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m mm uu mi mfR 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
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 •1 < •> . .4 « 
 
 ilOSK PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
 2.") Wef-linoton Street West, Toronto. 
 
I 
 
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CONTKNTS. 
 
 Ch 
 
 Am k. 
 
 i'~~ir/f,if /s It All About 1 
 
 2- --/ Ciifiiu/itvi Ifoine. 
 
 3 — // VouH}^ Liufy^ A Lawyer aiui A Yankee. 
 
 4. — MooN/i^n^'/it /'or Three. 
 
 $.— Jit'fitat/i jyii- U'arv /u>ui://s. - - 
 
 .— / 
 
 6. 
 
 7— A l'\rst Ki 
 
 'barney Ana' Jcny 
 
 ss. 
 
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 »7- 
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 19.- 
 
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 22, 
 
 -a- 
 
 ~i: liter n 
 
 \'i 
 
 ' — Great Thimrs To Do. 
 
 J Must Jfa'e Salmon. - - . . 
 — // Pic-Nie iiy The Lake. 
 
 -A J^aniation ; An Arrival, And A Lecture. 
 —Diifnt Know When She Was Well Off. 
 ' — Arcadian Lovers Truly. 
 . — Lhe First L^^isa^c^reement. 
 —Askiu}^ Lor What LLe Meant to Lake. 
 
 — The Way To Do Lt. - - - 
 
 — W/iat's The Matter With My Rose 1 
 — L'lmily Lupins To L^lot. 
 
 LVie Cricket Match And A Sul>se(jucnt LAttle 
 
 L 
 
 eccavi. 
 
 -And LLe Was Comforted. 
 Covering:; Vh LLis Tracks. 
 ■You Shall /Lave Your Trip, Ada. 
 
 24.- -A Comini^ Storm. - - . . 
 
 2^.— My Love Lai let fi Not ! Oh,' Lulwin ' Edwin f 
 
 Pa(;k. 
 
 
 5 
 
 
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 - - 36 
 
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 Game. 1 7 7 
 
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 1 1 
 
 237 
 
 - 255 
 
 ilj 
 
 z 66 
 
 \ m\ 
 
^' 
 
 UJlll 
 
 |)cr> 
 
 was 
 
 this 
 
 npoi 
 
 a v\( 
 »< 
 
 I ha 
 
 are 
 
 you 
 hiini 
 inak 
 try 1 
 
 uml 
 << 
 
 a ('i 
 lion 
 lane 
 f)r s 
 

 yiHE M 
 
 rCHT 
 
 I^ 
 
 AVE PoilE 
 
 P 
 
 ETTEI\, 
 
 (•H.\ni:K I 
 
 \NM \| l> II Ml, \i;nt I ? 
 
 •• It is a hiirnini; hliann; I think. I'ik If." saiil a hincionv 
 w)im^r lady, turning — in the front scat of the carriage, olsvliic h 
 >hc w.is the rharioteer t(m.ir<ls her two male ( oinpanior.s, the 
 person addressed and her (atlier ; " voii promised that this \isii 
 nas .specially to me. I ha\e driven twenty miles to meet \oii 
 this warm dav, and how do von receive the honour I < onfev 
 upon you ? .Since vve lett the station you have not adrlressed 
 a word to me." 
 
 '* Not addressed a word to you, I'ithel ? Well, at all e\ent>. 
 I have been talking ever since we nu't." 
 
 " Ves. I ha\e been listening to nou. Ii i> n«it often that \on 
 are silent. I lule. I, oi|uacity itself like ;i true Yankee. Mui 
 y(jur conversation has not 1)een interesting — one of your usu.'I 
 harangues u|)()n politics. Mut where is the use ? N'ou < annot 
 make a Canadian of Paj)a ; he is Knglish. N'ou jiiight as u ell 
 try to m.ike an American of him ; so relin(iuish the vain idea, 
 and let us have something more interesting," 
 
 "Something more iiili rcslin^' ' " echoed Iut un< K- : *' vou are 
 a (Canadian, at an\ rate. I'",thel, and the theme t)f our lonversa- 
 lion should be of interest to you, or anything relating to the 
 land of your birth. Your father is a Canadian by adoption — 
 or should be — <'onsidering (he number of )ears he has made 
 
Ill MK.M t II W I lMtN4 l:|.l i l,l> 
 
 thi* M»iiMtn l»i>» hniiii'. Mul it >hniiM .lixi l»v jif iiitc-n>t lubitn." 
 
 ••A ho|Kli's«. iiica. I in U . N mi mny rcluMrst* lor t'vt?r the 
 
 ^'naliu^s of ( .in.nli. I»u( ra|»a is al\vii\N n ;i,1y to ban;; cnit his 
 
 i>riti-h staii(ianlli. whirlim niii-iin it. NMitliuJ lii-ttir talk 
 
 \n me. 
 
 '* NN'hii h nuai)«» ih.K >«Mi uaiti ilu « i>n\i'r>aiiuii all U> yoiii 
 M'll. I'.tlul. \\'r\ uill : I shall till v(»ii a st«»r\ thm. " 
 
 •' That \sill In ni« tr. I rt ii^ ha\i rhr ^utr\ l>\ ill means. 
 um!i." 
 
 •' There is a larnur <»f m\ \irinit\ an Ameriean. of <\,iirsi'. 
 nr (lie siury nxoiiM fiot l»e worth the telling who (MHO enj;a;j;eii 
 .; lu i;,'hlMmr ;i real li\o \ ankee iVom '•down east" — to help 
 him in ln;;^'inLj ii|» .1 pin e ol" iuarl\ rli;in«l laml. to put it in 
 r« HliiU'ss lur 1 < rop. Now. Ii 1141;! iij; a> \oii ma\ perhips l»v 
 
 iiwarc — IS a \e 
 
 r\ lali 
 
 KMhMIS lMlNilKS>. 
 
 and n 
 
 iinv 
 
 runsM 
 
 lerahh 
 
 personal stren^'th in thosr in.:;;ii;e«l in il. Si» lar .is this (|iialil\ 
 wa-i <(»Mrernetl, my iVieinl. ilu- larnur, had made a gootl ( hoire 
 of" an assist. int, lor l!i)ene/.er was as powerfully framed .is his 
 jnaster ; Ittit he had et|nally with the latter, an uiKoiKiner.dtK- 
 •nersitjii to using his strenj,'th in any greater degree than he 
 • mild help ; .ind both heing rem.irka!)ly keen hands, the\ were 
 ronst.mtly striving each to throw the lion's share ol" the hard 
 WMil upon the other. During liieir first morning's work, K.hen- 
 t/v.r manipulated so sueeesstully liis talents in sctairing for 
 himself the liglit lifting, and throwing the heav\ work upon his 
 niast«*r, dial the latter hei.ame im|)atient, as he found himself 
 with at least one half of the la])our to perform, while, a- 
 master, he conceived himself < ailed upon for a much lighter 
 sh.ire. At length, as one |)articularly heavy log was drawn ip 
 to the pile, and KhefKv.er — ever ali\e to his «jwn interests — 
 iinliit<hing the o\-chain, had (|uietly sneaked off to the smal- 
 cnd of the stick for the light lift — his patience gave wa\. " Al 
 
 wa\s lake the butt-end, Ki)ene/er 
 
 shouted 
 
 that' 
 
 s \our 
 
 vn<] vnii know. Never lu ifr.iid nf tin- butt end."' and tl 
 
 K 
 
w II \ I 1^ j : \i I \i:mi I. 
 
 7 
 
 liiti cn«l I'.lK'iic/ir IkmI to i.iki'. \\\\\\ ill liu n-oi nl (Ik \>u\\ 
 «i',il<. umi lor (h:it roniMNin. ' 
 
 "llitN, uhiU II l>roii;:lii iiiiL'ih !•• tilt Iranii. ,il.>o ImMiuhi 
 
 MAJtion to llu <«|Miii, .mmI hi vou(«| rr\« !);;(. Ilk' (liiinvi 
 
 til 
 
 vs 
 
 iiir ^MVt' hiiM i( liM'^t' It t.ol. lilt! joU'iilK ilu'\ utiukd their 
 ;iy to thr hoiist . Miitinu' llu {•roy,n'>s ol ilu mr;tl. tlu I'.ir 
 in«r'> u il'c laiil lutoit In r IiiinImdi! .i t;iNHll\ ni/hI |Mul(liii^. 
 \\h> |>ii(l(liit}4 tlu Nkilhil hoiiMuik- IkmI iMiiil iipoii :i mtv ni<«v 
 |iriiui|ik. riu' liirj^cr |>;iri. iK .tiiu«l lor lur^rll ;iml hci lnis 
 l»;iml. u:is thirlJy sinHifl v, iih iii< • l.n-i r;u«i?>«<. while ihi 
 ^mailer, to !»<■ jlloitcd in Ijn k/ii. \',,t . Imt iiu;;;^'ril\ sii|>j»liol 
 
 uith tiiosL' toolhsoiiit lliiii; 
 
 \ •'rr.il >;ivinu this, ;iiui :)- 
 
 LI»ciJc/cr w;is to In- sjtmmI iVom thr s.nm (|i>h ;is his cin|tloy- 
 ci^. he. rc'Usoii:ilt|\, roiild h:i\( nothin;; ol u '''« h to (dinpLiiii. 
 
 *• As the r;»riiur raiscil his h.iml lo tliv iiic tht iMitMinj;. he >.;ii.l : 
 'Wall I l'!l>'nc/cr. siiin' ;i> hrovv yew ir luljon'ii^ to»|;iy. ilu' 
 (»!»! woiiiaii lias made a ifissiti I'or u«-.' 
 
 '• • \ a'as ! I sees.' replied l'",ltem/er. eyeing' it narrowly. 
 
 " hown <anie the larmer's knile ii|)oi) the line ol" intersc* lion 
 iielvvecn the richlv and the l>arel\ >liiriVd nxU. 
 
 '• ' Hold out \our |»late. l'!I»'ne/er.' 
 
 " Hut Kl>ene/.er renieniliered his niornin':;'> lessoji. StrLlt h- 
 iiij; across the tahle. he sin<ls hi^ fork into the laige and well- 
 riisinetl portion. 
 
 ••' Always take the liutt end : that's the i:\M\ lor llhentver. 
 Miu know,' he ipiietly ol>ser\ed. as he put the luii'V nioi^l 
 upon his plate ; • never be al'raiil ol the hutl-end,' he continuetl. 
 a> the jiuddini;. raisins and all. rapidly disappeared helore die 
 astonished eves of the month waterinLj fanner and his ihech- 
 i.iated wife." 
 
 " Well, what then .^ " asked the voun-^ lad\ enunirin' Iv. 
 
 " That is the story." was the reply. 
 
 Indeed 
 
 Then I am '-lad it is jlonc. at all event \ VxwV 
 
 \\\\\ where is the a|»pli«;iiioii 
 
s 
 
 sill. Mh.M ( II W i. INIM 1(1.1 UK. 
 
 " Dint ih lor \oti to disrcni. my lUar." 
 
 " 1 Hi* it. NoiirMll. ( iMJv, ulio uoiihl i.iki iho l>tiii»n«l nl' 
 iIk ((Hi\cnati(Mi. " 
 
 " \\u\ MMi, I iiiLi^iiu , like I'.Ih lu/rr. w«tiit<l iniu h {ircfcr the 
 hutt ciul mI ihr piiiMih};. .itid llu* li};lilrr >h;iri- ut the work." 
 
 " Well. I think )(Mi had hctler rontiiiiic your talk with IM|»n. 
 I'hat story is ainpiv su(h< icnt lor inc." rctiiriK-d hIic. 
 
 '• N'cH ; I think so tiMi," H;iid her lather. •* If voiir uiu Ic 
 tannot itrodmc something hcttcr ilian th.it, he may as well ^o 
 on vsitli his lornur Mihjirt. It will l»c the least tiresome." 
 
 "Just what I uanlrd." 1 ArLiiniid tin- j^inlliineii referred lo. 
 
 •' \ our story w.i.s a rt>{ulai N.inkiv triek tn bore us ini«< 
 eoin|tlian(c with y»>ur wishes. Hut ^«» on. I'lulc. NN'c are 
 now resigned. Comiuciue where you left off. .ind finish as 
 M»on as possible." .said the vtninj; huly with a r<nni<al sigh. 
 
 Her uiu le braced himsell eret t in his seat, smiled ilelighl 
 ediy upon his disgusted .uulitors ; " I shall have you all in> 
 own way now"-"an(l then he rontinued — "The ultimate desti- 
 m'es of a nation must e\idently depend in great measure upon 
 the <<»unlry in whirh its miillitudes reside ; the land itv'f 
 >shi(h forms their heritage." 
 
 " No matter what may be the physical or the psyehical 
 eapabilities of the races inhabiting, the measure of the greatness 
 tlie\ mav attain will be verv much determineil bv the i)hvsi( al 
 capabilities of the land ihey iniiabit. If their country be iiai- 
 uially great, fertile, iteautifiii, grand in its contour and evleiii, 
 its people should be<onH' a gre.it people, and reach the highest 
 civilization." 
 
 " i'he |)eculiar genius and bent of the races composing it. 
 their mental and |>hysical endowments, may be the chief factor 
 i»f the sum of the civili/.ation and power they may reach : but 
 not the sole < auses. The natural couditif^ns of that portion of 
 (lf»d's idiglu world which has i»ecome theirs, bear i)0\veit'ul and 
 
 detciiiiininL! intlucm 
 
 \'>. 
 
 a. 
 
U fl \| (S I I Ml NMnI I 
 
 N 
 
 I hi- k'niiiu^ oi tlu- l;iii(l, ilii |ik':iH:iiii. I'Vii lu u intl \ iry* 
 iiu, (ImiiiIn iIi;ii iIk' KloritniH Tare til' h.ihirc |>r*.''ikiii> (•• ilic \'\v, 
 ntiN l'i>i> iIh' iiiiiiil inw.inU tl);il ln\i- ui tlu' .)i';uiiilul and |miiv. 
 the ck-vatioii ol m iiliiiit-Mi .hhI mI hIim whit It arc the first c*> 
 MiUiah ol a hi^'h ami Uiu.-rMiiil livili/atioii ; while the natinii 
 .il |(r(»N|K'rity. tontintially accuimilatiiig, uhicli a rich and tiwtilv 
 loiintry gives to its peojile, vield> (he ^lienglli and (Ik |io»m-I' 
 lor an enduring < ivili/atiun. logether lor cndming gVatnesit.' 
 
 •' Il then the |»hysiial l»eaiitie> anil vvealth ol a country .uv 
 diterniining elements to make the |»eo|tle hap|ty, advanted. 
 rdined ami |M»\verliil. this *< 'anada of ours ' should heronie a 
 great nation. Sjuinging Ironi untouched virgin wilds into a«tivc 
 hie ; under the ardent |>owers ol a people sprung Ironi Marih's 
 h\o greatest olnues; with their vivilying rullure and luMh 
 t i\ili/ati«»n — the slow growth ol" renturies — lran>p!nitvd 
 uad) lade to the new. Iresh soil : ^urely the \\i<le land ul the 
 lu.iple and the ln'aver has all the elements lor a lulure — great 
 and powerful." 
 
 •' Waving her young Hag over half a continent, she \m\> di- 
 sei>ilv enough, range enough, verge iMul scope enough." 
 
 '* .No narrow metes and hounds confine her energies." 
 
 "The great Dominion, strett hing from orean to ocenn. 
 iwails hut her millions to bring forth and vivify the vast resour- 
 ces she contains ; vast and varied as her wiile extent." 
 
 '• I'roliahly no oMur couiury is possessed of so great a 
 diversity ; so varii'd and so opposiii- a range -'f heauly in ii-. 
 natural scenery as (his 'Canada of «iMr«..' NN iihin its great bor- 
 ders .Nature seems to have selecli-d a l.ivourite field ; and glo- 
 ried in her worK of gnmping together everv different ind 
 charming effect ; every gradi' of magnificent picturing that her 
 lavish hand could inchilue." 
 
 no 
 
 • An infinite variety overspreads the iaiul, ant! no samene:>s, 
 taial uniformity of design mars the ever-recurring freshness 
 
 nd novellv of th«' wonderful .ilrcination of the xi-nerv 
 
fl 
 
 11 
 
 i I 
 
 10 
 
 *iii. \ii<;iii iiAVK iM»M-. i;i:i ii:u. 
 
 •• W hill ;i >u|>(il» |);in«>r;im;j o|>liis on ihc cvc niul muvc'^ the 
 jJioiul sense, while the C.'anrulian surveys ihe vast nnd m.ii;- 
 nilK em hiiul of liis birth. Ironi the rock-hound yet jj;ranti 
 Allanti* coast — llirec thousand miles — to the inlet-indented 
 and heautiful shores of ihi' Pacific --what a pajj^eant lies '. 
 .\lountains and valley : hill and plain ; sea coast and river — 
 the trackless forest and the boundless prairie. Ihe vast lakes 
 — fresh-<\ater seas — expanded to the dimensions of ocean", 
 and the silver lakelet, gleaming like a gem in the bosom of the 
 green woods. The desolate w.ldness of the fro/en north, and 
 the ri<h. luxuriant beauty (.'" an almost tropical clime. The 
 land of the gra|>e and the icy home of the polar bear. The 
 crowded citv. and the grassv range of the bulfalo. Jhe rith 
 and cultivated regions of the white man, with all their acccss- 
 v/iies of civilization, order and wealth : and the rude Indian 
 cum|>. .\ll : all these, are comprehended within the mighty 
 scene, whose vastness and grandeur might well ins])ire a pairi- 
 (Uic ardour, a true Canatlian pride ; and give an exultant ring 
 lo the voice which proudly says — • 'J'his is my Country !' " 
 
 "And upon what a magnifuent scale has not the great 
 picture been laid? No narrow distances or hemmed-in boun- 
 daries are |)ent in the great Canadian land. Us thousand- 
 miles-long rivers ; its thousand miles wide forests and prairies, 
 waiting with their virgin treasures tor the coming millions. 
 The mightv .St. Laurence its great gulf and ocean lakes — in 
 each of which a state might be submerged, piercing the length 
 oi the land — draining the waters, and bearing the commerce of 
 a ( ontinenl, are \ ittuv's 'rreal works given to a (ountrv that is 
 destined to be great." 
 
 •• If the inHuen<e of the natural beauties, the social advan- 
 tages which Nature, with so lavish a hand has bestowed on our 
 land, have, as they surely ought to have, an elevating and 
 refining effect on the sj^irit and mind of the jjeople : and tend 
 V.I increase .md footer that ardent I'atriotism — thai enduring 
 
 I 
 
A CANADIAN \\()S[\ 
 
 tl 
 
 l(;\c ct* cuiiMtry whirli t'Ncry nun ini^t tctl for tin- )nd o( hi- 
 birth ; then tlii> Canada posscssc-^ flii' prime I'loment-- rf)r a 
 .Tt*at liituro." 
 
 •• Tilt' rest lies with the people theniNehe — their mcra.!-. 
 tiu'ir ijidustry, and their rajjacity to govern and he ;.:o\('rned." 
 
 "Our heritage is a great one. H" it is not teU t) he a 
 l^eritage and an honour to he named • ;i Canadian.' it i-, the 
 tlailt of Canadians." 
 
 CIIAI'IKk II, 
 
 \ rWADIAN ItOMI. 
 
 On the shores ot" one of the <harniing little Lakes, wiiirii 
 form not the least attraction of the very |)ictures(|u«' and beau 
 tiful tract of country, lying well north of Lake Ontario — stand- 
 ihe extensive and well-ordered demesne of Mr. Henry Mor- 
 (launt. An Englishman of some means, who early in life had 
 (Tossed over to Canada, more from the pleasure to he derived 
 from travel, and from sport, than for any |)urpose of permanent 
 residence — he had fallen upon the spot (then almost a virgin 
 wilderness) and had heen so attracteil hy its heauty, and the 
 sporting charms of the adjoining country, that he had pur- 
 thased some thousands of acres of land surrounding hisdiosen 
 lake, and settled down to improve the pro|)erty thus ac (|uired. 
 .\^\(\ to lead the life of a Canadian coimtry gentleman. 
 
 Possessed of taste, as well as means, he had converted the 
 rough frontier clearing, of whicli years hefore he had entered 
 into possession, into what was at once a large and well cultivat- 
 ed |)r()perty, and a heautiful place of ahode : and, while he 
 jhad cleared up his lands extensively, fully entering into the 
 i^l'irit of the Canadian farmer, who dearly loves wide Helds-hc 
 studied to preserve the natur.d heautics of the. pla< c : to ini 
 
 
ii 
 
 If 
 
 II 
 
 < I 
 
 t 
 
 i 'I ' 
 
 
 1 
 
 ^ I 
 
 I i 
 
 lii 
 
 ij SHK MMilll II. \\ K DnM'. j{i;| I | k. 
 
 I'njvc iiiul enhance thcni In nil tht- iirts wliii h his iirtistii ra.'<ti^s, 
 love of scenery and <-onunan»l of money < ould bring to that 
 end. 
 
 One .siile nl Iii> |»ieii> lakr Ik hid MilTciefl l(» remain f"rin',fed 
 to the water's eil^^e with tlu' ;;lorioiis old maples, elms and pines 
 ot* the j)rimeval forest — a sheltering and a heautifiil , lek-ground 
 — wh le on the gently rising and undulating shore of the other 
 bank lay the < ultivated grounds ; stretching hack over a wide 
 extent : interspersed with groves and copses. or<hards and 
 ortiamental j)lantations, wherever such would most heighten the 
 effect. The unsightly sjiots, common to every landscape, and. 
 • ommonly left in their deformity to p.iin the eye, had heen 
 carefully hidden l>\ fringes of trees ; and the harns and (jut- 
 houses (generally tinpleasing ohjects) in die same manner were 
 masked front sight. The fields liordering the shores of the 
 lake were <ulti\aled in die water's edge, with no ragged and 
 u?>sightly ratige of hushes ohstruding the view ; hut the smcioth 
 grassy slopes met the water, with here and there a tree, or an 
 effective cojjse to adorn and guard them from sameness. 
 
 The property, which under the ruthless and wholesale de- 
 struction of the forest (swee|)ing away every tree with hand 
 that seems to hate — that too often marks the progress of the 
 Canadian settler), would liave heen hut a hare clearing, resem- 
 l)led a handsome and well laid out park. 
 
 On a gentle eminence near die heati o\' the lake, sheltered 
 hy the |)ictiires(|uely-wooded heights adjacent — with its lawns, 
 gardens and ornamental grounds running down to the water — 
 stood the house, a large, handsome and comfortable structure, 
 which looked ])retty and homelike surrounded with its trellised 
 and vine-covered verandah; with its Inndsome conservatory, 
 well-kept walks and bright gardens. 
 
 Lake Mordaunt, as its owner had named his jjroperty, had 
 been so extensive a purchase that it still remained, as it were. 
 en\elopc<l in its own anricnt forests, so that the nearest neigh 
 
 m 
 
A CANADIAN HoMI 
 
 U 
 
 in iVini^ed 
 and pines 
 ck-ground 
 the other 
 .•r a wide 
 ards and 
 ■ighten the 
 cape, atid. 
 had heen 
 -; and out- 
 nner were 
 •res of the 
 iigged and 
 the smooth 
 ree, or an 
 ess. 
 
 )lesale de- 
 with hand 
 ess of the 
 ng, resem- 
 
 sheltered 
 its lawns, 
 le water — 
 
 strueture. 
 ts trellised 
 nser\atory. 
 
 f'M 
 
 lidiir >> hoii^e lay at a distance of three miles. IIk popuK'u.. 
 ullage of Ten Lakes was four miles distant, whilst the nearest 
 railwav station was twenty miles awa\. Well might it l»e < ailed 
 .1 (oiintrv place, and was probably none the less valued l)\ its 
 owner for that reason. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt had married, a few years after his .irrival in 
 the country — in Western New N'ork, — an American lady whom 
 he had met in one of his numerous pleasure excursions. A case 
 of love at first sight on both sides, he had been attracted by 
 the winning disposition and delicate charms of the fair Amer- 
 i( an ; while she, on her part, hatl not been unwilling to share 
 the fortunes of the handsome and courtly Knglishman, although 
 her future home was then sutlplpntly far removed from manv 
 of the advantages of an oldolMistrict. 
 
 Three < hildren — a <laughter, tluir first born : a son two year^ 
 her junior, and a charming little girl, now three years of age — 
 had added to their liapjiiness. 
 
 In his habits Mr. Mordaunt |)resented the somewhat unusu- 
 .il anomaly of a strong love of literary pursuits, and an e(iually 
 well-developed liking for field sports, with a love of country life. 
 Mis I)ooks, with his gun, his rods, his horses ixnd his great farm 
 nretty e'jually and very pleasantly occu[j'ed his time. 
 
 About fifty years of age, he was still a young-looking, active 
 md vigorous man, to whom life was a pleasure ; and its duties, 
 nhiih, as far as his abilities went, were carried out to the letter, 
 jn etijoyment. In his manners he was polished, refined atul 
 (ourteous ; sim|ile as to his habits : of \]\c^^ mkI earnest views 
 —especially as to religion, and utterly intoleratit of all that was 
 profane or irreverent. Kond of company and the society of 
 his friends, when at his own house : he barely endured occasion- 
 al visits into the great world for the sake of his family — tt) 
 whom he was an affectionate husband and father, and by whom 
 he was tenderlv loved. 
 
 His wife — 7irr Klrirence llorton — was some ten \ears hei 
 
 HI 
 
 i\ 
 
'ii 
 
 u 
 
 >\i\. >ll(.ll I JIW I:. I MINI. HI. I TKR. 
 
 I.I 
 
 V I 
 
 1 1 
 
 IuinIkiiuI's jiininr. .m<l >iill iri;iini<l .1 ^i\-.\\ mcasiirt ol in 1 | 
 SMpcrl) yoiithrul l>c;uit\. l)«li(;Ui' looking, as in her yoiilh, her | 
 li;i|»|)y inarrit'd iik- and tin* iVi'sli vii.ili/in;^ air of lier < onntn f 
 lionic — \vlv>st' a» li\». (Iiitii-s ^lu' mm li liked- had preserved ht/r 
 iK'alth ; and her hnshand an<l her (hildrcn -with these (hities 
 -•vielded her a lovirrj; inieresi in life whit !r. had kejit her .1 
 ha|)|>y and a handsome woman. 
 
 if she did not i|uitc' share her i)M^I»and> low of" al)strn>e 
 
 sHidies, yet she was well ediiraled. rehned and agreeable: so 
 
 happily constituted with the rare (harm of rendering all around 
 
 her pleasurable and bright — that an invitation to Lake Mor 
 
 dairnt was always eagerlx ae< e^(l by the happy recipients. 
 
 ^la.ny of the adornments of tht^Bce had been of her creation. 
 
 Her ( (Miserxatories. her Mowers .^^her gardens were the boasi 
 
 cf" the country aroirnd : j)rol)al)ly as mtt(h for her sake, as tor 
 
 tiieir intrinsii merits : for her suave |)oliteness to all : her 
 
 kindness and sweet human sympathies gave in return the 
 
 (Vspect and love o!" all <Iasses with whoni she came in (ontact : 
 
 A'.hile there was no surer way of gaining her goodwill than at; 
 
 honest admiration of the objects of her love : her husband. 
 
 her children, and Lake Mordaitnt. 
 
 I 
 
 THAITKR 111. 
 
 I 
 
 A M)l.\(, lADV — A I.AWVKR — AM) A ^A^■KlJ:. 
 
 On a pleasant evening, closing a sultry July da)-, in the year 
 of grace 187^^. three jjersons wwre seated in the cool and leafy 
 verandah that shaded the house at Lake Mordaunt, etijoyin-; 
 the fresh evening bree/e ; watching the declining sun as it dipj)ed 
 over the pretty lake and burnislied its tiny wavelets : and ad- 
 miring the golden tinging of the woody points -the last ]>right. 
 farewell kisses of departing day. 
 
^}\\ MK.in IIWI I MINI'. llF.IILk 
 
 »S 
 
 N-. ilif iluaii^lit.s, j< tion> ,iiul (.nciiIn \vhi« h .>h;ill luij^liim m 
 ()\v.!>Iuh1<»>v the lives of these three |>eo^ .e have iniu h to dc 
 V, iih this jKiriHtioii. it i> Imt riuht that the\ lu- intr(i(hi<r«l in 
 l»i(>l»er tbrin. 
 
 * /Vtrrc aiix ifd/nts.'^ iixl >\Met I'lhel Mnnliiiiiit — upon whose 
 liiiglit hair the lingering sun's hist r;iy hus fallen in goMen 
 (.iiihrace through the wavy leaves — shall first turn her laui'hin;' 
 *.\es and (lelieious taee to the reader's glanre. 
 
 Miss I'ithel Mordaunt was very ni<e ; as nice a young lady 
 .^^ » ould be found in all hroad ( )ntario. and that is sayinj- a 
 :;ood deal. W hen, too. a ><)ung lady is ni«e, the a|)|)li< ation of 
 ihe word to her is very nice also. She was tall and slight, and 
 'he was gracefully formed. She was all gra<e and soft, easy 
 iiioveineiit. Her long, white neck was e\(|uisitely set. gi\in!'' a 
 peculiarly delightful and graceful poise to her l»eaiitil\il little 
 hea«l. .She was handsonie. refineil and inleiku tual lookini-, )ci 
 replete with the vivacity and tpiii k delighted interest that her 
 twenty )outhful summers ga\e her. 
 
 Her violet blue eyes —blue and .soft as the simset skies — 
 looked out on the world with an expression so frank and so 
 open, with so kind a spirit shining in their «lear depths, that !•: 
 uas easy to read the innate goodness and amiability that dw^'ll 
 l/eiiealh. The generous and sympathetic nature- -inanitest in 
 every word and action — exulting in the noble and excellent. 
 >orrowing for the evil, rejoicing with the ha|jpy and grievint', 
 with the wretched — but heightened her attractions with that 
 nelTable and undefinable ' eauty which is as much the external 
 >ignature of goodness, as are the bitter lines — marring many 
 in otherwi.se charming face — the markings of the poor and (old- 
 liearted ^;irit. 
 
 Her features were regular enough to maintain her preseni 
 beauty, yet without the cold immobility of the classic models. 
 Her ( omi^lexion, like her mother's, was delicate, fair and tnns- 
 .'•in-m : bright rintings vnrviiv' with each Hiitlnu em<»lion : warm- 
 
 [t li 
 
i6 
 
 ANOlNCi I.ADN, I.AWNKK AND NANKKI,. 
 
 \\ 
 
 t il 
 
 V ! 
 
 I 
 
 I n 
 
 C(i or paled as her yoiitlitul interest in passing eNents, or her 
 kind svnniathv were aroused. 
 
 l\(hnated and a( conipHshed — easy and self-possessed — she 
 roiiM i)e stately eiiniij;h il" she « hoose. I>nt her eager, r<»>v little 
 iipN and pearlv teeth in general fonnd a smile more nalinal— a> 
 it was sweeter — and her s(k iety was very attractive. 
 
 She was sensible, too ; ant! if she liked poetry, she ( oiijd also 
 make a «ake, thist the piano and play it afterwards : |)aint a 
 landscape or raise young turkeys. N el her pretty taper fingers 
 showed that these dissimilar oc»uj)ations could not affect their 
 whiteness or synnnetry. Like all young ladies, she tiioroughU 
 j|>|>re< iated the gaities of a toyvn life — the homage and atten- 
 tion she attracted — yet she did not alloyv these allurements to 
 hiind her to the endearing charms of home and its pleasant 
 iluties. 
 
 She yvas the very apple of her father's eye the pride of his 
 heart. .And, indeed, for that matter, there were many yoimger 
 ;^cnilemen — not related — who would only have been too happy 
 to l)e allowed to look upon her as the a|)|)le of their eye also. 
 
 As she sits on the <ool verandah in her pretty white summer 
 thess — her charming figure framed against the leafy back ground 
 of the vines — her bright eyes dancing with pleasantness, for she 
 u. in company very agreeable to her, she forms a very pretty 
 picture, and her com|>anions cannot hel|) but think — one espe 
 < iaily, yvhose eyes are looking unutterable things —that Kthel 
 Mordaimt is, as indeed she is. a very nice girl. 
 
 The young gentleman seated near her, and who uncons(-iously 
 yet very plainly showed his devotion, is Kdwin Clereton \'an( e. 
 barrister-at-layv, with very little practice, but wealthy enough to 
 be inilependent of the professioji. and to follow his mvn ideas 
 regarding it. 
 
 The son of a considerable real estate owner of the City of 
 I'oronto he had ])een well brought u\) and carefully educated. 
 Shorilv. however, after he hod taken his degree with hiirh honor.- 
 
 ! 
 
^iii: mh;mt iiavk hnM, i;i/ni k 
 
 iiul |i;insc«I ihc l)ar, his lather died, lenvlng to the son the rnrt 
 .if hi' v\i(Umc<l mother, ;iiul enjoining him with his lasi hrc;ilh 
 ih.it >vlutcvcr l)c'fcll to Hvc as an honest man. 
 
 I.dwin Nance had entered on thi prctession of the law from 
 ihoiee. roneeiving it t(» l>e the noblest pursuit to \vhi» h a man 
 tiuild devote his life. Molding the ehivalric idea, that as a 
 member of this noble profession, he would be( oine a righter (»f 
 ihf wrongs of the oppressed, an aid to justice, ami an advotaie 
 of the truth and the right, he had entered on the studies whii h 
 hi fondly hoped would yield him a career of usefulness, of honoiii 
 md of benefit to his fellow treaiures. 
 
 The instinctive feeling or j)er<epti<)n, whichever it may be, of 
 ill right-thinking men, that the general int(.'ntions of mankin«l ire 
 more directed towards the good than the evil, was w idi him 
 ( irried to the highest point. HeiK e he never imputed the e\il 
 motive, or suspected an action, upon whose basis by au\ rea- 
 soning a more charitable construction could be raised. 
 
 Ihus the study of \.ik\\, which is, or ought to be, the exad 
 V iciK e of Justice and of Right to all, was to him a delightful 
 one, and |)robably no young man. fresh from his college honouis, 
 ever commenced the j)ractice of his i>rofession in a more en 
 ilmsiastic si)irit than did Mr. Kdwin \'ance. 
 
 It needed, however, but a very few months of its i)ractice to 
 ionvince him that there h\ a great (lilTeren<'e l>etween the Law 
 i'Nelf md its administration. 
 
 That an engine, as nearly approaching perfection as human 
 inullect and foresight could bring it, should be ])erverted thn)Ugh 
 lis necessary formalities, its re(|uisite safeguards, and unavoid- 
 ibly comj)le.\ machinery, by the misused ingenuity of but too 
 many of his professional brethren, to the delay of the righteou> 
 I ause. the advantage of the wrong, or to the gaining of their own 
 ^cltish ends, was to him a dreadful thing. 
 
 The maxim, not ])erhai)s openly acknowledged, but so com- 
 'ii(»nly put into practice among legal men as to become strictlv 
 
t8 
 
 A >ul .\(, I.AhN. (.WNM.K A.Nh NANKIJ;. 
 
 theirs, iliiii tlu' tiul jiistihcs tlic means, no nuittcr how (iiiMuti- 
 niiiv l)c the cm\ to l>e attained, or the means emiilovetl : that 
 ihe winning <»l a uroii^ rause. s«» Iuhl; as il is won, li\ an\ 
 ihi<anery, in^|,'hn^', <I«miI»K' ileahnu. e\asinn or sMp|>ression m 
 the truth that may \h neeessary, is a trinmph an<l a laiidahk 
 ihin^'. was to him equally al»lu»rrent. 
 
 The enormous expense, the needless delay, the en<'oura}<e- 
 ment of litigation, the perversion ol' the plain designs, and the 
 uneertainty in the administration of that \vhi( h was intende<l it. 
 I»e iheap, speee<ly and elTeelive— prote* tive to the rights «/t* all 
 — disgusted him. His keen sense ol honour. ;ind the dignits 
 with which he mentally rovere<l that whii:h shoukl he. and w.i> 
 to him. an honourable profession, prevented hiu) from enterin 
 upon, or taking part in, any matter that was not wholly straight 
 forward. My him no dubious cause, however lucrative, ua- 
 ever undertaken, and allliough ready and desirous to present 
 with pro|)er force and in the hest light those things that wert 
 facts, ind to employ his highest powers^to bring forth the truth 
 lo the light of day, yet he would not pervert his faculties u> 
 make ai>pear as the right what was not the right, as truth wlia! 
 was not the truth, or gain a client's cause by unworthy means. 
 
 In personal appearance he was prepossessing, showing in 
 tellectualily and the evidences of a studious life. His broad, 
 white forehead bore the contour which indicates great reasonini: 
 power, and the large, clear, dark eyes, which almost spoke 
 showed his command of language. I>ut the small, well-shaped 
 mouth, the fair com|»le\ion. and the hnver |)art of the face to<. 
 delicately cut, wanting niassiveness, while plainly tellii^g tin- 
 amiability of his character, told al.so of the lack of strong deter 
 mination. \'et the tall figure and hand.some composed fact-. 
 <;arried their (juiet air of intellectual |)ower and dignity, and Iv 
 looked, as he was — a gentleman. 
 
 Last, but not least, of our trio, comes Mr. I'Mward Jabc/ 
 1 forton. a member of Congrc't^s for th^* .Stale of New York, lliv 
 
sni: j^ni.n I ii w i (»om. hkih-.k 
 
 i«i 
 
 i)U Itiothcr ot MrN. M<?nl;itini. .ind ;i rrci|iici)t \isitur u> l..iki 
 
 \I(tnl;iiiiU : lor his sisii-r ;in(i his nitrt. Kthcl. ucn- cspctial I'.i- 
 
 M.riii'N o( his. ;iimI in LjtJU'nil .iiiy rcl.ixatiim he ioiikl ohl.iin 
 
 rroiii ImsitU'ss or his |Mil)h< diilio wtrv (k-votid to a visit to tht-iii. 
 
 |liii);j .1 wiilciwiT uirh l>iii oiu- «l;mj:hltr. luarricil and hsiii;; m 
 
 ^r. I.oiiis. hi lound thi >o< iilv o( his sistir and hi> nicrc .in 
 
 i-rtral»U' rcHcl iVoni du lidiiim nl his sjimcwhat soHtary lionu*. 
 
 \n cdiiiatod :ind intiHi^vnl Aimrir.iii of «.\paiuk'd \it'\\>. 
 
 fi\c(l and (k'< idcd o|iinions. \u \v;is in his «,tMulisiri( I a man ot 
 
 mihicntc and wii^'hi. I.iki' niosi ol his roinitrymcn he was iii- 
 
 icnsfly patrioti*'. yd widi du- hlurdily of spirit and l)roa(hics* 
 
 nt\i<'\vo.' ihi- <()sino|»ohlan Ihi' Ant^lophohia and prcjuth* c 
 
 wliich art' coininon hi mans \nu'rirans was not shared l>y liini. 
 
 !u.rdid hf tonsiikr hinistIC the kss a patriotic American there 
 
 lor. His \ie\Ns of WW-, the irsiiM of i\|Krienee and thon;.^hi . 
 
 when once lornied. uere stiaihasdy maintained with tin- ron- 
 
 sisteney of a mature and »-onl"Mknl jinli^njeni. 
 
 His |)oh'ties were not iliosc of parties, hut of measures : the 
 
 ^ood ot* his country and his k'llow-citi/ens. lo his consisteni 
 
 111(1 untirinj,^ efforls in llie cau.se of tem|)eran( e, of whieli lie wa- 
 
 jail ank'nt upholder, his eonseeutive ek'ctions to Congress had 
 
 •een mainly due. and to ha\e oppose<l him in his own dislri* t 
 
 voiild ha\e proved a hopless task. 
 
 In person he was tall, of large and powerful frame, active and 
 
 ncrgetic. and though he had passed his fiftieth year, retained 
 
 he vigor of youth. His features were finely cut. though de- 
 
 ided : his nose acpiiline, his mouth firm ; capab'", however, of 
 
 11 pleasing expression; and often lighted by a smde. His fore- 
 
 1h:uI hroad, |)rominent and well arched down over the clear, steel 
 
 I'MV eyes, gave a striking expression of power and force to the 
 
 ".H c. which was one that instantly attracted attention and com- 
 
 Kinded respect. 
 
 A jiersonality he never uttered ; or a word, even in the heai 
 I dehaie. dj.il couhl injure the feelings of another, and dtis 
 
 \ I 
 
* 
 
 .♦0 
 
 A sol N(, l..\l»\, I.AUM.R AM) \ WklJ. 
 
 ! 
 
 'I •' 
 ; I 
 
 'l 1 
 
 .Vt 
 
 III 
 
 lit* 
 
 ))i.ilitc (|iialit\ Ik larricil into W\s private as wdl a> W\> puMii 
 
 A vein ofj^cDJal ininioiir lay iiiulcr thi. j^ravc and ihouj^htfiil 
 cvtiTJor. Will) pK-asaiU poopU- aroiiiul him hv jnrnud a most 
 a;;ri'ial»lc and entertaining, as well as insinulixe lonipanum. 
 M«* had inanaj,'e<l to a«<»nniilate a haiulsoine Inrtune by hi^ 
 perseverance and mm cess in Imsiness, and alth«>ii;;h his ener;;eti< 
 habits would not allow him wholly to^ive np his active pursuits. 
 )et he had begun to j^ive more of his time to leisure, and the 
 society of his friends, the Mordaunts in especial, than he had 
 heretofore done. 
 
 He was externally neat and fastidious in person and attire, 
 dressed habituallv in black bro.wh loth, wore a glossy beaver 
 hat. good jewellery and faultless limn. 
 
 Well ! I'ncle {"'.dward. are we to remain here a! 
 
 evenmu 
 
 star ga/ing ?" said l-'ahel. "or shall wr take advantage of the 
 < ooler air for a n»w u|u)n the lake. I know you are longing for 
 vour evening cigar. i»uly abstaining from it that you fear its odour 
 might penetrate through two feet of brick wall into my molher'.s 
 drawing-room." 
 
 •• I tlo not see. m\ tiear lahel," he replied, with comfortable 
 la/iness. "why you should throw the responsibility of uur move- 
 ments ui)on my shoulders, any more than I can see why you 
 should <all me Tncle * Ktlward,' thereby implying that you have 
 numerous I'ncle 'Josephs' and * Henrys,' etcetera, at your im 
 |>erative call, when you are perfectly well aware that I am your 
 sole uncle, on this side of the herring pond at all events. 
 Neither am I longing |)arti< ularl\ for a ( igar, and were I to in- 
 dulge in one and its odours should invade vour mother's draw 
 iug-room, which as the windows are o|»en, is probable, it is not 
 from her that I would expect reproof. It would remain for your 
 saucy tongue to remind me of my misdoings. .\nd, again, whv 
 not follow your own sweet will as to a row u|)on the lake. I 
 am rc;n]\ to obev vour belKsts, and doubtless Mdwin \'anct 
 
 
MOOM.K.H I InK I MKLi; 
 
 it 
 
 lure will Iti tinly too ha|t|»>. Uc ran dividr ilu- work ti|u.illv 
 he >I).ill row, yoii «»hall mmj;. ami I will >mnkt in> tviiiin^' 
 
 i^;ir. as yoii irriNcrtiitlv lirm it. MaNin^ Imii xiry Itiisy all 
 • l.iv, anv severer lalxir wouhl he too iniu h lor ine." 
 
 "S\uh a lonj^ Npeeeh ! will) nothing in it. i iflu r." rt |.lie<l 
 Irlicl. " I will rail you I'nrle JaUe/. lure.ilter lor takni^; nie ii|* 
 »o. What a sweet name ii is '. N'oone ran t hoose prettv names 
 like the Amerieans. As v«»u sav, von innsi In- very much 
 Mtigued. \ (Ui have followed mannna .-in<l I aliont all day, ask 
 
 ng ijuestions and giving advice, making the ac«|uaintance ot'.dl 
 rlie Mirkeys and c hi<kens. calculating tlu |ioimds avoirdiipoise 
 
 il every individual |»ig, and criti< i/ing e\er\ truit tree, plant an«l 
 •lower that did not suit your exait taste." 
 
 •That is :dl right, Miss Kthel." was answered laughingly. 
 
 • riure is no use re|)lying to you, as you will always manage t(» 
 have the last word. So go and get your hiii on ,\m\ we will 
 ,\;ilk down to the lake." 
 
 • \ es ! do. Miss Monhiunt, it w ill Ik so pleasant," said Mr. 
 \ am e. " I shall lie ha|)py, too, to accept the rather onerous 
 ^hare thrown upon my shoulders by .Mr. Morton's \ery e(|ual 
 
 livisjun of labor and do the rowing." 
 
 f! 
 
 CHAP'I'KK IV. 
 
 I 1 
 
 *' NTfM'M.KiHI' KOK I Hkl.K." 
 
 Hut just as they were aliout to start for their moonlight evcur- 
 >inii. the gt)()d-natured l;ue of Harney Conley, the general fac- 
 'ntum ai)()Ut the house, ai»peare(i on the veran(hih. 
 
 •' Here's a letter for ye, Miss Kthel, and one fur ye, too, Mr. 
 X'ance, and a couple of them for you, .sorr ! and faix I if the con- 
 tinls are as warrum as the < arrying of lliim uj* from tiie illa«^<* 
 
Ji 
 
 sHK MHiiir iiwK DOM-: m-.rrr.K. 
 
 'M 
 
 U'ViUtl tnailc Ilk' tl)i> M.i/in' ovciiin*. itn the divil t^nfirc!) tlit 
 urihr?» ov ihiin will Ik.* .liter playin' \\u\ )c/, ;ill. or fl-ic it.* yiMlc 
 jovi- tlu'\'ll he niiikiu' till yc/." 
 
 "W.iriu? Ilirticv." H;ii(l Kthcl. " Mou roiiM the « .irrv 1114 of 
 tlu'M' f'i'u K'ttcr*. m.ikc ynii so \v;irm ; iK'siilcs, you tln>\c to tlu* 
 \illiiK«'. N'«»u "liMn't I. ill in at the hotel, iliil )<m. ILirnc) ?" h!k- 
 anko'l, iiiisrIiii'Noiisly. 
 
 •• I'aith ! I (lid thin. Miss I'jiul. Mm what I uor avi\in^ 
 wnr mifiHk'tl for a piirliie remark nii the ;^rate hate of the sea 
 son ; lor I'm tmild it's the we.ither entirely that the t|iiality talk 
 .ihoiit, when they've nothin' else to say till wan .mother." 
 
 " Very well put, Marney," said .Mr. liorlon. •' N'oiir rem.irk 
 is s;ireasti( l»m just. There is not nuu h else to talk alnMil, and 
 it /.»• warm. Here is a hail" dollar for the heat and lor «.irr)in;; 
 thosi' hviwv letters. Ilm I tear. llarneN. that the r.dlini' in .11 
 ihe hotel makes the weather appear so very wann. 
 
 •' IJe<lad ! .in' I woiild'iu dotiht ye, s(jrr ; and is it toJMi k> 
 thin that I'm to l>uv wid this? TolMckv makes tire, and fire 
 makes hale." 
 
 '• \'es I and tire w.iler makes ^'reater heat still. Uetter try 
 the tobacco. Ilarnev. " replied .Mr. Horton. 
 
 '• Harney !" said .Mrs. Mordaimt. stepping out on the veran 
 dah ; " Harney ! to-morrow morniiij; early you will h.ive to take 
 one of the driving h(»rses and a light waggon to ( "asj ades i 
 meet a gentleman coming by the two o'clock train. .Start earl) 
 to avoid the heat, and try and get hack by dark." 
 
 " \es ! ma'am, ii shall be done; and how will 1 know the 
 gciuleman when the train comes in, ma'am?" 
 
 '* Ask for Mr. U'olverton — but you know him \cry well al- 
 ready, liarney." v\as the re|»ly. 
 
 '' l''ai\. thin, I know him well enocy;h,'and what the divil 
 does he — 
 
 1 1 
 
 " but Harney thought better of it and walked off. 
 
 " Mr. X'ance." said Mis. .Mordaunt, turning to h m, " I have 
 .1 letter froin yuir friend .Sydiies Wolverton, ,>..vmg that he 
 
 I, 
 
I<H»Nh|wlir l'K< TMK 
 
 *'.r, 
 
 •A 
 
 •MMrcf) tilt 
 M? it* i<Mlc 
 
 r;irr\ina <»f 
 tro\c to tl'v 
 rucy ?" hIu- 
 
 or ;i?*;i)in^ 
 ol" the sea 
 *|ti;ilit) talk 
 luT." 
 
 (Mir rciiuirk 
 
 alMUit, :in<l 
 
 or carrjin^ 
 
 allinj; ill .ii 
 
 I loharkv 
 ri". anil hrr 
 
 Better try 
 
 I he veran 
 ;ivc t«) take 
 iMades In 
 Start earl) 
 
 know tlie 
 
 |r\ vNcll al- 
 
 tlie divil 
 liked ufr. 
 li, " I Iiavc 
 m that he 
 
 i\.iil> hiMi^cH'cian iiiNttattoii I Mine ;(a\c him t«i pay iih a >*hort 
 \i4i1 to morrow, a<i he in to pkiy in the ^roat crirkct inati h it 
 Icii i,ake> on Sattinli). and he wi^hen to Hi.'e >oii, he Hiy<«. Si 
 llarne) vjoen to the station tor him tomorrow." 
 
 •• N'e% Mr?*. .Mordaunt. I hase aUo just heard iVoin him, tell 
 ii)^ me he hail written \ou ami tumid Ih.* here. He nays he han 
 liii'»iiU'HS of import imv to trans ut with u\.', thoiiujh uhat it ma;. 
 •r I i.innot iina/^iiK*. It' he i'ei|iiire<« le^al advite. I shall tell 
 him itol to ];o to law. loo expensive .1 plea'^iiiv. and itnsatis- 
 i- ''^ tartory withal. Iltii will yon not join ii> in our sail this even 
 inj;. .Mrs. Monlaiint ^" 
 
 ••No. thank yon. Mr. Name. I think not, as I have a letter 
 10 write, too lon^ put olT already. So };o and enjoy \onrselvcH 
 — Kdward shall represent me." 
 
 •• ( 'ome .ilon^ then. I'.thel." >aid Mr. Morton. 
 
 Ihit she. handing; a letter to her mother, saitl — 
 
 •■ In a iM<»ment. uncle. Heri' is a letter, mamma, I'roin Kinil) 
 !)eirl)orn ; she ami .\da are i-omin;; «iver to-morrow to spend 
 the day. I asked them, you rememl>er, a week sime." 
 
 .\> she del.iye«l. sjieakinj; N\ilh lur mother! Mr. litirton took 
 
 \ anr 
 
 e's arm, drew him to one side, an«! slid, earnestiv — 
 
 •• I thipk I heard you sa\, my dear Wince, thai Wolverton's 
 • oMiiii;^' here is partly tor the transaction ot" some luisiness mat 
 ii'r> with you. .\ow, pleasi' e'vcuse me tor wiiat \ou may think 
 .m interference in your private alTairs. and take it as it is meant. 
 the a( t (Jta tVieiui. by i>ermitting me to advise you most earn 
 ji^tiv to have no transactions outsiile your profession with that 
 
 jvtiunu man. 
 
 I 
 
 cannot consu 
 
 ler h 
 
 im straiLrlutorward. or h(jnes 
 
 or to he depended upon, aiul I have jjtooil reason for what I ad 
 v.nice, althouijh 1 < annot at this moment }.,nve you any j)articu 
 |l;ir |iroof in sui)port, hut merel) ask you to rely on m) judj; 
 nieiit and expcrieme. I have reason to dislike Wolvt.Tton ; 
 neither ilo I like his coming here at this time. Ah a friend 
 lie may he well enou;j;h ; he is plausi!)Ie and attractive in his 
 
i 
 
 24 
 
 SHK MICHT H.Wi: DoNK HK'ITI.R. 
 
 .1 I' 
 
 r' 
 
 I 
 
 111 
 
 illij 
 
 manners, but he (aiinot I.e trusted, .im\, in my ()|)in;un, is a dan- 
 gerous man, I trust you will rtgard what 1 say. I <.an also 
 consider mysell'your tViend, arnJ it is in that (|uality that I have 
 spoken." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Horton. tor what you have said and it" 
 kind spirit. Hut 1 have never had, or am I likely to have, an\ 
 (ttherthan piotVssionai l)usiness with .Sydney W'olverton. We were 
 ♦ ollege ebims, and have heen friends, though of late we have 
 not met often. A year ago he ;isked me to join him in his mill- 
 ing establishments at Hopetown. and offered me ajjjtarently great 
 inducements if I would put in < ajjital. I declined the matter. 
 h()wever. though he pressed it ui)on me with some jtersistence. 
 on the groimd diat I (h'd not care to enter upon a business of 
 which I had no knowle<ige. and that I could not advance the 
 sum recjuired without disposing of property, which I was not 
 inclined to sell. His j^resent business with me will, 1 imagine, 
 prove to be something in the legal way. If. however, it is a re 
 newal of his former offer, or aught similar, I will most <ertainly 
 act upon the advice you have given me." 
 
 •*So he has been trying to rope you in for tiiat concern of hi> 
 at Hoi)etown, has he? Well, this strongly confirms the view .[ 
 have just exi)ressed, for he had made the same offer to me, and 
 as 1 am generally ready for anything that has money in it, I 
 went down there to see the thing. The pro]>ert\' seemed good 
 enough, but 1 found in him such ;i persistent attemi)t at niisre 
 presentation of values, to foist u|)on me figures showing the past 
 business of the concern and its caj^abilities. which bore tht 
 im])ress of being cooked for the purpose, that I abru])tly ended 
 the negociation. which otherwise I should have comjjleted on n 
 fair basis, even though I then foresaw the distant ai)])roach of ;i 
 storm in the commercial world, which if it fortunately has not 
 fallen, is not averted. He is remarkably shrewd and smart in 
 his way of ])utting things, l-ut 1 have had too many transactions 
 with my own a<ute countryn^en to ]>e easily blinded. 1 .'iin 
 
M()()Mjc;H'r I'OR 'rHiM-:!-:. 
 
 25 
 
 'I.kJ (»r vv hat voii tt'l! inc, and lioj)e > on will kcc;j in llic s;jnie 
 iniiK-i. IJut here is Kthel." 
 
 I'he nouiil; lady ( omiiij^ u|>, they walked down to the lake to- 
 .{cther, aiul getting »)iit a Uoat, were soon mailing over the sniootli 
 waters under the soft twilight sky. 
 
 Kthel, Laning ovc the stern sheets, ripjjled the ^^ater with 
 IilT white fingers and was silent, the scene and the time l)eing 
 \ery conilucive to |)leasant thought, even though it bordered on 
 nmianee : some l)right day ilream or hai)|>y retrospect, sacred t(» 
 herself 
 
 Her un( le went forward to he 'solus' with his i igar ; to 
 Hitch its circlets of smoke as they rose in the air, and indulge. 
 :)crha|is. in a dream of his own, whose romance, if not probably 
 of love, might very well be of love ft)r his fellow men. 
 
 \'ance, between them, i)lie(l his sculls slowly, rewarding him 
 ^elf for the labor by ga/ing at the fair face before him that he 
 had learned to love so well. Probably inspired by its presence, 
 his thoughts were evidently busy, for he sat silent and |>re-occu- 
 pied, and while the l)oat is moving slowly into the lake, let us 
 > 'jtch a moment to reveal the subject of his reflections. 
 
 Althcnigh Mr. Kdwin \'ance considere<l himself the friend of 
 Sidne) Wolverton, liked and th«)ught well of him. and would 
 have been pro])erly indignant had the strength and purity of 
 that friendshij) bjen (juestioned, yet the rece|)tion of the news 
 rhat he was coming on the mornnv had not given him the sen- 
 >atIon of |)Ieasure that it ought to have done. On the contrary. 
 he did not like it, and sincerely wished his friend Sydney at 
 Halifax or Hopetown or anywhere else, so long as he was nt)t 
 ' oining to Lake Mordaunt. He was pleasant enough, clever 
 ind attractive enough, our hero liked him and did not suspect 
 his friendly motives, yet still he had an idea that Mr. Wolver- 
 ton w as not as indifferent as he could wish him to be, to the 
 desire of finding favor in the eyes of the fair Ethel. Now to 
 find favor in her eyes was tlie very tiling of all others that he 
 
 ^•' 
 
 i> 
 
26 
 
 SHi: MUIHT lI.Wi; DONK liKTrKK. 
 
 li^i 
 
 i 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ti'. 
 
 ( 
 
 liiinsflf most ci'.rnc'stly desired, and as tin.' best ;:nd truest friend- 
 shij) that ever existed is not etiual t(» llie strain of such a test, 
 the thought hecanie simply unbearable to liim and not to be 
 endured. And so Svdnev Wolverton was lieartih- wished awa\ 
 by his frientl — much troubled in sj)irit at his advent — and who 
 pondered and cogitated, iiesitated and doubted, at one moment 
 fornung the resohition to act at once, declare his love at the 
 first ;i\ailal)le moment and forestall danger : and again the 
 modesty and self-depreciation which the very depth of his love 
 llirew over him. caused him the fjar of being premature, and of 
 bringing on a catastro|)he too hideous to be contem])lated. 
 
 He revolved his own and his j)0ssil)le rival's chances over in his 
 own mind, with i)ainful minuteness and discomfort. Reviewing 
 every chance smile : every stray glance from his divinity's eye, 
 and every word she had uttered since he Iiad learned to love, 
 he could not but feel tliat, though he had received no direct 
 encouragement on his fair lady's jjart. yet she had shown no 
 dislike to his attentions. whic!i she must, he thought, with femi- 
 nine prescience, have interjjreted in all their meaning, in fact 
 he felt almost sure that his societv had not been foimd disagree- 
 able. 
 
 But a great love, not yet assured of a return, while magnify- 
 ing its object's vvT)rth, attractions and deservings. minimises in 
 its giver's eyes, his own deservings. and robs him of the self- 
 confidence, which in other matters than his love may be assured 
 enough. 
 
 And so i)Oor Kdwin doubted and hesitated, longed and fear- 
 ed, worshii)j)ed the fair divinity sitting before him, feasted his 
 eyes in her sweet i)resence and tormented his soul with a lover's 
 fears. 
 
 Had thev been but alone on that prettv lake, the stars shin- 
 ing down ujjon them, the soft face of nature hushed in the deli- 
 cious stillnesss I 'I'he splash of the leaping trout rippling the 
 water with moonlit silver, the rustling of the leaves or the chir])of 
 
VOOXI.UIHT FOR THKllE. 
 
 n 
 
 some Wilkin^' liird the so!LiUC()mi)aiuiiK'nt. what a tilting nuimcnt. 
 .suatthtcl Irom t'lysiimi, would not it lia\c l)ccn to lia\c pimrccl 
 -lilt his rapturous love and asked its swt-et return? Would not 
 liiLii his fair I'thel. uiipresscd with the softness and i)eauty of 
 .ill iirouiid her, have listened jjrojiititiously to his t'ervid tale, and 
 V. iiii a little word dispelled his doubts ; dissipated his tears ; made 
 'hat little lake a glorious scene of enchantment, a happy pic- 
 lire tiiat would lie impressed on his mind tor ;:ll his days. 
 
 Hut they were not alone. 
 
 Mr. Morton, sitting with them in that boat, was a \ery palp- 
 ,;Iile (act. .Also with a very palpable cigar in his mouth, a very 
 |ialpal)!e smile upon his face, a twinkle in his eye, as if he had 
 lieen engaged in reading the inmost thoughts of his companions, 
 while apjiarently wrajit u|) altogether in the tVagrance of his 
 Havana. 
 
 Removing the latter from his lips and throwing it into the 
 •Aaler he broke the silence, which so far had cuntimied, and 
 >aid — 
 
 '• Well, Kthel, our bo.' ing expedition is a success. Not a 
 nurd has been spoken to disturb the (juiet harmony of tlie even- 
 ing, and v,e have had undisturbed leisure to o])serve the beau- 
 ties of the sceiiery. The delightful aspei:l of nature sinking 
 into the re|)Ose of night always seems the most lovely ami 
 ajipeals the most powerfully to our sense of the beautiful. 
 Kow the calm and sot"tened trani|uillity of all around us 
 infuses its (juiet spirit into ours. Freeing us trom the dull 
 thoughts of earth, its mild inHuence lifts the imagination uj)- 
 ward and arouses the sentimental and romantic suscji^tibilities 
 ot :ur minds, so dormant under the active influences of the 
 glaring sunlight. J'>oubtless, Kthel, the charms of this tender 
 evening scene have raised yotu" sensitive nature to a blissful 
 height of romantic asj)irations, far al)Ove the grovelling cares of 
 earth, es].)ecia!ly as we are at present blessed with the absence of 
 the ravaging mustjuitoe. J know r,o more j-owerful (b'senchanter, 
 
 I 
 
28 
 
 SHK MKmr HA\ K DONK IJK'I'IKR, 
 
 nil*! 
 
 f ! I 
 
 notliini; more effci tiial as u clis|)cllcr of roiiKiiue, auylliiiig 
 that can hrin^ us down from the ( IoikIs so <iuii;kly and land us 
 on the base earth again so suddenly as the advent of a tew Mood- 
 thirsty Canadian nius(|uitoes." 
 
 "Oh, what a shame, uncle! \'ou have hrought me down to 
 the earth again as effectually as if you had been a mus(|uit(. 
 yourself. I do not l)elieve you have an atom of |)oetry or ro 
 mance in your whole composition, uncle. Such an unfeelin;: 
 speech ! Adapting your tine words to one's high-strung feelings 
 and then scattering them in the (.lust with their ridiculous termi 
 nation. And do you mean to imj>ly that you have no blood 
 thirst) musquitoes in those precious States of yours? Ves ! 
 \'ankee mus(juitoes that can bite as well as ours, with the onl\ 
 difference that they will never find any ' romance to dispel ' there 
 Who ever heard of a romantic V'ankee ? \'our mus(|uitoes, like 
 yourselves, are doubtless a very practical class of insects, • Canii 
 «lian musciuitoes, forsooth!*" 
 
 "Oh, well, Kthel, I guess we can raise some as respectabk 
 iiui.squitoes in the States as you can in these benighted Fro 
 vinces, even though you do call them a ' Dominion.' And 1 
 rake it \ery hard, too, that you should abuse the mus(nwtoes o\ 
 your uncle's native land. It isn't right." 
 
 " Never mind, uncle, I'll fix you, as the Yankees «ay," replied 
 Kthel, laughing. " I'll punish you for all this to-morrow by \n\t- 
 ling Emily J)earl)orn under your charge for the entire day. 
 V\ e'll get i:p a pic-nic on purpose, and you shall have the plea- 
 sure of being hei chevalier. She is a dashing young lady, a! 
 though a ' benighted i)rovincial,' as you would .say, and will p. 
 your American gallantry on the f/ui ?'/rr, I can tell you." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Miss Kthie," replied the uncle, with a chuckle. '• .V 
 notable arrangement, truly. So that you can have our young 
 friend P^dwin to be your own i>articular ' preuxchtvalier." Very 
 well thought of I must say. But how if he objects and [)refers 
 the stylish Miss Kmily?" 
 
JH-NKATH IHK WAN V BOLdHS. 
 
 29. 
 
 At the rather tlirc< t imiciulo of the fir^t pu't of this si»ct( h 
 [.our Kthcl liail to hlusli, while \'aiue looked supremely (lis- 
 ,'iisted Nvith its termination, and. to relieve his fair lady, inter 
 
 j 11 ised — 
 
 •• Miss Mordaimt's plan is a very ^ood one, and Mr. Iforton 
 uill he only too delighted with his charminj; companion. .She 
 i> .1 i^ood talker on every subject, even ini ludin<^ |K)liti<s, and 
 is iMpahle of a flirtation. So, .Mr. Horton, heuare." 
 
 '• And, you, also, are determined to sa(!rifice me," he replied. 
 •• Well. 1 don't wonder at it, seeing your object. Hut how will 
 vou manage with the other young lady ? * 'I'wo are company, hut 
 three are none,' " added he, laughing. 
 
 •' And now Kthel," he continued, " make room for .Mr. N'ance 
 beside you. I'll take the oars, for he has had his share by this 
 time, and you shall give us a song." 
 
 "\(m don't (leserve it then, uncle, lor all your wickednes> 
 this evening," she replied. " Nevertheless, I'll sing you a song 
 •r two before we go home, as it is late." 
 
 As Kthel's sweet yoimg voice rang over the waters, echoing 
 .iinong the leafy points and bays in the soft melody of a fine old 
 French-Canadian 'chanson,' the young lady herself little imagin 
 cd that her evening's adventurewas not yet ended, or that aught 
 I'ise than a walk home was to be its conclusion. 
 
 CHAFI'KK V 
 
 *' MKNKAIH THi: 'ACAVV HOUCHS." 
 
 As Kthel sang and Edwin \ance listened, with wrapt delight 
 U) the s\Neet voice — to him inexpressil)ly sweet — and thought 
 fhat little lake a scene ot more than mortal pleasure, as is the 
 way with lovers, his well-wished away comi)anion, Mr. Kdward 
 
 ■■'.<■ 
 
 1 
 
l1 
 
 iJN 
 
 ill 
 
 tM 
 
 ..>' 
 
 sHi: MHiin HAvi: donk p.kt'I'kr. 
 
 Jalitv. HorioM. who had li^^htcd aimtlicr* ignr. and whose |>rosai< 
 cvt's viewed that little lake as the scene of serv « (tnifortalile 
 earthly |)leasure, (|iiietly indulged hini>eir in \ari«)us worldly re- 
 rteitions to the following purport : — 
 
 " \o\v that young fellow has evidently caved under to the 
 <hiirnis of that saucy little nei<e of mine, Kthie there — head over 
 cars in love with her, and showing it |)lainly enough for the ver? 
 cat to see it. I don't wonder at it. either. I'd lie much more 
 inclined to hiame him if he wr.sn't struck. She, too. I <alculate. 
 is by no means so indifferent as she would like to l»e «onsi<ltred. 
 or else I'm very mu( h mistaken. 
 
 •' What a |)icture she is as she sits there singing and looking 
 ;it the stars as if they listened to her ; and that young g(»ose 
 gazing at her as if she was sun, moon, stars, earth and every- 
 thing comhined. \'ery likely she is really the summing up of 
 all ha]>piness to him. (jueer. is'ntit? Hut I like N'ance — he 
 is honorable and good. Kligihle enough, too, for that matter, 
 and I know of no one to whom I would sooner see mv lirettv 
 l'!thie married. Why should'nt .Mordaunt and my sister think 
 the same.'* 'i'hat vagabond Wolverton is coming here to-mor- 
 row, too. uj) to some deep scheme, doubtless. I've heard it 
 whisi)ere(I that he entertains a sneaking fondness for Kthel — 
 her father's dollars probably. Well, I would not give much tor 
 his chance of either whilst I'm around this clearing, at any rate. 
 •Still he might make mischief, antl he has got to be watched. 
 V'es, I like \'ance ; he's just my style, excei)t that he is too yield- 
 ing and inclined to judge |)eoj)le by his own measure, and an 
 uncommonly high value he ])Iaces on some very j)Oor human 
 nature, too, sometimes. (Irave faults these, especially in a 
 ^ ankee's eyes, but time cures all these little amiable weaknesses. 
 .\fter all. this tendency to think well of; to believe in his feilow 
 creatures, shows the true metal in the man. ^'es, I like him, 
 .;ind I've a good mind to give him his opportunity this very 
 "jjvening to make it all rigin with Mthel. If he has the ])luck 
 
 t!l|:H 
 
in-NKA'i II liii \v\\N' r.()r(;Hs. 
 
 ,\f 
 
 lulcr to the 
 — head over 
 for the very 
 much more 
 , I (alciilate. 
 considered. 
 
 md lookiiiii 
 
 .I'.oiit lim that I think lie has, he'll go in and win. and very 
 vnv»')thly put my friend Woherton's nose out f;f joint for him 
 w ii!^ a vengeance." 
 
 I'jIk'I still sang and N'aiu e still rapturously listened, while 
 Mr. Norton, highly amused with his own idea^, chiu kled over 
 the:n for a moment or two and finally laughed outright, as he 
 hapjiened to look up at his two com])anions. for \> horn he had 
 ;hus cut out some work. 
 
 Klhel concluded her song, the third that Kdwin had succeed- 
 ed in obtaining, and turning to her uncle, said — 
 
 '* Well, you are polite, uncle, 1 must say. What was there 
 .;li()i:t my singing for you to laugh at? I rather expected praise 
 instead." 
 
 " I (lid'nt laugh at \()ur singing, j-'.thel." he rejilied. ". Some- 
 thing of which I was thinking struck me as ridicule 
 praising 
 
 )US. 
 
 As to 
 you, Mr. Vance will doubtless attend to that. He 
 iUght to do, for he has been s entranced with melod\-, and you 
 <i (It lighted with your own singing that neither of you have yet 
 tb^^erved that the boat is at iIk- landing." 
 
 .And such was the case 
 vharf 
 
 It lav <!ose along-^ide the litth 
 
 Mr. Horton jumped out at onre. walked off a stej* or two. 
 ;;n{l said — 
 
 '* Please nm the skiff into the boat-house, lub.vin. Mordaunt 
 • lets not like his boats left out : and. Kthel, see the door is se- 
 I iired. The lock is i)e(Hiliar. and \'ance won't understand its 
 '.>(»rkings." 
 
 I'xlwin looked up surjirised and vexed at the sudden close of 
 his delightful evening. He assisted Kthel ashore : put the boat 
 into the house, and locked the door, about which he found no 
 difficulty whatever, and no necessity for Ethel's assistance. 
 Then, looking up, he noticed that Mr. Horton had walked on 
 r.head a short distance with his cigar. 
 
 Did not all this ai)pear unusual ? as the circumstances of the 
 
 • 
 
[I 
 
 A. 
 
 l! 
 
 li 
 
 I II 
 
 J-' 
 
 SHK MKIHI' HAVK DoXK IM/I'I'KR 
 
 stran^'o laiulinj; Mashed upon his miiul. H.ul n«»t Mr. Hortoh 
 jumped ashore hurriedly ; ordered liim to |iut the boat iuto its 
 house : Kthcl to attend to a perte* lly easy link, and while they 
 \vereol»e\in^ his orders, had he not walked off in ad\an(e? 
 
 Was it purposely done that he nii^^ht he left alone with Kthel 
 A giant hope shot over his heart. Had his feelinj^ heen so plaii. 
 ly shown that .Mr. Norton, reading them, had heen so well i\\^ 
 |Mised towards hiiv. as to tavor his suit and to do thi> triendh 
 thing tor him. 
 
 Poor Kdwiu's heart thumped tuniultuously against his sidi 
 Here was his «jp|)ortunity ; here was his golden moment. 
 
 .\ golden moment, truly, yet a very Uriel one, for in the few 
 nnnutes' distanre between them .and the house would his fat* 
 ha\e to he decided. 
 
 There was no time to he l«)st, and, checking with a violeni 
 effort the tide of emotions which swept over him, he turned tc 
 ward Kthel, who had moved forward and called to him — 
 
 "Come along. Mr. \'ance, I'ncle Kdward has gone tor 
 ward." 
 
 " .\ moment. Miss Mordaunt," he re|)lied, and then, overtak 
 ing her, he walked a few steps by her side in silence, trying t(- 
 torce his spirits into calmness, to clear his thoughts and to re- 
 gain the confidence that had deserted him. 
 
 .At length, stej)ping suddenly before her, in a voice, low. earn 
 est anti impassioned, he said — 
 
 '* Miss Mordaunt — Kthel — if I dare c:all you so, I have sonit 
 tJiing to say to you so very momentous to myself, for an oppot 
 tunity to say which 1 have been ardently longing, that I must 
 ask you to accord to me here a hearing. I love you, Kthel. I 
 love you with such devotedness — you have become so inexi)re> 
 sibly dear>to me — that I (-annot longer exist without telling you 
 of my love, and asking you, oh I Kthel, if it is possible for it^ 
 return. It is not a new love — a sudden passion — the transitor> 
 illusion of a day, that beauty alone might inspire. It is the 
 
 :. I. 
 
DKNKAIH IHK WWV liOlCHS. 
 
 3^ 
 
 t, low, ciirii 
 
 vriM. mtt' jiml indiirin^ love — grown into my very luing — 
 
 tlu xcrv springs ol niy lilc, that will not end with me on i-.irth. 
 
 I have loveil yoii from the moment of our first meeting — two 
 
 Miirs ago, on that l»riglit 'I'oronto morning, whose menu)ry shall 
 
 never fade f"r(»m me. And to l(»ve you, Kthel, has heen so sweet. 
 
 (lav l>v day growing upon me; day hy day st) multijilied, so 
 
 lirnilv rooted, as every admirable (|uality, every loveliness of 
 
 \i)ur charaeter toned their trihute of" respe<t and esteem into 
 
 -reatcr love — into the great love for you. Kthel. whieh has he- 
 
 oine my very life itself. To love you has been happiness — hut 
 
 i lia|t|>iness of douhts and fears — a ha|)i)iness of susj)ense unen- 
 
 liirahle. ( )h ! Kthel, I ask you for the treasure of yr)ur love in 
 
 vturn — I ask you for that which to me is all hap|)iness — all ex- 
 
 i>ten( e — all the world. I ask you to he mine, Kthel ; t() he my 
 
 'vife ; to give me hack myself, for in you, in your love, is all 
 
 nvself*, my very being, rentered. Can you givt- me your love, 
 
 t'.thei ? ( )ne wj^rd — but one little word." 
 
 Now, Miss Kthel had, ere this, felt in the inmost recesses of 
 !ier little heart that it had become probable that one day or an- 
 >lher some such Mords as these would be addressed to her by 
 this same young gentleman, and she had also felt in those same 
 inmost recesses that when the words were spoken, the ordeal of 
 iiearing them would not be so very disagreeable to her. 
 
 ^■et she was utterly taken by suri)rise — so bewildered and 
 overwhelmed by the sudden coming ui)on her of her ordeal, that 
 'he had remained standing — motionless — bereft of breath and 
 ilmost of sense, and looking up into his face in the very astonish- 
 ed attitude into which his first startling words had thrown her. 
 ind had listened to his somewhat unlawyerlike harangue in about 
 i>^ chaotic a state of mind as it was possible for a young kidy t(» 
 be on receiving a not im])rol)al)Ie declaration. 
 
 Taken by surprise she certainly was, for she had neidier 
 noticed her uncle's manceuvre on landing the boat, or the some- 
 what unusual circumstance of his walking on ; leaving them thus 
 
 • III 
 
 i I 
 
.34 
 
 sHi; Mi«;iir havk donk iiki'tkii 
 
 11 
 
 pi 
 
 
 ;ilonc, iind tlu- l.ittcr ^lic IkuI iniiotciuly siippo^cMl loluvc aristM 
 from his desire to cnji)) liis «ij;ar without siil»jo< tii»^ her to ai»- 
 novaiuc troin its tiimes. 
 
 
 
 f 1.1(1 she observed her mule's tattiis, \vhi« h \\i)\\ were ina:ii- 
 test ciUHi^h, thnu);I» the) hail seemeil so natural at the time, ii 
 ini^'ht have heen that Mr. Kdwin X'aiice would have fniuul the 
 opportutiity he had seized prematurely « ut short. 
 
 Hut he had sei/e»l the opportunity, his de( laration had beet* 
 made, her ordeal \va.4 upon her, and she hail to meet it, 
 • It was hiird u|»on her — very ha;vl. Mu<h harder than if' her 
 surprise had < «)ine from one whom she did not like, and it was dan 
 j^erous tor him also. Had she been a passionate younj< lady, oi 
 no self-i'ontrol. it mi^'hl have been fatal. 
 
 .\s it was, it was very hard. 
 
 lo a very youn^' lady, to whom a word of love in earnest Iiad 
 never ere this been adilressed, re<eiving her first dechration. 
 surprised in so sudden and luiexpeiteda fashion, unnerving her. 
 i.dvin^' away her self-possession, even though the lover was tlie 
 rigiit man in the right place, it was very haril. 
 
 .Vs his words leased, and hestooil intent, ner\ous. uneasy anil 
 e\« ited, his love shining in his eyes and anxious expectancy dis- 
 iractiiig hi.s brain ; awaiting his fate, she had to braie up her 
 spirits and tone herself, with an effort, into a state of mind that 
 it was possible for her to think. 
 
 *' If he had not been so sudden. If he liad but given a mo- 
 ment of |)reparation. If I had iiad but a clue to his intent and haii 
 i)een forewarned. If he had but chosen a less unexpeited time 
 and place for his avowal — all happy though it was, and oh ! if 
 i had not lost all my seIf-i)Ossession ? It was cruel in hi;ii to 
 s>urprise me thus, with his ill-judged prei:i|)itancy. and he deserves 
 to be punished for his folly," were the ideas that ran through hi-r 
 mind, and it was only with an effort that she restrained iiorself 
 from falling into tears. 
 
 Hut then came the thought of her triump!i. 'i'hal she was 
 
BKNKAin THK \\.\V\ IK)l CHS. 
 
 were mam- 
 
 the time, it 
 
 ; fomul the 
 
 35 
 
 ||.»\itl ; that he loved her— he h.nl t«iM Ii-r thai he luxe*! her— 
 sUk: h.nl the ^tr(»n^aN>tirain e. and it was \cry nwoct. 
 
 it was her tritiinph. 
 
 He was hern ; he was at her men >, to do with as seemed 
 
 hiAl tdht-r. He was at lier feet, her \i(tiin ; the >|)oil «»rhcr Im)w 
 kind her spear. He was hers, ami lor loving' her she lo\ed him 
 hone the less. He loved her, and had told iier that he loved 
 
 .T ; he had asked her to he his wife, and it was very sweet. 
 
 .\m\ there < ime over her a flush of" maiden tinuditv — a stron- 
 im|Milse to t\\ towards her unrle. the ^linnjier of whose cii^ar was 
 ^►en eptihie in the distanrc. 
 
 Ihit there stood her lover with eaj^er, appealing eyes fi\ed ii|»on 
 U'r fate, awaiting the answer whi( h slu- knew she had to give 
 nin ; whi* h she knew he (ui'^ht to have. 
 
 ^^hal (oi^d >\w say.* \Vh;it (oiild she do? Hoa (onld si 
 lell the man that she losed him ? She would die first, and ye» 
 Ihe roiiM not tell the man that she did /to/ love him. W hat waN 
 Ihe to do? 
 
 U'hat would her father and mother say, and that wieked Iik k- 
 •Mward who had left Iier alone— if they knew that their dear 
 rien.l. Mr. Xance. was making love to her and had asked her 
 marry him? Why had not //r left her alone, when they were 
 III >o happ) Mild (omfurtable together. 
 
 le 
 
 '• ( )h : it was too dreadful, and she must go home." 
 
 She made a ste|) forward — 
 
 '• Let me |)as.s, Mr. Vanee !" hut he interrui)ted her. 
 
 •• Ktiiel. give me a word first. Do not sentl me away thu- 
 lian.swtred. Kthel, I love you so tlearlv, mv heart is dvin- 
 [r.liin me in suspense. ! cannot go without a word, a smile 
 
 glanee— anything to give me a gleam of hope. I^thel, d, 
 Ug, one little word." 
 He look her hand, and looked down into h 
 
 ir 
 
 < >I), I '.thel : you love me — } ou love me 
 
 er eyes, 
 my darling, forever 
 
 own. 
 
t 
 
 If 
 
 IS' 
 
 I I 
 
 u 
 
 ;0 SHK MICH I ham: DO.NK liKTrKR. 
 
 \N ithoitt rai>ing fuT fyrs, *hi* laiii her hand upon his .inn aii' 
 whisptrol — 
 " \ t'H, lulwin." 
 
 ( HAI'I'KR VI. 
 
 |I\KSI N ^Nl» JFkk\ 
 
 t)iir trii'iul, llariuy C'onlfy, had mcixcd hi> lms^ro^M•M t)rilir- 
 lor thi- morrow's journey with iiiuiMial ci|uainiMit>, and, tor , 
 uoixkr, with no ctpposition or ^riinihhn^'. " Thr poor <hiiii' 
 li.i>tcsav harscs 'nil he- kih intoircly wid |ioiindin^ thinio\cr \\h 
 roads in s\uh (hvil's weather," hein^ IlMrney's j;^*neral roninun 
 iipon i\\\ orders of the kind, and that t(M) in every season ol' th« 
 year. In his eyes the sending out (tfany otthe <lri\ing h«>rM- 
 whieh were under his charge on any other business than takin^ 
 tlie l.unily to rhun h, going to the j)ost oftiee or to the stores ii 
 the village, w;is a monstrous piece ot"«:ruelty to his poor " l)astt>. 
 .ind a personal affront to himself, only to he suhmitted to undti 
 protest. 
 
 ( )n this occasion, however, K.irney had m<»re than one g(Mii, 
 reason for his forbearance and willingness t<» be lirned v)Ut oi 
 bed at an abnormally larly hour of the morning. In the tirsi 
 place he would have the advantage of the cool of the morniii;. 
 for his horses performance of the journey, an object to him, ;i» 
 he looked uj)on each mile travelled as a nail in the « oftin, so fi 
 ^peak, of his much loved " bastes." 
 
 Ihil the most important consideration, in his eyes, was iln 
 fact that the ostler of the ** Railway Hotel " at C! iscades, tlu 
 town whither he was bound, was a most particular friend and 
 (Tony, a brother of his soul, and he looked forward with gre.it 
 i onijilacency, to a long and very garrulous day with him. 
 
 The i)ros|)ect before his eyes, of the two of them seated or, 
 ihc ouI-Ika of the hotel stable, their coats off. tluir hats puilol 
 
 I 
 
 
HAKNKV AM)Jf.kK\. 
 
 37 
 
 il.>uM u|N)i) their noHiv*. their |)i|K.'iH in their in<iiith>, \cr> loiii 
 I >rt;il)ly enjoying their «hat alioiit " ould tinus .iiul the ouM 
 ,»Ml,"thene\v times in their new country, raking' over all the 
 I. its ol s«an<lal that floated aluuil the tountry. talking; owr their 
 li-ighlMiurs ((tmerns, eritit i/ing the nieritK and demerits ol their 
 rcs|»e«ti\e employers, was so delightful that at four o'loek in the 
 moaning; Ikirney was u|) and stirring, his horse fed, groomed and 
 liarnessed into the lightest l>uggy availal>le, yet amid his trndir 
 ( itmniiseratioHH. 
 
 " Kaix, an' it's a purty « realureyeare. Dolly, medarlint," said 
 he. patting the horse's glossv neck. *' An' a murthcring shame 
 it is, HO it is, niul adisghiace to Ne afther dragging \e out this 
 da), .»n' for that ould salpeen of a N\'olverton, ttto. Therranky 
 ould stage horses from Tin Likes wid their hhones >ti(kin' oui 
 .i\ their ould hitles. are gud enough for sich as him. W hin wan«e 
 I get \e l)a< k agin, the diN il a rut ye'll stir out <»' this for a wake 
 lo come. It's kilt ve'll l>e entolrely the ilay." 
 
 Ikirney's start had been so early, and his progress so good, 
 that at the early hour of seven he was approaching the town of 
 { ascades. and began to think it was time to attend to his per- 
 gonal appearance, for, as he hatl travelled in his shirt sleeves in 
 an al Jrcsco attire generally an improvement was desiral)lc on 
 jtlie score ot" dignity. Removing the ten cent straw hat which 
 shaded his < omical features, he re-i)Iaced it with a tall and very 
 [furry-looking beaver. .\ high and tremendousl\ starched white 
 llinen (ollar was next placed in position, to grate ni< ely his ears, 
 Ltiul was secured by a large black silk handkerchief tiirice wound 
 around his neck. He next pulled from under tlic seat of the 
 wagon a newspaper-covered |)ar<:el, from which he produced a 
 pong and very capacious black cloth coat, exceedingly short in 
 [the sleeves and long in the tails. Inserting himself into this 
 Ispruce garment he considered himself attired in the height of 
 [fashion, and proceeded to drive through the town with much 
 [di^iu'ly and gravity of demeanour. In great slate he dro\e ii|) h> 
 
! 11 
 
 ;>« 
 
 SHK Mi(;Hr HAVi: donk mcrrKR, 
 
 the hotel door and tliicu the reins to a boy who was standif;;^ 
 near ; ordered him to dri\e tlie horse into the vard, and walked 
 himself in grave and solemn demeanour, into the office. (ioinLj 
 u|> to the register he seized a pen and, throwing liimself Hat upon 
 the iKx^k, produced, with much labour, a series of hieroglyph i(> 
 intended to •■ .present his name and style, on the page before 
 him, >\hich, unfortunately, lie did not notice to be dated about 
 two months back. 
 
 Addressing the sleepy-looking clerk, who had Niewed the 
 spectacle before him wtth such astonishment that he had be 
 come ahiiost awakened thereby, he told him that his " harse " 
 was to l)e put u}) and " fid dacent." 
 
 Considering then that all requisites of dignity had been satis 
 fied, he walked into the bar, where Mr. Horton's half-dollar ol 
 the preceding evening speedily resolved itself into a bottle (tt 
 •• potheen," of Ontario manufacture, but good enough for the 
 purjjose, which he [)Ut into his pocket, ar»l went out to see witii 
 his own eyes to the care of his horse, and to find his freind Jerr\ 
 Coghlan, the ostler. 
 
 Ah he ])roceeded into the sta1)le-yard, his ears were saluted 
 with an angry colloquy between the boy who had dri\en the 
 horse round and the ostler, and, as he was un])erceived, he list 
 ened nith much interest. 
 
 " Here's a horse to be put up right off, Jerry, that one of the 
 queerest old guys you ever seed drew up with a minute since," 
 said tlvj boy. 
 
 " AN'hat's that ye say, ye young pup," exclaimed Jerr) , stick- 
 ing his liead out of the stable door. 
 
 " Here ., a horse to be put, right off, I tell >er," screamed back 
 the boy. " What's the matter with you tliis morning > Did 
 the old M Oman lick yer before breakfast that you're so might) 
 ugly ?" 
 
 " A harse to put up, did ) er say, ye young imp. At this tiiuj 
 
MARNK\ AM) JKKRN. 
 
 :>'/ 
 
 if tlif inorniiij; too," answered jerry, dniiting wltli rage on t!ie 
 it.Jiilc Hdor. 
 
 " N'ou'tl hetter put her iij), f can tell you, Jerry, for tlie okl 
 riiv that owns her will be around here in a minute or two, \ou 
 
 ,'t," said tlie hoy, by no means daunted by Jerry's anger. 
 •' Hegorra ! it's an ould guy, and a lunathic he is too, so he is, 
 tavourtin' 'round the counthry wid his ould baste afore si\in 
 )'(iockav the niarning, a botherin' dacent folks that keeps a da- 
 tent hot-tel atbre there out av tlieir war-rum beds. I sui)pose 
 low he thinks its jjlazed we are to put up him an' his old bhones 
 hat tlie crows ought till have had tin years agone. Faix, it's 
 
 lishtaken he is. It's a shebeen he thinks we kape, is it, musha ? 
 ind wliat the divil did ye bring his ould baste here for ? Why 
 lidn't ye tie her till the post an' leave her there.-* ye young imp 
 
 It' 
 
 •' Hecause he told me to bring her round and get her put up," 
 ;reanied back the boy, " And you'd better i)ut her up, too, or 
 le boss will be down on yer like a thousand of brick, my old 
 iloot." 
 
 " He off wid ye, ye young limb, afore I break yur hid fur 
 
 Lave the baste wid me, I say !" roared Jerry, as he imw il- 
 
 Jgly came forward to his duty. " Belike as not now, the 
 
 m sthole the harse, and is aff to the States wid her. She's a 
 
 irt\ baste, anyhow, and its a quality vehicle, so it is. Troth. 
 
 ^d I l>elieve it's wan av ould Mordaunt's up at the lake be- 
 
 [nt. and, be my sowl, here's Barney himself. I'he toj) ov the 
 
 irning till ye Barney, me honey. Ye're as welcome as the 
 
 lers in May, and it's plazed 1 am to see ye." 
 
 It's i)lazed ye are, is it.>" replied Barney, in chilling tones, 
 
 ^Ijjfh an icy air of indignant hauteur. " And wud ye be so kind 
 
 to tell me, Misther Coghlan, who it was yer >\ ere plazed to 
 
 an ould lunathic the while ? Eh ! will ye ? No more an 
 
 lunutliic thin yirself, Misther Coghlan. And it's a shebeen 
 
 ta it I ought to put uj) at. Misther Coglilan ? Faix. it's plis- 
 
 
 H 
 
tmtm 
 
 40 
 
 SHK MKiH'l' HAVi: DUNK liKT'l Kk. 
 
 I 
 
 antcr and dac.L'iUcr looking niin ilian you'll iverhe, I've seen ;u.( 
 shebeen, Mislher (.'oghlan. An' I sthole the baste, did F, Mlsthir 
 C'oghlan ? Bad scran till ye, but it's not (iir that J'd thrust ;, 
 harse. nor anything else wid ye, for an ould rip as ye are, Misthcr 
 Coghlan. Regorra .' but it's a grate mind I have to lave yez, basic 
 and all, and go where thay'd thrate a gintleman dacent, instid oi 
 binggarding him, black and blue, becase ye're too la/y to do tin 
 wur-ruk ye're paid for." 
 
 " Och, musha, Barney dear, sorra a bit av me knew it was yir 
 self, so J did'nt, till I seed ye. I tought it was some other bother 
 ing ould l)aste coming wid his harse whin I wor in the middle ()\ 
 my marning's wur-ruk." 
 
 '* Lookee here," he continued to the boy who had listened o))cii 
 eyed to their collociuy, " you clare out av this, ye young divil : 
 back to the hotel wid ye, and mind the bells. Ve're wanted 
 there and not here; ye're room is better than your compam, 
 any day. Sthep in Barney, intill the sthable, an' take a sate, whik 
 J put yer baste up. 
 
 " Och, thin," said Barney, '' it wor all a mishtake, I supjiosi, 
 and we'll say no more concarning it. But I'll give ye a hand 
 till put up the baste, Jerry, and give him a taste av hay and oah 
 till ate." 
 
 " And how's the wife, Jerry," continued Barney, when, hi« 
 work finished, he liad got his precious coat and stove-jiipe hat 
 off, his pijie lighted, and, very comfortably, they were seated on 
 the oat-bin. 
 
 " Faix. she's well enough," replied Jerry, " barrin' that shc'> 
 as cross as a badger this marnin'. It's kilt I am wid her in 
 toirely." 
 
 " Crass Is it, she is ?" said Barney. " Begorra 1 and that's bafi 
 enough. The crathurs will git as crass as two sticks betimes, 
 an' jist for nothin' at all, at all. Lave her till herself a bit, Jem 
 and by-and-by she'll come i-'hilandering around ye wid a sniik 
 on her face, a^ swate as ye plaze." 
 
BARNtV AM> JKRKY. 
 
 4« 
 
 I've seen at ;i 
 
 ■'Smc, tlilii. I wish ye had a wife till yerself, naniey, till yu 
 limit the differ," was Jerry's mournful rej)ly. 
 
 'The howly saints forbid," ejaculated Barney, faintly. '•There's 
 thrcultle enough in the world widout poor Marnes goin^j tur tiM 
 iKike more av it." 
 
 •• Musha, and you're right there I" rei)lied Jerry. " Hut may I 
 iiake so bould as to inquire, Misther Conley, by your lave, 
 viial brought ye down from the lake so bright and airly, wid 
 viiU) good miles ahint ye?" 
 
 • Sluire, thin, I'll tell ye, Jerry, how it is ye have the honour av 
 ne company, as the ([uality say, this blissed day. It wor the mis 
 
 ,'rday 
 
 dollar b 
 
 iress as kern to me yestei 
 
 IJarney,' says she, ' ye'll take a harse the morn and a kerridge, 
 
 ind ye'll take a holiday till yirself, for ye've been working harrf 
 
 IV late, so ye have, and, bedad, it's a day's jjleasuring ye'll l)e 
 
 rantin', and the money's for yirself, Barney,' she said. And thin 
 
 ((he tould me to take care av mesilf, and not to forgit to go to 
 
 L'ascades and see me ould frind, Jerry Coghlan, the dacent man, 
 
 |ind that I might, as well as not, wait fur the two o'clock train, 
 
 |iir Misther Wolverton wud be aboord, and I might fetch him 
 
 i|) wid me, an' that's the how and the wherefore av it, Jerry." 
 
 '• Och ! that's it, is it, Barney," said Jerry, laughing ; " I tought 
 
 Bie last part i\\ yir si)ache had more trute in it nor the beginning 
 
 Iv it. sorra a bit I an' what fur wud the ould lady be afthergivin' 
 
 |e a foive dollars fur yersilf to go on a day's jaunt with ? They 
 
 jay \'e more nor ye earn, so they do, ye lazy ould rij). But it's 
 
 iicent people they are, the Mordaunts, every mother's son av 
 
 lim, and daughters, too, mind ^v j that, and rale quality, even 
 
 he o'lld Yankee gineral or member of Parlemint that's u|) 
 
 [11 there wid thim. But Avhat's Wolverton afther that ye'ie tak- 
 
 ig him up to the lake fur wid ye, the spalpeen." 
 
 "'i'iie divil a know I know what's takin'him uj), bad scran till 
 pm," said Barney. 
 " Begorra ! ye may be sure it's not fur nothin', thin. It's some 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 !fi 
 
ii I 
 
 ^ ,; 
 
 
 A^ 
 
 SHK MKiHT HA\ K DONK HK T! KR. 
 
 «lclii(Iheriiig schanic he has nfiit," continuccl Jerry. •* Mehlx' ii^ 
 the daughter he's after, wid some of the ould father's dollars. 
 His ould mills at HoiKjtovn hex ant are in a bad way, I'mtould. 
 and it's money he wants to stjuare his corners with. Faix, it 
 the Mordaunt's knew as mu( h av him as the folks here do, iiV 
 little conversation they'd ha\e \v id him, good or had, so ihev 
 would'nt. Had scran till him." 
 
 '* Sorra a bit av me knows wliat's fetching him uj» anyhow.' 
 answered Barney. '* 'I'he misthress got a letter yisterday, and 
 the minit she read it she tould me to come down here afther him. 
 But iVs the day afther the fal le is if it's an eye on the youiij: 
 daughter he has, for Mistht Vance, the young lawyer, from 
 Toronto, is uj) there these tin viays, is swate as ye plaze, and fur 
 all she looks as innercent as a cat in the panthry, it's asy tellinj: 
 that it's dacent running he's making, and it's news we'll be hearing 
 before the wake's out, if Barney's old eyes don't desave him. 
 Misther W'olverton wih find liis j)orridge burnt fur him, so ht 
 will, when he commences his dehidherings wid her, begorra, and 
 sarve him right too," 
 
 "■ Arrah, thin, it's sould he is, and I'm glad av it, fur he's mane: 
 anyhow," answered Jerry. '• A matther of tin days or a fortnight 
 ugoiie, he was here at the liotel a drinkin' and a gamblin* wid 
 tree wild, taring chaps that kern aff the train, a spending h's 
 money as if there was no end till it, when it's betther he'd have 
 been at Hopetown beyant a mindhin his business. There's little 
 Jenny Houlahan, the wife's niece, as ye know, that works at his 
 Jiiills beyant, and has'nt seen but one tin dollars av lier arnins 
 this three months back. Faix he was a boastin' and a blowing; 
 round with them chaps that he w ud marry ould Mordaunt's 
 daughter and straighten out his loose ends wid her father's money. 
 But they laughed at him, and \\an of thim axed him why ht 
 did'nt go and ax the girl at oncet — just as he was, blind drunk 
 — and give the crathur a chance to see what kind of a man he 
 won 'i'he baste tould him, so he did, that it would'nt be till 
 
A MkS'l KISS. 
 
 43 
 
 iilihcr the wctlclrng that she'd find thai out. Wad cess till him.'» 
 
 '• Vt' did thill, did ye, Misthcr \Vo!\ertcMi,"cx(ilaimcd lUiriiey, 
 ;is if in indignant address to a present enemy. " IJegorra, ye'H 
 find out that Harney ha ; a nate Irish tongue in his hid, and 
 nil i^'et convarsin as sim|)le as any oniadhaun wid the misthress 
 and she'll hear tell av ye, me hhoy, before ye ate yir taa there, this 
 hiissid night, ye vagabone thief av th<? world." 
 
 •• And, Harney,avick," said Jerry, " the day's murthering warm, 
 and ye have no nade to start till well on to evening. He'll have 
 10 wait at the hotel here, and he'll get dhrinking, av coorse, as 
 iisule, and whin you're a dhriving home, he'll be talking and axing 
 (jiiestions aff ye. How innocent ye'll l)e actin', Harney — a 
 soothcning of him down till ye find out what schame he's got in 
 his eye. Hegorra, but it's the fine joke ye'll be playing on him." 
 
 '' 'I'hrue fur ye, Jerry, and it's not all the trute I'll tell him, 
 aither. He'll have more'n he likes, so he will. And now we'll 
 I go in and soother the crassness out av the crathur wid a bit 
 I chat." 
 
 '* Arrah I d'ye supj)ose she'd be crass whin company comes 
 Ito the dure ? Faix, it's as purlite as ye j^laze she'll be. It's 
 kilt L-ntoirely 1 im wid her, but it's plazed as Punch she'll be till 
 I see ye, Harney." 
 
 *' liere's with ye, Jerry, till the train comes," said Harney. 
 
 1 1 
 
 l\i 
 
 CHAP'JKR \ 11. 
 
 A FIRST KISS. 
 
 \V lien Mr. Edwin Vance awoke the ne^ i morning he became 
 ^ery pleasantly aware that he was a very happy man — a very 
 bi)))y man indeed. For him the world had put on a very bright 
 is])ect. The new day opened for him with a new interest — a 
 tery delightful interest too. A new day surpassing all other 
 
44 
 
 SHK MI(;HI' H.WK J)()NK HKI'IKK. 
 
 clays — the rcd-lottcr clay of his life. A nt'>\ day whose mornin;.' 
 Nrightiicss shone with new h'ghtiiigs. He v.as very haj>i)y, and 
 hih new world was a very l)eautiful world. His troubles weri 
 over ; his doubts and fears were ended. He had obtainetl thai 
 which of all things was in his eyes the most desirable. His 
 lo\e was a successful love, and so he was hai)[)y. 
 
 Vet he could hardly realize it all — this bright issue of his uii 
 <ertainties. 
 
 Was it not all a dream — a nuignificent hallucination — thai 
 evening scene of but a few hours ago — anxious, fearful, tortured 
 in its multitudinous and intense drawn out emotions? in a iTi; 
 ment transfigured by a word into his unmeasurable happiness. 
 
 Was it not an impossibility that he had really attained that so 
 longingly hu[»ed for, that so doubtingly wished, that blissful goal, 
 seeming so distant that its height was so unutterably desired. 
 
 How far off did it all seem but yesterday — how heljilessly un 
 attainable — and yet it was his to-day ; he had got it — he heh! 
 the sweet assurance. 'I'he tair Kthel was his fair Kthel, and the 
 world was very bright for him this new morning. 
 
 Vet he hesitated with a shame-taced hesitancy to go forth to 
 meet his happiness before the world. He hesitated to go down 
 and meet the family. He had upon him a half guilty feeling, as 
 if he had been stealing something and got caught at it too. 
 
 He was a lawyer, yet where was all the brazen-fiiceofhis pro 
 fession, which should stand him in good stead ? 
 
 No youthtul appropriator of his mother's jam ever shrank from 
 that mother's outraged eye as he shrank at the prospect of meet- 
 ing the calm gaze of Mrs. Mordaunt, of any of them, except per- 
 haps that of his Ethel alone. Of course they all knew of last 
 evening's occurrences, though he had not seen any of them. His 
 Kthel had fled from him like a lapwing as she spoke her single, 
 but to him all-j)owerful word, nor had he again seen her, or even 
 her uncle. 
 Could he meet the gaze of that uncle, with the grave face but 
 
A FIRST KISS. 
 
 45 
 
 im»i kiiij; eve, whose every word wruikl !iave itslurkiiw; iiuieiKlo. 
 and who would be merciless to the \ i( tinis for whom he had 
 limed the twig. What pointed shafts, barbed with wicked u it. 
 flu>u"h veiled in seemingly innotent interrogatory, would he nut 
 
 have to parry. 
 
 And oh ! the terrible ordeal of the formal interview to come 
 with stern father — enquiring mother. 
 
 The sole ray of comfort he derived Irom his reflections lay '\\\ 
 ihe remembrance of the curious psycological anomal) that 
 t mother is never averse to marriage, with itsconsecjuent separa 
 tion, for her tenderly loved daughter, yet cannot with ecpianimit) 
 look forward to the same for a son. Hut even this soothing idea 
 was speedily tlashed by the unpleasing recollection that a fa- 
 iher's views are generally the reverse. 
 
 Radiant with happiness, yet shrinking from sight. Kager t(> 
 meet his love, yet by no means eager to face her friends, he de- 
 layed his apj>earance before them until the very last jjossiblc 
 minute. 
 
 When at last he had screwed up his courage to the sticking 
 place and entered the breakfost room he found its only occu 
 pants to be his fiiir one's father and her uncle. 
 
 The former greeted him with his customary hand-shake and 
 " good morning," uttered in his usual tone, and very like as if 
 he, at any rate, had heard nothing of that — in Kdwin's eyes — 
 stupendous event, which seemed to him must occupy the \mdi- 
 vided attention of a world. 
 
 Such, indeed, was the case. Mr. M rdaunt had not yet heard 
 of it; though he, of course, could not know that. Ethel had 
 flown from her lover into the house, to her own private cham- 
 l>er, and had remained there in the flush of her own happy 
 emotion. Not until the mornmg, when she had heard her fa- 
 ther safely down stairs, did she fly to her mother and reveal her 
 tender confidence on that tender maternal l)reast. 
 
 So Edwin got present relief; but there remained another pre- 
 
 4^ 
 
 11 
 
1 
 
 I 
 
 m ' 
 
 4() 
 
 SHE MUiHT HAVK DONE hl/l'IKk. 
 
 sent who knew agcMxl dca! more of the stale of aflairh ; wluj wa^ 
 l>y no means inclined to let slip his opjjortunily for a littV'harn)- 
 less tea/.ing of him he hau so strangely l>enefitte(I, and this was 
 Xfr. Horton. He shook his hand warrnly, an unusual eustoni 
 with him, with a periejitihle pressure, which was re-assuring 
 enough, were it not that Kdwin's instimt told him that something 
 else lay behind. Mr. Horton was an outsider enough, and at 
 the same time suftieientiv closelv related to them all to be a 
 privileged person, while he was not so eomjjietely an dutsider 
 that he could not, nor yet so \er\ closely related that he would 
 not, take ad\;mtagc of the someuhat oj>en and unjtrotected posi 
 lion in which Kdwin was placed, to amuse himself and indulge 
 his humourously mischievous jtroclivities. 
 
 " (lood morning, Edwin," he ccmtinued. " Why, what makes 
 you look so unwell to-day.^ How pale and nervous you look, 
 and your eves so excited and u ild. Whatever have vou been 
 doing? \o b.id news, I hope?" \'our heart's not out of order, 
 is it ? There's a |)revalence about here of such complaints, I 
 imagine, and 1 have perceived s\mj»toms indicating such with 
 you of late. Exciting yourself and staying out in the night air 
 are to be avoided in such cases. I expect now that }ou were 
 talking about the disease last night with your companion, and 
 l)robably, too, seeking advice as to the best remedies. \'en 
 l)ad I Very bad, indeed. No wonder you're so excited and Habber- 
 gasted this morning. Now does not he look very much out of 
 sorts, Mordaunt ?" continued the mischievous Mr. Horton, ])eer- 
 Ing anxiously into Edwin's vexed face as he called the other's 
 attention to him. 
 
 " Hut there's nothing the matter w ith me, Mr. Horton. T'm as 
 well as ever f was in my life, and better too,'' replied Edwin, 
 loudly and earnestly, though he could not help laughin/ , at the 
 inuendoes. " 'I'here's nothing the matter with me, at all, and 
 vou know Tt." 
 
 " J know there is something the matter, though. A'^ou must 
 
A I'Ik.sT KISS. 
 
 47 
 
 oil must 
 
 have liinl a ^fuir}) attark t>( it. I woiuUtciI wli.ii «lt'taiMC(.l 
 \ou so \un^ on your way home last nighi, and that's what's the 
 imttcr. \ow, ilon't you think you'd hcttor stay in your room 
 (lose tor a <lay or two, and avoid the c\«'iting cause of your 
 Diilady. It's all right now. I suppose, and you'll soon <ahn 
 <!o\vn again." 
 
 "Well, I iloi^'i sec anything wrong with him ; one of your 
 jokes, 1 sup|)Ose, Norton,' said Mr. Mordaunt. " He's a little 
 |iale, and looks as if he had not slej)! well. Hut here are the 
 ladies at last, and we'll have breakfast," he continued, as Mrs. 
 Mordaunt and Kthel eniered the room. 
 
 rh»' former in<lined her head <ourteoii>'y to our hero as she 
 l>id him "good morning." There was a kind light in her eye, 
 though, as she looked at him that he found very pleasant. 
 
 Kthel raised her gleaming eyes witii a sudden flash ro her 
 lover's fiice a.s she entered, and as Middenly dropped them 
 ■igain, noticing the amused smile with which her uncle regarded 
 her. Her lips (juivered as if she tried to form a word, hut she 
 would not trust herself to utter it, hut went to her father, who 
 kissed her with his usual tenderness, and passed to her seat. 
 
 "(lood morning, Kthel," said her uncle. "As I see that you 
 won't speak first this morning, I suppose I'd better roninience 
 myself. Are you ill, too, like Kdwin here, who is as pale as a 
 ghost, or are you only cross to-day ? We hear so much from 
 you as a rule that it makes a surprising change when you arc 
 silent." 
 
 Her mother raised her eyes to her brother's face and endea- 
 voured to give him a warning sign, ])iit he would not look at her, 
 and her attempts were unavailing. Kthel looked up with an 
 effort, and said — 
 
 " 'i'hanks, uncle, I am quite well, and not cross with any 
 person unless with yourself. I think, too, that you arc very 
 well able to talk for both of us, and generally ('o, into the bar- 
 
 i ' 
 
 V i 
 
 gain. 
 

 f"; 
 
 4S SHE -MKilir HAVE DONK UKTILK. 
 
 W t'll. it >ccins lo mc there is some liy-play ^'t»iii^ (»i\ of which 
 I am not in the »e« ret," extlaimetl Mr. Mordaiim. '* Hortoii is 
 in Iiis eicineiu this inurning, and (-onse<|ueiitl\ there intist he 
 M)nie iiUMhief on hand. Another cup of tea, if yon please, I*'lor 
 enc'j. Nance, you are eatiuj; nothing. I hehevc Horton in 
 rij,';iit after all, and that yon are on the sick list. 'I'ry some ol 
 rliese hrook trout — fhey are very {^ood. \'ou must pluck up 
 your spirits and vonr goo'l looks, or you'll have no < haix e with 
 ilio charming Kmily Dearoorn, who r(»mes hereto-day. 
 
 *' \'es. that's the whole root of the matter," interposed Mr. 
 Hort<»n. " ICtiie! assigned Knvl\ to me to he her cavalier to 
 day, and he has had a sleeple>s night over it." 
 
 " Well, what shall he done to make ;i pleasant day tor them," 
 said Mrs. Mordaunt, to get the conversation into a new turn. 
 " 'I'hey wiil be here early and \\c must think of something to 
 do. 1 wish Reginald was hack tVom his shooting expediton. 
 The week he promised himself has passed, and no sign of him. 
 He would soon get uj) some anuiscment were he here, (,'annoi 
 we have a [>ic-nic somewhere to pass a part of the day plea 
 santly.^ 
 
 " 'I'hat's a good idea, Florence," said her husband. "I am 
 ip'oing this mornmg to the new fields at the outlet of the Ir.ke, 
 where the hands are harvesting a ticld of wheat which I wish to 
 see, and I shall remain a g/eat part of the day. So when tlic 
 girls come, you might get some prog ready and take the boats 
 or the carriages down there and have your pic-nic." 
 
 " [t is a very jiretty place, and, if you bring your cr'X[uet tvitii 
 you, you will find some nice short gr..ss, while there's some fish- 
 ing for those who like it," he continued, as he hurried on with 
 his breakfast. 
 
 •*AVhat do you say, Kthel ? and you, also, gentlemen?" said 
 Mrs. Mordaunt. '* A\'ill such a place suit your views for the 
 day, or liave you anything better to ])roj)ose? If not, which 
 way shall we go — by the lake or the road?" 
 
 ■■f7/-- 
 
A I IRST KfSS. 
 
 49 
 
 •Oh* ! iMnk it will he very pIcnHanl, in;inun.i," .iiHWtfr«Ml 
 l.lhcl. *' Hut ^vc had lnttiT takr llu' ImkiIs, the last part oi the 
 road is very rough." 
 
 •• \Vc will go l»y the lake »i«>st dei idedly. ft has pleasing re- 
 ininisrences for some "♦' us. eh. Kduin ?" said Mr. Hort(»n, laugh 
 
 ing. , ^ 
 
 " Well, th.it is derided then. I shall txpert you all there this 
 iiioriiing. Take rare of the young ladies, you two geiuleiiien. 
 Don't let them find you dull company. .And now I must he ofl", 
 M) please excuse me," said Mr. .Mordaunt, rising. 
 
 Mrs. Mf)r(launt also rose uith her husband, fnlluwcd him as 
 .•she said — 
 
 •' I wish to speak to yon a moment before you go. if yrni please, 
 Henry.'' ami left the room. 
 
 '* Important business on the /d/fs. that is evident," remarked 
 Mr. Morton. " Hut as I have nothing im|)ortant upon my hand, 
 h'ke some people 1 know. I betake myself for a stroll and try if 
 I rannot extract some stray grains of amusement from the philo- 
 sophical reflections of my friend Harne\, whom I shall doubtless 
 find with his ' bastes.'" 
 
 •' Well, then, you will be- disappointed, uncle : for P.arncy 
 started early this morning for the station, to fetch Mr. Wolver- 
 ton," answered Kthel, "and vou must find vour amusement in 
 some other (juarter at present." 
 
 "Indeed? That is a pity: and Harney nnght have been 
 on a better errand," w.is the reply. •' Hut I'll go for my stroll, 
 nevertheless, for it wo\ild be a hopeless task t > endeavour to 
 c»i)tain a spark of amusement from such a distracted looking 
 pair as you two ;" and with this parting salutation he left the 
 room. 
 
 *' Kthel, my darling, have you not a word for me this morn- 
 ing," said her lovei', as they were left tete-a-tite. 
 
 " Plenty, Edwin, but not now. I ninst have leave before I 
 speak with you again. As it was, I said more than I ought: to 
 
 1 1 
 
 M 
 
 ! t 
 
 y 
 
 
 ill 
 
V 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 50 >m. Miciir H.WK iM)M-; uktikk. 
 
 )m\t* clone last nl^lil. when )tHi tn-baxcd so— .ho— mo \er) 
 Uull>," rci»licd Ktlul 
 
 " M(»rc : Oh, K.thci ; uhat did )(iii si) ImU one little Murd. 
 and 1 1 It'll ran away and ici't nic. Vet it wa;* a \cr> nwcct I itt It- 
 word, and it has nuidc nic very liappy. Siiy it again. I.tliel — 
 that little vNord. I am mi hapjiy that I cannot helievc it real ; 
 and I long for the joyful a^^uranre again. And, Kthel. t d<> 
 not think I hehaved so very badly ; on the (ontrary, was it not 
 ver> e\(ellent conduit, since it received siu h great reuard ? 
 Stay, Kthel — one inoincMit — hut one moment," as she rose and 
 tried to leave the room. 
 
 *• I must go, Kdwin. Let me go ; what will thev — " He 
 pressed his first kiss upon her hrow, as she hroke away anil 
 escaped. 
 
 Left to his own refle<tions, our hero lelt that he )et had 
 another trial before him; and that was " to speak to pa|>a." 
 A fearful ordeal ! at the prosj)ect of which many a fine >oung 
 man had, ere this, (|uaked in his hoots. He had, however, 
 managed to get his nerves pretty well braced up, and his 
 self-|>ossession restored, by the not unjjleasant meeting with tlie 
 family that morning; and he felt himself a little better j)re|)areil 
 for the somewhat trying 'rdeal. So he determined to keep 
 watch for Nlr. Mordaunt, and get the matter over at the first 
 opj)ortunity. He kne^v that he had not yet left the house, and 
 be considered that it was highly probable that at the present 
 moment his fate was l)eing discussed by the parents of his Kthel. 
 \N'hen he did broach the subject to her father, his answer would 
 very likely be ready for him. 
 
 From the occurrences of the monu'ng, he did not feel his 
 « ause to be at all hopeless — at least with Mrs. Mordaunt aiul 
 her brother. Her manner towards him, when they had met at 
 ilie breakfast table, had not been unfiivorable ; while he felt 
 ])fetly sure — since last evening — of Mr. Horton's goodwill and 
 
A FfR^ir KISS. 
 
 S' 
 
 <.un|>uth>. 'I'hf .Htilf |»er«ini), thtTcfore, I'nun xniorii op|ii»siti<»r» 
 MM.> U» Lm; drcadcit wan (mm hi^ fair one's father. 
 
 Milt with two Hiuh allien, he thought |»rol»aMe enouj^h thai 
 the latter woulil not prove an enemy ; that In the vtu\, at an\ 
 rate, his ranse was utlrnilily safe. \'et still, he was in suspense ; 
 would have heen very ^lad indeed were all over, an<l his p<i».i 
 rion tiel'ined. 
 
 He pa<ed the room up and ilown in a state of restlessness, 
 v^aiting nervously for the apjiear.mce of .Mr. Nfordaunt, in order 
 to o|K.n the altaek ; and he int;erely wished he would ionie. 
 He did not know where to find Uini, and if he had, he did not 
 « (insider it was yet the time to ;isk for him, for he nii^^ht not Ik 
 prepared for hint So he remaine<l where he was, listening; for 
 his step and watrhin^' from the windows that he did not leave 
 the house. He was determined to take tli first opportunity to 
 speak, and prove thus his sinreriiy l>y placing h's suit himself 
 I)efore his Kthel's jKirents. 
 
 Their conference — if indeeil tliey were t:onferring — seemed t(»- 
 him to he very protracted, and he wondered and i)onderecl 
 vshat < aused the ])rotraction. 
 
 ' In what light wouM they regard him and his suit? Would 
 •hey consider him gcK)d enough for their lovely Kthel ? C'ould 
 ithe possil)le that any malicious report could have been brought 
 against his name?' and yet he did not think he had an enemv 
 in the world. ' That could not be the case, for they would have 
 shown it in their manner towards him.' 
 
 With liis Kthel he felt safe — safe for all time ; but opposition 
 'Ml her i)arents' j)art would be the cause of great unhap])iness 
 to him, at all events, for he felt certain that Kthel would be- 
 dutifully guided by dieir wishes. Hut wh) should there be 
 opposition? He was young — very well off; he had a good 
 profession and a good name, against which no evil report could 
 st;in(l. And he could not see how they should find fault with 
 
 I ii 
 
 I 
 
f 
 
 5^ 
 
 SHK MKrHT HAVE IKA'K BKHKR. 
 
 
 i 
 
 if 
 
 
 (i 
 
 ; 
 
 
 1 
 
 his suit. Amid rt'flcctiorDj such as these he passed away hi:^ 
 time. 
 
 When an hour had passed — a very long hour to him — the 
 door opened, and Mr. Mordaunt entered the apartment. 
 
 His as])ect was (as it usually was) grave, and from that noth- 
 ing was to be judged ; but he gave no time *or forebodings, for 
 he advanced straight before our hero, and without waiting for. 
 or giving him the opportunity to speak — addressed him : 
 
 *' My wife has told me, Mr. Vance, of the occurrences between 
 yourself and Ethel last evening ; and I must say, has surprised 
 me not a little, as I had never imagined for a moment that there 
 was anything between you ; and if I am not too well pleased, it 
 is because 1 consider Ethel to be rather young for an engage 
 nient. However, as the event has occurred, she seems favor 
 ably inclined towards you, and we cannot well doubt the ardour 
 of your affection for her — we have talked the matter over, and 
 decided upon our course. I have come to tell you our view> 
 ujjon the subject, in order that there may be no misconception. 
 .md that the affair be placed at once upon a decided footing. 
 We both consider Ethel to be too young yet to enter upon tin. 
 (luties of a married life f but, nevertheless, we both consent to 
 .rdjprove the engagement between you, provided that it is under 
 stood that for a year at least the question of the mariiage is tc 
 be deferred." 
 
 " That lapse of time is necessary to both of you," he contin 
 ued, '' that you may the more thoroughly know and understand 
 each other — though, i)erhaps, you may not think it at all neces- 
 sary. If, then, at the expiry of that time, you are both in llio 
 same mind, we shall have no further objections to offer." 
 
 ^' But, consider, Mr. Mordaunt. A year I — a whole year ! 
 — an immense period to wait I " exclaimed Edwiii eagerly. " 1 
 am sure that six " 
 
 '' T have considered, Mr. Vance, and it must be as 1 say. A 
 year is no very serious length of time. Had I acted solely on 
 
KR. 
 
 d away lii> 
 
 o him — rlK 
 
 iient. 
 
 11 that noth- 
 
 jodings, for 
 
 waiting for. 
 
 him : 
 
 ices between 
 las surprised 
 :nt that there 
 11 pleased, it 
 
 an engage 
 ieems favor- 
 )t the ardour 
 er over, and 
 .1 our view> 
 jconceptioii. 
 
 led footing. 
 
 ;r upon the 
 
 consent to 
 
 it it is under 
 
 riiage is to 
 
 I" he contiii 
 
 understand 
 lat all nece>- 
 Iboth in the 
 
 )ffer." 
 
 Ivhole year ! 
 
 |agerly. '* I 
 
 Is I say. A 
 d solely on 
 
 i:n TKR r\v()-(iKi:A'i thincs to do. 
 
 .S3 
 
 iny own views, I should have made the time of your probation 
 longer ; but I have acceded to my wife's wishes in fixing upon 
 the year's delay ; and it must be in this as I have said. In the 
 iiifantime, .Mrs. Mordaunt will tell you that we hoi)e you will 
 prolong your visit, and that we shall always be happy to sec 
 \()u whenever you <:hoose to come to us. She may also have 
 >()nie few things to say to you which do not lie in my province : 
 ;iiid any other subject can well be deferred for the year. Now 
 I must be off." So saying, he shook Edwin heartily by the 
 liand, and prepared to leave the house. 
 
 " I must bow to your decision, Mr. Mordaunt," said Kdwin, 
 •'since 1 cannot change it. At the .same time 1 thank you very 
 he.'^rtily for the kind manner in which my suit has been receiv- 
 ed, clearing all difficulties from the way of my very hap]jy j)ros- 
 pects." 
 
 " Well, if you are not both happy, it will be your own fault. I 
 >u]Ji>ose 1 ohall see you all down at the lake's end before noon. 
 ( lood-bye until then, Vance." 
 
 And Mr. Mordaunt walked out of the room, mourned his 
 horse, which awaited him at the door, and rode away. 
 
 CHAPTER Mil. 
 
 KNTIK IWO — CREAT THlNijS TO |)(). 
 
 Ahout ten o'clock of the same eventful morning, a rather 
 handsome carriage drawn by two strong horses, who were dri- 
 \ en by a smart looking boy, dashed up the gravelled road wind- 
 ing through the grounds of Lake Mordaunt, and was stopped b) 
 a sudden reining up of the animals, in the most showy manner 
 j)Ossil)le, opposite the door. Hie boy jumj^ed from his seat, ran 
 11]. the ste|)s and rung the bell — a most unnecessary proceeding 
 ;is Ethel had already come forward to receive her visitors — and 
 ■ then had to make a bolt for the horses heads, the unceremonious 
 
 I 
 
 I! 
 
54 
 
 SHK MICHI' HA\ K DONK IfKIIKK, 
 
 manner in which the) liad been i)iillecl ii|> having set them Ikk !•; 
 ing and turning in a very undignified, if not dangerous, manner, 
 and efiectually destroyed all the stylish dash of the a|)]>roa(.h. 
 
 Mr. N'ance, who was not, as may be surmised, very far awas 
 fr(jm his Kthel, had to run up to assist Miss Dearborn and Miss 
 Ada Dearborn to alight, amid the half-suppressed screams whicli 
 the eccentric oscillations of their vehicle impelled them to utter. 
 Once safely on terra firma they rushed effusively into P^thel's 
 ;irms and eml>raced her in the most affectionate manner. '* Dear 
 est Kthel, how glad I am to see you again." " It is an age since 
 we met," and "so nice to be with you again," were exclaimed 
 l)y the two young ladies, as they successively threw their amis 
 around her neck. 
 
 Miss Ada then, turning to the boy, who by this haci succeedeil 
 in quieting his horses, addressed him in very girlish anger — 
 
 " Vou stupid James, why did you not stop your horses pro- 
 |)erly, frightening tl>em so ? Why, we might have both been 
 killed. I'm sure you ought to know better than that, you great 
 stui>id. 
 
 '' It was'ni my fault," re|)lied the boy. " Did'nt Miss Emily 
 lell nie to drive up to the door quick and pull them up all at 
 once, so as to make a great show, now did'nt she ? And that's 
 what scared them. They don't know nothing about show them 
 horses don't," added James, impudently. 
 
 •' James, I shall rei)ort your conduct to my father when 1 rt- 
 mm," exclaimed Miss Dearborn, angrily. " Making such ridi- 
 culous statements. I never told you any such thing, you imi)er- 
 tinent boy. I will have you discharged." 
 
 •' All right I I'm willing," retorted James. " But you did stiy 
 so, and I knowed it would'nt answer with them horses." 
 
 " Not another word, James." Go home again immediately, 
 and remember to come back again this evening for us. Paj)a 
 wants the carriage this afternoon," she continued, to Ethel, " and 
 so lames will come back for us early in the evening." 
 
LNIKK TWO— (IKKA'r rHINCS IX) \KK 
 
 55 
 
 " Oh I no, you arc to remain with us a day or two, at any 
 rate," returned Kthel. " We can send you lo I'en J.akes at any 
 time : but you are not going home to-night, so James need not 
 loine. Rememl)er, James, that you need not return, and tell 
 Mr:-.. I )earborn that the young ladies will not return before to- 
 morrow or the next day." 
 
 '* \'ery well, Miss Mordaunt, I'll deliver the message," replied 
 lames. i)leasantly enough, as he jumped u[> to his seat. "Am 
 I to tell the old gentleman you discharged me." he added to 
 Kniily, with a grin. 
 
 "He oft* with you," was all the reply Kmily vouchsafed to 
 him. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Vance," she continued, turning to 
 tliat gentleman. " 1 am very glad to meet you again, thougli 
 not aware )0U were in our part of the country until this moment. 
 I Wiiy have you not been over to Ten Lakes to .see us? We 
 should have been delighted. You find the country very dull, I 
 should imagine, after the gaities of a town life? Do you con- 
 jtrive to amuse yourself?" 
 
 " Very well, indeed, Miss Dearborn. I certainly don't find 
 
 iht country dull," he answered, with an involuntary glance at 
 
 JKthel, which family at once caught and understood. " I shall 
 
 Lertainly call at Ten I^kes, but I need not think of that now, 
 
 [vhen I lia\e the present jileasure of your society. That shall 
 
 )e reserved for a renewal of the pleasure," he replied gallantly. 
 
 Miss Ada. I am delighted to meet you again, although I should 
 
 ^ardly ha\e known you. You seem determined to charm your 
 
 riends afresh each time they meet you, out of all knowledge of 
 
 four fair self." 
 
 '• Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Vance, which seems to imply 
 
 at my appearance is gradually becoming passable," Ada replied. 
 
 i don't care, though. But I admire the coolness of you Toronto 
 
 [entleinen, who think, I verily believe, that anything will pass 
 
 urcnt with us country girls." 
 
 I Ml ' 
 
 \i' i 
 
s<J 
 
 SHK MKiHT HAVK DONK BKI'IKK. 
 
 (\l 
 
 m 
 
 "?.» : 
 
 " Now, Miss Ada, that's not fair. F meant no such tbi'i;;, 
 yoii know I didn't. I i)ay no dul)ious homage to your charms.' 
 
 "Oh ! a truce to your com|)liments," interrupted Kthel, "or 
 we'll be here all day. We are intending t:) have a little pic ni( 
 al the end of the lake for your sakes, Kmily and .\da, that is, m 
 you like it, and, I am sorry to say, just among ourselves. Had 
 I known earlier that you were coming, I would have asked sonu- 
 other jieople, but for to-.day we must enjoy ourselves as best wi 
 can." 
 
 " Nothing could be more delightful, I'm sure," said Kmily, wIki 
 having her own ideas to carrvout, cared little whether there weri 
 five people or fifty present. 
 
 " Well, we'll get ready then," answered Kthel. " We'll t.nk^ 
 the croquet with us, too, although we're short of gentlemen, 
 But we will inaugurate my uncle into its mysteries. My ])rothtr 
 Reggie is unfortunately absent on a shooting and fishing exciir 
 sion, but we'll make papa play, and there's lots of things we can 
 do when we tire of croquet." 
 
 ** Oh I that will be perfectl}- delightful. A good croquet fij;ht 
 is just the thing for our afternoon," exclaimed Ada, rapturously. 
 " One can take some interest in that and have some fun. 1 
 wish I were a man that 1 could play cricket, and base ball, and 
 lacrosse. I'd give anything to play in the cricket match at Tcr 
 flakes on Saturday." 
 
 "Well, Ada, I'm sure," said her sister, "that's a nice speech 
 for a young lady to make. Can you not remember that you :m 
 not a boy ? But it's just like you to make >o unladylike, so 
 shocking a remaiiv." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Kmily, that's all very fine ; l^ut it's a shame thai 
 the men shoidd have all the nice games to tliemselves, and \\( 
 i^irls nothing but the stupid things. Croquet is the only gynu 
 we have with a bit of excitement in it, and only then when there's 
 enough to have sides and fight it out w^'thout mercy." 
 
 " 1 entirely concur in the spirit of the young lady's remarks," 
 
I'.NTKK TWO— (IkKAl* I'HINCS IX) DO. 
 
 57 
 
 viifl Mr. Horton, who had strolled up to the portico on \vhii;Ii 
 iluv Nvcro still standiii;;. " It is not entirely just that tlve fair 
 NC\ should !)e debarred from the exciting sports ot" the open air. 
 Krdnced as they are to amuse themselves with croc^uet, flirting 
 iiul kindred occujuitions of tame character." 
 
 •• Oh I that's you. is it, Uncle Kdward? Come, I want you, 
 s;iid Kthel. "Permit me to introduce my uncle, Mr. Horton, 
 JO you — Miss I )eiirl)orn — Miss Ada Dearborn. He is an Ameri- 
 r,in. ladies, with a profound contempt for us poor Canadians. 
 Kill we will teach him better shortly. He is rather nice, though, 
 iikI not so cross as he looks. N\'c will begin this afternoon !)y 
 initiating him into the sublime game of cro(iuet." 
 
 •• Thank vou, Kthel," continued Mr. Horton, after the formali- 
 ties (»f the introduction were over. "It is just like you to in- 
 •roduce me in such outrageous fashion, showing off my points 
 ;is if 1 were a tame bear. I should be happy to play with you, 
 ladies, but I know nothing whatever of crocjuet, beyond having 
 often seen it." 
 
 •* ( )h, but you must, Mr. Horton. We cannot do without you, 
 jiid I will teach you. Vou shall be my partner for standing u\> 
 tor me just now, and we will get along fan.viusly against them," 
 said Ada. v,'ith eagerness. 
 
 " We must go in though and get ready ; it will soon be time 
 lo start, and diere are lots of things to do first/' resumed ELthel, 
 and the young ladies followed her into the house, while the two 
 gentlemen betook themselves to the boat-house to get ready 
 tlieir fishing tackle and jjrepare the largest boat for the trij). 
 
 Where we will leave them for the j)resent and follow the 
 ladies. 
 
 Miss Kmily Dearborn, the elder of the two sisters, and now 
 in her twenty-second year, was a handsome and very stylish- 
 looking girl, very clever and ambitious, who made the most of 
 every advantage that she possessed, and was determined that 
 her light should not, at any rate, be hid under a bushel. Her 
 
 I ' 
 
 I 
 
 h 
 
 ! i 
 
i! 
 
 5« 
 
 SHi: MICHT H.Wi; DONK IIKI TKR. 
 
 : 1 
 
 eyes were bright, sj).irkling ;in(l iinHin<hing, of an iiiteriiu'dinic 
 hue — neither gray nor brown — her features pretty and her figurp 
 very good. She dressed showily, yet with taste, and her extr 
 rior was very pleasing, in fact, she was a very pretty and dash 
 ing-looking girl. Ihit she did not possess a single sjiark ol 
 generosity in her whole nature. It was all for self, if in j)leav 
 ing herself she happened to jjlcase others, it may safely beaver 
 red the accident was not of her intention. I'hough she possessed 
 plenty of tact and the capability of making herself agreeable 
 when it suited her, yet she only used these i)Owers when it suit 
 d her. Not from sym|)athy, or kindness of sjjirit, or the <]esirc 
 ()f|)leasing. 
 
 .She was vain of her beauty — jealous of that of others, and 
 ( ould not brook rivalry — even though she knew it to be uncon- 
 scious rivalry — with any degree of complacency, 'i'o attain her 
 objects she was capable of sacrificing every feeling, and ever\ 
 right of all those who stood in her way, or inflict without mercy 
 the greatest |)ain. 
 
 She was a flirt, not so much from the love of flirting per sc. 
 as from the desire to outshine and rival every girl of her ac(|uain 
 tance. 
 
 And she possessed no scruple as to the appro|)riation, if 
 possible, of other girls' property, in the shape of the masculine 
 heart. 'Hiat she and Ethel Mordaunt remained on friendly 
 terms was more easily deducible from the fact that they had not 
 been thrown sufficiently into each other's society to conflict witli 
 each other, than from the probability of such dissimilar temjiera- 
 ments being permanently drawn together. Ethel was not one 
 to form great intimacies amongst girls of her own age — inti- 
 macies that so seldom last, while her own inclinations, with the 
 somewhat retired jjosition of Lake Mordaunt, and the retirinj^ 
 disposition of its owner, prevented her from mixing to any great 
 extent with the surrounding society. 
 
 l^ut if Ethel Mordaunt liked Emily Dearborn well enough, the 
 
KN'IKR TWO— (;KKAr IHINCS TO DO. 
 
 59 
 
 hitter (litl not return the comitlimcnt. She did not like any per- 
 >un to any extraordinary extent, still less one of whose attrac - 
 lions she was suj)erlatively jealous. Her aeceptante of the pre- 
 >ent visit was more rctVrable to the agreeable tidings that u 
 voung and eligii)le bachelor, whom she already knew, was stay- 
 ing at the lake, than to any desire for the society of lier friend, 
 or the i)assing of a day or two in a ])lace she deemed very 
 
 slow. 
 
 Her faults, ])artly those of disposition, were mainly due to an 
 injudicious bringing u|» and a superficial education, thelai^ of a 
 restraining hand, and the lack of necessary dis(ij)line whi("h 
 teaches self-restraint. 
 
 The daughter of the cashier of the branch bank at 'I'en Lakes. 
 .lu honest and worthy man of business, who unfortiniately was 
 l)eset witli that mania for keeping up appearances and living 
 what is considered stylish life — the bane of so many — but whose 
 income was not commensurate with his ideas of himself and 
 laniily — her mental culture and rearing, consecpient on such 
 family influences, had been directed towards outside show — sur- 
 face accomplishments and ambitious longings for high place in 
 society. Home examples surrounding her from her earliest 
 \ears had made these things a primary jxut of her mental edu- 
 ration, the overshadowing idea that biased all the rest. 
 
 Her mother, a vain and feeble woman, whom ill-health had 
 rendered selfish with an inert selfishness, was not the one to cor- 
 jrect the faults and elevate the aspirations of her active and 
 sprighdy daughter, whose natural disposition so much needed 
 the check of a wise restraining hand, and the exam])le before her 
 [of a high and right thinking character. She i)ossessed neither 
 Ithe capability nor the inclination to wisely lead the young mind 
 [opening before her eyes, and imbuing itselt from her influence, 
 [towards that natural bent of life ; those natural pursuits and ob- 
 jects ; that symi)athy and affection for fellow humanity ; and last, 
 put not least, the useful emi)loyments of daily existence which, 
 
 il 
 
 I I 
 
 ic 
 
I I 
 
 Co 
 
 SHK MICTfT HAVK DOXK |{K'I"('KH. 
 
 H 
 
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 11 
 
 when they are <(>inl»ined with tlie diastcninj,' and elevating 'u\ 
 tUieiues of the true Christian spirit, can Itcst }<iii<lc on thesean h 
 inr happiness. 
 
 On the contrary, tlie example of her vanity and love of osten 
 tatioii liad confirmed the same defects in her daiij^hter. 
 
 W'liile her constant l»e\Nailing the pressure for mi/uey v\iu< h 
 dieir Irrational mode ot life persistently forced upon them, and 
 for whiL'h they themselves were solely to blame, had made lur 
 daughter to feel and to act on the idea that es(a|)e from theeviU 
 of poverty, to attain the possession of wealth for the gratification 
 of an unhealthy ambition, was for her to be obtained b)' the 
 em|»l()>inent of her talents and her beauty in securing for her 
 self a good marriage, irrespe<:tive of all other considerations. 
 And Kiis wa^ the great end that she sought — her p'lrsuitof hap 
 piness. ThrHigh the evils of such home inHuence and trainiui^ 
 as hers had been, none but a rightly constituted mind, strengtli 
 ened by firm prin< ii)les, could, by any possibility, pass uii 
 scathed ; and these Kmily Dearborn did not possess. 
 
 'I'he character of Ada presented a striking contrast to that ol 
 her sister Kmil}', the more striking, ])erha|)s, since they had been 
 brought uj) together, subjected to the same influence, 'i'hough 
 it cannot be said that her principles were solidly fixed, or her 
 disjiosition a j^erfect one ; a better one it certainly was, and she 
 had reached her seventeenth year a different being from her sis 
 ter. Whether from an instinctive idea of what is right and j>ru 
 per, a fixed stability of mind wliich formed and acted on its own 
 ojiinions, or an obtuseness which rejected and threw off, as :i 
 roof sheds the rain, the impressions of those aroiuid her, she had 
 j;assed through the unhealthy exami)les of her home lilewith bui 
 little injury to her mind and heart. 
 
 A frank, joyous, outs[)oken girl, free from jjretence or affecta- 
 tion and full of life and spirit, she accepted and enjoyed life a^ 
 it came to her, interested and delighted with it, and not cariai; 
 to trouble herself with things that seemed beyond her reach. 
 
h;N'ri:K ru'()-.c;RKAi i'H1N(;s ro do. 
 
 61 
 
 she h;i«l i)Ui little vanity to pla^'uc her or self-consciditsness t(» 
 .t|i|)rt>s her. Hlt tare for dress niul tii\ory was rontiiietl to tlic 
 limit necessary l») estajie the reproaches of iier mother and sistjr 
 tt)r negle* t. If she wanted a new dress.it was as nnicii thai 
 >he might get out of the house, whirh she was not allowed to do 
 if shal>l>>, as for the love of it. She outraged the proprieties, in 
 her mother's .wmI sister's sense, a dozen times a day and was none 
 (he worse for it. 
 
 Kssentially good-natured and generous-hearted, she would do 
 .inything lliiii was a>ked of her and take an interest in it too. 
 As clever and as active as her sister, she was better and more 
 roundly edin ate<l. since she willingly undertook the tasks as 
 Nigned her. 
 
 Her active spirit nuide idleness irksome, Ami it generally fell 
 u> her 10 |»erfonn ')e domestic duties and supervision whi<ili 
 her mother ( ould not, and her sister would not, perform. 
 
 Her bright young face gave i)romise of future beauty, a sore 
 ^ubjecc to her sister, who foresaw a rery formidable rival, but 
 her tall stature and slender build were at the present only re- 
 lieved from awkwanhiess by her active naturalness, which gave 
 her a hovdenish grace. 
 
 .V beau meant cliietly to her a partnerat<Toquet, to laugh with, 
 and exult with over a victory, or to volubly scold on defeat. 
 
 If she was not a very refined and cultivated young lady, she 
 was clever enough, if she liked boisterous sports, she always 
 (•iid her duty. 
 
 If her faults had not been pruned they had not overshatlowed 
 iier better (jualities. .She was a ha]jpy, contented girl — her 
 naturalness and youth likely long to remain w ith her. 
 
 .\ romping .stroll with her brothers, a gay gabbling walk with 
 M lot of her school-girl companions, fishing, boating, .skating, 
 snow-shoeing, riding about the country on horseljack, and the 
 delight of her heart — cro([uet — were her [)ieasures ; and she 
 detested the formalities that reigned sui)reme at liome. 
 
 m 
 
 w 
 
 t : 
 
 
 ^^ .1 
 
(i2 
 
 SHL MU.li'J" MAVK DoNK UI/ITKR. 
 
 1 
 
 Ji 
 
 {|4 
 
 m 
 
 KvcrylKKly liktd .Vhx IV.irhonu llcr tai.Us were i.uisc<l Uy 
 the neglect ot'ollurs, while she h.id the ring of true metal ahoiil 
 her. 
 
 '* Well, girls, what news have you for me from 'I en Lakes, to- 
 ilay?" said Kthel, when the younj, ladies having paiil the atten- 
 tion to toileiif matters which a drive, however short, <luring a 
 < 'anadian July d.iy generally necessitates, had sauntered into 
 the conservatory for a io</k at the Mowers. " Is there anything 
 .)ccurring out of the ordinary ? I have not heen from home for 
 I week and long to hear what is going on." 
 
 **()h, \es, Ktliel, there is going to he aich a ;>|»Ieiulid m;it( h 
 on Saturday between the Ten l«ikes Cricket Club and the 
 County. Only think! our little 'I'cii Cakes against the wh(»lc 
 County ! Oh : I do hope they will heat them. I ki'iow I shall 
 he on j)ins and nee«lles the whole ilay. Our Tom is captain, 
 and Harry plays loo. Oh I how delightful it will lie if they win. 
 \'ou'll t ome to see it, Kthel, won't you ,•* Kvery one will he 
 there," exclaimed Ada, rapturously. 
 
 " U'eU, if you call that news, its about all there is at present. 
 There is really nothing going on worth telling," Kmily rejoined. 
 •• One cannot get any sense out of the gentlemen at this season. 
 Nothing but their ridiculous lacrosse and <ricket, as if people 
 cared to see a lot of men, in an unpleasant state of warmth, 
 knock a ball about. If anything that affords a chance of a little 
 nnusement is proposed — a dance, a concert, or an evening's 
 entertainment, it is • pooh poohed !' by them for their ridicu- 
 lous jjractices, and they seem to have nothing else to think of. 
 i)Ut you'll come over on Saturday. Kthel, and slay w ith us. We 
 are going to get some good out of the match by gi^ ing the strange 
 club a dinner, and having a ball afterwards in the evening." 
 
 " If we go at all, I a.ii sure papa and mamma won't siay for 
 the evening." answered y.thei ; *' and, consecpiently, I cannot, 
 and I cannot say vvhetlier they will even go for the match. Mr. 
 Vance is goirg, however, as he was asked to play, or be umpire. 
 
 
KNI^iR rWn-Ckl.AI IHINiiS To IM). 
 
 6.J 
 
 (,r M>mcthing alxml it. ulu'ii ho was in Ten I<;ikcs hi-l uei'k, 
 ;in«l I lorgot to tell you, Kmily.an old .ulniiror of jours — Sidnc) 
 \\'r>lvtrton — is coming luri" this evening, and remains tor the 
 inat( h. I think. At least he sai<l he was going to pl.iy in hi*, 
 letter to Kduin- Mr. \'an< e," corre* ted Kthel. hastily. 
 
 " .So .Syihiey Wolverlon is ( otning here, is he ? \'ou seem to 
 have plenty of gentlemen \isitors, Klhel ? It's strange, ns he 
 generally comes to Ten Lakes." rei)lied Kmily. acidly. "And 
 Mr. Vance, too, might have c.dled when he was there, it's yon 
 we ought to look Vo tor news. Kthel. Have not \oii anything 
 to tell us ah<nit .Nfr. Van( e and your.,"lt', for instan« e. Sonu 
 thing interesting, you know. He seems very <levoted, and you 
 seem to know all ahouthini. It's too had to take my old admirers 
 t'nim me," contnnied Kmil\. 
 
 '* Now that's a shame. I declare. Kmily," exclaimed Ada. 
 ••Of <ourse Mr. Vance is Kthei's beau ; that is, if she warns him 
 to l)e. She is pretty enough, and I don't believe he was ever 
 oiu' of yours ; though .Sy<lney certainly was, or is, for that mat- 
 ter. It is not any of your business whether Kthel has a beau or 
 not. Is ht; very good, Kthel ?" continued she. "Can he play 
 ■ ro()uet and games well ? I would not have a beau unless he 
 was smart." 
 
 •• ( )h. I think he is pretty fair in your sense of the word, .Vda," 
 rejilied Kthel, laughing. •• I sup|)Ose he can play games well." 
 
 •• Well, Ada. of all the rude speeches I have ever heard, yours 
 is about the rudest," rejoined Kmily, in a by no means amiable 
 accent, and looking at her sister as if she would have liked to 
 .muihilate her upon the spot. " Xot to s|)eak of the very un- 
 becoming manner in which you addressed me just now — which, 
 knowing you as \ do, I could but e.\i)ect ; it is highly impro- 
 per, and couched in the extremest dej)th of vulgarity, to use 
 that low word ' beau * in connection with the name of a yoimg 
 lady. It is what we w( uld look for from a servant girl, and not 
 from one who, with the advantages she has had. and the example 
 
 
 I' 
 
 I 
 
J 
 
 I 
 
 64 
 
 SHK .MU;iir H.WI, I'OM'. IIKI'IKK. 
 
 I 
 
 ^1 
 
 I 
 
 HCt Im'Iiiic licr. niighl to jtnsscH^ tlic miimHM> .umI tlcjmrttnciu of 
 t l;i(ly. As it in, Ada, you will liaxc to mmhIih t xiMirscH in .1 
 more Ik I (lining manner or remain at honu* in tiic Mir>erv. uhirh. 
 it would .ijipfar, is the proper plaee for yon. And tlun )onr 
 horridiN «(anmon a|»pli(ation of' the word 'smart.' It is simplx 
 dreadful." 
 
 "Oh. well, limily dear. I did not mean In \c\ )ou. 1 onlv 
 thought \ou shonM not tease Klhel. .\nd if I did use the ol»- 
 jcttionaMe word 'bean' it was because I lia\e heard yon use it 
 so often at home. \'ou <all (lus. l-erguson and Sydney W'ol- 
 verton and lots of other fellows your ' beaux,* an<l I think that 
 what one should not say before our friends shoi.il«l not be used 
 dt home. And where was the harm in using the word 'smart ' 
 Ml its Canadian sense.* I was not reciting a piece at an e.xami- 
 nation." answered .\da. deprecatmgl) . 
 
 .Ada's interruption and drawing down upon herself of her sis 
 ler's w rath had ( ome in very timeously for Kthel, as it .saved her 
 the necessity of re|)lying to, or in some way taking notite of. 
 Miss |)earI>orn's rather pointed and disagreeable insinuations as 
 to herself anil Mr, N'ance. The few words that had been said 
 on the subject had given her a feeling of re|»ulsion towards thai 
 \oung lad\ . and had shown her plainlv that, if not 1 decl.ircfl 
 enemy, she would not have a friend in that (piarter. 
 
 .She felt that she would not like to e\j)lain. nor yet was she 
 going t(» deny her engagement to Mr. X'ance to this girl, who, 
 in the course of their few minutes' conversation, she had already 
 learned to dislike. Though to the frank and natural Ada she 
 would gkielly have conununicated her new happiness, and look- 
 ed l\)r answering .sympathy. 
 
 .\da's interruption had come in very good time lo her aid. 
 and liad, at anv rate for the presetit. relieved herof tlic ne( tssitv 
 r)f sijcakiiig on the matter. 
 
I Mirsr IIAVK SM M(»\. 
 
 <s 
 
 ( H vriKK IX. 
 
 I Ml VI II Wl SMMOV. 
 
 Ijuily Dc.irborn iii truth was very anxious to t'liul out Itow 
 nutlors rtally sUnn] hctwvi'n Mr. Vamv and Klhcl .\ror<l;uiiu. 
 So soon as she ha<l heard that he was on a visit to the lake — a 
 long visit — she hatl srented dan|{or. Mr. Vaiue stoo«l wry hi^'h 
 on the short list of elij^ihies for one of whom she destined the 
 Inmoiir of her fair hand. At the head of the possibilities n( its 
 graduated scale stood the name of Kdwin \an«e, an<l she was 
 not the girl to let him slip through her fingers withtnit an effort 
 to save the prize. 
 
 \lniost at the moment of iier arrival — almost at a glance — 
 she had perceived with feminine intuition, how matters stood 
 uith him ; that he was in love, and that he did not hjokas if his 
 love was an unhapi)y one — an unfortunate love. This was very 
 galling to her» and she blamed herself severely for allowing so 
 nnu:h time to slip on his undisturbed visit .tfter she had heard 
 •if it. 
 
 She was very anxious to know Kthel's sentiments in regard t(» 
 ium. At the present she was very mu<h in doubt. She thought 
 she had a clue in the little slip of the tongue with which Kthel 
 had nearly jironounced his Christian name, and afterwartls cor- 
 rected it to " Mr. \'ance." lUit she would wat^h, and if things 
 had come to the worst, and there was a private engagement be- 
 tween them, how many opjiortimities could she not find, or 
 make, to produce discord between them — to break it off — and 
 hring things back to where they were before ? She did not love 
 [•".(hvin Vance — she did not love any one — but she thought him 
 an excellent /<?;■/'/, and she was determined that Kthel Mordaunt 
 should hot marry him if she could help it. 
 
 But her reflections, and the silence whi( h had continued <<)r 
 a few minutes while they sauntered about the cool conservatory, 
 
 I 
 
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V 
 
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 1 
 
 ^il 
 
 ll '1' 
 
 111 
 
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 C)6 
 
 SHK MIC.H'I" H.W K DONK lU/riKR. 
 
 were iMukcn by the i)rattlc of little feet, and Alida, tiie tliree- 
 year-ukl daughter of the house, came rushing in, her brown eyes 
 sparkhiig and opened to their wide>t extent, and her pretty little 
 bright face all flushed and eager. 
 
 •'Oh! Ktel, Ktel ! mamma say Keggie tummin'. Vet's go and 
 >ook. Ally so c'dy glad Reggie tummin'." 
 
 •' All) 's so very glad that Reggie's coming, is she ? So is 
 Kthel, too," said that young lady, while Ada snatched up the 
 eager little thing. " We'll go and see him then." 
 
 At the same moment a boisterous young volte was heard in 
 the hall, awd the sound of a loud kiss. 
 
 '* Hallo I mamma, how are you ? I've got back at last, you 
 see. Had such a time. Where are they all ? Where's Ethel 
 and Ally ? Oh ! I've had such a jolly lark." 
 
 *' Oh ! I'm so glad to see you back safely again Reginald," 
 Mrs. Mordaunt was heard to say. " Vou've been away, so long 
 away, over the time vou mentioned that I was getting uneasy 
 about you. I'm very happy to see you back. You'll find them 
 with P^mily and Ada Dearborn in the conser\atory, I think ; 
 but you are not very presentable, Reggie." 
 
 •' Oh ! bother the ' presentable ;' my face is clean, at any rate," 
 and he rushed off to find them, shouting — 
 
 *' Ethel ! Ethel I where are you ? I want you." 
 •' Hallo, Ally ! give Reggie a kiss," he continued, seizing her 
 out of Ada's amis, and smothering her with lOUgh brotherly 
 kisses. 
 
 •' Ally's so vedy glad K-eggie turn bat. Ally wanted Reggie," 
 said the pretty little thing, clasping her little arms around his neck. 
 " Yes I and Reggie wanted Ally, too. He's glad to see his 
 Ally. Oh ! Ethel," he continued, " I've had such a jolly lark 
 tliis morning. How do you do, Emily ? How do } ou do, Ada ? 
 llthel, old girl, how are you ?" he exclaimed, kissing his sister, 
 and shaking hands with the two young ladies in a vehement 
 manner. 
 
 iWu. 
 
I Ml SI" HAVK SALMON. 
 
 ^>7 
 
 "Well. I declare I you ought to he asliaiued of yourself l(* 
 come hefore these young ladies in sucli a state as you are. 
 Keggie," said Kthel, looking, however, lovingl)- upon her bro 
 tiler. " How in the world did you contrive to get yourself so 
 ragged and tattered, and oh ! how you do smell of fish. What 
 ha're you been domg with yourself? 
 
 " Why I my clothes got torn in the woods, I sup(>ose. \ou 
 should have seen all the places we have been through — rocks, 
 woods, ri\ers, swami)s, lakes, and all the rough pla<:es between 
 here and Lake Nii)issing. Hut we had a good time, though, md 
 oh I the jolly lark I had this morning. So I smell offish, do L 
 Kthel } I should think I do. \N'hy, 1 have been occupied as a 
 fishmonger to-day. Such a lark ! See all this money, Ethel," 
 said lie, producing a four dollar l>ill from his [>ocket. '* See the 
 hard-gained earnings of your brother I I e.\i)ect that it's aI)out 
 the first money he ever earned, and I fear, I very much fear. 
 that it was not earned with that altogether strict and exact spirit 
 of honesty that should enter into the mercantile dealings of a 
 Mordaunt. But it was a great lark — fun, I can tell you. I shall 
 relate the whole story for your edification." 
 
 " Vou see, all the chaps, except Gus. Ferguson and myself, 
 got tired out and di.sgusted with the exj>edition at the end of 
 the first \N eek ; they cleared out for home, lea\ing us with one 
 canoe and the old Indian guide. We had a rough time of it, 
 and piles of adventures — after they left us — up to Lake Nipiss- 
 ing, and back on our way home, until we struck the Mmitou 
 river two days ago, and followed it down to the settlements. 
 We got lots of fish too, and yesterday-night in the woods, up at 
 Missisquit falls, we got six whopping big salmon, as they rested 
 before making the leaj) — and a few smaller ones also. There 
 were piles of them. Well, we got out to Harmer's place — 
 twenty miles from here — late yesterday evening, and tried to 
 get him to drive us home at once. He wouldn't do it, though, 
 until this morning : and he routed us uj), I can tell you, briglit 
 
 
 I I 
 
 m 
 
 'i.. J 
 
4 
 
 . A 
 
 68 
 
 SHi: MlCiH'l" HA\K IJONK JiKI'lKK. 
 
 .;ii(l early, tor he wanted to get back early to his har\esliiii;. 
 Mis rig-out was not the most handsome in the world, ihmigh he 
 had a l)u)Iy horse. We piled the whole lot of tish we 
 had <:aught yesterday — the six big salmon, a lot of |>ickerel. 
 bass, maskinonge, two whoi)i)ing sturgeons, and a lot of big 
 suckers to swell out the pile — in the the back of the wagon ; 
 and off we started, (ius' apparel was even in a more ragged 
 and used up condition than mine, and as old Harmer is not 
 very tasty as to his dress, we were three of about as tatterde 
 malion a set of beggars as you would meet on a day's journe) . 
 We jogged on sj^lendidly, though, to 'I en Lakes ; and when 
 ( Ius got out at his i)lace, and had loaded himself up with his 
 share of the fish, his own mother didn't know him when she 
 came our of the front door,and told him she 'did'nt want any to- 
 day.' (ius laughed and told her she'd have to take them, 
 whether she wanted them or not. And then he got a rating for 
 daring to show himself in such a state of rags and dirt. He 
 didn't look much like a mother's darling, certainly, in his rags, 
 with a great pile of slimy fish in his arms ; and the Far([uhar 
 girls all looking out of the window and laughing. But very 
 little CtUs cared, as he stood, winking at the girls, and joking his 
 mother, that she didn't know his own son. I had to laugh too. 
 ujion which the old lady gave me fits too. Then old Harmer 
 laughed, and he got fits too — at which he but laughed the more. 
 .So the old lady finished up by ordering Gus into the house — a 
 command he dutifully obeyed, for he and his mother are craz) 
 about one another ; and old Harmer and I and the fish jogged 
 on again. 
 
 '* Well ; just as we were going to turn in here from the main 
 road, who should we meet but a couple of commercial travellers 
 from Montreal, driving an express wagon, which was loaded ui> 
 with their sample trunks. One of them was about half seas over, 
 and the other about as comfortably tipsy as he could be and live, 
 though it was not then more than ten o'clock. They had evidently 
 
 IJ 
 
1 MUST HAVK SALMON, 
 
 69 
 
 had a fine time of il llic night iKtbrc, and had coiiinicnccd 
 t-arly again, lor tlic> were awfully-sleepy looking, and c :)iild 
 hardly see out of their eyes. 
 
 "'Hello! my honest agriculturalist," called out the biggest 
 ;ind drunkest one. " Is this the road to 'I'en Lakes ? ' 
 
 "'^'es it is. \'ou're all right," I replied. 
 
 " • And how many thousand miles have we to go l')efori: we 
 get there?' he encpu'red.' 
 
 " ' Three miles," I rei)lied. 
 
 '* 'Tree mile I' screamed the little one, « l'rench-Canadi;m : 
 ' tree mile more? It was see\' mile to Teen Lake wlien we did 
 leave de hotel dis morning, an we journey, we have make more 
 as twenty mile alreadies.' 
 
 "' Look'ee here I my dear young bullock-hastener," continued 
 the ]>ig one, • the fascinating outlines of thy hucolic lineaments 
 shall be forever engraved upon our hearts, if you will tell us — 
 though T misdoubt me much if thou art capable, from thy Ar- 
 cadian sim])licity, of judging — if they keep at the hotel there 
 anydiing fit for gentlemen to eat ? ' 
 
 " ' Well,' I said, ' [ don't know whether they keej) anytliing 
 fit for gentlemen to eat : Init they have ])lenty of 'old rye' and 
 ' U])per Canada whiskey,' which will suit your comi)]aint ex- 
 actly — my affectionate old Ta[jes-and-Laces.' 
 
 " * Vat you mean — buckwheat farmare ? ' exclaimed the little 
 Frenchman, with excited gesticulation ; • who you call Tapes- 
 and-Laces — hey ? Vat you mean to insult de gentlemans as 
 dis ? Vou JDettare go vid yourself and cut you grass, you 
 hay. March, den, vid you dirty feesh.' 
 
 '* Fish ! has he got fish ? Is my disresj^ectful and erratic 
 husljandrnan ])iscator as well as orator? f.atin, by Jove ! ' said 
 the big chn]j ; 'well, I must be slewed pretty comforta!)ly wJien 
 r get on ].atin,' continued he, muttering as he climl)eddown from 
 the wagon with laborious effort : ' \W will inspect his mer- 
 
 I ! ' 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ' i 
 
HI; 
 
 m 
 
 V 
 
 h 
 
 I ( 
 
 i |i 
 
 70 
 
 SHK MI(;H'I' HA\ K DONK LJK'rrKR. 
 
 ( liundisc' and be jja/cd upon ni\ finny treasures with eyes as 
 fishy as theirs. 
 
 " ' Olorious i>rosj)ect I How doth m\' longing soul gloat o\er 
 the pleasant vision. Here Is your true romance — your real 
 poetry ! How ravishing the thought that no vile tavern dinner 
 shall desecrate to-day my gentlemanly interior. My youthful 
 agricultural friend, how style you tliese noble creatures? ' 
 
 "* I style these noble creatures salmon,' I rei>lied ; 'but )ou 
 can give their Latin names if it suits you better. Vou seem 
 fond of the language, though it is the first time I ever heard a 
 bagman speak Latin.' 
 
 " ' I'he lordly salmon I Peirre' — addressing his companion — 
 ' my soul hungers for salmon. I must ha\e salmon. The look 
 of salmon is disorganizing the very being of )our friend. Lo I 
 I will tempori/e with this rude child of the soil.' 
 
 " ' [ not know vat ) ou say wid yourself,' answered the 
 Frenchman ; * I tinks you Ixttare climb up vid de wagon, and 
 leave alone de nasty feesh.' 
 
 •* Peirre, salmon i must have I Would'st thou abridge to 
 further tenuity the interior of thy friend ?" he rejjlied solemnly. 
 •• Young man, your aspect is one of impecuniosity. Poverty, 
 doubtless, has often seized thee with iron grijje. These tattered 
 habiliments betray a pocket unwarmed by the comforting dollar. 
 N'oung man, I will be thy benefactor — a friend to thy youthful 
 simplicity. 1 will give you gold for your salmon, (iold, boy ! 
 the yellow glittering gold I AMiat though my respected boss in 
 Montreal is doubtless fretting his gizzard, worrying and funi.'ng 
 over his contracted discounts, his notes, his engagements and 
 inflexible bank managers. Doubtless he thinks I am doing the 
 same over lines of sampl'ijs. Deluded man I \'et must I have 
 salmon ! Is money scarce ? Vet must 1 have salmon I Salmon 
 alone can soothe my outraged soul. I must have salmon. 'Let 
 him fret a little harder, for I will have salmon, and I will give 
 gold for salmon. I will e'en bargain with this corn-fed hind. 
 
 
f':: 
 
 1 iML'Sr HAVE SALMON. 
 
 7' 
 
 1.0 : 
 
 Ige to 
 
 ;mnly. 
 
 )verty, 
 
 Lttered 
 
 loUar. 
 
 luthful 
 
 l)oy : 
 
 )ss in 
 
 and 
 fg tbc 
 have 
 llmon 
 
 give 
 hind. 
 
 My friend," he continued to ine, " my soul is ino\ed to l»en(;vo- 
 lence by thy piteous condition. I would fain i)rovide )ou wit!i 
 the means of |>rocuring for yourself a new pair of nether gjtt- 
 uients by |nin:hasing of thy tVsli. Now, how much tilthy lucre, 
 current coin of tlie Dominion, will thou take for ts.o of those 
 lordly salmon ?" and he pointed as he spoke to two great horrid 
 looking sinkers which ornamented the top of the pile. 
 
 "Most worthy bagman," 1 replied to him, *• I may be. as 
 vou say, but a corn-fed hind, a buckwheat farmer, as your French 
 friend says, yet 1 opine that I am as good as a couple of whisky- 
 soaked Montreal drummers, and I will not sell you my fish." 
 
 " Not sell your fish — your salmon I" shouted he, in accents of 
 mingled astonishment and desj)air. •• Not sell your salmon ! 
 What means this ? Have we lunatics here to do with ? Be- 
 hold I" he exclaimed, seizing me l)y the wrist, "just behold these 
 n«gs and tatters. I^ook down at this disgraceful old coat, these 
 shockingly dilapidated unmentiona])les, and pause ere you ven- 
 ture to utter so rash an assertion. Not sell your salmon and 
 get the cash ? What do f hear? Can these things be true? 
 A fiirmer, an honest agriailturalist, refusing money? Impos- 
 sible ! My ears have deceived me. A farmer refusing cash 
 down, and at his own price. What ! have we Arcadia here ? 
 Has the millennium descended upon Central Ontario all at once ? 
 I will sit down and weep. Peirre, my worth)- friend ! Peirre. 
 I say I" he added, in mournful tones to his companion, " hand 
 me the little pocket pistol. I must e'en take something that I 
 may die easy under this afflicting state of things." 
 
 "Oh ! my friend, my worthy and excellent young friend," he 
 went on to me, " I see a noble spirit framed in your interesting 
 lineaments. Show mercy to us and revoke thy dire decision. 
 Behold this withered and emaciated anatomy, this wreck of 
 uluit was but a sliokt week since, a robust and noble frame, 
 hrought down, by villianous fare of wretched country taverns, 
 to the ])oint of dissolution," and he patted, with melancholy 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
7« 
 
 SHK MlCUr HA\ K l)()NK HKIIKK. 
 
 ff,!-- 
 
 nspcct, Ills rotund figure. " My whole nature lacks salmon- 
 Jongs for salmon — rrics out for salmon — salmon to snat<li it \'unu 
 llic jaws of (kath. Ilciiold this f(jiir (Ii>Iiai '>ill — mark it — gaze 
 upon it I It is yours, if those pretty creatures." inflicating Jie 
 two big su«kers, " are nn'ne." 
 
 "Why, you blamed old fool." shouted old Manner, no longer 
 able to contain himself, ""are you so blind drunk that you can't 
 see that those ain't salmon, \othin' but great, dirty, bony, use- 
 less suckers." 
 
 *' My venerable frienil of the wooden ( ountenance," he re 
 plied to Manner, " I did not address my obser\ations to you 
 ikm\ do not reouire vour advice. I am not blind drunk, nu' 
 worthy old patriarch, for I (an very easily percei\e the villainous 
 expression of your ancient and battered physiognom\. When I 
 get drunk I pa\ for the litjuor m\'self, and tiierefore request you 
 will not shove \our dirt\ oar in. I know what :i fish is when I 
 see it, my excellent sir. I have not fished for tommy-cods off 
 the wharves for nothinic, mv Lfood sir. These are salmon, sir ! 
 .salmon, sir ! salmon." 
 
 I broke in with as gra\ e a face as J could command, and told 
 him that, seeing he was so nearly starved to deiith. I would sell 
 him two of my salmon for the four dollars, but not the two he 
 wanted, :is 1 re([uired them as a present to a friend, and would 
 give him two just as good. So I took a big salmon, weighing 
 nearly twenty [)ounds, and a maskilongf as big, and put them 
 into his wagon," 
 
 He handed me the money, and took his lea\e as follows : — 
 " Respected young member of the agricultural jjersuasion, our 
 conference is now at an end. I part from thee with regret, but 
 still with a sense of joy in my heart at having met with thee. I 
 shall approach now the hostelry in 'Jen Lakes with singular 
 equanimity, and I shall walk into the affections of these lordl} 
 salmon in a style to astonish you. Farewell, young hay-seed 1 
 Farewell, old wooden head ! Drive on l^eirre." 
 
1 Ml SI' H.W K SALMON. 
 
 y 
 
 Well ! said ( Md Unrnicr to llicin, as a parting saliilatioii : — 
 "( )t all the Itlamcd fools that ever 1 see, you two tlrunken 
 stainjis are the hardest to beat. It' you don't know any more 
 about your business than you do al)out tish, it must be pretty to 
 see you at work. If I'd been iiim, I'm dogoned if I would'nt 
 have let vou take the two suckers, and sirved suih blamed fools 
 right too.'' 
 
 " \'at (iat you say, old man ugly." s( reamed the excitable little 
 Krenchman. •* I'egarl if I joompotfdis wagon, I make you see 
 t under, begar ! (Icj \ id yourself and feed your pig. l^a done.' 
 cocion ! ( )ld wood face, begar," and he drove off in a rage. 
 
 •• Now, wasn't that a jolly lark, Ethel .^" 
 
 •' Well !" answered Kthel, '• I thiiik you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself. What business had you to talk with those drunken 
 men ? And you should not have cheated them by giving them 
 only one salmon when they bought two. It was not right, 
 Reginald, though I daresay you Ibund it tunny enougli. And I 
 don't wonder at them taking you for a conuiton laborer, for you 
 are simply disgraceful in your j»resent attire. Hut I cannot see 
 that it was a •jolly lark.' as you call it, at all. ar.d you have n( - 
 thing to boast of by your share in it." 
 
 " I did not cheat them, Kthel; I gave thi..m a twenty-j)ound 
 salmon, whi<:h was worth the four dollars itself, and a maski- 
 longe, worth half as much more," aitswereil Reggie ; " and how 
 do you supj)0se two men are going to e;it twenty ])ounds of 
 salmon while It is fresh? It <'an't lie done, even by Ijagmen 
 with unlimited grog." 
 
 " Xo matter ; it was not riglit, Reggie," said his sister. '« But 
 you had better g(j and get yourself into decent attire again. A\'e 
 are going for a i)ic-ni(« to the end of the lake to-day, a*id we want 
 you for a game of ci-ocpiet. Be quick .' We will be off di- 
 rectly." 
 
 "Ally doin' too, Reggie," broke in litde Alicia. " Ally dot 
 
74 
 
 SHE MKiHT HAVE DONK IIKTTKR. 
 
 U'!-' 
 
 nt'W hat on and new h<i<is (shoes) too. ( )o dot now hvii fno, 
 Kt'jijgif, and yook pitty." 
 
 CHAI'TKR X. 
 
 A IMC-NIC IIV INK I.AKK. 
 
 The larg" saiI-l)oat, ahiiost lar^;.. n 'ii to l»e dignitacd with 
 the name of a yacht, were it not xhii t.!ii.tcity and not speed 
 hud l)een the prinin'pal object in its nustriu 1 "n, was war|)ed ujt 
 to the httle landing-place with mast stepped, sail ready to hoist, a 
 romfortahle awning raised for the protection of the ladies, and 
 all ready for a start. 
 
 The party, comprising Mrs. Mordaunt, Kthel. the two Misses 
 Dearborn and little Ally: liule Kdward, Vance and Reggie 
 stood on the little wharf reach for their eml)arkation. The 
 hampers containing the g(H)cl things, which form so important a 
 J )art of the programme of a pic-nic party, with the appliances 
 t«r comfort and amusement which Mrs. Mordaunt's and Ethel's 
 foresight had provided, were carted down already, and had hut 
 to be put on board. A gentle breeze was blowing down the 
 lake, the day was tine, the cool western wind mitigating the 
 sultry down-pour of a July sun and nothing remained but for 
 the party to step on board to i)roceed to their destination. 
 
 But Reggie, however, ujion seeing the l>oat raised the perti- 
 nent question that, although the breeze was very fa\orable fiir 
 their present voyage, it would not be found so easy, without n 
 <:hange of wind, to effect their return, unless the gentlemen 
 were willing to undertake the task of rowing so hea\y a l)oat 
 back again. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," said lie. " We'll sail dow n this morn- 
 ing all right, as nice as ninepece, but if there's not a change of 
 wind before evening, we fellows will have a ]jretty time of it 
 rowing this concern four miles up again. She's big enough to 
 
A PICNIC liV IHK I.AKK. 
 
 75 
 
 «;irry twciitytivo |K'<)[»k', and she's as heavy and clumsy as a St. 
 Lawrence i)atleaii. Kven if we ha\e to row Ijolh ways, would'nt 
 it he better to take two sniali boats? They'll carry us all and 
 the plunder too. It's no joke to row that old tub uj) the lake, 
 I can tell you. I know it by sad experienc e." 
 
 " There's something; in that, Reggie," said .\fr. Hortoii. "I 
 never thought of it when Kdwin Vance and I got her ready. It 
 is t(M) late now to change, and we'll have to get her bai:k th« 
 best way we can. The small boats, too, are not comfortable for 
 ;i warm day like this, and has not your father |)lenty of men work- 
 ing <lown there who c;m help us to row ?" 
 
 •• Hut she's r'.jged fore-and-aft, and is keeled enough to huU^ 
 the water ; we can tack her back this evening. It will be slower, 
 but it will be a pleasant sail. I'll engage to get her back if V' 
 wind will only hold out until sunset, and if it does not we'll gei 
 the men to help us to row her up," said Kdwin, who thought the 
 larger l)oat would be more comfortable (or his Kthel, to say no- 
 thing of the other ladies, and who did not wish to change. 
 
 •' All right," said Reginald, " I'm willing. Anything for a 
 quiet life, so jump aboard, ladies. Uncle, give me a hand with 
 the plunder; it won't do to leave the eatables behind. Put the 
 ladies on board, Mr. Vance, and make yourself useful. I hope 
 \ou have provisioned the garrison well, mother. I had my 
 breakfast at four o'clock this morning at Harmer's and I'm as 
 hungry as a hunter." 
 
 *' Vou will have no reason to comi)lain, Reggie" said his 
 mother. 
 
 " That's right, mother, the inner nuin has ( laims which are not 
 to be neglected," rei)lied Reginald. 
 
 '• The inner boy you mean, Reggie," said Kthel laughing. 
 Isn't that the case, Ada?" 
 
 " Never mind, Reggie, you'll be a man some day, though you 
 are not jjarticulary ancient yet. and sell suckers for salmon to 
 til)sy ])eo])le," answered Ada to him. 
 
 I 
 
 r> 
 
 1 1 
 
 ri ' I 
 
 IH 
 
H 
 
 (i 
 
 .J! 
 
 76 
 
 sii!', .MKiiri' n.w K DDNK hK/rri-K. 
 
 " N'ery well. Ada, just wait a l»lt, will xou ? Sec if* I <Ion't |»iiy 
 yoii ofTfor this at < ro<jiict to-day. Nou'rc mighty satuy tor a 
 little «irl." 
 
 " Now, kt'y;i;ie, stop your talking; and push her olli"." >ai«l his 
 iMnIt?. *' We are ready at last. I'p with the jib, I'ldwin. while 
 I hoist the main sail, and we'll get her out." 
 
 Soon fairl) (»m their way down the pleasant lake, they sat 
 ihattin|,( and laughing cner the interesting trifles that form «(► 
 pleisinga |)art of every day lonversation. A h.ippv looking 
 party enough, thougii douhtless to many of them there were 
 tleeper thoughts beneath than the light rij)ples of their surface 
 talk would show. Hut these did not rexeal themselves, and 
 merry voices and haojjv laughter echoed U'om beneath the cool 
 awning as they floated on over die sunny waters,. 
 
 Mr. Morton and lulwin N'ance, with little Ally a deeply in 
 lerested s()ectalor beside tlu.-m, were busily engaged in get- 
 ting out a trolling-line for the lapturc of >uch of the llnnv 
 tribe as iniglu be induced to try a bite of the silvery spoon. Mul 
 i'ldwin's tlioughis were far less intent upon this occujution than 
 ujion vvluit melhoti he should ad()|>t to induce his Klhel to sepa 
 rate herself from her companions, that he might get//m.sriyinlo 
 an agreeable little tcte-n-tcte. 
 
 Reginald, unable to sit still a moment, was teasing his sister 
 and the two Dearborn girls at one moment, and rambling about 
 the boat the next. At length he got his in(|uisitive hand into a 
 |)ackage among the sujiplies. and proceeded to an investigation 
 of its c(.)ntents. 
 
 '• Hallo I got ice liere. That's good this hot day. Aiul what's 
 this? C'haminigne, as I'm alive I )Vell done, Mthel ! Now 
 you are coming out grand to-day. But who is going to drink 
 all this you hu'Ve here? Vou girls, 1 suppose. Why. you'll all 
 be ns tipsy as the two drummers to whom 1 sold the fish," he 
 cried out. 
 
 " ^/es 1 J should'nt wonder, with tb.at stuff here," ejaculated 
 
 II 
 
A IMC NIC in INK I.AKK. 
 
 7/ 
 
 Mr. lliirton. " NN'h.il made yon l»rin^ it. Kthcl ? .iml uho t> 
 there to drink it ^ 
 
 •• Not I, lor one, mu k-," replied tli:it yoiin^; l;uly. I.uighini;. 
 •• |)t»n't blame me tor l>rit)K'"K "• ' jlon't drink, tlujiik you. 
 IVrhapsytmrseif. umle.with .\lr.\an« e.ind i>ai>a, \\illj;et lhroiij;li 
 it all. It'> a tem|itin;; jieverage, unrle." 
 
 •• Nes ! I ilare say it is a very tiinpiing l»everaj;e, Imt it will 
 not tempt nR*," was the reply. " The tempt.ition and the example 
 lo the younj; people are the ^'reat e\ils. Am' " 
 
 ••Oh! well, Kdward," interrii|)ted Mr>. Mordannt, " I l>roii{;hl 
 some champaj^me because I thought ni\ hu>l>and would liKe it 
 after his long morning in the woods, and for others, VjO, if the>" 
 <hoose it. Iiiere will be some claret-cup, too, for those wlio pre- 
 fer that, and tea for good teetotallers like \oursclt'. I am very 
 sure that bni little of what is brought will be «lrank, and certaini} 
 ( laret-cup is a very mild beverage." 
 
 " It mav be so ; yet it is alcoholic, and therefore dangerous. 
 .\ll such may f'oster and ( ont'irm a habit of Using the strf)nger 
 t'orms of the poison, whose dreadl"ul inlluence is the bane, not 
 alone of o' . country, but of nearly the whole world," replied Mr. 
 Horton, energeticall) , for he was upon his favorite hobby, and 
 was ver\ sincere on this (|uestion. ••Could I but see the day 
 when by the education of pojiular sentiment on the subject \m\ 
 stern legislative enactments, the e\il is totally swe|>t away from 
 these countries, I should deem it the hapi»iest of my life. TIk- 
 «:ause is advancing, making its way among the i)eoi)le, and it 
 behooves us all by our own firm attitude, our consistent example, 
 to aid and strengthen it, until the governing bodies, whom I be- 
 lieve to be the chief defaulters in the matter, are forced into 
 action. 
 
 *M agree witii you, Mr. Horton," said Kdwin \ance, "that 
 the vice of intemjjerance can be suppressed by a law of total 
 prohibition, in tlie strictest sense of the words, alone, and from 
 what I know of |>ublic sentiment on the ([uestion, I believe th.at 
 
 'I 
 
1^ 
 
 sHK \ii(;hi iiavi: imjnk iiKriKk. 
 
 1 , 1 
 
 ! 1^ 
 
 wore it put U) //t/tisi'/tt — the vote of ihf ciilirc |Mi|»iil.itiun «»vt;r 
 
 fifU'cn years ofaj^c — tomorrow . it woiiUl lie rarritd liy .i hir^* 
 
 mnjoritv in the whole iKuninion. It is the (hitv of the Ooxerii 
 
 ment of the «()uiitry t(» take this step — its plain diitv ; hut tlu 
 
 ;il)oniinal»le spirit of part) that prevails, :nul thee(|iially divideil 
 
 streii^'th of the two <-onteiuling tiu tions, deter our present rulers, 
 
 no matter how well inelined thev possibly nuy he. A ♦:hangc 
 
 of the party in power will. I fear. d(» Imt little gtMui either, as the 
 
 (»p|M)siiion leaders, even if x'und on the <|Ue:.tIon. (oiild not al 
 
 the present, at any rate, grajtple with the fuiantial <)Ut'stion. 
 
 whi<h the loss of the revenues derived from alcohol would pre 
 
 sent for their solution. I'he hringing up of the .sentiment of tlu 
 
 country to a point whiehwill foree the govermnent f»f the day if 
 
 act, or disUxlge it for one that will, is, in my (Opinion, the onl\ 
 
 means of affettinj^' the object, and this re(|uires time, unforlu- 
 
 nately. I drink hut little w ine m\ self, and when the day ol 
 
 l>rohihition arrives — as arrive it will — 1 shall he onl) tooghul tn 
 
 make the little .satrifue entailed hy the deprivation of a needless 
 
 nwd useless luxur/." 
 
 " Hut why not make vhat little sacrifice al onre. and hy join 
 
 ing actively in this good and j»atriotic moxemeiit, aid it with 
 
 the influence of your name and position, iwsteatl of remaining |)us- 
 
 sive until others effect the ohje< t. A declared enemv ( ould tlo 
 
 hut little worse than you do now," replied Mr. Horton, cfllc 
 
 tively. 
 
 " Hecause I hav'nt thought of the matter as yet." answered 
 
 Kdwin." liesides, like man) otiier really temi)erate people, i 
 
 Jiave a strong objection to all\' myself with an}- of the socitr- 
 
 lies." 
 
 " \'es ! I am aware that many hold the same objection, hut 
 
 you can be a fimi and consistent abstainer without uniting your- 
 self to one of them. Remember that when once you become a 
 total abstainer your symjjathies will hew ith the temperance cause. 
 .;md you become a decl ired enemy to King .Alcohol. ( )therwisc 
 you remain j^assive or neutral." 
 
 lUt 
 
A riC NK HV IMi: LAKF.. 
 
 79 
 
 *' I Hill tiiink ot' ii and give you my iikaH upon the inatti^r 
 l.tter," rcplicil Kdwin. 
 
 ••Anil you, also, Kt^'in.iM ; will yj)u aUo « (insider the nuitlcr 
 .«nd join llic noble < auss. ?" ;nldc<I Mr. Mnrlun. 
 
 ••All rij^hl, un« Ic, I'll d<i so, sai«l ki'^inald. *• linl sirinj; that 
 all the :d< (ihol, as you (all it, that I have ever drank wouUI'nt 
 till a teas|M)on, I think I'm pretty H;de." 
 
 •' VcK ! d<» so, Ket;j;ie." saiil his sister. " Tor n\v part, I rould 
 never aj^ain respect a person whoever l)e<aiiie into\irate<l, were 
 it but for on<:e only." 
 
 "Oh, untie!" screamed little Allv, who had been nni« h more 
 iiUereste<l in watching the trolling line than in listening to the 
 temperan<e le<ture. ♦•Soinetin' dot oo string. \*'s pullin' it. 
 linn and see. Is it a big heesh?" 
 
 •' Ves I .Ally, it is a big • heesh,' as you ( all it, and we'll have 
 the tun of catching it instead of talking temperance any longer," 
 sai<l her uncle, nmning to the troller and hauling in the prize. 
 •• Hravo ! Ally, you've «aught a fish as big as yourselt," he con- 
 tiiuied, as he liftei' a splendid lake trout into the boat. Ally, 
 Iiowever, who liad watched its silvery struggles as it was splash- 
 ingly dr;iwn up, with great delight, screamed with terror at its 
 energetic tlouncings about in the bottom of the boat, and ran for 
 l^rotection to her mother's arms. 
 
 Reginald soon gave the jtoor lake trout his (|uietus, however. 
 
 '•Come and see him now. Ally. He's dead enough and can't 
 hurt you." 
 
 " He's a pitty heesh. Keggu " said Ally, who had ventured 
 iigain near her object of terror. 
 
 •' Ves I he's a very pretty fish, Ally, and we'll eat him for our 
 pi( -nic dinner. Vou and I will cook him ourselves, Ally, and 
 he's a beauty, a regular fourteen-junrnder. Ain't you proud of 
 your fish?" 
 
 ( )n nearing their destination, Reginald ran the boat towards 
 a |)retty ])ay, which, em!)owered between wooded and hilly 
 
8o 
 
 SHK MU;KT HA's'M DONK HKl TKK, 
 
 ( 1' 
 
 ; I, 
 
 Hi 
 
 jjoiiits, lay 01. tlic norlhcrn .side of the Icikc. near lis ciul or 
 outlet. 
 
 '• Here'.s the phue I" .said Ktliel. springini; ui) and [Joip.tiM;^ 
 up ilie bay. " Is'nt it |»rett\. .L,Mr!s.^ It is the prettiest spot, I 
 thiiik, <)\\ our lake or any I«ke. I'liere too, stands papa await 
 lug us." 
 
 It was, as Kthel had said, a very pretty scene. The hi^ih 
 j)oints which guarded either side of the hay ran back inland in 
 rounded antl somewhat steep ranges, covered with the i)rinieval 
 growth of tlie beautiful niaj)Ie, the lowering elni and the silverv 
 bircli. with an occasional j)ine rearing its (kirk foliage over all. 
 Ti 
 
 fr( 
 
 smootii, broad valley lying between, was cleared far back 
 im the head 
 
 d of the b 
 
 d la\- sniilip'j: in its cultivated beautx 
 
 ie Dav, an( _ 
 
 and green lu.xuriance beneath the umbrageous shelter of it.-> 
 guartlian hills. A clear and pebl)ly brook wanUered, like a si! 
 ver riband, through the fields and j)lashed at last its bright wa 
 ters into the little bay. Occasional groves amd patches of hand 
 some trees of various and contrasted foliage were interspersed 
 throughout the cleared valley for the double i)ur|>(jse of shade 
 and ornament ; their situations judiciously selected ])y the beaut\ 
 loving eyes of the owner of f.ake Moreaunt t<* modify yet not tc 
 ])reak the view. Through these and the iixiented and wav\ 
 lines of the woody hill sides, charming glimp.-^es. win.b'ng \istas 
 of green fields and briglit foliage were traced uj) the lovel\' \al 
 ley as it gently rose from the waters of the b;H-. 
 
 Arched in with the blue Canadian sky — heightened by tlu' 
 warm, unclouded rays of a summer sun, and glowing in the 
 varied riches of foliage and harvest — the vallev and its bav 
 l^resented a delightful effect as the boat ran in from the wide 
 lake, contrasting, as^it did, with the some^^■hat sombre, vet still 
 l)eatiful, growtJi of j)ines and firs which here at all ]joint> 
 shrouded the lake shore to • the water's edge, and constituted, 
 e.xcept on the hills and points, where tlie birch, beech and otli- 
 

 A I'lrXIC ]\\ THK LAKE. 
 
 «Sj 
 
 f r (k'cidcous woods glowed in ilicir brighlcr grfcn — tlic ir..ijor 
 pjirt ot* tlu- l»r^lm•^al forest. 
 
 To the l)earl)orn girls. Mduiii \'ance and M*-. Horion the 
 scene was novel, and Ada, with the two latter, loudly expressed 
 iheir ad^iiration of its beauty. Kmily, who though she sav»- the 
 beauty felt no enthusiasm on the subject — contented herself 
 with a[»i)roaehing Kdwin, in order to secure his undivided ser- 
 vi(\'s for the landing, and to get, if possible, the chance of a 
 tiination. 
 
 "Is not this most charming. Mr. \'ance," exclaimed she, rather 
 affei'tedly. '* To <;ity gentlemen, like yourself, the dusty streets 
 and ui)roar of the town must surely stand at a disadvantage 
 with such a sweetly sylvan landscape as this which meets our 
 siew. 1 do so admire the quiet beauty of our country 
 scenery." 
 
 This from Kmily, who infinitely jjreferred the dusty streets 
 and uproar of the town, together with the gentlemen it con- 
 tained, to all the natural i^eauty, was not altogether sincere ; 
 but Edwin accepted it as such, and replied : 
 
 " 'I'he scene is certainly very beautiful, Miss Dearborn, and 
 worthy of your admiration. I am not an admirer of city \\k: 
 and would much prefer the (juiet beauties of the country, with 
 one's chosen friends, to all the uproar and bustle of a city. 1 
 heartily agree with you in that. But permit me to assist you 
 on shore," he continued, as the ])oat slowly touched the bank, 
 its sails cut off by the j)oint from the im})elling breeze of the 
 :iike. "Step on the side of the boat. Miss Dearborn — now 
 ji;m]>," and holch'ng her hand, he lightly dei)0sited her on terra 
 fi "nw 
 
 Much to her disgust, however, he at once stepped back on 
 board, to help his Ethel ashore. 
 
 Reggie and Mr. Horton had engaged themselves in securing 
 the l)oat, while Mr. Mordaunt had — as in duty l)oiind — he]j..;;d 
 ashore his wife and his little dangliter. Ada, who needed no 
 
 H 
 
 ' M 
 
 .! iM 
 
 If; 
 
f 
 
 r 
 
 8a 
 
 sHK mi(;h r havk uose uki'ikr. 
 
 cavalitT, had. >n ith the spring of a deer, placed herself conifoti 
 al)ly on dry land, and was waiting for little Ally. 
 
 Kdwin thus had his Kthel — who had remained a few ni(» 
 nients to see after the unloading of the hani[)ers — to himself for 
 ;i word or two. 
 
 " Kthel, my darling, I have seen them both, and it is all 
 right. \'ou are my Kthel now ; but our engagement is to last ;i 
 whole year. It's too long altogether to wait — still, I am ver\ 
 happy, Kthel, my dear." 
 
 *' "\'es, Kdwin ; but don't make too much love to me now : 
 they're looking at us. Never mind about the year ; it will not 
 J)e very long, dear Kdwin. Hut lift this out for me, and wait 
 for a better opportunity to talk to me," rei)lied Kthel." 
 
 •' How do you do, Miss Dearborn.^ and you, Ada?" said 
 Mr. Mordaunt, going up to the girls and shaking them by the 
 hand in his hearty fiishion ; *' Come out for a day in the woods. 
 eh I and some fun, 1 hope. Ada, I foresee croquet this after- 
 noon. Hallo ! Reggie ; where did you spring from, and where 
 have you been all this time?" 
 
 •' \'es ; 1 am back safe and sound tliis morning, father, (nis 
 Ferguson and 1 got to Kake Nipissing. but the other fellows 
 left us the first week. We had fun and hard work enough — if 
 not much sport. I got home this morning remarkably ragged," 
 rei>lied Reggie, as he jumped from the boat with the last item 
 of the 'plunder,' as he called it. 
 
 "Where shall we take it all to, mother?" he inquired; 
 •* That grove is large enough for shade, and there's nice grass 
 there for crocjuet. Shall we go there ? " 
 
 " That's the place, Reggie," said his father. " I got one ol 
 the men to mow a piece of grass as short as ]jossible on the 
 shady side. We'll adjourn up, too, at once, as 1 am very hiiii 
 gry — yon are all so late." 
 
 In a few minutes they were all engaged in the pleasureai)lc 
 GfTupation of preparing their 'a! fresco' meal, on the siiadcci 
 
 f,„ 
 
 :i;A 
 
A PICNIC BV IHK I.AKK. 
 
 8j 
 
 Nidc of the little grove, Ktliel and tlie two >oung ladies spread 
 iiig the white cloth on the green table of grass, and hastily ar- 
 ranging the various substantials and delicacies that would re- 
 quire no a|)|)etiser after their bree/.y voyage. Reginald built 
 the fire, and his uncle ijrei)ared the forked sticks, on which to- 
 suspend the tea-kettle, "without which," he declared, "dinner, 
 ;uk1 especially a j^ic-nic dinner, would be an unmitigated failure- 
 for a Yankee, or for a Canadian either." 
 
 " 'J'ook my big heesh, Reggie," said little Ally ; " I want my 
 heesh for my briktist. Took it, Reggie." 
 
 •' All right, Ally ; I'll cook it as soon as the fire's hot. and 
 there's any <:oals. But you are not going to eat it all yourself, 
 are you. Ally ?" 
 
 \'ery well he cooked the trout too, backwoods fashion, on 
 the hot emljers 
 
 " All right, mother," he answered to her objection, that the> 
 had not l^rought plates enough for so many different things. 
 " We'll eat off basswood leaves." 
 
 And very well it tasted, too, eaten ofT its prinutive trenches. 
 Very well, too, the dinner passed off — altogether amid laughter 
 and fun, and pleasant chatting ; for a pic-nic dinner under the 
 trees, >.'.nceremonious and free — eaten lounging on the grass, is 
 a very pleasant, gustatory performance, after mus(juito tiiae has 
 passed — though hardly otherwise. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt, Edwin and Emily drank their glass of cham- 
 pagne, A\hich the others declined, and laughed at Mr. Morton's, 
 good-natured grumblings al)Out it. But Ethel observed, w ith 
 surprise, that Emily not only drank her's ajid enjoyed it, but 
 had on two occasions during the meal asked Ed^^ in ^'ance : — 
 " Are you looking for the champagne, Mr. \'ance? " when, in 
 fact, he had neither been looking for it, nor had wholly em])tied 
 his glass, and had answered a *No, thank you' eacli time she 
 asked him. 
 
 "She surely could not liave wished," Ethel thought,, "to iri- 
 
] 
 
 I.' 
 
 )i' 
 
 ^ilii' 
 
 Ml 
 
 «4 
 
 SHi: MIC.HT HAVE DONE IlKTIKU. 
 
 •diicc liiin to drink too imicli < liam])agnt.', knowing', as siic docs, 
 my f)piiiioii on the subject. She could hardly have formed a 
 jiiolive so base ; yet it was strange, too," and Ethel did not like 
 it. \'et as the attempt had been unsuccessful, the alTair soon 
 •dropjied from her thoughts. 
 
 Immediately after their open-air dinner had < on( ludcd. they 
 -;i(lj()urned to the cro(|uet-ground, with the e.\cei)tion of Mr. 
 Monlaunt, who strolled up the valley to his men — and Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, who with Ally, settled beneath the trees. 
 
 '* Reginald," saiti Ada, "you and I ui!l <'hoose sides. We 
 play the best, you know." 
 
 •' Very modest, Aca, in your ideas of yourself." laughed Mr. 
 Horton. " Vou don't know ^\■hat the rest can do \et." 
 
 "Oh: yes I <lo," answered Ada : "and I can j^lay well 
 enough to make up for you, so you are on my side, remember." 
 Who do you choose, Reggie. I've taken Mr. Fforton to show 
 \ou I'm not afraid of \oi;." 
 
 " Emily, play Avith me," he replied. 
 " Ethel, you are on my side." said Ada. 
 "Mr. \'ance — last but not least," concluded Reginald. 
 The sides thus stood : Ada, Ethel, and Mr. Horton . 
 against Emily, Reginald, and Mr. Vance." 
 
 " I claim to play last, as 1 know so little of the j^ame, said 
 Mr. Horton; "and. Ada. you must direct me at tirst. until I 
 see my way clear." 
 
 " ^'ery well, Mr. Horton. Emily, you begin, as you have 
 scarlet. And now to work." 
 
 Emily made the two first hoops, and got into position for the 
 third. She was followed by Ethel, who on getting through the 
 same missed a croquet upon Emily's ball, and went beyond. 
 I'klwin cam^ n.'vt, got through his two first, nussed both balls, 
 and left his own t'' se to irthel's. Ada followed ; got her ball 
 diagonally diroi'gh tbt^ first hoop, went 'lard through the .second, 
 .{^etti-ng closi;' \'.> t) e others' b.ii's, and crofjuetted Emily's ; sj)lil- 
 
A I'lC-Nir ()\ IKI': I AivK. 
 
 •^5 
 
 liui^ on ii, she i>iit her advers:iry's I)all oiU of position. liot\wo;i 
 ilic liiircl and middle hoops; went through hci-M.-lf: rroiiuel- 
 u(l Mihcl's and sent it through ; tlicn on l^dwin's :iiid left him, 
 tt) go with her two strokes back to Fanily's ; took it, j)l;ned it 
 where she wanted it, went through tlie middle hoop, and so on. 
 Ily her care and skill she struck the first post and l>ack through 
 ihe two hoops ere her play ceased. Reginald tblh.wc.-d witli his 
 play, but upon getting through his two first hoops found that 
 Ada had left him nothing to hit, and so had to ]»!a\ for a safe 
 position, out (^f danger from Mdwiu. Mr. Horton < ame last, 
 and as he was a good billiard ])layer, and was co-aided too by 
 .Vda, he cro([uelted Reggie's ball, got through his third lioop, 
 crociuctted Kthel, went through the middle, and made some 
 '.ery good single shots and a good run. 
 
 .So the game progressed, amid Ada's altern:ite rejoicings, 
 scoldings and endless directions. CTO(|uettings. nuiuctii^gs, 
 drivings out of positions and general excitement. 
 
 Mmily played affectedly, recjuiring endless instructions fr<-m 
 iMlwin, whom she called to her side at every stroke she liad h) 
 make, and went to him to advise on each of his. He was so 
 polite and attentive to her requests ; so apparently anxious to 
 do anything she asked, that she almost began to think that she 
 had made an impression, ami that it was not as she had feared 
 about Ethel. .She was all smiles and sweetness, and worked a 
 great deal harder at being smiling and sweet than she did at 
 croijuet, which was a subsidiary ol)ject. Kdwin was very gal 
 lant towards her, with tlie natural courtesy and chivalry oi feel- 
 ing of a gentleman. Besides, was she not ver\ ])retty and 
 stylish-looking ? and then she made herself verv jjjeasing v/hen 
 she chose to do so. 
 
 Kdwin's attentions to his Ethel during the game cor.sisted 
 princi])ally in croquetting her r)ai] at every oi)portuniiy, and 
 driving it away as far as possible — thereby spoiling his own 
 
 ^l| 
 
 t 
 
 n,M 
 
86 
 
 .SHI-: MKinr HAM', dom: iJK'i'n-:K. 
 
 
 ' ■ V 
 
 , 
 
 1 -i 
 
 
 'f 
 
 I : 
 
 • 
 
 ( 
 
 ll^ 
 
 
 -. 
 
 ! 
 
 t 1 
 
 ^,lii 
 
 f! 
 
 play, its tiiilu « rociiK'l had lict-ii \otcil (jld-fasiiionL'tl by that \ct) 
 srit'iitific i>layer, Ada. 
 
 Wherever the I»attle raged tlie fiercest, tliere would Ada and 
 Reggie he found, they deh'gliting more in hindering their adver 
 saries' play than in advancing their own, and laughing ohstrep 
 erously wlienever they succeeded in vexatiously sending an ad 
 versar) far out of ])osition. 
 
 Mr. Horton, made interestetl by liis first success, and his eye- 
 skilled l)y long j>ractice at his national billiards, had played 
 himself ahead, and became the first rover. Seeing diis, Ada 
 conunenced to coach l'',thel, who was behind hand, and succeed 
 ing in getting her througli to the two last hooi>s, she then made 
 a diversion on the enemy, scattering them oJi the field ; took 
 Kthel's ball with her, and holding a good position m ith all 
 rovers, won the game in a canter, amid exultant rejoicings over 
 her crest-fallen antagonists. 
 
 Other games followed with varying success, though iw the 
 end \ictory j»erched upon the crest of the uncon([uerible Ada, 
 who was, therefore, satisfied and happy. 
 
 A pleasant stroll through the pretty valley succeeded, during 
 the co'.nseof which Kdwin managed to get his fair one to him 
 self for a few minutes, and doubtless man)' sweet things Mere 
 said; of much greater interest to themselves than any other- 
 persons. 
 
 Ada and Mr. Horton went off together, and a very prosaic 
 riirtatio \ they would have of it. Nevertheless, they contrived 
 to amu. t each other very well, for every now and then a ringing 
 laugh from Ada, or a bass chuckle from her companion, would 
 arise on the air, as they negligently and unceremoniously strolled 
 on in comj^any. 
 
 Emily was thus left to the rather youthful c:avaliershl]) oi' 
 Reginald. A very ])leasing duty to him ; for her formed and 
 stylish good looks were to liis young eyes very attractive. 
 Like most \ery }oung men, liis admiration was Ije-stowed uj)Oij 
 
 iiy, 
 
 ^1. .,. 
 
A riC NIC U\ 11(1. I,.\KK. 
 
 i? 
 
 a girl older tlinii hiniscif. I K r hjiiidsomc dress, rinlshcd a|)- 
 pcaraiK c and fine fisjiiuv mi|)rc'ssc'd him very slroDj^dv— the more 
 strongly. |)erha|)>, that r»ol having himself attained (Mulish aiul 
 finish, he, conscious of the lack, found die <|ualities admirable 
 m another. 
 
 Kven her somewhat »»\erstrained manner and \vould-l)e 
 dignity of demeanour were to him liiit additional (harms. 
 W hen in her society he uas very mu< h in love, and not being 
 itiHicted with hashfulness by an\- nienns. he pushed his bold 
 love-making in a direct and stiaight-through-il c-busii manner — 
 no beating around ii — that might not have been pleasing to 
 many girls, but very well smted licr t.iNte, ami met with no dis- 
 ( ouragement. 
 
 She doubtless would ha\L preferred her walk to ha\c been 
 with Kdwin, as he was an immediately elii^;tble parti, and her 
 • ause was in danger from Ktiiel ; but she had not obtained iji< 
 « ompany, and was contented to exercise her charms upon Reg- 
 inald, who ai)])reciated, and who — if not directly — would cer- 
 tainlv- become an '' eligible :" and slie w»nild hold her j)Ower over 
 !iim as a iiernicr resort. Besides, there were many things 
 which she very much wished to know which Reginald might 
 know, and which she might easily discover from him. 
 
 So during their walk — Kdwin and i'"thel a little in advance, 
 obliviously interested in each other — she interruj)ted the flow of 
 Reggie's open compliment and direct f.ne >]>eeches — which she 
 had rewarded by a smile, a glance, or not unpleasing reply — by 
 remarking : 
 
 *' Now, Reggie, you'll make me believe you're in love with 
 iiie if }ou speak to me like that. You sliould'nt, you know. 
 when, I dare say, you make the very same fine speeches to every 
 girl you meet. But see, what a very itueresting conversation 
 Mr. \'ance and Kthel are hcddmg. They seem totally lost to 
 all the world except themsehes." 
 
 "Oh 1 that's nothing," said Reggie. " Vance was always .soft 
 
tr 
 
 II 
 
 1 1t 
 
 
 
 ss 
 
 SHK MICMT H.Wi: DONK Iliym.K. 
 
 u|)<)ii Ktlul, !)ct'aiiSL she talks nihhi^h about books and |)Oc;try 
 u'iih him ; astronomy aiul travels, niul siiilT. I'll i)ct tliai ii< 
 botany <»r some such nonsense they're talking' about now. I 
 never heard them at anythinj; else but some srientit"i< 
 humbug or other, and I'm very glad f)f it. too. for I would not 
 like him to eome spooning around you. Kmily. I'd rather di. 
 that myself." 
 
 '* Oh, tie ! Keginald," returned I'mily ; "and sutli .in ex- 
 pression to use! f!ut." she added, "you've been away, and 
 young la<lies ee more cjuickly into these things than youn;: 
 gentlemen do. at any rate. I'm very sure that if those two an 
 not engaged to each other, they soon will l)e — and then you'll 
 lose your sister, Reggie." 
 
 " Well ; if they're engaged, I ktiow nothing of it. 'i'hc\ 
 hav'nt told me anvthing. but I'll fmd out, though. I'll ask ui\ 
 m -ther first chan<e I get ; I don't care if it is true, either. I'll 
 follow the example, and get engaged myself; and I know tn 
 whom," said Reggie, looking straight into her face as coolly and 
 unabashedly as jiossible. 
 
 " You seem very confident, Xfaster Reggie," re|)lied Kmil\. 
 who having discovered that her youthful admirer could tell hci 
 nothing, thought she might as well relapse into the ])leasant 
 flirtation again. " I'ray who may the young lady be? — any I 
 know? This, too. after all the sweet speeches you have made 
 to me to-day, Reggie I" 
 
 "I've ' .-"n telling you all day — and her name is Kmily." 
 
 said the young reprobate, snatching a kiss with sudden adroit 
 ness and .agility, avoiding with equal alertness her rather playful 
 reiurn-box of the ear of the by-no-means displeased Kmily. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure 1 " she exclaimed with a laugh. *• Take cart 
 
 that 1 don't take you at your word, you bold young 1 don'i 
 
 know what to call you." 
 
 " That's right, Emily, do, and if you don't, 1 wiil," he said. 
 And so on, and so on — neither oi them very much in earnest , 
 
 II 
 
A Ki:\ KLAIIDN — AI<KI\.\I, \\!) LLC I'UK I-;. 89 
 
 ncithn-T ol' tlicin trouMin^ thtMn>cMveH witli the icilcctiwn llial 
 there are siuh thin^^'s as conscijiieiueH. 
 
 At k'iij{tli the ilet liiiiiiLj sim warned them u\ retiiiu. Mr. 
 Mortlaunt moimled liis horse ami went home 1»\ the road, wiiile 
 the rest oi" llie party took to their Ixjat ay;ain, \\hi» h Kdwin 
 -hiwiv and .surelv tacked up the kike a-^ainst tlie head v. ind. 
 
 I'iieir day had l)een a j.Ieasant one. )et the\ were aH y!ad 
 ciioiigli to step out upon tlie httle wharf, with it> short hstaixe 
 'o the Ivjiise alone let't thein to traverse. 
 
 A-. Reginald and Kmily walked up to^jether. slie asked him : 
 
 •'Well. Reuuie ; what did vour mother sa\ ? Are I'.lhel and 
 
 -00 
 
 Mr. Vance engageil ? hid you ask yet?" 
 
 " N»j ; I iuv'nt as yet. JUit wiiy do you wish to kni»\s about 
 it so c;;rnesliy ?" witli some surprise and curiosity. 
 
 "i)\\ ! \oung laches always lik-e to hear (»t' ei\:^vgemeiU.> and 
 love aiVairs," she answereil iigiitly. 
 
 "Do they? How \ery odd! ril rememi)er t!iat. A:id 
 perhaj^s you would not dislike to take part in a love alVair also," 
 Slid Reggie, looking up into her face and laugiiing. 
 
 ( )n entering the house. lO^lwin enijuired it' Mr. W'ulvorton 
 
 had 
 
 not come, and was answereil in the ne_ •..i\e. no;-, at the 
 
 time tliac the family retired to l)ed. ha, I he or Harney p';t in an 
 appe.itar.ce. 
 
 ("HAPrKR XI. 
 
 It 
 
 '1!' 
 
 \ Ri:\ KiAiioN ; AN" \kRi\Ai, AM) A I, ix'i'i: :<!•;. 
 
 A'ljcn Mr>, .XTordaunt — an earlv riser — descended tlie stairs 
 • »n tile following morning, she entered, as was her wont, the 
 conservatory, for a few minutes' enjoyment of her beloved 
 flowers — the charm of whose beautv and fragrance is the most 
 keenly appreciated in the early hours of the day, when the eye 
 and the sense — refreshed, invigorated and uasatiated, awaken 
 
a 
 
 »• 
 
 SHi: MKIM r H \\ 1. DoNK HI riKK. 
 
 
 with rc'iH'Ucd cUliglu to ihc oiit^|)rc.ul aii<l tNcr-nov gl')n\s ol 
 ihc iini\crsi'. 
 
 I'lu' first ohjert that met her I'Vf, however, on thin ociasion, 
 was oisr (Vieiul Harney — by no means .i licautitui tlower — lot.ng 
 ing in deeply refle<iiNe altitiule up against the open door, tlirongh 
 win'ch the fresh inorniiij; I iree/e entered ; and evidently. knowing 
 iier eiistoMi, on the wat« h for her ef)ming. 
 
 "(lood niornin' till ve, Misthress Mordaunt." >ai<l he, d(*fting 
 his hat, and adv;»nring in t'roni the door. " It's mighty toine 
 ihe harhs in yer ( onservathory are the day ; and, taix I it's ycr 
 self is lookin' as fresh and as pnrty, ma'am, as iver a Houer av 
 thim all, this bl'ss'il inarn." 
 
 •' (lood morning to you. Harney," sai<l Mrs, Mordaunt. " I 
 know you have something to say to me, when you rommen< e 
 with your soft solder and blarney. Well, what is it. Harney? — 
 Hut what in the world kept \ou so late last night ; and did Mr. 
 ^Volverton (ome with ynu?" 
 
 " I-ate was it? ( >< h " an it wur late enough or arly — w.in a\ 
 die two. Oh, yis ! ma'am, he kem wid me — had scran I or its 
 home I'd a bin at a dacent hour av the night. I tought now as 
 he niver intended to get hisself started," replied Harney. 
 
 •' But what kept him so late? Did he not come by the rla\ 
 train ? Yon did not keep him waiting, did you. Barney ?" 
 
 •' Kaix I the boot was on the utlder fut. I'm thinking, ma'am : 
 mebbe it wur bishness. ma'am, or mebbe he had raisons of his 
 own fur not appearin' before the family till he'd slep' on it, and 
 got hisself brightened up agin. And it's right he was. more be 
 token," returned Harne), sarcastically. 
 
 *' Why I whatever do you mean, Harney ? I can't under 
 stand you ; don't speak in riddles," exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 "Troth ! and indade, ma'am, it's jist nuthin' at all, at all, I'm 
 manin'," returned Barney. " W' see. ma'am, av I wur to go ou; 
 to spind the avenin' wid a few friends, an' it wur not a timper 
 ance meetin' they wur houldm', an' it shud ha])pen whiii it 
 
A KK\ KI.A'IION— ..\KKI\ \l, ANh I.Kl IlKK. 
 
 •;» 
 
 uiir time ti) \k iiKikin' liir honic. that ! >luul I'liul nu'sitt'a iit tin' 
 strange ai\' talking <|iiarL', an' singin' and niakin' ti) git .i liil av 
 •^hillalfgli in nu* liands. like enough tnorclK-tokcn ; wtjuUrnt I 
 1h' fur uaitin' awhile till the dat ent loiks wor in their l>i<ls. ;in' 
 thin I < lid slip in (Hiohsarved ? Kaix ! an' harrin' a «|uare feel a\ 
 HU- liid it's all straight I'd Ik- by n^ar ling." added lu. with a 
 ( oinieal twist ot his eye. 
 
 •' Why you do not mean to say he had heen drin— — " ex- 
 ( l.iinied Mrs. Mordaunt. impulsively, horrified at the iilea. Uwi 
 she was hastily interruptrd hv the shrewd Il.irnev at this 
 dangerous point, uliith liireatened l(» bring a « lose to the roir 
 \ersation. 
 
 •' ( )eh ' it was'nt alludin' to the ginlleman I wor at .dl. ma'am." 
 »;iid the hypo<riti( al Harney. eons»;ious he had been trespassing 
 on the sacred rights of guesthood. " It wur mysilf I wor a 
 sph.ikin'avwhin I wud do the like, ^'e see. ma'am,"* ontinued he. 
 " I wint to the .slashin whin the train keni in. an' I seed Misther 
 Wolverlon git affav it. so I wint up till him an' t«)ukl him I had a 
 baste riddy till fetch him up till the Lake, an' he toiild me till 
 wait awhile as he had some bishness till attind till, an' off he w int 
 hoi-t'ut till the bank. He stayed there a mortial ^^hile, an' whin 
 lie kem back till the hot-tel. he lukked as black as Hinder. He 
 called fur bnuidy intill a room there, where its two udder gin- 
 tleniin wor wid him," 
 
 •' I waited, aiV I waited, an' I w:iited, " ( (inlinued Ikiniey. 
 " till it kem on .six av the clock, whin I wint and axed him if it's 
 put the baste in 1 wor to ilo, a> it >vor gettin' mortial late, .m 
 we hid twinty mile afore us. Hegorra ! but it's sound asleep 
 they wor, an' it wor no timi)erance meeting they'd been houldin' 
 av ather, so it wiir'nt. 
 
 " He me sowl 1 but it med me as crass as a |)OSt-office dark, 
 .so it did, till see the sthate he wur in, an' if it had'nt been that 
 he wor a gintleman fur the l,;ike. it's black an' blue I'd ha' bate 
 
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 SHi: MKWri' IIAVK in>NK HK'l'IKK. 
 
 Mill. ^(» I uiid, I»cL;»)rra ! tin disglirac ii^g is all lliat a-aNva\, tiic 
 dirtily spalpeen." 
 
 "Stop, llariKv :'' warmly inlL'rrii|)tL(l Mrs. MordaiiiU. '"I 
 ( amiol listen lois^^ir Ut your impertinent storiex. \'oii pre>iinK- 
 too miK h in thus irailiuin^^ the (haracterora j,'enlleman visiting; 
 here. \ oii !->u<.t..ke. also. Mr. U'olverton was prol)al)ly fatigued 
 with his journev and needed s^)\u^: rest." added ]>oor Mrs. Mor 
 daunt, horrit'ied .n the charaiter ot" the guest she had beneath her 
 roof, yet knowing that she t)Ught to jirotec t him, while unabk- 
 to di>l>eliese l.iriuy's very gra|>hic and e\ idently \era»ious state- 
 ment. 
 
 •* hai\ ! i!n.;i. Dia'am. an' ye don't wish till hear more av it. the 
 divil a wurnai more has jJarney got t«) say agin it." rejtlietl that 
 indi\idiui!. < ;;rt.ra!ly |)lmking a dead leaf tVom a geranium, hui 
 ne\erthele-.s pKx (.'f«|ing witii a great manv oiIkt words, unre- 
 strained too. 
 
 " l*"iir the i.i.'thcr av tiial. m.i'.im. ye can as will affoord till hear 
 anvthing eMis.ir'iim; the famih as Harnev ran. And its me 
 
 dutlu', too, so i; 
 
 )e the [)owers 1 till tell \e: 
 
 ail 1 know av il. 
 
 gintleman or no Lfintleman. The ind a\ the matlier wor that I 
 
 let tl 
 
 lem 
 
 [\K' on till it kem to he nine at ni^jht. and thin 1 wint 
 
 und |)iit the baste intill the vahide—poor ill used craythur, thai 
 had her day's wiir-ruk afore her yil. wiiin it wur home she shud 
 be — and tould the waither till mek out his liill. an' we wint in. 
 
 wa.n wid another, an' wek 
 
 kei 
 
 led 
 
 um. 
 
 Troth ! an' tlie w lither 
 
 wor miglity short wid him, and poked the i»aper intill his neb 
 an' toult him till ])ay it an'J)e alT wid him. i*aix : he wekkened 
 up (|uite an' sober-like, an' dhrank some brandy till straighten 
 himsilf up wid. an' I got him intill the vahieleaisy an' |)lisint, an' 
 
 Its .y:!ad I wor till i;et aff wid hi 
 
 m. 
 
 We driv on, natelv enouirh. 
 
 an' ni\er a wur-ru<l he said, goctdor bad, till we'd med a ( ()Ui»K 
 a\- miles av the road." 
 
 Harney,' ?ays he, ' What's Misther \'anc:e d 
 
 om; 
 
 :]> at the 
 
A KK\ KI..\rioN_ARt<i\ AI, AND I.;-.' : I'L Kl'-. 
 
 a; 
 
 l.iiki.- tliest; days. He's ijcen there tin «.hi\s ur iiuTt,'. Iki.'.m'i 
 
 he ?' 
 
 •'•Och !' viys 1. * llic (li\il a know I kMo\\>. u h.it he'xioin' .i\ . 
 He's J <ii'ite LjiiUlcinan an* amuses liissih" as a ^^intleniaii shiid." 
 
 •• • iJiit how does he spiiul liis time? He must tiiul it ratlici 
 th:II uj) there, one would think. un!es> he ha^ >ome strong; at 
 inution. Kh ! IJarne) ?' says he. 
 
 •• • Dull is it ? An* what t'or is it chill he'd I>c ?' .^a\> 1. • lie 
 Uorra I it" it's dull he linds himself. I'm ihinkin' he likes it, an' he'll 
 !)e at'ther takin' wan a\ the family aff wid him to kajie him (h;ll 
 lor i\er. 'An' its how does he spind his time i> il ?' Kai\. if'^ 
 mi^Iitv a-aaahle his wav of >|»ii.din' it. so it i>. it'*, a mortial 
 hand he is tor |>la/in' the ladies/ says I. "A riilin* on hor>e 
 haek troo the f'lelds wid thim. A sailin' on tlie little loii^^h, a 
 talkin' iM)thry an' jommethiy wiil 'Uim. IMa\ in' i roke%\\ id thiui 
 — a (|;:are furrin game they have, where the t;intlemin <an he 
 roortin' (he ladies, wliile they're i>retindin' to knock (juare litrle 
 wood lialls troo wires u|)aj;in little harhcr"^ j»o.>.t>. An'standin" 
 in the consarvathory wid Miss Mthel fur hours togither. tilling 
 a\ her the names av her harhs in Latin an' (irake. an' |)ulliir 
 la\e> an' blossoms to hits — as a choild wud a tly — an' talkin' 
 ahout it as grand as ye pla/.e in the haythin' tongue>. ( >< h ! 
 Its a mighty j)lisint way he has av hein' dull, an' it agraes wid 
 more nor hnn up there, more-be-token,' says I. 
 
 '•'Oh ! that's the way of it, is it, Harney,' sa\s he. * I suj» 
 I'ose now he and Miss Ethel agree very well together?" 
 
 '• • I'roth ! it's lookin' in the upholstheres shoj) he'll be afoiv 
 1 mg.' says 1. an' he looketl as black as tunder, so he did. whin 
 he heard it. He swore till himselt', and muttered away some 
 thin' about 'forestalled,' though what he mint the divil a bit a\ 
 ine knows. An' it's cjuite and silent he sat till we arruv home. 
 
 " Ciood niarnin' till ve, M >thress Mordaunt. I must 'oe all" 
 lill me wur-ruk," exclaimed Harney at the conclusion of his long 
 Mory.atid shuftling offas fast as he could. "It's n^ighty purtv 
 
 ! 1 
 
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 n 
 
 
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 sHK .\ii(;hi mwi; dom: hki'iir. 
 
 I)ir h.'irlis arc lookin' tlu* day. .ind .1 fnu' <la\ it is. so i; is. rlmnk 
 tlu' Lord." 
 
 Poor .Mrs. Monlaiini had Imi link- ciijoynU'iU left (nr hor 
 Mowers on this morning. That wis all taken away by Harney's 
 revelation. .She blamed herself severely, now he had gone, tor 
 Jiaving listened to it. thongh not a little shocked at its tenor, 
 while she could not hut wonder at the tact and shrewdness with 
 whiih the man. apparently rude, ignorant and uneducated, had 
 < arried out his statement, really (ompelling her to hear it l)\ 
 sheer management and address, and who, when his tale was 
 told, had so adroitly s« uttled off. without giving her the oppor 
 tunity for a word. 
 
 She felt humiliated in her character of hostess that she had 
 Jiad to listen to stich a tale frtmi a servant, ret1e<ting in such a 
 jnanner u|ipn her guest, while she could not but recognize the 
 honesty of |)ur|H)se and taithfulncss of the man who had thus 
 ,given himself a dangerous and disagreeable task. 
 
 " How could Mdwin \'ance — her son-ia-law that was to be-- 
 have for a friend such a man as this Mr. W'olverton." she ask- 
 ed herself. "Ought he to be warned? Ought not his eyes 
 to be opened to this precious friend's character and habits?" 
 
 No ! that would not only be a violation of the hospitality of 
 the rules of the house in which the mnn was a guest, but she had 
 nothing more than the story of an ignorant Irishman to sui*|)ort 
 her charges ; and, again, she felt that she could not bring her- 
 self to rej)eat the details, some of them so humiliatingly ))er 
 sonal. 
 
 No I she would do nothing at ])resent. stive to keep wat( li 
 ;ind ward upon Mr. ^^'olverton and his schemes while he was 
 in her house ; while to save Kthel from any j)ossible annoyance 
 lier engagement should be made i>atent to the world. 
 
 So this Wolverton had come with designs to make himself 
 agreea])le to her daughter, had he ? That man who had conn 
 under her roof yet stiipified from his debauch. Hut he was too 
 
•\ KK\ i:i A I ION- -AkKIN Al AM) ll-cll RK. 95 
 
 l.ilf ; Ik w;)> ' rort'^lJillcil.' as llariU'V had sai«l, ilum^^h tin- lallci 
 knew n<»t the meaning ollhc word liis vrry un|»ka>ant hints had 
 hrouj^ht out. 
 
 After all. I{arnc-\ had cIoik- lur a M-rvnc >hc ihougiit. and 
 he needed not t(» have s( iittled oil so fast when he had loniplet 
 ((I his tale ; aiul he was forgiven. 
 
 Mrs. .Mordaunt. with a bare look at her blossoming favourites, 
 departed ihoughtfullv from the ronservalory. an<l went about 
 lur morning avo< ati<»ns. 
 
 Mr. .Sydney W'oherton. on entering the breakfast room an 
 hour later, presented by no means an unfavourable ajipearance 
 t ither in dress, manner or look, and .Mrs. .Mordainit, fresh from 
 lier early (onversation with Harne\ . thought, at the first ghnue. 
 •* how well he has got over his night's <lissipation." 
 
 He apprfutthed her with ease and self-pos»essinn as one al- 
 ready known t(» her. and though her salutation, sulti( iently polite. 
 was in\()luntary cool and even a little distant, he addressed a 
 N'w words to her and Kthel before going through the formalities 
 with the rest of the party.with the .piiet and assured air of a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Kdwin \ ance's greeting to him was warm and hearty, on his 
 p.irt, at least, the meeting with a friend. 
 
 " I hardly e\|>eeted to see you this morning. Sydney, old fel- 
 k)w," he said. " W'c gave you u|) for the night at eleven o'clock, 
 sMj)posing you had been detained." 
 
 '* Ves I" rei)lied Sydney, turning at the same time to Mrs. 
 Mordaunt. " 1 must beg i>ardon for detainmg the eonveyanee 
 i\m\ its driver, which you so kindiv sent for me. ujuil an hour so 
 late. 
 
 " On arrival at Cascades I foimd there was some bank busi 
 ness to which I had to attend, which kept me longer than I 
 e\j)ected. Afterwards some gentlemen connected with me in 
 luisiness arrived at the hotel, and with various matters claimed 
 
yu 
 
 SMK Mu;iri* n.wK donk ijkt'I'kr. 
 
 ifii 
 
 m\ iMiK' until wry l;itv. I trii>t lluit I diil not cniisc inu* h in 
 < ofj\fnii'n«\- 1)) ni\ tiebv." 
 
 *' Ccrhiinly net," rc|»IiLMl Mr. M<»nl.innt. .insucrini,' I'nr hiNwitc. 
 •* I'lirthct tli;in that you wouM not wwvX with a very warm ri- 
 ra(»ti»>n (<n arrival, as \vc had all retired. N'ou nlll^t make U|> 
 now u idi a good lne;jlxrast whi« h. I am happv l<» say. is ready." 
 
 •• \()ii should lKi\e heeii here yesterday. .Mr. NN'olverion." said 
 •• V\'e l.'d a deli;4htt"ul sail and a |M(-ni(:. whi< k I know 
 
 I'anil). 
 
 y<»u would ]\.\\c iuimIi enjoyed : and there have been lots ot" 
 things going o'l Iiere and at Ten l.ake> latel>. \ oi; do.i'l knou 
 liow much \oi! !m\i' !o«t ii\ not making vour a|i|ie;ir:iii< e .iinongst 
 u.x >ooner." 
 
 " ( )h. yes, Miss l»e.iiliorn! I am sure there ha< heen much 
 ot interest going forward wiiii you ail, and a visit to thi^ jiart is 
 always a hnglurra to me. I5ut. unt'ortunatel). m> airangemenls 
 do n(»t olieu neni^ii iliem. .No one can he hetler aware than I 
 ..in myseir lio»v ni(i» ji 1 have mis.seu." iie re|)lied, wii!i ;: s;nile. 
 th<»ugh his eye miconsciously rested tor a moment upon Kihel's 
 face. A\u\ his tiiouuhis returned U* llarnev^ hints <hiri'nt: their 
 
 ilrise. He lad com heel his phrase in words «(»n\eying mor<.' 
 llian he (^ixTwise would have e\|)ressed had he sii'-]n( ted thai 
 eili'.er ot" those present were parli;dly initiated into an idea of 
 his \ icws. and < ouid <:onsirue them very (hflerenlly tVoin his ir.ten- 
 tion. Kii.ii'. , wh.o knew him hest ot' all. was very certain t!iai the 
 motives ol" his \ i-,ii was not alone the enjuymeiu ot" sii« li (|uiei 
 pleasures as a couiury hous.- allonled, and who intuitively su.s- 
 pe< ted one oi tliem, at least— smiled mischievously at tlu 
 .success of the bait she had thrown out, and resolved h> make 
 him repeiit his meditated treason to herself. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt looked him tivediv in the face for a inomeni 
 — an ominou- light in her eye, which he noticed, but could n«»i 
 comprehend ; but she made no remark, and the conversation 
 became general. 
 
 SidiVv-v Woivcrlon, as he sat ea.siiy and coinposedlv among 
 
A l<K\ KI.AI IC)N-ARKI\ Al. AM» I.IXIIKK. 97 
 
 ilitin. I » rest n ted the a|)|»c;ir.mtv ttf ;i t'me loo^.inn ;«n«i r.iiiuT 
 ili>tin;,'ui>he(l, if imi ;i luiulxiine, man. uitli .in .,ir i»l ;!l»ility 
 .111(1 ton e about him. Tall and well Imilt. «aretnlly and ef"let:t- 
 lively dressed, he had the a|»|»earaiire and jiianners ot' a ^^viilli;- 
 man. His features were p)Oil, though \er\ n\.irke<l ; he might 
 have been i ailed liand>ome were it not that a somewhat satur- 
 nine and lowering expression sat ii|»o!i lii^ face in hi^ nsual 
 jiioods. N\lii< h was not pleasing. ( )nly wlieii s(»ine cons* ions 
 effort or other occasion brought out a smile, wouk! the d.irk c\ 
 pression change and brighten. I'ut he was tjiiiie ai>le to |<rod'.icc 
 the < hange when it suited him to do so. I'he atiuiline and 
 pointed nose, with its large, thin and drawn nostrils ; the bright 
 (lark eNesaiuI black hair, determined mouth, the li|)s ^ci tight 
 igainst the gleaming teeth, told of a fon etui will — dark and 
 I'ierce as it uas forcel'ul. and of the strong executiNenes^i to 
 carry out its decrees — a striking, if not a dangerous mentality. 
 And although the general exjiression of the dark face — when, 
 as under the present circumstances, it was smootlied do\.'n to 
 society appearance — would hardly be ( ailed fierce or tigerish, 
 \ et it was ver\' easy to imagine that the man himself.if impelled i>y 
 necessity, the gratification of his |>assions, or his desired ends 
 — would become so, and spare nothing that ^tood in his 
 ( (Hirse. 
 
 From the advantages and t)|)portunities whi« h had bein lib- 
 erally bestf)wed upon him, Sichiey W'olverton ought to have been 
 a wealtli) — a i>rosj)erous man. 
 
 J'hc Hoi)etown mills — an extensive and heretofore ])rutilablc 
 estal)li^.hment — had been beiiueathed, at the ileath of a bach- 
 elor uncle, iineiKum])ered and free from del)l. although some- 
 what in need of renovation and repair. His father, a. well-to 
 <lo merchant of Nova Scotia, had j)ut him in possession of 
 sufficient caj^ital for tliis purpose, and for an imtrammelled and 
 unembarrassed carrying on of the l>usiness ; liad advised him 
 to be careful and judi<:ious j that his property M-as a good one, 
 
 I 
 
 # 
 
T 
 
 .,« 
 
 SHK MHiH r H W K l)<»\l-, UK I'lKK, 
 
 and l»> jiriufciuc ami forcNijihl. should I«.m(1 him to rortiiiie— at 
 the same time warmiig htm that he h;i(l now to (Icpt-ivl upon 
 hiiuscir alone, wiihoin (urther assistaiu e. as his tither < hildren 
 must also be advaiu ed in lite. 
 
 Instead, however, of |»r(»t*iting l»y thiswise advice, or [)rol»aM\ 
 too yoimj; tor his position — he had sunk a ^'reat part ot' his 
 « ;ipii;d in addition> and extensions to his establishment, some 
 ot' them. t(M>. ;dtt»gether out ot" the legitimate ((lurse ot" the 
 business, antl h;id ot* late pun hased. tor s|)C( ulati\e purposes, 
 a large tract ot' land totallv unronnerted with the c^tablish 
 ment. tor whi« h he had onl) been as yet enabled to pay a small 
 portion of the purchase money. 
 
 Naturally extravagant, tud inelineil to thssipation. lie had in 
 the pursuit ot* his pleasures, entrusted t:)o nva( h to I'oren^en and 
 overseers, that to whi( h he shoiild himself haveattendetl ; and 
 .is a « imseo* e he had for some time tound himself not in an 
 ea.sv or pn^. ,,erous condition, but continualb harras-.ed ami 
 embarrassed. As we know, he had endeavoured to allesiate 
 this position l)y the attempt — unsuccesstui, however — to induce 
 Mr. Horton ami his triend. \ance, to enter the laisiness wit!i 
 him. 
 
 Since these attempts he had carried on the business as best 
 he could — da\ to day — a regular iiand-to-mouth s)stem. Hut 
 what chance could there be left for a concern to stand under a 
 chronic state <if hand-to-mouth administration ? At the time ol 
 his \isit to the Lake, things had arrived at a desperate pitch 
 with him. Aid lie must have, by whatever means it might be 
 obtained. 
 
 '* r say, Mr. \\'olverton, how did you and the other fellows 
 get home?" asked Reginald — ''when, in our late expedition, 
 you basely deserted Gus Ferguson and myself in the w oods ? " 
 
 " We reached home next day easily enough. Reginald, " he 
 replied : '* but as to deserting you. 1 imagine it is the other 
 way, [\n{l you deserted us. That is my impression." 
 
A RKVKI.AIION .\KKI\ Al, AND l,K( II KK 
 
 9> 
 
 " flow do yoii make that out? I < an't see it in that h^ht. 
 I hd N (»u not all nf yon turn hack hcforc uc had j^ot hallway 
 to unr proposal point ? " c\t lainiol Kci,'^ic dcfcnsiNcI) . 
 
 '* \'cs ; I'll admit \vc did n»<t t'ultil our whole intention; hut 
 how" very ol'ten does n«)t poor human nature fail to complete all 
 that it designs? \\\: had l»een i^'one a week, you must admit, 
 Kej^gie, and |)rovisions were expended. Again, there was 
 Muu h more hard work than pleasure upon that expedition intti 
 the wilds. Hut how did you two go.^" asked \Nt)lverton in 
 return. 
 
 ••<^h! we got to Lake Nipissing before we turned"-as we 
 >aid we would ; and .1 rough time we h.ul ol" it. ^■ou fellows 
 used up all the eatables and drinkables before \n>\\ left, and we 
 had to depend upon our riHes anil t'lshing-tat kle for a living. 
 We only got back yesterday morning. ]>ut after all we had a 
 j;ood time, and saw lots of country. .Xdvcntures enough, too.' 
 
 " Well ; I'm glad you foimd it rough, ^'()u deserved it for 
 >our pains. A week in the woods is enough for any reasonable 
 Christian," answered .Sidney, laughing. •* heyond that the hard 
 work gets monotonous." 
 
 "All right I " exclaimed Reggie. "We'll give you lounty 
 fellows some hard work on Saturday, too — see if we don't. 
 \ou'll tind it harder than a day in the garden, much more a 
 da\ in the woods — you bet ! I sujjpose you fellows th.ink you 
 have a soft thing on Ten Lakes in the match, don't you ? 
 \ ou'll have to work for it, though. " 
 
 "Oh, yes, Reggie ! we must beat them, or I'll never be able 
 to show my face again I " .said Ada energetically, clasping her 
 hands together. •' I'd die before I'd let that boasting county 
 t hib beat us all I If they win, I'm ruined ! I'he pairs of gloves 
 that I'll lose, I'll never be able to pay for them all." 
 
 " .Ada," .said her si.ster, severely. " One would imagine, from 
 the tenor of your conversation, that you belonged to the Ten 
 Lakes Club and ware going to take your innings, as they call it. 
 
 '\ilKki 
 
 ii 
 
 ■ '( 
 
i 
 
 J 
 
 ■ ♦ 
 
 *' 
 
 • t 
 
 liili 
 
 100 
 
 Mil; MUiHI HAVK noNK IlKl I KK. 
 
 in tiic mi.tth lo r.inrrow. I>){r) t) rcnu'inlur ih;it \«)ii an »i 
 \o.iii^' l.aly.*' 
 
 •' I wish I \\\\>v.'\ soinctiiiH-i." Ad;: ;in«:\vcrc(l. in piteous tone* 
 llijil ininii her luv.rcrs l;iiii;Ii. •• And I only wi>h I Uiis ^{oin^' 'o 
 |»I,iy to-jiu>rro\\. I do l»cloi^.^' to the Cliih, and so oi.j^'ht even 
 >;irl in Tin I.j'ko who has any spiri* in her." she ad«!ed, ^'IK'T- 
 Kellrally. 
 
 " Will ! ir.dl the yf)iini; l.idies show the same interest as you 
 do, Miss Aila, in the (*ri« ket Chil). the • ( 'ouiuy ' wiil have l«. 
 lot»k to its laurels against an opponent s(» iiisjiired," said Mr 
 NVoIverton with a gallantry wholly nnappreriated hy herlo \vlu»ni 
 it was addressed. " I must >ay though that I think il to lie a 
 little over-eonfuleni in rhallenging so strong a C'luh as the 
 'Cuiinty.' and I fear it will have to record a sound «IruI>lting on 
 Saturdav."< ontimied Svtlnev to Reginald. 
 
 ••Nut a hit of it :" 
 
 •• I'd like to see them do it I" e.\<laimetl Reggie and Ada h>- 
 gether in emphatic dem'al. 
 
 •• Ihai's right, Adr.. I like to see you stand up for the honour 
 ol" your Ten Lakes, the place where you were horn and when 
 \ou live, tiiough il is hut a village," said Mr. Horton, warnilv. 
 to her. •* Were your s|)irit diffused throughout the extent of the 
 cuuntiy, and did it animate all its inhabitants, it would 
 he the better for it — very greatly the better for it. \ot that I 
 mean thus to infer the encouragement of local or sectional jeal 
 ousies as a benefit, far from it. such is but an evil outgrowth. 
 The love of one's home, the place of one's birth or residence, the 
 strong personal interest in them is, when one possesses it, tht 
 out>j»ring of ardent sentiment, of which true patriotism, the low 
 < if one's country — one's own country — is the extended grow tli. 
 and one of the i)urest, most unseltish sentiments that can animate 
 the human brea.st. Of this j)atriotic feeling, in its true sense. 
 r cnp.not but j^enjcive a lamentable deficiency in this Canada of 
 yours. A dcficiepcy the more consjifcns and the more inex 
 
A KKVKI,.VII()N— ARKIN Al. AM) LIX IlKI.. loi 
 
 rusal)lc in the inhahilanis i»f muIi ;» land as this — a land whose 
 very vastncss, graiuU-iir and t apabiliiics should arouse die senii- 
 Mienl in its highest degree. A deht ien( y which is one of the 
 great rocks ahead in its progress towards the status of a great 
 nation. There exists, too generally, I regret to say, a lac k of 
 4 onfidciu e, even of interest, in the future of the country. A de- 
 plorable la<*k, which of necessity nuist exercise a paralyzing ef- 
 fect upon its advan( enient.'' 
 
 " 'I'he patriotism of the Krench-C'an.idian, for instance," he 
 (ontinued, "seems to be mainly directed towards the language, the 
 laws and customs of the race from which he sprang, and I very 
 much doubt if the sentiment as towards his own country — Canadti 
 — the land of his birth, is felt in any but n very slight ch'gree. And 
 this same tcme, with native born Canachans of other races, holds 
 true also. 'I'hey look with greater pride towards the country 
 trom which they are descended than to the land to whic h they 
 are native. The confederation of the separate provinces, now 
 the great ' Dominion ot Canada,' by binding them together into 
 a solid unit, by the gradual obliteraticm of narrow provin- 
 cial views and |)rejudices, and the asj)ect of power which 
 territory and population gives, will probably in the course of 
 time conduce to a change in this res|)ec:t that is so desirable. 
 Hut a great deal depends upon the poi)ulation itself. The his- 
 tory of the country though a short, is certainly not an inglorious 
 one, and its study — laid in proper form and colouring — before 
 the rising generation, should be used as powerful means to that 
 end. Hut I have observed with astonishment in my various 
 rambles throughout the i)rovinces the great number of American 
 * text books ' and ' readers,' highly objec:tional)le from a Canadian 
 l)oint of view, whic:h are used in the Common .Schools. To thus 
 permit the iUipressionable minds of the youth of the country to be 
 imbued and tinged with the ideas, hostile and prejudiced, of any 
 foreign country, esi)ecially the case with those advanced by our 
 .American .^''^hool books, is simply a suicidal jmlicv. As it should 
 
 8 
 
 
 }i 
 
 i 
 
«l 
 
 ro> 
 
 SUK MlCUr HAVr. DONI', iJI/rrKR, 
 
 l)c the Aim of the government to foster a national, a )>atriotie 
 spirit, without whi< h a state never beiamc great, it i» i»H primary 
 duty to unhesitatingly stamp out so glaring a soun e of danger, 
 and enforct'dly substitute, < onstitutionally or unconstitutionally, 
 whether agreeable to sectional feeling or disagreeable, a nation- 
 ally roiueived < ourHC of their own in all the |)ubli(- s(h(H)ls. 
 
 *' What ran lie a more despic able obje< t than the man in whom 
 the spirit of patriotism, the natural love of his native i ounlry is 
 a deail sentiment ? He rannot but think meanly of himself, who 
 thinks meanly of the land from which he sprang," continued Mr. 
 Morton, warming up to a favourite subject of hin, and he went 
 on — 
 
 '• Place in contradistinction the intense patriotism of the Mri- 
 ton, for instance. With what pride, (juiet and dignified, arrogant 
 and supercilious, as the case may Ih.*, he carries the love of his 
 country about him, and bears himself as if its honours, its renown, 
 rerte<:ted themselves uiK)n him. He feels himself a sharer of 
 them — that he and his ancestors achieved them, and he glories 
 in the name of a Briton. He may look with interest and admir- 
 ation, it is true, and accord the due praise to the great works of 
 a rival nation, but would laugh at an assertion of that nation's 
 superiority. From the fact of his being a Uriton, and not from 
 |)hysical or mental i)eculiarity, arises his proud confidence in him- 
 self and his native land. His country may be hated for its power 
 and success, he knows it, and rather likes the idea, for it is, in his 
 •yes, the world's tribute, its sweetest praise to his beloved land. 
 What might be considered of the arrogant confidence of a power 
 that would venture to take up arms and wage war against the whole 
 world combined in assurance of success ? Vet who wouki affirm 
 that Britain would he:;itate a moment in defence of her rights to 
 enter ujion such a tremendous conflict. She did urge that war once, 
 and did not emerge from it second best either. 'I'hat is where 
 patriotism comes in I And nowhere, Miss Ada. is the love of 
 hoiwe, of one's own |)lace. one's own roof-tree, more exemplified 
 
A RK.VKI.ArinS' ARRIVAI, AND I.K( TIKK. 103 
 
 1 him- 
 )()\vc'r 
 in his 
 land. 
 »()\vcr 
 vhole 
 ffinn 
 ts to 
 jncc, 
 here 
 e of 
 ificd 
 
 than in Kngt.in(t, ami nowhere ilocn tliere exint a /eopte more 
 
 IMtnotii-.** 
 
 " Well (lone I Untie I'Alw.ml,* said Keginald, iinpiident!). 
 •• We'll run yoti In for nRMnUr next ele« tion, lertain. !Uit I 
 think you are rather hard on us Canadians. We younger ones, 
 at any rate, are jiroud <»f our country, and believe in it, and if 
 we do l(K)k with affection and pride to the ( (»untry from vrhii-h 
 we are descended, we do not love our own any the less on thai 
 nccount. I do not deny, thc)u^h, tliat there is more truth than 
 poetry in a gocnl deal of that you have told us." 
 
 •* That's right, Reggie," replied his un« le. ** Stand up always 
 for the land of your hirlh. N'ou won't run me for a memlKjr, 
 thougl'.," he added, as they rose from the table. '* I'm t(K)goocl 
 a Yankee fr that." 
 
 •'i)hl arc you though," returned Reggie. '* .\n M. V. of 
 Canada Is just as good as a \'ankee Senator any day. Come 
 now I senators and generals and ctolonels are as plentiful in the 
 States as leaves in \'alambrosa." 
 
 " Yes !' and M. I'.'s are plentiful enough in the Dominion also, 
 under the |)resent conditio of things. Why ! how many par- 
 liaments are you running now? when one is ample for all there 
 is to do. Cut off your ridic:ulous little I'rovincial Houses, with 
 their parish i)olitics and your country will Ik.* all tlie better for 
 it. I am free to confess my own country would be none the 
 worse for doing the same," replied Mr. Horton. 
 
 *' Mrs. Mordaunt," asked Ada, as they entered the drawing- 
 r»om, *' Have you anything for me to do this morning? f 
 don't like to be idle, and to commence amusing one's self at 
 half past eight is rather early. I'd be tired out before night." 
 
 " No 1 Ada, 1 have not," said Mrs. Mordaunt. " I think 
 you'll have to try to amuse yourself. There's lots of things you 
 can do. Try billiards, or a book, or a ride on horseback, or get 
 the gentlemen out to croquet. I have nothing to do myself pa.-- 
 Iicularly, or Kthel either. Mr. Mordaunt will keep so many ser- 
 
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 f 
 
 w 
 
i|'*M« 
 
 i 
 
 l! 
 
 
 '• i 
 
 
 I 
 
 ■h 
 
 'i, 
 
 104 
 
 SHK MI(;Hr HAVK DONK J?KTTKK. 
 
 viuits about that they hav'nt enough to do. I think I have heard 
 of the servant (juestion ( ert;iinly, and the dijiiculty people ex- 
 perience in getting the assistance they recpiire. For my i)art 1 
 have ne\cr had any difticulty in getting the assistance I recjuire. 
 ^'et I ])ay the wages only that are customary in this district. 
 And certainly not nearly so high as they pay in the cities." 
 
 •' Well I I'm sure you're very lucky, Mrs. Mordaunt," exclaim- 
 ed Krnily, " for of Jl the pests and nuisances we have to endure 
 at home the servant question is the most vexatious. We never 
 can get the creatures to stay more than a month with us, no mat- 
 ter what wages we i)ay. With two we can get along, l)ut most 
 of tha time we have but one, and generally when we manage to 
 get another, the first one has left us. I'm sure I don't under- 
 stand how it is that some ])eople seem to have no trou])le with 
 their girls." 
 
 " r think the matter can be easily enough accounted for in 
 our case, Kmily," said Ada. " With such a large family as ours, 
 it is as much as two servants can do to get through, even with 
 some little help from us ; but they get very little of that gener- 
 ally. And it is very much the same when we have only one. 
 We don't help her enough. The girl cannot do the work, and 
 won't stay with us. besides, as a general thing, they are 
 net treated properly in our house, or spoken kindly to, and have 
 ji<> ■' -le left for recreation. I don't wonder that we find trouble 
 viJ ., ui' ser\ants." 
 
 '' Oh ! that's Ada all over," rejoined Emily. '• She likes to do 
 hvi.-ev.ork and place herself on a level with the servants. It's 
 only the other day that one of our girls gave her month's warn- 
 ing just because I scolded her fornotha\ing my breakfast ready, 
 for I'd been out the night before at a party and had come down 
 late, and told me that she would leave the house instantly, were 
 it not that she knew Miss Ada would have to do all the work 
 herself For my part, I would not curry favor with such crea- 
 tures. As it is, Ada does half the girls' work for them, speaks 
 
A REVKl.ATION— ARRIVAL AM) LKCTURK. 105 
 
 to tliem as if they were ladies, and that's why they Hke her." 
 *• Well ! I think Ada is right," said Mrs. MordauiU, (quietly. 
 " A word of kindness goes a great way with them. Hut, Emily 
 and Ada, 1 have some news for you whicli I think you will find 
 interesting, and as we are alone I will tell you. Edwin Vance 
 and Ethel have taken it into their heads to fall in love with each 
 other, and they are engaged to he married. W'iiat do you think 
 of that? It was, I must say, rather a surprise to Mr. Mordaunt 
 and myself. We had not ex|)e(ted such i thing, thougii 1 could 
 see that Edwin liked Ethel. However, the match will he suit- 
 n<)le enough in all respects, and, I think, will be for their happi- 
 ness. Vou must congratulate me u|)on the new and unexpected 
 role which I am to enter upon — the uneviable one of a mother- 
 in-law. I do trust that my dear Ethel may he hai)))y." 
 
 *• Oh ! 1 am so glad, Mrs. Mordaunt, so glad to hear such good 
 news of Ethel. 1 always knew that she would marry some nice 
 fellow. So Ethel's going to marry Mr. Vance. Dear Ethel, I'm 
 so glad. 1 do congratulate you, dear Mrs. Mordaunt. He is a 
 nice fellow, and Ethel is just j^erfection. Oh ! I know they'll be 
 so happy," exclaimed Ada warmly, springing from her seat and 
 kissing Mrs. Mordaunt in the impulsive good nature of her 
 heart. 
 
 " Then they are engaged. Well I 1 thought as much the 
 minute I arrived," said Emily, almost unwittingly, for tiiough .she 
 had been half expecting such,the news came to her with something 
 of a shock. It was not utter dismay, for it was not her heart 
 that was touched. Her vanity and her jealousy were the feelings 
 that were outraged. It was not agreeable to her that I^thel Mor- 
 daunt, whom she disliked, and of whom she was envious, should 
 have come between her and a prize, which, in her eyes, was well 
 worth having. Still less did she like it that Edwin Vance should 
 have preferred that detested rival to herself. Besides, was it 
 not another " eligible" gone — a direct loss, for she held imaginary 
 rights over all that admired but limited class. And it was no 
 
 i'i 
 
 g; 
 
 I! 
 
 
 li 
 
 %' 
 
 d' 
 
I 
 
 ( f 
 
 1 06 
 
 .SHE MIGHT HAVE J)ONE BETTER. 
 
 Ui 
 
 ij :>:« 
 
 ]( I 
 
 wonder that she did not respond to the news with the joyous 
 unselfishness of her sister. She managed to say at last, " Well ! 
 I wish them joy, and hope they will be as happy as they doubt- 
 less are at present. But when is it to be, Mrs. Mordaunt ? . id 
 where is Ethel's engagement ring ? I'm sure she has not got it 
 on, for I lookeu," added she, unconsciously. 
 
 " There is time enough for the ring yet, Emily," returned Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, " seeing their engagement is but two days old. I 
 don't suppose either of them have as yet thought of such a de- 
 tail. The marriage will not take place for a year, at any rate," 
 she continued, a little restively, to these enquiries. 
 
 " Only two days ago !" exclaimed Emily, emphatically. >Vith 
 self-reproach in her heart slie thought : " Had I come but a day 
 sooner I could have prevented this." And then her spitefulness 
 overcoming her, " And they are not to be married for a year. 
 Don't you think it is rather a long engagement to allow to a i)er- 
 son so yielding and changeable as Mr. Vance?" she added. 
 
 " I have never observed such traits in his character. Miss 
 Dearborn, nor I think have you," returned Mrs. Mordaunt, in- 
 dignantly, with displeasure and anger in her tone. " I am as- 
 tonished at the remark from you. Pray what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Now ! Emily, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Yon 
 are vexed because Ethel is engaged to be married before you 
 are, and you show it. I would not be so mean if I were you," 
 interrupted Ada, vehemently, yet putting the least unfavourable 
 construction to her sister's impertinence. 
 
 Nevertheless, Emily's words left an unpleasant impression on 
 Mrs. Mordaunt's mind. 
 
 " I'm sure I did not mean to offend, Mrs. Mordaunt," said 
 Emily, a little ashamed at what she had done. " I only meant 
 that — that — that Mr. Vance was inclined to be very attentive to 
 young ladies," she added, lamely enough. 
 
 " As all young men are ! You would find it very dull were 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHK WAS WELL OFF. 107 
 
 they not so, Emily," answered Mrs. Mordaunt, i)ointedly. " With 
 Mr. Vance v e case is now a different thing." 
 
 " As if butter would not melt in his mouth," said Emily to 
 herself, but, wisely, she did not give the thought utterance. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 DIDN I KNOW WHKN SHK WAS WKLI. OFF. 
 
 On the morning of the twenty-first d^y of July, A. I). 187 1, Mr. 
 John Hatchitfess, of the old and highly reputable firm of John 
 Hatchitfess & Son, Notaries, Conveyancers and House and I^nd 
 Agents, of the City of Toronto, sat in his comfortable room, one 
 of the suite of three which constituted the firm's offices, busily en- 
 gaged in reading the morning papers, and keeping a sharp eye 
 on the three middle-aged and respectable-looking clerks in the 
 main office, as busily engaged at their respective desks, and in 
 casting regretful glances into the third apartment, the most 
 handsomely furnished of all, which was the sanctum of, and 
 •ught to have been graced by the presence of Albert Maximus 
 Montague Hatchitfess, Esquire, junior member of the firm and 
 only son and heir of the said Mr. John Hatchitfess. But as 
 business was not the forte of that young gentleman ; while spend- 
 ing his sl>are of the profits about Her Majesty's goodly city of 
 Toronto in the most agreeable manner possible— ost decidedly 
 was ; the regretful glances of his worthy progenitor continued to 
 meet but dull vacancy, and he had to content his paternal eye 
 by looking still sharper after the three middle-aged clerks, who, 
 well aware of the supervision, wrote away for dear life, as if it 
 were a certain nameless personage, sulphurously odorate, bifur- 
 cate of extremity, and of coma te aspect, who so enthusiastically 
 drove them. 
 
 The firm was wealthy, and bore the odour of being very honest, 
 quite to be depended upon, though perhaps a little hard in it« 
 
 1 1 
 
 J ! 
 
 ;j 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ( ' 
 
 i i 
 
10b 
 
 SHK MKiHl' H.WK DUNK BEITKR. 
 
 .1! * 
 
 dfaliiigs. The offices, upon a flight of stairs in King street, 
 were very well known to ii goodly i)roi)ortion of the inhabitants 
 of Toronto, and to a goodly munber of people outside of I'o- 
 ronto also. A very Uirge business was done in those offices, 
 and a great deal of money was made by the firm, not so much 
 by its legitimate notarial business, as by the more general line 
 of the House and Land Agency. 
 
 It might be a very hard, but it was a very honest firm, and 
 numerous gentlemen who liked to have their rents paid them 
 the day they were due, and who did not wish to have their 
 charitable souls agoni/ed by appeals for delay from jjoor ten- 
 ants, found it very convenient to place their bu iness in the 
 hands of John Hatchitfess »^- Son, who had no soul, and they 
 got their rents to the day. 
 
 Gentlemen who wished to dispose of property, repaired 
 thither also, and they shortly had the pleasure of handling the 
 l)rice. Kven were there great necessity for the transactions 
 being very hurriedly got through with, it was all the same. 'I'he 
 seller may not have got so much money, but he got it j^rompt- 
 
 ly. 
 
 Gentlemen who wished to purchase property, or invest 
 money or effect a mortgage, or do almost anything in the way 
 of reil estate, did the same; and they got what they wanted. 
 Should a nice young man, with property behind him, have been 
 sfKjnding rather too freely, and his pocket needed replenish- 
 ment, he went to John Hatchitfess & Son, and got the needful 
 cash, on giving his written promise to pay the advance, with a 
 good deal more added to it ; which promise, too, the youni; 
 gentleman generally found that he kept, whether it were agree- 
 able or not to him to do so. 
 
 These processes going on for long years, resulted in the ac- 
 cumulation of dollars, and Mr. John Hatchitfess, at the period 
 of our story, was regarded in the light of a very wealthy man. 
 
 * Honesty ' had been so persistently the battle-cry of the 
 
DIDNT KNOW WHEN SHK WAS WKI L OIF. loy 
 
 Timi, that they had built up a solid reputation for it, and in 
 llicir dealings for or between otlu.*r parties, not directly w ith 
 tliem, tiiey iiad been lionest. After the transaction of some 
 piece of l)usiness, Mr. John Hatchitfess would severely remark : 
 •' We are very honest, but we are not charitable, " in the words, 
 and [)rol)ably in the paradoxical sense of the manager of the 
 steamboat company, who,one of his moribund tubs having broken 
 down on the journey, thoroughly cleaned out the pockets of 
 tlie poor passengers, already depleted by their expensive delay, 
 for bringing them back to their starting point, in another of hi^ 
 old machines. 
 
 Mr. John Hatchitfess could not certainly be regarded as a 
 handsome man ; but as beauty is at a discount in business 
 Uuitters, and is wholly overlooked in the person to whom 
 one i)ays one's rent, the deficiency was but of little moment to 
 the principal party concerned. 
 
 In person, though largely built, he was spare, angular and 
 ungainly ; his face was angular, his cheek-bones were angular, 
 his nose was angular, his large mouth was angular, and dried-up 
 looking ; and his prominent eyes would have been angular also, 
 had there been anything else about them save the amiable ex- 
 pression of the cuttle-fish. 
 
 His visage was capable, certainly, of producing a smile ; but 
 the effect was so ghastly, and reminded the beholder so forcibly 
 of the hideous contortions prodi' ed by the galvanizing of a 
 corpse, that his physiognomy was a i)leasanter sight in a state 
 of repose. The movements of the dried-up mouth and the 
 baleful aspect presented by the wrinkling up of the fishy eyes 
 during the fearsome operation, was rather horrifying to nervous 
 j)eople, and would freeze up the smile that might happen to be 
 l)laying on their countenances with instantaneous suddenness. 
 
 Hut if his personal appearance was peculiar, it was his own, 
 and he could not change it had he desired to do so. With his 
 manners, though, it was a very different affair; and he graded 
 
 'i 
 
' 
 
 '■A 
 
 u 
 
 Pi 
 
 "III' • ■ ,i 
 
 ^■1 
 
 1 1 
 
 'lit 
 
 IIO 
 
 SHK MKJHT HAVE DONE BF/rTER. 
 
 them with infinite variety. Delicately shaded tJiey were not to 
 the virtues or merits of those with whom he came in contact, 
 but to the amount of cash which their pockets contained. 
 
 With a wealthy client he was, oh ! so greasily nice ; so oilily 
 polite, and full of obsequious lx)wings and compliments, and 
 the fearful smile convulsed his countenance like the approach 
 of epilepsy. To one from whom he had nothing to expect or 
 gain, he was ^.utlingly brief and contemptuously indifferent. 
 But the unfortunate who ought to pay him money, and had it 
 not wherewith to pay, came in for s;ivage wrath and roused in 
 full measure the natural wild-beast ferocity of his nature. Ve» 
 hement were the denunciations — outrageous the insults, and 
 bloodthirsty the threats hurled at the poor delinquent, who, if 
 he had expected — if not mercy — at least the politeness of a 
 gentleman — speedily found himself undeceived, and got neither 
 the one nor the other. Not a very agreeable character, on the 
 whole, was that of Mr. John Hatchitfess. 
 
 However, he sat in his office very comfortably, and did not 
 trouble himself about the estimate people might put on his 
 social qualities, so long as they did their business with his firm ; 
 and as the morning wore on j)lenty of people came in and 
 transacted business with him. 
 
 Some entered with a confident bearing, and proceeded to pay 
 their rents, interests, instalments, or whatever it might be — re- 
 ceived civility and a receipt, and departed, breathing the freer 
 that they were over it, and out again in the bright air. Others 
 anxiously, and with a deprecatory air, to ask, mayhaps, 
 timidly, for a few days grace for some payment. Stem refusal, 
 couched in insulting terms, was what they got, together with the 
 l)leasing promise that a paper, of a wholly different nature from 
 a receipt, would very shortly be presented to them, commenc- 
 ing with the ominous words : 
 
 " Canada, Province of Ontario. Victoria, by the Grace of 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WHKN SHK WAS WELL OFF. 1 1 1 
 
 CfOd, &c.," and vt'r>' well might the unfortunate depend that 
 the promise would be kejit before the day was out. 
 
 Has it not Ijccome hijjh time, here let us observe in 
 parenthesis, that the honored name of our gracious Sovereign — 
 a name dear to ever) heart ; a name associated with all that is 
 good, fine and womanly ; a name blended into and almost re- 
 jiresentative of the sentiments of loyalty and patriotism that an- 
 imates our breasts — be removed from its present unworthy 
 appearance on the harrassing processes of the law, which, nec- 
 essary though they be, but too generally carry in their train the 
 evils of distress, anxiety, ruin, want and misery — and with such 
 evils that august name cannot be said to l)C in keei)ing. The 
 fiction is not onlv whollv unnecessarv and absurd, but is also 
 ridiculous. 
 
 As if it were necessar) for Her Oracious Majesty to send 
 '* (Greeting " — Heaven save the mark ! — to every dirty ofificer or 
 bailiff, when authorized to pounce ui)on the wretched traps of 
 some miserable delinquent. With the unhonorable precepts, 
 uncleanly scriptures, and unholy procedures of law — the high 
 and honorable name of " N'ictoria " is dt.'graded. Placed in 
 very bad company, in fact. 
 
 Some less august name — that of the judge, for instance, or 
 some other officer — would surely as well answer the i)inpose, if 
 a name is necessary, and would be more fitting for appearance 
 on such unnecessary documents. 
 
 Business was brisk in Mr. Hatchitfess' office this morning, and 
 his hands were kept pretty full in attending to it. He had nu- 
 merous and well-improved opportunities of displaying the var- 
 ious phases of his character and disposition, from the fawning 
 civility and obsequious bowings with \\ hich he cringed to the 
 wealthy, down to the obstreperous bullyings with which he re- 
 galed impecunious humanity ; and a very varied assortment of 
 the genus homo in the course of an hour or two had i)asse«l 
 through the office, and had their business done for them, or 
 
 %' 
 
 I 1 
 
 ' ( 
 
 • 
 
 \\ I ) 
 
112 
 
 SIIK MlCJir HA\K DUSK UHTTKR. 
 
 I ;( 
 
 u 
 
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 Riff \ 
 
 li! 
 
 f 
 
 themselves done for. TIr" ordinary run, however, of the busi- 
 ness was at length agreea!>Iy diversified by the entrance of a 
 young lady, who in tasty summer dress and jaunty hat, looking 
 as fresh and cool as the morning, and as bright as its earliest 
 sunbeams, stepped up to one of the clerk's desks, and askeil for 
 Mr. John Hatchitfess. 
 
 She was very pretty, with a bright and spirited look about 
 Ucr ; and as she stood in the dirty, hard and sordid oflice, she 
 ap|)eared all the more charming and all the more out of keep- 
 ing with the s( ene. 
 
 'I'he clerk addressed jumped down from his stool, with a 
 deferential "(lood morning. Miss Seaforth. I'm sure Mr. 
 Hatchitfess will see you at once," and she was at once bowed 
 into that gentleman's room. He arose and bowed as she en- 
 tered, and as he placed a chair for her, smiled the sweetest 
 smile of which his countenance was capable, sufficiently grotestjue 
 and horrible, however, and seeming as though it would twist his 
 unlucky jaw from its sockets ere the ghastly convulsion was over. 
 
 " How do you do I my dear Miss Agnes Seaforth," he said. 
 " I am very glad to see you again. Y'ou are very late in paying 
 your semi-annual visit to our poor office this time. First of 
 January and first of July are your days, ana now it is the 
 twenty-first — three weeks behindhand. I generally find, too. 
 that people who have money to receive are prompt, to the da)'. 
 I am surprised to find you an exception." 
 
 *' Well, Mr. Hatchitfess," was the reply ; " my aunt has been 
 so very unwell lately that I could not leave her, even for the 
 few minutes necessary to come here. I did not need the mone}' 
 very particularly before, and knew it was useless to send for it." 
 
 " Ah I yes, Miss Agnes, quite useless. My instructions arc- 
 to pay the money each half year to yourself, personally; and 
 take your receipt for it — so that it is necessary that you honour 
 us at these times with your personal visits." 
 
 " In so far as that I have to come to your office twice a year 
 
 to 
 I w 
 
 iin 
 
 Ml\ 
 
 of 
 n.ui 
 
 1).IM 
 
 die 
 (iilTc 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WHKNSHK WAS WKI.I.ni K. 113 
 
 t.|i 
 
 : l)iisi- 
 L* of a 
 
 .•arlicsi 
 koil for 
 
 alxnit 
 ;e, she 
 r kecp- 
 
 with u 
 re Mr. 
 bowed 
 she en- 
 weetesi 
 jtescjuc 
 wist his 
 IS over. 
 e said, 
 paying 
 Mrst of 
 is the 
 d, too, 
 le dav. 
 
 a year 
 
 1 have Imt little of which to complain, Mr. Hati iiilfcss. My 
 visits are i)rol)al>ly more troublesome to yourself than they are 
 to me," replied the young lady. '• ihit there is one thing which 
 I wish to mention to you, and if possible have altered. .Since 
 my mother's death, when 1 have had to attend here to obtain 
 my annuity myself, it has been invariably paid me in the form 
 of Mr. Kdwin \'ance's che<|ue, payable to myself, to my own 
 name, so that I am compelled to present it in person at the 
 hank for payment. Why should 1 have to take Mr. Nance's 
 (.he(iue? It is my own money, and not his, and I wish that a 
 (lilTerent and nore pleasant arrangement be made.'' 
 
 •' \\m I annot mean to be serious in objecting to such a 
 very trilling matter as that, Miss Seaforth," said Mr. Hatchitfess, 
 surprisedly. '* Surely your six hundred ilollars per annum is just 
 as available through Mr. \'ance's checjue a.s from any other 
 source. I cannot see the force of your objection," 
 
 '•That is not the (juestion, Mr. Hatchitfess," Miss Seaforth 
 ■uiswered decidedly. " Were the che<[ues yours, or those of 
 .my other business firm, 1 would have nothing to say. IJut it is 
 inexpressibly painful to me to have to jjresent these che(|ues, 
 of a young man like Mr. N'ance, i)ersonally for payment ; to 
 answer the questions and bear the gaze of impudent bank 
 rlerks. 1 feel myself i)Ut in a position liable to misconstruc- 
 tion by reason of it, and I shall bear it no longer. Why cannot 
 you pay me the money yourself, Mr, Hatchitfess ? " 
 
 " For the very good reason, my dear young lad\ . ' he an- 
 swered drily, " that 1 hold no funds of Mr, I'.dwin Nance's for 
 the |)urpose." 
 
 " Why of Mr. N'ance's ? What have I to do with Mr. 
 \'ance? It is of my own annuity I am sj)eaking," she rejjlied 
 
 hotly. 
 
 "Certainly, Miss Seaforth I of that I was aware, I can 
 only rej)eat to you that I have no power to alter existing ar- 
 
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 »«4 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DDNK Jn/ITER. 
 
 rangcments ; and can only follow the instriu'tions we have 
 received from Mr. Van* e in the matter." 
 
 ** Mr. Vance again ! What has Mr. Vance or his instnictions 
 to do with the matter — I repeat again ? Arc not the sixlumdred 
 dollars a year to which I am entitled, the income of the pro- 
 perty qn Vonge Street? — which belonged to my poor dead 
 father?" she ex<laimed with excitement. 
 
 " In a measure, it arises from that source. I see, however, 
 that you do not understand the circumstances of the case, and 
 I do not perceive that it is any part of my duty to explain 
 them you. I would advise you to ' leave well alone ' ; take 
 your money, and ask no more (juestions about it. Plea.se to 
 sign the receipt," he continued, placing it and a pen before her. 
 
 "Then you are gomg to pay me in money this time, Mr. 
 Hatchitfess. I am so much obliged to you for saving me the 
 annoyance of presenting the che(|ue," she exclaimed, as she signed 
 the receipt, but mistaking the tenor of his words, which she hue! 
 understood literally. 
 
 " Why this is a cheque of Mr. Vance's again," she continued, 
 as she glanced at it. " You told me you would give me the 
 money, Mr. Hatchitfess. Why have you deceived me thus?" 
 looking for the receipt, which, however, he had already taken 
 into his possession, and rising from her chair in excitement. 
 
 " I did not deceive you. Miss Seaforth. You deceived your- 
 self," he replied, coldly. " I have already had the honour of 
 telling you I could not alter the arrangements, 'lliat cheque 
 you hold in your hand is as much money a.s though I counted it 
 down dollar by dollar to you. Jf you will but think for a mo- 
 ment of what I said to you, you will perceive nothing more than 
 our usual course. Did I not advise you," he continued, " to let 
 what was well alone, and trouble yourself no more about the 
 matter ?" 
 
 " You did, Mr. Hatchitfess, and I ask your pardon for what I 
 said in my anger and disappointment. You must im])ute it to 
 
DIDNT KNOW WMKN SHKWAS U'KI.I. OFK 115 
 
 ft \\-x\ti 
 
 ructions 
 iuindrcd 
 tlie pro- 
 of dead 
 
 K)wever, 
 :ise, and 
 explain 
 ij ' ; take 
 Mease to 
 .'fort her. 
 :ime, Mr. 
 r me the 
 he signed 
 1 she hud 
 
 antinued, 
 me tlie 
 e thus?" 
 iy taken 
 iient. 
 ed your- 
 onour of 
 cheque 
 unted it 
 ir a mo- 
 ore than 
 " to let 
 >out the 
 
 wliat 1 
 Ite it to 
 
 the want of busiucns knowledge of a woman. Hut tliere is some- 
 thing else which you said to me of which I nuist demand an 
 explanation. W'luit did you mean l)y telHng me there were cir- 
 t.umstancei* connected with my annuity which I did not under- 
 stand and that I had better leave well alone? I'he.se circumstances 
 and .\Ir. Vance's seeming connection with my aflairs I must ha\e 
 emphatically settled, or I shall be compelled to re.sort to legal 
 advice." 
 
 " 'I'hat you had much better not \lo, young lady," shortly 
 answered Mr. Hatchitfess. " For your own sake, such a mea- 
 sure can but distress yourself and your warm friend, Mr. Vance, 
 also. I warn you again, for your own sake, to leave matters as 
 they are, and seek to know nothing further of matters which cer- 
 tainly are, or ought to l)c, if you would not give way to a ridicu- 
 lous whim, very satisliictory to you. You arc but seeking un- 
 plea.santness." 
 
 *' What you say, Mr. Hatchitfess, but the more determines 
 me. If there are circumstances connected widi me or my af- 
 fairs, which have been hidden from me, I feel that I have a right 
 to know, neither do I perceive how their elucidation can cause- 
 distress to those who are not concerned in them," replied Miss 
 Seaforth, with spirit. 
 
 " \'ery well ! Miss Seaforth. Since you are determined to 
 hear, you shall hear. For my own interest, as I do not choose 
 to risk the loss of a good client like Mr. Vance, who being — as 
 you will shortly know — a very warm i)ersonal friend of you and 
 yours, would not be too well jileased if I allowed you to procure 
 yourself a greater annoyance than you have now brought on 
 yourself by the course you propose of seeking legal aid. For 
 my own interest, I repeat, I will tell you the circumstances you 
 find so mysterious, and shall preface the story by remarking tliat 
 were the firm of John Hatchitfess & Son in the i)osition of FMwin 
 \'ance in this matter, you would neither be in this office at this. 
 
 1' 
 
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116 
 
 SWE MIC.HT HAVK huNK HKTTIK. 
 
 / I 
 
 tMoiuoni or hoKling that « Iumjiic dtr three luiiulrcil dollarM in your 
 h.inil. 
 
 *• U'e arc honcni l)tit not tharllablc," cxi lainicd the ainial»lo 
 Mr. Hati hitfcHs, rclapNing into fonntila, and shewing a touch of 
 his tigerish nature towards the spirited yoinig lady, who, in de 
 tent e of lier rights, had so infringed upon liis precious tinu*. 
 
 •' What do you mean hy that, .sir?" exclainied Miss Seaforth. 
 as she sprang from her seat, her eyes lihi/ing. 
 
 " .Never mind ! You'll hear all in a few nionients now, young 
 lady. '* Pray delay me as little as j»ossil)le, for I have many 
 affairs to attend t«). It was a mere business expression tliai I 
 Used, whiih almost luuonsciously esaqied me." he re|ilie<!. 
 apologetically, waving her hac k to her seat again. 
 
 " Then, permit me to say that it is a very strange and \m 
 pleasant expression, and the sooner you learn to use more judg- 
 ment and discretion in the u.se of such the better, sir," she said, 
 untl then a little malic iously added — 
 
 " 'riicuigh your honesty might possibly be disputed, I think 
 but few would be disjtosed to deny the truth of the I itter part 
 of your aphorism, espe< iaily in regard to your charily towards the 
 feelings of others." 
 
 " \'ery true, young lady, I am a business man, and |)robably 
 know but little of sentimental things, ikit allow me to proceed. 
 " .Many years ago before you could remember, nay I before 
 you were born," he c:ontinued, "your late father, during a season 
 of ')nmiercial disaster, met with some heavy lossess, and found 
 himself in pressing need of a considerable sum of money. After 
 vaini) endeavoring to sell the projjerty on V'onge street — to whi« li 
 you referred biu now — he went to Mr. Nance — the father (»f 
 the present young gentleman — and offered it to him at a pric e 
 miicii under its value, being in fact the amount he actually 
 needed for his bu;>iness affairs. His friend, as he showed him- 
 self to be — instead of the sharp business man he ought to have 
 J)een — declined to take the property at a .sacrifice, but offered 
 
 u- • 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WID.N SIM: WAS WKI, I OFF. 117 
 
 to aclvam c your father the money he rcquirpcl. To thin your 
 father, entertaining the sanu' romantir notions aUnit friendship 
 and surh stiifT— suitable enoiij^'h for women. I dare say. demur- 
 r^(\ — stating the money was needed to earry on hin businehs ; 
 that he « oiihl not see his way clear as to its repayment, and 
 that the property had to go at any rate. In the end, Mr, Van* e 
 pur( hased the property a< tually for what he called friendship's 
 <ake. paying the then full market value for it, when it was offer- 
 ed him for a great deal less, merely stipulating that the differ- 
 ence should be invested by your father in the pure liase of an 
 mnuity on his and your mother's lives. Mark this! The an- 
 luiity was on the lives of your father and mother alone. ( )f these 
 fails I happen to be aware, as the annuity was purchased from 
 our firm, .uul a very good bargain we made of it." 
 
 " If what you are telling me is true, Mr. Hat<hilfess. how does 
 it happen then that I have been paid the six hundred dollars .n 
 year since my mother's death?" asked Miss .Seaforth, showing a 
 little agitation. 
 
 " 'i'he few words I have to tell will explain all to you, Mist 
 Seaforth. The pun base of the Vonge street property turned out 
 to be a very profitable s|)e<ulation for Mr. \'ance. Its value in 
 the course of a few years doubled, then trebled and <|u.idruplcd, 
 ;4nd the sale of a small portion of it, as I know, recoujjed him 
 the entire purchase money. ( )n the other hand, your father was 
 not successful in his business matters, and when he died left 
 .ibsolutely nothing behind hini save the annuity on your mother's 
 life, and the little house with its furniture, in which you now re- 
 side — no very great fortune — when, if he'd held on to his lands, 
 he would have died a rich man. At your mother's death, two 
 \ears ago, the annuity, of course, ceased. Had her life not last- 
 ed so long by two days it would have saved me three hundred 
 dolbrs. It fell due just that time before she died. Think of 
 that ! ' We are very honest, but we are not charitable.' Three 
 hundred dollars lost by just two days, ^^'e are very honest, but 
 
 
 
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 SHE MIGHT HA\'K DONK BETTER. 
 
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 it is very hard to think about that," and Mr. Hatchitfess' feel- 
 ings almost overcame him at the harrowing reflection. 
 
 " Shortly after this Mr. Vance came to me and actually had 
 the folly to propose buying an annuity on your life for your bene- 
 fit, and offered me a certain sum of money for it. Of course, as 
 you were a very young life, I had many enquires to makj about 
 health and i)robability of life, and to find out if you had any ten- 
 dency to diseases \»'hich might make the bargain a more desir- 
 able one." 
 
 " But during our negotiations, Mr. Vance was overtaken with 
 
 his kist illness. AVell do I remember the haste with which 1 
 
 was summoned to his bedside to make his will, which, like too 
 
 many men of property, he had postponed until the supreme 
 
 moment had almost arrived for him. So near was he to disso- 
 
 hition, that it was in the briefest words I prepared the documents 
 
 leaving a handsome income to his widow for her life, and the 
 
 remainder of his property to his son Edwin. It was not until 
 
 after z\\ was executed, that he suddenly — almost at his last 
 
 gasp — remembered you, and, turning to his son, asked his 
 
 ::)romise that, so long as you lived, he would cause you to be 
 
 ])ail the same sum as your mother's annuity amounted to, from 
 
 the proceeds of the Yonge Street property. The promise was 
 
 freely given, and has been faithfully kept. You see now, Miss 
 
 Seaforth, that I was right when I advised you to ' leave well 
 
 alone.' You see now that you have no legal right to it, thougli 
 
 Mr. Vance really bequeathed you six hundred dollars a year, 
 
 with his dying breath. While you are perfectly justified in 
 
 taking the money, you will perceive the propriety of moving no 
 
 further in the matter. AVhen Mr. Vance, in tender and loyal 
 
 consideration for you, caused the payments to you to be made 
 
 from this oflice — where your mother's annuity was paid by his 
 
 cheque, payable to yourself, both for your protection and to 
 
 cause you to think the money justly your own, — you will per- 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHE W.\S WEEL CU'E. 119 
 
 feel- 
 
 ccive the propriety of no longer objecting to the mode of pay- 
 ment ; and I trust you agree with me in this." 
 
 Agnes rose from her seat, as Mr. HatchitfesK conchided — 
 pale, and evidently greatly agitated, though striving hard for 
 calmness. 
 
 " What you have told me, Mr. Hatch itfess, is so strange — so 
 utterly new and unexpected — that I can hardly believe it possi- 
 ble. How is it, that my mother never told me a word of this ? 
 She must have known it, were it true." 
 
 "Of that I can tell you nothing, Miss Seaforth," he replied. 
 " Probably she did not know it. It would not be the first in- 
 stance of a wife being kept in ignorance of her husband's 
 affairs. Nevertheless, the story is true ; of that I can assure 
 you. It is to my own interest that what I have told you should 
 be the truth — no more, no less, — and that is the best guarantee 
 I could give you. Mr. Vance will not be too well pleased that 
 you have heard the story ; but he would have been still less 
 satisfied had 1 deceived you when the explanation became a 
 nect:>sity — as you have made it to-day. If you do not believe 
 me, you can obtain copies of the deed-of-sale, and the deed-of- 
 ;innuity from the Registry Oftice in this city ; or you can write 
 to Mr. Vance, whom I suppose you know well enough to con- 
 sider worthy of belief." 
 
 " That I shall do, at any rate," replied Miss Seaforth. " I 
 thank you, Mr. Hatchitfess, for having told me to-day what I 
 ought to have been told before. 1 am not sorry to hear what I 
 have heard ; but it would have been better for me to have 
 heard it two years ago. No matter how pure the motive, de- 
 cei)tion never aids in good. I take this money to-day because 
 1 need it ; — I must have time to think of the position in which, 
 so unexpectedly, I find myself and my poor aunt placed, and 
 to form my plans. Otherwise, I should not take it." 
 
 '* Not take the money ! — not take six hundred dollars a year 1 
 Pray why should you not take it ? Not take the money, when 
 
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 120 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DUXE BETTER. 
 
 all you have to do is to come and get it I I know something of 
 human nature, and its folly ; but of all the arrant humbugs and 
 stupid folly that ever 1 heard of, this — Faugh ! — it is enough to 
 sicken one I " exclaimed, with genuine indignation, that guile- 
 less son of nature, Mr. Hatchitfess, who would have taken 
 money from the glowing hands of Apollyon himself, provided 
 he could have gotten it to the Bank before it turned into slate- 
 .stones ; and there was not too great consideration to be j)aid 
 therefore. 
 
 " 1 shall take it to-day, at any rate," said Miss Seaforth ; and 
 with " Good morning, Mr. Hatchitfess I " the interview closed. 
 
 The young lady departed from the office, where a throng of 
 impatient visitors were awaiting Mr. Hatchitfess' leisure, and 
 walked sadly and thoughtfully up the street in the direction of 
 her home. 
 
 She was a proud and high-spirited girl, and the story she had 
 so newly heard was very galling to her. It was not with her — 
 as with Mr. Hatchitfess — a matter of course, that she should 
 come to that office twice a year, and take this money, to which 
 she now knew she possessed no right. 
 
 Had old Mr. Vance left her this money directly by his will, 
 instead of extorting a i)romise — willingly or unwillingly — from 
 his son, that he would pay it to her, there would have been a 
 difference ; and she felt that she would willingly have taken it, 
 from the surplus wealth Avhich her father's property had given 
 him. As the case stood — although it was morally the same 
 thing, whether effected by a few words signed by the dying 
 man's hand, or his dying command — the sense of pecuniary 
 obligation was revolting to her. She longed to be at home in 
 the quietude of her chamber, to think over and ponder her 
 position, which, if this story was true, she knew was a changed 
 one for her. The first thing she would do, at any rate, would 
 be to write to Mr. Vance, for corroboration or disproval of Mr. 
 Hatchitfess' narration : and, pending his answer, she could 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHL WAS WELL OFF. 121 
 
 make uj) her mind as to the course left oi)en to her, in the 
 event of that narration being a true one, and prepare for the 
 battle of life on her own unassisted resources — a solution which 
 her proud heart indicated as the only solution of the position. 
 
 She had reached the corner where she expected to meet the 
 street-car, which would convey her close to her residence, and 
 was watching its slow progress towards her, when she was ac- 
 costed by a young gentleman, who, hurriedly advancing in the 
 direction from which she luid come, had stopped suddenly in 
 his career on perceiving h.er ; and taking o(( his ve y loud- 
 looking and extremely glossy beaver with elaborate jjiofundity, 
 laboured grace, and extensiveness of sweej) — aired hi^ scented 
 and anointed locks in the calorific street breeze — and performed 
 a deep and conceitedly affected bow, as he addressed her, 
 
 Oeorgeously arrayed in tlie very height and agonizing 
 extremity of the fashion ; be-ringed, be-chained, be-studded, 
 be-pinned, and diamond-locketed — with the utmost possible 
 profusion of expensive an( massive jewelry — booted, gloved, 
 tied, collared and cuffed, with jjainfully demonstrative spruci- 
 ness, this magnificent and interesting individual actually 
 sparkled in the sun, as he perjjetuated his polite gyrations, 
 amid the rattling of chains, the scintillation of gems, the flash- 
 ing of gold and the creasings of shining clothes. 
 
 But his personal ai)i)earance did not consort with the 
 beaming glory of his garments ; for excej)! that he was younger 
 and not so wrinkled, Albert-Maximus-Montague Halchitfe.ss, 
 Esquire, was the very counteqxirt of his worthy and 
 and amiable progenitor. He i)ossessed tiie same angular and 
 long features — the same cheese-paring exi)ression — the same 
 fishily-lurid eye — even the same harrowing smile. The son — 
 it were almost needless to remark — resembled in disposition, as 
 in feature, almost to the last trait, his father ; save that one 
 liked to spend the money that the other liked to make. One 
 
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 122 
 
 SHK MI(;HT HAVK nrjNK BK'ITER. 
 
 led an evil, dissipated, idly-had life, while the other led a hard, 
 avaricious and grasping one. 
 
 The father's one human weakness — as he would i)robably in 
 his own eyes view it — was his love for his son, whom he 
 indulged, allowed to have his own way, and to give free vent to 
 his idle and depraved tastes, when he had better have been 
 kept in check and restrained by persistent occupation. 
 
 To leave him the wealthiest man in 'I oronto was the father's 
 great ambition, but his son was unfitting himself for that end 
 faster than his father was accomplishing it. 
 
 "Good morning! — Miss Agnes" — he said, "delighted to 
 meet you so very unexpectedly ; I'm sure. Such a lovely 
 mornincf — almost as lovelv «:.s yourself ; "the loveliest flower 
 of Toronto." 
 
 " When you wish to address me, Sir, please to do so pro- 
 ])erly. It is a fine morning, Mr. Hatchitfess, pray do not let 
 me detain you from your business," was replied coldly. 
 
 " Oh ! no hurry at all ; only too delighted if I can be of 
 service to the ladies. Been to the office, I suppose, this morn- 
 ing ? — Miss Seaforth. You look very gloomy over it too. 
 Vance has not thought better of it, and cut off the supplies ; 
 has he ? Or forgotten to send a cheque ; Eh ? Not much 
 hope from the Governor in that case. If you'll walk back to 
 the ollice with me I'll use my influence for yon. No one can 
 work on the old bo3''s feelings as I can." 
 
 " Mr. Hatchitfess, if you do not at once free me from your 
 impertinence, and attend to your own concerns, I will call on 
 the passers-by — or the police for protection," said Agnes, in- 
 dignantly, as she walked on and left him. 
 
 But he was at her side again immediately. 
 
 " I'm sure I did not mean to oflend you. Miss Seaforth, I 
 only thought you looked sad, and wanted cheering up with a 
 joke. ^Ver^ you looking for the car ? Now if you would wait 
 a moment — I left my turn-out standing up the street a little 
 
 a 
 1) 
 S 
 
ARCADIAN LOVERS TRUI/i . 
 
 >^3 
 
 nay, while I ran into the Governor's place for a minute — 
 I'll take you for a drive, behind a pair of spankers that you 
 ain't accustomed to every day, and we'l' have some nice talk, 
 before I leave you at home. Come now — will you? Miss 
 Seaforth." 
 
 " I prefer the street car, and I decline your escort. It is 
 not the first time I have told you so, and I should think that 
 any person possessing the faintest spark of a gentlemanly 
 spirit, would have taken the hint, which I now convert into 
 plain speaking. Your attentions and your comi)any are disa- 
 greeable to me, and I will no longer be persecuted by you. 
 Good morning, Mr. Hatchitfess." 
 
 Turning abruptly she walked back to the corner, where the 
 street-car had just driven up, and entered it. 
 
 Looking after her, his eyes glaring, and his mouth distorted 
 i\'ith rage. " Oh I very well, Miss Agness Seaforth, but it's 
 not the last of it, as you'll find to your cost. You're very high 
 and mighty with the beggarly six hundred dollars a year that 
 Vance pays you. I'll pay you for this. Take care I don't 
 make it hot for you, my young lady," he muttered savagely 
 between his teeth, and with a scowl he went on his way. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ARCADIA.V LOVERS TRULY. 
 
 " Well I Ethel, 1 think you might have told me the news 
 yourself, and before this too, when I have heard it from an- 
 other person," said Emily Dearborn, as the two girls putting 
 on their sun-hats, stepped mto the garden in search of the 
 other young people. 
 
 " What news ? — Emily. I'm sure I've heard nothing new 
 or strange this morning." 
 
 " Not this morning perhaps ; for I don't suppose you find 
 
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 124 
 
 SHK Micail' HAV1-: DONK BKTTKR. 
 
 the tender little love-scene in the conserN atory, at which I 
 surprisjd you and Mr. Vance erewhile, anything new by this 
 time ; but I referred to your engagement with that gentleman, 
 Kthel, which you have kept to yourself so shyly," returned 
 Kmily. 
 
 " Oh : that's it, is it ? Well ! I did not think it would be 
 of interest to any but ourselves. Ikit who told you of it ? — 
 Kmily." 
 
 ■ " Mrs. Mordaunt told Ada and me half an hour ago," — was 
 the reply. " You are wrong if you think it is not of intere.«t 
 to any but you two lovers. If I am not very much mistaken, 
 the gentleman who made his appearance among us this morn- 
 ing, is so much interested that he will be dreadfully disappoint- 
 ed when he hears of it. 1 feel very certain the main object of 
 his visit here was to make you i p -oposal." 
 
 "To make me a proposal — Mr. Wolverton ? you mean — not 
 very likely, Kmily. \Vhy I have'nt spoken a dozen words tD 
 the man in my life, or he to me. It's much more i^robable 
 that he would propo.se to you ; judging from all I have heard ;" 
 replied P^thel with a laugh. 
 
 " That might be — Kthel — were T an heiress like yourself, or 
 were my father as wealthy a man as yours. But, Sidney wants 
 money so much ; I know, that he is quite ready to throw love 
 and all other considerations over-board to get it, even if he had 
 to take a wife whom he did not want with it. I feel quite 
 certain that he came here for the purpose of honouring you by 
 a proposal for your hand and your dollars," said Kmily, who 
 was determined to punish her recreant lover. 
 
 " Then he is a very contemptible person, and I wonder that 
 Kdwin is such a friend of his," returned Kthel indignantly. 
 " You will be much better without his love, Kmily. But 1 
 cannot conceive it possible this which you tell me. In the 
 first place the man is ahnost an utter stranger to us here, and, 
 
ARCADIAN LOVKR.^ IRUIA'. 
 
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 elf, or 
 wants 
 w love 
 le had 
 quite 
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 lantly. 
 but 1 
 In the 
 and, 
 
 besides, \ have heard Kdwin say that he was coming liere on 
 busines.: wi.ii him." 
 
 "Some trifle as an excuse for his visit, probably. Ihit you 
 can rtst assured, that he will ask yoit, before the week is out 
 too, and this is Thursday, unless he is told of your engage- 
 ment ;" said Kmily laughing. 
 
 " Well ! I hojie some one will tell him then. I do not feel 
 convinced that what you say may not be an error on your part, 
 but were he to connrm it — by daring to hint at such a thing» 
 even ; he would speedily repent it, by as uncerenv^nious a 
 dismissal as ever such a contemptible wretch received," replied 
 Ethel with warmth. 
 
 " Well ! it would serve him right," said Em'ly laughing. " I 
 don't thmk you need fear it though. Ada will soon blurt your 
 engagement out. Vou might do worse though than marry 
 Sidney Wolverton, who to my miiid, is a far finer fellow than 
 your rather yielding and confiding Kdwin Vance, with a little 
 more life about him," continued she, giving Kthel a hit for 
 herself safely enough — as they came up with Ada and Regi- 
 nald — knowing that she would not reply before others. 
 
 Ada was sitting — croquet mallet in hand — very comfortably 
 in one arm of a rustic bench, with Reginald facing her at the 
 other, engaged in an apparently very earnest colloquy. Edwin 
 \'ance and Mr. Wolverton a little in advance were strolling 
 along a shady path, the latter enjoying a cigar and neither 
 appearing very much interested witn each other. 
 
 Ada, on perceiving the approach of the two young ladies, 
 jumped up, and unceremoniously closed her conversation with 
 Reginald, by running forward to meet them. 
 
 " Oh ! Ethel," she said. " I've been dying to see you for 
 
 the last half hour. I unfortunately told that tiresome Reggie 
 
 that I had some news and, when his curiosity was excited, I 
 
 remembered I had not got leave to tell it. He has been teaz- 
 
 ing my life out ever since to find out what it is, and I would 
 
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126 
 
 SHK MKJH'I' HAVK DONK lUHTKR, 
 
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 3iP 
 
 not tell him. I suppose I may though, as he is your brother, 
 and docs not know it yet. It was about your engagement. 
 " ( )h ! Ethel, I was so glad to hear it, and I know you'll be 
 haj)py, he is such a nice fellow, so quiet and gentlemanly, and 
 not like that hateful Mr. Wolverton, who stared at me so 
 rudely when he i)as.-ied just now, although he is Emily's lover, 
 and he knows I hate him." 
 
 *' Hut here's .Mr. Nance coming," continued she, " S!:all I 
 leave you alone with him, Kthel ?" 
 
 "Oh 1 No. \'ou need not, Ada," replied Kihcl laughing. 
 
 " ( )ne does not want one's lover all the time, even though 
 we are engaged. \'ou can tell Reggie, if you like, though hv 
 will tv,ase me awfully, I suppose. But you want some cro 
 quet ; don't you ? Ada. It looks like it with that mallet in 
 your hand. Well I we had better have a game. We have 
 but little else to amuse ourselves. Where is Emily off to ?" 
 
 "Oh ! she's off for a talk with her sweetheart ; I suppose," 
 answered Ada scornfully, '* W^e don't want either of them. 
 There are four of us here. Come on ! Reggie. You'll play 
 .Mr. Vance ; won't you I Ethel's going to play ; you know?" 
 
 " I suppose I must, Ada, for your sake. Though it is a 
 little early in the day for crocjuet is it not ?" said Edwin. 
 " Come along then ! let us get to work at once." 
 
 Emily, when Ada had run up to meet them coming, had 
 moved on to where Reginald had been left sitting alone, and, 
 as he rose to allow her to seat herself, ai he too willingly sup- 
 posed, she said, 
 
 " I cannot stay with you just now, Reggie, a« I wish to 
 speak with Mr. Wolverton there. I won't be long though. 
 Did you find that out yet ; of which we were speaking yester- 
 day ? You've forgetten it, I suppose, as usual." 
 
 " Weil ! It is too bad ; I declare. But I have forgotten 
 it again. Eook here ! Emily, I'll find it out from mother as 
 
 11 
 
ARCADIAN I.OVKRS IRl'TA'. 
 
 •27 
 
 soon as wc go back to the house, as you're so anxious to 
 know." 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself now, Reggie, for I have 
 found it out without your hel^:. It is true what I told you. 
 Vour sister and Mr. Vance are engaged to be married. \'our 
 mother toid me this murning," answered Kmily. 
 
 " Is that so," said Reginald drawlingly ; *• Wjll : they'll b<? 
 a (juiet enough couple ; at any rate. They kept it pretty well 
 to themselves, though. IJut, I say, Mmily, you know what I 
 told you yesterday when we were talking ab')ut it. One has 
 come off, and so will the other. Don't Lt that W'olverton make 
 love to you ; or there will be a row in the camp." " I'll watch 
 you both," continued he as Kmily walked over to join Mr. 
 W'olverton. 
 
 '• Well I Sidney, you look as if solitude would suit you this 
 morning. Your appearance is anything but bright and cheer- 
 ful. Have you found things on your arrival not altogether as 
 you could wish theiii, or what is the matter ?" said h'.mily as 
 she overtook him on his slow stroll alone. 
 
 Mr. Sidney Wolverton was not feeling tf)0 well on this 
 morning. The dissipation and late drive of the preceeding 
 night had had the effect as Miss Dearborn had said of leavmg 
 him anything but bright and cheerful. His head ached, and 
 that with the disagreeable thoughts rjid })lans that occujjied 
 him, gave him a more gloomy and saturnine air than usual. 
 For all that his brain was busily occupied. He had been 
 trying since he arose to discover if the hint given him by 
 Barney on their drive, concerning Ethel Mordaunt and Mr. 
 Vance was correct, or the mere gossip of a servant. 
 
 He had walked and talked with Edwin for an hour and by 
 hints, inucndoes and enquiries, had striven to obtam a glimpse 
 into the state of affairs ; but, having heard or discovered 
 nothing to confirm or disprove the matter, he had begun to 
 think that there was not anything between them, and a revival 
 
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 111 J 
 
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 128 
 
 SHK MKiHr HAVK DONK Ill/I TKR. 
 
 of his idea of Kthcl Mordaunt which he had been inclined to 
 give uj) as hopeless, had taken form agawi in !iis platis. 
 
 He was not as |»leased as he should have been when so 
 chanr.ing a youni,' lady as Kmily Dearborn appeared beside 
 him, nor x^ere the words with whi( h she addressed him n^ore 
 pleasinij either. He did not wish, under the circumstances, a 
 renewal of their intimacy, and he did wish, as his time was 
 brief, to be alone, to arrange the order of his campaign. 
 
 " 1 am a little fatigued and out of sortf to-day, after my late 
 drive last night, and I fear you will not tnul me amusing com- 
 pany, Kmily, for tbe |)resent at any rate. Where is Vance 
 and the rest of them ? I )on't let me detain you, if you are in 
 search of them." 
 
 "Oh ! that is it, is it ?" replied Kmily laughing, and looking 
 amusedly UJ) at him. " Hut you need not tear. My presence 
 with you can no more injure your cause than it can advance 
 it ; for it is a lost cause. \'()u may as well continue your stroll 
 with me, for my d;'.ngerous companionslu'i) cannot conii)r()niisc 
 you, and I have interesting riews for you." 
 
 " I cannot even conjecture what you mean : my dear Kmily. 
 by yov.r ' lost cause,' and 1 doubt the interest of news current 
 in this dull place," replied .Sidney, as carelessly as he conid, but 
 evidently pricking up his ears. 
 
 "Oh I you are not so innocent as you would have it appear 
 as to ni) meaning, Mr. Sidney W'olverton ;" retorted P^mily. 
 
 *' And i happen to know that you have been prying about and 
 striving all the morning for the bit of news that 1 am generous 
 enough to come and give to you to save you from ridicule." 
 
 " Pray be more exjilicit. I am cjuite at a loss to understand 
 your rather mysterious expressions. I am unaware that I was 
 going to render myself an object of ridicule, and feel anxious to 
 know how I was to do it," quietly rei)Iied Sydney, though [nv- 
 bably he was feeling uneasy. 
 
 " Well ! I will both explain the mystery, which, however, is 
 
ARCADIAN I.OVKRS TRIJIA'. 
 
 I2i) 
 
 L'linod to 
 
 • 
 
 when 8(1 
 (1 beside 
 iin p^orc 
 t;uiccs, a 
 time was 
 ji. 
 
 r my late 
 
 >ing Com- 
 
 is N'ancc 
 
 ou are in 
 
 d lookinu 
 
 preseiicc 
 
 advance 
 
 our stroll 
 
 iipromisc 
 
 ir Kniily. 
 s current 
 onld, but 
 
 it appear 
 Imily. 
 Ibuut and 
 
 generous 
 .lie." 
 
 ierstaiul 
 
 t I was 
 lixious to 
 
 igh i)ro- 
 
 lever, is 
 
 no mystery to you, and relieve your very great iuriosity l)y nim- 
 ply teiliini you, thjit whii h 1 < ame to tell you, Kibel Mordauiu is 
 fnj;aged to be married to Kilwin Nance. U it not a great pity, 
 Sidney, that you should ha\e had all the trouble and annoyance 
 of a visit to a dull phu e, and the perfecting of a i.ice little s( heme 
 to fmd that your main object is defeated, and that you will not 
 depart strengthened by an engagement or probable engagement 
 loan heiress. It is very mortifying, is it not?" said the < ool 
 Kniily, stooping to gather a rosebud. 
 
 " \'ou are certainly very agreeable this morm'ng, my deap 
 Kniily," replied .Sitlney. " Permit me to tell you that I half ex- 
 pected to hear of this engagement on my arrival." 
 
 " Permit me to lell you, my dear .Sidney, that you came here 
 to propose for Kthel Mordaunl, anil l-.thel Mordaunt's money. 
 'riuil was your primary object, and this engagement is a great 
 disajipointment to you, or at lei*st to your j)0( ket. Vou may 
 as well admit it at (jnce." 
 
 ** It is my opinion, Kmily, that you do not like this engage- 
 ment any UKJre than 1 do," returned he, " and that you are just 
 a little bit jealous about it. 1 admit all you reijuire ; to please 
 \ou. So you can admit also." 
 
 '* ( )li ! with pleasure. 1 frankly confessjtluit I am as much 
 tbrestalled as you are. 1 fully intended to have married Kdwin 
 Nance myself if I could. Not that I like the man. He is not 
 my style. Hut then lie is wealthy. Had you been — as you 
 ought with your oj)portunities to have been — a wealthy nun, I 
 should probably have married you, as you know. The best thing 
 that could have happened to you. I would have wasted a small 
 l)ortion of your wealth on my jjersonal adornment and in mak- 
 ing a show ; but I would certainly have prevented you from 
 wasting the greater portion in your absurd speculations and your 
 expensive vices. I would have made a man of you." 
 
 " I believe you would, Kaiily, I believe you would, and i)er- 
 haj)s a better man than I am now. But you are not such a very 
 
 11 
 
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 siir: Micnr iiavk dhnk ni:rn:R. 
 
 imH()|)l)isli« atcd t rcaliirc yourHclt*. It is not yet Um late to try," 
 he said, looking interestedly at the pretty face near him 
 
 *• I don't know atxjul that, l-'roni what F can underntand I 
 fear you are pretty hard run. \'ou have |)lenty of property, but 
 you are in debt, and neeil money pressingly," .slie replied, as 
 coolly as |)osHible to his rather odd speci h. 
 
 *' I may as well tell you," she continued, *' that having' an idea 
 that your subsidiary object is an attack on Nance's purse to tide 
 over your ditHculties, you may as well prepare yourself, if not for 
 defeat in that also, but for greater difH( ulty than you at j)resent 
 imagine. I do not know what your plans may be, but I warn 
 yof that you will have to be careful in the matter. You will 
 have to look for and assail him on a weak point — at a weak 
 momei;» — when he is not himself, if you desire success. I have 
 Jieard enough to know that he has been warned against you, in 
 so far as lo have no money dealings with you, and I believe also 
 that he does not intend to have any such." 
 
 " I have no farther intentions with regard to hiin than to in- 
 duce him to join me m the Hopetown concern, and advance 
 some capital. If that were managed, I should be on my feet 
 again. To effect it was a jirincipal part of my business I •♦•'.." 
 
 " Well then I in my o])inion you will not effect it. Voj can 
 but try though, and his refusal will pain him so much more than 
 it will you, that his hjart will in all probability be more open to 
 a subse(iuent attack in some other form. Make as little delay 
 as possible, as your visit wi'I not be so pleasant lo you as to 
 make you desire its prolongation. Keep good friends with Vance 
 at any rate. It is very necessary. \'ou and I may as well be 
 friends also. We can help each other. And now I will leave 
 jou to your meditations. Au ra'oir, Sidney." 
 
 " For the present, Emily. Yes I we'll be friends at any rate, 
 and oh I I wish that you and I P^mily, were better than we are, 
 and a jjair of innocent young lovers," he said, looking tenderl} 
 in the charming face and pressing her hand. 
 
 (|Utl 
 
 I -.;i 
 
rilK llksr DISAdRKKMKNr. 
 
 IJ« 
 
 •• Not at procnt," she replied, laughing. " It depends on 
 yoiirnclf though," and Kinily walked away to rejoin the cro- 
 • jueters. 
 
 CHAPII'.K XIV. 
 
 *rr 
 
 I can 
 than 
 
 )cn to 
 Iclay 
 as to 
 
 Vance 
 
 II he 
 leave 
 
 IHK riRsr IHSAi.KKKMKM. 
 
 That a pair of lovers, in the first bright halcyon days of their 
 engagement ; very happy in each other's society ; very much in 
 love with one another ; very anxious to show their affection in 
 all possible demonstrativeness, and all unselfish and teiuler. 
 would be very likely to agree with each other in all entirely on 
 every i)ossible subject that could be raised between them is 
 highly |)rol)able ; though differing in a marked degree from the 
 later aiul duller days. 
 
 The most tenaciously held opinions ; the most obstinately 
 hugged theories ; the best loved dogmas or panaceas for the 
 ills of the world ; all the pet monsters of the imagination and 
 the brain, which the owners regard with joyful and admiring 
 eyes as their products of all beauty and i)erfection, would pro- 
 bably at once give way at the first dicta of the loved one during 
 the tlow of these golden hours, and it would augur badly for 
 them and their future hai)i)iness if, in the budding si)ring time of 
 their love, such tender agreement one with the other should not 
 exist. Vet it is possible for instances to occcur even during 
 those bright i)eriods of human existence, in which the principles 
 of those to whom principle is all in all, to whom the right, as 
 they conceive and feel it, is i)lain duty, might be involved ; thai 
 cases might arise in which both parties, feeling themselves to be 
 in their views the same as being right, might conscientiously 
 differ on some such question, and it could not i)roperly be main- 
 tained that either could give way in such event. 
 
 That such an unfortunate question should not arise would be 
 
 
 ' fi 
 
J32 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 their best fortune, for the dim little cloud that such a difference 
 would show on their clear and spotless horizon, minute, trifling 
 and unimportant as it might api)ear, remains there, a hurricane 
 spot, to swell and augment, until its overcasting masses over- 
 shadow the darkenr ' sky of their lives. 
 
 For such instances to occur is i)ossil)le enough, but in gene- 
 ral the l)lissful ojiening days of an engagement are too entirely 
 devoted to tender rhajjsodies, sweet inconsequential nothings of 
 imbecile yet rapturous converse and delightful egotisms and 
 triu'sms, for any really serious question to arise where discussion 
 iiu'ght create difference. And very happy it is that the rhai)so- 
 dical nonsense which i)ermeate the brains of declared lovers 
 ■•"•om the moment of declaration precludes the danger of such, 
 i remendously impo tant in their own eyes are their ecstatic im 
 beciiities, while absurdly ridiculous in the eyes of every one 
 else. An original idea, profound reflection or thoughtful re- 
 mark from i)eoi)le during the first week of their engagement are 
 remarki^bly scarce articles. It is all sugar-and-water, custard, 
 cream and candy and such like sweetmeats. 
 
 Edwin Vance and Ethel Mordaunt were very happy in those 
 new, bright days of their love. The delicious little tetes-a-tetc 
 that opportunity gave them, if not so numerous as they could 
 Avish, were all the more delightful when they did occur, and 
 when they did not, they were happy in being near to each other, 
 in speaking to each other, in looking at each other, and in lov- 
 ing each other. 
 
 They were very much in love with each other, and many and 
 ingenious were P2dwin's little schemes to get his Ethel to himself 
 for a few deli^i-ttul moments. 
 
 It was with dismay he looked forward to the new week ap. 
 j.roaching, which for a time would separate them, as he was 
 obliged for a few days to return to Toronto, and here was Thurs- 
 day of the old week. Ethel herself was not at all averse to 
 enjoying the pleasure of her lover's society, and she had, with 
 
THE FIRST DISAGREEMENT. 
 
 ^33 
 
 crcncc 
 trifling 
 rricane 
 s over- 
 
 I gene- 
 mtirely 
 lings of 
 ns and 
 :ussion 
 rhai)so- 
 lovers 
 »f such, 
 atic im 
 try one 
 itful re- 
 lent are 
 custard, 
 
 those 
 
 es-a-tetc 
 
 could 
 
 :ur, and 
 
 1 other, 
 
 in lov- 
 
 my and 
 himself 
 
 ;ek ap- 
 he was 
 l^hurs- 
 erse to 
 d, with 
 
 
 great meekness, obeyed his request, during the afternoon, to put 
 on her hat and go for a walk with him, the more willingly since, 
 in addition to the delights of lover's converse, she had something 
 to tell him. 
 
 She had not forgotten the morning's conversation with Emily 
 Dearborn in reference to Mr. Wolverton, or Ada's single but 
 confirmatory remark, and had gone to her never failing source of 
 comfort and counsel, her mother, to repeat what had passed. 
 To her surprise she received both confirmation and warning 
 from that quarter, and in addition her uncle, who had entered 
 the room during their conference and had been taken into their 
 confidence, not only strongly agreed in Mrs. Mordaunt's views, 
 but related to her what he knew of Mr. Wolverton's character 
 and plans with all that had passed between them and between 
 Edwin Vance and himself. Sidney was therefore at a great dis- 
 count in her estimation. She had made up her mind, at the 
 first opportunity, to warn her afiianced, without, however, going 
 into particulars, that his friend was not the friend that he ought 
 to be, or was looked upon to be. 
 
 Therefore, after the usual quantum of sugared and honied 
 raptures of a lover's tete-a-tete had passed with distinguished bril- 
 liance and interest to themselves, but probably to no other liv- 
 ing creature, she broached the subject to Edwin, hesitatingly and 
 timidly, as she knew that with him friendship was a reality, not 
 a name, and that it would be a difficult thing to convince him of 
 his friend's unworthiness. 
 
 " Edwin I there is a subject on which I wish to speak to you, 
 on which I feel that I ought to speak, yet do not know that I 
 have the right to do. But I think that you ought to know that 
 which I wish to tell you, and trust you will not feel it as an in- 
 terference on my part." 
 
 " My darling Ethel," he replied, " if you have not the right to 
 speak to me on any subject you choose, I would like to know 
 who could have. As if it would be an interference ? You need 
 
 10 
 
 
 
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 ■vi 
 
 
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 -S; ■ 
 
If" 
 
 134 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 :i 
 
 ■! VA 
 
 V 'Vi 
 
 not have said tliat to me. I am only too happy to hear every 
 word that falls from your dear lips. Vou need not have said 
 that, Ethel ! 
 
 " I do not know about that, Edwin. Perhaps you may think 
 differently when you have heard what I have to say," answered 
 Ethel, looking lovingly at him for his words. " It is he whom 
 you consider your friend, Mr.Wolverton, of whom I would speak." 
 
 " Of Sidney ! Why ! what in the world has he done to you, 
 Ethel ?" he replied, laughing. 
 
 " It is what I have been told by others — Emily and Ada Dear- 
 bom, my mother and my uncle, that I wish to tell you. If you 
 do not know what is said of your friend, it is only right that you 
 should be informed, while you can judge for yourself as to its 
 probability," answered Ethel. 
 
 Now that she had commenced her subject, Ethel began to 
 find it more difficult than she had anticipated. The accumula- 
 ted charges which had seemed so heinous to her as they were 
 freshly brought against him, now that they had to be formulated 
 and marshalled before his friend, seemed to vanish into airy 
 nothingness, unsupported by proof, and Ethel almost wished she 
 had left the matter alone. 
 
 " Your uncle," said Edwin, " two days ago spoke to me about 
 Wolverton's visit here ; warning me in a general way to have no 
 business transactions with him, and telling me that in his opinion 
 he was not straightforward. This may be so, though Mr. Morton's 
 proof was not of the strongest kind, and I told him then that I 
 had no intention of engaging in any of Sidney's speculations. 
 If then what you have to tell me is of the same kind, Ethel, you 
 see I k»ow it already." 
 
 " I will simply tell you what I can of that which for the first 
 time I heard to-day concerning Mr. Wolverton. This morning 
 Emily Dearborn told me something of him and of the object of 
 his visit here, which I could not believe and which seemed very 
 improbable, but its truth was so earnestly asseverated by her, that 
 
THE FIRST DISAGREEMENT. 
 
 '35 
 
 very 
 said 
 
 hink 
 rered 
 rhom 
 leak." 
 I you, 
 
 Dear- 
 :f you 
 it you 
 to its 
 
 ;an to 
 .imula- 
 ^ were 
 dated 
 airy 
 dshe 
 
 I thought it l)etter to relate the matter to my mother. To my 
 surprise, the probability of the story was confirmed by her, with 
 some other particulars, no more to Mr. Wolverton's credit than 
 the other. These had only come to her ears from another source, 
 tnist^vorthy sufficiently, my mother considered, though i)erhaps 
 liable to mistake. I was advised for that reason to think no 
 more of the matter, but my mother added that she did not con- 
 sider Mr. ^\'olverton was a person fit to be your friend. My 
 uncle came in and was told what had occurred, and he told us 
 that he had not a good opinion of Mr. Wolverton's character, 
 and that it was but too likely that all was true which was averred 
 against him. 
 
 " It made me feel so alarmed for you, that you were on such 
 friendly terms with one who was unworthy, that it has prompted 
 me to speak to you. I know I ought not to have done so as I 
 can give you no proofs. All I can say is, that under no circum- 
 stances could I ever look upon Mr. Wolverton as a friend, and 
 I ask you, dear Edwin, not to place too much reliance on him 
 in any way." 
 
 " To tell the truth, Ethel, when I heard that Sidney was com- 
 ing to Lake Mordaunt, I was not too well pleased, for the good 
 reason, I must honestly confess, that he might be as much in 
 love with my Ethel as I am, and he is a handsome fellow. I did 
 lot then know that I was to be as happy as I am to-day, assur- 
 ed of her dear love. I certainly am not afraid of him now. In 
 fact, I can afford to feel very good-natured towards him. Sidney 
 has his peccadilloes, I suppose, though I have never seen ?iny- 
 thing wrong in him, and I have known him now for years. Don't 
 you think, Ethel, that you are all a little hard on him ?" replied 
 Edwin, with a smile, and a pressure on her hand. 
 
 " Certainly not my mother or Mr. Horton. I never knew 
 them to be unjust, whatever I may be myself or you deem m«, 
 and I do not think you should have said so, Edwin," answered 
 Ethel quickly, and with wamith. " Emily, I admit, showed a 
 
 
136 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BE'JTER. 
 
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 little rancour in speaking of him, but he has been, oris, her lover, 
 and he has not, it app^Mis, been a very true one to her. But, 
 however, 1 see that the subject is not a very pleasing one to you, 
 and I will say no more, especially as Mr. Wolverton is at present 
 a guest in my father's house. It was for)our sake alone that I 
 spoke at all, and I am now sorry that I did so." 
 
 "My darling Ethel 1" replied Edwin, anxiously, " I hope that 
 I have not offended you by anything that I have said. Suck 
 was very far from my intention. Eorgn c me, if I have done so. 
 Sidney Wolverton is a friend, nothing no*- ,. and I shall most 
 certainly regard with all attention that hich you have told me. 
 Tell me, Ethel, that you are not offended." 
 
 " Oh ! not at all ! only I can see that you do not like the sub- 
 ject," said Ethel. 
 
 But she did not like the wav in which he had received her 
 warning, so kindly meant, and a first slight coolness, almost im- 
 pe;;ceptible, yet still existing, the first little difference of opinion 
 had arisen between them. . 
 
 Their walk home was not so pleasant as it had been, though 
 both strove to throw off the incubus, and it was some hours be- 
 fore they were the same Ethel and Edwin they had been to each 
 other. 
 
 The conversation, short as it was, while it had the effect of 
 grieving Ethel, her lover not having taken it in the good part 
 she thought that, under the circumstances, he ought to have 
 done — had equally grieved him, and he thought over it with a 
 touch of bitterness towards Sidney that he had contrived to bring 
 down on himself so much dislike. He scanned over such details 
 of his friend's life with which he was acquainted, to discover if 
 from thence any grounds could be deduced to justify the verdict 
 of so many at Lake Mordaunt against him. Not, however, be- 
 ing of a suspicious nature, and Wolrerton having been quite 
 able to piesent only those points of character to his friend's view 
 which he thought would be acceptable, the process was not very 
 
^ 
 
 THE FIRST DISAGREEMENT. 
 
 137 
 
 successful, and he could bring very little to remembrance of dis- 
 credit against him. Vet it was strange, he considered, that people 
 
 like Mr. Horton, Mrs. Mordaunt and Ethel should, in so short 
 a time, have found so much, and so very evidently regarded his 
 friend with dislike. 
 
 'i'he result of the conversation was tlial I'ldwin did not feel so 
 well disposed towards his friend, and though, without condemn- 
 ing him, he resolved to watch for himself, his conduct, and learn 
 the source of so much, to him, inexplicable ill-will. 
 
 He noticed during the day that Kmily Dearborn and Sidney 
 seemed very friendly — in fact, rather lover-like towjrds each 
 other — and this was to him the more unaccountable since his 
 Ethel had told him that Sidney liad not been " true lover " to 
 her, and he also noticed that Ada either took no notice of him 
 or WIS markedly cold; that Reginald did not either look upon 
 him with favourable eyes ; that Mrs. Mordaunt, though polite, 
 was not gracious towards him ; while Mr. Horton talked and 
 laughed with him in all ease and absence of restraint. He, how- 
 ever, found hnnself much more pleasantly occupied in devoting 
 himself to his fair Ethel, and in endeavouring with a lover's as- 
 siduity to remove the un pleasing impression of their afternoon's 
 conversation. But the day had not been a pleasant day for 
 Ethel, and though she was happy enough, while Edwin strove 
 so hard to be agreeable to her, yet the little clouds could not at 
 once be entirely removed from her sky. A certain restraint was 
 visible over all the party, with the exception of Mr. Mordaunt 
 and Mr. Horton, the former of whom, knowing nothing of the 
 by-play, was quite at ease, and the latter, had there been a great 
 deal more of it going forward, would not ] ave lost his. 
 
 Edwin was, however, the happiest of the party, for he found 
 the society of his Ethel, despite all little " disagreements," so very 
 delightful, that when during the evening, Sidney came up to 
 him and asked him if " he would not like a walk and a cigar, as 
 he had something to say to him," he assented with visible reluc- 
 
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 Si 
 
 5l 
 
 ij 
 
 I 
 
 
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 m: 
 
it 
 
 ) 
 
 'I .1 
 
 »38 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BPHTER. 
 
 lance, and rose to follow his friend out with a look that very 
 j)!ainly expressed that he would rather have remained by Ethel's 
 side. Sidney had not been oi)i)ortune in his choice of a mo- 
 ment for his communication, if he expected that any success to 
 attend it lay in the jiresent good nature of his friend, Edwin 
 Vance. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 N^Hf 
 
 ASKINd F(3R .;HAr Hi: MK.Wr TO TAKE. 
 
 " Well ! what can I do for you, Sidney?" said Edwin, as they 
 
 left the house and sauntered down the leafy-arched avenue of 
 the carriage-way together. 
 
 The soft evening breezes murmured through the foliage above 
 them with quiet and slumberous rustling. The golden wealth of 
 stars of the blue Canadian skies shone down on them with peace- 
 ful stillness through the branchy openings of the trees. Long 
 gleams of silver moonlight pierced through the leaves and lay 
 like waving ribands on the soft sward. The cool air of the 
 darkening evening, laden with the j^erfume of flower and of field, 
 moved with freshening touch around them, and brushed past 
 their faces like the cool hand of woman over the fever-heated 
 brow of the invalid. 
 
 The low chirp of some bird, awakened in its umbrageous rest- 
 ing place by their tread on the gravel, harmonized with the 
 sleepy rustle of the leaves, and these, the sole sounds of the night, 
 spoke of a world gone to rest. Nature in its night beauty — 
 wrapped in the soft silvery mantle of the moonlight ; watched 
 by the silent stars ; resting in the shadowy sleep — lay spread out 
 before them in calm and quiet peace, inviting man, with influ- 
 ence sweet and all dciighting, to cast aside the cares and pas- 
 sions of the day, with the glare and the turmoil, and take to their 
 hearts and soften their thoughts with the still loveliness, the 
 
" ■■ *; 
 
 resi- 
 1 the 
 
 light, 
 
 ity- 
 
 ched 
 
 dout 
 
 influ- 
 
 pas- I 
 
 their 
 
 , the 
 
 ASKING FOR WHAT HK MKANT TO TAKE. 139 
 
 beautiful (juictudc and majestic silence of the velvet-robed 
 Night. 
 
 But to these two men the lesson so conveyed was read, if read 
 by both, with very different view. 
 
 To the one, his thouglus full of the sweet object of his love, 
 whose side he had so unwillingly quitted, the romance and the 
 beauty before him seemed the fitting scene, the delighting mo- 
 ment for the whispering of a love tale, the tender out-jjour- 
 ing of swe^t phrases into the willing ear that would find them 
 sweet, and he thought — longingly thought — how much more to 
 him would the romance and the beauty be, were it her step that 
 sounded beside him and for her that the charming softness of the 
 night inspired him. The step that did sound beside him might be 
 that of a friend, it is true, yet, nevertheless, he heartily wished 
 the absence of his friend, and his replacement by the dearer 
 presence of his Ethel, so much more agreeable to romance, silver 
 moonlight and soft evening shades, 'i'he discordance of the 
 male presence, redolent of cigar smoke and the world, amid the 
 perfumed air, and in that witching hour, fretted him. It was 
 sulkily enough that he accepted the situation and walked on 
 with his friend. 
 
 To the other it was the fittest opportunity for the opening to 
 his plans, for rehearsing a story that was necessary for him should 
 be told, the telling of which was not too pleasant for him, and 
 which was easier for him to tell beneath the favouring shadows 
 of night, than in the open light of the f' ly. 
 
 " Well ! what can J do for you, Sidney ?" Edwin had said. 
 Now, though this seemed, on its face, to be the opening, the 
 very proffer of service to Sidney, which he wished to obtain and 
 very ardently desired, yet he did not appear with any eagerness 
 to seize on the opportunity thus presented to him. He paused, 
 hesitated — the hurried puffing of his cigar and the nervous 
 clenching of his hands showing that he was in a state of incer- 
 titude and perhaps of mental excitement at the prospect of the 
 
 il ! i 
 
 I : 
 
 ■I 
 
 i.' i 
 
f'N 
 
 
 140 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 task l)cforc him ; which, from a previous experience, he could 
 but anticipate would be an ur;)loasing one. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton had contrived to get his affliirs into such a 
 state that only the immediate aid of a very considerable sum of 
 money could extricate him from the embarrassment and prevent 
 him from going to the wall. The need was urgent, immediate, 
 and had to be met at once. Within a week he must have com- 
 mand of the money, or he might leave the country. Xay I would 
 have to do so, for some transactions would then come to light, 
 unless covered up by settlement, that would carry disgrace with 
 them, at the least. 
 
 Could he have gone back from Lake Mordaunt the accepted 
 suitor of an heiress, he would have staved ofT the evil day, and 
 all would have gone on well again, but that was now out of the 
 question altogether, while all other resources for aid were .so far 
 dried up that he had to look to PMwin Vance for extrication, 
 and to him alone. Nothing else was left him. Yet he paused, 
 and hesitated, even when the ice had been broken, and the, to 
 him, momentous "conversation, had been commenced. The 
 sentiment of self-respect inherent, in some measure at least in 
 every man, held a deterrent effect against the renewal of a sub- 
 ject that had once before been discussed between them, and had 
 been closed with an unfavourable result to him. Perhaps there 
 lingered in his breast some little spark of conscientiousness, 
 some little ember, still warm amid the dust and ashes which a wast- 
 ed life had left of the generous fire of good intent and of right, 
 which, in common with most men, had been nurtured in his 
 heart during his better, earlier days, whose momentary sparkle 
 told him that it was not right to lead him, whom he called his 
 friend, into a risk which might as easily result in the sacrif ce 
 of that friend's fortune as it had done with his own. It ruay 
 have been so. Perhaps within the seething depths of his mind 
 lay the thought that it were better, manlier and nobler for him 
 to suffer his shipwreck alone, to buffet manfully against the waves 
 
 il 
 
ASKING FOR WHA'I' UK MKANT 'I'( ) TAKE. 141 
 
 :rif zc 
 ri.ay 
 
 I mind 
 
 him 
 
 raves 
 
 which threatened to overwhehn hini, and if he should rise over 
 them, to begin his life anew, a better man, purified by trial and 
 better prepared to bend his energies on the right road of ex- 
 istence. 
 
 His thoughts during the tliree or four moments of his liesita- 
 tion ranged backwards over the wliole varied range of the years 
 he liad passed with regretful glance at tlieir misspent hours, 
 and the impulse was strong within liim to draw back from that 
 on which he had resolved, and face his misfortunes boldly, in- 
 stead of seeking to draw another into the vortex. But, when 
 suddenly the remembrance of the coming week, with its dangers, 
 flashed back on his mind, his good resolves fled before the 
 [)rospect and his hesitation vanished. No longer was he dubi- 
 ous, uncertain or unreserved. He was himself again. The 
 bold, coolly-resolved, skillful of address, and calculating Sidney 
 Wolverton. 
 
 " As I wrote you Vance, the business on which I came to this 
 place was principally to see you on a matter of imjjortance to 
 myself. As it refers to a subject concerning which we ha\e al- 
 ready held some conversation, and on which I wish you to recon- 
 sider your then expressed determination ; may I ask you to 
 listen patiently to what I have to say," answered he, to the re- 
 mark that heads the present chapter. 
 
 " All right, Sidney ! go ahead with your story. Though if it 
 concerns the Hopetown business, I may as well tell you now 
 that my position and my ideas of the matter are the same as 
 when we spoke of the matter before, and I fear it will be use- 
 less to discuss that affair," replied Edwin, his irritation giving 
 way under the apparently frank manner of his friend, and his 
 usual good nature struggling for its ascendancy. 
 
 " Well ! I will tell my story in as few words as })ossible, and 
 leave the affair to your judgment," said Sidney, whr^ was bright 
 enough to perceive the improvement in his friend's hianner, and 
 ready enough to take advantage of it. " You may remember. 
 
 I 
 
 
 hi 
 
 i 
 
 I! 
 
' 
 
 I I 
 
 U :-% 
 
 142 
 
 SHE MIOHT HAVE DoNK nFTTKR. 
 
 when I asked you t«> join nic in a partncrshij), advanc ing some 
 capiuil, it was for the j/urpose of extending the works and in- 
 creasing the business of tlie Hopetown factories. Tliese exten- 
 sions I have since myself coni|)lctt.-d and with satisfactory results, 
 except that my available capital is af absorbed, and I find it 
 still necessary to tak« another into the business who can provide 
 the means re(iuisite to its i roper conduct. In addition, I have 
 made, wisely or unwisely, us the event may prove, the pur( hase 
 of a large and valuable tract of land in the same county, and no 
 great distance from Hopetown, On the purchase money of this 
 proi)erty I have paid a considerable jtart — nearly one-half; but 
 the balance is falling due, and, unaided, I cannot meet it. Under 
 this contingency I should not only have to bear the heavy loss 
 of the money paid up on it — neglect to meet the balance, by the 
 terms of purchase, carrying forfeiture — but would suffer a heavy 
 i)low to my credit, which the great expense of the additions to 
 the Hoj)etown works has already somewhat strained. 
 
 " Now, I will give you one-half interest in the whole property, 
 mills, lands, stock on hand and all, if you will i)Ut forty thousand 
 dollars into the business. Its value may be very fairly estimated 
 at five times the amount, so that really by assisting a friend cut 
 of a difficulty, you will do so much to your own advantage. The 
 sum I have named will clea.- off every liability to the last dollar, 
 and leave a sufficient amount available as working capital. The 
 lands have so increased in value since my purchase of them that 
 that part of the property will more than doubly recoup you the 
 money you are asked to put into the affair. It is the increase 
 that is taking place in the value that makes the former owner so 
 merciless as to payment of the balance due him. ' Pay on the 
 day, or you forfeit,' is his ultimatum. They can be rendered 
 immediately productive on the rest of the purchase money being 
 paid. We can sell a part, sell the cut of timber, or make the 
 timber ourselves, and in either case large profits will result. 
 The factories at Hopetown are also in a prosperous condition, 
 
 .■ fr': • 
 
ASKING FOR WH \T HE ^fFA^T TO TAKK. 143 
 
 and would l)o more so, were I not so hampered for want of 
 capital, as you can easily ima^'iiie. It would he useless for me 
 to enter into details in this eonversation, but if you entertain the 
 idea of accepting my ofTer, I will i)rove to you the truth of my 
 asseverations. 'I'he offer I make you is a most liberal one, such 
 as I would only offer to a friend, and will, if you accept it, in a 
 few years, treble your fortune. At the same time, by assisting 
 me, make mine also." 
 
 * That may be all very true, .Sidney," replied Kdwin. '* Hut 
 the fact remains that I do not possess in ready money the amount 
 you name, or anything like it. My property, as you know, 
 wholly consists of real estate in the City of Toronto, and there 
 are many reasons — cogent reasons — to prevent me from dispos- 
 ing of even a part of it, were I inclined to do so. From the 
 offer you have made me, and the facts you state as to your ])ro- 
 perty, I should imagine you would have no difficulty in finding 
 some person able ai.d willing to join you, who could assist you 
 in the business, which I cannot do." 
 
 " Ves I doubtless there are people who would be ready enough 
 to go in, but so far as I have made en(|uiry, they are not such 
 as I would care to associate with me. Rather I would prefer to 
 meet my losses. Besides, I must have command of the money 
 to complete the purchase of the lands next week, cr the cer- 
 tainty of it, and what time is left to me to look out for a suitable 
 person to join me in a partnership ? 
 
 ** If you wiH not do it, Vance, I will have to leave affairs to 
 take their course. Neither would there be the immediate neces- 
 'tyfor the disposal of any of your city property. Your name 
 alone would command the money. Come ! make ujj your mind 
 to that which will be so much to the advantage of both. I en- 
 gage to convince you of the truth of my statements as to the 
 condition of the Hopetown property, before I ask your name on 
 paper. It is a gooif thing that I offer you. An opportunity not 
 occurring every day of the year. An ojjportunity of enriching 
 
 :H 
 
 i» .ii« I ■ I li t . 
 
• 
 
 III 
 
 144 
 
 SHK MK.HI' HAVK DONK IJKn'KR, 
 
 yourself in a legitimate business, without interference with your 
 profeHsion, and at tlic .tame tinic materially assisting me in a 
 strait." 
 
 Sidney Wolverton had not laid his position before his friend 
 in the way thai he would have laid it before a man of business. 
 In that ( ase he wouUl have found it an eminently useless pro 
 ceeding to appeal to the feelings whit h he rightly sup|)osed could 
 be engaged when addressing a friend on the subject. Under 
 the stern examination of figures and of facts, which would have 
 been recjuired of him, he coulil ncjt have stated his case in such 
 a rose-tinted aspect as he did to I'.tlwin, and so far removed from 
 the real condition of things. His knowlcilge of the world and 
 of his friend had served him in gooil stead, for Kdwin was evi- 
 dently wavering in his decision, and he i)aused in thought before 
 referring to his friend's remarks. 
 
 " I would do a great deal to serve you, Sidney, as you well 
 know," he commenced. '* To assist you in your difficulty, though 
 entering on a pursuit of which I am wholly ignorant is very re- 
 pugnant to me, and the hope of gain you picture would not be 
 my object, yet if " 
 
 Sudilenly the conversation upon this very subject, which he 
 had held with Mr. Hortoii, and, that very day with J'!thel, flash- 
 ed upon him, with the remembrance of the promise made to the 
 former, and he stop[)ed barely in time to save himself from com- 
 mittal to Sidney's views. 
 
 " However much, for your sake, I might wish to helj) you in 
 this affair, Sidney, I unfortunately cannot enter into the arrange- 
 ment proposed, for I am under a promise not to undertake any 
 speculations whatever for the i)resent. There are, however, a few 
 days left to you, and I will think over the matter before you leave. 
 What little ready money I have at command, which, however, 
 does not exceed a couple of thousands, is at your service, if it 
 will help you. I am sorry that I cannot do more at this pre- 
 sent, and meanwhile I will endeavour to find some way of extri- 
 
 (ati 
 
 will 
 
 tiiiK 
 stal 
 
 ft 
 
 suit! 
 
 hac 
 
 or 
 
 sign 
 
 rep 
 
 n 
 
ASKING FOR U MAI UK MEANTTO TAKK. 145 
 
 cation for you. I.ct mc know the name of the rrcditor from 
 whom you pun hastcl these lands, anil I can pn>l>ahly get you 
 time, at any rate, in which to get your affairs into a iKttcr 
 state." 
 
 To do this latter would not, howcNcr, by any moans have 
 suited Mr. Wolverton, for the very j^ood reason that the lands 
 had already been paid for in paper that would not bear scrutiny 
 or the light of day, and which if not met when due, would con- 
 sign him to flight, or to durance if he remained. lie therefore 
 replied coldly and haughtily, wishing the other to feel as if he 
 had couunilled an injury against him. 
 
 •'Thank you 1 no ! Vance; since you will not do that which 
 is easy enough to you, and would be salvation to me, I must 
 take my chance alone. \'ou are right en( igh, I sujjpose, to 
 keep your promise sacred. As to the two thousand dollars you 
 so kindly offer me, I tumnot take it, as it would not be of service 
 in clearing me and would probably be lost. I'erhaps you are 
 right in keeping yourself clear from connection with such an 
 unlucky dog as I seem to be." 
 
 Then, walking on rapidly a few steps, he turned and con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 " Forgive me, Vance, for any hasty expression I have used. 
 I feel vexed and disappointed, and almost at my wit's end. ^Ve 
 will say nothing further of this. Let us go back to them in the 
 drawing-room." 
 
 " I am always your friend, Sidney Wolverton, and would help 
 you if I could. Yes I do anything to help you," said Edwin, 
 feeling as if he had in reality outraged his friendship and acted 
 us a traitor to his friend. His generous, confiding and unsus- 
 picious nature had been moved thoroughly towards him who had 
 asked his friendly aid, and whom he had refused. 
 
 Sidney felt almost with triumph that, if he had not gained his 
 point, he had at any rate achieved a victory, and as they walked 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 >l 
 
 (• 
 
b ■ 
 
 146 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 back together, his brain was busy with new schemes by whose 
 aid ne trusted to reap its fruits. 
 
 Nothing further passed bet^'een them, and they re-entered 
 the drawing-room where tliey left tlie i)arty, Edwin flying back 
 to the side of his Etliv'h 
 
 In her sweet society to seek renewed solace to the feelings so 
 perturbed in his interview with his friend, and Sidney joined in 
 the general conversation around him as unmoved, and apparent- 
 ly as joyous, as if all his prospects lay before him bright and 
 unclouded as a summer mom. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 M 
 
 !. r 
 
 
 I n 
 
 THE WAY TO DO IT. 
 
 " What a pretty dress you are wearing this morning, Ethel, 
 both in style and ]:)attern. ^lay I enquire of what material it is 
 composed," said her uncle," as the next morning after their early 
 breakfast the ladies and gentlemen staying at Lake Mordaunt 
 had gathered on the wide verandah for what remained of the 
 freshness of the morning air before the July sun ran the ther- 
 memeter up into the nineties. 
 
 " My dress ! Why whatever have you got to do with ladies' 
 dresses, uncle ? Are you going into millinery, or is it the insa- 
 tiable curiosity of a Yankee which prompts your question?" re- 
 plied Ethel, looking down at the garment referred to. 
 
 " Yes ! and like an Irishman you reply to one question by 
 asking another. I said your dress was pretty, and asked of 
 what it was made." 
 
 " So you find it pretty, uncle. Well ! it possesses another 
 virtue — that of cheapness. It is only a French print. But wlilat- 
 ever do you want to know about it for ?" answered his niece. 
 
 " Curiosity, Ethel. So it's a print, is it ? But you need not 
 not have told me it was French. I fully supposed that, like 
 
THE WAY TO DC) IT. 
 
 147 
 
 everything else you Canadians use, it was of foreign manufac- 
 ture. You are not so smart as we Yankees nor have you sense 
 enough to employ your own people, and keep your money in 
 the country by producing your own requirements, but must re- 
 main tributary to and build up the wealth and power of foreign 
 nations, by employing their laborers to do it for you. I doubt 
 the cheapness of your dress also, Ethel. Did you ever reflect 
 how much freight, commission, insurance — how many profits, 
 etc., you paid out of the wheat, butter or other raw produce 
 which you sent to France to pay for that dress — to say nothing 
 ot the same charges, with duties added, you paid also for sending 
 the dress out to you. Come now, think of that !" 
 
 " Such nonsense, uncle ! Why I paid for tha!t dress in cash. 
 Do you suppose I go to the stores trucking wheat and butter for 
 my dresses ?" replied Ethel, laughing. 
 
 " Your answer shows that political economy is not your ibrte, 
 at any rate, Ethel. Why, you would do for a Finance Minis- 
 ter ! It's of no use talking with you on the subject longer. I'll 
 tackle your father and Vance and Wolverton there, and see if I 
 cannot hammer a little of the science into their benighted Cana- 
 dian understandings," returned her uncle. 
 
 " And a good riddance of you with your prosy talk, uncle. 
 I wish the gentlemen joy of their bargain," she answered. 
 
 " So you want an argument, Mr. Horton, this morning. Well ! 
 we are resigned *o our fate, and ready for the onslaught. But 
 if protection is the branch you are going to inflict upon us, I 
 range myself on your side at once by admitting its absolute ne- 
 cessity to build up the industries of a n«w country like this of 
 ours," said Vance, who had listened to the conversation with 
 Ethel. 
 
 " I should think there was an absolute necessity for it in this 
 country," exclaimed Mr. Horton, who had mounted a favourite 
 hobby. " Could a, more suicidal policy be devised than that now 
 adopted by your wise rulers, and 1 suppose acquiesced in by 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 ■■ 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 1 
 
 ir 
 
 
 ■J 
 
 ■ ii 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^i 
 
 i ■ 
 
 i 
 
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 ^ 
 
 •11 
 
 ■: i„ 
 1 , 
 
 d* 
 
 ^ejI 
 
 y^ 
 
148 
 
 SHi. MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 'f 
 
 ^ ■:[ 
 
 your people, who, however, probably know no better ; a policy 
 which drives thousands of the bone and sinew of the land to the 
 States and other countries in search of the work they cannot find 
 at home, while you are paying thousands of labourers in foreign 
 countries to manuflicture the goods you use every day of your 
 lives, which you might manufacture as well and as cheaply in 
 your own country, thereby keei)ing your population in the land 
 of its birth. You complain of its exodus, and talk insanely of 
 Reciprocity as a remedy. A powerful remedy, forsooth ! And 
 do you suppose the Yankees are so blind to their own interests 
 as to give it you ? No 1 you are just in the position they like 
 best to have you. You are compelled to take the goods they 
 want to sell you, because you do not manufacture them f-^- your- 
 selves, and they don't want and will not have your raw pro- 
 duce to enter into competition with their own producers. 
 
 " From his cradle to his grave, the Canadian is the tribute- 
 paying slave to foreign manufacturers. Arriving on this sub- 
 lunary sphere, the screaming little stranger is swathed in English 
 flannel to begin with. Departing from it, after a long life of con- 
 sumption of foreign goods, the silver-headed nails that stud his 
 very coffm are English too. He eats his dinner off English 
 plates, with English knives, forks and spoons. He drinks his 
 tea out of English cui)s and saucers. He looks out of the win- 
 dow through English glass. If he wishes to nail up a board — 
 one of his few native manufactures — does he use Canadian nails ? 
 Not he ! they are made of English iron, driven with an Englisli 
 hammer, and the holes bored with an English gimlet. And yet 
 Canada contains mountains of the best iron in the world. The 
 vast amounts of hardware and the manufactures of metals he 
 uses are wholly English and American, while his country teems 
 with mineral wealth. He goes to church in a suit of English 
 cloths, and his wife and daughters in French silks or English 
 dress goods. AVith the exception of a little grey cotton and a 
 few tweeds, every yard of the vast quantity of cloths of all de- 
 
 S( 
 
 tr 
 h: 
 its 
 
 I". 
 
THE WAY ro DO IT. 
 
 149 
 
 scriptions used in Canada arc imported. Inii)orted into a coun- 
 try whose natural manufiicturing facilities are unrivalled, which, 
 had it but a pronounced and stable policy of encouragement to 
 its home industries to insi)ire the confidence of capitalists, would 
 become an exporter of most of the articles of which it is at 
 present an importer, and would at all events produce all of its 
 requirements that are possible to its situation and climate. A 
 state of things which is the true desideratum of a nation's life 
 and progress — the true savings bank and increaser of its wealth 
 and consolidator of its i)0\ver. The markets of a country thrown 
 open and exjjosed as yours naturally are to the assaults of all 
 the world, lie at the mercy of every change or passing event and 
 are never stable, equable or sound. 
 
 " A purely agricultural country such as Canada at the pre- 
 sent time is, and seems to aim at remaining, never becomes rich 
 or powerful. It is of necessity poor, thinly settled and non- 
 progressive. Poor in material wealth and equally poor in in- 
 tellectual and scientific advancement. Manufactures, mines, 
 the thousand industries by which a nation produces, ready for 
 use, every possible article of its consumption — in short, by which 
 ii does all its own work — conserve that nation's wealth, retaining 
 it within itself, employs its population, no matter how fast its 
 increase may be, and gives that limitless capability for expan- 
 sion of growth to which even territorial area is not a bound. A 
 new country, as this is, cannot inaugurate and establish on a firm 
 basis these industries without a wise and stable policy of pro- 
 tection against the competition of the old, firmly-rooted and 
 strong manufacturing nations. Without such aid any attempt to 
 establish manufactures in a new country is met by the natural 
 strength and firm determination of old manufacturing countries 
 to crush out the rivalry in its infancy, in a market they have 
 come to regard as their own. Your fiscal regulations are un- 
 statesmanlike and vacillating, framed with no higher view than 
 the wants of the hour — as changeable and variable as the winds, 
 
 II 
 
 ' I 
 
 f 
 
 I U 
 
 .1 
 
 i 'I 
 
'50 
 
 SHE AUGHT HAVE DONE liElTER. 
 
 I , 
 
 >:. 
 
 and ai)parently devised better to suit the unliappy spirit of party 
 which pervades tlie communily or the thirst for office of i)oliti- 
 cians — than for the general gcod of the country. From such an 
 uncertain, shifting and unsound state of affairs can progress be 
 expected ? 
 
 "Experience would prove the contrary! Prom a country 
 whose commercial matters are exposed to such continual and 
 dangerous interference, capita) and enterprise must fly. They 
 must erect their foundation upon something more enduring than 
 such a shifting sand, or they will not build at all. A fixed and 
 vVclared policy of protection to all industries that can be made 
 home industries, of keeping your Canadian market for your 
 Canadian j^roducers, will build mills on your idle water powers ; 
 will erect and keep open the factories which you now kec]) open 
 in foreign countries ; will work your mines and employ your 
 surplus population, which now drifts away to swell the wealth 
 and power of the States. Will bring the operatives you employ 
 in Manchester, Bradford, Birmingliam ; in France, Germany and 
 elsewhere, to do your work, over to your own country to do it 
 for you at home ; to spend the money you pay them amongst 
 yourselves and keep it in your own country, instead of augment- 
 ing the wealth of foreign nations ; will advance your wealth, 
 power and progress ; will teach you dependence on yourselves 
 — a real independence and patriotism. That is the true policy 
 for your country 1 A regime of life and vigour. No more of 
 your truckling to Yankpedom under the illusory hope of obtain- 
 ing the ignis fatuiis of Reciprocity, which they have no inten- 
 tion of giving you, bemg very well pleased and entirely satisfied 
 with you as you are ! ! ! ! 
 
 " Al it is at present, any fixed fiscal policy, so long as it is a 
 fixed one, is better than the meddlesome child's play — the vacil- 
 lating feebleness and cowardly fence-straddling that distinguishes 
 the labours of your church-door politicians and amateur states- 
 men. Even a policy of so-called 'Free Trade,' which is tantamount 
 
t IS a 
 : vacil- 
 uishes 
 tates- 
 iiioimt 
 
 THE \\\V\' TO ln> IT. 
 
 IS' 
 
 to a declaration of * No further pro^acss here,' would be better 
 than that," and Mr. Horton looked around him with the virtuous 
 glance of one who has done his duty. 
 
 '•Admitting that a great part of what you say is very appli- 
 cable to this country, Horton, yet you surely must admit that 
 free and unrestricted trade is the most just and perfect principle 
 of political economy," said Mr. Mordaunt, who, being English, 
 felt inclined ixitriotically to defend the Free Trade i)rinciples of 
 his native land. 
 
 '' Yes ! I will grant it, with tlie i)roviso that all nations be first 
 on an equal position with one another. That all have their 
 manufactures, arts and industries equally established and firinly- 
 rooted — each producing all the products of civilization that it is 
 capable of producing, and consequeiUly fliirly capable of an 
 equal race with its comi)eers. Then Free Trade is the natural 
 and rational order of tilings. But in the case of a new country, 
 whose first industries lie mainly in the raw products of the 
 field, the forest, and the sea alone ; whose arts, manufiictures, 
 completing and refining of their products, have not been estab- 
 lished, it is unequally matched against those countries who have 
 had centuries for their consolidation and building uj), and must, 
 if she would fit herself for equality with them, shut them oiit 
 from her markets until she has built herself up and become strong 
 enough to bear their competition. Otherwise it would be the 
 infant trying conclusions with the matured and full-grown man," 
 replied Mr. Horton, enthusiastically, and, warmed with his sub- 
 ject, he drew nearer to Mr. Mordaunt and Vance, and re-com- 
 menced in full force his arguments. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, who had probably become tired of it, 
 moved towards the young ladies, who were conversing together, 
 and as he approached them, Emily Dearborn, advancing towards 
 him, apparantly to gather a morning glory that had attracted her 
 attention on the trellis, whispered as he passed her — 
 
 " Meet me in a few minutes in the walk towards the lake near 
 
 \ '! 
 
 |i 
 
 I 
 
 !t 
 
 .i ,5 
 
 i; 
 
 
 'I 
 
 ' (I 
 
 i" 
 
15* 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i ' 
 
 the end of the garden ; I would like to speak to you," and then, 
 plucking her flower, she continued aloud — 
 
 " Ethel I let us go for a walk in the grounds, the gentlemen 
 are talking their tiresome politics. Let us leave them to their 
 enjoyment and go and amuse ourselves." 
 
 " Very well I" replied Ktliel. " Come along, Ada. We'll go 
 and get some flowers." 
 
 "Won't you join us, Mr. Wolverton?" said Emily, looking at 
 him, as Ktiiel and Ada moved away arm-and-arm together. 
 
 " Should like it above all things," replied he, and, as the others 
 had got out of ear-shot, he added : " I will join you there in a 
 minute or two." 
 
 Emily followed her sister and Ethel until they reached the 
 flower garden, and occupied herself in gathering a boquet until 
 the others had become interested overtheirs, when, watching her 
 opportunity, she strolled away slowly towards the place indi- 
 cated to Sidney, which was well out of sight of her companions, 
 and where, on arriving, she found Wolverton, sauntering about 
 waiting for her. 
 
 "Ah ! you are here before me," she said, as she came up. " I 
 did not suppose you were gallant enough for that. However, 
 as it is not for love-making I am come, it does not matter whether 
 gallantry induced your prom[)titude or curiosity. How did you 
 get along with your spooney young friend last night? Did you 
 attain your object or had the warnings of officious friends closed 
 his heart against the appeal of friendship ?" continued she, look- 
 ing up sarcastically in his face. " Of such a friend as Mr. Sid- 
 ney Wolverton." 
 
 " Is that all you have to say to me, Emily ?" he replied, gazing 
 at the charming face turned to him. " I had hoped it was for 
 something more than a sarcastic enquiry you had for me when 
 I came to meet you. I was not vain enough to suppose it was 
 as a favoured lover, though that thought would have been very 
 pleasant to me " 
 
 th 
 lo 
 
 da 
 
THK WAY TO DO IT 
 
 153 
 
 nd then, 
 
 intlemen 
 to their 
 
 We'll go 
 
 )oking at 
 ther. 
 
 :he others 
 lere in a 
 
 Lchcd the 
 |uet until 
 :ching her 
 lace indi- 
 npanions, 
 ng about 
 
 le up. " I 
 However, 
 T whetlier 
 ,v did you 
 Did you 
 ds closed 
 he, look- 
 Mr. Sid- 
 
 ^d, gazing 
 
 was for 
 
 lie when 
 
 |se it was 
 
 ten very 
 
 " Would it indeed I I should hardly have imagined it, seeing 
 that you came to this place with the intention of becoming the 
 lover of Miss Mordaunt. Your affections seem to be conve- 
 niently adapted to ([uick and easy transition from one object to 
 another. There are disadvantages, however, for there are those 
 — your humble servant included — who are not a[)t to appreciate 
 the facile honours accorded them," replied M mily, laujjiing. 
 
 " But," continued she, " if it is not as a lover I meet you to- 
 day, it is as a friend ; and in that ca[)acity I wish to know \\ hat 
 passed between yourself and \'ance last evenmg. \'ou may 
 find it to your advantage to accept my assistance and advice in 
 ihe matter." 
 
 " I shall be only too happy to ol)tain it, Mniily, again, for it 
 has already been of use to me. As you had Hjrewarned me, I 
 found there would be great dilTicuUy in managing him about the 
 partnership — in fact, that appears to be hopeless, as he claims 
 to be bound by promise not to enter into any business relations 
 with me. I i)laced the matter in a very attractive ar.d tempt- 
 ing light before him, and urged his acceptance — both as a ques- 
 tion of advantage to himself, and of salvation to me — appealing 
 10 his friendship strongly. Although I did not tell him the 
 whole urgent and jjressing facts of the case, 1 showed him 
 that without instant aid, 1 would meet with very heavy, almost 
 irrei)arable loss. My aj^peal would have been successful had it 
 not been for his promise, which 1 saw he regretted bitterly, and 
 was very nearly on the point of breaking. 1 must say this for 
 him, that his heart was generously moved. He did not, 
 however, break his promise ; he offered me what ready money 
 he had at disposal, but as it was not sufficient to be of use, I 
 declined it — he telling me at the same time, he would think 
 over matters, and would assist me to the extent of his ability. 
 The interview was on the whole successful on my part. The 
 sum, however, which I need to clear me of danger is so large 
 that I do not know how to proceed towards him with hope of 
 
 1 
 
 
 m 
 
 1 1 
 
J54 
 
 SHK MKIHT IIAVK DOXK IJKTTKR. 
 
 success. I have little doubt that with careful manageniciit I 
 could get his name on paper for ten thousand dollars ; but, at 
 the least, thirty thousand dollars is re(]uisite to wipe out press- 
 ing debts, and another ten thousand to place the Mopetown 
 ])usines^: in a prosperous state again. To ask such sums would, 
 to a certainty, startle him, and I feel at a loss how to act. 
 Have the money 1 must, or else all goes to pieces, and \ leave 
 the country," 
 
 " Leave the country I " exclaimed ICmily ; "why leave the 
 country — even if things come to the worst ? Vou surely can- 
 not have run through the w'lole properly. There must be 
 more than sufn<"ient to \K\y what )ou owe — unless you have 
 gone very fast indeed." 
 
 " Unfortunately," returned he, ** tliere is some paper ailoat 
 on whicli the names are not genuiiie — his amongst the number." 
 
 "Oh: that's it, is it? Weill you are bold," replied Kmily, 
 laughing, and apparently more ainused than disgusted at the 
 luiblushing avowal of t!ie descent into crime, of him who had 
 been — and might really still be — considered, her flivored lover. 
 However, this puts a different face on the matter, and you 
 t..t/sf now become successful. Wliico miisl be brought to aid 
 you by fair means or by foul." 
 
 "The worst of it is, there is so little time left me. The most 
 of this paper foils due next week," said Sidney, gloomily. 
 
 " Well you must procure hi^: endorsement in time, then, and 
 for the full amount you require ; you may as well be hanged for 
 a sheep as a lamb, Sidney,— but you must act energjtically and 
 promptly. I'll tell you what it is," said Emily, walking on 
 rapidly a few steps, as of thinking out a decisive idea ; then 
 turning again towards him, she continued : " There will be a 
 cricketing dinner to-morrow afternoon, when the game is fin- 
 ished, and if Ten I^akes is what it used to be, champagne, etc., 
 will be abundant at it. Vance will be at the match, and you 
 will not find it difficult to persuade him to stay at the dinner. 
 
THK WAV TO no IT. 
 
 •55 
 
 micnl 1 
 i but, at 
 t prcss- 
 
 3))CtO\Vll 
 
 !. would, 
 
 to act. 
 
 [ r leave 
 
 ave the 
 ely can- 
 luist he 
 ou have 
 
 .'!■ a 11 oat 
 
 lumber." 
 
 i Kmily, 
 
 1 at the 
 
 liO had 
 
 d lover. 
 
 nd you 
 
 to aid 
 
 le most 
 
 You must j»lay your cards well with him during the day, and 
 keep his frieudly sentiments, towards you, alive. At the dinner 
 you must try by all possible means to induce him to drink 
 cham!)agnc — speechify him, llatter him, cajole and persuade. 
 He will have to return thanks — to jjropose others, in his turn. 
 Mis nature Is such that, unless bound by a promise not to do 
 a thing, he cannot bear i)ressure. He is yielding, and will ac- 
 fjuiesce in what lie regards as a trille, rather than disjiute them. 
 Not being a total abstainer, he will look upon an extra glass of 
 wine as a trifle. If you contrive to get him somewhat excited 
 w'th wine, you will have the game pretty well in your own 
 hands, if you act with caution. He will see things in a very 
 different light tlian in a calmer moment; and [)robal)ly will not 
 scrutinize very closel nny paper you ask him to sign." 
 
 " r am nfraid he will have to be very tipsy before he will en- 
 dorse for thirty thousand dollars, " said Sidney. "It will not 
 l)e so easy to get him to drink to intoxication, l'',mily, I have 
 never known him to take enough wine to be in the least affected 
 by it." 
 
 " I could have told you that myself," replied lOmily, impa- 
 tientl/ ; " but because he never drank, is that any reason that 
 he will not do so on this occasion ? It is what 1 am telling you 
 to induce him to do so. And it does not need that he is made 
 intoxicated. That would probably spoil all, by rendering him 
 ])erverse and obstinate, (let him to take some extra cham- 
 pagne, sufficient to pleasantly excite him — to raise his spirits to 
 a jovial, free and careless pitch — and if you seize the opportu- 
 nity, and adroitly introduce your subject, he will probably do 
 what you ask him, without even looking at what he puts his 
 name to, but will accei)t your word that it is what you repre- 
 sent. \Vhy should he know that he endorsed for thirty thou- 
 sand ? Why not ask him for three thousand ? — hand him the 
 note, and in all likelihood he'll write his name accross it with- 
 out looking at its face." 
 
 
 If 
 
 I' 
 
 j^ ' 
 
 i. L 
 
IS6 
 
 SHE MIGKT HAVE nOXK BF/ TKR. 
 
 M( 
 
 ( "II 
 
 " I don't see your drift, Kinily. Of wh».t use will his on- 
 dorscintiU for three thousand be to me?" interrupted Sidney. 
 
 " Way ! cannot you see ? It appears to nie that you are 
 very stupid to-day, .\[r. W'olverton, and ih.u I am the man of 
 business. .Ask liim to enrlorse for three thousand — hand him 
 the not'', T\'ith the three thousand in figures at the top . but tiic 
 space for 'Jie written amoimt left blank. Ho'II probably take 
 it to be as you say, and si^n \viih(nu once glancing at the face. 
 Or, beUer still, mak(! out a note for three thousand— show it 
 luni l)efore he endorses, and while you are sigm'ng it yourself, 
 spoil it by a blot. Vou can then make out another for the 
 higher figure ; haml it him to endorse, and you may feel assured 
 he will not trouble himself to scrutini/.e it. Vou will get your 
 mcney, and will have three . lonths clear before Nance nears a 
 word further. IMenty of lime to arrange your plans ; and then 
 Vance, to save himself, will i)e forced to go into the business 
 with you, whedier he likes it or r.ot." 
 
 " \V'hy, JMiiily I — you are a genius. The idea is a sj)lendivl 
 one, and if I can only manage the matter as well as you have 
 mapped it out for me, success is assured. \'ou are the m:Mi of 
 business — that's certain," said W'olverton. " I shall most cer- 
 tainly act upon your suggestion. I should never have originat- 
 ed so feasible a solution of the difficulty. Vou have rendered 
 me a great service, Kmily, and one that I will not easily torget," 
 continued he, gazing with admiration, and yet some astonish- 
 ment, at the girl beside him, who, so outwardly fair, had not 
 h' sitated to propound so atrocious a thing, His astonishment 
 though, could not be said ro be raised by the atrocity, but rath- 
 er by the knowledge of human nature displayed, and the clever 
 adaptation of her scheme. 
 
 " I do not feel so sure that you would not torget it," she said, 
 " but I do not intend to allow you to do so. In return for 
 my assistance. T may shortly require yours in a little project of 
 
WHAT'S TUK MA1TFR WlfM MV ROSE? 157 
 
 my o^vn, not yet dcvcloi>cd ; ami I sluill r.ot hcsitan* to de- 
 mand it." 
 "Or I to render it, Kmily. Anything I < an do — no matter 
 
 whal it may be — you have only to ask, aiul I sliall be ready to 
 perform to the utmost extent of my ability. ( )li, Kmily I — if, 
 when things become l>etter with uie, you would Inil permit me 
 to assume a tenderer relation towarils you, it would make me 
 very happy." 
 
 *♦ Thank you, no, .Mr. Wolverlon — not at the present, at all 
 events. You can hardly l>e considered now — and, unless you 
 «;hange mucli, it is to be doubted if you s.ill ever l)ecome— that 
 safe person to whom I would care to entrust my future. I will 
 make no promises. If you desire my love, you must de.serve it 
 by success. 
 
 " I must retlnn now ; our interview has been long etiough, 
 
 and I do not wish to be sur[)rised in a ttte-a-tcte with you. 
 V'ou Iiad better give your thoughts to your affairs for to-morrow. 
 Ada and I return to'l'en Lakes then. Vou had better call at 
 our house during the evening, and let mc hear of your success 
 with Vance. And now I must go, — Ciood-morning, .Sidney ; 
 we will remain friends and allies, at any rate," she said, extend- 
 ing her hand. 
 
 "(iood morning, Kmily," he answered, taking her offered 
 hand ; then drawing her towards him, before she was aware of 
 his intention, kissed heron the lips — " 'lb inspire me for success 
 to-morrow, and for a yet sweeter success to come." 
 
 She freed herself instantly. 
 
 " I do not desire your kisses, Mr. Wolverton, and shall take 
 care in future ! " she exclaimed, and turning away, walked back 
 to the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 what's the matter with my rose? 
 During the afternoon, Ethel Mordaunt and her lover, esca- 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ' m 
 
 i% 
 
 H, 
 
 !• 
 

 1 ■ 
 
 1 -. 
 
 "5 
 
 
 -i I 
 
 i 
 
 '■ 
 
 158 
 
 SHK MKiiir iiAVi: ik)m: ih;ttkr. 
 
 ping from the others of the party — to whom the fervour of the 
 summer sun, made the coolness of the house preferable — had 
 uaiidcred off into the gardens, to enjoy the ilelights of each 
 other's society, and some sweet lovers' talk together. Any 
 amount of caloiic was lo them but a secondary consideration, 
 com[Kired NvitI) the privilege of biing alone, old Sol might 
 have run thethennometer up to any point he liked, and his fer* 
 vid beams would have bjen com[»lacently endured by them — 
 provided that all others were kej)! thereby to the house. What 
 were a few degrees of Fahreuheil to them when thr )v/n into 
 
 the bal; 
 
 of 
 
 d( 
 
 le balance agamst tne mestii.iublo pleasu 
 lessly about the garden witli each other, and being ritliculously 
 haj)py t«)gether. Cacouna, without Kthcl, would have been 
 Voted a fraud by I'.dwin. A IniMdrotl and ten in the shade, 
 with Mthel — a state of bliss. And l-'thel herself would proba- 
 bly have shared the opinion. 
 
 .So they strolled on, and laughed and talked — apparently 
 vastly interested in the smallest trifles — and really vastly inter- 
 ested in each other. 
 
 " How beautiful the world is I — Kthel," he said, though the 
 beautiful world looked as if it were very hot, indeed, and might 
 fairly be supposed to wonder if he would be able to stand 
 this thing out until sunset, without melting. 
 
 " It seems so much more beautiful since I am so hajjpy. It 
 is my love for you, perhaps, that gives the atlded beauty to all 
 I see." 
 
 " It is still a beautiful world, whether we are happy or un- 
 hai)i)y, FMv^in. I^ut ha[)i)iness, however, is a wonderful charm- 
 er to our eyes. I am happy that you love me, and the world 
 is very beautiful to me," replied Kthel. " Oh ! that our love 
 may be as lasting as it is great." 
 
 "Why should it not last, my darling? Our love will last 
 life-long, and v.-Jiile that exists, happine.ss is with us — will never 
 fail us," he replied. 
 
 ii!i 
 
r of the 
 
 Ic — had 
 
 of cacli 
 
 Any 
 
 icration, 
 )1 lui^lti 
 I his for- 
 them — 
 WInU 
 vvn into 
 iiigaim- 
 culously 
 vc l)een 
 .' sliadc, 
 I proba- 
 
 parcnlly 
 ly inter- 
 
 iii'h the 
 I might 
 ) stand 
 
 ipy. It 
 to all 
 
 or un- 
 Icharm- 
 world 
 ir love 
 
 ill last 
 never 
 
 WHAT'S THK MArri-.R Willi MV ROSK ? 159 
 
 •• VcH ; but it iniisi be baseil on a higJKT — holier ground than 
 our cartldy love. For true happiness, tliereniiisi be t\w Divine 
 love. Iluit Is the rock on which our lifelong Ntructure must be 
 founded ; and then we shall hnd happiness, indeed," she said, 
 with earnestness. 
 
 " My good little I ".ihcl :" he exclaimed, looking with loving 
 ailiniralion into the beautiful eyes turneil towards him ; "you 
 deserve all happiness and all love. If it is not always yours — 
 darling — it will be because thi^ world is not right, and that its 
 best treasures are those to whom its buffets ;)re tiie hardest to 
 bear. Oh! — Klhcl, how I pray that never ihrough me shall 
 any misery How to y»)ur angolii- s[)irii. i'he very thought of 
 such possibility would be torture." 
 
 " Then don't think of it, ICdwin. I hardly think it is probable 
 that you are going I ) cau!;e me any misery," answered she laugh- 
 ing. " It is getting rather warm, th:)ugh ; let us go into the 
 shade. There is a rustic seal \onder under the trees. It is too 
 warm to walk," and together they v.ent towards it. Hardly had 
 they seated themselves and resumed their conversation than our 
 friend Harney was seen making his way from the house towards 
 them. He ajjproached them, and after performing an original, 
 complicated and in his own eyes, very graceful bow, said — 
 
 " It's a foine war-rum day, so it is. Miss Kthel. The poor 
 craythurs that are short o' firing tliis blissid weather won't know 
 how bad they're off, thank the Lard ! It does a bhoy's heart 
 good till see the sim shinin' down ontill us so swate and i)aceful 
 and so sthrong, as if he knowed the cowld winther wasacomin', 
 whin it's no good, at all at all, he is, wid his bames all friz up 
 wid the cowld blasts of Ilore-us. Faix ! it's a har-rud sowl to 
 plaze he'd be that 'ud say he's not doing his best the day." 
 
 " I think so, too, Barney," said I^thel. " I'm sure that I am 
 quite satisfied with his exertions, and would have no objection 
 to a few of the rude blasts of Boreas at this moment." 
 
 " Troth ! We do be mostly havin' some sort of wedder or 
 
 t; 
 
 
 f'i 
 
 h\ 
 
i6o 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE PE'ITER. 
 
 'm 
 
 hn 
 
 anoder, the Uird be praised for it. But in convarsin' so i)lissint 
 I kern near forglietting nvj missage. Misther \'ance, the masther 
 toiild me he'd he plazed to si>hake wid ye for a minnit, av it 
 wild not be too much throuble till ye. It's in the library he 
 wor. 
 
 "Wishes to speak to me, Barney? Well! I'll go at once, 
 tho"gh I cannot imagine what he wants with me just now. Will 
 you return to the house or wait for me here, Ethel?" replied Ed- 
 win, rising from his seat. 
 
 " Begorra ! and i)hat's the matter now wid that i)urty rose tree 
 av yourn, Miss ICthel. Bedad, it's mighty sick it's looking," in- 
 terrupted Barney, suddenly looking towards a plant of that species 
 a few yards off. 
 
 " Oh ! my poor rose ! I'll await your return here, Zdwin," 
 exclaimed Ethel, springing up, and running to her favourite,whilst 
 Edwin proceeded towards the house. 
 
 '• Why I What's the matter with my rose, Barney ? I see 
 nothing wrong with it. It looks as well as ever," she con- 
 tinued, turning to tliat individual wbj uas following her. 
 
 " Bcdad I To see the like of that now," was the surprised 
 remark of the hypocrite, who wa^. perfectly well aware that there 
 was nothing wrong with the plant. " Me ould eyes desaved me 
 purty nate now, by the power ot Moses' feet. Yer flower's as 
 sound as iver it^wor, Miss Ethel. I thought thin that it lukked 
 moighty bad, so 1 did. But I'm wantin' till sphake till ye a 
 minnit, Miss Ethel, honey, whin there's no wan by." 
 
 " To speak to m„>, Barney ? Well, what is it ? Oh ! i/iaf was 
 the matter with the rose. 1 see now," said Ethel laughing. 
 
 " Well ! go on with your story. You deserve that I should 
 listen for having managed the interview so well. Did you serve 
 Mr. \'ance with the same trick also, Barney ?" 
 
 But Barney, save by a comical twist of the eye, took no notice 
 of the latter question, and proceeded with his tale. 
 
 " Yer see, Miss Ethel, after me marnin's wur-riik was redd 
 
WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH MY ROSE ? i6i 
 
 up this marnin', I tought I'd go down till the long walk at the 
 tother ind of the gardin, and shear the little cedar hidge there 
 that ye're so fond o' havin' j-heared, the same as if it wor a sheep, 
 though it's little wool ye git aff av it for all theshearin', begorra ! 
 But, nevertheless, I sheared away, an' sheared away, an' faix I 
 it's a moighty nate job I made av it, as smooth an' as round as 
 tlie back of a young pig, be the powers. But the sun kem out 
 that powerful, so it did, that whin I wor troo wid the job, it's 
 war-rum I wor, and no mistake about it eder, so I tought I'd get 
 acrass intill the shade av the hidge, an' lie down unther it fur a 
 dhraw of me pipe, an' it was'nt long I wor there afore I see ould 
 Sidney Wolverton and the banker's daughther over till Tin Lakes 
 a comin' along togeder, and me smhoking away undher the 
 hidge 1 ke a house afire. But it's no notice they tuk av me, they 
 were convarsing so arnest, an' I lay quite and said noting at all 
 to thim. They walked up an' down past where I v/or a power 
 av times, bedad I an' I heard some av their conversation thin, 
 so I did, an' moighiy quare talk it wor w hat I heerd av it, con- 
 sarnin' Mishter Vance an' a schame of Ould Sidney's wid false 
 papers, they have agin him, an' so I tought I'd come and tell ye 
 yerself av it. Miss Ethel, seeing that I knowed ye better nor I 
 did him, an' ye'd betther have them lukked out fur, fur it's at the 
 crickety dinner at Tin Lakes the morrow they're goin' te thry it 
 ontill him, so it is.'" 
 
 " But 1 have nothing to do with Mr. Vance's affairs, Barney, 
 and I must not listen to your stories. Why don't you go and tell 
 Mr. Vance himself everything that he ought to know?" answer- 
 ed Ethel, who hated eavesdropping, and had besides a lively re- 
 collection of an already unsatisfactory ip.terview with her lover, 
 connected with Sidney Wolverton, and who moreover deemed 
 it derogatory to herself and the guests of her father's house to 
 listen to idle stories concerning them. 
 
 " Och ! thin, Miss Ethel, wud ye be afther purtindin' the like 
 of that to an ould craythur like meself, that's knowed ye 
 
 •f 
 
 I ' 
 
 ii 
 
 ;' i\ 
 
 I fl 
 
 .^ ' 
 

 nnr 
 
 162 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 d . ■••• 
 
 since yc cuddent crape over a sthraw. Sure ! an' doesn't the 
 whole counthry side know that yersilf and Misther Vance are as 
 thick as two j^aas in a pod, an' that it's marrit ye'll be till wan 
 another afore the year's done. It is'nt afeared I am till sphake 
 till him, an' it's tell't he ought to be, but for the likes avmesilf till 
 tell him wud be av no sarvice, fur it'sjiis friend he consithers ould 
 Sidney to be, an' it's blackguard me he wud, more-be-like, than 
 listen. But till a swate young lady like yersilf. Miss Ethel, that 
 he's going till be marrit till, he'll listen fast enough, be japers, 
 wid his ears open, an' it's know it he ought, fur I heerd the 
 banker's daughter, that wor there wid that baste Woherton, not 
 the dacent little girl, but the tall flashy one, telling him to thry 
 to git Misther Vance dhrunk wid shampain at the crickety dinner 
 the morrow, and whin that he'd got him hot wid liquor, and him 
 not caring for man, baste or divil, savin' yer prisince, to soother 
 him intill writin' his name on a paper wid tree tousand ontill it 
 and thin he wor to splatther it u\) wid ink a puri)Ose an' spile it, 
 and thin till ax Misther Vance to do it over agin wid anoder wan 
 like it, but wid tirty tousand ontill it, an' thin she tould him that if 
 he'd git him dhrunk enough, he'd nivir bother his hid to luk at 
 it to see av it wor like the first wan, an' thin in tree months 
 Misther A^ance wud have to go in pardner wid Wolverton in his 
 
 ould rotten mill at Hopetown beyant, wedder he wud or 
 
 Och ! murther alive ! Here he is himsilf now, and me here yit. 
 Howly vargin ! but the fat's in the fire now. Begorra ! an' it's 
 out av this I wish I wor," continued Barney, suddenly startled 
 by the appearance of Edwin Vance, who, unnoticed in the ex- 
 citement of his story, had walked up unperceived, while Barney 
 endeavoured quietly to take himself off. 
 
 " I say, Barney," exclaimed Edwin, as he came up, " how came 
 you to send me on such a fool's errand ? Who gave you the 
 message? Your master never sent it, nor had he asked for 
 me." 
 
 " The masther nivir sint me fur ye, Misther Vance !" replied 
 
WHAT'S THE MATTER AVITH MV ROSE ? 163 
 
 Barney, apparently astonished. " Faix ! an' that's quare thin. 
 J ;egorra ! it's sould I am. ikxd scran till her, it wor that desate- 
 ful jade of a housemaid sint me fur yiz. By the tousand i)ipers, 
 it's aven I'll be wid her before it's dark the night, lielike it wor 
 to redd me out av the kitchen she tould me fur, bad cess till 
 her. But sure now, Misther ^'ance, h(jney, there's no grate har- 
 rum done is there by me little mishtake ?" 
 
 " AVell ! not a great deal, Barney. I'll forgive you this time." 
 
 " But it was laughable, too," turning to Ethel. " Your father 
 looked so ast9nished when I went in and announced myself as 
 awaiting his commands, and I was confounded and looked fool- 
 ish enough in exli)aining that I had received a message from him 
 that he wished to speak to me. ^\'hen, however, he found out 
 who had brought the message, h2 burst out laughing and said, 
 'Oh 1 it was that blarneying old rascal was it?'" 
 
 " There's for you, Barney !" put in Ethel, laughing. 
 
 •' Most likely, Mr. Mordaunt said," continued Edwin, " the 
 old Villain got you out of the M'ay, \^ince, in order to humbug 
 Ethel into saving him from the consequences of some of his 
 scrapes, or to get something or other. She likes the old hum- 
 bug, and he knows it, and in consequence does pretty well as 
 he likes, sure that sheVill befriend him. Ten to one he trumped 
 up the message to get rid of you while he related some pitiable 
 story to her." 
 
 " And how about the sick rose bush, Barney ?" added Ethel, 
 mischievously. 
 
 " Faix ! ye may laugh, Miss Ethel, it's wid yiz this time, and 
 it's a nice c'racther the masther's after givin' of a bhoy that's been 
 wid him this twenty year an' more. ' Blarneying old humbug 
 I am, am I, begorra !' " grumbled Barney, walking off apparent- 
 ly highly offended, but in reality accepting the uncomplimentary 
 temis as a gratifying tribute to his diplomatic powers. 
 
 Ethel, left again with her lov •, had to decide whether or not 
 she would conamunicate Barney's extraordinary and somewhat 
 
 I ' 
 
 I, 
 
 Si 
 
 \ t 
 
1 64 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i' 
 
 i'l 
 
 :'■ ~lt .f 
 
 incoherent story to him or any part of it. As she had not i)re- 
 vioiisly held a very high opinion of Mr. Wolverton or of Miss 
 Dearborn either, for that matter, she could very readily believe 
 that Barney, whom she knew to be fiiithfuhiess itself to her fa- 
 ther's family, and especially her friend, had really overheard some 
 part of a plot between the two concerning her lover, very much 
 she could easily suppose to his detriment than to his advantage. 
 A great part of the disjointed and incomprehensible history she 
 could not understand, though it apjjeared to her tolerably evi- 
 dent that the papers " wid tree tousand ontill it and tirty tou- 
 sand ontill it," had reference to valuable securities that were to 
 be obtained from him for Wolverton's behoof. There was, how- 
 ever, one part of the story that was very plain, and that was 
 that there was to be an attempt at the cricketer's dinner on the 
 morrow to jjroduce her lover's intoxication, and that the success 
 or failure of the entire scheme hinged on the success of that at- 
 tempt. 
 
 To prevent that danger was to nullify the whole plot. 
 
 Ethel however could not and would not believe that her 
 Edwin, her hero, her prince of men, was or could be in any 
 possible danger of so dreadful a degradation. She would as 
 easily have imagined that he would steal the spoons at her 
 father's table, as become, by any means whatsoever, intoxicated. 
 But she had heard of drugged wines ; she remembered also 
 that Edwin at the pic-nic had drank a glass of champagne, and 
 was not therefore a total abstainer. Might he not at the ainuer 
 partake of a single glass, and might not that glass be drugged. 
 She could easily believe any depth of evil possible to Sidney 
 Wolverton ; and that this su})position was therefore not outside 
 the range of possibility. 
 
 The unpleasant nature of her previous interview with Edwin 
 on the subject of Mr. Wolverton whose very name she now 
 thoroughly detested, had determined her never again to enter 
 direcUy into a conversation regarding him ; and again, though 
 
t pre- 
 Miss 
 elieve 
 er fa- 
 some 
 much 
 ntage. 
 »ry she 
 ly evi- 
 y tou- 
 ere to 
 s, how- 
 at was 
 on the 
 success 
 that at- 
 
 lat her 
 in any 
 uld as 
 at her 
 icated. 
 d also 
 |ne, and 
 ^ ainuer 
 irugged. 
 Sidney 
 outside 
 
 Edwin 
 lie now 
 to enter 
 
 though 
 
 WHAT'S THK MAT'l'KRMVlTH MY ROSE ? 165 
 
 Barney's incomprehensible story was fully believed by her to 
 have a sound l)asis of truth, it would in all likelihood be totally 
 rejected by him, as ridiculous and al)surd. He had already 
 been fully warned as to Wolverton's character ; and so long as 
 his senses were clear, he ought to be i)erfectly able to talqe due 
 care of himself and his interests. While her lover retained the 
 full possession of his faculties, she felt she had no right to inter- 
 fere further in his affairs. 
 
 Could she obtain from him, however, a promise that he would 
 drink no wine, at the dinner on the morrow, she could feel safe, 
 as regarded him. It would not need then for her to tell him of 
 what she had heard from Barney ; and she felt that this was the 
 best way oi)en to her to discharge the duty that seemed incum- 
 bent upon her. She resolved therefore that this should be her 
 course. 
 
 Accordingly as they returned from their walk and were near- 
 ing the house, she plucked up her courage, turned towards him 
 and said, 
 
 " Edwin, T have a great favor to ask of you ; a favor that I 
 do not feel that I ought to ask, but w hich I hope you will for- 
 give me that I do ask." 
 
 " .My darling Ethel it is granted, if within my possibility. As 
 anything you could ask of me could be a favor for me to 
 grant. What is it ? Ethel." 
 
 " I don't like to ask it, Edwin, it really seems to be an inter- 
 ference with you, but if you could grant it to me it M'ould make 
 me very happy. You will probably have to remain for the 
 dinner after the match to-morrow at Ten Lakes. From what 
 I have heard of such dinners there, I fear there will be a great 
 deal of wine. There are many young men who will be present 
 to-morrow, who are not particular wdth respect to how much 
 they use, and you uill be pressed — very much pressed — to 
 follow their example with regard to it." 
 '• I wish to warn you against these young men, and to ask you 
 
 12 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 V 
 
 ii ij 
 
1 66 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE JiETTKR. 
 
 ^i> 
 
 .il 
 
 ; ' I 
 
 : ' 
 
 to be careful, as tliey will try to induce you ifpossible to drink 
 too much wine. Forgive me for mentioni.i^ o'lch a subject to you, 
 but please promise me ; 1 know there is no danger of su< ' a 
 thing as that you w ill take too much wine ; but I know that 
 you will be very much pressed to do so," and Ethel's lovely 
 eyes looked appealingly up into his face. 
 
 " ^Fy dearest Ethel, you may rest assured that if I remain 
 for dinner at all, I will be very careful as to what wine 1 take. 
 J\Iost probably none at all. Xo amount of pressure will suc- 
 ceed in inducing me to exceed, at all events. That I promise 
 you. I have never exceeded yet, and most certainly will nol 
 do now that I have my sweet Elhel ; my beacon of light and 
 purity and all beauty ;" he replied earnestly, but not so satis- 
 factorily as under the circumstances of which she was aware, 
 she could have wished. 
 
 In her earnestness and fear for him, she contmued the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " And, Edwin, promise me that if you do take any wine at 
 all, you won't drink champagne. I have a reason for asking. 
 And don't sit near Sidney Wolverton. He has a design against 
 you. I would_^so like to a^k you, as a personal favor to myself 
 to take no wine at all to-morrow." 
 
 Edwin as well as Ethel retained an unpleasant impression of 
 that interview between them concerning Sidney Wolverton and 
 he had a lively feeling that the subject would be better avoided. 
 Therefore, though a little interested and somewhat more an- 
 noyed by Ethel's reference to him, he forebore to notice it. 
 It was however an imfortunate remark. 
 
 " My darling," he replied, not quite so cordially, " I have 
 already told you that in all probability I shall take no wine — 
 and I promise you, since you wish it, that I will not drink 
 champagne to-morrow, at any rate and that I will not sit near 
 Sidney Wolverton, since you also wish that. 
 
 Satisfied with this almost direct promise and very glad that 
 
sub- 
 
 ielt" 
 
 Ision of 
 )n and 
 loided. 
 Ire an- 
 tice it. 
 
 have 
 
 'ine — 
 
 drink 
 
 near 
 
 that 
 
 KMILV IJKCINS TO PI,()T. 
 
 167 
 
 Edwin had ..ot seemed to notice her unfortunate ' lapsus 
 lini,nii\;, with regard to Mr, W'olverton, Ktliel changed the sub- 
 ject, and they proceeded homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIT. 
 
 EMII.V r.E(;iNS TO I'LOT. 
 
 His long anticipated Saturday morning at length {^Tceted the 
 expectant eyes of Reggie Mordaunt ; and greeted Inm as he 
 could have wished it. 
 
 A clear blue sky ; a brilliant sun, and a cool breeze to 
 ttini)er the fervor of his rays, made it a cricketer's day. To 
 Reggie a day of delights, for its exciting hours would test the 
 l)rowess and crown the victory — as he fondly hoped — of his 
 dear Ten Lakes Club over the formidal.>le county. 
 
 Early was he astir ; unwontedly early, and as he hastened 
 down stairs he held the vain impression that every one was 
 equally enthusiastic with him and would be down stairs also. 
 It 7,'as a vain impression, for he found himself alone ; the 
 !)reakfast-room ready for occupancy but without occupants, and 
 it was very evident that he was the only one of the Lake Mor- 
 daunt party, who had as yet come to the conclusion that ihe 
 early freshness of the morn, with a cricket match in prospect, 
 could outweigh the lingering charms of somnolency. 
 
 Half an hour of impatient waiting and it was still the same. 
 No one, with the consciousness of virtuous early rising shining 
 over him, but looking as if it was yet the middle of the night, 
 had put in an appearance down stairs. Ha'if an hour in the 
 early morning, alone down stairs, in a great house, the rooms 
 all done up ready, and wearing an intolerable air of waiting, 
 with breakfast not at hand, is a very quiet, very lonely, very 
 hungry, very long period of time. It was too much for Reg- 
 gie's equanimity. In another minute his feet were boisiercusiV 
 
 i ( 
 
1 63 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DUNK HETTER. 
 
 I' 
 
 1 
 
 ascending the stairs, and he was thundering at Vance's and 
 Wolverton's respective doors. 
 
 " I say ! you fellows— this is getting just a little too thiii. 
 Here it is, as late as it can be, and you lazy wretches sleeping 
 away as if you had nothuig to do but get up for an evening 
 party. If you sleep on much lo-'ger yo I'd be tco late for that 
 even. T ' and get down — do m*^ — ;, lore sunset," he shouted 
 loud enough to wake up a pyram. of n .mmies. 
 
 "Hallo! what's the matter? i.^ggit,' "xclaimed Edwin 
 drowsily. " Is it time to get up ? Why ! it isn't seven o'clock 
 yet, if my time is correct. You don't call that late, do you ?" 
 
 " I guess you'll find it late enough before you're through. 
 There's a pile of things to do, and no one u[) yet. 
 
 " You've got to get down stfl.irs ; have breakfast ; write 
 your letters, get ready, and drive out to Ten Lakes, and wickets 
 to be pitched at eleven o'clock" replied Reggie in an injured 
 tone of voice. 
 
 " All right ! I'll be, on hand. Plenty of time yet," was all 
 the satisfaction he got from Edwin. 
 
 " I say I Uncle," cried Reggie, saluting that gentleman's 
 door. " A pretty si)ecimen of a moral philosopher you are 
 to be sure. Here you are in bed in the middle of the day. 
 Why don't you do as that old humbug of a countryman of 
 yours, Ben Franklin says. I'll bet you never heard of nim 
 though." 
 
 "Be off I you young scamp," replied his uncle, from within 
 " It's little enough you know about Ben. Franklin. If it was 
 not for that stupid cricket match, you would not have been out 
 of bed so early this morning yoursel. I'm always down before 
 you are, at any rate. AMiat are you making all that noise for ?" 
 he continued, as Reggie kept shouting along the passages. 
 
 " Get up ! Ethel. I want my breakfast." Get up Allie, 
 and come to the cricket match. " Get up, Emily and Ada; 
 you'll be too iate for the fun ;" were boisterously vociferated, 
 
 I .'1 
 
EMIIA' BKGINS TO PIoT. 
 
 , and 
 
 thii'i. 
 eping 
 ening 
 • that 
 louted 
 
 Kdwin 
 )'clock 
 »u ?" 
 irough. 
 
 write 
 kvickets 
 injured 
 
 was all 
 
 lleman's 
 u are 
 16 day. 
 
 Inan of 
 lot* liim 
 
 within 
 it was 
 »en out 
 before 
 ;efor?" 
 
 IS. 
 
 Allie, 
 
 . Ada ; 
 
 ["erated, 
 
 169 
 
 until he was satisfied that wo one could by any possibility be 
 left longer asleep. 
 
 " Oh I yes, Reggie. I'se tummin' to see the tittet," exclami. 
 
 od the small voice of Ally, as he retreated down stairs again to 
 
 another impatient wait for breakfast. 
 Hi***** ♦ ^( m jti* 
 
 '' Well I I sui)pose you are all going to the cricket match," 
 said Reggie, who having satiated tolerably his hunger, found 
 leisure to make a remark to the party assembled at the break- 
 (;ist table. " I've told Jkirney to have round every trap about 
 the place at ten n'clock sharp, so everybody must be ready tc 
 start then. " You are going, are you not, mother? with Allie 
 and father. Mr. Vance, Mr. Wolverton and I ought to star 
 eari'er, as there will be lots to do betbre eleven, and so uncle 
 you'll have to drive Kthel, and I'imil) , and Ada. Oh I my, what 
 a time you'll ha^e driving three girls. I would not l)e you, I 
 know. Don't you feel delighted at the prospect, uncle ?" 
 
 '• Xever mind, Reggie. Til stand it for the chance of seeing 
 pride taken down before night. Perhaps you won't make such 
 a fuss coming home this evening as you have this morning. If 
 all your Ten liakes Club are such boasters as one young gentle- 
 man I know, I'll probably have the pleasure of seeing them well 
 beaten to-day. Don't you hope so now. Miss Ada? fur I sup- 
 })ose you will be on the grounds to-day," replied 31 r. Horton, 
 addressing his last remark to Ada, with mischief in his eyes. 
 
 '* I'll see every over of this match played, if I stay there unti 
 dark ; I'll count every run, too, and i"ll never speak to one o 
 the Ten Lakes Club again if they let themselves be beaten. No ! 
 not to my own brother, I vron't, ' answered Ada, with \ehement 
 decision in her voice. 
 
 " \\'hy 1 Ada, you seem to think it would be a disgrace for 
 ien Lakes to be beaten. Don't you think now it would be a 
 greater disgrace for the County Club to be beaten by a small 
 aftair like Ten Lakes ?" said 3Ir. Horton, teasingly. 
 
 
 1.1 
 
 M 
 
 u 
 
 I " 
 
 
 ■Si-' 
 
T70 
 
 SIIK MKiHT HAVK DONK UK/nKR. 
 
 ^ ! 
 
 I » 
 
 •• ( )h I who cares for iho old fogy County (.luh, anyway ; and 
 lot nw toll you, Mr. Honon, that our Vcn Lakes (luh is no small 
 affair. If it docs not heat the County to-day, I'm a Dutchman, 
 replied .\da, too excited to he elegant in her language. 
 
 " Ada, you j)erfectly shock me," said her sister. " Vour ideas 
 and expressions are those of a common street hoy. When are 
 you going to adopt the manners of a lady ? I am inclined to 
 ask mamma not to let you go to the match at all. You will ]m 
 much hetter at home where you cannot commit yourself." 
 
 •' Oh I no, you won't, Kmily," exclaimed Reginald. "Ada's 
 all ri[,'ht, and she's a jolly girl for sticking up for the cluh.' 
 
 A tap at the doo- at this point cf the conversation turned all 
 eyes towards it as it opened a short distance and the comical 
 ])hysiognomy of our friend Harney api)eared hehind it. 
 
 "May I come in, sorr?" he encjuired of Mr. Mordaunt. 
 
 " Certainly I Ihrney. >Vhat's the matter now ? Are the 
 horses all sick this morning as usual when they are wanted? or 
 have you found out some new excuse for them to-day ? J'!h I 
 Barney," said Mr. Mordaunt. " Don't you think now your 
 * l)Oor hastes ' will he ' kilt intoirely ' taking us all out to Ten 
 Lakes, four long miles, such a day as this." 
 
 "Troth ! thin, Mr. Mordaunt, ye na'adent he aftherhantherin' 
 me the like av that ahout me harses. It's well enough the poor 
 crathers are the day, hut it's going to folly yiz I am, to see they're 
 jDUt up dacent ; nivir a fut wud I thrust thim divils at the hot-tel 
 wid a fut av thim," replied Barney. 
 
 " And look out for a little whiskey at the same time, Barney, 
 or is it the cricket match you want to see ?" said Mr. Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 " Begorra ! av it wor a game of shinney ye had afut, where 
 iviry bhoy has a sthick av his own in his hand, an' can have a 
 belt at the ball whiniver he has a chance av it, an' can rap the 
 bhoy over the hid av they're onmannerly an' don't behave dacent 
 
 M: 
 
KMir.V lU'XMNS TO PLOT. 
 
 «7« 
 
 An' parcfiil, it's pla/ed \\\ be to join in the divarshun, but cricket's 
 too (iiiitc a game fur me, sorr I" 
 
 •' Kvcry oric to his taste, Ibrncy. Is there anything else you 
 w.mt?" 
 
 '♦ Faix ! there is'nt, sorr ! harrin' that I've got tlic lilthcrs ami 
 papirs fur yiz. I got thim last night, hut I wor kep waitin' on 
 ihim that long at Tin Lakes beyant, that I cuddent git back 
 time enough to give ye thim till the marning," 
 
 "Oh ! we'll say it was the letters, Harney, but I think it was 
 the tavern that kept you so late. It's all right, Harney. That 
 will do," and with a bow and a scrape that individual made his 
 exit. 
 
 " Here are a couple of letters for you, Vance," said Mr. Mor- 
 daunt, handing them to him. " One bears a lady's handwriting 
 too ; take care, or some one will be looking after your corres- 
 l)ondence," he added, with a laugh. 
 
 '• Oh ! it will bear ins|)ection — I'm not afraid," replic 'I Kdwin, 
 lightly, as he put them in his pocket. " And they will bear wait. 
 ing also un^il I have finished my breakfast." 
 
 A delicious after breakfast saunter through the conservatory 
 with his Ethel caused them to remain forgotten until its conclu- 
 sion, when suddenly remembering^ their existence, he took them 
 from their resting place and read as follows : 
 
 Toronto, July 22nd, 1873. 
 Dear Sir, — 
 
 We beg to advise you that a decision has been reached in the 
 suit "Orden ef a/, vs. yourself," which terminates, it would appear 
 to us, with a result not unfavourable to your interests. Your title 
 to that portion of your Toronto property involved in the suit is 
 declared perfect, and should not have been questioned, and on 
 this ground costs have gone against the other parties. As was anti- 
 cipated, the properties in Western Ontario, attached in the same 
 suit, go to those New York people, but burdened with the pay- 
 ment to you, as representing your late grandfather, of the settle- 
 menty, etc., to which they were liable, when, as apparent next 
 of kin, he took possession, together with the interest to this date. 
 
 t 
 
 |.' 
 
n» 
 
 SHK MICiH r MAVK DONK HKTTKR. 
 
 rn 
 
 if. 
 
 I • 
 
 rhclr lawyers liavc already paid over on atroiiiU twefUy-fivc 
 tiiousand dollars, until the amount of your claimM a^ inst the 
 property are defniitely ascertained, and at the same I'Mjc they 
 ask for a year's delay for payment (/ the balanc e. 'I'his we re- 
 fer to your detision. The sum of twenty five thousanil dollars, 
 mentioned al)o\e, we hold to your order. 
 
 \N'c would also advise you that, yesterday, Miss Agnes Sea- 
 forth, on visiting our oH'k e to receive the half-yearly allowance 
 made her by you in lieu of the annuity expired hy her mother's 
 decease, complained of annoyance to which she claimed to he 
 subjected, in presenting i\tr |taymentyourche(|ue for the aniount. 
 and reijuired, peremptorily, that some other mode be adoptcil. 
 Upon our statement of the fact that we held no other funds for 
 iJie purpose, she en(|uired in what manner your name had a 
 right to be mixed up with her business, and threatened law pro- 
 ceedings if her demand was not complied with or her eiKiuiries 
 answered, in order to avert a course which iould not fail to 
 be disagreeable to both herself and to you, and could bo [)r()- 
 ductive of no good end, we were conjpelled to explain the entire 
 matter to her, and th;it in rcalit)- she possessed no legal claim 
 upon you for the sums she had received since the deatli of her 
 mother. As she very evidently hesitated to believe ouraccount 
 of this matter, we advised her to atldress herself for its confirma- 
 tion to you. It is our oi)inion that the young lady, being of a 
 romantic turn of mind, will decline further to receive money from 
 the same source, which will be so much the better for you, and 
 will save you six hundred dollars a year. 
 
 Please advise us at your early convenience of your decision 
 in the niatier:i referred to above. 
 
 We are, Sir, 
 
 Vour obedient servants, 
 
 John Hatch iifrss &: Sox. 
 Kdwin '\\ince, Esq., ) 
 J.ake Mordaunt. j 
 " Well ! I am twenty-five thousand dollars richer at any rate 
 
 than I supposed myself," said Kdwin to himself. " For since 
 these people turned up with their claim, I have never considered 
 my title good, or that the property would ever yield me a dol- 
 lar. So much the better. 1 am very sorry, though, about this 
 matter of Agnes Seaforth's. It will be a difficult thing with that 
 
KM'IA' UKC.INS TO 1»I.()T. 
 
 ns 
 
 |g^«ud and independent spirit of hers to arrange this affair again 
 on the satisfactory footing it held before the unfortunate inter- 
 vio»v with the f latchilfesses. If she woulil hut have left well 
 alone ! The money is hers —most justly hers. Nfy father's dy- 
 iii^ breath, which left it to her, makes it sacred to me — as binding 
 as if his command had been engrossed on pari hment, signeil, 
 sealed ahd delivered. I wish it had been, for I fear her proud 
 spirit will view it in a difTercnt light, and spurn the thought of 
 accepting the money from me, as s!ie will too probably look at 
 my mere agency in it lor my dead father. This letter is, I sup- 
 pose, from her." 
 
 Toronto, 22nd, July, 1873. 
 M\ Dkar Mr. Vam k, — 
 
 1 trust you will excuse, for the sake of the old friendship 
 tlut existed between my father's family aiul )ours, my address- 
 ing you on a subject which, tliough it is of serious and dis(iuietii^g 
 importance to myself, may not beconsiilercd so by you, and that 
 vou will on the same score, kindly i onsider and reply, at your 
 early convenience, to tht.' contents of this letter. 
 
 Yesterday ! came to hear, for the first time, a story con 
 nected with myself of a very unexi^ected nature, antl one, wiiich 
 if it be true, would have been nuu h better forme had I heard it 
 long since, as it would have relieved me from the involuntary 
 assumption of a burden, whose removal presents an asi)ect of 
 grtat dithculty to me. 
 
 During the course of a conversation with Mr. Jolm Hatchit- 
 fess, which conversation, I may premise, was brought on by 
 myself, in fact unwillingly forced upon him oy me, for various 
 reasons, to which it is needK > to advert. I learned to my sur- 
 jmse and great disgust, thai the income which, during my 
 mother's life, she had enjoyed, and which I had always been led 
 to believe had, since her decease, become mine, was an annuity 
 which ex[)ired with her life ; that in effect I was then left i>enni- 
 less, and that you, with a generosity which is none the less 
 honorable to you that it was mistaken, had continued since that 
 period, the same amount from your private funds for my benefit, 
 in deference to the expre5>sed wish of your father. 1 also learn- 
 ed, at the same time, from Mr. Hatchitfess the various transactions 
 alike honorable to both, that occurred Ijclween your father and 
 
 s 
 
 
 ' t 
 
174 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BE'lTER. 
 
 '•i 
 
 ,lL ! 
 
 '. I 
 
 ■' ! 
 
 ;i' 
 
 B8 'li- 
 
 mine, with reference to the property from which my mother's 
 annuity was derived, together with the events which preceded 
 and !)rought to pass these transactions. 
 
 From all this, for the truth of which Mr. Hatchitfess vouched, 
 and which I do not see any reason to disbeUeve, it would seem 
 that, for too long a time ])ast, I have been receiving and living 
 in idleness upon money which was not mine, to which I was not 
 lawfully entitled, and for which I had no legal claim upon you. 
 Upon your money, in fact, I have been for over two years exist- 
 ing, and I have to repeat that it would have been much better 
 for me had I been informed of the true state of affairs at my 
 mother's death, and much easier also, as I would not then have 
 had to commence life under the burden of a heavy debt to you. 
 A debt which my self-respect will not permit me to breathe freely 
 under until il is discharged to the last dollar. 
 
 While thanking you for the kind motive which impelled your 
 mistaken generosity to me, I must at once and peremptorily de- 
 cline to accept any further aid from that source. It would not 
 be right for me to do so. I will earn my own bread, by my own 
 exertions, and will not consent to live upon the generosity of 
 another. 
 
 I took yesterday the three hundred dollars which Mr. Hatchit- 
 fess paid me, as a loan, in order to enable my aunt and myself 
 to live until I can find the means of earning our living, and stern 
 necessity alone compelled me to take it even in that light. 
 
 May T request the favour of your early reply, as I wish the 
 assurance from yourself that Mr. Hatchitfess's account of these 
 matters has been a true one, and also the hope that my decision, 
 as expressed above, may not come between the friendship that 
 exists between your mother and myself, and, I hope I may add, 
 with you also. 
 
 I am, dear Mr. Vance, 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 • Agnes Seaforth. 
 
 Such was the letter that Edwin Vance read, and as he con- 
 cluded it he walked up and down the room disquietly and 
 
 soliloquised as follows : — 
 
 " Poor Agnes ! That brute Hatchitfess in his cold-blooded 
 
 epistle, describes you as of a romantic turn of mind. Well ! per- 
 haps he is not far wrong, but you are nor a whit more roraanti- 
 
■■•^ 
 
 EMir.Y BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 175 
 
 cally inclined than I am, and no more determined about this 
 matter either. It would more burn my fingers to keep this money, 
 which is so rightfully yours, than it will burn yours to take it." 
 
 " Not if I know it, shall you spoil your good looks and drudge 
 away your life in the slavery of teaching, or some other equally 
 harrassing and ill-paid occupation, to which women have to re- 
 sort. Could I rest at ease ? a great part of my fortune sprung 
 from the purchase, equitable though it may have been, of her 
 father's property, and with my father's last command yet ringing 
 in my ears, while she might be starving on a crust. Xo ! it shall 
 not be. The matter shall be decided at once. I'll write to-day 
 to Hatchitfess and order him to purchase an annuity for her life 
 out of this money which has so opportunely fallen to me, and if 
 she will not take it, it will not be for want of persuasion on my 
 |)art. I'll write to her also at once and try to combat her deci- 
 sion." 
 
 Having formed this virtuous resolution, Edwin Vance took 
 liis way from the conservatory, and proceeded in search ot his 
 writing materials. 
 
 Passing through the hall, he met Mrs. Mordaunt, and asked 
 her if he could go to the library to answer the letters he had re- 
 ceived that morning, as he could post the replies in Ten Lakes 
 that day as they were pressing. 
 
 " Certainly ! Edwin. You will find all the material you require 
 there. You have not much time, though, for Reggie is hurrying 
 the horses up to the door," she replied. 
 
 " Thank you ! Mrs. Mordaunt," he said. " They are of im- 
 poitance, so I must try to answer them to-day." 
 
 He entered the library, got out his letters for reference, and 
 had seated himself to write, when Sidney Wolverton entered the 
 room in search of him. 
 
 Directly after leaving the breakfast table, when the party had 
 separated in different directions, Emiiy Dearborn had sought an 
 
 I 
 
 > 'I 
 
176 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i I 
 
 , 
 
 1,11:: 
 
 ii;i 
 
 ^ 
 
 opportunity to meet Wolverton, and finding liim alone enjoying 
 a cigar in the garden, addressed him — 
 
 " Sidney I I want you to do me a favour. Edwin Vance receiv- 
 ed this morning a letter from a lady, and 1 am convinced by a 
 glimpse I obtained of the enveloj^e that it is the handwriting of 
 a young lady that it bears. If you can by any means, without 
 showing interest in the matter, find out the name of the writer, 
 you will do me a service. I have a reason for wishing to know 
 this." 
 
 " I'll do it with pleasure, Emily, if I possibly can," replied he. 
 " But it is rather a difficult task. Flowever am I to get an op- 
 portunity to see it ? I can't very well ask him who his fair 
 correspondent may be." 
 
 " If you can do so, I mean. It is not of great importance, but 
 if you find an opportunity take it. I will see you in Ten Lakes 
 to-day." 
 
 It was for this purpose that Sidney had followed Edwin into 
 the library and was lounging about the book-case, on the watcli 
 for the means of accomplishing his undignified mission. ThrA 
 he did not feel the indignity laid upon him in the mere proposal 
 that he should accept so unworthy an errand was very evident 
 from the fact of his seeking to fu'fil it. He had ceased to be, 
 tkough he still bore the out\yard semblance of a gentleman, and 
 no sense of his degradation, no mortifying percei)tion of ils 
 own withered insignificance, stung his soul to the quick, or 
 shrank him into nothingness. 
 
 He attained his object, such as it was, easily enough, througii 
 the unwitting and unexpected aid of another. 
 
 Hardly had he been in the room a couple of minutes when 
 Rep"'nald entered it with his usual impetuosity, shouting — 
 
 " Oh I here you are. Come on now as fast as you can. It s 
 nearly ten o'clock, and the horses are all waiting. The others 
 all ready too. Never mind your letters, Mr. Vance ; write them 
 to-mcrrow. They'll wait for one day, I'm sure." 
 
EMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 '77 
 
 " Can't you wait a few minutes, Reggie ? I have two letters 
 which I must answer to-day, and I have only got thehalf of one 
 reply written," exclaimed Kdwin, scribbling away as fast as his 
 pen would mo vs. 
 
 "'Well! you can write them in Ten Lakes this evening in 
 time for the mail after the match is over. You can go to the 
 hotel or the Dearborn's. I'll show you lots of places where you 
 can write them. That's your best way. ^Ve ought to be on the 
 ground before eleven," returned imi)atient Reggie. 
 
 " All right I Reggie, I'm with you. Your plan is the best, for 
 there is one which must be replied to with some care, and I have 
 no time now, that is evident," replied Edwin, and folding up his 
 half-finished letter to the Hatchitfess, he placed it with theirs to 
 ame envelope, and hastily picking up the other, 
 which had contained Miss Seaforth's letter, but from which he 
 had forgotten that he had taken it and laid on the table for re- 
 ference, he turned and left the room after Reginald. 
 
 Wolverton, whose eye had rested on the letters since he had 
 entered, noticed the omission, and as he passed the table he 
 snatched up that which \'ance had left, thrust it into his pocket 
 and followed them out of the room. In a few minutes the whole 
 party were on the road to Ten Lakes and the cricket match. 
 
 During the drive Sidney, who had contrived to seat himself 
 l)y the side of Emily, in a two-horse vehicle occupied also by Ada 
 and Mr. Horton, seized an available moment to slip the purloined 
 
 letter over to her and whispered — 
 
 " There's the letter ; hope it is the right one ; had not time 
 to see It." 
 
 " Thanks ! I cannot read it now ; wdll see you during the 
 
 day," answered Emily, quietly ]jutting it into her pocket. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH AND A. SUBSEQUENT MTTLE (lAME. 
 
 It was past five o'clock, and intense interest was manifested 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
178 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DONE BETTER. 
 
 by the crowd of spectators assembled oa the 'I'en Eakes cricket 
 ground as tlie match between the ckil) of that vilkige and the 
 formidable County Ckib drew to its close. Ex[)ectation was on 
 tip-toe ; little tlutters of excitement and whispered ripples of 
 suspense ran over the field, for the County had sent its last 
 man to the bat, and had still six runs to make to beat their op- 
 ponents. But one wicket to go down and six runs to make. 
 
 It was an unwonted position for them — in the i)resent case 
 wholly unexpected. Instead of a score high above that of their 
 somewhat complacent!;.' regarded rivals, they had six runs to 
 earn ; with their last man handling his willow. Their men, col- 
 lected in an eager knot, watched witli anxiously directed eyes, 
 each ball of the over as after determinate preparedness it flew, 
 swift and direct from tlie round sweeping aim of the Ten Lakes 
 bowler ; to be carefully blocked down by the county batsman. 
 The Ten Lakes jjla) jrs, at their posts around the field, alert, 
 watchful and active, become doubly so with the close contest, 
 and the knowledge that victory or defeat for them depends on 
 the next two or three overs. 
 
 " Ha ! ^^'ell played ! For two — run it for two," shouts the 
 county-field captain, as a ball, slightly off the wicket is beauti 
 fully cut to leg by the player, and as beautifull}' stopped in its 
 course and thrown up by the Ten Lakes fielder whose ground 
 it invaded. 
 
 " How's that ? Umpire," exclaims the wicket keeper, as sim- 
 ultaneously the bails fell and the ixmting runner's bat ground- 
 ed in his popping crease. 
 
 " Not out," is the quiet reply, and two runs arc added to the 
 score. 
 
 Four to make. The County men's faces lighten up with re- 
 newed hope, and again a buzz of excitement runs through the 
 field. Ada Po.^.rborn^ sealed with hersi.'wer in a carriage among 
 the spectators, ?,n\v:rs ^vith apprehension. 
 
 *' We'll be beai eii. They're only four to make to beat us. 
 
A CRICRKT MATCH. 
 
 17^ 
 
 Only three to tie ; will they never get that w icket down ;" she 
 groans out between her clenched teeth. 
 
 " Ha I they're running it. Well done I" shout the County 
 men, as a ball struck barely past mid-wicket is run by the ex- 
 cited batsman, who barely saves his wicket. 
 
 " Three to make to win," and the County is jubilant. 
 
 " (Jver," cries the Umpire, and as the Ten I .akes cross to 
 their posts, Reggie Mordaunt catches the ball thrown to him 
 by the wicket keeper, and walks to liis pkice to bowl the over. 
 
 Determination is written on his face, but anxiety in his heart, 
 for he feels as if the honor of Ten I^kes lay in his hand. 
 
 Carefully he measures liis distance and [nich, as he poises 
 himself in readiness. 
 
 " Play," cries the Umpire, and running his four paces, his 
 gracefully round-even ball tlies straight for the middle stump. 
 It is blocked dead. Again, and it meets the same fate. The 
 tliiid, somewhat swifter, rises higher, is missed by the batsman, 
 and passing six inches above the bails, goes into the wicket- 
 keeper's hands. 
 
 '' That's it ! I'hat's thr kind )ou don't like. Swift and 
 pitching high," mutters Reggie lo himself as lie walks forward 
 to receive his ball. Again it flies to its mark, rises cis it pitches 
 almost into the popping crease, glances over the shoulder of the 
 hat, and drops the off bail to the ground. 
 
 The match is over and the hitherto invincible County Club 
 is defeated. Defeated by only two runs — it is true — but de- 
 feated by a young village club of th^ir own county, whom they 
 had half condescendingly met, and had fully intended to defeat 
 in one innings. Instead of this, though they had played but 
 one innings. Ten Lakes had played but one also, and had de- 
 feated them by two runs. 
 
 Probably this over-confidence in themselves and their record 
 had led them to underrate their opponents' prowess, and had 
 induced careless play on their part. On the other hand, the 
 
 I 
 
 >!l 
 
 ''■■ M 
 
 I if 
 
 ' il 
 
p 
 
 mit 
 
 '.: 
 
 
 !^ 
 
 il/ , 
 
 J,- <; } 
 
 
 1 80 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 Ten Lakes Club, in general younger and more active, and in- 
 spired by a wholesome awe of the formidable County, had 
 striven by constant practice since receiving the challenge to 
 bring their fielding and tlK-ir play up to the scientific standard 
 of their opponents. 
 
 It was hard on the County, and they felt it hard, but like 
 true cricketers they did not shew their disappointment and cha- 
 grin, (lathered into a knot together, and swinging their hats 
 over their heads, they manfully gave three rousing cheers for the 
 Ten Lakes Cricket Club ; and by thus honoring those who had 
 defeated them, they honored themselves. Li return the 'IYmi 
 Lakes' proved themselves to be not less generous. Every out- 
 H'ard demonstration of the exultation that swelled their hearts^ 
 was carefully restrained, and their answering cheers were voci- 
 ferously hearty ; taken up aiid prolonged as they were by the 
 whole body of spectators, for Ten Lakes had turnvd out its 
 population m masse to witrtss the ])lay of their cricketers 
 a£,''iinst the picked men of the County. After the graceful 
 liandiiig over of a new ball, the usual tribute to victory, had 
 been jjerformed by the County field Captain, the dis})err)al com- 
 menced, and the assemblage bcga.i to move towards home. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, approaching the Dearborn's carriage, 
 found it occupied by luiiily alone : the delighted Ada having 
 Hown to jubilate over the Ten Lakes' victory with Ethel and 
 Reggie, and every one else who would listen. 
 
 " So you are be'-^.ten, it seems, Sidney, at your stupid 
 cricket," she said. " Are your feelings much injured by the 
 defeat ?" 
 
 " Well ! I should much have preferred it the other way. It 
 comes hard on our fellows to be beaten by the club of a little 
 place like this. I trust, though, I v/on't meet like defeat in the 
 little game I have to i)Iay to-night ;" he answered. 
 
 '* If you play it right, you will not. It depends on yourself 
 Are you sure he remains (^r the dinner?" 
 
w 
 
 A CRICK KT MATCH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Yes ! I think so," he rq)lied. He said as miuh before 
 
 eaving this morning." 
 " You had better make it assured for all that," replied Kmily. 
 
 " Remember he is ratlier love-sick at present, and the charms 
 
 of his beloved one may induce him to alter his intention and 
 
 return with her instead." 
 " It's i)Ossible enough ; by jove, Kmily. I'll go and hunt 
 
 liim u}). By-the-bye, was that letter the riglu one that I got 
 
 liold of so nicely this morning ?" inquired he, with a laugh. 
 " Yes ! it was ; but, unfortunately, it is not of much impor. 
 
 tame to me," she answered. '' I wonder if his reply would 
 
 have been of use ? I should have liked to have seen it." 
 " His reply ! Why he has not written it yet. He was in- 
 
 lcrru})ted by our starting, and intends visiting somewhere here 
 
 this evening," exclaimed Sidney. 
 ■' Well ! As you'll have him in tow — try to see it or get it 
 
 for me, if you easily can do so. It niiglit l)e of use to me," re- 
 turned the young lady. 
 
 " All right, Kmily. I'll keep my eyes open. I'll run over 
 
 and see you this evening, if all goes well with my undertaking. 
 
 " Au re7'oir," and Sidney went off to search for I^dwin in the 
 
 direction where he was most likely to find him — with the Mor- 
 
 daunts and K.thel. 
 
 The dinner of the Ten Lakes Cricket Club in honour of their 
 rivals and guests of the day, with its i)ost prandial accompani- 
 ment of laughter and song, toasting and speechifying, liad at 
 length come to a coriclusion. The jilayers, at least, had brought 
 sharp appetites to it, for a hotly-contested field-day ends with a 
 noble sense of hunger, and the dinner had been a sumptuous 
 one, so suiuptuous that by reason of it the funds of the Club 
 would probably also need refreshment by an assessment. But, 
 as Reggie Mordaimt had observed, '* It's not everyday we play 
 with a County Club and beat them into the bargain," so that 
 the ordinarily plain cricketer's dinner had swollen to the j)ro- 
 
 13 
 
 4 
 
 11' 
 
i8: 
 
 SHE Mir-HT HAVK DOXK HFTTKR. 
 
 '(( 
 
 |K)rtions of a l)an«iuct, and the flowing l)o\\i had passed in mis 
 taken liospilality, more freely tlian was altogether good for the 
 revellers, even though there had net been excess. That there 
 was a hall on the /(i/>/s wns the probable reason that there had 
 not been such, for there had been those present, Sidney W'olver- 
 ton among the number, to whom an orgie was an acceptable 
 element. lUit the entertainment had not degenerated into excess, 
 and had come > a conclusion. 
 
 PMwin \ ance and Sidney W'olverton were walking arm-in-arm 
 after leaving the dining-hall, down the street, in amicable con 
 versation together. 
 
 The former appeared to be in a peculiarly light-hearted vein. 
 He talked fastly and freely, laughing heartily at every observation 
 of Iris companion or of his own that bore the faintest semblance 
 of i)oint about it. There was an unwonted sjjarkle in his eye, 
 an imwonted Hush upon his cheek, and there was a])parent a 
 tendency to ellipse in his sentences, and to cut last syllables from 
 his words. 
 
 Wolverton, on the contrary, altliough he had drank three times 
 as much wine as his coiii^anion had done, did not betray the 
 slightest appearance of having drank any. Neither by his man 
 ner, his conversation nor his looks would he have been supposed 
 to have just quitted a convivial meeting. 
 
 But tl' . he waft seasoned. What would to another have been 
 a drunkard's potion, was to him a harmless and unexciting 
 draught. On tliis occasion he congratulated himself on the self- 
 sacrifice of being temperate, although the three or four glasses of 
 champagne which had exhilarated his companion, fell far short 
 of the quantum he himselt had imbibed. But then the one was 
 an accustomed bibationist and the other was not. 
 
 '* I have a couple of letters to write, Sidney, for this evening's 
 mail, and 1 must find a place to vv'rite them. A\'here shall ^\•e go 
 to ?" said Edwin. 
 " Oh ! we'll go the hotel and get a private room. You'll 
 
A CRICKKl" MAICH. 
 
 183 
 
 II nus 
 fur tl\c 
 ; there 
 re hail 
 \\)lvcr 
 ijptabic 
 excess, 
 
 ,-in-ariii 
 Ic con 
 
 :d vein. 
 :rvation 
 nblance 
 his eye, 
 )arent a 
 lies from 
 
 ee tiriie> 
 ray the 
 is man 
 ipposed 
 
 ive been 
 :\citing 
 the self- 
 lasses of 
 ir short 
 )ne was 
 
 I'eniiig's 
 U we go 
 
 You'll 
 
 find materials therj. I've got to dress for the l)all, and my 
 valise is there, at any rate. We'll go to the hotel," was the 
 re|)ly. 
 
 •' Very well ! I'm agreed, i^.y-the.bye, Sidney, have you done 
 anything since wc had that conversation the other evening rela- 
 tive to your affairs ? I lave you thought of any i)lan ?" returned 
 Mdwin. 
 
 "Oh I well! (let your letters off your mind, and then we'll 
 have a talk over matters. Here we are at the 'I'en T,a!;es Hotel. 
 I've seen better, but it will answer all our purposes." 
 
 Entering t!ie lu)stelry, a large, plain, looking brick structure, 
 with an infinity of windows garnishing its front, and ojjcning on 
 to the many-posted galleries which ran under each of its three 
 stories, they found themselves in a bare, uncarpeted hall, with 
 the usual Canadian-country-hotel arrangement of a dingy com- 
 mon sitting-room on one side, and the bar-room, with its inevitable 
 crowd of loafers, on the other. 
 
 Turning into the first, Sidney rang the hand-bell on the cigar- 
 ash-ornamented table for an attendant. This oi)erati()n having 
 failed in its effect, he i)rocceded to the bar-room in personal 
 search of the delinquent oflicial. Finding in that classic regioii 
 no one bearing the ap])earance of connection with the establish- 
 ment except the bar-keei)er, he addressed himself to that impor- 
 tant ))ersonage. 
 
 " Can you give us the use of a private sitting-room for a short 
 time ? I have some business to transact." 
 
 " All right I" was the curt rei)ly of th.e man of bottles, desisting 
 for a moment from the dispensing of Upper Canada whiskey to 
 his bibacious clients. " Here I Jim, show these gentlemen to 
 the little drawing-room up stairs, and see what they want," he 
 called out to a coatless individual sittinij amoncr the habitues of 
 the bar-room. 
 
 This personage, who was the ostler of the hotel, the p'^rfume 
 of his attire sufficiently indicating the nature of his vocatioii, 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
 i 
 
iS4 
 
 SHK MICiHT HAVH DONK IlK'ITKR. 
 
 V \'\ 
 
 I'll 
 
 ao'orciingly prcc'xlcd the two gciulcincn to a coinfortahlc and 
 rather handsomely furnished ruum, and h'ghting a lamp, awaited 
 their commands. 
 
 '• Bring some paper, pens and ink," said Sidney. " And, look 
 here! have you any champagne in the house? ('hampagne, I 
 mean. None of your cider and gooseberry jokes. Have you 
 any good ?" 
 
 "You het, we have I" replied he of the stal)les. "There ain't 
 as much fi/ drank in this consarn as there is whiskey by a long 
 chalk. Hut we've got the real stufTfor all that." 
 
 "Well! bring up a bottle and glasses, and don't forget tlu- 
 writing materials," answered Sidney, and their (jueer attendant 
 dei)arted on his errand. 
 
 " What did you order the champagne for, Sichiey ? I'm sure 
 we've both had enough already. 1 shall not drink any, at least," 
 said Kdwin, reproachfully, to his friend. 
 
 " Oh I nonsense, \'ance. What does a glass of champagne 
 amount to? I want some, at any rate, for I'm tired after my 
 day's work, getting beaten by those young scamps. And so do 
 you, too, after standing roasting in the sun all day with a bat in 
 your hand," rei)lied Sidney, decidjdly. 
 
 " I've had too much as it is, and I won't drink any more to- 
 night," answered PMwin. " A glass of soda would do better. I 
 wish you had not pressed me so often to take wine, Sidney. I am 
 not used to so much." 
 
 " Pooh ! What the worse are you for it ? But have the soda 
 if you like," returned Sidney, and as he spoke their attendant re" 
 turned bearing the champagne in one hand and a couple of glasses 
 upside down in the other. 
 
 " Here's your fiz ! The writing fixings will be here directly. 
 They had to send out for them. Old Whiskey Mixer, doun 
 stairs, allowed as how you champagne gents would'nt be satisfied 
 with the yallar envelope, blue-ruled, ten-cent-a-quire sort he 
 keeps on hand in gineral. It goes well enough with your hot 
 
A CRICKKT MA'I'CH. 
 
 iS' 
 
 whiskey callers though," said the rjiieer genius, who waited on 
 thc'tu. 
 
 •' All right ! Uring up a glnss of sotia with a stic k in it, mind, 
 for this gentleiium," said Sidney. •' Here ! take your pay out of 
 this, and a (juarter to treat yourself with Hurry up with those 
 writing materials and the soda — a stick in it, remeniher," — he 
 added, the last words in a low and signifu ant tone, as he hand- 
 ed the man a five dollar hill. '* High wines ! and keep the change 
 yourself" 
 
 " All right !" was the reply, and as the door closed behind him, 
 our worthy ostler shook his head aiid muttered — 
 
 "Sid's up to some of his games tonight with that young fel- 
 low. Soda and high wines is a (jueer mixture on the top of 
 (hunpagne ; but its no business of mine, though." 
 
 He presently returned with the materials for writing, a bottle 
 of soda water, and a large tumbler, nearly a ([uarter full of the 
 fiery li(|uid, y'clept high wines, which, being colourless, escai)ed 
 I'.dwin's notice, through the thick sides of the common moulded 
 glass. 
 
 "That will do ! Thanks," said Sidney to the man, who de- 
 parted. 
 
 *' Here's your paj)er, Vance. AVrite away now as fast as you 
 like," he continued, iumding i'!dwin the writing materials. Then, 
 taking up the bottle of soda, he oi)ened it, and poured its 
 contents into the tumbler, with the fiery potion it contained. 
 
 '* Here ! Drink it while it is fresh, though in my opinion a 
 glass of cham[Kigne would be better for you," he added, as he 
 gave the traitorous dose to his friend, who drank off what, inno- 
 cently, he sui)posed to be a cooling draught. 
 
 " A\'cll I that soda water has a very strange taste," said Edwin, 
 
 as he put down the emjny glass. ^ 
 
 Had he known what a gkvss of soda " with a stick in it " meant 
 
 as, if he had been a tavern'nrequenter, like his friend, he would 
 
 have kiiown, he would most certainly have avoided 'it ; but to his 
 
 
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 SHE MIC.Hr HAVE DoXK HETTER. 
 
 imsoithisticatcd mind the stick mcnnt merely a country conlri- 
 trivance for adding sjiarkle to a stale commodity, a mere dis- 
 eni:ager of latent carlionic acid gas, which in country ke|)t soda, 
 was probably very apt to l)c latent, or, in i)lain English, very 
 tlat. 
 
 However, as the soda possessed a cooling effect in itself tor 
 the moment, in s))ite of the dosing to which it had been sub- 
 jected, whose action was not so immediately api)arent, he sat 
 down and finished his letter to the Hatchilfesses coolly and 
 etjiiably enough. 
 
 JJut when, in the course of a few minutes, he commenced his 
 rei)ly to Miss Seaforth, and raised himself from the recumbent 
 attitude of v/riting to search f»)r her letter, it could be seen that 
 there was a deeper Ihish on his face, an unsteady and excited 
 light in his eye, and an unnatural ex'pression of feature, which 
 too i>iainly showed that W'cjlverton's potion had accomi)li;>hed 
 its intended purpose. 
 
 " What can I have done witli that letter?" he exclaimed, im 
 ];atiently, as, after searching liis pockets in the vain attempt to 
 find what was not there, he lielil the emi)ty enveloi)e in h.is 
 hand. " I'm sure I picked it up witli the other, and al! I <an 
 find is the envelope. I wonder now if I left it on the l;i)rary 
 table. It's vexatious, for I wanted it to refer to in my replying. 
 However, I must do the best I can without it, and answer the 
 letter from memory." 
 
 '• Perhajjs you left it on die cricket ground lo-day. Likel\ 
 enough if you had it loosely in your pocket," said Sidney. 
 
 " I may have done so, although it is strange too. I'll write a 
 few words, at any rate. I wish now I had written this morning, 
 for I shall not express myself so clearly as I should wish after 
 that chnmijagne. The soda water has done me no good either," 
 rei)lied he. 
 
 " I told you so at the time, Vance, that a glass of chamiJagnc 
 would have been better for you. Take some now." 
 
I T 
 
 A CRICKKI' MATCH, 
 
 ,87 
 
 :oiUn- 
 
 c dis- 
 
 soda, 
 
 I, very 
 
 elf for 
 n sub- 
 he sat 
 ly and 
 
 [■ed his 
 in"il»cnl 
 :n that 
 excited 
 ;, which 
 ipH^.hed 
 
 K'd, ini 
 jmpt to 
 
 in I'.is 
 1' I can 
 
 l;i)rary 
 ei)lying. 
 wcr the 
 
 Likel; 
 
 IV. 
 
 write a 
 tnorning. 
 Ish '.irter 
 
 either," 
 
 Impagnc 
 
 " Indfjd I will not, Sidney. I feel as if I had too much al- 
 ready," was his answer, as he picked uj) his pen again. After 
 .1 moment's consideration, he dashed off a few lines to MissSea- 
 forth, folded, enclosed and addressed the two letters, and taking 
 mother, written the evening before, from his pocket, laid them 
 (til the table. 
 
 •* I sui)pose I can get that fellow who showed us u]) to mail 
 ihese letters," he observed. 
 
 •' Oh I yes ! I think so ; I'll ring," replied Sidney, taking up 
 the hand bell. 
 
 •• Xever mind I Sidney. 1 don't feel very well, and will go out 
 for a minute. I'll send him up. That soda water or something 
 has overset me. A breath of fresh air is the thing," he said, and 
 .;()ing to the door, he walkjcl down stairs. 
 
 Sidney thus left to himst,"* with the letters he desired to obtain 
 \vh(jlly withii\ liis reach, i)ondered for a moment as to whether 
 he should risk the chances of Vance's return to the room before 
 ihe man came up and take immediate possession of the i)ri/.e or 
 u ail until sure which of them came first. He hesitated awhile with 
 the uneasy and nervously guilty feeling, the deterring conscious- 
 ness that, spite of being alone in the closed room, its very walls 
 (ontained a thousand eyes fixed u})on him and taking silent note 
 of the act he was medit.ning. 
 
 '• Why did I not think ot ii ul once," he said, almost aloud, 
 and jumping up he i)Ut the three letters into his jjocket. " If 
 Vance comes uj) first I'll tell him I have sent the letters off to 
 the i)ost office, and I can then go down stairs and find the man 
 myself." 
 
 His pilfering object was attained. 
 
 But though attained there remained a sensation of intolerable 
 unrest upon him alone in the room. The letters seemed to burn 
 in his i)ockets like fire -to drag liim down as by tons' weight. 
 Xot from remorse or shame of the act he had accomj)lished, but 
 simjily from the fear that, until diey were safely on their '..ay to 
 
 ». 
 
 ! 
 
 'B^ 
 
 'tv 
 
 I [ 
 
 Mi. 
 
 I I 
 
 I '\ 
 
1 88 
 
 SHK iMKlHT HAVK DONK IJKTTKR. 
 
 the post ofticc, there was i)Ossihility of detection. I'nahle to 
 bear it longer, he left the room, and started down stairs in search 
 of the ostler, to meet him half-way coming up. 
 
 " The other gentleman told me to get some letters for the mail 
 in the room you were in," he said to Sidney. " Hurry i\[) with 
 them, or it'll be too late, and the office will be shut." 
 
 " Here they are," said Sidney, taking the two he did not wain 
 from his i)Ocket. " Save the mail if you can, there's a good fel- 
 low. Where's my friend.^" 
 
 " Oh I he's walking about on the gallery down stairs. I cal- 
 culate he's feeling sick," replied the man with a grin, as he turned 
 down again with the letters. 
 
 Sidney followed slowly afier him and joined his friend out- 
 side. 
 
 " Whatever is the matter with you, \'ance ?" he exclaimed. 
 "If you are feeling the effects of the champagne still, you will 
 be better out of the air. Come up stairs again. Vou will be- 
 all right shortly. Are you not well ?" he added. 
 
 '• Oh ! I'm well enough, but I'm half intoxicated, I'm sorry to 
 say, and am worse since I took that villainous soda. I am not 
 accustomed to anything more than a siiigle glass of wine, and 1 
 am easily affected, I suppose," replied Edwin, with a Ualf-asham- 
 ed laugh, continuing his rapid walk u\) and down in the fresh 
 evening air. 
 
 Sidney sa'.»' that he had gone ([uite flir enough with his friend. 
 His eyes had assumed a glassy brightness and shone with an 
 unnatiu-al and wild exi)ression, which,with an occasional unstead>- 
 movement in his gait, showed i)lainly enough that he was not 
 himself by any means. 
 
 " Pshaw ! You are not half intoxicated, but you will be better 
 out of the air. Come up stairs with me and sit down. You will 
 be straight enough in an hour," said Sidney, taking him by the 
 arm to lead him in. 
 
 " W'ell ! I belie\e I shall do so. Anything would be better 
 
A CRICKKT MATCH. 
 
 189 
 
 I, 
 
 than my present sensations," reiilied Kclwin, as they walked 
 into the house together. " I wanted to speak witli you of your 
 t)\vn affairs to-niglU, but I don't feel capable of niu< h at jjresenl,' 
 he continued. 
 
 Returning to the room they had left, Kdwin threw himself 
 clown on a sofa and fanned his Hushed face with his handkerchief, 
 while Sidney, pouring out jome champagne, handed a gla.ss to 
 liini, which, however, was refused Ijy a gesture. 
 
 " No more for me ! thanks," he said. '' I'm (juite satisfied 
 with my evening's experience." 
 
 '* \\'ell I i)lease yourself. Vou make too much of a trifle, 
 though," replied Sidney, pultmg the glass down again on the 
 table. 
 
 Seating himself, he continued. " I supi)0se you don't care for 
 going into business matters to-night, Vance. Don't feel up to it 
 ([uite, so we'll defer consideration of my affairs until another 
 opportunity, but in the meantime you can do me a great favour 
 if you will. You mentioned, during our conversation the other 
 evening, that you had a couple of thousand at conuiiand which 
 you could let me have. Now, I find on a careful review uf my 
 immediately available resources, that I can in the course of a 
 couple of days rake together a sum somewhere between six or 
 seven thousand dollars. If you will let me have a thousand for 
 immediate expenses, and give me your endorsation to my note 
 fur three thousand five hundred dollars, I can tide over my press- 
 ing difficulty. 1 can thus pay ten thousand on the lands, and 
 get sufficient time to enable me to j^rocure the balance either by 
 disjjosing of a portion of them or by some other method. The 
 l)ayment for these lands is the most pressing demand I have 
 upon me, and that disposed of I can get along well enough, I 
 think. At any rate, will try to do so. Can you do this for me, 
 Vance.?" 
 
 This specious liltle address had been admirably calculated by 
 \Volverton. The falsehoods in regard to his position, and the 
 
 1 
 
 i II 
 
 '^\ 
 
 i< 
 
lyo 
 
 SIL. MIC.HT HAVK DOXK IIKI'TKR. 
 
 means necessary to dear him from his diftirulties, had been so 
 slated that, in his present (condition, Vance was neither Hkely to 
 perceive their want of coherence to former statements or to (jues- 
 thcir probability. 'I'he latter had Hstened, rech'ningon the sofa, 
 a!nl his head resting on a cusliion, and when Sidney had finish- 
 ed he raised liimself toa sitting position, as if endeavouring to 
 phick up a Httle interest in the matter, as he rephed — 
 
 "All right I Siilney. I'm glad to see that you think you can 
 get so easily out of your i)resent troubles, and hojje sincerely 
 that you will be enabled to do so. I am not fit for business or 
 anything else this evening, but will be happy to do as you ask. 
 You shall have a cheque for a thousand, and either my note 
 or endorsation for the three and a half. Have you a blank ? 
 All right, then, fill it up, and heie's my chcfpie-book. !"ill u[) a 
 chc'iuc, I can't do anything," he continued, throwing his aching 
 head down on the sofa again, unmindful of all his promises and 
 good resolutions with respect to Wolverton and his affairs. 
 
 Sidney hesitated a moment as to whether he would accept the 
 offer of the note instead of an endorsation. The former was in 
 many resi)ects infinitely i)referal)le. It was more business like. 
 The presentation for discount of his own i)aper, no matter how 
 well endorsed, did not look well and bore " accommodation " on 
 its face as plainly as if the word were written there, and \'ance's 
 name on the face of the pai)er would make it the more easily 
 discountable. 13ut then he reflected that bank managers knew 
 (juite too much of his affiiirs to look on Vance's note to him as 
 other than " acommodation." Again, and this decided him, 
 Vance wouk' 'lave to put his name on the face of the paper in- 
 stead of the back, and this did not suit his ends. 
 
 "Oh I If you endorse mine it will do as well, thanks. Much 
 obliged to you for the offer, though," replied Sidney, producing 
 a book of blank forms from his pocket. 
 
 Taking up a pen he then filled it in properly, j^rornising to 
 l)ay three thousand five hundred dollars to Edwin Vance or 
 
A CKICKKl MARC'U. 
 
 lyi 
 
 i 
 
 order, three niuntlis after dale, ami handed it to him for c\aini- 
 
 nation. 
 " All ri''ht I .Sidney. Three thousand five liundred. I sec 
 
 you've made it payable at tlic IkhiI: nlicre I keej) my arj ount. 
 
 \ll the better, since if ywu cannot ron\cniently meet it when lUic, 
 
 I can the easier see to it myself," said lulwin, sitting up .md 
 
 i^lancing over the paper. Ho llien got up, and, going to the 
 
 tabic endorsed it, handed it back to .Sidney, and then went back 
 
 to his sofa. 
 
 Sidney took a bill stamj) from his jxx-ket-book, affixed it to 
 
 the note, and took up the pen to <an(il it with tlie date and his 
 
 initials. 
 " ( 'onfound it !" he exriaimed, sprmging uj) inipntie'Uly. " I've 
 
 spoiled it. .Sjjlashed it all over with ink. with the spluttering 
 
 pen. I am afraid I'll have trouble you to endorse a new one, 
 
 Vance. This is done for," and v,-n Iking over he showed it to 
 
 him. 
 •' Ves, 1 think so." saiil Isdwin, with a half laugh. "Make 
 
 out another and the checjue too. How my unfortunate head 
 
 does go I My brain feels as if it v.-ere red hot," he v-onti:iued, 
 
 ])urying his he;id in the cushion. 
 Sidney tilled up the new note, and a cheque from X'ance's 
 
 hook. Having finished them, he went to the piano, wliich stood 
 
 in the room, took a music book from it, laid the note and the 
 
 checjue u])on it, the former fiice downwards, and carried it to the 
 
 sota, with a pen in his hand. 
 "Here! \'ance, just sign them. I won't trouble you to get 
 
 up, as you are suffering," he said, in an accent of apparent con- 
 cern, as he held the book before him. 
 
 Kdwin raised himself with a sigh, took the pen and wrote 
 
 his name across the back of the note, and signed the checjue 
 without looking at either, too generously confident of his friend. 
 " Thank you I I won't trouble you again. Try to rest a few 
 minutes until the i)ain leaves you," said Sidney, removing the 
 hook, tlie moment Kdwin had signed. 
 
 t 
 
 \ ' I 
 
192 
 
 SHK MIC.WT IIAVK OOXF. nF/ITKR. 
 
 ?i '' 
 
 
 i> ( 
 
 mm I 
 
 lie walked I>a(k U> llic tal)lc, aiul with a sense of triiiniph 
 placed the lalter's eiulorsation for thirty-five thousand dollars, 
 duly signed, stamped and ( onipleted into his po( ket and lie felt 
 se< lire. 
 
 No twinge of remorse, no sense of disgrace for the shameful 
 act he had perpelrateil, tugged at his heart strings witli the 
 arousing gras|) of conscience, or (juenched the exultant gleam of 
 his eyes in self-humiliation. No inward retrosjject swept over 
 his soul and lowered the confident poise of his head at the '''It- 
 horrent aspect of his own vileness. 
 
 No gleam of pity for the generous-hearted and confiding friend 
 — blameahle alone in that he was too aimahle and too yiekling. 
 whom he had not alone robbed, but had drugged and tried his 
 best to degrade that day — passed from his remorseless eyes. 
 
 Did not the reflection — chi'iing as a northern blast — sweej) 
 over him that, as crime ..fter crime, the crimes whose perpetra- 
 ''on he had but just accom[)lished, added their blackness to his 
 ioul, the blackness became tlie more indelible? the harder to 
 be washed out, as washed out they must be, even in tears of' 
 blood. Did not the paralyzing thought, like a blow, crush into 
 his consciousness, that for the blackness of that whic!i he had 
 received from his Maker in purity, he was alone resjx.tnsible, for 
 had he not, with his eyes open, deliberately and again sinneil : 
 and as he was resjtonsible, so must he atone.'* 
 
 That, as he added wickedness knowingly to wickedness, 
 hardening his seared conscience in its guilt, so became it the 
 harder for him — the more impossible, the more undesired, even, 
 to turn himself away from his sin ; and looking towards the 
 Great Atonement, that would wash his .soul again white as snow 
 — ap])ealing to the world-embracing sacrifice — his Saviour's 
 blood, cry forth the cry that His mercy never refuse^ : " I re- 
 pent me of my sin — forgive." 
 
 No ! Sensations such as these would be the last to occur to 
 Sidney Wolverton, as he stood there, triumphant. There was 
 
A CRICKKT NfATCH. 
 
 >9.S 
 
 ^ \\ 
 
 truiin[)li 
 
 dollars. 
 
 (J he fell 
 
 sluuucrul 
 with the 
 gleam (»l 
 cpt over 
 Lt the n.l)- 
 
 ing frioul 
 
 I yielding, 
 tried his 
 
 ; eyes. 
 
 it — sweei ' 
 l)eri)etra 
 
 less to his 
 larder to 
 
 \ w.ixrs of 
 iu>h iiUo 
 1 he iiad 
 ihihle, lor 
 sinned ; 
 
 kedness. 
 
 lie it tlic 
 
 ,'d, e\eii. 
 
 Lirds the 
 
 as snow 
 
 viviour's 
 
 ■• I rc- 
 
 )ccur to 
 here was 
 
 no remorse or shame — no pity— no sense of his own vileness 
 present to him, as he looked down on the generous friend whom 
 he had injured — and ronsiderrd.as to his next move. He was 
 the victor — what eared he for the vutim? He had swept away 
 ihe trace of one crime, and its danger to himself, hy the com- 
 mission of another — and what cared he who suffered thereby? 
 joy, and the pride of success reigned in his heart in place of 
 hitter humiliation and disgrace of himself. 
 
 He had hut little left to do : his work for the day was very 
 nearly completed. He !iad hut to see Miss Dearborn, andtiien 
 take himself off with his spoil. Now that he had been su<"<es.s- 
 liil, he had not the slightest intention of returning to Lake .Nfor- 
 (launt to si)end the Sunday, or even to bid his "Farewell I" 
 He had brought his travelling valise with him to Ten I -ikes, 
 and an hour hence would see him on the road. He sat for a 
 tl'sv minutes meditating 'ui)on the events of the day, and his 
 next moves — and (juietly finishing his champagne. 
 
 At length he rose from his seat, looked at his watch, and half 
 ludibly nuittered : " If I can make a start in half an hour, I'll 
 audi the night train at Cascades ; and the first on Monday fi^r 
 Tonjntt). IJut I'll have to hurry, though. I must see Kmily 
 Dearborn before I go. I wonder how my friend there is getting 
 along," continued he, walking over to the sofa, where Vance 
 still lay reclining, and found that he had fallen asleep. 
 
 *' All the better for him," he said to himself; " he'll be straight 
 enough again when he wakes. Well ! If I had such a head as 
 he has — that two or three glasses of champagne would knock 
 me into a corked hat, like that — I'd — yes I — I'd become a tem- 
 perance man, or I'd season it with a little * del. tre.' 
 
 '* I guess that that whiskey sickened him ; but it was a bright 
 idea of mine, though I How Kmily will laugh over it I I'll go 
 and see her now, and I'll come back and bid him 'good-bye* 
 before I start," and turning away he walked quickly from the 
 room, not to disturb the sleeper. 
 
 \i\ 
 
 1 
 
 ' 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■ i 
 
 t 
 
 ■» 
 
 
 1 
 
IV4 
 
 siii: Micnr iiavk dom: n:rri:K. 
 
 
 Proreedin;^' to the barroom, he asked tliat a ronveyarnv In- 
 ready in half an hour to take him tf) Cuscades. 
 
 " (,'asrades ! — the devil : " replied the har tender with a^'ree 
 able politeness. "What in thunder do \oii want to i;* to Cas- 
 cades for, at this time of a Saturday night? \'oi: can't get out 
 of it before Monday." 
 
 "Can I have the tean, or shall I go elsewhere for it ?" said 
 Sidney, i)eremplorily. •* I want to catch the niglu train, and 
 am w illitig to pay for speed to do it." 
 
 "( )h ! you (an have it fast enough, if you must have it. [t 
 will be ready for you on time," replied the bar-tender sulkily. 
 
 'v\Il right ! I'll be back for it in half an hour," and Sidiu) 
 dei>.irted for his intervii.'w with Mi;^s Di-arborn. 
 
 '• I wonder what in the W(<rld Mmily wants this letter of 
 \'ance's for.^" he solilo'|in'/ed. as he wall;ed along the street to 
 wards l!ie Town Hall. "She's up to some deep game or other 
 against him and his love affiir with the Mordaunt girl. I can'i 
 see into her idea— though I'm very certain tliere's nothing In. 
 tween him and this Miss Seaforth, to v>ho;n he is writing. Ik'^ 
 not the l.ind to make love to two at once, by any means," and 
 Sidnev lauirhed at the idea of his verv i)roi)er friend indiil^'iiii; 
 
 * I* •'11 V.' ~ 
 
 himself with two strings to his bow. 
 
 She's trying to break off tlie match with the charming Ethel. 
 I feel i)retty sure ; but for whal end 1 can't imagine," he contin- 
 ued. '*She surely can't expect that he'll m:irry her afler. Not 
 much I — he won't. 1 would not give a fig for her chance. SheV 
 too fast — too knowing a chicken altogetlier for his taste. One 
 of your straiglu-laced beauties, very jjroper and very go')d, i> 
 his ideal of female i)erfecti()n. Strange I — how tastes differ. 
 
 " I'd rather have that vicious little witch of an Kaiiily — full of 
 life and wicked cleverness — than forty Mthel Mordau!its. IJiit 
 she won't catch \'ance, though : if slie breaks off his marriage, 
 with some of her schemes, the poor wretch will break his heart 
 over it. Well ! it's no business of mine ; I have enough of m) 
 
A CRICkKI* MAICH. 
 
 i';5 
 
 «' 
 
 nice Ik- 
 
 h agree 
 » to ( 'as- 
 
 gel oin 
 
 t?" said 
 uin, atul 
 
 c it. I' 
 .ulkily. 
 d SidncN 
 
 letter «>r 
 street to 
 I or other 
 . I can't 
 thing he 
 V'. He's 
 ms," anil 
 lituUilgini; 
 
 Iv' Kthel. 
 \\c contiiv 
 lev. Not 
 SIk-'- 
 Itc. One 
 !j;o;)d, i> 
 lliffer. 
 ^— full of 
 
 lis. r.iu 
 
 iiavriaL,^e. 
 
 his heart 
 
 ■■h of nn 
 
 own afTairs to take care of at present, and slie may play her 
 game for all f care. Let her fire away, anil amuse herself. I'll 
 marry her myself as soon as I get ready. 
 
 ••.She'll he at the hop to-night, :!iat's certain— tlirting away 
 with some of the young pu|)pies around here, in lieu of higiiei 
 game. I'll have to send in for her to come out to me, as I am 
 not altogether in hall-room fig." and he concluded his soliloijuy 
 IS he arrived at the Town llall. 
 
 He had to wait for a few minutes in an anti-room, after send 
 iiig in his message — until l'anil\ Dearborn, a radiant vision in 
 while — beautiful as a dream— (ame out to meet him. 
 
 .So very fair was she — so lovely in her ( iiarming youtli and 
 beauty, — the gau/y folds of her shining dress lloating around 
 her in snowy purity ; so sweet and so innocent seenu'ng, slie 
 hardly appeared as belonging to this lower earth, where angel- 
 visits arc few and far between. .\nd well might she be im 
 agined some such slarr\ creation, strayed from its transcending 
 abode; yet how eagerly had she come f(jrlh on wliat she knew 
 to be a mi.ssion of evil ! 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, fresh from his scene of crime, ga/.ed with 
 rapt and wondering admiration at th.e spectacle of loveliness 
 hctore him, and — so strongly is imbued in our consciousness 
 the impression that innocence and beauty are natural allies ; 
 thai loveliness is the visible appearance of innocence, — he ab- 
 solutely hesitated to address himself to her on his unworthy 
 errand, even though it had been herself who had instigated it. 
 
 "Well ; how have you succeeded in your projects?" she en- 
 iiuired, as soon as they were alone. 
 
 " I felt a little dubious as to the result, as I found that the 
 dinner party broke uj) early, and that N'ance had hardly drank 
 enough to be affected. How did you get on with him ? " she 
 continued. 
 
 '• Everything worked to i)erfection, from beginning to end; 
 and resulted as you foretold it would, Kmily. In the fusl 
 
 i I 
 
 1 
 
 \\ 
 
 M'1 
 
 t 
 
I' 
 
 h 
 
 u 
 
 
 \i < 
 
 If > 
 
 ,"! ,' 
 
 f 
 
 ly6 
 
 SHE MICilT 1IA\ K IKJNK liKlTKR. 
 
 jilarc, here in his Icltcr to Miss Scaforth, whi«*h you ankcd mc 
 lo gel. Whatever in the motive you have in view with theu* 
 letters? You Hurely do not suspert the pious Kdwiti Vanre of 
 having twt) loves, do you?" he replied, handing her the letter, 
 
 "Never mind my motive for it,' answered Kmily, taking her 
 pri/e, \vhi< h she unhesitatingly pnHeeded lo open and read. 
 
 "This is splendid ! — it's <apiial ! The very thing I wanted, 
 .Sidney ! Tell n)e all about it, and how you got it !" exclainied 
 Miss l)e;irI>orn excitedly. 
 
 *• I'll tell you the whole story, Kmily ; it will Ik: the shortest 
 way, and I have not much time, an I leive for Cascades 
 to-night. 
 
 *' Notwithstanding all I could do, Vance would not l)c per- 
 suaded to drink more than two or three glasses of champagne, 
 at the dinner ; hut. nevertheless, he was considerably excited 
 by what little lie had taken, and when he got out into the fresh 
 air he was visibly affected. He is probably not so mu<h accus- 
 tomed to drinking as some people I know. Well I wc got .i 
 room at the hotel here, where he could write his letters, .uul 
 have a talk over my affairs. I ordered up champagiK, but 
 nothing would induce him to partake of it. He complained of 
 my pressure at dinner, and said he had taken too much, and 
 called for soda-water. I privately directed the attendant to put 
 a strong glass of whiskey into the tumbler, and I poured tin. 
 soda nito the same glass. This was worse than chami)agnc 
 wouldhave been for him, and speedily had a powerful effe* t. 
 
 "Of course he was unable to find the letter I got for you this 
 morning ; and I noticed hemerely dashed off a few lines in haste, 
 and seemingly glad to get it done. 'I'he whiskey had made 
 him ill as well as intoxicated him, and he laid down on a sofa, 
 just as I wished. In fact, he acceded to my request at once. 
 The little game of spoiling the first note was eminently success- 
 ful. He never looked at the new one I made, but endorsed it 
 unhesitatingly — little imagining, however, that he endorsed ten 
 
\ (RK K»T MA'ICM. 
 
 197 
 
 % 
 
 J IOC 
 
 ihc^ 
 i«c oi 
 letter, 
 
 ig her 
 :m\. 
 anted, 
 laiinetl 
 
 hortest 
 
 time« the amount he ^^l|n•o*e(l. 1 hi«« [nitH nu* all rijjiit. .\n(l re 
 mo\eH all d.in^'cr. I doubt ih.it he wouh* have hniked at it. 
 e\cn had he n«>t Iwen ^iufferinj;. He ul-wt Hu-^nt'ets any one." 
 
 " Wish me joy of my su« «esH, Kmily," he rontinued. " I am 
 ,1 rich man aj^ain. Tell me y«)U are^^'lad for my s.ike, and Kmily ! 
 icll n)c also you are glad for your own." 
 
 •* Well ! I'm glad for your sake, at any r.ite, Sidney Nou are 
 not out of the mire yet, though you have escaped the d.mgcr 
 llul pressed you. You know I like you, though you are not the 
 most honest man in the world," she answered, laughing. ** Hut 
 I am still too douhlfiil of your future to mike pronuses. Mow 
 cser, I <-ongratulate you," and she held up her rosy lips to him. 
 •• How beautiful you are tonight. I'mily," he said, when he 
 had availed himself of the lemplifig privilege. '• .\s you eame 
 in just now you were such a dazzling vision, so sweet, so lovely 
 .UK so innorentlooking, so like an angel might appear, I was 
 half afr.iid to speak to you on our rather uncelestial subjects. 
 ( )h ! Kmily, you know that I love you, and yoji say yoti like jne ; 
 why then do you so unceremoniously throw to one side every 
 overture of my love ?" 
 
 " Ilecause I'm not so innocent as I may appear, and I go 
 ihout the world vn . my eyes open, .Sidney," she replied, decided 
 ly, though evidently pleased at his tribute to her charms and her 
 liower. " I've told you already that I will not marry an unsuc- 
 t cssful man. He successful, and ii may be differeHt. though I 
 make no promises." 
 
 " I'nsuccessful I I am not an unsuccessfttl man to-day, Kmily. 
 Vmu are too hard upon me." he re[)lied. 
 
 " Xol I am not too hard u\)nn you, Sidney, and if you think 
 a moment you will acknowledge that I am not so. I do not 
 pretend to romance, to 'love in a cottage,' or the thousand and 
 «me merits of the heroine of a novel. I am a live girl, alive to 
 my own merits, and determined from the first that I will not 
 throw away my chances, my marketable value, so tos])eak, uj)on 
 
 14 
 
 1 
 
in 
 
 T«^ 
 
 f 
 
 h' 
 
 - \- 
 
 i •' 
 
 
 I » 
 
 U A 
 
 198 
 
 SHK Miciir n.wi': doxk uhttkr. 
 
 any ridiculous notions of love, and love alone. \cl I can love, and 
 love iiUcnsc'ly,\vith all ihc intensity of a woman's love, and can adtl 
 to that love the inestimable advantage, tiie infinite \anety with 
 which the talent of a clever woman, wIkj sees the world as it 
 should be seen, and ada[Hs herself to it, enhaloes and glorifies 
 her love. lUit I intentl to marry a rich man, and if 1 can lovc 
 the man I marry, so much the better. \'et if that is not j>ossible, 
 I would still marry him, for without wealth and the power and 
 position it gives, there could not, for me, be hap[)iness. Again '. 
 silly as you may think it, Sid'iey, though I am not a good wo- 
 man, yet I would like to nicT-ry a good man, not alone for the 
 respectability which attaches to his status as such, but because il 
 would be so much better for me in the end — in that future which 
 surely comes. Though such as you and I ai)pear to regard it as 
 too far off — it's well worth our calculations. But enough of tiiis." 
 " Well I Emily, 1 am not a good man, most decidedly, and 1 
 don't think I ever can be, I'm too lar gone for that. But do 
 
 you think yourself that, even with your beauty and talents, }(nir 
 marriage to a good man whom you loved, would make him 
 
 happy or yourself a good woman ?" sarcastically encjuired 
 
 Sidney. 
 
 " No I but if I loved him he might make me a good woman, 
 
 and then find both his own happiness and mine. As however, 
 
 such an event is not at present probable, we'll talk no further 
 
 about it," replied she, gently enough. 
 
 " I will have to be moving, I think. I must catci tlie night 
 
 train at Cascades, so as to get the first Orand Trunk train for 
 
 Toronto on Monday." 
 
 " Toronto ! Shall you be in Toronto ?" interrupted Emil}'. 
 
 " Then you can do something for me. Do you know Mr. Hatchit- 
 
 fess' office, Sidney ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Yes. I know the old villain to my cost and his scami) 
 
 of a son also. Whatever do you want with these people, Emil) ?" 
 
 he replied. 
 
A CRICK K/r MATCH. 
 
 )t 
 
 199 
 
 i 
 
 ;o, ;uk1 
 an :idd 
 Ly wilh 
 d as it 
 ;,loriric.-> 
 m love 
 ossiblu, 
 ;cr and 
 
 Again : 
 )od wo- 
 
 tbr the 
 :causc il 
 •c wliich 
 ;ard it as 
 . of diis." 
 ly, and 1 
 But do 
 nts, your 
 
 ike him 
 
 unciuircd 
 
 woman, 
 lONvevcr, 
 further 
 
 he night 
 train for 
 
 Emil)-. 
 iHatchit- 
 
 lis scami» 
 lEmily ?" 
 
 '•Some inft^nnatioii. I wish nou would iro t(< their oftlee and 
 trv t) fnul out from o)ie of tlicin all ihev know about Miss Atrnes 
 Seaforth. W'liosheis? What they think of her? What she 
 IS like? and generally any inf)rmation you tan ol^tain concern 
 iiig her, and vrrite me at onec the full details. \'ou'll render me 
 a service by so doing, Sichiey." 
 
 '* Well ! under the circumstances, 1 must say it is cool of you, 
 Kmily. to expect me to do this. [ can see plainly enough that 
 vini are hatching a scheme against \'ance's engagement, hoping, 
 1 suppose, to marry him afterwards. .\nd you ask me to help 
 vou to that end. I've helj^ed ; ou more than I like already," 
 answered Sidnev, disgusted. 
 
 '• Vou will do it. Sidney, whether or not you like to do it, and 
 you had better not quarrel about the matter. \'ou are in my 
 power at present. .Su[)posing I were to enlighten Mr. N'ance as 
 to to-day's i)roceedings, what then would follow ? Vou and I 
 had better remain allies and a.ssist each other. Do you really 
 doem me cai)able of the folly of imagining that I could marry 
 Vance, supposing I wished it, by breaking off his engagement? 
 His heart is too deei)ly concerned for so facile a change, and he 
 already honours me with his dislike. Vou will send me the in- 
 formation I recjuire, Sidney," replied Miss Dearborn, decisively. 
 
 '•'I'hat makes the matter different, Emily," and I will do all I 
 can. I must really say 'good-bye,' though I could wish to stay. 
 By-the-bye, show me the letter to this Miss Seaforth which 1 
 hrought you. What can it contain to be of u.se to you ? Vance 
 is the most unlikely man in the world to have two loves. Eet 
 nic see it ?" 
 
 " I'd rather not at present. I'll tell you so much, that, had 
 Vance not drank any wine to-day, he would not have been so 
 careless in his expressions. '' Well ! ' Crood-bye.' Get yourself 
 out of danger as quickly as you can. and cease your vicious and 
 extravagant habits, if you have any object at heart which you 
 desire to attain. You know what I mean. Farewell," and shak- 
 
 .4 
 
 ' I 
 
 ti 
 
300 
 
 SHK MIOH'I' HAVK DONK I]l<:T'rKR. 
 
 ing hands with him she returned to the hall room, while he walked 
 back to the hotel. 
 
 CHAITKR XX. 
 
 I'KCCAVl, 
 
 Kdwin Vance, lying asleep on his sofa, became suddenly con- 
 scious of the fact that he was undergoing theo])eration ofbein^ 
 well shaken uj), and shaken too with no gentle hand. 
 
 Si)ringing to his feet he found himself confronted by the fami 
 liar form of Mr. Barney Conley, whose features, generally twink 
 hng with fun and of i)leasant expression, on this occasion, at 
 least, wore by no means an aspect of amiability. 
 
 " What the divil are ye doing here, sorr?" were the first word.> 
 that greeted his astonished ears. 
 
 " Doing !" repeated Edwin, not yet wholly awake, and looking; 
 around him in a surprised manner. " Wliat am I doing ? Why 
 I should think I have been asleep." 
 
 '' Aslape ! It's just aslape ye wor, and no mishtake," rejilicd 
 Barney, glancing significantly at the empty chami)agne bottles 
 and glasses on the table, "^'e'd better come wid me and al 
 wance too." 
 
 " Go home with you. What ! are you waiting for me, Barney ? 
 ]3ut Where's Mr. Wolverton ?" answered Edwin, now thorougW} 
 awake, and fmding that his nap had had the effect of making 
 him feel like himself again, mitigating to some extent his head- 
 ache. 
 
 " Oh ! it wor him ye were with then ? I tought as much, be- 
 gorra ! It's in bad company ye wor, anyhow, sorr !" replied 
 Barney, sarcastically. Then, gazing fixedly at him for a moment 
 or two, he continued. " But ye're not dhrunk, after all, I i)er- 
 cave. By the joowers o' war ! it's lucky for ye then, in this 
 murdhering shebeen v.id ould Sidney Wolverton. Didn't yc 
 
Ill 
 
 PKCCAVI. 
 
 roi 
 
 : walked 
 
 [only con- 
 1 of being 
 
 \/ the fiinii 
 ally iwink- 
 ccasion. at 
 
 first word- 
 
 pd lookini; 
 ng? Why 
 
 .e," replied 
 (rne bottles 
 Ime and al 
 
 le, Barney ? 
 IthoroiigWy 
 of making 
 his head- 
 
 s much, be- 
 rr !" replied 
 r a moment 
 r all, I per- 
 Ihen, in this 
 Didn't yc 
 
 have enough av it at the denner, that ye iiad to come here fur 
 more ?" he encpiired. in continuation. 
 
 •' Wiiy, whatever is the matter with you, Harney?" exclaimed 
 l.dwin. gM/.ing at the man as if probably thinking he had taken 
 leave of his senses. '• Wm have not been taking too much whis- 
 key, have you ?" 
 
 '' Kai\, thin ' I had a tasthe or two, mebbc. av it, but I hav'ent 
 made an omadhaun av mcself widit, and I did'nt put whishkey 
 and soda wather on the to]) av champagne eider," rejjlied IWir- 
 ney, who had got a part of the facts of the dosed soda from 
 the ostler, whom he had closely (juestioned on fuiding the two 
 tViends were tliere. " And did ye sign yer name to the false 
 papers ould Wolverton give yc ? — for the tree tousand and the 
 tirty tousand? Begorra ! if ye've got " 
 
 ''What's going on here?" exclaimed Sidney \\*olverton, 
 walking into the room, at this i)oint of the conversation, to 
 which he had been quietly listening tor a minute or so at tlie 
 door. 
 
 •' Is our friend Barney drunk or crazy to-night, that lie is in- 
 dicting his maudHn rubbish tipon you ? What have you been 
 doing with yourself, Uarney, that )ou forget to whom you are 
 speaking ? " he continued, 
 
 •• It's to Mistlier \'ance I aHi s])hakin', sorr, and not to you, 
 surr. It's better ye'd be wid t!ie banker's daughter — hatching 
 schames again honest tolk, sorr. Dhrunk, am I! I'aix I and 
 if I was as dhrunk as wan gentleman ' kuow. the night I drove 
 him to the Lake, it's raison ye'd have to talk,' returned Barney, 
 ill high indignation ; for he cordiallv hated Sidnev Wolverton, 
 and was probably a little insj)ired !>)■ the elevating effects of 
 rpjicr Canada whiskey. 
 
 '• Xo more of this. Barney !— we have had enough, 
 do and get your carriage ready ; we will l)e down directly," 
 hroke in Edwin impatiently ; and FJarney turned on his heel 
 and left the room. 
 
 
 I ' 1 
 
 ;!; 
 
 I 
 
 .1 
 
202 
 
 SHK MUair liAVK UONK DKITKR. 
 
 \i 
 
 !■ ; 
 
 i Mii 
 
 .! 1 
 
 I 
 
 11.. 
 
 " I sec you arc all slraighi aj^Min, N'ancc. It certainly docs 
 not take nui<:h to overset you. \\ hen you IcH aslccj) I uent oui 
 for a walk and a look at the :)all-rooni, and I've come l)a< k lo 
 say gorul hyc to you, and ask you lo make my excuses at llic 
 Lake, i have received a telegram calling me a*, once to Hope- 
 town on business of importance ; and I start directly to take 
 the lu'ght train at Cascades. I'm very much obliged to you lor 
 what you have done for me to-night, \'ance ; you are a true 
 friend. Remember me lo ihcm ail at the Lake, and especially 
 to your fair hancee. 
 
 '* (lood-bye, old fellow : 1 mi:si be offj" and Sidney Iield oul 
 his liand to Iiis friend. 
 
 '•(iood-bye, .Sidney — sorry you have lo go to-nighl. \'.ni 
 have a long drive before \<)u. ! j-hail start, tOo, with Ikiniey ; 
 .s<i v/e'll ,u:o down togeiher. When shall I see you again ? ' re- 
 plied Kdwin, shakir;g his hand warni'.v, as they went down 
 stairs together. 
 
 sfc ij; % ^ sfc )f( ^' 
 
 Kdwin X'ance's retleclions, as he njvurned v/itli Barney to the 
 Lake, were none too pleasant. 
 
 As ho looked back on the eveiits of ihc evening, he teit hv.- 
 miliated, and blamed liimseif sevcii;;)' fo/ liis want of firmiKss 
 and ability to utter that very useful \\o:d ' No ! ' at the i)roii(.r 
 time. I ic acknov/lcdged to him.-eif that his yielding nuLiiiv. 
 which would submit to inconvenience, or liie opinions and 
 wishes of others, rather than make a scene appear to be dis- 
 obliging or different from tliose around hini, in the assertion (>( 
 what he knew to be the riidit tfeiiiL'^'as a fault which on ihis 
 occasion notably had placed him in ;; false position, and wliic'n 
 must be corrected. 
 
 Had he not been, this very evening, over-excited by uinc. 
 and been ill by reason of it ? \'er, though he had drunk biu 
 little — had it not l)een too muc-h for him? Was it not his ov,t. 
 fault in weakly yielding to ai)5)arently friendly pressure? — nii 
 
 UP 
 
 i H 
 
I'Kcr.wi. 
 
 ■0^ 
 
 ivaiMi'lo to ihoso around hiir. ? He was comi>cllctl to ai'know- 
 Wi\'^^ that it was such. 
 
 He rom'.'mhorcd witli ilismay his imi>licit pron-iise t() '".thcl, 
 that he wouM not drink wine on this occasion : and how had 
 Ik- kept it ? he asked liimself. !Ie had told lier tliat in all pro- 
 l)a1)ih'tv he would w^t do so — and he meant what he said at tlie 
 lime ; while she had evidently, to his mind, accented his state- 
 ii».cnt as an unconditional promise, and was satisfied. \'et he 
 had broken his word tf) her! 
 
 This was an intensely bitter remembrance to him — so bitter 
 that he could have thrown himself to the Lcround in Iiis shame 
 iuvi agony, and have hidden liimself from t)ie world and his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 That, in the ve'"v f:st days rS their enL:a'_cement — of the ac- 
 ccotance of his love by a being so beautiful, sr, sweet and so 
 pure — wb.o, in reti!r:\ i!ndoui>tediy <.'\])ected of him that he 
 should keep h.iinse'f I'ndefiled, both before the v^orld and in his 
 own e^es : he had not only touched de^lement, but had violat- 
 ed his word of honour to her. He groaned in sj)irit. His 
 liuiniliation and conlempt for hi!-i^;elf almost aniouu'ted to de- 
 spair. 
 
 •'How has lhi< evi' thing arisri to me ? ' lie asked liimself, as 
 he -ioomilv and remorsefu'lv ponde^'ed over tlie incidents which 
 had led to this self-abandonment. 
 
 ''This morning I no more imagined that I should do what I 
 have done, than T should have supposed myself capable of 
 committing a murder. " may do th;!t next," he added with 
 hitter hu.mour. " .\fter this, why should F not deem mvself 
 equal to any atrocity.^ A man vv-hov.-ill drink and tell lies, may 
 not n'gard himself as a saint ; and yet I have been in the habit 
 i)f (^onsidering myself a \ery decent fellow. I could hardly 
 claim distiu'-tion on that score tv-day," he co'itinued, with a 
 sa\'age 'augh at himself. ' 
 
 •• It is a hard lesson for me — a ven; hard lesson ; lint I will 
 
 
204 
 
 SHK Mllrlll" H.WK DONK IJKTIKR. 
 
 i '^ *ii 
 
 Icarii it to the last letter, and reap the benefits of its teachiiit^s 
 I will drink the bitter cuj) to its dregs ; I will accept nianfiill) 
 my humiliation and the consc<|uences of my fault, and shall not 
 attempt to avert them by any dastardly throwing the blaiuc 
 uj)on others, which so rightly rested ujjon myself 
 
 '' No more moderate drinking for me I 1 have had enough 
 of that ; I accept that as a finality. Moderate, indeed ! 1' 
 would hardly seem so to-day. I have prided myself upon being 
 a temperate man ; that in this matter 1 was under control, and 
 could not commit excess ; yet my moderate drinking has bro't 
 me lo grief. It shall do so no more. Never again shall the 
 wine cup touch my lii)s. With the firm resolve to place between 
 myself and harm the breast-plate of total abstinence, I can 
 deem niyself safe. I have i)roved to-day that for me there is 
 not safety without its protection. The temperance i)eople arc 
 right. They may be injudicious and unwise towards the ad 
 vancemcnt of their cause, by their peremploriness and resist 
 ance upon this very subject of moderate drinking ; it is very 
 possible that they ma)' rather repel than attract those who ha\ e 
 not yet suffered ; — but I ha\e now for myself exiJerienced its 
 insidious dangers, and can no longer wonder that they be not 
 disi)assionate and calm in their denunciations."' 
 
 Kdwin's reflections were here interrupted by Jiarney, who 
 was driving him home, and had api)arently been, since they had 
 started, cogitating over some question of interest — who now in 
 a tone wheedlingly conciliatory, and of disarming respectful- 
 ness, put forth the following query : 
 
 " Shure now! JMisther \'ance, didn't ye know better nor lo 
 put whishkey intil yer sodha-wather, after the hoight av cham- 
 pagne ye'd all been dhrinking at the dinner.? — or worita thrick 
 some wan wor playing on ye ? " 
 
 " What's that you .say, Barney ? " exclaimed I'klwin, looking 
 up hastil)' ; " I don't understand what you mean. AMiiskey : 
 put whiskey into my soda water ! I had no whiskey." 
 
PKCCAVI. 
 
 205 
 
 '•Oh, begorra ! ihcii, but it's tlic truth I ;iiu tclliii' yc. Ft 
 wor the dirty l)a.slc of .lU DStlcr they kapc over at the hot-tcl there 
 as tould tne that he'd < arried up a smashing l)ig glass o' whiskey 
 md a bottle av sodha wather till ye, and, bad luck to me, but I 
 was thinking it was ijuare it wor av a (|uite gintleman the likea\ 
 yoursilf for to do. Arrah, thin ! but it was a bad mixther ye 
 niade av it — the whiskey and the eham|)agne ye drank. It's 
 toighting together they'd be, and it's as diirunk as a i>ii)er and as 
 sick as a dog they'd lave ye, in just less nor no time." 
 
 " lUit I had no whiskey, JJarney, 1 tell you. I drank nothing 
 but a glass of soda water at the hotel, though 1 noticed it was 
 not good, and had a peculiar taste," replied I'idwin, who wa.s 
 becoming interested. 
 
 '' Kaix : It's likely the taste av it wud be peculer, wid a noggin 
 av high wines intil it. It wor a shabby thrick wor played on 
 yer, Misther N'ance," answered Barney. 
 
 "Vou mistake entirely, IJarney. What possible interest could 
 the peojile of the house have to serve by ])laying me such a 
 senseless trick? Besides, my friend opened the bottle of soda 
 water in my presence." 
 
 "'Deed it wor not the people of the hot-tel i)layed it on ye ; 
 they did as they wor bid, belike. If ye d looked intil the tumbler 
 afore yer friend put the sodha wather intil it, ye'ed have seed 
 the v.hiskey there. If yer friend, Misther W'olverton, did'iu 
 know of the dirthy thrick, then no man knowed it. But, be- 
 gorra I he'd his raysins for getting ye dhrunk, and it wor him as 
 gin ye the whiskey, and no mishtake about it." 
 
 "This is impertinent nonsense, Barney, and I'll have no more 
 of it. You shall not say anotlier word on the subject," ret'irned 
 Edwin, angrily. 
 
 " Oh ! the divil another word '11 pass me mouth. But he axed 
 ye till sign papers fur him, did'nthe now, Misther \'ance ? False 
 papers and sphoilt papers, and he wanted to i)Ut ye free like and 
 careless, so ye'd take no notish till his doings. I meant no har- 
 
 1 ' ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 I" 
 
 V\ 
 
 li' 
 
1 
 
 n 
 
 
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 f^ 
 
 
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 f.» 
 
 
 J 
 
 h 
 
 
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 111. '■ 
 
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 Li., 
 
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 io6 
 
 ism-: Micirr iiavk donk uktikk. 
 
 rum to say Nvh:it I've said. It's raisons av mc nun I liavc, and 
 yc can ;i.\ Miss l-'ahcl." 
 
 llariU'y would say lU) more, and Kdwin did not ask him. 
 
 lit re was a new light on ihi- siilijcct. He remembered again 
 and with more signifieance the j)ressure whicli >\'o!verton Iiad 
 apph'cd to induce him to drink (•ha!ni)agne, hotii at the din- 
 ner and at the hotel afterwards, an<l lor the first time the suspicion 
 arose in liis mind tlia! a!I was not riglu. A suspicion that was. 
 however, cast aside and rejected as unworthy of himself and di 
 his friiMid, as soon as formed. 
 
 "Absurd and imi)ossil)lc' :" he said to himself; but Harney's 
 words nevertheless left their impression. 
 
 Their arrivel :'.l Lake Mordaunt, however, put an end to liis 
 further rel1e<tions on the matter. 'The carriage drew up at thi- 
 house, and he proceeded to alight. 
 
 Hardly had the crunching on the grawl ceased, tlian Mthd. 
 who had evidently been on the watch for them, appearoti, a lain;' 
 \n her hand, at the door. 
 
 " How late you are I" she exclaimed. 
 
 Apart from her lover, she had i)robably luui^.d the time to he 
 long. 
 
 '* r thought \<)u did not iiitend remaining for the ball, isdwin.' 
 
 Ashe entered the hall, and the light fell iii)on his j)ale face 
 and eyes, from which ihe excitemen.t of wine had vanished. 
 leaving them unwontedly dim :v\d watery, she, looking u\' 
 eagerly (ov the accustomed smile, listening for tin.' accu.slomed 
 loving wo'ds, saw the change, and v,-Ith anxiety in her voice, 
 enrjuired — 
 
 " .\re you ill, Kdwin? What has occurred? Is anything ihe 
 matter with you ? 'I'ell me I dearest." 
 
 Then, as Cin idea of the ivwih flashed upon hei, (jr as probahh 
 some faint trace, some infinitesimal wafting of the odour of 
 wine reached her i)ure and sensitive nostril, she started and 
 said — 
 
I'la'CAM. 
 
 .»07 
 
 " Oh ! Kcl»vin.'' 
 
 Tiie licarty reproat ho)iivcycd in ihc tone nf ilio low, sweet 
 voice . the fading away ot" the smile from liial dgir face ; the 
 liUite sorrow expressed in the lovely eyes fixed upon his, was 
 anguish for him, as deep as he had ever exjierlenced. 
 
 •• \'es I 1'>Jk'1 ; I have something to tell you," he an.swercd ; 
 with deep sorrow in his voi<x', but a tone of firmness and delu- 
 sion ringing through it. 
 
 •• In regret, deep shame .mil sorrow I tell it, yet whatever the 
 (onseiiuences to myself may he, I am ilecided to tell it — my 
 shame ar.d my <'m. I promif^ed you, my darlinj;, hut )esterday 
 thrt I would not, in all proI)al)iliiy I would not, take wine at 
 ihis dinner to-day, and I have broken my promise — my jjled^^cd 
 word to you, my pure darling, my aflianced wife — thai 1 would 
 not touch the acursed thing, and I ha\e touched il. I have 
 heeii miserably weak and yijidin:^ when I should, in my faith 
 I J you, have been sll•on,^, and 1 have faMen. 1 !iave no one to 
 blame but myselT. 1 have yielded, in pure want of firmnes.s, 
 when I should not have yielded. I have, il is true, committed 
 111) disgraceful excess, anil drank but little wine. .Still, little as 
 it 'A as, it was excess for me, for 1 was not ni) self, and I was 
 made ill. The oiiiy atonement in my power to make, and my 
 jilain duty to you, as my ailianced wife, required of me that I 
 should come, as I have conie regardless of the shame, to tell 
 you of my fault and my sin. 
 
 •• Could you but know, luy darling, the shame, the bitter 
 shaivic, and humiliation that oppresses m as J relate these 
 things to you, you would i)ity nic. Torgixe me, if you can I 
 Kt'ic! ; though I cam lot forgive myself. It" you cannot do so, 
 I must Iviar the bitter conseijuences as I best can. .My lesson 
 ha^> been a hard one, but its teachings shall not be in vain, the 
 warning shall not be lost upon me, and 1 have made my re- 
 rcsolve ; tlie determination to maintain my resolve, that never 
 again shall my lips touch the wine cuj). Dul as I have already 
 

 r 
 
 "^ 
 
 1 ' 
 
 ♦ 
 
 
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 1 
 
 
 
 ^i 
 
 
 
 *jl 
 
 l\ 1 
 
 m 
 
 ' ;■<■' 
 
 ;i\ 1 
 
 im ii 
 
 io8 
 
 SHE MlCiin HAVK DONK IJKiTKK. 
 
 vic)lalc<l a jtroinisc, and that a promise made to you in the firs* 
 few days of our new enji^agenient, a promise, wliicli of all otlicrs- 
 I should have held sacred, you may well ((ueslioji my power or 
 my will to maintain the sanctity of another v(»w. Hut for tin- 
 space of one year Kthel, I surel\ am able to hold inviolate my 
 word, and I solemiily j>romise you, that for such space, 1 will 
 reniainin total abstinence. Had I been as little selfconfiUen: 
 as I am now — when you — knowing me better than I know my 
 self — asked for my i)romise, I wuuld not have had the shainv 
 of these avowals to make to you ; my darling." 
 
 *' Vou did not break any promise to me l'",dwin, for you did 
 not make such. Vou merely told me that in all probability, 
 you would not drink wine at the dinner;! v .)uld not have 
 thought of asking for your promise, had I not been aware th.it 
 in all |)robability an attempt would be made to induce you td 
 take too much wine. Had vour friend, Mr. Wolverton been 
 absent, 1 should pot have dreamed of such a re([uest. It wa^ 
 in anxiety for you that I did so, for 1 had good reason to know 
 that he had a design against you, which was to be forwarded in 
 this manner. In fact you were plotted against." replied I'".tliel. 
 quietly, standing before him as when she first s|)oke. 
 
 " That may be so, Kthel. Indeed, I suspect that all was 
 not right, though I cannot conceive what reason .Sidney ^Vol• 
 verton, could possibly have for such a cause; still, that tloo 
 not excuse me, or relieve me of my culpability in yielding, 
 when tempted; for breaking as I, in reality did break — my 
 word to you," returned Kdwin mournfully enougli. 
 
 " I do not blame you, Kdwin. under the circumstances, .'\- 
 ccpt for your over confidence in your friend, whom 1 know -if 
 you have not yet discovered — to be f:ilse, and also, perhajiv 
 thacyou are inclined to be too complaisant, and to give way td 
 those surrounding you. Forgive me for .saying .so. Let me 
 also tell you, that I honour you for your manliness and cour- 
 age in coming to me as you have done to-night ; that would 
 
AXI) HK WAS CoMlORPKr). 
 
 20<) 
 
 (onvincc me, were I inclined to (.loiil)t the sincerity of your re- 
 solve of total abstinence ; in which I rejoice, as armed with 
 that one is always safe. Were it not for the mental sufferings 
 you havj endured both by the occurrences of this eveniiij^, and 
 by your brave avowal of them to me. I should not rej;rel them, 
 if they have but th.e effect of oiieiiiui; your eyes to the real 
 merits of your friend Mr. Wolverion. 
 
 " Of whom hereafter 1 shall not speak." 
 
 *' Where is Reggie ? Did you see him this evening?'" she 
 .ulded. 
 
 •* Not since we parted on leaving the dining hall. He then 
 told me that he would remain for the dance, and would n^A be 
 home until after midnight," replied Kdwin to her «|uestion. 
 
 " And is it possible that you forgive me ? Mthel." " Is it 
 the .same as ever between us ?" he contiiuied looking wistfully 
 ,il her. 
 
 "I have told you so already, lulwin. There are others who 
 are to I)lame, and whom I do not forgive. Now run up stairs, 
 Kdwin and make yourself presentable for the half hgur or so 
 before bedtime," he answered with a reassuring smile. 
 
 CHAlThR XXI. 
 
 AND HK \V.\S COMFORTfclD. 
 
 To apply to Miss Ethel Mordaunt the appellation of a 'girl 
 of the period,' in the usual accei)tation of the term, would be 
 certainly the application of a misnomer. She was not either 
 ast enough, loud enough, dressy, showy or brazen enough to 
 merit the enviable distinction. And yet, if she were not a gir 
 of the period, she was truly a girl for the i)eriod — for any 
 l)eriod — for all periods. 
 
 Whether her century were the nineteenth, the thirteenth or 
 the third ; A. D., or B C. ; in savage or in civilized life ; in 
 
 i 
 
 II ' 
 
 'I 
 
 I 
 
 i i 
 

 
 \ 1 
 
 310 
 
 siii: Mi(;iir iiavk doni: lUTrKR. 
 
 i^ 
 
 HM i 
 
 poverty or in arrUk'nCc, the ;imial»ilJiicH ol licr iharat tcr wouM 
 have niatlc her, In every aijc, ilial best ami loveliest oirrcatidn 
 — a triKMvoin.iii ; an ornatr.cnt and a l)lesHing to the world iit 
 which nhc lived. 
 
 'I'ljat the Marth h;is been a treasure Iiouhc of such, throuj^ii 
 all its a^'es, is a truth selleviilcnl . else li:id not the pages of 
 its history borne ihe record of so much that is noble and pure 
 and f;ood ; else had not so much of happiness shone out over ;i 
 ilark bia?ik of misery and < rime. Their bcnefuent inthieucc 
 dies not with themselves, but tlnu inj; after them in t )tir oCf 
 spring, blesses the future. Were ail the women of t!ic world of 
 such-like cast ; how soon would not nuith of the pain ami 
 < are, the wrctcncdncss and sin that mar its bright bosom, dis- 
 api)ear ? 
 
 The motliers of civili/ers and advancers — as themselves— 
 rather than of the destructive and the criminal, how .soon would 
 not the generations s|)rcatl ^ .it over the earth, the i)leasant pic- 
 lure of virtue, of goodness and of purity ; of pro.sperity, i)earf 
 and happiness, in contrast to the old time storm-shadowed 
 landscape, all blackened with misjry and lurid with crime. 
 
 Had not Kthel Mordaunt possessed the elevated and elevai 
 ing characteristics which make a good woman, the discernment, 
 patience and Christian forbearance, the charitable amiability 
 and sympathizing kindness of heart which exist among the vir 
 tues of such a being and make her a chief conservator of the 
 goodness and happiness of the world, .she might by an unguarded 
 word almost, during her trying interview of the preceding ever- 
 ing, not only have destroyed her own earthly happiness, bin 
 that also of the man wlio loved her, and whom she loved. 
 
 For a young girl, in the tirst bloom and joy of her love — hei 
 hero, her prmcc of men .set up on the high i)edestal that youth 
 tul love and romance assigns ; to fmd that hero slipping down 
 to earth, proving himself but mortal, the common clay of sur- 
 rounding humanity, is a sore disillusion, a bitter awakening. 
 
.\NI> HI. WAS CoMriikTI'.I). 
 
 it I 
 
 iiul t.irricH \\iil) it .i miii'u icitll) siur|> ntiii^, .1 |)crH''i)al |i>s<i atul 
 injur)- that uouUl l>c the more rcsciucil the higher aiul more 
 pcrt'ci t arc the suHceptiUihte^ thus woiitulcd, atul though l.ihcl'H 
 lover had ahuost raised himself to the hero again i>) tlie moial 
 lotirage, tlie open tamlour he had dis|)la)eil in a situation ol 
 iiKiUal |>ain and humili.ilion, still, had he not falici) ? 
 
 There was a loss anil an injur) to he resenieil. 
 
 Iiul though i'.liiel had telt the Mow, the more keeni) perhapik 
 .i> her own standanl of purity was so high , her Christian « harit) 
 thai impulelli nut the evil, and the true diMermnenl it gave 
 her, had enaiiied her toperteive thai it was not intentional!), hui 
 Ironi |>ure want of hrnmess, that her lover had erred, and she 
 JKid estimated at it's just value the painful elTorl — to a man ot 
 his( liara«:ter how painful — he had made m the i;ourageous avowal 
 (if his faults to her. 
 
 In place therefore of sellish tomplainl and reproai h, whi< h. 
 lo a man who had so liirown himself al her feet, would almost 
 iiicvilabi) have wholly alienated him, by ungenerosity; her power- 
 ful yet sweet inlluen«.;e luul assisleil him lo his feet again before 
 her; had raised him from his humiliation ; had strengthened his 
 rtsolulion toward the good ; had doubly bound himin the bonds 
 of his love for her, and had raised herself the higher in his eyes 
 that she had raised him. 
 
 IJut although her Kdwin's errors had been condoned anil for- 
 Liivcn, and himself restored, she could not conceal from herself 
 that the faults e.\isted. The habit of yielding to others in little 
 matters, arising from his want of firmness, and the rather j)er- 
 verlcd " trait " of an inconsistent, if honourable obstinacy, in 
 sticking to his friend, because he wa^ his friend, even when he 
 held good reason to consider him an unworthy friend. 'I'hat these 
 were not very grave errors she acknowledged, but, ne\ertheless, 
 strive as she might to put the remembrance of them away from 
 her, they left their impression on her mind. Had she not 
 asked him, almost in plain terms, to discard for her sake the 
 
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 21 
 
 SHK xMIGHT HAVE DONE BE'l TER. 
 
 friend whom she knew to be false ? and he had not done so. 
 The sore touch of a woman's wounded vanity kept ahve the pain- 
 ful recollection. 
 
 That she cordially disliked Mr. Sidney W'olverton she felt in 
 the depth of her heart. Disliked him more thoroughly than sIk 
 had conceived it i)ossible for her to dislike any human hein^, 
 and she imputed to him everything that had come between her 
 lover and herself that had ruffled the bright smoothness of their 
 young engagement. She remembered this bitterly against him 
 and strengthened herself in the determination to break the friend- 
 shij) with which she knew Edwin still regarded him. 'Jlicrc 
 should no longer be but ])assive resistance on her part ; he had 
 become actively aggressive, and so would she become. It should 
 be war to the knife between them — a fight for her own and her 
 affianced's liai)i)iness. 
 
 The news of his sudden departure the preceding evening had 
 been received by the family of Eake >rordaunt with remarkable 
 e(iuanimity and by herself with secret joy. He was gone, thai 
 was an undisguised blessing ; she was rid of him and his machi- 
 nations for the time being. His absence was rejoiced over by 
 her. and not particularly regretted by any i)erson else. 
 
 So little was it noticed that the want of courtesy displayed b} 
 his hasty departure and the meagre explanations of it sent by 
 him was not commented upon, although it may have been out 
 of respect to Edwin that reticence was observed. 
 
 Ethel was, at any rate, perfectly satisfied — the disturber ol 
 her peace was gone, and with him all present anxiety. She re- 
 solved to enjoy the hours as with golden feet they flew. 
 
 She was hapi)y, and all she had to do was to make her lover 
 happy again also, that the remainder ot his visit should be as 
 delightful to both as their own society could make it. 
 
 Edwin A^ance ai)i)eared among them on the Sunday jnoniing 
 grave, silent and constrained enough. Although his interview 
 with Ethel, the evening before, had been a much hai)pier jne 
 
•\^''> "K AVAS COMFORTED. 
 
 tlian lie liail anticimi.H . 1 i " ''^ 
 
 ■"' ^>»K^'l >vouid have clone, i„ kthL '"*'' '^■'■''' •'''"'"^ "^ 
 
 '> "I'O" l.im, a„,: i,e de, re ' M °"" •","-''-' ''^"^ "^-»«l ^-d- 
 "•^' -ore ,„ appreciate U^Z^^rl "'^' "»^^' '"-t he had 
 >- I'^'d gained. He lovJd 1? ,^' Tl^' «'^' "•''°-^^' ''-^rt 
 — ""-ncs., ,ha. he loved nt If T , 'T K^^^-^-'y 'o his 
 
 «ith him. '"""• «'iil're asjiect than wa.s „.,ual 
 
 K'-'ggie, however, «as full of nr . • 
 
 «>™-U he eonid spare from hi., l^eatf';', '"'""' T"''' ''""^ 
 enthusiastic narration of the deli^lM! ,"''''" '^"'"'"^ '« "» 
 "lem thereof; marred .s he 7. 7" "'" '^••'"' ^»'' l"'^ enjoy- 
 
 '"- " '-d taken plaj ' ^.^f "^•"'"-I. l.y the sad ka 
 ■l'^' Sunday had necessitate . C,,t ^ ";°""' »•'"-■" ^-I'-t lor 
 -Oh : so you found the ,,",""',: .'^••'"'^'•' •"''^Ive o'clock. 
 -'^' -th a mischievous .u" " ', f'f >™'' '^^'Sg- ■'"■said his 
 »o" for your partn.g fro,„ ,;, J"^'"^ <"='-k was all too 
 
 -'""gh to be mygrandmot her °D^ : 'T "'"' '^ »■""'■- "Id 
 e'>en.nj;, or only those dances' for 1 ," f""' '""' '"""^ *-•" '1'^ 
 '"Of^- olligible partner .P" "'""'' "'' ^ould not find a 
 
 Highly disgusit'd -it ti,, • ■ 
 •j-cedu-ith her as ofU ^ ."d"""'""' '"'^^''^ -P'-'C "I 
 ">» ^on,e fellows there can sav ■ ' """'"' '"" "'■•"'« ">ore 
 
 " Oho ! J dare .^av " said ]2' , 
 -o"g!> to know how o tep I,"" ' ''T^"'"^"^' "^he's old 
 ''^•"■■^ dozen besides yours' 'Z" T' '"'""' '^"^ «« -''th 
 
 > "^elf. ^Vhy.shCsasoldasthehillsand 
 
 
 1 
 
 ill 
 
 ^^i 
 
 1 i I J 
 
 lii; 
 
214 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE liKITER. 
 
 ii 
 
 M 
 
 the most consummate flirt in tlie couniry. Ada's worth twent) 
 of her. Why did you not take a fancy to Iicr, Reggie ? 'Hierc 
 would have been some sense in that." 
 
 " Ada ! pooh I that great lioyden," rei)lied Reggie, indignantly. 
 " Emily Dearborn is the i)rettiest girl in this part of Canada, let 
 me tell you, uncle, and he'll be a very lucky fellow who gets her 
 for his wife," added he, incautiously, in defence of the charmer 
 who had bewitched him. 
 
 " Oh : and you hope to be that lucky fellow," returned Mr. 
 Horton, in a fit of laughter. " Well ! Reggie, I don't admire 
 your taste. You might as well marry your grandmother at once. 
 Why, Sidney Wolverton and half the young men of Ten Lakes 
 have been making love to her for ages past. She'll only laugh 
 at you for your pains." 
 
 "Will she though ! I know better than that. Perhaps you'll 
 
 see before " But Reggie thought again and did not complete 
 
 his sentence, while Mrs. Mordaunt, whose attention had been 
 attracted by their conversation, inter; osed. 
 
 " Don't tease him, Edward. Reggie has more sense than that. 
 Emily Dearborn may be a pretty girl, but she is not one whom 
 Reggie would marry, or whom his father or I would like to see 
 him choose ; she is not, to say the least, an amiable girl, and, be- 
 sides, if I am not mistaken, Sidney "Wolverton is the man whom 
 she will marry. Reggie has time enough in six or eight years 
 to look out for a wife ; meantime, he will find quite enough to 
 attend to with his books and his college." 
 
 Reggie muttered something so inaudibly that even his uncle, 
 who was watching him, failed to catch the words, and the latter, 
 thinking he said enough, changed the conversation. 
 
 " AVhen are you going to Cacouna, Florence ?" he said, ad- 
 dressing Mrs. Mordaunt. " As was proposed ; or do you prefer 
 waiting until the hot weather is all over before you start ? Here 
 it is nearly the end of Jul}', and we are nearly roasted ali\-e. If 
 
 jiiii) 
 
1 
 
 AND HK WAS CO.MIOR'i'KD. 
 
 215 
 
 ^! 
 
 twenty 
 'There 
 
 ignanily. 
 
 iiada, lot 
 
 LTcts her 
 
 charmer 
 
 ned Mr. 
 t admire 
 r at once, 
 en Lakes 
 nly laugh 
 
 .aps you'll 
 
 complete 
 
 had been 
 
 than that. 
 
 ne whom 
 c to see 
 , and, be- 
 
 lan whom 
 
 ;ht years 
 
 bough to 
 
 us uncle, 
 lie latter, 
 
 Isaid, ad- 
 )U prefer 
 
 I? Here 
 Hive. If 
 
 you will get your mind made up for the start in two or tiirec 
 days, I'll go witli you. 
 
 *' But I don't think a wMiter trip would bt agreeable," he con- 
 tinued, with a iaugh. 
 
 " Don't be nonsensical ! Edward," she replied. " We did 
 think of a trip tliere this summer, but it is so hard to get away 
 with a large household to look after and tlie farm. It wo ild L-: 
 very nice, though, for us all. IJut oh ! there's so much to sec 
 to on a large i)lace like this, and who can be got to do it " 
 
 "Oh ! never mind your house, Florence," said Mr. Mordaunt. 
 " \'ou have servants enough to look after it while you're awa)', 
 and I'll see that the farming matters are left in proper train. 
 We'll go to Cacouna for a month. August is the best time of 
 the season, as it is too hot here for comfort, and just getting a 
 little above freezing point down there. " ^Ve'll all like the change. 
 Supi-'ose we start Thursday, so as to get comfortably settled by- 
 Sunday. You'll go with us, Vance, won't you ? It is '.he long 
 vacation, and you have nothing to do at present. Well take a 
 trip down the Gull, too, while we're away." 
 
 •• I shall be most happy to accompany the party, I'm sure," 
 said Edwin, with a delightful look towards I^thel. " But I fear 
 I cannot remain for a month. I must be back in Toronto ten 
 days at least before Term time. But I can spare three weeks 
 for it, and will be delighted to join you in the trip." 
 
 " That is quite a long enough time for me to be away from 
 my home affairs, Mr. Vance, and I cannot consent to a longer 
 visit, so we'll all come back together," Mrs Mordaunt said, deci- 
 sively. 
 
 "Oh: well then! it's settled," remarked Mr. Mordatmt. "The 
 ladies must have their own way. Be all ready for Thursday 
 morning early to catch the mid-day train at Cascades." 
 
 And the party separated to prepare for the drive to church. 
 
 =K 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 ( 
 ' I 
 
 0\ 
 { 
 
 . p 
 
 t; 
 
 As Edwin knelt in worship beside the fair young girl who had 
 
f i 
 
 2 l6 
 
 ( i '!. 
 
 •I 
 
 
 SHK MIGHT IIAVK DONE BETTKR. 
 
 given him her love, his yearning soul rose in earnest petition — 
 l>eartfelt, sincete and humbled from the searcliings and reveal- 
 ings of accusing conscience — for (Jod's favour upon them both 
 — for her that she might have all ha|)piness ; that if her life 
 and her happiness on earth were to be confided to his care, he 
 might have a greater strength than his own to fulfil the precious 
 trust; that (iod with His merciful eyes would look down 
 ui)on them and grant His all-powerful aid, that they might walk- 
 before His fiice all the days of their life in i)urity and humble- 
 faith ; that as he was weak and feeble and had siiuied, he sought 
 for grace that he might sin no more, and be made strong. 
 
 As the grand old Litany of his Church sounded in his ears, 
 with its matchless songs of praise, its earnest and apiiealiiig 
 prayers, and its glorious promises of salvation, his full heart 
 clung with a deejK'r and more reverential love to the sublime 
 words that carried v/ith them strength and comfort and hoi)e ; 
 the grand old words that his infancy had heard, and that Sunday 
 morning after Sunda}' morning dirough the circling ages rise in 
 glorious concert from the worshijjping li()S of united millions from 
 one end of God's briLiht world to the other. 
 
 And he was comforted and strengthened. 
 
 He walked into the sutilit air with the reverential demeanour 
 of one wlio has been in the prtj^scnce of his God, but with a new- 
 happiness shining in his eyes, a lightened heart at peace with 
 himself and the world. 
 
 As the Lake Mordaunt party stood near the Church door 
 waiting for their carriage, Emily Dearborn and her sister Ada 
 approaclied them. 
 
 After the customar}- greetings and mutual enquires were over, 
 the former seeing tliat Ada was engaged in talking to Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, attached herself to Ethel, and regardless of the fact tliat 
 she had just come out of Church, proceeded to regale her witli 
 an account of her djings at the last night's ball. 
 
 " Why in the world did you not wait for it, Ethel ?" she at 
 
A.Vn HP; WAS Cim-UKT}-o 
 length asked. "[(„•,„, , ,• , . "' 
 
 "ould not be there ,h,t Zr,.rT'' '"" ''"'-•»• -^I^- \-ance 
 
 '• ' dK. not care for i ir'T,f «""'« '-- ?" 
 ™;'r.^- f could not have a, trei, r'" '°'''"' "°' ««• ■■"«1 of 
 '■•'l"-i coldly enough. ' ' ' "'"" ""''""' I'cr," replfed 
 
 ;"^''^.'!::;.,dt;::ss;::;r''"''^°-'*^^'- 
 
 l-cak.up,"ans„.eredl.;,„i,/ ^''■^""^••■'^ '" ^I'itc qf the early 
 
 --e?Sd;:is---^^^ 
 
 ™' come to the ball ? j ,„"*>,'•"'«'• '^nd «hy did 30,, 
 "'^■' ""less Kthel «x.re th Or rt' ^■"' """'^ "« ''-^^^ 
 
 l'"'-« .han dancing ? The flo,;,-,,, 1 ll'"' ;'"''""°"-' ">°^« 
 ■" ""-■ dinner, I kncv, and I I J" °' "'''™'--'^- V'o„ were 
 
 --■"er. a good deal ;oo n t.cl „ ""^ ">=« '»• -'"e of the^ 
 you >vere not one of the ntnnber ' ' "°"' "'''^ *""'^- I ''opc 
 
 --t:orri:r;sr----,erc. 
 
 '" '"^ "-^^ "'°^°"f;''ly -^stonisl "d o's^ " r^'" '"™" '"•■»• 
 """S ..o.r ,i.l, „„, ,„ J ' "8 ■ " ■" '"• """l-., 
 
 I , iji 
 
 ' ii 
 
2l8 
 
 SHK MICHT HAVK DOXK rJVITKR. 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ H 
 
 II 
 
 ¥ 
 
 
 arrangcvl the details of a most ivjfarious srlieme to force wine 
 u\Hm a gentleman who was to he present, for certain ulterior 
 l>iiri)0ses with which you are well acriuainted, and of whicli, per 
 mil me to remark, I also have been informed I wish you 
 'good morning,' Miss r)ear!)orn." 
 
 Uttering these words with a cold sarcasm in the farewell that 
 suggested but few others, I'lthel turned away and walked to the 
 carriagj which had then drawn up at the church door, leavmg 
 Edwin standing in a fresh burst of astonishment at the sudden re- 
 versal of the attack and apparently iiica])ablc of either speech or 
 action. 
 
 Emily, on the contrary, though startled enough, was not in 
 the least abashed, but with an innocently surprised and per- 
 [)lexed expression of face, looked after I''thel as she walked 
 away. 
 
 '* Whatever is Ethel talking of, >.rr. Vance ? T don't under- 
 stand it at all. How very strange," she said, addressmg him in 
 a voice of wonderment. 
 
 He, however, raising his hat and bowing politely but gravely, 
 merely answered, '* Clood morning. Miss Dearborn, I must join 
 them," and following Kthel, he iielped her into the carriage, to- 
 wards which the rest of the party were then approaching. 
 
 Emily, left to herself, gazed after them a moment. " However 
 came she to learn of that interview ? Who could have overheard 
 Ilk ? But it is all the worse for her, for there is open war between 
 us henceforth. Take care ! Miss Ethel Mordaunt. My turn 
 comes next," she soliloquised, with a dangerous gleam in her 
 eye, and then walked towards Ada, who, after r'laking hands 
 with the Mordaimt party, stood waiting for her when they had 
 driven off. 
 
 The carriage had proceeded but a short distance — a cou])le 
 of hundred yards or so — when Mrs. Mordaunt, whose motherly 
 anxiety knew no rest, turned to her brother, and said — 
 
 " Edward, pray look back and see if Reggie is following us. 
 
AND 1 1!", WAS C()Ml-()R'l'i:i). 
 
 219 
 
 He surely ouglit to have got his horse out hy this time. I'm 
 always anxious unless I have him in sight. 
 
 Mr. Ilorton, turning round, ga/.ed in the indicated direction. 
 
 'Oil! yes! I see liim," he answered. "Hut he is walking 
 
 home with the 1 )earl)orn girls, lie is going to dinner with them, 
 
 I'll bet a new dollar." 
 " I'll tell you what it is Mordaunt," he continued, "you will 
 
 have to look after that l)o\-, or he'll give you trouble. He's in 
 
 love with that detestable Mniily Dearborn to a certainty. 
 
 *' If you don't take care she'll lead him into an entanglement, 
 
 she is as smart as a steel traj) ; as fond of intrigue as she's 
 capable of it, and will sticl; at notliing. She knows what's good 
 for herself too, and, absurd as it seems to be with a boy of his 
 age, it would be a very good match for her. She's leading him 
 on, I'm certain — a >pare string to her bow, and will marry hnn 
 the first day it suits her. 
 
 "Oh! I hope not, uncle. It can't be true. Reggie would 
 
 never marry that hateful girl," exclaimed l\thel, with alarm in 
 
 her tone. 
 '•Oh ! you have found out that she is a hateful girl, have you, 
 
 Kthel ? She is both very pretty and very sliarp as well, and 
 can do almost anything she pleases with a very young man like 
 Reggie, I am afraid for him I confess," rei)lied Mr. I lorton. 
 
 '■ Pshaw : Horton. It is not so bad as you represent," said 
 Mr. Mordaunt. '' Reggie likes to be with the girls, I dare say, 
 hut he has too much sense to get himself into a scrape. How- 
 ever, he'll be away with us to the salt water in a day or two, and 
 after we return he goes to Sarnia for a visit to a college friend, 
 or for a trip up T.ake Huron. That will keej) him away and 
 
 occupied until vacation is over. He'll come out all right." 
 "\'ery well! I hope so," said Mr. Horton, in reply. *' I 
 
 have warned you. That he is in love with the girl at this pre- 
 sent I am very confident. Keep him away from home as much 
 as ])ossible, at any rate. I wish we were home, for I'm himgr}'. 
 I hope you have a good dinner, for us, Florence." 
 
 •^ 
 
 f 
 
 
 i \ 
 
 'I 
 
 I I 
 
10 
 
 SHE MIGHT IFAVi: HOXK nFT'I'Kk. 
 
 *i 
 
 
 F 
 
 
 - i 
 
 " Better than you deserve, uncle, for you've taken au-ay my 
 ai)i)etite completely l)y llie fright you gave me about Reggie," 
 answered Kthel f[uickly, for her mother. 
 
 ** Had plan to lose one's dinner l)y the mere anticipation of 
 trouble. I don't lose mine, even when it arrives," said Mr. 
 Horton, and the conversation changed. 
 
 CHAPTKR XXH. 
 
 covKRixr; vv his tracks. 
 
 "■ r 
 
 I'hefair city of Toronto, throned in queenly state between the 
 two splendid domains over which her scei)tral hand holds sway 
 — the noble Lake Ontario, with its golden commerce and the 
 vast and wealthy Province to which it gives its name — was duly 
 honoured, on the i\[onday evening after his hasty exit from 
 Lake Mordaunt, with the presence of Mr. Sidney W'olvertoii, 
 who, being determined to strike whilst the iron was hot, had 
 made such very good speed that he had caught the same morn- 
 ing the Grand Trunk day express from the I'^ast, and had been 
 delivered in die Queen City at the very earliest moment it was 
 possible for him to be. 
 
 But, nevertheless, the sjjeed of his journey had been laggard 
 sloth to liis impatience, for until the endorsed paper, he iiad so 
 villainously procured from his friend Edwin Vance, was convert- 
 ed into hard cash, he was in a fever of uneasiness and disquiet. 
 For might not, by some unlooked for mischance, some mischie- 
 vous contingency, his trick be discovered by him whom he had 
 wronged, and his design frustrated. 
 
 The glittering and interminable lengths of the telegraph wires 
 scorched his eyes with fevered apprehension, and carried guilty 
 fear and dismay to his heart as the train had flown passed them ; 
 for what was its speed to the instantaneous spark which at an}- 
 moment might flash the truth before him hundreds of miles in 
 
 i, 
 
«>Vi:KiNG VV HIS TRACKS. 
 
 advance, which /«/^/>i. » ■ ^" 
 
 How he had loim^d „ »h . • . 
 
 -a clcvouring llm,ul.r.|,oir-.„,>. , """"•' "'""»'" tree 
 
 -orchcd, „ara„v„, a,,,, .^ ,, ^^' "« "•"' ""«'" dasl, ,„,,„, 
 «l'«.l<.nfe's and end In', rears ' """''' '" ''^^•^'' "'^'ir silent 
 
 And lud not hi., tortured re(leclir,„v i ■ 
 '-"';"'' uith ,.ainf„l minurf "";""'■ J°""'--->- ^^ced 
 ""^■"*ng and .n,satisncd. over re ;":'"; '*>'•'"'" ^'"^ ^'«'"»- 
 
 ^'"J l'«'ce; yet had not evct. the lo",r"°"-'"^"^ "<■«<■--•')• 
 ;i"^'r the „ervot,.s fears, the ZJT '"'T ^^''"^ '° ^O" 
 1-^'t hi.s gtn-|t-dis„,ayed hear,, '^' '■-I'P^'-'hensi^eness which 
 
 ^^'^^>^litJ:::::J;' ^- - --ndin, ni,h.n,are, 
 
 «res.s, his nervousness had betj 1 T''"?' '° "^^'■^' ''■■^"™- 
 ;'q.ped from the train at h s d« nl f ^"'^>'«'-^"d "'hen he 
 '"-elf in the hotel omnibu.^ it':'!; T"""''">' '^''''^^•d 
 »'ead,ness, satisfied that all J^ 'o f^ 7^ " '^°"'l'«"re and 
 
 4 
 
 I 
 
 i. 
 
 , 11 
 
222 
 
 sHK Mic.irr ii.w i: no\K nKiTFR. 
 
 H 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
 ill 
 
 and the good ihiiii^s of tliis world, for wliich reasons he designed 
 to lionour the said hostelry with his gueslshi|». 
 
 W'lien the necessary change of his travel-dusiotl attire had 'oeen 
 effected, and a i*r<)longed attention to the wants of the inner 
 man paid, very necessary and enjoyable after his long, fatigiiitig 
 and anxious journey ; he resolved, as it was much too late for 
 the transaction of business, to devote the remainder of the eNen- 
 ing to the anuisements most congenial to his tastes, of which 
 billiards, brandy and water and cigars formed a not inconsider- 
 able part, in the gratifications to be deriveil from which he found 
 little difficulty in obtaining the assistance of kindred and most 
 capable spirits, as ready as he himself for these or like exhilarat- 
 ing pursuits. 
 
 However, when two or three hours had been spent m these 
 delights, and he was lounging about the l)illiarcl rooms, fatigued- 
 ly, making u[) his mind to retire for a good night's rest, in 
 readiness for business on the morrow, a young gentleman- 
 magnificent c** attire and of much jewellery, with his hatrakishly 
 stuck on one side of his head, a cigar angularly placed in the 
 corner of his mouth, and the fires of many liot brandies glisten- 
 ing in his eves — sauntered into the room, and [)roceeded to make 
 a patronizing inspection of the denizens thereof and of the play 
 going on. 
 
 His gaze at Icngtb rested upon Sidney, who had not perceived 
 his entrance, and wiien he had remained standing a few moments 
 with a hopelessly muddled expression on his features, as if he 
 was saying to himself, " I ought to know who that fellow is, but 
 hang me I if I can make him out," he decided apparently that 
 the best thing he could do would be to get nearer to him, and 
 find out. Accordingly he staggered as well as he could into 
 nearer proximity, when Sidney, turning at his step, held out his 
 hand, as he recogniz .d him — 
 
 *' Hallo ! Hatchitfess, is that you ? Am't you out late to-night ? 
 One would think the worthy governor would have had you in 
 
^OVKRISC; VV ,ns TRACKS. 
 
 •' Hang tli« wnrkl iiul ii, . 
 
 l'^-'>"». •• TiK. .,1.1 lH,y «•.„„, Ik'- '"^^'^' '^'■^ " '«» n„ less a 
 -)■• l.ut he's a«.„. .,.,. if , ,^;'^^ •" >";"»■ ' «as i„ ,.e<I, , .,arc 
 
 '1>|- linic, you «■„„., ,,,,( i,,, , • ^ 7 >""_ '>"ve conic for „,oney 
 "•■•'lly at l,f.s listcer. ' ''"'"''''•• >"""> fc'n..nccl dUlJ. 
 
 ^■"""kIi Io ivisl, to ,,„( „„-.„i,-'- . ^"" ""^'«""-' '!«' I'ni ass 
 
 "-■'-. '<■ < can 1..', i rt " : ^r:./-""^-^'^ «^'>- <- -" 
 
 ;""-■ ^'l-y, and «VII |,avc .son. , Ll , ^". ' ^""" "• '"" 
 " )-o>'- V'ou .:a„ |„,,|, ,„,. . , ";^;"'."« ';> < nnk. , „,„„ :o mile 
 
 I'Wancc.; said .Sidney. '"' ' ''^''■^' '"> '"nd of im- 
 
 <- tl.o de.,ia.,l siinndan^, ' '"' '" ' ''^"•'"^ "I'™ calling 
 . •• Well : W'l.at's your |,i, sid ?■' h 
 
 l-'ns relish. " ,.ook ,,ere, 2ut h l! / ' " '"" ''^^ ■^''''"^■^ «-'"> 
 
 •i"'l any business ofyours is X ,n ' ° ' "'"'■'' """^ """""& 
 
 ">"^t l>ave money for i, r, ! '° ""'^■' '"^'^■^' >"""'"-^- I 
 
 '"^ laken to tightening the nurse s .■ ^'°"'''.""''' '°"'''""«l ''"" •' 
 
 -"". I'e says, and f tva "o of t '" "'' '° '^^-'^'P '"<-■ '" 
 
 :"^-"-^- .-t won -:"'„ ~«' '''r- 'oo^-.-n« at him. 
 ^-1;."-:" Clark, or the old n,!;: r^v '""'' ' ^"''"°-' ^-' '<> 
 > es . that's about the fiture of J, ' , , , 
 
 ''' "'-^ """ ^^•" - i-i .t.;:;:, n;;;'^i?tir5,' """ 
 
 H 
 
 
 (i. 
 
224 
 
 SHK MIOHI IIAVK DONF. HKTTI.K. 
 
 " Well ! you vniii'i the |)art of the ticvil, \ siii>j)nsc, and if 
 you'll help me, I'll enable you to pull the baker aUjut as you 
 wish. ix)ok at this !" continued Wolverton.'produc ing from his 
 po(ket book the note which Kdwin Vance had mo inn(M:ently 
 endorsed. " 1 want you to j^ct this discounted for nie tonior 
 row morning, so that I can get away by the Hastens train in the 
 aftcrn(K)n. Vou see I cannot very well put it up myself is I 
 am the maker of the note, and it would look t(K) much like an 
 ' accom.' Now, you get it done for me, and I'll |)ay handsonk- 
 ly," he continued, showing the note to his companion. 
 
 f I [alio! What's this? Vou don't say. Well! (f Vamc 
 is'nt a bigger fool than I took him lo be. How in the mischief 
 did you get this out of him?" said Halt hilfess, staring at the 
 paper, and turning it over and over as if he could not believe 
 its too jdain appearance. "Look here?" he continued, witli 
 sudden suspicion. "Is this all right? Von did not put that 
 name on yourself, eh, .Sidney ? \'ou 're capable of it enough.' 
 
 " Xo I I did not put that name there myself, my young friend.' 
 answered Sidney. " The name is genuine, as you could set- 
 were you not so much under the influence of brandy and water 
 ns you are at present. Do you suppose I'd ...i my neck into a 
 noose for such a trifle as this is ?" 
 
 " 1 don't know about that," was the flattering reply. " The 
 signature looks right enough, anyway. \'es ! Hy (ieorge. It's 
 only a lawyer who could write such a villainous scrawl as this is. 
 Iku, if I put this up at the bank, I'll have to endorse it. 1 can't 
 do it," he continued. 
 
 " Now, look here I Hatchitfess. ^'ou want nioney, don't you? 
 Now, if you do this for me by twelve o'clock tomorrow, I'll al- 
 low you two per cent, out of it. That's seven hundred dollars 
 in a lump. \Vorth having foi a short half hour's work," said 
 Sidne}', coming to the point at once. 
 
 "Seven hundred !" replied he. " Will the note be met?" 
 
 t* 
 
CO\F.R,K(;,.p „„.r^^,,^^ 
 
 -;« .1.0 oi,. ,,.., ;,,, „,,;, ,,'£^ ,:;./,«;-«» <•„, a.„e „. ,,„ . 
 
 "iK'nscs, i„.l,.,K,„|„„ „„ , "!'' « l^'" " XT, free. r.,r r„n„i„K 
 
 " >•""■" '"••^•1- ..,„„„ .,,,.1 p., r ^'"'"' •■ ''" ■'" "• -^ui, 
 
 "■\""Klit:"re|,lie,|.Si,!„ev .. ri,.. 
 •■"'■'■■■ "o pny, ,h„„Hl,. N„„, ' , ' " '"'"" >'""K'.'t it clone. .No 
 
 "f --""",. eist .o.s..;:;.:r >^:;;^^-"";'"""- k^ss, ,or , 
 
 •"^•U'qiio.stionsto.islt." ' '^""""^""-•w nuiiers. ()„|y 
 
 " ""tlier your money " ..> i, , '"'' ' "'" ''■" )■""•" 
 """ "f -.,„-n„ Nn;'r;nr" :;';:;'■•-• --;:"-.l>-. ■• ^ou 
 
 • "" V" know . Mf„ \r T -^ ■' >■""■'« l^"ly." 
 
 ":•;;;'" ror.. ...,,.„ iS , ';';;'::;,fr: ^°" '™"' '- ^"- 
 
 »•■:,",;-' «'-e -,-,es .;;:::: ',";-;';--- '- ^•ance 
 
 '"-'y 'vnte to each other I oh ■ t ', 
 -'"evons young ,•„„, ,,,•„,:, ;,.' ";^;V »y," ..„.s«,.rea the 
 
 ■■ " 'ut do you mean l)v thit ? v, . , 
 ■' »>'vetheart of \a„ceS " siidlv, ''°" ' ""•■'■"' '" »y ^he's 
 
 •) 
 
 i 
 i 
 
 ( ( 
 
 1 1 fi 
 
226 
 
 SHK MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i i 
 
 ,■ I 
 
 his mind reverted to the very disagreeal)le interview lie had held 
 with the young lady a few days previously. " Sweetheart," and 
 bendiiig over he whis^^ered into Wolverton's ear, glancing with 
 guilty timorousness around, as if the si)irited girl he traduce;! 
 could ' .ar and revenge his words. 
 
 " Come now ! Hatchitfess, that's too thin. I know better 
 tlian that. \'ance is not one of that kind, at any rate. But 
 with whom does she live? Are her parents alive? No! no I 
 my spiteful young friend. 'I ell me a more probable story ; that 
 statement won't wash. I know \'ance too well to bei: jve all 
 that. He's got what he calls his principles, and he's a pious 
 young man," answered Sidney, who, though he stood up for his 
 friend, did so more from the deduction of reason which his know- 
 ledge of him gave, than from the charitable wish to impute tlie 
 good motive rather than the evil. 
 
 " He's got principles I has he? and he's pious, is he? Thun- 
 der I" sneered the remarkably uni)rincipled Albert Montague 
 Maximus. " Then what does he give her six hundred dollars a 
 year for, I'd Hke to know ?" 
 
 " Do you mean to say Vance gives her six hunared dollars a 
 year ?" asked Sidney, with a little astonishment in his tone. 
 
 " Yes, i do ! I know it, for she gets the money twice a year 
 at our office." 
 
 " Oh ! Indeed ! One would imagine that the respectable 
 firm of John Hatchitfess & Son would not mix themselves up 
 with so dubious a transaction as you would make it ai)i)ear. 
 Stuff I It's some settlement or annuity, some just debt, I'll be 
 bound. There are fifty ways to account for it. Why, he's head 
 ovi,'- ears in love with, and engaged to be married to, a very 
 pretty young heiress down in the country," replied WolvertOu, 
 anxious, however, to get all the information he could from his 
 inebriated companion. 
 
 " Going to be married to an heiress ! Oh ! ho ! That ac- 
 counts then for his instructions to us to-day to purchase an 
 
CO\-KRiNO UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 aumiity on the Ufr rw fi • ^'^ 
 
 '-^ -^ K.-. Out J^:czs:':" 'r '°^ ■^'■'' '"-"■«' '>o,. 
 
 ""^ °'- <"« .' Looks as ' d ; ' \' '"n'- '• "'"^'^ ^" ■' - 
 
 lie.' qmet, yon kncv !" • •'^■'^ " ''^ wanted to keep 
 
 '■ I'm not so sure of tlm ' u 
 for all ,-o„ kno«.." ' "'' "''■'>' ''°'d funds of hers i„ trust 
 
 " Funds in trust. Psha„- ; Shehas'nt. 
 "c- kno^v all about her," replied H. i ■ r "■''" "°'' "'-■^•'-''- ''■'•d- 
 
 "*^"'=1" ^Hiatissh-lik ^fT'""^•^■^• 
 docs.shelive?"queried .Sidney ^""'''"^■°'''''- '^"^"-''ere 
 convictions. ''^' S'-""'»« "iterested in .spite of hi.s. 
 
 "She's one of the i^rettiest eirls in T 
 
 . J «y .' Hatchitfess, wake nn if ' '""' '"''''"<^'i »'eepily. 
 »'Sl>',"said Sidney "r'ZI ^'°'' "'''"' '° S'^' home to 
 
 »f *e -r. Look heref "ST T ?' ^'" '^^^ ^^ >- 
 '0'" 'eave me alone cW v .', "'^"'''^ '-address ?'- 
 
 :'^f-3for.. ^Vantto ;a rj'to , '" '° ^°" -"' '- 
 ;"»' »nd see how you'll co, ,e o. t r T'''"^^ ^'^ " O" 
 "^'>"r. as he was becon,inrmo ' ,' f "'''''^''''^fess, i„,pa. 
 "to.xicated. " "« '"°'-e hopelessly somnolent and 
 
 "Not much! thank you T'll i. 
 
 Ha.clu.fess, IVe a reason^fo' ^"""'""S laugh. "Listen - 
 
 ''■'-' there's a Jdlllt, S'^^ :° '^"- '"^ address.' 
 «'>'-oundit, :,,,,^,;t^-J-.„_^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ^ '^1 
 
 
 i!!i 
 

 228 [SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 nvimc is Patience Springle. The address T don't know, and if 
 I did r would'nt tell you, so there's an end of it," was the angry- 
 reply. 
 
 " Indeed I You won't tell it. Well ! It does not matter 
 mucli, at any rate. But its quite evident where the trouble lies 
 with you. I don't believe a word of that nice little story you've 
 told me. Is'nt it all pure malice and spite of your own ? You've 
 been ])crsecuting the girl with your cubbish attentions, and you 
 have got thundering well snubbed for you pains. That's what's 
 the matter Avith you. my disappointed little Hatchy," said Sidney, 
 sticking his feet upon the table and surveying his com])anion 
 with an exasperating smile. 
 
 " It's no such thing. You be hanged ! Sidney Wolverton. I 
 would not condescend to speak to the girl," exclaimed Hatchii- 
 fess, springing up from his chair, his face jnirple with mortification, 
 rage and ardent spirits. " And my story is'nt true, you think. 
 All Toronto is ringing with it, at any rate, as you can find out if 
 you choose to enquire." 
 
 " Oh ! 1 dare say ! with your version of it," interrupted Sidney, 
 '' but you need not get vexed, Hatchitfess. I don't care a pin 
 whether your story is true or false. It's no affair of mine. It 
 will, however, do very well for my purposes, and may probably 
 do more mischief than it has done already. Never mind what 
 I have said, Hatchy, I did not mean to offend you. Take 
 another glass of brandy to steady yourself up, and I'll get a cab 
 called for you. You'd better get to bed, or you'll be fit f uf notliing 
 in the morning. Remember, you've to attend to that business of 
 
 mine." 
 
 " Dc n't trouble yourself about me. I'll be on hand, never fear. 
 " You'd better be more civil than you are, Wolverton, it you ex- 
 pect a man to do anything you want," was the surly answer, as 
 he helped himself from the decanter. " Well ! I must be off, 
 I suppose. Come to the door with me, Sid. Thare's a cab- 
 stand close at hand, and I'm none too steady on my pins." 
 
at business of 
 
 COVERI.VC UI. HI. TRACKS. 
 
 >o" at the office ^ ' ,f "« "'^"- "-<-■%• your In. r,„ 
 ^">d«tady;„,Ml'?,,'°'"'°™'^'"'^'>id Sidney t,k^ , ' ''" 
 
 ^- ''^■returned tovard th "t'e "^-'^ ■'^^•"»'"oqu«ed Sidney 
 >;'0"« fnend in a cab. " hJ "'' " ''^"' "'^'^'''''g '.is r« 
 tliousand additinn.,1 ^ '"'* '''°'% fttlier nU „ "^l"^'>- 
 
 "^■" ' do evii, I do it |,e/,, ,!t ?° <^'-''''"«Wy l.ase as he / 
 
 '"' '° '^^ ""necessary evil P " , '"""-' P'^"}' si'ite. I don't 
 ^;"te has ahnost made me sick vi H ''""°"^"' '•'■' " '^- 'J-^eS L 
 -ed with such vi,h-an; . t, "' ™^'^'^' ">« ^ have o t 
 ^^elf more than ever such thl ^ , *'"" " ""^'■". •''ncl I feet 
 'io"-" to that girt at Ten I 'l es r "'" '° '""^ ">« ''in. storv 
 ■certainly not send it 4, - , ^°"''^ ^ ''^Ip it, r '."^ '""^^ 
 
 --Vance and his pf^^t^ " 3?^ "'" '^^-^'^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
 2 f ^ -' can avail her nothing ^ut 7 """'^^'=~^^"y mischief 
 "d I must obey. Well - if JV'' «°^ "'^ ^^"> over me 
 he morality of other people p° ^^^" "^ '^^'no to attend to 
 
 .ftoir-----Mr.idS----.g2 
 
 '"^t the hour of ten fj * * 
 
 Md the stir and bustle of T' '""""'"S' as the banks on .* 
 Albert Momague W ' '"^'^ daily life ,„d 1 , '^"'' 
 
 jg y 'nagmficence-to the 
 
 1-- 
 
 s 
 
 hi- 
 
 ll I 
 
 Mil 
 
 Vi 
 
 f ih 
 
w. If 
 
 
 1 ! 
 
 '»■ 
 
 lir 
 
 230 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE IJE TTER. 
 
 detested door, where work, which he did not like, and no idle 
 pleasures, which he did like, awaited him. 
 
 Excepting a somewhat redder aspect than usual of his fishy 
 eyes, his potations of the previous night did not seem to have 
 affected his personal ai^pearance to any great degree ; but then, 
 it is to be remembered, that his features had naturally been so 
 unpleasantly endowed that no amount of dissipation, or indeed 
 any other conceivable despoiler of beauty, could have made 
 him look more hideous than he appeared in his normal condi- 
 tion. 
 
 Entering the private 'ffice, after a glance around to see all 
 was going on as it should do, and a few harsh words to thu 
 clerks to show his authority, he found Sidney Wolverton alread) 
 installed there before him, seated at the desk engaged in writing 
 a letter. 
 
 " Good morning I" said Sidney, looking up at the other's en- 
 trance. " How do you find yourself to-day ?" 
 
 " All right ! A little seedy perhaps, but I'm used to thai. 
 You're early this morning. Making yourself at home, too, as if 
 it were your own office. Pretty cool ! I must say," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Oho ! a love letter we're inditing. ' My dearest Eniily,' and 
 so forth ! and so forth !" he continued, peering over the other's 
 shoulder at the letter. 
 
 " Well ! You're pretty cool too, my inquisitive young friend," 
 exclaimed Sidney, hastily turning down the letter in which he 
 was giving Miss Dearborn a full detail of their last night's con- 
 versation. " One would think you were raised in a barn by the 
 good breeding you display." 
 
 " Well, it's after ten and the banks are open." 
 " I wish then you'd attend at once to that little financial tran- 
 saction of ours, as I want, if possible, to be off by the afternoon 
 train for the East. It may take you a little time," he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 
I other's en- 
 
 COVKR.Nr, V, ,u.s TRACKS. 
 
 " Confoiind It : Uolverton tr , . "'" 
 
 ;""-'. for ,T ,„e „„ .0. ,,t ;';■'"'« " °-^' -^ fn, afraid 
 '•■"■^l ofit." ° """'^ ""^'■' " <-t, fll never hear ,he 
 
 '--Pe^lw/Ii'/r:;,:';-;' ;h- ,i„,e .,„•„,. ,,„,, „_^, 
 
 "ever hear the las, of it eitl,e v' i .' ""' ""•■ '"""•••>'■ >-»>'" 
 
 "'>•• '«-o evils. Seven httndred' do la ;!'' T" '^''''"'' '"'''^''^'^ 
 
 "": '^'"'^ '^" replied .Sidney, coollv and , °' '"°"^^' -'^^" 
 
 Hang it ! Ves ! r . ^ ' 1"'e('>-. 
 
 >»e the note, and Ml h.~ZTf ''" '''""' '" ''° '''• "ere ! give 
 
 «•"■■<=;;'- placed beforXSt "'"^ °'^'' ^^^^''" <•- "- note- 
 '►ell ! Yoi, „,.^ suspicion, n„ 
 
 '^"■ay ,vith your preciot,s note vhic^-A" '"'^P°-'^ ^ >-°"ld run 
 °" ;f« back, would not be ,vo d h ' ""^ "°' ''"^ '^^ "-me 
 «--"d, >v,th gn-Mbling indignaZ f ''' °" "'" "atchitfes, 
 to the receipt. ® *g"'-'t>on, as he wrote the firm's name 
 
 ^pti:t t%2 irtht't: 'it °^ -^ "-^ 
 
 •™«h a good deal more than Z 7 ' '"^'"^ '' ^""natelv 
 «.t, and success attend yt.',S''^., *"--" ^or the p2 
 "P '"S hat and went off on uls errand '' "" ""' °"'" '°°^ 
 
 ^T^^^^Z;^Sl"' ^°- ^'^'-<^. '^e first 
 '"» letter to Miss Dearborn id Vf '=°'"'"°«-^bly in finishing 
 
 "' *'ding up and down the room ! '" ^"^ ""-""-ortaWy 
 ^^ chimetas that harass th sonTi^f thT"'"' "t"^'"' ^''^ -" 
 "•e .^tnct path of rectitude; the tho t T "'''° '"^^ °"'^'de 
 
 F 
 
 r, 
 
 - ! 
 
IT' 
 
 .( ! 
 
 232 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 Ji'l! 
 
 tlie cheek faster and more surely than ceaseless labour or grind- 
 ing poverty ; that wastes the body as it dries up the soul. 
 
 His harassed thoughts, searing, anxious and painful, flew 
 over, again and again, every contingency, possible and impos- 
 sible, that could militate against and bar his success. 
 
 " Why did I not do it myself? Why did I trust another? 
 and he a rogue also. 'J'he bank may s-.ispect something and re- 
 fuse to discount. 
 
 " Emily Dearborn may have let fall a chance word ; Van( c 
 may have discovered the fraud and telegraphed. A<- this moment 
 Hatchiifess may be in the hands of the officers, and they " — lie 
 glanced uneasily around — " are on the watch for me. Who knows 
 but at this moment a liveried official of the law stands outside 
 awaiting my exit ?" 
 
 Such were the unendurable reflections that burned in his brain 
 as he walked up and down and made that waiting hour a drawn- 
 out age. 
 
 " I can't stand this longer," he exclaimed at length, catching 
 up his hat. " I'll go down to the bank and see for myself what 
 the upshot of the matter may be, let it be good or evil for me.'" 
 But just as he had wound himself up to the highest possible 
 extent of mental agony and misery, the door opened, and young 
 Hatchitfess entered, with an aspect cool and calm, very much 
 in contrast with ^^'olverton's excited and harassed looking ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " Hallo ! What's the matter with you?" exclaimed the for- 
 mer, arresting his steps in surprise, as he gazed at Sidney. 
 " Have you been having snakes in your boots since I left you ?" 
 " Oh I you're back at /asf, are you, Hatchitfess ? You've 
 been gone long enough," he said, snappishly, though evidently 
 very glad to see him. " Well ! How did you get along? Is it 
 alright?" 
 
 " Right as a trivet. And I've got the cash," was the reply. 
 " The Board is sitting to-day, and the thing was sent right into 
 
 liij ' 
 
 .,!li| 
 
SHE MIGHT H \T-i. . 
 
 "'^■";; '''hoy ke,„ ,„e ,va„fn.. lo. , '^^ 
 
 "•""'■ ■"« ci;.sco„„t >v-i.hou. ;, r ;n2"'f ■ ''""'' '"'■' ^'" ">^T 
 -"i"> on you ,oc,, Sid, I can tell v u ,•, "'^' "• '"'^'y «-«^> 
 
 osl. and the other fo„,„,i,i,,_ u'^'f"' "'^""«'> getting the 
 of quesfons which of course iIumIT ""'' "'''•^'' '"•-• " '°' 
 ^•"' ^ ance »-ere doing togethct H 7 ''"""■^''•' '' '° "'I'^t you 
 evidently showed he did no (k . ,?' ■''"'"'^" '"'^ ''-^d, an .ery 
 •-(^"ou-ledge the endor •: , t' ^ ""•'"^"^'■■°"' "e had to 
 - -e .0 Vance ahout C'^ Hir:: "" "^' ™'' "^^ " -'^ 
 
 'he mischief he did '" ev i • ? ' 
 surprise of such danger 'con,!,!!;'"' ^'1"'>'' ""S'«rdedly, the 
 for h s presence nf '•"'""ife' upon hini heinL' m,, , 
 
 l^K-sence of mind, " \uiv,t i • ""-"'g too much 
 
 like to know? r suppose he'd li-J; ."-''■'* '" ''' <"" '^''^> I'd 
 
 '0 ^■ance and myself/wo:id ,1 , ''7; '"''^'^ "'""elf guardian 
 manage our own aflairs. He'll tl, „ ■''"-; ''"'"= com,,etent 
 he continued, recoverinir hi, mn„ ^ ^'°°'' '^^ ^'^ "ritinc. " 
 
 . " ' ^ay ! "'olverton ^ at na?""'""! '"^^ ^^'^""-^-sion °' 
 "■'■■ Hatchitfess returned Sh.T °" "'' "°"^ '^ ^^""'"e, is'nt 
 ^■;-> -t-dSidney's ii, i. iV-';'-d «" '"s visag; Z 
 !'"' "' 1"" " on yourself did yo\? V ' '^■'"='^""«ion. " You 
 J"« now when you heard about liemwv'"™'' '' '^^'"^ "'^ "eath 
 something wrong about the aff ir Pn °- '° ''''"'''■ '''here's 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense . Ha. ;J '"""•" 
 yourself with your absurd s"So'T' v "",'' "''''' " '•~' °f 
 do that the name is genuine r? ^°" ^""'^ ^' "ell as I 
 -fnowledge ir.> HoT boVt Zrj ,"" °'' '^-^^ '''-e. 
 P» e as death becatise he's go^'' ' ' .^"^ ^° ^ '-ned as 
 RiJiculous : vn own I was ve^!f , ,"'"^ '" ^^"<=e. did Jt;. 
 ^uce in am.irs which do not co, cer,f h "T'''"'"' "«^*- 
 l«s i.ritmg to Vance are simi^r "' ^"' ""= '"™« of 
 
 -d^^J-njiiV'-eturnedSidSot.'-''""'"'^"^^^^^^ 
 
 -person bulZse^XrSE^^ ■•' ^^ 
 
 lae note, the name Would 
 
 If 
 
 HI: 
 ii'lil 
 
V t 
 
 234 
 
 SHK MKIII'I" II.WK DONK 1{KI TKR. 
 
 h 
 
 I i 
 
 . 1 
 
 have passed wholly unfiiicstioiicd. Ihit as ;hc matter stands, 
 with our firm's name endorsing, I intend to hold the proeeeds 
 until you have i)roved that it'.-, not forgi-d paper," said Hatchii 
 fess, his fears lending him determination. 
 
 " Korged paper, llie devil I" exclaimed Sidney, \vrathfull>, hut 
 as a scene would not have suited him, he cooled down. "Come 
 now, Hatchiifess, be reasonable and use what sense you possess. 
 The note is genuine, and you know it — know it just as well as 
 you know that it is acconimodaiion paper. Here! hand mi' 
 over the cash before I have to resort to other measures," continu 
 ed lie in a firm tone, which showed he would allow no trifling. 
 
 " Resort to what you please I I'll hold the money until yo.i 
 get an acknowledgement of his signature from \'ance," rephVd 
 Matchilfess with eciual firmness, though edging away fiom his 
 companion. 
 
 " V'ou'U do no such thing," Albert Ilatchltfess," was the calin 
 answer. " And you'll find I'm not the man you can i)lay your 
 tricks u^Kju. Settle u[) this instant, or I'll call a policeman." 
 
 "Pooh ! Call in your police, and see what you'll make by 
 it. Who'll be believed the first, I wonder? Albert Hatch itfe.s.s, 
 of the firm of John Halchitfess ..^ Son, or Sidney Wolverton, a 
 .stranger of doubtful repute. I la! ha! Call in your police," 
 .sneered the other rather emboldened that the law was tl.c 
 arbiter i)roposed than intimidated by the threats of its terrors. 
 
 " That's your game, is it ? you little thief I'll see about that," 
 roared Sidney, as he sprung from his chair, and reaching the 
 door at a bound, he locked it and placed the key in his 
 pocket. 
 
 His features swollen and working with rage, every muscle of 
 his stalwart frame tense and (piivering with h s powerful excite- 
 ment he was not a very pleasant or reassuring-looking o])jert 
 for the now thoroughly alarmed Albert Hatchitfess, locked in 
 alone with him, to confront. " Out with the money this instant, 
 you cursed little wretch, before I wring your ugly head off 3 our 
 
COVKRINTr VV HIS TRACKS. 
 
 '35 
 
 ,>IiouUlers," and with a rush the unfortunate h'ttic Albert was sei/cd 
 by the collar and whirled into his chair, helj^less and gasping 
 ill the strong hands of the enraged Sidney. " Xow ! you cower- 
 ing hound I Will you fork out the cash, <jr .shall I take it from 
 you and throttle you afterwards." 
 
 With one horrified l \ince at his cai)tor, and an utterly futile 
 effort to wrench his half-crushed shouUler out of the vice-like 
 graNj) that compressed it, the wretched little Albert, with the 
 most abject expression of fear convulsing his features into ludi- 
 crous contortions, exc'laimed, in nuunbling accerits, 
 
 " Here it is, .Sidney. I did n.t mean to oflend you. Oh! 
 let me go. You're killing me. Tt was but a harmless joke I 
 lila\cd you," and he threw his pocket-book down on the table 
 before him. 
 
 "A joke, however, which resulted diffi.'rently toyouranticil)a- 
 tions, Mr. Ilatchitfess/' re[)lied Sidney, releasing him and taking 
 up the pocket-book. " Sit down, I'm not done with you yet," 
 he continued, and proceeded to count the drafts and money con- 
 tained in the bundle he took from the pocket-book. " What dis- 
 count did tliey take?" he enquired of his yet trembling com- 
 panion, " and have you taken your seven hundred out of it ?" 
 
 " Seven per cent, was the rate they charged. Yes I I took 
 mine out," was Ilatchitfess' reply. 
 
 "Well I then, there's a hundred dollars short. 'Hiere are only 
 thirty-three thousand five hundred here, and there ought to oe 
 thirty-three six. What's the reason ?" asked Sidney, looking at 
 his companion. 
 
 " Well ! I had to endorse the note, and an extra hundred 
 was little enough, T thought, for the risk. Besides, I want the 
 money." 
 
 "Oh I I won't quarrel with you about it," answered Sidney, 
 
 ckcting his cash. '* Nevertheless, as ) )u might wish to play 
 
 some more of your jokes upon me, and as T don't wish to be 
 
 detained in Toronto, you shall sign a receipt for it as your com- 
 
 *\ 
 
 i 
 
I 
 
 236 
 
 SHK MKHir HAVK DONK HF/rrKR. 
 
 mission for discounting the note for me. With this in my 
 possession I can defy any little joke you might like to perpetrate 
 ui)on me to make up for your ratiier unsu( (\ssful first attempt. 
 Here sign this at oiu e, and no nonsense, unless you choose to 
 get into my hands again." 
 
 r'rantically snatching up a pen, for the terrors of Sidney's for- 
 mer attack wei still so strong upon him that ihe prospect ol 
 another was simply appalling, he barely glanced at the first lines 
 of the receipt, and hastily dashing off his signature at the bot- 
 tom, he pushed the paper towards Sidney, exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh I Here you are ; who wants to play tricks uiJon you ^ 
 i\ot I, for I've had enough of you." 
 
 Sidney chuckled audibly as he placed the following paper in 
 his pocket — 
 
 "Toronto, July 27th, 1873. 
 " Received of Sidney W'olverton the sum of one hundred 
 dollars, our commission for procuring the discount of his note 
 endorsed by Kdwin C. \'ance, 'lated July 24th, 1873, at three 
 months, for thirty-five hundred dollars. 
 
 " John Hatchiikkss &: Son, 
 
 " Per Albert Hatchitfess." 
 
 " How scared he must have been when he could not see that 
 hundreds were written in place of thousands," he thought to him- 
 self ; and then exultantly, " How well I'll humbug \'ance with 
 this when the note falls due. Jt will come in most excel- 
 lently." 
 
 ** Here is the acknowledgement you gave me for the note. I 
 don't want it longer," he continued aloud to his companion. 
 " Look at it, before I tear it up ; it's of no use to any one. A\'ell ! 
 Hatchitfess, I don't bear malice, if you don't. Let's shake 
 hands and we'll go and have something to drink. \\'ill you 
 come ?" 
 
 " All right ! I want something at any rate. I bear no malice, 
 either — at least to your face," he added to himself. " And you 
 
 ■•.e^: 
 
 T" ' . 
 
VOU 6li\LL HAVK YOUR TKli», ADA. 237 
 
 r pet rule 
 lUciupU 
 lOOSC to 
 
 K'y's for- 
 
 ispcct of 
 
 fjrsl lines 
 
 the bol- 
 
 )on you^ 
 paper in 
 
 >, 1873- 
 ; hundred 
 
 his note 
 
 , at three 
 
 itchitfess." 
 
 )t see that 
 Iht to hini- 
 mce with 
 )st excel- 
 
 note. I 
 kmpanioii. 
 
 U. Weir. 
 
 it's shake 
 jwill you 
 
 10 malice, 
 , And you 
 
 can afford to conic douii handsomely after your morning's work," 
 replied Ilalchitfess, surlily enough, however. 
 " Oh ! Well ! for •.hat matter )o;i'vc made a good day's work 
 
 too. lint, I'll stand the ihanipagne. Conic along 1" 
 
 ^^ «.« m 41 « « 41 
 
 The Clrand Trunk eastward bound express of that afternoon 
 carried one passenger, at least, who was very well contented and 
 light-hearted. Mr. Sidney W'olverton's pockets were full of cash. 
 His troubles and anxieties were, temporarily, at least, thrown far 
 into the future. He felt that he had been successful ; that he 
 had obviated and overcome the dangers that menaced him ; his 
 confidence in himself and his self-importance hourly increased. 
 Prosperity was his again, and the sun shone for him more bright- 
 ly, and nature's loveliness smiled forth for him more sweetly ;is 
 he gazed on the bright panorama that Hashed past him as the 
 train Hew on. He did not watch the stations with nervous dread 
 or long for some falling tree to interrupt telegraphic, communica- 
 tion on his return journey. 
 
 His soul soared above such vain terrors now. " What a fool 
 I was," and he laughed a light-hearted laugh. 
 
 CHAPTER XXn:. 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 
 
 Mrs. Dearborn and her daughter, Ada, for Emily had reso- 
 lutely declined the sultry honors of a July afternoon's walk, had 
 betaken themselves, despite the heat, upon a shopping expedi- 
 tion among the half dozen stores of the village of Ten Lakes, for 
 the purpose of effecting some necessary household purchases. 
 To the former it was a sufficiently pleasant occupation, for she 
 dearly liked the spending of money, the lingering and long 
 drawn out delights of ramblmg from one store to another, ex- 
 amining with intense minuteness and circumspection each 
 
 
 i . t; 
 
I 
 
 »38 
 
 SIIK Mir.Iir IIAVK nONK nilTKK. 
 
 Hoparntc piwc of ^(mmIs lluit each separate cHlabli^hnHut mn 
 taincd, aiul driving the cmtwanlly smiling Inil iiuvardly anaihc 
 nuUi/lngaltfudaiUs lo ihc verge of iinl»et iliiy .iiul (Uspair by ihc 
 wandering indet islon, >vhi( h wmild reject but to return again to 
 twenty diftctenl articles as many times in an hniir, finally to n*- 
 solve and fix upon and |)urt hase something as wholly unsuitable 
 to her jairposes as it was tmexpectcd either by herself or any 
 person else. 
 
 Hut to the straightforward and derided Ada, who regarded 
 dress as a necessary evil iiK idcnl to mankind and impossible lo 
 be averted, like whooping lough or ceremonious calls, ami worse 
 than these because of daily recurrence^ — these expeditions were 
 sim|)ly unendurable horror. Any other mortal thing in this 
 world, washing dishes, darning stockings, or worse th.m all, en- 
 tertaining in state some fashionable visitor, were infmitely pre- 
 ferable in her eyes. It was only her sense of duty, and her love 
 for her mother, outraged by the blank refusal of her sister, that 
 enabletl her to lisleJi and consent to a proposal of the kindwitii 
 any tolerable comj)lacency, and even then her bright, gfuxl-lm- 
 mored snu'le had to cover a shuddering heart. A rouple of 
 hours pleasure for the one and dire penance to the other had 
 come to an end ; they were walking, their purchases cfjucludcd, 
 to Ada's great content, along the street towards home, after Mrs. 
 Dearborn had nearly driven mad the two partners and the entire 
 force of assistants of the largest establishment in the pla«e, 
 and were on the point of turning in at their own gate, when a 
 carriage dashed u^) behind them, stopped, and the i)leasant voice 
 of Mrs. Mordaunt who, with Kthel, were its occupants, sounded 
 in their ears. 
 
 " Good afternoon ! Mrs. Dearborn — How do you do, Ada? " 
 said the former. " We are coming to you in great haste, and 
 have a favor to ask of you." 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Mordaunt? I'm sure I'm deliglilcd 
 to see you both. Pray come inside out of this broiling sun," 
 
VOU SHALL II. WK VO'JR TRIP, ADA. 
 
 ^39 
 
 ion- 
 ))' the 
 
 Ji'\\\ to 
 to TK- 
 
 iii.il)lc 
 ►r any 
 
 rcplicil Mrs. Dc.irljDrn, sluikin^j hands with the ladies. " I 
 h.iv'nl seen you, Mi-.s .Monlauni, since I heard of a certain 
 event of Lite o< « urrcnce. I'm sure I congratulate you, and 
 hope you'll he very happy," >!ie < •)ntiiuied to Lthel. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. |)carl»orn," answered the latter. " Ihit 
 my happiness is a long time <»fT yet, and I wish that you will 
 make me very h.ippy in the mcaniimo by granting ne a favor. 
 U'c are going to the se.isiile for a inomh, and mannna has come 
 to ask you to let Ada go witli us for the trip? " 
 
 '• Ves, .Mrs. Dearhorn," conliiuieil Mrs. Mordauut ; " Kthel 
 wants her young friend, .\da, with her, and wc hope you will 
 let her come with us. We'll take good care of her, and try to 
 ^'ive her a i)leas;int lrii>. We decided upon it very suddenly, 
 and we start to-morrow mornin ( i)nsc(|uently we don't give 
 Ada much lime to gel ready ; Lui we 'louid nul help it, and wc 
 will see to everything after we arrive at Cacouna." 
 
 '*.VdaI — .Ada to go to the seaside with you!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Dearborn, in utier ama/emeni at the idea of Ada being 
 asked. ** Vou want .\da— -Oh I Mrs. .Mordaunt, I'm very much 
 obliged to you, I'm sure, but I'm afraid she cannot go. I'll 
 never get along without her, and s!»e has not a dress ready. 
 
 Hcsides, I don't know where the mon 1 am very sorry, but 
 
 1 fear Ada will have to decline your kind invitation. Wc have 
 only one girl to hel|) us, and I'd never get along without .\da. 
 1 wished it had been lOmily ytju asked," she continued, wrini;- 
 ing her hands in doubt and indecision. " Jiut pray couic in. 
 Ada 1 call Fin to take the horse." 
 
 "Oh! nevermind about Ada's dresses, Mrs. Dearborn, or 
 anything else. .She must come with us. She has not much 
 change or amusement, and a seaside trip would do her a world 
 of good every way. \Ve want her with us, and I'll undertake 
 that her dresses shall not discredit you ," said Mrs. Mordaunt 
 l;uiLi,liing. "Thank you, Mrs. Dearborn, we are really in haste, 
 and will not come in to-day. \'ou must consent that Ada goes 
 
 il 
 
 I *J 
 
 > M 
 
240 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 >: ym 
 
 with us, though. You'll be ready for to-morrow morning, 
 Ada?" 
 
 " Oh ! Mamma I I should so like to go," said poor 
 Ada, looking up most supplicatingly to her mother. " I'll work 
 hard to make up when I come back. Could you not manage 
 it?" 
 
 But then, as she remembered their continued hard scrape for 
 money — her mother's ill health, and the numerous little things, 
 which if she herself did not do, would be left undone, she 
 hesitated, and, with a sigh, continued : 
 
 " Oh ! well, then, mamma, never mind ; I won't be so selfish 
 as to wish it, when you cannot spare me, and it's not conven- 
 ient. I'm so much obliged, dear Mrs. Mordaunt and Ethel, but 
 I am afraid I cannot go this time," and she looked up wistfully 
 at them all. 
 
 " You're a good, unselfish girl, Ada ; but Mrs.* Dearborn will 
 let you go, I know," said Mrs. Mordaunt, with a kind smile at 
 the disappointed, yet bright young face. 
 
 " Yes ; she is a good girl, Mrs. Mordaunt, and she deserves 
 a littk' pleasure. But I don't know what to say, and Mr. Dear- 
 born is not here," said Mrs. Dearborn, whose weak but loving 
 heart beat very warmly towards her dutiful little daughter whose 
 willing hands had ever done so much to smooth her troubled 
 road. " Run down to the bank, ^iVda, and ask your father if 
 you can go. It's after hours, but he will be there still. Tell 
 him, too, that I'll try to manage without you." 
 
 " Oh 1 thank you, Mrs. Dearborn," said Ethel warmly. " I 
 know Mr. Dearborn will let you go. Jump in, Ada : I'll drive 
 you to the bank, and add my persuasions." 
 
 " Yes, do, Ethel," exclaimed Mrs. Moidaunt. " I'll get out 
 and stay with Mrs. Dearborn until you return." 
 
 In a few minutes they were at the door of the bank oflkes, 
 and Ada had rushed into the little private room, where her 
 father sat, finishing his day's business. 
 
YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 241 
 
 )rning, 
 
 I poor 
 
 II work 
 iianagc 
 
 rape for 
 ; things, 
 >ne, she 
 
 ,0 selfish 
 conven- 
 
 :thel, but 
 wistfully 
 
 born will 
 smile at 
 
 deserves 
 J. Dear- 
 lut loving 
 ter whose 
 troubled 
 father if 
 till. Tell 
 
 Inly. "I 
 I'll drive 
 
 get out 
 
 offices, 
 [here her 
 
 " Oh ! Papa ! " she exclaimed, breathless with excitement. 
 " Mrs. and Miss Mordaunt have asked me to go with them to 
 the sea-side to-morrow, for a month, and mamma has sent me 
 to ask you if it is possible ? " 
 
 " To go to the seaside with the Mordaunts, for a month ! 
 That would be delightful, Ada I " he answered, looking up from 
 his work with a smile. But a moment after the smile faded 
 from his face, as he remembered his difficulties and struggle to 
 make all ends meet — and he sorrowfully continued : 
 
 " My dear little girl ; I'm very sorry, but I am afraid I must 
 refuse. I don't think I can afford the expense, and you have 
 nothing ready. Do you wish to go very much, Ada? " 
 
 " Oh ! so much, papa ! That is, if you can afford it. It 
 won't cost very much — just my travelling expenses and a little 
 bit to keep in my pocket. And I have lots of nice dresses — 
 all ready," said Ada, beseechingly. 
 
 " Yes ; but I would not like my daughter to look shabby 
 beside other people. I fear it's impossible, my dear litde Ada," 
 he replied — his besetting sin coming up to the surface, though 
 he looked very sadly in the pretty disappointed face of his dar- 
 ling Ada. 
 
 " Oh ! but I sha'nt be shal)by, papa. I'll be as nice as any 
 one else, and I'd like to go awfully. But never mind, papa, if 
 you can't afford it, I'll give up the idea. There are so many 
 things that the money has to go for that are necessary," she 
 added, with a sigh, and then she looked uj) lovingly into her 
 father's face. 
 
 " I love him — my dear, hard-working father," she continued 
 to herself, " and I will not increase his difficulties to gratify my 
 own selfish pleasures," and she turned away to rejoin Ethel. 
 
 " Stay, Ada — my dear little girl ! Let me think a minute," 
 said her father. " The expenses cannot be very great, and you 
 are a careful little thing. You have hardly ever been out of 
 this dull little place, or had any amusement — while you, at any 
 
 ii'ilJ 
 
 -M| 
 
 i 
 
 ' 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 1 
 
 M ^ 
 
 i 
 
 f 
 
 ' 1 
 
 i 
 
242 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 fisiii 
 
 rate, are a dutiful and good girl. Yes ; you shall go, Ada, if 1 
 have to scrape closer for it. You have not had many pleasures 
 in your young life ; you shall have this trip. You go with nice 
 people, too. I'll miss your bright face, though, my dear little 
 girl, from our dull fireside. You shall have your trip, though. 
 my dear; so you may go and get ready," continued Mr. Dear- 
 bom, with a kiss on his young daughter's cheek. 
 
 *• Thank you, papa ! — thank you so much. But I fear you 
 cannot afford the expense, and, if so, I'd rather not go. I could 
 not enjoy myself if it made things harder to you and mamma. 
 I'll give up the idea," said the generous-hearted girl. 
 
 " No ! No ! Ada. I can bear the expense well enough, and 
 it would be harder to me to think I haa kept my unselfish 
 little daughter from a pleasure. You shall go with the Mor- 
 daunts, Ada," replied her father, and he looked with a smile 
 into the now grateful face, whose answering smile already re- 
 paid him for the little sacrifice he had made ; for to Mr. Dear- 
 born's credit, be it said, it was more that he would miss the 
 only bit of sunshine of his daily life, the presence of his joyous 
 and natural Ada, than he would the money that her pleasure 
 trip would cost him. He remembered how self-sacrificing and 
 generous had she been to him and to all, amid much that was 
 selfish and undutiful. 
 
 " Thank you ! Mr. Dearborn," exclaimed Ethel who had at 
 the moment entered the room. " I knew we should get your 
 consent to Ada going with us, and I am much obliged to you, 
 for my own sake as well as for Ada's." 
 
 " Good evening ! Miss Mordaunt," he replied, warmly. " I 
 am delighted to see you, though you are going to take my 
 little Ada from me. But I spare her willingly, for I know 
 she'll be happy with you, and enjoy her excursion to the salt- 
 water." 
 
 " Oh ! Yes ! Mr. Dearborn. We'll take good care of her, 
 and bring her back to you all safely. And we'll try to make 
 
YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 243 
 
 ^da, if I 
 Measures 
 
 rith nice- 
 car little 
 
 though, 
 Ir. Dear- 
 fear you 
 
 I could 
 
 mamma. 
 
 ough, and 
 unselfish 
 the Mor- 
 
 th a smile 
 
 .Iready re- 
 Mr. Dear- 
 
 d miss the 
 his joyous 
 ir pleasure 
 ificing and 
 that was 
 
 ^ho had at 
 
 get your 
 
 ;d to you, 
 
 ^mly. "I 
 take my 
 
 ir I know 
 the salt- 
 ire of her, 
 to make 
 
 the trip pleasant to her you may be sure," said Ethel. " Ada I 
 We must be moving, mamma is in a hurry, and we both have 
 lots to do. Good evening ! Mr. Dearborn. We will come 
 round for Ada in the morning," continued Ethel, and they went 
 back to the carriage. 
 
 As they drove back again Ethel, who had heard the few last 
 words of the conversation between father and daughter and 
 \\'\\o had her instructions from her mother, turned to Ada, and 
 said. " I'm very glad you are going with us, Ada, for Mamma 
 and I would have found it lonely without a nice girl like your- 
 self of the party, and I'm especially glad that I have a friend 
 to depend upon, when the gentlemen tire of us or we of them. 
 We should have been very much disappointed if you could not 
 have come. 
 
 " But, Ada, there's not to be any question of expense on your 
 part. You are my mother's invited guest, and one of us. So 
 you are not to waste your money on tickets or things, but keep 
 it for your own pleasures. The through tickets are already 
 purchased and everything arranged, so that " 
 
 " Oh ! but Ethel. Neither papa nor I could consent to such 
 a thing as — " 
 
 " Oh ! but Ada, you'll have to consent to it. It's all arranged 
 before hand. So make your mind easy that you cannot help 
 it. And here we are back again," replied Ethel hastily. 
 
 " Well ! Ada is to accompany us ; is she not ?" said Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, who, with Mrs. Dearborn, came out of the house as 
 the carriage drove up. "I see by Ethel's face that such is the 
 case." 
 
 " Oh ! Yes ! Mrs. Mordaunt. Papa has consented that I 
 should encumber you, I am happy to say, and mamma will I'm 
 sure also. Won't you, mamma ? But Ethel, I'll dictate my 
 own terms about that of which we were speaking," said Ada, 
 with serious face. 
 
 t ' 
 
 I 
 
 •'■ 
 
244 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BEITER. 
 
 h '' 
 
 " Very well ! Ada. We'll see though," replied Ethel, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Come along, mamma. We must be off. We have lots to 
 do yet." 
 
 " Yes ! indeed we have." Good bye ! ^Irs. Dearborn. 1 
 am very glad, you have let Ada join us. I will take great care 
 of her. Good bye ! until to-morrow ! Ada. We shall call for 
 you in the morning," and shaking hands with the ladies, Mrs. 
 Mordaunt was assisted by Ada into the carriage and they 
 drove off. 
 
 During the time that Ethel and Ada had been absent on thei- 
 mission to the bank, Mrs. Dearborn and Mrs. Mordaunt had 
 comfortably ensconced themselves in the cool and handsome 
 Dearborn drawing-room — the pride of the Dearborn heart and 
 measure of its claims to bank and society. Unless to Ada, to 
 whom it was the purgatory, where, for her sins, she underwent 
 the — to her, unendurable penance — of unendurably prosy, 
 momentously ceremonious and horribly pretentious, morning 
 calls — and amid the stumps ! ! ! ! ! 
 
 And well might the handsome and handsomely furx^.shed 
 apartment be their pride, — for to its glories were sacrificed the 
 necessary means for the comfort of the rest of the house ; a 
 bed of flowers in a garden of weeds — a swell of handsome coat 
 — but no shirt. Outside magnificence, held forth to the world, 
 at the cost of how many meannesses of discomfort endured by 
 themselves. And as the two ladies entered it, they found the 
 equally handsome and handsomely equipped Emily leaning 
 back in an easy chair, reading a lengthy letter of that evening's 
 
 mail. 
 
 Rising from her seat, at their entrance, she hastily concealed 
 the letter — crumpling it up out of sight, as if its very existence 
 was to be held secret, and proceeded to do the agreeable, in 
 her very sweetest manner to Mrs. Mordaunt. She listened to 
 and was interested with the sweetest sisterly sympathy, to all 
 
YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 245 
 
 I, laugh- 
 ^e lots to 
 
 born. 1 
 
 great care 
 11 call for 
 lies, Mrs. 
 and they 
 
 nt on thei*- 
 ■daunt had 
 handsome 
 , heart and 
 [O Ada, to 
 underwent 
 bly prosy, 
 IS, morning 
 
 fur...shed 
 Lcrificed the 
 
 house ; a 
 idsome coat 
 
 the world, 
 jndured by 
 
 found the 
 lily leaning 
 lat evening s 
 
 appearance, in the proposed excursion of her sister with the 
 Mordaunts. She smiled, and made herself pleasant, was en- 
 thusiastic, delighted and hopeful for Ada's pleasure and enjoy- 
 ment ; took the thing for granted and laughed at all doubts of 
 her father's consent ; shewed herself so generous-hearted and 
 open ; so unselfish and amiable in the matter ; was so avowed- 
 ly grateful on Ada's account and in consequence so polite and 
 deferential to Mrs. Mordaunt, that the latter lady, in the happy 
 iinsuspiciousness of her heart, began to wonder if she had not, 
 — despite everything — wrongly misdoubted and calumniated 
 her. It was therefore with some twinge of repentance that she 
 regarded her, and was kind and conciliatory where, from pre- 
 vious impressions, she w^ould have remained cool and distant. 
 So well had Emily's attractiveness and well assumed agreeabil- 
 ity won upon her preconceived dislike, that she began to wish 
 that her invitation had been extended as well to the elder as 
 tlie younger sister ; and to wonder whether it was not possible 
 yet to manage the extension of it, without the proffer being 
 looked upon, and resented as an afterthought. But as she 
 listened and thought, there arose to her mind the remembrance 
 of her brother's warning ; so far, but lightly regarded by her- 
 self, it is true, that Reggie — her son —her child of promise, in 
 whom centered so much of her earthly future, was infatuated 
 with this girl, who sat there before her, ;o charming, so dan- 
 gerously sweet and attractive ; and as sh i looked at. her — with 
 the warning present in her mind — she, for the first time realized 
 that it might not be wholly imaginary, and that there might be 
 a probability of the, to her, bitter truth. It might be, it is true, 
 but the evanescent and shallow-rooted passion of a boy, who-ie 
 budding love so oft does homage to the full-blown rose, and 
 then wears itself off so easily by its own expansion and capabi- 
 lities to fix itself anew upon some object whose real beauties 
 can bear the testing light of more matured experience. 
 But yet the thought was agony to the motlier's heart that 
 
 17 
 
 ; 'S 
 
 h 
 
 ' ' it 
 
 1^ 1 
 
 : Mi 
 
 
 * 
 
34^ 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BE'ITER. 
 
 |f 
 
 I 
 
 ' -'nil 
 
 Reggie should love this girl. The remembrance cleared away 
 — as a wholesome breeze — the misty haloes of channs and soft- 
 ness, with which Emily's deferential politeness and attractive- 
 ness had enshrouded her real self, and revived more strongly 
 than before all the old dislike. 
 
 Whether the young lady was right in this matter, or was 
 wrong ; whether she encouraged or did not encourage Reggie's 
 silly suit, was nothing to Mrs. Mordaunt. She disliked her— 
 hated her almost just the same for it. But that she did encou- 
 rage his love, was, to her mind, certain ; persistently en- 
 couraged it — for her Reggie, she was sure, would not need a 
 second rebuff, if his attentions were not agreeable. She was 
 therefore very glad that she had not included Emily in 
 her invitation. She would keep her Reggie away from the syren 
 as much as she could, and would save him from her if possible. 
 
 For what purer or nobler motive could the girl have who, all 
 the world said, looked with favoring eyes on no better a lover 
 than Sydney Wolverton, if she could look with favoring eyes 
 on any lover — than the hoped for advantages of position and 
 wealth which the prospect of a marriage with Reggie offered. 
 It could not be for love, that was certain — though the mother's 
 proud heart would not allow that it was possible for any girl 
 not to love her handsome Reggie — for if this girl loved at all, the 
 favored personage was Sidney Wolverton, and no person 
 else. 
 
 Her manner, which had been interesting, attractive and kind 
 — changed all at once under the new impression, and became 
 again cold and distant, and the keen perceptions of Emily in- 
 stantly noticed the alteration. The swelling burst of rage which 
 had filled her breast at the preference shown her younger sister 
 over herself — which heretofore she had kept forced down within 
 her breast — now almost over-mastered her ; while it was only 
 the knowledge that in her hand — soon to ripen into forceful 
 action — lay her triumph, a double triumph of revenge and 
 
VOU SHALr. HAVK VOUR TKU, A,,^ 
 
 Victory to come • that r?,v? . • * 247 
 
 M- MonUun, rising .o ,!• '„ i'Sl ?'" r " "'^' «-^'<'' -^ 
 ■ she would not ualk out and „lk 1 kT-'^ •"■■""• "^''^■'' *'"'"y 
 'l>;y»ere hurried .o reach i.on, -!i '" d r '","" '"'"""S^' •••« 
 hel|, saying : "«<.,-shc decided, bui could not 
 
 '■ ^fo, thank you, Mr^ \r„,,i 
 
 >-...vedou.L;„i tii'';':.^,,';:;' r "^"•^'•"^-' - 
 
 veato have to help Ada with her, P '"'•'""^"'■°"' ^'^ 
 I'.thel. Her bright youn« dretml .r,' "^ ^'^'"^ '"r love to 
 backtoUlce Mordlunt, V ^h : .i'', ''°"''''-. "'ge he: 
 cruelty to longer keep her I oni 'l \ "• ^' "'""'d Ix- 
 
 ness may not prove elanescen^i Mfv" '^^-^'"^ °^ ''^i'l'-^ 
 cessfully otutious and reticent in hi SioIV-'""'"^ "^ »"<^- 
 B no reason why it should not be ^o' ^ ''"'•''°'""^'' "'«re 
 
 IVIiat do you mean bv that vr; ,^ 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, turning ro[,nd 'nd !' L '•'"'""' ' " •^^•"■'-'"'ed 
 . " Oh I nothing in panic, "r f ^'"^' '^'^'^'"^ «' ''er. 
 ;»" of my hope that^v rytl L Ir °"" """'^ "^^ -M-res- 
 '"s done, and that Mr Vance nf ^ '''° °" '•■■' smoothly as it 
 
 over certain difficulties of ■":>■""'""" '° --d and 1 
 ^ack as fixedly in the face ^ rS ''^"^'^ ^mily, ,„,,»;' 
 
 Too mdignant to reply Mrs \iTT 
 l»rewell, and left the house 111 "" ^^'^'^ ^^''- Dearborn 
 
 '0 *e carriage, and d ove Jff 3""'' '""•^^'''' "^^ "^^ ''' " 
 '°-;^- Ada in the mon^ '^'°" '"™"^d, after promising 
 
 '^^ to acqSt w°tl°her ow'rhfmr ""''''" ""•' ''""^^ ''"d 
 ^' once, OS stated to Mrs. ZdatZ"; Tr"'' ^■°"™'^"«d 
 
 SrtH^^ ~^' - Svs .'° '"^'^^ "^^ °" -" '- 
 . And so the dear Jittle mr] h.. 
 
 ;a..on from the Mordal „? t "Ttf "^^-'^'"'-n mW- 
 Very well done indeed for iL • '" ^'^^side-has she? 
 
 -^n^ i-y fro. wiil:—^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ -^ -ocen::: 
 
 money come to pay Miss's 
 
 '1 
 
 ifii i 
 
 l> 
 
 Ini 
 
 I ■ 
 
 '^ ). 
 
248 
 
 SHK iMKJHT HAVE DONK BKITF.R. 
 
 [It ,1 i- 
 
 expenses? — or are you hired out as companion and foil to the 
 magnificent Kthel ? Pray lot us know," continued Emily, with 
 her profoundest scorn. 
 
 Poor Ada! her eyes sparkling and her face bright at ihc 
 prospect of her anticii)ated pleasures, was stopped in her course 
 by this sisterly salute as suddenly as by a blow. The light 
 faded from her face and the tears sprang to her eyes, at the 
 cruel words. But indignation at Emily's milicio.is and unde- 
 served taunts — coming as they did in j)lace of '■•€ expected 
 siat'jrly res])onse to her happiness — came to her aid, and over- 
 mastered her lachrymose tendency, as she warmly replied : 
 
 •• What a shame ! Emily, to say such things ; which you 
 know to be as false as they are cruel to me. When have I ever 
 tried to worm myself into the Mordaunt's favor, or even sought 
 them ? You are a selfish and ungenerous girl. You are vexed 
 because it is I who am asked for this occasion, and not yourself. 
 It is my father who pays my expenses and it is no concern 
 of yours. Let me tell you also that Eihel INfordaunt's beauty 
 requires no foil ; Avhile I am quite sufficiently aware of my own 
 good looks to know that I am unfitted for the honorable post 
 you would assign me, P]mil\." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed. We are getting on our high horse ; are we ? 
 And we talk of our beauty too. How very interesting !" replied 
 Emily, with a sarcastic laugh. 
 
 " The family, too, must remain contentedly stinted and cut 
 down to the scraping of cents that our sweet young lady may air 
 her newly-discovered good looks among the fashionables of 
 Cacouna. Truly a pleasant i)rospect for the rest of us.'' 
 
 " Have I ever spoken to you — Emily — of the very many 
 pleasures you have enjoyed, in the manner you now speak to 
 mt at the prospect of the only visit, almost, I hav^ made nom 
 home ?" quwed Ada in reply, with a quiet but fixed gaze at her 
 sister. 
 
voi;sHAu.„,u,.:v„c;KTKu...vn. , 
 
 " No ! I should think ,K,i .,,,,. "' 
 
 « V>s,t forsooth I A, if vm i^ "'<--'n.ngly. 
 'vi.l.out a pur,K,,e. ,f „otl in« cn"'"h.' :";,'7 ''"' ""^' '""'^•<i 
 -.-.Ik on ahead 'soh,.' i„ Miss k.In ''"-" ""''^' "^^f"' "> 
 
 ™d \-ance can spoon together o , ■ T'"""""^"'' "" "'»' »hc 
 "it i» simply disgracemi i^ V ''^•^«'^ content." 
 
 t -n to get th-s little plJ^Z:^-^^''?"''' "•'"' "«"•• "-' 
 "e saymg.. said Ada, turrnng [X^", ""' '""'" «''^'>'°" 
 
 " Stay a moment, pray ? r i? '■°°'"- 
 
 exclaimed Emily U.rring Ad •, ^W, T"''""' "■'"' >'""• Miss," 
 ': I -suppose now, little Miss 'i,,ool^"'""'"S '° "'« door. 
 ..me wit; Reggie .Mordatnu fo he "1 T' '" " '''•■"«'^""' 
 
 -;;:ts.:/--'^^-^"..:rpLas;5 
 ■...^:Sf:hft°r.?::pt-vr;'-"^ 
 
 more than my sister can sa'It 1 '7- V? "°'' "•'"•<^'' '^ 
 l--;> ; mt,ch less of endeavo. , to "'"'"« "•"" ^"J" 
 
 "Kfe boy, as he is." ^""'""""H to draw on, and entangle a 
 
 " Oh ! indeed. 'Ihen r h.,- ,, 
 >-e though," replied Kni„, ,*?"•" '''"'• °" '° ^"^ P- 
 W-sed you will he to hea i. !T,"' ""' "^^'^ " «°- 
 
 " I sliould not be pleased to h '■"''•■ '^"S'-'g^'d- " 
 
 '"e credit of the family, tn'i,; Z. " ' "'"^ <"- "is .sake or 
 '■' ••" a" a likely thing to o "c f .:. f ' ,"'""^' ' <^° "« '"ink it 
 " l>er sister, ho^vevet-. ' '"' ■"'■'' ""I' " startled look 
 
 " Oh ! hear the Mentor ' r it,i 
 'Credit of the family w:,„if I'-, ™,« "- turned preacher, 
 f-r n. How very dreadfttl," replied F, "l"^'' "°' '"'^'^''^ '" 
 
 I ' 
 
 H 
 
 
IT- 
 
 350 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DONF. niVlTKR. 
 
 I 
 
 ' v| 
 
 ■")il 
 
 myself are engaged to each other. What thinks our young 
 lady v)f that ? Her newly found l)eauty will be absolutely 
 thrown away upon a l)rother in-1. w elect upon our pleasant 
 little trip. Ha ! Ha ! Ha !" and Kmily shook with mingled 
 laiighter and rage. 
 
 *• Do you mean to tell me that you are engaged to be mar- 
 ried to Reg^'it Niordaunt, a ntere hoy of eighteen, Kmily Dear- 
 born. In love with anothei man at the same time. You surely 
 cannot be in earnest ; so mer':enary ; so evidendy merccnaryj 
 It simply means disgrace to us all. It's not true, is it ? Kmily," 
 rapidly and earnestly exclaimed .Ada, Uvjw interested enough 
 and with a painfully shf)cked face. 
 
 "Yes ! it is quite true, Miss. Since it is so easy to disgrace 
 the family — it i:i disgraced. Reggie Mordaunt and myself are 
 engaged. At lenst he is engaged to me and I to him so long as 
 it suits me. The privileges without the penalties and disadvan- 
 tages, you knou'. Oh I la ! how horried Miss aj)pears. The 
 good little girl. As if butter 'vould'nt melt in her mouth. Yes ! 
 and shall probably marry him into the bargain. A very good 
 match it will be for me, as he is the only son, and they're too 
 fond of him to throw him over. I'll do it to spite that hateful 
 Kthel and the old lady ; little miss here also," and Kmily coiir- 
 tesyed in mocking derision of her sister, took little dancing stei)s 
 before her, holding her skirts back as she took took them and 
 poking her face into Ada's with Ihe most aggravatiug and exag- 
 gerated smilingness she could command. 
 
 " And are the Mordaunts acquainted with all this ?" asked 
 Ada, taking no notice of the pantomime, and regarding her sis- 
 ter fixedly. 
 
 " That ;s no business of yours ! little miss. You attend to 
 your own atfiirj: and do not trouble yourself with mine, or it 
 will Lc the worse fur you and your dear friends, the ]\Iordaunts, 
 rlso," replied Emily, still backing up against the drawing-room 
 door. 
 
ii'ttp 
 
 VOU SHALL llAVK YOUR TRir, ADA. 251 
 
 ♦' Have you told papa and manima, Kinily ?" again asked Ada. 
 •• lUit I know — -** 
 
 "Mind your own l)usincss ! Ada Dearborn," wrathfully ex* 
 ( Iiinu'd the enra^'ed Kmily. Vou go upon your pleasure trip, 
 for which I and the rest of us have to pay, aiid do noi you dare 
 to say a word of this to living soul, or I send word to Reggie, 
 and nvirry hini to morrow morning. He'll only he too glad." 
 
 " Yes I I dare say, the poor boy. He is doubtless entranced 
 enough for that. I nan only say your heart, Kmily is not in 
 keeping with your beautiful face. I pity him, and hope for all 
 our sakes — for yours also — that his delusion will pass away. 
 Let me pass, luiiily. I will no longer be stayed," and with a 
 jiush the vigorous young girl, who under less excitement would 
 not have dared, moved her sister aside and gained the door. 
 " Ves ! you have gained what you dosired, Kmily. I shall not 
 go with the Mordaunts to-morrow ujjon this excursion. 1 will 
 not be a i)arty to this wickedness. I am a loyal sister to you, 
 but I will not, knowing what I now know, treacherously imi)lant 
 myself among them as a friend, when I am not, and cannot be, 
 a rjal friend. It is not my business, as you say, and it is not 
 my place to interfere in this matter. JUit I will have nothing to 
 do with it, and I shall not go witli them, until your engagement 
 is approved by the Mordaunts, to whom at the i)resent it is, 
 I am certain, wholly unknown, and by i)aj)a and mamma also. 
 I shall hold myself aloof from them, and shall not pretend to be 
 a friend when I shall be a traitor. You have gained your wish, 
 En.ily. I do not go with them to-morrow. I remain your sister 
 — most sorrowfully your sister. But you shall make my excuses ! 
 No matter what they think ! I will not appear before them 
 to-morrow morning. I am your sister, and, as I see it, no longer 
 their friend !" 
 
 Mr, Edwin Vance was very much astonished, on opening a 
 letter which his fair fiancee handed to him, on her return with 
 
 ;, h 
 
 :l 
 
 III 
 

 K 
 
 I'l 
 
 ^5* 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXF. nKTTKR. 
 
 her mother from Ten Lakes. It was short if it was not sweet. 
 
 Vet its contents surprlsctl him ; not that they were very im 
 
 iLSiial, but that he should have bwcn written to at all upon the 
 
 subject. 
 
 "ToKONTo, July aSth, 1873. 
 '* Mv Dkar Vanck, — 
 
 " I see that a note of Wolverton's for a considerable 
 sum, endorsed by you. was disiiounted at this bank to day 
 by a third piuty. As president of the i)ank, I ask you if every 
 thing is correct ; and, as an old friend, I ask you likewise if the 
 transaction is a wise one on yout part ? 
 " I remain, dear Kdwin, 
 
 " Vours faithfully, 
 
 " E. Chuter.' 
 
 " What in the world does the man mean ?" he exclaimed aloud, 
 as he glanced again over the epistle. ** Can not I endorse a n(;tc 
 for two or three thousand dollars without being brought to b(M)k 
 about it, as if I was not capable of taking care of myself? Il 
 I had a dozen or so of them afloat it might be different, I allow ; 
 but even if I lose altogether a trifle like this I shall not be very 
 much hurt. ' Is everything correct ?' That's tantamount to 
 saying that I or Sidney forged the note. If they were afraid 
 of it what did they discount it for ? and then come bothering mc 
 about it. It is interference that I won't put u[) with. Though 
 I suppose old Chuter meant well enough." 
 
 Vance walked hastily into the library, snatched up pen and 
 paper, and replied as follows — 
 
 "Mv Dear Sir,— 
 
 " The note of which you speak in yours is perfectly correct. 
 Neither Wolverton nor I have forged it, as you would seem to 
 imply. I was not aware that either of us had developed talent 
 in that line. As to the wisdom or unv'-^iom uf the transaction 
 that is another affiiir, of which, however, I must beg to retain my 
 own opinion. 
 
 " I am, my dear sir, 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 " Edwin Vance." 
 
 » ti 
 
 '■I'll '* 
 
YOU siiAi.L iiAvr. York tiup, ada. 253 
 
 "There is one thing secmn evident," rontimicd he, nn he 
 closed his reply .ind kfl it for nulling. •* That Wolvcrton nunagcs 
 to get me into a scrape through everything I have to do with 
 him or for liim. He is either uncoinniotily inihicky, or the ra- 
 ttier bad opinion of him of which I have heard so nuteh lately 
 about here nuist be formed by something other than mere pre- 
 judice. Well I I won't trouble myself with old (,'huler's letter 
 
 lurther,"and he tore it up and threw it into the waste-jKiper 
 basket. 
 
 lUit after all Ad.i Dearborn went with the Mordauntson their 
 trip to the salt water. There was a scene at the Dearborn resi- 
 dence that evening, but the comniands of papa and manuna were 
 imperative and Ada had to submit. She resolutely persisted in 
 divulging, despite Kniily's threats, menaces and fury, the secret 
 of the engagement between the latter and Reggie Mordaunt, but 
 was very much surprised that sides were taken against her, and 
 to find herself in a hopeless minority, represented, in fact, by 
 
 herself alone. 
 ** It's Emily's aflliir and not yours," exclauned her mother, 
 
 "and 1 forbid you to speak of it to any person, unless it is first 
 
 nu-Mitioned to you by some of the Mordaunts." 
 
 " It is no business of yours I Ada, and go you shall ! whether 
 you like it ornot," she continued with more than ordinary deci- 
 sion, for she was more delighted than vexed at Kmily's engage- 
 ment, and possessed none of Ada's scruples. 
 
 '* Do you sui)pose that the Mordaunts can si)eak to me about 
 
 it, mamma? when they do not know it themselves. If they had 
 known and approved of it, would they not have asked Kmily, 
 and not myself, to accompany them ?" queried Ada in reply. 
 
 "Approve of it ! Approve ! indeed. They may think them- 
 selves very lucky if a girl of lunily's accomplishments and refine- 
 ment marries him. Where could they find another who could 
 so well do the honors of his house ? Approve of it indeed," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Dearborn, with scornful emphasis. 
 
 •I# 
 
 Mi. 
 
' <•!'>■ 
 
 ^54 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 M I. i 
 
 11 
 
 : rn 
 
 " A mere boy, for whom she does not care one straw," return- 
 ed Ada, warmly. " If she marries him it will be because she 
 thinks it will be a good marriage in a money point of view for 
 her, and for no other reason. She would throw him over and 
 ma'fy Mr. Wolverton to-morrow if she thought he was rich." 
 
 " Come ! Cease all that nonsense and ridiculous stuff about 
 engagements and love," said Mr. Dearborn, impatiently. " Ada ! 
 you will go on this journey to-morroA/, as arranged ! I lepeat 
 it. I'll believe it when I see it that Emily marries young Mor- 
 daunt. If he does, he's a bigger fool than I take him to be, and 
 all I can say is that I won't envy him," continued he, and, seiz- 
 ing his newspaper he turned away from the group and said no 
 more. 
 
 " Thank you ! papa, for the compliment," almost screamed 
 Emily, jumping from her chair in a flaming passion. " I'll marry 
 him if I choose, no matter who approves or who does'nt. As 
 for you, you minx," to Ada, " I'll pay you and your fine friends 
 the Mordaunts off for this, so sure as my name is Emily Dear- 
 born," and rushing past them, she slammed the door behind her 
 with a bang, and was gone. 
 
 So Ada went with the Mordaunts in the morning, but all the 
 anticipated pleasure of the trip seemed to have gone from her. 
 She obeyed her parents' commands, yet it was a woeful-looking 
 young face that appeared before them when they called for her. 
 
 " Was it not traiterous and disloyal in her ?" she enquired, " to 
 accept the friendship and hospitality of these people, knowing 
 what she knew." She would much rather have stayed at home 
 and kept herself aloof from them. 
 
 She had to go, though, and bear her load — which would have sat 
 lightly enough in all conscience on many other shoulders — as 
 best she might. 
 
 How could she, a young girl, interfere in the matter, or say 
 anything to the Mordaunts of that which she felt sure they were 
 not acquainted with, but which they ought to know. 
 
A COMING STROKE. 
 
 255 
 
 \^\ 
 
 It was not for her to interfere, and had she not her mother's 
 absolute command not to do so. 
 
 Oh ! how she lorged and wished for an opportunity to arise 
 l)y which she could escape the visit with them. But no such 
 god-send arose, and she had to go. She bade her fiirewells to 
 her brothers and sisters, and was driven off to enjoy or disen joy 
 her pleasure trip as best she might. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A COMING STROKE. 
 
 That a human creature, the masterpiece of creation, living 
 in this world of ours, and to all appearance making it subservient 
 to him, though he be gifted with its choicest blessings, intellect, 
 energy and industry, wisdom, physical strength and beauty, or 
 even the possession of fortune, should have the current of his 
 life altered, turned aside and deflected from the wished for chan- 
 nel by the mere force of circumstances surrounding him, in almost 
 as great degree as one who, possessing none of these advantages, 
 is floated helplessly along the stream of his existence, amid sun- 
 shine or amid storm as chance may befall, is a seeming contra- 
 diction, an apparent paradox, yet, nevertheless, a truth in fact. 
 For of those we see around us, no matter what talent, application, 
 force of character be displayed, who is there that can so wholly 
 direct and control his course, that some slight event, springing 
 mayhap from the veriest trifle, may not turn aside that straight 
 course into a devious pathway, unlooked for, unexpected and 
 irretrievably giving a new tenor to the whole after destiny ? 
 
 Happiness, the possession of all that seems desirable, may to 
 some of us appear to be almost a secured certainty — within the 
 grasp ; the cup of enjoyment overflowing to our lips, yet may not 
 some untoward accident of a moment drop its poison into the 
 sweet draught of existence and vitiate for this world every bright 
 prospect. 
 
 H' 
 
 * I !' 1 
 I ll I 
 
 I 
 
 i ' I 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 1. 
 1 1 
 
256 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 f*;l ■ ■■ 
 
 Hmi t'ri 
 
 It does not need that the untoward thing be of our own causa- 
 tion. \\'ere it of such alone the race of man could much bet- 
 ter command its own happiness. Inevitable Death — with his 
 gaunt terrors that separate the beloved from us — would then be, 
 in things of earth, the sole destroyer we would need to fear. 
 For who could command the stay of his dread apj)roach ? 
 
 It is not the effects of our own errors and imperfections with 
 which we alone have to contend. These are numerous and force- 
 ful enough to wreck full many a hope, to lend full many a carking 
 care and sorrow for the embittering of our steps. But these are 
 not all. 
 
 Our course is devious and uncertain. Full many an evil of 
 which we are innocent shall bend its force against the would-l)e 
 straight lines of our life, and we have to bear the brunt who 
 provoked not the fray. Full many a good, that to our short 
 seeing eyes is disguised as evil, stems its power against and turns" 
 us from our fancied way, in present pain and toil, and though in 
 after days we recognise the brightness and the beauty, and ac- 
 knowledge the Beneficence that changed our road, yet in its time 
 it had added to our load. 
 
 Or how many chances and events, outside of our cognizance 
 or intention, wholly independent of us and beyond our control, 
 come between us and our wished for goal ; marring our fcincied 
 happiness : thwarting our best laid plans ; diverting us, perforce, 
 from our most cherished aims, and, strive as we may, leaving us 
 to flounder in uncertain seas, at the mercy of changing wind and 
 wave, to regain our course, as we best may, in whatsoever sorry 
 plight we may find ourselves. 
 
 Even he, who battered by long misfortune, wearied, scarred 
 and calloused in the ceaseless fray of life, the bright visions of early 
 days all dimmed, and hope ensanguined no more, forces himself 
 again upon his road, content with quiet content, that his hard 
 journey is brightened by the loved ones whose steps are with him, 
 may not, even he may not, pass scatheless. Mayhap a lovely 
 
A COMING STROKE. 
 
 m 
 
 I'fl^ child, expanding before hk eyes like n fl 
 ^sweetness and beauty ,vinding close a„d.V "' '"'"'^ ''" ^"^ 
 love around him, until hi, seared I ^ '" "' '""•^ '«"* of 
 ""ft hopes for his little "IZr"' !""' '^S'^'" "■"" 
 ;>"ci <n fond prospects for his da , I'^r """ ""^^"^''' '°ve, 
 '-'m- Untitnely Death-the ste ? , '^"'""'^^ ''^ ''^ =•§="" 
 ">ore lovely and loveable, oo s L f ""= ""''= ^'"'W is the 
 «rth-s long, hard journeyi^gslsrM; ° ''"^ ""'' '^"gh' for 
 '^'n him, and casts hin,! «?^U "ar ' ^. *''"'^ ■''^ "^"^'oved form 
 prostrate and nerveless to the de er, ?^' '°"' "'"^ '''^^ding 
 «reat A^er, coming the strXt He alw-'^ '' ""•"■'' '""' """' "^' 
 ho>v to H,s fiat, and seek His a id knn ^ ^'' T'' '° '^°'' "'h" 
 H.S stroke-he rises to repel t^tT,"' ''? '" "'"^-^ -- 
 gnmage. ' '"^ onw-ird march of his sad pil 
 
 |-ehtness, of goodnes' anTonirV'f/"" """^ «'-"- "^ 
 It 'S not all pain The nl ^''' "'' the dreary wav ? 
 
 ---^ered'in the s^me^r tH' '"^ '-""' •>"• -not 
 ""<; consolation and solace The Znl '°''"^"'^ "'^ ^'""Sht 
 to he Mercy and the Benific „ce r ' '"^ '^'' "' "'^'"^^ 
 "■••d not the fond parents whose t / " "°' ^''^^^^ sorrow. 
 t.''e.r beloved little one, exq ° v '' "^ '^"'"S ^y the loss of 
 tt'e life whilst it was w th thcr' 'n "f '''"''""' '" "'^ P'tre 
 *- --ringing of hands, that t " d , 7 ''"'' '" *^'^ ^sW, 
 to them ? ' '"^' "'^"^ darhng had never been born 
 
 '^^^^^^^S^^^:^:::^^^ !^^^ f- thought, that 
 
 "°t they tnink, and thinkL t? f "^^'' ^'^^n- R«her do 
 c"M-too p„,e and ovt?fo;?v '""' !^'''^ '^'"'d "'- God's 
 P'obation short, and herltst ^^°^"'-th='t He made its 
 f e "> His arm's forever a hef ^T' '""'^ " '" """- 
 *^>. .«d in His mercy emoved t f "''^'^ '^"""S better than 
 
 to H,s heavenly real.s o bhV .^d do"" TT' "''' '''"'' ^- 
 
 ' ' """^ do not they, with Jong.ng 
 
 W: 
 
 ''f 
 
 li I 
 
 ! 
 
 nr 
 
258 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BEITER. 
 
 hearts, look forward to the heavenly meeting, when, life's struggles 
 over, there shall be no more separation, no more sorrow, but in- 
 finite joy, eternal bliss ? 
 
 Man's life is not all darkness. There may be shadows over 
 the road, but God gives His light to aid us through them. There 
 may be jjains to be endured, but there are pleasures also. La- 
 bors, but there is rest, and over all His Hand guides us — not, 
 perhaps, in the way we, blind mortals, would wish, but as He 
 knows best for us — in His mercy to lead us to Him. He places 
 the obstacles in our path. He sends the trials and the sorrows 
 that we may be turned from our own way an'i seek the true ro;;d 
 that His mercy and loving kindness would fain that we find a:id 
 which His Hand helps us to gain. 
 
 We may not see the Hand nor recognize the Mercy. W'c 
 grieve over the trials and fruitless labors, the hard chances and 
 circumstance? that surround and prevent us. We fret at tlie 
 bonds that restrain us from our cherished aims ; not seeing that 
 our griefs and trials and the force of circumstances that we so 
 lament as beyond our control, are the putting forth of His force- 
 ful yet merciful strength to save us from ourselves, to lead us 
 in the right road, whose ending is everlasting felicity. And if 
 we bend to Him, and seek His guidance in humble faith, we shall 
 not find it all sorrow here below. 
 
 Five weeks have elapsed, and the Lake Mordaunt party liave 
 ended their salt water excursion, and are again within the plea- 
 sant walks of home. 
 
 Delighted they all vere to be back again amid the loved and 
 familiar surroundings, for there is nothing like absence, sliort 
 though it may be, to show the true beauties of, and open wide 
 the heart, to Home. 
 
 Their seaside visit had been a very enjoyable one to all of 
 them, except perhaps to Ada Dearborn, who had not started 
 upon it in a happy frame of mind, and who, unwillingly forced 
 by parental authority to accompany the Mordaunts, and to 
 
A COMING STROKfi. 
 
 .1 
 
 keep silence to them h^ i r ^^^ 
 
 ^">d »-l.o though im^rcsMZTl 'J "'=" °'*l'^'--«'^rf l-er, 
 «o"'d be, l.y the novel sceneAnn'* ''^ '''"^ ^"""g g.V 
 er chief pleasure in its Z^Z:^'"'"""' ^"'" '""•'-"'^ 
 be on her H-ay home, where, i she sti h h' ""^'-"'S"<'^'y g'ad to 
 cret that weighed upon her hearts , ?' "'"■'"^'■" ">e se- 
 
 ••"vay from the Mordaunts w ' , '°"''' ''" •''"y "tc, keei, 
 treachery of apparent SndM, J^'l^" "^ '■"^'"^•'•''' '" he 
 
 'i-fo.e,;shewasnotar:Snd ' "'"■ '^'^^'" ^^^^ ^'^" "-t 
 10 Kdwm Vance and Pn, i ■ 
 
 ^'lloy to their pleasure for ', 7 '''"""' '^'■«' l^^^n the onlv 
 
 -»mery deh-ghts, the ^Z^ l^^tf-"] '"'" ''' "•-"<« of 
 seas of a happy ,0,,. Five ieekJ:'^''- '"^^ ^'"^ »'"oth 
 to be forgotten ; the bright rilw °'^?''>'*""n together, never 
 o^fteir We ; for whicf ^f :"« f -. '-'g -'d hap V/^" 
 eartlj smWed more sweetly on h" \Zr '''^''' ""'" ""''"'''"^ 
 drank m the greeting beautv th.T 1 u f ' '^''°^'= softened eyes 
 of'oveand hope. The fefv t-M'' '''"''''" °f"«e 
 
 -.ce .!^ir engagement ifad;:^;lL' "'' •'"™' '°g«^e 
 ■ind iiad brought their love in^ T ""^ ^'"^'^ to each other 
 
 «f feding. They had earned? '^''^''' '""^^"^^ °f 'bought 'nd 
 good qualities, the stfclrf'f^ '"" '° -"»■ e 
 each other's character SI, ' '^u ''"^"'"S ^""abilities of 
 ™d brought forward 'th^TT ,:''''' ''''' '°- '"'-"fied 
 
 '^ Prommently to each other's 
 
 ^"^''^^:S!:lZZ''T'''' °- "^^ --tH menac 
 
 -> Of their life. ThT gaTe *' " *'' "'' '^'^^"^"^'1 "- moX 
 
 -d self.onfidence S him r^dT^''^^'^^-^^^"™' 
 
 -yhem how necessr;;hTv :!"^"^""S-Pecthad 
 
 "»' thetr love had become Ihe 2.. ' '° ^^^'^ o'her- 
 
 *' ^'^'^'^'' "« of their earthly 
 
 I :■ 
 
 
 ( !' 
 
 Ill 
 
 \h 
 
 > , 
 
 
 ! 
 
 I 
 
 !' 
 
26o 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ; 1 
 
 life and the knowledge had drawn them the closer to each other. 
 If they had loved from the first with a pure and unselfish love, 
 they loved now more i)urely und more unselfishly. The enno- 
 bling passion that loves because the object is wholly worthy, 
 that recognises that in this love is alone to live as oneself ; that 
 FMwin Vance could not be Kdwin \''ance unless he loved Kthcl 
 Mordaunt, and Ethel Mordaunt could not be herself unless she 
 loved Edwin Vance ; that no calamity could subvert that love, 
 or make either different, 'i'hey felt this and gloried in the 
 knowledge. When Edwin Vance and Ethel Mordaunt return- 
 ed with their party from their bright summer tri^), they were, in 
 each other's eyes, perfect, they loved each other with an ab- 
 sorbing love, and they were happy. 
 
 But the hour of their parting had come ; the inevitable first 
 parting of little pangs and sweet memories. A short parting it 
 is true ; far a month was to bring her Edwin again to the tear- 
 ful Ethel's feet, but it was nevertheless the parting. The car- 
 riage that was to drive her hero away, stood at the door, and 
 Barney reining up his impatient horses, turning his reproachful 
 eyes into the hall from whence the lingerer came not, and she 
 hated Barney. Ada Dearborn, who was to accompany Edwin 
 to her home at Ten Lakes, stood on the verandah bidding 
 • farewells' to the Mordaunts, who had been so kind to her, and 
 yet from whom she longed to get away — while Edwin and Ethel 
 lingered over their parting in the hall. 
 
 " It is very hard to leave you, my darling !" he said. " A 
 month away from you is the prospect of an age. But you shall 
 never be absent from my thoughts, Ethel, my beautiful love. 
 And you will write to me often. Will you not ? to brighten 
 my lonely absence." 
 
 " Yes ! Edwin, I will write, and you must also, so soon as 
 you recch Toronto, for I shall be anxious," she answered. 
 " But the time will soon fly away, tor we love each other, Ed- 
 
•^ coArrxr, stroke. 
 
 «fn, in full (r,„t , " ifii 
 
 -™ trust each other's loveC"',^ T '•^^''"S ^^ .^nd te 
 '•^"<'ng a handsome ring fro,,'-;, " ' ^""^'' " he continued 
 -S-'t -d its inscripti^^":: -^ --■ -d holding it u„ tt ht' 
 
 rf our happy engagement, it^ 1 ' " V'^*' ''^ ">« »i 
 ■^'* ;;"";. r Shan not cha g l£°Z ^"''SC of my unaite'r 
 
 J believe it Edwin," shetenK!^ ""''' ^"^ ">o." 
 
 by myself M'hit ■, h ' ''''^ ' " f ""'ow it for r i,,^ 
 
 -«°.-""n the ring, Ed^L HatV ''" ^'"^^^^ ^e 
 ■"'^^ -n my heart. No need of. "°' >'°"'- "^-eet pro- 
 renhty." ■ "^^d of sy^h^ls when I have the 
 
 r -re hut wofthy^^'y' ;';:: "' ™7-hensive reply. .< j, 
 )-- finger with „,y o,!; Ind „d r i '""^' '"^^ '"e ring on 
 h! '^^-^^^ ^"-'. that, whatsoe;er S "'^ ?"-"<^S'^' ^^^em 
 hst, my love faileth not ' An7,f r '' '° '°"g ^^ "fe shall 
 first sad ' farewell.- J J, ,, ^ '1°'^ ^ ">"«t say ' forewell ■- hi 
 be raving." """^^ "« nnss my train, and Barney ,W11 
 
 Their parting words shill h^ 
 
 fOne. Ethel, with her lover'-i ntf , ' '" ^""tlier he was 
 
 -™y and fled up stairs inrs'S."" "'"" ''"^''-'<. « 
 " Oh ! Indeed ' Wp W * * * * 
 
 H have we ?" exclaimed S ne'° '^"'^ °" -^r home at 
 
 ^'"e fieathS X^ ,t S f7"f ^er .ne fSe'^rV - 
 
 --n«'.ousl.critical\a:?;t:^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 ^^er Sisters general make-up. 
 
 * 
 
 i 
 
m. 
 
 262 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE IJETTKR. 
 
 Vi 
 
 " And pray, why could not little miss have come homo the 
 day before yesterday, when she arrived ? I should like to he in- 
 formed. But no ! that would not have done at all. Little miss 
 must go on to T.ake Mordaunt for two days more with her grand 
 friends. I know all about it you see. I have a friend at court 
 also. But how h'-Tibly r' xteail we must be that little miss has 
 condescended at i' ',"♦•■ • >honor us again with her i)resencc after 
 her fashionable sunr • 'it." 
 
 "Oh! Phnily, how v,an y; ■ sj)eak to me so? If you only 
 knew how glad I am to be back again. Mrs. Mordaunt insisted 
 on my going to Lake Mordaunt with them. They could not 
 come out of the way to leave me, as little Ally was not well, and 
 they hurried on home with her. It was not my fault, and, oh ! 
 Emily, I'm so glad to be back," continued Ada, attempting to 
 kiss her sister. 
 
 " Enough of that, thanks !" returned Emily, repulsing the em- 
 brace. " A fig for your affection ; I know it's value. You were 
 net so much missed, let me tell you, that we are to be in raptures 
 at your coming home. Hardly that, I think. In fact, little 
 miss* return is at least as unendurable as her absence." 
 
 " Ada ! my darling ! my child ! How happy I am to see you 
 again," exclaimed Mrs. Dearborn, rushing in and clasping her 
 daughter to her warm motherly heart, kissing her agnin and 
 again. 
 
 " My dear mamma — my dear mamma. How glad I am to 
 be back to you again," returned the affectionate girl, holding her 
 arms around her mother's neck. " How glad I am ; how glad 
 I am. And how is papa, and all of them ? " 
 
 " They're all well, Ada. Your papa will be glad to see you 
 again. He has missed you more than you can tell, " was the re- 
 ply. " How well you look and how pretty you are grown, ir.y 
 darling. Mrs. Mordaunt has taken car'2 of you in everything,'' 
 continued Mrs. Dearborn, gazing admiringly at the pretty figure 
 of her younger daughter. " Your trip has done you good, as it 
 
^ COMING STRCJKK. 
 
 «'.^d to be back again, U.n^: ,^ '"?"'"' ' '■""=»» very 
 daunt JHirried home." ^ '*'"-'" """ell, and Mrs. ,\ror 
 
 hope. Hut co,nc into Z t ?""" ' ''"""''•»' "•'•ec' ' -u- t 
 Ada," .aid her n.oll.or n' 1 '' ' ?'" '•"''' '^" ">e all ,:. „, 
 
 '•ollege fnends," ans>vered Ad T ''"" '•' '^""''''^ "f hi, 
 
 '^ :^; ^;.e could not l,e,;,V£ ^ ^' """ '"-■"■'■« ^'--^ 
 Un / yes Ada r • "'''•^*' 
 
 ;;-;!- Reggie\vas hr;:t^,":;'-V--rds mc. Itfall, 
 • He does not go of hi. olnl^'Tl," ""'' '"^- '•"' "''»"' 
 f' » long as he is in th,. ,r ™ 5 II ' ™ J"^' '"'^ "•^■" I''eas. 
 ' '""-•[ care for his pre en e^s f '"'"' *''' ' '"" ^'"'^We. 
 J-ow shot fails of effect m .' *" ""*■" "<" '"» fidelity Sr, 
 ^'^'="' ""-." -phed Enn-ly, wit,, a ,ajgh and 
 
 ^^:::^';t''--' ^^-''^ ^ " ■■■' -< ^ght .. 
 
 ^-^-ghter. asslt^cSi 't^, "''-''"-^ - -^r 
 foyou, Ada, about Reggie's and P ■, "^ ""^ "*" ""--'" ^I'eak 
 '■^f^'-ed to in any wayf^ ^'""'> '^ engagement ? VVas it 
 
 ^fi^orz,nirr;Td'::'"^"r^^- ^"^^<^'■^- 
 
 *^"- I think also that none of „ °'''^'''' "<" '" ^P^ak to 
 "-'• - »y «te, and I aT ;;' 5;;!^" f '"^ -«'^«- 
 
 I i 
 
 I 
 
264 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVF DONK BETTKR. 
 
 i*i"; 
 
 ( i 
 
 III 
 
 l'» ■!ll*lil 
 
 |^i^nn|lil'' f r' 
 
 that reason. 'Vhit engagement shoukl not be ke[)t secret Ironi 
 Reggie's parents." 
 
 ♦''Iliat is no business of yours, miss. Reggie and I can 
 manage our own affairs ; your opinion will not bo required in 
 the matter. Of onj thing you may rest assured, if I ever marry 
 Reggie, it will be of my own free will. We shall oe married as 
 soon as Edwin Vanre and I'.thel Mordaunt are, in any case, as 
 you will shortly see," exclaimed Emily in a rage, getting up from 
 her seat, and prei)aring to leave the room. 
 
 " If their engagement is ever broken, it will be through your 
 treachery, Emily — your unhappy spite and malice. They love 
 each other truly, and it will not be easy to part therfl. But you 
 have warned me, and I will warn Ethel to beware of you," re- 
 plied Ada, warmly. 
 
 " Ah I indeed ! How much little miss's efforts will avail," said 
 Emily, as she i)assed out of the door and looked back with a 
 mocking sneer at her sister. " I do not forget their insulting 
 slight in passing me over for little miss's desirable oompany. 
 We shall see." 
 
 "Mamma! I am confident diat Emily is meditating some 
 scheme against Ethel Mordaunt's happiness,** said Ada, when 
 her sister had gone. *' She does not like her, I know, and was 
 very much annoyed from the first that Edwin Vance became 
 engaged to her. She wished that his liking had been for her- 
 self, and I fear that she is ripening a plot to sunder them. Could 
 you not intcrefere with her and prevent any cruelty against poor 
 Ethel, who has been so kind to us both ; and again, discovery will 
 be in the end certain, with deep disgrace to us all. Spe*k to 
 her, mamma, on the matter," she continued. 
 
 " Oh ! now, Ada, how can you imagine such things of your 
 sister. I am sure Emily has no such wicked idea as you sup- 
 pose. What interest can it be for her to interfere^between Ethel 
 and Mr. Vance ? especially now as she is engaged to Reginald," 
 replied Mrs. Dearborn, with some warmth. " You are imjust to 
 
your sfster T\t,t '^ 
 
 ■^'-' v-y likely, „„,, ,„„ ,:',"•':; "^•.)-' >-rc ,-„.„,d, ,, J 
 
 ;■' ' ^" noV"::?; !::nXi:r 'Tie*!.-; 'r"^' " '^ '« ^"" "■■•■■'c. 
 
 Wmcn, can I... ko,,, a secret at,, 7' '''" """••''" "«• Le 
 docs not lovciR,,,,.,, J _,„;.^ • " f", '." .:onf,Je„co. That shj 
 «f-->n an,lm;„,, .scheme In .? ' "■ ''"S^'S^'"'™' '» !'.« a „• « 
 
 ■"•^■'*- ^•"ff.gen.ent and .o M v ' '"'• '^ ■•*''^' <^"n "-rcak 
 
 ; ri'T " '^""""- t'- salr' , ' ,""•■- "' 'I'c ,.„s„io„ 
 ' '^ 'hat desj,ica(,le man ■• said ,' "'"-' '°^'^'-^ <"'>■ Person 
 
 "-,,'-" as I can, and'ir e t-' '" T"' " ' ^' -"" 
 ».'"! luhel," "" '■^•"^c of any oven act I ,,;„ 
 
 ;., mte and mako „o „«,, \^J^"! d° ■••nrthing ,.a..;h,y, 
 ■:« conid a girl lik,, k,,,,, ,, J™ " ^ '^-V wo have already 
 
 ''■;;-S-^-nt..ans.ere:dtr:j;!Ji^^^ - ^-:=/. 
 
 ' '--itpuTou^'^i:;;::-^^^ 
 
 "'«'"• For all our sake d ' "'" ""^ °° »^re r.t. - ' 
 toheus,.r„i. ' '" ^Wa, earnestiv \nH „ ;■''--.!•'■: 
 
 utar o]d wor]:-a-da;.- 2//b 
 
 : 
 
 ! i 1 
 
 I 
 
 I ' 
 
 / " 
 
a66 
 
 SIIK Mir.IlT IIAVK DONF nKTTF.R. 
 
 ' :t] 
 
 ' '1 ' 
 
 which I had no !)usiness to have ever left. T would have been 
 iK'tter and happier at home." 
 
 " You arc a go*K! girl, my little .Ada," replied her mothtir. 
 "'I'hoif^h I think you are too hard upon Kmily, aiid misjudge 
 her." 
 
 CIIArTKR XXV. 
 
 MV LOVE FAM.KTU NOl! OH ! KDWIN, KDWIN I 
 
 A week after the events narrated in the last chapter, Mrs. 
 Mordaunt and her daughter Kthel sat in their pleasant morning- 
 room, tlie former busily employed in looking over the dearly 
 loved plagues of a good housekeeper, the mending and darning 
 of a large family, and the latter as pleasantly at least engaged 
 in reading over and over again, a letter received the night be- 
 tore from her absent lover — the second love letter of her life 
 — and, as may be supposed, a very delightful occupation of an 
 hour it was to her before <ommen<ing the duties of the day. 
 
 There was a new light shining in the soft eyes, and a brighter 
 ])loom on her fair cheek, a soft sriile on the rosy lii)s, as the 
 loving words, read so often, and yet so fresh, passed before her 
 sense. 
 
 There lay the words on the paper, all plain, distinct and last- 
 ing. Plain and distin(-t as though he whisi)ered them in her car. 
 She could almost imagine he spoke them to her, and that she 
 would hear the soft* inflections of his voice upon every syllable. 
 It tvas very delicious, and as each rounded phrase, redolent of 
 their sv/eet romance, and delightfully nonsensical — for even a 
 lawyer, it is to be sup[)oscd, can write a love letter — swept be- 
 fore h'ir eyes and kept time with every pulsation of her heart, 
 she realized almost as keen a pleasure as if indeed in pro- 
 per person he spoke the words. For they did not, as spoken 
 words would do, die away with the sound and end there, 'llicrc 
 
MV U)\'\: FAILKTII NOTI OH! KDWINI 267 
 
 ilicy were before her, to 1)e mused over, delighted over, i)rcsscd 
 to lier li^JS .oul held to her heart exuhingly, again and again. 
 Drc.inU over again and again in bright day dreams. Soft smil- 
 ing landscapes, wherein lay pit tured the bright unending vistas 
 of love and happiness. 
 
 •• Well ! 'L'hai nuist be a very delightful epistle, Ethel," said 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, after a pause from her work, during which she 
 lud ga^ed with a smile at her [treoccupied daughter. •* You have 
 s()cnt an hour over it. You find your first letters from him very 
 sweet, I dare say. Your/;Y//.v c/ia>a//frh:in done his dci^oir in 
 knightly style. Two letters a week. It will not do ; you spend 
 the week in reading them." 
 
 Kthel, at her mother's first words, -l^rted, and a blush spread 
 over her face. With a forced little laugh she answered, " Oh ! 
 manuna, that's too bad. I was only thinking a little." 
 
 " Yes I I dare say ! Dreaming hajjuy dreams, Ethel," replied 
 her mother. " I ho})e your life will be as wholly bright as your 
 fancy now pictures it, my darling daughter. Does he give any 
 news of interest to any one but yourself? Anything but sweet 
 phrases meant only for your own ear?" 
 
 " Don't tease me, mamma I He does not say much of him- 
 self, except that he is very busy. He sends love to all, xid asks 
 after everyone, down to his friend Barney, who greatly r mused 
 his journey to Cascades. lie asks particularly after All/, who 
 was so unwell after he left." 
 
 *' Very kind of him. I feel anxious about Ally. X thinh I 
 will send for Dr. S eatham again at once. She 13 getting very 
 thin, and I do not like the whooping cough stopping so suddenly," 
 said Mia. MordaUiU, "ajr mcth.erly thoughts taking r. new ui-'ec- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh ! I dc not know ! ! think Ally is better. Che is gettiig 
 very thin, certainly, and her cough is not altogether gone, thoii;j;h 
 there is no whoop left. She is a little weakened, and should '')e 
 strengthened up." 
 
 I 
 
 I! 
 
368 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 'I 
 
 i J! ;f 
 
 :l!i'iiiN 
 
 i 
 
 " She is not \'^11, at all, my little beauty. She has no appe- 
 tite, and eats nothing. She is not like her usual little bright 
 self. I am getting very uneasy about her. She seems to have 
 a low fever, too, though there are hardly any ferverish symptoms," 
 replied Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " She does not seem to me to be any worse, except that she 
 is weaker, than usual, which probably accounts for her listless- 
 ness. And then, is it not a good thing that the horrid whooping 
 cough is gone ? What did the Doctor say when he was last 
 here ? 1 hope our Ally is not really ill." 
 
 " The last time the Doctor was here he said there was no 
 danger, bat that we were to watch her well, and notice her throat 
 and lungs. All is right there, so far, but I do not like her list- 
 lessness and the sudden abatement of the cough. I'll go to her 
 now to see how she is, and I will send Barney off at once fur 
 Dr. Streatham. She was asleep when I came down ; she k too 
 sleepy, more so than is natural," said Mrs. Mordaunt, as she ro^^e 
 and gathering up her work, left the room. 
 
 " Five minutes more with my diear letter, and then I must dis- 
 enchant m.yself ^or the vv'ork-a-day world," exclaimed Ethel, throw- 
 ing herself back in her chair, and proceeding to lose herself 
 again in the bright reveries that charmed youth can alone weave 
 out of the unsubstantialities and unrealities, which man, dis- 
 severing from the hard uapleasing facts of his existence, exalts 
 before him, and with eager, though vain attempt, essays to erecl 
 thereon the delightful structure? of liis hapi)iness, but upon whicli 
 foundation, imstable as the shifting sands, the painted house of 
 cards, comcc all too soon and too oft, to hopeless wreck, at the 
 feet cf the sanguine but hapless builder on the sand. Anotlier 
 brigh- visiDZ di;iappea)s before the disappointed eyes, and for 
 I'iri again 'ho world ir. all desolate, cold and bear. 
 
 But happy youth, all doubtles:., of hope unblasted; and 
 whose ilowering blooms the withering frosts of disappointment 
 have no; cut down, builds fast its frail but brilliant edifices of 
 
 P^ii' 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT! OH! EDWIN! 269 
 
 imaginary bliss, and for Ethel, all happily engaged in such, the 
 minutes flew past with unsounding wings. At length the grating 
 of wheels on the gravelled roadway attracted her attention, and, 
 looking from the open window, siie perceived the approach of 
 a carriage towards the house, having for its tenant, so far as she 
 could discern, a young lady. 
 
 " Who can it be at this time of the morning?" she asked of 
 herself. " A lady driving herself and alone ! She cannot have 
 come from any distance to be here at ten o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. \Vho is it, 1 wonder? \Vhy, it is Emily Dearborn, I do 
 believe ! It is not likely that she would honor us by a mere 
 call and alone. It is something other than that improbable event 
 that brings her to Lake Mordaunt," she continued, with no par- 
 ticular pleasure on her countenance, for Emily had not made 
 herself a favorite. " Well ! I suppose I must go and receive 
 her,'as mamma is up stairs busy, and I must, though somewhat 
 against my inclinations, be polite to her, for dear little Ada's 
 sake," and as the carriage drew up before the door, she left the 
 room to meet her visitor on the verandah. 
 
 " Good morning ! Miss Dearborn," she said. •' Come in ! A 
 man will be round directly to take your horse. She will stand a 
 moment, I suppose." 
 
 " Thank you ! Miss Mordaunt, it is not necessary," was Emily's 
 reply. " I am going to remain but a few minutes, and will se- 
 cure the horse in a moment," she continued, throwing a weight, 
 which she produced from the carriage, to the groimd and attach- 
 ing it by its strap to the animal's head. " You see I am a Cana- 
 dian girl, Miss Mordaunt, and can manage my horse without other 
 assitance than my own." 
 
 "Yes ! I perceive so. Were it otherwise we would be de- 
 prived of a chief pleasure of the country, driving about when 
 we wish to do so. Pray walk in this wa}'," continued Ethel, 
 shewing Emily into the room in which she had been sitting 
 
 
 lijil 
 
 I 
 
 S' 
 
 |i 
 
 !l I' 
 
 I 
 
270 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ! r 
 
 i!! 
 
 < 
 
 'ii 
 
 where she had built up her bright tinted castles of the atrial 
 future. 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn are well, I hope ? and my friend 
 Ada. I have not seen her since she left us a week ago." 
 
 " Yes ! they are all well, thank you. Ada has been much 
 occupied ; she has to make up for lost time now, I suppose. I 
 was sorry to hear from her that little Alida had been very un- 
 well, and we all trust that by this time she has recovered," replied 
 Emily. 
 
 " Well ! I cannot say that she is either better or worse. The 
 whooping cough has apparently abated, but still she is not well, 
 and is very thin and weak, but I do not think there is arjy 
 danger." 
 
 " I have never heard that it is a dangerous disease, but Alida 
 is of a nervous organization, excitable and rather precocious; 
 such children are easily prostrated," answered Emily, unable to 
 resist the temptation of administering a little of the comfort 
 which Job received so plentifully. 
 
 '' Mamma feels uneasy about her, which must be her apology 
 for her absence this morning. Did you wish to see her?" 
 
 " No ! thank you, Ethel. It is yourself whom I came to see. 
 Something which I have to tell you," was the reply, and then 
 finding that her subject was more difficult to open than she iiad 
 imagined, Emily paused to collect her thoughts and prepare her- 
 self for her object. 
 
 " Something to say to me ! Well ! It must be something of 
 more than ordinary importance, dien, to have brought you from 
 Ten Lakes on purpose. What is it, Emily ?" answered Ethel, 
 laughing after her first surprise, ^'''«at the mission was to herself, 
 had given way to curiosity. 
 
 But Emily did not reply on the instant. Perhaps it was that 
 some twinge of remorse awakened within her spirit and pressed 
 hardly on her evil-seared conscience. Perhaps the perreptioii 
 that that which she was about to do, might be of more direful 
 
 Ii;: 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT! OH! EDWIN! 271 
 
 consequence to the finor, purer and softer nature before her than 
 it would have been to her own case-hardened and earthy mind 
 — the mere destruction of a girl's ambitious hopes, a blow to 
 her vanity, whose pain a few days would smooth over or efface. 
 Or, perhaps, the risk of discovery, with its disagreeable prospects 
 of inconvenience, if not of danger to herself, might have been 
 the more selfish urging which prompted her delay. Did not the 
 very baseness of the act she was about to commit : the base act 
 wliich was to effect a baser purpose, appal her self-respect and 
 tighten the restraining chain of Pride — that quality, unworthy in 
 the main, but which is so often beneficial that it will hold back 
 from sin and crime those to whom, in but too many instances, 
 neither the Divine commands nor the ordinances of man would 
 bring prevention. 
 
 Did not the remembrance of these Divine commands come 
 upon her soul even at this eleventh hour ? The fear of her God ? 
 All merciful, if she but repented her of her sin, at even this late 
 moment ; but whose justice she was about to provoke, and whose 
 mercy she was about ^0 despise. It may have been so ! But 
 if these thoughts — even the dread thought of her Creator's 
 anger — flashed over her soul, her purpose was not altered. 
 
 Rejected as sentimentalities — which in the conduct of life were 
 to her absurd — were alike the sc^t gleams of mercy, the call of 
 self-respect and the promptings of her pride. The idea of dan- 
 ger held no terror to her bold spirit, nor had either the prospect 
 of inevitable disgrace which would follow discovery of her plot, 
 and mayhap the deadened conscience was irresponsive and 
 answered not, to even the lightening-stroke — the dread force of 
 the last terrible reflection — her Maker's wrath. 
 
 Emily Dearborn, clever, bold and self-confident ; ill brought 
 up, untrained to die right, and left, as she had been, wholly to 
 the unchecked workings of her own heart, was not the spirit 
 who, for a few moments timourons reflection, would turn aside 
 from her decided and matured way. 
 
 (» 
 
 I 
 
 !i 
 
 1 ' i' 
 
liilii 
 
 272 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, Emily ? Why do you not speak ?" 
 at length exclaimed Ethel, who with gradually increasing sur- 
 prise had waited for Emily's reply, and at last broke the pause. 
 " What is it that you can have to say to me that yo u hesitate so,' 
 she continued, imi)atiently. 
 
 Thus adjured, lunily Dearborn straightened lierself in Ikt 
 seat, erected her head with a decisive motion, and turned her 
 face full towards her companion. 
 
 " My dear Miss Mordaunt, I am come to you, to day, on an 
 errand — a mission, I should rather call it — which is neither 
 pleasant to myself, nor, do I suppose, will it be pleasing to 
 you. A mission, which has been to me, the theme of anxious 
 debate, of doubt and hesitancy for some days, and of which 
 I would much rather have been excu.>ed. And, I would mo':!. cer- 
 tainly have excused myself of a painful, and, to me, cruo} 
 duty, had I not, after anxious deliberation, come to the con- 
 clusion that it would have been a greater cruelty and injustice 
 to you to have refrained from its performance ; for, from }our 
 concern in the matter, it is but justice to you, and better for 
 you, for your own sake, in every way, that you should at once 
 be made acquainted with that which is of vital interest to \ou. 
 And this premise must be my apology and excuse to you for 
 entering upon a subject not otherwise of concern to mc, and 
 for an apparent interference." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind apologies, Miss Dearborn, but come to the 
 point at once ; if, as you say, the communication you have to 
 make affects rne in any wa}-, though I connot see how sucli 
 can be the case, thus indirectly brought forward," replied Ethel, 
 p'-avely and composedly, yet, nevertheless, with an involuntary 
 glaiice at the shining ring on her finger, and a tight clutch of 
 the p :■ jious letter in her pocket, as if they had power to protect 
 and Cumfort ; to allay the alarm that already gnawed at her 
 ht.arv 
 
 Emily''i eyes flashed iire, and an angry colour rose in her 
 
MY LOVE FAILETII NOT! OH! EDWIN! 273 
 
 cheeks, as tlic remark, and the tone in which it was uttered, fell 
 ni)on her ears, and there was no hesitancy or semblance of 
 anything that could be construed into feeling or friendliness in 
 her voice, as she continued. Her soul had thoroughly warmed 
 to her work. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Mordaunt, I will come to the point at once, for 
 the communication I have to make does affect you, notwith- 
 standing the impossibility you would imply. I am well aware 
 that what 1 have to say will be found unpleasing, and for that 
 reason, any ai)ology, or ratlier, any delicacy of entering upon 
 the matter, is made by me. However, it pleases )ou to repudi- 
 ate the kindness, even before " 
 
 " I would repeat, Miss Dearborn, my desire that you will 
 confine your remarks to the object of your visit, or else permit 
 me to close the interview, which, I certainly find unpleasant," 
 interrupted Ethel, who, although alarmed and anxious, would 
 not allow Emily's impertinences. 
 
 " Very well ! Miss Mordaunt, as you desire, the interview 
 shall be made as brief as possible. I find it no more pleasant 
 than you do," n^turned Emily, quickly, but, in spite ot her 
 words, her whol< appearance and manner showed that the in- 
 terview was not s(; unpleasing 10 her as she implied. 
 
 She was in battle now, and the ring of her voice alreac^ be- 
 trayed an anticipated triumph, as she continued — 
 
 " Three days ago, I received from a lady in Toror> . ) this 
 letter and its enclosures, which have brought me here ;-day. 
 With this lady I am dcquainted — slightly acquainted, 's true 
 —but still sufficiei tly so to know who she is, and to justify me 
 in taking notice of her communication. I may also mention 
 that I met her in the c/>rnpany of Mis. Edwin Vance's mother, 
 which is sufilicient guarantee of her respectability. My ac- 
 quaintance with her, is the probable reason why I have been 
 selected by her in this affair, and why the letter has becii ad- 
 dressed to me, though for many reasons, I wish that it had not 
 
 'I 1 
 
 ) I- 
 
 I 
 
 If 
 
1.' i 
 
 ■al 
 
 ■ 
 
 Utir 
 
 274 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 been so. The letter speaks for itself, and requires no comment 
 on my part. It is here for you to read, if you choose to do 
 so, and is indeed meant for your i)erusal." 
 
 As she spoke, Emily Dearborn took from her pocket an 
 envelope, from which she produced a letter, within which 
 another paper lay. Handing the first to Ethel, but retaining in 
 her hand the other together with the envelope, she continued— 
 
 " Please to read this first, and its enclosures will then be at 
 your service." 
 
 Ethel, who, at the mention of her lover's name, had !^;ro\vn 
 deadly pale, her vague fears confirmed that the unwelcome 
 visit had reference to him, and who was now visibly starti'jd, 
 look the letter handed her, and proceeded to read it, but not 
 before her eyes had again lighted on the ring, which, so 1 iw 
 days before, her F^dwin had fitted on her finger, and not before 
 her lips had moved with a silent repetition of its legend " My 
 love faileth not !" as if she would assure her beating heart that 
 she could not mistrust. She read these words, written in ,1 
 cramped and old-fiishioned hand : 
 
 "Toronto, Sept. 13th, 1875. 
 
 "Mv Dear Miss I^earborn, 
 
 " For addressing you, to-day, upon the subject which oc- 
 cupies the pages of this letter, I am well aware that I am 
 presuming very heavily u})on the acquaintance which I had the 
 pleasure of forming with you, at the residence of our mutual 
 friend, Mrs. Vance, during your visit to this city a year ago. 
 Were it not a matter of paramount importance to one very dear 
 to me, and, consequently, to myself, I would not so })resume 
 upon that slight acquaintance, but, as the affair in question is 
 most pressing, involving, as it does, the interests of a person 
 of your vicinity, and, as I have no other friend in that vicinity, 
 excepting yourself, in whom I could confide, I am under the 
 necessity of taxing your good nature, and asking you, in 
 Christian kindness, to lend me your friendly aid. A report— a 
 well-authenticated report — I regret to say, has reached me that 
 Mr. Edwin Vance, who, since the death of his father, two years 
 
MY LOVE FAILKTH NOT! OH ! EDWIN! 275 
 
 ago, has been tlie ;iftiaiu».'d luisl)and of my niece, Ag/ies Sea- 
 forth, and who, by every riglu, human and divine, should, ere 
 tliis, have made her his wife, widi the blessing of the Church, 
 and openly, as he has done, taking advantage of lier love for 
 him, in real fact, has become engaged, during ihc last two 
 months, to marry a young lady of good i)osition in your neigli- 
 borhood — a Miss Mordaunt. 
 
 " If this report has the foundation of trutii, and the source 
 from which it is derived, leaves me no reason to doubt its ac- 
 curacy, not only has a very gross act of cruelty been per- 
 petrated against my jtoor Agnes, but a great injustice is done 
 to this Miss Mordaunt, who, of course, must be in ignorance 
 of the real facts of the case, or she would have not accej>ted 
 the love of a man ca[)able of the baseness of deserting the 
 sweet young girl, who so fondly had placed her trust in him. 
 
 " As 1 am informed, that the marriage with Miss Mordaimt 
 is being hurried on, and lakes i)lace almost immediately, it be- 
 comes, for that young lady's sake, a j)ressing nef . ty that she 
 be, at once, made aw:) re of the position in which oue stands, of 
 the dangers of the almost inevitable wreck of her life's happi- 
 ness if she becomes the wife of a man, who, ui the bitterness 
 ot my heart, I am forced to proclaim a villain, A villain ! And 
 yet the circumstances are such, that I am compelled to hope, 
 to wish, and to strive for his marriage witli mv poor niece. 
 Yes ! though the marriage be for her a living death, the sacri- 
 fice of her life's comfort and ha[)piness, 1 am compelled to 
 strive for it, in order to save my cl)iid. 
 
 " I, therefore, write to you, trusting to your kindness, that 
 you will, at once make these things known to Miss Mordaunt, 
 with whom, in all probability, you are acquainted. 'l\)-night, I 
 have addressed her directly, but, unfortunatel)', I am not ac- 
 quainted with her, and she might, very naturally, demur to, and 
 reject the unguaranteed statements of one to whom she is wholly 
 unknown. 
 
 " I have not yet been able to summon up sufficient courage 
 to inform poor Agnes of this last crowning proof of her lover's 
 perfidy. That she has had reason of late to doubt his good 
 taith to her, I am tolerabl) certain, for she has been visibly de- 
 pressed in spirit for four or five weeks past, and the enclosed 
 letter from Mr. \'ance to her, of which 1 have been enabled to 
 obtain possession, would appear to have given her ;Mnple 
 
 I' 
 
 li 
 
276 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DONE BETTER. 
 
 n I 
 
 reason. And it is also a strong guarantee of the truth of the 
 statements I have advanced. For that reason I send it you. 
 If further proof is recjuired, it is easily attainable, for the fact 
 of their intimacy and their engagement is not unknown in this 
 city. I would also mention the fact tnat, for some time past, 
 my unha|)py neice has been in the habit of receiving from Mr. 
 Vance the annual sum of six hundred dollars. I had been 
 aware that, since her mother's death, some two years ago, my 
 niece was in the reception of such an income, but it had been 
 represented to me as derived from an interest in certain pro[>erty 
 W Ich had belonged to her father, and it has, but very lately. 
 come to my knowledge, on tliL' authority of Mr. Vance's agents, 
 the Messrs. Hatchitfess, of this city, that such is not the case, 
 but that it was [)aid by Mr. Vanrc to Agnes, ostensibly for her 
 proper maintenance, until her marriage to him should take place. 
 
 " f have to admit, with pain and humiliation that my 
 niece has been most indiscreet, and much to blame in this 
 matter, but it has to be said for her that she has loved him 
 fondly, and trusted in him, and she is my dead sister's child. 
 
 " Were it only the desertion of a recreant lover, the wound 
 of which loss time would soon heal, we would have endured in 
 silence: I should not, old and infirm as I am, have interfered, 
 and Miss Mordaunt would have been welcome to her lover; 
 his gain not to be envied, or our loss worth the counting ; but 
 there is n,,.re than this involved. I must use all exertion to 
 bring him l)ack to her, whom he ought to marry. 
 
 " Trusting that I am not asking too much in thus implor- 
 ing your kind offices, and that you will, at once, lay this before 
 Miss Mordaunt, with your representation that I am the person 
 I represent myself to be, and that you will forgive one, who is 
 not so well able to help herself in the hard affairs of the world 
 as she once was, for thus troubling you, 
 
 "I remain, dear Miss Dearborn, 
 
 " Sorrowfully, but faithfully yours, 
 
 " Patience Springle." 
 
 Poor Flhel ! Her bright world cut away from under her feet. 
 She read the precious tissue of falshood, the fiendish concoction 
 of Emily Dearborn's brain, with blanching cheeks, wildly beat- 
 ing heart and pale drawn lijDs. What horrible calamity was this 
 to fall upon her youth? What intense burthen of misery? 
 
MY LOVE KAILKTir NO'I' ' Oil' I'.DWIN! 277 
 
 'I 
 
 Qucn<:hii\L( the liai^py saiilight frotn the set oycs that were still 
 fixed in (lirefiil tasciiKilion upon tlic dreadful words, whose import 
 s(iuee/,ed lier heart with vice-hke deadening grip. Stunned and 
 bewildered s!ie sat lor a moment ga/ing at the paper, unable as 
 yet to wholly comprehend and realize the extent of her great 
 evil. Her mind groped about blindly in the dark unlooked for 
 shadow. Tunniltuous images of despair and misery, unconnect- 
 ed and disjointed, surged through her brain, but she could not 
 think. At last the drawn lips ([uivered, and the soft tears forced 
 iheip.selves into her eyes. .\nd then started up like a fresh giant 
 to her aid, I'ride — -Pride, the invigcjrator, for her enemy sat be- 
 Ibrc her, and she should never see the ([uailing of her heart. 
 The forcing tears vanished, the (juivering mouili composed itself 
 into calm gravity, the colour rushed back into the white cheeks, 
 ind Kthel Mordaunt, herself again, sat U|) erect with steady 
 gaze, and laid the letter (juietiy donn on the table before her. 
 Her thoughts were pertinent enough now. Was not this girl 
 her enemy? Always her enemy, her bitter enemy; and, was 
 she not capable of any de[)th of scheming baseness for the ac- 
 (.omi)]ishment of her own ends. She could not believe her lover 
 could be so false. She knew that lie ruuld not be the villain thai 
 dreadful letter would fain portray him. She was as certain of 
 his love as of her own existence, tliough, if these things were 
 true, she would have to cast it away from her as unworthy, and 
 not of right hers, l)ut due to another. She glanced down at her 
 ring again, as if to derive comft)rt from its very presence; the 
 encirclement of her linger of its faithful legend. She felt the 
 words i)ressing into her very flesh, and her very brain throbbed 
 ivith — 
 "'My love faileth not.' Oh! Edwin, F.dwin !" 
 And then she spoke — 
 
 " This letter migh' be all very well, Miss Dearborn, did it 
 carry some stronger i)roofs with it. It will require something 
 more than its mere assertions, and these, coming, too, from a 
 
 19 
 
 < 
 
 I . 
 
278 
 
 SHE AlKJin HAVK DONE BETIKR. 
 
 ' '; 
 
 ni'jre stranger, to coiuiiuc mc ol Mr. V^ancc's disloyalty, ilou 
 am I to know that lliis letter is not a forgery, an invention of 
 your own, for instance. 1 am too well aware of your seiui- 
 ments towards me to imagine thai your mission, to-day, is not 
 a labor of love on your part, a pleasing duty, and I am not in- 
 clined, without much stronger conlirmation than I think yoti 
 arc able to produce, to accept the lellcr as a veracity." 
 
 '•Indeed! Miss Mordaunl. Mow sorry I am iIi;U 1 have not 
 your good opinion," replied F*'.mily, with sneering polite^cs^. 
 *' My pleasing duty, my labor of love, as you term it, merely 
 re(i"ires me to lay before you these two letters. With the con- 
 firmation of theirlrulh or falsity, whether or not they are genuine 
 even, I have nothing to do. Voii can form ycur own opinion. 
 Pray read this letter, the enclosure of .Miss Springle's. Jiniay 
 enlighten you somewhat. Yon will, perhaps, notice that it is 
 dated fiom this house, a week or so after your engagement, 
 The rellection will be pleashig to you. The handwriting you 
 will hardly fail to recogni/.e." 
 
 As Emily concluded her amiable remarks, she handed to 
 
 Kthel the letter which Edwin \ance had addressed to Miss Sea- 
 
 forth, in response to hers, and which Sidney Wolverton had pur- 
 
 loined at the hotel in Ten I,akes. the eventful evening of the 
 
 cricket match. 
 
 Ethel took the Idlers, and though her pride and indignalioii 
 
 upheld her spirits, her heart nearly ceased to beat, wlien she 
 
 recognized the handwriting of her Edwin. Hastil)' she i)erusc(J 
 
 it ; hope dying within her at e\ery word. Though short, it \va> 
 
 momentous, when taken in connection with the first letter 
 
 vvliich had been written to suit its rather ambiguous terms, with 
 
 Emily's patient but remorseless ingenuity. 
 
 " Lakk Mordaunt, July 26th, 1873. 
 
 " Mv Dearest A(.xes, — Your letter was received by me, 
 
 this morning, and I reply at once, though in haste. I regret 
 
 extremely the conversation you have had with these law people. 
 
 I Avish that it had not taken place, as it makes things unplea- 
 
MY LOVli I'AILKTH NOT! Oil! KDNVIN! 279 
 
 s;uU for l)oth of us, which before won* smooth ciiou^^h. Ah 
 you wish ;i « iilcgorit il reply lo your (|uestion, I can only con- 
 tirni that which Mr. Halt hitfoss told you. Vou have no //y«i/ 
 claim upon n>c, but you have a very strong moral < I lim. A 
 claim which I rc(ogni/e to be as l)in<Iin;; upon me as though 
 iho law compelled it, arul which I will t'lillil, as for the ia'o past 
 years I have ful filled il. 
 
 " The concealment whi( ii lias been practised was to spare 
 )'0U from disappointment and mortifu ation. 'I'hat you have 
 reason to feel both disappointe<l and mortified, I must admit, 
 ntjr do I hold myself free from blame. 1 wish that things were 
 not as they are, but they ( annot now be altered, to my regret. 
 This is hardly a fitting time to announce my engagement and 
 .ipjtroaching marriage, to you, bui later on, you will be able to 
 congratulate me. 
 
 *• I have, to-day, instructed the Messrs. Flalchitfess to im- 
 incdiaiely effect the purchase of an annuity on your life, for 
 si\ hundred dollars j^er annum. This will be your own, and iit 
 hut the certain carrying out of my solemn agreement of two 
 years' ago. I will see you, my dearest Agnes, immediately on 
 my return to Toronto, and I trust then to remove any painful 
 iin[)ressions that may linger in your mind, and will «j\plain 
 everything fully to you. These things are better done l»y word 
 of mouth, than by the cold formalities of a letter. Please re- 
 member me kindly to your aunt. 
 
 " 1 am, my dearest Agnes, 
 
 " Yours as ever, 
 
 " Edwin Vance. 
 
 " P.S. — Any objection on your part to the life-annuity, v^'c, 
 &c., will be useless, as by the time you receive this, the affair 
 will be completed, and I will not vary from my solemn promise. 
 -E. V. 
 
 " Miss Agnes Seaforth." 
 
 Innocent of intention as I^Mwin Vance had been in writing 
 this letter, he could not have put a more powerful weapon 
 against himself into the unscrupulous hands to whom it had 
 fallen. What bitter fruits for his gathering had not already 
 sprung up from that fatal evening's weakness, and the bitterest 
 of them all was fast ripening to his unconscious hand. Had he 
 
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 been himself" wiien lie wrote it, iiis jiK lament ( Icar and uncloinl 
 cd, its wording had not been so iniautii»us. so carelessly anihigii- 
 ous, and (•a])al)le of misconstruction. 
 
 Vet how wa.i he to siispect that his letter, a mere husin-jss 
 re))!)', would fall into evil hands. Mven had it come before Miss 
 SeafcM'th's eyes, it was h.ardly a proper letter for him to haw 
 written. Too warm in some of its terms, f(jr his heart warmed 
 towards thehigh-spiriteil girl, for whose aire his father's dying 
 commands had been uttered to him, in others, its rendering had 
 not been sufllciently smooth and careful. Lui such as ii vva.s, ii 
 had been written, and, as the sowing of dragon's teeth it was i-i 
 be for him. 
 
 Poor I'.lhel I all liope was dead within her as she read thi^ 
 letter. Its meaning, all doabiful and ambiguous as it appeared, 
 was but loo ai)parent to lier. I low could he have been so bad, and 
 so cruel? M'ithin tlie wry week of their engagement, anvl froi;i 
 /ler fathers house, At'r lover had written to this girl. 'J lu.: 
 veiy morning — :,!.e remeuibered, v/iili a ])ilter pang — ihcy had 
 had that long interview in th.e conservatory, tlie very words uj 
 which were still vivid on her mind, that had held .so well his every 
 loving tone, and had he not gone slraiglu from her to pen tl^osc 
 wicked words, wickedly lo\ing, wickedly familiar, and wickedl} 
 cruel, to this Agnes Seaforth. It was quite enongli. Her 
 misery had come u])on her, and slie must bear it as best si :• 
 might. 
 
 .The first thing to do now, was to get rid of her enemy, who 
 sat before her, watcliing, witli gloating eyes, for the cxpres-siV^n 
 of her pain and agony. But she should not sec it. She laid 
 the letter down upon the other, folded them carefully, and put 
 them into her pocket. 
 
 " You will be so good as to return me those letters, Miss 
 Mordaunt," exclaimed Kmily, on seeing the action ; for hi-r 
 triumj)h not having been as great ns she had anticipated, ;ind 
 Ethel apparently taking the matter a great deal too coolly, she 
 
MY LUVK FAJIJ:TH NDT! OH! KDWIM 281 
 
 ) Dcn inosc 
 
 had become alnrmecrand wished to have hot* forgery safely back 
 into lier own iiusscssioii. 
 
 " Most dccideilly not ! Miss r)earlK)rn. I have " 
 
 but at this nioineiU the door oi)ened, and her uncle hastily 
 entered, exclaiming — 
 
 "Oh! yuu are here tlien. Kthel '" Mo advanced into the 
 room, and perceiving h'mily, bowed coolly, and said, " How do 
 you do, madam !" Then, turning to his niece, '* I must l)id you 
 a hasty 'good-bye,' lahel," he continued. " I have thisuKjment 
 received a telegram calling me to New \'ork on business of great 
 importance to my interests, and I cannot delay ;i minute. Why ! 
 what is the mutter with you, iCthel ? ^'ou look as miserable as 
 if your lover had jilted you. \' hat is the trouble now ?" In; ex- 
 claimed, with astonishment, as poor label, with drawn face and 
 piteous eyes, rose from her seat .t his si)eech. Hut sheans>ver- 
 cd him — 
 
 " There is nothing much the matter, uncle. Miss Dearborn 
 has come to persuade me If slie can, liiat he is false, and finds 
 it a pleasant duty." 
 
 '' Tolerably successful too, I imagine," sarcastic: illy added liiat 
 young lady, as Kthel spoke. 
 
 " Well then ! Kthel, you are a fool if you listen to her. It is 
 i.ot Vance but she who is false, believe me! Do not hear a 
 word I I will answer for \'ance. But I cannot remain. I want 
 to catch the mid-day train at Cascades ; but wriie me all about 
 it, Kthel. Don't listen to her, and don't do anything rash. \\'rite 
 to me. Ajid now, good-bye, my darling. Believe me all will 
 come right." 
 
 Kthel looked uj) with a mournful smile at his confident words. 
 He kissed her more warmly than was usual with him, and turn- 
 ed away. As he left the room, he bowed with sarcastic pro- 
 fundity to Miss Dearborn. " ^^ours truly, madam," he said, and 
 was gone. 
 
 Miss Mordaunt turned and confronted her visitor with proud 
 
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 SIIK MIOHT HAVE DOXE UI-TTKR. 
 
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 scorn in her brilliant eyes and a cold smile on the beauliful face. 
 However crushing; the weight of misery resting ui)on her, tliis 
 girl — her bitter foe — should not be delighted at the exhibit ; 
 should fail of her anticipated trium|)h, and though her heart was 
 weak and sinking, Kniily Dearborn should not perceive iis 
 weakness nor gloat over the sorrow she had hoped to witness. 
 
 " Is your case stated, or have you further dubious epistles f(jr 
 my edification ?" she asked, looking at the other from a con- 
 temi)tuously averted profile. 
 
 "No more, Miss Mordaunt ! T should have imagined you 
 had had enough. lUit I must insist upon the return of the two 
 you have appropriated,'' replied Emily, rising from her scat 
 angrily, and looking disdainfully at the other, though her most 
 prominent feeling was the desire to regain possession of her 
 letters. 
 
 " You can insist, if you please to do so, yet I shall most cer- 
 tainly retain them, Miss Dearborn." And then, though her heart 
 did not bear the same confidence as her voice, she continued : 
 "These letters are genuine, or they are not. If not, it will he 
 very interesting to trace them to their fountain head. I am not 
 surprised at your wish to have their possession, but I shall not 
 gratify it." 
 
 " The letters are mine, and I will have them back, Ethel .Mor- 
 daunt, unless, indeed, you mean to steal them," exclaimed Vay\\\\\ 
 her voice raised in passion. 
 
 "Our interview is, I presume, terminated. You ha\e had 
 my answer," said Ethel, as she struck a silver bell. She ihcn 
 resumed her seat and awaited the appearance of the atten- 
 dant. 
 
 " Oh ! you need not have rung. I am quite able to find ni)' 
 way out of the house. I wish you ' good morning,' Miss Mor- 
 daunt, and I trust you find the prospect of your happines;? in 
 the faithful love of Mr. Edwin Vance — or rather in the share of 
 
MV ],OVE FAlLKllI NOT: Oil! KDU IX : 2S3 
 
 II most cer 
 
 ii he can spare from Agnes Seaforth — very reassuring," and 
 Kniily, with head erect, marched past her out of the room. 
 
 I'Aliel Iblloued her to the hall door and said : '* If you will 
 wail a moment, Miss Dearborn, the man will attend to your 
 horse for you." 
 
 " I can attend to him myself, thank you I" was the ungracious 
 reply, and in a moment i'anily was in her carriage and luid driven 
 off. 
 
 She departed from f.ake Mordaunt with a great deal less of 
 I'leasant triumph in her heart than she had e\|)ected, and with 
 ■A great deal of mortification, anxiety and alarm for herself which 
 she had certainly //<>/ anticipated. 
 
 When once a vicious end is acccomplished, then commences 
 Its retribution. 
 
 The ardent desire of its attainment, the unholy devisal of 
 means to that end, overshadow consideration of consecpiences, 
 l)iit, the act once committed and irrelrieval^le, the false excite- 
 ment over, the exi)ecled ])leasurea Dead Sea ai)])le of dust and 
 ashes, then stalk in I-'ear and Anxiety. Then grim tbreboding 
 and the degrading sense of guilt harrow the trembling soul. The 
 unnerved mind, frightened at every shadow : its waking hours 
 one long terror : its sleei> a vision of dread, is led along the 
 pdoomy road of black Remorso, until in agony comes the cry: 
 " ( )h ' that I had not done this ihing ! ( )h ! that I could call back 
 my yesterdays I" 
 
 J'Ahel Mojdaunt stood at the oi)en door looking out on the 
 bright landscape, in its flooding sunshine, where the birds sang, 
 and all was filled with peaceful life and happiness. She won- 
 dered, with a dull wonder, sprung from that refinement of 
 luiman'egotism whicli would bind and connect the whole universe 
 to the pleasures or the i)ains of this individual I — how the sun 
 could shine, the Howers bloom, the birds give forth tlieir song, 
 or the world move on unchanged, in its daily round, when for 
 her had come such wreck. The sun shone, but its beams 
 
 !.!■ 
 
 'I 
 
 
284 
 
 SMK MlCIir IIAVK DONK IJK/I'TKR. 
 
 lightcncil nol her slniclows. 'I'lic birds sang, but llaii songs 
 were painful niockinj^s to licr cars. The flowers bloomed as be- 
 fore, but where was thei fragrance and beauty for her? The 
 world moved on in its biight paths, but she was struck down 
 from its brightness to fol Ow on its dreary walx*. 
 
 She turned away and went back to the sitting-room, where slic 
 had that morning dreamed her sweet dreams, where their disM' 
 pation she had witnessed, and the ending of her ha|)py love had 
 come to her. 
 
 Tearless, pale and ber,umbed, she tlircw herself into her ch.iir 
 and tried to think. 
 
 lUit she could not think. A dead weight prossetl upon her 
 brain, and her temples tiirobbed to bursting. 
 
 iler eyes, lourningly liright, fixed themselves, tiirou^^^n ili^' 
 
 window, on vacancy. She sat down and tried to colled her 
 
 thoughts, lo bring herself to the knov/ledgc of that whi<h had 
 
 befallen her, to realize the full exten*^ of her misery, rre.senih', 
 
 she took from her pocket the fatal letters. 'I'here might be si.nv 
 
 loop-hole of escape, some overlooked expression from which to 
 
 deduce hope — someuuthoughtof explanation. She opened or.: 
 
 tluit which bore the 'randwriting of her lover, and glancrd. 
 
 shudderingly, over the fatal lines. lUit she could bearnu nioic. 
 
 the strain Ujion her nerves had become too great. :\s its ])cr- 
 
 verted meanings again ''ashed on her brain, she sprang to hor 
 
 feet, and in the access c f powerful excitement, the culmination 
 
 of agonized sorrow and outraged love, she would ha\e torn the 
 
 l)"r.per into a t'-'ousaiid fraaments and scattered them from her 
 
 but her nerveless fmgers refused their office, and mechanically 
 she replaced the letter in the rece[>tacle from which slie had 
 taken it. 
 
 " Oh ! Edwin I Kdv.'in ! Cruel and false ! ^Vhy did you come 
 to me ? Why with your cruel love ha\e you blasted my life?' 
 
 An hour after Mrs. ^^ordaunt, entering the room, found hci 
 daughter lying senseless upon the floor. 
 
 KNI) OF VOLUME I. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 VOfATMK II. 
 
 ClfAI'. 
 
 \.— lVha's Vv Afanrr icit/i Little Nose, Ilatchy ? 
 
 PAf.K, 
 
 2. — At the dates of Death, 
 
 T^.—Emi/fs Path to Safety. 
 
 \.^Mi,ie Still ! r Will Not Give Her Up. 
 5. — 'J'he Dyin^ Little Peacemaker. ■ - - 
 U. — Ada Speaks. 
 
 ■ - - 34. 
 - - 4S. 
 
 • - - 66. 
 
 ■ - 80. 
 
 7. — Emily s Honeymoon. 85. 
 
 %.— The Sky Shall Bri^^hten O'er the Little Grave. - - 98. 
 
 ^.— Thc Bride's Visit. 106. 
 
 \o.—A Stout, IVell-ji^roion Lad. 128. 
 
 w.—Did He Do Ltl 137. 
 
 147" 
 
 152. 
 
 ^58. 
 
 ee. - - - - 172, 
 
 12. — A^nes JVrites. 
 
 13 — Sidney Gets J lis Will. - - - - 
 1 4. — // Contrast Unpleasini^ to J lis J Vide. 
 i$.—Ada the Mentor — A Smart )'ank 
 
 16. — In His Mercy. 
 
 17 //// M. J\ in J^rospectn — Hope. 
 
 192. 
 
 2^5. 
 
 r8. — Liirht at Last. 22-?. 
 
 J 9. — /;/ the Bright Sprin^j^time. 
 
 237 
 
 I 
 
 \ I 
 
 II' 
 
 I '■ 
 
She Might Have poNE Better 
 
 VOLUME n. 
 
 CHAPTKR 1. 
 
 i 
 
 WHA's Ek MARRKk WI I H LIITI.K NOSK, HATCHV? 
 
 Three weeks after his return to Toronto, from Lake Mor- 
 daunt, in the cool dusk of a late summer's evening, Mr. I*!d\vin 
 Vance, as yet wholly unconscious of the black cloud looming 
 uj) on his hitherto sunlit skies, started from his law -chambers, 
 where he had been detained until an unusually late hour by 
 some business of im[)ortance, to walk quietly homewards, and 
 pass, as quietly, his evening in the society of his mother. 
 
 Notwithstanding his status of a happy, engaged lover, he did 
 not appear to be in a very cheerful frame of nuiul, for he looked 
 perturbed and anxious, while nervously and half-audibly he 
 muttered his thoughts to himself, as he ste])ped out on his way. 
 Even the beatific condition of an assured love does not appear 
 to be free from its cares and anxieties, and unimnmnity conunon 
 to all things mundane. The troubles of the engaged, trivial 
 though they may be, are, also, as a rule, viewed as evils of the 
 first magnitude, and are fretted and fumed over in a correspond- 
 ing degree. 
 
 Kdvvin Vance was fretted and worried this evening with a 
 niinor trouble, indeed, but its disturbing effect, was, for him, 
 great enough. 
 
 Could he but have but foreseen the hea\y cloud that over- 
 
 l:i' 
 
 
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 ill 
 
 ir 
 
SHE MIOIIT HAVE DoNK IJKTTr.R. 
 
 
 < 
 
 lumg his palh, that jkiII like was cnshroiulinj; his life's hai)i>lncss 
 how trivial in <:(;iiii»arisini had hccii liis litllc (arc. 
 
 " What in the worltl can he tlic matter at Lake Mortlaunt ?" I^ 
 said to himself, as he walked on. •' I do not at all undcrsi. id 
 it. Here it is, a fortnight yesterday, since I got lOlhel's lellcr, 
 her first letter, too, and not a woid since from any of tliLui 
 if my darling only knew how anxious it has made mo, s\w 
 would have written before this, and ended my unea.-^iness. 
 
 '* Were it not out of all conscience to desert my client's iiite 
 rests just now, I would run down to Lake Mordaunt, to-monow. 
 for I cannot endure this suspense longer. Can ii he that liihcl. 
 or any of them, are ill ? \'et, for that very reason, one v.tnilJ 
 think, they woukl be all the more likely to wrile. Well, I'll wait 
 until to-morrf)W evening, and, if I don't hear from Mthel, I'll give 
 my cases to F'erretout to look after, and run down to see for 
 myself what the reason of this unendura!)le silence can l)e." 
 
 Such were his meditations, as he [jursued his course through 
 the University grounds, his favorite short-cut on liis way home. 
 
 From the noise and turmoil of the streets, the peaceful rustl- 
 ing of the foliage, the cool, shadowy dejjths of the tree-sur- 
 rounded avenues formed a contrast ordinarily very attractive to 
 him, but, on this evening, he was mentally too much in unrest 
 to appreciate these beauties ; for when two weeks have passed 
 over a fond lover's head, without bringing him the expected mis- 
 sive from his fair one's hand, he is very likely to become wholly 
 insensible to the natural cliarms whicli may surround him, his 
 eyes open to little else save huge imaginary evils looming blackly 
 uj), ])hantasms of terror vastly m(jre disi)roportionate to a f cven- 
 niglits' delay, than twice the time could c:onjure to the mtrch- 
 ant's eyes, when his goodly bark comes not to port. 
 
 His sombre reflections were, however, cut short by the sudden 
 and distressful sounding of a woman's voice, screaming, in 
 piercing accents for help, and coming apparently from a point 
 of the carriage-road, twenty or thirty yards in advance, w'hcix 
 
 K ' 
 
 ....4 
 
WHAT'S KR MARRKK Willi I.ri'll.K NOSK ? 7 
 
 the (lirk shad )\vs of the trcen nude tlic dccpcniiij^ dusk into 
 heavier ilarkncss. Sprini;!!^^' fonvanl tui »ho insiaiil at ll>c liillcsl 
 speed of wlii( h he was capable, lor die tlisi.vsstiil t:ry nmscd all 
 hJK ciiivalry, Kdwin found hinitcir a sciond later, ;i:ul iu»l a 
 nomeiu too soon, an aclor in a scene where his physical prowess 
 .eiiied likely tf) bo put iulo iininediaic and stirrin;^ ret|uisiiiojj. 
 
 Not a inomeni loo soon. As he ran swiiily ami sile;ul> up, 
 he took in the situational a ^{iance. 
 
 A close <a»*ria:,'e, ailaclied to ;i. pair in liand.v)inc and power 
 till liorses, stooil u[)on the road, uUo ihc door or\»hiciuwo men 
 wlt^' ciuleavorinj^' to force a youn;^ lady, \.lio, with vi^'orous re- 
 sistance, her hand clutching the wiieel, opposed llieir eflui'ls 
 vviili her whole siren^^tli, wlille with loud and continued cries she 
 (nlleu lor assistance. 
 
 '•Slop your infernal noise, will yi)u ?" screamed llio man 
 ivjaresl him, in a shrill, squeiiklng voice, which, lo \'an<X', seemed 
 f.uniliar, " Here, Jim, stuff something into her mouth, or we'll 
 h;ue tlie whole town aboui us," he continued. lUilhe cl^anged 
 his note into a hideous yell, for Mdwin, rnnoliceil in the melee, 
 as ho ran uj) delivered him a crashing blow in t!ie faro, which 
 sent him bleeding and half-.^iunned lo the ground. I lis com- 
 panion, al the sudden attack, left his hold on ihe young lady, 
 and s'j)rang nimbly aside, while liie driver, tco busiiy engaged 
 in reining in the uffrighled l-.on.e.-* to assist in tlie fray, gave his 
 animals iheir heads and diove offal s[)eed, leaving IMwin nus- 
 ter of the, field, wiiii the girl lie had rescued lying halffiinting 
 in hi:-, arms. 
 
 Astonished at his easy victory, Kdwin gazed a moment around 
 him, as if expecting the advent of new enemies, i)ut seeing none 
 more formidable than he whom he luul prostrated, who lay 
 groaniag and writhing about the road, he addressed himself to 
 tile lady whom he \\ as sui)i)oriing, and whohe hysterical sobbing 
 smote i)ainfully upon his ear — 
 
 " Vou are safe, now, Madam, and need liave no further fear. 
 
 «' 
 
 !i 
 
 I 
 
II' 
 
 lii 
 
 it 
 
 • SHK MlC.m IIWK nONK BK'ITKR. 
 
 (itxKl ^r.K ioiiH ! in it you, .\li>> Scaforth ? Whu arc they that 
 attacked you tiuiH ? Arc )(>u injured at all ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Nance!" she returned, lookinj^ up, and regaining 
 her feet. " How tluuiklul I .ini. Vou have saved nie, indeed ; 
 1 am not injured, antl leel well now, that you are with nu.* 
 
 •• JUit who arc the villains who attacked you ?" he excitedly 
 ttlkcd. " My i>oor Agnes ! Ihit here is one of them, still. I'll 
 fmd out who lie is, at all events," and stepping up, he admii.is 
 »ered a vigourouski* k in the side of the groaning wretch. ** U ho 
 arc you, you s( oundrel ?" 
 
 The unpleasing propulsion of a heavy i)oot sole, against .i 
 man's ribs, if not a retognised ionic, is, at least, a powerful res- 
 torative and inciter of the locomotive functions. 
 
 With a yell, the kicked one sprang to his feet, and, throwinj,' 
 one terrified glance at *hc kicker, ran fairly away. A do/cii 
 paces off, he stojiped, picked up a stone, threw it savagely hat k 
 at his assaulter. " I'll p.iy you off. for this, Vance, sec if I don't :" 
 he screamed, and contifiucd his hcatllong course. 
 
 *' Why, if it isn't Hatchitfess !" exclaimed the astonish ! 
 Kdwin, ga/ing after ihr fleeing figure of the discomfitted ex 
 quisite, whose abrupt and ludicrous disaj)pearancc fonned so ap- 
 propriate an ending of hin attempted alxiuction. 
 
 "Oh ! let us go from this dreadful i)lacc, Mr. Vance. I am 
 .struck by the stone. Pray let us go I" and Agnes took his arm. 
 and clung terrified to its support. 
 
 " The cowardly villain ! Are you hurt, Miss Seaforth ? Do 
 you think yoa can walk until we reach the street ? It is not far 
 off." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am not hurt ; but pray let us get away !" she re- 
 turned, eagerly i)reeBing forward. 
 
 The whole scene, not lasting a minute, had sprung upon him 
 with such sudden surpriic. and was solved with such equally be- 
 wildering abruptness, that Edwin Vance, yet labouring und^r n- 
 tense excitement, could hardly realize that it was not some 
 
WHATS KR MAKR \R WH H M ITI.K NOSE? 9 
 
 strnng** dream ihrough which he had p.iiHctl. There touncd 
 thriiiigh his l>r;iin .1 gunfuscd medley, (oinpniiiuled of nrreain^, 
 (oai h and hones, a Htniggling Krou|>, a young iady, and then 
 a sudden disappearance etuhtig the (onfused vision. He could 
 hardly believe that it was Agnes .Sraforth who hung upon hin 
 .irni, still sobbing hysterically from her fright ; and, he had sup 
 ported her along for some distance liefore he sutliciently col- 
 lected his thoughts to (|uestion her as lo the strange position 
 from whi( h she had been rescued. 
 
 •* Tell me how it all occurred, my |)oor Agnes," he said, at 
 length, "and bow it was you (uune to be in this place, at this 
 hour? Vou surely did not meet Hatchitfess of your own ac- 
 cord ?* he added, a little sternly, a dark suspicion Mashing 
 through his mind. 
 
 "No, did not meet him of my own accord, Mr. Vance." in- 
 stantly replied Agnes, straightening herself up pn)udly, anddroj)- 
 |iing her hold of his arm. " I was returning home from my 
 work, though a little later than usual, for I had been detained, 
 .uid, unft)rtunately, passed this way, as it is so much shorter. 
 How could you imagine such a thing of me ?'' she continued. 
 
 Stopi)ing short, she buried her face in her hands, and again 
 the violent sobs shook her frame. 
 
 '• I beg your pardon, Agnes, I imagine it no longer. I would 
 never have thought of such a thing, but it has all been so strange. 
 Forgive me, Agnes," he added, taking her arm, and gently draw- 
 ing her on again. " But, work ! What was it you said al)out 
 work, Agnes ? What work can you have to do that should so 
 detain you ? Were you visiting a friend in illness, I can imagine 
 nothing else," said Edwin, after a pause, ti which he had be 
 reflecting on her reply to him. 
 
 *' No ! Mr. Vance, it was not that. As I told you, I was re- 
 timing from my work. The work on which I am now depend- 
 ent for my bread. I am a dress-maker," answered Agnes 
 quietly. 
 
 
 t 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 1 
 
 j 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 ' 
 
 1 
 
 .tUt 
 
JO 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DOXH BKTTKR. 
 
 ! 
 
 I'M 
 
 
 1 
 
 J 
 
 i 
 
 ■1 
 
 1 
 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 
 " A (Ircss-iiiakcr! Good gracious ! AVill you drive me mad 
 Agnes I You are not depcndcnl upon such work, for your suj)- 
 port," i!d\vin exclaimed, inii)atiently. 
 
 *' I liave not got six liundrcd dollars a year, or any dollars, save 
 what I can earn for myself I cannot, and I will not, take your 
 money, Mr. Vance, though I thank you heartily for nil your 
 generosity. 1 prefer to be independent." 
 
 " What ronsense, your iiKlependence came near costing you 
 very dear this evening, Agnes. '''!ie money is yours, and not 
 mine, and lake it you must. V'ou cannot helj) it now, at all 
 events, for the annuity is i)urchased in your name, for your lite, 
 and the money will be paid to you, whether you like it or not. 
 But what in the world is all this ?" 
 
 'i'liey had now approached the gate of tlie college grounds. 
 mlh its bright gas lamps, and a singular si)ectacle met their eyes 
 under tliC blaze of light. 
 
 The wretched Halchitfess, in an agony of affright i\nd [niin, 
 had sped along the road under the enlivening inliueiicc of the 
 sounding kick he had received, and in. his blind haste had ran 
 full into the arms of a gigantic medical student, very consider- 
 ably inebriated, who had just entered the gate, and who, now, 
 holding him at arm's length and dangling him like a baby, v.as 
 apostropliising him in an affectionately maudlin style, for while 
 the powers of his herculean frame did not appear to be i npair- 
 ed by tiie alcohol he had iinbib_'d, his intellectual foculties were 
 decidedly in an intoxicated condition, as his speechifying tes- 
 tfied. 
 
 " I say ! Hatchy, whas'er marrer ? W'has'er marrer witli 'or 
 nose ? Its all bood, 1 say ! Seen ghost'n fell down, eh, Hatchy ? 
 Won't wash that. 'Ere's no ghosts. D'ssected lots of f 'icrs, 
 and never could find any ghosts. No ghosts, I tell yer ! Don't 
 squeal, Hatchy ! Its your Goochy's got you. Safe now wiz 
 Goochy. Come 'long down town, Hatchy, an' have a little drink 
 
T 
 
 WHAT'S ER MARRKRWITH LITTLE NOSi:? ii 
 
 w'iz old Gooch. Vcc\ l)c/./cr, Hatcliy ? Wha's niarrcr with little 
 nose? Wha' broke it? 
 
 All this while the iinfoitunate Hatihitfess was struggling fran- 
 tically but uselessly in the hands of his huge captor, screaming 
 and inii)loring to be let go. 
 
 " i,et me go, Gooch I they're after me, 1 tell you. I'll be 
 killed if they catch me. There were a thonsand of them kick- 
 ing me in the park. Let me go, I say I Oh ! I'll be mindered, 
 here they come,'' and yet more frantically he writhed in the grip 
 of Gooch, who, wholly oblivious to his screams and struggles, 
 continued his interrogatories as flowingly as his muddled si)eech 
 would allow him. 
 
 " Been fighting, have you, Hatchy ? an' got little nose broke. 
 Never mind 1 Cioochy 'ull give it 'em when they come. Goochy 
 ull fix 'em for kicking little Hatchy. Come 'long ! I say. 
 Hello ! what's the marrer now," as Hatchitfess, seeing the a[)- 
 l)roach of \'ance and Miss Seaforth, made a despairing clutcli 
 with his nails at Ciooch's fLice and succeeded in tearing off liis 
 collar and cravat. *' Must'nt scratch, Hatchy, or Goochy 'ull 
 shake you. Good evening, ladie:; and gentlemen," he continu- 
 ed, turning his watery eyes towards ]*',dwin as he came up. 
 '• Wha' you want ? Little Hatchy's drunk, you see, and got 
 little nose broke. Wha' shall I bezzer do witli him, you think ?'» 
 
 " Mr. Gooch ! Lor if 1 am not mistaken I have the pleasure 
 of addressing that gentleman. This man " 
 
 " Yes'sr ; Gooch's my name. Erastus Gooch, T'ronto U'ver- 
 sity. You're Misser Vance, I think, interrupted Mr. Gooch, 
 anxious to do the polite thing. 
 
 " Yes ! sir ; my name is \'ance. I am very glad to lia\e met 
 you under these circumstances, as this man Hatchitfess, who is 
 performing such antics in your powerful grasp, has committed a 
 most villainous attempt at the abduction of this young lady in 
 tlie college grounds just now, with the aid of his cowardly cpm- 
 panions, but in which he was happily frustrated by the }oung 
 
 \l\ ' 
 
 I 
 
 I ' ' 
 
18 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 3 
 
 lady's courage and my timely arrival. Might I therefore request 
 you to oblige me by continuing your very capable detention o 
 the scoundrel for a few minutes until I can find an officer to con- 
 vey him to the police station." 
 
 " Wha's this you're telling me, Misser Vance ? Lu le Hatchy's 
 been trying run away with young lady. F'shame I Hatchy, 
 say. Wha' you'll say to the Beak 'morrer morning. And young 
 lady broke yer little nose, eh ! Hatchy. Serve you right, Hatchy. 
 Dirty Hatchy. Bezzer leave young ladies 'lone nex' time 
 won't do t' get little nose broken and go up before Beak." 
 
 " That is true ! Mr. Gooch," said Edwin, laughing in spite of 
 himself at the absurd scene. " And I propose that the Beak, 
 as you call him, shall teach him a lesson to-morrow. Will you 
 hold him until 1 can get a police officer." 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't, Mr. Vance," exclaimed Agnes. " Pray let 
 him go ! For my sake ! I could not bear to have my name 
 dragged up into court. He has met with some punishment al- 
 ready. Let the wretch go !" 
 
 " Tha's so ! madam," put in the irrepressible Mr. Gooch. 
 " Got his litde nose broke ; pretty bad to have his little nose 
 broke by courageous young lady. Boys'U al' laugh at him. fiet 
 poor devil go ! and Goochy 'ull kick him through the college 
 grounds and start him home." 
 
 " Well ! perhaps it is best so, though the villain deserves a 
 heavier punishment. ' Good evening 1' Mr. Gooch, and much 
 obliged to you. You need not kick him, though, unless you 
 wish it very much. Shall we go on. Miss Seaforth ?" and with- 
 out vouchsafing a glance at the wretched Hatchitfess, who still 
 continued his futile efforts to free himself, they proceeded on 
 their way. 
 
 " He should not have been allowed to escape so^asily, Agnes. 
 I am sorry that you interceded for him, though he is not out of 
 the medical student's hands yet. But you'have not told me the 
 
circumstances of the um.-i- , "^ 
 
 Ins evening a,id attem,,tc.d to n.rcc ' '" """ ''^'^'^ed mc 
 
 ad evidently bcx., wating or^ knn " "^' ' "™«'-'- "^''^y 
 
 '>^co!lcgc.grot,nd.s, thot.gh a^ " l! r"? "'"' ' "'''■^^ ''>™"gh 
 
 ;''at he threatened „,e the ,a !,,'''''''".• ' ^^■'"'••""'er ,.ol 
 
 l'«!|t of it at the titne.- "■ ' "''' '""'. "'ough J n,ade 
 
 this .2.; thlVZmu.:;"^.::;';^;:;:"; ->• '^-- Agno.,, af.er 
 l"vc- no necessity; which vou,'^^^'"""' ^"^ >^'"'diyou 
 -fcforyot,,and;hic ' av', '"°''-''' '"-"e'" 'o be un 
 ;'^ '^"-- if e con,pe,s ^^ i'.'I" t""' ""'>■ ^ ^-""^ 
 I'y ray father's legacy to you and , "" "'' '"'""''ed for 
 
 -l"oyment, respecLie': 1;!^^ "^^^^ "° — "y for this 
 - your part. For your own s^t nd 7" T""' ''"' "-""^dless 
 a-t, you ought to cast asid tl fe ' "'''' °f yo" helpless old 
 "'a' ^vhich my father owed yo ^T T''' "■'"'<='' '^^^'-es 
 yo- I .^nnot feel that I J^dJ^ "'^ ''' >^'-^''>-'d to pay 
 agreatunhappiness to mc' tor tha^' '° 'r"""" '' '^ 
 refusing me the op,x,rtu,u.y to ui^;*,'/':" ""'^ P--^-t in 
 ™"""y 's yours, I canno be lap' ' ^ ' " '° '"'"• ^he 
 •^gnes," said Edwin, and forS Int '°" '"'^'•' ''' "'^ d-^" 
 .* -n the pubh-e street, he Lti i^dl'- . ~r- 
 
 -tdtrS^:;::;^-^- ^^^^^^^ --'--h.-^. for 
 
 Wow on the forehead, almost th ^''"''=^'^«' a viole.t 
 
 a voice, familiar enough trUarRe' '"™ ''-'''-'''^. -hiie 
 
 *«orted with rage Lo a feco^anf " ' ^°^'^""''^' ">« 
 
 " ^ ou scoundrel! do you dare tnfl? '"'"»' «<=laimed- 
 
 you dare to flaunt your perfidy in my very 
 
 t ' 
 
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 r.t 
 
 itri 
 
 ml 
 
iff 
 
 ^ 
 
 *' 
 
 . 
 
 i 
 
 lili 
 
 
 i III 
 
 fi 
 
 i* 
 
 .1' 
 
 14 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " What do you mean by that, Reginald Mordaunt ?" he shout- 
 ed, but Agnes' scream of affright at the sudden assault restrained 
 him, while a gentleman who was i)assing, and had witnessed the 
 scene, seized the excited Reggie and pushed him violently back- 
 wards. A crowd was collecting, and too chivalric to expose his 
 charge to further annoyance, of which she had certainly had 
 sufficient, Vance called a passing coach, followed her into it and 
 gavo the order to proceed to Miss Seaforth's home. 
 
 " What can he ha\e meant by striking me thus ?" he said, 
 audibly, " There is something wrong at Lake Mordaunt or he 
 would never have done such a thing. Whatever can be the 
 matter ?" he exclaimed aloud in perturbation and utter bewilder 
 ment. 
 
 " How horable '. The very streets are not safe. Who is the 
 young ruffian that assaulted you ?" said Agnes, gaspingly, for 
 she had been terribly alarmed. 
 
 " He is the brother of the young lady whom I am to marry 
 and there is something wrong, I am certain, at Lake Mordaunt. 
 I have felt a presentiment of it all day," replied Edvvin, throwing 
 himself back in his seat in despair. 
 
 " Brother of the young lady whom you are to marry !" echoed 
 Agnes, in surprise. " Then you are engaged, Mr. Vance. I 
 did not know it, and I congratulate you sincerely, though hnrdly 
 upon the somewhat unfraternal conduct of your future brother 
 in-law. Yet the very fact of your engagement may probably 
 explain the affair, for you were talking too earnestly and too in- 
 terestedly to ** But here Miss Seaforth's speech was arrested ; 
 
 her proud sense of self-respect becoming alive to the repugnnnt 
 nature of the explanation. " I wish I had known of your en- 
 gagement," she continued, involuntarily. 
 
 " Then you must have forgotten, Agnes, for I told you in my 
 reply to the letter I received from you at Lake Mordaunt." 
 
 " But you never answered my letter, Mr. Vance. Or rather^ 
 I never received your reply," she continued, correcting herself; 
 
 r^ 
 
WHAT'S ER MAKRER WITM UTTEK NOSK ? 15 
 
 he shout - 
 restrained 
 lessee! tlic 
 :ntly back- 
 expose his 
 •tainly liatl 
 into it and 
 
 ?" he said, 
 .aunt or he 
 :an be the 
 ;r bewilder 
 
 Who is the 
 .spingly, for 
 
 m to marry 
 Mordauni. 
 in, throwing 
 
 rry :" e( 
 
 choed 
 Vance. I 
 
 oughkirdly 
 ire brothcr- 
 y probably 
 and too in- 
 as arrested ; 
 e repugnant 
 of your en- 
 
 you in my 
 Idaunt." 
 
 Or rather, 
 hng herself : 
 
 "and have been aggrieved against you tnat yuudid not reply to 
 me under the peculiar circumstances." 
 
 " I certainly wrote and sent the letter for mailing with another 
 which, to my own knowledge, reached its destination, for I have 
 heard of it," he rei)lied. 
 
 " It is very strange then, that the one to me should have gone 
 wrong, but I am glad of this explanation, for I had, nol unnatural- 
 ly, yet unjustly, it would ap[)ear, imputed to you a carelessness as 
 to the cruel state of suspense in which I was [placed." 
 
 '' You may be sure, my dear Agnes, that I never could have 
 been so forgetful of anything in which you were concerned. I 
 shall have this matter enquired into, aiid shall see you again 
 concerning the affairs to which the letter referred. To-night I 
 cannot. I am too anxious and disturbed," replied Edwin, and 
 they relapsed into silence until the coach stopped at its destina- 
 tion. 
 
 " Will you come in, Mr. Vance?" said Miss Seaforth, as they 
 alighted. 
 
 *' Not to-night, Agnes. I am not fit for anything, and f 
 expect not presentable either, for Reginald's hand is not a 
 lijjht one. The blow, however, affects me more mentally than 
 jjhysically, and I am sick at heart with anxiety. There must 1)€ 
 some dreadful, though to me unknown and incomprehensible 
 reason, which prompted the attack." 
 
 " r hope — I sincerely hope — and trust that there is no foun- 
 dation for your fears. T'^e assault upon you was, I suspect, 
 prompted merely by some absurd whim on the part of a very 
 young man. In any event, if you and your betrothed are triie 
 of heart to each other, all will come right in the end.'' 
 
 '' That something dreadful for me has occurred, I am certain, 
 his very words would shew it, and yet I have given no cause ; 
 while of Ethel's sincerity I am as assured as of my own exist- 
 ence. And now I must say ' good night,' " he replied. 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Vance," she said. " I cannot express by 
 
 ii^ 
 
 t M. 
 
i6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ' ''i 
 
 :rsi 
 
 ! I 
 
 |i«i 
 
 words my deep sense of tlic vast service you have this evening 
 rendered me. It is another to the many ol)h'gations lam under 
 to you and the greatest of them all. An obligation that I can 
 never rei)ay, and one which I shall the more willingly owe you 
 that there may ever remain in my heart its deej) debt of grati- 
 tude. You are a hero to me now — a friend you have ever been.'' 
 " An unwitting hero, then, for I did not know it was you, but 
 certainly your friend," he replied. " You oive yoir gratitude to 
 your own courage ; the i)art I had in the battle was very limited 
 
 the mere arrival of a reinforcement. But if you choose to 
 
 consider that worthy of gratitude," he continued, laughing in 
 spite of himself, " you can very easily wipe out the debt by 
 withdrawing your refusal, an useless refusal now, at alf events, 
 to the last wishes of my father, which, as he was your father's 
 dearest friend, you might well look upon as addressed to a 
 daughter. And now 'good night,' dear Agnes." 
 
 He shook her hand as the door opened, and jumping into the 
 cab, was driven home. 
 
 The experiences of Mr. Edwin Vance's day had been at 
 least varied, if they had not been agreeable, and it was in 
 anything but a happy frame of mind that he reached home. 
 
 Hastily entering the drawing-room, where a handsome old 
 lady, his mother, sat busily engaged on a piece of light embroi- 
 dery, and weaving over her i)ermitting occupation a train of the 
 quiet thoughts and soft retrospections that sweeten the hours of 
 age — iie bent over her and kissed her with fond affection, as he 
 enquired — 
 
 " Any letters for me this evening, mother ?" 
 
 " How late you are, Edwin ! Why, what is the matter with 
 you ? You are hurt ! Whatever has occurred to you ?" she 
 replied, as she looked up at him after her warni motherly kiss. 
 
 " Oh ! that is nothing ! A mere contusion. I'll tell you of 
 it after, but ai;e there any letters for me?" 
 
 " They are in your sUidy, but there is none from Lake Mor- 
 
AT THKGA'I'KS OF DEATH. 
 
 n 
 
 ivenmg 
 I under 
 t I can 
 ^e you 
 of grati- 
 irbeen.'* 
 you, but 
 ;itude to 
 Y limited 
 [loose to 
 ghing in 
 debt by 
 it events, 
 r father's 
 ssed to a 
 
 ig into the 
 
 I been at 
 it was in 
 lome. 
 some old 
 it embroi- 
 •ain of the 
 hours of 
 :ion, as he 
 
 latter with 
 ron?" she 
 
 [herly kiss. 
 ill you of 
 
 jake Mor- 
 
 daunt, Kdwin, I am sorry to say, for your sake. It is very 
 strange your lOtliel does not write to you, but llicn they live in 
 a country place and letters often miscarry and are iL'layed," 
 said his mother, watching his troubled face witli anxious in- 
 terest. 
 
 "Th*t is true enougii, motlier, but cannot apply in this case- 
 Something inimical to me has occurred, I am certain. I have 
 had a proof of it to-night. I shall get Ferretout to take charge 
 of my pressing business, and I'll run down to Fake .Mordaunt 
 to-morrow evening. I can bear this suspense no longer, and 
 will learn the worst." 
 
 " Is that step necessary, Kdwin ? .\re not your fc:\rs exag- 
 gerating a little delay in receiving a letter ?" 
 
 " Not so, my dear mother, I wi,-,h I could think so ; after the 
 occurrence of to-night I can no longer shut my eyes. But let 
 me have a clij) of tea, and I'll relate my adventures, and ask 
 your advice and aid in more than this matter, for I have liad 
 more than one adventure this evening." 
 
 CHAFi !:R II. 
 
 A'l' THK GATKS OI' DKATH. 
 
 When ICtiiel Mordaunt awoke to conscious life, and her blue 
 eyes 0[)ened a^ain to God's brigiil sunlight, she found herself 
 lying stretchv-d upon a sofa, i.i the room wiiere her bittef inter- 
 view of the morning had taken place, and bending over her, 
 with terrified face, anxiety and fear in every lineament, stood 
 her mother, watching willi the inien.;'; longing, the fearful sus- 
 pense that draws out the passing minutes into illimitable ijcriods, 
 in which the dread and horror of years mi^jht well be compassed, 
 for the first faint signs of returning life ; wliile, with his linger on 
 her pulse, and his eyes fixed on the dial of his watch, stood Dr. 
 Streatham, his grave face betraying more anxiety than he would 
 have liked to be so plainly visible. 
 
 
 i'l 
 
 
i3 
 
 SHE MI(]MT IIAVK DONK BKTTKR. 
 
 r ' 
 
 iJ '! 
 
 i ' 
 
 As the trem])Hng lids slowly opened, and the wandering eyes 
 lightened with intelligence, they fixed themselves on the loving 
 face bent over her with such infinite tenderness and a faint smile 
 — the sweet smile of an answering love and recognition — irra- 
 diated for a moment the tremulous lips. Feebly and with 
 ineffectual effort she essayed to lift her hand to j)lace it within 
 the tender and comfort-giving grasp of her mother, but upon 
 her lay so unutterable a sense of weakness, of languid weari- 
 ness and incapability, that the accomplishment of the little 
 movement of alTection was impossible to her, and the weakened 
 and nerveless hand would have fallen back to her side had not 
 the anxious percejjtion of the watcliing mother divined the wish, 
 while the heart, strained during the long hours by its dire fore- 
 bodings, beat faster with the flush of joy which the little action 
 I)rompted. 
 
 "Thank God! Oh ! thank God ! She is better. Oh ! Ethel. 
 my darling 1 my first born ! You are restored to me. Thank 
 God for all His mercies," and Mrs. Mordaunt, the tears of glad- 
 ness in her eyes, bent down and kissed her daughter with the 
 long, warm kiss of the mother's heart. 
 
 " Dear mamma !" she whispered, as she returned with loving 
 effort the soft embrace. " Have I been ill and frightened 
 you ? I'm better now, but I am so cold," and as she spoke she 
 shivered from head to foot, although the afternoon was sultry 
 and oppressive as an unclouded summer bun could make it. 
 
 " You must get her to bed at once, Mrs. Mordaunt," whis- 
 pered Dr. Streatham. " She must be kept warm while the at- 
 tack of shivering is upon her. It will not last long, and will 
 be followed by an accession of fever, slight I trust, but I must 
 warn you that she is not better as yet. Has she received any 
 great mental shock do you know? for, if I understand you 
 aright, she was well enough this morning ? 
 
 " I do not think so ! To my knowledge nothing has occur- 
 red. I found her lying senseless on the floor of this room when 
 
AT THK GATES OF DKATFl. 
 
 «9 
 
 I came down stairs about noon. I will endeavour to find out, 
 though." 
 
 " Do so I if i)ossil)le, l»ul do not excite or annoy her. She 
 must be kept ([uiel. 1 will return this evening, but 1 must go 
 now. Vou need not ho alarmed, Mrs. Mordaunl, but you 
 must take all care. (lood afternoon," and Dr. .Streatham took 
 his leave. 
 
 For the remainder of the afternoon lithel lay weak, shivering 
 and torjjid, unable to sj'eak or even to think, furthei than to 
 (:omi)lain of cold, and in feeble whispers ask for more coverings, 
 though iier anxious attendants kept heated blankets constantly 
 wrapped over the shivering form, and tried every appliance their 
 loving sympathy and skill could suggest to chase away the be- 
 numbing chill. .She was conscious, that was evident, but that 
 was all that could be said, and Mrs. Mordaunt saw that for the 
 j)resent it was utterly futile and worse than useless to think of 
 endeavoring to (question her daughter, to get a clue as to the 
 cause of her illness. She was much too anxious also ; she re- 
 ( ognized the alarming fact that Kthel was ill, the cause of the 
 illness was, for the time, a secondary consideration. That would 
 do when danger was passed. The present moments were for 
 action : to helj) her suffering child, and not, as she saw it, for 
 mere speculation into the cause of her sufferings. 
 
 But at length the fits of shivering ceased. She no longer 
 complained of cold, and gently fell into calm and easy slum- 
 ber until the evening. She awoke from it feeli..g brighter and 
 stronger, fully in the possession of all her senses, but flushed and 
 feverish. Instead of the former cold, she now complained of 
 too great heat, and essayed to remove the load of wrappings 
 with which she was encumbered. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, only too delighted at the apparent improve- 
 ment, a heavy incubus removed from her heart, sat down beside 
 her beloved child, eagerly pressing her to partake of some of 
 the dainties that had been prepared for her, hoping and trusting 
 
 I' 
 
 i'l 
 
30 
 
 SHE MIOIIT IIAVK UOXK IIKTTF.R. 
 
 h ' 
 
 ^li! 
 
 lliat the evil and the danger had passed away. Rut Fthel de 
 dined to cat — after vainly attempting, that her niotlier niiglubc 
 I)Jeased — a morsel of the tempting deli<:a(:y before lier. 
 
 *' Vou are better, my darling ( hild, I think, but I am sorry 
 you cannot eat. Oh I Mthel, I have been so alarmed and anxious. 
 I found you fainting upon the floor. Wiiat caused it? Do you 
 remember.^ Tell me, ICthel, if anything unplea.sant has hap- 
 pened to you." 
 
 As her mother's words fell upf)n her ear, the full Hood ol 
 memory, the bitter tide of recollection. Mowed back upon Kthel's 
 soul. Her bright Ais/ that had so overwhelmedly si,mk into 
 the dark blank of the terri!)le present. Her hero, for whom her 
 days had brightened — downfallcn and lost to her — a broken and 
 defLiced image, once so adorable, still so dearly but so bitterly 
 loved, thrown down to earth, and hers no longer. 
 
 Her love that had grown with such sweetness and such strength 
 into her daily life, that had taken possession of all her l)eing, its 
 hopes, its joys, its earthly future, budding in scented beauty, 
 the flower of her youth, all changed by dread storius and wither 
 ing frost, to wreck and devastation — a ceaseless torment, an 
 unending winter, a love shorn of its sweetness, its flowery hope 
 and its beauty. As remembrance bringing back to her tlic 
 crushing sense of all its happiness for a few brief days, with the 
 splendent charm, wherein her earthly hope, all joy, all as[)iration, 
 lay absorbed ; of the dire extinguishment tliat had left her no 
 thing ; of the drear years, befogged and clouded, that lay before 
 her, with dripi)ing rains and moaning blasts, all-sorrowful ; she 
 turned her pained face, all wrenched in the freshened agon\'. 
 to her mother, with the gas[)ing cry, 
 
 " Don't ask me, mother ! Oh ! don't ask me ! Leave me to 
 my misery. There can be no help !" 
 
 "Oh! Ethel! What has come to you?" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Mordaimt, springing up and throwing her arms around her 
 daughter, as if by the protecting sliicid of a mother's breast she 
 
 m 
 
AT THP: GATES OF PKATH. 
 
 •I 
 
 Leave me to 
 
 could keep away her darling's evil. " Tell me, I'-thel I Tell me 
 what is this dreadful tiling. There may l)e help. God can 
 help. He is the help. Oh ! Kthel, my jxior darling, is it about 
 Edwin Vance? Is all right with him? Oh! tell, nu', Kthel!" 
 " It is all over, mamma ! He is false to me," and with a shud- 
 dering sol) that told too well how the very wording of the thought 
 wrung her heart, she pressed her face closer to her mother's, and 
 together their tears mingled. 
 
 " Impossible, Kthel ! I cannot believe it. Vou have been 
 deceived. I would answer for the depth of his love for you," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " It is too true ! for I have the proofs," she said, her voice bro- 
 ken by sobs. "Oh! mamma, I am so miserable." 
 
 " He dare not do it ! He would not (\o it I for he loves you, 
 Kthel !" said her mother, rising ([uickly to her feet with the action 
 of her thoughts. " I do not believe it ! I cannot believe it ! 
 I'^thel ! Was Kmily Dearborn here this morning? I heard one 
 of the girls say something about her being here. Was it from 
 her tiiat this came ?" 
 "Yes, mamma ! It was she who brought the fatal lellers." 
 
 "Then, there is hope still. I would not believe "but her 
 
 sentence was arrested by the entrance o{ Dr. Strcatham, shewn 
 up by a maid to the room. With a grave bow to Mrs. Mordaunt 
 he walked up to tlie bed, lool;ed for a moment at I'Uhel's Hushed 
 and heated face, and, after feeling her pulse, said in a !ow 
 voice : — 
 
 " I must forbid any further conversation, either with Miss 
 Mordaunt or in the room. There must be perfect c^uiet. Open 
 a window and get the temperature down to si>ay, and keep it 
 at that point. I wish to see you, Mrs. Mordaunt," and with 
 these words he withdrew from the room, followed by Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 Before the morning had dawned, the beautiful Ethel Mor- 
 daunt, poor Edwin Vance's sweet love, lay delirious, uncon- 
 
 M- • 
 
 l; 
 
iff 
 
 aa 
 
 SHE MKHIT IIAVK DoNK MKITKR. 
 
 Ncious and wlully raving under the violent firen of a l)r;iin 
 fever. 
 
 'Vhe strain upon her had !)ecn too great. The blow, roughly 
 and tTuelly struck at her pure affections, had been more than 
 she could bear. Her refuicd and clc\.itcd mental organization 
 that held the (lood so inuueasurably apart from the Kvil — that 
 endowed the loved object with the ennobled attributes of its 
 own high ideal, had been too severly shocked by the illimitable 
 descent to falsehood, baseness and < ruelty. 
 
 Klhel Mordaunt was very ill. For many weary days she hy 
 on the dread brink of the valley of the shadow of Death. Day 
 after day passed and still the same ceaseless delirium, unmi- 
 tigated and unchecked, the disease running its course with un- 
 abated violence, while the i)Oor sufferer wasted away beneath its 
 consuming breath. 
 
 On the morning of the tenth day of the illness, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, for the first time since its commencement, met to take 
 their breakfast together. 
 
 " ^'ou down to breakfast, Florence ; there must be good news 
 then. How is our poor darling this morning?" said the former, 
 as his wife entered the room. 
 
 "She is asleep — the first time for days. When she awakes 
 in all i^robability we will know, my dear husband, whether our 
 daughter will be si)ared to us, or whether God will Like her to 
 himself. Oh ! that it be His good Will that she be granted to 
 us." 
 
 "She is young and strong and we have every reason to hope. 
 God grant her to us ! Life would be very bitter if Ethel were 
 taken from us. How is Ally this morning?" said Mr. Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 " Much the same ! Well, apparently, were it not for that un- 
 abated drowsiness. I do not like it, and yet it may be only 
 weakness. Dr. Streatham is treating her still, but he says no- 
 thing about her, and his reticence alone alarms me. Ethel's 
 
AT THi: GATFS OF DKATIf. 
 
 «3 
 
 n of a brnin 
 
 jnorc .ilarming iUncM han too miirh distrarted mc from |>oor 
 Iiltlc Alida," replied Mrs. Mordaunt. " I wish Rcfy^io were 
 lure. It is so strange that the mcssaj;e could not find him." 
 
 •' I ordered a messenger to TmIIow him int») the woods with 
 the last telegram. He will he licre in a few days, at all events. 
 Morton I cannot hear from, lie is not at home, nor do they 
 know whither he had ^one. There is another thin{^ which should 
 in- attended to at once. Wince should he written to ; it is not 
 f.ijr to him, in any case. If iruux ent, it is most cruel to leave 
 him in i^jnorance, and I certainly do not believe him K'*'''*y. 
 Si)nie devilish mac hination of that detestable Dearborn ^'irl is at 
 the bottom of the affair. Vou should write to Vance. Vou will 
 do it better than 1 could." 
 
 *' I cannot write to the man ; it is Impossible. So far as we 
 know at present, he is the direct c ause of our darling's danger, 
 and deserves no consideration from us. If he is innocent — 
 which is very doubtful — for Kthel told me the day before she 
 was taken ill that she haci proofs, certain proofs of his guilt — 
 why should we harrow his feelings ?" answered Mrs. Mordaunt, 
 decisively. 
 
 " Proofs can be manufactured, my dear Florence, and Miss 
 Kinily Dearborn is c:ai)able of anything. Certainly his two let- 
 ters, which I took the liberty of opening, since Kthel's illness, 
 lK.*ar no evidence of guilt about them. They breathe the most 
 devoted love, and he will get so anxious at not hearing that we 
 may cxj)ect him at any moment." 
 
 " Well ! He had better not come, unless he brings his vindi- 
 cation with him. I shall not see him, at all events," said Mrs. 
 Uordaunt, and the conversation closed. 
 
 But Ethel was not then to die. It was otherwise willed. Her 
 earthly probation was not ])assed. For her this world, with its 
 pleasures and its pains, its lights and its shadows, its vain affec- 
 tions and its hollow joys, was not yet to cease to be. To her 
 the lesson was still to come, the bitter knowledge, bom of the 
 
 ' I 
 
 HI 
 
 I 1 
 
\V 
 
 V ■' 
 
 34 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 painful years, tlie lesson which to bright and hopeful youth is 
 so hard to learn — that all of this life is vanity, the vanity of 
 vanities. 
 
 That, based on things of this world, happiness cannot be se- 
 cured. The dearest hope, the proudest ambition, the tondcst 
 love, the tender ties of unselfish affection, power, pomp and 
 riches, as a dream dissolve, even when most they seem secure. 
 A bitter void to mark that such had been. 
 
 But not all bitter. One half the sum of human life is \\ci\)\)\- 
 ness, pure and unalloyed. Such may not so ajipear to us, for 
 pleasure is not counted as is the i)ain — it leaves not the same 
 strong impression upon the mind. Who that has revelled in 
 the priceless joy that exists fur him in his little child, counts 
 that joy when his heart is wrenched with agony at its loss? 
 We look upon it that we are entitled to the happiness, and arc 
 hardly used when we are called upon to bear the pain. Life 
 is not all bitter if ue are content to accept the bitter as wc 
 enjoy the sweet. 
 
 When Ethel awoke from her calm slumber the feared crisis 
 had passed. The fever that had raged m iicr veins so fiercely 
 and so long had left her, but it left her worn by its fires to the 
 verge of dissolution. Weak, wasted, nerveless and scirce a'iv- : 
 for hours her life hung trembling on a point ; undecided to mor- 
 tal eye the battle between death and struggling existence. B.it 
 at length the anxious parents received from the physician's grave 
 lips the joyful assurance that the worst danger had iia.i.vJ 
 away. 
 
 Days of anxious care and unremitting attention must eLlp^c 
 before she would be safe, but the grim shadow of Death no 
 longer hung over their fearful hearts. Their child had come 
 back to them from the very confines of the grave, and the 
 hours were to them a thankful joy. How sweet for them to 
 watch, as the hours flew on, the fluttering life strengthening little 
 by litde the beloved form. The beloved form which with 
 
AT THE GA TES OF DEATH. 
 
 25 
 
 dread liorror and fear they had been forced to picture to their 
 shuddering hearts as hut too i)robable in a few short days would 
 lie enshrouded in the silent tomb — gone from their eyes for this 
 earthly for-ever. 
 
 To Ethel herself, lymg in the unutterable languor of her 
 weakness was mercifully spared the sense of the great sorrow 
 that had fallen upon her. For her there were yet no remem- 
 brances to torture, no sorrows to grieve. A dreamy mist envelop- 
 ed her wakened consciousness, the pleasant listlessness that 
 a.skcd not thought or motion. To her it was enough that her 
 languid eye could rest on her mother's face as she sat in her 
 patient watches before her ; enough to answer with faint but 
 sweet smile her mother's loving gaze bent so often in anxious 
 care upon her. But though her convalescence was slow, it 
 surely progressed. T-ittle by little her strength came back to 
 her, and all fears were at rest. The stern prohibitions of silence 
 and absolute quiet were by-and-by removed, but all exciting 
 topics were to be forbidden in the sick-room. 
 
 She began to speak and take interest in the little things of her 
 past daily life ; her flowers, her birds, her f^ivorites of the barn- 
 yard, but made no attempt to refer to her engagement, or its 
 unhappy end. She asked for her brother, Reggie, but Reggie 
 had not come home, though a 'brtnight had passed since he had 
 been telegraphed for, the day after her illness had commenced, 
 and letters, without number, had been sent to every place likely 
 to find him. 
 
 However, the succeeding afternoon brought the wanderer 
 back. He drove up in excited haste, almost frenzied with anxi- 
 ous fears. His mother had enough to do to get down-stairs on 
 hearing his voice in the hall, and keep him from making his 
 hurried way to the sick room. He had met the messenger 
 bearing his fathers telegram as he was returning with his col- 
 lege frierds from a shooting excursion far into the woods, and 
 had started home with the utmost speed that steam could carry 
 
 • I 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 t 
 
26 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 13 
 
 1':^ i'-^-l 
 
 him, almost frantic with grief and fear that he might, from tliu 
 long delay, see his sister no more. He had received, on ar- 
 rival at Hamilton, the first letter sent hin» with the few particu- 
 lars of Ethel's illness, and its cause. 
 
 But his mind made easy by the joyful news that Ethel was 
 over her dreadful illness, his thoughts took a new direction, and 
 Hew with fierce indignation against the unhappy Edwin Wuice. 
 the hated cause of all this misery. And he had a story to tell 
 his mother, which was conclusive against that unlucky indi- 
 vidual. Conclusive to Mrs. Mordaunt's mind, its deia.ls, con- 
 firming with startling force the few words she had heard from 
 Ethel. A foregone conclusion with Reggie, to whom anything 
 emanating from Emily Dearborn, carried perfect conviction ; 
 his story was only an additional evidence, a further proof of his 
 fair one's immaculate ness, and he told it to his fiithcr and 
 mother with the hotter indignation against poor Edwin Vance, 
 that he should not have to think tieason against that imniacu 
 lateness. To him it was very plain that Vance was guilty, for 
 did not Emily Dearborn avouch that gai't, and in his versiun 
 there lay the unconscious vein of exaggeration, which is drawn 
 upon so naturally, yet so heavily, by a narrator, to make his 
 tale as effective as possible to the listener's ears. 
 
 " I arrived in Toronto," he said, " too late for the afternoon 
 train for the east, and had to wait four hours for the next ; a 
 special with the mails for England. This opportunity was a 
 great relief to me, in my anxiety and impatience, as otlierwise I 
 should have to wait until the morning. But even this brid" 
 delay was tonnent to me. I was in a fever of restlessness, as 
 you may suppose, and could not remain quiet in any one place 
 for a moment, for I would have to think of poor Ethel's illness, 
 and that I could not bear to do. So to pass away the time as 
 easily as possible, and keep ray attention distracted, 1 had noth 
 ing left but to roam about the streets until train-time should ar 
 rive. But even constant movement amid the busy throngs and 
 
AT IHE GATES OF DEATH. 
 
 »7 
 
 w 
 
 stirring life of the city, could not allay the fevered impatience 
 of my thoughts. I hated the smiling faces around me, for the 
 smiles that so illy-consorted with my own miserable suspense. I 
 hated myself that I was air.ong them; that I was there at all, 
 when I should have been at home ; or that I siiould have placed 
 myself, through that abominable hunting party, so fiir out of 
 reach that my sister might, even then, for all I knew, have 
 passed away. I was not in a fit mood to encounter that which 
 now came across me. The letter I had received that morning 
 had given me the first intimation of the real cause of Ethel's ill- 
 ness, and with its bitter impression fresh upon me, you can 
 easily imagine the sensations with which I perceived, almost 
 upon me, as I chanced to lift my eyes to his face, the perfidious 
 scoundrel, whose base treachery had brought down the evil 
 upon us, smilingly advancing, with the girl for whom our i)oor 
 Kthel was sacrificed, clinging lovingly upon his arm ; her eyes 
 eagerly turned to his, as she listened, with excited face, to the 
 villian's soft declarations — 
 
 " ' This heart is yours. 1 cannot be happy without you, my 
 darling Agnes.' 
 
 " I heard the scoundiel's very words, as they approached. 
 Flesh and blood could nut stand it. I heard this from the man 
 for \fhom my beautiful sister lay on her death-bed at that very 
 moment. Uttering them, too, the hateful villain, all reckless, 
 and uncaring for the ruin he had caused. 
 
 " The words had hardly passed his lips, when I had struck 
 him in the face and knocked him off the curb into the roadway. 
 That is all I saw afterwards, for a gentleman passing seized me 
 and pushed me back, and when I escaped, they had disap- 
 I)eared. But that liitle scene, I should imagine, should be 
 amply sufficient to convince the most sceptical as to what man- 
 ner of man is Mr. Edwin Vance, and forms a striking corollary 
 to the statements adduced by Miss Dearborn, to whom, for her 
 brave aid in unmasking a villain, our thanks should be due, in 
 
 
 I i 
 
H ' 
 
 ^8 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DONE BETTER. 
 
 place of suspicion of her motives, and disbelief in the plain 
 fiicts she brought fonvard, which some of us seem inclined to 
 foster." 
 
 And, as Reggie said these last words, he looked at his father. 
 " Whose judgment has not been blinded, Reginald, you miglit 
 have added," rei)lied .Mr. Morda iit, quietly. '* Another thing, 
 I must remark, in connection with tl:c story I have just heard, 
 is also not to your credit. That a sr n of mine should have 
 shown himself so wanting in the spirit of a gentleman, as to at- 
 tack, under what provocation soever, the escort of a lady, passes 
 my belief. An assault the more cowardly, as retaliation, under 
 the circumstances, would be im])Ossible. In this instance, at 
 any rate, Mr. Vance shewed himself to be a gentleman, which, I 
 am sorry to think, you did not, Reginald. I am inclined to 
 think, also, that the person, whose control over his passions can 
 so little be depended upon, is no more to be depended ujioii 
 for the accuracy of description of a scene, evidently viewed 
 through the exaggerating medium of such unbridled rage. AVerc 
 these words which you ascribe to Mr. Vance, the very words he 
 
 used, neither more or less, and without the hostile colouring of 
 
 your own mind ?" 
 
 " You are very hard upon me, flither. Why should I wish to 
 
 give a f^ilse colouring to them ? AVHiat 1 overheard was little 
 
 enough for the purpose, I should think," answered Reggie, 
 
 flushing with vexation at his father's reprimand. 
 
 " Too few ! It is quite possible that if you had heard more, the 
 
 meaning would have appeared in a very different light to yc 
 
 1 wish to know if these words, as given by you, were exactly as 
 
 he used them ?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; that is, I think so. If not his exact words, some- 
 
 tiiing very like them," replied Reggie, with some hesitation, and 
 
 sulkily enough. 
 
 " Something very like them, you think ? Or, very unlike them, 
 
 for all you know. By your own shewing, you were not in a con- 
 
 . i ^:, 
 
AT THE GATES OF DEATH. 
 
 29 
 
 dition to coolly understand that which you heard and saw. You 
 are not even sure of the words, and have certainly placed your- 
 self in a false position ; simply made /ourself ridiculous." 
 
 " I think, my dear, that you are a little unjust to Reggie," 
 said Mrs. Mordaunt to her husband. I acknowledge that he 
 was very much in the wrong to interfere in the manner he did ; 
 to soil his fingers on the wretch. But I think it highly probable 
 that he gives us a true version of what passed. To my mind it 
 proves the truth of everything alleged against Mr. Vance, even 
 though Emily Dearborn, for no good motive, it is true, brought 
 the matter fonvard." 
 
 " Tut, tut, Florence, don't jump to your conclusions so hastily. 
 From what I know of Edwin Vance, from all I have seen of his 
 character, and of his strong devotion to Ethel, you cannot ex- 
 i)ect me to believe that he was making love to this young lady, 
 whoever she may be. Such is by no means probable. You 
 must remember, too, that Vance has most culpably been left in 
 ignorance of Ethel's illness, and that he should be escorting a 
 young lady through the streets, or even conversing with her in 
 an animated manner, is surely no great crime ; certainly not one 
 to have brought down upon him this savage attack, which I 
 bitterly regret. The more I think of the matter, the more I 
 am convinced that the whole affair is a scheme to ruin Ethel's 
 happiness on the part of that very clever, but thoroughly de- 
 testable young lady — Emily Dearborn, and such, sooner or later, 
 it will turn out to be," said Mr. Mordaunt, who, as he concluded, 
 rose to leave the room. 
 
 "It's a shame! I declare, a burning shame that Emily Dear- 
 born should be spoken of in such terms. She's utterly incap- 
 able of that which you lay to her charge. What has she ever 
 done that she should be treated as she is, and hated as she is by 
 everyone here ?" exclaimed the rash Reggie, with flushed face 
 and excited eye, as he sprung from his seat, and rushed out of 
 the house. 
 
 
 ! 
 
 (, 
 
 ' t 
 
 '■ 1 
 
 \ 
 
 i 1 
 
 
 1 
 
 i i 
 
 t 
 
 ■ 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 1 ■ 
 
30 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE DETTER. 
 
 ( 1 
 
 " Stay, Reginald !" sternly said his father, but in vain, for tlu- 
 impulsive and iieadstrong young fellow had placed himself om 
 of hearing. 
 
 "I should expect trouble then," continued Mr. Mordau it. 
 *'did I not think that Miss Dearborn is too ambitious, ttjo 
 knowing altogether, to marry a boy like him, with his own way 
 to make in the world, and nothing but ex^iectations. He will 
 soon grow out of it, too. I shall have a serious talk with hii.i 
 when he returns." 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt had felt more alarm than her husband, from 
 Reggie's open outburst. Her mother's pride would not allow 
 her to think that Emily would not be only too happy to marr) 
 her handsome young son ; she considered that the young lady 
 was quite astute enough to know that even if the marria^^c 
 would be a very bitter ( ui) for the parents' drinking, yet it would. 
 for their son's sake, be forgiven, and Reggie's heritage but little 
 endangered. But she said nothing further, and with an anxious 
 heait went to her daughter's room. 
 
 During the afternoon, Ethel, who had suft'iciently regained 
 her strength to sit, supported up with pillows, upon the bed, and 
 whose sorrowful f^ice shewed that with her improved health, her 
 sorrow had come back to her, turned to her mother, and said— 
 
 " Mamma, please bring me my writing desk. I wish to write 
 
 a letter." 
 
 «' Oh ! Ethel, are you able to do it ?" said Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 looking up quickly, as the sad voice reached her. " Are you 
 well enough yet for the excitement? It isn't to him, is it. 
 
 Ethel ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma ; I must write to him. I am well enoiigli ; I 
 shall feel better that it is done. He loves me, I know, and I— 
 Oh, God help me ! — I love h:m but too well. But it is all over, 
 and the sooner he's told, the better," said poor tLthel. 
 
 Lifting her thin fingers to her white, fever-wasted face, she 
 burst into a passion of tears. 
 
AT THK ('lATK^ OI- DKATH, 
 
 Si 
 
 i 
 
 liii, for the 
 limsclf out. 
 
 Mordau it, 
 itious, loo 
 s own way 
 
 He will 
 with him 
 
 band, from 
 [ not allow 
 y to marry 
 young lady 
 le marriage 
 yet it would, 
 ige but litUe 
 1 an anxious 
 
 tly regained 
 the bed, and 
 health, her 
 and said— 
 ^vish to write 
 
 :s[ordauni. 
 
 " Are you 
 
 1) him, is it. 
 
 Il enough ; I 
 ow, and 1— 
 it is all over. 
 
 lei. 
 id face, she 
 
 "Ethel! My poor, ill-used darling I Do not give way like 
 this," exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, running over to her daughter, 
 and throwing her arms about the weeping figure. ** He is not 
 worthy of a tear. Do not excite yourself, Klhel, or you will be 
 ill again. For my sake, Kthel ; for all our sakes !" 
 
 *' Yes, mamma ; I shall be better directly, and you shall not 
 see me give way again. Dut it is so dreadful, and I was so 
 happy," said Kthel, between her sob-i. '* Vou must let me write 
 my letter, and be done with it all. I will then have nothing to 
 do but look my life straight in the face I" 
 
 *• You are not well enough, yet, Ethel. Let him wait for his 
 letter ; I suppose he will be only too glad to be freed. Let him 
 wait," exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, indignantly. 
 
 " Xo, dear mamma, let me write m\' letter. He will not be 
 glad, for he loves me. But his love belongs to another, and it is 
 all over." 
 
 '•The villain I to bring his treacherous love to your ha[)p}-, 
 young life. We very nearly lost you, Ethel," -said Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, unable to control the bitterness of her feelings, as she 
 thought of tlie sorrowful years lying before her daughter ; the 
 years whose prospect had been so bright. 
 
 " No, mamma, he is not a villain. I couM noi have loved a 
 villain I He may have been wrong and cruel in keeping back 
 that which should have been made open ; for loving me when 
 it was not competent for him ; for deceiving mc into loving him. 
 But not a villain," 
 
 " Then, Ethel, if it is that he loves you, and you love him, 
 you must not give him up. Your happiness must come first. 
 Write your letter, and bring him to your side," said Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, whose thoughts had carried her into an intolerable future 
 of misery for her Ethel, a future to be averted by any possible 
 means. " Your father, Ethel, will not believe in I\Ir. \'ance's 
 guilt ; he maintains that it is all a plot of Emily Dearborn's to 
 separate you. It may be so, but he has not seen the letters 
 
 i,, 
 
32 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 liNiir 
 
 you spoke of to me, which prove his falsity. Where are they ? 
 1 have never seen them yet." 
 
 " That one which was written by him to that girl, I tried to 
 tear up, in my agony, but could not ; the other, I have, but 1 
 do not remember where. But papa is wrong — there can be no 
 doubt. Though Emily Dearborn hates me, her proofs were all 
 convincing. I could never take the love which belongs of 
 right to another. Let me write my letter, mamma," continued 
 poor Ethel, her mouth {juivering at her sad recollections. 
 
 The letter was written ; written with the feeble and trembling 
 hand that had been down almost to death's door, that it had l)e- 
 come necessary to write it. It's thoughts — the pale flashings 
 of a brain which had so lately waked almost from the last long 
 sleep — few and simple. It's words, few and simple, also, were 
 the death of hope to the heart from whence they sprung ; a sad 
 ending that was all unending — ending as to life's bright hopes- 
 unending as to life-long drear memory. The faint and irregular 
 characters — changed, as was all changed that belonged to Ethel 
 Mordaunt — carried in their blurred weakness their own pathos, 
 and, if a tear had not blotted the page, it was not that they had 
 not fallen,^but had not been let to fall upon it. 
 
 •^Lake Mordaunt, Sept. 30th, 1873, 
 Sir, — All is ended between us. All has been made known to 
 me. When you receive this, you will be again /r^<f. Free in so far 
 as I am concerned, and free to return to her, to whom your love 
 is due. Why did you come to me with your cruel love ? Did 
 you expect tliat it would be so easily the same with me, as it was 
 before ? 
 
 I have been very ill, or you would have heard from me 
 sooner. I send your ring, letters, &:c., which have not been 
 mine. Which ought never to have been made supposable to me 
 to be mine. Why should you have so deceived me ? You are 
 to blame. In that, all cannot be wiped away, as is your engage- 
 ment with 
 
 Ethel Mordaunt. 
 Edwin Vance, Esq." 
 
AT THK GATKS OF DEATH. 
 
 3S 
 
 arc they ? 
 
 [ tried to 
 .ve, but I 
 can be no 
 ifs were all 
 belongs of 
 
 continued 
 ;ions. 
 
 1 trembling 
 Lt it had be- 
 le flashings 
 le last long 
 t, also, were 
 rung ; a sad 
 ight hopes- 
 find irregular 
 
 ed to Ethel 
 own pathos, 
 
 lat they had 
 
 |oth, 1873. 
 ide known to 
 iFree in so far 
 )m your love 
 lUove? Did 
 Ime, as it was 
 
 Ird from me 
 
 /e not been 
 
 l)Osable to me 
 
 ;? You are 
 
 I your engage- 
 
 [ORDAUNT. 
 
 Poor Ethel addressed and sealed her letter, though with 
 trembling hands, while her tearful eyes and (juivering lip attested 
 tliat, though the will was tinn to act, it was very bitter to have 
 to act. 
 
 " Will you let me see it, Ethel ?" said Mrs. Mordaunt, with 
 a voice that quivered as mournfully as did her daughter's. 
 
 " No, mamma. I would rather not, if you do not care much," 
 responded Ethel, in the gentle sad tone which her voice had of 
 late assumed, so pitiful to hear. " All is ended, but I would ra- 
 ther you did not see it." 
 
 *• My poor darling ! You're grief is siicred to me. It was 
 thoughtless in me to ask it," returned her mother. " It is all so 
 cruel, so cruelly hard to you, but (iod in His good time will 
 send His helping strength, and I shall see my own bright happy 
 Ethel again." 
 
 " Never the same again, I fear, mam'iia, but I will strive to 
 be happy, if I can, with His good help." 
 
 She then took off her ring, which had remained on her finger 
 through all her illness, gazed at it for a (cw moments, kissed it 
 again and again. " My love faileth not," she repeated. " But 
 oh ! hof/ his has failed for me." 
 
 She handed it with her letter to her mother. " You will find 
 in my little cabinet all his presents, and his letters in this writ- 
 ing desk ; put them up together this evening for me, mamma, 
 please, and send them to him. I could not bear to do it my- 
 self." 
 
 Ethel Mordaunt — the bright, the happy and the beautiful — 
 ended thus, wasted by sickness and worn in spirit, beautiful 
 still, but with the mournful touching beauty, that when it drapes 
 with pale flowers the fresh bright garlands of youth tells the 
 sad tale that has already come home, the bitter finding 'that the 
 joyous hopes of the beautiful earth are but the mockeries of a 
 dream ; ended thus her first bright dream, and from her pillow 
 
 ,M! 
 
 niii 
 
f.( « 
 
 34 
 
 SHE Mir.HT HAVr DoXK BKTTFR. 
 
 wattTid ilio beaten down and sodded grave of her brief love with 
 fant falling tears. 
 
 CHAl'IKK II. 
 
 kmu.y's path to safkty. > 
 
 Miss Kmiiy ncart)orn, very rontrnry to her expectations, deriv- 
 ed but little satisfaction from the swcess of her scheP'" against 
 the hai)i)iness of Kthcl Mordaiint. In place of the harvest of 
 exultant triumph she had j)romised to herself, as she prepared 
 her sowing of malice anul falsehood, she had as yet reaped but 
 a bitter croj) of mortification, while ready to her hand had sj)ning 
 up a heavy aftergrowth of uneasiness and sense of personal 
 danger : for had not she been almost directly accused of forging 
 the letters by lithel Mordaunl herself, and had they not been 
 retained by her avowedly to bring the authorship to light. Where 
 
 was her triumph? 
 
 Instead of seeing her crushed to the ground by the blow, 
 
 bowed down with gr'ef 'and humiliation, had not her hated 
 
 enemy told her tl.at she did not believe a word of her evidence ; 
 
 that in all liklihood she had forged it herself, and it should be 
 
 brought home to her. As day after day flew by her thoughts, 
 
 ever bent on the one theme of fear, morbidly pictured to her 
 
 mind the slow linking together of the chain that was to bind 
 
 her down to disgrace, and v )rse still — a prison. 
 
 " Whnt a fool I was I How could my usual cool judgment 
 
 so desert me that I should have written that hateful letter ? What 
 
 insanity possessed me to use the real name of the old aunt which 
 
 Sidney sent me? And slandering the niece, too, as I did. It 
 
 will be bad enough if the Mordaunts discover the imposition. 
 
 Bad enough the shame and disgrace, though that I might i)os- 
 
 sibly brazen out. But if it should come to the ears of that 
 
 Seaforth girl or her aimt, I may look for no mercy, and the 
 
 terrors of the criminal law are before me. Something must he 
 
 done, and that, too, quickly." 
 
KMlT.r?? PATir TO S ATFTY. 
 
 ss 
 
 As Knilly's soliloquy thus defined it, she liad found her Nemesis 
 in her fears. Already fn)ni the morbid terrors of her mind had 
 sprung the Avenger ; lashing her with her own tormenting 
 thoughts from which, day or night, there was no escape. 
 
 .Always present ! goading her with the stinging remembrance 
 of tlie fatal error of her work — the fatal miscah ulation— the t(M) 
 confident boldness which gave to her enemies the clue which led 
 to her guilty self; spreath'ng before her the frightful vision of 
 the grated cell ; the crowded court room, in which stood the 
 convicted forger and slanderer — in shame before the world — 
 herself. 
 
 Always present — the stern .Avenger. In driving ashore the 
 bark of other's happiness, what fearful shipwreck had she brought 
 to her own. 
 
 And there was no softening repentance to allay the hartl tor- 
 ment of her spirit ; no search of forgiveness for her sin — whence 
 conieth help ; no thought of reparation to the injured — in which 
 hidden lay safety and peace. 
 
 No ! Tn such ideas her tortured mind, intent on her personal 
 security only, did not seek its refuge. The gulf that stretched 
 between the good refuge and her evil had become too broad for 
 her wordly eyes to recognize the port of safety. 
 
 " But something must be done, and that, too, quickly." But 
 what was to be done ? To whom should she turn ? She had 
 not dared to let her visit to I-.lhel Mordaunt or its purport be 
 known to any of those surrounding licr. Instead of returning 
 from that visit with the self-satisfied smirk of triumph on her 
 smiling face — the '* I told )ou how it would be " upon her lips, 
 as she had exultantly anticipated, she sneaked back discomfited 
 to her father's house and sought to cover up her tracks with ig- 
 nominious silence. Even though she kne»v that, whether or no 
 Ethel Mordaunt's engagement were broken, her connection with 
 the attempt must sooner or later come to light, yet she dared 
 not anticii)ate the disclosure. She was alone with her guilt and 
 
nil I 
 
 II M 
 
 1. 
 
 I« 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE liE'ITER, 
 
 her fears, with none to whom she could look tbr aid : if indeed 
 she desired .such — unUkcly enough for Emily Dearborn, even 
 in her pressing strait. 
 
 As it appeared to her own mind, lier strait was a pressing 
 one. 
 
 When, after the lapse of some days, the news of Ethel's dan 
 gcrous illness reached her ears, with the exaggeration, usual in 
 such cases, that her recovery was impossible, her fears swelled to 
 a culmination ; for she was well aware that I'^dwin Vance, in the 
 event of a fatal termination, would leave no stone unturned to 
 clear up the matter, for the sake of his own good name as well 
 as to punish the guilty party who had brought a disaster so hor- 
 rible upon him. And, again, matters were too c^uiet at Lake 
 Mordaunt — suspiciously quiet. Notwithstanding that her ears 
 were always open to such news, not a word had reached her as 
 to vhe ending of her engagement. It might not have been end- 
 ed, and, in such case, the greater danger was presaged to her- 
 self. 
 
 In whatsoever light she viewed the matter, and her reflections 
 upon it were increasing, her guilty fears saw nothing but menac- 
 ing danger ahead. At length the wearing anxieties of '" position 
 became almost unendurable ; her spirit, her ambi Jous |)lans, 
 and her sarcastic temper even, had all melted away before her 
 selfish fears tor herself She would have adopted almost anything 
 with the appearance of feasibility to have freed herself from the 
 incubus that oppressed her. But not a light could she discern 
 in her mental prospect. Not a glimmer of hope to be derived 
 from any plan she could conceive. 
 
 The two fatal letters were in the possession of the enemy, and 
 she could imagine no possible means to recover them. Until 
 they were again in her own hands, she felt herself in danger. 
 
 Even Reggie, her admiring young lover, had deserted her to 
 all appearance, for a fortnight and more had elapsed since his 
 
 ¥ 
 
EMILY'S PATH TO SAFETY. 
 
 ST 
 
 ) a pressing 
 
 sister's illness, and he had not come near her, though he cer- 
 tainly, she thought, must be at T.akc Mordaunt. 
 
 " There is a way ! ' she suddenly exclaimed, springing up from 
 the sofa on which, reclining, she had boon |)ondcring over her 
 difticullies. " A clear way ! An open way for me, and triumph 
 adso. If he were but here. But I can bring him back to me," 
 8hc continued. " No matter what pressure is forced upon him 
 against me. A word ! and he is here. I'll drop a note to him, 
 at tii» I^ake, at once. 
 
 As she set alx)ut this task, a ring came to the door, and in 
 another moment Mr. Reginald Mordaunt was ushered into the 
 drawing-room beside her. 
 
 " Good evening, Kmily ! How do you do ? It's a long time 
 since I've seen you, and I suppose you did not expect me to- 
 day. I only returned to 1 -ike Mordaunt this afternoon," he 
 said, as he shook her hand with lingering pressure. 
 
 " You only returned to-day. Well I you are very good to 
 come to see me so soon, and I'm delighted. Ikit how is dear 
 Ktliel ?" resi)onded the young lady — her delight at his appear- 
 ance real enough. 
 
 ** Oh ! she is getting better fast, but has had a tcrril)le illness. 
 She is out of danger though, I am happy to say. l*oor little 
 Ally's not at all well, though, and my mother is alarmed about 
 her," replied Reggie. 
 
 " You are as lovely as ever, my beautiful Emily," he con- 
 tinued, his love-sick young eyes fixed upon her face. 
 
 " Ally ill too. How strange ! What is the matter with her ?'» 
 exclaimed Emily. " I never heard of it," she continued, and 
 her danger-haunted brain brought her torments back to her, as 
 she reflected how unlikely the succeeding illness was to be a 
 mere coincidence. " No !" she thought to herself, " Etliel's ill- 
 ness, in all probability, was not ciused by mental shock from 
 her lover's falsity. It is a mere contagious disease, or why is 
 little Ally ill also ? The engagement is not !)roken off, and my 
 
 i !' 
 
^1 ;^ i 
 
 38 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 danger is all the greater. Vance will see the letters, and Instant 
 discovery results." 
 
 ** Is poor little Alida dangerously ill ?" she continued aloud. 
 
 " My mother thinks so, but to me she is only feverish and 
 sleepy. I '" pe nothing is wrong with the little darling, though," 
 he returned. 
 
 "But, Emily, I have been a long time away; have you no- 
 thing kinder for me than a formal hand-shake ?" 
 
 " There take your kiss. I suppose I must not refuse you now 
 that we are engaged, even though our engagement promises to 
 be so very protracted." 
 
 " Yes ! Confound it !" he replied. " If the length of our 
 engagement has to depend on my father's consent, it will be 
 long enough, But it shall not depend upon that. I don't see 
 why it is they should hate you as they do, my darling. I don't 
 see what you have done to cause their unreasonable dislike. 
 Even Ethel too ! And I love you so dearly. They ought for 
 my sake to " 
 
 " Yes ! It has made me very miserable, Reginald," she in- 
 terrupted. " I am sure I have done nothing to cause their 
 dislike, unless it is that I love you so well," answered the fair 
 Emily in sorrowful tone; " And dear Ethel I suppose hates me 
 now thr.t I undertook the very disagreeable task, which nothing 
 but true; friendship for her would have induced me to accept 
 of opening her eyes to her lover's falsity. It is very hard upon 
 me." 
 
 • " It is a shame and a disgrace, and most cruel in them all. 
 I will not stand it longer," replied Reggie, with heartfelt indig- 
 nation a^. his fair love's well simulated distress. 
 
 " My own Reggie ! much as It pains me to say it, I can see 
 nothing for us, under the circumstances, than to break off this 
 engagement. It cannot end happily for us. My parents will 
 never give their consent to the marriage, unless your father and 
 mother freely accord theirs also, and of that there seems to be 
 
EMILY'S PATH '10 SAFETY. 
 
 39 
 
 lave you no- 
 
 in them all. 
 
 no prospect. Better for us then, at any rate for the present, to 
 give uj) the idea and separate, though it is very hard," said the 
 perfidious Emily, as, bringing her face down into her hands, 
 she burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 "No! No! A thousand times no !" ejaculated the excited 
 Reginald. " That will never do. How could you speak of 
 such a thing, Emily? Anything Init that." 
 
 " It will be better, Reggie. Better for us both ; but oh ! it is 
 very hard. Why should fortune be so verj' unkind to us ? It 
 is cruel ! cruel !" sobbed the tearful Emily, raising her eyes, 
 glistening with their pearly drops, to her young lover's face. 
 
 " I will never resign you, Emily, my own beautiful love, 
 never ! For I know now that you really love me. It would be 
 destruction to me ; I could not live without you. Oh 1 Emily, 
 let us help ourselves, now ! at once ! Why should we not be 
 married at once ; even without the consent which our parents 
 cruelly withold from us ? Without delay, Emily, without a day's 
 delay?" exclaimed the frantic young man, lured on by the 
 syren's mock tears to his ruin. 
 
 " Oh, Reggie, impossible ! I could not ! I could not ! And 
 wliat could we do ?" 
 
 " You can do it, Emily. It's not impossible ! It's feasible 
 enough !" he responded, energetically. " When once we are 
 married, and it is irrevocable, my father and mother will not 
 long stand out against us. I am too much to them for that-- 
 tlieir only son. They may be angry for a few days, but thev 
 love me too well to hold out against my happiness, and, when 
 they know her properly, they will be proud of their beautiful 
 new daughter." i" 
 
 " If I could but think so," she said, softly and then she con- 
 tinued — . ...' 
 
 " But how are we to be married ? You could not get a li- 
 cense here, without discovery ?" 
 
 " You consent then, Emily ?" he joyfully exclaimed. " Oh ! 
 
 Hi 
 
 ' I 
 
 ! 
 
 
40 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 how happy you make me. Never mind the license. We will 
 go to a distance, or cross over to the States, no license is 
 needed there. But when shall it be, Emily ? When can you 
 get away ?" 
 
 " Oh, leggie ! I'm afraid its very rash of us. However am 
 I to get away ?" 
 
 " Now, Emily, you've consented, and its all easy enough. If 
 you go out for a walk after breakfast, to-morrow morning, at 
 ten o'clock. 111 meet you with a pair of our horses and a car- 
 riage, at the junction of the Cascade's roads. We'll catch the 
 two o'clock down-train, cross over to Rochester, or Oswego, 
 and then, my darling, we'll be married at once — to-morrow 
 evening — and our happiness firmly secured for ever ! Will 
 you be ready, my own beautiful bride ?" 
 
 " Oh, Reggie ! Reggie ! It is very wrong of us, I fear. But 
 I love you so dearly, and my heart would break to lose you. 
 Yes ! I will be ready," responded Emily, her bird so well 
 limed that she did not care to give herself fiu-ther trouble to 
 produce affected hesitation. 
 
 " You must be very good to me, Reggie, for I give up 
 parents, friends, everything, for you," she continued, with soft 
 appealing in her lovely eyes. 
 
 " My darling ! my own love ! Who, that has not a heart of 
 stone, could be other, Emily ? If you could but know how- 
 happy you have made me. To-morrow, you will be my wife. I 
 can hardly realize my perfect bliss." 
 
 " I am as happy as you can be, Reggie ; if only to-morrow 
 were safely passed," she answered him. " But you mustn't stay 
 here longer to-nii^ht. We must avoid all suspicion, and I must 
 get ready. Good r»ight, Reggie, my husband, soon to be," and 
 after a highly dramatic parting, too sweet for transcription, Mr, 
 Reginald Mordaunt, full of illusory bliss, wended his way home- 
 wards. 
 
 And this was Emily's escape from her difficulties. Hunted, 
 
EMILY'S PATH TO SAFETY. 
 
 41 
 
 However am 
 
 hounded, hard-driven by her fears ; her cool judgment subverted, 
 her proud ambition degraded by the wearing mental torture of 
 a few days, to the seeking of a temporary safety, from its sin- 
 imagined danger ; a superb intellect, which, had its aims been 
 as pure as they were powerful, could have commanding power, 
 lending itself to the day's expediency ; brought down from its 
 etherial heights to the grovelling terrors tha*. her sin had in- 
 duced. Could it be said that to Emily Dearborn her Nemesis 
 had not come ? To marry Reggie Mordaunt, a mere boy, 
 scarcely out of his teens, whom she did not love, whose worldly 
 wealth — to the Emily Dearborn of a few days ago so great a 
 consideration — lay in his expectations solely. The expectations 
 of an only son, it is true, and of wealth) parents, but wholly 
 dependent on the will of those wealthy parents, who hated her 
 with good reason ; hated her, and to whom the marriage of their 
 son would be a hard thing to forgive. Such was Emily Dear- 
 bom's alternative — the Hobson's choice left to her — or the im- 
 agined prison. 
 
 But this alliance into the family of the Mordaunt's w mid 
 secure her from the chief menace of the evils she had brought 
 down upon herself, for it was not to be supposed that any other 
 result could follow the ungenuiness of those fatal letters than the 
 suppression of such damaging evidence against one so very 
 closely connected with themselves as Reggie's wife ; and, further, 
 the enquiry into the matter would of necessity be much more 
 cautiously conducted, if not stayed altogether, from the danger 
 of scandal it might create. It was quite clear to her that neither 
 Ethel, her parents, or even Vance, would allow the letter, which 
 libelled Agnes Seaforth so atrociously, to reach her, or her 
 aunt's cognizance. To her the marriage would be the ending 
 of her tormenting fears. 
 
 But what had become of her darling aims — the ambitious 
 hopes nurtured with so unwavering persistency ever since she 
 had been capable of thinking for herseif — of tke wealth, social 
 
 ' I 
 
 I > 
 
 I :' 
 
 ! 
 
42 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 1 
 
 distinction and power which her beauty was to command for 
 her through a rich marriage ? 
 
 For this marriage with Reggie was not a rich one. I'oi 
 many years to come in all probability it could not be, and llie 
 brightest days of her life would have to be passed without those 
 things which she so much coveted. 
 
 What had come to her that all her aspiring plans — for whose 
 successful pursuit she knew herself so well fitted — were so sud- 
 denly ended, that she rushed into a marriage looked upon 
 merely as a 'dernier resort' -or at best, to become a r.uitch fur 
 her consideration if it wei likely that the heir should coiiic 
 into his heirship ? 
 
 A few days of wearing mental torment — a few days of guilty 
 fears had dissipated all into thin air — save the frantic desire tu 
 save herself from the dangers which the stern Nemesis of hor 
 sin held up in frightful aspect before her cowering vision. 
 
 But although in these things Emily Dearborn might be 
 changed, she was still Emily Dearborn, and this marriage into 
 the family of the 31ordaunts contained an element of sweetness 
 for her that it would be so very bitter to them. Triumpli in 
 the thought that she, whom these people so hated ; to whom 
 she was so unutterably intolerable ; whom she had injured and 
 through whom, they would have to look away, in their very 
 midst, the ghastly skeleton of her crime and their great wrong , 
 who would, in spite of themselves, as the wife of their only soi\ 
 and brother, be one of themselves, a Mordaunt, an important 
 personage to their future. 
 
 The mortification and dismay ; the agony, and grief witli 
 which the news of the morrow's event would be received l)y 
 them, she pictured to herself with malicious delight. 
 
 What a victory to her would be the prospect of the hard 
 battle between their loathing dislike of her and their love for 
 Reggie ; the striving for conquest over themselves for his sake, 
 
EMILY'S PATH TO SAFETY. 
 
 43 
 
 against the shuddering memo ry of their bitter wrong and the 
 disgrace of his wife. 
 
 " I shall, at all events be safe ; and, though my sphere be 
 nioce limited, yet it has possibilities. I shall fight within my 
 own lines, for objects that are, too, very desirable, for attain- 
 ment. Reggie is well enough, and at any rate he is the dearly 
 loved only son. I can play my cards — and have I not my 
 triumph over Ethel and all of them ?" Sayi ng ihis to herself 
 she went to her own chamber, to secretly make her preparations 
 
 for the morrow. 
 ******** 
 
 Mr. Reginald ^lordaunt, wending his way home in his fool's 
 paradise was compelled nevertheless to bring his thoughts 
 down froii'i their heights of bliss to certam sublunary conside- 
 rations. 
 
 It may be easy enough, supposing the lady is agreeable, to 
 arrange an elopement, and it doubtless may be very pleasant so 
 to do, but to get through with it ; do the actual running away ; 
 get the marriage performed in the strange land, and be happy 
 accoiding to progiamme, loquires the considerations of hard 
 worldly matters of fact. 
 
 An elopement with a stylish young lady is an event which 
 may naturally be expected to kick up a tremendous dust, and 
 the gentleman concerned will find it necessary to observe an 
 ndispensable i:)rcliminary requisite ] to wit — raising the wind. 
 Of this startling fact .^^r. Reginald Mordaunt suddenly became 
 conscious ere he had reached the paternal mansion. 
 
 There was a predicament ! He had something about a hun- 
 dred dollars in his possession, and he was to run away with, 
 and be married to a very divine creatu, e — of gorgeous tastes — 
 this next morning ; a very small puff of wind that, to the 
 spiced, yet powerful, gale of Araby that should fill his sails 
 when shaping his course for the port of Hymen, where banners 
 wave and streamers fly, regardless of expense. 
 
 I 
 
 vj: 
 
 ' I 
 
 I t 
 
 t ' 
 
 • I i 
 
 i •• 
 
• i{ 
 
 44 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 During the sweetness of that happy * tete-d-tfte^ with Iiis 
 Emily, when the voyage of rapture was so charmingly inaugur- 
 ated, his soul had been above the base and paltry ideas of 
 dollars and cents. But he thought of them now though j and 
 very stubborn facts indeed he found them. 
 
 Very stubborn facts when one has not a sufficiency of them 
 in one's pocket, though how facile and consonant to one's 
 wishes when once they are safely conjoined into that magic 
 rev.eptacle. 
 
 But in the lew moments left him, to call up the witches, col- 
 lect the newt's eyes, the toad's teeth, dead men's fingers, and 
 the other desirable ingredients for simmering the broth that 
 should evolve the charm for him, the charm which should raise 
 the wind as it should be raised, required prompt and effectual 
 measures, and Reggie was not very long in deciding upon the 
 course to be pursued. 
 
 Of course his father must raise the wind for him. His 
 thoughts turned to that question at once. But there were diffi- 
 culties in the way. Although Reggie had always been very 
 liberally supplied with money, he was well aware that in asking 
 for the comparatively large amount his new.bom necessities 
 compelled — questions would be asked, which might not be 
 very convenient for him to answer ; and as it was obviously 
 impossible that he could explain the real object for which he 
 required the money, it was equally manifesl that he must as- 
 sign that which was unreal. 
 
 He must deceive his father. 
 
 The sad consequence of the committal of one wrong act is 
 that it necessitates and makes so easy, the committal of many 
 others that follow in its train. 
 
 And J^ ggie was even already to prove the truth of this. 
 
 As he pondered and wondered how his aim should best be 
 accomplished, a thought, which a few days ago would have been 
 
 IV'S 
 
KMILV'S PATH TO SAFF:TV. 
 
 45 
 
 i) him impossil)lc, took possession of his brain and as it con- 
 veyed the pleasant idea of feasibility, it remained a fixity. 
 
 "The money I must have — and that's the very idea that 
 will procure it. Put it's a great shime to tell him such a whop- 
 j)cr ; and to use such deception too. I cannot help it though. 
 IIc'll feel more about that than the other ; and no wonder, 
 lUit the money I must have to-night," saying which Reggie en- 
 tered the house and sought his father's presence. 
 
 He found him alone in the drawing-room, seated at a table ; 
 engaged in reading. As Reggie entered he raised his eyes 
 from his book and said gently, 
 
 " Where have you been all the evening ? Reggie." 
 " I have been out I Sir ; and have brought you your letters," 
 was the resi)onse. 
 
 " Then you have been at 1'en Lakes," and .Mr. Mordaunt 
 looked inquisitively at his son. 
 
 •' Yes ! I have been at Ten Lakes," was the rei)ly. " But I 
 wish to speak to you, father" and Reggie seated himself op- 
 posite, but kept the lamj) between himself and his father. 
 
 " AVcll ! what is it ? Reggie ; I am not engaged at present." 
 " T have been thinking over the matter of which you spoke 
 to me, father, this afternoon ; and have come to the conclusion 
 iliat in order that it may be possible for me to fulfil that which 
 you wish, T must get away from home and this neighbourhood 
 as soon as I can do so. To remain here, will simply result in 
 my failure to do that which you s'^ desire. Therefore it is bet- 
 ter for me to go away at once. That I may obey you, I feel 
 that such is the best course, and T wish it myself ; that I may 
 obey you. Not though that I think I am in the wrong in my 
 affection for Emily Dearborn, nor do I give it up. I do the 
 best I can to meet your wishes by leaving this vicinity for a 
 time. 
 
 " Ethel is better, and out of danger, so that there is nothing 
 to require my presence here. I wish to go to Hamilton again, 
 
 1 1 
 
H^ii 1 1' 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 S: ;i 
 
 
 46 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DOXE DF/ITKR. 
 
 until It is time to go back to college. Is this agreeable tt) 
 you ? father ?" 
 
 " Well ! Reggie. In so far as my wishes are concerned, I 
 should of course have wished you to stay with us until the term 
 opens. It would be so much pleasanter to us all. But as you 
 think it is the easier for yourself, I certainly cannot object ami 
 that which you have told me gratifies me more than I can ex- 
 press. Is there anything I can do to forward your vitiws ? Reg- 
 gie," replied Mr. Mordaunt, with pleasure in his tone at his 
 son's almost unhoped for acquiescence in his wishes. 
 
 " Yes ! father, I want some money. A good deal too. Trav 
 elling is costly and I wish to send in my fees for lectures, etc., 
 for the coming term at (jnce, and I have some accounts to pay," 
 answered the son, inventing his items as he went along. 
 
 " Name the figure, Reggie, and you need not cut yourselt 
 down too much. In that you desire to do as I wish you in a 
 matter difficult enough to you to be obedient, you have shewed 
 yourself a good and dutiful son. You have not found me an 
 unkind or exacting father, and in this affair it is your best in- 
 terest that I am consulting. I am very glad you have come to 
 me in this spirit ; as I could have wished my so., to do. It is 
 appreciated Reggie. And now how much shall I say ;" con- 
 tinued Mr. Mordaunt as he opened his cheque book. 
 
 His father's words were very bitter to Reggie ; they stiin^ 
 him to the soul despite the accomplishment of his desires. It 
 was very pamful to him, rery humiliating and, as he felt ir, in- 
 finitely shameful, to sit and listen to, to take as his due, his 
 father's praises ; knowing that it was all a lie and gross decep- 
 tion. But he felt himself too far gone to retreat and ' lucking up 
 hh spirits at the thought of his happy morrow, he r plied : 
 
 " Let me have six hundred dollars, father. It will do for 
 the present." 
 
 " Here is a cheque for a thousand ; the difference you can 
 
ATTHKC.VrKS OT DKA'I'H. 
 
 47 
 
 use as you please. CJive up tbis absurd fancy for that girl, my 
 clear son, and anything you can ask ire to do, I will do." 
 
 '* I will do my best ; father. I can .say no more," replied 
 the shameless Reggie. *' 'I'hank you much for this money. I 
 will put it to a good use ; you may dei)end," his thoughts tlying 
 to his Kmily. 
 
 " You will not go for a day or two, Reggie, we have seen 
 nothing of you yet." 
 
 *' I wish to go to Ca.scadcs to morrow ; father, and would 
 like a carriage and l.orses early." " IhU I will be back again 
 to-morrow evening early," he continue^,, seeing his falher,s eye 
 bent upon him in expectation of his answer. 
 
 *' And now I will go up and see Kthel, before it is too late." 
 
 At ten o'clock the next morning, a young gentleman driving 
 a fast pair of horses, drew up at the junction of the Cascades 
 road, and looked earnestly along that stretching towards Ten 
 Lakes. He had not long to wait. In a few minutes a well- 
 known figure came in sight. He was beside her in a moment. 
 
 " My darling ! My own Kmily ' Mine at last," he exclaimed 
 rapturously, as he stopped beside her. " I have frightened 
 myself all the way lest there might be something wrong. How 
 did you get away ? Is all right at home ? and no suspicion ?"' 
 
 " All right ! Reggie, so far as I am concerned. They think 
 I am out for the day, but we must get away from here. You 
 will have to drive to the next house for my trunk. I got it out 
 nicely last night, and the people of the house think it is for Lake 
 iMordaunt. I'll walk on in advance,'' said the practical Emily, 
 who could not get along without finery. 
 
 " All right." I'll get it ! But I hope it's not heavy. How 
 in the world did you get it out here ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I managed it ! But don't delay, K -^ggie, 1 don't like 
 staying longer than I can help so near home, with you." Reg- 
 gie drove up to the house indicated, a small famaer's, asked for 
 
 !■ 
 
 I ' 
 
 i:l, 
 
48 SHK MKill r HAVK DONK Hr/ITKR. 
 
 the trunk of a man lounging about the door ; who put it intlu- 
 carriage for him. Reggie handed him a doHar, and wished him 
 *• good morning." 
 
 '* G(»od morning ! Mr. Reginald. A pleasant drive to you 
 both and soft words from the jiarson," he rei)lied with a grin, 
 which stretched his mouih back under his ears. 
 
 "What's that noii cnse you're talking? Take care your 
 tongue does not get you into trouble," said Regg if looking round 
 with a face in which the annoyance was as palpable as tin.- 
 anger, and he drove off, to rejoin Knu'ly, the loud guffaw of the 
 too observant bucolic following him for the next hundred yards. 
 
 "L^.me hel]) you up! my darling," he exclaimed as he 
 jumped to the ground. In another second they were off as fast 
 as the horses could si)eed on the road towards Cascades. 
 
 The man lounging about the house door watched them anius 
 edly as they drove away at the unusual pace. 
 
 " IMain as the nose on a man's face ; jumping the fence when 
 they can't open the gate ! W'hethe- will I go now — to uld 
 Dearborn at the Hank, or to the Lake. " Dearborn's too stingy 
 though, and I'll knock a V spot out of the old gentleman at the 
 Luke for carrying up the news of this scrape ; see if I donV 
 But I'll give- them a start any way, and I won't go up till after- 
 noon. Won't old Mordaunt rave thougli, when he hears of hi'^ 
 young spark cutting off with that Dearborn girl; she's mighty 
 pretty , that's a fac'. But if ever there was a consarned young 
 foci in the world, Reg. Mordaunt's him, to shine up to that 
 tearing limb." And giving vent to his houghts in such manner. 
 the honest agriculturist dejxuted about his business. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MINK SlILL ! I WILL NOT GIVE HER UP. 
 
 The heavy gloom which had fallen upon the family of the 
 Mordaunts, by Ktlicl's illness and her unhappiness, had lifted to 
 
.»IINE s'lirj, : I u'fLL NOT (;fvi: n\:\< it. 49 
 
 allappcarancx', ami to tlu'iii, luul seeiucd wholly to luivc passed 
 away in the joy of her happy recovery. Their hori/on had 
 lightened up to them again, and tlie father and the mother, with 
 thankful hearts recognized the mercy whi .h had come to them. 
 The deadly fear which had struck cold to them had been dis- 
 pelled and their days were again brighter for them. 
 
 Hut the dark cloud had but lifletl for a while, and its descent 
 upon them, all too soon, in heavy blackness was the more sud- 
 den and remorseless, that their brief gleam of sunshine had so 
 ai)parently cleared the air from grief for them. Where a great 
 misfortune that bears down the spirit to the limit of the endur- 
 able, as we think, has come to us ; how bitterly hard and unjust 
 seems to us the approach of a new storm ; the still palpitating 
 and (juivering heart-string to be wrung afresh by anguish and 
 intolerable sorrow. 
 
 '• We have had our cruel wrong — tlie cutting down of life's 
 dearest hope, surtfly for us shall be no more misfortune,'' we cr>', 
 storm-wrecked and broken and tried to the uttermost. Wounded 
 almost to death, as we imagine, for us no more smooth seas or 
 illumined skies, halting painfully on our path, as we seek our 
 strt igth again — "Truly we are protected from further harm." 
 
 As Dr. Streatham leisurely made iiis way towards Lake Mor- 
 daunt about noon of the morning on which Reggie had r.tade 
 his eady departure on his sad wild goose chase, he was suddenly 
 awakened from the reverie into which cou!itry doctors on their 
 long drives are so apt to fall, by the appearance of Harney driv- 
 ing his horse at break-neck speed along the ruad towards him. 
 " Docthor I" he shouted, as he drew uj) his foaming horse as 
 tlv^y met. " For the love av Heaven, stir up that great baste 
 ()' yourn, and get along till the house as fast as if the ould 
 Harry wor afther ye. Little Miss Ally — the Lord presarve her 
 the precious lamb — is taken mortial sick, and its crazy they are 
 waitin' fur ye," and Barney, turning his vehicle in the road with 
 a sudden and sharp manoeuvre that effected his purpose with a 
 
 t' 
 
so 
 
 SHK MI(;nT HAVK DONK lU rPKR. 
 
 '( ■« 
 
 NIK 
 
 promplfK'Hs tlut was no good for his springs, was close l)c!iuul 
 the other in a inotncnt. 
 
 " What's the matter with her, Ibrnoy ? What syniptoiiwdoft 
 she exhibit," roared the doctor, turning round in his carriage, as 
 it flew over the stones. 
 
 " Och ! the sorra a bit av me knows av her Kymptom«i. I 
 did'nt wait till hear, but ketn afther ye hot fut, l)Ut I heard wan 
 av the gnr-rels, l)atl cess till their long tongues, they're always 
 talking, a sayin' that the darlinl little pet did'nt know any wan, 
 an* that her eyes wor s(|uintin' like," returned Ilirney. 
 
 ** H'm I" and the doctor turned his face round again, and said 
 no more, but whipped up his horse to its best sjjeed. 
 
 Little Alida M«)rdaunt, the bright little sunbeam of the h(»u-,c, 
 the pet and the joy alike of father anil mother, brother ami 
 sister, had never l)een well since the fearful whooping-cough had 
 come to rack her delicate little frame. She was a beautiful child. 
 too precocious and advanced for her years, too fastidious and 
 refined in her little ideas of dress, and the extreme neatness which 
 could not bear a soil on her pinafore, or a stain on the taper 
 little white fingers. So afl*ecti<'iiato, so winning and attractive 
 in all her little ways, she w. s the delight of all around her, but 
 her clever little sayings, her advanced little refinements, as much 
 as the extreme delicacy of her beauty gave many a pang to hcj 
 idolizing mother's heart, to be comforted only by that vain but 
 natural outspring of hojjc, " It is imi)ossil)le ! God will never 
 take my darling, my beautiful little sunbeam, whom I love so, 
 from me. I could not survive it,'' and as she would watch the 
 sprightly little child, who hardly ever left her side ("Mam- 
 ma's little pollow tat — mamma's little shadow,'' she would say 
 to herself,) occupying herself with the amusements of seven in- 
 stead of three years of age — gravely sewing a hem in her little- 
 dress almost as straight as her mother could do it, repeating her 
 letters or singing the little hymn tunes that the brain of l!ir.*e 
 years should never have kivjwn ; watching the conversation of 
 
11 
 
 carriage, as 
 
 MINK STILL! I WILL NOT OIVK UI.R UP. 51 
 
 thotc around her with the Veen understnndmg of it all, that 
 should not have been ! a^^kin^j (luestions that were not of her 
 )var<», with a passion for flowers and heaiitiful things not natural 
 to a child, tht fond proud mother woultl think, with swelling 
 heart, "Ciod will not take my darling from me' She has such 
 interest, such enjoyment in her little life ; she is so clever and 
 so active, and she knows sr) much. It is impossible ! She would 
 never be meant for death." 
 
 The eager lovely dark eyes, contrasted with the transparent 
 while skin, fair as a lily, the animated speaking look of the 
 bright face, the broad brow wherein the tender young brain was 
 too entirely at work, betrayed a highly nervous and sensitive 
 r)rgani/ation, as it did the inherent delicacy of frame of such. 
 Too much of the mind — too little of the animal. 
 
 Such are (lod's children, whom lb loves so well that Retakes 
 them to Himself from the world for which they are too beauti- 
 ful, too pure and too bright. Kor these Me makes His proba- 
 tion short. To l)e loved intensely by those to whom they arc 
 given, to live their few bright years in love and the pure sweet 
 joys n( mnoccnt childhood. 
 
 Happy, charmed and interested, their little lives to which 
 comes not sin, or trial, or grief, nnd the pure spirits are called 
 from the lovely clay, which fittinf:;ly clothed the etherial beauty 
 to rest in the Saviour's arms who loves them in Heaven for 
 ever. 
 
 The terrible paroxysms of the whooping-cough had been all 
 too severe ui)on the delicate and nervous little Alida, and had 
 wrought insidious mischief that showed no sign of its presence. 
 Tlie cough had ceased too suddenly, and had left her worn 
 down in strength, wasted and emaciated. And she had not 
 im])roved. 
 
 Xow and then there would appear a flash of her former 
 bright self, to be followed by depression, weakness and utter 
 weariness. 
 
 I' I 
 
 ' . I 
 
 ! 
 
>:( 
 
 5» 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 Her appetite failed, and she could not be temjited to eat ; 
 her strength and her never abundant flesh wasted day by day. 
 
 During Ethel's illness the increasing weariness and continued 
 drowsiness more and more alarmed her mother, and for the last 
 few days she had given up all her former activity. 
 
 " Take me up, mamma ! Ally's tired," was her constant peti- 
 tion, and she lay for hours, resting her weary heavy head upon 
 her mother's shoulders, or slept away her mother's absence on 
 her nursery sofa. 
 
 But, on this morning, she had insisted on lying down inimc- 
 diately after her daily bath, and she had lain with painfully large 
 bright eyes, gazing fixedly about the room, and her mother be 
 came anxious for the Doctor's visit, if not specially alarmed, for 
 her little darling, though evidently ill, continued to ask her inte- 
 rested questions concerning the welfare of the out-door objects 
 of her daily solicitude, and when the instant reply was raadc. 
 the pleased smile on her white little face, told that the pleasur- 
 able tide of her innocent life's associations had not been effaced 
 by her illness. 
 
 At length, however, the loved little voice ceased its prattlings, 
 and Mrs. Mordaunt, bending over her child, noticed a strange, 
 fixed look of the wide-open eyes, the dilitation of the pupils, 
 and a slight, but. perceptible squint. Her little darling no longer 
 recognized her, and was unconscious. 
 
 In a state of terrible alarm, she rang for help, and Barney 
 was dispatched with orders to use the utmost speed for the 
 doctor. 
 
 The latter, on reaching the house, stood upon no ceremony, 
 but made his way directly for the nursery, and, with a quick 
 " goijd morning" to Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt, who stood with 
 l^erturbed and grief-stricken faces, watching their poor little dar- 
 ling, who no longer knew them, approached the sick child, and 
 looked closely down into her face. 
 
 " Oh ! What is the matter with her, Dr. Streatham ? She has 
 
MINE STILL ! I WILL NOT GIVE HER UP 53 
 
 been unconscious for half an hour, and look at the dreadful ex- 
 pression of her eyes. Oh ! my darling ! my darling ! Is she in 
 danger, Doctor ? Will she get better from this ?" exclaimed poor 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, giving way in spite of herself. 
 
 Dr. Streatham did not at once reply to her, but went on with 
 his examination of the little sufferer, gave some directions to the 
 attendants, prepared, and himself administered, with great diffi- 
 culty — as the poor little child's teeth were firmly clenched — a 
 very carefully weighed-out remedy ; then, turning to Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, he said, gently and sorrowfully — 
 
 " Yes, madam, there is danger — very great danger. Your 
 little child is very ill, indeed. She is alive, it is true, and while 
 there is life, there is hope ; but, I must warn you not to build 
 too much on hope. I have foreseen and battled against this 
 for some time. Unfortunately, the little child has had no 
 strength, and powerful medicines could not be administered. 
 While there is life there is hope, but you must prepare your- 
 selves to bear either result. Your little daughter is attacked by 
 hydrocephalus, superinduced by whooping-cough, and I need 
 not tell you that, weakened and emaciated as she is, she is in 
 the very greatest danger." 
 
 He gave some further directions, and then continued to Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, " I need not impress upon you, madam, the necessity 
 of the persistent and exact fulfilment of these directions. The little 
 child must be very closely watched, never left a moment alone. 
 I shall remain some hours here, and will return for the night, 
 and so will go to see after my horse." He then left the room, 
 after quickly signing to Mr. Mordaunt to follow him. 
 
 ^Vhen they had reached the library, and Mr. Mordaunt had 
 given orders for Barney to attend to the horse, Dr. Streatham 
 turned to his companion and said — 
 
 "It is necessary that I should, at once, tell you, sir, what 
 I could not do directly to the poor mother, that your little 
 
 li 
 
 I I 
 
 
 . I 
 
■! ■': 
 
 54 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i 'H 
 
 child's case is, I fear, a hopeless one — absolutely hopeless. She 
 has not two days to live. Her " 
 
 " Oh ! do not tell me that, Doctor, that there is no hope," in- 
 terrupted Mr. Mordaunt, his face showing his perturbation. '• I 
 cannot lose my little darling ! Oh ! Doctor Streatham, can noth- 
 ing be done to save her ?" 
 
 " All has been done that is possible, Mr. Mordaunt," gravely 
 replied the Doctor. " For some time past, I have been battling 
 against the approach of the terrible disease, but unavailingly, I 
 am sorry to say. The delicate, and too active little brain has 
 been unable to withstand the violent paroxysms of the cough, 
 and the effusion has been steadily increasing, notwithstanding 
 all my efforts. Later on, you must gently break tne sad news 
 to Mrs. Mordaunt, for which the way is already prepared. But 
 it must be kept from Miss Mordaunt, who is unable yet to bear 
 such tidings. If God so wills it, your little darling will be re- 
 stored to you. I can give you no hope. No earthly power can 
 save her. 
 
 '^ ^p ^p ^P ^p ^p ^p «p 
 
 A heavy gloom, indeed, had come to overshadow the lives of 
 this poor father and mother. Their eldest daughter in unhap- 
 piness and bitter sorrow, awakening to them so slowly from an 
 illness that had so nearly been fatal — awakening, too, not to a 
 new lease of joy and hope, but one of dark grief and regret — and 
 now the hand of Death was upon their bright and lovely little 
 youngest child. Theirs for two short days more, and then, to 
 be God's own for ever. No more theirs, no more on earth. 
 Never again to hear the sweet little loving voice — never again to 
 clasp, with yearning intensity, the beloved form to their hearts— 
 never again, with fond, proud delight, to note the progress of the 
 active little brain — to mark the budding beauties of their little 
 darling — never again until — their last breath of earth drawn- 
 like a flash, the joyful recognition in Heaven restores to them, 
 for all eternity, the loved and the lost. 
 
MINE STILL ! I WILL NOT GIVE HER UP. 55 
 
 On earth, she was to be for ihem but a memory ; their little 
 Alida, in two short days, to be nothing more than a memory. 
 
 No wonder the poor parents' hearts lay frozen within them, 
 this terrible day, watching their little child fading away from 
 them into the tomb. Their grief was great enough for them ; 
 and, happily, they were, as yet, unconscious of another evil pre- 
 paring through their son, for the further wringing of their 
 hearts. 
 
 They passed the hours of that bitter afternoon by the bed- 
 side of their dying little girl. Bitter hours that are common to 
 overy life, every day occurrences, yet how horrible is their fresh- 
 ness. Use — that so deadens the palled senses to most things of 
 this earth, lessens not the terrors of death, that so continuously 
 assail poor humanity. 
 
 The attemoon wore on for them in their sorrow. A sorrow 
 further embittered by the sad reflection of the cruel necessity 
 tliat, for poor Ethel's own sake, she must be kept in ignorance 
 of her little sister's illness and coming death ; could never see 
 her again in life, nor even have the melancholy satisfaction of 
 ])idding the last " farewell." 
 
 And why was Reggie away to-day, of all days ? But he would 
 be back ere night, and see his little darling sister again. But, 
 oh, how short the time ! Two days ! One almost passed, and 
 then? 
 
 But they enjoyed one sad satisfaction. Their little Alida came 
 back to consciousness, and recognized again the loving faces 
 that watched with such fearful hope for that coming back. She 
 recognized them again, and though evidently much weaker, had 
 spoken and told her mother that "she loved her." 
 
 Oh, precious words ! To be treasured in tearful joy in that 
 loving heart which heard them, until its last beat on earth. Pre* 
 cious words ! That made the bitter trial still more bitter, though 
 they would not have been surrendered though they cost millions 
 of agonies. 
 
 i 
 
 1 1 
 
1i,- 
 
 56 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 The gleam of hope, which had sprung to their anxious minds 
 that their darling had spoken again, and was conscious, was dis- 
 pelled by the grave, sad shake of Dr. Sticatham's head, and he- 
 had shortly afterwards taken his departure, promising, however, 
 to return for the night, and the grief-stricken parents were again 
 alone, dividing their time between the equally terrible alterna- 
 tive of watching the ebbing hours of their dying child's life and 
 short visits to the bedside of the all-unconscious F^thel, who had 
 to be kept in ignorance, and before whom their faces had to be 
 smiling while their hearts were bursting. 
 
 Another half-hour passed, and a carriage was heard rapidly 
 approaching the house. " Can it be Reggie," was the hope tluil 
 sprung up to them. In a few minutes a servant entered the 
 room, where they sat with their little Ally, and with large sur- 
 prised eyes, said — 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, Mr. Vance is downstairs in the draw" 
 ing-room and wishes to see you. He asked for Miss BLthel, but 
 I told him she was ill, and he wants to see you very pariicu- 
 larly." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Mr. Mordaunt, before his astonished 
 wife could speak. " That will do. Please to come back in five 
 minutes." 
 
 " What shall we do, Florence ?" he continued to his wife. 
 
 " He must go away," she replied. " I cannot see him, I can- 
 not leave my poor little darling, whom I have for but so {<i\\ 
 hours, and I cannot see him. We have suffering enough, and of 
 his causing. That my poor Ethel cannot even give her last kiss 
 to her dying little sister. Let the man go away. I will not see 
 him," continued Mrs. Mordaunt, with heat, though her voice 
 was broken by her grief. 
 
 " Don't speak in that manner, my dearest Florence. Our 
 trouble is sent us by God," replied her husband. " I will go 
 down to Vance, and get him to go away. This is no time for 
 
:r. 
 
 MINE STLIL! I WILI. NOT GIVE HER UP. 57 
 
 nxious minds 
 ions, was dis- 
 liead, and lie 
 ling, however, 
 its were again 
 ■rible alterna- 
 lild's life and 
 thel, who iKid 
 ces had to he 
 
 heard rapidly 
 
 the hope thai 
 
 t entered the 
 
 ith large siir- 
 
 rs in the draw" 
 
 /liss Ethel, but 
 
 very i)arlicii- 
 
 is astonished 
 ne back in five 
 
 his wife. 
 
 ee him, I can 
 
 »r but so kw 
 
 nough, and of 
 ve her last kiss 
 
 1 will not see 
 2h her voice 
 
 Drence. Our 
 
 " I will go 
 
 Bs no time for 
 
 explanations. Should Ethe' know that he is here ?" he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " No, ])etter not, I think, Henry. We can tell her of his 
 visit later on, when she is stronger. It will be too exciting for 
 her. do down to him and ask him to go away now, at any rate, 
 and don't stay long," responded Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 Edwin Vance looked up as the father of his Ethel entered the 
 drawing-room, looked uj) with an anxious face, that was haggard 
 and pale, and on his forehead was distinctly visible the bruise 
 made by Reggie's fist three days before in Toronto. 
 
 He advanced a step forward, and his lips moved as if he 
 tried to speak, but could not. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt, however, who generally went direct to his 
 point, forestalled him in what he was about to say. Advancing 
 ([uickly into the room, he bowed gravely, and, motioning Edwin 
 to a chair, while taking one himself, proceeded — 
 
 " ^Ir. Vance, 1 do not bring good news with me, either for 
 you or ourselves. My poor little Alida is lying on her death- 
 bed, i)assing away from us ; we shall have her but a few hours 
 more," and the grave, composed voice quivered as he said the 
 words. " And our interview, to-day, must necessarily be a short 
 one." 
 
 " .\lida dying !" ejaculated Edwin, horror-stricken. " Dying, 
 did you say ? Surely not that, Mr. Mordaunt. The servant 
 told me just now, the first time I had heard, that Ethel had been 
 ill, but was recovering. I had never imagined this, though. 
 How very terrible.'' 
 
 " ^ly poor little bright Ally," said the father, but more to him- 
 self than in answer, and with broken voice. " Ethel, too, has 
 been very ill, and is but slowly recovering from that which has 
 nearly brought her to the grave. For many days, there was 
 naught else before us for her than the grave, but, by God's 
 mercy, she has been restored to us from its very brink. Our 
 troubles are very heavy." 
 
 ■ it 
 
 I \ 
 
 \ 
 
&\'l 
 
 58 
 
 SHK MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " Great Heavens ! But why was I not told ? \Vhy liave I been 
 kept in ignorance of all ? If F^thel had died ! Why was I not 
 told, Mr. Mordaunt ? And, poor little Ally, too, dying ? It was 
 not right." 
 
 " You should have been told, Mr. Vance. I am sorry that 
 you were not told, especially — it is but right you should know- 
 that you are charged with the cause of Ethel's illness," returned 
 Mr. Mordaunt, looking him firmly in the face. 
 
 " What do you say, Mr. Mordaunt ? That I am charged 
 with being the cause of Ethel's illness ? I do not understand. 
 How could I possibly have anything to do with it ? What is the 
 meaning of all this ?" responded FMwin, excitedly, but evidently 
 much mystified. 
 
 " Simply, what I have said," answered Mr. Mordaunt. '' Per- 
 sonally, I know but little of the affair, and can give you but few 
 particulars. One morning, over three weeks ago, Ethel was 
 found fainting upon the floor by her mother, and when she 
 had come to consciousness, and was questioned, she told her 
 that you had been false to her — that you had a prior engage- 
 ment to another young lady, to whom you had behaved very 
 badly, and that all was over. 
 
 " That there was written proof against you — a letter from 
 yourself to this young lady, and another from some relative of 
 the latter, denouncing your conduct. These I have not seen, 
 nor, I believe, has Mrs. Mordaunt. That night, P^thel was seized 
 with brain-fever, and we know nothing more of the affair. Mrs. 
 Mordauiit, however, feels convinced of the truth of these 
 charges against you, I may as well tell you, and so, likewise, 
 does Ethel." 
 
 " Mr. Mordaunt !" exclaimed Edwin, in much excitement. •' Is 
 it possible that Ethel — that any of you can believe in such a 
 monstrous absurd, and utterly unfounded charge against me ? 
 That I am engaged to another young lady ? Who is this young 
 lady, may T ask ? I demand the names — her's and her relative ? 
 
^have r been 
 y was I not 
 ring ? It was 
 
 n sorry that 
 ould know— 
 ;ss," returned 
 
 am cliarged 
 
 understand. 
 
 ' What is the 
 
 but evidently 
 
 daunt. " Per- 
 I you but few 
 >, Ethel was 
 ^d when she 
 she told her 
 rior engage- 
 :haved very 
 
 letter from 
 le relative of 
 |ve not seen, 
 :1 was seized 
 .ffair. Mrs. 
 ;h of these 
 ;o, likewise, 
 
 lement. " Is 
 in such a 
 
 [gainst me ? 
 this young 
 ;r relative ? 
 
 MINE STILL! I WILL XOT GIVE ITER UP. 59 
 
 I am engaged to Miss Ethel Mordaunt, to no other young lady, 
 and never have been. A letter of mine, one of the proofs I" he 
 continued. " The thing is absurd. I have never written to any 
 young lady in my life, excei)t on the merest matters of business. 
 Certainly, never anything which could be tortured by any pos- 
 sibility into an engagement. Let me see these letters ? Can I 
 see Ethel, herself? Is she well enough ?" 
 
 " No I Mr. Vance. It is quite impossible that you should see 
 her. All excitement is absolutely forl)idden ; she does not even 
 know that her poor little sister is dying. She will never see her 
 again. Can I say more," responded Mr. Mordaunt. " As to 
 the letters, neither myself nor Mrs. Mordaunt have seen them ; 
 we do not know where they are, and we dare not ask Ethe' for 
 them yet. Neither can I give you the names you ask for, for 
 I have never heard them." 
 
 " Vou must get them for me, Mr. Mordaunt ; for I am in- 
 nocent, and I will disprove these things against me, and clear 
 my good name, if it costs me every cent of which I am pos- 
 sessed. Good Heavens ! What has brought these terrible events 
 to pass ?" said poor Edwin Vance, standing before him whom he 
 had so lately regarded as fiither-in-law, with pale flice and white 
 lil)s, with utter misery in his soul. 
 
 " But tell me how my poor Ethel is ? Mine still, for I will 
 never give her up. Is she really out of danger, and safe ?" he 
 continued, with anxious and melting eyes, as his thoughts flew 
 back to his beloved, who had so nearly passed away from the 
 world, and he unknowing. 
 
 " Yes ! she is out of danger and imj^roving ; but she has had 
 a terrible illness and it will be long before she is perfectly well 
 again. She is greatly changed, you would hardly recognize her 
 again. But she is out of danger." 
 
 " Thank God for that ! Thank God for His mercy, that my 
 darling is safe. I rejoice, though I rm miserable enough. I 
 vyish from my heart that it was the same with your poor little 
 
 
 ■' ( I 
 
1 
 
 \\ 
 
 ffi 
 
 t 
 
 i! 
 
 1' ' 
 
 i " J 3 ' 
 
 I? ^ I 
 
 'i 
 
 1 
 
 6o 
 
 SHE MIGMT HAVK DONE BF/ITKR. 
 
 Alicia," exclaimed Edwin, " F must not, for your sake, prolong 
 this interview under the terrible circumstances, though to leave 
 with matters as they are is horrible enough for me." 
 Then, after a second's pause, continuing — 
 " Mr. Mordaunt ! May I ask you, if you, yourself, believe these 
 dreadful charges against nie ? Kroni the tenor of our conversa- 
 tion, I am inclined to think you do not," he continued, as lie 
 took up his hat to go. 
 
 "Well ! Mr. Vance, T must say that I do not wholly ■ "licvc 
 them, though, as I told you before, both Mrs. Mordaunt and 
 Kthel hold a contrary oj^inion. I'Yopi the simple reason that 
 Kmily Dearborn was the bringcr of the charges against you, and 
 l)roduced the letters spoken of in proof, T am not inclined to 
 put faith ill them, altogether, as I have no good opinion of that 
 young lady, and deem her capable of any treachery," replied 
 Mr. Mordaunt. 
 
 " Emily Dearborn I" exclaimed Edwin, in astonishment, but at 
 this moment a warning taj) was heard on the door, and a second 
 later it opened, and a servant entered — 
 
 " If you please, sir, a man, called Alonzo Rooter, a farmer, 
 from the Cascades road, is in the hall, and wishes to see you par- 
 ticularly." 
 
 " Please to tell him I cannot see him to-day. on any afcount. 
 He must come again. You should have told him that at once," 
 replied Mr. Mordaunt. 
 
 " I did tell him, sir, that you could not see him to-day, but he 
 said it was very important business concerning Mr. Reginald tliat 
 he wanted to see you about," replied the girl. 
 
 " Concerning Mr. Reginald !" exclaimed Mr. Mordaunt. Thai 
 
 is- 
 
 " Yes, it's just that, Squire Mordaunt," ejaculated Mr. Rooter, 
 showing himself at the door, where he had probably placed him- 
 self from the first. 
 
 " And I guess ye'd best hear my news, though how you'll like 
 
R. 
 
 MINE STILL! I WILL XOT GIVE HER UP. 6i 
 
 ke, prolong 
 igh to leave 
 
 )eHevc these 
 iir convcrsa- 
 iiiied, as he 
 
 lolly ■ "lieve 
 ordaunt and 
 reason tliat 
 inst you. and 
 I inclined to 
 )inion of that 
 icry," replied 
 
 ^hnKMit, but al 
 and a second 
 
 ■er, a farmer, 
 see youpai- 
 
 any account, 
 that at once," 
 
 |to-day, but he 
 [Reginald that 
 
 brdaunt. That 
 
 Mr. Rooter, 
 ly placed him- 
 
 low you 
 
 '11 like 
 
 ihcni is another thing. It's kinder important, too, I reckon, 
 and I've lost a good half-day's work from my crops to bring it 
 to ye, knowin' ye to be a gintleman that won't let a poor man 
 lose his time for ye. ^V^orth five dollars, too, at this season of 
 the year." 
 
 " If yon have any news to tell, Mr. Rooter, pray tell it, and 
 you shall not lose your time. AVHiat is the matter with Mr. 
 Reginald ? ( )iit with it at once. Remain a moment longer. 
 Mr. Vance, I still hu/e something to say to you." 
 
 " Now your news, Mr. Rooter," continued Mr. Mordaimt. 
 " Oh ! I'll tell you fast enough. I'm not scart to tell it," re- 
 plied the free and easy Mr. Rooter. " Wall ! the hull bilin' of 
 the matter's this, that yer son, Reginald, and Dearborn's fly-away 
 girl — the big o.ic — took it into their heads to clear out this 
 morning for the States, where the parsons aint as particular 
 about licenses as they are in Canidy, and they're married by this 
 time, I reckon. Any way they left this morning down the Cas- 
 cades road as hard as his horses could pelt along, she with him, 
 and i^ui her trunk with her too." 
 
 '* With Emily Dearborn !" gasped out Mr. Mordaunt, turning 
 deadly pale, as he rose suddenly to his feet, and turned towards 
 the unabashed Mr. Rooter. 
 
 '' This morning ! It is impossible. You are mistaken. My 
 God ! Let not this come to us. We have more than we can 
 bear," continued the poor fiither, lifting up his eyes. "It's im- 
 possible ! You must be mistaken, man." 
 
 " Oh I Em a man for the matter of that, but my name is Mr. 
 Rooter, tho'igh, squire," replied that gentleman with perfect 
 coolness. " However, as ye've sickness and trouble in the 
 house, and this is hard news for ye, Ell say nothing about the 
 little trifle. But I'm not mistaken. It's true enough, squire, as 
 ye'll find." 
 
 "Tell me all you know about the matter, Mr. Rooter, for 
 Heaven's sake," replied Mr. Mordaunt. " And why, if this oc- 
 
I 
 
 
 J I 
 
 m 
 
 02 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 curr«;d, as you say, this morning, did you not come before wiih 
 till' news, when something miglit- - Go on ! Pray go on I" 
 
 "Wall! ye see, Mr. Mordaunt, I did' it know myself what 
 was up till nigh on to four o'c'ock," %ud Mr. Rooter, quite vill- 
 ing to make the story suit himself, reg''rdl»'ss of the truth of his 
 details. •* But I'll tell ye 'he hull of it. East nighi Em'ly Dear- 
 born kim to our house and left a trunk with my missis, saying 
 some of your people would call for it in the morning. That 
 looked odd enough, but yet it might ])e likely enough too, and 
 we thought it was for the house here. Wall ! At ten thi.s morn- 
 ing up drives your son Reginald and gets the trunk. I give it 
 him myself, and five minlts afore this I seed the Dearborn girl 
 walking down the road past our house, but I tho''ght nothing of 
 that though, till, going on to foiT this afternoon, Jim Lakes 
 dropped in on his way home, and he told us he'd met them eight 
 mile this side of Cascades driving like mad, a little after twelve 
 and him a kissing of hijr. My wife then allowed as how I'd 
 beiU'r come up and tell ye, and that's ail. Got a fiver Itandy, 
 squire ? and I'll go." 
 
 Havmg received the required five dollars, Mr. Rooter de- 
 parted, after leaving the following consolatory remarks beiiind 
 him : 
 
 " Good day, Squire Mordaunt. I'm sorry for ye and for Mr. 
 Reggie too. She's a mighcy pretty girl, that's a fact, but oh ! 
 Moses, aint she a born devil though." 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt dropped into his chair and remained a {<i\\' 
 seconds with his head bowed down in his hands. Suddenly- 
 raising hiaiself, he said to Edwin : 
 
 " You came from Cascades this afternoon, did you not, Mr. 
 Vance ? Have you seen anything of them ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Mordaunt, i must confirm the statement you have 
 just heard, in so far that I met Reginald and Miss Dearborn in 
 Cascades this afternoon at one o'clock or a little later. They 
 left the hotel and went towards the station, and I was, I ac- 
 
I. 
 
 MINE STLIL! I WILL NOT GIVK HKk UP. 63 
 
 iforc Nviili 
 o on :" 
 )'sclf wliat 
 quite v'ill- 
 -utii of Ins 
 in'ly Dear- 
 isis, saying 
 ing. TlKit 
 h too, anil 
 tliih niorn- 
 I give it 
 irborn girl 
 nothing of 
 Jim Lakes 
 tliem eight 
 ifter twelve 
 as how I'd 
 ver luindy, 
 
 Looter de- 
 rks behind 
 
 Ind for Mr. 
 :t, but oh ! 
 
 Ined a few 
 Suddenly 
 
 ^i not, Mr. 
 
 you have 
 
 learborn in 
 
 ler. They 
 
 was, I ac- 
 
 knowledge, surprised, but did not spcaK to liini, for a reason of" 
 my own," answered I'.dwin, sadly, for tlie discomposure of the 
 other was very apparent. 
 
 •' Then I have another great sorrow to meet, Mr. Vance," he 
 continued, turning himself towards tluit gentleman, *' I have to 
 express my sincere regret for the cowardly attack upon you in 
 the streets of Toronto at the hands of Reginald Mordaunt, my 
 son, whom I ajn now almost afraid to name as such, and 1 have 
 to ■• 
 
 " Do not mention the matter, Mr. Mordaunt. Think no 
 more of it than I do myself. Vou — we both of us — have grief 
 sufficient without taking concern of tritles," replied Kdwin. '* Of 
 the attack itself I never again thought. It oi)ened my eyes to 
 the knowledge that something was wrong at Lake Mordaunt, 
 which sutViciently excluded all else from my mind, and hastened 
 my api)earance here. 
 
 " But in my own miseries I must not detain you from your 
 greater, and I must force myself to go, though more unhappy 
 than when [ arrived. Vou say that Kmily Dearborn produced 
 these i)retended charges against me before Ediel. That is very 
 strange, to say the least of it. But 1 can say no more at pre- 
 sent, and I can only ask you, in justice to myself, since I cannot 
 see my poor Ethel, to convey to her, when she is well enough 
 to be spoken to upon the subject, the solemn assurance, which 
 I now give you, of my entire innocence of these charges : that 
 I have never in my life laid myself open to aught which could 
 justify the breaking of our engagement, or of which she could 
 reasonably complain, excepting one act brought by myself to 
 her knowledge and freely forgiven ; of my unalterable love and 
 affection ; that I will disprove these false allegations against me, 
 and that I am as worthy of her now as she considered me to be 
 before they were brought against me. Tell her of my visit here, 
 of my terrible anxiety for the past fortnight when not hearing 
 from her, and my deep sorrow and sympathy with her in her 
 
 
 ■ I i 
 
 I 
 
 l| 
 
64 
 
 Mirrll'I* HAVK DONK lU'/ITKR. 
 
 
 
 
 illness. Will you promise me this, Mr. Mordaunt? and to pro- 
 cure mc the letters or (opies of them which have produced all 
 this misery for us ?" 
 
 " I uutlertake to give her your very words, Mr. Vance," an- 
 swered Mr. Mordaunt. "And if possible I will procure the 
 CQpi(!S or the letters themselves. Such will be but fair towards 
 you. And ni;w I " 
 
 Hut his sentence was left unfmished, for the doui opened .iiul 
 with a (|uick step Mrs. Mord unit entered tlie room. She glanced, 
 merely glanced (ontempluously and coldly towards I'Abvin Vance, 
 bowed gravely and in a tone whose chilliness was remarkably 
 diflerenl to that wiiich he bad been accustomed from her, said 
 briefly : 
 
 '• How do you do, sir 1" And, turning towards her husband, 
 she continued : 
 
 " So soon as you can conclude your interview with this gentle- 
 man, I would wish to see you up stairs. I'ray, my dear Henry, 
 defer to a more suitable time your mere business matters," and 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, with a strong accent on the last three words, 
 looked meaningly at her husband. 
 
 "Our interview is finished, my dear. Mr. Vance sufficiently 
 appreciates the sad circumstances in which we are placed. I 
 have stated to him the events with which he is connected. He 
 denies ihein fervently, and rerjuires that the so-called proofs of 
 the allegations resting u])on him be produced. This I iiavc 
 promised shall " 
 
 " Mr. Vanco does not recpiire the [)roduction of proofs. They 
 would be simply useless to him. We need not to prove the 
 truth of that of which his own conscience corvlots him. He 
 can deceive no fin-ther, and I decline to hold [)arley with him 
 or to furnish that which he retiuires, that he may destroy them, 
 r presume. Mr. \'ance had better leturn whence he came, to 
 her, whom with us, he would deceive. It would be more bccom- 
 
R. 
 
 .md to pro 
 ruduccd all 
 
 V^mcc," an- 
 procure the 
 
 iiir towards 
 
 opened uiul 
 lie glanced, 
 Iwin Vance, 
 retnarkahly 
 >n) her, said 
 
 IT husband, 
 
 I this j^eiUle- 
 lear llciiry, 
 lalters," and 
 irec words, 
 
 sufficiently 
 
 ])lacetl. I 
 
 ected. \lc 
 
 d proofs of 
 
 'his I have 
 
 roofs. They 
 prove the 
 him. He 
 with him 
 Istroy them, 
 lie came, to 
 lore becom- 
 
 MINE STII.L: I UILI. NOT CilVK HKR UP. 65 
 
 ing than his present intrusion here," interrupted Mrs. Mordaunt, 
 hantilv and decisively. 
 
 "This letter, sir," she continued, " Miss Mordaunt has de- 
 sired should be forwarded. I beg to band it to you personally. 
 It contains her lust words — and our last words to you. For 
 myself, and upon my daughter's part, I now intimate that we 
 decline to hold further parley with you. (iood afternoon, sir,'' 
 and with another bow, Mrs. Mordaunt left the room. 
 
 I'ldwin Vance, who had listened to this address apparently 
 bereft of his senses, attempted U) speaU at its conclusion, but 
 Mrs. Mordaunt had closed the door behind het and was out of 
 reach of his words as effectually as though a province separated 
 them. 
 
 He had mechanically taken the letter handed him, and as the 
 instant of his surprise was over, he tore it open and perused the 
 words the reader has already seen. 
 
 By the events which had already occurred to him he was well 
 enough prei)ared as to its contents, but this was a direct and 
 palpable blow that brought home directly to him the fact that 
 his Kthel would no lon;<er be his Kthel. 
 
 His sensibilities had already been so worked upon that the 
 new blow could not much further sta^,'ger him, but yet he wis 
 staggered, and he turned his agitated Hice away from his com- 
 l)anion's view for a fev/ moments of uncontrollable agony. 
 
 At length, mastering him^jclf, he looked again at Mr. Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 " This is my dismissal, sir. l-'.thel gives me to understand 
 that all is over between us; that our engagement, our hai)i)y 
 love is ended. What have I done that this misery — this destruc- 
 tion of everything — of every ho]je of my life should come upon 
 me? Yet I will not accei^t the dismissal — my engagement I 
 shall not consider at an end. It still exists. I go ! I go to 
 disprove the falsehoods which have come between us. I w/// 
 
66 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 disprove them, and I know that my darh'ng is just — to do mc 
 right. 
 
 " Her to whom my love is due !" he exclaimed, bitterly, 
 throwing the letter from which he quoted down upon the table. 
 
 " My lov" is due to Ethel Mordaunt, and to no person else — 
 never has been, and, God knows, never shall be. I love her ! 
 I love her ! She alone, and I have never loved another. 
 
 "Will you tell her this, Mr. Mordaunt? Vou have promised, 
 and you have also promised to get me copies at any rate, of 
 the papers, forged as they must be, against me. That is but 
 just. I am innocent of all this, and without them I have 
 nothing to work upon to clear myself of this odium, and re- 
 gain what I have lost. Will you get them for me, Mr. Mor- 
 daunt?" 
 
 " I will, if I can do so, Mr. ^^'lnce, but from that which you 
 have heard just now, you cannot but see that I must not be 
 sanguine as to success. Good-bye, Mr. Vance. I am sorry for 
 all the unhappy events, and hope for both your sake and Ethel's 
 that all will come right." 
 
 " Good-bye, sir, for the present. W^rite to me as soon as }ou 
 can to tell me of Ethel and jjoor little Ally, and send me the 
 copies. Good-bye, ?lr. Mordaunt," said Edwin, shaking the 
 out-stretched hand that was to have been his father-in-law's. 
 " God send you strength in your griefs, sir, and me also in mine. 
 I never thought to have left this house as I do to-day." 
 
 In another minute Edwin Vance had driven away. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DYING LITTLE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt remained a few moments immersed in painful 
 thought, gazing after the receding form of the visitor who had 
 just left him, who carried away with him grief almost as bitter 
 
THE DYING LITTLE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 67 
 
 as liis own, and turned to make his way again to the room where 
 lay his dying little daughter — the present and heaviest agony, 
 to which was now added another that would have been keen 
 ;ind intense were not its aspect so overshadowed by the heavier 
 horrors in which Death encompassed his house. 
 
 As he entered the room, his wife, sitting by the side of her 
 unconscious little darling, weepinga mother's bitter tears, looked 
 up as he api)roached. 
 
 " Is there no hope for us, Henry ? It cannot be that I am 
 to lose my little Ally." 
 
 " It does not rest with us, my poor darling. If it pleases God 
 to take our little cliild we can rest very sure that it is better for 
 her — better for us, also, being His will, he replied, and as he 
 looked on the convulsed form that addressed him, his half-formed 
 resolve to tell her the new trouble that had fallen upon them 
 melted away. 
 
 '' She has enough to bear for the present. I shall keep that 
 sorrow from her as long as it can be kept away," he thought. 
 
 " Oh ! Henry," continued Mrs. Mordaunt after a pause, "Ethel 
 has divined by some means or other that that man has been 
 here, and she is excited. Could you not go to her for a little 
 while?" 
 
 " Yes ! but I am sorry she knows that. Who could have told 
 her?" 
 
 " No one has told her. I took all precaution. But go to her 
 and try to comfort her ; she is weak and ill yet," replied Mrs. 
 Mordaunt. 
 
 " How am I to comfort her ? Though I am now more than 
 ever convinced of Vance's truth, yet she will not, it would appear, 
 believe it." 
 
 But when he had seated himself by Ethel's bedside, the first 
 question she asked him was on another and very different sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " Papa ! why do you all keep it so secret from me ? Why 
 
 ii> 
 
 ;'i 
 
 I'll 
 
«li 
 
 68 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 cannot I see poor little Ally before — before — when she is so 
 ill ?" 
 
 " Oh, Ethel !" exclaimed her father, horror-stricken, for lie 
 had not in the least expected this, and for a moment he could 
 find no other words. But his daughter's eyes were fixed upon 
 his face, and he had to reply at once. " Certainly you shall see 
 her, but you are not strong yet, Ethel. We had to keep poor 
 Ally's illness from you. You shall see her, if you wish it so 
 much. Though there is not," with a gulp, " any immediate ne- 
 cessity for it yet." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, papa, there is. I know — I know — and I must 
 see my poor little darling for the last time. Oh ! papa, you 
 would not let my little sister die without letting me have my 
 last kiss of her in life. I could not have borne it had she 
 passed away without a last farewell. I could not have borne it 
 to have been left in ignorance. None would tell me, but I 
 knew. Oh ! my poor little Ally ! My poor little darling !" and 
 Ethel, bending for^vard, with her face bowed into her hands, 
 shed the bitterest tears that had yet come to her now darkened 
 life. 
 
 " Yes ! Ethel, our poor little darling is leaving us. Her bright 
 litde spirit will soon be with its Maker. Oh ! Ally, Ally," and 
 the father gave way to his grief as had done his daughter. " But, 
 Ethel, my darling, you must not give way — for our sakes you 
 • must not. It was to save you from this that we did not speak,' 
 he continued, controlling himself as he witnessed his still sick 
 child's, agitation. " You shall see her, Ethel. You shall see her at 
 once. But how did you learn the sad truth that our darling was 
 — was to go from us ?" 
 
 " The knowledge came to me, papa, I know not how. I am 
 ill and weak, and, I suppose, a morbid sensitiveness gave me 
 this intuitive knowledge of the evil hanging over. Oh ! papa, 
 just think what it would have been to me in after days if God 
 had not in His mercy given me this perception, and my sweet 
 
H\\ 
 
 ■ 
 
 THE DYING LITTLE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 69 
 
 little sister had drawn her last breath within the few feet that 
 separate us, and I in ignorance. What undying horror. Could 
 I have had another contented hour ? 
 
 " For happiness I no longer look !" 
 
 " Oh ! say not that, my darling. It is all very dreadful. Our 
 out-look is indeed darkened, but it is God's will that this agony 
 should come to us," answered her father, and her words recalled 
 to his mind the miserable fact that his beloved son, his other 
 child had by his fatal act of folly, brought upon his head the 
 undying horror — the horror of remembrance to him for all time 
 that, whilst he was marrying, his sister was dying. 
 
 As the father's thought called up this, and the — but too pro- 
 bably blasted happiness of his son's life, it was by stong effort 
 of his will that he so far conqured his emotion as to be enabled 
 to carry on the conversation. As he looked at his daughter on 
 her sick bed, changed and weak, pale as the sheets that en- 
 wrapped her ; he remembered too that her life had become 
 darkened over ; that her prospects of happiness were blighted 
 also ; that in addition to the death stroke upon them — the pass- 
 ing away of the little darling of the house — and the blow that 
 Reggie's miserable union was to bring upon them all ; had not 
 Ethel another grief? Was not she the hardest tried ? Her's 
 the heaviest lot ? Was not her grief heavier even than his own ? 
 As he remembered this and looked at the wasted form of his 
 beautiful daughter, a gush of tenderness sprang up towards her 
 in his unselfish breast. 
 
 Had she not more to bear than he had, and she not so well 
 able to bear it? 
 
 " Ethel !" he continued, " I will send your mother to you, and 
 you shall see your poor little Ally now, at once. But, Ethel, 
 Edwin Vance was here to-day. He had come to see you." 
 
 " Yes, papa 1 I know," she hastily replied. " But I do not 
 wish to hear of that to-day, at any rate. I want Ally — to see 
 Ally." 
 
 i ^ 
 
 t I 
 
 
 I I 
 I i ;i 
 
 '!; ); 
 
I ! i" 
 
 1 
 
 
 70 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " And, Ethel, I believe he is innocent — that a vile plot has 
 been brought against you to separate you from him by — by — 
 by — that girl. He indignantly denies the charge of faithless- 
 ness, and demands an explicit statement of the charges against 
 him, when he can at once prove his innocence." 
 
 " Xo ! No ! Papa," exclaimed Ethel, excitedly, and waving 
 her hands as if to keep off the subject from her. 
 
 ** I will not hear anything about him. This is not the time. 
 It is almost sacrilege, and Ally's lovely little life drawing so fast 
 to its close. 
 
 " Oh ! talk not of that. Just think, papa. I hav 3 not seen 
 my sister since I have been ill — so long, so long — and now slic 
 is dying. And I should never have seen her again, had it nut 
 been for myself; she would have died from me and 1 unknow- 
 ing ; left me for ever hungering and tortured for her. As it is, 
 though I shall see her again, the darling ! how dreadful ; how 
 horrible it all is." 
 
 And so Ethel had the sorrowful consolation of the last part- 
 ing with little Ally. 
 
 Supported l^y her fiither and mother, she wept out the last 
 Farewell, and kissed in floods of tears, the little face, beautiful 
 still, though so sadly, wastedly changed, that she would see no 
 more on earth. A sorrowful consolation, for only by the long- 
 ing glance of the yet bright dark eyes, and the feeble motion of 
 the strengthless lips could the dying child return her sister's 
 caresses, into whose clinging kisses all time was crowded ; long 
 years of love were thronged, the close yearning emorace of 
 poor helpless humanity that would fain hold back from the awful 
 gult of Death its loved and dear ones — who pass away, never- 
 theless, over the dark brink, though every heart-string cracks. 
 
 For poor Ethel her little sister's life was over. She was car- 
 ried back to her room half-fainting, and the merciful sleep induced 
 by the opiates administered by the vexed doctor shielded her 
 from further present agony. 
 
R. 
 
 ile plot has 
 
 n by — by— 
 
 of faithless- 
 
 .rges against 
 
 and waving 
 
 lot the time, 
 ivving so fast 
 
 av2 not seen 
 -and now she 
 in, had it not 
 id 1 unknow- 
 ler. As it is, 
 readful ; how 
 
 the last part- 
 out the last 
 
 ,ce, beautiful 
 
 ^vould see no 
 by the long- 
 
 Ible motion of 
 her sister's 
 
 fowded; long 
 embrace of 
 
 [rom the awful 
 away, never- 
 
 ■ing cracks. 
 She was car- 
 ;leep induced 
 shielded her 
 
 THK DYING LITTLE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 71 
 
 " But where is Reggie ? What can have kept him ? Why is 
 he away to-day of all days ?" sobbed Mrs. Mordaunt, as sitting 
 by the side of her dying child, Dr. Streatham gently told her 
 that ere the morning had dawned her darling would be no 
 more. 
 
 *' He should be here. He will never see her again, and how 
 dreadful it will all be to him. He should not have gone, 
 tliough Heaven knows, I never anticipated this. It is cruel ! It 
 is cruel 1" 
 
 Cruel enough was the thought to the poor mother, and cruel 
 enough to the father, who carried silently in his breast the 
 knowledge that their son would not come — that he was almost 
 lost to them, and that his coming would be, even at this time, 
 a greater grief than his absence. 
 
 He would not add to his wife's bitter sorrow by telling her 
 the truth. He would keep it away from her as long as it could 
 be kept. 
 
 But as the evening wore on into night and no Reggie cftme, 
 Mrs. Mordaunt grew anxious for him, as well as distressed at his 
 non-appearance, and she could not be ai)peased. 
 
 Her husband's endeavours to calm her fears at length were 
 fruitless. 
 
 She became alarmed that some accident had befallen her 
 Reggie, and all assurances of his being very well able to take 
 care of himself fell uncomforting and unheeded upon the 
 mother's heart. 
 
 The pained and unnatural manner of her husband in speak- 
 ing of him was not unnoticed by her. Something was wrong, 
 she was convinced, and her pertinacious questionings and very 
 apparent alarm at length had their effect. 
 
 To keep her longer in ignorance of the fact that her son 
 would not come had become a greater evil than telling her 
 
 • ! 
 
 , ' ' 
 
 I 1 
 
n 
 
 
 nil 
 
 i 
 
 f^wl 
 
 
 
 
 *H 
 
 * ; 
 
 jU 
 
 ' * :'? 
 
 H 
 
 ir 
 
 > 1 ' 
 
 I 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
 w 
 
 i : 
 
 It 
 
 72 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 the whole truth. The certainty could be no worse than llic 
 suspense. 
 
 " My dear Florence," he said, " I had intended for youi sake 
 — bitterly stricken as you are — to have kept a further grief from 
 you, but your needless anxiety for your son forces tlie avowal 
 upon me. Reggie is safe enough, so far as his bodily health 
 goes, but he will not be here to-night or for many nights to 
 come. I have but too great reason to believe that he and Emily 
 Dearborn went away together this morning, and by this time 
 are married." 
 
 " Married I Married to Emily Dearborn ! What is that you 
 say, Henry? Impossible ! You cannot trifle with me — you 
 would not — thus," ejaculated the poor mother,rising from her seat 
 beside her sick child, and confronting her husband with horror- 
 stricken face. 
 
 " It is not impossible, Florence ! I am not trifling with you. 
 That it were not true what would I not give. He went away 
 with Emily Dearborn this morning. Went away prepared — she 
 with her travelling baggage with her. Went away together. Of 
 this there can be no doubt. It is a sad certainty. 
 
 " And, worst of all, he went away with a lie on his lips. To 
 effect his purpose the more securely, he deliberately lied to iiie 
 — to his father. 
 
 " Oh 1 my son, my son, that was the heaviest blow of all. I 
 could have condoned all else. I could even have forgiven 
 that girl — who has brought such ruin upon us — forgiven her as 
 his wife," he continued. 
 
 " Oh ! Henry. It may not be that — I cannot believe it. He 
 may have merely gone for a drive with her. 
 
 " What is your information ? May it not be mere idle talk ? 
 Who saw them ?" queried Mrs. Mordaunt, with departing hope, 
 however, fading from her face, and belying her words. 
 
 " I wish I could believe it were not that, but I cannot/' he 
 rep'icd, mournfully. 
 
5 than the 
 
 youi sake 
 grief from 
 lie avowal 
 lily health 
 ' nights to 
 and Emily 
 r this time 
 
 is that you 
 
 me — you 
 
 om her seat 
 
 'ith horror- 
 
 l with you. 
 
 went away 
 
 ared — she 
 
 lether. Of 
 
 lips. To 
 lied to Uie 
 
 of all. I 
 re forgiven 
 \t\\ her as 
 
 ;ve it. He 
 
 idle talk? 
 rting hope, 
 
 :annot/' he 
 
 THE DYING LITTLE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 73 
 
 " I will tell you all I know, and you can then judge for your- 
 self, that you will not see him to-night. " Last night, late, he 
 came to me, came to tell me that my advice of the afternoon 
 had been taken by him ; that he, in deference to my expressed 
 wish, would give up all thought of that girl, but that it was 
 necessary for him, the better to do it, to leave home for a time. 
 He would return, he said, to college friends in the West, and re- 
 main with them until term commenced ; and he asked for 
 money for this purpose — to travel — to pay his college fees and 
 other purposes. He asked me for six hundred dollars, and I, 
 delighted at his dutiful acquiescence to my wishes, and desir- 
 ing to help him in every way, gave him a thousand. 
 
 " He told me, then, that he would go to Cascades to-day, to 
 make some arrangements, I believe, he said, but that he would 
 be back home early. 
 
 " I believed in the truth and loyalty of my son, as a father 
 should do, had nothing to object, and he went away this 
 morning. 
 
 " This afternoon, whilst I was with Vance, the man — a fiirmer 
 living on the Cascades road, who saw their meeting, at whose 
 house the girl, who is now his wife, had left the nighc before her 
 travelling valise — came to me and told me the news, the unex- 
 pected and direful news, broadly and openly stating their object ; 
 and, Vance told me he had, to his surprise, met them at Cas- 
 cades, going to the station for the southern train. 
 
 " I fear it is all too true, my darling," he continued, looking 
 sadly into his wife's face. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, for a few moments, answered not a word, but 
 remained standing immovable, in the attitude in which she had 
 at the first risen to her feet. At length, as if speaking to her 
 own thoughts, she brokenly said — 
 
 " Oh ! Reggie, Reggie ! you have not done this thing ? You 
 would not do it, my son, my darling. Henry, tell me, in mercy 
 tell me, that our Reggie will be home with us, to-night ?" 
 
 >|i 
 
 I . 
 
Pil 
 
 74 
 
 SHK MIGHT ILW'E DONE BKTrER. 
 
 " My i)oor wife ! We must bear the troubles tluit Ciod sends, 
 as wc are taiiglU by Mini to bear them. Vour son will not conie 
 to-night. His horses came an hour ago, driven by a man from 
 the Cascades' Hotel, but our unfortunate son has not come. I 
 need say no more." 
 
 Mrs. Moidaunt answered not a ^T'I ; "jih pale, drawn face, 
 «he sat down again at the side of ;• • «.ly!n" child, and bent 
 down over the little sufferer, whose span was oi ort for her ; by 
 that movement, shewing that she gave up her son, and drew to 
 herself every precious moment of the little life she was losing, 
 
 Through the long, sad hours of the night : long in their agony, 
 yet how short with the dreadful end they brought nearer — 
 nearer — nearer — the father and mother kept their vigil. The 
 mother's hand convulsively clasping the little nerveless fingers 
 of her child — so soon to be God's child. 
 
 Both watching with agonized eyes the fainting breath, weak- 
 ening — weakening — dying — gasping away. The glazing — the 
 dread dimness stealing over the the beautiful dark eyes, that to 
 them, had been so bright, so full of joyful life and expression. 
 
 Watching for the dread ap})roach of the dark, silent angel of 
 Death ; the awful moment ; how awful to the strained hearts of 
 the loving parents, helpless in their misery, who would freely 
 have given up all — all the world, all the world could give — to 
 avert the dread inevitable, when the last breath is yielded, and 
 their child, theirs no more on earth. 
 
 With the first silvery streaks that lightened the dawn, the little 
 face stilling from pain, lightened up with a soft smile, the last 
 tracing of the pure soul, opening from clay, as it rose to meet its 
 God. Their littte child was dead — but was she not now God's 
 little child? 
 
 As, with bowed heads and tearful eyes, they stood and prayed 
 over the quiet form, so lovely in its peaceful death, their hearts 
 were dead within them, but for the grand consolation, she is 
 
THK DYING LITTLE PEACEMAKKR. 
 
 75 
 
 God's child ! ever His child ! more than ever His child no'.v ! 
 with Him for ever ! at rest ! 
 
 Of that there could be no douht ; no doubt of that sweet 
 salvation, In this they knew, above their smarting wounds, 
 they knew tliat their little Ally was well again, lietter than die 
 world could make her. An angel — their angel — they had an 
 angel in Heaven. 
 
 To them alone was left pain ; to her, ineflfable bliss. 
 
 J kit, though the firm truths, the grand beliefs of religion can 
 comfort and strengthen, they cannot altogether remove such 
 bitter griefs as these. The poor, loving human hearts, though 
 unselfish and softened in so many attributes, cannot be so wholly 
 sublimed above the pangs which death, striking the loved ones, 
 so rackingly inflicts, as to see the promi)ting mercy that directs 
 the dark angel's hand, and rise above the agony, to say " It is 
 not loss." 
 
 The ennobling and purifying doctrines of Christianity that 
 teach the love of all things, teach, also, the highest and purest 
 love. The softening influence makes our earthly affections the 
 deeper and stronger. 
 
 But when those affections are put to the dire test, when death 
 strikes, that kind influence may comfort and strengthen to bear 
 the blow, and is the healing balm to the gaping wound, yet who 
 amongst us could force back the bitter tear, and unlamcnting 
 say, "It is not a loss." 
 
 So it was with the Mordaunts. Thei** sorrcv for the death of 
 their child was very profound. It was the first time that death 
 had come home to them, and their first agony was great enough 
 that their other troubles were dulled to them. The absence of 
 their son, and its cause, would have been felt as a great grief, 
 had it not been swallowed up by more terrible and greater. Had 
 it not been that the death of their little child was so overAvhelm- 
 ing a blow in its dire suddenness, their son's misfortune — as 
 they could not but consider it — would have been a very dread- 
 
 : I 
 
 11 i 
 
 V... 
 
 /*.!!• 1 
 
5!' 
 
 ;' 
 
 '} 
 
 ;6 SHE MlGIIl HAVE DONE BEITEK. 
 
 fill one to them. Hut their fet'lliigs were mercifully niimhcd 
 towards the lesser by the greater grief Hut tluit grief was l)ilter 
 enough, and dreadful enough. 
 
 The little Ally — lying on her white bier, in the soft loveliness 
 which Death enwraps his child victims was a peace-maker. 'I'lu 
 terrible sorrow of her loss benumbed, the smarting wounds ot 
 the parent's hearts, which their son had given. 
 
 Her little form, still and quiet — voiceless, but for the wreath- 
 ing smile that had marked the heavenly transit — a softening 
 peace-maker, that came between the son's decei)tion, his fatal 
 folly, and the parent's natural resentment. 
 
 When, during the i.vening of the day on which Ally died, a 
 letter from Reggie came, the hearts of the father and mother, 
 as they stood beside their lost darling, and recognized that 
 she was, to them, an angel, were softened, and the resentment 
 a. id anger died away. Through their little peace-maker, Reggie 
 was forgiven, though he could not be reslcjred. 
 
 He was still their son, and though he had cut himself away 
 very effectually from them, yet their love burned warmly for him^ 
 and all that concerned him was of vivid interest to ihcm. 
 Therefore, sorrowfully and reluctantly — for it seemed like pro- 
 fanation to their little one's memory, to enter on the things of 
 the world — they withdrew to read the letter that confirmed tin- 
 loss to them of their son. Its words were few enough, and 
 could not. of necessity, be agreeable to those to whom they 
 
 were adc.resscd. 
 
 "Rochester, N. Y., Oct. 7th, 1S73. 
 
 ** Mv Dear Father and Mother : 
 
 " You will, doubtless, be much surprised to learn by this 
 time, that I am married. I have to fear — although I hope my 
 fear may be groundless — that you will not be pleased to learn 
 for I know that you are prejudiced against Emily. But what 
 was I to do ? I could not live witiiout her ; and, we are married. 
 My happiness depended upon Emily, and, knowing that your 
 consent was hopeless, I, for my own sake, had to take the step 
 
L 
 
 ly nuinhcd 
 f was biiicr 
 
 ft loveliness 
 
 \;ikcr. 'I'lu' 
 
 wounds t)f 
 
 the wreiith- 
 ■a softening 
 on, his fatal 
 
 Ally died, a 
 ind mother, 
 ogni/ed that 
 ; resentment 
 aker, Reggie 
 
 mself away 
 rnily for him^ 
 -St to Oieni. 
 ned like j^ro- 
 
 ie things of 
 on firmed the 
 
 nough, and 
 wliom ihey 
 
 rHK DYING LITTLK 1»KACEMAKER. 
 
 77 
 
 rth, [873. 
 
 3arn by this 
 1 I hoi)e my 
 "ed to learn 
 But what 
 are married, 
 g that your 
 akc the step 
 
 which has secured it. When you come to really know the worth 
 of my sweet wife, as I know it, you cannot butacknowled^'e that 
 I was right. Meanwhile, I have to entreat your forgiveness, 
 which we will, in i)erson, solicit before many days. 
 
 " We were married this evening, and, I snatch a few \uo 
 ments to write to you, to beg your « onsid r tion, and tell you of 
 our happiness. My sweet wife — voirnev • lughter — joins with 
 me in what I say, and in love to vni, out! ' lel.and Ally, who, 
 we hope, is better. 
 
 *' I hope my dear fither will j- ndon 1 'for what occurred 
 between us in the drawing-room, yesterday morning. I w.is in 
 a strait, and hardly knew what I was saymg. NVhen he sees 
 my happiness, and knows the goodness and worth of my beau- 
 tiful wife, he will, I am sure, forgive me. 
 
 " You may expect us in a few days. Under the circum- 
 stances, and uneasy to see you as I am, we will hurry home 
 very shortly, instead of making a long trip, just now, though 
 we may, after our meeting, si)end our honey-moon in travel. 
 
 " With best love to all, from your new daughter, as well as 
 from myself, 
 
 " I am, my dear parents, 
 
 " Your affectionate son, 
 
 " Reginald Mokdaunt." 
 
 This was Reggie's extraordinary letter. Extraordinary in the 
 confident tone which pervaded it, in spite of all. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! how deceived he is, but it is all very dreadful," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " Deceived ! He will never have a day's happiness with that 
 woman. But they cannot come here ; I shall never allow her 
 to be received into my house," answered her husband. 
 
 *' Oh I Henry, but we must see Reggie sometimes. He is 
 our son after all. But I agree with you that his wife can never 
 come to this house," hastily replied Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " But you must write at once, if they are not to come here. 
 Write kindly, my dear husband, though he has done wrong and 
 ruined his own happiness, as well as struck at ours, yet he is our 
 son, and he will have trouble enough soon. We must forgive 
 
 7 
 
78 
 
 SHK Ml(;iIT IIAVK DoNK HKriKR. 
 
 our wrong, for our little WUgjiH Mkc, whom he will never se« 
 more. Oh '. Ally, my little daughter." 
 
 " I'loM lu e, my darling, our little one shall make peace he 
 twecn us and our son. Poor fellow, he will need it sorely enough. 
 f will write a few word.s lo-m'ght to prevent their roming, for 
 Mmily .Mordaunt, as she is now, shall not enter this house," 
 replied Mr. Mordaunt. 
 
 After a little further conversation and consultation the follow- 
 ing letter was written and .sent to the post oftkc to save the 
 night's mail. 
 
 " L.\KF. MokD.MNT, 1873. 
 
 " Mv Di-.Ak Son,— 
 
 •' Kor such you still are, although you have separated your- 
 self so complcicly from us, and have, I fear, as <'ompletely 
 ruined your own hai)piness hy your most miserable marriage. 
 
 ** I have but little to say in reply to your letter, save that it is 
 impossible for us to receive you, with your wife, as you seem to 
 expect. 
 
 •* Kniily Mordatmt can ncvor.with my consent, enter the door 
 of my house, and 1 write tnis on the instant of learning your 
 whereabouts, to let you know this, my unalterable determina- 
 tion. 
 
 " As to your marriage 1 will say nothing, will leave you to dis 
 cover for yourself its results. 
 
 " Your little sister is dead. Died this morning. In mercy to 
 you I shall say no more than to give you the sad tidings. 
 
 " I shall not leave you to starve, neither shall your wife find 
 that she lias made a rich marriage. I shall pay over to you 
 iienceforth one thousand dollars per annum, wMiich is more than 
 many worthy clergymen have to subsi'i*: upon. 
 
 "If you have any energy or ambition about you, you will have 
 an o])i)ortunity thus, to advance yourself, but you need expect 
 nothing further from me. 
 
 "1 need not tell you that both your mother and myself arc 
 most bitterly grieved and disa[)pomted — most bitterly grieved. 
 " I repeat again that not under any circumstances shall your 
 wife be received at Lake Mordaunt. 
 
 " You have our forgiveness, my son, for the wrong you have 
 done us, and our sympathy for the wrong you have done your- 
 
never nee 
 
 pc:u;e be 
 \y eliougli. 
 oming, r«'t 
 is lioust," 
 
 I lie follow- 
 ) save the 
 
 - 1873- 
 
 'ated your 
 rompletcly 
 lUirriage. 
 ve that it is 
 
 DU SCCIU to 
 
 c 
 
 •r the door 
 
 ning your 
 
 ilctcrmina- 
 
 you to dis- 
 
 n mercy to 
 
 in wife IiikI 
 er to you 
 more than 
 
 u will have 
 [ed expect 
 
 [nyself are 
 
 grieved. 
 
 I shall your 
 
 V you have 
 [one your- 
 
 THK DviNc, i.n-rr.K pkackmakkr. 
 
 19 
 
 icif. ^'ollr little sister, lying upon her l>ifr. is the j)earcmaker 
 who has brought you this forj;ivencHs, divirtm-d our resentment 
 and canned us to extend the helping' hand, that niight not 
 iJthenvise have been eMeudeil. \'t»ur wife we simply ignore- 
 to do aught else would be treason to yourself and to others a» 
 dear to us as you are. 
 
 •• F cannot ailvise you in your new life, though f much fear ad 
 vice is ne( essary to you. I shall abstain from interference in 
 your affairs. 
 
 " Vour moilier bends her love to you, her sorrowing .uul 
 prayerful love, and your father joins with lier. i'.thrl knows no- 
 thinj,' as yet, an<l she has sufVicient grief already without increas- 
 ing it until she is hciter able to bear it. 
 " I am, my dear Keggie, 
 
 ** V'our affectionate father, 
 
 •' Hknrv Mo k daunt." 
 
 •• Are you not too severe towards him, my dear husband ? I 
 
 mean as to some of the expressions of the letter. \'ou are 
 
 liberal enough pecuniarily. Could you not have written more 
 
 kindly?" said Mrs. Monlaunt, looking up with tears in her eyes 
 
 to her husband's face. 
 
 '• No, Florence. It is better as it is. 'The sooner he learns 
 his real position the better. Poor fellow I he will soon enough, 
 I fear, find out what a fool's paradi.se he has entered. 
 
 " With the wife he has taken he will not find the thousand 
 dollars a year too liberal, nor will she either, that is one couifort ; 
 she will not fuul her adventure a rich one. 
 
 •' Let the letter go as it is," e continued, and the letter was 
 
 sent. 
 '* It is doubtful though," said >Trs. Mordaunt, after a pause, 
 
 during which her mind had been engaged with the painful sub- 
 ject they had discussed, " it is doubtful though if he receive 
 the letter. They will not in all i)rol)al)iIity remain any time in 
 that place. 
 
 " They may not start at once for home, yet they will hardly 
 remain there, for you may be sure that she will not consent to 
 forego her i)leasurc trip," said Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 
 ' ( 
 
i 
 
 :l 
 
 } 
 
 h 
 
 1 
 
 %\ 
 
 ■1| 
 
 80 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " Well ! I hope he will get it," replied her husband. " I 
 sincerely hope so, as it will save unpleasantness to all of us." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ADA SPEAKS. 
 
 When Mr. Kdwin Vance had driven away from Lake Mor- 
 daunt a^ter his very unsatisfactory interview with its owner, he 
 did so mechanically and with much the same consciousness of 
 volition about the act as he had about putting on his hat on go- 
 ing out of the door. He drove away simply because it was as 
 obviously necessary a thing for him to do as the putting on his 
 hat had been. It was the first thing for him to do and he did 
 it, tlioujh without any purpose or defined idea. 
 
 Whither he was going, or what should be his next step, he 
 knew not, had not thought, and his excited and disquieted brain 
 was probably hardly in a state to form at once a rational or 
 connected idea about the matter. So he simply drove away. 
 
 He found himself, as it were, placed in the position of one 
 suddenly started upon a totally unexpected journey, for which 
 he was wholly unprepared, and of which he had never thought, 
 not even knowing whither he was bound or what direction his 
 steps sliould tend. Conscious only that he was moving and 
 that there was an end to attain, though without a guiding cir- 
 cumstance or ray of light to show how it was to be attained, 
 moving on simply because there was naught else left for him 
 to do. 
 
 He would iiave much preferred nof to have driven away as he 
 did, frum Lake Mordaunt, for many reasons, a: maybe imagin- 
 ed ; but the force of circumstances was too urgent, and he could 
 not remain. 
 
 He had to go forth, unprepared and unaided by anything, save 
 a name, towards the elucidation of the mystery that had shroud- 
 ed his own and his P^thel's happiness. 
 
ADA SPEAKS. 
 
 8z 
 
 He drove on then mechanically for some time, his mind l)ent 
 upon the strange interview through which he had passed, and 
 its equally strange incidents, recalling and pondering uselessly 
 every A'ord that had fallen and every event that had been re- 
 lated to him, but at the same time gradually quieting and 
 composing his excited nerves and bewildered brain into method 
 and order that would developc and centre again upon a pur- 
 pose. 
 
 At length he awakened from his reveries to find himself close 
 upon the village of Ten Lakes, having unknowmgly passed the 
 road to Cascades, from whence he had come, and as he hesitat- 
 ed as to whether he should turn back towards it or continue on, 
 it flashed upon his mind that Mr. Mordaunt had named Emily 
 Dearborn to him as the preferrer, or possible authoress, of the 
 charges that had come between him and his love and that it was 
 possible he might obtain by some chance or other a clue, some 
 trace or stray scrap of information that might be of service to 
 him, and as he had no more particular purpose in directing his 
 uncertain steps to Cascades than to any other place in his pre- 
 sent state of doubt, he resolved to endeavour a meeting with 
 some of the Dearborn family and try for results. 
 
 He therefore drove up to the hotel, consigned his team to the 
 ostler who had served him on a previous occasion, and went into 
 the house to consider his next move. 
 
 After ordering dinner, he started out on a voyage of discovery, 
 intending to call at the Dearborns' residence in case he met none 
 of the family, making for himself the pretext that he might hear 
 something ?f interest, though that was hardly probable in Emily's 
 absence. The real motive perhaps for delaying in Ten Lakes 
 was its neighborhood to his Ethel, and his unwillingness to t(^ar 
 himself away under circumstances so distressingly unsatisfac- 
 tory. 
 
 As he strolled up the street his thoughts on the subject were 
 arrested by the sudden drawing up beside him of a carriage, 
 
 \ \ \ 
 
 i ^ 
 
89 
 
 SHE iMIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 n I't 
 
 and tlic fresh young voice of Ada Dearborn, who with a younger 
 hrodier occui)ied it, fell on his ear. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Vance," she said, " T am so glad to see you. Have 
 you come from Lake Mordaunt to-day?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Ada," he rei)lied, going u[) to the carriage and 
 shaking hands with its flur occupant. " I liavc but just returned. 
 I only remained an hour, however. I am sorry to say they are in 
 great distress there. Poor little Alida, I was horrified to learn, 
 is on her death bed. Had you heard it ?'' 
 
 "Yes, Mr, Vance, I had heard it from the doctor, and could 
 hardly believe it. How very dreadful for them all, and I fear 
 there is an added grief for them in prospect. 
 
 " Was Reginald at home, may 1 ask ? I really have a strong 
 motive for the question, Mr. \'ance," said Ada, who Vance now 
 noticed, wore a disturbed and distjuieted look upon her usually 
 bright and laughing face. 
 
 " No, he was not, Miss Dearborn. I met him in Cascades 
 
 to-day to my surprise, as he was in " and Edwin hesitated, 
 
 suddenly remembering he was addressing the sister of the com- 
 panion of Reggie's flight. 
 
 " In Cascades," re[)eated she. " 'Was he alone ? Did you 
 see that he was alone? Oh I believe me, that I ask from no 
 imi)roper motive, but it would be a great relief to me to know 
 that he was alone," continued Ada, excitedly, and with a hot 
 ('olour in her face. 
 
 Edwin Vance paused a moment ere lie replied. " My dear 
 Ada, I think I know to v/hat you allude by your question, and I 
 fear my answer will not be as }ou would wish it ; that will be no 
 relief to you. I met " 
 
 " Then my sister was with him ?" interrupted Ada. " Pray 
 have no hesitation in telling me, Mr. Vance, of the disgraceful 
 fact. If it is so we have di.sgrace enough before us that you 
 need not hesitate to tell me," continued Ada looking half de- 
 
ADA SPEAKS. 
 
 83 
 
 flaiUly, half tearfully, at the rather painfully situated young 
 gentleman before her. 
 
 " Yes ! Miss luiiily Dearborn was with him. I met them at 
 the railway station, anJ was somewhat surprised at meeting them 
 though 1 was so occupied with anxieties of my own that I i)aid 
 but little attention to aught else. I do not see though, my dear 
 Ada, that you sliould couple disgrace with the fact, to yourselves 
 al any rate, for 1 may add that, whilst with Mr. Mordaunt this 
 afternoon, some information was brought him, not very reliable 
 I. jwever, that they were on their way to be married, and that 
 in all probability ere this, your sister is Mrs. Reginald 2^ior- 
 daunt." 
 
 '• is not that disgrace sufficient for me — for all connected with 
 her? Think a moment ! Will it not be said, and said with 
 truth, that my sister, a portionless girl, has taken advantage of 
 the youthful inexperience uf an vmformed boy, the only son of very 
 vvealthy people, to eiitia[» him into :\ most unsuitable marriage ; 
 an elopement planned b)' herself to secure a rich marriage. Is 
 ]iut that disgrace sufficient, Mr. Vance ? And then that this 
 hatefi'-l affair should take place at the very time when h"s little 
 sister is dying. 
 
 '* How dreadful for hnn — for all of them i My sister, I am 
 ashamed to say, will be ihj only (jne who will not feel the dis- 
 grace, who will feel nothing but exultation at the success of her 
 plr.ns. But, Mr. Vance, now tliat we are upon this painful sub- 
 ject, may I ask you a question ? A question relative to yourself 
 and your own affairs, Ir.it whirh now interference on my part — 
 the sister of Emily Dearborn — might not be imjustifiable, as it 
 might possibly render you ?. service. Are your relations with 
 your affianced J^bride, Ethel Mordaunt, as happy as they were 
 when T was at I^ake Mordaunt — as happy as they should 
 be? Whether you answer mc or not, Mr. Vance, I shall tell 
 you what T have to tell .and which the dreadful event of to-day, 
 
 ; > '' 
 
 il 
 
»4 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 empowers mc to tell," and Ada looked u[) into his face as if 
 awaiting his reply. 
 
 " No, Ada, they are not so hai4)y as they were. Very different 
 indeed. Throiigli false representations, the exact nature of 
 which, by reason of .Miss Mordaunt's illness, I suppose, I am 
 not able as yet to ascertain, our engagement is broken off, and 
 1 am almost at my wits end. All that I could learn to-day was 
 that these representations emanated from your sister, I am very 
 sorry to say, and as I know them to be false, I am compelled to 
 consider that she cannot be guiltless in the matter." 
 
 " Your engagement l)roken off ! Oh ! Mr. Vance can it be 
 so bad as that ?" exclaimed Ada, in an accent of horror, and 
 siirinking back into herself as if struck by a blow. 
 
 " Did you say i)Ositively that Emily was concerned in it, that 
 it emanated from her? Oh ! it is too horrible. 
 
 " Mr. Vance," she continued, hurriedly, " if you know your- 
 self to be innocent towards your afhanced, you can look upon it 
 as a truth that Emily Dearborn is at tlie bottom of your trouble. 
 I have heard her threaten Ethel's happiness ; from vague hints 
 I have for some time feared that she meant, if she could, to work 
 mischief against your engagement, but when she became engag- 
 ed to Reginald, as she has been for some weeks to my knowledge, 
 I supposed, as I might very naturally be expected to suppose, 
 that all such ideas would be relinquished by her. You can 
 blame her for all. You need look no further, save that in all 
 probability Sidney Wolverton was in league with her, or was 
 
 " But what poss'lJe motive could she have, Ada ? That is 
 ♦vhat I cannot undefstri]i:i, I certainly have never injured her 
 that she should do so fri^ntful a harm," interrupted Edwin, e.\- 
 citedly. " It seen-s :; ■) inexplicable." 
 
 '•' Not inexplicable- at . 11. .Sac probably wished that you should 
 have married her ir rj.es^l, and was jealous ; she hated Ethel. 
 
face as if 
 
 ry different 
 nature of 
 )ose, 1 am 
 in off, and 
 0-day was 
 I am very 
 mpelled to 
 
 can it be 
 orror, and 
 
 in it, that 
 
 now your- 
 
 ok upon it 
 
 ur trouble. 
 
 gue hints 
 
 , to work 
 
 le engag- 
 
 lowledge, 
 
 suppose, 
 
 You can 
 
 [hat in all 
 
 \r, or was 
 
 That is 
 lured her 
 Iwin, ex- 
 should 
 
 Ethel. 
 
 % 
 
 EMILY'S HONEYMOON. 
 
 85 
 
 He ambition has always been to marry a rich man, dreadful as 
 it appears that I, her sister, should have to say it. 
 
 " Mr. Vance, I \«ill do what 1 can to help you to right your- 
 self, for Ethefs sake, but to-day I am too much disturbed. I 
 must go home and tell my parents what has befallen them. We 
 have been very anxious all day since we missed Emily, as there 
 were suspicious circumstance connected with her absence. 
 
 "Call at our house to-morrow, and I will see you further upon 
 this dreadful matter. For the present I must say * farewell,' " 
 and without waiting for another word Ada drove off with her 
 round-eyed little brother, who had occupied himself duiing the 
 interview in staring fixedly upon Edwin, and now turned his 
 chubby face over his shoulder to continue his pleasing pursuit 
 so long as the object of his gaze remained in sight. 
 
 Edwin Vance, thoroughly astonished at the things he had 
 heard, gazed after them with a round-eyed stare almost equalling 
 that by which he was stared at, until, recovering himself, he 
 turned back to the hotel to eat his dinner with what a])petite he 
 could muster, and revolve the new lights of his position in his 
 mind, endeavoring to extract a small modi' um of hope out of 
 them. lie was determined, however, to remain where he was 
 for the present, and await further developments, and he had not 
 found his visit to Ten Lakes altogether in vain. 
 
 There we will leave him, and turn to another scene of our 
 story. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Emily's honeymoon. 
 
 Emily Mordaunt, the bride of a day old, was a very different 
 woman from the Emily Dearborn of but two days ago, secure 
 in her marriage. Her fears had gone, and with her fears had 
 gone also the recollection of them. For her tlie consequences 
 
 !l 
 
 
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 WWT 
 
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 86 
 
 SHK MIOHT HAVr: DONE BETTER. 
 
 that had seemed so frightful l)Ut two short days since no longer 
 existed. Done with the i)ast it was at once swept away from 
 her mind and forgotten. 
 
 Of what furtlier avail the slain dragons that could no longer 
 ai)iial her present. Away with them. Away -.vith the dead possi- 
 bilities of spent minutes, and place, for the nptitudes of the 
 living and striking hour. 
 
 Her confidence in herself and her own powers had returned, 
 and with it had set in ngain the full tide of her ambition. 
 
 Now that the dread of personal danger to herself, under 
 which she had been the veriest coward, had ]iassed away, her 
 active brain — disdainful and unappalled by moral terrors — com- 
 menced again, the first day of her married life, when other girls 
 would have been wrapt up in the soft dreamings of romance, 
 its schemings and plottings tor advancement and self-aggrand- 
 izement. 
 
 The security which her niarrir?;c gave her, had brought her 
 back her strength, but with that strength hr.d come, even thus 
 early — tl lip first day of her honey-moon — a slight feeling, a tinge, 
 but perceptibly distinct and recognized, a leeling of regret for 
 the step she had taken, for her marri.'.ge, not yet a day old. 
 
 For was not the full and swelling tide of Ik.t ambition now 
 hemmed in, pent and contuied v/ithin the narrow bounds which 
 Jiei- marrii.:'e to Reggie Mordaunt had sec in impassable limits 
 before he.'. Into the narrow reach left her, must that swelling 
 tide of striving hope be cribbed, where before was the limitless 
 ocean for its expansion. 
 
 But if a feeling of regret for the step, that but so lately had 
 seemed a necessity, was present to her, there was equally 
 present the fact that the step had been taken, and its conse- 
 quences inevitable. 
 
 She was married, and she recognized that her marriage placed 
 bounds ; gave inevitable and cliangeless direction to her ambi- 
 tious desnes. 
 
KMILVS IIONFVMOON. 
 
 ^7 
 
 ce no lon^c r 
 
 She was n Mordaunt ; tlic course of )icr life was tlxcd, and 
 >lic was siilTicicntly riwaro that if she was to rise at all, that rise 
 must l)e through her younji husband and his family. 
 
 Her energies were boiuided, though her imhition was hound- 
 less, l>ut when within this narrow reacli, its swelling tide was 
 ( onfined, its waters heajietl up and pressed witlu'n their limits, 
 would not their concentrated 'ind forceful power Ik" the stronger, 
 ix-ach the farther, and '•ush tlic faster to the objects desired? 
 
 Kinily Mordaunt was herself again. 
 
 The beautiful young bride — sitting in the liandsonie ])arlor of 
 ,1 Rochester hotel, the afternoon uf the day succeeding her mar- 
 t';ige, pondered on these tiling .. The bride of a day old found 
 li' r d('lighls in the Uiironiantic schemes of jjersonal advance 
 mt.iit, as tiiough her marriage liad been ten years back, instea'"' 
 of a few hours. 
 
 Her aims were distinctly before her in her uiind's eye, a)\d 
 llvj achievement of thos<.' ainvs occu})ied her tlioughts to the ex- 
 clusion of all softer emotions. 
 
 The loving attentions and deligliled talkings of her young 
 i)>isband at her side were to her evils — necessary es'ils it might 
 b'j— whicli had to be endured, but evils, nevertheless, distract- 
 ing her from the things of greater importance. 
 
 Tic vv'as demonstrative, enthus;asti(' in his happiness, careless 
 of consequences and of the fdturo, wrapt u[) in his fair bride, 
 and his dream of romance, eager to make manifest his love, 
 ami hungering for its return. 
 
 He had obtained his beautiful Emily, and lie was happy, but 
 hi:i happiness sprang from hiuiielf alone. Could he have ana- 
 l)'zed his sensations, he would ha\ e found that he was hai;j)y, be- 
 cause he felt that he ought to be liappy, having obtained that, 
 which die prospect oi" obtaining, had seemed so happy. 
 
 " Fauily, my ilarling," he said, " have you written to them at 
 Tea Lakes, yet, to tell them of our happiness?' 
 
Ilf 
 
 i 
 
 II 
 
 ■m 
 
 88 
 
 SHK mk;ht have done better. 
 
 •' No, Reggie I not yd, Where is the hurry?" she rejiUed, 
 carelessly, in the midst of her dreams. 
 
 '• Ikit they will feel so anxious about you, you know. Vou 
 were very particular thai I should write home, yesterday ; di- 
 rectly that we were married — and, why " 
 
 '• That was different, altogether," she interrupted. 
 
 '* It is very imiK)rt;int, for us that every means should be taken 
 to conciliate yoiu >arents and reconcile them to our marriage. 
 They do not like me, as it is, but they fondly love you, their 
 only son, and it would be very poor policy on our part, not to 
 wipe away any bitterness they may feel through our marriage, 
 by every attention to them and their feelings. 
 
 '* And, we have begun well. Vour letter to them was just the 
 thing dutiful and affectionate, yet taking your own grounds," 
 contiiiued Emily, praising herself, however, for she had mspired 
 the letter, while seeming to praise her husband. " Afy father 
 and mother, on the contrary, will be pleased enough, and we 
 need not be so iKirticular with them." 
 
 " Oh, Emily, you should not speak in that way of them ; I 
 know I shall be just as glaa >.o hear from them that they forgive 
 us for marrying as we liave done, as to hear the same from ni 
 own parents. But they will be so an.\.ious about you, and 
 alarmed at your unexjjLaiiied absence. There will be so much 
 talk made; if the matter is not known. I never could face it all," 
 he said. 
 
 " There will be Lilk enough, as it is," she thought to herself, 
 " writing will not help that, 1 expect. Much I'll care for the 
 facing of it." 
 
 " Well, Reggie, unlike most brides, I am ready to give up 
 the greater part of my wedding tour, in order to go back at once," 
 slie continued, aloud. " Partly to agreeably surprise my own 
 friends, but mostly to do the agreeable, be the agreeable, and 
 seek reconciliation from your's. The sooner we visit Lake 
 Mordaunt, the better." she added, decisively. "The less time 
 
ER. 
 
 she rei)lic(J, 
 
 know. \'ou 
 'estcrday ; di- 
 
 1. 
 
 lould be taken 
 3Ur marriage. 
 ve you, their 
 j)art, not to 
 3ur marriage, 
 
 1 was just the 
 
 vn grounds," 
 
 had mspired 
 
 " Afy father 
 
 ugh, and we 
 
 of them ; I 
 they forgive 
 ne from ni 
 t you, and 
 je so much 
 face it all," 
 
 t to lierself, 
 :are for the 
 
 to give up 
 ck at once," 
 se my own 
 cable, and 
 visit Lake 
 eless time 
 
 KMILY'S HONEYMOON. 
 
 89 
 
 wc give them to think over the matter, before ol)taining their 
 forgiveness to that wliich they cannot now help, the better, also. 
 Instead of going on to New York, to-night, as we arranged, let 
 us change the programme by shortening it. TiCt us go to Mont- 
 real, instead, remain over the morrow, an»l lience on to 'I'en 
 L;ikes, and Lake Mordaunt. Mad ; >ii not ter make arrange- 
 ments, Reggie, see about .i rrain an! nther tails, that Hill to a 
 gentleman's share ?" 
 
 " I am'sure that I cannot see what makes ^ju so very anxiou> 
 to get back, Emily, for I do not think you will find it so very i)lea- 
 sant, with my people, at all events. We had far better wait for 
 a few days, and enjoy ourselves, until we hear what is likely to 
 he our reception. Let us go on to New York, as we had agreed, 
 and return this way for our letters," replied Reggie, who did not 
 fancy an immediate interview with his father, much preferring 
 the enjoyment of his new-found happiness, away from the pos- 
 sibility of angry reproach. 
 
 " I can very well predict the nature of our reception, my 
 dear Reggie, and I am prepared for it. Of course, equally with 
 yourself, I should have preferred the i)leasure of a honeymoon 
 season, did not the circumstances render it best for us to 
 forego the enjoyment. It is very imi)ortant, absolutely ne- 
 cessary in fact, that we should liave things placed upon a proper 
 footing with your parents, and I can see no better means of suc- 
 cess, than by at once presenting ourselves before them." 
 
 Emily said this a little imperiously, as if her mind were made 
 up that it should be as she wished. She continued — 
 
 " We must be very particular to avoid the least appearance 
 of carelessness or neglect towards them. The sooner we meet, 
 the better chance of regaining their good-will, towards yourself, 
 at least." 
 
 " Very well then, my own Emiiy. If it pleases you, it shall 
 I)lease me, though we are, in my opinion, giving up our pleasure 
 uselessly. It is but a question of time with them at Lake Mor- 
 
 Li 
 
 1 t 
 
 I 
 
90 
 
 SHK MlGFir irvVK I)(»\K IIK'I'IKR. 
 
 daunt, aiul when thry come to know you, my darling, how will 
 they wondt r at their <;r\iel prejudice." 
 
 U'itli tliese words, Reggie surrendered to his heautiful wife, 
 with the reward of a kiss — the infliction of which she sufTered. 
 as a matter of course — a penalty of the easy gaining of her 
 point. 
 
 " We shall not be at home for two days yet, that is one bless- 
 ing !" he continued, as he left the room. 
 
 "Well, my cards are pretty hard to play," so)ilo(|ui/<'(l Mis. 
 Reggie .Mordaunt, as she seated herself again comfor tab! v, upon 
 her husband's e.xit, " and I need not count upon much effective 
 assistance in the playing from my young worse-half, either, that 
 seems certain. 'I'o manage these Mordaiuits, will prove an en- 
 terprise of ditficuily, and 1 have to do this work alone," she 
 continued. " The sole aid that ingenious Reggie can bring me, 
 is the love of his parents for him. That must overcome their 
 dislike to myself, in some measure, at least. 
 
 " If I but carry on my affairs properly, I shall soon have the 
 mother round upon our side. She may be the bitterest against 
 me for a fjw days, but she will not hold out long against her 
 own, especially as there is no remedy. 
 
 '' I shall find my generalship more called into i)lay with the 
 Either and lOthel. Cool, quiet, and determined, as is the former, 
 a decision once arrived at will be long maintained, while in 
 Kthel, r shall have a bitter enemy. But she is, fortunately, yet 
 too ill and weak to be very formidal.)le, and the sooner the first 
 meeting with them is accomplished, the sooner will they become 
 accustomed to the new order of afiairs with Reggie, and the 
 less opportunity will Miss Ethel have to undermine us. 
 
 "Of course, our reception will not be a i)leasant one, that is 
 to be expected, even Reggie knows that, but what do I care .' 
 I know h(jw to bear the disagreeables, to put the disagreeables 
 to use, also. 
 
 " The sense of my triumph over them, shall keep me cool, if 
 
ig, how wil I 
 
 •;uitiful wifi'. 
 slu' sufTorcd. 
 Jiiing of Iki 
 
 is one bless- 
 
 qiii/rd Mrs, 
 )rtaM .. upon 
 inch effective 
 , citlier, that 
 prove an en 
 alone," she 
 n bring me. 
 .Tcome tlieir 
 
 ju have lln 
 rest against 
 ligainst her 
 
 |iy with the 
 
 the former, 
 
 [1, wliile in 
 
 nately, yet 
 
 ler tlie first 
 
 |iey become 
 
 ', and thi' 
 
 IS. 
 
 |ne, that is 
 
 o I care r 
 
 |agreeahles 
 
 be cool, if 
 
 EMILY'S HONKVMOON. 
 
 91 
 
 nothing else would ; the first impressions that 1, .is lunily Mor- 
 daunt, will leave behind me, shall not be unfavv)urable, at all 
 events, in the ligl\l of their son's wife. Reggie shall be happy 
 n\ his wife, for that occasion, and it shall be apparent that he h 
 iupi)y. 
 
 " If I can manage ih.il the first lew weeks shall pass well 
 with us, I can count I'Uhel out of the game. I shall have noth- 
 Migmore to fear from her, she is effectually disarmed in the 
 Vance affair, by my marriage, and, as time runs on, she will be 
 left to herself, to nurse her griefs alone. They will beiome 
 stale, as fresher events rise tu the surface, to more inunedialely 
 interest those who a.e not the active sufferers. 
 
 " Mrs. Mordaimt, too, day by day, will blind herself to^all 
 save that I am Reggie's wife, and Reggie happy with me. All 
 unfavourable impressions will (lisai)pear in the end, l)efure these 
 facts in the mother's eye. From being an enemy, she will be- 
 come an ally, and ICthel's woes shall take a secondary i)lace — in 
 her estimation — to Reggie's grievances, which shall be kept ever 
 present before her. 
 
 '' If I can but keep things so thai Mr. Mordaimt shall not 
 displace Reggie in his will and be tolerably liberal in the mean- 
 time it is about as mucli as I can well hope for from him. 
 
 ** 1 can try, however, for greater things, and as I have but 
 little else to do but try, there is no saying how far successful I 
 may be. The Lake .Mordaunt property shall be mine in the 
 end. By hook or by crook I will have it, nor shall it be my 
 fault if, in the end, the greater part of the .Mordaunt wealth does 
 not fall to Reggie also. 
 
 " Ethel, in all probability, will die an old maid. If 1 can 
 keep the quarrel with Vance alive, to a certainty she will ])ass 
 into that unenviable condition. 
 
 " If I can prevent it, she shall not marry Vance. She will 
 never marry another, and her fate is tolerably sure. 
 
 " I am a Mordaunt now — one of them — an important mem- 
 
 I I 
 
 * I 
 
 II 
 

 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-S) 
 
 ?^ 
 
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 ^ 
 
 ^.<?» 
 
 r/. 
 
 
 
 1.0 I^BS I 
 
 I.I 
 
 2.5 
 
 
 IL25 i 1.4 
 
 1.6 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 
 23 WIST MAIN STRUT 
 
 WHSTIR.N.Y. 14SM 
 
 (716) •73-4503 
 
 '^ 
 
f: 
 
 
 iM^ 
 
 ; I 
 
 92 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ber of the family, one whom they will have to consider, and if 
 I do not mistake myself very considerably, I am the best of 
 them also, in so far as capability is concerned. 
 
 "I rather imagine though that that is not altogether their im- 
 pression," she continued with a laugh. 
 
 " I am a pariah in their eyes, an outcast, I suppose. 
 
 " Well ! perhaps I deserve to be so considered by them, bui 
 it shall be all the worse for them that I remain so. 
 
 " The triumph is with me at present. The defeat and loss 
 with them. It shall not be my fault if still the tide of my suc- 
 cess flows not on to the full. 
 
 " Notwithstanding all the serious errors which I committed in 
 the Vance affair, all my plans have prospered. 
 
 " Even though events have not turned out as I intended, I 
 have prospered. 
 
 " To have married Reggie Mordaunt so soon, if at all, was 
 hardly upon the programme, but it became necessary, and, so 
 far, I see no reason for much dissatisfaction. 
 
 " The prizes are not in my grasp ; the long fight for them is 
 still to be fought, yet in the end I shall stand the victor. 
 
 " If Edwin Vance had not met with E'.hel Mordaunt I should 
 have married him I think. Not very difficult for me would it 
 have been to have fanned into a flame the sparks of interest, 
 very obvious interest, which she diverted from me and lost to 
 me. 
 
 " She takes nothing by her motion, however, as a lawyer 
 would say. I have non-suited her with a vengeance. 
 
 " If I did not obtain that which I desired, neither is she to 
 be congratulated. It is, too, of greater importance to her than 
 to me, for my heart — I supi)Ose I possess one — is not touched 
 in the matter. The blow falls very easily upon me, but for her 
 there is no recovery unless she regains her lover, and that I do 
 not intend she shall do. 
 
 *' Yet it would have been better for me in every way if I 
 
EMILY'S HONEYMOON. 
 
 9^ 
 
 , and if 
 best ot 
 
 heir im- 
 
 icm, biu 
 
 iiid loss 
 my suc- 
 
 iiitted in 
 
 ended, I 
 
 all, was 
 \ and, so 
 
 them is 
 
 • 
 
 I should 
 
 Iwould it 
 
 interest, 
 
 lost to 
 
 lawyer 
 
 |s she to 
 Iher than 
 
 touched 
 for her 
 
 lat I do 
 
 Iway if 1 
 
 could have married Yancc. He would have made a good woman 
 of me. I should have been a good wife to him, while now 
 
 " Well ! 1 sui)i)Ose I shall have to be a good wife to Reggie, 
 in order the better to fight my worthy father and mother-in-law. 
 yet the process, I su[)pose, will not be conducive to making me 
 any better than I am at present. 
 
 " That cannot be helped, and I dare say I shall remain very 
 contented in my normal state of badness. 
 
 *' The ro/c of a good woman, after all, would hadly be con- 
 genial to me. 
 
 '• 1 wor.der, too, w hat Sidney Woherton wil say to my meta- 
 morphosi>' ? 
 
 " He '.'ill not like it, that is very certain, but he will have to 
 l)Ut up wl'h it. I should have been a fool to have married him, 
 
 though I could easily enough have loved the man, villain as he 
 is. 
 
 " Yet my marriage with Reggie Mordaunt, not a rich one, 
 and with but little love on my part, is preferable to the fate of 
 becoming Sidney Wolverton's wife. 
 
 " And he is a villain, an unmitigated villain. Tiiough I am 
 not a pattern of saintliness myself, yet I should fmd it very diffi- 
 cult to continue love for one whose villainies have descended to 
 mean villainies. 
 
 '* And his villainies are certainly not of the heroic order. 
 
 " No ! I am better as the wife of good-natured, simple Reg- 
 gie, even though I do not greatly love or highly respect him. 
 Still, he is not a villain. 
 
 " In the enci, I shall have wealth, and power, and influence, 
 'fhe wealth of the Mordaunt's, and the power and influence 
 which I am very well able to derive from such, shall well content 
 me. 
 
 '• Meanwhile, I shall find my hapi>iness and my occupation in 
 striving for their early attainment. Yes, it is better to press on 
 
 8 
 
 IM 
 
 jl 
 
 ll 
 
 11 
 
lit' 
 
 94 
 
 SHE iMIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 i' i 
 
 I5vj|l 
 
 »; i 
 
 homeward, at once, and get beyond uncertainty into assurance 
 of the ground upon winch we at present stand. 
 
 " I'll beard the Mordaunt lion in his den, despite portentous 
 growls antici])atory. I will be a dutiful cliild, begging forgive- 
 ness ; throwing up my hands, and saying, « It was all for love ; 
 liow then can you blame us ?' for the mollification of the out- 
 raged jKirental heart. 
 
 " And it will be very strange if I do not mollify in the end 
 the prejudices of these people. I shall endeavour to conduct 
 myself, and to so lead Reggie, that their dislike of me be not in- 
 creased, at any rate. It will be very odd, indeed, Emily Mor- 
 daunt, if you do not, before very long, wij^e all that out. 
 
 " At any rate, I shall see what line I shall ha\-c to take in ni) 
 warf\u-e, my coming fight. For oi)en battle, or smiling truce, I 
 am ecjually ready. I am on the vantage ground as the wife of 
 their son, success is but a question of time, and I can endure 
 the meagre i)resent in the prospect of the rich future. 
 
 ''To drill Reggie into his })art is the next thing that I shall 
 have to do, for he will be an important player on the board. 
 There must be no blustering or heroics to mar the day in his 
 demeanour. 
 
 " He shall be happy in his wife, and they shall see it. They 
 shall see too, that although earnestly desirous that his famil}- 
 lies remain unbroken, his wife comes first with him, his famil\ 
 next. 
 
 " 'J'he task with him is easy enough for me. I can mould him 
 to my hand as I please. I would that all the rest were as 
 facile. 
 
 " Now I shall go and i)repare for the journey. I shall not 
 write to them at home, it will be preferable to meet them, per- 
 sonally, and I am afraid to let that sneak, .Vda, know anything 
 more than I can help, until I get her disarmed by her mother's 
 authority. They will suspect what has happened, but they rnn- 
 not know certainly, and I prefer to tell my own story." 
 
KMILY'S HOXKVMOOX. 
 
 95 
 
 ii 
 
 irancc 
 
 -ntous 
 )rgivc- 
 • love ; 
 c oiit- 
 
 \c end 
 anducl 
 not in- 
 y jNIor- 
 
 ; in mj- 
 Lrucc, I 
 wife of 
 endure 
 
 I shall 
 board, 
 in his 
 
 The) 
 faniil) 
 fLimil) 
 
 lild him 
 lere as 
 
 all not 
 n, per- 
 liything 
 lother's 
 ley ran- 
 
 Such was tlie course of Emily's rellections, and in similar 
 strain they were continued, as slie made her prej^arations, until 
 interrupted by iier young liu^band's relurn. 
 
 " Well, Reggie," she said, as he entered her room in search of 
 her, " what is to be the order of our proceeding ? When do we 
 start ? I am all ready." 
 
 " There is a train at seven," he replied, "and if we go by it. 
 we shall reach Montreal in the morning ; but I reall\- cannot see 
 the necessity for our return at once. W'c are going to meet 
 those disagreeables which we can just as well encounter later. 
 ( )ur marriage ought to l)ring us a few days' freedom from such ; 
 at any rate, Emily, I always imagined thai young ladies set great 
 store upon a long marriage tour, and wh.y we — " 
 
 " }>ut I do not, Reggie," interrupU'd his wife. " It has no 
 romance or pleasure for me under the circumstances, nor do I 
 see that it need for you, either. I am very hapi)y as it is, and 
 have you not me to comfort you under th.e depri\alion. No, 
 it is better for us that we return and meet them all, as soon as 
 possible. Why should we fear disagreeables ? For to do so, is 
 to admit that our marriage was wrong, and that I do not imagine 
 either would wish to admit. The only solid ground of com- 
 plaint that your friends can have is tluit you are yet ver)- young 
 to enter upon the resi)onsibililies of married life. No very seri- 
 ous objection, and one that each day will make less. There 
 can be nothing else tenable against us. I am a lady, certainly 
 good-looking and acomplished enough to be your wife and their 
 daughter-in-law. You think the same, I'm inclined to believe. 
 Master Reggie. Quite good enough to enter into the ^[ordaunt 
 family, grand as they think tliemselves," said luiiily, with a be- 
 witching little laugh, turning her pretty face towards her young 
 husband. 
 
 In his physiognomy was plainly written the belief that slie 
 was an angel, though it is, on the whole, very doubtful tliat, had 
 
 *' n 
 
 ir 
 
 t 
 
 n 
 
\i 
 
 ! 
 
 l<K 1 
 
 ? 
 
 , 
 
 til 
 f 
 
 ■;' 
 
 
 i' 
 
 
 
 !? 
 
 (\ 
 
 i 
 
 ti!:i: 11:*'.: 4... 
 
 96 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 any of his family been present, they would have endorsed his 
 belief. 
 
 " Good enough ! Good enough for the Mordaunts ! I should 
 think you are, Emily," exclaimed the enraptured young swain, 
 who, to do him justice, loved dearly his beautiful, though un- 
 amiable wife. 
 
 " They should be proud that you are one of them," he con- 
 tinued. " It is but a miserable prejudice, for which I cannot 
 account and will not forgive, that puts them into opposition to 
 our happiness. But, no thanks to them though, they could not 
 prevent tliat happiness. I cannot easily forgive their dislike to 
 you, my darling, so unreasonable, so ridiculous towards one so 
 beautiful nnd so good." 
 
 " But you must forgive it, Reggie, and you must make uj) 
 your mind to go back cheerfully to meet them, as I wish you to 
 do. It does not belong to you, it will not do for you, to resent 
 that which your parents have the right to view from their own 
 stand-point. It will not do for you, for either of us, to offend 
 your father, or to widen the breach thac may already exist. 
 You must remember, too, that you have taken a wife, incurring 
 new responsibilities, and you cannot afford to quarrel with those 
 on whom your future so much depends. You must strive to re- 
 gain, if it be lost, your status with them as their son, the 
 ha[)[)y relations which have previously existed. It is very ne- 
 cessary for us, and will not that (^■)ndition of things, also, be very 
 pleasant, Reggie ?" 
 
 " Yes, I admit the pleasantness, if it can brought about," re- 
 plied Reggie, to his wife's address ; an address so very virtuous 
 in its resentments, as to appear rather foreign to her real cha- 
 racter. 
 
 *' Why can it not be done ?" resumed Emily, waxing earnest 
 in her pur])ose. ''Can we not disarm their resentment by subdu- 
 ing our own, as we are in duty bound to do towards our parents, 
 and by ai)proaching them as children should approach an offend- 
 
di 
 
 EMITiY'S HONEVMOOX. 
 
 97 
 
 ■I- 
 
 i! 
 
 d his 
 
 hould 
 iWain, 
 h un- 
 
 : con- 
 :annot 
 ion to 
 lid not 
 like to 
 3ne so 
 
 ike ui^ 
 you to 
 
 I resent 
 
 fir own 
 
 offend 
 
 exist. 
 
 urring 
 
 ih those 
 3 to re- 
 n, the 
 ery nc- 
 )e very 
 
 |ut," re- 
 [irtuous 
 il cha- 
 
 learnest 
 subdu- 
 )arcnts, 
 1 offend- 
 
 ed father and mother, seeking reconciliation that sktll make all 
 liai)py. We shall be doing that which is right, and we should 
 not find the doing of it disagreeable. Again, Reggie, if you 
 shew them tiiat you are hapi)y with your wife, will it not make 
 them the hai)i)ier, and reconcile them to you and her, to see it ? 
 If you show them that we are anxious to please and to consider 
 them, will not they be pleased thereby? And are we not bound, 
 both of us, to consider their feelings ? You, the more esi)ecially, 
 as their son, and, tlie facL of tlieir great love for you binds you 
 to consider them. Between llieir love for you, and their pre- 
 judice against me, they i)robably are not, at present, very 
 hapi)y j so we are bound, by striving to remove that prejudice, 
 which alone our dutiful conduct can do, to ease he acliing of 
 their hearts. 
 
 " vSuch is my opinion of that which we have to do," slie con- 
 tinued. " Besides, Reggie, you should, at least, let me have 
 my own way ui)on my hone) moon days, and I wisli to start 
 homewards, ihis evening." 
 
 Emily asked this, but, at the same time, she was fully of the 
 opinion that she would have her own way, not only on her 
 honevmoon davs, buL alter them, also. 
 
 " You are right, l-juil}', as you alvvays are," he replied, ga/ing 
 fondly ujxjn his \.'ire, whose face so brightly animated, seemed to 
 express that her sentiments sprang from the deep convictions of 
 her heart, in place of being, as they were, tlie mere words which 
 her intellect prompted as the best to bring her husband over to 
 her views. 
 
 " You have convinced me," he continued, " my owii darling, 
 if my father had heard your noble ideas, as I have now heard 
 them, would he not be compelled tj own his mis-conception of 
 one so amiable and true ?" 
 
 *' But he did not iiear them, Reggie, and if we wish the mis- 
 conception removed, the sooner we conunence, the better for 
 all of us," quickly rei)lied Emily. " ^^'e had better go down to 
 
 ,1". 
 
98 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 tea, however, as we liave to start soon, and i)eople on their 
 honeymoon appear to become hungry as often as in ordinary 
 o very-day Hfe." 
 
 " Very well, let us go down, then, and appease our hunger. 
 
 One thing, though, is very certain, that hunger will not be a 
 
 prominent sensation with me when, the day after to-morrow, I 
 
 approach Lake Mordaunt, and my father's presence," answered 
 
 Reggie, who laughed as he said the words. 
 
 CHAPTl'R Vni. 
 
 ni 
 
 THE SKV SIIAI.I. JlRIijHTKX ok'r THL: LITTLE GRAVE. 
 
 " Earth to earth ; ashes to ashes ; dust to dust." 
 
 Standing upon the edge of the little grave, that in a mi- 
 nute's space would shroud for ever a beloved form — that of his 
 dead child — from earthly ken, the grand words of the burial 
 service of the C'hurch of England, so solemnly beautiful, sound- 
 ed on the father's ears. 
 
 Sounded on his cars with a vast significance, a new and awful 
 impress, that, to him, had never before been attained. 
 
 Cireat words that, until then, had never revealed to him the 
 grandeur of their meaning. 
 
 Sounded in his ears, and heard with the tremendous interest 
 of one to whom Death, for the first time, has come home ; 
 snatching, for the first time, from the clinging grasp, the loved 
 and dear -, ending, perforce, for this earth, the fatherly care — 
 the loving care that was so bitter to end, that to have continued 
 would have been so sweet. 
 
 Heard with the tremendous inter- ^^^t of one whose love, 
 stretching beyond the impassable limits of the grave, listens 
 with intent yearning to the glorious words of the Father, the 
 Heavenly Father, wlio — taking bis treasure, replacing his lov- 
 ing care — gives the grand promise of His better care. 
 
THE SKY SHALL IJRIGHTKN. 
 
 99 
 
 II 
 
 I am tlic Resurrection, and the Life !" 
 
 Though tlic splendid words, wliose vastness reached his soul, 
 as he stood at the last parting, to give u\) his child to his God, 
 would not, on the instant, perhaps, wipe away the blinding tears, 
 or heal up, at once, the wounded heart, yet did not the consol- 
 ing ^lercy, the vast Promise fall in its strength of sweetness, 
 upon that heart whose earthly love so longed and yearned ? 
 
 Did not the father know then — know what before he had but 
 believed — that his child was now God's child, and that it was 
 well with her ? 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt, at the funeral of his little Ally, stood alone — 
 alone in a crowd — for though the respect and liking in which 
 he and his were held had sent a representative from every 
 family, rich or poor, of the surrounding country, yet none of 
 his own blood supported him, as with grieving heart, and moist- 
 ened eyes he ended, witli the grave, the earthly guardianship of 
 his lost child. And amidst his griet — even amidst the hallowed 
 interest, the awed softening tliat Clod's vast words, as the grand 
 transfer to His guardianship was made, brought to him — he 
 felt the loneliness ; not in anger, or rei)ining, but that it was so. 
 Kind friends, neighbours, and actjuaintances from many a mile 
 around, had followed, in long line, the bearing of his dead to 
 the grave, and stood with liim, as he paid the last earthly care, 
 yet still he was alone, ^^''here was his son that he was not at 
 his side? 
 
 He felt the absence. 
 
 When the last words were said — all left to him of his little child, 
 a bright memory — he turned away to face again the business o 
 life. He had to note, with a sharp sense of pain at the contrast — 
 that, though his son had not been with him, tlie man whom his 
 elder daughter loved, but had discarded and put from her, had 
 stood by his side. He noted it, with the more pain, that he 
 who was not called upon to do it, had done the thing, which he 
 who was called upon to do it, had not done. 
 
 t , 
 
 I' 
 
 \' 
 
 I 
 
 'ii 111 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 

 100 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 \ 
 
 ■' 
 
 . 'I 
 I 
 
 V 
 
 ■J 
 
 ii 
 
 U 
 
 ml • 
 
 ri 
 
 •Id' ; 
 
 I • 
 
 i, ,', 
 
 I i. 
 
 iif 
 
 H 
 
 When he had passed out from tlie sacred grounds — how sacred 
 now for him — he approaclied Edwin Vance, and in silence. 
 for he could not yet trust his voice, yet with warm j^ressure 
 shook the hand of the man who, though fiir enough away, at i)re- 
 sent, from being akin, and hardly-treated, perhaps, had yet re- 
 membered to do him and his this sad respect. 
 
 " I deeply symi)athize with you, 'Mr. Mordaunt, with all of 
 you, in your great sorrow," said Edwin, as he returned the 
 friendly pressure. " For it is a great sorrow, even though we 
 must know the bright certainty of your little child's Heavenl)- 
 home. Her innocent little life has ended in assured salvation, 
 of that we cannot doubt. AV'ould that the closing of our li\es 
 of longer span might carry tlie same glorious certainty." 
 
 "Ves, that certainly shall be the consolation, and shall rob 
 the blow of Its bitterness. Our agonized love for her, lost to us, 
 shall not carry the selfishness to wish our darling back again to 
 this life of sin and misery, that thereby we be saved from grief,'- 
 replied Mr. Mordaunt, as he slowly moved on by the side of 
 J'kiwin. 
 
 " Would that all our griefs could bring tlie like consolations 
 that are carried by little Ally's death," he continued. '• I am 
 ashamed to confess that my heart was [not altogether free, to- 
 day, from the bitter remembrances of my son's folly, and 
 the scandal of his elopement. I hated and despised myself 
 that, on this sad day, I could have borne such sentiments. 
 I hated myself, that his absence, to-day, was resented, for 
 when he left us, we, any of us, knew not of the danger 
 hanging over our little one, and I should not have resented. 
 They are married — we have heard from them. Hut all that, 1 
 suppose, is the town's-talk, at present." 
 
 '* They were in Montreal, yesterday, so Ada Dearborn tells 
 me," answered Mr. Vance. " But I have heard nothing further 
 than that they are married." 
 *' Poor Reggie, to whose future I had so looked forward and 
 
r sacred 
 
 silence. 
 
 )ressure 
 
 at pre- 
 
 yet re- 
 
 I all of 
 led tile 
 ugh we 
 eaveiih 
 Ivatioii. 
 ir lives 
 
 lall rol) 
 >st to us, 
 igain to 
 
 II grief,'' 
 side of 
 
 ilations 
 *• I am 
 (•ee, to- 
 
 •, and 
 
 myself 
 nicnts. 
 ;d, foi 
 
 langer 
 tented. 
 
 hat, 1 
 
 li tells 
 lurthei 
 
 ll and 
 
 thp: sky shall brightex. 
 
 lOI 
 
 planned. But my vanity is struck down," exclaimed Mr. ^lor 
 daunt, speaking, however, more to himself, than to his com- 
 panion. 
 
 And then follovved a pause. 
 
 '• I hope Mrs. Mordaunt and Ltli — Mrs. and Miss Mordaunt 
 are well, and able to bear the grief that has so hardly fallen to 
 them," said Kdwin, to change the sad conversation, and, perliai)s. 
 a little to hear of her he loved. 
 
 '■ Thank you, Edwin, Mrs. Mordaunt is well, and Ethel im- 
 proving ; but, as you can imagine, they are in sorrow. Ktliel 
 does not yet know of Reggie's marriage ; we have not dared 
 to tell her. She loves her brodicr dearly, while I'lmily she 
 much dislikes and fears. The news would yet be too terrible 
 a blow for her strength." 
 
 " And she has reason to fear her, Mr. Mordaunt. Ver\- 
 great reason, as have I, also," replied Edwin, with indignant 
 warmth. « 
 
 Then as he noticed the sudden-looking into his face, which 
 his words had evoked, he continued — 
 
 '• I should not say it, to-day, perliaps, at all events, Init I 
 have had a history from Ada, a plain histor}-, which will, I think, 
 carry conviction to you, as it is, knowing my own innocence, 
 absolute certainty to me, that her sister, your son's wife, is the 
 sole contriver of the mischief that has come in such dreadful 
 manner to Ethel and to m}self. Ada, who is as true 
 and " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Mr. Mordaunt, '' had it been Ada whom 
 he had married, what a difference had it been ? Then there 
 would have been but the folly of their too youthful }-ears to la- 
 ment j a fault that time could correct. Rut with the scheming, 
 wicked, and unprincipled woman to whom he has allied his 
 promising youth, what a dreadful future has he not placed 
 before himself? 
 
 '' Cut what of Ada?"' he continued. 
 
 1 1 
 
 
»02 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 " She regrets, she feels as bitterly, the event of this marriage, 
 as you can do, ^^r. ^lordaunt. She holds down her head in 
 shame at the recollection,'' answered Edwin. 
 
 " I admire and respect the young lady," he resumed, "who, 
 while in her conscientious working-out of the duty laid upon 
 her in the commands of h(^r worldly-minded parents, con- 
 cealed the things, which, if known, might have prevented 
 the mischiefs which have taken place, jet, when the clnnax 
 in your son's marriage with her sister had arrived, was not 
 deterred from coming forward to do the right that was left 
 l)Ossil)le for her to do. The marriage can not now be avert- 
 ed, but Ada, by telling me all she knows about the affair, 
 has done all she ( ould do to prevent further mischief, and 
 to repair ilial already committed, 'i'hat which she has told 
 me, gives the direction, at least, in which to prosecute n 
 efforts towards regaining v/hat I have lost, and to right myself 
 with Ethel, and all of you." * 
 
 ''What is it .she has told you?" queried Mr. Mordaunt, in 
 evident interest. 
 
 " That, from the first hearing of our engagement, lanil\- re- 
 sented it, and determined to make mischief between us. That 
 her visit to Lake Mordaunt, during its first days, took i>lace 
 that she might be on the spot to forestall it, if she could. 
 That she did not intend, if she was able to prevent, thai I 
 should marry Miss Mordaunt, even had foul means to l)c 
 employed," answered \'ance, with fixed earnestness. " Adii 
 has told me every unguarded expression of her sister v\[\\ 
 refeience to us, with some very suspicious circumstances, of 
 which she had become cognizant. Among them, that slic 
 had found her sister in the act of completing a letter, lo 
 which she had not attached her own name, but anoliicr. 
 This name she had not been enabled to recognise, as l-'.niily 
 had snatched away the letter ujjon becoming aware that Ada 
 was in the room. The latter is, however, positive that she 
 

 TIIK SKY SHAF.L nRICxHTEN. 
 
 1 03 
 
 s marriage, 
 ler head in 
 
 ned, "who, 
 ' laid upon 
 rents, con- 
 prevented 
 the chniax 
 ;d, was not 
 at was left 
 w be avcrt- 
 tlie affair, 
 ischief, and 
 lie hns told 
 -Qsccute n 
 •ight myself 
 
 ^ordaunt, in 
 
 [I, l-'mily ro- 
 ll us. That 
 took place 
 she could, 
 lent, thai 1 
 lieans to he 
 ss. '' Ada 
 sister vkh 
 [istances, of 
 that she 
 letter, to 
 lut another. 
 , as Kmily 
 re that Ada 
 e that she 
 
 saw my name in the body of the letter. Tiiis circumstance 
 I(3oks tht! more suspicious, as it preceded, by a very few 
 days, Miss Mordaunt's illness and my repudiation, the more 
 so, when taken into account with I'aiiiiy's imguarded threats 
 against us. 
 
 "She also told me," ccnt'nued Edwin, "that the engage- 
 ment between her sister and your son was entered into before 
 the family's departure for Cacouna, and though known to all 
 her's, was kept secret from your family; on Ada's i)art, only 
 by strict parental command, which she considered herself 
 hound to obey. That H)mily had no intention then of marrying 
 Reggie at once, but only wished to have a hold upon him, in 
 case events occurred which would make it a wealthy marriage 
 for her, and she did not make a good match in the meantime. 
 The hasty elo])cment and marriage, Ada explains by the [)rob- 
 able supposition that Kmily, having i)laced herself in a danger- 
 ous position by the acts which led to the breaking off of our 
 engagement, became nlarmed, and sought safety by an intimate 
 alliance with the family she had injured, wlio i)ossessed the 
 evidence against her, and, who, of course, would supi)ress that 
 
 which compromising one, would comi)romise all." 
 "Very likely, indeed, is Ada's explanation of the marriage. 
 
 She has thrown light upon the whole story," said Mr. Mor- 
 
 daunt. 
 
 " Yes, a strong light, sir !" answered I^dwin. " Could I but 
 
 get a momentary sight of these papers which turned Miss Mor- 
 
 daunt from me, I could, at once, disprove them, and that — 
 
 with Ada's evidence — should surely be sufilcient to satisfy all 
 
 of my innocence in this matter." 
 
 " I shall be satisfied, at all events, Mr. Vance, and you shall 
 
 have these papers, if I can procure them for you," replied Mr. 
 
 Mordaunt. 
 " But here is my carriage," he continued, "do you remain 
 
 lontrer in Ten Lakes ?" 
 
 !l 
 
 ~i ;■ 
 
 .1 1 
 
 t t I- 
 
 1 h 
 
 , i^ 
 
 4 
 
 i| 
 
 m 
 
 u 
 
104 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 h. 
 
 " No, I think not, Mr. Mordaunt," answered Edwin. " I in- 
 tend to run down to Montreal, to-night. If you can obtain the 
 letters, or copies, would you kindly forward them to Toronto? 
 Good-bye, sir, I trust we may meet again under more hai)[)y 
 circumstances !" 
 
 Then they shook hands with eacli other, and were about to 
 sei)arate, when Edwin, turning back again, looked up at his 
 Ethel's fiither for a moment, and, somewhat hesitatingly, con 
 tinned — 
 
 " If I could get, to-day, a glance at these letters, it woi'kl 
 materially aid me in my efforts at justification. Is Miss Mor- 
 daunt yet sufficiently well to be asked for them ?" 
 
 " H'm — yes I" replied his companion, musingly. " Slic is 
 quite well enough for that, now, and it would be better for her. 
 for her mother, also, if, at this time, their thoughts weiv 
 aroused to a subject connected with the interests of life. Slic 
 shall be asked for them, to-day." 
 
 " But, could you not let me drive back with you to Lake 
 Mordaunt, in order that I may see them, sir.^" asked Edwin, 
 hesitatingly, yet boldly enough, under the circumstances in 
 whicli he stood. " If Miss Mordaunt is sufficiently well to \k 
 asked for the papers, would it not make her feel happier u> 
 know that I am guiltless .''" 
 
 " W^ell, perliai)s so I Jump in, Edwin, I cannot guaranicc 
 success, but 1 shall try." 
 
 Mr Mordaunt, with iuiwin \"aiice beside him, dro\e back 
 again to his desolate home. 
 
 But, although he went tliere, he could not get the etters for 
 which he wished. 
 
 There was demur at first u[)on the j^art of Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 and when that obstacle and I-lthel's reluctance to enter upon the 
 subject had been overcome, the letters could not be found. 
 
 Ethel could not remember where they were, or where she 
 had i)ut them, and a search ensued. 
 
R. 
 
 n. 
 
 < ( 
 
 I in- 
 1 obtain tlit- 
 ;o Toronto? 
 lore hai)p\- 
 
 re about to 
 
 I up at Ills 
 tingly, coil 
 
 s, it woi'kl 
 i Miss Mor- 
 
 . " She i.s 
 ter for her. 
 lights wciv 
 )f life. Slic 
 
 )U to Lake 
 
 cd Edwin, 
 
 slancLS ill 
 
 well to 1)C 
 
 ha[)[)ier lo 
 
 LCuaraiUee 
 
 |ro\e back 
 
 ' ette rs for 
 
 dordauiU, 
 iil)f)ii llie 
 louiid. 
 Ivhcre she 
 
 THE SKY SHALL BRIGHTEN. 
 
 »05 
 
 Her writing-case, work-boxes, jewel-casket, every possible re- 
 cei)tacle likely or unlikely to contain such articles, were over- 
 hauled, but the letters could not be discovered. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt had felt incensed with Vance for coming, as 
 lie had, at such an unpropitious time, to their house, and she 
 was the more anxious, now that she had commenced the search, 
 to obtain the letters, that she might overwhelm him with the ab- 
 solute proof of his villainy. Her inquisition for the missing 
 papers was vigorous that she might the sooner get rid of the 
 unwelcome visitor. 
 
 Ethel had not been informed of her dismissed lover's pre- 
 sence, and she evinced but little care in the search, thinking 
 more of her lost little sister, than of her own concerns. 
 
 The father alone was deeply interested in the matter, that a 
 L,4eam of brightness might be brought once more, by discovery 
 of Vance's innocence to his darkened home. 
 
 While the search progressed up-stairs, he sat alone with his 
 visitor in the library, each too anxious and uneasy for other 
 than very disjointed conversation, and counting the minutes 
 until Mrs. Mordaunt should appear with the desired objects of 
 their search. 
 
 The latter had not yet been informed by her husband of 
 Ada's revelations to Vance, so to him she had hardly been 
 civil, or had spoken, with the result of making him still more 
 disquieted and miserable. He, therefore, passed a sufficiently 
 weary hour of waiting expectancy. 
 
 When at length the door opened, and Mrs, ISIordaunt en- 
 tered to give them the intelligence that the letters could not 
 be found, he felt almost in despair. He had hoped so much 
 from his visit, and now all had been in vain. 
 
 They had searched thoroughly, and re-searched minutely, 
 but without success. Ethel could not remember aught further 
 of their whereabouts than that she had them safely laid away 
 somewhere, and that they were certainly in the house. 
 
 I. 
 
 \ 'I 
 
 • ' 
 
 lli 
 
 
 ill' 
 
 i ' 
 
 \i 
 
■? ■ 
 
 i: 
 
 i ^ 
 
 l( 
 
 ^ ! 
 
 If ^ 
 
 r' ^ 
 
 
 ;! 
 
 
 
 Hi 
 
 ^;-t.f'- 
 
 I 
 
 u 
 
 1 06 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 " Where can they be ?" said Mr. Mordaunt, impatiently. 
 " Has Ethel had them in her possession, since her ilhiess, 
 Florence ?" 
 
 " No, of that I am sure I She could not have had them iu 
 her hands since the first day " her illness," answered his 
 wife. 
 
 " Then she has hidden them, and forgotten about it, or the\ 
 are in the room in which she held the interview with that girl, 
 Emily. Let us go to search there for them," exclaimed 3Ir. 
 IMordaunt, hastily, and as hastily he left the room, motioning 
 the others to follow. 
 
 Another search ensued, with no better success. Ever} 
 paper, book, corner, article of furniiure, rccei)tacle, or object 
 ])0ssible or impossible, was ransacked over and over, but still 
 the same result. 
 
 No letters to be found. 
 
 Edwin Vance, in bitter disappointment, prepared to take his 
 departure, no better off than when he had came to the house. 
 He adjured Mr. Mordaunt in the most earnest and moving tones 
 to have tlie search continued, and to find them, even if the 
 whole house had to be turned toi)sy turvey in the effort. 
 
 He had bade his fiirewell, and had turned to leave the room, 
 when a hasty ring upon the front-door bell sounded, voices were 
 heard in the hall, and the next moment, Reggie Mordaunt and 
 his wife stood before them. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE iiRIDHS VISIT. 
 
 There was a pause — a pause of astonislied suri)rise. 
 
 A pause of astonished surprise on the prior occupants of the 
 room, and a not less surprise on the part, also, of one of the 
 new comers, at k'ast. This surprise was experienced by Emilv 
 
ipatiently. 
 er illness, 
 
 i them ill 
 vered his 
 
 it, or tht'N 
 1 that girl, 
 limed 31 r. 
 
 moiionmi; 
 
 ;. F'.ver} 
 
 or object 
 
 , but still 
 
 o take his 
 he house, 
 ving tones 
 
 en if the 
 Irt. 
 
 Ithe room, 
 oices wei'e 
 
 aunt aiul 
 
 ts of the 
 lie of die 
 ly Emil\ 
 
 THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 107 
 
 Mordaunt, for did not Edwin A'ance, holding api)arently the 
 most friendly relations again, stand before her, in the house 
 from which she thought she had for ever driven him ? 
 
 She certainly was surprised, as were those she faced. 
 
 The pause, howe\er, was but momentarily, for Reggie rushed 
 forward, exclaiming — 
 
 " My dear father and mother. I have brought my wife to you. 
 that we may ask and obtain your kind forgiveness for our '" 
 
 But his father advanced forward a step, and with a gesture, 
 stopped his impetuous address. 
 
 " No more of that ! Not another word I It is not for you to 
 ask forgiveness, although, perhaps, for us to grant, \\1iat has 
 ijrought you, Reginald, with your new-made wife, against my ex- 
 press command, to tliis house of mourning, which you have 
 still further helped to desolate ? Have } ou not received my 
 letter ?" he said, sternly, while he gazed full into his son's face, 
 as he stood where his footsteps had been arrested, a few feet in 
 front. 
 
 " Letter ! What letter ? I have had no letter, flither," answer- 
 ed Reggie, confusedly and bitterly astonished. 
 
 '■ House of mourning ! \\'liat do you mean ? I do not com- 
 prehend," he continued, and then his eye fell upon the deej), 
 black attire of his mother. 
 
 "Do you not know that your little sister is dead ? That while 
 you stole away to your marrying, your sister lay dying ? Your 
 sister, Alida, is dead and ' u-ied." 
 
 Sadly, solemnly, yet sternly, the father addressed these words 
 to his son, upon whose ears they must have flillen with awful 
 dread. His tace blanched, his eyes lost their l)riglit e.xcitc- 
 nient, his head drooped as he heard them. 
 
 '• Ally dead I Ally dead ! It cannot be so. Oli I surely, 
 surely, it cannot be that my little darling has gone. Mother ! 
 tell me, only tell me, that Ally is not dead, and I " 
 
 Reggie broke down ; he could say no more. The sad flices 
 
 '4 
 
 1 1 
 
 i 
 
 Mi 
 
 
 ; I 
 
5 ^. 
 
 ! 
 
 1 
 
 
 ilu 
 
 ^-1 
 
 io8 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 before him told him all the tale which he would not believe — 
 which could but be so dreadful for him to believe. Then, boy 
 as he was, rushed into his mother's arms, his head down upon 
 her shoulder, his voice, broken in agony, pouring out his la- 
 ments, while his loving mother, straining the form of her son — 
 erring, yet loved — to her heart, sobbed back to him her tale of 
 agony. 
 
 " Poor boy, it is but a sad commencement of your new life,'" 
 said his father, looking towards him with a softened eye, for a 
 moment. Then, turning to Emily, who had remained standing 
 (juietly, as she had entered the room, "and now, madam, wha^ 
 has brought you to the house, when you must well know you 
 are not welcome ? Ha\ e you not done sufficient injury here al- 
 ready ?" he said. 
 
 " Reginald and I have come to ask you for your forgiveness 
 to us, and we did not know about poor little Ally, Mr. Mor- 
 daunt," answered Emily, sadly and slowly, as she raised her 
 eyes, beautifully moist in tlieir feigned sorrow, to his face. 
 
 " I suppose so," hs replied, cuttingly. " You imagine then 
 that it is not so utterly useless to ask my forgiveness, to your 
 marriage with my son under such disgraceful circumstances, as 
 it would have been to ask my consent to it. 
 
 " Mrs. Reginald ATordaunt, as you have so unhappily be- 
 come, I have decided — irrevocably decided — that I will not re- 
 ceive you into my house, and I shall keep my word," he con- 
 tinued, with raised voice. " You ! You ! who have not only 
 lied and forged to destroy my daughter's happiness and almost 
 taken her life, but have stolen from me my son. You are my 
 son's wife, but never shall you be my daughter. I might liavc 
 forgiven the marriage had you been as other girls are, but for 
 you, as you are, Plmily Mordaunt, there is no forgiveness. You 
 are known — your sister lias told all." 
 
 " My sister can have told nothing to my discredit, if she si)oke 
 the truth, Mr. Mordaunt," replied lunily, firmly, yet with a 
 
THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 109 
 
 believe — 
 'hen, boy 
 >\vn upon 
 It his la- 
 ler son — 
 ler tale of 
 
 new life,'" 
 eye, for a 
 I standing 
 lam, wha^ 
 know you 
 ry here al- 
 
 ^orgivenoss 
 Mr. Mor- 
 raised licr 
 ace. 
 
 gine then 
 , to your 
 ances, as 
 
 ippily l)c- 
 ill not rc- 
 he con- 
 not only 
 
 hd almost 
 1 are my 
 ight have 
 ■e, but for 
 iiess. You 
 
 she spoke 
 let with a 
 
 quiet sadness in her voice. Nor have I lied and forged, as you 
 assert Neither have I stolen your son away from you. I mar- 
 ried him because I loved him, and he loved me, and he is not 
 the less worthy to be your son that I have married him. Nor 
 am I unworthy to be his wife !" 
 
 As she said these words, Reggie turned from his mother to 
 
 his wife, and, addressing his father, said, in violent excitement — 
 
 " Father ! You shall not speak in such terms to Emily ; you 
 
 may hate her, but " 
 
 " Reggie, do not speak so ; remember it is your father," 
 quickly interrupted his wife, and her shot was double-barrelled, 
 arresting Reggie in his violence, as he sprang from his mother, 
 and telling upon her assailant, who little expected such a speech 
 from her. 
 
 Then, she continued, turning towards her husband's father, 
 and speaking in a firm, but quiet and lady-like voice, " Mr. 
 Mordaunt, I perceive that my presence is disagreeable in this 
 house, and I claim no rights here — I came with my husband to 
 ask forgiveness for the step we have taken, independent and 
 rash as it may have been ; it is not extended to us — so I will 
 go and wait for him outside." 
 
 " There is no occasion for that, that you should go out to 
 wait for him, Emily — Mrs. Reginald Mordaunt — I mean. Pray 
 be seated, you can await Reggie here," exclaimed Mr. Mordaunt, 
 liastily, as Emily had moved towards the door. Much as he 
 disliked ler, his spirit of hospitality could not brook what seem- 
 ed so like turning her out of doors, and her demeanour during 
 the interview had insensibly softened him. 
 
 As he placed a chair for her and motioned her into it, he con- 
 tinued, in a lowered voice, " Madam, I do not wish to be unjtist 
 or cruel to you, but you have injured us most sorely. Still, all 
 shall be forgotten and forgiven between us" — here he spoke with 
 difficulty, and hesitatingly — " and you shall restore your husband 
 to his family and his friends again, if you but repair the great 
 
 ii 
 
 I 
 
 II :i 
 
 I'l I 
 
 II 
 
 .1 
 
•'! 
 
 J'i<: 
 
 
 
 IIO 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 wrong you have done, and heal — even if it be at the expense of 
 a confession — the great unhappiness you have caused to my 
 daughter and her affianced husband. Speak, I beg of you, be- 
 fore it is too late. We are already advanced upon the road to the 
 discovery of the />/of, hasten our steps, and what you say shall 
 go no further than to those who are righted thereL/." 
 
 This address to Emily was not judicious on Mr. Mordaunt's 
 part ; and he shewed himself but a bad tactician. It was not 
 likely to have succeeded under any circumstances, and it was 
 worse than useless, for he had let Emily see that the reconcilia- 
 tion that she had feared, had not yet taken place. 
 
 " Mr. Mordaunt, if the restoration of my husband to his 
 family, and your forgiveness is to be only obtained at such a 
 price, we must learn to live without these blessings. You would 
 have me accuse myself of foul play in the unfortunate difference- 
 between Mr. Vance and your daughter. I love my husband too 
 well to procure his restoration to your favor at the expense of 
 his wife's self-respect, and, necessarily, of his love, and he loves 
 me too well to wish it. If Mr. Vance is innocent, it is easy for 
 him to prove his innocence. It is not meet tliat I should be his 
 scape-goat. Reginald, let us go, if you are ready. It is better 
 that we should go at once.' 
 
 Reggie, who, in the earlier part of the interview, had been 
 conversing with his mother, and during the latter episode had 
 been detained by her to prevent the interference which his gatli- 
 ering anger menaced, now moved towards liis \\ife, and in a 
 loud voice, exclaimed — 
 
 " Yes, Emily, my darling ! We will go ; you shall be insulted 
 here no longer. They will all know you butter some day, and 
 then it shall come your turn to pardon. rerhai)s, then, 
 they " 
 
 " Stay, Reginald ! 1 wish to speak to you a moment ; I shall 
 not dfitain you long," and, taking him by the hand, Mr. ^Mor- 
 daunt icd his son into the bay window, in whose recess the)' 
 
h. 
 
 THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ense of 
 to my 
 you, be- 
 id to the 
 ay shall 
 
 )rdaunt's 
 was not 
 d it was 
 jconcilia- 
 
 d to his 
 t such a 
 'ou would 
 difference 
 ,sband too 
 xpense of 
 he loves 
 [is easy for 
 ,uld be his 
 t is better 
 
 Ihad been 
 Isode had 
 his gath- 
 land in a 
 
 b insulted 
 ,day, and 
 \\)S, then, 
 
 1 shall 
 
 dr. Mo»- 
 Less they 
 
 were at once engaged in earnest conversation, and, as a cheque 
 passed from the older to the younger man, it was probable that 
 the ways and means of the new-married couple formed the 
 subject. 
 
 [Meanwhile, Edwin Vance, who during this interview had re- 
 mained a silent, but very uneasy spectator, had been fidgetting 
 about the room, as if knowing he should not remain in it, yet 
 unwilling to leave it, now stepped forward to Emily, and calmly, 
 yet coiurteously, addressed her — 
 
 " Would you be so kind as to inform me, Mrs. Reginald ^lor- 
 daunt, of the nature of the contents of the two letters concern- 
 ing myself, which, upon the day of her illness, you laid before 
 Miss MordauntJ* from whom they came ? to whom they were 
 addressed ? and how they came into your hands ? You would 
 confer a great favor on me in so doing." 
 
 " ]Mr. Vance, I must decline, at once, to enter upon the sub- 
 ject with you in any manner," she replied, decisively. " I must 
 refer you to Miss Mordaunt, who holds the letters, for all informa- 
 tion." 
 
 " And, yet, madam, you would aid mc most materially in the 
 elucidation of this affair, by doing as I ask, that is, if you wish 
 that light should be shed upon the matter. You are aware, I 
 suppose, that Miss Mordaunt is still very ill ; too ill to be able 
 to assist in it," replied'Edwin, still quietly, but pointedly. 
 
 '' I repeat, sir, that I decline to enter upon the subject at all. 
 I have nothing whatever to do with it, especially with you, 
 sir," answered Emily, with an angry light shining in her eyes. 
 
 "Pray permit me to differ from you there, madam,'' said 
 Edwin, in response, warmly, as he l)ecame incensed at her 
 coolness. " You will find that you have a good deal further to 
 do in the matter, and with myself, also. From information in 
 uiy possession, I am no longer left in doubt as to the author of 
 one of the documents in question, You — yourself — wrote it, 
 madam ; you — yourself — ha\e contri\ed the wicked schemes 
 
 ,, 1 1; 
 
 til 
 
) I ! 
 
 m 
 
 I : i t 
 
 I'li- 
 
 
 112 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 which has brought upon us this unhappiness. You, Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, wrote one of those letters, at the least." 
 
 "And did I write the other, also, sir?" replied Emily, with a 
 laugh. " Pray from whom did you derive your precious in- 
 formation?" 
 
 " From your sister, Ada, who saw you write the letter, saw 
 that it concerned me, and saw you append a signature certainly 
 not your own." 
 
 " What is that about Ada Dearborn ?" exclaimed Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, coming forward to them, " What did she tell you, Mr. 
 Vance ?" she continued, with interest in her voice. 
 
 " I had hoped that you had not overheard what has passed 
 between us, Mrs. Mordaunt," said Edwin, in response, " for your 
 daughter-in-law's sake. I had intended this matter to be limited 
 to herself. She, however, declines to give me the information 
 I sought, although, from her connection with the matter, it is but 
 her duty to give it. However " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! I understand. But what was it Ada Dearborn 
 said ? I heard her name used concerning events which are 
 of interest to me, as well as to you, and as what Ada says 
 can be dqiended upon, I am anxious to hear," interposed 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, placing herself beside them. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Mordaunt," interrupted Emily, who wished to 
 create a diversion from a topic which she could not but feel 
 to be dangerous, "allowing that my sister, Ada's statements 
 are to be depended upon, in general, can we feel sure that 
 Mr. Vance's rendering of them will be equally trustworthy. 
 I should imagine that you have already had some experience 
 of him that should carry its lessons," and as Emily said these 
 words, she rose from her chair to move towards her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Pray be seated a moment, Emily," returned Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 " it cannot harm either ot us to hear what Mr. Vance can have 
 to say, so long as we are clean-handed, while it will be very easy 
 
THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 "3 
 
 to verify the account, by reference to Ada, herself. I beg of 
 you, therefore, Mr. Vance, to repeat what she said to you." 
 
 " Then I must decline to have a repetition of the insults to 
 which I have been subjected by Mr. Vance," said Emily, mov- 
 ing away from them towards her husband ; but, stopping, she 
 turned to Mrs. Mordaunt again, and quietly said, " I am ready, 
 at any time, my dear madam, for my husband's sake, if not for 
 my own, to enter into any explanations that you may require of 
 me; but, after the wholly unmerited expressions which Mr. 
 Vance has thrown upon me, with the very palpable object of 
 cleansing himself by blackening another, I cannot undertake 
 to do so in his presence." 
 
 " Heaven knows ! Madam, that I do not wish to injure you, 
 although you have so deeply, so unnecessarily injured me," ex- 
 claimed Edwin, earnestly. " I sought but to give you an op- 
 portunity, in the easiest manner possible to yourself, to right one 
 of the wrongs you have done me. A few words from you would 
 have righted me, and then the matter would have ended — for- 
 given and wiped away — so far as I am concerned. This you 
 will not do ; but I can assure you, madam, that, in justice to 
 myself, in justice to others, I shall clear up this matter, regard- 
 less of all consequences, even if those consequences be very 
 serious to yourself." 
 
 He looked at Emily, standing in her easy grace, her splendid 
 face towards him, her fine eyes, in their beautiful softness, fixed 
 upon his own, and, as he sy oke, he could hardly believe himself 
 that he addressed words of such import to a creature so very 
 fair, so softly, so beautifully feminine, and sweet. 
 
 It staggered him almost to ascribe evil to her in her bright 
 loveliness. But he looked at her, and said the words, neverthe- 
 less, though the power of her triumphant beauty seemed to 
 bear down their force, and he felt that they fell flat, mis-applied 
 and nerveless before her. 
 " That is sufficient, sir !" she replied, with a bow to him, 
 
 '11' 
 
 'i 
 
 r-l. 
 
 HIil 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
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 i 
 
 : 
 
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 I 
 
 HI- 
 
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 I 
 
 ■•( '■ :i 
 
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 114 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 gracefully sarcastic. " I am here for a better puri^ose than to 
 bandy words with you, despite the 7'ery serious consequences you 
 threaten. I must decline to become your scape-goat." 
 
 " What is all this ? Do you dare to address my wife, fir ?" v?x- 
 claimed Reggie, coming fo rward, as he heard her raise i voice. 
 " You villain ! what brings you to this house, when " 
 
 But his father's restraining hand was laid upon his shoulder, 
 as he rushed furiously towards Edwin. 
 
 " Yes, father !" he continued, turning to him, " I say it is a 
 shame that you receive this perjured wretch here, in this house, 
 while my wife — my pure, beautiful wife — your daughter, too — is 
 turned from the door !" 
 
 " Reginald — for my sake— if you love me — not another 
 word !" exclaimed Emily, placing her hand on his arm, as she 
 ran up to him, and looking into his excited face with pleading, 
 beseeching eyes. " It is not for us to complain, Reggie. Come, 
 let us go away, together ! We did not come to quarrel. Let it 
 not be said that we brought strife into this house of mourning, 
 my dear Reggie." 
 
 At the touch of her hand the sound of her voice, Reggie's 
 whole manner changed. The workings and wrinklings of rage 
 disappeared from his face, and, as he gazed on his wife in her 
 beautiful pleading and loving beseechingness — so admirably 
 acted, yet so natural — a light of tender admiration and love 
 sparkled in his eyes, and brightened his visage. 
 
 " Yes, Emily, my darling, you are right. Father, I am sorry ! 
 Forgive me !" he said. 
 
 " Well, I will say this, Mrs. Reginald Mordaunt, that you 
 have got your young bear licked into very tolerable shape. 
 Keep on as you have commenced, and there will be hopes for 
 you," said Mr. Mordaunt, looking at Emily, surprised enough, 
 but with not a little admiration. 
 
 " He is my husband, sir, and we love each other !" returned 
 
THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 115 
 
 sorry 
 
 sturned 
 
 Emily, quietly, but with a spirited flash over her face, that told 
 well, also. 
 
 " For shame, Henry !" exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Don't speak to her so cruelly, and of Reggie, too !" she con- 
 tinued, and as they said their good-byes, the clasp of the hand 
 that Emily received from the generous-hearted Mrs. Mordaunt 
 was a warm one. 
 
 Emily felt, with a little thrill of pride, that she had done well, 
 the parting was very different to the reception, and she ' had 
 gained, in spite of untoward circumstances, as much as she had 
 hoped. 
 
 " If only I could have seen my poor little darling. Ally," said 
 Reggie, with the tears in his eyes, as after coming down from 
 his two minutes' visit to Ethel, who knew nothing, as yet, of his 
 marriage, he shook hands with his father, and was clasped in 
 the fond arms of his mother, at the door. 
 
 " Yes Reginald, it is very sad for you. Take it's lesson to 
 yourself You have commenced the world at a very early age, 
 
 under circumstances 
 
 " Well ! I will say no more of that. Remember, what I have 
 said to you to-day, and let us hear from you. How far do you 
 go to-night ?" said Mrs. Mordaunt, to him, as he stepped into 
 the wagon beside his wife. 
 
 " To Ten Lakes, from there, as we may decide," he replied, 
 and they were gone. 
 
 Emily departed from Lake Mordaunt triumphant as to the 
 result of their interview, knowing she had left a good impres- 
 sion behind her, but vowing vengeance against her sister for 
 her treachery. " But, for which," she said to herself, as they 
 drove on, " I would have brought them wholly to my feet. 
 They shall suffer for it though," with which amiable intention, 
 she dismissed the subject for the present from her mind, for the 
 laudable purpose of catechizing her loving spouse as to his 
 
 jl 
 
 ' I 
 
 I i 
 
■u: 
 
 •|. 
 
 :1] 
 
 Ii6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 corversation with his father, and the tangible results that had 
 flowed therefrom. 
 
 " I should not wonder if that woman does not make Reggie 
 a good wife, after all, and reform herself in reforming him. 
 She is very graceful and very undeniably handsome, too," re- 
 marked Mr. Mordaunt to his wife, as they walked back to the 
 room where they had left Edwin Vance standing. 
 
 " Well, I hope so," she replied, " I was agreeably surprised at 
 
 her conduct in some respects But I must hear what it was 
 
 that Ada said." 
 
 The interview seemed to have been an unsatisfactory one 
 to Edwin Vance, alone. He was not one whit farther ad- 
 vanced for his visit to Lake Mordaunt. He had not got the 
 letters, and the prospect of obtaining them seemed more 
 dubious than ever. While he had been very effectually snubbed 
 and defied by the handsome Emily Mordaunt, he had made no 
 progress either, an>.. everything seemed to have worked against 
 him. It was all very bitter to him, as he stood alone in the room, 
 awaiting the return ot the master and mistress of the house. He 
 w?.s there under the same roof with his Ethel, and he could no t 
 see her. 
 
 If he could but see her — even for a brief minute or two ? 
 
 How he longed, with ardent, yearning longing, for a glimpse 
 of the face he loved so well, even though the dark barrier that 
 divided them, were not yet swept away by the strong hand o{ 
 the truth. If he could but see her, if he could but be with 
 her, how would he not sweep away, the falsehood which had 
 brought them their misery. How he would make his loyalty 
 and truth as clear as the blue skies above him. 
 
 And could he not see her ? Why should he not see her ? 
 Why should more long days of misery and doubt, long reaches 
 of blank unhappiness and drear uncertainty stretch out before 
 them, when a few words might make all bright again for them 
 both ? He would try to see her, and as Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt 
 
ii( 
 
 THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 lathad 
 
 Reggie 
 
 ig him. 
 
 •o," re- 
 
 to the 
 
 rised at 
 t it was 
 
 )ry one 
 her ad- 
 got the 
 i more 
 mubbed 
 nade no 
 . against 
 le room, 
 e. He 
 luld not 
 
 'O? 
 
 Iglimpse 
 •ier that 
 Land o{ 
 le with 
 ich had 
 loyalty 
 
 ie her ? 
 I reaches 
 
 before 
 )r them 
 
 )rdaunt 
 
 117 
 
 re-entered the room, he commenced his earnest appeal to them. 
 
 •■* It will do her good. She is weak and ailing yet, and it 
 will be good to rouse her from the morbid and extreme grief 
 under which she is prostrated for her little sister, who is now in 
 Heaven, and in happiness," said Mr. Mordaunt, in answer to 
 the strong objection of his wife, who, though deeply impressed 
 by the force of Ada's statements as to her sister's animus and 
 very suspicious doings with regard to Ethel's engagement and 
 Its breaking off, would not consent on the score of her daugh- 
 ter's still feeble state to allow her to be disturbed. 
 
 " And it may make her feel happier," added Edwin. " I 
 know — as well as I know I love her — that she loves me, and 
 will be glad to give me the opportunity to prove myself still 
 worthy of her regard. I will control myself, Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 I will engage not to excite her by violence in word or act. 
 There shall be no noisy protestations on my part. If you de- 
 sire it, I will but ask her to give me what information she can 
 remember as to the contents of these letters, and shew " 
 
 "Get her up out of bed, Florence," interrupted her father, 
 "take her lover up to see her, and you will do her more 
 good than a dozen doctors. Rouse her up to life again, and 
 she'll mend the faster." 
 
 " Oh ! Henry, don't speak so of our poor girl," returned 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, with almost a smile upon her sorrowful face. 
 " Well, I shall go up to her, and prepare her, though much 
 against my own inclination. Neither is this the proper time 
 for the interview, which is, in my view, utterly useless, un- 
 less Mr. Vance is prepared to make all things clear once 
 more," and with this parting shot, the price of her given-up 
 opinion, Mrs. Mordaunt left the room to prepare her daughter 
 for the coming interview. 
 
 In a few minutes she returned, and Edwin Vance, hardly 
 able to believe himself for the delight that thrilled his heart, 
 yet very conscious of himself, from the nervous anxiety that 
 
 il 
 
 •'i! 
 
 4 
 
If- i 
 
 ■ 
 
 r 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 1^1 
 
 i 
 
 ii8 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 accompanied it, was escorted by her into the presence of 
 the beautiful young lady whom he loved. 
 
 Ethel sat reclining in an easy chair — weak, changed, thin, 
 and pale ; her paleness the more apparent in contrast against 
 the deep black dress which she wore. Thin, pale, and 
 changed as she was, she was still very beautiful — sorrowfully, 
 sadly beautiful, but with an added charm from the sorrow 
 and the sadness. Yet her eyes were bright, and a faint tinge 
 of lovely pale rose lay on each cheek ; beauties which the 
 expectancy of meeting her lover — even though he wer« lost 
 and against whom she thought bitterly — had brought to her. 
 But she was calm and quiet, and a little air of resolution was 
 visible upon her face, as if her mind was made up, as if she 
 entered her protest against the events that so peculiarly oc- 
 curred to her. 
 
 He entered the room with eager step, yet hesitated, almost 
 halted, as he stepped fonvards to where she sat. He was im- 
 aginative, romantically inclined, of acutely nervous sensibili- 
 ties, and his impressions on entering the room where Ethel 
 Mordaunt sat awaiting him, were somewhat overwhelming. 7or, 
 from the events of the next few minutes, how might not his 
 whole future life be moulded. He met again her who was to 
 have been his wife — met her after a separation during which a 
 barrier of misery had been raised between them. He met 
 her he loved — not with the old, happy confidence and joy — all 
 in all to each other ; but in coldness, reserve and distrust on 
 one side, with deep anxiety on the other. 
 
 Yet he was very happy to see her again, even though the 
 meeting was painfully anxious to him, for he really loved her, 
 with a real affection that no rebuff", however unmerited, could 
 weaken or drive away in resentment ; nor can it be said that 
 Ethel, on her part, was not glad t(j meet again him whom slic 
 still loved, although he had, as she was led to believe, wrought 
 her such deep injury. 
 
THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 119 
 
 ence of 
 
 d, thin, 
 against 
 ,le, and 
 •owfuUy, 
 ) sorrow 
 int tinge 
 lich the 
 rer« lost 
 to her. 
 tion was 
 IS if she 
 liarly oc- 
 
 i, almost 
 e was im- 
 sensibili- 
 ere Ethel 
 ling. I^'or, 
 t not his 
 ;0 was to 
 which a 
 He met 
 joy — all 
 strust on 
 
 |ioiigh the 
 )ved her, 
 
 led, could 
 
 Isaid that 
 ^hom sIk 
 
 [, wrought 
 
 Edwin Vance was a lawyer, accustomed to cool com- 
 mand of himself and his thoughts ; accustomed, and equal 
 to expressing them, with care and fluency, in public — be- 
 fore any amount of public ; endowed, or should have been 
 endowed — as all lawyers are — with illimitable cheek, with ex- 
 panseful mental perspectives of boundless, resistless, conspicu- 
 ous, assertive, sanguineate-hued brass ; yet he entered the 
 room to meet a quiet-looking and lady-like girl, with much 
 timidity, with the nervous confusion of mind and body of 
 his adolescent appearances before the fair, when his hands 
 and feet were so difficult to get hidden away. 
 
 And yet on the face of it, it does not appear a very tremen- 
 dous thing to appear in an interview with a young lady, no 
 matter how pretty soever she may be. 
 
 Many people, indeed, like it, especially if the qualifying ad- 
 jective, as applied to her looks, be in the superlative. 
 
 But when the happy interviewer, is much enraptured of the 
 interviewed, is in sad disgrace with her, and highly anxious to 
 restore himself to her good graces, it is but probable that he 
 would find the opening moments of the interview rather bewild- 
 ering. 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt — Ethel — I am very happy to see you so 
 much recovered, very happy to see you again ! I have been 
 very anxious and miserable !" exclamed Edwin, disconnectedly, 
 ab lie advanced to her, and mechanically offered his hand. 
 
 Then his eyes took in the full change that had come to his 
 own gay and brilliant affianced. Beautiful still, but how thin, 
 pale, sorrowful and quiet. The same Ethel still — his Ethel — but 
 the Ethel to whom brightness and sunshine had been so natural, 
 now seeming natural in deep, dreary shades. He loved her 
 truly, and, as the past and the present, with her, rose before his 
 eyes in sudden picture, lie had, by an effort, to repress the 
 conflict of emotion that rushed over him. 
 " It is very delightful to me to ^.ee you again, and I cannot 
 
 I 
 
 
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 i;i 
 
 Hi 
 
 ' I 
 
 i 
 
 It 
 
 1 
 
 til 
 
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 j 
 
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 >4 
 
 
 120 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 thank you enough for allowing me the privilege, while, too, you 
 are still so unwell. I had thought, though, that you were stronger 
 
 than you are, Ethel. I never expected to see you so chan 
 
 I trust my pertinacity has not caused you exertion, for which 
 you are not able ?" 
 
 " It was so strongly represented to me, as an act of justice 
 towards you, that I should see you, even at this unhappy time, 
 in order that you might obtain information upon a certain sub- 
 ject, which my father and mother could not give you, that I 
 consented for that purpose, and I must request you, Mr. Vance, 
 to confine yourself solely to that object. I am ready to answer 
 you any questions you may wish to ask me," replied Ethel, 
 coldly, as she touched very slightly his ext-ended hand. 
 
 " If I had but known you had to force youi;self to a painful 
 exertion, Ethel, merely to perform an act of justice to me, I 
 would have waited, patiently awaited, rather than that you 
 should suffer. And, I will try to be as brief as I can, for your 
 sake." 
 
 " I wish to do that which is right, sir. I cannot claim the ex- 
 ertion to be painful," answered Ethel quietly, " but the interview 
 itself is not pleasant." 
 
 " Oh ! Ethel, can you believe these things agamst me, these 
 base and wicked charges that malice has brought between us and 
 our happiness, can you trust me so little that I must dispru\ e 
 them to render my unstained honor clear to you ? It is for that 
 purpose I am here now, and " 
 
 " I have trusted you, Mr. Vance, trusted you in all complete 
 ness, but I must believe the evidence of my own senses, and 
 I most certainly trust you no longer. I prefer, too,that you ad 
 dress me as * Miss Mordaunt,' " interrupted Ethel, the latter 
 words in the quiet accents of her pride, but the added lustre of 
 her fine eyes, and the heightened color of her face, showed her 
 interest in what he said, who so earnestly stood before her, claim- 
 
i 
 
 'i, 
 
 THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 121 
 
 too, you 
 ; stronger 
 
 chan 
 
 or whicli 
 
 of justice 
 ippy time, 
 rtain sub- 
 )u, that I 
 ^r. Vance, 
 
 to answer 
 led Ethel, 
 id. 
 a painful 
 
 to me, I 
 
 that you 
 
 ,n, for your 
 
 laim the ex- 
 e interview 
 
 me, these 
 ,'een us and 
 5t dispruNe 
 tt is for thai 
 
 complete 
 ;enses, and 
 (lat you ad- 
 
 the latter 
 id lustre of 
 thowcd her 
 
 her, clanii- 
 
 ed that he should be believed by her, in the strong rights of his 
 love. 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt ! — since you will not allow me to use the 
 dearer name wliich it has been, and still is, my right and privi- 
 lege to use — Miss Mordaunt, you are my affianced wife — you 
 still remain so — for I have not by any act of my own forfeited 
 my right to name you as such. I have to demand of you an 
 explanation of the letter which a few days since I received from 
 you breaking off, without cause assigned, our solemn engage, 
 ment." He paused a moment, drawing himself instinctively up, 
 as his injured manhood asserted itself. But then, as his eye 
 rested down again upon the wasted figure of her who had so 
 suffered for him, for his sake, his voice changed. " Oh ! Ethel ! 
 Ethel, not for that, not for that, but in your kindness, in your 
 justice tell me of these things of which I am as yet ignorant, that 
 I may be enabled to show you that I am not unworthy of the 
 precious love that was once mine." 
 
 She Irved him, she always had loved him, and she loved him 
 the more that he imperiously claimed her, and demanded as his 
 right that which he asked. She loved him the more again that, 
 recognizing all that she had suffered for him, and coming down 
 from his high stand, he had put on that softening, smoothing, 
 moving tone of supplication, of his loving generosity, that she 
 should do that which it was bound to her to do. But though 
 she loved him, though she could not help loving him, was it not 
 but too patent to her that he was not true, and did not deserve 
 her love. 
 
 Was it not but too plain, too evident that he was imworthy. 
 She forced her mind — by the violent efforts of her pride, which 
 would make it seem due to herself, her injured self, respect and 
 maidenhood — up to the declaration, that he was unworthy, even 
 though she knew at the moment that she had to force her mind 
 to keep herself up to the desired mark. She knew that she did 
 
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 ! I 
 
 H k 
 
 V 
 
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 '!>m! ■'■J» 
 
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 122 
 
 SHE MIGHT . HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 not believe him to be so unworthv as the circumstances of the 
 case required him to be. He had gained a point. 
 
 " I am'not your affianced wife, Mr. Vance," she replied. " Not 
 now," she added with a voice in which there was a quiver. " 1 
 did not break off our engagement without cause — there was but 
 too much cause, Edwin. I could not have believed it of you." 
 
 " What cause ? Let me know the cause ? Tell me the cause 
 that I may wipe it away at a word. Do I stand here like a 
 guilty man ?" he continued, with the firm conviction of his inno- 
 cence ringing in every tone. " What are these letters cf which 
 I have heard so much yet cannot see, which I have never seen, 
 buc which I would so much like to see." 
 
 " I cannot find them," she said. " I cannot remember where 
 I ])ut them, but I have them somewhere. She has not got them ; 
 I had them after she went away. They are somewhere about. 
 But I have been ill," and Ethel half rose from her chair in her 
 excitement. 
 
 " Oh ! tell me what they were. All about them, Ethel, that 
 will do just as well. Your 'word to me, my darling, is the same 
 as the letters. I can trust you though you do not trust me." 
 answered Edwin, with sad reproach in his tone. 
 
 " You have not had occasion to mistrust me, Mr. Vance. I 
 have given you no occasion," she answered. 
 
 " Nor have I given you occasion for mistrust either, Ethel, as 
 m the end will become clear to you," he replied quickly, yet 
 gently. " But will you kindly tell me what you can remember 
 of the two letters, the writers, to whom they were a 'dressed and 
 tlieir contents in so far as I am personally conceincd, and how 
 they came into the hands of the person who produced them be- 
 fore you — Mrs. Reginald Mordaunt, I believe." 
 
 " Who, Mr. Vance ? Mrs. Reginald Mordaunt ! AVhat do 
 you mean? Mamma !" exclaimed P^thel, turning her surprised 
 and alarmed eyes to her mother, who had been sitting near her 
 durinof the conversation. "What does this mean about Mrs. 
 
THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 123 
 
 Reginald Mordaunt ? It cannot be — it would be too dreadful 
 — that Reggie has married that girl," she continued. 
 
 " Mr. Vance, I was right when I objected to this interview 
 taking place," said MiS. Mordaunt. " By an unfortunate mis- 
 take, against which you, however, should have guarded yourself, 
 you have necessitated an explanation not yet desirable. Yes, 
 Ethel, in a moment of folly Reggie has allowed himself to be 
 persuaded into a marriage with Emily Dearborn. They were 
 married privately in Rochester five days ago. Your father and 
 I would not tell you, thinking you had sorrows sufficier' already, 
 my poor girl." 
 
 *' Married ! Reggie married ! and to her — to Emily Dear- 
 born. Oh ! I cannot believe it," said poor Ethel, wringing her 
 hands as she sank back into her chair, from which, in her ex- 
 citement, she had half risen. " Oh ! Reggie, Reggie, my poor 
 brother. However were you induced by her? — that hateful 
 girl of all others — my poor boy, my poor boy. But Reggie was 
 here to-day, mamma." 
 
 " Yes, and his wife also," returned Mrs. Mordaunt. " The 
 marriage m^ not be so utterly bad, my darling, as you think. 
 Emily is improved, and behaved very well to-day under trying 
 circumstances. They certainly seem very fond of each other. 
 Vou must not excite yourself, Ethel, about this. Look at it 
 calmly. At all events it is irremediable. 
 
 " Mr. Vance," she continued, '' this interview must come to a 
 close for my daughter's sake. Sufficient misdiief has ahead)' 
 been caused. You had better defer until another and more 
 suitable time anything " 
 
 *' No ! No ! mamma, I am not unduly excited. You shall have 
 no cause to complain of me, but I was a good deal shocked and 
 distressed for poor Reggie's sake. Let the — the — the business 
 be completed which brought Mr. Vance here. It is not neces- 
 sary that it should be tedious, and besides I begin to think that 
 tliis hasty marriage throws a little light upon the subject. If it 
 
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 124 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 be that Mr. Vance, as he asserts, is in reality guiltless, and Ada's 
 statements, as related, are verified, it appears to me pretty evi- 
 dent what were Emily's reasons for marrying Reggie — so unlikely 
 a proceeding for her. 
 
 " She has become alarmed at the possible consequences of 
 her act, and has hastened to secure herself against harsh mea- 
 sures by this alliance. I remember now that she tried very hard 
 to get the letters back from me that day, and was much discom- 
 posed when I declined to surrender them. 
 
 " But then, again, Mr. Vance, one of these letters was in your 
 own handwriting, written, too, from this very house." 
 
 " That is possible, Miss Mordant," he replied. " I wrote many 
 letters when here. To whom was it addressed ?" 
 
 "To Miss Agnes Seaforth. Do you know a young lady of 
 tliat name ?" 
 
 " Agnes Seaforth ; certainly I know her. She is the daughter 
 of my father's greatest friend, and an unlimited favorite of my 
 mother." 
 
 " And engaged to yourself, I believe, Mr. Vance, for some 
 time past ?" queried Ethel, looking him suddenly in the face, 
 with eyes brightened with anger, a bright flush upon her face. 
 
 " Engaged to me ! Agnes Seaforth ! Most certainly not 
 Neither of us have ever thought of such a thing in our lives. 
 And so poor Agnes Seaforth has been dragged into this matter. 
 Well !" he added with a laugh — though a vexed laugh, " It 
 might have been worse, for explanations fortunately are very 
 easy." 
 
 " I do not think so, Mr. Vance. Your letter to her was very 
 unmistakable in its terms," replied Ethel, still with the light in 
 her eyes and the angry flush upon her face. 
 
 " Then it was not my letter. I wrote to her simply as a 
 friend might upon a matter of business, relative to her unwilling- 
 ness to accept an annuity of six hundred dollars a year left her 
 by my father. By-the-by, Agnes Seaforth never received tlie 
 
'11 
 
 THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 125 
 
 id Ada's 
 etty evi- 
 unlikely 
 
 ences of 
 rsh mea- 
 ^ery hard 
 
 1 discom- 
 
 s in your 
 rote many 
 g lady of 
 
 2 daughter 
 •ite of my 
 
 for some 
 the face. 
 
 ler face. 
 
 linly not 
 
 lour lives, 
 lis matter, 
 
 [augh, " It 
 are very 
 
 was very 
 le light in 
 
 iply as a 
 unwilling- 
 left her 
 :eived the 
 
 letter, and reproached me for unfriendliness at a time when she 
 was in some mental distress. Miss Dearborn, by some means, 
 has purloined the letter, and probably composed the other to 
 suit its terms. 
 
 " From whom does the latter purport to come. Miss Mor- 
 daunt ?" 
 
 " From Miss Seaforth's aunt, a Miss Springer, of Toronto,*' 
 replied Ethel. 
 
 " Are you sure, quite sure, the name is Springer?" he queried. 
 
 " Yes ! I remember the fact distinctly, Mr. Vance." 
 
 " The name of Miss Seaforth's aunt is Springle, and this fact 
 is a strong proof of the ungenuineness of the precious document. 
 Would you kindly tell me of its contents, in so far as they relate 
 to me," said Edwin, with eager emphasis. 
 
 " The letter was addressed to Emily Dearborn, stating that 
 you were engaged to her niece, and had behaved very falsely 
 to her, that you ought to marry her, but had refused to do so. 
 That she had heard of your engagement to me, and besought 
 ]\Hss Dearborn, as the only person she knew here, to take upon 
 herself the task of warning me on this subject, and, in corrobora- 
 tion of the statements, enclosing a letter found accidentally by 
 her, from you to her niece, written from Lake Mordaunt." 
 
 " Miss Seaforth never received the letter I wrote her. The 
 whole plot is perfectly apparent to me now, though I cannot 
 understand the motive of the young lady in making such misery 
 between us. It is as I have stated however. Miss Dearborn 
 had purloined my letter, and built up the forgery to suit its 
 terms. 
 
 *' Is it not equally apparent to you also, Ethel ? and am not 
 I exonerated ?" queried Edwin, gazing with fond beseechingness 
 upon her face. 
 
 " Hardly, Mr. Vance. You make out a plausible case against 
 my new sister-in-law, but you have not i)roved it or your own 
 innocence. And now as 1 have given you all the information 
 
 10 
 
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 126 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 in my power I must say * good evening ' to you. I feel fatigued. 
 If you succeed in making your innocence wholly manifest,'! shall 
 have to admit that a great injury and injustice has been done 
 you. But your own letter is too strongly against you, and there 
 is no doubt of its genuineness." 
 
 " My innocence shall be made manifest to you, if I spend my 
 life in the attempt — if I have to drag the base contriver of the 
 plot into court — to the jail to effect " 
 
 " No, Mr. Vance, you must not do that. If Emily Mordaunt 
 — my brother's wife — is the guilty person, she must be spared. 
 You would but strike at us, who have suffered as well as you 
 have," interrupted Ethel hastily, and with a deprecatory ges- 
 ture. 
 
 " Am I then to suffer the ruin of my whole life's happiness, 
 Ethel, that this cruel woman be held scatheless ? Is my name 
 to be forever left blighted in your eyes ? Am I to drift lonely 
 and unhappily through life for this ? I hold no malice, no re- 
 vengeful desire to injure this woman. If I can attain my end 
 without her injury I will leave her to herself and to God's 
 justice, but if I cannot clear myself before you, and regain wnat 
 is now lost to me, am I forever to bear in silence ?" 
 
 " No, Edwin, you shall not. I will Oh ! were I but 
 
 sure !" and Ethel half sprang up to her feet, and in another mo- 
 ment would have been in his arms, his troubles over, but Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, interposing, placed Ethel back in her chair, and 
 said: 
 
 " No, Mr. Vance. You shall be aided in your search by all 
 means incur power, but you must spare my son's wife. And now 
 you have done very well for one evening. You must not expect 
 too much at once. I am not sorry now that the interview has 
 taken place, nor do I think that Ethel is either. ' Good even- 
 ing,* Mr. Vance." She held her hand out to him in such 
 evident dismissal that he had to take the strong hint. 
 
 " Good bye, Ethel, my darling, you need not doubt my love, 
 
 lltfl 
 
THE BRIDE'S VISIT. 
 
 127 
 
 1, 
 
 fatigued. 
 it;i shall 
 en done 
 ind there 
 
 ipend my 
 2r of the 
 
 VIordaunt 
 e spared, 
 ill as you 
 itory ges- 
 
 lappiness, 
 my name 
 rift lonely 
 [ice, no re- 
 in my end 
 to God's 
 :gain wiiat 
 
 [ere I bul 
 lother mo- 
 I, but Mrs. 
 Ichair, and 
 
 |rch by all 
 And now 
 |not expect 
 irview has 
 tood even- 
 in such 
 
 |t my 
 
 love, 
 
 at any rate. \'ery soon, I hope, you will not be able to doubt 
 my truth to you either," and the strong pressure of his hand upon 
 hers was a not impleasing assurance that his love was hers in 
 any event. 
 
 He found a horse and carriage at the door awai ing hln;, 
 and Mr. Mordaunt came out of the library to see him off. 
 
 " Why, Vance ! what's come over you? You look like a dif- 
 ferent man. Have you good news ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ! I've discovered all, and have light before me. 
 The only difficulty is that Emily Dearborn is your son's wife." 
 
 " Yes, confound her I it was her doing then. I always 
 thought it. But you will have to spare her now. You'll man- 
 age well enough, and can let her alone. I am on your side 
 now." 
 
 " Yes, and I think Ethel has a tendency that way too. If I 
 could but get the whole artful scheme cleared up at once." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad that Ethel's eyes are opening, poor girl ! for 
 k will make her happier. She has had trouble enough of late." 
 
 " Indeed, yes ! You have all had sorrow. I can onl}' 
 apologize for intruding my own miseries upon you all this 
 time." 
 
 " Good, I think, has come of your visit, Vance. Good bye 
 to you." 
 
 Edwin jumped into the wagon, and they had just started, when 
 Air. Mordaunt called after him, — 
 
 " I say, Vance ! I'll tell you what you had better do. "Write 
 to Horton, my brother-in-law, or, what is better, go to him and 
 get him to take up this affair. He can do what he likes with 
 Ethel, and he'll only be too delighted to enter into the tiling. 
 Something for him to do." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Mordaunt, I shall do so. It's a capital 
 idea," he called back. 
 
 AVhen Edwin A'ance arrived at the hotel in Ten Lakes he found 
 a telegram awaiting him. 
 
 1 I 
 
 Hit 
 
 
 Hi !^^ 
 
 ; \ 
 
 4 
 
 
128 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i-r- ■- 
 
 in 
 
 It was from Sidney Wolverton, and ran as follows : 
 
 " Toronto, 
 
 " Come on at once. Very important business 3 ffecting 
 your interests. Do not delay. 
 
 "Sidney Wolverton." 
 
 He had intended to see Ada Dearborn in the morning, but 
 
 this message, which he did not altogether understand, changed 
 
 his intention, and in an hour he was on nis way to Toronto. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A STOUT, WELL-GROWN LAD. 
 
 " A gentleman to see me in the library — sports his bit of 
 pasteboard too. Well, he's an early caller," said Mr. Vance to 
 the party assembled round his mother's breakfast table on tlie 
 morning of his return to Toronto, as he took up the card from 
 the salver handed him by the servant who had brought up tlie 
 name. 
 
 " * Mr. Erastns Gooch,' What can he want, I wonder. Silly 
 man, if he wants law so early in the morning. You remember 
 Mr. Gooch, Agnes, one of the heroes of your dreadful adven- 
 ture ?" he added to Miss Seaforth, who, with her aunt, had been 
 Mrs. Vance's visitors for a day or two. 
 
 " I am accjLiainted with Mr. Gooch, demurely replied the 
 young lady, drooping down slightly her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 " Acquainted with him, Agnes. Why you were not acquainted 
 with him a week since," answered Edwin. 
 
 And then with a laugh he continued — 
 
 " Looks rather romantic, does it not ? Lovely heroine in 
 danger and distress j big hero to the rescue. 
 
 " Big hero heart stricken at charms of lovely heroine. Lovely 
 heroine gratetul. 'No cards.' A novel condensed. Mother, 
 I know this gentleman. Can you not ask him up to take some 
 breakfast with us ?" 
 
 ! I . 
 I'd j 
 
h 
 
 ^1 
 
 A STOUT, WELL-GROWN LAD. 
 
 129 
 
 i.^i 
 
 iffecting 
 
 i» 
 
 ITON. 
 
 ling, but 
 changed 
 onto. 
 
 tiis bit of 
 Vance to 
 le on the 
 card from 
 jht up the 
 
 ier. Silly 
 remember 
 ful adven- 
 had been 
 
 jplied the 
 
 )oke. 
 
 icquainted 
 
 lerome in 
 
 ie. Lovely 
 Mother, 
 take some 
 
 " Certainly, Edwin, if you will not tease Agnes with such 
 nonsense. You can bring him up if you like, or ring the 
 bell." 
 
 So the bell was rang, and a servant despatched to show Mr. 
 Gooch into the breakfast room. 
 
 Had not Agnes, with that little shewing of consciousness too, 
 acknowledged her acquaintance with him, it was hardly probable 
 that Edwin would have asked his mother to invite Mr Gooch 
 into their privacy, for he had not appeared in altogether favor- 
 able light during his remarkable interview with Mr. Hatchit- 
 fess. 
 
 But Edwin had come to the conclusion that there had either 
 been exceptional circumstances with Mr. Gooch on that occa- 
 sion or very rapid improvement, and invited he was to join 
 them in the breakfast room, and in another moment he was 
 among them. 
 
 But if that gentleman, on entering, betrayed not a little as- 
 tonishment on finding himself very unexpectedly at a ladies' 
 breakfast table, Edwin Vance, who rose to receive him, was 
 equally astonished as he looked up at his visitor. , 
 
 Could this be the same man who, with hat stuck upon one 
 side of his head and in general rakishness, had held little Hatchit- 
 fess up in the air and talked alcoholic nonsense to him ? 
 
 It was hardly possible, and yet there was no mistaking that 
 six feet of stalwart humanity, who had sent up his card as Mr. 
 Erastus Gooch. 
 
 The Erastus Gooch who stood before them now was a very 
 different Erastus Gooch from " Govitry," the capturer of the 
 Heeing Hatchitfess. 
 
 He was very carefully and handsomely dressed ; in good 
 good taste too, with a quietness which showed he was not defi- 
 cient of knowledge of the world, and, notwithstanding his huge 
 stature, a very good-looking young gentleman, also with the 
 merry blue eyes glittering above them away near the ceiling 
 
 
 
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 130 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 and the good natured and very pleasant face that at the moment 
 bore so kidicrous an air of bewilderment. 
 
 All his wildness had disappeared ; the reckless, rollicking 
 medical studentism had departed, and he appeared, as he was, 
 a quiet, respectable young gentleman. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Gooch ?" said Edwin Vance. " I am 
 happy to meet you again. My mother has invited you to join 
 us at breakfast." 
 
 " Mother," he continued, " permit me to introduce to you my 
 friend, Mr. Gooch." 
 
 " I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gooch. Pray 
 join us at breakfast. Have you resided long in Toronto ?" said 
 Mrs. Vance, as she acknowledged his bow. 
 
 " Yes, madam, or rather I am a medical student attending the 
 university here. I trust that I have not disturbed you at your 
 breakfast. 1 expected to meet Mr. Vance only," replied Mr. 
 Gooch. 
 
 " I have already breakfasted, thank you, madam," he continued, 
 and he turned to bow to the other ladies. 
 
 " No valid reason that, for a man of your size, Mr. Gooch. 
 One breakfast more cannot injure your : ealth. It cannot be 
 accepted as a sufficient excuse, Mr. Gooch. Miss Springer — 
 Miss Seaforth ; ladies to whom I have great pleasure in making 
 you known," added Edwin, mischievously, for he was well 
 aware that they were already acquainted with each other. 
 
 "We already know Mr. Gooch," replied Agnes, but Mr. 
 Gooch was not to be deprived of the pleasure of shaking hands 
 with her for all that. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " 1 am happy to say I have that honour, not 
 for a very long time back though, I am sorry to say." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we know Mr. Gooch very well !" exclaimed old 
 Miss Springer, a happy, old maiden lady, almost helpless from 
 age and infirmity, yet who lightened up the dreariness of her 
 years with the sweet temper and pleasantness of her youth. 
 
A SrOUT, WELL-GROWN LAD. 
 
 131 
 
 " Very well, indeed," she continued, " I think Mr. Gooch 
 has fallen in love with me. He has come to see me two or 
 three times this last week, but he appears to be afraid ot me, 
 though, for I notice that he knows that Agnes is at home to 
 protect him, I suppose. Is this not correct, Mr. Gooch?" and 
 the old lady laughed heartily. 
 
 " Certainly, madam ; going for the licence to-day," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 '• I fear, though, that you would rather see another name 
 than mine gracing it, Mr. Gooch ; but how did you know that 
 I was here this morning ?" 
 
 " I did not know it, Miss Springer," said Mr. Gooch, as they 
 sat down to breakfast. " I only came to see Mr. Vance." 
 
 " Oh, come now, too thin ! What do you want to see me for ? 
 For what does a medical student need a lawyer ? Confess the 
 truth and acknowiedge fairly that you came to see Miss Springer 
 or Agnes there," answered Edwin, laughing. 
 
 " But I am no longer a medical student. I've thrown aside 
 the lancet, anatomy, physiology and rubbish. No more carving 
 up Her Majesty's subjects for me, and I do require a lawyer," 
 replied Mr. Gooch, ignoring Edwin's insinuations. 
 
 " Better to require something else, Mr. Gooch. Lawyers are 
 dangerous articles of desire," returned Mr. Vance. " But what 
 wickedness have you been about this time ?" 
 
 " None in particular. But something has been done to me, 
 thoughj" Mr. Gooch replied, with a sly look towards Agnes, as 
 though he would much prefer that any little past escapade be not 
 
 made public. An old lady — ^" 
 
 " Ladies — always ladies, Mr. Gooch. Mr. Gooch I am as- 
 stonished," interrupted Vance, delightedly. 
 
 '• Old ladies too !" said Miss Springer. " Upon my word, Mr. 
 Gooch, you are a deceitful creature. Do you wish to many her 
 after all you have said to me ?" 
 
 " Oh ! that is too bad altogether. Miss Springer. How can 
 
 ^M 111 
 
 '1 « 
 
 t 
 
 H 
 
 11 i 
 
132 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 1 
 
 f I 
 
 you imagine such things of me ? I could not marry her if 
 I wished it, for the poor old lady is dead. Don't tease me, and 
 let me tell my story. 
 
 " This old lady, my mother's cousin, or her forty-second aunt 
 or some other outrageous degree of consanguinity, for we are of 
 Scotch descent, you know, took it into her head to die a few days 
 ago, and very sensibly left all her property to me. For which 
 act I am very much obliged to her, as there is a good lot of it. 
 I am very sorry too, and all that %ort of thing ; yet as I have 
 never seen her more than half a dozen times in my life, and 
 then she resolutely declined to take the very slightest notice of 
 me, I cannot cry very much. I certainly never expected to 
 get her money though, and what do you think was her very ex- 
 q:nsite reason for leaving it to me ? Expressed it in her will 
 too. Why, because ' I am a stout well-grown lad of my years ; 
 not like the rest of the Goocnes, poor, feckless, miserable, un- 
 dersized bodies, with notliing to them,' as she said. And yet 
 there is not a Gooch that I ever saw — ma'e or female — under 
 six feet in height. They are all raving aboui it too, not getting 
 any of the money, and being called names into the bargain. 
 
 " Sensible old lady, though," he resumed. '* Scotch too — 
 wise people the Scotch : never leave their money out of the 
 family. Nice habit, very, and so I have come to Mr. Vance 
 to fix things up for me. ' Legal formalities,' and so forth." 
 
 " I shall fix things up for you, as you phrase it, with great 
 pleasure, Mr. Gooch. Not a very difficult undertaking, I ex- 
 pect, and I congratulate you heartily upon your good fortune. 
 Excellent reason that for leaving her money to a man because 
 he is ' a well-grown youth,' " answered Edwin, with a lau^'h. " 1 
 hope the fortune is as large as its recipient. You will need a 
 wife, though, Mr. Gooch, to look after you. There will be a 
 wedding soon, I expect. We shall all look for invitations." 
 
 ** I think you had better insert my name in the license of 
 which you spoke erewhile, Mr. Gooch," exclaimed Miss Springer. 
 
rry her if 
 ; me, and 
 
 :ond aunt 
 we are of 
 few days 
 For which 
 lot of it. 
 Ls I have 
 y life, and 
 notice of 
 cpected to 
 ;r very ex- 
 n her will 
 my years ; 
 erable, un- 
 And yet 
 ,le — under 
 ot getting 
 largain. 
 Itch too — 
 )ut of the 
 ^r. Vance 
 )rth." 
 ^ith great 
 [ng, I ex- 
 fortune, 
 because 
 lau^'h. "1 
 111 need a 
 Ikvill be a 
 j)ns." 
 
 Icense of 
 ISpringer. 
 
 A STOUT, WELL-GROWN LAD. 
 
 133 
 
 " 1 could not allow that fortune to slip away from me. Remem- 
 ber that, for all the young ladies will be on the ^ui viveP 
 
 " Yes ! you will be all the rage now, Mr. Gooch. The lion 
 of the town. Is your good fortune known yet?" said Edwm. 
 
 " Why, I only knew myself a few days ago," replied Mr. 
 Gooch. " Perhaps you might have noticed that, on the even- 
 ing of our Httle adventure with that wretch Hatchitfess and 
 Miss Seaforth, there — there — there might have been the faintest 
 suspicion, the barest possibility that I had been imbib — well, 
 yes, smelling the cork ; so to say, a little. Had you noticed it ?" 
 
 "Well, Mr. Gooch, now that you remark it, I remember 
 there was just the very faintest possible suspicion, deducible 
 from your manner, of something of the kind," answered Edwin, 
 laughing heartily at the vast difference between Mr. Gooch's 
 cool description and the reality. 
 
 " Faint suspicion ! Bare possibility ! There was most ap- 
 parent certainty. You ought tc have been ashamed of your- 
 self, Mr. Gooch," exclaimed Agnes, with suspicious energy. 
 " You were dreadfully inebriated." 
 
 " Well done, Agnes ! I see you take decided interest in his 
 good behaviour. That is right ; don't let him get even near to 
 the ' cork ' henceforth," said Mr. Vance, looking at poor Agnes 
 quizzically. 
 
 But Mr. Gooch came to her rescue. 
 
 ** I was really very much ashamed, Miss Seaforth, and more 
 so that you had been present. But I have been very different 
 since, and shall remain good for the future, I can assure you. 
 And that was, too, the solitary occasion on which I have trans- 
 gressed. I had received the good news that day only, and pro- 
 bably I felt very glad, or very sorry, or sometliing unusual, I 
 suppose, and that was the way of it." 
 
 " Oh ! that was the way of it, was it ? Well, perhaps that 
 makes the matter more excusable. One does not get a fortune 
 
 ';•;!. 
 
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nfprf 
 
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 134 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 every day," said Edwin, in justification of Mr. Gooch in Agnes* 
 presence. 
 
 " No, not every day ; but were I to get a dozen fortunes 
 again I would not repeat my indiscretion. 
 
 " By the by !" he continued. " As I came along the street 
 this morning I heard that young Hatchitfess was found drowned 
 near the steamboat wharf this morning, and ugly rumors of foul 
 play are coupled with his death." 
 
 " Drowned ? That young man drowned. How horrible I" 
 exclaimed Mr, Vance. "What a terrible end to a vicious 
 career. But is it certain ? May there not be some mistake ?" 
 
 " I think not ; my informant was not in doubt evidently. 
 Young Hatchitfess has been intoxicated more or less entirely 
 for the past week ; ever since the failure of his attempt to 
 abduct Miss Seaforth. I met him last night in a terrible state j 
 talking loudly, almost insanely, to a gentleman who seemed to 
 be persuading him to go home. And to-day he is dead. He 
 must have fallen over the wharf in his intoxication, though 
 what had taken him into that vicinity I cannot imagme. It 
 does not lie on his way home." 
 
 " How very horrible !" exclaimed Agnes, who looked as if 
 she meant what she said. " Poor erring young man ! From 
 my heart I pity him. Such an awful week leading up to such 
 an awful death." 
 
 •* Yes ! it is horrible enough. But you have no need to pity 
 his death, Agnes, for it is better for himself that he is dead, as 
 well cs for society, to whom he was an injury and a disgrace," 
 returned Edwin, gravely. 
 
 " The event is an unmixed blessing to you, my dear Agnes, 
 for his malice against you, I happen to know, was unbounded. 
 He was an evil speaker," said quiet Mrs. Vance, rather unfor- 
 givingly, for Hatchitfess' malicious assailings had come to lier 
 ears. 
 
Lgnes* 
 
 •tunes 
 
 street 
 owned 
 of foul 
 
 •rible '." 
 ▼icious 
 5take?" 
 idently. 
 entirely 
 mpt to 
 e state ', 
 med to 
 id. He 
 though 
 ne. It 
 
 )d as if 
 From 
 to such 
 
 to pity 
 ead, as 
 grace," 
 
 nAgnes, 
 
 lunded. 
 
 unfor- 
 
 to her 
 
 A STOUT, WELL-GROWN LAD. 
 
 135 
 
 " His end was dreadful," she continued. " Yet in what bet- 
 ter way could such a life be expected to terminate." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Gooch," said Edwin, after a pause, " as you 
 appear to have finished your breakfast, we will go to the library 
 and proceed to business, I am pressed for time to-(.ay. I 
 suppose you require my valuable services this morning. 
 
 " I have an appointment at eleven o'clock," he added, as 
 they rose from the table. 
 
 "Are you coming to see me soon, Mr. Gooch?" laughed 
 Miss Springer, when that gentleman was bidding her adieu. 
 
 '•Yes, Miss Springer; most certainly ; if you will allow me," 
 answered Mr. Gooch, with awkward laugh and conscious look 
 towards Agnes ; amid whi jh, he followed Mr. Vance from the 
 room. 
 
 Their business was soon arranged to mutual satisfaction, 
 and Mr. Gooch prepared to take his departure from the house. 
 
 He had taken his leave ; had moved towards the door, and 
 hesitatingly Imgered there, as if he had something upon his 
 mind, for which he could not bring himself up to the point of 
 declaration, yet evidently was anxious to disclose. 
 
 He turned back to the table where Vance had remained 
 standing ; stopped half-way ; thought a minute ; moved on 
 again another step ; stopped ; brushed up his hat ; appeared to 
 be remarkably uneasy, and at length, by a mighty effort found 
 voice, and spoke : 
 
 " Mr. Vance, I have something to tell you ; private and con- 
 fidential, you know." 
 
 Mr. Gooch paused again, unable, api)arently, to proceed. 
 
 " All right ! fire away ! Mr. Gooch. Always tell everything 
 to your legal adviser. The best plan in the end. What scrape 
 liave you got yourself into now ?" said Edwin, smiling at his 
 client's evident perplexity. 
 
 "Ohl it is nothing about law. Worse than that," replied 
 Mr. Gooch, who then went on rapidly. " I suppose you have 
 
 ;|iM 
 
 till 
 

 a. 
 
 th^i 
 
 11 
 
 i: 
 
 1. 1 
 
 
 136 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 perceived — I know you have, by the way you have been poking 
 fun at me this morning — that — that — that — " 
 
 " That you are head over ears in love with Miss Agnes Sea- 
 torth — you were going to say'" interrupted Edwin, laughing. 
 
 " Yes ! I very plainly have perceived it, Mr. Gooch," he con- 
 tinued" One would be remarkably unobservant not to have 
 perceived the very palpable fact. It is too plainly evident. 
 Very little doubt of that, Mr. Gooch. You are a gone case." 
 And Edwin, stickir his thumbs into the armholes of his waist- 
 coat, squarely rega ed ms uneasy visitor in smiling enjoyment. 
 
 ** Well ! what arc you going to do about it ?" he queried. 
 
 " That is just what I want to know, Mr. Vance. What I 
 wished to ask you about," responded Mr. Gooch, earnestly. " I 
 have done little else but think of her ever since the evening I 
 met her with you, and I suppose every one can plainly see what 
 is the matter with me. But she seems so far beyond me, so 
 beautiful, so imreachable to me, that I fear for myself — for an 
 ending that would be dreadful to me. Do you think I have any 
 chance with such a girl as Agnes Seaforth ? You know her so 
 well." 
 
 " Yes ! I have known her from infancy, and I know nothing 
 but good of her ; a great deal J chat is very admirable. Miss 
 Seaforth is a lady; high-spirited, accomplished, and of very 
 elevated and refined sentiment. If you win her you will indeed 
 be a lucky man, and I do not see why you should not win her. 
 It depends, in great measure, upon yourself," replied Edwin 
 encouragingly. " But how did you obtain your introduction to 
 her ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I spent all the next day after our meeting in pestering 
 a married aunt of mine, who lives in Toronto here, and who knows 
 Miss[Springer, to call upon them and take me with her," said that 
 man of resource, Mr. Gooch. -♦ 
 
 " Very ingenious I Mr. [Gooch. And I suppose )'0u have 
 now transferred the pestering to them. Very good," responded 
 
poking 
 
 les Sea- 
 hing. 
 he con- 
 to have 
 evident, 
 e case." 
 is waist- 
 oyment. 
 ied. 
 
 What I 
 tly. "I 
 ^ening I 
 see what 
 ^d me, so 
 f— for an 
 have any 
 )\v her so 
 
 nothing 
 
 le. Miss 
 
 of very 
 
 In indeed 
 
 win her. 
 
 Edwin 
 
 luction to 
 
 Ipestering 
 Iho knows 
 said that 
 
 I'ou have 
 jsponded 
 
 
 DID HE DO IT ? 
 
 137 
 
 Edwin. " I do not think either that it it will be found very 
 unpleasing to the young lady. Little as I have seen of the affair, 
 I can see that. But Miss Seaforth is a rather particular girl — 
 sensitive and high-spirited. You will have to be very careful," 
 
 " Yes ! I know that. I have found out that already," said 
 Mr. Gooch, lugubriously. " I was so anxious, so awfully over- 
 come that my feelings got to be too much for me, and the 
 second time I visited her I absolutely was wound up to the 
 point of declaring my affection, but that she very adroitly 
 
 stopped me." 
 
 " What ! the second time you saw her. Well, you are a bold 
 
 man ! Did you expect to win her in a week ? It is very lucky 
 
 for you that she did stop you," answered Edwin. " But see 
 
 you here, Mr. Gooch," he continued. " I must go ; I cannot 
 
 be pestered with your love attars. Miss Seaforth, probably, 
 
 will take more interest in them. Go ahead and prosper ; but 
 
 not quite so fast as a declaration within a week though." 
 
 And Edwin laughed ; they both laughed. 
 
 " Good m.orning to you, Mr. Gooch. Make friends with my 
 mother, and get her to assist you. Agnes and she are great 
 allies. I think, too, that the old aunt is upon your side." 
 
 " Well ! I am very much obliged to you. I feel better already, 
 Mr. Vance ! Good morning !" 
 
 They parted then. Mr. Gooch going his own way, to spend 
 the day, probably in contriving a plausible pretext to visit liis 
 fair lady in the evening, Mr. Vance, to his appointment with 
 Sidney Wolverton, who, by his telegram to 'I en Ijakes, had 
 caused his abrupt return. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DID HE DO IT? 
 
 Our hero, upon receiving the message from Wolverton, re- 
 quiring his presence in Toronto, on important business concem- 
 
 1 ! 
 
 Wi! 
 
 
 I Ir! 
 
 It I ! 
 

 r 
 
 li "T 
 
 Vi 
 
 (' I' 
 
 I' 
 
 i 
 
 i' 
 
 I 
 
 ! i 
 
 ; t ', 
 
 v: 
 
 ••!?» ^ 
 
 ny 
 
 138 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ing his interests, had experienced not a little anxiety and alarm 
 thereby. 
 
 So many accusations, by this time, had been made against 
 the character of his friend, that with the suspicious occurrences 
 tn his own knowledge, Mr. Vance had come to seriously mis- 
 trust and doubt him, and gravely to suspect the disinterestedness 
 of his friendship. 
 
 He had resolved, for the future, to keep clear of Mr. Sidney 
 VVolverton, but this message had appeared to be imperative, and 
 he determined to see for himself what meant this new move 
 upon the board. 
 
 Miss Ada Dearboon, too, had implicated the man in the mat- 
 ter with which her sister had been connected in the ma- 
 licious effort to ruin his engagement, so that he did not feel 
 at all well-disposed to him who had been his friend. To think 
 badly of him thus had been painful enough ; but he could no 
 longer shut his eyes to the fact that his friend's reputation was 
 gravely attacked by very many people whose words bore 
 weight. 
 
 He finally resolved that not again would he be entrapped b} 
 liim, and there seemed every probability that Mr. Wolverton 
 would not meet with a very warm reception. 
 
 At the appointed hour Sidney entered the office of his frienid 
 to find him there before him. 
 
 He entered rapidly and demonstratively, but there was a fur- 
 tive and uneasy appearance in his manner which he would not 
 conceal and which Vance did not at all like. 
 
 "How do you do? Mr. Wolverton," said Vance, coldly 
 enough, shaking, in slight response, the demonstratively proffered 
 hand extended him. " I am here as you see, as I wired you I 
 '^. ouldbe. What is this urgent business whose importance re- 
 quires my presence so hurriedly ?" 
 
 " I am very glad you are here, Vance, for there is urgent 
 necessity for your presence. Urgent and unpleasant, I fear, to 
 
DID HE DO IT? 
 
 139 
 
 d alami 
 
 against 
 irrences 
 sly mis- 
 stedness 
 
 ■. Sidney 
 dve, and 
 w move 
 
 the mat- 
 the ma- 
 not feel 
 To think 
 could no 
 ition was 
 Irds bore 
 
 pped by 
 ''olverton 
 
 lis frieud 
 
 ,'as a fur- 
 ould not 
 
 ;, coldl)' 
 proffered 
 jed you I 
 ance re- 
 
 |s urgent 
 fear, to 
 
 both of us," replied Wolverton, seriously. " Have you heard 
 that Albert Hatchitfess was found dead — drowned this morn- 
 ing ?" he added uneasily. 
 
 " Yes ; I had heard it. But what has his death to do with 
 this matter ; this unpleasant business of which you speak ? Its 
 details I wish to hear at once. I am pressed for time, having 
 to leave town to-morrow." 
 
 " His death will be found to have, I fear, but too much to 
 do with the affair ; to complicate it very unpleasantly, Vance. 
 The news was a very disagreeable shock to me this morning, I 
 can assure you," said Wolverton, visibly uneasy and, apparently, 
 imwilling to press on with his statement. 
 
 " Pray ! go on with your story at once. Let me hear the 
 whole of it," responded Edwin impatiently. " I cannot as yet 
 see what Albert Hatchitfess has to do with my affairs." 
 
 " You shall hear. I do not, however, find the subject very 
 pleasant upon which to enter," said Sidney. 
 
 " I was compelled to come to this city three days since," he 
 resumed, " to attend to various matters of business, and as the 
 note for thirty-five hundred you so kindly endorsed for me last 
 July falls due in a few days I came prepared to meet it. My 
 other affairs completed, I repaired to the bank to take it up, 
 but—" 
 
 " Oh, well, Wolverton, if the whole matter is that note it does 
 not amount to anything serious. If you cannot meet it I can 
 do so ; in fact, I expected to do so," replied \'ance nonchantly, 
 apparently relieved. 
 
 " Unfortunately that is not the dififlculty. I was prepared to 
 meet it myself. Perhaps, however, you had better let me tell 
 the story in my own way," said Wolverton in reply. 
 
 '" I have to go back a little, Vance," he resumed directly. 
 
 " W^hen a few days after you had endorsed the note for me, 
 I arrived here to settle the pressing claim, to aid me to meet 
 which I had asked it, I found difflculty in discounting the note. 
 
 1:1. 
 
 ;'! f\ 
 
 ih& 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 11 
 
!' 
 
 I ' i: 
 
 ■! i^ 
 
 ,h': 
 
 is hi.! 
 
 
 140 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 My own name as maker was the objection, and I was told that 
 another endorser would be required. I could not do without 
 the money, and so I had to go to the Hatchitfesses to obtain 
 their aid. 
 
 " Young Hatchitfess who was alone in charge," he continued, 
 " positively refused at the first to have aught to do with the 
 matter ; but, very suddenly, he changed his mind ; offered to 
 endorse and obtain discount of the note himself if I would give 
 him one hundred dollars as commission. The bargain was a 
 hard one, but I had no other resource left me than to accept. 
 He took the note, went out to discount it, returned in an hour 
 with the proceeds, and I paid him a hundred dollars. 
 
 " Well, as I said before," he again resumed, " I went to the 
 bank the day before yesterday to pay the note. To my astonish- 
 ment and horror I found on its presentation that instead of 
 thirty-five himdred the note was for thirty five thousand dollars. 
 It had been altered." 
 
 " What ! Do you mean to tell me, Sidney Wolverton, that 
 the note you obtained from me is for thirty-five thousand dol- 
 lars ?" exclaimed Edwin Vance, springing to his feet in horror, 
 his face turning pale with excitement. "Is this true? you 
 villain. Altered ! A likely story indeed. Altered ! forsooth ! 
 This, then, explains my dim recollection of the spoilt note of 
 tliat evening. 
 
 " Great Heavens !" he continued, " I remember now. I was 
 forewarned of this by Ethel herself. Fool that I was. I 
 laughed at her for her warning and trusted you instead, treaclier- 
 ous villain. 
 
 " It was for this, then, that I was drupged ; that you miglit 
 the more easily effect your robbery? ind now, worse than 
 villain, you would slander the dead. Conceal your crime by 
 slandering the memory of this poor young man who has gone 
 to his account. Wolverton, you are in danger ; there arc 
 reports of foul play, and — " 
 
DID HE DO IT? 
 
 141 
 
 )ld that 
 without 
 3 obtain 
 
 iniinued, 
 with the 
 ffered to 
 ould give 
 lin was a 
 ) accept, 
 an hour 
 
 ent to the 
 r astonish- 
 instead of 
 id dollars. 
 
 ;rton, that 
 isand dol- 
 in horror, 
 [true? you 
 forsooth ! 
 iilt note of 
 
 tw. I was 
 
 was, I 
 
 I, treacher- 
 
 ^ou might 
 
 t-orse than 
 
 crime by 
 
 has gone 
 
 [there are 
 
 But Sidney Woh^erton, having got into the thick of the affray, 
 warmed up to his work, had lost his uneasiness, his furtive 
 watchfulness and embarrassment. He had recovered his self- 
 possession and confidence. 
 
 With eyes flaming in indignation ; with outraged virtue 
 mounting to his heeks ; insulted dignity swelling his statue, he 
 sprang to his feet, and appeared at first as if he would have 
 rushed upon and annihilated his traducer. Vance had stopped 
 his speech at the violent action, while Sidney, by a great 
 apparent effort, checked himself, and calmly, quietly, yet 
 forcibly, said : 
 
 " Mr. Vance, I expected anger on your part. I expected re- 
 proach, even violence ; but I was not prepared for insult such 
 as this. Permit me to say, too, that I shall not allow it. You 
 charge me with robbery ; with slandering the dead to cover the 
 crime you allege, and you hint at something worse again than 
 these. 
 
 " Very good indeed !" he continued. " Yet allow me to 
 think that these little accusations are rather uncalled for on your 
 part. From any other than yourself, to whom I am under 
 great obligations, I would not have endured such words. You 
 will find yourself in another moment compelled to retract them." 
 And Sidney Wolverton, coolly taking]out his pocket-book, pro- 
 duced from it a paper and continued. 
 
 " Fortunately — very fortunately for myself, it would appear — 
 I am sufficiently a man of business always to take aad keep 
 receipts for my payments of whatsoever nature. When I tele- 
 graphed you at Ten Lakes, at the same time I telegraphed my 
 bookkeeper at Hopetown for this document, the positive and 
 undeniable proof of my innocence and Hatchitfess' guilt. Be 
 so good as to read it," and Wolverton extended the paper in 
 his hand to Edwin Vance, who, stiil pale and excited, had re- 
 mained standing against the table. 
 He received it and read as follows : 
 
 II 
 
 . -i-ii 
 
 \ \ 
 
 \ \ 
 
 \\h\ 
 
 \ I 
 
142 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 '>■■: 
 
 fhl 
 
 in 
 
 i'ii 
 
 III 
 
 " Toronto, July 27th, 1873. 
 " Received of Sidney Wolverton, the sum of one hundred 
 dollars, in full of our commission account, for procuring the 
 discount of his note, endorsed by Edwin Vance, dated Jul)- 
 24th, 1873, at three moiiilis, for thirty-five hundred dollars. 
 "John Hatchitfess & Son, 
 
 " Per Albert Hatchitfess." 
 
 " Do I aj^jpear as the robber — slanderer — murderer — now, 
 
 may I ask, Mr. Vance ?" exclaimed Sidney, with a triumphant 
 
 ring in his tone, and a perceptible accent of sarcasm. " Am I 
 
 the treacherous villain now ?" 
 
 There it was in his hand j palpable evidence to the generous 
 
 mind of Edwin Vance ; all generous when it judged his friend. 
 
 " Forgive me, Sidney," he said, advancing towards his friend, 
 
 his hand extended shyly, as if he feared rejection. " You said 
 
 I should have to retract my uncalled for remarks, and I do 
 
 retract them. Can you forgive me? You are right, and I 
 
 am wrong ; but why did you not show me this paper at first ?" 
 
 " Why, I forgot it, I suppcse," as shaking the offered hand, 
 
 replied Mr. Wolverton. " Could I have imagined that you 
 
 would suspect me ? Say no more about it though ; I might 
 
 have found your words more un pi easing had i been, in reality, 
 
 guilty." 
 
 He said these things with a laugh, but he had not, however, 
 
 given his true reason for the non-production of the paper at an 
 
 earlier period of his explanation. Had he not desired a violent 
 
 and theatrical denouement, that he might bring \'ance to his 
 
 feet, and had he not accomplished his purpose ? 
 
 " I cannot so easily forgive myself, as you have so genei ousl}' 
 
 done, Sidney," S£::id Edwin, with self-reproaching visage, looking 
 
 at his friend. 
 
 " Oh, say no more. It is all right now, and I shall not vex 
 
 myself about it much," Sidney replied, lightly. 
 
 " But seriously, Vance," he continued, " this note business 
 
 is grave for both of us, while young Hatchitfess' death compli- 
 
 
DID HE DO IT? 
 
 143 
 
 [873- 
 lundred 
 
 ing the 
 
 ed July 
 
 irs. 
 
 fess." 
 r — now, 
 imphant 
 "Am I 
 
 generous 
 is friend, 
 is friend, 
 ^^ou said 
 ,nd I do 
 it, and I 
 at first?" 
 ed hand, 
 that you 
 
 I might 
 .n reahty, 
 
 however, 
 
 per at an 
 
 a violent 
 
 ice to his 
 
 niei ously 
 t, looking 
 
 II not vex 
 
 business 
 11 compli- 
 
 cates it confoundedly. The father will have to pay, but I fear 
 there will be a lawsuit to force him." 
 
 " We must see him at once, Sidney. Let us go to his office,' 
 
 But they did not find INIr. Hatchitfess there, as they might 
 naturally have expected, on the day of his son's dreadful death, 
 had they not been too excited to think of the matter, and they 
 had moved to leave the oftice when the old gentleman walked 
 in, passing through to his private room without noticing or 
 seeing, apparently, a person present, 
 
 A^ance sent in a message to him, and they were shortly ad- 
 mitted. , 
 
 The case was stated as delicately as possible by Mr. Vance, 
 the receipt exhibited, and Mr. Hatchitfess was requested to 
 provide for the difference between what the note originally was 
 and its present figure. 
 
 But this he positively declined to do. 
 
 " I shall not pay until I am forced to pay ; until this thing is 
 sifted to the very bottom. I do not believe that my poor bo)', 
 headstrong and imprudent though he was, has done this thing. 
 There is fraud, gentlemen," he said. 
 
 " Do you charge us with fraud, Mr. Hatchitfess ? indignantly 
 enquired Edvvm Vance. 
 
 " There is fraud, gentlemen," coMly replied Mr. Hatchitfess. 
 " I shall not pay one cent until the law compels me." 
 
 Vance and Wolverton immediately left the office in high 
 dudgeon at the implied insult, after informing Mr. Hatchitfess 
 that the law should at once be set to work to enforce payment. 
 
 They then proceeded to the bank for an examination of the 
 note in question. 
 
 They derived but little satisfaction from the visit. The note 
 was shown them and critically scrutinized. It bore, apparently, 
 a fresh and genuine look, at first sight, but close examination 
 revealed traces about the word ' thousands,' in the body of the 
 note, that seemed suspicious, while the figured numbers in the 
 
 111 
 
 I > 
 
 ilNh 
 
 M 
 
1. • I - . r 
 
 lf:l 
 
 fi:i 
 
 <!, Hi 
 
 I 
 
 
 , 
 
 f'f;'- i', 
 
 
 1' ■':r7 
 
 1 ■ * " 
 
 
 5 ' ' : '• 
 
 
 ( ii i;„; ,. ,' 
 
 
 lii 
 
 ' lilM 
 
 144 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 heading were cramped up. But these would have passed with- 
 out remark had not scrutiny been directed to them. 
 
 " Nevertheless, Mr. Vance," said the president, when the 
 Hatchitfess receipt was shown him, with an explanation of the 
 state of the affair. " Nevertheless, the note was discounted by 
 us as you see it. The names are undoubtedly genuine, and 
 you will have to pay. You have your recourse against Hatchit- 
 fess. You must remember, too, that I wrote you concerning 
 this very affair, and you replied that all was correct. We hold 
 your reply. This note will have to be met." 
 
 " The ftote shall be met, sir, at maturity," replied Mr. Vance, 
 quietly. 
 
 He then called for a statement of his account with the bank, 
 and found that the Hatchitfesses had paid into his credit the 
 several large amounts they had received for him, at the conclu- 
 sion of the lawsuit before mentioned, and all others as well, and 
 this being found satisfactory, he, with Wolverton, left the bank. 
 
 " I will find it a very heavy pull to pay this amount, Sidney, 
 and shall have to take stejDs to recoup myself at once. Fortu- 
 nately I have the money on hand, but were it not for a judg- 
 ment whioh has placed a very considerable amount in my 
 hands, I should have found myself in a pretty fix." 
 
 " All that I have got, Vance, is the three thousand five hun- 
 dred dollars which I brought with me to pay this note, and I do 
 not see how I can raise more just at the present But you shall 
 not be left in the kucli like this. It you have to meet this note 
 I will secure you against possible loss by mortgage, or in any 
 way that you may prefer. All the Hopetown property is fortu- 
 nately clear of incumbrance now, and, I am happy to say, in a 
 prosperous condition. But we must take steps against Hatchit- 
 fess at once," continued Sidney. 
 
 "Yes! without delay," answered Edwin. "I shall, for my 
 own niterests, do so, and I am now on my way to a notary to 
 appoint another agent to act for me. 
 
DID HE DO IT ? 
 
 145 
 
 " As to that of which you speak, Sidney," he continued, " I 
 think you ought to secure me by some means against loss, as I 
 derived no benefit from the transaction, which was nurely to 
 accommodate you ; but, if a mortgage will cripple you in any 
 way or injure your credit, I shall be satisfied with other security. 
 Think over a proposal for to-morrow, and let me know. You 
 do not wish to leave town to-day, do you ?" 
 
 " No ! not until this thing is arranged, or you are placed be- 
 yond the reach of loss. I shall meet you to morrow at noon, 
 and meantime will prepare the plan of an arrangement. But 
 had we not better secure legal advice towards taking steps im- 
 mediately against Hatchitfess? If jiossible an attachment 
 should issue against the son's estate. He is full partner in the 
 firm, and they are wealthy. If you choose, I will immediately 
 undertake this." 
 
 " Very well, Sidney ; do so, for I am busy enough as it is. I 
 have to secure my other property, for a part of which Hatchit- 
 fess is agent," replied Edwin. 
 
 " All right, then, Vance. Don't distress yourself o\er this 
 matter, for you shall not lose a cent." 
 
 " By the-bye I' continued Sidney, " when does your marriage 
 take place ; you have not told me ?'' 
 
 " Not for a time, at all events," said Edwin, seriously. " In 
 fact, Sidney, I have had grave trouble lately, and have not yet 
 come to its end. Through the wicked machinations and false- 
 hoods of a young lady, with whom you are acquainted. Miss 
 Mordaunt has been induced to break off our engagement." 
 
 " ^Vhat ! To break off the engagement I I can hardly be- 
 lieve it I" exclaimed Wolverton, stopping in his walk, as if in 
 surprise. " Well, I am astonished ; astonished and very sorry 
 for you, too. But, Vance, will it not come all right again ?" 
 
 " Perhaps it may. I hope it may," was Edwin's answer. 
 
 '• It will ; be sure. But who is the young lady to whom you 
 
 i!:| 
 
 j;!|!: 
 
 I 
 
 I'H 
 
 m 1 1 
 
 ' V 
 
' ' 
 
 ;ilf^ 
 
 i;',. ' 
 
 fli 
 
 II 
 
 :-| 
 
 1" 
 
 146 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 refer as the author of the difficulty?" queried Sidney, as if he 
 did not very well suspect. 
 
 " Miss Emily Dearborn is the Iridy to whom I refer," replied 
 Edwin, bitterly. 
 
 "Emily Dearborn? Surely you mistake! That I cannot 
 believe. Have you proof, that you so asperse the character of 
 an estimable young lady ? Let me tell you that I hold so high 
 an opinion of her that it is my intention to ask her to be my 
 wife." 
 
 " Then you need not, Sidney," replied Vance. " You are 
 too late. She is no longer Emily Dearborn. But a very few 
 days since she eloped with and married Reginald Mordaunt, 
 brother of my affianced wife." 
 
 " Eloped ! Married I — to Reggie ^Fordaunt, too. That boy ! 
 Impossible!" exclaimed Sidney, tnrning pale and visibly shocked, 
 for he halted his steps in the street and put his hand involuntarily 
 u])on his companion's arm. 
 
 '• You will find it true enough, Sidney, ' replied Vance. " I 
 regret your disappointment, but rejoice at your escape." 
 
 " Married to Reggie Mordaunt ! The very last thing I 
 should have exi)ected from her. Whatever did she marry him 
 for?' Wolverton said, though thinking aloud. 
 
 " Doubtless she had good reason for it, or she is not Emily 
 Dearborn," answered his companion, with a bitter laugh. " She 
 is not worthy your thoughts, Sidney. Not worth another mo- 
 ment's distress." 
 
 " You are right, Edwin, she is not worth a thought. I am 
 over it already. I shall not distress myself over the faithless, 
 mercenary jade, fair though she be," said Sidne}', with answer- 
 ing laugh. *' I shall stick to business instead. Better for me. 
 But this is your notary's office, I suppose. Good-bye for to-day. 
 I shall go on to my lawyers." 
 
 "Good-bye, then, until to-morrow, Sidney," said Edwin, 
 
AGNES WRITES. 
 
 147 
 
 shaking his hand. " Your affections are not very deeply en- 
 gaged, are they ? All the better for you." 
 
 And Edwin entered the office. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton continued upon his way up the street 
 towards Osgoode Hall in a curious state of mind. The news 
 of Emily's marriage had affected him deeply. If it were possi- 
 ble for one of his nature to love strongly, he had loved Emily 
 Dearborn, and had hoped to marry her in spite of his knowl- 
 edge of her character. 
 
 " As good as done, at all events," he had thought. 
 
 But the chief sensation of his mind was anger at the trick 
 which she had practiced upon him. 
 
 " Beware ! Emily 1" he muttered, with darkening face. " You 
 have trifled with me, and I am not to be trifled with. Dearly 
 shall you pay for this ! 
 
 " But what in the world did she marry that boy for ? That 
 is what I cannot understand. Old Mordaunt is neither dead 
 nor dying. 
 
 " Well ! there is one comfort, I am out of this note business 
 splendidly. But what a price I paid for it." 
 
 Shuddering, he glanced with involuntary apprehension around 
 liim. 
 
 He stepped into an hotel, whose sign caught his eye, and 
 fortified himself with a strong dose of brandy. 
 
 " That's the cure for nervousness," he said, as he came out 
 and walked on again. 
 
 " Vance is all right. He shall have no mortgage from me. 
 I've a better plan in view." 
 
 
 
 M 
 
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 'm^'\ ■ 
 
 
 It 
 
 AGNES WRITES. 
 
 iMr. Edwin Vance, on reaching his home after his busy and 
 exciting day's work, had pretty well reconciled himself to the 
 
 f-iih! 
 
148 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 h! 
 
 Ml 
 
 nevitable payment of more than thirty thousand dollars to 
 meet the note which he believed that young Hatchitfess had 
 altered. 
 
 He felt the payment of it to be a serious, though by no means 
 a ruinous, drain upon his resources, and it had been a subject 
 of anxious consideration to him during the day. 
 
 Yet as his signature was undoubtedly upon the note, he 
 philosophically made up his mind that he had to pay it. 
 
 He had, during the day, c:onsulted some of his legal confreres 
 and they had confirmed his own opinion tj-^at Hatchitfess would 
 have to make good the amount, while at the same time they had 
 advised him to take some tangible security from Wolverton — a 
 mortgage, if possible. 
 
 But his peculiar disposition of mind, which rendered him so 
 unsuspicious of others, made him feel so adverse to pressing his 
 friend ; who, in his eyes, having proved himself guiltless of that 
 of which, after much unwillingness he had allowed himself to 
 suspect him, must be, of necessity, guiltless, altogether and wholly 
 guileless. A friend who had proved himself trustworthy, and 
 whom he could wholly trust. 
 
 His other business of the day had been satisfactory to him. 
 
 He had finally settled up and transferred to aiiother the 
 agency which the Hatchitfesses had had in their hands, and the 
 old gentleman had promptly paid over to him a large amount 
 by his cheque. 
 
 He had cashed that cheque immediateiy — an unusual pro- 
 ceeding for him^ it might appear ; but then had not Hatchitfess 
 insulted and offended him ? 
 
 Had Edwin Vance been so careful and suspicious with others 
 it had been better for him. 
 
 But the bent of liis nature, be it for good or be it for bad, 
 ruled him, as it rules aP of us ; yet the cashing of the cheque, 
 so immediately, was an unusual thing for him to have done. 
 
 Dinner over, he accompanied the ladies into the drawing- 
 
AGNES WRITES. 
 
 149 
 
 room, and having thrown off the cares of business, proceeded 
 to amuse himself, in doubtful manner, with the cares and troubles 
 that beset his love affairs ; to think of Ethel Mordaimt and their 
 separation. 
 
 He related to his mother and Agnes Seaforth the sorrowful 
 events of his late visit to Lake Mordaunt, amid their warm sym- 
 pathy for his disappointments and their deep indignation against 
 the author of all the mischief. 
 
 Not a little of their indignation, however, was vented, espe- 
 cially by his mother, upon Miss Mordaunt herself, for daring to 
 doubt her son's unimpeachable truth, and for being so deceived 
 by a trick so very palpable. 
 
 To this, however, he would not listen, and was indignant in 
 return that they should dare to doubt his peerless Ethel. 
 
 But when, in his narration, he came to describe, in deeply 
 injured tone, that the basis of the plot was his pretended prior 
 engagement to Agnes Seaforth, that young lady laughed loud 
 and long at his distress. 
 
 " How dreadful that must have been I Poor fellow ! You 
 are really a much injured individual," and her clear young 
 voice rang through the room in her — a little sarcastic — laughter. 
 
 " I don't see what you have to laugh at, Agnes," he replied, 
 disgustedly. " You would not like it youself, }'0u know. You 
 will be engaged, too, before very long, I expect, if your big 
 Erastus is the man I take him to be, and then you will know 
 how it is." 
 
 And Agnes laughed but the more. 
 
 " I have this much to say, Agnes," said Mrs. Vance, *' that 
 had it been yourself to whom my son had been lucky enough 
 to have become engaged, tliere would not have been like trouble 
 for him. You are too sensible a girl, my dear, too high spirited 
 and too right-minded to have thought so little of your lover 
 and of your own powers of attraction, or have doubted so very 
 easily." 
 
 
 kS!i 
 
150 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i 
 
 • I ■ ,' .i 
 
 f 
 
 * u 
 
 
 " Unfortunately Agnes and I have always been too good friends 
 to become anything else. Why did not she fall in love with me 
 then ?" replied Edwin, lightly. 
 
 But he continued in a more serious voice — 
 
 " Perhaps, my dear mother. Miss Mordaunt has had pre- 
 vious cause to consider that I am not wholly perfect, which 
 I am not by any means, and you must remember that the/^ i/na 
 facie of the case brought against me was very strong." 
 
 " AVell, it may be so, but were I a man, and my affianced had 
 treated me in like manner, I should take her at her word. ' As 
 good fish in the sea as ever was caught,' " said Mrs. Vance, de- 
 cidedly, and it was very evident that her feelings towards Ethel 
 had undergone a change. 
 
 " But not for me, mother," he replied. " I do not blame 
 Ethel, nor do I think she is to blame. I shall do my best to 
 regain her. If I can do so, well and good. If I cannot, I must 
 try to spend my life in as much content as I can attain." 
 
 " If she is worth the regaining, you will regain her. I admire 
 you for your loyalty to h^r, but I do not think with you that 
 she is free from blame," said Agnes Seaforth, and with her re- 
 mark the conversation dropped. 
 
 Before he retired, Edwin obtained, not without much diffi- 
 culty, a promise from his mother that she would write to jNIiss 
 Mordaunt to give her the real history of Agnes' relations witii 
 them, the impossibility of her aunt having been the author of 
 the lettei ascribed to her, the whole facts of the case, and a hint 
 of Agnes' own love affair. Also that she would endeavor to get 
 Agnes to write also ; but it was only after long effort and a hint 
 that the forged letter compromised her favorite's name, could 
 Edwin induce his mother either to write herself or ask Agnes to 
 do so. 
 
 The letters were written. 
 
 Mrs. Vance's production was very much to the point, very 
 cutting and ratlier unpleasant in its tone, the letter of a mother 
 
1 
 
 AGNES WRITES. 
 
 15^ 
 
 whose son had been injured, but it was admirably calculated to 
 effect its two-fold purpose of clearing her son's name and of 
 rendering its recipient uncomfortably conscious that her action 
 was imputed to anything rather than the heroic cause. 
 
 The production which Mrs. Vance succeded in eliciting from 
 
 Agnes ran as follows : 
 
 " Toronto, Wednesday, 
 
 " Dear Miss Mordauxt,- 
 
 " Mrs. Vance, with whom I am at present on a visit, has 
 requested me to write to you with reference lo certain matters 
 in which her son and yourself are concerned. 
 
 " I do so very unwillingly, for I do not see that there is 
 any occasion that you should have caused the necessity for it. 
 
 " I beg to deny most explicitly that I am engaged to Mr. 
 Vance, that I have ever been engaged to him or likely 
 to be. Ceitainly it does not appear to be the wish of either 
 that such an event should happen. 
 
 " I would, however, beg to remark that, had I been engaged 
 to him, I should hardly have doubted his truth so easily, that, on 
 the authority of a couple of letters laid before me by one whose 
 motives and whose general moral character were so open to sus- 
 picicion as those of the lady who dared to use my name in her 
 forgeries — it should have seemed necessary, without verification, 
 to cancel my engagement. 
 
 " Yet this you have deemed proper to do. 
 
 *' Either your love for the man to whom you affianced your- 
 self was so weak that you were not justified in promising to become 
 his wife, or you very much undervalue yourself. 
 
 " I have to inform you, also, that I wrote to Mr. Vance 
 during the period of his visit to Lake Mordaunt in July last, 
 upon a mere matter of business, which at the time seriously 
 l)erplexed and annoyed me. I never received an answer, al- 
 though Mr. Vance has assured me that he wrote the same day 
 that he received my letter, and /know him well enough to be- 
 lieve his statement, although I am merely a friend. 
 
 " His reply to me, 1 understand, is now in your posses- 
 sion. 
 
 " I must also beg to deny, on my aunt's part, that she ever 
 wrote to Miss Dearborn in her life ; that she ever had occasion 
 to do so, or, that if she wished it, she is capable, through infir- 
 
 
 
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 \h 
 
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 ;,! 
 
 152 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 mity, of holding a pen. Besides, her name is Springer — not 
 Springle. 
 
 " All this you can, if to do so suits you, verify easily upon 
 enquiry here in Toronto. You may, perhaps, also be surprised 
 to learn that the word of Mr. Edwin Vance is considered worthy 
 of credence in this city. At all events, it is credited. 
 
 " I was very sorry to hear of your long and dangerous ill- 
 ness, from which, I trust, you have wholly recovered. 
 
 " I have also to offer my warm sympathies to you for the 
 great loss you have sustained in the death of your little sister. 
 I earnestly desire, for Mr. Vance's sake as for your own, that 
 you may soon — both of you — be happy agani in your love for 
 each other. 
 
 " I am., dear Miss Mordaunt, 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 "Agnes Seaforth." 
 
 Rather in the nature of a lecture this letter ; but then Miss 
 
 Seaforth had meant it to be such, and had not yet forgiven 
 
 Ethel that she had doubted the man whom she herself had 
 
 proved to be a friend so good ; whom she had so much cause 
 
 to respect and admire. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SIDNEY GETS HIS WILL. 
 
 The next morning when vilr. Edwin Vance had finished his 
 breakfast and was making for the library, a hurriedly loud ring 
 upon the front door bell told of a hurried visitor. 
 
 He opened the door himselt, and was surprised to find his 
 friend Sidney Wolverton, evidently too in a high state of excite- 
 ment, staiiding upon the door-steps. 
 
 *' What is the matter now, Sidney ? I thought you would ha\e 
 torn the bell down with your outrageous ringing. Vv'hat is tlic 
 news this morning ?" 
 
 " News," gasped out Sidney. " There's news that neither of 
 V.S will find agreeable. Hatchitfess has " 
 
SIDNEY GETS HIS WILL. 
 
 153 
 
 " Paid the money, I suppose," interrupted Edwin. " But 
 come into the library, Sidney, and there relate the cause of your 
 haste," and he led the way into that apartment. 
 
 " Paid the money, indeed !" exclaimed Sidney. " No ! nor 
 will he ever pay it. He has skedaddled — cleared out — cut and 
 run for it, with every cent he could scrape up of his own or 
 other's money. He's in the States now, safe and sound, con- 
 found him !" 
 
 " Hatchitfess gone ? No ! no ! Sidney. I can hardly believe 
 that little story. I should as soon suspect to hear of my worthy 
 mother robbing a bank and levanting with the proceeds. No ! 
 no ! for what should Hatchitfess run away? He is worth a 
 couple of hundred thousand dollars." 
 
 " Yes ! very likely he is worth it to-day, if he was not yester- 
 day, for he has taken a considerable lot of other people's money 
 with him. He is gone, I tell you, Vance, and has not left a 
 dollar behind him either, as you and I will find to our cost. 
 Just come down town and judge for yourself,"' answered Sidney, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " Hatchitfess a defaulter ! I can hardly believe it. Why he 
 had the best name in the city, excepting that he was a regular 
 Shylock. It looks cerulean for my thirty thousand dollars. We 
 will go and hear the news, Sidney." 
 
 But on reaching the offices l^dwin Vance found that it was 
 all too true. 
 
 Hatchitfess had gone, and was far enough away by this time. 
 Gone too with everything he could lay his hands upon, and 
 leaving next to nothing behind him. His house, its furniture, 
 liis son's horses and equipages, with a few other trifling assets, 
 were all that remained to satisfy a host of defrauded creditors. 
 
 "He had left a letter to his head clerk, telling him of his pur- 
 pose. That an attempt was being made to rob him of a large 
 sum, which he would never pay, and, as his beloved son was 
 
 wv\ 
 
 [l 
 
 ll 
 
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 ^ 
 
 
154 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ■);i ' " 
 
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 li; 
 
 
 I 
 
 dead, nothing left for him in life, he would go, with his hard 
 earnings, where they should be safe. 
 
 He had enclosed, the clerk said, money sufficient to pay up 
 his employees and to bury his son. 
 
 " He must have a lot of money with him too," added the 
 clerk, " for though the young man spent an awful amount, yet 
 Hatchitfess must have been very rich, and he has taken another 
 vast amount of his clients' money. It is a ve.y bad job, that's 
 \v4iat it is." 
 
 " No use for us to remain here, Sidney," said Vance when he 
 had heard all that was to be heard. " I shall have to pay the 
 note, that is very plain. You will have to go half." 
 
 " Yes, Vance. I ought to meet it all, by right," replied Sid- 
 ney. " But I have not the money. However, I have a plan to 
 propose that will save you from loss. Let us go up to your office 
 and talk it over." 
 
 They walked out from the scene of anger and dismay that 
 tilled uj) the place of business of him whose motto had been, 
 " AVe may be very hard, but we are very honest." 
 
 " Had I been able to have got out an attachment yesterday 
 we might have saved ourselves,Vance," continued Sidney, as tliey 
 walked up the street. " But though I pressed matters vigorous- 
 ly, I could not get it done yesterday, and Hatchitfess must have 
 got wind of it. My firm impression is that he has cleared out 
 merely to save himself from this payment. He could not make 
 up his mind to pay out this thirty-five thousand dollars, and he 
 has preferred to sacrifice a business which produces the amount 
 every year." 
 
 " The affair is inexplicable to me. I cannot understand it. 
 That his son's death affected him greatly, I can readily believe, 
 but why he should commit a crime that will compel him to hide 
 in obscurity for the rest of his life, and that too in enforced idle- 
 ness, when the press of business, the scraping together of dollars 
 
SIDNEY GETS HIS WILL. 
 
 00 
 
 ■> ■,< 
 
 and cents, formed his chief happiness, I cannot understand,'' rc- 
 plid Edwin Vance. 
 
 " It is as I say," said Sidney. " He was willing to sacrifice 
 everything rather than crack his heart-strings by paying a sum 
 which is in reality but a trifle to him. 
 
 " But Vance," he continued, when they had seated thems'^:ives 
 in his friend's office. " we have got to pay this note ; we cannot 
 clear out. Or rather, you will have to pay it, for I cannot, and 
 I must repay you in some manner. You shall have a mortgage 
 if you require it, as the Hopetown property is all clear of en- 
 cumbrance. But if I do mortgage it my credit will become 
 seriously strained, which I cannot afford to have strained. The 
 propf^rty is all clear — not a cent upon it — while the total in- 
 debtedness of whole concern would be covered by one-half the 
 stock of raw and finished goods. But the difficulty is that it is 
 too large for my capital. As I say, if I put a mortgage upon 
 the property my credit will suffer, and I fear that I will again 
 get down into the mire, out of which with great effort I have 
 raised myself 
 
 " Now, if you will go in with me into the concern it will make 
 everything as firm as a rock. I will give you one-half interest 
 in mills, lands, stocks, everything, if you will pay this note and 
 join me in partnership, and I will undertake to make more 
 money for my half share than I now do with the whole, for the 
 weakness of my credit cripples the whole concern." 
 
 " I would prefer not to do that, if anything else can be 
 accomplished, Sidney ; but give me all the figures on paper 
 from your memory as well as you can, and we will talk it over." 
 
 They did talk it over, and before nightfall Edwin Vance had 
 become a partner in the " Hopetown Manufacturing Company," 
 as they agreed to call the nev/ concern, on the basis originally 
 proposed by Sidney. 
 
 Without examination, without reflection, but purely out of his 
 amiable trust in human nature and in his friend, he had thus 
 
i; J 
 
 &': 
 
 156 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 \i\\ 
 
 put himself almost vvholl) in AVolverton's power. Had done 
 the thing he had promised not to do, with his eyes opened to 
 the light which they would not see. 
 
 Had done this thing which was, to say the least of it, a very 
 unwise thing. 
 
 But it was done. He hr.d signed tne deeds ; he had paid the 
 note ; his partnership was registered, and he could not retract 
 even had he wished to do so. 
 
 It is not, however, to be supposed that the Hopetown pro- 
 perty was in the same rather shaky condition that the previous 
 July had seen. 
 
 The establishment was naturally a good one. It had been 
 much im^ roved by Sidney, and tlie thirty thousand dollars he 
 had received from the i^roceeds of the note which he liad so 
 treacherously obtained from Vance, had put the whole concern 
 into good order — free from debt — and with partially restored 
 credit. 
 
 The only things that militated against its success were the in- 
 curably bad reputation of its owner, and his wasteful extrava- 
 gance. 
 
 He thoroughly understood the business ; v/as energetic and 
 economical in its administration ; but the wild and reckless life 
 he led ; his gambling and dissipation consumed large sums of 
 money, while his frequent absences in the pursuit of these plea- 
 sures, were not conducive to prosperity. 
 
 However, Edwin Vance's name would be a tower of strength 
 to the concern, and if he would but make up his mind to spend 
 his whole time at Hopetown, merely to watch his partner and 
 keep him within bounds all would go well, while there was for- 
 tune, riches, profits without limit, before them. 
 
 But would he do this ? 
 
 Was not his time sufficiently engrossed by other duties ; liis 
 profession, his property, and above all the troubles of his disa]> 
 pointed love. As things stood on the day that Edwin Vaiice 
 
SIDNEY GETS HIS WILL. 
 
 157 
 
 Had done 
 opened to 
 
 f it, a very 
 
 lad paid the 
 not retract 
 
 oetown pro- 
 he previous 
 
 [t had been 
 i dollars he 
 1 he iiad so 
 lole concern 
 ally restored 
 
 ; were the in- 
 eful exti'iva- 
 
 nergetic and 
 reckless life 
 irge sums of 
 )f these plea- 
 
 Ir of strength 
 
 iind to spend 
 I partner and 
 lere was for- 
 
 duties; hi^ 
 
 of his disap- 
 
 k.dvvin Vance 
 
 signed his name to tlie deed of partnership it very much ap- 
 peared tliat Sidney [Wolverton would be left to act as he 
 pleased as managing partner of the " Hopetown Manufacturing 
 Co." 
 
 !Mr. Sidney Wolverton left town the same afternoon, very 
 well pleased to get away. His visit had been an eminently suc- 
 cessful one ; he had accomplished all he had hoped to accom- 
 plish, and more than he had hoped. 
 
 Yet he was very glad to get away from Toronto. A strong 
 sense of relief overspread his whole being as the train got fairly 
 under v^iy and sped into the open country, all bright under the 
 soft autumnal sun. Freedom, deliverance, safety seemed to 
 open out CO him. New thoughts, new hopes, new life, centered 
 within his brain as the heavy eastern express rushed through a 
 tract of forest lands, all gorgeous in its frost-reddened tintings — 
 the glorious ending of the Canadian summer — and left its divid 
 ing belt between him and his fear. 
 
 He had not been stopped. And as this assurety settled itself 
 in intense relief upon his brain, he threw away the past. Cast 
 it away — a thing that was spent and ended. He looked now 
 but to the prospering present ; forward to a prosperous future. 
 
 " Well ! Vance is a good fellow," he said, when his thoughts 
 hud become fixed once more upon the things before him. " Who 
 else would have done as he has done ? AVho else would have 
 trusted his friend as he has done me ? But am I his friend — 
 really his friend — a friend to him as he has ever been to me "> 
 
 " Sidney Wolverton, can you ansv/er that question as it should 
 be answered ? 
 
 " No ! You cannot, Sidney Wolverton. A friend. Heaven 
 help me, what kind of a friend am I for any one ?" and the man's 
 whole frame shuddered as recollection flew back to what he had 
 so lately thrown behind him. 
 
 " Were this day but over, that awful thing safe out of sigfet 
 
 12 
 
 ;vi 
 
 I 
 
 
158 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 and forgotten, then could I start afresh. All is bright before me, 
 except myself But I will change. Why may I not come to 
 the same as he came ? I will change ! I will change ! I will 
 
 do the fair thing too to Vance, who has Yes ! what has 
 
 he not done for me ? I will make these works pay him bzck 
 the thousands of which I have robbed him. 
 
 " No more brandy — no more cards for you, Sidney Wolver- 
 ton. To business, and shew your friend, your friend whom you 
 do not deserve, that you can be a friend too. If I can make 
 Hopetown mills pay, they shall pay, and for your sake too, Ed- 
 win Vance." 
 
 In kindred reflections Sidney Wolverton's mind occupied it- 
 self as the fast speeding train had flown over a hundred miles of 
 its journey ; yet despite of them and his new made vows, when 
 the train arrived at Hopetown, Mr. Sidney Wolverton stepped 
 off" from it in a somewhat intoxicated condition. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ; i' 
 
 ii hi 
 
 A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. 
 
 Having contrived to reach the end of the somewhat unusual 
 press of business, professional and otherwise, in which he had 
 found himself involved since his return to Toronto, Mr. Edwin 
 Vance, a few days after the departure of his friend, Sidney Wol- 
 verton, from that city, finding himself free to do as he chose, 
 resolved to make an incursion upon the territories of our good 
 neighbour, Uncle Sam, and a raid upon the domicile and the 
 peace of mind of his friend Mr. riorton. 
 
 The press of business over, nothing left to occupy him with 
 immediate action, his unquiet and uneasy mind at once reverted 
 to Ethel Mordaunt and the troubles into which he was thrown 
 with reference to her and their broken engagement. 
 
 He ha4 made, to be sure, some little headway in the difficult 
 
A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. 159 
 
 . 5 
 
 and tedious work of restoration ; had obtained a vantage ground 
 from which to make his charge upon the enemy, plain to his 
 sight, and, consequently, was all the more anxious to commence 
 the fray, and end the intolerable suspense that oppressed him. 
 
 He could no longer brook the delay, the misery and the 
 doubts that laid their heavy load upon him, and he was deter- 
 mined that he would, if he could by any means, end them, and 
 bring back again the brightness to his life, which had been so 
 long, as it seemed to him, and so bitterly extinguished. 
 
 Accordingly Edwin having bid his " farewell " to his mother for 
 a day or two, shaken hands with Agnes Seaforth and her aunt, 
 who were still her visitors, and unmercifully joked Mr. Gooch, 
 whom a few minutes before he had sent up stairs, with an irre- 
 verent laugh as sole answer to the utterly absurd and meaning- 
 less question concerning his legal affairs which had formed that 
 gentleman's excuse for calling upon him, proceeded to the station 
 and placed himself comfortably into a Pullman car for his night's 
 journey through to Rochester, New York, and his first stopping 
 place. 
 
 Safely arrived the next morning in that beautiful and busy 
 city — " busy," the next best praise to " beautiful," — he spent a 
 kw hours in viewing the place, which he had not before visited, 
 and in refreshing the inner man after his night's long travel 
 around Lake Ontario. 
 
 As he was shown into the dining-hall of the very handsome 
 hotel to which he had been directed, the head waiter who escort- 
 ed him, after a deliberate survey of his personal appearance from 
 head to foot, spoke as follows : 
 
 " Yeu air a Britisher, neow, I imagine, stranger ; from Canedy 
 too, I would expect, ain't yeu ?" 
 
 " I am from Canada, certainly, my friend, but I am not alto- 
 gether a Britisher, as you call it. I am a Canadian," answered 
 Edwin, a little sharply, as if the address had struck upon his 
 
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 Ts 
 
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 mm^ 
 
 1 60 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ■.!■; 
 
 • 1 ; ■ It h. 
 
 n ■■ 
 
 ear painfully, but replying, nevertheless, as he remembered he 
 was now in the land of equality. 
 
 " Sho ! neow, du tell. A Canadian, air ye. Wall, I calculate, 
 r-tranger, that a Canadian and a Britisher air much of a much- 
 ness. Tarred with the same stick, I guess. Yeu air an aristocrat 
 now, ain't yeu ?" 
 
 " We have no aristocrats in Canada, my worthy friend. We 
 are, unfortunately, extremely democratic in our ideas, and tarred 
 too much with Uncle Sam's stick — the worst of the tar too. 
 But I wish you would bring me my dinner. lam very hungry," 
 said Edwin, laughing. 
 
 " Wall, yeu shall hev yewer denner, stranger, right off, though 
 it's raither airly, ain't it neow, Britisher ?" replied the waiter, and 
 off he went, after placing Edwin at a table in the deserted din- 
 ing-hall, the usual dinner hour not having arrived. 
 
 But as trains wait for no man, our hero had to take his dinner 
 early or do without. 
 
 As he attacked the appetizing viands set before him, his 
 loquacious attendant re-commenced his inquisitive discourse. 
 
 " I reckon, neow, stranger, that as you air from Canedy, yeu 
 will know for cartain all abeout the two young folks who kem 
 hiar to this hotel, a two weeks since ; ran away from theair 
 friends, I calculate, and who got married in this hotel. Befon; 
 the minister, too, I guess. That air so, stranger." 
 
 " How should I know every one who runs away from Canadn 
 to get nmrried, do you suppose ?" said Edwin, good-naturedly, 
 for he was becoming amused at his questioner's persistence. 
 
 " Sho ! 1 want to know. Yeu surprise me, stranger. Not 
 know the young folks ? But yeu must know 'em. They kem 
 from Canedy, yewer place,'' returned the waiter, argumcnta- 
 tively. 
 
 "Canada is rather loo large a country for me to know it's 
 whole poi)iilati()n. I'm very much afraid that I have not tlic 
 
 
A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. i6t 
 
 le tar too. 
 
 honor of the acquaintance of these people who so greatl}- interest 
 you." 
 
 " Ya'as ! I've heerd heow Canedy was considerable of a 
 little place. Wall, I tell you, stranger, they kem from there, 
 and you must know them. I want yeu neow tew tew tell me if 
 their folks war'nt riled awful neow when they heerd as how they 
 got married deown here in the States ?" 
 
 '' Well ! I have no doubt that they were vexed, but as I 
 don't know them, I cannot tell you for certain. AA'ho were 
 these people, and what were their names ?" asked Edwin, with a 
 laugh, 
 
 " Wall !" slowly answered the other, " 1 calculate as heow I 
 don't exactly know the gal's name, any heow, stranger, and a 
 right smart gal she was too fur a Britisher. It was that gal 
 wheo got up that skedaddle, I reckon. Ya'as, stranger, fur the 
 young fellar looked to be kinder soft and washy-like beside her, 
 raither as if his eye teeth had'nt got cut through yet, mister. His 
 name v/as Mordaunt, I calculate," and the waiter solemnly 
 changed the plate as he finished the story he had ineffectually 
 jjut to twenty people before. 
 
 " Mordaunt ! Mordaunt ; did you say ?'" exclaimed Edwin, 
 with a start of surprise. '' Yes, my friend, you are right. I do 
 know them, and so they were married here?" 
 
 His curiosity aroused, he occupied the remainder of his meal 
 in obtaining a full history of the affair from his attendant, so f.ir 
 as the latter himself knew it. 
 
 Edwin Vance started, by the noon train, again on l.is way to 
 the large manuflicturing town in which Mr. Horton resided, and 
 a very pleasing journey he found it, as the train passed tlirough 
 tlie beautiful, well cultivated and thickly populated section of 
 country which lay between him and his destination. 
 
 Tiie numerous and handsome towns and villages, which lay 
 thickly on his route ; handsomely ornamented and planted 
 with the lovely shade trees, which add so much to beauty and 
 
 K«i 
 
 u- 
 
 .■'it; 
 
 m 
 
 ' 'I. 
 
 
 I I 
 
 It. I 
 
 III 
 
 .'' mi: 
 
l62 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
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 li 
 
 U 
 
 ?■ f t 
 
 ■ii 
 
 utility ; the numerous factories, shops and evidences of indus- 
 trial greatness that everywhere met his view; the hanc'jome 
 farm houses, all neatly painted and ornamented, with their well 
 ordered gardens and trim enclosures, so different from the 
 ugly and slovenly generality of the Canadian farm buildings, 
 while they pleased his eye and awakened his admiration and 
 interest, could not but excite the painful reflection that the cause 
 of all this prosperity, these tokens of wealth, enriching industry, 
 that threw his native land, despite its equal, if not superior ad- 
 vantages, far into the shade — the sole cause of all these — " un- 
 compromising protection to native industry," had not been 
 brought to bear the same benificent effect upon that native land 
 of his — Canada — which seems so persistently to reject the en- 
 richer. 
 
 " Why have we not ou/ thousands of happy and prosperous 
 workmen where now we have but hundreds ? Why have we 
 not, as they have here, tall factory chimnies piercing the sky in 
 sight of each other ? Towns at every mile — wealth at every 
 door ?" he thought, and the thought was humiliatmg to his na- 
 tional pride. 
 
 "And what a hopeless prospect of attaining this great enricher — 
 protection to ourselves — is before us. The present is bad enough) 
 but a week, a day, may see, as events would seem to indicate^ 
 the advent to power, in our mis-led country} of a party whose 
 leaders are practically committed to * free trade ' principles, 
 which, well enough for England, who manufactures for all the 
 world, are ruin^ stagnation, and the paralysis of all industry- 
 save the mere production of the field and the forest — of a new 
 country like our Canada. 
 
 *' What sensible rulers we put over us — what a sensible people 
 we are to permit our young and splendid country to remain an 
 untrammelled pasture ground — a regular common for all the 
 world to graze in. Very bare they leave it too, and in return 
 they very wisely shut us out, with remarkable closeness, from 
 
 mn .. 
 
A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. 163 
 
 their grass. Our doors thrown open, a slaughter market for all 
 the earth, our fatness goes to feed foreign nations, while our land 
 is left ill-peopled, poor and unthrifty. 
 
 " How different does our shrewd Uncle Sam conduct his af- 
 fairs. He keeps his fatness in his own land, as I can so plainly 
 see, and how much better his land looks under the treatment 
 too. He won't have any work done for him in foreign countries 
 that he can do at home. No workmen for him scattered all 
 over the earth, if he can help it, consuming one-half the valut 
 of his raw products to carry them there. The condition of work- 
 ing for Uncle Sam, I see, is that the workmen live with him, 
 thus aiding to build up his strength and his power. 
 " I am ashamed of my countrymen.^* 
 
 Occupied by his reflections and the survey of the country 
 from which they sprang, the hundred miles he had to traverse 
 was speedily accomplished, and sooner than he expected he 
 arrived at his destination, and left the train. 
 
 An enquiry of the polite depot-master directed his way, and 
 in a few minutes he was at the door of Mr. Horton's residence, 
 a large, handsome and imposing building, in the midst of trim 
 gardens and sightly groves that bespoke the wealth and taste of 
 the owner, and had knocked for admittance. Upon giving his 
 name to the servant who opened the door — who looked at him a 
 moment as if to judge his quality — he was, without a word, 
 ushered into the drawing-room, and into the presence of the 
 master of the house. 
 
 Laying down the paper that he was reading as our hero en- 
 tered the room, Mr. Horton looked up to see who might be his 
 unannounced and unexpected visitor. 
 
 " What ! Edwin Vance, is it you ?" he exclaimed, rising from 
 
 his chair fti evident pleasure. " Who would have expected you 
 
 here. I'm real glad to see you, though," and he shook his guest's 
 
 hand in hearty fashion. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad," he continued. " Here, take off y ur over- 
 
 :^':l'i! 
 
 /;:['! 
 
 
 iVi. :', 
 
 :ii;l 
 
 !■! ' 
 
164 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 'li ,. 
 
 4 
 
 coat ; let me help you. You're going to stay here, you know. 
 Have you brought your traps along ?" 
 
 " No ! I left my valise at the station, Mr. Horton. I could 
 not find a cab — all taken uj), I suppose — and did'nt mind the 
 walk through your beautiful little town. Yes ! I've come to 
 see you on a matter of importance to myself, Mr. Horton, so I 
 will take you at your word and trespass upon your hospitality for 
 the night," replied Edwin to his host's queries and wami greet- 
 ing. 
 
 " Glad to have you. I am lonesome enough sometimes in 
 this big house. If you had dared to go the hotel you need not 
 to have come here about the business. I'll order up tea at 
 once, and send a man for your baggage to tlie depot. When did 
 you leave Toronto ?" continued Mr. Horton. 
 
 " Last night. I came through by rail instead of crossing the 
 lake, and a very pleasant journey 1 had to-day through this 
 beautiful and prosperous country." 
 
 " Yes ! it is a fine country, both by the gifts of nature and by 
 the improving hand of man, Edwin. We try to make it a coun- 
 try that men will come to to live in, happy and prosperous. 
 We are ahead of your Canada in that respect. Although Nature 
 has not endowed us more liberally than she has you, yet we are 
 ahead of you, simply because we not only know, and use our 
 knowledge, how to keep our population in the country, by pro- 
 viding them with profitable work to do, but to attract the people 
 from your country and all other countries, by providing them 
 the same benefits. We Yankees allow as litde as possible to be 
 done for us by forei<5ners, we prefer to do our work ourselves in 
 our own country, and we have become rich and powerful in con- 
 sequence. You Canadians don't understand the art, and don't 
 seem willing to learn it either, so we are ahead of you." 
 
 " Yes ! I admit it ; the contrast has been forced upon me 
 to-day ; a contrast sufticently humiliating to my national pride," 
 
 lUt-r\\ 
 
A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIl^E. 165 
 
 returned Edwin, "and it has made a protectionist, ///r^/^/;;/j5/(r, 
 of me. 
 
 " I wish with my whole heart," he continued, " tliat every 
 Canadian who has a voice in the ru'ing of his country would 
 see, as I have seen, the difference which a national policy in 
 this respect can effect. I fear, however, that but too many of 
 them could not appreciate the course, so much do the shibbo- 
 leths of ' Free Trade,' the sole unfortunate incident of our con- 
 nection with Great Britain, pass cui - cnt among us. They would 
 not see." 
 
 " Quite likely they would not," replied Mr. Horton, " and 
 yet Great Britain, until she had attained her pre-eminence as 
 the manufacturing power of the world, was the most protective 
 — the best protected nation in the world." 
 
 But as he said this, the stroke of a gong was heard, and Mr. 
 Horton rose — 
 
 " That is the signal that oar tea is served ; you must be 
 hungry ; we will adjourn," and he led the way from the room. 
 
 During the meal — at which Mr. Horton's old housekeeper 
 presided in solemn state — Edwin had not an opportunity to 
 enter into the details of the affair which had brought him 
 from home, and their conversation was limited to general sub- 
 jects. 
 
 He saw that Mr. Horton was friendly — seemin;.; as well dis- 
 posed as ever — and he justly concluded that, being a near rela- 
 tive of his Ethel's family, he must have been informed of the 
 unhappy events which 'had occurred to hirn and to them — that 
 he did not blame him as the cause of the disageement be- 
 tween liimself and his love, and he hoped the more strongly, 
 therefore, for his aid and assistance towards the restoration of 
 his own and, as he still felt assured, his T^thel's happiness. 
 
 When they were again alone — he had accompanied his host 
 to the library for the enjoyment of a cigar — he found the ice 
 broken for him unexpectedly, Mr. Horton remarking — 
 
 ■'11 
 
 ..1 1 ,M ) I 
 
 I 
 
 m 
 
 
i66 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
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 ;i 
 
 g^ 
 
 f: 
 
 " Well ! and so you people have been getting into mischief 
 since I left you, it seems. Cannot you take care of yourselves 
 without me to look after you, and what ib all the nice scrape 
 about between yourself and my niece ? A pretty state of affairs 
 — broken hearts, and so forth. I heard of it from Mordaunt 
 some time since, and also of Ethel's illness." 
 
 " That is what I came to see you for, Mr. Horton — to get 
 your advice and, if possible, your assistance, to put things right 
 again. Miss Mordaunt has been very ill — very ill indeed, and 
 is not yet convalescent. You have heard, I suppose, of their 
 poor little Ally's death ?" answered Edwin. 
 
 " Yes ! I had heard from poor Florence ; a bitter blow it 
 must have been to them — the sweet little darling's loss." 
 
 " It was indeed ! What with that sad event, Ethel's terrible 
 illness and Reggie's heedless and ill-judged marriage, they were 
 steeped in sorrow to " 
 
 " What ! What did you say, Edwin ? Reggie's marriage — 
 Reggie's marriage — what is it you mean ?" exclaimed Mr. Hor- 
 ton, amazedly, springing to his feet. 
 
 " Have you not heard it then, Mr. Horton, from Lake Mor- 
 daunt? I was wrong to mention the affair, perhaps, but I 
 surely supposed you knew. It is too true, unfortunately ; he 
 married Emily Dearborn — married her herein Rochester too — 
 eloped with her the day before little Ally died." 
 
 " Who ? Emily Dearborn ; he married Emily Dearborn — 
 that girl of all others. Well ! he has done it this time, 1 guess," 
 said Mr. Horton, sinking into his chair again. 
 
 " Poor Reggie ! Poor Reggie. Why it was that hateful girl 
 who caused all the mischief between you and Ethel, don't you 
 know it ? Poor Reggie !" continued Mr. Horton. 
 
 " Of course I knew that she was the cause, but could not 
 prove it, and Ethel's illness has prevented me from getting even 
 a full history of the affair," replied Edwin. 
 
 " But whatever made Ethel such a fool as to believe that im- 
 
A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. i66 
 
 I . 
 
 probable story ? Why, from what I hear, it is almost palpable 
 on its face of falsehood." 
 
 " The two letters — one forged by her, the other stolen — had 
 been ingeniously contrived for the purpose, and at first sight the 
 story was very plausible. The worst of the matter is that these 
 letters cannot be found, although thorough search has been 
 made for them since Ethel's recovery." 
 
 " Yes ! so I am told, and of course they could not be found 
 by people who will not take the trouble to think. Of course 
 they searched every place than where they were likely to be — 
 where of necessity, under the circumstances, they must be. I'll 
 engage to have those letters in my hand five minutes after I 
 reach Lake Mordaunt. And now tell me all you know of the 
 matter." 
 
 Edwin then proceeded to enter into a full detail of all the 
 events that had passed during the last unfortunate month of his 
 life ; giving every particular which he could remember, and 
 finally wound up with a piteous appeal that Mr. Horton should 
 take up his case and aid him to regain his lost status, " for," 
 he said, " her own father told me that you could do more with 
 Ethel than any other person — himself and her mother not ex- 
 cepted — in fact, that you can do as you like with her." 
 
 " Yes ! Ethel and I are very good friends. But now don't 
 you consider yourself a remarkably cheeky young gentleman to 
 come here and in the coolest manner possible endeavour to hunt 
 me out on this wild goose chase, this precious undertaking to 
 heal your broken hearts, and put you into good humour with 
 each other once more. You have more brass about you than 
 I gave you credit for possessing, Edwin Vance. Well ! I can't 
 blame you for it, seeing that you are utterly incompetent to 
 mend matters yourselves. Ethel was a fool, in the first place, 
 for believing the story, and putting herself into a brain fever 
 over it, and you are another, too, for not being able to see what 
 is plainly before your very eyes. A pretty lawyer you must be 
 
 H 
 
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 1 68 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 if you cannot conduct a case better than you have this. You 
 could not find the letters, eh ? Xot one of all you stupids at 
 Lake Mordaunt ? and n:y sister a Yankee too. I know where 
 those letters are concealed at this moment, but then I can use 
 my wits, I guess. 
 
 "Why, I'll ei ^.ge continued Mr. Horton, "to lay the evi- 
 dence, taken frc v ;. ■ own statements to-day, which points 
 out to me with cenunty ,H- hiding place of these letters, before 
 you, and you'll be none the w iser as to where they are than you 
 are now." 
 
 " Do so, Mr. Horton. I should be very glad to know, and 
 would much like to hear your convincing evidence," replied Ed- 
 win, unable to resist laughing at the very complimentary speech 
 of his companion. 
 
 " But you shall not know, though," returned Mr. Horton. 
 " If I agree to take this matter into hand, not a step shall you 
 take, not a word shall you utter in reference to it until I give 
 you leave. I am not afraid though to lay the convincing evi- 
 dence you speak of before you, for you'll not see its force. Now 
 listen. Ethel says she kept the letters and has them somewhere 
 in her possession. A servant saw her accompany Miss Dear, 
 born to the door when that worthy young lady left the house 
 after presenting them — very warm weather during September 
 last. Ethel was discovered senseless afterwards in the same 
 room in which the uiterview had taken place, has been ill in bed " 
 ever since — the letters cannot be found — now where are they ? 
 tell me that, Mr. Vance ? You are a lawyer, you know." 
 
 " That room and the whole house have been thoroughly 
 searched, Mr. Horton," answered Edwin, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " Ah ! I thought so. I expected as much. I guess as heow 
 yeu air right smart folks up in Canady, anyhow, but yeu w ill 
 hev tew git a live Yankee to pull the wool eout of yewer eyes 
 for yeu," said Mr. Mordaunt, mockingly, in his native vernacu 
 lar, and he continued : 
 
;. You 
 ipids at 
 V where 
 can use 
 
 the evi- 
 :h points 
 :s, before 
 than you 
 
 now, and 
 plied Ed- 
 ry speech 
 
 . Horton. 
 shall you 
 ntil I give 
 icing evi- 
 irce. Now 
 omewhere 
 iss Dear. 
 ;he house 
 leptember 
 the same 
 ill in bed ~ 
 .re they ? 
 
 Iioroughly 
 
 t's pause. 
 
 Is as heow 
 
 yeu will 
 |wer eyes 
 
 vernacu 
 
 A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. 169 
 
 " Well I Edwin, I'll take up this affair for your sake and for 
 Ethel's, and though I cannot guarantee success, otherwise than 
 to prove you have been slandered. To-morrow you go back to 
 Toronto to your business and remain there, for not a movement 
 of yours shall I allow in the matter until I give you full permis- 
 sion. I can't trust you, you know, and your Ethel is a romantic 
 Htde fool or she would not have made the trouble r*^ ail." 
 
 " I cannot blame Ethel, Mr. Horton. I cannu . b ne her 
 even that she could doubt me as she did, for yo* m\ ;»e very 
 sure that the plot which Emily Dearborn woulr n. "natemust 
 have had plausibility about it to deceive any persoi and again 
 T must confess that I had given her a previous uf to doubt 
 me. I broke a promise — a solemn promise — wmcn I had made 
 to her," said Edwin, at the last words, lowering his head. 
 
 And he related the whole story of his adventures at the cricket- 
 ers dinner and the subsequent events of the evening. ^Vithout 
 reserve or hesitancy he told it, made a clean breast of all, pain- 
 ful though it was to do so. But his auditor was a gentleman and 
 a man of tlie world, who understood human nature, the actions 
 and the motives which work upon men ; viewed them by the 
 tempering light of long experience, which had worn away Phari- 
 seeism, so he merely replied — 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I understand. You are a gentleman and too un- 
 suspicious. AVolverton made you tipsy for his own purposes, 
 I suppose. He, too, is concerned in this black business. In 
 all probability it was he v»lio stole your letter to Miss Seaforth 
 at her instigation. 
 
 " I cannot think so,'' Edwin replied. '' Sidney would not 
 commit an act so base. He has proved himself to be, within 
 die last few days, entirely above suspicion." 
 
 " But I say that he would commit any act, no matter how 
 lieinous it be, and I repeat that he was concerned with Reggie's 
 precocious wife in the plot against Ethel and yourself," replied 
 'Sh. Horton, energetically. 
 
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 " You don't believe me," he continued. " Will you believe 
 ■•vhat I say when I send you word that the letters are in my 
 
 possession, eh ? Well yuu ars But I'll say no more about 
 
 it. There is one thing certain that you will have to lower your 
 opinion of human nature or you will not be able to live in this 
 world." 
 
 '•My opinion of human nature ! Why should I change it? 
 answered Edwin Vance. " What has human nature done to 
 me that I should change it ? I see no reason. I am aware 
 that there are villains in the world — Emily Dearborn, for in- 
 stance, but why should I undervalue my race that there are a 
 few villains among its millions ?" 
 
 " Now you go back to Toronto and get to work. Or go 
 down to Hopetown to look after your precious partner and stay 
 there," replied Mr. Horlon^ good-humouredly sarcastic of 
 speech. " Probably you will there obtain a chance to see 
 human nature in a light new to you. I don't say that all is bad 
 in your Wolverton, but there is a great deal too much of it in 
 him — more than there is good ; and though you have been a 
 friend to him that no man ever had better, yet take care that 
 he does not ruin you. Go to your mills and look after him. 
 At any rate — after your visit here — keep out of my way until I 
 send for you. 
 
 " Look here, Vance," he continued. " At any day there 
 may be a general election with you in Canada — this Pacific 
 Railway matter will throw out your present government — why 
 then do you not run for parliament ? You will be of use there, 
 more than you are at present ; moping about, and do good to 
 your country. I have your love-affairs in hand ; throw aside 
 all thoughts of them until I want you, and run for parliament, 
 now that you will have a chance so good. 
 
 " What is all this Railway rumpus about, at all events," queried 
 he again. 
 
 " Pretty hard to tell you what it's all about. The press will 
 
A CONTRAST UNPLEASING TO HIS PRIDE. 1 7 1 
 
 give you the surface appearance of affairs, but the root, the 
 hidden spring of all, lies in the deep, the widely extended de- 
 bauchery of the political morality of Canada. The whole poli- 
 tical sentiment of the country is low and debauched — always 
 has been debauched, and so will remain until a radical change 
 of the entire system is effected ; a change however, that cannot 
 be effected until ignorance, the too comprehensive suffrage 
 and paid parliaments are abolished. Education, a suffrage of 
 education as well as of property ar d unpaid parliaments will 
 accomplish the refotm if aught can do fo. 
 
 " The half-dozen great statesmen who are our real rulers — " 
 continued Edwin " have engaged the country irrevocably, wish 
 the building of this Pacific Railway ; a work of stupendous 
 magnitude, but necessary for the binding together and the 
 strengthening of the new confederation ; and there has been, 
 as there always has been in such cases, a little bribery and cor- 
 ruption afoot. Such, it really seems sad to say, appears to 
 have been the case with all great public undertakings — you own 
 Pacific Railway for instance — but the underhand means which 
 have been used to fledge our bantling have possessed the addi- 
 tional demerit of an early discovery, and there will be a great 
 row made over it, as every individual Canadian is virtuously in- 
 dignant that all his fellow countrymen are of political tone so 
 debased that such things can happen. Of course there will be 
 a great re-action, but the worst of the matter is that the expo- 
 sure will in all probability defeat the very promising scheme for 
 building the road, and delay it for years to come." 
 
 " Yes ! probably, and your government will have to take the 
 work into its own hands ; an expensive method. You'll get no 
 foreign capital with which to construct the road now. The pre- 
 sent ' promising scheme,' as you call it, will be knocked on^ the 
 head by these revelations ;" answered Mr. Horton. 
 
 " Yes ! that is certain. Yet the road will have to be com- 
 pleted in any event. The country has engaged itself and will 
 
 3 
 
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nii 
 
 MU 
 
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 , , : ;l '"Kigali 
 
 172 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 have to complete its engagement ; notwithstanding that the in- 
 coming party are bitterly opposed — for reasons incomprehen- 
 sible to no one save themselves — to the work, and will make 
 delay," returned Edwin. 
 
 " I judge from the tone of your sentiments that were you to 
 enter parliament you will be opposed to the new Cabinet." 
 
 " Yes ! though more that I am a Protectionist than for any 
 other principal reason. The leaders of the incoming party are 
 committed to ' Free Trade' — a policy, in my estimation more 
 damaging to the country than the non-erection of a dozen Pa- 
 cific roads. If I enter parliament at all, it shall be as a Con- 
 servative," replied Edwin Vance. 
 
 " All right I — go for either party you like, so long as you keej) 
 away from troubling me concerning these other affairs until I 
 send for you. Pll start for Lake Mordaunt in a fe.v days," re- 
 plied Mr. Horton in reply. 
 
 " I suppose we have now said all that there is necessity for 
 upon this subject," he continued. " AVe will go for a walk, if you 
 would like it, and to-morrow we will see the sights of the 
 place." 
 
 The conversation closed and they went for their walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ADA THE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE. 
 
 The soft autumnal haze of a lovely, mid November day — 
 mild, calm and delicious — lay over the landscape, all gorgeous 
 in frost reddened foliage and beautiful in the many tinted, mel- 
 low brightness of the Canadian fall. 
 
 In this the most pleasing of her seasons, the mild air, the 
 rich colourings of the forest — all red, gold and bright yellows 
 the dying leaves ; mixed in among the dark greens of the pines 
 and firs — the russet fields on which the hazy sunshine falls in 
 
ADA THE MENTOR. A SxMART YANKEE. 173 
 
 X the in- 
 niprehen- 
 k'ill make 
 
 re you to 
 let." 
 
 Liifor any 
 party are 
 tion more 
 dozen Pa- 
 as a Con- 
 
 s you kee^) 
 
 irs until T 
 
 days/' re- 
 
 cessity for 
 
 vvalk, if you 
 
 hts of the 
 
 lalk. 
 
 liber day— 
 11 gorgeous 
 
 tinted, mel- 
 
 Id air, the 
 |ht yello^Ys 
 j)f the pines 
 Ine falls in 
 
 tempered glory ; attractive to the feet, invite the house-dweller 
 out to sweet communion with beautiful Nature in the tender 
 softness she assumes ere around her she draws her white winter 
 mantle, and falls asleep with the dying year. 
 
 And how delightfully did the soft beauty of the scene fall 
 upon the eyes of Ethel Mordaunt ; who, for the first time — this 
 channing day — convalescent, yet pale, weakened and thin, has 
 left the house since her heavy illness. 
 
 How rapturously she felt the touch ofthe bright, soft air upon 
 her face as she moved along in new-born pleasure after those 
 many weeks of confinement to a sick-room. 
 
 How her heart thrilled within hCi as the glories of fresh Na- 
 ture poured their varied beauties into the eyes that for long had 
 been accustomed to nothing brighter than the dim dreariness of 
 a darkened chamber. 
 
 How tlie kindly golden beams of the soft autumn sun fell 
 upon her and gladdened her, as she held out her white wasted 
 hji.nds to bathe them delightfully in the glancing brightness, 
 and laughed with the new exquisite pleasures. 
 
 She gathered the frosted scarlet maple leaves, and long russet 
 grasses ; she searched for slender ferns and delicate mosses ; 
 eagerly with the keen enjoyment of a little child — Nature's 
 truest lover; the delightful zest that only long deprivation 
 could yield. 
 
 How loving V she gazed upon all the well-known objects that 
 seemed to smiit back upon her again ; the prized little views, 
 that were prized the more that they were become almost 
 strange. What pleasure — so utterly fresh and new — to stroll 
 rom walk to garden ; from wood to lawn and feast her eyes 
 upon everything around her. 
 
 The fresh fall air ; the lovely scene ; the delightful sense of 
 this new freedom, revitalized her frame, and sent colour to 
 her cheek and sparkle to her eye. 
 Ethel Mordaunt drank in her pleasure, and felt happiness 
 
 13 
 
 it 
 

 1 
 
 
 174 
 
 SHE MIGHl' HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 i '' 
 
 again j almost happiness — for never cast aside altogether is 
 lately-come sorrow — as she walked with bright pleased face 
 and newly springing step along the carriage-road towards the 
 lake. 
 
 Every thing was so beautiful, and it was such pure delight to 
 be out in the beauty again. 
 
 " I will never forget you though — Ally — my little angel 
 sister, 1} ing in your quiet grave. It is wrong for me to be so 
 pleased," she said to herself as the sense of her pleasure came 
 u]ion her. 
 
 " I will never forget you, my darling, never ! never ! and I 
 never can believe that I shall be happy again. 
 
 '" Your sad early death, my lost little Ally ; poor Reggie's 
 unfortunate marriage ; my own unhappy love would ai)i)ear to 
 make that a certainty ; yet, after all, what a beautiful world is 
 tins of ours, how much there is for which to live, to be thankful 
 nnd to be happy." 
 
 Ethel walked on, finding a new interest, a new delight with 
 every footstep, but still her thoughts would fly back to the dear 
 past scenes of her sorrow, which are better relegated — if they 
 can be relegated — to deep obHvion. 
 
 " ^\'hat an ill-timed, what an ill-starred engagement has mine 
 been. I'll starred from its first days. Even in its bright open- 
 ing that dreadtul W'olverton came and sowed dissension be- 
 tween us ; degraded himself — he tried to degrade, and struck 
 at our bright confidence ; so on and so on tmtil came the end. 
 " Yet I have been cruel and unjust to Edwin Vance, I fear, 
 I very much fear. I can no longer disbelieve the evidence 
 which has daily accumulated. His mother's and Miss Sca- 
 forth's letters I canno' disbelieve, and I have been cruel and 
 unjust. 
 
 '• But althcjugh 1 must acknowledge this to him, and freel\ 
 admit the wrong 1 liave committed, all else had hetter remain as 
 at present. The engagement was ill-starred, and better for both 
 
thcr is 
 ed face 
 rds the 
 
 flight to 
 
 le angel 
 ;o be so 
 re came 
 
 ! and I 
 
 Reggie's 
 ,ppear to 
 world is 
 thankful 
 
 light with 
 the deav 
 l_if they 
 
 has mine 
 ^ht open- 
 nsion be- 
 nd struck 
 the end. 
 
 ce, I fe;^i% 
 evidence 
 
 Tsliss Sea- 
 cruel and 
 
 and freely 
 |r remain as 
 
 ler forbodi 
 
 ADA 1'HE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE. 175 
 
 of us that it has been ended. He could no longer respect or — 
 or love one who was so ready to believe ill ot him. 
 
 " I am to blame, I suppose for so easily doubting ; his 
 mother and Agnes Seafordi assert this plainly in their rather 
 cruel letters. I shall acknowledge that also, but all else shall 
 remain as at present. 
 
 " I must try to render my life a contented life, and spend 
 it, if I can, for the benefit of others. 
 
 " I am not to taste happiness ; I suppose." 
 
 But as footsteps approached, Etliel looked up from her 
 reverie, and beheld a well known girlish form with active pace 
 come round the turn of the road before her, and she halted as 
 she recognized Ada Dearborn. 
 
 " It is Ada — yet surely she cannot have walked from 7 en- 
 Lakes. How glad I am to see her again." 
 
 Ada perceived Ethel at the same moment she was herself 
 seen, and started visibly while an expression of pleasure swept 
 over her flice. She quickened her steps, but suddenly hesitated 
 and approached doubtfully as if she v.ere not sure of a wel- 
 come ; for poor sensitive Ada dee[)ly a]>preciated tlie fact that 
 through one of her family, great suffering and injur}- had been 
 brought home to the Mordaunts. 
 
 " Am I not a Dearborn — one of a race to l)e liated and fear 
 ed by this young lady, u})on whose innocent head we have 
 l^oured agony," she thought as she came forward, and the 
 thought brought the hot blood to her cheek, and embarrass- 
 ment to her girlish ease as she met Ethel Mordaunt. 
 
 '' Why should she recognise me } why should T expect that 
 ohe should ? even though T was her friend and I love her, 
 yet still I will fulfil the duty that has brought me here. 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt — Ethel," she said, and could say no more. 
 Looking up then in the face of her she addressed, a glance told 
 her that it was not as she feared, 'i'he sweet face bore a smile, 
 all reassuring, though the blue eyes held a surprised look at the 
 
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 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 hesitating words. Ethel, at all events, had not harbored the 
 thought that the mere tie of blood should hold the guiltless as 
 the guilty. 
 
 ' ' Miss Mordaunt — Ethel," repeated that young lady, laughing. 
 " Why do you say Miss Mordaunt, Ada ? Are you afraid of 
 me this morning, or are you so astonished to see me out again 
 that you cannot speak to me. But I am very delighted to meet 
 you, at all events. How have you been, my dear ? Why have 
 you not come to see me before this ? Now that you have come, 
 though, you shall help me to spend my first bright morning away 
 from the sick room." 
 
 " Oh ! Ethel, I'm so happy — so glad to see you again. I 
 hardly could believe my eyes that it was indeed you out walk- 
 ing this morning," replied Ada, with loving warmth. " But I 
 was afraid of you, Ethel, for a moment. I was afraid until I 
 looked up into your sweet, good face that you would not speak 
 to me, to one " 
 
 " Afraid that I would not speak to you. Why, Ada? Why 
 should I not speak to you ; do I look so very cross ?" interrupted 
 Ethel, with her old merry laugh. 
 
 " No ; not that, certainly. You could not be that, Ethel. 
 Yet I might well question, after all which has occurred, that you 
 could bear to look upon a Dearborn," answered she seriously. 
 
 " Oh 1 Ada, do not say that. We are not going to speak of 
 disagreeables. We are sisters now, and a brave, fearless, true 
 little sister you have proved yourself to be." 
 
 " I wish I were not your sister-in-law, dear Ethel, when I 
 became so in such manner as it occurred, but very proud to be 
 your friend.'' 
 
 " Both, Ada, I hope you and 1 shall ever be. Surely thougli 
 you have not walked all the wayfromTenl.i^kes; where is your 
 airriage ?" said Ethel. 
 
 "Yes ! 1 walked. I could not get the carriage this morning, 
 while the walk is nothing this beautiful morning, and 1 wanted 
 
ADA THE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE. 177 
 
 to see 'you, Ethel. I have something to shew you which may 
 be of importance." 
 
 " No disagreeables, I hope, Ada. Let us enjoy ourselves to- 
 gether this beautiful morning — my first morning under the blue 
 sky, in the bright air, and feasting my eyes once more on God's 
 beautiful works," replied Ethel, gazing around her with sparkling 
 eye. " It seems to me that the word ' important ' is so often 
 linked with unpleasant things, Ada." 
 
 " I do not think that my business with you, though perhaps 
 important, will be very unpleasant to you, dear Ethel even if it 
 is to me. It is necessary, however that you sliould be made 
 acquainted with the facts I have come to tell you — necessary 
 that right be done to all." 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; I know, Ada. I have been told of your coura 
 geous and most honorable statemenrs to Mr. \'"ance ; statements 
 which so few — so very few — would have made under the cir- 
 cumstances. By none but tlie right-minded would so hard, so 
 painful a duty, have been accomplished. But you need not 
 have the pain of repeating them to me, dear Ada." 
 
 " It is not of that 1 would speak, Ethel, although belonging 
 to the same shameful story. Pray let me go on," said Ada, ra- 
 pidly, as though she wished to accompash an unjjleasaiU duty as 
 speedily as she could. 
 
 *' Yesterday afternoon," she resumed, " my mother sent me 
 to the room which had been occupied by Emily to gather up 
 and pack away any articles belonging to her which she had not 
 taken away with her upon leaving for their new home some 
 time since. When I had accomplished this, and was engaged 
 in rearranging the ai)artment, I accidentally came upon a letter 
 which had evidently been tipped over the back of tlie little 
 drawer of her toilette table. 
 
 *' As ICmily sometime since had made jei)eated and anxious 
 enquiry for a letter which she staled to have lost, I glanced at 
 the signature and address in order to disco\er if they would 
 
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 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 if I 
 
 throw any light upon its value. You may imagine my aston- 
 ishment upon finding that the letter which I had thus found 
 in my sister's room was addressed by Miss Seaforth to Mr. 
 Vance. 
 
 '' I have l)"ought it to you, Ethel, for I very much fear that 
 it too strong]} confirms, found where it was found, the almost 
 absolute certainty of my sister's guilt in the plot which caused 
 the ending of your engagement." 
 
 And Ada, as she related this story, took from her little hand- 
 satchel a letter which she handed to Ethel. 
 
 'I'he latter took it mechanically, paused a moment in thought 
 without looking at what she held in lier liand, and raising her 
 eyes, replied — 
 
 " ' Miss Seaforth to Mr. Vance.' Then the letter beiongs to 
 Mr. Vance, Ada. i can have nothing to do with it or read it. 
 Why did you not send it to liini directly to Toronto ?" 
 
 " Because from what I have seen of this letter 1 think you 
 will find it important to yoursell as well as to Mr. Vance, and 
 that you sliould read it. If you will look at the date you 
 will see that he prob:d)ly I'eceived it on the day of our cricket 
 match against the ' Count}'.' You may remember, also, that he 
 received a letter from a lady that morning, for Mr. Mordaunt 
 made some laughing remark 10 him about his fair corres})on- 
 dent. The date may be iirportant, for Emily was with you 
 here that day, and was not this letter found in her private 
 room ?" ri^plied Ada. 
 
 " I do not see wiiy you should not read it," she continued, 
 " for if Mr. X'ance is innocent towards you he can have no 
 <»hjecl:on j if not innocent, the sooner his guill is proved the 
 bet: ;-. Remember loo, Ethel, that Mr. Vance states that 
 he wiV'te to Miiis Seafoth, which letter she never received, 
 on *he evening, of liie day I mention ; probably the reply to 
 lius.' 
 
 " Ves ' lU.'d Miss Seaforth, in a letter to me lately, tells me 
 
ADA THE MENTOR. A S-MART YANKEE. 
 
 79 
 
 she wrote to IMr. A^ance on a business matter while he was here 
 at Lake Mordaunt. Still I do not like to read the letter," said 
 Ethel, uncertainly, 
 
 " I do not see that you should not. This letter you hold in 
 your hand may be an important link in the chain of evidence." 
 
 " Yes ! T see that the date agrees ; he would receive this 
 letter on the Saturday of the niatch," re[)lied Eth.el, who then 
 glanqed rapidly over the pages of the epistle. 
 
 " ^Vhy ? W!iat is diis that I read.'' How extraordinary,'" she 
 exclaimed. " You found this letter in Emily's room, you said, 
 Ada. AVhat a coincidence ! How glad J am, and yet how 
 ashamed for myself 
 
 " Ada," she continued, " this is important, for the letter ad- 
 dressed by Air. Vance to Miss Seaforth, which Emily so success- 
 fully induced me to believe as proof of her allegations — as 
 a love letter in fact — is evidently but the rational and reason- 
 able answer to this whicli I now hold in my hand. ^Vritten 
 hurriedly, perliai)s, and carelessl)', but a natural re\)\y to this. 
 
 " Oh ! 1 remember now," she added, " how it came to l.)e 
 so hurried and careless," as her thoughts Hew backwards to 
 the events of the evening which followed the cricket match. 
 
 " How unjust r have been to him ; how unjust an low cruel 
 must J have seemed to him. ;\s I now seem to n If, as \h']^ 
 letter throws the light upon conduct all honor Nle to lu'm, 
 where I imputed it all dishonorable. His steadfa^ and gener- 
 ous loyalty to Ivr who was left i -> his care, I' father's last 
 legacy; his noble obedience to thit father's dying comn^ aids ; 
 his kindly sympathy for this high-spirited young girl whu IkiJ 
 made a discovery painful to her honorable pride ; have I not in 
 my blind jealousy im])uted to lu's dishonor. 
 
 '' How wicked \ have been. What have 1 not lost," said 
 Vxhcl and, sittiiig down upon a fallen tree beside her. she 
 dropped her face into her hands and fairly burst into tears. 
 
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 willing to interfere, then stepped fonvard, placing her hand upon 
 her friend's shoulder, and said : 
 
 " This is not the right way, Ethel. You have nothing to cry 
 for thus. Your place it is to rejoice. It is I who should rather 
 weep, for is not my sister even now proved to you to be that 
 which I dare not name ? Are we not all disgraced ? It is I 
 who should rather weep and you rejoice. Have you not dis- 
 covered for a certainty, which most of us have known for some 
 time past, that you have been deceived by falsehood and fraud. 
 You shoUid rejoice for your undeception." 
 
 '' I do rejoice, Ada, but I have been so cruel and so hard, 
 and I am ashamed of it." 
 
 '' In so far that you broke from your engagement w'thout 
 making proper enquiry to verify your apparent cause for so do- 
 ing, and were in ioo great haste, you are to blame ; nevertheless, 
 you had apparent cause for your action. However, you owe 
 reparation to ^Ir. Vance, and you s'lAOuld rejoice that you are 
 enabled to make it," replied Ada gently, but with firmness. 
 
 " Yes ! I will make reparation to him in so far as I can, by 
 acknowledging the wrong I have done him, and my own hasty 
 precipitancy in dciibting his honor. I have wronged Miss Sea- 
 forth also, and must repair that as I best can," sadly replied Etliel, 
 who was yet in tears. 
 
 *' You must call him back to you, Ethel. That is the best re- 
 paration you can make him ; the reparation you are in duty 
 bound to make," and Ada's firm young voice lang upon iicr 
 ears vyith new decisiveness. 
 
 " That I cannot do. Xever again — never again can it be 
 as it has been with us. This terrible thing between us, how 
 could I be his wife ? A wife that he could wholly respect ? No ! 
 All that has passed away. Better as it is," returned Ethel, 
 with lowered head and yet tremulous lips. 
 
 *' P^thel, this is not right, not like yourself, not like Ethel 
 Mordaunt as she really is," said Ada Dearborn, as she stood be- 
 
ADA THE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE. iSi 
 
 fore her friend — a young mentor — a resolute upholder of the 
 right. 
 
 " You owe it to Edwin Vance to make him full, complete re* 
 paration, and to recall him to you again, else you make but the 
 pretense of justice. ^Vhat a mockery would it be to him to 
 admit the innocence, which he knows he never lost, yet seek to 
 retain him in the status of the guilty, and to refuse to restore to 
 him that of which you have wrongfully bereft him." 
 
 " To give him back that wliich is now valueless," answered 
 Ethel, gloomily. " Could 1 become his wife after ail this ? I 
 have forfeited the right." 
 
 " But he has not forfeited his right, and it is left to him alone 
 to judge. You are his affianced wife ; you must fulfil your 
 engagement," quickly replied Ada. 
 
 "The engagement is at an end; finally clo^..j, and no longer 
 exists," said Ethel. 
 
 " Ended in so far as he is concerned if he chooses, I grant, 
 but not so with respect to yourself He is at liberty to consider 
 it ended, yet you cannot. If he claims to be free you have not 
 a word to say against it. If he claims tlie fulfilment of the 
 engagement, you are in justice bound to fulfil it," returned Ada. 
 with decision and perhaiis a little tone of impatience. 
 
 " You broke your engagement with Mr. Vance heedlessly and 
 in haste — for certain reasons which im[)utcd bad faith — to say 
 the least, to him," she resumed, " for conduct if of which he 
 had been guilty, you would have been justified in its abrt>gation. 
 But he is not guilty ; his innocence has been proved, and he 
 still holds towards you the same relation that he did when first 
 you pledged your faith to hiin. He is to-day the sank: that lie 
 was to you then, no more and no less, and you are as much 
 bound by your solemn i)romise as you were the day you made 
 it," continued Ada, with the same marked manner. 
 
 Ethel paused a moment ere she replied, and look'd up in 
 
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 SHE iMIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
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 some surprise at the determined teachings of the young girl she 
 had herself so often taught. 
 
 " \Vhat you say maybe very true, Ada ; nay it is the truth. 
 But he may not wis!), it. Could I be his wife ; could he wish me 
 t(j be his wife wlien I have brought down upon him all this 
 misery and undeserved obloc^uy?'' 
 
 " For whicli undeserved misery and obloqu)' you would 
 repay him by making it life-long. You would continue the 
 misery for him and also for yourself Nonsense, Ethel ! 
 You are not yourself to-day or you would not pervert by a 
 diseased sensitiveness, the relic ol your illness, most probably 
 your innate sense of riglu,'' exclaimed Ada, rather more forcibly 
 than politely. 
 
 " Listen to mc, Ethel," slie continued. I am a Dearborn — 
 one of a family whom you have no cause to love, and, perhaps 
 for that reason, 1 have no right to speak as I have done, but 
 yet, I think, the sacrifices 1 have personally made, the mental 
 pains T have endured to bring about this great good, which 
 you so persistently wish to throw aside, give me the right to 
 speak. 
 
 " Can you think," she continued, " that since the day when, 
 in my loyalty to the right. I made these statements to Mr. Vance 
 which inculpated my own sister that you should be restored 
 to each other, can you think that my life has been a hapjjy 
 life ? 
 
 " Can you imagine that T did not know when I made these 
 statements what 1 sliould have to suffer from Emily's r.ngry r^ 
 venge, my mother's bitter reproaches (or the unnatural conduci. 
 as she termed it, rightly enough, perhaps, and my father's sad- 
 dened fac^; ? 
 
 "Can you imagine that it was pleasant to me to bear all these 
 — to prove my sister a criminal — to bring down disgrace upon 
 us in the eyes of the world — to make my father and mother 
 
 Ih 
 
ADA THE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE. [S3 
 
 i i^uilt 
 
 hold down their head.s in shame when they think of th 
 that ha.s come to a daughter of theirs ? 
 
 " T knew all these things, yet still I told the tale because it was 
 right for me to tell it. 
 
 " Would it not have been more i)leasant, more easy for me 
 to have held my peace ; saved myself from disquiet and 
 mental ])ain ; saved my parents from humiliation, misery and 
 disappointment by keeping these things locked up in my own 
 breast, seeing how all these sacrifices appear to have been use- 
 lessly made? 
 
 *' Why, I am but a pariah in the house — even my fuhcr. 
 lliough he knows that what I did was right, Vvill not speak to 
 me ; for he cannot but feel that my rightful act has brought 
 shame to him and his. There was a terrible scene the evening 
 that Emily returned from Lake Mordaunt — a terrible scene — 
 but r had to endure it. I had done that which was right, and 
 I did not count the cost. 
 
 " Why do not you, also^ do that which is right, Ethel ?dor- 
 (launt ?'' 
 
 " Oh ! my poor Ada. I never thought of this, selfish, unre- 
 tlccting that I am," said Ethel, springing to her feet and clasj)ing 
 llic out-spoken girl in her arms. " My brave Ada, you are in- 
 deed a heroine. You are better, infinitely better, than J am. 
 Who else would have had the moral courage, the undeviating 
 latitude to have faced these things which you have faced for 
 the sake of two people almost strangers to you, to right them 
 because you felt it was right. I have to learn from you, Ada." 
 
 " No, Ethel, not that, not that. It is I wlio have learned from 
 you. It was you who taught me to do the right, and oh ! what 
 m example have I not had in my poor sister. But, Ethel, she 
 is not all bad. She has sinned against you grievously, I admit, 
 ijiit she is not all bad," said Ada, becoming, in her turn, af- 
 fected. 
 
 " Xo, she is not all ])ad, Ada, flir from it. Slie has many 
 

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 184 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 good qualities — many brilliant qualities — though she perverts 
 them. But was Reggie present at the — the terrible scene of 
 which you speak ?" asked Ethel, breathlessly ; horror in her eyes 
 at the very thought. 
 
 '* Fortunately not ! Emily was too wise for that. She sent 
 him out upon an errand," Ada replied. " He loves her — loves 
 her devotedly, and a very good trait I observe in her is that 
 she endeavours to keep his love by appearing to him, at least, 
 worthy of it. She will make him, I am confident, a good wife, 
 if she is helped and aided," replied Ada. 
 
 " I hope so — I sincerely hope so. We must all aid her in her 
 endeavour," answered Ethel, fervently. 
 
 " The best thing for her, now that she is Reggie's wife, their 
 destiny irrevocable, would be forgiveness and secrecy to lier 
 fault, with, if it is possible, recognition from her husband's family 
 as his wife. She is not all bad, and would, I think, if tlius 
 aided, turn her undoubted talents and advantages to their proi)er 
 use," said Ada, with earnestness and feeHng. 
 
 " She has my forgiveness, at any rate," exclaimed the gener- 
 ous and noble hearted Ethel. " For Reggie's sake, and in time 
 I hope, for her own. If she will allow me, I will be her sister 
 in reality, as I am in name, for she is Reggie's wife.'' 
 
 " And you will not, in your generous forgiveness, allow her 
 design to succeed by throwing away your reconciliation with Mr. 
 \'ance, will you, Ethel?" asked Ada. 
 
 But as she spoke, a wagon driven at a rapid speed, appeared 
 round the turn of the road near which they stood, and in another 
 moment had drawn up beside them, while the laghing face of 
 her uncle looked down upon Ethel. 
 
 " Uncle Edward I Is it possible. How glad I am. From 
 whence have you dropped down upon us ?" she said, looking up 
 in his face with bright pleasure as she sprang to take his hand 
 and his kiss. 
 
 *' From tiie States, to be sure. You do not suppose a Cana- 
 
ADA THE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE. 1S5 
 
 dian sky could let fall so good an object, do you ? How are 
 you, my pretty girl ? and y©u are really out ot doors again," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Horton, jumping out of his carriage beside them. 
 " Kiss your old uncle, Ethel, who is glad to see you so well 
 again. But how thin and pale you are. You little goose for 
 what did you make yourself so ill crying over your spilt milk. 
 
 " Miss Dearborn," he continued, " I'm very glad to see you 
 once more, and very glad to see you two together also. You 
 are becoming very pretty, Ada — quite a belle. AVere I not so 
 old I would ring the belle." 
 
 " Such a vile joke. If your brain is not capable of better 
 than that specimen you would be wiser to try Canadian air for 
 a while and improve," replied Ethel, laughing. 
 
 " A capital idea, Ethel, as Ada here would find if she will 
 pemiit the experiment. You have been reading letters, I see. 
 You are improving fast when you get back to that again, Ethel. 
 But no mischief this time, I hope." 
 
 " No, Mr. Horton," Ada answered. " I brought this letter 
 to Ethel for her inspection, and have at length convinced her 
 that her very ill-used affianced is not the villain she has believed 
 him to be." 
 
 " Oh ! that is it. Very good, indeed ; the time for a change 
 has come. Give me the letter, Ethel," interrupted Mr. Horton, 
 hastily. 
 
 " But it is not mine, uncle. The letter belongs to Mr. Vance," 
 replied Ethel. 
 
 " Give me the letter, Ethel. I want it," he repeated, and 
 advanced to take it from her. 
 
 " I cannot, uncle. You sliould not ask me. It is Mr. Vance's 
 letter." 
 
 " Give me the letter," and this time he very coolly snatched 
 it from her hand and proceeded to place it securely in liis pock- 
 et-book. 
 
 " But, uncle " recommenced Ethel. 
 
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 SHK MIGHT HAVE DONE I'.ETTER. 
 
 " But, Ethel,"' lie rq)catcd. laughing. "This letter is safer in 
 my hands than yours, and I require it. Is my sister at hot.v 
 and Mordaunt?" 
 
 " \'es, uncle ; both at home. Give me hack the letter, 
 uncle. It is not rl^ht you should take it, and I shall not a! 
 low " 
 
 " Good morning, young ladies. I have no time to waste in 
 conversing ujjon trifles. I shall see you by and bye when yoM 
 get back to the house." 
 
 Saying which Mr. Horton nimbly jumped into his carriage, 
 letter and all, and drove onwards. 
 
 " Drive us home, uncle," exclaimed Ethel after him. " Drive 
 us home with you.' 
 
 '* Could not think of it, ladies ; very soiry to dej^rive myself 
 o'' the pleasure of your charming society, but I shall have time 
 row to search all your goods and chattels before you can reach 
 tlie house. You have something which I propose to ap])ropriate 
 on Mr. Vance's part, and the moment seems op])ortune. F'arc 
 well !" Mr. Horton laid whip to tlie horse and drove off, laugh 
 ing at them. 
 
 A few miiuites afterwards when -^thel and Ada entered the 
 house — the latter having, with some difficulty, agreed to allow 
 herself to be driven home in place of walking bavk again — they 
 arrived in time for a little dramatic scene. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt and Mr. Horton sat conversing together in the 
 large hall, while at the moment of their entry Mrs. JMordai.ni 
 came in from the stairway with a lad)'s dress hanging upoi 
 her arm, which dress Ethel inunediately recognized as her 
 own. 
 
 " Here it is, Edward : the dress which Ethel wore on the day 
 that she was taken ill. But what do you want with it? I am 
 .sun I cannot imagine what use you are going to make of Ethel's 
 dress," exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt to her brother. 
 
 "(live it me here, I'lorence. I'll show )ou directly to what 
 
ADA THK .Mi:XTOR. A SMART \"AXivi:K. 187 
 
 orlunc. Fare 
 rove off, laugli 
 
 use I v.'ill put it, and make you blush for all your thick Iicads," 
 replied Mr. Horton, as he took th^ dress from his sister's arm. 
 
 *' What are you doing with mv dress, uncle ? What business 
 have you with it ? Vou steal my letters first and now my [)retty 
 dress. One of my nicest summer dresses, too. What are you 
 going to do with it ?" exclaimed l-Ahel, running up to snatch it 
 away from him. 
 
 " What am I going to do with it I" he rei)lied, putting aside 
 her hand and laughing at her. '* I am going to du what none of 
 you had sense to do. I am going to look in the jjockets," ami 
 with clumsy manipulation Mr. I lorton tumbled up the dress in 
 search of t!ie desired receptacle ; not a very easy ta^k foi any 
 gentleman. His perseverance was, however, at length re- 
 warded j iiis hand accidentally slipped into the hole, as he 
 irreverent!/ termed it, and he drew it forth holding three letters. 
 
 "See here ! numbsculls ; these are the letters for which you 
 have searched the whole house for weeks past,"' he exclaimed, 
 iiolding them up in trium[jh before them. 
 
 '• Vou a born \'ankee too, Morence. 1 am ashamed of you. 
 Xot smart enough to think of this dress, when everything point 
 ed to it as the hiding place of tliese letters," he continued, in 
 mock indignation. " I verily believe the Canadian air makes 
 gross and fat the brain. Did you not find Kthel insensible in 
 the room in which her interview with thai arch deceiver i'!mily 
 Jiad taken place ? Certainly you did, and it follows as a natu- 
 ral conseciuence that if the letters had not been left upon the 
 table, they must be in the pocket of the dress wliich JAhel had 
 worn that day. i''rankly acknowledge this now, stui)ids." 
 
 '* How polite you are to-day, Morton," said Mr. .Mordaunt 
 with his good naturecl laugh. " iJut are these the letters that 
 all the rumpus has been made about ?" 
 
 " Ws ! Certainly they are — two of them at least, and I have 
 had to ^ ome up from Kew York to fmd them for you. \ good 
 hiiig, you'll admit, to have a Wtnkee in ll. j family to show you 
 
 ■1 
 
i88 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 how to be smart now and again," replied Mr. Horton. " But 
 there are three letters here. I only require two of them. Here ! 
 Ethel, you may have this one ; I've read two or three lines of 
 it, but it is too sickening. All love, pah I" and Mr. Horton toss- 
 ed over to Ethel the letter she had received from Edwin Vance 
 on the morning of her illness. 
 
 " These others I impound upon the part of my client, Mr. 
 Edwin Vance, whose amateur lawyer and detective I now have 
 the honour to be," continued Mr. Horton, putting them away 
 into his i)Ocket-book. '* Here, Ethel, you may have this dress 
 too, I don't want it any longer ; but you may have it again if 
 you like. It is ot no use to me," and with an air of sublime 
 generosity he threw back to Ethel her ill-used dress. 
 
 " Thank you, uncle, you are very kind indeed. I thought, pci- 
 haps, that you wished to steal it also, as you did the three let- 
 ters which you have resi)cctively robbed from my hand and my 
 dress," returned Ethel, with a little of her old sauciness. 
 
 " Since when, pray," she continued, have you resumed the 
 
 role of private detective for — for — for " 
 
 " Mr. Vance you would say, Ethel," interrupted her uncle, 
 and completing the sentence for her. " You little goose, are you 
 afraid to mention his name ? 
 
 " AVell ! he came to see me down at my place some time 
 ago," he continued, " with tears in his eyes, begging me for 
 pity's sake to take hold of this terrible affair for him, and get him 
 back his — what shall I call it, Eth','1 ? — sweetheart, affianced 
 wife, dearly beloved, anything you like — for him again. As he 
 certainly has been very badly treated I very good-naturedly con- 
 sented, especially as I wished to see you all, and so I am here 
 as Edwin's advocate. 
 
 " I also intend to act as Ethel's advocate and judge of the 
 cause into the bargain," he resumed, "with consequent i)rospe(i> 
 of its speedy termination." 
 " Yes ! I told Vance that he had better go to you as llic 
 
ADA 'JMIK MKX'l'OR. A S>[ART YAXKKE. i8.) 
 
 \ 
 
 jjerson most likely to aid him and hriiiLj Ethel to her senses." 
 said Mr. Mordaunt as he rose and i)rei)ared to leave the room. 
 
 " Oh, you did, did }ou, Mr. ^^ordaunt.^ Much obliged to you. 
 Vm sure, for dnigi^ing me four hundred miles from home, with 
 the prosjject of a coajjle of thousand more or so before I return, 
 for an afHiir th il luipitens to be pretty well settled already, from 
 what T hear from Ada," replied Mr. Horton, facetiously. 
 
 '' Indeed ! 1 did not know il. What news have you brouj^ht 
 .\da?" e\( laimed ^fr. ]\[ordaunt, turning to her curiously. 
 
 "' A letter, wliich I have accidentally di.scovered. Mr. Mor- 
 daunt, and which is now in Mr. Iforton's po.ssession, has con 
 vinced Ethel that it was not .NFr. Vance, who " 
 
 " Is the big rascal she .so politely claimed him to be," inter- 
 rupted Mr. TTorton, ([uickl}', to save .\da the pain of furthe» ex'- 
 planiUion. 
 
 " Thanks, Ada, my brave girl,'' he continued. '' I fear, though, 
 tliat the case against your sister — now Mrs. Reggie ^^ordaunt 
 — looks rather black just at present ; but, by your goodness 
 .uid courage, your unillnching conscienlicjusness, youi innate 
 riglit-mip.dedness. you have reileemed her, my dear girl, md ir 
 behooves us all to forgive and forget this matter, which is now* 
 hai)])ily dejirived of ii^ harm." 
 
 As he said the words, he went o\er to Ada, and shook her 
 heartily b\- th;.' hand, with many a kind word and 'coniiil'menl, 
 until poor Ada's eyes filled with lears as she disclaimed them. 
 
 Mr. Uorlon, on returning to his seat, took from his nockct* 
 book tlu' three important letters, which he had obtained from 
 Ediel's hand and her long-hidden-away dress, and devoted him- 
 self to a careful perusal and comparison of their contents. 
 
 ''All very evident : tliey carry their conviction with them." he 
 said, wi.eii he h ;(1 coni huled his reading. 
 
 He handed liiem. liien, to Mr. Mordaunt. who had remained 
 conversing with Ada, with the words — 
 
 '• Read Uu'se letters, .Mordaunt, you (an judge for ) uj^elf. 
 
 It ' 
 
 ■M 
 1 I 
 
Mi! 
 
 fQO 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ,'. :ii 
 
 ■ 'i ' 
 
 'I n , ;■ El^ 
 
 M 
 
 
 These two are the proofs which Emily gave Ethel, in support of 
 her allegations, and which I obtained from the dress. Ethel 
 will recognize them, I suppose. The other is that of which Ada 
 has just spoken." 
 
 Ethel's father and mother, for the first time, then read the 
 letters that had wrought so much unhappiness for them all. 
 That the perusal was of deep interest to them, may well be 
 imagined, for from these two simple letters, what sorrow had 
 not come. Illness that had so nearly brought their lovely 
 daughter to the grave, unhappiness, misery to her, the bitter 
 cup that awaited her recovery ; and, lastly, their son's marri- 
 age — that very bitter cup — which seemed the culmination of all 
 the evil. 
 
 It is not to be wondered that their attention was absorbed — 
 that it was with heartstirring emotions they read the letters 
 which had done all this, and rejoiced that the evil was in some 
 measure passing away. 
 
 " Yes, it is all very clear !'' said Mrs. Mordauut, as she rose 
 from the perusal of the dismal records. " Mr. Vance has been 
 wronged ; bitterly wronged, and we have all been very unjust. 
 Poor Ethel ! How hard, and how cruel has all this been 
 upon you !" 
 
 " Yes, indeed I" exclaimed Ada, " very hard and very cruel 
 for both. But the deception has come happily to light, and 
 Mr. Vance must be righted." As she spoke, she turned mean- 
 
 ingly towards Ethel. 
 
 <' What could have been Emily's moti\'e for her so apparently 
 unnecessary, yet cruel, interference? Can you imagine, Ada ?'» 
 continued Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 *' I would prefer that you did not ask me, Mrs. jMordaunt, 
 if you can spare me. I may say, however, that I think, at 
 the first — at the first, only — she desired herself to marry Mr. 
 Vance, for the reason that he was a rich man. Aftenvards, 
 other reasons impelled her, I suspect, which I would rather 
 
upport of 
 ;s. Ethel 
 /hich Ada 
 
 I read the 
 them all. 
 ly well be 
 orrow had 
 leir lovely 
 , the bitter 
 on's marri- 
 lation of all 
 
 absorbed — 
 
 the letters 
 
 vas in some 
 
 as she rose 
 
 ce has been 
 
 ery unjust. 
 
 this been 
 
 d very cruel 
 light, and 
 irned mean- 
 
 apparently 
 rine, Ada ?'• 
 
 Mordaunt, 
 
 |I think, at 
 
 marry Mr. 
 
 Aftenvards, 
 
 rould rather 
 
 ADA THE MENTOR. A SMART YANKEE, iqf 
 
 not mention, if you would excuse me," returned Ada, politely, 
 yet with decision. 
 
 " If it will not pain you too much, Ada, please tell us all. 
 She is our daughter, now, and being such, the sooner all is 
 forgiven and forgotten, the better it will be for us all ; but to 
 that end we should know everything, else the forgiveness 
 cannotbe, as it should be, perfect and lasting," said Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, appealingly to her young visitor. 
 
 " Mrs. ^[ordaunt, I am very certain that Emily most bit- 
 terly regretted from her heart the cruel and wicked act which 
 she had committed, when once she realized its terrible conse- 
 quences. I know, now, that she regrets it. I know, also, 
 how desirous she is to be — and, I am sure, that you will 
 find she is — a good wife to Reggie. I know that she strives 
 to be such, and that she strives to retain his love and his respect. 
 Probably, her very desire in this not unamiable trait, will be 
 the means of making her again a good woman, and to this end, 
 she should be aided in the attempt," answered Ada, speaking in 
 generous sisterly terms. She then continued — 
 
 " I will tell you, therefore. Mrs. Mordaunt, the little that I 
 know, in order that this help be thus extended to her. I think 
 she would have altogether abandoned her design when she 
 discovered how delusive had been her hopes of Mr. Vance, if 
 you had not, unfortunately, as it proved, asked me, in place of 
 herself, to accompany your party to Cacouna this last summer, 
 and if she had not become aware that Reggie's attentions to her 
 had been forbidden. She was very much angered at this, arid a 
 little disagreement which I understood she had had with ]'!thel, 
 relative to a remark she had made concerning Mr. \'ance, short- 
 ly after the cricket match, confirmed her in her design. 
 
 " But after Ethel's illness became known to her, she was in a 
 terrible state of remorse and fear, as lean now explain, although 
 1 did not then understand," continued Ada, in her loving right- 
 mindedness, certainly not imputing the worst motives. 
 
 ^■fn 
 
 I i 
 
ig: 
 
 SHK ^[IGHT HAVE DOXK BETTER. 
 
 ■ It i\, 
 
 . ■! it;.-. 
 
 mi 
 
 
 v> \',\ 
 
 % 
 
 
 '* 1 i i! 
 
 *' Yes, she had not thouglit before-hand of the michief she 
 \vr)uld occasion," said >Tr. Horton, '* But. as [ liave taken all 
 these affairs into my own hands — Etliel's, N'ance's, Family's, and 
 Reggie's — T must forl)id eitlier of you present to interfere i)y 
 word, deed or, especially, by letter — unmanageable articles, — 
 in any way, whatever, until I give you leave. \'ance has agreed 
 to this condition ; vou must, also, and T will bring all out, as 
 well I can from the slough of despond. 
 
 " The dinner-bell — sweet sound. I'm hungry." With which 
 remark, .Mr. Horton closed the con^Trsation. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN HI.S .MI:K(JV. 
 
 ".Shall I tell Reggie? .Shall I tell him? 
 
 " He loves me as I do not deserve to be loved. He tliinks of 
 me as all that I ought to be, and am not. Can I bear to lose 
 his love ? 
 
 " Can I endure that he shall see me as T am ? 
 
 " Shall I tell Reggie? Shall 1 tell him?*' 
 
 So I'jiiily Mordaunt ([uestionod htrself : ([uestioned herself 
 in anxiety and miserabl)- paim'ul thought : her beautiful face 
 drawn, and her white brow ((intacted with the lines — the pained 
 lines — of distracting fear and regret. 
 
 ".Shall 1 tell Reggie ? Shall 1 toll him?" 
 
 Her lips moved with the unuttered words; her eyes strained 
 themselves with greater fixedness, as slie gazed from the i>rettv' 
 bay window, where she stood among her flowers, over tli • 
 l)road, placid v.aters of Lake Ontario : gazed, yet saw not, so 
 intent with its burning rejections, wa.^*. her laden mind. 
 
 l»right Nature lay spread out, all glorious and inviting. In 
 soft, pure beauty, c.iMing to mankind to see — .and rejoice in thr 
 .seeing — the bright world (lod gives them in whirh to be hujipy: 
 
^^ ; 
 
 i\ Ills mi:rcv. 
 
 19.^ 
 
 to drink in the lavish beaut)', thai, the ifithier.cin^,' lesson, it shall; 
 teach, should make iheui haiipy, as it refuics them from th.e 
 evil to the good. 
 
 {'Iniily Mordaiint ga/cs out i]\Htn [he .adiant scene, yet sees 
 not. Over the sparkling waters, all briglit as the goMen sun- 
 light, over the charnuug autumnal landscape, green, and gold, 
 and scarlet, over ihe pretty Lake-sh'.);e village wherein they 
 have taken up their abode ; uyxm the brigiu blue sky. arching 
 down its heavenly bounJiiig-in over all, lier eyes rove — yet see 
 not ; for she is not hap[ y. 
 
 As she stands, among her llov/ers, in her pretty draw !i:g- room 
 window, slie is still the same I'.miiy Dearborn lo Inst appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Handsome, as splendidly h.andsonie as ever, slu^ yet con 
 veys an indehnable sense of cli.uv.fe. some mukin.g d'iTereiice 
 from the Junil} 1 'earborn of the past. 
 
 lleauty is evci })iv;asing ; and, as I'.mily Dearborn, ;he had 
 l)ecn beautiful • a-; l-.mily Mordaunt. she is still beaaliuil — 
 more beautiaw. l-Aen alliiou;;Ji ll.e shar; markings o; [jainful 
 li'iouglit arc \isib!e up^-n her face, she is yet more beai.'iful. 
 
 (^uiel, :ical, v.cW — n it showily — -dres.xd, slie h.a:'. ( jme to 
 look lii.e a lady ; the ua.->i\, t!.e fastPiCs , t!;e vain [jr^'tension 
 of the iMniiv D'.arb(,:ii (i!"p:'st (la\s, a'l gone fro;.i he;' ; and,as 
 she IS ihe niore j» easi;;.;, s) is she t'-.e moiC bca aifal. 
 
 So .-^iie suinds 1} lier [U'etty th\P'.in;;'-ru 'a a', /.e, iri il.>.' bright 
 morning;, Vv-aiiing for lier husbar. 1, ami drown..! ill huirassing 
 though:, in the Uiidst, of ligiit a.ul l.e;u.;y, sl.e !:, yei i..i;;crubie 
 and un;-i;;pp\. 
 
 \^et th^' scene was ve;^' fair, hjr e'.e'y sarroiaid!n;;' ] 'easant. 
 r.nj ha. I not gra.ideur, ii is true, or rich.,, bu. ai! a'^ ait her 
 was Iri-at. la'^efiil. and hand ,o:ne. Jvr^r; lliiag thiii. to ap- 
 pAi.-ance, siujul^l haw made hor lifj a Ui\[[)y life, v.a.; her:, 
 i;" mrre cumfjiL CO slituLed all reipiisiles L-r happi.icis. 
 
 Hor hu.-iband loved her, waj devuled tv) l.cv, and, unconsci- 
 
 'I: \ 
 
 
 1 !;i 
 

 n 
 
 i 
 
 .■If 
 
 I. ', ;■ 
 
 r 
 
 Mi! 
 
 • ■ ) 
 
 ftJu- 
 
 194 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ously looked up to her. She had no lack of material wants, 
 or even luxuries. Her house was pretty, the drawing-room in 
 which she stood, was tasteful, handsome and cheery. If there 
 were not the evidences of wealth around her, there were not 
 either the evidences of poverty, if she could not command 
 pretentious disi)lay, she could command everything to make 
 her days bright and pleasurable. 
 
 She should have been happy ; but, to-day, she certainly is not 
 happy. 
 
 ** \Vhat is this that has come to me, this change that makes 
 me fear ? Am I not as safe now, as upon the day I married 
 Reggie Mordaunt ? AVhy then do I fear ? 
 
 '' What has made me the coward that I am? Am not I his 
 wife, and safe in that ? 
 
 " Ves, Emily Mordaunt, in so flir as personal safety lies, you 
 are safe. That you can answer yourself, yet it does not now 
 satisfy. 
 
 " Could I bear to lose his fresh, young love ? Could I bear 
 that he should look upon me with other eyes ? Not for all that 
 earth can give me could 1 endure the thought that he might 
 some day, look upon me as other than the fair, young girl, so fair, 
 and so true, in his imagination, whom he loved and married ? 
 
 " How can I tell him the terrible story, and tear from around 
 myself the bright halo with which his fond eyes have invested 
 me? 
 
 " To him I am all good, all fair, all that I ought to be, and 
 am not. How can I tell him, to lose all these prized investings ? 
 Lose the love that has become so dear to me ; that has become 
 so necessary to me ! 
 
 "Shall I give him my own version, deceive him again, and 
 keep his love ? Shall I risk that the dreadful truth be made 
 known to him by another in all its baleful lights ? Better this. 
 How can I again deceive his trusting young soul? 
 
 " Shall I tell Reggie? Shall I tell Reggie? 
 
 M. 
 
 "iin 
 
IN HIS MERCY. 
 
 1(^5 
 
 "Would I do again this thing that I have done ? Now, as I 
 am — would I do it again, in like circumstances ? No, not for 
 worlds, not for all the bright earth could give ; I shudder at the 
 thought ! Not for worlds would I do it ! 
 
 " Why ? Why, then, would T not again ? Am not I the same 
 woman — the same in all things that I was when I committed 
 my sin — as I was the day I married him, whom I looked 
 ui^on as a mere boy, whose only merit was that he could 
 save me from the consequences of my sin ? 
 
 " But, do I look upon him as that mere boy to-day, whom I 
 married — without love — to save myself from the prisori cell ? 
 
 " Emily Mordaunt, you are changed ; changed, indeed ! 
 
 " My Reggie I ^'our true love — blind, foolish, unthinking 
 though it be — has made us own reward, all worthless though it 
 is. Reggie ! I love you I I love you ! and I fear, I tremble, 
 for your love, that I may lose it ! 
 
 " But he has not been told I He may not be told the story 
 that is now known. If I could but think it might always be 
 so ! 
 
 "How generous have these Mordaunts been ? How noble, 
 ahd how kmd ? For weeks they must have known all ; yet not 
 one word. Though I have injured them so very deeply, not 
 one word in retaliation. Can I wonder that they do not like 
 me as their son's wife ? I do not like myself in that quality. 
 Even though their reticence may be for that son's sake, yet it is 
 for my sake, too, that his wife may be in his eyes the wife she 
 ought to be in reality. How noble ! How generous ! How 
 kind ! 
 
 " But Mr. Vance may not be equally forgiving. Why should 
 he be ? Has he not suffered vilely through me, at my hands ? 
 WMiy should I look for mercy at his ? 
 
 "Shall I tell Reggie ? Shall I tell Reggie? 
 
 " Oh, how hard to decide ! What is there for me to do ? 
 AVhy may I not keep him, my bright young lover, the hus- 
 
 i I 
 
 i 
 
196 
 
 SHK mi(;ht have Doxi-: jn/rn r. 
 
 
 I i i. 
 
 '\l '''■ 
 
 III' ■ ! J 
 
 l»;ind whom I love ? Kcc'i) him, as wlicii lie loved nie at tlie 
 First, wheii iie deemed nie all that »vas lovable, as he deems 
 Mie still ; for I have tried to keej) his love. 
 
 '• One day more — one day more of ihe tnis'Jng love and faitli 
 that has contiuered my liearllessness and matle me his, that has 
 forced me to strive to he wortliy of him. 
 
 '•How .shall ! ilecidc? .Shall I tell lum tcj-day ? 
 
 '• He will foi;;iv( rnc, ll.at [know: I»iU, how can I endure 
 th.1t he should tiiink thai it had become nece.ssar\ to forgive.^ 
 }\ow can [ endure dial li:e fresh brigl.liiess of 1 is love shall 
 be dimmed in shame for liis wife .-• 
 
 '• How shall I decide? .Sh:dl 1 tell RcLC-ic?" 
 
 oto' 
 
 So ran lur thoughts — painful, harra.s.sing, tlistressed — as shr 
 .still stoijd <(a/inLi" oul. ov^r ll.e broad waters. 
 
 noui'.ful. hoitatiuL;-. f^-irful. her 
 
 mind, in ils agony, \eereil 
 
 from the dark j.'iclure tliut coiifronted Iier on one side to the 
 equal terr(-r that an;se on i:ie oiiur tor i.c:r, to fnid not aiding 
 
 ciiiier, 
 
 Iigh\ nor .shining hope 
 
 Kmily Monlaunt v.as indeed cliangea. '1 iiis su.re^.y was not 
 th.e Kmi!}- cf the past da^.s? 
 
 For wlieve was now tl. j rapid cajjabiliiy, the brilliant invcn 
 tiveness of dece'l tliat v.ould — in those days — have so easily 
 circumvented a worse difficulty, and sail-ly tided over licr 
 self-reliant feetf/om a more thre;;ienin'.'; food. 
 
 \\'her': v. is all that no.v? V, hat had l)rou-hl to l^cr thj 
 cliange ? 
 
 A\'hy v/as tl^.ere now lai-cd before h.er the men:iLing sv. ord c'' 
 avengemenl. wiu-n she no longer dared to aveit her e\es ; 
 when she dared no Ion :cr seek to ti.rn aside iVum lier liie 
 
 ni: 
 
 cd^e, 
 
 glit er 
 
 In Mis justice or in His meicy had tlie siK rt vrorkings (f 
 the Omnipoicnt Handbroiiglit to her the ciiange ihat she niigiit 
 see wlicn again wai- upheld the tin-eatdiing I'Mror. Uplield i.') 
 
IX HIS MF.RCV 
 
 ^9; 
 
 threatening that slie n>giit see. W'itliheld to he — in Hi^ 
 mercy, how well we ma) know — if slie saw. 
 
 In His mercy- -for he recks not of His justice before His 
 mercy. He — unseen acting — had touched witli warm \\(c the 
 cold heart, tliat through her love, she might fear and see. 
 
 In His loving mercy ' » His creatures ; in His high justice. 
 
 Still she stood at the w indow. intent ui)on lier thouglus, and 
 gazed out, unsee'ng, upon the wide landscape. Still slie stood, 
 and thought her pained thougiits, until, at length, her eyes fell — 
 fell witli meaning light — upon the approaching form of h<M- young 
 hu^band. She starts d uj) from her reverie, and rose to meet him 
 at the door with her wclconiing kiss. 
 
 '• Is it you, Kmil} ? Tho sweet little wife that al\va\s r.-.jet> 
 me at tlie door," he said, as he took the tcmjjting proffer '• I low 
 pretty you are, to-d.iy, with \otu- soft, brigh.t .yes, and s.veet, 
 pale face ! 
 
 '• Is breakfast, r.ady. I'.mil) '.''" he continued. I've hee>l a 
 long V.-:. Ik of it. and I a-n ::^hi!rr:rv :v< a x-oun.; !>-.ar." 
 
 '• ^'es, Reggi'\; iii two o- l't.\-' : 'invites y »u >r.a'.l 
 hunger appeased. We had to nv.;iit yor.rr»''.iirr.. ' s'e 
 walked v.-ith hiia into tlvj I'ltle '/reakfast r.,*om. 
 
 *• Have yc'U any lett. rs fur me, t!:.-, morning, R.e::-ie?" she 
 asked, as lie threw liiinseif into a chair by the wiiidow. gaily 
 Inmiming a tunc, as lie ie>o'.ed out aiid awaited bicj-kf-'st. 
 
 " ^'es. I h.ave, kani! '' I forgot Uiem, before, i)y jd,.-. Here 
 i-- one for you— f'O'n .\d;i. 1 tln'nk, and ] liave ■ p.e from m}' 
 f t:ver," lie ansv.-ereik as lie rose, and handed k.er a let'ier. 
 
 '•' From .\da I'"hastllv ejaculated Eniilv, in a lonf.', of nr'nrrlcd 
 surprise and disquietude, and, as Reg_le sealed h.i.iiself again 
 to read his letter, shi* took hers to the odier side of I'v room, 
 ere she broke the sea.1. 
 
 '•Tfa Laki.s Nov. 3ot]:, 1S73. 
 " M\ Hear Si^thr — 
 
 ••'As :'.n orciu-ience. affecting )our.':e]f ]•: .-orae measure has,. 
 
 ve your 
 lid. and 
 
 V 
 
Il{f 
 
 m^l 
 
 I ■■■)'.- ri 
 
 ' ^-.;;i' 
 
 t 
 f 
 
 lirl:; 
 
 198 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETIER. 
 
 \vithin the last few days, taken place here, I think it is but right 
 that I should inform you, although you will not probably thank 
 me for my share in it. 
 
 " However, though that may be, it is but right that you 
 should be made aware of the facts. 
 
 " While arranging anew, by my mother's request, the apart- 
 ment which you had occupied when at home, I, accidentally, 
 found a letter at the back of the little drawer of your toilette 
 table, and at once perceived that, although it had been in your 
 possession, it was addressed by Miss Seaforth to Mr. Edwin 
 Vance. 
 
 " Surprised and disconcerted as I was by this discovery, 
 I kept It to myself, until, upon long and painful reflection, I 
 saw that it was my duty either to send it to Mr. Vance, or, 
 under the attendant circumstances, take it to Miss Mordauixt. 
 
 " The latter of these courses, and, as I think, the prefer- 
 able for all parties, I have adopted. 
 
 " Knowmg, as you must know, the contents of this letter, 
 I need hardly tell you that, when once Miss Mordaunt was in- 
 duced to read it, all doubts of the honesty and truth of Mr. 
 Vance were removed from her mind. 
 
 " It is not for me, my dearest sister, to add a word beyond 
 the bare statement of facts. I have, therefore, but to say — al- 
 though I am not, perhaps, justified in saying what I know — that 
 all now rests upon yourself, dear Emily. Your own happiness, 
 your husband's reconciliation with his family — I dare add — your 
 own, also, all rests ui)on yourself now ; upon a word. 
 " With fond love to yourself and Reggie, 
 
 " I am, your affectionate sister, 
 
 "Ada Dearhorn." 
 
 Emily quietly finished her letter, refolded and put it away 
 carefully. P^cepting that the little pained lines became again 
 visible upon her face, she did not shew, outwardl) , that she was 
 disturbed, but there was a tremour in her voice, as she asked 
 Reggie, " what news he had from home ?" 
 
 " Nothing from home, in particular, Emily, excepting that 
 Ethel is quite well again, and Uncle Horton is with them. Papa 
 writes though, strongly urging that I should go back, at once, to 
 College, to prepare myself for a profession, of my own choice, 
 
V 
 
 IN HIS MERCY. 
 
 199 
 
 too, and he offers — my generous father — upon condition that I 
 agree to do so, to allow us another thousand dollars a year, and, 
 in addition, to pay the University fees. He does not wish me 
 to remain idle, he says. But, wonder of wonders, Emily ! You 
 are very kindly mentioned 1 What is coming next ?" replied 
 Reggie, happily, a pleased expression brightening his face. 
 
 " They mentioned me, kindly, did you say, Reggie ?" said 
 Emily, after a moment, in a voice she, with difficulty, restrained 
 to steadiness. 
 
 " Yes, they did !'' answered Reggie, looking up from his letter, 
 surprisedly. * All of them. Why shouldn't they? It was time, 
 I think." 
 
 Emily did not speak again for a few minutes, but sat, lost in 
 thought, while Reggie re-read his letter. At length, however, 
 she woke from her reverie, and asked — 
 
 " Do you think of going to Toronto, back to College, Reg- 
 gie ?" 
 
 " Well, what do you thmk of the scheme, Emily ? I'll do that 
 which best pleases j(>«," he replied. 
 
 " Then go, Reggie. We will go at once, as your fiither 
 wishes." 
 
 *' By Jove ! Emily, considering the way in which you have been 
 treated by them all, I did not expect that that should have been 
 your reason. If you had assigned the doubling of our income 
 as the motive of your advice, it is what could only have been 
 looked for. You possess more Christian charity than they do, 
 my darling," replied Reggie, warmly, and looking upon his wife, 
 whom he so invested with the good that was not hers. 
 
 " No, Reggie, not that ! Not that ! If you but knew all, you 
 would not say so," returned Emily, with rapid deprecation. " It 
 was not of the money, though, that I thought, really. But 
 we will go to Toronto, I would like it, and your father is 
 right." 
 
 A pause ensued ; when, in low, tremulous tones — for coming 
 
 11 
 
2C0 
 
 SHE MIGH r HA\'K DOXK BF/I'l'IlR. 
 
 ,,.^fP- ' 
 
 ivy 
 
 m-M 
 
 i! ; 
 
 U])on her in her nlready softened mood lliesc further kindnesses 
 — "coals of fire," under which she could no longer bear up, she 
 continued — 
 
 " Reggie I T.isten to vte for a moment, i)lease. I have 
 something to tell you. Vo , believe me to be a good woman, 
 who " 
 
 '' What ? IJelieve you to be wh.al? What are you driving al. 
 Emily?" interrupted Reggie, but as he spoke, a loud knock al 
 the door interrupt rd him, and he sprang to liis feet. 
 
 '•Who can this be, T wonder?" lie said, as he looked out of 
 the window to see for lumself. 
 
 " It is uncle, as sure as Fiii alive. I''nii]}' ! Wliat in the world 
 brings him to see us, 1 wonder?"' and Reggie ran out to oi)en the 
 d(>or. without waiting f >r the servant's coming. 
 
 *' Tlnllo, uncle ! Hov/ are you ? From what strange cloud d'd 
 you drop down ui)on us ? Y\\\ awfully glad to see }"ou I Conic 
 in. AMiy, T thought you vrere at Fiako ]\rordaunt ?'' 
 
 " '«Vcj\ R.cg'4ie, you're looking bri.^^b': enoug'u at an\ rate !" 
 
 i"ei)lied Mr. irorLon, r.Iiaking k.an.d-; \\W-'\ lii- ':i:;)]ic\v. ''''f 
 
 course 1 was at l-a'.e .Mordaunt, but I'ni i'lere nov, ,a;id I wail 
 some breakfast, ^'•.'!1ere's y.;ur wile ?" 
 
 ''' Just silting tlown to breakfa it. Here. Inline k.c'p you (ff 
 Willi your over-coat,"' .-■•aiJ Reg;.;;e, energetically : iiitii^g \\\> ar lion 
 to his word.;, an.I.luggi.ig off the g.irmeui \\\ ([action w illi f.aa- 
 tic eagerness. '' In llii.s way, uncle, }oirre just iii liaie. If we 
 had ktiovJi yj:.)U were cc^niing. we v/ou!d hare k.ad porl: ar.d 
 beans, pumpl.in pie. a^ul fisli-ball.. arid doag!-.r;ul.;. and Xc'.v 
 England rum a::d cider, an. I everyli.ing c! e tiiat a "^'ai^kco 
 co'.-.ld like, read)' ki'i yoii,'' c .Milinued ll'.e 'rocife:oi:.< k.:,.;.,:e. ..s 
 he ihirly pulled liis uncle along. 
 
 " \'ou dt;nkcy ! ['in e.ut a .■'aril-ce, Fai a Xew ^'ork-.: ! 1 e 
 y.'i'.i think [ v\'aiv. all these Ihiiigr. for my breai.fast ? Cerlair.Iy 
 not the Xcvr Flngland rum, al aii\- lale." re]iij,:d Mi". Mi>rl'."n. 
 
IX HIS MKRCV 
 
 201 
 
 In nnotltcr moment, lie found himself in the presence of 
 Kmily Mordaiint. 
 
 "Good morninLT, Rmilv. Mow do vou do?'' he said. Iioldin^ 
 out his hand to her. wliile he looked her steadily in the fiice. as 
 if to learn there wliat liad passed, or was passing in her soul. 
 
 She shewed some embarrassment ; she blushed a*: she rose to 
 receive him, and she was not at ease. 
 
 ffe knew that he had come ujKDn a delicate mission, and lie 
 knew, also, that she knew that he had not come solely upon a 
 visit to see them, that she must be aware that there lay some- 
 thing beneath : and he, notwithstanding his mission, being wholly 
 unabashable and coolness itself, resolved that she, also, shoukl 
 not feel uncomfortable. 
 
 He had noted, too, the embarrassment and the blush, so un- 
 wonted for Kmily Dearborn, as he had known her, and he men- 
 ially determined to discover, if he could, why there had come 
 the embarrassment and the blush. He continued then to 
 her — 
 
 '' I am very glad to see you, again, iMiiily. and to -^ee that 
 you are looking so well. Reggie, also, well and ha])py. Very 
 comfortable, too, \ perceive;"' as he glanced around the room, 
 and out upon the bright Ontarian waters. 
 
 "And Ihav(^ come to ask for some breakfast this mornin<r. 
 my dear." 
 
 " I am very glad of that, Mr. Horton. ft shall be served in 
 a moment. I am w. ' pleased that you came to our little house, 
 in place of going to the grand hotel," replied Ismily, with a 
 smile, although the startled expression of her fare had not dis- 
 api)eared. 
 
 " Oil. [ can\e on i^urpose to see you both," answered Mr. 
 Horton, living a little stress upi)n the last word. " How are 
 you getting on together in your new life? You both seemhapi)y 
 and c()inforlal)le enough." 
 
 " \\\\y should v.-e not be hnnpy, uncle ? I am, T know, evf'n 
 
 *! 
 
 )i 
 
 !! 
 
 ■I 
 
 i 
 
#lt' 
 
 202 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 = 11 !' 
 
 though I did run away with Emily contrary to the wishes of my 
 friends. I don't regret the step." 
 
 " Oh ! I do not suppose that you do regret it, Reggie. I do 
 not suppose, either, that you would regret any step that you 
 might take, be it right or wrong," replied Mr. Horton, laugh- 
 ingly. He turned and added, " But what say you, Emily ?" 
 
 *• I do not regret that^ Mr. Horton, either, but if you would 
 >i 
 
 Emily could not finish her sentence, but her large, bright eyes, 
 which he saw became damped by a tear, were raised to his face 
 with a glance that was imploring. 
 
 Their breakfast was served, to which Mr. Horton and liis 
 nephew, at leasi brought good appetites. The former enjoyed 
 his meal hugely, as he chatted away in all pleasantness and 
 good nature with Reggie and his wife. He was merry and 
 cheerful, he used his happy wit that they might feel at their ease 
 and laugh ; he was jubilant, and he laughed himself. 
 
 He questioned Emily as to her housekeeping and her em- 
 ployments ; her servants, and her cookery-book, and was com- 
 plimentary when he learned she kept but one servant, and su- 
 pervised her own cooking. He questioned Reggie as to his 
 occupations, and gave him a homily upon his idle life. 
 
 He anecdoted — as his countrymen would say — and related 
 laughable stories of his experiences, striving to shew them that 
 he was at ease, and that he expected that they would be at ease 
 with him, also. 
 
 But beneath the current of his pleasant talk, there ran the 
 counter current of his thoiTghts. 
 
 " ^Vhat an anomaly is]this human nature of ours — this strange, 
 inexplicable created nature, of which we have our being ? "What 
 are not the inconsistencies, the devious changes and swayings 
 with which it yields, or adapts itself to the force of its sur- 
 roundings ? How it is bent towards the good or drawn towards 
 the evil, as its daily contact is with the good, or with the evil. 
 
 ,1% 
 
IN HIS MERCY. 
 
 203 
 
 " The things of tr day that forcibly impinge upon its easy im- 
 i)ressions, obliterate, wipe away and replace the firm, imprinted 
 teachings of but a yesterday's date. The good shall supplant 
 the evil, the evil the good ; insensibly, inappreciably, uncon- 
 sciousl •' — but none the less effectually — as the good or the evil 
 shall be the nearest influence surrounding ; and from that near- 
 est influence, be it good or be it evil, our poor human nature — 
 chameleon-like, a mere reflection — takes, in some degree, at 
 least, its immediate colouring. 
 
 " The firmest principle, the highest, the purest inclination for 
 good cannot endure, for a day's space even, contact with evil, 
 and retain unsullied spotlessness. The impressible mind takes 
 bias of its surroundings. 
 
 " Nor can the evil nature, however evil, breathe evil altogether 
 in an atmosphere of good. The beneficent influence will pre- 
 vail and leave its leaven, even though the to-morrow may wash 
 it out by its new surroundings. 
 
 " Poor, unstable, human heart ; with the good always, it shall 
 turn to to the good ; with the evil always, it bends to the evil. 
 
 " And this woman who sits before me, an example, I begin to 
 think ; for if this is the same Emily Dearborn, who used to be, 
 I cannot quite believe. 
 
 " Handsome, brilliant, clever as she was, what an unamiable, 
 what a detestable character she presented, but a few weeks 
 since, to those, at least, who could see her as she really was. 
 An inrorrigible flirt, a pretentious, dashing young lady of the 
 day ; blatant, impertinent, loud, yet a deej) and scheming in- 
 triguante, selfish and designing, capable of almost any baseness 
 to advance her ends ; determined to advance them, and wlio 
 has committed crime for the mere gratification of personal 
 spite and revenge. 
 
 " Marrying, too, a man whom she did not love, with the sole 
 object of saving herself from the consequences of her sin ; a 
 marriage which did not bring her wealth or any of her darling 
 
 ) \ 
 
f: 
 
 
 pi ^:iii 
 
 'M 
 
 ?! I 
 
 \l 
 
 l!f! 
 
 ■;■ :'i. 
 
 
 mwm 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 SUE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 ambitions ; ncitlier love, money, higli i)lace, or ]J0\ver. A mar- 
 riage wliicli. viewing her in the liglit she has ahvays exhil)ited, 
 could fiiirly l)e said to be most disai)poinling ; into u'liich nothing 
 but pressing danger could have driven lier ; a marriage from 
 which discord, unliap})iness, and ruin for botli, could safely havo 
 been ])redicted, and yet from which, neithei discord, misery nor 
 ruin, secern likely to spring. 
 
 " In all this evil of hers, there must have been some latent 
 good ; she is shewing it umnistakeably. Slie has made her hus- 
 band hai)py, and she tries to make him hai)i)y ; in that very 
 triah if I mistake not, she is herself happy and better. She has 
 been in contact, of late, with good, instead of the former evil 
 
 '' I can see, also, that the shadow of her sinful act has fallen 
 upon her from her very ]iapi)iness. She regrets, and she fears it, 
 which she would not have done before. ^Vhy ? From whence 
 springs the change / 
 
 '' She knows that the- worst injury likely to be inflicted upon her 
 now, would be the making known to lier husband of tlie thnig 
 she- has done. 
 
 " Would she have cared for that a montli ago ? No ! She would 
 not have cared, not one straw. 
 
 " But she fears that now ; sIk feared //.'<• when 1 entered her 
 house, one short hour ago. She tears me now. 
 
 "She wishes thai h<, 1 luirlxuid siiould think \\ell of Ii'.t ; ..k' 
 endeavours that he ;^Jiould think well of her, and she Ii 's :i/-- 
 ceeded. Emily Mordaunt is not the l-anily 1 'earborn of passed 
 da}S ; she is a better creature. 
 
 " Her face shews it. her dress shews it, her every movemeri 
 shews it ; her husband shews it. and lier house shews it. Xi)i' 
 can it be the deception-working (^f tiie old Emily Dearborn 
 spirit either, as it was imi)0Shible that slie should know of my 
 coming u})on them to-day, for the good reason that none h 11 
 mvselfand the Mordaunts were awnre of the intention. 
 
IN HIS MERCY. 
 
 205 
 
 *' No, she is a changed woman I But what then has created 
 the change ? 
 
 " That she still desires to rise is probable, her natural tastes 
 and proclivities would still lead her on to that, but it does not 
 follow, therefore, that she should commence her rise by making 
 her husband happy and her home pleasant 
 
 " The Emily of passed days would rather have resorted to 
 subtile intrigue, some grand, immediate scheme, which would 
 have left her careless of these ; would rather have chosen old de- 
 vices in old evil ways for the purpose. 
 " What has created the change ? 
 
 " I have it ! I have struck the key-note, and all — all that I 
 have seen to-day — strikes in unison with it ! 
 
 " Emily Mordaunt is not the old Emily Dearborn, because 
 she has learned to love her husband ! 
 
 " Her marriage fixed her destiny ; placed her in new sur- 
 roundings ; struck away the evil promptings and ambitions in 
 which she lived ; replaced them with those of a better origin, 
 and — more than all — she has learned to love her husband ! 
 
 " I have struck the key-note ; I'm convinced. I shall be very 
 glad if it is so ; nor will it be a very great work to discover the 
 truth." 
 
 In such direction ran the current of Mr. Horton's thoughts as 
 he sat at the breakfast table with his young hosts, while he 
 chatted, laughed, and made the meal pleasant to them. 
 
 Reggie was at ease from the first, while from Emily he had 
 taken her embarrasment, although his keen eye could yet see 
 the anxiety and doubt in her face. 
 
 Still he had made things pleasant, and he liked her none the 
 less that he could trace her shade of fear. 
 
 His next object was to get rid of Reggie for the morning, as 
 his self-imposed mission lay with Emily, alone, and he cast about 
 in his mind for some method by which to achieve his desired 
 object. 
 
 15 
 
2o6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 'i: '..• 
 
 
 
 i'li' 
 
 • r'NIi 
 
 When they had risen from tlie table, Reggie, however, settled 
 the matter himself, unexpectedly, thereby saving his visitor the 
 trouble of getting him away from the house. 
 
 " Emily," he said, turning towards his wife, " I'll have to leave 
 Mr. Horton to your care this morning, for a time, unless he 
 would like to go with me, for a sail upon Lake Ontario. I have 
 promised some young gentlemen of this place to accompany 
 them to witness the last yachting races of the season. I do not 
 appose I sliall be away all day, at any rate. A ten-mile race 
 around the island, that is all. 
 
 " Will you go with me, uncle ? or, should }ou prefer to stay 
 at home, with Emily ?" he continued. 
 
 " Thanks, Reggie ; I'd rather remain with Emily, and talk. 
 I do not care for yachting at this late season, it is too cold. I 
 am tiled, also, with last night's railway travel. Vou go and en- 
 joy yourself ; never mind me,"' replied Mr. Horton, ^•ery glad 
 of the opportunity. 
 
 " A yacht race ! Oh, Reggie ! You musn't go to-day ; the 
 season is too late to be safe. Stay with us, Reggie, don't go to- 
 day !'* exclaimed Emily, stepping forward in alarm, and only re- 
 strained from further demonstration of it, by Mr. Horton's 
 presence. She did not, probably, relish, either, the prospect of 
 the tetc-a-tete now rendered inevitable with that gentleman. 
 
 " But I must go, Emily. I promised to go. There is no 
 danger, you goose. I could drink up the dirty little pond be- 
 fore it could drown me. You shall see me back before four 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Oh, be careful, Reggie ! Promise me you will be careful !'" 
 exclaimed Emily, with the vain anxiety which ladies exhibit 
 when their liege lords mention an inclination for cold water in 
 quantity larger than a pailful. " "Why did you not tell me of this 
 before ? I shall be so anxious, I wish you were not going." 
 
 " Oh, I forgot to tell you, I suppose. Never thought of it. 
 But come and helpjne on with my great-coal, Emily, there's a 
 
IN HIS MERCY 
 
 107 
 
 darling, and don't bother about danger. I must be off for I am 
 late/' he answered, lightly, and, in another minute he had left 
 the house. 
 
 When Emily returned to the apartment in which she had left 
 her guest, she knew that a trial was before her, and that it would 
 soon be made manifest whether Mr. Horton had come for peace 
 or for war. She knew that he possessed power against her to 
 wage a terrible v -.r upon her and her's, and her heart sank a 
 little in view of the coming ordeal. But she had never been one 
 to flinch from an ordeal, however fearful its prospect, or to evade 
 it by escape. 
 
 " Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room, Mr. Horton ? You 
 shall have an easy chair and the morning papers, if you wish 
 them ?" she said, as she led the way to the apartaient in ques- 
 tion. 
 
 She seated herselt, and took up some work dear to ladies, 
 while her visitor amused himself for a few moments at the 
 window, speaking upon indifferent subjects and the pleasant 
 view before his eyes. At length, however, he approached, took 
 a seat beside her, and said, kindly — 
 
 " You seem to be very comfortable, here, Emily. Comfort- 
 able and home-like. A pretty little house, and very pleasant 
 surroundings." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Horton, we have nothing of which to complain, 
 Reggie and I," she answered, without, however, raising her eyes 
 from her work. 
 
 " And, Reggie appt irs to be happy, als», I imagine, 
 Emily ?'' 
 
 " I am very glad that you think so ; I hope that he is liappy, 
 I believe that he is happy," she returned, still without looking 
 v{^ and busily moving her fingers. 
 
 *' So much the better for him — and for you, also." 
 He paused then for a minute or two, as she did not reply, 
 while he surveyed the graceful, but uneasy, figure before him. 
 
 I ' 
 
 it 
 
208 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " She is very pretty and lady-like, now that she dresses more 
 quietly. Her marriage has improved her in some respects, 
 at all events," he thought. I wonder, though, if the change 
 has reached her heart ? If so, there is happiness for R.eggie, 
 yet. But let me get back to my work, while I have the oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 And then, quietly, in his pleasant accents, he said — 
 
 " Emily, my dear, I am come to-day, expressly to see you. 
 I have something to say to you." 
 
 There was a little start — a little pause — an evident tremor on 
 Emily's part. 
 
 " lam ready to hear anything you may have to tell me, Mr. 
 Horton," she answered, in a low, yet distinct voice. " Pray go 
 on :" 
 
 " Would you be surprised to hear that a reconciliation will 
 soon take place between Ethel Mordaunt and Edwin Vance ? 
 The difliculties which caused their separation having been over- 
 come. There has been a full discovery of all — of all, Emily. 
 As you were concerned, you know, as we all know, in that sepa- 
 ration, I wish to tell you this at first." 
 
 Mr. Horton, as he said these words — which bore a signifi- 
 cance so startling for his listener — leant over towards h er 
 still speaking in his same kind tones, but with earnest serious- 
 ness, while he looked steadfastly into her down-bent face. 
 
 The work that Emily held dropped from her fingers ; she sat, 
 still and motionless in the same down-bent attitude, save that 
 her hands twitched nervously, until she locked them together. 
 Her trial had come upon her, as she expected it vrould come, 
 when her husband's uncle had entered her house, an hour ago, 
 and she must prepare herself for its endurance. 
 
 What a flashing of thought there was through her brain, as 
 the significance of the words developed themselves to her sense. 
 The Past, the Present, and the Future, in vivid limning held up, 
 in instant, but deep-striking impression, their pictured story for 
 
IN HIS MERCY 
 
 209 
 
 tremor on 
 
 her heart-reading : The Past that h.ad gone beyond reca'l ; the 
 Present, here, with its happiness ; and, tlie Future, coming, all 
 dark and doubtful, and danger-menacing to her. 
 
 The picture reversed ils-jlf again. S'le s.i.v what mig'U have 
 been for her, if but her past — the gone-away — had beea differ- 
 ent. She saw, in instant, yet, all bright distinctness, the 
 still smiling and happy present, hjw mucli happier \,-ithout 
 the doubt and fear, in which she had love, and hope, and joy ; 
 the future that would have been etiually briglitened, smiling and 
 happy, as it passed away i.ito tlie long-mirching years. 
 
 All these and crowding others, flashed througli lier mind, 
 while the danger that tlie menacing ?\iture held forth aroused 
 her and awakened her to its pressing threatening i. 
 
 A moment's pause ere she raised her head ; her large eyes 
 fixed, flamingly briglit, upon his face, while upon her own lay 
 a deep-dyeing blush. Excited she doubtless was, for her mouth 
 trembled and her breath came hurriedly between the i)arLed lips, 
 but nothing born of fierceness or anger overlaid the hunted ex- 
 pression ; there was no passion or defiance in the tone in which 
 she s})oke — 
 
 "And have you come merely to say this to me, iMr. Ilorton, 
 merely to say this to me, or arc you here to bring discord 
 and misery between me and the husband who loves rne ; who 
 has now none other to love but his wife ? Are you here to 
 end, if you can. the little h:ipi,)iness that is left to him, his 
 loving belief and eis trust in me? If so, Mr. Horton, you 
 might well spare him. Sa\- wh.at you will to me, I shall endure 
 patiently all you may wish to say, but si)are Reggie this last 
 blow :" 
 
 *' You mistake me, Emily, I am here for a better i)urpose, I 
 hoi)e," replied Mr. Horton, calmly and kindly. " Not here to 
 destroy Reggie's happiness, but, if possible, to confirm it, and, 
 if you will allow me, your own, also. 
 
 " But, Emily," he continued, after a moment's pause, " this 
 
 I 
 
2IO 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 'I^';^^: 
 
 
 
 K 
 
 I ; t- 'IT- '• 
 
 all rests with you ; rests upon yourself, alone, this morning.'' 
 " Rests with me, Mr. Horton ! I do not understand you. 
 What rests with me ? Reggie's happiness ? Poor fellow ! He 
 lias little other left him than his true love for his wife^ 
 That I will retain, if I can retain it," she replied, her voice 
 growing firmer with each of tliese words she spoke. 
 
 " Emily,"' returned .Mr. Horton, " have I not told you that all 
 is known to us, now ; all is known of the means employed 
 against my niece and her bethrothed ; all, even to the proof 
 against her who so cruelly used those means. 
 
 " I do not come to you to insult or injure, but rather to 
 bring peace and restoration ; 1 bring forgiveness from those 
 whom you have injured ; forgiveness, forgetfulness, and silence 
 as to the past, if you will have them. You can restore a son to 
 his parents in full reconciliaton, you can become as a daughter 
 to them ; ..uid, luiiily, vou can save yourself. 
 
 " Of all who know these past events — and, they are few 
 who know them — Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt, Ethel, Mr. Vance, 
 your sister Ada, and myself, being all to whom silence has not 
 been kept ; not one — not one who will not rejoice that you 
 come back to us again ; not one who bears malice towards you, 
 not one who would not rather forgive and forget. Emily, you have 
 committed a great crime, it is your duty to make atonement." 
 
 " What am I to say ? What am I to do ?" exclaimed Emily, 
 bowing her head into her hands, and the bitter sobs told of the 
 struggle within her. 
 
 She knew what was expected of her now — the little, the easy 
 ending for her heavy sin. 
 
 But was it so easy ? 
 
 "Was it not hard — very hard — for her, to say the words ? 
 
 To wash away in entirety the old leaven of the years gone 
 by, to replace entirely the old thoughts, motives and desires by 
 those of a new life ; to effect the sweeping change of her 
 
IX HIS MERCY. 
 
 211 
 
 whole mental being may not be done at a moment's impulse. 
 It was not so easy. 
 
 It was hard upon her, very hard. She felt now all the bitter- 
 ness ; she deeply realized now — as she was, with her new life 
 upon her — the dire rewardings of her sin. 
 
 " Emily, your husband loves you ; loves you, trusts you, 
 and is happy in his love. His future life lies in great mea- 
 sure in your hands : does he not deserve all from you ? 
 
 " 1 have found, also, my dear," he continued, " that you have 
 tried to be a good wife to him, when it was hardly expected 
 of you that ycfu should have been. ; that you have been a 
 good wife to him, and I have discovered, Emily, that there 
 has come to you, tlie great good to love your husband, 
 as lie loves you — a very great good — why do you not 
 make it the turning-point of your life? Save yourself, Emily, 
 save yourself, now, at once, in this very time. 
 
 " I know that you did not love your husband, at the first," he 
 resumed, as he rose from his seat, and, standing over her, 
 gently laid his hand upon her bowed head, and gently touched 
 the wavy masses of her bright hair. '' I know you did not 
 love him then, for I knew, my dear, the reasons that induced 
 you to marry him. Yet it has come to you love him. Who 
 sent that love to your heart ? AVhy was the love sent to your 
 heart? Why do you refuse His proffered mercy?" 
 
 " I do love him 1 I love him with my whole heart I" exclaimed 
 Emily, springing up to her feet from her bowed-down attitude of 
 shame and sorrow, but with tearful averted face, and in a trem- 
 bling voice, " I have tried to be as good a wife to him as was 
 possible for me to be, so that I might keep his young, kind, all- 
 true love, and I have come to love him. For his sake I would 
 do all. What can I say ? A\'hat can I do ? 
 
 " Mr. Horton, I am Reggie's wife, the wife of his love ; un- 
 worthy, oh I how unworthy, but not unworthy in that I have 
 tried, since I am his wife, and through him I am saved. 
 
 
 > 
 
 :J 
 
 ii 
 
212 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 \K 
 
 «^< 
 
 : 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 I li 
 
 '( II 
 
 1! 
 
 it 
 
 • ' ■'-■lit ■ - 
 
 " I am Reggie's wife," she continued, " and being that, 1 can- 
 not say the words which you expect me to say. 
 
 " But, oil my knees, I ask God to forgive jne my sin /' 
 
 'T- ^ ^ I* Jp •!* n* t'* 
 
 And Emily's prayer ascended to Him who hears. 
 
 5(C 3|C ^^ ^ j|( ^ jp 3(C 
 
 Mr. Horton turned away to tlie window, and looked out over 
 the wide waters, upon which the sun's rays glanced in golden 
 flashings ; out upon the beautiful world in its brightness, and 
 its ever fresh delighting, moving on with its living creatures all 
 safely under the Great Merciful Hand; and in his sight it was 
 then very beautiful, although a tear stood in his eye. 
 
 For a few minutes, he stood thinking of all that had 
 passed in the last, few short minutes, thinking of what then 
 passed through the soul of that one of God's creatures, upon 
 whose head the Great Merciful Hand had been laid, and he 
 did not regret that he had come to see Emily Mordaunt. 
 
 Then he approached and stood over the kneeling figure, 
 bowed down over the chair, trembling, sobbing, entranced, en- 
 thrilled under her great emotion ; no longer in despair, or fear, 
 or agony, for the Great presence she had entered was around 
 her, and in healing mercy she knew that her sin was forgiven 
 her, according to His everlasting promise. Mr. Horton took 
 her hand, gently raising her up, and said — 
 
 " Emily, my dear, you must not make yourself ill. Calm 
 yourself down in the knowledge of the great good that, to-day 
 has come to you; God has forgiven you, Emily, as we can but 
 know, and when He forgives, shall man's poor pardonings be 
 withheld ?" 
 
 As he tenderly placed her again on her chair, holding still the 
 nervously clenching fingers, which told how terrible had been 
 her trial, he continued — 
 
 " You have saved yourself, Emily. You have made yourselt 
 the worthy wife of the husband you love ; you have gi\'en back 
 
IN HIS MERCY. 
 
 2i: 
 
 their son to a father and mother, you have given them, also, a 
 daughter — yourself, a daughter to be loved and cherished. All 
 is forgiven and forgotten, Emily, and now will you and your 
 husband go back with me to Lake Mordaunt ? Here are my 
 credentials,'' and he handed her a note from his pocket-book. 
 
 *' Not yet ! Not yet ! 1 could not yet, Mr. Horton ! I could 
 not yet look into the faces of those who — in return for the deep 
 injuries I inliicted upon them — have been so generous and so 
 noble to me. In a little time I will meet them, but not yet,'' she 
 answered, tremulously. 
 
 " ^\'ell, do just as you please, my dear," answered Mr. Hor- 
 ton. " I shall not press you. Perhaps you do right to defer 
 your visit for a space. You might find it too hard yet." 
 
 " Will you tell Reggie when he returns, Mr. Horton, or shall 
 I ?" she said, after a silence of some duration. " He must be 
 told, yet it would be very dreadful to me to have to tell him." 
 
 "Tell Reggie what.? What should be so dreadful?" was the 
 enquiry in reply. 
 
 " To tell him of that which has passed to-dav-." 
 
 '* Neither shall tell him. He is not to be told ; he must never 
 be told. It is all driven back into the past and f jrgolten. His 
 wife has become really his wife nov/ ; let him keep his iirst faith 
 and trust in her. He is not to be told, Emily." 
 
 "Yet I had commenced to tell him this very morning, when 
 you knocked at the door, Mr. Horton. If I could tell him then, 
 why should I not now ?'' answered Emily. 
 
 " My arrival was opportune, it ai)pears. No, Emily, he is 
 not to be told. If he was to have ueeii told he would have 
 known before this day. That is all pa;;! now. liet us talk of 
 something else. Tell me of your plans, Emily. \\'h:A does 
 Reggie intend to do. He cannot live on, as he is living now, 
 in idleness." 
 
 " A\'e shall leave this place very soon. Mr. Mordaunt wishes 
 
 :l 
 
 tu 
 
 '% 
 
214 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 •HiP 
 
 Reggie to return to college to pursue the study of a profession. 
 He has been very generous, also, for he has offered Reggie an 
 additional thousand dollars a year to enable him to do so," re- 
 plied Emily. 
 
 " Well ! I am glad of that ; very glad. You are right to go. 
 Mordaunt is generous about it, too ; a good father deserves a 
 good son. I hope that Reggie will now show that he appreciates 
 the fact by becoming a good son." 
 
 " I am sure that he will, Mr. Horton. It shall not be my 
 fault if he does not," she replied earnestly. 
 
 " 1 will undertake to tell Reggie all that is necessary concern- 
 ing ^^ance and Etiiel ; the former must l)e put right in his eyes. 
 You may trust me in the matter, Emily, as your friend, which I 
 really now am. 
 
 " Vou can tell Reggie for me, though," he continued, " that 
 he will find every year an extra thousand to his credit as a 
 present from his old uncle to him and to you, also, my dear 
 girl. Now I think I will go out for a walk. I shall not be away 
 long, and I should wish to find a bright face when I come in. 
 You have struck upon the right road to-day, Emily. Keep to it 
 always." 
 
 J^ ^^ ^^ ^p ^^ '^ ^^ *K 
 
 At dinner that day, as Reggie, looking in the sweet face of 
 his fair young wife, very quiet and a little sad still, but with 
 its anxious lines of care dispersed, and a new soft beauty 
 shining in its place, lifted up his boisterous young voice and 
 said — 
 
 *• What have you been saying to Emily this morning, uncle, 
 that she has made herself look so pretty? Have you been 
 I)aying comi)liments and flattering her vanity ? All said and 
 done, I do not think I have any <\ause lo regret having ran 
 away with her from Ten Lakes that summer's day two months 
 ajio." 
 
AN M. P. IN PROSPECTU— HOPE 
 
 215 
 
 eserves a 
 
 " No ! Nor do I think she has. It was really a happy day 
 for her," replied Mr. Horton. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AN M. P. IN PROSPECTU — HOPE ! 
 
 Wlien Edwin \'ance returned from his visit to the uncle of 
 his Ethel, enlisting him into his cause, as general regenerator 
 and the righter of his wrongs, he settled himself down to the 
 duties of his profession with the firm determination to abide by 
 Mr. Horton's condition of non-interference in the delicate affiirs 
 which he had entrusted to the skillful hands of that gentleman, 
 and to quiedy await for the hoped for result which was to be 
 achieved. 
 
 But even a short fortnight of this waiting had proved to be a 
 very severe trial to his patience. 
 
 To give his promise of non-intei lerence had been sufficiently 
 easy, but to keep it intact as the slow days wore on he began to 
 find increasingly difficult. 
 
 He had not received a line or heard a word from Mr. Horton 
 during the time, from Lake Mordaunt or Ten Lakes either, 
 nor had he any reason, according to the arrangement, to expect 
 a word or a line ; yet still he worried and fretted, while the time 
 seemed unenduiably long to him. 
 
 He assiduously occupied himself with his professional duties ; 
 lie amused himself with watching the fast progressing courtship 
 of Mr. Erastus Gooch ; he endeavoured to keep himself content- 
 ed and satisfied ; to think of the troubles ot his love as little as 
 he possibly could j to pass away time as quickly as it could be 
 passed ; but yet it moved slowly and more slowly as day suc- 
 ceeded day. 
 
 " Anything to end this wearying suspense," he thought. "Why 
 cannot Horton write ? A fortnight — an age — without a word. 
 
 I I 
 
 'I 
 
 I ' 
 
 * 
 
2l6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOKE BETTER. 
 
 
 ». 
 
 He has been mistaken, I rather suspect, as to the very easy 
 finding, he promised, of the two letters on which so much seems 
 to depend, or some other difficulties must have arisen. How 
 terrible it is that when trouble once comes home to a man it is 
 so very hard to oust again the unwelcome guest. 
 
 " How I would like to run up to Ten Lakes and Lake Mor- 
 daunt to see for myself how affairs progress. 
 
 " How I would like it; but yet, I suppose, I must abide by 
 the rather inconsiderate promise I made to Horton. Yet I can 
 endure this harrassing delay but little longer. I must have a 
 change of some kind from this uneasy restlessness that consumes 
 me or I shall go demented. 
 
 " The very thing ! I'll run down to Hopetown for a thorough 
 looking into the affairs of that new venture of mine. That shall 
 pass away three or four days for me, and if, when I return, there 
 should still be nothing from Horton, I sliall most decidedly go 
 and look after him in addition. 
 
 " Yes ! I will take this trip down to Hopetown for a change 
 and a relief in the first place, and I must look closely into that 
 matter as well, for it will not do to leave everything blindly to 
 Sidney, the more especially as the wise ones hint that there arc 
 distant but intelligible indications of ai)proaching calamity to the 
 commercial world, which if not immediate, perhaps, is not the 
 less certain to come in the end, and if their prophecy be worlli 
 listening to it would necessitate preparations for the taking in of 
 sail in readiness for the storm. 
 
 " I'll go down to-night to see what Si. aey is doing, and have 
 a general overhauling." 
 
 Acting upon this determination he departed the same night 
 for Hopetown, in which place he spent the next three days \n a 
 close examination of the affairs of the great mills in which lie had 
 become interested. 
 
 He found Sidney Wolverton at his post actively engaged " u\) 
 k) the ears," he said, in business, for orde'-s were brisk, large and 
 
AN M. P. IN PROSPECTU— HOPE ! 
 
 217 
 
 plentiful, and the mills were running night and day to their full 
 capacity. 
 
 And ce. ainly the establishment and all around it looked 
 prosperous and stirring, full of business life and vitality, which 
 impressed Vance, pleased and interested him. 
 
 Wolverton, no longer crippled for means or with doubtful 
 credit, had taken new interest in the concern and had infused 
 new life and energy into its management by his presence and 
 example, and had been enabled to put things on to the very 
 brisk footing which he liked best to see, that when Edwin 
 Vance paid his visit the great factory at Hopetown presented n 
 busy and thriving aspect. 
 
 " Wolverton certainly must be a good business man for all 
 here gives evidence of it, at any rate," he thought, as he noticed 
 the good order and condition of the buildings, plant and ma- 
 chinery ; the busy hum of industry, the crowds of workmen and 
 the systematic management which appeared to prevail in each 
 department of the works. 
 
 The close examination of the books of account into which he 
 entered did not tend either to lessen his satisfaction. All ap- 
 peared to be as it should be, and his rigid search but confirmed 
 the declaration of Sidney in Toronto concerning the lightness of 
 the liabilities. That the concern was in a prosperous condition 
 appeared evident, and the hard day's work spent on the books 
 but brought the same conclusion more strongly home. 
 
 He noticed, however, that instead of taking in sail, Wolverton 
 had spread out more to the wind, was increasing the scope of 
 the business, had been purchasing heavily of late, and had put 
 the works to their full capacity. 
 
 This Sidney explained by the statement that business was 
 brisk, orders large and numerous, and if filled altogether from 
 their finished stock would soon produce them empty ware- 
 houses. 
 
 s 
 ; 
 
2l8 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETl^ER. 
 
 U ', 
 
 J :«: 
 
 "k 
 
 Vance was satisfied to give a few cautions to his friend, and 
 said nothing more upon the subject. 
 
 Another point which had attracted his attention was that the 
 books showed that at the time Sidney had asked for his asistance 
 during the past summer he must have had a considerably larger 
 command of means than he had acknowledged, for there was 
 evidence that payments to a very heavy amount had then been 
 made. 
 
 To Vance this seemed strange, and for an instant his mind 
 reverted to the note for thirty-five thousand dollars whicli he had 
 had to meet, but the idea was as quickly dismissed from his mind 
 as he remembered Hatchitfess's receipt which so plainly proved 
 the innocence of his friend. 
 
 " If then," he thought, " Sidney had at that time so much more 
 money than he acknowledged to have had, it is all the better for 
 me, seeing he has invested it here, and my position with regard 
 to the property is so much the safer." 
 
 Edwin Vance returned to Toronto satisfied sufficiently with 
 his visit to Hopetown, by no means regretting his adventure 
 therein, and looking forward to it as a source of increased riches 
 for his partner and for himself. 
 
 Another source of gratification had come to him during his 
 visit, one, too, of a wholly unexpected nature, and with which 
 his thoughts on his journey home had been pleasantly occu- 
 pied. 
 
 He had beeij surprised, on the last evening of his stay, by a 
 visit from several gentlemen of Hopetown and the adjoining 
 county, who, when they had congratulated him as a new pro- 
 prietor among them, and themselves upon the fact of his becom- 
 ing so, had proceeded to invite him to consider the propriety 
 of standing for their county in the general election for the 
 Dominion, which present events would indicate as being of not 
 distant date. 
 The county, they had represented to him, to be strongly Con- 
 
AN M. P. IN PROSPECTU—HOPE ! 
 
 219 
 
 servative, but likely to suffer to some extent from the influence 
 of the unfortunate Pacific Railway scandal, and it became ne- 
 cessary that their candidate, to ensure success, should be par 
 excellence a strong man, unblemished as to character, above 
 suspicion, and above all in a position that no personal grounds 
 of dislike could be brought against him. He, bemg a new 
 comer among them, could hardly be supposed to be thus affect- 
 ed, while he was relieved from the charge of being a stranger 
 whose interests lay elsewhere by his connection with and stake 
 in the county. 
 
 They had concluded with a strongly-worded desire that he 
 should come for\vard as the representative of the party, and 
 assured him that they were not unathorized in their invitation, 
 as they had been informally delegated by the county organiza- 
 tions. 
 
 \i.<i expressed his gratification at the honor they had thus 
 conferred upon him, and had promised acceptance of their invi- 
 tation if the contest should arise, or if he found there should be 
 a probability of success. 
 
 He therefore departed for Toronto in a i^leasant enough 
 frame of mind, satisfied as to the prospects of his new invest- 
 ment, looking forward with sanguine pleasure to his probable 
 future seat in Parliament, a very attractive idea to one of his 
 temperament and intellectual cast of mind, for, devoid of selfish 
 or purely party ends, he could, as he fondly imagined, from that 
 high standpoint best serve the interests of his country and liis 
 fellow citizens. 
 
 But these subjects, interesting though liiey were to him, did 
 not exclude all others from his thoughts or even hold the promi- 
 nent position in his mind. 
 
 He had one greater, more engrossing idea — Ethel Mordaunt 
 and the restoration of his engagement. 
 
 When at last the wakeful influences of the insomnious Pull- 
 man car were counteracted b)' his fatigue, his last conscious idea 
 
 1 
 
220 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i ^, 
 
 -.lu-J 
 
 was the wonder if he should receive a letter from Mr. Horton in 
 the morning. 
 
 " And so, my dear Edwin, you have found your visit to your 
 new property at Hopetown as satisfactory as you could wish," 
 said Mrs. Vance to her son as they were seated at breakfast to- 
 gether the morning of his arrival home. 
 
 " Very satisfactory — very satisfactory indeed, my dear mother. 
 I find I have no occasion to regret my investment there, so far 
 as anything appears at present. The prospects of success 
 are even better than I had anticipated," he replied, cheer, 
 fully. 
 
 " I am very glad to hear you say so, for I must confess that 
 I have felt anxious. Manufacturing is an unknown field to you, 
 Edwin," said his mother. 
 
 " AVell ! Perhaps it is so. But in order to save myself from 
 heavy loss I was compelled to enter into the partnership, and I 
 am only too well pleased that things have so bright an appear- 
 ance with regard to it," he answered. " But, my clear mother, 
 how would you like the prospect of seeing your son an M. P. 
 I have been invited to accept a nomination for that county." 
 
 <( 
 
 Indeed, Edwin. You astonish me ; but of that I am very 
 glad. I sincerely hope you will succeed in obtaining your 
 seat. Are you not almost a stranger to them there, though ?" 
 
 " Well ! that they seemed to consider an advantage, and I 
 have no leason to object to the idea. I shall certainly mn the 
 county when the time comes," said Edwin. 
 
 '" My dear boy, you deserve success. How proud I shall be 
 to write to you at Ottawa and add the two magic letters to your 
 name," his mother answered, kissing him affecti6nately. " But. 
 Edwin, I have some news to tell you in my turn. What will 
 you think of it ? Agnes Seaforth is engaged to be married." 
 
 " Agnes] Seaforth engaged ! Well ! that is news, mother," 
 he echoed " Although it was to be expected, is it not a trifle 
 
 
AN i\I. P. IN PROSPECTU— HOPE ! 
 
 221 
 
 Horton in 
 
 sit to your 
 (uld wish," 
 eakfast to- 
 
 ;ar mother, 
 lere, so far 
 of success 
 ied, cheer. 
 
 onfess that 
 field to you, 
 
 nyself from 
 •ship, and I 
 an appear- 
 lar mother, 
 an M. P. 
 :ounty." 
 I am very 
 ining your 
 hough?" 
 ;age, and I 
 ly run the 
 
 I shall be 
 ters to your 
 |ly. " But. 
 
 What will 
 larried." 
 J, mother," 
 
 lot a trifle 
 
 soon, though? Their courtship lias not certainly been very 
 protracted. Mr. Gooch, I suppose, is the happy man." 
 ;. "Yes! Mr. Gooch is the happy man. Their engagement 
 comes upon us a little earlier than I expected, but Agnes has 
 her own reasons for acceptance, I suppose, and I i:now that she 
 likes him," said Mrs. Vance. 
 
 " I could see that she did not dislike him, at all events," said 
 Edwin, laughing. 
 
 " By the way, Edwin, she wishes to see you on the first op- 
 portunity that you can make. The old story, I suppose. The 
 proud spirit that will not ])rook a thought that does not carry in- 
 dependence." 
 
 '• I suppose so. I shall call upon her this evening as she 
 wishes me to do so, but she will find her arguments to no pur- 
 pose in the old story. And now I must be off. Good morn- 
 ing, mother. There are not any letters for me here, you say ?" 
 
 " No, Edwin. None came to the house, and I did not send 
 down to your chambers. Good bye !" 
 
 But Edwin found at last a long-desired letter awaiting him 
 among the collection of his few days of absence. It is very 
 certain that it was the first selected for perusal. 
 
 " At last," he said, as he tore it open. 
 
 "Lake Mordaunt, Dec. 13th, 1873. 
 •'My Dear Vance, — 
 
 " Meet me at Hopetown on Tuesday next. I wish to see 
 you. 
 
 " You may prepare for a few days of absence from home. 
 " Perhaps you may find — but 1 shall say nothing until we 
 meet. 
 
 " I found the letters just as I expected, within five minutes, 
 too, of my arrival at the Lake. You could not guess, though 
 you tried until we meet. 
 
 "Your trip into New York was not lost. 
 " Be at Hopetown on Tuesday. 
 
 "Your affect, friend, 
 
 " Edward J. Horton." 
 16 
 
 1 
 
 !J 
 
 I 
 
 \ 
 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 ' J 
 
222 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 i,.K 
 
 " Hopetown on Tuesday j AVhy at Hopetown ? It surely 
 must be Cascades that he means. But no ! he never makes mis- 
 takes. ' Perhaps you may find.' 
 
 "How aggravating he is, to be sure. Could he not have told me 
 something. How provoking and how inconsiderate. Well ! so 
 the letters are found, that is one good thing. * Trip into New 
 York not lost.' What can he mean by that but all is right again ? 
 I hope so — I hope so. How glad, how happy I should be if I 
 but knew that. If he had but given me one little assurance. 
 
 "Saturday, Sunday, Monday — three mortal days to wait. 
 How shall I ever get through all their long hours. Three drawn 
 out tedious days of suspense. 
 
 Ji? " Yes ! but with hope to brighten their. Hope shall brighten 
 them if it cannot make their long hours fly faster. 
 
 " Light at last, I tnist, I fondly trust," he continued. " After 
 all these dreadful months. It must be so. The happy, longed- 
 for hour has arrived at last. 
 
 "Horton would not mock me with delusive hopes. Had it been 
 aught else than the sweet hour of renewal for our love, he would 
 have written plainly and to the point. 
 
 " Oh ! Ethel, Ethel ; have you come back to me again ? my 
 loved — my betrothed." 
 
 A dozen times he read over the letter, as if to extract from 
 its wording — some turn of its few sentences — a firmer assur- 
 ance of his ardent hopes. 
 
 The letter gave him hope, to be sure, but it did not give him 
 the assurance. 
 
 The long drawn out and weary hours ! how would they not 
 spin out their lingering space for him ? 
 
 A day, another and another. An age to his restless longings, 
 his anxious suspense, his unknowing, unsatisfied, miserable dis- 
 quietude. 
 
 " Let me get to work," he said, " and finish one of the three 
 protracting torments as unthinkingly as I may." 
 
LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 2 2.^ 
 
 And, very wisely for Mr. Edwin Vance, he went to his wo rk, 
 and found in that sufficient to absokitely occupy the day for 
 him. Expecting it to be long and tedious, he found that labou 
 had winged it into the desired shortness, and with surprise to 
 himself he noted the early darkness falling upon the scene of 
 his duties 
 
 " One day gone, at any rate," he said to himself as he walked 
 quickly homewards. " This evening 1 must devote to Agnes 
 Seaforth's affairs, whatever they may be." 
 
 CHAPTER XVHL 
 
 LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 " I wish you joy, Agnes," said Mr. Vance, taking Miss Sea- 
 forth's hand as he was ushered into the little drawing-room of 
 her little house, where, in addition to Miss Spnnger, he found 
 Mr. Gooch, the would-be " benedict," before him. 
 
 " I wish you joy, Agnes, with all my heart, and hope you 
 will be always happy," he continued. "You the same, Mr. Gooch, 
 faithful cavalier, who, I verily believe, never leaves his fair 
 lady's side for a single instant. Wish you joy. Miss Springer, 
 on the happy prospect of getting rid of your troublesome niece." 
 And Edwin proceeded to make himself comfortable at the 
 side of the latter personage when he had finished his saluta- 
 tions. 
 
 " I say, though, Goochy," he resumed shortly, " you have not 
 lost much time in bringing affairs to a successful termination. 
 Have you a love philter? Come, tell me your secret." 
 
 Thus addressed, irreverently, the newly-engaged laughed in 
 the joy of his heart, as, with a mischievous little glance at his 
 idixr fiancee, he replied— 
 
 " The more hurry the 7no)'e speed, Mr. Vance. * Never put 
 off proposing when it's in the day's disposing.' These are the 
 
 I 
 
 ii 
 
 <«■ 
 
 » 
 
224 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 11 
 
 secrets," and he bestowed his huge frame as near to his betrothed 
 as he in conscience could do. 
 
 " Capital idea, don't you think so, Agnes?" exclaimed Edwin, 
 gleefully, for the day's good news had raised his spirits to the 
 point in which others' affairs than his own could again be of 
 interest. 
 
 " I think nothing at all concerning the matter, Mr. Vance, 
 and, allow me to add, I would consider myself very much oblig- 
 ed if you would say nothing concerning it, either," answered 
 Agnes, in a tone so marked that there could be no mistaking 
 her dislike of the subject. 
 
 While, to Edwin's open delight, Mr. Gooch came in for some- 
 spirited little asperities on his want of propriety, to which he 
 listened, as in duty bound, with adoring deprecation and humble 
 l)rotestations of improvement for the future. 
 
 " Doth not your too prophetic soul already shudder at pros- 
 pect of the days to come ?" enquired Edwin, mischievously, of 
 the beleagured beneidict upon the ending of his dire besiege- 
 ment. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, can'*^ you, Mr. Vance ? Do you wish to 
 bring me further disgrace ? x^e quiet and talk reasonably," he 
 replied, with a twinkle of his good-humored blue eyes. 
 
 '•Well, Agnes, I shall have to limit my conversation to business, 
 it appears. What may you require of me to-night ? You sent 
 for me, I believe. The drawing up of the marriage settlements 
 is the only possible business you can have to transact with a 
 lawyer. If so, I'm all ready." 
 
 " No ! it is not, Mr. Vance. There are no marriage settle- 
 ments to draw up. What is the matter with you this evening 
 tliat you persist in making yourself so disagreeable ?" replied 
 Agnes. 
 
 "I had some good news to-day, Agnes; consequently I can 
 be happy to see others happy," he said, rubbing his hands to- 
 gether in his pleasure. 
 
 -U. 
 
 ytf 
 
LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 225 
 
 s betrothed 
 
 " answered 
 
 "Good news I then it must come from Kthel ^fordaunt. I 
 am very glad for your sake — very glad that your unhai)pinesses 
 are over, and I forgive you for all your rudeness to me just now. 
 The privileged words of a friend, you know," she added kindly, 
 as she congratulated him. 
 
 " Yes ! Vance, I am very glad for your sake. I have really 
 felt quite guihy in my own happiness while you were in trouble,'' 
 said Mr. Gooch, warmly. 
 
 "All over now, or soon shall be, I hope and believe. But, 
 Agnes, what do you require me to do for you to-night ? Tell 
 me that I may do it and take myself off out of the way," replied 
 Mr. Vance. 
 
 " You are not in the way, Mr. Vance," she replied with a 
 warning look. " The matter concerning which I wished to see 
 you is this annuity, which, contrary to my wishes, }'et so gener- 
 ously, you have purchased for me. You must take it back, as 
 
 u 
 
 Yes ! Mr. Vance, interrupted Mr. Gooch, rising and ad- 
 vancing towards him. " Miss Seaforth has told me of all the 
 circumstances connected with that affair, so honorable to your 
 late father and to yourself, and she wishes, in which I heartily 
 concur witii her, that the annuity be transferred back to you. 
 Agnes cannot accept it, and, excuse me for saying, I should pre- 
 fer also that she did not " 
 
 " Xo business of yours, Mr. Gooch ; the annuity belongs to 
 Agnes, and can never be yours,'' replied I'^d'.vin, with a laugh. 
 
 " Agnes," he continued, " you know just as well as I .<now 
 that I have nothing to do with this affair. It was my father's 
 not miiie. Good evening, Agnes ! Good evening, ]\rr. Gooch ! 
 I'm off. I did not come here to talk nonsense," and Edwin 
 moved off as if to leave the room. 
 
 " Stay, Mr. Vance, I beg of you,'' exclaimed Agnes, laying 
 her hand detainingly upon his arm. " I am serious in this, that 
 I cannot accept this money. I have not done so since I wrote 
 
 \ 
 
 ii 
 
 \ 
 
M 
 
 h 
 
 :■,') i( 
 
 M 
 
 Hi 
 
 I 
 
 m I 
 
 llli' 
 
 
 ''fllli ■•'•■■'■■' 
 
 4:i; i 
 
 
 226 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 you at Lake Mordaunt, and I never shall. Do not think, I pray, 
 that I am ungrateful for your noble generosity to a " 
 
 " No generosity at all about it, Agnes," interrupted Edwin, 
 hastily. " My father left you what he considered was fairly 
 yours. 1 have nothing to do with it. It is yours, not mine, 
 and I shall not have it. No use for us to speak further about it. 
 Let us have some music in place of your disagreeables, or I shall 
 go away." 
 
 " Hear me, dear Mr. Vance," exclaimed Agnes, appealmg- 
 ly. " You must know by this time my determination in this 
 matter, for I have told you so often. In any event I shall 
 cause the annuity to be transferred back to you to-morrow." 
 
 " You cannot do it, Agnes, for I shall not accept. 1 shall 
 not sign ; you cannot make me sign. You will have to keep it, 
 I fear," replied Edwin, laughing at her seriousness. 
 
 "But we shall not want it, Mr. Vance, we shall have enough 
 of our own," said Mr. Gooch, determinedly shoving in his great 
 oar. 
 
 " Very likely, Mr. Gooch, in fact I know very well you shall 
 not want it ; but suppose, for argument's sake now, that you 
 were some day to become again ' transported with joy,* as you 
 were on the celebrated evening that we met in the college grounds 
 and make some bad speculation or othei entailing the loss of 
 your overflowing wealth, would not Agnes' little trifle come in 
 very well for her ?" and again Edwin laughed. 
 
 " A very far-fetched supposition, Mr. Vance. Very little 
 likelihood of its occurrence. I am highly flattered, also. No 
 fear of that now," responded Mr. Gooch, in mock indignation. 
 
 " Well ! I do not think you require mujh reforming, and I 
 am very sure that your Agnes here will keep you in order. You 
 need not blush, Agnes, you are engaged you know. Yet still 
 there are such things as losses in the best regulated households," 
 answered Edwin. 
 
 " Still, Mr. Vance, the fact remains that I shall never consent 
 
LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 227 
 
 er consent 
 
 to accept this money upon any terms. I will starve first. If 
 you do not cancel the arrangement the money shall be left un- 
 touched to accumulate for you," said Agnes, erect, and with 
 determination. 
 
 " For yourself, Agnes, not for me," he replied. 
 
 " Mr. Gooch," continued Edwin, with a vexed laugh. " It is 
 my firm opinion that you have to be very thankful to this an- 
 nuity that you both make so much fuss over ; had it not been 
 Agnes' ardent desire to get rid of it, you might not have found 
 your wooing come so quickly to its desired attainment, notwith- 
 standing your mutilated proverbs either. Be sensible now and 
 take a lawyer's advice, dont't meddle with that which you can- 
 not help.. Leave well alone." 
 
 " AVell, it is Agnes' affair, not mine," responded Mr. Gooch. 
 " You are both pretty obstinate, and I shall have nothing more 
 to say." 
 
 Mr. Gooch, as he said this, turned away to converse with Miss 
 Springer, determinately, as if done with the subject. 
 
 " Did you really mean the words which you said just now, 
 Mr. Vance?" said Agnes, with blazing face. "That I, to 
 get rid of this hateful money, had listened too soon to — to — 
 to " 
 
 " No ! I did not, Agnes. A mere joke," interrupted Edwin. 
 " Do you think after all these years of our friendship that I do 
 not know the high spirit of Agnes Seaforth. And I know, too, 
 your reason, my dear girl. You — well, we will say — like Mr. 
 Gooch, and he loves you. You will be very happy, and I con- 
 gratulate you, Agnes. You have made a good choice ; he is 
 good ; he is honest and a gentleman, even if he is not so clever 
 as his wife-to-be is." 
 
 Edwin carefully sank his voice at the latter part of his sen- 
 tence, but Agnes turned away with a smile, and the conversation 
 became general. 
 
 )|( * * m Hi i(i« 9|( 
 
 S 
 
22$ 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 I 
 
 !',' 
 
 I!' i \ 
 
 -I 
 
 i'l 
 .1 ' ' 
 
 
 in 
 
 is: 
 
 I 
 
 ' i: 
 
 r 
 
 ; 1 
 
 If 
 
 mi 
 
 y;; 
 
 But the interminable hours that intervened for Mr. Vance 
 between him and his desired Tuesday passed away one by one 
 as do all our hours. 
 
 Their tardiness or their swiftness, so purely imaginative, yet 
 so very real, as we look fonvard to a goal that seems distant to 
 us or near, is but apparent tardiness or swiftness endowed to 
 them by our thoughts. The hours march on the same, unchang- 
 ing, unalterable. 
 
 But it is very probable that his hours were very tardy to 
 Edwin — very tardy, and his goal very far off to his view. 
 
 But the days passed on, and it came close to him at last. 
 
 As the rushing express train, thundering eastward, passed 
 station after station in the early morning after its long, dark 
 night journey, and Hopetown was no longer distant, his mind 
 recognizing how close he was coming to his fate, became un- 
 mistakably anxious and excited. 
 
 " Hopetown is indeed the city of my hope to-day," he said tc 
 himself, as, his toilet thus early completed, he looked out from 
 the window of his Pullman car upon the fleeing landscape, all 
 cold and desolate in the dim grey morning light. " I awake co 
 a morning whose dawn may be very bright for me. But what 
 if my hope proves but delusive again ; but bitter disappoint- 
 ment and weary delay that I go to meet ? 
 
 " Can I longer endure such ? Can "^ bear again the crushing 
 down of my charmed castle in the air ? 
 
 " Yes ! bitter as the blow may be I must bear it. I will bear 
 it, for though years may pass in this anxious misery, I am deter- 
 mined that I will work my way to my own again, and Ethel is 
 my own — my very own. She plighted herself to me ; she con- 
 firmed again her troth when she held the right to take it back 
 from me at the time I fell from my promised word that I had 
 given her. She is mine, for I have not forfeited my right. 
 
 " If I must, I will spend my life in the attempt to regain the 
 
LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 229 
 
 love she owes me, and in that endeavour I shall but do as I 
 ought to do. 
 
 " But no ! There is hope for me — my journey to Hopetown 
 I accept as a happy augury. I go to meet the confirmation of 
 my hope. 
 
 " Had Horton required my presence upon any mere business 
 affair, or even some newly arisen obstacle in the way, he would 
 have written more plainly. The very dubi'^ty which his letter 
 conveys is strength to my hope. 
 
 " Oh ! Ethel, Ethel. I am tired of waiting ; my undeserved 
 punishment has fallen heavily upon me. iMay this be its last 
 delay. 
 
 " Oh ! my darling, what would I not do, what would I not 
 give to see once again your hand outstretched to me in the old 
 confidence ; to see again the trusting smile upon your face, the 
 tender light in your eye ? Shall I ever reach that happiness ? 
 Shall that day ever dawn for me." 
 
 The loud whistle of the great locomotive aroused him from 
 his reveries ; the shrill scream o " the steam brake inid the sudden 
 relaxation of the speed of the huge night express told him that 
 he had at length reached his destination. 
 
 In another second he stood upon the station platform at 
 Hopetown amid the hurrying crowd who scrambled off or bustled 
 on to the waiting train, which, impatient to rush onwards again 
 over its long drawn out iron road, whistled and screamed in 
 the chill morning air. In an instant more it was gone ; the 
 hurrying crowd dispersed, and Edwin Vance found liimself 
 confronted by his friend Sidney Wolvert on. 
 
 " From whence did y( u spring down, Sidney, at this untimely 
 hour? I did not notice you on the train," he exclaimed in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Very likely, Vance, seeing that I was not on board, and was 
 quietly awaiting your arrival here," answered Sidney, as they 
 shook hands. 
 
 
i 
 
 li 
 
 t^tii 
 
 I -ii^ 
 
 
 
 M 
 
 1 5 
 
 i- 
 
 :>-!il 
 
 I il. 
 
 230 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " You awaiting me, Sidney. Why how did you know that I 
 was to come ? It was Mr. Horton I had expected to meet," 
 said Edwin, his surprise unlessened, but his bright hopes com- 
 mencing to fade way. 
 
 " Yes ! so I suppose, but he went away last night," replied 
 his friend, looking into his face with an amused smile upon his 
 o^vn. 
 
 " Gone away ! Gone away ! did you say ? Impossible. I 
 have ar appointment to meet him here to-day," exclaimed Ed- 
 win, b kly, ^vith down-cast expression and despair written 
 upon 1 features. 
 
 " Well, Vance, I'll grant the impossibility, nevertheless, he 
 went away last night. He left, however, a note for you, in ex- 
 planation, I suppose," answered Sidney, with provoking coolness 
 and a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he proceeded with 
 methodical slowness to produce his pocket-book, and from it the 
 missive of which he spoke. 
 
 " Quick, Sidney, give it me. Don't be all day getting that 
 
 thing opened." 
 
 Edwin, when he got it into his hand, tore open the envelope 
 
 with nervous haste. 
 
 "HoPETOWN, December 21st, 1873. 
 " Dear Vance, — 
 
 " Follow me to Lake Mordaunt as fast as you like. 
 " I have finished here all I wished to finish, and cannot be 
 bothered waiting until to-morrow for you. 
 
 " I have reorganized your precious partner upon a sounder 
 basis. 
 
 " Perhaps you may see — but I am too tired to write more, 
 and you will knov/ all when you arrive, which, I suppose, will 
 be to-morrow evening. 
 
 " Yours affect., 
 
 " Edward J. Horton." 
 
 Vance was so angered with what he considered Mr. Horton's 
 trifling that he had to read this note over two or three times be- 
 fore he could gather its meanings at all. 
 
E:^v;ggKX--i-^-. -4' ^J * 
 
 LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 231 
 
 That he was to go to Inke Mordaunt he at once saw, and 
 that was happiness, for he would be near, at any rate — he might 
 see even — her whom he had so faithfully loved, but he did not, 
 at the first, pick much further comfort from the vexatious little 
 epistle which had thus so delayed his knowledge. 
 
 " I say, Vance," said Sidney, " the train for Cascades does 
 not start for an hour to come. Had you not better come over 
 to the hotel for some breakfast ? Come, don't look so dis- 
 couraged. You'll be at the Lake before night, and that is 
 better, certainly, than meeting a sour old Yankee Senator 
 here." 
 
 " All right, Sidney, but how do you know that I am going to 
 the Lake ?" answered Vance, recovering himself from the disap- 
 pointment he at first experienced in the brighter hopes of his 
 new destination. " What was it, too, that induced Mr. Horton to 
 leave without fulfilling his appointment ?" continued Edwin, as 
 he picked up his valise, and walked on with his friend. 
 
 " Oh ! he told me that you would only be too glad to fol- 
 low him, but his reasons for leaving are unknown to me. He 
 hurried through his examinations of the mills and the books 
 as quickly as possible that he might get away, and a precious 
 * wigging* he gave me, too, before he left. I know that I, 
 at any rate, was very glad to get rid of him," replied Sidney, 
 with a laugh. A laugh, however, which was rather forced, and 
 he looked as if the * wigging' of which he had spoken had 
 not been altogether pleasant. 
 
 " He went over the mills and the books, did he ?" said Ed- 
 win, in some surprise. " Then he did not send for me to come 
 here for nything concerning them, it would appear ?" 
 
 " No, 1 imagine not. I thought, though, that you had sent 
 him upon your part. He told me when he had finished, that he 
 found matters better than he had expected, in a tone of conde- 
 scension, too, as if he had been the proprietor, and I his book- 
 keeper," answered Sidney. 
 
M 
 
 232 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 I.' J 
 
 
 In pi. 
 
 " Then, what in the world did he appoint me to meet him here 
 for? I cannot understand," in vexation, repli«"d Edwin. 
 
 " Oh ! I imagine there is a surprise in store for you at the Lake, 
 Vance. I cannot say anything further, though," laughed Sidney, 
 as they entered the hotel. 
 
 " He ordered me peremptorily, to deliver the note to you 
 without fail, on the station, when you arrived. He is a re- 
 markably cool personage, I can tell you," he continued. 
 
 " And for what high crimes did you '•eceive the blowing up, 
 Sidney ?" asked Edwin, when they had entered a sitting-room 
 and ordered breakfast. " Anything about the mills ?" 
 
 " No, Edwin ! a lecture upon — upon — concerning my moral 
 character. He went in for my reformation,'' was the reply given, 
 too rather seriously. 
 
 " Well, has he succeeded ?" asked Edwin, with a smile. 
 
 " I do not know. If I can do so, I shall try to profit by his 
 advice. I have promised some thmgs which he asked me to 
 promise ; in fact, he made me promise. Had we not better 
 speak of something else until breakfast is ready ?" 
 
 " Sidney," asked Edwin again, after a pause, " did he say 
 anything to you relative to my — my — my — to ni)' connection 
 with Miss Mordaunt ? I would not ask you were it not that I 
 am so anxious." 
 
 " I can see that you are anxious, \'ance," replied Sidney, 
 with a smile. " Yes, he did speak of the affair ; but, 1 am un- 
 able to tell you anything, I promised him. You have, however, 
 no occasion to look so down-in-the-mouth, as } ou do at pre- 
 sent, that I can say." 
 
 " You think so, Sidney, really, do you think so ? How awful 
 is this suspense to me. How I wish I were now at Lake Mor- 
 daunt," said Edwin, with a sigh. 
 
 " Well, you will be there by dark, and then you will knovv^ all. 
 Let us go down to breakfast. You have not much time to 
 .spare." 
 
LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 /> 1 '^ 
 
 * 
 
 How slowly seemed to move the train that bore him on 
 his way to Cascades. How slowly it seemed to force its un- 
 willing way into the interior. 
 
 How numerous all the useless little stations at which to stop, 
 and how vexatious the delay that was made at them. How slowly 
 ran the train for his feverish haste ; jw long the minutes spun 
 themselves out ; how wearisome the slow dragging on of the 
 hours. 
 
 And yet his tram seemed to travel at very fair speed for 
 a branch road. His fellow passengers did not seem to find 
 their journey so very tedious, for they laughed, chatted and 
 enjoyed themselves. Their four hours of travel to them, was 
 a pleasure trip, if it was not to impatient Edwin Vance. 
 
 It was only he who, every five minutes, took out his watch 
 with useless perseverance and automatic nervousness to consult 
 its slow-moving hands. It was only he who, each five minutes, 
 sprang uneasily from his seat, as the train slacked-up deliberately 
 at each way-station, and strode up and down impatiently, until 
 it moved on again. 
 
 But the five minutes followed the gone five minutes in regular 
 unending succession, as usual. Time runs on, steadily, surely, 
 unceasingly, while we — in our haste for the future, always in 
 our eyes so bright — waste it. The minutes roll themselves into 
 hours all certainly, and — no matter how slow .hey may seem to 
 us, future-aspiring, who would fain anticipate their distant 
 bringings — they weave on, unchanging, their ceaseless web. 
 
 The train duly reached Cascades, on time, too, though, to 
 Vance's impatience, it was hours behind. He, seizing his 
 valise, jumped down to the platform, almost before the train 
 had reached it, and hurried over to the hotel, as fast as he 
 could move without absolutely running for it. 
 
 As he entered and rushed into the ofiice to order a team, a 
 well-remembered voice saluted his ears. 
 
JK 
 
 Ill' 
 
 n 
 
 fi 
 
 ,; 
 
 H'lM 
 
 [U. 
 
 234 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " Arrah ! now, Mishter Vance, and is it forgittin' yer frinds 
 ye are, this day, in yer hashte. I cuddent have belaved it av 
 yer ; but it's plazed I am till see ye wance again, sorr, so it is. 
 And it's waiting I am till dhroive ye up till the Lake." 
 
 jVIr. Barney Conley, as he uttered the words, held forth his 
 right hand, in all the conscious dignity that the stove-pipe hat, 
 the long, black coat, stiff collar and uncomfortably compressed 
 windpipe thereby, could confer upon a man. 
 
 " Barney, it is you, then. I am delighted to see you, too," 
 said Edwin, the very sight of the familiar face of the old Irish- 
 man, bringing back to him again the bright days between 
 which and his present hour had been a blank so horrible. " How 
 arc you, my old friend ? But have you really come to drive me 
 up, Barney?" he continued. 
 
 " Faix ! I have thin, and it's proud I am av the pleasure. 
 The ould Yankee Gineral sint me down afther ye. It's getting 
 out the baste I'll be at wance," replied B arney. 
 
 " Barney," insinuated Edwin, " would you not like to go and 
 drink my health, with success to my trip to Lake Mordaunt ?" 
 and Edwin, in utter contravention of temperance principles, 
 slippled a bank-note into Barney's hand, which caused that in- 
 dividual to skip for joy, when he afterwards broke it in the 
 bar. 
 
 " Begorra ! Mishter Vance, is it dhrink yer health, I will ? 
 Yis, sorr. and some wan else's health, too, I'm thinkin', and 
 botheration till thim that kem betune the two av yez. I'm 
 thinkin' as how ye'll find yer vishit an agraable wan this time, 
 sorr," and Barney proceeded to order out his horses. 
 
 ^S '^ j^^ Jj^ ^s ^^ *^ ^^ 
 
 The early darkness had fallen over the raw, cold December 
 evening, as Edwin Vance and Barney drove around the head 
 of the well-remembered little lake, and dashed up the road to- 
 wards the house, whose lights — warm, bright, comfortable, 
 welcoming and hospitable-looking — had come into view. 
 
LIGHT AT LAST. 
 
 235 
 
 But the warming aspect of the lights did not fall so warmly 
 upon Edwin's eyes, as he had expected they would have done. 
 His heart that had beat so high with his hope that day, sank a 
 little in the immediate prospect of the unknown — though de- 
 sired — that lay so directly before him. 
 
 In one short minute further, would not the decision, the fixed 
 destiny of his life, to which he was alone unknowing, be made 
 known to him. On the momentary edge he stood and feared. 
 Life-long happiness, or life-long misery, as it seemed to him, to 
 be revealed in one short minute's space. 
 
 " Is it to be as I hope, I wonder ? Does a welcome await my 
 coming, or are my steps still to be dogged with wretchedness ?"' 
 
 There was no time, however, for his fears, no time for his 
 anxious forebodings. 
 
 Barney dashed up to the door, drew up his animals with a 
 jerk, and Edwin Vance stood again on the well-known verandah 
 at Lake Mordaunt. 
 
 Ere he had time to ring the bell, or even recall his scattered 
 thoughts from dire confusion, the door opened, and Mr. Mor- 
 daunt stood before him. 
 
 " Kow do you do, Edwin ?" he said, holding out his hand. 
 •* We have been expecting you. Come in. I am very glad to 
 meet you again as we meet to-day." 
 
 " Oh ! you are there, are you, Edv. in ?" said Mr. Horton, as 
 he entered the hall. " I thought you would find your way up. 
 How did you enjoy your visit to Hopetown ?" 
 
 " I received your vexatious note, and came, as you see, Mr. 
 Horton," was all Edwin's reply. 
 
 " Vexatious, eh ? You will not think so long. Take off your 
 overcoat, and tidy yourself up a little, there is some one in the 
 drawing room," answered Mr. Horton, helping him, and in 
 another minute he found himself ushered into the apartment 
 where " some okc" awaited him. 
 
 Mrs. ?kIordaunt, the mother of his Ethel, and now no longer 
 
 i! 
 
 V^ 
 
 J^ 
 
n. 
 
 ; f 
 
 ■Hi. 
 
 '■3^ 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 his enemy, rose, on his entrance, advanced a step to meet him, 
 with her hand held forth in welcome — 
 
 " I iim very happy to see you again at Lake Mordauiit, Mr. 
 Vance." 
 
 He knew now that all was right with his Ethel's parents. 
 His hope was growing, it was nearing the long-sought fruition. 
 Where was his Ethel ? 
 
 But he could not reply to Mrs. Mordaunt ; he uttered a few 
 inaudible words in his glad confusion, in the sudden lightening 
 of his heavy chain, and then his eye rested upon the beloved 
 form at the further end of the room. 
 
 He advanced, doubtfully, timidly, hesitatingly. He advanced 
 as if he had not the right towards his Ethel. 
 
 As he came forwards, she rose. 
 
 He looked into that dear face, and in its light, all was light 
 henceforth to him. 
 
 " Can you forgive me, dear Edwin, for all this miserable 
 past ?■' 
 
 Her white fingers were held out to him, her bright eyes were 
 upon his face in timid, beseeching light, his beautiful Ethel had 
 asked hmi to forgive her, in her tender words. 
 
 Oh ! superfluous asking ; as if it were not enough to him to 
 be there, with her, and the past thrust back into dark ob- 
 livion. 
 
 " Dear Edwin," she had said. The meaning flashed upon 
 his sense, and the light once more shone upon his face. The 
 sad, pained look that had dwelt upon hio features for the long, 
 sad months, now ended, disappeared, as her voice fell upon his 
 ear, and Edwin Vance was once again the same Edwin Vance 
 who had won his Ethel's love by the little lake in the bright 
 summer far fled. 
 
 " Ethel, my darling, my own again, what have I to forgive ? 
 Vou have forgiven much ! Oh I how happy I am again." 
 
 Notwithstanding ]\Irs. Mordaunt's motherly presence, Edwin 
 
 m * 
 
ER. 
 
 to meet him, 
 
 [ordaunt, Mr. 
 
 thel's parents. 
 )ught fruition. 
 
 uttered a few 
 len lightening 
 n the beloved 
 
 He advanced 
 
 all was light 
 
 this miserable 
 
 ight eyes were 
 tiful Ethel had 
 
 )ugh to him to 
 into dark ob- 
 
 ; flashed upon 
 lis face. The 
 5 for the long, 
 ;e fell upon his 
 Edwin Vance 
 in the bright 
 
 '; I to forgive ? 
 Qi again." 
 esence, Edwin 
 
 IN THE nRlCxH^I' SPRINO-TIMK 
 
 -\37 
 
 clasped his unresisting Ethel in his arms, and imprinted ihc scil 
 of their reconciliation upon her rosy lij^s. He ^ndcd tlicir 
 troubles with his kiss. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 [N THF, r.RK'.irr spRiNtxriMi:. 
 
 The bright spring-time has come again, with iIk- budding of 
 green leaves, the s])ringing of grass, covering the renewed land 
 scapes that had lain dead under the white mantle of wiiUer. 
 with its soft, green carpet'of summery life. I'he birds sang once 
 more in the enlivened woods, and glorious Nature put on again 
 her brightest change. 
 
 I'he white, cold winter had passed away, ra[)idl\-, joyousl}-, 
 let us hope, to all — as it had to Edwin \'ance and his fair Ethei. 
 A hapi^y winter, that had brought no dieary ^torm to them, for 
 they were once more all in all to eacli other. ' 
 
 On a bright May morning — the sun shining, the birds sing.':; •; : 
 green nature all beautiful ; the blue sky arching over all its 
 bright tintings : the flowers springing ; tiie fair Canadian ! lul- 
 scape alive with sound and light and beauty after the long. : ent 
 winters sleep — Ed^ 'in \\ance and Ethel .Mordaunt stootl io ;cihei- 
 in the Church at Ten Lakes, where so oft they had '.\;;r-iiippcd 
 side by side, to take upon themselves the solemn vows liiat 
 should bind them irrevocably to one another, with lo dread of 
 further separation to harass, until Death should placi] irjlween 
 this his dread parting hand. 
 
 Eor better, for worse ; for richer, for poorer ; for tin's world, 
 and — as we all hope — for the world to come. The words were 
 said, the solemn vows paid, that made them one. 
 
 One for ever ; no more Edwin Vance, with his life ; no more 
 I'^thel ^Fordaunt, with her life ; but, one together. 
 
 One for this world ; one in thought, one in hope, one in 
 e\'erythine:. 
 
 17 
 
238 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
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 K ,._ 
 
 
 One, to use their lives — now one life — in the way that llieir 
 Ood ordains, for His glory. One to use their life, if tliey but 
 use it as He ordains, wholly together. 
 
 Together for the good, together in pain, together in happiness. 
 Together bearing this world's inevitable ills ; together forbear- 
 ing, forgiving, smoothing each others inevitable human foibles, 
 follies and evils. 
 
 Together working ; together striving — as they walk forward 
 on the great road that past millions have trod ; that i)resenl 
 millions are treading ; that future millions shall tread — the great 
 road that leads poor humanity from earth to Heaven. 
 
 Edwin Vance and Ethel ^lordaunt became man and wife. 
 In that they had become such they were very hai)py ; together 
 to take up their way upon the great road, their love to lighten 
 and ease the toilsome march. 
 
 Reverently they took up their vows ; reverently they took up 
 their march, in each other's happiness to lighten the road. 'I'o 
 be for each other, to help each other, to aid each other until 
 God in His goodness should take them home. To be hai)py in 
 each other's love ; in each other's strengthening hand on the 
 way that all have to take. 
 
 Together to reach Him, if so be His good will ; to meet to- 
 gether, accepting His mercy, and in His good time reaching 
 His heavenly recognition. 
 
 Edwin Vance and Ethel Mordaunt plighted their vows in 
 God's Church, before Him, and the world's sight, to be good and 
 true man and wife together. In trustful joy and faith they 
 plighted their troth, and they were happy in each other. 
 
 * 
 
 >ic 
 
 t- 
 
 The grand words of the Church that blesses the blending of 
 the two lives into one life — for God and for the world, had been 
 said, and Ethel Vance turns to receive the soft blessings of her 
 earthly friends. 
 
 Husband, father, mother and uncle all were there to give 
 
PTER. 
 
 : way that their 
 life, if they hut 
 
 her in happiness, 
 ogether forbear- 
 human foibles, 
 
 ;y walk forward 
 i ; that present 
 tread — the great 
 liaven. 
 
 man and wife. 
 hapi)y ; together 
 
 Icve to lighten 
 
 tly they took uj) 
 
 the road, 'lb 
 
 Lch other until 
 
 o be happy in 
 
 hand on the 
 
 ill ; to meet to- 
 time reaching 
 
 their vows in 
 to be good and 
 ,nd faith they 
 other. 
 
 e blending of 
 )rld, had been 
 essings of her 
 
 there to give 
 
 IN THE 13RIHGT SPRING-TIME. 
 
 239 
 
 a 
 
 •'ii 
 
 them, but where is her brother ? Why is he not here ? Why 
 has he not come today ? she thought, as she looked around for 
 that absent face. 
 
 But he is not absent. He also comes — his kiss upon her 
 cheek, also ; and, then comes forward — Emily. 
 
 With hesitating step, timidly, doubtfully, with large, bright, 
 soft eyes, fixed wistfully upon her face, Emily comes forward to 
 Ethel. 
 
 The first time that they met since the terrible day that has 
 
 been washed away — for which little Ally's last day of earth had 
 
 been the peacemaker ; with a new, quiet beauty that had no t 
 
 been Emily Dearborn'j^ — that is very lovely on the face of Emily 
 
 Mordaunt- Reggie's wife stepped forward — 
 
 Ethel, may I Kiss you ?" 
 
 Emily, my sister, my brother's wife, and my dear sister, let 
 
 me kiss you, We are sisters," said Ethel, as the two, beautiful 
 exceedingly, clasped each other in tender .'mbrace — there, in 
 God's House. 
 
 Then came the joyous handshakings of the hundreds who 
 had known and liked her, the neighbours, the townsmen, the 
 men, women and children, who had crowded from miles around 
 to see Ethel Mordaunt married. 
 
 Foremost among them, and absolutely gorgeous, comes Mr. 
 Barney Conlty — new beaver hat carefully tucked under his 
 arm, new black coat shining in brilliant glossiness, longer, 
 lai*ger, more awe-inspiring than even the old displaced beaut> ; 
 white collar of fabulous cut, which covered completely, ni- 
 stead of merely rasi)ing off his ears ; new, gorgeous and glori- 
 ous from head to foot, came up Mr. Barney Conley. 
 
 *' Begorra ! an' it's the grate day intirely for Tin Lakes ; a 
 grate day, so it is. An' a proud day it is fur ye, Mishter \'ance, 
 Mimber av Parlymint, though ye be, an' it's the purtiest young 
 lady in Canedy ye're afther takin' aff wid ye. ^liss Ethel, me 
 darlint, sure an' its not forgittin' the ould Lake, an' ould Barney, 
 ye'll be, now ye're marrit' an' laving us. Ye'll come back till see 
 us all, wance in a while, wont ye now, me purty, swate jewel av 
 the wurruld ? It's missing, I'll be, the swate face and the kind 
 wurd for many the long day," and Barney, with Ethel's warm 
 
240 
 
 SHK MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 gras]^ on hir> honcr.t. hard hand, had to brus'^ away something 
 from his eyes. 
 
 '• It L forget the < 'd J.ake,or you, Barney, my dear old friend, 
 1 shall no longer he the Kthel Mordaunt who has lived all her 
 life with yon, I'arney. That will not be in this world," answered 
 I'lthel \"ance. , . 
 
 -■i- :': t- * * t- ' ^ * 
 
 The wedding l)reakfast was over, the s])eeches made, the joy- 
 ous congratulations rei)ealc(l, the tearful farewells whispered, 
 and Etiiel, with her husband, had started upon tlieir new life. 
 
 As th J fast horses si)ed over the road towards Cascades, com- 
 mencing the journey tiiat separated Ethel from her -irlhood to 
 begin her new life, her i)roud and hai)py husband turned to- 
 wards h<M-, and said — 
 
 •' i^thel, my wife, ui}' own, for ever, whom nothing can now 
 divide from me, listen, my darling, to what 1 have to say, in my 
 great hai)i)iness. 
 
 " In this crowning of tlie dearest hopes of my life, when all 
 tlie world is loright before me, when, in my marriage with you. 
 my darling, my life is made a i)rized life to me ; when, to have 
 lost you, would have been its ruin ; when, by (iod's kindness, 1 
 am made hai)py, let mc tell you, i^thel, my loved wife, from ni}- 
 deei) imwortliiness, in m}' self-knowing humility, that I have tf> 
 acknowledge that, alth(nigl"i in her bright love, my wife has be- 
 come my wife, she might h.ave done better ! 
 
 " \'our bright young life, Kthel, has been seared with trial. 
 dimmed with sorrow, wet with tears, and overcast ^^'ith bleak 
 grief, through me, th.rough my selfish love. 
 
 " The • IJefore' your life, before your marriage, which now 
 (Commences your- new life, has not been so bright as it might, as 
 il should have been, my love, not since I have known and loved 
 you, at ihe least. Hut I pra\. I humbly trust that, when the 
 story of its ' After' r.oincs to be chronicled, it may reveal a 
 brighter page. 
 
 " God grant that as )'ou have entrusted your beautiful young 
 life to me, my darling wite, that I may be rendered worthy of 
 the care, that He may help me ; hoi]) us both to walk before 
 II im together in His way ; Mis gr^ce aiding, until v/c come to 
 the JOverlastmg Kingdom." 
 
 THE END. 
 
imethi'nLr 
 
 id friend, 
 I all her 
 Liiswered 
 
 the joy- 
 lispcred. 
 w Hie. 
 es, com- 
 lood to 
 •ned to- 
 
 an now 
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