanished from Neil'ssight, and he saw her no more. 

"Back to the hotel, " he said to the cabman, who obeyed willingly, whileNeil, always on the alert, closed the windows lest he should he seen andrecognized. 

But the air was close and hot, and when he thought himself out of dangerhe drew the window down and looked out just in time to meet the eyes ofGrey Jerrold who was driving in an opposite direction. There was anexclamation from Grey, a call for both cabmen to stop, and before Neilcould collect his senses the two carriages were drawn up side by sideand he was shaking hands with Grey through the window. 

"So glad I happened to meet you, " Grey said. "I wanted to say good-by, for I am off for America. "

"America!" Neil repeated, and his lower jaw dropped suddenly, as if hehad been seized with paralysis. 

"Yes, " Grey rejoined. "I sail in the Germanic with my Aunt Lucy. Shecame down to Liverpool yesterday with some friends. I shall find her atthe wharf. I have just arrived in the train from Chester. I was only inLondon for a day, but I called at your house to see you, and learnedthat you were out of town, so I left a little note for you. Neil"--andGrey spoke very low, as we do when we speak of the dead--"I have been inPrussia, Austria, and Russia since I left Italy, but I know I ought tohave written and told you how sorry I was for--for what happened inRome. If it had not been for my aunt, I believe I should have gone backand helped you. I--"

Here Grey stopped, for since his interview with Jack Trevellian he hadnever mentioned Bessie's name to any one, and he could not do so noweven to Neil, who, having no idea of the mistake under which Grey waslaboring, and supposing he, of course, was referring to Daisy, repliedwith an indifference which made Grey's flesh creep:

"Yes, thanks; they told me how kind you were, and I ought to havewritten you, but I had so much to see to. I trust I may never go throughthe like again. Those landlords are perfect swindlers, the whole ofthem, and ought to be indicted. "

He spoke excitedly, and Grey gazed at him in blank astonishment. Was heperfectly heartless that he could speak thus of an event, the mereremembrance of which made Grey's heart throb with anguish? Had he reallyno abiding love for Bessie, that he could speak thus of the trouble andexpense her death had caused him? Grey could not tell, but he was neveras near hating Neil McPherson, as he was that moment, and he felt agreater desire to thrash him than he had done at Melrose when thestar-spangled banner was insulted. 

He could not pursue the subject further, and he changed the conversationby speaking of Jack Trevellian, from whom he had not heard since he lefthim in Vienna, weeks before. 

"I have written to him, " he said, "but have received no answer. I havealso written to Miss Meredith, with a like result, and conclude I haveno friends this side the water, so I am going home. "

"You can count on me for a friend always, " Neil said, with a sudden gushof warmth, as he extended his hand, adding hurriedly: "And now I mustsay good-by, as I have an engagement. _Au revoir_ and _bon voyage_. "

"Good-by, " Grey answered, a little coldly, and the carriages moved on, greatly to the relief of Neil, who had been in a tremor of fear lestBessie should be inquired for and he be obliged to tell where she was. 

During his interview with Grey his conscience and his pride had beenwaging a fierce battle the latter bidding him say nothing of Bessie, who possibly might not be seen during the voyage, as she had promised tokeep strictly out of the sight of the saloon passengers, and, unlessnecessary, not to tell any one except her aunt that she had crossed assteerage. Thus the disgrace might never be known. But his consciencebade him tell Grey the truth, and ask him to find Bessie on shipboard, and do what he could to lighten the dreariness of her situation. Why hedid not do this Neil could not tell, and when the opportunity was passedhe cursed himself for a miserable coward, and actually put his head fromthe window to bid the cabman turn back and overtake the carriage theyhad met. 

"Ten chances to one if I find him now. I'll write and confess the wholething, " he finally decided, and so went back to the hotel, where hepassed a miserable three hours, until it was time to dress for thedinner at the house where his mother was visiting. 

It was quite a large dinner-party, consisting mostly of matrons andelderly men, so that Neil's presence was hailed with delight, and he wasthe center of attraction for at least four young ladies, among whomBlanche was conspicuous. But Neil had no heart for anything, and seemedso silent and absent-minded that his mother whispered to him in anaside:

"What ails you, Neil? Surely you are not fretting after that girl?"

She knew Bessie was to sail that afternoon, and that Neil was to see heroff, but she was not prepared for the white face which he turned to her, or the bitter tones in which he said:

"Yes, I am fretting for that girl, as you call her. And I would givehalf my life to be with her this minute. But she is gone. She is lost tome forever, and I wish I were dead. "

To this outburst Lady Jane made no reply, but, as she looked into herson's face, there flashed upon her a doubt as to the result of heropposition to Bessie, and the question as to whether it would not bebetter to withdraw it and let him have his way. The girl was wellenough, or would be if she had money, and this she would unquestionablyget from the old-maid aunt. She would wait and see, and meantime shewould give Neil a grain of comfort, so she said to him:

"I had no idea you loved her so much. Perhaps that aunt may make herrich, and then she would not be so bad a match. You _must_ marry money. "

Yes, Neil must marry money if possible, but he must marry Bessie, too;and as he looked upon the broken engagement as something which couldeasily be taken up again, he felt greatly consoled by his mother'swords, and for the remainder of the evening was as gay and agreeable asLady Jane could wish. But still there was always in his mind the pictureof a forlorn little girl, wrapped in a blue waterproof, with the hoodover her head, disappearing from his sight through the rain, and he wasconstantly wondering what she was doing, and if Grey Jerrold would findher. 

CHAPTER VII. 

ON THE SHIP. 

Never in her life had Bessie felt so utterly desolate and friendless aswhen she said good-by to Neil and threaded her way through the crowd ofdrays, and cabs, and express-wagons to where Mrs. Goodnough was waitingfor her. All her former life, with the dear old home, lay behind her, while before her was the broad ocean and the uncertainty as to what sheshould find in far-off America. Added to this there was a clinging inher heart to Neil, whom she had loved too long to forget at once, andalthough she felt it was far better to be free, she was conscious of asense of loss, and loneliness, and inexpressible homesickness when sheat last took her seat in the tug which was to take her and herfellow-companions to the steamer moored in the river. 

Oh, how damp and close it was on the boat, especially in the dark cornerwhere Bessie crouched as if to hide herself from view! She had promisedNeil to avoid observation as much as possible, and, keeping her hoodover her head, she tied over it a dark blue vail, which hid her facefrom sight, and hid, too, the tears, which fell like rain, as she satwith clasped hands leaning her aching head against Mrs. Goodnough, who, though a rough, uncultivated woman, had a kind, motherly heart, andpitied the young girl, who, she knew, was so sadly out of place. 

There were not many cabin passengers on the ship, and these were toomuch absorbed in finding their state-rooms and settling their luggage topay any attention to, or even to think of, the few German and Englishemigrants, who went to their own quarters on the middle deck. And so noone noticed the girl, who clung so timidly to the Welsh woman, and whoshook with cold and nervousness as she sat down upon the berth allottedto her and glanced furtively around at the people and the appointmentsof the place. Everything was scrupulously clean, but of the plainestkind, and "steerage" seemed written everywhere. There was nothingaristocratic in Bessie's nature, and, if necessary, she would havebroken stone upon the highway, and still Neil himself could not haverebelled more hotly against her surroundings than she did for a fewmoments, feeling as if she could not endure it, and that if she staidthere she must throw herself into the sea. 

"Oh, I cannot bear it--I cannot. Why did I come?" she said, as she feltthe trembling of the vessel and knew they were in motion. "Oh, can't Igo back? Won't they stop and let me off?" she cried convulsively, clutching the arm of Mrs. Goodnough, who tried to comfort her. 

"There! there, darling! Don't take it so hard, " she said, tenderlycaressing the fair head lying in her lap. "They'll not stop now till weare off Queenstown, when there will be a chance to go back if you like, but I don't think you will. America is better than Wales. You will behappy there. "

Bessie did not think she should ever be happy again, but with her usualsweet unselfishness, and thoughtfulness for others, she tried to dry hertears, so as not to distress her companion, and when the lattersuggested that she go out and look at the docks of Liverpool and theshores as they passed, she pulled up her hood and tied on her vail, andwith her back to anyone who might see her from the upper deck, where thefirst-class passengers were congregated, she stood gazing at the landshe was leaving, until a chilly sensation in her bones and the violentpain in her head sent her to her berth, which she did not leave againfor three days and more. 

She knew when they stopped at Queenstown, and was glad for a littlerespite from the rolling motion, which nearly drove her wild and madeher so deadly sick. But she did not see the tug when it came out ladenwith Irish emigrants, of whom there was a large number. Of these theyoung girls and single women were sent to the rear of the ship, whereBessie lay, half unconscious of what was passing around her, until sheheard the sound of suppressed weeping, so close to her that it seemedalmost in her ear. 

Opening her eyes, she saw a young girl sitting on the floor, with herhead upon the berth next to her own, sobbing convulsively and whisperingto herself:

"Oh, me father, me father; me heart is breaking for you. What'll ye dowithout yer Jennie, when the nights are dark and long. Oh, me poor oldfather, I wish I had niver come. We might have starved together. "

"Poor girl, " Bessie said, pityingly, as she stretched out her hand andtouched the bowed head, "I am so sorry for you. Is your father old, andwhy did you leave him?"

At the sound of the sweet voice, so full of sympathy, the girl startedquickly, and turning to Bessie, looked at her wonderingly; then, as ifby some subtle intuition she recognized the difference there was betweenherself and the stranger whose beautiful face fascinated her sostrongly, she said:

"Oh, lady--an' sure you be a lady, even if you are here with the likesof me--I had to lave me father, we was so poor and the taxes is so high, and the rint so big intirely, and the landlord a-threatenin' of us toset us in the road any foine mornin'; and so I'm goin' to Ameriky totake a place; me cousin left to be married, and if I does well--an' sureI'll try me best--I gets two pounds a month, and ivery penny I'll saveto bring the old father over. But you cannot be going out to work, andhave you left your father?"

"My father is dead, and mother, too, " Bessie answered, with a sob. "Ihave left them both in their graves. I _am_ going out to work, but Ihave no place waiting for me like you, and I do not know of a friend inthe world who can help me. "

"An' faith, then, you can just count on me, Jennie Mahoney, " theimpulsive Irish girl exclaimed, stretching out her hand to Bessie. "Youspoke kind like to me when me heart was fit to break, and it's meselfwill stand by you and take care of ye, too, as if ye was the greatestlady in the land, as ye might be, for I knows very well that the likesof ye has nought to do with the likes of me; an' if them spalpeens daresto come round a speerin' at ye, it's meself will shovel out their eyeswith me nails. I know 'em. They are on every ship, and they are on this. I heard one of 'em say when I come aboard, 'By Jove, Hank, that's a neatBiddy, I think I'll cultivate her. ' Cultivate me, indade! I'll Hank him. Let him come anigh you or me, the bla'guard!"

Bessie had no definite idea what the girl meant by spalpeens andbla'guards, whose eyes she was to shovel out, but she remembered whatNeil had said about her attracting the notice of the upper deckpassengers, and resolved more fully than ever to keep herself from sightas much as possible. She had a friend in Jennie, to whom she putnumberless questions as to where she was going, and so forth. But Jenniecould not remember the name of the lady or place. Her cousin, who hadmarried lately, and lived in New York, was to tell her everything on herarrival. 

"It is a good place, " she said, "and if it's companion or the like ofthat ye are wishin' to be, I'll spake a good word to the lady, who, mecousin says, is mighty quare, but very good and kind when she takes afancy. "

Bessie smiled as she thought of an offer of help coming from this poorgirl, but she did not resent the offer. On the contrary, she feltcomforted because of it, and because of Jennie, whose faithfulness anddevotion knew no stint or cessation during the next twenty-four hours, when it seemed to Bessie that she must die, both from the terriblesea-sickness and the close atmosphere of the cabin, where so many werecongregated. 

The fourth day out Mrs. Goodnough said Bessie must be taken into thefresh air, as nothing else would avail to help her, and a stool wasplaced for her on the deck, and then Jennie took her in her strong arms, and carrying her out put her down as gently as if she had been a baby. 

"An', faith ye must be covered, " she said, as, faint and sick, Bessieleaned back against the door, thus fully disclosing to view her white, beautiful face, which made such a striking picture among the steeragepassengers, and began to attract attention from the upper deck. 

It had already been rumored through the ship that there was a young ladyin the steerage, and as it takes but little to interest a ship'scompany, much curiosity was felt concerning her, and when it was knownthat she had come out from the cabin, quite a little group gathered inthe part of the boat nearest to her, and stood looking down at her. 

"Och, me honeys, " Jennie said, frowning savagely at them, "I'll spileyer fun for you, an' it's not her blessed face ye shall stare at, thoughthe sight of it might do ye good, " and rushing to her berth she broughtout Mrs. Goodnough's big sun-bonnet, which she tied on Bessie's head, thus effectually hiding her features from sight. "There!" Jenniecontinued, as she contemplated the disfiguring head-gear with greatsatisfaction, "them spalpeens can't see ye now, and if they heave youdown anything it's meself will heave it back, for what business havethey to be takin' things from the table without the captain's lave, andthrowin' 'em to us as if we was a lot of pigs. It's just stalin', andnothin' else. "

The fresh air and change did Bessie good, and, protected by thesun-bonnet and Jennie, she sat outside until sunset, and was thencarried to her berth. That night the wind changed, causing the ship toroll in a most unsatisfactory manner; and Bessie, who was exceedinglysensitive to every motion, was not able to go outside again, but lay onher bed, whiter a great deal than the pillow under her head, and with alook of suffering on her face which touched the kind-hearted Jennie tothe quick. 

"An' sure she'll be throwin' up ivery blessed thing she'll ate for thenext year, " she said. "If I could only right side up her stomach. Iwonder if an orange would do it;" and counting her little stock ofmoney--six shillings in all--she took a few pennies, and going to thestewardess, bade her buy two of the finest and swatest oranges in thebutler's pantry. "

"Here, honey! Here's what will turn that nasty, creepin' sickness, an'make ye feet like the top of the mornin', " she said to Bessie, as shesat down beside her and held a piece of the juicy fruit to her lips. 

And Bessie was trying to take it when a voice outside said to Mrs. Goodnough:

"I heard there was some one very sick, and have come to see if I can doanything for her. "

The next moment a middle-aged lady, with grayish hair and a sweet, sadface, came in, and going up to Jennie, said:

"Is this the sick girl?"

For a moment Bessie's face was scarlet, and there was a frightened lookin her blue eyes as she regarded her visitor, who continued, verygently:

"I am sorry to find you suffering so much. My nephew Grey has been sickall the voyage, or I should have been down here before. What can I dofor you?"

"Her nephew Grey!" Bessie repeated the words to herself, us she staredin bewilderment at the face bending over her, recognizing in it, orfancying that she did, a resemblance to the face which had looked sopityingly at her by her dead father's bedside, and which, whether wakingor sleeping, haunted her continually. Was this woman Grey's Aunt Lucy, of whom she had heard so much? and was he there on the ship with her, and would he know by and by that she was there and come to see her? Thenshe remembered Neil, and her promise to let no one know who she was, lest he should be disgraced. So when Miss Grey sat down beside her, andtaking the hot hands in hers, said to her, "Please tell me what I can dofor you, and pardon me if I ask your name, " she sobbed piteously:

"No, no--oh, no! I promised never to let it be known that I was here, _I_ am not ashamed, but he is, and I can tell only this--I am very poorand am going to America to earn my living. I had no money for afirst-class ticket, and so I came in here. They are very kind to me, Jennie and Mrs. Goodnough. I am going out with her. Are you anAmerican?"

"Yes; I am Miss Grey, from Allington, I will help you if I can, " wasthe reply, and then Bessie's tears fell faster, as she cried:

"Thank you, no. You must not talk to me. You must not come again. Pleasego away, or I shall break my promise to Neil. "

The name dropped from her lips unwittingly, and Miss Grey repeated it toherself, trying to remember why it seemed so familiar to her, and as shethought and looked wonderingly at the tear-stained face, the impulsiveJennie broke in:

"An' plaze yer ladyship, if you'll go away now and lave Miss Bessie tobe aisy for a little, I'm sure she'll see you again. "

"Bessie! Neil!" Miss Grey repeated aloud, and then she thought of Grey'sfriend, Neil McPherson, and remembered there was a cousin Bessie of whomshe, too, had heard. Could this be she? Impossible; and yet so strong animpression had been made upon her that as she passed out and met Mrs. Goodnough, who, she knew, had the young lady in charge, she said to her:

"I hope you will let me know if I can do anything for Miss McPherson. "

"Did she tell you her name?" Mrs. Goodnough asked, in surprise, forBessie had confided to her the fact that, as far as possible, she wishedto be strictly incognito on the ship. 

Miss Lucy was sure now, and with her thoughts in a tumult of perplexityand wonder, she hurried away to the state-room of her nephew. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

GREY AND HIS AUNT. 

Grey had been very sick the entire voyage. Since the day when he heardthat Bessie was dead he had lost all interest in everything, and thoughhe went wherever his aunt wished to go, it was only to please her, andnot because he cared in the least for anything he saw. From Flossie hehad never heard, for her letter did not reach him, and he had no thoughtthat Bessie was alive, and everywhere he went he saw always the dearface, white and still, as he knew it must have looked when it lay in thecoffin. Sometimes the pain in his heart was so hard to bear that he washalf tempted to tell his aunt of his sorrow and crave her sympathy. Butthis he had not done, and Bessie's name had never passed his lips sincehe heard she was dead. 

At last, alarmed by the pallor of his face, and the tired, listlessmanner, so unlike himself, Lucy suggested that they go home, and to thisGrey readily assented. But first he must see Bessie's grave, and atLondon he left his aunt in charge of some friends who were going home inthe same ship and would see her to Liverpool. He was going to Wales onbusiness, he said, and as she knew he had been there two or three timesbefore, Lucy asked no questions, and had no suspicion of the nature ofthe business which took him first to Carnarvon, where a last fruitlesssearch was made for Elizabeth Rogers or some of her kin, and then toStoneleigh, which he reached on an early morning train, the same whichtook Bessie to Liverpool! Thus near do the wheels of fate oftentimescome to each other. 

In her hurry to secure a compartment, Bessie did not see the young manalighting from a carriage only the fourth from the one she was entering, and as both Anthony and Dorothy, who were at the station with her, wentacross the bridge to do some errands before returning home, no oneobserved Grey as he hurried along the road to Stoneleigh, and enteringthe grounds, stood at last by the new grave in the corner close to thefence, where he believed Bessie was lying. 

Bearing his head to the falling rain, which seemed to cool his burningbrow, he said aloud:

"Darling Bessie, can you see me now? Do you know that I am here, standing by your grave, and do you know how much I love you? Surely itis no wrong to Neil for me to whisper to your dead ears the story of mylove. Oh, Bessie, I have come to say good-by, and my heart is breakingas I say it. If you could only answer me--could give me some token thatyou know, it would be some comfort to me when I am far away, for I amgoing home, Bessie, to the home over the sea, where I once hoped Imight take you as my wife, before I knew of Neil's prior claim, but solong as life lasts I shall remember the dear little girl who was so muchto me; and here I pledge my word that no other love shall ever comebetween us. I have loved you; I have lost you; but thank God, I have notlost your memory. Good-by, darling; good-by. "

He stooped and kissed the rain-wet sod above the grave, then walkedswiftly away in the direction of Bangor, and took the first throughtrain to Liverpool. On arriving at the hotel he learned that his aunthad already gone to the wharf with her friends, and taking a cab, he, too, was driven there, meeting with Neil, who confounded and disgustedhim with his apparent indifferences and heartlessness. 

Absorbed in his own sad refection, Grey had no thought for any of hisfellow passengers, whether steerage or cabin, and disguised by her hoodand vail, Bessie might have brushed against him without recognition. 

So he had no idea how near she was to him, and as the motion of the shipsoon began to affect him, he went to his state-room, which he scarcelyleft again for several days. Once, when the doctor was visiting him, hisaunt, who was present, asked if there were many sick among the steeragepassengers, and if they were comfortable?

There was but one who was very sick, the doctor replied, and her casepuzzled him, she seemed so superior to her class, and so reticent withregard to herself. 

"I will go and see her, " Lucy said, and that afternoon she made hervisit to Bessie, with the result we have seen. 

Puzzled and curious, she went next to her nephew, whom she found dressedand in his sea-chair, which had been brought into his state-room. He wasbetter, and was going on deck as soon as the steward could come and helphim. Sitting down beside him, Lucy began rather abruptly:

"I have heard you talk a great deal of Neil McPherson, whose father isbrother to Miss Betsey McPherson, of Allington, and I have heard youspeak of a Bessie McPherson. Do you know where she is?"

Grey's face was white as marble, while a spasm of pain passed over hisfeatures as he said: "Oh, Aunt Lucy, you do not know how you hurt meWhy did you speak of her?"

"Because I have a suspicion that she is on the ship, " Lucy replied; butGrey shook his head mournfully as he said to her:

"That is impossible; Bessie is dead. She died in Rome last spring. Shewas sick with the fever all the time we were there, and I was with herevery day, but did not tell you, as I knew you would be so anxious forme. And when she died I could not talk of her to any one. Poor littleBessie! She was so young, and sweet, and pure. You would have loved herso much. "

"Yes, " Lucy said, taking one of Grey's hands, and holding itcaressingly, for she guessed what was in his heart. "Tell me about herif you can. You say she is dead, and you are sure?"

"Yes, sure, " he answered. "I did not see her die, it is true, but I knowshe is dead, and I have stood by her grave at Stoneleigh. When I leftyou in London I went to her grave, and I believe I left all my life andsoul there with her. I never thought I could talk to any one of her, butit seems to me now it would be a relief to tell you about her. Shall I?"

"Yes, tell me, " Lucy said, and closing his eyes, and leaning backwearily in his chair, Grey told her everything he knew with regard toBessie McPherson, who had died in Rome, and whose grave he had stoodbeside in the yard at Stoneleigh; told her, too, of Bessie's engagementto Neil, of which he had heard from Jack Trevellian, and of Neil'sapparent heartlessness and indifference when he met him in the streetsof Liverpool. 

"Poor little Bessie, " he said in conclusion. "You don't know what aweary life she led, or how bravely she bore it; but she is dead, andperhaps it is better so than if she were the wife of Neil. "

"Poor boy, " Lucy said, very gently, when he had finished his story, "youloved Bessie very much. "

"Yes, I loved her so much that just to have her mine for one brief monthI believe I would give twenty years of my life, " Grey replied, and everyword was a sob, for he was moved as he had never before been moved, evenwhen he first heard that Bessie was dead. 

All thoughts of going on deck were given up for that day, and when thesteward came to help him up the stairs, he helped him instead to hisberth, where he lay with his eyes closed, though Lucy, who sat besidehim, knew he was not asleep, for occasionally a tear gathered on hislong lashes and dropped upon his cheek. 

Late in the afternoon Lucy made her way again to the steerage quarters, for thoughts of the sick girl had haunted her continually, though shedid not now believe her to be the Bessie whom Grey had loved and lost. But who was she, and who was the Neil of whom she had inadvertentlyspoken? and why was she so like the Bessie, Grey had described?

"Blue eyed, golden-haired, with a face like an angel, " she repeated toherself, as she descended the stairs to the lower deck and walked to thedoor, around which several women were gathered with anxious concern upontheir faces. 

CHAPTER IX. 

BESSIE IS PROMOTED. 

"She is took very bad, mum, " one of the women said to Lucy, as she stoodaside to let her pass into the close, hot cabin, where Bessie wastalking wildly and incessantly of her father and mother, and of Grey, while Mrs. Goodnough and Jennie tried in vain to quiet her. 

"What is it? How long has she been this way?" Lucy asked, and thevoluble Jennie replied:

"An' sure, mum, just afther ye left it sthruck to her head, and she wintout of herself intirely, and goes on awful about her father and mother, who died in Rome with the faver and is buried in some stonehape or thelikes of it, and of Grey Jerry, who, she says, is on the ship and won'tcome to her. An' sure, would ye be so kind as to try yerself what ye cando?"

"Talking of Grey!" Lucy repeated, ten times more perplexed than she hadbeen before. "How does she know my nephew, and who is she?" Then, turning to Mrs. Goodnough, she continued: "There is some mystery herewhich I must solve, I fancied this morning that she might be BessieMcPherson, of Stoneleigh Park, Bangor, but my nephew tells me that shedied in Rome--and if so, who is this young girl?"

"Oh, madam, " Mrs. Goodnough began, "there can be no harm in telling younow, though she didn't want anybody to know; not for herself--she ain'ta bit ashamed, but some of her high friends is, and made her promise tokeep to herself who she was; but you are bound to know, and she _is_Miss Bessie McPherson, of Stoneleigh, and she is not dead at all, andnever has been. She had the fever in Rome, but she got well, and it washer mother who died there; this is the truth, and may God forgive me ifI have done harm by my tattling. "

"You have done no harm, " Lucy replied, "but on the contrary a great goodto Miss McPherson, whom I shall at once have removed to my state-room. Fortunately I am alone, and can share it with her as well as not. "

What Lucy Grey willed to do she went about at once, and in less than anhour she had interviewed the captain, the purser, and the doctor, and, while the passengers were at dinner, Bessie was lifted carefully inJennie's strong arms and taken to Miss Grey's state-room, where she waslaid upon the lounge under the window, as the place where she would havemore room and better air. The change seemed to revive her at once, andwhen, after her dinner, Miss Grey returned to her state room, she foundBessie sleeping quietly, with the faithful Jennie keeping watch besideher. The next morning she was still better, and Jennie, who had insistedupon sitting beside her during the night, was delighted to find herfever gone and her reason restored. 

Very wonderingly Bessie looked around her when she first awoke from asleep which had lasted several hours, and then, as her eyes fell uponJennie, she asked:

"What is it, Jennie? What has happened? This is not the steerage! Wheream I?"

"And indade ye are in heaven, an' that's the angel who brought youhere, " Jennie replied, nodding toward Miss Grey, who came at once toBessie's couch. 

Bending over her, and kissing her gently, she said:

"I am glad you are better. "

"Yes, " Bessie answered, falteringly; "but what is it? How came I here?"

In as few words as possible Lucy explained to her that she haddiscovered her identity, and could not allow her to remain where shewas. 

"It was not right for me to have this large room all to myself, andleave you in that cramped, crowded place, " she said, and Bessie answeredher:

"Yes, it was kind in you, but I am sorry you found me out, I promised noone should know me. Neil will be so angry and disgraced. "

"Drat that Neil, whoever he is!" Jennie exclaimed, energetically. "Disgraced, indade, I only wish I had him by the scruff of his neck, ifhe thinks anything can disgrace you, or make you less a lady. Themsmells, and they are awful sometimes, when half the folks is sick, can'tdo it. "

At this speech Bessie laughed aloud, the first real laugh since hermother died, but it did her good; and when Jennie had washed her faceand brushed her hair and given her her breakfast she declared herselfable to get up. But this Lucy would not allow. 

"You must be quiet to-day, and to-morrow you can go on deck, " she said;and then, as Jennie had gone out, she sat down by Bessie's side, andtaking one of her hands, continued: "Do you think you are strong enoughto see an old friend by and by?"

Bessie knew she meant Grey, and the hot blood surged into her face asshe answered, eagerly:

"Yes, oh, yes. He will bring Stoneleigh back to me; he was so kind whenfather died, and in Rome, and everywhere. Can I see him now?"

"Not just yet, " Miss Grey said, smiling at the young girl's eagerness, which showed itself in every feature. "I doubt if Grey is yet up. He hasbeen sick all the voyage, and is very weak, and I must prepare himfirst. He thinks you are dead. "

"Dead!" Bessie repeated. "How can he think so? I do not understand. "

As briefly as possible Miss Grey explained all she knew of the mistakewhich the messenger boy must have made when he told Grey, in Florence, that Bessie had died the very day he left Rome. 

"Oh, yes, I see, " Bessie rejoined. "It was the American girl on thesame floor with me. Flossie told me of her, and I heard them taking heraway that night. Oh, it was so sad; and Mr. Jerrold thought it was I!Was he sorry, Miss Grey?"

She asked the question timidly, and into her eyes there came a look ofgreat gladness when her friend replied:

"Yes, very, very sorry. "

"Will you tell him I am not dead? It was poor mamma who died. Tell him Iam here, " Bessie continued; and Miss Grey looked curiously at the girl, who, being, as she supposed, engaged to Neil, could be so glad that Greywas sorry, and so eager to see him. 

"Yes, I will tell him and bring him to you after a little; but you mustbe quiet, and not excite yourself too much. I must have you well when wereach New York, and we have only three days more, " Miss Grey replied, and then, with a kiss, she went away to Grey's state-room at the otherend of the ship. 

But he was not there, and upon inquiry she learned that he had gone upon deck, where she found him in his chair, sitting by himself, andgazing out upon the sea, with that sad, troubled look on his face, whichhad of late become habitual, and of which she now knew the reason. 

"Grey, " she said, drawing an unoccupied chair close to him, and speakingvery low, "you are better this morning. Do you think you can bear somevery good news?"

"Yes, " he answered her. "What is it? Are we nearer New York than wesupposed?"

"No; it has nothing to do with New York, or the ship, but somebody init. Grey"--and Lucy spoke hurriedly now--"did it never occur to you thatpossibly you were mistaken with regard to Bessie's death--that it mightbe some one else who died in Rome and was buried at Stoneleigh--hermother, perhaps?"

"What!" and Grey drew a long, gasping breath, as he stared wonderinglyat her. "Go on, " he added: "tell me what you mean. "

"I mean, " his aunt replied, "that Bessie is not dead. I have seen her. Ihave spoken with her. She is on the ship. She is in my state-room, waiting for you. She is the sick girl I told you about. "

Grey made an effort to spring from his chair, but had not the power todo so. The shock had been too great, and he sank back half fainting, whispering as he did so:

"Tell me everything--now--at once. It will not harm me; joy seldomkills. Tell me the whole. "

So she told him all she knew, and the particulars of her finding Bessieamong the steerage passengers, and having her removed to her room. 

"Yes, I see--I understand how the mistake occurred. " Grey said. "But whydid not Neil tell me he had been to see her off?"

"He was probably ashamed to let you know that she was in the steerage. He hoped you would not find her, " Miss Grey replied; and Grey exclaimed:

"The coward! If it were not wrong, I should have him;" while a fiercepang shot through his heart that Bessie was bound to Neil, and that, though living, she was no nearer to him than if she were dead and inthat grave by which he had so lately stood. 

Still it would be something to see her again, to hear her voice, to lookinto her eyes, and have her all to himself for the remainder of thevoyage, which he now wished had just commenced. 

"Thank God she lives, even though she does not live for me, " he said tohimself; and then, at his aunt's suggestion, he tried to control hisnerves and bring himself into a quieter, calmer condition before goingdown to see her. 

It was nearly an hour before he felt himself strong enough to do it, andwhen at last he reached the narrow passage, and knew there was but astep between him and Bessie, he trembled so that his aunt was obliged tosupport him as he steadied himself against the door of the state-room. Glancing in for an instant, Miss Grey put her finger upon her lip, saying to him:

"She is asleep; sit quietly down till she wakens. "

There was a buzzing in Grey's ears and a blur before his eyes, so thathe did not at once see distinctly the face which lay upon the pillowresting on one hand, with the bright hair clinging about the neck andbrow. Bessie had fallen asleep while waiting for him, and there was asmile upon her lips and a flush upon her cheek, which made her morelike the Bessie he knew at Stoneleigh than like the white-faced girl hehad left in Rome, and whom he had never thought to see again. 

"It is Bessie and she is alive, " he said, under his breath, and bendingover her he softly kissed her forehead saying as he did so, "My darling!just for the moment _mine_, if Neil's by and by. "

For an instant Bessie moved uneasily, then slept again, while Greywatched her with a great hunger in his heart and a longing to take herin his arms, and, in spite of a hundred Neils, tell her of his love. Howbeautiful she was in that calm sleep, and Grey noted every point ofbeauty, from the sheen of her golden hair to the dimpled hand which wasjust within his reach. 

"Poor little hand, " he said, laying his own carefully upon it; "how muchit has done for others. Oh, if I could only call it mine, it shouldnever know toil again. "

He might have raised it to his lips if just then the eyes had notunclosed, as with a start Bessie awoke and looked wonderingly at him foran instant; then, instead of withdrawing her hand from his, she held theother towards him, and raising herself up, cried out:

"Oh, Mr. Jerrold, I am so glad! Nothing is half so dreary now that Iknow you are on the ship, and you will tell Neil it was not my faultthat you found me. He may be very angry. "

At the mention of Neil a feeling of constraint crept over Grey, and hequietly released his hands from Bessie's lest he should say to her wordshe ought not to say to one who was plighted to another. And Bessienoticed the change in him, and her lip quivered in a grieved kind ofway, as she said:

"You thought me dead, and you were sorry just a little?"

"Oh, Bessie, " and with a mighty effort Grey managed to control himself, "you will never know how sorry, or how glad I am to find you stillalive; but you must not talk to me now. You must rest, so as to go ondeck and get some strength and some color back to your cheeks. Ipromised auntie not to stay long. I will come again by and by. "

Drawing the covering around her as deftly as a woman could have done, he went out and left her alone to wonder at his manner. Bessie had neverforgotten the words spoken to her in Rome, and which she had said hemust never repeat. 

Over and over again, at intervals, had sounded in her ears, "I love youwith my whole heart and soul, and whether you live or die you will bethe sweetest memory of my life. " She had not died--she had lived; shehad seen him again and found him changed. Perhaps it was better so, shereasoned, and yet she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment orloss, though it was such joy to know he was near her, and that, by andby he would come to her again. And he came after lunch, and the stewardcarried her on deck and wrapped her in Miss Grey's warm rug, and Greyhimself sat down beside her and talked to her of America, and she toldhim that she was not going to be a burden to her aunt, or even a guestvery long, but to work and earn money with which to pay her debts. AndGrey let her do most of the talking, and even promised, if he did notsucceed in Allington, to see if he could find something for her to do inin Boston. 

"I am very sure that I could find you a situation there if I tried, " hesaid, with a merry look in his eyes which was lost on Bessie, whosethick vail was over her face, and who was gazing off upon the wavesbearing her so fast toward the strange land to which she was going. 

The next day she was able to walk the deck for some hours with Grey asher attendant; and when, at last, land was in sight, she seemed almostas well and bright as ever as she stood looking eagerly upon eithershore, and declaring America beautiful as a picture. It had beenarranged that she should stop for a few hours at the hotel with MissLucy and Grey, and then go on with them to Allington. But their planswere changed when they reached the wharf, for there they were met by amessenger who had been sent from Mr. Burton Jerrold with theintelligence that Grey's mother was very ill, and that Lucy must come atonce with Grey without stopping at her own home. 

"I am sorry, for I wished to take you to your aunt myself, " Lucy saidto Bessie, adding after a moment, "but I will give you a letter ofintroduction, if you like. "

"No, thank you, " Bessie replied; "I would rather go to her alone, sothat if she is kind I shall know it is to me, and not to you, or becauseshe thinks it will please you. "

"No danger of that, " Grey said, laughingly; "she is a great stickler forthe naked truth, as she expresses it, and all the Aunt Lucys in theworld could not make her say she liked you if she did not. She is asingular specimen, but she is sure to like you, and if she does not, goto my Aunt Hannah; she would welcome you as a Godsend. She is the auntiewho lives in the pasture-land. I shall soon come to Allington and seeyou, " he added, as he bade her good-by, for he and his aunt were to takethe express, which did not stop at Allington, and she was to take theaccommodation, which did. 

He had made all the arrangements for her, and seen that her baggage waschecked and her ticket bought; but still she felt very desolate andhelpless when he left her and she was alone with Jennie, who staid byher to the last, promising to let her know if she heard of any situationeither as governess or companion. 

Mrs. Goodnough had gone at once with her daughter who had met her at thewharf, but Jennie's cousin, who lived out of the city, had sent herhusband to the ship, and, as he was porter in one of the largewarehouses, and did not go home till night, Jennie had leisure to attendto Bessie, whom she saw to the train, and to whom she said at parting:

"Keep yer vail down, honey, for there's spalpeens an' bla'guardseverywhere, and they might be for spakin to ye. Good-by; God bless ye. "

CHAPTER X. 

BESSIE MEETS HER AUNT. 

The accommodation train from New York to Boston was late that day. Therewas a detention at Hartford and another at Springfield, so that theclock on Miss Betsey McPherson's mantel struck seven when she heard thewhistle of the locomotive as the cars stopped at the Allington station. As Miss Betsey was when we last saw her so she was now--tall, andangular, and severe, and looking, as she sat in her hard, straight-backchair, like the very embodiment of the _naked truth_, from the fit ofher dress to the scanty handful of hair, twisted in a knot at the backof her head. 

She had heard of Daisy's death from her brother only a few days before, and had felt a pang of regret that she had treated her quite so harshlyon the occasion of her visit to her. 

"I might, at least, have been civil to her, though it did make me so madto see her smirking up into my face, with all those diamonds on her, andto know that she was even trying to fool young Allen Browne. "

And then her thoughts went after Bessie, for whom her brother had askedhelp, saying she was left entirely alone in the world, and was, foraught he knew, a very nice girl. 

"It is impossible for me to care for her, " he wrote, "and as my wifepaid all the expenses of her sickness in Rome and for bringing the bodyhome, she will do no more. So it rests with you to care for Bessie, Ishould think you would like some young person with you in your old age. "

"In my old age!" Miss Betsey repeated to herself, as she sat thinking ofJohn's letter, "Yes, I suppose it has come to that, for I am in mysixties, and the boys call me the old woman when I order them out of thecherry tree, and still I feel almost as young as I did forty years agowhen Charlie died. Oh, Charlie, my life would have been so differenthad you lived;" and in the eyes usually so stern and uncompromisingthere were great tears, as the lonely woman's thoughts went back to thelong ago, and the awful tragedy which had darkened all her life. 

And then it was that, in the midst of her softened mood, a littlegirlish figure, dressed in black, came up the steps and knocked timidlyat the open door. Bessie had left her luggage at the station, and walkedto the house which was pointed out to her as Miss McPherson's by a boywho volunteered to show her the way, and who said to her:

"She's a queer old cove, and if you don't mind your p's and q's she willtake your head off. She's game, she is. "

This was not very reassuring, and Bessie's heart beat rapidly as shewent up the steps to the door. She saw the square, straight figure inthe chair, and was prepared for the quick, sharp "Come in!" whichanswered her knock. 

Adjusting her spectacles to the right focus, Miss Betsey looked up ather visitor in that scrutinizing, inquisitive manner usual with her, andwhich made Bessie's knees shake under her as she advanced into the room. 

"Who are you?" the look seemed to say, and without waiting to have itput into words Bessie went straight to the woman, and stretching out herhands said, imploringly:

"Oh, Aunt Betsey, do you remember a little girl who came to you on theTerrace at Aberystwyth years ago? Little Bessie McPherson, to whom yousent a ring? Here it is, " and she pointed to it upon her finger, "and Iam she--Bessie, and mother is dead--and I--I am all alone, and I havecome to America--to you--not to have you keep me--not to live upon you, but to earn my living--to work for money with which to pay my debts. Twohundred and fifty pounds to Lady Jane for mother's sickness and burial, and five pounds to Anthony. That is the sum--two hundred and fifty-fivepounds. Will you let me stay to-night? Can you find me something to do?"

Bessie had told her whole story, and as she told it her face was astudy, with its look of eagerness and fear and the bright color whichcame and went so rapidly, but as she finished speaking left it white asashes. Miss Betsey's face was a study, too, as she regarded the girlfixedly until she stopped talking; then, motioning her to a chair, shesaid:

"Sit down, child, before you faint away; you are pale as a cloth. Takeoff your bonnet and have some tea. I suppose you are hungry. "

She rang the bell for Susan to bring hot tea and toast, which she madeBessie eat, pressing it upon her until she could take no more. 

"Now, then, " she said, when the tray had been removed, "one can alwaystalk better on a full stomach. So tell me what you want, and what youexpect me to do. But sit over there, where I can see you better; anddon't get excited. I shall not eat you; at least, not to-night. "

She wanted Bessie in a good light, where she could see her face, fromwhich she never took her eyes, as the girl repeated in substance whatshe had said at first, making some additions to her story, and speakingof the ship in which she had come, but not of Miss Lucy or Grey. 

"Where did you get the money? It costs something to cross the ocean, "Miss Betsey asked, a little sharply, and Bessie replied:

"It did not cost me much, for I came out as a steerage passenger. I hadjust enough for that and my ticket here. "

"You came in the steerage?" and in her surprise Miss Betsey arose fromher chair and walked once or twice across the floor, while Bessie lookedat her wistfully, wondering if she, too, were ashamed like Neil. 

But shame had no part in Miss Betsey's feelings, which were stirred by afar different emotion. Resuming her seat after a moment, she said:

"And you have come here to work--to earn money? What can you do?"

"I thought I might teach French, perhaps; and German, I am a pretty goodscholar in both, " Bessie replied, and her aunt rejoined:

"French and German! Fiddlesticks! There are more fools teaching thoselanguages now than there are idiots to learn them. Why, my washerwoman'sdaughter is teaching French at twenty-five cents a lesson, though shecan no more speak it than a jackdaw. French, indeed! You must trysomething else, or you will never earn that two hundred and fifty-fivepounds. "

This was not very encouraging, and Bessie felt the color dyeing herface, and her heart sinking, as she said:

"I might sew. I am handy with my needle, I have made all my own dresses, and Dorothy's, too. "

"Yes, you might sew, and twist your spine all out of shape, and get theliver complaint, " Miss Betsey interposed; and then, poor Bessie, fearingthat everything was slipping from her, said, with a choking sob:

"I might be a housemaid to some one. Surely there are such situations tobe had, and I would try so hard to please, and even work for less thanother girls of more experience. Oh, Aunt Betsey, you must know of someplace for me! You will help me to find one! You do not know how greatlyI desire it, or how poor I am. These are the only boots I have, " and sheput out a much worn boot, which had been blacked until the leather wasnearly cracked apart. "And this my only decent dress, except a darkcalico. But I do not care so much for that. It is not clothes I want. Itis to pay that money to Lady Jane. "

The tears were falling like rain from Bessie's eyes, and starting againfrom her chair Miss McPherson went to an open window and shut it as ifshe were cold; then returning to her seat, she said, abruptly:

"I thought you were engaged to Neil--he wrote me to that effect. "

Bessie's face was scarlet as she answered:

"I was engaged to him then; I am not now. "

"Did he break it, or you?" was the next question. 

"I broke it, " was the low response. 

"Why?" came next from Miss McPherson, and Bessie replied:

"He did not wish me to come as steerage, and bade me choose between thatand him; and as I must come, and had no money for a first-class ticket, I gave him back the ring, and he was free. "

"Are you sorry?"

This was spoken sharply, and Miss McPherson's little round, black eyesrested curiously upon Bessie, who answered promptly:

"No, oh, no. I am very glad. It is better so. We were not suited to eachother. "

"I should think not!" and again the strange woman arose, and going tothe window, opened it, as if in sudden heat. 

Then, returning to her niece, she continued:

"Were you in earnest when you said you would take a position ashousemaid?"

"Yes, " was the reply; and Miss McPherson went on:

"Do you think you could fill it?"

"I know I could, I have been housemaid at home all my life. We neverkept any female servant but Dorothy. "

There was a moment's silence, while Miss McPherson seemed to bethinking, and then she said:

"Will you take that place with me?"

"With you?" Bessie repeated, a little bewildered; and her aunt replied:

"Yes, with me. Why not? Better serve me than a stranger. My second girl, Sarah, was married a few weeks ago!--more fool she!--and I have no oneas yet in her place. If you will like it, and fill it as well as shedid, I will give you what I gave her, two dollars and a half a week, andmore if you earn it. What do you say?"

"I will take the place, " Bessie answered, unhesitatingly, feeling that, singular as it might seem to serve her aunt, she would rather do thatthan go to a stranger. "I will take the place, and do the best I can, and if I fail in some things at first, you will tell me what to do. Howlong will it take to earn two hundred and fifty-five pounds at twodollars and a half a week?"

Miss Betsey must have felt cold again, for she rushed to the open windowand shut it with a bang, while for an instant she wavered in herdetermination. Then, thinking to herself, "I may as well see what stuffshe really is made of, " she returned to Bessie, who, if she had not beenquite so anxious and nervous, would have felt amused at her eccentricbehavior. 

Without telling how long it would take to earn two hundred andfifty-five pounds at two dollars and a half a week, Miss Betsey said:

"Then it is a bargain, and you are my housemaid really, and willing todo a housemaid's duties, and take a house maid's place. Do youunderstand all that means?"

"I think so, " Bessie answered, wondering if she should have to share thecook's bed. 

As if divining her thoughts, her aunt rejoined:

"One exception I shall make in your favor. You will occupy the littleroom next my own, at the head of the stairs. You can go up there at onceif you like, and I will see that your trunks are brought from thestation. "

"Oh, thank you, " Bessie said, and in her eyes there was a look ofgratitude which nearly upset Miss McPherson's resolution again, and didmake her open the window as she passed it on her way up stairs withBessie. 

Just as the room had been fitted up years ago, when she was expectingthe child Bessie, just so it was now when the girl Bessie entered it. The same single bed with its muslin hangings, the same little bureau, with its pretty toilet-set, now somewhat faded and _passee_ in style, but showing what it had been, and in a corner the big doll with all itsparaphernalia around it. 

"Oh, auntie, " Bessie cried, as she stepped across the threshold, "what alovely little room! and it almost looks as if it had been intended forme when I was younger. "

"It was meant for you years ago, when I wrote to your father and askedhim to give you to me. Fool that I was, I thought he would let you come;but he did not, and so the room has waited. "

"I never knew you sent for me, " Bessie said, "but father could not havespared me; and oh, auntie, I cannot tell you how it makes me feel toknow you have kept me in your mind all these years. Let me kiss you;please, " and throwing her arms around her aunt's neck. Bessie sobbedhysterically for a few moments, while the Stern face bending over herrelaxed in its severity, and Miss Betsey's voice was very kind andsoothing, as she said:

"There, there, child; don't get up a headache. I am glad you like theroom; glad you are here. You had better go to bed, and not come downagain. "

She did not kiss the girl, but she put her hand on her head and smoothedthe curly hair, and Bessie felt that it was a benediction. When she wasalone she sank upon her knees by the bedside, and burying her face inher hands, prayed earnestly that she might know what was right to do, and be a comfort and help to the woman whose peculiarities she began inpart to understand. She was so glad to be there, so glad for theshelter, of a home, that the fact of being a housemaid did not troubleher at all, though she did wonder what Neil would say, and if he wouldnot think it quite as bad as steerage, and wondered, too, if Grey wouldever come to see her, and if he would recognize her in her new position. 

"It will make no difference with Grey Jerrold what you are, " somethingsaid to her, and comforted, with this assurance she fell asleep, in hernew home. 

CHAPTER XI. 

MISS McPHERSON'S HOUSEMAID. 

Bessie meant to be up with the sun, but she was so tired and the room soquiet, that she slept soundly until awakened by the long clock in thelower hall striking seven. 

"This is a bad beginning, " she thought, as she made her hasty toilet. 

She found her trunks outside her door, and selecting from them her newcalico dress, which she had bought just before leaving home, she put iton, together with one of the pretty white aprons which Neil had sodetested and Grey had so admired. 

"I ought to have a housemaid's cap, " she thought, is she looked atherself in the glass and tried to smooth and straighten her hair, whichwould curl around her forehead in spite of all she could do. 

A clean collar, with cuffs at her wrists, completed her costume, and itwas a very neat, attractive little housemaid which entered the roomwhere Miss McPherson was leisurely finishing her plain breakfast oftoast, and tea, and eggs. 

"Oh, auntie, " Bessie began advancing to her side, "I am so sorry Ioverslept. I was very tired, and the bed was so nice. It shall nothappen again. What can I do for you? Let me make you a fresh slice oftoast. "

"No, thanks. I am through. You can clear the table if you like, " MissBetsey replied, shoving back her chair and eyeing her niece curiously asshe gathered up the dishes and carried them to the kitchen, where shetook her own breakfast with the cook, who instructed her in her dutiesas well as she could. 

"She is mighty queer and mighty particular, but if you get the soft sideof her you are all right, " she said to Bessie, who moved about the housealmost as handily as if she had lived there all her life. 

Never had the china been washed more carefully or quickly, or thefurniture better dusted, or the table better arranged for dinner, andhad Bessie been a trained servant from the queen's household she couldnot have waited upon her aunt more deftly or respectfully than she did. But the strain upon her nerves began to tell upon her, and after herdishes were washed, and she was assured by the cook that there wasnothing more for her to do until tea-time, she went to her room for alittle rest, just as a carriage dashed up to the door, and the bell rangfiercely. Scarcely, however, had Bessie reached the hall on her way toanswer the ring, when her aunt, who, it seemed to her, was everywherepresent, darted out from some quarter, and seizing her by the shouldersaid, quickly:

"Go back to your room. I'll let her in myself. "

Was she angry, and if so, at what? Bessie wondered, as she returned toher room, and sitting down by the bed laid her tired head upon thepillow, while a few tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled heraunt's sharp tones. Was this to be all the commendation she was toreceive for the pains she had taken to please? It was hard, and therebegan to steal over her a feeling of utter hopelessness andhomesickness, when suddenly a sound came up to her from the parlorbelow, which made her start and listen as to something familiar. Surelyshe had heard that loud, uncultivated voice before, and after a momentit came to her--the tea party in the dear old garden at home when Mrs. Rossiter-Browne was the guest, and had so disgusted her with hervulgarity. And this was Mrs. Browne, who had come in state to call, andwho, after declaring the weather hot enough to kill cattle, and sayingthat Gusty was in Saratogy, and had had twelve new dresses made to takewith her, spoke next of Allen and Lord Hardy, who were in Idaho, orOmaho, or some other _ho_, Mrs. Browne could not remember which. At themention of Lord Hardy's name all Bessie's old life seemed to come backto her, and she lived again through the dreary days at the crowdedhotels, and ate her dinner of dry bread and shriveled grapes in the backroom of the fourth floor, and saw her mother radiant with smilesbandying jests with the young Irish lord, while her father looked onwith a sorry expression on his face, the very memory of which brought arain of tears to Bessie's eyes. Allen had just written to his mother adescription of his travels, and she was giving Miss McPherson herversion of it. Another lord had joined them, she said, a regular Englishswell, and they attracted so much attention, and the people were socurious to see them, that they were actually obliged to travel in a_cognito_, though what under the sun that was she was sure she didn'tknow. She thought she had been in most everything there was goin, butshe'd never seen a _cognito_, which must be some Western contrivance orother. At this ludicrous mistake, so characteristic of Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, Bessie forgot her tears and laughed hysterically untilshe heard her mother's name, when she instinctively grew quiet and rigidas a piece of marble, for what Mrs. Browne said was this:

"And so the poor little critter is dead! Well, I must say she was aboutthe prettiest woman I ever saw, but I guess she wasn't just what Is'posed she was when I took such a shine to her. She was a born flirt, and mebbe couldn't help it, but she might have let Allen alone--a mereboy. Why, he was that bewitched after her that he fairly lost flesh, andtold me to my face that he should never see another woman he liked as hedid her, and he'd never got over it neither if Lord Hardy hadn't takenhim in hand and told him something--I've no idea what, for Allen wouldnever tell me, only it did the business, and there was no morewhimperin' for that woman. "

"Oh, mother! poor mother!" Bessie moaned, as she covered her face withher hands, feeling that her shame was greater than she could bear. 

Going to the door she closed it, and so did not hear Mrs. Browne whenshe said next:

"She had a lovely daughter, though, with a face like an angel. I'd swearshe was all right. Do you ever hear from her?"

For a moment Miss Betsey hesitated, for it was not a part of her plan tolet Mrs. Browne or any one see Bessie just yet; but her love for the_naked truth_ prevailed, and she replied:

"Yes, she is here. She came yesterday in the Germanic. I will call her. "

"Crying? What's that for?" she said to Bessie as she entered the room, and feeling almost as guilty as if she had been caught in some wrongact, Bessie sobbed: "The door was open at first, and I knew it was Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, whom I have seen at Stoneleigh. I heard what she saidof mamma, and oh, auntie, I am her daughter, and she is dead, and she_was_ good at the last!"

In her sympathy for Bessie, Miss McPherson was even ready to do battlefor Daisy, and she replied:

"Mrs. Browne is a fool, and Allen is a bigger one, and Lord Hardybiggest of all. Don't cry. She wants to see you. Wash your face, andtake off your apron and come down. "

Five minutes later Bessie was shaking hands with Mrs. Browne, who toldher "she did not look very stubbed, that was a fact--that she guessedseasickness had not agreed with her, and she'd better keep herselfswaddled up in flannel for a spell till she got used to the climate, which was not like England. "

"You come in the Germanic, your aunt tells me, " she continued, as Bessietook a seat beside her. "Then you must have seen Miss Lucy Grey and hernephew, for they were on that ship, and I hear were met by somebody sentfrom Boston to tell 'em to come right on, for Miss Jerrold was verysick. "

Bessie felt rather than saw the questioning eyes which her aunt flashedupon her, and her face was scarlet as she answered:

"Yes, I saw Miss Grey. She was very kind to me when I was sick. She didgo directly to Boston. "

"What is the matter with Mrs. Jerrold?" Miss Betsey asked, and Mrs. Browne replied:

"The land only knows. Heart complaint, the last report, I believe. I sawHannah at the depot this morning; she'd been sent for, too. Geraldinealways wants her when she's sick; but the minit she is better, the oldmaid sister is in the way, and not good enough for my lady's finefriends. I know Geraldine Jerrold pretty well, and if I's Hannah Iwouldn't run to every beck and call, when nothing under the sun ails herbut hypo. She has had everything, I do believe--malary, cancers, spinalcords, nervous prostration, and now it's her heart. Humbug! More likehysterics. Burton Jerrold has got his hands full, and I pity him. Why, he looks like an old, broken-down man, and his hair is as white assnow. "

Here Mrs. Browne, who had the conversation all to herself, stopped totake breath. She was not an ill-natured woman, or one who often talkedof her neighbors, and after a moment, as if ashamed of her tirade, shesaid:

"I've went it pretty glib against poor Miss Jerrold, hain't I? I daresay she is sick and nervous, and I have not charity enough for her. "Then, rising from her chair preparatory to leaving, she said to Bessie:"I am glad you have come, and I hope we shall see you often, after Gustycomes home. I s'pose I shall lose her in October. 'Tain't no secret now, and so I may as well tell you that she is to be married to Lord Hardy, from Dublin. You've seen him, I b'lieve?"

"Yes, when I was a little girl, " Bessie answered, with a pang of pain asshe remembered the days when Lord Hardy was their constant companion. 

"I never really b'lieved he wanted Gusty, " Mrs. Browne continued, "tillhe said so in plain words; and there's folks now mean enough to say it'sher money he's after, and I don't myself suppose he'd thought of her ifshe hadn't had money; but I think he likes her, and I know she likeshim, and it's something to be Lady Hardy. "

As she said this, Mrs. Browne drew herself up rather loftily, as if someof her daughter's honor had fallen upon her; and with a stately bow andgood-afternoon, went out to where her handsome carriage and high-booteddriver were waiting for her. 

"There goes as nice a woman as ever lived made over into a fool by moneyand a little nincompoop of a lord, " was Miss Betsey's comment, as shewatched the carriage moving away across the common. Then turningsuddenly to Bessie, she added: "Why didn't you tell me Miss Lucy was onthe ship with Grey?"

Bessie hesitated a moment, and then answered frankly:

"Perhaps I ought to have done so, but I thought I would rather, if youliked me at all and were kind to me, that it should be for myself andnot because I had met Miss Grey, who offered to give me a note to you. Did I do wrong?"

"No; perfectly right, " Miss Betsey said: "and now tell me all about it. You said she was kind when you were sick. How did she find you in thesteerage?"

In as few words as possible Bessie repeated the story of heracquaintance with Miss Lucy, dwelling at length upon her kindness, butsaying little of Grey; indeed, a casual stranger listening to therecital would hardly have known that he was mentioned at all. But MissBetsey was far-seeing; she knew the signs, for she had had her day andexperience, and from the very fact that Bessie did not say more of Grey, she drew her own conclusions. But to be quite sure, she said:

"You had seen Grey, before you met him on the ship, had you not?"

"Yes, " Bessie answered. "He once spent a day at Stoneleigh with Neil, and he came again when father died, and was so kind to me. I was alone, for mother, you know, was on the ocean, and he did everything a mancould do. Then, when I was sick in Rome, he was there too, and gave uphis room to mother, and took every care from her. Oh, auntie, he is thenoblest man I ever knew. He told Neil once that he tried to makesomebody happy every day, either by a pleasant word, or look, or act ofkindness; and only think, if he lives to be old, how many, many peoplewill have been happier because he has lived. "

In the excitement, Bessie forgot everything but her enthusiasm for andher interest in Grey Jerrold; and her aunt, who was watching herclosely, guessed the truth pretty accurately. But she made no remarkexcept to say that from the garret window one could see Grey's Park, where Miss Lucy lived, and which Grey would probably one day inherit. Nor was she at all surprised when later in the afternoon she knew bycertain sounds that Bessie was at the garret window looking at the park. 

The next day was a hard and busy one, for there was sweeping to be done, and the silver to be cleaned, and the dining-room windows to be wiped;and Bessie went through it all patiently and uncomplainingly, servingher aunt at breakfast and dinner, taking her own meals with the cook, and never by a sign showing that she was other than the hired maid shehad chosen to be. But when the last thing was done which belonged to herto do, the fatigue and the heat overcame her, and, sitting down in theshaded porch, by the kitchen door, she leaned her aching head againstthe back of her chair and fell asleep. And there Miss Betsey, who hadscarcely lost sight of her during the day, found her, and for a fewmoments stood looking at her intently, noticing every curve, and line, and feature, and feeling a lump in her throat as she saw about the sweetmouth that patient, sorry expression which had come there years ago whenBessie was a child, and had deepened with every succeeding year. 

"Poor little girl, you have had a hard time, I know, " she said; and atthe sound of her voice Bessie awoke and with a bright smile and blush, started up, saying:

"Excuse me; I was very tired and warm, and must have fallen asleep. Mywork is done, and now, if you have any sewing, please let me have it. "

"Aren't you tired? You look pale, " Miss Betsey asked so kindly thatBessie's lip quivered as she replied:

"Yes, a little; but I do not mind that. I should like to do somethingfor you. "

"Then go out into the garden in the fresh air and stay there till youare rested, " Miss Betsey answered, abruptly, and, turning on her heel, she walked away to her own room, where she held communion with herself, wondering how much longer she could or ought to hold out, "I have triedher pretty well, and she has not flinched a hair; but I guess I willwait a day or two, till I have heard from Sarah, " she thought, but thisresolution she did not carry out for two reasons, one of which was foundin the letter which she received that afternoon, and the other in thefact that at tea-time Bessie fainted dead away as she stood by herauntie's chair. 

She had borne so much and suffered so much during the last few monthsthat nature refused to bear any longer, and it was more than a headachewhich brought the faintness upon her. Taking her in her arms, MissBetsey carried her to her room, and placing her upon the bed, sat downbeside her. 

"Why are you crying?" she asked, as she saw the great tears roll downBessie's cheeks faster than she could wipe them away. 

"Because, " Bessie answered, with a choking sob, "I have tried so hard todo right, and have wanted work so much, and just as I have found it, Iam afraid I am going to be sick, for I feel so strange and cold, as ifall the life had gone from me, and I cannot work any more, and you willhave to send me away, and I have nowhere to go, for Stoneleigh is veryfar away, and I have no money to get there. Oh, auntie, if I could die!Life has been so dreary to me!"

Here Bessie broke down entirely, and sobbed for a few momentsconvulsively, while Miss McPherson was scarcely less agitated. 

Kneeling down by the low bed and laying her old face by the side of theyoung one upon the pillow, she, too, cried for a few moments like achild. Then, lifting up her head and brushing away her tears with animpatient movement, as if she were ashamed of them, she said:

"I cannot hold out any longer, and I must tell you that what I have beendoing was never intended to last; I was only trying you, to see if youwere true, and now that I know you are, do you think I will not take youto my heart as my child, my very own? I believe I have always loved you, Bessie, since the day your eyes looked at me on the sands ofAberystwyth, and I have wanted you so much, and tried so many times toget you, and right here where I am kneeling now, I have often knelt bythis little bed prepared for you years ago, and prayed God to keep youinnocent and pure, and send you to me some day. And he has done allthis. He has kept you pure and good, and send you to me just when Iwant you most, I am a queer, crabbed old woman, but I believe I can makeyou happy, and by and by you may learn to love me a little. Few haveever done that; none in fact, since my mother died, but one, and he--oh, Bessie, I would give my life to have him back, and more than my life toknow that it was well with him. Charlie, oh, Charlie, my love, my love!"

Bessie's tears were all dried now, and her arms were around the neck ofthis strange woman, weeping for her lost love as women never weep savewhen the memory of that love brings far more pain than joy. 

"Dear auntie, " Bessie said, "I do not quite under stand what you mean, but if I can comfort you I will, and work for you, too, I do not in theleast mind that, and I must do something to pay--"

"Hush child!" Miss Betsey rejoined, almost impatiently, as she drewherself from Bessie's embrace and rose to her feet. "Never again troubleyour head about your debts. I sent the two hundred and fifty pounds tomy brother's wife yesterday, and told her what I was doing to you, andwhat I meant to do if you passed the ordeal unscathed, and any time youchoose you can write to Anthony and send him twenty pounds, or more, ifyou like. What is mine is yours, so long as my opinion of you remainsunchanged. I did not like your mother; I am free to tell you that. I wasangry with your father for marrying her, and angrier still when I heardof the life she led--heard of her at Monte Carlo, of which I never thinkwithout a shudder. "

Miss McPherson had seated herself in a chair by this time, and over herwhite face there came a rapt far-off look, and her hands were lockedtogether as she continued:

"Bessie, I may as well tell you now why I hate that place, and hate allwho frequent it. Charlie seems very near me to-night; my boy lover, withthe soft brown eyes and hair, and the sweet voice which always spoke sotenderly to me, even when I was in my fitful moods. That was more thanforty years ago when he walked with me along the rose-scented lanes andtold me of his love, and talked of the happy future when I would be hiswife. Alas, he little dreamed what the future had in store, or of thedreary, lonely life I should lead, while he--oh, Charlie, my love, mylove!"

She paused a moment, while she seemed trying to repress some powerfulemotion, and then resumed her story:

"When he was twenty-one, and I was twenty, we went abroad in companywith some relatives of mine, and found ourselves at last at Monte Carlo. Your grandfather was with us, and together we went into the gamblinghall where men and women sell their souls for money, and there mybrother played, and I--shame that I must tell it--I, too, tried my luck, while Charlie looked on reproachfully, and tried to get me away, but Ionly laughed at him, and bade him stay to keep me company. Then I calledhim a coward, and badgered him until one night he put down a five-francpiece and won, and then he put down another, and another--doubling andtrebling sometimes, and always winning, as it is said Satan, who rulesthat den, lets the novices do. The next day Charlie played with arecklessness which half alarmed me, and made me remonstrate with him. But to no purpose. 

"'You called me a coward, ' he said, laughingly; 'and besides that, Irather like it, the gold comes so easily. I have scarcely lost a pound. '

"Soon, however, the tide turned, and he began to lose; not small, butlarge sums. But, as if that made him more determined than ever, heplayed on and on, always the first to enter and the last to leave, whileI watched him with a dread foreboding at my heart which I could notdefine. Oh, how rashly he played and what heavy sums he staked! Hisfortune was not large, nor was mine then what it is now; but we hadplanned together to buy a lovely place we knew of on the Isle of Wight, and had furnished it in fancy many times. 

"'I am bound to get back what I have lost, or we cannot have Rose Lawn, 'he would say, with a smile; and once, when I begged him to desist, andtold him I did not care for Rose Lawn he answered me:

"'But I do, and you must not complain. You made me play, you know. '

"After that I was silent and watched him sadly, as the infatuationincreased. At last he said to me one night:

"'Betty, ' that was the name he gave me, 'this evening will see the end. Something tells me I shall get back all I have lost, and I am resolvedto stake everything I have. But whether I lose or win, it is my lastchance. Don't look so reproachfully at me. Remember, you taught me toplay, but you did not know how strong was the desire in me to do it. Alove for the gaming-table is the besetting sin of my family, and I hadsworn to conquer it in myself, but you were too strong for me; so, whatever happens, do not blame me too much. And now give me a kiss as aguaranty of success. '

"How handsome he was in the moonlight, for we were in the beautifulgrounds around the Casino--were standing in a sheltered spot close to abed of great white lilies, whose perfume even then made me faint, Icannot smell them now without a throb of pain, they are so associatedwith that awful night when I bade Charlie good-by, and went back to thehotel. I did not go with him, nor did he wish it, I disconcerted him, hesaid. And so I sat by my window and watched the full moon rising higherand higher, and listened to the moan and dash of the sea against theshore below, and saw the people going and coming, until at last it wastwelve o'clock, the hour for closing, and I saw the crowds come out, menand women, young and old, those who had lost and those who had won, andleaning from the casement I tried to single out Charlie, but could not. I felt almost sure that if he had been successful he would stop at mydoor and tell me so. But he did not come. 

"As I sat and waited, I cannot tell you the horror and dread which tookpossession of me. I knew that the moon was still shining--that patchesof silvery light were falling upon the sea, and the shrubs and flowersoutside, but to me all was black as midnight, and I actually groped myway to my bed, on which I threw myself at last, shivering with cold, forthe October air was blowing up chill from the water. For a few moments Islept, and then started suddenly as I fancied I heard Charlie call myname. 

"Oh-h, Betty, " was what he said, and in his voice there was a note ofagony and fear, which made me shiver in every limb, as I tottered to thewindow and looked out. 

"Oh, what a glorious night it was, rich and sweet with tropical bloomand beauty, and the full moon in the sky now moving down to the west, for it was past two o'clock. 

"Every thing was still, and after listening a moment I went back to bed, and slept heavily until morning, when my brother came to my door andspoke to me in a voice I did not at first recognize, it was so strangeand unnatural. 

"What is it?' I asked, as I opened the door and looked at his whiteface. 

"'Sister, ' he said, stepping into the room. 'Can you bear some dreadfulnews?'

"'Yes, ' I answered with a sensation as if I were turning into stone. 'Charlie is dead! He has killed himself!'

"How I knew it I cannot tell, but know it I did. Charlie was dead. Hehad lost everything and gone from the scene of his ruin to the very spotwhere he had kissed and said good-by to me, and there had put a bulletthrough his brain--close by the clump of lilies which were wet with hisblood when they found him lying on his back with his fair young faceupturned to the moonlit sky, and a smile on his lips as if the deathstruggle had been a painless one. 

"I knew then that at the last, when his soul was parting from his body, he had called my name, and I had heard him just as I often hear him nowwhen I am all alone, and the night, like that one, is full of moonlightand beauty. 

"We took him to England and laid him in his grave, where I buried myheart, my life, and hope, and since then I have grown into the strange, unlovable woman you find me. But do you wonder that I shrink with horrorfrom the gaming-table and those who frequent it, or that I could notrespect your mother when I heard of her so often at Monte Carlo, whereCharlie died and where your grandfather ruined himself for he, too, waspossessed with a mania for play?"

"Oh, auntie, how sorry I am for you, " Bessie said, throwing her armsaround Miss McPherson's neck and kissing her through her tears. "I meanto love you so much, " she continued, "and do so much for you, if youwill let me I do not mind being your housemaid at all, only just now Ifeel so tired and sick, as if I could never work any more;" and, whollyexhausted, she sank back upon her pillow, where she lay for a fewmoments so white and still that her aunt felt a horrible pang of fearlest the prize she so much coveted might be slipping from her almostbefore she possessed it. 

But after a little Bessie rallied, and, smiling upon her aunt, said toher:

"You cannot guess how happy I am to be here with you, but I do not thinkI quite understand what you meant by trying me. "

"I meant, " Miss McPherson replied, "to see if you were in earnest whenyou said you were willing to do anything to earn money, I knew theMcPherson pride, and thought you might have some of it. But I knowbetter now. I have tried you and proved you, and do not want you ashousemaid any longer. Nor shall I need your services, for a new girlcomes to-morrow--Sarah's cousin. She is in New York, and will be here onthe morning train. A regular greenhorn I imagine; but if she is honestand willing, I can soon train her in my ways. And now I will leave you, for you must sleep to-night, so as to be well to-morrow;" and with afond good-night, Miss McPherson left the room. 

CHAPTER XII. 

BESSIE'S SUCCESSOR. 

With the morrow the new housemaid came, but Miss McPherson was tooanxious about her niece to observe more than that the girl was fresh, and bright, and clean, with a wonderful brogue and a clear, ringingvoice. Miss Betsey had called the village doctor, who, after carefullyexamining his patient, said she was suffering either from nervousprostration or malaria, he could not tell which, until he had seen heragain; then, prescribing quinine for the latter, and perfect rest forthe former, he left just as the new girl appeared and with hervolubility and energy seemed to fill the house. As quickly as possibleMiss Betsey got her into the kitchen, and then went to her niece's room. 

"I must have been asleep, " Bessie said, "for I dreamed that I heardJennie's voice, and I was so glad that it woke me, and I thought I heardit again. She was the Irish girl who was so kind to me on the ship. Youremember I told you of her. "

"Yes, " Miss Betsey replied, "I think you liked her very much. "

"Oh, yes, very, very much, and I would give a great deal to see heragain, I believe I should get well at once, there is something so strongand hearty about her. "

To this Miss McPherson made no reply, but all the rest of the morningshe seemed very restless and excited, and was constantly hushing the newgirl, whom she once bade the cook _gag_, if she could not quiet her inany other way. 

"I have a sick niece up stairs, and you will disturb her, " she said tothe girl, who replied:

"An' sure thin, mum, I'll _whisper_. "

But her whisper seemed to penetrate everywhere, and Miss McPherson wasglad when at last the toast and tea and jelly intended for Bessie'sdinner were ready upon the tray which she bade the girl take up stairsto the young lady whose room was at the end of the hall. 

"An' indade I'd take off me shoes and go in me stockin' feet to bequiet: an' it's niver a word I'll spake, " the girl said, as she startedon her errand, while her mistress listened at the foot of the stairs. 

Miss McPherson was prepared for a demonstration if some sort, but didnot quite expect what followed, for the moment the girl stepped into theroom, Bessie sprang up with the loud glad cry: "Oh, Jennie, Jennie, where did you come from? I am so glad!"

There was an answering cry of surprise and joy, and then the tray, witheverything upon it, went crashing to the floor, while Jennie exclaimed:

"An', be jabers, the plather an' the tay is all one smash together, inme fright at seem' you here before me, when it's meself was goin' to askher to take you. May the saints be praised, if it's not the happiest daysince I left Ireland, " and bending over Bessie the impulsive Irish girlkissed her again and again, talking, and laughing, and crying, untilBessie said to her:

"There, Jennie, please; I am very tired, and your sudden coming hastaken my strength away. "

She did look very white and faint, and Jennie saw it, and tried to becalm, though she kept whispering to herself as she gathered up the_debris_ on the floor, and with a most rueful expression took it downstairs, saying to her mistress:

"An' faith it's a bad beginnin' I've made, mum, but sure an' I'll payyou every farthing with me first wages, and now, if you plase, I'll doup my fut, for it's blistered, that it is, with the bilin' tay. "

The foot was cared for, and another tray of toast and tea prepared. This, Miss Betsey took herself to Bessie, explaining that Jennie was thecousin who had come to take her former housemaid's place. 

"But I had no idea, " she said, "that she was such a behemoth. I amafraid she will not answer my purpose at all. "

But Bessie pleaded for the girl, whose kindness of heart she knew, andwho, she felt sure, could be molded and softened by careful andjudicious training, and that afternoon, when Jennie came up to her shetold her that her aunt did not like a noise, and that she must be veryquiet and gentle if she wished to please. 

Jennie listened to her, open-eyed, and when she was through responded:

"Is it quiet she wants? I told her I would whasper, an' faith I wull;for I'm bound to stay with you, and get me tin shillings a week. "

The case seemed hopeless, and Jennie might have lost her place but forthe serious illness which came upon Bessie, taking away all hervitality, and making her weak and helpless as a child. It was then thatJennie showed her real value, and by her watchful tenderness anduntiring devotion, more than made amends for all her awkwardness. 

Day after day, and night after night, she staid in the sick room, ministering to Bessie as no one else could have done, lifting hertenderly in her strong arms, and sometimes walking with her up and downthe large chamber into which she had been carried when the physiciansaid her sickness might be of weeks' duration, for she was sufferingfrom all the fatigue and worry of the last two years, when the strainupon her nerves had been so great. 

All through the remaining weeks of summer, and the September days whichfollowed, Bessie lay in her bed, scarcely noticing any thing which waspassing around her, and saying to her aunt when she bent over her, asking how she felt:

"Tired, so tired, and it is nice to rest. "

And so the days went by, and everybody in Allington became interested inthe young girl whom few had seen, but of whom a great deal was told byMrs. Rossiter-Browne, whose carriage often stood at Miss McPherson'sdoor, bringing sometimes the lady herself, and sometimes Augusta, whohad returned from Saratoga, and was busy with the preparations for herwedding, which was to take place in October. 

Lord Hardy, who had come from the West, and established himself at theRidge House, called several times and left his card, which MissMcPherson promptly burned. 

She did not like Lord Hardy. He was just a fortune-hunter, she said, andcared no more for Augusta Browne than he did for her, except thatAugusta was the younger of the two, and she could not forget how he hadlooked, smirking and mincing by the side of Archie's wife atAberystwyth; poor, weak Daisy, who, but for him, might not have gone sofar astray as she did. 

For Bessie's sake Miss McPherson was almost ready to forgive poor Daisy, as she always called her now when thinking of her. For Bessie's sake shefelt that she could do a great deal that was contrary to her nature, butshe could not feel kindly disposed toward Neil, for immediately afterthe receipt of her letter to his mother, containing two hundred andfifty pounds, and the announcement that she intended to take Bessie asher own child, Neil had written her a long, penitent letter, blaminghimself as a coward, and telling of his remorse and regret for the past, and saying that, unless he was forbidden to do so, he should come toAmerica in September, and renew his offer to Bessie. 

This letter Miss McPherson read with sundry expressions of disgust, andthen, taking from its peg her sun-hat, almost as large as a smallumbrella, she started for the telegraph office, and several hours laterNeil McPherson, in London, was reading the following laconic dispatchfrom Allington:

 "Stay at home and mind your own business!

 "Betsey McPherson"

"Perhaps I did wrong to send it, for maybe the girl likes him afterall, " the spinster thought, as she walked back to her house. 

But it was too late now, and for the next two or three days she was tooanxious to think of anything except Bessie, who was much worse, andseemed so weak and unconscious of everything, that the physician lookedvery grave, and the clergyman came at Miss McPherson's request, and saidthe prayers for the sick, but Bessie did not hear them, for she lay likeone in a deep sleep, scarcely moving or seeming to breathe. 

Before leaving the room the clergyman went softly to the bedside to lookat the sick girl, wondering much at the likeness in her face to some onehe had seen before, and wondering too why it should remind him of HannahJerrold, and the night when he went in the wintery storm to hear herfather's confession. 

"Poor Hannah!" he said to himself, as he left the house, and walkingslowly across the common to the church-yard, sat down upon a bench nearto a head-stone, which bore this inscription: "Sacred to the memory ofMartha, beloved wife of the Rev. Charles Sanford, who died January 1st, 18--. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. "

Since we last saw him, years ago, the Rev. Charles Sanford had grown anold man, though he was scarcely sixty-three, an age when many men are intheir prime. There was a stoop in his shoulders as if the burden of lifewere heavy, and his hair was as white as snow, while upon his face was alook which only daily discipline, patiently borne, can ever write uponthe human visage And patiently had he borne it, until he almost forgotthat he was bearing it, and then one day it was removed and by thelightness and freedom he felt, he knew how heavy it had been. 

"Poor Martha!" he said to himself, as he glanced at his shiningcoat-sleeves, and the spot on the knee of his pants, which was almostthreadbare, and at his boots, which certainly had not been blacked thatday. "Poor Martha! What would she say if she could see these clothes, which, though they may not look well, are very comfortable. " Then, ashis eye rested upon the word _beloved_, he continued: "Is that a lie, Iwonder, which that marble is telling to the world? If so, it is Martha'sfault, for she wrote her own epitaph, just as she ordered all thedetails of her funeral, and what preceded it. It was a strange fancy ofhers to ask that Hannah should lay her out Poor Martha! _Devoted_ wouldhave been better than _beloved_, though God knows I tried to do my bestby her, " and with a sigh, both for what had been and what might havebeen, the rector arose and started for his home, meeting at the gate ofGrey's Park with Grey himself, who was in Allington for the first timesince his return from Europe. 

Lucy had come up a few days before, and had been at once to see Bessie, of whose illness she had written to Grey, and that had brought him assoon as he could leave his mother. 

"Grey, my boy, how are you?" the rector said, offering his hand, whichGrey took, saying as he did so:

"How is she this morning?"

Mr. Sanford did not know that Grey had ever seen or heard of BessieMcPherson, but something told him that he meant her, and he replied:

"Very weak and sick. Poor girl! she is too young to die. "

"Mr. Sanford, " and Grey spoke with great vehemence, "you do not thinkBessie will die? She must not die!" and in his voice and manner therewas something which betrayed his secret to the older man, who said tohim:

"I hope not, Grey, God knows. Pray for her, my boy; pray earnestly. Prayer can move a mountain, or at least make a way through it. Pray forthe girl you call Bessie. "

To one accustomed as Grey was to take everything, however small, toGod, prayer was an easy thing, and every thought was a prayer as hewalked rapidly toward Miss McPherson's house. 

"She is sleeping now, " Miss Betsey said to him. "We trust she will bebetter when she wakens. It is rest she needs more than anything else. She has had a hard life so far. You have seen a great deal of her, Ibelieve?"

"I cannot say I have seen a great deal of her, though I feel as though Ihad known her always. Yes, she has had a hard life. You do not think shewill die?" was Grey's reply; and in his face and voice Miss Betseydetected what the rector had discovered. 

"No, " she said; "I do not believe she will die. Sit down and wait tillshe is awake. "

So Grey sat down, and waited three hours, during which time the train, which would have taken him back to Boston, went rushing by, and Bessiestill slept as quietly as an infant. It was Jennie who came at last andtold him that she was awake and better, though too weak to see any one. 

"Thank God!" Grey exclaimed, and slipping a bill into the girl's hand, he continued: "Take good care of her, Jennie, and when she is able tellher I came to see her. "

"An' sure I'll tell her ivery blessed word, and that you left yourlove. "

"I did not say that, " Grey answered her, laughingly, as he bade hergood-by and walked away. 

For a week or more Bessie scarcely spoke or moved, it was such happinessto rest, with every wish anticipated either by her aunt or Jennie, whosevoice was a _whasper_ most of the time, and who was learning to be morequiet and subdued. At last, however, Bessie began to talk, and said toJennie one day:

"I believe I am getting better, and I am afraid I am not as glad as Iought to be--the world holds so little for me, and so few who care forme beside auntie and you. "

"An', faith, " Jennie began, "it's not for ye to be sayin' the likes ofthat. Nobody to care for you, indade, with the gentry comin' every dayto inquire for you, the praste a readin' his prayers in this very room, and the foine gintleman who was on the ship a sittin' down stairs threemortal hours waitin' to know if you waked up dead or alive, and thankin'God when it was alive I told him you was. "

"Who, Jennie? What gentleman?" Bessie asked. 

"Mr. Grey, to be sure, " Jennie replied; "and he left his compliments forye, and thanked God when I told him you was better. Oh, but he's veryfine, and Grey's Park is like them places in the old country where thegrandees live. "

Whether it was that Bessie was thoroughly rested, or that the fact thatGrey had not forgotten her was in itself a restorative, her recovery wasvery rapid, though she still looked like some fragile flower which abreath might blow away, and Miss McPherson watched her with a tendersolicitude, astonishing in one as cold and impassive as she had alwaysseemed to be. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

BESSIE GOES TO GREY'S PARK. 

It was a lovely day in early October when Bessie made her first visit toGrey's Park, of which she had heard such glowing descriptions fromJennie, who took her there in an invalid chair sent for the purpose byMiss Lucy. 

The grass in the park was fresh and green from recent rains, and thelate autumn flowers gave a brightness to the place scarcely equaled insummer. 

"Oh, how lovely it is! pretty almost as the Kensington Gardens, " Bessieexclaimed, as she entered the gate and looked around her. "I think Ishould like to live here, " she continued; and then there came to her athought of Grey, who would probably one day be master of the place, andshe blushed guiltily, as if she had said some immodest thing. 

Miss Lucy met her at the door, and, taking her to her room, made her liedown till they were joined, by Miss McPherson, who came to lunch, whichwas served in the breakfast-room, and was just the kind to tempt aninvalid. 

Bessie enjoyed it immensely, and felt herself growing stronger andbetter in the brightness and freshness of this beautiful home which wasone day to be Grey's. 

On the wall, beside Blind Robin's, there was a picture of Grey, taken inEurope when he was fourteen, and just before the great sorrow came uponhim and robbed his face of a little of the assurance and boyisheagerness which the artist had depicted upon the canvas. But it was likehim still--like him, as he was now, in his young manhood, when to dogood to others, to make somebody happy every day, was the rule of hislife. And Bessie's eyes were often fixed upon it, as, after lunch wasover they still sat in the breakfast-room, because of the sunshine whichcame in so brightly at the windows. And while they sat there the elderwomen talked of Grey and what he would probably do, now that his travelsin Europe were ended. 

"He ought to marry and settle down. Is there any hope of his doing so?"Miss Betsey said, and Lucy replied:

"I think so, yes, I am quite sure of it, if everything goes well, as Ithink it will. "

Bessie was sitting with her back partly turned to the ladies, who didnot see the crimson spots which covered her face for a moment and thenleft it deathly pale, as she heard that Grey Jerrold was to be married. For an instant everything around her turned black, and when she came toherself she felt that she could not breathe in that room with Grey'spicture on the wall, and his eyes looking at her as they had looked thatday, in Rome, when he had said to her words she would almost give halfher life to hear again. Bessie was no dissembler. She could not sitthere in her pain and make no sign, and, turning to her aunt, she said:

"Please, auntie, let Jennie take me into the air, I am sick and faint;I--"

She could not say anything more lest she should break down entirely;and, glancing significantly at each other, the two ladies called Jennie, and bade her take her young mistress into the garden. 

"Go to the rose-arbor. It is warmer there, " Miss Lucy said; but onlyJennie heard, for Bessie was too conscious of the blow which had fallenso suddenly upon her, to heed what was passing around her. 

Grey was going to be married; _her Gray_, whom she now knew that sheloved as she had never loved Neil McPherson even in the first days ofher engagement, when he was all the world to her. Her Grey, whocertainly had loved her once, or he would never have said to her what hedid. Her Grey, who had been so kind to her on the ship and looked thelove he did not speak. Why had he changed so soon? Was it some love ofhis boyhood before he saw her, and had it again sprung into being, nowthat he had returned to its object? And oh, how dreary the world lookedto the young girl with the certainty that Grey was lost to her forever. She did not notice the fanciful summer-house into which Jennie wheeledher; did not notice anything, or think of anything except her desolationand a desire to be alone, that she might cry just as she had never criedbefore. 

"Please, Jennie, go away, " she said; "I would rather be alone. "

So Jennie left her, and, covering her face with her hands, Bessiesobbed, piteously:

"Oh, Father in heaven, is there never to be any joy for me? Must Ialways be so desolate and lonely, and is it wicked to wish that I weredead?"

For several minutes poor Bessie wept on, and then with a great effortshe dried her tears, and, leaning her head back in her chair, began tolive over again every incident of her life as connected with GreyJerrold. And while she sat there thus, the Boston train stopped at theAllington station, and she heard the roar and the ring as it started onits way. Twenty minutes later she heard behind her the sound of afootstep, apparently hurrying toward her, and thought, if she thought atall, that it was Jennie coming for her. But surely Jennie's tread wasnever so rapid and eager as this, nor were Jennie's hands as soft andwarm as the hands which encircled her face, nor Jennie's voice like thiswhich said to her:

"Bessie, darling Bessie!"

Grey had come to Allington from Springfield, where he had been onbusiness for his father, and both Lucy and Miss McPherson knew that hewas coming, and had chosen that day for Bessie's visit to the park, andhad purposely talked before her of his probable marriage, in order totest the nature of Bessie's feelings for him. 

"We cannot be mistaken, " Miss McPherson said to Lucy, after Bessie hadleft them; "but let me manage the young man. "

And when, at last, Grey came, and, after greeting the ladies, askedafter Bessie, Miss McPherson replied that she was better and had justleft them for the garden; and then, as Grey made no move to go in searchof her, she suddenly turned upon him with the exclamation:

"Grey Jerrold, you are a fool!"

"Ye-es?" he answered, interrogatively, as he regarded her withastonishment. 

"I repeat it--you are either a fool or blind, or both!" she continued. "But I am neither, and I know you love my niece, and she loves you, andI know too that you think she is engaged to Neil McPherson, but she isnot. "

"What!" Grey exclaimed, starting to his feet. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that Bessie's engagement was broken before she leftEngland, and that she--"

"She--what?" Grey cried, almost pleadingly; and Miss McPherson rejoined:

"She is in the garden. You will find her in the rose-arbor. "

Grey waited for no more, but went rapidly in the direction of thesummer-house where Bessie sat with her back to him, and did not see himuntil his hands were upon her face and his voice said to her:

"Bessie, darling Bessie!"

Then she started suddenly, and when Grey came round in front of her, andtaking her hands in his kissed her lips, she kissed him unhesitatingly, and then burst into a paroxysm of tears. 

"What is it, Bessie? Why are you crying so?" Grey said, as he still heldher hands and kept kissing her forehead and lips. 

"They said you were going to be married, " Bessie sobbed, as Grey kneltbeside her, and laying her head upon his shoulder, tried to brush hertears away. 

"Who said I was to be married?" he asked, in some surprise, and Bessieanswered him:

"Your Aunt Lucy said she thought so, and I--oh, Grey, what must youthink of me?" and lifting her head from his shoulder, Bessie covered herface with her hands, crying for very shame that she had betrayed whatshe ought to have kept to herself. 

"What must I think of you?" Grey replied. "Why, this--that you are thedearest, sweetest little girl in all the world, and that I am thehappiest man. I do not know what Aunt Lucy meant by saying I was goingto be married; but I am, and very soon, too--just as soon as you areable to be present at the ceremony. Will that be at Christmas-time, doyou think?"

He was taking everything for granted, and Bessie knew that he was, andknew what he meant, but she would scarcely have been a woman if she hadnot wished him to put his meaning in words which could not be mistaken, so she said to him amid her tears--glad, happy tears they were now:

"Whom are you to marry?"

"Whom?" he repeated. "Whom but you, Bessie McPherson, whom I believe Ihave loved ever since that Christmas I spent at Stoneleigh two yearsago. Do you remember the knot of plaid ribbon you wore that night andwhich I won at play? I have it still, as one of my choicest treasures, and the curl of hair which Flossie cut from your head, in Rome, when wethought you would die, I divided that tress with Jack Trevellian thenight we talked together of you, with breaking hearts, because webelieved you were dead. He told me then of his love for you, and Iconfessed mine to him, though we both supposed that, had you lived, Neilwould have claimed you as his. Oh, Bessie, those were dreary months tome, when I thought you dead, and may you never know the anguish Iendured when I stood by that grave in Stoneleigh and believed you lyingthere. But God has been very good to me, far better than I deserve. Hehas given you to me at last and nothing shall separate us again. "

While Grey talked, he was caressing Bessie's face and hair, and stoopingoccasionally to kiss her, while she sat dumb and motionless, so full wasshe of the great joy which had come so suddenly upon her, and which, asyet, she could not realize. 

"We will be married at Christmas, " Grey said; "the anniversary of thetime when I first saw you, little dreaming then, that you would one daybe my wife. Shall it not be so?"

What Bessie might have said or how long the interview might have lasted, we have no means of knowing, for a shrill cry in the distance of "Noneof that, misther! for I'm comin' meself to take the hide of ye, "startled them from their state of bliss, and looking up they saw Jenniebearing swiftly down upon them, with both arms extended ready for fight. 

Jennie, who knew nothing of Grey's arrival, had visited with theservants, until she concluded it was time to return to her youngmistress. As she came within sight of the summer-house what was herhorror to see a tall young man with his arms around Bessie, and, as itseemed to her, trying to take her from the chair. 

"Thaves and murther!" she cried, "if there isn't a spalpeen thryin' torun away with Miss Bessie, body and bones;" and at her utmost speed shedashed on to the fray. 

But at sight of Grey she stopped short, and with wide-open eyes andmouth, surveyed him a moment in astonishment; then a broad smileillumined her face as she exclaimed:

"An' faith that's right. Kiss her again as many times as ye likes. It'snot meself will interfere, though if you'd been a bla'guard, as Ithought you was, I'd of had yer heart's blood, " and turning on her heelJennie walked rapidly away, leaving the lovers a very little upset anddisconcerted. 

It was Grey who wheeled Bessie back to the house, and taking her in hisarms carried her to his Aunt Lucy, to whom he said, as he put her downupon the couch:

"This is my little wife, or, rather, she is to _be_ my wife on ChristmasEve, and Christmas Day we are to spend here with you, who will make theold house brighter than ever it was before. " Then, going up to MissMcPherson, he continued: "Kiss me, Aunt Betsey because I am to be yournephew, and because I am no longer a fool. "

The kiss he asked for was given, and thus the engagement was sealed, and when next day Grey returned to Boston, he said to his Aunt Hannah, who was still with his mother:

"Bessie is to be my wife, and I must tell her our secret, and at yourhouse, too, for, after she has seen you, I feel sure that she willforgive everything. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

TELLING BESSIE. 

At last Mrs. Geraldine was better, and signified her willingness to lether sister-in-law return to her own home, from which she had been absentso long. She had received, with a good deal of equanimity, the news ofher son's engagement with Bessie, whom she remembered as a lovely child, wholly unlike her mother. 

"If that woman were living, I would never consent to the marriage, " shesaid; "but as it is, I am willing, though I had hoped that in yourtravels abroad you might have found some high-born English girl with atitle, but it is something to marry a niece of Lady Jane, and I dare sayMiss McPherson will make the girl her heir; so I will welcome her as mydaughter, and perhaps she will brighten up the house, which is at timesinsufferably dull, with your father growing more and more silent andgloomy every day. I should not wonder if he were to become crazy, likeyour grandfather. "

Grey did not reply to this, or tell her that he could guess in part whatit was which had made his father grow old so fast, and blanched his hairto a snowy white, unusual to one of his years. It was the secret hiddenunder the bed-room floor which had affected his whole life, and affectedit all the more because he had brooded over it in silence, and neverspoken to any one upon the subject. Once Hannah attempted to saysomething to him, but he had repulsed her so fiercely that she nevertried again, and he did not guess what efforts Grey had made to findthe rightful heirs of Joel Rogers. Like his wife, he did not object toGrey's engagement. Bessie was a desirable _parti_, as she would, in allprobability, inherit her aunt's large fortune, and he signified hisapproval; and in all Boston there was not a happier man than Grey, onthe morning when, with his Aunt Hannah, he at last started forAllington, telling her when he bade her good-by at the station that heshould bring Bessie to her early the following day. 

It was a most lovely October morning when Grey drove Bessie through therocky lane in the pasture land up to the old house, of which he had toldher on Christmas Eve, at Stoneleigh, almost two years ago, and whichseemed neither new nor strange to Bessie, so strong an impression hadhis description made upon her. 

"There she is; that is Aunt Hannah, " Grey said, as a tall, slenderwoman, in a plain black dress, came to the open door and stood waitingfor them. 

"And I should have known her, too. What a sad face it is, just as ifthere was a history hidden under it. " Bessie said, and Grey replied, asbe lifted her from the phaeton:

"There is a history hidden there, and sometime I will tell it to you. "

Then leading her to his aunt he said:

"Auntie, I have brought you Bessie. "

"Yes, " Hannah answered, with a gasp, as her cold hands were clasped bythe soft, warm ones of the young girl, who looked up at her curiously, wondering at her manner. 

At sight of Bessie, Hannah had been startled by the likeness to thepicture hidden away so many years, every feature of which was indeliblystamped upon her memory. Had that picture taken life and form, and wasit confronting her now? It seemed so, and for an instant she grew coldand faint, and stood staring at the girl. 

"Auntie, won't you kiss Bessie?" Grey said, and then the spell wasbroken, and taking the girl in her arms, Hannah kissed and cried overher as a fond mother cries over the child which has been lost and isrestored to her again. 

Hannah could not define to herself the feeling which took possession ofher from the moment she saw Bessie standing there in the low, old-fashioned room, with the October sunshine falling on her golden hairand lighting up her beautiful face, still pale and worn from recentsickness. It was as if an angel had come suddenly to her, bringing thepeace and rest she had never known since that awful night more thanforty years ago, and she felt all her olden horror rolling away, as shewatched Bessie going over the house, with Grey--; now up the crookedstairs to the room under the roof where Grey used to sleep when a boy, and where there were still the remains of a horse, and a boat which hehad sailed in the big iron kettle by the well--; now down the cellarstairs to see the foundation of the big chimney which occupied thecenter of the house, and in which the swallows built their nests; nowout to the well where the bucket hung, and then to the little benchwhere Grey used to sit and kick the side of the house, while theterror-stricken old man looked on trembling, lest the boards should giveway and show what was hidden there! It was there yet, dust and ashesnow, but still there, and Bessie sat down alone beside it, while Greyshivered as his grandfather had done, and drew her away as quickly aspossible. 

"Where does this lead to?" she asked, laying her hand upon the doorwhich was always closed. 

"That was grandfather's room. No one goes in there, " Grey said, hurriedly, as he put his arm around her, and told her she had seenenough, and must rest until after dinner. 

He took her to the pleasant south room, where the early dinner wasserved, with the tiny silver teaspoons, marked with the initials ofHannah's mother, and the bits of old china, which modern fashion hasmade so choice and rare now. And Bessie enjoyed it with the keen relishof a returning appetite. She had improved rapidly within the last week, and declared herself is well and strong as ever, when, after dinner wasover and the dishes cleared away she nestled down among the cushions ofthe chintz-covered lounge. 

"This is such a dear old place, " she said, "that I should like to stayhere always. People say there is a skeleton in every house, but I amsure there can be none here, everything seems so peaceful and quiet. "

"Why did she make that remark, of all others?" Grey thought, as, with aface whiter even than that of his Aunt Hannah, he sat down beside her, and drawing her closely to him, laid her golden head upon his shoulder. 

"Bessie, " he said, and his voice shook a little, "I am going to tell yousomething which perhaps I ought to have told you before I asked you tobe my wife, and which I should have told you had I thought the tellingwould make any difference in your love for me. "

"Nothing could make any difference in that, " Bessie said, lifting up hersweet face to be kissed, and then dropping her head again upon Grey'sarm, just as Hannah came in and took a seat on the other side of her. 

Hannah had been up stairs to her room, where she now kept the box inwhich lay the picture which was so like Bessie McPherson. 

"More like her than I supposed, " she whispered, as she gazed upon theface which seemed each moment to grow more and more like the young girlto whom Grey was to tell the story. 

He was only waiting for her to come in before he commenced, she knew, and putting the picture back in its place, she went down to the southroom, and taking her seat beside Bessie, as Grey motioned her to do, waited for him to begin. 

"Bessie, " he said, and his aim tightened its clasp around her waist, "there _is_ a skeleton here, and it has darkened all my Aunt Hannah'slife, and thrown its shadow over me as well. Can you bear to have alittle of it fall upon you, too?"

"Yes, " she answered, fearlessly, "I have always lived with skeletonsuntil I knew you loved me; they cannot frighten me. "

"But, darling, would you love me as well, think you you knew that, in away, there was a disgrace clinging my name?" he asked, and Bessiereplied:

"A disgrace! What do you mean? I cannot imagine you to be in disgrace;but if you are, I am quite ready to share it with you. "

"Even if it be murder?"

Grey spoke the last word in a whisper, as if afraid the walls had ears, but Bessie heard him distinctly, and with a great start, she drewherself away from him, and sat rigid as a stone, while she repeated:

"Murder! Oh, Grey, you surely do not mean that!"

"No, not exactly; it was manslaughter, done in self-defense, " Greyanswered her, and, with a sigh of relief, Bessie asked:

"Who was the killed, and who the killer?"

"My grandfather did the deed, in the heat of passion, and the victim haslain under the floor of that room into which I would not let you enter, for more than forty years. Now you know the skeleton there is in thisold house. "

"Ye-es, " Bessie said, while a look of terror and pain crept into hereyes; but she did not move nearer either to Grey or his aunt. 

Indeed, it seemed to both that she drew herself into as small a compassas possible, so that she might not touch them, and her face was verywhite and still as Grey commenced the story, which he made as short aspossible, though he dwelt at length upon the life-long remorse of hisgrandfather, and the heavy burden which his Aunt Hannah had carried foryears. 

At this part of the story, Bessie's face relaxed, and one of the hands, which had been clasped so tightly together at first, went over toHannah's hand, which it took and held until Grey told of the lonely daysand dreary nights passed by the young girl in the old horror-hauntedhouse, with no one but Rover for her companion. Then the hand went upwith a soft, caressing motion to the face which Grey had once saidlooked as if Christ had laid his hands hard upon it, and left theirimpress there. It was pallid now, as the face of a corpse, and therewere hard lines about the mouth, which quivered with pain. But, at thetouch of Bessie's soft fingers, the hardness relaxed, and, covering hereyes, Hannah burst into a paroxysm of weeping. 

"Dear auntie, " Bessie said, "my auntie, because you are Grey's, how youmust have suffered, and how I wish I could have come to you. There wouldhave been no terror here for me, because, you see, it was notpremeditated; it was an accident, not a crime, and God, I am sure, forgave it long ago. No, Grey;" and now she turned to him, and, windingher arms around his neck, went on: "It is not a disgrace you ask me toshare it is a misfortune, a trouble; and do you think I would shrinkfrom it a moment--I, who have borne so much that _was_ disgrace?"

He knew she was thinking of her mother, but he said nothing except tofold her in his arms and kiss her flushed, eager face, while she wenton:

"But who was this man? Where did he live, and had he no friends to makeinquiries for him?"

Grey remembered now that he had simply said, the _peddler_, withoutgiving the name, and he hastened to say:

"He was Joel Rogers, a Welshman, from Carnarvon, and it was for hissister Elizabeth, or her heirs, that I was searching, when I first cameto Stoneleigh. "

"Oh, Grey!" and Bessie sprang up almost as quickly as she had done whenhe spoke to her of murder; "oh, Grey! what if it should be mygreat-uncle, whose grave is under the floor? You once told me you werehunting for Elizabeth Rogers, and I said I would ask Anthony, who kneweverybody for fifty miles around and for a hundred years back. But Iforgot it until after father died, when it came to me one day, and Iwent to Anthony and asked if he knew any one in Carnarvon or vicinity bythe name of Elizabeth Rogers. 

"'No, ' he said, 'I never knew Elizabeth Rogers; but I knew yourgrandmother, Elizabeth Baldwin, before she was married, and she had ahalf-brother, Joel Rogers, twenty years older than herself. A queer, roaming kind of chap, who went off to America, or Australia, or somesuch place, and never came back again. He was a good bit older than Iam, ' Anthony said, 'and would be over eighty if living now. '

"Then I remembered that when I was a child I once heard my grandmotherAllen speak of a brother, who, she said, went to the States when she wasa girl, and from whom she had not heard in many years. He must have beenvery fond of her, for she had several choice things he had given her, and among them a picture of herself, which, she said, was painted inLondon the only time she was ever there, and which was very beautiful. "

"A picture, did you say? Would you know one like it if you were to seeit?" Hannah asked, in a constrained voice and Bessie replied:

"Oh, yes; that portrait is still at Stoneleigh, for when grandma died, six or seven years ago, mother gave it to me, and I hung it in my room. It was like mother, only prettier, I think. "

While Bessie was speaking Hannah had risen, and going from the room soonreturned, bearing in her hand the box, which for so many years she hadsecreted, and which Grey had not seen since he was a boy, and Hannahtold him the sad story which had blighted her life. He saw it now in hisaunt's hands, and shuddered as if it were a long closed grave she wasopening. 

"Here is the watch, " she said, with a strange calmness, as she laid inBessie's lap the silver time-piece, whose white face seemed to Grey toassume a human shape, and look knowingly up at him. "You see it stoppedat half-past eight. It has never been wound up since, " Hannah continued, pointing to the hour and minute hands. 

Without the slightest hesitancy Bessie took the watch, and examining itcarefully, said, as she fitted the key attached to the old-fashioned fobto the key-hole:

"Do you think it would go if I were to wind it up?" Then, giving the keya turn or two, she continued: "It does. It ticks. Look, Grey, " and sheheld it to his ear. 

But he started away from it, as if it had been the heart beat of thedead man himself, and rising quickly began to pace up and down the room, while Bessie next took the picture to which she bore so striking alikeness. 

"It is grandmother! _It is!_" she exclaimed. "He must have had twotaken, one for himself and one for her. Is she not lovely?"

"She is like you, " Hannah replied, "and it was this resemblance whichstarted me so when I first saw you this morning. Oh, Bessie, my child, your coming to me has cleared away all the clouds, and I can makerestitution at last, for _you_ are the rightful heir of the money I havesaved so carefully--heir of that and everything. "

"I do not think I understand you, " Bessie said, and then Hannah handedher the will, executed in Wales, about a year before Joel Rogers' death, and in which he gave all he had to his sister Elizabeth and her heirsforever. 

"Still I do not quite see it. Explain it to me, Grey, " Bessie said, with a perplexed look on her face. 

Thus importuned, Grey sat down beside her, and, as well as he could, explained everything, and told her of the gold, to which his aunt hadadded interest every year, so that the heirs, when found, should havetheir own, and of the shares in the slate quarries in Wales, dividendson which must have amounted to quite a fortune by this time, and all ofwhich was hers, when she was proven to be the lawful heir of ElizabethBaldwin, sister of Joel Rogers. 

"Yes, I understand now, " she said, with a quivering lip, and the greattears rolling down her cheeks. "There is money for me somewhere, but, oh, I wish it had come in father's life-time. We were so poor then;but, " she added, as a bright smile broke over her face, "I am glad foryou, Grey, that I shall not be a penniless bride. "

Did she not then appreciate the position, or see the gulf which herrelationship to the dead man had built between them? If not, he musttell her, and rising again to his feet, and standing over her, Greybegan with a choking voice:

"Bessie, you do not seem even to suspect that, in the eyes of the world, the fact that you are Joel Rogers' grand-niece ought to separate youfrom me. Don't you know that the blood of your kinsman is on mygrandfather's hands, and does that make no difference with you?"

"Difference!" she repeated. "No, why should it? Oh, Grey, you are notgoing to give me up because of that? I was not to blame;" and inBessie's voice there was such a pleading pathos, that when she stretchedher hands toward him, Grey took her in his arms, feeling that all hisdoubts and fears were removed, and that Bessie might be his in spite ofeverything. 

For a long time they talked together of the course to be pursued, deciding finally that the matter should be kept to themselves until Greyand Bessie were married, and with Hannah had been to Wales and provedthe validity of Bessie's claim to the effects of Joel Rogers. 

There was no longer any talk of waiting until Christmas Eve, for themarriage was to take place as soon as possible, and when Grey tookBessie home to Miss McPherson he startled that good woman with theannouncement that he was to be married the last week in November andsail at once for Europe, taking his Aunt Hannah with him. 

CHAPTER XV. 

WEDDING BELLS. 

They rang first for Lord Hardy and Augusta Browne, who had intended tobe married in October, but whose wedding was deferred until the secondweek in November, because, as Mrs. Rossiter-Browne expressed it, "Gusty's bridal trouses could not arrive in time from Paris. " Everythingpertaining to the young lady's wardrobe was ordered either from Londonor Paris, and could Mrs. Browne have done it she would have bought theArch of Triumph, and, transporting it to Allington, would have set it upin front of her house and illuminated it for the occasion. She shouldnever have another daughter marry an Irish lord, she said, and she meant"to make a splurge and astonish the natives, " and she did. 

She had a temporary ball-room built at one side of the house, andlighted it with a thousand wax candles. She had a brass band fromSpringfield and a string band from Worcester. She had a caterer fromBoston, whom with her usual happy form of expression she called a"canterer. " She had colored waiters in white gloves in such profusionthat they stumbled over and against each other. She had an awningstretched from the front door to the gate, with yards and yards ofcarpeting under it. 

"She had not been abroad for nothing, and she guessed she knew what waswhat, " she said to Lord Hardy when he hinted that a plainer weddingwould suit him quite as well, and that the money she was expending couldbe put to better purpose. 

"I guess we can stand it, and still have a nice little sum for Gusty, "she added, and patting her future son-in-law upon the back she bade him"keep cool and let her run the machine. "

After that, Lord Hardy kept quiet, though he was never so near a feveras during the week which preceded his nuptials. For Augusta herself hedid not care at all, as men are supposed to care for the girl they areabout to marry. He did not dislike her, and he thought her rather prettyand lady-like, with a far better education than his own; but, strangelyenough in these last days of his bachelorhood, he often found himselfliving over again those far-off times in Monte Carlo, when, as CousinSue from Bangor, he had laughed and talked and flirted with poor littleDaisy, as he called her to himself, now that she was dead, and the gravehad closed over all her faults and misdemeanors. She had been the causeof his ruin, and he had, at times, hated her for it, but she had beenjolly company for all that, and he wondered what she would say if shecould know that Mrs. Rossiter-Browne was to be his mother-in-law andAugusta Lady Hardy. 

"She would turn over in her coffin, I do believe, " he thought, and thenhe wondered how much Augusta's wedding portion would be, and how far itwould go toward restoring his Irish home to something like its formercondition. But on this point, _pere_ Browne maintained a rigid silence, and he was obliged to be content with the hints which _mere_ Brownedropped from time to time. She had made minute inquiries with regard toHardy Manor, her daughter's future home, and at her request he had madea drawing of it, so that she knew just how many rooms there were, andhow they were furnished. 

"I shall h'ist them feather beds out double quick, " she said, "and themhigh four-posters, with tops like a buggy. I'd as soon sleep in ahearse, and I shall put in some brass bedsteads and hair mattresses, andmabby I shall furnish Gusty's room with willer work. I'll show 'em whatUncle Sam can do. "

Was she then going with him to Hardy Manor, and must he present her tohis aristocratic friends as the mother of his bride? The verypossibility of such a calamity made the perspiration ooze from the tipsof Lord Hardy's fingers to the roots of his hair, and once hecontemplated running away and taking the first ship which sailed forLiverpool. But when he remembered his debts he concluded to swalloweverything, even the mother-in-law, if necessary. He was to sail thelast week in November, and as, when he engaged his state-room, nothinghad been said about a second one for Mrs. Browne, he comforted himselfwith the hope that she did not meditate going with him. She would, perhaps, come in the spring, by which time he might be glad for thebrass bedsteads and hair mattresses which abounded at the Ridge House, and which were really more in accordance with his luxurious tastes thanthe feather beds and high four-posters which had done duty at HardyManor for more years than he could remember. 

Over four hundred invitations were given to the wedding, as Mrs. Brownesaid she "didn't mean to make nobody mad. " But she did offend morepeople than if her party had been more select, for when Mrs. PeterStokes, the truckman's wife, heard that her next door neighbor, Mrs. AsaNoaks, the hackman's wife, had received an invitation and she had not, her indignation knew no bounds, and she wondered who _Miss Ike Browne_thought she was, and if she had forgotten that she once went out to worklike any other hired girl; and when Susan Slocum, whose mother took inwashing, heard that her friend Lucy Smith, who worked in the mill, wasinvited and she was not, she persuaded her mother to roll up the fourdozen pieces which had been sent from the Ridge to be washed, and returnthem with the message that if she wa'n't good enough to go to thewedding she wa'n't good enough to wash the weddin' finery. This sodisturbed poor Mrs. Browne, who really wished to please every body, thatbut for the interference of Allen and Augusta she would have goneimmediately to the offended washerwoman with an apology, and an earliestrequest to be present at the wedding. 

"Don't for pity's sake, ask any more of the scum, " Allen said, adding, that if she had not invited any of them no one would have been slighted. 

"Well, I don't know, " Mrs. Browne rejoined, with a sigh; "I can't quiteforget when I was _scum_ myself, and knew how it felt. "

On the whole, however, everything went smoothly, and the grand affaircame off one November night when the air was as soft and balmy as inearly summer, and the full moon was sailing through a cloudless sky ascarriage after carriage made its way to the brilliantly lighted housethrough the dense crowd of curious people which filled the road infront, and even stretched to the left along the garden fence. All thefactory hands were there, and all the boys in town, with most of theyoung girls, and many of the women whose rank in life was in what Allencalled the scum, forgetting that but for his father's money he mighthave been there too. 

There were four bridemaids in all, and their dresses and trains weresomething wonderful to behold, as they swept down the stairs and throughthe long drawing-room to the bay-window where, amid a wilderness ofroses, and azalias, and lilies, they were to stand. This was the partthe most distasteful to Lord Hardy, who would greatly have preferredbeing married in church according to the English form--and, in fact, Augusta would have liked that, too; but Mrs. Browne was a stanchBaptist, and opposed any deviation from the good old rule, and so LordHardy was compelled to submit, though his face wore the look of anythingbut a happy man as he went through the ordeal which made him Augusta'shusband, and then received the congratulations of the guests, most ofwhom addressed the bride as Lady Hardy. 

When Augusta heard of Bessie's engagement with Grey she went at once tocongratulate her, and insisted upon her being one of her bridemaids. ButBessie declined; she was too much a stranger to take so conspicuous aplace, she said, and would rather be a quiet looker-on. 

But she was there with Grey, to whose arm she clung as she lookedwonderingly on at the gorgeous display, unlike anything which was everseen in Allington before, or ever would be again. 

Altogether it was a most brilliant and successful affair, and thereporters, who had been hired to be present, did it ample justice in thenext day's papers. "Festivities in High Life" headed the column, inwhich the beauty and accomplishments of the bride were dwelt upon atlarge, while free scope was given to the imagination and the pen when itcame to the elegant manners of the hostess, the air of refinement andcultivation perceptible among the guests, and the signs of wealth andperfect taste everywhere visible. The great popularity of the family wasalso dwelt upon as proven by the immense crowd thronging the streets, and Lord Hardy was congratulated upon his rare good luck, and hints werethrown out that England and Ireland ought to feel complimented that somany of America's fair daughters were willing to wear a foreign titleand grace a foreign home. 

"What fools those reporters are, to be sure, and the Brownes are biggerfools to allow such stuff to be printed, " was Miss McPherson's commentupon the articles which appeared in the _Spy_ and the _Gazette_, and theSpringfield _Republican_, and her opinion was pretty generally shared bythe citizens of Allington, who immediately raked up the ashes of theBrownes' past history, and recalled with great zest the times when Mrs. Browne had worked in the kitchen at Grey's Park, while poor Mr. Brownewas charged with every possible second-class occupation, from mendingbrass kettles down to peddling clothes-pins. 

Fortunately, however, Mrs. Browne was in happy ignorance of all this. She only knew that she had "killed a bear, " as she expressed it, andthat she had been described as an elegant and accomplished lady, who ledthe _ton_ in Allington. 

"I guess I've whipped 'em all, though I'll wait and see what MissMcPherson does, " she said; but Miss McPherson did nothing. 

It was the wish of both Bessie and Grey that the wedding should be asquiet as possible. Any one was free to go to the church where theceremony took place one morning the last week in November, and which wasfilled with plain, respectable people. But only Hannah and Lucy Grey, Mr. And Mrs. Burton Jerrold, and the clergyman, Mr. Sanford, went to thehouse, where the wedding-breakfast was served, and where Miss Betseybroke down more than once, as she thought how soon she had lost the girlwhom she had learned to love so much. Grey and Bessie were going to NewYork that afternoon, for they were to sail the next day, and Hannah wasgoing with them. No good reason had been assigned for this sudden tripacross the ocean at this season of the year, and only Mr. Sanford knewwhy it was taken. Hannah had told him everything, and while heexpressed his pleasure that the long search and waiting had at last beenrewarded in so satisfactory a manner, he added, sadly:

"I hope you will not stay there long. I shall be very lonely withoutyou, Hanny. "

It was the first time he had given her the pet name of old, since Marthahad been laid to rest in the church-yard, and as a penance for doing so, he went the same day to Martha's grave and stood there at least fifteenminutes, with the November rain falling upon him until his clothes werenearly wet through. 

"Poor Martha, " he sighed, as he turned away, "she would be fidgeted todeath if she knew how wet I am. I guess I had better drink some bonesetwhen I get home. I believe that is what she used to give me. "

He went with the party to New York, and so did Miss Grey and MissMcPherson, and the loungers at the Allington station made some jokingremarks about one widower going off with three old maids, but each ofthe old maids knew her business, and cared little what the rabble said. The Brownes, too, were in New York with Lord and Lady Hardy, who sailedin the same ship with Grey and Bessie. Just how much Augusta's weddingportion was, was never known, but that it was satisfactory was proven bythe felicitous expression of Lord Hardy's face, which beamed withdelight as he said good-by to his mother-in-law, whom he kissed in theexuberance of his joy. But his countenance fell a little when he heardher tell Augusta not to be so down in the mouth, for she should be overthere herself early in the spring, in time to see to house-cleaning!

The day was bright and warm, as the days in Indian summer often are, andthe McPherson party stood upon the wharf waving their good-bys as longas Grey and Bessie were discernible among the passengers; then theyreturned to their Hotel, and Miss Betsey sent the following cablegram toNeil in London:

"Bessie was married yesterday to Grey Jerrold, and sails to-day forLiverpool. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

BESSIE'S FORTUNE. 

At last there came a day when Hannah Jerrold sat in the yew-shadedgarden at Stoneleigh, on the same bench where Archie once lay sleeping, with Daisy at his side keeping the flies from him. Archie and Daisy weredead, and Hannah Jerrold, whose life had reached out and laid hold upontheirs, was there in the old home to make restitution, and coming to herdown the walk were Grey and Bessie, whose face was wonderfully beautifulas she lifted it to her husband, and said something which made him stoopdown and kiss the sweet mouth from which the old, tired look had nearlyvanished. 

She was so happy now, this little Welsh girl, who had borne so much, andsuffered so much, and it seemed to Hannah as she drew near as if a haloof joy shone in her deep blue eyes and irradiated every feature of herlovely countenance. 

"Oh, it is so nice to be home again, and the old place is so dear tome, " she said, as she sat down by Hannah upon the bench, "I half wish wewere going to stay here, though I like America very much, and shall intime, become as genuine a Yankee as Grey himself. You know he is in away a cosmopolitan. "

They had taken Anthony and Dorothy completely by surprise, for althoughBessie had written to them of her engagement, she had said nothing ofcoming home, as she did not then expect to do so. But circumstances hadchanged, and the old couple were just sitting down to their frugalbreakfast of bread and tea when a carriage from the station drove intothe park, and in a moment Bessie was in Dorothy's arms, laughing andcrying and talking in the same breath, presenting Hannah as her husbandand her husband as her Aunt Hannah, in her joy and excitement at beinghome once more. 

It did not take long to explain why they had come, to the old people, who entered heart and soul into the matter Anthony offering to go atonce to Carnavon and hunt up some one who could swear to thehand-writing of Joel Rogers and help to prove the will, while Dorothysaid she had no doubt that among some papers, bills and receipts whichhad belonged to Bessie's grandmother and which were still lying in anold writing-desk where Daisy had put them when her mother died, therewere letters from Joel to his sister, which proved to be a fact. 

"I remember him well, though he was a good bit older than I am, " Anthonysaid. "A little sandy-haired man, very kind-hearted and honest, thoughrather touchy and quarrelsome if he had too much beer in him, Ishouldn't wonder but he died in some spree brought on by drink. "

"Yes, he died in a spree brought on by drink, " Hannah answered, sadly, and that was the only time she was ever called upon to speak of themanner of Joel Rogers' death. 

Indeed, the whole matter was managed far more easily than she hadfeared. No troublesome questions whatever were asked, for there was noone enough interested in Joel Rogers to ask them, and when the will wasproven and Bessie's claim as his rightful heir established, Grey foundno difficulty whatever in obtaining from the company where the deceasedhad owned shares so many years ago, a full and correct account of allmoneys invested and the dividends which had been accruing since, thewhole of which was at once made over to Bessie, who found herself anheiress to so large an amount that it fairly took her breath away atfirst. 

"Why, I am rich!" she exclaimed, and then, as the tears gathered in hereyes, she continued: "Oh, if this had come to me while poor father wasalive, it would have made him so comfortable, and we were so poor. "

Then she began to wonder what she should do with it all, and how disposeof it to the best advantage. 

"If you were only poor and wanted it, I should be so glad, " she said toGrey; "but you do not, and so I must do the best I can. "

It never occurred to her to use any part of it for herself. She meant togive it away, and make a great many people happy. And within a day ortwo she had decided what to do with a part of it at least. She wassitting alone with Grey around the bright fire in the drawing-room oneevening after their late dinner, and Grey was saying to her, as she saton a low stool at his side, leaning her head on his knee and holding hishand in hers:

"It will soon be two years since I first saw you, with your face againstthe window, looking out into the darkness at the big American. I daresay you wished me in Guinea. "

"That I did, " Bessie answered laughingly, as she deepened her clasp ofhis hand, "for I did not at all know what to do with you. "

"But I remember well that you gave up your own cozy bedroom, like thedear, unselfish little girl you are, " Grey said, and Bessie rejoined. 

"Yes, but I hope you remember, too, that you would not take it, and, pretending to have the asthma, said you preferred the north chamber, with the storm and the cold and the rats. Oh, Grey, honestly I did notwant you here one bit. I thought you would be in the way but I am soglad now, for if you had not come I might never have been your wife, "and Bessie nestled closer to the arm which was her rightfulresting-place, and which encircled her fondly, as Grey replied a littleteasingly:

"No, not my wife perhaps, but you might have been Neil's, eh?"

"No, Grey, if I had not met you, I could not have married Neil. I oncethought I loved him, it is true, but I know now I did not. We were sounlike we could never have been happy. But I like him very much and amsorry for him, if he really cared for me. I wonder what he will say whenhe hears I am married and am here in Wales. He did not even know I wasengaged. I think you ought to write and tell him, and perhaps invite himhere for the holidays. Do you think he would care to come?"

"No, Bessie. Neither would I care to have him, " Grey replied. "I wouldrather spend the first Christmas alone with you in the place where Ifirst saw you; but I am willing to write to Neil, and when we go toLondon I will find him of course, and you shall see him. "

"Thank you, Grey, " Bessie said, just as Dorothy came in with a letterfor her mistress, who took it in her hand and bending to the firelightrecognized Neil's hand-writing, while her cheeks flushed as she saw hernew name, Mrs. Grey Jerrold, and thought that Neil was the first toaddress her thus. 

Breaking the seal, she read as follows:

 "LONDON, December ----, 18--. 

 "My Dear Cousin: You may think it strange that I have not written before this and congratulated you upon your marriage. But I did not know of it until a week ago, when I came home from the Continent, summoned by the news that my mother was very ill. Then I found a telegram from my Aunt Betsey, which said, 'Bessie was married yesterday to Grey Jerrold and sails to-day for Liverpool. ' I was not greatly surprised, and I am glad that it is Grey, I know he is worthy of you and I hope you will both be happy, even if I am wretched and forlorn, for I am more so than I ever was in my life before. Mother is dead and we have just returned from burying her at the old home in Middlesex. She died of typhoid-pneumonia the day after my return. I did not send for you to attend her funeral, for fear it would seem like an insult, she had taken such a stand against you during her life. But she changed very much in that respect, and a few hours before she died she talked of you, and said she withdrew all her opposition, and that, if I loved you still and you loved me she hoped we would marry and be happy. I did not tell her of the telegram, and so she did not know that you were already married. But, strangest of all, she advised me to go to America, and if I could find anything to do, which would not compromise me as a gentleman, to do it. Think of that, Bessie. My mother advising me to work, after all her training to the contrary. But she knew there was no other way. It is work or starve with me now. A few weeks before mother's death she lost nearly everything which she had in her own right, and which would have naturally come to me, so that most of her income died with her. Neither Trevellian House, nor the one in the country, is ours any longer, and father must go into lodgings when the new heir takes possession. This, at his age, is very hard, and I am sorry for him. If we only had the house in Middlesex it would not be so bad, for he likes the country and would be happy there. What he will do here alone in London I am sure I don't know, for I am going out to India on a salary of three hundred pounds a year; small enough for a chap of my habits, but better than nothing. 

 "I'd like awfully to see you once more before I go, and if you come to London I hope you will let me call upon you. Don't think I am breaking my heart because you belong to Grey. I am not that kind, and it would do no good. But I loved you as I can never love any one again, and there is always a thought of you in my mind, and I see your face as it looked at me that day in Liverpool, when I acted the part of a cowardly knave. 

 "I would kick myself for that if I could. You were too good for me, Bessie, and I should have been a drag upon your life always. But Heaven knows how much I miss you, and how at times, when the thought comes over me that you are lost to me forever, and that another man is enjoying the sweetness I once thought would be mine, I half wish I were dead and out of the way of everything. Then I put that feeling aside as unworthy of me, and say to myself that I am glad you are happy, and that Grey is the noblest and best fellow in the world, and the one of all others who ought to have you for his wife. I shall never marry; that is settled. First, there is no woman in the world I can ever look at after loving you; and, second, I am too poor, and always shall be. 

 "And now I suppose you are thinking of Blanche, and wondering where she is. She and mother had a jolly row, of which I fancy I was the cause. Blanche told mother that all either she or I cared for was to get her ten thousand a year, and by Jove, I believe she was right, but I did not suppose she had sense enough to know it; trust a fool sometimes to see through a stone wall. 

 "Well, mother told Blanche that _I_ did not even care for the ten thousand pounds, that I loved you, and had been engaged to you, and that you had discarded me. That was the straw too many, and forthwith, Miss Blanche departed from Trevellian House, bag and baggage, and I hear she is about to marry the eldest son of Lord Haxton, a brainless idiot, not half as good-looking as I am. There is conceit for you! But you know I was always rather vain of my looks, and I do believe that the greatest terror poverty holds for me is the knowing that I must wear seedy hats and threadbare coats, and trousers a year behind. Maybe Grey will sometime send me a box of his cast-off clothes. 

 "But what nonsense I am writing, and it is time I closed. I hear father in his room, and guess it must be time for his tea, so I will go in and join him. I hope either you, or Grey, or both, will write to me and tell me your plans. 

 "Forever and ever yours, "Neil. "

 "P. S. --I saw Jack Trevellian the other day, and told him you were married. For a minute he was as white as a piece of paper; then he rallied, and asked a great many questions about you. It seems be thought that you died in Rome when you were so sick there, and he says Grey thought so, too. Jack did not know to the contrary until one day last summer, when Flossie Meredith met him in the streets in Paris and told him you were in America. Jack is growing stout, and looks quite the landed proprietor. He keeps a lot of hounds, and has invited me to visit him. But I am done with things of that sort. Again good-by. 

 "P. S. No. 2. --I have had my tea with father, and when I told him I had been writing to you, he bade me give you his love, and say, that he should very much like to see you and your husband, and that if you are not coming to London, he will go to Stoneleigh, where he has never been since your grandfather died. This, I take it, is right shabby in him. But father is greatly changed. Between you and me, he was awfully afraid of mother. Poor mother, she meant well, and she was fond of me. 

 "By the way, Flossie is in London, with her grandmother, stopping at Langham's, and Jack is there, too, and has asked the old lady to spend some weeks at Trevellian Castle. It is frightfully lonesome there, he says, and he wants Flossie to brighten it up. Can you read between the lines? I think I can. Flossie is bright as a button. 

 "Again yours, forever, "Neil. "

Bessie read the letter, and then, passing it to her husband, said:

"It is from Neil. Would you like to see it?"

Taking it from her, Grey read it through, and then, leaning back in hischair, watched Bessie, as, with her elbows on her knees, and her faceresting on her hands, she sat gazing intently into the fire with awistful, earnest look which puzzled him a little. Was she thinking ofthe two men who had loved her so much and one of whom loved her still?And was she sending a regret after the title she had lost? He did notbelieve so; and, after a moment, he reached out his hand, and laying itcaressingly upon her soft, wavy hair, said to her:

"What is it, _petite_? Are you thinking how you might have been LadyBessie Trevellian?"

Then she turned her clear, truthful blue eyes upon him and answered:

"No, Grey. I would rather be your wife than the grandest duchess in theworld, but I am thinking of Neil and his father, and how hard it is forthem to be so poor. Grey"--and rising from her stool, Bessie seatedherself on her husband's lap, and, winding her arms around his neck, andlaying her soft, warm check against his bearded one, said again; "Grey, I want to ask you something--want to do something. Can I?"

"Yes, do what you like. Ask me what you like. What is it, darling?" Greyanswered her, and Bessie replied:

"I want to give a thousand pounds of my money to Neil and a thousand tohis father. That is not much, I know, but the interest upon it will putUncle John in better lodgings than he can now afford, and it will helpNeil, too. Only think of three hundred pounds a year after all he hasbeen accustomed to spend. What do you think, Grey?"

Grey's arm tightened its clasp around the girlish figure, and his lipstouched Bessie's white forehead as he said:

"I think you the most generous, unselfish little woman in all the world. And so I am sure would Neil, if he knew what you proposed; but, Bessie, I do not believe he would like it, or like you to offer it to him. Hehas more manhood than that. Poverty is hard to bear, but it will nothurt him. On the contrary, having to work for his living will bring outthe very best there is in him, and make him a man. He will not starve oreven suffer want on three hundred pounds a year; it is more than many aworking man has with a large family to support. So do not waste yoursympathy on Neil, who can take care of himself; but his father is old, and the change will be hard upon him. Was he not born at Stoneleigh?"

"I think so. Yes, " Bessie answered, and Grey continued:

"Neil says he likes the country and laments the loss of Elm Park. Now, this is my suggestion; Anthony and Dorothy ought to have some one withthem in their old age. How would you like taking a part of that twothousand pounds you are so anxious to dispose of, and with it repair andfit up this place into a comfortable and pleasant home for Mr. McPherson, whenever he chooses to stay here? The rest of the twothousand you can invest for his use as long as he lives, and theinterest of it will add to his present moderate income. What do youthink of my plan?"

"I think it the very best that could be adopted, and I shall write toNeil to-night, so it will go in the first mail to-morrow, " Bessie said, and before she slept she wrote a long letter to Neil, telling him firstof the fortune which had come to her so unexpectedly, but not explaininghow it had come. 

She was simply the sole heiress of a certain Joel Rogers, who leftshares in the quarries and mines, and these she was now possessed of, and felt herself a rich woman. 

"Quite an heiress, it seems to me, " she wrote, "although the sum isreally not so very large, but it is more than I ever dreamed of having, and as money burns in my fingers, I am dying to be rid of some of it, and this is a plan which Grey and I have talked over together, and whichI hope will meet your approval and that of your father. "

Then, as briefly as possible she made her offer, which she begged him topersuade his father to accept. 

"It will make me very happy, " she wrote, "to know that his old age ismade more comfortable by me. I should be glad to give you a part of mylittle fortune, but Grey says you would not like it, and perhaps he isright. I am glad that you are going to do something; I think you will behappier if occupied with business, and I wish you to be happy, as I amsure you will be some day, and always remember that you have twosincere friends, Grey and your Cousin Bessie. "

She was going to add "Jerrold" to the Bessie, but refrained from doingso, thinking to herself that she would not be the first to flaunt hernew name in Neil's face. Grey, however, had no such scruples. Lookingover Bessie's shoulder, as she finished her letter, he saw her start tomake the "J, " and when she changed her mind, and put down her pen, hetook it up and himself wrote the "Jerrold" with a flourish, saying, ashe did so:

"Don't be afraid to show your colors, _petite_. I think 'Bessie Jerrold'the sweetest name in all the world. "

"So do I; but I doubt if Neil holds the same opinion, " Bessie answered, with a laugh, as she leaned her head upon her husband's bosom, while hekissed her lips and forehead, and said the fond, foolish things which noloving wife, however old she may be, is ever tired of hearing--fond, foolish words, which, if oftener spoken, would keep alive the love inhearts which should never grow cold to each other. 

It was three days before an answer came to Bessie's letter, and in thattime she developed a most astonishing talent for architecture, or ratherfor devising and planning how to repair and improve a house. At leasttwenty sheets of paper were wasted with the plans she drew of what shemeant to do. There were to be bow-windows here, and balconies there, andporticoes in another place; chimneys were to be moved as readily andeasily as if they had been pieces of furniture; partitions thrown down, doors taken away, and portieres substituted. All the solid, old-fashioned furniture was to be discarded, and light, airy articles totake its place, like the willow work and brass bedsteads then on theirway to Hardy Manor as a gift from Mrs. Browne. Indeed, it was not untilGrey told Bessie that she was outdoing the Yankees in her desire forchange, and asked if she were copying Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, that shestopped to rest, and concluded to wait for a letter from Neil before shecommenced the work of knocking down and hauling out, as Dorothyexpressed it. 

At last the letter came, not from Neil, but from his father, who, afterthanking Bessie most cordially for her generous offer, which he wasglad to accept, wrote as follows:

 "I hope you will not be disappointed because I answer your letter in place of Neil, who said he could not possibly do it. He is greatly changed, and does not seem like himself at all. After reading your letter and passing it to me, he sat for a long time staring blankly at nothing, with a look on his face which I could not understand, and when I asked him what was the matter, he put his head upon the table and cried as young men never cry except they are greatly moved, and I cried, too; though why I cannot tell, unless it was for all the trouble which has come upon us at once, the loss of my wife, the loss of our home, and the fact that Neil must now, from necessity, do something to earn his bread. But I do not think he minds that as much as one might suppose, and when I began to cry he stopped at once and tried to comfort me, and said our lot was not a hard one by any means, when compared with what many had to endure; that it was a good thing to have to bestir himself; that he had been a lazy, conceited, selfish puppy long enough, and that if it were possible he meant to be a man. And then he spoke of you as his good angel, and said you were the truest, purest, and sweetest woman in all the world, and that neither of us could ever repay you and your husband for your generosity to us. I am sure I cannot, nor can I tell you how happy I shall be at Stoneleigh. I am afraid you will have a steady incumbent, for once there, I do not believe I shall care to leave it. I have seen all of the world I wish to, and the quiet and peace of Stoneleigh will be very grateful to me. I think, however, that for the winter I shall remain in London, where I hope to see you and Mr. Jerrold, whose father and mother I met years ago at Penrhyn Park. I do not yet know when Neil will start for India; probably within a few weeks, and then I shall be very lonely. That God may bless you, my dear Bessie, and give you all the happiness you deserve, is the prayer of your affectionate uncle, "JOHN MCPHERSON. "

CHAPTER XVII. 

OLD FRIENDS. 

Over this letter Bessie had a good cry, with her face on Grey's shoulderand Grey's arms around her, and when he asked why she cried she said shedid not know, only the world seemed a very dreary world with no oneperfectly happy in it except themselves. But Bessie's tears in thosedays were like April showers, and she was soon as joyous and gay asever, and entered heart and soul into the improvements and repairs whichwere to make Stoneleigh habitable for the Hon. John, who, greatly totheir astonishment, came suddenly upon them one day when they were ankledeep in brick and mortar and lath and plaster, and all the otherparaphernalia attendant upon repairing an old house. 

Neil was away so much, he said, and he was so lonely in his lodgings, with no one to speak to but his landlady, that he had decided to come toStoneleigh, though he did not mean to make the least trouble, or be atall in the way. 

But a fine gentleman, unaccustomed to wait upon himself, is always inthe way, and even Bessie's patience was taxed to its utmost during theweeks which followed. Fortunately for her, Grey knew what was neededbetter than she did herself, for while she would have torn down one daywhat had been done the day before, he moved more cautiously andjudiciously, so that the work really progressed rapidly, and some timein March John McPherson took possession of the two rooms which had beenexpressly designed for him, and which, as they were fitted up andfurnished with a reference to comfort rather than elegance, wereexceedingly homelike and pleasant, and suited the London gentlemanperfectly. 

"Here I shall live and die, blessing you with my last breath, " he saidto Bessie, as he moved into his new quarters and seated himself in anarm-chair by a window which overlooked the park and the Menai Bridge notvery far away. 

He was very fond of Bessie, whom he always called "dear child, " andonce, when she stood by him, he put his arm about her and kissing herfondly said, "I wish you could have been my daughter; it would have beenthe making of Neil. "

"No, no, oh, no, I couldn't, for there is Grey, whom I love a great dealthe best, " Bessie answered hurriedly, as she drew herself from him, halffeeling as if a wrong had been done her husband by even a hint that shecould ever have been the wife of another. 

Some time in April the Jerrolds went to London and met Neil at the GrandHotel, where he was staying a few days before leaving for India. 

Owing to Grey's tact, the interview was tolerably free fromembarrassment, though in Neil's heart there was a wild tumult ofconflicting emotions, as he stood with Bessie again face to face, andheard her well remembered voice. 

How lovely she was in her young, happy wifehood, with the tired, care-worn look gone from her sweet face, where only the light of perfectjoy and peace was shining. 

Grey, who, without being in the least a prig, was something of aconnoisseur in the details of dress, had delighted to adorn his bridewith everything which could enhance her beauty, and Bessie wore herplumage well, and there was a most striking contrast between the girl offifteen, who, in her washed linen gown and faded ribbons, had once stoodup in the park waving her handkerchief to Neil, and the young matron oftwenty, who, clad in a faultless dinner dress, with diamonds in her earsand on her fingers, went forward to meet her cousin. And Neil recognizedthe difference, and felt himself growing both hot and cold by turns ashe took the hand extended to him, and looked down upon the little lady, whom, but for her bright face and clear, innocent blue eyes, he wouldscarcely have known, so complete was the transformation. For a momentNeil felt as if he preferred the old linen, with its puffed sleeves andantiquated appearance, to the shimmer of the fawn-colored satin, withits facings of delicate blue, and the flush of the solitaires; but, ashe watched her moving about the elegant rooms and discharging her dutiesas hostess just as kindly and thoughtfully as she had done atStoneleigh, where the china was cracked and the silver was old, he saidto himself, that the transformation was such as it should be, and thatsatins and diamonds, though out of place on little Bessie McPherson, ofStoneleigh, were fitting adornments for Mrs. Grey Jerrold, of Boston. Hehad called her Bessie, as of old, and the repeating the dear name toher, and seeing the quick, responsive smile and questioning glance heknew so well, nearly unmanned him, and raised within him such a tempestof love, and remorse, and regret for what he had lost, that it requiredall his fortitude and will not to break down entirely, and to seemnatural and at ease during the dinner, to which Grey had invited him, and which was served in the private parlor. 

Half an hour or more after dinner a servant brought in a card with JackTrevellian's name upon it, and in a moment Jack was with them, shakinghands cordially with both Grey and Bessie, and appearing as much at hisease as he did in the park when he first saw the latter and told her whothe people were, while she, a shy country girl, looked on wonderinglyand made her quaint remarks. She did not look like a country girl now, and Jack's eyes followed her admiringly as she moved around the room, with a faint flush on her cheeks and a very little shyness perceptiblein her manner. Once, when standing near her, he put a hand on eithershoulder, and looking down into her face said to her:

"Do you know, Mrs. Jerrold how nearly my heart was broken when I thoughtyou were dead, and that for months the brightness of my life seemedblotted out. But it is all right now, and I am glad for you that you areGrey Jerrold's wife. You will be very happy with him. "

"Yes, yes, very happy, " Bessie answered, and then, scarcely knowing whyshe did so, she asked him abruptly for Flossie, and where she was. 

"At Trevellian Castle, " Jack replied, taking his hands from hershoulders and stepping back from her. "She is there with hergrandmother, a cantankerous old woman, who leads Flossie a sorry life, or would if she were not so light-hearted that trouble slips from hereasily. "

"No one could be happy with Mrs. Meredith, " Bessie said, "She is socross and unreasonable, and I pity poor Flossie, who is made forsunshine. I wish she would go to America with us. I should be so glad tohave her, and I mean to write and ask her. Do you think she would liketo go?"

"Ye-es--no--I don't know, " Jack answered, thoughtfully, while it seemedto Bessie that a shadow passed over his face, and he sat for a fewmoments in a brown study as if revolving something in his mind. Thenrousing up he said he must leave them, as he was due at a party at theWest End, and it was time he was making his toilet. "I shall be veryglad to see you at Trevellian Castle, " he said to Grey, "and if you willcome I will treat Mistress Bessie to the biggest fox-hunt she ever saw. I have no end of hounds and horses, and Flossie is an admirablehorsewoman. Why, she can take the highest fence and clear the widestditch in the county. Come and see her do it. Good-by. "

The next day Bessie wrote to Flossie, urging her to go with her to hernew home, and saying that she knew she would like America, and be veryhappy there. 

A week later and Neil started for India. He said good-by, at the hotel, to his father, who had come from Wales to see him; but Grey and Bessiewent with him to Southampton, where he was to embark. It was hard forNeil to seem cheerful and natural, but he succeeded very well until thelast, when he said good-by to Bessie. Then he broke down entirely, and, taking her in his arms, cried over her as a mother cries over the childshe is losing. 

"You have always been my good angel, Bessie, " he said, "and if I evermake anything of myself, it will all be owing to you. Good-by, and mayGod bless you and make you the happiest woman in the world, as youdeserve to be. I may never see you again, and I may. If I succeed, andreally think I am a man, and not a sneak as you have always known me, Ishall come to you sometime, and show you that there was something inNeil McPherson besides selfishness and conceit. Good-by. "

Releasing her, he turned to Grey, who, during this little scene, hadconsiderately turned his back upon them, and stood looking from thewindow as unconcernedly as if no tall, handsome cousin were kissing hiswife and crying over her. He had perfect faith in Bessie, and he pitiedNeil, and when the latter offered him his hand he took it, and pressingit warmly, said:

"Good by, and God bless you. As long as I live you will have a friend inme. I think you will succeed in India, but if you fail, try America. Youare sure to succeed there, if you only have the will, and I can help yousome, perhaps. Good-by. "

Neil made no answer, except to wring Grey's hand, and then he passed outfrom the old life to the new, with a pretty equal chance for failure orsuccess. 

This was in April, and the latter part of May the Jerrolds sailed forAmerica, but before they did so Bessie received a letter from Flossie, who was at her grandmother's home near Portrush, in Ireland, and whowrote as follows:

 "DEAR BESSIE: I ought to have written you long ago, and thanked you for your kind invitation to go with you to your American home. I should have liked it of all things in the world, for to see America and know what it is like, has been the dream of my life. You knew it is the paradise of my countrymen, the land into which Pat and Bridget entered when Johnny Bull came out. For various reasons, however, I must decline your invitation, and I am going to tell you all about it, but the beginning and the end lie so far apart that I must go way back to the time when, owing to some mistake, Jack Trevellian thought you died in Rome, and, because he thought so, he made a hermit of himself and wandered off into the Tyrol and the Bavarian Alps, where nobody spoke English, and where all he knew of the civilized world was what he gleaned from German papers. Nobody could communicate with him, for when he wrote to his steward, as he did sometimes, he never said where a letter could reach him, or where he was going next. 

 "At last, however, he concluded to go home, and got as far as Paris, where grandma and I happened to be staying. This was last August, and I was in the Rue de Rivoli one day, near Place Vendome, when, who should turn from a side street a few rods in advance of me but Jack himself, looking very rough and queer, with a long beard and a shocking hat. He did not see me, and was walking so fast that I had to run to overtake him, and even then I might not have captured him if I had not taken the handle of my umbrella and hooked it into his coat collar behind. This brought him to a stand-still and nearly threw him down. You ought to have seen the expression of his face, when he turned to see who was garroting him in broad daylight, for he thought it was that. 

 "'Flossie!' he exclaimed; 'what are you about, and what is this you have hitched to me?'

 "You see the umbrella was still hooked to his coat collar and flopping itself open. 

 "'If you will stand still I will show you what it is, ' I said, laughing till I cried at the comical appearance he presented, with the passers-by looking on wonderingly. 

 "I do not think he liked it very well. No one likes to be made ridiculous; but we were soon walking together very amicably, and he was telling me where he had been, and that he was now on his way to Trevellian Castle. 

 "'I have not seen you, Flossie, ' he said--and I wish you could have heard how sadly and low he spoke--'I have not seen you since Bessie died in Rome. You were with her, I believe?'

 "'Bessie died in Rome!' I exclaimed. 'What do you mean? Bessie did not die in Rome. She is not dead at all. She has gone to America in the same ship with Grey Jerrold. '

 "He stopped more suddenly than he did when I hooked him with the umbrella, and turning toward me, asked me if I was telling him the truth. Then we walked on as far as the Champs d'Elysees, where we sat down, and I told him everything which had happened at Rome, and after we left there, as far as I knew. But I doubt if he heard half I was saying. The only point he did seem to understand was that you were not dead, and that you had gone to America in the same ship with Mr. Jerrold. It was Neil who had told me that, and to him I referred Jack for any further information concerning you. But I do not think he stopped to get it, for he went straight through London to Trevellian Castle, where his presence was needed. And then, after a time he invited grandma and me to visit him there, because he was lonely without any ladies in the house. And we went, and I was perfectly happy; for, you know, it was once my home, and it is going to be--But wait till I tell you how Jack is changed, and how he used to go away by himself, and stay for hours alone, and come back with such a tired look on his face, and ask me to tell him again of Mr. Jerrold's kindness to you in Rome. Grandma said he was in love with you, and I think so, too. But wait till I tell you how he came home from London after seeing you there as Mrs. Jerrold, and how he raved about your beauty, and grace, and elegance, and the lovely dress you wore the night he called, blue he said he believed it was, and he wanted me to have one like it, as if what became your lilies and roses would suit my black face and turned-up Irish nose. But men know nothing of color, or anything else, at least Jack does not, as you will see when I tell you, if I ever come to that. 

 "Well, it was like this: You were married to Mr. Jerrold, and now I am going to tell you how your letter came, and Jack brought it to me, and stood staring at me while I read it, and then he said:

 "'She has asked you to go to America?'

 "'Yes, ' I answered, without looking up; and he continued:

 "'And you are going?

 "'I'd like to, ' I said, 'I would rather go to America than to any other place in all the world. '

 "'Rather than stay here with me?' he asked. 

 "Something in his voice made me look up, and then--and then--I do not believe I can tell you, except that I suddenly found out that I had been caring a great deal for Sir Jack Trevellian. Yes, a great deal; while he--well, I may as well tell you, for Sir Jack is not the man to say he loves a girl if he does not, and he told me he loved me, and wanted me for his wife; and I, well, I just covered up my face so he could not see it, and cried with all my might, I was so happy and glad. 

 "I know what transpired at Stoneleigh, and that I am not his first choice, but I am satisfied. How could he help loving you. I am sure I could not if I were a man, and so we are to be married in June, here, in grandma's house, where she brought me the minute she heard of the engagement. 

 "'It is highly improper for you to stay at Trevellian Castle a day, under the circumstances, ' she said, as if Sir Jack, as my promised husband, had been suddenly transformed into a monster, who would work me harm. 

 "I wish you could come to the wedding, and so does Jack. He is here, and has been for a week, and when I finish this letter we are going out to sit upon the rocks and see the tide come in and the moon rise, and shall naturally sentimentalize a little, and he will tell me how much he loves me, and call me his Irish lassie; he has done that a hundred times, but when he gets too spooney and demonstrative, I ask him if he loves me better than he did you, and that quiets him, for like your president, or king, George Somebody or other, he cannot tell a lie, and says:

 "'Not better, perhaps, but differently, just as you are different from her. She is fair, you know, and you are dark--' and so I infer that his love for you was white, and his love for me black. '_Ah, bien; je suis contente_. '

 "And now I _must_ close, for Jack has come in, hat in hand, and bids me hurry, as there is the funniest specimen of an American down on the Rocks that he ever saw. Her name is Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, and her daughter married an Irish lord who lives near Dublin. I have met so few Americans that I must really see this one. Jack says it is better than a play to hear her talk. So, good-by. From your loving FLOSSIE. "

 "P. S. --I have seen Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who knows you, and Grey, and all his relations back to the flood. Is she a fair specimen of Americans? But of course not; even I know better than that. Mr. Jerrold is not at all like her--neither, I fancy, are his people. Mrs. Browne has recently arrived, and is to spend the summer with her daughter. Lady Hardy, who is not with her. She talks so funny, and her slang is so original, and her grammar so droll, that I find her charming, and if many of the Americans are like her, you are to be congratulated, as you can never lack variety. Once more, good-by, FLORENCE MEREDITH. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

HOME AGAIN. 

Great were the rejoicings both in Boston and Allington over the returnof the travelers, and great the surprise of all, when it was known thatBessie had come back an heiress to no mean fortune. But just who thegreat uncle was from whom her money had come to her, none, except Grey'sfather and Mr. Sanford ever knew, and if they had, few would haveremembered the peddler of more than forty years ago whose disappearancehad caused no remark, and awakened no suspicion. Could Bessie have hadher way she would have told the story fearlessly and moved the bones ofher kinsman to another resting-place, but Grey and Mr. Sanford overruledher, both for Hannah's sake and for the sake of Grey's father, who couldnot have borne the talk it would have created. 

Mr. Jerrold had never been the same since that night when he heard hisfather's confession, and he was fast growing into a morbid, misanthropicman, whom his wife, not without reason, feared would one day be crazy. 

Every year he shrank more and more from meeting his fellowmen, and atlast he abandoned business altogether, and remained mostly at home in aroom which he called his office, and where he saw only those he wasobliged to see. The money lying in his bank in Hannah's name, but whichhe knew was intended for some one else, and the shares in the mines andquarries of Wales, troubled him greatly, for somewhere in the worldthere were people to whom they belonged, and he sometimes felt that ifhe and his sister were guiltless of their father's crime, they were, atleast, thieves and robbers, because of the silence upon which he himselfhad insisted. More than once recently he had resolved to tell Grey, andlet him decide the matter, and it was upon this very thing he wasbrooding, on the morning when his son was announced. Grey had reachedAllington the previous day, and found his mother there waiting toreceive him. 

"I wanted your father to come with me, but he would not. He dislikesAllington worse than I do, and mopes all day in his room just as hisfather did. I wonder if there is any insanity in the family, " she saidto Grey, who answered, cheerily:

"Not a bit of it, mother; and if there is Bessie's advent among us willexorcise the demon. I am going to Boston to-morrow to see father, andshall bring him back with me a different man entirely. "

He found his father in his room, moping, as his mother had said, and wasstruck with the change in him, even during the few months he had beenaway. He stooped more than ever, and there was in his whole appearancean air of weakness and brokenness of spirit pitiable to see in a man whohad once been so proud and strong. 

"Grey, my boy, how are you? I am glad to see you, very glad, " he said, as his son entered the room; and when Grey sat down by him, and takinghis thin, white hand, pressed it gently and said, "Poor father, you arenot well, are you?" he did a most astonishing thing. He laid his head onhis son's arm and sobbed aloud:

"No, Grey, I am sick--in mind, not in body--and I have been sickthese--how old are you, Grey?"

"Twenty-six, my next birthday, " Grey replied, and he continued:

"Yes, you were fourteen when your grandfather died. Twelve years ago, and for twelve years I have been sick--very sick. Oh, Grey, if I daredto tell you, and ask you what to do!"

"You need not tell me, " Grey said to him. "I know what you mean, andhave known it ever since grandpa died, for I was there that night, unknown to you or any one; was in the kitchen by the stove, and heardwhat grandpa told you. Don't you remember how sick I was after it? Well, that was what ailed me. Aunt Hannah knows. I told her, and together wehave tried to find his heirs, and, father, we _have_ found them, or_her_, for there is but one direct heir of his sister Elizabeth, andthat--and that--is Bessie, my wife. Oh, father, look up, bear up; youmust not faint, " Grey continued in alarm, as he felt his father pressheavily against him, and saw the ghastly pallor on his face. 

"Bessie--your wife--the heir! And does she know what we do?" Mr. Jerrold gasped, and Grey replied:

"Yes, everything--and knew it before I married her. Listen, and I willtell you all. "

Ringing the bell, Grey bade the servant who appeared bring a glass ofwine, which he made his father swallow, and then, supporting him withhis arm, he told him everything, from the night when he had knelt uponthe snow in the woods and asked to be forgiven for his grandfather'ssin, down to the present time. 

"And you knew it all these years when I was trying to hide it from you, "Mr. Jerrold said; "and you have worked while I have only sat still andbrooded; and you have found the heir in Bessie. Are you sure it isBessie? Oh, Grey! God bless you, my boy! You do not know what a load ofcare you have taken from me, for, though my father's sin is none theless, it does not hurt me as much, and I feel as if I could forgive himall. I do not believe he was so much in fault. The peddler struck himfirst, you know. I must see Hannah, and hear the story again. What timedo you return to Allington?"

Grey told him, and he continued:

"I shall go with you--first to see Hannah, and then to Grey's Park inthe evening. Poor Hannah! she has had such a lonely life!"

Three hours later and Mr. Jerrold was driven to the house in thepasture-land, in the phaeton which Lucy had sent to the station to meetGrey, who walked to Grey's Park, where Bessie greeted him as rapturouslyas if weeks instead of hours had passed since she saw him. 

Mr. Jerrold had expected to find his sister alone, and was a littledisappointed to see the Rev. Mr. Sanford there, cozily taking tea in thepleasant south room, where the morning-glories were trained across thewindows, and the early June roses were looking in. 

"Oh, Burton, how glad I am to see you! and how well you are looking!"Hannah cried, as she went forward to meet her brother, in whom she saw achange, as if he had suddenly grown young. 

And he did feel younger and happier than he had in years; and as soon asMr. Sanford took his leave, which he did immediately after tea, Burtonplunged at once into the principal object of his visit. 

"I have come, " he said, "to open the doors and windows of that ghostlyroom, and let in the light and air of Heaven. Grey has told meeverything, and I feel like a new man. Even the--the--the thing fatherdid, does not seem to me quite as it did. Would you mind telling meagain the particulars of the quarrel?--how it commenced, I mean--nothingmore. "

He had risen as he was talking, and going into the bedroom, threw backthe heavy curtains, and opening the windows and blinds, sat down in hisfather's chair, while Hannah stood beside him and told him how both menhad drank until their reason was clouded, and how the peddler had calledher father a cheat and a liar, and struck him first, and how--But hereher brother stopped her, and said:

"That will do. I am satisfied that what father did was done inself-defense, and so the world would have said, and acquitted him, too, I am sure. I almost wish you had told at the time. We should have livedit down, though I might never have married Geraldine and never have hadGrey. No, sister, you did right, and having kept it so long, we mustkeep it still. No use to unearth it now, though I would give half mylife and every dollar I own--yes, I'd give everything except my boyGrey, to know it had never been there, " and he pointed to the corner ofthe room, where the bed was still standing, and under which was thehidden grave. 

"Bessie is willing we should tell, and if I thought we ought, I shouldbe willing, too, " Hannah said, but her brother shook his head. 

"It can do no good to any one, so let the poor man rest in peace. Youhave found his heirs and restitution can be made; the money is safe inthe bank. "

"And now I must go, for Geraldine is waiting for me, " Burton said, adding, as be stood a moment by the door: "I feel twenty years youngerthan I did, and you, Hannah--why, you look thirty years younger, and arereally a handsome woman for your age. By the way, shall you live here, or with Grey?"

"I don't know yet where I shall live, " Hannah replied, and her cheekswere scarlet as she said good-by and watched him as he drove away. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

JOEL ROGERS' MONUMENT. 

It was a very merry party which met next day at the farm-house, and Mr. Jerrold was the merriest of them all, though he could not understandexactly why he was so light-hearted and glad. The fact that Joel Rogersdied by his father's hand remained the same, but it did not now affecthim as it once had done. Bessie seemed to have taken all the shame andpain away. He was very fond of her, always calling her daughter when headdressed her, and when, after dinner was over, she came and sat at hisside, and laying her hand on his, said to him, "Father, there issomething I very much wish to do, and I want your consent, " he answered, unhesitatingly: "You shall have it, no matter what you ask. "

"Thanks, " Bessie said, with a triumphant look at Grey, who was standingnear. "I thought you would not oppose me, even if Grey did. You see, Ihave so much money that it burns my fingers, and I think I must havelived in America long enough to have caught your fever for change, orelse the smell of plaster and paint at Stoneleigh awakened in me adesire for more, for, what I wish to do is to tear down this old houseand build another one, where we can spend our summers. This house, though very nice and comfortable, is falling to pieces, and will tumbledown in some high wind. The plastering is off in two of the rooms upstairs, and a part of the roof has fallen in over the bedroom andwood-shed. Aunt Hannah says the snow was suffered to lie there lastwinter while she was with us in Wales. So you see we must do something, and I have the plan of such a pretty place, which I want to callStoneleigh Cottage after my old home. Your room and Aunt Hannah's are tobe the pleasantest of all, with a bow-window and fire-place in both, andthere is to be a fire-place in the hall, which is to be finished in oak, with a wide staircase and a tall clock on the landing, and the windowsare to have little colored panes of glass at the top, and the floors areto be inlaid and waxed, with rugs of matting instead of carpets, as wewant everything cool for summer, and we will have a big piazza where wecan have tea or breakfast, or even a dance, if we like. Won't that benice?"

Bessie had talked very rapidly, with a feeling that she did not have thesympathy of her hearers. She had conceived the idea of pulling down theold house and building a new one while she was in Wales, alleging toherself as one reason that both Hannah and Grey would enjoy themselvesbetter under a roof which did not cover a grave, while the other reasonwas not then quite clear enough in her own mind to be put into words, but she had said nothing to any one until the morning of the day whenshe broached the subject to his father. Together with Grey, she had goneover the old house, which, from having been shut up so long, seemed moredilapidated than ever. But Grey opposed her plan, and Hannah opposed it, while Mr. Jerrold grew hot and cold by turns, as he thought what mightpossibly be brought to light if the house were removed and anyexcavations made, as there might be. As if divining what was in hismind, Bessie continued:

"I do not mean to have the new house just where this one stands, butfarther to the right. We can fill up the cellar with the debris, andhave loads of earth brought in and make a kind of plateau, with itterrace all around it. We can make that plateau so lovely with shrubs, and flowers, and grass. I once saw one like what I have in mind, at acountry place in England, and in one corner, under a willow tree, was alittle grave; the only son of the house had been buried there, and Ithought it so lovely to have a monument of flowers, and trees andsinging birds. "

Locking into the blue eyes fixed so earnestly upon him, Mr. Jerrold readwhat she meant, and said to her:

"You shall do as you like; if Hannah does not object. "

Hannah, too, began to get a glimpse of the truth, and so did Grey, andwhen she said, "You are all willing--it is settled?" they answered yes, and Grey went with her to choose the site for the new house, which inher impetuosity, she declared should be commenced at once saying shewould remain in Allington during the summer and superintend it herself. 

It was Bessie who choose the site, to the right of the old building andnear a great flat rock which she said she meant to have in a corner ofthe yard, as it would be such a nice play-house for children. 

"Yes, a very nice play-house for children, " Grey said, winding his armsaround her and kissing her blushing cheek, and then they sat down uponthe rock and talked of and planned the house, and Bessie told him allthat was in her mind in regard to the plateau, which she meant to makeas beautiful as a garden, so that no one would ever dream it held agrave. 

"I ought to do something for him, " she said; "and as my grandmother wasfond of flowers, and grass, and singing birds, so I am sure was he, andhe shall have them in abundance, and maybe he will know that hissister's granddaughter is doing it for him, and be glad. "

In the light of this new idea, Mr. Jerrold, Hannah and Grey enteredheart and soul into Bessie's project, and within a week a plan for thecottage had been drawn, and a contract made with the builders who wereto commence work at once. Neither Hannah nor Bessie were present whenthe walls of the main building went crashing down into the cellar theywere to fill, but when it came to the bed-room and wood-shed, Hannah, Bessie, Grey and his father sat under a tree at a little distance, watching nervously while the men took down timber after timber, untilthe spot was clear, and the ground as smooth as it usually is under afloor where there is no cellar. 

"Oh, " Bessie said, with a sigh of relief, as she turned to Grey, who wassitting next to her, but her eye went past him to Hannah, who, with herhands clasped tightly together, sat as rigid as a block of marble, gazing so intently at the spot which held so much horror for her thatshe did not at first know when Bessie stole softly to her side; but whenthe young girl wound her arm around her neck, and kissing her softly, said: "They have let him into the light, and I am so glad; it does notseem now like a hidden grave, " the tension on her nerves gave way, andshe burst into a paroxysm of tears, the very last she ever shed overthat hidden grave. For, like Bessie, she felt better, now that thesunlight was falling upon it, and by and by, when everything wasaccomplished, and Bessie had carried out her idea, she felt that thedead man's monument would be worthy of a far nobler personage than hewho slept beneath it. 

Yielding to Bessie's earnest solicitations Grey decided to remain withher in Allington during the summer and superintend in person the work, which, owing to good management and the great number of men employed, went on so rapidly that by the last of October everything was doneexcept the furnishing, which was to be put off until Spring, for beforethe autumn came it was known that Hannah would never occupy the housesave as she went there a visitor. The words spoken to her many yearsbefore by the Rev. Charles Sanford had been repeated, and this time heranswer had been:

"Yes, Charlie, if you do not think it too ridiculous for people as oldas we are to marry. Why, I am almost sixty. "

"But just as dear and young to me as if you were sixteen, " was the replyof the Rev. Charles, who was quite as much in love as he had been nearlyforty years before, when he asked Hannah Jerrold to be his wife. 

Of course after it was settled he went straight to Martha's grave andstaid there all the afternoon, and did a little gardening around it, andtrained the rose-bush around the head-stone, and picking a half openblossom, put it in his button-hole and silently apostrophized the deadwoman at his feet, telling her that though he was about to bring a newmistress to the home where she had reigned supreme, he should not forgether, and should so far as was consistent, see that all her ideas werecarried out, especially as far as his health was concerned. Then bewalked thoughtfully away, whispering to himself;

"Martha was a very good and excellent woman, but I loved Hanny first, and God forgive me if it is wrong to say it, I think I love her thebest. "

Then he went and told Miss McPherson, who called him and Hannah fools, to think of marrying at their time of life, but said she was satisfiedif they were. Then he told Lucy Grey, who congratulated him warmly andwas sure he would be happy. Then he told Bessie, who cried at firstbecause her Aunt Hannah was not to live with her, and then entered heartand soul into the affair and became as much interested in the weddingand the wedding outfit as if the bride-elect had been a young girl inher teens instead or an elderly woman in her fifties. Then he told hissenior warden, who, having himself been married three times, had nothingto say, but hurried home with the news, which was all over Allington bythe next day, and was received differently, according to the differentnatures of the receivers. Some were very glad, and predicted that therector would be far happier with Hannah than he had been with Martha, while others wondered what that worthy woman would say if she knew thatanother was to fill her place, and _all_ calculated the ages of therespective parties, making _him_ out younger than he was and _her_ agreat deal older. But neither he nor she ever knew what was said, andthey would not have cared if they had, for both were supremely happy andthankful for the peace and blessedness which had crowned their laterlife. Fifty and even sixty is not so very old, at least to those whohave reached it, and Hannah neither looked nor felt old when in herbecoming traveling dress of seal brown she stood up in the parlors ofher brother's house on Beacon street and was made Mrs. Charles Sanford. 

This was early in February, and six weeks before, on Christmas Eve, there had come to that same house on Beacon street a little black-eyed, black-haired boy, as unlike either Bessie or Grey as a baby well couldbe. 

"He is not like any one I have ever seen of your family, " the old nursesaid, when she brought the sturdy fellow to Bessie, who, the moment shelooked at him exclaimed:

"Why, Grey, he is exactly like Neil; his eyes, his hair, his expression, and Neil will be so glad. We must have his picture taken at once andsent to Neil, with a lock of his hair. "

Grey thought it doubtful if Neil would be quite as enthusiastic overBessie's baby as she seemed to think, but when a few hours later shedrew his face down to hers and whispered to him:

"We will call baby Neil McPherson, won't we?" he fondly kissed thelittle mother, and answered hesitatingly:

"Yes, darling, we will call our baby Neil McPherson, if you like. "

And so with a birth, a christening, and a wedding the winter passedrapidly at No. ---- Beacon street, and by the first of May Bessie wasagain in Allington, armed and equipped for settling Stoneleigh Cottage, and giving the finishing touches to the plateau, which with the advanceof summer, began to show marks of great beauty, and to attract generalattention. Bessie's idea of raising it two feet above the level of theground had been carried out, and the sods which had been placed upon it, and the terrace around it in the autumn, were fresh and green as velvetin the early spring, while of the roses, and lilies, and floweringshrubs which had been planted with so much care, not one had died, andmany of them blossomed as freely as plants of older growth. The plateauwas Bessie's especial pride and care, particularly that corner of itover which the bedroom once stood. Here she had an immense bed ofpansies, heart-shaped and perfect in outline, and in the center a cross, where only white daisies were growing. 

"Grandmother liked pansies and daisies the best, and I thought, perhaps, he did, too; and then mother's name was Daisy, you know, " she said toHannah, who rightly guessed that this bank of flowers was Bessie's _InMemoriam_, not only to her uncle, but to her mother as well. 

And very beautiful the heart-shaped bed of human-faced pansies, with thedaisy cross in the center, looked all the summer long, and many admiredand commented upon it, but only five persons ever knew that the whitecross marked a grave. 

CHAPTER XX. 

After Five Years. 

 "Noiselessly as I be spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves, "

So noiselessly and quickly have the years come and gone since we firstsaw our heroine, Bessie, a little girl on the sands of Aberystwyth, andnow we present her to our readers for the last time, a sweet-faced, lovely matron of twenty-six, who, with her husband, was waiting at theAllington station, one bright June afternoon, for the incoming trainfrom New York. Just behind the station, where the horses would not bestartled by the engine, stood the family carriage, a large, roomyvehicle, bought for comfort rather than show, and which seemed to befull of children, though in reality there were only three. First, Neil, the boy of five years and a half, who, with his dark eyes and hair, andbright olive complexion, was the very image of the Neil for whom he wasnamed, and who was a most lovable and affectionate child. 

Next to Neil was the three-year old Robin, with blue eyes and goldenhair, like the blind Robin for whom he was named, and next was the girlbaby, who came nearly a year and a half ago, and to whom Grey said, whenhe first took her in his arms:

"I thank God for giving you to me my little daughter, and I am sure youlook just as your mother did when she first opened her eyes atStoneleigh. Yes, I am very glad for you, little Bessie McPherson. "

And so that was the name they gave the baby with lustrous blue eyes andwavy hair, and the same sweet, patient expression about the mouth asthere was about the mouth of the young girl-mother, whom Neil and Robincalled "Bessie mamma, " while to their sister they gave the name of "BabyBessie. "

And Baby Bessie was in the roomy carriage, sitting on Jenny's lap, andplaying peek-a-boo with Robin, while Neil stood on the opposite seatengaged in a hot altercation with another boy about his own age, who, dressed in deep black, which gave him a peculiar look, was seated at alittle distance in a most elegant carriage, with servants in livery, andwho, when asked by some one standing near what his name was, hadanswered:

"I am Lord Rossiter Hardy, and I am waiting for my mother, who is comingfrom New York, and who is going to bring me a bicycle. "

Something in the boy's tone of superiority irritated Neil, who wasthoroughly democratic, and he called out:

"Phoo!--a _lord_--why you are nobody but Ross Hardy! and yourgrandmother--"

"Hush, Neil, or I'll tell your father; and look where you are standin', with your dirthy fate on the cushions. Come down directly, or I'll beafther helpin' ye!" said Jennie; whereupon Neil turned his attention toher, and a spirited battle ensued, in which Robin also took part, andwhich was only brought to an end by the sound of the train in thedistance. 

"There's the whistle! Out with ye, or ye'll not be in time to grate yeruncle!" Jennie cried; and with a bound Neil was upon the ground, andrushing through the station, joined his mother, who with Grey waslooking anxiously at the few passengers alighting from the train. 

First came Lady Augusta Hardy, habited in the deepest of crape. PoorTeddie had died a few months before, and with her little son Rossiter, who was now the heir of Hardy Manor, she was spending the summer athome, and with her foreign airs and liveried servants brought fromDublin was creating quite a sensation to Allington. With a bow to theJerrolds, who were among the few she condescended to notice, she passedon to where her coachman and footman waited for her, while Bessie ranhastily down the platform towards a tall, sickly looking man, who almosttottered as he walked, while a sudden pallor about his lips told howweak he was. 

"Oh, Neil, I am so glad--and so sorry, too. I did not think you werelike this, " Bessie cried, as she took both his hands in hers, and, standing on tiptoe, kissed the quivering lips, which could not for amoment speak to her "You are very tired, " she continued, as Grey cameup and, after greeting the stranger cordially, offered him his arm. 

"You are very tired from the voyage and the journey here, it is so hotand dusty; but you will rest now, our house is so cool and the air hereso pure. There, let me help you, too. "

And in her eagerness, Bessie passed her arm through Neil's, or ratherput it around him, and thus supported, the sick man went slowly to theopen carriage, where Jennie had the children with the exception oflittle Neil, who, finding himself overlooked, was cultivating thestation master and telling him that the dark-looking man was his UncleNeil from India, and that they were to have ice cream for dinner inhonor of his arrival, and he was to go to the table and have two saucersfull. 

In her anxiety for her cousin, Bessie had forgotten her children, but atthe sight of them she exclaimed:

"Oh, Neil, look! Here are two of my babies, Robin and Bessie, and theboy over there throwing stones, is your namesake. I hope they will nottrouble you--Robin and Bessie, I mean--for you and I are to go in thecarriage with them, and Grey will take little Neil in the phaeton. "

"Yes, thank you, " Neil replied, too sick and tired to care for anythingjust then; and leaning back in the carriage, he closed his eyes wearily, and did not open them again until they were more than half way toStoneleigh Cottage. 

Then Robin, who had been regarding the stranger curiously, laid hislittle dimpled hand on the thin, wasted one, and said:

"Is you s'eep?"

With a start Neil's eyes unclosed, and he looked for the first time onBessie's children, with such a pain in his heart as he had hoped hemight never feel again. Over and over he had said to himself that sheshould never know how the very thought of them hurt and almost maddenedhim, and how, in his foolish anger, he had burned the lock of hair whichshe had sent to him from the head of her first-born. And he said it tohimself again, now that he was face to face with the little ones, andthough every nerve in his body thrilled at the touch of the soft hand onhis, he tried to smile, and said:

"No, I am not asleep; I am only tired. What is your name, my littleman?"

"Wobin; tree years old. And this is Baby Bessie, and this is Bessiemamma, " was the prompt reply; and Neil rejoined:

"Yes, I knew your mamma when she was a little girl no bigger than you, and her hands felt just as yours feel. "

"I p'ays for you every night when mamma puts me to bed. I say, 'Godbless Uncle Neil, '" the child continued. 

Then two great tears gathered in the sick man's eyes, but he brushedthem away quickly, while Bessie took the boy in her lap and kept himfrom talking any more. 

By this time they were in the road which led from the highway to thehouse. This had formerly been little more than a lane, but underBessie's supervision it had been transformed into a broad avenue, bordered with trees and footpaths on either side, and seats beneath thetrees, which, though young, had grown rapidly, and already cast coolshadows upon the grass. 

"This is the place; that is Stoneleigh Cottage, " Bessie said, pointingto the house where Grey was waiting for them, with the boy Neil at hisside. 

"And this is Neil, my eldest; we think he is like you, " Bessiecontinued, as she alighted from the carriage and presented the child toher cousin. 

"Phoo! I ain't a bit like him, " was the boy's mental comment, whileNeil, the elder said, quickly:

"Heaven forbid that he should be like me. "

They took him to his room at once--the pleasant south room, whosewindows overlooked the plateau, now all ablaze with flowers. 

"You must lie down and rest till dinner. I ordered it at seven to-night, I will send you up some tea at once. I hope you will be comfortable andask for what you want, " Bessie said, as she flitted about the room, anxious to make her guest feel at home. 

He was very tired, and sank down upon the inviting looking lounge, saying as he did so:

"Oh, Bessie, you do not know how glad I am to be here with you and Grey;nor yet how it affects me. I am not always as bad as this. I shall bebetter by and by. God bless you. "

He drew her face down to his and kissed it fervently; then she wentsoftly out and left him there alone. 

Poor Neil! he was greatly to be pitied. His life in India had been afailure from first to last. He had no talent for business, and as hethoroughly disliked the business he was in, it was not strange that hewas dismissed by his employers within six months after his arrival inCalcutta. Then he tried something else, and still something else, andwas just beginning to feel some interest in his work and to hope forsuccess, when a malarial fever seized upon him and reduced him to a merewreck of his former self. 

Then it was that his father died suddenly at Stoneleigh, and as itseemed desirable that some one should attend to what little there wasleft to him, Neil returned to England, going first to Wales and then toLondon, where he took the very lodgings which Bessie had occupied yearsbefore, and at which he had rebelled as dingy and second-class. Howsorry he was now that he had wounded Bessie so unnecessarily, and howwell he understood from actual experience the poverty which could onlyafford such apartments as Mrs. Buncher's! Except the little his fatherhad left him he had scarcely a shilling in the world, and the futurelooked very dreary and desolate on that first evening in April, when theonce fashionable and fastidious Neil McPherson took possession of hischeerless rooms on Abingdon Road, and threw himself down upon thehair-cloth sofa with an ache in his head and an ache in his heart as hethought of all the past, and remembered the sweet-faced girl who hadonce been there, and who had left there an atmosphere of peace andquiet, which reconciled him at last to his surroundings. 

Of all his large circle of acquaintance in London, there was not onewhom he cared to meet, and so he staid mostly in his room, only goingout at unfashionable hours for a stroll in Kensington Gardens, andoccasionally to the park, where he always sat down in the place whereBessie had sat in her faded linen when he drove by with Blanche. Onceonly he joined the crowd on Saturday afternoon, and saw the _elite_ goby, the princess with her children, the dukes and duchesses, the lordsand ladies, and lastly Lady Blanche Paxton, who rode alone in her glory. 

The man, who was almost an imbecile when she married him, was an idiotnow, and had a keeper to look after him, and on Blanche's face there wasan expression of _ennui_ and discontent which told Neil that she wasscarcely happier than himself, even with her hundreds of thousands andher home on Grosvenor Square. 

It was about this time that Neil received a most cordial letter fromGrey and Bessie, urging him to spend the summer with them in Allington, and to stay as much longer as he pleased. 

"Always, if you will, for our home is yours, " Bessie wrote; and after asevere conflict with his love and his pride, Neil accepted theinvitation, and left England with a feeling that he might never see itagain. 

The voyage was a rough one, and as he was sick all the way, he hadscarcely strength to stand when he reached Allington, and onlyexcitement and sheer will kept him up until he found himself in thecool, pretty room which had been prepared for him, and which it seemedto him he could never leave again. 

Just as the twilight was beginning to fall, Miss Betsey drove up theavenue, stiff, straight, and severe, in her best black silk and whiteIndia shawl, which she only wore on rare occasions. Why she wore themnow, she hardly knew, and she had hesitated a little before deciding todo so. 

"I do not want the dude to think me a scarecrow, " she said to herself;"though who cares what he thinks? I did not favor his coming, and theyknow it. I told them they would have him on their hands for life, andBessie actually said they might have a worse thing. I don't know aboutthat, but I do know he will not sit down upon _me_. "

From this it will be seen that Miss Betsey's attitude toward the youngman was anything but friendly, as she started to make her first callupon him. 

"Didn't come down to dinner? I don't like that. He will be having allhis meals in his room, first you will know. Better begin as you can holdout, " she said, sharply, and Bessie replied, with tears in her eyes:

"Oh, auntie, don't be so hard upon poor Neil. You do not know how weak, and sick, and changed he is. Just think of his lodging with Mrs. Buncherin London, and coming out as a second-class passenger. "

"Did he do that?" Miss Betsey asked, quickly, while the lines about hermouth softened as she went up stairs to meet the _dude_, who looked likeanything but a dude as he rose to greet her, in his shabby clothes, which, nevertheless, were worn with a certain grace which made youforget their shabbiness, while his manner, though a little constrained, had in it that air of good breeding and courtesy inseparable from Neil. 

Miss Betsey had expected to see him thin and worn, but she was notprepared for the white, wasted face, which turned so wistfully to her, or for the expression of the dark eyes so like her brother Hugh, Archie's father. Hugh had been her favorite brother, the one nearest herage, with whom she had played and romped in the old garden atStoneleigh. He had been with her at Monte Carlo when her lover wasbrought to her dead, and in the frightened face which had looked at herthen there was the same look which she saw now in Neil, as he cameslowly forward. She had expected a dandy, with enough of invalidismabout him to make him interesting to himself at least; but she saw abroken, sorry young man, as far removed from dandyism as it was possiblefor Neil to be, and she felt herself melting at once. 

He was her own flesh and blood, nearer to her even than Bessie; he wassick; he was subdued; he had crossed as a second-class passenger, andthis went further toward reconciling her to him than anything he couldhave done. 

"Why Neil, my boy, " she said, as she took both his hands, "I am sorry tosee you so weak. Sit down; don't try to stand; or rather, lie down, andI will sit beside you. "

She arranged his pillows and made him lie down again, he protesting thewhile, and saying, with a faint smile:

"It hardly seems right for a great hulking fellow like me to be lyinghere, but I am very tired and weak, " and in proof thereof theperspiration came out in great drops upon his forehead and hands, andabout his pallid lips. 

Miss Betsey did not talk long with him that night, but when she lefthim she promised to come again next day and bring him some wine, whichshe had made herself, and which was sure to do him good. 

"Sleep well to-night, and you will be better to-morrow, " she said. 

But Neil did not sleep well, and he was not better on the morrow, andfor many days he kept his room, seeming to take little interest inanything around him, except Bessie. At sight of her he always brightenedand made an effort to be cheerful and to talk, but nothing she could doavailed to arouse him from his state of apathy. 

"All life and hope have gone out of me, " he said to her one day, "and Isometimes wonder what has become of that finefied swell I used to knowas Neil McPherson. I never felt this more, I think, than the day Ihesitated before paying my penny for a chair in the park because I didnot know as I could afford it. That was the time I saw Blanche go by inher grand carriage, where I might have sat, I suppose; but I preferredmy hired chair, and sent no regret after her and her ten thousand ayear. I saw Jack, too, that day; did I tell you? He stumbled upon me, and I think would have offered me money if he had dared. I am glad hedid not. He was staying in London, at Langham's, and Flossie was withhim. I did not see her, but he told me of her, and of his twin boys, Jack and Giles, whom Flossie calls 'Jack and Gill. ' Roguish little bearshe said they were, with all their mother's Irish in them, even to herbrogue. He has grown stout with years, and seemed very happy, as hedeserves to be. Everybody is happy, but myself; everybody of some use, while I am a mere leech, a sponge, a nonenitity in everybody's way, andI often wish I were dead. Nobody would miss me. Don't interrupt me, please, " he continued, as he saw Bessie about to speak. "Don't interruptme, and do not misunderstand me. I know you and Grey would be sorry justat first, but you have each other, and you have your children. You couldnot miss me long, or be sorry except for my wasted life. No, Bessie. Iwould far rather die, and I think I shall. "

This was Neil's state of mind, and nothing could rouse him from it untilone day in August when Miss Betsey drove over to Stoneleigh Cottage, and went up to his room, where he sat as usual by the window looking outupon the plateau, where Bessie's children were frolicking with theirnurse. Of late he had evinced some interest in the children, and once ortwice had had them in his room, and had held Baby Bessie on his knee andkissed her fat hands, and the boy Neil, who saw everything, had said tohis mother, in speaking of it:

"He looked as if he wanted to cry, when sister patted his face and said'I love oo, ' and when I asked him if he didn't wish she was his baby, helooked so white, and said, 'Yes, Neil; will you give her to me?'

"I told him 'No, sir-ee, I'd give him my ball, and velocipede, andjackknife, but not baby. '"

This was the day before Miss Betsey came, straight and prim as usual, but with a different look on her face and tone in her voice fromanything Neil had known, as she asked him how he was feeling, and them, sitting down beside him, began abruptly:

"I say, Neil, why, don't you rouse yourself? I've been talking to thedoctor, and he says you have no particular disease, except that you seemdiscouraged and hopeless, and have made up your mind that you must die. "

"Yes, auntie, that is just it; hopeless and discouraged, and want todie--oh, so badly!" Neil replied, as he leaned back in his chair. "Whatuse for me to live? Who wants me?"

"_I do!_"

The words rang sharply through the room, and Neil started as if a pistolhad been fired at him. 

"You want me? You!" he said, staring blankly at her as she went onrapidly:

"Yes, I want you, and have come to tell you so. I am an odd old woman, hard to be moved, but I am not quite calloused yet. I did not like you, years ago, when those letters passed between us and you would not acceptmy offer because you thought it degrading. I am glad now you did not, for if you had, Bessie would not have been Grey's wife, but yours; andyou are not fit to be her husband, or in fact anybody's. You are onlyfit to live with _me_, and see to my business. I am cheated at everyturn, and I need somebody who is honest to look after my rents andinvestments. You can do this. It is not hard, and will pay in the end. Iam old and lonesome, and want somebody to speak to besides thecat--somebody to sit at table and say good-morning to me. In short, Iwant you for my son, or grandson, if you like that better. I shall bequeer, and cranky, and hard to get along with at times, but I shall meanwell always. I shall give you a thousand dollars a year to manage myaffairs, and when I die I shall divide with you and Bessie. I have madea new will to that effect this very morning, so you see I am in earnest. What do you say?"

He said nothing at first, but cried like a child, while Miss Betseycried, too, a little, and blew her nose loudly, and told him not to be afool, but to go outdoors on the plateau, where the children were, andsit there in the shade, and try to get some strength, for she wanted himvery soon. 

Then she went away, and he dragged himself out to the plateau, and letNeil and Robin play that he was a balky horse who would not go, notwithstanding their shouts and blows with dandelions and blades ofgrass, while Baby Bessie pelted him with daisies from the white crossand pansies from the border. 

From that day on, Neil's improvement was rapid, and when, on the lastday of September, the Jerrolds returned to their house in Boston, theyleft him domesticated with Miss Betsey, and to all appearance happy andcontented. He would never be very strong again, for the malariacontracted in India had undermined his constitution; but he was able todo all his aunt required of him, even to overseeing at times the handsin the cotton-mill, an office he had once spurned with contempt, andfrom which he undoubtedly shrank a little, although he never made a signto that effect. 

A year or more after his arrival in America he wrote to Jack Trevellianas follows:

 "I hardly think you would know the once fastidious Neil McPherson, if you could see him now in a noisy cotton-mill, screaming at the top of his voice to the stupid operatives, and button-holed confidentially by the Brother Jonathans, who address him as 'Square, and speak of his aunt as the 'old woman. ' But it is astonishing how soon one gets accustomed to things, and I really am very happy, especially when scouting the country on my beautiful bay, a present from my aunt, who gave it to me on condition that I would take care of it myself. Think of me in overalls and knit jacket, currying a horse and bedding him down, for I do all that; in fact, I do everything, even to splitting the kindlings when the chore-boy (that's what they call him here) does not come. 

 "Ah, well; I have learned many things in this land of democracy, and am content; though in my heart I believe I still have a hankering after old aristocratic England, provided I could be one of the aristocrats. I suppose you know that poor Blanche died last winter of fever in Naples, but perhaps you do not know that she left me ten thousand pounds! Fifty thousand dollars they count that in America, and I actually do not know what to do with it. My aunt gives me a thousand a year for spending money, and when she dies, I shall have, as nearly as I can estimate it, half a million, which in this country makes a rich man. If Bessie had not provided for old Anthony and Dorothy, I should care for them; but as she has, I believe I shall use the interest of Blanche's money in paying for scholarships in India, and China, and Japan, and Greece, and I'll call them the Blanche Trevellian and the Bessie McPherson scholarships. That will please Bessie, for she is great on missions, both at home and abroad, and her kitchen is a regular soup-house in the winter, for every beggar in Boston knows Mrs. Grey Jerrold. Jack, you don't know what a lovely woman Bessie is. Sweeter and prettier even than when she was a girl and you and I were both in love with her. And Grey--well, you ought to see how he worships her! Why, she is never within his reach that he does not put his hands upon her, and if he thinks no one is looking on he always kisses her, and by Jove, she kisses him back as if she liked it! And I--well, I bear it now with a good deal of equanimity. Eels, they say, can get used to being skinned, and so I am getting accustomed to think of Bessie as Grey's wife instead of mine, and I really have quite an uncleish feeling for her children. Indeed. I intend to make them my heirs

 "And so good-by to you, old chap; with love to Flossie and the twins, from your Yankeefied friend, "NEIL McPHERSON. "

And now our story winds to a close, and we are dropping the curtain uponthe characters, who go out one by one and pass from our sight forever. In the cozy rectory Hannah Jerrold's last days are passing happily andpeacefully with the Rev. Charles Sanford, who loves her just as dearlyand thinks her just as fair as on that night years and years ago, whenshe walked with him under the chestnut trees, and while her heart wasbreaking with its load of care and pain, sent him from her with no otherexplanation than that it could not be. 

At Grey's Park Lucy Grey lives her life of sweet unselfishness, lookedup to by the villagers as the lady _par excellence_ of the town, andidolized by the little ones from Boston, who know no spot quite asattractive as her house in the park. 

Miss Betsey and Neil still scramble along together, he indolent at timesand prone to lapse into his old habits of luxurious ease, for which sherates him sharply, though on the whole she pets him as she has neverpetted a human being before. 

"Boys will be boys, " she says, forgetting that Neil is over thirty yearsof age, and she keeps his breakfast warm for him, and gets up to let himin when he has staid later than usual at the Ridge House, where he is afrequent visitor, for he and Allen Browne are fast friends and booncompanions. Together they ride and drive, and row on the lakes aroundAllington; together they smoke and lounge on the broad piazza of theRidge House, but Neil never drinks or plays with Allen, or any one else, for his aunt made it a condition of her friendship, that he should nevertouch a drop of anything which could intoxicate, or soil his hands withcards, even for amusement. The shadow of that awful tragedy at MonteCarlo is over her still, and she looks upon anything like card-playingas savoring of the pit. 

Allen Browne is a young man of elegant leisure, who takes perfumedbaths, and wears an overcoat which comes nearly to his feet, and acollar which cuts his ears. He is a graduate from Harvard, and hismother says his 'schoolin' has cost over fifteen thousand dollars, though where under the sun and moon the money went she can't contrive. 

Mrs. Rossiter-Browne is very proud of her son and of her daughter, theLady Augusta, who comes home nearly every summer with a retinue ofservants and her little boy, who calls himself Lord Rossiter-BrowneHardy, and Neil Jerrold, when he is angry with him, "a little Yankee, "while Neil promptly returns the compliment by calling him a"freckled-faced paddy. "

In the old home on Beacon street, Mrs. Geraldine still affects her airof exclusiveness and invalidism, although a good deal softened andimproved by the grandchildren, of whom she is very fond, and whose babyhands and baby prattle have found their way to her heart, making her abetter because a less selfish woman. 

In the street and among men Burton Jerrold holds his head as high asever, for all his shame and dread are buried in the grave under thewhite cross at Stoneleigh Cottage, where Bessie spends every summer, with her children, and where Grey spends as much time as possible. He isa man of business now, and many go to him for counsel and advice, andthis, except in the hottest weather, keeps him in the city during theweek. But every Saturday afternoon the Jerrold carriage, with Bessie andthe children in it, stands behind the station waiting for the train, thefirst sound of which in the distance is caught up and repeated by Neiland Robin, while Baby Bessie claps her hands and calls out, "Papa iscoming. " And very soon papa comes, with an expression of perfect contenton his fine face as he kisses his wife and babies, and then in thedelicious coolness of the late afternoon is driven up the shaded avenueto the cottage where the plateau is bright with flowers, and where thedaisy cross in its purple heart of pansies, gleams white and pure in thesummer sunshine. 

THE END.