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CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques

1980

Technical Notes / Notes techniques

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
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□
D
D

Coloured covers/
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Tight binding (may cause shadow-> or
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L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a 6t6 possible de se procurer. Certains
ddfauts fusceptibles de nuire d la quality de la
reproduction sont notds ci-dessous.

D
D
El

Coloured pages/
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Coloured plates/
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Show through/
Transparence

Pages damaged/
Pages endommagdes

Th
po
of
filr

or
ap

Th
fill
ins

fol

Additional comments/
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Front cover damaged.

Bibliographic Notes / Notes bibliographiques

Only edition availajle/
Seule 6dition disponible

Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'autres documents

Cover title missing/

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Pagination incorrect/
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muM^zr-'^^^i^i

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The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall
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Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la der-
nidre image de cheque microifiche, selon le cas:
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The original copy was borrowed from, and
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National Library of Canada

L'exemplaire filmd fut reproduit grSce d la
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Bibliothdque nationale du Canada

Maps or plates too large to be entirely included
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Les cartes ou les planches trop grandes pour dtre
reproduites en un seul cliche sont film^es d
partir de I'angfe sup^rieure gauche, de gauche d
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d'images n^cessaire. Le diagramme suivant
illustre la mdthode :

1 2 3

4 5 6

■^.&U-V\ • t

2 c y

jBIS"

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

WI]

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.

of ch

weigl
more

pages

and c

were

our t

aroun

the SI

secure

upon

hidin<

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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.

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.

>>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.

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.

^ 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

TANGLED ENDS.

|| ,

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.

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

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.

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 !

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.

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

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.

^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-

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.

, 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

•

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.

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

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

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.

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

TANGLED ENDS.

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.

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

TANGLED ENDS.

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.

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."

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.

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-

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.

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-

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.

^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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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,

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.

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 ? "

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.

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-

TANGLED ENDS.

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.

jhionable
sared itsl

low, ricli
mcerning
) stricken
long and
it, per-l
pity and]
ill Cana-

the veni

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

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.

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

TANGLED ENDS.

it'iiii^ii!

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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-

TANGLED ENDS.

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.

" 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 — -."

5?|

.^1

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.

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

)■;::/*

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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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TANGLED ENDS.

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'

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.

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.

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-

Dai

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.

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.

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

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.

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 — "

^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. .

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

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

■id

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-

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

■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

sleepin
a sound
le had a
. conver-
Rachers
vas busy

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.

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

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