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CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques 
 
 1980 
 
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muM^zr-'^^^i^i 
 
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 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 1 2 3 
 
 4 5 6 
 
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 ■^.&U-V\ • t 
 
 2 c y 
 
 
 jBIS" 
 
 ii 
 
 E S P E R A I 
 
 w— — m m m il l HI HI m'liu i m ni n i i nnnm tmm m «i n. tv««- ■ 
 

• i 
 
 
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 T. 
 
 WI] 
 
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 v 
 
 / 
 
 ITANGLED ENDS. 
 
 sir 
 
 "ESPERANCE" 
 
 Better to weave in the web of life 
 
 A bright and golden filling, 
 And to do God's will with a happy heart 
 
 And hands that are ready and willing, 
 Than to break the delicate minute threads 
 
 Of our curious lives asunder, 
 And then blame God for tangled ends, 
 
 And sit and grieve, and wonder." 
 
 TORONTO : 
 
 WILLIAM BRIGGS, 78 & 80 KING STREET EAST. 
 MONTREAL : C. W. COATES. HALIFAX : S. F. HUESTIS. 
 
 1S88. 
 
/qfi.ofj&H^ fjj^ 
 
 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand 
 eight hundred and eighty-eight, by Alicb Maud Ardagh, at the Department 
 of Agriculture. 
 
 
 N 
 
 of ch 
 
 weigl 
 more 
 
 pages 
 
 and c 
 
 were 
 
 our t 
 
 aroun 
 
 the SI 
 
 secure 
 
 upon 
 
 hidin< 
 
 we t] 
 
 roma] 
 
TO THE READERS. 
 
 i<2^ 
 
 >ne thousand 
 Department 
 
 jN publishing these two sketches, my object is not 
 to produce anything new or startling in the way 
 of character or incident, but simply to add my small 
 weight of testimony to the statement that Jiere is 
 more romance in real life than ever was written on the 
 pages of fiction. All about us, on every hand, tragedies 
 and comedies are lived out, deeper, truer than any that 
 were ever produced upon the boards of a theatre, only 
 our knowledge of the tide of human life that flows 
 around us is like our knowledge of the ocean — we see 
 the smiling surface, but the depths that lie below are 
 securely hidden from our gaze. The lips that smile 
 upon us so brightly when we meet them, may be 
 hiding a ssorrow we could not even gauge; the friend 
 we think so commonplace may be the hero of a 
 romance we do not dream of. 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 There are points of similarity in the two tales that 
 may impress the reader with a sense of monotony, but 
 I have only given facts as they occurred. My mistake 
 has been in selecting from a number at my disposal 
 two which were alike in some particulars, and lack of 
 time prevents my making a change. It is only as two 
 simple little tales I offer them to the public, and as 
 such I hope they will be judged. 
 
 ESPfiRANCE. 
 
A PIECE OF TA]Sr]S[E]Sr. 
 
M 
 
 >>x*i. 
 
 
 % 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 HERE are faces that, 
 without possessing the 
 slightest claim to beau- 
 ty, chain our attention 
 at first sight. Eleanor Northcote's 
 was one of these. Looking closer (or 
 longer), one could see that the fea- 
 tures were far too imperfect for even 
 actual prettiness, though to use that 
 word in describing her would have been 
 a poor compliment to pay her. Her eyes 
 were small and of no particular color, 
 and yet one forgot it when she spoke, for 
 every emotion of her soul seemed mir- 
 rored in them, and her soul seemed always in motion. 
 [er forehead was far too high and broad, and full for 
 ^eauty, though perhaps it might put forward a slight 
 laim in the almost Grecian levelQess of the brows. 
 
10 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 The hair above was dark brown and waving slightlyl 
 at the temples — elsewhere, it was perfectly smooth] 
 and drawn back in a plain Grecian knot at the backl 
 of the head. The head itself was, perhaps, a specialty 
 in its way ; not that it was so daintily shaped, but itl 
 held itself aloft with such unconscious stateliness, and! 
 was set so far back upon the shoulders ; and those samel 
 shouJders were so still and sloping, that the impressionj 
 given on looking at her was that of a stately stag 
 when first it gets the wind and lifts its head to listen 
 for the hunters. Her mouth was the one good feature 
 (properly so-called) in her face. It was not too small, 
 but small enough for beauty, and exquisitely mobile. 
 The lips that laughed upon jou one moment, revealingj 
 two white, even rows of teeth, could set the next in a 
 curl of pride and scorn, and yet, in both or any aspect,| 
 they were lovely. You could watch her mouth for- 
 ever ; and this was a great fact for her, as thus youi 
 would forget that the rest of her face was not in ac- 
 cordance with it. For her nose, it was bad. Straight | 
 enough, but too broad. With small feet and large 
 hands, she seemed to be a mass of contradictions ; and] 
 it was safe to determine that there would be as many 
 opinions concerning her as there were people to judge. 
 For the men, they all admired her. Some thought lieri 
 too extreme in her views on certain subjects ; but she 
 was a clever and entertaining conversationalist, could 
 give them thought for thought, parry for thrust — could i 
 wrest their own weapons from their hands and makei 
 them the instruments of their defeat ; and yet, could | 
 yield at last, having fairly won the field, with a| 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 11 
 
 ^ slightly] 
 Y smooth] 
 the back! 
 , specialty! 
 ed, but itl 
 iness, and! 
 hose samel 
 iiipression 
 itely stag! 
 
 to listen! 
 od feature! 
 too small, 
 ly mobile, 
 revealing] 
 next in 
 ly aspect, I 
 outh for- 
 thus you I 
 ot in ac- 
 
 Straight! 
 Eind large I 
 ions ; and I 
 as many 
 to judge, 
 ought her I 
 
 but she 
 ist, could 
 st — could I 
 ,nd make; 
 ^et, could I 
 with 
 
 laughing, deprecating grace that made some men feel 
 
 their defeat all the more keenly, and some forgive her 
 
 for its winsome sake. She had many detractors, but 
 
 nany warm friends. Women liked her, and little 
 
 jhihlren ; the first was duo to her versatility, which, 
 
 dthout any hypocrisy, but simply because of her 
 
 (juick sympathies, made her all things to all of them — 
 
 bhe last to her own groat love for the little ones. She 
 
 ^as inwardly dependent on everyone for her sunshine, 
 
 ^et, outwardly independent of the world. They 
 
 thought her bright, volatile, indifferent — she was deep, 
 
 )assionate and unchangeable ; only she could not vent 
 
 ler soul on little things, and the things that moved 
 
 ler she kept to herself. 
 
 She was staying now at Port Sandfield, at the junc- 
 tion of lakes Rosseau and Joseph, in Muskoka. There 
 ''ere, perhaps, some fifty other boarders besides her- 
 self and her mother ; her brother was to join them 
 later on. There were a dozen or more girls ranging 
 Prom eighteen to twenty-eight years of age (she was 
 twenty -four), and, perhaps, as many men. There 
 '■as Captain Harvey, who had bought a commis- 
 jion in the English army, served (quite peacefully) 
 lis three years and then sold out, who thought him- 
 self, and was thought by many, the catch of the 
 )lace. He was rich, handsome, a member of a good 
 )ld English family, not over thirty years of age and 
 ^as " doing " America. There was bonnie Willie 
 )tedman, a young collegian, fresh from McGill, with 
 dl his college wildness still upon him, blue-eyed, fair- 
 laired, lithe of limb and figure ; with a very large 
 
12 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 || , 
 
 U 
 
 stock of mischievousness, but a very small stock of I 
 knowledge as the result of his university career; butl 
 too blithe and impudent, and — rich, not to find favor in I 
 the eyes of all the feminine portion of guests at Porjl 
 Sandfield. There was a stranger from the Southern I 
 States, who for a day or two after his arrival was anl 
 object of mingled admiration and speculation ; butl 
 who finally resolved himself into the son of a Southern 
 planter; but then, the planter was discovered to be a 
 millionaire and this his only child. Moreover, he was 
 a most unpardonably good-looking young man for one 
 who did not need good looks, or so the poorer members 
 of the masculine portion of the community thought; 
 with the much be- written dark eves and olive skin, 
 and general picturesqueness that somehow is supposed 
 to hang about Southerners, as the light about the sun,] 
 but does not always. There was even a live lord, a i 
 veritable sprig of English nobility, Lord Robert, or, as I 
 some wags put it, " Lawd Wabert," by name ; a nice, I 
 inoffensive youth, who looked at life through an eye- 
 glass, which, perhaps, was the reason it seemed to have 
 such a weakening effect upon him. These were the 
 principal " masculines," at least the papers said so— 
 there were private individuals who thought otherwise. 
 For the girls, there were Margaret Desmond, tall, 
 dark and statuesque ; Marjory Blair, a sparkling little 
 brunette ; " Miss Neville," a graceful blonde of undeni- 
 able beauty, and little Ethel Kemp, who, without a 
 trace of good looks, except her dark eyes and supple 
 figure, took all hearts by storm. There w^ere the rest 
 of them too, both male and female, but when one can- 
 
 II" 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 13 
 
 lot deal with all, one must select the best, and to 
 bhe best of our ability we have done that. 
 
 It was mid-day on the eighteenth of July, just ten 
 lays after the Northcotes, mother and daughter, had 
 Lrrived. They had been among the very earliest 
 quests ; in fact, the majority had only appeared upon 
 :he scene within the last three or four days. Eleanor, 
 tired of the hotel, donned her broad-brimmed hat and 
 strolled lazily down to the shore. Then, suddenly 
 burning, she retraced her steps, and, making her way 
 :o the bridge that spans the cut from side to side, she 
 crossed, descended to the lower ground, and turned 
 her steps towards a shady nook she knew of and had 
 )ften sought when a desire for solitude had seized 
 ipon her. Turning the bend in the rocky wall, she 
 ^as surprised to find her refuge already occupied. 
 )he was about to retreat when the stranger, a man," 
 rho was lying prone upon the ground, his face to- 
 ward her, jumped up, and, raising his hat, was about 
 bo retire in the opposite direction, when a word from 
 Eleanor stopped him. 
 
 " Don't go away," she said, " I was only — I am 
 mly — ," and.then she stopped. 
 
 " You were coming to your usual haunt," he said, 
 smiling ; and Eleanor noticed how that smile lit up 
 md altered his face. As he stood there she could not 
 lelp taking him in. He was rather tall than short, 
 Par too slight, but with a certain air of briskness 
 ibout him as he moved, and a certain grace of figure, 
 that largely atoned. His face was sunburned even to 
 :edness, but the forehead from which his hat was 
 
14 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 thrown back, and on which a stray curl or two lay 
 damp and brown, was beautiful. The eyes were farj 
 too deeply set for their color to be visible at a glance, | 
 but the smile that had so transfigured his face, layi 
 in them like a still \\g:ht. His mouth was firm and! 
 well-shaped, with a faint moustache tracing the upper ' 
 lip. He was rather insignificant on a first glance, 
 whatever further acquaintance might add to him. 
 Only an eye much given to detail, as Eleanor's cer- 
 tainly was, would have summed him up as leniently 
 as she did, for the general efiectwas not good. When 
 he said, "your usual haunt," Eleanor was surprised;! 
 perhaps she showed it ; at all events, he hastened to 
 explain. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, " I have seen you here I 
 when I have been out in my boat on the lake. I knew 
 you by your figure. I am camping on an island be- 
 tween here and Penson's. My name is Thornton — 
 Eric Thornton. I am an artist and a bird of passage." 
 
 He said it all in a rather nervous, jerky way, as if 
 each sentence suggested the necessity of the next, and 
 what had been intended for a short apology led on to 
 a long speech. The compliment to her figure did not 
 flatter her in the least ; she had ceased to' be surprised 
 or deprecatory when such were ofiered her. She was 
 not vain of her figure, she accepted it as a fact. All 
 girls had some special charm ; that was hers. He was ] 
 a stranger, and it was altogether " out of rule " to stand 
 talking with him thus, yet she could hardly leave him in 
 the middle of his speech. And she did not seem to resent 
 his self-introduction. When she smiled, he noticed the j 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 15 
 
 hiteness an(levenness of her teeth and the manner 
 )f their settii — there is a great deal in the way in 
 
 ^hich teeth ie set in the head. He had not good 
 teeth himself quite the contrary; perhaps that was 
 
 ^hy he notice hers. 
 
 " I know vckr few people about here," she said. " I 
 Lin staying at |ie hotel, and a great many come to tlie 
 lops ; but I do\not dance, and I have not been intro- 
 luced to more {hen two or three outside of the house." 
 'hen, in a swift one, " You have not been to them 
 'et ? " 
 
 "No," he said; but did not tell her why. It 
 
 ''as not the only hing he did not tell her. She had 
 
 lot the faintest suspicion — how could she have ? — that 
 
 [his meeting was tht result of a pre-arranged plan of 
 
 lis. She did not knov that he had occupied her known 
 
 [esort for three days waiting for her to come. If she 
 
 lad, she would have cut their interview very short. 
 
 ls it was, she stood and talked with him in the bright, 
 
 latural way that was one of her strongest charms. 
 
 Tow he raised his hat. i - 
 
 " I must go," he said ; " I can come again some other 
 lay. I — " and then he paused ; but, seeing the wonder 
 
 her eyes, went on. " I was going to say that I have 
 )een anxious to sketch the opposite shore from this 
 50ve ; but there are other sketches I can make." 
 
 She laughed heartily, as he finished. 
 
 " I do not own this cove," she said. " It is free to 
 ^very one and — I am not always here." 
 
 How comically two people, face to face, may mis- 
 inderstand each other. Alas, how sadly, sometimes ! 
 
16 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 " No ; " he said, quite gravely. " WelKf I lind you 
 here, I can retire again. I may be unfoDunate in niy 
 choice of a day, but you must forgive m and send me 
 away." There was only one thing lefttor her to do, 
 and she did it. | 
 
 " Why not sketch it now ? " she said ; *you will never 
 get a clearer light. It is absurd ! Yo^ have as much 
 right to the place as I have ! and ycu were here first ! 
 and — I can go." , 
 
 " Go ! " he said, vehemently. " Hew could you think 
 I would — you are very good ; imeed, you are very 
 good; but — " / 
 
 " But what ? " / 
 
 " I am not a boor, whatever I nay be. Good-bye." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and tlen sprang after him, 
 and her hand touched his arm for a second in her 
 eagerness to detain him. She vas prompted by the 
 native simplicity of her heart, that led her often to do| 
 and say what more superficial (or better regulated ? ) 
 girls would not have dreamt of doing. 
 
 " If I stay ? " she said. Then, as he turned, with a 
 swift flush that wavered in her cheeks like the shado\\' 
 cast by a moving bough : " I shall not mind you if you 
 will not mind me, and — I should feel so guilty if you 
 went away now." 
 
 Her tone was almost pleading ; as if she were in a 
 dilemma, and he would not help her out of it. An(l| 
 yet, what could he do ? He felt he was justly 
 punished. He could not tell her he had not his pencils 
 with him after having advanced the desire to make this 
 sketch as his reason for being here — and yet he could 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 17 
 
 lot sketch without his pencils. He hesitated, a good 
 leal confused. 
 
 " If you will let me," he said, at last, " I think I will 
 ^ome another day." 
 
 Her manner was a little colder, as she answered 
 iiin. Perhaps after the effort she had made to be just 
 Ihe felt a little snubbed. 
 
 "You can come when you like," she said; "Good- 
 lay. 
 
 It was just a week after this that Eleanor North- 
 ;ote found herself once more on her way to her 
 favorite resort. She had not been near it since that 
 lay ; but now he would surely have taken his sketch 
 md departed. When she turned the bend she saw 
 [hat the place was unoccupied. She threw herself 
 lown in her customary spot and opened the book she 
 lad brought with her. In a few minutes she flung it 
 lown and, leaning her head on her hand, sat idly look- 
 ig out over the water before her. There was a faint 
 )ucker of dissatisfaction on her brow ; a vague shadow 
 [f vexation in her eyes. At last she seemed to grow 
 mpatient with herself — shown by a swift raising of 
 ier stately head. The movement brought her eyes to 
 )ear upon the western entrance to the cove. In an 
 istant she was upon her feet. Her first instinct was 
 [o flee, but then she realized that she could not possibly 
 fet beyond sight in time to escape his notice, if he had 
 lot spied her already. With a suddenness that 
 Characterized all her movements, she turned again and 
 advanced to meet him. 
 
 " How do you do ? " she said ; and her cheeks were 
 
18 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 flushed, and her manner a trifle nervous. " I gave you 
 a week ; I thought you would have taken your sketch. 
 It seems I am fated to disturb you." 
 
 He did not tell her that he had watched from his 
 boat every day for the last seven to see her cross the 
 bridge, and had known as well as she that she had 
 not been to the cove. Nor did he tell her that it was 
 her presence there to-day that had brought him. 
 
 *' You must take it now," she said ; " I have my 
 book and I will promise not to interrupt you." 
 
 He smiled a barely perceptible smile, checked as 
 soon as born. 
 
 " It is I who am disturbing you!' he said ; " but, 
 since you permit me, I will take the sketch, and then you 
 will be free from further annoyance from me. When 
 it is done, will you look at it to prove you have for- 
 given me ? " She laughed and flushed prettily. 
 
 " I will tell you if it is good," she said, and then she 
 laughed again, for she had no more idea of art than 
 an infant, beyond being able to tell when a picture 
 pleased her. " I know a cow from a tree, if the cow is 
 very plain." . . 
 
 For half an hour there was dead silence, whilst, with 
 rapid strokes, the disturber of her peace brought out 
 on the paper before him the drooping trees, the long, 
 low, half -hidden house, with its swinging hammocks, 
 and rocky ascent from the sands below on the shore 
 before them. When he had put the last touch, he put 
 by his pencils, folded up his easel and then looked 
 towards her. She rose to go over to him, but he met 
 her half way. 
 
 "I 1 
 
 ?" 
 
 It w 
 |f pow 
 
 lis. 
 
 II 
 ^ith a 
 
 Hel 
 [oth 1 
 
 lestro^ 
 
 r ** 
 
 lyes n 
 
 Itrang 
 ler ha 
 "Yc 
 "Ih 
 )ad it 
 «N( 
 "Fo 
 "Wi 
 lochei 
 "N( 
 )r Ja: 
 of her, 
 ingto 
 
 urse 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 19 
 
 ^ave you 
 r sketch. 
 
 from his 
 cross the' 
 she hadj 
 at it wasj 
 m. 
 bave my I 
 
 ecked as 
 
 d; "but, 
 then you 
 . When 
 lave for- 1 
 
 then she I 
 art than | 
 I picture I 
 16 cow is 
 
 list, withi 
 ught out! 
 the long, I 
 immocks, 
 he shore! 
 h, he put I 
 n looked'^ 
 t he met 
 
 " I have finished," he said ; " what do you think of 
 
 It was a graceful little sketch, with many tokens 
 power in it, and even her untrained eye told her 
 lis. Her face lit with appreciation. 
 
 I like it," she said. And then, looking up at him 
 rith a laughing face, " It is good." 
 
 He bowed in exaggerated gratitude, and then they 
 loth laughed together. It is wonderful what a 
 estroyer of all formality a good laugh is. As their 
 (yes met afterwards they felt as if they were no longer 
 ^ncrers. He glanced down at the book she held in 
 ier hands. 
 "You are reading, 'Jane Eyre'?" he said. 
 "I have nearly finished it," she replied; " have you 
 jad it ? " ' 
 
 " Not all, I did not care for it exactly." 
 " For which part ? " 
 
 " Well, for almost all of it. I do not care for Mr. 
 Rochester." 
 " Neither do I," she assented ; " who would ? But 
 )r Jane ? Oh, I like her ! He was not half worthy 
 her, and one wonders at her Mking him, or continu- 
 
 ig to do so. At least- 
 
 -710 
 
 -she had liked him once, of 
 
 mrse she could never cease to do so. She would 
 
 Iways blind herself to believe that he was not as bad 
 he seemed to be — that he was really the hero she 
 
 lad thought him, only overcome by circumstances. 
 
 ■ hat this was not hei' Mr. Rochester, but the creature 
 that fate had made him, and she would love him the 
 better for his troubles. She would grieve over the mis- 
 
20 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 fortunes that had warped so noble a nature, and the] 
 insult to her would fade into nothing beside his loneli- 
 ness. She would not be a woman if it were not so,| 
 There is something of the martyr in every woman." 
 
 " Then you do not think it overdrawn ? Her partj 
 I mean." 
 
 " No," she said. " The trouble is that the people arel 
 not up to it. The world has grown so practical, so 
 terribly practical ; and, what is worse, so mercenarj-J 
 Everything now Is a matter of dollars and cents, proHtl 
 and loss. There is no disinterested love or fricndl 
 ship — none, at all events, that cannot be bought! 
 — none that will stand the fire of adversity and cleavel 
 through good and ill report, through poverty, sick-l 
 ness, and death." Then she stopped suddenly, and the! 
 fire in her eyes^ died out. " I am wrong," she saidj 
 " There are good friends and true, and loyal, lovirigj 
 hearts ; only they are so terribly few, and the majority! 
 seem to think that money is the best thing in life; 
 that to have it is to be happy ; that the gate of Para- 
 dise is a full purse." 
 
 He looked at her with a faint wonder in his eyes.! 
 In very truth he was surprised and a little startled, 
 She was developing as he had not expected ; he was] 
 not sure he liked the development. She seemed some- 
 how to have left him behind, to be treading heightsl 
 he could not reach ; and yet she looked so pretty with 
 her flushed cheeks, and eyes that changed with every 
 change of feeling. He hesitated a moment when shej 
 ceased, and then he said : 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 21 
 
 , and the 
 is loneli- 
 e not so,| 
 Oman." 
 Ihiv parti 
 
 eople are! 
 ctical, so 
 ercenarj'J 
 
 its, profit 
 r friend- 
 3 bought 
 nd cleave! 
 :ty, sick- 
 , and thel 
 she saidl 
 il, lovirigl 
 
 majority! 
 ^ in life; 
 
 of Para- 
 
 his eyes, 
 1 startled 
 ; he was! 
 led some-^ 
 y heights! 
 etty withj 
 ith ever)'] 
 when she! 
 
 " And yrm ? What do you think is the best thing 
 
 life?"' 
 
 " A full heart," she said. 
 
 Then a change came over her as sudden as the last. 
 Ihe burst into a laugh. 
 
 " I have been giving you a play," she said, " have I 
 |ot ? And it is not good form to be empress^e. After 
 II, money is a good thing, and none of us would be 
 'ithout it." 
 
 He was greatly relieved at her change of mood. He 
 
 LUghed with her, and once more she seemed to him 
 
 le bright, pi(|uant, graceful girl, whose figure and 
 
 irriage had caught liis artist's eye at first, and whose 
 
 [race and prettiness had still further pleased him on a 
 
 [earer acquaintance. 
 
 " T wish I had a little more," he said. " Art is a 
 )or paymaster; especially if you are but a third- 
 lass workman." 
 
 " Perhaps you underrate yourself," she remonstrated. 
 
 " Then the world underrates me, too," he answered, 
 
 liling. ' , 
 
 She had nothing to object to this, naturally, as she 
 
 lew nothing of the world's judgment of him or his 
 brks. 
 
 " Well," she said, holding out her hand, an act of 
 riendship that took him by surprise ; " I must go ; 
 ley take tea at six at the hotel, and I must dress 
 :st." 
 
 He did not venture to retain her hand, but he stood 
 )r a moment after he had dropped it, with a question 
 
 ddently trembling on his lips. Finally, however, he 
 
 • 
 
11 
 
 22 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 said " Good-bye " again, and they parted. When sh 
 turned half-way to the bend, perhaps impelled by tha' 
 instinctive knowledge of watching eyes that most oij 
 us are familiar with, she found him looking after her 
 With a vivid blush at being caught, she turned th\ 
 bend, and so came upon Philip St. Clare. He note 
 the bright color in her cheeks, but put it down to th 
 heat. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " he asked. " We, or rathe 
 /, have been looking for you for an hour. Harvey i 
 somewhere in the shade waiting your appearance." 
 
 She laughed, a laugh that people were not far wrong| 
 in savinc: was ^ood to hear. 
 
 "Yes, that is so like Captain Harvey," she said 
 " He wants one so badly if one will only go to hinij 
 but never badly enough to come after one." 
 
 His face flushed under his dusky pallor. 
 
 " I came after you," he said. 
 
 She looked up at him quickly. The tense 
 his voice took away the idea of mere flattery. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " you were very good." 
 
 He laughed a little sarcastically, she thought. 
 
 " Yes, very good," he said, " to myself. See, there 
 is Captain Harvey; he has caught sight of us, and 
 is positively coming to meet us — or you. What an 
 irresistible power you are. Miss Northcote." 
 
 She was a little puzzled still by his tone, but she 
 was not sufficiently interested in him to resent it, ami 
 she could not feel flattered by it. Soon, however, she 
 forgot about it, and was talking and laughing with Cap- 
 tain Harvey, to the distraction of that poor individual 
 
 rnig in| 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 23 
 
 When m 
 led by thaJ 
 at most otj 
 ; after herl 
 turned thj 
 
 He noted 
 own to tU 
 
 e, or ratlieJ 
 Harvey is| 
 ,rance." 
 1 far wromi 
 
 o 
 
 she said 
 ^o to hiiidl 
 
 36 ring ml 
 
 ght. 
 
 See, therel 
 3f US, aniil 
 What an^ 
 
 3, but shej 
 ent it, and! 
 vever, shel 
 with Cap- 
 ndividualj 
 
 'he heat had melted his last ounce of brains, and had 
 
 jft him entirely at her mercy. Nevertheless, he was 
 
 )rry when the dressing-bell made her fly away, with 
 
 last parting shot, and a breezy laugh that reached 
 
 le Southerner's ears as he lay back in his veranda 
 
 iiair, waiting for that which Owen Meredith says no 
 
 lan can live without, and all wives know no mm can 
 
 \g good-tempered without — his dinner; or, in this case, 
 
 lis tea ; but it matters little what the name of the 
 
 leal is in Muskoka, it is " something to eat," and that 
 
 all that is required ; for choice appetites and poor 
 
 ^nes are unknown quantities there. 
 
 The next Saturday evening, as Eleanor Northcote 
 
 passed down the stairs, on her way to the veranda, 
 
 le saw, coming up the steps, a figure that she thought 
 
 le recognized, although the brightness of the light. 
 
 dthin made the darkness without more dark. She 
 
 [dvanced with head a little bent in order to peer out 
 
 ito the night, then, as she neared the door, she raised 
 
 again and went forward with outstretched hand. 
 
 " You have come to a hop at last ?" she said ; " what 
 
 lade you repent your misbehaviour ?" 
 
 As she stood before him in her simple evening dress, 
 
 some light, washing material, with her laughing 
 
 yes bent full upon him, he felt inclined to say : "You," 
 
 [ut he had sense enough not to say it. Instead, he 
 
 Lughed with her, and so gained time to forge some 
 
 [lausible excuse for his appearance. 
 
 " It is dull in the tent," he said; " and your mention 
 
 the hops made me resolve to take advantage of 
 
 lem for a little variety. So, you see, you have yourself 
 
24 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 1 I 
 
 to blame if I come to crowd your hall more than it is| 
 always crowded, I suppose." 
 
 " I have very little to do with the dancing-hall," she] 
 said ; " as I told you, I do not dance." 
 
 His eyes twinkled mischievously. 
 
 " Neither do I," he said. 
 
 " And yet you come to a hop ! " 
 
 They looked at each other a moment, and then, oncej 
 again, they both burst into a hearty laugh together. 
 
 " You are very inconsistent," she said. " You cornel 
 to a hop and yet you do not dance. Now, I am here] 
 and cannot help it. What are you going to do? 
 Stand like the Peri at the gate of a Paradise you can- 
 not enter — that is to say, go and watch the dancers, or| 
 talk to me ? " 
 
 " Or talk to you ? " 
 
 She saw his eyes laughing at her in the dim light,! 
 so she did not resent his question. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " would it be such a trial ? You| 
 are not very complimentary." 
 
 " Do you know what I wanted to say and would | 
 not ? " he asked, and he gave a little nervous laugh. 
 
 "No. You may say it if you wish to very much.! 
 Unless it is anything vei^y rude, then porhaps you had 
 better not." 
 
 "It is rude," he said, very rude. I was thinking] 
 that if I accepted your last alternative 1 should be the] 
 Peri when he had got into Paradise." 
 
 Then he trembled as he finished, for he felt she! 
 would be angry. She blushed a vivid red and drew] 
 back from him. 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 25 
 
 than it isl 
 
 -hall," she 
 
 then, oncel 
 ■)gether. 
 ^Tou cornel 
 . am here! 
 ig to clo?| 
 J you can- 
 lancers, orl 
 
 lim light,! 
 
 al ? You 
 
 ^nd would! 
 } laugh. 
 Bry much.! 
 s you had 
 
 thinking 
 lid be the 
 
 felt she 
 ind drew 
 
 ' It is cold here," she said, and he detected the 
 khanofe in her voice. " I thouojht I could sit outside, 
 )ut I had better go in." 
 
 " You mean that I have offended you ? " he said 
 Impetuously. " You are quite right. I let my heart 
 ret the better of my politeness. I beg your par<lon, I 
 lo, indeed ; though if you had led as lonely a life as I 
 lave for the last month you would also think it a 
 )aradise to find anyone willing to talk to you. It 
 ^as in giving utterance to my thoughts that I was 
 
 ivrong. 
 
 But she was not appeased. His speech had made her 
 
 suddenly realize what she was doing. She knew 
 
 lothing of this stranger, no one at the hotel knew him, 
 
 le was a stranger to everyone, he acknowledged it 
 
 liiiiself. He might be anyone or anything, and she 
 
 lad established this sudden friendship with him, until 
 
 low he seemed to think, after these short interviews, 
 
 hat he could say what he chose to her. The realiza- 
 
 [ion that she had given him cause to think so, stung 
 
 ^er into inconsequent anger against him for so mis- 
 
 idging her. He might be any common grocer's son-j(^ 
 
 rhy had she not thought of it sooner ? and daring to 
 
 link he could speak to her, Eleanor Charlton, on 
 
 lerms of even more than equality, almost familiarity. 
 
 [e had had no friend on the lakes before, and had been 
 
 lurprised, no doubt, at the readiness of her friendship, 
 
 Lnd had followed it up wifch the eagerness of all people 
 
 |f that class to make a desirable acquaintance. If he 
 
 lad been a gentleman, if she had been sure he was, 
 
 lat is, the case would have been a little better. She 
 3 
 
26 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 tM 
 
 would not have felt so terribly humiliated, though she! 
 would have resented his open compliment, and have! 
 regretted her own undignified advances which had! 
 taught him to believe she would be willing to receive itl 
 Eleanor was natural, impulsive, and frankly pleasantl 
 in her manner toward high and low alike — never] 
 consciously showing any trace of hauteur even to thel 
 humblest — but that was where the difference in theirl 
 positions was clearly understood by the one with whoml 
 she was dealing ; for she was proud (as Lucifer), andl 
 any idea of equality or presumption on her cordialityl 
 would have met with a prompt rebuff. She had beenl 
 brought up in the traditions of a long line of ancestors 
 and she hardly knew herself how proud she was] 
 There was only one thing in Eleanor's composition! 
 that would ever outweigh her pride, that was hei 
 heart. If ever that was aroused, everything else wouldl 
 have to give way before it. There was that in heJ 
 nature which would enable her to believe the world! 
 well lost for love, but at present the world and all m 
 prejudices were of some value to her, and she wasi 
 stung to a sense of unavailing anger against herself! 
 for the folly she had been guilty of. 
 
 " I have made a mistake," she said, " and unwitj 
 tingly led you into one. I wish to set us both riglitj 
 whilst I can. You will forgive me if I say goodl 
 night. I have been missing too long already." 
 
 He watched her, as she turned from him, with parted! 
 lips that fain would have uttered some word of pro- 
 test against her departure, some plea for a furtherj 
 hearing, but could not for very stupefaction and thel 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 27 
 
 suddenness of the whole affair. When she had dis- 
 appeared within, he still stood a moment looking after 
 I her, then, ramming his hat down over his eyes, he 
 I sprang down the steps into the darkness of the 
 [grounds. 
 
 The next day, when Eleanor sought her favorite 
 I cove (she had not been near it since that day on which 
 I he had taken his sketch, and she could hardly tell 
 what feeling drew her there now), she was startled to 
 I see her visitor of the night before walking impatiently 
 up and down its sandy beach. He turned as she 
 rounded the bend, and catching sight of her, came 
 I towards her. 
 
 " Yes, I know ! " he burst forth in answer to the set 
 [look upon her face and the firm compression of her 
 lips. " You think this another act of rudeness, but I 
 have come to apologise for the one last night, not to 
 commit another. I have not been able to rest, thinking 
 of how you must scorn me, and of the way in which 
 you left without forgiving me. To a gentleman it is 
 hard to feel that one has forfeited the right to be 
 thought one, and that is what my conduct last night 
 laid me open to. You would be fully justified in 
 thinking so. But if you understood you might alter 
 lyour opinion and forgive me. I should not have given 
 [utterance to my thought — yet it was only the truth I 
 Ispoke. If you had led as lonely a life as I have for 
 [the last month, you would understand how truly I 
 leant that it was Paradise to have some one to talk to. 
 
 'hat can I say to convince you ? " 
 
 For a time the stern expression of her face did not 
 
28 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 '1 
 
 relax ; but as he continued speaking, a look of positive 
 relief came over it. By the time he had finished she 
 was holding out her hand in almost anxious atone- 
 ment. Quick to repent of any injustice, as quick to 
 anger, Eleanor felt as if she could not compensate 
 him for the injustice she had done him. He was a 
 gentleman, by his own statement. Only his own state- 
 ment, to be sure ; and his definition of the term and 
 hers might difier as day from night, though this side 
 of the question did not, somehow, seem to occur to her. 
 Perhaps her pride was pleading for him. Perhaps she 
 was glad to find that she had been mistaken — that she 
 had not committed herself with one beneath her, that he 
 was at least of her own rank. She certainly was re- 
 lieved, whatever the reason. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said ; " I hate to be unjust to any- 
 one. It seemed rude, but if you did not mean it to be, 
 I have no right to translate it so. Only, we were such 
 mere acquaintances." 
 
 She had no idea how eager her tone was — that 
 there was almost a plea for pardon for herself in her 
 utterance of her last sentence. His face brightened. 
 He was aware of it, if she was not. It was in a tone 
 of much greater confidence that he said : 
 
 " Well, I must go now. I only came in the hope of 
 finding you here, that I might ask your pardon for my 
 rudeness, and explain myself, if I could. I could not 
 bear that you should continue for the rest of your 
 life to think as badly of me as I knew you did lastj 
 night. It would be poor encouragement to you to bej 
 kind to strangers any more. But now, of course, you i 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 29 
 
 will not want to see me again, so I must say good-bye 
 I for good." 
 
 He raised his hat, and made one or two stops in re- 
 Itreat, but his face was toward her and he seemed to 
 be waiting ,for something. If it was for a word of en- 
 jcouragement to stay, it did not come — in words ; yet 
 [the tone in which she returned his good-bye was so 
 mcertain and full of surprise, that he could not help 
 oticing it. She evidently had not intended to dis- 
 |miss him from her friendship. The discovery gave 
 him hope. 
 
 " Perhaps we shall meet by chance," he said ; " if so, 
 will you speak to me ? " 
 
 She was so simple and direct in all her thoughts 
 that she could not understand him. 
 
 " I thought I had told you I forgave you," she said ; 
 [' why do you disbelieve me ? " 
 
 He did not disbelieve her — he was merely sounding, 
 to find how far she was willing to resume their old 
 terms of acquaintanceship. It seemed to him as if he 
 jhould be satisfied now. 
 
 " Because I did not think you could forgive me 
 itterly," he said, " not so as to trust me as you did 
 )efore. If you will take me back again, though, into 
 favor, I will show you I am worthy of it." 
 
 Of a sudden she laughed, a laugh of pure, undisguised 
 
 amusement. 
 
 " There, shake hands again ! " she said, holding out 
 
 lat member ; " you are a regular doubting Thomas. 
 
 [qw we have shaken hands three times, we ought to 
 
 \q friends, if we are not." 
 
30 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 He did not make any further mention of going ; in- 
 stead, presently, they found themselves sitting ami- 
 cably down for a long talk together. It was Sunday 
 morning, and most of the people at the hotel had gone 
 down to Port Carling to church. There* were not 
 boats for all, though, and Eleanor had not been un- 
 willing to remain at home. It was the unselfish thing 
 to do under the circumstances, so she had not to justify 
 herself to her conscience, though she was aware of a 
 feeling of relief at being thus left at liberty to remain. 
 If she could have slipped into church quietly, alone, it 
 would have been different, but she did not exactly 
 care for the idea of the six miles' row with the large 
 number who were going. Captain Harvey w^as not of 
 the number ; nor Philip St. Clare, he had withdrawn 
 at the last moment, probably when he found that 
 Eleanor was not to be of the party. She had had 
 some difficulty in getting away from the two of them, 
 but finally she had managed it. If they had seen her 
 now, with this unknown stranger, they might have 
 been forgiven for thinking that her whole morning's 
 conduct was simply part of a plot. They did not see 
 her, however, and so she was spared the misinterpre- 
 tation. But the church-goers had long since returned, 
 and were cooling themselves after their hot row, be- 
 foi*6 going down to dinner which was always an 
 hour later on Sunday, when Eleanor made her appear- 
 ance at the hotel. 
 
 " When shall I see you again ? " Eric asked, as they 
 stood up to say good-bye. " Since you have promised 
 not to discard me from your friendship, I am going to 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 81 
 
 ling; m- 
 ng ami- 
 Sunday 
 ad gone 
 ere not 
 een un- 
 ^h thing 
 ) justify 
 ire of a 
 remain, 
 alone, it 
 exactly 
 le large 
 IS not of 
 jhdrawn 
 nd that 
 bad had 
 of them, 
 seen her 
 ht have 
 orning's 
 not see 
 nterpre- 
 eturned, 
 row, be- 
 vays an 
 appear- 
 
 , as they 
 )romised 
 going to 
 
 eep you to your word. We cannot be friends with- 
 ut seeing each other sometimes, can we ? " 
 
 She laughed a little, happy laugh. 
 
 " You will see me as often as you come to the hotel," 
 he said. She knew he knew no one there except her- 
 elf, and he knew she knew it, so the encouragement 
 
 as patent enough. But, as I have said, Eleanor 
 
 harlton was simple and direct in all her actions, as 
 
 ell as thoughts, and if she had taken this man for a 
 riend, why should she not treat him as such ? She 
 
 as not conscious of the fact that she was treading on 
 angerous ground. " They liked each other, why 
 hould they not be friends ? That he was a man and 
 he was a woman need make no difference, she had 
 ots of gentlemen friends." And yet she knew in her 
 nmost heart that she was laying aside a special place 
 or this particular one. She would have told you that 
 he liked him better than the other men she met 
 rankly enough ; why should she not prefer one man 
 another, as well as one woman ? He pleased her, he 
 nterested her ; it was another thing talking to him 
 talking to the men at the hotel. And yet, if you 
 ad asked her why, I think she could hardly have 
 old you. He was not as widely-travelled as Captain 
 
 arvey — in fact, he had never seen any other country 
 eside his own ; he was not as highly- educated as 
 
 hilip St. Clare ; and yet, when they sat down to talk 
 ogether, the hours flew as if on wings, and she rose at 
 ast with a feeling of reluctance that was the best 
 estimony as to how she had enjoyed herself. To do 
 im justice, he was not a bad talker. He had a con- 
 
32 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 cise power of language that made his telling of a story 
 something to listen to, but he had not read a great 
 deal. What he had read, he retained, and was able to 
 tell again ; but Eleanor found afterwards that what| 
 she had taken for the mere index of his stock of know- 
 ledge, was the stock itself. She had read almost! 
 everything that it was possible to mention, and was as 
 well up in the important questions of the day as half 
 the men of her acquaintance ; but it just happened that 
 what he had read she had not, and, woman-like, having 
 once set herself to admire, she must admire entirely, 
 so that she was persuaded that what he spoke of was] 
 only a tithe of what he knew, and that she was no- 
 where beside him in knowledge. He enjoyed his ap- 
 parent con(|uest of her admiration, her unexpected! 
 deference to h's opinions and belief in them when 
 uttered, as only he knew how to enjoy them, who had 
 never before been treated to such flattery by any of 
 his friends. It is, indeed, a curious fact how some! 
 strong natures go down before a weaker one, after re- 
 sisting all the powers of natures even stronger than 
 their own. Perhaps it is their very strength that leads 
 them to understand, or to behave as if they understood, 
 that their need is not to be protected, but to protect ; 
 so that unconsciously their affections go out to that 
 which needs them, but which, with the old instinct of 
 idol-w^orship that has never died out of the human 
 race entirely, they dress up in all the virtues in the 
 catalogue to satisfy their higher natures as well as 
 their affections. Whatever the cause of Eleanor's un- 
 conscious homage, it inspired Eric with a new feeling 
 
 lli.ill! 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 33 
 
 was no- 
 
 nor s un- 
 
 ^f confidence in himself, and lent to his words and 
 lanner a brightness and assurance that completed her 
 
 feeling of comradeship with him, and elicited the little 
 
 uippy laugh that prefaced her last words. He smiled 
 
 )rightly as she finished. 
 " You are right," he said. " I cannot expect the 
 lountain to come to Mahomet." 
 The next time he saw her she was with her brother, 
 
 [nd they were both down upon the beach. He could 
 
 [ot help seeing that she blushed vividly as she caught 
 ight of him. She had been standing with her back 
 hiin, watching the unloading of the steamer, which 
 
 lad just entered the cut, to be greeted by the usual 
 Lger crowd, impatient for their letters and the pos- 
 ible arrival of new guests. He had grounded his 
 
 [oat upon the beach and landed, before she turned 
 )und and saw him. She came forward frankly 
 lough, and gave him her hand in greeting ; but there 
 ^as a shyness about her he had not noticed before* 
 
 ;he rest of the people were too much occupied waiting 
 )r the little post-office on the wharf to open, and allow 
 lem to obtain possession of their letters, to notice Eric 
 )r a few minutes. When, however, the pigeon-hole 
 
 lad opened, and Mr. Cox's impartial hand had dealt 
 
 [is or her fate to every waiting person outside, the 
 
 :owd, turning round, became aware of his presence, 
 
 id bent their curious gaze upon him. 
 
 " Who was Eleanor Charlton's new friend ? Had he 
 
 )me by the steamer ? They had not seen him get 
 
 Those who had letters went off to read them, how- 
 
34 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 ever, and the others consoled themselves by watching 
 the embarkment of the luggage of some few people 
 who were leaving Port Sandfield to go further or*, up 
 Lake Joseph, and exchanging conversation with any 
 they might chance to know on board — guests for the 
 Cock burn House at the head of the lake, or for some 
 of the summer residents on the islands and mainland. 
 Henry Northcote came down to the beach with letters 
 for Eleanor in his hand. She turned, and introduced | 
 him to Eric with her usual graciousness. 
 
 " Mr. Thornton is a great artist, Henry, only he pre- 
 tends not to be," she said, laughing. 
 
 Henry Northcote, who had only been at the hotel I 
 since the evening before, took it for granted that this 
 was some acquaintance his sister had made in an 
 orthodox fashion before his arrival, and held out his 
 hand frankly. After that it was smooth-sailing 
 enough. Mrs. Northcote, an invalid who spent most| 
 of her time on the veranda or in the large, cool sit- 
 ting-room, knew little of her children's doings. She| 
 trusted them to take care of themselves, and knew 
 that they were worthy of the trust. By degrees Eric 1 
 got to know several of the people at the hotel. He 
 came to the " hops ; " Eleanor gave him introductions ; | 
 and friendships, or acquaintanceships, are soon estab- 
 lished under such circumstances at the seaside. He 
 " did not dance " — that is to say, he had a conscience 
 on the matter ; but with the easy inconsistency that 
 was part of him, he could dance occasionally without | 
 its distressing him very much. Eleanor recognized the 
 inconsistency, but refused to look upon it as an index 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 35 
 
 ^f character. She " did not dance ; " and she did not — 
 [hat is to say, she would not go to a dance even of the 
 linallest kind. It made it easier for Eric to see 
 lleanor, if he knew others besides herself at the hotel, 
 Ind so he took the easiest means of cfottinor to know 
 (hem. He was very eager in pursuit of her in these 
 lays. He was apt to be eager in pursuit of anything 
 le wanted — until he had got it. Perhaps it would 
 lave been better for Eleanor if she had given him a 
 larder chase ; but, with the simple directness of her 
 lature, as soon as she realized that she was conquered, 
 [he gave in to it, and, possibly, did not try to dissemble 
 Ihe fact enough. It had become a fact to her own 
 [onsciousness ; she did not think he guessed it, but she 
 lould no more help the quick lighting of her eyes, the 
 |wift blush upon her cheek, than she could help breath- 
 ig — and they told their own tale. Whether he loved 
 ler or not, she loved him ; and if he had nothing 
 [o give her in return, he had done the cruellest thing 
 [hat ever man was guilty of, for Eleanor Northcote's 
 love once roused, was roused for all time. But one 
 ivening, coming in, she told her mother, with flushing 
 peeks and happy eyes, that Eric Thornton had asked 
 ler to be his wife, and that she had said she would. 
 M.rs. Northcote was amazed. She had known of the 
 [riendship, of course, but that there was anything more 
 Ihan friendship she had never dreamed. She bewailed 
 Ihe liberty she had allowed her daughter ; she bewailed 
 tvery thing that could have led to this unfortunate 
 Consummation ; she spoke of his poverty, his obscurity, 
 lis utter ineligibility ; but to no purpose. " I want 
 
36 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 him, mother," Eleanor replied ; " he is poor, but he is 
 good. Do not say ' No ! ' I want him." 
 
 And Mrs. Northcote was woman enough to know 
 that this reiterated confession was an unanswerable 
 argument. There was nothing for her but to give her 
 consent, or at least withhold her refusal. " Would the 
 day ever come when Eleanor would see her own mis- 
 take and dismiss him ? " It was Mrs. Northcote's only 
 hope, and she clung to it. When Henry Northcote 
 heard of the engagement he was equally surprised 
 Of course, he had seen more of the friendship than his 
 mother ; had known of rows and walks that she knew 
 ' nothing of ; but then his sister had gone rowing and 
 w^alking with other men in her life. Even since his 
 arrival at Port Sandlield she had divided her atten- 
 tions between Eric, Captain Harvey, and the South- 
 erner. He held them all as her admirers, but did not 
 think she cared for one more than for the other. " At 
 all events, she would not be foolish enough to choose 
 the poorest of the three — the poorest and most obscure." 
 Nevertheless, he behaved in a frank, generous manner, 
 that no sensible man could object to. 
 
 '* Naturally," he said to Eric, " we expected Eleanor 
 to make a good match — that is to say, from a monetary 
 point of view. She is a fine girl, and a clever one, and 
 has been much sought after. Moreover, you have up- 
 set certain little plans of my mother's on that score. 
 For my own part — and he laid his hand on Eric's 
 shoulder — "I haven't known you long, but what I have 
 seen I like, if you will let me say so ; and, by George, 
 I do hold that a girl has a right to choose for herself. 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 37 
 
 Still, the mater is naturally a little disappointed, and 
 you must bear it." 
 
 In very truth, it was little enough to bear as the 
 [cost of winning the girl you want for your wife. And 
 he knew himself, when he thought of it, that he had 
 )een daring, not to use a harsher word. Eleanor was 
 
 member of a good old family, then resident in Mont- 
 real ; but the elder branches of which still held pos- 
 session of the lands and homes in the mother-country, 
 that had been their ancestors' when England was 
 
 Merrie England," and Robin Hood held mimic court 
 the i^reen forests of Sherwood. He was one of ah 
 aiiiily of merchants. His father had been a silk-^' 
 aercer, and his grandfather before that. Further back 
 [han that he did not care to go. At present his own 
 mmediate family consisted of his mother an J himself, 
 Lnd they were poor ; for his father, after stru^ \^ding to 
 ^uild up again a business that his father had handed 
 [own to him in a ruinous condition, had died suddenly, 
 Ind all that could be ij^athered tooether out of the 
 
 lins had gone to the creditors. They lived in a small, 
 
 leat cottage in the suburbs ; fresh and dainty, as was 
 
 [very thing that his mother had to do with, but what 
 
 rould it be in comparison with Eleanor's home, some 
 
 lea of which he had gathered from chance observa- 
 ions of either hers or Henry's. There was certainly 
 
 great disparity between their relative positions, and 
 lie disparity was on the wrong side. Sometimes he 
 
 jlt more than nervous over the developments that 
 
 'aited them when they returned to Montreal. He 
 
 lad to introduce her to his home and friends, and 
 
38 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 neither one nor the other were on a par with henl 
 Whilst he had been in pursuit of his game, the excite- 
 ment of the chase had drowned all prudential thought? 
 or scruples ; now that he had brought it to earth liej 
 did not know what to do with it. The simile is notl 
 a nice one, but it is apt. He need not have beeDi 
 afraid of Eleanor. Having given herself to EricI 
 there could be nothing now so dear to her as anything 
 that belonged to him. His simple home had shelterefil 
 him before she met him ; had been the cradle in whicll 
 he had grown up to be the Eric that she knew — thaJ 
 would be enough for her. If she should notice ami 
 lack in it, or his mother or his friends, her first instinq 
 would be to hide the fact that she had noticed it fror 
 him, and by extra tenderness to make him understand 
 that nothinsc — let it be what it mio^ht — could eveil 
 make any difference to her now. It was not a mera 
 matrimonial contract that Eleanor had entered into 
 if so, she had done poorly. It was that, without hen 
 consent and before she was aware of it, her whole sou| 
 had passed into another's keeping. There was not 
 fibre of her being that was not Eric's ; and nothing 
 now, either worldly opinion, position or wealth, could 
 ever weigh as a featherweight beside him. Perhapsl 
 his aflfection was not as deep as hers ; or rather, indeedj 
 it was not. He had been struck by Eleanor's gracJ 
 and stateliness ; then, when he had to come to speai 
 to her, by her piquancy, originality and cleverness 
 He had admired her as he had never admired anj 
 woman before. Yet, despite her apparent superiority] 
 she had paid him the unconscious fiattery of deference! 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 39 
 
 and frank pleasure in his society. It had started an 
 
 idea in his brain that would not have dared to take 
 
 root there otherwise : " It might be possible that he 
 
 could win this girl for his wife." He had the instincts 
 
 jof a huntsman, and, once aroused, they could not be 
 
 quelled again until the race had been run, and the 
 
 |(|uestion settled as to whether the game was obtain- 
 
 lable or not. Now that it had been proved obtainable* 
 
 it was just possible that it had somewhat lost caste in 
 
 his eyes. For to some natures the thing they have 
 
 Iconquered is never again what it seemed when it was 
 
 lout of their reach. Not that it had come to this with 
 
 Eric yet, by any means. He was still proud of his 
 
 Iconquest and of his position as Eleanor's accepted 
 
 [lover, and ready to vent his pride and pleasure upon 
 
 Iher in extra caresses and attention. Admiration, and 
 
 Ithe desire to possess that which he admired, was the 
 
 [form which love took in his nature ; but of the love 
 
 Iwith which Eleanor loved him, he knew nothing. The 
 
 [day would come when she would discover this. When 
 
 the very invariableness of her ..ffection would weary 
 
 him, and he would show it by ill-concealed ennui and 
 
 [impatience. Two such natures as these could never 
 
 neet without tlie inevitable disc ichantment and bitter 
 
 Lwakening on one side, and weariness and final desire 
 
 Por freedom on the other. Eleanor had chosen a cold 
 
 lest for a warm heart, but at present she did not know 
 
 it, and was supremely and inexpressibly content. She 
 
 ^vas very shy and quiet during these first days of their 
 
 engagement. It was so utterly new to her to have 
 
 delded her happiness into any one's keeping, that she 
 
40 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 could not herself realize the fact at first. To know 
 that the day for her meant the hours she spent with 
 him — that his going left the world a blank until he 
 came again, was a knowledge awful as it was sweet. 
 He was to her all that a woman's heart needs — lover, 
 husband, child in one. Some women do love like this; 
 but it is hard for them when they do. Occasionally 
 he got glimpses of the depth he had stirred, and then! 
 it rather startled him. His nature could no morel 
 gauge hers than a pint cup a gallon measure ; it over- 
 flowed him, and was wasted. That which he was ablel 
 to enter into, or which could enter into him, permeatedl 
 him with a sense of its sweetness and strength, but it 
 was like a glimpse through half-closed doors into a| 
 treasure-palace he was powerless to enter. 
 
 By-and-by they w^ent back to Montreal, and thenl 
 Eleanor's loyalty found full scope. That she, Eleanorl 
 Northcote, should have taken Eric Thornton was al 
 matter hard to understand ; but by degrees the fact! 
 established itself as a fact, and, at all events, Eleanorl 
 did not mind whether they talked or not. For herself! 
 she was content — nay, more, she was happy ; with a 
 deep and tense happiness that only she herself kne^v| 
 the measure of. Outwardly she was much the same, 
 that is, to others ; bright and talkative as usual, but! 
 with him she was different. It was not that she didi 
 not try to let him see her as she was to others ; shel 
 knew it was her more attractive self, but she couldl 
 not. The joy of being with him (quieted her as deep! 
 feeling always quiets and takes the place of all lighterl 
 emotion. But he, who would have liked to shine amid 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 41 
 
 Co know 
 lent with I 
 
 until he 
 IS sweet] 
 s — loverj 
 like this ; 
 iasionally 
 and then 
 no morel 
 ; it over- 
 was able I 
 ermeatedl 
 th, but it 
 rs into a 
 
 and then 
 (, Eleanorl 
 m was a 
 the fact 
 Eleanor! 
 or herself 
 ; with al 
 self knew 
 the same 
 asual, buti 
 ,t she did 
 ;hers ; she! 
 she couldl 
 r as deep 
 all lighter 
 hine amid 
 
 ler circle in her reflected Hg it, felt a little bored by 
 the isolation that people naturally tried to throw them 
 Into. For her he was enough ; for him she was the 
 )est thing, probably, but other things were very good 
 md very desirable, and necessary to make up the sum of 
 lis perfect contentment. He could vent the exhilara- 
 tion born of other causes upon her in extra caresses ; 
 )ut he was the cause of her exhilaration, if the deep 
 fladness he had roused in her could be called by such 
 m effervescent name. One evening they stood to- 
 gether before the dying fire, after a gay company that 
 lad crowded the rooms all the evening had departed. 
 5he moved closer to him and laid her head against his 
 Shoulder, with a little breath of relief at being alone 
 
 dth him again. He laughed the little nervous 
 [augh she had grown to know so well, and put his 
 irm about her. For a moment she lay quietly so, then, 
 
 dth something like a sigh, moved out from the em- 
 )race and stood apart from him. He saw the shadow 
 )n her face, the look almost of pain about her mouth, 
 md in the eyes that gazed so persistently at the fire. 
 
 [e was in high spirits, and did not understand her 
 
 lood. Presently she raised her eyes and looked him 
 [ully in the face, and he saw that there were tears in 
 them. With one of the sudden movements so charac- 
 teristic of her, she moved across to him and laid her 
 
 land upon his head. It was as if in atonement for 
 some thought she had been harboring. She ran her 
 
 Ingers through the red-brown waves of his hair with 
 lingering tenderness. He was so exquisitely dear to 
 
 ler, this man, who to others was only a very ordinary 
 4 
 
42 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 specimen of his kind. To think evil of him wp thel 
 hardest thing that could happen to her. To give way 
 for a moment to a passing doubt as to his right to the 
 pedestal she had put him on, was to inflict severesti 
 remorse upon herself afterwards for even such momen- 
 tary swerving from her loyalty to him. The little! 
 tender touches and caresses that spoke her penitencel 
 he did not understand. He was not lacking in prin- 
 ciple. All that he could give her he gave her ; norl 
 would he ever have dreamt for a moment that he wasl 
 not giving her all that a man could give a woman ifl 
 something in the heat of her affection had not madel 
 him feel the lack in his, even as she was growing tol 
 feel it. He had roused a lion where he had expected tol 
 find a mere gazelle, and he was rather awed by hisl 
 possession. Sometimes she saw this looking at herl 
 out of his eyes, and half understanding it, yet noti 
 daring to face it in all its baldness, she held on to herl 
 pure creed of worship with the tenacity of despair, 
 She must believe in him, or disbelieve forever in all| 
 things ; he was manly and noble, or there was no man- 
 liness or nobility in the world. And day by day the! 
 mental conflict took some of the girlish gaiety awayl 
 from her until she felt as if she were growing oldj 
 There were times when she laid it all down — all the! 
 doubt, all the despair ; times when, having borne tor- 
 ture of both mind and body, for days, over the doubtsj 
 that sometimes seemed so like certainties, she yieldec 
 at last out of sheer inability to suffer any longer,! 
 and took her happiness as she could. Then when .shej 
 put her arms around his neck and laid her tiredl 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 43 
 
 young head upon his shoulder, he did not understand 
 that she was pleading with him, as it were, for some 
 sustenance to feed her fast- dying ideas of his nobility 
 upon. Not that at times the earnest face, with its 
 look of 3uch perfect love for him, did not stir him to 
 his depths — only they were such shallow depths com- 
 pared to hers — then he would fold his arms about the 
 figure that yielded so readily to his touch, and for a 
 while Eleanor could dream that the treasure she had 
 once thought hers was hers indeed ; filled to overflow- 
 ing by a murmured word or two in the tune she used 
 to know, and which was more to her than all the long 
 speeches he could make in the tone of forced fondness 
 that had become so familiar of late ; only, the next 
 night, the wall seemed to have risen between them 
 again — the chilling, impalpable something, or lack of 
 something, that Eleanor was beginning to understand, 
 or to fear she understood. So she grew daily more 
 unlike her former self, and he more and more puzzled 
 by her manner, and more and more unsatisfactory, 
 perhaps because of his bewilderment and a little natu- 
 ral anger, in his. It is always the way. The passionate 
 heart defeats itself by its very passion. The man or 
 woman who can make up his or her life, like a patch- 
 work quilt, of contributions of pleasure from number- 
 less sources, not asking too much of any one, goes 
 safely on to an accomplished end. It is but a patch- 
 work quilt of course, when all is said and done, but 
 they are satisfied w^th it, and that is all our human 
 nature asks for. But the other poor souls — those who 
 wake up one day to find that all their life is staked 
 
 
44 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 upon one object — who twin 3 their arms about their idol| 
 and look up ever, with pleading eyes, for that which 
 the poor, irresponsive thin^^ has not to give — what 
 hope is there for them ? It is pitiful what little 1 
 favors they will magnify into wonderful kindness- 
 w^hat glaring defects they will cover with the mantle I 
 of their blind adoration, and still go hoping on, and 
 loving on, until their last arm is struck down from its 
 clinging hold, and they fall back into the fathomless j 
 gulf of despair that for them can have no end. If they 
 crawl out alive from it, it is to wear out the rest of I 
 their days in a mutilated condition of body and soul 
 that is more pitiable than death. "Always," the| 
 French say, " there is one who kisses and one who otters 
 the cheek." God help the one that kisses ! 
 
 How could he know her ? Had he loved her as she 
 loved him she would have expanded like a flower in 
 the sunshine of his love ; instead, she lived toward 
 him in an attitiide of patient appeal for the love she 
 felt he did not give her as she wanted. So she lost 
 the brightness and vivacity that had attracted him, and 
 that as a sort of spurious frivolity, met his nature as 
 her deeper moods never could, and so the very love 
 that should have bound him, that would have com- 
 passed heaven and earth to keep him, defeated its own 
 ends and drove him from her. " She was not exactly 
 what he had thought her ; she was duller, she was 
 exacting, she was variable ! " And yet he could not 
 but remember, even as he thought this, how the fond 
 arms would go swiftly round his neck in contrition 
 for any momentary outbreak of dissatisfaction, as she 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 45 
 
 told him "she was sorry, would he forgive her?" 
 ! Forgive her ! Had he been half a man he would have 
 I broken down under her sweet, humble penitence; have 
 reoojxnized the wonderfulness of that love which could 
 subdue a nature like hers to dependence on his frown 
 or smile. But he could not even unde";otand her. Her 
 penitence was as puzzling, and at last as irritating to 
 him as her half-tearful reproaches, and so they drifted. 
 She "ever hoping and silently appealing — he feeling 
 more and more his utter incompetence to understand 
 or satisfy her, until the time came when both of them 
 knew that the end could not be far off', yet would 
 neither be the one to precipitate it. She had laid 
 I clown her arms now ; the poor weapons that had 
 proved so useless ; her faith and hope, and patient gen- 
 tleness and striving, and she let herself drift. When 
 [the end came it would indeed be the end of all things 
 for her ; she was not in any mood to hasten it. But 
 lit came for all that. One day the torrent of her misery 
 overleapt the barriers even of her stern self-control, 
 perhaps for once her pride got the better of her, and 
 then it all came out. It may be that the passion of 
 her words stilled his weak powers of resistance ! It 
 may be that for the moment he felt as if her nature 
 were too much for him, or perhaps he did not indeed 
 care for her (as it had seemed), at all events 'he result 
 was the same ; the dream of five months was over. 
 She did not conceal the fact that she suffered. Why 
 should she try to make herself out to be a heartless 
 flirt or jilt ? Incapable of seriousness in the most 
 serious concern of a woman's life ; capable of so lightly 
 
46 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 declaring her love for him that she could as lightly 
 deny its existence, and smile in the laying it down ? 
 
 In that hour her pride gave way, and all that she wa.s| 
 conscious of was the fact that the face that had filled 
 her very soul for the last five months was going out I 
 of her life forever. Only those who have loved as she 
 loved can know what she suffered. A weaker brain | 
 might have given way under the agony of that hour, 
 but hers was made of sterner stuff. Too well, she I 
 knew, by the experience of past lonely days, what the 
 desolation of the future years was going to be ; years 
 tilled with longing for one look at a face she would 
 never, never see, long as she might. The look in 
 her eyes, as she stood before him, was that of a mother 
 yearning over her dying child — was not her feeling very 
 much akin to it too ? This life that was so precious] 
 to her was passing out of her care for ever. What- 
 ever might happen to it she would know nothing about! 
 it, have no right to shield or defend it. O, it would| 
 have been so safe in her hands, so safe and lovingly 
 tended ! Now, who might carelessly take it and wreckl 
 it ? And it was dearer to her than her own. She was 
 a woman, and you will despise her for it — perhaps she 
 should have had more pride, I cannot say ; but she 
 moved toward him swiftly, and laying both her hands 
 upon his shoulders, whilst it seemed to her as if she 
 must suffocate with the torrent of passionate love for| 
 him that swept over her like a flood. 
 
 " my very, very dearest," she cried, " may Godl 
 grant that you may be happy, whatever becomes of 
 me ! It is all my life ; all my life, but you may be 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 47 
 
 nappy still. It will be hard to know, but O, I shall be 
 rjad at heart, believe me ! And whatever happens, 
 whatever comes, remember that I did not blame you, 
 that I forgive you freely for it all." 
 
 She drew away from him with the passionate sud- 
 ^lenness that was the outcome of her passionate pain, 
 Mm as (juickly she moved to him again and laid her 
 hand lovingly on his head with the old caressing 
 motion, and a smile that was more pitiful than tears. 
 
 " my darling, my darling ! " she said, " it does not 
 
 natter much, does it ? if only you are happy ! If I 
 
 love you I should be content with that, or else my 
 
 love is not worthy of the name. Only — " and the 
 
 Ismile dying out, gave place to a wail of pitiful agony, 
 
 r it is so short a time, five months out of all my life ! " 
 
 Why need wo tell the rest ? It was all over, as 
 [surely then as when half an hour later they parted 
 forever. For an hour she did not move to go upstairs 
 where the others were, then, slowly and heavily, she 
 went. They saw at once that something had hap- 
 pened ; but she could hardly tell them what. By in- 
 tuition, more than by what she said, they guessed the 
 [truth at last, and then they had to force back all ex- 
 Ipression of their anger for her sake. For a week they 
 thought she would be ill, then, for another week she 
 moved about amongst them with a tense, still quiet- 
 ness that was more sorrowful than any words, and 
 I then there came a change. One morning she greeted 
 I them with a brave smile — she took up her former 
 daily occupations, and went about them with a bright 
 face, that, if it was assumed, was very well assumed, 
 
48 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 and apparently the same light heart as of old. Herl 
 mother could not understand her. For her brother] 
 he simply thought she had got over it, and was gladl 
 Perhaps her mother thought the same ; it was the onlyl 
 conclusion to come to. One day, as she was passinol 
 her mother's chair, the latter put out her hand andj 
 detained her. 
 
 " Well, dear ! " she said, " you are a bright little girll 
 My own Eleanor, are you not ? " 
 
 The change that came over the face before hcrj 
 frightened her into regret for her words, simple thoui^li 
 they seemed. For a moment it seemed as if Eleanor 
 were going to break down. The bright face blanched 
 as if stricken by sudden illness. Into the eyes came 
 the look of a wounded animal, and the sensitive lips 
 were quivering like a child's. But the spasm passed, 
 and Eleanor bent down with a faint little laugh to I 
 kiss the kind face looking up at her so anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, your own Eleanor, mother dearest," she said, 
 "always and ever your own Eleanor. What a farce | 
 life is, isn't it, mother ? and all of us the actors. 
 Now, I am going out, what can I get for you, dear ? " 
 
 She did not give her mother time after that to ask| 
 any more questions, and she was her own bright, talka- 
 tive self ; nevertheless, when she departed she left her I 
 mother vaguely uneasy and troubled. As the winter 
 passed, some of those who had been Eleanor's admirers 
 when she was still free to be won, came back again, and 
 with them, others too, and she was bright, and free, 
 and gracious with them all ; but, when they sought 
 for more than that, she had only one answer to give. 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 49 
 
 She was very gentle in her refusal, more gentle than 
 Isho ever had been in the olden days, but she was firm 
 
 enough. Among the number came Philip St. Clare, 
 
 whom some wandering instinct had brought northward 
 lanain for the winter. He tried his fate with the rest 
 lot' them, but with the same result. Her mother grew 
 
 •t'xed at last. She could not repress the question that 
 
 •ose rather querulously to her lips. 
 
 " What are you waiting for, Eleanor ? " she said. 
 \' Why do none of them suit you ? " 
 
 The girl knelt down by her and laid her head caress- 
 liiigly on her shoulder. 
 
 " ])o you want to get rid of me, mother dear ? " she 
 lasked. ' ' . • * 
 
 " No," was the prompt response in a penitent tone, 
 I" never, dear. It is for your own sake I speak. You 
 [are not grieving for that artist fellow ? It cannot be 
 Ithat ? " 
 
 Once again, the change in the face before her startled 
 
 ler as it had some months before, and made her again 
 [repent her hasty speech. Impulsively, Eleanor rose 
 
 from her kneeling posture and turned hastily away, 
 
 ler face white, her lips apart, her eyes flashing ; then 
 las suddenly she turned back again and knelt down 
 lonce more. 
 
 " Do I look as if I was grieving ? '* she asked. "My 
 [talents must have escaped my own control ! I should 
 
 lever dream of aspiring to more than comedy, and it 
 [seems I have been attempting tragedy. Yet, it must 
 
 )e my most natural part, since I did it so unconsciously. 
 [Shall I take to tragedy, mother, dear ? " 
 
60 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 " Eleanor, Eleanor, I do not like to hear you speak 
 in that way ! *' remonstrated her poor, puzzled mother. 
 " I cannot understand you ; you are not yourself in 
 these moods. Of course, I was wrong in supposing 
 you were thinking of any one in particular ; only, 1 
 cannot understand why no one seems to please your 
 fancy, and I am anxious to see you settled." 
 
 " And so I shall settle — into a charming old maid ;" 
 was the sr liling retort, " and you will have me al- 1 
 ways ; won't that be better than anything ?" 
 
 " Well, if you are happy dear, 1 should be," was the| 
 only half-satisfied response. 
 
 " Poor, dear mother ! I look happy, but she is not I 
 willing to take me on my looks. It's a repetition of| 
 Longfellow's, 
 
 {( 
 
 And things are not what they seem." 
 
 If I look happy, why should I not be ? Silly mother! 
 You are like the people who will go behind the scenes I 
 to find out what Juliet is in real life ; and then they 
 see nasty things, and it serves them right ; and they 
 lose their interest in the play because they know 
 Juliet is not really Juliet. You ought to be more| 
 sensible, mother ?" 
 
 At intervals, during the course of the winter, scra])s| 
 of news reached them concerning the man who at one 
 time had seemed so near a connection with their 
 family. He had been trying to bring his talent before 
 the public ; but whether it was that the public were 
 lacking in appreciation, or that the talent itself whs 
 lacking, the attempt was a failure. Now, a picture uau 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 51 
 
 been sent to this exhibition and refused ; now a single 
 word or two, more cutting than any long denunciation, 
 dismissed the subject of another when the list of recently 
 exhibited so-called works of art was being given. At 
 I last, the thing culminated in an unsparing denunciation 
 of his most recent effort, and then his name seemed to 
 drop out of the papers, and Eleanor came to the conclu- 
 sion that he had dropped out of the army of contestants 
 for fame, and had yielded to his apparent fate or 
 deserts. With the spring, came tidings through the 
 newspapers of his mother's death. If Eleanor felt any 
 particular interest in the news, she did not show it. 
 The closest observer could not tell whether she was 
 I touched by it, to pain at his sorrow, or whether his 
 I concerns had ceased to have power to move her. So 
 [the spring advanced and ripened into summer, that 
 summer so memorable as that in which the foul disease, 
 I that always lurks like a crouching thief in the closer 
 and dirtier parts of Montreal, reared its head in a sud- 
 den defiance, and coming out boldly, stalked through 
 I the fair city in a new contempt for all bonds ; seeming 
 to grow fiercer and fiercer as time passed on, in its 
 desire to wreak its growing spite at its long enthral- 
 [ment, which, now it found had been only a fo-ncied en- 
 thralment after all, for those who had been most vin- 
 dictive in pursuit of it, now fell beneath, or fled before 
 I its fell and irresistible power. As the summer passed, 
 the plague increased ; the cases were more numerous, 
 the proportion of deaths greater, and, now, not alone 
 in the lanes and byways, and narrower, dirtier streets ; 
 not alone even in the better localities closel}^ surround- 
 
52 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 t 
 
 ing these, but in the very best and most fashionable 
 quarters of the city, the hideous monster reared its 
 head and stuck its poisoned fangs into high and low, rich 
 and poor alike. No need to go into details concerning 
 that dark time. Those who were there, in that stricken 
 unfortunate city, will remember it, only too long and 
 well ; those who were not, will remember it, per- 
 haps, no less, through the horror-stricken pity and 
 sympathy that was the pervading feeling in all Cana- 
 dian breasts during those long months, when the very 
 shadow of death lay over their friends and fellow- 
 countrymen in one of the fairest cities of our land, 
 But the individual tales of sorrow and bereavement; 
 the pitiful stories in connection with some of the 
 deaths so tersely recorded in the daily papers, or per- 
 haps not mentioned specially at all, but just summed 
 up in the general estimate of " so many deaths to- 
 day," will never all be told. To each and every citi- 
 zen in that fated city, the plague consisted of the 
 death of their own particular dear ones, and whilst the 
 world was mourning over the number, they were 
 weeping out their grief for the one or two. It is only 
 when we individualize, that we get the real pathos or 
 poetry of anything. 
 
 By a strange dispensation, the disease seemed to 
 seize upon little children and infants as its favorite 
 prey, still, there were older victims, and many of them. 
 
 The autumn months gave place to winter's snow and 
 frost, but the plague, instead of abating, seemed to 
 gather new strength with every passing week. It 
 was impossible for the authorities to keep track of 
 
 )very 
 iiany 
 
 the evi 
 
 \t (hi 
 
 (mtien 
 
 [•elativ 
 
 blves 
 
 lurses 
 
 )robal 
 
 the dis 
 
 'hich 
 
 )ne's k: 
 
 rere c 
 
 ]Ieano 
 
 )he ha 
 
 he hac 
 
 esire ' 
 
 rown 
 
 hort I 
 
 ever ^ 
 
 )ut wit 
 
 ler fro 
 
 lis qu£ 
 
 ^erhap 
 
 leared, 
 
 nth tl 
 
 leared 
 
 ned in 
 
 here, h 
 
 ppositi 
 
 ecogni; 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 53 
 
 jhionable 
 sared itsl 
 
 low, ricli 
 mcerning 
 ) stricken 
 long and 
 it, per-l 
 pity and] 
 ill Cana- 
 
 the veni 
 
 If 
 
 d fellow- 
 our land,! 
 avement ;| 
 le of the 
 5, or per- 
 summed 
 eaths to-| 
 v^ery citi- 
 ;d of the I 
 whilst the 
 ley were 
 It is only 
 Dathos oi'l 
 
 eemed to 
 favorite 
 J of them, 
 snow and 
 eemed to 
 veek. It 
 track of 
 
 very case. In many an unsuspected house, behind 
 
 lany a shop, separated merely by a closed C )or from 
 
 ho ever- varying crowd of customers that might throng 
 
 t during the day, lay a tossing, plague-stricken 
 
 mtient, zealously guarded from discovery by devoted 
 
 elatives, who would rather risk infection for them- 
 
 dves than yield up their dear one to the care of paid 
 
 ursos, and brave the separation fj-om them during, 
 
 robably their last hours on earth. What wonder that 
 
 he disease spread ? As yet, the quarter of the city in 
 
 liich Eleanor Northcote lived was free, as far as any 
 
 ne's knowledge extended, that is; but then, the suburbs 
 
 ere considered to be perfectly free, and it came to 
 
 leanor's knowledge one day, that this was a delusion. 
 
 5he had occasion one afternoon to visit a part of them 
 
 he had not been near for a twelvemonth. If ever any 
 
 esire had seized her to see again the house that had 
 
 rown so familiar with her presence, during the few 
 
 hort months of her engagement to its master, she 
 
 ever yielded to it. She would have eaten her heart 
 
 ut with lono'insf, ere she would have risked his seeing 
 
 er from a window, and imagining that she had sought 
 
 is quarter of the city in the hope of seeing him. 
 
 erliaps, though, the longing was not there. She ap- 
 
 eared, indeed, to have forgotten everything connected 
 
 ith that episode in her life. This afternoon, as she 
 
 eared the cottage, her footsteps unconsciously (juick- 
 
 ned in her desire to pass it unnoticed. He might be 
 
 here, he might not ; she did not know. She was just 
 
 opposite it, when she saw a figure she thought she 
 
 ecognized, coming toward her from the direction of 
 
54 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 of the town. It was the figure of Mrs. Thornton's i 
 little maid, Julia ; a waif whom she had picked off the 
 street, and had made her devoted slave for life, by herl 
 kindness and goodness to the poor little half-starved 
 creature. Eleanor had hardly thought that Eric 
 would continue housekeeping after his mother's death, 
 but she had not heard, of course, what he had done orl 
 what had become of him. Now, seeing the little maid 
 making her way toward the cottage, she concluded at 
 once that he still lived there, and yet — could he, with] 
 only this little girl ? What a strange mode of life! 
 On an irresistible tide of memory there came to herl 
 thoughts of the hopes and dreams she had twined 
 about this little house, that once she had thought! 
 would be her future home, for it was Eric's, not hisl 
 mother's. Now he was living there alone, motherless,] 
 sisterless, brotherless. Something came up into Elea- 
 nor's throat that made her draw her breath sharply] 
 as if with sudden pain, and for a moment the approach-! 
 ing figure was blotted out by a mist that was suspi- 
 ciously like tears. When it cleared away, or rather! 
 was dashed away by the girl's impatient hand, shel 
 saw, at once, that Julia had recognized her and wa-sl 
 trying to make her way to the cottage gate without! 
 coming into contact with her. It is impossible for any! 
 of us to know our real motives for any action of our 
 lives. Whether it was curiosity, a latent survival of! 
 interest in her former lover, or a sense of the injustieel 
 in cutting an innocent servant girl for her master's! 
 fault, that prompted Eleanor, I cannot say. Shel 
 stopped in her walk past and called " Julia ! " The| 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 55 
 
 ft 
 
 o-irl either did not or would not hear ; she continued 
 her onward progress as if deaf, only Eleanor could see 
 that her steps were more hurried. For a moment, a 
 feeling of indignation swayed her. That a mere ser- 
 vant should resent in this fashion any difference be- 
 tween the two families, and that she should have 
 humbled herself in vain ! She took a quick, decided 
 step forward, as if to leave the girl to the freedom 
 from notice she evidently desired ; but then, another 
 mood seized her, and, turning, she soon found herself 
 by Julia's side, and touching her on the arm, began, in 
 a tone of angry reproof. " Julia ! " But, with a 
 startled cry, the child, for she was little more, flung off 
 the detaining hand and exclaimed : " Don't touch me ! 
 Don't touch me ! You mustn't ! Let me go ! " There 
 was more in this than aversion, Eleanor recognized 
 that fact at once. She did not attempt to lay a finger 
 on the girl again, but she stepped before her and 
 barred her progress towards the gate. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked. " What have 
 you done, what are you doing that I may not touch 
 you ? Julia ! what is it ? " 
 
 But for all reply the girl looked up at her, and 
 said, sullenly : " I warned yer ! If yer take it I can't 
 help it ! It won't be my fault." 
 
 With a swift enlightenment, Eleanor drew back. 
 
 " Take it ! " she exclaimed in horror-stricken accents, 
 " Do you mean — the small-pox ? " 
 
 The look of hg-lf-frightened defiance on Julia's face 
 grew stronger. 
 
 "I warned yer," she repeated, as if afraid that 
 
56 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 it'iiii^ii! 
 
 i! 
 
 Eleanor was going to blame, perhaps, even punish herl 
 for what had happened. " I warned yer." 
 
 For a moment Eleanor turned as if to hasten away, 
 then a thought seemed to strike her, for she turned! 
 
 again. 
 
 " Julia," slie said, speaking hurriedly, " Who is it| 
 that is ill ? " 
 
 The girl looked up at her with eyes that had inl 
 them a strange mingling of compassion and defiance 
 How could she tell whether Miss Eleanor would be| 
 glad or grieved. 
 
 " It is Master Eric," she said, at last. 
 
 A half gasp issued from the lips of the girl before] 
 her. 
 
 " And — you — who nurses him ? " she asked. 
 
 The answer was prompt, and in a tone of sharp] 
 fear. 
 
 " I does. Oh, ver won't tell on him ! Yer couldn'tl 
 do that ! He begged me not to let him be taken away, 
 and I promised him. Yer won't tell ! " 
 
 Not a word did Eleanor answer for the space of| 
 several seconds, then she said, hoarsely : t 
 
 *• Is no one else with him ? " 
 
 " No," was the response. " Mother, she went awayl 
 as soon as he was took, and she took me with her, but] 
 I comed back, and she's scared to come after me." 
 
 The simple devotion of her conduct did not seem tol 
 strike the child at all. The unnatural thing was for 
 her mother to take her away, not for her to return. 
 Eleanor understood now the mode of life he had been 
 living. He had given this woman a home with her 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 57 
 
 Id, in return for her keeping house for him. But, as 
 ar as any one who cared for him was concerned, he 
 ^as so entirely alone, that when, as now, sickness 
 jame, he had not a soul to stand beside his pillow, or 
 id minister a dose of medicine. Except this little child, 
 )f course ; but what was she ? Eleanor stood fighting 
 dth herself, as she had never fought before. One 
 rear ago, nay, eleven months, this man had been to 
 ler all that the world held dear. Was he nothing to 
 ler now ? He had treated her badly, and the light 
 [hat had gone out of her life with his departure had 
 lever come into it again. She had lived her life as 
 )ravely as she had known how, and she could safely 
 feel that none among all her friends and relatives ever 
 ruessed the longing that sometimes possessed her very 
 |oul, even when they thought her brightest and most 
 [areless. But now, she was brought face to face with 
 
 question of conduct towards him, that had to be 
 Answered at once. 
 
 " What should she do ? " It was no question of 
 
 ,^hether she cared for him or not — it was a question 
 
 [f pure propriety and feasibility she was putting to 
 
 [erself. " Could she — would it be right to go into 
 
 lis house and nurse him all by herself ? " Get any- 
 
 be else she knew she could not ; to do that would 
 
 e to have him taken away at once to the small-pox 
 
 ospital ; and had he not begged not to be taken 
 
 Iiere ? The fact that his wishes could weigh with 
 
 |er after these eleven months of separation spoke much 
 
 or the depth of her past love for him. " He was ill, 
 
 irhaps dying, with no one to nurse him or to be with 
 
58 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 him, but this little ignorant, half-grown child. Could 
 she leave him so ? " A picture of the sick room, witli 
 its lonely occupant ; by night and day, no mother orl 
 sister or any grown-up person near him to minister tol 
 his wants or ease his sufferings in any way, came be- 
 fore her. And this was Eric ; the man who had) 
 been to her the most precious thing in the world 
 whom she would not have hesitated to follow throuofi 
 battle, famine and death. Should the fact of their noil 
 being engaged make any difference now ? If she lefa 
 him and he died ? Yet what would her mother sav 
 
 V f 
 
 and what would he himself think if he was conscious 
 And what if he recovered ? It would he like binding 
 him to marry her, and so be inflicting upon him 
 worse fate than the one she would have snatched hii 
 from. Better to let him die then bind him to her, noj 
 caring for her. But this part of the difficulty waj 
 soon overcome. When he recovered, if he recovered! 
 she could go away at once where he could never fim 
 her. For her mother, she felt instinctively that sliJ 
 would never receive her again after such an aci 
 of madness as that of taking up her abode in 
 single man's house to nurse him through an illness! 
 She would counsel, nay, demand, that he should marrj 
 her, but that she (Eleanor) would never allow. ThJ 
 contest was over now, however. There was no moi 
 indecision as to what she should or should not M 
 Many a time she had told him, in her passionate waj 
 that he was more than all the world to her ; she proveJ 
 it now. Mother, brother, friends, reputation, were a| 
 at stake ; she weighed them in the balance agains 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 69 
 
 lim, and he outweighed them all. She turned to little 
 Tulia to bid her lead the way into the house, but found 
 ^hat the child had gone. Without pausing to allow 
 lerself to hesitate, she opened the gate and walked up 
 the path she had so often trodden with him in those 
 lappy days that now seemed to be linked again with 
 this present time, as if all the eleven months between 
 lad been a mere parenthesis that had not represented 
 part of her real existence at all. She opened the 
 loor and walked in ; and, as she did so, the close, foul 
 Idor of the house struck her. It made her shrink 
 (or a moment, but she left the door open and went 
 irther in. The dainty cottage was not dainty now. 
 lust and neglect were visible everywhere, and every- 
 where this foul, penetrating odor. Then she went 
 ito the dining-room and did the same there. Then 
 le went to a door on the other side of the hall, just 
 [ehind the drawing-room, and here she hesitated a 
 loment and drew a long breath once or twice, as if 
 )mething were choking her. On the other side of 
 lat door, she knew, rested the man she had not seen 
 )r nearly a whole twelvemonth. In a minute she 
 rould be face to face with him. Would he be con- 
 jious ? If so, would he show his surprise at seeing 
 ler ? She felt she c'ould hardly bear it — the possible 
 lisconstruction. Yet over all, and stronger than all, 
 ras the ever-growing hunger, that she could no longer 
 3ny, to look upon his face again. She turned the 
 mdle quickly and walked in, and then she saw him. 
 [e was sleeping, she knew that at once, for his face 
 [as turned toward her, but sleeping uneasily and 
 
60 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 tossing as he slept. She crossed slowly to the bed and 
 stood looking down upon him. He had never been 
 handsome to any eyes but hers — he was all but repul- 
 sive now. Only the beautiful forehead was left (even 
 that red and covered with the loathsome disease 
 though not yet fully-developed), and the rings of 
 auburn hair that had often known the linfyering touch 
 of her hands. For a moment she stood, her face, that 
 had been flushed and nervous before, changing sud- 
 denly to horror — from horror to a wonderful, passion- 
 ate tenderness that quickly ended in one suffocating 
 sob. It was evident that the change was greater than 
 she had expected. In a second the mask that had 
 enveloped her all the winter and summer fell from 
 her. Once more the passionate love-light that none 
 had seen since he for whom it now woke again, cast it 
 back upon the heart from whence he had awakened it, 
 flooded her face like a transfiijfuration. What was it 
 to her that he was an object of infection, to be shunned 
 as one would shun the plague ? She knelt down with 
 a little sob of joy, longing to take his dear head into 
 her arms and smooth back the fair hair with fingers 
 that trembled with joy at the very thought of touching- 
 it again. She had got him once more — disfigured, almost 
 unrecognizable, but still himself, to touch, to care for, to 
 vent her passionate heart upon.; and once more the 
 almost maternal love, that had swayed her like a reed 
 in its power before, rose up like a mighty tide and swept 
 away all before it. He had left her ; lived without her 
 for eleven months ; subjected her to humiliation she 
 had never thought to be subjected to ; appreciated her 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 61 
 
 nature so little that he had wearied of it ; but she 
 remembered nothing of it all ; or, if she remembered, 
 it was as nothing against the torrent of her love. He 
 was ill, perhaps dying ; she bent down and kissed the 
 swollen, disfigured face once, very gently, so as not to 
 waken him, but her heart was full to suffocation. She 
 rose up, casting off her hat and jacket, and went out to 
 seek Julia where she knew she would be found — in the 
 kitchen. At sight of her the child started and almost 
 screamed. 
 
 " Miss Eleanor ! " she gasped, " what did you come 
 for?" 
 
 " I have come to nurse him," was the reply. " I am 
 going to stay, but you shal) help me." 
 
 The decision of her manner allowed of no opposition, 
 and indeed it was probable that Julia was glad enough 
 to have some one to share her dreadful responsibility. 
 First of all Eleanor catechised her as to what she had 
 been doing for her master. It was not to be expected 
 that the ignorant child would be able to do anything 
 that was proper. It was only the day before that 
 Eric had taken to his bed, Eleanor discovered ; but 
 twenty-four hours, in such a disease, are a good many, 
 and Eleanor's heart sank as she thought how the 
 nesflect of those hours would lessen his chance of re- 
 covery. How she longed for a doctor ! But that was 
 impracticable. To summon one would be to have her 
 patient taken away at once to the hospital he so 
 dreaded. Yet she was not entirely unprepared to meet 
 the emergency with which she found herself confronted. 
 To a girl of her calibre, it would have been impossible 
 
62 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 to live in a plague-staicken city for eight or nine 
 months without acciuainting herself with the nature 
 and form of the disease so cruelly decimating the 
 population, and with the remedies usually found suc- 
 cessful. Indeed, who was there at that time, in all the 
 broad Dominion, who did not cut out and preserve all 
 the remedies so profusely published in the daily 
 papers, and acquaint themselves, in every possible way, 
 with all know^n remedies and preventatives ? Moreover, 
 the Northcotes were homoeopathic, and every homoeo- 
 pathist is more or less a hoine-physician. Only an 
 amateur one, to be sure, and not by any means equal 
 to the present case ; moreover, as Eleanor knew, the 
 medicine so often varies with the constitution and dis- 
 position of the patient. But one sentence in the 
 Homoeopathic Manual from which she drew most of 
 her knowledge, remained in her memory and came to 
 her like an inspiration. The difficulty was to get the 
 things. That Julia should not make frequent visits to 
 the town and so endanger other people's lives, Eleanor 
 determined, but one journey must be made, that was 
 unavoidable. Still she should go as free from infection 
 as it was possible to make her. And now a thought 
 struck Eleanor. Her old nurse lived just half-a- 
 dozen streets further out into the country than the 
 Thorntons. It was she whom Eleanor had gone to 
 visit this afternoon. She was alone, a widow with no 
 children, and she had had the smallpox when a child. 
 Why should Eleanor not ask her to come and help her 
 in her self-imposed nursing ? She knew all about the 
 engagement — many a time had Eleanor taken Eric to 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 63 
 
 see her — and about its unhappy end. And was there 
 anything Hannah would not do for her younor mis- 
 tress ? She would not be running any personal risk 
 besides, but would she insist on telling Mrs. Northcote 
 or informing the authorities ? Yet, on the other hand, 
 her presence would lessen the impropriety so much, 
 would lessen the responsibility also, and take off 
 Eleanor's hands a dozen offices she might have found 
 it difficult to perfovn. With her natural promptness 
 of decision, she haa resolved in a few minutes that 
 Hannah should come, or be asked to come. Then there 
 was another thing. She turned to Julia and inquired 
 what the stores in the house consisted of. The girl 
 was so slow and stupid in her replies, that Eleanor 
 simply left her, and began an examination of the 
 premises. First she visited the cellar and found, to 
 her delight, that preparations had been made for the 
 wintor in the form of vegetables, butter, eggs, etc. In 
 the kitchen she found a barrel half-filled with flour. 
 They were safe as far as regarded provisions. She 
 found also another thing, a cap that had probably 
 belonged to Julia's mother. A dirty ragged affair, but 
 it filled Eleanor with a new idea, so th.it she seized upon 
 it as a treasure. Then she turned to Julia and began 
 issuing such a quick list of instructions, that the poor 
 little, half- stupid creature was fairly bewildered. The 
 result was the same, however. In half an hour the 
 girl had taken a thorough bath and had put on some of 
 Eleanor's clothes, which could not be as tainted with 
 infection as hers, and was on her way to the town 
 with a list of things to get from the chemist, which 
 
I 
 
 64 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 '' «!9|: 
 
 Eleanor had written down, not daring to trust to the 
 girl's memory and intelligence. Everything she 
 thought would be necessary she put down ; it must be 
 the last journey ; everything except medicines, these 
 she did not send for. A tliought had occurred to her 
 whilst writing the list. The combination of things 
 would inform almost the densest clerk of the nature 
 of the disease they were needed for. But what could 
 she leave dut ? Then she remembered, Hannah had 
 a medicine chest ; it was she, in fact, who had been the 
 introducer of homa^opathy into the Northcote family, 
 and had acted almost as a family doctor, during her 
 iifteen years' residence with them. Hannah should 
 bring her chest. If it did not happen to contain, 
 which was unlikely, the medicines required, Julia must 
 perforce, make another trip to town ; now, however, 
 she should get only the acid and oil which would be 
 needed in the more advanced stage of the disease, and 
 some sulphur for a disinfectant. Even these she ""as 
 to get at two shops. In less than fifteen minutes the 
 girl was back again. 
 
 " She had only gone to the shop round the corner," 
 she explained ; a shop of whose existence Eleanor had 
 not known, but to which she would hardly have sent 
 Julia had she been aware of it, its proximity increas- 
 ing the danger of discovery. Even now the child had 
 disobeyed or misunderstood in one thing. She had 
 bought all the things at one place. However, it was 
 done, it could not be helped now ; and Julia said, on 
 being questioned, that the boy had asked no questions. 
 Eleanor sent her with a twisted note to Hannah, with 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 65 
 
 strict instructions to speak to no one on the road, to 
 pause neither ^oino^ or returning ; to deliver her note 
 to Mrs. Mills, and wait for a reply; and if the latter was 
 coming, come back with her. In the note she had 
 enumerated all the things she wanted Hannah to 
 bring: her medicine chest, all the tea she had in the 
 house, an extra pair of spectacles, if she had them, 
 and a large cooking apron or two. Also an extra dress 
 ^or Eleanor, " if she would not mind," and an envelope 
 and stamp. In half an hour Julia was back again, 
 and, to Eleanor's delight, accompanied by Hannah. It 
 seemed to her as if all her difficulties were disappear- 
 ing one by one. It had been hard for her to leave the 
 sick man alone all this time, but until Hannah came 
 she could not let him see her. She seized the old 
 woman's hand with easier srratitude. 
 
 "Oh, it was good of you to ccme ! " she cried ; " but 
 you cannot take it again, can you ? " 
 
 Scornfully Hannah repelled the imputation. 
 
 " And if I could," she said, " do you think I would 
 leave you alone ? But Miss Eleanor, dearie, w^hat will 
 Mrs. Northcote say ?" 
 
 " She does not know," answered the girl. " If she 
 did, and where I am, they would come and take me 
 away. I am going to write them a note, that is why 
 I wanted the envelope; but I am not going to tell them 
 where I am. I shall say I have gone out of town for 
 a few days and am with friends. They will wonder, 
 of course, but that cannot be helped. Hannah, I can- 
 not leave him alone 1 And even if I would, I could 
 not go back now and risk carrying the infection to 
 
 
66 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 them. It is too late to think, and at all events I 
 thought before. Did yoi' bring the medicine ?" 
 
 The old woman pointed to the table, upon which 
 Julia had deposited her share of the burden. Eleanor 
 cro&iod over, and opening the chest selected the phials 
 she wanted. She handed one to her companion. 
 
 " Is that not right," she asked. " I thought it was 
 (when the old woman gave her assent). Now, will 
 you please see if he is awake, and give him a dose ? 
 Not of that just now, but of aconite first." 
 
 When Hannah had gone, Eleanor untied the other 
 parcels, took out a dress she found, donned it and 
 gathered the waist into some sort of shape with the 
 strings of a huge apron she discovered and appro- 
 priated. Then she tumbled all her hair up to the top 
 of her head, and concealed it under a mob cap she 
 found in Hannah's bundle, and which she was very 
 glad to substitute for the dirty relic left by Julia's 
 mother. Finally, she put on a pair of spectacles, and 
 the transformation was complete. It was with a feel- 
 ing of satisfaction she realized this, standing before 
 the glass and examining herself : now she would be 
 free to go in and out of the sick-room as she pleased, 
 without fear of discovery. When Hannah came back 
 again, she looked at the strange figure in surprise. 
 " Who was it ! " Then Eleanor took off the ijlasses, 
 and Hannah knew her at once. But the test was 
 strong enough ; Eric would not be likely to recognize 
 her. He had been awake, Hannah said, but tossing 
 with fever and crying out for a drink. He had seemed 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 67 
 
 too ill to show much astonishment at her presence, 
 though once his eyes had looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 " I have come to nurse you," she had said ; " lie still, 
 and ask no questions. I am going to stay with you 
 now, until you are well." And he had seemed to 
 understand her ; at all events, he showed no more 
 curiosity on the subject. 
 
 The note was written to Mrs. Northcote and sent to 
 post by Julia ; and then they shut themselves in from 
 all communication with the outer world. From the 
 time Eleanor had opened the windows they were never 
 closed. They kept two fires, there was plenty of fuel ; 
 but fresh air and ventilation she would have. 
 
 They nursed him. O how they nursed him ! In 
 the crowded hospital there was about one nurse to 
 every twenty patients ; here there were three nurses 
 for one patient. They neglected nothing that thf ir 
 knowledge and means could compass to alleviate his 
 sufferings and effect a cure. The remedies were sim- 
 ple, but they were correct as far as they went; and 
 perhaps nature or providence helped them. There 
 was no relapse into fever when the period of pustu- 
 lation had passed, and the two nurses began to hope 
 that their patient might recover. He had been sorely 
 puzzled at times as to the identity of one of his 
 nurses, but he was too ill to trouble much about the 
 matter. One, day as he was lying half dozing, Elea- 
 nor entered the room. The worst of the disease was 
 over ; that is to say the danger was almost past, but 
 the most unsightly period was upon him. He had not 
 had the worst form of the disease, but he W8i.s suffi- 
 
68 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 i 
 
 cifintly marked to be far from a pleasant sight. 
 W liether the marks would remain or not time must 
 prove ; they had done everything to prevent such a 
 result, if possible. Eleanor hore in her hand a mix- 
 ture of flour and (in the absence of milk) olive oil, 
 with which to cover the discharged pustules anew. 
 She advanced to the side of the bed, and then she 
 noticed the astonished eyes fixed upon her. She drew 
 back instinctively, then, moved by a sudden thought, 
 she turned to the looking-glass, and at once under- 
 stood. She had removed her mob cap in order to 
 wash it, and had laid her spectacles by for the time 
 being. The cap was drying, in order to be ready to 
 put on again in an hour or two, and she had forgotten 
 the fact of its absence from her head, and had come 
 in without it and without the spectacles. Of course 
 the secret was out. A swift crimson wave of shame 
 colored her face from brow to chin. She uttered not a 
 word, only stood and looked at him like a deer at bay. 
 
 "Eleanor!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She flung up her hands to cover her face. 
 
 " O," she cried, "I did not intend you to know it ! 
 I thought you would never know it ! " Then, with- 
 drawing her hands and looking at him : " You must 
 not judge me quickly — you do not understand !" 
 
 " Why did you come ? " he asked. 
 
 " I came to nurse you," she answered, simply. 
 
 " You came to nurse 7ne!" 
 
 The emphasis of this exclamation was almost more 
 than she could bear : his surprise, his utter ri.stonish- 
 ment at her action were so plainly evident in it. 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 69 
 
 " Yes, I know ! " she cried. " I understand it all. It 
 was unmaidenly. I have disgraced myself for ever ! 
 But Hannah is here with me, and — with a sudden up- 
 lifting of her head, and a swift gleam of anger in her 
 eyes, "You need not tell me so ! I do not deserve that !" 
 
 He groaned aloud in mental agony and shame. 
 
 " Great heavens I what a brute I must have tauorht 
 you to think me ! " he exclaimed, bitterly. " I suppose 
 I deserve it." Then, sharply : " Why did you not send 
 me to the hospital ? You should have done so, or left 
 me alone I " 
 
 Shii made no answer at all. She would not tell him 
 she had not let him be taken away because she knew 
 he had so dreaded it ; to acknowledge that would be 
 tantamount to telling him she cared for him still. 
 Moreover his tone hurt her. But he repeated his 
 question, and she was obliged to reply. 
 
 " Julia said you did not want to go," she faltered. 
 
 He looked at her with an expression she did not 
 understand. 
 
 " And what was that to you ? " he asked. 
 
 It did not occur to him how his words might sound 
 to her, what interpretation she might put upon them. 
 The flush upon her cheek deepened and broadened, 
 until she was one deep crimson from brow to chin. 
 She was ready to sink with shame. Yet stronger than 
 that was the now irrepressible anger that he should 
 dare to treat her so — he for whom she had done it all ! 
 
 " You are right," she cried, " it was nothing to me. 
 I have made a great mistake — you do well to remind 
 me of it ! I — -." 
 
 m 
 
 5?| 
 
 
 .^1 
 
 
70 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 w; U! 
 
 But he interrupted her with a passionate exclama- 
 tion. " O, Eleanor, be merciful !" he cried. " You 
 cannot think I meant that ! I do not know exactly 
 what you mean, but you are misjudging me I It was 
 the wonder of it that you would come to me — to me 
 whom you must have learnt to despise, if not to hate. 
 That you should consider my wishes sufficiently to 
 risk your life to respect them. O, heavens, what shall 
 I do ! How can I save you ! Why did you come ? " 
 
 She did not pretend to misunderstand his meaning 
 now — it was consideration, not contempt, for her that 
 prompted him. 
 
 " I am not afraid," she said. 
 
 "But lam for you," he answered. 
 
 Then he lay and watched her with that in his eyes 
 which told her that some wonder was working in his 
 brain. He looked at her so lono: she errew uncomfort- 
 able to a degree. She turned to go away, but then he 
 came out of his silence and thoughtful contemplation 
 of her, and stopped her with a word. He put up his 
 hand and, as instinctively she drew nearer, laid it on 
 both hers, which were clasped and hanging down 
 against her dress. 
 
 " Eleanor ! " he said, softly, " do you care for me 
 still ?" 
 
 She drew back from him, so that his hand fell from 
 her's. 
 
 " How can you ask me ! " she cried, but hoarsely, 
 her face regaining again the crimson that had slowly 
 died out of it during the last few minutes. " You 
 have no right to ask me ! What have I done that 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 71 
 
 you should think so ? You were alone, and I could 
 not leave you to die. If you had been a stranger — " 
 
 But once more he interrupted her. 
 
 " You are right," he said, " I beg your pardon. 
 You were always above me; I can't think how you 
 ever cared for me. I was a fool to lose my chance 
 when I had it — it is only just I should lose it for ever. 
 And yet, Eleanor, listen to me ; I did care for you. It 
 was your stronger nature overshadowed mine. You 
 went beyond me in almost everything ; I could not 
 understand you. It was a rest to get away from you ; 
 to escape the feeling of inferiority that always pos- 
 sessed me in your presence. So when we were separ- 
 ated at last, it was like the ending of a conflict ; I 
 could rest. And yet the farther I got away from you 
 the more the chains that bound me to you pulled. 
 When we were together always, I could almost have 
 doubted their existence ; when we were separated I 
 knew that they were there, I knew that I had cared 
 for you. You held me surely still, although we were 
 miles apart ; I was no more free really than when I 
 was nominally bound. And yet I could not go back 
 to you. That was my punishment. You would not 
 receive me, I knew. I had lost my chance forever, and 
 I must abide by the onsequences of my own folly. I 
 tried to believe it was the best thing — that it was well 
 it had happened, but it wasn't a great success. I 
 missed you ; every day and hour I missed you. I tell 
 you this for your satisfaction ; you deserve it. It 
 cannot do me any good now, but I want you to think 
 as leniently of me as you can, and to know that I have 
 
 -X ft 
 
 ,,A _' :-. 
 
 ■m 
 
 n 
 
 M 
 
 )■;::/* 
 
72 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 
 had the punishment I deserved for ever causing you a 
 moment's pain. You have learnt to thank the fate 
 that separated us, no doubt ; I have learnt to under- 
 stand what I have k)st, when it is too late to regain it." 
 
 His voice was even and passionless, as if the thing 
 he talked about was a matter that had been settled so 
 long ago, there was no room for excitement or hope in 
 the matter. It was a thing dead and buried ; not to 
 be resurrected again to life, though they might take it 
 out of its grave for the moment and examine what it 
 had been. Dead and buried forever. When he had 
 ceased speaking there was not a word uttered. Eleanor 
 was standing listening to him in a dumb, motionless 
 silence that did not break or chans^e. Her face, as he 
 proceeded, had presented a vivid picture of contending 
 emotions that was curious to watch. Now all expres- 
 sion had died out of it, except the anguish, like the 
 anguish that may have shown in Maud Muller's face, 
 the reflex of that saddest of all thoui^hts, " it mifjht 
 have been," in the wide-set, darkening eyes. 
 
 She stood looking out before her, not at him ; any- 
 where, everywhere, roving from object to object as if 
 yet unconscious of looking at anything, until at last 
 something that was like an ejaculation of mortal pain 
 escaped her lips, and, turning away, she walked swiftly 
 to the door and left the room. 
 
 In a few minutes Hannah appeared with the lotion, 
 and Eric submitted himself into her hands without a 
 question about Eleanor or where she had gone, but he 
 watched for her return and never, after that, when 
 a^vake took his eyes off the door, but she did not come. 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 73 
 
 A terrible hunger to see her was on him, a feeling he 
 had not known for her, even during those past months 
 of separation when he had missed and learnt to care 
 for her most. At last he grew restless and feverish. 
 Two days had passed, and he had not seen her. Han- 
 nah went out into the kitchen at last, toward evening, 
 and straight up to the girl, who was standing at the 
 small, uncurtained window looking out into the gather- 
 ing dusk. 
 
 " Miss Eleanor," she said, " I have got to ask you to 
 go to him. He is growing feverish again, and it is 
 through fretting for you. He watches the door like a 
 cat, and I am afraid of his growing ill again if he is 
 not satisfied by getting what he wants." 
 
 The girl turned round to listen to the speech, but 
 she shook her head in silent refusal to comply with the 
 request. Hannah repeated her words, however, with 
 a decision that left no room for opposition. 
 
 "You must go for justice sake," she said, "for com- 
 mon humanity's sake. You have no right to let him 
 get ill again for the lack of a word ! " 
 
 Eleanor did not resent the freedom of the speech. 
 She turned to the old woman, and saying, " Come with 
 me," walked away to the kitchen door and across the 
 passage to the bedroom opposite. At that door she 
 turned and said, as if the ordinary pursuit of her 
 household duties had brought her there, and nothing 
 more. 
 
 " I will take them all away, the glasses, I mean, and 
 wash them ; there are so many dirty now." 
 
 But Hannah was not there to hear her. She crossed 
 6 
 
74 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 to the table, however, never once looking toward the 
 bed, and began to gather together the articles she had 
 professedly come for, but when she heard her name 
 uttered from the direction of the bed, a glass fell from 
 her hand with a crash, and broke into a dozen pieces on 
 the floor. She turned round slowly, with a protest in 
 every movement. Her eyes, when she faced Eric, were 
 half-fearful, half-defiant. He uttered her name again, 
 and asked her to come to him. She moved over to the 
 bed, as if some invisible hand were drawing her back 
 at every step. He looked up at her as she paused 
 beside him, with contrite appeal in his eyes. 
 
 " Have you not forgiven me yet ? " he asked. 
 
 She remained silent until the hope died out of his 
 face, and he turned away in mute acceptance of her 
 meaning. She was dumb still for a minute or two, and 
 then he heard her give a little choking cry, and before 
 he knew it she was down upon her knees by the bed- 
 side and his hand was lifted to her lips. 
 
 " Eric," she cried, " do not let us misunderstand 
 each other now. It is not a question of forgiveness, 
 I know nothing to forgive. But that does not alter it 
 at all; I can never marry you now. By-and-by you 
 would remember that I had come to you uncalled for, 
 that I had placed you in a position of debt toward 
 me, that I had made it almost your duty to ask me, 
 that — — ! " with a breath of physical agony, " you 
 must see it all ! We could never marry now. Even 
 if you care for me, and how do you know you do ? 
 You think so now. Yes " (impetuously, as he was 
 beginning to interrupt her), " I know you believe you 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 75 
 
 do, and perhaps it is true just now, but — " then the 
 impetuous, passionate voice changed, and broke down 
 into a passing tenderness that was wonderful to hear. 
 She laid her cheek down against his hand and held tho 
 latter there with both her own, whilst her eyes were 
 shining with the light of that unquenchable love which 
 time and separation had done nothing to efface. 
 
 " My darling," she cried " my bonnie boy ! Do 
 you think I am going to repudiate your love even if 
 it is offered to me only for a week ! I shall want it 
 often enough when I shall not be able to get it ! I 
 shall remember your words often enough when there 
 are miles and miles between us ! T am going away, to 
 save you from yourself as well as me; and when I have 
 passed out of your life forever, it will not matter that 
 you are able to remember that I told you that 1 loved 
 you still. I have loved you as no other woman will 
 ever love you, and I have never ceased to care for you 
 through all these weary months. Always I have felt 
 you would come back to me some day ; it was only 
 that I lived for ; it was the conviction of it that kept 
 me up at all. But now it is different. Things have 
 not turned out as I expected. I came to you instead 
 of you to me, and we could never forget that. O, my 
 bonnie boy, my dear one, some day, when you are 
 happy in another's love, remember that there was one 
 woman who was ready to lay down her life for you, 
 and think leniently of me because of that." 
 
 She bent down and pressed her lips passionately to 
 his forehead as she ceased, then rose and walked out of 
 the room, before he could recover from the paralyzing 
 
76 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 effect of her words, and utter a word to stop her. He 
 lay and thought of them and her in a day-dream that 
 lasted until Hannah came in about an hour later, with 
 his medicine in her hand. He waited a little after 
 she had administered the dose, and then asked : 
 
 " Will Miss Eleanor come to say good-night ? " 
 
 " Miss Eleanor has gone to bed," replied the old 
 woman ; " she was tired, and I sent her early." 
 
 The fact was that Eleanor, passing from the bedroom 
 into the kitchen, had startled Hannah by the whiteness 
 of her face and the unspoken despair in her eyes. 
 
 " What is the matter, dear ? " she had asked, hastily; 
 but the girl had astonished her then by breaking down 
 into an uncontrollable passion of weeping. It was un- 
 like Eleanor to cry, " something must have happened," 
 and yet Hannah hardly felt privileged to ask what. 
 
 "You are utterly worn out," she said, when the 
 storm had partly spent itself, " it is time some one 
 began to nurse you." 
 
 There was a note of resentment toward Eric in her 
 voice, or Eleanor thought so, and resented it. 
 
 " It is not that ! " she cried, quickly, " it is just fool- 
 ishness. I am as well as I can be, only tired. I have 
 not slept well the last few nights, and it tells. I will 
 go to bed, Hannah, if you do not mind, and make up 
 for it now." 
 
 The old woman had been energetic enou^jh in seeino; 
 that she carried out her intention. She could not 
 have two invalids on her hands, and Eleanor was 
 prostrated nervously as well as physically. She would 
 not have put it in those words, but that was the sub- 
 
A^PIECE OP TANNEN. 
 
 77 
 
 stance of her thought. They had long ago converted 
 the drawing-room into a temporary bedroom (in order 
 for them all to be on the same flat) — and this was 
 Eleanor's. 
 
 Hannah had a " shake-down " in the dining-room. 
 Only Julia had her own bed upstairs, because she was 
 never needed at night. The poor little thing had 
 been a mere cipher since the arrival of her two unin- 
 vited coadjutors, but she had been perfectly satisfied 
 to see " Mr. Eric " in good hands, and she had left 
 Hannah and Eleanor entirely at liberty to devote the 
 whole of their time to the nursing, by her diligent 
 attentioij to the housework and cooking. Many a 
 little dainty she contrived out of the materials at hand, 
 to tempt their appetites, (which were anything but good 
 in these days) and as a silent token of gratitude to 
 them for their care of her " dear master." 
 
 The next morning, when Hannah took in Eric's 
 breakfast he noticed that she had been crying. He 
 looked at her inquiringly, but he did not like to ask 
 any questions. She waited on him in strange silence 
 all the morning. Only once she came up to him, and 
 whilst arranging the pillows and clothes, asked 
 anxiously : '*' You are really better ? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, " nearly well. I feel as if life and 
 strength were coming back to me again. Hannah, 
 shall I be able to get up soon ? " 
 
 She laughed, a little nervous laugh. 
 
 " Get up ! " she said. " Not for days. But you are 
 doing finely. I am glad." 
 
 Her last words were almost like a siffh of relief. 
 
78 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 Towards evening Eric could repress the desire that 
 had been possessing him all day no longer. 
 
 " Hannah," he said " can I see Miss Eleanor before 
 she g^es to-bed to-night ? I will not keep her five 
 minutes, tell her, if she will only come." 
 
 The old women fidgetted with the glasses on the 
 table, then she moved away, and began arranging 
 little ornaments in the room. Eric waited for a few 
 minutes, then, finding she did not reply, repeated his 
 question. She turned round and faced him then. 
 
 " I am afraid you cannot see her to-night, Mr. Eric," 
 she said. " She is not very well, and it would be better 
 not to trouble her." • 
 
 He looked at her anxiously. 
 
 " Is she ill, Hannan ? " he asked. 
 
 " 111 ? O no. Only tired and — you must give it 
 up for to-night, Mr. Eric ; I cannot let her come and 
 hurt herself." 
 
 He said no more, but the next morning his eyes 
 were an unspoken question in themselves. Hannah, 
 refused to notice them, however, and kept her counsel 
 until he was forced to words at last. 
 
 "You are keeping something from me, Hannah," he 
 said. " What is the matter with Miss Northcote ? " 
 . The old wOiTian went on measuring out his medicine 
 and brought it to him, but he put it from him and 
 refused to take it until she had answered his question. 
 She looked a little nonplussed, and then said, firmly : 
 
 " If you take your medicine I will tell you anything 
 you want to know, but I will tell you nothing until 
 you do." , 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 79 
 
 He drank the dose obediently, and then repeated his 
 demand. She put the glass down and then came to 
 arrange the clothes. 
 
 " It is dangerous to tell you anything," she said, 
 peevishly. " You excite yourself so, and exaggerate 
 everything." Which was rather unfair, considering 
 how quiet and patient Eric had been throughout his 
 illness. " I suppose I was foolish to make such a secret 
 of a small thing. Miss Eleanor is not well, but there 
 is no need to throw yourself into a fever over it. It 
 is nothing wonderful that she should give away at 
 last. I have made her go to bed and stay there." 
 
 He listened to her speech, and then he said : 
 
 " It is useless to try and deceive me, Hannah. You 
 may as well tell me the truth. Miss Northcote has 
 the smallpox. Am I not right ? " 
 
 The poor old woman gave way now. Her nerves 
 had been tried to the utmost by his illness, this 
 second case, with the prospect of another three 
 weeks' nursing and anxiety, overcame her entirely. 
 Moreover, Eric's case had not been anything compared 
 with what Eleanor's promised to be. It had exhibited 
 the very worst symptoms at the beginning, and even 
 whilst Eric w^as questioning her, Eleanor was tossing 
 in the delirium of fever in the next room, with little 
 Julia as her attendant during Hannah's absence. Eric 
 raised himself in bed, 
 
 " Hannah," he said, " I must get up." 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Eric ! " she cried, " not to-day. To- 
 morrow, perhaps. Do not bring further trouble upon 
 my hands." 
 
80 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 He lay down again, with a sigli of despair. 
 
 " Listen to me," he said. " We must have a doctor." 
 
 " And be punished for hiding your case, sir ? " she 
 cried. "And they will take Miss Eleanor off to the 
 hospital." 
 
 " They cannot now," he said quietly, " and it would 
 do no good at all events, as far as preventing infection 
 is concerned. As for punishment, if they hang us I 
 will have a doctor ! Will you go for one, Hannah ? 
 Or shall I get up and go myself ? " 
 
 " I will go myself ! " she cried hastil}^ thoroughly 
 frightened by his vehemence. " Lie still, and I will 
 get whatever you want. Julia shall go, and I will do 
 all I can w disinfect her first." 
 
 By twelve o'clock that day a doctor was standing at 
 Eleanor's bedside, indignant enough at the long conceal- 
 ment that had been practised, though such cases had 
 become so familiar of late, that his anger and surprise 
 were not what they might have been. " Yet these 
 were people of standing and intelligence, they might 
 I'ave had more consideration for the public good," he 
 argued. " However, it was too late to remove Eleanor 
 now ; and what good ? Since Eric had been in the 
 neighbourhood for three weeks. Moreover, the cottage 
 was an isolated one and surrounded by small grounds. 
 There was very little risk after all." 
 
 They did not send for Mrs. Northcote and Henry. 
 
 " 1 cannot have it," Eleanor had said, as soon as 
 she knew she was stricken with the plague. " If I 
 live, I will go back to them when all fear of infection 
 is over ; if I die, tell them all about it. But I cannot 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 81 
 
 risk their taking it now. It would do no good. 
 Though, I want to see them ! But it must not be, 
 remember it must not be, Hannah ! " And Hannah 
 had promised. 
 
 On the second day from that of Eric's discovery of 
 Eleanor's illness he got up, and a very fever of resolu- 
 tion to get strong seemed to possess him. He ate and 
 drank, and took every nauseous dose that was ordered 
 nim without a murmur, only his thoughts seemed to 
 be always in that adjoining sick-room, for he never 
 spoke, except to ask some question concerning the 
 patient lying there. At the end of a week he was- 
 able to crawl in and see her, but the sight nearly up- 
 set him. The fever was over, she was quite conscious, 
 but 0, so terribly altered. The fair, pure skin he 
 remembered was red and blotched with pimples ; the 
 eyes that he had seen last looking into his with such 
 immeasurable love for him, were swollen and half- 
 closed ; the lovely lips were almost unrecognizable, so 
 blue and swollen were they. He groaned aloud at 
 the sheer agony of the sight, " and all this was for 
 him!" 
 
 She turned away with a little cry, as he entered, 
 and hid her face from his sight. She was woman 
 enough not to wish him to see her in her disfigured 
 condition. But now, at last, she did not understand 
 him. What could make her repulsive in his sight 
 now ? What could ever make her anything but 
 beautiful, with a beauty independent of mere externals. 
 How could he think her anything but passing praise, 
 he for whose sake she had risked her beauty and had 
 
82 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 lost it, and was even now in very danger of death ! 
 He walked over to the bed and knelt down beside 
 it. 
 
 " Eleanor, my darling," he said, and his voice was 
 husky with suppressed pain, " that you should have 
 been brought to this for me ! " 
 
 She did not turn round to comfort him. 
 
 " Go away," she said, weakly ; " I am not fit to look 
 at now." 
 
 But he would not leave her so. 
 
 " Not fit ! " he cried. " Do you think I could ever 
 think so ? Was I fit to look at when you came to 
 nurse me ? Great Heaven, Eleanor, it is I am not fit 
 to look at you ! 0, my darling, my darling, you must 
 get w ell for my sake ! " • 
 
 She half-turned round to him, and then, remember- 
 ing, put up her hand instead and laid it on his face. 
 It reminded him of the days gone by, when it had 
 been a favorite action of hers. Her fingers moved 
 caressingly over his brow and hair. 
 
 " Dear," she said, but she was too weak to say any 
 more ; and presently Hannah came in and turned him 
 out. 
 
 He went in daily to see her, and in these days of 
 illness, without the aid of words, it came to bo under- 
 stood by them both that all past difterences were 
 dropped, that the old relationship was taken up again, 
 only for how long would it be ? Days there were 
 when all hope of saving Eleanor died out of their 
 breasts, still there were da5^3 when they dared to hope. 
 But when, at last, the fever came back in redoubled 
 
 "' "'I 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 83 
 
 force, they knew that their last chance had departed. 
 Eric never left the room, except when ordered out of 
 it by Hannah or the doctor. He sat, a very pictui^e of 
 despair, in the arm-chair at the side of the bed, watch- 
 ing the tossing figure upon it and keeping the restless 
 hands down from her face whenever he saw them 
 flung up toward it. At last, one day, she opened her 
 eyes and looked at him with perfect consciour.ness. 
 She had forgotten her disfigured condition evidently ; 
 she had apparently forgotten everything that had hap- 
 pened within the last five weeks. The fact that Eric 
 should be there, by her, was a thing she could not 
 understand. An expression of confusion came over 
 her face ; she looked at him as if convicted in a fault. 
 He bent forward with a cry of joy. She knew him ! 
 she was conscious ! He did not realize that it was 
 the flicker before the final going out. 
 
 " Eleanor," he exclaimed, *' you know me ! my dar- 
 ling, you are better ! You will get well, after all." 
 
 Then, indeed, she remembered. The shamed look 
 died out of her face —her poor, disfigured fa^'e — a happy 
 light came into it and a low cry of g- dness issued 
 from her lips. He put out his arms and she nestled 
 to him like a very child. 
 
 " I thought we were still apart," she said ; " 1 did 
 not remember : we made it up long ago, didn't we ? " 
 
 "Yes," he said, his voice choked with tears. " That 
 is to say, you forgave me. We shall never be apart 
 any more, dear, we are together for evermore." 
 
 And even as he spoke they were so far apart that 
 human knowledge cannot measure the distance, since 
 
84 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 '1: 
 
 never man was found to tell us where Heaven is, or 
 how far it is away. He called to her and begged her 
 to speak to him ; his cries brought Hannah and Julia 
 into the room. They saw at once what had happened ; 
 and Hannah, taking the lifeless form from his hold, 
 laid it down upon the pillows. One sharp cry of 
 anguish she gave, and then she sat down and gazed 
 with despair-filled eyes at the motionless figure that, 
 but a minute ago, had been her mistress and her nurs- 
 ling. They were a pair of as stricken hearts as could 
 be found, even in that stricken city of Montreal. How 
 could Hannah account to Mrs. Northcote and her son 
 for their daughter and sister's death ? How could she 
 ever face them with the news ? It was a terrible 
 situation for her, and for Eric it was still worse. 
 
 " He was her murderer." The thought fixed itself 
 in his brain with a terrible immovability. It was not 
 only that he had lost her, but he had been the means 
 of her death. 
 
 " Had it not been for him she would have been 
 alive and well now. The chances were that he would 
 have been dead, but that would have been well. He 
 was worth nothing to any one ; she was the only 
 daughter of her mother, and, in his eyes now, the one 
 thing worthy of life in all the world." 
 
 There seemed to have been a fate in their love, or 
 rather a fixed Divine purpose concerning it. First of 
 all, his folly separated them, and she had been the one 
 to bear the sorrow of the separation ; now, Heaven 
 itself had parted them, and he was left to feel what, 
 perhaps, she had felt, only with a hundred times more 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 85 
 
 hopelessness in his case, because that she had passed 
 beyond his reach forevermore. 
 
 It was doubtless Heaven's work, hard and cru<^l as 
 it seemed ; and who can tell that it was not done in 
 greatest mercy ? He loved her now, no doubt, but 
 would he have continued to do so ! When the level- 
 ling influence of time and daily life together had 
 brought his passion down from the heights on which 
 it now stood, would it have become the poor thing it 
 had been once ? What would have become of her 
 then ? She had died content, died as she had so often 
 wished to, in his arms ; v^^ould she have remained so 
 had she lived ? Better to leave him whilst his eyes 
 looked love into hers than to live and see the love- 
 light die out of them. Moreover, after all that had 
 occurred between them, any diminution of his affec- 
 tion would have been mortification to her ; only con- 
 tinued love on his side could ever have made life with 
 him possible for her. He would never forget her 
 now. He might marry — he probably would ; men, 
 the best of them, get over such things so quickly, 
 but he would never be able to forget her. The very 
 fact of his existence would be a lasting reminder of 
 her, the woman who had given her life for his. AH 
 his days, as long as God spared him, she would be the 
 tenderest memory in his soul. Perhaps God knew 
 that this was more than would have been hers had she 
 lived, and so He took her. 
 
 They did not tell her mother and brother until long 
 after she was buried (Eleanor's wish to save them 
 from infection was sacred to them), and even then 
 
 f 
 
S6 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 Hannah could not risk an interview until she had 
 broken the news to them bv letter. As it was, she 
 would never be likely to forget that day ! The day 
 on which she summoned all her courage, poor old 
 woman, and went and had it out with them. There 
 was really nothing to blame her for, since Eleanor 
 had placed herself within the pale of infection before 
 sending for Hannah, had even kissed the sick man's 
 face, the deadliest thing she could have done ; but she 
 knew they would blame her, and she did not resent it 
 when they did. She simply bowed her head, and let 
 the storm beat upon her as it would. She was too 
 crushed for any defence. 
 
 Eric did not gro near them. How could he ? He 
 wrote them a long letter, in which he told them 
 everything. " They would never want to see his face 
 again," he said. That would be but natural, so he 
 did not venture to thrust his presence upon them, but 
 pass the whole affair over in silence he could not, for, 
 in the first place, he must make an effort, at all events, 
 to obtain their forgiveness for his part in it; and in the 
 second he must let them know that he was as broken- 
 hearted about it, as they had the right to expect him 
 to be. If the sacrifice of his own life now would re- 
 store Eleanor's, O how gladly he would pay it ! They 
 were not more bereaved than he v^as ; they could not 
 possibly be as desolate and utterly alone. 
 
 He told them how he and Eleanor had made it up 
 before she died. He spoke of her in terms of such 
 intense tenderness, he seemed to be so utterly pros- 
 trated by his sorrow, that Mrs. Charlton's heart might 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 87 
 
 have relented toward him if it had not seemed to her 
 that it all came so late. " Easy, indeed, to speak of 
 her in glowing terms when she had given her life for 
 his ! Ordinary gratitude for such a deed would almost 
 assume the proportions of affection. But he had not 
 appreciated her enough before, even to think she was 
 a bargain worth clinging to. He had left her as some- 
 thing he was tired of ; as something he had tried, and 
 had not found what he expected. (Eleanor had been 
 too honest and too proud, with the deepest sort of 
 pride, to deceive them in the matter.) Now, when it 
 was too late to feed her faithful heart with it ; now, 
 when the perfectness of her love and the magnitude 
 of her self-sacrifice had roused what little heart he 
 had, he could speak of his love for her, and vent upon 
 her memory what would have been so precious to her 
 whilst living." No, it was too late to soften Mrs. 
 Charlton's heart by professed love for Eleanor. " If 
 he had cared for her whilst living, and she had only 
 been discharging her debt of love toward him in nurs- 
 ing him, it would have been different ; but he had 
 spoilt the last year of her life for her by his faith- 
 lessness and desertion, and now she was lying in her 
 grave for his sake, and he was still enjoying the life 
 she had ransomed for him by the sacrifice of hers." 
 It seemed hard, indeed, and very naturally. And, 
 moreover, Mrs. Charlton had not even for him the 
 feeling of aff'ection that is usual between prospective 
 mother and son-in-law. She had not wanted him in 
 that relationship. It seemed to her as if Eleanor's 
 life had been simply thrown away, and he was the 
 
/ 
 
 '>il 
 
 ,i I 
 
 1' 
 
 88 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 cause of it — nothing but a cause of trouble from first 
 to last, and this last ! 
 
 " No, she did not wish to sec his face again," she 
 cordially assented. " He had brought trouble to her 
 from the very beginning. She could only wish that 
 he had never crossed their path ! " 
 
 And yet when the letter was posted a thought 
 would come of the agony that must be the portion 
 of one who has been the means of death to the object 
 best beloved on earth. Was not this punishment 
 enough for any one? Should any featherweight be 
 added to such a burden of remorse ? And this was 
 the man whom Eleanor had loved (through every- 
 thing, as Mrs. Charlton was beginning to realize) to 
 comfort whom would be her one request to them could 
 she speak from her grave now. He was broken-down 
 "enough already by his trouble without this extra 
 straw — for that he did love her now was past doubt- 
 ing, late though the affection seemed. 
 
 A little note went after the other, more conciliatory 
 in its tone, and bearing even a half -invitation for Eric 
 to " come and see them," but when it arrived at the 
 address upon its envelope it found the cottage closed 
 and no one there to receive it. Eric was miles and 
 miles away, trying, as so many of us do, by change of 
 scene, to obtain forgetfulness of sorrow. By change 
 of scene, and by hard work, for there wouldbe plenty 
 of that for him in the new life to which he was going. 
 It is the best panacea (hard work) — it leavts one so 
 little time for thought — but there is the night as well 
 as the day, and there is no escaping our thoughts then. 
 
A PIECE OF TANNEN. 
 
 89 
 
 d'lG founrl, what so many of us find, that our thoughts 
 
 [o with us ; that one might as well stay and live a 
 
 (orrow down on its own ground, as be followed by it 
 
 loujid half the world. That new-made grave was as 
 
 mich with him in his Far-West home as it would 
 
 iave been in Montreal. He could no more escape 
 
 [roni the influence of it than he could escape from 
 
 liinself. He must wait for time to help him. Noth- 
 
 12: else would. It was not that he wanted to for- 
 
 ret ; he only wanted some relief from the intolera- 
 
 )leness of his trouble, somethincj to make him forsjet 
 
 Ihe very hunger of loneliness that was upon him. He 
 
 pissed her everywhere, he missed her terribly. He 
 
 seemed to have nothing left to cling to — to be cast 
 
 ^itterly friendless upon a strange world. He always 
 
 lad been peculiarly friendless ; he was very much 
 
 done now. His mother dead, and now Eleanor, and 
 
 le had not even a sister to turn to. The day came 
 
 ^hen he set his face again toward Montreal, feeling 
 
 that a sight of the grass-grown grave would be better 
 
 than nothing, and that that sight he must have. 
 
 I have told it as one of the pitiful tales of that 
 sorrowful plague-stricken city, but now that I have 
 Itold it, it does not seem to me as exceptional as before 
 Ifor its beauty and devotion. What did she do that 
 she could have left undone ? If, indeed, she cared for 
 |him as she had said, there was no great heroism in 
 her conduct. It is so easy — nay, even a thing to be 
 thankful for — to be given the opportunity to do for 
 [those we love what would be a sacrifice if done for 
 anyone else. And had she not a more than adequate 
 reward ? 
 
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 Ever since that winter evening when she had 
 watched him pass out of her presence, as she thought 
 forever, night and morning her prayer had been 
 that he might "be given back" to her, and he \(m\ 
 given back. " God's ways are not as our ways, nor 
 His thoughts as our thoughts," but in some way or 
 other He will answer our prayers if we but give 
 Him time. Do you pity her that she was taken 
 away from the happiness that had at last been given 
 into her hands ? I do not. She had achieved the 
 desire of her heart. She had seen him again ; once 
 more, though only for a few short vreeks, the gladness 
 of his presence had been hers. More : at last she had 
 learnt what it was to be loved as well as to love ; there 
 was nothing left her to desire. But God knows best 
 the hearts He makes, and just how much the things of 
 earth are capable of satisfying them. Even in His most 
 ■ righteous discipline He never forgets His character of 
 love. He gave her for a little time the happiness she 
 desired, and then, before it could change to ashes in 
 her mouth. He took her where there is no such thino^ 
 as disenchantment, but where she would be forever 
 satisfied in His presence. 
 
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 DORA. 
 
 AVE you ever heard of the two old maiden 
 ladies (I dislike the term old maids) one of 
 whom liked crust, the other crumb, but 
 neither of them got that which she liked 
 until the day of the death of one ? If you 
 have and remember the reason of this 
 apparently singular fact, the spirit of my 
 tale will not be strange to you. Believe me, there 
 are such things in life and plenty of them. 
 
 An August cornfield under a golden August sky, 
 and in the middle of the yellow ears three people, a 
 girl and two men. That I mention the girl first does 
 not mean that she is best worth mentioning, though 
 there were not a few, principally men, who would have 
 told you that there were none more worthy. She was 
 a brown-haired girl of some nineteen summers, with a 
 pair of very soft blue eyes, a good complexion, and a 
 trim little figure ; not by any means beautiful, though 
 pretty enough and sweet enough for any ordinary 
 
 111 
 
 IWIS 
 
 h'. 
 
 ~:9 
 
 
 ■iiit' 
 
94 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 person's desire. But the two men who stood before 
 her, pelting her with the golden corn from the cobs 
 they had just cut, were as fine specimens of manhood 
 as one could expect or wish to see in a long summer 
 day's journey. One description will answer for both 
 of them. Tall, broad, dark-haired and dark-eyed, they 
 looked like twin-copies of one picture, and one felt 
 puzzled, when looking at them, to understand how 
 their own mother had known them apart, for they were 
 twins and had not even the difference in yeo.rs to dis- 
 tinguish them. Yet when one looked more closely, a 
 something: in the one face that was lackinjj in the 
 other, grew upon one slowly, and it was probable that 
 those who knew those two faces well, had little diffi- 
 culty, if any, in distinguishing them from each other. 
 Yet they were both good, true faces with a look of 
 honest manhood about them that is always better than 
 any physical beauty. Faces that seemed a trifle un- 
 English in their dark, warm beauty ; a warmth, how- 
 ever, that in one seemed almost overshadowed by the 
 intense quietness of the eyes and firm, almost grave, 
 lines about the mouth. Dora would have laughed had 
 you asked her how she could distinguish them. " Had 
 she not always known Tom from George, even as a 
 child, when she ran to him in all her childish diffi- 
 culties ? Difficulties that George often got her into, 
 or that they had got into together. Tom, it was, who 
 tied up the cut finger, put blue on the spot where the 
 bee had stung her, mended all the broken toys, helped 
 her with all the difficult lessons, and, last but not least, 
 snatched the little fric:ht-bewildered creature from a 
 
DORA. 
 
 95 
 
 fearful death at the horns of a mad bull. She had 
 been only ten then, and Tom sixteen. She and George 
 were in the hoine-meadow together, George hay- 
 making, Dora sitting happily under one of the hay- 
 cocks, nursing her doll. Suddenly she heard George's 
 voice, shrill and frightened, calling to her : 
 
 " Run, Dora, run for your life ! Over the fence into 
 the fjarden." 
 
 Looking up, she had seen a race that had filled her 
 whole soul with terror ; George and the big, white 
 bull, the latter escaped from the adjoining paddock 
 coming toward her from different quarters, both at a 
 speed that left it an open question as to which would 
 win the day. But it was Tom who stood quietly, a 
 little aside from the pathway of the infuriated crea- 
 ture, taking off his coat swiftly but coolly as he 
 waited, and when the animal came within reach, 
 sprang, suddenly, directly in its way, and flung the 
 thick coat over its head, wrapping it round with a 
 dexterous twist in suffocating folds. When Dora re- 
 covered her frightened senses she was on the other 
 side of the fence in the kitchen garden, and George 
 had landed her there ; but, child as she was, she was old 
 enough to understand that it was Tom who had saved 
 her life, and who had only escaped, by a second's space, 
 from a frightful death as the result of his bravery. 
 Dora never forgot this, for she was a grateful little 
 creature; and she would do anything for Tom, and yield 
 to his advice and counsel in all things, but she would 
 not have told you, had you asked her, that she liked 
 Tom better than George. George was her playmate. 
 
96 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 they were always together ; Tom was their quiet, wise! 
 monitor. Of course he was better than she and Georfje 
 but then he was not orood to ,play with, as) 
 George was. But this was eight or nine years ago, 
 when Dora was only a child; now she was a woman| 
 grown, and Tom and George were both her brothers, 
 both her dear, good, loving brothers, who never, by I 
 word or deed, reminded her of the fact that no real tie 
 of blood existed between them ; that to the bread she 
 ate, the clothes she wore, the home she shared, she had 
 no real right save such as their love and generosity! 
 and frank adoption of her gave her: In truth she had 
 almost forgotten, herself, that she was not their sister. 
 Ever since the day, seventeen years ago, when old Mr, 
 Hetley had found her, a babe of two summers, lying 
 among the golden corn-stacks in the home-metdow, 
 Broad Oaks had been indeed a home to her. No one 
 knew who had left her there, nor could they ever find 
 out (though some one spoke of a woman who had been 
 seen making her way out of the field that day, but of 
 whom no one had taken any especial notice, thinkin^j 
 her a villager who was using the meadow as a short- 
 cut to the raspberry fields beyond), but Mr. and Mrs. 
 Hetley never regretted this fact. Without a daughter 
 of her own, Mrs. Hetley took the little abandoned 
 stranger straight into her motherly heart, and when, 
 pight years later, she died, her heart was as heavy, at 
 leaving her little blue-eyed Dora as her own twin 
 boys. In truth the little creature was a winsome soul, 
 and had a knack of making every one who came in 
 contact with her love her. Farmer Hetley worshipped 
 
DORA. 
 
 ff! 
 
 pf' 
 
 her. He would spend many an hour concocting some 
 new pleasure for ''■ little f)^ ily," and never was Dora 
 forgotten on market days when the farmer went to 
 Brantford with his farm and dairy produce. Since 
 Mrs. Hetley's death she had been more than ever to 
 them all; their only representat:' ve of womankind, 
 except Rachel, a woman of some fifty years of age, 
 who had come to the farm as a general servant in the 
 same year that Dora was discovered among the corn- 
 sheaves, and who new occupied the double position of 
 servant and housekeeper. 
 
 To Rachel, Dora was the one person in the world. 
 Masters Tom and George were dear enough in their 
 way, but Dora was her ewe lamb, her hsihy ; her baby 
 still, although seventeen summers had passed since the 
 first night that Rachel had reached the farm, a gaunt, 
 unprepossessing woman of thirty-three, and the little 
 child had separated herself from the rest of the family 
 pud toddling forwards, had clutched Rachel's skirt and 
 laid her little head against it. Rachel had known 
 very little lov^e in her life, and never had had any- 
 thing to do with children ; and something stirred in 
 her heart at this action that opened up a new idea of 
 happiness in her woman's soul. She did not stoop to 
 touch the child ; instead, she grew uncomfortably red 
 and nervous, and turned gladly to leave the room 
 when her new mistress gave the word ; but the next 
 morning, when the sound of tiny feet pattering down 
 the front stairs reached her ear, as she worked among 
 her pots and pans in the kitchen, she paused for a 
 second, and then went over and opened the door com- 
 
 ^4 
 
 Dai 
 
98 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 municating with the dining-room, for which room she 
 guessed the little one was making, going back to her 
 work as soon as she had done it. If some dim hope 
 animated her that the child might stray out into the 
 kitchen, it was frustrated for the time being, for an 
 older footstep followed quickly on the childish one, 
 and Rachel closed the door again, as she heard the 
 sound of merry laughter, and then of kisses, as the 
 little one was caught up and carried the rest of the 
 way downstairs by Mrs. Hetley, then not much older 
 than Rachel herself. But from that day little Dora 
 had been Rachel's one love ; had taken the place that 
 another sort of love takes in other women's hearts, 
 had been the one spot of warmth and brightness in 
 the lonely woman's life. Now, on this bright August 
 afternoon, she sat in the kitchen doorway, knitting, a 
 very model of respected and respectable servitude ; 
 her starched print gown, snow-white apron, severely 
 banded hair, and prim Irish collar, seeming all but so 
 many parts of the one integral fact of her peculiar per- 
 sonality. Rachel Hetley, for so they called her in the 
 neighborhood ; Rachel Hetley's face was a sermon on 
 the seriousness of human life, said the village wags ; 
 and even Farmer Hetley and his two sons looked upon 
 her as an impersonation of the sober side of life, 
 though they valued and trusted her above all things. 
 But Dora knew Rachel Keswick, as no one else knew 
 her. This afternoon, as she sat knitting in the warm 
 sunshine pouring in at the open door, she listened to 
 the happy laughter floating toward her from the 
 home-meadow, and a look that was good to see 
 
DORA. 
 
 99 
 
 softened the hard lines of her face, as the sound of 
 girlish laughter separated itself from that of the two 
 other rollickers, and made itself audible to her listen- 
 ing ear. Presently she became conscious of a shadow 
 moving toward her over the grass, and, looking up, 
 she saw Tom approaching. 
 
 "Well, Rachel," he said in his kindly, quiet voice ; 
 " I am going in to the post-office. I siiall be back in 
 time for tea. Those other two are pelting each other 
 with corn." 
 
 Half an hour later, as Rachel still sat there, another 
 figure came toward her over the sward, but this time 
 when she looked up, her face softened and lit to greet 
 the approaching forrn. 
 
 "Well, dear ?" she said, but there was no answer. She 
 gave a quick, searching look up into her child's face ; 
 then she rose, ar,d putting down her knitting, went for- 
 ward and prt both her hands on the girl's shoulders. 
 
 " What ails thee, dearie ? " she asked anxiously ; but 
 to her surprise, instead of answering, the girl laid her 
 head down upon her shoulder, and burst into a pas- 
 sionate flood of tears. Thoroughly alarmed, Rachel 
 held the trembling figure for a few moments in silence; 
 and then, drawing the girl into the house, shut the 
 door and said : 
 
 " Now tell Rachel all about it. What has happened, 
 or who has been annoying thee ? They shall answer 
 to old Rachel for it all. What is it, my lamb ? " 
 
 But the girl's conduct now was as unexpected as 
 her burst of tears had been. She drew back and tried 
 to free herself, as she said : 
 
100 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 " No, no, I cannot tell you, Rachel ; " Then, with a 
 sudden kiss and attempted smile, " I am a goose, 
 nursie ; let me go now, I shall be all right by tea- 
 time." 
 
 She went away to her own room, and Rachel went 
 about her preparations for the evening meal with a 
 very thoughtful face and sore heart. This was the 
 first time in all these seventeen years that Dora had 
 refused to share any trouble with her, and a sudden 
 realization came over Rachel ; that she had been un- 
 conscious for a long time of what had, nevertheless, 
 for a long time been a reality : the fact that Dora ha<l 
 passed from the simple time of childhood, when every 
 joy and sorrow is so easily communicated, and had 
 entered upon another stage of life, when one's joys 
 and sorrows are one's own, and cannot be shared with 
 every one ; that the child Dora, her baby, her lamb, 
 was slipping, or perhaps had slipped out of the reach 
 of her sympathy and intelligence, poor, simple ser- 
 vant that she was, and would soon stand in a different 
 position to her by very virtue of the difference in their 
 stations, and Dora's growing years. 
 
 It was a dark half-hour for Rachel, and perhaps the 
 added sombreness of her face, as she waited on them 
 at tea, was not to be wondered at. Dora was there, 
 quiet and a little pale ; Tom was there, rather watch- 
 ful of Dora, and with a little wonder and a little 
 anxiety visible in his watchfulness, caused, perhaps, 
 by the absence of the merry, spontaneous laughter 
 that was part of Dora's very personality, but which, 
 for some reason, was lacking to-night. George was 
 
DORA. 
 
 101 
 
 there, but more talkative even than usual, keeping up 
 a running fire of conversation with his father and 
 Tom, even engaging Rachel now and then, but never 
 addressing Dora, except when the unavoidable civili- 
 ties of the table demanded it ; when his manner, 
 though much the same as usual, had an indefinable 
 something in it that Rachel detected, yet could not 
 analyze. There was something in the wind, but what 
 it was, she felt she must wait to discover. As she sat 
 that evening, however, in the spotless kitchen, 
 knitting, as usual, but not, as usual, thinking of her 
 knitting, a soft pair of arms stole round her neck, and 
 a softer cheek was laid to hers, as Dora's voice said : 
 
 " I am going to bed, Rachel. Kiss me and say good- 
 night." 
 
 For the first time in her life (for this cause) a sense 
 of embarrasement rose up in Rachel's breast. " If her 
 child had grown to be a young lady she ought to be 
 treated so ; and if, in the sweetness of her disposition 
 she did not know her own rights, was it not her, 
 Rachel's, place to teach her ? " She hesitated a 
 moment, and in that moment Dora felt the change. 
 She came round in front and knelt down by the chair, 
 and put up her arms round the elder woman's neck. 
 
 " You are not vexed with me, Rachel ? " she asked. 
 "Just because I was tired and cross ? " 
 
 " Vexed with thee ? Nay, my lamb — Miss Dora, I 
 mean ! Ay, there it is, dearie : thee art growing up, 
 aad I have not thought of it till to-day ; and I have 
 been treating thee as a child when I should have re- 
 
102 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 spected thee as my young mistress. I want to mend 
 my ways, for it is time." 
 
 For a moment there was no answer, then Dora's 
 head went down on Rachel's lap, and hands and head 
 cuddled up so close to Rachel's heart that that same 
 organ beat tumultuously just above it. 
 
 *' Rachel, you must never say that again," said the 
 fond young voice, pleadingly. " What has happened 
 to me that everyone should discover so suddenly that 
 I am no longer young ? Why could I not be let re- 
 main a child as long as possible ? Put your arms about 
 me, Rachel, and make me feel as if I was your ' baby ' 
 
 again. 
 
 No second invitation could be needed for Rachel. 
 She drew the pretty head up closer in her yearning 
 arms. 
 
 " My bonnie lamb, mv baby ! The day will never 
 come when old Rachel will not need thee. It was but 
 a sense of duty prompted me, and a thought that came 
 to me that thou wast growing up. But till thee 
 wishest it to be changed, it shall be as it always was- 
 I will keep my child as long as T can. Now thee must 
 go to bed, my bairn ; it is long past eleven o'clock." 
 
 When Dora was alone in her room, she sat down by 
 the window instead of, as Rachel expressed it, ' going 
 to bed,' and as she sat, a new feeling came into her 
 heart. Instead of the sense of loss and loneliness that 
 had possessed her all the afternoon there grew a sense 
 of something added, a new sensation she could not 
 understand, yet which sent her to her bed at last a 
 little awed, a great deal quieted, and sent he*, to sleep 
 
DORA. 
 
 103 
 
 with a look on her face that struck Rachel with a new 
 and stronger sense of change as she bent over an hour 
 later and watched her darling in her sleep. And it was 
 a change that had come over Dora, a change that cornes 
 to all of us once in our lifetime, but which to most of 
 us, comes so gradually that we never know the time 
 at which we slipped from boy or girlhood into man or 
 womanhood ; but to Dora that had happened which 
 had awakened her from her dream of childhood in a 
 moment. All these seventeen years she had never 
 thought of herself but as the daughter of the family ; 
 the old man's pet and pride, the young men's petted 
 sister — now, where was she ? " If George loved her 
 (ah, this was the secret !) if George could love her in 
 this fashion, what right had she had all these years to 
 the home and benefits she had taken as her natural 
 right ? " 
 
 At first she had been stunned with surprise at his 
 words. " It could not be ; thev w^ere brother and 
 sister ! " she had repeated again and again, until he 
 had stood to his ground and gently reasoned away her 
 assertions. Then, in very bewilderment and despair, 
 she had begged him to " let her be for the present, to 
 give her time to think ! " and had turned and walked 
 with ever hastening steps toward the house, and into 
 Rachel's presence, as she sat knitting at the door. 
 After she left Rachel that afternoon she had fought it 
 out with herself, or rather had tried to arrange things 
 in her brain, to know herself in this new light. Then 
 tgain after tea, until her bewilderment and general 
 sense of loneliness and longing for the old-time inno- 
 
 AMH 
 
104 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 I 
 
 cence and ignorance had driven her to Rachel to be 
 made " a baby of again." After that, in her own 
 room, her poor weary brain had worked on still, until 
 a dim truth that was at last something tangible formed 
 itself slowly but surely in her brain. It roused her to 
 action as nothing else had done, and made her undress 
 herself with a nervous energy that was almost like 
 trying to run away from her own thoughts, but it left 
 that look on her face that Rachel saw and understood* 
 as she bent above her on her wav to her own bed- 
 room, and that made her mutter to herself with some- 
 thing that was very like a sigh, ' 
 
 " Ah, my bonnie lamb, my bairn, thee art slipping 
 from me whether thee wilt or no." 
 
 It was a week later ; only a week, though it seemed 
 to Dora like a month. The evenino^ meal had lon*]^ 
 been cleared away. Farmer Hetley was enjoying his 
 after-tea pipe on the long, low veranda that compassed 
 the house on three sides ; Rachel was busy with some 
 extra preparations for the next day, which would be 
 Sunday, or, as it was called in that Presbyterian house- 
 hold, the Sabbath ; Dora and Tom, and George were 
 out in the grounds, listening to a whip-poor-will that, 
 in some neighboring copse just across the river, was 
 filling the air with its plaintive cry. The day had 
 been sultry and oppressive, but a slight breeze had 
 sprung up at sundown, and now the trees were shaken 
 by the first gusts of a coming storm. Far off on the 
 horizon the lightning Hashed intermittently against 
 heavy banks of purple clouds, and already the first 
 faint roll of thunder made itself audible. The efirl 
 
DORA. 
 
 105 
 
 shivered slightly as a stronger gust of wind than before 
 shook the trees near them, and made itself felt through 
 her light muslin dress. 
 
 " You are cold," said Tom quickly ; " we had better 
 go m. 
 
 They turned and retraced their steps, leaving behind 
 the chill wind and the open, starlit lawn, and coming 
 into the sheltered warmth and deeper shadow of the 
 house. " It is warmer here," said Dora ; " let us sit out- 
 side, here on the steps." 
 
 But after awhile the chilliness reached them even 
 there, and again Dora shivered. 
 
 " You are cold," said Tom again ; " we had better go 
 in now ! " , 
 
 But Dora resisted stoutly. Indoors she felt too 
 closely quartered with the two whom it had become a 
 matter of strange and sudden difficulty for her to know 
 how to treat ; outside there was more freedom, more 
 space. 
 
 " No," she said ; " it is dreary inside, with the wind 
 moaning like this, and the thunder ; I like to be out 
 in it all." > • 
 
 " Then I will get you a shawl," said George ; and 
 with that he jumped up to depart upon his errand. 
 
 Dora rose from her seat and bent forward to watch 
 the course of a meteor that just then sprang from its 
 place amongst its fellows, and ran a headlong course 
 down the eastern sky towards the bank of clouds 
 above the river. Her slender form showed dimly 
 against the darkening sky ; her face, as she turned it 
 
 to the north again, so presenting to her companion a 
 8 
 
 I 
 
106 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 full profile, was illuminated suddenly by a vivid flash 
 of lightning, and looked rather pale and pensive. 
 Perhaps a feeling of this pensiveness smote upon her 
 companion's senses. Ere she was aware of it she felt 
 herself drawn into a pair of strong arms, and heard 
 her name uttered in a tone whose very tenseness made 
 it sound unnatural and strange. 
 
 " Dora, Dora," said the voice, " what have you got 
 to say to me ? You know what I mean, dear : I love 
 you very dearly ; will you take me ? " 
 
 " For a moment Dora's heart stood still. It seemed 
 to her that events were running upon each other with 
 terrible rapidity. But a week ago, and she had been 
 a careless, happy-hearted girl, living her life without 
 a thought beyond the enjoyment of the present mo- 
 ment ; then had come George's proposal, waking her 
 up to facts that had been unknown thoughts to her 
 before, revealing the whole anomaly of her position 
 with the suddenness of an electric flash. The flash 
 had been followed by a revelation of another sort, 
 known only to herself, in which she had learnt that 
 of herself which she had never even guessed before ; 
 -and now here was Tom asking her also the question 
 that George had asked her then. She was not startled 
 this time by any feeling of impossibility in the pro- 
 posal, because of the position they had always held to 
 each other ; all that had been gone through. That she 
 was not the daughter of the house, had become an 
 understood fact to her by this time. She had always 
 known it, of course, but she had not lived in the sense of 
 it. But her surprise had other root now. 
 
vi*" 
 
 DORA. 
 
 107 
 
 " It could not be," she said to herself, " that both of 
 them cared for her in this way ! Tom as well as 
 George. And that both should decide to tell her so 
 almost at the same time. Surely she was dreaming 
 it all ! and yet " 
 
 " Well," he was saying, interrogatively, " is it Yes, 
 Dora ? " 
 
 One moment more she let her bewilderment hold 
 her ; then she remembered that he was waiting for his 
 answer, and suddenly thought how foolish it was to 
 question her good -fortune, instead of accepting it 
 gratefully, now it had come. She buried her head in 
 her hands, however, and so brought it nearer to the 
 gray coat already very near. 
 
 " Yes," she faltered, and then almost tried to free 
 herself in her nervousness at having said it. But she 
 felt herself drawn still more closely in the strong 
 arms that encircled her ; she felt the kisses on her 
 hair, her brow, her lips, and then she heard his voice 
 saying : 
 
 " Now, dear, look up and be yourself. Here is Tom, 
 shall we tell him ? " 
 
 With a suddenness that fairly took away his breath, 
 she wrenched herself from his arms, and stood bend- 
 ing forward to look at him in the dim light with a 
 frightened intensity of gaze that made him almost 
 think for the moment that she must have lost her 
 senses. 
 
 " What is it ? " he asked, anxiously ; " what is the 
 matter, Dora ? " 
 
 But for all answer she flung up her hands before 
 
 
 ^:i^ 
 
 9; '-? 
 
108 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 her face, and uttered a low cry that sounded very 
 much like the cry of one stricken with some mortal 
 hurt; then, as the approaching footsteps came nearer, 
 she turned and fled along the veranda round the 
 corner of the house, as Tom emerged from the front 
 door, the shawl he had gone for in his hand. 
 
 " Dora has gone in," said George, and succeeded in 
 saying it pretty naturally. " You were too quick for 
 me that time, old fellow, you had gono before I could 
 get on my feet." 
 
 An hour later, when the storm that for the last 
 forty minutes had been crashing and flashing round 
 the house, had somewhat subsided, Dora came quietly 
 into the room where the two brothers sat — old Mr. 
 Hetley had some time since retired to rest — and com- 
 ing up to the table, held out her hand in good-night. 
 
 " Why, Dora, you look pale ! " exclaimed Tom, 
 quickly. " Did the storm frighten you ? " 
 
 " No," she said, smiling (such a poor little smile !) 
 " am I pale ? " 
 
 The dark eyes before her looked at her with such a 
 curious gaze that she turned quickly, and held out her 
 hand to George. . ^ 
 
 " Good-night," she said. 
 
 But George, barely answering the salutation, fol- 
 lowed her out of the room, when she departed, and drew 
 her to the front door when they had got into the hall. 
 
 " Why did you stay upstairs during all that storm ? " 
 he said, gently ; " you have let it drive away your 
 color. Now, Dora, are you not going to say good-night 
 properly ? " 
 
DORA. 
 
 109 
 
 She put up her face with a calmness that might 
 have been a little perplexing if George had not been 
 too much occupied with his own feelings to notice it, 
 and suffered him to kiss her once on the cheek that 
 she presented for the caress. 
 
 " Good-night;" she said, " I am very tired ; I shall 
 be glad to be in bed." And then, with a little smile, 
 she would have left him, but he held her still. 
 
 " Good-night, my darling," he said, " and dream of 
 me. 
 
 He watched her as she ascended the broad, low 
 stairs ; if a slight twinge of disappointment was in his 
 heart, he was too loyal to indulge it. She had said 
 him yes — should not that be enough for him ? It was 
 not to be expected she would go into raptures over 
 him. He oufjht to be grateful that he had won as 
 much as he had already, taking into consideration the 
 fact that his proposal had been to her a sudden up- 
 rooting, as it apparently had, of everything that had 
 formed her life since childhood. In good time all 
 would be right. He had got her, that was the chief 
 thing ; and she was too honest to give herself to him 
 without caring for him in a measure. 
 
 The next mornincf when Dora came downstairs, she 
 saw George standing on the veranda just outside the 
 door. At her step, however, he turned and came for- 
 forward eagerly to meet her. She could not lielp 
 noticing the new light in his eyes, the welcome visible 
 in his whole face. It struck her with a keen sense of 
 remorse. Impulsively, she put up her arms and laid 
 them round his neck. 
 
 I 
 
110 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 " Teach me to be good to you, George," she said. 
 
 He laughed aloud in his amusement. 
 
 " Good to me," he said ; " I like that. It is I am to 
 be good to you. Why, you have always been too good 
 for any of us, Dora. But you can be as good to me as 
 you like. Begin now by giving me the first kiss you 
 have given me in your new relationship ! You did not 
 kiss me last night, you know, after all." 
 
 She gave him the required caress frankly enough ; 
 with such readiness, indeed, that (simple fellow that he 
 was ! ) it thrilled him with delight. , 
 
 What an innocent little thing she was ! What a 
 fortunate fellow he was to get her ! For instance, if 
 she had cared for Tom instead of him ? Truly, he 
 (George) and she had always been the chums, but Tom 
 was the braver, more clever of the two, and had always 
 been her adviser, her protector, her refuge. He was 
 not disposed to quarrel with the disposition of affairs, 
 however ; if he could not understand, he was not the 
 less grateful that things were as they were. He dropped 
 all puzzling questions, and accepted his good-fortune 
 gratefully ; the wisest thing for all of us to do, if we 
 could but be brought to believe it. 
 
 The thing that troubled him, however, was inform- 
 ing Tom of what he had done. " Suppose Tom was 
 as innocent of any sense of lack of relationship between 
 Dora and themselves as Dora herself had been ? What 
 a surprise the news would be to him. Once more he 
 (George) would have to go through the arguments he 
 had exhausted upon Dora, perhaps with less effect. 
 Not that that would make any material difference. 
 
DOHA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Dora's reason having being won over to his side. 
 And, moreover, facts are facts, and the facts were with 
 George. Dora was not their sister ;' having treated 
 her as such for so long could not make her so. 
 Nevertheless, it was not till they had been working 
 together in the field for more than an hour that Georofe 
 tlung down his spade and, going over to Tom, laid his 
 hand nervously on the latter's shoulder, and said : 
 
 " Look here, old fellow, I have something to tell 
 you. I have a foolish feeling that you will be sur- 
 prised at it, and probably think it a little unnatural, 
 though I don't know why, for she is not our sister 
 after all; only — For heaven's sake what's the matter?" 
 
 For a second there was no answer ; Tom was bend- 
 ing down to pick up the spade which had fallen from 
 his hand. When he raised his face again, the stooping 
 had brought a flush to it that made George draw his 
 breath in relief. 
 
 " Why, you turned as pale as ashes," he said. " I 
 thought you were ill. What was the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothinor. Nothino' to sii^^nifv that is. Something 
 in my side — I don't know what. Go on — you were 
 telling me something." 
 
 But George's fears were not so easily allayed. 
 
 " You are sure it has gone ? " he asked. " My tale 
 will wait." 
 
 But Tom had returned to his digging again. 
 
 *' Go on," he repeated. 
 
 " I hardly know how to tell you," George began. 
 " The fact is I — " and then paused in the dim hope 
 that his brother would understand and put it into 
 
112 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 words for him ; but Tom was digging industriously, 
 and offered not a suggestion. 
 
 " Well, to tell you the truth, Dora and I are en- 
 gaged." 
 
 It was out at last. Sa}^ what Tom would, he must 
 say it now ; but Tom did not seem inclined to say 
 anything. Dig, dig, dig, went the spade, and George 
 waited, at first a little too nervous over the scene he 
 expected to feel anything else ; but when a full half- 
 minute had elapsed, and still there was no response to 
 his confession, he began to feel indignant. 
 
 " Well — " he was beginning, in a tone of wrathful 
 expostulation ; but Tom had flung down his spade at 
 last, and was standing holding his hand to his throat 
 as if something choked him there. It seemed to 
 George as if he tried to say something, once or twice, 
 but no words came ; and suddenly he turned and 
 walked toward the gate of the field, as if in search of 
 relief. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Tom, what is the matter ? ' 
 exclaimed George, now thoroughly alarmed and hasten- 
 ing after him. "Sit down until I get you some water. 
 You should have let me before ! " 
 
 He laid a forcibly detaining hand upon the other's 
 shoulder, and, as if not strong enough to resist, the 
 atter halted and stood still. Then, suddenly a sound 
 that was neither a sob nor a groan, nor yet a laugh ; 
 but something of all three together, issued from his 
 lips, and seemed to relieve the oppression that was dis- 
 tressing him. He turned round to George with eyes 
 that startled the latter by their look of haggard misery. 
 
DORA. 
 
 113 
 
 •'Yes, get me some water," he said, and then, as 
 George hastened away upon his errand, he flung up 
 his head, and pressed his hands over his eyes, and 
 finally sat down upon a wheelbarrow that happened 
 to be close at hand. He did not stir for quite three 
 minutes, nor look up, but when George came back he 
 found him once more digging as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 " Great Scott, Tom, you are too bad !" George ex- 
 claimed, almost angrily. " Drop that spade at once, 
 and here is the water, and then go in, and don't at- 
 tempt to work any more to-day !" 
 
 His brother took the water, and drained it at a 
 gulp ; then he took out his handkerchief and wiped his 
 brow, hie whole face in fact, with a slow deliberate- 
 ness that was almost obtrusively a pretext to gain 
 time. But at last he replaced ^.is handkerchief in his 
 pocket, and held out his hand to George. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, old fellow," he said ; " I must 
 have seemed very rude to you. But it took me so 
 suddenly — the pain I mean. It is gone now, and — " 
 a second's pause, and then, ' I knew you had asked 
 her; at least — I guessed it; but I thought — she had 
 refused you." . 
 
 He was facing George now, his face deadly pale, his 
 eyes haggard still from the pain he had undergone, 
 but his voice just the same deep, kindly voice as ever, 
 and the grasp of his hand just as firm. 
 
 " So she did at first," said George. " That is to say, 
 she had never thought of herself but as our sister. 
 That is what I thought you would say, and why — " 
 
 
 n 
 
 ^i'>* 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 " Yes; I see," said Tom. " I wras a little surprised. 
 .A.nd then ? Afterwards ? " 
 
 " Afterwards she took me," was the reply, in a tone 
 that carried all a lover's triumph and pride in it. 
 
 "Yes!" said Tom. 
 
 Then there was a moment's silence again, at the end 
 of which Tom said, interrogatively : 
 
 " And she — she loves you ? " 
 
 George's face flushed red. 
 
 " She took me," he said, rather stiffly. } 
 
 " You are right !" responded the other quickly. " I 
 beg your pardon, or rather I beg hers. She took you, 
 that is answer enough. " George " — he turned squarely 
 round to his brother, and laid both hands on his shoul- 
 ders — " I do, indeed, congratulate you, old fellow, and 
 I wish you — all happiness; you and — her. And now I 
 think I will take your advice and go in ; that twinge 
 has unhinged me. I think I had better rest." 
 
 Dora was sitting on the veranda that evening 
 alone, George having gone into the town on busi- 
 ness, when Tom came out to her and took his stand 
 before her. He was looking very pale and weary, 
 as was only natural after a day's headache and suf- 
 fering. He came up to her and held out his hand, 
 and unconsciously she placed hers in it. 
 
 " George has told me," he said. " Let me be the 
 first to wish you all happiness. I — of course, I did 
 not expect it; but since you care for him (a sharp 
 ear might possibly have detected an interrogative 
 accent here), I am very glad." 
 
 He held her hand awhile after he had ceased, and 
 
DORA. 
 
 115 
 
 seemed to be waiting for her to say something ; but 
 when a few moments had passed, and she uttered 
 no word, he let her hand fall, and turned almost 
 abruptly away toward the veranda's edge. In a 
 few moments, however, he turned toward her again, 
 and seating himself, began to talk on other subjects, 
 and so continued until the gallop of George's horse 
 was heard coming down the road, then he paused, 
 and it seemed to Dora as if he was listening to the 
 approaching horseman. Suddenly, however, he bent for- 
 ward, and seized both of his companion's hands in his. 
 
 " Dora," he said, in a quick, feverish manner, " it 
 seems to me I have said very little to you about — your 
 engagement. Believe me, no one wishes you more 
 happiness than I do. If I was cold, it was only be- 
 cause I was a little surprised. You see you have 
 always been our sister, and I — " 
 
 Then suddenlv he broke off, and, lettinrr cro her 
 hands, caught her in his arms and kissed her hotly on 
 brow and cheek and lips. " God bless you, little 
 Dolly ! " he said, hoarsely. " God bless and keep you 
 always and ever ! " 
 
 Then, with a quick, short laugh : 
 
 " I am brother Tom, you know ; I may give you a 
 last kiss, may I not ? You belong to him now, and 
 he will claim them all ; but he cannot begrudge me 
 that last one. You have always been my little Dolly, 
 you know. He will not mind that ! Good-bye, my 
 little Dolly, or, rather, welcome ; you will be my 
 sister indeed now." 
 
 And then George came in at the largfe gates, and, as 
 
 
116 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 Tom released her, Dora flew away to her own room, 
 and locking the door, flung herself down on her bed, 
 and gave herself up to such a storm of uncontrollable 
 weeping as left her utterly spent when it had passed. 
 
 An hour later she stole downstairs, and into the sit- 
 ting-room, where the three men were assembled. A 
 sense of wrong-doing was upon her. She had not 
 been near George since his return ; would he not be 
 wondering where she was, and why she did not come 
 to him ? He loved her, she knew that, loved her well 
 and truly ; he deserved that she should treat him well. 
 She had no right to absent herself from him in this 
 way. It was hard to face the other two — to be with 
 George in their presence just yet, until they both 
 knew, Farmer Hetley as well as Tom ; but she would 
 ask George to tell his father, and then — She stole into 
 the room so quietly that for a second or two no one 
 noticed her. George and his father were standing by 
 the wide, old-fashioned fire-place (filled with cedar for 
 the summer months), and George's face was flushed, as 
 if from embarrassment. As she entered the room, 
 Dora heard the farmer say : 
 
 " It is an idea that never would have occurred to me ; 
 but I am right glad of it, my boy, right glad ; she is 
 provided for in every Vv'ay now." 
 
 There was the noise of a crash at the other end of 
 the room ; and, following the direction of the noise, 
 Dora saw Tom stooping to pick up a pile of books that 
 had apparently fallen from his arms. She crossed over 
 to help him, but the farmer's voice arrested her mid- 
 way. 
 
DORA. 
 
 117 
 
 " Come here, Dora," it said ; and then, when she had 
 obeyed and stood before him : 
 
 " So you have been settling your affairs without 
 even askin^^ my consent, have you ? A nice pass 
 things have come to, to be sure ! A young woman 
 gives herself away without saying so much as * by 
 your leave ! ' to her proper guardian ! But pray, 
 madam, since George is your brother, how are you to 
 marry him ? " 
 
 The girl put up both her young arms and laid them 
 round his neck. There was not a trace of her old-time 
 sauciness in her voice or manner ; instead, it seemed as 
 if tears were very near her eyes ; they were in her voice. 
 
 " I shall be your daughter still," she said. " You 
 will always be my dear old daddy." 
 
 " Dear old daddy, indeed ! " with a fine attempt at 
 scorn. " Not so much your ' daddy ' that you can't 
 marry my son ! And I counting myself your father 
 all your life, and teaching those fellows to look upon 
 you as their sister ! Well, well, it's the way of young 
 folks, I suppose. Cast them together and they'll make 
 love to each other, if there's any lawful way of doing 
 it. There, take her away, George ! She's ready to 
 make a fool of me, too, if I'd let her, and one in the 
 family is enough. Tell her just what I think of her ; 
 she'll stand it better from you." 
 
 But as he tried to push her aside, she clung to him 
 with a nerv^ous energy that surprised him, and, ere 
 any of them could anticipate it, broke down into an 
 almost hysterical fit of weeping, and did not attempt 
 to restrain it. . 
 
 f 
 
118 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 " Why, Dora, Dora ! " exclaimed the farmer, lifting 
 up the bowed head from his shoulder, " What is this ! 
 This isn't the way girls used to show their happiness 
 in my day. What have you been doing to her, 
 George ? Or is it that you haven't been doing 
 enough ? There — ," as George came forward, and, 
 taking Dora out of his father's arms, lifted up her 
 bowed face and looked at her with anxious, question- 
 ing eyes, " Now, make it all right, and many compli- 
 ments to you for the pluck you've shown in securing 
 such a bargain." • 
 
 It was the day before New Year's day. August, 
 with its golden days, September, October, November, 
 had slipped into the past. Now it was the last day of 
 the year, and four o'clock of the day. Dora and Rachel 
 were alone in the spotless, roomy kitchen, and Dora's 
 head was resting in Rachel's lap as they sat, Rachel in 
 her usual wooden rocking-chair, Dora on her little 
 stool before the blazing hearth-fire. 
 
 " Dearie," said the old woman, lovingly, " What 
 makes thee so quiet ? What art thee thinking of ? " 
 
 There was no reply for a second or two, and then 
 Dora said, not raising her head from its position : 
 
 " I was thinking of a tale I have been reading ; I 
 have not finished it yet. It was about a girl, Rachel, 
 a girl like me ; I mean, about my age. And she loved 
 some one, a man, I mean ; and one night he asked her ; 
 or she thought it was he, because it was dark and the 
 voice was like his, and some one who had been with 
 them had left them alone for awhile. And she said 
 * Yes,' and then — and then — in a minute she discovered 
 
DORA. 
 
 119 
 
 that it was not he, but the other one, who had been 
 with*them, but whom the girl thought had left them 
 alone a few minutes before. But, instead, it was the 
 other who had left, and she had said yes to the wrong 
 one, and — what could she do, Rachel ? " 
 
 " Do ? " exclaimed the old woman, " tell him she had 
 made a mistake and have done with it !" 
 
 " No, Rachel, dear," said the girl, gently, "' she could 
 not do that, because, you see, it would have disclosed 
 the fact that she had thought it was the other one, and 
 would be willing to take him if he asked her, and the 
 shame of it would have been dreadful." 
 
 '' Then dinna read sich tales ! " exclaimed old Rachel, 
 " and fash thyself wi' ither people's worries. Thee 
 wilt have plenty of thine own, if thee livest long 
 enough. Though God forfend that thy bonnie head 
 should be bowed low with sorrow, my lamb. At all 
 events, thee wilt have a good and true husband to help 
 bear thy troubles, and to stand between thee and them, 
 if possible." 
 
 " Yes," said the girl. Then she lifted up her head, 
 and laid it upon her hands against Rachel's shoulder in 
 a way all her own. 
 
 " Rachel," she said, " did you ever think I was un- 
 grateful ? I feel as if I am not thankful enouo-h for 
 the blessing of a good man's love. He is good, Rachel, 
 isn't he ? and very good to me ; and I try to show him 
 that I am grateful, and that I am not blind to anything 
 he does for me ; and yet, perhaps it is because he is 
 too good to me, and that I could not show him enough. 
 
120 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 I always feel as if I fall short, and I cannot satisfy 
 myself with my own behaviour." ^ 
 
 " Satisfy thyself, my silly bairn ? Thee satisfiest 
 him," laughed Rachel ; " what matters the other thing ? 
 It is just because thee tliinkest too little of thyself, and 
 dost not understand that thou art giving enough in 
 giving thyself, and that it is he who ought to be 
 grateful." 
 
 " Foolish Rachel ! " murmured the girl, but she said 
 nothing more. 
 
 The winter months had followed in the wake of 
 their autumn brethren, but sufficient chilliness still 
 lingered in the April air to render a hearth-fire 
 grateful. Rain had been falling steadily for more than 
 a week ; the snow had disappeared like magic beneath 
 its dissolving influence. The Grand river was swollen 
 to a turbid torrent. Where it flowed past the farm it 
 was but a narrow stream, but farther up, near the 
 town, it broadened out to a goodly width. At the spot 
 where Brant is supposed to have effected his crossing, 
 a narrow plank bridge spanned its waters, forming a 
 precarious pathway across the swollen and tumbling 
 stream. Tom and George Hetley had gone across the 
 river in the early morning. They were to return be- 
 fore tea-time, and Rachel and Dora were busy prepar- 
 ing a tempting meal for them after their wet and 
 toilsome day. The girl's face was very much thinner 
 than it had been eight months ago, but sweeter, with 
 a new gentleness and a certain wistful patience in it 
 that puzzled Rachel's faithful heart sorely. 
 
 " Surely the bairn was happy ! They were all so 
 
DORA. 
 
 121 
 
 fond of her ; she was guarded as the very apple of 
 their eye. She was engaged to the man she loved ; 
 what was there to worry her ? And yet, that she was 
 thinner was a patent fact, and quieter." 
 
 The tempting supper stood long before the fire 
 before anyone came to eat it. 
 
 "They must have been delayed," Farmer Hetley 
 said, sitting down at last to the table, with Dora, to 
 discuss the viands before they were entirely spoilt. 
 
 Seven o'clock came, and no Tom and George ; eight 
 oclock, nine, and then came the sound of footsteps on 
 the gravel outside. Dora got up and went to the door. 
 
 '• Well ! " she began, as she opened it and prepared 
 to address the truants ; but then she drew back, and 
 the farmer, watching, saw her eyes dilate as if with 
 horror, and heard an exclamation, checked almost be- 
 fore it was uttered. He left his seat and hurried to 
 her side. 
 
 " What is it ? " he asked, looking out into the night 
 as he spoke. And then his face changed, too, its 
 usually ruddy color fading to a ghastly pallor. There 
 was no mistaking the sight he saw. A litter, borne 
 by two men, with another walking at its side, was just 
 at the door. The man by its side was George, the 
 other two were strangers — where was Tom ? 
 
 " Come in," he said, in a hoarse voice; and stood aside 
 to let the bearers pass, but George slipped in before 
 them, and went straight to Dora. 
 
 " Come, dear," he said, gently. " He is quite con- 
 scious, but he is weak. Come with me, you shall see 
 him presently." 
 9 
 
 I 
 
122 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 But the white, speechless figure never moved ; she 
 stood as still as it' she had not heard him, not even 
 turning to look at him, gazing steadily at the silent 
 form on the litter that they were bearing in between 
 them. She followed it with her eyes as, guided by| 
 the farmer, they bore it to the stairs, and until they 
 had disappeared at the top. She heard the words I 
 " broken leg ;" and, as they passed her, she saw the 
 sick man's eyes open for a moment, yet nothing roused i 
 her. But when they had gone, she turned and looked 
 at George with eyes full of such unspeakable agony, 
 that he drew her to him in a quiclv embrace. 
 
 " You poor, little frightened thing !" he said, "there 
 is nothing to be alarmed at; he has only broken al 
 ieg." 
 
 But she clung to him convulsively, and shivered at 
 his last words. 
 
 " My darling," he said, " it was cruel that you shotdd 
 see him ; you are quite upset. I hoped to manage it 
 otherwise. But I must go now, dear ; Rachel must be 
 spoken to ; the doctor will be here in a moment, and 
 he will need several thinofs." 
 
 At these words a change came over her ; she re- 
 leased herself from his arms with sudden energy, and 
 darting away from him, disappeared in the direction 
 of the kitchen. Followingp her, Georc^e found her 
 issuing orders to Rachel in a quick, quiet manner, that 
 seemed to have nothing to do with her previous agita- 
 tion. Rachel was just leaving the room to hasten up- 
 stairs, leaving Dora to attend to the fire, hot water, 
 and anything else that might be needed. She was 
 
DORA. 
 
 123 
 
 
 )ved ; she 
 , not even 
 the silent 
 L between 
 ;uided by 
 intil they 
 he words 
 ) saw the 
 nor roused I 
 nd looked! 
 )le agony, 
 
 lid, "there 
 broken a 
 
 livered at 
 
 ou should 
 nanao;e it 
 1 must be 
 ment, and 
 
 she re- 
 ergy, and 
 
 direction 
 ound her 
 nner, that 
 Dus agita- 
 lasten up- 
 ot water, 
 
 She was 
 
 still as white as death, and the piteous appeal was 
 still in her eyes, but otherwise she was calm enough 
 and equal now to the emergency. When the doctor 
 came out of the bedroom, some two hours later, he saw 
 a little figure stealing away from the door, but he was 
 a stranger in the town, the usual family doctor being 
 absent, and did not stop to inquire who it was. Dora 
 went down to the kitchen, and there waited for 
 Rachel's appearance. A patient little figure she 
 looked, standing, watching the door as Rachel ap- 
 peared. She did not utter a word, but a whole world 
 of inquiry was in her eyes. 
 
 " He is better, dear," said the old woman, pityingly ; 
 " much better. They have set his leg, and given him a 
 draught, and he has fallen asleep. Thee lookest almost 
 as ill thyself, my lammie. Come to the fire ; thee art 
 chilled through and shivering." ' 
 
 But Dora did not seem to hear the last injunction. 
 She looked at the old woman without moving from her 
 position. 
 
 " Nursie," she said, " if he had died ? 0—0, if he 
 had died ! What should I have done ? 
 
 The words, and the tone of concentrated passion in 
 which they were spoken, struck Rachd with a keen 
 sense of surprise, almost of pain. 
 
 " But he will not," she said ; " and besides, there is 
 Master George ; thee shouldst be glad it is not he ; that 
 would have been much worse." 
 
 The girl drew back from her, and Rachel saw the 
 pale face flush, as if with sudden shame. Then the 
 
 i 
 
 Ik 
 
 ■id 
 
 4i 
 
124 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 little hands sought her neck, and the brown head was| 
 laid down upon them. 
 
 " O, Rachel, I forgot ! But one cannot help thinking 
 most of the one that is ill, can one?" It was almost as 
 if she was pleading for some word of excuse for her 
 conduct. " And I thought he — was dying, and George 
 is well. You are rifjht, I should be thankful it is not 
 George." 
 
 They could hardly get her to go into the sick room 
 after that. She would fetch and carry all day long 
 outside the door, but she would not go inside. Until 
 a day came when the doctor looked gravely at his 
 patient, and shook his head anxiously over some 
 delirious mutterings that he gave utterance to in his 
 presence. The leg was doing well ; but the pain, or the 
 shock, or some previous weakening of the system, had 
 brought on a low fever,, that was far more alarming 
 than the simple fracture had been. 
 
 George had told Dora long ago how the accident 
 had happened. They had been delayed on the other 
 side of the river until after dark, and then had had to 
 cross the swollen, turbulent stream over the narrow 
 bridge. The water had risen almost even with the 
 single plank, 'but it was still available as a crossing 
 with care. George had effected the passage safely, 
 and Tom was close behind him, when an uprooted 
 tree, floating down the stream, struck the bridge with 
 one of its roots, and with the other opposed Tom's 
 progress as he was following George. The charge was 
 too sudden to avoid, and over the obstructing limb 
 Tom went, flinging out his arms to save himself, and 
 
DORA. 
 
 125 
 
 head was| 
 
 tliinking 
 almost as 
 e for her 
 d Georo'e 
 it is not 
 
 ick room 
 day long 
 e. Until 
 ly at his 
 /er some 
 to in his 
 tin, or the 
 stem, had 
 alarming 
 
 accident 
 he other 
 id had to 
 3 narrow 
 with the 
 crossing 
 B safely, 
 uprooted 
 iloje with 
 3d Tom's 
 arge was 
 inoj limb 
 iself, and 
 
 thereby saving his head, but falling with his leg 
 twisted under him in a fashion that snapped it in two 
 directly above the ankle. The same thing that had 
 caused his fall, however, held him a safe prisoner until 
 they could come to his rescue. Then they made a 
 hasty litter and bore him home. Now that the broken 
 limb was nearly well, fever had taken its place, and 
 now began a real contest between life and death The 
 worst of it was, he seemed to have no desire to live. 
 He was seldom delirious, but when not energized by 
 fever, so weak and white that it struck one's heart 
 with hopelessness as to the end. 
 
 Uora waited on him now ; Rachel was busy enough, 
 poor soul, with all the house on her hands, and the 
 extra work caused by illness, besides. All day long, 
 and every night that they would let her, the girl sat 
 in the sick room watching the clock as the hands 
 moved slowly over the hour between each dose of 
 medicine. Sometimes the sick man would smile up at 
 her, as she came up to his bedside with the well-known 
 phial in her hand, and always, when not too weak for 
 anything, his eyes rested on her as she sat on her low 
 seat by the window doing, or pretending to do, the 
 work that so unevenly divided her attention with the 
 clock in front of her ; it never engrossed her so much 
 as to make her forget a dose of medicine, or ever over- 
 step the limit by even a minute's space. 
 
 George saw very little of her during this time, but 
 he was too true a man and brother to resent that ; the 
 sick man's life depended upon unfailing watchfulness 
 and attendance, and he was as anxious as any one else 
 
126 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 that it should be given. Yet he did sometimes feel 
 worried when he sp.w Dora's thin, pale face, and 
 noticed the dark lines under her eyes. 
 
 "You are growing ill yourself, Dora;" he said one 
 day. " I cannot have it, dear. You must let some 
 one else take your place occasionally, and come out 
 with me for change of air and rest. Come now, dear, 
 Tom is sleeping, and Rachel can watch him." 
 
 She opened her lips, as if to refuse ; then, appa- 
 rently, changed her mind and went away quietly to 
 put on her hat. They walked down through the 
 budding orchards to the river's bank, but there Dora 
 turned away, abruptly. 
 
 " I cannot bear the sight of it ! " she said, sharply ; 
 " let us go up to the lawn." 
 
 They had a half -hour's ramble together, and George 
 was very grateful for the rare tete-a-tete with his 
 betrothed; but longer than that he could not keep her, 
 
 "It will be time for the medicine/' she said, "and 
 Rachel might forget ; I must go." 
 
 She was turning away over the lawn, when some 
 thought seemed to strike her ; she turned suddenly 
 and put up both her arms about his neck and kissed 
 him warmly, not only once, but twice. 
 
 "You are very good to me;" she said, earnestly; 
 " and very patient ; I do not deserve it, George." 
 
 He closed his arms around her tightly, touched 
 greatly by the unwonted caress. 
 
 " Deserve ! " he said ; " how can I ever give you 
 what you deserve, Dora ? Look at the life you lead 
 now ! You are far too good for me ; I cannot think 
 why you ever took me." 
 
DORA. 
 
 127 
 
 She put up her hand before his lips to -silence him, 
 smiling a wan, little smile as she did so. 
 
 "I do not know why you ever wanted me," she 
 said. " Now, let me go ; I am deserting my post too 
 long." 
 
 After that he ordered her out with him for a short 
 time every day, though she never stayed away long 
 enough to miss administering the hourly draught or 
 powder. 
 
 By-and-by the crisis came, and then they knew 
 that the sick man would be given back to them ; but 
 when the slowly passing days had fulfilled the promise 
 of that hour, and the long tedious days of convales- 
 cence came, Dora was rarely seen in the sick room. 
 She had dropped out of her duties very gradually ; but 
 she had dropped out of them. It struck Tom with a 
 keen sense of neo*lect. He had grown so accustomed 
 to that silent, watchful figure by the window during 
 the time when he had been too weak to speak, almost 
 too weak to think ; now, when he needed society most ; 
 now, when he could talk and wanted to be talked to, 
 she had deserted him. It was not that she was with 
 George, for George spent almost all his spare time in 
 his brother's room, both he and his father ; but Dora 
 was always " busy ; " that was the answer returned 
 whenever she was asked for, or she was out walking. 
 A very fever of unrest seemed to have seized her. She 
 was always out ; shopping, marketing, always on some 
 useful errand, but always somewhere abroad. One 
 day, however, Tom ventured to detain her. 
 
 " Stay with me for a little, Dora ! " he said, wist- 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 It 
 
 J 
 
 If 
 
128 
 
 TANOr.ED ENDS. 
 
 fully; for the weakness and e*:,^oti.sm of illness were 
 still upon hiin. They were like a long parenthesis, 
 these days of sickness and convalescence, when the 
 ordinary conditions of life did not prevail ; when he 
 was licensed to have and to do tliat which he desired 
 without any question as to ri^ht or wron<^. By-and- 
 by those questions must be taken up again, he knew; 
 for the present he must enjoy his holiday, it would be 
 short enough. 
 
 " I want to thank you for your care and kindness," 
 he said ; " you have pulled me from the gates of death. 
 I was not so very anxious to come back, but that does 
 not detract from your goodness. Come and sit by me, 
 as you used to when I was ill ; now that you have 
 cured me, you desert me." 
 
 She was standing by his chair, having come closer 
 when he called her ; and as he looked at her he saw 
 how very thin and pale she was, and how hollow were 
 the eyes that used to be so bright and soft. The sight 
 upset him in his weak condition ; there came some- 
 thing into his face she had never seen before ; his eyes 
 deepened and darkened with some strange emotion 
 that she understood, and yet did not dare to under- 
 stand. He put out his hand and caught hers as it 
 hung before her, and, despite the fact that she pulled 
 at it hard, and almost called aloud in her desire to 
 escape, he drew her down, and before she could pre- 
 vent it, held her for the first time for months in his arms. 
 
 " Little Dolly, little Dolly," he was saying, in a low, 
 tense whisper ; " have I brought you to this ? My 
 little Dolly ; my little Dolly ; my darling !" 
 
DORA. 
 
 129 
 
 ess were 
 renthesis, 
 vheii the 
 when he 
 e desired 
 By- and - 
 he knew; 
 would be 
 
 :indness," 
 of death, 
 that does 
 it by me, 
 you have 
 
 ne closer 
 r he saw 
 How were 
 rhe sight 
 me some- 
 ; his eyes 
 ! emotion 
 :o under- 
 tiers as it 
 he pulled 
 desire to 
 ould pre- 
 . his arms. 
 in a low, 
 is ? My 
 
 But she broke from him ; and, with a cry, fled like a 
 frightened deer from the room ; and as soon as she had 
 ifone, Tom realized what he had done. He watched 
 for her entrance again all that afternoon and evening, 
 and all the next day — she never came near him. He 
 would not have asked for her if his life had depended 
 upon seeing her. " She did well to be angry," he 
 knew it; "he had behaved disgracefully. He could 
 not put it on the ground of their long-time relation- 
 siiip as brother and sister — his conscience would not 
 allow that, and he knew she knew it was not that, too. 
 She was a woman now, with a woman's instinct; and 
 she could not have mistaken his words, his tone, and — 
 she was enojaijjed to his brother Geortje ! " He longed 
 for an opportunity to apologize with a feverish long- 
 ing, but it did not come. It was the third day after 
 he had so offended her that, as he lay apparently 
 asleep, she entered the room with something that 
 Rachel had sent her up with. He heard the footstep, 
 fjentle though it was, and opened his eyes. She saw 
 that he was waking, and attempted to hasten away, 
 but he called her back. At first she hesitated, and 
 then turned and stood waiting his next words. 
 
 " Come closer," he said, " do not be afraid ; I want 
 to apologize. I was a boor the other day, and I beg 
 your pardon humbly. I forgot you were no longer 
 my sister, Dora ; or rather (with a faint attempt at a 
 smile), not yet ; I will promise to remember in future. 
 And yet I was always your privileged brother, Dora; 
 and it is hard to forget old times and habits so soon. 
 Let me be your brother, now, as I used to be ; it is but 
 
130 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 anticipating, after all. Tell me that I may, and then 
 I shall feel that I am forgiven." 
 
 She put her hand out after a short hesitation (and 
 he took it in his and accepted it as a ratification of tho 
 treaty he had proposed), but he could not understand 
 the expression on her face as she did so. It was not 
 exactly pride, it was not exactly shame, nor yet was it 
 all scorn ; but it was something that was very like a 
 combination of the three. She released her hand, and 
 turned from him again ; and he hardly felt as if the 
 reconciliation was very complete. When he saw her 
 again, however, she was almost markedly kind and 
 attentive, with an assumption of the old, easy relations 
 that was rather puzzling to Tom ; but she clung more 
 to George than she had ever clung before. She seemed 
 to emphasize the fact of her relationship to him ; 
 quietly, not demonstratively, but nevertheless to em- 
 phasize it, and to show more affection for him than 
 she ever displayed at all. > 
 
 The day came when Tom was able to go out and 
 about his business again, but he looked years older 
 than he had before his illness ; yet, looking back, 
 Dora became conscious that he had been slowly chang- 
 ing for the past eleven months, that the Tom of that 
 date was no more in existence now. Yes, it was 
 eleven months ago, for the May days had all vanished 
 whilst they had been tied to the sick man's couch ; and 
 now June was preparing to lay down her dewy fresh- 
 ness at the dusty feet of July. Dora's mood of rest- 
 lessness seemed to have changed for one of equally 
 pronounced inactivity and listlessness. Instead of 
 
DORA. 
 
 131 
 
 being always abroad, she hardly went out at all, and 
 seemed too weary for any exertion. Rachel, watching 
 her, was seriously troubled. " What was the matter 
 witji her bairn ? Was it only the nursing and worry- 
 ing, or was there anything more ? " 
 
 " What ails thee, my bairn ? " she asked one day, 
 when the listlessness and utter lack of energy were so 
 apparent that there was no avoiding taking notice of 
 it. " Is it aught that I can help thee in ? Thee hast 
 worn thyself out wi' nursing and the like ; now thee 
 needs nursing thyself." 
 
 A wan, little smile was the only answer to this ; a 
 smile that was so akin to tears that it almost broke 
 Rachel's heart to see it. 
 
 " My lanimie ! " she exclaimed, kneeling down by 
 the girl's side, ana drawing the tired-looking young 
 face to her shoa' ^er; "hast thee not a brighter smile 
 than that at th age ? Art thee going to be ill, or is 
 there somethincf troubling^ thee ? Tell old Rachel 
 what it is. If thee hadst a mother thee wouldst tell 
 her. I cannot be thy mother, but I can love thee like 
 one ; and I do, and it breaks my heart to see thee 
 suffer. What is it, dear ? " 
 
 There was a long silence after this, until Rachel, 
 looking down, saw that che girl was crying quietly to 
 herself ; she put up her arms when she saw she was 
 discovered, and hid her face against Rachel's breast. 
 
 "0, nursie," she said; "I am so foolish! I am 
 ashamed of myself, but I cannot help it. I think you 
 are riofht ; I am worn out. I feel nerveless. 
 
 Old Rachel said nothing, but she got up and made 
 
 % 
 
 y 
 
 t 
 
 ■I 
 
132 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 her child lie down ; forced her to take a sleeping 
 draught, and when she had seen her fall into a sound 
 slumber, darkened the room and left her. She had a 
 conversation with George later in the day ; a conver- 
 sation which he began himself, attracted by Rachel's 
 nervous hanging about the room in which he was busy 
 sharpening a scythe. 
 
 " Do you want anything, Rachel ? " he asked. 
 
 The old woman, thus addressed, came up to him, and 
 opened her subject at once. ■ 
 
 " Yes, I want something very much. Master George," 
 she said, " and I have wanted to speak to thee about 
 it. Master George, hast thee not noticed that Miss 
 Dora is not well ? Nay, sir, I am not for troubling 
 thee, but some one has got to think about her. Is 
 there nothing: thee can think of which mio^ht trouble 
 her?" 
 
 " Trouble her ! Not well ! What do you mean, 
 Rachel ? Is it possible she is ill and I have not 
 noticed it ? She has been over-worried and over- 
 worked lately, and they have told upon her ; but she 
 is not ill, Rachel ? " 
 
 " She is very nigh it," answered the old wonian. 
 " I have had to make her lie down this afternoon and 
 rest. She is worn out in some way or other, either in 
 body or mind. Canst thee think of anything that 
 might trouble her ? She has not been herself, to my 
 thinking, for many months." 
 
 It was a daring speech if George interpreted it 
 rightly, and Rachel felt it to be so; but her love for 
 her child was stronger than any other consideration. 
 The young man sat silent, however, for a few minutes 
 
DORA. 
 
 133 
 
 g 
 
 sleepin 
 a sound 
 le had a 
 . conver- 
 Rachers 
 vas busy 
 
 1 
 
 him, and 
 
 George," 
 se about 
 lat Miss 
 roublinof 
 her. Is 
 i trouble 
 
 u mean, 
 
 ave not 
 
 id over- 
 
 but she 
 
 woman. 
 lOon and 
 3ithcr in 
 ng that 
 t*, to my 
 
 >reted it 
 love for 
 leration. 
 minutes 
 
 and then he turned to "Rachel with a look of resolve. 
 
 " She must go away, Rachel," he said, " and I will 
 take her. It will be difficult to leave in the middle of 
 hay- making, but it must be managed somehow. Do 
 you understand ? " 
 
 For a moment she did not quite, then it flashed 
 across her what he meant. It was just the opposite 
 of the idea that had been in her own brain, and, 
 somehow, it did not please her at all ; nay, more, she 
 felt as if she had been guilty of precipitating a calam- 
 ity, but what could she say ? 
 
 That evening George drew his father out into the 
 grounds. 
 
 •' Father," he said, when they were alone, " I have 
 something to tell you. You have asked me several 
 times when Dora and I were to be married ; may we 
 marry now ? I want to take her away for a month ; 
 it is for that I want to be married so quickly. She is 
 worn out with nursing, and, father, I shall lose her 
 soGa if something is not done at once ! " 
 
 There was a sharp ring of pain in the last sentence 
 that went straiojht to the old man's heart. 
 
 ' Why, marry, my lad, and welcome," he said 
 heartily. It will do my eyes good to see my grand- 
 children round my knees before I die. There is none 
 too much room in the old house, but we can enlarge 
 it. Have you asked Dora ? " ' 
 
 " Yes," said George. " I have just come from her, 
 and she consented. We shall be married in the mid- 
 dle of the month, then, father; and I will take her to 
 the sea. The salt breezes will make her strong again." 
 
134 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 From that day forward began preparations for the 
 coming event. Not that there was to be any display; 
 it was to be a very quiet affixir ; and as for trousseau, 
 since her old home was to be her new home also, there 
 was little need for much in that way. But a fortnight 
 was little enough to make even the humblest prepara- 
 tion, and there was no idle member in the small farm 
 household for the next two weeks. Dora did her very 
 best to help. She could not allow others to toil for 
 her whilst she sat in idleness, but she worked with a 
 lack of interest, varied occasionally by a fit of seem- 
 ing penitence for her mood, that made Rachel's heart 
 grow heavier every day. 
 
 What was it that was wrong ! Was it what she 
 suspected ? And yet, perhaps, she was wrong. Per- 
 haps, when her child was married, she would be all 
 right. A sense of restfulness, of decision would come 
 with marriage, and by-and-by she would see the light 
 come back to her bairn's eye, and the color to her 
 face. Master George loved her truly and well ; he 
 would guard and cherish her tenderly. He was a 
 warm-hearted, affectionate young fellow, and very 
 much more sober than he used to be. Surely it 
 would all be right when she was married ? " 
 
 The days went on until it was the eve of the 
 wedding. George was busy in the dining-room, 
 although it was eleven o'clock. Tom had not come 
 in yet ; he had been absent since before tea. Dora 
 was in her own room, having bidden every one 
 good-night. As Rachel passed the door, on the way 
 to her own apartment, she thought she heard the 
 
DORA. 
 
 135 
 
 sound as of some one weeping. She paused a mo- 
 ment in doubt ; then, as the sound was repeated, 
 stepped quickly to the door of the room whence it 
 came, and, turning the handle, walked in. The sight 
 that met her eyes took away her speech for a 
 second. On the bed lay Dora, face downwards, sob- 
 bing as if her heart would break. In a very short 
 space of time the old woman had raised the pros- 
 trate head and removed it to her own kindly 
 bosom, whilst she wound her arms about the shak- 
 ing figure in a species of helpless desire to fence 
 her darling in from the trouble that was distressing 
 her. ■ 
 
 "My bairnie, my bairnie !" she cried. ''It is too late 
 to tell Rachel thee hast no trouble now ; thee hast. 
 And listen, my bairn. I am going to risk thy anger 
 and contempt, because I love thee so well I will 
 not let thee suffer for any silence of mine. What 
 art thee troubling about ? Is it thy marriage to- 
 morrow ? Dost thee not love him, child ? Is it 
 that?" 
 
 But she was right in thinking Dora would be angry. 
 
 " I am going to marry him, Rachel," she said, coldly. 
 " It is tuo late to ask me if I care for him." 
 
 "Aye, my bairn, it is late, but better late than never, 
 if thee dost not," answered the old woman, undaunt- 
 edly, " since it is not too late to draw back. Nay, I 
 have begun, and I will finish if thee dost never for- 
 give me for my presumption. Better that than that 
 thy life shouldst be ruined forever. Dear, I have 
 nursed thee in these arms when thee was a wee bit 
 
136 
 
 ^:^ tgled ends. 
 
 bairnie of only two years old, and I have loved thee 
 as I might have loved a child of my own had I had 
 one; and now thee art unhappy, and I have thought 
 sometimes I knew why, and to-moriow it will be too 
 late; so I must ask now, or not at all. Tell «ne, dear," 
 and she bent over the bowed head and spoke very 
 gently, " it is not that thee carest for anyone else — it 
 is not Master Tom ? " 
 
 But at these words the girl jumped up from her 
 clinging posture, and flashed before Rachel, a very im- 
 personation of pride, and anger, and scorn. 
 
 " You do not think I am as mean as that ?" she cried. 
 " You do not think I am going to tell you that I love a 
 man who does not care for me more than for a sister ? 
 (which I shall be soon)" But the quotation was lost 
 upon Rachel. 
 
 " Art thee sure ? " she asked, gently ; " art thee sure 
 he does not care for thee ? " 
 
 " Sure ! " The girl's accent was one of intense 
 scorn. " He told me so, he took special pains to 
 tell me so. There vras a day, Rachel, when he 
 did something which might have made me think 
 otherwise, and afterwards he evidently thought of 
 this himself, and set to work to disabuse my mind 
 of any such mistake. He told me he only looked 
 upon me as his sister, nothing more, nothing more 
 at all ; he was most emphatic. " 0, Rachel," break- 
 ing down suddenly, and flinging herself into the faith- 
 ful arms, " why should you think I care for him ? " 
 But the stubborn Quaker blood in Rachel's veins was 
 not a mere physical inheritance. She held her child 
 
DORA. 
 
 137 
 
 closely in her loving arms; but she repeated her ques- 
 tion in another form. 
 
 " Dost thee care for him, dearie ? " 
 
 The girl drew back with a coldness that was the 
 first she had ever shown to Rachel in all their inter- 
 course with each other. 
 
 " I think you forget what I have told j^ou," she said; 
 " that he does not care for me. That he made the 
 same mistake of thinking I might care to listen to 
 such words from him, and tried to set me right. It 
 seems to me you both forget that I am to marry 
 another man to-morrow morninor and that marriasfe 
 usually presupposes love. I think, Rachel, I shall have 
 to say good-night, I am tired and I had better go to 
 bed." ' 
 
 The old woman drew back quietly. 
 
 " I beg thy pardon, Miss Dora," she said ; " thou art 
 right; I have presumed too far, and am only a med- 
 dling, troublesome old woman. Yet I did it for the 
 best, and I can only say I am sorry." . > 
 
 But the words were hardlv out off her mouth, ere 
 the impulsive young heart she spoke to had repented 
 of its anger. 
 
 "Forgive me, nursie !" she exclaimed. "I was hasty 
 as I always am, and I spoke wrongly. But yon made 
 a mistake, Rachel, and persisted in it, and it angered 
 me. You must try and believe what I tell you, because 
 it is unjust to every one not to do so, I am very, yes, 
 very fond of George ; and there is no doubt he will 
 make me as happy as lies in his power. He is far 
 better to me than I deserve, and I can never be good 
 10 
 
138 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 enough to repay it ; but I am leaving behind me all my 
 girlhood to-night, Rachel, and it is no light thing for 
 any girl to do. You must let me grieve my little 
 grieve, and not think it any injustice to George — I 
 shall be bright enough to-morrow." 
 
 And Rachel left her presently, and went her way ; 
 but when the morrow came, instead of a wedding 
 there was grief and fear, instead of a clergyman came 
 a doctor. When Rachel went to rouse Dora, the girl 
 looked at her with such heavy eyes, in such a white, 
 wan face, that Rachel was frightened. 
 
 " I am too tired, Rachel," she said wearily. " I feel as 
 if I cannot get up." 
 
 The old woman's fears were quickly aroused. 
 
 " Art thee ill, dearie ? " she asked, anxiously. 
 
 •' No, not ill," was the reply, in the same languid 
 tone ; " only tired, too tired to move." 
 
 Rachel's mind was sorely perplexed The marriage 
 was set for ten o'clock, and it was already eight, and 
 much to be done ; yet how could she force her child to 
 get up when she was so worn out ? And yet this new 
 lack of strength was only another reason for the wed- 
 ding being solemnized, that Dora might be taken away 
 to reojain her strength before it was too late. 
 
 " Lie still until I get thee a cup of coffee," she said. 
 "Thee canst spare fifteen minutes yet." 
 
 She brought the coffee, and Dora drank it in the 
 hope that it would give her, at least, fictitious energy 
 for the occasion. Then she got up and bent down to 
 reach her slippers from beside the bed, and in so doing 
 fainted dead away. It was the first time in all her 
 
DORA. 
 
 139 
 
 life that Dora had done this, and Rachel was propor- 
 tionately frightened. She lifted up the unresisting 
 form and laid it on the bed, then she ran to the head 
 of the stairs and called for George, then back again 
 and, seizing the water-jug, sprinkled face and neck and 
 hands plentifully with the cooling liquid. By this 
 time George had arrived, and, through the open door, 
 had taken in the position of affairs. It was no time 
 for false etiquette or nice points ; he strode into the 
 room without any hesitation ; and looking, once, with 
 a frightened face, at the white face upon the pillow, 
 said quickly : 
 
 " Bring her out of this first, and then we must have 
 the doctor." 
 
 They chafed her hands and forehead until they saw 
 her eyelids quiver and her lips begin to tremble ; then 
 George left the room, and, only waiting outside to see 
 her fully recover consciousness, went downstairs and 
 out to the stable, and saddling " Fleet," rode away at 
 full speed for the town. In three-quarters of an hour 
 he returned with the doctor ; and then, fifteen minutes 
 later, Tom set forth in the same direction, only he 
 drew up at the manse gate, and having seen the 
 rector for a fev^ minutes, galloped back again as he 
 had come. 
 
 Dora was ill ; there was no doubt about it now. 
 The idea of taking her away in search of health had 
 come too late ; and yet there seemed to be no name- 
 able complaint, only an utter exhaustion of all the 
 vital forces, and a seeminfj lack of interest in retaining 
 her hold upon life that was the worst feature in the 
 
140 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 il 
 
 case. It was a very different day to that which they 
 had expected. George, the poor, expectant bridegroom, 
 moved about the house like a restless spirit, until at 
 last they gave him permission to enter the sick room. 
 The white, wan face upon the pillow nearly upset his 
 composure ; he went quickly to the bedside, and, kneel- 
 ing down, drew the throbbing head to his shoulder, but 
 then could not utter a word for the tears that almost 
 choked him. Dora looked up at him with a pitiful, 
 loving little smile, and tried to put up one weak hand 
 to touch his face, but even that slight exertion was too 
 much for her. George laid her back upon the pillow, 
 and, taking a chair, sat by her for the rest of that 
 dreary forenoon. She slept at intervals, but still he 
 sat there, ready to greet the opening eyes, each time, 
 with the same loving smile and question as to whether 
 he could do anything for her. But toward night the 
 case assumed a more serious turn ; there were moments 
 when she did not seem to know any of them, and 
 talked incoherently. 
 
 " Nursie, does he care for me, do you think ? " she 
 asked once, as Eachel came to her bedside, and stood 
 watching her. Her eyes were scanning the old 
 woman's face with eager questioning. George turned 
 to the latter, inquiringly. 
 
 " Speak to her," said Rachel; " tell her that you do," 
 and then she turned hurriedly, and walked away to the 
 other end of the room. 
 
 He bent over the bed, and lifting up one of the thin 
 hands, carried it to his lips. 
 
 " Is it I, Dora darling ? " he asked. " Do I care for 
 you, my precious little girl ? " 
 
DORA. 
 
 141 
 
 She turned toward him and nestled closely in his 
 arm? ; then suddenly she looked up at him and imme- 
 diately drew back, and with an expression of returning 
 consciousness and disappointment, lay back upon her 
 pillow again. When the doctor came she was delirious 
 again ; and, for days after that, the question as to 
 whether death or life would conquer, was an open one. 
 One day she would rally a little, and would lie per- 
 fectly conscious, smiling that weak little smile when- 
 ever any one of them came to her bedside; the next 
 she would be delirious once more, talking incoherently 
 about all sorts of things, but always, apparently, in 
 some trouble about something she must hide, and was 
 afraid she did not ; some mistake she had made, but 
 which she did not want any one to guess was a mistake. 
 
 " What does she mean, Rachel ? " George asked one 
 day, when he had been sitting listening to her for a 
 lonof time. " What is it she is troublinj? about ? " 
 
 But even as he spoke, the pleading voice began 
 
 agam 
 
 " You see it was dark and I did not know, and I 
 thought — 0, nursic, don't tell him ! keep it from him, 
 if you can. He almost guessed it once, and then — " 
 
 Then suddenly she broke off and seemed to be puz- 
 zling about something. At last she looked up at 
 George, who stood beside her, and said, perplexedly : 
 
 " Nursie, is it George or Tom I am going to marry ? 
 Which is it ? I cannot remember." 
 
 " It is George, dear," answered the young man, his 
 voice broken by the constraint he put upon it. 
 
 She lay back with a look of relief. 
 
142 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 "lam <?lad," she said, with a sigh; "because, you 
 see, Tom does not care for me." 
 
 Hour after hour, day after day, this rambling talk 
 went on, until at last an idea began to formulate itself 
 in George's brain, and grew there until he went to 
 Rachel with his doubts. 
 
 " Rachel," he said, " tell me, had you ever an idea 
 that Dora liked Tom ? " 
 
 It was a hard question for Rachel. What could she 
 say ? It was late in the day to undeceive any one ; too 
 late, it seemed from all appearances, to do any good. 
 What purpose would it serve to acknowledge the sus- 
 picion she had entertained once, which suspicion Dora 
 had so hotly denied. And, moreover, was it not in- 
 cumbent on her to keep the secret of the poor girl who 
 could no longer keep it herself ? For Rachel was 
 sure now of what she had only suspected before — she 
 had a key to the disconnected wanderings which 
 George had not, but she stuck loyally to her trust. 
 If, as Dora had said, and still stuck to it even in her 
 unconscious ramblings, Tom had given her to under- 
 stand that he only cared for her as for a sister, not 
 even George should learn from her that Dora had 
 cared for him in any other way. But one day, as 
 George was occupying his usual position by the sick 
 girl's side, she raised herself suddenly on her elbow, 
 and, looking straight at him, with eyes in which the 
 delirium of fever was so plainly visible, said : 
 
 "No, George, I could not marry you; you see it 
 would not be right, because I love Tom." 
 
 George said nothing. He laid the hot head back 
 
DORA. 
 
 143 
 
 again upon the pillow, and smoothed the sheet care- 
 fully ; and Rachel, standing by, heard a swift gasp, and 
 saw him turn his eyes once upon her with the look of 
 one who had been suddenly stabbed, but not a word 
 did he utter. Later in the evening, when Dora was 
 sleeping (for a wonder), and no one else was in the 
 room, he went up to the old woman and addressed her : 
 
 " Rachel," he said, " you heard her ; how is it I have 
 been blind so long ? " 
 
 She looked at him with eyes of infinite pity, and 
 could not answer a word. The young man was silent 
 for a few moments. Then he asked : 
 
 " Do you think Tom cares for her ? In that way, I 
 mean ? Because, if so, we must tell him, and he must 
 have the last of her." 
 
 Then Rachel's indignation broke out. 
 
 '• No," she said, " it is just that, Master George ! He 
 does not care for her, except as a sister. He has 
 given her to understand as much. Not that she ever 
 let him guess she cared for him, but something hap- 
 pened that made it necessary for him to tell her so." 
 
 And then Rachel told all that had passed between 
 Dora and herself on the eve of the expected wedding- 
 day. George listened in stern silence ; then, when she 
 had finished, he turned toward the sleeping figure on 
 the bed, with a world of passionate love in his face. 
 
 "My little girl !" he said; "she has one who cares 
 
 for her at all events. If she lives, she shall care for 
 
 me ; I shall care for her so much, she will have to. 0, 
 
 I Rachel, how hard for a poor little sensitive soul like 
 
 her!" 
 
144 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 And then the futileness of his hope overcame him, 
 and he exclaimed : 
 
 " Great Heaven ! What good to plan, -when she is 
 Slipping from us ? " 
 
 Yes, that was what she was doing — slipping from 
 them. Daily, hourly, growing weaker and weaker;! 
 slipping out from all the cross purposes and tangled 
 ends of this weary life, to the perfect peace and per- 
 fect rest of the life beyond. 
 
 Tom saw little of her during these last days ; from 
 early morning he was at work upon the farm. There I 
 was the same work to be done that two had shared! 
 before; now George was always in the sick room, and 
 could not be asked to leave for any press of work. 
 
 " And what did it matter ? " Tom thought ; " he was 
 nothing to either of them ! Her affectionate brother, 
 no doubt, but nothing more. As long as they two 
 were left together to the end, what matter what be- 
 came of him ? " 
 
 If the thought had any bitterness in it, he kep^ it to 
 himself. In the evening he would come into the sick 
 room for a visit, generally when no one else was there, 
 and that meant when Dora was either conscious or 
 sleeping ; and if in those solitary visits anything morc| 
 than ordinary sorrow, for a sister's death swayed him, 
 no one guessed it; he was always calm enough when 
 he came out; white and still, but that was natural 
 enoufjh when she had been his sister all these seven- 
 teen years. Once, ' n he entered the room, he saw 
 Dora's face turned toward the door, as if watching. 
 As he appeared, it lit and smiled to welcome hira ; 
 
DORA. 
 
 145 
 
 then suddenly the smile died away, and a flush and 
 look of pain came in its stead. Georj^e entered the 
 room at the moment, and she turned to o^reet him with 
 a look of intense relief. He went up to her and, bend- 
 ing, took the fraj^ile figure in his arms, and kissed her 
 fondly, and she nestled to him like a child. Tom 
 turned away abruptly and walked to the window, 
 where he stood with his back to them for a good five 
 minutes ; then he came back and spt down on the 
 other side from George, and reman ■ I there for an 
 hour or more. If his face was almost i.s white as the 
 one upon the pillow, and his eyes the eyes of an old 
 man, who was there to notice it ? And if thev had 
 noticed it, who would have wondered ? Was there 
 not cause enough for any one to grieve when she, who 
 had been the pride and pet of the house for seventeen 
 years, was passing away from them forever ! 
 
 One day, at last — a more than usually hot day in 
 the middle of August — the summons came. They 
 were all in the room : Farmer Hetley, Tom, George, 
 and Rachel. Dora had been ofrowinuj so much weaker 
 for days, that they had come to look for the end 
 hourly ; and now that the evening had come,, they had 
 all gathered in the room to be near if anything did 
 happen. She lay with closed eyes, George kneeling 
 by her and watching every char«^e of the dear face. 
 Suddenly she opened her eyes r.nd turned them slowly 
 round the room. They fell upon Tom, as he sat at 
 the foot of the bed, watching her also. A look came 
 over her face that chan<]jed it as the flashing sun 
 changes the gray skies at dawn ; she raised her poor, 
 
146 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 weak hands, and tried to hold them out to him ; but 
 her strength was not equal to the act. With puzzled 
 eyes, Tom turned to George, and saw that he had 
 noticed also, and was signing him to go to her. He 
 got up, as one in a dream, and moved to the side of 
 the bed ; but even as he moved, the smile faded 
 from her face, the look of inexpressible, irrepressible 
 love gave way to one that told each heart there that 
 the end had come. Before Tom could reach her, she 
 had lost all consciousness of any one. For a short 
 time she lingered, conscious of their presence ; then, 
 with one swift opening of the blue eyes, and one 
 radiant smile as if the glories of Heaven were already 
 bursting on her view, she passed away from them for- 
 ever. Farmer Hetley and Rachel went away pres- 
 ently, and left George alone with his dead ; Tom had 
 departed almost as soon as the dreadful truth had 
 broken upon them. What he did in those hours when 
 he shut himself up and no one saw him, no one ever 
 knew. Later, he went back to the darkened room, 
 and there, across the bed of death, the two brothers 
 looked into each other's faces, with eyes so haggard 
 and utterly despairing, that one would have found it 
 hard to say which of the two had been the promised 
 husband of the girl who lay between them — now 
 passed forever beyond the reach of all such earthly 
 questions, to that land where there is neither marry- 
 ing nor giving in marriage. 
 
 The levelling power of death broke down all bar- 
 riers of pride or reser ve between man and man. George 
 looked across at his brother with all his stricken heart 
 in his face. 
 
DORA. 
 
 147 
 
 " 0, Tom ! " le said, " she was all I cared for. God 
 help me to bear it!" 
 
 And then that happened that stilled George's sor- 
 row for the moment, as a great surprise stills every 
 sense in us for a time. Holding out his hand across 
 the bed, and clasping his brother's ulosely in it, as he 
 extended it in response to the unspoken invitation, 
 Tom said : 
 
 " God help us both, George, my brother, for, O, great 
 Heaven ! 1 loved her, too." 
 
 There fell a silence between them that one could 
 ahnost feel ; and then George looked up with eyes that 
 were, if possible, more haggard than before. 
 
 " And it has come too late ! " he said ; and no words 
 could measure the utter despair in his utterance of 
 that one short sentence. Tersely, as if words were 
 difficult, he told his brother all that he knew — of 
 Dora's unconfessed affection, of her belief that he 
 (Tom) did not care for her more than for a sister, of 
 his (George's) belief that this unsatisfied desire, and 
 the struggle between her loyalty to him and her un- 
 conquerable love for Tom had worn out her young life, 
 and so left her unable to cope with disease when it 
 came. There was nothing to be said between these 
 two. How could George blame Tom for not exhibit- 
 injr the love he had not known was desired ? How 
 could Tom blame George for not telling him of a love 
 he (George) had believed was not returned ? What 
 could the man who had loved her, yet had not been at 
 liberty to tell his love, say to the man who had stood 
 in his way, to be sure, but who was now bearing the 
 
148 
 
 TANGLED ENDS. 
 
 bitter sorrow of knowing that he had given his love 
 in vain. 
 
 They laid her in the family burial plot in the 
 churchyard of the Presbyterian Church to which 
 they belonged ; and, later on, they moved from the 
 farm so fraught with associations of the dead girl 
 that they could not bear it any longer, to a house near 
 the town. The old homestead still stands, but its gene- 
 ral appearance is so changed that one could hardly 
 recognize it. Faithful Rs^chel rests beside the girl she 
 called her "child," and whom she loved as such. 
 Farmer Hetley, also, has been gathered to his fathers. 
 George still lives, an old man now, with children 
 growing up around him, almost as old as he was then. 
 He has left Canada altogether, and is living in one of 
 the busiest cities of the States, far from the scenes of 
 that most sorrowful epoch in his life. Tom never 
 married, though he lived for years after. One can 
 live long, as far as mere physical existence is C(m- 
 ceriied, after the heart is dead within one. Onlv two 
 years ago they laid him, at his own request, by the 
 side of the jjirl whose imaore he had never been able 
 to replace even after thirty years. So they rest at 
 last, those two, side by side, as it had been God's will 
 they should not in this mortal life. If it be true, as 
 many tell us, that the loves and passions of this world 
 are continued in the next, little does it matter to them 
 now that they were separated here, since they arc 
 joined tpgether for eternity. 
 
his love 
 
 ot in the 
 to which 
 from the 
 dead girl 
 ouse near 
 b its gene- 
 Id hardly 
 16 girl she 
 
 as such, 
 is fathers. 
 
 children 
 
 was then. 
 
 in one of 
 
 scenes of 
 
 'om never 
 
 One can 
 
 ce is C(m- 
 
 Onlv two 
 
 ft/ 
 
 3st, by the 
 been able 
 ey rest at 
 God's will 
 36 true, as 
 this world 
 er to them 
 they are