SAXE HOLM'S STORIES

[by Helen Hunt Jackson]

1873

Content. 

Draxy Miller's DowryThe Elder's WifeWhose Wife Was She?The One-Legged DancersHow One Woman Kept Her HusbandEsther Wynn's Love-Letters

Draxy Miller's Dowry. 

Part I. 

When Draxy Miller's father was a boy, he read a novel in which the heroinewas a Polish girl, named Darachsa. The name stamped itself indelibly uponhis imagination; and when, at the age of thirty-five, he took hisfirst-born daughter in his arms, his first words were--"I want her calledDarachsa. "

"What!" exclaimed the doctor, turning sharply round, and looking out abovehis spectacles; "what heathen kind of a name is that?"

"Oh, Reuben!" groaned a feeble voice from the baby's mother; and the nursemuttered audibly, as she left the room, "There ain't never no luck comesof them outlandish names. "

The whole village was in a state of excitement before night. Poor ReubenMiller had never before been the object of half so much interest. Hisslowly dwindling fortunes, the mysterious succession of his ill-lucks, hadnot much stirred the hearts of the people. He was a retice'nt man; heloved books, and had hungered for them all his life; his townsmenunconsciously resented what they pretended to despise; and so it hadslowly come about that in the village where his father had lived and died, and where he himself had grown up, and seemed likely to live and die, Reuben Miller was a lonely man, and came and went almost as a strangermight come and go. His wife was simply a shadow and echo of himself; oneof those clinging, tender, unselfish, will-less women, who make pleasant, and affectionate, and sunny wives enough for rich, prosperous, unsentimental husbands, but who are millstones about the necks ofsensitive, impressionable, unsuccessful men. If Jane Miller had been astrong, determined woman, Reuben would not have been a failure. The onlything he had needed in life had been persistent purpose and courage. Theright sort of wife would have given him both. But when he was discouraged, baffled, Jane clasped her hands, sat down, and looked into his face withstreaming eyes. If he smiled, she smiled; but that was just when it was ofleast consequence that she should smile. So the twelve years of theirmarried life had gone on slowly, very slowly, but still surely, from badto worse; nothing prospered in Reuben's hands. The farm which he hadinherited from his father was large, but not profitable. He tried too longto work the whole of it, and then he sold the parts which he ought to havekept. He sunk a great portion of his little capital in a flour-mill, whichpromised to be a great success, paid well for a couple of years, and thenburnt down, uninsured. He took a contract for building one section of acanal, which was to pass through part of his land; sub-contractors cheatedhim, and he, in his honesty, almost ruined himself to right their wrong. Then he opened a little store; here, also, he failed. He was too honest, too sympathizing, too inert. His day-book was a curiosity; he had a veinof humor which no amount of misfortune could quench; and he used to enterunder the head of "given" all the purchases which he knew were not likelyto be paid for. It was at sight of this book, one day, that Jane Miller, for the first and only time in her life, lost her temper with Reuben. 

"Well, I must say, Reuben Miller, if I die for it, " said she, "I haven'thad so much as a pound of white sugar nor a single lemon in my house fortwo years, and I do think it's a burnin' shame for you to go on sellin''em to them shiftless Greens, that'll never pay you a cent, and you knowit!"

Reuben was sitting on the counter smoking his pipe and reading an oldtattered copy of Dryden's translation of Virgil. He lifted his clear blueeyes in astonishment, put down his pipe, and, slowly swinging his longlegs over the counter, caught Jane by the waist, put both his arms roundher, and said, --

"Why, mother, what's come over you! You know poor little Eph's dyin' ofthat white swellin'. You wouldn't have me refuse his mother anything we'vegot, would you?"

Jane Miller walked back to the house with tears in her eyes, but herhomely sallow face was transfigured by love as she went about her work, thinking to herself, --

"There never was such a man's Reuben, anyhow. I guess he'll get interestone o' these days for all he's lent the Lord, first and last, withoutanybody's knowin' it. "

But the Lord has His own system of reckoning compound interest, and Hisways of paying are not our ways. He gave no visible sign of recognition ofindebtedness to Reuben. Things went harder and harder with the Millers, until they had come to such a pass that when Reuben Miller went after thedoctor, in the early dawn of the day on which little Draxy was born, heclasped his hands in sorrow and humiliation before he knocked at thedoctor's door; and his only words were hard words for a man ofsensitiveness and pride to speak:--

"Doctor Cobb, will you come over to my wife? I don't dare to be sure I canever pay you; but if there's anything in the store "--

"Pshaw, pshaw, Reuben, don't speak of that; you'll be all right in a fewyears, " said the kind old doctor, who had known Reuben from his boyhood, and understood him far better than any one else did. 

And so little Draxy was born. 

"It's a mercy it's a girl at last, " said the village gossips. "Mis'Miller's had a hard time with them four great boys, and Mr. Miller sobehindhand allers. "

"And who but Reuben Miller'd ever think of givin' a Christian child such aname!" they added. 

But what the name was nobody rightly made out; nor even whether it hadbeen actually given to the baby, or had only been talked of; and betweencuriosity and antagonism, the villagers were so drawn to Reuben Miller'sstore, that it began to look quite like a run of custom. 

"If I hold out a spell on namin' her, " said Reuben, as in the twilight ofthe third day he sat by his wife's bedside; "if I hold out a spell onnamin' her, I shall get all the folks in the district into the store, andsell out clean, " and he laughed quizzically, and stroked the littlemottled face which lay on the pillow. "There's Squire Williams and Mis'Conkey both been in this afternoon; and Mis' Conkey took ten pounds ofthat old Hyson tea you thought I'd never sell; and Squire Williams, hetook the last of those new-fangled churns, and says he, 'I expect you'llwant to drive trade a little brisker, Reuben, now there's a little girl tobe provided for; and, by the way, what are you going to call her?'

"'Oh, it's quite too soon to settle, that, ' said I, as if I hadn't a namein my head yet. And then Mis' Conkey spoke up and said: 'Well, I did hearyou were going to name her after a heathen goddess that nobody over heardof, and I do hope you will consider her feelings when she grows up. '

"'I hope I always shall, Mis' Conkey, ' said I; and she didn't know what tosay next. So she picked up her bundle of tea, and they stepped offtogether quite dignified. 

"But I think we'll call her Darachsa, in spite of 'em all, Jane, " addedReuben with a hesitating half laugh. 

"Oh, Reuben!" Jane said again. It was the strongest remonstrance on whichshe ever ventured. She did not like the name; but she adored Reuben. Sowhen the baby was three months old, she was carried into the meeting-housein a faded blue cashmere cloak, and baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, "Darachsa Lawton Miller. "

Jane Miller's babies always thrived. The passive acquiescence of hernature was a blessing to them. The currents of their blood were neverrendered unhealthful by overwrought nerves or disturbed temper in theirmother. Their infancy was as placid and quiet as if they had been kittens. Not until they were old enough to understand words, and to comprehenddeprivations, did they suffer because of their poverty. Then a seriouslook began to settle upon their faces; they learned to watch their fatherand mother wistfully, and to wonder what was wrong; their childhood wasvery short. 

Before Draxy was ten years old she had become her father's inseparablecompanion, confidant, and helper. He wondered, sometimes almost in terror, what it meant, that he could say to this little child what he could notsay to her mother; that he often detected himself in a desire to ask ofthis babe advice or suggestion which he never dreamed of asking from hiswife. 

But Draxy was wise. She had the sagacity which comes from great tendernessand loyalty, combined with a passionate nature. In such a woman's soulthere is sometimes an almost supernatural instinct. She will detect dangerand devise safety with a rapidity and ingenuity which are incredible. Butto such a nature will also come the subtlest and deepest despairs of whichthe human heart is capable. The same instinct which foresees and devisesfor the loved ones will also recognize their most hidden traits, theirutmost possibilities, their inevitable limitations, with a completenessand infallibility akin to that of God Himself. Jane Miller, all her lifelong, believed in the possibility of Reuben's success; charged hisfailures to outside occasions, and hoped always in a better day to come. Draxy, early in her childhood, instinctively felt, what she was far tooyoung consciously to know, that her father would never be a happier man;that "things" would always go against him. She had a deeper reverence forthe uprightness and sweet simplicity of his nature than her mother evercould have had. She comprehended, Jane believed; Draxy felt, Jane saw. Without ever having heard of such a thing as fate, little Draxy recognizedthat her father was fighting with it, and that fate was the stronger! Herlittle arms clasped closer and closer round his neck, and her serene blueeyes, so like his, and yet so wondrously unlike, by reason of their latentfire and strength, looked this unseen enemy steadfastly in the face, dayby day. 

She was a wonderful child. Her physical health was perfect. The first tenyears of her life were spent either out of doors, or in her father's lap. He would not allow her to attend the district school; all she knew shelearned from him. Reuben Miller had never looked into an English grammaror a history, but he knew Shakespeare by heart, and much of Homer; a fewodd volumes of Walter Scott's novels, some old voyages, a big familyBible, and a copy of Byron, were the only other books in his house. AsDraxy grew older, Reuben now and then borrowed from the minister bookswhich he thought would do her good; but the child and he both loved Homerand the Bible so much better than any later books, that they soon driftedback to them. It was a little sad, except that it was so beautiful, tosee the isolated life these two led in the family. The boys were good, sturdy, noisy boys. They went to school in the winter and worked on thefarm in the summer, like all farmers' boys. Reuben, the oldest, waseighteen when Draxy was ten; he was hired, by a sort of indenture, forthree years, on a neighboring farm, and came home only on alternateSundays. Jamie, and Sam, and Lawton were at home; young as they were, theydid men's service in many ways. Jamie had a rare gift for breaking horses, and for several years the only ready money which the little farm hadyielded was the price of the colts which Jamie raised and trained soadmirably that they sold well. The other two boys were strong and willing, but they had none of their father's spirituality, or their mother'sgentleness. Thus, in spite of Reuben Miller's deep love for his children, he was never at ease in his boys' presence; and, as they grew older, nothing but the influence of their mother's respect for their fatherprevented their having an impatient contempt for his unlikeness to thebusy, active, thrifty farmers of the neighborhood. 

It was a strange picture that the little kitchen presented on a winterevening. Reuben sat always on the left hand of the big fire-place, with abook on his knees. Draxy was curled up on an old-fashioned cherry-woodstand close to his chair, but so high that she rested her little dimpledchin on his head. A tallow candle stood on a high bracket, made from afungus which Reuben had found in the woods. When the candle flared anddripped, Draxy sprang up on the stand, and, poised on one foot, reachedover her father's head to snuff it. She looked like a dainty fairyhalf-floating in the air, but nobody knew it. Jane sat in a high-backedwooden rocking-chair, which had a flag bottom and a ruffled calicocushion, and could only rock a very few inches back and forth, owing tothe loss of half of one of the rockers. For the first part of the evening, Jane always knitted; but by eight o'clock the hands relaxed, the needlesdropped, the tired head fell back against the chair, and she was fastasleep. 

The boys were by themselves in the farther corner of the room, playingcheckers or doing sums, or reading the village newspaper. Reuben and Draxywere as alone as if the house had been empty. Sometimes he read to her ina whisper; sometimes he pointed slowly along the lines in silence, and thewise little eyes from above followed intently. All questions andexplanations were saved till the next morning, when Draxy, still curled uplike a kitten, would sit mounted on the top of the buckwheat barrel in thestore, while her father lay stretched on the counter, smoking. They nevertalked to each other, except when no one could hear; that is, they neverspoke in words; there was mysterious and incessant communication betweenthem whenever they were together, as there is between all true lovers. 

At nine o'clock Reuben always shut the book, and said, "Kiss me, littledaughter. " Draxy kissed him, and said, "Good-night, father dear, " and thatwas all. The other children called him "pa, " as was the universal customin the village. But Draxy even in her babyhood had never once used theword. Until she was seven or eight years old she called him "Farver;"after that, always "father dear. " Then Reuben would wake Jane up, sighingusually, "Poor mother, how tired she is!" Sometimes Jane said when shekissed Draxy, at the door of her little room, "Why don't you kiss your pafor good-night?"

"I kissed father before you waked up, ma, " was always Draxy's quietanswer. 

And so the years went on. There was much discomfort, much deprivation inReuben Miller's house. Food was not scarce; the farm yielded enough, suchas it was, very coarse and without variety; but money was hard to get; thestore seemed to be absolutely unremunerative, though customers were notwanting; and the store and the farm were all that Reuben Miller had in theworld. But in spite of the poor food; in spite of the lack of most whichmoney buys; in spite of the loyal, tender, passionate despair of herdevotion to her father, Draxy grew fairer and fairer, stronger andstronger. At fourteen her physique was that of superb womanhood. She hadinherited her body wholly from her father. For generations back, theMillers had been marked for their fine frames. The men were all over sixfeet tall, and magnificently made; and the women were much above theaverage size and strength. On Draxy's fourteenth birthday she weighed onehundred and fifty pounds, and measured five feet six inches in height. Hercoloring was that of an English girl, and her bright brown hair fell belowher waist in thick masses. To see the face of a simple-hearted child, eager but serene, determined but lovingly gentle, surrounded and glorifiedby such splendid physical womanhood, was a rare sight. Reuben Miller'seyes filled with tears often as he secretly watched his daughter, and saidto himself, "Oh, what is to be her fate! what man is worthy of the wifeshe will be?" But the village people saw only a healthy, handsome girl, "overgrown, " they thought, and "as queer as her father before her, " theysaid, for Draxy, very early in life, had withdrawn herself somewhat fromthe companionship of the young people of the town. 

As for Jane, she loved and reverenced Draxy, very much as she did Reuben, with touching devotion, but without any real comprehension of her nature. If she sometimes felt a pang in seeing how much more Reuben talked withDraxy than with her, how much more he sought to be with Draxy than withher, she stifled it, and, reproaching herself for disloyalty to each, setherself to work for them harder than before. 

In Draxy's sixteenth year the final blow of misfortune fell upon ReubenMiller's head. 

A brother of Jane's, for whom, in an hour of foolish generosity, Reubenhad indorsed a note of a considerable amount, failed. Reuben's farm wasalready heavily mortgaged. There was nothing to be done but to sell it. Purchasers were not plenty nor eager; everybody knew that the farm must besold for whatever it would bring, and each man who thought of buying hopedto profit somewhat, in a legitimate and Christian way, by Reuben'sextremity. 

Reuben's courage would have utterly forsaken him now, except for Draxy'scalmness. Jane was utterly unnerved; wept silently from morning tillnight, and implored Reuben to see her brother's creditors, and beg themto release him from his obligation. But Draxy, usually so gentle, grewalmost stern when such suggestions were made. 

"You don't understand, ma, " she said, with flushing cheeks. "It is apromise. Father must pay it. He cannot ask to have it given back to him. "

But with all Draxy's inflexibility of resolve, she could not help beingdisheartened. She could not see how they were to live; the three roomsover the store could easily be fitted up into an endurable dwelling-place;but what was to supply the food which the farm had hitherto given them?There was literally no way open for a man or a woman to earn money in thatlittle farming village. Each family took care of itself and hired noservice, except in the short season of haying. Draxy was an excellentseamstress, but she knew very well that the price of all the sewing hiredin the village in a year would not keep them from starving. The Store mustbe given up, because her father would have no money with which to buygoods. In fact, for a long time, most of his purchases had been made byexchanging the spare produce of his farm at large stores in theneighboring towns. Still Draxy never wavered, and because she did notwaver Reuben did not die. The farm was sold at auction, with the stock, the utensils, and all of the house-furniture which was not needed to makethe store chambers habitable. The buyer boasted in the village that he hadnot given more than two thirds of the real value of the place. AfterReuben's debts were all paid, there remained just one thousand dollars tobe put into the bank. 

"Why, father! That is a fortune, " said Draxy, when he told her. "I didnot suppose we should have anything, and it is glorious not to owe any mana cent. "

It was early in April when the Millers moved into the "store chambers. "The buyer of their farm was a hard-hearted, penurious man, a deacon of thechurch in which Draxy had been baptized. He had never been known to give apenny to any charity excepting Foreign Missions. His wife and children hadnever received at his hands the smallest gift. But even his heart wastouched by Draxy's cheerful acquiescence in the hard change, and herpathetic attempts to make the new home pleasant. The next morning afterDeacon White took possession, he called out over the fence to poor Reuben, who stood listlessly on the store steps, trying not to look across at thehouse which had been his. 

"I say, Miller, that gal o' your'n is what I call the right sort o' woman, up an' down. I hain't said much to her, but I've noticed that she set aheap by this garding; an' I expect she'll miss the flowers more'nanything; now my womenfolks they won't have anythin' to do with suchtruck; an' if she's a mind to take care on't jest's she used ter, I'mwillin'; I guess we shall be the gainers on't. "

"Thank you, Deacon White; Draxy'll be very glad, " was all Reuben couldreply. Something in his tone touched the man's flinty heart still more;and before he half knew what he was going to say, he had added, --

"An' there's the vegetable part on't, too, Miller. I never was no hand toputter with garden sass. If you'll jest keep that up and go halves, fairand reg'lar, you're welcome. "

This was tangible help. Reuben's face lighted up. 

"I thank you with all my heart, " he replied. "That'll be a great help tome; and I reckon you'll like our vegetables, too, " he said, half smiling, for he knew very well that nothing but potatoes and turnips had been seenon Deacon White's table for years. 

Then Reuben went to find Draxy; when he told her, the color came into herface, and she shut both her hands with a quick, nervous motion, which washabitual to her under excitement. 

"Oh, father, we can almost live off the garden, " said she. "I told you weshould not starve. "

But still new sorrows, and still greater changes, were in store for thepoor, disheartened family. In June a malignant fever broke out in thevillage, and in one short month Reuben and Jane had laid their twoyoungest boys in the grave-yard. There was a dogged look, which was notall sorrow, on Reuben's face as he watched the sexton fill up the lastgrave. Sam and Jamie, at any rate, would not know any more of thediscouragement and hardship of life. 

Jane, too, mourned her boys not as mothers mourn whose sons have abirthright of gladness. Jane was very tired of the world. 

Draxy was saddened by the strange, solemn presence of death. But herbrothers had not been her companions. She began suddenly to feel a senseof new and greater relationship to them, now that she thought of them asangels; she was half terrified and bewildered at the feeling that now, forthe first time, they were near to her. 

On the evening after Sam's funeral, as Reuben was sitting on the storesteps, with his head buried in his hands, a neighbor drove up and threwhim a letter. 

"It's been lyin' in the office a week or more, Merrill said, and hereckoned I'd better bring it up to you, " he called out, as he drove on. 

"It might lie there forever, for all my goin' after it, " thought Reuben tohimself, as he picked it up from the dust; "it's no good news, I'll bebound. "

But it was good news. The letter was from Jane's oldest sister, who hadmarried only a few years before, and gone to live in a sea-port town onthe New England coast. Her husband was an old captain, who had retiredfrom his seafaring life with just money enough to live on, in a veryhumble way, in an old house which had belonged to his grandfather. He hadlost two wives; his children were all married or dead, and in hisloneliness and old age he had taken for his third wife the gentle, quietelder sister who had brought up Jane Miller. She was a gray-haired, wrinkled spinster woman when she went into Captain Melville's house; buttheir life was by no means without romance. Husband and home cannot cometo any womanly heart too late for sentiment and happiness to put forthpale flowers. 

Emma Melville wrote offering the Millers a home; their last misfortune hadbut just come to her knowledge, for Jane had been for months too much outof heart to write to her relatives. Emma wrote:--

"We are very poor, too; we haven't anything but the house, and a littlemoney each year to buy what we need to eat and wear, the plainest sort. But the house is large; Captain Melville and me never so much as set footup-stairs. If you can manage to live on the upper floor, you're more thanwelcome, we both say; and we hope you won't let any pride stand in the wayof your coming. It will do us good to have more folks in the house, and itain't as if it cost us anything, for we shouldn't never be willing, neither me nor Captain Melville, to rent the rooms to strangers, not whilewe've got enough to live on without. "

There was silence for some minutes between Reuben and Jane and Draxy afterthis letter had been read. Jane looked steadily away from Reuben. Therewas deep down in the patient woman's heart, a latent pride which wasgrievously touched. Reuben turned to Draxy; her lips were parted; hercheeks were flushed; her eyes glowed. "Oh, father, the sea!" sheexclaimed. This was her first thought; but in a second more she added, "How kind, how good of Aunt Emma's husband!"

"Would you like to go, my daughter?" said Reuben, earnestly. 

"Why, I thought of course we should go!" exclaimed Draxy, turning with abewildered look to her mother, who was still silent. "What else is theletter sent for? It means that we must go. "

Her beautiful simplicity was utterly removed from any false sense ofobligation. She accepted help as naturally from a human hand as from thesunshine; she would give it herself, so far as she had power, just asnaturally and just as unconsciously. 

There was very little discussion about the plan. Draxy's instinct overboreall her father's misgiving, and all her mother's unwillingness. 

"Oh, how can you feel so, Ma, " she exclaimed more than once. "If I had asister I could not. I love Aunt Emma already next to you and father; andyou don't know how much we can do for her after we get there, either. Ican earn money there, I know I can; all we need. "

Mrs. Melville had written that there were many strangers in the town inthe summer, and that she presumed Draxy could soon find all the work shewished as seamstress; also that there were many chances of work for a manwho was accustomed to gardening, as, of course, Reuben must be. 

Draxy's sanguine cheerfulness was infectious; even Jane began to lookforward with interest to the new home; and Reuben smiled when Draxy sang. Lawton and Reuben were to be left behind; that was the only regret; but itwas merely anticipating by a very little the separation which wasinevitable, as the boys had both become engaged to daughters of thefarmers for whom they had been working, and would very soon take theirpositions as sons-in-law on these farms. 

The store was sold, the furniture packed, and Reuben Miller, with his wifeand child, set his face eastward to begin life anew. The change from therich wheat fields and glorious forests of Western New York, to the barestony stretches of the Atlantic sea-board, is a severe one. No adult heartcan make it without a struggle. When Reuben looked out of the car windowsupon the low gray barrens through which he was nearing his journey end, his soul sank within him. It was sunset; the sea glistened like glass, andwas as red as the sky. Draxy could not speak for delight; tears stood inher eyes, and she took hold of her father's hand. But Reuben and Jane sawonly the desolate rocks, and treeless, shrubless, almost--it seemed tothem--grassless fields, and an unutterable sense of gloom came over them. It was a hot and stifling day; a long drought had parched and shriveledevery living thing; and the white August dust lay everywhere. 

Captain Melville lived in the older part of the town near the water. Thehouses were all wooden, weather-beaten, and gray, and had great patches ofyellow lichen on their walls and roofs; thin rims of starved-looking grassedged the streets, and stray blades stood up here and there among the oldsunken cobble-stones which made the pavements. 

The streets seemed deserted; the silence and the sombre color, and thestrange low plashing of the water against the wharves, oppressed evenDraxy's enthusiastic heart. Her face fell, and she exclaimedinvoluntarily, "Oh, what a lonesome place!" Checking herself, she added, "but it's only the twilight makes it look so, I expect. "

They had some difficulty in finding the house. The lanes and streetsseemed inextricably tangled; the little party was shy of asking direction, and they were all disappointed and grieved, more than they owned tothemselves, that they had not been met at the station. At last they foundthe house. Timidly Draxy lifted the great brass knocker. It looked to herlike splendor, and made her afraid. It fell more heavily than she supposedit would, and the clang sounded to her over-wrought nerves as if it filledthe whole street. No one came. They looked at the windows. The curtainswere all down. There was no sign of life about the place. Tears came intoJane's eyes. She was worn out with the fatigue of the journey. 

"Oh dear, oh dear, " she said, "I wish we hadn't come. "

"Pshaw, mother, " said Reuben, with a voice cheerier than his heart, "verylikely they never got our last letter, and don't know we were to be hereto-day, " and he knocked again. 

Instantly a window opened in the opposite house, and a jolly voice said, "My gracious, " and in the twinkling of an eye the jolly owner of the jollyvoice had opened her front door and run bareheaded across the street, andwas shaking hands with Reuben and Jane and Draxy, all three at once, andtalking so fast that they could hardly understand her. 

"My gracious I my gracious! Won't Mrs. Melville be beat! Of course you'reher folks she was expecting from the West, ain't you? I mistrusted itsomehow as soon as I heard the big knock. Now I'll jest let you in theback door. Oh my, Mis' Melville'll never get over this; to think of herbe'n' away, an' she's been lookin' and looking and worryin' for two weeks, because she didn't hear from you; and only last night Captain Melville hesaid he'd write to-day if they didn't hear. '"

"We wrote, " said Draxy, in her sweet, low voice, "we wrote to Aunt Emmathat we'd come to-day. "

"Now did you!" said the jolly voice. "Well, that's jest the way. You seeyour letter's gone somewhere else, and now Mis' Melville she's goneto"--the rest of the sentence was lost, for the breathless little woman wasrunning round the house to the back door. 

In a second more the upper half of the big old-fashioned door had swungopen, to Draxy's great delight, who exclaimed, "Oh, father, we read aboutsuch doors as this in that Knickerbocker book, don't you remember?"

But good Mrs. Carr was drawing them into the house, giving them neighborlywelcome, all the while running on in such voluble ejaculatory talk thatthe quiet, saddened, recluse-like people were overwhelmed withembarrassment, and hardly knew which way to turn. Presently she saw theirconfusion and interrupted herself with--

"Well, well, you're jest all tired out with your journey, an' a cup o'tea's the thing you want, an' none o' my talk; but you see Mis' Melville'n me's so intimate that I feel's if I'd known you always, 'n I'm realglad to see you here, real glad; 'n I'll bring the tea right over; thekettle was a boilin' when I run out, 'n I'll send Jim right down town forCaptain Melville; he's sure to be to the library. Oh, but won't Mis'Melville be beat, " she continued, half way down the steps; and from themiddle of the street she called back, "'an she ain't coming home tillto-morrow night. "

Reuben and Jane and Draxy sat down with as bewildered a feeling as, ifthey had been transported to another world. The house was utterly unlikeanything they had ever seen; high ceilings, wainscoted walls, woodencornices and beams, and wooden mantels with heads carved on the corners. It seemed to them at first appallingly grand. Presently they observed thebare wooden floors, the flag-bottomed chairs, and faded chintz cushions, the row of old tin utensils, and plain, cheap crockery in the glass-dooredcupboard, and felt more at home. 

"You know Aunt Emma said they were poor, too, " said Draxy, answering herown unspoken thought as well as her father's and mother's. 

Reuben pushed his hair off his warm forehead and sighed. 

"I suppose we might go up-stairs, mother, " he said; "that's to be ourhouse, as I understand it"

Draxy bounded at the words. With flying steps she ascended the stairs andopened the first door. She stood still on the threshold, unable to movefrom astonishment. It was still light enough to see the room. Draxy beganto speak, but broke down utterly, and bursting out crying, threw herselfinto the arms of her father who had just reached the top of the stairs. 

"Oh, father, it's all fixed for a sitting-room! Father dear, I told you!"

This was something they had not dreamed of. They had understood the offerto be merely of rooms in which they could live rent-free. In fact, thathad been Captain Melville's first intention. But his generous sailor'sheart revolted from the thought of stripping the rooms of furniture forwhich he had no use. So Emma had rearranged the plain old-fashionedthings, and adding a few more which could be spared as well as not, hadfitted up a sitting-room and two bed-rooms with all that was needed forcomfort. Reuben and Jane and Draxy were all crying when Mrs. Carr cameback with her pitcher of smoking tea. Reuben tried to explain to her whythey were crying, but she interrupted him with, --

"Well, now, I understand it jest's if 'twas to me it'd all happened; an' Ithink it's lucky after all that Mis' Melville wasn't here, for she'sdreadful easy upset if people take on. But now you drink your tea, and getall settled down's quick's you can, for Captain Melville 'll be here anyminute now I expect, an' he don't like tantrums. "

This frightened Draxy, and made a gloomy look come on Reuben's face. Butthe fright and the gloom disappeared in one minute and forever when thedoor burst open, and a red-faced, white-haired old man, utterly out ofbreath, bounced into the room, and seizing Reuben by the hand gasped out, puffing between the words like a steam-engine:--

"Wreck me, if this isn't a hard way to make port. Why, man, we've beenlooking for some hail from you for two weeks, till we began to think you'dgiven us the go-by altogether. Welcome to Melville Harbor, I say, welcome!" and he had shaken Reuben's hand, and kissed Jane and turned toDraxy all in a breath. At the first full sight of Draxy's face he startedand felt dumb. He had never seen so beautiful a woman. He pulled out a redsilk handkerchief and wiped his face nervously as she said, "Kiss me too, uncle, " but her warm lips were on his cheek before he had time to analyzehis own feelings. Then Reuben began to say something, about gratitude, andthe old sailor swore his favorite oath again: "Now, may I be wrecked if Ihave a word o' that. We're glad enough to get you all here; and as for thefew things in the rooms, they're of no account anyhow. "

"Few things! Oh, uncle, " said Draxy, with a trembling voice, and before heknew what she was about to do she had snatched his fat, weather-beaten oldhand and kissed it. No woman had ever kissed John Melville's hand before. From that moment he looked upon Draxy as a princess who had let him oncekiss hers!

Captain Melville and Reuben were friends before bed-time. Reuben's gentlesimplicity and unworldliness, and patient demeanor, roused in the roughsailor a sympathy like that he had always felt for women. And to Reubenthe hearty good cheer, and brisk, bluff sailor ways were infinitelywinning and stimulating. 

The next day Mrs. Melville came home. In a short time the little householdhad adjusted itself, and settled down into its routine of living. When, ina few days, the great car-load of the Millers' furniture arrived, Capt. Melville insisted upon its all going to the auction-rooms excepting thekitchen furniture, and a few things for which Jane had especialattachment. It brought two hundred dollars, which, in addition to theprice of the farm, and the store and its stock, gave Reuben just nineteenhundred dollars to put in the Savings Bank. 

"And I am to be counted at least two thousand more, father dear, so youare not such a very poor man after all, " said Draxy, laughing and dancingaround him. 

Now Draxy Miller's real life began. In after years she used to say, "Iwas born first in my native town; second, in the Atlantic Ocean!" Theeffect of the strong sea air upon her was something indescribable; joyseemed to radiate from her whole being. She smiled whenever she saw thesea. She walked on the beach; she sat on the rocks; she learned to swim inone lesson, and swam so far out that her uncle dared not follow, andcalled to her in imploring terror to return. Her beauty grew more and moreradiant every day. This the sea gave to her body. But there was a farsubtler new life than the physical, a far finer new birth than the birthof beauty, --which came to Draxy here. This, books gave to her soul. Only afew years before, a free library had been founded in this town, by a richand benevolent man. Every week hundreds of volumes circulated among thefamilies where books were prized, and could not be owned. When Draxy'suncle first took her into this library, and explained to her its purposeand regulations, she stood motionless for a few moments, looking athim--and at the books: then, with tears in her eyes, and saying, "Don'tfollow me, uncle dear; don't mind me, I can't bear it, " she ran swiftlyinto the street, and never stopped until she had reached home and foundher father. An hour later she entered the library again, leading herfather by the hand. She had told him the story on the way. Reuben's thincheeks were flushed. It was almost more than he too could bear. Silentlythe father and daughter walked up and down the room, looking into thealcoves. Then they sat down together, and studied the catalogue. Thenthey rose and went out, hand in hand as they had entered, speaking noword, taking no book. For one day the consciousness of this wealth filledtheir hearts beyond the possibility of one added desire. After that, Draxyand her father were to be seen every night seated at the long table in thereading-room. They read always together, Draxy's arm being over the backof her father's chair. Many a man and many a woman stopped and looked longat the picture. But neither Draxy nor her father knew it. 

At the end of two years, Draxy Miller had culture. She was ignorant still, of course; she was an uneducated girl; she wept sometimes over her owndeficiencies; but her mind was stored with information of all sorts; shehad added Wordsworth to her Shakespeare; she had journeyed over the worldwith every traveller whose works she could find; and she had tasted ofPlato and Epictetus. Reuben's unfailing simplicity and purity of tastesaved her from the mischiefs of many of the modern books. She had hardlyread a single novel; but her love of true poetry was a passion. 

In the mean time she had become the favorite seamstress of the town. Herface, and voice, and smile would alone have won way for her; but inaddition to those, she was a most dexterous workwoman. If there had onlybeen twice as many days in a year, she would have been--glad. Her ownearnings in addition to her father's, and to their little income from themoney in the bank, made them comfortable; but with Draxy's expandedintellectual life had come new desires: she longed to be taught. 

One day she said to her father, "Father dear, what was the name of thatcanal contractor who borrowed money of you and never paid it?"

Reuben looked astonished, but told her. 

"Is he alive yet?"

"Oh, yes, " said Reuben, "and he's rich now. There was a man here only lastweek who said he'd built him a grand house this year. "

Draxy shut her hands nervously. "Father, I shall go and get that money. "

"You, child! Why it's two days' journey; and he'd never pay you a cent. Itried times enough, " replied Reuben. 

"But I think perhaps he would be more likely to pay it to a woman; hewould be ashamed, " said Draxy, "especially if he is rich now, and I tellhim how much we need it. "

"No, no, child; I shouldn't hear to your going; no more would mother; andit would be money wasted besides, " said Reuben, with sternness unusual forhim. 

Draxy was silent. The next morning she went to the railway station andascertained exactly how much the journey would cost. She was disheartenedat the amount. It would be difficult for her to save so much out of awhole year's earnings. That day Draxy's face was sad. She was sewing atthe house of one of her warmest friends. All her employers were herfriends, but this one was a woman of rare intelligence and culture, whohad loved Draxy ever since the day she had found her reading a littlevolume of Wordsworth, one of the Free Library books, while she was eatingher dinner in the sewing-room. 

Draxy looked her gratitude, but said nothing. Not the least of hercharms, to the well-bred people who employed her, was her exquisitereticence, her gentle and unconscious withdrawal into herself, in spite ofall familiarity with which she might be treated. 

A few days later Mrs. White sent a note to Draxy with the thirty dollarsinclosed, and this note to Mr. Miller:--

"MR. MILLER--DEAR SIR:--

"This money has been contributed, by Draxy's friends. You do not know howmuch we all prize and esteem your daughter and wish to help her. I hopeyou will be willing that she should use this money for the journey onwhich her heart is so set. I really advise you as a friend to let her makethe effort to recover that money; I think she will get it. 

"Truly, your friend, "A. WHITE. "

This note brought tears of pride to Reuben's eyes. Draxy watched himclosely, and said:--

"Father dear, I should like to go to-morrow. "

Her preparations had already been made. She knew beforehand that her causewas won; that her father's sense of justice would not let him interferewith her use of the gift for the purpose for which it was made. 

It was on a clear cold morning in January that Draxy set out. It was thesecond journey of her life, and she was alone for the first time; but shefelt no more fear than if she had been a sparrow winging its way through anew field. The morning twilight was just fading away; both the east andthe west were clear and glorious; the east was red, and the west paleblue; high in the west stood the full moon, golden yellow; below it a longnarrow bar of faint rose-color; below that, another bar of fainter purple;then the low brown line of a long island; then an arm of the sea; thewater was gray and still; the ice rims stretched far out from the coast, and swayed up and down at the edges, as the waves pulsed in and out. Flocks of gulls were wheeling, soaring in the air, or lighting andfloating among the ice fragments, as cold and snowy as they. Draxy leanedher head against the side of the car and looked out on the marvelousbeauty of the scene with eyes as filled with calm delight as if she hadall her life journeyed for pleasure, and had had nothing to do but feedand develop her artistic sense. 

A company of travelling actors sat near her; a dozen tawdry women andcoarse men, whose loud voices and vulgar jests made Draxy shudder. She didnot know what they could be; she had never seen such behavior; the mentook out cards and began to play; the women leaned over, looked on, andclapped the men on their shoulders. Draxy grew afraid, and the expressionof distress on her face attracted the conductor's notice. He touched heron the shoulder. 

"I'll take you into the next car, Miss, if you don't like to be near thesepeople. They're only actors; there's no harm in them, but they're a roughset. "

"Actors, " said Draxy, as the kind conductor lifted her from one platformto another. "I never thought they were like that. Do they playShakespeare?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, " said the conductor, puzzled enough: "but I daresay they do. "

"Then I'm glad I never went to the theatre, " thought Draxy, as shesettled herself in her new seat. For a few moments she could not banishher disturbed and unhappy feeling. She could not stop fancying some of thegrand words which she most loved in Shakespeare, repeated by thoserepulsive voices. 

But soon she turned her eyes to the kindling sky, and forgot all else. Themoon was slowly turning from gold to silver; then it would turn fromsilver to white cloud, then to film, then vanish away. Draxy knew that dayand the sun would conquer. "Oh, if I only understood it, " sighed Draxy. Then she fell to thinking about the first chapter in Genesis; and whileshe looked upon that paling moon, she dreamed of other moons which nohuman eyes ever saw. Draxy was a poet; but as yet she had never dared toshow even to her father the little verses she had not been able to helpwriting. "Oh, how dare I do this; how dare I?" she said to herself, asalone in her little room, she wrote line after line. "But if nobody everknows, it can do no harm. It is strange I love it, though, when I am soashamed. "

This morning Draxy had that mysterious feeling as if all things were new, which so often comes to poetic souls. It is at once the beauty and theburden, the exhaustion and the redemption of their lives. No wonder thateven common men can sometimes see the transfiguration which often comes tohim before whose eyes death and resurrection are always following eachother, instant, perpetual, glorious. Draxy took out her little diary. Folded very small, and hid in the pocket of it, was a short poem that shehad written the year before on a Tiarella plant which had blossomed inher window. Mrs. White had brought it to her with some ferns and mossesfrom the mountains; and all winter long it had flowered as if in summer. Draxy wondered why this golden moon reminded her of the Tiarella. She didnot know the subtle underlying bonds in nature. These were the Tiarellaverses:--

 My little Tiarella, If thou art my own, Tell me how thus in winter Thy shining flowers have blown. Art thou a fairy smuggler, Defying law? Didst take of last year's summer More than summer saw? Or hast thou stolen frost-flakes Secretly at night? Thy stamens tipped with silver, Thy petals spotless white, Are so like those which cover My window-pane; Wilt thou, like them, turn back at noon To drops again?

 Oh, little Tiarella, Thy silence speaks; No more my foolish question Thy secret seeks. The sunshine on my window Lies all the day. How shouldst thou know that summer Has passed away? The frost-flake's icy silver Is dew at noon for thee. O winter sun! O winter frost, Make summer dews for me!

After reading these over several times, Draxy took out her pencil, andvery shyly screening herself from all observation, wrote on the other sideof the paper these lines:

 The Morning Moon. 

 The gold moon turns to white; The white moon fades to cloud; It looks so like the gold moon's shroud, It makes me think about the dead, And hear the words I have heard read, By graves for burial rite. 

 I wonder now how many moons In just such white have died; I wonder how the stars divide Among themselves their share of light; And if there were great years of night Before the earth saw noons. 

 I wonder why each moon, each sun, Which ever has been or shall be, In this day's sun and moon I see; I think perhaps all of the old Is hidden in each new day's hold; So the first day is not yet done!

 And then I think--our dust is spent Before the balances are swung; Shall we be loneliest among God's living creatures? Shall we dare To speak in this eternal air The only discontent?

Then she shut the book resolutely, and sat up straight with a littlelaugh, saying to herself, "This is a pretty beginning for a businessjourney!"

Far better than you knew, sweet Draxy! The great successes of life arenever made by the men and women who have no poetic comprehension in theirsouls. 

Draxy's first night was spent at the house of a brother of CaptainMelville's, to whom her uncle had given her a letter. All went smoothly, and her courage rose. The next day at noon she was to change cars in oneof the great railroad centres; as she drew near the city she began to feeluneasy. But her directions were explicit, and she stepped bravely out intothe dismal, dark, underground station, bought her ticket, and walked upand down on the platform with her little valise in her hand, waiting forthe train. 

In a few moments it thundered in, enveloped in a blinding, stifling smoke. The crowd of passengers poured out. "Twenty minutes for refreshments, " wasshouted at each car, and in a moment more there was a clearing up of thesmoke, and a lull in the trampling of the crowd. Draxy touched theconductor on the arm. 

"Is this the train I am to take, sir?" she said showing him her ticket. 

He glanced carelessly at it. "No, no, " said he; "this is the express;don't stop there. You must wait till the afternoon accommodation. "

"But what time will that train get there?" said Draxy, turning pale. 

"About ten o'clock, if it's on time, " said the conductor, walking away. Hehad not yet glanced at Draxy, but at her "Oh, what shall I do!" he turnedback; Draxy's face held him spellbound, as it had held many a man before. He stepped near her, and taking the ticket from her hand, turned it overand over irresolutely. "I wish I could stop there, Miss, " he said. "Is itany one who is sick?"--for Draxy's evident distress suggested but oneexplanation. 

"Oh no, " replied Draxy, trying in vain to make her voice steady. "But I amall alone, and I know no one there, and I am afraid--it is so late atnight. My friends thought I should get there before dark. "

"What are you going for, if you don't know anybody?" said the conductor, in a tone less sympathizing and respectful. He was a man more used tothinking ill than well of people. 

Draxy colored. But her voice became very steady. 

"I am Reuben Miller's daughter, sir, and I am going there to get somemoney which a bad man owed my father. We need the money, and there was noone else to go for it. "

The conductor had never heard of Una, but the tone of the sentence, "I amReuben Miller's daughter, " smote upon his heart, and made him as reverentto the young girl as if she had been a saint. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss, " he said involuntarily. 

Draxy looked at him with a bewildered expression, but made no reply. Shewas too childlike to know that for the rough manner which had hurt her heought to ask such pardon. 

The conductor proceeded, still fingering the ticket:--

"I don't see how I can stop there. It's a great risk for me to take. Ifthere was only one of the Directors on board now. " Draxy looked still morepuzzled. "No, " he said, giving her back the ticket: "I can't do it nohow;" and he walked away. 

Draxy stood still in despair. In a few minutes he came back. He could notaccount for its seeming to him such an utter impossibility to leave thatgirl to go on her journey at night. 

"What shall you do?" said he. 

"I think my father would prefer that I should find some proper place tospend the night here, and go on in the morning, " replied Draxy; "do younot think that would be better, sir?" she added, with an appealing, confiding tone which made the conductor feel more like her knight thanever. 

"Yes, I think so, and I will give you my card to take to the hotel where Istay, " said he, and he plunged into the crowd again. 

Draxy turned to a brakeman who had drawn near. 

"Has the conductor the right to stop the train if he chooses?" said she. 

"Why yes, Miss, he's right enough, if that's all. Of course he's got tohave power to stop the train any minute. But stoppin' jest to let off apassenger, that's different. "

Draxy closed her lips a little more firmly, and became less pale. When theconductor came back and gave her his card, with the name of the hotel onit, she thanked him, took the card, but did not stir. He looked at herearnestly, said "Good day, Miss, " lifted his hat, and disappeared. Draxysmiled. It yet wanted ten minutes of the time for the train to go. Shestood still, patiently biding her last chance. The first bell rang--thesteam was up--the crowd of passengers poured in; at the last minute butone came the conductor. As he caught sight of Draxy's erect, dignifiedfigure, he started; before he could speak, Draxy said, "I waited, sir, forI thought at the last minute a director might come, or you might changeyour mind. "

The conductor laughed out, and seizing Draxy's valise, exclaimed, "ByGeorge, I will stop the train for you, Miss Miller! Hang me if I don't;jump in!" and in one minute more Draxy was whirling out of the darkstation into the broad sunlight, which dazzled her. 

When the conductor first--came through the car he saw that Draxy had beencrying. "Do her good, " he thought to himself; "it always does do womengood; but I'll be bound she wouldn't ha' cried if I'd left her. "

Half an hour later he found her sound asleep, with her head slippinguneasily about on the back of the seat. Half ashamed of himself, hebrought a heavy coat and put it under her head for a pillow. Seeing asupercilious and disagreeable smile on the face of a fashionable young manin the seat before Draxy, he said sharply: "She's come a long journey, andwas put under my care. "

"I guess that's true enough to pass muster, " he chuckled to himself as hewalked away. "If ever I'd ha' believed a woman could make me stop thistrain for her! An', by George, without askin' me to either!"

Draxy slept on for hours. The winter twilight came earlier than usual, forthe sky was overcast. When she waked, the lamps were lighted, and theconductor was bending over her, saying: "We're most there, Miss, and Ithought you'd better get steadied on your feet a little before you getoff, for I don't calculate to make a full stop. "

Draxy laughed like a little child, and put up both hands to her head as ifto make sure where she was. Then she followed the conductor to the doorand stood looking out into the dim light. 

The sharp signal for "down brakes, " made experienced passengers spring totheir feet. Windows opened; heads were thrust out. What had happened tothis express train? The unaccustomed sound startled the village also. Itwas an aristocratic little place, settled by wealthy men whose businesswas in a neighboring city. At many a dinner-table surprised voices said:"Why, what on earth is the down express stopping here for? Something musthave broken. "

"Some director or other to be put off, " said others; "they have it alltheir own way on the road. "

In the mean time Draxy Miller was walking slowly up the first street shesaw, wondering what she should do next. The conductor had almost liftedher off the train; had shaken her hand, said "God bless you, Miss, " andthe train was gone, before she could be sure he heard her thank him. "Oh, why did I not thank him more before we stopped, " thought Draxy. 

"I hope she'll get her money, " thought the conductor. "I'd like to see theman that wouldn't give her what she asked for. "

So the benediction and protection of good wishes, from strangers as wellas from friends, floated on the very air through which Draxy walked, allunconscious of the invisible blessings. 

She walked a long way before she met any one of whom she liked to askdirection. At last she saw an elderly man standing under a lamp-post, reading a letter. Draxy studied his face, and then stopped quietly by hisside without speaking. He looked up. 

"I thought as soon as you had finished your letter, sir, I would ask youto tell me where Stephen Potter lives. "

It was marvelous what an ineffable charm there was in the subtle mixtureof courtesy and simplicity in Draxy's manner. 

"I am going directly by his house myself, and will show you, " replied theold gentleman. "Pray let me take your bag, Miss. "

"Was it for you, " he added, suddenly recollecting the strange stopping ofthe express train, "was it for you the express train stopped just now?"

"Yes, sir, " said Draxy. "The conductor very kindly put me off. "

The old gentleman's curiosity was strongly roused, but he forbore askingany further questions until he left Draxy on the steps of the house, whenhe said: "are they expecting you?"

"Oh no, sir, " said Draxy quietly. "I do not know them. "

"Most extraordinary thing, " muttered the old gentleman as he walked on. Hewas a lawyer, and could not escape from the professional habit of lookingupon all uncommon incidents as clews. 

Draxy Miller's heart beat faster than usual as she was shown into StephenPotter's library. She had said to the servant simply, "Tell Mr. Potterthat Miss Miller would like to see him alone. "

The grandeur of the house, the richness of the furniture, would haveembarrassed her, except that it made her stern as she thought of herfather's poverty. "How little a sum it must be to this man, " she thought. 

The name roused no associations in Stephen Potter; for years the thoughtof Reuben Miller had not crossed his mind, and as he looked in the face ofthe tall, beautiful girl who rose as he entered the room, he was utterlyconfounded to hear her say, --

"I am Reuben Miller's daughter. I have come to see if you will pay me themoney you owe him. We are very poor, and need it more than you probablycan conceive. "

Stephen Potter was a bad man, but not a hard-hearted bad man. He had beendishonest always; but it was the dishonesty of a weak and unscrupulousnature, not without generosity. At that moment a sharp pang seized him. Heremembered the simple, upright, kindly face of Reuben Miller. He saw thesame look of simple uprightness, kindled by strength, in the beautifulface of Reuben Miller's daughter. He did not know what to say. Draxywaited in perfect composure and silence. It seemed to him hours before hespoke. Then he said, in a miserable, shuffling way, --

"I suppose you think me a rich man. "

"I think you must be very rich, " said Draxy, gently. 

Then, moved by some strange impulse in the presence of this pure, unworldly girl, Stephen Potter suddenly spoke out, for the first timesince his boyhood, with absolute sincerity. 

"Miss Miller, you are your father over again. I reverenced your father. Ihave wronged many men without caring, but it troubled me to wrong him. Iwould give you that money to-night, if I had it, or could raise it. I amnot a rich man. I have not a dollar in the world. This house is not mine. It may be sold over my head any day. I am deep in trouble, but not so deepas I deserve to be, " and he buried his face in his hands. 

Draxy believed him. And it was true. At that moment Stephen Potter wasreally a ruined man, and many others were involved in the ruin which wasimpending. 

Draxy rose, saying gravely, "I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter. Weheard that you were rich, or I should not have come. We are very poor, butwe are not unhappy, as you are. "

"Stay, Miss Miller, sit down; I have a thing which might be of value toyour father;" and Mr. Potter opened his safe and took out a bundle of oldyellow papers. "Here is the title to a lot of land in the northern part ofNew Hampshire. I took it on a debt years ago, and never thought it wasworth anything. Very likely it has run out, or the town has takenpossession of the land for the taxes. But I did think the other day, thatif worst came to worst, I might take my wife up there and try to farm it. But I'd rather your father should have it if it's good for anything. Itook it for three thousand dollars, and it ought to be worth something. Iwill have the legal transfer made in the morning, and give it to youbefore you leave. "

This was not very intelligible to Draxy. The thin and tattered old paperlooked singularly worthless to her. But rising again, she said simply asbefore, "I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter; and I thank you for tryingto pay us! Will you let some one go and show me to the hotel where I oughtto sleep?"

Stephen Potter was embarrassed. It cut him to the heart to send thisdaughter of Reuben Miller's out of his house to pass the night. But hefeared Mrs. Potter very much. He hesitated only a moment. 

"No, Miss Miller. You must sleep here. I will have you shown to your roomat once. I do not ask you to see my wife. It would not be pleasant for youto do so. " And he rang the bell. When the servant came, he said, --

"William, have a fire kindled in the blue room at once; as soon as it isdone, come and let me know. "

Then he sat down near Draxy and asked many questions about her family, allof which she answered with childlike candor. She felt a strange sympathyfor this miserable, stricken, wicked man. When she bade him good-night, she said again, "I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter. My father would beglad if he could help you in any way. "

Stephen Potter went into the parlor where his wife sat, reading a novel. She was a very silly, frivolous woman, and she cared nothing for herhusband, but when she saw his face she exclaimed, in terror, "What was it, Stephen?"

"Only Reuben Miller's daughter, come two days' journey after some money Iowe her father and cannot pay, " said Stephen, bitterly. 

"Miller? Miller?" said Mrs. Potter, "one of those old canal debts?"

"Yes, " said Stephen. 

"Well, of course all those are outlawed long ago, " said she. "I don't seewhy you need worry about that; she can't touch you. "

Stephen looked scornfully at her. She had a worse heart than he. At thatmoment Draxy's face and voice, "I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter, "stood out in the very air before him. 

"I suppose not, " said he, moodily; "I wish she could! But I shall give hera deed of a piece of New Hampshire land which they may get some good of. God knows I hope she may, " and he left the room, turning back, however, toadd, "She is to sleep here to-night. I could not have her go to the hotel. But you need take no trouble about her. "

"I should think not, Stephen Potter, " exclaimed Mrs. Potter, sitting boltupright in her angry astonishment; "I never heard of such impudence as herexpecting"--

"She expected nothing. I obliged her to stay, " interrupted Stephen, andwas gone. 

Mrs. Potter's first impulse was to go and order the girl out of her house. But she thought better of it. She was often afraid of her husband at thistime; she dimly suspected that he was on the verge of ruin. So she sankback into her chair, buried herself in her novel, and soon forgot theinterruption. 

Draxy's breakfast and dinner were carried to her room, and everyprovision made for her comfort. Stephen Potter's servants obeyed himalways. No friend of the family could have been more scrupulously servedthan was Draxy Miller. The man-servant carried her bag to the station, touched his hat to her as she stepped on board the train, and returned tothe house to say in the kitchen: "Well, I don't care what she come for;she was a real lady, fust to last, an' that's more than Mr. Potter's gotfor a wife, I tell you. "

When Stephen Potter went into his library after bidding Draxy good-by, hefound on the table a small envelope addressed to him. It held this note:--

"MR. POTTER:--I would not take the paper [the word 'money' had beenscratched out and the word 'paper' substituted] for myself; but I think Iought to for my father, because it was a true debt, and he is an old mannow, and not strong. 

"I am very sorry for you, Mr. Potter, and I hope you will become happyagain. DRAXY MILLER. "

Draxy had intended to write, "I hope you will be 'good' again, " but herheart failed her. "Perhaps he will understand that 'happy' means good, "she said, and so wrote the gentler phrase. Stephen Potter did understand;and the feeble outreachings which, during the few miserable years more ofhis life, he made towards uprightness, were partly the fruit of DraxyMiller's words. 

Draxy's journey home was uneventful. She was sad and weary. The firstperson she saw on entering the house was her father. He divined in aninstant that she had been unsuccessful. "Never mind, little daughter, " hesaid, gleefully, "I am not disappointed; I knew you would not get it, butI thought the journey 'd be a good thing for you, may be. "

"But I have got something, father dear, " said Draxy; "only I'm afraid itis not worth much. "

"'Taint likely to be if Steve Potter gave it, " said Reuben, as Draxyhanded him the paper. He laughed scornfully as soon as he looked at it. "'Taint worth the paper it's writ on, " said he, "and he knew it; if hehain't looked the land up all these years, of course 'twas sold at venduelong ago. "

Draxy turned hastily away. Up to this moment she had clung to a littlehope. 

When the family were all gathered together in the evening, and Draxy hadtold the story of her adventures, Reuben and Captain Melville examined thedeed together. It was apparently a good clear title; it was of threehundred acres of land. Reuben groaned, "Oh, how I should like to see landby the acre once more. " Draxy's face turned scarlet, and she locked andunlocked her hands, but said nothing. "But it's no use thinking about it, "he went on; "this paper isn't worth a straw. Most likely there's more thanone man well under way on the land by this time. "

They looked the place up on an atlas. It was in the extreme northeastcorner of New Hampshire. A large part of the county was still marked"ungranted, " and the township in which this land lay was bounded on thenorth by this uninhabited district. The name of the town was Clairvend. 

"What could it have been named for?" said Draxy. "How pleasantly itsounds. "

"Most likely some Frenchman, " said Captain Melville. "They always givenames that 're kind o' musical. "

"We might as well burn the deed up. It's nothing but a torment to think ofit a lyin' round with it's three hundred acres of land, " said Reuben in animpulsive tone, very rare for him, and prolonging the "three hundred"with a scornful emphasis; and he sprang up to throw the paper into thefire. 

"No, no, man, " said Captain Melville; "don't be so hasty. No need ofburning things up in such a roomy house's this! Something may come of thatdeed yet. Give it to Draxy; I'm sure she's earned it, if there's anythingto it. Put it away for your dowry, dear, " and he snatched the paper fromReuben's hands and tossed it into Draxy's lap. He did not believe what hesaid, and the attempt at a joke brought but a faint smile to any face. Thepaper fell on the floor, and Draxy let it lie there till she thought herfather was looking another way, when she picked it up and put it in herpocket. 

For several days there were unusual silence and depression in thehousehold. They had really set far more hope than they knew on thisventure. It was not easy to take up the old routine and forget the aircastle. Draxy's friend, Mrs. White, was almost as disappointed as Draxyherself. She had not thought of the chance of Mr. Potter's being reallyunable to pay. She told her husband, who was a lawyer, the story of thedeed, and he said at once: "Of course it isn't worth a straw. If Potterdidn't pay the taxes, somebody else did, and the land's been sold longago. "

Mrs. White tried to comfort herself by engaging Draxy for one month'ssteady sewing, and presenting her with a set of George Eliot's novels. AndDraxy tried steadily and bravely to forget her journey, and the name ofClairvend. 

About this time she wrote a hymn, and showed it to her father. It was thefirst thing of the kind she had ever let him see, and his surprise anddelight showed her that here was one way more in which she could brightenhis life. She had not thought, in her extreme humility, that by hiding herverses she was depriving him of pleasure. After this she showed him allshe wrote, but the secret was kept religiously between them. 

 Draxy's Hymn. 

 I cannot think but God must know About the thing I long for so; I know He is so good, so kind, I cannot think but He will find Some way to help, some way to show Me to the thing I long for so. 

 I stretch my hand--it lies so near: It looks so sweet, it looks so dear. "Dear Lord, " I pray, "Oh, let me know If it is wrong to want it so?" He only smiles--He does not speak: My heart grows weaker and more weak, With looking at the thing so dear, Which lies so far, and yet so near. 

 Now, Lord, I leave at thy loved feet This thing which looks so near, so sweet; I will not seek, I will not long-- almost fear I have been wrong. I'll go, and work the harder, Lord, And wait till by some loud, clear word Thou callest me to thy loved feet, To take this thing so dear, so sweet. 

Part II. 

As the spring drew near, a new anxiety began to press upon Draxy. Reubendrooped. The sea-shore had never suited him. He pined at heart for theinland air, the green fields, the fragrant woods. This yearning always wasstrongest in the spring, when he saw the earth waking up around him; butnow the yearning became more than yearning. It was the home-sickness ofwhich men have died. Reuben said little, but Draxy divined all. She hadknown it from the first, but had tried to hope that he could conquer it. 

Draxy spent many wakeful hours at night now. The deed of the New Hampshireland lay in her upper bureau drawer, wrapped in an old handkerchief. Sheread it over, and over, and over. She looked again and again at the fadedpink township on the old atlas. "Who knows, " thought she, "but that landwas overlooked and forgotten? It is so near the 'ungranted lands, ' whichmust be wilderness, I suppose!" Slowly a dim purpose struggled in Draxy'sbrain. It would do no harm to find out. But how? No more journeys must betaken on uncertainties. At last, late one night, the inspiration came. Who shall say that it is not an unseen power which sometimes suggests tosorely tried human hearts the one possible escape? Draxy was in bed. Sherose, lighted her candle, and wrote two letters. Then she went back to bedand slept peacefully. In the morning when she kissed her father good-by, she looked wistfully in his face. She had never kept any secret from himbefore, except the secret of her verses. "But he must not be disappointedagain, " said Draxy; "and there is no real hope. "

She dropped her letter into the post-office and went to her work. 

The letter was addressed--

"To the Postmaster of Clairvend, "New Hampshire. "

It was a very short letter. 

"DEAR SIR:--I wish to ask some help from a minister in your town. If thereis more than one minister, will you please give my letter to the kindestone. Yours truly, "DRAXY MILLER. "

The letter inclosed was addressed--

"To the Minister of Clairvend. "

This letter also was short. 

"DEAR SIR:--I have asked the Postmaster to give this letter to the kindestminister in the town. 

"I am Reuben Miller's daughter. My father is very poor. He has not knownhow to do as other men do to be rich. He is very good, sir. I think youcan hardly have known any one so good. Mr. Stephen Potter, a man who owedhim money, has given us a deed of land in your town. My father thinks thedeed is not good for anything. But I thought perhaps it might be; and Iwould try to find out. My father is very sick, but I think he would getwell if he could come and live on a farm. I have written this letter inthe night, as soon as I thought about you; I mean as soon as I thoughtthat there must be a minister in Clairvend, and he would be willing tohelp me. 

"I have not told my father, because I do not want him to be disappointedagain as he was about the deed. 

"I have copied for you the part of the deed which tells where the land is;and I put in a stamp to pay for your letter to me, and if you will findout for us if we can get this land, I shall be grateful to you all mylife. DRAXY MILLER. "

Inclosed was a slip of paper on which Draxy had copied with great care thedescription of the boundaries of the land conveyed by the deed. It was allthat was necessary. The wisest lawyer, the shrewdest diplomatist in theland never put forth a subtler weapon than this simple girl's simpleletter. 

It was on the morning of the 3d of April that Draxy dropped her letter inthe office. Three days later it was taken out of the mail-bag in thepost-office of Clairvend. The post-office was in the one store of thevillage. Ten or a dozen men were lounging about curiosity about the oddname was soon swallowed up in curiosity as to the contents of the letter. The men of Clairvend had not been so stirred and roused by anything sincethe fall election. Luckily for Draxy's poor little letter, there was butone minister in the village, and the only strife which rose was as to whoshould carry him the letter. Finally, two of the most persistent set outwith it, both declaring that they had business on that road, and had meantall along to go in and see the Elder on their way home. 

Elder Kinney lived in a small cottage high up on a hill, a mile from thepost-office, and on a road very little travelled. As the men toiled upthis hill, they saw a tall figure coming rapidly towards them. 

"By thunder! there's the Elder now! That's too bad, " said little EbenHill, the greatest gossip in the town. 

The Elder was walking at his most rapid rate; and Elder Kinney's mostrapid rate was said to be one with which horses did not easily keep up. "No, thank you, friend, I haven't time to ride to-day, " he often repliedto a parishioner who, jogging along with an old farm-horse, offered togive him a lift on the road. 

"Elder! Elder! here's a letter we was a bringin' up to you!" called outboth of the men at once as he passed them like a flash, saying hurriedly"Good evening! good evening!" and was many steps down the hill beyond thembefore he could stop. 

"Oh, thank you!" he said, taking it hastily and dropping it into hispocket. "Mrs. Williams is dying, they say; I cannot stop a minute, " andhe was out of sight while the baffled parishioners stood confounded attheir ill-luck. 

"Now jest as like's not we shan't never know what was in that letter, "said. Eben Hill, disconsolately. "Ef we'd ha'gone in and set down while heread it, we sh'd ha' had some chance. "

"But then he mightn't ha' read it while we was there, " replied JosephBailey resignedly; an' I expect It ain't none o' our business anyhow, oneway or t'other. "

"It's the queerest thing's ever happened in this town, " persisted Eben;"what's a girl--that is, if 'tis a girl--got to do writin' to a ministershe don't know? I don't believe it's any good she's after. "

"Wal, ef she is, she's come to the right place; and there's no knowin' butthat the Lord's guided her, Eben; for ef ever there was a man sent on thisairth to do the Lord's odd jobs o' looking arter folks, it's ElderKinney, " said Joseph. 

"That's so, " answered Eben in a dismal tone, "that's so; but he's dreadfulclose-mouthed when he's a mind to be. You can't deny that!"

"Wal, I dunno's I want ter deny it, " said Joseph, who was beginning, inEben's company, to grow ashamed of curiosity; "I dunno's it's anythingagin him, " and so the men parted. 

It was late at night when Elder Kinney went home from the bedside of thedying woman. He had forgotten all about the letter. When he undressed, itfell from his pocket, and lay on the floor. It was the first thing he sawin the morning. "I declare!" said the Elder, and reaching out a long armfrom the bed, he picked it up. 

The bright winter sun was streaming in on the Elder's face as he readDraxy's letter. He let it fall on the scarlet and white counterpane, andlay thinking. The letter touched him unspeakably. Elder Kinney was nocommon man; he had a sensitive organization and a magnetic power, which, if he had had the advantages of education and position, would have madehim a distinguished preacher. As a man, he was tender, chivalrous, andimpulsive; and even the rough, cold, undemonstrative people among whom hislife had been spent had, without suspecting it, almost a romanticaffection for him. He had buried his young wife and her first-bornstill-born child together in this little village twelve years before, andhad ever since lived in the same house from which they had been carried tothe grave-yard. "If you ever want any other man to preach to you, " he saidto the people, "you've only to say so to the Conference. I don't want topreach one sermon too many to you. But I shall live and die in this house;I can't ever go away. I can get a good livin' at farmin'--good aspreachin', any day!"

The sentence, "I am Reuben Miller's daughter, " went to his heart as ithad gone to every man's heart who had heard it before from Draxy'sunconscious lips. But it sunk deeper in his heart than in any other. 

"If baby had lived she would have loved me like this perhaps, " thought theElder, as he read the pathetic words over and over. Then he studied theparagraph copied from the deed. Suddenly a thought flashed into his mind. He knew something about this land. It must be--yes, it must be on a partof this land that the sugar-camp lay from which he had been sent for, fiveyears before, to see a Frenchman who was lying very ill in the little logsugar-house. The Elder racked his brains. Slowly it all came back to him. He remembered that at the time some ill-will had been shown in the towntoward this Frenchman; that doubts had been expressed about his right tothe land; and that no one would go out into the clearing to help take careof him. Occasionally, since that time, the Elder had seen the man hangingabout the town. He had an evil look; this was all the Elder couldremember. 

At breakfast he said to old Nancy, his housekeeper: "Nancy, did you everknow anything about that Frenchman who had a sugar-camp out back of theswamp road? I went to see him when he had the fever a few years ago. "

Nancy was an Indian woman with a little white blood in her veins. Shenever forgot an injury. This Frenchman had once jeered at her from thesteps of the village store, and the village men had laughed. 

"Know anythin' about him? Yes, sir. He's a son o' Satan, an' I reckon hestays to hum the great part o' the year, for he's never seen round hereexcept jest sugarin' time. "

The Elder laughed in spite of himself. Nancy's tongue was a member ofwhich he strongly disapproved; but his efforts to enforce charity andpropriety of speech upon her were sometimes rendered null and void by hislack of control of his features. Nancy loved her master, but she had noreverence in her composition, and nothing gave her such delight as to makehim laugh out against his will. She went on to say that the Frenchman cameevery spring, bringing with him a gang of men, some twelve or more, "allsons o' the same father, sir; you'd know 'em's far's you see 'em. " Theytook a large stock of provisions, went out into the maple clearing, andlived there during the whole sugar season in rough log huts. "They do sayhe's jest carried off a good thousand dollar's worth o' sugar this veryweek, " said Nancy. 

The Elder brought his hand down hard on the table and said "Whew!" Thiswas Elder Kinney's one ejaculation. Nancy seldom heard it, and she knew itmeant tremendous excitement. She grew eager, and lingered, hoping forfurther questions; but the Elder wanted his next information from a moreaccurate and trustworthy source than old Nancy. Immediately afterbreakfast he set out for the village; soon he slackened his pace, andbegan to reflect. It was necessary to act cautiously; he feltinstinctively sure that the Frenchman had not purchased the land. Hisoccupation of it had evidently been acquiesced in by the town for manyyears; but the Elder was too well aware of the slack and unbusinesslikeway in which much of the town business was managed, to attach much weightto this fact. He was perplexed--a rare thing for Elder Kinney. He stoppedand sat down on the top of a stone wall to think. In a few minutes he sawthe steaming heads of a pair of oxen coming up the hill. Slowly the cartcame in sight: it was loaded with sugar-buckets; and there, walking byits side, was--yes! it was--the very Frenchman himself. 

Elder Kinney was too much astonished even to say "Whew!"

"This begins to look like the Lord's own business, " was the firstimpulsive thought of his devout heart. "There's plainly something to bedone. That little Draxy's father shall get some o' the next year's sugarout o' that camp, or my name isn't Seth Kinney;" and the Elder sprang fromthe wall and walked briskly towards the Frenchman. As he drew near him, and saw the forbidding look on the fellow's face, he suddenly abandonedhis first intention, which was to speak to him, and, merely bowing, passedon down the hill. 

"He's a villain, if I know the look of one, " said honest Elder. "I'llthink a little longer. I wonder where he stores his buckets. Now, there'sa chance, " and Elder Kinney turned about and followed the plodding cart upthe hill again. It was a long pull and a tedious one; and for Elder Kinneyto keep behind oxen was a torture like being in a straight waistcoat. Onemile, two miles, three miles! the Elder half repented of his undertaking;but like all wise and magnetic natures, he had great faith in his firstimpulses, and he kept on. 

At last the cart turned into a lane on the right-hand side of the road. 

"Why, he's goin' to old Ike's, " exclaimed the Elder. "Well, I can get atall old Ike knows, and it's pretty apt to be all there is worth knowin', "and Elder Kinney began, in his satisfaction, to whistle

 "Life is the time to serve the Lord, "

in notes as clear and loud as a bob-o'-link's. 

He walked on rapidly, and was very near overtaking the Frenchman, when anew thought struck him. "Now, if he's uneasy about himself, --and if heknows he ain't honest, of course he's uneasy, --he'll may be think I'm onhis track, and be off to his 'hum, ' as Nancy calls it, " and the Elderchuckled at the memory, "an' I shouldn't have any chance of ketchin' himhere for another year. " The Elder stood still again. Presently he jumped afence, and walking off to the left, climbed a hill, from the top of whichhe could see old Ike's house. Here, in the edge of a spruce grove, hewalked back and forth, watching the proceedings below. "Seems little toomuch like bein' a spy, " thought the good man, "but I never felt a clearercall in a thing in my life than I do in this little girl's letter, " and hefell to singing

 "Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, "

till the crows in the wood were frightened by the strange sound, and cameflying out and flapping their great wings above his head. 

The Frenchman drove into old Ike's yard. Ike came out of the house andhelped him unload the buckets, and carry them into an old corn-house whichstood behind the barn: As soon as the Frenchman had turned his oxen's headdown the lane, the Elder set out for the house, across the fields. Old Ikewas standing in the barn-door. When he saw the tall figure stridingthrough the pasture, he ran to let down the bars, and hurried up to theElder and grasped both his hands. Not in all Elder Kinney's parish wasthere a single heart which beat so warmly for him as did the heart of thispoor lonely old man, who had lived by himself in this solitary valley eversince the Elder came to Clairvend. 

"Oh, Elder, Elder, " said he, "it does me reel good to see your face. Be yewell, sir?" looking closely at him. 

"Yes, Ike, thank you, I'm always well, " replied the Elder absently. He wastoo absorbed in his errand to have precisely his usual manner, and it wasthe slight change which Ike's affectionate instinct felt. But Ike savedhim all perplexity as to introducing the object of his visit by saying atonce, picking up one of the sugar-buckets which had rolled off to oneside, "I'm jest pilin' up Ganew's sugar-buckets for him. He pays me wellfor storin' 'em, but I kind o' hate to have anythin' to do with him. Don'tyou remember him, sir--him that was so awful bad with the fever down'n theclearin' five years ago this month? You was down to see him, I know. "

"Yes, yes, I remember, " said the Elder, with a manner so nonchalant thathe was frightened at his own diplomacy. "He was a bad fellow, I thought, "

Ike went on: "Wall, that's everybody's feelin' about him: and there ain'tno great thing to show for 't nuther. But they did say a while back thathe hadn't no reel right to the land. He turned up all of a sudden, andpaid up all there was owin' on the taxes, an' he's paid 'em regular eversence. But he hain't never showed how the notes come to be signed by someother name. Yes, sir, the hull lot--it's nigh on ter three hundred acres, such's 'tis; a good part on't 's swamp though, that ain't wuth acopper--the hull lot went to a man down in York State, when the IronCompany bust up here, and for two or three year the chap he jest sent uphis note for the taxes, and they've a drefful shiftless way o' lettin'things go in this ere town, 's you know, sir; there wan't nobody thatknowed what a sugar orchard was a lyin' in there, or there'd been plentyto grab for it; but I don't s'pose there's three men in the town'd everbeen over back o' Birch Hill till this Ganew he come and cut a road in, and had his sugar-camp agoin' one spring, afore anybody knew what he wasarter. But he's paid all up reg'lar, and well he may, sez everybody, forhe can't get his sugar off, sly's he is, w'thout folks gettin' some kindo' notion about it, an' they say's he's cleared thousands an' thousands o'dollars. I expect they ain't overshot the mark nuther, for he's got sixhundred new buckets this spring, and Bill Sims, he's been in with 'em thelast two years, 'n he says there ain't no sugar orchard to compare, exceptSquire White's over in Mill Creek, and he's often taken in three thousandpounds off his'n. "

Ike sighed as he paused, breathless. "It's jest my luck, allers knockin'about 'n them woods 's I am, not to have struck trail on that air orchard. I could ha' bought it's well's not in the fust on't, if it had been put upto vendue, 's't oughter ben, an' nobody knowin' what 'twas wuth. "

Elder Kinney was almost overcome by this unhoped-for corroboration of hisinstincts; clearing up of his difficulties. His voice sounded hoarse inhis own ears as he replied:--

"Well, Ike, the longest lane has a turnin'. It's my belief that Goddoesn't often let dishonest people prosper very long. We shall see whatbecomes of Ganew. Where does he live? I'd like to see him. "

"Well, he don't live nowhere, 's near's anybody can find out. He's in thecamp with the gang about six weeks, sometimes eight; they say's it's akind of settlement down there, an' then he's off again till sugarin' comesround; but he's dreadful sharp and partikler about the taxes, I tell you, and he's given a good deal too, fust and last, to the town. Folks say hewants to make 'em satisfied to let him alone. He's coming up here againto-morrow with two more loads of buckets, sir: if 'twouldn't be too muchtrouble for you to come here agin so soon, " added poor Ike, grasping atthe chance of seeing the Elder again. 

"Well, I think perhaps I'll come, " replied the Elder, ashamed again of thereadiness with which he found himself taking to tortuous methods, "if I'mnot too busy. What time will he be here?"

"About this same time, " said Ike. "He don't waste no time, mornin' norevenin'. "

The Elder went away soon, leaving poor Ike half unhappy. 

"He's got somethin' on his mind, thet's plain enough, " thought the lovingold soul. "I wonder now ef it's a woman; I've allus thought the Elderwar'nt no sort of man to live alone all his days. "

"Dear, good little Draxy, " thought the Elder, as he walked down the road. "How shall I ever tell the child of this good luck, and how shall I manageit all for the best for her?"

Draxy's interests were in good hands. Before night Elder Kinney hadascertained that there had never been any sale of this land since it wassold to "the New York chap, " and that Ganew's occupation of it wasillegal. After tea the Elder sat down and wrote two letters. 

The first one was to Draxy, and ran as follows:--

"MY DEAR CHILD:--

"I received your letter last night, and by the Lord's help I have foundout all about your father's land today. But I shall write to your fatherabout it, for you could not understand. 

"I wish the Lord had seen fit to give me just such a daughter as you are. 

"Your friend, "SETH KINNEY. "

The letter to Reuben was very long, giving in substance the facts whichhave been told above, and concluding thus:--

"I feel a great call from the Lord to do all I can in this business, and Ihope you won't take it amiss if I make bold to decide what's best to bedone without consulting you. This fellow's got to be dealt with prettysharp, and I, being on the ground, can look after him better than you can. But I'll guarantee that you'll have possession of that land before manyweeks. " He then asked Reuben to have an exact copy of the deed made outand forwarded to him; also any other papers which might throw light on thetransfer of the property, sixteen years back. "Not that I calculatethere'll be any trouble, " he added; "we don't deal much in lawyer's tricksup here, but it's just as well to be provided. "

The Elder went to the post-office before breakfast to post this letter. The address did not escape the eyes of the postmaster. Before noon EbenHill knew that the Elder had written right off by the first mail to a"Miss Draxy Miller. "

Meantime the Elder was sitting in the doorway of old Ike's barn waitingfor the Frenchman; ten o'clock came, eleven, twelve--he did not appear. 

The Elder's uneasiness grew great, but he talked on and on till poor Ikewas beside himself with delight. At last the distant creak of the wheelswas heard. "There he is, " exclaimed Ike. "I'm thinking, sir, that it's akind o' providential dispensation thet's hendered him all this time; it'sdone me such a sight o' good to hear you talk. "

The Elder smiled tenderly on poor old Ike. 

"Everything is a dispensation, Ike, accordin' to my way o' thinkin';" andagain he thought involuntarily of "little Draxy. "

Ganew assented with a half-surly civility to Elder Kinney's proposition toride down with him. 

"I've got a matter of business to talk over with you, Mr. Ganew, "--saidthe Elder, "and I came up here on purpose to find you. "

The man turned his stolid black eyes full on the Elder, but made no reply. It was indeed an evil face. The Elder was conscious that impulses whichhe feared were unchristian were rising rapidly in his breast. He hadwished a few times before in his life that he was not a minister. Hewished it now. He would have liked to open his conversation with Ganewafter the manner of the world's people when they deal with thieves. Andagain he thought involuntarily of "little Draxy, " and her touching "we arevery poor. "

But when he spoke, he spoke gently and slowly. 

"I have some news for you which will be very disagreeable, Mr. Ganew. "Here the Frenchman started, with such a terrified, guilty, malignant lookon his face, that the Elder said to himself: "Good God, I believe the manknows he's in danger of his life. Stealin's the least of his crimes, I'llventure. "

He proceeded still more gently. "The owners of the land which you've beenusing as your own in this town, have written to inquire about it, and haveput the business in my hands. "

Ganew was silent for a moment. Then trying to speak in an indignant tone, he said, --

"Using as my own! I don't know what you mean, Mr. Parson. I have paid mytaxes all regular, and I've got the title-deeds of the land, every acre ofit. I can't help whoever's been writing to you about it; it's all myland. "

But his face twitched with nervous excitement, and the fright and anger inhis serpent-like black eyes were ugly to see. 

"No, Mr. Ganew, it is not, " said the Elder; "and you know it. Now you jestlisten to me; I know the whole truth about the matter, an' all the timeyou spend fightin' off the truth'll be wasted, besides addin' lyin' tohavin' been a thief. The owners of the land'll be here, I expect beforelong; but they've put it all in my hands, an' I can let you off if Ichoose. "

"Let me off! What the devil do you mean?" said Ganew. 

"Why, you don't suppose there's goin' to be nothin' said about all thethousands o' dollars' wuth of sugar you've carried off here, do"--

The next thing Elder Kinney knew he was struggling up to his feet in themiddle of the road; he was nearly blinded by blood trickling from a cut onhis forehead, and only saw dimly that Ganew was aiming another blow at himwith his heavy-handled ox-goad. 

But the Frenchman had reckoned without his host. Elder Kinney, even halfstunned, was more than a match for him. In a very few minutes Ganew waslying in the bottom of his own ox-cart, with his hands securely tiedbehind him with a bit of his own rope and the Elder was sitting calmlydown on a big boulder, wiping his forehead and recovering his breath; ithad been an ugly tussle, and the Elder was out of practice. 

Presently he rose, walked up to the cart, and leaning both his arms on thewheel, looked down on his enemy. 

The Frenchman's murderous little black eyes rolled wildly, but he did notstruggle. He had felt in the first instant that he was but an infant inthe Elder's hands. 

"Ye poor, miserable, cowardly French, --sinner ye, " said the Elder, struggling for an epithet not unbecoming his cloth. "Did you think you wasgoin' to get me out o' yer way's easy's that, 's I dare say ye have betterfolks than me, before now!"

Ganew muttered something in a tongue the Elder did not understand, but thesound of it kindled his wrath anew. 

"Well, call on your Master, if that's what you're doin', 's much's youlike. He don't generally look out for anybody much who's so big a fool'syou must be, to think you was goin' to leave the minister o' this parishdead in a ditch within stone's throw o' houses and nobody find you out, "and the Elder sat down again on the boulder. He felt very dizzy and faint;and the blood still trickled steadily from his forehead. Ganew's face atthis moment was horrible. Rage at his own folly, hate of the Elder, andterror which was uncontrollable, all contended on his livid features. 

At last he spoke. He begged abjectly to be set free. He offered to leavethe town at once and never return if the Elder would only let him go. 

"What an' give up all your land ye've got such a fine clear title to?"said the Elder, sarcastically. "No; we'll give ye a title there won't beno disputin' about to a good berth in Mill Creek jail for a spell!"

At this the terror mastered every other emotion in the Frenchman's face. What secret reason he had for it all, no one could know but himself; whatiniquitous schemes already waiting him in other places, what complicationsof dangers attendant on his identification and detention. He begged, hebesought, in words so wildly imploring, so full of utter unconditionalsurrender, that there could be no question as to their sincerity. TheElder began, in spite of himself, to pity the wretch; he began also to askwhether after all it would not be the part of policy to let him go. Aftersome minutes he said, "I can't say I put much confidence in ye yet, Mr. Ganew; but I'm inclined to think it's the Lord's way o' smoothin' thingsfor some o' his children, to let you kind o' slink off, " and somehow ElderKinney fancied he heard little Draxy say, "Oh, sir, let the poor man go. "There was something marvelous in his under-current of consciousness of"little Draxy. "

He rose to his feet, picked up the heavy ox-goad, struck the near oxsharply on the side, and walking on a little ahead of the team, said:"I'll just take ye down a piece, Mr. Ganew, till we're in sight of JimBlair's, before I undo ye. I reckon the presence o' a few folks'llstrengthen your good resolutions. " "An' I mistrust I ain't quite equal toanother handlin, '" thought the Elder to himself, as he noted how the sunnyroad seemed to go up and down under his feet. He was really far more hurtthan he knew. 

When they were in sight of the house, he stopped the oxen, and leaningagain on the wheel, and looking down on Ganew, had one more talk with him, at the end of which he began cautiously to untie the rope. He held theox-goad, however, firmly grasped in his right hand, and it was not withouta little tremor that he loosed the last knots. "Suppose the desperatecritter sh'd have a knife, " thought the Elder. 

He need not have feared. A more crestfallen, subdued, wretched being thanPaul Ganew, as he crawled out of that cart, was never seen. He had his ownsecret terror, and it had conquered him. "It's more'n me he's afraid of, "said the Elder to himself. "This is the Lord's doin', I reckon. Now, Mr. Ganew, if you'll jest walk to the heads o' them oxen I'll thank ye, " saidhe: "an' 's I feel some tired, I'll jump into the cart; an' I'll save yecarryin' the ox-goad, " he added, as he climbed slowly in, still holdingthe murderous weapon in his hand. Nothing could extinguish Seth Kinney'ssense of humor. 

"If we meet any folks, " he proceeded, "we've only to say that I've had abad hurt, and that you're very kindly takin' me home. "

Ganew walked on like a man in a dream. He was nearly paralyzed withterror. They met no human being, and very few words passed between them. When the cart stopped at the Elder's door, Ganew stood still withoutturning his head. The Elder went up to him and said, with real kindness oftone, "Mr. Ganew, I expect you can't believe it, but I don't bear ye the leastill-will. "

A faint flicker of something like grateful surprise passed over the hardface, but no words came. 

"I hope the Lord'll bring ye to himself yet, " persisted the good man, "and forgive me for havin' had anything but pity for ye from the firston't. Ye won't forget to send me a writing for Bill Sims that the rest ofthe buckets in the camp belong to me?"

Ganew nodded sullenly and went on, and the Elder walked slowly into thehouse. 

After dark, a package was left at the Elder's door. It contained theorder on Bill Sims, and a letter. Some of the information in the letterproved useful in clearing up the mystery of Ganew's having known of thistract of land. He had been in Potter's employ, it seemed, and had hadaccess to his papers. What else the letter told no one ever knew; but theElder's face always had a horror-stricken look when the Frenchman's namewas mentioned, and when people sometimes wondered if he would ever be seenagain in Clairvend, the emphasis of the Elder's "Never! ye may rely onthat! Never!" had something solemn in it. 

In less than forty-eight hours the whole village knew the story. "Thesooner they know the whole on't the better, and the sooner they'll bethrough talkin', " said the Elder, and nobody could have accused him ofbeing "close-mouthed" now. He even showed "the little gal's letter, " asthe townspeople called it, to anybody who asked to see it. It hurt him todo this, more than he could see reason for, but he felt a strong desire tohave the village heart all ready to welcome "little Draxy" and her fatherwhen they should come. And the village heart was ready! Hardly a man, woman, or child but knew her name and rejoiced in her good fortune. "Don'tyer remember my tellin' yer that night, " said Josiah Bailey to Eben Hill, "that she'd come to the right place for help when she come to ElderKinney?"

When Draxy took Elder Kinney's letter out of the post-office, her handstrembled. She walked rapidly away, and opened the letter as soon as shereached a quiet street. The Elder had not made it so clear as he thoughthe had, in his letter to the "child, " which way matters had gone. Draxyfeared. Presently she thought, "He says 'your father's land. ' That mustmean that we shall have it. " But still she had sad misgivings. She almostdecided to read the inclosed letter which was unsealed; she could not haveher father disappointed again; but her keen sense of honor restrained her. 

Reuben had grown really feeble. There were many days now when he could notwork, but sat listlessly on a ledge of rocks near the house, and watchedthe restless waves with a sense of misery as restless as they. When Draxyreached home this night and found that her father was not in the house, she ran over to the "Black Ledge. " There she found him. She sat down byhis side, not knowing how to begin. Presently he said: "I wish I lovedthis water, daughter, --it is very beautiful to look at; but I'm thinkin'it's somethin' like human beings; they may be ever so handsome to look on, but if you don't love 'em you don't, and that's the end on't, an' it don'tdo ye no sort o' good to be where they are. "

"The woods and fields used to do you good, father, " said Draxy. 

Reuben was astonished. Draxy was not wont to allude to the lost andirrecoverable joys. But he only sighed. 

"Read this letter, father dear, " said Draxy, hurriedly pushing it into hishand; "I wrote up to a good old minister to find out, and here's hisanswer. "

Reuben looked bewildered. Draxy's words did not make themselves clear. But the first words of Elder Kinney's letter did. The paper fell from hishands. 

"Oh, daughter! daughter! it can't be true! It can't!" and Reuben Millercovered his eyes and cried. Draxy did not cry. One of the finest traits inher nature was her instantaneous calmness of exterior under sudden andintense excitement. 

"Yes; father, it is true. It must be. I have believed it from the first!Oh do, do read the letter, " said Draxy, and she forced the letter into hishands again. 

"No, no, daughter. Read it to me. I can't see the words, " replied Reuben, still weeping. He was utterly unmanned. Then Draxy read the letter aloudslowly, distinctly, calmly. Her voice did not tremble. She accepted itall, absolutely, unconditionally, as she had accepted everything which hadever happened to her. In Draxy's soul the past never confused the present;her life went on from moment to moment, from step to step as naturally, asclearly, as irrevocably as plants grow and flower, without hinderance, without delay. This it was which had kept her serene, strong: this is truehealth of nature. 

After a time Reuben grew calmer; Draxy's presence always helped him. Theysat on the rocks until twilight fell, and the great red lamp in thelight-house was lighted. 

"Father, dear, " said Draxy, "I think there are light-houses all along ourlives, and God knows when it is time to light the lamps. "

Reuben clasped Draxy's hand tighter, and turned his eyes upon her with alook whose love was almost reverent. 

Lights shone until morning from the windows of Captain Melville's house. The little family had sat together until long after midnight, discussingthis new and wonderful turn in their affairs. Jane and Reuben werebewildered and hardly happy yet; Draxy was alert, enthusiastic, ready asusual; poor Captain Melville and his wife were in sore straits betweentheir joy in the Millers' good fortune, and their pain at the prospect ofthe breaking up of the family. Their life together had been so beautiful, so harmonious. 

"Oh, Draxy, " said the Captain, "how shall we ever live without you?"

"Oh! but you will come up there, uncle. " said Draxy; "and we shall keepyou after we once get you. "

Captain Melville shook his head. He could never leave the sea. But fullwell he knew that the very salt of it would have lost its best savor tohim when this sweet, fair girl had gone out from his house. 

The "good-nights" were sadly and solemnly said. "Oh!" thought Draxy, "doesjoy always bring pain in this world?" and she fell asleep with tears onher cheeks. 

Reuben sat up until near dawn, writing to Elder Kinney. He felt strangelystrong. He was half cured already by the upland air of the fields he hadnever seen. The next morning Draxy said, "Do you not think, father, Iought to write a note too, to thank the kind minister, or will you tellhim how grateful I am?"

"Put a postscript to my letter, daughter. That will be better, " saidReuben. 

So Draxy wrote at the bottom of the last page:--

"DEAR MR. KINNEY:--I do not know any words to thank you in; and I thinkyou will like it better if I do not try. My father seems almost wellalready. I am sure it was the Lord that helped you to find out about ourland. I hope we can come very soon. 

"Your grateful friend, "DRAXY MILLER. "

When the Elder read this second note of Draxy's, he said aloud, "God blessher! she's one o' His chosen ones, that child is, " and he fell towondering how she looked. He found himself picturing her as slight andfair, with blue eyes, and hair of a pale yellow. "I don't believe she'smore than fourteen at most;" thought he, "she speaks so simple, jest likea child; an' yet, she goes right to the pint, 's straight's any woman;though I don't know, come to think on't, 's ever I knew a woman that couldgo straight to a pint, " reflected the Elder, whose patience was oftensorely tried by the wandering and garrulous female tongues in his parish. The picture of "Little Draxy" grew strangely distinct in his mind; and hisheart yearned towards her with a yearning akin to that which years beforehe had felt over the little silent form of the daughter whose eyes hadnever looked into his. 

There was no trouble with the town in regard to the land. If there hadbeen any doubts, Elder Kinney's vigorous championship of the new claimantwould have put them down. But the sympathy of the entire community wasenlisted on Reuben's side. The whole story from first to last appealed toevery man's heart; and there was not a father in town that did not resthis hand more lovingly on his little girl's head at night, when he sat inhis door-way talking over "them Millers, " and telling about Draxy's"writin' to th' Elder. "

Before the first of May all was settled. Elder Kinney had urged Mr. Millerto come at once to his house, and make it a home until he could look aboutand decide where he would establish himself. 

"I am a lonely man, " he wrote; "I buried my wife and only child many yearsago, and have lived here ever since, with only an old Indian woman to takecare of me. I don't want to press you against your will; and there's ahouse in the village that you can hire; but it will go against me sorelynot to have you in my house at the first. I want to see you, and to seeyour little daughter; I can't help feeling as if the Lord had laid out forus to be friends more than common. "

Reuben hesitated. The shyness of his nature made him shrink from othermen's houses. But Draxy inclined strongly to the Elder's proposition. "Oh, think father, how lonely he must be. Suppose you hadn't mother nor me, father dear!" and Draxy kissed her father's cheek; "and think how glad youhave been that you came to live with uncle, " she added. 

Reuben looked lovingly at Captain Melville, but said nothing. 

"I'll tell ye what I think, Reuben;" said the Captain. "It's my beliefthat you'n that parson'll take to each other. His letters sound like yourtalk. Somehow, I've got an uncommon respect for that man, considerin' he'sa parson: it's my advice to ye, to take up with his offer. "

"And it seems no more than polite, father, " persisted Draxy: "after hehas done so much for us. We need not say how long we will stay in hishouse, you know. "

"Supposin' you go up first, Draxy, " said Reuben, hesitatingly, "an' seehow 'tis. I always did hate Injuns. "

"Oh!" said Draxy; she had hardly observed the mention of that feature inthe Elder's household, and she laughed outright. Her ideas of theancestral savage were too vague to be very alarming. "If she has lived allthese years with this good old minister, she must be civilized and kind, "said Draxy. "I'm not afraid of her. "

"But I think it would be a great deal better for me to go first, " shecontinued, more and more impressed with the new idea. "Then I can be surebeforehand about everything, and get things all in order for you; andthere'll be Mr. Kinney to take care of me; I feel as if he was a kind offather to everybody. " And Draxy in her turn began to wonder about theElder's appearance as he had wondered about hers. Her mental picture wasquite as unlike the truth as was his. She fancied him not unlike herfather, but much older, with a gentle face, and floating white hair. Dimpurposes of how she might make his lonely old age more cheerful, floatedbefore her mind. "It must be awful, " thought she, "to live years and yearsall alone with an Indian. "

When Elder Kinney read Reuben's letter, saying that they would send theirdaughter up first to decide what would be best for them to do, he broughthis hand down hard on the table and said "Whew!" again. 

"Well, I do declare, " thought he to himself, "I'm afraid they're dreadfulshiftless folks, to send that girl way up here, all alone by herself; andhow's such a child's that goin' to decide anything, I should like toknow?"

He read again the letter Reuben had written. "My daughter is very young, but we lean upon her as if she was older. She has helped us bear all ourmisfortunes, and we have more confidence in her opinions than in our ownabout everything. " The Elder was displeased. 

"Lean on her;' I should think you did! Poor little girl! Well, I can lookout for her; that's one comfort. " And the Elder wrote a short note to theeffect that he would meet their "child" at the railway station, which wassix miles from their town; that he would do all he could to help her; andthat he hoped soon to see Mr. And Mrs. Miller under his roof. 

The words of the note were most friendly, but there was an indefinabledifference between it and all the others, which Draxy felt without knowingthat she felt it, and her last words to her father as she bade him good-byfrom the car window were: "I don't feel so sure as I did about our stayingwith Mr. Kinney, father. You leave it all to me, do you, dear, even if Idecide to buy a house?"

"Yes, daughter, " said Reuben, heartily; "all! Nothing but good's ever comeyet of your way o' doin' things. "

"An' I don't in the least hanker after that Injun, " he called out as thecars began to move. Draxy laughed merrily. Reuben was a new man already. They were very gay together, and felt wonderfully little fear for peopleto whom life had been thus far so hard. 

There was not a misgiving in Draxy's heart as she set out again on a twodays' journey to an unknown place. "Oh how different from the day when Istarted before, " she thought as she looked out on the water sparklingunder the bright May sun. She spent the first night, as before, at thehouse of Captain Melville's brother, and set out at eight the followingmorning, to ride for ten hours steadily northward. The day was like a dayof June. The spring was opening early; already fruit-trees were white andpink; banks were green, and birds were noisy. 

By noon mountains came in sight. Draxy was spellbound. "They are granderthan the sea, " thought she, "and I never dreamed it; and they are loving, too. I should like to rest my cheek on them. "

As she drew nearer and nearer, and saw some tops still white with snow, her heart beat faster, and with a sudden pang almost ofconscience-stricken remorse, she exclaimed, "Oh, I shall never, never oncemiss the sea!"

Elder Kinney had borrowed Eben Hill's horse and wagon to drive over forDraxy. He was at the station half an hour before the train was due. It hadbeen years since the steady currents of his life had been so disturbed andhurried as they were by this little girl. 

"Looks like rain, Elder; I 'spect she'll have to go over with me arterall, " said George Thayer, the handsomest, best-natured stage-driver in thewhole State of New Hampshire. The Elder glanced anxiously at the sky. 

"No, I guess not, George, " he replied. "'Twon't be anything more'n ashower, an' I've got an umbrella and a buffalo-robe. I can keep her dry. "

Everybody at the station knew Draxy's story, and knew that the Elder hadcome to meet her. When the train stopped, all eyes eagerly scanned thepassengers who stepped out on the platform. Two men, a boy, and threewomen, one after the other; it was but a moment, and the train was offagain. 

"She hain't come, " exclaimed voice after voice. The Elder said nothing; hehad stood a little apart from the crowd, watching for his ideal Draxy; assoon as he saw that she was not there, he had fallen into a perplexedreverie as to the possible causes of her detention. He was sorely anxiousabout the child. "Jest's like's not, she never changed cars down at theJunction, " thought he, "an' 's half way to Montreal by this time, " andthe Elder felt hot with resentment against Reuben Miller. 

Meantime, beautiful, dignified, and unconscious, Draxy stood on theplatform, quietly looking at face after face, seeking for the white hairand gentle eyes of her trusted friend, the old minister. 

George Thayer, with the quick instinct of a stage-driver, was the first tosee that she was a stranger. 

"Where d'ye wish to go, ma'am?" said he, stepping towards her. 

"Thank you, " said Draxy, "I expected some one to meet me, " and she lookeduneasy; but reassured by the pleasant face, she went on: "the ministerfrom Clairvend village was to meet me here. "

George Thayer said, two hours afterward, in recounting his share of theadventure, "I tell ye, boys, when she said that ye might ha' knocked medown with a feather. I hain't never heard no other woman's voice that'sgot jest the sound to't hern has; an' what with that, an' thinkin' howbeat the Elder'd be, an' wonderin' who in thunder she was anyhow, I don'tbelieve I opened my dum lips for a full minute; but she kind o' smiled, and sez she, 'Do you know Mr. Kinney?' and that brought me to, and jestthen the Elder he come along, and so I introduced 'em. "

It was not exactly an introduction, however. The Elder, entirely absorbedin conjecture as to poor little Draxy's probable whereabouts, stumbled onthe platform steps and nearly fell at her very feet, and was recalled tohimself only to be plunged into still greater confusion by George Thayer'sloud "Hallo! here he is. Here's Elder Kinney. Here's a lady askin' foryou, Elder!"

Even yet it did not dawn upon Elder Kinney who this could be; his littlegolden-haired girl was too vividly stamped on his brain; he looked gravelyinto the face of this tall and fine-looking young woman and said kindly, "Did you wish to see me, ma'am?"

Draxy smiled. She began to understand. "I am afraid you did not expect tosee me so tall, sir, " she said. "I am Reuben Miller's daughter, --Draxy, "she added, smiling again, but beginning in her turn to look confused. Could this erect, vigorous man, with a half-stern look on his dark-beardedface, be the right Mr. Kinney? her minister? It was a moment which neitherElder Kinney nor Draxy ever forgot. The unsentimental but kindly Georgegave the best description of it which could be given. 

"I vow, boys, I jest wish ye could ha' seen our Elder; an' yet, I dunno'sI do wish so, nuther. He stood a twistin' his hat, jest like any o' us, an' he kind o' stammered, an' I don't believe neither on 'em knew a wordhe said; an' her cheeks kep' gittin' redder'n redder, an' she looked's efshe was ready to cry, and yet she couldn't keep from larfin, no how. Yesee she thought he was an old man and he thought she was a little gal, an'somehow't first they didn't either of 'em feel like nobody; but when Ipassed 'em in the road, jest out to Four Corners, they was talkin' as easyand nateral as could be; an' the Elder he looked some like himself, andshe--wall, boys, you jest wait till you see her; that's all I've got tosay. Ef she ain't a picter!"

The drive to the village seemed long, however, to both Draxy and theElder. Their previous conceptions of each other had been too firmly rootedto be thus overthrown without a great jar. The Elder felt Draxy'ssimplicity and child-like truthfulness more and more with each word shespoke; but her quiet dignity of manner was something to which he wasunused; to his inexperience she seemed almost a fine lady, in spite of hersweet and guileless speech. Draxy, on the other hand, was a littlerepelled by the Elder's whole appearance. He was a rougher man than shehad known; his pronunciation grated on her ear; and he looked so strongand dark she felt a sort of fear of him. But the next morning, when Draxycame down in her neat calico gown and white apron, the Elder's facebrightened. 

"Good morning, my child, " he said. "You look as fresh as a pink. " Thetears came into Draxy's eyes at the word "child, " said as her father saidit. 

"I don't look so old then, this morning, do I, sir?" she asked in apleading tone which made the Elder laugh. He was more himself thismorning. All was well. Draxy sat down to breakfast with a lighter heart. 

When Draxy was sitting she looked very young. Her face was as childlike asit was beautiful: and her attitudes were all singularly unconscious andfree. It was when she rose that her womanhood revealed itself to theperpetual surprise of every one. As breakfast went on the Elder graduallyregained his old feeling about her; his nature was as simple, asspontaneous as hers; he called her "child" again several times in thecourse of the meal. But when at the end of it Draxy rose, tall, erect, almost majestic in her fullness of stature, he felt again singularlyremoved from her. 

"'Ud puzzle any man to say whether she's a child or a woman, " said theElder to himself. But his face shone with pleasure as he walked by herside out into the little front yard. Draxy was speechless with delight. Inthe golden east stretched a long range of mountains, purple to the top;down in the valley, a mile below the Elder's house, lay the village; alittle shining river ran side by side with its main street. To the northwere high hills, some dark green and wooded, some of brown pasture land. 

"Oh, sir, " said Draxy, "is there any other spot in your mountain land sobeautiful as this?"

"No, not one, " said the Elder, "not one;" and he, too, looked out silentlyon the scene. 

Presently Draxy exclaimed, with a sigh, "Oh, it makes me feel like cryingto think of my father's seeing this!"

"Shall I tell you now about my father, sir?" she continued; "you ought toknow all about us, you have been so good. "

Then sitting on the low step of the door, while the Elder sat in anarm-chair in the porch, Draxy told the story of her father's life, and, unconsciously, of her own. More than once the Elder wiped his eyes; morethan once he rose and walked up and down before the door, gazing withundefined but intense emotion at this woman telling her pathetic storywith the simple-hearted humility of a child. Draxy looked younger thanever curled up in the doorway, with her hands lying idle on her whiteapron. The Elder was on the point of stroking her hair. Suddenly she rose, and said, "But I am taking too much of your time, sir; will you take menow to see the house you spoke of, which we could hire?" She was again themajestic young woman. The Elder was again thrown back, and puzzled. 

He tried to persuade her to give up all idea of hiring the house: to makehis house their home for the present. But she replied steadfastly, "I mustlook at the house, sir, before I decide. " They walked down into thevillage together. Draxy was utterly unconscious of observation, but theElder knew only too well that every eye of Clairvend was at somewindow-pane studying his companion's face and figure. All whom they metstared so undisguisedly that, fearing Draxy would be annoyed, he said, --

"You mustn't mind the folks staring so at you. You see they've beentalkin' the matter all over about the land, an' your comin', for a month, an' it's no more than natural they should want to know how you look;" andhe, too, looked admiringly at Draxy's face. 

"Oh, " said Draxy (it was a new idea to her mind), "I never thought ofthat. "

"I hope they are all glad we are coming, sir, " added she, a moment after. 

"Oh yes, yes; they're glad enough. 'Taint often anything happens up here, you know, and they've all thought everything of you since your firstletter came. "

Draxy colored. She had not dreamed of taking a whole village into herconfidence. But she was glad of the friendliness; and she met everyinquisitive gaze after this with an open, responsive look of such beaminggood-will that she made friends of all whom she saw. One or two stoppedand spoke; most were afraid to do so, unconsciously repelled, as the Elderhad been at first, by something in Draxy's dress and bearing which totheir extreme inexperience suggested the fine lady. Nothing could havebeen plainer than Draxy's cheap gray gown; but her dress always hadcharacter: the tiniest knot of ribbon at her throat assumed the look of adecoration; and many a lady for whom she worked had envied her theexpression of her simple clothes. 

The house would not answer. Draxy shook her head as soon as she saw it, and when the Elder told her that in the spring freshets the river washedinto the lower story, she turned instantly away, and said, "Let us gohome, sir; I must think of something else. "

At dinner Draxy was preoccupied, and anxious. The expression of perplexitymade her look older, but no less beautiful. Elder Kinney gazed at hermore steadily than he knew; and he did not call her "child" again. 

After dinner he took her over the house, explaining to her, at every turn, how useless most of the rooms were to him. In truth, the house wasadmirably adapted for two families, with the exception that there was butone kitchen. "But that could be built on in a very few days, and wouldcost very little, " said the Elder eagerly. Already all the energies of hisstrong nature were kindled by the resolve to keep Draxy under his roof. 

"I suppose it might be so built that it could be easily moved off andadded to our own house when we build for ourselves, " said Draxy, reflectively. 

"Oh, yes, " said the Elder, "no sort o' trouble about that, " and he glowedwith delight. He felt sure that his cause was gained. 

But he found Draxy very inflexible. There was but one arrangement of whichshe would think for a moment. It was, that the Elder should let to themone half of his house, and that the two families should be entirelydistinct. Until the new kitchen and out-buildings were finished, if theElder would consent to take them as boarders, they would live with him;"otherwise, sir, I must find some one in the village who will take us, "said Draxy in a quiet tone, which Elder Kinney knew instinctively was notto be argued with. It was a novel experience for the Elder in more waysthan one. He was used to having his parishioners, especially the women, yield implicitly to his advice. This gentle-voiced girl, who said to him, "Don't you think, sir?" in an appealing tone which made his blood quicken, but who afterward, when she disagreed with him, stood her groundimmovably even against entreaties, was a phenomenon in his life. He beganto stand in awe of her. When some one said to him on the third day afterDraxy's arrival: "Well, Elder, I don't know what she'd ha' done withoutyou, " he replied emphatically, "Done without me! You'll find out that allReuben Miller's daughter wants of anybody is jest to let her know exactlyhow things lay. She ain't beholden to anybody for opinions. She's astrustin' as a baby, while you're tellin' her facts, but I'd like to seeanybody make her change her mind about what's best to be done; and Ireckon she's generally right; what's more, she's one of the Lord'sfavorites, an' He ain't above guidin' in small things no mor'n in great. "

No wonder Elder Kinney was astonished. In forty-eight hours Draxy hadrented one half of his house, made a contract with a carpenter for thebuilding of a kitchen and out-buildings on the north side of it, engagedboard at the Elder's table for her parents and herself for a month, andhired Bill Sims to be her father's head man for one year. All the whileshe seemed as modestly grateful to the Elder as if he had done it all forher. On the afternoon of the second day she said to him:--

"Now, sir, what is the nearest place for me to buy our furniture?"

"Why, ain't you goin' to use mine--at least's far's it goes?" said thepoor Elder. "I thought that was in the bargain. "

Draxy looked disturbed. "Oh, how careless of me, " she said; "I am afraidnothing was said about it. But we cannot do that; my father would dislikeit; and as we must have furniture for our new house, we might as well haveit now. I have seven hundred dollars with me, sir; father thought I mightdecide to buy a house, and have to pay something down. "

"Please don't be angry with me, " she added pleadingly, for the Elderlooked vexed. "You know if I am sure my father would prefer a thing, Imust do it. "

The Elder was disarmed. 

"Well, if you are set on buyin' furniture, " he said, "I shouldn't wonderif you'd have a chance to buy all you'd want cheap down at SquireWilliams's sale in Mill Creek. His wife died the night your first lettercame, an' I heard somebody say he was goin' to sell all out; an' they'vealways been well-to-do, the Williamses, an' I reckon you'd fancy some o'their things better'n anything you'd get at the stores. "

Already the Elder began to divine Draxy's tastes; to feel that she hadfiner needs than the women he had known. In less than an hour he was atthe door with Eben Hill's horse and wagon to take Draxy to SquireWilliams's house. 

"Jest more o' the same Providence that follows that girl, " thought he whenhe saw Draxy's eyes fairly dilate with pleasure as he led her into theold-fashioned parlor, where the furniture was piled and crowded ready forthe auction. 

"Oh, will they not cost too much for me, dear Mr. Kinney?" whisperedDraxy. 

"No, I guess not, " he said, "there ain't much biddin' at these sort ofsales up here, " and he mentally resolved that nothing Draxy wanted shouldcost too much for her. 

The sale was to be the next day. Draxy made a careful list of the thingsshe would like to buy. The Elder was to come over and bid them off forher. 

"Now you just go over 'em again, " said the Elder, "and mark off what you'dlike to have if they didn't cost anything, because sometimes things gofor's good 's nothing, if nobody happens to want 'em. " So Draxy made asecond list, and laughing a little girlish laugh as she handed the papersto the Elder, pointed to the words "must haves" at the head of the firstlist, and "would-like-to-haves" at the head of the second. The Elder putthem both in his breast-pocket, and he and Draxy drove home. 

The next night two great loads of Squire Williams's furniture were carriedinto Elder Kinney's house. As article after article was taken in, Draxyclapped her hands and almost screamed with delight; all her"would-like-to-haves" were there. "Oh, the clock, the clock! Have I reallygot that, too!" she exclaimed, and she turned to the Elder, half crying, and said, "How shall I ever thank you, sir?"

The Elder was uncomfortable. He was in a dilemma. He had not been able toresist buying the clock for Draxy. He dared not tell her what he had paidfor it. "She'd never let me give her a cent's worth, I know that wellenough. It would be just like her to make me take it back, " thought he. Luckily Draxy was too absorbed in her new riches, all the next day, to askfor her accounts, and by the next night the Elder had deliberatelyresolved to make false returns on his papers as to the price of severalarticles. "I'll tell her all about it one o' these days when she knows mebetter, " he comforted himself by thinking; "I never did think Ananias wasan out an' out liar. It couldn't be denied that all he did say was true!"and the Elder resolutely and successfully tried to banish the subject fromhis mind by thinking about Draxy. 

The furniture was, much of it, valuable old mahogany, dark in color andquaint in shape. Draxy could hardly contain herself with delight, as shesaw the expression it gave to the rooms; it had cost so little that sheventured to spend a small sum for muslin curtains, new papers, brightchintz, and shelves here and there. When all was done, she herself wasastonished at the result. The little home was truly lovely. "Oh, sir, myfather has never had a pretty home like this in all his life, " said she tothe Elder, who stood in the doorway of the sitting-room looking withhalf-pained wonder at the transformation. He felt, rather than saw, howlovely the rooms looked; he could not help being glad to see Draxy soglad; but he felt farther removed from her by this power of hers to createwhat he could but dimly comprehend. Already he unconsciously weighed allthings in new balances; already he began to have a strange sense ofhumility in the presence of this woman. 

Ten days from the day that Draxy arrived in Clairvend she drove over withthe Elder to meet her father and mother at the station. She had arrangedthat the Elder should carry her father back in the wagon; she and hermother would go in the stage. She counted much on the long, pleasant drivethrough the woods as an opening to the acquaintance between her father andthe Elder. She had been too busy to write any but the briefest lettershome, and had said very little about him. To her last note she had added apost-script, --

"I am sure you will like Mr. Kinney, father. He is very kind and verygood. But he is not old as we thought. "

To the Elder she said, as they drove over, "I think you will love myfather, sir, and I know you will do him good. But he will not say much atfirst; you will have to talk, " and Draxy smiled. The Elder and sheunderstood each other very well. 

"I don't think there's much danger o' my not lovin' him, " replied theElder; "by all you tell he must be uncommon lovable. " Draxy turned on himsuch a beaming smile that he could not help adding, "an' I should thinkhis bein' your father was enough. "

Draxy looked seriously in his face, and said "Oh, Mr. Kinney, I'm notanything by the side of father. "

The Elder's eyes twinkled. 

It was a silent though joyful group which gathered around the Elder'stea-table that night. 

Reuben and Jane were tired, bewildered, but their eyes rested on Draxywith perpetual smiles. Draxy also smiled more than she spoke. The Elderfelt himself half out of place and wished to go away, but Draxy lookedgrieved at his proposal to do so, and he stayed. But nobody could eat, andold Nancy, who had spent her utmost resources on the supper, was cruellydisappointed. She bustled in and out on various pretenses, but at lastcould keep silence no longer. "Seems to me ye've dreadful slim appetitesfor folks that's been travellin' all day. Perhaps ye don't like yervictuals, " she said, glancing sharply at Reuben. 

"Oh yes, madame, yes, " said poor Reuben, nervously, "everything is verynice; much nicer than I am used to. "

Draxy laughed aloud. "My father never eats when he is tired, Nancy. You'llsee how he'll eat to-morrow. "

After Nancy had left the room, Reuben wiped his forehead, and Draxylaughed again in spite of herself. Old Nancy had been so kind and willingin helping her, she had grown fond of her, and had quite forgotten herfather's dread. When Reuben bade Draxy good-night, he said under hisbreath, "I like your Elder very much, daughter; but I don't know how I'mever goin' to stand livin' with that Injun. "

"My Elder, " said Draxy to herself as she went up-stairs, "he's everybody'sElder--and the Lord's most of all I think, " and she went to sleep thinkingof the solemn words which she had heard him speak on the last Sunday. 

It was strange how soon the life of the new household adjusted itself; howfull the days were, and how swift. The summer was close upon them;Reuben's old farmer instincts and habits revived in full force. Bill Simsproved a most efficient helper; he had been Draxy's sworn knight, from themoment of her first interview with him. There would be work on Reuben'sfarm for many hands, but Reuben was in no haste. The sugar camp assuredhim of an income which was wealth to their simple needs; and he wished toact advisedly and cautiously in undertaking new enterprises. All the landwas wild land--much of it deep swamps. The maple orchard was the only partimmediately profitable. The village people came at once to see them. Everybody was touched by Jane's worn face and gentle ways; her silence didnot repel them; everybody liked Draxy too, and admired her, but many werea little afraid of her. The village men had said that she was "thesmartest woman that had ever set foot in Clairvend village, " and humannature is human nature. It would take a great deal of Draxy's kindlygood-will to make her sister women forgive her for being cleverer thanthey. Draxy and Reuben were inseparable. They drove; they walked; eveninto the swamps courageous Draxy penetrated with her father and Bill Sims, as they went about surveying the land; and it was Draxy's keen instinctwhich in many cases suggested where improvements could be made. 

In the mean time Elder Kinney's existence had become transformed. He darednot to admit himself how much it meant, this new delight in simply beingalive, for back of his delight lurked a desperate fear; he dared not move. Day after day he spent more and more time in the company of Draxy and herfather. Reuben and he were fast becoming close friends. Reuben's gentle, trustful nature found repose in the Elder's firm, sturdy downrightness, much as it had in Captain Melville's; and the Elder would have lovedReuben if he had not been Draxy's father. But to Draxy he seemed to drawno nearer. She was the same frank, affectionate, merry, puzzlingwoman-child that she had been at first; yet as he saw more and more howmuch she knew of books which he did not know, of people, and of affairs ofwhich he had never heard--how fluently, graciously, and even wisely shecould talk, he felt himself cut off from her. Her sweet, low tones anddistinct articulation tortured him while they fascinated him; they seemedto set her so apart. In fact, each separate charm she had, produced in thepoor Elder's humble heart a mixture of delight and pain which could not beanalyzed and could not long be borne. 

He exaggerated all his own defects of manner, and speech, and education;he felt uncomfortable in Draxy's presence, in spite of all theaffectionate reverence with which she treated him; he said to himselffifty times a day, "It's only my bein' a minister that makes her thinkanythin' o' me. " The Elder was fast growing wretched. 

But Draxy was happy. She was still in some ways more child than woman. Herpeculiar training had left her imagination singularly free from fanciesconcerning love and marriage. The Elder was a central interest in herlife; she would have said instantly and cordially that she loved himdearly. She saw him many times every day; she knew all his outgoings andincomings; she knew the first step of his foot on the threshold; she feltthat he belonged to them, and they to him. Yet as a woman thinks of theman whose wife she longs to be, Draxy had never once thought of ElderKinney. 

But when the new kitchen was finished, and the Millers entered on theirseparate housekeeping, a change came. As Reuben and Jane and Draxy satdown for the first time alone together at their tea-table, Reuben saidcheerily:--

"Now this seems like old times. This is nice. "

"Yes, " replied Jane. Draxy did not speak. Reuben looked at her. Shecolored suddenly, deeply, and said with desperate honesty, --

"Yes, father; but I can't help thinking how lonely Mr. Kinney must be. "

"Well, I declare, " said Reuben, conscience-stricken; "I suppose he mustbe; I hate to think on't. But we'll have him in here's often's he'llcome. "

Just the other side of the narrow entry sat the Elder, leaning both hiselbows on the table, and looking over at the vacant place where the nightbefore, and for thirty nights before, Draxy had sat. It was more than hecould bear. He sprang up, and leaving his supper untasted, walked out ofthe house. 

Draxy heard him go. Draxy had passed in that moment into a new world. Shedivined all. 

"He hasn't eaten any supper, " thought she; and she listened intently tohear him come in again. The clock struck ten, he had not returned! Draxywent to bed, but she could not sleep. The little house was still; the warmwhite moonlight lay like summer snow all over it; Draxy looked out of herwindow; the Elder was slowly coming up the hill; Draxy knelt down like alittle child and said, "God bless him, " and crept back to bed. When sheheard him shut his bedroom door she went to sleep. 

The next day Draxy's eyes did not look as they had looked the day before. When Elder Kinney first saw her, she was coming down stairs. He wasstanding at the foot of the staircase and waited to say "Good morning. "As he looked up at her, he started back and exclaimed: "Why, Draxy, what'sthe matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, sir, " said Draxy, as she stepped from the laststair, and standing close in front of him, lifted the new, sweet, softenedeyes up to his. Draxy was as simple and sincere in this as in all otheremotions and acts of her life. She had no coquetry in her nature. She hadno distinct thought either of a new relation between herself and theElder. She simply felt a new oneness with him; and she could not haveunderstood the suggestion of concealment. If Elder Kinney had been a manof the world, he would have folded Draxy to his heart that instant. If hehad been even a shade less humble and self-disrustful, he would have doneit, as it was. But he never dreamed that he might. He folded his emptyarms very tight over his faithful, aching, foolish heart, and tried to saycalmly and naturally, "Are you sure? Seems to me you don't look quitewell. "

But after that morning he never felt wholly without hope. He could nottell precisely why. Draxy did not seek him, did not avoid him. She wasperhaps a little less merry; said fewer words; but she looked glad, andmore than glad. "I think it's the eyes, " he said to himself again andagain, as he tried to analyze the new look on Draxy's face which gave himhope. These were sweet days. There are subtle joys for lovers who dwellside by side in one house, together and yet apart. The very air is loadedwith significance to them--the door, the window, the stairway. Alwaysthere is hope of meeting; always there is consciousness of presence;everywhere a mysterious sense that the loved one has passed by. More thanonce Seth Kinney knelt and laid his cheek on the stairs which Draxy's feethad just ascended! Often sweet, guileless Draxy thought, as she went upand down, "Ah, the dear feet that go over these stairs. " One day theElder, as he passed by the wall of the room where he knew Draxy wassitting, brushed his great hand and arm against it so heavily that shestarted, thinking he had stumbled. But as the firm step went on, withoutpausing, she smiled, she hardly knew why. The next time he did it she laiddown her work, locked and unlocked her hands, and looking toward the door, whispered under her breath, "Dear hands!" Finally this became almost ahabit of his; he did not at first think Draxy would hear it; but he felt, as he afterwards told her, "like a great affectionate dog going by herdoor, and that was all he could do. He would have liked to lie down on therug. "

These were very sweet days; spite of his misgivings, Elder Kinney washappy; and Draxy, in spite of her unconsciousness, seemed to herself to beliving in a blissful dream. But a sweeter day came. 

One Saturday evening Reuben said to Draxy, --

"Daughter, I've done somethin' I'm afraid'll trouble you. I've told th'Elder about your verses, an' showed him the hymn you wrote when you wastryin' to give it all up about the land. "

"Oh, father, how could you, " gasped Draxy; and she looked as if she wouldcry. 

Reuben could not tell just how it happened. It seemed to have come outbefore he knew it, and after it had, he could not help showing the hymn. 

Draxy was very seriously disturbed; but she tried to conceal it from herfather, and the subject was dropped. 

The next morning Elder Kinney preached--it seemed to his people--as henever preached before. His subject was self-renunciation, and he spoke asone who saw the waving palms of the martyrs and heard their shouts of joy. There were few dry eyes in the little meeting-house. Tears rolled downDraxy's face. But she looked up suddenly, on hearing Elder Kinney say, inan unsteady voice, --

"My bretherin, I'm goin' to read to you now a hymn which comes nigher toexpressin' my idea of the kind of resignation God likes than any hymnthat's ever been written or printed in any hymn-book;" and then hebegan:--

"I cannot think but God must know, " etc. 

Draxy's first feeling was one of resentment; but it was a very short-livedone. The earnest tone, the solemn stillness of the wondering people, thepeaceful summer air floating in at the open windows, --all lifted her outof herself, and made her glad to hear her own hymn read by the man sheloved, for the worship of God. But her surprise was still greater when thechoir began to sing the lines to a quaint old Methodist tune. They hadbeen provided with written copies of the hymn, and had practiced it sofaithfully that they sang it well. Draxy broke down and sobbed for a fewmoments, so that Elder Kinney was on the point of forgetting everything, and springing to her side. He had not supposed that anything in the worldcould so overthrow Draxy's composure. He did not know how much lessstrong her nerves were now than they had been two months before. 

After church, Draxy walked home alone very rapidly. She did not wish tosee any one. She was glad that her father and mother had not been there. She could not understand the tumult of her feelings. 

At twilight, she stole out of the back door of the house, and walked downto a little brook which ran near by. As she stood leaning against a youngmaple tree she heard steps, and without looking up, knew that the Elderwas coming. She did not move nor speak. He waited some minutes in silence. Then he said "Oh, Draxy! I never once thought o' painin' you! I thoughtyou'd like it. Hymns are made to be sung, dear; and that one o' yours isso beautiful!" He spoke as gently as her father might, and in a voice shehardly knew. Draxy made no reply. The Elder had never seen her like this. Her lips quivered, and he saw tears in her eyes. 

"Oh, Draxy, do look up at me--just once! You don't know how hard it is fora man to think he's hurt anybody--like you!" stammered the poor Elder, ending his sentence quite differently from what he had intended. 

Draxy smiled through her tears, and looking up, said: "But I am not hurt, Mr. Kinney; I don't know what I am crying for, sir;" and her eyes fellagain. 

The Elder looked down upon her in silence. Moments passed. "Oh, if I couldmake her look up at me again!" he thought. His unspoken wish stirred herveins; slowly she lifted her eyes; they were calm now, and unutterablyloving. They were more than the Elder could bear. "

"Oh, Draxy, Draxy!" exclaimed he, stretching out both his arms towardsher. 

 "My heart grows weaker and more weak With looking on the thing so dear Which lies so far, and yet so near!"

Slowly, very slowly, like a little child learning to walk, with her eyesfull of tears, but her mouth smiling, Draxy moved towards the Elder. Hedid not stir, partly because he could not, but partly because he would notlose one instant of the deliciousness of seeing her, feeling her come. 

When they went back to the house, Reuben was sitting in the porch. TheElder took his hand and said:

"Mr. Miller, I meant to have asked you first; but God didn't give metime. "

Reuben smiled. 

"You've's good's asked me a good while back, Elder; an' I take it youhaint ever had much doubt what my answer'd be. " Then, as Draxy knelt downby his chair and laid her head on his shoulder, he added more solemnly, --

"But I'd jest like once to say to ye, Elder, that if ever I get to heaven, I wouldn't ask anythin' more o' the Lord than to let me see Draxy 'n' youa comin' in together, an' lookin' as you looked jest now when ye come in'tthat gate!"

The Elder's Wife. 

Sequel to "Draxy Miller's Dowry. "

Part I. 

Draxy and the Elder were married in the little village church, on thefirst Sunday in September. 

"O Draxy! let it be on a communion Sunday, " the Elder had said, with anexpression on his face which Draxy could not quite fathom; "I can't tellyou what it 'ud be to me to promise myself over again to the blessedSaviour, the same hour I promise to you, darling, I'm so afraid of lovingHim less. I don't see how I can remember anything about heaven, after I'vegot you, Draxy, " and tears stood in the Elder's eyes. 

Draxy looked at him wonderingly and with a little pain in her face. To herserene nature, heaven and earth, this life and all the others which mayfollow it, had so long seemed one--love and happiness and duty had becomeso blended in one sweet atmosphere of living in daily nearness to God, that she could not comprehend the Elder's words. 

"Why, Mr. Kinney, it's all Christ, " she said, slowly and hesitatingly, slipping her hand into his, and looking up at him so lovingly that hisface flushed, and he threw his arms around her, and only felt a thousandtimes more that heaven had come to mean but one thing to him. 

"Darling, " he whispered, "would you feel so if I were to die and leave youalone?"

"Yes, I think so, " said Draxy, still more slowly, and turning very pale. "You never can really leave me, and no human being can be really alone; itwould still be all Christ, and it would be living His life and God'sstill;" but tears rolled down her cheeks, and she began to sob. 

"Oh, forgive me, Draxy, " exclaimed the Elder, wrung to the heart by thesight of her grief. "I'm nothing but a great brute to say that to you justnow; but, Draxy, you don't know much about a man's heart yet; you're sucha saint yourself, you can't understand how it makes a man feel as if thisearth was enough, and he didn't want any heaven, when he loves a woman asI love you, " and the Elder threw himself on the ground at Draxy's feet, and laid his face down reverently on the hem of her gown. There were fierydepths in this man's nature of which he had never dreamed, until thisfair, sweet, strong womanhood crossed his path. His love of Draxy kindledand transformed his whole consciousness of himself and of life; it was nowonder that he felt terrors; that he asked himself many times a day whathad become of the simple-minded, earnest, contented worker he used to be. He was full of vague and restless yearnings; he longed to do, to be, tobecome, he knew not what, but something that should be more of kin to thisbeautiful nature he worshipped--something that should give her greatjoy--something in which she could feel great pride. 

"It ain't right, I know it ain't right, to feel so about any mortal, " hewould say to himself; "that's the way I used to feel about Jesus. I wantedto do all for Him, and now I want to do all for Draxy, " and the great, tender, perplexed heart was sorely afraid of its new bliss. 

They were sitting in the maple grove behind the house. In the tree underwhich they sat was a yellow-hammer's nest. The two birds had beenfluttering back and forth in the branches for some time. Suddenly theyboth spread their wings and flew swiftly away in opposite directions. Draxy looked up, smiling through her tears, and, pointing to the fastfading specks in the distant air, said, --

"It would be like that. They are both sent on errands. They won't see eachother again till the errands are done. "

The Elder looked into her illumined face, and, sighing, said: "I can'thelp prayin' that the Lord'll have errands for us that we can do togetheras long's we live, Draxy. "

"Yes, dear, " said Draxy, "I pray for that too, " and then they were silentfor some minutes. Draxy spoke first. "But Mr. Kinney, I never heard ofanybody's being married on Sunday--did you?"

"No, " said the Elder, "I never did, but I've always thought it was theonly day a man ought to be married on; I mean the most beautiful, thesweetest day. "

"Yes, " replied Draxy, a solemn and tender light spreading over her wholeface, "it certainly is. I wonder why nobody has ever thought so before. But perhaps many people have, " she added with a merrier smile; "we don'tknow everybody. "

Presently she looked up anxiously and said:

"But do you think the people would like it? Wouldn't they think it verystrange?"

The Elder hesitated. He, too, had thought of this. 

"Well, I tell you, Draxy, it's just this way: I've tried more than once toget some of them to come and be married on a Sunday in church, and theywouldn't, just because they never heard of it before; and I'd like to havethem see that I was in true earnest about it. And they like you so well, Draxy, and you know they do all love me a great deal more'n I deserve, andI can't help believing it will do them good all their lives by making themthink more how solemn a thing a marriage ought to be, if they take it as Ithink they will; and I do think I know them well enough to be prettysure. "

So it was settled that the marriage should take place after the morningsermon, immediately before the communion service. When Reuben was told ofthis, his face expressed such absolute amazement that Draxy laughedoutright, in spite of the deep solemnity of her feeling in regard to it. 

"Why, father, " she said, "you couldn't look more surprised if I had toldyou I was not to be married at all. "

"But Draxy, Draxy, " Reuben gasped, "who ever heard of such a thing? Whatwill folks say?"

"I don't know that anybody ever heard of such a thing, father dear, "answered Draxy, "but I am not afraid of what the people will say. Theylove Mr. Kinney, and he has always told them that Sunday was the day to bemarried on. I shouldn't wonder if every young man and young woman in theparish looked on it in a new and much holier light after this. I know Ibegan to as soon as the Elder talked about it, and it wouldn't seem rightto me now to be married on any other day, " and Draxy stooped and kissedher father's forehead very tenderly. There was a tenderness in Draxy'smanner now towards every one which can hardly be described in words. Ithad a mixture of humility and of gracious bestowal in it, of entreaty andof benediction, which were ineffably beautiful and winning. It is ever sowhen a woman, who is as strong as she is sweet, comes into the fullness ofher womanhood's estate of love. Her joy overflows on all; currents ofinfinite compassion set towards those who must miss that by which she isthrilled; her incredulity of her own bliss is forever questioning humbly;she feels herself forever in presence of her lover, at once rich and freeand a queen, and poor and chained and a vassal. So her largess isperpetual, involuntary, unconscious, and her appeal is tender, wistful, beseeching. In Draxy's large nature, --her pure, steadfast, loving soul, quickened and exalted by the swift currents of an exquisitely attuned andabsolutely healthful body, --this new life of love and passion wrought achange which was vivid and palpable to the commonest eyes. Men and womenupon whom she smiled, in passing, felt themselves lifted and drawn, theyknew not how. A sentiment of love, which had almost reverence in it, grewup towards her in the hearts of the people. A certain touch of sadness, ofmisgiving, mingled with it. 

"I'm afraid she ain't long for this world; she's got such a look o' heavenin her face, " was said more than once, in grieving tones, when the Elder'sapproaching marriage was talked of. But old Ike was farther sighted, inhis simplicity, than the rest. "'Tain't that, " he said, "that woman's gotin her face. It's the kind o' heaven that God sends down to stay'n thisworld, to help make us fit for the next. Shouldn't wonder ef she outlivedth' Elder a long day, " and Ike wiped his old eyes slyly with the back ofhis hand. 

The day of the marriage was one of those shining September days which onlymountain regions know. The sky was cloudless and of a transcendent blue. The air was soft as the air of June. Draxy's young friends had decoratedthe church with evergreens and clematis vines; and on each side of thecommunion-table were tall sheaves of purple asters and golden-rod. Twochildren were to be baptized at noon, and on a little table, at the rightof the pulpit, stood the small silver baptismal font, wreathed with whiteasters and the pale feathery green of the clematis seed. 

When Draxy walked up the aisle leaning on her father's arm, wearing thesame white dress she had worn on Sundays all summer, it cannot be deniedthat there were sighs of disappointment in some of the pews. The peoplehad hoped for something more. Draxy had kept her own counsel on this pointclosely, replying to all inquiries as to what she would wear, "White, ofcourse, " but replying in such a tone that no one had quite dared to askmore, and there had even been those in the parish who "reckoned" that shewouldn't "be satisfied with anythin' less than white satin. " Her head wasbare, her beautiful brown hair wound tightly round and round in the samemassive knot as usual. Her only ornaments were the creamy white blossomsof the low cornel; one cluster in the braids of her hair, and one on herbosom. As she entered the pew and sat down by the side of her mother, slanting sunbeams from the southern windows fell upon her head, lightingup the bright hair till it looked like a saintly halo. Elder Kinney sat inthe pulpit, with his best loved friend, Elder Williams, who was to preachthat day and perform the marriage ceremony. When Draxy and her fatherentered the door, Elder Kinney rose and remained standing until theyreached their pew. As Draxy sat down and the golden sunbeams flickeredaround her, the Elder sank back into his seat and covered his eyes withhis hand. He did not change his posture until the prayers and the hymnsand the sermon were over, and Elder Williams said in a low voice, --

"The ceremony of marriage will now be performed. " Then he rose, hiscountenance glowing like that of one who had come from some Mount ofTransfiguration. With a dignity and grace of bearing such as royalambassadors might envy, he walked slowly down to Reuben Miller's pew, and, with his head reverently bent, received Draxy from her father's hands. 

Passionate love and close contact with Draxy's exquisite nature weredeveloping, in this comparatively untrained man, a peculiar courteousnessand grace, which added a subtle charm to the simplicity of his manners. Ashe walked up the aisle with Draxy clinging to his arm, his tall figurelooked majestic in its strength, but his face was still bent forward, turned toward her with a look of reverence, of love unspeakable. 

The whole congregation rose, moved by one impulse, and the silence wasalmost too solemn. When the short and simple ceremony was over, the Elderled Draxy to his own pew and sat down by her side. 

After the little children had been baptized, the usual announcement of theLord's Supper was made, and the usual invitation given. Absolute silencefollowed it, broken only by the steps of the singers leaving their seatsin the gallery to take places below. Not a person moved to leave the bodyof the house. Elder Williams glanced at Elder Kinney in perplexity, andwaited for some moments longer. The silence still remained unbroken; therewas not a man, woman, or child there but felt conscious of a tender andawed impulse to remain and look on at this ceremony, so newly significantand solemn to their beloved Elder. Tears came into many eyes as he tookthe cup of wine from Deacon Plummer's trembling hands and passed it toDraxy, and many hearts which had never before longed for the right topartake of the sacred emblems longed for it then. 

After the services, were ended, just as Elder Williams was about topronounce the benediction, Elder Kinney rose from his seat, and walkingrapidly to the communion table said, --

"My dear friends, I know you don't look for any words from me to-day; butthere are some of you I never before saw at this blessed feast of ourLord, and I must say one word to you from Him. " Then pausing, he lookedround upon them all, and, with an unutterable yearning in the gesture, stretched out both his arms and said: "O my people, my people! like as ahen gathereth her chickens under her wing, He would have gathered you longago, but ye would not. " Then, still holding out his arms towards them, hepronounced the benediction. 

Silently and solemnly the little congregation dispersed. A few lingered, and looked longingly at Draxy, as if they would go back and speak to her. But she stood with her eyes fixed on the Elder's face, utterly unconsciousof the presence of any other human being. Even her father dared not breakthe spell of holy beatitude which rested on her countenance. 

"No, no, ma, " he said to Jane, who proposed that they should go back tothe pew and walk home with her. "This ain't like any other wedding thatwas ever seen on this earth, unless, maybe, that one in Cana. And I don'tbelieve the Lord was any nearer to that bridegroom than He is to thisone. "

So Jane and Reuben walked home from church alone, for the first time sincethey came to Clairvend, and Draxy and her husband followed slowly behind. The village people who watched them were bewildered by their manner, andinterpreted it variously according to their own temperaments. 

"You'd ha' thought now they'd been married years an' years to look at'em, " said Eben Hill; "they didn't speak a word, nor look at each otherany more 'n old Deacon Plummer 'n his wife, who was joggin' along jestafore 'em. "

Old Ike--poor, ignorant, loving old Ike, whose tender instinct was likethe wistful sagacity of a faithful dog--read their faces better. He hadhurried out of church and hid himself in the edge of a little pine grovewhich the Elder and Draxy must pass. 

"I'd jest like to see 'em a little longer, " he said to himself halfapologetically. As they walked silently by, old Ike's face saddened, andat last became convulsed with grief. Creeping out from beneath the pines, he slowly followed them up the hill, muttering to himself, in the fashionwhich had grown upon him in his solitary life:--

"O Lord! O Lord! No such looks as them is long for this earth. O Lord!which is it ye're goin' to take? I reckon it's the Elder. I reckon 'tis. That woman's goin' to have her heart broke. O Lord! O Lordy me! I can'tbear the sight on't!" and he leaped a fence and struck off across thefields towards his house. He did not shut his eyes that night, but tossedand groaned aloud. Towards morning he formed a resolution which calmed himsomewhat. 

"Ef I kin only be right close to 'em till it comes, p'raps I can be of alittle use. Leastways it 'ud be some comfort to try, " he said. 

As the Elder and Draxy were sitting at breakfast the next day, they caughtsight of the old man's bent figure walking up and down outside the gate, and stopping now and then irresolutely, as if he would come in, but darednot. 

"Why, there's old Ike, " exclaimed the Elder, "What on earth can he wantat this time of day!"

Draxy looked up with a very tender smile, and said: "I shouldn't wonder ifhe wanted just to see how happy you look, Mr. Kinney. Nobody in this worldloves you so well as old Ike does. "

"Oh, Draxy!" said the Elder, reproachfully. 

"No, dear, not even I. Old Ike never dreams of receiving any love inreturn. I have seen his eyes follow you with just such a look as dogs'eyes have. I wish we could do something for him. "

"We will, dear, we will go and see him often. I own it smites me to thesoul sometimes to think how humble he is, and so glad to see me when Ihaven't been near him for six months, maybe. "

At this moment Hannah put her head into the door and said, in no pleasantvoice:--

"Here's that Ike Sanborn wantin' to speak to ye sir, but I telled him"--

"Let him come right in here, Hannah, " said Draxy. "Mr. Kinney and I willbe very glad to see him this morning. " Hannah's face relaxed in spite ofherself, in answer to Draxy's smile, but she could not forgive Ike forwhat seemed to her a most unwarrantable intrusion, and she was grimmerthan ever when she returned to him, saying, --

"They'll see ye; but I must say, I sh'd ha' thought ye'd know better'n tobe comin' round here this mornin' of all mornin's. Ain't they to have aminute's peace to theirselves?"

Ike looked up appealingly at the hard Indian face. 

"I wa'n't goin' to keep 'em a minute, " he said: "I won't go in now. I'llcome agin, ef you say so, Hannah. "

"No, no--go in, now ye're here; ye've interrupted 'em, and ye may's welltake the good on't now, " replied the vengeful Hannah, pushing Ike alongtowards the sitting-room door. 

"Ef there's anythin' I do hate, it's shiftless white folks, " grumbledHannah as she went back to her work. If poor Ike had known the angrycontempt for him which filled Hannah's heart, he would have felt stillless courage for the proposition he had come to make. As it was, he stoodin the doorway the very picture of irresolution and embarrassment. 

"Come in, come in, Ike, " said the Elder; "you're the first one of theparish to pay your respects to Mrs. Kinney. " Draxy rose from her seatsmiling, and went towards him and said: "And Mrs. Kinney is very glad tosee you, Ike. "

This was too much for the loving old heart. He dropped his hat on thefloor, and began to speak so rapidly and incoherently that both Draxy andthe Elder were almost frightened. 

"O Elder! O Miss Kinney!--I've been a thinkin' that p'raps you'd let mecome an' live with you, an' do all yer chores. I'd bring my two cows, an'my keepin' wouldn't be very much; an'--oh, sir, ef ye'll only let me, I'llbless ye all the days o' my life, " and Ike began to cry. 

So did Draxy, for that matter, and the Elder was not very far from it. Draxy spoke first. 

"Why, Ike, do you really want so much to live with us?"

Ike's first answer was a look. Then he said, very simply, --

"I've laid awake all night, ma'am, tryin' to get bold enough to come andask ye. "

Draxy looked at her husband, and said in a low voice, "You know what Itold you just now, Mr. Kinney?"

The Elder saw that Draxy was on Ike's side. 

"Well, well, Ike, " he said, "you shall certainly come and try it. Perhapsyou won't like it as well as you think. But don't say anything about it toany one else till you hear from us. You shall come very soon. "

Ike turned to go, but lingered, and finally stammered: "I hope, sir, yedon't take it that I'm askin' a charity; I make bold to believe I could beworth to ye's much's my keepin'; I'm considerable handy 'bout a good manythings, an' I can do a day's mowin' yet with any man in the parish, Idon't care who he is. It's only because--because"--Ike's voice broke, andit was very nearly with a sob that he added, "because I love ye, sir, " andhe hurried away. Draxy sprang after him. 

"I know that very well, Ike, and so does Mr. Kinney, and you will be agreat help to us. You are making us the most valuable wedding presentwe've had yet, Ike, " and Draxy held out her hand. 

Ike looked at the hand, but he did not touch it. 

"Maybe God'll let me thank ye yet, ma'am, " he said, and was gone. 

As he went through the kitchen a sudden misgiving seized him of terror ofHannah. 

"Supposin' she sh'd take into her head to be agin me, " thought he. "Theysay the Elder himself's 'fraid on her. I don't s'pose she'd dare to try topizen me outright, an' anyhow there's allers eggs an' potatoes. But I'llbring her round fust or last;" and, made wary by love, Ike began on thespot to conciliate her, by offering to bring a pail of water from thewell. 

This small attention went farther than he could have dreamed. When Draxyfirst told Hannah that Ike was to come and live with them, she saidjudiciously, --

"It will make your work much easier in many ways, Hannah. "

Hannah answered:--

"Yes, missus. He'll bring all the water I spose, an that alone's wuth anyman's keep--not that I've ever found any fault with the well's bein' sofar off. It's 's good water's there is in the world, but it's powerfulheavy. "

The arrival of the two cows crowned Hannah's liking of the plan. If shehad a passion in life it was for cream and for butter-making, and it hadbeen a sore trial to her in her life as the Elder's housekeeper, that shemust use stinted measures of milk, bought from neighbors. So when poor Ikecame in, trembling and nervous, to his first night's lodging under theElder's roof, he found in the kitchen, to his utter surprise, instead of afrowning and dangerous enemy, a warm ally, as friendly in manner and mienas Indian blood would permit. 

Thus the little household settled down for the winter: Draxy and the Elderhappy, serene, exalted more than they knew, by their perfect love for eachother, and their childlike love of God, blending in one earnest purposeof work for souls; Hannah and Ike anything but serene, and yet happy aftertheir own odd fashions, and held together much more closely than they knewby the common bond of their devotion to the Elder and his wife. 

In the other side of the house were also two very thankful and contentedhearts. Reuben and Jane were old people now: Reuben's hair was snowywhite, and Jane was sadly bent; but the comfort and peace which had comeso late into their lives had still come early enough to make the sunset abright one. It was a sight to do all hearts good to see the two sittingtogether on the piazza of the house, in the warm afternoons, and gazing indelight at the eastern mountain ranges turning rose-pink, and then fadingthrough shades of purple to dark gray. 

"It's a good deal like our life, ma, " Reuben said sometimes; "our sun'spretty low--most down, I reckon; it's all rosy-light, just these days; butwe shall have to lie down in the shadow presently; but it's all beautiful, beautiful. "

Jane did not understand him. She never did. But she loved the sound of hisvoice best when he said the things which were too subtle for her. 

The two households lived separately as before. The Elder had proposedtheir making one family, and Reuben had wistfully seconded it. But Draxyhad firmly said "No. "

"I shall be able to do more for you, father dear, if we do not. It willnot seem so at first, but I know I am right, " she said, and it was a rarewisdom in her sweet soul which led to the decision. At first it was veryhard for Reuben to bear, but as the months went on he saw that it wasbest. 

Draxy's loving, thoughtful care of them never relaxed. The excellent womanwhom she had secured for their servant went for her orders quite as oftento Draxy as to Jane; very few meals were set out for them to which Draxy'shand had not given the last final touch. She flitted back and forthbetween the two homes, equally of both the guardian angel; but the line ofdivision and separation was just as distinctly drawn as if they had beenunder different roofs a mile apart. Two or three times in the week theydined and took tea together, but the habit never was formed of doing thison a special day. When Reuben said, "Couldn't ye arrange it so's always toeat your Sunday dinner with us, Draxy?" she replied:

"Sometimes Sunday dinner; sometimes Thursday; sometimes Saturday, fatherdear. If we make it a fixed day, we shall not like it half so well; any ofus. We'll come often enough, you may be sure. " And of this, too, Reubensoon saw the wisdom. 

"O Draxy, Draxy, my little girl!" he said one day, when, just afterbreakfast, she ran in, exclaiming, --

"Father dear, we're coming to take dinner with you and ma to-day. It's asurprise party, and the chickens have come first; they're in the kitchennow!"

"O Draxy, Draxy, " he exclaimed, "it's a great deal nicer not to know itbeforehand. How could you be so wise, child?"

Draxy put her arms round his neck and did not speak for a moment. Then shesaid, "I don't think it is wisdom, dear. Real true love knows by instinct, just as the bee does, which shaped cell will hold most honey. I'm only ahoney-maker for my darlings. "

Jane looked mystified, but Reuben's face quivered with pleasure. 

"That you are, you blessed child, " he said, and as, hearing the Elder'sstep in the hall, she flew out of the room, Reuben covered his eyes withhis hand. 

Happy years leave slender records; but for suffering and sin there wouldnot be history. The winter came, and the spring came, and the summer andthe autumn, and no face in the quiet little parsonage looked a shade olderfor the year that had gone; no incident had taken place which could make asalient point in a story, and not one of the peaceful hearts could believethat a twelvemonth had flown. Elder Kinney's pathetic fears lest he mightlove his Saviour less by reason of his new happiness, had melted likefrost in early sunlight, in the sweet presence of Draxy's child-likereligion. 

"O Draxy!" he said again and again, "seems to me I never half loved allthese souls we are working for, before I had you. I don't see how I couldhave been so afraid about it before we were married. "

"Do I really help you, Mr. Kinney?" Draxy would reply, with a lingeringemphasis on the "really, " which made her husband draw her closer to himand forget to speak: "It seems very strange to me that I can. I feel soignorant about souls. It frightens me to answer the smallest question thepeople ask me. I never do, in any way except to tell them if I have everfelt so myself, and how God seemed to help me out. "

Blessed Draxy! that was the secret of her influence from first to last:the magnetic sympathy of a pure and upright soul, to whose rare strengthhad been added still rarer simplicity and lovingness. Old and young, menas well as women, came to her with unhesitating confidence. Before hermarriage, they had all felt a little reserve with her, partly because shewas of finer grain than they, partly because she had, deep down in hersoul, a genuine shyness which showed itself only in quiet reticence. Butnow that she was the Elder's wife, they felt that she was in a measuretheirs. There is a very sweet side, as well as an inconvenient andirritating one, to the old-fashioned rural notion that the parish hasalmost as much right to the minister's wife as to the minister. Draxy sawonly the sweet side. With all the loyalty and directness which had madeher, as a little girl, champion and counselor and comfort to her father, she now set her hand to the work of helping her husband do good to thepeople whom he called his children. 

"If they are yours, they must be mine, too, Mr. Kinney, " she would say, with a smile half arch, half solemn. "I hope I shan't undo on week-dayswhat you do on Sundays. "

"What I do on Sundays is more'n half your work too, Draxy, " the Elderwould make reply; and it was very true. Draxy's quicker brain and finersense, and in some ways superior culture, were fast moulding the Elder'shabits of thought and speech to an extent of which she never dreamed. Reuben's income was now far in advance of their simple wants, andnewspapers, magazines, and new books continually found their way to theparsonage. Draxy had only to mention anything she desired to see, andReuben forthwith ordered it. So that it insensibly came to pass that thedaily life of the little household was really an intellectual one, andElder Kinney's original and vigorous mind expanded fast in the congenialatmosphere. Yet he lost none of his old quaintness and simplicity ofphrase, none of his fervor. The people listened to his sermons withwondering interest, and were not slow to ascribe some of the credit of thenew unction to Draxy. 

"Th' Elder's getting more'n more like Mis' Kinney every day o' his life, "they said: "there's some o' her sayin's in every sermon he writes. 

"And no wonder, " would be added by some more enthusiastic worshipper ofDraxy's. "I guess he's got sense enough to know that she's got more realbook-learnin' in her head than he has, twice over. I shouldn't wonder ifshe got to writin' some of his sermons for him out'n out, before long. "

Dear Draxy's reverent wifehood would have been grieved and dismayed if shehad known that her efforts to second her husband's appeals to his peoplewere sometimes so eloquent as to make the Elder's words forgotten. But shenever dreamed of such a thing; she was too simple hearted and humble. 

In the early days of the second winter came the Angel of the Annunciation, bearing a white lily to Draxy. Her joy and gratitude were unspeakable, andthe exquisite purity and elevation of her nature shone out transcendent inthe new experience. 

"Now I begin to feel surer that God really trusts me, " she said, "since heis going to let me have a child of my own. "

"O my dear friends!" she exclaimed more than once to mothers, "I neverdreamed how happy you were. I thought I knew, but I did not. "

Draxy's spontaneous and unreserved joy of motherhood, while yet her babewas unborn, was a novel and startling thing to the women among whom shelived. The false notions on this point, grown out of ignorant and basethoughts, are too wide-spread, too firm-rooted, to be overthrown in anhour or a day, even by the presence of angelic truth incarnate. Some ofDraxy's best friends were annoyed and disquieted by her frankness andunreserve of delight. But as the weeks went on, the true instinct ofcomplete motherhood thrilled for the first time in many a mother's heart, under Draxy's glowing words, and women talked tearfully one with another, in secret, with lowered voices, about the new revelation which had come tothem through her. 

"I've come to see it all quite different, since I've talked with Mis'Kinney, " said one young married woman, holding her baby close to herbreast, and looking down with remorseful tenderness on its placid littleface. "I shan't never feel that I've quite made it up to Benjy, never, forthe thoughts I had about him before he was born. I don't see why nobodyever told us before, that we was just as much mothers to 'em from the veryfirst as we ever could be, " and tears dropped on Benjy's face; "an' I jesthope the Lord'll send me's many more's we can manage to feed'n clothe, 'nI'll see if lovin' 'em right along from the beginnin', with all my heart, 'll make 'em beautiful an' happy an' strong an' well, 's Mis' Kinney sez. I b'lieve it's much's ef 'twas in the Bible, after all she told me, andread me out of a Physiology, an' it stands to natur', which's more'n theold way o' talkin did. "

This new, strong current of the divinest of truths, stirred the very veinsof the village. Mothers were more loving and fathers more tender, andmaidens were sweeter and graver--all for the coming of this one littlebabe into the bosom of full and inspired motherhood. 

On the morning when Draxy's son was born, a stranger passing through thevillage would have supposed that some great news of war or of politics hadarrived. Little knots of people stood at gates, on corners, all talkingearnestly; others were walking rapidly to and fro in the street. Excitement filled the air. 

Never was heir to royal house more welcomed than was the first-born son ofthis simple-minded, great-hearted woman, by the lowly people among whomshe dwelt. 

Old Ike's joy was more than he could manage. He had sat on the floor allnight long, with his head buried in his hands. 

The instinct of grief to come, which not even all these long peacefulmonths had been able to wholly allay in his faithful heart, had sprunginto full life at the first symptom of danger to Draxy. 

"P'raps it's this way, arter all, the Lord's goin' to do it. O Lord! OLord! It'll kill Mr. Kinney, it'll kill him, " he kept repeating over andover, as he rocked to and fro. Hannah eyed him savagely. Her Indian bloodhated groans and tears, and her affection for her master was angered atthe very thought of his being afflicted. 

"I wish it had pleased yer Lord to give ye the sense of a man, Mr. Sanborn, " she said, "while He was a makin' on ye. If ye'd go to bed, now, instead o' snivelin' round here, you might be good for somethin' in themornin', when there'll be plenty to do. Anyhow, I'm not goin' to bepestered by the sight on ye any longer, " and Hannah banged thekitchen-door violently after her. 

When poor Ike timidly peered into the sitting-room, whither she hadbetaken herself, he found her, too, sitting on the floor, in an attitudenot unlike the one she had so scorned in him. But he was too meek to taunther. He only said, --

"I'm goin' now, Hannah, so ye needn't stay out o' the kitchen for me, " andhe climbed slowly up the stairs which led to his room. 

As the rosy day dawned in the east, Draxy's infant son drew his firstmortal breath. His first quivering cry, faint almost as a whisper, yetsharp and piteous, reached old Ike's ears instantly. He fell on his kneesand remained some minutes motionless, then he rose and went slowlydown-stairs. Hannah met him at the door, her dark face flushed withemotion which she vainly tried to conceal by sharp words. 

"Hope ye've rested well, Mr. Sanborn. Another time, mebbe ye'll have moresense. As fine a boy's ye ever see, and Mis' Kinney she's a smilin' intoits face, as nobody's never seen her smile yet, I tell you. "

Ike was gone, --out into the fields, over fences, over brooks, into woods, trampling down dewy ferns, glistening mosses, scarlet cornels, thickets ofgoldenrod and asters, --he knew not where, muttering to himself all thewhile, and tossing his arms into the air. At last he returned to the housesaying to himself, "P'raps th' Elder 'll like to have me go down into thevillage an' let folks know. "

Elder Kinney was standing bareheaded on the door-steps. His face lookedlike the face of a man who had come off a battle-field where victory hadbeen almost as terrible as defeat. As soon as he saw old Ike runningacross the field towards him, he divined all. 

"Loving old heart!" he thought, "Draxy was right, " and he held out bothhis hands to the old man as he had never done before, and spoke a fewaffectionate words, which made tears run down the wrinkled cheeks. Then hesent him on the errand he knew he craved. 

"You'd better give the news first to Eben Hill, Ike, " he called after him. "It'll be of more use to him than to anybody in the parish. "

It was just two years from Draxy's wedding day, when she stood again inthe aisle of the little village church, dressed in pure white, with thesouthern sunlight resting on her beautiful hair. Her husband stood by herside, holding their infant son in his arms. The child had clear, calm blueeyes like Draxy's, and an expression of serenity and radiant joy on histiny face, which made the people wonder. 

"Reuben Miller Kinney" was his name; and though the parish had hoped thatthe child would be named for his father, when they looked at ReubenMiller's sweet, patient, noble face, and saw its intense happiness as thewords were spoken, they felt that it was better so. 

Again swift months rolled on, and peace and joy brooded over theparsonage. Draxy's life with her child was something too beautiful to betold in words; her wifehood was lovely, was intense; but her motherhoodwas greater. Day and night her love for her boy protected and guided him, like pillar of cloud, like pillar of fire. She knew no weariness, nofeebleness; she grew constantly stronger and more beautiful, and the childgrew stronger and more beautiful, with a likeness to her and a onenesswith her which were marvelous. He was a loving and affectionate boy toall; his father, his grandparents, old Ike, and swarthy Hannah, --all alikesunned themselves in the delight of his beautiful childhood. But whereverhe was--however amused and delighted--even in his father's arms--his eyessought his mother's eyes, and the mute interchange between them was subtleand constant as between lovers. There was but one drawback on Draxy'sfelicity now. She was afraid of her love for her boy. 

"O Seth!" she said, --after little Reuben's birth she for the first timecalled her husband by this name; before that, although she lavished on himall words of endearment, she had never found courage to call him Seth, --"OSeth!" she said, "I feel now as you did about me before we were married. Ican't make myself think about anything but Reuby. O darling! you don'tthink God would take him away from you to punish me, do you?" The Eldercould not comfort her when she was in this frame of mind; in fact, hehimself was sometimes afraid, seeing her utter absorption in the child. Yet it never for one instant warped her firmness or judiciousness ofcontrol. Draxy could not have comprehended that type of love which canlose sight for one instant of the best good of the loved one. Her control, however, was the control of a wise and affectionate companion, never thatof the authoritative parent. Little Reuben never heard the words, "Youmust not do thus and so. " It was always, "You cannot, because it is notsafe, best, or proper, " or, "because if you do, such and such things willhappen. "

"Draxy, " said Reuben to her one day, "you never tell Reuby to do anythingwithout giving him a reason for it. He's the best boy that ever lived, Ido believe, but 'tain't just my idea of obedience for all that. "

Draxy smiled. "I never said a word to him about obeying me in his life; Inever shall. I can't explain it, father dear, but you must let me do myway. I shall tell him all I know about doing right, and he will decide forhimself more and more. I am not afraid. "

She need not have been. Before Reuby was seven years old his gentlemanliness of behavior was the marvel of the village. "It beats all howMis' Kinney's brought that boy o' hern up, " was said in the sewing-circleone day. "She told me herself that she's never so much's said a sharp wordto him; and as for whipping she thinks it's a deadly sin. "

"So do I, " spoke up young Mrs. Plummet, the mother of Benjy. "I never didbelieve in that; I don't believe in it, even for hosses; it only gets 'emto go a few rods, and then they're lazier'n ever. My father's broke morecolts than any man in this county, an' he'd never let 'em be struck ablow. He said one blow spiled 'em, and I guess ye've got more to work onin a boy than ye have in a colt. "

These discussions often ran high and waxed warm. But Draxy's adherentswere a large majority; and she had so patiently and fully gone over thesedisputed grounds with them that they were well fortified with thearguments and facts which supported her positions. Indeed, it was fastcoming to pass that she was the central force of the life of the village. "Let me make the songs of the community, and I care not who makes itslaws, " was well said. It was song which Draxy supplied to these people'slives. Not often in verse, in sound, in any shape that could be measured, but in spirit. She vivified their every sense of beauty, moral andphysical. She opened their eyes to joy; she revealed to them thesacredness and delight of common things; she made their hearts sing. 

But she was to do more yet for these men and women. Slowly, noiselessly, in the procession of these beautiful and peaceful days, was drawing near aday which should anoint Draxy with a new baptism, --set her apart to aholier work. 

It came, as the great consecrations of life are apt to come, suddenly, without warning. While we are patiently and faithfully keeping sheep inthe wilderness, the messenger is journeying towards us with the vial ofsacred oil, to make us kings. 

It was on a September morning. Draxy sat at the eastward bay-window ofher sitting-room, reading to Reuby. The child seemed strangely restless, and slipped from her lap again and again, running to the window to lookout. At last Draxy said, "What is it, Reuby? Don't you want to hear mammaread any longer?"

"Where is papa?" replied Reuby. "I want to go and find papa. "

"Papa has gone way down to the Lower Mills, darling; he won't come hometill dinner, " said Draxy, looking perplexedly at Reuby's face. She hadnever known him to ask for his father in this way before. Still hisrestlessness continued, and finally, clasping his mother's hand, he saidearnestly, --

"Come and find papa. "

"We can't find him, dear, " she replied; "it is too far for Reuby to walk, but we will go out on the same road papa has gone, and wait for papa tocome;" so saying, she led the child out of the house, and rambled slowlyalong the road on which the Elder would return. In a few moments she sawmoving in the distance a large black object she could not define. As itcame nearer she saw that it was several men, walking slowly and apparentlybearing something heavy between them. 

Little Reuby pulled her hand and began to run faster. "Come and findpapa, " he said again, in a tone which struck terror to Draxy's heart. Atthat instant the men halted. She hurried on. Presently she saw one manleave the rest and run rapidly towards her. It was old Ike. The rest stillremained motionless and gathered closer around what they were carrying. 

"O Reuby!" groaned Draxy. "Come quicker; find papa, " he replied, impatiently; but old Ike had reached them, and wringing his hands, burstinto tears. "O my Lord!--O Mis' Kinney, yer must go back; they can't bringhim along, an' you 'n' the boy standin' here. O my Lord! O Mis' Kinney, come right back!" And Ike took hold of her shoulder and of her gown andalmost turned her around. 

"Is Mr. Kinney hurt?" said Draxy in a strange voice, high pitched andmetallic. "I shall not go back. Tell the men to hurry. How dare they losetime so?" and Draxy tried to run towards them. Old Ike held her by mainforce. Sobs choked his voice, but he stammered out: "O Mis' Kinney, ef yelove Mr. Kinney, go back. He'd tell ye so himself. He won't know ye; themen won't never move a step till they see you 'n' Reuby goin' first. "

Draxy turned instantly and walked toward the house so swiftly that littleReuby could not keep up with her. He followed her crying aloud, but shedid not heed him. She flew rather than ran into the house, into theElder's study, and dragged a lounge to the very threshold of the door. There she stood, whiter than any marble, and as still, awaiting the slow, toiling steps of the overburdened men. Little Reuben stumbled on the stepsand she did not help him. As he came close, clutching her dress in hispain and terror, she said in a low whisper, "Reuby, it will trouble papaif he sees us cry. Mamma isn't going to cry. " The child stopped instantlyand stood by her side, as calm as she for a moment, then bursting outagain into screams, said: "O mamma, I can't help crying, I can't; butI'll run away. Don't tell papa I cried. " And he ran up-stairs. Draxy didnot see which way he went. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway which Ikehad that moment reached; the men bearing the Elder's body were just behindhim. 

"O Mis' Kinney! can't yer go away jest while we lay him down?" gaspedIke. "Seem's ef 'twouldn't be so hard. "

Draxy looked past him, as not hearing a word. 

"Bring him in here and lay him on this lounge, " she said, in tones soclear and calm they sent both courage and anguish into every heart. 

Panting, and with grief-stricken faces, the men staggered in and laid thetall, majestic figure down. As they lifted the head tenderly and proppedit by pillows, Draxy saw the pale, dead face with the sunken eyes and setlips, and gave one low cry. Then she clasped both hands tight over herheart and looked up as if she would pierce the very skies whither herhusband had gone. 

"We sent for the doctor right off; he'll be here's soon's he can gethere. "

"He never spoke a word arter we lifted him up. He couldn't ha' sufferedany, Mis' Kinney. "

"P'raps, Mis' Kinney, it'd be a good plan to ondo his clothes afore thedoctor gits here, " came in confused and trembling tones from one afteranother of the men who stood almost paralyzed in presence of Draxy'sterrible silence. 

"O Mis' Kinney, jest speak a word, can't ye? O Lord! O Lord! she'll die ifshe don't. Where's Reuby? I'll fetch him, " exclaimed Ike, and left theroom; the men followed him irresolutely, looking back at Draxy, who stillstood motionless, gazing down into the Elder's face. 

"Do not look for Reuby--he has hid, " came in a slow, measured whisper fromher lips. "And leave me alone. " "Yes, I know. You need not be afraid. Iunderstand that Mr. Kinney is dead, " she added, as the men hesitated andlooked bewilderedly in her face. "I will stay alone with him till thedoctor comes, " and Draxy gently closed the door and locked it. In a shorttime the little hall and door-yard were crowded with sobbing men andwomen. There was little to be told, but that little was told over andover. The Elder had walked down to the village store with old Ike, and hadjust given him some parcels to carry home, saying, "Tell Mrs. Kinney, "--when a runaway horse had come dashing furiously down the street, drawing a wagon in which clung, rather than sat, a woman holding a baby inher arms. The Elder had sprung into the middle of the road, and caught thehorse by the bridle as he swerved a little to one side; but the horse wastoo strong and too much frightened to be held by any man's strength. Rearing high, he had freed his head, and plunging forward had knocked theElder down in such a way that both wagon-wheels had run over his neck, breaking it instantly. 

"He never talked so much like an angel from heaven's he did this mornin', "sobbed Ike, who looked already decrepit and broken from this sudden blow. "He was a tellin' me about suthin' new that's jest been discovered in thesun; I couldn't rightly make it out; but says he, 'Ike, how glorious'twill be when we can jest fly from one sun to another, all through thisuniverse o' God's, an' not be a tryin' in these poor little airthly waysto understand 'bout things. '"

That Draxy should be all this time alone with her husband's body seemeddreadful to these sympathizing, simple-hearted people. No sound came fromthe room, though the windows were all wide open. 

"O Mr. Miller! don't ye think some on us had better try to git in to her, "said the women; "she don't make no noise. "

"No. " replied Reuben, feebly. He, too, was prostrated like Ike by thefearful blow, and looked years older within the hour. "No: Draxy knowswhat's best for her. She's spoke to me once through the door. She hasn'tfainted. "

"When the doctor came, Reuben called to Draxy, --

"Daughter, the doctor's come. "

The door opened instantly, but closed as soon as the doctor had entered. In a few moments it opened again, and the doctor handed a slip of paper toReuben. He unfolded it and read it aloud:--

"Father dear, please thank all the people for me, and ask them to go homenow. There is nothing they can do. Tell them it grieves me to hear themcry, and Mr. Kinney would not wish it. "

Slowly and reluctantly the people went, and a silence sadder than the sobsand grieving voices settled down on the house. Reuben sat on the stairs, his head leaning against the study-door. Presently he heard a light stepcoming down. It was young Mrs. Plummer, the mother of Benjy. Shewhispered, "I've found Reuby. He's asleep on the garret floor. He'dthrown himself down on some old carpet, way out in the darkest corner, under the eaves. I've covered him up, an' I'm goin' to sit by him till hewakes up. The longer he sleeps the better. You tell her where he is. "

Reuben nodded; his dulled senses hardly heard the words. When thestudy-door next opened, Draxy herself came out, walking with a slow, measured step which transformed her whole bearing. Her face was perfectlycalm, but colorless as white stone. At sight of her father her lipsquivered, and she stretched out both hands to him; but she only said, "Where is Reuby?" And as soon as she heard she went quickly up the stairs, adding, "Do not follow me, father dear; you cannot help me. "

Mrs. Plummer sat in the dark garret, leaning her head against the dustyrafters, as near as she could get to poor little Reuby. Her eyes wereshut, and tears stood on her cheeks. Suddenly she was startled by Draxy'slow voice, saying, --

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Plummer; it was very kind in you to stay hereand not wake him up. I will sit by him now. "

Mrs. Plummer poured forth incoherent words of sympathy and sorrow, butDraxy hardly seemed to hear her. She stood quietly, making no reply, waiting for her to go. 

"O Mis' Kinney, Mis' Kinney, do cry a little, can't ye?" exclaimed thewarm-hearted woman; "it scares us to death to see ye this way. "

Draxy smiled. "No, my dear friend. I cannot cry now. I suppose I shallsometimes, because I am very selfish, and I shall be so lonely; but justnow I am only thinking how happy he is in these first hours in heaven. "The tears stood in her eyes, but her look was as of one who gazedrapturously inside the pearly gates. Mrs. Plummer stole softly away, overawed and afraid. As she went out of the house, she said to Reuben:"Mis' Kinney ain't no mortal woman. She hain't shed a tear yet, and shejest looks as glorified as the Elder can this minute in sight o' God'svery throne itself. O Mr. Miller, I'm afraid she'll break down. This kindo' grief is what kills folks. "

"No, " said Reuben, "you don't know Draxy. She won't break down. She'lltake care on us all jest the same, but ye won't never see again the sameface you used to see. Oh, I can't be reconciled, I can't!" And Reubengroaned aloud. 

The next morning, when Draxy came out of the study, her hair was white assnow. As her father first caught sight of her, he stared wildly for amoment as at some stranger; then crying out, "O Draxy! O my little girl!"he tottered and would have fallen if she had not caught him and led him toa chair. 

"O father dear, " she exclaimed, "don't feel so! I wouldn't call him backthis minute if I could, " and she smiled piteously. 

"O Draxy--'tain't that, " gasped Reuben. "O daughter! you're dyin' andnever lettin' us know it. Your hair's as white's mine. " Draxy gave astartled glance at the mirror, and said, in a much more natural tone thanshe had hitherto spoken in: "I don't think that's strange. It's happenedbefore to people in great trouble. I've read of it: you'll get used to itvery soon, father dear. I'm glad of it; I'll be all in white now, " sheadded in a lower tone, speaking dreamily, as if to herself, --"they walk inwhite; they walk in white. "

Then Reuben noticed that she was dressed in white. He touched her gown, and looked inquiringly. "Yes, father dear, " she said, "always. "

On the day of the funeral, when Draxy entered the church leading littleReuby by the hand, a visible shudder ran through the congregation. Thenews had run like wildfire through the parish, on the morning after theElder's death, that Mrs. Kinney's hair had all turned gray in the night. But nobody was in the least prepared for the effect. It was not gray--itwas silver-white; and as it retained all the silken gloss which had madeit so beautiful the shining of it was marvelous. It kindled her beautyinto something superhuman. The color had left her cheeks also, but in itsplace was a clear soft tint which had no pallor in it. She was dressed inpure white, so also was little Reuby; but for this the parish wereprepared. Very well they knew Draxy's deep-rooted belief that to associategloom with the memory of the dead was disloyal alike to them and toChrist; and so warmly had she imbued most of the people with hersentiment, that the dismal black garb of so-called mourning was rarelyseen in the village. 

Bareheaded, Draxy and her little son walked from the church to the grave;their faces the calmest, their steps the steadiest there. Reuben and Janewalked behind them, bent over and sobbing, and half the congregation wereweeping uncontrollably; but the widowed woman and the fatherless boywalked with uplifted glances, as if they saw angel-forms in the air bytheir side. 

"Tain't nateral; 'tain't noways nateral; thet woman hain't got any nateralfeelin' in her, " said Eben Hill, leaning against a grave-stone, and idlychewing a spray of golden-rod. George Thayer turned upon him like ablazing sword. 

"Hev ye got any nateral feelin' yourself, Eben Hill, to say that, standin'here an' lookin' at that woman's white hair an' cheeks, 'n' only lastSunday she was 's handsome a pictur's ye ever see, her hair a twinklin' inthe sun like a brown beech-tree, an' her cheeks jest like roses? Nateralfeelin's! It's enough to make the Elder rise up afore ye, to hear ye saysech a thing, Eben Hill; 'n' ef 'twan't jest the funeral that 'tis, Ib'leeve I'd thrash ye right an' left, here'n sight o' yer own mother'stombstone, ye miserable, sneakin' fool. Ef there was ever a woman that wascarryin' a hull town straight into the Lord's heaven on her own shoulders, it's Mis' Kinney, an' that blessed boy o' her'n 's goin' to be jest likeher. Look at him now, a workin' his poor little mouth an' lookin' up toher and tryin' not to cry. "

Poor little Reuby! when the first shovelful of earth fell on the coffin, his child's heart gave way, and he broke into loud crying, which made theroughest men there hide their eyes. Draxy caught him up in her arms andwhispered something which quieted him instantly. Then she set him down, and he stood till the end, looking away from the grave with almost a smileon his face. He told some one, the next day, that he kept saying over tohimself all that time: "Beautiful gates of precious stones and angelswith harps. "--"That's the city, you know, where my papa has gone. It's nothalf so far off as we think; and papa is so happy there, he don't evenmiss us, though he can see us every minute. And mamma and I are goingthere pretty soon; next summer perhaps. "

Part II. 

For the first few days after the funeral, Draxy seemed to sink; the voidwas too terrible; only little Reuby's voice roused her from the apatheticsilence in which she would sit by the hour gazing out of the eastbay-window on the road down which she had last seen her husband walk. Sheknew just the spot where he had paused and turned and thrown kisses backto Reuby watching him from the window. 

But her nature was too healthy, too full of energy, and her soul too fullof love to remain in this frame long. She reproached herself bitterly forthe sin of having indulged in it even for a short time. 

"I don't believe my darling can be quite happy even in heaven, while hesees me living this way, " she said sternly to herself one morning. Thenshe put on her bonnet, and went down into the village to carry out aresolution she had been meditating for some days. Very great was theastonishment of house after house that morning, as Draxy walked quietlyin, as had been her wont. She proposed to the mothers to send theiryounger children to her, to be taught half of every day. 

"I can teach Reuby better if I have other children too, " she said. "Ithink no child ought to be sent into the district school under ten. Theconfinement is too much for them. Let me have all the boys and girlsbetween six and eight, and I'll carry them along with Reuby for the nexttwo or three years at any rate, " she said. 

The parents were delighted and grateful; but their wonder almost swallowedup all other emotions. 

"To think o' her!" they said. "The Elder not three weeks buried, an' she agoin' round, jest as calm 'n' sweet's a baby, a gettin' up a school!"

"She's too good for this earth, that's what she is, " said Angy Plummer. "Ishould jest like to know if anybody'd know this village, since she cameinto 't. Why we ain't one of us the same we used to be. I know I ain't. Ireckon myself's jest about eight years old, if I have got three boys. Thatmakes me born the summer before her Reuby, 'an that's jest the time I wasborn, when my Benjy was seven months old!"

"You're jest crazy about Mis' Kinney, Angy Plummer, " said her mother. "Ib'lieve ye'd go through fire for her quicker 'n ye would for any yer ownflesh an' blood. "

Angy went to her mother and kissed the fretful old face very kindly. "Mother, you can't say I hain't been a better daughter to you sence I'veknowed Mis' Kinney. "

"No, I can't, " grumbled the old woman, "that's a fact; but she's got aheap o' new fangled notions I don't believe in. "

The school was a triumphant success. From nine until twelve o'clock everyforenoon, twelve happy little children had a sort of frolic of learninglessons in the Elder's sacred study, which was now Draxy's sitting-room. Old Ike, who since the Elder's death had never seemed quite clear ofbrain, had asked so piteously to come and sit in the room, that Draxy lethim do so. He sat in a big chair by the fire-place, and carved whistlesand ships and fantastic toys for the children, listening all the timeintently to every word which fell from Draxy's lips. He had transferred toher all the pathetic love he had felt for the Elder; he often followed herat a distance when she went out, and little Reuby he rarely lost sight of, from morning till night. He was too feeble now to do much work, but hispresence was a great comfort to Draxy. He seemed a very close link betweenher and her husband. Hannah, too, sometimes came into the school atrecess, to the great amusement of the children. She was particularly fondof looking at the blackboard, when there were chalk-marks on it. 

"Make a mark on me with your white pencil, " she would say, offering herdark cheek to Reuby, who would scrawl hieroglyphics all over it from hairto chin. 

Then she would invite the whole troop out into the kitchen to a feast ofdoughnuts or cookies; very long the recesses sometimes were when theschool was watching Hannah fry the fantastic shapes of sweet dough, ortaking each a turn at the jagged wheel with which she cut them out. 

Reuben also came often to the school-room, and Jane sometimes sat therewith her knitting. A strange content had settled on their lives, in spiteof the sorrow. They saw Draxy calm; she smiled on them as constantly asever; and they were very old people, and believed too easily that she wasat peace. 

But the Lord had more work still for this sweet woman's hand. This, too, was suddenly set before her. Late one Saturday afternoon, as she wasreturning, surrounded by her escort of laughing children, from the woods, where they had been for May-flowers, old Deacon Plummer overtook her. 

"Mis' Kinney, Mis' Kinney, " he began several times, but could get nofurther. He was evidently in great perplexity how to say the thing hewished. 

"Mis' Kinney, would you hev--

"Mis' Kinney, me and Deacon Swift's been a sayin'--

"Mis' Kinney, ain't you got--"

Draxy smiled outright. She often smiled now, with cordial good cheer, whenthings pleased her. 

"What is it, Deacon? out with it. I can't possibly tell unless you make itplainer. "

Thus encouraged, good Deacon Plummer went on: "Well, Mis' Kinney, it'sjest this: Elder Williams has jest sent word he can't come an' preachto-morrer, and there ain't nobody anywhere's round thet we can get; andDe'n Swift 'n me, we was a thinkin' whether you wouldn't be willin' someof us should read one o' the Elder's old sermons. O Mis' Kinney, ye don'tknow how we all hanker to hear some o' his blessed words agin. "

Draxy stood still. Her face altered so that the little children crowdedround her in alarm, and Reuby took hold of her hand. Tears came into hereyes, and she could hardly speak, but she replied, --

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Plummer, I should be very glad to have you. I'll lookout a sermon to-night, and you can come up to the house in the morning andget it. "

"O Mis' Kinney, do forgive me for speakin'. You have allers seem so borneup, I never mistrusted that't'd do any harm to ask yer, " stammered thepoor Deacon, utterly disconcerted by Draxy's tears, for she was cryinghard now. 

"It hasn't done any harm, I assure you. I am very glad to do it, " saidDraxy. 

"Yes, sir, my mamma very often cries when she's glad, " spoke up Reuby, hislittle face getting very red, and his lips quivering. "She's very glad, sir, if she says so. "

This chivalrous defense calmed poor Draxy, but did not comfort the Deacon, who hurried away, saying to himself, --

"Don't believe there was ever such a woman nor such a boy in this worldbefore. She never shed a tear when we brought the Elder home dead, noreven when she see him let down into the very grave; 'n' I don't believeshe's cried afore anybody till to-day; 'n' that little chap a speakin' upan' tellin' me his ma often cried when she was glad, an' I was to believeher spite of her crying! I wish I'd made Job Swift go arter her. I'll makehim go arter that sermon anyhow. I won't go near her agin 'bout thisbisness, that's certain;" and the remorse-stricken, but artful deaconhastened to his brother deacon's house to tell him that it was "allsettled with Mis' Kinney 'bout the sermon, an' she was quite willin';"and, "O, " he added, as if it were quite a second thought, "ye'd better goup an' git the sermon, Job, in the mornin, ' ye're so much nearer, an'then, 's ye've to do the readin, ' maybe she'll have somethin' to explainto ye about the way it's to be read; th' Elder's writin' wan't any tooeasy to make out, 's fur 's I remember it. "

Next morning, just as the first bells were ringing, Deacon Swift knockedtimidly at the door of the Elder's study. Draxy met him with a radiantface. She had been excited by reading over the sermon she had after longdeliberation selected. The text was, --

"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. " The sermon had beenwritten soon after their marriage, and was one of her husband's favorites. There were many eloquent passages in it, which seemed now to take on a newsignificance, as coming from the lips of the Elder, absent from his flockand present with Christ. 

"O Mis' Kinney, I recollect that sermon 's if 'twas only yesterday, " saidDeacon Swift. "The hull parish was talkin' on't all the week; ye couldn'thave picked out one they'd be so glad to hear; but dear me! how I'm evergoin' to read it in any kind o' decent way, I don't know; I never was areader, anyhow, 'n' now I've lost my front teeth, some words does pesterme to git out. "

This opened the way for Draxy. Nearly all night she had lain awake, thinking how terrible it would be to her to hear her husband's belovedwords indistinctly and ineffectively read by Deacon Swift's cracked andfeeble voice. Almost she regretted having given her consent. At last thethought flashed into her mind, "Why should I not read it myself? I know Icould be heard in every corner of that little church. " The more shethought of it, the more she longed to do it, and the less she shrank fromthe idea of facing the congregation. 

"'It's only just like a big family of children, ' Seth always used to say, 'and I'm sure I feel as if they were mine now, as much as ever they werehis. I wish I dared do it. I do believe Seth would like it, ' and Draxyfell asleep comforted by the thought. Before breakfast she consulted herfather, and he approved it warmly. 

"I believe your mission isn't done yet, daughter, to these people of yourhusband's. The more you speak to 'em the better. It'll be jest like hisvoice speaking from heaven to 'em, " said Reuben, "an' I shouldn't wonderif keepin' Elder Williams away was all the Lord's doin', as the blessedsaint used to say. "

Reuben's approval was all that Draxy needed to strengthen her impulse, andbefore Deacon Swift arrived her only perplexity was as to the best way ofmaking the proposition to him. All this difficulty he had himself smoothedaway by his first words. 

"Yes, I know, Deacon Swift, " she said. "I've been thinking that perhaps itwould tire you to read for so long a time in a loud voice; and besides, Mr. Kinney's handwriting is very hard to read. "

Draxy paused and looked sympathizingly in the deacon's face. The mentionof the illegible writing distressed the poor man still more. He took thesermon from her hand and glanced nervously at the first page. 

"Oh my! Mis' Kinney, " he exclaimed, "I can't make out half the words. "

"Can't you?" said Draxy, gently. "It is all as plain as print to me, Iknow it so well. But there are some abbreviations Mr. Kinney always used. I will explain them to you. Perhaps that will make it easier. "

"O Mis' Kinney, Mis' Kinney! I can't never do it in the world, " burst outthe poor deacon. "O Mis' Kinney, why can't you read it to the folks?They'd all like it, I know they would. "

"Do you really think so, Mr. Swift?" replied Draxy; and then, with alittle twinge of conscience, added immediately, "I have been thinking ofthat very thing myself, that perhaps, if it wouldn't seem strange to thepeople, that would be the best way, because I know the handwriting sowell, and it really is very hard for a stranger to read. "

"Yes, yes, that's the very thing, " hastily exclaimed the relieveddeacon, --"that's it, that's it. Why, Mis' Kinney, as for their thinkin' itstrange, there ain't a man in the parish that wouldn't vote for you forminister twice over if ye wuz only a man. I've heerd 'em all say so more'n a thousand times sence. " Something in Draxy's face cut the Deacon'ssentence short. 

"Very well, Mr. Swift, " she said. "Then I will try, since you think itbest. My father thought it would be a good plan too, or else I should nothave been willing, " she added, gently. 

"Reuben Miller's daughter" was still as guileless, reverent, potent athought in Draxy's heart as when, upon her unconscious childish lips, thewords had been a spell, disarming and winning all hearts to her. 

The news had gone all through the village on Saturday night, that DeaconSwift was to read one of Elder Kinney's sermons the next day. The wholeparish was present; not a man, not a woman was missing except those whowere kept at home by sickness. A tender solemnity was in every face. Notoften does it happen to a man to be so beloved by a whole community as wasElder Kinney by this people. 

With some embarrassment and hesitation, Deacon Swift read the hymns andmade one of the prayers; Deacon Plummer made the other. Then there came apause. Draxy flushed scarlet and half rose in her pew. She had not thoughtto tell the Deacon that he must explain to the people beforehand why sheread the sermon. She had taken it for granted that he would do so; but hedid not comprehend that he ought, and only looked nervously towards her, waiting for her to come forward. This was the one moment which triedDraxy's soul; there was almost vexation in her look, as hastily layingaside her bonnet she walked up to the table in front of the pulpit, and, turning towards the people, said in her clear, melodious voice, --

"Dear friends, I am sorry Deacon Swift did not explain to you that I wasto read the sermon. He asked me to do so because Mr. Kinney's handwritingis very hard for a stranger to read. "

She paused for a second, and then added:

"The sermon which I have chosen is one which some of you will remember. Itwas written and preached nine years ago. The text is in the beautifulGospel of St. John, the 14th chapter and the 27th verse, --

"'Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you. '"

After pronouncing these words, Draxy paused again, and looking towards herpew, made a slight sign to Reuby. The child understood instantly, andwalked swiftly to her. 

"Sit in this chair here by mamma, Reuby darling, " she whispered, and Reubyclimbed up into the big chair on her right hand, and leaned his fairgolden head against the high mahogany back. Draxy had become conscious, inthat first second, that she could not read with Reuby's wistful face insight. Also she felt a sudden yearning for the support of his nearerpresence. 

"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you, " she repeated, and wenton with the sermon. Her tones were low, but clear, and her articulation soperfect that no syllable was lost; she could have been distinctly heard ina room twice as large as this. The sight was one which thrilled everyheart that looked on it; no poor laboring man there was so dull of senseand soul that he did not sit drinking in the wonderful picture: the tall, queenly woman robed in simple flowing white, her hair a coronet of snowysilver; her dark blue eyes shining with a light which would have beenflashingly brilliant, except for its steadfast serenity; her mouth almostsmiling, as the clear tones flowed out; sitting quiet, intent, by herside, the beautiful boy, also dressed in white, his face lighted like hersby serene and yet gleaming eyes; his head covered with golden curls; hislittle hands folded devoutly in his lap. One coming suddenly upon thescene might well have fancied himself in another clime and age, in thepresence of some rite performed by a mystic priestess clothed in samite. But the words which fell from the lips were the gentlest words of thegentlest religion earth has known; and the heart which beat under theclinging folds of the strange white garb was no priestess' heart, but aheart full, almost to breaking, of wifehood, of motherhood. 

It does not need experience as an orator to give significance to themagnetic language of upturned faces. Before Draxy had read ten pages ofthe sermon, she was so thrilled by the consciousness that every heartbefore her was thrilled too, that her cheeks flushed and her whole faceglowed. 

The sermon had sounded eloquent when the Elder preached it; but now, fromDraxy's lips, it was transcendent. As she read the closing paragraph, --

"His peace He leaves with us: his peace He gives unto us: not such peaceas He knew on earth: such peace as He knows now in heaven, on the righthand of His Father; even that peace He bids us share--that peace, thepeace of God which passeth understanding, "--she seemed to dilate instature, and as she let the sermon fall on the table before her, herlifted eyes seemed arrested in mid air as by a celestial vision. 

Then in a second more, she was again the humble, affectionate Draxy, whomall the women and all the little children knew and loved; looking round onthem with an appealing expression, she said, --

"Dear friends, I hope I have not done wrong in standing up here and takingit upon me to read such solemn words. I felt that Mr. Kinney would like tospeak to you once more through me. "

Then taking little Reuby by the hand, she walked slowly back to her pew. 

Then Deacon Swift made sad work of reading the hymn, --

"Blest be the tie that binds, "

And the choir made sad work of singing it. Nobody's voice could be trustedfor many syllables at a time, but nobody listened to the music. Everybodywas impatient to speak to Draxy. They clustered round her in the aisle;they crowded into pews to get near her: all the reticence and reserve oftheir New England habit had melted away in this wonderful hour. Theythanked her; they touched her; they gazed at her; they did not know whatto do; even Draxy's calm was visibly disturbed by the atmosphere of theirgreat excitement. 

"O Mis' Kinney, ef ye'll only read us one more! just one more! won't ye, now? Do say ye will, right off, this arternoon; or read the same one rightover, ef that's any easier for ye. We'd like to hear jest that 'n' nothin'else for a year to come! O Mis' Kinney! 'twas jest like hearin' the Elderhimself. "

Poor Draxy was trembling. Reuben came to her rescue. 

"I hope you won't take it unkindly of me, " he said, "but my daughter'sfeeling more than's good for her. She must come home now. " And Reuben drewher hand into his arm. 

The people fell back sorry and conscience-stricken. 

"We orter ha' known better, " they said, "but she makes us forgit she'sflesh 'n' blood. "

"I will read you another sermon some time, " said Draxy, slowly. "I shallbe very glad to. But not to-day. I could not do it to-day. " Then shesmiled on them all, with a smile which was a benediction, and walked awayholding Reuby's hand very tightly, and leaning heavily on her father'sarm. 

The congregation did not disperse; nothing since the Elder's death had somoved them. They gathered in knots on the church steps and in the aisles, and talked long and earnestly. There was but one sentiment, one voice. 

"It's a thousand shames she ain't a man, " said some of the young men. 

"It 'ud be a thousand times more ef she wuz, " retorted Angy Plummer. "I'dlike to see the man that 'ud do what she does, a comin' right close to thevery heart o' yer's ef she was your mother 'n' your sister 'n' yourhusband, and a blessed angel o' God, all ter once. "

"But Angy, we only meant that then we could hev her for our minister, "they replied. 

Angy turned very red, but replied, energetically, --

"There ain't any law agin a woman's bein' minister, thet I ever heerd on. Howsomever, Mis' Kinney never'd hear to anythin' o' that kind. I don' no'for my part how she ever mustered up courage to do what she's done, sokind o' backward 'n' shy's she is for all her strength. But for my part, Iwouldn't ask for no other preachin' all the rest o' my life, than jest tohear Mis' Kinney read one o' her husband's sermons every Sunday. "

"Why, Angy Plummer!" burst from more lips than one. But the boldsuggestion was only the half-conscious thought of every one there, and thediscussion grew more and more serious. Slowly the people dispersed totheir homes, but the discussion still continued. Late into night, by manya fireside, the matter was talked over, and late the next night, and thenext, until a vague hope and a still vaguer purpose sprang up in theparish. 

"She said she'd read another some day, " they reiterated. "Most likelyshe'd 's soon do it next Sunday, 'n' sooner, 'cause she'd be more usedto't than ef she waited a spell between. "

"But it won't do to take it for granted she's goin' to, 'n' not gitanybody, " said Deacon Swift, in great perplexity. "I think Brother Plummer'n' me'd better go 'n' ask her. "

"No, " said Angy, "let me go. I can talk it over better'n you can. I'llgo. "

And Angy went. The interview between the two women was long. Angy pleadedas nobody else in the parish could have done; and Draxy's heart was all onher side. But Draxy's judgment was unconvinced. 

"If I could be sure, Angy, that it would be best for the people, I shouldnot hesitate. But you know very well, if I begin I shall keep on, " shesaid. 

She consulted Reuben. His heart, too, was on the people's side, but hisjudgment was like hers, perplexed. 

"One thing's very certain, daughter: there is not anybody they can everfind to settle here, or that they are likely to, who can preach as theElder did. His old sermons are worlds better than any new ones they'llget. "

"Yes, indeed, I know that, " said Draxy. "That's what makes me feel as if Imust do it. "

This had been her strongest motive. Only too well she knew what would bethe probable calibre of a man who would come to this poor and lonelylittle village which she so loved. 

At last she consented to make the experiment. "I will read for you everySunday, two sermons of Mr. Kinney's, " she said, "until you hear of someone whom you would like to settle for your minister. "

Angy Plummer, clapped her hands when her father repeated at tea onThursday evening what "Mis' Kinney" had said. 

"That's good's settlin' her, " she exclaimed. "Oh, I never thought she'dcome to it, " and real tears of joy stood in Angy's eyes. 

"I don't know 'bout that, Angy, " replied the Deacon; "there's a good dealto be thought on, fust 'n' last. Folks '11 talk like everythin', I expect, 'n' say we've got a woman preacher. It wouldn't never do for any greatlength o' time; but it will be a blessin' to hear some th' Elder's goodrousin' comfortin' sermons for a spell, arter the stuff we hev been ahavin', 'n' they can't say she's any more 'n' a reader anyhow. That'squite different from preachin'. "

"Of course it is, " said Angy, who was wise enough to keep some of herthoughts and hopes to herself; "they're's different's any other twothings. I don't suppose anybody'd say you was a settin' up to preach, ifyou'd ha' read the sermons, 'n' I don't see why they need to any more o'Mis' Kinney. " And so, on the next Sunday Draxy's ministry to her husband'speople began. Again with softened and gladdened faces the littlecongregation looked up to the fair, tall priestess with her snow-whiterobes and snow-white hair, and gleaming steadfast eyes, standing meeklybetween the communion-table and the chair in which sat her golden-hairedlittle son. Her voice was clearer and stronger than ever; and there was acalm peacefulness in her whole atmosphere which had not been there atfirst. 

Again the people crowded around, and thanked her, and clasped her hands. This time she answered them with cordial good cheer, and did not tremble. To little Reuby also they spoke gratefully. 

"You help too, Reuby, don't you?" said Angy Plummer, --"do you like it?"

"Very much, ma'am; mamma says I help, but I think she's mistaken, " repliedthe little fellow, archly. 

"Yes you do, you darling, " said Mrs. Plummer, stooping and kissing himtenderly. Angy Plummer loved Reuby. She never looked at him withoutthinking that but for his existence the true mother-heart would perhapsnever have been born in her bosom. 

The reading of the sermons grew easier and easier to Draxy, Sunday bySunday. She became conscious of a strange sense of being lifted out ofherself, as soon as she began to speak. She felt more and more as if itwere her husband speaking through her; and she felt more and more closelydrawn into relation with the people. 

"Oh, father dear, " she said more than once, "I don't know how I shall evergive it up when the time comes. It makes me so happy: I feel almost as ifI could see Seth standing right by me and holding my gown while I read. And father, dear, " she proceeded in a lower, slower voice, "I don't knowbut you'll think it wrong; I'm almost afraid to tell you, but sometimes Isay words that aren't in the sermons; just a sentence or two, where Ithink Seth would put it in if he were here now; and I almost believe heputs the very words into my head. "

She paused and looked anxiously and inquiringly at her father. 

"No, Draxy, " replied Reuben solemnly, "I don't think it wrong. I feel moreand more, every Sunday I listen to you, as if the Lord had set you apartfor this thing; and I don't believe he'd send any other angel except yourhusband on the errand of helpin' you. "

The summer passed, and the parish gave no signs of readiness for a newminister. When Draxy spoke of it, she was met by such heartfelt grief onall sides that she was silenced. At last she had a long, serious talk withthe deacons, which set her mind more at rest. They had, it seemed, consulted several neighboring ministers, Elder Williams among the number, and they had all advised that while the congregation seemed so absorbed ininterest, no change should be made. 

"Elder Williams he sez he'll come over regular for the communion, " saidDeacon Plummer, "and for baptisms whenever we want him, and thet's themain thing, for, thank the Lord, we haint many funerals 'n course of ayear. And Mis' Kinney, ef ye'll excuse my makin' so bold, I'll tell yejest what Elder Williams said about ye: sez he, It's my opinion that efthere was ever a woman born thet was jest cut out for a minister to acongregation, it's that Elder's wife o' your'n; and sez we to him 'Thet'sjest what the hull town thinks, sir, and it's our opinion that ef weshould try to settle anythin' in the shape of a man in this parish, therewouldn't be anythin' but empty pews for him to preach to, for the people'dall be gone up to Mis' Kinney's. '"

Draxy smiled in spite of herself. But her heart was very solemn. 

"It is a great responsibility, Deacon Plummer, " she said, "and I feelafraid all the time. But my father thinks I ought to do it, and I am sohappy in it, it seems as if it could not be a mistake. "

As months went on, her misgivings grew less and less; and her impulses toadd words of her own to her husband's sermons grew more and more frequent. She could not but see that she held the hearts of the people in her handsto mould them like wax; and her intimate knowledge of their conditions andneeds made it impossible for her to refrain from sometimes speaking thewords she knew they ought to hear. Whenever she did so at any length, shelaid her manuscript on the table, that they might know the truth. Hersense of honesty would not let her do otherwise. It was long beforeanybody but Angy Plummer understood the meaning of these intervals. Therest supposed she knew parts of the sermon by heart. 

But at last came a day when her soul was so stirred within her, that sherose up boldly before her people and said, --

"I have not brought any sermon of Mr. Kinney's to read to you to-day. I amgoing to speak to you myself. I am so grieved, so shocked at events whichhave taken place in this village, the past week, that I cannot helpspeaking about them. And I find among Mr. Kinney's sermons no one whichmeets this state of things. "

The circumstances to which Draxy alluded had been some disgraceful scenesof excitement in connection with the Presidential election. Party spirithad been growing higher and higher in Clairvend for some years; and when, on the reckoning of the returns on this occasion, the victorious partyproved to have a majority of but three, sharp quarreling had at oncebroken out. Accusations of cheating and lying were freely bandied, andDeacon Plummer and George Thayer had nearly come to blows on the steps ofthe Town House, at high noon, just as the school-children were going home. Later in the afternoon there had been a renewal of the contest in thevillage store, and it had culminated in a fight, part of which Draxyherself had chanced to see. Long and anxiously she pondered, that night, the question of her duty. She dared not keep silent. 

"It would be just hypocrisy and nothing less, " she exclaimed to herself, "for me to stand up there and read them one of Seth's sermons, when I amburning to tell them how shamefully they have behaved. But I suppose itwill be the last time I shall speak to them. They'll never want to hear meagain. "

She did not tell her father of her resolution till they were near thechurch. Reuben started, but in a moment he said, deliberately, --

"You're quite right, daughter; may the Lord bless you!"

At Draxy's first words, a thrill of astonishment ran over the wholecongregation. Everybody knew what was coming. George Thayer coloredscarlet to the roots of his hair, and the color never faded till thesermon was ended. Deacon Plummer coughed nervously, and changed hisposition so as to cover his mouth with his hand. Angy put her head down onthe front of the pew and began to cry. 

"Render, therefore, unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's and unto Godthe things that are God's, " came in clear ringing tones from Draxy's lips. Then she proceeded, in simple and gentle words, to set forth the right ofevery man to his own opinions and convictions; the duty of having earnestconvictions and acting up to them in all the affairs of life. GeorgeThayer and the Deacon looked easier. Her words seemed, after all, rather ajustification of their vehemence of feeling. 

But when she came to speak of the "things that are God's, " her wordspierced their very souls. The only thing that enabled George Thayer tobear up under it at all was, as he afterwards said in the store, keepinghis "eyes fixed steady on old Plummer, " "'cause, you know, boys, I neverjined the church nor made any kind o' profession o' goin' in for anythings o' God's, nohow; not but what I've often wished I could see my wayto: but sez I to myself, ef he kin stan' it I kin, an' so I held out. ButI tell you, boys, I'd rather drive the wust six-hoss team I ever got holdon down Breakneck Hill 'n the dark, than set there agin under thet woman'seyes, a blazin' one minnit, 'n fillin' with tears the next: 'n' I don'tcare what anybody sez; I'm a goin' to see her an' tell her that sheneedn't be afeard o' ever hevin to preach to me s' good s' by my name, inthe meeting 'us agin, by thunder!"

"Suppose the blessed Saviour had come walking through our streets, lookingfor his children last Wednesday, " said Draxy, "He would say to himself, 'I shall know them, wherever I find them: I have given them so manybadges, they will be sure to be wearing some of them. They suffer long andare kind; they envy not, vaunt not, are not puffed up: they are not easilyprovoked, think no evil, seek not their own, rejoice in the truth; they donot behave unseemly. ' Alas, would the dear Jesus have turned away, believing Himself a stranger and friendless in our village? Which one ofyou, dear men, could have sprung forward to take him by the hand? Whatterrible silence would have fallen upon you as he looked round on yourangry faces!"

Tears were rolling down little Reuby's face. Slyly he tried to wipe themaway, first with one hand, then with the other, lest his mother should seethem. He had never in his life seen such an expression of suffering onher face. He had never heard such tones of pain in her voice. He wassorely perplexed; and the sight of his distressed little face was almostmore than the people could bear. 

When Draxy stopped speaking, Deacon Plummer did a manly thing. He roseinstantly, and saying "Let us pray, " poured out as humble and contrite apetition for forgiveness as ever went up on wings of faith to Heaven. Itcleared the air, like sweet rain; it rolled a burden off everybody'sheart--most of all, perhaps, off Draxy's. 

"He is not angry, after all, " she said; "God has laid it to his heart;"and when, at the end of the services, the old man came up to her and heldout his hand, she took it in both of hers, and said, "Thank you, dearDeacon Plummer, thank you for helping me so much to-day. Your prayer wasbetter for the people than my little sermon, a great deal. " The deaconwrung her hands, but did not speak a word, only stooped and kissed Reuby. 

After this day, Draxy had a new hold on the people. They had really feltvery little surprise at her speaking to them as she did. She had slowlyand insensibly to herself grown into the same place which the Elder hadhad in their regard; the same in love and confidence, but higher inreverence, and admiration, for although she sympathized just as lovinglyas he in all their feelings, they never for a moment ceased to feel thather nature was on a higher plane than his. They could not have put this inwords, but they felt it. 

"Donno, how 'tis, " they said, "but Mis' Kinney, even when she's closest toye, an' a doin' for ye all the time, don't seem just like a mortal woman. "

"It's easy enough to know how 'tis, " replied Angy Plummer, once, in amoment of unguarded frankness, "Mis Kinney is a kind o' daughter o' God, somthin' as Jesus Christ was His Son. It's just the way Jesus Christ usedto go round among folks, 's near 's I can make out; 'n' I for one, don'tbelieve that God jest sent Him, once for all, 'n' haint never sent anybodyelse near us, all this time. I reckon He's a sendin' down sons anddaughters to us oftener 'n' we think. "

"Angy Plummer, I call that downright blasphemy, " exclaimed her mother. 

"Well, call it what you're a mind to, " retorted the crisp Angy. "It's whatI believe. "

"'Tis blasphemy though, to be sayin' it to folks that can't understand, "she muttered to herself as she left the room, "ef blasphemy means whatMis' Kinney sez it does, to speak stupidly. "

Three years had passed. The novelty of Draxy's relation to her people hadworn off. The neighboring people had ceased to wonder and to talk; and theneighboring ministers had ceased to doubt and question. Clairvend and shehad a stout supporter in old Elder Williams, who was looked upon as a highauthority throughout the region. He always stayed at Reuben Miller'shouse, when he came to the town, and his counsel and sympathy wereinvaluable to Draxy. Sometimes he said jocosely, "I am the pastor ofBrother Kinney's old parish and Mis' Kinney is my curate, and I wisheverybody had as good an one. "

It finally grew to be Draxy's custom to read one of her husband's sermonsin the forenoon, and to talk to the people informally in the afternoon. Sometimes she wrote out what she wished to say, but usually she spokewithout any notes. She also wrote hymns which she read to them, and whichthe choir sometimes sang. She was now fully imbued with the feeling thateverything which she could do, belonged to her people. Next to Reuben, they filled her heart; the sentiment was after all but an expanded andexalted motherhood. Strangers sometimes came to Clairvend to hear herpreach, for of course the fame of the beautiful white-robed woman-preachercould not be confined to her own village. This always troubled Draxy verymuch. 

"If we were not so far out of the world, I should have to give it up, " shesaid; "I know it is proper they should come; but it seems to me just asstrange as if they were to walk into the study in the evening when I amteaching Reuby. I can't make it seem right; and when I see them writingdown what I say, it just paralyzes me. "

It might have seemed so to Draxy, but it did not to her hearers. No onewould have supposed her conscious of any disturbing presence. And morethan one visitor carried away with him written records of her eloquentwords. 

One of her most remarkable sermons was called "The Gospel of Mystery. "

The text was Psalm xix. 2:--

 "Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. "

First she dwelt on the sweet meaning of the word Gospel. "Dear friends, "she said, "it is a much simpler word than we realize; it is only 'goodnews, ' 'good tidings. ' We get gospels every day. Our children send us goodnews of their lives. What gospels of joy are such letters! And nations tonations send good news: a race of slaves is set free; a war has ended;shiploads of grain have been sent to the starving; a good man has beenmade ruler; these are good tidings--gospels. "

After dwelling on this first, simplest idea of the word, until every oneof her hearers had begun to think vividly of all the good tidingsjourneying in words back and forth between heart and heart, continent andcontinent, she spoke of the good news which nature tells without words. Here she was eloquent. Subtle as the ideas were, they were yet clothed inthe plain speech which the plain people understood: the tidings of thespring, of the winter, of the river, of the mountain; of gold, of silver, of electric fire; of blossom and fruit; of seed-time and harvest; of sunsand stars and waters, --these were the "speech" which "day uttered untoday. "

But "knowledge was greater" than speech: night in her silence "showed"what day could not tell. Here the faces of the people grew fixed andearnest. In any other hands than Draxy's the thought would have been toodeep for them, and they would have turned from it wearily. But hersimplicity controlled them always. "Stand on your door-steps on a darknight, " she said, --"a night so dark that you can see nothing: looking outinto this silent darkness, you will presently feel a far greater sense ofhow vast the world is, than you do in broad noon-day, when you can see upto the very sun himself. "

More than one young face in the congregation showed that this sentencestruck home and threw light on hitherto unexplained emotions. "This islike what I mean, " continued Draxy, "by the Gospel of Mystery, the goodtidings of the things we cannot understand. This gospel is everywhere. Notthe wisest man that has ever lived can fully understand the smallestcreated thing: a drop of water, a grain of dust, a beam of light, canbaffle his utmost research. So with our own lives, with our own hearts;every day brings a mystery--sin and grief and death: all these aremysteries; gospels of mystery, good tidings of mystery; yes, good tidings!These are what prove that God means to take us into another world afterthis one; into a world where all things which perplexed us here will beexplained. . . . O my dear friends!" she exclaimed at last, clasping herhands tightly, "thank God for the things which we cannot understand:except for them, how should we ever be sure of immortality?"

Then she read them a hymn called "The Gospel of Mystery. " Coming after thesermon, it was sweet and clear to all the people's hearts. Before thesermon it would have seemed obscure. 

 The Gospel of Mystery. 

 Good tidings every day, God's messengers ride fast. We do not hear one half they say, There is such noise on the highway, Where we must wait while they ride past. 

 Their banners blaze and shine With Jesus Christ's dear name, And story, how by God's design He saves us, in His love divine, And lifts us from our sin and shame. 

 Their music fills the air, Their songs sing all of Heaven; Their ringing trumpet peals declare What crowns to souls who fight and dare, And win, shall presently be given. 

 Their hands throw treasures round Among the multitude. No pause, no choice, no count, no bound, No questioning how men are found, If they be evil or be good. 

 But all the banners bear Some words we cannot read; And mystic echoes in the air, Which borrow from the songs no share, In sweetness all the songs exceed. 

 And of the multitude, No man but in his hand Holds some great gift misunderstood, Some treasure, for whose use or good His ignorance sees no demand. 

 These are the tokens lent By immortality; Birth-marks of our divine descent; Sureties of ultimate intent, God's Gospel of Eternity. 

 Good tidings every day. The messengers ride fast; Thanks be to God for all they say; There is such noise on the highway, Let us keep still while they ride past. 

But the sermon which of all others her people loved best was one on theLove of God. This one she was often asked to repeat, --so often, that shesaid one day to Angy, who asked for it, "Why, Angy, I am ashamed to. Everybody must know it by heart. I am sure I do. "

"Yes, that's jest the way we do know it, Mis' Kinney, by heart, " said theaffectionate Angy, "an' that's jest the reason we want it so often. Inever told ye what George Thayer said the last time you read it to us, didI?"

"No, Angy, " said Draxy. 

"Well, he was singing in the choir that day, 'n place o' his brother, whowas sick; 'n' he jumped up on one o' the seats 'n' swung his hat, jest 'syou was goin' down the aisle, 'n' we all ketched hold on him to pull himdown, 'n' try to hush him; for you can't never tell what George Thayer'lldo when his blood's up, 'n' we was afraid he was agoin' to holler rightout, 's ef he was in the town-'us; but sez he, in a real low, trembly kindo' voice, "'Ye needn't be afraid, I ain't agoin' to whoop;--taint that way Ifeel, --but I had to do suthin' or I should bust': 'n' there was reel tearsin his eyes--George Thayer's eyes, Mis' Kinney! Then he jumped down, 'n'sez he, 'I'll tell ye what that sermon's like: it's jest like one greatrainbow all round ye, and before 'n' behind 'n' everywheres, 'n' the endon't reaches way to the Throne; it jest dazzles my eyes, that's what itdoes. '"

This sermon had concluded with the following hymn, which Draxy had writtenwhen Reuby was only a few weeks old:--

 The Love of God. 

 Like a cradle rocking, rocking, Silent, peaceful, to and fro, Like a mother's sweet looks dropping On the little face below, Hangs the green earth, swinging, turning, Jarless, noiseless, safe and slow; Falls the light of God's face bending Down and watching us below. 

 And as feeble babes that suffer, Toss and cry, and will not rest, Are the ones the tender mother Holds the closest, loves the best, So when we are weak and wretched, By our sins weighed down, distressed, Then it is that God's great patience Holds us closest, loves us best. 

 O great Heart of God! whose loving Cannot hindered be nor crossed; Will not weary, will not even In our death itself be lost-- Love divine! of such great loving, Only mothers know the cost-- Cost of love, which all love passing, Gave a Son to save the lost. 

There is little more to tell of Draxy's ministry. It closed as suddenly asit had begun. 

It was just five years after the Elder's death that she found herself, oneSunday morning, feeling singularly feeble and lifeless. She was bewilderedat the sensation, for in her apparent health she had never felt it before. She could hardly walk, could hardly stand. She felt also a strange apathywhich prevented her being alarmed. 

"It is nothing, " she said; "I dare say most women are so all the time; Idon't feel in the least ill;" and she insisted upon it that no one shouldremain at home with her. It was a communion Sunday and Elder Williams wasto preach. 

"How fortunate it is that Mr. Williams was here!" she thought languidly, as she seated herself in the eastern bay-window, to watch Reuby down thehill. He walked between his grandparents, holding each by the hand, talking merrily and looking up into their faces. 

Draxy watched them until their figures became dim, black specks, andfinally faded out of sight. Then she listened dreamily to the notes of theslow-tolling bell; when it ceased she closed her eyes, and her thoughtsran back, far back to the days when she was "little Draxy" and ElderKinney was only her pastor. Slowly she lived her life since then overagain, its joy and its sorrow alike softened in her tender, broodingthoughts. The soft whirring sound of a bird's wings in the air roused her:as it flew past the window she saw that it was one of the yellow-hammers, which still built their nests in the maple-grove behind the house. 

"Ah, " thought she, "I suppose it can't be one of the same birds we sawthat day. But it's going on errands just the same. I wonder, dear Seth, ifmine are nearly done. "

At that instant a terrible pain shot through her left side and forced asharp cry from her lips. She half rose exclaiming, "Reuby, oh, darling!"and sank back in her chair unconscious. 

Just as Elder Williams was concluding the communion service, the door ofthe church was burst open, and old Ike, tottering into the aisle, criedout in a shrill voice:--

"Mis' Kinney's dead! Mis' Kinney's dead!"

The scene that followed could not be told. With flying feet the wholecongregation sped up the steep hill--Angy Plummer half lifting, halfdragging Reuby, and the poor grandparents supported on each side by strongmen. As they drew near the house, they saw Draxy apparently sitting by theopen window. 

"O mamma! why that's mamma, " shrieked Reuby, "she was sitting just so whenwe came away. She isn't dead. "

Elder Williams reached the house first, Hannah met him on the threshold, tearless. 

"She dead, sir. She's cold as ice. She must ha' been dead a long time. "

Old Ike had been rambling around the house, and observing from the outsidethat Draxy's position was strange, had compelled Hannah to go into theroom. 

"She was a smilin' just's you see her now, " said Hannah, "'n' I couldn'tha' touched her to move her more'n I could ha' touched an angel. "

There are griefs, as well as joys, to which words offer insult. Draxy wasdead!

Three days later they laid her by the side of her husband, and thegray-haired, childless old people, and the golden-haired, fatherless andmotherless boy, returned together broken-hearted to the sunny parsonage. 

On the village a terrible silence, that could be felt, settled down; asilence in which sorrowing men and women crept about, weeping as those whocannot be comforted. 

Then week followed after week, and soon all things seemed as they hadseemed before. But Draxy never died to her people. Her hymns are stillsung in the little lonely church; her gospel still lives in the very airof those quiet hills, and the people smile through their tears as theyteach her name to little children. 

Whose Wife Was She?

I was on my knees before my chrysanthemum-bed, looking at each littleround tight disk of a bud, and trying to believe that it would be a snowyflower in two weeks. In two weeks my cousin Annie Ware was to be married:if my white chrysanthemums would only understand and make haste! I waschildish enough to tell them so; but the childishness came of love, --of myexceeding, my unutterable love for Annie Ware; if flowers have souls, thechrysanthemums understood me. 

A sharp, quick roll of wheels startled me. I lifted my head. The wheelsstopped at our gate; a hurried step came down the broad garden-path, andalmost before I had had time to spring to my feet, Dr. Fearing had takenboth my hands in his, had said, --"Annie Ware has the fever, "--had turned, had gone, had shut the garden gate, and the same sharp quick roll ofwheels told that he was far on his way to the next sufferer. 

I do not know how long I stood still in the garden. A miserable sullennessseemed to benumb my faculties. I repeated, --

"Annie Ware has the fever. " Then I said, --

"Annie Ware cannot die; she is too young, too strong, and we love herso. "

Then I said again, --

"Annie Ware has the fever, " and all the time I seemed not to be thinkingabout her at all, but about the chrysanthemums, whose tops I still idlystudied. 

For weeks a malignant typhus fever had been slowly creeping about in thelower part of our village, in all the streets which had been under waterin the spring freshet. 

These streets were occupied chiefly by laboring people, eithermill-operatives, or shopkeepers of the poorer class. It was part of thecruel "calamity" of their "poverty" that they could not afford to havehomesteads on the high plateau, which lifted itself quite suddenly fromthe river meadow, and made our village a by-word of beauty all through NewEngland. 

Upon this plateau were laid out streets of great regularity, shaded bygrand elms, many of which had been planted by hands that had handled theropes of the _Mayflower_. Under the shade of these elms stood largeold-fashioned houses, in that sort of sleepy dignity peculiar to old NewEngland. We who lived in these houses were also sleepy and dignified. Weknew that "under the hill, " as it was called, lived many hundreds of menand women, who were stifled in summer for want of the breezes which sweptacross our heights, cold in winter because the wall of our plateau shutdown upon them the icy airs from the frozen river, and cut off theafternoon sun. We were sorry for them, and we sent them cold meat andflannels sometimes; but their life was as remote from our life as if theynever crossed our paths; it is not necessary to go into large cities tofind sharp lines drawn between the well-to-do and the poverty-stricken. There are, in many small villages, "districts" separated from each otherby as distinct a moral distance as divides Fifth Avenue from the FivePoints. 

And so it had come to pass that while for weeks this malignant fever hadbeen creeping about on the river shore, we, in our clearer, purer air, hadnot felt even a dread of it. There had not been a single case of it westof the high water mark made by the terrible freshet of the previousspring. We sent brandy and wine and beef-tea into the poor, comfortless, grief-stricken houses; and we said at tea-time that it was strange, peoplewould persist in living down under the bank: what could they expect? andbesides, they were "so careless about drainage and ventilation. "

Now, on the highest and loveliest spot, in the richest and most beautifulhouse, the sweetest and fairest girl of all our village lay ill of thedeadly disease. 

"Annie Ware has the fever. " I wondered if some fiend were lurking by myside, who kept saying the words over and over in my ear. With thatindescribable mixture of dulled and preternaturally sharpened sense whichoften marks the first moments of such distress, I walked slowly to myroom, and in a short time had made all the necessary preparation forleaving home. I felt like a thief as I stole slowly down the stairs, withmy travelling-bag in my hand. At the door I met my father. 

"Hey-day, my darling, where now? Off to Annie's, as usual?"

He had not heard the tidings! Should I tell him? I might never see himagain; only too well I knew the terrible danger into which I was going. But he might forbid me. 

"Yes, off to Annie's, " I said in a gay tone, and kissing him sprang downthe steps. 

I did not see my father again for eighteen days. 

On the steps of my uncle's house I met old Jane, a colored woman who hadnursed Annie Ware when she was a baby, and who lived now in a littlecottage near by, from whose door-steps she could see Annie's window, andin whose garden she raised flowers of all sorts, solely for the pleasureof carrying them to Annie every day. 

Jane's face was positively gray with sorrow and fear. She looked at mewith a strange sort of unsympathizing hardness in her eyes. She had neverloved me. I knew what she thought. She was saying to herself: "Why notthis one instead of the other?"

"O auntie!" I said, "I would die for Annie; you know I would. "

At this she melted. "O honey! don' ye say that. The Lord"--but she couldsay no more. She threw her apron up over her head and strode away. 

The doors of the house stood open. I walked through room after room, andfound no human being. At last, at the foot of the stairs in the back partof the house, I came upon all the servants huddled together in a cowering, weeping group. Flat on the floor, with his face to the wall, lay blackCæsar, the coachman. I put my hand on his shoulder. He jerked awayimpatiently. 

"Yer jest lemme lone, will yer?" he said in a choking voice; then liftingup his head, and seeing it was I, he half sprang to his feet, with a lookof shame and alarm, and involuntarily carrying his hand to his head, said:--

"O miss! who's gwine to think yer"--here he too broke down, and buried hisface in his great hands. 

I did not speak, but the little group instinctively opened to let me passup the stairs. I had a vague consciousness that they said something as Iturned into a little cross-hall which led to Annie's room; but withoutattending to their words I opened her door. The room was empty; the bedstripped of clothes; the windows wide open. I sank into a chair, andlooked from side to side. I was too late, after all! That was why none ofthe servants dared speak to me. A little slipper of Annie's lay on thefloor by the bed. I took it up and turned it over and over in my hands. Then I became conscious that my Aunt Ann was speaking to me, --was callingme by name, earnestly, repeatedly, with terror in her voice. 

"My dear, dear child; Helen, Helen, Helen, she is not dead. She is in myroom. Come and see for yourself. "

I had seen my Aunt Ann every day for nineteen years, --I never knew heruntil that moment; I never saw her real face until that moment. 

I followed her slowly through rooms and passageways till she reached herown chamber. The door was open; the room was very dark. On the thresholdshe paused, and whispered, "You must not be frightened, darling. She willnot know you. She has not known any one for six hours. "

I knelt down by the bed. In a few moments my eyes became used to thedarkness, and I saw Annie's face lying motionless on the farther edge ofthe bed, turned to the wall. It was perfectly white except the lips, whichwere almost black, and were swollen and crusted over with the fearfulfever. Her beautiful hair fell in tangled masses, and half covered herface. 

"She seems to be lying very uncomfortably, " said Aunt Ann, "but the doctorordered that she should not be disturbed in any way. "

I looked at my aunt's face and listened to her voice in bewilderment. Thewhole world had for years called her, and with apparent justice, "a hardand unsympathizing woman. " No human being had ever seen a really freeunconstrained smile on her face, or heard from her lips an impulsive word. When it was known that the genial, rollicking, open-hearted Henry Ware wasto marry her, everybody shuddered. As years went on, everybody who sat byHenry Ware's fireside, and was kindled and made welcome by hisundiminished and unconquerable cheeriness, felt at the same time chilledand paralyzed by the courteous, unexceptionable dignity of Mrs. Ware. EvenI, having the freedom of a daughter in their house, and loving my unclehardly less than I loved my father, had never once supposed that anybodycould love Aunt Ann, or that she would permit it. I always felt a littleterror when I saw Annie kiss her, or my uncle put his arm around her. Myown loving, caressing, over-flowing mother had given me by inheritance, and had taught me by example, a type of love which knew no life withoutexpression. And very well I knew that that sweet mother of mine, whom thewhole town loved, and who herself loved the whole world, seemed alwaysturned into stone by the simple presence of Aunt Ann. 

And now Aunt Ann was sitting on the floor by my side, clinging to my hand, resting my head on her bosom, and, as I felt instantly and instinctively, revealing in her every tone, look, word, such intensity and passionatenessof feeling as I had never in my whole life seen before. I saw then thatshe had always held me side by side with her own child in her heart, andthat she knew the rare quality of the love I had for Annie. 

"I ought not to have let you come here, " she said, more as if speaking toherself than to me; "they, too, have but one. "

"But, Aunt Ann, you could not have kept me out, " I whispered. 

"Yes, I knew that, my child, " she replied; "but no one else would knowit. "

From that moment there was between my Aunt Ann and me a subtle bond whichpartook of all the holiest mysteries of love. There were both motherhoodand the love of lovers in my love for Annie. Annie's mother felt them, andwas willing to have her own motherhood added to and ministered to by them. From that moment I believe not even her husband seemed so near to her inher relation with her child as I. 

I will not write out the record of the next two weeks. They seemed, asthey passed, a thousand years; and yet, in looking back on them, they seemonly like one terrible breathless night. My aunt and I alone did all thatwas done for Annie. There were whole days and whole nights during whichshe talked incessantly, sometimes with such subtle semblance of her ownsweet self that we could hardly believe she did not know what she said;sometimes with such wild ravings that we shook in terror, and could notlook at her nor at each other. There were other days and nights throughwhich she lay in a sleep, which seemed-no more like real sleep than theshrill voice of her ravings had seemed like her real voice. These weremost fearful of all. Through all these days and nights, two men with whitefaces and folded arms walked up and down in the rooms below, or crouchedon the thresholds of our doors, listening for sign or word from us. Onewas Annie's father, and the other was her lover, George Ware. He was hersecond cousin, fifteen years older than she, and had loved her since theday she was one year old, when at the ceremony of her christening, he, aproud shy boy of sixteen, had been allowed to carry her up-stairs with hersweet name resting fresh and new on her little dewy forehead. Ah, seldomdoes such love spring and grow and blaze on this earth as had warmed thevery air around Annie from the moment of her birth. George Ware was a manof rare strength, as this love showed; and with just such faithfulness ashis faithfulness to Annie, he had loved and cared for his mother, who hadbeen for twenty years a widow. They lived on the outskirts of the town, in a small house almost buried in the heart of a pine wood. The wood wasthreaded in all directions by miles of narrow paths which shone in theshaded sunlight as if they were satin-floored. For nineteen years it hadbeen George Ware's joy to roam these paths with his cousin Annie; first, the baby whom he drew in her wicker wagon; next, the wayward little childwho walked with stumbling steps and clung to his finger; next, the gayschool-girl who brought all her perplexities and all her joys to beconfided to him under the pines; next, the shyer and more silent maidenwho came less often, but lingered helplessly until twilight made thefragrant aisles solemn and dim as cloisters; at last, the radiant, thechild-like woman, the promised wife!

No winter could set a barrier across these pine-wood paths. When the wholecountry about lay blocked and drifted, and half buried with snow, allthese spicy foot-roads were kept clear and level, and ready for Annie'sfeet. Whole days of George Ware's strength went into the work and the joyof doing this. In open spaces where the snow had drifted deep, he wroughtit into solid walls almost as high on either hand as Annie's head. In darknooks, where the spreading pines and hemlocks lay low and wide, he tossedthe snow into fantastic and weird masses on the right and left, andcleared great spaces where he knew the partridge-berry would be ready witha tiny scarlet glow to light up the spot. 

This was George Ware's wooing. It never stepped into the glare, thecontention of profaner air. It was not a seeking, a finding, a conquest;but a slow, sure growth of possession, which had as eternal foundation andseemed as eternally safe as the results of organic law. 

George's picture hung in Annie's room, opposite the foot of her bed. Opposite the foot of the bed in her mother's room hung a large engravingof the Sistine Madonna. I fancied that in Annie's quieter moments her eyesrested with a troubled look upon this picture, and one day, when she wasin a deep sleep, I exchanged the pictures. I felt as if even lifelesscanvas which had George's face painted upon it, might work her good. 

At last there came a night, --they said it was the fourteenth, but thewords conveyed no meaning to me, --there came a night when Dr. Fearing, whohad been sitting by Annie's bed for two hours, watching her every breath, sprang suddenly to his feet, and beckoned to my aunt and me to follow himinto the next room. He shut the door, walked very swiftly up to us, lookedfirst into her face then into mine; then felt her pulse, and then mine, and then turning to me, said, --

"It will have to be you. " We looked at him in sudden terror. The tearswere rolling down his wrinkled cheeks. 

"What is it, William?" gasped Aunt Ann. 

"It will have to be you, " he went on, looking me in the face, and takingno notice of her question; "your pulse can be trusted. There has been achange. When Annie wakes out of this sleep she will know you. It may be intwo hours, and it may not be for six. But if in that first moment she isalarmed, or agitated in any way, she will die. "

"O William, let me stay. I will be calm, " moaned my poor aunt. 

Then I observed, for the first time, that she had called him "William. "And then, for the first and last time, I heard Dr. Fearing call my AuntAnn "darling, " and I remembered in that instant that it had been said oncein my hearing, that it was because of his love for Mrs. Henry Ware thatDr. William Fearing had lived and would die a lonely man. 

"Darling, " he said, and put one hand on her shoulder, "you would kill yourchild. I forbid you to cross the threshold of that room till I come back. You will thank me to-morrow. Can you not trust me, Ann?" and he lookeddown from his full height, this brave old man, into the face of the womanhe had loved, with a look like the look of one who dies to save another. It was but for one second, and then he was again the physician, andturning to me, went on, "I have another patient to whom I must instantlygo, and whom I may not be able to leave for hours. You can do all that Iwould do, --I believe, "--then he felt my pulse again, and nodding his headwith a sort of grim professional satisfaction, which no amount of emotioncould wholly divert from its delight in the steady nerves and undisturbedcurrents of a healthy body, --resumed, "You have but one thing to do: whenshe wakes, look perfectly composed; if she speaks, answer her in aperfectly natural voice; give her two drops of this medicine, and tell herto go to sleep again. If you do this, she will fall asleep at once. Ifyou show the least agitation, she may die, --probably will!"--and Dr. Fearing was gone. 

My aunt sat silently weeping. I kissed her without speaking, and went backto my chair by Annie's bed. I dropped the two drops of medicine into aspoon, and propped the spoon carefully on a little silver tray, so that Icould reach it instantly. It was just three o'clock in the morning. Hourafter hour passed. I could not hear Annie's breath. My own dinned in myears like the whir of mills. A terror such as I can never describe tookpossession of me. What if I were to kill Annie? How could I look composed?speak naturally? What would she say? If I could but know and have myanswer ready!

I firmly believe that the dawn of light saved my senses and Annie's life. When the first red beam shot through the blinds at the farther end of theroom, tears came into my eyes. I felt as if angels were watching outside. A tiny sunbeam crept between the slats and fell on the carpet. It was nomore than a hair's breadth, but it was companionship to me. Slowly, steadily it came towards me. I forgot all else in watching it. To this dayI cannot see a slow-moving sunbeam on a crimson floor without a shudder. The clock struck six, seven, eight, nine. The bells rang for schools; thedistant hum of the town began. Still there was no stir, no symptom oflife, in the colorless face on the pillow. The sunbeam had crept nearly tomy feet. Involuntarily I lifted my right foot and stretched it out-to meetthe golden messenger. Had I dared to move I should have knelt and reachedmy hand to it instead. Perhaps even the slight motion I did make, hastened Annie's waking, for at that instant she turned her head uneasilyon the pillow and opened her eyes. I saw that she knew me. I wondered howI could have distrusted my own strength to meet her look. I smiled as ifwe were at play together, and said, --

"Good morning, dear. "

She smiled languidly and said, "How came I in mamma's bed?"

I said, quietly, "Take this medicine, darling;" and almost before thedrops had passed her lips her eyes closed, and she had fallen asleepagain. 

When Dr. Fearing came into the room at noon, he gave one swift, anxiousglance at her face, and then fell on his knees and folded his face in hishands. I knew that Annie was safe. 

Then he went into the next room, silently took Aunt Ann by the hand, andleading her back to Annie's bedside, pointed to the little beads ofmoisture on her forehead and said, --

"Saved!"

The revulsion was too much for the poor mother's heart. She sank to thefloor. He lifted her in his arms and carried her out, and for the rest ofthat day my Aunt Ann, that "hard and unsympathizing woman, " passed fromone strange fainting-fit into another, until we were in almost as greatfear for her life as we had been for Annie's. 

At twilight Annie roused from her sleep again. She was perfectly tranquil, but too weak to lift even her little hand, which had grown so thin and sowrinkled that it looked like a wilted white flower lying on the whitecounterpane. 

Hour by hour she gained strength under the powerful restoratives whichwere used, and still more from the wonderful elasticity of hertemperament. From the very first day, however, an indefinable terror ofmisgiving seized me as often as I heard her voice or looked into her eyes. In vain I said to myself: "It is the weakness after such terribleillness;" "it is only natural. " I felt in the bottom of my heart that itwas more. 

On the fourth day she said suddenly, looking up at the picture of GeorgeWare, --

"Why! Why is Cousin George's picture in here? Where is the Madonna?"

I replied: "I moved it in here, dear, for you. I thought you would likeit. "

"No, " she said, "I like the Madonna best: the dear little baby! Pleasecarry George back into my room where he belongs. "

My heart stood still with terror. She had never called George Ware hercousin since their engagement. She especially disliked any allusion totheir relationship. This was her first mention of his name, and it was inall respects just what it would have been a year before. Dr. Fearing hadforbidden us to allude to him, or to her wedding-day, or, in fact, to anysubject calculated to arouse new trains of thought in her mind. I wonderedafterward that we did not understand from the first how he had feared thather brain might not fully recover itself, as the rest of her exquisitelyorganized body seemed fast doing. 

Day after day passed. Annie could sit up; could walk about her room; shegained in flesh and color and strength so rapidly that it was a marvel. She was gentle and gay and loving; her old rare, sweet self in everylittle way and trait and expression; not a look, not a smile, not a tonewas wanting; but it was the Annie of last year, and not of this. She madeno allusion to her wedding, the day for which had now passed. She did notask for George. The whole year had dropped out of her memory; part of herbrain was still diseased. No human touch could venture to deal with itwithout the risk of the most terrible consequences. 

Dr. Fearing's face grew day by day more and more anxious; he was baffled;he was afraid. He consulted the most eminent physicians who had hadexperience in diseases of the brain. They all counseled patience, andadvised against any attempt to hasten her recollections upon any point;they all had known similar cases, but never one so sharply defined or sopainful as this. Still they were unanimous in advising that nothing shouldbe said to startle her; that all must be trusted to time. 

Through these terrible days George Ware was braver than any one else. Hisfaith in the absoluteness of his hold on Annie was too great to bedisturbed. He was by nature as patient as he was resolute. He had notwooed his wife for eighteen years to lose her now in any way except bydeath, he thought. He comforted us all. 

"Do be brave, sweet mother of Annie, " he used to say to my poor Aunt Ann;"all will be well. It is nothing to me to wait another year, after havingwaited all these. It is not even hard for me to go without seeing her, ifthat is best. "

Nevertheless, his face grew thin and his eye heavy and his form bent, asweek after week passed, and he came daily to the house, only to be toldthe same weary thing, that Annie had not asked for him. The physicians hadsaid that it would be better that she should not see him until she had ofher own accord mentioned his name. Her nerves were still in such a statethat any surprise threw her into palpitation and alarm which did not passoff for hours. No human being could tell how great might be the shock ofseeing his face; how much it might recall to her; and whether, if itrecalled all, she could bear it. From the outset George believed thephysicians were wrong in this; but he dared not urge his instinct againsttheir knowledge; and he was patient of nature, and so the days went on, on, on; and there was no change except that Annie grew steadily better andour hearts grew steadily sicker and sicker until we almost looked backwith longing on the days when we feared she would die. And yet in everyrespect, except the memory of her lover, Annie was the same as before. Theclosest scrutiny could discover no other change in her, except perhapsthat she seemed even gayer than she used to seem, and a shade less tender, but this also was as she had been before she had promised to be GeorgeWare's wife. 

One morning George brought me a small bunch of lovely wild things from thepine woods, Tiarella leaves just tipped with claret color by the earlyfrosts, sprays of Linnea, two or three tiny white maiden's hair ferns, alltied by a knot of patridge-berry vines thick-set with scarlet berries. 

"Give these to Annie for me, will you, dear Helen?" he said, "and observevery carefully how she is affected by them. "

I remembered that it was just one year ago that day, that he had asked herto be his wife, and I trembled to think of what hidden meanings I might bemessenger in carrying her this silent token. But I too felt, as Georgedid, that she was drifting farther and farther away from the memories wedesired she should regain; and that no physician's knowledge could be sotrue as love's instinct; and I asked no counsel of any one, but wentswiftly to Annie with the leaves in my hand. 

"O you darling! How perfectly lovely, " she exclaimed with a laugh ofdelight. "Why these must have come from George's woods. Have you been upthere?"

"No, dear, " I said, "George brought them for you, this morning. "

"Oh, the good darling!" she exclaimed. "Is it decided about his going toIndia?"

I could not repress a little cry of anguish and terror. A year before, there had been a plan for his going out to India on a mercantile venture, which promised great profit. It had been given up, partly because hismother felt that she could not live without him, partly because he feltthat he could not longer live without Annie. 

"What is it, dear?" she said, in her softest, most sympathizing voice, with a little flush of alarm on her pale cheek; "what hurt you? are youill? Oh, my poor Helen, you are all worn out with nursing me. I will nurseyou presently. "

"Only a little twinge of my old neuralgia, dear, " I said faintly; "theseautumn winds are setting it at work again. "

She looked anxiously at me for a few seconds, and then began to untie thebunch of leaves, and spread out the long vines on the bed. 

"Oh, if I only had some moss, " she said. 

I ran to the green-house and brought her handfuls of beautiful drippingmosses from the rocks in the fernery. She filled a saucer with them, putting the Tiarella leaves all round the rim, and winding the Linneavines in and out as they grow in the woods. Then she leaned back on herpillows and began breaking the partridge-berry vines into short bits, eachwith a scarlet berry on it. These she set upright in the moss, changingand rearranging them so often that I wondered what could be her purpose, and leaned forward to see. 

"No, no, " she said playfully, pushing me back, "not till it is done. "

Presently she said, "Now look!"

I looked and saw a perfect, beautifully formed G made by the scarletberries on the green moss. 

"There, " she said, "I'll send that back to George, to show him that I havefound him in the berries; or, no, " she added, "we'll keep it till he comesto see me. The doctor said I could be carried down-stairs to-morrow, andthen I shall begin to 'receive, '" and she laughed a gay little laugh, andsank back tired. 

That moment stands out in my memory as the saddest, hardest one of all. Ithink at that moment hope died in my heart. 

When I told George of this, and showed him the saucer of moss--for shehad ordered it to be set on the drawing-room table, saying, "It is toopretty to stay up here with bottles and invalids, "--he buried his face inhis hands for many minutes. When he lifted it, he looked me steadily inthe eye, and said, --

"She has utterly forgotten this whole year. But I will win her again. "

Then he knelt down and kissed every little leaf and berry which her handshad touched, and went away without speaking another word. 

It was decided after this that it could do no harm for him to see her. Indeed, he now demanded it. His resolution was taken. 

"You need not fear, " he said to Dr. Fearing, "that I shall agitate her byapproaching her as if she were my own. She is not my own. But she willbe!"

We all sat with trembling hands and beating hearts as the hour approachedat which we knew the experiment was to be made. 

Annie had been carried down-stairs, and laid upon a lounge in the westernbay-window of the library. The lounge was covered with dark green damask. Old Cæsar had so implored to be allowed to carry her down, that Annie hadinsisted that he should be gratified; and she went down as she had sooften done in her childhood, with her soft white face lying close to hisshining black one. 

As he put her down, in her rose-colored wrapper, on the dark green damask, he knelt before her and burst out in spite of himself, into a sort of wildchant of thanksgiving; but as we entered the door he sprang up ashamed, and turning to Aunt Ann, said: "Beg pardon, missis, but this rose yere wastoo much pink rose for old Cæsar!"

It was "too much pink rose" for any human eyes to see unmoved. We allcried: and Annie herself shed a few tears, but finally helped us all bysaying gayly, --

"You'll make me ill again if you all go on like this. I hate people thatcry. "

No stranger's eye would have detected the thousandth part of a second'spause which George Ware's feet made on the threshold of that room when hiseyes first saw Annie. Before the second had ended he was simply the eager, glad, affectionate cousin, and had taken calmly and lovingly the child'skiss which Annie gave him as she had given it every day of her life. 

We could not speak. My uncle tried to read his newspaper; my aunt's handsshook in their pretense of sewing; I threw myself on the floor at the footof Annie's lounge and hid my face in its cushions. 

But George Ware's brave voice went steadily on. Annie's sweet glad tones, weak and low, but still sweeter than any other tones I ever heard, chimedin and out like fairy bells from upper air. More than an hour passed. I donot know one word that we said. 

Then George rose, saying: "I must not tire you, little Annie, so I amgoing now. "

"Will you come, again to-morrow?" she asked as simply as a little child. 

"Yes, dear, if you are not the worse for this, " he replied, and kissed herforehead and walked very quickly away without looking back. I followedhim instantly into the hall, for I had seen that in his face which hadmade me fear that, strong man as he was, he would fall. I found himsitting on the lowest step of the staircase, just outside the door. 

"My God, Helen, " he gasped, "it isn't only this last year she hasforgotten. She has gone back five years. "

"Oh no, dear George, " I said; "you are mistaken. She remembers everythingup to a year ago. You know she remembered about your going to India. "

"That is nothing, " he said impatiently. "You can't any of you, see what Imean, I suppose. But I tell you she has forgotten five years of me. She isto me just as she was when she was fourteen. Do you think I don't know theface and voice and touch of each day of my darling's life? oh, my God! myGod!" and he sank down on the stair again in a silence which was worsethan groans. I left him there and went back to Annie. 

"How old Cousin George looks, " she was saying, as I entered the room; "Ididn't remember that he was so old. Why, he looks as old as you do, sweetpapa. But then, " reflectively, "after all, he is pretty old. He is fifteenyears older than I am--and I am nineteen: thirty-four! that is old, is itnot papa?" said she, half petulantly. "Why don't you speak, any of you?"

"You are getting too tired, my darling, " said her father, "and now I shallcarry you up-stairs. "

After Annie was asleep, my Aunt Ann and I sat for hours in the library, going over and over and over, with weary hopelessness, all her words andlooks, and trying to comfort each other. I think each knew the utterdespair of the other's heart. 

From this time George came and went with all his old familiarity: not aday passed without his seeing Annie, and planning something for heramusement or pleasure. Not a day passed without her showing in many waysthat he made a large part of her life, was really a central interest init. Even to us who knew the sad truth, and who looked on with intentnessand anxiety hardly less than those with which we had watched her sick-bedweeks before--even to us it seemed many times as if all must be right. Nostranger but would believe them lovers; not a servant in the house dreamedbut that Miss Annie was still looking forward to her wedding. They had allbeen forbidden to allude to it, but they supposed it was only on accountof her weakness and excitability. 

But every day the shadow deepened on George Ware's face. I could see, though he would not admit it, that the same despair which filled my soulwas settling down upon his. Dr. Fearing, too, who came and spent longevenings with us, and cautiously watched Annie's every tone and look, grewmore and more uneasy. Dr. ----, one of the most distinguished physiciansof the insane, in the country, was invited to spend a few days in thehouse. He was presented to Annie as an old friend of her father's, and wonat once her whole confidence and regard. For four days he studied hercase, and frankly owned himself baffled, and unable to suggest any measureexcept the patient waiting which was killing us all. 

To tell this frail and excitable girl, who had more than once fainted ata sudden noise, that this man whom she regarded only as her loving cousinhad been her promised husband--and that having been within two weeks ofher wedding-day, she had now utterly forgotten it, and all connected withit--this would be too fearful a risk. It might deprive her forever of herreason. 

Otherwise, she seemed in every respect, even in the smallest particular, herself. She recollected her music, her studies, her friends. She wasanxious to resume her old life at all points. Every day she made allusionsto old plans or incidents. She had forgotten absolutely nothing exceptingthe loverhood of her lover. Every day she grew stronger, and became moreand more beautiful, There was a slight under-current of archmischievousness and half petulance which she had never had before, andwhich, added to her sweet sympathetic atmosphere, made her indescribablycharming. As she grew stronger she frolicked with every human being andevery living thing. When the spring first opened and she could be out ofdoors, she seemed more like a divine mixture of Ariel and Puck than like amortal maiden. 

I found her one day lying at full length on the threshold of thegreenhouse. Twenty great azaleas were in full bloom on the shelves--white, pink, crimson. She had gathered handfuls of the fallen blossoms, and wasmaking her gray kitten, which was as intelligent and as well trained as adog, jump into the air to catch them as she tossed them up. I sat down onthe grass outside and watched her silently. 

"Oh, you sober old Helen, " she said, "you'll be an owl for a thousandyears after you die! Why can't you caper a little? You don't know how niceit is. "

Just then George came slowly walking down the garden path, his handsclasped behind him, his head bent forward, and his eyes fixed on theground. 

He did not see us. Annie exclaimed, --

"There's Cousin George, too! Look at him! Wouldn't you think he had justheard he was to be executed at twelve to-day! I don't see what ailseverybody. "

"George, George, " she called, "come here. For how many years are yousentenced, dear, and how could you have been so silly as to be found out?"And then she burst into a peal of the most delicious laughter at hisbewildered look. 

"I don't know, darling, for how many years I am sentenced. We none of usknow, " he said, in a tone which was sadder than he meant it should be, andsobered her loving heart instantly. She sprang to her feet, and threw bothher arms around his right arm, a pretty trick she had kept from herbabyhood, and said, --

"Oh you dear, good darling, does anything really trouble you? Howheartless I am. But you don't know how it feels to have been so awfullyill, and then to get well again. It makes one feel all body and no soul;but I have soul enough to love you all dearly, you know I have; and Iwon't have you troubled; tell me what it is this minute;" and she lookedat him with tears in her eyes. 

One wonders often if there be any limit to human endurance. If there be, who can say he has reached it? Each year we find that the thing which wethought had taken our last strength, has left us with strength enough tobear a harder thing. It seemed so with such scenes as this, in those sunnyspring days when Annie Ware first went out into life again. Each day Isaid, "There can never be another moment quite so hard to meet as this!"and the next day there came a moment which made me forget the one whichhad gone before. 

It was an ill fortune which just at this time made it imperativelynecessary for George to go to the West for three months. He had no choice. His mother's whole property was at stake. No one but he could save it; itwas not certain that he could. His last words to me were, --

"I trust more in you, Helen, than in any other human being. Keep my nameconstantly in her thought; write me everything which you would tell me ifI were here. "

It had become necessary now to tell the sad story of the result of Annie'sillness to all those friends who would be likely to speak to her of hermarriage. The whole town knew what shadow rested on our hearts; and yet, as week after week went by, and the gay, sweet, winning, beautiful girlmoved about among people again in her old way, people began to say moreand more that it was, after all, very foolish for Annie Ware's friends tobe so distressed about her; stranger things had happened; she wasevidently a perfectly well woman; and as for the marriage, they had neverliked the match--George Ware was too old and too grave for her; and, besides, he was her second cousin. 

Oh, the torture of the "ante-mortems" of beloved ones, at which we areall forced to assist!

Yet it could not be wondered at, that in this case the whole heart of thecommunity was alive with interest and speculation. 

Annie Ware's sweet face had been known and loved in every house in ourvillage. Her father was the richest, most influential man in the county, and the most benevolent. Many a man and woman had kissed Henry Ware's babyin her little wagon, for the sake of Henry Ware's good deeds to them ortheirs. And while Mrs. Ware had always repelled persons by her haughtyreticence, Annie, from the first day she could speak until now, had wonall hearts by her sunny, open, sympathizing nature. No wonder that now, when they saw her again fresh, glad, beautiful, and looking stronger andin better health than she had ever done, they said that we were wrong, that Annie and Nature were right, and that all would be well!

This spring there came to our town a family of wealth and position who hadfor many years lived in Europe, and who had now returned to make Americatheir home. They had taken a furnished house for a year, to make trial ofour air, and also, perhaps, of the society, although rumor, with the usualjealousy, said that the Neals did not desire any intimacy with theirneighbors. The grounds of the house which they had hired joined myuncle's, and my Aunt Ann, usually averse to making new acquaintances, hadcalled upon them at once, and had welcomed them most warmly to her house. The family consisted of Mr. And Mrs. Neal and two sons, Arthur and Edward. They were people of culture, and of wide experience; but they were not offine organization nor of the highest breeding; and it will ever remain amystery to me that there should have seemed to be, from the outset, anespecial bond of intimacy between them and my uncle and aunt. I think itwas partly the sense of relief with which they welcomed a new interest--alittle break in the monotony of anxiety which had been for so many monthscorroding their very lives. 

Almost before I knew that the Neals were accepted as familiar friends, Iwas startled one morning, while we were at breakfast, by the appearance ofAnnie on her pony, looking in at our dining-room window. She had a prettyway of riding up noiselessly on the green grass, and making her pony, which was tame as a Newfoundland dog, mount the stone steps, and tap withhis nose on the panes of the long glass door till we opened it. 

I never saw her so angelically beautiful as she was this morning. Hercheeks were flushed and her dark blue eyes sparkled like gems in the sun. Presently she said, hesitating a little, --

"Edward Neal is at the gate; may I bring him in? I told him he might come, but he said it was too like burglary;" and she cantered off again withoutwaiting to hear my mother's permission. 

All that morning Annie Ware and Edward Neal sat with me on our piazza. Ilooked and listened and watched like one in a dream, or under a spell. Iforesaw, I foreknew what was to come; with the subtle insight of love, Isaw all. 

Never had I seen Annie so stirred into joyousness by George's presence asshe seemed to be by this boy's. The two together overflowed in a sparklingcurrent of gayety, which was irresistible. They seemed two divine childrensent out on a mission to set the world at play. What Edward Neal's moresensuous and material nature lacked, was supplied by the finer, subtlerquality of Annie's. From that first day I could never disguise from myselfthat they seemed, so far as mere physical life goes, the absolutecounterparts of each other. 

I need not dwell on this part of my story. When young hearts are drawingtogether, summer days speed on very swiftly. George Ware, alas! was keptat the West week after week, until it came to be month after month. Myuncle and aunt seemed deliberately to shut their eyes to the drift ofevents. I think they were so thankful to watch Annie's bounding health andhappiness, to hear glad voices and merry laughs echoing all day in theirhouse, that they could not allow themselves to ask whether a new kernel ofbitterness, of danger, lay at the core of all this fair seeming. As forthe children, they did not know that they were loving each other as manand woman. Edward Neal was only twenty-one, Annie but nineteen, and bothwere singularly young and innocent of soul. 

And so it came to be once more the early autumn; the maple leaves werebeginning to be red, and my chrysanthemums had again set their tiny rounddisks of buds. Edward, and Annie had said no word of love to each other, but the whole town looked on them as lovers, and people began to replyimpatiently and incredulously to our assurances that no engagementexisted. 

Early in October George came home, very unexpectedly, taking even hismother by surprise. He told me afterwards that he came at last as onewarned of God. A presentiment of evil, against which he had struggled forweeks, finally so overwhelmed him that he set off for home without half anhour's delay. I found him, on the night after his arrival, sitting in hisold place in the big arm-chair at the head of Annie's lounge; she stillclung to some of her old invalid ways, and spent many evenings curled uplike a half-shut pink rose on the green damask cushions. He looked wornand thin, but glad and eager, and was giving a lively account of hisWestern experiences when the library door opened, and coming inunannounced, with the freedom of one at home, Edward Neal entered. 

"O Edward, here is Cousin George, " exclaimed Annie, while a wave of rosycolor spread over her face, and half rising, she took George's hand inhers as she leaned towards Edward. 

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Ware, " said Edward, with that indefinabletone of gentle respect which marks a very young man's recognition of onemuch older, whom he has been led to admire. "Annie has been talking to meabout you all summer. I feel as if I knew you almost as well as she does. I'm heartily glad to see you. "

A man of finer grain than Edward Neal would have known the whole truth inthat first second, by the blank stern look which spread like a cloud overGeorge Ware's face; but the open-hearted fellow only thought that he hadperhaps seemed too familiar and went on, --

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Ware. It must appear strange to you that I tookthe liberty of being so glad; but you don't know how kindly I have beenallowed to feel that your friends here would permit me to call all theirfriends mine, " and he glanced lovingly and confidently at my aunt anduncle, who answered by such smiles as they rarely gave. Oh, no wonder theyloved this genial, frank sunny boy, who had brought such light into theirlife. 

In a moment George was his courteous self again, and began to express hispleasure at meeting Mr. Neal, but Annie interrupted him. 

"Oh, now don't be tiresome; of course you are to be just as good friendswith Edward as you are with me: sit down, Edward. He is telling us themost delicious stories. He is the dearest Cousin George in the world, " sheadded, stroking his hand which she still kept in hers. 

It gave Edward no more surprise to see her do this than it would have doneto see her sit in her father's lap. Even I felt with a sudden pang thatGeorge Ware seemed at that moment to belong to another generation thanEdward and Annie. 

Edward seated himself on a low cricket at the foot of the lounge, and, looking up in George's face, said most winningly, --

"Please go on, Mr. Ware. " Then he turned one full, sweet look of greetingand welcome upon Annie, who beamed back upon him with such a diffusedsmile as only the rarest faces have. Annie's smile was one of her greatestcharms. It changed her whole face; the lips made but a small part of it;no mortal ever saw it without smiling in answer. 

It was beyond George Ware's power long to endure this. Probably hisinstinct felt in both Edward's atmosphere and Annie's more than we did. Herose very soon and said to me, "If you are going home to-night, Helen, will you let me walk up with you? I have business in that part of thetown; but I must go now. Perhaps that will hurry you too much?" he added, with a tone which was almost imploring. 

I was only too glad to go. Our leave-taking was very short. A shade ofindefinable trouble clouded every face but Edward's and Annie's. 

George did not speak until we had left the house. Then he stopped short, took both my hands in his, with a grasp that both hurt and frightened me, and exclaimed, --

"How dared you keep this from me! How dared you!"

"O George, " I said, "there was nothing to tell. "

"Nothing to tell!" and his voice grew hoarse and loud. "Nothing to tell!Do you mean to say that you don't know, have not known that Annie lovesthat boy, that puppy?"

I trembled from head to foot. I could not speak. He went on:--

"And I trusted you so; O Helen, I can never forgive you. "

I murmured, miserably, for I felt myself in that moment really guilty, --

"What makes you think she loves him?"

"You cannot deceive me, Helen, " he replied. "Do not torture me andyourself by trying. Tell me now, how long this 'Edward' has been sittingby her lounge. Tell me all. "

Then I told him all. It was not much. He had seen more that evening, andso had I, than had ever existed before. His presence had been the oneelement which had suddenly defined that which before had been hardlyrecognized. 

He was very quiet after the first moment of bitterness, and asked me toforgive his impatient words. When he left me he said, --

"I cannot see clearly what I ought to do. Annie's happiness is my onlyaim. If this boy can create it, and I cannot--but he cannot: she was asutterly mine as it is possible for a woman to be. You none of you knew howutterly! Oh, my God, what shall I do!" and he walked away feebly andslowly like an old man of seventy. 

The next day Aunt Ann sent for me to come to her. I found her in greatdistress. George had returned to the house after leaving me, and had hadalmost a stormy interview with my uncle. He insisted upon asking Annie atonce to be his wife; making no reference to the past, but appearing atonce as her suitor. My uncle could not forbid it, for he recognizedGeorge's right, and he sympathized in his suffering. But his terror wasinsupportable at the thought of having Annie agitated, and of the possibleresults which might follow. He implored George to wait at least a fewweeks. 

"What! and see that young lover at my wife's feet every night!" saidGeorge, fiercely. "No! I will risk all, lose all, if need be. I have beenheld back long enough, " and he had gone directly from my uncle's room toAnnie herself. 

In a short time Annie had come to her mother in a perfect passion ofweeping, and told her that Cousin George had asked her to be his wife; andthat she had never dreamed of such a thing; and she thought he was veryunkind to be so angry with her; how could she have supposed he cared forher in that way, when he had been like her elder brother all his life. 

"Why, he seems almost as old as papa, " said poor Annie, sobbing andcrying, "and he ought to have known that I should not kiss him and put myarms around him if--if"--she could not explain; but she knew!

Annie had gone to her own room, ill. My aunt and I sat together in thelibrary silently crying; we were wretched. "Oh, if George would only havewaited, " said Aunt Ann. 

"I think it would have made no difference, aunty, " said I. 

"No, I am afraid not, " replied she, and each knew that the other wasthinking of Edward Neal. 

George Ware left town the next day. He sent me a short note. He could notsee any one, he said, and begged me to give a farewell kiss for him to"the sweet mother of my Annie. For mine she is, and will be in heaven, though she will be the wife of Edward Neal on earth. "

When I next saw our Annie she was Edward Neal's promised bride. A severefit of illness, the result of all these excitements, confined me to myroom for three weeks after George's departure; and I knew only from AuntAnn's lips the events which had followed upon it. 

George Ware's presence on that first evening had brought revelation toEdward Neal as well as to all the other members of that circle. That verynight he had told his parents that Annie would be his wife. 

The next night, while poor George was swiftly borne away, Edward wassitting in my uncle's library, listening with a blanched cheek to thestory of Annie's old engagement. My uncle's sense of honor would not lethim withhold anything from the man seeking her for his wife. The pain soonpassed by, when he was told that she had that very day refused her cousin, and betrayed almost resentment at his offer. Edward Neal had not asufficiently subtle nature, nor acquaintance enough with psychologicalphenomena to be disturbed by any fears for the future. He dismissed it allas an inexplicable result of the disease, but a fixed fact, and a greatand blessed fortune for him. My uncle, however, was less easily assured. He insisted upon delay, and upon consulting the same physicians who hadstudied Annie's case before. They all agreed that she was now a perfectlyhealthy and strong woman, and that to persist in any farther recognitionof the old bond, after she had so intelligently and emphaticallyrepudiated all thought of such a relation to her cousin, was absurd. Dr. Fearing alone was in doubt, He said little; but he shook his head andclasped his hands tight, and implored that at least the marriage should bedeferred for a year. 

Annie herself, however, refused to consent to this: of course nosatisfactory reason could be alleged for any such delay; and she said asfrankly as a little child, "Edward and I have loved each other almostfrom the very first; there is nothing for either of us to do in life butto make each other happy; and we shall not leave papa and mamma: so whyshould we wait?"

They were not married, however, until spring. The whole town stood by inspeechless joy and delight when those two beautiful young beings came outfrom the village church man and wife. It was a scene never to beforgotten. The peculiar atmosphere of almost playful joyousness which theycreated whenever they appeared together was something which could not bedescribed, but which diffused itself like sunlight. 

We all tried resolutely to dismiss memory and misgiving from our hearts. They seemed disloyalty and sin. George Ware was in India. George Ware'smother was dead. The cottage among the pines was sold to strangers, andthe glistening brown paths under the trees were neglected and unused. 

Edward and Annie led the same gay child-like lives after their marriagethat they had led before: they looked even younger and gayer and sunnier. When they dashed cantering through the river meadows, she with rosy cheeksand pale brown curls flying in the wind, and he with close crisp blackhair, and the rich, dark, glowing skin of a Spaniard, the farming menturned and rested on their tools, and gazed till they were out of sight. Sometimes I asked myself wonderingly, "Are they ever still, and tender, and silent?" "Is this perpetual overflow the whole of love?" But it seemedtreason to doubt in the presence of such merry gladness as shone inAnnie's face, and in her husband's too. It was simply the incarnatetriumph and joy of young life. 

The summer went by; the chrysanthemums bloomed out white and full in mygarden; the frosts came, and then the winter, and then Annie told me oneday that before winter came again she would be a mother. She was a littlesobered as she saw the intense look on my face. 

"Why, darling, aren't you glad? I thought you would be almost as glad as Iam myself?" Annie sometimes misunderstood me now. 

"Glad! O Annie, " was all I could say. 

From that day I had but one thought, Annie's baby. Together we wrought alldainty marvels for its ward-robe; together we planned all possible eventsin its life: from the outset I felt as much motherhood to the preciouslittle unseen one as Annie did. She used to say to me, often, --

"Darling, it will be half my baby, and half yours. "

Annie was absolutely and gloriously well through the whole of thosemysterious first months of maternity which are to so many women exhaustingand painful. Every nerve of her body seemed strung and attuned to normaland perfect harmony. She was more beautiful than ever, stronger than ever, and so glad that she smiled perpetually without knowing it. For the firsttime since the old days, dear Dr. Fearing's face lost the anxious lookwith which his eyes always rested upon her. He was more at ease about hernow. 

Before light one Sunday morning in December, a messenger rang furiouslyat our bell. We had been looking for such tidings and were not alarmed. Itwas a fearful storm; wind and sleet and rain and darkness had attended thecoming of Annie's little "Sunday child" into its human life. 

"A boy--and Miss Annie's all right, " old Cæsar said, with a voice almostas hoarse as the storm outside; and he was gone before we could ask aquestion farther. 

In less than an hour I stood on the threshold of Annie's room. But I didnot see her until noon. Then, as I crept softly into the dimly-lightedchamber, the whole scene so recalled her illness of two years before thatmy heart stood still with sudden horror, in spite of all my joy. Now, asthen, I knelt silently at her bedside, and saw the sweet face lying whiteand still on the pillow. 

She turned, and seeing me, smiled faintly, but did not speak. 

At her first glance, a speechless terror seized me. This was my Annie! Thewoman who for two years had been smiling with my Annie's face had not beenshe! The room grew dark. I do not know what supernatural power came to myaid that I did not faint and fall. 

Annie drew back the bed-clothes with a slow, feeble motion of her righthand, and pointed to the tiny little head nestled in her bosom. She smiledagain, looked at me gently and steadily for a second, and then shut hereyes. Presently I saw that she was asleep; I stole into the next room andsat down with my face buried in my hands. 

In a moment a light step aroused me. Aunt Ann stood before me, her paleface all aglow with delight. 

"O Helen my darling! She is so well. Thank God! thank God!" and she threwher arms around me and burst into tears. 

I felt like one turned to stone. Was I mad, or were they?

What had I seen in that one steady look of Annie's eyes? Was she reallywell? I felt as if she had already died!

Agonizingly I waited to see Dr. Fearing's face. He came in before tea, sawAnnie for a few minutes, and came down-stairs rubbing his hands andsinging in a low tone. 

"I never saw anything like that child's beautiful elasticity in my life, "he said. "We shall have her dancing down-stairs in a month. "

The cloud was utterly lifted from all hearts except mine. My aunt anduncle looked at each other with swimming eyes. Edward tried to laugh andlook gay, but broke down utterly, and took refuge in the library, where Ifound him lying on the floor, with his face buried in Annie's lounge. 

I went home stupefied, bewildered. I could not sleep. A terror-strickeninstinct told me that all was not right. But how should I know more thanphysician, mother, husband?

For ten days I saw my Annie every day for an hour. Her sweet, strange, gentle, steady look into my eyes when we first met always paralyzed mewith fear, and yet I could not have told why. There was a fathomlessserenity in her face which seemed to me super-human. She said verylittle. The doctor had forbidden her to talk. She slept the greater partof the time, but never allowed the baby to be moved from her arms whileshe was awake. 

There was a divine ecstasy in her expression as she looked down into thelittle face; it never seemed like human motherhood. 

One day Edward came to me and said, --

"Do you think Annie is so well as they say? I suppose they must know; butshe looks to me as if she had died already, and it were only her glorifiedangel-body that lies in that bed?"

I could not speak to him. I knew then that he had seen the same thing thatI had seen: if his strong, rather obtuse material nature had recognizedit, what could so blind her mother and father and the doctor? I burst intotears and left him. 

At the end of a week I saw a cloud on Dr. Fearing's face. As he leftAnnie's room one morning, he stopped me and said abruptly, --

"What does Annie talk about?"

"She hardly speaks at all, " I said. 

"Ah, " he said. "Well, I have ordered her not to talk. But does she ask anyquestions?" he continued. 

"No, " I said; "not of me. She has not asked one. "

I saw then that the same vague fear which was filling my heart was takingshape in his. 

From that moment, he watched her hourly, with an anxiety which soonbetrayed itself to my aunt. 

"William, why does not Annie get stronger?" she said suddenly to him oneday. 

"I do not know why, " he answered, with a solemn sadness and emphasis inhis tone which was, as I think, he intended it to be, a partial revelationto her, and a warning. Aunt Ann staggered to a chair and looked at himwithout a word. He answered her look by one equally agonized and silent, and left the room. 

The baby was now two weeks old. Annie was no stronger than on the day ofhis birth. She lay day and night in a tranquil state, smiling withinexpressible sweetness when she was spoken to, rarely speaking of her ownaccord, doing with gentle docility all she was told to do, but lookingmore and more like a transfigured saint. All the arch, joyous, playfullook was gone; there was no added age in the look which had taken itsplace; neither any sorrow; but something ineffably solemn, rapt, removedfrom earth. Sometimes, when Edward came to her bedside, a great wave ofpitying tenderness would sweep over her face, giving it such a heavenlylook that he would fall on his knees. 

"O Helen, " he said once, after such a moment as this, "I shall go mad ifAnnie does not get well. I do not dare to kiss even her hand. I feel as ifshe never had been mine. "

At last the day and the hour and the moment came which I had known wouldcome. Annie spoke to me in a very gentle voice, and said, --

"Helen, darling, you know I am going to die?"

"Yes dear, I think so, " I said, in as quiet a voice as hers. 

"You know it is better that I should, darling?" she said with a tremblingvoice. 

"Yes, dear, I know it, " I replied. 

She drew a long sigh of relief. "I am so glad, darling; I thought you knewit, but I could not be sure. I think no one else understands. I hope dearmamma will never suspect. You will not let her, if you can help it, thedear doctor will not tell her; he knows, though. Darling, I want you tohave my baby. I think Edward will be willing. He is so young, he will behappy again before long; he will not miss him. You know we have alwayssaid it was partly your baby. Look at his eyes now, Helen, " she said, turning the little face towards me, and into a full light. 

I started. I had never till that moment seen in them a subtle resemblanceto the eyes of George Ware. We had said that the baby had his mother'seyes--so he had; but there had always been a likeness between Annie's eyesand George's though hers were light-blue, and his of a blue so dark thatit was often believed to be black. All the Wares had a very peculiarluminousness of the eye; it was so marked a family trait that it hadpassed into almost proverbial mention, in connection with thedistinguished beauty of the family. "The Ware eye" was alwaysrecognizable, no matter what color it had taken from the admixture ofother blood. 

At that moment I saw, and I knew that Annie had seen, that the baby's eyeswere not so much like her own as like the deeper, sadder, darker eyes ofher cousin--brave, hopeless, dear George, who was toiling under the sun ofIndia, making a fortune for he knew not whom. 

We neither of us spoke; presently the little unconscious eyes closed insweet sleep, and Annie went on, holding him close to her heart. 

"You see, dear, poor mamma will not be able to bear seeing him after Idie. Common mothers would love him for my sake. But mamma is not likeother women. She will come very soon where I am, poor mamma; and then youwill have to take papa home to your house, and papa will have comfort inlittle Henry. But he must be your baby, Helen. I shall speak to Edwardabout it soon. "

She was not strong enough to talk long. She shed no tears, however, andlooked as calm as if she were telling me of pleasant plans for a comingearthly summer. I also was perfectly calm, and felt strangely free fromsorrow. Her absolute spirituality bore me up. It was as if I spoke withher in heaven, thousands of centuries after all human perplexities hadpassed away. 

After this day she grew rapidly weaker. She had no pain. There was not asingle physical symptom in her case which the science of medicine couldname or meet. There was literally nothing to be done for her. Neithertonic nor stimulant produced the least effect. She was noiselessly sinkingout of life, as very old people sometimes die, without a single jar, orshock, or struggle. Her beautiful serenity and entire freedom fromsuffering blinded Aunt Ann's eyes to the fact that she was dying. This wasa great mercy, and we were all careful not by a word or look to rouse herto the truth. To all her mother's inquiries Annie invariably replied, "Better, dear mamma, better, only very weak, " and Aunt Ann believed, until the very last, that the spring would make her well again. 

Edward Neal's face during these weeks was like the face of a man lost in atrackless desert, seeking vainly for some sign of road to save his life. Sickness and death were as foreign to the young, vital, irrepressiblecurrents of his life, as if he had been a bird or an antelope. But it wasnot now with him the mere bewildered grief of a sensuous animal nature, such as I should have anticipated that his grief would be. He dimly feltthe truth, and was constantly terrified by it. He came into Annie'spresence more and more reverently each day. He gazed speechlessly into hereyes, which rested on him always with angelic compassion and tenderness, but with no more look of human wifely thought than if he and she werekneeling side by side before God's white throne. Sometimes he dared nottouch even so much as the hand on which his own wedding-ring rested. Sometimes he would kneel by the bedside and bury his face and weep like alittle child. Then he would throw himself on his horse and gallop away andnot come home until twilight, when he was always found on Annie's loungein the library. One night when I went to him there he said, in a tone sosolemn that the voice did not sound like his, --

"Helen, there is something I do not understand about Annie. Do peoplealways seem so when they are going to die? I do not dare to ask her if sheloves me. I feel just as much awe of her as if she had been in heaven. Itseems sometimes as if I must be going mad, for I do not feel in the leastas if she had ever been my wife. "

"She never has, poor boy, " I thought, but I only stroked his hair andsaid nothing; wondering in my heart at the certainty with which in allnatures love knows how to define, conquer, reclaim his own. 

The day before Annie died she asked for her jewel-case, and spent severalhours in looking over its contents and telling me to whom they should begiven. I observed that she seemed to be searching uneasily for somethingshe could not find. 

"What is it, dear?" I said. She hesitated for a secondhand then replied, --

"Only a little ring I had when I was a girl. "

"When you were a girl, my darling!" I exclaimed. She smiled gently andsaid, --

"I feel like an old woman now. Oh, here it is, " she added, and held it outto me to open for her the tiny padlock-shaped locket which hung from it. It had become so tightly fastened together that it was with greatdifficulty I could open it. When I did so, I saw lying in the hollow alittle ring of black hair, and I remembered that Annie had worn the ringwhen she was twelve years old. 

She asked me to cut a few of the silky hairs from the baby's head, andthen one little curl from her own, and laying them with the other, sheshut the locket and asked for a piece of paper and pencil. She wrote oneword with great difficulty, folded the ring in the paper, wrote anotherword on the outside, and laid it in a corner of the jewel-case. Then shesank back on the pillows, and slipping her left hand under her cheek saidshe was very tired, and almost instantly fell into a gentle sleep. She didnot wake until twilight. I was to sleep on the lounge in her room thatnight, and when she woke I was preparing it. 

"Darling, " she said, "could you sleep as well in my big chair, which canbe tipped back?"

"Certainly, sweet, " I said; "but why?"

"Because that can be drawn up so much nearer me; it will be like sleepingtogether. "

At nine o'clock the nurse brought the baby in and laid him in Annie'sbosom, sound asleep. Annie would not let him lie anywhere else, and was sogrieved at any remonstrance, that the doctor said she must be indulged inthe desire. When she was awake and was not speaking to us, her eyes neverleft the baby's face. 

She turned over, with her face to the chair in which I lay, and reachedout her left hand towards me. I took it in mine, and so, with our handsclasped above the little sleeping baby, we said "good-night" to eachother. 

"I feel much better to-night than I have for some days, dear Helen, " shesaid; "I should not wonder if we all three slept until morning. "

Very soon I saw that she was asleep. I watched her face for a long time;it was perfectly colorless and very thin, and yet there was not a look ofillness on it. The ineffable serenity, the holy peace, made it look likethe face of one who had been transfigured, translated; who had not knownand who never could know any death. I cannot account for the sweet calmwhich I felt through all these weeks. I shed no tears; I did not seem evento sorrow. I accepted all, as Annie herself accepted it, without wonder, without murmur. During the long hours of this last night I lived overevery hour of her precious, beautiful life, as I had known and shared it, until the whole seemed to me one fragrant and perfect flower, ready to begathered and worn in the bosom of angels. At last I fell asleep. 

I was wakened by a low murmur from the baby, who stirred uneasily. Annie'shand was still locked in mine; as I sought to disengage it cautiously, Ifelt, with a sudden horror, that the fingers were lifeless. I sprang to myfeet and bent over her; she did not breathe. Out of that sweet sleep herbody had passed into another which would know no waking, and her soul hadawakened free. Slowly I withdrew the little sleeping baby from her armsand carried it to the nurse. Then I went to Dr. Fearing's room; he hadslept in the house for a week; I found him dressed, but asleep on alounge. He had lain in this way, he told me, for four nights, expectingthat each would be the last. When I touched him on the shoulder he openedhis eyes, without surprise or alarm, and said, --

"Did she wake?"

"No, " I replied, and that was all. 

The day was just breaking: as the dark gray and red tints cleared androlled away, and left a pale yellow sky, the morning star, which I couldsee from Annie's bedside, faded and melted in the pure ether. Even while Iwas looking at it it vanished, and I thought that, like it, Annie's brightsoul, disappearing from my sight, had blended in Eternal Day. 

 * * * * *

This was four years ago. My Aunt Ann died, as Annie had said she would, in a very few months afterward. My uncle came, a broken and trembling man, to live with us, and Edward Neal gladly gave his little son into my hands, as Annie had desired. He went abroad immediately, finding it utterlyimpossible to bear the sight of the scenes of his lost happiness. He cameback in two years, bringing a bright young wife with him, a sunny-hairedEnglish girl, who, he said, was so marvelously like Annie. She is like theAnnie whom he knew!

Every day their baby boy is brought to our house to see his brother; but Ithink two children of one name never before looked so unlike. 

My little Henry is the centre of his grandfather's life and of mine. He isa pensive child, and has never been strong; but his beauty and sweetnessare such that we often tremble when we look in his face and rememberAnnie. 

George Ware is still in India. Every ship brings brave sweet letters, andgifts for the baby. I sent him the little paper which I found in thecorner of Annie's jewel-case, bearing his name. I knew that it was for himwhen I saw her feeble hands laying the baby's hair and hers together inthe locket. 

In November Annie's grave is snowy with white chrysanthemums. She lovedthem better than any other flowers, and I have made the little hillockalmost into a thicket of them. 

In George Ware's last letter he wrote:--

"When the baby is ten years old I shall come home. He will not need metill then; till then, he is better in your hands alone; after that I canhelp you. "

The One-Legged Dancers. 

Very early one morning in March, ten years ago, I was sitting alone on oneof the crumbling ledges of the Coliseum: larks were singing above my head;wall-flowers were waving at my feet; a procession of chanting monks waswalking slowly around the great cross in the arena below. I was on thehighest tier, and their voices reached me only as an indistinct wail, likethe notes of a distant Aeolian harp; but the joyous sun and sky and songs, were darkened and dulled by their presence. A strange sadness oppressedme, and I sank into a deep reverie. I do not know how long I had beensitting there, when I was suddenly roused by a cry of pain, or terror, andthe noise of falling stones. I sprang to my feet and, looking over, saw ayoung and beautiful woman lying fearfully near the edge of one of the mostinsecure of the projecting ledges on the tier below me--the very one fromwhich I had myself nearly fallen, only a few days before, in stretchingover after some asphodels which were beyond my reach. 

I ran down as fast as possible, but when I reached the spot she hadfainted, and was utterly unconscious. She was alone; I could see no otherhuman being in the Coliseum. The chanting monks had gone; even thebeggars had not yet come. I tried in vain to rouse her. She had fallen sothat the hot sun was beating full on her face. I dared not leave herthere, for her first unconscious movement might be such that she wouldfall over the edge. But I saw that she must have shade and water, or die. Every instant she grew whiter and her lips looked more rigid. I shoutedaloud, and only the echoes answered me, as if in mockery. A little larksuddenly flew out from a tuft of yellow wall-flower close by, and burstinto a swift carol of delight as he soared away. At last, with greatefforts, I succeeded in dragging her, by her feet--for I dared not ventureout so far as the spot on which her head lay--to a safer place, and intothe partial shade of a low bush. As I did this, one of her delicate handswas scratched and torn on the rough stones, and drops of blood came to thesurface. In the other hand were crushed a few spikes of asphodel, the veryflowers, no doubt, which had lured me so near the same dangerous brink. Itseemed impossible to go away and leave her, but it was cruel to delay. Myfeet felt like lead as I ran along those dark galleries and down the stoneflights of giddy stairs. Just in the entrance stood one of thosepertinacious sellers of old coins and bits of marble. I threw down a pieceof silver on his little stand, seized a small tin basin in which he hadhis choicest coins, emptied them on the ground, and saying, in my poorItalian, "Lady--ill--water, " I had filled the basin at the old stonefountain near by, and was half way up the first flight of stairs again, before he knew what had happened. 

When I reached the place where I had left the beautiful stranger she wasnot there. Unutterable horror seized me. Had I, after all, left her toonear that crumbling edge? I groaned aloud and turned to run down. A feeblevoice stopped me--a whisper rather than a voice, for there was hardlystrength to speak, --

"Who is there?"

"Oh, thank God, " I exclaimed, "you are not dead!" and I sprang to the nextof the cross corridors, from which the sound had come. 

She was there, sitting up, leaning against the wall. She looked almostmore terrified than relieved when she saw me. I bathed her face and handsin the water, and told her how I had found her insensible, and had drawnher away from the outer edge before I had gone for the water. She did notspeak for some moments, but looked at me earnestly and steadily, withtears standing in her large blue eyes. 

Then she said, "I did not know that any one but myself ever came to theColiseum so early. I thought I should die here alone; and Robert was notwilling I should come. "

"I owe you my life, " she added, bursting into hysterical crying. 

Then in a few moments she half laughed, as if at some droll thought, andsaid, "But how could you drag me? You are not nearly so big as I am. Theangels must have helped you;" and holding up the poor crushed asphodels, she went on: "As soon as I came to myself, I saw the asphodels in my hand, and I said, 'Asphodel for burial;' and tried to throw them away, so thatif Robert came he would not find me dead with them in my hand, for onlyyesterday he said to me, 'Please never pick an asphodel--I can't bear tosee you touch one. '"

Slowly I soothed her and she recovered her color and strength. The ownerof the basin, followed by a half-dozen chattering vetturini, had climbedup to us, but we had peremptorily sent them all away. It was evident thatshe was not seriously hurt. The terror, rather than the fall, had causedher fainting. It was probably a sudden dizziness which had come as shedrew back and turned after picking the flowers. Had she fallen in the actof picking them she must have been dashed to the ground below. At the endof an hour she was so nearly well, that she walked slowly down the longstairs, leaning on my arm, and taking frequent rests by the way. I wasabout to beckon to one of the vetturini, when she said, "Oh no! my owncarriage is near here, up by the gate of the Palace of the Cæsars. Irambled on, without thinking at first of coming to the Coliseum: it willdo me good to walk back; every moment of the air makes me feel better. "

So we went slowly on, up the solemn hill, arm in arm like friends, sittingdown now and then on old fallen columns to rest, and looking back at thesilent, majestic ruins, which were brightened almost into a look of lifeunder the vivid sun. My companion spoke little; the reaction after herfearful shock had set in; but every few moments her beautiful eyes wouldfill with tears as she looked in my face and pressed my arm. I left her ather apartment on the Via Felice; my own was a mile farther on, in thePiazza del Popolo, and I would not let her drive so far. 

"It grieves me not to go with you to your door, " she said, as she bade megood-bye, "but I shall come and see you to-morrow and bring my husband. "

"No, you must not, " I replied. "To-morrow you will be wise enough--or, ifyou are not wise enough, you will be kind enough to me because I askit--to lie in bed all day, and I shall come very early in the morning tosee how you are. "

She turned suddenly on the carriage-steps, and, leaning both her hands onmy knees, exclaimed, in a voice full of emotion. 

"Will you let me kiss you? Not even my mother gave me what you have given. For you have given me back life, when it was too infinitely precious tolose. Surely you will not think me presuming?" and her cheek flushed alittle. 

"Presuming! my dear child, I loved you the first moment I saw you lyingthere on the stones; and I am almost old enough to be your mother, too, " Ireplied, and I kissed her sweet face warmly. 

This was the beginning of my acquaintance and friendship with DoraMaynard. 

At eleven o'clock the next morning I went to see her. I was shown into aroom, whose whole air was so unlike that of a Roman apartment, that Icould scarcely believe I had not been transported to English or Americansoil. In spite of its elegance, the room was as home-like and cozy as ifit nestled in the Berkshire hills or stood on Worcestershire meadows. Thewindows were heavily curtained, and the furniture covered with gay chintzof a white ground, with moss-rose buds thickly scattered over it betweenbroad stripes of rose-pink. The same chintz was fluted all around thecornice of the room, making the walls look less high and stately; thedoorways, also, were curtained with it. Great wreaths and nodding massesof pampas grass were above the doors; a white heron and a rose-coloredspoonbill stood together on a large bracket in one corner, and a huge grayowl was perched on what looked like a simple old apple-tree bough, over aninlaid writing-table which stood at an odd slant near one of the windows. Books were everywhere--in low swinging shelves, suspended by large greencords with heavy tassels; on low bracket shelves, in unexpected places, with deep green fringes or flutings of the chintz; in piles on Moorishstools or old Venice chests. Every corner looked as if somebody made it aspecial haunt and had just gone out. On a round mosaic table stood anexqusite black-and-gilt Etruscan patera filled with white anemones; onanother table near by stood a silver one filled with the same flowers, pink and yellow. Each was circled round the edge with fringing masses ofmaiden-hair fern. Every lounge and chair had a low, broad foot-stoolbefore it, ruffled with the chintz; and in one corner of the room were asquare pink and white and green Moorish rug, with ten or a dozenchintz-covered pillows, piled up in a sort of chair-shaped bed upon it, and a fantastic ebony box standing near, the lid thrown back, andbattledoors and shuttlecocks, and many other gay-colored games, tossed inconfusion. The walls were literally full of exquisite pictures; no verylarge or rare ones, all good for every-day living; some fine oldetchings, exquisite water-colors, a swarthy Campagna herds-boy with apeacock feather and a scarlet ribbon in his black hat, and for acompanion-picture, the herds-boy of the mountains, fair, rosy, standingout on a opaline snow-peak, with a glistening Edelweiss in his hand;opposite these a large picture of Haag's, a camel in the desert, the Arabwife and baby in a fluttering mass of basket and fringe and shawl andscarf, on his back; the Arab father walking a few steps in advance, playing on musical pipes, his tasseled robe blowing back in the wind; onone side of this a Venice front, and on another a crag of Norway pines;here and there, small leaves of photographs from original drawings by theold masters, Leonardo, Raphael, Titian, and Luini; and everywhere, in allpossible and impossible places, flowers and vines. I never saw walls sodecorated. Yellow wall-flowers waved above the picture of the Norwaypines; great scarlet thistles branched out each side of the Venetianpalace; cool maiden-hair ferns seemed to be growing all around the glowingcrimson and yellow picture of the Arabs in the Desert. Afterward I learnedthe secret of this beautiful effect; large, flat, wide-mouthed bottles, filled with water, were hung on the backs of the picture frames, and inthese the vines and flowers were growing; only a worshipper of flowerswould have devised this simple method of at once enshrining them, andadorning the pictures. 

In one of the windows stood a superbly-carved gilt table, oblong, and withcuriously-twisted legs which bent inward and met a small central shelfhalf-way between the top and the floor, then spread out again into fourstrange claw-like vases, which bore each two golden lilies standingupright. On this stood the most singular piece of wood-carving I ever saw. It was of very light wood, almost yellow in tint; it looked like roughvine trellises with vines clambering over them; its base was surrounded bya thick bed of purple anemones; the smaller shelf below was also filledwith purple anemones, and each of the golden lilies held all the purpleanemones it could--not a shade of any other color but the purple andgold--and rising above them the odd vine trellises in the pale yellowwood. As I stood looking at this in mute wonder and delight, but sorelyperplexed to make out the design of the carving, I heard a step behind me. I turned and saw, not my new friend, as I had expected, but her husband. Ithought, in that first instant, I had never seen a manlier face and form, and I think so to-day. Robert Maynard was not tall; he was not handsome;but he had a lithe figure, square-shouldered, straight, strong, vitalizedto the last fibre with the swift currents of absolutely healthy blood, andthe still swifter currents of a passionate and pure manhood. His eyes wereblue, his hair and full beard of the bright-brown yellow which we call, rightly or wrongly, Saxon. He came very quickly toward me with both handsoutstretched and began to speak. "My dear madam, " he said, but his voicebroke, and with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he turned his back fullupon me for a second, and passed his right hand over his eyes. The nextinstant he recovered himself and went on. 

"I do not believe you will wonder that I can't speak, and I do not believeyou will ever wonder that I do not thank you--I never shall, " and heraised both my hands to his lips. 

"Dora is in bed as you bade her to be, " he continued. "She is well, butvery weak. She wants to see you immediately, and she has forbidden me tocome back to her room without you. I think, perhaps, " he addedhesitatingly, "she is not quite calm enough to talk long. Forgive me forsaying it. I know you love her already. "

"Indeed I do, " replied I, "as if I had known her all my life. I will notstay long;" and I followed him through a small dining-room, also gay withflowers and vines, to a little room which had one side almost wholly ofglass and opened on a _loggia_ full of orange-trees and oleanders, geraniums and roses. I will not describe Dora Maynard's bed-room. It wasthe dainty room of a dainty woman, but spiritualized and individualizedand made wonderful, just as her sitting-room was, by a creative touch anda magnetic presence such as few women possess. I believe that she couldnot be for twenty-four hours in the barrenest and ugliest room possible, without contriving to diffuse a certain enchantment through all itsemptiness. 

She looked far more beautiful this morning than she had looked the daybefore. I never forgot the picture of her face as I saw it then, lying onthe white pillow and turned toward the door, with the eager expressionwhich her waiting for me had given it. Neither of us spoke for someseconds, and when we did speak we took refuge in commonplaces. Our heartswere too full--mine with a sudden and hardly explicable overflow ofaffection toward this beautiful being whom I had saved from dying; herswith a like affection for me, heightened a thousand fold by the intenselove of love and of living that filled her whole soul and made hergratitude to me partake almost of the nature of adoration. I think it wasyears before she could see me without recalling the whole scene so vividlythat tears would fill her eyes. Often she would suddenly seize both myhands in hers, kiss them and say, "Oh! but for these dear, strong, bravelittle hands, where should I be!" And whenever we parted for a length oftime she was overshadowed by presentiment. "I know it is superstitious andsilly, " she would say, "but I cannot shake off the feeling that I am saferin the same town with you. I believe if any harm were to threaten me youwould be near. "

But the story I am to tell now is not the story of Dora Maynard's lifeafter I knew her, nor of our friendship and love for each other, rare andbeautiful as they were. It is the story of her girlhood, and of thestrange wood-carving which stood on the gilded table in the bed of purpleanemones. 

One morning in April, as I climbed the long stone stairs which led to herapartment, I met Anita, the flower-woman who carried flowers to her everyday. Anita looked troubled. 

"What is the matter, my Anita?" said I; "is the Signora ill?"

"Ah no, thank the Blessed Virgin!" said Anita; "the dearest, mostbeautiful of Signoras is well, but I am obliged to tell her to-day thatthere are no more anemones. Biagio went yesterday to the farthest cornerof the Villa Doria, to a dark shady spot beyond the Dove-Cote, which thestrangers know not, hoping to find some; but the heavy rains had beatenthem all down--there is no longer one left. And the Signora had tears inher eyes when I told her; and she did not care for all the other beautifulflowers; she said none of them could go on the gold table; never yet hasthe Signora put any flowers on the gold table except the purple anemones, "and real tears stood in old Anita's eyes. 

"Why, Anita, " said I, "I am sure some other flowers would look very prettythere. I do not believe the Signora will be unhappy about it. "

Anita shook her head and half smiled with a look of pitying compassion. 

"But, Signora, you do not know; that dearest and most beautiful ofSignoras has visions from the angels about her flowers. Holy Virgin! ifshe would but come and hang flowers around the Bambino in our church! Noneof the Holy Sisters can so weave them as she does; she makes Festa foreverin the house for the Signor; and I think, Signora, " crossing herself andlooking sharply at me, "perhaps the gold table is the shrine of herreligion: does the Signora know?"

I could not help laughing. "Oh no, Anita, " I said; "we do not have shrinesin our religion. "

Anita's face clouded. "Iddio mio!" she said, "but the Virgin will keep thedearest Signora Maynardi. Biagio and I have vowed to keep a candle alwaysburning for her in Ara Coeli! The dearest, most beautiful of Signoras;"and Anita walked disconsolately on, down the stairs. 

I found Dora kneeling before the "gold table, " arranging great masses ofmaiden-hair fern around the wood carving and in the shelf below. As I sawthe rapt and ecstatic expression of her face, I understood why Anita hadbelieved the gold table to be a shrine. 

"They do not suit it like the anemones, " said she, sadly; "and I can haveno more anemones this year. "

"So poor Anita told me just now on the stairs, " replied I. "She was almostcrying, she was so sorry she could not get them for you. But I am sure, dear, the ferns are beautiful on it. I think the pale green looks evenbetter than the purple with the gold and the pale yellow wood. "

"I like the purple best, " said Dora; "besides, we always had purple athome, " and her eyes filled with tears. Then, turning suddenly to me, shesaid, "Why have you never asked me what this is? I know you must havewondered: it looks so strange--this poor little clumsy bit of Americanpine, on my gilt table shrined with flowers!"

"Yes, I have wondered, I acknowledge, for I could not make out thedesign, " I replied; "but I thought it might have some story connected withit, which you would tell me if you wished I should know. I did not thinkit clumsy; I think it is fantastic, and has a certain sort of weirdlife-likeness about it. "

"Do you really think it has any life-like look about it?" and Dora's faceflushed with pleasure. "I think so, but I supposed nobody else could seeanything in it. No one of my acquaintance has ever alluded to it, "continued she, half laughing, half crying, "but I see them trying toscrutinize it slyly when they are not observed. As for poor old Anita, Ibelieve she thinks it is our Fetish. She walks round it on tiptoe with herhands clasped on her apron. "

"But now, " she continued, "I will show you the same design in somethingelse;" and she led the way through her own bedroom to Robert's, which wasbeyond. On the threshold she paused, and kissing me, said: "If you canstay with me to-day, I will tell you the whole story, dear; but I want youto look at this chintz first. " Then she walked to the window, and drawingout one of the curtains to its full width, held it up for me to see. Itwas a green and white chintz, evidently of cheap quality. At first I didnot distinguish any meaning in the pattern; presently I saw that thefigures were all of vines and vine-leaves, linked in a fantastic fashiontogether, like those in the wood-carving on the gold table. 

"Oh, yes, " I said, "I see; it is exactly like the carving, only it looksdifferent, being on a flat surface. "

Dora did not speak; she was gazing absently at the chintz she held in herhand. Her face looked as if her soul were miles and years away. PresentlyI saw a tear roll down her cheek. I touched her hand. She started, andsmiling sweetly, said: "Oh! forgive me. Don't think I am crying for anysorrow; it is for joy. I am so happy, and my life has been so wonderful. Now would you really have patience to listen to a long story?" she said, beseechingly; "a long story all about me--and--Robert? I have beenwanting to tell you ever since I knew you. I think you ought to know allabout us. "

For my answer, I sank into a large chair, drew her down into my lap, andsaid: "Begin, you dearest child. Nothing could give me such pleasure. Begin at the beginning. "

She slipped from my lap to a low footstool at my feet, and resting bothher arms on my knees in a graceful way she had, looked up into my face, and began by a sentence which made me start. 

"I used to work in a factory. " My start was so undisguised, souncontrollable, that Dora drew back and her cheeks turned red. 

"Perhaps I ought to have told you before. "

"Oh, my dear, beautiful, marvellous child!" I exclaimed; "you cannot somisjudge me. I was startled only because you had always seemed to me somuch like one born to all possible luxury. I supposed you had beennurtured on beauty. "

"So I have been, " she replied, earnestly, smiling through tears;"nevertheless, three years ago I was working in a factory in America. "

I did not interrupt her again; hour after hour passed by; not untiltwilight was deepening into dusk did the story come to end. I shall try togive it in Dora's own words--their simplicity adds so much to it; but Icannot give the heightened effect with which they fell upon my ears as Ilooked down into her sweet child-woman's face. 

"I do not remember much about mamma. It is strange, too, that I do not, because I was thirteen when she died; but I always loved papa best, andstayed all the time I could in his study. Mamma was very pretty; theprettiest woman I ever saw; but I don't know how it was, all herprettiness did not seem to make papa care about her. He was aclergyman--an Episcopal clergyman--and his father and his father's fatherhad been too; so you see for three whole generations it had been all booksand study in the family; but mamma's father was a farmer, and mamma wasstronger than papa; she liked to live in the country and be out of doors, which he hated. I think I know now just how it all was; but it used topuzzle me till I grew up. When I was sixteen, my Aunt Abby, papa's sister, told me that mamma was said to be the most beautiful girl in the wholeState, and that papa fell so in love with her when he was just out ofcollege, that he came very near dying because his father did not wish themto be married. Poor papa! it was just so always with him; he had such apoor feeble body that any trouble or worry made him ill. I can see nowthat it was because he and all his family had been such scholars, andlived in the house, and sat still all their lives; their bodies were notgood for anything: and I am thankful enough that my body is like mamma's;but I don't know what good it would do me, either, if dear papa hadn'ttaught me all his ways of seeing things and feeling things. Mamma neverseemed to care much about anything, except when Dick or Abby were sick, and she always used to go to sleep in church while papa was saying themost beautiful things; sometimes it used to make me almost hate her. Ihated everybody that didn't listen to him. But Aunt Abby said once thatvery few people could understand him, and that was the reason we neverstayed long in one place. People got tired of hearing him preach. Thismade me so angry I did not speak to Aunt Abby for two years, except when Iwas obliged to. But I see now that she was right. As I read over papa'ssermons I see that they would seem very strange to common men and women. He saw much more in every little thing than people generally do. I used totell him sometimes he 'saw double, ' and he would sigh and say that theworld was blind, and did not see half; he never could take any minute byitself; there was the past to cripple it and the future to shadow it. Poor, poor papa! I really think I have learned in a very strange way tounderstand his capacity for sadness. I understand it by my own capacityfor joy. I often smile to think how I used to accuse him of seeing double, for it is the very thing which Robert says to me again and again when asight or a sound gives me such intense pleasure that I can hardly bear it. And I see that while I have nearly the same sensitiveness to allimpressions from things or from people which he had, my body compels theimpressions to be joyous. This is what I owe mamma. If papa could havebeen well and strong, he would have sung joy such as no poet has ever sungsince suns began to shine. 

"But most that he wrote was sad; and I am afraid most that he taught thepeople was sad too, or, at any rate, not hopeful as it ought to be in thisbeautiful, blessed world, which 'God so loved' and loves. So perhaps itwas better for people that papa never preached in any one parish more thanthree or four years. Probably God took care to send next a man who wouldmake everybody take courage again. However, it was very hard for mamma, and very hard for us; although for us there was excitement and fun ingetting into new houses and getting acquainted with new people; but theworst thing was that we had very little money, and it used it up so tomove from place to place, and buy new things. I knew all about this beforeI was ten years old as well as if I had been forty; and by the time I wastwelve, I was a perfect little miser of both clothes and money--I had sucha horror of the terrible days, which sometimes came, when we sorely wantedboth. 

"Early in the spring after I was thirteen--my birthday was in December--wewent to live in a little place called Maynard's Mills. It was a suburbanvillage near the largest manufacturing town in the State. The other twohomes which I could remember had been very small country villages, wherenone of the people were rich, and only a few attended the Episcopalchurch. In Maynard's Mills there were many rich people, and almosteverybody went to our church. The whole place was owned by Mr. Maynard, Robert's father. He had gone out there to live near his mills, and theplace was so beautiful that family after family of the rich mill-ownershad moved out there. At first they used to go into town to church; but itwas a long drive, cold in winter and hot in summer, and so Mr. Maynardbuilt a beautiful chapel near his house and sent for papa to come andpreach in it. Mr. Maynard had been his classmate in college and loved himvery much, just because they were 'so different, ' papa said, and I thinkit must have been so, for Mr. Maynard is the merriest man I ever saw. Helaughs as soon as he sees you, whether there is anything to laugh at ornot, and he makes you feel just like laughing yourself, simply by askingyou how you do. I never saw papa so happy as he was the day Mr. Maynard'sletter came asking him to go there. 

"It was a very kind letter, and the salary, of which Mr. Maynard spokealmost apologetically, saying that it would be increased in a few years asthe village grew, was more than twice as large as papa had ever received, and there was a nice parsonage besides. 

"We moved in April. I always associate our moving with blue hepaticas, forI carried a great basketful of them, which I had taken up roots and all, in the woods, the morning we set out; and what should I find under papa'sstudy window but a great thicket of wild ferns and cornel bushesgrowing--just the place for my hepaticas, and I set them out before I wentinto the house. The house was very small, but it was so pretty that papaand I were perfectly happy in it. Poor mamma did not like the closets andthe kitchen. The house we had left was a huge, old-fashioned house, withfour square rooms on a floor; one of these was the kitchen, and mammamissed it very much. But she lived only a few days after we moved in. Inever knew of what disease she died. She was ill but a few hours andsuffered great pain. They said she had injured herself in some way inlifting the furniture. It was all so sudden and so terrible, and we weresurrounded by such confusion and so many strange faces, that I do notremember anything about it distinctly. I remember the funeral, and thegreat masses of white and purple flowers all over the table on which thecoffin stood, and I remember how strangely papa's face looked. 

"And then Aunt Abby came to live with us, and we settled down into such anew, different life, that it seemed to me as if it had been in some otherworld that I had known mamma. My sister Abby was two years old, and mydarling brother Nat was ten, when mamma died. It is very hard to talkabout dear Nat, I love him so. He is so precious, and his sorrow is sosacred, that I am hardly willing to let strangers pity him, ever sotenderly. When he was a baby he sprang out of mamma's lap, one day, as shewas reaching up to take something from the mantel piece. He fell on theandiron-head and injured his spine so that he could never walk. He istwenty years old now; his head and chest and arms are about as large asthose of a boy of sixteen, but all the rest of his poor body is shrunkenand withered; he has never stood upright, and he cannot turn himself inhis chair or bed. But his head and face are beautiful. It is not only Iwho think so. Artists have seen him sitting at the window, or being drawnabout in his little wagon, and have begged permission to paint his face, for the face of a saint or of a hero, in their pictures. It is the face ofboth saint and hero; and after all that must be always so, I think; forhow could a man be one without being the other? I know some very brave menhave been very bad men, but I do not call them heroes. Nat is the onlyhero I ever knew; if I were a poet I would write a poem about him. Itshould be called 'THE CROWNLESS KING. ' Oh, how he _does_ reign oversuffering, and loss, and humiliation, and what a sweet kingdom spreads outaround him wherever he is! He does everybody good, and everybody loveshim. Poor papa used to say sometimes, 'My son is a far better preacherthan I; see, I sit at his feet to learn;' and it was true. Even when hewas a little fellow Nat used to keep up papa's courage. Many a time, whenpapa looked dark and sad, Nat would call to him, 'Dear papa, will youcarry me up and down a little while by the window? I want the sky. ' Then, while they were walking, Nat would say such sweet things about the beautyof the sky, and the delight it gave him to see it, that the tears wouldcome into papa's eyes, and he would say, 'Who would think that we couldever forget for a moment this sky which is above us?' and he would go awayto his study comforted. 

"As I said, when mamma died, Nat was ten and I was thirteen. From thattime I took all the care of him. Aunt Abby, was not strong, and she didnot love children. She was just, and she meant to be always kind to us;but that sort of kindness is quite different from loving-kindness. PoorNat never could bear to have her do anything for him, and so it very sooncame about that I took all the care of him. It was not hard, for he wasnever ill; he suffered constant pain but in spite of it he was alwayscheerful, always said he felt well, and never had any of the smallailments and diseases which healthy children are apt to have. 'Ishouldn't know what to do without the ache, Dot, ' he said to me one daywhen he was only twelve years old. 'I've got so used to it, I should missit as much as I should miss you said it helps me to be good. I don't thinkI should dare have it go away. ' A few years later he wrote some lovelylittle verses called 'The Angel of Pain, ' which I will show you. Our lifeafter mamma died was very happy and peaceful. It makes me grieve for her, even now, to think how little she was missed. We had all loved her. Shewas always pleasant and good, and took the best possible care of us and ofeverything; but she was not one of those persons whose presence makesitself necessary to people. It seems hardly right to say such a thing, butI really think papa seemed more cheerful without her, after the first. Ithink that while she lived he was always groping and reaching aftersomething in her which did not exist. The hourly sight of her reminded himhourly of his ideal of what a wife might be, and he was forever hopingthat she might come a little nearer to it--enter a little more into hisworld of thought and feeling. This is how it has looked to me since I havebeen married, and can understand just how terrible it must be to have theperson whom you love best, disappoint you in any way. 

"Nat was in all my classes in school. Although he was three years youngerhe was much cleverer than I, and had had nothing to do, poor dear, all hislife, but lie in his chair and read. I used to draw him to and from schoolin a little wagon; the boys lifted it up and down the steps so carefullyit did not jar him; and papa had a special desk built for him, so highthat part of the wagon could roll under it, and the lid could rest justwherever Nat needed it for writing or studying. When we went home, therewas always a sort of procession with us; a good many of the children hadto go in the same direction, but many went simply to walk by Nat's wagonand talk with him. Whenever there was a picnic or a nutting frolic, wealways took him; the boys took turns in drawing him; nobody would hear aword of his staying at home; he used to sit in his wagon and look on whilethe rest played, and sometimes he would be left all alone for a while, buthis face was always the happiest one there. At school the boys used totell him everything, and leave things to his decision. Almost every day, somebody would call out, at recess or intermission, 'Well, I'll leave itto Nat'--or 'I'll tell Nat. ' One day somebody shouted, 'Take it before theking--let's call him King Nat. ' But it almost made Nat cry. He exclaimed, 'Oh, boys, please don't ever say that again;' and they never did. He had agreat deal more influence over them than any teacher. He could make themdo anything. Sometimes the teachers themselves used to come to himprivately and tell him of things they did not like, which the boys weregetting into the way of doing, and ask him to try to stop them. If Nat hadnot been a saint, as I said before, all this would have spoiled him; buthe never thought of its being any special power in him. He used to thinkit was only because the boys were so kind-hearted that they could not bearto refuse any request which a poor cripple made. 

"When I think how happy those days were and how fast the darkest days ofour lives were drawing near, it makes me shrink from happiness almost asmuch as from grief. It seems only grief's forerunner. On the evening of mysixteenth birthday, we were all having a very merry time in papa's study, popping corn over the open fire. We had wheeled Nat near the fire, andtied the corn-popper on a broom-handle, so that he could shake the popperhimself; and I never saw him laugh so heartily at anything. Papa laughedtoo, quite loud, which was a thing that did not happen many times a year. It was the last time we heard the full sound of dear papa's voice. Latethat night he was called out to see a poor man, one of the factoryoperatives, who was dying. It was a terrible snow-storm, and papa had beenso heated over the fire and in playing with us that he took a severe cold. The next morning he could not speak aloud. The doctor said it was an acutebronchitis and would pass off; but it did not, and in a very few weeks itwas clear that he was dying of consumption. Probably the cold onlydeveloped a disease which had been long there. 

"I can't tell you about the last months of papa's life. I think I shallnever be able to speak of them. We saw much worse days afterward, but nonethat seemed to me so hard to bear; even when I thought Nat and I wouldhave to go to the almshouse it was not so hard. The love which mostchildren divide between father and mother I concentrated on my father. Iloved him with an adoration akin to that which a woman feels for herhusband, and with the utmost of filial love added. Nat loved him almost asmuch. The most touching thing I ever saw was to see Nat from his wagon, or wheeled chair, reaching out to take care of papa in the bed. Nobodyelse could give him his medicine so well; nobody could prepare his mealsfor him, after he was too weak to use a knife and fork, so well as Nat. How he could do all this with only one hand--for he could not bend himselfin his chair enough to use the hand farthest from the bed--nobody couldunderstand; but he did, and the very last mouthful of wine papa swallowedhe took, the morning he died, from poor Nat's brave little hand, which didnot shake nor falter, though the tears were rolling down his cheeks. 

"Papa lived nearly a year; but the last nine months he was in bed, and henever spoke a loud word after that birthday night when we had been sohappy in the study. He died in November, on a dreary stormy day. I nevershall forget it. He had seemed easier that morning, and insisted on ourall going out to breakfast together and leaving him alone, the doors beingopen between the study and the dining-room. We had hardly seated ourselvesat the table when his bell rang. Aunt Abby reached him first. It could nothave been a minute, but he did not know her. For the first and only timein my life I forgot Nat, and was out of the room when I heard him sob. Dear Nat! not even then would he think of himself. I turned back. 'Oh, don't stop to take me, Dot, ' he said. 'Run!' But I could not; and when Ireached the door, pushing his chair before me, all was over. However, thedoctor said that, even if we had been there at the first, papa could nothave bid us good-by; that the death was from instantaneous suffocation, and that he probably had no consciousness of it himself. Papa's life hadbeen insured for five thousand dollars and he had saved, during the threeyears we had lived at Maynard's Mills, about one thousand more. This wasall the money we had in the world. 

"Mr. Maynard had been very kind throughout papa's illness. He hadpersuaded the church to continue the salary; every day he had sentflowers, and grapes, and wine, and game, and everything he could think ofthat papa could eat; and, what was kindest of all, he had come almostevery day to talk with him and cheer him up. But he did not mean to lethis kindness stop here. The day after the funeral he came to see us, topropose to adopt me. I forgot to say that Aunt Abby was to be married soonand would take little Abby with her; so they were provided for, and theonly question was about Nat and me. 

"Fortunately, dear Nat was in the dining-room and did not see Mr. Maynardwhen he came. I have told you what a merry man Mr. Maynard is, and howkind he is, but he is also a very obstinate and high-tempered man. He hadnever loved Nat; I do not know why; I think he was the only human beingwho ever failed to love him. He pitied him, of course; but he was sorepelled by his deformity that he could not love him. As soon as Mr. Maynard said, 'Now, my dear child, you must come to my house and make ityour home always, ' I saw that he intended to separate me from Nat. 

"I replied, 'I cannot leave Nat, Mr. Maynard. I thank you very much; youare very good; but it would break my heart to leave him, and I am surepapa would never forgive me if I should do it. '

"He made a gesture of impatience. He had foreseen this, and come preparedfor it; but he saw that I promised to prove even more impracticable thanhe had feared. 

"'You have sacrificed your whole life already to that miserableunfortunate boy, ' he said, 'and I always told your father he ought not topermit it. '

"At this I grew angry, and I replied:--

"'Mr. Maynard, Nat does more for us all, every hour of his life, than weever could do for him: dear papa used to say so too. '

"No doubt papa had said this very thing to Mr. Maynard often, for tearscame into his eyes and he went on:--

"'I know, I know--he is a wonderful boy, and we might all learn a lessonof patience from him; but I can't have the whole of your life sacrificedto him. I will provide for him amply; he shall have every comfort whichmoney can command. '

"'But where?' said I. 

"'In an institution I know of, under the charge of a friend of mine. '

"'A hospital!' exclaimed I; and the very thought of my poor Nat, who hadbeen the centre of a loving home-circle, of a merry school playground, ever since he could remember--the very thought of his finding himselfalone among diseased people, and tended by hired attendants, so overcameme that I burst into floods of tears. 

"Mr. Maynard, who hated the presence of tears and suffering, as mirthfulpeople always do, rose at once and said kindly, 'Poor child, you are notstrong enough to talk it over yet; but as your aunt must go away so soon, I thought it better to have it all settled at once. '

"'It is settled, Mr. Maynard, ' said I, in a voice that half frightened me. 'I shall never leave Nat--never, so long as I live. '

"'Then you'll do him the greatest unkindness you can--that's all, ' repliedMr. Maynard angrily, and walked out of the room. I locked myself up in myown room and thought the whole matter over. How I could earn my own livingand Nat's, I did not know. We should have about four hundred dollars ayear. I had learned enough in my childhood of poverty to know that we neednot starve while we had that; but simply not starving is a great way offfrom really living; and I felt convinced that it would be impossible forme to keep up courage or hope unless I could contrive, in some way, toearn money enough to surround our home with at least a semblance of theold atmosphere. We must have books; we must have a flower sometimes; wemust have sun and air. 

"At last an inspiration came to me. Down stairs, in the saddened emptystudy, sat little Miss Penstock, the village dressmaker, sewing on ourgloomy black dresses. She lived all alone in a very small house near Mr. Maynard's mill. I remembered that I had heard her say how lonely she foundit living by herself since her married sister, who used to live with her, had gone to the West. Since then, Miss Penstock had sometimes consented togo for a few days at a time to sew in the houses of her favoriteemployers, just to keep from forgetting how to speak, ' the poor littlewoman said. But she disliked very much to do this. She was a gentlewoman;and though she accepted with simple dignity the necessity of earning herbread, it was bitterly disagreeable to her to sit as a hired sewer inother people's houses. She liked to come to our house better than to anyother. We also were poor. My Aunt Abby was a woman of great simplicity, and a quiet, stately humility, like Miss Penstock's own; and they enjoyedsitting side by side whole days, sewing in silence. Miss Penstock hadalways spoken with a certain sort of tender reverence to Nat, and Iremembered that he liked to be in the room where she sewed. All thesethoughts passed through my mind in a moment. I sprang to my feet andexclaimed, 'That is it--that is it!' and I ran hastily down to the study. Miss Penstock was alone there. She looked up in surprise at mybreathlessness and my red eyes. I knelt down by her side and took the workout of her hands. 

"'Dear Miss Penstock, ' said I, 'would you rent part of your house?'

"She looked up reflectively, took off her spectacles with her left hand, and tapped her knees slowly with them, as she always did when puzzlingover a scanty pattern. 

"'I don't know, Dora, but I might; I've thought of it; it's awful lonelyfor me as 'tis. But it's such a risk taking in strangers; is it anyfriends of yours you're thinking of?'

"'Nat and me, ' said I, concisely. Miss Penstock's spectacles dropped fromher fingers, and she uttered an ejaculation I never heard from her lips onany other occasion. 'Good Heavens!'

"'Yes, ' said I, beginning to cry, 'Nat and me! I've got to take care ofNat, and if you would only let us live with you I think I could managebeautifully. ' Then I told her the whole story of Mr. Maynard's proposal. While we were talking Aunt Abby came in. The problem was no new one toher. Papa and she had talked it over many a time in the course of the pastsad year. It seemed that he had had to the last a strong hope that Mr. Maynard would provide for us both. Poor papa! as he drew near the nextworld, all the conventionalities and obligations of this seemed so smallto him, he did not shrink from the thought of dependence upon others as hewould have done in health. 

"'But I always told him, ' said Aunt Abby, 'that Mr. Maynard wasn't goingto do anything for Nat beyond what money'd do. He'd give him a thousand ayear, or two, if need be, but he'd never set eyes on him if he could helpit. '

"'Aunt Abby, ' exclaimed I, 'please don't say another word about Mr. Maynard's helping Nat. I'd die before Nat should touch a cent of hismoney. '

"'There is no use talking that way, ' said Aunt Abby, whose tenderestmercies were often cruelly worded. 'Mr. Maynard's a good, generous man, and I'm sure he's been the saving of us all. But that's no reason heshould set up to take you away from Nat now; and I know well enough Natcan't live without you; but I don't see how it's to be managed. And AuntAbby sighed. Then I told her my plans; they grew clearer and clearer to meas I unfolded them; the two gentle-faced spinster women looked at me withsurprise. Miss Penstock wiped her eyes over and over. 

"'If I could only be sure I wasn't going against your best interests tolet you come, ' said she. 

"'Oh, Miss Penstock, ' exclaimed I, 'don't think so--don't dare to say nofor that reason; for I tell you, I shall go away to some other town withNat if you don't take us; there is no other house here that would do;think how much better it would be for Nat to stay among friends. '

"'It's lucky I am their guardian, ' said Aunt Abby, with an unconsciousdefiance in her tone. 'There can't anybody hinder their doing anything Iam willing to have them do. My brother wanted to have Mr. Maynard, too;but I told him no; I'd either be whole guardian or none. '

"'I think good Aunt Abby had had a dim foreboding that Mr. Maynard'skindness might take a shape which it would be hard to submit to. Great asher gratitude was, her family pride resented dictation, and resented alsothe implied slight to poor Nat. As I look back now, I can see that, exceptfor this reaction of feeling, she never would have consented so easily tomy undertaking all I undertook, in going to housekeeping alone with thathelpless child, on four hundred dollars a year. Before night it was allsettled, and Miss Penstock went home two hours before her time, 'sostirred up, somehow, ' as she said, 'to think of those blessed children'scoming to live in my house, I couldn't see to thread a needle. ' After teaMr. Maynard came again: Aunt Abby saw him alone. When she came up-stairsshe had been crying, but her lips were closed more rigidly than I ever sawthem. Aunt Abby could be as determined as Mr. Maynard. All she said to meof the interview was, 'I don't know now as he'll really give in that hecan't have things as he wants to. For all his laughing and for all hisgoodness, I don't believe he is any too comfortable to live with. Ishouldn't wonder if he never spoke to one of us again. '

"But Mr. Maynard was too well-bred a man for any such pettiness as that. His resentment showed itself merely in a greater courtesy than ever, combined with a careful absence of all inquiries as to our plans. It hurtme very much, for I knew how it would have hurt dear papa. But I knew, too, that I was right and Mr. Maynard was wrong, and that comforted me. 

"Four weeks from the day papa was buried, the pretty parsonage was lockedup, cold, dark, empty. Aunt Abby had gone with little Abby to her newhome, and Nat and I were settled at Miss Penstock's. The night before wemoved, Mr. Maynard left a note at the door for me. It contained fivehundred dollars and these words:--

"'Miss Dora will not refuse to accept this from one who hoped to be herfather. '

"But I could not take it. I sent it back to him with a note like this:--

"'DEAR MR. MAYNARD:--I shall never forget that you were willing to be myfather, and I shall always be grateful to you; but I cannot take moneyfrom one who is displeased with me for doing what I think right. I promiseyou, however, for papa's sake and for Nat's, that if I ever need help Iwill ask it of you, and not of any one else. '

 * * * * *

"The next time I saw Mr. Maynard he put both his hands on my shoulders andsaid: 'You are a brave girl; I wish I could forgive you; but remember yourpromise. ' And that was the last word Mr. Maynard spoke to me for threeyears. 

"Our new home was so much pleasanter than we supposed it could be, that atfirst, in spite of our grief, both Nat and I were almost gay. It was likea sort of picnic, or playing at housekeeping. The rooms were sunny andcozy. Rich people in splendid houses do not dream how pleasant poorpeople's little rooms can be, if the sun shines in and there are a fewpretty things. We kept all the books which could ever be of use to Nat, and a picture of the Sistine Madonna which Mr. Maynard had given us on thelast Christmas Day, and papa's and mamma's portraits. The books, andthese, made our little sitting-room look like home. We had only two roomson the first floor; one of these was a tiny one, but it held our littlecooking-stove and a cupboard, with our few dishes; the other we called'sitting-room;' it had to be dear Nat's bedroom also, because he could notbe carried up and down stairs. But I made a chintz curtain, which shut offhis bed from sight, and really made the room look prettier, for I put itacross a corner and had a shelf put up above it, on which Nat's stuffedowl sat. My room was over Nat's, and a cord went up from his bed to abell over mine, so that he could call me at any moment if he wantedanything in the night. Then we had one more little chamber, in which wekept the boxes of papa's sermons, and some trunks of old clothes, andthings which nobody wanted to buy at the auction, and papa's big chair andwriting-table. We would not sell those. I thought perhaps some day weshould have a house of our own--I could not imagine how; but if we did weshould be glad of that chair and table, and so Aunt Abby let us keep them, though they were of handsome wood, beautifully carved, and would havebrought a good deal of money. For these four rooms we paid Miss Penstockthree dollars a month; the rent would have been a dollar a week, but shesaid it was really worth a dollar a month to her to have people who wouldnot trouble her nor hurt the house; and as Aunt Abby thought so too, Ibelieved her. 

"My plan was to have Nat keep on at school, and to take in sewing myself, or to work for Miss Penstock. For the first year all went so smoothly thatI was content. I used to draw Nat to and from school twice a day, and thatgave me air and exercise. Everybody was very kind in giving me sewing, andI earned four and five dollars a week. We did not have to buy any clothes, and so we laid up a little money. But the next year people did not give meso much sewing; they had given it to me the first year because they weresorry for us, but now they had forgotten. Very often I would sit idle awhole week, with no work. Then I used to read and study, but I could notenjoy anything, because I was so worried. I felt that trouble was coming. Early in the fall dear Nat was taken ill--the first illness of his life. It was a slow fever. He was ill for three months. I often wonder how Ilived through those months. When he recovered he seemed better than ever. The doctor said he had passed a sort of crisis and would always bestronger for it. The doctor was very kind. Several nights he sat up withNat and made me go to bed, and he would not let me pay him a cent, thoughhe came every day for weeks. When I urged him to let us pay the bill hegrew half angry, and said, 'Do you think I am going to take money fromyour father's daughter?' and then I felt more willing to take it forpapa's sake. But the medicines had cost a great deal, and I had not earnedanything; and so, at the end of the second year, we had been obliged totake quite a sum out of our little capital. I did not tell Nat, and I didnot go to Mr. Maynard. I went on from day to day, in a sort of stupor, wondering what would happen next. I was seventeen years old, but I knew ofnothing I could do except to sew; I did not know enough to teach. All thistime I never once thought of the mills. I used to watch the men and womengoing in and out, and envy them, thinking how sure they were of theirwages; and yet it never crossed my mind that I could do the same thing. Iam afraid it was unconscious pride which prevented my thinking of it. 

"But the day came. It was in the early spring. I had been to thegrave-yard to set out some fresh hepaticas on papa's grave. His grave andmamma's were in an inclosure surrounded by a high, thick hedge of pinesand cedars close to the public street As I knelt down, hidden behind thetrees, I heard steps and voices. They paused opposite me. The persons wereevidently looking over the fence. Then I distinguished the voice of ourkind doctor. 

"'Poor Kent!' he said, 'how it would distress him to see his children now!That Nat barely pulled through his fever; but he seems to have taken a newturn since then and is stronger than ever. But I am afraid they are verypoor. '

"To my astonishment, the voice that replied was Mr. Maynard's. 

"'Of course they are, ' said he impatiently; 'but nobody will ever have achance to help them till the last cent's gone. That Dora would work herfingers off in the mills rather than ask or receive help. '

"'But good heavens! Maynard, you'd never stand by and see Tom Kent'sdaughter in the mills?' exclaimed the doctor. 

"I could not hear the reply, for they were walking away. But the words 'inthe mills' rang in my ears. A new world seemed opening before me. I had noparticle of false pride; all I wanted was to earn money honestly. I couldnot understand why I had never thought of this way. I knew that many ofthe factory operatives, who were industrious and economical, supportedlarge families of children on their wages. 'It would be strange enough ifI could not support Nat and myself, ' thought I, and I almost ran home, Iwas so glad. I said nothing to Nat; I knew instinctively that it wouldgrieve him. 

"The next day after I left him at school I went to the largest mill andsaw the overseer. He was a coarse, disagreeable man; but he had known myfather and he treated me respectfully. He said they could not give me verygood wages at first; but if I learned readily, and was skillful in tendingthe looms, I might in time make a very good living. The sums that he namedseemed large, tried by my humble standard. Even at the beginning I shouldearn more than I had been able to for many months at my needle. After teaI told Nat. He lay very still for some moments; the tears rolled down hischeeks; then he reached up both hands and drew my face down to his, andsaid, 'Dear sister, it would be selfish to make it any harder for you thanit must be at best. But oh, Dot, Dot! do you think you can dream what itis for me to have to lie here and be such a burden on you?'

"'Oh, Nat!' I said, 'if you don't want to break my heart, don't speak so. I don't have to earn any more for two than I should have to alone; it doesnot cost anything for you; and if it did, you darling, don't you know thatI could not live without you? you are all I have got in the world. ' Natdid not reply; but all that evening his face looked as I never saw itbefore. Nat was fifteen; instinct was beginning to torture him with aman's sense of his helplessness, and it was almost more than even hischildlike faith and trust could bear. 

"The next day I told Miss Penstock. She had been as kind to us as a motherthrough this whole year and a half, and I really think we had taken theplace of children in her lonely old heart. But she never could forget thatwe were her minister's children; she always called me Miss Dora, and doesto this day. She did not interrupt me while I told her my plan, but thecolor mounted higher and higher in her face. As soon as I stoppedspeaking, she exclaimed:--

"'Dora Kent, are you mad--a girl with a face like yours to go into themills? you don't know what you're about. '

"'Yes I do, dear Pennie, ' I said (Nat had called her Pennie ever since hissickness, when she had taken tender care of him night and day). 'I knowthere are many rude, bad men there, but I do not believe they will troubleme. At any rate I can but try. I must earn more money, Pennie; you knowthat as well as I do. '

"She did indeed know it; but it was very hard for her to give approbationto this scheme. It was not until after a long argument that I induced herto promise not to write to Aunt Abby till I had tried the experiment forone month. 

"The next day I went to the mill. Everything proved much better than I hadfeared. Some of the women in the room in which I was placed had belongedto papa's Sunday-school, and they were all very kind to me, and told theothers who I was; so from the outset I felt myself among friends. In twoweeks I had grown used to the work; the noise of the looms did notfrighten or confuse me, and it did not tire me to stand so many hours. Ifound that I should soon be able to do most of my work mechanically, andthink about what I pleased in the mean time. So I hoped to be able tostudy at home and recite my lessons to myself in the mill. The only thingthat troubled me was that I could not take Nat to and from school, and hehad to be left alone sometimes. But I found a very pleasant and faithfulIrish boy, who was glad to earn a little money by drawing him back andforth, often staying with him after school till I came home at sixo'clock. This boy was the son of the Irish gardener on the overseer'splace. The overseer was an Englishman; his name was Wilkins. He is theonly human being I ever disliked so that it was hard to speak to him. Hisbrother, too, the agent who had charge of all Mr. Maynard's business, wasalmost as disagreeable as he. They both looked like bloated frogs; theirwide, shapeless mouths, flat noses, and prominent eyes, made me shudderwhen I looked at them. 

"Little Patrick soon grew fond of Nat, as everybody did who came intoclose contact with him; and he used often to stay at our house till lateat night, hearing Nat's stories, and watching him draw pictures on theblackboard. One of the things I had kept was a great blackboard which papahad made for him. It was mounted on a stout standard, so that it could beswung close in front of his chair or wagon, and he would lie there anddraw for hours together. Some of the pictures he drew were so beautiful Icould not bear to have them rubbed out. It seemed almost like killingthings that were alive. Whenever I dared to spend a penny for anything notabsolutely needful, I always bought a sheet of drawing-paper or a crayon;for Nat would rather have them than anything else in the world--even thana book--unless the book had pictures. 

"One night, when I went home, I found him sitting up very straight in hiswagon, with his cheeks crimson with excitement. Patrick was with him, andthe table and the whole floor were covered with queer, long, jointedpaste-board sheets, with pieces of gay-colored calicoes, pasted on them. Patrick looked as excited as Nat, and as soon as I opened the door heexclaimed, 'Och, Miss Dora, see how he's plazed with um. ' I was almostfrightened at Nat's face. 'Why Nat, dear, ' said I, 'what are they? I don'tthink they are very pretty;' and I picked up one of the queer things andlooked at it. 'The colors are bright and pretty, but I am sure almost allthe patterns are hideous. '

"'Of course they are, ' shouted Nat hysterically. 'That's just it. That'swhat pleases me so, ' and he burst out crying. I was more frightened still. Trampling the calicoes under my feet, I ran and knelt by his chair, andput my arms around him. 'Oh, Nat, Nat, what is the matter?' cried I. 'Patrick, what have you done to him?' Poor Patrick could not speak; he wasutterly bewildered; he began hastily picking up the prints and shufflingthem out of sight. 

"'Don't you touch one!' screamed Nat, lifting up his head again, withtears rolling down his cheeks. 'Dot, Dot, ' he went on, speaking louder andlouder, 'don't you see? those are patterns; Patrick says Mr. Wilkins buysthem. I can earn money too; I can draw a million times prettier ones thanthose. '

"Like lightning the thing flashed through my brain. Of course he could. Hedrew better ones every day of his life, by dozens, on the old blackboard, with crumbling bits of chalk. Again and again I had racked my brains todevise some method by which he might be taught, as artists are taught, andlearn to put his beautiful conceptions into true shapes for the world tosee. But I knew that materials and instruction were both alike out of ourreach, and I had hoped earnestly that such longing had never entered hisheart. I sat down and covered my face with my hands. 

"'You see, sister, ' said Nat in a calmer tone, sobered himself by myexcitement--'you see, don't you?'

"'Yes, dear, I do see, ' said I; 'you will earn much more money than I evercan, and take care of me, after all. '

"To our inexperience, it seemed as if a mine had opened at our feet. PoorPatrick stood still, unhappy and bewildered, twisting one of thepattern-books in his hand. 

"'An' is it these same that Misther Nat'll be afther tryin' to make?' saidhe. 

"'Oh no, Patrick, ' said Nat, laughing, 'only the pictures from which theseare to be made. '

"Then we questioned Patrick more closely. All he knew was that Mr. Wilkins' sister made many of the drawings; Patrick had seen them lying inpiles on Mr. Wilkins' desk; some of them colored, some of them merely inink. The pieces of paper were about the size of these patterns, some sixor eight inches square. 

"'Will I ask Miss Wilkins to come and show yees?' said Patrick. 

"'No, no, ' said we both, hastily; 'you must not tell anybody. Of courseshe would not want other people to be drawing them too. '

"'Especially if she can't make anything better than these, ' said Nat, pityingly. Already his tone had so changed that I hardly recognized it. Inthat moment the artist-soul of my darling brother had felt its firstbreath of the sweetness of creative power. 

"Patrick promised not to speak of it to a human being; as he was going outof the door he turned back, with a radiant face, and said: 'An 'twasmeself that only thought maybe the calikers'd amuse him for a minnit withtheir quare colors, ' and he almost somerseted off the door-steps, utteringan Irish howl of delight. 

"'You've made our fortunes! there'll always be calicoes wanted, and I candraw fifty patterns a day, and I'll give you half of the first pay I getfor them, ' called the excited Nat; but Patrick was off. 

"We sat up till midnight. I was scarcely less overwrought than Nat. Hedrew design after design and rejected them as not quite perfect. 

"'You know, ' he said, 'I must send something so very good to begin with, that they can't help seeing at first sight how good it is. '

"'But not so good that you can't ever make another equal to it, ' suggestedI out of my practical but inartistic brain. 

"'No danger of that, Dot, ' said Nat, confidently. 'Dot, there isn'tanything in this world I can't make a picture of, if I can have paperenough, and pencils and paint. '

"At last he finished three designs which he was willing to send. Theywere all for spring or summer dresses. One was a curious block pattern, the blocks of irregular shapes, but all fitting into each other, and allto be of the gayest colors. Here and there came a white block with onetiny scarlet dot upon it; 'That's for a black-haired girl, Dot, ' said Nat;'you couldn't wear it. '

"The second was a group of ferns tied by a little wreath of pansies;nothing could be more beautiful. The third was a fantastic mixture ofpine-tassels and acorns. I thought it quite ugly, but Nat insisted on itthat it would be pretty for a summer muslin; and so it was the next year, when it was worn by everybody, the little plumy pine-tassels of a brightgreen (which didn't wash at all), and the acorns all tumbling about onyour lap, all sides up at once. 

"It was one o'clock before we went to bed, and we might as well have satup all night, for we did not sleep. The next morning I got up before lightand walked into town, to a shop where they sold paints. I had just time tobuy a box of water-colors and get back to the mill before the bell stoppedringing. All the forenoon the little white parcel lay on the floor at myfeet. As often as I looked at it, I seemed to see Nat's pictures dancingon the surface. I had given five dollars for the box; I trembled to thinkwhat a sum that was for us to spend on an uncertainty; but I had smalldoubt. At noon I ran home; I ate little dinner--Nat would not touch amouthful. 'You must see the pansies and ferns done before you go, ' hesaid. 

"And before my hour was up they were so nearly done that I danced aroundNat's chair with delight. 

"'I know Mr. Wilkins never saw anything so pretty in his life, ' said Nat, calmly. 

"The thought of Mr. Wilkins was a terrible damper to me. Nat had not seenhim: I had. 

"'Nat, ' said I, slowly, 'Mr. Wilkins won't know that it is pretty. He isnot a man; he is a frog, and he looks as if he lied. I believe he willcheat us. '

"Nat looked shocked. 'Why Dora, I never in my life heard you speak so. Youshall not take them to him. I will have Patrick take me there. '

"'No, no, dear, ' I exclaimed, 'I would not have you see Mr. Wilkins forthe world. He is horrible. But I am not afraid of him. '

"I meant that I would not for the world have him see Nat. He was coarseand brutal enough to be insulting to a helpless cripple, and I knew it. But Nat did not dream of my reason for insisting so strongly on goingmyself, and he finally yielded. 

"I took the pictures to the overseer's office at noon. I knew that 'AgentWilkins, ' as he was called to distinguish him from his brother, was alwaysthere at that time. He looked up at me, as I drew near the desk, with anexpression which almost paralyzed me with disgust. But for Nat's sake Ikept on. I watched him closely as he looked at the pictures. I thought Idetected a start of surprise, but I could not be sure. Then he laid themdown, saying carelessly, 'I am no judge of these things; I will consultsome one who is, and let you know to-morrow noon if we can pay yourbrother anything for the designs. '

"'Of course you know that the market is flooded with this sort of thing, Miss Kent, ' he added, as I was walking away. I made no reply; I wasalready revolving in my mind a plan for taking them to another mill intown, whose overseer was a brother of one of papa's wardens. The next dayat noon I went to the office; my heart beat fast, but I tried to believethat I did not hope. Both the brothers were there. The overseer spokefirst, but I felt that the agent watched me sharply. 

"'So your lame brother drew these designs, did he, Miss Dora?'

"'My brother Nat drew them, sir; I have but one brother, said I, tryinghard to speak civilly. 

"'Well' said he, 'they are really very well done--quite remarkable, considering that they are the work of a child who has had no instruction;they would have to be rearranged and altered before we could use them, butwe would like to encourage him and to help you too, ' he continued, patronizingly, 'and so we shall buy them just as they are. '

"'My brother Nat is not a child, ' replied I, 'and we do not wished to behelped. If the designs are not worth money, will you be so good as to givethem back to me?' and I stepped nearer the desk and stretched out my handtoward the pictures which were lying there. But Agent Wilkins snatchedthem up quickly, and casting an angry glance at his brother, exclaimed:--

"'Oh, you quite mistake my brother, Miss Kent; the designs are worth moneyand we are glad to buy them; but they are not worth so much as they wouldbe if done by an experienced hand. We will give you ten dollars for thethree, ' and he held out the money to me. Involuntarily I exclaimed, 'I hadnot dreamed that they would be worth so much. ' Nat could earn then in fourhours' work as much as I could in a week; in that one moment the whole oflife seemed thrown open for us. All my distrust vanished. And when theagent added, kindly, 'Be sure and bring us all the designs which yourbrother makes. I think we shall want to buy as many as he will draw; hecertainly has rare talent, '--I could have fallen on the floor at his feetto thank him, so grateful did I feel for this new source of income for us, and still more for the inexpressible pleasure for my poor Nat. 

"From that day Nat was a changed boy. He would not go to school in theafternoons, but spent the hours from two till five in drawing. I had acord arranged from our room to Miss Penstock's, so that he could call herif at any moment he needed help, and she was only too glad to have him inthe house. When I reached home at six, I always found him lying back inhis chair with his work spread out before him, and such a look of contentand joy on his face, that more than once it made me cry instead ofspeaking when I bent over to kiss him. 'Oh, Dot--oh, Dot!' he used to saysometimes, 'it isn't all for the sake of the money, splendid as that is;but I do feel as if I should yet do something much better than makingdesigns for calicoes. I feel it growing in me. Oh, if I could only betaught; if there were only some one here who could tell me about thethings I don't understand!'

"'But you shall be taught, dear, ' I replied; 'we will lay up all themoney you earn. I can earn enough for us to live on, and then, with yourmoney, in a few years we can certainly contrive some way for you tostudy. '

"It seemed not too visionary a hope, for Nat's designs grew prettier andprettier, and the agent bought all I carried him. One week I remember hepaid me thirty dollars; and as he handed it to me, seeing how pleased Ilooked, he said, --

"'Your brother is getting quite rich, is he not, Miss Kent?' Somethingsinister in his smile struck me at that moment as it had not done for along time, and I resolved to go more seldom to the office. 

"We did not lay up so much as we hoped to; we neither of us had a trace ofthe instinct of economy or saving. I could not help buying a geranium orfuchsia to set in the windows; Nat could not help asking me to buy a bookor a picture sometimes, and his paints and pencils and brushes and papercost a good deal in the course of six months. Still we were very happy andvery comfortable, and the days flew by. Our little room was so cozy andpretty, that Miss Penstock's customers used often to come in to see it;and if they happened to come when Nat was there, they almost always senthim something afterward; so, at the end of two years you never would haveknown the bare little room. We had flowers in both windows, and as eachwindow had sun, the flowers prospered; and we had a great many prettypictures on the walls, and Nat's sketches pinned up in all sorts of oddplaces. A big beam ran across the ceiling in the middle, and that washung full of charcoal sketches, with here and there a sheet just paintedin bars of bright color--no meaning to them, except to 'light up, ' Natsaid. I did not understand him then, but I could see how differently allthe rest looked after the scarlet and yellow were put by their side. Someof our pictures had lovely frames to them, which Nat had carved out of oldcigar-boxes that Patrick brought him. Sometimes he used to do nothing butcarve for a week, and he would say, 'Dot, I do not believe drawing is thething I want to do, after all. I want more; I hate to have everythingflat. ' Then he would get discouraged and think all he had done was goodfor nothing. 'I never can do anything except to draw till I go somewhereto be taught, ' he would say, and turn back to the old calico patterns withfresh zeal. 

"One day a customer of Miss Penstock's brought Nat a book about grapes, which had some pictures of the different methods of grape-culture indifferent countries. One of these pictures pleased him very much. Itshowed the grape-vines looped on low trees, in swinging festoons. He hadthe book propped up open at that picture day after day, and kept drawingit over and over on the blackboard and on paper till I was tired of thesight of it. It did not seem to me remarkably pretty. But Nat said oneday, when I told him so, --

"'It isn't the picture itself, but what I want to make from it. Don't yousee that the trees look a little like dancers whirling round, holding eachother by the hand--one-legged dancers?'

"I could not see it. 'Well, ' said Nat, 'look at this, and see if you cansee it any better;' and he drew out of his portfolio a sheet with a roughcharcoal sketch of six or seven low, gnarled, bare trees, with theirboughs inter-locked in such a fantastic manner that the trees seemedabsolutely reeling about in a crazy dance. I laughed as soon as I saw it. 'There!' said Nat triumphantly; 'now, if I can only get the vines to gojust as I want them to, in and out, you see that will dress up thedancers. ' He worked long over this design. The fancy seemed to have takenpossession of his brain. He gave names to the trees, but he called themall men: 'It's a jolly crew of old kings, ' he said; 'that's Sesostris atthe head, and there's Herod; that old fellow with the gouty stomach underhis left arm. ' Nat was now so full of freaks and fun, that our little roomrang with laughter night after night. Patrick used to sit on the floorsometimes, with his broad Irish mouth stiffened into a perpetual grin atthe sight of the mirth, which, though he could not comprehend it, he foundcontagious. 

"'But what will you do with it, Nat?' said I. 'It will never do for acalico pattern. '

"'I don't know, ' said he reflectively; 'I might make it smaller and hidethe faces, and not make the limbs of the trees look so much like legs, andcall it the "vine pattern, " and I guess old Wilkins would think it wasgraceful, and I dare say Miss Wilkins would wear it, if nobody else did. '

"'Oh! Nat, Nat, how can you, ' exclaimed I, 'when they have been so good topay us so much money?'

"'I know it, ' said Nat, 'it's too bad; I'm ashamed now. But doesn't thislook like the two Wilkins brothers? You said they looked like frogs?' heran on, holding up a most ludicrous picture of two tall, lank frogsstanding behind a counter, and stretching out four front legs like greedyhands across the counter, with a motto coming out of the right-hand frog'smouth: 'More designs, if you please, Mr. Kent--something light andgraceful for summer wear. '

"These were the words of a note which Mr. Wilkins had sent to Nat a fewweeks before. I laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks, for really thefrogs did look like the brothers Wilkins. The picture haunted my mind forweeks afterward, and seemed somehow to revive my old distrust of them. 

"A few days after this Nat had finished a set of designs 'for summerwear, ' as the order said, and among them he had put in the 'One-LeggedDancers. '

"'It'll do no harm to try it, ' said he. 'I think it would be lovelyprinted in bright-green on a white ground, and nobody but you and me wouldever see the kings' legs in it. '

"It really was pretty; still I could not help seeing legs and heads andKing Herod's stomach in it; and, moreover, it was entirely too large afigure for that year's fashions in calico or muslin. However, I saidnothing and carried it with the rest. When I went the next day, Mr. Wilkins said, as he handed me the money, --

"'Oh, by the way, Miss Kent, one of the drawings has been mislaid. Isuppose it is of no consequence; we could not use it; it was quite toolarge a figure, and seemed less graceful than your brother's work usuallyis; it was a picture of grape-vines. '

"'Oh, ' said I, 'I told Nat I didn't believe that would be good foranything. No, it is not of the least consequence. '

"When I repeated this to Nat, he did not seem surprised at their refusalof the design; they had already refused several others in the course ofthe year. But he seemed singularly disturbed at the loss of the drawing. At last he urged me to go and ask if it had not been found. 

"'I may do something with it yet, Dot, ' he said. 'I know it is a gooddesign for something, if not for calico, and I don't believe they havelost it. It is very queer. '

"But Mr. Wilkins assured me, with great civility and many expressions ofregret, that the design was lost: that they had made careful search for iteverywhere. 

"The thing would have passed out of my mind in a short time but for Nat'spertinacious reference to it. Every few days he would say, 'It is veryqueer, Dot, about the One-Legged Dancers. How could such a thing be lost?They never lost a drawing before. I believe Miss Wilkins has got it, andis going to paint a big picture from it herself!'

"'Why, Nat!' I exclaimed, 'aren't you ashamed? that would be stealing. '

"'I don't care, Dot, ' he said again and again, 'I never shall believe thatpaper was lost. '

"I grew almost out of patience with him; I never knew him to be unjust toany one, and it grieved me that he should be so to people who had been ourbenefactors. 

"About four months later, one warm day in April, I walked over to thetown after my day's work was done, to buy a gown for myself, and a new boxof paints for Nat. I did not go to town more than two or three times ayear, and the shop-windows delighted me as much as if I had been onlyeleven years old. As I walked slowly up and down, looking at everything, Isuddenly started back at the sight of a glossy green and white chintz, which was displayed conspicuously in the central window of one of thelargest shops. There they were, just as Nat had drawn them on the missingpaper, 'The One-Legged Dancers!' Nat was right. It was a pretty pattern, avery pretty pattern for a chintz; and there was--I laughed out in spite ofmyself, as I stood in the crowd on the sidewalk--yes, there was the uglygreat knot in one of the trees which had made King Herod's stomach. Butwhat did it mean? No chintzes were made in any of Mr. Maynard's mills, nor, so far as I knew, in any mill in that neighborhood. I was hot withindignation. Plainly Nat's instinct had been a true one. The Wilkinses hadstolen the design and had sold it to some other manufacturers, notdreaming that the theft could ever be discovered by two such helplesschildren as Nat and I. 

"I went into the shop and asked the price of the chintz in the window. 

"'Oh, the grape-vine pattern? that is a new pattern, just out this spring;it is one of the most popular patterns we ever had. A lovely thing, miss, 'said the clerk, as he lifted down another piece of it. 

"'I will take one yard, ' said I with a choking voice. I was afraid Ishould cry in the shop. 'Do you know where this chintz is made?' I added. 

"The clerk glanced at the price-ticket and read me the name. It was madeby a firm I had never heard of, in another State. No wonder the Wilkinsesthought themselves safe. 

"When I showed Nat the chintz he seemed much less excited than I expected. He was not so very much surprised; and, to my great astonishment, he wasnot at first sure that it would be best to let the Wilkinses know that wehad discovered their cheating. But I was firm; I would have no more to dowith them. My impulse was to go to Mr. Maynard. Although during thesethree years he had never come to see us, I felt sure that, in the bottomof his heart, there still was a strong affection for us; and, above all, he was a just man. He would never keep in his employ for one day anyperson capable of such wrong as the Wilkinses had done us. 

"'But, ' persisted Nat, 'you do not know that either of the Mr. Wilkinseshad anything to do with it. They may both have honestly supposed it waslost. It's much more likely that their sister stole it. '

"I had not thought of this before. Poor Miss Wilkins! Nat's artistic soulhad been so outraged by some of her flagrant calicoes that he believed hercapable of any crime. 

"At last I consented to go first to the Wilkinses themselves, and Ipromised to speak very calmly and gently in the beginning, and betray nosuspicion of them. I carried the chintz. When I entered the office, theoverseer was talking in one corner with a gentleman whose back was turnedto me. The agent sat by the counter. 

"'Mr. Wilkins, ' said I, 'do you remember the grape-vine pattern my brotherdrew last winter--the one which you refused?'

"The instant I spoke, I saw that he did remember. I saw that he wasguilty, and I saw it all with such certainty that it enabled me to be verycalm. 

"'Let me see, ' said he, trying to pretend to be racking his memory; 'thegrape-vine pattern? It seems to me that I do recall something about adesign with that name. Did you say we refused it?'

"'Yes, you refused it, but you did not return the drawing. You said it hadbeen lost, ' I replied. 

"'Ah, yes, yes--now I recollect, ' he said, recovering himself somewhat;'we made great search for the drawing; I remember all about it now;' andhe paused as if waiting civilly to know what more there could possibly beto be said on that point. But I watched him closely and saw that he wasagitated. I looked him steadily in the eye and did not speak, while Islowly opened my little bundle and unrolled the piece of chintz. 

"'Can you possibly explain this mystery, then, sir, that here is mybrother's design printed on this chintz?' said I, in a clear, distincttone, holding out the yard of chintz at its full length. As I said thewords 'my brother's design, ' the gentleman who had been talking with theoverseer turned quickly round, and I saw that it was Mr. Maynard'syoungest son Robert, who a year before had come home from Germany, and hadrecently been taken into the firm as partner. He stepped a little nearerme, and was evidently listening to my words. 

"'Come into this room, Mr. Maynard, if you please, and we will finishdiscussing the matter we were speaking of, ' said Overseer Wilkins, turningpale, and speaking very hurriedly, and trying to draw Mr. Maynard into theinner office-room. 

"'And--if you will call some other time, Miss Kent, ' said Agent Wilkins, turning away from me and walking toward Mr. Maynard, in his anxiety toprevent my being seen or heard, 'I will try to attend to this matter; butjust now I have not another moment to spare, ' and he began at once to talkin a loud and voluble manner. 

"I do not know how I had strength and courage to do what I did then; I donot know where the voice came from with which I spoke then; Robert hasalways said that I looked like a young lioness, and that my voice soundedlike the voice of one crying 'fire. ' I stepped swiftly up to him, andbefore the astounded Wilkins could speak a word, I had held up the chintzand exclaimed, 'But Mr. Maynard will have time to spare, and I thank Godhe is here. Mr. Maynard, this design is one of my brother's drawing; hehas made most of the calico designs printed in your father's mills for ayear and a half: I brought this one to the agent; he said it was not goodfor anything, but he stole the paper and sold it, and here it is!' andthen suddenly my strength all disappeared, great terror seized me, and Iburst into tears. Both the agent and the overseer began to speak at once. 

"'Be silent, ' thundered Robert, in the most commanding tone I ever heardout of human lips. 'Be silent, both of you!' Then he took the chintz awayfrom me, and taking both my hands in his, led me to a chair, saying, in avoice as sweet and gentle as the other was terrible, 'Pray be calm, mydear young lady--this matter shall be looked into. Sit down and do not tryto speak for a few minutes. '

"Then he walked over to the brothers; even through my tears I could seehow terrified they looked; they seemed struck dumb with fright; he spoketo them now in the most courteous manner, but the courtesy was almostworse than the anger had been before. 

"'I shall have to ask you for the use of the office for a short time, gentlemen. This is an affair I prefer to investigate immediately, and Iwould like to see this young lady alone. ' They both began to speak again, but he interrupted them. 

"'I will send for you presently; not a word more now, if you please;' andin spite of themselves they were obliged to walk out of the room. As theyturned to shut the door their faces frightened me. 

"'Oh!' I exclaimed; 'oh, Mr. Maynard, they will kill Nat I must go home atonce, ' and I rose trembling in every nerve. He made me sit down again, andbrought me a glass of wine, and said, 'Do not be afraid, my dear child, they will not dare harm your brother. Drink this, and tell me your wholestory. '

"Then I told him all. He interrupted me only once, to ask me about theprices paid us for two or three especial patterns which he happened torecollect. When I stopped, he jumped up from his chair and walked up anddown in front of me, ejaculating, 'By Jove! this is infernal--I neverheard of such a contemptible bit of rascality in my life. I have told myfather ever since I came home that these men had bad faces, and I havelooked carefully for traces of cheating in their accounts. But they weretoo cowardly to try it on a large scale. '

"He then told me that the originality and beauty of the designs which theWilkinses had furnished the firm of late had attracted general attention;that they had said the best ones were the work of a sister in England, theothers of the sister living with them. When he told me the prices whichhad been paid for them, I could not help groaning aloud and burying myface in my hands. 'Oh, my poor Nat!' I exclaimed, 'you might have hadeverything you wanted for that. '

"'But he shall have it still, Miss Kent, ' said Robert--'I shall give you acheck for the whole amount before you leave this room, and I do assure youthat your brother has a fortune in his talent for drawing. Probably thiswork is only the beginning of what he will do. '

"As Robert opened the office-door for me to pass out, I saw the two Mr. Wilkinses standing together at the gate through which I must go. Robertanswered my look of alarm by saying, 'I shall walk home with you, MissKent. They shall not annoy you. '

"As we came near, they both lifted their hats with obsequious, angry bows. Robert did not look at them, but said in a low tone, as we passed, 'Go tothe office and wait there till I return. '

"When he bade me good-by at my door, he said, 'I shall go now to find myfather, and if he is at home the brothers Wilkins will be dismissed fromour employ in less than one hour, ' I looked after him as long as I couldsee him. Then I went into our little sitting-room, sank into a chair, andsat motionless, turning the check over and over in my hand, and wonderingif I really were awake and alive, or if all were a dream. In a few momentsNat came home. As Patrick lifted the wagon up over the door-steps, and Natcaught sight of my face, he called out, 'Oh, sister, what is thematter--are you ill?' I ran to him and put the check into his hands, butit was some minutes before I could speak. The wonderful fortune did notoverwhelm Nat as it had me. He was much stronger than I. Every stroke ofhis pencil during the last year had developed and perfected his soul. Hewas fast coming to have that consciousness of power which belongs to thetrue artist, and makes a life self-centred. 

"'I have felt that all this would come, dear, ' he said, 'and more thanthis too, ' he added dreamily, 'we shall go on; this is only the outer gateof our lives, '

"He prophesied more truly than he knew when he said that--my dear blessedartist-souled martyr!

"I need not dwell on the details of the next half-year. A few words cantell them; and then, again, worlds of words could not tell them. 

"Three months from the day I carried the piece of chintz into theoverseer's office, Robert and I were married in the beautiful chapel wherepapa used to preach. All the mills were shut, and the little chapel wascrowded with the workmen and workwomen. When we came out they were alldrawn up in lines on the green, and Robert and Mr. Maynard both made themlittle speeches. Nat and Miss Penstock and Patrick were in Mr. Maynard'scarriage, and Robert and I stood on the ground by the carriage-door. Afterthe people had gone, Mr. Maynard came up to me and put both his hands onmy shoulders, just as he had done three years before, and said, 'You werea brave girl, but you had to take me for your father, after all. '

"Nat's wedding-present to me was a wood-carving of the 'One-LeggedDancers'--the one which stands on the little gilt table. I shall never beseparated from it. 

"When I first found out how very rich Robert was, I was afraid; it seemedto me almost wrong to have so much money. But I hope we shall not growselfish. And I cannot but be grateful for it, when I see what it has donefor my darling brother. He is living now in a beautiful apartment in NewYork. Patrick is with him, his devoted servant, and Miss Penstock has goneto keep house for them. Nat is studying and working hard; the best artistsin the city are his friends, and his pictures are already known andsought. When Robert first proposed this arrangement, Nat said, 'Oh no, no!I cannot accept such a weight of obligation from any man, not even from abrother. '

"Robert rose and knelt down by Nat's chair, and even then he was so farabove him he had to bend over. 

"'Nat, ' said he, in a low tone, 'I never knelt to any human being before:I didn't kneel to Dora when I asked her to give herself to me, for I wassure I could so give myself to her as to make her happy; but it is toyou, after all, that I owe it that she is mine; I never can forget it foran hour, and I never can repay you--no, not in my whole life-time, norwith all my fortune. '

"Then he told him that the sum which it would need to support him and MissPenstock and Patrick in this way was so small, in comparison with ourwhole income, that it was not worth mentioning. 'And at any rate, ' hesaid, 'it is useless for you to remonstrate, Nat, for I have already madefifty thousand dollars' worth of stock so entirely yours, that you cannotescape from it. The papers are all in my father's hands, and the incomewill be paid to you, or left subject to your order, quarterly. If you donot spend it, nobody else will;' and then Robert bent down lower, andlifting Nat's thin hands tenderly in his, pressed them both against hischeck, in the way I often did. It was one of the few caresses Nat loved. Istood the other side of the chair, and I stooped down and kissed him, andsaid:--

"'And, Nat, I cannot be quite happy in any other way. '

"So Nat yielded. 

"It was hard to come away and leave him. For some time I clung to the hopethat he might come with us; but the physicians all said it would bemadness for him to run the risk of a sea-voyage. However, I know that forhim, the next best thing to seeing Europe himself is to see it through myeyes. I write to him every week, and I shall carry home to him suchart-treasures as he has never dreamed of possessing. 

"Next year we shall go home, and then he will come back to Maynard'sMills and live with us. Robert is having a large studio built for him onthe north side of the house, with a bed-room and little sitting-roomopening out of it. Miss Penstock, too, will always live with us; we shallcall her 'housekeeper, ' to keep her contented, and Patrick is to stay asNat's attendant. Poor fellow, he is not quite full-witted, we think; buthe loves Nat so devotedly that he makes a far better servant than acleverer boy would with a shade less affection. 

"And now you have heard the story of my life, dear friend, " said Dora, asshe rose from the seat and lighted the rose-colored tapers in two lowswinging Etruscan candlesticks just above our heads--"all that I can tellyou, " she added slowly. "You will understand that I cannot speak about thehappiest part of it. But you have seen Robert. The only thing thattroubles me is that I have no sorrow. It seems dangerous. Dear Nat, although he has all he ever hoped for, need not fear being too happy, because he has the ever-present pain, to make him earnest and keep himready for more pain. I said so to him the day before I came away, and hegave me those verses I told you of, called 'The Angel of Pain, '"

Then she repeated them to me:--

 The Angel of Pain. 

 Angel of Pain, I think thy face Will be, in all the heavenly place, The sweetest face that I shall see, The swiftest face to smile on me. All other angels faint and tire; Joy wearies, and forsakes desire; Hope falters, face to face with Fate, And dies because it cannot wait; And Love cuts short each loving day, Because fond hearts cannot obey That subtlest law which measures bliss By what it is content to miss. But thou, O loving, faithful Pain-- Hated, reproached, rejected, slain-- Dost only closer cling and bless In sweeter, stronger steadfastness. Dear, patient angel, to thine own Thou comest, and art never known Till late, in some lone twilight place The light of thy transfigured face Sudden shines out, and, speechless, they Know they have walked with Christ all day. 

When she had done we sat for some time silent. Then I rose, and kissingher, still silent, went out into the unlighted room where the gilt tablestood. A beam of moonlight fell, broad and white, across its top, andflickered on the vine-leaves and the ferns. In the dim weird light theirshapes were more fantastic than ever. 

The door into the outer hall stood open. As I went toward it, I saw oldAnita toiling slowly up the stairs, with a flat basket on her head. Herwrinkled face was all aglow with delight. As soon as she reached thethreshold she set the basket down, and exclaiming, "Oh look, look, Signora!" lifted off the cover. It was full of fresh and beautifulanemones of all colors. She moved a few on top and showed me that thosebeneath were chiefly purple ones. 

"Iddio mio! will not the dearest of Signoras be pleased now!" she said. "The saints wish that she shall have all she desires; did not my Biagio'sbrother come in from Albano this morning? and as I was in the PiazzaNavona, buying oranges, I heard him calling from a long way off, 'HoAnita, my Anita, here are anemones for your beautiful Signora with thebright hair. '

"They grow around an old tomb a mile away from his vineyard, and he setout from his home long before light to get them for me; for he once sawthe Signora and he had heard me say that she never could have enough ofanemones. Iddio mio! but my heart is glad of them. Ah, the dearest ofSignoras!" and, with a tender touch, Anita laid the cool vine-leaveslightly back upon the anemones and hurried on in search of Dora. 

How One Woman Kept Her Husband. 

Why my sister married John Gray, I never could understand. I wastwenty-two and she was eighteen when the marriage took place. They hadknown each other just one year. He had been passionately in love with herfrom the first day of their meeting. She had come more slowly to lovinghim: but love him she did, with a love of such depth and fervor as arerarely seen. He was her equal in nothing except position and wealth. Hehad a singular mixture of faults of opposite temperaments. He had thereticent, dreamy, procrastinating inertia of the bilious melancholic man, side by side with the impressionable sensuousness, the sensitiveness andsentimentalism of the most sanguine-nervous type. There is great charm insuch a combination, especially to persons of a keen, alert nature. Mysister was earnest, wise, resolute. John Gray was nonchalant, shrewd, vacillating. My sister was exact, methodical, ready. John Gray wascareless, spasmodic, dilatory. My sister had affection. He had tenderness. She was religious of soul; he had a sort of transcendental perceptivity, so to speak, which kept him more alive to the comforts of religion thanto its obligations. My sister would have gone to the stake rather thantell a lie. He would tell a lie unhesitatingly, rather than give anybodypain. My sister lived earnestly, fully, actively, in each moment of thepresent. It never seemed quite clear whether he were thinking of to-day, yesterday, or to-morrow. She was upright because she could not help it. Hewas upright, --when he was upright, --because of custom, taste, and thefitness of things. What fatal discrepancies! what hopeless lack of realmoral strength, enduring purpose, or principle in such a nature as JohnGray's! When I said these things to my sister, she answered always, with aquiet smile, "I love him. " She neither admitted nor denied my accusations. The strongest expression she ever used, the one which came nearest tobeing an indignant repelling of what I had said, was one day, when Iexclaimed:--

"Ellen, I would die before I'd risk my happiness in the keeping of such aman. "

"My happiness is already in his keeping, " said she in a steady voice, "andI believe his is in mine. He is to be my husband and not yours, dear; youdo not know him as I do. You do not understand him. "

But it is not to give an analysis of her character or of his, nor to givea narrative of their family history, that I write this tale. It is onlyone episode of their life that I shall try to reproduce here, and I do itbecause I believe that its lesson is of priceless worth to women. 

Ellen had been married fourteen years, and was the mother of fivechildren, when my story begins. The years had gone in the main peacefullyand pleasantly. The children, three girls and two boys, were fair andstrong. Their life had been a very quiet one, for our village was farremoved from excitements of all kinds. It was one of the suburban villagesof ----, and most of the families living there were the families ofmerchants or lawyers doing business in the town, going in early in themorning, and returning late at night. There is usually in such communitiesa strange lack of social intercourse; whether it be that the dailydeparture and return of the head of the family keeps up a perpetualsuccession of small crises of interest to the exclusion of others, or thatthe night finds all the fathers and brothers too tired to enjoy anythingbut slippers and cigars, I know not; but certain it is that all suchsuburban villages are unspeakably dull and lifeless. There is barelyfeeling enough of good neighborhood to keep up the ordinary interchange ofthe commonest civilities. 

Except for long visits to the city in the winter, and long journeys in thesummer, I myself should have found life insupportably tedious. But Ellenwas absolutely content. Her days were unvaryingly alike, a simple routineof motherly duties and housekeeping cares. Her evenings were equallyunvaried, being usually spent in sewing or reading, while her husband, inseven evenings out of ten, dozed, either on the sofa, or on one of thechildren's little beds in the nursery. His exquisite tenderness to thechildren, and his quiet delight in simply being where they were, were thebrightest points in John Gray's character and life. 

Such monotony was not good for either of them. He grew more and moredreamy and inert. She insensibly but continually narrowed and hardened, and, without dreaming of such a thing, really came to be less and less apart of her husband's inner life. Faithful, busy, absorbed herself in thecares of each day, she never observed that he was living more and more inhis children and his reveries, and withdrawing more and more from her. Shedid not need constant play and interchange of sentiment as he did. Affectionate, loyal, devoted as she was, there was a side of husband'snature which she did not see nor satisfy, perhaps, never could. Butneither of them knew it. 

At this time Mr. Gray was offered a position of importance in the city, and it became necessary for them to move there to live. How I rejoiced inthe change. How bitterly I regretted it before two years had passed. 

Their city home was a beautiful one, and their connections andassociations were such as to surround them at once with the most desirablecompanionships. At first it was hard for Ellen to readjust her system ofliving and to accustom herself to the demands of even a moderately sociallife. But she was by nature very fond of all such pleasures, and her housesoon became one of the pleasantest centres, in a quiet way, of thecomparatively quiet city. John Gray expanded and brightened in the newatmosphere; he had always been a man of influence among men. All hisfriends, --even his acquaintances, --loved him, and asked his advice. It wasa strange thing that a man so inert and procrastinating in his ownaffairs, should be so shrewd and practical and influential in the affairsof others, or in public affairs. This, however, was no stranger than manyother puzzling incongruities in John Gray's character. Since his collegedays he had never mingled at all in general society until this winter, after their removal to town; and it was with delight that I watched hisenjoyment of people, and their evident liking and admiration for him. Hismanners were singularly simple and direct; his face, which was not whollypleasing in repose, was superbly handsome when animated in conversation;its inscrutable reticence which baffled the keenest observation when hewas silent, all disappeared and melted in the glow of cordialgood-fellowship which lighted every feature when he talked. I grew veryproud of my brother as I watched him in his new sphere and surroundings;and I also enjoyed most keenly seeing Ellen in a wider and moreappreciative circle. I spent a large part of the first winter in theirhouse, and shared all their social pleasures, and looked forward to everincreasing delight, as my nieces should grow old enough to enter intosociety. 

Early in the spring I went to the West and passed the entire summer withrelatives; I heard from my sister every week; her letters were alwayscheerful and natural, and I returned to her in the autumn, full ofanticipations of another gay and pleasant winter. 

They met me in New York, and I remembered afterwards, though in theexcitement of the moment I gave it no second thought, that when JohnGray's eyes first met mine, there was in them a singular and indefinableexpression, which roused in me an instant sense of distrust andantagonism. He had never thoroughly liked me. He had always had anundercurrent of fear of me. He knew I thought him weak: he felt that I hadnever put full confidence in him. That I really and truly loved him wassmall offset for this. Would it not be so to all of us?

This part of my story is best told in few words. I had not been at homeone week before I found that rumor had been for some months coupling JohnGray's name with the name of Mrs. Emma Long, a widow who had but justreturned to----, after twelve years of married life in Cuba. John hadknown her in her girlhood, but there had never been any intimacy or evenfriendship between them. My sister, however, had known her well, hadcorresponded with her during all her life at the South, and had invitedher to her house immediately upon her return to----. Emma Long was asingularly fascinating woman. Plain and sharp and self-asserting attwenty-two, she had become at thirty-five magnetic and winning, full oftact, and almost beautiful. We see such surprising developmentscontinually: it seems as if nature did her best to give every woman oneperiod of triumph and conquest; perhaps only they know its full sweetnessto whom it comes late. In early youth it is accepted unthinkingly, as isthe sunshine, --enjoyed without deliberation, and only weighed at itsfullness when it is over. But a woman who begins at thirty to feel for thefirst time what it is to have power over men, must be more or less thanwoman not to find the knowledge and the consciousness dangerously sweet. 

I never knew--I do not know to-day, whether Emma Long could be justlycalled a coquette. That she keenly enjoyed the admiration of men, therewas no doubt. Whether she ever were conscious of even a possible harm tothem from their relation to her, there was always doubt, even in the mindsof her bitterest enemies. I myself have never doubted that in the affairbetween her and John Gray she was the one who suffered most; she was theone who had a true, deep sentiment, and not only never meant a wrong, butwould have shrunk, for his sake, if not for her own, from the dangerswhich she did not foresee, but which were inevitable in their intimacy. Ithink that her whole life afterward proved this. I think that even mysister believed it. 

Mrs. Long had spent six weeks in my sister's house, and had thenestablished herself in a very beautiful furnished house on the samestreet. Almost every day Mrs. Long's carriage was at my sister's door, totake my sister or the children to drive. Almost every evening Mrs. Longcame with the easy familiarity of an habituated guest in the house, to sitin my sister's parlor, or sent with the easy familiarity of an old friendfor my sister and her husband to come to her, or to go with her to thetheatre or to the opera. 

What could be more natural?--what could be more delightful, had therelation been one which centred around my sister instead of around mysister's husband? What could be done, what offense could be taken, whatobstacle interposed, so long as the relation appeared to be one whichincluded the whole family? Yet no human being could see John Gray fiveminutes in Emma Long's presence without observing that his eyes, hiswords, his consciousness were hers. And no one could observe her in hispresence without seeing that she was kindled, stimulated, as she was in noother companionship. 

All this the city had been seeing and gossiping over for four months. Allthis, with weary detail, was poured into my ears by kind friends. 

My sister said no word. For the first time in my life there was a barrierbetween us I dared not pass. Her every allusion to Mrs. Long was in thekindest and most unembarrassed manner. She fell heartily and graciouslyinto every plan which brought them together: she not only did this, shealso fully reciprocated all entertainments and invitations; it was asoften by Ellen's arrangement as by Mrs. Long's that an evening or a daywas spent by the two families together. Her manner to Mrs. Long wasabsolutely unaltered. Her manner to John was absolutely unaltered. Whenduring an entire evening he sat almost motionless and often quitespeechless, listening to Mrs. Long's conversation with others, Ellen'sface never changed. She could not have seemed more unconscious if she hadbeen blind. There were many bonds of sympathy between John Gray and EmmaLong, which had never existed between him and his wife. They were bothpassionately fond of art, and had studied it. Ellen's taste wasundeveloped, and her instinctive likings those of a child. But shelistened with apparent satisfaction and pleasure to long hours ofconversation, about statues, pictures, principles of art, of which she wasas unable to speak as one of her own babies would have been. Mrs. Longwas also a woman who understood affairs; and one of her great charms tomen of mind was the clear, logical, and yet picturesque and piquant way inwhich she talked of men and events. Ellen listened and laughed as heartilyas any member of the circle at her repartee, her brilliantcharacterization, her off-hand description. 

To John Gray all this was a new revelation. He had never known this sortof woman. That a woman could be clever as men are clever, and also begraceful, adorned, and tender with womanliness, he had not supposed. 

Ah, poor Emma Long! not all my loyalty to my sister ever quite stifled inmy heart the question whether there was not in Mrs. Long's naturesomething which John Gray really needed--something which Ellen, affectionate, wise, upright, womanly woman as she was, could never give toany man. 

The winter wore on. Idle and malicious tongues grew busier and busier. Nothing except the constant presence of my sister wherever her husband andMrs. Long were seen together, prevented the scandal from taking the mostoffensive shape. But Ellen was so wise, so watchful, that not even themost malignant gossip-monger, could point to anything like a clandestineintercourse between the two. 

In fact, they met so constantly either in Mrs. Long's house or mysister's, that there was small opportunity for them to meet elsewhere. Ialone knew that on many occasions when Mrs. Long was spending the eveningat our house, Ellen availed herself of one excuse and another to leavethem alone for a great part of the time. But she did this so naturally, that is, with such perfect art, that not until long afterward did I knowthat it had been intentional. This was one great reason of my silenceduring all these months. In her apparent ignorance and unsuspiciousness ofthe whole thing, she seemed so gay, so happy, so sweet and loving, howcould I give her a pain? And if she did not see it now, she might neversee it. It could never surely become any more apparent. No man could give, so far as simple manner was concerned, more unmistakable proof of beingabsorbed in passionate love for a woman, than John Gray gave in EmmaLong's presence. I began to do Ellen injustice in my thoughts. I said, "After all, she has not much heart; no woman who loved a man passionatelycould look on unmoved and see him so absorbed in another. "

How little I knew! Towards spring Ellen suddenly began to look ill. Shelost color and strength, and a slight cough which she had had all winterbecame very severe. Her husband was alarmed. We all were distressed. Ourold family physician, Dr. Willis, changed color when he felt Ellen'spulse, and said, involuntarily, --

"My dear child, how long have you had such fever as this?"

Ellen changed color too, under his steady look, and replied, --

"I think, doctor, I have had a little fever for some weeks. I have notfelt really well since the autumn, and I have been meaning for some timeto have a long consultation with you. But we will not have it now, " sheadded playfully, "I have a great deal to tell you which these good peopleare not to hear. We will talk it over some other time, " and she looked athim so meaningly that he understood the subject must be dropped. 

That night she told me that she wished me to propose to John to go overwith me and spend the evening at Mrs. Long's; that she had sent for Dr. Willis, and she wished to have a long talk with him without John's knowingit. 

"Dear, " said I hastily, "I will not go to Mrs. Long's with John. I hateMrs. Long. "

"Why, Sally, what do you mean! I never heard you so unjust. Emma is one ofthe very sweetest women I ever saw in my life. How can you say such athing! Everybody loves and admires her. Don't go if you feel so. I neverdreamed that you disliked her. But I thought John would be less likely tosuspect me of any desire to have him away, if you proposed going there;and I must have him out of the house. I cannot talk with the doctor if heis under the roof. " She said these last words with an excited emphasis sounlike her usual manner, that it frightened me. But I thought only of herphysical state; I feared that she suspected the existence of some terribledisease. 

I went with John to Mrs. Long's almost immediately after tea. He acceptedthe proposal with unconcealed delight; and I wondered if Ellen observedthe very nonchalant way in which he replied when she said she did not feelwell enough to go. He already liked better to see Mrs. Long without hiswife's presence, cordial and unembarrassed as her manner always was. Hissecret consciousness was always disturbed by it. 

When we reached Mrs. Long's house, we learned that she had gone out todinner. John's face became black with the sudden disappointment, and quiteforgetting himself, he exclaimed: "Why, what does that mean? She did nottell me she was going. "

The servant stared, but made no reply. I was confused and indignant; butJohn went on: "We will come in and wait. I am sure it is some veryinformal dinner, and Mrs. Long will soon be at home. "

I made no remonstrance, knowing that it might annoy and disturb Ellen tohave us return. John threw himself into a chair in front of the fire, andlooked moodily into the coals, making no attempt at conversation. I tookup a book. Very soon John rose, sauntered abstractedly about the room, took up Mrs. Long's work-basket, and examined every article in it, and atlast sat down before her little writing-desk, which stood open. PresentlyI saw that he was writing. More than an hour passed. I pretended to read;but I watched my brother-in-law's face. I could not mistake its language. Suddenly there came a low cry of delight from the door, "Why, John!"

Mrs. Long had entered the house by a side door, and having met no servantbefore reaching the drawing-room, was unprepared for finding any onethere. From the door she could see John, but could not see me, except inthe long mirror, to which she did not raise her eyes, but in which I sawher swift movement, her outstretched hands, her look of unspeakablegladness. In less than a second, however, she had seen me, and with noperceptible change of manner had come rapidly towards me, holding out herleft hand familiarly to him, as she passed him. Emma Long was not ahypocrite at heart, but she had an almost superhuman power of acting. Itwas all lost upon me, however, on that occasion. I observed the quickmotion with which John thrust into a compartment of the desk, the sheet onwhich he had been writing; I observed the clasp of their hands as sheglided by him; I observed her face; I observed his; and I knew as I hadnever fully known before how intensely they loved each other. 

My resolution was taken. Cost what it might, come what might, I wouldspeak fully and frankly to my sister the next day. I would not longerstand by and see this thing go on. At that moment I hated both John Grayand Emma Long. No possible pain to Ellen seemed to me to weigh for amoment against my impulse to part them. 

I could not talk. I availed myself of the freedom warranted by theintimacy between the families, and continued to seem absorbed in my book. But I lost no word, no look, which passed between the two who sat oppositeme. I never saw Emma Long look so nearly beautiful as she did that night. She wore a black velvet dress, with fine white lace ruffles at the throatand wrists. Her hair was fair, and her complexion of that soft pale tint, with a slight undertone of brown in it, which is at once fair and warm, and which can kindle in moments of excitement into a brilliance faroutshining any brunette skin. She talked rapidly with much gesture. Shewas giving John an account of the stupidity of the people with whom shehad been dining. Her imitative faculty amounted almost to genius. Nosmallest peculiarity of manner or speech escaped her, and she could becomea dozen different persons in a minute. John laughed as he listened, butnot so heartily as he was wont to laugh at her humorous sayings. He hadbeen too deeply stirred in the long interval of solitude before shereturned. His cheeks were flushed and his voice unsteady. She soon feltthe effect of his manner, and her gayety died away; before long they weresitting in silence, each looking at the fire. I knew I ought to make theproposition to go home, but I seemed under a spell; I was conscious of amorbid desire to watch and wait. At length Mrs. Long rose, saying, --

"If it will not disturb Sally's reading, I will play for you a lovelylittle thing I learned yesterday. "

"Oh, no, " said I. "But we must go as soon as I finish this chapter. "

She passed into the music-room and looked back for John to follow her; buthe threw himself at full length on the sofa, and said, --

"No, I will listen here. "

My quickened instinct saw that he dared not go; also that he had laid hischeek in an abandonment of ecstasy on the arm of the sofa on which herhand had been resting. Even in that moment I had a sharp pang of pity forhim, and the same old misgiving of question, whether my good and sweet andalmost faultless Ellen could be loved just in the same way in which EmmaLong would be!

As soon as she had finished the nocturne, a sad, low sweet strain, shecame back to the parlor. Not even for the pleasure of giving John thedelight of the music he loved would she stay where she could not see hisface. 

But I had already put down my book, and was ready to go. Our good-nightswere short and more formal than usual. All three were conscious of anundefined constraint in the air. Mrs. Long glanced up uneasily in John'sface as we left the room. Her eyes were unutterably tender and childlikewhen a look of grieved perplexity shadowed them. Again my heart ached forher and for him. This was no idle caprice, no mere entanglement of sensesbetween two unemployed and unprincipled hearts. It was a subtle harmony, organic, spiritual, intellectual, between two susceptible and intensenatures. The bond was as natural and inevitable as any other fact ofnature. And in this very fact lay the terrible danger. 

We walked home in silence. A few steps from our house we met Dr. Williswalking very rapidly. He did not recognize us at first. When he did, hehalf stopped as if about to speak, then suddenly changed his mind, andmerely bowing, passed on. A bright light was burning in Ellen's room. 

"Why, Ellen has not gone to bed!" exclaimed John. 

"Perhaps some one called, " said I, guiltily. 

"Oh, I dare say, " replied he; "perhaps the doctor has been there. But itis half-past twelve, " added he, pulling out his watch as we entered thehall. "He could not have stayed until this time. "

I went to my own room immediately. In a few moments I heard John come up, say a few words to Ellen, and then go down-stairs, calling back, as heleft her room, --

"Don't keep awake for me, wifie, I have a huge batch of letters to answer. I shall not get through before three o'clock. "

I crept noiselessly to Ellen's room. It was dark. She had extinguished thegas as soon as she had heard us enter the house! I knew by the first soundof her voice that she had been weeping violently and long. I said, --

"Ellen, I must come in and have a talk with you. "

"Not to-night, dear. To-morrow I will talk over everything. All issettled. Good-night. Don't urge me to-night, Sally. I can't bear anymore. "

It is strange--it is marvellous what power there is in words to mean morethan words. I knew as soon as Ellen had said, "Not to-night, dear, " thatshe divined all I wanted to say, that she knew all I knew, and that thefinal moment, the crisis, had come. Whatever she might have to tell me inthe morning, I should not be surprised. I did not sleep. All night Itossed wearily, trying to conjecture what Ellen would do, trying toimagine what I should do in her place. 

At breakfast Ellen seemed better than she had seemed for weeks. Her eyeswere bright and her cheeks pink; but there was an ineffable, almost solemntenderness in her manner to John, which was pathetic. Again the suspicioncrossed my mind that she knew that she must die. He too was disturbed byit; he looked at her constantly with a lingering gaze as if trying to readher face; and when he bade us good-by to go to the office, he kissed herover and over as I had not seen him kiss her for months. The tears cameinto her eyes, and she threw both arms around his neck for a second, --avery rare thing for her to do in the presence of others. 

"Why, wifie, " he said, "you musn't make it too hard for a fellow to getoff!--Doesn't she look well this morning, Sally?" turning to me. "I wasthinking last night that I must take her to the mountains as soon as itwas warm enough. But such cheeks as these don't need it. " And he took herface in his two hands with a caress full of tenderness, and sprang downthe steps. 

Just at this moment Mrs. Long's carriage came driving swiftly around thecorner, and the driver stopped suddenly at sight of John. 

"Oh, Mr. Gray, Mr. Gray!" called Emma, "I was just coming to take Ellenand the children for a turn, and we can leave you at the office on ourway. "

"Thank you, " said John, "but there are several persons I must see beforegoing to the office, and it would detain you too long. I am already muchtoo late, " and without a second look he hurried on. 

I saw a slight color rise in Mrs. Long's cheek, but no observer lessjealous than I would have detected it; and there was not a shade lesswarmth than usual in her manner to Ellen. 

Ellen told her that she could not go herself, but she would be very gladto have some of the children go; and then she stood for some moments, leaning on the carriage-door and talking most animatedly. I looked fromone woman to the other. Ellen at that moment was more beautiful than Mrs. Long. The strong, serene, upright look which was her most distinguishingand characteristic expression, actually shone on her face. I wished thatJohn Gray had stopped to see the two faces side by side. Emma Long mightbe the woman to stir and thrill and entrance the soul; to give stimulus tothe intellectual nature; to rouse passionate emotion; but Ellen was thewoman on whose steadfastness he could rest, --in the light of whose sweetintegrity and transparent truthfulness he was a far safer, and would be afar stronger man than with any other woman in the world. 

As the carriage drove away with all three of the little girls laughing andshouting and clinging around Mrs. Long, a strange pang seized me. I lookedat Ellen. She stood watching them with a smile which had somethingheavenly in it. Turning suddenly to me, she said: "Sally, if I were dying, it would make me very happy to know that Emma Long would be the mother ofmy children. "

I was about to reply with a passionate ejaculation, but she interruptedme. 

"Hush, dear, hush. I am not going to die, --I have no fear of any suchthing. Come to my room now, and I will tell you all. "

She locked the door, stood for a moment looking at me very earnestly, thenfolded me in her arms and kissed me many times; then she made me sit in alarge arm-chair, and drawing up a low foot-stool, sat down at my feet, rested both arms on my lap, and began to speak. I shall try to tell in herown words what she said. 

"Sally, I want to tell you in the beginning how I thank you for yoursilence. All winter I have known that you were seeing all I saw, feelingall I felt, and keeping silent for my sake. I never can tell you how muchI thank you; it was the one thing which supported me. It was anunspeakable comfort to know that you sympathized with me at every point;but to have had the sympathy expressed even by a look would have made itimpossible for me to bear up. As long as I live, darling, I shall begrateful to you. And, moreover, it makes it possible for me to trust youunreservedly now. I had always done you injustice, Sally. I did not thinkyou had so much self-control. "

Here she hesitated an instant. It was not easy for her to mention John'sname; but it was only for a second that she hesitated. With an impetuouseagerness unlike herself, she went on. 

"Sally, you must not blame John. He has struggled as constantly and noblyas a man ever struggled. Neither must you blame Emma. They have neither ofthem done wrong. I have watched them both hour by hour. I know myhusband's nature so thoroughly that I know his very thoughts almost assoon as he knows them himself. I know his emotions before he knows themhimself. I saw the first moment in which his eyes rested on Emma's face asthey used to rest on mine. From that day to this I have known every phase, every step, every change of his feeling towards her; and I tell you, Sally, that I pity John from the bottom of my heart. I understand it allfar better than you can, far better than he does. He loves her at once farmore and far less than you believe, and he loves me far more than youbelieve! You will say, in the absolute idealization of your inexperiencedheart, that this is impossible. I know that it is not, and I wish I couldmake you believe it, for without believing it you cannot be just to John. He loves me to-day, in spite of all this, with a sort of clingingtenderness born of this very struggle. He would far rather love me withall his nature if he could, but just now he cannot. I see very clearlywhere Emma gives him what he needs, and has never had in me. I havelearned many things from Emma Long this winter. I can never be like her. But I need not have been so unlike her as I was. She has armed me withweapons when she least suspected it. But she is not after all, on thewhole, so nearly what John needs as I am. If I really believed that hewould be a better man, or even a happier one with her as his wife, Ishould have but one desire, and that would be to die. But I think that itis not so. I believe that it is in my power to do for him, and to be tohim, what she never could. I do not wonder that you look pityingly andincredulously. You will see. But in order to do this, I must leave him. "

I sprang to my feet. "Leave him! Are you mad?"

"No, dear, not at all; very sane and very determined. I have been for sixmonths coming to this resolve. I began to think of it in a very few hoursafter I first saw him look at Emma as if he loved her. I have thought ofit day and night since, and I know I am right. If I stay, I shall lose hislove. If I go, I shall keep it, regain it, compel it. " She spoke heremore hurriedly. "I have borne now all I can bear without betraying mypain to him. I am jealous of Emma. It almost kills me to see him look ather, speak to her. "

"My poor, poor darling!" I exclaimed; "and I have been thinking you didnot feel it!"

She smiled sadly, and tossed back the sleeve of her wrapper so as to showher arm to the shoulder. I started. It was almost emaciated. I had againand again in the course of the winter asked her why she did not wear herusual style of evening dress, and she had replied that it was on accountof her cough. 

"It is well that my face does not show loss of flesh as quickly as therest of my body does, " she said quietly. "I have lost thirty-five poundsof flesh in four months, and nobody observed it! Yes, dear, " she went on, "I have felt it. More than that, I have felt it increasingly every hour, and I can bear no more. Up to this time I have never by look or tone shownto John that I knew it. He wonders every hour what it means that I do not. I have never by so much as the slightest act watched him. I have seennotes in Emma's handwriting lying on his desk, and I have left the houselest I might be tempted to read them! I know that he has as yet done noclandestine thing, but at any moment I should have led them both into itby showing one symptom of jealousy. And I should have roused in his hearta feeling of irritation and impatience with me, which would have done inone hour more to intensify his love for her, and to change its nature froma pure, involuntary sentiment into an acknowledged and guilty one, thanyears and years of free intercourse could do. But I have reached thelimit of my physical endurance. My nerves are giving away. I am reallyvery ill, but nothing is out of order in my body aside from the effects ofthis anguish. A month more of this would make me a hopelessly broken-downwoman. A month's absence from the sight of it will almost make me well. "

I could not refrain from interrupting her. 

"Ellen, you are mad! you are mad! You mean to go away and leave him to seeher constantly alone, unrestrained by your presence? It has almost killedyou to see it. How can you bear imagining it, knowing it?"

"Better than I can bear seeing it, far better. Because I have stillundiminished confidence in the real lastingness of the bond between Johnand me. Emma Long would have been no doubt a good, a very good wife forhim. But I am the mother of his children, and just so surely as right isright, and wrong is wrong, he will return to me and to them. All wrongthings are like diseases, self-limited. It is wrong for a man to love anywoman better than he loves his wife; I don't deny that, dear, " she said, half smiling through her tears at my indignant face; "but a man may seemto do it when he is really very far from it. He may really do it for days, for months--for years, perhaps; but if he be a true man, and his wife atrue wife, he will return. John is a true husband and a still truerfather: that I am the mother of his five children, he can never forget. IfI had had no children, it would be different. If I had ever been for onemoment an unloving wife, it would be different; but I am his; I believethat he is mine; and that I shall live to remind you of all these things, Sally, after time has proved them true. "

I was almost dumb with surprise. I was astounded. To me it seemed that herplan was simply suicidal. I told her in the strongest words I could use ofthe scene of the night before. 

"I could tell you of still more trying scenes than that, Sally. I know farmore than you. But if I knew ten times as much, I should still believethat my plan is the only one. Of course I may fail. It is all in God'shands. We none of us know how much discipline we need. But I know onething: if I do not regain John in this way, I cannot in any. If I stay Ishall annoy, vex, disturb, torture him! Once the barriers of my silenceand concealment are broken down, I shall do just what all other jealouswomen have done since the world began. There are no torments on earth likethose which a jealous woman inflicts, except those which she bears! I willdie sooner than inflict them on John. Even if the result proves memistaken, I shall never regret my course, for I know that the worst iscertain if I remain. But I have absolute faith, "--and her face wastransfigured with it as she spoke, --"John is mine. If I could stay by hisside through it all and preserve the same relation with him which I haveall winter, all would sooner or later be well. I wish I were strongenough. My heart is, but my body is not, and I must go. "

When she told me the details of her plan, I was more astounded than ever. She had taken Dr. Willis into her full confidence. (He had been to usfather and physician both ever since our father's death. ) He entirelyapproved of her course. He was to say--which indeed he could doconscientiously--that her health imperatively required an entire change ofclimate, and that he had advised her to spend at least one year abroad. Ithad always been one of John's and Ellen's air-castles to take all thechildren to England and to Germany for some years of study. She proposedto take the youngest four, leaving the eldest girl, who was her father'sespecial pet and companion, to stay with him. A maiden aunt of ours was tocome and keep the house, and I was to stay with the family. This was thehardest of all. 

"Ellen, I cannot!" I exclaimed. "Do not--oh, do not trust me. I shallnever have strength. I shall betray all some day and ruin all your hopes. "

"You cannot, you dare not, Sally, when I tell you that my life's wholehappiness lies in your silence. John is unobservant and also unsuspicious. He has never had an intimate relation with you. You will have nodifficulty. But you must be here, --because, dear, there is anotherreason, " and here her voice grew very unsteady, and tears ran down hercheeks. 

"In spite of all my faith, I do not disguise from myself the possibilityof the worst. I cannot believe my husband would ever do a dishonorablething. I do not believe that Emma Long would. And yet, when I rememberwhat ruin, has overtaken many men and women whom we believed upright, Idare not be wholly sure. And I must know that some one is here who wouldsee and understand if a time were approaching at which it would beneedful for me to make one last effort with and for my husband face toface with him. Unless that comes, I do not wish you to allude to thesubject in your letters. I think I know just how all things will go. Ibelieve that in one year, or less, all will be well. But if the worst isto come, you with your instincts will foresee it, and I must be told. Ishould return then at once. I should have power, even at the last moment, I believe, to save John from disgrace. But I should lose his loveirrecoverably; it is to save that that I go. "

I could say but few words. I was lifted up and borne out of myself, as itwere, by my sister's exaltation. She seemed more like some angel-wife thanlike a mortal woman. Before I left her room at noon, I believed almost asfully as she did in the wisdom and the success of her plan. 

There was no time to be lost. Every day between the announcement of herpurpose and the carrying of it out, would be a fearful strain on Ellen'snerves. Dr. Willis had a long talk with John in his office while Ellen wastalking with me. John came home to dinner looking like a man who hadreceived a mortal blow. Dr. Willis had purposely given him to understandthat Ellen's life was in great danger. So it was, but not from the cough!At first John's vehement purpose was to go with them. But she was preparedfor this. His business and official relations were such that it was nextto impossible for him to do it, and it would at best involve a greatpecuniary sacrifice. She overruled and remonstrated, and was so firm inher objections to every suggestion of his of accompanying or followingher, that finally, in spite of all his anxiety, John seemed almost piquedat her preference for going alone. In every conversation on the subject Isaw more and more clearly that Ellen was right. He did love her--love herwarmly, devotedly. 

Two weeks from the day of my conversation with her they sailed forLiverpool. The summer was to be spent in England, and the winter in Niceor Mentone. 

Alice, the eldest daughter, a loving, sunshiny girl of twelve, wasinstalled in her mother's room. This was Ellen's especial wish. She knewthat in this way John would be drawn to the room constantly. All her ownlittle belongings were given to Alice. 

"Only think, Auntie, " said she, "mamma has given me, all for my own, herlovely toilette set, and all the Bohemian glass on the bureau, and herivory brushes! She says when she comes home she shall refurnish her roomand papa's too!"

Oh, my wise Ellen. Could Emma Long have done more subtly!

Early on the first evening after John returned from New York, having seenthem off, I missed him. I said bitterly to myself, "At Mrs. Long's, Isuppose, " and went up-stairs to find Alice. As I drew near her room Iheard his voice, reading aloud. I went in. He and Alice were lyingtogether on a broad chintz-covered lounge, as I had so often seen him andEllen. 

"Oh, Auntie, come here, " said Alice, "hear mamma's letter to me! She gaveit to papa in New York. She says it is like the sealed orders they give tocaptains sometimes, not to be opened till they are out at sea. It is allabout how I am to fill her place to papa. And there are ever so manylittle notes inside, more orders, which even papa himself is not to see!only I suppose he'll recognize the things when I do them!"

At that moment, as I watched John Gray's face, with Alice's nestled close, and his arms clasped tight around her, while they read Ellen's letter, agreat load rolled off my heart. I went through many dark days afterward, but I never could quite despair when I remembered the fatherhood and thehusbandhood which were in his eyes and his voice that night

The story of the next twelve months could be told in few words, so far asits external incidents are concerned. It could not be told in a thousandvolumes, if I attempted to reproduce the subtle undercurrents of JohnGray's life and mine. Each of us was living a double life; he more or lessunconsciously; I with such sharpened senses, such overwrought emotions, that I only wonder that my health did not give way. I endured vicariouslyall the suspense and torment of the deepest jealousy, with a sense of morethan vicarious responsibility added, which was almost more than humannature could bear. Ellen little knew how heavy would be the burden shelaid upon me. Her most express and explicit direction was that thefamiliar intimacy between our family and Mrs. Long's was to be preservedunaltered. This it would have been impossible for me to do if Mrs. Longhad not herself recognized the necessity of it, for her own full enjoymentof John's society. But it was a hard thing; my aunt, the ostensible headof our house, was a quiet woman who had nothing whatever to do withsociety, and who felt in the outset a great shrinking from the brilliantMrs. Long. I had never been on intimate terms with her, so that John andAlice were really the only members of the household who could keep upprecisely the old relation. And so it gradually came about that to most ofour meetings under each other's roofs, strangers were asked to fill up thevacant places, and in spite of all Emma Long's efforts and mine, there wasa change in the atmosphere of our intercourse. But there was intimacyenough to produce the effect for which Ellen was most anxious, i. E. , toextend the shelter of our recognition to the friendship between John andEmma, and to remove from them both all temptation to anything clandestineor secret. They still saw each other almost daily; they still shared mostof each other's interests and pleasures; they still showed mostundisguised delight in each other's presence. Again and again I went withthem to the opera, to the theatre, and sat through the long hours, watching, with a pain which seemed to me hardly less than Ellen's wouldhave been, their constant sympathy with each other in every point ofenjoyment, their constant forgetfulness of every one else. 

But there was, all this time, another side to John Gray's life, which Isaw, and Emma Long did not see. By every steamer came packages of the mostmarvelous letters from Ellen: letters to us all; but for John, a diary ofevery hour of her life. Each night she spent two hours in writing out therecord of the day. I have never seen letters which so reproduced theatmosphere of the day, the scene, the heart. They were brilliant andeffective to a degree that utterly astonished me; but they were alsoineffably tender and loving, and so natural in their every word, that itwas like seeing Ellen face to face to read them. At first John did notshow them even to me; but soon he began to say, "These are too rare to bekept to myself; I must just read you this account;" or, "Here is a page Imust read, " until it at last became his habit to read them aloud in theevenings to the family, and even to more intimate friends who chanced tobe with us. He grew proud beyond expression of Ellen's talent for writing;and well he might. No one who listened to them but exclaimed, "There neverwere such letters before!" I think there never were. And I alone knew thesecret of them. 

But these long, brilliant letters were not all. In every mail came alsopackages for Alice--secret, mysterious things which nobody could see, butwhich proved to be sometimes small notes, to be given to papa atunexpected times and places; sometimes little fancy articles, as apen-wiper, or a cigar-case, half worked by Ellen, to be finished by Alice, and given to papa on some especial day, the significance of which "onlymamma knows;" sometimes a pressed flower, which was to be put by papa'splate at breakfast, or put in papa's button-hole as he went out in themorning. I was more and more lost in astonishment at the subtle andboundless art of love which could so contrive to reach across an ocean, and surround a man's daily life with its expression. There were also inevery package, letters to John from all the children: even the baby'slittle hand was guided to write by every mail, "Dear papa, I love youjust as much as all the rest do!" or, "Dear papa, I want you to toss meup!" More than once I saw tears roll down John's face in spite of him, ashe slowly deciphered these illegible little scrawls. The older children'snotes were vivid and loving like their mother's. It was evident that theywere having a season of royal delight in their journey, but also evidentthat their thoughts and their longings were constantly reverting to papa. How much Ellen really indited of these apparently spontaneous letters I donot know; but no doubt their tone was in part created by her. They showed, even more than did her own letters, that papa was still the centre of thefamily life. No sight was seen without the wish--"Oh, if papa were here!"and even little Mary, aged five, was making a collection of pressed leavesfor papa, from all the places they visited. Louise had already greattalent for drawing, and in almost every letter came two or three childishbut spirited little pictures, all labelled "Drawn for papa!" "The truepicture of our courier in a rage, for papa to see. " "The washerwoman'sdog, for papa, " etc. , etc. Again and again I sat by, almost trembling withdelight, and saw John spend an entire evening in looking over these littlemissives and reading Ellen's letters. Then again I sat alone and anxiousthrough an entire evening, when I knew he was with Emma Long. But evenafter such an evening, he never failed to sit down and write pages in hisjournal-letter to Ellen--a practice which he began of his own accord, after receiving the first journal-letter from her. 

"Ha! little Alice, " he said, "we'll keep a journal too, for mamma, won'twe! She shall not out-do us that way. " And so, between Alice's letters andhis, the whole record of our family life went every week to Ellen; and Ido not believe, so utterly unaware was John Gray of any pain in his wife'sheart about Emma Long, I do not believe that he ever in a single instanceomitted to mention when he had been with her, where, and how long. 

Emma Long wrote too, and Ellen wrote to her occasional affectionate notes;but referring her always to John's diary-letters for the details ofinterest. I used to study Mrs. Long's face while these letters were readto her. John's animated delight, his enthusiastic pride, must, it seemedto me, have been bitter to her. But I never saw even a shade of such afeeling in her face. There was nothing base or petty in Emma Long'snature, and, strange as it may seem, she did love Ellen. Only once did Iever see a trace of pique or resentment in her manner to John, and then Icould not wonder at it. A large package had come from Ellen, just aftertea one night, and we were all gathered in the library, reading ourletters and looking at the photographs--(she always sent unmountedphotographs of the place from which she wrote, and, if possible, of thehouse in which they were living, and the children often wrote above thewindows, "_Papa's_ and mamma's room, " etc, etc. )--hour after hour passed. The hall clock had just struck ten, when the door-bell rang violently. "Good heavens!" exclaimed John, springing up, "that must be Mrs. Long; Itotally forgot that I had promised to go with her to Mrs. Willis's party. I said I would be there at nine; tell her I am up-stairs dressing, " and hewas gone before the servant had had time to open the door. Mrs. Long camein, with a flushed face and anxious look. "Is Mr. Gray ill?" she said. "Hepromised to call for me at nine, to go to Mrs. Willis's, and I have beenafraid he might be ill. "

Before I could reply, the unconscious Alice exclaimed, --

"Oh, no; papa isn't ill; he is so sorry, but he forgot all about the partytill he heard you ring the bell. We were so busy over mamma's letters. "

"John will be down in a moment, " added I. "He ran up-stairs to dress assoon as you rang. "

For one second Emma Long's face was sad to see. Such astonishment, suchpain, were in it, my heart ached for her. Then a look of angry resentmentsucceeded the pain, and merely saying, "I am very sorry; but I reallycannot wait for him. It is now almost too late to go, " she had left theroom and closed the outer door before I could think of any words to say. 

I ran up to John's room, and told him through the closed door. He made noreply for a moment, and then said, --

"No wonder she is vexed. It was unpardonable rudeness. Tell Robert to runat once for a carriage for me. "

In a very few moments he came down dressed for the party, but with noshadow of disturbance on his face. He was still thinking of the letters. He took up his own, and putting it into an inside breast-pocket, said, ashe kissed Alice, "Papa will take mamma's letter to the party, if he can'ttake mamma!"

I shed grateful tears that night before I went to sleep. How I longed towrite to Ellen of the incident; but I had resolved not once to disregardher request that the whole subject be a sealed one. And I trusted thatAlice would remember to tell it. Well I might! At breakfast Alice said, --

"Oh, papa, I told mamma that you carried her to the party in yourbreast-pocket; that is, you carried her letter!"

I fancied that John's cheek flushed a little as he said, --

"You might tell mamma that papa carries her everywhere in hisbreast-pocket, little girlie, and mamma would understand. "

I think from that day I never feared for Ellen's future. I fancied, too, that from that day there was a new light in John Gray's eyes. Perhaps itmight have been only the new light in my own; but I think when a man knowsthat he has once, for one hour, forgotten a promise to meet a woman whosepresence has been dangerously dear to him, he must be aware of his dawningfreedom. 

The winter was nearly over. Ellen had said nothing to us about returning. 

"Dr. Willis tells me that, from what Ellen writes to him of her health, hethinks it would be safer for her to remain abroad another year, " said Johnto me one morning at breakfast. 

"Oh, she never will stay another year!" exclaimed I. 

"Not unless I go out to stay with her, " said John, very quietly. 

"Oh, John, could you?" and, "Oh, papa, will you take me?" exclaimed Aliceand I in one breath. 

"Yes, " and "yes, " said John, laughing, "and Sally too, if she will go. "

He then proceeded to tell me that he had been all winter contemplatingthis; that he believed they would never again have so good an opportunityto travel in Europe, and that Dr. Willis's hesitancy about Ellen's healthhad decided the question. He had been planning and deliberating assilently and unsuspectedly as Ellen had done the year before. Never oncehad it crossed my mind that he desired it, or that it could be. But Ifound that he had for the last half of the year been arranging his affairswith a view to it, and had entered into new business connections whichwould make it not only easy, but profitable, for him to remain abroad twoyears. He urged me to go with them, but I refused. I felt that the fatherand the mother and the children ought to be absolutely alone in thisblessed reunion, and I have never regretted my decision, although the oldworld is yet an unknown world to me. 

John Gray was a reticent and undemonstrative man, in spite of all thetenderness and passionateness in his nature. But when he bade me good-byon the deck of the steamer, as he kissed me he whispered:--

"Sally, I shall hold my very breath till I see Ellen. I never knew how Iloved her before. " And the tears stood in his eyes. 

I never saw Emma Long after she knew that John was to go abroad to joinEllen. I found myself suddenly without courage to look in her face. Thehurry of my preparations for Alice was ample excuse for my not going toher house, and she did not come to ours. I knew that John spent severalevenings with her, and came home late, with a sad and serious face, andthat was all. A week before he sailed she joined a large and gay party forSan Francisco and the Yosemite. In all the newspaper accounts of theexcursion, Mrs. Long was spoken of as the brilliant centre of allfestivities. I understood well that this was the first reaction of herproud and sensitive nature under an irremediable pain. She never returnedto ----, but established herself in a Southern city, where she lived ingreat retirement for a year, doing good to all poor and suffering people, and spending the larger part of her fortune in charity. Early in thesecond year there was an epidemic of yellow fever: Mrs. Long refused toleave the city, and went as fearlessly as the physicians to visit andnurse the worst cases. But after the epidemic had passed by, she herselfwas taken ill, and died suddenly in a hospital ward, surrounded by thevery patients whom she had nursed back to health. Nothing I could say inmy own words would give so vivid an idea of the meeting between John Grayand his wife, as the first letter which I received from little Alice:--

"DARLING AUNTIE, --

"It is too bad you did not come too. The voyage was horrid. Papa was somuch sicker than I, that I had to take care of him all the time; but myhead ached so that I kept seeing black spots if I stooped over to kisspapa; but papa said, I was just like another mamma. 

"Oh, Auntie, only think, there was a mistake about the letters, and mammanever got the letter to tell her that we were coming; and she was out onthe balcony of the hotel when we got out of the carriage, and first shesaw me; and the lady who was with her said she turned first red and thenso white the lady thought she was sick; and then the next minute she sawpapa, and she just fell right down among all the people, and looked as ifshe was dead; and the very first thing poor papa and I saw, when we gotup-stairs, was mamma being carried by two men, and papa and I both thoughtshe was dead; and papa fell right down on his knees, and made the men putmamma down on the floor, and everybody talked out loud, and papa neverspoke a word, but just looked at mamma, and nobody knew who papa was tillI spoke, and I said, --

"'That's my mamma, and papa and I have just come all the way fromAmerica, "--and then a gentleman told me to kiss mamma, and I did; and thenshe opened her eyes; and just as soon as she saw papa, she got a greatdeal whiter and her head fell back again, and I was so sure she was dying, that I began to cry out loud, and I do think there were more than ahundred people all round us; but Louise says there were only ten ortwelve; and then the same gentleman that told me to kiss mamma took holdof papa, and made him go away; and they carried mamma into a room, andlaid her on a bed, and said we must all go out; but I wouldn't: I gotright under the bed, and they didn't see me; and it seemed to me athousand years before anybody spoke; and at last I heard mamma's voice, just as weak as a baby's--but you know nobody could mistake mamma's voice;and said she, 'Where is John--I saw John;' and then the gentlemansaid, --oh, I forgot to tell you he was a doctor, --he said, --

"'My dear madam, calm yourself'--and then I cried right out again, andcrept out between his legs and almost knocked him down; and said I, 'Don'tyou try to calm my mamma; it is papa--and me too, mamma!' and then mammaburst out crying; and then the old gentleman ran out, and I guess papa wasat the door, for he came right in; and then he put his arms round mamma, and they didn't speak for so long, I thought I should die; and all thepeople were listening, and going up and down in the halls outside, and Ifelt so frightened and ashamed, for fear people would think mamma wasn'tglad to see us. But papa says that is always the way when people are moreglad than they can bear; and the surprise, too, was too much for anybody. But I said at the tea-table that I hoped I should never be so glad myselfas long as I lived; and then the old gentleman, --he's a very nice oldgentleman, and a great friend of mamma's, and wears gold spectacles, --hesaid, 'My dear little girl, I hope you _may_ be some day just as glad, 'and then he looked at papa and mamma and smiled, --and mamma almost criedagain! Oh, altogether it was a horrid time; the worst I ever had; and sodifferent from what papa and I thought it would be. 

"But it's all over now, and we're all so happy, we laugh so all the time, that papa says it is disgraceful; that we shall have to go off and hideourselves somewhere where people can't see us. 

"But Auntie, you don't know how perfectly splendid mamma is. She is theprettiest lady in the hotel, Louise says. She is ever so much fatter thanshe used to be. And the baby has grown so I did not know her, and hercurls are more than half a yard long. Louise and Mary have got their haircut short like boys, but their gowns are splendid; they say it was such apity you had any made for me at home. But oh, dear Auntie, don't think Ishall not always like the gowns you made for me. Charlie isn't here; he'sat some horrid school a great way off; I forget the name of the place. Butwe are all going there to live for the summer. Mamma said we should keephouse in an 'apartment, ' and I was perfectly horrified, and I said, 'Mamma, in one room?' and then Louise and Mary laughed till I was quiteangry; but mamma says that here an 'apartment' means a set of a good manyrooms, quite enough to live in. I don't believe you can have patience toread this long letter; but I haven't told you half; no, not one half ofhalf. Good-by, you darling aunty. ALICE. 

"P. S. --I wish you could just see mamma. It isn't only me that thinks sheis so pretty; papa thinks so too. He just sits and looks, and looks ather, till mamma doesn't quite like it, and asks him to look at baby alittle!"

Ellen's first letter was short. Her heart was too full. She said at theend, --

"I suppose you will both laugh and cry over Alice's letter. At first Ithought of suppressing it. But it gives you such a graphic picture of thewhole scene that I shall let it go. It is well that I had the excuse ofthe surprise for my behavior, but I myself doubt very much if I shouldhave done any better, had I been prepared for their coming. 

"God bless and thank you, dear Sally, for this last year, as I cannot. 

"ELLEN. "

These events happened many years ago. My sister and I are now old women. Her life has been from that time to this, one of the sunniest and mostunclouded I ever knew. 

John Gray is a hale old man; white-haired and bent, but clear-eyed andvigorous. All the good and lovable and pure in his nature have gone onsteadily increasing: his love for his wife is still so full of sentimentand romance that the world remarks it. 

His grandchildren will read these pages, no doubt, but they will neverdream that it could have been their sweet and placid and beloved oldgrandmother who, through such sore straits in her youth, kept her husband!

Esther Wynn's Love-Letters. 

My uncle, Joseph Norton, lived in a very old house. It was one of thosemany mansions in which that father of all sleepers, George Washington, once slept for two nights. This, however, was before the house came intothe possession of our family, and we seldom mentioned the fact. 

The rooms were all square, and high; many of the walls were of woodthroughout, panelled from the floor to the ceiling, and with curious chinatiles set in around the fire-places. In the room in which I always sleptwhen I visited there, these wooden walls were of pale green; the tileswere of blue and white, and afforded me endless study and perplexity, being painted with a series of half-allegorical, half-historical, half-Scriptural representations which might well have puzzled an olderhead than mine. The parlors were white, with gold ornaments; the librarywas of oak, with mahogany wainscoting, and so were the two great centralhalls, upper and lower. The balustrade of the staircase was of apple-treewood, more beautiful than all the rest, having fine red veins on its darkpolished surface. These halls were lined with portraits of dead Nortons, men and women, who looked as much at home as if the grand old house hadalways borne their name. And well they might, for none of the owners whohad gone before had been of as gentle blood as they; and now they wouldprobably never be taken down from the walls, for my uncle had bought thehouse, and my uncle's son would inherit it; and it had never yet beenknown that a Norton of our branch of Nortons had lived wastefully or cometo want. 

My uncle had married very late in life: he was now a gray-haired man, withlittle children around his knee. It was said once in my presence, by someone who did not know I listened, that his heart had been broken when hewas little more than a boy, by the faithlessness of a woman older thanhimself, and that he would never have married if he had not seen thatanother heart would be broken if he did not. Be that as it may, hisbearing towards his wife was always of the most chivalrous and courteousdevotion, so courteous as perhaps to confirm this interpretation of hismarriage. 

My aunt was an uninteresting woman, of whom, if she were not in sight, onenever thought; but she had great strength of affection and much good sensein affairs. Her children loved her; her husband enjoyed the admirablyordered system of her management, and her house was a delightful one tovisit. Although she did not contribute to the flavor of living, she neverhindered or thwarted those who could. There was freedom in her presence, from the very fact that you forgot her, and that she did not in the leastobject to being forgotten. Such people are of great use in the world; andmake much comfort. 

At the time when the strange incidents which I am about to tell occurred, my aunt had been married twelve years, and had four children; three girls, Sarah, Hilda, and Agnes, and a baby boy, who had as yet no name. Sarah wascalled "Princess, " and her real name was never heard. She was the oldest, and was my uncle's inseparable companion. She was a child of uncommonthoughtfulness and tenderness. The other two were simply healthy, happylittle creatures, who gave no promise of being any more individual thantheir serene, quiet mother. 

I was spending the winter in the family, and going to school, and betweenmy uncle and me there had grown up an intimate and confidential friendshipsuch as is rare between a man of sixty and a girl of fifteen. I understoodhim far better than his wife did; and his affection for me was so greatand so caressing that he used often to say, laughingly, "Nell, my girl, you'll never have another lover like me!"

We were sitting at breakfast one morning when Princess came in, holding asmall letter in her hand. 

"Look, papa mia!" she said; "see this queer old letter I found on thecellar stairs. It looks a hundred years old. "

My uncle glanced up, carelessly at first, but as soon as he saw the paperhe stretched out his hand for it, and looked eager. It did indeed seem asif it were a hundred years old; yellow, crumpled, torn. It had been foldedin the clumsy old way which was customary before the invention ofenvelopes; the part of the page containing the address had been torn out. He read a few words, and the color mounted in his cheek. 

"Where did you say you found it, Princess?" he said. 

"On the cellar stairs, papa; I went down to find Fido, and he was playingwith it. "

"What is it, Joseph?" said Aunt Sarah, in tones a shade more eager thantheir wont. 

"I do not know, my dear, " replied my uncle; "it is very old, " and he wenton reading with a more and more sobered face. 

"Robert, " said he, turning to the waiter, "do you know where this papercould have come from? Have any old papers been carried down from thegarret, to light the fire in the furnace?"

"No, sir, " said Robert, "not that I know, sir. "

"There are whole barrels of old papers under the eaves in the garret, "said Aunt Sarah; "I have always meant to have them burned up; I dare saythis came out of one of them, in some way;" and she resumed her habitualexpression of nonchalance. 

"Perhaps so, " said Uncle Jo, folding up the paper and putting it in hispocket. "I will look, after breakfast. "

She glanced up, again surprised, and said, "Why? is it of any importance?"

"Oh, no, no, " said he hastily, with a shade of embarrassment in his voice, "it is only an old letter, but I thought there might be more from the sameperson. "

"Who was it?" said Aunt Sarah, languidly. 

"I don't know; only the first name is signed, " said he evasively; and theplacid lady asked no more. The children were busy with Fido, and breakfastwent on, but I watched my uncle's face. I had never seen it look just asit looked then. What could that old yellow letter have been? My magneticsympathy with my uncle told me that he was deeply moved. 

At dinner-time my uncle was late, and Aunt Sarah said, with a little lessthan her usual dignity, "I never did see such a man as Mr. Norton, when hetakes a notion in his head. He's been all the morning rummaging in cloudsof dust in the garret, to find more of those old letters. "

"Who wrote it, Auntie?" said I. 

"Heaven knows, " said she; "some woman or other, fifty years ago. He saysher name was Esther. "

"Did you read it?" I asked tremblingly. Already I felt a shrinking senseof regard for the unknown Esther. 

Aunt Sarah looked at me with almost amused surprise. "Read it, child? no, indeed! What do I care what that poor soul wrote half a century ago. Butyour uncle's half out of his head about her, and he's had all the servantsup questioning them back and forth till they are nearly as mad as he is. Cook says she has found several of them on the cellar stairs in the lastfew weeks; but she saw they were so old she threw them into the fire, andnever once looked at them; and when she said that, your uncle justgroaned. I never did see such a man as he is when he gets a notion in hishead, "--she repeated, hopelessly. 

My uncle came in flushed and tired. Nothing was said about the letterstill, just as dinner was over, he said suddenly:--

"Robert, if you find any more of these old papers anywhere, bring them tome at once. And give orders to all the servants that no piece of oldpaper with writing on it is to be destroyed without my seeing it. "

"Yes, sir, " said Robert, without changing a muscle of his face, but I sawthat he too was of Mrs. Norton's opinion as to his master's oddity when heonce got a notion in his head. 

"Who was the lady, papa?" said little Agnes. "Did you know her?"

"My dear, the letter is as old as papa is himself, " said he. "I think thelady died when papa was a little baby. "

"Then what makes you care so much, papa?" persisted Agnes. 

"I can't tell you, little one, " said he, kissing her, and tossing her upin the air; but he looked at me. 

In the early twilight that afternoon I found my uncle lying with closedeyes on the lounge in the library. He was very tired by his longforenoon's work in the garret. I sat down on the floor and stroked hisdear old white hair. 

"Pet, " he said, without opening his eyes, "that letter had the whole soulof a woman in it. "

"I thought so, dear, " said I, "by your face. "

After a long interval he said: "I could not find a word more of herwriting; I might have known I should not;" and again, after a still longersilence, "Would you like to read it, Nell?"

"I am not sure, Uncle Jo, " I said. "It seems hardly right. I think shewould not so much mind your having it, because you are a man; but anotherwoman! no, uncle dear, I think the letter belongs to you. "

"Oh, you true woman-hearted darling, " he said, kissing me; "but some dayI think I shall want you to read it with me. She would not mind yourreading it, if she knew you as I do. "

Just then Aunt Sarah came into the room, and we said no more. 

Several days passed by, and the mysterious letter was forgotten byeverybody except my uncle and me. 

One bitterly cold night we were sitting around a blazing coal fire in thelibrary. It was very late. Aunt Sarah was asleep in her chair; my unclewas reading. Suddenly the door opened and Robert came in, bringing aletter on his little silver tray: it was past eleven o'clock; the eveningmail had been brought in long before. 

"Why, what is that, Robert?" said Uncle Jo, starting up a little alarmed. 

"One of them old letters, sir, " replied Robert; "I just got it on thecellar stairs, sir. "

My uncle took the letter hastily. Robert still stood as if he had more tosay; and his honest, blank face looked stupefied with perplexity. 

"If you please, sir, " he began, "it's the queerest thing ever I saw. Thatletter's been put on them stairs, sir, within the last five minutes. "

"Why, Robert, what do you mean?" said my uncle, thoroughly excited. 

"Oh dear, " groaned Aunt Sarah, creeping out of her nap and chair, "if youare going into another catechism about those old letters, I am going tobed;" and she left the room, not staying long enough to understand thatthis was a new mystery, and not a vain rediscussing of the old one. 

It seemed that Robert had been down cellar to see that the furnace firewas in order for the night. As soon as he reached the top of the stairs, in coming up, he remembered that he had not turned the outside damperproperly, and went back to do it. 

"I wasn't gone three minutes, sir, and when I came back there lay theletter, right side up, square in the middle of the stairs; and I'd take myBible oath, sir, as 'twan't there when I went down. "

"Who was in the hall when you went down, Robert?" said my uncle sternly. 

"Nobody, sir. Every servant in the house had gone to bed, except Jane" (myaunt's maid), "and she was going up the stairs over my head, sir, when Ifirst went down into the cellar. I know she was, sir, for she calledthrough the stairs to me, and she says, 'Master'll hear you, Robert. ' Yousee, sir, Jane and me didn't know as it was so late, and we was frightenedwhen we heard the clock strike half-past eleven. "

"That will do, Robert, " said Uncle Jo. "You can go, " and Robertdisappeared, relieved but puzzled. There seemed no possible explanation ofthe appearance of the letter there and then, except that hands had placedit there during the brief interval of Robert's being in the cellar. Therewere no human hands in the house which could have done it. Was a restlessghost wandering there, bent on betraying poor Esther's secrets tostrangers? What did it, what could it mean?

"Will you read this one with me, Nell?" said my uncle, turning it overreverently and opening it. 

"No, " I said, "but I will watch you read it;" and I sat down on the floorat his feet. 

The letter was very short; he read it twice without speaking; and thensaid, in an unsteady voice: "This is an earlier letter than the other, Ithink. This is a joyous one; poor Esther! I believe I know her wholestory. But the mystery is inexplicable! I would take down these walls if Ithought I could get at the secret. "

Long past midnight we sat and talked it all over; and racked our brains invain to invent any theory to account for the appearance of the letters onthat cellar stairway. My uncle's tender interest in the poor dead Estherwas fast being overshadowed by the perplexing mystery. 

A few days after this, Mary the cook found another of the letters when shefirst went down-stairs in the morning, and Robert placed it by my uncle'splate, with the rest of his mail. It was the strangest one of all, forthere was not a word of writing in it that could be read. It was a foreignletter; some lines of the faded old postmarks were still visible on theback. The first page looked as if it had been written over with some sortof sympathetic ink; but not a word could be deciphered. Folded in a smallpiece of the thinnest of paper was a mouldy and crumbling flower, of adull-brown color; on the paper was written, --"Pomegranate blossom, fromJaffa, " and a few lines of poetry, of which we could make out only hereand there a word. 

Even Aunt Sarah was thoroughly aroused and excited now. Robert had been inthe cellar very late on the previous night, and was sure that at that timeno papers were on the stairs. 

"I never go down them stairs, sir, " said Robert, "without looking--andlistening too, " he added under his breath, with a furtive look back at thecook, who was standing in the second doorway of the butler's pantry. Thetruth was, Robert had been afraid of the cellar ever since the finding ofthe second letter: and all the servants shared his uneasiness. 

Between eleven at night and seven the next morning, this mute ghostly waiffrom Palestine, with the half-century old dust of a pomegranate flower inits keeping, had come up that dark stairway. It appeared now that theletters were always found on the fourth stair from the top. This fact hadnot before been elicited, but there seemed little doubt about it. Evenlittle Princess said, --

"Yes, papa, I am sure that the one I found was on that stair; for I nowremember Fido came up with only just one or two bounds to the top, as soonas he saw me. "

We were very sober. The little children chattered on; it meant nothing tothem, this breath from such a far past. But to hearts old enough tocomprehend, there was something infinitely sad and suggestive in it. Ialready felt, though I had not read one word of her writing, that I lovedthe woman called Esther; as for my uncle, his very face was becomingchanged by the thought of her, and the mystery about the appearance of theletters. He began to be annoyed also; for the servants were growingsuspicious, and unwilling to go into the cellar. Mary the cook declaredthat on the morning when she found this last letter, something whitebrushed by her at the foot of the stairs; and Robert said that he had fora long time heard strange sounds from that staircase late at night. 

Just after this, my aunt went away for a visit; and several days passedwithout any further discoveries on the stairs. My uncle and I spent longhours in talking over the mystery, and he urged me to read, or to let himread to me, the two letters he had. 

"Pet, " he said, "I will tell you something. One reason they move me so is, that they are strangely like words written by a woman whom I knew thirtyyears ago. I did not believe two such women had been on the earth. "

I kissed his hand when he said this; yet a strange unwillingness to readEsther's letters withheld me. I felt that he had right, and I had not. 

But the end of the mystery was near. It was revealed, as it ought to havebeen, to my uncle himself. 

One night I was wakened out of my first sleep by a very cautious tap at mydoor, and my uncle's voice, saying, --

"Nell--Nell, are you awake?"

I sprang to the door instantly. 

"O uncle, are you ill?" (My aunt had not yet returned. )

"No, pet. But I want you down-stairs. Dress yourself and come down intothe library. "

My hands trembled with excitement as I dressed. Yet I was not afraid: Iknew it was in some way connected with "Esther, " though my uncle had notmentioned her name. 

I found him sitting before the library table, which was literally coveredwith old letters, such as we had before seen. 

"O uncle!" I gasped as soon as I saw them. 

"Yes, dear! I have got them all. There was no ghost!"

Then he told me in few words what had happened. It seemed that he had gonedown himself into the cellar, partly to satisfy himself that all was rightwith the furnace, partly with a vague hope of finding another of theletters. He had found nothing, had examined the furnace, locked the doorat the head of the cellar stairs, and gone up to his bed-room. While hewas undressing, a strange impulse seized him to go back once more, and seewhether it might not happen to him as it had to Robert, to find a letteron returning after a few moments' interval. 

He threw on his wrapper, took a candle, and went down. The first thing hesaw, on opening the door, which he had himself locked only five minutesbefore, was a letter lying on the same fourth stair!

"I confess, Nell, " said he, "for a minute I felt as frightened as blackBob. But I sat down on the upper step, and resolved not to go away till Ihad discovered how that letter came there, if I stayed till day-light!"

Nearly an hour passed, he said; the cold wind from the cellar blew up andswayed the candle-flame to and fro. All sorts of strange sounds seemed togrow louder and louder, and still he sat, gazing helplessly in a sort ofdespair at that motionless letter, which he had not lifted from the stair. At last, purely by accident, he looked up to the staircase overhead--thefront stairs, down which he had just come from his room. He jumped to hisfeet! There, up among the dark cobwebbed shadows, he thought he sawsomething white. He held up the candle. It was, yes, it was a tiny cornerof white paper wedged into a crack; by standing on the beam at the side hecould just reach it. He touched it, --pulled it;--it came outslowly, --another of Esther's letters. They were hid in the upperstaircase! The boards had been worn and jarred a little away from eachother, and the letters were gradually shaken through the opening; someheavier or quicker step than usual giving always the final impetus to aletter which had been for days slowly working down towards the fatedoutlet. 

Stealthily as any burglar he had crept about his own house, had taken upthe whole of the front staircase carpet, and had with trouble pried offone board of the stair in which the letters were hid. There had been aspring, he found, but it was rusted and would not yield. He had carefullyreplaced the carpet, carried the letters into the library, and come forme; it was now half-past one o'clock at night. 

Dear, blessed Uncle Jo! I am an old woman now. Good men and strong menhave given me love, and have shown me of their love for others; but neverdid I feel myself so in the living presence of incarnate love as I didthat night, sitting with my white-haired uncle, face to face with thefaded records of the love of Esther Wynn. 

It was only from one note that we discovered her last name. This waswritten in the early days of her acquaintance with her lover, and whileshe was apparently little more than a child. It was evident that at firstthe relation was more like one of pupil and master. For some time theletters all commenced scrupulously "my dear friend, " or "my most belovedfriend. " It was not until years had passed that the master became thelover; we fancied, Uncle Jo and I, as we went reverently over thebeautiful pages, that Esther had grown and developed more and more, untilshe was the teacher, the helper, the inspirer. We felt sure, though wecould not tell how, that she was the stronger of the two; that she movedand lived habitually on a higher plane; that she yearned often to lift theman she loved to the freer heights on which her soul led its glorifiedexistence. 

It was strange how little we gathered which could give a clew to heractual history or to his. The letters almost never gave the name of theplace, only the day and year, many of them only the day. There was dearthof allusions to persons; it was as if these two had lived in a separateworld of their own. When persons were mentioned at all, it was only byinitials. It was plain that some cruel, inexorable bar separated her fromthe man she loved; a bar never spoken of--whose nature we could onlyguess, --but one which her strong and pure nature felt itself free totriumph over in spirit, however submissive the external life might seem. 

Their relation had lasted for many years; so many, that that fact aloneseemed a holy seal and testimony to the purity and immortality of the bondwhich united them. Esther must have been a middle-aged woman when, as thesaddened letters revealed, her health failed and she was ordered by thephysicians to go to Europe. The first letter which my uncle had read, theone which Princess found, was the letter in which she bade farewell toher lover. There was no record after that; only two letters which had comefrom abroad; one was the one that I have mentioned, which contained thepomegranate blossom from Jaffa, and a little poem which, after long hoursof labor, Uncle Jo and I succeeded in deciphering. The other had twoflowers in it--an Edelweiss which looked as white and pure and immortal asif it had come from Alpine snows only the day before; and a little crimsonflower of the amaranth species, which was wrapped by itself, and marked"From Bethlehem of Judea. " The only other words in this letter were, "I ambetter, darling, but I cannot write yet. "

It was evident that there had been the deepest intellectual sympathybetween them. Closely and fervently and passionately as their hearts musthave loved, the letters were never, from first to last, simply lovers'letters. Keen interchange of comment and analysis, full revelation ofstrongly marked individual life, constant mutual stimulus to mental growththere must have been between these two. We were inclined to think, fromthe exquisitely phrased sentences and rare fancies in the letters, andfrom the graceful movement of some of the little poems, that Esther musthave had ambition as a writer. Then, again, she seemed so wholly, simply, passionately, a woman, to love and be loved, that all thought of anythingelse in her nature or her life seemed incongruous. 

"Oh, " groaned Uncle Jo, after reading one of the most glowing letters, "oh, was there really ever in any other man's arms but mine a woman whocould say such things as these between kisses? O Nell, Nell, thank Godthat you haven't the dower of such a double fire in your veins as Estherhad!"

All night we sat reading, and reading, and reading. When the great clockin the hall struck six, we started like guilty persons. 

"Oh, my childie, " said Uncle Jo, "how wrong this has been in me! Poorlittle pale face, go to bed now, and remember, I forbid you to go toschool to-day; and I forbid your getting up until noon. I promise you Iwill not look at another letter. I will lock them all up till to-morrowevening, and then we will finish them. "

I obeyed him silently. I was too exhausted to speak; but I was also tooexcited to sleep. Until noon I lay wide awake on the bed, in my darkenedroom, living over Esther Wynn's life, marvelling at the inexplicablerevelation of it which had been put into our hands, and wondering, untilthe uncertainty seemed almost anguish, what was that end which we couldnever know. Did she die in the Holy Land? or did she come home well andstrong? and did her lover die some day, leaving his secret treasure ofletters behind him, and poor stricken Esther to go to her grave in fearlest unfriendly hands might have gained possession of her heart's records?He was a married man we felt sure. Had the wife whom he did not love pacedup and down and up and down for years over these dumb witnesses to that ofwhich she had never dreamed? The man himself, when he came to die, did hewrithe, thinking of those silent, eloquent, precious letters which he mustleave to time and chance to destroy or protect? Did men carry him, dead, down the very stairs on which he had so often knelt unseen and waftedkisses towards the hidden Esther?

All these conjectures and questions, and thousands more, hurried in wildconfusion through my brain. In vain I closed my eyes, in vain I pressed myhands on my eyelids; countless faces, dark, light, beautiful, plain, happy, sad, threatening, imploring, seemed dancing in the air around mybed, and saying, "Esther, Esther!"

We knew she was fair; for there was in one of the letters a tiny curl ofpale brown hair; but we believed from many expressions of hers that shehad no beauty. Oh, if I could but have known how she looked!

At last I fell asleep, and slept heavily until after dark. This refreshedmy overwrought nerves, and when at nine o'clock in the evening I joined myuncle in the library, I was calmer than he. 

We said very few words. I sat on his knee, with one arm around his neck, and hand in hand we reverently lifted the frail, trembling sheets. 

We learned nothing new; in fact, almost any one of the letters was arounded revelation of Esther's nature, and of the great love she bore--andthere was little more to learn. There were more than a hundred of theletters, and they embraced a period of fifteen years. We arranged them inpiles, each year by itself; for some years there were only two or three;we wondered whether during those years they had lived near each other, andso had not written, or whether the letters had been destroyed. When thelast letter was laid where it belonged, we looked at each other insilence, and we both sighed. 

Uncle Jo spoke first. 

"Childie, what shall we do with them?"

"I do not know, uncle, " I said. "I should feel very guilty if we did notmake sure that no one else read them. I should feel very guilty myself, except that I have read them with you. They seem to me to belong to you, somehow. "

Uncle Jo kissed me, and we were silent again. Then he said, "There is butone way to make sure that no human being will ever read them--that is, toburn them; but it is as hard for me to do it as if they had been writtento me. "

"Could you not put them back in the stair, and nail it up firmly?" said I. 

It was a stormy night. The wind was blowing hard, and sleet and snowdriving against the windows. At this instant a terrible gust rattled theicy branches of the syringa-bushes against the window, with a noise likethe click of musketry, and above the howling of the wind there came astrange sound which sounded like a voice crying, "Burn, burn!"

Uncle Jo and I both heard it, and both sprang to our feet, white with anervous terror. In a second he recovered himself, and said, laughing, "Petwe are both a good deal shaken by this business. But I do think it will besafer to burn the letters. Poor, poor Esther. I hope she is safe with herlover now. "

"Oh, do you doubt it?" said I; "I do not. "

"No, " said he, "I do not, either. Thank God!"

"Uncle Jo, " said I, "do you think Esther would mind if I copied a few ofthese letters, and two or three of the poems? I so want to have them thatit seems to me I cannot give them up; I love her so, I think she would bewilling. "

The storm suddenly died away, and the peaceful silence around us wasalmost as startling as the fierce gust had been before. I took it as anomen that Esther did not refuse my wish, and I selected the four letterswhich I most desired to keep. I took also the pomegranate blossom, and theEdelweiss, and the crimson Amaranth from Bethlehem. 

"I think Esther would rather that these should not be burned, " I said. 

"Yes; I think so too, " replied Uncle Jo. 

Then we laid the rest upon the fire. The generous hickory logs seemed toopen their arms to them. In a few seconds great panting streams of fireleaped up and rushed out of our sight, bearing with them all that wasperishable of Esther Wynn's letters. Just as the crackling shadowy shapeswere falling apart and turning black, my uncle sprang to an Indian cabinetwhich stood near, and seizing a little box of incense-powder which hadbeen brought from China by his brother, he shook a few grains of it intothe fire. A pale, fragrant film rose slowly in coiling wreaths and cloudsand hid the last moments of the burning of the letters. When the incensesmoke cleared away, nothing could be seen on the hearth but the brighthickory coals in their bed of white ashes. 

"I shall make every effort, " said Uncle Jo, "to find out who lived in thishouse during those years. I presume I can, by old records somewhere. "

"Oh, uncle, " I said, "don't. I think they would rather we did not know anymore. "

"You sweet woman child!" he exclaimed. "You are right. Your instinct istruer than mine. I am only a man, after all! I will never try to learn whoit was that Esther loved. "

"I am very glad, " he added, "that this happened when your Aunt Sarah wasaway. It would have been a great weariness and annoyance to her to haveread these letters. "

Dear, courteous Uncle Jo! I respected his chivalrous little artifice ofspeech, and tried to look as if I believed he would have carried theletters to his wife if she had been there. 

"And I think, dear, " he hesitatingly proceeded, "we would better not speakof this. It will be one sacred little secret that you and your old unclewill keep. As no more letters will be found on the stairs, the whole thingwill be soon forgotten. "

"Oh yes, uncle, " replied I; "of course it would be terrible to tell. Itisn't our secret, you know; it is dear Esther Wynn's. "

I do not know why it was that I locked up those four letters of EstherWynn's and did not look at them for many months. I felt very guilty inkeeping them; but a power I could not resist seemed to paralyze my veryhand when I thought of opening the box in which they were. At last, longafter I had left Uncle Jo's house, I took them out one day, and in thequiet and warmth of a summer noon I copied them slowly, carefully, wordfor word. Then I hid the originals in my bosom, and walked alone, withouttelling any one whither I was going, to a wild spot I knew several milesaway, where a little mountain stream came foaming and dashing downthrough a narrow gorge to empty itself into our broad and placid river. Isat down on a mossy granite boulder, and slowly tore the letters intominutest fragments. One by one I tossed the white and tiny shreds into theswift water, and watched them as far as I could see them. The brook liftedthem and tossed them over and over, lodged them in mossy crevices, or ontree roots, then swept them all up and whirled them away in dark depths ofthe current from which they would never more come to the surface. It was aplace which Esther would have loved, and I wondered, as I sat there hourafter hour, whether it were really improbable, that she knew just thenwhat I was doing for her. I wondered, also, as I often before hadwondered, if it might not have been by Esther's will that the sacred hoardof letters, which had lain undiscovered for so many years, should fall atlast into the hands of my tender and chivalrous Uncle Jo. It was certainlya strange thing that on the stormy night which I have described, when wewere discussing what should be done with the letters, both Uncle Jo and Iat the same instant should have fancied we heard the words "Burn, burn!"

The following letter is the earliest one which I copied. It is the onewhich Robert found so late at night and brought to us in the library:--

"FRIDAY EVENING. 

"SWEETEST:--It is very light in my room to-night. The full moon and thethought of you! I see to write, but you would forbid me--you who wouldsee only the moonlight, and not the other. Oh, my darling! my darling!

"I have been all day in fields and on edges of woods. I have never seenjust such a day: a June sun, and a September wind; clover and butter-cupsunder foot, and a sparkling October sky overhead. I think the earthenjoyed it as a sort of masquerading frolic. The breeze was so strong thatit took the butterflies half off their air-legs, and they fairly reeledabout in the sun. As for me, I sat here and there, on hillocks and stones, among ferns, and white cornels, and honey-bees, and bobolinks. I was theonly still thing in the fields. I waited so long in each spot, that it waslike being transplanted when I moved myself to the north or the south. AndI discovered a few things in each country in which I lived. For one thing, I observed that the little busy bee is not busy all the while; that hedoes a great amount of aimless, idle snuffing and tasting of all sorts ofthings besides flowers; especially he indulges in a running accompanimentof gymnastics among the grass-stalks, which cannot possibly have anythingto do with honey. I watched one fellow to-day through a series of positivetrapeze movements from top to bottom and bottom to top of a grass-tangle. When he got through he shook himself, and smoothed off his legs exactly asthe circus-men do. Then he took a long pull at a clover well. 

"Ah, the clover! Dearest! you should have seen how it swung to-day. Thestupidest person in the world could not have helped thinking that it kepttime to invisible band-playing, and was trying to catch hold of thebuttercups. I lay down at full length and looked off through the stems, and then I saw for the first time how close they were, and that theyconstantly swayed and touched, and sometimes locked fast together for asecond. Stately as a minuet it looked, but joyous and loving as thewildest waltz I ever danced in your arms, my darling. Oh, how dare wepresume to be so sure that the flowers are not glad as we are glad! Onsuch a day as to-day I never doubt it; and I picked one as reverently andhesitatingly as I would ask the Queen of the Fairies home to tea if I mether in a wood. 

"Laughing, are you, darling? Yes, I know it. Poor soul! You cannot helpbeing a man, I suppose. Nor would I have you help it, my great, strong, glorious one! How I adore the things which you do, which I could not do. Oh, my sweet master! Never fear that I do you less reverence than Ishould. All the same, I lie back on my ferny hillock, and look you in theeye, and ask you what you think would become of you if you had no littleone of my kind to bring you honey! And when I say this--you--ah, mydarling, now there are tears in my eyes, and the moonlight grows dim. Icannot bear the thinking what you would do when I said those words!Good-night! Perhaps in my sleep I will say them again, and you will bethere to answer. In the morning I shall write out for you to-day's cloversong. 

"YOUR OWN. "

The clover song was not in the letter. We found it afterward on a smallpiece of paper, so worn and broken in the folds that we knew it must havebeen carried for months in a pocket-book. 

 A Song of Clover. 

 I wonder what the Clover thinks?-- Intimate friend of Bob-o-links, Lover of Daisies slim and white, Waltzer with Butter-cups at night; Keeper of Inn for travelling Bees, Serving to them wine dregs and lees, Left by the Royal Humming-birds, Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best; Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; Prophet of Good Luck mystery By sign of four which few may see; Symbol of Nature's magic zone, One out of three, and three in one; Emblem of comfort in the speech Which poor men's babies early reach; Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by sills, Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, Sweet in its white, sweet in its red, Oh, half its sweet cannot be said; Sweet in its every living breath, Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death! Oh, who knows what the Clover thinks? No one! unless the Bob-o-links!

The lines which were written on the paper inclosing the pomegranate flowerfrom Jaffa we deciphered with great trouble. The last verse we were notquite sure about, for there had been erasures. But I think we were rightfinally. 

 Pomegranate blossom! Heart of fire! I dare to be thy death, To slay thee while the summer sun Is quickening thy breath; To rob the autumn of thy wine;-- Next year of all ripe seeds of thine, That thou mayest bear one kiss of mine To my dear love before my death. 

 For, Heart of fire, I too am robbed Like thee! Like thee, I die, While yet my summer sun of love Is near, and warm, and high; The autumn will run red with wine; The autumn fruits will swing and shine; But in that little grave of mine I shall not see them where I lie. 

 Pomegranate blossom! Heart of fire! This kiss, so slow, so sweet, Thou bearest hence, can never lose Even in death its heat. Redder than autumns can run with wine, Warmer than summer suns can shine, Forever that dear love of mine Shall find thy sacred hidden sweet!

The next letter which I copied was one written five years after the first;it is not so much a letter as an allegory, and so beautiful, so weird, that we wondered Esther did not set it to tune as a poem. 

"SUNDAY MORNING. 

"MY DARLING:--Even this blazing September sun looks dull to me thismorning. I have come from such a riotous dream. All last night I walked ina realm of such golden splendor, that I think even in our fullest noon Ishall only see enough light to grope by for days and days. 

"I do not know how to tell you my dream. I think I must put it in shapeof a story of two people; but you will know, darling, that in my dream itwas you and I. And I honestly did dream it, love, every word just as Ishall write it for you; only there are no words which so glow and lightand blaze as did the chambers through which we walked. I had been readingabout the wonderful gold mines of which every one is talking now, and thisled to my dream. 

"You can laugh if you like, sweet master mine, but I think it is all true, and I call it

"The Mine of Gold. 

"There is but one true mine of gold; and of it no man knows, and no woman, save those who go into it. Neither can they who go tell whether they sinkinto the earth's heart or are caught up into the chambers of the air, orled to the outer pavilions of the sea. Suddenly they perceive that allaround, above, below them is gold: rocks of gold higher than they can see;caves whose depths are bright with gold; lakes of gold which is molten andleaps like fire, but in which flowers can be dipped and not wither; sandsof gold, soft and pleasant to touch; innumerable shapes of all thingsbeautiful, which wave and change, but only from gold to gold; air whichshines and shimmers like refiner's gold; warmth which is like the glow ofthe red gold of Ophir; and everywhere golden silence!

"Hand in hand walk the two to whom it is given to enter here: of the gold, they may carry away only so much as can be hid in their bosoms; grainswhich are spilled, or are left on their garments, turn to ashes; only toeach other may they speak of these mysteries; but all men perceive thatthey have riches, and that their faces shine as the faces of angels. 

"Suddenly it comes to pass that one day a golden path leads them fartherthan they have ever gone before, and into a vast chamber, too vast to bemeasured. Its walls, although they are of gold, are also like crystal. This is a mystery. Only three sides are walled. The fourth side is theopening of a gallery which stretches away and away, golden like a broadsunbeam: from out the distance comes the sound of rushing waters; howeverfar they walk in that gallery, still the golden sunbeam stretches beforethem; still the sound of the waters is no nearer: and so would the sunbeamand the sound of the waters be forever, for they are Eternity. 

"But there is a fourth mystery. On the walls of crystal gold, on allsides, shine faces; not dead faces, not pictured faces; livingfaces--warm, smiling, reflected faces. 

"Then it is revealed to the two who walk hand in hand that these are thefaces of all who have ever entered in, as they, between the walls ofcrystal gold; flashing faces of the sons of God looking into eyes ofearthly women;--these were the first: and after them, all in theirgenerations until to-day, the sons of men with the women they have loved. The men's faces smile; but the faces of the women have in them a joygreater than a smile. 

"Presently the two who walk hand in hand see their own faces added to theothers, with the same smile, the same joy; and it is revealed to them thatthese faces are immortal. Through all eternity they will shine on thewalls of crystal gold; and those who have once looked on them can nevermore see in each other change or loss of beauty. 

"If as they walk there, in the broad sunbeam, an angel meets them, bearingthe tokens of a golden bowl that is broken and a silver cord that isunloosed, they follow him without grief or fear, thinking on that chamberof crystal gold!

"Good-by, darling!

"ESTHER. "

The third letter was written three years after this one. Sadness wasbeginning to cloud the free, joyous outpourings of Esther's heart. Probably this sadness was one of the first symptoms of the failure of herhealth. It was from this letter chiefly--although there were expressionsin others which deepened the impression--that we inferred that her loverhad tried to stimulate in her an intellectual ambition. 

"WEDNESDAY EVENING. 

"DEAR ONE:--Your last letter gave me great pain. It breaks my heart to seeyou looking so earnestly and expectantly into my future. Beloved, that Ihave grown and developed so much in the last seven years is no proof thatI can still keep on growing. If you understood, darling, you would seethat it is just the other way. I have grown year by year, hour by hour, because hour by hour I have loved you more. That is all! I have felt thegrowth. I know it, as clearly as you do. But I know the secret of it asyou do not; and I know the limit of it, as you cannot. I cannot love youmore, precious one! Neither would I if I could! One heart-beat more in aminute, and I should die! But all that you have so much loved and caredfor, dear, calling it intellectual growth and expansion in me, has beenonly the clearing, refining, and stimulating of every faculty, everysense, by my love for you. When I have said or written a word which haspleased you thus, if there were any special fitness or eloquence in theword, it was only because I sought after what would best carry my thoughtto you, darling; what would be best frame, best setting, to keep theflowers or the sky which I had to see alone, --to keep them till you couldsee them too! Oh, dear one, do understand that there is nothing of meexcept my heart and my love! While they were wonderingly, tremblingly, rapturously growing within me, under the sweet warmth of your love, nowonder I changed day by day. But, precious one, it is ended. The wholesolemn, steadfast womanhood within me recognizes it. Beloved master, inone sense you can teach me no more! I am content. I desire nothing. Onemoment of full consciousness of you, of life, of your love, is more thanall centuries of learning, all eternities of inspiration. I would ratherat this moment, dear, lay my cheek on your hand, and sit in my old placeby your knee, and feel myself the woman you have made me, than know allthat God knows, and make a universe!

"Beloved, do not say such things to me any more; and whenever you feelsuch ambition and hope stirring in your heart, read over this littleverse, and be sure that your child knew what she said when she wroteit:--

 "The End of Harvest. 

 "O Love, who walkest slow among my sheaves, Smiling at tint and shape, thy smile of peace, But whispering of the next sweet year's increase, -- O tender Love, thy loving hope but grieves My heart! I rue my harvest, if it leaves Thee vainly waiting after harvests cease, Like one who has been mocked by title lease To barren fields. 

 Dear one, my word deceives Thee never. Hearts one summer have. Their grain 'Is sown not that which shall be!'

 Can new pain Teach me of pain? Or any ecstasy Be new, that I should speak its name again? My darling, all there was or is of me Is harvested for thine Eternity!

 ESTHER. "

The fourth letter was the one which Princess had found, the first which myuncle had read--Esther's farewell to her lover before going abroad. Nowonder that it so moved him!

"SUNDAY NIGHT. 

"MY DARLING:--I implore you not to come. Have I not loved you enough, allthese years long, for you to trust me, and believe that it is only becauseI love you so much that I cannot, cannot see you now? Dear, did I everbefore ask you to forego your wish for mine? Did I ever before withholdanything from you, my darling? Ah, love, you know--oh, how well you know, that always, in every blissful moment we have spent together, my blisshas been shadowed by a little, interrupted by a little, because my soulwas forever restlessly asking, seeking, longing, for one more joy, delight, rapture, to give to you!

"Now listen, darling. You say it is almost a year since we met; true, butif it were yesterday, would you remember it any more clearly? Why, myprecious one, I can see over again at this moment each little movementwhich you made, each look your face wore; I can hear every word; I canfeel every kiss; very solemn kisses they were too, love, as if we hadknown. 

"You say we may never meet again. True. But if that is to be so, all themore I choose to leave with you the memory of the face you saw then, rather than of the one you would see to-day. Be compassionate, darling, and spare me the pain of seeing your pain at sight of my poor changedface. I hope it is not vanity, love, which makes me feel this so strongly. Being so clearly and calmly conscious as I am that very possibly myearthly days are near their end, it does not seem as if mere vanity couldlinger in my soul. And you know you have always said, dearest, that I hadnone. I know I have always wondered unspeakably that you could findpleasure in my face, except occasionally, when I have felt, as it were, agreat sudden glow and throb of love quicken and heat it under your gaze;then, as I have looked up in your eyes, I have sometimes had a flash ofconsciousness of a transfiguration in the very flesh of my face, just as Ihave a sense of rapturous strength sometimes in the very flesh and bone ofmy right hand, when I strike on the piano some of Beethoven's chords. ButI know that, except in the light of your presence, I have no beauty. Ihad not so much to lose by illness as other women. But, dear one, thatlittle is gone. I can read in the pitying looks of all my friends howaltered I am. Even if I did not see it with my own eyes, I should read itin theirs. And I cannot--oh, I cannot read it in yours!

"If I knew any spell which could make you forget all except some one raremoment in which you said in your heart, 'she never looked so lovelybefore!' oh, how firmly I would bind you by it! All the weary indifferent, or unhappy looks, love, I would blot out from your memory, and have thethought of me raise but one picture in your mind. I would have it as if Ihad died, and left of my face no record on earth except one wonderfulpicture by some great master, who had caught the whole beauty of the onerarest moment of my life. Darling, if you look back, you will find thatmoment; for it must have been in your arms; and let Love be the master whowill paint the immortal picture!

"As for this thin, pale, listless body, which just now answers to the nameof me, there is nothing in or about it which you know. Presently it willbe carried like a half-lifeless thing on board a ship; the winds will blowroughly on it and it will not care. If God wills, darling, I will comeback to you well and strong. If I cannot come well and strong, I hopenever to come at all. 

"Don't call me cruel. You would feel the same. I also should combat theresolve in you, as you do in me. But in my heart I should understand. Ishould sympathize, and I should yield. 

"God bless you, darling. I believe He will, for the infinite goodness ofyour life. I thank Him daily that He has given it to me to bless you alittle. If I had seen you to say farewell, my beloved, I should not havekissed you many times, as has been our wont. That is for hours of joy. Ishould have kissed you three times--only three times--on your beautiful, strong, gentle lips, and each kiss would have been a separate sacrament, with a bond of its own. I send them to you here, love, and this is whatthey mean!

 "Three Kisses of Farewell. 

 "Three, only three my darling, Separate, solemn, slow; Not like the swift and joyous ones We used to know When we kissed because we loved each other Simply to taste love's sweet, And lavished our kisses as the summer Lavishes heat, -- But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung, When hope and fear are spent, And nothing is left to give, except A sacrament!

 "First of the three, my darling, Is sacred unto pain; We have hurt each other often; We shall again, When we pine because we miss each other, And do not understand How the written words are so much colder Than eye and hand. I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain Which we may give or take; Buried, forgiven, before it comes For our love's sake!

 "The second kiss, my darling, Is full of joy's sweet thrill; We have blessed each other always; We always will. We shall reach until we feel each other, Past all of time and space; We shall listen till we hear each other In every place; The earth is full of messengers, Which love sends to and fro; I kiss thee, darling, for all joy Which we shall know!

 "The last kiss, oh, my darling, My love--I cannot see Through my tears, as I remember What it may be. We may die and never see each other, Die with no time to give Any sign that our hearts are faithful To die, as live. Token of what they will not see Who see our parting breath, This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death!"

It was on my sixteenth birthday that I copied these letters and poems ofEsther Wynn's. I kept them, with a few other very precious things, in acurious little inlaid box, which came from Venice, and was so old that inmany places its sides were worm-eaten. It was one of my choicesttreasures, and I was never separated from it. 

When I was twenty years old I had been for two years a happy wife, for oneyear a glad mother, and had for some time remembered Esther only in thevague, passing way in which happy souls recall old shadows of the griefsof other hearts. As my boy entered on a second summer he began to droop alittle, and the physician recommended that we should take him to thesea-side; so it came to pass that on the morning of my twentieth birthdayI was sitting, with my baby in my arms, on a rocky sea-shore, at one ofthe well-known summer resorts of the New Hampshire coast. Near me sat awoman whose face had interested me strangely ever since my arrival. Sheseemed an invalid; but there was an atmosphere of overflowing vitalityabout her, in spite of her feebleness, which made her very presencestimulating and cheering to every one. I had longed to speak with her, butas yet had not done so. While I sat watching her face and my baby's, andthe face of the sea, she was joined by her husband, who had just come froma walk in the fields, and had brought her a large bouquet of red cloverand feathery grasses. She took it eagerly with great delight, andexclaimed:--

 "I wonder what the Clover thinks? Intimate friend of Bob-o-links!"

I could not control the sudden start with which I heard these words. Whowas this that knew Esther Wynn's verses by heart? I could hardly refrainfrom speaking to her at once, and betraying all. But I reflected instantlythat I must be very cautious; it would be almost impossible to find outwhat I longed to know without revealing how my own acquaintance with theverses had come about. Days passed before I ventured to allude to thesubject; but one evening, as we were walking together, she stooped andpicked a clover-blossom, and said, --

"I really think I love red clover better than any wild flower we have. "

"I thought so, " said I, "when I saw you take that big bunch your husbandbrought you the other morning. That was before I knew you: I felt almostrude, I watched you so, in spite of myself. "

"But I had watched you quite as much, " said she, smiling; "I thought thenof giving you a part of the clover. Edward always brings me huge bouquetsof it every day; he knows so well how I love it. "

"I heard you quote a little couplet of verse about it then, " said I, looking away from her, that she might not see my face: "I was so near youI could not help hearing what you said. "

"Oh, yes, " said she, "I wonder what the Clover thinks? Intimate friend of Bob-o-links'--

"I do not know but that old clover-song is the real reason I love cloverso. My mother taught it to me when I was a little child. It is all veryquaint and sweet. Would you like to hear it?"

I felt myself color scarlet, but I replied, --

"Oh, yes, pray repeat it. "

When she had repeated the verses she went on speaking, to my great relief, saving me from the necessity of saying anything. 

"That was written a great many years ago, by an aunt of my mother's. Mymother has a little manuscript book bound in red morocco, very faded andworn, which my grandmother kept on her bureau till she died, last year;and it has in it this little clover-song and several others, with AuntEsther's diary while she was abroad. She died abroad; died in Jerusalem, and was buried there. There was something mysteriously sad in her life, Ithink: grandmother always sighed when she spoke of her, and used to readin the little red book every day. She was only her half-sister, but shesaid she loved her better than she did any sister of her own. Once I askedgrandmamma to tell me about her, but she said, 'There is nothing to tell, child. She was never married: she died the autumn before your mother wasborn, and your mother looked very much like her when she was young. She islike her, too, in many ways, ' and that was all grandmamma would ever say. But we always called her Aunt Esther, and know all her verses by heart, and the diary was fascinating. It seems strange to read such vivid writtenrecords of people you never saw; don't you think so?"

"Yes, it must, very, " said I. 

She went on: "I always had a very special love for this old Aunt Esther, which I could hardly account for. I am to have the little red book when mymother dies; and"--she hesitated a moment--"and I named my first baby forher, Esther Wynn. The baby only lived to be a few weeks old, and I oftenthink, as I look at her little grave-stone, of the other one, so manythousand miles away, alone in a strange land, bearing the same name. "

On my way home I stopped for a few days' visit at Uncle Jo's. Late onenight, sitting in my old place at his feet in the library, I told him thissequel to the romance of the letters. 

"Oh, childie, how could you help showing that you knew about her?" saidhe. "You must have betrayed it. "

"No, I am sure I did not, " I said. "I never spoke about it after that day, and she was too absorbed herself in the reminiscences to observe myexcitement. "

"What was your friend's name?" said Uncle Jo. 

I told him. He sprang from his chair, and walked rapidly away to the endof the library; presently he came back, and standing before me, said, --

"Nell! Nell! your friend's mother is the woman of whom I once spoke toyou! I might have known that the subtle kinship I felt between Esther Wynnand her was no chance resemblance. I never heard of the name 'Wynn, 'however. But you said she was only a half-sister; that accounts for it. Imight have known! I might have known!" he exclaimed, more to himself thanto me, and buried his face in his hands I stole away quietly and left him;but I heard him saying under his breath, "Her aunt! I might have known!"