[Frontispiece: Miss Lillian Gish as Anna Moore. D. W. Griffith'sProduction. 'Way Down East. ]

'WAY DOWN EAST

A ROMANCE OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE

BY

JOSEPH R. GRISMER

Founded on the Very Successful Play of the

Same Title by

LOTTIE BLAIR PARKER

 ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES FROM D. W. GRIFFITH'S MAGNIFICENT MOTION PICTURE PRODUCTION OF THE ORIGINAL STORY AND STAGE PLAY

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS -------------- NEW YORK

_Copyright, 1900_

_By Joseph R. Grismer_

_'Way Down East_

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I. All Hail to the Conquering Hero. 

 II. The Conquering Hero is Disposed to be Human. 

 III. Containing Some Reflections and the Entrance of Mephistopheles. 

 IV. The Mock Marriage. 

 V. A Little Glimpse of the Garden of Eden. 

 VI. The Ways of Desolation. 

 VII. Mother and Daughter. 

 VIII. In Days of Waiting. 

 IX. On the Threshold of Shelter. 

 X. Anna and Sanderson Again Meet. 

 XI. Rustic Hospitality. 

 XII. Kate Brewster Holds Sanderson's Attention. 

 XIII. The Quality of Mercy. 

 XIV. The Village Gossip Sniffs Scandal. 

 XV. David Confesses his Love. 

 XVI. Alone in the Snow. 

 XVII. The Night in the Snowstorm. 

ILLUSTRATIONS

Miss Lillian Gish as Anna Moore. . . . _Frontispiece_

Martha Perkins and Maria Poole. 

Martha Perkins tells the story of Anna Moore's past life. 

Lillian Gish and Burr McIntosh. 

WAY DOWN EAST

CHAPTER I. 

ALL HAIL TO THE CONQUERING HERO. 

 Methinks I feel this youth's perfections, With an invisible and subtle stealth, To creep in at mine eyes. --_Shakespeare_. 

It had come at last, the day of days, for the two great Americanuniversities; Harvard and Yale were going to play their annual game offootball and the railroad station of Springfield, Mass. , momentarilybecame more and more thronged with eager partisans of both sides of thegreat athletic contest. 

All the morning trains from New York, New Haven, Boston and the smallertowns had been pouring their loads into Springfield. Hampden Park wasa sea of eager faces. The weather was fine and the waiting for thefootball game only added to the enjoyment--the appetizer before thefeast. 

The north side of the park was a crimson dotted mass full ten thousandstrong; the south side showed the same goodly number blue-bespeckled, and equally confident. Little ripples of applause woke along the banksas the familiar faces of old "grads" loomed up, then melted into thevast throng. These, too, were men of international reputation who hadwon their spurs in the great battles of life, and yet, who came backyear after year, to assist by applause in these mimic battles of their_Alma Mater_. 

But the real inspiration to the contestants, were the softer, sweeterfaces scattered among the more rugged ones like flowers growing amongthe grain--the smiles, the mantling glow of round young cheeks, theclapping of little hands--these were the things that made brokencollarbones, scratched faces, and bruised limbs but so many honors tobe contended for, votive offerings to be laid at the little feet ofthese fair ones. 

Mrs. Standish Tremont's party occupied, as usual, a prominent place onthe Harvard side. She was so great a factor in the social life atCambridge that no function could have been a complete success withoutthe stimulus of her presence. Personally, Mrs. Standish Tremont wasone of those women who never grow old; one would no more have thoughtof hazarding a guess about her age than one would have made a similarcalculation about the Goddess of Liberty. She was perennially young, perennially good-looking, and her entertainments were above reproach. Some sour old "Grannies" in Boston, who had neither her wit, nor herhealth, called her Venus Anno Domino, but they were jealous and cynicaland their testimony cannot be taken as reliable. 

What if she had been splitting gloves applauding college games sincethe fathers of to-day's contestants had fought and struggled forsimilar honors in this very field. She applauded with such vim, andshe gave such delightful dinners afterward, that for the glory of oldHarvard it is to be hoped she will continue to applaud and entertainthe grandsons of to-day's victors, even as she had their sires. 

It was said by the uncharitable that the secret of the lady's youth wasthe fact that she always surrounded herself with young people, theirpleasure, interests, entertainments were hers; she never permittedherself to be identified with older people. 

To-day, besides several young men who had been out of college for ayear or two, she had her husband's two nieces, the Misses Tremont, young women well known in Boston's inner circles, her own daughter, aMrs. Endicott, a widow, and a very beautiful young girl whom sheintroduced as "My cousin, Miss Moore. "

Miss Moore was the recipient of more attention than she could wellhandle. Mrs. Tremont's cavaliers tried to inveigle her into bettinggloves and bon-bons; they reserved their wittiest replica for her, theywere her ardent allies in all the merry badinage with which their partywhiled away the time waiting for the game to begin. Miss Moore wasgetting enough attention to turn the heads of three girls. 

At least, that was what her chaperone concluded as she skilfullyconcealed her dissatisfaction with a radiant smile. She liked girls toachieve social success when they were under her wing--it was the nextbest thing to scoring success on her own account. But, it was quite adifferent matter to invite a poor relation half out of charity, halfout of pity, and then have her outshine one's own daughter, and one'snieces--the latter being her particular protégés--girls whom she hopedto assist toward brilliant establishments. The thought was adisquieting one, the men of their party had been making idiots ofthemselves over the girl ever since they left Boston; it was all verywell to be kind to one's poor kin--but charity began at home when therewere girls who had been out three seasons! What was it, that made themen lose their heads like so many sheep? She adjusted her lorgnetteand again took an inventory of the girl's appearance. It was eminentlysatisfactory even when viewed from the critical standard of Mrs. Standish Tremont. A delicately oval face, with low smooth brow, fromwhich the night-black hair rippled in softly crested waves and clungabout the temples in tiny circling ringlets, delicate as the faintestshading of a crayon pencil. Heavily fringed lids that lent mysteriousdepths to the great brown eyes that were sorrowful beyond their years. A mouth made for kisses--a perfect Cupid's bow; in color, the red ofthe pomegranate--such was Anna Moore, the great lady's young kinswoman, who was getting her first glimpse of the world this autumn afternoon. 

"You were born to be a Harvard girl, Miss Moore, the crimson becomesyou go perfectly, that great bunch of Jacqueminots is just what youneed to bring out the color in your cheeks, " said Arnold Lester, ratheran old beau, and one of Mrs. Endicott's devoted cavaliers. 

"Miss Moore is making her roses pale with envy, " gallantly answeredRobert Maynard. He had not been able to take his eyes from the girl'sface since he met her. 

Anna looked down at her roses and smiled. Her gown and gloves wereblack. The great fragrant bunch was the only suggestion of color thatshe had worn for over a year. She was still in mourning for herfather, one of the first great financial magnates to go under in thelast Wall Street crash. His failure killed him, and the young daughterand the invalid wife were left practically unprovided for. 

Mrs. Tremont could hardly conceal her annoyance. She had met her youngcousin for the first time the preceding summer and taking a fancy toher; she exacted a promise from the girl's mother that Anna should payher a visit the following autumn. But she reckoned without the girl'sbeauty and the havoc it would make with her plans. The discussion asto the roses outvieing Anna's cheeks in color was abruptly terminatedby a great cheer that rolled simultaneously along both sides of thefield as the two teams entered the lists. Cheer upon cheer went up, swelled and grew in volume, only to be taken up again and again, tillthe sound became one vast echoing roar without apparent end orbeginning. 

From the moment the teams appeared, Anna Moore had no eyes or ears forsights or sounds about her. Every muscle in her lithe young body wasstrained to catch a glimpse of one familiar figure. She had littledifficulty in singling him out from the rest. He had stripped off hissweater and stood with head well down, his great limbs tense, strainingfor the word to spring. Anna's breath came quickly, as if she had beenrunning, the roses that he had sent her heaved with the tumult in herbreast. It seemed to her as if she must cry out with the delight ofseeing him again. 

"Look, Grace, " said Mrs. Standish Tremont, to the younger of hernieces, "there is Lennox Sanderson. "

"Play!" called the referee, and at the word the Harvard wedge shotforward and crashed into the onrushing mass of blue-legged bodies. Themimic war was on, and raged with all the excitement of real battle forthe next three-quarters of an hour; the center was pierced, the flankswere turned, columns were formed and broken, weak spots were protected, all the tactics of the science of arms was employed, and yet, neitherside could gain an advantage. 

The last minutes of the first half of the game were spentdesperately--Kenneth, the terrible line breaker of Yale, made twofamous charges, Lennox Sanderson, the famous flying half-back, securedHarvard a temporary advantage by a magnificently supported run. "Time!" called the referee, and the first half of the game was over. 

For fifteen minutes the combatants rested, then resumed their massing, wedging and driving. Sanderson, who had not appeared to over-exerthimself during the first half of the game, gradually began to turn thetide in favor of the crimson. After a decoy and a scrimmage, Sanderson, with the ball wedged tightly under one arm, was seen flyinglike a meteor, well covered by his supports. On he dashed at fullspeed for the much-desired touch-line. The next minute he had reachedthe goal and was buried under a pile of squirming bodies. 

Then did the Harvard hosts burst into one mighty and prolonged cheerthat made the air tremble. Sanderson was the hero of the hour. Gray-haired old men jumped up and shouted his name with that of theuniversity. It was one mad pandemonium of excitement, till the gamewas won, and the crowd woke up amid the "Rah, Rahs, Harvard, Sanderson. "

Anna's cheeks burned crimson. She clapped her hands to the finaldestruction of her gloves. She patted the roses he had sent her. Shehad never dreamed that life was so beautiful, so full of happiness. 

She saw him again for just a moment, before they left the park. Hecame up to speak to them, with the sweat and grime of battle still uponhim, his hair flying in the breeze. The crowds gave way for the hero;women gave him their brightest smiles; men involuntarily straightenedtheir shoulders in tribute to his inches. 

Years afterwards, it seemed to Anna, in looking back on the tragedy ofit all, that he had never looked so handsome, never been so absolutelyirresistible as on that autumn day when he had taken her hand and said:"I couldn't help making that run with your eyes on me. "

"And we shall see you at tea, on Saturday?" asked Mrs. Tremont. 

"I shall be delighted, " he answered: "thank you for persuading MissMoore to stay over for another week. " Mrs. Tremont smiled, she couldsmile if she were on the rack; but she assured herself that she wasdone with poverty-stricken beauties till Grace and Maud were married, at least. For years she had been planning a match between Grace andLennox Sanderson. 

Anna and Sanderson exchanged looks. Robert Maynard bit his lips andturned away. He realized that the dearest wish of his life was beyondreach of it forever. "Ah, well, " he murmured to himself--"who couldhave a chance against Lennox Sanderson?"

CHAPTER II. 

THE CONQUERING HERO IS DISPOSED TO BE HUMAN. 

 "Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew, Or like the purple of narcissus' flower; No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their powers, But by her breath her beauties do renew. "--_Robert Greene_. 

The dusk of an autumn afternoon was closing in on the well-filledlibrary of Mrs. Standish Tremont's Beacon street home. The last raysof sunlight filtered softly through the rose silk curtains and blendedwith the ruddy glow of fire-light. The atmosphere of this room wasmore invitingly domestic than that of any other room in Mrs. Tremont'ssomewhat bleakly luxurious home. 

Perhaps it was the row upon row of books in their scarlet leatherbindings, perhaps it was the fine old collection of Dutch masterpieces, portraying homely scenes from Dutch life, that robbed the air of thechilling effect of the more formal rooms; but, whatever was the reason, the fact remained that the library was the room in which to dreamdreams, appreciate comfort and be content. 

At least so it seemed to Anna Moore, as she glanced from time to timeat the tiny French clock that silently ticked away the hours on thehigh oaken mantel-piece. Anna had dressed for tea with more than usualcare on this particular Saturday afternoon. She wore a simply madehouse gown of heavy white cloth, that hung in rich folds about herexquisite figure, that might have seemed over-developed in a girl ofeighteen, were it not for the long slender throat and tapering waist ofmore than usual slenderness. 

The dark hair was coiled high on top of the shapely head, and a fewtendrils strayed about her neck and brow. She wore no ornaments--noteven the simplest pin. 

She was curled up in a great leather chair, in front of the open fire, playing with a white angora kitten, who climbed upon her shoulder andgenerally conducted himself like a white ball of animated yarn. It wastoo bad that there was no painter at hand to transfer to canvas solovely a picture as this girl in her white frock made, sitting by thefirelight in this mellow old room, playing with a white imp of akitten. It would have made an ideal study in white and scarlet. 

How comfortable it all was; the book-lined walls, the repose anddignity of this beautiful home, with its corps of well-trained servantswaiting to minister to one's lightest wants. The secure and shelteredfeeling that it gave appealed strongly to the girl, who but a littlewhile ago had enjoyed similar surroundings in her father's house. 

And then, there had been that awful day when her father's wealth hadvanished into air like a burst bubble, and he had come home with awhite drawn face and gone to bed, never again to rise from it. 

Anna did not mind the privations that followed on her own account, butthey were pitifully hard on her invalid mother, who had been used toevery comfort all her life. 

After they had left New York, they had taken a little cottage inWaltham, Mass. , and it was here that Mrs. Standish Tremont had come tocall on her relatives in their grief and do what she could towardlightening their burdens. Anna was worn out with the constant care ofher mother, and would only consent to go away for a rest, because thedoctor told her that her health was surely breaking under the strain, and that if she did not go, there would be two invalids instead of one. 

It was at Mrs. Tremont's that she had met Lennox Sanderson, and fromthe first, both seemed to be under the influence of some subtle spellthat drew them together blindly, and without the consent of theirwills. Mrs. Tremont, who viewed the growing attraction of these twoyoung people with well-concealed alarm, watched every opportunity toprevent their enjoying each other's society. It irritated her that oneof the wealthiest and most influential men in Harvard should take sucha fancy to her penniless young relative, instead of to Grace Tremont, whom she had selected for his wife. 

There were few things that Mrs. Tremont enjoyed so much as arrangingromances in everyday life. 

"Pardon me, Miss Moore, " said the butler, standing at her elbow, "butthere has been a telephone message from Mrs. Tremont, saying that sheand Mrs. Endicott have been detained, and will you be kind enough toexplain this to Mr. Sanderson. " Anna never knew what the message costMrs. Tremont. 

A moment later, Sanderson's card was sent up; Anna rose to meet himwith swiftly beating heart. 

"What perfect luck, " he said. "How do I happen to find you alone?Usually you have a regiment of people about you. "

"Cousin Frances has just telephoned that she has been detained, and Isuppose I am to entertain you till her return. "

"I shall be sufficiently entertained if I may have the pleasure oflooking at you. "

"Till dinner time? You could never stand it. " She laughed. 

"It would be a pleasure till eternity. "

"At any rate, " said Anna, "I am not going to put you to the test. Ifyou will be good enough to ring for tea, I will give you a cup. "

The butler brought in the tea. Anna lighted the spirit lamp withpretty deftness, and proceeded to make tea. 

"I could not have taken this, even from your hands last week, Anna--pardon me, Miss Moore. "

"And why not? Had you been taking pledges not to drink tea?"

"It seems to me as if I've been living on rare beef and whole wheatbread ever since I can remember----"

"Oh, yes, I forgot about your being in training for the game, but youdid so magnificently, you ought not to mind it. Why, you made Harvardwin the game. We were all so proud of you. "

"All! I don't care about 'all. ' Were you proud of me?"

"Of course I was, " she answered with the loveliest blush. 

"Then it is amply repaid. "

"Let me give you another cup of tea. "

"No, thanks, I don't care about any more, but if you will let me talkto you about something-- See here, Anna. Yes, I mean Anna. Whatnonsense for us to attempt to keep up the Miss Moore and Mr. Sandersonbusiness. I used to scoff at love at first sight and say it was allthe idle fancy of the poets. Then I met you and remained to pray. You've turned my world topsy-turvy. I can't think without you, and yetit would be folly to tell this to my Governor, and ask his consent toour marriage. He wants me to finish college, take the usual triparound the world and then go into the firm. Besides, he wants me toeventually marry a cousin of mine--a girl with a lot of money and withabout as much heart as would fit on the end of a pin. "

She had followed this speech with almost painful attention. She bither lips till they were but a compressed line of coral. At last shefound words to say:

"We must not talk of these things, Mr. Sanderson. I have to go backand care for my mother. She is an invalid and needs all my attention. Bedsides, we are poor; desperately poor. I am here in your world, onlythrough the kindness of my cousin, Mrs. Tremont. "

"It was your world till a year ago, Anna. I know all about yourfather's failure, and how nobly you have done your part since then, andit kills me to think of you, who ought to have everything, spendingyour life--your youth--in that stupid little Waltham, doing the work ofa housemaid. "

"I am very glad to do my part, " she answered him bravely, but her eyeswere full of unshed tears. 

"Anna, dearest, listen to me. " He crossed over to where she sat andtook her hand. "Can't you have a little faith in me and do what I amgoing to ask you? There is the situation exactly. My father won'tconsent to our marriage, so there is no use trying to persuade him. And here you are--a little girl who needs some one to take care of youand help you take care of your mother, give her all the things thatmean so much to an invalid. Now, all this can be done, darling, if youwill only have faith in me. Marry me now secretly, before you go backto Waltham. No one need know. And then the governor can be talkedaround in time. My allowance will be ample to give you and your motherall you need. Can't you see, darling?"

The color faded from her cheeks. She looked at him with eyes asstartled as a surprised fawn. 

"O, Lennox, I would be afraid to do that. "

"You would not be afraid, Anna, if you loved me. "

It was so tempting to the weary young soul, who had already begun tosink under the accumulated burdens of the past year, not for herself, but for the sick mother, who complained unceasingly of the changedconditions of their lives. The care and attention would mean so muchto her--and yet, what right had she to encourage this man to go againstthe wishes of his father, to take advantage of his love for her? Butshe was grateful to him, and there was a wealth of tenderness in theeyes that she turned toward him. 

"No, Lennox, I appreciate your generosity, but I do not think it wouldbe wise for either of us. "

"Don't talk to me of generosity. Good God, Anna, can't you realizewhat this separation means to me? I have no heart to go on with mylife away from you. If you are going to throw me over, I shall cutcollege and go away. "

She loved him all the better for his impatience. 

"Anna, " he said--the two dark heads were close together, the madness ofthe impulse was too much for both. Their lips met in a first longkiss. The man was to have his way. The kiss proved a more eloquentargument than all his pleading. 

"Say you will, Anna. "

"Yes, " she whispered. 

And then they heard the street door open and close, and the voices ofMrs. Tremont and her daughter, as they made their way to the library. And the two young souls, who hovered on the brink of heaven, wereobliged to listen to the latest gossip of fashionable Boston. 

CHAPTER III. 

CONTAINING SOME REFLECTIONS AND THE ENTRANCE OF MEPHISTOPHELES. 

 "Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. "--_Byron_. 

Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, ofwhich, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind beingoccupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time. 

Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient tomake the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to loseher! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flewbackward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book;he smoked, but no light came from within or without. 

He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as oneunconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if toseek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of ourdaily lives. 

It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of theappointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy redcurtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparteda degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks ofhighly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves. Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark redpaper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintingsshowed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli, Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity. Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes, flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the spacebetween the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held theyoung collegian's famous collection of pipes that told the history ofsmoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down tothe present day. 

In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson's eyesfell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece. He frowned. What right had she there, when his mind was full of another? He walkedover to the picture and threw it into the fire. It was not the firstpicture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor. 

The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, whenSanderson's attention was arrested by a knock. 

"Come in, " he called, and a young man of about his own age entered. Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellentabout the new comer. His eyes were shifty and too close together to betrustworthy. Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance. 

"Well, Langdon, how are you?" his host asked, but there was no warmthin his greeting. 

"As well as a poor devil like me ever is, " began Langdon obsequiously. He sighed, looked about the comfortable room and finished with: "Luckydog. "

Sanderson stood on no ceremony with his guest, who was a thoroughlyunscrupulous young man. Once or twice Langdon had helped Sanderson outof scrapes that would have sent him home from college without hisdegree, had they come to the ears of the faculty. In return for thisassistance, Sanderson had lent him large sums of money, which the ownerentertained no hopes of recovering. Sanderson tried to balance mattersby treating Langdon with scant ceremony when they were alone. 

"Well, old man, " began his host, "I do not flatter myself that I owethis call to any personal charm. You dropped in to ease a littlefinancial embarrassment by the request of a loan--am I not right?"

"Right, as usual, Sandy, though I'd hardly call it a loan. You know Iwas put to a devil of a lot of trouble about that Newton affair, and itcost money to secure a shut mouth. "

Sanderson frowned. "This is the fifth time I have had the pleasure ofsettling for that Newton affair, Langdon. It seems to have become asort of continuous performance. "

Langdon winced. 

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Langdon. You owe me two thousand now, notcounting that poker debt. We'll call it square if you'll attend to alittle matter for me and I'll give you an extra thou. To make it worthyour while. "

"You know I am always delighted to help you, Sandy. "

"When I make it worth your while. "

"Put it that way if you wish. "

"Do you think that for once in your life you could look less like thedevil than you are naturally, and act the role of parson?"

"I might if I associate with you long enough. Saintly company mightchange my expression. "

"You won't have time to try. You've got to have your clerical look ingood working order by Friday. Incidently you are to marry me to theprettiest girl in Massachusetts and keep your mouth closed. "

As if to end the discussion, Sanderson strode over to his desk andwrote out a check for a thousand dollars. He came back, waving it inthe air to dry the ink. 

"Perhaps you will condescend to explain, " Langdon said, as he pocketedthe check. 

"Explanations are always bores, my dear boy. There is a little girlwho feels obliged to insist on formalities, not too many. She'll thinkyour acting as the parson the best joke in the world, but it would notdo to chaff her about it. "

"Oh, I see, " and Langdon's laugh was not pleasant. 

"Exactly. You will have everything ready--white choker, black coat andall the rest of it, and now, my dear boy, you've got to excuse me asI've got a lot of work on hand. "

They shook hands and Langdon's footsteps were soon echoing down thecorridor. 

The foul insinuation that Sanderson had just made about Anna rankled inhis mind. He went to the sideboard and poured himself out a good stiffdrink. After that, his conscience did not trouble him. 

The work on account of which he excused himself from Langdon's society, was apparently not of the most pressing order, for Sanderson almostimmediately started for Boston, turning his steps towards Mrs. StandishTremont's. 

"Mrs. Tremont was not at home, " the man announced at the door, "andMrs. Endicott was confined to her room with a bad headache. Should hetake his card to Miss Moore?"

Sanderson assented, feeling that fate was with him. 

"My darling, " he said, as Anna came in a moment later, and folded herclose in a long embrace. She was paler than when he had last seen herand there were dark rings under her eyes that hinted at long nightvigils. 

"Lennox, " she said, "do not think me weak, but I am terriblyfrightened. It does not seem as if we were doing the right thing byour friends. "

"Goosey girl, " he said, kissing her, "who was it that said no marriageever suited all parties unconcerned?"

She laughed. "I am thinking more of you Lennox, than of myself. Suppose your father should not forgive you, cut you off without a cent, and you should have to drudge all your life with mother and me on yourhands! Don't you think you would wish we had never met, or, at least, that I had thought of these things?"

"Suppose the sky should fall, or the sun should go out, or that I couldstop loving you, or any of the impossible things that could not happenonce in a million years. Aren't you ashamed of yourself to doubt me inthis way? Answer me, miss, " he said with mock ferocity. 

For answer she laid her cheek against his. --"I am so happy, dear, thatI am almost afraid. "

He pressed her tenderly. "And now, darling, for theconspiracy--Cupid's conspiracy. You write to your mother to-night andsay that you will be home on Wednesday because you will. Then tellMrs. Tremont that you have had a wire from her saying you must go homeFriday (I'll see that you _do_ receive such a telegram), and leaveFriday morning by the 9:40. I will keep out of the way, because theentire Tremont contingent will doubtless see you off. I will then meetyou at one of the stations near Boston. I can't tell you which, till Ihear from my friend, the Reverend John Langdon. He will haveeverything arranged. "

She looked at him with dilating eyes, her cheeks blanched with fear. 

"Anna, " he said, almost roughly, "if you have no confidence in me, Iwill go out of your life forever. "

"Yes, yes, I believe in you, " she said. "It isn't that, but it is thefirst thing I have ever kept from mother, and I would feel so much morecomfortable if she knew. "

"Baby. An' so de ittle baby must tell its muvver ev'yting, " hemimicked her, till she felt ashamed of her good impulse--an impulsewhich if she had yielded to, it would have saved her from all thebitterness she was to know. 

"And so you will do as I ask you, darling?"

"Yes. "

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, " and they sealed the bargain with a kiss. 

"Dearest, I must be going. It would never do for Mrs. Tremont to seeus together. I should forget and call you pet names, and then youwould be sent supperless to bed, like the little girls in the storybooks. "

"I suppose you must go, " she said, regretfully. 

"It will not be for long, " and with another kiss he left her. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 

 "Thus grief still treads upon the heel of pleasure, Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. "--_Congreve_. 

It seemed to Anna when Friday came, that human experience had nothingfurther to offer in the way of mental anguish and suspense. She hadthrashed out the question of her secret marriage to Sanderson till herbrain refused to work further, and there was in her mind only dread anda haunting sense of loss. If she had only herself to consider, shewould not have hesitated a moment. But Sanderson, his father, and herown mother were all involved. 

Was she doing right by her mother? At times, the advantage to theinvalid accruing from this marriage seemed manifold. Again it seemedto Anna but a senseless piece of folly, prompted by her own selfishlove for Sanderson. And so the days wore on until the eventful Fridaycame, and Anna said good-bye to Mrs. Standish Tremont with livid cheeksand tearful eyes. 

"And do you feel so badly about going away, my dear?" said the greatlady, looking at those visible signs of distress and feeling not alittle flattered by her young cousin's show of affection. "We musthave you down soon again, " and she patted Anna's cheek and hurried herinto the car, for Mrs. Tremont had a horror of scenes and signalswarned her that Anna was on the verge of tears. 

The locomotive whistled, the cars gave a jolt, and Anna Moore waslaunched on her tragic fate. She never knew how the time passed afterleaving Mrs. Tremont, till Sanderson joined her at the next station. She felt as if her will power had deserted her, and she was dumblyobeying the behests of some unseen relentless force. She looked at thestrange faces about her, hopelessly. Perhaps it was not toolate---perhaps some kind motherly woman would tell her if she weredoing right. But they all looked so strange and forbidding, and whileshe turned the question over and over in her mind, the car stopped, thebrakeman called the station and Lennox Sanderson got on. 

She turned to him in her utter perplexity, forgetting he was the causeof it. 

"My darling, how pale you are. Are you ill?"

"Not ill, but----" He would not let her finish, but reassured her bythe tenderest of looks, the warmest of hand clasps, and the terrifiedgirl began to lose the hunted feeling that she had. 

They rode on for fully an hour. Sanderson was perfectlyself-possessed. He might have been married every day in the year, forany difference it made in his demeanor. He was perfectly composed, laughed and chatted as wittily as ever. In time, Anna partook of hismood and laughed back. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off hermind. At last they stopped at a little station called Whiteford. Anold-fashioned carriage was waiting for them; they entered it and thedriver, whipped up his horses. A drive of a half mile brought them toan ideal white cottage surrounded by porches and hidden in a tangle ofvines. The door was opened for them by the Rev. John Langdon in person. He seemed a preternaturally grave young man to Anna and his clericalattire was above reproach. Any misgivings one might have had regardinghim on the score of his youth, were more than counterbalanced by hisalmost supernatural gravity. 

He apologized for the absence of his wife, saying she had been calledaway suddenly, owing to the illness of her mother. His housekeeper andgardener would act as witnesses. Sanderson hastily took Anna to oneside and said: "I forgot to tell you, darling, that I am going to bemarried by my two first names only, George Lennox. It is just thesame, but if the Sanderson got into any of those country marriagelicense papers, I should be afraid the governor would hear ofit--penalty of having a great name, you know, " he concluded gayly. "Thought I had better mention it, as it would not do to have yousurprised over your husband's name. "

Again the feeling of dread completely over-powered her. She looked athim with her great sorrowful eyes, as a trapped animal will sometimeslook at its captor, but she could not speak. Some terrible blightseemed to have overgrown her brain, depriving her of speech andwillpower. 

The witnesses entered. Anna was too agitated to notice that the Rev. John Langdon's housekeeper was a very singular looking young woman forher position. Her hair was conspicuously dark at the roots andconspicuously light on the ends. Her face was hard and when she smiledher mouth, assumed a wolfish expression. She was loudly dressed andwore a profusion of jewelry--altogether a most remarkable looking womanfor the place she occupied. 

The gardener had the appearance of having been suddenly wakened beforenature had had her full quota of sleep. He was blear-eyed and hisbreath was more redolent of liquor than one might have expected in thegardener of a parsonage. 

The room in which the ceremony was to take place was the ordinarycottage parlor, with crochet work on the chairs, and a profusion ofvases and bric-a-brac on the tables. The Rev. John Langdon requestedAnna and Sanderson to stand by a little marble table from which thehousekeeper brushed a profusion of knick-knacks. There was no Bible. Anna was the first to notice the omission. This seemed to deprive theyoung clergyman of his dignity. He looked confused, blushed, andturning to the housekeeper told her to fetch the Bible. This seemed toappeal to the housekeeper's sense of humor. She burst out laughing andsaid something about looking for a needle in a haystack. Sandersonturned on her furiously, and she left the room, looking sour, andmuttering indignantly. She returned, after what seemed an interminablespace of time, and the ceremony proceeded. 

Anna did not recognize her own voice as she answered the responses. Sanderson's was clear and ringing; his tones never faltered. When thetime came to put the ring on her finger, Anna's hand trembled soviolently that the ring fell to the floor and rolled away. Sanderson'sface turned pale. It seemed to him like a providential dispensation. For some minutes, the assembled company joined in the hunt for thering. It was found at length by the yellow-haired housekeeper, whoreturned it with her most wolfish grin. 

"Trust Bertha Harris to find things!" said the clergyman. 

The ceremony proceeded without further incident. The final words werepronounced and Anna sank into a chair, relieved that it was over, whether it was for better or for worse. 

Sanderson hurried her into the carriage before the clergyman and thewitnesses could offer their congratulations. He pulled her away fromthe yellow-haired housekeeper, who would have smothered her in anembrace, and they departed without the customary handshake from theofficiating clergyman. 

"You were not very cordial, dear, " she said, as they rolled alongthrough the early winter landscape. 

"Confound them all. I hated to see them near you"--and then, in answerto her questioning gaze--"because I love you so much, darling. I hateto see anyone touch you. "

The trees were bare; the fields stretched away brown and flat, like thefolds of a shroud, and the sun was veiled by lowering clouds of gray. It was not a cheerful day for a wedding. 

"Lennox, did you remember that this is Friday? And I have on a blackdress. "

"And now that Mrs. Lennox has settled the question of to wed or not towed, by wedding--behold, she is worrying herself about her frock andthe color of it, and the day of the week and everything else. Wasthere ever such a dear little goose?" He pinched her cheek, andshe--she smiled up at him, her fears allayed. 

"And why don't you ask where we are going, least curious of women?"

"I forgot; indeed I did. "

"We are going to the White Rose Inn. Ideal name for a place in whichto spend one's honeymoon, isn't it?"

"Any place would be ideal with you Lennie, " and she slipped her littlehand into his ruggeder palm. 

At last the White Rose Inn was sighted; it was one of those modernhostelries, built on an old English model. The windows were muslined, the rooms were wainscoted in oak, the furniture was heavy andcumbersome. Anna was delighted with everything she saw. Sanderson hadhad their sitting-room filled with crimson roses, they were everywhere;banked on the mantelpiece, on the tables and window-sills. Theirperfume was to Anna like the loving embrace of an old friend. Jacqueminots had been so closely associated with her acquaintance withSanderson, in after years she could never endure their perfume andtheir scarlet petals unnerved her, as the sight of blood does somewomen. 

A trim English maid came to assist "Mrs. Lennox, " to unpack her things. Lunch was waiting in the sitting-room. Sanderson gave minute ordersabout the icing of his own particular brand of champagne, which he hadhad sent from Boston. 

Anna had recovered her good spirits. It seemed "such a jolly lark, " asher husband said. 

"Sweetheart, your happiness, " he said, and raised his glass to hers. Her eyes sparkled like the champagne. The honeymoon at the White RoseTavern had begun very merrily. 

CHAPTER V. 

A LITTLE GLIMPSE OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN. 

 "The moon--the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shady--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range Is the moon--so called--of honey. "--_Hood_. 

"My dear, will you kindly pour me a second cup of coffee? Not becauseI really want it, you know, but entirely for the aesthetic pleasure ofseeing your pretty little hands pattering about the cups. "

Lennox Sanderson, in a crimson velvet smoking jacket, was regardingAnna with the most undisguised admiration from the other side of theround table, that held their breakfast, --their first honeymoonbreakfast, as Anna supposed it to be. 

"Anything to please my husband, " she answered with a flitting blush. 

"Your husband? Ah, say it again; it sounds awfully good from you. "

"So you don't really care for any more coffee, but just want to see myhands among the cups. How appreciative you are!" And there was amischievous twinkle in her eye as she began with great elaboration thepantomimic representation of pouring a cup of coffee, adding sugar andcream; and concluded by handing the empty cup to Sanderson. "It wouldbe such a pity to waste the coffee, Lennie, when you only wanted to seemy hands. "

"If I am not going to have the coffee, I insist on both the hands, " hesaid, taking them and kissing them repeatedly. 

"I suppose I'll have to give it to you on those terms, " and sheproceeded to fill the cup in earnest this time. 

"Let me see. How is it that you like it? One lump of sugar and quitea bit of cream? And tea perfectly clear with nothing at all and toastvery crisp and dry. Dear me, how do women ever remember all theirhusband's likes and dislikes? It's worse than learning a newmultiplication table over again, " and the most adorable puckercontracted her pretty brows. 

"And yet, see how beautifully widows manage it, even taking thethirty-third degree and here you are, complaining before you areinitiated, and kindly remember, Mrs. Lennox Sanderson, if I take butone lump of sugar in my coffee, there are other ways of sweetening it. "Presumably he got it sweetened to his satisfaction, for the proprietorof the "White Rose, " who attended personally to the wants of "Mr. AndMrs. Lennox" had to cough three times before he found it discreet toenter and inquire if everything was satisfactory. 

He bowed three times like a disjointed foot rule and then retired tocharge up the wear and tear to his backbone under the head of "specialattendance. "

"H-m-m!" sighed Sanderson, as the door closed on the bowing form of theproprietor, "that fellow's presence reminds me that we are notabsolutely alone in the world, and you had almost convinced me that wewere, darling, and that by special Providence, this grim old earth hadbeen turned into a second Garden of Eden for our benefit. Aren't yougoing to kiss me and make me forget in earnest, this time?"

"I'm sure, Lennie, I infinitely prefer the 'White Rose Inn' with you, to the Garden of Paradise with Adam. " She not only granted therequest, but added an extra one for interest. 

"You'll make me horribly vain, Anna, if you persist in preferring me toAdam; but then I dare say, Eve would have preferred him and Paradise tome and the 'White Rose. '"

"But, then, Eve's taste lacked discrimination. She had to take Adam orbecome the first girl bachelor. With me there might have beenalternatives. "

"There might have been others, to speak vulgarly?"

"Exactly. "

"By Jove, Anna, I don't see how you ever did come to care for me!" Thelaughter died out of his eyes, his face grew prefer naturally grave, hestrode over to the window and looked out on the desolate landscape. For the first time he realized the gravity of his offense. His crimeagainst this girl, who had been guilty of nothing but loving him toodeeply stood out, stripped of its trappings of sentiment, in all itsfoul selfishness. He would right the wrong, confess to her; but no, hedare not, she was not the kind of woman to condone such an offense. 

"Needles and pins, needles and pins, when a man's married his troublebegins, " quoted Anna gayly, slipping up behind him and, putting herarms about his neck; "one would think the old nursery ballad was true, to look at you, Lennox Sanderson. I never saw such a married-manexpression before in my life. You wanted to know why I fell in lovewith you. I could not help it, because you are YOU. "

She nestled her head in his shoulder and he forgot his scruples in thesorcery of her presence. 

"Darling, " he said; taking her in his arms, with perhaps the mostgenuine affection he ever felt for her, "I wish we could spend ourlives here in this quiet little place, and that there were notroublesome relations or outside world demanding us. "

"So do I, dear, " she answered, "but it could not last; we are tooperfectly happy. "

Neither spoke for some minutes. At that time he loved her as deeply asit was possible for him to love anyone. Again the impulse came to tellher, beg for forgiveness and make reparation. He was holding her inhis arms, considering. A moment more, and he would have given way tothe only unselfish impulse in his life. But again the knock, followedby the discreet cough of the proprietor. And when he entered to tellthem that the horses were ready for their drive, "Mrs. Lennox" hastenedto put on her jacket and "Mr. Lennox" thanked his stars that he had notspoken. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE WAYS OF DESOLATION. 

 "Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom when betray'd. "--_Moore_. 

Four months had elapsed since the honeymoon at the White Rose Tavern, and Anna was living at Waltham with her mother who grew more fretfuland complaining every day. The marriage was still the secret of Annaand Sanderson. The honeymoon at the White Rose had been prolonged to aweek, but no suspicion had entered the minds of Mrs. Moore or Mrs. Standish Tremont, thanks to Sanderson's skill in sending fictitioustelegrams, aided by so skilled an accomplice as the "Rev. " John Langdon. 

Week after week, Anna had yielded to Sanderson's entreaties and kepther marriage a secret from her mother. At first he had sent herremittances of money with frequent regularity, but, lately, they hadbegun to fall off, his letters were less frequent, shorter and morereserved in tone, and the burden of it all was crushing the youth outof the girl and breaking her spirit. She had grown to look like somegreat sorrowful-eyed Madonna, and her beauty had in it more of thespiritual quality of an angel than of a woman. As the spring came on, and the days grew longer she looked like one on whom the hand of deathhad been laid. 

Her friends noticed this, but not her mother, who was so engrossed withher own privations, that she had no time or inclination for anythingelse. 

"Anna, Anna, to think of our coming to this!" she would wail a dozentimes a day--or, "Anna, I can't stand it another minute, " and she wouldburst into paroxysms of grief, from which nothing could arouse her, andutterly exhausted by her own emotions, which were chiefly regret andself-pity, she would sink off to sleep. Anna had no difficulty inaccounting to her mother for the extra comforts with which LennoxSanderson's money supplied them. Mrs. Standish Tremont sometimes sentchecks and Mrs. Moore never bothered about the source, so long as theluxuries were forthcoming. 

"Is there no more Kumyss, Anna?" she asked one day. 

"No, mother. "

"Then why did you neglect to order it?"

The girl's face grew red. "There was no money to pay for it, mother. I am so sorry. "

"And does Frances Tremont neglect us in this way? When we were bothgirls, it was quite the other way. My father practically adoptedFrances Tremont. She was married from our house. But you see, Anna, she made a better marriage than I. Oh, why was your father soreckless? I warned him not to speculate in the rash way he wasaccustomed to doing, but he would never take my advice. If he had, wewould not be as we are now. " And again the poor lady was overcome withher own sorrows. 

It was not Mrs. Tremont's check that had bought the last Kumyss. Infact, Mrs. Tremont, after the manner of rich relations, troubled herhead but little about her poor ones. Sanderson had sent no money fornearly a month, and Anna would have died sooner than have asked for it. He had been to Waltham twice to see Anna, and once she had gone to meethim at the White Rose Tavern. Mrs. Moore, wrapped in gloom at the lossof her own luxury, had no interest in the young man who came down fromBoston to call on her daughter. 

"You met him at Cousin Frances's, did you say? I don't see how you canask him here to this abominable little house. A girl should have goodsurroundings, Anna. Nothing detracts from a girl's beauty so much ascheap surroundings. Oh, my dear, if you had only been settled in lifebefore all this happened, I would not complain. " And, as usual, therewere more tears. 

But the wailings of her mother, over departed luxuries, and the povertyof her surroundings were the lightest of Anna's griefs. At their lastmeeting--she had gone to him in response to his request--Sanderson'smanner had struck dumb terror into the heart of the girl who hadsacrificed so much at his bidding. She had been very pale. The strainof facing the terrible position in which she found herself, coupledwith her own failing health, had robbed her of the beautiful color hehad always so frankly admired. Her eyes were big and hollow looking, and the deep black circles about them only added to her unearthlyappearance. There were drawn lines of pain about the mouth, thatrobbed the Cupid's bow of half its beauty. 

"My God, Anna!" he had said to her impatiently. "A man might as welltry to love a corpse as a woman who looks like that. " He led her overto a mirror, that she might see her wasted charms. There was no needfor her to look. She knew well enough, what was reflected there. 

"You have no right to let yourself get like this. The only thing awoman has is her looks, and it is a crime if she throws them awayworrying and fretting. "

"But Lennox, " she answered, desperately, "I have told you how mattersstand with me, and mother knows nothing--suspects nothing. " And thegirl broke down and wept as if her heart would break. 

"Anna, for Heaven's sake, do stop crying. I hate a scene worse thananything in the world. When a woman cries, it means but one thing, andthat is that the man must give in--and in this particular instance Ican't give in. It would ruin me with the governor to acknowledge ourmarriage. "

The girl's tears froze at his brutal words. She looked about dazed andhopeless. 

Sanderson was standing by the window, drumming a tattoo on the pane. He wheeled about, and said slowly, as if he were feeling his way:

"Anna, suppose I give you a sum of money and you go away till all thisbusiness is over. You can tell your mother or not; just as you seefit. As far as I am concerned, it would be impossible for me toacknowledge our marriage as I have said before. If the governor foundit out, he would cut me off without a cent. "

"But, Lennox, I cannot leave my mother. Her health grows worse daily, and it would kill her. "

"Then take her with you. She's got to know, sooner or later, Isuppose. Now, don't be a stupid little girl, and everything will turnout well for us. " He patted her cheek, but it was done perfunctorily, and Anna knew there was no use in making a further appeal to him. 

"Well, my dear, " he said, "I have got to take that 4. 30 train back toCambridge. Here is something for you, and let me know just as soon asyou make up your mind, when you intend to go and where. There is nouse in your staying in Waltham till those old cats begin to talk. "

He put a roll of bills in her hand, kissed her and was gone, and Annaturned her tottering steps homeward, sick at heart. She must tell hermother, and the shock of it might kill her. She pressed her hands overher burning eyes to blot out the hideous picture. Could cruel fateoffer bitterer dregs to young lips?

She stopped at the postoffice for mail. There was nothing but thedaily paper. She took it mechanically and turned into the little sidestreet on which they lived. 

The old family servant, who still lived with them, met her at the door, and told her that her mother had been sleeping quietly for more than anhour. 

"Good gracious, Miss Anna, but you do look ill. Just step into theparlor and sit down for a minute, and I'll make you a cup of tea. "

Anna suffered herself to be led into the little room, smilinggratefully at the old servant as she assisted her to remove her hat andjacket. She took up the paper mechanically and glanced through itscontents. Her eyes fell on the following item, which she followed withhypnotic interest: "Harvard Student in Disgrace!" was the headline. 

"John Langdon, a Harvard student, was arrested on the complaint ofBertha Harris, a young woman, well known in Boston's gas-light circles, yesterday evening. They had been dining together at a well-known chophouse, when the woman, who appeared to be slightly under the influenceof liquor, suddenly arose and declared that Langdon was trying to robher. 

"Both were arrested on the charge of creating a disturbance. At theState Street Police Station the woman said that Langdon had performed amock marriage for a fellow student some four months ago. She had actedas a witness, for which service she was to receive $50. The money hadnever been paid. She stated further that the young man, whom Langdonis alleged to have married, is the son of a wealthy Boston banker, andthe young woman who was thus deceived is a young relative of one ofBoston's social leaders. 

"Later Bertha Harris withdrew her charges, saying she was intoxicatedwhen she made them. The affair has created a profound sensation. "

"Mock marriage!" The words whirled before the girl's eyes in lettersof fire. Bertha Harris! Yes, that was the name. It had struck her atthe time when Sanderson dropped the ring. Langdon had said "BerthaHarris has found it. "

The light of her reason seemed to be going out. From the blacknessthat engulfed her, the words "mock marriage" rang in her ear like thecry of the drowning. 

"God, oh God!" she called and the pent up agony of her wrecked life wasin the cry. 

They found her senseless a moment later, staring up at the ceiling withglassy eyes, the crumpled paper crushed in her hand. 

"She is dead, " wailed her mother. The old servant wasted no time inwords. She lifted up the fragile form and laid it tenderly on the bed. Then she raised the window and called to the first passerby to run forthe nearest doctor. 

CHAPTER VII. 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

 A mother's love--how sweet the name! What is a mother's love? --A noble, pure and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould; The warmest love that can grow cold; That is a mother's love. --_James Montgomery_. 

It took all the medical skill of which the doctor was capable, and thebest part of twenty-four hours of hard work to rouse Anna from thedeath-like lethargy into which she had fallen. Toward morning sheopened her eyes and turning to her mother, said appealingly:

"Mother, you believe I am innocent, don't you?"

"Certainly, darling, " Mrs. Moore replied, without knowing in the leastto what her daughter referred. The doctor, who was present at thetime, turned away. He knew more than the mother. It was one of thosetragedies of everyday life that meant for the woman the fleeing awayfrom old associations, like a guilty thing, long months of hiding, thefacing of death; and, if death was not to be, the beginning of lifeover again branded with shame. And all this bitter injustice becauseshe had loved much and had faith in the man she loved. The doctor hadfaced tragedies before in his professional life, but never had he felthis duty so heavily laid upon him as when he begged Mrs. Moore for afew minutes' private conversation in the gray dawn of that earlymorning. 

He felt that the life of his patient depended on his preparing hermother for the worst. The girl, he knew, would probably confess allduring her convalescence, and the mother must be prepared, so that thefirst burst of anguish would have expended itself before the girlshould have a chance to pour out the story of her misfortune. 

"Tell me, doctor, is she going to die?" the mother asked, as she closedthe door of the little sitting-room and they were alone. The poor ladyhad not thought of her own misfortunes since Anna's illness. Theselfishness of the woman of the world was completely obliterated by theanxiety of the mother. 

"No, she will not die, Mrs. Moore; that is, if you are able to controlyour feelings sufficiently, after I have made a most distressingdisclosure, to give her the love and sympathy that only you can. "

She looked at him with troubled eyes. "Why, doctor, what do you mean?My daughter has always had my love and sympathy, and if of late I haveappeared somewhat engrossed by my own troubles, I assure you mydaughter is not likely to suffer from it during her illness. "

"Her life depends on how you receive what I am going to tell you. Should you upbraid her with her misfortune, or fail to stand by her asonly a mother can, I shall not answer for the consequences. " Then hetold her Anna's secret. 

The stricken woman did not cry out in her anguish, nor swoon away. Sheraised a feebly protesting hand, as if to ward off a cruel blow; thenburying her face in her arms, she cowed before him. Not a sob shookthe frail, wasted figure. It was as if this most terrible misfortunehad dried up the well-springs of grief and robbed her of the blessedgift of tears. The woman who in one brief year had lost everythingthat life held dear to her--husband, home, wealth, position--everythingbut this one child, could not believe the terrible sentence that hadbeen pronounced against her. Her Anna--her little girl! Why, she wasonly a child! Oh, no, it could not be true. She never, never wouldbelieve it. 

Her brain whirled and seemed to stop. It refused to grasp so hideous aproposition. The doctor was momentarily at a loss to know how to dealwith this terrible dry-eyed grief. The set look in her eyes, theterrible calm of her demeanor were so much more alarming than thewildest outpourings of grief would, have been. 

"And this seizure, Mrs. Moore. Tell me exactly how it was broughtabout, " thinking to turn the current of her thoughts even for a moment. 

She told him how Anna had gone out in the early afternoon, withoutsaying where she was going, and how she had returned to the house aboutfive o'clock, looking so pale and ill, that Hannah, an old familyservant who still lived with them, noticed it and begged her to sitdown while she went to fetch her a cup of tea. The maid left hersitting by the fire-place reading a paper, and the next thing was theterrible cry that brought them both. They found her lying on the floorunconscious with the crumpled newspaper in her hand. 

"See, here is the paper now, doctor, " and he stooped to pick up thecrumpled sheet from which the girl had read her death warrant. Together they went over it in the hope that it might furnish some clue. Mrs. Moore's eyes were the first to fall on the fatal paragraph. Sheread it through, then showed it to the doctor. 

"That is undoubtedly the cause of the seizure, " said the doctor. 

"Oh, my poor, poor darling, " moaned the mother, and the first tearsfell. 

In the first bitterness of regret, Mrs. Moore imagined that inselfishly abandoning herself to her own grief, she must have neglectedher daughter, and her remorse knew no bounds. Again and again shebitterly denounced herself for giving way to sorrow that now seemedlight and trivial, compared to the black hopelessness of the present. 

Anna's mind wandered in her delirium, and she would talk of hermarriage and beg Sanderson to let her tell her mother all. Then shewould fancy that she was again with Mrs. Tremont and she would gothrough the pros and cons of the whole affair. Should she marry himsecretly, as he wished? Yes, it would be better for poor mama, whoneeded so many comforts, but was it right? And then the passionateappeal to Sanderson. Couldn't he realize her position?----

"Yes, darling, it is all right. Mother understands, " the heartbrokenwoman would repeat over and over again, but the sick girl could nothear. 

And so the days wore on, till at last Anna's wandering mind turned backto earth, and again took up the burden of living. There was nothingfor her to tell her mother. In her delirium she had told all, and themother was prepared to bravely face the worst for her daughter's sake. 

The terrible blow brought mother and daughter closer together than theyhad been for years. In their prosperity, the young girl had been busywith her governess and instructors, while her mother had made a fineart of her invalidism and spent the greater part of her time at healthresorts, baths and spas. 

By mutual consent, they decided that it was better not to attempt toseek redress from Sanderson. Anna's letters, written during herconvalescence, had remained unanswered, and any effort to force him, either by persuasion or process of law, to right the terrible wrong hehad done, was equally repulsive to both mother and daughter. 

Mrs. Standish Tremont was also equally out of the question, as a courtof final appeal. She had been so piqued with Anna for interfering withher most cherished plans regarding Sanderson and Grace Tremont, thatAnna knew well enough that there would only be further humiliation inseeking mercy from that quarter. 

So mother and daughter prepared to face the inevitable alone. To thisend, Mrs. Moore sold the last of her jewelry. She had kept it, thinking that Anna would perhaps marry some day and appreciate theheirlooms; but such a contingent was no longer to be considered, andthe jewelry, and the last of the family silver, were sent to be sold, together with every bit of furniture with which they could dispense, and mother and daughter left the little cottage in Waltham, and went tothe town of Belden, New Hampshire, --a place so inconceivably remote, that there was little chance of any of their former friends being ableto trace them, even if they should desire to do so. 

As the summer days grew shorter, and the hour of Anna's ordeal grewnear, Mrs. Moore had but one prayer in her heart, and that was that herlife might be spared till her child's troubles were over. Since Anna'sillness in the early spring, she had utterly disregarded herself. Nocomplaint was heard to pass her lips. Her time was spent in oneunselfish effort to make her daughter's life less painful. But thestrain of it was telling, and she knew that life with her was but thequestion of weeks, perhaps days. As her physical grasp grew weaker, her mental hold increased proportionately, and she determined to livetill she had either closed her child's eyes in death, or left her withsomething for which to struggle, as she herself was now struggling. 

But the poor mother's last wish was not to be granted. In thebeginning of September, just when the earth was full of golden promiseof autumn, she felt herself going. She felt the icy hand of death ather heart and the grim destroyer whispered in her ear: "Make ready. "Oh, the anguish of going just then, when she was needed so sorely byher deceived and deserted child. 

"Anna, darling, " she called feebly, "I cannot be with you; I amgoing--I have prayed to stay, but it was not to be. Your child willcomfort you, darling. There is nothing like a child's love, Anna, tomake a woman forget old sorrows--kiss me, dear----" She was gone. 

And so Anna was to go down into the valley of the shadow of deathalone, and among strangers. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

IN DAYS OF WAITING. 

 "Bent o'er her babe, her eyes dissolved in dew, The big drops mingled with the milk he drew Gave the sad presage of his future years-- The child of misery, baptized in tears. "--_John Langhorne_. 

The days of Anna's waiting lagged. She lost all count of time andseason. Each day was painfully like its predecessor, a period of timeto be gone through with, as best she could. She realized after hermother's death what the gentle companionship had been to her, what aprop the frail mother had become in her hour of need. For a greatchange had come over the querulous invalid with the beginning of herdaughter's troubles, the grievances of the woman of the world wereforgotten in the anxiety of the mother, and never by look or word didshe chide her daughter, or make her affliction anything but easier tobear by her gentle presence. 

Anna, sunk in the stupor of her own grief, did not realize the comfortof her mother's presence until it was too late. She shrank from thestrangers with whom they made their little home--a middle agedshopkeeper and his wife, who had been glad enough to rent them twounused rooms in their house at a low figure. They were not lacking insympathy for young "Mrs. Lennox, " but their disposition to askquestions made Anna shun them as she would have an infection. Afterher mother's death, they tried harder than ever to be kind to her, butthe listless girl, who spent her days gazing at nothing, was hardlyaware of their comings and goings. 

"If you would only try to eat a bit, my dear, " said the corpulent Mrs. Smith, bustling into Anna's room. "And land sakes, don't take on so. There you set in that chair all day long. Just rouse yourself, mydear; there ain't no trouble, however bad, but could be wuss. "

To this dismal philosophy, Anna would return a wan smile, while shefelt her heart almost break within her. 

"And, Mrs. Lennox, don't mind what I say to you. I am old enough to beyour grandmother, but if you have quarreled with any one, don't be toospunky now about making up. Spunk is all right in its place, but itsplace ain't at the bedside of a young woman who's got to face the trialof her life. If you have quarreled with any one--your--your husband, say, now is the time to make it up, since your ma is gone. "

The old woman looked at her with a strange mixture of motherliness andcuriosity. As she said to her husband a dozen times a day, "her heartjust ached for that pore young thing upstairs, " but this tendersolicitude did not prevent her ears from aching, at the same time, tohear Anna's story. 

"Thank you very much for your kind interest, Mrs. Smith; but really, you must let me judge of my own affairs. " There was a dignity aboutthe girl that brooked no further interference. 

"That's right, my dear, and I wouldn't have thought of suggesting it, but you do seem that young--well, I must be going down to put thepotatoes on for dinner. If you want anything, just ring your bell. "

There was not the least resentment cherished by the corpulent Mrs. Smith. The girl's answer confirmed her opinion from the first. "Shewould not send for her husband, because there wasn't no husband to sendfor. " She mentioned her convictions to her husband and added she meantto write to sister Eliza that very night. 

"Sister Eliza has an uncommon light hand with babies and that poreyoung thing'll be hard pushed to pay the doctor, let alone a nurse. "

These essentially feminine details regarding the talents of SisterEliza, did not especially interest Smith, who continued his favoriteoccupation--or rather, joint occupations, of whittling andexpectorating. Nevertheless, the letter to Sister Eliza was written, and not a minute sooner than was necessary; for, the little soul thatwas to bring with it forgetfulness for all the agony through which itsmother had lived during that awful year, came very soon after thearrival of Sister Eliza. 

Anna had felt in those days of waiting that she could never again behappy; that for her "finis" had been written by the fates. But, as shelay with the dark-haired baby on her breast, she found herself planningfor the little girl's future; even happy in the building of thoseheavenly air-castles that young mothers never weary of building. Shefelt the necessity of growing strong so that she could work early andlate, for baby must have everything, even if mother went without. Sometimes a fleeting likeness to Sanderson would flit across thechild's face, and a spasm of pain would clutch at Anna's heart, but shewould forget it next moment in one of baby's most heavenly smiles. 

She could think of him now without a shudder; even a lingering remnantof tenderness would flare up in her heart when she remembered he wasthe baby's father. Perhaps he would see the child sometime, and hersweet baby ways would plead to him more eloquently than could all herwords to right the wrong he had done, and so the days slipped by andthe little mother was happy, after the long drawn out days of waitingand misery. She would sing the baby to sleep in her low contraltovoice, and feel that it mattered not whether the world smiled orfrowned on her, so long as baby approved. 

But this blessed state of affairs was not long to continue. Anna, asshe grew stronger, felt the necessity of seeking employment, but tothis the baby proved a formidable obstacle. No one would give a youngwoman, hampered with a child, work. She would come back to the baby atnight worn out in mind and body, after a day of fruitless searching. These long trips of the little mother, with the consequent long absenceand exhaustion on her return, did not improve the little one's health, and almost before Anna realized it was ailing, the baby sickened anddied. It was her cruelest blow. For the child's sake she had taken upher interest in life, made plans; and was ready to work her fingers tothe bone, but it was not to be and with the first falling of the clodson the little coffin, Anna felt the last ray of hope extinguished fromher heart. 

CHAPTER IX. 

ON THE THRESHOLD OF SHELTER. 

 Alas! To-day I would give everything To see a friend's face, or hear voice That had the slightest tone of comfort in it. --_Longfellow_. 

About two miles from the town of Belden, N. H. , stands an irregular farmhouse that looks more like two dwellings forced to pass as one. One partof it is all gables, and tile, and chimney corners, and antiquity, andthe other is square, slated, and of the newest cut, outside and in. 

The farm is the property of Squire Amasa Bartlett, a good type of the bigman of the small place. He was a contented and would have been a happyman--or at least thought he would have been--if the dearest wish of hislife could have been realized. It was that his son, Dave, and his wife'sniece, Kate, should marry. Kate was an orphan and the Squire's ward. She owned the adjoining land, that was farmed with the Squire's as one. So that Cupid would not have come to them empty handed; but the youngpeople appeared to have little interest in each other apart from thatcousinly affection which young people who are brought together would inall probability feel for each other. 

Dave was a handsome, dark-eyed young man, whose silence passed with somefor sulkiness; but he was not sulky--only deep and thoughtful, andperhaps a little more devoid of levity than becomes a young man oftwenty-five. He had great force of character--you might have seen thatfrom his grave brow, and felt it in his simple speech and manner, thatwas absolutely free from affectation. 

Dave was his mother's idol, but his utter lack of worldliness, hisinability to drive a shrewd bargain sometimes annoyed his father, who wasa just, but an undeniably hard man, who demanded a hundred cents for hisdollar every day in the year. 

Kate, whom the family circle hoped would one day be David's wife, was allblonde hair, blue eyes and high spirits, so that the little blind god, aided by the Squire's strategy, propinquity and the universal law of theattraction of opposites, should have had no difficulty in making theseyoung people fall in love--but Destiny, apparently, decided to make themexceptions to all rules. 

Kate was fond of going to Boston to visit a schoolmate, and the Squire, who looked with small favor on these visits, was disposed to attributethem to Dave's lack of ardor. 

"Confound it, Looizy, " he would say to his wife, "if Dave made it morelively for Kate she would not be fer flying off to Boston every time shegot a chance. "

And Mrs. Bartlett had no answer. Having a woman's doubtful gift ofintuition, she was afraid that the wedding would never take place, andalso having a woman's tact she never annoyed her husband by saying so. 

Kate, who had been in Boston for two months, was coming home about themiddle of July, and a little flutter of preparation went all over thefarm. 

Dave had said at breakfast that he regretted not being able to go toWakefield to meet Kate, but that he would be busy in the north field allday. Hi Holler, the Bartlett chore boy, had been commissioned to go inhis stead, and Hi's toilet, in consequence, had occupied most of themorning. 

Mrs. Bartlett was churning in the shadow of the wide porch, the Squirewas mending a horse collar with wax thread, and fussing about the heatand the slowness of Hi Holler, who was always punctually fifteen minuteslate for everything. 

"Confound it, Looizy, what's keeping that boy; the train'll get in beforehe's started. Here you, Hi, what's keeping you?"

The delinquent stood in the doorway, his broad face rippling with smiles;he had spent time on his toilet, but he felt that the result justified it. 

His high collar had already begun to succumb to the day, and the laborinvolved in greasing his boots, which were much in evidence, owing to thebrevity of the white duck trousers that needed but one or two morewashings, with the accompanying process of shrinking, to convert theminto knickerbockers. Bear's grease had turned his ordinary curling brownhair into a damp, shining mass that dripped in tiny rills, from time totime, down on his coat collar, but Hi was happy. Beau Brummel, at theheight of his sartorial fame, never achieved a more self-satisfyingtoilet. 

The Squire adjusted his spectacles. "What are you dressing up like thaton a week day for, Hi? Off with you now; and if you ain't in time forthem cars you'll catch 'Hail Columbia' when you get back. "

"Looizy, " said the Squire, as soon as Hi was out of hearing, "why didn'tDave go after Katie? Yes, I know about the hay. Hay is hay, but itought not to come first in a man's affections. "

"You'd better let 'em alone, Amasy; if they're going to marry they willwithout any help from us; love affairs don't seem to prosper much, whenold folks interfere. "

"Looizy, it's my opinion that Dave's too shy to make up to women folks. I don't think he'll even get up the courage to ask Kate to marry him. "

"Well, I never saw the man yet who was too bashful to propose to theright woman. " And a great deal of decision went into the churning thataccompanied her words. 

"Mebbe so, mebbe so, " said the Squire. He felt that the vagaries of theaffections was too deep a subject for him. "Anyhow, Looizy, I don't wantno old maids and bachelors potterin' round this farm getting crankynotions in their heads. Look at the professor. Why, a good woman wouldhave taken the nonsense out of him years ago. "

Mrs. Bartlett did not have to go far to look at the professor. He wasflying about her front garden at that very moment in an apparentlydistracted state, crouching, springing, hiding back of bushes andreappearing with the startling swiftness of magic. The Bartletts werequite used to these antics on the part of their well-paying summerboarder. He was chasing butterflies--a manifestly insane proceeding, ofcourse, but if a man could afford to pay ten dollars a week for summerboard in the State of New Hampshire, he could afford to chase butterflies. 

Professor Sterling was an old young man who had given up his life toentomology; his collection of butterflies was more vital to him than anyliving issue; the Bartletts regarded him as a mild order of lunatic, whose madness might have taken a more dangerous form than making up longnames for every-day common bugs. 

"Look at him, just look at him, Looizy, sweating himself a day like this, over a common dusty miller. It beats all, and with his money. "

"Well, it's a harmless amusement, " said the kindly Louisa, "there's aheap more harmful things that a man might chase than butterflies. "

The stillness of the midsummer day was broken by the sound of far-offsinging. It came in full-toned volume across the fields, the highsoaring of women's voices blended with the deeper harmony of men. 

"What's that?" said the Squire testily, looking in the direction of thestrawberry beds, from whence the singing came. 

"It's only the berry-pickers, father, " said David, coming through thefield gate and going over to the well for a drink. 

"I wish they'd work more and sing less, " said the Squire. "All thissinging business is too picturesque for me. "

"They've about finished, father. I came for the money to pay them off. "

It was characteristic of Dave to uphold the rights of the berry-pickers. They were all friends of his, young men and women who sang in the villagechoir and who went out among their neighbors' berry patches in summer, and earned a little extra money in picking the fruit. The villagethought only the more of them for their thrift, and their singing at theclose of their work was generally regarded in the light of a favor. Zeke, Sam, Cynthia and Amelia who formed the quartet, had all fine voicesand no social function for miles around Wakefield was complete withouttheir music. 

The Squire said no more about the berry-pickers. Dave handed him a paperon which the time of each berry-picker and the amount of his or her wagewas marked opposite. The Squire took it and adjusted his glasses with acertain grimness--he was honest to the core, but few things came harderto him than parting with money. 

Dave and his mother at the churn exchanged a friendly wink. Theextracting of coin from the head of the house was no easy process. Mother and son both enjoyed its accomplishment through an outside agency. It was too hard a process in the home circle to be at all agreeable. 

While the Squire was wrestling with his arithmetic, Dave noticed astrange girl pass by the outer gate, pause, go on and then return. Helooked at her with deep interest. She was so pale and tired-looking itseemed as if she had not strength enough left to walk to the house. Herlong lashes rested wearily on the pale cheeks. She lifted them with aneffort, and Dave found himself staring eagerly in a pair of great, sorrowful brown eyes. 

The girl came on unsteadily up the walk to where the Squire sat, thumbinghis account to the berry-pickers. "Well, girl, who are you?" he said, not as unkindly as the words might imply. 

The sound of her own voice, as she tried to answer his question, was likethe far-off droning of a river. It did not seem to belong to her. "Myname is Moore--Anna Moore--and I thought--I hoped perhaps you might begood enough to give me work. " The strange faces spun about her eyes. She tottered and would have fallen if Dave had not caught her. 

Dave, the silent, the slow of action, the cool-headed, seemed suddenlybereft of his chilling serenity. "Here, mother, a chair; father, somewater, quick. " He carried the swooning girl to the shadow of the porchand fanned her tenderly with his broad-brimmed straw hat. 

The old people hastened to do his bidding. Dave, excited and issuingorders in that tone, was too unusual to be passed over lightly. 

"What were you going to say, Miss Moore?" said the Squire as soon as thebrown eyes opened. 

"I thought, perhaps, I might find something to do here--I'm looking forwork. "

"Why, my dear, " said Mrs. Bartlett, smoothing the dark curls, "you arenot fit to stand, let alone work. "

"You could not earn your salt, " was the Squire's less sympathetic way ofexpressing the same sentiment. "Where is your home?"

"I have no home. " She looked at them desperately, her dark eyesappealing to one and the other, as if they were the jury that held herlife in the balance. Only one pair of eyes seemed to hold out any hope. 

"If you would only try me I could soon prove to you that I am notworthless. " Unconsciously she held out her hand in entreaty. 

"Here we are, here we are, all off for Boston!" The voice was Hi's. Hewas just turning in at the field gate with Kate beside him. Kate, aravishing vision, in pink muslin; a smiling, contented vision of happy, rosy girlhood, coming back to the home-nest, where a thousand welcomesawaited her. 

"Hello, every one!" she said, running in and kissing them in turn, "hownice it is to be home. "

They forgot the homeless stranger and her pleading for shelter in theirglad welcome to the daughter of the house. She had shrunk back into theshadow. She had never felt the desolation, the utter loneliness of herposition so keenly before. 

"Hurrah for Kate!" cried the Squire, and everyone took it up and gavethree cheers for Kate Brewster. 

The wanderer withdrew into the deepest shadow of the porch, that heralien presence might not mar the joyous home-coming of Kate Brewster. There was no jealousy in her soul for the fair girl who had such a royalwelcome back to the home-nest. She would not have robbed her of it ifsuch a thing had been possible, but the sense of her own desolationgripped at the heart like an iron band. 

She waited like a mendicant to beg for the chance of earning her bread. That was all she asked--the chance to work, to eat the bread ofindependence, and yet she knew how slim the chance was. She had beenwandering about seeking employment all day, and no one would give it. 

Only Dave had not forgotten the stranger is the joy of Kate'shome-coming. He had welcomed the flurry of excitement to say a few wordsto his mother, his sworn ally in all the little domestic plots. 

"Mother, " he said, "do contrive to keep that girl. It would be nothingshort of murder to turn her out on the highway. "

A pressure of the motherly hand assured Dave that he could rely on hersupport. 

"Well, well, Katie, " said the Squire with his arm around his niece'swaist, "the old place has been lonely without you!"

"Uncle, who is that girl on the porch?" she asked in an undertone. 

"That we don't know; says her name is Moore, and that she wants work. Kind of sounds like a fairy story, don't it, Kate?"

"Poor thing, poor thing!" was Kate's only answer. 

"Amasy, " said Mrs. Bartlett, assuming all the courage of a rabbit aboutto assert itself, "this family is bigger than it was with Kate home andthe professor here, and I am not getting younger--I want you to let mekeep this young woman to help me about the house. "

The Squire set his jaw, always an ominous sign to his family. "I don'tlike this takin' strangers, folks we know nothing about; it's mightysuspicious to see a young woman tramping around the country, without ahome, looking for work. I don't like it. "

The girl, who sat apart while these strangers considered taking her in, as if she had been a friendless dog, arose, her eyes were full of unshedtears, her voice quivered, but pride supported her. Turning to theSquire, she said:

"You are suspicious because you are blest with both home and family. Mymother died a few months ago, I myself have been ill. I make thisexplanation not because your kindness warrants it, sir, but because yourfamily would have been willing to take me on faith. " She bowed her headin the direction of Mrs. Bartlett and Dave. 

"Well, " the Squire interrupted, "you need not go away hungry, you canstop here and eat your dinner, and then Hi Holler can take you in thewagon to the place provided for such unfortunate cases, and where you'llhave food and shelter. "

"The poor farm, do you mean?" the girl said, wildly; "no, no; if you willnot give me work I will not take your charity. "

"Father!" exclaimed Dave and his mother together. 

"Now, now, " said Kate, going up to the Squire and putting her hands onhis shoulders, "it seems to me as if my uncle's been getting a littlehard while I've been away from home, and I don't think it has improvedhim a bit. The uncle I left here had a heart as big as a house. Whathas he done with it?"

Here the professor came to Kate's aid. "Squire, " said he, "isn't itwritten that 'If ye do it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me?'"

"Well, well, " said the Squire, "when a man's family are against him, there's only one thing for him to do if he wants any peace of mind, andthat is to come round to their way, and I ain't never goin' to have itsaid I went agin the _Scripter_. " He went over to Anna and took herpale, thin hand in his great brown one. 

"Well, little woman, they want you to stay, and I am not going tointerfere. I leave it to you that I won't live to regret it. "

This time the tears splashed down the pale cheeks. "Dear sir, I thankyou, and I promise you shall never repent this kindness. " Then turningto the rest--"I thank you all. I can only repay you by doing my best. "

"Well said, well said, " and Kate gave her a sisterly pat on the shoulder. 

Anna would not listen to Mrs. Bartlett's kind suggestion that she shouldrest a little while. She went immediately to the house, removed her hat, and returned completely enveloped in a big gingham apron that provedwonderfully becoming to her dark beauty--or was it that the homeless, hunted look had gone out of those sorrowful eyes?

And so Anna Moore had found a home at last, one in which she would haveto work early and late to retain a foothold--but still a home, and theword rang in her ears like a soothing song, after the anguish of the lastyear. Her youth and beauty, she had long since discovered, were onlybarriers to the surroundings she sought. There had been many who offeredto help the friendless girl, but their offers were such that death seemedpreferable, by contrast, and Anna had gone from place to place, seekingonly the right to earn her bread, and yet, finding only temptation anddanger. 

Dave, passing out to the barn, stopped for a moment to regard her, as shesat on the lowest step of the porch, with her sleeves rolled above theelbow, working a bowl of butter. He smiled at her encouragingly--it waswell that none of his family saw it. Such a smile from the shy, silentDave might have been a revelation to the home circle. 

[Illustration: Martha Perkins and Maria Poole. ]

CHAPTER X. 

ANNA AND SANDERSON AGAIN MEET. 

 "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turn'd Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd. "--_Congreve_. 

"And who be you, with those big brown eyes, sitting on the Bartlett'sporch working that butter as if you've been used to handling butter allyour life? No city girl, I'm sure. " Anna had been at the Squire's fora week when the above query was put to her. 

The voice was high and rasping. The whole sentence was deliveredwithout breath or pause, as if it was one long word. The speaker mighthave been the old maid as portrayed in the illustrated weekly. Nothingwas lacking--corkscrew curls, prunella boots, cameo brooch and chain, agown of the antiquated Redingote type, trimmed with many small rufflesand punctuated, irrelevantly, with immovable buttons. 

"I am Anna Moore. "

"Know as much now as I ever did, " snapped the interlocutor. 

"I have come to work for Mrs. Bartlett, to help her about the house. "

"Land sakes. Bartlett's keeping help! How stylish they're getting. "

"Yes, Marthy, we are progressing, " said Kate, coming out of the house. "Anna, this is our friend, Miss Marthy Perkins. "

The village gossip's confusion was but momentary. "Do you know, Kate, I just came over a-purpose to see if you'd come. What kind of clothesare they wearing in Boston? Are shirtwaists going to have tucked backsor plain? I am going to make over my gray alpaca, and I wouldn't putthe scissors into it till I seen you. "

"Come upstairs, Marthy, and I'll show you my new shirtwaists. "

"Land sakes, " said the spinster, bridling. "I would be delighted, butyou know how I can't move without that Seth Holcomb a-taggin' after me;it's just awful the way I am persecuted. I do wish I'd get old andthen there'll be an end of it. " She held out a pair of mittens, vintage of 1812, to Kate, appealingly. 

Seth Holcomb stumped in sight as she concluded; he had been Martha'sfaithful admirer these twenty years, but she would never reward him;her hopes of younger and less rheumatic game seemed to spring eternal. 

During the few days that Anna had made one of the Squire's family shewent about with deep thankfulness in her heart; she had been given thechance to work, to earn her bread by these good people. Who couldtell--as time went on perhaps they would grow fond of her, learn toregard her as one of themselves--it was so much better than being soutterly alone. 

Her energy never flagged, she did her share of the work with the lighthand of experience that delighted the old housekeeper. It was so goodto feel a roof over her head, and to feel that she was earning herright to it. 

Supper had been cooked, the table laid and everything was in readinessfor the family meal, but the old clock wanted five minutes of the hour;the girl came out into the glowing sunset to draw a pail of water fromthe old well, but paused to enjoy the scene. Purple, gold and crimsonwas the mantle of the departing day; and all her crushed and hopelessyouth rose, cheered by its glory. 

"Thank God, " she murmured fervently, "at last I have found a refuge. Iam beginning life again. The shadow of the old one will rest on meforever, but time and work, the cure for every grief, will cure me. "

Her eyes had been turned toward the west, where the day was going outin such a riot of splendor, and she had not noticed the man who enteredthe gate and was making his way toward her, flicking his boots with hisriding crop as he walked. 

She turned suddenly at the sound of steps on the gravel; in thegathering darkness neither could see nor recognize the other till theywere face to face. 

The woman's face blanched, she stifled an exclamation of horror andstared at him. 

"You! you here!"

It was Lennox Sanderson, and the sight of him, so suddenly, in thisout-of-the-way place, made her reel, almost fainting against thewell-curb. 

He grabbed her arm and shook her roughly, and said, "What are you doinghere, in this place?"

"I am trying to earn my living. Go, go, " she whispered. 

"Do you think I came here after you?" he sneered. "I've come to seethe Squire. " All the selfishness and cowardice latent in Sanderson'scharacter were reflected in his face, at that moment, destroying itsnatural symmetry, disfiguring it with tell-tale lines, and showing himat his par value--a weak, contemptible libertine, brought to bay. 

This meeting with his victim after all these long months of silence, inthis remote place, deprived him, momentarily, of his customary poiseand equilibrium. Why was she here? Would she denounce him to thesepeople? What effect would it have? were some of the questions thatwhirled through his brain as they stood together in the gatheringtwilight. 

But the shrinking look in her eyes allayed his fears. He read terrorin every line of her quivering figure, and in the frantic way she clungto the well-curb to increase the space between them. She, with theright to accuse, unconsciously took the attitude of supplication. Theman knew he had nothing to fear, and laid his plans accordingly. 

"I don't believe you've come here to look for work, " he said, stoopingover the crouching figure. "You've come here to make trouble--to houndthe life out of me. "

"My hope in coming here was that I might never see you again. Whatcould I want of you, Lennox Sanderson?"

The measured contempt of her tones was not without its effect. Hewinced perceptibly, but his coarse instincts rallied to his help andagain he began to bully:

"Spare me the usual hard-luck story of the deceived young woman tryingto make an honest living. If you insist on drudging, it's your ownfault. I offered to take care of you and provide for your future, butyou received my offers of assistance with a 'Villain-take-your-gold'style, that I was not prepared to accept. If, as you say, you neverwish to see me again, what is simpler than to go away?"

His cold-blooded indifference, his utter withdrawal from the calamityhe had brought upon her, his airy suggestion that she should go becauseit suited his pleasure to remain, maddened Anna. The blood rushed toher pale cheeks and there came her old conquering beauty with it. Sheeyed him with equal defiance. 

"I shall not go, because it does not suit me. " And then wavering alittle at the thought of her wretched experience--"I had too muchtrouble finding a place where an honest home is offered for honestwork, to leave this one for your whim. No, I shall not go. "

They heard footsteps moving about the house. A lamp shone out from thedining-room window. The Squire's voice, inquiring for Kate, cameacross to them on the still summer air. They looked into each other'spale, determined faces. Which would yield? It was the old strugglebetween the sexes--a struggle old as earth, unsettled as chaos. 

Which should yield? The man who had sinned much, or the woman who hadloved much?

Sanderson employed all the force of his brutality to frighten Anna intoyielding. "See here, " and he caught her arm in no uncertain grasp. "You've got to go. You can't stay here in the same place with me. Ifmoney is what you want, you shall have it; but you've got to go. Doyou understand? _Go_!"

He had emphasized his words by tightening the grip on her arm, and thepain of it well nigh made her cry out. He relaxed his hold just as HiHoller came out on the porch, seized the supper horn and blew itfuriously. The Squire came down and looked amazed at the smartlydressed young city man talking to Anna. 

"Squire, " she said, taking the initiative, "this gentleman is inquiringfor you. "

On hearing the Squire's footsteps, Sanderson turned to him with all thecordiality at his command, and, slapping him on the back, said: "Hello, Squire, I've just ridden over to talk to you about your prize Jerseyheifer. " The Squire had only met Sanderson once or twice before, andthat was prior to Kate's visit to Boston; but he knew all about theyoung man who had become his neighbor. 

Lennox Sanderson was a lucky fellow, and while waiting impatiently forhis father to start him in life, his uncle, the judge, died andmentioned no one but Lennox Sanderson in his will. 

The Squire had known the late Judge Sanderson, the "big man" of thecounty, very well, and lost no time in cultivating the acquaintance ofthe judge's nephew, who had fallen heir to the fine property the judgehad accumulated, no small part of which was the handsome "country seat"of the judge in the neighborhood. 

That is how this fine young city man happened to drop in on the Squireso unceremoniously. He had learned of Kate's return from Boston andwas hastening to pay his respects to the pretty girl. To say he wasastounded to find Anna on the spot is putting it mildly. He believedshe had learned of his good fortune and had followed him, to makedisagreeable exactions. It put him in a rage and it cost him a strongeffort to conceal it before the Squire. 

"Walk right in, " said the Squire, beaming with hospitality. Sandersonentered and the girl found herself alone in the twilight. Anna sat onthe bench by the well-curb and faced despair. She was physically soweak from her long and recent illness that the unexpected interviewwith Sanderson left her faint and exhausted. The momentary flare up ofher righteous indignation at Sanderson's outrageous proposition thatshe should go away had sapped her strength and she made ready to meetone of the great crises of life with nerveless, trembling body and amind incapable of action. 

She pressed her throbbing head on the cool stones of the well-curb andprayed for light. What could she do--where could she go? Her faterose up before her like a great stone prison wall at which she beatwith naked bleeding hand and the stones still stood in all theirmightiness. 

How could she cope with such heartless cruelty as that of Sanderson?All that she had asked for was an honest roof in return for honesttoil. And there are so few such, thought the helpless girl, remembering with awful vividness her efforts to find work and thepitfalls and barriers that had been put in her way, often in the guiseof friendly interest. 

She could not go out and face it all over again. It was so bleak--sobleak. There seemed to be no place in the great world that she couldfill, no one stood in need of her help, no one required her services. They had no faith in her story that she was looking for work and had nohome. 

"What, a good-looking young girl like you! What, no home? No, no; wedon't need you, " or the other frightful alternative. 

And yet she must go. Sanderson was right. She could not stay where hewas. She must go. But where?

She could hear his voice in the dining-room, entertaining them all withhis inimitable gift of story-telling. And then, their laughter--pealon peal of it--and his voice cutting in, with its well-bred modulation:"Yes, I thought it was a pretty good story myself, even if the joke wason me. " And again their laughter and applause. She had no weaponswith which to fight such cold-blooded selfishness. To stay meanteternal torture. She saw herself forced to face his complacent sneerday after day and death on the roadside seemed preferable. 

She tried to face the situation in all its pitiful reality, but theinjustice of it cried out for vengeance and she could not think. Shecould only bury her throbbing temples in her hands and murmur over andover again: "It is all wrong. "

David found her thus, as he made his way to the house from the barn, where he had been detained later than the others. When he saw herforlorn little figure huddled by the well-curb in an attitude ofabsolute dejection, he could not go on without saying some word ofcomfort. 

"Miss Anna, " he said very gently, "I hope you are not going to behomesick with us. "

She lifted a pale, tear-stained face, on which the lines of sufferingwere written far in advance of her years. 

"It does not matter, Mr. David, " she answered him, "I am going away. "

"No, no, you are not going to do anything of the kind, " he said gently;"the work seems hard today because it is new, but in a day or two youwill become accustomed to it, and to us. We may seem a bit hard andunsympathetic; I can see you are not used to our ways of living, andlooking at things, but we are sincere, and we want you to stay with us;indeed, we do. "

She gave him a wealth of gratitude from her beautiful brown eyes. "Itis not that I find the place hard, Mr. David. Every one has been sokind to me that I would be glad to stay, but--but----"

He did not press her for her reason. "You have been ill, I believe yousaid?"

"Yes, very ill indeed, and there are not many who would give work to adelicate girl. Oh, I am sorry to go----" She broke off wildly, andthe tears filled her eyes. 

"Miss Anna, when one is ill, it's hard to know what is best. Don'tmake up your mind just yet. Stay for a few days and give us a trial, and just call on me when you want a bucket of water or anything elsethat taxes your strength. "

She tried to answer him but could not. They were the first words ofreal kindness, after all these months of sorrow and loneliness, andthey broke down the icy barrier that seemed to have enclosed her heart. She bent her head and wept silently. 

"There, there, little woman, " he said, patting her shoulder when hewould have given anything to put his arm around her and offer her thedevotion of his life. But Dave had a good bit of hard common senseunder his hat, and he knew that such a declaration would only hastenher departure and the wise young man continued to be brotherly, to urgeher to stay for his mother's sake, and because it was so hard for ayoung woman to find the proper kind of a home, and really she was not agood judge of what was best for her. 

And Anna, whose storm-swept soul was so weary of beating against therocks, listened and made up her mind to enjoy the wholesomecompanionship of these good people, for a little while at least. 

CHAPTER XI. 

RUSTIC HOSPITALITY. 

 "Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale. "--_Goldsmith_. 

Sanderson's clothes, his manner, his slightly English accent, were allso many items in a good letter of credit to those simple people. TheSquire was secretly proud at having a city man like young Sanderson fora neighbor. It would unquestionably add tone to Wakefield society. 

Kate regarded him with the frank admiration of a young woman whoappreciates a smart appearance, good manner, and the indefinablesomething that goes to make up the ensemble of the man of the world. He could say nothing, cleverly; he had little subtleties of manner thatput the other men she had met to poor advantage beside him. On thenight in question the Squire was giving a supper in honor of theberry-pickers who had helped to gather in the crop the week before. Afterwards, they would sing the sweet, homely songs that all thevillage loved, and then troop home by moonlight to the accompaniment oftheir own music. 

"Well, Mr. Sanderson, " said the Squire, "suppose you stay to supperwith us. See, we've lots of good company"--and he waved his hand, indicating the different groups, "and we'll talk about the stockafterwards. "

He accepted their invitation to supper with flattering alacrity; theywere so good to take pity on a solitaire, and Mrs. Bartlett was such afamous housekeeper; he had heard of her apple-pies in Boston. Davescented patronage in his "citified" air; he and other young men at thetable--young men who helped about the farm--resented everything aboutthe stranger from the self-satisfied poise of his head to theaggressive gloss on his riding-boots. 

"Why, Dave, " said Kate to her cousin in an undertone, "you lookpositively fierce. If I had a particle of vanity I should say you werejealous. "

"When I get jealous, Kate, it will be of a man, not of a tailor's sign. "

"Say, Miss Kate, " said Hi Holler, "they're a couple of old lengths ofstove-pipes out in the loft; I'm going to polish 'em up for leggins. Darned if I let any city dude get ahead o' me. "

"The green-eyed monster is driving you all crazy, " laughed Kate, ingreat good humor. "The girls don't seem to find any fault with him. "Cynthia and Amelia were both regarding him with admiring glances. 

Dave turned away in some impatience. Involuntarily his eyes sought outAnna Moore to see if she, too, was adding her quota of admiration tothe stranger's account. But Anna had no eyes or ears for anything butthe business of the moment, which was attending to the Squire's guests. Evidently one woman could retain her senses in the presence of thistailor's figure. Dave's admiration of Anna went up several points. 

She slipped about as quietly as a spirit, removing and replacing disheswith exquisite deftness. Even the Squire was forced to acknowledgethat she was a great acquisition to the household. She neither soughtto avoid nor to attract the attention of Sanderson; she waited on himattentively and unobtrusively as she would have waited on any otherguest at the Squire's table. The Squire and Sanderson retired to theporch to discuss the purchase of the stock, and Mrs. Bartlett and Annaset to work to clear away the dishes. Kate excused herself fromassisting, as she had to assume the position as hostess and soon hadthe church choir singing in its very best style. Song after song rangout on the clear summer air. It was a treat not likely to be forgottensoon by the listeners. All the members of the choir had what is knownas "natural talent, " joined to which there was a very fair amount ofcultivation, and the result was music of a most pleasing type, musicthat touches the heart--not a mere display Of vocal gymnastics. 

Toward the close of the festivities, the sound of wheels was heard, andthe cracked voice of Rube Whipple, the town constable, urging hisancient nag to greater speed, issued out of the darkness. Rube waswhat is known as a "character. " He had held the office, which onaccount of being associated with him had become a sort of municipaljoke, in the earliest recollections of the oldest inhabitants. Heapparently got no older. For the past fifty years he had looked as ifhe had been ready to totter into the grave at any moment, but he tookit out apparently, in attending to other people's funerals instead. His voice was cracked, he walked with a limp, and his clothes, HiHoller said: "was the old suit Noah left in the ark. "

The choir had just finished singing "Rock of Ages" as the constableturned his venerable piece of horseflesh into the front yard. 

"Well, well, " he said, in a voice like a graphophone badly in need ofrepair, "I might have knowed it was the choir kicking up all thatrumpus. Heard the row clear up to the postoffice, and thought I'd comeup to see if anyone was getting murdered. "

"Thought you'd be on the spot for once, did you, Rube?" inquired HiHoller. "Well, seeing you're here, we might accommodate you, bygetting up a murder, or a row, or something. 'Twould be too bad tohave nothing happen, seeing you are on hand for once. "

The choir joined heartily in the laugh on the constable, who waitedtill it had subsided and then said:

"Well, what's the matter with jailing all of you for disturbing thepublic peace. There's law for it--'disturbin' the public peace withstrange sounds at late and unusual hours of the night. '"

"All right, constable, " said Cynthia, "I suppose you'll drive us tojail in that rig o' yourn. I'd be willing to stay there six months forthe sake o' driving behind so spry a piece of horse-flesh as that. "

"'Tain't the horseflesh she's after, constable, it's the driver. Everyone 'round here knows how Cynthia dew admire you. "

"Professional jealousy is what's at the bottom of this, " declared Kate, "the choir is jealous of Uncle Rube's reputation as a singer, and UncleRube does not care for the choir's new-fangled methods of singing. Rivalry! Rivalry! That's what the matter. "

"That's right, Miss Kate, " squeaked the constable, "they're jealous ofmy singing. There ain't one of 'em, with all their scaling, anddo-re-mi-ing can touch me. If I turned professional to-day, I'd makemore'n all of 'em put together. "

"That's cause they'd pay you to quit. Ha, ha, " said Hi Holler. 

And so the evening passed with the banter that invariably took placewhen Rube was of the party. It was late when they left the Squire's, the constable going along with them, and all singing merrily as birdson a summer morning. 

David went out under the stars and smoked innumerable pipes, but theydid not give their customary solace to-night. There was an upheavalgoing on in his well regulated mind. "Who was she? What was themystery about her? How did a girl like that come to be tramping aboutthe country looking for work?" Her manner of speaking, the veryintonations of her voice, her choice of words, all proclaimed her froma different world from theirs. He had noticed her hands, white andfragile, and her small delicate wrists. They did not belong to aworking woman. 

And her eyes, that seemed to hold the sorrows of centuries in theirliquid depths. What was the mystery of it all? And that insolent citychap! What a look he had given her. The memory of it made Dave'shands come together as if he were strangling something. But it was alltoo deep for him. The lights glimmered in the rooms upstairs. Hisfather walked to the outer gate to say good-night to Mr. Sanderson--andhe tried to justify the feeling of hatred he felt toward Sanderson, butcould not. The sound of a shutter being drawn in, caused him to lookup. Anna, leaned out in the moonlight for a moment before drawing inthe blind. Dave took off his hat--it was an unconscious act ofreverence. The next moment, the grave, shy countryman had smiled athis sentimentality. The shutters closed and all was dark, but Davecontinued to think and smoke far into the night. 

The days slipped by in pleasant and even tenor. The summer burneditself out in a riot of glorious colors, the harvest was gathered in, and the ripe apples fell from the trees--and there was a wail of comingwinter to the night wind. Anna Moore had made her place in theBartlett family. The Squire could not imagine how he ever got alongwithout her; she always thought of everyone's comfort and rememberedtheir little individual likes and dislikes, till the whole householdgrew to depend on her. 

But she never spoke of herself nor referred to her family, friends ormanner of living, before coming to the Bartlett farm. 

When she had first come among them, her beauty had caused a littleripple of excitement among the neighbors; the young men, in particular, were all anxious to take her to husking bees and quilting parties, butshe always had some excellent excuse for not going, and while herrefusals were offered with the utmost kindness, there was a quietdignity about the girl that made any attempt at rustic playfulness orfamiliarity impossible. 

Sanderson came to the house from time to time, but Anna treated himprecisely as she would have treated any other young man who came to theSquire's. She was the family "help, " her duty stopped in announcingthe guests--or sometimes, and then she felt that fate had beenparticularly cruel--in waiting on him at table. 

Once or twice when Sanderson had found her alone, he had attempted tospeak to her. But she silenced him with a look that seat him awaycowering like a whipped cur. If he had any interest in any member ofthe Squire's family, Anna did not notice it. He was an ugly scar onher memory, and when not actually in his presence she tried to forgetthat he lived. 

CHAPTER XII. 

KATE BREWSTER HOLDS SANDERSON'S ATTENTION. 

 "A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch Incapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. "--_Shakespeare_. 

It was perhaps owing to the fact that Anna strove hourly to eliminatethe memory of Lennox Sanderson from her life, that she remained whollyunaware of that which every member of the Squire's household wasbeginning to notice: namely, that Lennox Sanderson was becoming dailymore attentive to Kate Brewster. 

She had more than once hazarded a guess on why a man of Sanderson'stastes should care to remain in so quiet a neighborhood, but couldarrive at no solution of the case. In discussing him, she had heardthe Bartletts quote his reason, that he was studying practical farming, and later on intended to take it up, on a large scale. When she hadfirst seen him at the Squire's, she had made up her mind that it wouldbe better for her to go away, but the memory of the homeless wanderingsshe had endured after her mother's death, filled her with terror, andafter the first shock of seeing Sanderson, she concluded that it wasbetter to remain where she was, unless he should attempt to force hissociety on her, in which case she would have to go, if she died by thewayside. 

Dave was coming across the fields late one autumn afternoon when he sawAnna at the well, trying with all her small strength to draw up abucket of water. The well--one of the old-fashioned kind that workedby a "sweep" and pole, at the end of which hung "the old oaken bucket"which Anna drew up easily till the last few feet and then found it washard work. She had both hands on the iron bale of the bucket and waspanting a little, when a deep, gentle voice said in her ear: "Let go, little woman, that's too heavy for you. " And she felt the bucket takenforcibly out of her hand. 

"Never mind me, Mr. David, " she said, giving way reluctantly. 

"Always at some hard work or other, " he said; "you won't quit till youget laid up sick. "

He filled the water-pail from the bucket for her, which she took up andwas about to go when he found courage to say:

"Won't you stay a minute, Anna, I want to talk to you. 

"Anna, have you any relatives?"

"Not now. "

"But have you no friends who knew you and loved you before you came tous?"

"I want nothing of my friends, Mr. David, but their good will. "

"Anna, why will you persist in cutting yourself off from the rest ofthe world like this? You are too good, too womanly a girl, to leadthis colorless kind of an existence forever. "

She looked at him pleadingly out of her beautiful eyes. "Mr. David, you would not be intentionally cruel to me, I know, so don't speak tome of these things. It only distresses _me_--and can do you no good. "

"Forgive me, Anna, I would not hurt you for the world--but you mustknow that I love you. Don't you think you could ever grow to care forme?"

"Mr. David, I shall never marry any one. Do not ask me to explain, andI beg of you, if you have a feeling of even ordinary kindness for me. That you will never mention this subject to me again. You remember howI promised your father that if he would let me make my home with you, he should never live to regret it? Do you think that I intend to repaythe dearest wish of his heart in this way? Why, Mr. David, you areengaged to marry Kate. " She took up the water-pail to go. 

"Kate's one of the best girls alive, but I feel toward her like abrother. Besides, Anna, what have you been doing with those big browneyes of yours? Don't you see that Kate and Lennox Sanderson are headover heels in love with each other?"

The pail of water slipped from Anna's hand and sent a flood overDavid's boots. 

"No, no--anything but that! You don't know what you are saying!"

Dave looked at her in absolute amazement. He had no chance to reply. As if in answer to his remark, there came through the outer gate, Kateand Sanderson arm in arm. They had been gathering golden-rod, andtheir arms were full of the glory of autumn. 

There was a certain assumption of proprietary right in the way thatSanderson assisted Kate with the golden-rod that Anna recognized. Sheknew it, and falseness of it burned through, her like so much corrosiveacid. She stood with the upturned pail at her feet, unable to recoverher composure, her bosom heaving high, her eyes dilating. She stoodthere, wild as a startled panther, uncertain whether to fight or fly. 

"You don't know what a good time we've been having, " Kate called out. 

"You see, Anna dear, I was right, " David said to her. 

But Anna did not answer. Sorrow had broken her on its wheel. Wherewas the justice of it? Why should he go forth to seek hishappiness--and find it--and she cower in shame through all the years tocome?

Dave saw that she had forgotten his presence; she stood there in thegathering night with wild, unseeing eyes. Memory had turned back thehands of the clock till it pointed out that fatal hour on anothergolden afternoon in autumn, and Sanderson, the hero of the hour, hadcome to her with the marks of battle still upon him, and as the crowdgave away for him, right and left, he had said: "I could not helpwinning with your eyes on me. "

Oh, the lying dishonor of it! It was not jealousy that prompted her, for a moment, to go to Kate and tell her all. What right had suchvultures as he to be received, smiled upon, courted, caressed? Ifthere was justice on earth, his sin should have been branded on him, that other women might take warning. 

Dave knew that her thoughts had flown miles wide of him, and hisunselfishness told him that it would be kindness to go into the houseand leave her to herself, which he did with a heavy heart and manymisgivings. 

Hi Holler had none of Dave's sensitiveness. He saw Anna standing bythe gate, and being a loquacious soul, who saw no advantage in silence, if there was a fellow creature to talk to; he came up grinning: "Say, Anna, I wonder if me and you was both thinkin' about the same thing--Iwas thinkin' as I seen Sanderson and Kate passing that I certainlywould enjoy a piece o' weddin' cake, don't care whose it was. "

"No, Hi, " Anna said, being careful to restrain any bitterness of tone, "I certainly was not wishing for a wedding cake. "

"I certainly do like wedding cake, Anna, but then, I like everything toeat. Some folks don't like one thing, some folks don't like another. Difference between them an' me is, I like everything. "

Anna laughed in spite of herself. 

"Yes, since I like everything, and I like it all the time, why, I ain'tmore than swallowed the last buckwheat for breakfast, than I am readyfor dinner. You don't s'pose I'm sick or anything, do you, Anna?"

"I don't think the symptoms sound alarming, Hi. "

"Well, you take a load off my mind, Anna, cause I was getting scaredabout myself. " Seeing the empty water-pail, Hi refilled it and carriedit in the house for Anna. Dave was not the only one in that householdwho was miserable, owing to Cupid's unaccountable antics. ProfessorSterling, the well-paying summer boarder, continued to remain with theBartletts, though summer, the happy season during which the rustic maysquare his grudge with the city man within his gates, had long sincepassed. 

The professor had spared enough time from his bugs and beetles tonotice how blue Kate's eyes were, and how luxurious her hair; then hehad also, with some misgivings, regarded his own in the mirror, withthe unassuring result that his hair was thinning on top and his eyeslooked old through his gold-bowed spectacles. 

The discovery did not meet with the indifference one might haveexpected on the part of the conscientious entomologist. He fell evento the depths of reading hair-restoring circulars and he spentconsiderable time debating whether he should change his spectacles fora pince-nez. 

The spectacles, however, continued to do their work nobly for theprofessor, not only assisting him to make his scientific observationson the habits of a potato-bug in captivity, but showing him with farmore clearness that Kate Brewster and Lennox Sanderson contrived tospend a great deal of time in each other's society, and that bothseemed to enjoy the time thus spent. 

The professor went back to his beetles, but they palled. The mostgorgeous butterfly ever constructed had not one-tenth the charm for himthat was contained in a glance of Kate Brewster's eyes, or a glimpse ofher golden head as she flitted about the house. And so the autumnwaned. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE QUALITY OF MERCY

 "Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. "--_Pope_. 

Sanderson, during his visits to the Bartlett farm--and they became morefrequent as time went on--would look at Anna with cold curiosity, notunmixed with contempt, when by chance they happened to be alone for amoment. But the girl never displayed by so much as the quiver of aneye-lash that she had ever seen him before. 

Had Lennox Sanderson been capable of fathoming Anna Moore, or even ofreading her present marble look or tone, he would have seen that he hadlittle to apprehend from her beyond contempt, a thing he would not inthe least have minded; but he was cunning, and like the cunningshallow. So he began to formulate plans for making things even withAnna--in other words, buying her off. 

His admiration for Kate deepened in proportion as the square of thatyoung woman's reserve increased. She was not only the first woman whorefused to burn incense at his shrine, but also the first who franklyadmitted that she found him amusing. She mildly guyed his accent, hismanner of talking, his London clothes, his way of looking at things. Never having lived near a university town, she escaped the traditionalhero worship. It was a new sensation for Sanderson, and eventually hesuccumbed to it. 

"You know, Miss Kate, " he said one day, "you are positively the mostrefreshing girl I have ever met. You don't know how much I love you. "

Kate considered for a moment. There was a hint of patronage, it seemedto her, in his compliment, that she did not care for. 

"Oh, consider the debt cancelled, Mr. Sanderson. You have not found myrustic simplicity any more refreshing than I have found your posterwaistcoats. "

"Why do you persist is misunderstanding and hurting me?"

"I apologize to your waistcoats, Mr. Sanderson. I have long consideredthem the substitute for your better nature. "

"Better natures and that sort of thing have rather gone out of style, haven't they?"

"They are always out of style with people who never had them. "

"Is this quarreling, Kate, or making love?"

"Oh, let's make it quarreling, Mr. Sanderson. And now about that horseyou lent me. That's a vile bit you've got on him. " And theconversation turned to other things, as it always did when he tried tobe sentimental with Kate. Sometimes he thought it was not the girl, but her resistance, that he admired so much. 

Things in the Bartlett household were getting a bit uneasy. The Squirechafed that his cherished project of Kate and Dave's marrying seemed nonearer realization now than it had been two years ago. 

Dave's equable temper vanished under the strain and uncertaintyregarding Anna Moore's silence and apparent indifference to him. Hewould have believed her before all the world; her side of the story wasthe only version for him; but Anna did not see fit to break hersilence. When he would approach her on the subject she would only say:

"Mr. David, your father employs me as a servant. I try to do my workfaithfully, but my past life concerns no one but myself. "

And Dave, fearing that she might leave them, if he continued to forcehis attentions on her, held his peace. The thought of losing even thesight of her about the house wrung his heart. He could not bear tocontemplate the long winter days uncheered by her gentle presence. 

It was nearly Thanksgiving. The first snow had come and covered upeverything that was bare and unsightly in the landscape with itsbeautiful mantle of white, and Anna, sitting by the window, dropped thestocking she was darning to press the bitter tears back to her eyes. 

The snow had but one thought for her. She saw it falling, falling softand feathery on a baby's grave in the Episcopal Cemetery at Somerville. She shivered; it was as if the flakes were falling on her own warmflesh. 

If she could but go to that little grave and lie down among thefeathery flakes and forget it all, it would be so much easier than thiseternal struggle to live. What had life in store for her? There wasthe daily drudgery, years and years of it, and always the crushingknowledge of injustice. 

She knew how it would be. Scandal would track her down--put a price onher head; these people who had given her a home would hear, and whatwould all her months of faithful service avail?

"Is this true?" she already heard the Squire say in imagination, andshe should have to answer: "Yes"--and there would be the open door andthe finger pointing to her to go. 

She heard the Squire's familiar step on the stair; unconsciously, shecrouched lower; had he come to tell her to go?

But the Squire came in whistling, a picture of homely contentment, hands in pocket, smiling jovially. She knew there must be no telltaletears on her cheeks, even if her heart was crying out in the cold andsnow. She knew the bitterness of being denied the comfort of tears. It was but one of the hideous train of horrors that pursued a woman inher position. 

She forced them back and met the Squire with a smile that was all thesweeter for the effort. 

"Here's your chair, Squire, all ready waiting for you, and the onlything you want to make you perfectly happy--is--guess?" She held outhis old corncob pipe, filled to perfection. 

"I declare, Anna, you are just spoiling me, and some day you'll begoing off and getting married to some of these young fellows 'roundhere, and where will I be then?"

"You need have no fears on that score, " she said, struggling tomaintain a smile. 

"Well, well, that's what girls always say, but I don't know what we'lldo without you. How long have you been with us, now?"

"Let me see, " counting on her fingers: "just six months. "

"So it is, my dear. Well, I hope it will be six years before you thinkof leaving us. And, Anna, while we are talking, I like to say to youthat I have felt pretty mean more than once about the way I treated youthat first day you come. "

"Pray, do not mention it, Squire. Your kindness since has quite mademe forget that you hesitated to take an utter stranger into yourhousehold. "

"That was it, my dear--an utter stranger--and you cannot really blameme; here was Looizy and Kate and I was asked to take into the housewith them a young woman whom I had never set eyes on before; it seemedto me a trifle risky, but you've proved that I was wrong, my dear, andI'll admit it. "

The girl dropped the stocking she was mending; her trembling handrefused to support even the pretense of work. Outside the snow wasfalling just as it was falling, perhaps, on the little grave where allher youth and hope were buried. 

The thought gave her courage to speak, though the pale lips struggledpitifully to frame the words. 

"Squire, suppose that when I came to you that day last June you hadbeen right--I am only saying this for the sake of argument, Squire--butsuppose that I had been a deceived girl, that I had come here to beginall over again; to live down the injustice, the scandal and all theother things that unfortunate woman have to live down, would you stillhave felt the same?"

"Why, Anna, I never heard you talk like this before; of course I shouldhave felt the same; if a commandment is broke, it's broke; nothing canalter that, can it?"

"But, Squire, is there no mercy, no chance held out to the woman whohas been unfortunate?"

"Anna, these arguments don't sound well from a proper behaving youngwoman like you. I know it's the fashion nowadays for good women totalk about mercy to their fallen sisters, but it's a mistake. When awoman falls, she loses her right to respect, and that's the end of it. "

She turned her face to the storm and the softly falling flakes were nowhiter than her face. 

As Anna turned to leave the room on some pretext, she saw Kate comingin with a huge bunch of Jacqueminot roses in her hand. Of course, Sanderson had sent them. The perfume of them sickened Anna, as theodor of a charnel house might have done. She tried to smile bravelyat Kate, who smiled back triumphantly as she went in to show her unclethe flowers. But the sight of them was like the turning of a knife ina festering wound. 

Anna made her way to the kitchen. Dave was sitting there smoking. Anna found strength and sustenance in his mere presence, though she didnot say a word to him, but he was such a faithful soul. Good, honestDave. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE VILLAGE GOSSIP SNIFFS SCANDAL. 

 "Flavia, most tender of her own good name, Is rather careless of her sister's fame! Her superfluity the poor supplies, But if she touch a character it dies. "--_Cowper_. 

It was characteristic of Marthy Perkins and her continual pursuit ofpleasure, that she should wade through snowdrifts to Squire Bartlett'sand ask for a lift in his sleigh. The Squire's family were going to asurprise party to be given to one of the neighbor's, and Marthy was asdetermined about going as a debutante. 

She came in, covered with snow, hooded, shawled and coated till sheresembled a huge cocoon. The Squire placed a big armchair for her nearthe fire, and Marshy sat down, but not without disdaining Anna's offersto remove her wraps. She sniffed at Anna--no other word will expressit--and savagely clutched her big old-fashioned muff when Anna wouldhave taken it from her to dry it of the snow. 

The sleighbells jingled merrily as the different parties drove by, singing, whistling, laughing, on their way to the party. The churchchoir, snugly installed in "Doc" Wiggins' sleigh, stopped at theSquire's to "thaw out, " and try a step or two; Rube Whipple, the townconstable, giving them his famous song, "All Bound 'Round with a WoolenString. "

Rube was, as usual, the pivot around which the merry-making centered. A few nights before, burglars had broken into the postoffice andcarried off the stamps, and the town constable was, as usual, the lastone to hear of it. On the night in question, he had spent the eveningat the corner grocery store with a couple of his old pals, the stoveanswering the purpose of a rather large bulls-eye, at which theyexpectorated, with conscientious regularity, from time to time. SethHolcomb, Marthy Perkins' faithful swain, had been of the corner groceryparty. 

"Well, Constable, hear you and Seth helped keep the stove warm theother night, while thieves walked off with the postoffice, " Marthyannounced; "what I'd like to know is, how much bitters, rheumatismbitters, you had during the evening?"

"Well, Marthy Perkins, you ought to be the last to throw it up to Seththat he's obliged to spend his evenings round a corner grocery--that'sadding insult to injury. "

"Insult to injury I reckon can stand, Rube; it's when you add Seth'sbitters that it staggers. "

But Seth, who never minded Marthy's stings and jibes, only remarked:"The recipy for them bitters was given to me by a blame good doctor. "

"That cuts you out, Wiggins, " the Squire said playfully. 

"No, I don't care about standing father to Seth's bitters, " "Doc"Wiggins remarked, "but I've tasted worse stuff on a cold night. "

"Oh, Seth ain't pertickler about the temperature, when he takes a doseof bitters. Hot or cold, it's all the same to him, " finished Marthy. 

Seth took the opportunity to whisper to her: "You're going to sit nextto me in 'Doc' Wiggins' sleigh to-night, ain't you, Marthy?"

"Indeed I ain't, " said the spinster, scornfully tossing her head, "myplace will have to be filled by the bitters-bottle; I am going with theSquire and Mrs. Bartlett. "

"Doc" Wiggins' party left in high good humor, the Squire and his partypromising to follow immediately. Anna ran upstairs to get Mrs. Bartlett's bonnet and cloak, and Marthy, with a great air of mystery, got up, and, carefully closing the door after the girl, turned to theSquire and his wife with:

"I've come to tell you something about her. "

"Something about Anna?" said the Squire indignantly. 

"Oh, no, not about our Anna, " protested Mrs. Bartlett: "Why, she is thebest kind of a girl; we are all devoted to her. "

"That's just the saddest part of it, I says to myself when I heard. How can I ever make up my mind to tell them pore, dear Bartletts, whotook her in, and has been treating her like one of their own familyever since? It will come hard on, them, I sez, but that ought not todeter me from my duty. "

"Look here, Marthy, " thundered the Squire, "if you've got anything tosay about that girl, out with it----"

"Well, land sake--you needn't be so touchy; she ain't kin to you, andyou might thank your lucky stars she ain't. "

"Well, what is it, Marthy?" interposed Mrs. Bartlett. "Anna'll be downin a minute. "

"Well, you know, I have been sewin' down to Warren Center this lastweek, and Maria Thomson, from Belden, was visiting there, and naturallywe all got to talking 'bout folks up this way, and that girl AnnaMoore's name was mentioned, and I'm blest if Maria Thomson didn'trecognize her from my description. 

"I was telling them 'bout the way she came here last June, pale as aghost, and how she said her mother had just died and she'd been sick, and they knew right off who she was. "

Marthy loved few things as she did an interested audience. It was hermeat and drink. 

"Well, she didn't call herself Moore in Belden, though that was hermother's name--she called herself Lennox, " Marthy grinned. "She wasone of those married ladies who forgot their wedding rings. "

The Squire knit his brows and his jaws came together with a snap; therewere tears in Mrs. Bartlett's eyes. The gossip looked from one to theother to see the impression her words were making. 

It spurred her on to new efforts. She positively rolled the wordsabout in delight before she could utter them. 

"Well, the girl's mother, who had been looking worried out of her skin, took sick and died all of a sudden, and the girl took sick herself verysoon afterwards--and what do you think? A girl baby was born to Mrs. Lennox, but her husband never came near her. Fortunately, the baby didnot live to embarrass her. It died, and she packed up and left Belden. That's when she came here. 

"And now, " continued the village inquisitor, summing up her terribleevidence, "what are we to think of a girl called Miss Moore in one townand Mrs. Lennox in the other, with no sign of a wedding ring and nosign of a husband? And what are we going to think of that baby? Itseems to me scandalous. " And she leaned back in her chair and rockedfuriously. 

[Illustration: Martha Perkins tells the story of Anna Moore's pastlife. ]

The Squire brought his hand down or the table with terrible force, hispleasant face, was distorted with rage and indignation. 

"Just what I always said would come of taking in strange creatures thatwe knew nothing about. Do you think that I will have a creature likethat in my house with my wife and my niece, polluting them with hervery presence?--out she goes this minute!"

He strode over to the door through which Anna had passed a few momentsbefore, he flung it open and was about to call when he felt his wifecling frantically to his arm. 

"Father, don't do anything in anger that you'll repent of later. Howdo you know this is true? Look how well the girl has acted since shehas been here"--and in a lower voice, "you know that Marthy's given totalking. "

The hand on the knob relaxed, a kindly light replaced the anger in hiseyes. 

"You are right, Looizy, what we've heard is only hearsay, I'll not saya word to the girl till I know; but to-morrow I am going to Belden andfind out the whole story from beginning to end. "

Kate and the professor came in laden with wraps, laughing and talkingin great glee. Kate was going to ride in the sleigh with theprofessor, and the discovery of a new species of potato-bug could nothave delighted him more. He was in a most gallant mood, and concludingthat this was the opportunity for making himself agreeable, heundertook to put on Kate's rubbers over her dainty dancing slippers. 

Perhaps it was a glimpse of the cobwebby black silk stocking thatensnared his wits, perhaps it was the delight of kneeling to Kate evenin this humble capacity. In either case, the result was equallygrotesque; Kate found her dainty feet neatly enclosed in theprofessor's ungainly arctics, while he hopelessly contemplated herovershoe and the size of his own foot. 

Anna returned with Mrs. Bartlett's bonnet and cloak before the laugh atthe professor had subsided. She adjusted the cloak, tied Mrs. Bartlett's bonnet strings with daughterly care and then turned to lookafter the Squire's comfort, but he strode past her to the sleigh withMarthy. Kate and the professor called on a cheery "Good-night, " butMrs. Bartlett remained long enough to take the pretty, sorrowful facein her hands and give it a sweet, motherly kiss. 

When the jingling of the sleighbells died away across the snow, Hioffered to read jokes to Anna from "Pickings from Puck, " which he hadselected as a Christmas present from Kate, if she would consent to havesupper in the sitting-room, where it was warm and cosy. Anna began topop the corn, and Hi to read the jokes with more effort than he wouldhave expended on the sawing of a cord of wood. 

He bit into an apple. An expression of perfect contentment illuminatedhis countenance and in a voice husky with fruit began: "Oh, here is alovely one, Anna, " and he declaimed, after the style usually employedby students of the first reader. 

"Weary Raggles: 'Say, Ragsy, w'y don't you ask 'em for something to eatin dat house. Is you afraid of de dog?'"

"Ragsy Reagan: 'No, I a-i-n-t 'fraid of the dog, but me pants is frayedof him. '"

"Ha, ha, ha--say, Anna, that's the funniest thing I ever did see. Thetramp wasn't frayed of him, but his pants was 'fraid of him. Gee, ain't that a funny joke? And say, Anna, there's a picture with hisclothes all torn. "

Hi was fairly convulsed; he read till the tears rolled down his cheeks. "'Pickin's from Puck, the funniest book ever wrote. ' Here's another, Anna. "

"'A p-o-o-r old man was sunstruck on Broadway this morning. His sonstruck him for five dollars. '" Hi sat pondering over it for a fullminute, then he burst into a loud guffaw that continued so long anduproariously that neither heard the continued rapping on the front door. 

"Hi, some one is knocking on the front door. Do go and see who it is. "

"O! let 'em knock, Anna; don't let's break up our party for strangers. "

"Well, Hi, I'll have to go myself, " and she laid down the corn-popper, but the boy got up grumbling, lurched to the door and let in LennoxSanderson. 

"'Tain't nobody at home, Mr. Sanderson, " said Hi, inhospitably blockingthe way. Anna had crouched over the fire, as if to obliterate herself. 

"Here, Hi, you take this and go out and hold my horse; he's mettlesomeas the deuce this cold weather. I want to get warm before I go toPutnam's. "

Hi put on his muffler, mits and cap--each with a favorite "swear word, "such as "ding it, " "dum it, " "darn it. " Nevertheless he wiselyconcluded to take the half dollar from him and save it for the springcrop of circuses. 

Anna started to leave the room, but Sanderson's peremptory "Stay here, I've got to talk to you, " detained her. 

They looked into each other's faces--these two, who but a few shortmonths ago had been all in all to each other--and the dead fire was notcolder than their looks. 

"Well, Anna, " he said sneeringly, "what's your game? You've beenhanging about here ever since I came to the neighborhood. How much doyou want to go away?"

"Nothing that you could give me, Lennox Sanderson. My only wish isthat I might be spared the sight of you. "

"Don't beat around the bush, Anna; is it money, or what? You are notfoolish enough to try to compel me to marry you?"

"Nothing could be further from my mind. I did think once of compellingyou to right the wrong you have done me, but that is past. It isburied in the grave with my child. "

"Then the child is dead?" He came over to the fireplace where shestood, but she drew away from him. 

"You have nothing to fear from me, Lennox Sanderson. The love I feltonce is dead, and I have no feeling for you now but contempt. "

"You need not rub it in like that, Anna. I was perfectly willing to dothe square thing by you always, but you flared up, went away, andHeaven only knew what became of you. It's bad enough to have thingsmade unpleasant for me in Boston on your account without having youqueering my plans here. "

"Boston--I never told anyone in Boston. "

"No, but that row got into the papers about Langdon and the Tremontscut me. "

"Hush, " said Anna, as a spasm of pain crossed her face: "I never wishyou to refer to my past life again. "

"Indeed, Anna, I am only too anxious to do the right thing by you, evennow. If you will go away, I will give you what you want, if you don'tintend to interfere between Kate and me. "

"Are you sure that Kate is in earnest? You know that the Squireintends her to marry Dave. "

"I shall have no difficulty in preventing that if you don't interfere. "

She did not answer. She was again considering the same old questionthat she had thrashed out a thousand times--should she tell Kate? Howwould she take it? Would the tragedy of her life be regarded as alittle wild-oat sowing on the part of Sanderson and her own eternaldisgrace?

The man was in no humor for her silence. He grasped her roughly by thearm, and his voice was raised loud in angry protest. "Tell me--do you, or do you not intend to interfere?"

In the excitement of the moment neither heard the outer door open, andneither heard David enter. He stood in his quiet way, looking from oneto the other. Sanderson's angry question died away in some foolishcommonplace, but David had heard and Anna and Sanderson knew it. 

CHAPTER XV. 

DAVID CONFESSES HIS LOVE. 

 "Come live with me and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods, or steep mountains, yield. "--_Marlowe_. 

Sanderson, recovering his self-possession almost immediately, drawledout:

"Glad to see you, Dave. Came over thinking I might be in time to goover to Putnam's with your people. They had gone, so I stopped longenough to get warm. I must be going now. Good-night, Miss--Miss"--(heseemed, to have great difficulty in recalling the name) "Moore. "

David paid no attention to him; his eyes were riveted on Anna, who hadchanged color and was now like ivory flushing into life. She trembledand fell to her knees, making a pretense of gathering up her knittingthat had fallen. 

"What brought Sanderson here, Anna? Is he anything to you--are youanything to him?"

She tried to assume a playful lightness, but it failed dismally. Itwas all her pallid lips could do to frame the words: "Why, Mr. David, what a curious question! What possible interest could the 'catch' ofthe neighborhood have in your father's servant?"

The suggestion of flippancy that her words contained irritated thegrave, quiet man as few things could have done. He turned from her andwould have left the room, but she detained him. 

"I am sorry I wounded you, Mr. David, but, indeed, you have no right toask. "

"I know it, Anna, and you won't give me the right; but how dared thatcub Sanderson speak to you in that way?" He caught her hand, andunconsciously wrung it till she cried out in pain. "Forgive me, dear, I would not hurt you for the world; but that man's manner toward youmakes me wild. "

She looked up at him from beneath her long, dark lashes; he thought hereyes were like the glow of forest fires burning through brushwood. "Wewill never think of him again, Mr. David. I assure you that I am nomore to Mr. Sanderson than he is to me, and that is--nothing. "

"Thank you for those words, Anna. I cannot tell you how happy theymake me. But I do not understand you at all. Even a countryman likeme can see that you have never been used to our rough way of living;you were never born to this kind of thing, and yet when that manSanderson looks at you or talks to you, there is always an undertone ofcontempt in his look, his words. "

She sank wearily into an armchair. It seemed to her that her limit ofendurance had been reached, but he, taking her silence foracquiescence, lost no time in following up what he fondly hoped mightbe an advantage. "I did not go to the Putnams to-night, Anna, becauseyou were not going, and there is no enjoyment for me when you are notthere. "

"Mr. David, if you continue to talk to me like this I shall have toleave this house. "

"Tell me, Anna, " he said so gravely that the woman beside him knew thatlife and death were balanced with her words: "tell me, when you saidthat day last autumn by the well that you never intended to marry, wasit just a girl's coquetry or was there some deeper reason for yoursaying so?"

She could not face the love in those honest eyes and answer as herconscience prompted. She was tired, so tired of the struggle, whatwould she not have given to rest here in the shelter of this perfectlove and trust, but it was not for her. 

"Mr. David, " she said, looking straight before her with wide, unseeingeyes; "I can be no man's wife. "

He knew from the lines of suffering written deep on the pale youngface, that maiden coquetry had not inspired her to speak thus; but wordfor word, it had been wrung from out of the depths of a troubled soul. 

"Anna!" cried David, in mingled astonishment and pain. But Anna onlyturned mutely toward him with an imploring look. She stretched out herhands to him, as if trying to tell him more. But words failed her. Her tears overcame her and she fled, sobbing, to her room. All the wayup the winding night of stairs, David could hear her anguished moans. He would have followed her, but Hi burst into the room, stamping thesnow from his boots. He shoved in the front door as if he had been aninvading army. He unwound his muffler and cast it from him as if hehad a grudge against it, as he proceeded to deliver himself of hiswrongs. 

"If there's any more visitors coming to the house to-night that wantstheir horses held, they can do it themselves, for I am going to have mysupper. " David made no reply, but went to his own room to brood overthe day's events. And so Anna was spared any further talk with Davidthat night; a circumstance for which she was devoutly thankful. 

The next day the snow was deeper by a foot, but this did not deter theSquire from making his proposed trip to Belden. He started immediatelyafter breakfast, prepared to sift matters to the bottom. 

An air of tension and anxiety pervaded the household all that long, miserable day. Anna was tortured with doubts. Should she slip awayquietly without telling, or should she make her humiliating confessionto Kate? Mrs. Bartlett, who knew the object of her husband's errand, could not control her nerves. She knew intuitively "that something wasgoing to happen, " as the good soul put it to herself. 

Altogether it was one of those nerve-wracking days that come from timeto time in the best regulated households, apparently for no otherpurpose but to prove the fact that a solitary existence is notnecessarily the most unhappy. 

Mrs. Bartlett, for the first time in her life, was worried about Dave. He was moody and morose, even to her, his sworn friend and ally, withwhom he had never had a word's difference. He had gone off thatmorning shortly after the Squire left the house; and his mother, watching him carefully at breakfast, noticed that he had shoved awayhis plate with the food untasted. 

A fatal symptom to the ever-watchful maternal eye. 

Kate felt sulky because her aunt and uncle had been urging her to marryDave, and apparently Dave had no affection for her beyond that of acousin, the situation irritating her in the extreme. 

"Aunt Louisa, what is the matter with every one?" she said, flouncinginto the kitchen. "Something seems to have jarred the family nerves. Here is uncle off on some mysterious business, Dave goes off in thesnow in a tantrum, and you look as if you had just buried your lastfriend. " And the young lady left the room as suddenly as she enteredit. 

"It does feel as if trouble was brewing, " Mrs. Bartlett admitted toAnna, with a gloomy shake of the head. "I'm getting that worried aboutDave, he's been away all day, and it's not usual for him to stay awaylike this. " Her voice broke a little, and she left the room hurriedly. 

He came in almost immediately, stamping the snow from his boots andlooking twice as savage as when he went away. 

"Mrs. Bartlett had been worrying about you all day, Mr. David, " Annasaid as she turned from the dresser with her arms full of plates. 

"And did you care, Anna, that I was not here?" He gave her theappealing glance of a great mastiff who hopes for a friendly pat on thehead. 

"My feelings on the subject can be of no interest to you, " she answeredwith chilling decision. 

"All right, " and he went to the hat-rack to get his muffler and cap, preparatory to again facing the storm. 

The snow had been falling steadily all day. Drifting almost to theheight of the kitchen window, it whirled about the house and beatagainst the window panes with a muffled sound that was inexpressiblydreary to the girl, who felt herself the center of all this pitifulhuman contention. 

"David, David; where have you been all day, and where are you goingnow?" His mother looked at his gray, haggard face and tried to guesshis hidden trouble, the first he had ever kept from her. 

"Mother, I am not a child, and you can't expect me to hang about thestove like a cat, all my life. " It was his first harsh word to her andshe shrank before it as if it had been a blow. David, her boy, tospeak to her like that! She turned quickly away to hide the tears, thefirst she had ever shed on his account. 

"Here, Anna, " she said, struggling to recover her composure, "take thisbucket and get it filled for me, please. "

The girl reached for her cloak that hung on a peg near the door. 

"No, Anna, you shall not go out for water a night like this; it's notthe work for you to do. " David had sprung forward and caught thebucket from her hand and plunged with it into the storm. Kate's quickeyes caught the expression of David's face--while Mrs. Bartlett onlyheard his words. She gave Anna a searching look as she said: "So it isyou whom David loves. " At last Kate understood the secret of Anna'sdistracted face--and at last the mother understood the secret of herboy's moodiness--he loved Anna. And her heart was filled withbitterness and anger at the very thought; she had taken her boy, thisstranger, with whom the tongue of scandal was busy. The kindly, gentle, old face lost all its sweetness; jealous anger filled it withugly lines. Turning to Anna she said:

"It would have been better for all of us if we had not taken you inthat day to break up our home with your mischief. "

Anna was cut to the quick. "Oh, Mrs. Bartlett, please do not say that;I will go away as soon as you like, but it is not with my consent thatDavid has these foolish fancies about me. "

"And do you mean to say that you have never encouraged him, "indignantly demanded the irate mother, who with true feminineinconsistency would not have her boy's affections go begging, evenwhile she scorned the object of it. 

"Encouraged him? I have begged, entreated him to let me alone; I donot want his love. "

An angry sparrow defending her brood could not have been moreindignantly demonstrative than this gentle old lady. 

"And isn't he good enough for you, Miss?" she asked in a voice thatshook with wrath. 

"Dear Mrs. Bartlett, would you have me take his love and return it?"

"No, no; that would never do!" and the inconsistent old soul rockedherself to and fro in an agony of despair. 

Anna did not resent Mrs. Bartlett's indignation, unjust though it was;she knew how blind good mothers could be when the happiness of theirchildren is at stake. She felt only pity for her and remembered onlyher kindness. So slipping down on her knees beside the old lady'schair, she took the toil-worn old hands in her own and said:

"Do not think hardly of me, Mrs. Bartlett. You have been so good--andwhen I am gone, I want you to think of me with affection. I will goaway, and all this trouble will straighten itself out, and you willforget that I ever caused you a moment's pain. "

Dave came in with the bucket of water that had caused the little squalland prevented his mother from replying, but the hard lines had relaxedin the good old face. She was again "mother" whom they all knew andloved. Sanderson followed close after David; he had just come fromBoston, he said, and inquired for Kate with a simple directness thatleft no doubt as to whom he had come to see. 

It is an indisputable law of the eternal feminine for all women toflaunt a conquest in the face of the man who had declined theiraffection. Kate was not in love with her cousin David, but she wasdevoutly thankful to Providence that there was a Lennox Sanderson toflaunt before him in the capacity of tame cat, and prove that he "wasnot the only man in the world, " as she put it to herself. 

Therefore when Lennox Sanderson handed her a magnificent bunch ofJacqueminot roses that he had brought her from Boston, Kate was not atall backward in rewarding Sanderson with her graciousness. 

"How beautiful they are, Mr. Sanderson; it was so good of you. "

"You make me very happy by taking them, " he answered with a wealth ofmeaning. 

Anna, who had gone to the storeroom for some apples, after herreconciliation with Mrs. Bartlett, returned to find Sanderson talkingearnestly to Kate by the window. Kate held up the roses for Anna tosmell. "Aren't they lovely, Anna? There is nothing like roses fortaking the edge off a snowstorm. "

Anna was forced to go through the farce of admiring them, whileSanderson looked on with nicely concealed amusement. 

"Well, what do you think of them, Anna?" said Kate, disappointed thatshe made no comment. 

"The best thing about roses, speaking generally, Miss Kate, is thatthey fade quickly and do not embarrass one by outliving the littleaffairs in which they have played a part. " She returned Sanderson'slanguid glance in a way that made him quail. 

"That is quite true, " said Kate, being in the humor for a littlecynicism. "What a pity that love letters can't be constructed on thesame principle. "

Sanderson did not feel particularly at ease while these two young womenserved and returned cynicism; he was accordingly much relieved whenMrs. Bartlett and Anna both left the room, intent on the solemnceremony of opening a new supply of preserved peaches. 

"Kate, did you mean what you just said to that girl?" Sanderson askedwhen they were alone. 

"What did I say? Oh, yes, about the love letters. Well, whatdifference does it make whether I meant it or not?"

"It makes all the difference in the world to me, Kate. " He readrefusal in the big blue eyes, and he made haste to plead his causebefore she could say anything. 

"Don't answer yet, Kate; don't give me my life-sentence, " he saidplayfully, taking her hand. "Think it over; take as long as you like. Hope with you is better than certainty with any other woman. "

[Illustration: Lillian Gish and Burr McIntosh. ]

Professor Sterling, who had been to a neighboring town on business forthe past two or three days, walked into the middle of this littletableau in time to hear the last sentence. Kate and Sanderson hadfailed to hear him, partly because he had neglected to remove hisovershoes, and partly because they were deeply engrossed with eachother. 

Though his rival's declaration, which he had every reason to supposewould be accepted, was the death blow to his hopes, yet he unselfishlystepped out into the snow, waited five minutes by his watch--a liberalallowance for an acceptance, he considered--and then rapped loud andtheatrically before entering a second time. Could unselfishness gofurther?

Kate and Sanderson had no other opportunity for confidential talk thatevening. 

They were barely seated about the supper table, when there came atremendous rapping at the door, and Marthy Perkins came in, halffrozen. For once her voluble tongue was silenced. She retailed nogossip while submitting to the friendly ministrations of Mrs. Bartlettand Anna, who chafed her hands, gave her hot tea and thawed her back tolife--and gossip. 

"Is the Squire back yet?" asked Marthy with returning warmth. "Landsakes, what can be keeping him? Heard him say last night that heintended going away this morning, and thought he might have come back. "

"With news?" naively asked Sanderson. 

"Why, yes. I did think it was likely that he might have gathered upsomething interesting, away a whole day. " Every one laughed but Mrs. Bartlett. She alone knew the object of her husband's quest. 

"Your father's not likely to be back to-night--do you think so, Dave?"she asked her son, more by way of drawing him out than in the hope ofgetting any real information. 

"No, I do not think it is likely, mother, " he answered. 

"Good land! and I nearly froze to death getting here!" Marthy said inan aside to Mrs. Bartlett. "I tell you, Looizy, there is nothing likesuspense for wearing you out. I couldn't get a lick of sewing doneto-day, waiting for Amasy to get in with the news. "

"Hallo! hallo! Let us in quick--here we are, me and the Squire--mostfroze! Hallo, hallo"--The rest of Hi's remarks were a series of whoops. 

Every one rose from the table, Mrs. Bartlett pale with apprehension. Marthy flushed with delight. She was not to be balked of her prey. The Squire was here with the news. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

ALONE IN THE SNOW. 

 "The cold winds swept the mountain-height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And mid the cheerless hours of night A mother wandered with her child: As through the drifting snows she pressed, The babe was sleeping on her breast. "--_Seba Smith_. 

The head of the house was home from his mysterious errand, the realobject of which was unknown to all but Marthy and his wife. 

Kate unwound his muffler and took his cap; his wife assured him thatshe had been worried to death about him all day; the men inquiredsolicitously about his journey--how had he stood the cold--and Annamade ready his place at the table. But neither this domestic adulationnor the atmosphere of warmth and affection awaiting him at his ownfireside served for a moment to turn him from the wanton brutality thathe was pleased to dignify by the name of duty. 

Anna could not help feeling the "snub, " and David, whose eyes alwaysfollowed Anna, saw it before the others. "Father, " said he, "what'sthe matter, you don't speak to Anna. "

"I don't want to speak to her. I don't want to look at her. I don'twant anything to do with her, " replied the Squire. Every one exceptMartha and Mrs. Bartlett was startled by this blunt, almost brutaloutburst. 

"I am glad you are all here, the more the better: Marthy, Professor, Mr. Sanderson, glad to see you and all the home folks"--he had a word, a nod, a pat on the back for every one but Anna, and though she soughtmore than one opportunity to speak to him, he deliberately avoided her. 

His wife, who knew all the varying weathers of his temper was using allher small stock of diplomacy to get him to eat his supper. "When indoubt about a man, feed him, " had been Louisa Bartlett's unfailing rulefor the last thirty years. "Here, Amasy, sit down in your place thatAnna has fixed for you. You can talk after you've had your tea. Anna, please make the Squire some fresh tea. I'm afraid this is a littlecool. "

"She need not make my tea, now, or on any future occasion--her days ofservice in my family are done for. " And he hammered the table with hisclenched fist. 

Anna closed her eyes; it had come at last; she had always known that itwas only a question of time. 

The rest looked at the Squire dumbfounded. Ah, that is, but Marthy. She was licking her lips in delightful anticipation--with much the sameexpression as a cat would regard an uncaged canary. 

"Why, father, what do you mean?" asked David in amazement. He hadheard no rumor of why his father had gone to Belden. 

"Now, listen, all of you, " and again he thundered on the table with hisfist. "Last summer I was persuaded, against my will, to take a strangewoman into my house. I found out to-day that my judgment then wasright. I have been imposed on--she is an imposter, an adventuress. "

"Amasy, Amasy, don't be so hard on her, " pleaded his wife. But theSquire had the true huntsman's instinct--when he went out to hunt, hewent out to kill. 

"The time has come, " he continued, raising his voice and ignoring hiswife's pleading, "when this home is better without her. "

Anna had already begun her preparation to go. She took her cloak downfrom its peg and wrapped it about her without a word. 

"Father, if Anna goes, I go with her, " and David rose to his feet, thevery incarnation of wrath, and strode over to where Anna stood apartfrom the rest. He put his arm about her protectingly, and stood theredefiant of them all. 

"David, you must be mad. What, you, a son of mine, defy your fatherhere in the presence of your friends for that--adventuress?"

"Father, take back that word about Anna. A better woman never lived. You--who call yourself a Christian--would you send away a friendlessgirl a night like this? And for what reason? Because a few old catshave been gossiping about her. It is unworthy of you, father; I wouldnot have believed it. "

"So you have appointed yourself her champion, sir. No doubt she hasbeen trying her arts on you. Don't be a fool, David; stand aside, ifshe wants to go, let her; women like her can look out for themselves;let her go. "

"Don't make me forget, sir, that you are my father. I refuseabsolutely to hear the woman I love spoken of in this way. "

The rest looked on in painful silence; they seemed to be deprived ofthe power of speech or action by the Squire's vehemence; the windhowled about the house fitfully, and was still, then resumed itswailing grief. 

"And you stand there and defy me for that woman in the presence ofKate, to whom you are as good as betrothed?"

"No, no; there is no question of an engagement between David and me, and there never can be, " said Kate, not knowing in the least what tomake of the turn that things had taken. 

David continued to stand with his arm about Anna. He had heard theBelden gossip--a wealthy young man from Boston had been attentive toher, then left the place; jilted her, some said; been refused by her, said others. It did not make a bit of difference to David whichversion was true; he was ready to stand by Anna in the face of athousand gossips. This was just his father's brutal way of upholdingwhat he was pleased to term his authority. 

"What do you know about her, David?" reiterated the Squire. "I heardreports, but like you, I would not believe them till I had investigatedthem fully. Ask her if she has not been the mother of an illegitimatechild, who is now buried in the Episcopal cemetery at Belden--ask herif she was not known there under the name of Mrs. Lennox?"

"It is true, " said the girl, raising her head, "that I was known asMrs. Lennox. It is true that I have a child buried in Belden----"

David's arm fell from her, he buried his face in his hands and groaned. Anna opened the door, a whirling gust flared the lamps and drove askurrying cloud of snowflakes within, yet not one hand was raised todetain her. She swayed uncertain for a moment on the threshold, thenturned to them: "You have hunted me down, you have found out that Ihave been a mother, that I am without the protection of a husband'sname, and that was enough for you--your duty stopped at the scandal. Why did you not find out that I was a young, inexperienced girl who wasbetrayed by a mock marriage--that I thought myself an honorablewife--why should your duty stop in hunting down a defenseless girlwhile the man who ruined her life sits there, a welcome guest in yourhouse to-night?"

She was gone--David, who had been stunned by his father's words, ranafter her, but the whirling flakes had hidden every trace of her, andthe howling wind drove back his cry of "Anna, Anna! come back!"

Anna did not feel the cold after closing the door between her and theSquire's family; the white flame of her wrath seemed to burn up theblood in her veins, as she plunged through the snowdrifts, unconsciousof the cold and storm. She had no words in which to formulate her furyat the indignity of her treatment. Her native sweetness, for themoment, had been extinguished and she was but the incarnation ofwronged womanhood, crying aloud to high Heaven for justice. 

The blood throbbed at her brain and the quickened circulation warmedher till she loosened the cloak at her throat and wondered, in a dazedsort of way, why she had put it on on such a stifling night. Then sheremembered the snow and eagerly uplifted her flushed cheeks that thefalling flakes might cool them. 

But of the icy grip of the storm she was wholly unconscious. There wasa mad exhilaration in facing the wild elements on such a night, theexertion of forcing through the storm chimed in with her mood; eachsnowdrift through which she fought her way was so much cruel injusticebeaten down. She felt that she had the strength and courage to walk tothe end of the earth and she went on and on, never thinking of thestorm, or her destination, or where she would rest that night. Herhead felt light, as if she had been drinking wine, and more than onceshe stopped to mop the perspiration from her forehead. How absurd forthe snow to fall on such a sultry night, and foolish of those peoplewho had turned her out to die, thinking it was cold--the thermometermust be 100. She paused to get her breath; a blast of icy wind caughther cape, and almost succeeded in robbing her of it, and the chillwrestled with the fever that was consuming her, and she realized forthe first time that it was cold. 

"Well, what next?" she asked herself, throwing back her head andunconsciously assuming the attitude of a creature brought to bay butstill unconquered. 

"What next?" She repeated it with the dull despair of one who hasnothing further to fear in the way of suffering. The Fates had spentthemselves on her, she no longer had the power to respond. Suppose sheshould become lost in a snowdrift? "Well, what did it matter?"

Then came one of those unaccountable clearings of the mental visionthat nature seems to reserve for the final chapter. Her quickenedbrain grasped the tragedy of her life as it never had before. She sawit with impersonal eyes. Anna Moore was a stranger on whose case shecould sit with unbiased judgment. Her mind swung back to the footballgame in the golden autumn eighteen months ago, and she heard the cheersand saw the swarms of eager, upturned faces and the dots of blue andcrimson, like flowers, in a great waving field. What a panorama oflife, and force, and struggle it had been! How typical of life, andthe end--but no, the end was not yet; there must be some justice inlife, some law of compensation. God must hear at last!

The wind came tearing down from, the pine forest, surging through thehills till it became a roar. Ah, it had sounded like that at the game. They had called "Rah, Rah Sanderson" till they were hoarse, "Sanderson, Rah! Sander-son! Rah! Rah!" The crackling forest seemed to havegone mad with the echo of his name. It had become the keynote of thewind. Rah! Rah! Sanderson!

"You can't escape him even in death" something seemed to whisper in herear. "Ha-ha, Sanderson, San-der-son. " She put her hands to her earsto shut out the hateful sound, but she heard it, like the wail of alost soul; this time faint and far off: Sander-son--San-der-son. Itwas above her in the groaning, creaking branches of the trees, in thefalling snow, in the whipping wind, the mockery would not be stilled. 

Ha, ha, ha, ha, howled the wind, then sinking to a sigh, San-der-son--San-der-son. 

The cold had begun to strike into the marrow. She moved as if herlimbs were weighted. There was a mist gathering before her eyes, andshe put up her hand and tried to brush it away, but it remained. Shefelt as if she were carrying something heavy in her arms and as shewalked it grew heavier and heavier. To her wandering mind it took apitifully familiar shape. Ah, yes! She knew what it was now; it wasthe baby, and she must not let it get cold. She must cover it with hercape and press it close to her bosom to keep it warm, but it was sofar, so far, and it was getting heavier every moment. 

And the wind continued to wail its dirge of "San-der-son, San-der-son. "She went through the motion of covering up the baby's head; she did notwant it to waken and hear that awful cry. She lifted up her empty armsand lowered her head to soothe the imaginary baby with a kiss, and wasshocked to feel how cold its little cheek had grown. She hurried onand on. She would beg the Squire to let his wife take it in for just aminute, to warm it. She would not ask to come in herself, but thebaby--no one would be so cruel as to refuse her that. It would die outhere in the cold and the storm. It was so cruel, so hard to bewandering about on a night like this with the baby. Her eyes began tofill with tears, and her lower lip to quiver, but she plodded on, sometimes gaining a few steps and then retracing them, but always withthe same instinct that had spurred her on to efforts beyond herstrength, and this done, she had no further concern for herself. Herbody especially, where the cape did not protect it against the blast, was freezing, shivering, aching all over. A latent consciousness beganto dawn as the dread presence of death drew nearer; some intuitiveeffort of preservation asserted itself, and she kept repeating over andover: "I must not give up. I must not give up. "

Presently the scene began to change, and the white formless world abouther began to assume definite shape. She had seen it all before, thebare trees pointing their naked branches upward, the fringe of willows, the smooth, glassy sheet of water that was partly frozen and partlyundulating toward the southern shore. The familiarity of it all beganto haunt her. Had she dreamed it--was she dreaming now? Perhaps itwas only a dream after all! Then, as if in a wave of clear thought, she remembered it all. It was the lake, and she had been there withthe Sunday school children last summer on their picnic. 

It came to her like a solution of all her troubles; it was so placid, so still, so cold. A moment and all would be forgotten. She stoodwith one foot on the creaking ice. It was but to walk a dozen steps tothe place where the ice was but a crash of crystal and that would endit all. She was so weary of the eternal strife of things, she was soglad to lay down the burden under which her back was bending to thepoint of breaking. 

And yet, there was the primitive instinct of self-preservationcombating her inclination, urging her on to make one more final effort. Back and forth, through the snow about the lake she wandered; withoutbeing able to decide. Her strength was fast ebbing. Which--which, should it be? "God have mercy!" she cried, and fell unconscious. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE NIGHT IN THE SNOWSTORM. 

 "Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven. "--_Emerson_. 

All through that long, wild night David searched and shouted, to findonly snow and silence. 

Through the darkness and the falling flakes he could not see more thana foot ahead, and when he would stumble over a stone or the fallentrunk of a tree, he would stoop down and search through the drifts withhis bare hands, thinking perhaps that she might have fallen, and notfinding her, he would again take up his fruitless search, while coldfear gnawed at his heart. 

At home in the warm farm house, sat the Squire who had done his duty. The consciousness of having done it, however, did not fill him withthat cheerful glow of righteousness that is the reward of a goodconscience--on the contrary, he felt small. It might have beenimagination, but he felt, somehow, as if his wife and Kate wereshunning him. Once he had tried to take his wife's hand as she stoodwith her face pressed to the window trying to see if she could make outthe dim outline of David returning with Anna, but she withdrew her handimpatiently as she had never done in the thirty years of their marriedlife. Amasy's hardness was a thing no longer to be condoned. 

Furthermore, when the clock had struck eleven and then twelve, and yetno sign of David or Anna, the Squire had reached for his fur cap andannounced his intention of "going to look for 'em. " But like theproverbial worm, the wife of his bosom had turned, and with all thedetermination of a white rabbit she announced:

"If I was you, Amasy, I'd stay to hum; seems as if you had made almostenough trouble for one day. " With the old habit of authority, strongas ever, he looked at the worm, but there was a light in its eyes thatwarned him as a danger signal. 

They were alone together, the Squire and his wife, and each was alonein sorrow, the yoke of severity she had bowed beneath for thirty yearsuncomplainingly galled to-night. It had sent her boy out into thestorm--perhaps to his death. There was little love in her heart forAmasy. 

He tried to think that he had only done his duty, that David and Annawould come back, and that, in the meantime, Louisa was less a comfortto him, in his trouble, than she had ever been before. It was, ofcourse, his trouble; it never occurred to him that Louisa's heart mighthave been breaking on its own account. 

The Squire found that duty was a cold comforter as the wretched hourswore on. 

Sanderson had slunk from the house without a word immediately afterAnna's departure. In the general upheaval no one missed him, and whenthey did it was too late for them to enjoy the comfort of shifting theblame to his guilty shoulders. 

The professor followed Kate with the mute sympathy of a faithful dog;he did not dare attempt to comfort her. The sight of a woman in tearsunnerved him; he would not have dared to intrude on her grief; he couldonly wait patiently for some circumstance to arise in which he could beof assistance. In the meantime he did the only practical thing withinhis power--he went about from time to time, poked the fires and put oncoal. 

Marthy would have liked to discuss the iniquity of Lennox Sandersonwith any one--it was a subject on which she could have spent hours--butno one seemed inclined to divert Marthy conversationally. In fact, herpopularity was not greater that night in the household than that of theSquire. She spent her time in running from room to room, exclaiminghysterically:

"Land sakes! Ain't it dreadful?"

The tension grew as time wore on without developments of any kind, thewaiting with the haunting fear of the worst grew harder to bear thanabsolute calamity. 

Toward five o'clock the Squire announced his intention of going out andcontinuing the search, and this time no one objected. In fact, Mrs. Bartlett, Kate and the professor insisted on accompanying him andMarthy decided to go, too, not only that she might be able to say shewas on hand in case of interesting developments, but because she wasafraid to be left in the house alone. 

 * * * * * *

Toward morning, David, spent and haggard, wandered into a littlemaple-sugar shed that belonged to one of the neighbors. Smoke wascoming out of the chimney, and David entered, hoping that Anna mighthave found here a refuge. 

He was quickly undeceived, however, for Lennox Sanderson stood by thehearth warming his hands. The men glared at each other with theinstinctive fierceness of panthers. Not a word was spoken; each knewthat the language of fists could be the only medium of communicationbetween them; and each was anxious to have his say out. 

The men faced each other in silence, the flickering glare of thefirelight painting grotesque expressions on their set faces. David'sgreater bulk loomed unnaturally large in the uncertain light, whileevery trained muscle of Sanderson's athletic body was on the alert. 

It was the world old struggle between patrician and proletarian. 

Sanderson was an all-round athlete and a boxer of no mean order. Thiswas not his first battle. His quick eye showed him from David'sawkward attitude, that his opponent was in no way his equal from ascientific standpoint. He looked for the easy victory that science, nine times out of ten, can wrest from unskilled brute force. 

For, perhaps, half a minute the combatants stood thus. 

Then, with lowered head and outstretched arms, David rushed in. 

Sanderson side-stepped, avoiding the on-set. Before David couldrecover himself, the other had sent his left fist crashing into thecountry-man's face. 

The blow was delivered with all the trained force the athlete possessedand sent David reeling against the rough wall of the house. 

Such a blow would have ended the fight then and there for an ordinaryman; but it only served to rouse David's sluggish blood to white heat. 

Again he rushed. 

This time he was more successful. 

True, Sanderson partially succeeded in avoiding the sledge-hammer fist, though it missed his head, it struck glancingly on the left shoulder. Numbing for the moment the whole arm. Sanderson countered as the blowfell, by bringing his right arm up with all his force and strikingDavid on the face. He sank to his knees, like a wounded bull, but wason his feet again before Sanderson could follow up his advantage. 

David, heedless of the pain and fast flowing blood, rushed a thirdtime, catching Sanderson in a corner of the room whence he could notescape. 

In an instant, the two were locked in a death-like grip. 

To and fro they reeled. No sound could be heard save the snapping ofbrands on the hearth, the shuffle of moving feet and the short gasps ofstruggling men. 

In that terrible grasp, Sanderson's strength was as a child's. 

He could not call into play any of the wrestling tricks that were his, all he could do was to keep his feet and wait for the madman's strengthto expend itself. 

The iron grip about his body seemed to slacken for a moment. Hewriggled free, and caught the fatal underhold. 

By this new grip, he forced David's body backward till the larger man'sspine bade fair to snap. 

David felt himself caught in a trap. Exerting all his giant strengthhe forced one arm down between their close-locked bodies, and claspedhis other hand on Sanderson's face, pushing two fingers into hiseyeballs. 

No man can endure this torture. Sanderson loosed his hold. David hadcaught him by the right wrist and the left knee, stooping until his ownshoulders were under the other's thigh. Then, with this leverage, hewhirled Sanderson high in the air above his head and threw him with allhis force down upon the hearth. 

A shower of sparks arose and the strong smell of burning clothes, asSanderson, stunned and helpless, lay across the blazing fire-place. 

For a moment, David thought to leave his vanquished foe to his ownfate, then he turned back. What was the use? It could not right thewrong he had done to Anna. He bent over Sanderson, extinguished thefire, pulled the unconscious man to the open door and left him. 

It came to David like an inspiration that he had not thought of thelake; the ice was thin on the southern shore below where the riveremptied. Suppose she had gone there; suppose in her utter desolationshe had gone there to end it all? Imagination, quickened by suspenseand suffering, ran to meet calamity; already he was there and saw thebare trees, bearing their burden of snow, and the placid surface, halffrozen over, and on the southern shore, that faintly rippled under itsskimming of ice, something dark floating. He saw the floating blackhair, and the dead eyes, open, as if in accusation of the griminjustice of it all. 

He hurried through the drifted snow, as fast as his spent strengthwould permit, stumbling once or twice over some obstruction, andcovered the weary distance to the lake. 

About a hundred yards from the lake Dave saw something that made hisheart knock against his ribs and his breath come short, as if he hadbeen running. It was Anna's gray cloak. It lay spread out on the snowas if it had been discarded hastily; there were footprints of a woman'sshoes near by; some of them leading toward the lake, others away fromit, as if she might have come and her courage failed her at the lastmoment. The cape had not the faintest trace of snow on its upturnedsurface. It must, therefore, have been discarded lately, after thesnowstorm had ceased this morning. 

Dave continued his search in an agony of apprehension. The sun faintlystruggled with the mass of gray cloud, revealing a world of white. Hehad wandered in the direction of a clump of cedars, and rememberedpointing the place out to her in the autumn as the scene of some boyishadventure, which to commemorate he had cut his name on one of thetrees. Association, more than any hope of finding her, led him to thecedars--and she was there. She had fallen, apparently, from cold andexhaustion. He bent down close to the white, still face that gave nosign of life. He called her name, he kissed her, but there was noresponse--it was too late. 

Dave looked at the little figure prostrate in the snow, and despair fora time deprived him of all thought. Then the lifelong habit of beingpractical asserted itself. Unconsciousness from long exposure to cold, he knew, resembled death, but warmth and care would often revive thefluttering spark. If there was a chance in a thousand, Dave wasprepared to fight the world for it. 

He lifted Anna tenderly and started back for the shed where he hadfought Sanderson. Frail as she was, it seemed to him, as he plungedthrough the drifts, that his strength would never hold out till theyreached their destination. Inch by inch he struggled for every step ofthe way, and the sweat dripped from him as if it had been August. Buthe was more than rewarded, for once. She opened her eyes--she was notdead. 

He found them all at the shed--the Squire, his mother, Kate, theprofessor and Marthy. There was no time for questions or speeches. Every one bent with a will toward the common object of restoring Anna. The professor ran for the doctor, the women chafed the icy hands andfeet and the Squire built up a roaring fire. Their efforts werefinally rewarded and the big brown eyes opened and turned inquiringlyfrom one to another. 

"What has happened? Why are you all here?" she asked faintly; thenremembering, she wailed: "Oh, why did you bring me back? I went to thelake, but it was so cold I could not throw myself in; then I walkedabout till almost sunrise, and I was so tired that I laid down by thecedars to sleep--why did you wake me?"

"Anna, " said the Squire, "we want you to forgive us and come back asour daughter, " and he slipped her cold little hand in David's. "Thisboy has been looking for you all night, Anna. I thought maybe he hadbeen taken from us to punish me for my hardness. But, thank God, youare both safe. "

"You will, Anna, won't you? and father will give us his blessing. " Shesmiled her assent. 

"I say, Squire, if you are giving out blessings, don't pass by Kate andme. "

In the general kissing and congratulation that followed, Hi Hollerappeared. "Here's the sleigh, I thought maybe you'd all be ready forbreakfast. Hallo, Anna, so he found you! The station agent told methat Mr. Sanderson left on the first train for Boston this morning. Says he ain't never coming back. "

"And a good thing he ain't, " snapped Marthy Perkins--"after all thetrouble he's made. "

THE END.