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101 
 
ROBERTSON'S CHEAP SERIES. 
 
 7 
 
 POPULAR READING AT POPULAR PRICES. 
 
 URLY TIM 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 AMERICAN EDITION, 90c. and $1.00. 
 
 tOBERTSOWS EDITION, FIFTEEN CENTS 
 
 COMPLETE. 
 
 TORONTO : 
 J. Ross ROBEHTSON, 67 YONGB StRSOT. 
 
 1877. 
 
SURLY TIM. 
 
 "Sorry to hear my fellow-workmen speak 
 
 S disparnuiii' o'me? Well, Mea.er, that's 
 
 I it may be yo' know. Happen my fellow- 
 
 lorkmeu ha' made a bit o' u mistake— hap- 
 
 Va what seems loike crustiness to thorn 
 
 bant so much crustiness as Hummat elae-- 
 
 ^ppen I^ mought do my bit o' complainin' 
 
 Yo' muniiot trust aw yo' hear, Menter; 
 
 [lat's aw I can siiy." 
 
 II lo'iked at the man's bent face quite 
 iiriously, and, judging from its ratiier 
 bavy 1 tsf.iU not unprepossessing outline. 
 Icouid not really call it a bad face, or even 
 Isulky one. And yet both managers and 
 ViiU had given me a bad accuunt of Tim 
 Mblilethwaite. "Surly Tim," they odled 
 isn, and each had something to say about 
 Is sullen disposition to silence, and his 
 ^"rt answers. Not that he was accused 
 anything like nii.-idemeanour, but he was 
 glum h)ike." the factory people said, and 
 [a surly fellow well deserving his name," us 
 pe master of the room had tol I me. | 
 
 I had come to liiuicashire to take the con- 1 
 ■01 of my father's spinning-factory a short 
 Ime before, being anxious to do my best 
 ^ward the hands, ami I often talk^-d'to one 
 nd another in a fnen.lly way, so that I 
 puld the better nndei^tand their grievances 
 nd remedy them with justice to all parties 
 bncerned. So in conversing with nnui, 
 romen, and children. I gradually found out 
 nat Tim Hibbletliwaite was ip bad (xlour, 
 ttd that he held himself doggeilly aloof from 
 II; and this was how, in the course of time, 
 1 came to speak to him about the matter, 
 nd the opening words of my story are the 
 jrords ot his answer. But they did not 
 atisfy rn« by any means. I wanted to do 
 fie man justice myself, and see that justice 
 ras done to him by others; and then again 
 h "'. .*^.'®'" .™y curious look at him, he 
 |iica iiis nead iimu hia work and drew the 
 ok of his hand across his warm face, I 
 loticed that he gave his eyes a brush, and, 
 liMcing at him onc« n'ore, I recognized the 
 Iresence of a moistare m them, 
 lu my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed 
 nythiug unusual, I am afraid I spoke to 
 
 ' him quite hurriedly. I was a young man 
 then, and by no me.ins as self -possessed as 
 1 oughk to have been. 
 
 "1 h4>pe you won't misunderstand me, 
 Hibblethwaite," 1 said; "I don't mean to 
 complain— indeed, I have nothing to com- 
 plain of, for Foxley tells me you are the 
 steadiest and most orderly hand he has under 
 him ; but the fact ii, I should like to make 
 friends with you ail, and see that no one is 
 treated badly. And somehow or f)tlier I 
 found out that you were not disposed to feel 
 friendly towards the rest, and I was sorry 
 for it. But I suppose you have some reason 
 of your own." 
 
 Tlie man bent down over his work again, 
 silent for a minute, to my discomtiture, but 
 at last he .spoke, almost huskily. 
 
 "Thank yo', Mester," he said; "yo'rea 
 koindly chap or yo' wouldn't ha' noticed. 
 An' yore not fur wrong either. I ha rea- 
 sons o niv own, tlio I m loike to keep 'em to 
 niysen most o toimes. Th fellows as throws 
 their slurs on me would na understond 'era 
 if I were loike U^ gab, which I never were. 
 Bit happen th' toinie '11 come when Surly 
 Ttni 11 tell hia own tale, thou>,'h 1 often think 
 its loike it wuuuot come till th Davo' Judff« 
 ment." -^ * 
 
 " 1 hope it will come before then," I said, 
 jheorfully. "I hope the time is not far 
 awuy when we shall all understand you, 
 Hibbletliwaite. I think it has been misun- 
 derstanding so far which has separated you 
 fr'^m the rest, and it cannot last always, you 
 
 he shook his hearl — not after a surly 
 fas.i but, as I thought, a triHe sadly or 
 
 heavily- so I did not ask any more ques- 
 tions, or try to force the subject upon him. 
 But I noticed him pretty closely as time 
 went on, and the more I saw of him the 
 more fully 1 was convinced that he was not 
 so surly as people imagined. He never inter- 
 fered with the most active of bis enemies, 
 nor made any reply when they taunted him, 
 and more than once I saw him perform a 
 silent, half-secret act of kindness. Oooe I 
 caught him throwing half his dinner to » 
 
4J 
 
 BURLY Tllf, 
 
 wi etched little lad who h.d ju.t come to the 
 facory a„a w«,ked nearium, and oSce 
 S^nv'nf^i I 7" '•"'""8 "'• '^«'W'"K on a 
 
 BD08t ..athetie dum..„o«8 to piu the woollen 
 •hnwl „f H poor httio mite, who, like >o 
 
 eau m,^8. It was always the poorest and 
 
 lc^np7rL *"■ "f **'" ^'•"•>'-«» «hom he 
 thae !l *T^"*"u'' ""•' ^«'y "ften I noticed 
 
 Tfrl ) fT '""'"Vl *•'« ^'t"* waif" ^'•'e 
 afru.d of h,n., and «howed their fear plainly. 1 
 
 nfinl- '^***.'''*"**«*i "" the outskirts 
 ^n.l nlf. "'*^ T?^\y V'*" "«''"• Manchester, I 
 and at tl,e end of the lane that led fn,»i it to ! 
 the more ih.ckly populated part there was a i 
 path crossing a held to the pretty church 
 «nd church yard, and this path was a short 
 
 quiet, the place had a sort ..f attracti.ai f,.r 
 me, and 1 was in the habit of fre.,uen Iv 
 
 rwTs«..r^„ii^-.?^.-y.p-"y^«^--e 
 
 knew 
 
 It was pretty and quiet, perhaps, ui.d partly, 
 I have no d.„il,t, because 1 Mas incli ud to 
 healThlh"'" "»lanch<.)yat the t.n.e, my 
 hea th iHog broken down under hard study 
 
 nigl t, nn.l glancing ii. among the graves and 
 
 «nd,^rl; '""^'''*"'f "1^"" " ^'ttlt mound 
 under a tr,e and resting .ta head upon its 
 
 nized the muscular outline ot Surly Tim 
 
 Hedidi.otseo meat Hist, and Iwasal- 
 inost inclined to think it best to leave Ifm 
 alone; but as J half turned away he stir id 
 with s(m,eth,ng like a faint uuJ, and then 
 lifting Ins l.ea.i and saw me standing in the 
 briglit clear moonlight. 
 ^J' Who's theerv" he said. -Dost ta want 
 
 rJiJ^A °"V' ^°°°''«t«^ Hibblethwaite," 1 1 an' 1 
 ^ ,"2'^! J!" '.?;;t?K °.^-«'; ^^^ 1«^ «to"e wall I tliau 
 
 ;; J^; fellow.'; I ,aid, •• I .«? n«w." I 
 
 A little lad o' mine;" he Mid, slowly and 
 ^remnlously. "A little 1«1 o' mine J-LZl 
 
 [ "What?"! exclaimed. "I never 
 that you were a married man, Tim. " i 
 
 utiu ''V,'''''"^ '"" •>«*'' «P"n his hand acain 
 Jtjll ^pulling nervously at the grass withTe 
 
 SJa^""^ '"yj '"'»"*' Wester, "he an- 
 swered m a painful, strained fashion. ' , 
 tonna te 1 myson what Ood-a-moiahty 'ud 
 say about It. ' »"(j"«'jr uhi 
 
 "I don't understand," I faVred ; -you | 
 
 !r^s ti'^uiS"*" '*^^ "'""- ^-'"' 
 
 The other nervous hand went up to hi. 
 bent face fcr a minute and hid it. but I did 
 no speak. There was so much of strange grij 
 
 He out of place. It was not my dotaed inex 
 
 , {;';"';'.«;;*>a"d"who wassittin^g befSme i^ 
 
 ,<le bright moonlight on the bal.y sgrare: i^ 
 
 vasanian with a Wdden historv of some 
 
 tra^;Ic sorrow long ke,,t sec.^t in his 
 
 I'-n.ely breast-perhaps a history very few 
 
 of us could u.a<l aright. I would not^ques 
 
 on h>m, though I fancied he meant to ex 
 
 plum h.n..elf I knew that if he was w ifnu 
 
 o tell me the truth it was best tl7a h^ 
 
 h?m'l^e:'"" ''" '''' *""^ *«'-'*'-'^ '^I I^t 
 And before I had waited 
 
 h'rrir''"'™''^°'«''-''"'^«=8" 
 
 "It wur welly about six years ago 
 I'.ere, 'he said, ",no,e or Ls, wtlb 
 
 _ 1 1 comn 
 
 I Kiv ^^-n.i. T ' ." •■• "^■"'» "clly about 
 
 ai? ]Z}'J "' ^'/-'^^ ^''^'^P ^''*^"' Wester, 
 
 low ? I thought I heard you groan just now. 
 Yo mought ha' done, Ale8ter."he an- 
 awered heavily. " Happen tha did. I duS- 
 not know mysen. Nowta th' matter though. 
 
 H« r*'J'l!°e y i'™ » ^^^ «»* o* «oartl^ worn. 
 
 He turned hiaheadaside slightly and beiran I ^^v 
 
 to pull at the blades of grass*on ?he mZd ' "^^ 
 
 SlbHi;L°ru.lV"" *'•* ''" '^^^'^ 
 .pikeTSin'!^™''"* *^"" •"'°"'«' b«f-e he 
 .♦^icf "". belong" to me. "he said suddenly 
 teet. "An' this littln i;n " o;„..;<..; -.i 
 
 . , 'A"'j^'s I'ttle un." signify inu with 
 thichSS'''"'"^"" *^" am\l/onfulL„' 
 
 hearte<^-buVt^aVa";o'wt7o do wi'^it "^'***" 
 when thTJl" *"**" ^^™ """■« *^»° a '«'e«k 
 a loom 1 th next room to me. an' this youna j 
 woman bein' pretty an' modest tak^mf ^ 
 fancy She wur na loike th' rest o' SJ 
 wenches-loud talkin' an' slattern ? £j 
 
 else. First time I seed her I says to mysen. 
 . Theer s a lass 'at's seed trouble , • a„« IZZ 
 
 nun M«/* "'") """ "'*"'* "OH loiKe brown 
 eye, Mester-an' it wur i' her voiee-her 
 voice wur soft loike, too-I sometimes thowJ 
 It wur plam to be seed even i' her dress. K 
 
SURLY TIM. 
 
 »«1, "Iieenow." , 
 
 ie;"heaAid, slowly and I 
 'tie lad o' miueui — hill 
 
 he'd been l)orn a lady «hoM Im' been one o' 
 th' foine tioart, an' ai nlnM Uevn horn a fac- 
 tory-lass nho wur one o' th' foine (ii>art still. 
 Ho I took to watuhiii' her an' tryiii' to mak' 
 frienila wi' hor, but I never hiv<l much luck 
 wi' her till oiiu neet I was Roiti' home throuRn 
 th' •now, anil I seed her afore flghten' tb' 
 drift wi' novvt but a thiu shawl over ht-r 
 bead ; so I goes up behind h r an' I says tc 
 her, steady and respectful, so as she wouldiia 
 be foai t, 1 says — 
 
 *' ' Lass, Itt mo see thee home. It's bad 
 weather fur tliee to bo out in by thysen. 
 Tak' ray co^t au' wrop thee up in it, an' tak 
 hold o' my arm an' let me help thee along.' 
 
 "Sne looks up right straightforrad i' m) 
 face wi' her bt own byes, an' I tell yo', Mestei , 
 I wur glad I wur a honest man 'stead o' a 
 
 r giac 
 1, fur 
 
 rascal, fur them c niet eyes 'ud ha' fun my 
 out afore I'd ha done sayin' my say 
 meant harm. 
 
 " 'Tiiank yo' kindly MosterHibblethwaite,' 
 ' she says, ' but duiinot tak' off tlia' coiit fur 
 me ; I'm doiii' prettv nicely. It is Mester 
 Uihblethwaite, l)caritit?' 
 
 " ' Aye, lass,' I answers, 'it's him. Mought 
 I ax yo're name.' 
 
 "'Aye, to be sure,' said she. 'My 
 name's Ilosanna— 'Sanna Brent th' folk at th' 
 mill alius ca's me. 1 work at, th' loom i' th' 
 next room to thine. I've seed thee often an' 
 often." 
 
 "So we walks home to her lodgins, 
 an' on th' way we t.ilks together friemlly 
 an' quiet loike, an' th' more we talks 
 tl>' more I sees she's had troni)le, 
 an' by an' by — beiii' on'y cominon workin' 
 folk, we're atraightforrad to each other in our 
 plain way— it comes out what her trouble 
 has been. 
 
 "'Yo' p'r,ips wouldn't think I've been a 
 married woman, Mester,' she "says ; 'but I 
 ha', an' 1 weddeil an<l rued. I married a 
 Bojer when I wur a giddy yonng wench, four 
 years aL;o, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever 
 I did i' aw my (hiya. Ho wur one o' yo're 
 handsome, fastish chaps, an' he tired o' mt 
 as men o' hi.i stripe alius do tiro o' poor 
 lasses, an' then he dl treated me. Ho wen. 
 to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' 
 left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six 
 month after he wur dead. He'd never writ 
 back to me nor sent me no help, but I could- 
 na think he wur dead till th' letter come. 
 He wur killed th' lirst month he wur out 
 fightin' ^ th' Rooshians. Poor fellow ! 
 i ;t-f Fhii I Th' Lord ha mercy ou 
 him I' ' 
 
 "That wur bow I found out abont her 
 trouble, an' somehow it seemed to draw me 
 to her, an' make me feel kindlv to'ards her ; 
 twur so pitiful to hear her talk about th' 
 rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, and not gi' 
 
 him a real hard word for a' he'd done. Bni 
 that's alius tli' way wi' women folk~th' 
 more yo' harrys th^m, th' more they'll pity 
 yo' an' pray for yo'. Why she wuriia more 
 than twenty-two then, an' she must 
 ha' been nowt but a slip o' a lass when tliey 
 wur wed. 
 
 " H tws'ever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to 
 be good friends, an' we walked home 
 together o' nights, an' talked about our 
 bits n' wage and onr bits o' debt, 
 an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me 
 up i' spirits when I wu»" a bit down-hearted 
 about owt, wur just a wonder. .She wur so 
 quiet an' steady, an' when she said owt she 
 meant it. an' she never said too much or too 
 little. Her l)rown eyes alius minded me o' 
 my mother, tlioni;h th' old woman deed 
 when I were nobbnt a little chap, but I 
 never seed 'Sanna Rient smile th'out thinkin' 
 o' how my mother looked when I wur kneel- 
 in' down sayin' my prayers after her. An' 
 bem' as th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up 
 my mind to ax hir to be sum mat dearer. So 
 once goin' home wi' her, I takes hold o' her 
 hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle—as 
 gentle an' wi' sum mat th' same feelin' as Id 
 kiss the (Jood Book. 
 
 ""Sauna,' I says, ' bein' as yo'vc had so 
 much trouble wi' yo're first chance, would 
 yo' be afraid to try a second ? Could 
 yo' trust a mon again ? Such a ukhi as me, 
 'Sanna ?' 
 
 " 'I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim,' 
 she answers back soft an' gent \fter a man- 
 ner, '1 wouldna be feart to tit., i. thee any 
 time.* 
 
 " I kisses h^r hand again, gentler still. 
 
 "'God bless thee, lass,' I says. 'Does 
 that mean yes V 
 
 " She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, 
 quiet way. 
 
 " Ave, lad,' she answers. ' It means yes, 
 an' I'll bide by it.' 
 
 " An' tha shalt never rue it lass,' said I, 
 'Tha's given thy life to me, and 1 11 gie 
 mine to thee, sure and true. ' 
 
 '* So we wur axed i' the church the next 
 Sunday, an' a month fro then we w ur wed, 
 and if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, 
 it shone on one that day, when w-e come Out 
 o' church together — me and Rosanna— and 
 went to our bit of a home to begin life again. 
 I couldnatell thee, Mester — theer beeant no 
 wortis to tell how happy and peaceful we 
 lived fur two year after that. My lass never 
 altered \nsr sweet ways, and I just ioved her 
 to make up fur what had gone by. I thanked 
 God-a -inoighty fur his blessing every day 
 snd every day I ^ ayedtobe made worthy of 
 it. And here s just where I'd like to ask a 
 question, Mester, about summat thats wor- 
 retted ma* a good deal I dunnot want to 
 
SURLy TIM. 
 
 qoMtion the Maker hut IM i i 
 
 Y^' it " that -oSimo it .t S'^th*^ '"•"'^ 
 clean fori{ot—a« if ■ „ " 'f^'"* that were 
 •bt.ut..urtr,.u'U i'",'"'"':^''?^'"'' hi*8e., 
 
 *:« aw .ee B.,^S^]i, \;;. fj"' ;^'«>«tc.r a„.i 
 
 Jlovii 8 topmost ui/eii i„ 1 ' ,-*'"' the! 
 1m« about it m,„Snp„ „^ ? /"."'•^'' ^o .„y I 
 I '".Hnt harm M ; :,' for '"!'"".' *'""^ 
 
 ^"•0' the Cr<,88 'cause o-'tL^ '"'" ""•''>' 1 
 
 *"""." The teacher '.?"'? I-'^'U'ieit 
 ««e, Tim. if the 8choK 1 t '^ ''* "^ n""-''' 
 
 know.."' ^ ' ^'"' ^^"'•<l-a'.m..M,.hfy He 
 
 -;tfr:tf"ffioo;!:i'"«*"r''-i| 
 
 how, then, three vtarH» ""°" '' "'""• 
 
 Sn^'*"-*«-^o^rii;:t^w;;' 
 wJ.t^^hTKar'KUr^t^^'"'" 
 
 t"'f with h.8 han, " ' vv' ^IT^'P^ f'e 
 
 •<"ne little chip ''fil^Sleau.; >"r' ,^'«''* 
 Wi" music ,lay in ami , il f "^^'"'^ '"'"s.' 
 
 orowin'-aiuf crvS' / ^ ""*^' ■ ""«''"' an.l 
 ever yo ro a evther \ '" /"'"«t"»'e. But if 
 
 ftml too, if vo' evpr l^I «'»"»gl'. and y„'Ji 
 ?" y^^'U getfe'n rhel?:v^L%h' w ^'1 «'^^ 
 >n«. K.„anna she coll J ,1 fim, 7T " "''>■• 
 to set tlio little un onf >• . ' ^"^'' ''^Hrt 
 
 •ndshe'dgoahouUh 1 11^^^"'^ « '"".'nit, 
 
 (ever thHt**w r I "1 " 'I* ''*^' ''"»»'»«•,] 
 
 I ""•"""' fro' th''faet«^rvL-"'". ""*' """J 
 '"« atth'.loo all 3/" V'y .'\««f '«•« mcf 
 
 •be had to tell ^^'' '««t"bearWha 
 
 we, .!.«; Ia.l r '■"'' '* t"«""'"r, oouu] 
 
 •nd she'dgoabout t'he'ro. .m ',«'i' if"'' ** '"'' - 
 "~ • >r fao« K • h'"«yesawleet. 
 
 «^.„ ,!.-.'^^?'."»'fl' like a si, 
 
 ed up, an' her 
 
 gi'l\ an' if ah«n«.viT""".'^' 1"*« <* slip „' 
 Wl''ud he tu nt *1'V" '**>'. cradle Lr 
 time lookin- at him \,' '!'^^«^"lder aw th' 
 
 then 'at them old .mrseiv T*'- ^'^'"^' 
 happiest music I ever ErF„."T ^"^ *'»' 
 •ung 'em they minded mel'h ''^'" ®''"°'' 
 ^" '^ell. Hester, Wo?e%h'^"'°"'"""«- 
 W- Wat was todfeot dT! 11^-.^/- ?»* 
 
 he-::^S^'i;C,tJS^'"i''^^-;'^^''»- 
 
 i'a voice like he^H'rP''*"^"'' *'>'•''« 
 h«>wna„.straight7orra^i«SrK:a^i?;r: 
 
 I "•o"Ibu.e"":rii'rt',t'A"7 r""** •* "■••" 
 
 «n ''""r. jnstlrth-rnT.V.t''"'''' ''"" 
 ^bapop.n«,^^J';^-K^. pretty littl 
 
 >'«'n«hine, laud m at i ' T'ih*'- ".* *''' "'"^t"' 
 AIeHt.-r. '' "* '*• *""' ^a« back-dead, 
 
 "I've alius thowt Vf ♦»,' t i . 
 knew what ho Zr tir i;:""'''* -""^''tvl 
 
 knowe.! he wur nowt hut n '"'"'V ^'•' 
 I tb' re.w„n he ui' tl.' ' ^ f"PI>o«e that'i 
 
 I bear trouhirse 'irr: '\Tr^''\H 
 
 clean ni f it h-i.iim i> r ' *' '"^ «» eo 
 tb- little chap leH in" ^'"' '"f '«'" ^'hen 
 aw my .lays 'at I, W "'^^^^t'*«kledt owt i' 
 
 •it3o'piavthiZ -d/'r'' ^^. •"«''* «•'''» 
 like a bal.hy ^i L,/t .T^'" .«»'«l'aki»'' 
 
 "eebor." children eve, V^ " *'',>'"-V "' ^^' 
 "a- I cvuddnrsee m? iV r'"'"* "1^<' ^'''''an- 
 •'-e'^nt. an- UoS^lXtZ^^'^' *''' '-•••' 
 heavy. That's , a ?'''"''''"'""« sad and 
 just as if th' leaJ wonoh T ."''"• ^^'^''t^'' J 
 life fur food ay an' eet''K''T' ^V'*" ''"» »>«' 
 -eet o' th' two to be ^lll' ''L"* ^"'' *'»' *>««* 
 " But I getten welW *■*"' ^'^'''^yhearted. 
 was beginS t'' ^ollr''""" '* "*' l««t. an' we 
 forrar.) to t ° toime wl' l'"''""^- * ^''^ *»' l°«k 
 o' i"..kin' back t , th-Tv ''^ *"?' ''if'^" '«tead 
 bit of a face under th' '^"«.'"* ^''' round 
 comn when we coul.l L ^'f "J- '/!• Th' day 
 an' moind thTnVa j^e'd tii ^'^ "i'' "^""^ him 
 1"3 l>roken bably ia?' M.'?'^ *" " »>' 
 creepm'backatfaintnfh- .A. "" ^« wur 
 we lad beenTr ^ef/sll^^^r'^*'*"' 
 suinmat fresh come I'D ""'",*''• '^''en 
 ^^ester. th' neetT happen^r'l 7^^' '*' 
 Rosanna at the .uJVT}; J^ ^^^^^d 
 tiieer when 1 wpnf .,V 7' i.L^ ./J^'' ^'^andin' 
 
 bght neet, j ist such ? "^ " M^''* ""on- 
 Jh83 had followed me Jl^'f '^ ^^''' ««' th' 
 «hine. it wursX^Sarc^rra;^^;^^^^^^^^ 
 
 »ri' 
 
 hit acre 
 vaa hel{ 
 i' her bi 
 be reet. 
 She didi 
 beerd be 
 
ftURLY TIM. 
 
 0". an hia curia wur t 
 
 .;>r Imppeiiit wiironVti 
 
 h'» U'lnHway, |,uth.»w« 
 
 camo hoinu one ..inn 
 
 !":''«"" '•""'M'Ut try i 
 «» J'eip 100 t.) bear ul, 
 
 •the r^nlha' H«nt ,u 
 
 "tlk„ewwhatitn,e»n 
 t •^ lamb h.ul bi-cn w,. 
 » ' linu last. 
 
 ^ »'i»". lyin- theor „i, hi, 
 «»«pin in bard conviil 
 wan over. An' i„ i.^ 
 ' «"" H'|)t acroM th 
 ^i cnrlH, th' prt'tty Jittl 
 iw at oiicf. 
 
 »smit. 'SitliepDad- 
 P, <atcbf8 nt th* Hoatin' 
 
 t. "".I fa 8 bHck-doftd, 
 
 'atth' L.)r(l-a'.inoi>btv 
 rt'.ii. when he «i' tli'j 
 
 t ''lit a poor chapai 
 ; n» J fuppode that'll 
 «'on.an th' strength tof 
 
 «'"»». I'd ha^givJ 
 een fur ,uy las, when 
 
 "ever tackledt „wt i'l 
 »« as b«avy as Josin' 
 ahear th-Mf^bt o' his 
 a tocryin'an'shakii.' 
 ' "ut o' th- way (,' th' 
 
 i waana like liomn- 
 * clear what tli' Lord 
 IpniurmuMiigsadand 
 l«e ns men, AI ester ; 
 
 as had give liitn her 
 It. hadna fur tli" best 
 K an heavy-hearted, 
 ver It at last, an' we 
 round a bit an' look 
 
 see him agen 'stead 
 ne we shut th' round 
 coftn-lid. Th- day 
 r to talk about him 
 d an' tried to a ay' 
 All' 8o we wur 
 aid happy qujgt, gQ. 
 SIX month, vhen 
 li never forget i* 
 lened. I'd kissJ 
 
 '';=^/?frsU„din^ 
 ' th villane to buy 
 i-ur a bright moon- 
 set as this, an' th' 
 
 to see th' moon- 
 clear; an' just be- 
 
 I Btarta ah* folda l)otli her handa on my 
 lulHer an' »ayi., aoft an' thoujjhtful :— 
 ' *Tiin, I wonder if th' little chap a««ea aa V 
 •• 'I'd loike to know, dear \»nj>,' I anawera 
 «k. An' then nbe 8tM>Hka again : — 
 • 'Tim, ^1 womler if he'd know he waa 
 ra if he could see, or if he'd forget T He 
 r KUt'h a little fellow.' 
 'Them wur th' last peaceful words 1 ever 
 -rd her ipak. I went up to tb' village 
 ' getten what site n«>nt me fur, an' then I 
 imn back. Th' moon wur nhinin' aa briglit 
 ever, an' th' Howern i' her slip «>' a jjarden 
 ra*'spaiklin' wi' dew. 1 seed 'eni an I 
 en up th' walk, an' I th«)Wt again of what 
 \*) said about tb' little lad. 
 ".She wasna outside, an' I couldna see a 
 it abcmt Ih' house, but I heerd voit eo, so I 
 'alked straight in— into tb' entry an' into 
 ii' kitchen, an' theer she wur, Mt^ster— my 
 ir wench, crouchin' down by th' table, 
 idin' her face i' her hands, an' close beside 
 ler wur a mon— a mori i' red sojer clothes. 
 My heart leapeil into my thmat, an' fur a 
 linuit I had na a word, fnr I sawsuniniat 
 ur up, though I couldna tell what it wur. 
 lut at last my voice camo back. 
 
 "GiK>d evenin', Mester,' 1 says to bun; *1 
 lope yo' ha' na broughtcn ill-newa ? W hat 
 ils thee dear lasM V 
 
 She Htirs a little, an' gives a moan like a 
 lyin' child; and then she lifts up her wan, 
 irokenhnarteil face, an' stretches out both 
 er hamls to mo. 
 
 "'Tim,' she says, 'dunnot bate me, lad, 
 unnot. I thowt ho wur dead long sin'. 1 
 ihowt 'at tb' Rooshana killed him an' I « ur 
 ree, but I amna. I never %ur. He n' >- 
 leed, Tim, an' theer he is— the mon as 1 
 •ed to an' left by. God forgi' him, an jii, 
 od forgi' me ! 
 
 "Theer, Mester, threr's a story for thee. 
 What dost ta' think o't? .My poor Uss 
 [wa»na my wife at aw-tb' little chap's mo- 
 ther wasna his feyther's wife, aa' never bad 
 been. That theer worthless fellow as beat 
 an' starvfd her an' left h. r to tight tb' world 
 alone, had comu back alive an' well, ready 
 to begin agen. He could tak' her away fro' 
 me any hour i' th' day, an' I couldna say a 
 word to bar him. Th"* law said my wife— 
 th' little dead lad's mother— belonged to 
 hini, body an' aoul. Theer was no law to 
 help us— it wur aw on his side. 
 
 '■"rheer's no use o' goin' o'er aw we said to 
 eaoh other i' that dark room theer. I raved 
 
 ■b« axwi him to let 
 'Tha oonna wan 
 
 t her go away by herMO. 
 t me now, Phil, '^aheaaid. 
 
 an' lirAVAH nn' n\aA u#;> »k> 1«.. i. 
 
 ■ i6t ixi6 CEi r^ 
 
 har across th' seas, wheer I d heerd tell theer 
 •KM help fur such loike ; but she pled back 
 1 hei- broken, patient way that it wouldna 
 be reet, an' happen it wur the Lord's will. 
 She didna say much to the sojer. I scarce 
 neerd her speak to him more than once, when 
 
 'Tha connacare for me. Tha muat know 
 I'm more thia mon'a wife than thine. But I 
 •Innnot az thee to gi' me to him l>ecanae that 
 wouldna be rcet ; I on y ax thee to let m« 
 aJ'wn. 1 11 go fur enough off an never ae* 
 him more.' 
 
 " Hut the villain held to her. If ahe didna 
 come wi' him, bo haid, be' ba' her up before 
 th court for bigamy. 1 could ba' done niur- 
 der thtn, Mcsttt, an' 1 would ha' done if it 
 hadna been for th poor laas ruiiuin' iu be- 
 twixt us an' j Icadin wi' aw bar might. If 
 we'n been rich f.iak theer rnigiit ha" been 
 some belt) fur her, at least ; th' law might 
 ha' been browt to niak' Inm l>>avf her be, but 
 bein' poor workin foak theer wur on'yone 
 thing: th'wif,; niun go wi' th' busbaml, an' 
 theer th' buHband nt<K)d— a scoundrel, cursin', 
 wi' his IJatk heart on his tongue. 
 
 " ' Will,' says th' lass at last, fair wearied 
 outwi'giief, 'I'll go wi' thee, Phil, an' I'U 
 (bi my best to please thee, but I w unnot pro- 
 miHe to forget th' inon as has been true to me, 
 an' has sttMxl betwixt me an' tb' world.' 
 *• Then she turned round to me. 
 •" Tim,' nhc Hays to me, as if siie w ur haaf 
 feart-aye, fiart o' him, an' me standin by. 
 Ihree hours alore tb' law ud ba' let me mill 
 any mon 'at feart her. 'Tim,' she saya, 
 •surely he wunnot refuse to let us go to- 
 gether to tb' little lad's grave— fur tb' last 
 time.' She didna speak to him but tome, 
 an' she spoke stdl an' a oliaincd as if she wur 
 t(K> heart-bnike to l)o wild. Her face was aa 
 white as th' dead, but sho diilna cry, as ony 
 other women would ba' <loiie. 'Come, Tim,' 
 she said, 'he coiina say no to that' 
 
 "An' so but we went 'thout another word, 
 an' left th' black-hearted rascal behind, sit- 
 tiii' i' th' very room th' little un deed in. 
 His cradle stood theer, i' th' corner. Wo 
 went out into tb' moonlight 'thout speakin', 
 an' we didna say a word until we come to 
 this very place, Mester. 
 
 We sio(mI here for a minute silent, an then 
 1 sees her begin to shake, an' she throws bor- 
 sen down on th' grass wi' her arms flung o'er 
 th' grave, an' she cries out aa if her death- 
 woun<l had been give to her. 
 
 " 'Little lad,' ahe snys, • little Jad. dost ta 
 see thy mother ? Canst na tha hear her oail- 
 in' thee ? Little lad, get High to th' Throne 
 an' plead 1' 
 
 "I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed 
 Wciich an' sobbed wi' jicr. I couiuna 
 comfort her, fur where theer any comfort 
 for us ? Theer wur none left — theer wur no 
 hope. We waa shamed an' broke down— 
 our lives was lost. Th' past wur nowt— th' 
 future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how 
 hard ahe tried to pray — fur me, Mester — yea. 
 
SURLY TIJI. 
 
 her .l„a.l Imbl.y ;. grave, «,r her d.ctk on th' 
 gr«., an grew ..'..rlu,, |,re«.t. • l^,M < j.„i ». 
 
 u^.-a nnot, .iun,..,t. \\^ ....„„« ,,„ .ttowt 
 
 fllll^ V*"' ^"™- An'. Lord, iftl.ft 
 u- wi « bu o Iwit. Oh, Feyther ! heli, th' 
 
 oi, „,e, not on hun. Juit help th' p.^,r lad 
 to lM,«r It If ever I did owt ai w«r worthy 
 i t |v ..ghf. ,t that he my reward. Dear 
 Lord h .«,o,ghty. I'd Jmj willin' to gi' „p a bit 
 o^^mj own leavenly glory fur th^lear J»d'. 
 
 ••Well, Mester, she lay theer UDon th' 
 graM prayin' an' eryin'. w.td hut gen^J^S, f„r 
 n^h haat an hour, an' then i; ««en.ed 'at mI e 
 
 H. ho ?'• li.;«rkene<l an^.eut th' child- 
 locked^, l" **'?."''« ««^t'«"' uphorfaco 
 !?Ln;L^t ""^ ^''*'' •"* -hi"'«' i^th' clear 
 •; 'Sit down by „,o, dear lad.' .he .aid, 
 
 iim, she said, 'this wur why th' little 
 
 !.««„-!;!• ''!'*'■ ¥• «^° whisper., 'we 
 STerSSlir- ^--tot'alkto 
 
 when I Haul ,t, hut .he catche. hersen up 
 
 •aid 'ih7*"*T *''*'^ \1 '"""^^ •"« * promise," 
 ?, i„ ♦ u .^ '*'*"* ""-'« *" promise never to 
 forget what peace we ha' had. I want thee 
 
 an'dav T ^'".''/i*''^ hond howd thee neet 
 »n (lay, 1„„, an' tha shall pray for me J.' 
 
 happen theer'll come a leef But if theer 
 
 &*''"; ''T ^l-«n'I <l""not8eehow 
 theer could-,f theer dunnot, an' we niveT 
 see each other agen, I want thee to mak' me 
 
 h r •'^.'•7?''«n- ' P««nt com. bMik to th. 
 
 lad Hn' • ' \'\r'- J^r^h", dear. de«S 
 
 • ..n (.0.1 hie., thee.' An' .he ,|ip,„,' 
 
 out o mv arm. an' wur fvme „ . momcii* 
 
 awrao.t bef jre I could cry out. "*""«"• 
 
 • promise that if tha see. th' little chap fS 
 tha It mo.nd him o' me. and watch out 
 
 That lf"'f"J^\-'"' r*^' "^"^ I'll P'-«"'^8' thee 
 »n*J . V^"/"'" "'^''*' I'l' moincf him o' thee 
 »n^ watch out true an' constant. ' 
 
 .n' i^b"""',^^ 'J^'"' '^^^''te'". as yo' can guess 
 •n we kneeled down an' kissed th' grass «n' 
 »he took a bit o' th' sod to out i' h£ tfo^^ 
 
 my breast 1' b* "5" P"* ''" '^^''^ fa<^« »" 
 
 iJerv neet .,n' «,^"'"^'* "«' " "l"" ^^^ done 
 every neet .m we wur mon an' wife. 
 
 Good-bye, dear l»d,' ahe whispers-h* 
 
 ♦t.."^*"T'" '■"■ ™"°'' '"°" *" t«». Meater 
 .L.r" .r*f'.""'" ""*. •«' happen itl< 
 
 ?!unr°V; r*"'^' "" ••tit.ee,n..udde 
 to thee But It were o« .ud.lent to mo. 
 
 I ny own bu.u.e«.. an' answered no queatioiJ 
 fur n.gh about a year, hearin' nowt, a3 
 
 When th daisioo were blowin' on th' little, 
 grave here, theer oome to me a letter frol 
 X .nche.ter fro' one o' th' n.e.lical chap, i 
 th hospital. Itwura.hortloiter wi'printon' 
 It a" themoment [ .ee,l it I know'd ...mm.i 
 «• ro up, an I opened it tremblin'. Meater] 
 
 fc^".!;'T*" ^y'"" '■ ""eo'th'wardJ 
 dy.n o .ome long.name,l heart-disease, an'f 
 Hi.ed prayed *m to send fur me, an' one! 
 
 a ht /7 *'* '"/*••'«*''«'» oncH had writ m«| 
 a line to let ine know. 
 
 "i »tarted aw'most afore I'd finished 
 
 ulace I fun just what I knowed I .hould.f 
 I uiiher-my wife-th' blessed lass, an' if 
 J tl been an hour later I wouldna ha' seej 
 
 me then"' "^"^ "'^^ P""' knowin'l 
 
 ..iJI?"'-^'*"*'^* *J"'^" I'y **>' !'<"»'''*'« «nd ij 
 plead wi her as she lay theer, until I browtl 
 her back to th' world again fur one momentl 
 Her eyes tlew wide open aw at onct, an' shel 
 sec.! me an smiled, aw her dear face 
 <iuivenn' 1' death. 
 
 •"Dear lad,' sho whispered, 'th' nathl 
 was na so long after aw. Th' Lord knew- 
 He Uod It hwsen' onct yo' know. I knowed 
 thad come-I prayed so. I've reached th' 
 very eend now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little 
 
 1 'Vi.^"*,^ *""""* ^•"•««* my premise 
 —no. Ill look out— fur thee-fur thee— at! 
 th gate. I 
 
 " An' her eyr s shut slow an' quiet, an' I 
 knowed she was dead. ~ -i » » M 
 
 ''Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw 
 IS. fur theer she lies under th' daisies cloost 
 
 tL TuM'V, ^"'' ' 1*'"'^* I'^'-'a"' buried' 
 her. Ih fellow as come betwixt us had! 
 tortured her fur a while an' then left her 
 again, I fun out— an' she wur so afeard of 
 doin meeomehaimthat she wouidna come 
 nigh mo. It wur heart disease as killed! 
 —r. t.11 uicuicai cnap« said, but I Knowed j 
 better-It wur heart break. Ihat's aw. 
 Sometimea I think o'er it till I oonna stand 
 It any longer, an' I'm fain to crme here an' 
 lay my hand on th' grass-an' sometimea I 
 ha queer dreams about her. I had one Ust 
 
SURLY TIM. 
 
 >o«nt com* back to th, 
 (ioo.l-bye, .lf(,r, denrj 
 liw.' All' ahe ilipp,, 
 wur gnne n ■ momciil 
 J cry out 
 
 more to tall, Meater 
 ow, «n' happen it|| 
 m 'ftt it ueiiia auddeq 
 DA (uddeiit to mo. 
 
 worked, an" moindcil 
 ar.awored no queatioiii 
 i»r, hearin' iiowt, anl 
 
 nowt, till one toimt 
 o bldwin' on th' littlt 
 « to me A letter fro] 
 i' th' medical chapa il 
 ihortlotter ni' print ni 
 ud it I know'd •iimmafc 
 it tremblin'. Meat«r,J 
 in' i' one o' th' wardil 
 led hcart-diaeaae, anl 
 send fur me, an' on«l 
 ted onea bad writ mel 
 
 it afore I'd flniahedl 
 wlien I gotten to thl 
 t I knowed I ahould.l 
 h' bleaacd lass, an' ifl 
 I wunldna ha' aeenl 
 'e uigh paat knowini 
 
 by th' bedside and l] 
 theer, until I browtj 
 
 gain fur one moment,! 
 
 n aw at onct, an' shel 
 aw her dear face! 
 
 hispered. 'th' path! 
 ^. Th' Lord knew— I 
 'o' know. I knowedl 
 so. I've reached th'l 
 ' I sliall see th' little I 
 t forget my prcmisel 
 ir thee— fur thee — at) 
 
 ilow an' quiet, an* I 
 
 icaster, theer it aw 
 er th' daisies cloostl 
 owt her 'an' buried 
 Tie betwixt us had I 
 i an' then left her 
 e wur ao afeard of 
 
 she wouidna come 
 t disease as killed! 
 
 said, but I Knowed 
 resk. That's aw. 
 it till I oonna stand j 
 in to come here an' 
 « — an' sometimes I 
 ler. I had one last 
 
 4- 
 
 t. I thowt 'at nhe comn to mo awut'curred, for the whole plaoe was in onnfiiainn. 
 t junt ax aho mied to lnok, on'y, wi' her There was n irr)wd of hniida griiu|>»i| about 
 
 ;»„/....„ -I.. ..;..• I.. :b. » .»... ...> -i dne onrtier of tlio ynrd, aiul ai I cnmti in a 
 
 Minn run against me, and ihnwed ni« a terri- 
 bly pnii! face. 
 
 bite faio ahiiiiii' loike a atur, an' she any*, 
 fiiii, th' piith inilit ao long aft)>r ft\v--tha'H 
 
 Tie nigli to th' vi>nd, an' nir> an' th' little 
 
 ip ia waitiii'. ife kiiowa ther, dear lad, 
 
 I've towd him.' 
 
 I" That's why 1 ooniii li«'o to neot, Meater, 
 
 I believe that'a why I've talked an free 
 
 jthec. If I'm near th' eend I'd loike aome 
 
 le to know. I ha' meant no hurt when I 
 
 Broed grum an' surly. It wurnn ill-will, 
 
 |t a heavy heart. " 
 
 '• I ax nardon, Meater Doncaatcr," bo aaid 
 in a wild hurry, " but thecr'a an accident 
 Imopened. One o' th' wt-avera ia hurt Itad, 
 an I'm goin' fur tl doctor. Tb' loom 
 caught an cruahod him afore we could atop 
 
 For aome reason or other my heart niiagave 
 mo that very moment. I pualied forward to 
 the group in the yard corner, and made my 
 way through it. 
 
 A man waa lying on a pile of coata in tho 
 n.iddle of the by atnndira- a poor fellow 
 cruHhod and torn und bruiHvd, but lying 
 quite (juiet now, only for an occaaional littk 
 moan, that waa acarcely more than a quick 
 gaap for breath. It waa iSurly Tim ! 
 
 " He's nigh th' eend o' it now ! " said one 
 of tlie hanila pityingly. "He's nigh th' 
 last now, poor chap! Wliat'a that hu'a say- 
 in', lads?"' 
 
 For alP at once some Hi( kering aenae 
 seemed to have caught at one of the speaker's 
 wordn, ami the wounded man stirrtd, mur- 
 nuirin>,' faintly — but not to tlie watchers. 
 A) , no, to something far, far beyonil their 
 feeble liunmii <>)ght — to eometliing in tho 
 broad Without. 
 
 "Th' eend! "he aaid. "aye, thia ia th' 
 eend, dear luss, nn' th' path's aw sliinin' or 
 Humniat an' — Why, las*, I can see thee plain 
 ami th' little chap", too!" 
 
 Aiiothf'r flutter of tho breath, one sliuht 
 
 [He attk^iied hero, and his head drooped 
 [)n hia naiids again, and f<>r a ininuro or ao 
 lere waa aiiotl'er dead ailenco' Such a 
 [>ry as this needed no comment. I coubl 
 ike none. It seemed to me that tho poor 
 llow'a aore heart could bear none. At 
 ngth he rose from the turf and stood up, 
 Dicing jut over the gravea into the soft 
 ght beyond with a atnuige, wiatful sad- 
 
 IS. 
 
 " Well, I mun go now," ho said slowly, 
 'dood-neet, Meater, good-neet, an' thank 
 D'furlistenin'." 
 
 "(Jood night," I returned, adding, in an 
 
 ^pulse of iiity thnt waa almost a paasion, 
 'and God lielp ymx !" 
 
 "Thank yo' ogiin, Meater !" be said, and 
 lien turned away ; and as I sat pondering 1 
 thatched his la-iivy drooping tigu>e tlirea<liiig 
 ts way among the dork mounds and white 
 iiarl'le. und under the shadowy trees, and 
 >ut into the path beyond. I did not sleep 
 
 ell that night. The strained, heavy ton^a movement of the mangled hand, and I bent 
 
 f the man's voice wore in my ears, and the | down closer to the poor fellow — closer, lie- 
 
 omely yet tragic story seemed to weave ; cause my eyea were ao diminod that I could 
 
 tself into all my thoughts, and keep meiiotsee. 
 
 rom rest. I could not get it out of my " I.ads," I said aloud a few seitmd later, 
 
 •nfl- I " you can do no more for him. His pain is 
 
 III consequence of this sleeplessness I was ' overl" 
 iter than usual in going down to the fa';- For, with a sudden tlow cf light which 
 tory, and when I arrived at the gates I shoiK; upon the ehorteiipd path and the wait- 
 ouiid an unusuid bustle there. Something I ii.g tiguies ot his child and its mother, Surly 
 »ut of the ordinary routine had plainly oc- 1 Tim's earthly trouble had ended. 
 
| - , |-»n7~n ii n i. i ,.rnTn-mi -nhiimi^ 
 
 LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 It was Madame who first entered the box 
 a^ul Aladame was bright with youthful 
 
 chfj i«hl.^Y "'''' * ''"^® creature, with 
 ch 1 h8hly Lirge eyes, a h.w, white lorehead 
 red(hsh-browii hair -iiwl <^..„ i 5 
 
 mouth ' ^'^^^ °o^e a'"l 
 
 venerXeVry ^" *'^^'^°^ '^PP"^'*^ *"^« that 
 venerableana somewhat severe aristocrat 
 Madame de C.stro, and. havin. gSTor ' 
 
 SS^^eauty. companion a.d^S.^t 
 MonsTeur^t.^w'^n'"' f,"- ^^^^^l-^^kin.^atnow. 
 
 had'nTk "**" "V"^*,"'"''** exclamation. Fate 
 had not been so kind to the individual re 
 
 wTi *" "l '*?" "^'S'^* 1^^^^ been- n fact ahe 
 had been deHuitely cruel. He was small of 
 
 iT"' 7.f «»'«''^"t. ^'ark. and w^re aTtiim 
 
 hohUnAi« wf/'^''. TP^?' '"^ ^° **'« shadow 
 noiuing his wife's belong ngs. auDarentlv «! 
 
 most entirely unnoticed by her^^^ ^' 
 
 de Castro'* -f'r^'r.f* ^?^'" ^^i^ Madame 
 hIVi I '• *K"^'' *•'»'= is not to be won- 
 dered at, since I have exiled myself W 
 
 x-S' Wh'T^'V^"^ ""' forgotS; by hSf 
 
 looktf "ohf T*" ■'* ' •'■• '"^"-^ distinguished- 
 iookiiig old young man, with a sarcastio 
 
 nstx """ ""■ ■"""■ •"" "^^ 
 
 .:."?]"'? «»" hta," he replied. "Le M™. 
 firt.' "° '""" ""'"'• ^ ■""■• « Vifk. 
 
 ■B-agiish. Itis villainously ill-bred." 
 
 Scan" e **'^«'"'l« became of double signif 
 
 " frue." he acquiesced, "but^it in al. 
 villainously apropoi Look for yourseU '' 
 
 shSd 'r *^"' f: """"^ ^'' next query „ft.J 
 she had dropped her glass again, was a sharj 
 
 ','^y^^" is she—the wife?" 
 of J, V^ "^-^^^ y"" '*'•« P'^'^sed to call one 
 
 with a^im"'""'- /"" know the cla.s,M 
 with a httle wave of the hand,-" rich uJ 
 conventional, comfortable people wh 'livJ 
 
 number of places and objects of note fea full 
 to contemplate. Tl.ey came here as touS a' 
 and became fascinated with European li el 
 
 could be inflicted upon that excellent woman 
 the mother, would be that she shoT,l?Te 
 
 PhT-S r •*" ''^^''' *° ^'^r New York o 
 Philaddpiua,or Boston, whichsoever it may 
 
 ^ " Humph !" commented Madame " Rnt 
 you have not told me the name. " "' ' 
 
 Madame Villefort's? No, not vet Tf I 
 was Trent-M.ademoi«eIle Bertha TrJnt" 
 
 ^-TthftTan'Sf.^"'^" "^^'^' ^'d «h« 
 
 de^s^:'^;:ssi?.^--'^.-too| 
 
 i'or some reason best known to herself 
 Madamede Castro looked angry. She w^s a 
 shrewd old person, with strong whims of Lr 
 
 t"h?;r«TrA"* '^"^"*>'- She SuTte glared : 
 ej^b'rot?^™^""*" fromunJer hfr b'uthy* 
 
 fumed" "-Tfiir '^"•/'^ r*"« ^*'"«'" «he 
 mmert. I tell you it is low— fow, to irive a 
 man sucn names.'' * 
 
 "Oh!" returned Benard, shrusainff hi. 
 
 waTinTwkw^!^^''^ ""' «^^« '* *" 'i- 
 rSrst "'^i^'*''^ ««''^»°t who dubbe<l him so 
 at hrst. She was new to hei- position, and 
 
LE MONSIEUR DB LA. PETITE DAME. 
 
 11 
 
 > receded into the amili 
 became of double signij 
 
 wife ? " 
 ire pleased to call one 
 roil know the class,"— 
 the hand,— "rich, im- 
 able people, who livei 
 lid have an incompreJ 
 H going to impossibh' 
 lossible things by w.ij 
 ir friend there, for in-i 
 been round the world 
 . and is familiar withal 
 objects of note feai full 
 came here as tourists, 
 I with European lifeJ 
 ng punishment which 
 that excellent woman 
 3 that she should be 
 o Jier New York, or 
 », whichsoever it may 
 
 rot his name, and being asked wb^ had 
 
 ivfld, stumbled upon this hon mot : ' Un 
 
 JiMtcur, Miulaine — le momieur de la petite 
 
 If! — and, being repeated and tossed lightly 
 
 fin hand to hand, it haa become at last an 
 
 iblished witticism, albeit bandied under 
 
 eath." 
 
 [t was charaeteristic of the august De 
 
 stro that during the remainder of the 
 
 lening's entertainment she should occupy 
 
 rself more with her neighbours than with 
 
 |e opera. She aroused iVl. llenard to a 
 
 3ret ecstasy of mirth by tlie sliarp steadi- 
 
 iss of her observation of the inmates of the 
 
 |x opposite to them. She talked abnut 
 
 |em, too, in a tone not too well modulated, 
 
 itiuising tlie l)eautifully dressed little 
 
 )nian, her hair, her eyes, her tireok nose 
 
 bd mouth, and, more than all. her in<liHer- 
 
 it expression and her manner of leaning 
 
 son the edge of her box and staring at tiie 
 
 ige as if she (1 id not care for, and indeed 
 
 barcely saw, what was going on u))on it, 
 
 'That is the way with your American 
 eauties," she said. "They liave no respect 
 i)r things. Their people spoil them — their 
 jien es()ecially. They consider themselves 
 Irivileged to act as their whims direct. 
 They have not the gentle timidity of French- 
 iromen. What Fremh girl would have the 
 in<j fioid to sit in one of the best boxes of 
 je Kouvelie 0|)era ami regard, witli an 
 Jtual air of ennui, such a performance as 
 Ihis ? She does no? hear a word that is 
 lung." 
 
 'And we — do we hear?" bantered M. 
 ienard. 
 
 *'fo«(/'/" cried Madame. "Wei We are 
 ?orld-ilried and weather-beaten. We have 
 lot a worm -eii ten emotion between us. I am 
 ^eventy, and you, who are thirty-live, are 
 'le el(ler of the two. Bah ! At that girl's 
 »ge I had the heart of a dove." 
 
 'But that is long ago," murmured M. 
 
 3i.ard, as if to himself. It was quite human 
 
 that he should slightly resent being classed 
 
 fith an unaniiable grenadier of seventy. 
 
 " Yes !" with considerable asperity. 
 
 I" Fifty years !" Then, with harsh voice and 
 
 Iwithered face melted suddenly into softness 
 
 jquite ;«itV, " Mon Dieu/" she said, "Fifty 
 
 jyeara since Aieeae whispered into my ear at 
 
 |my first opera, tliat ixe saw tears in my 
 
 [eyes !" 
 
 It was at this instant that there appeared 
 jin the Villefort box a new figure — that of a 
 {dark, slight young man of graceful move- 
 Iments— in fact, a yov.ng man of inten8e>- 
 jly striking appearance. M. Villefort rose to 
 j receive him with serious courtesy, but the 
 pretty American wasnot so gracious. Notuntil 
 he had seated himself at her side and spoken 
 [to her did she turn her head and permit 
 
 her eyes simply to rest- upon his 
 face. 
 
 M. Renard smiled again. 
 
 " Entei," he remarted in a low tone — 
 "enter M. lialph Edinoi.dstoue, the cousin 
 of Ma<lame." 
 
 His companion asked no questions, but h<i 
 proceeded, returning to his light and airy 
 tone: — 
 
 '" M. Ralph Edmnndstone is a genius," he 
 SHid. " He is an artist, lie is a poet, he is 
 also a writer of subtle prose. His sonnets 
 to Euphrasie- in the day of Euphrasie — 
 awakened the admiration of the sternest 
 critics ; they were so tender so full of pur- 
 est fire! Some of these critics also coiild 
 scarcely choose between these and his songs 
 to Ai^aj in her day or famille in hers. He 
 is a y Mg man of fine fancies, and possesses 
 the ii >de quality of being invariably pas- 
 sionately in tamest. Ashe was serious in 
 hip seniiuients yesterday, so he will be to- 
 morrow, so he is to day." 
 
 "Today!" echoed Madame de Castro. 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 Madame Villefo't did not seem to talk 
 much. Ii was M. Ralph Eilmonilstone who 
 conversed, and that, too, with so much of 
 tlie charm of aidmation that it was pleasur- 
 able even to be a meie looker-on. One in- 
 voluntarily strained one'."* ears to catch a sen- 
 tence — he w:is so eagerly absorbed, so full of 
 rapid., graet fully unconscious and un onven- 
 tioiial gesture. 
 
 ' I wonder what he is saying' 
 
 into 
 
 Madame 
 exclaim- 
 
 de Castro was once betrayed 
 ing. 
 
 " Something metaphysical, abnut a poem, 
 or a passage of music, or a picture — or per- 
 haps his soul," returned M. Renard. " His 
 soul is Ijis strong point — he pets it and won- 
 ders at it. He puts it through its paces. And 
 yet, singularly enough, he is never ridicu- 
 lous — only fanciful and naive. It is his soul 
 which so fascinates women." 
 
 Whether tliis last was true of other wo- 
 men or not, Madame Villefort bca-cely ap- 
 peared fascinated. As she listened, her eyes 
 still rested upon his eager mobile face, but 
 wiih a peculiar expression — an expression of 
 critical attention, and yet one which some- 
 how detracted from her look of youth, as if 
 she weighed his words as they fell from his 
 lips and classified them, without any touch 
 of the enthusiasm which stirred within him- 
 self. 
 
 Suddenly she arose from her seat and ad- 
 dressed her husband, who immediately rose 
 also. Then she spoke to M. Edmoftdstone, 
 and, without more ado, the three left the 
 box — th*' young beauty, a little oddly, rather 
 followed than accompaided by her compan- 
 ions — at the recognition of which circum- 
 
It 
 
 LE MO.^SIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 stance M;».Ume de Castro uttered a eerica of 
 
 Hah! Bah.- ^e c^^ 
 
 Crossing the pavement with M T'on«..i . 
 they passed tfie carWaKo of the Vi f f ' 
 Before its open door stood VI V.llf n 'i ^ 
 
 If I corne here to-morrow " Ko ™ 
 "ig; "you Will be at homTJa'tha ?•• ^"^ '"'' 
 
 X OS. 
 
 above earth to have forg,.tten7o JftiS"'?' 
 
 withShe^iSLr^^L/;?'" *'>« ^-i^-- 
 
 care about voTces ibsfc 1 '*'" T ^''^^ *« 
 Ralph." ^^'* '*"'''• Good-night, 
 
 doe^nS^"T^'^/'/y"^ " God knows, Paris 
 
 to^h^MaSn t;;i:/ J, tr"' '^"^P" 
 
 husband. containeVanlLt^^Wh^ 'l 
 yet there were numbers oT Par sia, 4 ,', ■' 
 cans, more emiPPiiii,, i^u ^•^■"sian-Ameri- 
 
 ing/and'Su nt^So Ti^, ^/''^t 
 marriage had taken place had h.f '° *?" 
 enough with sardoniJlrpTana'Ls."" ""'^ 
 
 -ou^i:rs:;rtS'::iAenrS^:'r- 
 
 the maternal Trent is one of them tL" 
 
 K^sSint^tir!io-?wS'K 
 
 saidf^^taX' ftatthe*^^ ^r-"^"*'" 
 r^hto be greatly i^i^^ ^^^^^ *- 
 there had been a title-but tLr^s Jo 
 
 society as Mada^ ville'f 1 t h'" a'^ r;;' 
 eve'^rr^^* g-« "«« to no con vn ent w^ ' 
 
 tTv^wIrTif^'th*""'*'',*'^^ T^'«- "-^i' ■ 
 in her. She tas S tl^ °"' ^tf " '"'^'^ken 
 ohildisldy s,natl' an,} s^l^'^ i'^'^y' ^ 
 kind of ^omJn „ touch ?Se S"''~*'^' 
 tions of helplessness and lack TLT^^'^' 
 yet._„otwiths.tandi„g tJis.'f clirri';/!';* 
 
 w p:inS;;;si5t:r'^' feiiowZwho 
 
 her eye." obstmate endurance in 
 
 It waatoher cousin, Ralph Edmondsto^e. 
 
 JL!?*'^ ^f'jl ^'^^ ^'th some degree of te* 
 8Ter'e3-^''*"""^^*'""' ^^^^ smiled and * 
 
 perpK"^'"'^'""^^'^"'^''^'^*""*^ ^-l 
 
 hafbeen f^T ''^ *''° '"•"••"''«° ^'Im'ondstnJ 
 
 S h U f f^ ^''^ °^ " ^^''^''' Marchesa wj 
 w as h,s latest poetic passion. She was nJ 
 his hrs fancy, nor wouldshe be his S U 
 she had power enough for ti.e tim" beLI 
 hav^ safsHed the mist exacting of womef 
 
 hea^d Z "' ^'' ^'^"'^^'•^ ^J'«n 
 h!o I * ;"•. "^^^^ spoken of 
 
 en^^''" tL^ '''!''' '^'^^ ''n-iiscreet impati 
 
 wa^M vE"?"V^u""f *»* ''« '"'■g''* be, ij 
 was M. Villefort who had won, antfif he wa? 
 
 nothmgmore, he was at least a fa 'thful a3 
 tcnaant. Henceforth, those who saw hJ 
 
 ! K'in lir '^"^ ''^" '!'.■" =^^— dHvi!,7wiy 
 tierin her carnage, nding with lier conrft0ft' 
 
 'Jper.i silent, impassive, crave notioflahlJ 
 only through the contrast he afforded to he 
 girlish beauty and bloom 
 
 "Ahvays there!" (^mmentei a shariJ 
 American belle of matuTe years, like an uS 
 little con cieiice." «=, "kc an ugiy 
 
 af t!r rfrtr'' 1''* '"?f ""« ^'^*'^ his cousin 
 alter his return fr,>m Paris was accidental I 
 He had rither put off visiting her a„d ,^| 
 
 "ef St!" r ""f \''T'''' '•oom.'he f:;un,fhd 
 starinra "f ^''^''"\^ S^d's light Hgure and 
 ha1r ^vL ■'i'^»"<^''»."°'^ of roddi^h-bro^nl 
 hair When almost immediately the prettv 
 
 i'io V tlf ■*'",*^''"' beloi.gedLnre.ra 
 fn,, !^'u^ *^ mvoluntary-iookina movementi 
 toward him, he felt that he became exdtedl 
 without knowing why. excitea| 
 
 ''Ah, Bertha ! he exclaimed. " i 
 
 bhe ,niled a little, and held out her han.1 
 and he immediately became consciouT o?"].' 
 
 s^'rbtf^ '""« '^"''^ ^^'^ -^* -g-diiig hii 
 
 oV.^*iT*i*]^^. P°'"^''"fness of fate that he 
 
 tan ll'^h'l '" ^'''^''' V'^^f-"-* even mor I 
 th«l L i^- °"'^ '^^" ''^ Sertha Trent, and 
 there had been a time when he had seen a 
 
 h.,a,„;,ua ne naa been a creat favourite. ' 
 s^L?r^ evening or family festivity had i 
 seemed complete without his presenee Tho 
 
 f r^hS T""'' *,"*^ *>*« tendency to break ' 
 forthinto whimsical frolic. Good Mrs Trent < 
 bad been wont to scold him and goss'p wM 
 
LE MONblKOii DE LA PETITE DAMB. 
 
 18 
 
 ou found that out T Fi 
 
 not drink a fju a melancholy 
 
 fie had read his sonnets and meta- 
 ^sical articles to Bertha, and occasionally 
 fche rest ; in fact, his footing in the family 
 familiar and firmly eHtablished. But 
 ce her marriage Bertha had become a little 
 nmprehensible, and on that account a 
 le more interesting. He was sure she hud 
 Ireloped, but could not make out in what 
 ection. Ho foun<l occasion to reproai^h 
 ' sometimes with the changes he found in 
 
 'There are times when I hardly know 
 1," he would say, "you are so finely or- 
 bdox and well controlled. It was not so 
 thyou once, Bertha. Don't — don't become 
 it terrible thing, a fine lady, and woraa 
 111, a fine lady who is UesiUusioniie. 
 lit baffled him that she never appeared 
 ich moved by his charges. Certainly she 
 ired the life of a "fi no lady," — a brilliant 
 fe, a luxurious one, a life full of polite dis- 
 pation. Once, when in a tenderly f rater- 
 mood, he reproaidicd her with this also, 
 le laujjhed at him frankly. 
 I "It is absinthe," she said. "It is my ab- 
 athe at least, and who does 
 ktle absinthe — of one kind or another ?" 
 J He was sincerely convinced that from this 
 loment he understood and had the right to 
 |ty and watch over her. He went oftener 
 • see her. In her presence he studied her 
 Josely, absent he brooded oxer her. He 
 |ecame impatiently intolerant of M. Vijle- 
 ji-t, and prone to condemn him, he scarcely 
 ^new for what. 
 
 "Ho has no dignity — no perception," was 
 
 lis mental decision. He has not even the 
 
 leliuacy to love her, or he woula have the 
 
 enderness to saeritice bis own feelings and 
 
 leave her to horself. I could do it for a 
 
 roman I loved." 
 
 But M. Villefort was always there — grave- 
 ly carrying the shawls, picking up handker- 
 phiefs, and making himself useful. 
 
 "Imbecile /" muttered M. Renard under 
 Cover of his smile and his nmstaehe, as he 
 btood near his venerable patroness the lirst 
 ime she met the Villeforts. 
 
 "Blockhead !" stealthily ejaculated that 
 
 imiable aristocrat. But though she looked 
 
 wimly at M. Villefort, M. Renaud was un- 
 
 loomfortably uncertain that it was he to 
 
 |whom she referred. 
 
 '(jo and bring them to me," she com- 
 Imauded. "Go and bring them to me before 
 I some one else cets them. I want to talk to 
 [that girl" 
 
 It was aalonishing how agreeable she ' better on awaking.*' 
 made herself to her victims when she h' i { Involuntarily Edmoudatone half frowned, 
 fairly entrapped them: Bertha hesitatea .<. . Absurdly enough, he resented in secret this 
 little before accepting her offer of aseatat her I amiability on the part of M, Villefort toward 
 side, but once seated she found herself oddly j his own wife. He was quite prepared to be 
 amused. When Madame de Castro chosu to i severe upon the reading, but was surprised 
 
 rake the embers of her seventy yearn, many 
 
 a lively coal discovered itself among the 
 
 ashes. 
 
 • Seeing the two women together, Eduiond- 
 
 stone sliud<lered in fastidious protest. 
 
 "How could you laugh at that detestable 
 old woman ?" he exclaimed on eucountdring 
 Bertha later in the evening. "I wonder 
 that M. Villefort would permit her to talk 
 to you. She is a wicked, cynical crenture, 
 who has the hardihood to laugh at her sins 
 instead of repenting them. 
 
 "Perhaps that it* the reason she is so 
 amusing," said Rertha. 
 
 Edrnondstone answered her with gentle 
 mournfulnefes, 
 
 "What !' he said. "Have you begun to 
 say such things ? You too, Beriha" — 
 
 The laUi,di with which she btnpped him 
 was both light and hard. , 
 
 "Wiiere is M. Villefort ?" slie asked. "1 
 have actually not seen him for fifteen min- 
 utes. Is it pnasible that Madame de Casiio 
 has fa.scinated him into forgetting me ? " 
 
 Edrnondstone went to his hotel that night 
 mood. He even lay awake 
 o think what u dreary mistake his cousin's 
 ■•"marriage was. She had been such a teud(X 
 and easily swayed little soul as a girl, and 
 now it really seemed as if she wa.s hardening 
 int.) a woman of the world. In the old 
 times he had been wont to try his sonnets 
 upon Bertha ys a musician tries his chords 
 upon his most delicate instrument. Even 
 now lie reuieinbei'ed certain line, sensitive 
 expressions of hers which had thrilled him 
 beyond nieasiir'\ 
 
 " How could she marry such a feUow as 
 that — how could -she ?" he gtoaned. " What 
 does it mean '/ It must mean some- 
 tiiing." 
 
 He was pale and heary-eycd when he 
 wandered round to the Villeforts' the follow- ' 
 ing morning. M. Villefort was sitting with 
 Bertha and reading aloud. He stopped to 
 receive their visitor punctiliously and inquire 
 after his health. 
 
 " M. Edmondstonecannot have slept well," 
 he remarked. 
 
 "I did not sleep at all," Edmondstone 
 answered, "and naturally have a head- 
 ache." 
 
 Bertha pointed to a wide lounge of th« 
 pou/ order. 
 
 "Then go to sleep now," she said; M. 
 Villefort will read. When I have a headache 
 he oft«n reads me to sleep, and I am iilways 
 
14 
 
 LE MONSIEUR DB LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 to be compelled to acknowledge that M 
 
 ^ w ?h W ''T^/T^y well, and posTtive- 
 ly.with hints of delicate perception. His 
 Toioe wa, full and yet Subtly flexibli'. 
 
 but have borne a little longer With my t>od 
 base pn. e I Because I suffered myse^ 
 have r„ade another suffer too " ^ ' 
 ?A''°r'»>« "P^ke of M. Villefort, ad 
 
 EdmondsTon; tried to VroteTZinTS the'\''h''°T '•'" T ke of M 
 
 »l»o, but uselessly. Finally he was ?o.!thi '^f.^^ouijhr, j.^rre^ upon him. 
 
 .nd from being fretfully wifleawaO^^^^^ 7^r'" ^« "'«1- "He 
 
 y^passedinto sleepa. Bertha had commSed A A u ^ ""^ ^ ^«''' P»*"-" 
 
 £r °."f ^'I,?'"'"*'^'- '«»t«d Ve Tu d'^nli him'r*iittle7n"f'''"^ ""^^ '^' '^"'^^ ^^"^ 
 i^„?J,?'£, ^H "* '^P^^ he foun.l himself S -'*"'* ""•'^^'^'^ ^'*'' » "d bitt. 
 
 You did not know th 
 
 hare tolj! All at" once";rfound''hirelf 
 •roused and w.de-awake as ever. His hTad 
 ache had departed ; his every sense seemed 
 to have 'ained keenness. M. Villeforfs 
 vorne haa eased, and for a few seconds utter 
 dead silence reigned. Then he heard the 
 firecrackling, and shortly afterward a strange 
 Btartl.ng souad-a sharp, gasping sob ! ^ ' 
 i he pang which seized upon him was 
 strong indeed. In one momenl, he seemed to 
 Inm^.t thousand thu.srs by intuition-to 
 
 Bat he ha.1 nnt i.n«gi„«,l tl,., faoo Iio ,a„ t„ 1 ,' ,„ , ."""■■ '■"' " '«•«■ The pain Jl 
 when he t„r,,e,, hU he.„ .„ h„,h .. her" ^^^'fCTuZl ^S;" 'X-fflTr ^' 
 
 a^'airiat it back again ?" ^' ^ ^^^'^^'^ **^ ^»" 
 ' chair. An.i ,.rU,.„ ... 
 
 ness : — 
 
 "Are you sure? 
 
 he"lTf'l'?J''\'"''" •'.^"^''^ brokenly, the fa^ 
 -F^ • ' ^'"^.^^"^ "^'^b his unhkppinetJ 
 sK" l"1'/"'' ' h''ve lost so muc^h^' 1 
 She wasted few words an<l no tears Thi 
 force and su.ldenness of his emotion Ji 
 her own had overborne her into tTdssLni 
 
 -■— ..~ ......C.I 1118 iiea'i 10 lo.iic at h 
 
 Ih "'. ^ '■'KJfl attitude, leaning 
 
 the high cushioned' ba./k of her ehair"!'" T"!" "*^u"' ' 
 
 ?rJ^:;\l^rP^l^^-f her head/ISlthit'if u'e^'luSel"*^'^ ^'^^ "''''^ ^'^ - 
 
 3 Wide anri ! "Th.:.t.a ,„ _ , ., . 
 
 stared at the fire with eyes wide an,! i "Th./ • i 
 
 stnuned with the agony of te..r.s nn.hed am Th.ie ,111 "" ."'"' *h^* ^''^ should talk, 
 amidthe ru,sh of SlI other emnf.;", ill: .t"„ LV'^'r^' "''^'h'-'g f'-'^ u. beyond this point 
 
 amidthe ru,sh of all other emotions he wa 
 pecuharly conscious of being touched l.ylhe 
 minor one of his recognition of her look of 
 wonrTor*?-''",'"?'^ T'"^h had been 
 Arent. He h.a<l meant to speak clearly but 
 
 ^m;ri!o";^^ ""'^ i '""•* "'^'^'-'' -^^^ ^e 
 
 spiang up, uttering her name. 
 
 Bertha ! B^;rtha ! Bertha .'" as he flun^r 
 
 himself upon his knees at her si.le ^ 
 
 • Her answer was an actual cry, and vet it 
 
 wh,tJ.°" '"«her pitch than hi/^wnlntense 
 
 "I thought you were asleep'" 
 
 Her hand.s fell and he caught them. His 
 
 sadjmpassioned face bowed itself upon her 
 
 " I am aw.ake, Bertha," he groaned " I 
 am awake at last." ^ ^ 
 
 fo'rl.r" ","','' ~^" ''^"''- ^^''^ must try tnl 
 
 insteal of return m- to his hotel, Edinoml-f 
 stone found h.. way to the Champs E vsees 
 and hnally to the Bois. He was Z h reSed 
 w. ke7f"^'r'"r^ '" his wan,lering.s H 
 S se'LS; .& ""'^'"'^ «'-i«ht before hlln 
 
 h s Zn^ K I ^^- ^? "^•■''■'^'^ly ""flerstood 
 ins own horce emotions. Hitherto his 
 fancies had brongi.t him a vague riptn re 
 now he ext,er.euced absolute anguish, i'veryl 
 past experience had become t^ival. WhS 
 happiness IS so keen as one's briefest pain 
 As he walked he lived again the days he had 
 thrown away. He remembered a Uiousand 
 HeVr* !!ri l^h^^es of Bertha's gShoo" 
 He thought of limes when she had touXl 
 or irritated or pleased him. When he had 
 If /,?"^ ''^?:L'- «h« had not bidden him f 
 
 ^yfS:^^ Sr:' KS^SSLia^T^' '-^'>-r si^^C had 
 aad.ler knowledge than he would ever com- '-If S ^ ""f' ""^ ^'*'"- 
 preliend;but8hedidnot "nder-estimateX wardlv •' I li l'^' k'""" *'^""'" he cried in- 
 aepth of his m^ery at this .,ne overwneln, my ovJ;. » '^''^ ^^^" '■^*'' her heart-and 
 
 i^l ^C.^\°*V-?f ^'^ «-«ke indeed and I ^ Ren and .l.ip„ „ .,,^. 
 
 — ;■. ^'."" "^ "'■*" ^"3c. i u-- „„ J V .-—"-5 " '•ery tau norse lu the 
 
 • I you could but have borne with me a th« ^fa-hf f i^'" '*"^,.™««J his eyebrc.ws at 
 
 but h.« borj. with „. . littl, loSger r him,™ .*i .™ *."!" r""'" •" »'<• »» 
 
 oouw Afterward, when society became « little 
 
LE M0NSIEX7R DB LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 IS 
 
 itle longer With my «» 
 
 use I suffered myself] 
 
 suffer too." 
 
 ke of M. ViUefort, aJ 
 
 ipon him. 
 
 ff«r," he said, "He I 
 
 el pain." 1 
 
 1 why she shrank froJ 
 
 wered with a sad bitt 
 
 Vou did not know thj 
 
 said brokenly, the fa^ 
 with his unhappine?3 
 ■<ve lost so much." 1 
 'ids and no tears. Tb| 
 18 of his emotion an 
 le her into this stran^ 
 but her mood was m 
 erely receptive. ShJ 
 "ling regrets, but told 
 past. 1 
 
 3r," she said drearilyj 
 t. it rest. The pain of 
 18 enough for ua. W([ 
 why should we wad 
 
 ted she said only ond 
 
 live and eager, M. Renatd looked on with 
 lonio interest. 
 
 P That happy man, M. ViUefort," he said 
 "fadame de Castro, "is a good soul— a 
 J soul. He has no small jealous follies," 
 , his smile was scar ely a pleasant thing to 
 
 p There is nothing for us beyond this 
 
 /' Bertha had said, and Ldmondstone 
 
 agreed with her hopelessly. 
 
 tut he could not quite break away. Some- 
 
 led for a week the Villeforts missed him, 
 
 then again they saw him every day. He 
 
 ^nt his mornings with them, joined them 
 
 their drives, at their opera-box, or at the 
 
 kertainments of their friends. He also fell 
 
 his old place in the Trent household, 
 
 listened with a vague effort at interest 
 
 Mrs. Trent's maternal gossip about the 
 
 rs' college expenses. Bertha's household, 
 
 Jenny's approaching social debiit. He 
 
 continually full of a feverish longing to 
 
 lar of Bertha — to hear her name spoken, 
 
 |r ingoings and outcomings discussed, her 
 
 )ks, her belongings. 
 
 ["The fact is," said Mrs. Trent, a.\ the 
 
 inter advanced, " I am anxious about 
 
 irtha. She does not look strong. I don't 
 
 low why I have not seen it before, but all 
 
 once i found out yesterday that she is 
 
 jally thin. She was always slight and even 
 
 [little fragile, but now she is actually thin. 
 
 le can see the little bones in her wrists and 
 
 igers. Her rings and her bracelets slip 
 
 >out quite loosely. " 
 
 "And talking of being thin, mother," 
 ^ied Jenny, who was a frank, bright sixteen- 
 jar-old, " look at cousin Ralph himself. He 
 little hollows in bis cheeks, and his 
 res are as much too big as Bertha's 
 the sword wearing out the scabbard, 
 [alph ? That is what they always say about 
 iniuses, you know." 
 
 " Ralph has iiot looked well for some time," 
 
 lid Mrs. Trent. " As for Bertha, I think 
 
 shall scold her a little, and and M. Ville- 
 
 )rt too. She has been living too exciting a 
 
 |fe. She is out continually. She must stay 
 
 home more and rest. It is rest she ueeits.'' 
 
 "If you tell Arthur that Bertha looks 
 
 '--began Jenny. • 
 
 Edmondstone turned toward her sharply. 
 
 Arthur !" he repeated. Who is Arthur ?" 
 
 Mrs. Trent answered with a comfortable 
 
 -u 
 
 'It is M. Villefort's name, she said, 
 I' though none of us call him Arthur but 
 |«nny. Jenny and he are great friends. " 
 
 "I like him better than any one else,^' 
 kid Jenny stoutly. " And I wish to set a 
 ' example to Bertha, who never calls him 
 lytiung but M. ViUefort, which ia absurd. 
 
 Just as if they had been introduced to each 
 other about a week ago. " 
 
 " I always hear him address her as Madame 
 ViUefort," reflected Edmonstone, somewhat 
 gloomily. 
 
 "Oh yes !" answered Jenny, " that is his 
 French wa^ of studying her fancies. He 
 would consider it taking an unpardonable 
 liberty to call her ' Bertha,' since she only 
 favours him with 'M. VUlefort.' I said to 
 him only the other day, 'Arthur, you are 
 the oddest couple ! You're so grand and weU- 
 behaved, I cannot imigine you scolding 
 Bertha a little, and I have never seen you 
 kiss her since you were married. ' I was half 
 frightened after I had said it. He started as 
 if he had been shot, and turned as pule as 
 death. I leally. felt as if I had done some- 
 thinsi frightfully improper. " 
 
 " The French are so different from the 
 American,'' said Mrs. T'-eut, "particularly 
 those ot M. ViUefort's class. They are beauti- 
 fully punctilious, but I don't call it comfort- 
 able, you know." 
 
 Hf.r mother was not the only person who 
 noticed a change in Bertha ViUefort, Before 
 long it was a change so marked that all who 
 saw her observed it. She had become pain- 
 fully frail and slight. Her face looked too 
 tiiiely cut, . her eyes had shadowy hollows 
 under them, and were always bright with a 
 feverish excitement. 
 
 "What is the matter with your wife?" 
 demanded Madame de Castro of M. Vill^ort. 
 Since her first meeting she never loosened her 
 hold upon the husband and wife, and had 
 particularly cultivated Bertha, 
 
 There was no change in the expression of 
 M. ViUefort, but he WiW strani;ely pallid as 
 he made his reply. 
 
 " It is impossible for me to explain, 
 Madame." 
 
 "She is absolutely attenuated," cried 
 Madame. "She is like a spirit. Take her 
 to the counti^ — to Normandy — to the sea — 
 somewhere ! She will die if there is not » 
 change. At twenty, one should be as plump 
 as a young capon." 
 
 A few days, after, Jenny Trent ran in 
 upon Bertha as she lay upon a lo-jnge, hold- 
 ■ing an open book, but with closed eyes. She 
 had come to spend the mornuig. she an- 
 nounced. She wanted to talk — about peo- 
 ple, about her dress, about her first ball 
 which was to come off shortly. 
 
 Bertha turned her lead almost as Ed- 
 mondstone had done, 
 
 "Arthur 1" she repeated. 
 
 For the second time Jenny felt a little 
 embarrassed. "I mean M. ViUefort," she 
 said, hesitantly. 
 
 She quite forgot what she had been go> 
 
10 
 
 L« MON-SIBUR DB LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 1 ! ! 
 
 II 
 
 
 ue can say, b.^rtha, ami yet not seem in th« 
 
 least sentimental. Evorvtl.incr L„!! • 
 
 Tilu ,-i„Ui- t- iL ,^*^'''^'*""g comes 80 sim- 
 ply ight from the bottom of his heart ^u^t 
 think What lie sai.l t<» me ye.ter ky when hi 
 ^rought me those dowers. Hehelsme' 
 with mine and it is o.ld IxowtUrl ZV 
 cheer up and grow for liim. I «ai d tJ hhn 
 
 waV ? :,t«"»7e^-«'l i" the gentlest quie? 
 
 pRersarS/'^'^r" ^ '''''' fail them 
 he ttZT li Pe«pJe-one must love and 
 be tiue to them, not only to-day and to 
 
 Thif io ^ T^*" "'*>'*' «""'^ *'»"g« ''O often ' 
 Ihat 18 why I am so fond of hiin " 
 
 watrtt'r''"''* "C '"I^'^' «''« turned to- 
 waid the lounge. Hertha lay upon it mo 
 
 ed^^dct^r^ndt^lWie:?"^-"-^- 
 ra„?t' ^.'''•^ha," she cried, huvv thouHitle^s 
 
 'I true that you are so weak as all <h-.f» r 
 Jennl mamma and Arthur.talS. g aJo" it 
 out 1 scarcelv bel ewd ii- tv, » **".'^"'' ^i-i 
 
 -u^gotoNornlf;^i:^,,e|,t:Lt-•'^•°" 
 
 Berthi"" '<rf '" ^'" ''^ Normnudy," said 
 thS'r. JJ?'"""' ''?^«^e''. was 80 softly weak 
 
 teSr^"'' ^'"'^^^'''^Shed a little hys- 
 *„S^.tnf "^ "?* .«° *« Normandy, however 
 
 J? talker '^"'*'''"^^^"'°'»«'«"« ^«»J al»"d 
 - Iq fact, Edmonstone came oftener than 
 
 Soon him ' ".'''•*y, •"'^ «nhappin-,«« „ 
 
 One night, when M. Villefort had J 
 them alone totrethor for -a 7h^l^ V ? 
 spran, from hfs chSfr and cLe'?o herS 
 shaken with suppressed emotil """^ 
 
 it r ^ '^-"'"^ ^y ^"<^''«» ' I cannot hi 
 "It is not he who is killing me " J 
 answered; and then M. Villefort fet^rned 
 
 new pfiases'" Hi'^'^'"?"'*""^'« P'^^^'"" A 
 new pnases. He wrote no sonnets naintJ 
 
 Bl^ni'h sTdle f "^^"•-'"^^'^ i'i^ woFk "a*^ 
 s cntiiis Idle hours in rambling here an 
 tiiere in a gh.omy unsociable faslii,,,! ^ 
 He looks," sai.l M. Renard '< as if 1,1 
 sou hau been playing him some evil Irckl 
 He had at Hrst complained that Ber9 
 
 St 'o but''''^''''^'""^ ^*°«y to Madam 3 
 vavto ^1 »; course of time he found iJ 
 way to the old woman's union to>. thouffl 
 
 >e r*8hl:7'^-^^«'l *'-* Madame tr J 
 nevea showed him any great favour Rd 
 th.s he did not care for.^Hfe o^.W cared 1 
 Bit ui the same ro«m with Bertha ami u^l 
 Wveiy movement with, uiser^irtemq 
 
 One night, after regarding him cvnicalli 
 
 such an insane passion for a married ™an 
 
 breath S'i "' '^, ^'''^^ ^"^* «* "■"<=« "^ 
 oreath and every drop of blood in her bodvl 
 
 for she hadnerther breath nor colour Xf 
 in thffS '"' '"""^^^ ^''^-"^^ 'i^ cIs;? 
 
 "Madam," she said, "if you reneat tha 
 to me, you will never s'ee me^gair-^rever* 
 
 Upon which Madame snapped her ud wij 
 some anger at being rebuk^^S LherCkl 
 ^J-rhen it 18 worse than 1 thought," sh 
 
 It wasv^-eeks before she saw her vounJ 
 friend agam. Indeed, it required somS 
 
 anTe^tP Zr *° .'«'*' the^bS'rq 
 ana even m her most amusing and aflFeetinnJ 
 
 t«7r±;^' ?.'*" ''''' afterward Ex/ 
 a"t"mTLlth:**^ '^ reserve which held he^ 
 
 Din^^ S? *'?! *^® horse-chestnuts bloome 
 f-iysees, there were few people in the ViUeJ 
 
 th'e' ;uS:t^„f%f i "''* *^-- options "n 
 coSsim ^ Madame Villefort and he' 
 
LB MONSIEUR DB LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 IT 
 
 y and umhappin'fsa gr 
 We him moody, irritab 
 
 '» M. ViUofort had ij 
 or for -a short time, ] 
 »ir and came to her couci 
 28sed emotion. 
 Uiuff you !" he exclaime 
 •y incliee I I cannot bei 
 
 M. Villefort returned? 
 ' book he ha.l been 
 
 .here WM » mixture of French and Ameri- 
 I gosaip and comment, frank satire, or se- 
 et remark. But, to her credit be it spo- 
 Ma, Madame de Castro held grim silence, 
 Id checked a rumour occasionally with such 
 Liable ferocity as was not without its good 
 Ifeot. 
 
 iThe pink and white blossoms were already 
 fcginning to strew themseh os at the feet of 
 be pedestrians, when one morning M. Ville- 
 Irt presented himself to Madame, and dis- 
 Ivered her sitting alone in the strangest of 
 loods. 
 
 I •' I thought I might have the pleasure of 
 Hvinghome with Madame Villefort. My 
 Irvant informed that I should find her 
 
 ire." 
 
 I Madame de Castro pointed to a chair. 
 
 ["Sitdown," she commanded. 
 
 I M. Villefort obeyed her in some secret but 
 
 |ell-conceaIed amazement. He saw that she 
 
 I under the influence of some unusual ex- 
 
 Itement. Her false front was pushed fan- 
 
 ^ stically away, her rouge and powder were 
 
 nbbed oflF in patches, her facelookcd set and 
 lard. Her first words were abominably 
 
 kliuit. 
 
 I " M. Villefort," she said, " Do you know 
 
 that your acquaintances call you ? ' 
 
 'A deep red rose slowly to his face, but he 
 
 id not answer. 
 ' Do you know that you are designated 
 
 ^ an absurd title —that they call you in ri- 
 
 icnle ' Le Monsieur de la petite Dame?' Do 
 rou know that ?" 
 
 His look was incomprehensible, but he 
 >wed gravely. 
 
 "Madame,'^ he ansflrered, "since others 
 ave heard the title so often, it is but natural 
 hat I myself should have Heard it more than 
 Mxoe." 
 
 She regarded him in angry amazement. 
 She was even roused to rapping upon the 
 loor with her gold-headed cane. 
 [ '*I>o«8 it not aflfect you?" o cried, 
 I Does it not move you to mdignat.on?" 
 
 "That, Madame,^' he replied, "can rnly 
 
 > mjr affair. My friends will allow me my 
 
 notions at least." 
 
 Then she left her chair and began to walk 
 hp and down, striking the carpet hard with 
 jteroaneat every step. 
 
 "Tou are a strange man," she remarked. 
 
 auddonly, however, when just on the point 
 Mstanmgupon aliesh tour, she wheeled 
 ^Doat and addressed him sharply. 
 L "I respect yoa," she said; " '»ml, because 
 i**JP««* you, I will do you a good turn." 
 TShe made no pretence at endeavouring to 
 
 Bu J ^^^^ "^^ ^" *^"* *o bestow, 
 one drew forth from her dress a letter, the 
 *M« a^ht of which seemed to goad her to a 
 Bymnoiu excitement. 
 2 
 
 See,' sheened; "it was M. Ralph Ed- 
 mondstone who wrote this-it was to \fa(?ame 
 Villefort It was written. It means ruin and 
 dishonour. I offer it fco you to read." 
 
 M. Villefort <-ose and laid his hand upon 
 his chair to steady himself. • 
 
 "Madame," he answered," I will not 
 touch it. 
 
 ^ She struck herself upon her withered 
 
 "Behold me!" she said. "Me/ lam 
 seventy years old I Good God ! seventy I I 
 am a bald old woman, and it is said I do not 
 repent of my sins. I, too, have been a beau- 
 tiful young girl. I, too, had my fir^t lover. 
 I, too, married a man who had not won my 
 heart. It does not matter that the husband 
 was worthy and the lover was not— one learns 
 that too late. My fate was what your wife's 
 will be if you will not sucrilice your pride 
 and save her. 
 
 "Pride!'' ])e echoed in a bitter, hollow 
 voice. " My pride. Madam !" 
 
 She went on without noticing him :— 
 
 "They have been here this morning— both 
 of them. He foUowed her, as he always 
 does. He had a desperate look which 
 warned me. Afterward I found the note 
 upon the floor. Now will you read it ?" 
 
 "Good Godi" he cried, as he fell into 
 his chair again, his brow sinking into his 
 hands. 
 
 "I have read it," said Madame, with a 
 tragic gesture, " and I choose to place one 
 stumbling block in the path that would lead 
 her to an old age like mine. I do not like 
 your Anaencans ; but I have sometimes seen 
 in her girl s face a proud, heroic endurance 
 of the misery she has brought upon herself, 
 and it has moved me. And this letter— you 
 should read it, to see how such a man can 
 plead. It is a passionate cry of despair— it 
 18 a poem in itself. I, myself, read it with 
 sobs in my throat and tears in my eyes. "If 
 you love me I— if you have ever loved me !' 
 he ones, 'for God^s sake 1— for love's sake I 
 —if there is love on earth— if there is a God 
 m heaven, you will not let me implore yon 
 mvain!' And his prayer is that she will 
 ^ave Pans with him to-night— to-night ! 
 There I Monsieur, I have done. Behold 
 the letter I Take it or leave it, as you 
 
 E lease. And she flung it upon the floor at 
 IS feet. 
 
 She paused a moment, wondering what he 
 would do. 
 
 He bent down and picked the letter up. 
 
 " I will take it," he said. ^ 
 
 All at once he had become calm, and when 
 he rose and uttered his last words to her. 
 there wa« upon hia face a faint smile. 
 
 "I, too," he said— "I, too, Madame, 
 suffer from a mad and liopeleM paauon, and 
 
II 
 
 LB MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 tims can comprehend the bitterneu of M. 
 Kdffloudstoue npuma. 1, too, would Implore 
 jn the name of love and God— U 1 luLht 
 but I may not." And so. he took his de' 
 parture. 
 
 Until evenintf Bertha did not see him 
 Ihe atteriiooa she spent alone and in 
 wntiiiK letters, and having completed and 
 sealed the last, she went to her couch and 
 tried to sleep. Une entering the room, hs 
 •he lay upon the vi.det cushions, her hands 
 »t lier sides, her eyes clo.-,e<l, mi^ht well 
 have been shocked. Her spotless pallor, the 
 hat sharpness of lier face, tue slia.lows under 
 Her eyes, her niotionlessness, would huve 
 exou>ei the momentary feeling. Uut «he 
 »a» up and dresseu tor dinner wuen M. Ville- 
 fort presented himself. Spriuj/ tlioucu it 
 was she was aitire.i in a h.gn, close dress ot 
 black velvet, and ne fou.id ner almost cower- 
 ing over the open fire-plac^ Stranydy 
 enougii, too. she fancie.1 that when she 
 looked up at him she saw him shiver, as if 
 Jle^were struck *itn a slight chill also. 
 
 «i«u u . ""^'^ °"' ^«»'" »^»t." ^e said, 
 with a halt smile at her uown. 
 
 " Why ?" she asked. 
 
 *J'^'!"*^f' ^""^ ^° white-80 much like a 
 too early lily But-but perhaps you thought 
 Oi going ou(. r' ° 
 
 "So," she answered ; " not to-night." 
 
 He came quite close to her. 
 
 ..n^*.?'*"*'*,^'" '"° greatly fatigued," he 
 Mid, It would give me liappmess to tHke 
 you with me on my errand to vour mother's 
 House. I must carrv there my little birthday 
 gUi. to your sister,'^ smiling again. 
 
 An expressiou of embanassment showed 
 xtselt upon her tace. 
 
 •• On," she exclaimed, " to think that I had 
 forgotten it J She wUi f«el as if I did not care 
 lor ner at all. 
 
 Sue seemed for the momeut quite unhappy 
 •Let me see what you nave chosen." 
 
 ed it" ^'^ *'"''*'®' * ''*^^ "'"^ **?«"■ 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "how pretty and how 
 suitable for a girl 1" j « •" uow 
 
 They were the prettiest, most airy set of 
 pearls imaginable. 
 
 bhe sac and looked at them for a few 
 8eoo,.d8 thoughttuUy, and then handed them 
 
 " You are very good, and Jenny will be in 
 ecatasies, she saiu. 
 
 T-M,!" '.^.t'.'^*"*"l*? ."® ^^ «'v« *'«•• pleas 
 
 7o!ui.^"" ^•PP*"'" "^^ *^* oountge 
 Involuntarilv he held out his hand. 
 Will you^'-he began. His voice fd 
 Jnded "Will you go witi me ?" 
 
 He saw that she was troubled 
 
 "Wow?" she faltered. 
 
 "Yes now." 
 
 There was a peculiar pause-a momenJ 
 aa It seemed co him, of breathless silenci 
 Ihis silence she broke by her rising slow J 
 trom her seat. * 1 
 
 " 1 es ' she_ responded, " I will go. wj 
 should Inot?" * 
 
 urs. 
 
 ("Ot-uriicu, 
 
 *,»»'k ;,i;~""~"' " ^ ^^el great teiidei ness 
 
 ior her. Jshe is not like the young t-irls 1 
 have known. Her innocence is oi alrank 
 •nd noble quality, whicl^is better than ignor- 
 ance. Ou*, couia not bear that the sl.gntest 
 rf.»<iow ot Bin or pain shouid tali upot her. 
 Xh* atmosphere surrounding her is 60 bright 
 
 It was midnight when they left the TrentaJ 
 au.l Jeuny stouU upon the threshold, a bri hf 
 igure ma setting ot brightness, and kis^e 
 Jior hand to them as tUey went down th 
 
 8C6pHa 
 
 A..'r'h„I'"l'V",*'" ^^ ''«"«' to-morrowl 
 Arthur, she said. ■ 
 
 He turned quickly to look up at her. 
 
 . " ^®?- .,y°" lo"k 80 tired. I might saJ 
 haggard, if It Was polite." ' ■" 
 
 "It would not be poiitf," said Bertha, "a 
 dou t Bay it, Good-night, Jenny I" 
 
 lint When they were seated in ths 
 carriage she glanced at her husbandl 
 lace. 1 
 
 ''Are you unwell ?" she asked, 
 forthe ^*°"*''^ ^w hand quickly across 
 
 "A little fatigued," he replied. •• It 
 nothing. Tomorrow— to morrow it will 
 all over." 
 
 And so silence fell upon them. 
 As the entered the Urawing-room a cloo 
 chimed the half hour. 
 
 "^iolateas that 1" exclaimed Bertha, ani 
 sank into a chair with a taiut laugh. '•VVhvJ 
 to-day is over," sne said. "It is 
 morrow. " 
 
 xvi. Viilefort had approached a side-tabla 
 
 box"" " '*^ * pecuhar-iookiug oUor 
 
 "Ah," he said, softly, "they havJ 
 arrived." ^ i 
 
 " VV liat are they ?" Bertha asked. , 
 
 He wa8 t.endmg over the box to open id 
 and did not turn toward her. as 
 replied— ' 
 
 "It IS a gift for a young friend of luinJ 
 
 — a brace of itintois n«, i — i J 
 
 him a long journey lu the East, and bd 
 JS young enough to have a fancy it 
 hnearms." "' . 
 
 He was stid examining the weapons whes 
 certha cr<.s6eil the room on hei way ui 
 etairs, and sh* paused an instant to look 
 them. 
 
IM MOIIRIIUR Dl LA PBTITl DAMI. 
 
 It 
 
 BM uid iha oourage 
 
 held oat his hand. 
 
 ) bugau. Hia voice fe 
 
 I you go with me?" 
 
 ivas troubled. 
 
 ered. 
 
 uliar pause— a momenJ 
 II, of breathless sileud 
 oke by her risiug slowl] 
 
 ^<led, " I will go. WhJ 
 
 hen they left the Trents'l 
 
 '« the taretihoiil, a bri-h| 
 
 bnghtuesa, aud kisse 
 
 « tUey weut down li 
 
 i be better to-morrowj 
 
 to look up at her. 
 
 BO tired. I miuht aai 
 
 lue." * ■ ■" 
 
 •out?;" said Bertha, 
 jgiit, Jeuiiy 1" 
 Were seated in thJ 
 )d at iier husbaud'il 
 
 she asked, 
 ad quiulily across 
 
 ," he replied. " It 
 — tomorrow it will 
 
 ipou them, 
 urawiug-room a cloc 
 
 exclaimed Bertha, ani 
 atdiutlau^b. *-Wiiyj 
 e said. "It is to 
 
 proached a side-table 
 tuliar-iookiug obloB 
 
 softly, " they hayj 
 
 bertha asked. 
 
 av the box tocipenitij 
 
 toward ber, as hif 
 
 young friend of mind 
 
 u w- u — 1 J 
 
 u the East, ana tu{ 
 have a fancy fc 
 
 ig the weapons wfae 
 oiu ou bei way uj 
 ax instant to look 
 
 [They are very handsome," she said, 
 aa conld almost wear thera as orna- 
 its." 
 
 ' But they would have too threatening a 
 
 " ne aiiswereil, lightly. 
 
 he raised hia eyes they met hers. She 
 
 started backward, moved by a 
 
 sense of the baggardness of his 
 
 [• You are ill !" she exclaimed. " You are 
 lolouiless as marble. " 
 [•And you, too," he returned, still with 
 same temler lightness. " Let us hope 
 \t our 'to-mnrrow' will rind us both better, 
 you say it is tomorrow now. Good- 
 tht !'' 
 
 ihe went away without saying more, 
 [eary as she was. she knew there was no 
 ip tor her. and after dismissing her maid, 
 threw herself upon the lounge before the 
 room Hre and lay there. To-night she 
 !t as if her life had reached its climax. She 
 _ jt into a passion of tears. 
 "Jenny ! Jenny !" she cried, "how I envy 
 how I envy you !" 
 The recollection of Jenny shining in her 
 itty gala dress, and delighting in her birth- 
 j presents, and everybody elsA pride and 
 motion, rilled her with a morbid misery 
 id terror. She covered her face with her 
 nds as she thought of it. 
 "Onue," she panted, "as I looked at her 
 ■nieht, for a moment, I almost hated her. 
 
 I so bad as that ? — am I ?" 
 
 Scarcely two seconds afterward she had 
 
 ^»rung to her feet and was standing by the 
 
 ide of her couch, her heart beating with a 
 
 "ipid throb of frfght, her limbs trembling. A 
 
 range sound had fallen suddenly upon the 
 
 irfect silence of the night — a sound loud, 
 
 ai, and sharp— the report of a pistol 1 
 
 hat dread seized her she knew not. She 
 
 as across the room and had wrenched the 
 
 loor open in an instant, then with flying feet 
 
 town the corridor and thn staircase. But 
 
 i way down the stairs «he begau to cry out 
 
 loud, " Arthur ! Arthur !" not conscious of 
 
 ler own voice—" Arthur, what is it ?" The 
 
 loor of the drawing-room flew open before 
 
 'le fierce stroke of her .palm. 
 
 M. Villefort stood where she had left him ; 
 
 it whUe his left hand supported his weight 
 
 cainst the table, his right was thrust into 
 
 IB breast One of the pistols lay at hitf 
 
 Keet. 
 
 CIL- il >-i . 
 
 •-uuugut It 
 
 -_„ was Death's self that oon- 
 
 OQted her in his face, but he spoke to her, 
 
 Itrying faintly to smile. 
 
 I "Do not come in," he said, "I have met 
 
 ■with— an accident. It is nothing. Do not 
 
 |«ome in. A servant"—: 
 
 flis last recollection was of her white face 
 
 laail vhite draperies ai ha fell, and Mmahow, 
 
 dizzy, sick, and faint as ha was, he seemed 
 to hear her calling out, in a voice strangely 
 like Jenny's, "Arthur I Arthur!" 
 
 In less than half an hour the whole house 
 was astir. Upstairs physicians were with 
 the wounded man, downstairs Mrs. Trent 
 talke<l and wept over her daughter, after the 
 manner of all good women. She was fairly 
 terriried by Bertha's strange shudderings, 
 quick, strained breath, and dilated eyes. She 
 felt us if she could m t reach her — as if she 
 hardly made herself heard. 
 
 " You must calm yourself. Bertha," she 
 would say. "Try to calm yourself. We 
 must hope for the best. Oh, how could it 
 have happened !" 
 
 It was in the midst of this that a servant 
 entered 'vith a letter, which he handed to his 
 mistress. The envelope bore upon it nothing 
 but her own name. 
 
 She looked at it with a bewildered expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " For me?" she said. 
 
 "It fell from Monsieur's pocket as we 
 carried him up-stairs," replied the man. 
 
 " Don't mind it now. Bertha," said her 
 mother. "Ah, poor M. Vdlefort !" 
 
 But Bertha had opened it mechauically and 
 was reading it. 
 
 •At first it seemed as if it must have been 
 written in a language she did not understand; 
 but after the first few sentences a change ap- 
 peared. Her breath came and went more 
 quickly than before — a kind of horror grew 
 in her eyes. At the last she uttered a low, 
 struggling ery. The paper was crushed in 
 her hand, she cast one glance around the 
 room as if in bewildering search for refuge, 
 and flung herself upon her mother's breast. 
 
 "Save me, mother 1" she said. "Help 
 me ! If he dies now, I shall go mad !" 
 
 Afterward, in telling her story at home, 
 good Mrs. I'rent almost broke down. 
 
 "Oh, Jenny !" she said. "Just to think 
 of the poor fellow's having had it in his 
 pocket then ! Of course I did not see it, but 
 one can fancy that it was something kind 
 and tender— perhaps some little surprise he 
 had planned for her. It seemed as if she 
 could not bear it." 
 
 M. Villefort's accident was the subject of 
 discussion for many days. He had purchased 
 a wonderful pair of pistols as » gift for a 
 young friend How it happened that one 
 had been loaded none knew : it was just poii- 
 3i'" 'e that he had been seized with the whim 
 ad it himself — at .11 events, it had goua 
 ou in his hands, x^u inch — nay, half an 
 inch— to the right, ana Madame Villefort, 
 who flew down-stairs at the sound of the re- 
 port, would only have foaud a dead man at 
 her feet. 
 
 " Ma foi /" said M. Banard, raprauing hia 
 
LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME. 
 
 I'M f 
 
 
 nil 
 
 ■mile ; «'th,8 IS difficult for Mowieur, but ii 
 
 may leave -la petite Dame' »t liberty. " 
 
 . Ma<lame de Caatro flew at him with flwh- 
 
 ing eyei. 
 
 hal'^ii"""!'". ■''" •'"''^•. ""y°« ^^oul'l not 
 .hl^ T ?*"H« y«" with my cane." And 
 •he looked as if she were capable of doing it 
 
 tin^fn^ i" T^-^''^ ^- ^""^"^t was con. 
 tanually haunted by an apparition-an appa- 
 
 .uoh".rh\'"^*' ^"^^ *"^ white drapeFC 
 •uch as ho had seen as he fell. Sometime^ 
 
 hJm* l""^' «"'"«*""?« there, sometimes near 
 him, and so.notunes indistinct and far away 
 
 Mtend his arms ; again he lay and watched 
 
 lurflSr^* '""' """• ""^ """'""^ 
 U^?' '''"°*»°'itl»e doctor were in despair. 
 f^r^alT ^u^^^T"' obstinately refused to be 
 forced from her husband's room. There were 
 tomes when they thought she might sink and 
 ^e there hersef. She wDuld not even let^e 
 U when they obliged her to sleep. HaXg 
 been slight and frail from Ul health beforef 
 «he became absolutely attenuated. Soon aU 
 her beauty would be gone 
 
 i^ri«. f Lf ! ^r* •*'"?^ **,"* **»»' «t« always 
 oarnes that letter in her breast ? I see her 
 
 put her hand to it in the strangest way a 
 dozen times a day." ** ^ 
 
 tn?Xa^i*^*' »7»'^«ni°«: from a long sleep 
 if V^ir "f **1 eonsoiousness than usual, 
 OTw h?i ** ^ apparition standing 
 
 h«?KL!!f^ 7^*u °°»,l»«d elmched upon 
 fcer breaat, and she apoka to him. 
 
 He aiuwered her, " Yea." 
 She slipped down upon her kneea, and 
 Kkei^ "> ^~ »>«d abetter crushed S 
 
 f'it\eTerrru„^d-iriri^^^^^^^^ 
 
 And yet from this time forward the , 
 aide world began to hear that hscie 
 net so hopeless after all. 
 I *' ViUefort will possibly recover " it J 
 ;:1; -.'I^V *'.«?• /'VinefortTmUill 
 daZc; Wh' *' '?,*'. '"^"lefort is ou»l 
 aangcr. Who would have thought it T " 
 
 hadtt'n»°'''^-:{.T'*^ '"y tf'at Mad. 
 had kept pace with her husband. WJ 
 Monsieur was sufficiently strong to traJ 
 
 Tubr/f T^ *° ^" ""• there wte*gj 
 doubts as to the propriety of his wife', i 
 companving him. ^ '^^ ' 
 
 motl Lr "t '**^ 1° ^*"»'" "'^^ "aid to 
 mother. 'I want to be free from it 
 Jenny has promised to go with us. " 
 
 -I^K^f'^^'fu^'^^". '■''*« Normandy, and (| 
 day before their departure Ralph EdmoJ 
 stone came to bid th^ good-bye ' 
 
 thf ™ j^r ^} T°'''^' »•» truth, as she waij 
 in h« K^*'*^*^:'''. °"°-l'''« dress, that ne? 
 all her beauty had left her. There reniaS 
 only her large sad eves and pretty 2" 
 the touching look of extreme youtlfc 
 *"°a'^1,T^*^*°™«^«d letter. 
 
 to hf™ ../''* "^^J ** ^~'*' ^o^^^g this , 
 to hun. "I am not ao bad-so bad as tha 
 
 . He caught it from her hand and torsi 
 
 into fragment.. He was stabbed thW 
 
 I ^ &"«** T^^ J!^*'"^ ''"d remorse S^ 
 
 I most teU vAn. Ti. T oW^r- T .^'y-.^ry ' ?^'^% him repent in the dust of thiearth ? 
 
 u^n hi."*^ ^°"'"' *^* *'"°1' ^« ^d:' 
 VJForgiVe mel» he cried ; "oh. forgiJ 
 
 The few Btep. between them miaht hai 
 been a myriad of mileai • 
 
 '*h!l ^^ ^*'^* yon— long ago." «he said 
 n?t »J^" TT *»'o»8W of^me. YoH 
 An ""**«"tand me then-nor afterww 
 ^*J^,.^t«f "y.love has been d^^ 
 
 mniatedjirt;,;^^=;7"^/ft;^^o^^ 
 
 mel^'^Cm.?'**" would wl, 
 "/il!!!: . ^«« ' holding ap her thin ha 
 I have been worn out in the atrumle 
 tween my unhappine. «»d .SSS 
 
 I moat teU yon, or I shaU die. I ac'not tlie 
 fcad woman yon think me. I never had read 
 tt-I had not seen it I think ho must have 
 fteen mad. Once I loved him, but he kUled 
 JS^t^l^'^^^- I«rJdnothavebeefb.d 
 Iilttve'me?r-«*1»"-A'«'«' believe 
 
 «?.?" •aj»eme moment of her angniah 
 
 S?ht?LSif*'SiS^'" ''*"'"^'*'. 
 
 "Believe me I Itiat^e! Try to under- 
 JSi',>fe^??-'f.?''»i°«' Say one word 
 
 KhSd w f"^ ' weak-effort to touch 
 KLifiu?*!^"!'^ He thought that per- 
 wS!k .!T **"• ""^^ '^^ ilwnbneaa of d^th 
 Which stole oTw him and held him boondL 
 
 \ 
 
LI MONBIIUR DB LA PETITJB DAMB. 
 
 "M, whoso ioot«tep« they 
 i, •he found him JyinB 
 id Madame VUlefort falle 
 I bedside. 
 
 im this time fonvard the ( 
 ;aii to hear that his case 
 I after all. 
 
 *^ill possibly recover," it i 
 then, •• ViUefort imnrovoJ 
 at last "ViUefort iH out! 
 would have thought it T " 
 ^ever could say that Ma.li 
 with her husband. WlJ 
 sufficiently strong to traJ 
 d to do so, there were grJ 
 8 propriety of his wife's 
 n. 
 
 d not listen to those doubd 
 taym Paris," she said to 
 ant to be free from it, 
 iised to go with us." 
 go into Normandy, and i 
 r departure Ralph EdmoJ 
 id them good-bye. 
 le was by far the most si 
 when Bertha came down] 
 u ""y^^y drawing-room, 
 3hed figure with a brokJ 
 >r a few f.dconds Bertha 
 Jood a pace or two away loc 
 emed, in truth, as she wait 
 i, nun-hke dress, that nea 
 kd left her. There remain 
 d eves and pretty hair, 
 t of extreme youth. In ; 
 e crushed let!«r. 
 d, at last, holding this i 
 )t ao bad— so bad as ths. 
 from her hand and tore] 
 He was stabbed throni 
 I shame and remorse. Aft 
 been strong enough hen 
 nsior keen enough to hs^ 
 in the dust of the earth, j 
 >ur, the insult he had pJ 
 
 ' he cried ; "oh, forgiJ 
 
 between them misht haJ 
 rnilea. ^ 
 
 »n— long ago." she said 
 khouffht of me. Yon * 
 ne then— nor afterwai 
 ny love has been dying 
 Jiried to keep it alive, b 
 
 '-T'cisiaiiu. XOu Oujy hii 
 
 red me. Andlknewtl' 
 
 57011 voold havelov 
 din« ap her thin ha 
 ont in the straggle 
 »ui«M uid remone 
 
 Ton do not know what love is?" he 
 
 forth, stAg into swift resentment. 
 j|ui( k sob broke from her. 
 fes 1 do," she answered. "I — I have 
 lit." 
 
 fou mean M. Villofort 1" he cried in 
 Brate jealous misery. "You think that 
 
 e pointed to the scattered fragments of 
 letttT. 
 
 e had that in his pocket wiien he fell." 
 laid. "He thought I hftd read it. If I 
 been your wif«. and you had thougli't 
 ■ould you have thought that I was worth 
 iu to save — as he tried to save uio V 
 rVliat !" he exclaimed, shamefacedly. 
 
 he seen it ?" 
 iea," she answered, with another sob, 
 oh might have been an echo of the fir ',. 
 id that is the worst of all." 
 aere was a pause, during which he looked 
 m at the floor, and even trend)le(l a little, 
 [have done you more wrong than I 
 4ght," he said. 
 
 "fes," she replied, "a thousand-fold 
 N." 
 
 seemed as if there might .have been 
 re to say, but it was not said. 
 
 a little while he roused himself with an 
 Irt. 
 
 fl &m not a villain," he said. "I can do 
 thing. I can go to Villefort— if you 
 
 (he did not npeak. So he moved slowly 
 »v until he reached the door. With his 
 »d upon the handle he turned and looked 
 Ik at her. 
 'Oh, it is good-bye — good-bye !" he almost 
 
 med. 
 ■Yes." 
 
 [e could not help it — few men could have 
 le 80. His expression WnS almost fierce 
 le spoke his next words. 
 "And you will love him — ^yes, you will 
 
 him. " 
 I' No," she answered, with bitter pain, 
 am not worthy. " 
 
 It was a year or more before the Villeforts 
 Ire seen in Paris again, and Jenny enjoyed 
 r wanderings with them wondrously. In 
 pt, she was the leading member of the 
 Irty. She took them where she chose — to 
 leer places, to ugly places, to impossible 
 
 places, but never from first t«> last to any 
 place where there were not, or at leant had 
 not been, Americans as absurdly erratic •■ 
 themselves. 
 
 The winter before their return they were 
 at (ionoa, a.iiong other plaocH; and it was at 
 (ienoa that ono morning, on opt-ning a 
 drawer, Herilia came upon an oblong box, 
 the siglit of which made her start backward 
 and put her hand to her l»«ating side. M. 
 Villefort approached her hurriedly. An 
 instant later, however, he started also and 
 shut the drawer. 
 
 "Conio away," he said, taking her hand 
 gently. " Do not remain liero. ' 
 
 But he was pale, too, and his hand was 
 unsteady. Ho led her to the window and 
 ;nade her ait down. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said. "I should not 
 have left them there." 
 
 " You did not scud them to your friend T' 
 she faltered. 
 
 " No." 
 
 He stood for a moment or so, and looked 
 out of the window at the blue sea which 
 melted into the blue sky, at the blue sky 
 which bent itself into the blue se.v, at the 
 white sails Hecking the deep azure, at the 
 waves hurrying in to brlhk upon the sand. 
 
 "That"— he said at length, tremulously, 
 and with pale lips— "that was false." 
 
 " Was false !" she echoed. 
 
 "Yes," hoarsely, "it was false. There 
 was no such friend. It was a lie— they were 
 meant only for myself." 
 
 She uttered a low cry of anguish and 
 dread. 
 
 "Ah mon Diev /" he said. "You could 
 not know. I understood all, and had been 
 silent. I was nothing — a jest — 'k monsieur 
 de la petite dame,' as they said— only that. 
 I swore that I would save you. When I 
 bade you adieu that night, I thought it was 
 my last farewell. There was no accident. 
 Yes— there was one. I did not die, as I had 
 intended. My hand was not steady enough 
 And since then" — 
 
 He came closer to her. 
 
 " Is it true," he said— "is it true that my 
 prayers have not been in vain ? Is it true 
 that at last — at last, you have learned- -have 
 learned" — 
 
 She stretched forth her arms to him. 
 
 " It is true!" she cried. " Yes, it is true 
 — it is true!" 
 
SMETHURSTSES. 
 
 iiiitf 
 
 ,.,.1., 
 
 flmethnrstieg, mum— yeg mnm, on ac- 
 •onnta of me bein' Smethurst au' the wax- 
 works mine. Fift^-en year I've been in the 
 buRineHB. an' if I live fifteen year more I ahall 
 have beer in it thirty ; for wax- work, is the 
 kind of a t)nsine8s that a man I'ets use.l tt> 
 •ncl fncn.llv with, after a manner. Lor' 
 bless you! there's no tellia' how much cr.m- 
 pany them there wax-worku is. I've i.icked 
 a c.mpanion or «o out of the collection. Wh v. 
 there HU,ly Jane (irey aa is rea.lin' her 
 Oreek l.atyment ; when her works is in or- 
 der an she 8 »et a goi,,', liftin' her eye8 pen- 
 tle-hke from the book. I could fancy a . she 
 kneweverj trouble I'd had an' was ulad as 
 they was over. And there's the Royal Fam- 
 ily on the dais all Tisettin' together as free 
 an home like, and smilin' as if they wasn't 
 nothiD more than Hesh an' blood like you an* 
 mean not a crown among 'em. Why.thev've 
 actually been a comfort to me I've 
 ■et an took my tea on my knee on the step 
 there many a time, because it seemed cheer- 
 fuller than in my own little place at 
 , • .^\^. If I was a talkin' man I might 
 ; bject to the stillness an' a general Hxedness 
 m the gaze, as perhaps is a objection as wax- 
 works is open to as a rule, though I cau'fsay 
 M It ever impressed me as a very uP^ble 
 gentleman once said it impressed him. 
 
 Smethurst,' sayshe, " you must have a 
 blamed clear conscience (the ugh. bein' .ather 
 free-spoken, 'blamed' was nnt the precise 
 word emp!oyed)~you must have a Mamed 
 cleir conscience or I'm blamed if you could 
 •tar -vi many blamed pair of staring eves 
 gii lie ., vcu veur in an' year <,ut. An'^as 
 to bet- . , . wn,!i." says he, "they're 
 wors^. •„ ho otJv, ,. for even if they turn 
 away < si a ,^ always tr. n back again, 
 as It , ;, . -,,;; iQ.fc trust V a out of their 
 ■ignt. 
 
 But somehow, J never thought of it in 
 that way, an' as to not liking the quiet, whv 
 Biioum nt IT lu a general way 1 haven't yo't 
 no mor'? to say than they have, and so it 
 
 lifce mine the public demands it, an wd 
 hear of bein' satisfied without one- "fi 
 ■ays they, "what's the use of a wax-wa 
 without Manning nn' them, an' the prison 
 in the dock, an' the knifo as the ^ 
 woman was cut up in pieces with*"' 
 was obliged to have the little back roi 
 hung with black, like Vladanio Tussaud'i 
 a small way. and titte.l up with murders i 
 a model of the guillotine, and two or th 
 heads of parties as ccmie to an untimely i 
 in the Jiench Revolution. But itaintj 
 taste for all that, and there's alwayi 
 heaviness m the air as makes me low-liko 
 I m glad to turn the key on 'em at niglit 
 leave em to have a rest fn.m the st.ire, 
 talk an stirrin' up of their, sin, an' the s 
 an agony of their dreadful rleaths. 
 Lord ! It turns me sick to think of t 
 havin .been reallivin' creatures, withmol 
 an wives an' friends, some of 'em pern 
 livin to-day, all crushed an' blasted with 
 horror they've went through. 
 
 But that aint tho story as I've half 
 promised to tell -you. If you reailv wa] 
 hear it, mum, I don't mind tellin' it, thoi 
 1 don t know as i+ would be interestin'-l 
 
 lel 
 
 suits me wel enough. I will own though, as 
 1 ve never felt particular comfortable in the 
 Chamlw of Horrorfl, an' never wouldn't 
 Have bad one, but even in a small collection 
 
 often wonderto f u. vouM be as int 
 to outsideis as it »"i\,- i,. , bein' a^ ''i 
 
 SToryof afm:.'' .< » • « M-as soniet 
 
 V)p® 1?® *° "k*j*.ue nad a wax-woi 
 Would you mind settin' there, mnm, neil 
 the Japanese party ? His lady's Mork 
 broke, an' her bein' absent at the cle* 
 Jeaves the chair vacant most convenient. 
 His name it was Joe- this acqu_ 
 ance of mine, an', as I said, he was s^ 
 thin of my build an' temper. Hewasaq 
 chap an a lonely chap, an' London was 
 native place-leastways, I don't see 
 It couM have been no nativer than 
 waa bein as he was laid at the door 
 London foundlin' when he wasn't no 
 
 than a rxnr Aa^ia nlA it.-i .. ... 
 
 clothed him until he was big enouah to . 
 care of liisself. He hadn't a easy life of i 
 you may be sure. He wasn't handsome 
 yet sharp, he couldn't answer back nor 
 give cheek ; he could only take it, which 
 had to do frequent 
 
Bumuvmmtf* 
 
 >. 
 
 ilio demandii it, *a' wa 
 Htied without one; "fij 
 ■ the use of a wax-wc 
 nn' them, an' the prisot 
 
 the kiiifo OS the yoJ 
 up in pii'ccH with?" 
 live tho little hack ._ 
 like Vliiiiiimo TuHsami'il 
 itted up with murderi.i 
 illotino, and two or tl 
 i coniH to an untimely 
 volution. But it ainti 
 k, nn<l there's alwayi 
 r as niakex me low-like,] 
 le key on 'em at night 
 a rest from the st»rei 
 of their, sin, an' the sh^ 
 r dreadful deaths, o) 
 le sick to think of t^ 
 in'creatures, with mot 
 nds, some of 'em perL 
 ushed an' blasted with] 
 it through, 
 iho story as I've half-' 
 )u. If you reallv wanJ 
 n't mind tellin' it, the, 
 woiild he interestin'— 1| 
 ii vouM be as int lej 
 
 vKr 1(1 bein' as 
 ' n '<i. ..H was sornetl 
 '.ue had a wax-woil 
 ittin' there, mnm, nexlj 
 ? His lady's works 
 i' absent at tlie clej„ 
 ant most convenient, 
 ms Jof- this acquL 
 as I said, he was soj 
 i' temper. He was a qi 
 ihap, an' London was I 
 twaya, I don't see 
 3n no nativer than I 
 I laid at the doori 
 hen he wasn't no 
 . C5IIM i,-jiiuuii icfi niuis 
 e was big enough to L 
 hadn't a easy life of ii] 
 rie wasn't handsome 
 .'t answer back nor 
 i only take it, which] 
 
 b«r« VM planty of folk* m give him th« 
 iractflr of m nat'ral bore fool, an' they may 
 \vti h«en right. They aaiil m no thaft tm 
 A his right tenMi could \t« sogon^l-natured 
 ll* ready to forgive a injury, an' above all 
 I alow t«) lusiie- 1 aaone was bein' done him. 
 fthink the> tnouKhthis bein' slow to tuspnct 
 ^f iq'x/D waa the best proof of hit 
 a fool— an' lie wasn't ready enough with 
 tiogt^jto argy the point. He wasn't 
 ^vMr y,n'>\ »t argyment — Jo« wmh t. 
 Well, no growed up, an' he did first one 
 ^ing an' then another, until at last he was 
 Icked up by a travellin' wax-works show- 
 Ian as had just su<'h a collection as this here 
 mine— havin' in it just such a Lady Jane 
 Irey, and likewise a sim'lar Royal Fam'ly. 
 
 * ell," says the wax-works man, when 
 loe first goes to ask for work, " what can you 
 lo?" 
 
 •• Not much, perhaps," says Joe ; " least- 
 ways, I've not been in tho business before ; 
 bat if you'll give lue a job, Mister, I can do 
 rhat I'm told." 
 
 The showman gives him a look from head 
 I foot. 
 
 " Well," says he, "at all events, you're 
 kot one of them blarsted sharp uns as knows 
 ^Terythin'^nd can't dust a Hgi/er without 
 tnocking its heail oiT. I've had enough of 
 |hem sort" — savage like — "arunnin' my 
 lichnrd Cure the Lion and a-setting Mary 
 )ueeu o' Scottses insides all wrong" (which 
 ras what his last young man had been a- 
 loing. ) 
 
 " No," answers Joe, slow and serious, " I 
 lon't think as I'd do that." 
 The showman gives him another look, and 
 eins sort of satisfied. 
 
 " Go inside and get your dinner," he says, 
 'I'llhv you just because you haven't got 
 |m much cheek." 
 
 And he did try him, and pretty well they 
 Igot on together, after a while. Slowness is 
 |>ot a objection in a wax works as much as in 
 Is business as is lesn ilelicater. I've thought 
 kyseM as pr'aps wax-works lias feelin's, and 
 knows who means rospee'ful hv em an' who 
 doesn't, and this Joe meant lespec'ful and 
 never took no liberties as he could help. He 
 dusted em ret^ular and wound em up an' set 
 em Roin' aocordin* to rules ; but he never 
 tried no larks on em an' that was why begets 
 along so well with his master. 
 
 " That other chap was too fond of liis 
 larks," says the showman, kind of gloomy 
 whenever he mentions the first young man. 
 He never forgive him to the day of his death 
 for openin' the. collection one day 
 with Charles the Secondses helmet on 
 Mrs. Hannah Mooreses head^ an' Daniel in 
 the Lion's den in >'V illiam Pennses spectacles, 
 
 with MDM other partf '• ambr«lU an«1«r hit 
 arm. 
 
 Bui o« w«r«n't o* m witty turn, an'n<A 
 given to jokas, which is not suited to w«i« 
 worksa? rule, collections bein' mostly serioufc 
 An', as I say, him %n' hii master got »long 
 •o well that one day, after they ha<l ifii to. 
 aether a year or s<i, the showman, he says te 
 him, "Joe," says he, "I'm bl.K«ed if I'd 
 mind takin' vou in aa a partner." An' that 
 very mornin he has tho rei^'lar papers mad* 
 out, nn' the thing was dont without no mort 
 said about it. An' partners they was till h« 
 died, which happened very unexpected —him 
 a sayin' sudden one night when they was a- 
 shnttiii' up together, "Joe, old chap, I'm 
 blensed if my works aint a ruiudn' down," 
 an' gives one look round at the figgers. an* 
 then drops— which the medii'al lan Raid it 
 was dropsy of the heart. When his thing! 
 was looked over, it was fo ind he'd left every 
 thin' to .loe except one partio'lar u Iv figger, 
 as turned his ey^s with a iquint ai couldn't 
 be done nothin' with, an' him hod '»ft to a 
 old maid relation as had a spite a^ >i him ; 
 "for," says the will, "she'd ought ri hava 
 him, for Ik'h the only chap I ever spi yet as 
 ri<uld match her — let alone stand her, in' it's 
 t.me she was takin' a partus if 
 she's goin' to." They did say i waa 
 nearly the party's death, for, though ley'd 
 quarrelled reg'lar for twenty-five yea i an' 
 hated each other deadly, she'd alwuy be- 
 lieved as she'd come into his belongi I's if 
 she outlived him, thinkin' as he would aka 
 no will. 
 
 Well, havin' had company for an lon^ it 
 waa nat'ral as Joe should feel l'>nely ka 
 after this, an' now an' then get a trifle do n> 
 hearted. He didn't find travellin' all al na 
 as pleasant as it had been, so when he waa 
 makin' anythin' at all in a place, he'd stay tn 
 it as long as he could, an' kind of try to per- 
 suade his!<elf as it was kind of home to hiin, 
 an' he had things to hold him to it. He had 
 a good many feelin's in secret as might bava 
 been laughed at if people had knowed 'em. 
 He knowed well as he wasn't the kind of chap 
 to have a home of his own — men as has homes 
 has wives, »n' who'd have wanted to marry 
 him, bless you — he wasn't the build as young 
 women take to. He weren't nothin' to look 
 at, an' he couldn'tchaff, nor yet lark, nor yet 
 be ready with his tongue. In general, young 
 women was apt to make game of him when 
 their sweethearts brought 'em into the col- 
 lection, an' there was times when a pretty, 
 light-hearted one wculd put him out so as ha 
 scarcely knowed the Royal Fam'ly by n%me, 
 an' mixed up the Empress of the French an' 
 Lucreecher Borgiar in the description. 
 
 So he lived on, lonesome enough, for two 
 *k«.» years, an' then aomethin' happei)T 
 
 or three 
 
u 
 
 SMETHURSTSES. 
 
 
 I'M''", 
 
 \l y 
 
 i 
 
 •ii'i 
 
 «d. He went up to London to stay while 
 *ne races was coin' nn «„» ^ wane 
 whpn +»,-. ii»™T °''» an one day. 
 waen the collection was nrettu fnii 
 there comes in a ftw^IJ «« Jj JP™*'=y . full, 
 his arm Tki „ n P*'^^ ^^*h a g rl on 
 cC wa«^n VT"' ''^ "^^^ ^ **'l' fine-fookin' 
 fn S Se ark S t'K'- ""' ^'^ J"«* '^^^^ 
 for he weir^atn' hifSL Lr^P'""' 
 
 kind of young woS\f -tie'sten otlt*t 
 
 ner oest, an was as pretty as a niotur' • v,„f 
 her clothes was all chpan ^" r P'^'^"'^ 5 but 
 
 wax-works In' ir '^^ *^, ^^^^ ^^en into a 
 C ml*?>, •''«' ^''^'^^^ wonderful to 
 
 q«e.ti». in ,he im,oc„t<,st way. 
 
 d.. sav, to w' *' "'^^^y' "'• "■"'' "le t" 
 
 her d>.„lS, , it' t^",^' keep ".er he»i „„ 
 
 ™?o:c;rj:£»-a:.K„-r.i! 
 
 K^f^T^^*. ?» i^.tbat way thrtju^h th« 
 
 w'sL'-^?^' ^«"«^" '^' adm?S?evf?y: 
 ^ 1^ "«* «y«» on. »n' Joe a-watchin' her 
 £hrvSa'*f S°-«*hin><^u"err'':;emeS 
 2m WW J^ ?^ *''.'" **>« ""'^ate be first 
 •ees her. He kep' a-wishin' »b the collection 
 
 was ten times as big, so as it would t«fc 
 longer for her to go through He conl!?n^ 
 
 aftei the fashion of the countrv-his heaJ 
 
 into the crowd he seemed to swallow it wi5' 
 a julp, as took it into the heels of 
 
 never?" ^ '^^''.* "^^^'" ««« ^'^ '^fi'^^' 
 r^,^t^!'^^'^'l °« «Pi"* in him all that davl 
 
 dMn% r'°.* f ^^^^^ ^° «'« colleSn . 
 didn t seem to know it. He took to standi^ 
 at th3 door whenever he could, a-lookm' 3 
 the people a-passin' by. An' y;t he sca?cef] 
 
 wanTed t'l '"'■ ^'.^^'^ «-" *he f?ce h 
 wanted to, he wouldn't a' dared to sav i 
 
 word, nor yet to move a step ; an' stufhJ 
 
 rir^"*^ri'^: l^y '"^' «>gh Ar a glTmpB^ 
 of what couldn't be no good to hipi. ^ ^ 
 
 get^n' 'eirr" ^^."«^'™«. muJTinsteadoJ 
 
 fasier W ^ ''' ^'^^ ^^''^ «°. begot unj 
 
 been an'PL'?' t\^?°''«"^ ''g^'" '^^ b« baJ 
 Been an he took his tea a-settin' with thJ 
 
 Royal Fam'ly reg'lar-he couldn^t havl 
 
 swallowed It by hisself. After shuttin'unl 
 
 he d go out wanderin' in the streets mpU^F 
 
 stt S'aT^""^ ''''/ -' -e 4bt^^^^^^ 
 snort all at once, a-feelin' hisseff turn naSsI 
 
 ' me I'm nnf I' '*~*° *^"«'« °o help for 
 S for T^o °.S*^? ?^° "' "I'^^Jd have done! 
 It, for I can't look for nothin' to come out ofl 
 
 sep^^„f''®^'^'''"."P,*°^*' because he didnJ 
 see no way out of it. Nobody wasn't! 
 troubled but hisself, an' so it didut ma? er 
 He got pale an' thin, an' didn't sleep well oJ 
 nights, but there wasn't no onelS bo he J 
 themselves about him-there weren'J even a 
 Te^'dYed!""*'*'^^"*^^-"-*-""^ 
 It went pretty hard with him to leavol 
 
 )tay away ; an I m blessed if he didn't coma 
 l^^" *^"» «'^ '»«''th« ; for, says K ' 
 
 thUSu^^'^ ".Pj*"^ "* '« Bomethin' more than 
 
 wn«M '^' Id rather as the coUection 
 
 would earn me « bare livin'^in a side «t««t 
 m London, than make money^w^ from"? 
 I might -ee her again , m'/uAlZV^l 
 
8HETHUR3T8ES. 
 
 25 
 
 big, so as it would tak, 
 
 go through. He conldal 
 )f seem' the liiBt of her, a 
 
 to the Kuesian party, 
 or, dressed for* the wintta 
 bein' protected with fu3 
 'I the country—his heail 
 
 an when she passed onl 
 seemed to swallow it wit 
 t into the heels of 
 
 I, all of a tremble in hij 
 ; never see her again- 
 
 irit in him all that dajl 
 It was as if v>methiii| 
 mmon had happened, an 
 be the same man again 
 in' down, an' nervous, i 
 ger in the collection „ 
 f It. He took to standin, 
 Jr he could, a-lookin' a] 
 -7' An' yet he scarcelvf 
 It hed seen the face hd 
 ildn't a' dared to say I 
 nove a step ; an' still hJ 
 
 an night for a glimpg 
 no good to him. 
 eve me, mui^instead ol 
 ne went on, he got unJ 
 mesome again as he had 
 s tea a-settin' with thd 
 lar— he couldn't havl 
 lelf. After shuttin' upl 
 I in the streets melani 
 B, an' one night he stopil 
 feehn' hisself turn paJel 
 
 comin' to him sudden! 
 
 sajrs he, fearful an' rei 
 «n there's no help fori 
 Q as should have done! 
 nothin' to come out ofl 
 
 ;o it, because he didn'll 
 it. Nobody wasn't! 
 tn so it didn't matter.! 
 »D didn't sleep well o'l 
 sn't no one to bother f 
 -there weren't even a I 
 tthe collection to, if! 
 
 d with him to leave 1 
 id leave it, he couldn't 
 issed if he didn't come I 
 onths ; for, says he to 
 
 »t do I want of money a-layin' back? " 
 Tell, the tirst night after he came back, 
 Jdid see her again. He'd set out the col- 
 Ition in the room he'd hired, an' then he'd 
 Be out in the old wanderiu' way, an' he 
 in't hardly stepped into the street before 
 [comes on a crowd gathered around some- 
 a' near a lamp-post ; so he stops nat'ral, 
 ' makes inquiries. 
 I*' Anybody hurt ? " says he. 
 I" No, not exactly," answers the man he'd 
 Dke to. "It's a young woman as has 
 ited, Ithink." 
 
 le makes his way a bit nearer, an' as soon as 
 
 [claps his eyes on the deathly face under the 
 
 sp-light, he sees as it's the face he's 
 
 en lookin' for an' thinkin' about so 
 
 ng- 
 
 " It's her t" he says, so shook as he didn't 
 low what he was doin'. " It's Polly !" 
 "Polly !" says the woman as was holdin' 
 Br head. " Do you know her, young man ? 
 you do, you'd better speak to her, for she's 
 ^t ccmin' to, poor little thing !" 
 He knowed he couldn't explain, an' he 
 links, besides, as the feelin' he had for her 
 light make his face look friendlier than a 
 kranger's, so he kneels down as the woman 
 ells him, just as she opens her eyes. 
 The crowd seemed to frighten her, an' she 
 8gan to tremble an' cry ; au' so Joe speaks 
 her, low, an' quiet, an' respec'ful — 
 "Don't be afraid, miss," he says — " don't. 
 Tou'll be well directly. " 
 She catches hold of his hand like a fright- 
 led baby. 
 
 " Send them away !" she says. " Please, 
 lon't let them stare at me. I can't bear 
 ;?" 
 
 ' Miss," says Joe, "would you mind bein' 
 9k into a collection, if this good lady would 
 with you ?" 
 
 " A collection" she says, all bewildered, 
 f'l haven't got any money. What is it 
 for?' Oh, please make them go away 1" 
 
 "Not a hat took 'round, miss," says Joe. 
 
 "Oh dear, no ! I was alludin' to a wax- 
 
 )rks which is quite convenient, an' belongs 
 
 me, an' a fire an' a cup of tea ready im- 
 
 lediate, an' a good lady to stay with you 
 
 mtil you feel better — an' all quite 
 
 jrivate.' 
 
 'Take me anywhere, please,'" she 
 laays. "Thank you, sir. Oh, take me 
 jutray." 
 
 So between them. Joe an' the cood woman 
 I helps her up an' leads her to the door as was 
 bnt a few steps oflf, an' Joe takes them in an' 
 flo t,o the back room, where the fire was a 
 bnmin an' the kettle singin', an' there he has 
 I them both to ait down. 
 
 The woman makes the girl lie down on the 
 ■•fa by the tire, an' she beiif weak an' wan- 
 
 derin' yet did as she was told without askin' 
 a question. 
 
 "A cup of tea'U set her up," says the 
 woman, "an' then she can tell us where she 
 lives an' we can take her home." 
 
 Joe went about like a man in a dream. 
 His legs was unsteady under him, an' he was 
 obliged to ask the woman to pour the water 
 on the tea, an' while she was doin' it he 
 takes a candle and slips into the collection 
 secret, to make sure the Royal Fam'ly was 
 there an' he wasn't out of Lis head. 
 
 The woman, havin' girls of her own, was 
 very motherly an' handy an' did all she 
 could, but she couldn't stay long, and after 
 she'd give Polly her tea, she says she must 
 
 go. 
 
 " An' I dare say as the young man as is so 
 kind-hearted '11 come along with me, an' we'll 
 see you home together, my dear. " 
 
 They both looks at Polly then a-waitin' to 
 see what she would say, but she only looked 
 frightened, an' the next minute hides her 
 face in her little hands on the sofa-arm an' 
 begins to sob. 
 
 "I haven't got no home," she says, " nor 
 nowhere to go. What shall I do — what shall 
 I do ?" 
 
 Then the woman looks very serious an' 
 a bit hard-like about the mouth — though not 
 as hard as some might have done 
 
 " Where's your mother?" she says, just 
 the least short. 
 
 "I haven't none," says Polly. "I lost 
 her a month ago." 
 
 "You aint in mournin'," says the 
 man. 
 
 "No, ma'am,' 
 afford it." 
 
 " An' your father?" 
 
 But this made the poor little thing cry 
 harder than ever. She wrung her hands an' 
 sobbed pitiful. 
 
 "Oh, father!" she says. "Good, kind, 
 easy father, if you was alive I wouldn't b« 
 like this. You always loved me — always. 
 You never was hard, father. " 
 
 "What have you been livin' on !" says 
 the woman, lookin' as if she was a-relentin*. 
 
 " I was in a shop" — 
 
 But Joe couldn't stand no more. 
 
 "Ma'am," he says in an undertone, "ifa> 
 pound or so, which not bein' a fam'ly man 
 an' a good business at times, I have it to 
 spare, would make matters straight, here it 
 is. " An' he pulls a handful of sdver out of 
 his pocket and holds it out quite eager an' 
 yet fearful of givin' offence. 
 
 Well, then the woman lo«ks sharp at him. 
 
 " What do you mean?" she asks. "D» 
 you wtuitme to take her home with tnef" 
 
 "M«'«m," says Joe, "yea, if a poondor 
 
 wo- 
 
 says Polly, "I couldn't 
 
8MWHUB8T8W. 
 
 r.vv 
 
 4 
 
 if I 
 
 ill 
 
 Bnt sh« stops him by tarainf to «h« 
 
 •hrMkJ. ^°" * '••P**'**^^* young womtof 
 The pretty face was hid oa the sofa-arm 
 5° »»^%V'^*".«r '""'''"» «odroopi?Th"t 
 
 pound"--™'" '^^" ^' ^"'■"^' "'' fi^« 
 It seemed like the woman a heart was 
 touched, though she answered him rough 
 
 Wliralk'Ste"?" ^"*^ **•« ""^ 
 
 So Joe took her into the collection, an' the 
 end of It was that they made an agreement! 
 
 •8 She was fair and straight an' would take 
 
 iTstlrtatf.V,'^^- \'' h P--3e heJt; 
 last to take the girl with her an' ask no 
 
 questions, an' he was to pay her a tr fle to 
 make It straight an' no bur5en to her 
 
 fprpnw ° • . ^^y^ ^^^' "'f "he had a dif- 
 ferent face an' one as wasn't so innocent an' 
 young. I wouldn't take her at no price, for 
 I ve girJs of my own as I tell you, an' pVans 
 that's what makes me easier on her." ^ ^ 
 "OK 
 
 Wh^n they was gone away, Joe goes into 
 toe room they'd left an' sets hisself down by 
 the hre an' stares at the sofa. ^ 
 
 "She set there," he says, "an' she laid 
 
 tr^'fr '^' ^••™' '^"'^ I'kewise drunk o"t 
 
 .t*et%trmTn^'''^^^^^"^«-«""- 
 
 mo£ltVy'^''^. «^««P ^««« he get that 
 th! h;A ''*'' •''° ''**'"«8' a»' thinks until 
 
 Through a delicateness of feelin' he does 
 
 In fh ^"-^htres near her for 1 day or so 
 
 Bonnt'" 'S' woman-whose name S Mrs! 
 Uonny— calls in to see him 
 
 Well" she says " it seems all right so 
 Shes a nice little thing, an' she\ got 
 m a millinRrv f\nM,,. +,..„.. ...t t. ■ ° 
 
 ' 
 
 far 
 
 work in a mdlire7y X;; ^ow"!,' In'ryT^l 
 ^y word a..' asked no question . an' wUl you 
 come aa' have a cup of 'tea with'us this e/eu" 
 
 •w^lar.1 T, m' ^'«"\g>ad enough, though 
 •WKward, an he saw her again an' shn w..a 
 prettier an' innocenter lo?kin' than ever 
 though pale an' timi.i. When she give he^ 
 
 beT„'«!^\^"ri" "'''. '^y^' "Thank^:Jou f^r 
 bein 80 kind to me." he couldn't say a sinde 
 word .u answer, he were so basMuT fS 
 
 He was always bashful enough, even after 
 they kuowed each other better an 'Vm Jood 
 
 to take a childish Iikin' to him, wi' always to 
 
 ^tefS'ir'^""' " '^''^ "'^'''^^' *•! 
 
 rnlV^'lf'i"*'*®^'*" ■<• "^'n** to me that nia, 
 Joe? 'she'd say. " You hadn't never S 
 me before you know. Oh, how cood 
 
 Xn r ' ^n' he hadn't n'everThf cour 
 to tell her as he had. 
 
 Through one thirig an' another, it i 
 quite a while before she chanced to see « 
 collection, but. aflast, one afternoon th] 
 alUomes down-Mrs. Bonny, the girl's.? 
 
 \nZflTf *"8*"'"' '™"°*1 with Joe, an'l 
 couldn't help wonderin' anxious if she wot 
 remember as she had seen the place W 
 ?nth« A»f«did. Before She had b« 
 n the room three minutes, she beginM 
 look round strange an' puzzled, an' when J 
 cnn.es to Lady Jane Grey, she catches J- ' 
 arm an' gives a tremblin' start 
 
 ivel)een here before," she saj's. "J^i 
 
 orw!?sv:r-'-^"^-.'-'«hebre. 
 
 hef'soasttTft" * «hair and stands befoj 
 ner, so as the Bonnys can't see. 
 
 it wi?h"1* -T- ^""K ^« ««y«' h«t he saj 
 shJl. .f"'''° '^^'°'' hecause he sees? 
 tJff r/"^™^^'- him at all, an' that . 
 hasn t forgot her handsome swt etiieart. 
 
 hhe doesn't cry much more for fear of tl 
 Bonnys but she doesn't laugh nor talk . 
 
 HtT/" '^' ?'' «f the'Savran' hi 
 little downcast face was enough to Lkil 
 man's heart ache. I dare say ns you'iUwJ 
 
 aflthrbnt'- "'' *\'*°S «"^° in'^the fie d 
 all this, but it was his way to hanc on to J 
 
 thing quiet an' steady, and you rLeJ? ^ 
 
 what I ve said about his simpleness. So h 
 
 thr. „.h"l? ,r J''*^""* * hit^f hope unS 
 thr<,ugh P,,lly herself he speaks almost wit- 
 out knowing It, an' it happens in ti 
 collection just three months from the day , 
 she recognized Lady Jane Grey ^ 
 
 JoP ?" -h* "^'^^you.sogood to me that nighd 
 ielL f.r^' *^T,^ him, mournfur ^ 
 
 flse wm,l-1 h"'''u '''*" ^°'-««t i*- No 01 
 else would have been so good." 
 
 nJir.?''^'"Hl^T' a-takin' out his banda 
 
 dav llr^J", *"? ^'''■"'^^*^' ^"'•' though a cod 
 
 --"Poll^>^'"*'''V"''" ^ f'-^P perfpirat.^ 
 Jr-olly, It was because I loved vou " aJ 
 
 whoTe'So^y "''' *'"""' '"' *"'' '^^ ^ 
 " ^"t'" says he at the end, "don't letthsfl 
 
 PoK 1 i °" ^''''^ °«*hing to give m&l 
 i'olly. an', consequently, ' ' ' -■ 
 
 Polly, an 
 nofeh'r' " 
 
 I don't aski 
 
 haWtnoS /''*•' '° * ''*" whisper, "ll 
 naventnothm to give no one." I 
 
 but ni^flV ^*«°'* three Weeks before^— | 
 ui 11^" y"*" ^"""^ '* happened. ' 
 
 Hedbeea myited to t£e Bennys'to* 
 
SMETHUBSTSaB. 
 
 i' M ahe'd aomethin' to] 
 
 ou so kind to me that nig, 
 "You hadn't never m 
 know. Oh, how good' 
 be hadn't never the cour 
 lad. 
 
 ihirig an* another, it i 
 jre she chanced to see u 
 •last, one afternoon, thJ 
 Mrs, Bonny, the girls, i 
 
 k chair and stands befoJ 
 lys can't see, ] 
 
 ly." he says, but he saJ 
 eelm', because he sees i 
 •er him at all, an' that i 
 ndsome sweetheart, 
 nuch more for fear of tk 
 oesn't laugh nor talk 
 i of the day, an' h^ 
 I was enough to mak«j 
 I dare say ns you'll thin 
 hang on so in the face t 
 his way to hang on to( 
 ady, and you lememl 
 it his simpleness. So L 
 3ut a bit of hope unt 
 If he speaks almost witl 
 m' it happens in th 
 months from the day i 
 Jane Grey. 
 
 so good to me that nigh* 
 " to him, mournful ai 
 ball forget it. No oi 
 » so good. " 
 
 a-takin' out his banda 
 ihead, for, though a coi 
 t in a frep perapi ratio 
 ausel loved you." Ai 
 ough an' told her tl 
 
 ' when he went there, ke found Polly ailin*. 
 le was white an' nervous, an' her eyes 
 jked big an' woful. 
 
 'She had a fright last night," Mrs. Bonnv 
 Jd him. " Some scamp of a fdlow fol- 
 »wea her all the way home an' it's npsot 
 ler." 
 She hardly spoke all the evenin', but lay 
 _Bk in the big rockin'-chair a lookin' at Joe 
 rery now an' then as if she was askin' him 
 „ help her, and when he'd bid em all good- 
 ught an' was half way down the street, he 
 htears the door open again, an' who shouhl 
 jme runnin' after him but her, all out of 
 breath, an' catches him by the arm, 
 ryiu' : — 
 
 'Joe," she says, "do you— do you love me 
 lyet, Joe ?" 
 
 " Polly," he says, " what is it, my dear T" 
 IWI hearin' her ask her such a question, 
 [tamed him almost' sick with joy an' pain 
 [together. 
 
 •' Because," she sobs out — " because, if you 
 [love me yet — take me, Joe, an' keep me 
 iMfe." 
 
 An' before he knows how it happens, he 
 I has lier in his arms, with her face against his 
 >»t. 
 
 After they was both a bit quiet, he takes 
 '• ker back to Mrs. Bonny, aA' says he : — 
 
 •• Mrs, Bonny, Polly an' me "is goiu' to be 
 sarried. '' 
 An' Mrs. Bonny says : — 
 •' Well, now, Polly, that's sensible ; an' 
 though I say it as shouldn't, I must own as 
 I wouldn't care if it was 'Meliar." 
 
 An' she kisses Polly, an' the girls kisses 
 her, an' they all shake hands, an' it's a settled 
 thing. 
 They was married almost immediate, an' Joe 
 was as happy as a man could be under the cir- 
 fumstancen; for, mind you, he wasn't a-de- 
 feivin' hisself, an' knowed well enough as 
 his wasn't the kind of a marriage where 
 there's two hearts beatin' warm together, 
 ^n' both is full of joy and hope." 
 
 "But," says he, "I never expected this 
 much, an' r<l be a queer sort of a chap not 
 to be grateful as the woman I love could 
 turn to me for comfort when she needed it ; 
 mn' if love can bring love, mine'll be like to 
 4o it some day." 
 
 So he waited an' hoped, an' did his best, 
 •n' he sometimes thought as Polly drawed a 
 bit nearer to him as time went on. At any 
 rate, she was a goo<l, gentle little thing, an' 
 slvt'uys srciiicil iryiu' to please ixim iQ a 
 wistful, longin' way, as if she had somethin' 
 to make up for. Once, when they was set- 
 tin' together at night, she come an' knelt 
 down before him, and hid her face on his' 
 Juiee. 
 
 "Joe," she says, "was yon. never afraid to 
 
 marry me — when— when you reaember^M 
 
 I'd never told you nothin' t" 
 
 "No," he answers. "No Polly— never.^ 
 "But I might have been a wicked girl," 
 
 "No," says he, stout and tender, "Yom 
 migntn't, Polly;" an' he etoops down an' 
 kisses her pretty hair. 
 
 She burst out cryin', and creeps closer, 
 so as to lay her cheek on his hand, 
 
 "I might have been,'* she says; "but I 
 wasn't, Joe — I wasn't, because God an' you 
 hilped me." 
 
 An' yet he knows as there's somethin' be- 
 hind as keeps her from bein' happy, though 
 she tries so hard an' faithful. He always 
 sees the wistfulness in her eyes, an' hears it 
 iu her voice, an' time an' time again he 
 knows she's lyia' awake at night a-grievin* 
 quiet. One mornin', after she's been lower 
 than common, a letter comes to her, an' he 
 sees her turn white, an' after she holds it a 
 minute, she walks up to the tire an' throw* 
 it in, an' before he goes back to the collec- 
 tion, she comes an' catches him 'round the 
 neck, an' says : — 
 
 "I want to be a good wife, Joe — I want 
 to be, an' I will," an' cries a bit sgain." 
 
 That very afternoon there comes a swell 
 into the wax-works, an' as soon as Joe sets 
 eyes on him, he knows its the chap he first 
 see Polly with in the race-week; there he it 
 a-saunterin' 'round an' pretendin' to be un- 
 concerneil, an' yet keepin' a sharp look-out 
 around him. So Joe goes up to him, and 
 speaks to him quite tirm and low : — 
 
 "Was you lookin' for any one, sir?" h« 
 asks. 
 
 The swell looks at him cool enough. 
 
 "What's that you say, my good fellow?" 
 he answered. 
 
 "Well," says Joe, "nothing in a general 
 way, perhaps; only, sir, I was a-thinkin' as 
 p'r'apa you might be lookin' for some one as 
 was unprotected an' helpless, an' there aint 
 no such party a praty here; an' if you'd like 
 your money returned at the door — ine bein* 
 the proprietor of the collection — I shouldn't 
 have no objection." 
 
 "D your collection,,' says the swell; 
 
 but he turns round and goes out balf »- 
 laughin'. 
 
 At tea that evenin' Polly was dreadful 
 restless an' timid an' seemed to bea listenin' 
 to somethin', an' after a bit Joe finds out 
 what it is— its footsteps apassin' back'ard 
 
 I t. ' I _„™'1~- . ««' +U,.r» /rnaa nn t-Uah 
 
 ail'a i^Ti ar-.i i rrg iSe , ctm •-.c-j- ^ — .— 
 
 way for a good hour, an' then stops ; an' all 
 the time Polly sits close to Joe, as if she was 
 afraid to leave him, her eyes shiuin' and her 
 voice shakin' when she speaks. Only that 
 somethin' tells him as she doesn't want him 
 to go he wonld have went out ; an' in th* 
 
28 
 
 8METHURSTSES. 
 
 iijiiif 
 
 w 
 
 
 middle of the night he was almost sorry he 
 • o^4£;S^51*'''^«^-*«^ her sleep oili'.^ 
 " Oh, the footsteps}— the footsteps • Make 
 Wtfor^-'-^'^^^ ""^^-^ theSr/j^efor 
 She was quite ill an' weak for a month an' 
 then, queer enough, a cha.ge came over he" 
 She got her colour back gradual an' went oui 
 oftener, an' was brighter when she was hf 
 the house She went to see the BonZ fre 
 quent, a-helpin' them to get reaTlv to tltl" 
 
 won m iier that Joe began to feel hopeful an' 
 
 head on his breast once an' whis^pefs ^ '"^ 
 
 its J\th! '^""^ ^ "' S"^"^' *^ be happy an' 
 Its all through your bein' so lovin'an' pa- 
 
 you.' Jol?" '"'' ^^*^ '"^ ^ ^-g time-didS 
 
 They had been married near twelve months 
 then an' the week the Bonnys goes aw^v ioe 
 has to go too, bein' called away by business 
 ?^ p",7^ ^?°"S'^ ^« ^a« to go. ^ But he sav; 
 to Polly when he kisses her^ood-bys at tYe 
 
 +J' l^ y^^ S^^ ^o'^esome pack up an' co to 
 
 f.bl^'*'!.^*'""*"^*"'*' because no one can 
 take^such care of me as you ;an' I w^t you! 
 
 ^ ell it happened as his business was irnt 
 over quicker than he'd looked for an'Te %!?« 
 homo withm two weeks. But when he fets 
 back he doesn't find Polly Thing's Jf ^f •! 
 upsot as if she'd gone off^n a huSy L' he 
 
 ^n« f ^i"'"i'"«^«° *he table as saj, '^iVe 
 
 gone to the Bonnys, dear Joe-it was so 
 
 lonesome without you." ° 
 
 An- when he reads it he sees tear-marks on 
 
 reii, roily You must have been a bit low 
 hlJ''^'- He had that there letter in hT^ 
 hand, an was still a-lookin' at it, when Siere 
 comes a knock at the door, an' he Tnswers it 
 
 have von? wt^^'' "y°"'^« ^O'n® back 
 navej'ou ? How are vou. an' hn-ar'^ p^ik. ... 
 
 „ :L"^iy I Bays he, " Polly 1" "" ' 
 
 "Pouf ' *° ''t ^"'■°,'," "^^ *°8wer8 him back, 
 Polly ; for, to tell tho truth. I've been » 
 
 bit anxious about her, an' that'^ ih^ i comJ 
 W*S\r°"u*« I got back to town?^. """^ 
 Well, they both stood atUl an' looked at 
 
 'ASa!~^"" * '''* ^p"*'^'^*' «°' J>»°» coll 
 
 '«Pon''" ^??5^' ™a'am," says he at lasU 
 fv, 1 Z "^^"^ *° y°" a week ago, for hereJ 
 the letter as tell's me so." ^ ' M 
 
 "Joe,"savs Mrs. Bonny, a-fallin' baok «J 
 turmn' pale Coo, "PoUy ai^nt never been niglf 
 
 "Then," says Joe, " she's dead " l 
 
 He never thought of nothin' else but thJ 
 
 h c^^ }',*''■ i""ocence an' youth. ThinlS 
 
 harm of Polly, as had laid her ch.ek aiaimS 
 
 faTtoo^tende" l" ^''"' ""^'"' ^^ ^«-d H 
 It was Mrs. Bonny as first said the worrl 1 
 for even good women is sometimes ha^d on 
 women, you know She followed him int! 
 the room an' looked about her, an' she brokJI 
 ".. n^-r '.^"ery an' yet son'owful :1 """I 
 Oh, Joe ! J oe ! " she say s. "How conlH 
 she have the heart to do it '" 
 
 But Joe only answered her, bewildered- 
 
 "Th» 1. ^T^"" •' ^« ««y«- "Polly?" 
 fhe heart to leave you, "she says "ThJ 
 
 to hold f *"rT ^.'^^^ ^^^"-^ ^- «o much 
 to hold her baok-the heart to shame a 
 
 ma'amf'Po'i;:^'" "^^ '°^- "Shame, 
 
 mean/wl ^^^«^^( *" understand what she 
 meant, an he sees it's what the other people 
 
 ?j!lyToi^7t.'^" '^^^'^°"' ^«^P ^*--- 
 
 isn'7lf ''^ *i *''"®l" ?® °"««' wild-like. " It 
 me an Jl"' '* .'^°"'** '^^^ ^he's trusted 
 fapptan'-!fl'?° ""' "'" ^^S^^^' *<> be 
 
 " A7?n''K*'""'T^^. *'''^'" «^y« Mrs. Bonny. 
 
 An so have I ; 'out she's kept her oT?n 
 
 secrets, an' we knowed she had 'em A? 
 
 there's my 'Meliar as heard of some R^^ 
 
 faTSrhe^r.^'^^^^' '^ ^ *^« «^-* -' 
 
 But Joe stops her. 
 '«Jj!''^ she doesn't come back," he save, 
 shes dead, an' she died innocent." S 
 wouldn t hear another word 
 
 ^etie^T '"' ^^ '^"''* §"* bis strength to- 
 ffp ?n i^, «^*' "^ .*?^ begins to fet the 
 
 as If she was there as he could. He fold, 
 away the two or three things as she's left 
 about, an' puts 'em in the drawers an' ,hn2 
 
 She ci^^Wn'f' ";, ^"°»y sets a-watchin'"hii: 
 bhe couldn t understand the slow quiet wS 
 as he does everything. ^ ^ 
 
 "Joe," snesays, when he's done, "what 
 do you mean ? " ' '*"■• 
 
 ♦^ V ^?'x. ®°°°y' ™a'am," he says, " I maiii 
 to trust her, an' I mean to be^r^^ly 'C^ 
 
SMKTHURSTSES. 
 
 1 . : 
 
 29 
 
 lit impatient, aD'himcol^V' a-'"^"*'"' whenever she comes back, an' 
 
 na'am," says he at W 
 1 a week ago, for herel 
 le so. " V 1 
 
 Bonijy, a-faJIin' back aol 
 oily aint never been niglf 
 
 , "she's dead." 
 of nothin' else but thaJ 
 td happened as had cuJ 
 ience an' youth. Thinll 
 d laid her chf-ek againstl 
 id him to come back tol 
 1, ma'am, he loved herl 
 
 ' as first said the word,l 
 I is sometimes hard onl 
 
 She followed him intol 
 ibout her, an' she broke] 
 I yet sorrowful : — 
 she says. "How could I 
 
 doit?" I 
 
 sred her, bewildered— 
 i!" he says. "Polly?" 
 3 you, "she says. "The 
 !ien there was so much 
 he heart to shame a 
 
 her, an' her knowin'f 
 
 says Joe. "Shame, j 
 
 understand what she 
 what the other people 
 innot help it or save 
 
 ae back," he says. 
 
 n he's done, " what 
 
 ._aver. 
 
 ["However?" says Mrs. Bonny. 
 •* Yes, mura" he says, "howsumever, for 
 k-e isn't a thintr as is easy killed ; but, 
 lind you, I'm not afraid as her soul has 
 pme to hurt an' I've no thought of givin' her 
 
 Mrs. Bonny, she sees he's in earnest, an' 
 le shakes tier head. She meant kind 
 touch, but it wasn't her as had been in love 
 lib Polly, an' had worked so hard to win 
 (r. When she went Joe followed her to 
 le door. 
 
 "Ma'am," he says, "have you any objec- 
 ms as this here should be a secret betwixt 
 m an' me ?" , 
 
 Well, I've no doubt as it was a bit hard 
 her as she shouldn't have the tellin' of 
 and the talkin' of it over, an' she couldn't 
 lelp showin' it in her looks; but she's a 
 ' soul, as I've said, an' she promises, an' 
 Toe he answers her, " Thank you., ma'am; 
 i' would you mind givin' me your hand on 
 ?" An' she does, an' so they part. 
 Yon may think what the next week or so 
 to Joe, when I tell you as, thoue;h he 
 led night an' day, he couldn't hear a word 
 »m Polly, or find no sign. An' still be- 
 levin' in her, he wouldn't make no open 
 an' talk. He had a fancv as perhaps 
 tmethin' of her old trouble nad took her 
 >ff, an' he stuck to it in his mind as she'd 
 tme back an' tell him alL An' I dare say 
 ron'U say, " Why should he, in the name cf 
 '" that's simple ?" Well, ma'am, he had a 
 >n, an' that there reason held him up 
 [when nothiu' else would. But it seemed as 
 all hope was to be tore from him. A 
 Ideanin' up the room one afternoon, he comes 
 jacross a piece of half-burnt paper as had 
 [lodged in a corner, an' in pickin' it up some- 
 Ithin' catches his eye as strikes him bund an' 
 [weak an' sick — a few words writ in a fine, 
 Iflonriahin' hand, an' these was them : — 
 
 ' — wasting your life, my sweet Polly, 
 l<m a stnpid fellow who has not even sense 
 lenongh tosee that you are making a sacri- 
 I flee and breaking your innocent, foolish 
 [heart. Don't break mine, ^lOO— don't turn 
 I *way from me as you did on that dreadfnl 
 If you love me, trust me. Come 
 Ito^— 
 
 That was all, for the rest was burnt ; but 
 when he'd read it, Joe's hbpe was swept away 
 [complete. "She'd been gettin' love-letters 
 troni another man, an' readin' them, an' 
 keepin' them secret, an' now she was gone 1 
 Mb set down, an' let the paper drop on the 
 floor. 
 
 "I — didn't know," he Bays, "asthemr— 
 mti women's — ways. Lord help yon, Polly, 
 I* me,— «n' Lord be pitiM ta It 1" 
 
 There's no nae of makin' the story longer 
 than can be helped, an' besides, words 
 wouldn't tell what sufferin' that there little 
 back room saw in the three next weeks, 
 There's no knowin' what kept the poor chap 
 from staggerin' in from his work some night 
 an' fallin' heart-broke in death on his lonely 
 hearth. He suffered an' strove an' bore, an' 
 yet kept his secret close. He neither eat nor 
 slept, his face growed white an' haggard, an' 
 his eyes holler. He kept away from the 
 Bonnys, an' kept away from all as knowed 
 him. Even the sight of the collection was 
 too much for him. He'd set there by the 
 ashes of the fire hour after hour at night, 
 a-lookin' at the grayness, an' not carin" to 
 ■tir. 
 
 "I didn't know," he'd say again au' again 
 over slow to himself an' the emptiness an' 
 quiet— "I didn't know — as them — was 
 women's ways." 
 
 Just five weeks from the time as he'd 
 come home and found his wife gone, he was 
 a-settin' this very way over the grate one 
 evenin' at dusk, when he hears a key aturnin' 
 in the door gentle-Uke an' he lifts his head 
 to listen. "Who's that?" he says, "as is 
 trjrin' to come in ?" 
 
 But the next minute he starts up, a-knock> 
 in* the chair over back 'ard, his heart a-beatin' 
 loud enough to be heard, for the one as 
 turned the key was in, an' had light feet, an' 
 come an' pushed the room door open an' 
 stood there a second. An' it was Polly, with 
 a bundle in her arms. She didn't look 
 guilty, bless you, though she were a little 
 pale an' excited. She was even a-laughin', 
 in a shy, happy, timid way, an' her eyes 
 was wide an' shinin'. 
 
 But Joe, he weren't strong enough to bear 
 it. He breaks out into a cry. 
 
 "Polly," says he, "is it because you're 
 dead that you've come back to me ?" An' he 
 makes a step, gropin' an' staggerin', and 
 would have fell if she hadn't run an' caught 
 him, an' pushed him into ai chair. 
 
 "Joe,' she cries out, kneeling down be- 
 fore him — •' Joe, dear Joe, whars the mat- 
 ter ? It's Polly, an' "—an* she puts her face 
 against his vest in the old way — "an' yon 
 mustn't frighten me." 
 
 That, an' the touch of her hand brings 
 him back, an' he knows in a second as he 
 has her safe, an' then he catches her an' be- 
 gins to hug her tight, too shook to (rav a 
 word. 
 
 But she pulls back a bit, half frightened 
 an' half joyfuL 
 
 " Joe,^' she says, "didn't you think I was 
 at the Bonnys f Have you been anxious ¥* 
 An' then, a-Iaaghin' nerroos-Iike "Yo« 
 mastn't sqaeeze so, Joe—don't yon seet" 
 
SMITHURSTSES. 
 
 m 
 
 |i!f. 
 
 An ahe lajr« the bundle on hia knee an' 
 •pena the shawl an' shows him what's iu it 
 
 " He's he's only a little one," she says, 
 •-laughin' an' cryin' true woman fashion, 
 
 but he grows every day, an' he's notioin' 
 already. " 
 
 Joe makes an effort an' just saves hisself 
 from bustin' out m a sob as might have told 
 •11— an' tills time he folds 'em both up a»' 
 hold em, a-tryiu' to stumble at a prayer in 
 his mind. 
 
 "Polly," says after a bit, "tell me all 
 about It, for I don't understand how it is as 
 its come about." 
 
 But girl as she is, she sees as there's some- 
 thiu beliiiid, and she gives him a long look, 
 _ "Joe," she says, "I've more to tell tiiau 
 ]U8t how this happened, au' when I lay quiet 
 with little Joe on my arm, I made up my 
 miud as the day I brought him home to you 
 was the day as had eome for y.m to hear it 
 an so you shall ; but first I must lay him 
 down ail make the room warm." 
 
 Which she gets up an' does, an' won't let 
 Joe do nothin' but watch her, an' while she's 
 at It he sees her sweet youna face a-workin' 
 an when everythin's done, an' the tire burnin' 
 bright, an the kettle on, an' ihe little fellow 
 eomfortable on her arm, she draws a little 
 wooden stool up to his knees an' sits down on 
 it, an her face is a-workin' still. 
 
 "Not as I'm afraid to tell you now, Joe, 
 though 1 ve held it back so long ; but some- 
 times 1 ve thought as the day would never 
 come when I could, an' now I'm so glad -so 
 glad, she whispers. 
 
 An' then a-hoWin' his hand an' the child's 
 too, she tells him the whole story of what her 
 •ecret was an' why she kept it one, an' as 
 you may guess it was all about the man as 
 Joe had seen her with. 
 
 The night she'd fainte I in the street she'd 
 found out his cruel heart for the first time, 
 an It had well nigh broke her own. The 
 people as she worked for had turned her off 
 througii hearin' of him, an' her own mother 
 ■as was a hard, strict woman, had believed 
 the scandal and turned against her too. An' 
 then when she had gone to him in her fear 
 an trouble he had struck her down with 
 words as was worse than blows. 
 
 "But beiu' so young, Joe, an so weak," 
 •he says, "I couldn't forget him, an' it 
 seemed as if I couhln't bear my life ; an' I 
 knowed that if he come back again it would 
 be harder to turn away from him than ever. 
 -^-n it was. an' wheu he foiiered me an' 
 tried me so I knowed as I'd give up if there 
 wasn t something to hold me stioi.g. An' I 
 asked you to save me that night, Joe. an' 
 you said you would. Joe," she whispers, 
 don t hate me for beiu' so near to sin and 
 uame. 
 
 After a little while she tells him the tea 
 But even when he knowed I waa a ffc 
 man a wife he wouMn't let me rest na 
 tried to see me again an' again, an' wrote mJ 
 letters an besot me in every way, kiiowiBl 
 as I wasn t worthy of you, a.i' .lidn't loJ 
 you as I ought. But the time come when i 
 grew weaker an' you grew stronger, Jo« 
 How could 1 hve witli you day afteFday anl 
 see the contrast between you, an' not fear/ 
 to love the man as was so patient an' true b 
 me, an despise him as only love>" hisaelf ani 
 was too selhsh an' cruel to have eitlier mercj 
 or pity? So the day come wlien I knowed] 
 nee.in t fear huu nor myself no more, an'l 
 told him so. It was then 1 told you I wa 
 goin to be happy; an' Joe, dear, I wa 
 happy-particular lately. Do you belierj 
 me, Joe?— say as you do," 
 
 " Yes, Polly," says Joe. " Thank God ij 
 "Kissme, then," she says, " an' kiss littlj 
 Joe, an then I'll teU you how the other cot 
 about. 
 
 He did it prompt, an' witha heavin' hear 
 an then the other was soon tol 1. 
 
 "I hadn't seen him tor a long time whej 
 you went away," she tellshim, "an' I thoueh 
 I d seen the last of him ; but you hadn't beei 
 gone a week before I met him face to face iJ 
 the street ; an' that same night a letter oomi 
 an through me bein' lonesome an' nervoua 
 like, au seein'himso determined, it frighte 
 el me, an' I m ide up my mini I'd go to thj 
 boniiys an get heartened up a little befoMT 
 you come back. So I started all in a hurrJ 
 as soon as I could get ready. But before pj 
 got half way to my journey's end, we hadi 
 accidect— not much of a one, for the trai 
 as met each other wasn't goin' so fast bai 
 that th3y coul'd be stopped iu time to savJ 
 much real harm bein' done, an' people wa 
 mostly [yMlly shook an' frightened. But 
 fainteii away, an' when I come to myself 
 was lym on a bed in a farmhouse near thi 
 line, au the farmer's wife, as was a good soul 
 she was atakin' care of me, an' says she 
 Where 3 your husband, my girl ?' an' I says 
 1 m not sure I know, ma'am,^an' faints awa] 
 again. ' 
 
 ,." Y®^', *¥ "^^* mornin' I was lyin' then! 
 still, but little Joe was on my arm. an' I hai 
 the st/ength to tell where I lived, an, howl 
 was 1 diiln't know where to send for yo 
 An the farmer's wife was like a mother 
 
 me. an she cheers ms vr-. -■■.' —- ' '~v. 
 
 nevermind. Bless us I'what a^CyfufsB 
 prise It 11 be to the man I Think of that!' A 
 1 did think of it until I made up my mind i 
 I wouhln t send no word at all until I couW 
 come home myself; for, aaya i, ' He'll thinki 
 1 m at the Bonnvs', an' it'll save h.im beSi 
 worriod. An' that waa how it was. Jo»,*^ 
 
 'ifesBC^. 
 
ONR SAT AT ARLA 
 
 le she tells him the rei 
 he knowed I was a go 
 uldn't let me rest. ^ 
 n an" again, an' wrote ml 
 3 in every way, knowiBl 
 of you, an' didn't lovf 
 it the time coma when 1 
 S.OU grew stronger, Jo 
 ith you day after day a_ 
 ;ween you, an' not learj 
 vaa so patient an' true t 
 as only love.' liiaseif an, 
 fuel to have either mefcjl 
 y come when I knowed. 
 3r myself no more, an'] 
 .3 then 1 told you I wa 
 ! an' Joe, dear, I wa, 
 ately. Do you believ] 
 )U do." 
 
 ■s Joe. " Thank God 
 she says, "an' kisslittlj 
 I you how the other cot 
 
 an' with a heavin' hear 
 as soon tol 1. 
 
 n tor a long time wh«J 
 tells him, "an' I though 
 im ; but you hadn't beei 
 
 met him face to face ij 
 Jame night a Idtter comt 
 i' lonesome an' nervouj 
 determined, it frighte__ 
 ' my mini I'd go to th(| 
 tened up a little befor 
 I started all in a hurr. 
 I ready. But before l'\ 
 ourney's end, we had i 
 •f a one, for the traia, 
 asn't goin' so fast bol 
 jpped in time to 8av<f 
 
 done, an' people wa 
 an' frightened. But 
 2n I come to myself 
 I a farmhoase near th, 
 vife, as waa a good soul, 
 of me, an' says shei 
 id, my girl?' an'Isayt 
 ma'am, an' faints awaj 
 
 nrniu' I was lyin' then^ 
 3 on my arm, an' I had/ 
 lere I lived, an, how il| 
 lere to send for yc 
 was like a mother 
 
 a 11*% A..' .^-..~ I fir. 
 - "i; ntj nttjs, VT t. 
 
 9 I what a joyful si 
 il Think of that!' A 
 I made up my mind l. 
 ird at all until I could 
 r, says i, ' He'll thiL 
 i' it'll save him beinl 
 M how it waa. Jo*,* 
 
 , of hesitatih', "hare you anytbin' to tell 
 V" 
 
 the looks at him timid an' gentle, and he 
 Its down at the fire. 
 ' Not if vou'd rather not, Joe," she says ; 
 
 Int I thought "— 
 
 Foe, he thinks a bit, an' then answers her 
 
 ive »n' slow : — 
 
 f' Polly," says he, "I found a piece of 
 
 it there letter. Will you forgive me, an' 
 
 I it pass at that for little Joe's nake ? " 
 
 Bhe stoops down and kisses his haiid, with 
 io her eyes. 
 
 ^' Yes," she answers, "an' for yours too. 
 
 |)u've more to fDigive than me, Joe — an' it 
 
 I quite nat'ral." 
 lAn she never asks him another que!<tion, 
 It sets there sweet an' content, an' they 
 Ith sets tiiere almost too haupy to speak ; 
 Id there's such a look in her face as goes to 
 be's heart, an' he breaks the quiet, at last, 
 
 »yin' : — 
 i "Polly, I hope it aint no wrong in me a- 
 
 thinkin' it — for this aint no time for me to 
 hare none but the reverentest and gratefiileat 
 humble heart— but as you set there with the 
 little fellow so peaceful on your breast, I can't 
 help bein' minded of the Mother as we see in 
 the churches, an as some prays to." 
 
 Well, mum, that's the whole story, an' 
 somehow it's run longer than I thought for ; 
 but there's nothm' more left to say, hut that 
 if you could gee that there little'joe to-day 
 he'd astonish you ; for though but five year 
 old, I'm blessed if he don't know every Kgger 
 in the c<dlection by name, an' is as familiar 
 with Henry the Eightlises fam'ly as I am 
 myself ; an' says he to me only the other day, 
 "Father"— at least— Well, mum, I sup- 
 pojo I may as well own up to it, now I've 
 done — though a nat'ral back'ardness made it 
 easier for nie to tell it the other way. But 
 you're right in supposin' so ; an' not to put 
 too tine a point too it, the story in mine-^ 
 that there Joe bein' me, an' Polly my wife, 
 an' that there collection Smethuistses. 
 
 ONE DAY AT ARLE, • 
 
 One day at Arle — a tiny scattered fishing 
 
 alet on the north western English coast — 
 
 lere stiod at the door of one of the cottages 
 
 |ear the shore a woman leaning against the 
 
 intelposc and looking out : a woman who 
 
 rould have been apt to attract a stranger's 
 
 jre, too — a woman young and handsome. 
 
 Phis was what a first glance would have taken 
 
 a second would have been apt to teach 
 
 aore and leave a less pleasant impression. 
 
 |he was young enough tohave been girhsh, 
 
 «t she was not girlish in the least. Her 
 
 iitue, weii-knit figure was braced 
 
 »inst tlie door-post with a tense sort of 
 
 ength ; lier handsome face was just at this 
 
 ime as dark and hard in expressicm as if she 
 
 ad been a woman with yeard of bitter life 
 
 ehind her ; her handsome brows were knit, 
 
 ' lips were set ; from head to foot she 
 
 okfld unyielding and atern of purpose. 
 
 And neitherformnorface belied her. Theear- 
 liest remembrance of the coast people coneern- 
 ing Meg Lonas had not been pver pleasant ones. 
 She had never been a favourite among them. 
 The truth was they had half feared her, even 
 as the silent, dogged, neglected child who 
 used to wander up and down among the 
 rocks and on the beach, working harder for 
 her scant livini; than the oldest of them. 
 She had never a word for them, and never 
 satisfied their curiosity upon the subject of 
 the treatment she received from the ill- 
 conditioned old granfather who was her only 
 living relative, and this last peculiarity had 
 rendered hei more unpopular than anythins; 
 else would hare done. If she had answered 
 their questions they might have pitied her ; 
 but as she chose to meet them with stubborn 
 silence, they managed to show their dislike 
 in many ways, until at last it became • 
 
ONB DAY AT ARLB. 
 
 'Ii' 
 
 ill 
 
 !l I:' > 
 
 settled point among tliem that the girl waa 
 an outcast in their midat. But even in those 
 day* she gave them back wrong for wrong 
 and scorn lor scorn ; and aa she grew older 
 ahe grew stronger of will, less prone to for- 
 give her many injuries and slights, and more 
 prone to revenge them in an oUstinate, bitter 
 fashion. But as she grew older she grew 
 handsomer too, and the tisher boys who had 
 jeered at her in her childhood were anxious 
 enough to gain her good-wiii. 
 
 The women flouted her still, and she defied 
 them openly ; the men found it wisest to be 
 humble in their rough style, and Jier defiance 
 of them was more scornful than her defiance 
 of their mothers and sisters. She would re- 
 venge herself upon them, and did, until at 
 last she met a wooer who was tender enough 
 It seemed, to move her. At least so people 
 aaid at first ; but suddenly the lover dis- 
 topeared, and two or three months later the 
 whole community was electrified by her sud- 
 den marriage with a suitor whom she had 
 been wont to treat worse than all the rest. 
 How ahe treated him after the marriage no- 
 body knew. She was more defiant and ailent 
 than ever, and gossipera gained nothing by 
 asking questions. So at last she waa left 
 alone. 
 
 It was not the face of a tender wife wait- 
 ing fer a loving husband, the face that was 
 turned toward the sea. If ahe had hated the 
 for whcflh she watched ahe could not 
 
 man , „ 
 
 have aeemed more unbending. Ever aince 
 her visitor had left her (she had had a visitor 
 during the morning) she had stood in the 
 same place, even in the aame position, with- 
 out moving, and when at last the figure of 
 her husband |ame alouching acroas the 
 Bands homeward ^he remained motionless 
 still. 
 
 And surely his waa not the face of a happy 
 hnaband. Not a handsome face at ita duU 
 best, it waa doubly unpreposaeaaing then, aa, 
 pale and breathless, he passed the stern form 
 in tLe door-way, hia nervous, reluctant eyes 
 avoiding hers. » 
 
 * VI X? L ^°^ y**'" dinner aw ready on th' 
 toble, she said to him aa he paaaed in. 
 
 Everything waa neat enough inside. The 
 fireplace was clean and bright, the table was 
 •et tidily, and the meal upon it was good I 
 enough in its way ; but when the man en- 
 tered he cast an unsteady, uncomprehending 
 glance around, and when he had flung him- 
 ■elf into a chair he did not attempt to touch 
 the food, but dropped hia face unon hia &nn 
 on the table with a aound like a'little groan. 
 
 She must have heard it, but she did not 
 notice it even by a turn of her hoad, bnt 
 Wood erect and steadfast until he spoke to 
 aet. She might have been muting for Itii 
 words -porhaps she wm. 
 
 Tna canat come in an' aav what tha o 
 to aav an' be done wi' it," he aaid at laat 
 a sullen, worn-out fashion. 
 
 She turned round then and faced him, haJ 
 er to be met in her rigid mood than if ahe 
 been a tempest. 
 
 "Tha knows what I ha getten to say " u 
 answered, her tone strained and husky wij 
 repressed fierceness. "Aye I tha knows f 
 well enough. I ha* not much need to t^ 
 thee owt. He comu here this morninK 
 he towd mr aw I want to know about the 
 Seth Lonas— an' luore too. " 
 
 '•He comn to me, " put in the man. 
 
 Shi advanced toward the tablp and atrud 
 It once with her hand. j 
 
 ..TJ^*r*i°.'^'^ raeapowero'liea," ahe aaii 
 J ha a lied to me from first to last to aeri^ 
 tfiy own eenda, and tha'st gained 'em— tha'i 
 lied me away fro' the man as wur aw th 
 world to me, but the time's comn now wha 
 thy day a o'er, an' his is comn agen. 
 thou bitter vUlain J Does ta mind how J 
 comn an' towd me Dan Morgan had gone 
 the fair at Lake wi' that lass o' Bariegatsl 
 That wur a lie an' that wur the beginnin] 
 Does ta mmd how tha towd me aa he mad 
 light o me when the lads and lasaea plague 
 him, an threeped him down aa he (fidi 
 mean to marry no such like lass aa me— i 
 as wur ready to dee fur me? That wuri 
 and that wur th' eendm', aa tha knew i 
 would be, for I apumed him fro' me the yen 
 next day, and wouldna listen when he trie! 
 to atraighten' out. But he got at th' trutM 
 at last when he wur fur fro' here, and h^ 
 browt th truth back to me to-day, an' theer'i 
 *ne eend for thee— husband or no-" 
 
 The man lay with hia hevi upon his an 
 until she had finished, and then he looks 
 "P.^Ht^^'** *°d shaken and blind. 
 
 Wilt tha listen if I apeak to thee?" 
 aaked. 
 
 lielr'^^*'" "^®*°''"'»"d, "liaten to 
 
 And she slipped down into a sitting 
 tare on the stone door-atep, and sat ther 
 her great eyea ataring out seaward, h« 
 hands lymg looae upon her knee, and tre 
 bung. 
 
 There waa something more in her mc 
 thim resentment. In this simple gestore sU 
 had broken down as she had never broke 
 down m her life before. There waa pi 
 sionategnefinherface, a wild sort of 
 spair, such as one might see in 
 
 j--''"«"ucu, uuiamea creature. Ua 
 
 was not a fair nature. I am not telling 
 story of a genUe, true-aouled woman— I • 
 wmply relating the incidents o« one bitti 
 day whose tragio close was the endine ot 
 roiMh romance. " 
 
 H«r life had been » long battle against 
 
 aer 
 
ONE DAY AT ARLE. 
 
 38 
 
 > in an' say what tha 
 vi' it," he said at last, 
 fashion. 
 
 then and faced him, har 
 rigid mood than if she 
 
 1 1 ha getten to say," „ 
 
 strained and husky wil 
 . "Ayel tha knows 
 
 not much need to te| 
 11 here this morning 
 int to know about th( 
 re too. " 
 
 " put in the man. 
 ard the tablp and stru( 
 id. 
 
 apowero'lies," she saii 
 rom first to last to ser» 
 tha'st gained 'em— tha'i 
 e man as wur aw tl 
 I time's oomn now wh( 
 lis is comn agen. 
 
 Does ta mind how . 
 an Morgan had gone . 
 that lass o' Bamegatsl 
 lat wur the beginninj 
 la towd me as he mac 
 
 lads and lasses plague 
 m down as he didt 
 tch like lass as me — 1 
 
 fur me ? That wuri 
 sendm', as tha knew . 
 led him fro' me the ver, 
 aa listen when he trieq 
 3ut he got at th' trutl 
 r fur fro' here, and hi 
 to me to-day, an' theer'i 
 isbaud or no-" 
 lis hevl upon his an. 
 ., and then he look* 
 :en and blind. 
 
 I speak to thee?" 
 
 red, "listen to m»r 
 
 9, a wild sort of 
 
 long battle agaiiicll 
 
 rld's soora ; she had been either on the 
 Ensive or the defensive from childhood to 
 iraanhood, and then she had caught one 
 ipse of light and warmth, clung to it 
 troingly for one brief hour, and lost it. 
 Inly to-day she had learned that she had 
 It it throngh treachery. 8he had not dared 
 /believe in her bliss, even durinc; its fairest 
 (istence ; and so, when light-hearted, hand- 
 le Dan Morgan's rival had worked us^ainst 
 with false stories and false proofs, her 
 }rce pride had caught at them, and her 
 Ivenge had been swift and sharp. But it 
 fallen back upon her own head .now. 
 lis vejy morning hands-ome Dan had come 
 ck again to Arle, gnd earned his revenge, 
 lo, though he had only meant to clear him- 
 llf when he told her what chance had 
 roUj^ht to light. He had come back — her 
 Jver, the man who had conquered and 
 reetened her bitter nature as nothing else 
 I eaith had power to do — he had come back 
 ad found her what she was — the wife of a 
 fat whom she had never cared, the wife 
 [the man who had played them both false, 
 ad robbed her of the one poor gleam of joy 
 lie had known. She had been hard and 
 rild enough at tirsti but just now, when she 
 jlipped down upon the door-step with her 
 (ack turned to the wretched man within — 
 rhen it came upon her that, traitor as he 
 ras, she had herself given him the right to 
 ake her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp 
 bis tender power — when the fresh sea-breeze 
 blew upon her face and stirred her hair, and 
 Ihe warm, rare sunshine touched her, even 
 freeze and sunshine helpeU her to the end, 
 ko that she broke down into a sharp sob, as 
 ^ny other woman might have done, only that 
 le repressed strength of her poor warped 
 tieartmade it a sob sharper and deeper than 
 mother woman's would have been. 
 
 " Yo' mought ha' left me that !" she said. 
 
 I" Yo' mought ha' left it to me ! There wur 
 
 ather women as would ha' done yo', there 
 
 ir no other man on earth as would do me. 
 
 lo' knowed what my life had been, an' how 
 
 lit wur hand to hand betwixt other folk an' 
 
 Yo' knowed how much I cared fur him 
 
 »n' what he wur to me. Y'o' mought ha* let 
 
 ius be. I nivver harmed yo'. I woiudna harm 
 
 |yo' so sinful cruel now." 
 
 " Wilt tr. listen?" he asked, labouring as if 
 I for breath. 
 
 "Aye," she answered him, "I'll listen, 
 I fur tha conna hurt me worsen Th' day fur 
 
 'well," said "he, "listen an' I'll 
 [try to tell yo'. I know it's no 
 [use, but I mun say a word or two. 
 Happen yo' didna know I loved yo' aw yo're 
 I life— happen yo' didna, but it's true. When 
 ; yo' wur a Uttle lass gatherin' sea- weed on 
 
 3 
 
 th' sands I watched yo' when I wur afeared 
 to speak — afeared least yo'd gi' me a sharp 
 answer, fur yo' wur ready enow wi' 'em, 
 wench. I've watched yo' fur hours when I 
 wur a great lubberly lad, an' when yo' get- 
 tin' to be a woman it wur th' same thin^ 
 I watched yo' an' did yo' many a turn as yo' 
 knowed nowt about. When yo' wur search- 
 in' fur drift to keep up th' Hre after th' owd 
 mon deed au' left yo' alone, happen yo' nev- 
 er guessed as it wur me as lieaped little piles 
 i' til' nookstfo' th' rocks so as yo'd think 'at 
 th' tide had left it theer — liappen yo' didn't, 
 but it wur true. I've stayed round th' old 
 house many a neet, feared summat mought 
 harm yo', an' yo' know yo' nivver gave me 
 a good word. Met;. An' then Dan comn an' 
 he made way wi' yo' as he made way wi' aw 
 th' rest — men an' women an' children. He 
 nivver worked an' waited us 1 ilid — he niv- 
 ver thowt au prayed as I did ; everything 
 come easy' wi' him— everything alius did 
 come easy wi' him, an' when I seed him so 
 light-hearted an' careless about what I wur 
 craviu' it run me daft an' blind. Seemt like 
 he couldiia cling to it like I did, an' I begun 
 to fight agen it, an' when I heerd about that 
 lass o' Baruegats I towld yo', an' when I seed 
 yo' believed what I didna believe mysen, it 
 run me dafter yet, an' I put more to what 
 held back some, an' theer it wur an' theer it 
 stands, an' if I've earnt a curse, lass, I've 
 getten it, fur — fur I thowt yq'd been learn- 
 in' to care fur me a bit sin' he^'wur wed, an' 
 God knows I've tried to treat yo' fair an' 
 kind i* my poor way. It warna Dan Mor- 
 gan's way, I know — his wur a better way 
 than mine, th' sun shone on him somehow — 
 but I've done my best an' truest sin'." 
 
 "Yo've done yo're worst," she said. "Th' 
 worst yo' could do to part us, an' yo' did it. 
 If yo'd been half a mon yo' wouldna ha' 
 been content wi' a woman yo'd trapped into 
 say in' 'Aye,' an' who cared less for yo' than 
 she did fur th' sand on th' sea shore. What's 
 what yo've done sin' to what yo' did afore ? 
 Yo' conna wipe that out and yo' conna mak' 
 me forget. I hate yo', an' th' worse because 
 I wur beginnin' to be content a bit. I hate 
 mysen. I ought to ha' knowed" — wildly — 
 "he would ha' knowed whether I wur true 
 or false, poor chap — he would ha' knowed." 
 
 She rocked herself to and fro for a minute, 
 wringing her hands in a passion of anguish 
 worse than any words, but a minute later 
 she turned upon him all at once. 
 
 "Ail's o'er betwixt vo' an' ms " she p.ald 
 with fierce heat; "do yo' know that ? If yo' 
 wur half a man yo' would. " 
 
 He sat up and stared at her humbly and 
 stupidly. 
 
 "Eh?" he said at last. 
 
 "Theer'a not a mon i' Arle as isna more 
 
 m 
 
S4 
 
 ONE DAY AT A RLE. 
 
 to mo now than tha art," she said. " Some 
 on eiu be houost, an' I conna say that o' 
 • ,„, * '^^'^^^ H"* *'>^'« K"»o or I'll no my. 
 
 sen. Tha knows t me well enow to know 
 1 11 ne er for^ie thoo for what tha'b iloiie. 
 Aye —with the passionate hand-wrinaina 
 again—" but tliat wunnot undo it," 
 
 He rose and oame to iier, trembling like a 
 man with tlie ague. 
 
 ''Yo'dunnot mean that thear, Mag," he 
 said slowly. " You dunnot mean it word 
 fur word. Think a bit." * 
 
 "Aye, but I do," she answered him, set- 
 ting her white teeth, " word fur word." 
 
 "Think again, wencli." And this time 
 he staggered and cauglit hold of the door- 
 post. "Is theer iiowt as'll go agen th' 
 wrong ? I ve lived wi' tliee nigh a year, an' 
 I ve loved thee twenty— is theer nowt fur 
 me? Aye, lass, dunnot be too hard. Tha 
 was alius harder than most womankind • try 
 an be a bit softer like to'rds tli' inou as 
 risked his soul because he wur a mon an' 
 darena lose thee. Tha laid thy head on my 
 shoulder last neet. Aye, lass— lass, think o' 
 that fur one minnit." 
 
 Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she 
 faltered a little— what woman would not 
 have faltered at such a moment ?— but the 
 next, the memory of the sunny, half-boyish 
 face she hail clung to with so strong a love 
 rushed back upon her and struck her to her 
 heart. She remembered the days when her 
 lite had seemed so full that she had feared 
 her own bliss ; she remembered the gallant 
 speeches and light-hearted wiles, and all at 
 once she cried out in a fierce, impassioned 
 Toice: '111 ne'er forgie thee," she said- 
 
 ,■/" ^f,?'" ^"""S'® *^«« *o th' last day o' inv 
 life. What fur should I ? Tha's broke my 
 heart, thou villain— tha's broke my heart. " 
 And the next minute she had pushed past 
 him and rushed into the house. 
 
 For a minute or so after she was gone the 
 man stood leaning against the door with a 
 dazed look on his pale face. She meant what 
 she said : he had known her long enough to 
 understand that she never forgave— never 
 forgot. Her unbroken will and stubborn 
 strength had held her to enmities all Iier 
 life, and he knew she was not to be won by 
 such things as won other women. He knew 
 she was harder than most women, but his 
 dull nature could not teach him how bitter 
 must have been the life that rendered her 
 so. He had never thought of it-he did not 
 think of It now. He was not blaming her, 
 and he was scarcely blaming himself? He 
 had tried to make her happy and had failed. 
 Ihere were two causes for the heavy passion 
 of misery that was ruling him, but neither of 
 them was remorse. 
 His treachery had betrayed him, aod he 
 
 had lost the woman he had lo^ed and workJ 
 for Soul and body were sluggish alike, hi 
 each had its dull pang of weight and wretcj 
 cdness. ^ 
 
 ''I've come to th' eend now sirely " 
 said, and, dropping into her seat, he hid 
 face. 
 
 As he sat there a choking lump arose inh] 
 throat with a sudden click, and in a miini' 
 or so more ho was wiping away hot rollin 
 'oars with the back of his rough hand. 
 
 "I in forsook somehow," hesaid— "ayd 
 1 m forsook. « I'm not th' sort o' chap to taW 
 up with' world. She wur -..11 th' worhll 
 cared fur, an' she'll ne'er forg] e me, for she'l 
 a hard un -she is. Ayfe ! • uv, I wur fond 
 her ! I wonder what she'i: do -I do wonils 
 1 niy soul what she's getiiu' her 
 on !' 
 
 It did not occur to him to call to her orj, 
 and see what she was doing. He liad alwavi 
 stood m some dull awe of her, even when sli] 
 had been kindest, and now it seemed thai 
 they were too f.ar apart for any possibility a| 
 reconciUiation. So he sat and ponderel 
 fteavily, the i\-a air blowing upon him fresi 
 and sweet, tho sua shining soft and warn 
 upon the house, and the few common flowen 
 in the strip of garden whose narrow shej 
 walks and borders he had laid out for hJ 
 himself with much cjiumsy planning and sloi^ 
 
 Then he got up and took his rough woriil 
 ing-jacket over his arm. 
 
 '' I mun go down to th' Mary Anne," U 
 said, 'an' work a bit or we'U ne'er get he 
 o er afore th* tide comes in. That boatl 
 a moito' trouble." And he sighed heav| 
 
 Half-way to the gate he stopped before a 
 cluster of honeysuckle, and perhaps for thd 
 brst time in his life was conscious of a sudJ 
 den ouiious admiration for them. 1 
 
 " She's powerful fond o' such loike bits o] 
 things— posies an' such loike," he saidl 
 
 iheins some as I planted to please her oif 
 th very day as we were wed. I'll tak' one orj 
 two. She's main fond on 'em— fur such 
 hard un." 
 
 And when he went out he held in his hand 
 two or three slender stems hung with thd 
 tmy pretty humble bells. 
 
 He had these jery bits of simple blossomal 
 
 \T \ ^^®" ^'^ ^®"* '^^^^ t" ^^ere thej 
 M.iry y\ni!e lay on the beach foi- lepaira. «oj 
 
 his fellow-workmen said when they told the! 
 
 story afterwards, remembering even this! 
 
 trivial incident. f 
 
 He was in a strange frame of mind, too, 
 
 they noticed, silent and heavy and absent.! 
 
 He did not work well, bat lagged over hi»| 
 
ONE DAY AT ARLE. 
 
 8ft 
 
 ho had lo^ed and work« 
 were sluggish alike, 
 iig of weiglit and wretcj 
 
 iimsy planning and sloiJ 
 
 1 took his rough work! 
 n. [ 
 
 o th' Mary Anne," hd 
 b or we'll ne'er get he, 
 somes in. That boat'i 
 ^nd he sighed heavj 
 
 its of simple blossomsl 
 ant down to where the! 
 Dcacn for I'tipuird. tiui 
 id when they told the! 
 lembering even thisi 
 
 onr, stopping every now and then to naa* 
 back ol hii hand over hia brow as if to 
 ue Litnsulf. 
 
 r Yo' look as if yo' an' tli' missus had had 
 blliu' out ftu' yo u gotten tli' worst o' th' 
 l-gaiu," one of his coinradus said by way of 
 ugh jest. 
 I'hoy were fond of joking with him about 
 
 i love for (lis handsoaiu, taciturn wife. 
 
 It hu did not laugh this tune as he usually 
 
 *' Miud thy own tauklo, lad," he said dully, 
 
 ' I'll mind mine." 
 From that time he worked steadily among 
 sm until it was nearly time for Che tide to 
 |e. The boat they wore reparing had been 
 iifficult job to manage, as ttiey could only 
 ork between tides, and now being hurried 
 ley lingered longer tlian usual. At the 
 st minute they found it must bo moveil, 
 kd so were detained. 
 
 ("Better leave her until the tide ebbs," 
 ^d one, but the re^t were not of the same 
 liud. 
 
 ]"Nay, ' they argued, "it'll be all to do 
 Br ageu if we do that. Theer's plenty o' 
 ae It we look sharp enow. Heave again. 
 Is." 
 
 I Then it was that with the help of straining 
 Ud tugging there came a little lurch, and 
 |iRU it was that as the Mary Anne slipped 
 rer on her side one of the workmen slipped 
 hth her, sliuped half underneath her with 
 cry, and lay on the sand, held down by 
 lie weight that rested on hiin. 
 With his cry there broke out half a dozen 
 Ithers, and the men rushed up to him with 
 rightened faces. 
 
 'Are yo' hurt, Seth, lad?" they cried. 
 [•are yo' crushed or owt ?" 
 
 The poor fellow stirred a little and then 
 Doked at them pale enough. 
 
 "Bruised a bic,", he answered them, "an' 
 lick a bit, but I duuuot think theer's any 
 lonea broke. Look sharp, chaps an' heave 
 per up. She's a moit o' weiijht on me." 
 
 Tliey went to work again one and all, so 
 lelieved by his words that they were doubly 
 projig, but after toiling like giants lor a 
 /iiile they were compelled to pause for 
 |)reath. In falling the boat had so buried 
 kerat'if in the sand that she was harder to 
 jnove tliau ever. It had seemed simple 
 fenough at tirst, but it was 'i >t so simple, 
 kt'ter all. With all their ettbrts they had 
 learcely stirred her an inch, and their com- 
 rade's position interfered with almost every 
 plan suggested. Then they tried again, but 
 rith less effect than befoie, through their 
 fatigue. When they were obliged to pause 
 phoy looked at each other questioningly, and 
 lore than one of them turned a trilie paler, 
 iid at last the wisest of them spoke out : — 
 
 "Lads," he said, "we conna do this our- 
 sens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run 
 wi' thy might, fur it wunnot bo so long afore 
 th' tide'Uriow." 
 
 Up to tills time the man on the sand had 
 lain with closed eyes and set teeth, but 
 when he heard this his eyes opened and he 
 looked up. 
 
 " Eh?'' he said, in that blind, stupid fash- 
 ion. "VVitat's that theer tha's sayin', Mes- 
 tor?" 
 
 "Th' tide," blundered the speaker. I wur 
 tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw." 
 
 The poor fellow moved restlessly. 
 
 "Aye ! aye !" he said. "Look sharp— he 
 mun ilo that. 1 didna think o' th' tide. " 
 And he shut his eyes again with a faint 
 groan. 
 
 They strove while the jnessenger wa» 
 gone ; and they strove when he returned 
 with assistance ; they strove with might 
 and main, until not a man among 
 tliein had the strength of a child, and the 
 boldest of them were blanching with a fear- 
 ful, fugitive excitement none dared to show. 
 A crowd had gathered round by this time — 
 men willing and anxious to help, women sug* 
 gesting new ideas and comforting the 
 wounired man in rough, earnest style ; chil- 
 dren clinging to their mother's gowns and 
 looking ou terror-stricken. Suddenly, in the 
 midst of one of their mightiest efforts, » 
 sharp childish voice piped out from the edge 
 of an anxious group a brief warning that 
 struck terror to every heart that beat among 
 them. 
 
 " Eh ! Mesters " it said, " th' tide's creep, 
 in' up a bit. " 
 
 The men looked round with throbbing 
 pulses, the women looked also, and one of 
 the younger ones broke into a low cry. 
 " Lord ha mercy ?" she said; "it'll sweep 
 around th' Bend afore long, an' — ' " — and 
 she ended with a terror in her voice which 
 told its own tale without other words. 
 
 Tlie truth forced itself upon them all then. 
 Women began to shriek and men to i>ray, 
 but, strange to say, the man whose life was 
 at stake lay silent, with ashen lips, about 
 which tiie muscles were tensely drawn. 
 
 His dull eyes searched every group in a 
 dead despair that was yet a passion, in all 
 its stillness. 
 
 " How long will it be," he asked slowly at 
 last—" th' tide ? Twenty minutes ?" 
 
 " Happen so." was the answer^ " An'^ 
 lad, lad ! we conna help thee. We'n tried 
 our best, lad " — with sobs even from the un- 
 couth fellow who spoke. " There is na one 
 on us but ud leave a limb behind to save 
 thee, but theer is ne time — theer is na " — 
 
 One deep groan and he lay still again — 
 quite stilL God knows what weight of mor- 
 
 
ONE DAY AT AKLE. 
 
 ,,mg 
 
 onu 
 his voice — 
 
 choking as he 
 And he knelt 
 
 tal agony and desperate terror crushed him 
 in that tiead heipleiis pause. 
 Then hiu eyes ooened as before. 
 "I've thowt o' doein'," he said, with a 
 catch of his breath. " I've thowt o' deoiu,' 
 an' I've wondered how it wur an' what it 
 felt like. 1 never thowt o' deein' like this 
 here." Another pause and then — 
 
 " Which o' yo' lads '11 teU my missus ?" 
 " Ay 1 poor chap, por)r chap 1" Vailed the 
 women. " Who on 'em will ?" 
 
 "Howd tha noise, wenches," he said 
 hoaraely. " Yo' daze mo. Theer is na time 
 to brinn her here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said 
 a word to her. I'd ha liked to ha' said 
 word ; Jem Coulter "— rai 
 " canst tha say it fur me V 
 "Aye," cried the man, 
 spoke, "surely, surely." 
 down, 
 
 "Tell her 'at if it wur bad enow— this 
 here— it wur not so bad as it mought ha' 
 been— fur ni«. I mought ha' fun it worser. 
 Tell her I'd like to ha' said a word 
 if ^ I could -but I couldna, I'd like to 
 ha' heard her say one word, as happen she 
 would ha' said if she'd been here, an' tell her 
 'at if she had ha' said it th' tide mought ha' 
 comn an' welcome— but she didna, an' theer 
 it stands. " And the sob that burst from his 
 breast was like the sob of a death-stricken 
 child. " Happen "—he said next— " happen 
 one o' yo' women-foak ctn say a bit o' a 
 prayer— yo're not so fur fro' safe sand but 
 yo' can reach it— happen one o' yo' ha' a word 
 or two as yo' could say — such like as yo' 
 teach yo're babbies. " 
 
 Among these was one who had— thank 
 God, thank Grod ! and so, amid wails and 
 weeping, rough men and little children alike 
 knelt with uncovered heads and hidden eyes 
 while this one woman faltered the prayer 
 that was a prayer for a dying man ; and when 
 it was ended, and all rose glancing fearfully 
 at the white line of creeping foam, this dying 
 man for whom they had prayed lay upon his 
 death bed of sand the quietest of them all — 
 quiet with a strange calm. 
 
 "Bring me my jacket," he said, "an' lay 
 it o'er my face. Theer's a bit o' a posie in 
 th' button-hole. I getten it out o" th' mis- 
 
 sus's garden when I oomn away. I'd like 
 howhl it i' my hand if it's theer yet. " 
 
 And as the long line of white came cree 
 ing onwanl they hurriedly did a.^ he t. 
 them— laid the rough garment .iver his fac 
 and gave him the hinnlilu dviiii,- Mowers 
 hold, and having done this iiiid liiii.'..red 
 the hiHt momiJiit, ono after thj ..thir droiii.i 
 away with awo-Htricken suuIh until the lai 
 was gone. And under the aroli ,.1 Hunny nki 
 the little shining waves run up the l>eaclf 
 chasirii; each other over the glittering satiij 
 catching at shells luid sea-weed, toying witt 
 them for a moment, and then leaving thoiJ 
 rippling and curling ami whinpering, bu 
 crecpi^ig — creepmg— creeping. 
 
 They gave hin niesHage to the wdman , 
 had loved with all the desperate strength i 
 his dull, yet unchanging nature ; and whe, 
 the man who gave it to her saw her wili 
 white face and hard-set lips, he hlund.nl 
 upon some dim guess as to what that Bingi] 
 word might have been, hut the sharpest J 
 them never knew the stubborn anguish th»i 
 following and growing day by day, crushe 
 her fierce will and shook her heart. 8he wJ 
 as hard as ever, they thought, but they wert 
 none of them the men or women to guess i 
 the long dormant instinct of womanhor- 
 and remorse that the tragedy of this one dal 
 of her life had awakeneil. Hhe had said sh 
 would never forgive him, an.l perhaps he, 
 very strength made it long before she did] 
 but surely some subtle chord was touched hj 
 those heavy last words, for when, montk 
 later, her first love came back, faithful and 
 tender, with his old tale to tell, she wouM 
 not listen. 
 
 "Nay, lad," she said, "I amna 
 feather to blow wi' th' wind. I'v^ 
 had my share o' trouble wi' me 
 foak, an' I ha' no mind to try again. Hin, 
 as lies i' th' churchyard loved me i' his wa] 
 —men foak's way is apt to be a poor un— anl 
 I'm wore out wi' life. Dunnot come her 
 courtin'— tak a better wor^an." 
 
 But yet, there are those who say that thJ 
 time will come when he will not plead 
 vain. 
 
/^ 
 
 oomn away. I'd like 
 if it's theer yet. " 
 iuo of white cnnjo crce 
 iirrio<lly did t\^ he t) 
 !i garnK'iit "ivor his fai' 
 imiitilo dviiiii tlowori 
 1110 tlii.i and liiii;.,red 
 ) after tliy othiT droi)[if 
 ken s.iiils until the la 
 ei the aruh ol Hiiiiiiy hR 
 aves run up tiio ifeaciv 
 >vcr the glittering Haixj 
 d Bea-weoil, toying wit 
 and then leaving tlioiJ 
 ,' and whioiiering, bu 
 urecping. 
 
 isuage to the wrtman 
 10 (lesperate strength 
 cfiug nature ; and win 
 it to her saw her wil 
 l-set lipB, he iilundcn 
 I as to what that sing 
 len, but the sharpenti 
 ) atubborn anguish thti 
 ug day by day, crush 
 ook her heart. She w 
 thought, but they we 
 m or women to guess 
 instinct of womanho^ 
 tragedy of this one daj 
 ned. She had said si 
 him, an.l perhaps h. 
 t long before she did 
 le chord was touched h 
 rds, for when, moutli 
 ame back, faithful ani 
 tale to tell, she woul 
 
 ' I amna 
 
 ! said, 
 
 wi' th' wind, 
 i' trouble wi' 
 id to try again, 
 rd loved me i' his 
 ipt to be a poor un 
 !. Dunnot come 
 ■ wonjan." 
 ihose who say that th 
 he will not plead 
 
 I' 
 
 Hio 
 wa]| 
 
 hei 
 
 ESMERALDA. 
 
 To begin, I am a Frenclinian, a teatdier of 
 knguageH, and a poor man — necessarily a 
 nor man, as the great world would t*ay, or I 
 boidil not be a teacher of langiiagiix, and my 
 ntu a copyiut of great piutureti, selling her 
 spies at small prices. In our own eyes, it 
 true, we are not so poor — my Clelie and I- 
 K)king back upon our past we congratulate 
 Ives upon our prosperous condition. 
 I was a tinu! when we were poorer than 
 re are now, and were not together, and 
 irere, moreover, in London instead of in 
 t'aris. These were indeed cidamities : to be 
 ir, to teach, td live apart, not e"en know- 
 other — ard in Knglund ! In England 
 
 irsch 
 there 
 
 F'8 
 
 each I 
 
 e spent years ; we instructed imbeciles of 
 
 Ul grades ; we were chilled by east winds, 
 
 nd tortured by influenza ; we vainly strove 
 
 I conciiiate the appalliiuf Knglish ; we 
 
 ere discouraged and desolate. But this, 
 
 hank le ion Dkn ! is past. Wo are 
 
 nited ; we hive our little apartment — 
 
 pon the (il'th floor, it is true, but still not 
 
 opelessly far from the (^Hiamps Ely-ees. 
 
 lelie paints her little pictures, or copies 
 
 hose of some greater artist, and finds sale 
 
 'or them. She is not a great artist herself, 
 
 nd is charmingly conscious of the fact.. 
 
 "At fifteen," she says, "1 regretted that 
 
 was not a genius ; at live and twenty, I re- 
 
 oice that I made the discovery so early, and 
 
 gave myself time to liecome grateful for 
 he small gifta bestowed upon me. Why 
 hould I eat out my heart with envy ? Is it 
 not possible that I might be a less clever wo- 
 man than I am, and a less lucky one ? " 
 
 On my part I have my pupils — French pu- 
 
 fils who take lessons in English, German, or 
 talian ; English or American pupils who 
 generally leani French, and upon the whole, 
 
 1 do not suffer from lack of p.itrous. 
 It is .ny habit when Clelie is at work upon 
 
 acnpy in one of the great galleries to accom- 
 pany her to the scene of her labour in the 
 morning and call for her at noon, and, in 
 accordance with this habit, I made my way 
 to the Louvre at midday upon one occasion 
 three years ago. 
 
 I found ray wife busy at her easel in the 
 Qrande Oalerie, and when I approached her 
 
 laid my hand upon her shoulder, as was my 
 wont, biie looked up with a smile and spoke 
 to me in a cautious undertone. 
 
 " I am glad," she said, " that you nre not 
 ten minutes later. Look at those extraordi- 
 nary people." 
 
 iShe still leaned back in her chair and look- 
 ed up at me, but made, at the same time, one 
 of those indescribable movements of the lieatl 
 whieh a clever woman can render so signiti- 
 cant. 
 
 This flight gesture directed mo at once to 
 the extraordinary people to whom she refer- 
 red. 
 
 "Are they hot truly wonderful?" she 
 asked. 
 
 There were two of them, evidently father, 
 and daughter, and they sat side by side upon 
 a seat placed in an archway, and regarded 
 hopelessly one of the finest works in the gaU 
 lery. The fatln^r was a person un lersized 
 and elderly. His face was tanned and seam- 
 ed, as if with years of rough out-door labour; 
 the effect pro(luccd upon him by his clothes 
 was plainly one of acUial suttering, both phy- 
 sical and mental. His stiff hands refused to 
 meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them ; his 
 body shrank from his garments ; if ho had 
 not* been pathetic, he would have been 
 rjiiiculous. It was evident he was not so at- 
 tired of his own free will ; that only a 
 patient nature, inured by long custom to dis- 
 comfort, sustained him : that he was in the 
 gallery under protest ; that he did not under- 
 stand "the paintings, and that they perjdexed 
 — overwhelmed him. 
 
 The daughter it is almost impossible to de- 
 scribe, and yet I must attempt to describe 
 her. She had a slender and pretty figure ; 
 there were slight marks of the sun on her 
 face also, and, as in her father's case, 
 the richness of her dress was set at 
 defiance by a strong element of incougruous- 
 ness. She had black hair and gray eyes, 
 and she sat with folded hands staring at 
 the picture before her in dumb uninterested- 
 ness. 
 
 Clelie had taken up her brush again, 
 and was touching up her work here and 
 there. 
 
 'if I 
 
88 
 
 SSMEUALDA. 
 
 "They have been here two hours," she 
 said. They are waiting for some one. At 
 tirst they tried to look about them as others 
 did. They wandered from seat to seat, and sat 
 down, and looked as you see them doing 
 now. What do you think of them? To 
 what nation should you ascribe them ?" 
 
 " They are not French," I answered. "And 
 they are not English. " 
 
 " If she were English;" said Clelie, " the 
 girl would be more conscious of herself, and 
 of what M'e might possibly be saying. She 
 is only conscious that she is out of place and 
 miserable. She does not care for us at all. 
 I have never seen Americans like them be- 
 fore, but I am convinced that thev are 
 Americans." ' 
 
 She laid aside her working materials and 
 proceeded to draw on her gloves. 
 
 " We will go and look at that ' Tentaflon 
 de St. Antoine ' of Teniers," she said, "and 
 we may hear them speak. I confess I am 
 devoured by an anxiety to hear them 
 speak." 
 
 Accordingly, a few moments later an 
 amiable young couple stood before "La Ten- 
 tation," regarding it with absorbed and 
 oritical glances. 
 
 But the father and daughter did not seem 
 to see UP They looked disconsolately about 
 them, or at the picture before which they sat. 
 Finally, however,' we were rewarded by 
 hearing them speak to each other. The 
 father addressed the young lady slowly and 
 deliberately, and with an accent which, but 
 for my long residence in England and 
 familiarity with some forms of its patois, I 
 should find it impossible to transcribe. 
 
 ' ' Esmeraldy, ' ' he said, ' ' your ma's a long 
 time acomin'." 
 
 "Yes," answered the girl, with the same 
 accent, and in a voice wholly .listless and 
 melencholy, " she's a long time. " 
 
 Olelie favoured me with one of her rapid 
 side glances. The study of character is her 
 grand passion, and her special weakness is a 
 fancy for the singular and uncongruous. I 
 have seen her stand in silence, and regard 
 with positive interest one of her former 
 patronesses who was overwhelming her with 
 contumelious violence, seeming entirely un- 
 conscious of all else but that the woman was 
 of a species novel to her, and therefore 
 worthy of delicate observation. 
 
 " It is as 1 said,'' she whispered. " They 
 are Americans, but of an order entirely 
 new. " 
 
 Almost the next instant she touched my 
 una. 
 
 "Here is the mother!" she exclaimed. 
 " She is coming this way. See I" 
 
 A woman advanced rapidly toward our part 
 of the gallery— a small, angry woman, with 
 
 an ungraceful figure, and a keen brown eyq 
 She began to speak aloud while still sever^ 
 feet from the waiting couple. 
 
 "Come along," she said. I've found 
 place at last, though I've been all the mornj 
 ing at it — and the woman who keeps thJ 
 door speaks English. " 
 
 "They call 'em," remarked the husband 
 meekly rising, " con-aer-gea. I wondeil 
 why. '■' 
 
 The girl rose also, still with her hopeless, 
 abstracted air, and followed the motherj 
 who led the way to the door. Seeing hel 
 move forward, my wife uttered an aduiirinjf 
 exclamation. 
 
 "She is more beautiful than I thought,'! 
 she said. "She holds herself marvellously.! 
 She moves with the freedom of some finei 
 wild creature." 
 
 And, as the party disappeared from viewj 
 her regret at losing them drew from her 
 sigh. She discussed them with characteristij 
 
 She even 
 
 little rol 
 
 imagine 3o[ 
 
 Americana 
 
 a people j 
 
 by such peoulisn 
 
 was so immense i 
 
 remarkable. Thesq 
 
 enthusiasm all the way home. 
 
 concocted a very probable 
 
 mance. One would always 
 
 many things concerning 
 
 They were so extraordinary 
 
 they acquired wealth 
 
 means ; their country 
 
 their resources were so 
 
 persons, for instance, were evidently persoi 
 
 of wealth, and as plainly had risen from the! 
 
 i)eople. The mother was not quite so wholl 
 ey untaught as the other two, but she was| 
 more objectionable. 
 
 ' 'One can bear with the large simplicity! 
 of utter ignorance," said my fair philosopher.! 
 
 "One frequently finds it gentle and un-[ 
 worldly, but the other was odious because 
 it is always aggressive and narrow. " 
 
 She had taken a strong feminine dislike to| 
 Madame la Mere. 
 
 "She makes her family miserable," she 
 said. "She drags them 'from place to place.! 
 possibly there is a lover — more possibly than 
 not. The girl's eyes wore a peculiar look — ag| 
 if they searched for something far away." 
 
 She liad scarcely concluded her charmingl 
 little harangue when we reached our destfJ 
 nation ; but, as we passed through the en-f 
 trance, she paused to speak to the curly 
 headed child of the concierge whose motherl 
 held him by the hand. 
 
 "We shall have new arrivals to-morrow,"| 
 said the good woman, who was always ready! 
 for friendly gossip. "The apartment on the! 
 first floor," and she nodded to me signifi-] 
 cantly, and with good-natured encourage-l 
 ment. "Perhaps you may get pupils," she! 
 added. "They are Americans, and speak I 
 only English, and there is a young lady,] 
 Madame says." 
 
 it ;i^..Ai 
 
ESMERALDA. 
 
 99 
 
 .nd a keen brown eya 
 Dud while still severe 
 couple. 
 
 1 said. I've found 
 '.'ve been all the mornl 
 who keeps tha 
 
 "Americans !" exclaimed Clelie, with sud- 
 ,en interest. 
 
 Americans." answered the concierge. "It 
 as Madame who came. Mon Dieu I it was 
 onderful ! So rich and so— so"— filling up 
 ,e blank by a shrug of deep meaning. 
 " It cannot have been long since they were 
 peasants," her voice dropping into a 
 utious whisper, 
 
 "Why not our friends of the Louvre?" 
 ,id Clelie as we went on up-stairs. 
 "Why not?" I replied. "It is very 
 Bsible." 
 
 The next day there arrived at the house 
 
 mmberless trunks of large dimensions, 
 
 uperintended by the small angry woman and 
 
 herself marvellously. maid. An hour later came a carriage, from 
 
 freedom of some fine irhose door emerged the young lady and her 
 
 ather. Both looked pale an(f fagged ; both 
 
 isappeared from view ^^^^ ^®^ up-stairs in the midst of voluble 
 
 bem drew from her i omments and commands by the mother 
 
 em with characteristii "^ '"o**' entering the aoartiftent, seemed 
 
 wallowed up by it, as we saw and heard 
 
 kothin|^ further of them. Clelie was 
 
 oman 
 
 emarked the husban 
 n-ser-yes. I wondei 
 
 bill with her hopeless, 
 ollowed the mother, 
 the door. Seeing hei 
 e uttered an admirin] 
 
 ;iful than I thought," 
 
 She even 
 little ro' 
 
 Americans, 
 
 ay home. 
 
 probable ._ . ^ 
 
 always imagine so ndignant 
 cerning 
 lordinary a 
 h by such peouliai 
 Y was so immense 
 o remarkable. These 
 were evidently personi 
 inly had risen from the 
 was not quite so who! 
 her two, but she was 
 
 people hem," she said 
 
 peak and be interested in any novelty, 
 his one would be if she were not wretched. 
 
 ih the large simplicity 
 id my fair philosopher, 
 
 ds it gentle and 
 
 un 
 
 and narrow. 
 )ug feminine dislike to 
 
 mily miserable," she 
 m "from place to place. 
 
 -as 
 mething far 
 icluded her charming 
 we reached our desti 
 assed through the en^ 
 3 speak to the curly 
 mcierge whose mother 
 
 arrivals to-morrow," 
 wlio was always ready 
 The apartment on the] 
 lodded to me signifi 
 id-natured encourage 
 
 may get pupils," she] 
 Lmericans, and speak 
 ere ia a young lady, 
 
 "It is plain that the mother overwhelms 
 "A girl of that age should 
 
 \nd the poor little husband !" — 
 
 •My dear," I remarked, "you are a 
 •minine Bayard. You engage yourself 
 nth such ardour in everybody's wrongs." 
 
 When I returned from my afternoon's work 
 
 i few days later, I found Clelie again excited. 
 
 Ihe had been summoned to the first floor by 
 
 lladame. 
 
 " I went into the room," said Clelie, "and 
 
 - . . , ound the mother and daughter together. 
 
 was odious^ because ki^demoiselle, who stood b| the firt, had 
 
 u-morepossi^blythan ,harge a lesson ?' And 
 ^re a peculiar look — o"^- ° 
 
 ividently been weeping. Madame was in an 
 ibrupt and angry mood. She wasted no 
 Tords. ' I want you to give her lessons, ' 
 ihe said, making an ungraceful gesture in the 
 lirection of her daughter. ' What do you 
 'on my telling her, 
 he engaged me at once. ' It's a great deal, 
 mt I guess I can pay as well as, other people,' 
 he remarked." 
 
 A few of the lessons were given down- 
 tairs, and then Clelie preferred a request to 
 Madame. 
 
 "If you will permit Mademoiselle to come 
 10 my room, you will confer a favour upon 
 ae,"Bhe said. 
 
 Fortunately, her request was granted, and 
 
 I used afterward to come home and find 
 
 ademoiselle Esmeralda in our little salon 
 t work disconsolately and tremulously, 
 he found it difficult to hold hrr pencil in 
 
 e correct manner, and one morning she let 
 
 drop, and burst into tears. 
 
 "Don't you see I'll never do it?" she 
 
 answered, miserably. "Don't you see I 
 couldn't, even if my heart was in it, and it 
 aint at all !" 
 
 She held out her little hands piteottsly for 
 Clelie to look at. They were well enough 
 shaped, and would have been pretty if they 
 had not been robbed of their youthful supple- 
 ness by labour. 
 
 "I've been used to wo''k,"she said, "rough 
 work all my life, anu my hands aint like 
 yours. " 
 
 "But you must not be discouraged, 
 Mademoiselle, " said Clelie gently. Time" — 
 
 "Time," interposed the girl, with a fright- 
 ened look in her pretty gray eyes. " That's 
 what I cau't bear to think of — the time that's 
 to come. " 
 
 This was the first of many outbursts of 
 confidence. Afterward she related to Clelie, 
 with the greatest naivete, the whole history 
 of the family affairs. 
 
 They had been the possessors of some bar- 
 ren mountain lands in North Carolina, and 
 her description of their former life was won- 
 derful indeed to the ears of the Parisian. 
 She herself had been brought up with mar- 
 velous simplicity and hardihood, barely 
 learning to read and write, and in absolute 
 ignorance of society. A year a&:o iron had 
 been discovered upon their property, and the 
 result had been wealth and misery for father 
 and daughter. The mother, who had some 
 vague fancies of the attractions of the great 
 outside world, was ambitious and restless. 
 Monsieur, who was a mild and accommodat- 
 ing person, could only give way before her 
 stronger will. 
 
 " She always had her way with us," said 
 Mademoiselle Esmeralda, scratching nerv- 
 ously upon the paper before her with her 
 pencil, at this part of the relation. ' ' We 
 did not want to leave home, neither me nor 
 father, and father said more than I ever 
 heard him say before at one time. ' Mother,' 
 says he, ' let me an' Esmeraldy stay at home, 
 an' you go an' enjoy your tower. You've 
 had more schoolin' an' you'll be more at home 
 than we should. You're useder to city ways, 
 havin' lived in 'Lizabethville. ' But it only 
 vexed her. People in towix had been talk- 
 ing to her about traveling and letting me 
 learn things, and she'd set her mind on it." 
 
 She was very simple and unsophisticated. 
 To the memory of her former truly singular 
 life she clung with unshaken fidelity. She 
 recurred to it constantly. The novelty and 
 luxury of her new existepce seemed to have 
 no attractions for her. One thing even my 
 Clelie found incomprehensible, while she fan- 
 cied she understood the rest — she did not ap- 
 pear to be moved to pleasure even by our 
 Mloved Paris. 
 
 
 i 
 
;ft|' 
 
 40 
 
 ESMERALDA. 
 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 " It is a true maladie du pays," Clelie re- 
 marked to me. "Atid that is not all." 
 
 Nor was it all. One day the whole truth 
 was told amid a flood of tears. 
 
 " I— I was going to be married," cried the 
 poor child. "I was to have been married 
 the week the ore was found. I was — all 
 ready, and mother — mother shut right down 
 on us." 
 
 Clelie glanced at me in amazed question- 
 ing. 
 
 "It is a kind of argot which belongs only 
 to Americano," I answered in au undertone. 
 " The alliance was broken oflF. " 
 
 " Ciel ! " exclaimed my Clelie between her 
 small shut teeth. "The woman is a tiend !" 
 
 She was wholly absorbed in her study 
 A this unworldly and untaught na- 
 ture. She was full of sympathy for its 
 trials and tenderness, and tor its pain. 
 Even the girl's peculiarities of speech were 
 full of interest to her. She mi^e serioua 
 and intelligent efforts to understand them, 
 as if she studied a new language. 
 
 " It is not common arijot,'' she said. "It 
 has its subtleties. One continually finds 
 somewhere an original idea — sometimes even 
 a hon mot, which startles one by its pointed- 
 ne&s. As you say, however, it belongs only 
 to the Americans and their remarkable 
 country. A French mind can only arrive at 
 its climaxes through a grave and occasionally 
 tedious research, which would weary moat 
 persons, but which, however, does not weary 
 me." 
 
 The contidence of Mademoiselle Esmeralda 
 was easily won. She became attached to us 
 both, ai^d particularly to Clelie. When her 
 mother was absent or occupied, she stole up- 
 stairs to our apartment and spent with us 
 the moments of leisure chance afforded her. 
 She liked our roomj, she told my wife, be- 
 cause they were small, and our society, be- 
 cause we were "clever," which we dis- 
 covered after>vard meant "amiable." But 
 she was ilways pale and out of spirits. She 
 would bit before our fire silent and ab- 
 stracted. 
 
 "You must not mind if I don't talk," she 
 would say. " I can't ; and it seems to help 
 to get to sit and think about things. 
 
 me ^ _ 
 
 Mother won't let me do it down-stairs. 
 
 We became also familiar with the father. 
 One day I met him upon the staircase, and to 
 my amazement he stopped as if he wished to 
 address vcis. I raised mv h:;.;. and bads hifti 
 
 ifood-moming. On his part he drew forth a 
 arge handkerchief and began to rub the 
 palms of his hands with awkward timidity. 
 " How-dy ?" he said. 
 
 I confess that at the moment I was 
 covered with confusion. I who was a teacher 
 of English, and flattered myself that I wrote 
 
 and spoke it fluently did not understanc 
 Immediately, however, it flashed across mj 
 mind that the word was a species of saluta' 
 tion, (Which I finally discovered tcif be th( 
 case. ) I bowed again and thanked him, haz 
 arding the replj^ that my health was excel 
 lent, and an inquiry as to the state ol 
 Madame's. He rubbed his hands still mon 
 nervously, and answered me in the slow an 
 deliberate manner I had observed at th 
 Louvre. 
 
 •'Thank ye," he said, "she's doin 
 tol'able well, is mother — as well as common. 
 And she's a-enjoying herself, too. I wish w« 
 was all" — 
 
 But there he checked himself and glancec 
 hastily about him. 
 
 Then he began again : — 
 
 "Esmeraldy," he said— "Esmeraldy think 
 a heap on you. She takes a sight of com 
 fort out of Mis' Des I can't cal you 
 
 name, but I mean your wife, 
 
 " Madame Desmarres," I replied, " is re 
 plied, "is rejoiced indeed to have ^n the 
 friendship of Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Yes," he proceeded, "she takesa sight 
 of comfort in you ans all. An' she needs 
 comfort, does Esmeraldy." 
 
 There ensued a slight pause which some 
 what embarassed me, for at every pause- he 
 regarded me with an air of meek and hesi- 
 tant appeal. 
 
 " She's a little down-sperritted, is Esme 
 raldy," he said. "An'," adding this sud 
 denly and in a subdued and fearful tone, "so 
 am I." 
 
 Having said this he seemed to feel that he 
 had overstepped a barrier. He seized the 
 lapel of my coat and held me prisoner, 
 pouring forth his confessions with a faith in 
 my interest by which I was at once amazed 
 and touched. 
 
 " You see its this way," he said— "its this 
 way, Mister. We're home folks, ma an' Es- 
 meraldy, an' we're a long way from home, 
 an' it fiorter seems like we d'dn't get no 
 useder to it than we was at first. W^e're not 
 like mother. Mother she was raised in town 
 — she was raised in 'Lizabethville— an' she 
 allers took to town ways ; but me an' Esme- 
 raldy. we was raised in the mountains, right 
 under the shadder of old Bald, an' town goes 
 hard with us. Seems like we're a-thinkin' of 
 North Callina, An' mother she gets outed, 
 which is likely. She says we'd ought to fit 
 ,,....„., r--~ .••. .,t,i nijjiici =^;cai, au i acssay 
 we'd ought — but you see it goes kinder hard 
 with us. An' Esmeraldy she has her trouble 
 an' I can't help a-sympathizin' with h«r, fur 
 young folks will be young folks ; an' I was 
 young folks once myself. Once— once I sot 
 a heap o' store by mother. So you see how 
 it is.'* 
 
ESMEKALDA. 
 
 41 
 
 did not understand 
 , it flashed across mjl 
 ,8 a species of salata-i 
 
 discovered trt he tha 
 ind thanked him, hazJ 
 my health was excelJ 
 
 as to the state on 
 1 his hands still morel 
 id me in the slow and 
 lad observed at th«| 
 
 said, "she's doin'l 
 — as well as common, 
 srself, too. I wish we' 
 
 L himself and glancec 
 
 . — ' ' Esm eraldy thi n k 
 ikes a sight of com 
 — I can't cal you 
 wife." 
 
 !," I replied, " is r& 
 eed to have ^n the 
 elle." 
 
 I, "'she takes a sight 
 all. An' she needs 
 
 y-" 
 
 ; pause which 8on»e 
 )r at every pause he 
 ■ of meek and hesi- 
 
 ■sperritted, is Eame 
 ," adding this sud 
 and fearful tone, ' 'so 
 
 jemed to feel that he 
 ■rier. He seized the 
 held me prisoner, 
 si oils with a faith in 
 was at once amazed 
 
 '," hb said— "its this 
 me folks, ma an' Es- 
 ing way from home, 
 e we d'dn't get no 
 i at first. We're not 
 tie was raised in town 
 izabethville — an' she 
 s ; but me an' Esme- 
 bhe mountains, right 
 I Bald, an' town goes 
 ise we're a-thinkin' of 
 ther she gets outed, 
 ys we'd ought to fit 
 spea?, an' jl dc:33ay 
 ) it goes kinder hard 
 y she has her trouble 
 hizin' with her, fur 
 ig folks ; an' I was 
 Once — once I sot 
 r. So you see how 
 
 "It is very sad, Monsieur," I ainswered 
 with gravity. Singular as it may appear, 
 this was not so laughable to me as it might 
 seem. It was so apparent that he did not 
 anticipate ridicule. And my Clelie's inter- 
 est in these people also rendered them sacred 
 in ray eyes. 
 
 " Yes," he returned, " that's so ; an' 
 sometimes its w uss than you'd think when 
 mother's outed. An' that's why I'm glad as 
 Mia' Dimar an' Esmerakly is such friends." 
 
 It struck me at this moment that he had 
 some request to make of me. He grasped 
 the lappel of my coat somewhat more tightly, 
 as if requiring additional support, and hnally 
 bent forward and addressed me witn caution, 
 "Do yon think as Mis' Dimar would mind 
 it ef now an' then I was step in for Ksmeraldy 
 an' set a little — just in a kinder neighborin' 
 way. Esraeraldy, she says your so sosherble. 
 And I hi|ttt been sosherble with no one fur 
 —fur a T^ht smart spell. And it aeenis like 
 I kinder hanker arter it. You've no idea. 
 Mister, how lonesome a man can git when he 
 hankers to be sosherble an' haint no one to 
 be sosherble with. Mother, she says, 'Clo 
 out on the Champs Elizy and promenard,' 
 and I've done it ; but some ways it don't 
 reach the spot. I don't seem to get so- 
 sherble with no one I've spoke to — may 
 be through us speakin' different languages, 
 an' not comin' to a understandin'. I've tried 
 it loud an' I've tried it low an' encouragen', 
 but some ways we never seemed to get on. 
 An' ef Mis' Demar wouldn't take no excep- 
 tions at me a-droppin' in, I feel as ef I should 
 be sorter uplifted— if she'd only allow it once 
 a week or even fewer." 
 
 "Monsieur," I replied with warmth, "I 
 beg you will consider our salon at your dis- 
 posal, not once a week but at all times, and 
 Madame Desmarres would certainly join 
 me in the invitation if she were upon tlio 
 spot." • 
 
 He released the lapel of 
 grasped my hand, shaking 
 vour. 
 
 "Now, that's clever, that is," he said. 
 "An' it's friendly, an' I'm obligated to ye." 
 
 Since he appeared to have nothing further 
 to say we went down-stairs together. At the 
 door we parted. 
 
 "I'm a-goin'," he Vemarked, "to the 
 Champs Elizy to promenard. Where are you 
 a-goin^ ?" 
 
 to give a lesson," I returned. " I will ^vish 
 you good-moruing." 
 
 " Good-mornin ," ho answered. " Bong " 
 — reflecting deeply for a moment — "Bong 
 jore. I'm atryin' to learn it, you see, with 
 a view to bein' more sosherbler. *'""" "'"'•'' " 
 And thus took his departure. 
 
 my coat and 
 it wiili fer- 
 
 Bong jore. 
 
 After this we saw him frequently. In fact 
 it became his habit to follow Madamoiselle 
 Esmeralda in all her visits to our apartment. 
 A few minutes after her arrival we usually 
 heard a timid knock upon the outer door, 
 which proved to come from Monsieur, who 
 always entered with a laborious "Bong jore," 
 and always slipped deprecatingly into the 
 least comfortable chair near the tire, hurried- 
 ly concealing his hat beneath it. 
 
 In him also my Clelie became much 
 interested. On my part I could not cease to 
 admire the tine feelings and delicate tact she 
 continually exhibited in her manner toward 
 him. In time he even iippeared to lose some- 
 thing of his first embarrassment and discom- 
 fort, though he was always inclined to a 
 reverent silence in her presence. 
 
 " He don't say much, don't father,'' said 
 Mademoiselle Fsmeralda, with tears in her 
 pretty eyes. " He's like me, but you don't 
 know what comfort be'.s taking when he sits 
 and listens and stirs his chocolate roiftid and 
 round without drinking it. He doesn't; drink 
 it because he aint used to it ; but he likes to 
 have ic when we do, because he says it makes 
 him feel sosherble. He's trying to learn to 
 drink it too— he practices every day a little 
 at a time. He was poweiful afraid at first 
 that you'd take exceptions to him doing 
 nothing but stir it round ; but I told him 
 I knew you wouldn't for you wasn't that 
 kind." 
 
 "I find him," said Clelie to me, "in- 
 expressibly mournful — even though he 
 excites one to smiles upon all occasi- 
 ons. Is it not mournful that his 
 very suffering should be absurd. At on Dieu! 
 he does nor w:ar his clothes — he bears them 
 about with him— he .simply carries them. " 
 
 It was about this time that Mademoiselle 
 Esmeralda was rendered doubly unhappy. 
 Since their residence in Paris Madame had 
 been industriously occupied in making efforts 
 to enter society. She liad struggled violent- 
 ly and indefatigably. She was at once per- 
 sistent and ambitious, She had used every 
 means ♦hat lay in her power, and, most of all, 
 she had used her motey. Naturally, she had 
 found people upon the outskirts of good 
 circles who would accept her with her money. 
 Consequently, she had obtained acquaintanc- 
 es of a class, and was bold enough to employ 
 them as stepping stones. At all events, she 
 began to receive invitatioiis, and to discover 
 J^^%*^/\».f iijiities to tiay visits, and to take her 
 daughter with her.' Accordingly, Mademoi- 
 selle Esmeralda was placed upon exhibition. 
 She was dressed by experienced artistes. 
 She was forced from seclusion, and obliged to 
 drive, and call, and promenade. 
 
 Her condition was pitiablci While all this 
 was torture to her inexperience and timidityr 
 
 iff I 
 
42 
 
 ESMERALDA. 
 
 her fear of her mother rendered her whoUv 
 
 new trial. She was admired for many 
 reasons-bysome for her wealth, of which 
 til, 'i\ rumours ; by others, for her 
 
 freshness and beauty. Ttoe silence and sen- 
 wtiveness which arose from shyness, and her 
 Ignorance of all social rules, were called 
 ZZtf r*^ ">«desty, and people who had ab- 
 horred her mother, not unfrequently were 
 charmed with her, and consequently Madame 
 found her also an instrument of some conse! 
 
 quence. 
 
 ato^l lie'" determination to overcome all ob- 
 stacles,. Madame even condescended to apply 
 
 s^ll^^«r '' ""^T ^"^"""''^ °^«'- Mademoi^ 
 selle^shewas clever enough not to under- 
 
 Bhe'sa7d^°*.^«K \r*''}''' *** MademoiseUe." 
 BJie said. She thinks a great deal of vou 
 and I want you to give her lome good adS' 
 Ymi know what society is. and you know 
 that she ought to be proud of her advantager 
 .an.' not make a fool of herself. Many a Sri 
 would be glad enough of what she has^before 
 ^ { r ^''®.! ?"*' "°"^>' and she's got chances 
 «n I ^? 1* ^mndge her anything. She can 
 Bpend all shehles on clothes and things, aJ3 
 
 Jf T. ^'■'"^'^^^'^ " «^e'" behale her- 
 Tt = v.. * ^ '^^'' '^A out-heraud her father 
 Its her father that'sVuined her, and her ifv 
 mg as she's aone. Her father never knew 
 anything and he's made a petof her, andS 
 her into his way of thinking. IfsriSous 
 how httle ambition theyhave, and she might 
 marry as we 1 as any girl. There's a marSis 
 - that s quite m love with her at this moment 
 •nd she's as afraid of him as death, Td cS 
 If lev'en mention him, though he's a n"ce 
 enough man, if he is a bit eldetly. Now I 
 want you to reason with her." ' 
 
 This Clelie told me afterward 
 
 t„rnt^''^ "P^Vf "« a^'ay." she ended, "she 
 turned round toward me, setting her face 
 into an indescribable 8xpres8ion of^ hardness 
 and obstmacy 'I want'her to understancl ' 
 fZ^'il !^^\ '^^^ °"* off forever from anv^- 
 
 te.f,V n' *'^P^!"^'^ '^«^«'-«- 'i'J^ere'sthe 
 Atlantic Ocean and many a mile of land be- 
 tweenherand North oirolina. and so she 
 may as well give that up. '" 
 
 oZ''^^ "'" ^^""^^ '^^y^ ^^^^'^ *^is Mademoiselle 
 had iS.^M?^"*"''?"* '" ^'•'^at grief. She 
 rli ^«^* Madame in a vfolent ill-temper. 
 l]2h^t ""^"^'"'f "'vitations to a ball at i 
 Which they were to meet a marquis. Mad- 
 ame was elated, and the discovery of Mad- ' 
 
 her indiguatlSnT^ TheVrh^rwrriTnt 
 
 "I'd rather die than go," she said "T 
 can t stand it. I can't get used to it. The 
 
 and r*H *^ °"i«^' and tiie talk hurts me, 
 and I don't know what I am doing.. And 
 
 \ll7vJ''?jK"'^' ^"^ I make mistakes. 
 
 and I m not ht for it-and-and-I'd rather 
 
 I be dead hfty thousand times than let that 
 
 man come near me. I hate him, anu I'm 
 
 fAu- ^'°'' ^"'^ ^ *»h I ^as dekd." 
 nr.^., .7^8 j""ct"re came the timid summons 
 upon the door, and the father entered with a 
 disturbed and subdued air. He did not 
 conceal his hat, but held it in hifLnd. ami 
 turned it round and round in an agitated 
 
 Tug" ^' '"'"^ ^'""^^ ^^i^^^' 
 'l:smeraldy,"he said, don't you take it 
 so hard honey. Mother, she's kinder outed, 
 and she's not at herself rightly. Don't you 
 nevermind Mother she meaas well, but^ 
 
 U. bhe s got a high sperrit, an'U'd ought 
 to low for It and not take it to heart. £' 
 Dimar here knows how high-gperrited pec 
 
 pie IS sometimes, I dessay-fan^^mothersK 
 got a DowerfiiT Vii»)i or.»— ;* »> 
 
 i — -«.n^,o, i ucasav — a 
 
 got a powerful high sperrit." 
 
 rr/sh-etJei^Tr^S?..!^-^*-*" 
 garde'dtr/"'' ""'"'^ ^"*^ ''^'' *« «h« ''«• 
 
 tV, Jr?^ '"^^^l V^ *''*" ""'■« '''•"l^eu in spirit 
 than he wished to appear. His weather- 
 beaten face assumed an expression of deep 
 melancholy which at last betrayed itself S 
 an evi.lently inadvertent speech.^ 
 
 I wish-I wish," he faltered. "Lord I 
 Id give a heap to see Wash now. I'd give 
 a heap to see him, Esnieraldy " *^ 
 
 Ihl '^^."^ '^ f"^ '^''''^^ ^e'"® tJie last straw, 
 se^f f^ *'I."''k *''^^"'^ ^'"^ and flung heTl 
 self upon ius breast with a passionate^ cry. 
 Oh, father 1" she 8oU,ed. "we shan't 
 never see him again- nTver-neTer nor 
 the mountains, nor the people that 
 cared for us. We've lost it ^ 
 
 soul 7w' " * ^'\ '^ backhand we haven't a 
 soul that 8 near to us-and we're all alone— 
 you and me. father, and Wash-W^h he 
 thinks we don't care." vvasn, tie 
 
 I must confess to a -nomentary spasm of 
 
 i il7 'a,m '^''' 'J' ^'^^ ^^d over«hSm. 
 necV ?nH \T^ Te' *^""S ^*'°"* ber father's 
 neck, and the other pressed itself against 
 
 rf r''K*' '^^'' ^'^*^' ^as breaking.^ * 
 I Olelie bent down an.l liftod v.,... °. 
 
 j soling her tenderly "'■' "^'^ 
 
 smi^^fT^nffi" '\'^'^' "do notde- 
 ^tL f fi, ^^''" 7"'^^ «'"-*iy have pity." 
 hJh. "^^T ^^7" ^°'^^ the large linen 
 
ESMERALDA. 
 
 48 
 
 an go," she said. "I 
 't get used to it. The 
 nd tlie talk hurts me, 
 hat I am doing, v And 
 and I make mistakes, 
 -and— and— I'd rather 
 d times than let that 
 
 I hate him, anu I'm 
 nah I was dead. " 
 ne the timid summons 
 B father entered with a 
 led air. He did not 
 lid it in his hand, and 
 round in an agitated 
 
 himself beside his 
 
 id, don't you take it 
 
 r, she's kinder outed, 
 
 ■ rightly. Don't you 
 
 le means well, but — 
 
 curious wjK showin' 
 
 perrit, an'IW'd ought 
 
 ;akeittoheart. Mis' 
 
 r high-aperrited peo> 
 
 3ay— air mother she's 
 
 irrit." 
 
 Jy wept more hope- 
 
 ly the cruelty of her 
 
 led her, it was the 
 
 leart. 
 
 I'ith tears as she re- 
 
 lore broken in spirit 
 ear. His weather- 
 expression of deep 
 it betrayed itself in 
 ; speech. 
 
 I falter 3d. "Lord I 
 '^ash now. I'd give 
 •aldy." * 
 
 were the last straw, 
 him and flung her- 
 1 a passionate cry. 
 3l|j?ed, "we shan't 
 never— never I nor 
 the people that "" 
 ve lost it all 
 —and we haven't a 
 id we're all alone — 
 I Wash— Wash, he 
 
 omentary spasm of 
 Id and overwhelm- 
 about her father's 
 ssed itself against 
 as breaking. 
 
 iftorj Uav .,„ 
 
 i--. •-"Si- 
 
 laid, "do notde- 
 
 surely have pity." 
 
 the large linen 
 
 ing it slowly, ap. 
 
 'Yes, Esmeraldy," he said; "don't let 
 us give out- at least don't you give out It 
 doesn't matter fur me, Ilsmeraldy, because 
 you see, I must hold on to mother, as I 
 swore not to go back on; but you're young 
 an hkely, tsmeraldy, an' don't you give 
 out yet, fur the Lord's sake. " •' » 
 
 But she did not cease weeping until she 
 had wholly fatigued herself, and bv this 
 time there arrived a message from Madame 
 who required her presence down-stairs. Mon- 
 sieur was .somewhat alarmed, and rose pre- 
 cipitatelj, but Mademoiselle was too full of 
 despair to admit of fear. 
 
 "It's only the dressmaker," she said. 
 
 You can stay where you are, father, and 
 
 ?ilfi u^"^ L^T^ '^'^'''^ ^'"^^ together.^and 
 It'll be better for us both." 
 
 - And accordingly she obeyed the summons 
 alone. 
 
 Great were the preparations made by 
 JMadanie for the entertainment. My wife 
 to whom she displayed the costumes and 
 jewels she ha^ purchased, was aroused to an 
 admiration trulj remiuine. 
 
 She had the discretion to trust to the 
 taste of the artistes, and had restrained tfiem 
 m riothing. Consequently, all that was to 
 be desired in the appearance of MademoiseUe 
 l!;ameralda upon the eventful evening was 
 i^ppmess. With her mother's permission, 
 she came to our room to display herself. 
 Monsieur following her with an air of awe 
 and admiration commingled. Her costume 
 was rich and exquisite, apd her beauty be- 
 yond criticism; but IS she stood in the centre 
 of our httlo salon to be looked at, she pre- 
 sented an appearance to move one's heart. 
 Ihe pretty young face which had by this 
 time lost its slight traces of the sun had 
 also lost some of its bloom; the slight figure 
 was not so round nor so erect as it had been 
 and moved with less of spirit and girlish- 
 
 It appeared that Monsieur observed this 
 also, for he stood apart regarding her with 
 evident depression, and occasionally used 
 this handkerchief with a violence that was 
 evidently meant to conceal some secret 
 emotion. 
 
 ' 'You 're not so peart as you was, Esmeraldy ' ' 
 he remarked, tremulously; "not as peart by a 
 right smart, and what with that, and what 
 with your fixin's, Wash-I mean the home- 
 folks, hastily- " they'd hardly know, ye/' 
 _!. .® followed her down-stairs mournfully 
 Trjicti sao took hei departure, and Clelie and 
 myself liemg left aloi.e interested ourselves 
 in various speculations concerning them, as 
 was our habit. 
 
 "This Monsieur Wash," remarked Clelie 
 
 . 18 clearly the lover. Poor child! how pasl 
 
 siOMtely she r^igrets him— and thousands of 
 
 miles lie. between them — thousands of 
 miles!" 
 I It was not long after this that, on my way 
 down-stairs to inako a trifling purchase, I 
 met with sometliing approaening an adven- 
 ture. It so chaiiceii that, as I descended the 
 staircrvae of the second floor, the door of the 
 first floor apartment was thrown open, and 
 from it issued Mademoiselle Ksmerahla and 
 her mother on their way to their waitini; car- 
 nage. My interest in the appearance of Ma- 
 demoiselle in her white robes and sparkling 
 jewels so absorbeu me that I inadvertently 
 brushed against a flgure which stood in the 
 ■flha<low regarding them also. Turning at 
 once to apologize, 1 found myself confronting 
 a young man— tall, powerful, but with a sad 
 and haggard face, and attired in a strange 
 and homely drpss which had a foreign look. 
 
 "Monsiuer!" I exclaimed, "a thousand 
 pardons. I was so unlucky as not to see 
 you." 
 
 But he did not seem to hear. He remained 
 silent, gazing fixedly at the ladies until they 
 had disappeared, and then, on my address- 
 ing him again, he awakened, as it were, with 
 a start. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," he answered, in a 
 heavy broken voice and in English, and 
 turning back made his way slowly up the 
 stairs. 
 
 Bi« even the utterance of this brief sen- 
 tence had betrayecf to my practised ear a pe- 
 culiar accent— an accent which, strange to 
 say, bore a likeness to that of our friends 
 down-stairs, and which caused me to stop a 
 moment at the lodge of the concierge, and ask 
 her a question or so. 
 
 "Have we anew oc3upant«fupon the fifth 
 floor V I inquired. "A person who speaks 
 English?" * '■ 
 
 " You must mean the strange young man 
 upon the sixth," she said. "He is a new 
 one and speaks English. Indeed, he does 
 not speak anything else, or even understand 
 a word. Mon Dieul the trials <me encoun- 
 ters with such persons— endeavouring to com- 
 prehend, poor creatures, and failing always— 
 and this one is worse than the rest and looks 
 more wretched— as if he had not a friend in 
 the world.' 
 
 " What is his name?" I asked. 
 " How can one remember their names ? — 
 It is worse than impossible. This one is 
 frigntful. But he has no letters, thank Hea- 
 ven. If there should arrive one with s.r. 
 impossible name upon it, I should take it to 
 hiin and run the risk." 
 
 Naturally Clelie, to whom I related the 
 incident was much interested. But it was 
 ucme time before either of us saw the hero of 
 it again, though both of us confessed to hav- 
 ing been upon the watch for him. The con- 
 
 &.\ 
 
 mi 
 
44 
 
 ESMERALDA. 
 
 cierffe could only tell U8 that he lived a se- 
 cluded life— rarely leaving his room in the 
 daytime, and seeming to be very poor. 
 
 "He does not work and eats next to noth- 
 ing," she said. " Late at night he occasion- 
 ally carries up a loaf, and once he treated 
 himself to a cup of bouillon from the restau- 
 rant at the corner— but it was only once, 
 poor young man. He is at leawt very gentle 
 and wellconduoted. 
 
 So it was not to be wondered at that we 
 did not see him. Clelie mentioned him to 
 her young friend, but Mademoiselle's interest 
 in iiim was only faint and ephemeral. She 
 had not the spirit to rouse herself to any 
 strong emotion. 
 
 " I dare say he's an American," she said. 
 "There are plenty of Americans in Paris, 
 but none of them seem a bit nearer to me 
 than if they were French. They are all ricli 
 and fine, and they all like the life here better 
 than the life at home. This is the first poor 
 one I have heard of." ' 
 
 Each day brought fresh unhappincss to her. 
 Madame was inexorable. She spent a for- 
 tune upon toib'tte for her, and insisted upon 
 dragging her from plaoe to place, and weary- 
 ing her with gayeties from which her sad 
 young heart shrank. E^ch afternoon their 
 equipage was to be seen upon the Champs 
 Elysees, and each evening it stood before the 
 door waiting to bear them to some plice of 
 festivity. 
 
 Mademoiselle's hete voir, the marquis, who 
 was a debilitated roue in search ot a fortune, 
 attached himself to them upon all occasions. 
 " Bah !" said (.'lelie with contempt, "she 
 amazes one by her imbecility — this woman. 
 Truly, one would imagine that her vulgar 
 sharpness would teach her that his object is 
 to use her as a tool, and that having gained 
 Mademoiselle's foi'tune, he will treat them 
 with brutality and derision." 
 
 But she did not seem to see — possibly she 
 fancied that having obtained him for a son- 
 in-law, she would be bold and clever enough 
 to outwit and control him. Consequently, 
 he was encouraged and fawned upon, and 
 Mademoiselle grew thin and pale and large- 
 eyed, and wore continually an expression of 
 secret terror. 
 
 Only in her visits to our fifth floor did she 
 dare to give way to her grief, and truly at 
 such times both my Clelie and I were greatly 
 affected. Upon one occasion indeed she 
 filled us both with alarm. 
 
 " Do you ki jw what I shall do ?" she said, 
 stopping suddenly in the midst of her weep 
 ing. " I'll bear it as long as I can, and then 
 I'll put an end to it. There's— there's al- 
 ways the Seine left, and I've laid awake and 
 thought of it many a night. Father and me 
 saw a man taken out of it one day, and the 
 
 people said he was a Tyrolean, and drowned 
 himself because he was so poor and lonely — 
 and so far from home. " 
 
 Upon the very morning she made this 
 speech I saw again our friend of the sixth 
 floor. In going down-stairs I came upon 
 him, sitting upon one of the steps as if ex- 
 hausted, and when he turned his face up- 
 ward, its pallor and haggardness startled 
 me. His tall form was wasted, his eyes 
 were hollow, the peculiarities I had befare 
 observed were doubly marked — he was even 
 emaciated. 
 
 " Monsieur," I SiJid in English, "you ap- 
 pear indisposed. You have been ill. Allow 
 me to assist you to your room." 
 
 "No, thank you," he answer^. "It's 
 only weakness. I — I sorter give out. Don't 
 trouble yourself. I shall get over it direct- 
 ly." 
 
 Something in his face, which was a very 
 young and well-looking one. forced me to 
 leave him in silenoe, merely bowing as I did 
 so. I felt instinctively that to remain would 
 be to give him additional pain. 
 
 As I passed the room of the concierge, 
 however, the excellent woman beckoned to 
 me to approach her. 
 
 "Did you see the young man?" she in- 
 quired rather anxiously. " He has shown 
 himself this morning for the first time in 
 three days. There is something wrong. It 
 is my impression (hat he sulFers want— that 
 he is starving himself to death ! " 
 
 Her rosy countenance absolutely paled as 
 she uttered these last words, retreating a 
 pace from me and touching my arm with her 
 fore-finger. 
 
 "He has carried up even less bread than 
 usual during the last few weeks," she added, 
 ' ' and there has been no bouillon whatever. 
 A young man cannot live only on dry bread, 
 and too little of that. He will perish ; and 
 apart from the inhumanity of the thing, it 
 will be unpleasant for the other locatairen. " 
 I wasted no time in returning to Clelie, 
 having indeed some hope that I might find 
 the poor fellow still occupying his^ former 
 position upon the stair-case. But in this I 
 met with disappointment: he was gone, and 
 I could only relate to my wife what I had 
 heard, and trust to her discretion. As I had 
 expected, she was deeply moved. 
 
 "It is terrible," she said. "And it is 
 also a delicate and difficult matter to manage. 
 Biit what can one do? There is only one 
 
 Cj ' ' "" *- — "*i"**t, rtli\l tlctrtr ^ullCi'C^ 
 
 privation myself, may venture," 
 
 Accordingly, she took her departure for 
 the floor above. I heard her light summons 
 upon the door of one of the rooms, but heard 
 no reply. At last, however, the door .was 
 opened gently, and with a hesitance that led 
 
yrolean, and drowned 
 80 poor and lonely — 
 
 ning she made this 
 ir friend of the sixth 
 -stairs I came upon 
 of the steps as if ex- 
 turned his face up- 
 hapgardness startled 
 cas wasted, his eyes 
 iarities I had before 
 narked — he was even 
 
 a English, "you ap- 
 lave been ill. Allow 
 room." 
 
 he answer^. " It's 
 rter give out. Don't 
 11 get over it direct- 
 
 ie, which was a very 
 ; one, forced me to 
 reJy bowing aa I did 
 that to remain would 
 il pain. 
 
 )m of the concierge, 
 woman beckoned to 
 
 oung man ? " she in- 
 . " He has shown 
 :ir the first time in 
 )mething wrong. It 
 e su'Jers want — that 
 death ! " 
 
 absolutely paled as 
 words, retreating a 
 ng my arm with her 
 
 ven less bread than 
 ■ weeks," she added, 
 bouillon whatever. 
 i only on dry bread, 
 ie will perish ; and 
 lity of the thing, it 
 e other locataires." 
 returning to Clelie, 
 e that I might find 
 cupying his former 
 ;ase. But in this I 
 ;: he was gone, and 
 ay wife what I had 
 iscretion. As I had 
 
 moved. 
 
 said. "And it is 
 
 [t matter to manage. 
 
 There is only one 
 . -«J 1 a J 
 
 Qture." 
 her departure for 
 her light summons 
 lie rooms, but heard 
 ever, the door .was 
 a hesitance that led 
 
 ESMERALDA. 
 
 46 
 
 ma to imagine that it was Clelie herself who 
 had pushed it open, and immediately after- 
 ward I was sure that she had uttered an 
 alarmed exclamatiou. I steppe<l out upon 
 the landing and called to her in subdued 
 tone — 
 
 " Clelie," I said, " did I hear you speak?" 
 "Yes," she returned from within the 
 room. "Come at once, and bring with you 
 some brandy. " 
 
 In the shortest possible time 1 had joined 
 her in the room, which was bare, cold, and 
 unfurnished— a mere garret, in fact, contain- 
 ing nothing but a miserable bedstead. Upon 
 the floor, near the window, knelt Clelie, sup- 
 porting vdth her knee and arm the figure of 
 the younj man she had come to visit. 
 
 " Quick with the brandy," she exclaimed. 
 "This may be a faint, but it looks like 
 death." She had found the door partially 
 open, and receiving no answer to her knock, 
 had pushed it farther ajar, and caught a 
 glimpse of the fallen figure, and hurried to 
 its assistance. 
 
 To be as brief as possible, we both remained 
 at the young man's side during the whole of 
 the night. As the concieri/e had said, he was 
 perishmg from inanition, and the physician 
 we called in assured us that only the most 
 constant attention would save his life. 
 
 " Monsieur," Clelie explained to him upon 
 the first occasion upon which he opened his 
 eyes, " you are ill and alone, and we wish t,o 
 befriend you." And he was too weak to 
 require from her anything more definite. 
 
 Physically he was a person to admire. In 
 health his muscular power must have been 
 imnieDse. He possessed the frame of a young 
 giant, and yet there was in his face a look of 
 nnocence and inexperience amazing even 
 when one recollected his youth. 
 
 "It is the look," oaid Clelie, regarding 
 him attentively—" the look one sees in the 
 faces of Monsieur and his daughter down- 
 stair ; the look of a person who has lived a 
 simple life, and who knows absolutely 
 nothiiig of the world." 
 
 It is possible that this may have prepared 
 the reader for the denoument which followed ; 
 but singular as it may appear, it did not 
 prepare either Clelie or myself— perhaps 
 because we had seen the world, and hivir.g 
 learned to view it in a p-'actical light, were not 
 prepared to encounter suddenly a romance 
 almost unparalleled. 
 
 "The next morning I was compelled to go 
 oat to give iny lessons as usual, and left 
 Clelie with our patient. On my return, my 
 wife, hearing my footsteps, came out and met 
 me upon the landing. She was moved by the 
 strongest emotion pnd much excited; her 
 cheeks were pale aj her eyes shone. 
 
 "Do not go ia yet," she said, "I have 
 
 something to tell you. It is almost incred- 
 ible ; but— but it is— the lover !" 
 
 For a moment we remained silent — stand- 
 ing looking at each other. To me it seemed 
 incredible indeed. 
 
 " He could not give her up," Clelie went 
 on, "until he was sure she wished to discard 
 him. The mother had employed all her 
 ingenuity to force him to believe that such 
 was the case, but he could not rest until 
 he had seen his betrothed face to face. 
 So he followed her— poor, inexperienced, 
 and miserable— and when at last he saw her 
 at a distance, the luxury with which she 
 was surrounded caused his heart to fail him, 
 and he gave way to desjiair. " 
 
 I accompanied her into the room, and 
 heard the rest from her own lips. He gathered 
 together all his small savings, and made his 
 journey in the first possible way— in the 
 steerage ot the vessel, and in third-class 
 carriages— so that he might have some trifle 
 left to subsist upon. 
 
 " I've a little farm," he said, "and there's 
 a house on it, but I wouldn't sell that. If 
 she cared to go, it was all I had to take her 
 to, an' I'd worked hard to buy it. I'd. 
 worked ha'-d, early and late, always think- 
 ing that some day we'd begin life there to- 
 gether — Esmeraldy and me." 
 
 " Since neither sea, nor land, nor cruelty, 
 could separate them," said Clel>e to me 
 during the day, "it is not I who will help 
 to hold them apart." 
 
 So when Mademoiselle came for her lesson 
 that afternoon, it was Clelie's task to break 
 the news to her— to tell her that neither 
 sea nor land lay between herself and her 
 lover, and that he was faithful still. 
 
 She received the information as she might 
 have received a blow — staggering backward, 
 and whitening, and losing her ureath; but 
 almost immediately afterward she uttered a 
 sad cry of disbelief and anguish. 
 
 " No, no," she said, " it — it isn't true ! I 
 won't believe it— I mustn't. There's half 
 the world between us. Oh, don't try to 
 make me believe it — when it can't be true !" 
 " Come with ne," replied»01elie. 
 Never-never in my life has it been my 
 fate to see, before or since, a sight so tonch- 
 ing as the meeting of these two young 
 hearts. When the door of the cold, bare" 
 room opened, and Mademoiselle Esmeralda 
 entered, the lover held out his weak arms 
 with a tob — a sob of rapture, anrl yet terrible 
 to hear. 
 
 "I thought you'd gone back on me, 
 Esmeraldy,'^ he cried. "I thought you'd 
 gone back me. " 
 
 Clelie and I turned away and left them aa 
 the girl fell upon his knees t his side. 
 The effect produced upon e father — who 
 
 
40 
 
 ESMERALDA. 
 
 had followed Mademoiselle aa usual, and 
 whom wo found patiently seated upon the 
 bottom step of the flight of stairs, awaiting 
 our arrival— was almost indescribable. 
 
 Ho sank back upon his scat with a gasr), 
 clutching at his hat with l)oth hands. He 
 also disbelieved. 
 
 " Wash !'' he exclaimed weakly. " Lord, 
 no ! Lord, no ! Not Wash 1 Wash, he's 
 in North Calliua. Lord, no !" 
 
 "He is up-stairs," returned Clelie, "and 
 Mademoiselle ia with him. " 
 
 During the rea jvory of Monsieur Wash, 
 though but little was said upon the subject, it 
 ia my opinion that the minds of eacli of oTir 
 number pointed only toward one course iu 
 the future. 
 
 In Mademoiselle's demeanour there ap- 
 peared a certain air .of new courage and de- 
 termination, though she was still pallid and 
 anxious. It was as if she had passed a cli- 
 max and had gaiueil strength. Mqijsieur, 
 the father, was alternatively and dejected, 
 or in feverishly high spirits. Occasionally 
 he sat fo" some time without speaking, 
 merely gazing into the fire with a hand upon 
 eacli knee ; and it was one evening, after a 
 more than usually prolonged silence of this 
 descripticm, that he finally took upon him- 
 self the bunlen which lay upon us unitedly. 
 
 "Esmeraldy," he remarked, tremulously, 
 and with manifest trepidation — " Esmeraldy, 
 I've been thinkin' — it's time— we broke it to 
 mother. " 
 
 The girl lost colour, but she lifted her head 
 steadily. 
 
 " Yes, father," she answered, "it's time." 
 
 "Yes," he echoed, rubbng his knees 
 slowly, " it's time ; an', Esmeraldy, it's a 
 thing to — to sorter the man back. " 
 
 " Yes, father," she answered again. 
 
 "Yes," as before, his voice broke some- 
 what ; " an' I dessay you know how it'll be, 
 Esmeraldy — that you'll have to choose be- 
 twixt mother and 'Wash. " 
 
 She sat by her lover, and for answer she 
 dropped her face upon his hand with a sob. 
 
 "An'— an' you've chose Wash, Esmer- 
 aldy ?" . 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 He hesitated a moment, and then took his 
 hat from its place of concealment and rose. 
 
 "It's natural," he s;iid, "an' its right. I 
 wouldn't want it no other «-ay. An' you 
 mustn't mind, Esmeraldy, it's bein' kinder 
 rough on me, as can't go back on mother, 
 ijavm' gwuru to cherish her tiii aeath 4»> ns ' 
 part. You've alius been a good gal Vo me, 
 an' we've thought a heap on each other, an' 
 I reckon it can allers be the same way, even 
 though though we're aep'rated, fur it's 
 natural you should have chose Wash, an' — 
 an' I wouldn't have it any other way, 
 
 Esmeraldy. Now I'll go an' havr> it out with 
 mother." 
 
 We were all sufficiently unprepared for the 
 announced to be startled, by it. Mnde- 
 moisoUe Esmeralda, who was weeping bitter- 
 Iv, half sprang to her feet. - 
 
 " To-night !" she said. " Oh, father •" 
 
 "Yes," he repUeil ; "I've been thinking 
 over it, an' I don't see no other way, an' it 
 may as well be to-night as any other time." 
 
 After leaving us he was absent for about 
 an hour. When he returned, there were 
 trac '.s in his appearance of the storm through 
 which he had passed. His hands trembled 
 .vith agitation ; he even looked weakened as 
 he sank into his chair. We regarded him 
 with c ^mmiseration. '* 
 
 "Its -.ver," he half whispered, "an' it 
 was even rougher than I thought it would be. 
 She was terribly outed, was mother. I reckon 
 I never ste her so outed before. She jest 
 raged and tore. It was more than I could 
 stand, Esmeraldy," and he dropped his head 
 upon his hands for support. *' Seemed like 
 it was the Markis aa laid heaviest upon her," 
 he proceeded. " She was terrible sot on the 
 Markis, an' every time she think of him, 
 she'd just rear — she'd just rear. I never stood 
 up agen n.other afore, au' I hope I shan't 
 never have it to do again in my time. I'm 
 kinder wore out." 
 
 Little by little we learned much of what 
 had passed, though he evidently withheld the 
 most for the sake of Mademoiselle, ane it was 
 some time before he broke the news to her 
 that her mother's doors were closed against 
 her "I think you'll find it pleasanter a-stop- 
 pin' here," he said, "if Mi.s' Dimra'U board 
 ye until — the time fur startin' home. Her 
 speerit was so up that she said she didn't aim 
 to see you no more, an' you know how she 
 is Esmeraldy, when her speert's up." 
 
 The girl went and clung around his neck, 
 kneeling at his side, and .shedding tears. 
 
 "Oh, father! "she cried, "you've bore a 
 great deal for me ; you've bore more than 
 any one knows, and all for me." 
 
 He looked rather grave, as he shnok his 
 head at the fire. 
 
 "■That's so Esmeraldy," he replied; but 
 we allers seemed so nigii to each other, some- 
 how, and when it come to the wust, I was 
 bound to kinder make a stand fur vou, as 1 
 couldn't have made for my^elf. Icouldu't 
 have done it fur myself. Lord, no ! " 
 
 So Mademoiselle remained with us, and 
 Cieiie assisted her to prepare her simple out- 
 fit, ami in the evening the tall yi.ung lover 
 came into our apartment atid sat looKing on, 
 which aspect of affairs, I will confess, was 
 entirely new to Clelie, and yet did not dis- 
 please her. 
 
 " Their candour movesme," she said. "He 
 
 
 openly i 
 ing she 
 embrace 
 pelled. 
 aeririus i 
 
 Final) 
 to the A 
 and the; 
 that of 
 aflfected, 
 
 " It's 
 raldy," 
 the worl 
 there's r 
 rest. T 
 
 We I 
 did not 
 mcnt. 
 and cluii 
 8on-in la 
 and pom 
 his dista 
 
 " Tell 
 'em all, : 
 was kin 
 haps"— 
 
 ME] 
 
 "Prut 
 loudly on 
 rapidly i 
 Giraud, i 
 was but 
 plain Mei 
 rest of us 
 that it is 
 has the li 
 Where, fo 
 stand if ] 
 pretty en( 
 
 "True, 
 sips who ' 
 beyond dc 
 But th 
 matron, w 
 knitted a 
 clashing 
 readily. 
 
an' have it out with 
 
 y unprepared for the 
 led. by it. Nlwde- 
 was weeping bitter- 
 !t. - 
 
 '•Oh, father!" 
 ' I've bepu thinking 
 10 other way, an' it 
 18 any othet time." 
 ras absent for about 
 Lurned, there were 
 if the storm through 
 lis hands trembled 
 looked weakened as 
 
 We regiu-ded him 
 
 whispered, " an' it 
 bhought it would be. 
 ^as mother. I reckon 
 I before. She jest 
 more than I c(mld 
 le dropped his head 
 [)rt. *' Seemed like 
 heaviest upon her," 
 is terrible sot on the 
 she think of him, 
 ; rear. I never stood 
 iu' I hope I shan't 
 n in my time. I'm 
 
 *ned much of what 
 dently withheld the 
 smoiselle, aneit was 
 :e the news to her 
 >vere closed against 
 it pleasantera-stop- 
 ilia' Dimra'U board 
 tartiu' home. Her 
 I said she didn't aim 
 frou know how she 
 peert's up." 
 g around his neck, 
 shedding tears, 
 ed, ' 'you've bore a 
 e bore more than 
 >r mo. " 
 i, as he shook his 
 
 ■," he replied ; but 
 to each other, aume- 
 o the wust, I was 
 stand fur you, as 1 
 my.-elf. I couldn't 
 
 Lord, no ! " 
 .ined with us, and 
 lare her simple out- 
 i tall y.uiig lover 
 111(1 sat iooKing on, 
 [ will confess, was 
 d yet did not dis- 
 
 ne," she said. "He 
 
 MERE GIRAUD'S LITTLE DAflGHTER. 
 
 47 
 
 
 openly regards her with adoration. At part- 
 ing she accompanies him to the door, and he 
 embraces lier t'^udeily, and yet one is not re- 
 pelled. It is the love of the lost Arcadia- 
 serious and innocent." 
 
 Finally, «re went with them one morning 
 to the American Chapel in the Rue de Berri, 
 and they were united in our presence and 
 that of Monsieur, who was mdescribably 
 affected. 
 
 " It's papers as I've drawd up fur Fsme- 
 raldy," he said. It'll start you well out in 
 the world, an' after me and mother's .gone, 
 there's no one but you and her to have the 
 rest. The Lord— may the Lord biers ye !" 
 
 We accompanied 'them to Havre, and 
 did not leave them until the last mo- 
 ment. Monsieur was strangely exeiteil, 
 and clung to the hands of his daughter and 
 Bon-in law, talking fast and nervously, 
 and pouring out messages to be delivered to 
 his distant friends. 
 
 " Tell 'em I'd like powerful well to see 
 'em all, an' I'd have come only— only things 
 was kinder onconvenient. Sometime, "ner- 
 haps"— ^ 
 
 But here he was obliged to clear his throat, 
 and his voice had become extremely husky' 
 And, having done this, he ad<led in an 
 undertone : — 
 
 "You see, Esmeraldy, I couldn't, because 
 of mother, as I've swore not to go back 
 on. Wash, he wouldn't go back on you 
 however high your sperrit was, an' I cau't 
 go back on mother. " 
 
 'I'he figures of the young couple standing 
 at the side. Monsieur Wash holding his wife 
 to his breast with one strong arm, were 
 the last we saw as the ship moved slowly 
 away, •' 
 
 "It is obscuiity to which thev are return- 
 ing, ' I said, half nncon.sciously.' 
 
 '^Itis love," said Clelie. 
 
 The father, who had been standing apart, 
 came back to us, replacing in his pocket his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " They are young an' likely, you see," said 
 Monsieur, "an' life before them, an' it's 
 nat'ral as she should have chose Wash as 
 was young too, an' sot on her. Lord, it's 
 nat ral. an' I wouldn't have it no other- 
 ways. " 
 
 
 MERE GIRAUD'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Prut !" said Annot, her sabots clattering 
 loudly on the brick floor as she moved more 
 rapidly in her wrath. "Prut! Madame 
 Giraud, indeed ! There was a time, and it 
 was but two years ago, that she was but 
 plain Mere Giraud, and no better than the 
 rest of us ; and it seems to me, neighbours, 
 that it is not well to show pride because one 
 has the luck to be favoured bv fortune. 
 Where, forsooth, would our 'Madaino' Giraud 
 stand if luck had not given her a daughter 
 pretty enough to win a rich husband ?" 
 
 "True, indeed!" echoed two of the gos- 
 oipa who were her admiring listeners. "True, 
 beyond doubt. Where, indeed ?" 
 
 But the third, a comely, fresh skinned 
 matron, who leaned against the door, and 
 knitted a stout grey stocking with fast- 
 clashing needles, did not acquiesce so 
 readily. 
 
 •'Well, well, neighbours," she sold, "for 
 
 my part I do not see so much to complain of. 
 
 Mere Giraud— she is still Mere Giraud to me 
 
 —is as honest and kindly a soul tis ever. It 
 
 is not she who has called herself Madame 
 
 (iiraud ; it is others who are foolish enough 
 
 to fancy that good luck must change one's 
 
 old ways. If she had had the wish to be a 
 
 grand personatie, would she not have left our 
 
 Village before this and have joined Madame 
 
 Legrand in Paris. On the contrary, hoM-- 
 
 ever, she remains in her cottage, and is as 
 
 good neighbour sut ever, even tho!!!.dj .sh?. is 
 
 fond of talking of the carriages and jewels 
 
 of Madame Legrand and her establishment 
 
 on the Boulevard Malesherbes. In fact, I 
 
 ask you, who of us would not rejoice also tc 
 
 be the mother of a daughter whose fortune 
 
 had l)een so good ? " 
 
 " That also is true," commented the ami- 
 
48 
 
 MEBli Gl BAUD'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 
 
 able couiile, nodding their whiU capped I 
 heads with a sagacioiis air. " True, without | 
 doubt." j 
 
 But Anuofc re))lied with a conttiinptuoua | 
 ahrug of htr shoiildfTs: — I 
 
 "Wait uutil Miiiliime 'liniiid ib invited to | 
 visit the iJoiiltviiril. MicwIiL't'ljua," she said, j 
 " We iiave mtt, iieiirl th it this has happened i 
 yet." I 
 
 "She would not ^o if she wore, at least j 
 not to remain. Her heart has grown to tlie j 
 old place she bore her children in, and she 
 has herself said to nio most sensibly: — ' Laure 
 is young, and will leiirn easily the ways of 
 the great world ; I am old, and cannot ; I 
 am better at home among my neighbours.' 
 Doubtless, however, in course of time she 
 will p; y Madame Legrand a visit at her home 
 in fariH, or at the ch.vteau which Monsieur 
 Legrand of course jxisse^sas, as tlie rich and 
 aristocratic always Uo." 
 
 ' Doubtless !" said Annot, grimly; "doubt- 
 
 Honest Jeanne Tallot passed the snear by, 
 and went on with stout gravity of de- 
 meanour: — 
 
 "There is only one thing for which I 
 somewhat blamed Mere Giraud, and that is 
 that I think she has scarcely done her duty 
 toward Valentin. He disappointed her by 
 bemg an ugly lad instead of a pretty girl, 
 and she had not patience with him. Laure 
 was the favourite. Whatever Laure did was 
 right, ;vurt it was not so with the other, 
 though I myself know that Valentin was a 
 good lad, aud tender-hearted." 
 
 "Once," put in a white cap, " I saw her 
 beat him severely because he fell with the 
 little girl in his arms and scratched her 
 cheek, and it was not his fault. His foot 
 slipped upon a stone. He was carrying the 
 child carefully aud tenderly enough. You 
 are right m calling him a good lad, neigh- 
 bour 'Tallot. He was a good lad — Valentin 
 Giraud — and fond of his mother, notwith- 
 standing that she was not ^nd of him." 
 
 " Yes," added her companion; " but it is 
 truth that he was a great contrast to the girl. 
 Mon Dieu I his long limbs and awkward 
 body, %vi great sad eyes and u^ly face! 
 While Laure — was she not tall and 
 slender and white, like a lily in a garden ? 
 And her voice was like the ringiuj' of ailver, 
 and her eyes so soft and large. As an infant 
 she reminded one of the little Jesus as one 
 sees him in the churches. No wonder that 
 Mo.rf; Gir'iiid ^rett^d lit the diifsresce be- 
 tween the two. And Valentin was her tirst, 
 and what mother does not look for great 
 things in her tirst ? We cannot help feeling 
 that something must come of one's own 
 charms if one has an}', and Mere Giraud was 
 » handsome bride. Au ugly bantling seems 
 
 to oiler one a sort of insult, particularly at 
 Hrst, when one is young and vain." 
 
 " Tliero was no more beautiful young girl 
 than Laure Giraud at sixteen," said JeiDue 
 Tullot. 
 
 " And none more useless," said Annot 
 loudly. " Give mo a young girl who is in- 
 dustrious and honest. My Margot is better 
 provided tor than Laurfi (iiraud was before 
 her marriage ; but her hands are not white, 
 nor is her wai.st but a span around. She has 
 too much work to do. She is not a tall, 
 white, swaying creature, who is too good to 
 churn a-id t'':ul the creatures who give her 
 food. I liave heard it said that Laure wtmld 
 htfve worked if her mother liad permitted it, 
 but 1 don't believe it. She had not a work- 
 ing look. Mademoiselle Laure was too good 
 for the lalxmr of humble people ; she must 
 go to Paris and l^urn a tine, delicate trade." 
 
 " But good cami. of it," put in Jeanne Tal- 
 lot. "It proved all the better for her." 
 
 " Let her mother thank tlie Virgin, then," 
 eried Annot, contemptuously. "It might 
 not have proved the better ; it might have 
 proved the worse ; evil might have come of 
 it instead of good. W ho among us has not 
 heard of such things? Did not Marie Gautier 
 go to Paris, too ?" 
 
 "Ah, pjor little one, indeed!" sighed the 
 white caps. 
 
 " And in two years," a<lded Annot, " her 
 mother died of a broken heart." 
 
 "But," said cheerful Jeanne, somewhat — - 
 
 drily, " Laure 's mother is not dead yet. sof inher, a 
 let us congratulate ourselves that to go to Giraud v 
 Paris has brought luck to one of our number 
 atleast, and let us deal charitably with Mere 
 Giraud, who certainly means well, and is 
 only naturally proud of het* daughter's gran 
 deur. For my part, I can afford to rejoice 
 with her." 
 
 She rolled up her stout stocking into a l)all, 
 and stuck her needles through it, nodding at 
 the three women. 
 
 " I promised I would drop in and spend a 
 few minutes with her this morning," she 
 said ; " so I will bid you good-day," and she 
 stepped across the threshold and trudged off 
 in the sunshine, her wooden shoes sounding 
 bravely on the path. 
 
 It was only a little place— St. Croix, ad we 
 shall call it for want of a better name 
 — a little village of one street, and of 
 many vines and roses, and orchards, 
 aud of much gossip. Simple people, in 
 habited it — simple^ ignorant folk-, who knev 
 one another, and mscussed one another'i 
 faults and grape-crops with equal frankness, 
 worked hard, lived frugally, confessed regu 
 larly, and slept well. Devout people, an( 
 ignorant, who believed that the little shrinei 
 they erected in their vineyards brought bles* 
 
 ings u| 
 
 iiig of 
 
 Parii V 
 
 Living 
 
 ration, 
 
 be 'ore 
 
 quaint 
 
 that wl 
 
 tli^ir II 
 
 social < 
 
 who ha 
 
 a slow-i 
 
 drunk I 
 
 with Ih 
 
 did not 
 
 who ha( 
 
 tie Lau 
 
 not uiili 
 
 roso.s w, 
 
 mother' 
 
 tie dau^ 
 
 ter sho 
 
 wonder! 
 
 she left 
 
 ther Va 
 
 "4fc 
 ly a beu 
 
 "She 
 wiseacTt 
 
 "Thei 
 before,'' 
 girls, "a 
 daughtoi 
 
 Tne 
 
 even if s 
 ous by n 
 more ge 
 The fac 
 many cc 
 grace ai 
 from th( 
 and festi 
 aud, upi 
 place am 
 still face 
 suggeste' 
 ble feasi 
 princess i 
 
 "Pou/ 
 day, "I I 
 so tall, tl 
 looking u 
 to be fore 
 The hii 
 Was Mere 
 "She is 
 Would saj 
 the way i 
 has the q 
 »ge." 
 
 There 
 4 
 
suit, particularly at 
 : and vain. " 
 V>«nutiful young jprl 
 ixteeu," 8ai<l Jeaniue 
 
 Boh^HB," Bai'l Auuot 
 juiig girl wlio ia in- 
 My M argot is bottar 
 \ (jiraud was before 
 Clauds are not wliite, 
 jau around. She lias 
 She in not a tall, 
 I, who is too good to 
 ftturea who give her 
 aid that Laure would 
 lier had permitted it, 
 Hhe bad not a work- 
 B La'ire was too good 
 [e people ; she mast 
 fine, delicate trade." 
 t," put in Jeanne Tal- 
 5 better for her. " 
 nk tlie Virgin, then," 
 uously. "It might 
 tter ; it might have 
 might have come of 
 10 among us has not 
 )id not Marie Gautier 
 
 . indeed!" sighed the 
 
 ' a<lded Annot, "her 
 1 heart." 
 
 d Jeanne, somewhat 
 r is not dead yet. so f, 
 rselves that to go to 
 to one of our number 
 charitably with Mere 
 means well, and is 
 her daughter's gran- 
 lan afford to rejoice 
 
 it stocking into a Imll, 
 brough it, nodding at 
 
 I drop in and spend a 
 this morning," she 
 )u good-day," and she 
 shoTd and trudged off 
 oden shoes sounding 
 
 MBttE OIRAUDS LITTLE DAOOHTER. 
 
 49 
 
 ings up )n their grapet, and who knew noth- 
 mg of the greac world lieyoud, and spoku of 
 Parii with awe, and eveii a shade of doubt. 
 Living the Haine lives generation after gene- 
 ration, tillin^ the samH crops, and praying 
 be'ore the same stone altar in the siimll 
 quaint chuiuh, it is not to be wondered at 
 that when a change occurred to any one of 
 th >:r ni:ml)or it was regarded a.n a sort of 
 social era There were those in St. Croix 
 who had known Mere llirard'a grandfather, 
 a slowspokeii. kindly old uea.siml, who hitd 
 drunk hm ,.'iii ordinaire, and smoked his pipe 
 with the poorest ; and there wis not one who 
 did not well know Mere (iiraud herself, and 
 who had not watched the growth of the lit- 
 tle Laure. who had bloomed into a beauty 
 not unlike the beauty of the white I'rovence 
 roses whi'h combined over and around lier 
 
 that Valentin 
 or (t jtaste at 
 
 no jealousy 
 his sister's 
 
 lace— St. Croix, ai we 
 
 it of a better name 
 
 one street, and of 
 
 )se8, and orchards, 
 
 Simple people, in- 
 
 rirant folk, who knev 
 
 :ussed one another'i 
 
 with equal frankness, 
 
 gaily, confessed regu 
 
 Devout people, au( 
 
 that the little shrin 
 
 aeyards brought blesS' 
 
 mochor'H cottage door. "Mere Oiiaud's lit- 
 tle daughter," she had been called, even af- 
 ter slio grew into tlie vonderfuUy tull and 
 woudertudy fair creature she became before 
 she left the village, accompanying her bro- 
 ther Valentine to Paris. 
 
 •'Ma Jot I " .said the men, "but she is tru- 
 ly a beauty, Mere Uiiaud'a little rlaughter I" 
 "She should be well looked to," said the 
 wiseacres— "Mere Giraud's little daughter." 
 'There is one we must always gi.'e way 
 before." said the best-natured among the 
 girls, "and that one is Mere Oirauda little 
 daughter. " 
 
 Tue old cure of the parish took interest 
 in her. and gave her lessons, and, as Mere 
 Guaud would have held her strictly to them, 
 even :f she had not been tractable and studi- 
 ous by nature, she was better educated- and 
 more gently trained than her companions 
 Ihe fact was, huwever, that she had not 
 many companions. Some element in her 
 grace and beauty seemed to separate her 
 from the rest of her class. Village sports 
 and festivities had little attraction for her, 
 and, upon the whole, she seemed out of 
 pl;V';o among them. Her stature, her fair, 
 still face, and her slow, quiet movements, 
 suggested rather embarrassingly to the hum- 
 ble feaaters the piefeuce of some young 
 princess far above them. 
 
 "Po«//"said a sharp-tongued belle one 
 day, "1 have no patience with her. She is 
 so tall, this Laure, that one must Ije forever 
 looking up at her, and I, for one, do not care 
 to be forever looking up." 
 
 The iiinc of refined pride in her demeanor 
 was Mere Girauil'.s tjreittest clor". 
 
 "She is not like The rest," my Laure," she 
 would say to her son. "One can see it in 
 the way w which she holds her head. She 
 has the quiet, grave air of a great person- 
 There were many who wondered 
 
 showed 
 - hearing .,.„ oio^cm 
 praises sounded so frequently to hia own 
 detriment. There was no praise for him. 
 1 he poor, fond mother's heart was too full 
 <»t Laure. Her son had been a bitter disap- 
 pmi.tmeiit to her, and, to her mind, was 
 titted for nothinu but to make himself an 
 adoiuig slave to his sister's beauty ; and this 
 tlie gentle, g.neroua fellow certainly wa.s 
 He was always ready to serve her ; always 
 atlectionate, always faithful; and Mere 
 UinuKl, who was blind to, or carelt-ss of all 
 his lovin-, constant labour for her own com- 
 fort, deigned to see that he did his duty 
 toward Laure. •' 
 
 " He has at least the sense to appreciate 
 her as far us he is able," she said. 
 
 So when Valentin, who had a tahnt for 
 engraving, was discovered by some one who 
 understood hisg^-nius, and could make use 
 ot It, anil was offered a place in the great 
 gay city. Mere Giraud formed an ambitious 
 plan. He should take Laure and r^nd her 
 a position also ; she had the fingers of a fair 
 magician, and could embroider marvelously 
 Soshetrustel Laure to him, and the two 
 bade farewell to St. Croix and departed 
 tiogfitiier, A month passed, and then there 
 came a letter containing guod news. Valentin 
 was doiUK well, and Laure also. She had 
 found a place in a great family where she 
 was to embroider and wait upon a young 
 ady They were rich people, and were 
 kiml, and paid her well, and she was 
 happy. ^ 
 
 " When they first saw her, they were 
 astonished," wrote the simple, tender Valen- 
 tin. " I went with her to present herself. 
 Vly employer had recommen<led her. There 
 18 a son who is past his youth, and who has 
 evidently seen the world. He is aristocratic 
 and lair, and slightly bald, but extremely 
 handsome still. He sat holding a newspaper 
 III his long, white fingers, and when we 
 entered, he raised hia eyes above it and 
 looked at Laure, and I heard him exclaim 
 under his breath, ' Mo7i Dieu !' as if her 
 beauty fairly startled him." 
 
 When the cure, to whom the proud 
 inother showed the letter, read this part, he 
 did not seem as rejoiced as Mere Girau<l had 
 expected. On the contrary, he looked a 
 little grave, and rubbed his forehead. 
 
 "Ah, ah!" he said; "there lies the 
 danger. 
 
 "Oaiiger!" exolaiiuea Mere Gira id 
 
 start'ng. ' 
 
 He turned, and regarded her with a rather 
 hesitant air, as it he were at once 
 puzzle<l and fearful— pnzzle.l by her sim- 
 plicity, and fearful of grieviug her un- 
 necessarily. 
 
 fl 
 
90 
 
 MERE GIRAUD'8 LITTLE DAUOIITER. 
 
 a good 1a(1," he B»id. 
 
 be watohftil — though 
 
 too good to auspeut 
 
 *'Vftlentiii ii 
 " Valentiu will 
 porhapa he ia 
 evil." 
 
 More Uiraud put her hand to her heart. 
 
 "You ai e ll<>^ afr»i<i ?' Hhn naid, ({uite 
 proudly, ht^Kiniiing ui Ins to C(>inf>reheud. 
 "You are uoc ufrinl oi ev,l tn Laure?" 
 
 "No, uo, no,'' In; amwHrcd ; "Buroly 
 not." 
 
 HeBaidiiomoretheu, huiiiu alwayaaaked to 
 ■eo the letterH, and read them with );reat 
 care, BometimoB over and over again. They 
 came very regularly for six or seven monthn, 
 and then there was a gap uf a few weeks, 
 and then caion a Btrange, almo.'it incompre- 
 henhible, letter from Valentin, containing 
 news which almost caused Mere Giraud'a 
 heart ti) liursi with joy and gratitude 
 Liiiro was married, aiul had made such a 
 marriage as could scarcely have l>een dreamed 
 of. A rich aristocrat, who had' visited her 
 employers, had fallen in love with her, and 
 married her. He had no family to restrain 
 him, and her beauty had won him completely 
 from tne first hour. He had carried her 
 away with him to make a prolonged tour. 
 The family with whom she had lived h;id 
 been lavish in their gifts and kindueM,* 
 but they had left Paris also and were 
 voyMiog. The name of Laure's bridegroom 
 was Legrand, and there came nxessages from 
 Laure, and inclosed was a handsome present 
 of money. ■ 
 
 Mere Giraud was overwhelmed with joy. 
 Before three hours had passed, all St. Croix 
 knew the marvellous news. She went from 
 bonse to house showing the letttr and the 
 money, and it was not until night that she 
 cooled down sufficiently to labour through a 
 long epistle to Valentin. 
 
 It was a year before Laure returned to 
 Paris, and during that time he wrote but 
 seldom ; but Valentin wrote often, and 
 answered all his mother's qiiestions, tiiough 
 not as fluently, nor with so many words as 
 she often wished, Laure was rich, and 
 beaotiful as ever ; her husband adored her, 
 and showered gifts and luxuries upon her ; 
 she-had equipages and jewels ; she wore vel- 
 vet and satin and lace every day ; she was a 
 Keat lady, and had a houae like a palace, 
 kure herself did not say so much. In her 
 secret heart, Mere 6ira.ud often longed for 
 mora, but rfie was * flisereet and far-seeing 
 
 woman. 
 
 in her 
 
 shfi said. "She 
 eq .page, and she 
 
 srr.uld 
 
 mast drive out 
 
 must dress and receive gre? people, and I 
 am not so blind a motht^r s, not to see that 
 shewill have many thinj,'' im. She has 
 
 not time to write Ion, Setibici— and see how 
 she carea for me— money, see you, by every 
 
 letter, and a silk dreaa and lace caii ahe her- 
 self has chosen in the Boulevard Capucines, 
 And I muHt care for myself, and furniah the 
 cottage prettily, aiid keep a servant. Her 
 wealth and great fortune iiave not rendered 
 her iindutilul mv Lauro." 
 
 Ho Hhe talked of Madame Legrand, and ao 
 all Ht (yroix talked ()f Madame Legrand, 
 and Home, of courae, were envious and pro- 
 phesied that the end had not come yst, and 
 Mere Giraud would tind heraelf forgotten 
 some tine day ; and otheis nj>aced with iier, 
 and congratulated themselves that they 
 knew 80 aristocratic a' person as Madame 
 Legrand. 
 
 Jeanne 'Fallot was of those who aym- 
 patlii/ud with her in all warm h' artedneiia and 
 caiuluur. With her knitting in her hand 
 ready for action, and with friendly uneere- 
 moniouBnesB, she preHented lierBelt at the 
 cottagji door one morning, notlding and 
 Hpeaking before she had crossed the thresh- 
 hold. 
 
 "Good-day, neighbour Giraud Any let- 
 tera trom Laure this morning ?" 
 
 Mere Giraud, who sat before the window 
 under the swinging cage of her bird, looked 
 up with an a> a little more serious than 
 usual. 
 
 " Ah 1" ahe said, "I am glad it la yon, 
 Jeanne. I have been wishmg to aee 
 you." 
 
 Jeanne seated herself, smiling, 
 
 "Then," said sht . " it is well I came." 
 
 But immediately she noticed the absent 
 look of her friend, and commented up<m it, 
 
 "You do 'ot look, at your i fst this 
 morning," shi said. " How does it occur T" 
 
 "I am thinking," said Mere Giraud with 
 some importance of manner — " I am thinking 
 of going to Paria. " 
 
 " To Paris !" 
 
 " I am anxious," shaking her head aerious- 
 ly. " I had laat night a bad dream. I wiah 
 to see Laure." 
 
 Then ahe turned and looked at Jeanne 
 almost wistfully, 
 
 " It ia a long time since I have aeen her," 
 she 8aid, 
 
 ' ' Yes, " answered Jeanne in a little doubt ; 
 " but Paris is a long way off." 
 
 "Yes," said Mere Giraud; " but it ap- 
 pears that all at once I realize how long it ia 
 since I have seen my child. I am getting 
 old, you see. I was not very young when 
 she was bom, and, as one gro older, one 
 beoome-! inore uneasy and ohdtinate in one's 
 fancies. This morning I feel that I must aee 
 my Laure. My heart yearns tor her, and' — 
 hastily — ■' she will undoubtedly be rejoiced 
 to see me. She has often said that she wish- 
 ed she might lay her head upon my breast 
 again," 
 
 pit aeemi 
 jnnrney. 
 moo<l, am 
 who had i 
 Croix had 
 once and i 
 to Paria — 
 journey to 
 Lad BO far 
 would not 
 Cure, who 
 discovered 
 llready m 
 lacked hei 
 [OX, layini 
 
 Jbp I hat th 
 "I will 
 remain k 
 siinugh to 
 lays with 1 
 or, or the i 
 ny child." 
 St. Croix 
 t heard tl 
 [one to Pi 
 lad aotual 
 ant home, 
 ottage, 
 " Let ua 
 •oeive her 
 lid Aniiot. 
 referred to 
 Jrday Jeau 
 
 fitention of 
 " She wil 
 lore aimph 
 lac ahe ma 
 ithout dou 
 oulogne ii 
 ith 4ervanl 
 ucle's aistei 
 great fami 
 rive up ai 
 rery aftern 
 int," 
 
 But Mere 
 ich aplend( 
 iure as a K 
 I Bhall holi 
 e«k3. " 
 The roar 
 Dwd and bi 
 SB and the 
 es, but ahe 
 whom sh 
 d her inno( 
 re. 
 
 She found 
 Btination ; 
 driver, hi 
 ors with a 
 her cheel 
 ered skic 
 
MEKK (HRAUD'S LITTLE DAUOJITER. 
 
 fil 
 
 (I lao« cAp she her- 
 ulevard (;apuuinei. 
 If, and furninh the 
 ijp a BervAnt. Her 
 have not rendered 
 
 10 liPgrand, and lo 
 Madiiine Legrand, 
 i euvinuH and pro- 
 tidt uonie yit, and 
 herself forgotten 
 I rt'joiced witii iier, 
 selves that they 
 [)erBoii as Madamft 
 
 those who sym- 
 in h< artedne^aaud 
 t/ing in her hand 
 ill friendly uncere- 
 ted hemeli at the 
 ng, nodding and 
 LTUBsed the thresh- 
 
 Giraud Any let- 
 ing ?" 
 
 before the window 
 if her bird, looked 
 nore serious than 
 
 am glad it is yon, 
 wishing to see 
 
 miling. 
 
 is well I came. " 
 noticed the absent 
 ommented upon it. 
 t your i>fi8t thie 
 ow does u occur !" 
 Mere Giraud with 
 r — " I am thinking 
 
 ig her head serioas- 
 jad dream. I wiah 
 
 looked at Jeanne 
 
 B I have seen her," 
 
 le in a little doubt ; 
 off." 
 
 raud ; " but it ap- 
 alize how long it la 
 Id. I am getting 
 t very young when 
 e gro older, one 
 i obdtinate in one's 
 eel that I must see 
 irns tor her, aiid' — 
 ibtedly be rejoiced 
 said that she wish- 
 m1 upon my breast 
 
 pit seemed that she was resolved upon the 
 journey. 8he was in a singular, uneasy 
 mooil, and restlesn beyond measure. 8he 
 ho hud never been twenty miles from St. 
 Croix had made up her mind to leave it at 
 once and confront all the terrors of a journey 
 toParis-for there were terrors in sUuli a 
 
 tourney to the mmd of a simple pe.i-ant wh.. 
 lad so far travelled but in one groovf. Hiie 
 would not even wiiil to consult MoiiHiettr le 
 Cure, who was unfortunately absent. Joanne 
 discovered to her astonishment that she hail 
 ilreadv made her Hnmll preparations, had 
 (acKed her best garments in a little wooden 
 
 X'X, laying the silk gown and laoecap at the 
 p fhat they mi^jiht bo In readiness 
 
 " I will not interfere at all, and I nhall not 
 remain long," she said. "Only long 
 Siiough to see my Lauro, and sfH'od a few 
 lays with her quietly. It is not Paris I care 
 or, or the great sights ; it is that 1 must see 
 ny child. " 
 
 St. Croix was fairly bewildered at the news 
 i heard the next day. Mere Giraud had 
 [one to Paris to visit Madame [<egrand— 
 i»d actually gone, sending her little ser- 
 mnt home, and shutting up her small, trim 
 ottage. 
 
 "Let us hope that Madame Legranr i 
 •ceive her as she expects to be received," 
 »id Aniiot, " For my part I should have 
 ireferred to remain in St. Croix. Only yes- 
 Brday Jeanne Tallot told us that she hitd no 
 mtentioD of going." 
 " She will see wonderful things," said the 
 lore simple and amiable, "ft is pos^ble 
 iat she may be invited to th • I'uileries, and 
 ithout doubt she will Irive to the Bois de 
 oulogne in Madame f^grand's carriage, 
 ith Jiervants in livery to attend her. My 
 ucle's sister's son, who is a valet de place in 
 ^eat family, tells us that the aristiwracy 
 nve up and down the Champs Elysees 
 ^ery afternoon, and the sight is magniti- 
 at. 
 
 But Mere Giraud did* not look forward to 
 ich splendours as these. "I shall see my 
 lure as a great lady," she said to herself, 
 I shall hold her white hands and kiss her 
 leeks. " 
 
 The roar of vehicles, and the rush and 
 »wd and bustle bewildered her ; the bright- 
 88 and the rolling wheels dnzzled her old 
 es, but she held herself bravely. People 
 whom she spoke smiled at her patois 
 d her innocent questions, but she did not 
 re. 
 
 She found a fiacre which took her to her 
 stinatiun ; and when, after she had paid 
 e driver, he left her, she entered the wide 
 ors with a beating heart, the blood rising , 
 her cheek, and glowing through the! 
 ered skin. 
 
 Madame Legrand," she said a little 
 proudly to the c.ndenje, and the woman 
 •tared at her as she le^ her up the staircase. 
 f<he wsH so eager that iliu nuarcoly saw the 
 beauty around her- the thick, soft carpets, 
 tlu. carved balustrades, the superb lumps. 
 Hia when they stoppwl before a door sIm 
 touiliiid tlie coiicieri/e upon the arm. 
 
 " lio n a say my name," she said, " I am 
 her iiK^hcr. ' 
 
 Tt.f w .limn stared at her more than ever, 
 '' It IS not my place to announce you," she 
 said. "I only came up hecauso I thouj/ht 
 you would not find the way." 
 
 .She could not have told why it was or how 
 It happened, but wlien at last she was usher- 
 ed lato > Miilon a strange sense of oppres- 
 sion fell up(m her. The room was long and 
 lofty, and so sha. lowed by the heavy curtains 
 iHlliiig across the windows that it was al- 
 most dark. 
 
 For a few seconds she saw nobody, and 
 then all' at once some one rose from a reclin- 
 ing chair at the farther end of the apartment 
 and advanced a few steps toward her— a tall 
 *nd stately figure, moving slowly. 
 
 "Who?"— she heard a cold, soft voice 
 ^say. and then came a sharp cry, and 
 I Laure's white hands were thrown out in a 
 strange, desperate gesture, and she stopped 
 and stood like a statue of stone. " Mother- 
 mother— motherl" she repeated i^/aui and 
 again.a^ if some indescribable pain nhook her. 
 If she had been beautiful before, aow she 
 was more beautiful still, ahe was evoa taller 
 —she was like a queen. Her long robe was 
 of delicate gray velvet, and her hair and 
 throat and wrists were bound witii pearls and 
 gold. She was so lovely and so stately that 
 for a moment Mere Giraud w.s half awe.l, bat 
 the next it was as if her strong mother heart 
 broke loose. 
 
 " My Laurel" she cried oat. " Yes, it is • 
 I, my child— it is I, Laure , " and she almost 
 fell upon her knees as she embraced her 
 trembling for very ecstacy. ' 
 
 But Laure scarcely spoke. She was white 
 and cold, and at last she gasped forth three 
 words. 
 
 " Where is Valentin?" 
 
 But Mere Giraud did not know. It was 
 not Valentin she cared to see. Valentin 
 could wait;, since ahe had her Laure, She sat 
 down beside her in one of the velvet chairs 
 and she held the fair hand in her own. It 
 was covered withjewels, but she did not no- 
 •j:vc Lticui ; iicr anecHon only Zuld her that it 
 was cold and tremulous. 
 
 "You are not well, Laure," she said. "It 
 was well that my dream warned me to come. 
 Something is wrong. " 
 
 " I am quite well," said Laure. " I do no* 
 suffer at all. " 
 
 't'k 
 
 4*1 
 1, 
 
 II 
 
52 
 
 MERE OIRAUD'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 
 tit 
 
 ill 
 ilU'i 
 
 i 
 
 She was so eilent that i{ Mere Giraud had 
 not had so much to say she would have beeu 
 troubled ; as it was, however, she was con- 
 tent to pour forth her affectionate speeches 
 one after another without waiting to be an- 
 swered. 
 
 •' Where is Monsieur Legrand?" she ven- 
 tured at last. 
 
 \ "He is," said Laure, in a hesitant voice — 
 *' he is in Normandy." • 
 
 "Shalll not see him?" asked Mere Gi- 
 raud. 
 
 " I am afraid, not, unless your visit is a 
 long one. He will be absuut for some 
 months. " 
 
 She did not speak with any warmth. It 
 was as if she did not care to speak of him at 
 all — asif the|!ueation o himjjeven einLa; rd^ed 
 her a little. 
 
 Mere Giraud felt a secret misgiving. 
 
 " I shall not Sktay long," she said ; "but I 
 could not remain away. I wished so eagerly 
 to see you, and know that you were happy. 
 You are happy, my Laure V 
 
 Laure turned towatd her ani gave her a 
 long look — a look which seemed unconscious-. 
 ly to ask her a question. 
 
 "Happy!" shfc answered slowly and de- 
 liberately, "I suppose so. Yes." 
 
 Mere Giraud caressed her again and again. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "it must be so. The 
 good are always happy ; and you, 
 my Laure, have always been dutiful and 
 virtuous, and consequently you are rewarded. 
 You have never caused me a grief, and now, 
 thank the good God, you are prosperous. " 
 She looked at her almost adoringly, and it 
 last touched the soft thick grey velvet of her 
 drapery with reverence. " Do you wear 
 such things as this every day ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes," Laure answered, "every day." 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed the happy mother. "How 
 Monsieur Legrand must adore you I " 
 
 At length she found time to ask a few 
 questions concerning Valentin. 
 
 " 1 kuo<v that he is well and as prosperous 
 as one could expect him to be ; but I hope " 
 — bridling a little with great seriousntss — 
 " I hope he conducts himself in such a 
 manner as to cause you no embitrrassment, 
 though naturally you do not see him often." 
 
 " No," was the answer — they did not sea 
 him often. 
 
 "Well, well," began Mere Giraud, becom- 
 ing lenient in her great happiness, "he is 
 not a bad lad — Valentin. _ He means well" — 
 
 But here she stopped — liauie cheiked her 
 with a swift, impabhioiied movement. 
 
 " He is what we catinot understand," she 
 ■aid in a hushed, strained voice. " He is a 
 saint. He has no thought for himstlf. His 
 whole liifl is a sacrifice. It is not I you 
 should adore — it is Valentin." 
 
 " Valentin ! " echoed Mere Giraud. 
 
 It quite bewildered her, the mere thought 
 of adoring Valentin. 
 
 " My child," she said, when she recovered 
 herself, "it is your good heart wh^ch says 
 this." 
 
 The same night Valentin came. Laure 
 went out into the ante-chamber to meet him, 
 and each stood and looked at the other with 
 pale face and anguished eyes. Valentin's 
 eyes were hollow and sunken as if with some 
 great sorrow, and his large awkward frame 
 seemed wasted. But there was no reproach 
 mingled with the indescribable sadness of his 
 gaze. 
 
 " Your note came to me," he said. "Our 
 mother — " 
 
 "She is in there," said Laure in a low, 
 hurried, shaken voice, and she pointed to the 
 salon. " She has come to embrace me — to 
 make sure that I am happy. Ah, my God! " 
 and she covered her deathly face with her 
 hadds. 
 
 Valentin did not approach her. He could 
 only stand still and look on. One thought 
 tilled his mind. 
 
 " We have no time to weep, Laure," Ije 
 said gently. " We must go on as we have 
 begun. Give me your hand." 
 
 This was all, and then the two went in 
 together, Laure's hand upon her brother's 
 arm. 
 
 It was a marvellous life Mere' Giraud lived 
 during the next few days. Certainly? 
 she could not complain that she was not 
 treated with deference and affection. She 
 wore the silk dress every day ; she sat at the 
 wonderful table, and a liveried servant stood 
 behind her chair; she drove here and there 
 in a luxurious carriage; she herself, in fact, 
 lived the life of an aristocrat and a great 
 lady. Better than all the rest, she found 
 her Laurie as gracious and dutiful as hei 
 fond heart could have wished. She 
 spent every hour with • her; she showed hei 
 all her grandeur of jewellery and toilHte; 8h< 
 was not ashamed of her mother, untutorec 
 and simple as she might be. 
 
 "Only she ia very pale and quiet," six 
 remarked to Valentine once; "even palei 
 and mtire quiet than I should have expected 
 But then we know that the rich and ariato 
 craticaie always somewhat reserved, It 
 only the peasantry and provincials who an 
 talkative and Horid. It is natural tha 
 Laure should have gained the manner of tli 
 great world. " 
 
 But ner happiness, poor soul, did not laR 
 long, and yet the blow God sent was 
 kintlly one. 
 
 One morning as they went out to thei 
 carriage Laure stopped to speak to a woinai 
 who crouclied upon the edge of tha pav 
 
Mere Oiraad. 
 
 er, the mere thought 
 
 , when she recovered 
 9od heart wh'ch says 
 
 lentin came. Laure 
 chamber to meet him, 
 ced at the other with 
 ed eyes. Valentin's 
 iiikeii as if with some 
 fir^e awkward frame 
 ihere was no reproach 
 Tibablo sadness of his 
 
 me," he said. "Our 
 
 said Laure in a low, 
 ind she pointed to the 
 J to embrace me — to 
 ppy. Ah, my God! " 
 eathly face with her 
 
 roach her. He could 
 >ok on. One thought 
 
 to weep, Laure," be 
 ust go on as we have 
 han(£" 
 
 hen the two went in 
 1 upon her brother's 
 
 if e Mere' Giraud lived 
 w days. Certainly J 
 in that she was not 
 I and affection. She 
 ry day ; she sat at the 
 liveried servant stood 
 drove here and there 
 
 she herself, in fact, 
 .ristocrat and a (^reat 
 
 the rest, she found 
 I and dutiful as hei 
 lave wished. She 
 her; she showed het 
 ellery and toilHte ; she 
 ter mother, until torec 
 It be. 
 
 pale and quiet," she 
 e once; "even palei 
 should have expected, 
 it the ricli and nristo 
 iwhat reserved, It ii 
 I proviucials who ar( 
 
 It is natural thai 
 led the manner of tli( 
 
 poor soul, did not la> 
 ow God sent was 
 
 ley went out to thei 
 d to speak to a woma 
 :he edge of the pav 
 
 MERE GIRAUD'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
 
 U 
 
 ment with a child in her arms. She bent 
 down and touched the little one with her 
 hand, and Mere Giraud, looking on, thought 
 €i pictures she had seen of the Blessed 
 Virgin, and of lovely saints healing the 
 ■ick. " 
 
 " What is the matter ?" asked Laure. 
 The woman looked down at the child and 
 shivered. 
 
 •• I do not know," she answered hoarsely. 
 
 ' Only we are ill, and God has forsaken us. 
 We have not tasted food for two days." 
 
 Laure took something from her purse and 
 laid It silently in the child's small, fevered 
 f hand. The woman burst into tears. 
 
 "Madame," she said, "it is a twenty- 
 franc piece." 
 
 •• Yes," said Laure gently. '• When it is 
 ■pent come to me again," and she went to 
 her carriage. 
 
 "My child," said MereGiraud, " it is yon 
 who are a saint. The good God did wisely 
 u showering blessings upon yon." 
 
 A f^w days longer she was happy, and 
 then she awakened from her sleep one night, 
 and found Laure standing at her bedside 
 looking down at her and shuddering. She 
 started up with an exclamation of terror. 
 
 " Mon Dkur she said. "What is it?" 
 
 She was answered in a voice she had never 
 heard before — Laure's, but hoarse and 
 shaken. Laure had fallen upon her knees, 
 and grasped the bedclothes, hiding her face 
 in the folds. 
 
 "I am ill," she answered in this strange, 
 changed tone. "I am— I am cold and 
 burning— -I am — dying." 
 
 In an instant Mere Giraud stood upon the 
 floor holding her already insensible form in 
 her arms. She was obliged to lay 
 her upon the floor while she rang 
 the bell to alarm the servants. She sent 
 for Valentin and a doctor. The doctor, ar- 
 riving, regarded the beautiful face with man- 
 ifest surprise and alarm. It was no longer 
 pale, but darkly flushed, and the stamp of 
 terrible pain was upon it. 
 
 "She has been exposed to infection," he 
 said. "This is surely the case. It is a malig- 
 nant fever." 
 
 The Mere Giraud thought of her poor mo- 
 ther and child. 
 
 "0 my God ! " she prayed, "do not let her 
 die a martyr." 
 
 But the next day there was not a seivant 
 left in the houue : but Valentin was thprr-. 
 and there had come a Sister of Mercy.' 
 When she came, Valentin met her, and led 
 her into the salon. They remained together 
 for half an hour, and then came out and 
 went to the sick-room, and there were traces 
 of tears upon the Sister's face. She was a 
 patient, tender creature, who did her work 
 
 well, and ohe listened with untiring gentle- 
 ness to Mere Giraud's passionate plaints. 
 
 "So beautiful, so young, sobel(»vedt" cried 
 the poor mother ; "and Monsieur absent at 
 Normandy, though it is impossible to say 
 where ! And if death should come before his 
 return, who could confront him with the 
 truth ? So beautiful, so happy, so adored I " 
 
 And Laure lay upon the bed, sometimes 
 a dreadful statue of stone— unhearing, un- 
 seeing, unmoviuL' — death without death's 
 rest — life in death's bonds of iron. 
 
 But while Mere Giraud wept, Valentin had 
 no tears. He was faithful, untiring, but si- 
 lent even at the worst. 
 
 "One would think he had no heart," said 
 Mere Giraud ; "but m6n are often so— ready 
 to work, but cold and dumb. Ah ! it is only 
 a mother who bears the leepest grief. " 
 
 She fought passionately for a hope at first, 
 but it was forced from her grasp in the end. 
 Death had entered the house and spoken to 
 her in the changed voice which had sum- 
 moned her from sleep. 
 
 "Madame," said the doctor one evening as 
 they stood over the bod while the sun went 
 down, ."I have done all that is possible. 
 She will not see the sun set again. She may 
 not see it rise. " 
 
 Mere Giraud fell upon her knees beside 
 the bed, crossing herself and weeping. ^ 
 
 "She will die," she said, "a blessed mar- 
 tyr. She will die the death of a saint. " 
 
 That very night— only a few hours later- 
 there came to them a friend — one they had 
 not for one moment hoped to aee— a gentle, 
 grave old man, in a thin, well-worn black 
 robe— tie Cure of St. Croix. 
 
 Him Valentin met also, and when the two 
 saw each other, there were barriers that fell 
 away in their first interchange of looks. 
 
 "My son," said the old man, holding out 
 hij hands, "tell me the truth." 
 
 The Valentin fell into a chair and hid his 
 face. 
 
 "She is dying," he said, "and I cannot 
 ask that she should live." 
 
 " What was my life "—he cried passion- 
 ately, speaking again—" what was my life to 
 me that I should not have given it to save 
 her— to save her to her beauty and honour, 
 and her mother's love ! I woild have given 
 it cheerfully —a thousand times— a thousand 
 times again and again. But it was not to be; 
 and, in spite of my prayers, I lost her. O 
 vr,j ^^o■J. !" with a sigii of agony, "if to-niglit 
 she were in St. Croix and I could hear the 
 neighbours call her again as they used, 
 " Mere Giraud's little daughter !" 
 
 The eyes of the cure had tears in them 
 also. 
 
 "Yesterday I returned to St. Croix and 
 found your mother absent," he said. " I 
 
64 
 
 L0DU3KY. 
 
 have had terrible fears for months, and when 
 I found her house closed, they caused me to 
 set out upon my journey at once. 'I 
 
 He did not ask any questions. Ho remem- 
 bered too well the man of whom Valentin 
 had written; the son who was "past his 
 youth, and had evidently seen the world ;" 
 the pale aristocrat, who had exclaimed. 
 " Mon Dieu /" at the sight of Laure's won- 
 drous beauty. 
 
 " When the worst came to the worst," 
 said Valentin, " 1 vowed myself to the labour 
 of sparing our mother. I have worked early 
 and late to sustain myself m the part I 
 played. It was not fro" . Laure the money 
 came. My God ! Do you think I would 
 have permited my mother's hand to have 
 touched a gift of hers? She wrote the 
 ktters, but the money I had earned honestly. 
 Heaven M'ill justify me for my falsehood 
 smee I have suHered so much.'' 
 
 " Yes," responded the Cure, looking at his 
 bent form with gentle, pitying eyes. 
 Heaven will justify you, my son." 
 They watched by Laure until the morninu, 
 •but she did not see them ; she unw nothing ; 
 to-night it was the statue of marble which lay 
 before them. But in the early morning, 
 when the sky was dappled with pink and 
 gold, and the air was fresh and cool, and a 
 Silence, even more complete than that of the 
 
 night, seemed to reign, there came a change. 
 The eyes they had been closed for many so 
 many hours were opened, and the softtvoice 
 broke in upon the perfect stillness of the 
 room : — 
 
 "The.lilies in the garden are in bloom to- 
 day. They were never so tall, and white, 
 and fair before. I will gather them— for the 
 albar— to give to the Virgin— at my con- 
 fession. Mea culpa — Mea°' — and all was 
 over, and Mere Giraud fell upon her knees 
 again, crying, as she had cried before, amid 
 a passion of sobs and tears : — 
 
 " She died, my child, the death of a blessed 
 martyr. " ^ 
 
 It was rather strange, the villagers said, 
 that Madame Legrand should have been 
 buried in the little graveyard at St. Croix 
 instead of in some fine tomb at Pere la 
 ( 'liaise ; but— it was terribly sad .'—her 
 husband was away, they knew not where, 
 and it vas Valenjin's wish, and Mere 
 Giraud's heart yearned so over her beloved 
 one. So she was laid there, and a marble 
 cross was placed at her head -a tall, beauti- 
 ful cross- by Monsieur -Legrand, of course. 
 Only it was sineular that he never came, 
 though perhaps that is the way of the great 
 — not to mourn long or deeply even for those 
 who have been most lovely, and whom they 
 have most tenderly loved. 
 
 LODUSKY. 
 
 'They were rather an incongruous element 
 amid the festivities, but they bore themselves 
 very well, notwithstanding, and seemed to 
 be sufficiently interested. The elder of the 
 two— a tall, slender, middle-aged woman, 
 with a somewhat severe, though delicate 
 face— sat quietly apart, looking on at the 
 rough dances and games with a keen relish 
 of their primitive uncouthness ; but the 
 younger, a slii^ht, alert creature, moved here 
 aud there, her large, changeable eyes looking 
 larger throu!,'h their glow of excitement. 
 
 "Thet gal thar," drawled a tall moun- 
 iaineer who supported himself against the 
 chimney and spat with placid leguUrity into 
 the fire. " They tell me thet gal thar hes 
 writ things as hes been in print. They say 
 she's powerful smart— ama her livin' by it. 
 T least thet's what Jake Harney says, 'n' 
 they's a-boardia' at Harney's. The old 
 
 woman's some of her kin, 'n' goes 'long with 
 hiir when she travels 'round. " 
 
 There was one fiddler at work sawing in- 
 dustriously at one tune which did good set- 1 
 vice throughout the entertainment ; there 
 was a little furious and erratic reel-dancing, 
 and much loud laughter, and good-natured, 
 even if somewhat personal, jest. The room 
 was one of two which formed the house ; the 
 walls were of log ; the lights the cheery yel- 
 low flaro of great pine-knots flung one after 
 the other upon the embers. 
 
 "I am glad J thousht of North fJarnlrns.." 
 Rebecca Noble said to herself. "There is' a 
 strong hint of Rembrandt in this— the bright 
 yellow light, the uncouth figures. Ah ! who 
 IS that ? ^ 
 
 A short time after, she made her way 
 through the crowd to her relative's corner 
 among the shadows. She looked eager and 
 
" ds 
 
 I, there came a change, 
 sen closed for many so 
 aed, and the softtvoice 
 )6rfect stillness of the 
 
 rarden are in bloom to- 
 er so tall, and white, 
 1 gather them — for the 
 > Virgin —^t my con- 
 -Mea — and all was 
 i fell upon her knees 
 lad cried before, amid 
 bears : — 
 ., the death of a blessed 
 
 ge, the villagers said, 
 d should have been 
 •aveyaid at St. Croix 
 Sne tomb at Pere la 
 i terribly sad ! — her 
 ley knew not where, 
 n's wish, and Mere 
 I so over her beloved 
 there, and a marble 
 • head —a tall, beauti- 
 ••Legrand, of course, 
 that he never came, 
 the way of the great 
 deeply even for those 
 vely, and whom they 
 ed. 
 
 LODUSKY. 
 
 55 
 
 n, 'n' goes 'long with 
 und." 
 
 p at work sawing in- 
 which did good ser- 
 ntertainment ; there 
 erratic reel- dancing, 
 r, and good-natured, 
 lal, jest. The room 
 rmed the house ; the 
 ights the cheery yel- 
 nots flung one after 
 
 Brs. 
 
 ^i:„. 
 
 berself. "There is a 
 It in this— the bright 
 h figures. Ah! who 
 
 she made her way 
 ler relative's corner 
 le looked eager and 
 
 excited, and spoke in a quick, breathless 
 fashion. 
 
 " I want to show you something, if you 
 have not already seen it," she said. " There 
 is in this room, Aunt Miriam, tlie most won- 
 derful creature your eyes ever rested on ! 
 You must ])repare yourself to be startled. 
 Look towards the door — at that tall girl 
 standing with her hands behind her." 
 
 She was attired in a calico of flaunting 
 pattern, and leaning against the log wall in 
 anindid'erent attitude, regarding thecompany 
 from under the heavy lashes of her eyes, 
 which had a stillness in them which was yet 
 not repose. There was something eveti se- 
 cretive in her ex|)ression, as if she watched 
 them furtively for reasons of her own. At 
 her side stood a big, discontented-looking 
 young man, who con^'mnt, i aggressively two 
 or three other you- • i equally big, if not 
 equally disccnter o stiemed to be argu- 
 
 ing some i)oiut w uu and endeavouring 
 
 to engage the attention of his companion. 
 The girl, however, siiiiply responded to their 
 appeals with an occasional smile, ambigu<iu.>i, 
 if not scornful. 
 
 "How I wish I could hear them!" ex- 
 claimed Miss Noble. 
 
 It was her habit to utilize any material 
 she chanced to find, and she liarl really made 
 her summer jaunt to North Carolina in ssarch 
 of material, but she was not thinking of util- 
 izing this girl, as she managed to Ijeep near 
 her during the remainder of the evening. 
 She had merely found something to be keen- 
 ly interested in, her interest in any human 
 novelty being, on occasion, intense. In this 
 case her interest increased instead of dimin- 
 ished. She found the girl comporting her- 
 self in her natural position as belle, with a 
 calm which was slightly suggestive of " the 
 noble savage. " Each admirer seemed to be 
 treated with indifference alike, though there 
 were some who, for reasons best known to 
 themselves, evidently felt that they stood 
 more securely than the rest. She moved 
 through game and dance with a slow yet free 
 grace ; she spoke seldom, and in a low, bell- 
 Eke monotone, containing no hint of any 
 possible emotional development, and for 
 the rest, her shadow of a disdainful 
 smile seemed to stand her m good stead. 
 Clearly as she stood out from among her com- 
 panions from the first, at the close of the 
 evening she assumed a position actually 
 dramatiC: 
 
 The big young mountaineer, who, despite 
 his discontent, was a very handsome fellow 
 indeed, had held his own against his rivals 
 stubbornly during the evening, but when, 
 after the final dance, he went in search of his 
 charge, he found that he was not first. 
 She had fallen into her old attitude against 
 
 the wall, her hands behind her, and was 
 listening to the appeal of a brawny youth 
 with a hunting-knife in his belt. 
 
 " Dusk," he was saying, " I'm not such a 
 chicken-hearted chap as to let a gal go back 
 on me. Ye sed I mout hev yer comp'ny 
 home, 'n I'm a-gwine to hev it, Dave Humes 
 or no Dave Humes. 
 
 Dusk merely smiled tolerantly. 
 " Are ye?" she said. 
 
 Rebecca Noble, who stood within a few 
 feet of them, was sure that the lover .who 
 approached was the Dave Humes in question, 
 he advanced with such an angry stride, and 
 laying his hand on his rival's shoulder, 
 turned him aside so cavalierly. 
 
 "No he aint," he put in; "not an' me 
 about. I brought ye, an' I'll take ye home, 
 Lodusky, or me and him '11 settle it." 
 
 The other advar.ced a step, looking a trifle 
 pale and dishevelled. He placed himself 
 square in front of Lodusky. 
 
 " Dusk Dunbar," he said, "you're the ona 
 to settle it, VVhich on us is a-gwine home 
 with ye — me or him ! You haint promised 
 the two of us, hev ye?" 
 
 There was certainly a suddenly lit spark 
 of exultation in the girl's coolly dropped 
 eyes. 
 
 "Settle it betwixt ye," sheanswered with 
 her exasperating half smile again. 
 
 They had attracted attention by this time, 
 and were becoming the centre figures of a 
 group of lookers-on. 
 
 The first had evidently lost his temper. 
 She was the one who should settle it, h-^ 
 proclaimed loudly again. She had promised 
 one man her "comp'ny" and had come with 
 another. 
 
 There was so much fierce anger in his face 
 that Miss Noble drew a little nearer, and felt 
 her own blood warmed. 
 
 " '"Vhich on us is it to be ?" he cried. 
 There was a quick, strong movement on 
 the part of the young man Dave, and he was 
 whirled aside for a second time. 
 
 " It's to be me," he was answered. " I'm 
 the man to settle that — I don't leave it to no 
 gal to settle." 
 
 In two seconds the lookers-on fell back in 
 dismay, and there was a cry of terror from 
 the women. Two lithe, long-limbed figures 
 were struggling fiercely together, and there 
 was a flash of knives in the air. 
 Rebecca Noble sprang forward. 
 • > 'Tkn.j' Tvill kill ivv^h nfh^^r sHa =s.:^ 
 "Stopthera!" 
 
 That they would, have done each other 
 deadly injury seemed more than piobable, 
 but thers were cool heads and hands as 
 strong as their own in the room, and m a few 
 minutes they had been dragged apart and 
 stood, each held back by the arms, staring at 
 
 m 
 

 66 
 
 L0DU8KY. 
 
 each other and panting; The lank peace- 
 maker in blue jean who held Dave Humes 
 shook him gently ar ,1 with amiable tolera- 
 tion of his folly, 
 
 "Look 'ere, boys," he said, "thisyere'a 
 all a pack of foolishness, ye know — all a pack 
 of foolishness. There aint no sense in it — 
 its 'a jest foolishness." 
 
 Rebecca cast a quick glance at the girl 
 Lodusky. She leaned against the wall jtist 
 as she had done before ; sha was as cool as 
 ever, though the spark which hinted at exul- 
 tation still shone steadily in her eye. 
 
 When the two ladies reached the log-cabin 
 at which they had taken up their abode, 
 they found that the story of the event of the 
 evening was before them. Their hostess, 
 whose habit it was to present herself with 
 erratic talk or information ai all hours, met 
 them with hospitable eagerness. 
 
 " Waal now," she began, "just to think o' 
 them thar fool boys a-lettin' into one another 
 in thet thar way. I never hearn tell b' sich 
 foolishness. Young folks is so foolish. 'N' 
 they drord knives 1" This is in the tone of 
 suggestive query. 
 
 "Yes," answered MissNoble, " they drew 
 knives." 
 
 *' They did !" benignly. " Lord ! What 
 .'.ools ! Waal now, an' Dusk— what did Dusk 
 do?" 
 
 "She stood by and looked on," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Lord !" with the inimitable mountain 
 drawl ; " ye don't say so ! But it's jest like 
 her— thet is. She's so cur'us, Dusk is. Thar 
 aint no gettin' at lier. Ye know the gals ses 
 as she's allers doit*' tnst one quare thing 'n' 
 then another to get the boys mad at each 
 other. But Lor', p'r'aps 'taint so ! Dusk's 
 powerful good-lookin', and gals is jealous, ye 
 know. " 
 
 " Do you think," questioned Miss Noble, 
 "that -they really would have killed each 
 other ?" 
 
 " Lord ! yaas," placidly, " They went to 
 do it. Both Dan'l and Dave's kinder fiery, 
 'n' they'd nuther on 'em hev give in with 
 Dusk a-lookin' on — they'd havcut theirselvea 
 to pieceft fust. Young folks is so foolisli ; 
 gettin' mad about a gal ! l^ord knows gals 
 is plenty enou^'h. " 
 
 "Not girls like this one," said Miss Noble, 
 laughing a little. 
 
 " Waal now, she is good-lookin', aint she ? 
 But she's cur'us, Dusk is — she's a cur'us 
 
 her, 'n' they do the best they kin by her, 
 but she don't nnver seem to keer about '«jm 
 no way. Fur all she's so still, she's power- 
 ful sot on fine dressiii' an' rich ^olkses ways. 
 Nath he once tuk her to Asheville, 'n' seems 
 like she's kinder never got over it, but keeps 
 a-broodin' 'bout the way they done thar, V 
 how their clothes looked, 'u' all thet. She 
 knows she's handsuiu, 'n' she likes to see 
 other folks knows it, though she never says 
 much. I hed to laugh at my Hamp once; 
 Hamp he aint no fool, an' he'd been tuk with 
 her a spell like the rest o' the boys, but he 
 got chock full of her, 'n' one day we was 
 a-talkin', 'n' the old man he says, 'Waal now, 
 that gal's a hard wad. blie's cur'us, 'n' 
 tbar's no two ways about it,' An' Hamp 
 he gives a bit of a laugh kinder mad, 'n' he 
 ses, * Yes, she's cur'us — cur'us as 1' May 
 
 sne 8 
 
 " CtiriouB !" echoed Rebecca, finding the 
 term vague even while suggestive. 
 
 "Yaas," shesaid, expansively, "she'scur'us; 
 kinder onsosherble 'n' notional e. Now Du.sk 
 is— cur'us. She's so still and sot, 'u' Nath 
 Dunbar and Mandy they think a heap on 
 
 be he felt kinder roughed np about her yet 
 — but I hed to laugh." 
 
 The next morning Miss Noble devoted to 
 letter- writing. In one of her letters, a bright 
 one, of a tone rather warmer than ths rest, 
 she gave her correspondent a very forcible 
 description of the entertainment of the even- 
 ing before and its closing scene. 
 
 "I think it will interest him," shesaid 
 half aloud, as she wrote upon the envelope 
 the first part of the address, • Mr. Paul 
 Lennox.' 
 
 A shadow falling across the sunshine in 
 the door- way checked her and made her look 
 up. 
 
 It had rather an arousing effect upon her 
 to find herself confronting the young woman, 
 Lodiisky, who stood upon the threshold, re- 
 garding her with an air entirely composed, 
 slightly mingled with interest. 
 
 "I was in at Mis' Harney's," she re- 
 marked, as if the explanation was upon the 
 whole rather superfluous, " 'n' I thought I'd 
 come in 'n' see ye. " 
 
 During her sojourn of three weeks Rebecca 
 had learned enough of the laws of mountain 
 society to understand that the occasion only 
 demanded of her friendliness of demeanor 
 and perfect freedom from ceremony. She 
 rose and placed a chair for her guest. 
 " I am glad to see you," she said. 
 Lodusky seated herself. 
 It was entirely unnecessary to attempt to 
 set her at ease; her composure was perfects 
 The flaunting-patterned calico must have 
 been a matter of full dress. It had been 
 replaced by a IJue-and-white-checked home- 
 spun gown — s- oo«,iB« culioti gurnieiit short 
 and scant. Her feet were bare, and their 
 bareness was only a revelation of greater 
 beauty, so perfect was their arched slender- 
 nesa. Miss Dunbar crossed them with unem- 
 barrassed freedom, and looked at the stranger 
 as if she found her worth steady inspection. 
 
st they kin by her, 
 rn to kepr about 'em 
 
 BO still, she's power- 
 ^n' rich folkses M'»ya. 
 ;o Asheville, 'n' seems 
 got (iver it, but keeps 
 .y they done thar, 'n' 
 :d, 'n' allthet. She 
 
 'n' she likes to see 
 hough she never says 
 h at my Hamp once; 
 n' he'd been tuk with 
 1 o' the boys, but he 
 
 'n' one day we was 
 
 n he says, 'Waal now, 
 
 blie's cur'us, 'n' 
 
 out it.' An' Hamp 
 
 [h kinder mad, 'n' he 
 
 -cur'us as !' May 
 
 3d up about her yet 
 
 liss Noble devoted to 
 if her letters, a bright 
 varmer than the rest, 
 ident a very forcible 
 tainment of the even- 
 g scene. 
 
 erest him," she said 
 >te upon the envelope 
 address, ' Mr. Paul 
 
 'OBS the sunshine in 
 er and made her look 
 
 sing effect upon her 
 ig the young woman, 
 3n the threshold, re- 
 r entirely composed, 
 terest. 
 
 Harney's," she ro- 
 tation was upon the 
 , "'n' I thought I'd 
 
 three weeks Rebecca 
 he laws of mountain 
 at the occasion only 
 lliness of demeanor 
 am ceremony. She 
 }r her guest. 
 ," she said. 
 
 ssary to attempt to 
 posure was perfect^ 
 calico must hare 
 Iress. It had been 
 i'hite-checked home- 
 /tuii garment short 
 ere bare, and their 
 velatioa of greater 
 heir arched slender- 
 ed them with unem- 
 Dked at the stranger 
 1 steady inspection. 
 
 LODUSKT. 
 
 67 
 
 "Thet thar's a purty dress you're a- 
 weann'," she vouchsafed at length. 
 
 Rebecca glanced down at her costume. 
 Beins.' a sensible youncj person, she had at- 
 tired herself in npparel suitable for moun- 
 tain rambling. Her dreas was simple pil- 
 grim gray, taut made and trim ; but she 
 never lost m air of distinction which ren- 
 dered abundant adornments a secondary 
 matter. 
 
 "It is very plain," she answered. "I be- 
 lieve its chief object is to be as little in the 
 way as possiVile.'" 
 V '"Taint much trimmed," responded the 
 / girl, "but it looks kinder nice, 'n' it seta 
 well. Ye come from the city. Mis' Harney 
 says. " ■'J 
 
 "From New York," said Pebecca. She 
 felt sure that she saw in the tawny brcwn 
 depths of the girl's eyes a kind of secret ea- 
 gerness, and this expressed itself openly in 
 ner reply. 
 
 "I don't blame no one for wantin' to live 
 ma city," she said," with a kind of discon- ' 
 tent "A body might as soon be doad as 
 live in this way." 
 
 Rebecca gave her a keen glance. "Don't 
 you like the quiet ?" she asked. "What is 
 , it you don't like ?" 
 
 _'I don't like nothin' about it," scornfully. 
 "There's nothin' here." ' 
 
 Very slowly a lurking, half-hidden smile 
 snowed itself about her fine mouth. 
 
 "I'm not goin' to stay here allers," she 
 said. 
 
 "You want to go away ?" said Rebecca. 
 She nodded. 
 
 "I am goin', " she answered, "some o' 
 these days." 
 
 "Where ?" asked Rebecca, a little coldly, 
 recognizing as she did a repellant element in 
 the girl. 
 
 The reply was succnct enough : — 
 "I don't know whar, 'n' I don't keer whar 
 —but I'm goin'." 
 
 She turned her eyes toward the great wall 
 of forest-covered mountain, lifting its height 
 before the open door, and the blood showed 
 its deep glow upon her cheek. 
 
 "Some o' these days," she added; "as 
 shore as I'm h woman," 
 
 When they talked the matter over after- 
 wards. Miss Thome's remarks were at once 
 decided and severe. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what my opinion is, 
 Kobecca?" she said. "Mv opinion is thni-. I 
 uiere )8 evil enough in the creature to be the 
 ruin of the whole community. She ia bad at 
 the core. " 
 
 "I would rather believe," said Rebecca, 
 musingly, "that she was only inordi.,ately 
 vain." Almost instantaneously her musing 
 was broken by a light laugh. "She has j 
 
 dressed her hair as I dress mine," she said, 
 "only it was done better, I could not have 
 arranged it so well. She saw it la-ot night 
 and was quick enough to take the style at a 
 glance. " 
 
 At the beginning of the next Week there 
 occurred an event which chani;ed materially 
 the ordinary routine of life in the cabin. 
 Heretofore the two sojourners among 
 the mountain fastnesses had walked 
 and climbed under the escort of a email, 
 tow-headed Harney. But one evening as 
 she sat sketching on her favourite flat seat of 
 rock, Miss Noble somewhat alarmed this 
 youth by dropping her paper and starting to 
 her feet. 
 
 " Orlander" Harney sat and stared at her 
 with black eyes and opened mouth. The red 
 came ind went under her fair skin, and she 
 breathed quickly. 
 
 "Oh," she cried softly, "how comW I be 
 mistaken !" 
 
 That she was not mistaken became evident 
 immediately. At the very moment she spoke, 
 the advancing horseman, whose appparance 
 had so roused her, glanced upward along the 
 path and caught sight of her figure. He 
 lifted his hat in gay greeting and struck hia 
 horse lightly with his whip. Rebecca bent 
 down and picked up her portfolio, 
 
 "You may go home," she said quietly to 
 the boy. "J shal? be there soon ; and vou 
 may tell Miss Thome that Mr, Lennox has 
 come." She was at the baae of the rock 
 when the stranger drew rein. ' 'How is this ?" 
 she asked with bright uplifted eyes, " We 
 did not think"— 
 
 It occurred to Lennox that he had never 
 recognized her peculiar charm so fully as he 
 did at tKi3 moment. Rebecca Noble, though 
 not a beauty, possessed a subtle grace of look 
 and air which was not easily resisted— and 
 just now, as she held out her hand, the clear 
 sweetness of her face shadowed by her 
 piquantly plain hat of rough straw, he felt 
 the influence of this element more strongly 
 than ever before, 
 
 "There was no reason why I should 
 not come," he said, since you did not forbid 
 me " 
 
 At sunset they returned to the cabin. 
 Lennox led his rather sorry-looking animal 
 by the bridle, and trusting to its meekness of 
 aspect, devoted his attention to his com- 
 panion. I 
 
 "Thet's Nath Dr,r, bar's -Oritter " .-om- 
 mented "Mis'" Harney, standing at the 
 door. "They've powerful poor 'commoda- 
 tions fu!- boardin', but I reckon Nath must a 
 tuck him in." 
 
 "Then," said Rebe. a, learning that this 
 was the case, " i,i.ien yon have seen 
 Lodusky. " 
 
 
 .^4 
 
 i«w;'^'.7! 
 
58 
 
 L0DU8KY. 
 
 But he had not seen Lodnsky, it deemed. 
 She had not been at home when he arrived, 
 and he had only remained in the house h)ng 
 enough to make necessary arrangements 
 before leaving it to go in search of his 
 friends. 
 
 The bare, rough-walled room was ve/y 
 cheery that night. Lennox brought with 
 him the gossip of the great wnrld, to which 
 he gave au air of freshness and ,pice that 
 rendered it very acceptable to the temporary 
 hermits. Outside, the moon shone witli a 
 liglit as clear as day, though softer, and the 
 tendfir night breezes stirred the pine-tops and 
 nestled among the laurels; inside, by the 
 beautiful barbarous light'of the flaring pine- 
 knots on the hearth, two talkers, at least, 
 found the hours Hy swiftly. 
 
 When these two bade each other good-night 
 it was only natural that they should reach 
 the point toward which they had been veer- 
 ing for twelve months. 
 
 Miss Thorne remained in the room,^ draw- 
 ing nearer the lire with an amiable little 
 shiver, well excused by the mountain cool- 
 ness, but Rebecca was beguiled into stepping 
 out into the moonlight. The brightness of 
 the moon and the blackness of the shadows 
 cast by trees, and rocdjs. and undergrowth, 
 seemed somehow to heighten the effect of the 
 intense and utter stillness reigning around 
 them — even the occasional diatant cry of 
 some wandering wild creature marked, ra- 
 ther than broie in upon, the silence. Re- 
 becca's glance about her was half nervous. 
 
 " It is very beautiful," she said, "and it 
 moves one strongly ; but I am not sure that 
 t is not. in some of one's moods, just a little 
 oppressive." 
 
 It is possible Lennox did not hear her. He 
 was looking down at her with eager eyes. 
 Suddenly he had caught her hand to his lips 
 ^d kissed it. 
 
 "You know why I am here, Rebecca," 
 he said. "Surely all ray hoping is not in 
 vain ?" 
 
 She looked pale and a little startled ; but 
 she lifted her face and did not draw herself 
 ft way. 
 
 "Is it '!" he asked again. "Have I come 
 on a hopeless errand ?" 
 
 "No," she answered. " You have not. " 
 His words came freely enough then and 
 with tire. When Rebecca re-entered the 
 cabin her large eyes shone in her small, sweet 
 face, and her lips wore a charming curve. 
 
 tell 
 
 t-u iwn. atj 
 
 her and was betrayed into a smile. 
 
 " Mr. Lennox haa gone, or course," she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then, after a brief silence, in which Re- 
 becca pushed the pine-knots with her foot, 
 the elder lady spoke again. 
 
 " Don't you think yon may as well 
 me about it, Beck, my child ?" she said. 
 
 Beck looked down and shook her head 
 with very charming gravity. 
 
 " Why should I ?" she asked. " When— 
 when you know." 
 
 Lennox rode his mildly disposed but vio- 
 lently gaited steed homeward in that repose- 
 ful state of bliss known only to accepted 
 lovers. He had plucked his flower at last; 
 he was no longer one of the many ; he was 
 ecstatically content. Uncertainty bad no 
 charm for hiin, and he was by no nicans the 
 first discnvercr of the subtle fineness her ad- 
 mirers fnind so difhcult todescribe in Miss 
 Noble. Granted that she was not a beauty, 
 judged rigidly still he had found in her 
 soft, clear eye, in her colour, in her charm- 
 ing voice, even in her little gestures, some- 
 thing which reached him as an artist, and 
 touched him as a man. 
 
 " One cannot exactly account for other 
 women's palimr before her," he said to bin- 
 self ; but they d > — and lose signific vnce." 
 And then he laugh d tenderly. At this mo- 
 ment, it was true, every other thinj, on earth 
 paled and lost significance. 
 
 That the family of his host had retired 
 made itsc'f evident to him when he dis- 
 mounted at the house. To the silence of the 
 night was added the silence of slumber. No 
 one was to be seen ; a small cow, rendered 
 lean by active Climbing in search of' susten- 
 ance, breathed peacefully near the tumble- 
 down fence ; the ubiquitous, long-legged, 
 yellow dog, rendered trustful by long seclu- 
 sion, aroused hiraself from his nap to greet 
 the arrival with .*t series of heavy raps upon 
 the rickety porch-floor with a solid but 
 languid tail. Leniiox stepped over him in 
 rea:hing for the gourd hanging upon the 
 post, and he did not consider it incumbent 
 upon himself to rise. 
 
 In a little hollow at the road-side was the 
 spring from which the household supplies of 
 water were obtained. Finding none in the 
 wooden bucket, Lennox took the gourd witL 
 the intention of going down to the hollow to 
 quench his thirst. 
 
 "We've powerful good water," his host 
 had said in the afternoon, "'n' it's nigh the 
 house, too. I built the house yer a-purpose, 
 — on 'count of its bein' nigh." 
 
 He w -: unconsciously dwelling upon this 
 statement as he walked, and trying to recall 
 correctly the mountain drawl and twang. 
 
 oiic, lie 3aiu (tucrK waa oniy one ""snc" 
 for him to-night)— "she will be sure to 
 catch it and reproduce it in all its shades to 
 the life." 
 
 He was only a few feet from the spring it- 
 self and he stopped with asharp exclamation 
 of the most uncontrollable amizemeut, — 
 
 , 
 
ou may aa well tell 
 
 child ?" Bhe said. 
 
 lud shook her head 
 
 ivity. 
 
 16 asked. "When — 
 
 lly disposed but vio- 
 eward in that repose- 
 I'n only to accepted 
 il his flower at last j 
 ■ the many ; he was 
 Uncertainty had no 
 was hy no riicans the 
 ubtle fineness her ad- 
 b tofJescribe in Miss 
 he was not a beauty, 
 I had found in her 
 ilour, in her charm- 
 iittle gestures, some- 
 n as an artist, and 
 
 account for other 
 er," lie said to hiri- 
 lid lose signific- mce." 
 lulerly. At this xno- 
 other thin^: on earth 
 ce. 
 lis host had retired 
 
 him when he dis- 
 To the silence of the 
 noe oi slumber. No 
 small cow, rendered 
 in search of'susten- 
 y near the tumVde- 
 iiitou.s, long-legged, 
 istful by long seclu- 
 om his nap to greet 
 of heavy raps upon 
 • with a solitl but 
 tepped over him in 
 
 hanging upon the 
 nsider it incumbeut 
 
 le road -side was the 
 ousehold supplies of 
 Finding none in tLe 
 took the gourd with 
 >wn to the hollow to 
 
 )d water," his host 
 1, "'n' it's nigh the 
 louse yer a-purpose, 
 gh." 
 dwelling upon this 
 and trying to recall 
 rawl and twang. 
 w«io only osc "KnG" 
 e will be sure to 
 t in all its shades to 
 
 I from the spring it- 
 a sharp exclamation 
 able amilzemeut, — 
 
 LODUglKY 
 
 5» 
 
 , 
 
 "topped and stared straight before him It 
 was a pretty, dell-like place, darkly shadow 
 
 Kit Z '^' ''^^'i ^""^ '* ^^« something 
 fnJf this flood of moonlight which al- 
 
 most caused b,m to doubt for the moment 
 the evulence of his senses. moment 
 
 How It was possible for him to believe that 
 attTr!^'",^,*^"."'^ ,«t^nd in such a spotter 
 attired m black velvet of stagy cut and trim 
 
 iTri Ihn V 'J Jlie'-e certainly stood such a 
 girl, who beat her litlie, round shLpe over 
 the spring, gazmg into its depths withall the 
 eagerness of an insatiaUe vanity 
 
 patients '* «f ""tlaV, " he heard her say im- 
 patiently. I can t see nothin' nohow." 
 
 Uespite the beauty, his first g'ance could 
 not help showing; hin, she was a ..na-t so n 
 
 r/n-r"wT' ^--'^^^^-t - to^ralm St 
 fuilvhert^^'n" ^^^«t".»'^ upright revealing' 
 lully her tu 1 hi^ure in its shabby finery he 
 felt something like resentment He ma, e a 
 res ive moyenie.t which stie heard The bi? 
 flurh\ ^""kmg-glass .he held in her ban 
 
 Whan d'ye want ?" she exclaimed ' ' What 
 rffin''"T''l-' ^"'"'^ ^"- - - onfwal 
 
 fhSlf+i^'t'^^'^^' ^"°« backward, her full I 
 throat l.K.ked like a pillar of niarbie against 
 
 He would If h ^ ^'\ ^''''' ^'' "•'• ^'^^ fi^r-^' 
 JHe would not have been an artist if he had 
 
 no been powerfully struck with a sense of 
 aer Picturesqueness. 
 
 »wer^- '^"^ "''* '"i^° ^* "^ "^ ^« an- 
 
 "I board at the house there. I returned 
 
 ^Z^r'^'-^y- IcametrfS 
 
 Her temper died down as suddenly as it 
 faad flamed and she seemed given up^o a 
 " »^Af ^ «hanied trepidation. ^ ^ 
 
 -I Fn, r Tn' v"^"?.'* y« *«" 'em-don't 
 — I— I m L .sk Dunbar. " 
 
 rioS?„',r was very natural, he became cu- 
 nous and possibly did smile-a very little. 
 
 are y'If?oi„V- ""' "' ''' *'^* '' '^"*'*^"*^^ 
 
 -uctldXUVSSl** '^^"« <^««-* -<i 
 
 -c,-^ T*"" '•* ,**°"'' "° ^»''"»' ' ' she 3.%Td. " I 
 
 bS7ess7" "' * ''" '' "°* "'°'-^'^ 
 •• that's true," he answered cooUv "At 
 •11 events ,t is not mine-though it is rather 
 late for a lady to be alone at such a place 
 However rf you have no objection, f^li 
 get what I came for and go back" 
 i^3^«i?4iil''*^*°S when he stepped down 
 aad lillef the gourd, bat she re|irded him 
 
 Sank* '""^* "^ irritable watchfulness as ho 
 
 " Are ye--aro ye a goin' to tell?" she fal- 
 tered, when he had finished. 
 
 .«w?"''i' *'t, 'i"^,'*'^'"®'^ *" ''"""y as before. 
 " v\ hy shouhll ?" 
 
 Then he gave her a long look from head to 
 toot, ihe dress was a poor enough velveteen 
 and had a cast-off air, but it clung to her 
 figure hnely, and its sleeves were picturesque 
 with puffs at the shoulder and slashings of 
 white-inoee.l the moonlight made her all 
 black and white; her eyes, which were 
 tawny brown by day, were black as velvet 
 now uiioer the straight linos of her brows, 
 and her face was pure .lead foirneaa itself. 
 
 VMien, his look ended, his eves met hers, 
 
 ?. V T r*" '*''^'* *" impatient movement. 
 Ve looks as if— as if ye thought I didn't 
 
 "butldkr''* ^^^ exclaimed petulantly, 
 
 'Hiat drew his glance toward her dress 
 
 again, tor of course she referred to that, and 
 
 ueTtion """* ^'''^' ^^"^'"^ ^^"^ " P'^'^t-^'Jank 
 ''Where did you get it ?" he said. 
 There was a slow flippancy about the man- 
 ner of her reply which annoyed hini by its 
 I variance with her beauty-but the beauty ! 
 I How the moonlight and the black and white 
 I brought it out a^ she leaned against the 
 rock looking at him from under her lashes I 
 Are ye going to toil the folks uj. at the 
 house T she demanded. " Thev don't know 
 nothin and 1 don't want 'em to know." 
 He shrugged his shoulders negatively, 
 hhe laughed with a hint of cool slyness 
 and triumph. 
 
 "I got it at A8he\'ille," she said. "I 
 rent with father when they was a show thar. 
 n the women stayed at the same tavern we 
 was at, n one of 'em tuk up with me 'n' I 
 donesomethin' for her-carried a letter or 
 two, breaking jnto a sly, triumphant laugh 
 
 i^u* y® *'""k of it? Is it becomiu'?" 
 Ihe suddenness of the change of manner 
 with which she said thece last words was in- 
 describable. She stood upright, her head 
 up, her hands fallen at her sides, her eyts 
 cool and stra.ght-her whole presence con- 
 fronting him with the power of which she 
 was conscious. 
 
 "Is it?" she repeated. 
 , ^ He was a gentJentan from inatinr.* an'' 
 n-om tr,uuing, having ordinarily quite a loftv 
 repugnance for all profanity and brusqne- 
 ness. and yet somehow-account for it as you 
 wm_he had the next instant answered her 
 withpositive brutality. 
 
 "Yes," he ansM'ered, " Damnably !" 
 vv hen the words were spoken and he heard 
 their sound fall upon the soft night air, hS 
 
^ 
 
 LOpUSKY. 
 
 K 
 
 was as keenly disgusted as he would have 
 been if he had heard them uttered by another 
 inau. It was not until afterward when he 
 had had leisure to think the matt'ir over that 
 he comprehended vaguely the force which 
 had moved him. 
 
 But his companion received them without 
 discomhture. Indeed, it really occurred to 
 him at the moment there was" a possibility 
 that she would have been less pleased with 
 an expression more choice. 
 
 "I come down here tonight," she said, 
 " because I never git no chance to do nothin' 
 up at the house. I'm not a-goin' to let them 
 inovir. Never mind why, but wo mustn't 
 tell 'era." 
 
 He felt haughtily anxious to get back to 
 iiis proper position. 
 
 " Why should I ? " he said agwn. "It is 
 no concern of mine." 
 
 Then for the first time he noticed the man- 
 ner in which she striven to dress her hair in 
 the style of her model, Rebecca Noble, and 
 ihia irritated him unendurably. He waved 
 his hand toward it with a gesture of dis- 
 taste. * 
 
 "Don't do that again," he said. "That 
 is not becoming at least "—though he was 
 angrily conscious that it was. 
 
 She bent over the spring with a hint of 
 alarm in her expression. 
 
 " Aint it ? " she said, and the eager rapid- 
 ity with which she lifted her hands and 
 b?gan to alter it almost drew a smile from 
 him, despite his mood, 
 
 "I done it like hern," she began, and 
 stopped suddenly to look at him. " You 
 know her," she added; " they're at Harney's. 
 Father said ye'd went to see L r jest as soon 
 as ye got here. " 
 
 " I know her," was h short reply. 
 
 He picked up the ilrinking gourd and 
 turned away. 
 
 " Good-night," he said, 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 At the top of the rooky incline he looked 
 back at her. 
 
 She was kneeling upon the brink of the 
 spring, iier sleeve pushed up to her shoulder, 
 her iiand and arm in the water, dipping for 
 the fragment of looking-glass. 
 
 It was really not wholly inconsistent that 
 he should not directly describe the interview 
 in his next meeting with his betrothed. In- 
 deed, Rebecca was rather struck by the cool- 
 ness with whifih he treated the Huh'f,nt wh«>n 
 he explained that he had seen the girl and 
 found her beauty all it harl been painted. 
 
 " Is it possible," she asked, " that she did 
 not quite please you ? " 
 
 "Are you sure," he returned, "that she 
 .quite pleases you t " 
 
 Rebecca gave a moment to reflection, 
 "But ner beauty" — she began, when it 
 was over, 
 
 "Oh!" he interposed, "as a matter of 
 colour and curve and proportion she is per- 
 fect ; one must admit that, however reluct- 
 antly." 
 Rebecca laughed, 
 •' Why 'rel-iotantly T ' " she said. 
 It was his turn to give a moment to re- 
 flection. His face shs^owed, and he looked 
 a littl disturbed. 
 
 "I don't kuow," he replied at length ; " I 
 give it up," 
 
 He had expected to see a great deal of the 
 girl, but somehow he saw her oftenerthan ha 
 hud anticipated. During the time he spent 
 in the house, chance seemed to throw her 
 continually in his path or under his eye. 
 From his window he saw her carrying water 
 from the spring, driving the small agile cow 
 to ard from the mountain pasturage, oridling 
 in th J shade. Upon the whole it was oftener 
 this last than any other occnpation. With 
 her neglected knitting in her hands she would 
 sit for hours under a certain low-spreading 
 cedar not far from the door, barefooted, 
 coarsely clad, beautiful — every tinge of the 
 sun, every indifferent leisurely movement, a 
 new suggestion of a new grace. 
 
 It would have been impossible to resist the 
 temptation to watch her ; and this Lennox 
 did at first almost unconsciously. Then he 
 did more. One beautiful still morning she 
 stood under the cedar, her hand thiown 
 lightly above her head to catch at a bough, 
 and as she remained motionless, he made a 
 sketch of her. When it was rinished he wat 
 seized with the himsical impulse to go out 
 and show it to iier. 
 
 She took it with an uncomprehending air, 
 but the moment she saw what it was a flush 
 of triumphant joy lighted up her face. 
 
 "It's me," she cried in a low, eager voice. 
 " Me ! " Do I look like that thar T Do I ?" 
 
 " You look as that would look if it had 
 colour, and was more complete. " 
 
 She glanced up at him sharply, 
 
 " D'ye mean if it was han'somer ?" 
 
 He was tempted into adding to her excite- 
 ment with a compliment, 
 
 "Yes," he said, "very much handsomer 
 than I could ever hope to make it. " 
 
 A slow, deeo red rose to her face. 
 
 " Give it tome ["she demanded, 
 
 " If you will stand in the same position 
 Uatil I have drawii another — certaiuiy,"]ie 
 returned. 
 
 He was fully convinced that when she re- 
 peated the attitude there would be added to 
 it a look of consciousness. 
 
 When she settled into position and caught' 
 at the bough again, he watched ift some m«' 
 
 > 
 
 taste f 
 plaisai 
 > oncone 
 It i 
 never I 
 she wa 
 joymei 
 was im 
 to be 8 
 the W( 
 "Ai 
 nesB is 
 Fati^ 
 Lenno.^i 
 miracle 
 and ex] 
 miles ai 
 her cob 
 ring. SI 
 woman 
 back to 
 and sun 
 vines. 
 
 "Yoi 
 
 fully b( 
 
 and aga 
 
 Their 
 
 their b] 
 
 could n( 
 
 world, 
 
 perhaps, 
 
 settle dc 
 
 white, c 
 
 down ho 
 
 precipit( 
 
 Florence 
 
 oompass 
 
 argued t 
 
 npon in 
 
 ditiouall 
 
 fancies t 
 
 talk a gG 
 
 which w 
 
 Save the 
 avour. 
 The e 
 they spei 
 When th 
 himself v 
 and lay 1 
 the sky i 
 lazily, j 
 M'hite lai 
 metaphys 
 previousl 
 " To ir 
 
 -;- „r I 
 
 exactly si 
 own pur 
 pathetic i 
 How falh 
 because v 
 She at 
 
LODUSKy. 
 
 61 
 
 it to reflection. 
 
 she began, when it 
 
 I, "as a matter of 
 jportion she is p$r- 
 lat, however reluot- 
 
 " she said. 
 
 e a moment to r«> 
 
 wed, and he looked 
 
 jlied at length ; " I 
 
 B a great deal of the 
 1 her oftener than he 
 ; the time he spent 
 med to throw her 
 or under his eye. 
 her carrying water 
 the small agile cow 
 1 pasturage, oridling 
 whole it was oftener 
 occnpation. With 
 ber handf) she wonld 
 tain low-spreading 
 doer, barefooted, 
 every tinge of the 
 surely movement, a 
 grace. 
 
 >nssible to resist the 
 ; and this Lennox 
 Bciously. Then he 
 i still morning she 
 her hand thiown 
 catch at a bough, 
 ^ionless, he made a 
 was rinished he wa« 
 1 impulse to go out 
 
 comprehending air, 
 
 what it was a flash 
 up her face, 
 a low, eager voice. 
 
 ;hat thar T Do I ?" 
 
 lid look if it had 
 
 plete." 
 
 sharply. 
 
 an'somer ?" 
 
 Iding to her excite- 
 much handsomer 
 make it. " 
 
 ) her face. 
 
 emanded. 
 
 the same position 
 
 iier — certaiuly,'' Le 
 
 that when she re- 
 would be added to 
 
 rasition and caueht' 
 itched in some qm- 
 
 tMte for the growth of the nervously com- 
 plaisant air, but it did not appear. She was 
 unconsciousness itself. 
 
 It is possible that Rebecca No'^le had 
 never been so happy during her whole life as 
 ■he wasd.iriug this one summer. Her en- 
 joyment .,f every wild beauty and novelty 
 was immeasurably keen. Just st this time 
 to be shiuout, au.l to be as it were high above 
 
 Au, she said once to her lover, "happi- 
 ness 18 bettor here-one can taste it slowly " 
 JJatigue seemed impossible to her. • ith 
 lienno.x as her C'.mpaiii>» she performed 
 miracles lu the way «f walkiug and climbing, 
 and exploring the mountiiiu fastnesses for 
 miles around. Her step grew firm and elastic, 
 her colour richer, her lau^h had a buoyant 
 rinir. Shehadfnever been so nearly a b.iautifnl 
 woman as she was sometimes when she came 
 back to the cottage after a ramble, bright 
 and sun-tiushed, her hands full of laurel aud 
 vines. 
 
 f„iV ^T^ *'''^" °l 'hodden-gray' is wonder- 
 fully becoming. Beck," Lennox said again 
 and again with a secret exulting pride in her. 
 1 heir plans for the future took tone from 
 their blissful, unconventional life. They 
 could not settle down till they had seen the 
 world. They would go here and there, and 
 perhaps, if they foun-f it pleasauter so, not 
 settle down at all There were certain clay- 
 white closely built villages, whose tumble- 
 down houses jostled each other upon divers 
 precipitous cliffs on the way-side between 
 Florence and Rome, towards which Lennox's 
 compass seemed always to point. He rather 
 argued that the fact of their not being .lilated 
 upon m the guide books rendered them ad- 
 ditionally interesting. Rebecca had her 
 fancies too, and together they managed to 
 talk a good deal of tend^^r, romantic nonsense, 
 which was purely their own business, and 
 Ku?* summer days a delicate yet distinct 
 
 The evening after the sketch was made 
 they spent upon the mountain side together 
 When they stopped to rest, Lennox Hung 
 himself upon the ground at Rebecca'.s feet 
 and lay looking up at the far away blue o'r 
 the sky in which a slow-flying bird circled 
 lazily. Rebecca, with a cluster of pink and 
 white laurel in her hand, proceeded with a 
 metaphysical .-viid poetical harangue she had 
 previously begun. 
 
 .:-" ?r" "^^ ';y''^'" 8^^« «ai'^. "••■' has a pathetic 
 ^-•t Yj ii'iiwiiiess — patheLlo and yet not 
 exactly sorn.wful. It knows nothing but its 
 own pure, brave, silent life. It is only 
 pathetic to a worldling-worldlings likens 
 How falleu we must be to Hud a lire desolate 
 because it has only nature for a companion '" 
 She stopped with an idle laugh, waiting 
 
 foraniron.cal reply from the "worldling" 
 at her feet; but he remaine.l silent, stiU 
 looking upward at the clear, deep blue. 
 
 As she glanced U.wanl h.m she saw some- 
 thing lying upon the grass between them, 
 
 thl rhV^vJ^'f /' "I^- "*^« the sketch 
 whif I he had forgotten and which had 
 slipped from the portfolio. 
 
 " You have dropped something," she said, 
 a,nd seeing what it was, utttered an exclamal 
 tii>n ot pleasure. 
 
 He came back to earth with a start, and. 
 'S^SJ:-''^^ looked more than 
 
 'Oh. it is that, is it ?" he said. 
 
 ';it 18 perfect !" she exclaimed. "What 
 a picture it will make !" 
 
 "Itisnottobffa picture," he answered.- 
 
 ti/anTlketlT-' "''^'^*" ''^ "^^'"^^^ "«>- 
 "But why not ?" she asked. " It is too 
 
 good to lose You never had such a model 
 
 in your life before." 
 
 " I*io," he answered grudgingly 
 
 «felt^.h'?"'^ with whiJh Rebecca hold the 
 sketch dropped She turned her attention 
 to her lover, and a speculative interest grew 
 in her face. ° 
 
 "That girl"-8he said slowly, after a 
 mental summing up occupying a few seconds 
 - - that girl irritates you— irritates ^ 
 
 He laughed faintly, ^ 
 
 "1 believe she does," he replied; "yes, 
 'irritates' la the word to use " ' J'""- 
 
 nr.n"!^ /^^ • ^ U^'^ '^^'"^ *«■"«• ^^ ^^^ ^Ct 
 
 upon returning home was a singular one 
 He was ratlier late, but the girl Lodusky 
 
 was sitting ,n the moonlight at tie door. He 
 
 stopped and spoke to her. 
 
 ''If I should wish to paint you," he said 
 
 rather coldly, "would you do me he favoir 
 
 ot sitting to me?" 
 She did not answer him at once, but 
 
 seemed to we'gh his words as she looked 
 
 out across the moonlight 
 
 .i'f^'t.^l^'"''.^'" ^ *'«* ye put me in a 
 picter ?'' she said at last. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Yes, " she answered. • 
 
 "I reckon he told you he was a-paiutin* 
 
 Dusk specter," "Miss" Harneysaid to her 
 
 boarders a week later. 
 
 hetouru^''""-'''''"^*"'-"^''^^^^-^'''^-^' 
 
 no^f fS^S'u ;na^:^S..S'F!'!^ ::i^ 
 
 shedontgitcontrairy. .She's as hke old 
 Hance Dunbar as she kin be. I mean in 
 some xvayB. Lord knows 'twouMn't do to 
 say she was like him in everythin' " 
 . Naturally, Miss Noble made some inquir- 
 ies mto the nature of old Hance DunLr's 
 coutraniness." Secretly, she had a desire 
 
 \m 
 
 >.1 
 
«3 
 
 L0DU8KY. 
 
 m. ' 
 
 to accKunt for Loduiky ucoriliug to eat»b- 
 lisheil theory. 
 
 "I won.ier yehaint hoern of him," said 
 " Mi»' " Harney. " He was just awful— old 
 H»nr:«! He was NatJi'n daddy, an' Lord! 
 the wiukedost feller! Folka wan aftJared of 
 him. No oue divrsu't to go a-iiiyh hiiii wheu 
 he'd gib mad ^iriddin' 'a' a-rearin' 'u' a- 
 oharain', 'N' he never got no religion, mind 
 ye ; ne died jest that a-way. He was allera 
 a-hankerin' arter aeeiu' the world, 'n' he wont 
 off and stay e,. a light smart while — nine or 
 ten year —an' he lived in all sorts o' ways in 
 them biK cities. When he come back he was 
 a sight to see, sick, an' pore, an' holler-eyed 
 but 18 wicked as ever. Duwk was a little 
 thing ah' he was a old man, but he'd laugh 
 an' tell her to tiike caro of her face an' be a 
 smart gal. He was drefi'nl sick at last an' 
 Buffared a heap, an' one day he got up offen 
 his bed an' tuk down Nath's gun an' shot 
 hisself as cool as could be. He hadn't no pa- 
 tience, an' he said, 'When a G derned 
 
 man had lived through what he had an' then 
 wouldn't die, it was time to call him.' Seems 
 like it sorter 'counts for Dusk ; she don't git 
 her cu'rnsness from her own folks ; Nath an' 
 Mandy's mighty clever, both on 'em. " 
 
 "Perhaps it does 'count , for Dusk," Re- 
 becca said, after telling the 'tale to Lennox. 
 "It must boa fearful thing to have such 
 blood in one's veins and feel it on tire. J^et 
 us," she continued with a smile, "boas 
 charitable as possible. " 
 
 When the picture was fairly under way 
 Lennox's visits to the Harney s cabin were 
 somewhat less frequent. The mood in which 
 she found he had gradually begun to reward 
 his work aroused in Rebecca a faint wonder. 
 He seemed hardly to like it, and yet to be 
 fascinated by it. Ho was averse to spe^King 
 freely of it, and yet he thought of it contin- 
 ually. Frequently when they were together 
 he wore an absent, perturbed air, 
 
 "You do not look content," she said to 
 him once. 
 
 He passed his hand quickly across his fore, 
 head and and smi'ed, plainly with an effort, 
 but he madp no reply. 
 
 The picture progressed rather slowly upon 
 the whole. Rebecca had thought the sub- 
 ject a little fantastic at first, aud yet hal 
 been attractotl by it. A girl in a peculiar 
 dress of black and white bent over a spring 
 with an impatient air, trying in vain to get a 
 glimpse of her beauty in the reflection of the 
 moonlight. 
 
 i>ris£, shore," commonced 
 
 <«T4.>- 
 
 "Mis'" Dunbar. '-^N' its Dusk-but Lordl 
 how fine she's fixed. Ye're as fine as ye 
 want to be in the picter, Dusk, if ye wa'n't 
 never fine afore. Don't ye wish ye had sich 
 dressiu' as that thar now T" 
 
 The sittings were at the outset ptjculiarly 
 silent. There was no untimely motion or 
 change of expression, ai>d yetu » trymg pass- 
 ivuuess. • I'tie girl gave any position a look 
 of unconsci usneHa quite wonderful. Pri- 
 vately, Lennox was convinced that she v^as 
 an actress from habit— that her ease was the 
 result of lifelong practice. .SowetiineH he 
 found his own consciousness of her steady 
 i/az.) almost unbearable. He always turned 
 lu .iieet her deep eyes fixed upon "him with 
 an expression he could not fathom. Fre- 
 quently he thought it an expression of dis- 
 like— of st^rret resentment -of subtle defi- 
 ance. There came at last a tune when he 
 knew that lie turned toward her again aud 
 again because ho felt that he must— because 
 lie had a feverish wish to see if the look had 
 Aianged. 
 
 Once when he did this he saw that it ha4 
 changed, iihe had mo7ed a little, her eyes 
 were dilated with a tire which startled him 
 beyond self-control, her colour came and 
 went, she breathed fast. The next moment 
 she sprang from her chair. 
 
 "I won D stand it no longer," she cried, 
 panting ; "no longer— I won't?" 
 
 Her jre was magnificent. She flung her 
 head back, and struck her side with her 
 clenched hand. 
 
 "No longer !" she said ; "not a minute t" 
 Lennox advanced one step and stood, p». 
 lette in hand, gazing at her. 
 
 "What have I done ?" he asked. "What I" 
 "What?" she echoed with contemptuons 
 scorn. ' 'Nothin' !" But d'ye ye think J don't 
 know ye /" 
 
 "Know me!" he repeated after her me- 
 chanically, finding it impossible to remove 
 his glance from her, 
 
 "What d'ye take me fur ?" she demanded. 
 "A fool ?" Yes, I was a fool— a fool to come 
 here, 'n' set 'n' let ye— let ye despise me 1" 
 iu a final outburst. , 
 
 Still he could only echo her again, and say 
 "Despise you 1" 
 
 Her voice lowered itself into an actual 
 fierceness of tone. 
 
 'Te'vedone it from first to last, " she said. 
 "Would ye look at her as ye look at me? 
 Would je turn half way 'n* look at her, 'n' 
 then turn back as if— as if—. Ainfc there" 
 -her eyes ablaze -"aint there no life to nie?" 
 "Stop !" he began hoarsely, 
 "I'm beneath her, am I ?" she persisted. 
 Me beneath another woman — Dusk Dunbar ! 
 It's the first time !" 
 
 _ oQfc walked toward cue door as if to leave 
 him, but suddenly she stopped. A passion- 
 ate tremor shook her ; he saw her throat 
 swell. She threw her arm up against the 
 logs of the wall and dropped her face upon it 
 sobbing tomultuoasly.- 
 
 Whe 
 picture 
 Staudst 
 saw a V 
 eyes. 
 
 "Wl 
 
 (please v 
 "Itl 
 had not 
 > He f, 
 ning ic 
 curious. 
 " Ple( 
 almost s 
 enou^'h. 
 On he 
 forth fn 
 neglectei 
 paper. 
 
 Miss ' 
 h«r knee 
 her. 
 
 "Wh 
 
 asked. 
 
 Kebecc 
 
 "Wha 
 
 said. "J 
 
 Shelai, 
 
 the tabh 
 
 urangemi 
 
 diligently 
 
 ind weari 
 
 khe evenii 
 
 the open 
 
 iometimet 
 
 imonu th 
 
 over'i nai 
 
 nany a da 
 
 iter this. 
 
 'ambles a 
 
 "■ere over 
 
 reen hers' 
 
 abour occi 
 
 "It seen 
 
 ire — durii 
 
 )home a li 
 
 Itebecca 
 
 "Notim 
 
 he an8wer( 
 
 10 holidays 
 
 She was i 
 
 eif. The i 
 
 ad known 
 
 )und her i 
 
 •ught as 
 
 >med to se< 
 
 le usual lot 
 
WKimm. 
 
 he outset p^uiiliarly 
 untimely niotioo or 
 I yet u ) tryiug pua- 
 auy {xisitiou a luok 
 e wonderful. Pri- 
 inoed that she ^m 
 lat her eiiHe was the 
 ce. Soiaetiines he 
 snos8 of lier steady 
 He alwaya turned 
 ced uj>on him with 
 not fathom. Fre- 
 1 expression of dis- 
 iit-of subtle deli- 
 st a time when he 
 'an I her again and 
 ) he must — because 
 see if the luok had 
 
 he saw that it ha4 
 d a little, her eyes 
 vhich startled hiin 
 ' colour came and 
 The next mucuent 
 
 )nger," she cried, 
 
 on't?" 
 
 it. She Hung her 
 
 ler side with her 
 
 ; "not a minute }" 
 
 tep and stood, pa> 
 
 r. 
 
 3 asked. "What 1" 
 
 ith contemptuoaa 
 
 V ye ye think I don't 
 
 )ed after her me. 
 ossible to remove 
 
 !" she demanded. 
 )I — a fool to come 
 ye despise me I" 
 
 ler again, and aay 
 
 If into an actual 
 
 to last, "ahe said, 
 ye look at me? 
 l' look at her, 'n' 
 — . Ainfc there" 
 ire no life to mo?" 
 
 1 ' she persisted. 
 — Dusk Dunbar ! 
 
 jor as if to leave 
 ped. A passion- 
 saw her throat 
 a up against the 
 I her face upon it 
 
 LODUSKY. 
 
 " -^n" uln" ' P*""" 1 P^*"*?" ">ree seconds. 
 
 •»n Leun„x moved slow y toward her 
 
 j_. .u,o.t unconsciously H lai.f his JS upon 
 
 W heaving shoulder and so stoo.l tremblKg 
 
 sSstil A"'^'^'' *,*^''* '* -appeared at a 
 8tHU(i«till. As she looked at it her lover 
 jaw a vague trouble growing slowly in her 
 
 pWy'!ji>^ '•-'-'^«d- "It does not 
 
 had!.o\';t;XT™^^^ 
 
 /nin^'i/tlrr'' " '^"^ J"^''*'« ""'l «t«od scan- 
 Sis. "° '"'PrexBion at once bard and 
 
 »lmn^jT^™^ '" ^^ exclaim^,! in a voice 
 ^OBt^stndent. "It should. ,he has beaut; 
 
 fortffroTVl'"" ''"'"' *^** ''*y ^^^^^ '''•«w 
 
 lorth from the recesses of her trunk h«r 
 neglected writing folio auda sire S 
 
 Mr kneeling over hei; truuK. and spoke to 
 
 Mked^*"** "^ ^°" «°'"« *« do?" she' 
 Bebecca smiled faintly. 
 
 ^h.i -aT h^i'xi*'*"^ with my work. •• 
 thf Lw "^ *^S^"^'" '^"•1 her inkstand upon 
 
 ^an^ementr? T'^\ f'^'''" methodC 
 urangemeuts for her labour. She worked 
 
 ^hgentlyallday. and looked slightly p«le 
 
 »nd weaned when she rose from if. .neat in 
 
 the open door, sometimes talking ouietlv 
 ometimes silent and listening o\& 3 
 o™2 nat P'°t- ^^'^ ^^^ «°* mention Te? 
 SZv . r ' "1 ^*¥ °°* *=«"«• Sb« spent 
 Tt^rtht^p^ !!!«^* ^° thesamemaLe I 
 »mhl« « ^ "'■ *''^ P""*"*"* *he long, idle 
 
 K^e ove^'* unconventional moon-lit tolks ' 
 ITn hl«;jf Tl*'^'"^ understood bet- 
 
 Ururteulied"!,!'" "^""^ ^^-^^ '— '« 
 "It seems a strange time to begin a pic- 
 
 rIk! "*"s sharply upon one occasion 
 Rebecca laughed with an air of cheer. 
 «" time 18 a strange time to an artist " 
 
 oVS;?- *'^'^' " * »•«*-« wh*Jgfv*;s 
 
 She was enntinually hrr hr-:.-r*-f .-. . 4. ? i 
 
 «^*t T*""*"." '^h° ^"^^^ her dearjV and 
 
 *d known her fron. her earliest childhoo.l 
 lound her sagacity and knowledge set a 
 lomS\ ■" 'I '^''■?- She ha.l been accus- 
 l»e usual lot of women ; she had gradually 
 
 
 learned to feel it only natural that ahe should 
 
 mspire qu.te a strong sentiment even ■' c„. 
 
 ual aoquauitanceK She had felt the delicata 
 
 power of her fascination herself, but nevM 
 
 at her best and brightest ha.l she foun.l her 
 
 more charming or quicker of wit and fancy 
 than she was now. ^ 
 
 Even Lennox, coming every few <lavs 
 
 haggard shadow, n, =.le no outward change in 
 
 "She does not look, " said the elder lad v 
 to herself, "bke a neglected woman." ffi 
 then ih(, ^cun.l of the phrase struck her with 
 a sharp incrednlons pain. '• A nel^tJd 
 woman !" «he n pc.ate!l_"Beck ?' ""«'*-''**^ 
 She did not understand, and was not weak 
 enough to ask questions. 
 
 Lennox came and went, and fiebccca 
 gained upon her work until she .mdi ,0 
 longer say she was behindhan.l. Tl^e r. acl^ 
 ersofher letters and Hketches found them 
 fresh and sparkhnK. "as if," wrote a friend 
 "you were braced both mentally and phv, ! 
 oally by the mountain air." ^^ 
 
 [But once in the middle of the . ight Misa 
 Thorne awakened with a mysterious sE 
 to hnd the place at her side empty, and her 
 mece sitting at the open window a a qu et 
 which suggested that she might not Ue 
 moved f(.r an hour. " " 
 
 She obeyed her first rttrong impulse, and 
 rose and went to her. 
 
 «h?<?i!i,^"'^ her hand on her shoulder, and 
 shook her gently. * 
 
 doin^'f'^'' "^* d«""ded, "what are you 
 
 VVhen the girl turned slowly round she 
 
 stjpdat the.ight«f her cold, milabi: 
 
 I wered"°" Wlf„"r !''''«~""*hin«," she una- 
 nThtjHn-tu'^'^'^''"«^* "P- ^*'«''«"» 
 
 H.r/°"^^u""*'T.^°*'''"^« this in th. 
 daytime !" she exclaimed. 
 
 liw"?^" '^" the reply given with cool de- 
 Iiberateness, " no; I would rathei die " 
 h.nin "ru"^^"*'hewas fairly incompre- 
 hensiblc. There was in the set of her eve 
 an. I the expression of her fair, clear face, the 
 least hint of dogged obstinacy/. 
 "Beck "-she began. * 
 
 R"i7°".r?5ht not to have gotnn," said 
 Beck. " It 18 enouch to W,k " 1 . *i,7.. » 
 -D nigut When J am by myself. Go back to 
 bed, if you please." 
 
 Miss Thome went back to bc<l meekly 
 She was at once alarmed and subdued. She 
 felt as It she had had a puzzling interview 
 with a stranger. «"view 
 
 In these! days I^nnox regarded his model 
 
LODUBKY. 
 
 with morbid interest. A subtle change 
 was jjurouiitible in hor. Her richuDlourdeou- 
 eriod, ahe helil herself niDre inot, her eye 
 had n iigur pride and light. 81. ■■ wm a finer 
 oreiU rt tliiin ever, and yer — ^Iie i.'.»ine ut his 
 call. Ufi never ceased to wonder at 
 it. Soniotiinea the knowledge itt ids power 
 Btirred witlim hiin a vast inipationco ; some- 
 times lio was hardened by it ; but sonioliow 
 it novHP tiiucheil him, though ho was thrown 
 into tumult — bound agiunat hia will. He 
 could HOC say that he understood her. Her 
 very passiveuetM ballitnl him and caused him 
 to ask himself what it mtiaiiC, 8ho spoke 
 little, ail I her emotional phases seouicd ro- 
 luotant, but her motioidoss face and slowly 
 raiaud eye always held a meaning of their 
 o.vn. 
 
 On an occasion when he mentioned his 
 ap|)ro.iohiii:( departure, she ataitod -ih if she j 
 had received a olow, and lio turnv.il to see 
 her redden and pale alternately, her face full 
 of alarm. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he asked 
 bru8(iuely. 
 
 '•1 — hadn't bin thinkiu' on it," she 
 stammered. " I kinder forgot." 
 
 He turned to his eaiiel a^ain and painted 
 rapidly fcir a few minutes. Then he felt a 
 ligiit touch on his arm. She had left her 
 aeat noi^elestily and stood beside liim. She 
 gave hir.i a passionate, protestinit look. A 
 tire of excitement seemed to have sprung up 
 within her and ajiven her a dehant daring. 
 "D'ye think I'll stay here — when ye': 
 gone — like I did before ?" she said. 
 
 She had revealed herself in many curious 
 lights to him, but no previous rijvelation had 
 been so wonderful as was the swif c change of 
 moiid and beiiring which took place in her 
 at tliia instant. In a moment she had 
 melted into soft tears, her lips were tremu- 
 lous, her voice dropped into a shaken 
 whisper. 
 
 " I've alleis wanted to go away," she said. 
 "I - I've allera said 1 would. I want to go 
 to a city somewhar — I don't keer whar; 1 
 miyht git work — I've heard of folks as did. 
 P'r'aps some un ud hire me !" 
 
 He stared at her like a man fascinateil. 
 " You go to thecity alone !" he .naid under 
 his bruiitli. " You try to get work !" 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " Don't you know 
 no oub" — 
 Hu stopped her. 
 
 " No," lie naid, "I don't. It would be a 
 daiigerou.s business unle.-s you had friends. 
 
 A_i;._ T.i_li__^l 4 1 
 
 ji3 i;.-: uic, X zf.iixt nut uu in ^-viiicrica ion^. 
 As soon as 1 am inairied I go with my wife 
 to Europe." 
 
 He h*>'<.rd a sharp click in her throat. 
 Htr tears were dried, and she was looking 
 fitcaigiit at him. 
 
 "Are 
 asked. 
 "Yes.' 
 
 ye a-goiu' to be married ?" ahe 
 
 yere 
 
 "To — her 1" wit'i a gesture in the direo^ 
 tion of the Harney's cibin. 
 
 "Y..8." 
 
 " Oh !" and ahe walked out «{ the room. 
 Ho did not see her for three days, and the 
 picture stood still. He wont to Harney's 
 and found Kebecca packing her trunk. 
 
 " » o are going back to New York," she 
 saiil. 
 " Why ?" he asked. 
 " Heouuse our holi.iay ig over." 
 Miss Thoruo regarded him with chill 
 sovtirity. 
 
 " When may we expect to sims you ?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 rio really felt half stupefied— as if for the 
 time being his will was paralyzed. 
 " I don't know," he answt'red. 
 Ho tried to Miink that ho was treated 
 badly and cohlly. He tidd himself tiiat he 
 had done nothing to deserve this stylo of 
 thing, that he had simply been busy and ab- 
 sorbed in his work, an<l that if he had at 
 times appeared preoccupied it was not to be 
 wondered at. but wlien ho hwked at Re- 
 becca he did not put these thoughts into 
 words ; he did not even say tlnit of course 
 he should fodow them soon, since thore was 
 nothing to detain him but a sketch or two 
 he had meant to make. 
 
 By night they were gone and he was left 
 restlesi and miserable. He was so restless 
 that he could not sleep but wandered down 
 toward the spring. He stopped at the exact 
 spot at which he had stopped on the night 
 of his arrival— at the the top of the zigzag 
 little patU leading down the rocky incline. 
 He stopped because he heard a sound of 
 passionate sobbing. He descended slowly. 
 He knew the sound— angry, lierce, nncon- 
 troUable— because he hud heard it before 
 It checked itself the iusta-it he reached the 
 ground. Lodusky leaning against a pi y 
 jbcting rook kept her eyes Hxed upon the 
 water. 
 
 " Why did you come here?" he demanded, 
 
 a little exciletlly. " '^ hat are you crying 
 
 for ? What lias hurt you ?" » 
 
 " Nothin'," in a voice low and unstearlv. 
 
 He drew a little nearer to her and *'or the 
 
 lirat time was touched. She would not hiok 
 
 at him, she was softei^^ed and altered, in l.er 
 
 wliole appeanuice, bya new pallor. 
 
 " Have "—he began, "have I?" 
 
 lou; ■ oiie crieJ, tuininu on iiim with 
 
 bitter, almost wild, gesture. " Tom wouldn't 
 
 keer if I was struck clead afttre ye !" 
 
 " Look here," he said to her, with an 
 agitation he could not master. " Let me 
 tell you something about myself. If yooj 
 
o bo married T" tho 
 
 a (jesture in the direo. 
 ibin. 
 
 keil out of the room, 
 or tliree days, ivnd the 
 lo wont to Hivraey'tf 
 ikiii^ her trunk, 
 to New York," aha 
 
 L0DU8KY. 
 
 y 18 over, 
 itlml him 
 
 with chill 
 
 leot to 81") you ?" she 
 
 fcuimfiod— aa if for the 
 1 )>aralyzed. 
 answered. 
 
 that liu was treated 
 3 tohl himself that he 
 deserve this style of 
 ply berfn husy and ab- 
 Hnii that if he had at 
 ipied it was not to be 
 en ho looked at Re- 
 thene thoughts into 
 a Sfiy that of course 
 soon, since thure was 
 but a sketch or two 
 
 gone and he was left 
 He was so restless 
 p but wandered down 
 i stopped at the exact 
 topped on the night 
 le top of tho zi^zafi( 
 rn the rocky incline, 
 to heard a sound of 
 £e descended slowly. 
 »i>gry, fierce, nncon- 
 hud heard it before, 
 sta-it he reached the 
 niiit; against a pi 3- 
 eyesi Hxed upon the 
 
 here ?" he demanded, 
 * hat are you crying 
 ou ?" 
 
 ilort- and unsteady, 
 ■er to her and *"or the 
 She would not look 
 d and airered, in l.er 
 \, new pallor. 
 
 "have I?" 
 tniiiitj on iiiiii wii'u u 
 ture. " you wouldn't 
 id afore ye !" 
 liiid to her, with an 
 t master. " Let me 
 out myself. If yoa 
 
 66 
 
 thmk I am a passably good fellow you are 
 mutakcn. f ,i,n a bad f, How, a p.K>r fdlow. 
 an Ignoble tellow. \ ou ,lon"t understand ?" 
 ai Mm gazed at hiin in iiewihUfrment "No 
 ot .ounie, you don't. U„d knows I di.la't 
 myself untd within the l.vHt two week 
 
 Its folly to say Huch things to you; perhaps 
 I Haj them halt to sati!,fy n,y«tdf. I5ut I i 
 inean to show you that 1 aa. not to b« 
 trusted I think perhaps 1 am too poor a 
 
 l.Z. ,"?u"y r'"*" »'«"«»tly ana alto- I 
 gether. I ollovvwl one woman hero. :. ... 
 then after all let another ,nake me wavr > - i 
 
 "Another!". ■die faltered. 
 
 Ho rtxed his eyes on her almost coldl. i 
 
 " You," he said. 
 
 He seemed to cast the word at her 
 wonder what she would make (,f it 
 waited rt second or Hp bef(,re he went on 
 
 tou, and yet vou are not the woman I 
 We either (Jooj' (Jod ! What a v.llui" } 
 must be. I am an insult to every woman 
 that breathes. It is not even you~though 1 
 can t break from you, and you have made 
 
 J 
 
 you know 
 I am not 
 
 me despise myself. There ! do 
 now -do you see now that 
 worth — ' 
 
 Before he ha.l time for a thought she ha. 
 
 hSZl." "'^' **'"' """*^ ^'""''^^ ^'"«'" ^t 
 "I don't keer," she panted- "I wnnt 
 
 -only dont leave me hero when ye go 
 
 a,.^ T^u ^'**'','' l^e^nox arose one mornintr 
 and set about the task of getting his bel .« 
 ings together. He had beSn u^ mKl h fd 
 
 ^.^a^''^'**•^.!^^"'*^' '"« '»"<*«1 had given him 
 S^r ."'"'"^-i ^^«P'°t»re stood finished 
 Si. **'f !* ""^ » thorough and 
 artistic piece of work, and yet the sis t of°t 
 was at times unbearable to him. There were 
 
 h m anew when he went and stood opposite 
 III ' r«*''^'°« '* ^itli an intense gaze.^ He 
 -carcely knew how the last week hfd passed 
 It seenied t» have been spent in alteVnat; 
 feverish struggles and reckle«H abandonment 
 i^™P"l-Y H«had let himself S?Te?e 
 
 usdA \^?H?'?r^^. y°».^H ea^^y life:" he had 
 
 "If vou leave me," sht said " T'P Uli 
 
 Toll' *"' "'^ ^^"^'^ ^'-"-d, togeth'er 
 For^the moment he was filled, as he ofteil 
 
 Tt^:^'*^ "."'"•*' i passionate a.lmirat, i. 
 It was true ho saw htr ah no other creature 
 hud ever h en her bo.o.e. that ., ?ar L .S 
 a thing wn. possible w„h her. she lov" him 
 -loved h.m with a Herce, unreserved, ye 
 narrow passion. ' ' 
 
 the^Lir'*/'"'".*"*"?' '"'^•'''"« *« ♦I'v-n.erely 
 the collecting of a few masculine o.lds anU 
 ends, ana then his artisti. accompaniment 
 Nothing was of conse.p.enoe but ihe.>,e • tho 
 rest were tosso.l togetller indiHerent y," b J 
 w . picture was t(. be left to the last 
 
 l"i!;'j't.' '*" ^""'* •"'«*»' ^' '^'y bey«"«i 
 
 I li.. ing comnleted his preparations ho went 
 I'-at. He had the day before him and 
 
 :::;«y t"r. •^^''* *" ^^^ with i, ut S 
 
 mut be killed in one way or anoth;r. He 
 wandered up to mountain and at i^st lav 
 
 was full of a strange excitement which now 
 
 thrilled, now annoyed him. 
 
 He came back in the middle of the after- 
 
 raZ. '"';^^«^"^,'* ■•"»'«'• ''-^'f hearted 
 
 upon his jaded a])pearance 
 
 "Ye look kinder tuckered out," she said 
 Ye d oughtn't ttr walked so fur when ve 
 
 r'e'ed"'"'"'"' ''^ ^■"'«"'- Y^'^ ortfr 
 
 She stopped the churn-dasher and re- 
 
 ffil'est^ *''' " good-natured "ur 'Jf 
 
 V,„!.'»?'''l^* seed Dusk to say good-bye to 
 her ? she added. " She's went over th^ 
 mountain ter help Mirandy Stillins with W 
 soap. She wont £e back for a day or two!'^ 
 He went into his room .uui shut the doSr. 
 A tierce repulsion sickened him He HaH 
 heretofore iTeld himself with Tcert^^n do 
 gree of inward loftiness; iie had so o-- 
 demned the follies andsins of othe™ and 
 here he found himself involved in a low 1 
 common vllainy. in the deceits twchU^ 
 longed to his crime, ami which preyed up7n 
 simplicity and ignorant trust ^ 
 
 wiJ!,\ m"^*"? '*,"'''' ^'-'^"••^ his easel, hot 
 with a blush of self-scorn. 
 
 Has it come to this ?" he muttered through 
 his clenched teeth—" to thia!" ""^^ga 
 
 He made an excited forward movement- 
 his foot touched the supports of the eSel 
 jarnng it roughly; the Jifcture fell upon the 
 
 "What?" he cried out. "Beck' Ynn i 
 Great God!" secjt .' Xou ! 
 
 falf'^'fh"/"''^ him revealed by the picture's 
 fall, the easel held one of tho fairest 
 memories he had of- the woman he had • 
 proved himself too fickle and slight to vS 
 
 di*-'^*^'"^'' '^^*°'^ made tapidly one 
 day 800H after his arrival and ne-rer wholly 
 
LODUSKY. 
 
 oompleted, but it had been "touched with 
 
 fire and feeling, and the face looked out 
 
 from the canvas with eyes whose soft happi* 
 
 neas stung him to the quick „ with tne 
 
 . memories they brought. He had meant to 
 
 §} I tiiiish it, and had left it upon the easel that 
 
 he might turn to it at any moment, and it 
 
 I had remaiiieil there, covered by a stronger 
 
 I rival — forgotten. 
 
 He sat down in a chair and his brow fell 
 j upon his hands. He felt as if he had been 
 
 i clutched and dragged backward by a power- 
 
 ful arm. 
 
 When at last he rose, he strode to the 
 
 Eicttire lying upon the floor, ground it under 
 is heel, and spurned it from him with an 
 '■ imprecation. 
 
 He was, at a certain hour, to reach a par- 
 ticular bend in the road some miles distant. 
 He was to walk to this place and if he found 
 ^ no on« there, to wait. 
 
 When at sunset that evening he reached 
 it, he was half an hour before the time 
 specified, but he was not the first at the 
 tryst. He was within twenty yards of the 
 spot whed a figure rose from the roots o| a 
 tree and stood waiting for him — the girl 
 Dusk with a little bundle in her hand. 
 
 She was not flushed or tremulous with 
 any hint of mental excitement ; she awaited 
 him with a fine repose, even the glow of the 
 dymg sun having no power to add to her 
 colour, but as he drew near he saw her look 
 gradually change. She did not so much as 
 stir, but the change grew slowly, slowly up- 
 on her face, and developed there into a de- 
 finite shape — the shape of secret, repressed 
 dreadt 
 
 '' What is it," she asked when he at last 
 confronttid her, ''that ails ye ?" 
 
 She uttered the words in a half whisp ;r, 
 aa if she had not the power to speak louder, 
 and he saw the hand hanging at h?^ siae 
 close itself. 
 
 " What is it— that ails ye ?" . 
 
 He waited a few seconds before he answer- 
 ed her. 
 
 "Look at me," he aid at last, "and 
 see." 
 
 She did look at him. ., For the space of 
 ten seconds their eyes were fixed upon each 
 other in a long, bitter ' ok. Then her little 
 bundle dropped on the ground. 
 
 "Ye've wont back on me." she said 
 under her ,breath again. "Y& ve went back 
 on me I" 
 
 He had thoiight she might make some ras- 
 # aionate outcry, but she did not yet. A white 
 wrath was in her face and her chest heaved, 
 but she spoke slowly and low, heriiands fal- 
 len down by her side. 
 
 "YeVe went back on me," she said. "An' 
 I knew ye would." 
 
 He felt that the odour of liis utter false- 
 ness tainted the pure air about him ; he had 
 been false all round— to himself, to his 
 love, to his ideAla-even in a baser way 
 here. 
 
 " Yes," he answered her with a bitter- 
 ness she did not understand, "I've gone 
 hack on you." Then, as if to himself, 
 
 I could not even reacli perfection in vil- 
 lainy. " 
 
 rimn her rage and misery broke forth. 
 
 " Yer a coward I" she said, with gasps be- 
 tween her words. " Yer afraid ! I'd sooner— 
 I'd sooner ye'd killed me— dead .'" 
 
 Her voice shrilled itself into a smothered 
 shriek, she cast herself face downward upon 
 the earth and lay there clutching amid her 
 sobs at the grass 
 
 He looked down at her in a cold, stunned 
 ftishion. 
 
 " Do you think," he said hoarsely, "that 
 ynu can loathe me as I loathe myself? Do 
 you think you can call me oneshamefulname 
 I don't know I deserve ? If you can, for 
 God's sake let me have it." 
 
 She struck her fist against the earth. 
 
 " Thar wasn't a man I ever saw," she said, 
 " that didn't foller after me, 'n' do . fur me, 
 'n' wait fur a woid from me. They'd her 
 let me set my foot on 'em if I'd said. Thar 
 wasn't nothin" I mightn't hev done— not 
 nothin'. An' now— an' now "—and she 
 tore the grass from its earth and flung it 
 from her. 
 
 " Go on," he said. "Go on and say your 
 worst " 
 
 Her worst was bad enough, bat 
 he almost exulted under the blows 
 she dealt him. He felt their hor- 
 rible sting a vague comfort. He had 
 fallen low enough surely when it was a com- 
 fort to be told that he was a liar, a poltroon 
 and a scoundrel. 
 
 The sun had been dowu an hour when it 
 was over, and she had risen and taken up 
 her bundle. 
 
 "Why don't ye ask me to forgive ye ?" she 
 said with a scathing sneer. " Why don't ye 
 ask me to forgive ye— an' say ye didn't mean 
 to do it ?" 
 
 He fell back a pace and was silent. With 
 what grace would the words have fallen from 
 his lips ? And yet he knew that he had not 
 meant to do it. 9 
 
 She turned away, and at a distance of a 
 few feet stopped. She gave him a last look 
 — a tierce one in its contempt aod anger^ and 
 her affluence of beauty had never Been so 
 stubborn a fact before. 
 
 " Ye think ye've left me behind," she 
 said. " An' so ye hev— hut it aint f# allers 
 The time'll come when mnbbe ye'll see me 
 agin." 
 
 He 
 been 
 Fii 
 feelin 
 scene 
 himse 
 and^i 
 ■Its 
 ednesi 
 very ( 
 made 
 withi 
 her th 
 painfu 
 and w< 
 Words 
 bered. 
 but an 
 it low 
 words, 
 becca s 
 lookinji 
 was no 
 wearinc 
 twice, I 
 that shi 
 , "I hi 
 have I08 
 un— a p 
 Ireamec 
 vorst er 
 >emy c( 
 elfin j 
 efleotioi 
 "You 
 ence, " 
 •• Yes. 
 "Wh« 
 "To! 
 "Oh," 
 **8ounc 
 His eyt 
 |hem. 
 
 "Yes,' 
 
 •ve gone 
 
 "Yes,' 
 
 Her ey( 
 
mr of his utter fahe- 
 a.ir about him ; he had 
 — to himself, to hia 
 even iu a basery way 
 
 d her with a bitter- 
 derstand, "I've gone 
 en, aa if to himself, 
 sach perfection in vil- 
 
 aisery broke forth, 
 he said, with gasps be- 
 'er afraid ! I'd sooner— 
 me — dead /" 
 ;self into a smothered 
 f face downward upon 
 •e clutching amid ner 
 
 her in a cold, stunned 
 
 B said hoarsely, •• that 
 [ loathe myself? Do 
 1 me oneshamefnlname 
 e? If you can, for 
 eit." 
 
 igainst the earth, 
 n I ever saw," she said, 
 ter me, 'n' do , fur me, 
 om me. They'd her 
 em if I'd said. Thw 
 ;htn't hev done — not 
 an' now " — and she 
 its earth and flung it 
 
 "Go on and say your 
 
 l>ad enough, but 
 under the blows 
 He felt their hor- 
 i comfort. He had 
 ily when it was a corn- 
 was a liar, a poltroon 
 
 oynx an hour when it 
 I risen and taken np 
 
 me to forgive ye ?" she 
 aeer. •* Why don't ye 
 -an' say ye didn't me«n 
 
 and was silent. With 
 words have fallen from 
 knew that he had not 
 
 ad at a distance of a 
 e gave him a last look 
 
 itemnt And &DS6r^ a.nH 
 
 y had never Been so 
 
 left me behind," she 
 — hut it aint f# allers. 
 I ro^bbe ye'll see me 
 
 LODUSKY. 
 
 befn7h:*rat^kb^?oTe/"''^*'^« ^^^ 
 p.«„ii t ^ before he went toRflhpr>..ii 
 
 feehng'^&t'trSe'h T^^^ «- ntrg 
 8ceueyhis,„l!.?f''f''*^°'"« f^r the last 
 himself at hTl oust a r"'-. HV^^^nted 
 
 edilstte'Sart^r^- *"^'^' ^'^--"^■ 
 very dressTht Idy^J^J^^^^.f «. ^^ »''? 
 
 made the sketch-anaTennr^l *^^ *** ^'^'^ 
 with a scarf of whfte wJn I "^"« K'^^y- 
 her throat. Nel^t Lrw T ^ ?'*^"*^'^ ^* 
 painfulchangeinher t^r. if' ^^^^ ^«« » 
 «.d worn, as^rf"he"ha?tetil '"'Si ^j! 
 
 but a aak"5.\" S^oXs r '^' \''''^°'=^' 
 
 wearinflna T* »"oit, out there was 
 
 weariness. It occurred to him once or 
 
 67 
 
 *!^ce,.a„Awithate^Pi;;:,S--„ 
 lofhim-tiredofitaft. ^ 
 
 that she was tired o, n,m 
 baveteyS.That s^^^^^f ^^ f 
 
 iStenrjefr^vVnT^hT^^^^^^ 
 ;^o^t enemy. fenTefori". tisZl^' ^ 
 
 SfiJTC'T I*l««««IlookedSmy 
 
 "Where?" 
 "To Europe." 
 
 ^ti'^^d o'^pSr'**!^' -'«• • -ft. desper. 
 
 ^H« eyes had been downcastand he raised 
 
 -S^tSgeSir "'^"'""y- •• -« *«" «« 
 
 tlewhS:.V^''^^''PPy'"«J>« «aid, ..for a lit. 
 
 ?.^«*'«^fl out her hand. 
 i>ut, she added ^a if 4- • t.- 
 tence. you have 1,!1; ♦ hnishmg a sen- 
 tlunk.'' ^''*^" *'"«»• to me than you 
 
 ;' No-no," he groaned. 
 
 truer ^?V„u"r!elf*" '"t'* '*" T" *hink-and 
 There hale beet tirne^*'/ you loved-I ! 
 
 -ustgive thatup. b^i? now I k' ^^'^l^^''* ^ 
 'JOt. It was T ^ !• "''^ ^ *"ow I neod 
 time-;ior!;;i-..J""'^*'°'^'P«'-taps,-some 
 
 end^wal^orti t\;"' r. «-«^'' *fae 
 other a few secoi L ' S? SV^"? '^^ 
 her hand and went awaJ ^^ ''^^^*««'* 
 
 ' thattir: 1 -rj'rieni 't T' ^^^ ^^""°« 
 him. He Led th„ f ' ' ™"''*' ^"'^ "^ 
 hard worker. He learnt? to l''"'^"!^ '''^'» » 
 
 SSr' ^"dtaugiftnSfwtlStVciS • 
 
 hfeml'^rsclt^^f^-^^^^ 
 among those surZSding Ji f ^* 1^ **'* f'^' 
 seemed directed toward a «-_ -^ 'f^"" 
 stood ereotand cS in ''^^ amval who 
 I boxes. She IX V °?® of the stage. 
 Her costume was ol?*''* ^*° Cleopat^ 
 
 covered ;S ^JteUan^rfj?' 'f''' "'^^ ^^ 
 fronting the hoTse ' ?f ^^« «^d "P oon- 
 «»n///rS«. ''•'"*«•*«»* wgarded her with 
 
 pure nigit air She W 'a^^'^^ ''"^^ ^ut 
 Ph«^. 'He had seeS ht^a^S^nl ""^ ''^^ *•«• 
 
 roomrp&e "Se''^ '^'^'Z .'^^ *"" P"vat 
 the first work afrerhf« J ?P^®*'°" ^»ad been 
 to it and looJedal ?tt">K"«- ^« ^«»*i» 
 adoration. * '* *''^ something like 
 
 "' Sometime'" ha «n,M .. ^ 
 
mm 
 
 SETH 
 
 fW-ii' 
 
 ..fK,, 
 
 He came in one evening at sunset with the 
 empty coal-traiu — his dull young face pale 
 and heavy-eyert with weariness, his corduroy 
 suit dusty and travel-stained, his worldly 
 possessions tied up in the smalle.';t of hand- 
 kerchief bundles and sUmg upon the stick 
 resting on his shoulder— and naturally his 
 first appearance attracted some attention 
 among the loungers about the ehed (Jignitied 
 by the title of " depot." I say " naturally," 
 because arrivals u^ou the trains to Black 
 Creek were so scarce as to be regarded as 
 curiosities ; which again might be said to be 
 natural. The line to the mines had been in 
 existence two months, since the English com- 
 pany had taken them in hand and pushed 
 the matter through with an energy startling 
 to, and not exactly approved by,- the major- 
 ity of good East Tennesseeans. After the 
 first week or so of arrivals — principally Welsh 
 and English miners, with an occasional Irish- 
 man — the trains had returned daily to the 
 Creek without a passenger ; and accordingly 
 this one created soma tnfling sensation. 
 
 Not that his outward appearance was par- 
 ticularly interesting or suggestive of ap- 
 proaching excitement. He was only a lad of 
 nineteen or twenty, in worl^'ng English-cut 
 garb, and with a short, awk ,, ard figure, and 
 a troubled, homely face — a face so homely 
 and troubled, in fact, that its half- bewildered 
 look was almost pathetic. 
 
 He advanced toward the shed hesitating- 
 ly, and touched his cap as if half in clumsy 
 courtesy and half in timid appeal. " Mes- 
 ters," he said, " good-day to yo'." 
 
 The company bestirred themselves with 
 one accord, '£lnd to the roughest and most 
 laconic gave him a brief " good-day." 
 
 "You're English," said a good-natured 
 Welshman, "ar'n'L you, my lad?" 
 
 "Ay, mester," was the reply: " I'm fro' 
 ijAncaoiiirc. 
 
 He sat down on the edge of the rough plat- 
 form, and laid his stick and bundle down in 
 a slow, wearied fashion. 
 
 " Fro' Lancashire," he repeated in a voice 
 as wearied as his action — "fro'th' Deepton 
 coal-mines theer. You'll know th' name on 
 
 'em, I ha' no doubt, Th' same company owns 
 'em as owns these." 
 
 ' " What !" said an outsider — " Langley an' 
 'em ?" 
 
 The boy turned himself round and nodded. 
 "Ay," he answered — "theiDL That was 
 why I coran here. I comn to gefrwork fro' — 
 fro' him." 
 
 He faltered in his speech oddly, and even 
 reddened a little, at the same time rubbing 
 his hands together with a nervousness which 
 seemed habitual to him. 
 
 " Mester Ed'ard, I mean," he added— "th' 
 young mester as is here. I heerd as he liked 
 'Merica, an' — nn' I comn." 
 
 The loungers glanced at each other, and 
 their glance did not mean high appreciation 
 of the speaker's intellectual powers. There 
 was a lack of practicalness in such faith in 
 another man as expressed itself in the wist' 
 ful, hesitant voice. 
 
 " Did he say he'd give you work ?" asked 
 the firsf man who , had question him, the 
 Welshman Evans. 
 
 "No. I dunnot think — I dunnot thinli 
 he'd know me if he seed me. Theer wur so 
 many on us." 
 
 Another exchange of glances, and thei 
 another question : "Where are you going to 
 stay?" 
 
 The homely face reddened more deeply 
 and the lad's eyes — dull, soft, almost woman 
 ish eyes — raised themselves to the speaker's 
 " Do yo' know anybody as would be loikel; 
 to tak' me in a' bit," he said, " until I ho 
 toime to earn th'. wage to pay? I wouldn 
 wrong no mon a penny as had trusted me, 
 
 There was manifest hesitation, and the 
 some one spoke : "Lancashire J&cif. might 
 
 " Mester," said the lad to Evans, " woul 
 you moind speakin' a word fur me ? I hi 
 had a long tramp, an' I'm fagged-loike, an' 
 
 — lie btOpyed aiiil I'OSn irom lilS a£tiZ Wii 
 
 a hurried movement. "Who's that theer 
 is comin'?" he demanded. " Isna it tl 
 young mester ?" 
 
 The some one in question was a young ma 
 on horseback, who at that moment tarne 
 'the corner and rode toward the shed witl 
 
 in hi 
 
 and I 
 
 foum 
 
 8tan( 
 
 or th 
 
 Th 
 
 did n 
 
 appn 
 
 rays 
 
 mouu 
 
 ahow) 
 
 was, 
 
 face a 
 
 up to 
 
 Th« 
 
 sentii] 
 
 mere 
 
 good ] 
 
 men v 
 
 stint, 
 
 frank. 
 
 "Bi 
 
 Evans 
 
 Eva 
 
 "I'l 
 
 his sid 
 
 Lancai 
 
 went t 
 
 a few 
 
 then h' 
 
 "Co 
 
 The 
 
 the sui 
 
 almost 
 
 weakni 
 
 uess. 
 
 his cap 
 
 eyes Uf 
 
 Lang 
 
 puzzled 
 
 m a lig 
 
 who yo 
 
 be oblij 
 
 think, 
 
 name. 
 
 enough. 
 
 tella ma 
 
 "Ay, 
 
 "Al( 
 
 alone, " 
 
 "Ay, 
 
 "And 
 
 "If y 
 
 " We] 
 
 lu you. 
 
 isn't sue 
 
 your nar 
 
 "Seth 
 
 the stick 
 
 from on 
 
SETH. 
 
 G9 
 
 'h' same company owna 
 itaider — " Langley an' 
 
 self round and nodded. 
 — "thenc That was 
 omn to gefrwork fro' — 
 
 peech oddly, and even 
 
 the same time rubbing 
 
 :h a nervousness which 
 
 n. 
 
 □tiean," he added — "th' 
 
 [■e. I heerd as he liked 
 
 mn." 
 
 ied at each other, and 
 
 mean high appreciation 
 
 Bctual powers. There 
 
 ilness in such faith in 
 
 ssed itself in the wist 
 
 ;ive you work ?" asked 
 kd question him, the 
 
 hink — I dunnot think 
 ied me. Theer wur bc 
 
 of glances, and thei 
 Vhere are you going to 
 
 reddened more deeply 
 all, soft, almost woman 
 iselves to the speaker's 
 dy as would be loikel; 
 he said, " until I h: 
 e to pay ? I wouldn 
 y as had trusted me. 
 jt hesitation, and the 
 uicashire Jaq|^ might. 
 
 ) lad to Evans, " woul 
 , word fur me ? I hi 
 I'm fagged-loike, an' 
 i'<>sti trom nis s£r*u wii 
 " Who's that theer i 
 landed. " Isna it t) 
 
 estiou was a young ma 
 t that moment turne 
 toward the shed with 
 
 loose rein, allowing his horse to choose his 
 own pace. 
 
 • ," Ay* ' .^^"^ *lie lad with an actual tremor 
 in his excitfcd voice— "it's him, sure enow," 
 and sank back on his seat again as if he had 
 tound himself scarcely strong enough to 
 stand. • 1—1 ha' not eaten much fur two 
 or three days," he said to Evans. 
 
 Thene was not a man on the platform who 
 
 ma not evince some degree of pleasure --it the 
 
 approach of the new-comer. The last warm 
 
 rays ot the sun, already sinking behind the 
 
 mountan.fl seemed rather zo take pride in 
 
 showing what a debonair young fellow he 
 
 was, m glowing kindly upon his handsome 
 
 face and strong, graceful figure, and touching 
 
 up to greater brightness his bright hair. . 
 
 ihe tace was one to be remeinbere(l,with a i 
 
 sentiment approaching gratitude for the I 
 
 mere existence of such genial and unspoiled i 
 
 good looks, but the voice that add.essed the I 
 
 men was one to be loved, and loved without I 
 
 frank "^^ ^° *^^*'' ^""^ ^'ght-hearted and j 
 
 "Boys," said he, " good-evening to you. 
 iivans, if you could spare me a minute "— 
 J'jvans rose at once. 
 
 "I'll speak to Am, "he said to the lad at 
 his side -'Hia word will go further with 
 Liancashire Jack than mine would " He 
 went to the horse's side, and stood -there for 
 a few minutes talking in an undertone, and 
 then he turned to the stranger and beckoned. 
 "Come here, " he said. 
 The lad took up his bundle and obeyed 
 the summons advancing with an awkward 
 almost stumbling step, suggestive of actual 
 weakness as well as the extremity of shy- 
 ness. Eeaching the two men, he touched 
 his cap humbly, and stood with timorous 
 eyes upraised to the young man's face. 
 
 J:7^^? T^ v^"', 8"^^ ^''*h a somewhat 
 fn ■ . iT^' );'*"'=^ P'-'esently passed away 
 ^ a light laugh. " I'm trying to lemcmheT 
 who you are. my lad," he said, "but 1 ehall 
 be obliged to give it up. I know your face, I 
 think, but I have no recollection of your 
 name I da,-e say I have seen you often 
 tens me." '^"^^ ^""^ l^eepton, Evans 
 
 "Ay, mester, fro' Deepton." 
 „i "A long journey for a lad like you to take 
 alone " with inward pity for the heavy faj^ 
 "Ay, ineater."- "^ • 
 
 " And now you M-ant work ?" 
 "If you please, mester. " 
 . " VVeli,_weil !" cheerily, " we will cive it 
 iaJr^' , ^"'^'*'■^ work enougii, though it 
 leifi t such as you had at Deepton. What is 
 your name ?" 
 
 fl^ri-*!"" "^^ter-Seth Raynor," shifting 
 the stick and bundle in uneasy eagerness 
 from one shoulder to another. An' I'm 
 
 used to hard work, mester. It wur na easy 
 work we h.^d at th' Deepton m-ne, an' I'm 
 stronger than I look. It's th' faggcdness Z 
 makes me trembly-an' hunger."^ 
 "Hunger?" * 
 
 I ] Jt »^!i ""* >'''*f,'^ f««^ «i»' t^'' n««t before 
 last shamefacedly. -I hadua tli' money 
 
 '.w^i 1^" !*.,f '™* ^'^^ I could howd out." 
 Hold out ; echoed Langley in some ex- 
 
 iS'Ers."'*^"^- T^e other matte^r can 
 : Tho downcast face and ungainly iigure 
 
 troubed h.m in no s!i.^ht detree as they 
 I moved off together,.the/ seemed to exprZ 
 ! in some indescribable fashion so much of 
 I dull and patient pain, and they were so 
 I much at variance witli tlie free grandeur of 
 ' the scene surrounding them. It was as if a 
 
 new element were intro.luced into the very 
 j air Itself Black Creek was too young yet 
 
 kind. The wild things on the mountaih 
 sides ha.l scarcely h^d time to learn to fear 
 the invaders of their haunts or understand 
 that they were to be driven backward. The 
 warm wind was fragrant with tJte keen fresh- 
 ness of pine and cednr. Mountain and forest 
 and sky were stronger than the human strag- 
 
 "We don't see anything like that in Lan- 
 cashire, said Langley. "That kind of 
 thing IS new to us, my kd, isn't it ?" with a 
 light gesture toward the mountain, in whose 
 side the workers had burrowed. 
 "Ay mester" raising troubled eyes to iti 
 grandeur--- ivverything's new. I feel aw 
 lost Eomeitoinies, an' feared-loike '' 
 
 Langle^r lifted his hat from "his brow to 
 meet a little passmg breeze, and as it swei.t 
 softly by he smiled in the enjr.yment of its 
 coolness. "Afraid?" h. said.^ "I do"? 
 understand that. " 
 
 "I dunnot see into it my sen', mester. 
 Happen it's th bigness, an' quiet, an' th' 
 , lonely look, an' Happen it's sumn^at wrong 
 in mysen . I've lived in th' cool an' smoke 
 I an crowd an' work so long as it troubles me 
 in a manner to-to ha' to look so high ' 
 "Does It ? ' said Lan^dey.a few faint t^imes 
 I showing themselves on his forehead. "That's 
 I a queer fancy. So high !" turning his 
 glance upward to where the tallest pine 
 swayed its dark plume against the clear blue 
 
 sensation. ^ 
 
 . " Happen so, mester, in toime," was the 
 simple answer; and then silence fell upon 
 them again. 
 
 They had not very far to go. The housen 
 ot the miners— rough shanties hurriedly 
 
SETH. 
 
 erected to supply immediate neerla — were 
 most of them congregated together, or at 
 most stood at short distances from each 
 other, the larger ones signifying the presence 
 of feminine members in a family, and perhaps 
 two or thr"o j'uvonile pioneers — the smaller 
 or.es beinu nccnpied by younger miners, who 
 lived in couples, or sometimes even alone. 
 
 Before one of the larger shanies Langley 
 reined in his horse. " A Lanc-.shire man 
 lives here," he saiil, "and lam going to 
 leave you with him." 
 
 In answer to his summons a woman came 
 to the door — a youncr woman whose rather 
 irresponsive fiice wakened somewhat when 
 ■he saw who waited. 
 
 "Feyther," she calls out, "it's Mester 
 Langiej, an' he's gotten a stranger wi' 
 him. " 
 
 'Feyther,' approaching the door, showed 
 himself a burly individual, with traces of 
 coal dust. in all corners not to be reached by 
 hurried and- not too fastidious ablutions. 
 Clouds of tobacoo-smoke preceded and fol- 
 lowed him, and much stale incense from the 
 fragrant weed exhaled itself from his well- 
 worn corduroys. "I ha' not nivver seeil 
 him.afore," he remarked after a gruff by no 
 means ill-natured greeting, signifyinijr the 
 stranger by a duck of the head in his direc- 
 tion. 
 
 "A Lancashire lad, Janner," answered 
 Langley ; ' I want a home for him." 
 
 Janner regarded him with evident interest, 
 but shook his head dubiously. "Ax th' 
 missus," he remarked succinctly : "dunnot 
 »x me." 
 
 Langley's good-lmmoured laugh had a 
 touch of conscious power in it. If it de- 
 pen<led upon " th' missus " he was safe 
 enough. His bright good looks and gay 
 grace of manner never failed with the women. 
 The most practical and uncompromising 
 melted, however unwillingly, before his aun- 
 Bhine, and the suggestion of chivalric defer- 
 ence which seemed a second nature with 
 him. So it was easy enough to parley with 
 •'th' missus." 
 
 " A Lancashire lad, Mrs. Janner," he said, 
 "and so I know you'll take care of him. 
 Lancashire folk have a sort of fellow feeling 
 for each other, you see ; that was why I could 
 not make up my mind to leave him until I 
 saw him in good hands ; and yours are good 
 ones. (Jive him a square meal as soon as 
 possible, " he added in a lower voice : "I will 
 be accountable for him myself." 
 
 When he lifted his hat and rode away, the 
 ffrouD watched him until bf*. w.ih n.lyvi;^sit. r.;**-. 
 of sight, the general sentiment expressing 
 itself in every countenance, 
 
 " Theer's summat uoice about that theer 
 young chap," Jauner remarked with ti» 
 
 slowness of a man who was rather mystified 
 by the fascination under whose inftuence he 
 found himself — "summat as goes wi' th* 
 grain loike." 
 
 "Ay," answered his -wife, "so theer is; 
 an' its natur' too. Coora along in, lad^," to 
 Seth, " an' ha' summat to eat : you look 
 faintish." 
 
 Black Creek found him a wonderfully quiet 
 member of society, the lad Seth. He came 
 and went to and from the mine with 
 mechanical regularity, working with the 
 rest, taking his meals with the Janners, and 
 slepping in a small shanty left vacant by the 
 desertion of a young mirer who had found 
 life at the settlement too monotonous to suit 
 his tastes. No new knowledge of his an- 
 tecedents was arrived at. He hal come 
 " fro' Deeptnn," and that was the beginning 
 and end of the matter. In fact, his seemed 
 to be a peculiarly bilent nature. He was 
 fond of being alone, and spent most of his 
 spare time in the desolate little shanty. At- 
 tempts at conversation appeared to trouble 
 him, it was discovered, and accordingly he 
 was left to .iimself as nci; worth cultivating. 
 "Why does na' tha' talk more?" de" 
 manded Tanrer's daughter, who was * 
 strong, brusque young woman, with a sharp 
 tongue. 
 
 " I ha' not gotton nowt to say," was the 
 meekly deprecating response. 
 
 Miss Jannsr, regarding the humble fac? 
 with some impatience, remarkably enough, 
 found nothing to deride in it, thouuh, bemg 
 neither a beauty nor in her first bloom, and 
 sharp of tongue, as I have said, she was some- 
 what gived to derision as a rule. In truth, 
 the uncomplaining patience in the dull, soft 
 eyes made her fed a little uncomfortable. 
 "I dunnot know what ails thee," she re- 
 marked with unceremonious candour, " but 
 theer's summat as does," 
 
 " It's nowt as can be cured,*' said the lad, 
 and turued his qufet face away. 
 
 In his silent fashion he evince^! a certain 
 degree of partiality for ..is host's daughter. 
 Occasionally, after his meals, b" lingered for 
 a few moments watf'iing t; ■ &^. her work 
 when she was alone sit*,ii;g by the fire or 
 near the door, and regarding her business- 
 like movements with a, wistful air of wonder 
 and admiration. And yet so unobtrusive 
 ware these mute attentions that Bess Janner 
 was never roused to any form of resentment, 
 of them. 
 
 "Tha's goin' to ha* a sweetheart at last, 
 my lass," was one of Janner's favourite 
 — ivvivictiis, ■.•trt ijrsa tfuic it, %t:',.:: u7.i:iracLvr- 
 istic coolness, " I'm noan as big a foo' as I 
 look," she would say, "an' I dunnot moidd 
 him no more nor if he wus a wench 
 hissen'." 
 
 Sr 
 at I 
 scare 
 fond 
 rongl 
 chan 
 been 
 
 ly, si 
 
 "S 
 Bess, 
 chiva 
 "but 
 an'th 
 Cor 
 the f€ 
 the bi 
 tendei 
 "A 
 apoloo 
 a grac 
 th' cat 
 yo'rest 
 Thei 
 nature 
 occur I 
 three n 
 ailing b 
 more si 
 and lag 
 he look 
 uncerta 
 in him, 
 him vis 
 Daorsels 
 attempt 
 a bit," 
 fur it." 
 But h 
 week of 
 noon, B 
 dishes a 
 labours 
 statfgerir 
 
 yo'?" fill 
 
 death." 
 "I du 
 staggerin 
 feeble hai 
 sinking fr 
 come a nig 
 
 She flu 
 saved hir 
 dropped h 
 
 " He'.s f 
 ninn ha' b 
 
 She Iai( 
 clothes at 
 
 second tin 
 nost a cr 
 nercy !" si 
 ihing of CO 
 She had 
 
was rather mystified 
 r whose influence he 
 nat as goes wi' th' 
 
 wife, "so theer is ; 
 m alonpt in, ladi" to 
 it to eat : you look 
 
 m a wonrlerfully quiet 
 
 lad Seth. He came 
 
 mi the mine with 
 
 working with the 
 
 ith the Janners, and 
 
 ty left vacant by the 
 
 mirpf who had found 
 
 o monotonous to suit 
 
 lowledge of his an- 
 
 at. He ha 1 come 
 
 at was the beginning 
 
 In fact, his seemed 
 
 ?nt nature. He was 
 
 id spent most of hia 
 
 te little shanty. At- 
 
 appeared to trouble 
 
 and accordingly he 
 
 *} worth cultivating. 
 
 .' talk more?" de' 
 
 jhter, who was * 
 
 ,'oman, with a sharp 
 
 vt to say," was the 
 onse. 
 
 ng the humble fac? 
 remarkably enough, 
 in it, thouyh, bemg 
 her first bloom, and 
 e said, she was some- 
 as a rule. In truth, 
 nee in the dull, soft 
 little uncomfortable, 
 ails thee," she re- 
 ioiis candour, "but 
 
 !ured, ■' said the lad, 
 3 away. 
 
 le evince^ a certain 
 •is host's daughter, 
 eals, h" lingered for 
 g L;i at her work 
 ting by the fire or 
 iriing her business- 
 .^istful air of vender 
 yet 30 unobtrusive 
 ms that Bess Janner 
 form of resentment 
 
 sweetheart at last, 
 Janner's favourite 
 
 . :i. — :xi_ -1 A- 
 
 ; :i ■(t:i:: u«:ira!;i,s:r- 
 
 Ein as big a foo' as I 
 an' I dunnot moidd 
 he wua a wenoh 
 
 WajlA 
 
 fond : apred.mh,a,f. T''' V^^'^' ^'"'^ "or 
 
 charms. Or.ih.arv « !•' '"^''^ '^«'' ^h'^-'f 
 been thrown wlvT,.'f""°"* ^^"''i '^^ve 
 
 Be'BV'"hor"s;he?";in"'>; f"' '-'^«' --I 
 
 chivalrou.snefoS'^mre'tt ^'*^ ^^'^^^^^^ 
 "but hoo con heave a' no,f ""\««"asion, 
 Hn' that's su,„,„at » '* "' '""°^ "'' T™"- 
 
 th?s^:h^,,'i/'i:^rr'"^'^«'>'*hat 
 
 the brea4\ tletf Io7 '"*'^ awakened in 
 tender pa.s,on. ^^'^' ^^"^ •*'■" *" the 
 
 a^gracions if {n',r ' oSe ^"^7 "^ ^ ""^"l'''^ 
 th' cat. Stay wheer vo' Z.~i , """^ *^'^" 
 yo'resen' comfortable" ' '*''• ^" ""*ke 
 
 na'!:::ftEijt^tste^^^v^? 
 
 ailing and unlike himself fe?,V''*^ ^''" 
 more silent than us al- h.i; i ^^ '^'''J*^^'''" 
 and la^.r„d on h . w^v V" ^'f ^^'^» 1''*!*^. 
 he looked thin ,Z hi.'";' ^''"" ^'' ^^'^^ 
 uncertain Therp wTi '*''? '^^'■' «'''^'and 
 in him, i fact thlT^''**.'*" alteration 
 
 him vi;iblv She sJ rSr»'"^"'^ '"^^"-'i 
 moi-seJs upon hin, ?nT "^ bestowed the best 
 
 attompt;;rve'Sir' ^''trziT '"t *'^ 
 ?urt''.' *'^^ ^^^-^^ :•>'-%:;?§; 
 
 we^foJ^funS/rndt: "P ""*"«- *'"-' 
 
 noon, Be5r:t\^ik*'rhrkSn'^^ ^* 
 lab SsTv h^r^' ^^'^^ ^^^tferfror;;;! 
 
 sta^^n'jttayhr^" f^^Vf °^ ^ 
 Jo.'^,Bhe demanded. "Y^t^^Tit 
 
 sta^„Ltn*aln"T;'.'. t ^^^r^^' ''"^ then. 
 
 feebfe h^fdr "'Dunn's vo' '' h"" '''.'■''' ^'''' 
 "inking forward -..d^nno^tvo' ';!r'^'«P^'-«'l. 
 comeanigh me." """""tjo let no one- 
 
 n 
 
 ^-^KSS^^^''^— eded 
 under her ha is Tt ) P''o«*'-ate figure 
 'net hers [n S H?;, ! "" ^'*7 ^^^^ "Pining 
 " I thowf'^^f *PP^^^ "'"1 protest: * 
 lad. "I wirLr- '^'f" '^°'""'" '^idthe 
 I " What ha' ^" ,"•' '* '^'""^ 'leath. " 
 
 t!.atr;adBes'-'aud"t'h"^ T' "^^^ «''-^l> 
 
 liters si^rw«^^ 
 
 pecte.l it would h1 ^^''''^- f^^ '^"'l ^x- 
 nor reddenSIl -H^i; rr'f^''^-' ti'"ched 
 upf^n her .' , ,« with i fin , ' ^-'"^b hand 
 
 "yo'vv.nlJnairpi:::e^>'^«-'-P-e'1: 
 
 tnfle'':tggt:ii;""tietr; ^^^ '^"^^^-''''• * 
 
 inss. °° •>^' ^^«>P't^^ her ii.ward relent- 
 
 dropped helplessly ajS^f hefbr-J'^ '^^^ 
 
 nmn ht> 1 ^'^•■^ ''"^'' '^^'^-V'" «l'o said • "he 
 sL I -Tl ^""^^^ *''»» h« thowt fur ■" 
 
 Ia«t. She haTfou,u^ nn r'"'" ^'^"ti'nent at 
 parently 8 ? umbed t? '^'■'"' '""'' ''^'' ^P" 
 
 proVta to hef Lm 'T '*,'"'?' t '""rt 
 
 pi tae best „■ me. Tr. 'J. a S i^ i T* 
 belter worth y„ve ^rt^i,.';, » "• '»''• I'm 
 
 ." ll"A'l'Lo'jfe'';';i Je"- ..'?„■•:,' tSS'th""' 
 
 ."iwSfrtSEiir' ■■Ai^iti" "^ "";""«••• 
 
 look., neyther." "' "<"" tagood 
 
 look.""'" '"''' "^"-"i'" -Mn hi.g„„a 
 ;; Happen if, hi, |„fc „„ ,„^ ,^^^ ,„ 
 
 .u«-t:;i;™.St''v .naS''" "" "'•—"■' 
 n«&^i^?:^i„ri-ter-ri,ff 
 
13 '' 
 
 str- 
 
 and uncouth love Hevelnp and form a t> to 
 bind the homely liv.^a together, and warn" juid 
 brighten them? It may have b:on that hia 
 own mental londition at this tiuie was suoh 
 as would tend to soften his heart, for an ni- 
 noceni; passion, lent!; cherished in its bud, h.id 
 burst into its full bi'ioming during tlie month.-- 
 he had spent amid the novel beauty and 
 lonlines^, aad perhaps his new bliss subdut '1 
 him some^'hat. Always ready with akiudly 
 word, 'le vfa,H specially rea<iv with it where 
 Soth was roinierned, He nevt r prised him 
 without <.!!', and fre(|uently rein i in his 
 horse t. ^^eak to bun .. :. pv. torleng'-''. Now 
 and then, on lii.. way '<■ n:. ;wt night, he stop- 
 ped at the shanty door, ml t'li vmoiJug t'. ■ 
 lad detained him for a low r.'.i!*' '\a chattinf,; 
 in the odot'Ods evening air. 't -a :i'- t.' on^igh- 
 ly in accordance with th.i 'd. pniROf' '^t his 
 frank and generous l ituri' t. .i .\e shun id en- 
 deavour to win ur>on ii'm tru' gain his uonti- 
 dence. " We aro both L'eepton men," he 
 would Pay, " and that we si-ould be friends. 
 We ate both alone an<l a long way from 
 home. " 
 
 But the lad wu always timid and slow of 
 speech. His uratitude showed itself in ways 
 -,' ongh, but it rarely t^ok the form of words. 
 Only, one nighc as the horse moved awav, 
 he Laid hie hand upon the bridle and held it 
 amoj'fiv'it, some powerful emotion showing 
 itself lii his face, and lowering hia voice 
 until it was almost a v/hisper. "-Mester," 
 he said, " if tiieer's ivver owt to be done as 
 is hard an' loike to bring pain an' danger, 
 yo'll — yo'Jl not forget me ?" 
 
 Langley looked down at him with a ming- 
 ed feeling of warm pity and deep bewilder- 
 ment. " Forget you ? " he echoed. 
 
 The dullneasseemed to have dropped away 
 from the commonplace face as if it had been 
 a vt il ; the eyes were burning Avith a hungry 
 pathos ami fireand passiffu ; they were raised 
 to hi: ;'.;/'! held him with tlie power of an 
 indescribilble anguish. "Dun not forget as 
 I'm here," the voice growing .sharp and in- 
 tense. " ready an' eager an' waitin' fur th' 
 toitne to come. Let nie do sominat or brave 
 summat or suffer snnimat, for God's sake ! " 
 
 Wlien the young man rode away it was 
 with a sense of weight and pain "-on him. 
 He was mystified. People were x grate- 
 
 ful to him, but their gratituile w )t such 
 as this ; this oppressed and disturbed him. 
 It was suggestive of a mental canditimi 
 whose existence seemed almost impossible. 
 What a life tin poor fellow must have 
 led, since the simplest kindness aroused 
 within him such emotions as this ! 
 "It is hard to understand," he mur- 
 mured ; " it is even a little horrible. One 
 fancies these duller natures do not reach our 
 heights and depths of happiness and pain, 
 
 bis 
 
 i:hl:i 
 
 breii.it- 
 ce upwi.id 
 
 he 
 
 Voc tnc thinK of 
 
 and yet — Caithie, Caithie, 
 ing oft' suddenly,and turnin. 
 to the broad free blue of 
 quickened h;s hors' 'i pace, 
 yoii ; this hurts ms.'" 
 
 But he V ai drawn 'nearer to ihe boy, and 
 did his hea*. to cheer and help him. His in- 
 i 'rest in lii 1,1 rew as he saw him ofteuer, 
 I id there i not only the old i terest, bnt 
 anew one. >'omething in tho lad's fa.o o 
 son.ething wl: i 'h h i stincA Inm as faniiliav 
 e\ ( 11 at first — uegav' to b&iint iiimci 'iitaiitly. 
 He could not rid hiMse'f :n iihe impreA''iO'! .t 
 left upon hiir, and yet 'i*; nevei inijud him- 
 self a shade nearer the sulutiois ui the uiya- 
 tery. 
 
 " Raynor," he said to him on one of the 
 evenings when he had stopped before the 
 shanty, " I wish I knevv wihy your face trou- 
 bles me so. " 
 
 " Does it trouble you, mester?" 
 
 "Yes," with a half ; 'igh, "I think I 
 may say it troubles me. • have tried to re- 
 collect every lad in Deeutni, and I have no 
 remeiiibrance of you." 
 
 " Happen not, mester," h eekly. ' "I niv- 
 ver wur much noticed, yo' ss'j ; I'm one o' 
 them as foak is more loike to pass by." 
 
 An early train arriving next morning 
 brought visitors to the Cresk — a business- 
 like elderly gentleman and his daughter, a 
 pretty girl, with large bi'ight eyes and an in- 
 nocent rosy face, which became rosier and 
 prettier than ever ',\hen Mr. Edward Lang- 
 ley advanced from the depot shed with un- 
 covered head and extended hand. '*Caithie!" 
 he said, when the first greetings had been 
 interchanged, " what a delight this is to 
 me! I did not hope for such happiness as 
 this." 
 
 " Father wanted to see the mines," an- 
 swered Caithie, sweetly demure, "and I — I 
 wanted to. see Black Creek ; your letters 
 were so enthu.siastic. " 
 
 " A day will sufhce, I suppose?" her pa- 
 ternal parent was wandering on amiably. "A 
 man should a! >rays iuveatigato such matters 
 lor himself. J can see eno tI' to satisfy me 
 between now and the ti ''>i- the return 
 train." 
 
 " I cannot," wb'opere . " iigiey toCaitbie; 
 "a century woula . '' ce. If the sun 
 
 would but stand-s' 
 
 The lad Seth wa . - 
 and when he enterel . 
 from her dish-washii - 
 troubled look. "Aru 
 asked. 
 
 "Nay," he answered, 
 an' heavy-loike. " 
 
 He sat down upon the door-step with hea- 
 vily clasped hands, and eye# wandering to- 
 vards the mountain, whose pine-crowned 
 
 for dmner that day, 
 
 . louse Bess turned 
 
 w^vT him a sharp, 
 
 -i again ?" she 
 
 , I bnt a bit tired 
 
SETH. 
 
 73 
 
 9, • !V f^.'ir," htOHii- 
 
 lin. bis i ce upwi.id 
 
 of i ha liky, as he 
 
 e, ot inc thijjK af 
 
 r 
 
 *er to i'ne boy, and 
 
 'lelp him. His in- 
 
 saw him ofteuer, 
 
 lie old i tereat, but 
 
 in tlio lad's fa .0 » 
 uoa Iiim as faniiliar 
 iiint iiimct 'I'-.tiutly. 
 ■n iihe (nipten.''>oi >.%■ 
 i'. nevei H>!iiid him- 
 iutioi', <.u the mys- 
 
 him on one of the 
 itoppcfl before the 
 why your facetrou- 
 
 risester ?" 
 
 v;gh, "I think I 
 1 have trie<l to re- 
 ton, and I have no 
 
 " weekly. ' " I niv- 
 0' sm ; I'm one o' 
 e to pass by. " 
 ■ing ne.xt morning 
 Crcftk — a business- 
 nd Jiis daughter, a 
 ifiht eyes and an in- 
 became rosier and 
 Mr. Edward Lang- 
 !pot shed with un- 
 id hand. '*Oaithie!" 
 greetings had been 
 . delight this is to 
 such happiness as 
 
 Be the mines," aa- 
 demure, "and I — I 
 yreek ; your letters 
 
 suppose ?" her pa- 
 ring on amiably. "A 
 tigate sucli matters 
 IP tI' to satisfy me 
 tr the return 
 
 r'.' 
 
 ngiey to Caitbie; 
 ce. If the Bun 
 
 for duiuer that day, 
 
 '■>ouse Bess turned 
 
 vc" him a sharp, 
 
 again 1" she 
 
 '•jiclbnt a bit tired 
 
 door-step withhea- 
 eye^ wandering to- 
 rhoae pine-crowned 
 
 ■nmmit towered above him. He had not 
 
 ■■en yet outlived the awe of its majesty, but 
 
 ^le had learned to love it and draw comfort 
 
 rom Its beauty and strength. 
 
 I' Does tha' want thy dinner ?" asked Bess, 
 
 No, thank yo'," he said; "I conldna 
 
 1"he dish-wasliing was deserted inconti- 
 ne>(tly, and Bess came to the door, towel in 
 h.-n-l, her expression at once softened and 
 shaded with discontent. " Summat's hurt 
 yo she said. "What is it? Summat's 
 nnrfc yo sore. 
 
 The labour-roufhened hands moved with 
 their old nervous habit, and the answer 
 came in an odd, jerky, half- connected way : 
 1 dunnot know why it should ha' done I 
 mnnbemad, or summat. I nivver had no 
 hope nor nothin' : theer nivver wur no rea- 
 son why I should ha' had. Ay, I mun be 
 wrong somehow, or it wouldna stick to me 
 1 this road. I conna get rid on it, an' I 
 conna feel as if I want to. What's up wi' 
 me? What's takken howd on me »'^ his 
 voice Dreaking and the words ending in a 
 sharp hysterical gasp like a sob. 
 
 Bess wrung her towel with a desperate 
 strength whicli spoke of no small degree of 
 tt^pestuous feeling. Her brow knit itself 
 and her lips were compressed. "What's 
 happened?" she demanded aftei a pause. 
 I conna mak' thee out. " 
 The look that fell upon her companion's 
 tace had something of shame in it. His 
 eyes left the mountain side and drooped 
 upon his clasped hands. " Theer wur a lass 
 coom to look at th' plate to-day." he said— 
 a lady lass, wi' her fevther— an' him She 
 wur aw rosy red an' fair white, an' it 'seemt 
 as If she wur that happy j^s her laughiu' 
 madeth bir.is mock back at her. Retook 
 her up th' mountain, an' we heard 'em both 
 even high uu am(mg th' laurels. Th' sound 
 their joy alioatiu' down from the height 
 80 nigh th blue .sky, made me sick an' weak! 
 joike. Ihey wur na so «ay when they comn 
 bock, but her eyes wur shinin", an' so wur 
 his. an I heerd him say to her as 'P'oak 
 didna know how nigh heaven th' ton o' th' 
 
 ' I mun get my work 
 
 mountain wur.' " 
 
 Bess wrung her towel again, and regarded 
 the mouutam with manifest impatience and 
 trouble "Happen it'll copm reet some 
 day, she said. 
 
 iV ^«^,^ ^' repeated the lad, as if mechani- 
 cally. 1 hadna towd inysen' as owt wur 
 exactly wrong: on'y I conna see thincra ^ia..„ 
 1 111 war could, an' th' more I ax^mysen' 
 questions th' worse it gets. Wheer— wheer 
 could I lay th' blame r 
 
 I'Th' blame!" said Bess. "Coom tha" 
 »n get a bite to eat;" and sue shw)k out the 
 towel with a snap and turned away. "Coom 
 
 tha," she repeated; 
 done." 
 
 That mght, m Seth lay upon his pallet in 
 
 tlie shanty, the sound of Langley's horse's 
 
 i iioots reachea him with an accompaniment 
 
 ; "I a clear young masculine voice singing a 
 
 I verse ot some sentimental modern carol -a 
 
 I tender song ephemeral and sweet. As the 
 
 I sounds neare(f the cabin the lad sprang up 
 
 I restlessly, and so was standing at the open 
 
 j door when the singer passed. " Good-neet. 
 
 mester," he said.* ' 
 
 The singer sla^tened his pace and turned 
 
 ills bright face toward him in the moonlight. 
 
 waving his hand. " Good-night," he said! 
 
 aucl p eaaant dreams 1 Mine will be pleasant 
 
 ones, I know. This has been u happy day 
 
 for me, Raynor. Good-night." 
 
 When the two met again the brighter face 
 had sadly changed ; its beauty was marred 
 with pain, and the shadow of death lay upon 
 
 Entering Janner's shanty the following 
 rnornmg Seth fouud the family sitting around 
 tne breakfast-tablo in ominous silence. The 
 I meal stood untouched, and even Bess looked 
 pale and anxious. AH three glanced toward 
 iiira tiuestioniugly as he approached, and 
 wiien iie sat down Janner spoke :— " Hasna 
 tha heerd th' news?" he asked, 
 now?'^'" ^^^^ answered, "I ha' heerd 
 
 Be.s8 interposed hurriedly: "Dunnot vo' 
 fear hnn, feyther," she said. "Happen it 
 isna so bad, after aw. Four or five foak wur 
 taKkeu down ill last neet, Seth, an'th' voung 
 mester wur among 'em ; an' theer's them as 
 says It's cholera. '^ 
 
 It seemed as if he had not caught the full 
 meaning of her words; he only stared at her 
 in a startled, bewildered fashion. ' ' Cholera ' " 
 he repeated dully. 
 
 " Theer's them as knows it's cholera," said 
 Janner, with gloomy significance. "An' if 
 It s cholera, it's death; " and he let his hand 
 faiUieavily upon the table. 
 
 "Ay," put in Mrs. Janner in a fretful 
 wad, "fur they say as it's worse i' these 
 parts than it is i' England— th' heat mak's it 
 wors6 -an here we are i' th' midst o' th' 
 summer-toime, an' theer's no knowin' wheer 
 It 11 eud, I wish tha'd takken my advice 
 Janner, an' stayed i' Lancashire. Ay, I 
 wish we wur .safe at home. Better kss wage 
 au more safety, Yo'd nivver ha'- coorn if 
 yo d listened to me. " 
 
 " H««rJ 4.1... J.- - ., .. .. — 
 
 but the words were not ungently spoken, 
 notwithstanding their bluntness. " Dunnot 
 let us mak' it worse than it need be. Seth 
 lad, eat thy breakfast." ' 
 
 _ But there was little bretor.fast eaten. The 
 fact was that at the first spreading of the 
 
74 
 
 SETII. 
 
 'ft- 
 
 • 
 report a panic had seized upon the settle- 
 ment, and Jivnnor and his wife were by no 
 means the least inHuonced by it. A stolidly 
 stubborn courage upheld Bess, but even she 
 was subdued and somewhat awed. , 
 
 '• 1 nivver heerd muoh about th' cholera," 
 Seth said to her after breakfast. "Is this 
 here tiue, this as thy feyther says?" 
 
 " I dunnot know fur sure," Boss answered 
 gravely, "but it's bail enow." 
 
 "Coom out wi' me into th' fresh air," 
 ■aid the lad, laying his haml upctn her sleeve: 
 "I innn say a word or so to thee. " And 
 they went out toj;ether. 
 
 There was no work done in the mine that 
 day. Two or three new cases broke 
 out, and the terror spread itself and 
 grew ctronger. In fact. Black Greek scarcely 
 comport(!d itself as stoically as might have 
 been expected. A messenger was despatched 
 to the nearest towu for a doctor, and his 
 arrival l)y the night train was awaited with 
 excited inipationce. 
 
 When he came, however, the matter be- 
 came worse. He had bad news to tell 
 himself. The epidemic had broken out in 
 the town he had left, and great fears we'-e 
 entertained by its inhabitants. "If you had 
 not been so entirely thrown on your 
 own resource-," he said, "I could not have 
 Wf- come." 
 
 A heavy enough responsibility rested upon 
 his shoulders during the next few weeks. 
 He had little help from the settlement. 
 Tho.S!) who were unstrickeu looked on at the 
 progress of the disease with helpless tear : 
 few indeed escaped a slight attack, and 
 those who did were scaroely^moreusefulthan 
 his patients, In the whole place he found 
 only two reliable and unterrified assistants. 
 His first visit was to a small farm house 
 round the foot of the mountain and a short 
 discance from the mine. There he found the 
 family huddled in a back room like a flock of 
 frightened sheep, and in the only chnnjber a 
 handsome, bright-haired young "fellow lying 
 upon the bed with a pinched and ominous 
 look upon his comely face. The only person 
 with him was a lad roughly clad in miner's 
 clothes— a Ijid who stood by chafing his 
 hands, and who turned desperate eyes to the 
 door when it opened. " Yo're too late, 
 mestcr," he said— "yo're too late." 
 
 But young as he was — and he was a very 
 young man — the doctor had presence of mind 
 and energy, and he flung his whole soul and 
 strength into the case. The beauty and 
 ■olitariness of his patient roused his sympathy 
 almost as if it had been the beauty of a 
 woman ; he felt drawn toward the stalwart, 
 helpless young figure lying upon the humble 
 couch in such apparent utter loneliness. He 
 did not count much upon the lad at first — ho 
 
 seomed too much bewildered and 'shaken 
 
 but it was not long before he change i his 
 mind. " You are getting over your fear," be 
 
 3,1 id. 
 
 " It wasna fear, raester,"' was the ai»8wer 
 he received; " or at least -it w.isna fear for 
 mysen'. " 
 
 " What is your name?" 
 
 "Seth Raynor, mester. Him an' me," 
 with a gesture toward the bed, "comn from 
 th' same place. Th' cholera couldna fear me 
 fro' Aj«i— nor nowt else if he wur i' need." 
 
 So it was Seth Raynor who watched by^ 
 the bcdsiile. and lal>ourod with loving car 
 
 and a patience which knew no weariness 
 
 until the wornt was over and Langley wa' 
 among tlie convalescent." 
 
 " The poor fellow and Bess .Tanner were 
 my only stay," the young doctor was wont 
 to say. "Only such care as his would have 
 saved you, and you had a close race or it as 
 it was." 
 
 During the convalescence nurse and 
 invalid were drawn together with a 
 a stronger tie through every hour. 
 Wearied and weak, Langley 's oM interest 
 in the lad became a warm atrectirtn. He 
 could scarcely bear to lose sight of the awk- 
 ward boyish figure, and never re-!ted so com- 
 pletely as when it was by his bedside. 
 
 "Give me your hand, dear fellow," he 
 would say, " and let me hold it. I shall 
 sleep better for knowing you urr" near me." 
 
 He fell asleep thusonemori.ng. and awaft- 
 ened suddenly to a consciousness of somenew 
 presence in the room. Seth no longer sat in 
 the chair near the pillow, but stood a little 
 apart ; and surely he would have been no 
 lover if the feeble blooil had not leaped in his 
 veins at the siuht of the face bending over 
 him— the innooent, fair young face wlvch had 
 so haunted his pained and troubled dreams. 
 "Cathie!" he cried out aloud. 
 
 The girl fell upon her knees and caught his 
 extended hand with a passionate little gesture 
 of love and pity. "I did not know," ah* 
 poured forth in hurried, broken tones. " I 
 have been away ever since the sickness 
 broke out at home. They sent me away and 
 
 I only heard yesterday Father, tell him, 
 
 for I cannot." 
 
 He scarcely heard the more definite ex- 
 planation, he was at once so happy and so 
 fearful. 
 
 "Sweetheart," he said, "I can'' scarcely 
 bear to think of what may come of this ; and 
 vet how blessed it is i.o h.tvf^ v^m 7^'^s.r mst 
 again ! The danger for me is all over ; even 
 your dear self could not have cared for me 
 more faithfully than I have been cared for. 
 Raynor there has saved my life." 
 
 But Cathie could only answer with a 
 
 said I 
 
 lady,! 
 
 place 
 
 "\ 
 
 are tii 
 
 "A 
 
 wor^t 
 
 patien 
 
 theer'i 
 
 Fro 
 
 seemei 
 
 appeal 
 
 and t 
 
 had fo 
 
 suffere 
 
 «8 faitl 
 
 charge 
 
 showef 
 
 stancy 
 
 or won 
 
 him w 
 
 one of i 
 
 him bu 
 
 with se 
 
 Then 
 
 missed 
 
 not at 
 
 appeare 
 
 making 
 
 not find 
 
 be at Jj 
 
 among 
 
 snmed t 
 
 its stre 
 
 Making 
 
 doctor i 
 
 iJread. 
 
 to feel w 
 
 "Perhap 
 
 visit," h( 
 
 have 8to| 
 
 But be 
 
 cabins hi 
 
 time was 
 
 tie smal 
 
 langley'e 
 
 i saw h 
 
 laid. " , 
 
 >er he wa 
 
 loor of ] 
 
 Fords, as 
 
iMeied ami' shaken— 
 )eforu h>! chalice i iiis 
 ;ii)g over your fear," he 
 
 iter,"' was the m^swer 
 aat it w.isna fear for 
 
 e?" 
 
 ster. Him an' me," 
 the bed, "oomo from 
 lolera uouMna fear me 
 3 if he wur i' need." 
 nnr who watehed bye 
 irod with lovinir car 
 1 ki)ew no weariness. 
 fer and Langley wa 
 
 tid Beas Junner were 
 J'lg (hictor was wont 
 are aa his wouhl have 
 I a cUiae race or it as 
 
 ilescence nurse and 
 together with a 
 rough every hour, 
 liaiigley's oM interest 
 warm atfectirtn. He 
 lose 8i>j;ht of the awk- 
 1 never rented so coin- 
 by Ilia bedside, 
 nd, dear fellovr," he 
 le hold it. I shall 
 gyon ;ir-> near me." 
 lemori. ng. and awaft- 
 sciouanesa of aomenew 
 Seth no lonyer sat in 
 w, but stood H little 
 *oii!d have been no 
 1 had not leaped in hia 
 ho face bending over 
 young face wh'ch had 
 ind troubled dreams, 
 aloud, 
 
 ' knees and caught his 
 issionate littlegesture 
 did not know," sh« 
 , broken tones. •* I 
 since the sickness 
 ley sent me away and 
 Father, tell him, 
 
 le more definite ez- 
 ce so happy and so 
 
 id, " I can'' scarcely 
 ay come of this ; and 
 
 me IS all over ; even 
 ; have cared for me 
 lave been cared for. 
 my life." 
 >nly answer with » 
 
 SETH. 
 
 i' ■ - 76 
 
 piteous remorseful jealousy: "Why was it 
 not J who saved it ? why was it not 1 r '* 
 . And the place where (Seth had Rt'od w/iif 
 •ng was vacant.f.,r he had left it at tl^ J," [ 
 of Langlny's hrst oyous crv. When he "e 
 
 look"] Ar!'"! ''Tr, '" ^■''''' *^° ">' e rttf^i 
 f«l iT^^V l""^ ^'*"*'*'"l he had seen on h s 
 faceof late had faded our: the old nnawik 
 
 sciius. ** """' «'"'"king and con- 
 
 »„-'Ju^*'.""'.""*''''^V good-neet to vo' " h^ 
 8a d hes.tatmgly to the invalid. <' Th' ^ou S 
 
 pSe"-^;^t" tr' ''''•'7!'''' will tai'^y" 
 piace a bit. I ll coom i' th' mornin'. " 
 
 I You want rest." aaid Langlev " vn„ 
 
 are tired, poor fellow!" "^-""'s'^i » y"" 
 
 "Ay," quietly: "I'm tired; "an' th' 
 wont m over, yo' se., an' she'a here "with a 
 pat,ent amd, . '< Yo' wunnot need Z L? 
 theer'sthemasdops." m», an 
 
 From that hour his work at this one nlace 
 seemed done. For several drys he nmdo Idt 
 
 Sr/hen^"^"'^'--^^'*''''*"' ** '^^ -"'.tde 
 anrt ther. hia visits gradually ended He 
 
 had fonnda fresh field of labour amo g the 
 
 !1 f w \\ *''" «etflement itself. He was 
 
 cnarire. The same unflag.dntr niti,.nf.« 
 showed itself, the same^^ "ilenr o n 
 stancy and self-sacrifice. Scarcely a man 
 or woman had not some cause to remem™S 
 bim with gratitude, and there waTnof 
 one of those who, ha.l jested at and negleeSd 
 
 apL'arrrfo""" '^ I''' ^"""^'-^ *** -'"*'- 
 appeared for some time; but when after 
 
 Tt fi"„^ h-' 'T:^ "^ ^^■^■t'"' *'-« Sor d d 
 not hnd him he became anxious, He nnaht 
 
 «m^ '^T^'V but he was not there SoJ 
 fnr^f.u*'- '"'"f"' ^ho had gradully ref 
 sumej their work as the epidemic weakened 
 
 MaKing these discoveries at nichtfall thp 
 
 tlT 'mlf, ,"P *>l« h-- - some si 'e 
 L * i , •* learned earlier than the rest 
 
 ^Pertar" I *""""^ *^/« «™P>« ^^'^^-^er' 
 v;^!>m' "•/ ^""« ""t +" 'ay Laufileva 
 visit, he said : " I'll call r^. •■ ael TitZ. 
 
 have stopped to have a re,. ''"• ^^ ""^^ 
 But before he had pasae.i the last tn-oun nf 
 
 ?me^atVXL"'t-^. '■™^^'^' ^^o'lTl^i . 
 ime was w^u enough to resume hia place in 
 Itrie small world, a.id, hearing hiJ story" 
 
 »nd r-» 1 > • """• "earins; r 
 
 Jt ftangley's anxiety was gr nt-er th.aj. 
 
 '" 1 8aw iiim 'loci- «;„i.i -^ 
 
 u; 
 
 »Hi. About this time, ' oo, for I remem 
 
 Sr^'of"hi,''*J'"«. '" *^,f n->nlight a^he 
 ro^, ^^^"*>'• ^V« exchanged r. few 
 
 '•'ords. as we always do, and he said he waT 
 
 there because he was not needed, and 
 thought a qu.et night would do him good 
 Is ,t possible no onelias seen him since ?" in 
 sudden alarm. 
 
 "Come with me," said his companion. 
 
 spoke .inHl"^' '^^ ** "?»^»"1 '''-^'L "either 
 spoke unjl they reached the shanty itself 
 ri.erewasno sign of human life about i: 
 the door stood open, and the only sound to 
 bo hear.l was the rustle of the wind whisper^ 
 H.ft)?'!!''"°«^° ^\T^ "I^"" *''« '""""tain 8 de. 
 
 with loudK i"^-''"r'^''« ^^'"" *''^^'- '^""«» 
 witn loudly-bi-ating hearts 
 
 l'' '^?:' g'-f >* ''e i^ not here !" uttered Lang, 
 lev. <""] grant he 13 nny where elss ! The 
 place is so drearily desolate " 
 
 De.olato indeed ! The moonbeams stream- 
 g through the door threw their lair light 
 «pon tiie rough boards and upon the walls 
 and upon the piiet figure lying on the paUet 
 J,) ?f ' ' if ''T'"''^' t<'"ching with pitying 
 whteness the homely face npon the pi lo,^ 
 
 UielW ""'' *''"' ""'"''^ niotionlesiupon 
 
 che'cled"g,.o!;r""" «'™'"'^ with a half. 
 
 "Asleep?" bndce from Langley's white 
 
 hps ,n a de8pe>ate whisper. <• Lt~ no?"- 
 
 hour,-'- Th'"'"' *''" •»"^t'"-""'''''*^l f«r 
 nour.i . There was actual anguish in his 
 
 voice as he uttered the words, but ai.othe? 
 
 wlTh'bn'T?"'"'';.'^*^^*' '" the ' exolan,ation 
 " "oi,! r'1 "T *'™^'^'-«'^ly a second later. 
 ■ (>ond (xod !" he cried-" good God !" 
 
 m-t fiercely by the arm : the "xclan.ation • 
 
 ^ upon him. "What is it?" he de- 
 manded, " What .lo you mean V 
 It IS — a woman !" 
 Even as they gazed at each othei , 
 speechless questioning the silence was broken 
 in upon. Swift heavy footsteps "neared the 
 door crossed the threshol.l, and Janner's 
 daughter stood before them. •'auner s 
 
 There was no need for questioning. One 
 
 tfc' *" > ^'' ""• '^''« "^'^^l^ her way ?; 
 roLrr '^.r'^^P,"^^^"^^ ^oth aside with 
 rough strength, and kneh down. "I might 
 ha'lnowed;" she sai<l with helpless bttVr- 
 ne.ss--"Im,ght ha' knowed ;" and she laid' 
 
 mssiof f ='''"'• '^' '^'''^ '''^-'l "' ^ «"dden 
 nw nP"'fe'-. " I "light ha' knowed, 
 Jinny lass," she cried, but f didna. It wai 
 
 W ^^' r ' /'f *' *^*' should lay thS 
 down an' die loike this. Tha' w.a,f/al-"" 
 
 nZ^'l^' f\,^^' "^^^ '^l""^ at th' last.' 
 But dunnot blame me, poor lass. Nay. I 
 know tha' wilna." ■^^»J'.« ^ 
 
 „ J f * ^Z^ "i' ''*°°^ '*P^»"*' stirred by an 
 
 sympathy. Sr- scare ,y seemed to see 
 
SETH. 
 
 them: she seemed to rocof< > 
 
 Imt that of the unreHp->n«ivt ^ n ^ ; .a i^a 
 lowly coueh. Slio apuke <. i as it it had 
 been a livintj thing, her ice broken and 
 tender, stroking the hair now and then with 
 a touch all womaalj u t loving. " Yo' 
 were iiighur to nie tb.va inoHt foaK, Jinny," 
 Mho said; "an' tha' tiuated nie, I know." 
 
 They 'eft her to hor grief until at hist she 
 grew calmer ami lior sobs died away into 
 Hilenco. Then shfi rose and approaching 
 Langley, who etot J at the door, B[)()ke to 
 him, stiircely jiduig her tear-strained eyes. 
 " 1 ha' summa* c tell yo', an' summat tu 
 ax yo'," she 8;u(t, '"an' 1 mnn tell it t/i yo' 
 alone, Will yo' otom out here ?" 
 
 He follow \ hex; wondering and sad. His 
 heart was h .avy with the pain and mystery 
 the narrow v. dls inclosed. When they 
 paused a few ya-ds from the house, the one 
 face was scarcely mor - full of soi row than 
 the other, only that tho woman's was wet 
 with tears. She was not given to many 
 words, BesS Janner, aiiM she wasted fewii 
 the story she had to tell. ' Yo' know th' 
 secret as she carried," siie said, "or I 
 wouldna tell yo' even i '>w; an' now I tell it 
 that bIic) may carry the Hccret to her 
 grave, an' ha' no gossiping I' ugue to threep 
 at her, I dunnot want foak starin' an' 
 wonderin' an' makkin' talk. She's borne 
 enow. " 
 
 "It shall be as you wish, whether you 
 tell me the story or not," said Langley. 
 " We will keep it as sacred as yoi: have 
 dune." 
 
 She hesitated a momen, Hcemingly 
 
 Eondering with herself before she answered 
 iin. "Ay," she said, " but I ha' anotlier 
 reason behnid. I want immat ''•' /o' : T. 
 want yo'rc pity. Happen it nitiight do her 
 good even now. " She did not look at him as 
 «he proceeded, but stood with her face a little 
 turned uway and her eyes resting upon the 
 shadow on the mountain. "Thecr wur v 
 lass as vsorkedat th' Deepton mines," si; 
 said — "a lass as had a weakl' i.mther a 
 worked au' lodgf- w^i' her. H>rnimeMii 
 Jinny, an' she wur quiet aiid plain-favoured. 
 Thef . ar other wenches as wur well-lookin', 
 but lae wasua ; theer war others as had 
 hoin s, and she iiadna me ; theer wur plenty 
 as had wit an' shar]nioss, but she liadna 
 them neyther. She wur nowt but a deso- 
 late, homely lass, as seemt to lia no place i' 
 th' wurld, an' yet wur tender an' weak- 
 hearted to th' core. She wur alius longin' 
 
 f.._ „..«,_,«». _„ «U„ \!T\'.v ::;;h loiUe t;; '-'•■it : ill' 
 
 she nivver did get i*, fur her broth ^ wasna 
 one as cared fur owt but his own doiu's. 
 But theer were one among aw th' reat as niv- 
 ver passed her by, an' he wur th' mester's 
 son. Ih- wur a bright, handsome chap, as 
 
 won hifj way iwerywheer, an' hada koind 
 word or a laugh fur aw. So he gave th' lass a 
 smile, an' did her a favour now and then — 
 loike ai not witiiout givin" it more than a 
 tho vvt— until she learned to live on th' h<»pe 
 o' seein him. An',, bein' weak an' tender, 
 it grew on hor fro' day to day, until it seemt 
 to "iv " Mgth to her an' tak' it both i' 
 
 She stripped and looked at l^tiglcy here. 
 "Does tha' see owt now, as I'mgetten thia 
 fur?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, his agitation almost 
 mastering him. "And now I have found 
 the lost face that haunted m*" so," 
 
 "Ay," said Bess, "it was hers ;" and she 
 hurried on liuskily : " '' hen you went away 
 she oouldna abide th' lonesomeh us, an' so 
 one day she said to her brother, 'Dave, let 
 us go to th' new mine wheer Mester pjd'ard 
 is ; an' him bein' alius ready fur a move, 
 th»'y starttd out together. But on th' way 
 th' 1 d took sick and died sudlen, an' Jinny 
 wur left to hcrsen'. An' then sh.- seed now 
 trouble. She wur b»set wi' dav.^ -. as she'd 
 nivver thowt on, uji' befbre long she foun' 
 out as Women didna work o' this side o' the 
 sea as they did o' ours. So at last she Mnir 
 driv' upon a strangeloike plan. It souutu 
 wild, happen, but it wasna so wild after aw. 
 Her bits o' clotli' h giv' out an' she had no 
 money ; an' theer w av Dave's things. She'd 
 wore th' loike at her woik i' Deepcon, an' 
 she mide up h i- mind to wear em agen. Yo' 
 did I know her when she coom hero, an' no 
 on Ise giiesHL 1 at th' truth. She didna 
 expect mowt, yo' see ; she on'y m anted th' 
 comfort o' hearin' th' voice she'd l!)nged .lu' 
 hungered fur ; an' hecr wur wheer she could 
 hear it. When I ♦nn' her out by accident, 
 she t / vd mi', an's.i then 've have kept th' 
 sef-rev .ogetRer, Do yo' arneas what else 
 i theer' » b ' wixt us, nicster : ' 
 I "1 - ih. I do," he answered "God for- 
 ive fo my shar in her pain 
 
 "K ."she returned, ' '+" 
 
 3 ver had a thoM 
 
 p;. at way wi' her 
 oort h(;i trouble better tii 
 She didna ax nor liopt 
 theer coom fresh hurt to 
 un' waitii)', knowin' as it moigiit comn ony 
 day. Happen th' Lord knows what life wur 
 give her fur — I duuuot, but it's ower now — 
 an' happen she knows heisen', I hurried 
 liere to-neet,"she added, batMingwith a sob, 
 " as Boon as I hetrd as she was misaen', Th' 
 truth struck, to tiiv hearts »n' T thowt .as I 
 should be here first, but I wasii >. I ha' not 
 gotten no more to say." 
 
 They went back to the shanty and with 
 h'jr own hands slie did for the pm clay the 
 last sorvif it would need, Langley and hii 
 
 R no .ulto'tl ne. 
 . that. She i>.ad 
 lad Jir v. ail she 
 n theui .iB hopes, 
 vtber ; an' when 
 ijtir 'le wur n ady 
 
eer, nn' liad'a koini\ 
 Sti he gave th' lass a 
 our now and then — 
 giviu' it more thuii a 
 B(l to live on th' hope 
 in' weak an' tender, 
 l,o (lay, until it Bctsmt 
 her an' tak' it both i' 
 
 ked at LanKloy here. 
 )W, as 1 'm gotten thi« 
 
 his agitation almuqt 
 now I have found 
 ;ed m<- so." 
 . was tiers ;" and she 
 '^ lien you went away 
 lonesome i< 88, an' so 
 r brother, 'Dave, let 
 irheer Mester Ed'ard 
 8 ready fur a move, 
 ler. l>ut on th' way 
 ied BU. 'en, an' Jinny 
 in' then sh" seed now 
 3t wi' (lav.- '. as she'd 
 before long she foun' 
 ork o' this side o' the 
 So at last she nnir 
 >ke plan. It souuu^ 
 isna so wild after aw. 
 v' out an' she had no 
 )ave'8 thinji^M. She'd 
 • woi k i' Deepoon, an' 
 to wear em agen. Yo' 
 she coom hero, an' no 
 h' truth. She didna 
 she ou'y wanted th* 
 oice she'd longed .m' 
 wur wheer she could 
 her out by accident, 
 len 've have kept th' 
 yo' unless 'vhat else 
 ter . ' 
 
 nswercd "God for- 
 it pain 
 
 "it'sou iiuilto'ti ne. 
 rt o' that. She sad 
 >r, had Jii 'v. an ahe 
 tb»n theut as hopes, 
 vther ; an' when 
 lu iior 'le wur ready 
 jitmoight comn ony 
 I knows what life wur 
 , but it's owor now — 
 s heisen'. I hurried 
 d, batMingwith a sob, 
 she was missen'. Th' 
 rt: •■III' T thowt .as I 
 it I wasii !. I ha' not 
 
 the shant^s and with 
 
 for the poi . clay the 
 
 eed, Langley and his 
 
 SETH. 
 
 companion waiting the while outside. When 
 her task was at an end she came to them, 
 and this time it was Langlev who addressed 
 himsdf to her. '• May I g<> in T" he asked. 
 
 She bent her head in assent, and without 
 ■peaking he left them and entered the shanty 
 alone. The moonlight, streaming in m 
 before, fell upon the cloepd eyes, and hands 
 
 T 
 
 n 
 
 ownward like a sigh. KrH,eling hesid,, the 
 pallet the young man- bent his head and 
 tmiche(l the pale forehead with reverent lipa 
 
 Nod bless you for your love and faith." he 
 said, "and give you rest! " 
 
 And when he rose a few minutes later, 
 and saw that the little dead Hower he had 
 worn had (Ironped from its place and l/»v 
 
 
 rilR KSD. 
 
 Ji- 
 
IS? 
 
 •It', * 
 
 ANOTHER NUISANCE! 
 
 THAT HORRID GIRL 
 
 •- ^ — — 
 
 THi: BESTSELIJNG BOOK OF THE DAY. 
 
 "That Horrid Girl" is worse than 
 "That Husband of Mine." 
 
 PRICE - - IS Cents. 
 
 Ask for Robertson's Edition. 
 
 II^VK YOU KEAD 
 
 "To MS Wife." 
 
 A BRILLIANT LITTLE 15-CENT BOOK 
 
 Telling .married men how to manage their 
 
 ^vives. 
 
 Uniform with '•■ That Husband of Mine." Over 
 
 S.OOO copies sold already. 
 
 ns. 
 
 " Needles and pins, needles and pins, 
 When a man marries his trouble begi 
 
 Price Fifteen Cents 
 
 Ask for Robertson's Edition. 
 
CE! 
 
 HAVE YOU SEEN 
 
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 'HE DAY. 
 
 se than 
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 FE." 
 
 T BOOK 
 
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