WINTER EVENING TALES

by

AMELIA E. BARR

Author of "A Bow of Orange Ribbon, " "Jan Vedder's Wife, ""Friend Olivia, " etc. , etc. 

Published byThe Christian HeraldLouis Klopsch, Proprietor, Bible House, New York. 

1896

[Illustration]

PREFACE. 

In these "Winter Evening Tales, " Mrs. Barr has spread before her readersa feast that will afford the rarest enjoyment for many a leisure hour. There are few writers of the present day whose genius has such aluminous quality, and the spell of whose fancy carries us along sodelightfully on its magic current. In these "Tales"--each a perfect gemof romance, in an artistic setting--the author has touched many phasesof human nature. Some of the stories in the collection sparkle with thespirit of mirth; others give glimpses of the sadder side of life. Throughout all, there are found that broad sympathy and intense humanitythat characterize every page that comes from her pen. Her men and womenare creatures of real flesh and blood, not deftly-handled puppets; theymove, act and speak spontaneously, with the full vigor of life and thestrong purpose of persons who are participating in a real drama, and nota make-believe. 

Mrs. Barr has the rare gift of writing from heart to heart. Sheunconsciously infuses into her readers a liberal share of the enthusiasmthat moves the people of her creative imagination. One cannot read anyof her books without feeling more than a spectator's interest; we are, for the moment, actual sharers in the joys and the sorrows, themisfortunes and the triumphs of the men and women to whom she introducesus. Our sympathy, our love, our admiration, are kindled by their nobleand attractive qualities; our mirth is excited by the absurd andincongruous aspects of some characters, and our hearts are thrilled bythe frequent revelation of such goodness and true human feeling as canonly come from pure and noble souls. 

In these "Tales, " as in many of her other works, humble life has held astrong attraction for Mrs. Barr's pen. Her mind and heart naturally turnin this direction; and although her wonderful talent, within its widerange, deals with all stations and conditions of life, she has butlittle relish for the gilded artificialities of society, and a stronglove for those whose condition makes life for them something real andearnest and definite of purpose. For this reason, among many others, theChristian people of America have a hearty admiration for Mrs. Barr andher work, knowing it to be not only of surpassing human interest, butspiritually helpful and inspiring, with an influence that makes formorality and good living, in the highest sense in which a Christianunderstands the term. 

G. H. SANDISON. 

_New York, 1896. _

CONTENTS. 

"Cash;" a Problem of Profit and LossFranz Müller's WifeThe Voice at MidnightSix and Half-a-DozenThe Story of David MorrisonTom Duffan's DaughterThe Harvest of the WindThe Seven Wise Men of PrestonMargaret Sinclair's Silent MoneyJust What He DeservedAn Only OfferTwo Fair DeceiversThe Two Mr. SmithsThe Story of Mary NeilThe Heiress of Kurston ChaceOnly This OncePetralto's Love Story

Winter Evening Tales. 

CASH. 

A PROBLEM OF PROFIT AND LOSS, WORKED BY DAVID LOCKERBY. 

PART I. 

 "Gold may be dear bought. "

A narrow street with dreadful "wynds" and "vennels" running back from itwas the High street of Glasgow at the time my story opens. And yet, though dirty, noisy and overcrowded with sin and suffering, a flavor ofold time royalty and romance lingered amid its vulgar surroundings; andmidway of its squalid length a quaint brown frontage kept behind itnoble halls of learning, and pleasant old courts full of the "air ofstill delightful studies. "

From this building came out two young men in academic costume. One ofthem set his face dourly against the clammy fog and drizzling rain, breathing it boldly, as if it was the balmiest oxygen; the other, shuddering, drew his scarlet toga around him and said, mournfully, "Ech, Davie, the High street is an ill furlong on the de'il's road! Inever tread it, but I think o' the weary, weary miles atween it andEden. "

"There is no road without its bad league, Willie, and the High streethas its compensations; its prison for ill-doers, its learned college, and its holy High Kirk. I am one of St. Mungo's bairns, and I'm notabove preaching for my saint. "

"And St. Mungo will be proud of your birthday yet, Davie. With such ahead and such a tongue, with knowledge behind, and wit to the fore, there is a broad road and an open door for David Lockerby. You may comeeven to be the Lord Rector o' Glasgow College yet. "

"Wisdom is praised and starves; I am thinking it would set me better tobe Lord Provost of Glasgow city. "

"The man who buried his one talent did not go scatheless, Davie; andwhat now if he had had ten?"

"You are aye preaching, Willie, and whiles it is very untimeous. Are yougoing to Mary Moir's to-night?"

"Why should I? The only victory over love is through running away. "

David looked sharply at his companion but as they were at the Trongatethere was no time for further remark. Willie Caird turned eastwardtoward Glasgow Green, David hailed a passing omnibus and was soon setdown before a handsome house on the Sauchiehall Road. He went in by theback door, winning from old Janet, in spite of herself, the grimmestshadow of a smile. 

"Are my father and mother at home, Janet?"

"Deed are they, the mair by token that they hae been quarreling anentyou till the peacefu' folks like mysel' could hae wished them mairsense, or further away. "

"Why should they quarrel about me?"

"Why, indeed, since they'll no win past your ain makin' or marring? Butthe mistress is some kin to Zebedee's wife, I'm thinking, and she wadfain set you up in a pu'pit and gie you the keys o' St. Peter; whilemaister is for haeing you it a bank or twa in your pouch, and addEllenmount to Lockerby, and--"

"And if I could, Janet?"

"Tut, tut, lad! If it werna for 'if' you might put auld Scotland in abottle. "

"But what was the upshot, Janet?"

"I canna tell. God alone understan's quarreling folk. "

Then David went upstairs to his own room, and when he came down againhis face was set as dourly against the coming interview as it had beenagainst the mist and rain. The point at issue was quite familiar tohim; his mother wished him to continue his studies and prepare for theministry. In her opinion the greatest of all men were the servants ofthe King, and a part of the spiritual power and social influence whichthey enjoyed in St. Mungo's ancient city she earnestly coveted for herson. "Didn't the Bailies and the Lord Provost wait for them? And werenot even the landed gentry and nobles obligated to walk behind aminister in his gown and bands?"

Old Andrew Lockerby thought the honor good enough, but money was better. All the twenty years that his wife had been dreaming of David ruling hisflock from the very throne of a pulpit, Andrew had been dreaming of himbecoming a great merchant or banker, and winning back the fair lands ofEllenmount, once the patrimonial estate of the house of Lockerby. Duringthese twenty years both husband and wife had clung tenaciously to theirseveral intentions. 

Now David's teachers--without any knowledge of these diverseinfluences--had urged on him the duty of cultivating the unusual talentsconfided to him, and of consecrating them to some noble service of Godand humanity. But David was ruled by many opposite feelings, and hadwith all his book-learning the very smallest intimate acquaintance withhimself. He knew neither his strong points nor his weak ones, and hadnot even a suspicion of the mighty potency of that mysterious love forgold which really was the ruling passion in his breast. 

The argument so long pending he knew was now to be finally settled, andhe was by no means unprepared for the discussion. He came slowly downstairs, counting the points he wished to make on his fingers, and quiteresolved neither to be coaxed nor bullied out of his own individualopinion. He was a handsome, stalwart fellow, as Scotchmen oftwo-and-twenty go, for it takes about thirty-five years to fill up andperfect the massive frames of "the men of old Gaul. " About histhirty-fifth year David would doubtless be a man of noble presence; buteven now there was a sense of youth and power about him that was veryattractive, as with a grave smile he lifted a book, and comfortablydisposed himself in an easy chair by the window. For David knew betterthan begin the conversation; any advantages the defendant might have hedetermined to retain. 

After a few minutes' silence his father said, "What are you reading, Davie? It ought to be a guid book that puts guid company in thebackground. "

David leisurely turned to the title page. "'Selections from the LatinPoets, ' father. "

"A fool is never a great fool until he kens Latin. Adam Smith or somebook o' commercial economics wad set ye better, Davie. "

"Adam Smith is good company for them that are going his way, father: butthere is no way a man may take and not find the humanities goodroad-fellows. "

"Dinna beat around the bush, guidman; tell Davie at once that you wanthim to go 'prentice to Mammon. He kens well enough whether he can servehim or no. "

"I want Davie to go 'prentice to your ain brither, guid wife--it's naneo' my doing if you ca' your ain kin ill names--and, Davie, your unclemaks you a fair offer, an' you'll just be a born fool to refuse it. "

"What is it, father?"

"Twa years you are to serve him for £200 a year; and at the end, if bothare satisfied, he will gie you sich a share in the business as I can buyyou--and, Davie, I'se no be scrimping for such an end. It's the auldestbank in Soho, an' there's nane atween you and the head o' it. Dinnafling awa' good fortune--dinna do it, Davie, my dear lad. I hae look itto you for twenty years to finish what I hae begun--for twenty years Ihae been telling mysel' 'my Davie will win again the bonnie braes o'Ellenmount. '"

There were tears in old Andrew's eyes, and David's heart thrilled andwarmed to the old man's words; in that one flash of sympathy they camenearer to each other than they had ever done before. 

And then spoke his mother: "Davie, my son, you'll no listen to ony sichtemptation. My brither is my brither, and there are few folk o' theGordon line a'thegither wrang, but Alexander Gordon is a dour man, and Itrow weel you'll serve hard for ony share in his money bags. You'll justgang your ways back to college and tak' up your Greek and Hebrew andserve in the Lord's temple instead of Alexander Gordon's Soho Bank; and, Davie, if you'll do right in this matter you'll win my blessing andevery plack and bawbee o' my money. " Then, seeing no change in David'sface, she made her last, great concession--"And, Davie, you may marryMary Moir, an' it please you, and I'll like the lassie as weel as maybe. "

"Your mither, like a' women, has sought you wi' a bribe in her hand, Davie. You ken whether she has bid your price or not. When you haeserved your twa years I'se buy you a £20, 000 share in the Gordon Bank, and a man wi' £20, 000 can pick and choose the wife he likes best. ButI'm aboon bribing you--a fair offer isna a bribe. "

The concession as to Mary Moir was the one which Davie had resolved tomake his turning point, and now both father and mother had virtuallygranted it. He had told himself that no lot in life would be worthhaving without Mary, and that with her any lot would be happy. Now thathe had been left free in this matter he knew his own mind as little asever. 

"The first step binds to the next, " he answered, thoughtfully. "Mary mayhave something to say. Night brings counsel. I will e'en think overthings until the morn. "

A little later he was talking both offers over with Mary Moir, andthough it took four hours to discuss them they did not find the subjecttedious. It was very late when he returned home, but he knew by thelight in the house-place that Janet was waiting up for him. Coming outof the wet, dark night, it was pleasant to see the blazing ingle, thewhite-sanded floor, and the little round table holding some coldmoor-cock and the pastry that he particularly liked. 

"Love is but cauldrife cheer, my lad, " said Janet, "an' the breast o' abird an' a raspberry tartlet will be nane out o' the way. " David was ofthe same opinion. He was very willing to enjoy Janet's good things andthe pleasant light and warmth. Besides, Janet was his oldest confidantand friend--a friend that had never failed him in any of his boyishtroubles or youthful scrapes. 

It gave her pleasure enough for a while to watch him eat, but when hepushed aside the bird and stretched out his hand for the raspberrydainties, she said, "Now talk a bit, my lad. If others hae wared moneyon you, I hae wared love, an' I want to ken whether you are going tocollege, or whether you are going to Lunnon amang the proud, fauseEnglishers?"

"I am going to London, Janet. "

"Whatna for?"

"I am not sure that I have any call to be a minister, Janet--it is asolemn charge. "

"Then why not ask for a sure call? There is nae key to God's councilchamber that I ken of. "

"Mary wants me to go to London. "

"Ech, sirs! Sets Deacon Moir's dochter to send a lad a wrang road. Iwouldna hae thocht wi' her bringing up she could hae swithered for amoment--but it's the auld, auld story; where the deil canna go byhimsel' he sends a woman. And David Lockerby will tyne his inheritancefor a pair o' blue e'en and a handfu' o' gowden curls. Waly! waly! butthe children o' Esau live for ever. "

"Mary said, "--

"I dinna want to hear what Mary said. It would hae been nae loss ifshe'd ne'er spoken on the matter; but if you think makin' money, an'hoarding money is the measure o' your capacity you ken yousel', sir, dootless. Howsomever you'll go to your ain room now; I'm no going tokeep my auld e'en waking just for a common business body. "

Thus in spite of his father's support, David did not find his road toLondon as fair and straight as he could have wished. Janet was deeplyoffended at him, and she made him feel it in a score of little ways veryannoying to a man fond of creature comforts and human sympathy. Hismother went about the necessary preparations in a tearful mood that wasa constant reproach, and his friend Willie did not scruple to tell himthat "he was clean out o' the way o' duty. "

"God has given you a measure o' St. Paul's power o' argument, Davie, andthe verra tongue o' Apollos--weapons wherewith to reason against allunrighteousness and to win the souls o' men. "

"Special pleading, Willie. "

"Not at all. Every man's life bears its inscription if he will take thetrouble to read it. There was James Grahame, born, as you may say, wi' asword in his hand, and Bauldy Strang wi' a spade, and Andrew Semple tookto the balances and the 'rithmetic as a duck takes to the water. Do younot mind the day you spoke anent the African missions to the young menin St. Andrews' Ha'? Your words flew like arrows--every ane o' them toits mark; and your heart burned and your e'en glowed, till we were a' onfire with you, and there wasna a lad there that wouldna hae followed youto the vera Equator. I wouldna dare to bury such a power for good, Davie, no, not though I buried it fathoms deep in gold. "

From such interviews as these Davie went home very miserable. If it hadnot been for Mary Moir he would certainly have gone back to his old seatby Willie Caird in the Theological Hall. But Mary had such splendiddreams of their life in London, and she looked in her hope and beauty sobewitching, that he could not bear to hint a disappointment to her. Besides, he doubted whether she was really fit for a minister's wife, even if he should take up the cross laid down before him--and as forgiving up Mary, he would not admit to himself that there could be apossible duty in such a contingency. 

But that even his father had doubts and hesitations was proven to Davidby the contradictory nature of his advice and charges. Thus on themorning he left Glasgow, and as they were riding together to theCaledonian station, the old man said, "Your uncle has given you a seatin his bank, Davie, and you'll mak' room for yoursel' to lie down, I'sewarrant. But you'll no forget that when a guid man thrives a' shouldthrive i' him; and giving for God's sake never lessens the purse. "

"I am but one in a world full, father. I hope I shall never forget togive according to my prosperings. "

"Tak the world as it is, my lad, and no' as it ought to be; and neverforget that money is money's brither--an' you put two pennies in a pursethey'll creep thegither. 

"But then Davie, I am free to say gold won't buy everything, and thoughrich men hae long hands, they won't reach to heaven. So, though you'lltak guid care o' yoursel', you will also gie to God the things that areGod's. "

"I have been brought up in the fear of God and the love of mankind, father. It would be an ill thing for me to slink out of life and leavethe world no better for my living. "

"God bless you, lad; and the £20, 000 will be to the fore when it iscalled for, and you shall make it £60, 000, and I'll see again Ellenmountin the Lockerby's keeping. But you'll walk in the ways o' your fathers, and gie without grudging of your increase. "

David nodded rather impatiently. He could hardly understand thestruggle going on in his father's heart--the wish to say something thatmight quiet his own conscience, and yet not make David's unnecessarilytender. It is hard serving God and Mammon, and Andrew Lockerby wasmiserable and ashamed that morning in the service. 

And yet he was not selfish in the matter--that much in his favor must beadmitted. He would rather have had the fine, handsome lad he loved sodearly going in and out his own house. He could have taken greatinterest in all his further studies, and very great pride in seeing hima successful "placed minister;" but there are few Scotsmen in whom prideof lineage and the good of the family does not strike deeper thanindividual pleasure. Andrew really believed that David's first duty wasto the house of Lockerby. 

He had sacrificed a great deal toward this end all his own life, norwere his sacrifices complete with the resignation of his only child tothe same purpose. To a man of more than sixty years of age it is a greattrial to have an unusual and unhappy atmosphere in his home; and thoughMrs. Lockerby was now tearful and patient under her disappointment, everyone knows that tears and patience may be a miserable kind ofcomfort. Then, though Janet had as yet preserved a dour and angrysilence, he knew that sooner or later she would begin a guerilla warfareof sharp words, which he feared he would have mainly to bear, for Janet, though his housekeeper, was also "a far-awa cousin, " had been fortyyears in his house, and was not accustomed to withhold her opinions onany subject. 

Fortunately for Andrew Lockerby, Janet finally selected Mary Moir as theEve specially to blame in this transgression. "A proud up-head lassie, "she asserted, "that cam o' a family wha would sell their share o' thesunshine for pounds sterling!"

From such texts as this the two women in the Lockerby house preachedlittle daily sermons to each other, until comfort grew out of the verystem of their sorrow, and they began to congratulate each other that"puir Davie was at ony rate outside the glamour o' Mary Moir'stemptations. "

"For she just bewitched the laddie, " said Janet, angrily; and, doubtless, if the old laws regarding witches had been in Janet'sadministration it would have gone hardly with pretty Mary Moir. 

PART II. 

"God's work is soon done. "

It is a weary day when the youth first discovers that after all he willonly become a man; and this discovery came with a depressing weight onemorning to David, after he had been counting bank notes for three hours. It was noon, but the gas was lit, and in the heavy air a dozen men satsilent as statues, adding up figures and making entries. He thought ofthe college courts, and the college green, of the crowded halls, and thesymposia, where both mind and body had equal refection. There had beendays when he had a part in these things, and when to "strive with thingsimpossible, " or "to pluck honor from the pale-faced moon, " had not beenunreasonable or rash; but now it almost seemed as if Mr. Buckle's drearygospel was a reality, and men were machines, and life was an affair tobe tabulated in averages. 

He had just had a letter from Willie Caird, too, and it had irritatedhim. The wounds of a friend may be faithful, but they are not alwayswelcome. David determined to drop the correspondence. Willie was goingone way and he another. They might never see each other again; and--

 If they should meet one day, If _both_ should not forget They could clasp hands the accustomed way. 

For by simply going with the current in which in great measure, subjectyet to early influences, he found himself, David Lockerby had drifted inone twelve months far enough away from the traditions and feelings ofhis home and native land. Not that he had broken loose into any flagrantsin, or in any manner cast a shadow on the perfect respectability of hisname. The set in which Alexander Gordon and his nephew lived sanctionednothing of the kind. They belonged to the best society, and were ofthose well-dressed, well-behaved people whom Canon Kingsley described as"the sitters in pews. "

In their very proper company David had gone to ball and party, to operaand theatre. On wet Sundays they sat together in St. George's Church; onfine Sundays they had sailed quietly down the Thames, and eaten theirdinner at Richmond. Now, sin is sin beyond all controversy, but therewere none of David's companions to whom these things were sins in thesame degree as they were to David. 

To none of them had the holy Sabbath ever been the day it had been tohim; to none of them was it so richly freighted with memories ofwonderful sermons and solemn sacraments that were foretastes of heaven. Coming with a party of gentlemanly fellows slowly rowing up the Thamesand humming some passionate recitative from an opera, he alone couldrecall the charmful stillness of a Scotch Sabbath, the worshipingcrowds, and the evening psalm ascending from so many thousandhearthstones:

 O God of Bethel, by whose hand Thy people still are led. 

He alone, as the oars kept time to "aria" or "chorus, " heard above thewitching melody the solemn minor of "St. Mary's, " or the tearfultenderness of "Communion. "

To most of his companions opera and theatre had come as a matter ofcourse, as a part of their daily life and education. David had beenobliged to stifle conscience, to disobey his father's counsels and hismother's pleadings, before he could enjoy them. He had had, in fact, tocultivate a taste for the sin before the sin was pleasant to him; and hefrankly told himself that night, in thinking it all over, that it washarder work getting to hell than to heaven. 

But then in another year he would become a partner, marry Mary, andbegin a new life. Suddenly it struck him with a new force that he hadnot heard from Mary for nearly three weeks. A fear seized him thatwhile he had been dancing and making merry Mary had been ill andsuffering. He was amazed at his own heartlessness, for surely nothingbut sickness would have made Mary forget him. 

The next morning as he went to the bank he posted a long letter to her, full of affection and contrition and rose-colored pictures of theirfuture life. He had risen an hour earlier to write it, and he did notfail to notice what a healthy natural pleasure even this small effort ofself-denial gave him. He determined that he would that very night writelong letters to his mother and Janet, and even to his father. "There wasa good deal he wanted to say to him about money matters, and hismarriage, and fore-talk always saved after-talk, besides it would keepthe influence of the old and better life around him to be in closercommunion with it. "

Thus thinking, he opened the door of his uncle's private room, and saidcheerily, "Good morning, uncle. "

"Good morning, Davie. Your father is here. "

Then Andrew Lockerby came forward, and his son met him with outstretchedhands and paling cheeks. "What is it, father? Mother? Mary? Is shedead?"

"'Deed, no, my lad. There's naething wrang but will turn to right. MaryMoir was married three days syne, and I thocht you wad rather hear thenews from are that loved you. That's a', Davie; and indeed it's a lossthat's a great gain. "

"Who did she marry?"

"Just a bit wizened body frae the East Indies, a'most as yellow as hisgold, an' as auld as her father. But the Deacon is greatly set up wi'the match--or the settlements--and Mary comes o' a gripping kind. There's her brother Gavin, he'd sell the ears aff his head, an' theywerena fastened on. "

Then David went away with his father, and after half-an-hour's talk onthe subject together it was never mentioned more between them. But itwas a blow that killed effectually all David's eager yearnings for aloftier and purer life. And it not only did this, but it also caused tospring up into active existence a passion which was to rule himabsolutely--a passion for gold. Love had failed him, friendship hadproved an annoyance, company, music, feasting, amusements of all kindswere a weariness now to think of. There seemed nothing better for himthan to become a rich man. 

"I'll buy so many acres of old Scotland and call them by the Lockerby'sname; and I'll have nobles and great men come bowing and becking toDavid Lockerby as they do to Alexander Gordon. Love is refused, andwisdom is scorned, but everybody is glad to take money; then money isbest of all things. "

Thus David reasoned, and his father said nothing against his arguments. Indeed, they had never understood one another so well. David, for thefirst time, asked all about the lands of Ellenmount, and pledgedhimself, if he lived and prospered, to fulfill his father's hope. Indeed, Andrew was altogether so pleased with his son that he told hisbrother-in-law that the £20, 000 would be forthcoming as soon as ever hechoose to advance David in the firm. 

"I was only waiting, Lockerby, till Davie got through wi' his playtime. The lad's myself o'er again, an' I ken weel he'll ne'er be contenteduntil he settles cannily doon to his interest tables. "

So before Andrew Lockerby went back to Glasgow David was one of the firmof Gordon & Co. , sat in the directors' room, and began to feel some ofthe pleasant power of having money to lend. After this he was rarelyseen among men of his own age--women he never mingled with. He removedto his uncle's stately house in Baker street, and assimilated his lifevery much to that of the older money maker. Occasionally he took a runnorthward to Glasgow, or a month's vacation on the Continent, butnearly all such journeys were associated with some profitable loan orinvestment. People began to speak of him as a most admirable young man, and indeed in some respects he merited the praise. No son ever moreaffectionately honored his father and mother, and Janet had been made anindependent woman by his grateful consideration. 

He was so admirable that he ceased to interest people, and every time hevisited Glasgow fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances came to seehim. A little more than ten years after his admission to the firm ofGordon & Co. He came home at the new year, and presented his father withthe title-deeds of Ellenmount and Netherby. The next day old Andrew waswelcomed on the City Exchange as "Lockerby of Ellenmount, gentleman. " "Ihae lived lang enough to hae seen this day, " he said, with happy tears;and David felt a joy in his father's joy that he did not know again formany years. For while a man works for another there is an ennoblingelement in his labor, but when he works simply for himself he has becomethe greatest of all slaves. This slavery David now willingly assumed;the accumulation of money became his business, his pleasure, the sum ofhis daily life. 

Ten years later both his uncle and father were dead, and both had leftDavid every shilling they possessed. Then he went on working moreeagerly than ever, turning his tens of thousands into hundreds ofthousands and adding acre to acre, and farm to farm, until Lockerby wasthe richest estate in Annandale. When he was forty-five years of agefortune seemed to have given him every good gift except wife andchildren, and his mother, who had nothing else to fret about, worriedJanet continually on this subject. 

"Wife an' bairns, indeed!" said Janet; "vera uncertain comforts, ma'am, an' vera certain cares. Our Master Davie likes aye to be sure o' hisbargains. "

"Weel, Janet, it's a great cross to me--an' him sae honored, an' guidan' rich, wi' no a shilling ill-saved to shame him. "

"Tut, tut, ma'am! The river doesna' swell wi' clean water. Naebody'scharged him wi' wrangdoing--that's enough. There's nae need to set himup for a saint. "

"An' you wanted him to be a minister, Janet. "

"I was that blind--ance. "

"We are blind creatures, Janet. "

"Wi' _excepts_, ma'am; but they'll ne'er be found amang mithers. "

This conversation took place one lovely Sabbath evening, and just at thesame time David was standing thoughtfully on Princes street, Edinburgh, wondering to which church he had better turn his steps. For a suddencrisis in the affairs of a bank in that city had brought him hurriedlyto Scotland, and he was not only a prudent man who considered publicopinion, but was also in a mood to conciliate that opinion so long asthe outward conditions were favorable. Whatever he might do in London, in Scotland he always went to morning and evening service. 

He was also one of those self-dependent men who dislike to ask questionsor advice from anyone. Though a comparative stranger he would not haveallowed himself to think that anyone could direct him better than hecould choose for himself. He looked up and down the street, and finallyfollowed a company which increased continually until they entered an oldchurch in the Canongate. 

Its plain wooden pews and old-fashioned elevated pulpit rather pleasedthan offended David, and the air of antiquity about the placeconsecrated it in his eyes. Men like whatever reminds them of theirpurest and best days, and David had been once in the old Relief Churchon the Doo Hill in Glasgow--just such a large, bare, solemn-lookinghouse of worship. The still, earnest men and women, the droning of theprecentor, the antiquated singing pleased and soothed him. He did notnotice much the thin little fair man who conducted the services; for hewas holding a session with his own soul. 

A peculiar movement among the congregation announced that the sermon wasbeginning, and David, looking up, saw that the officiating minister hadbeen changed. This man was swarthy and tall, and looked like some oldJewish prophet, as he lifted his rapt face and cried, like one crying inthe wilderness, "Friends! I have a question to ask you to-night: '_Whatshall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his ownsoul_?'"

For twenty-three years David had silenced that voice, but it had foundhim out again--it was Willie Caird's. At first interested and curious, David soon became profoundly moved as Willie, in clear, solemn, thrilling sentences, reasoned of life and death and judgment to come. Not that he followed his arguments, or was more than dimly conscious ofthe moving eloquence that stirred the crowd as a mighty wind stirs thetrees in the forest: for that dreadful question smote, and smote, andsmote upon his heart as if determined to have an answer. 

_What shall it profit? What shall it profit? What shall it profit_?David was quick enough at counting material loss and profit, but herewas a question beyond his computation. He went silently out of thechurch, and wandered away by Holyrood Palace and St. Anthony's Chapel tothe pathless, lonely beauty of Salisbury Crags. There was no answer innature for him. The stars were silent above, the earth silent beneath. Weariness brought him no rest; if he slept, he woke with the start of ahunted soul, and found him asking that same dreadful question. When helooked in the mirror his own face queried of him, "What profit?" and hewas compelled to make a decided effort to prevent his tongue utteringthe ever present thought. 

But at noon he would meet the defaulting bank committee, "and doubtlesshis lawful business would take its proper share of his thought!" He toldhimself that it was the voice and face of his old friend that hadaffected him so vividly, and that if he went and chatted over old timeswith Willie, he would get rid of the disagreeable influence. 

The influence, however, went with him into the creditors' committeeroom. The embarrassed officials had dreaded greatly the interview. Noone hoped for more than bare justice from David Lockerby. "Clemency, help, sympathy! You'll get blood out o' a stane first, gentlemen, " saidthe old cashier, with a dour, hopeless face. 

And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself. He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own--only hisown--but something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gave uphis lawful increase and even offered help. He went determined to speakhis mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of havinglosses; and something asked him, "_What shall it profit_?" and he gavesuch sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in itshand. 

The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed andalmost made him ashamed. He slipped ungraciously away from the thanksthat ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almostunconsciously, looking up Willie's name in the clerical directory, "Dr. William Caird, 22 Moray place. " David knew enough of Edinburgh to knowthat Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, andtherefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie'slibrary; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautifulboys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons andsports as if he was one of them. 

"Ech! Davie man! but I'm glad to see you!" That was all of Willie'sgreeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held each other'shands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no onehad seen for many long years. But he said nothing during his visit ofWillie's sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones. Scotsmen arereticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritualexperience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he wasneither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all theirconversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Williehad raised. 

But as they stood before the Queen's Hotel at midnight bidding eachother an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round andopened up his whole heart to him. And as he talked he found himself ableto define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want. 

"I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, that ever you asked yon fearsome question of--and I know it. I haveachieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul. I havewasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whateverthe world may call me I am a wretched breakdown. I have mademoney--plenty of it--and it does not pay me. What am I to do?"

"You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what advice the Lord Jesus gave tothe rich man--'distribute unto the poor--and come, follow me!'"

Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the CastleHill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeamstouched St. Leonard's Crags. If it was a long walk a grand work was laidout in it. 

"You shall be more blessed than your namesake, " said Willie, "for thoughDavid gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon buildedtherewith. Now, an' it please God, you shall do your ain work, and seethe topstone brought on with rejoicing. "

Then at David's command, workmen gathered in companies, and some of theworst "vennels" in old Glasgow were torn down; and the sunshine flooded"wynds" it had scarcely touched for centuries, and a noble buildingarose that was to be a home for children that had no home. And the farmsof Ellenmount fed them, and the fleeces of Lockerby clothed them, andinto every young hand was put a trade that would win it honest bread. 

In a short time even this undertaking began to be too small for David'senergies and resources, and he joined hands with Willie in many othergood works, and gave not only freely of his gold, but also of his timeand labor. The old eloquence that stirred his classmates in St. Andrew'sHall, "till they would have followed him to the equator" began to stirthe cautious Glasgow traders to the bottom of their hearts, and theirpocketbooks; and men who didn't want to help in a crusade againstdrunkenness, or in a crusade for the spread of the Gospel, stopped awayfrom Glasgow City Hall when David Lockerby filled the chair at a publicmeeting and started a subscription list with £1000 down on the table. 

But there were two old ladies that never stopped away, though one ofthem always declared "Master Davie had fleeched her last bawbee out o'her pouch;" and the other generally had her little whimper about Davie"waring his substance upon ither folks' bairns. "

"There's bonnie Bessie Lament, Janet; an' he would marry her we mightlive to see his ain sons and daughters in the old house. "

"'Deed, then, ma'am, our Davie has gotten him a name better than that o'sons an' dochters; and though I am sair disappointed in him--"

"You shouldn't say that, Janet; he made a gran' speech the day. "

"A speech isna' a sermon, ma'am; though I'll ne'er belittle a speech wi'a £1000 argument. "

"And there was Deacon Moir, Janet, who didna approve o' the scheme, andwho would therefore gie nothing at a'. "

"The Deacon is sae godly that God doesna get a chance to improve hiscondition, ma'am. But for a' o' Deacon Moir's disapproval I'se count onthe good work going on. "

"'Deed yes, Janet, and though our Davie should ne'er marry at a'--"

"There'll be generations o' lads an' lasses, ma'am, that will rise up inauld Scotland an' go up an' down through a' the warld a' ca' DavidLockerby 'blessed. '"

FRANZ MÜLLER'S WIFE. 

"Franz, good morning. Whose philosophy is it now? Hegel, Spinosa, Kantor Dugald Stewart?"

"None of them. I am reading _Faust_. "

"Worse and worse. Better wrestle with philosophies than lose yourself inthe clouds. At any rate, if the poets are to send the philosophers tothe right about, stick to Shakespeare. "

"He is too material. He can't get rid of men and women. "

"They are a little better, I should think, than Mephisto. Come, Franz, condescend to cravats and kid gloves, and let us go and see my cousinChristine Stromberg. "

"I do not know the young lady. "

"Of course not. She has just returned from a Munich school. Her brotherMax was at the Lyndons' great party, you remember?"

"I don't remember, Louis. In white cravats and black coats all men lookalike. "

"But you will go?"

"If you wish it, yes. There are some uncut reviews on the table: amuseyourself while I dress. "

"Thanks, I have my cigar case. I will take a smoke and think ofChristine. "

For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech. He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented thecareless use of her name. It fell upon some soul consciousness like afamiliar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase ofhis life for any clew to this familiarity. 

He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, thoughtful eyes. In a conversation that interested him his face lightedup with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as stilland passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit. Even theregulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, andLouis looked admiringly at him, and said, "You are still Franz Müller. No one is just like you. I should think Cousin Christine will fall inlove with you. "

Again Franz's heart resented this speech. It had been waiting for lovefor many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it. No one butthe thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and noone ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men aresensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generallywilling to respect it. 

Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those whofell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity. Itwas strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and neverhave really loved any mortal woman. But his hour had come at last. Assoon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her. A strange exaltationpossessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with abrilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rareexhibitions of such moods. And Christine seemed fascinated by his beautyand wit. The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watchinghim down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember whatquestions Franz's eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar theclasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her. 

"I wonder where I have seen him before, " she murmured--"I wonder whereit was?" and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it wasonly to take it up again in dreams. 

As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep. "Onehas too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness, "he said to himself. And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching thewaning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, butdawning day. 

"In a few hours now I can go and see Christine. " At this point in hislove he had no other thought. He was too happy to speculate on anyprobability as yet. It was sufficient at present to know that he hadfound his love, that she lived at a definite number on a definiteavenue, and that in six or seven hours more he might see her again. 

He chose the earlier number. It was just eleven o'clock when he rung Mr. Stromberg's bell. Mrs. Stromberg passed through the hall as he entered, and greeted him pleasantly. "Christine and I are just going to havebreakfast, " she said, in her jolly, hearty way. "Come in Mr. Müller, andhave a cup of coffee with us. "

Nothing could have delighted Franz so much. Christine was pouring it outas he entered the pretty breakfast parlor. How beautiful she looked inher long loose morning dress! How, bewitching were its numerous bows ofpale ribbon! He had a sense of hunger immediately, and he knew that hemade an excellent breakfast; but of what he ate or what he drank he hadnot the slightest conception. 

A cup of coffee passing through Christine's, hands necessarily sufferedsome wonderful change. It could not, and it did not, taste likeordinary coffee. In the same mysterious way chicken, eggs and rollsbecame sublimated. So they ate and laughed and chatted, and I am quitesure that Milton never imagined a meal in Eden half so delightful asthat breakfast on the avenue. 

When it was over, it came into Franz's heart to offer Christine a ride. They were standing together among the flowers in the bay window, and thetrees outside were in their first tender green, and the spring skies andthe spring airs were full of happiness and hope. Christine was arrangingand watering her lilies and pansies, and somehow in helping her Franz'shands and hers had lingered happily together. So now love gave to thismortal an immortal's confidence. He never thought of sighing and fearingand trembling. His soul had claimed Christine, and he firmly believedthat sooner or later she would hear and understand what he had to say toher. 

"Shall we ride?" he said, just touching her fingers, and looking at herwith eyes and face glowing with a wonderful happiness. 

Alas, Christine could think of mamma, and of morning calls and of whatpeople would say. But Franz overruled every scruple; he conquered mamma, and laughed at society; and before Christine had decided which of hercostumes was most becoming, Franz was waiting at the door. 

How they rattled up the avenue and through the park! How the greenbranches waved in triumph, and how the birds sang and gossiped aboutthem! By the time they arrived at Mount St. Vincent they had forgottenthey were mortal. Then the rest in the shady gallery, and the subsidenceof love's exaltation into love's silent tender melancholy, were just asblissful. 

They came slowly home, speaking only in glances and monosyllables, butjust before they parted Franz said, "I have been waiting thirty yearsfor you, Christine; to-day my life has blossomed. "

And though Christine did not make any audible answer, he thought herblush sufficient; besides, she took the lilies from her throat and gavethem to him. 

Such a dream of love is given only to the few whom the gods favor. Franzmust have stood high in their grace, for it lasted through many sweetweeks and months for him. He followed the Strombergs to Newport, andlaid his whole life down at Christine's feet. There was no definiteengagement between them, but every one understood that would come assurely as the end of the season. 

Money matters and housekeeping must eventually intrude themselves, butthe romance and charm of this one summer of life should be untouched. And Franz was not anxious at all on this score. His father, a shrewdbusiness man, had early seen that his son was a poet and a dreamer. "Itis not the boy's fault, " he said to his partner, "he gets it from hisgrandfather, who was always more out of this world than in it. "

So he wisely allowed Franz to follow his natural tastes, and contentedhimself with carefully investing his fortune in such real estate andsecurities as he believed would insure a safe, if a slow increase. Hehad bought wisely, and Franz's income was a certain and handsome one, with a tendency rather to increase than decrease, and quite sufficientto maintain Christine in all the luxury to which she had beenaccustomed. 

So when he returned to the city he intended to speak to Mr. Stromberg. All he had should be Christine's and her father should settle the matterjust as he thought best for his daughter. In a general way this wasunderstood by all parties, and everyone seemed inclined to sympathizewith the happy feeling which led the lovers to deprecate during theseenchanted days any allusion which tended to dispel the exquisite charmof their young lives' idyl. 

Perhaps it would have been better if they had remembered the ancientsuperstition and themselves done something to mar their perfecthappiness. Polycrates offered his ring to avert the calamity sure tofollow unmitigated pleasure or success, and Franz ought, perhaps, tohave also made an effort to propitiate his envious Fate. 

But he did not, and toward the very end of the season, when the Octoberdays had thrown a kind of still melancholy over the world that had beenso green and gay, Franz's dream was rudely broken--broken by a Mr. JamesBarker Clarke, a blustering, vulgar man of fifty, worth _threemillions_. In some way or other he seemed to have a great deal ofinfluence over Mr. Stromberg, who paid him unqualified respect, and overMrs. Stromberg, who seemed to fear him. 

Mr. Stromberg's "private ledger" alone knew the whole secret; for ofcourse money was at the foundation. Indeed, in these days, in all publicand private troubles, it is proper to ask, not "Who is she?" but "Howmuch is it?" Franz Müller and James Barker Clarke hated each other onsight. Still Franz had no idea at first that this ugly, uncouth mancould ever be a rival to his own handsome person and passionateaffection. 

In a few days, however, he was compelled to actually consider thepossibility of such a thing. Mr. Stromberg had assumed an attitude ofsuch extreme politeness, and Mrs. Stromberg avoided him if possible, andif not possible, was constrained and unhappy in the familiar relationsthat she had accepted so happily all summer. As for Christine, she hadconstant headaches, and her eyes were often swollen and red withweeping. 

At length, without notice, the family left Newport, and went to stay amonth with some relative near Boston. A pitiful little note fromChristine informed him of this fact; but as he received no informationas to the locality of her relative's house, and no invitation to call, he was compelled for the present to do as Christine asked him--waitpatiently for their return. 

At first he got a few short tender notes, but they were evidentlywritten in such sorrow that he was almost beside himself with grief andanger. When these ceased he went to Boston, and without difficulty foundthe house where Christine was staying. He was received at first veryshyly by Mrs. Stromberg, but when Franz poured out his love and misery, the poor old lady wept bitterly, and moaned out that she could not helpit, and Christine could not help it, and that they were all verymiserable. 

Finally she was persuaded to let him see Christine, "just for fiveminutes. " The poor girl came to him, a shadow of her gay self, and, weeping in his arms, told him he must bid her good-by forever. The fiveminutes were lengthened into a long, terrible hour, and Franz went backto New York with the knowledge that in that hour his life had beenbroken in two for this life. 

One night toward the close of November his friend Louis called. "Franz, "he said, "have you heard that Christine Stromberg is to marry oldClarke?"

"Yes. "

"No one can trust a woman. It is a shame of Christine. "

"Louis, speak of what you know. Christine is an angel. If a womanappears to do wrong, there is probably some brute of a man behind herforcing her to do it. "

"I thought she was to be your wife. "

"She is my wife in soul and feeling. No one, thank God, can help that. If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as ChristineStromberg. Do not speak of her again, Louis. The poor innocent child!God bless her!" And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed hisfriend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation. 

In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christineand James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a styleof extravagant splendor. People wondered and exclaimed at Christine'sreckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; butthough she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all theirsuggestions. She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Viennaand London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever shewent Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like awretched spectre. 

They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or alook whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him norecognition. The world held her name above reproach, and considered thatshe had done very well to herself. 

Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as theworld regards as natural and inevitable. Christine's mother died and herfather married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter. Franzwatched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icycoldness of her manners. Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrilyjealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretchedpassion. "If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?" heasked himself; "and these little ones, what have they done?" So at lasthe got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and toregard them as part and portion of his love. 

But at the end of ten years a change came, neither natural nor expected. Franz was walking moodily about his library one night, when Louis cameto tell him of it, Louis was no longer young, and was married now, forhe had found out that the beaten track is the safest. 

"Franz, " he said, "have you heard about Clarke? His affairs arefrightfully wrong, and he shot himself an hour ago. "

"And Christine? Does she know? Who has gone to her?"

"My wife is with her. Clarke shot himself in his own room. Christine wasthe first to reach him. He left a letter saying he was absolutelyruined. "

"Where will Christine and the children go?"

"I suppose to her father's. Not a pleasant place for her now. Christine's step-mother dislikes both her and the children. "

Franz said no more, and Louis went away with a feeling ofdisappointment. "I thought he would have done something for her, " hesaid to his wife. "Poor Christine will be very poor and dependent. "

Ten days after he came home with a different story. "There never was awoman as lucky about money as Cousin Christine, " he said. "Hardy & Hallsent her notice to-day that the property at Ryebeach settled on herbefore her marriage by Mr. Clarke was now at her disposal. It seems theold gentleman anticipated the result of his wild speculations, and inorder to provide for his wife, quietly bought and placed in Hardy'scharge two beautifully furnished cottages. There is something like anaccumulation of sixteen thousand dollars of rentage; and as one isluckily empty, Christine and the children are going there at once. Ialways thought the property was Hardy's own before. Very thoughtful inClarke. "

"It is not Clarke one bit. I don't believe he ever did it. It is somearrangement of Franz Müller's. "

"For goodness' sake don't hint such a thing, Lizzie! Christine would notgo, and we should have her here very soon. Besides, I don't believe it. Franz took the news very coolly, and he has kept out of my way since. "

The next day Louis was more than ever of his wife's opinion. "What doyou think, Lizzie?" he said. "Franz came to me to-day and asked ifClarke did not once loan me two thousand dollars. I told him Clarke gaveme two thousand about the time we were married. "

"'Say _loaned_, Louis, ' he answered, 'to oblige me. Here is twothousand and the interest for six years. Go and pay it to Christine; shemust need money. ' So I went. "

"Is she settled comfortably?"

"Oh, very. Go and see her often. Franz is sure to marry her, and he isgrowing richer every day. "

It seemed as if Louis's prediction would come true. Franz began to driveout every afternoon to Ryebeach. At first he contented himself with justpassing Christine's gate. But he soon began to stop for the children, and having taken them a drive, to rest a while on the lawn, or in theparlor, while Christine made him a cup of tea. 

For Franz tired very easily now, and Christine saw what few othersnoticed: he had become pale and emaciated, and the least exertion lefthim weary and breathless. She knew in her heart that it was, the lastsummer he would be with her. Alas! what a pitiful shadow of their firstone! It was hard to contrast the ardent, handsome lover of ten years agowith the white, silently happy man who, when October came, had onlystrength to sit and hold her hand, and gaze with eager, loving eyes intoher face. 

One day his physician met Louis on Broadway. "Mr. Curtin, " he said, "your friend Müller is very ill. I consider his life measured by days, perhaps hours. He has long had organic disease of the heart. It is nearthe last. "

"Does he know it?"

"Yes, he has known it long. Better see him at once. "

So Louis went at once. He found Franz calmly making his lastpreparations for the great event. "I am glad you are come, Louis, " hesaid; "I was going to send for you. See this cabinet full of letters. Ihave not strength left to destroy them; burn them for me when--when I amgone. 

"This small packet is Christine's dear little notes: bury them with me:there are ten of them, every one ten years old. "

"Is that all, dear Franz?"

"Yes; my will has long been made. Except a legacy to yourself, all goesto Christine--dear, dear Christine!"

"You love her yet, then, Franz?"

"What do you mean? I have loved her for ages. I shall love her forever. She is the other half of my soul. In some lives I have missed heraltogether let me be thankful that she has come so near me in this one. "

"Do you know what you are saying, Franz?"

"Very clearly, Louis. I have always believed with the oldestphilosophers that souls were created in pairs, and that it is permittedthem in their toilsome journey back to purity and heaven sometimes tomeet and comfort each other. Do you think I saw Christine for the firsttime in your uncle's parlor? Louis, I have fairer and grander memoriesof her than any linked to this life. I must leave her now for a little. God knows when and where we meet again; but _He does know_; that is myhope and consolation. "

Whatever were Louis's private opinions about Franz's theology it wasimpossible to dissent at that hour, and he took his friend's lastinstructions and farewell with such gentle, solemn feelings as had longbeen strange to his-heart. 

In the afternoon Franz was driven out to Christine's. It was the lastphysical effort he was capable of. No one saw the parting of those twosouls. He went with Christine's arms around him, and her lips whisperingtender, hopeful farewells. It was noticed however, that after Franz'sdeath a strange change came over Christine--a beautiful nobility andcalmness of character, and a gentle setting of her life to the loftiestaims. 

Louis said she had been wonderfully moved by the papers Franz left. Theten letters she had written during the spring-time of their love went tothe grave with him, but the rest were of such an extraordinary naturethat Louis could not refrain from showing them to his cousin, and thenat her request leaving them for her to dispose of. They were indeedletters written to herself under every circumstance of her life, anddirected to every place in which she had sojourned. In all of them shewas addressed as "Beloved Wife of my Soul, " and in this way the poorfellow had consoled his breaking, longing heart. 

To some of them he had written imaginary answers, but as these allreferred to a financial secret known only to the parties concerned inChristine's and his own sacrifice, it was proof positive that he hadwritten only for his own comfort. But it was perhaps well they fell intoChristine's hands: she could not but be a better woman for reading thesimple records of a strife which set perfect unselfishness andchild-like submission as the goal of its duties. 

Seven years after Franz's death Christine and her daughter died togetherof the Roman fever, and James Barker Clarke, junior, was left soleinheritor of Franz's wealth. 

"A German dreamer!"

Ah, well, there are dreamers and dreamers. And perchance he that seeksfame, and he that seeks gold, and he that seeks power, may all alike, when this shadowy existence is over, look back upon life "as a dreamwhen one awaketh. "

THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT. 

"It is the King's highway that we are in; and know this, His messengersare on it. They who have ears to hear will hear; and He opens the eyesof some, and they see things not to be lightly spoken of. "

It was John Balmuto who said these words to me. John was a Shetlander, and for forty years he had gone to the Arctic seas with the whale boats. Then there had come to him a wonderful experience. He had been four daysand nights alone with God upon the sea, among mountains of ice reelingtogether in perilous madness, and with little light but the angry flushof the aurora. Then, undoubtedly, was born that strong faith in theUnseen which made him an active character in the facts I am going torelate. 

After his marvelous salvation, he devoted his life to the service of Godby entering that remarkable body of lay evangelists attached to thePresbyterian Church in Highland parishes, called "The Men, " and hebecame noted throughout the Hebrides for his labors, and for hisknowledge of the Scriptures. 

Circumstances, that summer, had thrown us together; I, a young woman, just entering an apparently fortunate life; he, an aged saint, standingon the borderland of eternity. And we were sitting together, in the graysummer gloaming, when he said to me, "Thou art silent to-night. Whathast thou, then, on thy mind?"

"I had a strange dream. I cannot shake off its influence. Of course itis folly, and I don't believe in dreams at all. " And it was then he saidto me, "It is the King's highway that we are in, and know this, Hismessengers are on it. "

"But it was only a dream. "

"Well, God speaks to His children 'in dreams, and by the oracles thatcome in darkness. '"

"He used to do so. "

"Wilt thou then say that He has ceased so to speak to men? Now, I willtell thee a thing that happened; I will tell thee just the bare facts; Iwill put nothing to, nor take anything away from them. 

"'Tis, five years ago the first day of last June. I was in Stornoway inthe Lews, and I was going to the Gairloch Preachings. It was rough, cheerless weather, and all the fishing fleet were at anchor for thenight, with no prospect of a fishing. The fishers were sitting togethertalking over the bad weather, but, indeed, without that bitterness thatI have heard from landsmen when it would be the same trouble with them. So I gathered them into Donald Brae's cottage, and we had a very goodhour. I noticed a stranger in the corner of the room, and some one toldme he was one of those men who paint pictures, and I saw that he wasbusy with a pencil and paper even while we were at the service. But thenext day I left for the Preachings, and I thought no more of him, goodor bad. 

"On the first of September I was in Oban. I had walked far and was verytired, but I went to John MacNab's cottage, and, after I had eat mykippered herring and drank my tea, I felt better. Then I talked withJohn about the resurrection of the body, for he was in a tribulation ofthoughts and doubts as to whether our Lord had a permanent humanity ornot. 

"And I said to him, John, Christ redeemed our whole nature, and it isthis way: the body being ransomed, as well as the spirit, by no less aprice than the body of Christ, shall be equally cleansed and glorified. Now, then, after I had gone to my room, I was sitting thinking of thesethings, and of no other things whatever. There was not a sound but thatof the waves breaking among the rocks, and drawing the tinkling pebblesdown the beach after them. Then the ears of my spiritual body wereopened, and I heard these words, _'I will go with thee to Glasgow!'_Instead of saying to the heavenly message, 'I am ready!' I began toargue with myself thus: 'Whatever for should I go to Glasgow? I know notanyone there. No one knows me. I have duties at Portsee not to be left. I have no money for such a journey--'

"I fell asleep to such thoughts. Then I dreamed of--or I saw--a womanfair as the daughters of God, and she said, _'I will go with thee toGlasgow!'_ With a strange feeling of being hurried and pressed Iawoke--wide awake, and without any conscious will of my own, I answered, 'I am ready. I am ready now. '

"As I left the cottage it was striking twelve, and I wondered what meansof reaching Glasgow I should find at midnight. But I walked straight tothe pier, and there was a small steamer with her steam up. She wasblowing her whistle impatiently, and when the skipper saw me coming, hecalled to me, in a passion, 'Well, then, is it all night I shall waitfor thee?'

"I soon perceived that there was a mistake, and that it was not JohnBalmuto he had been instructed to wait for. But I heeded not that; I wasunder orders I durst not disobey. She was a trading steamer, with aperishable cargo of game and lobsters, and so she touched at no placewhatever till we reached Glasgow. One of her passengers was DavidMacPherson of Harris, a very good man, who had known me in myvisitations. He was going to Glasgow as a witness in a case to be triedbetween the Harris fishers and their commission house in Glasgow. 

"As we walked together from the steamer, he said to me, 'Let us go roundby the court house, John, and I'll find out when I'll be required. ' Thatwas to my mind; I did not feel as if I could go astray, whatever roadwas taken, and I turned with him the way he desired to go. He found thelawyer who needed him in the court house, and while they talked togetherI went forward and listened to the case that was in hand. 

"It was a trial for murder, and I could not keep my eyes off the youngman who was charged with the crime. He seemed to be quite broken downwith shame and sorrow. Before MacPherson called me the court closed andthe constables took him away. As he passed me our eyes met, and my heartdirled and burned, and I could not make out whatever would be the matterwith me. All night his face haunted me. I was sure I had seen it someplace; and besides it would blend itself with the dream which hadbrought me to Glasgow. 

"In the morning I was early at the court house and I saw the prisonerbrought in. There was the most marvelous change in his looks. He walkedlike a man who has lost fear, and his face was quite calm. But now ittroubled me more than ever. Whatever had I to do with the young man? YetI could not bear to leave him. 

"I listened and found out that he was accused of murdering his uncle. They had been traveling together and were known to have been at Ullapoolon the thirtieth of May. On the first of June the elder man was found ina lonely place near Oban, dead, and, without doubt, from violence. Thechain of circumstantial evidence against his nephew was very strong. Tojudge by it I would have said myself to him, 'Thou art certainlyguilty. '

"On the other side the young man declared that he had quarreled with hisuncle at Ullapool and left him clandestinely. He had then taken passagein a Manx fishing smack which was going to the Lews, but he hadforgotten the name of the smack. He was not even certain if the boat wasManx. The landlord of the inn, at which he said he stayed when in theLews, did not remember him. 'A thing not to be expected, ' he told thejury, 'for in the summer months, what with visitors, and what with thefishers, a face in Stornoway was like a face on a crowded street. Theyoung man might have been there'--

"The word _Stornoway_ made the whole thing clear to me. The prisoner wasthe man I had noticed with a pencil and paper among the fishers inDonald Brae's cottage. Yes, indeed he was! I knew then why I had beensent to Glasgow. I walked quickly to the bar, and lifting my bonnet frommy head, I said to the judge, 'My lord, the prisoner _was_ in Stornowayon the first of June. I saw him there!'

"He gave a great cry of joy and turned to me; and in a moment he calledout: 'You are the man who read the Bible to the fishers. I remember you. I have your likeness among my drawings. ' And I said, 'I am the man. '

"Then my lord, the judge, made them swear me, and he said they wouldhear my evidence. For one moment I was a coward. I thought I would hideGod's share in the deliverance, lest men should doubt my wholetestimony. The next, I was telling the true story: how I had been calledat midnight--twice called; how I had found Evan Conochie's boat waitingfor me; how on the boat I had met David MacPherson, and been brought tothe court house by him, having no intention or plan of my own in thematter. 

"And there was a great awe in the room as I spoke. Every one believedwhat I said, and my lord asked for the names of the fishers who werepresent in Donald Brae's cottage on the night of the first of June. Verywell, then, I could give many of them, and they were sent for, and thelad was saved, thank God Almighty!"

"How do you explain it, John?"

"No, I will not try to explain it; for it is not to be hoped that anyonecan explain by human reason the things surpassing human reason. "

"Do you know what became of the young man?"

"I will tell thee about him. He is a very rich young man, and the onlychild of a widow, known like Dorcas of old for her great goodness to theLord's poor. But when his mother died it did not go well and peaceablybetween him and his uncle; and it is true that he left him at Ullapoolwithout a word. Well, then, he fell into this sore strait, and it seemedas if all hope of proving his innocence was over. 

"But that very night on which I saw him first, he dreamed that hismother came to him in his cell and she comforted him and told him, 'To-morrow, surely, thy deliverer shall speak for thee. ' He neverdoubted the heavenly vision. 'How could I?' he asked me. 'My mothernever deceived me in life; would she come to me, even in a dream, totell me a lie? Ah, no!'"

"Is he still alive?"

"God preserve him for many a year yet! I'll only require to speak hisname"--and when he had done so, I knew the secret spring of thankfulnessthat fed the never-ceasing charity of one great, good man. 

"And yet, John, " I urged, "how can spirit speak with spirit?"

"'_How?_' I will tell thee, that word 'how' has no business in the mouthof a child of God. When I was a boy, who had dreamed 'how' men in Londonmight speak with men in Edinburgh through the air, invisible andunheard? That is a matter of trade now. Can thou imagine what subtlesecret lines there may be between the spiritual world and this world?"

"But dreams, John?"

"Well, then, dreams. Take the dream life out of thy Bible and, oh, howmuch thou wilt lose! All through it this side of the spiritual worldpresses close on the human side. I thank God for it. Yes, indeed! Manythings I hear and see which say to me that Christians now have a kind ofshame in what is mystical or supernatural. But thou be sure of this--thesupernaturalism of the Bible, and of every Christian life is not one ofthe difficulties of our faith, _it is the foundation of our faith_. TheBible is a supernatural book, the law of a supernatural religion; and topart with this element is to lose out of it the flavor of heaven, andthe hope of immortality. Yes, indeed!"

This conversation occurred thirty years ago. Two years since, I met theman who had experienced such a deliverance, and he told me again thewonderful story, and showed me the pencil sketch which he had made ofJohn Balmuto in Donald Brae's cottage. He had painted from it a grandpicture of his deliverer, wearing the long black camlet cloak andhead-kerchief of the order of evangelists to which he belonged. I stoodreverently before the commanding figure, with its inspired eyes and raptexpression; for, during those thirty years, I also had learned that itwas only those

 Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon their bed have sate, Who know you not, Ye Heavenly Powers. 

SIX, AND HALF-A-DOZEN. 

Slain in the battle of life. Wounded and fallen, trampled in the mireand mud of the conflict, then the ranks closed again and left no placefor her. So she crawled aside to die. With a past whose black despairwas as the shadow of a starless night, a future which her earlyreligious training lit up with the lurid light of hell, and the strongbands of a pitiless death dragging her to the grave--still she craved, as the awful hour drew near, to see once more the home of her innocentchildhood. Not that she thought to die in its shelter--any one who knewDavid Todd knew also that was a hopeless dream; but if, IF herfather should say one pardoning word, then she thought it would help herto understand the love of God, and give her some strength to trust init. 

Early in the evening, just as the sun was setting and the cows werecoming lowing up the little lane, scented with the bursting lilacbushes, she stood humbly at the gate her father must pass in order to goto the hillside fold to shelter the ewes and lambs. Very soon she sawhim coming, his Scotch bonnet pulled over his brows, his steps steadiedby his shepherd's staff. His lips were firmly closed, and his eyeslooked far over the hills; for David was a mystic in his own way, andthey were to him temples not made with hands in which he had seen andheard wonderful things. Here the storehouses of hail and lightning hadbeen opened in his sight, and he had watched in the sunshine the tempestbursting beneath his feet. He had trod upon rainbows and been waitedupon by spectral mists. The voices of winds and waters were in hisheart, and he passionately believed in God. But it was the God of hisown creed--jealous, just and awful in that inconceivable holiness whichcharges his angels with folly and detects impurity in the sinlessheavens. So, when he approached the gate he saw, but would not see, thedying girl who leaned against it. Whatever he felt he made no sign. Heclosed it without hurry, and then passed on the other side. 

"Father! O, father! speak one word to me. "

Then he turned and looked at her, sternly and awfully. 

"Thou art nane o' my bairn. I ken naught o' thee. "

Without another glance at the white, despairing face, he walked rapidlyon; for the spring nights were chilly, and he must gather his lambs intothe fold, though this poor sheep of his own household was left toperish. 

But, if her father knew her no more, the large sheep-dog at his side wasnot so cruel. No theological dogmas measured Rover's love; the stain onthe spotless name of his master's house, which hurt the old man like awound, had not shadowed his memory. He licked her hands and face, andtried with a hospitality and pity which made him so much nearer theangels than his master to pull her toward her home. But she shook herhead and moaned pitifully; then throwing her arms round the poor bruteshe kissed him with those passionate kisses of repentance and love whichshould have fallen on her father's neck. The dog (dumb to all but God)pleaded with sorrowful eyes and half-frantic gestures; but she turnedwearily away toward a great circle of immense rocks--relics of areligion scarcely more cruel than that which had neither pity norforgiveness at the mouth of the grave. Within their shadow she could dieunseen; and there next morning a wagoner, attracted by the plaintivehowling of a dog, found her on the ground, dead. 

There are set awful hours between every soul and heaven. Who knows whatpassed between Lettice Todd and her God in that dim forsaken temple of aburied faith? Death closes tenderly even the eyes full of tears, andher face was beautiful with a strange peace, though its loveliness wasmarred and its youth "seared with the autumn of strange suffering. "

At the inquest which followed, her stern old father neither blamed norexcused himself. He accepted without apology the verdict of societyagainst him; only remarking that its reproof was "a guid example o'Satan correcting sin. "

Scant pity and less ceremony was given to her burial. Death, which drawsunder the mantle of Charity the pride, cruelty and ambition of men, covering them with those two narrow words _Hic jacet_! gives also to thewoman who has been a sinner all she asks--oblivion. In no other way canshe obtain from man toleration. The example of the whitest, purest soulthat ever breathed on earth, in this respect, is ignored in the churchHe founded. The tenderest of human hearts, "when lovely woman stooped tofolly, " found no way of escape for her but to "die;" and those closetmoralists, with filthy fancies and soiled souls, who abound in everycommunity, regard her with that sort of scorn which a Turk expresseswhen he says "Dog of a Christian. " Poor Lettice! She had procured thisdoom--first by sacrificing herself to a blind and cruel love, and thento the importunate demands of hunger, "oldest and strongest ofpassions. " Ah! if there was no pity in Heaven, no justice beyond thegrave, what a cruel irony this life would be! For, while the sextonshoveled hastily over the rude coffin the obliterating earth, therepassed the graveyard another woman equally fallen from all the apostlecalls "lovely and of good report. " One whose youth and hopes andmarvelous beauty had been sold for houses and lands and a few thousandpounds a year. But, though her life was a living lie, the world praisedher, because she "had done well unto herself. " Yet, at the last end, thesame seed brought forth the same fruit, and the Lady of Hawksworth Halllearned, with bitter rapidity, that riches are too poor to buy love. Scarcely had she taken possession of her splendid home before she longedfor the placid happiness of her mother's cottage, and those eveningwalks under the beech-trees, whose very memory was now a sin. Over herbeautiful face there crept a pathetic shadow, which irritated the rudeand noisy squire like a reproach. He had always had what he wanted. Noteven the beauty of all the border counties had been beyond his means tobuy but somehow he felt as if in this bargain he had been overreached. Her better part eluded his possession, and he felt dissatisfied andangry. Expostulations grew into cruel words; cruel words came to cruderblows. _Yes, blows_. English gentlemen thirty years ago knew theirprivileges; and that was one of them. She was as much and as lawfullyhis as the horses in his stables or the hounds in his kennels. He beatthem, too, when they did not obey him. Her beauty had betrayed her intothe hands of misery. She had wedded it, and there was no escape for her. One day, when her despair and suffering was very great, some temptingdevil brought her a glass of brandy, and she drank it. It gave her backfor a few hours her departed sceptre; but at what a price! Her slavesoon became her master. Stimulus and stupefaction, physical exhaustionand mental horrors, the abandonment of friends and the brutality of acoarse and cruel husband, brought her at last to the day of reckoning. She died, seven years after her marriage, in the delirium of opium. There were physicians and servants around her, and an unloving husbandwaiting for the news of his release. I think I would rather have diedwhere Lettice did--under the sky, with the solemn mountains liftingtheir heads in a perpetual prayer around me, and that faithful doglicking my hands, and mourning my wasted life. 

Now, wherein did these two women differ? One sinned through an intenseand self-sacrificing love, and in obedience to the strongest calls ofwant. Her sin, though it was beyond the pale of the world's toleration, was yet one _according to Nature_. The other, in a cold spirit ofbarter, voluntarily and deliberately exchanged her youth and beauty, thehopes of her own and another's life, for carriages, jewels, fineclothing and a luxurious table. She loathed the price she had to pay, and her sin was an unnatural one. For this kind of prostitution, whichreligion blesses and society praises, there seems to be no redress; butfor that which results as the almost inevitable sequence of one lapse ofchastity _we_, the pious, the virtuous, the irreproachable, are all toblame. Who or what make it impossible for them to retrace their steps?Do they ever have reason to hope that the family hearth will be open tothem if they go back? Prodigal sons may return, and are welcomed withtears of joy and clasped by helping hands; but alas! how few parentswould go to meet a sinning daughter. Forgetting our Master's precepts, forgetting our human frailty, forgetting our own weakness, we turnscornfully from the weeping Magdalen, and leave her "alone with theirreparable. " Marriage is a holy and a necessary rite. We woulddeprecate _any_ loosening of this great house-band of society; but wedo say that where it is the _only distinction_ between two women, one ofwhom is an honored matron, and the other a Pariah and an outcast, thereis "something in the world amiss"--something beyond the cure of law orlegislation, and that they can only be reached by the authority of aChristian press and the influence of Christian example. 

THE STORY OF DAVID MORRISON. 

I think it is very likely that many New Yorkers were familiar with theface of David Morrison. It was a peculiarly guileless, kind face for aman of sixty years of age; a face that looked into the world's face withsomething of the confidence of a child. It had round it a little fringeof soft, light hair, and above that a big blue Scotch bonnet of the RobRoryson fashion. 

The bonnet had come with him from the little Highland clachan, where heand his brother Sandy had scrambled through a hard, happy boyhoodtogether. It had sometimes been laid aside for a more pretentiousheadgear, but it had never been lost; and in his old age and poverty hadbeen cheerfully--almost affectionately--resumed. 

"Sandy had one just like it, " he would say. "We bought them thegither inAberdeen. Twa braw lads were we then. I'm wonderin' where poor Sandy isthe day!"

So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like, candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly. It ishis true history I am telling to-day. 

Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood. He knew what cold, hungerand long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorifiedin his memory by the two central figures in it--a good mother, for whomhe toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped himbravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet. 

When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America. They had a"far-awa'" cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in theplastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison wouldhelp another Morrison the wide world over. With this faith in theirhearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed. TheAmerican Morrison had not degenerated. He took kindly to his kith andkin, and offered to teach them his own craft. 

For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of anambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he feltsure that wee Davie could take care of himself. Nothing but the GreatWest could satisfy Sandy's hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing hisbrother to its dangers and privations. 

"You're nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie, " he said, "and you'reno to fret if I don't take you wi' me. I'm going to make a big fortune, and when I have gotten the gold safe, I'se come back to you, and we'llspend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad. "

"Sure as death! You'll come back to me?"

"Sure as death, I'll come back to you, Davie!" and Sandy thought it noshame to cry on his little brother's neck, and to look back, with aloving, hopeful smile at Davie's sad, wistful face, just as long as hecould see it. 

It was Davie's nature to believe and to trust. With a pitiful confidenceand constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother's promise. After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the eveningsafter his work was over, and wonder "how Sandy and he had lost eachother. " For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once enteredhis loyal heart. 

He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy's silence. In the long yearsof their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humbleas Davie's. First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business wasscattered and forgotten. Then Davie had to move his residence veryfrequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places, so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him. 

Then seven years after Sandy's departure the very house in which theyhad dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, andprobably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could havetold anything at all about Davie Morrison. Thus, unless Sandy shouldcome himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of aletter reaching him less and less likely. 

Perhaps, as the years went by, the prospect of a reunion became more ofa dream than an expectation. Davie had married very happily, a simplelittle body, not unlike himself, both in person and disposition. Theyhad one son, who, of course, had been called Alexander, and in whomDavie fondly insisted, the lost Sandy's beauty and merits werefaithfully reproduced. 

It is needless to say the boy was extravagantly loved and spoiled. Whatever Davie's youth had missed, he strove to procure for "LittleSandy. " Many an extra hour he worked for this unselfish end. Life itselfbecame to him only an implement with which to toil for his boy'spleasure and advantage. It was a common-place existence enough, and yetthrough it ran one golden thread of romance. 

In the summer evenings, when they walked together on the Battery, and inwinter nights, when they sat together by the stove, Davie talked to hiswife and child of that wonderful brother, who had gone to look forfortune in the great West. The simplicity of the elder two and theenthusiasm of the youth equally accepted the tale. 

Somehow, through many a year, a belief in his return invested life witha glorious possibility. Any night they might come home and find UncleSandy sitting by the fire, with his pockets full of gold eagles, and noend of them in some safe bank, besides. 

But when the youth had finished his schooldays, had learned a trade andbegan to go sweethearting, more tangible hopes and dreams agitated alltheir hearts; for young Sandy Morrison opened a carpenter's shop in hisown name, and began to talk of taking a wife and furnishing a home. 

He did not take just the wife that pleased his father and mother. Therewas nothing, indeed, about Sallie Barker of which they could complain. She was bright and capable, but they _felt_ a want they were not able toanalyze; the want was that pure unselfishness which was the rulingspirit of their own lives. 

This want never could be supplied in Sallie's nature. She did rightbecause it was her duty to do right, not because it gave her pleasure todo it. When they had been married three years the war broke out, andsoon afterward Alexander Morrison was drafted for the army. Sallie, whowas daily expecting her second child, refused all consolation; and, indeed, their case looked hard enough. 

At first the possibility of a substitute had suggested itself; but afamily consultation soon showed that this was impossible withouthopelessly straitening both houses. Everyone knows that dreary silencewhich follows a long discussion, that has only confirmed the fear of anirremediable misfortune. Davie broke it in this case in a veryunexpected manner. 

"Let me go in your place, Sandy. I'd like to do it, my lad. Maybe I'dfind your uncle. Who knows? What do you say, old wife? We've had morethan twenty years together. It is pretty hard for Sandy and Sallie, now, isn't it?"

He spoke with a bright face and in a cheerful voice, as if he really wasasking a favor for himself; and, though he did not try to put his offerinto fine, heroic words, nothing could have been finer or more heroicthan the perfect self-abnegation of his manner. 

The poor old wife shed a few bitter tears; but she also had beenpracticing self-denial for a lifetime, and the end of it was that Daviewent to weary marches and lonely watches, and Sandy staid at home. 

This was the break-up of Davie's life. His wife went to live with Sandyand Sallie, and the furniture was mostly sold. 

Few people could have taken these events as Davie did. He even affectedto be rather smitten with the military fever, and, when the partingcame, left wife and son and home with a cheerful bravery that was sadenough to the one old heart who had counted its cost. 

In Davie's loving, simple nature there was doubtless a strong vein ofromance. He was really in hopes that he might come across his long-lostbrother. He had no very clear idea as to localities and distances, andhe had read so many marvelous war stories that all things seemedpossible in its atmosphere. But reality and romance are wide enoughapart. 

Davie's military experience was a very dull and weary one. He grewpoorer and poorer, lost heart and hope, and could only find comfort forall his sacrifices in the thought that "at least he had spared poorSandy. "

Neither was his home-coming what he had pictured it in many a reverie. There was no wife to meet him--she had been three months in the gravewhen he got back to New York--and going to his daughter-in-law's homewas not--well, it was not like going to his own house. 

Sallie was not cross or cruel, and she was grateful to Davie, but shedid not _love_ the old man. 

He soon found that the attempt to take up again his trade was hopeless. He had grown very old with three years' exposure and hard duty. Othermen could do twice the work he could, and do it better. He must step outfrom the ranks of skilled mechanics and take such humble positions ashis failing strength permitted him to fill. 

Sandy objected strongly to this at first. "He could work for both, " hesaid, "and he thought father had deserved his rest. "

But Davie shook his head--"he must earn his own loaf, and he must earnit now, just as he could. Any honest way was honorable enough. " He wasstill cheerful and hopeful, but it was noticeable that he never spoke ofhis brother Sandy now; he had buried that golden expectation with manyothers. Then began for Davie Morrison the darkest period of his life. Iam not going to write its history. 

It is not pleasant to tell of a family sinking lower and lower in spiteof its brave and almost desperate efforts to keep its place--notpleasant to tell of the steps that gradually brought it to that pass, when the struggle was despairingly abandoned, and the conflict narroweddown to a fight with actual cold and hunger. 

It is not pleasant, mainly, because in such a struggle many a lonelyclaim is pitilessly set aside. In the daily shifts of bare life, thetender words that bring tender acts are forgotten. Gaunt looks, threadbare clothes, hard day-labor, sharp endurance of their children'swants, made Sandy and Sallie Morrison often very hard to those to whomthey once were very tender. 

David had noticed it for many months. He could see that Sallie countedgrudgingly the few pennies he occasionally required. His littlenewspaper business had been declining for some years; people took fewerpapers, and some did not pay for those they did take. He made littlelosses that were great ones to him, and Sallie had long been saying itwould "be far better for father to give up the business to Jamie; he isnow sixteen and bright enough to look after his own. "

This alternative David could not bear to think of; and yet all throughthe summer the fear had constantly been before him. He knew how Sallie'splans always ended; Sandy was sure to give into them sooner or later, and he wondered if into their minds had ever come the terrible thoughtwhich haunted his own--_would they commit him, then, to the care ofpublic charities?_

"We have no time to love each other, " he muttered, sadly, "and my biteand sup is hard to spare when there is not enough to go round. I'llspeak to Sandy myself about it--poor lad! It will come hard on him tosay the first word. "

The thought once realized began to take shape in his mind, and thatnight, contrary to his usual custom, he could not go to sleep. Sandycame in early, and the children went wearily off to bed. Then Salliebegan to talk on the very subject which lay so heavy on his own heart, and he could tell from the tone of the conversation that it was one thathad been discussed many times before. 

"He only made bare expenses last week and there's a loss of seventycents this week already. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! there is no use putting offwhat is sure to come. Little Davie had to do without a drink of coffeeto-night, and _his_ bread, you know, comes off theirs at every meal. Itis very hard on us all!"

"I don't think the children mind it, Sallie. Every one of them loves theold man--God bless him! He was a good father to me. "

"I would love him, too, Sandy, if I did not see him eating my children'sbread. And neither he nor they get enough. Sandy, do take him downto-morrow, and tell him as you go the strait we are in. He will bebetter off; he will get better food and every other comfort. You must doit, Sandy; I can bear this no longer. "

"It's getting near Christmas, Sallie. Maybe he'll get New Year'spresents enough to put things straight. Last year they were nearlyeighteen dollars, you know. "

"Don't you see that Jamie could get that just as well? Jamie can takethe business and make something of it. Father is letting it get worseand worse every week. We should have one less to feed, and Jamie'searnings besides. Sandy, _it has got to be_! Do it while we can makesomething by the step. "

"It is a mean, dastardly step, Sallie. God will never forgive me if Itake it, " and David could hear that his son's voice trembled. 

In fact, great tears were silently dropping from Sandy's eyes, and hisfather knew it, and pitied him, and thanked God that the lad's heart wasyet so tender. And after this he felt strangely calm, and dropped into ahappy sleep. 

In the morning he remembered all. He had not heard the end of theargument, but he knew that Sallie would succeed; and he was neitherastonished nor dismayed when Sandy came home in the middle of the dayand asked him to "go down the avenue a bit. "

He had determined to speak first and spare Sandy the shame and thesorrow of it; but something would not let him do it. In the firstplace, a singular lightness of heart came over him; he noticed all thegay preparations for Christmas, and the cries and bustle of the streetsgave him a new sense of exhilaration. Sandy fell almost unconsciouslyinto his humor. He had a few cents in his pocket, and he suddenlydetermined to go into a cheap restaurant and have a good warm meal withhis father. 

Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories ofdays long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank, and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where theywere going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until thelast moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might neverhave such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it. 

As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent;his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, andthe smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almostmore pitiful than tears. 

At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave astart and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words weresharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as heturned Davie quickly round, and said:

"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road--no, by heaven! though I die for it!"

"Just a little further, Sandy. "

And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy verywell understood. 

"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!"

Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, andresolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had beengoing. 

Of course he thought of Sallie as they rode home, and the children andthe trouble there was likely to be. But somehow it seemed a light thingto him. He could not helping nodding cheerfully now and then to thefather whom he had so nearly lost; and, perhaps, never in all theirlives had they been so precious to each other as when, hand-in-hand, they climbed the dark tenement stair together. 

Before thy reached the door they heard Sallie push a chair asidehastily, and come to meet them. She had been crying, too, and her veryfirst words were, "Oh, father!' I am so glad!--so glad!"

She did not say what for, but Davie took her words very gratefully, andhe made no remark, though he knew she went into debt at the grocery forthe little extras with which she celebrated his return at supper. Heunderstood, however, that the danger was passed, and he went to sleepthat night thanking God for the love that had stood so hard a trial andcome out conqueror. 

The next day life took up its dreary tasks again, but in Davie's heartthere was a strange presentiment of change, and it almost angered thepoor, troubled, taxed wife to see him so thoughtlessly playing with thechildren. But the memory of the wrong she had nursed against him stillsoftened and humbled her, and when he came home after carrying round hispapers, she made room for him at the stove, and brought him a cup ofcoffee and a bit of bread and bacon. 

Davie's eyes filled, and Sallie went away to avoid seeing them. So thenhe took out a paper that he had left and began to read it as he ate anddrank. 

In a few minutes a sudden sharp cry escaped him. He put the paper in hispocket, and, hastily resuming his old army cloak and Scotch bonnet, wentout without a word to anyone. 

The truth was that he had read a personal notice which greatly disturbedhim. It was to the effect that, "If David Morrison, who left Aberdeen in18--, was still alive, and would apply to Messrs. Morgan & Black, Wallstreet, he would hear of something to his advantage. "

His long-lost brother was the one thought in his heart. He was goingnow to hear something about Sandy. 

"He said 'sure as death, ' and he would mind that promise at the lasthour, if he forgot it before; so, if he could not come, he'd doubtlesssend, and this will be his message. Poor Sandy! there was never a ladlike him!"

When he reached Messrs. Morgan & Black's, he was allowed to standunnoticed by the stove a few minutes, and during them his spirits sankto their usual placid level. At length some one said:

"Well, old man, what do _you_ want?"

"I am David Morrison, and I just came to see what _you_ wanted. "

"Oh, you are David Morrison! Good! Go forward--I think you will findout, then, what we want. "

He was not frightened, but the man's manner displeased him, and, withoutanswering, he walked toward the door indicated, and quietly opened it. 

An old gentleman was standing with his back to the door, looking intothe fire, and one rather younger, was writing steadily away at a desk. The former never moved; the latter simply raised his head with anannoyed look, and motioned to Davie to close the door. 

"I am David Morrison, sir. "

"Oh, Davie! Davie! And the old blue bonnet, too! Oh, Davie! Davie, lad!"

As for Davie, he was quite overcome. With a cry of joy so keen that itwas like a sob of pain, he fell fainting to the floor. When he becameconscious again he knew that he had been very ill, for there were twophysicians by his side, and Sandy's face was full of anguish andanxiety. 

"He will do now, sir. It was only the effect of a severe shock on asystem too impoverished to bear it. Give him a good meal and a glass ofwine. "

Sandy was not long in following out this prescription, and during itwhat a confiding session these two hearts held! Davie told his sadhistory in his own unselfish way, making little of all his sacrifices, and saying a great deal about his son Sandy, and Sandy's girls and boys. 

But the light in his brother's eyes, and the tender glow of admirationwith which he regarded the unconscious hero, showed that he understoodpretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken. 

"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy, " said Davie, in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're justhandsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too. "

Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a veryhandsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of laborand sorrow on his face; and he had known both. 

For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battleto him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Daviehad perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two. 

When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie, carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding hisbrother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggleequally hopeless and poor. 

But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some callof friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvaniavillage, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which wassuccessful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm, and went into the oil business. 

"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of itis yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered fromtime to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back wewould share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of yourshare no more than I would rob the United States Treasury. "

It was a part of Davie's simple nature that he accepted it without anyfurther protestation. Instinctively he felt that it was the highestcompliment he could pay his brother. It was as if he said: "I firmlybelieved the promise you made me more than forty years ago, and I firmlybelieve in the love and sincerity which this day redeems it. " So Davielooked with a curious joyfulness at the vouchers which testified tofifteen thousand dollars lying in the Chemical Bank, New York, to thecredit of David Morrison; and then he said, with almost the delight of aschoolboy:

"And what will you do wi' yours, Sandy?"

"I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie. I was talking with Mr. Black about it this morning. It will cost twelve thousand dollars, butthe gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years. Ithink that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look atit. It is never well to trust to other folks' eyes, you know. "

"Then, Sandy, I'll go shares wi' you. We'll buy the farm together andwe'll live together--that is, if you would like it. "

"What would I like better?"

"Maybe you have a wife, and then--"

"No, I have no wife, Davie. She died nearly thirty years ago. I have noone but you. "

"And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finestdairy in the State, Sandy. "

"That is just my idea, Davie. "

Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more thanuneasy about him. 

"I'll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myselfto-night. 'Deed, I've been selfish enough to keep this good news fromthem so long. "

So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothersparted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car. He thoughtthey never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times toget out and run home. 

When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a firein the stove and wee Davie--his namesake--was sitting, half crying, before it. 

The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather's, andtried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place. 

"What's the matter, Davie?"

"I have had a bad day, grandfather. I did not sell my papers, and JackDacey gave me a beating besides; and--and I really do think my toes arefrozen off. "

Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered

"Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers. You shall have braw newclothes, and go to school every day of your life. Whist! yonder comesmammy. "

Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproachwhen she saw Davie. 

"Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way? Sandy is fair daftabout you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don't know where--"

Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such anew, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could onlysay: "Father! father! what is it?"

"It is good news, Sallie. My brother Sandy is come, and he has justgiven me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dearlass, for we'll have a grand supper to-night, please God. "

By and by they heard poor Sandy's weary footsteps on the stair, andSallie said:

"Not a word, children. Let grandfather tell your father. "

Davie went to meet him, and, before he spoke, Sandy saw, as Sallie hadseen, that his father's countenance was changed, and that somethingwonderful had happened. 

"What is the matter, father?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars is the matter, my boy; and peace and comfortand plenty, and decent clothes and school for the children, and a happyhome for us all in some nice country place. "

When Sandy heard this he kissed his father, and then covering his facewith his hands, sobbed out:

"Thank God! thank God!"

It was late that night before either the children or the elders could goto sleep. Davie told them first of the farm that Sandy and he were goingto buy together, and then he said to his son:

"Now, my dear lad, what think you is best for Sallie and the children?"

"You say, father, that the village where you are going is likely to growfast. "

"It is sure to grow. Two lines of railroad will pass through it in amonth. "

"Then I would like to open a carpenter's shop there. There will soon bework enough; and we will rent some nice little cottage, and the childrencan go to school, and it will be a new life for us all. I have oftendreamed of such a chance, but I never believed it would come true. "

But the dream came more than true. In a few weeks Davie and his brotherwere settled in their new home, and in the adjoining village AlexanderMorrison, junior, had opened a good carpenter and builder's shop, andhad begun to do very well. 

Not far from it was the coziest of old stone houses, and over it Salliepresided. It stood among great trees, and was surrounded by a fine fruitgarden, and was prettily furnished throughout; besides which, and bestof all, _it was their own_--a New Year's gift from the kindest ofgrandfathers and uncles. People now have got well used to seeing theBrothers Morrison. 

They are rarely met apart. They go to market and to the city together. What they buy they buy in unison, and every bill of sale they give bearsboth their names. Sandy is the ruling spirit, but Davie never suspects, for Sandy invariably says to all propositions, "If my brother Davidagrees, I do, " or, "If brother David is satisfied, I have no more tosay, " etc. 

Some of the villagers have tried to persuade them that they must belonely, but they know better than that. Old men love a great deal ofquiet and of gentle meandering retrospection; and David and Sandy haveeach of them forty years' history to tell the other. Then they are bothvery fond of young Sandy and the children. 

Sandy's projects and plans and building contracts are always well talkedover at the farm before they are signed, and the children's lessons andholidays, and even their new clothes, interest the two old men almost asmuch as they do Sallie. 

As for Sallie, you would scarcely know her. She is no longer cross withcare and quarrelsome with hunger. I always did believe that prosperitywas good for the human soul, and Sallie Morrison proves the theory. Shehas grown sweet tempered in its sunshine, is gentle and forbearing toher children, loving and grateful to her father-in-law, and herhusband's heart trusts in her. 

Therefore let all those fortunate ones who are in prosperity givecheerfully to those who ask of them. It will bring a ten-fold blessingon what remains, and the piece of silver sent out on its pleasant errandmay happily touch the hand that shall bring the giver good fortunethrough all the years of life. 

TOM DUFFAN'S DAUGHTER. 

Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but youwould cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if yousaw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife'sparlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better forthe habit. 

One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into acomfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and wasbusily painting. His cheery little wife--pretty enough in spite of herthirty-seven years--was reading the interesting items in the morningpapers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favoritetenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped whenthe reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of"Ah! che la morte ognora. "

But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the verymiddle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlordoor partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffanpainted stood in the aperture--a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morninggown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hairfalling around her. 

"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in anewspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are mostbecoming with my new seal-skin set. "

"Ask papa. "

"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only apoor live girl, it does not interest him. "

"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically. "

"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artistsdon't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?"

"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; itwill do you good to hear it. "

"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and Iprefer to do my own criticism. " Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffanskipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che lamorte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted. 

"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?"

"See here. "

"Tickets for Booth's?"

"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get justabout the same numbers. "

"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?"

Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen differentthings. 

"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?"

"Of course I did mamma--I told him in the nicest kind of way that wemust only be dear friends, and so on. "

"Then why did he send these tickets?"

"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and menenjoy burning. "

"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way ofbeing 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me frompapa simply to tell me this?"

"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa'sdaughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are allthe hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper'sengagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting. "

It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffantook in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled away about weddingdresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as ifthey were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind ofgrown-up fairy lore. 

But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it wasworth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, andthe hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and thetantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend uponit, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized pictureas anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as shetripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planningsubjects, for a "good-by" kiss. 

"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressedin excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believedit. "

"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so. ' You just quit the antique, and take to studying _Harper's Bazar_ for effects; then your women willlook a little more natural. "

"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!"

"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture ofpapa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they looklike?"

"Frights, Miss Kitty. "

"Of course they do. Now, papa. "

"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jackand Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the freshwind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustleand light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, "You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, Kitty, I am afraid. "

"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an IndianCommissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. Youknow I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'mclear on that subject, Jack. "

"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do. "

"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in thecountry. I am sure that would not do. "

Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so hesighed, and was silent. 

Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You oughtto be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'riskedyou, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!"

"You don't dislike me, Kitty?"

"Not at all. I think you are first-rate. "

"It is my profession, then?"

"Exactly. "

"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?"

"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know WillHutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful. "

"Now, Kitty!"

"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up atnights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table tojot down what he calls 'an idea, ' is always pointing out 'splendidpassages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying hismanuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!"

"But she thoroughly enjoys it. "

"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to bereal nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she wassplendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book. "

"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor--at the altar, if you like--never tobother you with anything I write; never to say a word about myprofession. "

"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be finding some one else to bother, perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend. ' What is the useof turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in themanger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were_mine_, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was. "

Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezedKitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she wasforced to pretend he had ruined her glove. 

"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I amquite sure I could make plenty of money for you. "

"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does notgo into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress incalicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I ammercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'mfond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all thetime. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasmsof poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried povertyoccasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell usthey are. "

"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?"

"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow thatloves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me everysummer to see views. "

"To see views?"

"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped andjagged and rifted, ' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grandlandscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch orthe Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you knowpapa _will_ go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrownaway, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of onekind or another. "

Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crushthat generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever hemeant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from somethird party. 

"Why, Max, when did you get home?"

"To-day's steamer. " Then there were introductions and a jingle of merrywords and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, therustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone. 

But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had touched her as shehad never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something intobeing that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyesclaimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She becamesuddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend MaxRaymond. 

It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, thenhe sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whetherhe was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate achange of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and takepossession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great dealof human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better thanmight have been expected. 

For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened;Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and shesubmitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved whenshe turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him. 

But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening--those grand old Romans walkingon and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and thecalm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, andlooking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past andpresent were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream. 

She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come backinto the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakablestone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the oldradiant, careless Kitty. 

"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut ----'scriticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?"

"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth andBarrett backed him up handsomely. "

"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hearit. "

"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; goodnight, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning. "

"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?"

"Jack Warner, I expect. "

"Hum! I don't think so. "

"Men don't know everything, Tom. "

"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that lineare only guesses at truth. "

"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty willexplain herself in the morning. "

But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and moreinexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she readthem. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing withher. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural andinartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lecturesand literary societies: Max took her. 

Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order ofmen who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kittywillful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty. 

"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother, " he said one day, after studying his daughter reading the _Endymion_ without a yawn. 

"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go onpainting. Kitty is in love. "

"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible. "

"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!"

"With whom?"

"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she waspleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-bornthought with his favorite melody. 

Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty'sdelight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, intellectual friend, " who could appreciate both him and his writings;and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goodsbox. " The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, andwhen it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question. 

"I really don't know what to do, mother, " said Tom. "Kitty vowed shewould not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get alongwithout it. "

"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down. "

"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss. "

"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape Mayor the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but youjust let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir astep in your direction. "

Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had apretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, Kitty, " said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, orSaratoga?"

"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak. "

"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish mylittle daughter to have her whim for once. "

"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't wanteither the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branchwith her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm notgoing to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are atSaratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid Icouldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation. "

"Where must we go, then?"

"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want manynew dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, you deserve your own way about your holiday. "

And Tom Duffan said, "_Thank you, Kitty_, " in such a peculiar way thatKitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finallyleft the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, "Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing pastordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; Ishouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to theBranch, and asked you for a $500 check--serve you right, too. "

But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kittywent very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the endof it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had nowill but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him neverto marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and onlyhim, to the end of her life. 

All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudentlittle body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; shehad taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother'srespectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. Sheremembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had saidsomething about studying law together; and with these items, and thesatisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had givenher whole heart, without conditions and without hostages. 

Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; itwas enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice. When they returned to the city, congratulations, presents andpreparations filled every hour. Kitty's importance gave her back a greatdeal of her old dictatorial way. In the matter of toilettes she wouldnot suffer even Max to interfere. "Results were all men had to do with, "she said; "everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linenand a straight petticoat. "

Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, andtalked about "unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty exhibited results, went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration. Kitty was very triumphantin those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her. She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whosecongratulations found their climax in the following statement:

"Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinarypiece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! Why, they do saythat Mr. Raymond's last book is just wonderful. "

"_Mr. Raymond's last book_!" And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand. 

"Why, haven't you read it, dear? So clever, and all that, dear. "

Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as hervisitor had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, and said, "What is Max's business--a lawyer?"

"Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? He is a scientist, a professor, anda great--"

"_Writer?_"

"Yes. "

"Writes books and magazine articles and things?"

"Yes. "

Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, "_I thoughtso. _ I wish Jack Warner was at home. "

"What for?"

"Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it willkeep. "

Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when hereturned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years. His first visit was to Tom Duffan's parlor-studio. He was painting andsinging and chatting to his wife as usual. It was so like old times thatJack's eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. Raymond. 

"Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from thecity. Kitty and he preferred the country. Would he go and see them?"

Certainly Jack would go. To tell the truth, he was curious to see whatother miracles matrimony had wrought upon Kitty. So he went, and cameback wondering. 

"Really, dear, " says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does theprofessor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?"

"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sortshis papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copieshis manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, throughthick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I feltspiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing onearth should ever induce her to marry a writer. "

"What did she say?"

"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married _theman_. ' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing isyour offering toward the advancement of science and socialregeneration?'"

"What then?"

"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; _itis a labor of love_. '"

"Well I never!"

"Nor I either. "

THE HARVEST OF THE WIND. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no rule over his own spirit. "

 "My soul! Master Jesus, my soul! My soul! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, An' de more I dig him de better he spring: My soul! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart An' he sets my soul on fire: My soul! Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!"

The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; andhe was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river ashe chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet herested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on hisleft hand. 

"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble efhe stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now. " Hecommuned with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and thenthrew his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills ofgrowing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of thefield into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way amongthe still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in thecypress. 

Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy--a veryhandsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leanedupon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapidswitching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" Hesaid it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame. 

"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob datkind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de presenttime. "

"My father objects to every one I like. "

"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for hisgood. "

"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if heasks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu thisletter. "

"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or messagefrom you, Massa Davie. "

In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernablepassion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike. 

"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms donecarry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!"

"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon thetrunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force. Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurschiming to his uneven, crashing tread. 

Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got dedrefful temper; got it each side ob de house--father and mother, bofe. Ihope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man--got itbofe ways, he did. " And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuringhopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgivingunselfishness of a prayer in them. 

In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both fromfather and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour andself-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio--adaughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been ahappy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her lifeaway against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. Davidremembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, hehad always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, betweenfather and son, a great gulf. 

He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond allcontrol, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him. But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, hadbeen positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there hadbeen too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motivescommended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mereexertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would notforego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the specialcreed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as madeany part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him;he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had notyet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary. 

He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, andhe counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothingin his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itselfout under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texanarchitecture--broad passages between every room, sweeping from front torear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on everyside. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negrocabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under thehanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, itwas approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gumand chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tuliptrees. 

The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates hisnational peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far asit was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced thegrey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. Hishousehold was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of goodmanagement; and though few affected his society, he was generally reliedupon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that wouldrise to every occasion. 

And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David lovedhis father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; butwhen he called his family and servants together, and unflinchinglytaught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with hissincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground onwhich they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love oneanother; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionateindependence on the other, kept them far apart. 

Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrelthan usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his houseuntil he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then Davidjoined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on theroad to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand. 

This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better thanhe was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there wasa moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which heregarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heardof its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtakeit if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night, smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that heought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he couldtell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate, relieve his own conscience of a burden. 

Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lululeaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. Heregarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture. The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowingwhite robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by thebright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. Hewas just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a womanmust have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into justsuch a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent arecurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice. 

"Lulu!"

"Yes, uncle. "

"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?"

"Not since you forbid me. "

He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would nothave been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that peoplefor ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in theirintentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for JamesLorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back thequestion, "What if Lulu's influence would have been sufficient to havekept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?"For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself thathe might have made a mistake. 

The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear, the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. Theswallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edgeof the prairie--the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unfloodedworld had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. Inhis own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did, let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become awarethat he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was athing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience, all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention. 

He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinkingof Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he hadgiven her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her intohis household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up therewith almost as little care as the vines which year by year clamberedhigher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought no more of itthan he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep. Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with theaffection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they shouldunderstand one another. 

But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his owntraditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recentlysettled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seenand approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedyappeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered itsadvantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when bothfathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, anddeclared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on thissubject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, andnot make an effort to save him. 

At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determinedto ride on. He might reach David while they were camping, and then hecould talk matters over with more ease and freedom. Near midnight thegreat white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously soft, but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley's camp--a ten-acre patch ofgrass on the summit of some low hills. 

The cattle had all settled for the night, and the "watch" of eight menwere slowly riding in a circle around them. Lorimer was immediatelychallenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain. Whaleyrose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his handto his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before. He was evidently not a person to be trifled with. There was a fixed lookabout him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating adetermined character; and a belt around his waist supported asix-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife. 

"Captain, good night. I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer. "

"Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no manner of means, just yet. DavidLorimer is on watch till midnight. "

He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritatingin the way Whaley named David Lorimer. So the two men sat almost silentbefore the camp fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, "Mr. Lorimer, your son is at liberty now. You'll excuse me saying that the shorter youmake your palaver the better it will suit me. "

Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was walking carelessly away; and theretort that rose to his lips was not one to be shouted after a man ofWhaley's desperate character with safety. As his son approached him hewas conscious of a thrill of pleasure in the young man's appearance. 

Physically, he was all he could desire. No Lorimer that ever gallopedthrough Eskdale had the national peculiarities more distinctively. Hewas the tall, fair Scot, and his father complacently compared his yellowhair and blue eyes with the "dark, deil-like beauty" of Whaley. 

"Davie, " and he held out his hand frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back toyour ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, and we'll start a new chapter o'life, my lad. Ye'll try to be a gude son, and I'll aye be a gude fatherto ye. "

It was a great deal for James Lorimer to say; and David quiteappreciated the concession, but he answered--

"Lulu, father? I cannot give her up. "

"Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a strange woman, ye must e'en dosae. It is an auld sin, and there have aye been daughters o' Heth toplague honest houses wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk wi' yeanent some decenter way of life than this. "

The talk was not altogether a pleasant one; but both yielded something, and it was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley could pick up a man tofill Davie's place Davie should return home. Lorimer did not lingerafter this decision. Whaley's behavior had offended him and without theceremony of a "good-bye, " he turned his horse's head eastward again. 

Picking up a man was not easy; they certainly had several offers fromemigrants going west, and from Mexicans on the route, but Whaley seemeddetermined not to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and was deeplyoffended at him interfering with his arrangements. Every day that hekept David was a kind of triumph to him. "He might as well have asked mehow I'd like my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to be on the square, "he grumbled. And he said these and similar things so often, that Davidbegan to feel it impossible to restrain his temper. 

Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks and small injustices, growsrapidly; and as they approached the Apache mountains, the men began tonotice a fixed tightening of the lips, and a stern blaze in the youngScot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to delight in intensifying. 

"Thar'll be mischief atween them two afore long, " remarked an olddrover; "Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with such a vim thathe's no appetite for his food left. "

"It'll be a fair fight, and one or both'll get upped; that's about it. "

At length they met a party of returning drovers, and half a dozen menamong them were willing to take David's place. Whaley had no longer anypretence for detaining him. They were at the time between two long, lowspurs of hills, enclosing a rich narrow valley, deep with ripened grass, gilded into flickering gold by the sun and the dewless summer days. Allthe lower ridges were savagely bald and hot--a glen, paved with gold andwalled with iron. Oh, how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake downinto the breathless valley!

The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day. David wasweary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch. It began at ten o'clock, and would end at midnight. The weather wasgloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of drivingclouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle. 

The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been nolightning. 

"I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' to-night, " said one of the men. "I've seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nightsas this one. "

"Nonsense!" replied David. "If a cayote frightens one in a drove thepanic Spreads to all. Any night would do for a 'run. '"

"'Taint so, Lorimer. Ef you've a drove of one thousand or of tenthousand it's all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the samemoment. It's somethin' in the air; 'taint my business to know what. Butyou look like a 'run' yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin'was gitting 'the mad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout the same. I'dkeep clear of him, ef I was you. "

"No, I won't. He owes me money, and I'll make him pay me!"

"Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David Lorimer, and that let's me out. Take your own way now. "

For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his ownheart seconded it. But when the trial of his temper came he turned adeaf ear to every monition. Whaley went swaggering by him, and as hepassed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner. Davidasked pointedly, "Were you speaking to me, Captain?"

"I was. "

"Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!"

Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eightthousand were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one ofthem exactly at the same instant. With a rush like a whirlwind levelinga forest, they were off in the darkness. 

The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thunderingof hoofs, was deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars' worthof cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, andgave David a passionate order "to ride up to the leaders, " and then hesprang for his own mule. 

David's time was now fully out, and he drew his horse's rein tight andstood still. 

"Coward!" screamed Whaley; "try and forget for an hour that you haveSpanish blood in you. "

A pistol shot answered the taunt. Whaley staggered a second, then fellwithout a word. The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was aminute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. He gazed oneinstant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himselfup to the wild passion of the pursuit. 

By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black, clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instantbecoming wilder. But David's horse had been trained in the business; heknew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding. Dashing alongby the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joinedthe men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on theleft so as to turn them to the right. When once the leaders were turnedthe rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to theright, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fagend of the line. 

Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up, and they were "milling;" that is, they had formed a solid wheel, andwere going round and round themselves in the same space of ground. Menwho had noticed how very little David's heart had been in his work wereamazed to see the reckless courage he displayed. Round and round themill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent, and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice. The"run" was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless andexhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle. 

"Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he gin'rally soop'rintends a job likethis himself. "

"And likes to do it. Who's seen the Captain? Hev you, Lorimer?"

"He was in camp when I started. My time was up just as the 'run'commenced. "

No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity forconversation. The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men wereweary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voiceshad been raised. David felt that he must get away at once; any moment amessenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley's murder; and heknew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him. 

He offered to return to camp and report "all right, " and the offer wasaccepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of abelt of timber. The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush ofunclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in theunderwood. But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that madeall natural terrors of small account. His own hands were hateful to him. He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony. He measured in everymoments' space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings fromwhich he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape theshameful punishment of his deed. He remembered at that hour his father'slove, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion forit came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children, the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment's passionaterevenge. He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins, cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked. Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hoursgazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and notdaring--

 "--to search through what sad maze, Thenceforth his incommunicable ways Follow the feet of death. "

CHAPTER II. 

 "--and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death. " James i. 15. 

Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable momentswhen she appears to be asleep--when the stars, large and white, bendstilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf orflower. On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandahsmoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnoliaflowers above her, mused the hour away beside him. There were littleebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of theirquarters, but they also were singularly quiet. An angel of silence hadpassed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of thedreaming earth. 

There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve. In tendays the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son inthe path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed doesgrow. This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longingfor David's return, and forming plans through which the future mightatone for the past. Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins, rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamlesssleep which is the compensation of hard labor. Only Lulu watched andthought with him. 

Suddenly she stood up and listened. There was a footstep in the avenue, and she knew it. But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrowwas there in it?

"That is David's step, uncle; but what is the matter? Is he sick?"

Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, andthe shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him. Lulu went tothe top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands togreet him. He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, andstood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father. 

In a moment all the new tenderness was gone. 

In a voice stern and scornful he asked, "Well, sir, what is the matter?What hae ye been doing now?"

"I have shot Whaley!"

The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctlyaudible. The father rose and faced his wretched son. 

Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, "Dead?"

"Dead!"

"But you had a good reason, David; I know you had. He would have shotyou?--it was in self-defence?--it was an accident? Speak, dear!"

"He called me a coward, and--"

"You shot him! Then you are a coward, sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "andhaving made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward tocome here and force upon me the duty of arresting you. Put down yourrifle, sir!"

Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, David, my love! why did you comehere? Did you hope for pity or help in his heart? And what can I doDavie, but suffer with you?" But she drew his face down and kissed itwith a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment, all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, and all the misery that theindulgence of his ungovernable temper had caused him. 

"We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. As a magistrate and a citizen it ismy duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession. "

"Your duty!" she answered, in a passion of scorn. "Had you done yourduty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do. Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your solecare. Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, andstand well with the world and yourself! Uncle, you are a dreadfulChristian!"

"How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to your own room at once!"

"David, dearest, farewell! Fly!--you will get no pity here. Fly!"

"Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!"

"I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father. Doas you will with me. " And he laid his rifle upon the table. 

Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chairbeside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity. 

"How did it happen? Tell me the truth. I want neither excuses nordeceptions. "

"I have no desire to make them. There was a 'run, ' just as my time wasout. Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn theleaders. I did not move. He called me a coward, and taunted me with mySpanish blood--it was my dear mother's. "

"That is it, " answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible forits restraint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its gasconade and foolishpride. "

"Father! You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have noright to insult me. "

The next moment he fell senseless at his father's feet. It was thecollapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mentalanguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity, believed it to be death. A tumult of emotions rushed over him, butassistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it. Firsthe sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to thequarters to arouse Plato. 

When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconsciousyouth. "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment hefelt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal athis feet into a short oblivion. But very soon there was a slightreaction, and the father was the first to see it. "He has only fainted;bring some wine here!" Then he remembered the weakness of the voicewhich had said, "I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched. "

When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father. There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heartof hearts. He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him. But even whenhe had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himselffrom the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach. 

Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat. Hewas evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and theuncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body. 

"Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to beallowed to leave the house. "

"Yes, sar. "

"He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences. "

No answer. 

"You understand that, Plato?"

"Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man myself. Dunno bout deconsequences. "

"Go, and do as I bid you!"

When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door. He wanted to doright, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a greattempest: he could not see any road at all. There was a Bible on hisdressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, andthe sense of everything seemed to escape him. The hand of the GreatFather was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it. He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David wouldescape from justice. He knew that a selfish shame about his own faircharacter mingled with his father's love; his motives and feelings wereso mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness, to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that "like as afather pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" hethought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights andhonor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reignthere supremely. So all that terrible night he stood smitten andastonished on a threshold he could not pass. 

In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him. Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and feltrefreshed. Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shamefuldeath; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see whatchance of escape his father had left him. Plato stood at the door, Lulusat by his side, holding his hand. On her face there was an expressionof suffering, at once defiant and despairing--a barren suffering, without hope. They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when theyhad to bid each other "Farewell!" It was done very sadly, and with fewwords. 

"You must go now, beloved. "

He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently. Thenext moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguishedface. Then he was alone with Plato. 

"Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle the brown mare for me?"

"She am waiting, Massa David. I tole Cassie to get her ready, and somebread and meat, and _dis_, Massa Davie, if you'll 'blige ole Plato. "Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of hislifetime. 

"How much is there, Plato?"

"Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it am so little. "

"It was for your freedom, Plato. "

"I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se too ole now to git de rest. Ef yougit free, dat is all I want. "

They went quietly out together. It was not long after midnight. Thebrown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood besideher with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food. The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, and then rode away into the darkness. He went softly at first, but whenhe reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terrorand his mental suffering. 

Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable blackspot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins. Theyhad seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household;they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other. Bothwere also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; forJames Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he wouldhardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience. 

Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was littletrace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one ofthose complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mindwhose fibres do not easily show the severest strain. 

"Tell Master David to come here. "

"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips weretrembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He lookedhis master calmly in the face. 

"Did I not tell you to stop him?"

"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send themessenger--Plato could not do it!"

"How did he go?"

"On de little brown mare--his own horse done broke all up. "

"How much money did you give him?"

"Money, sar?"

"How much? Tell the truth. "

"Four hundred dollars. "

"That will do. Tell Cassie I want my breakfast. "

At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty chair, but said nothing. In thehouse all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its thresholdand left a stain upon its hearthstone. The churning and cleaning wasgoing on as usual. Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white andmotionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool andpretty for grief to enter. The unhappy father sat still all day, pondering many things that he had not before thought of. Every footfallmade his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no furtherbad news. 

On the second day he went into Lulu's room, hoping to say a word ofcomfort to her. She listened apathetically, and turned her face to thewall with a great sob. He began to feel some irritation in theatmosphere of misery which surrounded him. It was very hard to be madeso wretched for another's sin. The thought in an instant became areproach. Was he altogether innocent? The second and third days passed;he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond theprobability of pursuit. 

On the fourth day he went to the cotton field. He visited the overseer'shouse, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates. Hetried to forget that _something_ had happened which made life appear adifferent thing. In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home. Thenegroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing theirlast basket of cotton--all of them silent, depressed with theirweariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of theautumn twilight. 

Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave theircotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Thenhe rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. Atthe sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep. 

"Good evening. " He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging. 

"Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will bewanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning. "

He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as hissoul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down. 

"Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. Ibrought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he canmake it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'--hope he can. He's about aslikely a young man as I ever saw. "

Still no answer. 

"Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and maymake them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in themorning?--say about ten o'clock. "

"Yes. Will you have some supper?"

"No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under thecircumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet. Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?"

"No. You must do your duty, Sheriff. "

He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping hishands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to betried for murder in the morning! What could he do? If David had notconfessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give hisevidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him. 

At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon thecourse he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three milesdistant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stainedclothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. Hisheart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead ofsaying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said, "So this is the end of it, David?"

"Yes. It is the end. "

"You ought not to have run away. "

"No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would haveput you all right. "

"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by theact. "

"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one endpossible. "

"Have you then confessed the murder?"

He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. "Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on withthe cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are inthe house. "

"But you have not yourself confessed?"

"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so youwould; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame ofdenouncing your own son!"

"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would haegane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?"

"How could I, father?"

He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands. After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it, until--all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!"

The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into theouter room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. Thesheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion ofDavid's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they wereextremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; theirsympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken thediscipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across thecontinent. In the moment of extremest danger, David had not onlyrefused assistance, but had shot his employer. 

"He called him a coward, and you'll admit that's a vera aggravatingname. "

The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances inTexas that epithet would justify a murder; "but, " he added, "most anyTexan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousandhead of cattle on the stampede. You'll excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say somyself. "

He went home again and shut himself in his room to think. But after manyhours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision. Justice!Justice! Justice! The whole current of his spiritual and mentalconstitution ran that road. Blood for blood; a life for a life; it wasmeet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streamingeyes. But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heardsomething which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old, "Oh, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!"

Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected hisduty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that theseeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forththeir natural fruit. The scales fell from his eyes; all the past becameclear to him. His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight. He criedout with his whole soul, "God be merciful! God be merciful!"

The darkest despairs are the most silent. All the night long he was onlyable to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. At theearliest daylight he was with his son. He was amazed to find him calm, almost cheerful. "The worst is over father, " he said. "I have done agreat wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willingto suffer it. "

"But after death! Oh, David, David--afterward!"

"I shall dare to hope--for Christ also has died, the just for theunjust. "

Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of thateternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he wouldshirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened;for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect, and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the leastpart of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divinevengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been _One_ withhim that night, _One_ who is not very far from us at any time; andthough David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost fearedto accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when mencannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but tobelieve. 

"Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, there is nae doubt o' that. "

"But God's mercy, I trust, is greater. "

"And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh, David, David!"

"I know, " he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He onlybelieved. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don'ttake it from me. "

Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must praywhen they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon thetwelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court wasopened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the longirritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony ofthe returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuseto be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and thescornful mention of his mother's race. 

There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elderLorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popularman. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies;and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff hadhonestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment ofthe stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests verynearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man acoward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperativemoment. 

As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attachesitself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of atrial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and hadaccepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul forhis son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided onthe death-sentence before they left their seats. 

And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carryingit out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficientnumber of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner forany length of time. David was to die at sunset. 

Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside allpride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. Butthese last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. Whatconfessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesseswere exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill ofmistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes theLord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are ofthose royal compassions which astonish even the angels. 

When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward hisfather. "It is my last request, " he said, looking into his face witheyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as itis. "

Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned paleas ashes when he read the contents. 

"I canna, I canna do it, " he whispered. 

"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you. "

The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not daredto voice it. It was this--

"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all Idread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life. "

For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he roseand went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberrytrees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since theirverdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had nopleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty. 

Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. Hepleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fullysatisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim. "

But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that hemust oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made thepunishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable deathlike that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Everyrascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if theywere given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentiallyfalse in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The mengravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any furtherpleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped hishand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his requestwould be granted. 

Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took theprisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of ropeon his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror andabhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returnedwith one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove ofmulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it theparty walked. 

Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin:and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, anddeserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and waswilling to pay the penalty of his crime. "

Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father!His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behindhim; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air ofexultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with atouching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the wearydays and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless. 

Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous thoughsilent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretchedfather repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awfulhour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a fewminutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly aclear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in thebranches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face;perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood. 

The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar whichcovered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought hisfather's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! _Now_!" Asthe words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father'sgroan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur ofsuffering about him which no one thought of resisting. 

He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, andwept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were allfathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently theyuntied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word ofdissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care ofman's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow isindifferent to all outside itself. 

When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at thehouse door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned tohim to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him acompanion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriffhaving satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own roomand laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The deadopened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he sawall that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood whatit must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count overand over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailingrepentance. 

In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' facesand words. She was quite aware _what_ was in her uncle's lonely room. Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she cameto the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter, "and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her--David's dyingmessage of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with thedead. 

At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was anurgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearingin the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Luluhad often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with theslain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behindthem. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leavesacross the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where lastit had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth. 

When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of airwith lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girlwas white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle'sunusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as thewinter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her ownconsciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kepther room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded herwith marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, she died. 

One night she sent for him. "Uncle, " she said, "I am going away verysoon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I wantyour promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?"

He winced visibly, and remained silent. 

"There are six boys and two girls--they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake youmust see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes thistime; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?"

"I will do my best, dear. "

"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You willneed company soon. "

"Do you think you are dying, dear?"

"I know I am dying. "

"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?"

She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, andthen closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he couldpress the question no further. And the next morning she had "goneaway"--gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sittingby her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. Thefair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had beentoo sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God'sdoing. What was there for him to say?

The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept--not very cheerfullyat first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but hepersevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; theyloved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gavethem his own name, and suffered them to call him father. 

As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedyof his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever presentto his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened thestern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hourof spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made nosign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did heunderstand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; andthat He who could say, "Let there be light, " could also say, "Thy sinsbe forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be cometo the holy land: for--

 "Down in the valley of death A cross is standing plain; Where strange and awful the shadows sleep, And the ground has a deep red stain. This cross uplifted there Forbids, with voice Divine, Our anguished hearts to break for the dead Who have died and made no sign. As they turned at length from us, Dear eyes that were heavy and dim, May have met his look, who was lifted there, May be sleeping safe in Him. "

THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON. 

Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the presentcentury--the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge. 

The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a shortconsideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful careerwill give us the best insight into the necessities and influences whichgave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has aparallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolutionstill agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and politicalanimosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food andthe prostration of the manufacturing business. 

His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of hisgrandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cottonspinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attritionwith steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elderLivesey lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing andspinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as thefirst who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing ofcalicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have nocertain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined toimprovements and ready to test an advance movement. 

That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard and bitter one there is no doubt. The price of flour continued for years fabulously high; so much so thatwealthy people generally pledged themselves to reduce their use of itone-third, and puddings or cakes were considered on any table, a sinfulextravagance. When the government was offering large premiums to farmersfor raising extra quantities and detailing soldiers to assist inthreshing it, poor bankrupt spinners must have had a hard struggle for abare existence. 

Indeed, education was hardly thought possible, and, though Josephmanaged, "by hook or crook, " to learn how to read, write and count alittle, it was through difficulties and discouragements that would havebeen fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will. 

Until he was twenty-one years of age he worked patiently at his loom, which stood in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp that its wallswere constantly wet. But he was hopeful, and even in those dark daysdared to fall in love. On attaining his majority, he received a legacyof £30. Then he married the poor girl who had made brighter his hardapprenticeship, and lived happily with her for fifty years. 

But the troubles that had begun before his birth--and which did notlighten until after the passing of the Reform Bill, in June, 1832--hadthen attained a proportion which taxed the utmost energies of bothprivate charities and the national government. 

The year of Joseph Livesey's marriage saw the passage of the Corn Laws, and the first of those famous mass meetings in Peter's Field, nearManchester, which undoubtedly molded the future temper and status of theEnglish weavers and spinners. From one of these meetings, the followingyear, thousands of starving men started _en masse_ to London. They werefollowed by the military and brought back for punishment or diedmiserably on the road, though 500 of them reached Macclesfield and asmaller number Derby. 

But Livesey, though probably suffering as keenly as others, joined nobody of rioters. He borrowed a sovereign and bought two cheeses; thencutting them up into small lots, he retailed them on the streets, Saturday afternoons, when the men were released from work. The profitfrom this small investment exceeding what it was possible for him tomake at his loom, he continued the trade, and from this small beginningfounded a business, and made a fortune which has enabled him to devote along life to public usefulness and benevolence. 

But his little craft must have needed skillful piloting, for his familyincreased rapidly during the disastrous years between 1816 and 1832; sodisastrous that in 1825-26 the Bank of England was obliged to authorizethe Chamber of Commerce to make loans to individuals carrying on largeworks of from £500 to £10, 000. Bankruptcies were enormous, trade waseverywhere stagnant, £60, 000 were subscribed for meal and peas to feedthe starving, and the government issued 40, 000 articles of clothing. Thequarrels between masters and spinners were more and more bitter, millswere everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one day 30, 000 "hands" turnedout. 

During these dreadful years every thoughtful person had noticed how muchmisery and ill-will was caused by the constant thronging to publichouses, and temperance societies had been at work among the angry men ofthe working classes. Joseph Livesey had been actively engaged in thiswork. But these first efforts of the temperance cause were directedentirely against spirits. The use of wine and ale was considered then anecessity of life. Brewing was in most families as regular and importanta duty as baking; the youngest children had their mug of ale; andclergymen were spoken of without reproach as "one, " "two" or"three-bottle men. "

But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied that these half measures weredoing no good at all, and in 1831 a little circumstance decided him totake a stronger position. He had to go to Blackburn to see a person onbusiness; and, as a matter of course, whiskey was put on the table. Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was very ill in consequence. He had then a large family of boys, and both for their sakes and that ofothers, he resolved to halt no longer between two opinions. 

He spoke at once in all the temperance meetings of the folly of partialreforms, pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and urged upon theassociation the duty of absolute abstinence. His zeal warmed with hisefforts and he insisted that in the matter of drinking "the golden mean"was the very sin for which the Laodicean Church had been cursed. 

The disputes were very angry and bitter; far more so than we at thisday can believe possible, unless we take into account the universalnational habits and its poetic and domestic associations with everyphase of English life. But he gradually gained adherents to his viewsthough it was not until the following year he was able to take anotherstep forward. 

It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, that the first solemn pledge oftotal abstinence was taken. That afternoon Joseph Livesey, pondering thematter in his mind, saw John King pass his shop. He asked him to come inand talk the subject over with him. Before they parted Livesey askedKing if he would join him in a pledge to abstain forever from allliquors; and King said he would. Livesey then wrote out a form and, laying it before King, said: "Thee sign it first, lad. " King signed it, Livesey followed him, and the two men clasped hands and stood pledged toone of the greatest works humanity has ever undertaken. 

A special meeting was then called, and after a stormy debate, the mainpart of the audience left, a small number remaining to continue theargument. But the end of it was that seven men came forward and drew upand signed the following document, which is still preserved:

 "We agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality, whether they be ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as medicine. 

 "JOHN GRATREX, EDWARD DICKINSON, JOHN BROADBENT, JNO. SMITH, JOSEPH LIVESEY, DAVID ANDERTON, JNO. KING. "

All these reformers were virtually _working_ men, though most of themrose to positions of respect and affluence. Still the humility of theorigin of the movement was long a source of contempt, and its members, within my own recollection, had the stigma of vulgarity almost in rightof their convictions. 

But God takes hands with good men's efforts, and the cause prosperedjust where it was most needed--among the operatives and "the commonpeople. " One of these latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard Turner, stood, in a very amusing and unexpected way, sponsor for the society. Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his language was the broadestpatois, it was, nevertheless, of the most convincing character. Healways spoke well, and, if authorized words failed him, readily coinedwhat he needed. One night while making a very fervent speech, he said:"No half-way measures here. Nothing but the _te-te total_ will do. "

Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, and, rising, proposed it as thename of the society. The proposition was received with enthusiasticcheering, and these "root and branch" temperance men were thenceforwardknown as teetotalers. Richard remained all his life a sturdy advocate ofthe cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made one of the hundreds andthousands that crowded the streets of the beautiful town of Preston andfollowed him to his grave. The stone above it chronicles shortly hisname and death, and the fact that he was the author of a word known nowwherever Christianity and civilization are known. 

MARGARET SINCLAIR'S SILENT MONEY. 

"It was ma luck, Sinclair, an' I couldna win by it. "

"Ha'vers! It was David Vedder's whiskey that turned ma boattapsalteerie, Geordie Twatt. "

"Thou had better blame Hacon; he turned the boat _Widdershins_ an' whatfule doesna ken that it is evil luck to go contrarie to the sun?"

"It is waur luck to have a drunken, superstitious pilot. Twatt, thatNorse blood i' thy veins is o'er full o' freets. Fear God, an' mind thywark, an' thou needna speir o' the sun what gate to turn the boat. "

"My Norse blood willna stand ony Scot stirring it up, Sinclair. I comeo' a mighty kind--"

"Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco' full about their ancestors having beenhorses. It has come to this, Geordie: thou must be laird o' theesel'before I'll trust thee again with ony craft o' mine. " Then PeterSinclair lifted his papers, and, looking the discharged sailor steadilyin the face, bid him "go on his penitentials an' think things o'er abit. "

Geordie Twatt went sullenly out, but Peter was rather pleased withhimself; he believed that he had done his duty in a satisfactory manner. And if a man was in a good temper with himself, it was just the kind ofeven to increase his satisfaction. The gray old town of Kirkwall lay insupernatural glory, the wondrous beauty of the mellow gloaming blendingwith soft green and rosy-red spears of light that shot from east towest, or charged upward to the zenith. The great herring fleet outsidethe harbor was as motionless as "a painted _fleet_ upon a paintedocean"--the men were sleeping or smoking upon the piers--not a foot fellupon the flagged streets, and the only murmur of sound was round thepublic fountains, where a few women were perched on the bowl's edge, knitting and gossiping. 

Peter Sinclair was, perhaps, not a man inclined to analyze such things, but they had their influence over him; for, as he drifted slowly home inhis skiff, he began to pity Geordie's four motherless babies, and towonder if he had been as patient with him as he might have been. "An'yet, " he murmured, "there's the loss on the goods, an' the loss o' time, and the boat to steek afresh forbye the danger to life! Na, na, I'm nocalled upon to put life i' peril for a glass o' whiskey. "

Then he lifted his head, and there, on the white sands, stood hisdaughter Margaret. He was conscious of a great thrill of pride as helooked at her, for Margaret Sinclair, even among the beautiful women ofthe Orcades, was most beautiful of all. In a few minutes he had fastenedhis skiff at a little jetty, and was walking with her over the springyheath toward a very pretty house of white stone. It was his own house, and he was proud of it also, but not half so proud of the house as ofits tiny garden; for there, with great care and at great cost, he hadmanaged to rear a few pansies, snowdrops, lilies of the valley, andother hardy English flowers. Margaret and he stooped lovingly over them, and it was wonderful to see how Peter's face softened, and how gentlythe great rough hands, that had been all day handling smoked geese andfish, touched these frail, trembling blossoms. 

"Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy to see the bonnie bit things;when I can get time I'se e'en go wi' thee to Edinburgh; I'd like weel tosee such fields an' gardens an' trees as I hear thee tell on. "

Then Margaret began again to describe the greenhouses, the meadows andwheat fields, the forests of oaks and beeches she had seen during herschool days in Edinburgh. Peter listened to her as if she was telling awonderful fairy story, but he liked it, and, as he cut slice after slicefrom his smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk of roses and apple-blossoms, and smacked his lips for the thousandth time when she described a peach, and said, "It tasted, father, as if it had been grown in the Garden ofEden. "

After such conversations Peter was always stern and strict. He felt anactual anger at Adam and Eve; their transgression became a keenlypersonal affair, for he had a very vivid sense of the loss they hadentailed upon him. The vague sense of wrong made him try to fix it, and, after a short reflection, he said in an injured tone:

"I wonder when Ronald's coming hame again?"

"Ronald is all right, father. "

"A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's three vessels waiting to beloaded, an' the books sae far ahint that I kenna whether I'm losing orsaving. Where is he?"

"Not far away. He will be at the Stones of Stennis this week some timewith an Englishman he fell in with at Perth. "

"I wonder, now, was it for my sins or his ain that the lad has sic auldworld notions? There isna a pagan altar-stane 'tween John O'Groat's an'Lambaness he doesna run after. I wish he were as anxious to serve inthe Lord's temple--I would build him a kirk an' a manse for it. "

"We'll be proud of Ronald yet, father. The Sinclairs have been fightingand making money for centuries: it is a sign of grace to have a scholarand a poet at last among them. "

Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry were limited by the Scotch psalms, and, as for scholarship, he asserted that the books were better keptwhen he used his own method of tallies and crosses. Then he rememberedGeordie Twatt's misfortune, and had his little grumble out on thissubject: "Boat and goods might hae been a total loss, no to speak o' thelives o' Geordie an' the four lads wi' him; an' a' for the sake o'liquor!"

Margaret looked at the brandy bottle standing at her father's elbow, and, though she did not speak, the look annoyed Peter. 

"You arna to even my glass wi' his, lassie. I ken when to stop--Geordienever does. "

"It is a common fault in more things than drinking, father. When MagnusHay has struck the first blow he is quite ready to draw his dirk andstrike the last one; and Paul Snackole, though he has made gold and tospare, will just go on making gold until death takes the balances out ofhis hands. There are few folks that in all things offend not. "

She looked so noble standing before him, so fair and tall, her hairyellow as down, her eyes cool and calm and blue as night; her wholeattitude so serene, assured and majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, lefthis glass unfinished, and went away with a very confused "good night. "

In the morning the first thing he did when he reached his office, was tosend for the offending sailor. 

"Geordie, my Margaret says there are plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, thou'lt just see to the steeking o' the boat, an' be ready to sailher--or upset her--i' ten days again. "

"I'll keep her right side up for Margaret Sinclair's sake--tell her Isaid that, Master. "

"I'se do no promising for thee Geordie. Between wording an' working is alang road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, an'thou wilt mind this--_things promised are things due_. "

Insensibly this act of forbearance lightened Peter's whole day; he wasgood-tempered with the world, and the world returned the compliment. When night came, and he watched for Margaret on the sands, he wasdelighted to see that Ronald was with her. The lad had come home andnothing was now remembered against him. That night it was Ronald toldhim fairy-stories of great cities and universities, of miles of booksand pictures, of wonderful machinery and steam engines, of deliciousthings to eat and drink. Peter felt as if he must start southward by thenext mail packet, but in the morning he thought more unselfishly. 

"There are forty families depending on me sticking to the shop an' theboats, Ronald, an' I canna go pleasuring till there is ane to step intomy shoes. "

Ronald Sinclair had all the fair, stately beauty and noble presence ofhis sister, but yet there was some lack about him easier to feel than todefine. Perhaps no one was unconscious of this lack except Margaret; butwomen have a grand invention where their idols are concerned, and createreadily for them every excellency that they lack. Her own two years'study in an Edinburgh boarding-school had been very superficial, and sheknew it; but this wonderful Ronald could read Homer and Horace, couldplay and sketch, and recite Shakespeare and write poetry. If he couldhave done none of these things, if he had been dull and ugly, andcontent to trade in fish and wool, she would still have loved himtenderly; how much more then, this handsome Antinous, whom she creditedwith all the accomplishments of Apollo. 

Ronald needed all her enthusiastic support. He had left heavy collegebills, and he had quite made up his mind that he would not be a ministerand that he would be a lawyer. He could scarcely have decided on twothings more offensive to his father. Only for the hope of having aminister in the family had Peter submitted to his son's continueddemands for money. For this end he had bought books, and paid for allkinds of teachers and tours, and sighed over the cost of Ronald'sdifferent hobbies. And now he was not only to have a grievousdisappointment, but also a great offence, for Peter Sinclair sharedfully in the Arcadean dislike and distrust of lawyers, and would havebeen deeply offended at any one requiring their aid in any businesstransaction with him. 

His son's proposal to be a "writer" he took almost as a personal insult. He had formed his own opinion of the profession and the opinion of anyother person who would say a word in favor of a lawyer he considered ofno value. Margaret had a hard task before her, that she succeeded at allwas due to her womanly tact. Ronald and his father simply clashedagainst each other and exchanged pointed truths which hurt worse thanwounds. At length, when the short Arcadean summer was almost over, Margaret won a hard and reluctant consent. 

"The lad is fit for naething better, I suppose"--and the old man turnedaway to shed the bitterest tears of his whole life. They shockedMargaret; she was terrified at her success, and, falling humbly at hisfeet, she besought him to forget and forgive her importunities, and totake back a gift baptized with such ominous tears. 

But Peter Sinclair, having been compelled to take such a step, was notthe man to retrace it; he shook his head in a dour, hopeless way: "Hecouldna say 'yes' an' 'no' in a breath, an' Ronald must e'en drink as hebrewed. "

These struggles, so real and sorrowful to his father and sister, Ronaldhad no sympathy with--not that he was heartless, but that he had taughthimself to believe they were the result of ignorance of the world andold-fashioned prejudices. He certainly intended to become a greatman--perhaps a judge--and, when he was one of "the Lords, " he had nodoubt his father would respect his disobedience. He knew his father aslittle as he knew himself. Peter Sinclair was only Peter Sinclair'sopinions incorporate; and he could no more have changed them than hecould have changed the color of his eyes or the shape of his nose; andthe difference between a common lawyer and a "lord, " in his eyes, wouldonly have been the difference between a little oppressor and a greatone. 

For the first time in all her life Margaret suspected a flaw in thisperfect crystal of a brother; his gay debonnaire manner hurt her. Evenif her father's objections were ignorant prejudices, they were positiveconvictions to him, and she did not like to see them smiled at, entertained by the cast of the eye, and the put-by of the turning hand. But loving women are the greatest of philistines: knock their idol downdaily, rob it of every beauty, cut off its hands and head, and they willstill "set it up in its place, " and fall down and worship it. 

Undoubtedly Margaret was one of the blindest of these characters, butthe world may pause before it scorns them too bitterly. It is faith ofthis sublime integrity which, brought down to personal experience, believes, endures, hopes, sacrifices and loves on to the end, winningfinally what never would have been given to a more prudent andreasonable devotion. So, if Margaret had her doubts, she put themarbitrarily down, and sent her brother away with manifold tokens of herlove--among them, with a check on the Kirkwall Bank for sixty pounds, the whole of her personal savings. 

To this frugal Arcadean maid it seemed a large sum, but she hoped by thesacrifice to clear off Ronald's college debts, and thus enable him tostart his new race unweighted. It was but a mouthful to each creditor, but it put them off for a time, and Ronald was not a youth inclined to"take thought" for their "to-morrow. "

He had been entered for four years' study with the firm of Wilkes &Brechen, writers and conveyancers, of the city of Glasgow. Her fatherhad paid the whole fee down, and placed in the Western Bank to hiscredit four hundred pounds for his four years' support. Whatever Ronaldthought of the provision, Peter considered it a magnificent income, andit had cost him a great struggle to give up at once, and for no evidentreturn, so much of his hard-earned gold. To Ronald he said nothing ofthis reluctance; he simply put vouchers for both transactions in hishand, and asked him to "try an' spend the siller as weel as it had beenearned. "

But to Margaret he fretted not a little. "Fourteen hun'red pounds a'thegither, dawtie, " he said in a tearful voice. "I warked early an' latethrough mony a year for it; an' it is gane a' at once, though I haenaught but words an' promises for it. I ken, Margaret, that I am an auldfarrant trader, but I'se aye say that it is a bad well into which aremust put water. "

When Ronald went, the summer went too. It became necessary to remove atonce to their rock-built house in one of the narrow streets ofKirkwall. Margaret was glad of the change; her father could come intothe little parlor behind the shop any time in the day and smoke his pipebeside her. He needed this consolation sorely; his son's conduct hadgrieved him far more deeply than he would allow, and Margaret often sawhim gazing southward over the stormy Pentland Frith with a very mournfulface. 

But a good heart soon breaks bad fortune and Peter had a good heart, sound and sweet and true to his fellow-creatures and full of faith inGod. It is true that his creed was of the very strictest and sternest;but men are always better than their theology and Margaret knew from theScriptures chosen for their household worship that in the depth andstillness of his soul his human fatherhood had anchored fast to thefatherhood of God. 

Arcadean winters are long and dreary, but no one need much pity theArcadeans; they have learned how to make them the very festival ofsocial life. And, in spite of her anxiety about Ronald, Margaretthoroughly enjoyed this one--perhaps the more because Captain OlaveThorkald spent two months of it with them in Kirkwall. There had been along attachment between the young soldier and Margaret; and havingobtained his commission, he had come to ask also for the publicrecognition of their engagement. Margaret was rarely beautiful andrarely happy, and she carried with a charming and kindly grace the fullcup of her felicity. The Arcadeans love to date from a good year, andall her life afterward Margaret reckoned events from this pleasantwinter. 

Peter Sinclair's house being one of the largest in Kirkwall, was afavorite gathering place, and Peter took his full share in all thehome-like, innocent amusements which beguiled the long, dreary nights. No one in Orkney or Zetland could recite Ossian with more passion andtenderness, and he enjoyed his little triumph over the youngsters whoemulated him. No one could sing a Scotch song with more humor, and fewof the lads and lassies could match Peter in a blithe foursome reel or arattling strathspey. Some, indeed, thought that good Dr. Ogilvie had amore graceful spring and a longer breath, but Peter always insisted thathis inferiority to the minister was a voluntary concession to theDominie's superior dignity. It was, however, a rivalry that always endedin a firmer grip at parting. These little festivals, in which young andold freely mingled, cultivated to perfection the best and kindestfeelings of both classes. Age mellowed to perfect sweetness in thesunshine of youthful gayety, and youth learned from age how at once tobe merry and wise. 

At length June arrived; and though winter lingered in _spates_, the songof the skylark and the thrush heralded the spring. When the dream-likevoice of the cuckoo should be heard once more, Peter and Margaret haddetermined to take a long summer trip. They were to go first to Perth, where Captain Thorkald was stationed, and then to Glasgow and seeRonald. But God had planned another journey for Peter, even one to a"land very far off. " A disease, to which he had been subject atintervals for many years, suddenly assumed a fatal character and Peterneeded no one to tell him that his days were numbered. 

He set his house in order, and then, going with Margaret to his summerdwelling, waited quietly. He said little on the subject, and as long ashe was able, gave himself up with the delight of a child to watching thefew flowers in his garden; but still one solemn, waylaying thought madethese few last weeks of life peculiarly hushed and sacred. Ronald hadbeen sent for, and the old man, with the clear prescience that sometimescomes before death, divined much and foresaw much he did not care tospeak about--only that in some subtle way he made Margaret perceive thatRonald was to be cared for and watched over, and that to her thischarge was committed. 

Before the summer was quite over Peter Sinclair went away. In histarrying by the eternal shore he became, as it were, purified of thebody, and one lovely night, when gloaming and dawning mingled, and thelark was thrilling the midnight skies, he heard the Master call him, andpromptly answered, "Here am I. " Then "Death, with sweet enlargement, diddismiss him hence. "

He had been considered a rich man in Orkney, and, therefore, Ronald--whohad become accustomed to a Glasgow standard of wealth--was muchdisappointed. His whole estate was not worth over six thousand pounds;about two thousand pounds of this was in gold, the rest was invested inhis houses in Kirkwall, and in a little cottage in Stromness, wherePeter's wife had been born. He gave to Ronald £1800, and to Margaret£200 and the life rent of the real property. Ronald had already received£1400, and, therefore, had no cause of complaint, but somehow he felt asif he had been wronged. He was older than his sister, and the son of thehouse, and use and custom were not in favor of recognizing daughters ashaving equal rights. But he kept such thoughts to himself, and when hewent back to Glasgow took with him solid proof of his sister'sdevotion. 

It was necessary, now, for Margaret to make a great change in her life. She determined to remove to Stromness and occupy the little four-roomedcottage that had been her mother's. It stood close to that of GeordieTwatt, and she felt that in any emergency she was thus sure of onefaithful friend. "A lone woman" in Margaret's position has in these daysnumberless objects of interest of which Margaret never dreamed. Shewould have thought it a kind of impiety to advise her minister, ormeddle in church affairs. These simple parents attended themselves tothe spiritual training of their children--there was no necessity forSunday Schools, and they did not exist. She was not one of those womenwhom their friends call "beings, " and who have deep and mysteriousfeelings that interpret themselves in poems and thrilling stories. Shehad no taste for philosophy or history or social science, and had beentaught to regard novels as dangerously sinful books. 

But no one need imagine that she was either wretched or idle. In thefirst place, she took life much more calmly and slowly than we do; avery little pleasure or employment went a long way. She read her Bibleand helped her old servant Helga to keep the house in order. She hadher flowers to care for, --and her brother and lover to write to. Shelooked after Geordie Twatt's little motherless lads, went to church andto see her friends, and very often had her friends to see her. Ithappened to be a very stormy winter, and the mails were often delayedfor weeks together. This was her only trouble. Ronald's letters weremore and more unsatisfactory; he was evidently unhappy and dissatisfiedand heartily tired of his new study. Posts were so irregular that oftentheir letters seemed to be playing at cross purposes. She determined assoon as spring opened to go and have a straightforward talk with him. 

So the following June Geordie Twatt took her in his boat to Thurso, where Captain Thorkald was waiting for her. They had not met since PeterSinclair's death, and that event had materially affected theirprospects. Before it their marriage had been a possible joy in some farfuture; now there was no greater claim on her care and love than thecaptain's, and he urged their early marriage. 

Margaret had her two hundred pounds with her, and she promised to buyher "plenishing" during her visit to Glasgow. In those days girls madetheir own trousseau, sewing into every garment solemn and tender hopesand joys. Margaret thought that proper attention to this dear stitchingas well as proper respect for her father's memory, asked of her yet atleast another year's delay; and for the present Captain Thorkald thoughtit best not to urge her further. 

Ronald received his sister very joyfully. He had provided lodgings forher with their father's old correspondent, Robert Gorie, a tea merchantin the Cowcaddens. The Cowcaddens was then a very respectable street, and Margaret was quite pleased with her quarters. She was not pleasedwith Ronald, however. He avowed himself thoroughly disgusted with thelaw, and declared his intention of forfeiting his fee and joining hisfriend Walter Cashell in a manufacturing scheme. 

Margaret could _feel_ that he was all wrong, but she could not reasonabout a business of which she knew nothing, and Ronald took his own way. But changing and bettering are two different things, and, though he wasalways talking of his "good luck" and his "good bargains", Margaret wasvery uneasy. Perhaps Robert Gorie was partly to blame for this; hispawky face and shrewd little eyes made visible dissents to all suchboasts; nor did he scruple to say, "Guid luck needs guid elbowing, Ronald, an' it is at the _guid bargains_ I aye pause an' ponder. "

The following winter was a restless, unhappy one; Ronald was eitherpainfully elated or very dull; and, soon after the New Year, WalterCashell fell into bad health, went to the West Indies, and left Ronaldwith the whole business to manage. He soon now began to come to hissister, not only for advice, but for money. Margaret believed at firstthat she was only supplying Walter's sudden loss, but when her cash wasall gone, and Ronald urged her to mortgage her rents she resolutely shuther ears to all his plausible promises, and refused to "throw more goodmoney after bad. "

It was the first ill-blood between them, and it hurt Margaret sorely. She was glad when the fine weather came, and she could escape to herisland home, for Ronald was cool to her, and said cruel things ofCaptain Thorkald, for whose sake he declared his sister had refused tohelp him. 

One day, at the end of the following August, when most of thetowns-people--men and women--had gone to the moss to cut the winter'speat, she saw Geordie Twatt coming toward the house. Something about hisappearance troubled her, and she went to the open door and stood waitingfor him. 

"What is it, Geordie?"

"I am bidden to tell thee, Margaret Sinclair, to be at the Stanes o'Stennis to-night at eleven o'clock. "

"Who trysts me there, Geordie, at such an hour?"

"Thy brother; but thou'lt come--yes, thou wilt. "

Margaret's very lips turned white as she answered: "I'll be there--seethou art, too. "

"Sure as death! If naebody spiers after me, thou needna say I was hereat a', thou needna. "

Margaret understood the caution, and nodded her head. She could notspeak, and all day long she wandered about like a soul in a restlessdream. 

Fortunately, every one was weary at night, and went early to rest, andshe found little difficulty in getting outside the town without notice;and one of the ponies on the common took her speedily across the moor. 

Late as it was, twilight lingered over the silent moor, with its oldPictish mounds and burial places, giving them an indescribable aspect ofsomething weird and eerie. No one could have been insensible to themournful, brooding light and the unearthly stillness, and Margaret wastrembling with a supernatural terror as she stood amid the solemn circleof gray stones and looked over the lake of Stennis and the low, brownhills of Harray. 

From behind one of these gigantic pillars Ronald came towardher--Ronald, and yet not Ronald. He was dressed as a common sailor, andotherwise shamefully disguised. There was no time to soften things--hetold his miserable story in a few plain words:

"His business had become so entangled that he knew not which way toturn, and, sick of the whole affair, he had taken a passage forAustralia, and then forged a note on the Western Bank for £900. He hadhoped to be far at sea with his ill-gotten money before the fraud wasdiscovered, but suspicion had gathered around him so quickly, that hehad not even dared to claim his passage. Then he fled north, and, fortunately, discovering Geordie's boat at Wick, had easily prevailed onhim to put off at once with him. "

What cowards sin makes of us! Margaret had seen this very lad face deathoften, among the sunken rocks and cruel surfs, that he might save thelife of a ship-wrecked sailor, and now, rather than meet the creditorswhom he had wronged, he had committed a robbery and was flying from thegallows. 

She was shocked and stunned, and stood speechless, wringing her handsand moaning pitifully. Her brother grew impatient. Often the firstresult of a bitter sense of sin is to make the sinner peevish andirritable. 

"Margaret, " he said, almost angrily, "I came to bid you farewell, andto promise you, _by my father's name_! to retrieve all this wrong. Ifyou can speak a kind word speak it, for God's sake--if not, I must gowithout it!"

Then she fell upon his neck, and, amid sobs and kisses, said all thatlove so sorely and suddenly tried could say. He could not even sootheher anguish by any promise to write, but he did promise to come back toher sooner or later with restitution in his hand. All she could do nowfor this dear brother was to call Geordie to her side and put him in hiscare; taking what consolation she could from his assurance that "hewould keep him out at sea until the search was cold, and if followedcarry him into some of the dangerous 'races' between the islands. " Ifany sailor could keep his boat above water in them, she knew Geordiecould; _and if not_--she durst follow that thought no further, but, putting her hands before her face, stood praying, while the two menpulled silently away in the little skiff that had brought them up theoutlet connecting the lake of Stennis with the sea. Margaret would haveturned away from Ronald's open grave less heart-broken. 

It was midnight now, but her real terror absorbed all imaginary ones;she did not even call a pony, but with swift, even steps walked back toStromness. Ere she had reached it, she had decided what was to be done, and next day she left Kirkwall in the mail packet for the mainland. Thence by night and day she traveled to Glasgow, and a week after herinterview with Ronald she was standing before the directors of thedefrauded bank and offering them the entire proceeds of her Kirkwallproperty until the debt was paid. 

The bank had thoroughly respected Peter Sinclair, and his daughter'searnest, decided offer won their ready sympathy. It was accepted withoutany question of interest, though she could not hope to clear off theobligation in less than nine years. She did not go near any of her oldacquaintances; she had no heart to bear their questions and condolences, and she had no money to stay in Glasgow at charges. Winter was coming onrapidly, but before it broke over the lonely islands she had reached hercottage in Stromness again. 

There had been, of course, much talk concerning her hasty journey, butno one had suspected its cause. Indeed, the pursuit after Ronald hadbeen entirely the bank's affair, had been committed to privatedetectives and had not been nearly so hot as the frightened criminalbelieved. His failure and flight had indeed been noticed in the Glasgownewspapers, but this information did not reach Kirkwall until thefollowing spring, and then in a very indefinite form. 

About a week after her return, Geordie Twatt came into port. Margaretfrequently went to his cottage with food or clothing for the children, and she contrived to meet him there. 

"Yon lad is a' right, indeed is he, " he said, with an assumption ofindifference. 

"Oh, Geordie! where?"

"A ship going westward took him off the boat. "

"Thank God! You will say naught at all, Geordie?"

"I ken naught at a' save that his father's son was i' trouble, an'trying to gie thae weary, unchancy lawyers the go-by. I was fain eneuchmesel' to balk them. "

But Margaret's real trials were all yet to come. The mere fact of doinga noble deed does not absolve one often from very mean and pettyconsequences. Before the winter was half over she had found out howrapid is the descent from good report. The neighbors were deeplyoffended at her for giving up the social tea parties and eveninggatherings that had made the house of Sinclair popular for more than onegeneration. She gave still greater offence by becoming a workingwoman, and spending her days in braiding straw into the (once) famous OrkneyTuscans, and her long evenings in the manufacture of those delicateknitted goods peculiar to the country. 

It was not alone that they grudged her the money for these labors, as somuch out of their own pockets--they grudged her also the time; for theyhad been long accustomed to rely on Margaret Sinclair for theirchildren's garments, for nursing the sick and for help in weddings, funerals and all the other extraordinary occasions of sympathy among aprimitively social people. 

Little by little, all winter, the sentiment of disapproval and dislikegathered. Some one soon found out that Margaret's tenants "just sentevery bawbee o' the rent-siller to the Glasgow Bank;" and this was adouble offence, as it implied a distrust of her own townsfolk andinstitutions. If from her humble earnings she made a little gift to anycommon object its small amount was a fresh source of anger and contempt;for none knew how much she had to deny herself even for such curtailedgratuities. 

In fact, Margaret Sinclair's sudden stinginess and indifference to hertownsfolk was the common wonder and talk of every little gathering. Oldfriends began to either pointedly reprove her, or pointedly ignore her;and at last even old Helga took the popular tone and said, "MargaretSinclair had got too scrimping for an auld wife like her to bide wi'langer. "

Through all this Margaret suffered keenly. At first she tried earnestlyto make her old friends understand that she had good reasons for herconduct; but as she would not explain these good reasons, she failed inher endeavor. She had imagined that her good conscience would supporther, and that she could live very well without love and sympathy; shesoon found out that it is a kind of negative punishment worse than manystripes. 

At the end of the winter Captain Thorkald again earnestly pressed theirmarriage, saying that, "his regiment was ordered to Chelsea, and anylonger delay might be a final one. " He proposed also, that his father, the Udaller Thorkald of Serwick, should have charge of her Orkneyproperty, as he understood its value and changes. Margaret wrote andfrankly told him that her property was not hers for at least sevenyears, but that it was under good care, and he must accept her wordwithout explanation. Out of this only grew a very unsatisfactorycorrespondence. Captain Thorkald went south without Margaret, and a verydecided coolness separated them farther than any number of miles. 

Udaller Thorkald was exceedingly angry, and his remarks about MargaretSinclair's refusal "to trust her bit property in as guid hands as herown" increased very much the bitter feeling against the poor girl. Atthe end of three years the trial became too great for her; she began tothink of running away from it. 

Throughout these dark days she had purposely and pointedly kept apartfrom her old friend Dr. Ogilvie, for she feared his influence over hermight tempt her to confidence. Latterly the doctor had humored herevident desire, but he had never ceased to watch over and, in a greatmeasure, to believe in her; and, when he heard of this determination toquit Orkney forever, he came to Stromness with a resolution to spare noefforts to win her confidence. 

He spoke very solemnly and tenderly to her, reminded her of her father'sgenerosity and good gifts to the church and the poor, and said: "O, Margaret, dear lass! what good at a' will thy silent money do thee in_that Day_? It ought to speak for thee out o' the mouths o' thesorrowfu' an' the needy, the widows an' the fatherless--indeed it ought. And thou hast gien naught for thy Master's sake these three years! I'mfair 'shamed to think thou bears sae kind a name as thy father's. "

What could Margaret do? She broke into passionate sobbing, and, when thegood old man left the cottage an hour afterward there was a strangelight on his face, and he walked and looked as if he had come from someinterview that had set him for a little space still nearer to theangels. Margaret had now one true friend, and in a few days after thisshe rented her cottage and went to live with the dominie. Nothing couldhave so effectually reinstated her in public opinion; wherever thedominie went on a message of help or kindness Margaret went with him. She fell gradually into a quieter but still more affectionateregard--the aged, the sick and the little children clung to her hands, and she was comforted. 

Her life seemed, indeed, to have wonderfully narrowed, but when the tideis fairly out, it begins to turn again. In the fifth year of her povertythere was from various causes, such an increase in the value of realestate, that her rents were nearly doubled, and by the end of theseventh year she had paid the last shilling of her assumed debt, and wasagain an independent woman. 

It might be two years after this that she one day received a letter thatfilled her with joy and amazement. It contained a check for her wholenine hundred pounds back again. "The bank had just received from RonaldSinclair, of San Francisco, the whole amount due it, with the mostsatisfactory acknowledgment and interest. " It was a few minutes beforeMargaret could take in all the joy this news promised her; but when shedid, the calm, well-regulated girl had never been so near committingextravagances. 

She ran wildly upstairs to the dominie, and, throwing herself at hisknees, cried out, amid tears and smiles: "Father! father! Here is yourmoney! Here is the poor's money and the church's money! God has sent itback to me! Sent it back with such glad tidings!"--and surely if angelsrejoice with repenting sinners, they must have felt that day a fardeeper joy with the happy, justified girl. 

She knew now that she also would soon hear from Ronald, and she was notdisappointed. The very next day the dominie brought home the letter. Margaret took it upstairs to read it upon her knees, while the good oldman walked softly up and down his study praying for her. Presently shecame to him with a radiant face. 

"Is it weel wi' the lad, ma dawtie?"

"Yes, father; it is very well. " Then she read him the letter. 

Ronald had been in New Orleans and had the fever; he had been in Texas, and spent four years in fighting Indians and Mexicans and in herdingcattle. He had suffered many things, but had worked night and day, andalways managed to grow a little richer every year. Then, suddenly, theword "California!" rung through the world, and he caught the echo evenon the lonely southwestern prairies. Through incredible hardships he hadmade his way thither, and a sudden and wonderful fortune had crowned hislabors, first in mining and afterward in speculation and merchandising. He said that he was indeed afraid to tell her how rich he was lest toher Arcadean views the sum might appear incredible. 

Margaret let the letter fall on her lap and clasped her hands above it. Her face was beautiful. If the prodigal son had a sister she must havelooked just as Margaret looked when they brought in her lost brother, inthe best robe and the gold ring. 

The dominie was not so satisfied. A good many things in the letterdispleased him, but he kissed Margaret tenderly and went away from her. "It is a' _I_ did this, an' _I_ did that, an' _I_ suffered you; there isnae word o' God's help, or o' what ither folk had to thole. I'll no bedoing ma duty if I dinna set his sin afore his e'en. "

The old man was little used to writing, and the effort was a great one, but he bravely made it, and without delay. In a few curt, idiomaticsentences he told Ronald Margaret's story of suffering and wrong andpoverty; her hard work for daily bread; her loss of friends, of hergood name and her lover, adding: "It is a puir success, ma lad, that yedinna acknowledge God in; an' let me tell thee, thy restitution is o'erlate for thy credit. I wad hae thought better o' it had thou made itwhen it took the last plack i' thy pouch. Out o' thy great wealth, a fewhun'red pounds is nae matter to speak aboot. "

But people did speak of it. In spite of our chronic abuse of humannature it is, after all, a kindly nature, and rejoices in good more thanin evil. The story of Ronald's restitution is considered honorable toit, and it was much made of in the daily papers. Margaret's friendsflocked round her again, saying, "I'm sorry, Margaret!" as simply andhonestly as little children, and the dominie did not fail to give themthe lecture on charity that Margaret neglected. 

Whether the Udaller Thorkald wrote to his son anent these transactions, or whether the captain read in the papers enough to satisfy him, henever explained; but one day he suddenly appeared at Dr. Ogilvie's andasked for Margaret. He had probably good excuses for his conduct tooffer; if not, Margaret was quite ready to invent for him--as she haddone for Ronald--all the noble qualities he lacked. The captain wastired of military life, and anxious to return to Orkney; and, as hisown and Margaret's property was yearly increasing: in value, he foresawprofitable employment for his talents. He had plans for introducing manysouthern improvements--for building a fine modern house, growing some ofthe hardier fruits and for the construction of a grand conservatory forMargaret's flowers. 

It must be allowed that Captain Thorkald was a very ordinary lord for awoman like Margaret Sinclair to "love, honor and obey;" but few menwould have been worthy of her, and the usual rule which shows us thenoblest women marrying men manifestly their inferiors is doubtless awise one. 

A lofty soul can have no higher mission than to help upward one upon alower plane, and surely Captain Thorkald, being, as the dominie said, "_no that bad_, " had the fairest opportunities to grow to Margaret'sstature in Margaret's atmosphere. 

While these things were occurring, Ronald got Margaret's letter. It wasfull of love and praise, and had no word of blame or complaint in it. Henoticed, indeed, that she still signed her name "Sinclair, " and that shenever alluded to Captain Thorkald, and the supposition that the stain onhis character had caused a rupture did, for a moment, force itself uponhis notice; but he put it instantly away with the reflection that"Thorkald was but a poor fellow, after all, and quite unworthy of hissister. "

The very next mail-day he received the dominie's letter. He read itonce, and could hardly take it in; read it again and again, until hislips blanched, and his whole countenance changed. In that moment he sawRonald Sinclair for the first time in his life. Without a word, he lefthis business, went to his house and locked himself in his own room. 

_Then Margaret's silent money began to speak. _ In low upbraidings itshowed him the lonely girl in that desolate land trying to make her ownbread, deserted of lover and friends, robbed of her property and goodname, silently suffering every extremity, never reproaching him once, not even thinking it necessary to tell him of her sufferings, or tocount their cost unto him. 

What is this bitterness we call remorse? This agony of the soul in allits senses? This sudden flood of intolerable light in the dark places ofour hearts? This truth-telling voice which leaves us without a particleof our self-complacency? For many days Ronald could find no words tospeak but these, "O, wretched man that I am!"

But at length the Comforter came as swiftly and surely and mysteriouslyas the accuser had come, and once more that miracle of grace wasrenewed--"that day Jesus was guest in the house of one who was asinner. "

Margaret's "silent money" now found a thousand tongues. It spoke in manya little feeble church that Ronald Sinclair held in his arms until itwas strong enough to stand alone. It spoke in schools and colleges andhospitals, in many a sorrowful home and to many a lonely, strugglingheart--and at this very day it has echoes that reach from the far Westto the lonely islands beyond the stormy Pentland Firth, and thesea-shattering precipices of Duncansbay Head. 

It is not improbable that some of my readers may take a summer's trip tothe Orkney Islands; let me ask them to wait at Thurso--the old town ofThor--for a handsome little steamer that leaves there three times a weekfor Kirkwall. It is the sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, was agift from an old friend in California, and is called "The MargaretSinclair. "

JUST WHAT HE DESERVED. 

There is not in its own way a more distinctive and interesting bit ofScotland than the bleak Lothian country, with its wide views, its brownploughed fields, and its dense swaying plantations of fir. TheLammermoor Hills and the Pentlands and the veils of smoke that lie aboutEdinburgh are on its horizon, and within that circle all the largequietude of open grain fields, wide turnip lands, where sheep feed, andfar-stretching pastures where the red and white cows ruminate. Thepatient processes of nature breed patient minds; the gray cold climatecan be read in the faces of the people, and in their hearts the seasonstake root and grow; so that they have a grave character, passive, yetenduring; strong to feel and strong to act when the time is full readyfor action. 

Of these natural peculiarities Jean Anderson had her share. She was aLothian lassie of many generations, usually undemonstrative, but withlarge possibilities of storm beneath her placid face and gentle manner. Her father was the minister of Lambrig and the manse stood in a verysequestered corner of the big parish, facing the bleak east winds, andthe salt showers of the German ocean. It was sheltered by dark fir woodson three sides, and in front a little walled-in garden separated it fromthe long, dreary, straight line of turnpike road. But Jean had noknowledge of any fairer land; she had read of flowery pastures and rosegardens and vineyards, but these places were to her only in books, whilethe fields and fells that filled her eyes were her home, and she lovedthem. 

She loved them all the more because the man she loved was going to leavethem, and if Gavin Burns did well, and was faithful to her, then it waslike to be that she also would go far away from the blue Lammermuirs, and the wide still spaces of the Lothians. She stood at the open door ofthe manse with her lover thinking of these things, but with no realsense of what pain or deprivation the thought included. She was tall andfinely formed, a blooming girl, with warmly-colored cheeks, a mouthrather large and a great deal of wavy brown hair. But the best of allher beauty was the soul in her face; its vitality, its vivacity andimmediate response. 

However, the time of love had come to her, and though her love had grownas naturally as a sapling in a wood, who could tell what changes itwould make. For Gavin Burns had been educated in the minister's houseand Jean and he had studied and fished and rambled together all throughthe years in which Jean had grown from childhood into womanhood. NowGavin was going to New York to make his fortune. They stepped throughthe garden and into the long dim road, walking slowly in the calm night, with thoughtful faces and clasped hands. There was at this last hourlittle left to say. Every promise known to Love had been given; they hadexchanged Bibles and broken a piece of silver and vowed an eternalfidelity. So, in the cold sunset they walked silently by the river thatwas running in flood like their own hearts. At the little stone bridgethey stopped, and leaning over the parapet watched the drumly waterrushing below; and there Jean reiterated her promise to be Gavin's wifeas soon as he was able to make a home for her. 

"And I am not proud, Gavin, " she said; "a little house, if it is filledwith love, will make me happy beyond all. "

They were both too hopeful and trustful and too habitually calm to weepor make much visible lament over their parting; and yet when Gavinvanished into the dark of the lonely road, Jean shut the heavy housedoor very slowly. She felt as if she was shutting part of herself out ofthe old home forever, and she was shocked by this first breaking of thecontinuity of life; this sharp cutting of regular events asunder. Gavin's letters were at first frequent and encouraging, but as themonths went by he wrote more and more seldom. He said "he was kept sobusy; he was making himself indispensable, and could not afford to beless busy. He was weary to death on the Saturday nights, and he couldnot bring his conscience to write anent his own personal and earthlyhappiness on the Sabbath day; but he was sure Jean trusted in him, whether he wrote or not; and they were past being bairns, always tellingeach other the love they were both so sure of. "

Late in the autumn the minister died of typhoid fever, and Jean, heartbroken and physically worn out, was compelled to face for hermother and herself, a complete change of life. It had never seemed tothese two women that anything could happen to the father and head of thefamily; in their loving hearts he had been immortal, and though thedisease had run its tedious course before their eyes, his death at thelast was a shock that shook their lives and their home to the verycentre. A new minister was the first inevitable change, and then aremoval from the comfortable manse to a little cottage in the village ofLambrig. 

While this sad removal was in progress they had felt the sorrow of it, all that they could bear; and neither had dared to look into the futureor to speculate as to its necessities. Jean in her heart expected Gavinwould at once send for them to come to America. He had a fair salary, and the sale of their furniture would defray their traveling expenses. 

She was indeed so sure of this journey, that she did not regard thecottage as more than a temporary shelter during the approaching winter. In the spring, no doubt, Gavin would have a little home ready, and theywould cross the ocean to it. The mother had the same thought. As theysat on their new hearthstone, lonely and poor, they talked of thisevent, and if any doubts lurked unconsciously below their love and trustthey talked them away, while they waited for Gavin's answer to thesorrowful letter Jean had sent him on the night of her father's burial. 

It was longer in coming than they expected. For a week they saw thepostman pass their door with an indifference that seemed cruel; for aweek Jean made new excuses and tried to hold up her mother's heart, while her own was sinking lower and lower. Then one morning thelooked-for answer came. Jean fled to a room apart to read it alone; Mrs. Anderson sat down and waited, with dropped eyes and hands tightlyclasped. She knew, before Jean said a word, that the letter haddisappointed her. She had remained alone too long. If all had been asthey hoped the mother was certain Jean would not have deferred the goodtidings a moment. But a quarter of an hour had passed before Jean cameto her side, and then when she lifted her eyes she saw that her daughterhad been weeping. 

"It is a disappointment, Jean, I see, " she said sadly. "Never mind, dearie. "

"Yes, mother; Gavin has failed us. "

"We have been two foolish women, Jean. Oh, my dear lassie, we shouldhave lippened to God, and He would not have disappointed us! What doesGavin Burns say?"

"It is what he does _not_ say, that hurts me, mother. I may as well tellyou the whole truth. When he heard how ill father was, he wrote to me, as if he had foreseen what was to happen. He said, 'there will be a newminister and a break-up of the old home, and you must come at once toyour new home here. I am the one to care for you when your father isgone away; and what does it matter under what sun or sky if we are buttogether?' So, then, mother, when the worst had come to us I wrote witha free heart to Gavin. I said, 'I will come to you gladly, Gavin, butyou know well that my mother is very dear to me, and where I am thereshe also must be. ' And he says, in this letter, that it is me he iswanting, and that you have a brother in Glasgow that is unmarried andwho will be willing, no doubt, to have you keep his house for him. Thereis a wale of fine words about it, mother, but they come to just this, and no more--Gavin is willing to care for me, but not for you and I willnot trust myself with a man that cannot love you for my sake. We willstay together, mammy darling! Whatever comes or goes we will staytogether. The man isna born that can part us two!"

"He is your lover, Jean. A girl must stick to her lover. "

"You are my mother. I am bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh andlove of your love. May God forsake me when I forsake you!"

She had thrown herself at her mother's knees and was clasping andkissing the sad face so dear to her, as she fervently uttered the lastwords. And the mother was profoundly touched by her child's devotion. She drew her close to her heart, and said firmly:

"No! No, my dearie! What could we two do for ourselves? And I'm loth topart you and Gavin. I simply cannot take the sacrifice, you so lovinglyoffer me. I will write to my brother David. Gavin isna far wrong there;David is a very close man, but he willna see his sister suffer, thereis no fear of that. "

"It is Jean that will not see you suffer. "

"But the bite and the sup, Jean? How are we to get them?"

"I can make my own dresses and cloaks, so then I can make dresses andcloaks for other people. I shall send out a card to the ladies near-byand put an advertisement in the Haddington newspaper, and God can makemy needle sharp enough for the battle. Don't cry, mother! Oh, darling, don't cry! We have God and each other, and none can call us desolate. "

"But you will break your heart, Jean. You canna help it. And I cannatake your love and happiness to brighten my old age. It isna right. I'llnot do it. You must go to Gavin. I will go to my brother David. "

"I will not break my heart, mother. I will not shed a tear for thefalse, mean lad, that you were so kind to for fourteen years, when therewas no one else to love him. Aye, I know he paid for his board andschooling, but he never could pay for the mother-love you gave him, justbecause he was motherless. And who has more right to have their lifebrightened by my love than you have? Beside, it is my happiness tobrighten it, and so, what will you say against it? And I will not go toGavin. Not one step. If he wants me now, he will come for me, and foryou, too. This is sure as death! Oh, mammy! Mammy, darling, a false ladshall not part us! Never! Never! Never!"

"Jean! Jean! What will I say at all"

"What would my father say, if he was here this minute? He would say, 'you are right, Jean! And God bless you, Jean! And you may be sure thatit is all for the best, Jean! So take the right road with a glad heart, Jean!' That is what father would say. And I will never do anything toprevent me looking him straight in the face when we meet again. Even inheaven I shall want him to smile into my eyes and say, 'Well done, Jean!'"

CHAPTER II. 

Jean's plans for the future were humble and reasonable enough to insurethem some measure of success, and the dreaded winter passed notuncomfortably away. Then in the summer Uncle David Nicoll came toLambrig and boarded with his sister, paying a pound a week, and givingher, on his departure, a five-pound note to help the next winter'sexpenses. This order of things went on without change or intermissionfor five years, and the little cottage gradually gathered in its clean, sweet rooms, many articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. Anderson tookentire charge of the housekeeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly frommorning to night, and though the girl had her share of the humiliationsand annoyances incident to her position, these did not interfere withthe cheerful affection and mutual help which brightened their lonelylife. 

She heard nothing from Gavin. After some painful correspondence, inwhich neither would retract a step from the stand they had taken, Gavinceased writing, and Jean ceased expecting, though before this calm wasreached she had many a bitter hour the mother never suspected. But suchhours were to Jean's soul what the farmer's call "growing weather;" inthem much rich thought and feeling sprang up insensibly; her natureripened and mellowed and she became a far lovelier woman than hertwentieth year had promised. 

One gray February afternoon, when the rain was falling steadily, Jeanfelt unusually depressed and weary. An apprehension of some unhappinessmade her sad, and she could not sew for the tears that would dim hereyes. Suddenly the door opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. Jean didnot know her very well, and she did not like her at all, and shewondered what she had come to tell her. 

"I am going to New York on Saturday, Jean, " she said, "and I thoughtGavin would like to know how you looked and felt these days. "

Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see how I look easy enough, MaryBurns, " she answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a thing I keep tomyself these days. "

"Gavin has furnished a pretty house at the long last, and I am to be themistress of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that the school where Itaught so long has been broken up, and so I was on the world, as one maysay, and Gavin could not bear that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and I'mthinking I shall have a happy time with him in America. "

"I hope you will, Mary. Give him a kind wish from me; and I will bid you'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that I have more sewing to doto-night than I can well manage. "

This event wounded Jean sorely. She felt sure Mary had only called foran unkind purpose, and that she would cruelly misrepresent herappearance and condition to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost loverto think scornfully of her. But she brought her sewing beside her motherand talked the affair over with her, and so, at the end of the evening, went to bed resigned, and even cheerful. Never had they spent a moreconfidential, loving night together, and this fact was destined to be acomfort to Jean during all the rest of her life. For in the morning shenoticed a singular look on her mother's face and at noon she found herin her chair fast in that sleep which knows no wakening in this world. 

It was a blow which put all other considerations far out of Jean's mind. She mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, and though Uncle Davidcame at once to assist her in the necessary arrangements, she sufferedno hand but her own to do the last kind offices for her dear dead. Andoh! how empty and lonely was now the little cottage, while the swiftreturn to all the ordinary duties of life seemed such a crueleffacement. Uncle David watched her silently, but on the evening of thethird day after the funeral he said, kindly:

"Dry your eyes, Jean. There is naething to weep for. Your mother is farbeyond tears. "

"I cannot bear to forget her a minute, uncle, yet folks go and come andnever name her; and it is not a week since she had a word and a smilefor everybody. "

 "Death is forgetfulness, Jean; . .. 'one lonely way We go: and is she gone? Is all our best friends say. '

"You must come home with me now, Jean. I canna be what your mother hasbeen to you, but I'll do the best I can for you, lassie. Sell these bitsticks o' furniture and shut the door on the empty house and begin a newlife. You've had sorrow about a lad; let him go. All o' the past worthyour keeping you can save in your memory. "

"I will be glad to go with you, uncle. I shall be no charge on you. Ican find my own bread if you will just love me a little. "

"I'm no that poor, Jean. You are welcome to share my loaf. Put thatweary; thimble and needle awa'; I'll no see you take another stitch. "

So Jean followed her uncle's advice and went back with him to Glasgow. He had never said a word about his home, and Jean knew not what sheexpected--certainly nothing more than a small floor in some of the leastexpensive streets of the great city. It was dark when they reachedGlasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great change in her uncle's manneras soon as they left the railway. He made an imperative motion and acarriage instantly answered it; and they were swiftly driven to a largedwelling in one of the finest crescents of the West end. He led her intoa handsome parlor and called a servant, and bid her "show Miss Andersonher rooms;" and thus, without a word of preparation, Jean found herselfsurrounded by undreamed of luxury. 

Nothing was ever definitely explained to her, but she gradually learnedto understand the strange old man who assumed the guardianship of herlife. His great wealth was evident, and it was not long ere shediscovered that it was largely spent in two directions--scientificdiscovery and the Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives were devoted tochemistry or to electrical investigations, or passionate apostles oftotal abstinence from intoxicants were daily at his table; and Jeancould not help becoming an enthusiastic partisan on such matters. One ofthe savants, a certain Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with her;and she felt it difficult to escape the influence of his wooing, whichhad all the persistent patience of a man accustomed "to seek till hefound, and so not lose his labor. "

Her life was now very happy. Cautious in giving his love, David Nicollgave it freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt his niece. Nor did heever regret the gift. "Jean entered my house and she made it a home, " hesaid to his friends. No words could have better explained the position. In the winter they entertained with a noble hospitality; in the summerthey sailed far north to the mystical isles of the Western seas; toOrkney and Zetland and once even as far as the North Cape by the lightof the midnight sun. So the time passed wonderfully away, until Jean wasthirty-two years old. The simple, unlettered girl had then become awoman of great culture and of perfect physical charm. Wise in many ways, she yet kept her loving heart, and her uncle delighted in her. "You havemade my auld age parfectly happy, Jean, " he said to her on the lastsolemn night of his life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your honestlove! Now that I am going the way of all flesh, I have gi'en you everybawbee I have. I have put no restrictions on you, and I have left naedead wishes behind me. You will do as you like wi' the land and thesiller, and you will do right in a' things, I ken that, Jean. If itshould come into your heart to tak' the love Professor Sharp offers you, I'll be pleased, for he'll never spend a shilling that willna be weelspent; and he is a clever man, and a good man and he loves you. But itis a' in your ain will; do as you like, anent either this or that. "

This was the fourth great change in Jean's life. Gavin's going away hadopened the doors of her destiny; her father's death had sent her to theschool of self-reliant poverty; her mother's death given her a home oflove and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast, untrammeled responsibility. But if love is the joy of life, this was notthe end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both herhands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover. 

About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean. His sister Marywas going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him. "I'll have tostore my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell itat a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on theright hand and the left, " he said fretfully. "It was not in the bargainthat you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary. "

"Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not bewasted, " answered Mary. "There is Annie Riley, just dying for the loveof you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city. "

"She isn't in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; andif I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley. "

"Jean Anderson?"

"Ay. "

"Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid sheis. She is not for the like of you, Gavin--a bit country dressmaker, poor, and past liking. "

Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the followingletter: "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a picture of yourself. Ifyou will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to lookat. Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days. "That is enough, he thought; "she will understand that there is a chancefor her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary is not to betrusted. She never liked Jean. I'll see for myself. "

Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she "understood" it asclearly as Gavin intended her to. For a long time she sat thinking itover, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before hermother's death. It showed her face without any favor, without evenjustice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best. And withthis picture she wrote--"Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken five yearssince, and there has been changes since. "

She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they wereunfavorable. He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress, and he was disappointed. A girl like that would do his house no honor;he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would notenvy him a bit. Annie Riley was far better looking, and far morestylish. He decided in favor of Annie Riley. 

Jean was not astonished when no answer came. She had anticipated herfailure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at _his_failure. Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, anuncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessedat from a distance, was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter want ofresponse. It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why shouldshe not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself? Theidea took possession of her, and she carried it out. 

She knew the name of the large dry goods firm that Gavin served, and themorning after her arrival in New York she strolled into it for a pair ofgloves. As they were being fitted on she heard Gavin speak, and movingher position slightly, she saw him leaning against a pile of summerblankets. He was talking to one of his fellows, and evidently telling afunny story, at which both giggled and snickered, ere they walked theirseparate ways. Being midsummer the store was nearly empty, and Jean, byvarying her purchases, easily kept Gavin in sight. She never for onemoment found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had deteriorated in everyway. He was no longer handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from him, and his face, his hands, his figure, his slouching walk, his querulousauthoritative voice, all revealed a man whom Jean repelled at everypoint. Years had not refined, they had vulgarized him. His clothingcareless and not quite fresh, offended her taste; in fact, his wholeappearance was of that shabby genteel character, which is far more meanand plebeian than can be given by undisguised working apparel. As Jeanwas taking note of these things a girl, with a flushed, angry face, spoke to him. She was evidently making a complaint, and Gavin answeredher in a manner which made Jean burn from head to feet. The disillusionwas complete; she never looked at him again, and he never knew she hadlooked at him at all. 

But after Mary's marriage he heard news which startled him. Mary, underher new name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lambrig, and this acquaintancein reply said, "You will have heard that Jean Anderson was left a greatfortune by her uncle, David Nicoll. She is building a home near Lambrigthat is finer than Maxwell Castle; and Lord Maxwell has rented thecastle to her until her new home is finished. You wouldn't ken the looksof her now, she is that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers aye makefine birds!"

Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this news, and as he had been withthe firm eleven years and never asked a favor, he resolved to tell themhe had important business in Scotland, and ask for a month's holiday toattend to it. If he was on the ground he never doubted his personalinfluence. "Jean was aye wax in my fingers, " he said to Mary. 

"There is Annie Riley, " answered Mary. 

"She will have to give me up. I'll not marry her. I am going to marryJean, and settle myself in Scotland. "

"Annie is not the girl to be thrown off that kind of way, Gavin. Youhave promised to marry her. "

"I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then what will Annie do about it, Iwould like to know?"

"I think you will find out. "

In the fall he obtained permission to go to Scotland for a month, and hehastened to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry him. He intended nosecret visit; he had made every preparation to fill his old townsmenwith admiration and envy. But things had changed, even in Lambrig. Therewas a new innkeeper, who could answer none of his questions, and who didnot remember Minister Anderson and his daughter, Jean. He began to fearhe had come on a fool's errand, and after a leisurely, late breakfast, he strolled out to make his own investigations. 

There was certainly a building on a magnificent scale going up on aneighboring hill, and he walked toward it. When half way there afinely-appointed carriage passed him swiftly, but not too swiftly forhim to see that Jean and a very handsome man were its occupants. "Itwill be her lawyer or architect, " he thought; and he walked rapidlyonward, pleased with himself for having put on his very best walkingsuit. There were many workmen on the building, and he fell intoconversation with a man who was mixing mortar; but all the time he waswatching Jean and her escort stepping about the great uncovered spacesof the new dwelling-house with such an air of mutual trust and happinessthat it angered him. 

"Who is the lady?" he asked at length; "she seems to have businesshere. "

"What for no? The house is her ain. She is Mistress Sharp, and that isthe professor with her. He is a great gun in the Glasgow University. "

"They are married, then?"

"Ay, they are married. What are you saying at all? They were married amonth syne, and they are as happy as robins in spring, I'm thinking. I'll drink their health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' siller. "

Gavin gave the silver and turned away dazed and sick at heart. Hisbusiness in Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian country sickened him;he turned his face to London, and very soon went back to New York. Hehad lost Jean, and he had lost Jean's fortune; and there were no wordsto express his chagrin and disappointment. His sister felt the firstweight of it. He blamed her entirely. She had lied to him about Jean'sbeauty. He believed he would have liked the photo but for Mary. And allfor Annie Riley! He hated Annie Riley! He was resolved never to marryher, and he let the girl feel his dislike in no equivocal manner. 

For a time Annie was tearful and conciliating. Then she wrote him atouching letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if he had ceased tolove her, and was resolved to break their marriage off. And Gavin didtell her, with almost brutal frankness, that he no longer loved her, andthat he had firmly made up his mind not to marry her. He said somethingabout his heart being in Scotland, but that was only a bit of sentimentthat he thought gave a better air to his unfaithfulness. 

Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, andGavin soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, withdamages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical loveletters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women inthe face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity, his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. Butpretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and shereally seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enoughin her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses, and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amountedto nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sellhis furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. Hewept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly, and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had calledunto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to goto work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit. 

"I'm getting on to forty, " he said to his sister, "and I am beginningthe world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that Iwill carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for shehas got all my saved siller, and more too; forbye, she is like to marryBob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meetbeyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!"

No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face heknew right well their private opinion was that he had received _justwhat he deserved_. 

AN ONLY OFFER. 

"Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?"

"When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then, Julia. I am forty-three now, remember. "

"Did you ever have an offer--an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?"

"No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer. "

"And you refused it?"

"No. "

"Then he died, or went away?"

"No. "

"Or deserted you?"

"No. "

"Then you deceived him, I suppose?"

"I did not. "

"What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or somethingdreadful"

"He was rich and handsome. "

"Suppose you tell me about him. "

"I never talk about him to any one. "

"Did it happen at the old place?"

"Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happenedwhen I was sixteen. "

"Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?"

"He was a fine city gentleman. "

"Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me aboutit; you cannot see to work longer. "

Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy andconfidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from herhands, and smiling sadly, said:

"Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate atRyelands. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and twoelder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watchedthem a little way down the hillside, and was turning to go into thehouse, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stoppedand spoke to mother, and this aroused my curiosity; so I lingered at thegate. He stopped when he reached it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'IsMr. Wakefield in?'

"I said, 'father was in the barn, and I could fetch him, ' which Iimmediately did. 

"He was a dark, unpleasant-looking man, and had a masterful way withhim, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-liketalk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering thehouse. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight;then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare rooms in order, Phoebe. '

"'They are in order, father; but is that man to occupy them?'

"'Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who is inbad health. '

"'Do you know the young gentleman, father?'

"'I know it is young Alfred Compton--that is enough for me. '

"'And the dark man who has just left? I don't like his looks, father. '

"'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr. Alfred's physician--aDr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask nomore questions;' and with that he went back to the barn. 

"Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters onthe subject already, and that she had been rather expecting the company. 'But, ' she added, 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be marriedat Christmas, ready money will be very needful. '

"About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and severallarge trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilac trees and Isaw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a slight, veryfair-man, dressed with extreme care in the very highest fashion. I sawalso that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or nodoctor would wait upon him so subserviently. 

"This doctor I had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imaginethat I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believedto be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. Compton wastoo ill to go out, though the poor gentleman begged for a walk; andagain, mother said, he would take from him all his books, though hepleaded urgently for them. 

"One afternoon the postman brought Dr. Orman a letter, which seemed tobe important, for he asked father to drive him to the next town, andrequested mother to see that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. Isuppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger, so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me asincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and I walked throughthat part of the garden into which his windows looked. We had beenpolitely requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of strangersincreased Mr. Compton's nervous condition. ' I did not believe this, andI determined to try the experiment. 

"He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. Ismiled and courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low sill, and cametoward me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations; hestooped and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only thatit seemed to me the most beautiful language I ever heard. Then we walkedup and down the long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father'swagon. 

"After this we became quietly, almost secretly, as far as Dr. Orman wasconcerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred, thatshe not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but even promoted itin many ways; and in the course of time Dr. Orman began to recognize itsvalue. I was requested to walk past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Goodmorning' or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches, and finally toaccompany the gentlemen in their short rambles in the neighborhood. 

"I need not tell you how all this restricted intercourse ended. We weresoon deeply in love with each other, and love ever finds out the way tomake himself understood. We had many a five minutes' meeting no one knewof, and when these were impossible, a rose bush near his window hid forme the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, Julia, I found himirresistible; he was so handsome and gentle, and though he must havebeen thirty-five years old, yet, to my thinking, he looked handsomerthan any younger man could have done. 

"As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence inus, or else his patient was more completely under control. They had muchfewer quarrels, and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and even a littleway up the hill without opposition or remark. I do not know how Ireceived the idea, but I certainly did believe that Dr. Orman waskeeping Alfred sick for some purpose of his own, and I determined totake the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So oneevening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish tosee his relatives. 

"He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only bythe tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declaredthat they were his bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was the onlyfriend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at thesecret of his life were equally fruitless, and only threw him intoparoxysms of distress. During the month of August he was very ill, or atleast Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters inthe rose bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men rose to apitch which father seriously disliked. 

"One hot day in September everyone was in the fields or orchard; onlythe doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early in the afternoon aboy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed verymuch perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At length he said, 'MissPhoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours; I think Mr. Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will you try and amusehim?'

"I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with themessenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and werambled about the garden, as happy as two lovers could be. But the daywas extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. Iproposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generallya breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised us. 

"But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed thatAlfred grew strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his eyes had a wildlook of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all myefforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just askedme to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me 'hiswife, ' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, andvowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, ofgoing to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, hadwandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill. 

"Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we weregoing to have a thunder storm. There was an empty log hut not far away, and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the storm, broke. But hebecame suddenly like a child in his terror, and it was only with thegreatest difficulty I got him within its shelter. 

"As peal after peal of thunder crashed above us, Alfred seemed to loseall control of himself, and, seriously offended, I left him, nearlysobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. Inthe very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman and three of ourworkmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected oursheltering-place, for they came directly toward it. 

"'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where areyou, sir? Come here instantly. '

"My pettedness instantly vanished, and I said: 'Doctor, you have noright to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, andI shall not permit it any more. '

"'Miss Wakefield, ' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look here!'

"I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in a corner, completely paralyzedwith terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanicallyas a dog might follow his master's call. 

"'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr. AlfredCompton is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I amhis--_keeper_. '"

"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not a lunatic!"

"So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it;but Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, andthat he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as hebecame uncontrollable in an asylum. "

"Did you see him again?"

"No. I found a little note in the rose bush, saying that he was not mad;that he remembered my promise to be his wife, and would surely come someday and claim me. But they left in three days, and Melissa, whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequence, twitted me veryunkindly about my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for hewas the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married, and wentwest with their husbands; I lived on at Ryelands, a faded little oldmaid, until my uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keephis fine house for him. You know that he left me all he had when hedied, nearly two years ago. Then I sent for you. I remembered my ownlonely youth, and thought I would give you a fair chance, dear. "

"Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?"

"Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I supposeAlfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thoughtit was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health. "

"Poor aunt!"

"Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never willbelieve but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhapsmore sincere than many wiser men. "

After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure inspeaking of the little romance of her youth. Often the old and the youngmaidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor AlfredCompton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and morepositive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot. The subjectnever tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of herown, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams. 

One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the oldsubject until both felt it to be exhausted--at least for that night. Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, "It issnowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. Why, thereis a sleigh at our door! Who can it be? A gentleman, aunt, and he iscoming here. "

"Close the curtains, child. It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised tocall to-night. "

"Oh, dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person. "

Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away. In fact, she hadtalked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart avery strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servantannounced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from herreflections, and went into the reception-room. 

In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ereshe could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered theroom, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. AlfredCompton. Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him withenthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified thebeauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly this one was not handsome. Hewas sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his finefigure was slightly bent. But the clear, sensitive face remained, and hewas still dressed with scrupulous care. 

The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnisheda delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of winewith an old-fashioned grace "to his promised wife, Miss PhoebeWakefield, best and loveliest of women. "

Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the twoold lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-longwrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention ofDr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly. 

"Nay, Phoebe, " said Alfred; "whatever he was when my brother put me inhis care, he became my true friend. To his skill and patience I owe myrestoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right andability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and myability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise. "

Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but theynever tired of each other. Miss Phoebe was not the least abashed by anycontrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was neverweary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful andwomanly than in the days of their first courtship. 

She cannot even call them a "silly" or "foolish" couple, or use anyother relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe--or rather Mrs. Compton--resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that wouldimply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. "No one but thosewho have known him as long as I have, " she continually avers, "canpossibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of myhusband. "

TWO FAIR DECEIVERS. 

What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smokingon summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect itis of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something thateither makes money or spends it. 

Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and hehas just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John hasspent his in New York--he is inclined to think just as profitably. Bothstories conclude in the same way. 

"I have not a thousand dollars left, John. "

"Nor I, Cleve. "

"I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent allthe old gentleman's money already?"

"I only got $20, 000; I owed half of it. "

"Only $20, 000! What did he do with it?"

"Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you wentaway, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. Ihad no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20, 000. That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin. "

"And the widow--where is she?"

"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of theSt. Maurs, of Maryland. "

"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?"

"Why, I never thought of such a thing. "

"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once;say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitudeto your cousin, and all that kind of thing--then beg leave to call andpay respects, " etc. , etc. 

John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and thenote was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office. 

That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found itwith a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty, high-bred little lady, with

 "Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor, Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender, Lips like fragrant posy, "

and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in thehappiness of others. 

But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. Shewas quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years ashis cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare hadseriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laidplans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd littlewidow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug andsmile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter. 

"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I wantto consult you, dear, about a visitor. "

Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who isit, Fan?"

"It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would haveinherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see ifit is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow. "

"What selfishness! Write and tell him that you are just leaving for theSuez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place. "

"No; I have a better plan than that--Clementine, do stop reading a fewminutes. I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, andMr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there. No one knows us in theplace, and I will take none of the servants with me. "

"Well?"

"Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poorfriend and companion. "

"Good! very good! 'The Fair Deceivers'--an excellent comedy. How I shallsnub you, Fan! And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressingyou. But has not Mr. Selden seen you?"

"No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe. I cameback a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me untilnow. I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?"

"Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. They never decide on anything untiltheir particular friend approves. I dare say they wrote the lettertogether. What is the gentleman's name?"

The widow examined the note. "'My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan. ' Do youknow him, Clementine?"

"No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fallin love with the name--do you? But pray accept the offer for bothgentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear. " Then Clementine returnedto the consideration of the lace in _coquilles_ for her new eveningdress. 

The plan so hastily sketched was subsequently thoroughly discussed andcarried out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken, and one evening at theend of June the two ladies took possession of it. The new widow Clarehad engaged a maid in New York, and fell into her part with charmingease and a very pretty assumption of authority; and the real widow, inher plain dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized effectively theidea of a cultivated but dependent companion. They had two days in whichto rehearse their parts and get all the household machinery in order, and then the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank. 

Fan and Clementine were quite ready for their first call; the latter ina rich and exquisite morning costume, the former in a simple dress ofspotted lawn. Clementine went through the introductions with consummateease of manner, and in half an hour they were a very pleasant party. John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent basis for informalcompanionship, and Clementine gave it full prominence. Indeed, in a fewdays John began to find the relationship tiresome; it had been "CousinJohn, do this, " and "Cousin John, come here, " continually; and one nightwhen Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final cigar, he was irritableenough to give his objections the form of speech. 

"Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do not like Mrs. Clare. "

"I think she is a very lovely woman, John. "

"I say nothing against her beauty, Cleve; I don't like her, and I haveno mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill-used Miss Marat fills. The way Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom she is every wayinferior makes me angry enough, I assure you. "

"Don't fall in love with the wrong woman, John. "

"Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am in love. There is no use in usdeceiving ourselves or each other. You seem to like the widow--why notmarry her? I am quite willing you should. "

"Thank you, John; I have already made some advances that way. They havebeen favorably received, I think. "

"You are so handsome, a fellow has no chance against you. But we shallhardly quarrel, if you do not interfere between lovely little Clementand myself. "

"I could not afford to smile on her, John; she is too poor. And what onearth are you going to do with a poor wife? Nothing added to nothingwill not make a decent living. "

"I am going to ask her to be my wife, and if she does me the honor tosay 'Yes, ' I will make a decent living out of my profession. "

From this time forth John devoted himself with some ostentation to hissupposed cousin's companion. He was determined to let the widowperceive that he had made his choice, and that he could not be boughtwith her money. Mr. Selden and Miss Marat were always together, and thewidow did not interfere between her companion and her cousin. Perhapsshe was rather glad of their close friendship, for the handsome Clevemade a much more delightful attendant. Thus the party fell quitenaturally into couples, and the two weeks that the gentlemen had firstfixed as the limit of their stay lengthened into two months. 

It was noticeable that as the ladies became more confidential with theirlovers, they had less to say to each other; and it began at last to bequite evident to the real widow that the play must end for the present, or the _dénouement_ would come prematurely. Circumstances favored herdetermination. One night Clementine, with a radiant face, came into herfriend's room, and said, "Fan, I have something to tell you. Cleve hasasked me to marry him. "

"Now, Clement, you have told him all; I know you have. "

"Not a word, Fan. He still believes me the widow Clare. "

"Did you accept him?"

"Conditionally. I am to give him a final answer when we go to the cityin October. You are going to New York this winter, are you not?"

"Yes. Our little play progresses finely. John Selden asked me to be hiswife to-night. "

"I told you men think and act in pairs. "

"John is a noble fellow. I pretended to think that his cousin hadill-used him, and he defended him until I was ashamed of myself;absolutely said, Clement, that _you_ were a sufficient excuse for Mr. Clare's will. Then he blamed his own past idleness so much, and promisedif I would only try and endure 'the slings and arrows' of youroutrageous temper, Clement, for two years longer, he would have made ahome for me in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, I should marry JohnSelden if we had not a five-dollar bill between us. "

"I wish Cleve had been a little more explicit about his money affairs. However, there is time enough yet. When they leave to-morrow, what shallwe do?"

"We will remain here another month; Levine will have the house ready forme by that time. I have written to him about refurnishing the parlors. "

So next day the lovers parted, with many promises of constant lettersand future happy days together. The interval was long and dull enough;but it passed, and one morning both gentlemen received notes ofinvitation to a small dinner party at the widow Clare's mansion in ----street. There was a good deal of dressing for this party. Cleve wishedto make his entrance into his future home as became the prospectivemaster of a million and a half of money, and John was desirous of notsuffering in Clement's eyes by any comparison with the other gentlemenwho would probably be there. 

Scarcely had they entered the drawing-room when the ladies appeared, thetrue widow Clare no longer in the unassuming toilet she had hithertoworn, but magnificent in white crêpe lisse and satin, her arms andthroat and pretty head flashing with sapphires and diamonds. Hercompanion had assumed now the rôle of simplicity, and Cleve wasdisappointed with the first glance at her plain white Chambéry gauzedress. 

John had seen nothing but the bright face of the girl he loved and thelove-light in her eyes. Before she could speak he had taken both herhands and whispered, "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement. "

Her smile answered him first. Then she said: "Pardon me, Mr. Selden, butwe have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask beforereal life begins. My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare. _Cousin John_, I hope you are not disappointed. " Then she put her handinto John's, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish theirexplanation. 

Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most tryingcircumstance of his life. The real Clementine Marat stood looking downat a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume thetender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her. He was a manof quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it didnot take him half a minute to review his position and determine what todo. This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he couldmarry; she had deceived him, too--he had a sudden and severe spasm ofmorality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sportto play with a man's most sacred feelings; he had been deeplydisappointed and grieved, etc. , etc. 

Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet andher cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations. She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomesembarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-roomand talk to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so. 

"Have you done, sir?" at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair ofblue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger. "I promised you my finalanswer to your suit when we met in New York. You have spared me thattrouble. Good evening, sir. "

Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soonrecovered from it. Her life was full of many other pleasant plans andhopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it. She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her andJohn Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among thelist of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe. As John andhis bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she hadgone in their company. 

"Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden'swife's maid, or something or other? John always was a lucky fellow. Somefellows are always unlucky in love affairs--I always am. "

Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal ofunnecessary emphasis. He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory tostarting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him. 

"Oh, it's that fool Belmar, " he muttered; "I shall have to offer him aride. I thought he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did you get back?Have a ride?"

"No, thank you. I have promised my wife to ride with her thisafternoon. "

"Your wife! When were you married?"

"Last month, in Paris. "

"And the happy lady was--"

"Why, I thought you knew; everyone is talking about my good fortune. Mrs. Belmar is old Paul Marat's only child. "

"What?"

"Miss Clementine Marat. She brings me nearly $3, 000, 000 in money andreal estate, and a heart beyond all price. "

"How on earth did you meet her?"

"She was traveling with Mr. And Mrs. Selden--you know John Selden. Shehas lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left school; they were friendswhen they were girls together. "

Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at afinable rate up the avenue and through the park. He could not trusthimself to speak to any one, and when he did, the remark which he madeto himself in strict confidence was not flattering. For once Mr. CleveSullivan told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been badly punished, andthat he well deserved it. 

THE TWO MR. SMITHS. 

"It is not either her money or her position that dashes me, Carrol; itis my own name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune to become Mrs. WilliamSmith! If it had been Alexander Smith--"

"Or Hyacinth Smith. "

"Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; but plain William Smith!"

"Well, as far as I can see, you are not to blame. Apologize to the ladyfor the blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. Stupid old parties!They ought to have thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol threw his cigar intothe fire and began to buckle on his spurs. 

"Come with me, Carrol. "

"No, thank you. It is against my principles to like anyone better thanmyself, and Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so. "

"_I_ don't like Alice's style at all. "

"Of course not. Alice's beauty, as compared with Mrs. Bethune's settledincome, is skin-deep. "

If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not perceive it. He took thecriticism at its face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's income issatisfactory; and besides that, she has all kinds of good qualities, and several accomplishments. If I only could offer her, with myself, asuitable name for them!"

"Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune and her money, take her namealso?"

"N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all his individuality in hiswife's, Carrol. "

"Well, then, I have no other suggestion, and I am going to ride. "

So Carrol went to the park, and Smith went to his mirror. The occupationgave him the courage he wanted. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man, and he had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he would have been a verygreat man if the world had only been a drawing-room, for, polished andfastidious, he dreaded nothing so much as an indecorum, and had the airof being uncomfortable unless his hands were in kid gloves. 

Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. Bethune's five-o'clock teas, andhe was always considered an acquisition. He was also very fond of goingto them; for under no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so charming. To seeher in this hour of perfect relaxation was to understand how great andbeautiful is the art of idleness. Her ease and grace, her charmingaimlessness, her indescribable air of inaction, were all so many proofsof her having been born in the purple of wealth and fashion; no parvenucould ever hope to imitate them. 

Alice Fontaine never tried. She had been taken from a life of politeshifts and struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two years before; andthe circumstances that were to the one the mere accidents of herposition were to the other a real holiday-making. 

Alice met Mr. Smith with _empressement_, fluttered about the tea-traylike a butterfly, wasted her bonmots and the sugar recklessly, and wasas full of pretty animation as her cousin Bethune was of elegant repose. 

"I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith, " said Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has beentrying to spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw a lance in. Nowyou can be my substitute. "

"Mr. Smith, " said Alice impetuously, "don't you think that women oughtto have the same rights as men?"

"Really, Miss Alice, I--I don't know. When women have got what they calltheir 'rights, ' do they expect to keep what they call their 'privileges'also?"

"Certainly they do. When they have driven the men to emigrate, to scrubfloors, and to jump into the East River, they will still expect thecorner seat, the clean side of the road, the front place, and the pickof everything. "

"Ah, indeed! And when all the public and private business of thecountry is in their hands, will they still expect to find time forfive-o'clock teas?"

"Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs of this regenerated country, and not neglect either their music or their pets, their dress or theirdrawing-room. They will be perfectly able to do the one, and not leavethe other undone. "

"Glorious creatures! Then they will accomplish what men have been tryingto do ever since the world began. They will get two days' work out ofone day. "

"Of course they will. "

"But how?"

"Oh, machines and management. It will be done. "

"But your answer is illogical, Miss Alice. "

"Of course. Men always take refuge in their logic; and yet, with alltheir boasted skill, they have never mastered the useful and elementaryproposition, 'It will be, because it will be. '"

Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the tone Alice was giving to theconversation. She was treating him as a joke, and he felt how impossibleit was going to be to get Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. Indeed, before he could restore the usual placid, tender tone of their_tete-à-tete_ tea, two or three ladies joined the party, and the hourwas up, and the opportunity lost. 

However, he was not without consolation: Eleanor's hand had rested amoment very tenderly in his; he had seen her white cheek flush and hereyelids droop, and he felt almost sure that he was beloved. And as hehad determined that night to test his fortune, he was not inclined tolet himself be disappointed. Consequently he decided on writing to her, for he was rather proud of his letters; and, indeed, it must beconfessed that he had an elegant and eloquent way of putting any case inwhich he was personally interested. 

Eleanor Bethune thought so. She received his proposal on her return froma very stupid party, and as soon as she saw his writing she began toconsider how much more delightful the evening would have been if Mr. Smith had been present. His glowing eulogies on her beauty, and hispassionate descriptions of his own affection, his hopes and hisdespairs, chimed in with her mood exactly. Already his fine person andmanners had made a great impression on her; she had been very nearloving him; nothing, indeed, had been needed but that touch ofelectricity conveyed in the knowledge that she was beloved. 

Such proposals seldom or never take women unawares. Eleanor had beenexpecting it, and had already decided on her answer. So, after a short, happy reflection, she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith a few lineswhich she believed would make him supremely happy. 

Then she went to Alice's room and woke her out of her first sleep. "Oh, you lazy girl; why did you not crimp your hair? Get up again, Alicedear; I have a secret to tell you. I am--going--to--marry--Mr. --Smith. "

"I knew some catastrophe was impending, Eleanor; I have felt it all day. Poor Eleanor!"

"Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do you think of him--honestly, youknow?"

"The man has excellent qualities; for instance, a perfect taste incravats and an irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever saw him in anyposition out of the proper centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol, always sitting round on tables or easels, or if on a chair, on the backor arms, or any way but as other Christians sit. Then Mr. Smith ishandsome; very much so. "

"Oh, you do admit that?"

"Yes; but I don't myself like men of the hairdresser style of beauty. "

"Alice, what makes you dislike him so much?"

"Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he is very 'nice, ' and veryrespectable. Every one will say, 'What a suitable match!' and I dare sayyou will be very happy. He will do everything you tell him to do, Eleanor; and--oh dear me!--how I should hate a husband of that kind!"

"You little hypocrite!--with your talk of woman's 'rights' and woman'ssupremacy. '"

"No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypocrisy, please; say_many-sidedness_--it is a more womanly definition. But if it is reallyto be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. And what are you going to wear?"

This subject proved sufficiently attractive to keep Alice awake a coupleof hours. She even crimped her hair in honor of the bridal shopping; andbefore matters had been satisfactorily arranged she was so full ofanticipated pleasures that she felt really grateful to the author ofthem, and permitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of the bridegroom. 

"He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his marriage day. There won't be ahandsomer man, nor a better dressed man, in America, and his clotheswill all come from Paris, I dare say. "

"I think we will go to Paris first. " Then Eleanor went into a graphicdescription of the glories and pleasures of Paris, as she hadexperienced them during her first bridal tour. "It is the mostfascinating city in the world, Alice. "

"I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame having it in such anout-of-the-way place. What is the use of having a Paris, when one has tosail three thousand miles to get at it? Eleanor, I feel that I shallhave to go. "

"So you shall, dear; I won't go without you. "

"Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: I really could not. I shall haveto try and manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall quarrel all the wayacross, of course, but then--"

"Why don't you adopt his opinions, Alice?"

"I intend to--for a little while; but it is impossible to go on with thesame set of opinions forever. Just think how dull conversation wouldbecome!"

"Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, for mind, I shall want you down tobreakfast before eleven. I have given 'Somebody' permission to call atfive o'clock to-morrow--or rather to-day--and we shall have a_tete-à-tete_ tea. "

Alice determined that it should be strictly _tete-à-tete. _ She went tospend the afternoon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until she thoughtthe lovers had had ample time to make their vows and arrange theirwedding. 

There was a little pout on her lips as she left Carrol outside thedoor, and slowly bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. She wastrying to make up her mind to be civil to her cousin's newhusband-elect, and the temptation to be anything else was very strong. 

"I shall be dreadfully in the way--_his way_, I mean--and he will wantto send me out of the room, and I shall not go--no, not if I fall asleepon a chair looking at him. "

With this decision, the most amiable she could reach, Alice entered theparlor. Eleanor was alone, and there was a pale, angry look on her faceAlice could not understand. 

"Shut the door, dear. "

"Alone?"

"I have been so all evening. "

"Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?"

"Mr. Smith did not call. "

"Not come!"

"Nor yet sent any apology. "

The two women sat looking into each other's faces a few moments, bothwhite and silent. 

"What will you do, Eleanor?"

"Nothing. "

"But he may be sick, or he may not have got your letter. Such queermistakes do happen. "

"Parker took it to his hotel; the clerk said he was still in his room;it was sent to him in Parker's sight and hearing. There is not any doubtbut that he received it. "

"Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he really cares for you, he ishardly likely to take your supposed silence for an absolute refusal. Ihave said 'No' to Carrol a dozen times, and he won't stay 'noed. ' Mr. Smith will be sure to ask for a personal interview. "

Eleanor answered drearily: "I suppose he will pay me that respect;" butthrough this little effort at assertion it was easy to detect the whitefeather of mistrust. She half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr. Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a breach of good manners towardhim, she knew that he would deeply resent it; how, then, when shehad--however innocently--given him the keenest personal slight?

Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful view of the affair, and whatis heartily wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell asleep she hadquite decided that her lover would call the following day, and herthoughts were busy with the pleasant amends she would make him for anyanxiety he might have suffered. 

But Mr. Smith did not call the following day, nor on many followingones, and a casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last hope that hewould ever call again, for, after a little desultory gossip, she said, "You will miss Mr. Smith very much at your receptions, and brother Samsays he is to be away two years. "

"So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect calmness. 

"I believe so. I thought the move very sudden, but Sam says he has beentalking about the trip for six months. "

"Really!--Alice, dear, won't you bring that piece of Burslam pottery forMrs. Hollis to look at?"

So the wonderful cup and saucer were brought, and they caused adiversion so complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric move were notnamed again during the visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What is theuse of discussing a hopelessly disagreeable subject?" said Eleanor toAlice's first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, the mere mention ofthe subject made her cross, for young women of the finest fortunes donot necessarily possess the finest tempers. 

Carrol's next visit was looked for with a good deal of interest. Naturally it was thought that he would know all about his friend'ssingular conduct. But he professed to be as much puzzled as Alice. "Hesupposed it was something about Mrs. Bethune; he had always told Smithnot to take a pretty, rich woman like her into his calculations. Forhis part, if he had been desirous of marrying an heiress, and felt thathe had a gift that way, he should have looked out a rich German girl;they had less nonsense about them, " etc. 

That was how the affair ended as far as Eleanor was concerned. Of courseshe suffered, but she was not of that generation of women who paradetheir suffering. Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, above all, endowed with physical self-control. Even Alice was spared the hystericalsobbings and faintings and other signs of pathological distress commonto weak women. 

Perhaps she was more silent and more irritable than usual, but EleanorBethune's heartache for love never led her to the smallest socialimpropriety. Whatever she suffered, she did not refuse the propermixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her tithe of the mint, aniseand cummin due to her position. 

Eleanor's reticence, however, had this good effect--it compelled Aliceto talk Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol; and somehow, indiscussing Smith, they got to understand each other; so that, after all, it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal shopping that was to do. Andthere is something very assuaging to grief in this occupation. Beforeit was completed, Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, sunshinytemper. 

"Consolation, thy name is satin and lace!" said Alice, thankfully, toherself, as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy about the wedding finery. 

At first Alice had been quite sure that she would go to Paris, andnowhere else; but Eleanor noticed that in less than a week Carrol'sinfluence was paramount. "We have got a better idea, Eleanor--quite anovel one, " she said, one morning. "We are going to make our bridal tripin Carrol's yacht!"

"Whose idea is that?"

"Carrol's and _mine too_, of course. Carrol says it is the jolliestlife. You leave all your cares and bills on shore behind you. You issueyour own sailing orders, and sail away into space with an easyconscience"

"But I thought you were bent on a European trip?"

"The yacht will be ever so much nicer. Think of the nuisance ofticket-offices and waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and troublesomeletters waiting for you at your banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs inthe newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is splendid. "

So the marriage took place at the end of the season, and Alice andCarrol sailed happily away into the unknown. Eleanor was at a loss whatto do with herself. She wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had gonethere, and she felt sure that some unlucky accident would throw themtogether. It was not her nature to court embarrassments; so Europe wasout of the question. 

While she was hesitating she called one day on Celeste Reid--a beautifulgirl who had been a great belle, but was now a confirmed invalid. "I amgoing to try the air of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune, " she said. "Papa hasheard wonderful stories about it. Come with our party. We shall have aspecial car, and the trip will at least have the charm of novelty. "

"And I love the mountains, Celeste. I will join you with pleasure. I wasdreading the old routine in the old places; but this will bedelightful. "

Thus it happened that one evening in the following August Mrs. Bethunefound herself slowly strolling down the principal street in Denver. Itwas a splendid sunset, and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose likeTitanic palaces built of amethyst, gold and silver. Suddenly the look ofintense pleasure on her face was changed for one of wonder andannoyance. It had become her duty in a moment to do a very disagreeablething; but duty was a kind of religion to Eleanor Bethune; she neverthought of shirking it. 

So she immediately inquired her way to the telegraph office, and evenquickened her steps into as fast a walk as she ever permitted herself. The message she had to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant one. Atfirst she thought it would hardly be possible for her to frame it insuch words as she would care to dictate to strangers; but she firmlysettled on the following form:

"_Messrs. Locke & Lord_:

"Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in Denver. No delay. The matter is ofthe greatest importance. "

When she had dictated the message, the clerk said, "Two dollars, madam. "But greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse was not in her pocket, andshe could not remember whether she had put it there or not. The manstood looking at her in an expectant way; she felt that any delay aboutthe message might be fatal to its worth; perplexity and uncertaintyruled her absolutely. She was about to explain her dilemma, and returnto her hotel for money, when a gentleman, who had heard and watched thewhole proceeding, said:

"Madam, I perceive that time is of great importance to you, and that youhave lost your purse; allow me to pay for the message. You can returnthe money if you wish. My name is William Smith. I am staying at the'American. '"

"Thank you, sir. The message is of the gravest importance to my brother. I gratefully accept your offer. "

Further knowledge proved Mr. William Smith to be a New York capitalistwho was slightly known to three of the gentlemen in Eleanor's party; sothat the acquaintance began so informally was very speedily afterwardinaugurated with all the forms and ceremonies good society demands. Itwas soon possible, too, for Eleanor to explain the circumstances which, even in her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's offer of moneyfor the hour a thing to be gratefully accepted. She had seen in the doorof the post-office a runaway cashier of her brother's, and his speedyarrest involved a matter of at least forty thousand dollars. 

This Mr. William Smith was a totally different man to Eleanor's lastlover--a bright, energetic, alert business man, decidedly handsome andgentlemanly. Though his name was greatly against him in Eleanor'sprejudices, she found herself quite unable to resist the cheery, pleasant influence he carried with him. And it was evident from the veryfirst day of their acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had but onethought--the winning of Eleanor Bethune. 

When she returned to New York in the autumn she ventured to cast up heraccounts with life, and she was rather amazed at the result. For she wasquite aware that she was in love with this William Smith in a way thatshe had never been with the other. The first had been a sentimentalideal; the second was a genuine case of sincere and passionateaffection. She felt that the desertion of this lover would be a grieffar beyond the power of satin and lace to cure. 

But her new lover had never a disloyal thought to his mistress, and hislove transplanted to the pleasant places of New York life, seemed tofind its native air. It enveloped Eleanor now like a glad and heavenlyatmosphere; she was so happy that she dreaded any change; it seemed toher that no change could make her happier. 

But if good is good, still better carries the day, and Mr. Smith thoughtmarriage would be a great deal better than lovemaking. Eleanor and hewere sitting in the fire-lit parlor, very still and very happy, when hewhispered this opinion to her. 

"It is only four months since we met, dear. "

"Only four months, darling; but I had been dreaming about you fourmonths before that. Let me hold your hands, sweet, while I tell you. Onthe 20th of last April I was on the point of leaving for Colorado tolook after the Silver Cliff Mine. My carriage was ordered, and I waswaiting at my hotel for it. A servant brought me a letter--the dearest, sweetest little letter--see, here it is!" and this William Smithabsolutely laid before Eleanor her own pretty, loving reply to the firstWilliam Smith's offer. 

Eleanor looked queerly at it, and smiled. 

"What did you think, dear?"

"That it was just the pleasantest thing that had ever happened to me. Itwas directed to Mr. W. Smith, and had been given into my hands. I wasnot going to seek up any other W. Smith. "

"But you must have been sure that it was not intended for you, and youdid not know 'Eleanor Bethune. '"

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sweetheart; it _was intended_ for me. I canimagine destiny standing sarcastically by your side, and watching yousend the letter to one W. Smith when she intended it for another W. Smith. Eleanor Bethune I meant to know just as soon as possible. I wascoming back to New York to look for you. "

"And, instead, she went to you in Colorado. "

"Only think of that! Why, love, when that blessed telegraph clerk said, 'Who sends this message?' and you said, 'Mrs. Eleanor Bethune, ' I wantedto fling my hat to the sky. I did not lose my head as badly when theyfound that new lead in the Silver Cliff. "

"Won't you give me that letter, and let me destroy it, William? It waswritten to the wrong Smith. "

"It was written to the wrong Smith, but it was given to the right Smith. Still, Eleanor, if you will say one little word to me, you may do whatyou like with the letter. "

Then Eleanor whispered the word, and the blaze of the burning lettermade a little illumination in honor of their betrothal kiss. 

THE STORY OF MARY NEIL. 

Poverty has not only many learned disciples, but also many hidden saintsand martyrs. There are humble tenements that are tabernacles, anddesolate, wretched rooms that are the quarries of the Almighty--wherewith toil and weariness and suffering the souls He loves are beingprepared for the heavenly temple. 

This is the light that relieves the deep shadow of that awful cloud ofpoverty which ever hangs over this rich and prosperous city. I have beenwithin that cloud, wet with its rain of tears, chilled with its gloomydarkness, "made free" of its innermost recesses; therefore I speak withauthority when I say that even here a little child may walk and notstumble, if Jesus lead the way or hold the hand. 

Nay, but children walk where strong men fall down, and young maidensenter the kingdom while yet their parents are stumbling where no lightfrom the Golden City and "the Land very far off" reaches them. Lastwinter I became very much interested in such a case. I was going towrite "Poor Mary Neil!" but that would have been the strangest misnomer. Happy Mary Neil! rises impetuously from my heart to contradict my pen. 

And yet when I first became acquainted with her condition, she was"poor" in every bitter sense of the word. 

A drunkard's eldest daughter, "the child of misery baptized with tears, "what had her seventeen years been but sad and evil ones? Cold andhunger, cares and labors far beyond her strength sowed the seeds ofearly death. For two years she struggled amid such suffering as dyinglungs entail to help her mother and younger brothers and sisters, but atlast she was compelled to make her bed amid sorrow and suffering whichshe could no longer assuage by her helpful hands and gentle words. 

Her religious education had not been quite neglected, and she dimlycomprehended that through the narrow valley which lay between Time andEternity she would need a surer and more infallible guide than her ownsadly precocious intellect. Then God sent her just the help sheneeded--a tender, pitiful, hopeful woman full of the love of Jesus. 

Souls ripen quickly in the atmosphere of the Border Land, and very soonMary had learned how to walk without fearing any evil. Certain passagesof Scripture burned with a supernatural glory, and made the darknesslight; and there were also a few hymns which struck the finest chordsin her heart, and

 "'Mid days of keenest anguish And nights devoid of ease, Filled all her soul with music Of wondrous melodies. "

As she neared the deeper darkness of death, this was especiallyremarkable of that extraordinary hymn called "The Light of Death, " byDr. Faber. From the first it had fascinated her. "Has he been _here_that he knows just how it feels?" she asked, wonderingly, and thensolemnly repeated:

 "Saviour, what means this breadth of death, This space before me lying; These deeps where life so lingereth, This difficulty of dying? So many turns abrupt and rude, Such ever-shifting grounds, Such strangely peopled solitudes, Such strangely silent sounds?'"

Her sufferings were very great, and sometimes the physical depressionexerted a definable influence on her spiritual state. Still she neverlost her consciousness of the presence of her Guide and Saviour, andonce, in the exhaustion of a severe paroxysm, she murmured two linesfrom the same grand hymn:

 "Deeper! dark, dark, but yet I follow: Tighten, dear Lord, thy clasp. "

Ah! there was something touching and noble beyond all words, in thiscomplete reliance and perfect trust; and it never again wavered. 

"Is it _very_ dark, Mary dear?" her friend said one morning, the _last_for her on earth. 

"Too dark to see, " she whispered, "but I can go on if Christ will holdmy hand. "

After this a great solemnity shaded her face; she lost all consciousnessof this world. The frail, shadowy little body lay gray and passive, while that greatest of all struggles was going on--the struggle of theEternal out of Time; but her lips moved incessantly, and occasionallysome speech of earth told the anxious watchers how hard the conflictwas. For instance, toward sundown she said in a voice strangely solemnand anxious:

 "Who are we trying to avoid? From whom, Lord, must we hide? Oh! can the dying be decoyed, With the Saviour by his side?"

"Loose sands and all things sinking!" "Are we near eternity?" "Can Ifall from Thee even now?" and ejaculations of similar kind, showed thatthe spiritual struggle was a very palpable one to her; but it ended in agreat calm. For two hours she lay in a peace that passeth understanding, and you would have said that she was dead but for a vague look ofexpectancy in the happy, restful face. Then suddenly there was alightening of the whole countenance; she stretched out her arms to meetthe messenger of the King, and entered heaven with this prayer on herlips:

 "_Both hands_, dear Lord, _both hands_. '"

Don't doubt but she got them; their mighty strength lifted her over thedark river almost dry shod. 

 "Rests she not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon Lie in her tent--for on the golden street She walks and stumbles not on roads star strewn With her unsandalled feet. "

THE HEIRESS OF KURSTON CHACE. 

Into the usual stillness of Kurston Chace a strange bustle andexcitement had come--the master was returning with a young bride, whomreport spoke of as "bewitchingly beautiful. " It was easy to believereport in this case, for there must have been some strong inducement tomake Frederick Kurston wed in his sixtieth year a woman barely twenty. It was not money; Mr. Kurston had plenty of money, and he was neitherambitious nor avaricious; besides, the woman he had chosen was both poorand extravagant. 

For once report was correct. Clementina Gray, in tarlatans and flowers, had been a great beauty; and Clementina Kurston, in silks and diamonds, was a woman dedicated, by Nature for conquest. 

It was Clementina's beauty that had prevailed over the love-hardenedheart of the gay old gallant, who had escaped the dangers of fortyseasons of flirtation. He was entangled in the meshes of her goldenhair, fascinated by the spell of her love-languid eyes, her mouth like asad, heavy rose, her faultless form and her superb manners. He was blindto all her faults; deaf to all his friends--in the glamour of herenchantments he submitted to her implicitly, even while both his reasonand his sense of other obligations pleaded for recognition. 

Clementina had not won him very easily; the summer was quite over, nearly all the visitors at the stylish little watering-place haddeparted, the mornings and evenings were chilly, every day Mr. Kurstonspoke of his departure, and she herself was watching her maid pack hertrunks, and in no very amiable temper contemplating defeat, when thereward of her seductive attentions came. 

"Mr. Kurston entreated the favor of an interview. "

She gladly accorded it; she robed herself with subtle skill; she madeherself marvelous. 

"Mother, " she said, as she left her dressing-room, "you will have aheadache. I shall excuse you. I can manage this business best alone. "

In an hour she came back triumphant. She put her feet on the fender, andsat down before the cheerful blaze to "talk it over. "

"It is all right, mother. Good-by to our miserable shifts andshabby-genteel lodgings and turned dresses. He will settle Kurston Chaceand all he has upon me, and we are to be married next month. "

"Impossible, Tina! No _modiste_ in the world could get the things thatare absolutely necessary ready in that time. "

"Everything is possible in New York--if you have money--and Uncle Graywill be ready enough to buy my marriage clothes. Besides, I am going torun no risks. If he should die, nothing on earth could console me forthe trouble I have had with him, but the fact of being his widow. Thereis no sentiment in the affair, and the sooner one gets to orderingdinners and running up bills, the better. "

"Poor Philip Lee!"

"Mother, why did you mention him? Of course he will be angry, and callme all kinds of unpleasant names; but if he has a particle of commonsense he must see that it was impossible for me to marry a poorlawyer--especially when I had such a much better offer. I suppose hewill be here to-night. You must see him, mother, and explain things aspleasantly as possible. It would scarcely be proper for me, as Mr. Kurston's affianced wife, to listen to all the ravings and protestationshe is sure to indulge in. "

In this supposition Clementina was mistaken. Philip Lee took the news ofher engagement to his wealthy rival with blank calmness and a civil wishfor her happiness. He made a stay of conventional propriety, and saidall the usual polite platitudes, and then went away without any evidenceof the deep suffering and mortification he felt. 

This was Clementina's first drop of bitterness in her cup of success. She questioned her mother closely as to how he looked, and what he said. It did not please her that, instead of bemoaning his own loss, he shouldbe feeling a contempt for her duplicity--that he should use her to curehis passion, when she meant to wound him still deeper. She felt atmoments as if she could give up for Philip Lee the wealth and positionshe had so hardly won, only she knew him well enough to understand thathenceforward she could not easily deceive him again. 

It was pleasant to return to New York this fall; the news of theengagement opened everyone's heart and home. Congratulations came fromevery quarter; even Uncle Gray praised the girl who had done so well forherself, and signified his approval by a handsome check. 

The course of this love ran smooth enough, and one fine morning inOctober, Grace Church saw a splendid wedding. Henceforward ClementinaKurston was a woman to be courted instead of patronized, and many awoman who had spoken lightly of her beauty and qualities, was made toacknowledge with an envious pang that she had distanced them. 

This was her first reward, and she did not stint herself in extortingit. To tell the truth, Clementina had many a bitter score of this kindto pay off; for, as she said in extenuation, it was impossible for herto allow herself to be in debt to her self-respect. 

Well, the wedding was over. She had abundantly gratified her taste forsplendor; she had smiled on those on whom she willed to smile; she hadtreated herself extravagantly to the dangerous pleasure of socialrevenge; she was now anxious to go and take possession of her home, which had the reputation of being one of the oldest and handsomest inthe country. 

Mr. Kurston, hitherto, had been intoxicated with love, and not a littleflattered by the brilliant position which his wife had at once claimed. Now that she was his wife, it amused him to see her order and patronizeand dispense with all that royal prerogative which belongs to beauty, supported by wealth and position. 

Into his great happiness he had suffered no doubt, no fear of thefuture, to come; but, as the day approached for their departure forKurston Chace, he grew singularly restless and uneasy. 

For, much as he loved and obeyed the woman whom he called "wife, " therewas another woman at Kurston whom he called "daughter, " that he lovedquite as dearly, in a different way. In fact, of his daughter, AthelKurston, he stood just a little bit in fear, and she had ruled thehousehold at the Chace for many years as absolute mistress. 

No one knew anything of her mother; he had brought her to her presenthome when only five years old, after a long stay on the Continent. Astrange woman, wearing the dress of a Sclavonic peasant, came with thechild as nurse; but she had never learnt to speak English, and had nowbeen many years dead. 

Athel knew nothing of her mother, and her early attempts to question herfather concerning her had been so peremptorily rebuffed that she hadlong ago ceased to indulge in any curiosity regarding her. However--though she knew it not--no one regarded her as Mr. Kurston'sheir; indeed, nothing in her father's conduct sanctioned such aconclusion. True, he loved her dearly, and had spared no pains in hereducation; but he never took her with him into the world, and, except inthe neighborhood of the Chace, her very existence was not known of. 

She was as old as his new wife, willful, proud, accustomed to rule, notlikely to obey. He had said nothing to Clementina of her existence; hehad said nothing to his daughter of his marriage; and now both factscould no longer be concealed. 

But Frederick Kurston had all his life trusted to circumstances, and hewas rather disposed, in this matter, to let the women settle affairsbetween them without troubling himself to enter into explanations witheither of them. So, to Athel he wrote a tender little note, assumingthat she would be delighted to hear of his marriage, as it promised hera pleasant companion, and directing her to have all possiblearrangements made to add to the beauty and comfort of the house. 

To Mrs. Kurston he said nothing. The elegantly dressed young lady whomet her with a curious and rather constrained welcome was to her agenuine surprise. Her air of authority and rich dress precluded the ideaof a dependent; Mr. Kurston had kissed her lovingly, the servants obeyedher. But she was far too prudent to make inquiries on unknown ground;she disappeared, with her maid, on the plea of weariness, and from thevantage-ground of her retirement sent Félicité to take observations. 

The little French maid found no difficulty in arriving at the truth, andMrs. Kurston, not unjustly angry, entered the drawing-room fullyprepared to defend her rights. 

"Who was that young person, Frederick, dear, that I saw when wearrived?"

This question in the very sweetest tone, and with that caressing mannershe had always found omnipotent. 

"That young person is Miss Athel Kurston, Clementina. "

This answer in the very decided, and yet nervous, manner people on thedefensive generally assume. 

"Miss Kurston? Your sister, Frederick?"

"No; my daughter, Clementina. "

"But you were never married before?"

"So people say. "

"Then, do you really expect me to live in the same house with a personof--"

"I see no reason why you should not--that is, if you live in the samehouse with me. "

A passionate burst of tears, an utter abandonment of distress, and theinfatuated husband was willing to promise anything--everything--that hischarmer demanded--that is, for the time; for Athel Kurston's influencewas really stronger than her step-mother's, and the promises extortedfrom his lower passions were indefinitely postponed by his noblerfeelings. 

A divided household is always a miserable one; but the chief suffererhere was Mr. Kurston, and Athel, who loved him with a sincere andprofound affection, determined to submit to circumstances for his sake. 

One morning, he found on his table a letter from her stating that, toprocure him peace, she had left a home that would be ever dear to her, assuring him that she had secured a comfortable and respectable asylum;but earnestly entreating that he would make no inquiries about her, asshe had changed her name, and would not be discovered without causing adegree of gossip and evil-speaking injurious to both himself and her. 

This letter completely broke the power of Clementina over her husband. He asserted at once his authority, and insisted on returning immediatelyto New York, where he thought it likely Athel had gone, and where, atany rate, he could find suitable persons to aid him in his search forher--a search which was henceforth the chief object of his life. 

A splendid house was taken, and Mrs. Kurston at once assumed theposition of a leader in the world of fashion. Greatly to hersatisfaction, Philip Lee was a favorite in the exclusive circle in whichshe moved, and she speedily began the pretty, penitent, dejected rôlewhich she judged would be most effective with him. But, though she wouldnot see it, Philip Lee was proof against all her blandishments. He wasnot the man to be deluded twice by the same false woman; he was a man ofhonor, and detested the social ethics which scoffed at humanity'sholiest tie; and he was deeply in love with a woman who was the veryantipodes of the married siren. 

Yet he visited frequently at the Kurston mansion, and became a greatfavorite, and finally the friend and confidant of its master. Gradually, as month after month passed, the business of the Kurston estate cameinto his hands, and he could have told, to the fraction of a dollar, theexact sum for which Clementina Gray sold herself. 

Two years passed away. There was no longer on Clementina's part, anypretence of affection for her husband; she went her own way, and devotedherself to her own interests and amusements. He wearied with a hopelesssearch and anxiety that found no relief, aged very rapidly, and becamesubject to serious attacks of illness, any one of which might deprivehim of life. 

His wife now regretted that she had married so hastily; the settlementspromised had been delayed; she had trusted to her influence to obtainmore as his wife than as his betrothed. She had not known of acounter-influence, and she had not calculated that the effort of alife-long deception might be too much for her. Quarrels had arisen inthe very beginning of their life at Kurston, the disappearance of Athelhad never been forgiven, and now Mrs. Kurston became violently angry ifthe settlement and disposing of his property was named. 

One night, in the middle of the third winter after Athel'sdisappearance, Philip Lee called with an important lease for Mr. Kurstonto sign. He found him alone, and strangely moved and sorrowful. Hesigned the papers as Philip directed him, and then requested him to lockthe door and sit down. 

"I am going, " he said, "to confide to you, Philip Lee, a sacred trust. Ido not think I shall live long, and I leave a duty unfulfilled thatmakes to me the bitterness of death. I have a daughter--the lawfulheiress of the Kurston lands--whom my wife drove, by subtle andpersistent cruelty, from her home. By no means have I been able todiscover her; but you must continue the search, and see her put inpossession of her rights. "

"But what proofs, sir, can you give me in order to establish them?"

"They are all in this box--everything that is necessary. Take it withyou to your office to-night. Her mother--ah, me, how I loved her--was aPolish lady of good family; but I have neither time nor inclination nowto explain to you, or to excuse myself for the paltry vanities whichinduced me to conceal my marriage. In those days I cared so much forwhat society said that I never listened to the voice of my heart or myconscience. I hope, I trust, I may still right both the dead and theliving!"

Mr. Kurston's presentiment of death was no delusive one; he sankgradually during the following week, and died--his last word, "Remember!" being addressed, with all the strong beseeching of a dyinginjunction, to Philip Lee. 

A free woman, and a rich one, Mrs. Kurston turned with all the ardor ofa sentimental woman to her first and--as she chose to consider it--heronly true affection. She was now in a position to woo the poor lawyer, dependent in a great measure on her continuing to him the management ofthe Kurston property. 

Business brought them continually together, and it was neither possiblenor prudent for him to always reject the attentions she offered. Theworld began to freely connect their names, and it was with muchdifficulty that he could convince even his most intimate friends of hisindifference to the rich and beautiful widow. 

He found himself, indeed, becoming gradually entangled in a net ofcircumstances it would soon be difficult to get honorably out of. 

The widow received him at every visit more like a lover, and less like alawyer; men congratulated or envied him, women tacitly assumed hisengagement. There was but one way to free himself from the toils theartful widow was encompassing him with--he must marry some one else. 

But whom? The only girl he loved was poor, and had already refused him;yet he was sure she loved him, and something bid him try again. He hadhalf a mind to do so, and "half a mind" in love is quite enough to beginwith. 

So he put on his hat and went to his sister's house. He knew she was outdriving--had seen her pass five minutes before on her way to the park. Then what did he go there for? Because he judged from experience, thatat this hour lovely Pauline Alexes, governess to his sister's daughters, was at home and alone. 

He was not wrong; she came into the parlor by one door as he entered itby the other. The coincidence was auspicious, and he warmly pressed hissuit, pouring into Pauline's ears such a confused account of hisfeelings and his affairs as only love could disentangle and understand. 

"But, Philip, " said Pauline, "do you mean to say that this Mrs. Kurstonmakes love to you? Is she not a married woman, and her husband your bestfriend and patron?"

"Mr. Kurston, Pauline darling, is dead!"

"Dead! dead! Oh, Philip! Oh, my father! my father!" And the poor girlthrew herself, with passionate sobbings, among the cushions of the sofa. 

This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline Alexes, the girl he had fondlyloved for nearly three years, Philip found the long-sought heiress ofKurston Chace!

Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she learned how sorrowfully herfather had sought her; but she was scarcely to be blamed for not knowingof, and responding to, his late repentance of the life-long wrong he haddone her. For Philip's sister moved far outside the narrow and supremecircle of the Kurstons. 

She had hidden her identity in her mother's maiden name--the only thingshe knew of her mother. She had never seen her father since her flightfrom her home but in public, accompanied by his wife; she had no reasonto suppose the influence of that wife any weaker; she had been made, bycruel innuendoes, to doubt both the right and the inclination of herfather to protect her. 

It now became Philip's duty to acquaint the second Mrs. Kurston withher true position, and to take the necessary steps to reinstate AthelKurston in her rights. 

Of course, he had to bear many unkind suspicions--even his friendsbelieved him to have been cognizant all the time of the identity ofPauline Alexes with Athel Kurston--and he was complimented on hiscleverness in securing the property, with the daughter, instead of thewidow, for an incumbrance. But those may laugh who win, and these thingsscarcely touched the happiness of Philip and Athel. 

As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still more brilliant marriage, and gaveup the Kurston estate with an ostentatious indifference. "She was gladto get rid of it; it had brought her nothing but sorrow anddisappointment, " etc. 

But from the heights of her social autocracy, clothed in Worth'sgreatest inspirations, wearing priceless lace and jewels, dwelling inunrivalled splendor, she looked with regret on the man whom she hadrejected for his poverty. 

She saw him grow to be the pride of his State and the honor of hiscountry. Loveless and childless, she saw his boys and girls cling to thewoman she hated as their "mother, " and knew that they filled with lightand love the grand old home for which she had first of all sacrificedher affection and her womanhood. 

"ONLY THIS ONCE. "

Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring nightwas falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows, and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills. 

David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him"temples not made with hands, " and in them he had seen and heardwonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made himlove her in all her moods, and he passionately believed in God. 

The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd'svoice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, andwere soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly tooktheir way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking foran old man in the late gloaming. 

Passing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to barkfuriously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised astick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out, "Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye. "

The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottagenear where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for aday's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way andwas hungry and worn out. 

David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous mannerand assumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred traditionamong Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, Davidacknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oatencake and his embers. 

It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to thehills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; hestumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when theycame to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gulliesDavid took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and theyweighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say. 

The cottage was soon reached--a very humble one--only "a but and a ben, "with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared greatmen in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not clean andcheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and alittle round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oatencakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young manreading. 

"Archie, here is a strange _gentleman_ I found up at Donald's cairn. "

The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scottrose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire. The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decentlyin their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Thenthe old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions. 

"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aughto' a gentleman. "

David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied:

"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our dutyto judge him. "

When Archie spoke again it was of other matters. 

"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' thesheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like. There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can'tfind it out. "

"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw'sworth--then the figures are bound to come right, I should say. "

It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister'ssteward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth;but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which eventhe most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honestcondition. 

When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and Davidwas standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in themorning than he had done at night. 

"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir, " said David rather grimly. 

Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything butstrong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; hehad never tasted porridge before. 

"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decentoatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;" for Mr. Semple'somission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeasedthe old man. 

The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was afresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chillingmists--wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David sawsomething in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. Helooked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said:

"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?"

"Sir!"

There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand, shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followedthis movement with great interest. 

"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up thisway. Do you know who they are?"

"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may bepolicemen--I dinna ken them mysel'. "

"Mr. Scott! For God's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tellyou the whole truth. "

"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me;yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are. "

There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, andhe soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed byoverhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems. 

The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waiteduntil his companion had regained his breath, said:

"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words asmay be; I dinna like fine speeches. "

"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a teadealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's ahard man, so I run away. "

"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamedto steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at thebeginning. "

The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipatedways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from hisemployer _for just once_. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen, and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled, hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some passingship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father normother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed. 

"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that'sa awfu' drawback. "

"You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I don't care much; I'vebeen a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-heartedto-day. "

"It's not David Scott that will make himself hard to a broken heart, when God in heaven has promised to listen to it. I'll tell you what Iwill do. You shall gie me all the money you have, every shilling; it'snane o' yours, ye ken that weel; and I'll take it to your master, andget him to pass by the ither till you can earn it. I've got a son, adecent, hard-working lad, who's daft to learn your trade--bookkeeping. Ye sail stay wi' me till he kens a' the ins and outs o' it, then I'llgie ye twenty pounds. I ken weel this is a big sum, and it will make abig hole in my little book at the Ayr Bank, but it will set Archie up. 

"Then when ye have earned it, ye can pay back all you have stolen, forbye having four pounds left for a nest-egg to start again wi'. Idinna often treat mysel' to such a bit o' charity as this, and, 'deed, if I get na mair thanks fra heaven, than I seem like to get fra you, there 'ud be meikle use in it, " for Alexander Semple had heard theproposal with a dour and thankless face, far from encouraging to thegood man who made it. It did not suit that youth to work all summer inorder to pay back what he had come to regard as "off his mind;" todenude himself of every shilling, and be entirely dependent on thesternly just man before him. Yet what could he do? He was fully inDavid's power; so he signified his assent, and sullenly enough gave upthe £9 14s. 2d. In his possession. 

"I'm a good bookkeeper, Mr. Scott, " he said; "the bargain is fair enoughfor you. "

"I ken Donald Nevin; he's a Campletown man, and I ken you wouldna haekeepit his books if you hadna had your business at your finger-ends. "

The next day David went to Glasgow, and saw Mr. Semple's master. The £9odd was lost money found, and predisposed him to the arrangementproposed. David got little encouragement from Mr. Nevin, however; heacknowledged the clerk's skill in accounts, but he was conceited of hisappearance, ambitious of being a fashionable man, had weak principlesand was intensely selfish. David almost repented him of his kindness, and counted grudgingly the shillings that the journey and the carriageof Mr. Semple's trunks cost him. 

Indeed it was a week or two before things settled pleasantly in the hillcottage; the plain living, pious habits and early hours of the shepherdand his son did not at all suit the city youth. But Archie, thoughignorant of the reasons which kept such a dandy in their humble home, soon perceived clearly the benefit he could derive from him. And onceArchie got an inkling of the meaning of "double entry" he was neverweary of applying it to his own particular business; so that in a fewweeks Alexander Semple was perfectly familiar with MacAllister'saffairs. 

Still, Archie cordially disliked his teacher, and about the middle ofsummer it became evident that a very serious cause of quarrel wascomplicating the offence. Coming up from MacAllister's one lovely summergloaming Archie met Semple with Katie Morrison, the little girl whom hehad loved and courted since ever he carried her dinner and slate toschool for her. How they had come to know each other he could not tell;he had exercised all his tact and prudence to prevent it, evidentlywithout avail. He passed the couple with ill-concealed anger; Katielooked down, Semple nodded in what Archie believed to be an insolentmanner. 

That night David Scott heard from his son such an outburst of anger asthe lad had never before exhibited. In a few days Mr. Semple went toGreenock for a day or two. Soon it was discovered that Katie had been inGreenock two days at her married sister's. Then they heard that thecouple had married and were to sail for America. They then discoveredthat Archie's desk had been opened and £46 in notes and gold taken. Neither of the men had any doubt as to the thief; and therefore Archiewas angry and astonished to find his father doubt and waver and seemaverse to pursue him. At last he acknowledged all, told Archie that ifhe made known his loss, _he also_ must confess that he had knowinglyharbored an acknowledged thief, and tacitly given him the opportunity ofwronging his employer. He doubted very much whether anyone would givehim credit for the better feelings which had led him to this course ofconduct. 

Archie's anger cooled at once; he saw the dilemma; to these simplepeople a good name was better than gold. It took nearly half the savingsof a long life, but the old man went to Ayr and drew sufficient toreplace the stolen money. He needed to make no inquiries about Semple. On Tuesday it was known by everyone in the village that Katie Morrisonand Alexander Semple had been married the previous Friday, and sailedfor America the next day. After this certainty father and son nevernamed the subject but once more. It was on one calm, spring evening, some ten years after, and David lay within an hour of the grave. 

"Archie!" he said, suddenly, "I don't regret to-night what I did tenyears ago. Virtuous actions sometimes fail, but virtuous lives--never!Perhaps I had a thought o' self in my good intent, and that spoiled all. If thou hast ever a chance, do better than I did. "

"I will, father. "

During these ten years there had been occasional news from the exiles. Mrs. Morrison stopped Archie at intervals, as he passed her door, andsaid there had been a letter from Katie. At first they came frequently, and were tinged with brightest hopes. Alexander had a fine place, andtheir baby was the most beautiful in the world. The next news was thatAlexander was in business for himself and making money rapidly. Handsomepresents, that were the wonder of the village, then came occasionally, and also remittances of money that made the poor mother hold her headproudly about "our Katie" and her "splendid house and carriage. "

But suddenly all letters stopped, and the mother thought for long theymust be coming to see her, but this hope and many another faded, and thefair morning of Katie's marriage was shrouded in impenetrable gloom andmystery. 

Archie got bravely over his trouble, and a while after his father'sdeath married a good little woman, not quite without "the bit ofsiller. " Soon after he took his savings to Edinburgh and joined hiswife's brother in business there. Things prospered with him, slowly butsurely, and he became known for a steady, prosperous merchant, and adouce pious householder, the father of a fine lot of sons and daughters. 

One night, twenty years after the beginning of my story, he was passingthrough the old town of Edinburgh, when a wild cry of "Fire! Fire!Fire!" arose on every side of him. 

"Where?" he asked of the shrieking women pouring from all the filthy, narrow wynds around. 

"In Gordon's Wynd. "

He was there almost the first of any efficient aid, striving to make hisway up the smoke-filled stairs, but this was impossible. The house wasone of those ancient ones, piled story upon story; so old that it wasalmost tinder. But those on the opposite side were so close that notunfrequently a plank or two flung across from opposite windows made abridge for the benefit of those seeking to elude justice. 

By means of such a bridge all the inhabitants of the burning house wereremoved, and no one was more energetic in carrying the women andchildren across the dangerous planks than Archie Scott; for his mountaintraining had made such a feat one of no extraordinary danger to him. Satisfied at length that all life was out of risk, he was turning to gohome, when a white, terrible face looked out of the top-most floor, showing itself amid the gusts of smoke like the dream of a corpse, andscreaming for help in agonizing tones. Archie knew that face only toowell. But he remembered, in the same instant, what his father had saidin dying, and, swift as a mountain deer, he was quickly on the top floorof the opposite house again. 

In a few moments the planks bridged the distance between death andsafety; but no entreaties could make the man risk the dangerous passage. Setting tight his lips, Archie went for the shrieking coward, andcarried him into the opposite house. Then the saved man recognized hispreserver. 

"Oh, Mr. Scott!" he said, "for God's sake, my wife and my child! Thelast of seven!"

"You scoundrel! Do you mean to say you saved yourself before Katie andyour child!"

Archie did not wait for the answer; again he was at the window of theburning room. Too late! The flames were already devouring what the smokehad smothered; their wretched pallet was a funeral pyre. He had hardlytime to save his own life. 

"They are dead, Semple!"

Then the poor creature burst into a paroxysm of grief, moaned andcried, and begged a few shillings, and vowed he was the most miserablecreature on earth. 

After this Archie Scott strove for two years to do without taint ofselfishness what his father had begun twenty years before. But there wasnot much now left to work upon--health, honor, self-respect were allgone. Poor Semple was content to eat the bread of dependence, and thenmake boastful speeches of his former wealth and position. To tell of hiswonderful schemes, and to abuse his luck and his false friends, andeverything and everybody, but the real cause of his misfortune. 

Archie gave him some trifling post, with a salary sufficient for everydecent want, and never heeded, though he knew Semple constantly spokeill of him behind his back. 

However the trial of Archie's patience and promise did not last verylong. It was a cold, snowy night in mid-winter that Archie was calledupon to exercise for the last time his charity and forbearance towardhim; and the parting scene paid for all. For, in the shadow of thegrave, the poor, struggling soul dropped all pretences, acknowledged allits shortcomings, thanked the forbearance and charity which had beenextended so many years, and humbly repented of its lost and wastedopportunities. 

"Draw close to me, Archie Scott, " he said, "and tell your four braveboys what my dying words to them were: Never to yield to temptation for_only this once_. To be quite sure that all the gear and gold that_comes with sin_ will _go with sorrow_. And never to doubt that to every_evil doer_ will certainly come his _evil day_. "

PETRALTO'S LOVE STORY. 

I am addicted to making strange friendships, to liking people whom Ihave no conventional authority to like--people out of "my set, " and notalways of my own nationality. I do not say that I have always beenfortunate in these ventures; but I have had sufficient splendidexceptions to excuse the social aberration, and make me think that allof us might oftener trust our own instincts, oftener accept the friendsthat circumstance and opportunity offer us, with advantage. At any rate, the peradventure in chance associations has always been very attractiveto me. 

In some irregular way I became acquainted with Petralto Garcia. Ibelieve I owed the introduction to my beautiful hound, Lutha; but, atany rate, our first conversation was quite as sensible as if we had gonethrough the legitimate initiation. I know it was in the mountains, andthat within an hour our tastes and sympathies had touched each other attwenty different points. 

Lutha walked beside us, showing in his mien something of the proudsatisfaction which follows a conviction of having done a good thing. Helooked first at me and then at Petralto, elevating and depressing hisears at our argument, as if he understood all about it. Perhaps he did;human beings don't know everything. 

People have so much time in the country that it is little wonder thatour acquaintance ripened into friendship during the holidays, and thatone of my first visits when I had got settled for the winter was toPetralto's rooms. Their locality might have cooled some people, but notme. It does not take much of an education in New York life to find outthat the pleasantest, loftiest, handsomest rooms are to be found in thestreets not very far "up town;" comfortably contiguous to the besthotels, stores, theatres, picture galleries, and all the othernecessaries of a pleasant existence. 

He was just leaving the door for a ride in the park, and we wenttogether. I had refused the park twice within an hour, and had toldmyself that nothing should induce me to follow that treadmill processionagain, yet when he said, in his quiet way, "You had better take half anhour's ride, Jack, " I felt like going, and I went. 

Now just as we got to the Fifth Avenue entrance, a singular thinghappened. Petralto's pale olive face flushed a bright crimson, his eyesflashed and dropped; he whipped the horse into a furious gallop, as ifhe would escape something; then became preternaturally calm, drewsuddenly up, and stood waiting for a handsome equipage which wasapproaching. Its occupants were bending forward to speak to him. I hadno eyes for the gentleman, the girl at his side was so radiantlybeautiful. 

I heard Petralto promise to call on them, and we passed on; but therewas a look on his face which bespoke both sympathy and silence. He sooncomplained of the cold, said the park pace irritated him, but stillpassed and repassed the couple who had caused him such evidentsuffering, as if he was determined to inure himself to the pain ofmeeting them. During this interval I had time to notice the caressing, lover-like attitude of the beauty's companion, and I said, as theyentered a stately house together, "Are they married?"

"Yes. "

"He seems devotedly in love with her. "

"He loved her two years before he saw her. "

"Impossible. "

"Not at all. I have a mind to tell you the story. "

"Do. Come home with me, and we will have a quiet dinner together. "

"No. I need to be alone an hour or two. Call on me about nine o'clock. "

Petralto's rooms were a little astonishment to me. They were luxuriousin the extreme, with just that excess of ornament which suggestsunder-civilization; and yet I found him smoking in a studio destitute ofeverything but a sleepy-looking sofa, two or three capacious loungingchairs, and the ordinary furniture of an artist's atelier. There was abright fire in the grate, a flood of light from the numerous gas jets, and an atmosphere heavy with the seductive, fragrant vapor of Havana. 

I lit my own cigar, made myself comfortable, and waited until it wasPetralto's pleasure to begin. After a while he said, "Jack, turn thateasel so that you can see the picture on it. "

I did so. 

"Now, look at it well, and tell me what you see; first, thelocality--describe it. "

"A dim old wood, with sunlight sifting through thick foliage, and longstreamers of weird grey moss. The ground is covered with soft shortgrass of an intense green, and there are wonderful flowers of wonderfulcolors. "

"Right. It is an opening in the forest of the Upper Guadalupe. Now, whatelse do you see?"

"A small pony, saddled and bridled, feeding quietly, and a young girlstanding on tip-toe, pulling down a vine loaded with golden-coloredflowers. "

"Describe the girl to me. "

I turned and looked at my querist. He was smoking, with shut eyes, andwaiting calmly for my answer. "Well, she has--Petralto, what makes youask me? You might paint, but it is impossible to describe _light_; andthe girl is nothing else. If I had met her in such a wood, I should havethought she was an angel, and been afraid of her. "

"No angel, Jack, but a most exquisite, perfect flower of maidenhood. When I first saw her, she stood just so, with her open palms full ofyellow jasmine. I laid my heart into them, too, my whole heart, my wholelife, and every joy and hope it contained. "

"What were you doing in Texas?"

"What are you doing in New York? I was born in Texas. My family, an oldSpanish one, have been settled there since they helped to build SanAntonio in 1730. I grew up pretty much as Texan youths do--half my timein the saddle, familiar with the worst side of life and the best side ofnature. I should have been a thorough Ishmaelite if I had not been anartist; but the artistic instinct conquered the nomadic and in mytwentieth year I went to Rome to study. 

"I can pass the next five years. I do not pretend to regret them, though, perhaps, you would say I simply wasted time and opportunity. Ienjoyed them, and it seems to me I was the person most concerned in thematter. I had a fresh, full capacity then for enjoyment of every kind. Iloved nature and I loved art. I warmed both hands at the glowing fire oflife. Time may do his worst. I have been happy, and I can throw thosefive careless, jovial years, in his face to my last hour. 

"But one must awake out of every pleasant dream, and one day I got aletter urging my immediate return home. My father had got himselfinvolved in a lawsuit, and was failing rapidly in health. My youngerbrother was away with a ranger company, and the affairs of the ranchneeded authoritative overlooking. I was never so fond of art as to beindifferent to our family prosperity, and I lost no time in hurryingWest. 

"Still, when I arrived at home, there was no one to welcome me! Thenoble, gracious Garcia slept with his ancestors in the old Alamo Church;somewhere on the llano my brother was ranging, still with his wild, company; and the house, in spite of the family servants and Mexicanpeons, was sufficiently lonely. Yet I was astonished, to find how easilyI went back to my old life, and spent whole days in the saddleinvestigating the affairs of the Garcia ranch. 

"I had been riding one day for ten hours, and was so fatigued that Idetermined to spend the night with one of my herdsmen. He had a littleshelter under some fine pecan trees on the Guadalupe, and after a cup ofcoffee and a meal of dried beef, I sauntered with my cigar down theriver bank. Then the cool, dusky shadows of the wood tempted me. Ientered it. It was an enchanted wood, for there stood Jessy Lorimer, just as I had painted her. 

"I did not move nor speak. I watched her, spell-bound. I had not eventhe power, when she had mounted her pony and was coming toward me, toassume another attitude. She saw that I had been watching her, and alook, half reproachful and half angry, came for a moment into her face. But she inclined her head to me as she passed, and then went off at arapid gallop before I could collect my senses. 

"Some people, Jack, walk into love with their eyes open, calculatingevery step. I tumbled in over head, lost my feet, lost my senses, narrowed in one moment the whole world down to one bewitching woman. Idid not know her, of course; but I soon should. I was well aware shecould not live very far away, and that my herd must be able to give mesome information. I was so deeply in love that this poor ignorantfellow, knowing something about this girl, seemed to me to be a personto be respected, and even envied. 

"I gave him immediately a plentiful supply of cigars, and sitting downbeside him opened the conversation with horses, but drifted speedilyinto the subject of new settlers. 

"'Were there any since I had left?'

"'Two or three, no 'count travelers, one likely family. '

"'Much of a family?'

"'You may bet on that, sir. '

"'Any pleasant young men?'

"'Reckon so. Mighty likely young gal. '

"So, bit by bit, I found that Mr. Lorimer, my beauty's father, was aScotchman, who had bought the ranch which had formerly belonged to theold Spanish family of the Yturris. Then I remembered pretty Inez andDolores Yturri, with their black eyes, olive skins and soft, lazy_embonpoint_; and thought of golden-haired Jessy Lorimer in their dark, latticed rooms. 

"Jack, turn the picture to me. Beautiful Jessy! How I loved her in thosehappy days that followed. How I humored her grave, stern father andcourted her brothers for her sake! I was a slave to the whole family, so that I might gain an hour with or a smile from Jessy. Do I regret itnow? Not one moment. Such delicious hours as we had together were worthany price. I would throw all my future to old Time, Jack, only to livethem over again. "

"That is a great deal to say, Petralto. "

"Perhaps; and yet I will not recall it. In those few months everythingthat was good in me prospered and grew. Jessy brought out nothing butthe best part of my character. I was always at my best with her. Nothought of selfish pleasure mingled in my love for her. If it delightedme to touch her hand, to feel her soft hair against my cheek, to meether earnest, subduing gaze, it also made me careful by no word or lookto soil the dainty purity of my white lily. 

"I feared to tell her that I loved her. But I did do it, I scarcely knowhow. The softest whisper seemed too loud against her glowing cheek. Shetrembled from head to foot. I was faint and silent with rapture when shefirst put her little hand in mine, and suffered me to draw her to myheart. Ah! I am sick with joy yet when I think of it. I--I first, Ialone, woke that sweet young heart to life. She is lost, lost to me, butno one else can ever be to her what I have been. "

And here Petralto, giving full sway to his impassioned Southern nature, covered his face with his hands and wept hot, regretful tears. 

Tears come like blood from men of cold, strong temperaments, but theywere the natural relief of Petralto's. I let him weep. In a few minuteshe leaped up, and began pacing the room rapidly as he went on:

"Mr. Lorimer received my proposal with a dour, stiff refusal that leftme no hope of any relenting. 'He had reasons, more than one, ' he said;'he was not saying anything against either my Spanish blood or myreligion; but it was no fault in a Scotsman to mate his daughter withpeople of her own kith. '

"There was no quarrel, and no discourtesy; but I saw I could bend aniron bar with my pleadings just as soon as his determination. Jessyreceived orders not to meet me or speak to me alone; and the possibilityof disobeying her father's command never suggested itself to her. Even Istruggled long with my misery before I dared to ask her to practice herfirst deceit. 

"She would not meet me alone, but she persuaded her mother to come oncewith her to our usual tryst in the wood. Mrs. Lorimer spoke kindly buthopelessly, and covered her own face to weep while Jessy and I took ofeach other a passionate farewell. I promised her then never to marryanyone else; and she!--I thought her heart would break as I laid heralmost fainting in her mother's arms. 

"Yet I did not know how much Jessy really was to me until I suddenlyfound out that her father had sent her back to Scotland, under thepretence of finishing her education. I had been so honorably considerateof Jessy's Puritan principles that I felt this hasty, secret movementexceedingly unkind and unjust. Guadalupe became hateful to me, theduties of the ranch distracting; and my brother Felix returning aboutthis time, we made a division of the estate. He remained at the Garciamansion, I rented out my possessions, and went, first to New Orleans, and afterward to New York. 

"In New York I opened a studio, and one day a young gentleman called andasked me to draw a picture from some crude, imperfect sketch which afriend had made. During the progress of the picture he frequently calledin. For some reason or other--probably because we were each other'santipodes in tastes and temperament--he became my enthusiastic admirer, and interested himself greatly to secure me a lucrative patronage. 

"Yet some subtle instinct, which I cannot pretend to divine or explain, constantly warned me to beware of this man. But I was ashamed and angryat myself for linking even imaginary evil with so frank and generous anature. I defied destiny, turned a deaf ear to the whisperings of mygood genius, and continued the one-sided friendship--for I never evenpretended to myself that I had any genuine liking for the man. 

"One day, when we had become very familiar, he ran up to see me aboutsomething, I forget what, and not finding me in the outer apartments, penetrated to my private room. There, upon that easel, Will Lennox firstsaw the woman you saw with him to-night--the picture which you are nowlooking at--and he fell as desperately in love with it, in his way, as Ihad done in the Guadalupe woods with the reality. I cannot tell you howmuch it cost me to restrain my anger. He, however, never noticed I wasangry. He had but one object now--to gain from me the name and residenceof the original. 

"It was no use to tell him it was a fancy picture, that he was sighingfor an imagination. He never believed it for a moment. I would not sellit, I would not copy it, I would not say where I had painted it; I keptit to my most sacred privacy. He was sure that the girl existed, andthat I knew where she lived. He was very rich, without an occupation oran object, and Jessy's pure, lovely face haunted him day and night, andsupplied him with a purpose. 

"He came to me one day and offering me a large sum of money, asked mefinally to reveal at least the locality of which I had painted thepicture. His free, frank unembarrassed manner compels me to believe thathe had no idea of the intolerable insult he was perpetrating. He hadalways been accustomed to consider more or less money an equivalent forall things under the sun. But you, Jack, will easily understand that theoffer was followed by some very angry words, and that his threat to huntthe world over to find my beauty was not without fear to me. 

"I heard soon after that Will Lennox had gone to the South. I hadneither hidden nor talked about my former life and I was ignorant of howmuch he knew or did not know of it. He could trace me easily to NewOrleans; how much further would depend upon his tact and perseverance. Whether he reached Guadalupe or no, I am uncertain, but my heart fellwith a strange presentment of sorrow when I saw his name, a few weeksafterward, among the European departures. 

"The next thing I knew of Will Lennox was his marriage to some famousScotch beauty. Jack, do you not perceive the rest? The Scotch beauty wasJessy Lorimer. I feared it at the first. I knew it this afternoon. "

"Will you call there?"

"I have no power to resist it. Did you not notice how eagerly shepressed the invitation?"

"Do not accept it, Petralto. "

He shook his head, and remained silent. The next afternoon I wasastonished on going up to his rooms to find Will Lennox, sitting there. He was talking in that loud, happy, demonstrative way so natural to menaccustomed to have the whole world minister unto them. 

He did not see how nervous and angry Petralto was under his easy, boastful conversation. He did not notice the ashy face, the blazingeyes, the set lips, the trembling hands, of the passionate Spanishnature, until Petralto blazed out in a torrent of unreasonable words andtaunts, and ordered Lennox out of his presence. 

Even then the stupid, good-natured, purse-proud man could not see hisdanger. He began to apologize to me for Petralto's rudeness, and excuse"anything in a fellow whom he had cut out so badly. "

"Liar!" Petralto retorted. "She loved me first; you can never have herwhole heart. Begone! If I had you on the Guadalupe, where Jessy and Ilived and loved, I would--"

The sentence was not finished. Lennox struck Petralto to the ground, and before I raised him, I persuaded the angry bridegroom to retire. Istayed with Petralto that night, although I was not altogether pleasedwith him. He was sulky and silent at first, but after a quiet rest and afew consoling Havanas he was willing to talk the affair over. 

"Lennox tortured me, " he said, passionately. "How could he be sounfeeling, so mad, as to suppose I should care to learn what chain ofcircumstances led him to find out my love and then steal her? Everythinghe said tortured me but one fact--Jessy was alone and thoroughlymiserable. Poor little pet! She thought I had forgotten her, and so shemarried him--not for love; I won't believe it. "

"But, " I said, "Petralto, you have no right to hug such a delusion; andseeing that you had made no attempt to follow Jessy and marry her, shehad every right to suppose you really had forgotten her. Besides, Ithink it very likely that she should love a young, rich, good-lookingfellow like Will Lennox. "

"In not pursuing her I was following Jessy's own request and obeying myown plighted promise. It was understood between us that I should waitpatiently until Jessy was twenty-one. Even Scotch customs would thenhave regarded her as her own mistress and acknowledged her right tomarry as she desired; and if I did not write, she has not wantedconstant tokens of my remembrance. I have trusted her, " he said, mournfully, "without a sign from her. "

That winter the beauty of Mrs. Lennox and the devotion of her husbandwere on every tongue. But married is not mated, and the best part ofJessy Lorimer's beauty had never touched Will Lennox. Her pure, simple, poetic temperament he had never understood, and he felt in a dim, uncertain way that the noblest part of his wife escaped him. 

He could not enter into her feelings, and her spiritual superiorityunconsciously irritated him. Jessy had set her love's first music to thebroad, artistic heart of Petralto; she could not, without wrongingherself, decline to a lower range of feelings and a narrower heart. Thisreserve of herself was not a conscious one. She was not one of thoseself-involved women always studying their own emotions; she was simplytrue to the light within her. But her way was not Will Lennox's way, herfiner fancies and lighter thoughts were mysteries to his grosser nature. 

So the thing happened which always has and always will happen in suchcases; when the magic and the enchantment of Jessy's great personalbeauty had lost their first novelty and power, she gradually became toher husband--"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than hishorse. "

I did not much blame Will Lennox. It is very hard to love what we do notcomprehend. A wife who could have sympathized in his pursuits, talkedover the chances of his "Favorite, " or gone to sea with him in hisyacht, would always have found Will an indulgent and attentive husband. But fast horses did not interest Jessy, and going to sea made her ill;so gradually these two fell much further apart than they ought to havedone. 

Now, if Petralto had been wicked and Jessy weak, he might have revengedhimself on the man and woman who had wrought him so much suffering. Buthe had set his love far too high to sully her white name; and Jessy, inthat serenity which comes of lofty and assured principles, had no ideaof the possibility of her injuring her husband by a wrong thought. Yetinstinctively they both sought to keep apart; and if by chance they met, the grave courtesy of the one and the sweet dignity of the other leftnothing for evil hopes or thoughts to feed upon. One morning, two yearsafter Jessy's marriage, I received a note from Petralto, asking me tocall upon him immediately. To my amazement, his rooms were dismantled, his effects packed up, and he was on the point of leaving New York. 

"Whither bound?" I asked. "To Rome?"

"No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try what nature can do for me. Art, society, even friendship, fail at times to comfort me for my lost love. I will go back to nature, the great, sweet mother and lover of men. "

So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known himforgot him--forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him. 

I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful Germanphilosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities, " forgotPetralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I loungedand trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. I was "enamored of divinephilosophy, " took no more interest in polite gossip, and did not wastemy time reading newspapers. In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, Idid not feel that I had the time lawfully to spare. 

Therefore, anyone may imagine my astonishment when, about three yearsafter Petralto's departure from New York, he one morning suddenlyentered my study, handsome as Apollo and happy as a bridegroom. I haveused the word "groom" very happily, for I found out in a few minutesthat Petralto's radiant condition was, in fact, the condition of abridegroom. 

Of course, under the circumstances, I could not avoid feelingcongratulatory; and my affection for the handsome, loving fellow cameback so strongly that I resolved to break my late habits of seclusion, and go to the Brevoort House and see his bride. 

I acknowledge that in this decision there was some curiosity. I wonderedwhat rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and Irather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations ofeternal fidelity to his first love. 

I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, infact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood at once that Willmust be dead; but I did not learn the particulars until the next day, when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke and chat. Not unwillingly Ishut my book and lit my cigar. 

"'All's well that ends well, ' my dear fellow, " I said, when we had bothsmoked silently for a few moments; "but I never heard of Will Lennox'sdeath. I hope he did not come to the Guadalupe and get shot. "

Petralto shook his head and replied: "I was always sorry for thatthreat. Will never meant to injure me. No. He was drowned at sea twoyears ago. His yacht was caught in a storm, he ventured too near theshore, and all on board perished. "

"I did not hear of it at the time. "

"Nor I either. I will tell you how I heard. About a year ago I went, aswas my frequent custom, to the little open glade in the forest where Ihad first seen Jessy. As I lay dreaming on the warm soft grass I saw abeautiful woman, clothed in black, walk slowly toward the very samejasmine vine, and standing as of old on tip-toe, pull down a loadedbranch. Can you guess how my heart beat, how I leaped to my feet andcried out before I knew what I was doing, 'Jessy! darling Jessy!' Shestood quite still, looking toward me. Oh, how beautiful she was! Andwhen at length we clasped hands, and I gazed into her eyes, I knewwithout a word that my love had come to me. "

"She had waited a whole year?"

"True; I liked her the better for that. After Will's death she went toScotland--put both herself and me out of temptation. She owed this muchto the memory of a man who had loved her as well as he was capable ofdoing. But I know how happy were the steps that brought her back to theGuadalupe, and that warm spring afternoon under the jasmine vine paidfor all. I am the happiest man in all the wide world. "