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 late 
 
 §dter. 
 
 56 S3 
 |8?7 
 
 > /^P7F^ 
 
 BY 
 
 "VST. H. BI?;0'V7'3iT 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOLUME ONE. 
 
 ST. JOHNS, P. Q. 
 
 THE NEWS STEAM PRINTING HOUSE, 
 
 1877. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter. 
 
 T^.— What Is It All About 1 - - . 
 2. — A Canadian Home. - - - 
 
 Z'—^ YoimgLady, A Lawyer and A Yankee, 
 /i,.— Moonlight For Three. .... 
 
 ^.—Beneath The Wavy Boughs. - . - 
 
 6. — Barney And /erry. 
 
 1-—A Rrst Kiss. ..... 
 
 ^.— Enter Two— Great Things To Do. 
 9. — I Mnst Have Salmon. - - . . 
 10.— A Pic-Nic By The Lake. - - . 
 i\.—A Revelation; An Arrival, And A Lecture. 
 12. —Did' fit Kfiow When She Was Well Off. 
 13- — Arcadian Lovers Truly. 
 14- — The First Disagreement. - - . ' . 
 \^.~ Asking For What He Meant to Take, 
 id. —The Way To Do It. 
 ^7— What's The Matter With My Rose 1 
 1^.— Emily Begins To Plot. - - . . 
 i^.— The Cricket Match And A Subsequetit Little 
 
 20. — Peccavi. 
 
 21.— And He Was Comforted. - • ,r 
 22. — Covering Up His Tracks. - - - . 
 2Z>~You Shall Have Your Trip, Ada. 
 24. — A Coming Storm. - - . * . . 
 2S.—My LoveFaileth Not / Ohf Edwin / Edwin / 
 
 Page. 
 
 ■ - 5 
 
 - J I 
 
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 43 
 
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 - 89 
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 '123 
 
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 Game. 177 
 
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 237 
 
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 266 
 

 
 1 
 
 ™»S 
 
 
wwi^p w ^r/l 
 
 
 pHE 
 
 Might Have Done Bettei\, 
 
 CHAFTKR I. 
 
 "' WHAT IS f r AFI. AHOLT ? " 
 
 '• It is a burning shame f think, Uncle," said a hiindsonie 
 young lady, turning — in the front seat of the carriage, of \\hi< h 
 she was the charioteer — towards her two male comi)anions, the 
 person addressed and her father ; " you |)romised that this visit 
 was specially to me. I have driven twenty miles to meet you 
 this warm day, and how do you receive the honour I confer 
 upon you ? Since wo left the station you have not addressed 
 a word to nit 
 
 " Not addressc a word u» \ou, I'ithcl ? Well, at all events, 
 I have been talking ever since we met." 
 
 " Ves, I have been listening to you. it is not often that \ ou 
 are silent. Uncle. Lo(juacity itself — like a true Yankee. Hut 
 your conversation has not been interesting — one of your usual 
 harangues upon politics. But where is the use ? \ ou cannot 
 make a Canadian of Paj)a ; he is English. V'ou might as well 
 try to make an American of him ; so relincjuish the vain idea, 
 and let lis have something more interesting." 
 
 " Something more interesting I " echoed her uncle : " you arc 
 a Canadian, at any rate, Kthel, and the theme of our conversa- 
 tion should be of interest to you, or anything relating to the 
 land of your birth. Your father is a Canadian by adoption — 
 or should be — considering the number of years he has made 
 
4HK M\C.UT TIAVK DON'K BKTTER 
 
 this country hi.s home, and it sliould also he of interest to him." 
 
 ** A hopeless idea, Uncle. \'ou may rehearse for ever the 
 greatness of Canada, Uut I'apa is nl\va\s ready to hang out his 
 British standard hy svhicli to meastne it. N'ou IkmI better talk 
 to me." 
 
 " ^Vhich means that you want the conversation alj to your 
 self, Kthel. Very well : I shall tell you a story then." 
 
 "That will be nicer. Let us have the story by all means, 
 uncle." 
 
 "There is a farmer of my vicinity- -an American, of course, 
 Of the story would not be worth the telling — who once engaged 
 a neighbour — a real live N ankcc from "down east" — to help 
 him in logging up a piece of nearlv (lea red land, to put it in 
 readiness for a croj). Now. lugging — as you niay |)erh'ips be 
 aware — is a very laboriotis business, and recjuires considerable 
 ])ersonal strength in diose engaged in it. So far as this qualit} 
 was concerned, my friend, the farmer, had made a good choice 
 of an assi.stant, for Ebene/er was as powerfully framed as his 
 master; but he had e(|ually with the latter, an uncomjuerable 
 aversion to using his strength in any greater degree than he 
 could help ; and both being remarkably keen hands, they were 
 constantly striving each to throw the lion's share of the hard 
 work upon the other. During their first morning's work, Eben- 
 ezer manipulated so successfully his talents in securing for 
 himself the light lifting, and throwing the heavy work ujMDn his 
 master, that the latter became impatient, as he found himself 
 
 m 
 
 v\ith at least one half of the labour to j)erform, while, as 
 master, he conceived himself called upon for a much lighter 
 share. At length, as one particularly heavy log was drawn up 
 to the j)ile, and Ebenezer — ever alive to his own interests — 
 ufihitching the ox-chain, had quietly sneaked off to the smal- 
 end of the stick for the light lift — his [)atience gave way. " Al- 
 AvayM take the butt-end, Ebenezer !" he shouted ; '' ' that's your 
 end you know. Never be afraid of the butt-end.'" and the 
 
\MI.\r IS II Al.l. AlJOl I 
 
 7 
 
 l)lc 
 
 he 
 
 ere 
 
 arc! 
 
 jen- 
 
 for 
 
 his 
 
 self 
 
 as 
 
 Iter 
 
 up 
 
 lal- 
 Al- 
 )iir 
 the 
 
 hiui end Khene/er had to take, vsith all the rest ol the bwti 
 ends loo for that forenoon.'' 
 
 " 'I'his, while it l)r(HiL,'hl fati^i^tic to the frame, also Wrought 
 vexation to the sjtirit. and he \o\ved revi-nj^e. The dinner 
 hour gave him release at last, and joyfully (hey wended the^r 
 way to the house. During the progress of the meal, the far- 
 mer's wife laid before her husband a goodly -sized pudding. 
 This pudding the skilful housewife had built upon a very wise 
 jjrinciple. 'i'he larger part, destined for herself and her hus- 
 band, was thickly stuffed with nice large raisins, while the 
 smaller, to be allotted to l''.bene/er, was but meagrely su|)|)lied 
 with tiiose toothsome things. A great saving this, and as 
 Kbenezer was to be served from the same dish as his employ- 
 ers, he, reasonably, could have nothing of which to comi)lain. 
 
 " As the farmer raised his hand to divide the |)udding, he said : 
 ' Wall I Kb'ne/.er, seein' as heow yew ar hel|)in' us to-day, the 
 old woman has made a dessert for us.' 
 
 •' ' Ya'as ! 1 sees,' rej)lied Kbenezer, eyeing it narrowly. 
 
 " Down came the farmer's knife ujjon the line of intersection 
 between the richly and the barely stuffed ends. 
 
 " * Hold out your plate, Eb'nezer.' 
 
 '* But Kbenezer remembered his morning's lesson. Stretch- 
 ing acro.ss the table, he stuck his fork into the large and well- 
 raisined po:tion. 
 
 " ' Always take the butt-end ; that's the ttwsX for I'ibene/er, 
 you know,' he ([uietly observed, as he put the huge morsel 
 upon his |>late ; ' never be afraid of the butt-end,' he continued, 
 as the pudding, raisins an(i all, rapidly disaj)peared before the 
 astonished eyes of the mouth-watering farmer and his check- 
 mated wife." 
 
 " Well, what then ? " asked the young lady en(juiringly. 
 
 " 'I'hat is the story," was the reply. 
 
 " Indeed ! Then I am glad it is done, at all events. Uncle. 
 lUit where Is the ap[)IIcation ? '" 
 
 '~JK»rrf**efi£y^-"'^i;'t. 
 
 I'^i^'^M^Siasai ±^^d.ViibAr^j^ifjintse»aMt£iftmia3u»ii. 
 
f5 
 
 8 
 
 S\l\ .\II(;Hr HAVK IH).\K liKiriK. 
 
 " riiat is (o. you to discern, my dear." 
 
 " 1 see it. \'ourself, Tncle, who would take the butt-end of 
 the conversation." 
 
 " And you, I imagine, like K))enczer, would much prefer the 
 ])Utt-end of the j)udding, and the lighter share of the work." 
 
 " Well, I think you had better continue your talk with l*ai)a. 
 That story is amply sufficient for me," returned she. 
 
 " Yes ; 1 think so too," said htfl- father. *' If your uncle 
 <annot j)roduce something better than that, he may as well go 
 on with his former subject. It will be the least tiresome." 
 
 "Just what I wanted," exclaimed the gentlemen referred to. 
 
 " Vour story was a regular Ya kee trick to bore us into 
 compliance with your wishes. Hut go on, Uncle. We are 
 now resigned. C'onunence where you left off, and finish as 
 soon as possible," .said the young lady with a comical sigh. 
 
 Her uncle braced himself erect in his seat, smiled delight- 
 edly U|)on his disgusted auditors ; " I shall have you all my 
 own way now" — and then he continued — " 1'he ultimate desti- 
 nies of a nation must evidently depend in great measure upon 
 the country in Avhich its multitudes reside : the land itself 
 which forms their heritage." 
 
 " No matter what may be the physical or the psychical 
 capabilities of the races inhabiting, the measure of the greatness 
 they may attain will be very much determined by the ])hysical 
 <npabilities of the land they inhabit. If their country be nat- 
 urally great, fertile, beautiful, grand in its contour and extent, 
 its peoi)le should become a great people, and reach the highest 
 civilization." * 
 
 " The peculiar genius and bejit of the races comjjosing it. 
 their mental and physical endowments, may be the chief factor 
 of the sum of the civilization and power they may reach ; but 
 not the sole causes. The natural conditions of that i)ortion of 
 (lod's bright world which has become theirs, bear powerful and 
 determining Influences." 
 
U H.M IS n AM, AHOl I. 
 
 " The beauties of the land, the |)leasnnt, ever-new and vary 
 ing charms that the «^'lorious face of nature i)resents to the e}e. 
 must bias the mind towards that love of the beautitu) and jjiire. 
 the elevation ,)f sentiment and of idea which are the first es- 
 sentials of a high and beneficent civilization ; while the nation- 
 al |)ros|jerity, contimially accumulating, which a rich and fertile 
 country gives to its people, yields the strength and the i)ower 
 for an enduring civilization, 'ibgether — for enduring greatness.' 
 
 *' If then the physical lieauties and wealth of a country are 
 determining elements to make the people hapi)y, advanced, 
 refined and powerful, this ' Canada of ours ' should become a 
 great nation. Si)ringing from untouched virgin wilds into active 
 life ; under the ardent powers of a people sprung from Karth s 
 two greatest of races ; with their vivif\ ing culture and high 
 iivilization — the slow growth of centuries — trans|)lanted 
 ready-made to the new, fresh soil : surelv the wide land of the 
 maple and the beaver has all the elements for a future — great 
 and powerful." 
 
 " Waving her young flag over half a continent, she has di- 
 versity enough, range enough, verge nnd scope enough." 
 
 '• No narrow metes and ])ounds confine her energies." 
 
 "The great Dominion, stretching from ocean to ocean^ 
 awaits but her millions to bring forth and vivify the vast resour- 
 ( es she contains ; vast and varied as her wide extent." 
 
 " Probably no other country is ])ossessed of so great a 
 diversity ; so varied and so opjiosite a range of beauty in its 
 natural scenery as this 'Canada of ours.' Within its great bor- 
 tlers Nature seems to have selected a favourite field ; and glo- 
 ried in her work of groui)ing together every different and 
 charming effect; every grade of magnificent picturing that her 
 lavish hand could indulge." 
 
 " An infinite variety oversj)reads the land, and no sameness, 
 no fatal imiformity of design mars the ever-recurring freshness 
 and noveltv of the wonderful alternation of the scenen\" 
 
14 
 
 SHK MKIHI HA\ K DoN'K IJK/I'I'KR. 
 
 if 
 
 i:' 
 
 " What n supcrlj panorama opens on the eye and moves the 
 proud sense, while the Canadian surveys die vast and mag- 
 nificent land of his birth. I'ruin the rock-bound yet grand 
 AdaiUic <;oasl three thousand miles — to the inlet indented 
 and beautiful shores ol the I'acific -what a pageant lies ! 
 Mountains and vallcj ; hill and plain ; sea-coast and river — 
 the trackless forest and the boundless prairie. The vast lakes 
 — fresh-water seas — expanded to the dimensions of oceans, 
 and the silver lakelet, gleaming like a gem in die bosom of the 
 green woods. J'he tlesohite wildness of the frozen north, and 
 the rich, luxuriant beauty of an almost tropical clime. The 
 land of the grape and the icy home of the polar bear. 'J'lie 
 crowded city and the grassy range of the buffalo. The rich 
 and cultivated regions of the white man, with all their access- 
 ories of civilization, order and wealth ; and the rude Indian 
 camp. All ; all the.ie, are comprehended within the mighty 
 scene, whose vastness and grandeur might well inspire a jxitri- 
 otic ardour, a true Canadian pride; and give an exultant ring 
 to the voice wiiich proudly says — ' This is my Country !' " 
 
 "And upon what a magnificent scale has not the great 
 |)icture been laid ? No narrow distances or hemmed-in boun- 
 daries are pent in the great Canadian land. Its thousand- 
 miles-long rivers ; its thousand miles wide forests and prairies, 
 waiting with their virgin treasures for the coming millions. 
 The mighty St. Lawrence, its great gulf and ocean lakes — in 
 each of which a state might be submerged, piercing the length 
 of the land — draining die waters, and bearing the commerce of 
 a continent, are Nature's great works gi\en to a country that is 
 destined to be great." 
 
 " If the influence of the natural beauties, the social advan- 
 tages which Nature, with so lavish a hand has bestowed on our 
 land, have, as they surely ought to have, an elevating and 
 refilling effect on the s])irit and mind of the ])eople ; and tend 
 K) increase and foster that ardent patriotism- -that enduring 
 
A CAXADTAX HOMK. 
 
 1 1 
 
 love of colintry which every man must feel for the land of his 
 birth : then this Canada ])ossesses the prime elements for a 
 '<reat future." 
 
 *' The rest h'es with the {>eo|)lc themselves — their morals, 
 their industry, and tiieir capacity to govern and be governed." 
 
 "Our heritage is a great one. If it is not felt to be a 
 heritage and an honour to be named ' a Canadian,' it is the 
 fault of Canadians." 
 
 CHAPIER n. 
 
 A CANADIAN HOME. 
 
 On the shores of one of the charming little lakes, which 
 f(>rm not the least attraction of the very picturestjue and beau- 
 tiful tract of country, lying well north of i^ake Ontario — stands 
 the extensive and well-ordered demesne of Mr. Henry Mor- 
 daunt. An Englishman of some means, who early in life had 
 crossed over to Canada, more from the pleasure to be derived 
 from travel, and from si)ort, than for any purpose of permanent 
 residence — he had fallen upon the spot (then almost a virgin 
 wilderness) and had been so attracted by its beauty, and the 
 sporting charms of the adjoining country, that he had pur- 
 chased some th(>iisan<ls of acres of lan<l sur-ounding his chosen 
 lake, and settled down to inj|)rove the j>roperty thus acquired, 
 and to lead the life of a C!anadian country gentleman. 
 
 Possessed of taste, as well as means, he had converted the 
 rough frontier clearing, of which years l)efore he had entered 
 into possession, into what was at once a large and well cultivat- 
 ed property, and a beautiful ])lace of abode ; and, while he 
 had cleared up his lands extensively, fully entering into the 
 ><pirit of the Canadian farmer, who dearly loves wide fields — he 
 studied* to preserve the natural beauties of the pla<e : to im- 
 
I 2 
 
 *HK MIGHI HAVK DuNK J}K'l riCR, 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 prove and enhance them by all the arts which his artistic tastes, 
 love of scenery a!i<l ctuninand «»r nmney «oiil(l bring to that 
 end. 
 
 One side of his jirdty lake he had sunired lo remain fringed 
 to the water's edge with the glorious old maples, elms and ])ines 
 of the ]jrimeval forest — a sheltering and a beautiful back-ground 
 —while on the gently rising and undulating shore of the other 
 bank la\- the cultivated grounds ; stretching back over a wide 
 extent ; interspersed with groves and copses, orchards and 
 ornamental plantations, wherever such would most heighten the 
 effect. The unsightly spots, common to every landscape, and 
 commonly left In their deformity to ]»ain the eye, had been 
 carefully hidden by fringes of trees : an<l the barns and out- 
 houses (generally unpleasing objects) in the same manner were 
 masked from sight. The fields bordering the shores of the 
 lake >\'ere cultivated to the water's edge, with no ragged and 
 unsightly range of bushes obstructing the view ; but the smooth 
 grassy slopes met the water, with here and there a tree, or an 
 effective copse to adorn and guard them from sameness. 
 
 J'he j)roperty, which under the ruthless and wholesale de- 
 struction of the forest (.sweeping away every tree with liand 
 that seems to hate — that too often marks the progress of the 
 Canadian settler), would have been but a bare clearing, resem- 
 bled a handsome and well-laid-out jjark. 
 
 On a gentle eminence near the head of the lake, sheltered 
 by the pictures(juely-wooded heights adjacent — with its lawns, 
 gardens and ornamental grounds running down to the water — 
 stood the house, a large, handsome and comfortal)le structure, 
 which looked j)retty and homelike surrounded with its trellised 
 and vine-covered verandah; with its hindsome conservatory, 
 well-kept walks and bright gardens. 
 
 Lake Mordaunt, as its owner had named his property, had 
 l)een so extensive a purchase that it still remained, as it were, 
 enveloped in its own ancient forests, so that the nearest neigh- 
 
A vJVNAlJlAN HOM:l. 
 
 13 
 
 hour's house lay at a distance of three miles. The populous 
 village of Ten Lakes was four miles distant, whilst the nearest 
 railway station was twenty miles away. >Vell might it be called 
 a country place, and was probably none the less \alued by its 
 owner for that reason. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt had married, a few years after his arrival in 
 the country — in Western New York, — an American lady whom 
 he had met in one of his numerous pleasure excursions. A case 
 of love at first sight on both sides, he had been attracted by 
 the winning disposition and delicate charms of the fair Amer- 
 ican ; while she, on her j)art, had not been "unwilling to share 
 the fortunes of the handsome and courtly Englishman, although 
 her future home was then sufficiently far removed from many 
 of the advantages of an older district. 
 
 Three children — a daughter, their first-i)Oiii ; a son two years 
 her junior, and a <;l>arming little girl, now three years of age — 
 had added to their ha])i)iness. 
 
 In his habits Mr. Mordaunt jiresented the somewhat unusu- 
 al anomaly of a strong love of literary pursuits, and an e(.[uall) 
 well-developed liking for field sj>orts, with a love of country life. 
 His books, with his gmi, his rods, his horses and his great farm 
 pretty equally and very pleasantly occui)ie(l his time. 
 
 About fifty years of age, he was still a young-looking, active 
 and vigorous man, to whom life was a jjleasure ; and its duties, 
 which, as far as his abilities went, were carried out to the letter, 
 an enjoyment, in his manners he was polished, refined and 
 courteous ; sim|)le as to his habits ; of fixed and earnest views 
 — especially as to religion, and utterly intolerant of all that was 
 profane or irreverent, hond of com])any and the society of 
 his friends, when at his own house ; he barely endured occasion- 
 al visits into the great world for the sake of his family — to 
 whom he was an affectionate husband and father, and by whom 
 he was tenderly loved. 
 
 His wife - w<V I'Ifirence Horton — was soiih- ten vears her 
 
 
M 
 
 SHE MIGri'J' HAVE DONE BE'l'i'ER. 
 
 husband's junior, and still retained a great measure of her 
 superb youthful beauty. Delicate looking, as in her youth, her 
 happy married life and the fresh vitalizing air of her country 
 home — whose active duties she much liked — had preserved her 
 health ; and her husband and her children — with these duties 
 — yielded her a loving interest in life which had kept her a 
 happy and a handsome woman. *- 
 
 U she did not quite share her husband's love of abstruse 
 studies, yet she was well educated, refined and agreeable ; so 
 happily constituted with the rare charm of rendering all around 
 her pleasurable and bright — that an invitation to Lake Mor- 
 daunt was always eagerly accepted by the hapjjy reci[)ients. 
 Many of the adornments of the ]jlace had been of her creation. 
 Her conservatories, her flowers and her gardens were the boast 
 of the country around ; probably as much for her sake, as for 
 their intrinsic merits ; for l>er suave politeness to all ; her 
 kindness and sweet human sympathies gave in return the 
 respect and love of all classes with whom she came in contact : 
 while there was no surer way of gaining her good-will than an 
 honest admiration of the objects of her love :^ her husband, 
 her children, and I-^ike Mordaunt. • 
 
 t 
 
 ll!i 
 
 ! 
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 A VOUNG LADY — A LAWYER — AND A YANKEE. 
 
 On a pleasant evening, closing a sultry July day, in the year 
 of grace 1873, three persons were seated in the cool and leafy 
 verandah that shaded the house at 1 ,ake Mordaunt, enjoying 
 the fresh evening breeze ; watching the declining sun as it dipped 
 over the pretty lake and l)urnished its tiny wavelets ; and ad- 
 miring the golden tinging of the woody points — the last bright, 
 farewell kisses of de|)arting day. 
 
SSiiSfiMSJ^"'' 
 
 Cj 
 
 SHK MIC.HT HAVE DONK nKTTKR. 
 
 '5 
 
 so 
 
 As ihe thoughts, actions and events wliich shall brighten or 
 overshadow the lives of these three people have much to do 
 with this narration, it is l)ut right that they be introduced in 
 proper form. 
 
 ' Place aux lianus,' md sweet I'.thel Mordaunt — upon whose 
 bright hair the lingering sun's last ray has fallen in golden 
 embrace through the wavy leaves — shall first turn her laughing 
 eyes and delicious face to the reader's glance. 
 
 Miss Ethel Mordaunt was very nice ; as nice a young lady 
 as could be found in all broad Ontario, and that is saying a 
 good deal. When, too, a young lady is nice, the application of 
 the word to her is very nice also. She was tall and slight, and 
 she was gracefully formed. She was all grace and soft, easy 
 movement. Her long, white neck was exquisitely set, giving a 
 peculiarly delightful and graceful poise to her beautiful little 
 head. She was handsome, refined and intellectual looking, yet 
 replete with the vivacity and quick delighted interest that her 
 twenty youthful summers gave her. 
 
 Her violet blue eyes — blue and soft as the sunset .skies — 
 looked out on the world with an expression so frank and so 
 open, with so kind a spirit shining in their clear depths, that it 
 was easy to read the innate goodness and amiability that dwelt 
 beneath. 'J'he generous and sympathetic nature — manifest in 
 every word and action — exulting in the noble and excellent, 
 sorrowing for the evil. rej<.)icing with the happy and grieving 
 with the wretched — but heightened her attractions with that 
 ineffable and undefinable beauty which is as much the external 
 signature of goodness, as are the bitter lines — marring man)- 
 an otherwise charming face — the markings of the poor and cold- 
 hearted spirit. 
 
 Her features wore regular enough to maintain her present 
 beauty, yet without the cold immobility of the classic models. 
 Her complexion, like her mother's, was delicate, fair and trans- 
 jxirent j bright tintings varying with ca<"h flitting emotion : warm- 
 
 --Y^i^-^':^^S&^^ 
 
 .'^^>.'t':^&^~<.-.'.^^e..^r'J^:A^-L.^^>'i^>f ' c?i>u:»i»aDm« uriiiHiiiiinniiiiiii'ini i laiiiBW ■iia jwhiimi 
 
'^'•'mivH miimiu.iH.^f.it.j'iL' 
 
 j6 a VOl'NG I.ADV, J^AVVVKK AM) VANKKK. 
 
 ed or i)alecl as her ycwithful interest in passing events, or her 
 kind symi)athy were aroused. 
 
 Educated and accomplislied — easy and self-possessed — she 
 could be stately enmigh if she choose, hut her eager, rosy little 
 lips and pearly teeth in general found a smile more natural — as 
 it was sweeter — and her society was very attractive. 
 
 She was sensible, too ; and if she liked poetry, she could also 
 make a cake, dust the piano and play it afterwards ; paint a 
 landscape or raise young turkeys. Vet her pretty taper Angers 
 showed that these dissimilar occupations could not affect their 
 whiteness or symmetry, fjke all young ladies, she thoroughly, 
 appreciated the gaities of a town life — the homage and atten- 
 tion she attracted — yet she did not allow these allurements to 
 blind her to the endearing charms of home and its pleasant 
 duties. 
 
 She was the very apple of her fiither's eye — the pride of his 
 heart. And, indeed, for that matter, there were many younger 
 gentlemen — not related — who would only have been too hap|iv 
 to be allowed to look upon her as the apple of their eye also. 
 
 As she sits on the cool verandah in her pretty white summer 
 dress — her charming figure framed against the leafy back ground 
 of the vines — her bright eyes dancing with pleasantness, for she 
 is in comi)any very agreeable to her, she forms a very i)retty 
 picture, and her companions cannot helj) but think — one espe- 
 cially, whose eyes are looking unutterable things — that Kthc! 
 Mordaunt is, as indeed she is, a very nice girl. 
 
 The young gentleman seated near her, and who unconsciously 
 yet very plainly showed his devotion, is Edwin Clereton Vance, 
 barrister-at-law, with very little practice, but wealthy enough to 
 lie inde[)endent of the ])rofession, and to follow his own ideas 
 regarding it. 
 
 The son of a considerable real estate owner of the City of 
 
 Toronto, he had been well brought uj) and carefully educated. 
 
 •Shortly, however, after he had taken his degree with high honor.- 
 
SHK \II(;ilT llAVK DONK HI/m-K 
 
 17 
 
 or her 
 
 >d — she 
 sy little 
 iral — as 
 
 Lild also 
 l)aint a 
 ■ lingers 
 :t their 
 roughly 
 [ atten- 
 lents to 
 !)leasant 
 
 i of his 
 
 Koiinger 
 
 ) hai)|)y 
 
 also. 
 
 Hummer 
 
 ground 
 
 for she 
 
 I pretty 
 
 e esj)e- 
 
 t Kthet 
 
 <iously 
 Vance, 
 ough Ut 
 n ideas 
 
 City of 
 
 ucated. 
 honor.- 
 
 •ind passed the bar, his lather died, leaving to the son the care 
 of his widowed mother, and enjoining him with his last breath 
 dial whatever befell to live as an honest man, 
 
 Mdwij) Vance had entered on the profession of the law from 
 choice, conceiving it to be the noblest pursuit to which a man 
 could devote his life. Holding the chivalric idea, that as a 
 member of this noble profession, he would become a righter ot 
 the wrongs of the oppressed, an aid to justice, and an advocate 
 of the truth and the right, he had entered on die studies whi( h 
 he fondly hoped would yield him a career of usefulness, of honour 
 and of benefit to his felloAv creatures. 
 
 I'he instinctive feeling or percei)tion, whichever it may be. of 
 all right-thinking men, that the general intendons of mankind are 
 more directed towards the good than the evil, was with him 
 carried to the highest point. Hence he never imputed the e\il 
 motive, or suspected an action, upon whose basis by an)' rea- 
 soning a more charitable construction could be raised. 
 
 Thus the study of Law, which is, or ought to be, the exact 
 s( ience of Justice and of Right to all, was to him a delightful 
 one, and probably no young man, fresh from his college honours, 
 ever commenced the |)ractice of his profession in a more en- 
 thusiastic spirit than did Mr. Kdwin Vance. 
 
 It needed, however, but a very few months of its practice to 
 convince him that there lay a great difference between the Law 
 itself md its administration. 
 
 That an engine, as nearly a|)proaching perfection as human 
 intellect and foresight could bring it, should be perverted through 
 its necessary formalities, its re(iuisite safeguards, and unavoid- 
 ably complex machinery, by the misused ingenuity of but too 
 many of his professional l)rethren, to the delay of the righteous 
 cause, the advantage of the wrong, or to the gaining of their own 
 selfish ends, was to him a dreadful thing. 
 
 The maxim, not ])erhaps openly acknowledged, but so com- 
 nidnly j)ut into practice among legal men as to become strict!) 
 
 s^isu?vvZi5r 
 
is A ^uu.s^; i.Ain, i,.\\vvKk and vankkk. 
 
 § 
 
 iill 
 
 li 
 
 theirs, that the end jv'stities the means, no matter how chil)ious 
 may he the end to he attained, or the means emjiloyed : that 
 the winning of a wrong cause, so long iis it is won, hy any 
 chicanery, juggling, douMe-dealing, evasion or sui)pression of 
 the truth that may he necessary, is a triumph and a laudable 
 thing, was to him ecjually abhorrent. 
 
 The enormous expense, the needless delay, the encourage- 
 ment of litigation, the perversion of the plain designs, and the 
 uncertainty in the administration of that which was intended to 
 be cheap, si>eeedy and effective — protective to the rights of all 
 — disgusted him. His keen sense of honour, and the dignity 
 with which he mentally covered that which should be, and was 
 to him, an honourable profession, i)revented him from entering 
 upon, or taking part in, any matter that was not wholly straight- 
 forward. By him no dubious cause, however lucrative, was 
 ever undertaken, and although ready and desirous to present 
 with proper force and in the best light those things that were 
 f:icts, and to employ his highest powers to bring forth the truth 
 to the light of day, yet he would not pervert his faculties to 
 make ajipear as the right Avhat was not the right, as truth what 
 was not the truth, or gain a client's cause by unworthy means. 
 
 In jjersonal ajjpearance he was prepossessing, showing in- 
 tellectuality and the evidences of a studious life. His broad, 
 white forehead bore the contour which indicates great reasoning 
 ]jower, and the large, clear, dark eyes, which almost spoke, 
 showed his command of language. But the small, well-shajjed 
 mouth, the fair complexion, and the lower part of the face too 
 delicately cut, wanting massi\eness, while plainly telling the 
 amiability of his character, told also of the lack of strong deter- 
 mination. Yet the tall figure and handsome composed face, 
 carried their quiet air of intellectual i)ower and dignity, and he 
 looked, as he was — a gentleman. 
 
 Last, but not least, of our trio, comes Mr. Edward Jabez 
 Horton. a meml>er of Congress for the State of New York, the 
 
SHE \iJGH r HAVE DONE HET'lEK. 
 
 li) 
 
 Jal)ez 
 rk, the 
 
 only brother of Mrs. Mordaunt. and a trequent visitor to I,akc 
 Mordaiint ; for his sister and his niece, Ethel, were especial fa- 
 vorites of his, and in general any relaxation he could obtain 
 from business or his pu! lie duties were devoted to a visit to them. 
 Being a widower with but one daughter, married and living in 
 St. Louis, he found the society of his sister and his niece an 
 agreeable relief from the tedium of his somewhat solitary home. 
 An educated and intelligent American of expanded views, 
 fixed and decided opinions, he was in his own district a man of 
 influence and weight. Like most of his countrymen he was in- 
 tensely patriotic, yet with the liberality of spirit and broadness 
 of view of the cosmopolitan. 'I'he Anglophobia and prejudice 
 which are common to many Americans was not shared by him, 
 nor did he consider himself the less a patriotic American there- 
 for. His views of life, the result of e\i)erience and thought, 
 when once formed, were steadfastly maintained with the con- 
 sistency of a mature and confident judgment. 
 
 His politics were not those of parties, but of measures ; the 
 good of his country and his fellow-citizens. To his consistent 
 and untiring efforts in the cause of temperance, of which he was 
 an ardent upholder, his consecutive elections to Congress had 
 been mainly due, and to have oi)posed him in his own district 
 nould have proved a hopless task. 
 
 In person he was tall, of large and powerful frame, active and 
 energetic, and though he had jmssed his fiftieth year, retained 
 tlie vigor of youth. His features were finely cut, though de- 
 cided ; his nose aquiline, his mouth firm ; capable, however, of 
 a {^leasing expression; and often lighted by a smile. His fore- 
 head broad, prominent and well arched down over the clear, steel 
 gray eyes, gave a striking expression of power and force to the 
 lace, which was one that instantly attracted attention and com- 
 manded resjject. 
 
 A personality he never uttered ; or a word, even in the heat 
 of debate, that could injure the feelings of another, and this 
 
 1I5TS 
 
 Etl^i^ifiHL' ! rii*^f «*■-'. '.^'i.'_.a( uaan 
 
JO A \UUNG LAUV, I.AWYKR AM) YANKKL. 
 
 If 
 
 (iis| 
 
 amiable ciuality he carried into his private us well as his public 
 life. 
 
 A vein of genial humour lay under the grave and thoughtful 
 exterior. With pleasant people around him he formed a most 
 agreeable and entertaining, as well as instructive companion. 
 He had. managed to accumulate a handsome fortune by his 
 jjcrseverance and success in business, and although his energetic 
 habits would not allow him wholly to give up his active pursuits, 
 yet he had begun to give more of his time to leisure, and the 
 society of his friends, the Mordaunts in especial, than he had 
 heretofore done. 
 
 He was externally neai and fastidious in person and attire, 
 dressed habitually in l>lack broadcloth, wore a glossy beaver 
 hat, good jewellery and faultless linen. 
 
 "Weill Uncle Kdward, are we to remain here all /evening 
 star gazing .^" said l*'thel, " or shall we take advantage of the 
 cooler air for a row upon the lake. I know you are longing for 
 your evening cigar, only abstaining from it that you fear its odour 
 might penetrate through two feet of brick wall into my mother's" 
 drawing-room." 
 
 " I do not see, my dear I'lthel," he rei)lied, with comfortable 
 laziness, "why you should throw the res|)onsil)ility of our move- 
 ments upon my shoulders, any more than I can see Avhy you 
 should call me Uncle ' Edward,' thereby implying that you have 
 numerous Uncle ' Josephs ' and ' Henrys,' et cetera, at your im- 
 perative call, when you are perfectly well aware that I am your 
 sole uncle, on this side of the herring j)ond at all events. 
 Neither am I longing particularly for a cigar, and were I to in- 
 dulge in one and its odours should invade your mother's draw 
 ing-room, which as the windows are o|>en, is ])robable, it is not 
 from her that 1 w ould expect reproof. It would remain for your 
 saucy tongue to remind me of my misdoings. And, again, why 
 not follow your own sweet will as to a row upon the lake. I 
 am rea<lv to obey vour behests, and doubtless J'ldwln A'ance 
 
iSSSi 
 
 Z_-V ' r"'*^''-'"*"^''*''-*" 
 
 MOONMCHT R)K THRKK. 
 
 2» 
 
 lliciv will be only too happy. \\c can divide the \vt)rk ecjiially 
 — he shall row, you shall sing, and I will smoke my evening 
 cigar, as you irreverently term it. Having been \ery busy all 
 day, any severer labor would be too much for me." 
 
 ".Such a long si)ee<h ! with nothing in it, either," replied 
 Kthel. •• 1 will call you I'ncle jabez hereafter for taking me up 
 .so. What a sweet name it is ! No one can choose pretty names 
 like the Americans. As you say, you must be very much 
 fatigued. Vou have followed mamma and I about all day, ask- 
 ing (|uestions and giving advice, making the ac(|uaintance of all 
 the turkeys antl chickens, calculating the pounds avoirdupoise 
 of every individual pig, and criticizing every fruit tree, plant and 
 Hower that did not suit your exact taste." 
 
 •'That is all right, Miss Kthel," was answered laughingly. 
 
 There is no use re|)lying to y 
 
 ou, as 
 
 you will always manage to 
 
 have the last word. .So go and get your hat on ;ind we will 
 walk down to the lake." 
 
 •' ^'es ! do, Miss Mordaunt, it will be so i)leasant," said xVIr. 
 \'ance. '* I shall be happy, too, to accept the nither onerous 
 share thrown uj^on my shoulders by Mr. Horton's very equal 
 division of labor and do the rowing." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " MOON I, I CHI' FOR THRKK." 
 
 Hut just as they were about to start for their moonlight excur- 
 sion, the good-natured face of Barney Conley, the general fac- 
 totum about the house, appeared on the verandah. 
 
 " Here's a letter for ye, Miss Kthel, and one for ye, too, Mr. 
 V'ance, and a couple of them for you, sorr ! and laix ! if the con- 
 tents are as warrum as the carrying of thim up from the village 
 
11 
 
 SMK MH.HT H.W'K I)«)XK nKTTKP.. 
 
 ! » 
 
 l»L'yanl iividc nv.- tin's Ma/in' cvL-nin', its tlic divi! eii'.'rtjly t!iL' 
 writers o\ thiin will he at'ccr plaNiii' wiil \e/ all, or e!.->c it.-, grate 
 love thev'll he inakin' till ve/.." 
 
 •• Wariii? Barney," said Kthe!. " How ((nild the carrying of 
 these few letters make you so w.irin ; hesiiles, you drove to the 
 village. \'oii didn't call in at t!ie hotel, did \-ou. Harney ?" she 
 asked, mischievously. 
 
 •' Kn'fh : 1 did thin. Miss lahe!. IJut what I wor a-.saying 
 wor intended for a purlite remark on the grate hate of the sea- 
 son ; tor I'm tould it's the weather entirelv that the tiualllv talk 
 al)Out. when they've nothin' else to say til! wan another." 
 
 "Very well put, Harney." said Mr. Horton. •* \'our remark 
 is sarcastic hut just. 'I'here is not much else to talk about, and 
 it /.>• warm. Here is a half dollar for the heat and for carr\insj; 
 those heaw letters. Hut I fe;'r. I'arnev. that the calling in at 
 the hotel makes the weather appear so very warm. 
 
 •' Medad I an' I would'nt doubt ye. sorr : and is it to!)acky 
 thin that I'm to buy wid this? 'Tobacky makes fire, and fire 
 makes hate." 
 
 ** Yes : and fire-water makes greater heat still. Better try 
 the tobacco. Barney," rei)lied Mr. Horton. 
 
 " Barne} !" said Mrs. Mordaunt, stepping out on the veran- 
 dah ; "■ Barney I to-morrow morning early you will have to take 
 one of the driving horses and a light waggon to Cascades tci 
 m^'tit a gentleman coming by the two o'clcuk train. Start early 
 to avoid the heat, and try and get back by dark." 
 
 "Yes I ma'am, it shall be done; and how will I know the 
 gentleman when the train comes in, ma'am?" 
 
 •' Ask for Mr. VVolverton — but you know him very well al- 
 ready, Barney," was the reply. 
 
 " Faix, thin. I know him well enorgh,'and what the divil 
 does he " '^nt Barney thought l)etter of it and walked off 
 
 " Mr. \'ance." said Mrs. Mordaunt, turning to h m, " I have 
 a letter from your friend Sydr.ey Wolverton, .Scvi^tg that he 
 
e-'vi..? ■■!*;a?rgra ,'i-i;i,««'H'i'?'»>r'^:.' 
 
 :ii>i>:«:Lh;H r fok tmrki^. 
 
 K> 
 
 avails liiinsclf oi'an iinitatioii I m-icc ga\ -• Iiini ti) pay us a sliort 
 visit to-aiorrow, as juj is lo piay ia the groat cricket match at 
 'I'di Lakes oil Satiirtlay, antl he wishes to sec you, he says. So 
 ilarncy goes to the station for liini to-morro\s'." 
 
 " Ves, Mrs. MonkiiiiU, I have also just heard from him. tell- 
 ing me he had written )()ii ami would je here. He says he has 
 business ot' imjiortance to transact with :ne, though v.liat it may 
 he I cannot imagine. If he requires legal advice. I shall tell 
 him not to go to law. Too expensive a pleasure, and unsatis- 
 factory withal. But will you nol join us in our sail this even 
 ing, Mrs. Mordaunt ?" 
 
 " Xit. thank you. .Mr. Nance. 1 think not, as 1 have a tetter 
 'o write, too long ])Ut off alreail;. . So go and enjoy \ ourselves 
 — Kdward shall represent me." 
 
 •'Come along then, Kthel." said Mr. Horton. 
 
 But she. handing a letter to her mother, said — 
 
 " In a moment, uncle. Here is a letter, mamma, from Kmily 
 Dearborn : she and Ada are coming over to-morrow to spend 
 the day. 1 asked them, you remember, a week since." 
 
 As she delayed, sjjeaking with her mother, Mr. Horton took 
 Nance's arm, drew him to one side, and said, earnestly — 
 
 " I think I heard you say, my dear \'ance. that Wolverton's 
 <'oniing here is jjartly for the transaction of some business mat- 
 ters with you. Now, please excuse me for what you may think 
 in interference in your private affairs, and take it as it is meant. 
 the act of a friend, l)y permitting iiie to advise you most earn- 
 estly to have no transactions outside your i)rofession with that 
 young man. 1 cannot consider him straightforward, or honest, 
 or to be de}jended ui)on, and 1 have good reason for what I ad- 
 vance, although I cannot at this moment give you any particu- 
 lar proof in support, but merely ask you to rely on my judg- 
 ment and experience. I have reason to dislike AN'olverton : 
 neither do I like his coming here at this time. As a friend 
 he may be well enough ; he is i)lausihle and attractive in his 
 
 S5SiiSs33SiSSv^aB«t<«ifflE^ 
 
 ■^^''j:^i^ii'^~-i ■:)\i. 
 
ill 
 
 24 
 
 SHK MIOHT HAXi: DUNK BK'I'TKR. 
 
 manners, hut he cannot be trusted, and, in my opinion, is a dan- 
 gerous man. I trust you will regard what I say. J can also 
 consider myself your friend, and it is in that quality that J have 
 spoken." 
 
 '* Thank you, Mr. Horton, for what you have said and its 
 kind spirit. But I have never had, or am I likely to have, am 
 other than ])iofessional I)usiness with Sydney U'olverton. We were 
 college chttms, and have been friends, though of late we ha\e 
 not met often. A year ago he asked me to join him in his mill- 
 ing establishments at Hojjetown, and offered me apparently great 
 inducements if 1 would put in capital. I declined the matter, 
 however, though he pressed it u|)on me with some jjersistence. 
 on the ground that I did not care to enter ujjon a business of 
 which I had no knowledge, and that 1 could not advance the 
 sum required without disposing of jjroperty. which I was not 
 inclined to sell. His i)resent l)usiness with me will, I imagine. 
 ])rove to be something in the legal way. If, however, it is a re- 
 newal of his former offer, or aught similar, I will most certainl) 
 act upon the advice you have given me." 
 
 ** So he has been trying to rope you in for that concern of his 
 at Hopetown, has he? Well, this strongly confirms the view J 
 have just expressed, for he had made the same offer to me, and 
 as I am generally ready for anything that has money in it. 1 
 went down there to see the thing. The property seemed good 
 enough, but 1 found in him such a persistent attempt at misre- 
 presentation of values, to foist upon me figures showing the |)ast 
 business of the concern and its capabilities, which bore the 
 impress of being cooked for the purpose, that I abruptly enaed 
 the negociation, which otherwise J should have completed on a 
 fair basis, even though I then foresaw the distant apjjroach of a 
 storm in the commercial world, which if it fortunately has not 
 fallen, is not averted. He is remarkably shrewd and smart in 
 his way of j)utting things, but 1 have had too many transactions 
 with my own acute countrymen to ])e easily blinded. I am 
 
MOON'r.IGH'l' FOR THRKK. 
 
 25 
 
 l^lad of what you tell me, and hope you will keep in the same 
 mind. But here is Ethel." 
 
 The young lady coming n\), they walked down to the lake to- 
 gether, and getting out a boat, were soon sailing over the smooth 
 waters under the soft twilight sky. 
 
 Kthel, leaning ove"- the stern sheets, rijipled the water v\ ith 
 her white fingers and was silent,, the scene and the time being 
 very conducive to pleasant thought, even though it bordered on 
 romance ; some bright day dream or happy retrospect, sacred to 
 herself. 
 
 Her uncle went forward to be 'solus' with his cigar; to 
 w ntch its circlets of smoke as they rose in the air, and indulge, 
 perhaps, in a dream of his own, whose romance, if not probably 
 'A love, might very well be of love for his fellow men. 
 
 Vance, between them, |)lied his sculls slowl) , rewarding him- 
 self for the labor by gazing at the fair face before him that he 
 had learned to love so well. I'robably inspired by its presence, 
 his thoughts were evidently busy, for he sat silent and [)re-occu- 
 l)ied, and while the boat is moving slowly into the lake, let us 
 snatch a moment to reveal the subject of his reflections. 
 
 Although Mr. Kdwin Vance considered himself the friend of 
 Sidney W'olverton, liked and thought well of him, and would 
 have been proj^erly indignant had the strength and purity of 
 rhat friendship been ([uestioned, yet the reception of the news 
 that he was coming on the morrow had not given him the sen- 
 sation of pleasure that it ought to have done. On the contrary, 
 he did not like it, and sincerely wished his friend Sydney at 
 Halifax or Hopetown or anywhere else, so long as he was not 
 • uming to Lake Mordaunt. He was j)leasant enough, clever 
 and attractive enough, our hero liked him and did not suspect 
 his friendly motives, yet still he had an idea that Mr. Wolver- 
 um was not as indifferent as he could wish him to be, to the 
 desire of finding favor in the eyes of the fair Ethel. Now to 
 find favor in her eyes was the very thing of all others that he 
 
 ,inmt,tL^miiiiMm<Kiaj,^iji;i t.J^m,^~M■■y^■ -y-.^r.- At^u-- -^^^^ 
 
26 
 
 IK MIGH'!' HAVK iKJNi: IIKTTKR. 
 
 •himself iiKjst carncsily (k-sireTl. and as tlic l;cst and truest fricnd- 
 shijj tha.; ever existed is not e(jiial to the strain of such a test. 
 the thought became simply un])earable to him and not to be 
 endured. And so Sydney U'olverton was heartily wished away 
 by his friend — much troubled in si)irit at his advent — and who 
 pondered and cogitated, hesitated and doubted, at one moment 
 I'orming the resolution to act at once, declare his love at the 
 rirst available moment and forestall danger ; and again the 
 modesty and self-depreciation v/hich the very de[)th of his lo\e 
 threw over him. caused him the fjiir of being premature, and of 
 bringing on a catastrophe too Iiideous to be <ontemi>lated. 
 
 He revolved his own and his j)ossil)le rival's chances over in his 
 own mind, with ])ainful minuteness and discomfort. Reviewing 
 every chance smile ; every stray glance from his di\inity's eye, 
 and every word she had uttered since he had learned to love, 
 he could not but feel that, thougli he had received no dire« t 
 encouragement on his fair lady's jtart. yet she had shown no 
 dislike to his attentions, which she must, he thought, with femi- 
 nine prescience, have interpreted in all their meaning. In fact 
 he felt almost sure that his society had not been found disagree- 
 able. 
 
 Hut a great love, not yet as'^ured of a. return, while magnify- 
 ing its object's worth, attractions and deservings, minimises in 
 its giver's eyes, his own deser\ ings, and robs him of the self- 
 conlidence. which in other matters than his love may be assured 
 enough. 
 
 And so poor Kdwin doubted and hesitated, longed and fear- 
 ed, worshi]^])ed the fair divinity sitting before him, feasted his 
 eyes in her sweet i)resence and tormented his soul with a lover's 
 fears. 
 
 Had they been but alone on that pretty lake, the stars shin- 
 ing down upon them, the soft face of nature hushed in the deli- 
 cious stillnesss I 'i ne splash of the leai)ing trout ri]/i)ling the 
 water with moonlit silver, the rustling of the leaves or the ch.irj) of 
 
 lii: 
 
 aoaHliWfeft:>W'3®W?S5ErT!«5i?iS5f*^ 
 
 !\, •^<i:ttetii*\*!iiS4Jaii?i' "VS 
 
illOONTJGHT FOR THREE. 
 
 27 
 
 <.o:nt waking Mrd the su'.c accumijanimciit, what a titting nuiincnt, 
 snatched from elysium, would not it have been to have {>t)ured 
 out his rapturous love and asked its sA\eet return? Would not 
 then liis fair Kthel. impressed with th'.- softness and beauty of 
 all around her, have listened [)roi)ititiousl)' to his fervid tale, and 
 with a little word disijelled his doul)ts ; dissijjated his fears ; made 
 ihat little lake a glorious scene of enchantment, a happy pic- 
 iure that would lie impressed on his mind for all his days. 
 
 Hut they were not alone. 
 
 Mr. Horton, sitting with them in that boat, wa.s a very palp- 
 il)!e fict. Also with a very paljuble cigar in his mouth, a very 
 paljjable smile u])on his face, a twinkle in his eye. as if he hatl 
 I)een engaged in reading the inmost thoughts of his companiojis. 
 while api)arent!y wra])t u\) altogether in the fragrance of his 
 Havana. 
 
 Removing the latter from his lii)sand throwing it into the 
 water he broke the silence, which so far had continued, and 
 said — 
 
 " \\d\. I'Ahel, our l)oaling expedition is a success. Not a 
 word has been spoken to disturb the qiu'et harmony of t!ie even- 
 ing, and we have had undisturbed leisure to observe the beau- 
 ties of the scenery. 'i"he delightful aspect of nature sinking 
 into the rei)Ose of night always seems the most lovely and 
 appeals the most powerfully to our sense of the beautiful. 
 How the cahn and softened trancjuillity of all around us 
 infuses its ([uiet s|jirit into ours. I^'reeing us from the dull 
 ihoughts of earth, its mild influence lifts the imagination up- 
 ward and arouses the sentimental and romantic suscejjtibilities 
 of our minds, so dormant under the active influences of the 
 glaring sunlight. ])oul)tless, Kthel, the charms of this tender 
 evening scene have raised your sensitive nature to a blissful 
 height of romantic asj^irations, fiir above the grovelling cares of 
 earth, esj)ecially as we are at present blessed with the absence <»f 
 the ravaging musqiu'toe. I know no more powerful disenchanter. 
 
28 
 
 SHK MIGHT HAVK fK)NK BETTKR, 
 
 ii'l' 
 
 nutliiiig more effectual as a dispeller of romance, anything 
 that can bring us down from tlie clouds so quickly and land u-.' 
 on the Ixase earth again so suddenly as the advent of a few blood 
 thirsty Canadian mus([uitoes," 
 
 "Oh, what a shame, uncle ! You have brought me down to 
 tlie earth again as effectually as if you had been a muscjuito 
 yourself. 1 do not believe you have an atom of poetry or ro- 
 mance in your whole comj>osition, uncle. Such an unfeeling 
 speech ! Adajiting your tine words to one's high-strung feelings 
 and then scattering them in the dust with their ridiculous termi- 
 nation. And do you mean to imply that you have no blood- 
 thirsty muscjuitoes in those precious States of yours? Yes! 
 Yankee musquitoes that can bite as well as ours, with the only 
 difference that they will never find any ' romance to dispel ' there. 
 Who ever heard of a romantic Yankee ? Your musquitoes, like 
 yourselves, are doubtless a very practical class of insects. • Cana- 
 dian musquitoes, forsooth I'" 
 
 "Oh, well. Ethel, I guess we can raise some as respe<table 
 mu.squitoes in the States as you can in these benighted Pro- 
 vinces, even though you do call them a ' Dominion.' And I 
 take it very hard, too, that you should abuse the muscjuitoes of 
 your uncle's native land. It isn't right." 
 
 " Never mind, uncle, I'll fix you, as the Yankees say," replied 
 Ethel, laughing. " I'll punish you for all this to-morrow by put- 
 ting Emily Dearborn under your charge for the entire day. 
 We'll get ui> a pic-nic on jjurpose, and you shall have the j)lea- 
 sure of being her chevalier. She is a dashing young lady, al- 
 though a * benighted i^rovincial,' as you would say, and will j)ut 
 your American gallantry on the (fui vhe, I can tell you." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Miss Ethie," replied the uncle, with a chuckle. " A 
 notable arrangement, truly. So that you can have our young 
 friend Kdwin to be your own particular * preux chevalier." Very 
 well thought of I must say. Hut how if he objects and prefers 
 tlK' stylish Miss Emily ?" 
 
 riM iTMiifirTnfl'Tr'"Tif"'iririri^f^^'''t"'' 
 
KKXKA'I'H THK WAVV MOUOHS. 
 
 29, 
 
 At the rather direct inuendo of the first pa.'t of tliis speech 
 poor Kthel liad to blush, while \'ance looked supremely dis- 
 gusted with its termination, and, to relieve his fliir lady, inter- 
 jiosed — 
 
 •• Miss Mordaunt's plan is a very good one, and Mr. Horton 
 w ill be only too delighted with his charming companion. .She 
 is a good talker on every subject, even including politics, and 
 is capable of a flirtation. So, Mr. Horton, beware." 
 
 " .\nd, you, also, are determined to sacrifice me." he replied. 
 ■* \\ ell, 1 don't wonder at it, seeing your object. Kut how will 
 you manage with the other young lady ? ' Two are company, biKt 
 three are nont;,' " added he, laughing. 
 
 •' And now Ethel," he continued, '* make room for Mr. N'ance 
 lit'side \ou. I'll take the oars, for he has had his share by this 
 lime, and you shall give us a song." 
 
 " Vou don't deserve it then, uncle, for all your wickedness 
 this evening," she replied. " Nevertheless, I'll sing you a song 
 or two before we go home, as it is late." 
 
 As Kthel's sweet young voice rang over the waters, echoing 
 among the leafy points and bays in the soft melody of a fine old 
 French-Canadian * chanson,' the young lady herself little imagin- 
 ed that her evening's adventurewas not yet ended, or that aught 
 else than a walk home was to l)e its conclusion. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 <( 
 
 IJKNKA'IH I HI. WAVV HOUGHS. 
 
 As Ethel .sang and Edwin \'ance listened, with wraj)t delight 
 to the sweet voice — to him inexpressibly sweet — and thought 
 that little lake a scene ot more than mortal pleasure, as is the 
 \\ay with lovers, his well-wished aw ay companion, Mr. Edward 
 
,) 
 
 ?o 
 
 SHK MidHT HA\ 1-: 1>()NK IIF/H^KR. 
 
 jabez Morton. \v!io had lightcclanotherci|^Mr. and whose jtrosaic 
 eyes viewed that h'ttle lake as the scene of verv (;omfortal)le 
 earthly jileasiire. (iiiietly indulged himself in \aKioiis worldly re- 
 Hections to the following iJiirport: — 
 
 '* Now that young fellow h;is evidently caved under to the 
 channs of that saucy little neice of mine, Kthie there — head over 
 ears in love M'ith her, and showing it plainly enough for the very 
 cat to see it. 1 don't wonder at it, either. I'd be much more 
 inclined to blame him if he wasn't struck. She, too, 1 calculate, 
 isbv no means so indifferent as she would like to be considered, 
 or else I'm ver\ much mistaken. 
 
 ** What a ])i(ture she is as she sits tliere singing' and looking 
 at the stars as if they listened to her; and that }oung goose 
 ga/ing at her as if she was sun, moon, stars, earth and every- 
 ihing combined. \'ery likely she is really the summing up of 
 all happiness to iiim. (^ueer. is'nt it ? lUit I like \'a!-ice — he 
 is honorable and good. Kligible enough, too, for that matter, 
 ind I know of no one to vrhoni 1 would sooner see my jjretty 
 Kthie married. Why should'nt Mordaunt and my sister think 
 the same.-' That vagabond Wolverton is coming here to-mor- 
 row, too. up to some deej) scheme, doubtless. I've heard it 
 vshispered that he entertains a sneaking fondness fof Kthcl — 
 her father's dollars jjrobably. Well, I would not give much for 
 his chance of either whilst I'm around this clearing, at any rate. 
 Still he might; make mischief, and he h.as got to be watched. 
 \'es, I like Vance ; he's just my style, except that he is too yield- 
 ing and inclined to judge ])eople by his own measure, and an 
 uncommonly high value he jjlaces on some \ery poor human 
 nature, too, sometimes, (irave faults these, especially in a 
 \'ankee's eyes, but time cures all these little amiable weaknesses. 
 After all, this tendency to think well of; to believe in his fellow 
 <:reatures, shows the true metal in the man. \ es, 1 like liini, 
 and I've a good mind to give him his oi>portunity this ver)- 
 evening to make it all right with Kthel. If he has the pluck 
 
 ^m 
 
13KN1:A']"H 'i'Hr: WAVV jx;U(;hs. 
 
 .^' 
 
 jlioiit him that I think he hr.s, he'll go in and win, and very 
 siDoothiy i>i:t my friend U'olverton's nose out ot" joint for him 
 with a Vengearice." 
 
 Mtlie! still sanii; and \'ance still rapturoiislv listeiied, while 
 Mr. Horton. highly amused with his own ideas, chuckled over 
 them for a momeiii or two and tinallv lautjjhed outright, as he 
 hniipened to look u[) at his two comjjanions. for whom he had 
 "Iius cut out some work. 
 
 Klhel conc-.luded her song, the third that Kdv.in had succeed- 
 ed in (jl)taining. a;"id turning to her ur.cle. said — 
 
 " Well, you are jjoh'te. uncle, I must say. What was there 
 ;il)()ut my singing for you to laugh at? I rather e\])ected praise 
 instead." 
 
 •' 1 did'nt laugh at your singing, Kthel." he rei^lied. " Some- 
 thing of which I was thinking struck me as ridiculous. As to 
 praising you. Mr. Vance will doubtless attend to that. He 
 ought to do, for he has been s > entranced with nic'lody, and you 
 >o delighted with your own singing that neither of you have yet 
 observed that the boat is at the landing." 
 
 .\nd such was the case. It lay close alongside the little 
 wharf. 
 
 Mr. Horton jumijetl out at (jn'.-e, walked off a stej) or two. 
 uid said — 
 
 " Please run the skiff into the boat-house, Kdwin. Mordaunt 
 Iocs not like his boats left out ; and. Ethel, see the door is se- 
 cured. The lo(-k is peculiar, and Vance won't understand its 
 "orkings." 
 
 Kdwin looked uj) surj)rised and vexed at the sudden close of 
 his delightful evening. He assisted Kthel ashore : put the boat 
 into the house, and locked the door, about which he found no 
 (lifticulty whatever, and no necessity for Ethel's assistance. 
 Then, looking uj), he noticed' that Mr. Horton had walked on 
 ahead a short distance with his cigar. 
 
 J)idnot a!! this appear unusual ? as the circumstances of the 
 
 "•"T" 'TiTriTitii¥iniiinrtwii'iMi fnTiiiii—iT 
 
 m 
 
 sm.fi?!itJsi!3iSMii;^i3miHi: 
 
J2 
 
 JSHE MIGHT HAVE DONK JJKTTKK. 
 
 strange landing Hashed upon his mind. Had not Mr. Hortoii 
 jumped ashore hurriedly ; ordered him to put the boat into its 
 house ; Ethel to attend to a perfectly easy lock, and while they 
 were obeying his orders, had he not walked off in advance? 
 
 Was it purposely done that he might be left alone with Kthel. 
 A giant hoj)e shot over his heart. Had his feeling been so i)lain- 
 ly show n that Mr. Horton, reading them, had been so well dis- 
 po.sed towards him as to favor his suit and to do this friend!) 
 thing for him. 
 
 Poor Edwin's heart thum|)ed tumultuously against his side. 
 Here was his opportunity ; here was his golden moment. 
 
 A golden moment, truly, yet a very brief one, for in the few 
 minutes' distance between them and the house would his fate 
 have to be decided. 
 
 There was no time to be lost, and, checking with a violent 
 effort the tide of emotions which swe])t over him, he turned t(v 
 ward Ethel, who had moved forward and calletl to him — 
 
 "Hlome along, Mr. Vance, lincle Ethvard has gone for- 
 ward." 
 
 " .\ moment, Miss Mordaunt," he replied, and then, overtak- 
 ing her, he walked a few steps by her side in silence, trying tc> 
 force his spirits into calmness, to clear his thoughts and to re- 
 gain the confidence that had deserted him. 
 
 At length, stepping suddenly before her, in a voice, low, earn- 
 est and impassioned, he said — 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt — Ethel — if I dare call you so, 1 have some- 
 thing to say to you so very momentous to myself, for an oppor- 
 tunity to .say which I have been ardently longing, that 1 must 
 ask you to accord to me here a hearing. I love you, Ethel. I 
 love you with such devotedness — you have become .so inexpres- 
 sibly dear to me — that I cannot longer e.xist without telling you 
 of my love, and asking you, oh! Ethel, if it is possible for its 
 return. It is not a new love — a sudden passion — the transitory 
 illusion of a day, that beauty alone might inspire. It is the 
 
 !lt|i|i 
 
 W.i'f^ 
 
r.KNEA'I'H THE WAVY lU)U(xHS. 
 
 33 
 
 'ii- 
 
 )\v, earii- 
 
 :imi, true and enduriiig love — grown into my very l)cin{ 
 the very springs of my life, that will not end with me on earth. 
 I have loved you from the moment of our first meeting — two 
 years ago, on that bright Toronto morning, whose memory shall 
 never fade from me. .And to lovt: you, P^thel, has been so sweet, 
 day by day growing upon me ; day by day so multiplied, so 
 firmly rooted, as every admirable (juality, every loveliness of 
 your character torced their tribute of respect and esteem intt) 
 greater love — into the great love for you, Kthel, which has be- 
 ( ome my very life itself To love you has been hai)])iness — but 
 :l ha|)piness of doubts and fears — a happiness of susjjense unen- 
 durable. Oh ! Kthel, I ask you for the treasure of your love in 
 return — I ask you for that which to me is all hajjpiness — all ex- 
 istence — all the world. 1 ask you to be mine, Ethel ; to be my 
 wife ; to give me back myself, for in you, in }'0ur love, is all 
 myself, my very being, centered. Can you give me your love, 
 i',thel ? One word — but one little word." 
 
 Now, .\Iiss Ethel had, ere this, felt in the inmost rec.esses of 
 !ier little heart that it had become jjrobable that one day or an- 
 other some such words as these would be addressed to her l)y 
 this same young gentleman, and she had also felt in those same 
 inmost recesses that when the words were spoken, the ordeal of 
 hearing them would not be so very disagreeable to her. 
 
 \'et she was utterly taken by surprise — so bewildered and 
 overwhelmed by the sudden coming upon her of her ordeal, that 
 she had remained standing — motionless — bereft of breath and 
 almost of sense, and looking up into his face in the very astonish- 
 ed attitude into which his first startling words had thrown her, 
 and had listened to his somewhat unlawyerlike harangue in about 
 as chaotic a state of mind as it was possible for a young lady to 
 he on. receiving a not imjjrobable declaration. 
 
 Taken by surprise she certainly was, for she had neither 
 noticed her uncle's manoeuvre on landing the boat, or the some- 
 u'hat unusual circumstance of his walking on ; leaving them thus 
 
 ^^ 
 
34 
 
 SHK Mlill-i'l" HAVK l)Ox\E BHTTKR. 
 
 'III! 
 
 M'^ 
 
 t 
 
 alone, ;i!ul th.c latter s'lc haJ innoteiUly supposi:;d to liavt; aris'jii 
 from his desire to enjoy liis cigar witlioiit suhjectin^jj her to an- 
 noyance from its fmnes. 
 
 Had she observed her uncle's tactics, wliicli now were mani- 
 fest enoU!;h. thougli they had seemed so natural at llie time, it 
 might have heen that Mr. Kchvin \'an( e would have t\)und the 
 <Jl)I)ortunity he had. seized prematurely cut short. 
 
 iJut he had seized the opportunity, his declaration had been 
 made, her ordeal was uj>on her. and she had to meet it. 
 
 It was hard upon iier — very Iku-J. Much harder than if hei 
 surj)rise had come from one wiiom she did not like, and it was dan- 
 gerous for him also. Had she been :i jjassionate young lady, of 
 no self-control, it might have l)een fatal. 
 
 As it Mas, it ^\as very hard. 
 
 IV) a very young lady, to whom a word of love in earnest had 
 never ere this been addres.sed, receiving her first declaration. 
 surj)ri.sed in so sudden and unexpected a fashion, unnerving her. 
 taking away her seif-pos.session, even though the lover was tiie 
 right man in the right place, it was very hard. 
 
 As his words ceased, and he stood intent, ner\ous, uneasy and 
 excited, his love shining in his eyes and anxious expectancy dis- 
 tracting his brain ; awaiting his fate, she had to brace up her 
 spirits and force herself, widi an effort, into a state of mind that 
 it was possil)le for lier to think. 
 
 *' If he had not been so sudden. If he had but -^iven a mo- 
 ment of preparation. If I liad had but a clue to his intent and had 
 ])een forewarned. If he had Imt chosen a less unexpected time 
 and i^Iace for his avowal — all ha[)j)\' though it was, and oh I if 
 1 had not lost all my self-possession ? It was cruel in him to 
 surprise me thus, with his ill-judged precipitancy, and he deserves 
 to be |)unished for his folly," were the ideas that ran through her 
 mind, and it was only with an effort that she restrained herself 
 from falling into tears. 
 
 Hut then came the thought of her trium[)h. 'j'hat she was 
 
BKXEA'I'H THX WAVV HOUdHS. 35. 
 
 loved ; that he loved her — he had told her dial he lo\ed her — 
 >,he Iiad the strong assuram-e, and it was very sweet. 
 
 It was lier triumph. 
 
 He .vas hers ; lie was at her nierc:y, to do with as seeine<l 
 nest to her. He was at her feet, her victim : tlie spoil ot'her l)0\r 
 and her spear. He was hers, and for loving her she loveil him 
 noiiL' the le.ss. He loved her. and had told her that he loved, 
 lier ; he had asked her to he his wife, and it was very sweet. 
 
 And there came over her a flush of maiden timidity — a strong 
 impulse to tly towards her uncle, the glimmer of" whose cigar was 
 ]ierceptil)le in the distance. 
 
 Hutdiere stood her lover with eager, appealing eyes fixed upon 
 her face, awaiting the answer which she knew she had to give 
 him; which she knew he ought lo have. 
 
 What could she sav? AVhat could she do? How could she 
 teil the man that she loved him ? She would die first, and yet 
 •^he lould not tell the man that she did //<'/ love him. What was 
 she to do? 
 
 AVhat would her father and mcAher say, antl that wicked Uncle 
 Kdward who had left her alone — if they knew that their dear 
 triend, A[r. N'ance, was making love to her and had asked her 
 to marrv him ? W'liv had nc>t //r left her alone, when thev .w ere 
 all so ha;){>y and comfortable together. 
 
 •' Oh ! it was too dreadful, and she must go home." 
 
 She made a step forward- — 
 
 ■' Let me pass, Mr. Vance !" but he interrupted her. 
 
 " Kdiel, give me a word first. Do not send me away thus 
 unanswered. Ethel, J love you so dearly, my heart is dying 
 within me in susjjense. I cannot go n-ithout a word, a smile, 
 one glance — anything to give me a gleam of hope. Kthel, dar 
 ling, one little word." 
 
 He \ook her hand, and looked down into her eyes. 
 
 " ( )h, Kthel I you love me — } on love me ; my darling, forever 
 my own." 
 
 
JO 
 
 SHK M1(;H'1" HAVIC DONK liHTTIOK. 
 
 Without raising her eyes, she laid her hand upon his ami and 
 whispered — 
 " Yes, Kdwin." 
 
 CHAl^TKR VI. 
 
 H\k\l,\ ^M) JF.RRV. 
 
 ()ur frieiKl, Barney Conley, had received his mistresses (jrdcrs 
 for the morrow's journey with unusual e(|uanimity, and, for a 
 wontler, with no opposition or grumbling. *' I'he i)Oor duml» 
 hastes a V harses 'uU he kilt intoirely wid pounding thimover the 
 roads in su<:h divil's weather," being Barney's general comment 
 ujjon all orders of the kind, and that too in every season of the 
 >ear. In his eyes the sending out of any of the driving horses 
 which were under his charge on any other business than taking 
 the family to church, going to the post office or to the stores in 
 the village, was a monstrous j)iece of cruelty to his poor •* bastes." 
 and a personal affront to himself, only to be submitted to under 
 j^rotest. 
 
 On this occasion, however, Barney had more than one good 
 reason for his forbearance and willingness to l)e turned out of 
 bed at an abnormally early hour of the morning. In the first 
 place he would have the advantage of the cool of the morning 
 for his horses j>erformance of the journey, an object to him, as 
 he looked upon each mile travelled as a nail in the coffin, so to 
 speak, of his much loved " bastes." 
 
 But the most important consideration, in his eyes, was the 
 lact that the ostler of the " Railway Hotel " at C xscades, the 
 town whither he was bound, was a most particular friend and 
 crony, a brother of his soul, and he looked forward with great 
 complacency, to a long and very garrulous day with him. 
 
 The prospect before his eyes, of the two of them seated on 
 the out-box of the hotel stiible, their coats off, their hats pulled 
 
HARNKY AND |KRKV. 
 
 37 
 
 rni iinil 
 
 s orders 
 id. Tor a 
 )r dumb 
 over the 
 :onimcnt 
 n of the 
 •^ horses 
 n taking 
 stores in 
 bastes." 
 to under 
 
 ne good 
 d out of 
 the first 
 morning 
 I him, as 
 in. so to 
 
 <lo\vn \\\)on their noses, their pipes in their mouths, very com- 
 fortal)ly enjoying their that about "ouUl times and the ould 
 sod," the new times in their new countr\ , raking over all the 
 hits of scandal that lloated about the countrv. talking over their 
 neighbours concerns, criticizing the merits and demerits of their 
 respective emi)loyers. was so delightful that at four o'lock in the 
 moaning Barney was up and stirring, his horse fed, groomed and 
 harnessed into the lightest buggy available, yet amid his tender 
 commiserations. 
 
 '• Faix, an' it's a purty creature ye are, Dolly, me darlint," said 
 he, patting the horse's glossy neck. "An' a murthering shame 
 it is, so it is, and a disghrace to be afther dragging ye out this 
 (lay. an' for that ould salpeen of a Wolverton, too. The cranky 
 (/lid stage horses from J'in Lakes wid their bhones stickin' out 
 av their ould hides, are gud enough for sich as him. Whin wance 
 1 get ye back agin, the divil a fut ye'll stir out o' this for a wake 
 to come. It's kilt \e'll be entoirely the day." 
 
 Barney's start had been so early, and his i)rogi"ess so good, 
 that at the early hour of seven he was approacliing the town of 
 Cascades, and began to think it was time to attend to his })er- 
 sonal appearance, for, as he had travelled in his shirt sleeves in 
 an al fresco attire generally, an improvement was desirable on 
 the score of dignit}'. Removing the ten cent straw hat which 
 shaded his comical features, he re-placed it with a tall and very 
 furry-looking beaver. A high and tremendously starched white 
 linen collar was next placed in position, to grate nicely his ears, 
 and was secured by a large black silk handkerchief thrice wound 
 around his neck. He next pulled from nder the seat of the 
 uagon a newsijaj^er-covered parcel, from Mhich he produced a 
 long and very capacious black cloth coat, exceedingly short in 
 the sleeves and long in the tails. Inserting himself into this 
 si)ruce garment he considered himself attired in the height of 
 fashion, and proceeded to drive through the town with mucli 
 dignity and gravity of demeanour. In great state he drove up to 
 
38 
 
 SHE MlGH'l" HAVE DONE BETI'ER, 
 
 li 
 
 
 
 ' I 
 
 ill 
 
 the hotel door and threw tlie reins to a boy Avho was standing 
 near ; ordered him to drive tlie horse into the yard, and walked 
 himself in grave and solemn demeanour, into the office. Going 
 up to the register he seized a pen and, throwing himself flat upon 
 the book, produced, with much labour, a series of hieroglyphics 
 intended to represent his name and style, on the page before 
 him, which, unfortunately, he did not notice to be dated about 
 two months back. 
 
 Addressing the sleepy-looking clerk, who had viewed the 
 spectacle before him wtth such astonishment that he had be- 
 come almost awakened thereby, he told him that his " harse " 
 was to be put up and " fid dacent." 
 
 Considering then that all requisites of dignity had been satis- 
 fied, he walked into the bar, where Mr. Horton's half-dollar of 
 the preceding evening speedily resolved itself into a bottle of 
 ** potheen," of Ontario manufacture, but good enough for the 
 purpose, which he put into his pocket, and went out to see Mith 
 his own eyes to the care of his horse, and to find his freind Jerr) 
 Coghlan, the ostler. 
 
 .^s he proceeded into the stable-yard, his ears were saluted 
 with an angry colloquy between the boy A\ho had driven the 
 horse round and the ostler, and, as he was unperceived, he list- 
 ened with much interest. 
 
 " Here's a horse to be put u}) right off, Jerry, that one of the 
 queerest old guys you ever seed drew up with a minute since," 
 said the boy. 
 
 '' What's that ye say, ye young pup," exclaimed Jerry, stick- 
 ing his head out of the stable door. 
 
 ** Here's a horse to be put, right off, 1 tell > er," screamed back 
 the boy. " VVhat's the matter with you this morning? Did 
 the old woman lick yer before breakfast that you're so mighty 
 ugly ?" 
 
 " A liarse to put u[>, did yer say, ye young imp. At this time 
 
 m 
 
 i< m' 
 
 <iaa,ijy.vP\Jf /..'; 
 
BARNEY AXD JKRRY. 
 
 39 
 
 of the morning too," answered Jerry, dancing with rage on the 
 >,tai)le floor. 
 
 " You'd better put her up, I can tell )ou, Jerry, for the old 
 guy that owns her will be around here in a minute or two, you 
 I let," said the boy, by no means daunted by Jerry's anger. 
 
 •' Begorra ! it's an ould guy, and a lunathic he is too, so he is, 
 cavourtin' 'round the counthr\- wid his ould baste afore sivin 
 o'clock a\ the marning, a botherin' dacent folks that keeps a da- 
 cent liot-tel afore there out a\- their war-rum beds. I suppose 
 now he thinks its phzed we are to put up him an' his old bhones 
 that the crows ought till have had tin years agone. Faix, it's 
 mishtaken he is. It's a shebeen he thinks we kape, is it, musha ? 
 And what the divil did ye bring his ould baste here for ? Wliy 
 didn't ye tie her till the post an' leave her there? ye young imp 
 ye!" 
 
 • Because he told me to bring her round and get her put up," 
 «!creamed back the boy. " And you'd better put her up, too, or 
 the boss M ill be down on yer like a thousand of brick, my old 
 galoot." 
 
 "Be off wid ye, ye young limb, afore I break yur hid fur 
 yc. Lave the baste wid me, I say I" roared Jerry, as he unwil- 
 lingl) came fonvard to his duty. "Belike as not now, the 
 man sthole the harse, and is aff to the States wid her. She's a 
 [uirtv^ baste, anyhow, and its a quality vehicle, so it is. Troth. 
 and I believe it's wan av ould Mordaunt's up at the lake be- 
 yant, and, be my sowl, here's Barney himself The top ov the 
 marning till ye Barney, me honey. Ye're as welcome as the 
 owers in May, and it's plazed 1 am to see ye." 
 
 It's plazed ye are, is it.?" replied Barney, in chilling tones, 
 
 with an icy air of indignant hauteur. '♦ And wud ye be so kind 
 
 |;.s to tell me, Misther Coghlan, who it was yer >\ere plazed to 
 
 • all an ould lunathic the while? Eh! will ye? No more an 
 
 "uld lunathic thin yirself, Misther Coghlan. And it's a sheJjeen 
 
 I'his, ta it T ought to put up at, Misther Coghlan ? Kaiv, it's plis- 
 
40 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 >t'f 
 
 iiif '^ 
 
 anter and dacenter looking min than you'll iverbe, I've seen at a 
 shebeen, Misther Coghlan. An' 1 sthole the baste, did I, Misther 
 Coghlan ? Bad scran till ye, but it's not far that I'd thrust a 
 harse, nor anything else wid ye, for an ould rij) as ye are, Misther 
 Coghlan. Eegorra ! but it's a grate mind J liave to lave yez, baste 
 and all, and go where thay'd thrate a gintleman dacent, instid of 
 blaggarding him, black and blue, becase ye're too lazy to do the 
 wur-ruk ye're jjaid for." 
 
 "Och, musha, Barney dear, sorra a bit a v me knew it was yir- 
 self, so I did'nt, till I seed ye. I tought it was some other bother- 
 ing ould baste coming wid his harse whin I wor in the middle o\ 
 my marning's wur-ruk," 
 
 " Lookee here," he continued to the boy who had listened open- 
 eyed to their colloquy, " you clare out av this, ye young divil : 
 back to the hotel wid ye, and mind the bells. Ye're wanted 
 there and not here ; ye're room is better than your compan\ . 
 any day. Sthep in Barney, intill the sthable, an' take a sate, while 
 I put yer baste up. 
 
 " Och, thin," said Barney, " it wor all a mishtake, I sujjpose, 
 and we'll say no more concarning it. But I'll give ye a hand 
 till put up the baste, Jerry, and give him a taste av hay and oats 
 till ate." 
 
 " And how's the wife, Jerry." continued Barney, when, his 
 v/ork finished, he had got his precious coat and stove-pipe hat 
 off, his pipe lighted, and, very comfortably, they were seated on 
 the oat-bin. 
 
 " Faix, she's well •^Miough," replied Jerry, " barrin' that she's 
 as cross as a badger this marnin'. It's kilt I am wid her in 
 toirely." 
 
 " Crass is it, she is ?" said Barney. " Begorra ! and that's bad 
 enough. The crathurs will git as crass as two sticks betimes, 
 an' jist for nothin' at all, at all. Lave her till herself a bit, Jerr\-. 
 and by-and-by she'll come ]ihilandering around ye wid a smile 
 on her fiice, as swate as ye plaze." 
 
 u I.I ' 
 
BARXEV AND JERRY. 
 
 41 
 
 "Sure, thill, I wish ye had a wife till yerself, Barney, till ye 
 larnt the differ," was Jerry's mournful rei>ly. 
 
 "'I'he howly saints forbid," ejaculated Barney, fiiintly. '-There's 
 throuhle enough in the world widout i)oor Barney going fur till 
 make more av it." 
 
 *' Musha, and you're right tliere I" replied Jerry. " But may 1 
 make so bould as to inquire, Misther Conley, by your lave, 
 what brought ye down from the lake so l>right and airly, wid 
 twinty good miles ahint ye?" 
 
 '' Shure, thin, I'll tell ye, Jerry, how it is ye have the honour av 
 mc eomi)any, as the quality say, this blissed day. It wor the mis- 
 thress as kem to me yesterday and guv me a five dollar bifl. 
 • Barney,' says she, ' ye'il take a harse the morn and a kerridge, 
 and ye'lI take a holiday till yirself, for ye've been working hard 
 av late, so ye have, and, bedad, it's a day's pleasuring ye'll be 
 wantin', and the money's for yirself, Barney,' she said. And thin 
 she tould me to take care av mesilf, and not to forgit to go to 
 Cascades and see me ould frind, Jerry Coghlan, the dacent man, 
 and that 1 might, as well as not, wait fur the two o'clock train, 
 fur Misther W'olverton \Vud be aboord, and I might fetch him 
 u|) wid mt, an' that's the how and the wherefore av it, Jerry." 
 
 •* ( )ch I that's it, is it, Barney," said Jerry, laughing ; " I tought 
 the last part av yir spache had more trute in it nor the beginning 
 av it, sorra a bit ! an' what fur wud the ould lady be afthergivin' 
 ye a foive dollars fur yersiif to go on a day's jaunt with ? They 
 pay ye more nor ye earn, so they do, ye lazy ould rip. But it's 
 dacent people they are, the Mordaunts, every mother's son a^- 
 ihini, and daughters, too, mind ye that, and rale quality, even 
 the ould Yankee gineral or member of Parlemint that's up 
 till there wid thim. But what's VVolverton afther that ye're tak- 
 ing him up to the lake fur wid ye, the spalpeen." 
 
 "The divil a know I know what's takin'him up, bad scran till 
 him," said Barney. 
 
 •* Begorra I ye may be sure it's not fur nothin', thin. It's some 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 ■" 
 
 42 
 
 SHE MKIHT HAVE DONE BET'lER. 
 
 ■i 
 
 i 
 
 liiitt f 
 
 illilL 
 
 I il 
 
 111 
 
 ■ I '■ 
 
 l!li 
 
 Il i. 
 
 (Icludhering schame he has afut," continued Jerry. '* Mehbe it's 
 the daughter he's after, wid some of the ould father's dollars. 
 His ould mills at Ho])etown beyant are in a bad way, I'm tould. 
 and it's money he wants to^*iuare his comers with. Faix, if 
 the Mordaunt's knew as much av him as the folks here do, it's 
 little conversation they'd have wid him, good or bad, so they 
 would'nt. Bad scran till him." 
 
 '' Sorra a bit av me knows what's fetching him up anyhow," 
 answered Barney. '' 'Vhe misthress got a letter yisterday, and 
 the minit she read it she tould me to come down here afther him. 
 But il's the day afther the fair, he is,^ if it's an eye on the young 
 daughter he has, for Misther ^'ance, the young lawyer, from 
 Toronto, is up there these tin days, is swate as ye plaze, and fur 
 all she looks as innercent as a cat in the panthry, it's asy telling 
 that it's dacent running he's making, and it's news we'll be hearing 
 l)efore the wake's out, if Barney's old eyes don't desave him. 
 Misthdr W'olverton will find his i)orridge burnt fur him, so he 
 will, when he commences his deludherings wid her, begorra, and 
 sarve him right too." 
 
 " Arrah, thin, it's sould he is, and I'm glad av it, fur he's mane 
 anyhow,/' answered Jerry. " A matther of tin days or a fortnight 
 agone, he was here at the hotel a drinkin' and a gamblin' wid 
 tree wild, taring chaps tkat kem aft" the train, a spending his 
 money as if there was no end till it, when it's betther he'd have 
 been at Hopetown beyant a mindhin his business. There's little 
 Jenny Houlahan, the wife's niece, as ye know, that works at his 
 mills beyant, and has'nt seen but one tin dollars av her arnins 
 this three months back. Faix he was a boastin' and a blowing 
 round with them chaps that he wud marry ould Mordaunt's 
 daughter and straighten out his loose ends wid her father's money. 
 But they laughed at him, and wan of thim axed him why he 
 did'nt go and ax the girl at oncet — just as he was, blind drunk 
 — and give the crathur a chance to see what kind of a man he 
 won 'J'he baste tould him, so he did, that it would'nt be till 
 
A FIRS'J KISS. 
 
 43 
 
 jhbe it's 
 dollars, 
 ni tould. 
 Faix, it" 
 : do, it's 
 so they 
 
 nyhoNv," 
 lay, and 
 her him. 
 e young 
 er, from 
 , and fur 
 y telling 
 i hearing 
 ,ve him. 
 II, so he 
 )rra, and 
 
 ;'s mane 
 
 brtnight 
 
 )lin' wid 
 
 ding his 
 
 'd have 
 
 re's little 
 
 s at his 
 
 arnins 
 
 blowing 
 
 rdaunt's 
 
 money. 
 
 why he 
 
 I drunk 
 
 man he 
 
 t be till 
 
 aftlier the wedding that she'd find that out. IJad cess till him.'» 
 
 ' Ve did that, did ye, Misther Wolverton," exolaimed Barney, 
 as if in indignant address to a present enemy. " Begorra, ye'll 
 find out that Barney has a nate Irish tongue in his hid, and 
 nil get convarsin as simi)le as any omadhaun wid the misthress 
 and she'll hear tell av ye, me bhoy, before ye ate yir taa there, this 
 blissid night, ye vagabone thief av the world." 
 
 '' And, Barney ,avick," said Jerry, " the day's murthering warm, 
 and ye liave no nade to start till well on to evening. He'll have 
 to wait at the hotel here, and he'll get dhrinking, av coorse, as 
 usule, and whin you're a dhriving home, he'll be talking and axing 
 (juestions aff ye. How innocent ye'll be actin', Barney — a 
 .soothening of him down till ye find out what schame he's got in 
 ]iis eye. Begorra, but it's the fine joke ye'll be playing on him." 
 
 " Thric fur ye, Jerry, and it's not all the trute I'll tell him, 
 aither. Rc'Il have more'n he likes, so he will. And now we'll 
 go in and HX)ther the crassness out av the crathur wid a bit 
 chat." 
 
 " Arrah I d'ye suppose she'd be crass whin comi)any comes 
 to the dure ? Faix, it's as purlite as ye plaze she'll be. It's 
 kilt entoirely \ im wid her, but it's pla/.ed as Punch she'll be till 
 see ye, Barnej." 
 
 *' Here's witl^ ye, Jerry, till the train comes," said Barney. 
 
 CHAP'l'KRVU. 
 
 A KIKSr KISS. 
 
 When Mr. Kdwii Vance awoke the next morning he became 
 very pleasantly awaie that he was a very hapi)y man — a Aerj' 
 happy man indeed. For him the world had i)ut on a very bright 
 aspect. I'he new d;y opened for him with a new interest — a 
 very delightfiil interet too. A new day surpassing all other 
 
44 
 
 SHK MIGHT HAVE DONE HE'l'TER. 
 
 'ill 
 
 1 
 
 i I 
 
 days — the red-letter day of his life. A ntw day whose morning 
 l)rightness shone with new lightings. He was very hai)i)y, and 
 his new world was a very beautiful world. His troubles were 
 over ; his doubts and fears were ended. He had obtained that 
 which of all things was in his eyes the most desirable. His 
 love A\as a successful love, and so he was hai)py. 
 
 Vet he could hardly realize it all — this bright issue of his un- 
 certainties. 
 
 Was it not all a dream — a magnificent hallucination — that 
 evening scene of but a few hours ago — anxious, fearful, tortured 
 in its multitudinous and intense drawn out emotions ? in a mo- 
 ment transfigured by a word into his unmeasurable happiness. 
 
 Was it not an impossibility that he had really attained that so 
 longingly ho])ed tor, that so doubtingly wished, that blissful goal, 
 seeming so distant that its height was so unutterably desired. 
 
 How far off did it all seem but yesterday — how helplessly un- 
 attainable — and yet it was his to-day ; he had got it-^he held 
 the sweet assurance. The fliir l^thel was his fair Ethal, and the 
 world was very bright for him tliis new morning. 
 
 Yet he hesitated with a shame-faced hesitancy to go forth to 
 meet his happiness before the world. He hesitated to go down 
 and meet the family. He had upon him a half guilty feeling, as 
 if he had been stealing something and got caught ut it too. 
 
 He was a lawyer, yet where was all the brazen-Zace of his pro- 
 fession, which should stand him in good stead ? , 
 
 No youthful appropriator of his mothers jam tVer shrank from 
 that mother's outraged eye as he shrank at the »rosj)ect of meet- 
 ing the calm gaze of Mrs. Mordaunt, of any of ihem, except ])er- 
 ha])s that of his Ethel alone. C)f course they all knew of last 
 evening's occurrences, though he had not acti any of them. His 
 Ethel had fled from him like a lapwing as sli^ spoke her single, 
 but to him al!-i)owerful word, nor had heagjim seen her, or even 
 her uncle. / 
 
 Could he meet the gaze of that uncle, wifi the ^rave face but 
 
 liuiii;! 
 
A FIRST KISS. 
 
 45 
 
 mocking eye, whose every word would liave its lurking inuendo, 
 and who would be merciless to the victims for whom he had 
 limed the t\\ig. A\'hat i)ointed shafts, barbed with wicked v.it^ 
 though veiled in seemingly innocent interrogatory, would he not 
 have to parry. 
 
 And oh ! the terrible ordeal of the formal interview to come 
 with stern father — enquiring mother. 
 
 The sole ray of comfort he derived from his reflections lay in 
 the remembrance of the curious psycological anomaly that 
 a mother is never averse to marriage, with its consecjuent separa- 
 tion, for her tenderly loved daughter, yet cannot with ecjuanimity 
 look forward to the same for a son. But even this soothing idea 
 was speedily dashed by the uni)leasing recollection that a fa- 
 ther's views are generally the reverse. 
 
 Radiant with happiness, yet shrinking from sight. Eager to 
 meet his love, yet l)y no means eager to face her friends, he de- 
 layed his ajjpearance before them imtil the very last possible 
 minute. 
 
 When at last he had screwed up his courage to the sticking 
 place and entered the breakfast room he found its only occu- 
 pants to be his fair one's father and her uncle. 
 
 The former greeted him with his customary hand-shake and 
 " good morning," uttered in his usual tone, and very like as if 
 he, at any rate, had heard nothing of that — in Edwin's eyes — 
 stupendous event, which seemed to him must occupy the undi- 
 vided attention of a world. 
 
 Such, indeed, was the case. Mr. Mordaunt had not yet heard 
 of it ] though he, of course, could not know that. Ethel had 
 rtown from her lover into the house, to her own private cham- 
 ber, and had remained there in the flush of her own happy 
 emotion. Not until the mornmg, when she had heard her fa- 
 ther safely down stairs, did she fly to her mother and reveal her 
 tender confidence on that tender maternal breast. 
 
 So Edwin got present relief: but there remained another pre- 
 
46 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 sent who knew a good deal more of tJie state of affairs ; who was 
 by no means inclined to let slip his oi)portunity for a little h;irm- 
 less teazing ot him he had so strangely l)enefitted, and this was 
 Mr. Horton. He shook his hand warmly, an unusual custom 
 with him, with a ])ercei)tible pressure, which was re-assuring 
 •enough, were it not that Edwin's instinct told him that something 
 else lay behind. Mr. Horton was an outsider enough, and at 
 the same time sufficiently closely related to them all to be a 
 privileged j)erson, while he was not so completely an outsider 
 that he could not, nor yet so very closely related that he would 
 not, take advantage of the somewhat open and unprotected posi- 
 tion in which Edwin was placed, to amuse himself and indulge 
 his humourously mischievous i)roclivities. 
 
 " Good morning, Edwin," he continued. '' Why, what makes 
 you look so unwell to-day ? How pale and nervous you look, 
 .and your eyes so excited and wild. A\'hatever have you been 
 doing? No bad news, I hope? Your heart's not out of order, 
 is it ? There's a jjrevalence about here of such complaints, I 
 imagine, and I have jierceived sym])toms indicating such with 
 you of late. Exciting yourself and staying out in the night air 
 ^ire to be avoided in such cases. I expect now that you were 
 talking about the disease last night with your companion, and 
 probably, too, seeking advice as to the best remedies. Very 
 bad ! Very bad, indeed. No wonder you're so excited and flabber- 
 gasted this morning. Now does not he look very much out of 
 sorts, Mordaunt ?" continued the mischievous Mr. Horton, peer- 
 ing anxiously into Edwin's vexed face as he called the other's 
 attention to him. 
 
 "' But there's nothing the matter with me, Mr. Horton. I'm as 
 well as ever I was in my life, and better too," replied Edwin, 
 loudly and earnestly, though he could not help laughing at the 
 inuendoes. '* There's nothing the matter with me, at all, and 
 you know it." 
 
 " I know there is something the matter, though. Vou must 
 
 > IN 
 
A FIRST KISS. 
 
 47 
 
 lia\e had a sharp attack of it. 1 wondered what detained 
 you so long on your way home last night, and that's what's the 
 matter. Now, don't you think you'd better stay in your room 
 close for a day or two, and avoid the exciting cause of your 
 malady. It's all right now. 1 sui)i)ose, and you'll soon calm 
 down again." 
 
 " Well, I don't see anything wrong with him ; one of yoiif 
 jokes. T suppose, Horton." said Mr. Mordaunt. " He's a little 
 pale, and looks as if he had not slei)t well. But here are the 
 ladies at last, and we'll have lireakfast," he continued, as Mrs. 
 Mordaunt and Ethel entered the room. 
 
 'The former inclined her head courteously to our hero as she 
 bid him "good morning." There was a kind light in her eye, 
 though, as she looked at him that he found very pleasant. 
 
 Ethel raised her gleaming eyes with a sudden flash to her 
 lover's face as she entered, and as suddenly droj)ped them 
 again, noticing the amused smile with which her uncle regarded 
 ]ier. Her lips quivered as if she tried to form a word, but she 
 would not trust herself to utter it. ])ut went to her father, who 
 kissed her with his usual tenderness, and passed to Jier seat. 
 
 '*• Good morning, Ethel," said her uncle. " As I see that you 
 won't si)eak first this morning. I suppose I'd better commence 
 jnyself. Are you ill, too, like Edwin here, who is as pale as a 
 ghost, or are you only cross to-day ? We hear so much from 
 you as a rule that it makes a sur|)rising change when you are 
 silent." 
 
 Her mother raised her eyes to her brother's face and endea 
 voured to give him a warning sign, but he would not look at her, 
 and her attempts were unavailing. Kthel looked up with an 
 effort, and said — 
 
 " Thanks, uncle, I am (juite well, and not cross with any 
 person unless with yourself I think, too, that you are very 
 Avell able to talk for both of us, and generally do, into the bar- 
 irain. 
 
 ^^AuCiz■V^i\2iL:^i^,JlJkii^:lk^i^^JJ^Z£iKM^^M£^^ j^ixaoBBaitmimi 
 
48 
 
 SHE Micmr HAVE DOXK BKTTKR. 
 
 i II 
 
 I 
 
 imIhi 
 
 li: :i 
 
 i t 
 
 W'l'H, it scenis to mc there is some by-play going on of which 
 I am not in the secret," exclaimed Mr. Mordaunt. " Horton is 
 in his element this morning, and consequently there must be 
 some mischief on hand. Another cup of tea, if you please, Flor- 
 ence. Vance, you are eating nothing. I believe Horton is 
 right after all, and that you are on the sick list. Try some of 
 these brook trout — they are very good. \'ou must pluck up 
 your spirits and vour good looks, or you'll have no chance with 
 the charming Kmily Dearborn, who c( mes hereto-day. 
 
 " ^'es, that's the whole root of the matter," interposed Mr. 
 Horton. " Kthel assigned Em ly to me to be her cavalier to- 
 day, and he has had a sleepless night over it." 
 
 " \\'ell, what shall be done to make a pleasant day for them," 
 .said Mrs. Mordaunt, to get the conversation into a new turn. 
 " '['hey wiil be here early and we must think of something to 
 do. I wish Reginald was back from his shooting expediton. 
 The week he promised himself has passed, and no sign of him. 
 He would soon get up some amusement were he here. Cannot 
 we have a pic-nic somewhere to pass a i)art of the day ]jlea- 
 santly ? 
 
 " That's a good idea, Florence," said her husband. " 1 am 
 going this morning to the new fields at the outlet of the lake, 
 where the hands are harvesting a field of wheat which I wish to 
 see, and I shall remain a great part of the day. So when the 
 girls come, you might get some prog ready and take the boats 
 or the carriages down there and have your pic-nic." 
 
 •' [t is a very pretty place, and, if you bring your crocjuet with 
 you, you will find some nice short gr ss, while there's some fish- 
 ing for those who like it," he continued, as he hurried on with 
 his breakfast. 
 
 " What do you say, Ethel ? and you, also, gentlemen ?" said 
 Af rs. Mordaunt. " Will such a place suit your views for the 
 day, or have you anything better to propose? Ff not, which 
 way shall we go — by the lake or the road ?" 
 
 ,;li 
 
 ! i 
 
 « v;^i:L<»aia»«j»wKnJCUB7UniHilfaanpaik3aiMU!ft'^^ S^ViU^-t^^: > ' 
 
A FIRST KISS. 
 
 49 
 
 1 am 
 
 lake, 
 
 ish to 
 
 ;n the 
 
 l)oats 
 
 -■L 
 
 with 
 fish- 
 
 w 
 
 *' Oh I I think it will be very pleasant, mamma," answered 
 Ethel. " But we had better take the boats, the last part of the 
 road is very rough." 
 
 " We will go by the lake most decidedly, ft has i>leasing re- 
 miniscences for xome of us, eh, Edwin ?" said Mr. Horton, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "Well, that is decided then. 1 shall expect you all there this 
 morning, 'lake care of the young ladies, you two gentlemen. 
 Don't let them find \ou dull company. And now I must be off, 
 so ]jlease excuse me," said Mr. Mordaunt, rising. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt also rose with her husband, followed him as 
 she said — 
 
 " I wish to speak to you a moment before you go, if you i)lease, 
 Henry," and left the room. 
 
 " Important Inisiness on the Ar//V, that is evident," remarked 
 Mr. Horton, " But as I have nothing important upon my hand, 
 like some peoi)le I know, I betake myself for a stroll and try if 
 I cannot extract some stray grains of amusement from the philo- 
 sophical reflections of my friend Barney, whom 1 shall doubtless 
 find with his 'bastes.'" 
 
 " Well, then, you will be disapi)ointed, uncle ; for Barney 
 started early this morning for the station, to fetch Mr. Wolver- 
 ton," answered Ethel, ''and you must find your amusement in 
 some other quarter at j)resent." 
 
 "Indeed? That is a pity; and Barney might have been 
 on a better errand," was the reply. " But I'll go for my stroll, 
 nevertheless, for it would be a hoi)eless task to endeavour to 
 obtain a spark of amusement from such a distracted looking 
 pair as you two :" and with this j^arting salutation he left the 
 room. 
 
 " Ethel, my darling, have you not a word for me this morn- 
 ing," said her lover, as they were left tete-a-tctc. 
 
 " Plenty, Edwin, but not now. I must have leave before I' 
 speak with you again. As it was, I said more than I ought to 
 
50 
 
 SHK MUiHr HAVK DOXK BKI'IKR. 
 
 luivf done last night, when you behaved so — so — so very 
 badly," replied Kthel 
 
 •'More ! Oh, Kthel '. what did you say but one little word, 
 and then ran away and left me. Vet it was a very sweet little 
 word, and it has made me very haiJi>y. Say it again, Kthel — 
 ihat little word. I am so hai>i)y that 1 cannot believe it real ; 
 and i long tor the joyful assurance again. And, Kthel, I do 
 not think i behaved so very badly ; on the contrary, was it not 
 very excellent conduct, since it received such great reward ? 
 Stay, Kthel — one moment — but one moment," as she rose and 
 tried to leave the room. 
 
 " I must go, Fklwin. Let me go ; what will they — " He 
 l)ressed his first kiss upon her brow, as she broke away and 
 escai)ed. 
 
 [.eft to his own reflections, our hero telt that he yet had 
 another trial before him ; and that was " to speak to i)apa." 
 V fearful ordeal ! at the prospect of which many a fine yoimg 
 man had, ere this, quaked in his boots. He had, however, 
 managed to get his nerves jjretry well braced up, and his 
 self-i)OSsession restored, by the not unj)leasant meeting with the 
 family that morning ; and he felt himself a little better prepared 
 Ibr the somewhat trying ordeal. So he detemiined to keep 
 watch for Mr. Mordaunt, and get the matter over at the first 
 opportunity. He knew that he had not yet left the house, and 
 he considered that it was highly probable that at the present 
 moment his fate was being discussed by the parents of his Kthel. 
 When he did broach the subject to lier father, his answer would 
 very likely l)e ready for him. 
 
 From the occurrences of the morning, he did not feel his 
 cause to be at all hopeless — at least with Mrs. Mordaunt and 
 her brother. Her manner towards him, when they had met at 
 the breakfast table, had not been unflivorable ; while he felt 
 pretty sure — since last evening — of Mr. Horton's good-will and 
 
 v^MiiAcivtBMnnMtt'V^vay- nuriiiwiiiiviTf ifunTrTrTT'ivnim-i^"^- ^ 
 
A F[RS'I* KISS. 
 
 51 
 
 sympatliy. The sole person, therefore, from whom opposition 
 uas to be dreaded was from his fair one's father. 
 
 Hut witli two such allies, he thought probable enough that 
 the latter would not pro\e an enemy ; that in the end, at any 
 rate, his cause was tolerably safe. Vet still, he was in suspense i 
 would ha\e been very glad indeed were all over, and his pofti- 
 tion defined. 
 
 He i)aced the room u]) and down in a state of restlessness, 
 waiting nervously for the api)earance of Mr. Mordaunt, in order 
 10 open the attack ; and he sincerely wished he would come. 
 He did not know where to find him, and if he had, he did not 
 • onsider it was yet the time to ask for him, for he might not be 
 prejjared for him. So he remained where he was, listening for 
 his stei> ^^^^ watching from the windows that he did not leave 
 the house. He was determined to take the first ojjportunity to 
 s[)eak, and prove thus his sincerity / placing his suit himself 
 before his Ethel's parents. 
 
 'J'heir conference — if indeed they were conferring — seemed to 
 him to be very ))rotracted, and he wondered and pondered 
 what caused the ])rotraction. 
 
 ' In what light would they regard him and his suit ? Would 
 they consider him good enough for their lovely Ethel ? Could 
 it be possible that any malicious report could have been brought 
 against his name ? * and yet he did not think he had an enemy 
 ill the world. ' That could not be the case, for they would have 
 shown it in their manner towards him.' 
 
 With his Ethel he felt safe — safe for all time ; but opposition 
 on her i)arents' part would be the cause of great unhap])iness 
 to him, at all events, for he felt certain that Ethel would be 
 dutifull)- guided by their wishes. But why should there be 
 opjx)sition ? He was young — very well oflf; he had a good 
 profession and a good name, against which no e\il report could 
 stand. And he could not see how they should find foult wit.]> 
 
 '.'>^ii?:;■7■a]J*T^'f"A.■r^l<;■.^'lSJr^Si^-\■^■^Jt^■feifiQ^^lAfc 
 
 BIIIR£affiU.>.S 
 
52 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ii«i w 
 
 his suit. Amid reflections such as these he passed away his 
 
 time. 
 
 , When an liour had passed — a very long hour to him — the 
 
 door opened, and Mr. Mordaunt entered the ajjartment. 
 
 His aspect "svas (as it usually was) grave, and from that noth- 
 ing was to be judged ; but he gave no time for forebodings, for 
 he advanced straight before our hero, and without waiting for. 
 or giving him the opportunity to speak — addressed him : 
 
 " My wife has told me, Mr. Vance, of the occurrences Ijetween 
 yourself and Ethel last evening ; and I must say, has surprised 
 me not a little, as I had never imagined for a moment that there 
 was anything between you ; and if 1 am not too well pleased, it 
 is because J consider Ethel to be rather young for an engage- 
 ment. However, as the event has occurred, she seems favor- 
 -iibly inclined towards you, and we cannot well doubt the ardour 
 of your affection for her — we have talked the matter over, and 
 decided upon our course. I have come to tell you our views 
 upon the subject, in order that there may be no misconcei)tion, 
 amd that the affair be placed at once ui)on a decided footing. 
 We both consider Ethel to be too young yet to enter upon the 
 duties of a married life ' but, nevertheless, we l)oth consent to 
 approve the engagement between you, provided that it is under- 
 stood that for a year at least the question of the marriage is to 
 be deferred." 
 
 *' That lapse of time is necessary to both of you," he contin- 
 ued, " that you may the more thoroughly know and understand 
 each other — though, ])erhaps, you may not think it at all neces- 
 sary. If, then, at the expiry of that time, you are both in the 
 same mind, we shall have no further objections to offer." 
 
 "But, consider, Mr. Mordaunt. A year! — a whole year I 
 — an immense period to wait !" e.vclaimed Edwin eagerly. '* 1 
 
 am sure that six " 
 
 ** r have considered, Mr. V\ince, and it must ])e as I say. A 
 year is no very serious length of time. Had I acted solely on 
 
 u' ■■% 
 
ENTER ^J'WO—GREA'J' THINCiS TO DO. 
 
 53 
 
 \y his 
 
 11 — the 
 
 .t noth- 
 igs, for 
 ing for. 
 
 )etween 
 
 irprised 
 
 lat there 
 
 eased, it 
 engage- 
 is favor- 
 
 le ardour 
 
 ver, and 
 
 ar views 
 
 iception. 
 footing. 
 il)on the 
 nsent to 
 is under- 
 tige is to 
 
 le contin- 
 hderstand 
 all neces- 
 th in the 
 er." 
 
 |ole year ! 
 terly. " 1 
 
 1 1 say. A 
 solely on 
 
 my own views, I should have made the time of your probation 
 longer ; but I have acceded to my wife's wishes in fixing upon 
 the year's delay ; and it must be in this as I have said. In the 
 meantime, Mrs. Mordaunt will tell you that we hoi)e you will 
 l)rolong your visit, and that we shall always be hapi)y to sec 
 you whenever you choose to come to us. She may also have 
 some few things to say to you which do not lie in my province ; 
 and any other subject can well be deferred for the year. Now 
 1 must be off." So saying, he shook Edwin heartily l)y the 
 hand, and prepared to leave the house. 
 
 " 1 must bow to your decision, Mr. Mordaunt," said Edwin, 
 " since 1 cannot change it. At the same time I thank you ver)- 
 heartily for the kind manner in which my suit has been receiv- 
 ed, clearing all difficulties from the way of my very hap])y pros- 
 pects." 
 
 " Well, if you are not both happy, it will be your own fault. 1 
 suppose I ohall see you all down at the lake's end before noon. 
 Good-bye until then, Vance." 
 
 And Mr. Mordaunt walked out of the room, mounted his 
 horse, which awaited him at the door, and rode away. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 KNTIIR TWO GRF.A'I' THI\(;S TO DO. 
 
 About ten o'clock of the same eventful morning, a rather 
 handsome carriage drawn by two strong horses, who were dri- 
 ven by a smart looking boy, dashed up the gravelled road wind- 
 ing through the grounds of Lake Mordaunt, and was sto])])edby 
 a sudden reining up of the animals, in the most showy manner 
 possible, opposite the door. 'I'he boy jum]>ed from his seat, ran 
 up the steps and rang the bell — a most unnecessary proct*eding 
 as Ethel had already come forward to receive her visitors — and 
 then had to make a bolt for the horses heads, the unceremonious 
 
■mm 
 
 ■HP 
 
 54 
 
 SHK MJGHI' HAVK DONK BK'ITKK, 
 
 m 
 
 ill! 
 
 ^11 
 
 ! 
 
 illi i 
 
 i 
 
 ii ■ 
 
 11: 
 
 manner in which they had been pulled up liaving set them back- 
 ing and turning in a very undignified, if not dangerous, manner, 
 and effectually destroyed all the stylish dash of the approach. 
 
 Mr. \'ance, who was not, as nia^' be surmised, \ery far away 
 from his Ethel, had to run up to assist Miss Dearborn and Miss 
 Ada Dearborn to alight, amid the half-sui)pressed screams which 
 the eccentric oscillations of their vehicle imjjelled them to utter. 
 Once safely on terra firma they rushed effusively into Ethel's 
 arms and embraced her in the most affectionate manner. " Dear- 
 est Ethel, how glad I am to see you again." " It is an age since 
 Nve met," and "so nice to be with }ou again," were exclaimed 
 !)y the two young ladies, as they successively threw their arms 
 around her neck. 
 
 Miss Ada then, turning to the boy, who by this had succeeded 
 in quieting his horses, addressed him in very girlish anger — 
 
 '* Vou stupid James, why did you not stop your horses ])ro- 
 perl\ , frightening them so ? Why, we might have both been 
 killed. I'm sure you ought to know better than that, you great 
 stupid. 
 
 " It was'nt my fault," rei)lied the boy. " Did'nt Miss Emil) 
 tell me to drive up to the door quick and pull them up all at 
 once, so as to make a great show, now did'nt she ? And that's 
 what scared them. They don't know nothing about show them 
 horses don't." added James, impudently. 
 
 " James, I shall report your conduct to my father when I re- 
 turn." exclaimed Miss Dearborn, angrily. " Making such ridi- 
 culous statements. I never told you any such thing, you im^jer- 
 tinent boy. I will have you discharged." 
 
 " All right : I'm willing," retorted James. " But you did say 
 so, and I knowed it would'nt answer with them horses." 
 
 " Not another word, James." Ck) home again immediately, 
 and remember to come back again this evening for us. Papa 
 wants the carriage this afternoon," she continued, to Ethel, *' and 
 so Janies will con\e back for I's early in the evening." 
 
 i;ii 
 
ENTKK TWO— GREAT IHIXUS TO DO. 
 
 55 
 
 "Oil 1 no, you are to renin in witli us a day or two, at any 
 rate," returned Ethel. " We can send }ou to Ten Lakf« d any 
 time : but you a»-e not going home to-night, so James need not 
 conve. Remember, James, that you need not return, and tell 
 Mrs. 1 dearborn taat the young ladies will not return l)efore to- 
 morrow or the next dav." 
 
 " Very well, Miss Mordaunt, I'll deliver the message," replied 
 James. ])leasantly enough, as he jumi)ed up to his seal. " Am 
 1 to tell the old gentleman you discharged me," he added to 
 Emih , with a grin. 
 
 " Be oft* with you," was all the reply Emily vouchsafed to 
 him. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Vance," she continued, turning to 
 that gentleman. " 1 am very glad to meet you again, though 
 not aware you were in our part of the country until this moiV.cat. 
 W'h} have you not been over to 'I'en Eakes to see us ? We 
 should have been delighted. \'ou find the country very dull, I 
 should imagine, after the gaities of a town life ? Do jou con- 
 trive to amuse yourself?" 
 
 " \'ery well, indeed. Miss Dearborn. 1 certainly don't find 
 the country dull," he answered, with an involuntary glance at 
 Ethel. Avhich Emily at once caught and understood. " I shall 
 certainly call at Ten Lakes, but I need not t. mk of that now, 
 when I have the present pleasure of your society. That shall 
 he reserved tor a renewal of the jjleasure," he rejilied gallantly. 
 •' Miss Ada, I am delighted to meet you again, although 1 should 
 hardly have known you. \'ou seem determined to charm your 
 firiends afresh each time they meet you, out of all knowledge of 
 your fair self" 
 
 " Tlianks for the compliment, Mr. Vance, which seems to imply 
 that my appearance is gradually becoming [)assable," Ada replied. 
 '' I don't care, thotigh. But I admire the coolness of you Toronto 
 gentlemen, who think, I veril}- believe, that anything will paas 
 current with us country girls." 
 
 f'l 
 
 jili 
 
56 
 
 SHE MICHI' HAVK DONK BKTTER. 
 
 |l 
 
 lii 
 
 If 
 
 \l 
 
 11 i 
 
 Iff 
 
 " Now, Miss Ada, that's not fiiir. f meant no such thing, 
 you know 1 didn't. 1 pay no dubious homage to your charms." 
 
 " Oh I a truce to your compliments," interrupted Ethel, *' or 
 we'll be here all day. ^^"e are intending to have a little pic-nic 
 at the end of the lake for your sakes, Emily and Ada, that is, if 
 you like it, and, I am sorry to say, just among ourselves. Had 
 1 known earlier that you were coming, I would have asked some 
 other people, but for to-day we must enjoy ourselves as best we 
 can." 
 
 " Nothing could be more delightful, I'm sure," said Emily, who 
 having her own ideas to carry out, cared little whether there were 
 live people or fifty present. 
 
 " Well, we'll get ready then," answered Ethel. '' We'll take 
 the croquet with us, too, although we're short of gentlemen. 
 But we will inaugurate my uncle into its mysteries. My brother 
 Reggie is unfortunately absent on a shooting and fishing excur- 
 sion, but we'll make ]japa play, and there's lots of things we can 
 do when we tire of croquet." 
 
 '* Oh ! that will be perfectly delightful. A good croquet fight 
 is just the thing for our afternoon," exclaimed Ada, rapturously. 
 " One can take some interest in that and have some fun. 1 
 wish 1 were a man that I could play cricket, and base ball, anfl 
 lacros.se. I'd give anything to play in the cricket match at Ten 
 Lakes on Saturday." 
 
 '* Well, Ada, I'm sure," said her sister, " that's a nice speech 
 for a young lady to make. Can you not remember that you are 
 not a boy ? But it's just like you to make f^o unladylike, so 
 sliocking a remark." 
 
 i* Oh, yes ! Emily, that's all very fine ; but it's a shame that 
 the men should have all the nice games to themselves, and we 
 girls nothing but the stupid things. Croquet is the only game 
 we have with a bit of excitement in it, and only then when there's 
 enough to have sides and fight it out without mercy." 
 
 " I entirely concur in the spirit of the yoimg lady's remarks," 
 
ENTER TWO— (iREAT THINGS TO DO. 
 
 57 
 
 thing, 
 larms." 
 el, '' or 
 pic-nic 
 at is, if 
 Had 
 ;d some 
 best wc 
 
 ily, who 
 ^re were 
 
 e'll take 
 ntlemen. 
 f brother 
 ig excur- 
 js we can 
 
 net tight 
 tiirously. 
 fun. 1 
 ball, an^ 
 at Ten 
 
 speech 
 
 you are 
 
 ylike, so 
 
 ame that 
 , and we 
 ,ily game 
 in there's 
 
 remarks," 
 
 said Mr. Horton, who had strolled up to the p(»rtico on which 
 they were still standing. " It is not entirely just that the fiiir 
 sex should be debarred from the exciting sports of the open air. 
 Reduced as they are to amuse themselves with croquet, flirting 
 and kindred occupations of tame character." 
 
 " Oh ! that's you, is it, Uncle Edward? Come, I want you, 
 said Ethel. ''Permit me to introduce my uncle, Mr. Horton, 
 to you — Miss Dearborn — Miss Ada Dearborn. He is an Ameri- 
 can, ladies, with a profound contem])t for us poor Canadians, 
 But we will teach him better shortly. He is rather nice, though, 
 and not so cross as he looks. We will begin this afternoon by 
 initiating him into the sublime game of croquet." 
 
 *' Thank you, Ethel," continued Mr. Horton, after the fomiali- 
 ties of the introductioji were over. "It is just like you to in- 
 troduce me in such outrageous fashion, showing off my points 
 as if I were a tame bear. I should be happy to play with you, 
 ladies, but I kn(^w nothing whatever of croquet, beyond having 
 often seen it." 
 
 " Oh, but you must, Mr. Horton. We cannot do without you, 
 a-nd 1 will teach you. You shall be my partner for standing up 
 for me just now. and we will get along fiimously against them," 
 said Ada, with eagernes.s. 
 
 " \\'e must go in though and get ready ; it will soon be time 
 to start, and there are lots of things to do first," resumed Ethel, 
 and the young ladies followed her into the house, while the two 
 gentlemen betook themselves to the boat-house to get ready 
 their fishing tackle and prepare the largest boat for the trip. 
 
 Where we will leave them lor the ]>resent and follow the 
 ladies. 
 
 Miss Emily Dearlwrn, the elder of the two sisters, and now 
 in her twenty-second year, was a handsome and very stylish- 
 looking girl, very clever and ambitious, who made the most of 
 ever)' advantage that she possessed, and was detemnined that 
 her light should not, at any rate, be hid under a bushel. Her 
 
;8 
 
 SHK MKrHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 .f 
 
 eyes were bright, sj)arkling and unHinching, of an intenviodiatc 
 hue — neither gray nor brown — her features pretty and her figure 
 very good. She dressed showily, yet with taste, and her exte- 
 rior was very pleasing. In fact, she was a very pretty and dash- 
 ing-looking girl. But she did not possess a single spark of 
 generosity in her whole nature. It was all for self If in pleas- 
 ing herself she happened to please others, it may safely be aver- 
 red the accident was notof her intention. Though she possessed 
 plenty of tact and the capability of making herself agreeable 
 when it suited her, yet she only used these jjowers when it suit- 
 ed her. \ot from sympathy, or kindness of s|)irit. or the desire 
 of plea.sing. 
 
 She was vain of her beauty — jealous of that of others, and 
 could not brook rivalry — even though she knew it to be uncon- 
 scious riMilry — with any degree of complacency. To attain her 
 objects she was capable of sacrificing every feeling, and ever)' 
 right of all those who stood in her way, or inflict without mercy 
 the greatest jjain. 
 
 She was a flirt, not so much" from the love of flirting per se, 
 as from the desire to outshine and rival every girl of her acquain- 
 tance. 
 
 And she [)Ossessed no .scruple as to the ap[)ropriation, if 
 possible, of other girls' property, in the shape of the masculine 
 heart. 'I'hat she and Ethel Mordaunt remained on friendly 
 terms was more easily deducible from the fact that they had not 
 been thrown sufficiently into each others society to conflict with 
 each other, than from the probability of such dissimilar temj^era- 
 ments being ])ermanently drawn together. Ethel was not one 
 to form great intimacies amongst girls of her own age — inti- 
 macies that so seldom last, while her own inclinations, with the 
 somewhat retired i)osition of Lake Mordaunt, and the retiring 
 disposition of its owner, i)revented her from mixing to an\' great 
 extent with the surrounding society. 
 
 But if Ethel Mordaunt liked Emilv Dearborn well tnouL:h, the 
 
KNTRR TWO— (>RKA'r 'I'HINCIS TO DO. 
 
 59 
 
 great 
 
 [jh, the 
 
 UK. > ' 
 
 hitter did not return the comphment. She did not like any per- 
 sun to any extraordinary extent, still less one of whose atirao 
 lions she was superlatively jealous. Her acceptance of the pre 
 sent visit was more referable to the agreeable tidings that n 
 young and eligible bachelor, whom she already knew, was stay- 
 ing at the lake, than to any desire for the society of her friend 
 (jr the passing of a day or two ni a j)lace she deemed very 
 slow. 
 
 Her faults, jmrtly those of disposition, were mainly due to an 
 injudicious bringing uj) and a sui)erficial education, the lack of a 
 restraining hand, and the lack of necessary discijjjine which 
 teaches self-restraint. 
 
 The daughter of the cashier of the branch l)ank at 'len Lakes, 
 an honest and worthy man of business, who inifortunately was 
 beset with that mania for keejjing up appearances and living 
 what is considered stylish life — the liane of so many — but whose 
 income was not commensurate with his ideas of himself and 
 family — her mental culture and rearing, consequent on such 
 family influences, had been directed towards outside show — sur- 
 face accomplishments and ambitious longings for high place in 
 society. Home examjjles surroimding her from her earliest 
 years had made these things a primary ])art of her mental edu- 
 cation, the overshadowing idea that biased all the rest. 
 
 Her mother, a vain and feeble woman, whom ill-health had 
 rendered selfish with an inert selfishness, was not the one to cor- 
 rect the faults and elevate the aspirations of her active and 
 sprightly daughter, whose natural disposition so much needed 
 the check of a wise restraining hand, and the exam])le before her 
 of a high and right thinking character. She pos.sessed neither 
 the cajjability nor the inclination to wisely lead the young mind 
 opening before her eyes, and imbuing itselt from her influence, 
 towards that natural bent of life ; those natural pursuits and ob- 
 jects ; that symi)athy and affection for fellow humanity ; and last, 
 but not least, the useful em])1oyments of daily existence vrhich. 
 
 I 
 
6o 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE IM)\E BETI'KR. 
 
 i 
 
 when they are combined with the chastening and elevating in- 
 fluences of the true Christian spirit, can best guide on the search 
 for ha}>[)iness. 
 
 On the contrary, the example of her vanity and love of osten- 
 tation had confirmed the same defects in her daughter. 
 
 While her constant bewailing the pressure for money which 
 their irrational mode ot life persistently forced uj>on them, and 
 for which they themselves were solely to blame, had made her 
 daugliter to feel and to act on the idea that escape from the evils 
 of poverty, to attain the possession of wealth for the gratification 
 of an unhealthy ambition, was for her to be obtained by the 
 emi>loyment of her talents and her beauty in securing for her- 
 self a good marriage, irrespective of all other considerations. 
 And this was the great end that she sought — her i)ur.suit of hai)- 
 })iness. 'I'hrough the evUs of such home infiuence and training 
 as hers had been, none but a rightly constituted mind, strengtli- 
 ened by firm princijjles, could, by any possibility, pass un- 
 scathed ; and these Emily Dearborn did not i)ossess. 
 
 The character of Ada presented a striking contrast to that of 
 her sister Emily, the more striking, perhaps, since they had been 
 brought u\) together, subjected to the same influence. Though 
 it cannot be said that her i)rinciples were solidly fixed, or her 
 disposition a perfect one ; a better one it certainly >vas, and she 
 had reached her seventeenth year a different being from her sis- 
 ter. Whether from an instinctive idea of what is right and pro- 
 per, a fixed stability of mind which formed and acted on its own 
 oj)inions, or an obtuseness which rejected and threw off, as a 
 roof sheds the rain, the impressions of those around her, she had 
 passed through the unhealthy examples of her home life with but 
 little injury to her mind and heart. 
 
 A frank, joyous, outspoken girl, free from pretence or afTecta- 
 tion and full of life and spirit, she accepted and enjoyed life as 
 it came to her, interested and delighted with it, and not caring 
 to trouble herself with things that seemed l)e>ond her reach. 
 
 li. 
 
KNTER IWO— CiREAT J'HINGS TO DO. 
 
 6r 
 
 un- 
 
 at of 
 Ibeen 
 
 High 
 her 
 
 I she 
 
 r sis- 
 pro- 
 own 
 as a 
 had 
 
 |h but 
 
 fecta- 
 Ife as 
 larhig 
 leach. 
 
 She had but little vanity to ])lajjue her or self-consciousness to 
 oi)[)ress her. Her care for dress and finery was confined to the 
 limit necessary to escape the reproaches of her mother and sister 
 tor neglect. If she wanted a new dress, it was as much that 
 she might get out of the house, which she was not allowed to do 
 if shabby, as for the love of it. She outraged the proprieties, in 
 her mother's and sister's sense, a do/en times a day a.id was none 
 the worse for it. 
 
 Essentially good-natured and generous-hearted, she would do 
 anything that was asked of her and take an interest in it too. 
 As clever and as active as her sister, she was better and more 
 soundly educated, since she willingly undertook the tasks as- 
 signed her. 
 
 Her active spirit made idleness irksome, and it generally fell 
 to her to perform the domestic duties and sui)ervision which 
 her mother could not, and her sister would not, i)erform. 
 
 Her bright young face gave ])romise of future beauty, a sore 
 subject to her sister, who foresaw a very formidal>le rival, but 
 her tall stature and slender build were at the present only re- 
 lieved from awkwardness by her active naturalness, which gave 
 her a hoydenish grace. 
 
 A beau meant chietiy to her a partner at croquet, to laugh with 
 and exult with over a victory, or to volubly scold on defeat. 
 
 If she was not a very refined and cultivated young lady, she 
 was clever enough. If she liked boisterous sj)orts, she always 
 did her duty. 
 
 [f her faults had not l)een pruned they had not overshadowed 
 her better ([ualities. She was a happy, contented girl — her 
 naturalness and youth likely long to remain with her. 
 
 .\ romping stroll with her brothers, a gay gabbling walk with 
 a lot of her school-girl comi)anions, fishing, lx)ating, skating, 
 snow-shoeing, riding about the country on horsel)ack, and the 
 delight of her heart — croquet — were her pleasures ; and she 
 detested the formalities that reigned supreme at home. 
 
62 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE IXJNE BHTTKR. 
 
 : 'ii 
 
 ill I 
 
 Every l)ody liked Ada Dearborn. Her faults were caused by 
 the neglect of others, while she had the ring of true metal about 
 her. 
 
 " Well, girls, what news have you for me from Ten Lakes, to- 
 day ?" said Ethel, when the young ladies, having paid the atten- 
 tion to toilette matters which a drive, however short, during a 
 Canadian July day generally necessitates, had sauntered into 
 the conservatory for a look at the flowers. " Is there anything 
 occurring out of the ordinary ? I have not been from home tor 
 a week and long to hear what is going on." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Ethel, there is going to be such a si)lendid m;itch 
 on Saturday between the Ten Lakes Cricket Club and the 
 ■County. Only think I our little Ten Lakes against the whole 
 County I Oh I I do hope they will beat them. I know 1 shall 
 ])e on ])ins and needles the whole day. Our Tom is captain, 
 and Harry plays loo. Oh I how delightful it will be if they win, 
 A^'ou'll come to see it, Ethel, won't you ? Every one will be 
 there," exclaimed Ada, rapturously. 
 
 " Well, if you call that news, its about all there is at i>reseni. 
 There is really nothing going on worth telling," Emily rejoined. 
 " One cannot get any sense out of the gentlemen at this season. 
 Nothing but their ridiculous lacrosse and cricket, as if peopk.- 
 cared to see a lot of men, in an unpleasant state of warmth, 
 knock a ball al)Out. if anything th: t affords a chance of a little 
 amusement is proposed — a dance, a concert, or an evening's 
 entertainment, it is ' pooh poohed I' by them for their ridicu- 
 lous practices, and they seem to have nothing else to think of. 
 Hut you'll come over on Saturday, Ethel, and stay with us. We 
 are going to get some good out of the match by gi\ ing the strange 
 club a dinner, and having a ball afterwards in the evening," 
 
 '* If we go at all, I am sure papa and mamma won't stay for 
 the evening," answered Ethel ; *«' and, consecjuently, I cannot, 
 and 1 cannot say whether they will even go for the match. Mr. 
 Vance is going, however, as he was asked to play, or be umpire, 
 
"^jg^^r-TT^sr^ Miax 
 
 ENTER 'nvO—CRKA'l '1HIN(;S TO IK). 
 
 (>3 
 
 or 
 [it. 
 Ifr. 
 
 re, 
 
 or something about it, when he was in 'I en Lakes last week, 
 and 1 forgot to tell you, Kmily, an old admirer of yours — Sidney 
 Wolverton — is coming here this evening, and remains tor the 
 match, I think. At least he said he was going to play in hit 
 letter to Edwin — Mr. Vance," corrected Kthel, hastfly. 
 
 " So Sydney Wolverton is coming here, is he .-* ^'ou seem to 
 have plenty of gentlemen visitors, Ethel ? It's strange, as he 
 generally comes to Ten Lakes," replied Emily, acidly. "And 
 Mr. Vance, too, might have adled when he was there. It's you 
 we ought to look to for news, Ethel. Have not you anything 
 to tell us about Nfr. Vance and yourself, for instance. .Some- 
 thing interesting, you know. He seems very devoted, and you 
 seem to know all abouthim. It's too l)ad to take my old admirers 
 from me," contmued Emily. 
 
 " Now that's a shame. I declare, Emily," exclaimed Ada. 
 '•Of course Mr. Vance is Ethel's beau ; that is, if she wants him 
 to be. She is jjretty enough, and I don't believe he was ever 
 ®ne of yours ; though Sydney certainly was, or is. for that mat- 
 ter. It is not any of your business whether Ethe! ]v^s a beaii or 
 ]iot. Is he very good, Ethel ?" continued she. "Can he j'lay 
 croquet and games well? 1 would not have a be;iu unless he 
 was smart." 
 
 '' Oh, I think he is pretty fair in your sense of the word. Ada," 
 rei>lied Ethel, laughing. " I sujijjose he can pla\- games well." 
 
 " Well, Ada, of all the rude speeches I have ever heard, yours 
 is about the rudest," rejoined Emily, in a by no means amiable 
 accent, and looking at her sister as if she would have liked to 
 annihilate her upon the spot. " Not to speak of the very un- 
 ])ecoming manner in which you addressed me just now — which, 
 knowing you as I do, I could but exjiect ; it is highly impro- 
 ])er, and couched in the extremest depth of vulgarity, to use 
 that low word ' beau ' in connection with the name of a young 
 lady. It is what we w( uld look for from a servant girl, and not 
 from one who, with the advantages she has had. and the example 
 
 J 
 
I! 
 
 :l 
 
 ill 
 
 64 
 
 SHE MKIHI' HAVK DONK nK'l'I'KR. 
 
 set before her, ouglit to possess the manners and dei'-ortinent of 
 a lady. As it is, Ada, you will have to conduct yourself in a 
 more hecoming manner or remain at home in the nursery, which, 
 it would appear, is tiie proper place tor you. And then your 
 horridly conunon ai)])lication of the word ' smart.' Ft is simply 
 dreadful." 
 
 " Oh, well, Emily dear, 1 did not mean to vex you. I only 
 thought you should not tease Ethel. And if 1 did use the ob- 
 jectionable word 'beau* it was because I have heard you use it 
 .so often at home. Vou call Gus. Ferguson and Sydney W'ol- 
 verton and lots of other fellows your 'beaux,' and I think tluit 
 what one should not say before our friends should not be used 
 at home. And where was the harm in using the word ' smart ' 
 in its Canadian sense .-* I was not reciting a i)iece at an exami 
 nation," answered Ada, dei)recatmgly. 
 
 Ada's interruption and drawing down upon herself of her sis- 
 ter's wrath had come in very timeousl}- for Ethel, as it saved her 
 the necessity of rej)lying to, or in some way taking notice of, 
 Mi.ss Dearborn's rather ])ointed and disagreeable insinuations as 
 to herself and Mr, Vance. The few words that had been said 
 on the subject had given her a feeling of repulsion towards that 
 young lady, and had shown her plainly that, if not a declared 
 enemy, she would not have a friend in that ([uarter. 
 
 She felt that she would not like to explain, nor yet \\as she 
 going to deny her engagement to Mr. Vance to this girl, who, 
 in the course of their few minutes' conversation, she had alread\ 
 learned to dislike. Though to the frank and natural Ada she 
 would gladly have communicated her new happiness, and look- 
 ed for answering s}'mpathy. 
 
 Ada's interruption had come in \ er}- good time to her aid, 
 and had, at any rate for the present, relieved her of the necessity 
 of speaking on the matter. 
 
 11!" 
 
I MUST HAVE SALMON. 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 65 
 
 I MUS'I- HAVF. SALMON. 
 
 -if 
 
 It 
 
 k- 
 
 id. 
 
 lit)- 
 
 Emily Dearborn in truth was very anxious to find out how 
 matters really stood between Mr. Vance and Ethel Mordaunt. 
 So soon as she had heard that he was on a visit to the lake — a 
 long visit — she had scented danger. Mr. Vance stood very high 
 on the short list of eligil)les for one of whom she destined the 
 honour of her fair hand. At the head of the possibilities of its 
 graduated scale stood the name of F^dwin \'ance, and she was 
 not the girl to let him sli]) through her fingers without an effort 
 to save the prize. 
 
 Almost at the moment of her arrival — almost at a glance — 
 she had perceived with feminine intuition, how matters stood 
 with him ; that he was in love, and that he did not look as if his 
 love was an unhapi)y one — an unfortunate love. This was very 
 galling to her, and she blamed herself severely for allowing so 
 much time to slij) on his undisturbed visit at'ter she had heard 
 of it. 
 
 She was very anxious to know Ethel's sentiments in regard to 
 him. At the present she was very much in doubt. She thought 
 she had a clue in the little slip of the tongue with which Ethel 
 had nearly pronounced his Christian name, and afterwards cor- 
 rected it to " Mr. Vance." But she would watch, and if things 
 had come to the worst, and there was a private engagement be- 
 tween them, how many opportunities could she not find, or 
 make, to produce discord between them — to break it off — and 
 bring things back to where they were before ? She did not love 
 Edwin Vance — she did not love any one — but she thought him 
 an excellent /^?7'//, and she was determined that Ethel Mordaunt 
 should not marry him if she could help it. 
 
 But her reflections, and the silence which had continued for 
 a few minutes while they saimtered about the cool conservatory. 
 
 I 
 
pmiipj.iiHM(lupu-.vrKjc»>'. 
 
 t 
 
 66 
 
 SHK MIGHT HAVK DONK BKTrKR. 
 
 !i.:j:. 
 
 wore Ijrokeii by the prattle of little feet, and Alida, the three- 
 year-old daughter of the house, came rushing in, lier brown eyes 
 sparkling and opened to their widest extent, and lier i)retty little 
 bright face all {lushed and eager, 
 
 " Oh ! Ktel, Ktel ! mamma say Reggie tummin'. Vet's go and 
 yook. Ally so vedy glad Reggie tummin'." 
 
 " Ally's so very glad that Reggie's coming, is she ? So is 
 Kthel, too," said that young lad}-, while Ada snatched up the 
 eager little thing. " We'll go and see him then." 
 
 At the same moment a boisterous \ oung voice was heard in 
 the hall, awd die sound of a loud kiss. 
 
 " Hallo ! mamma, how are you .'* I've got back at last. }0u 
 see. Had such a time. Where are thev all ? Where's Ethel 
 and Ally ? Oh ! I've had such a jolly lark." 
 
 " Oh I I'm so glad to see you back safely again Reginald," 
 Mrs. Mordaunt was heard to say. " \'ou'\e been away, so long 
 .•iwa\-, over the time vou mentioned that I was getting uneasy 
 about )<ju. I'm very happy to see you l.)ack. You'll find them 
 with Emily and Ada Dearborn in the conservatory, [ think : 
 but \'ou are not very presentable^, Reggie." 
 
 •' Oh ! bother the ' presentable :' mv' face is clean, at an)- rate," 
 and he rushed off to find them, shouting — 
 
 •' Ethel I Ethel ! where are you ? I want you." 
 
 *' Hallo, Ally ! give Reggie a kiss," he continued, seizing her 
 out of Ada's arms, and smothering her with rough brotherly 
 kisses. 
 
 •' Ally's so vedy glad Reggie tum bat. Ally wanted Reggie," 
 said the pretty little thing, clasping her little arms around his neck. 
 
 " Ves 1 and Reggie wanted Ally, too. He's glad to see his 
 All) . Oh : Ethel," he continued, " r\e had such a jolly lark 
 this morning. How do you do, Emi ly ? How do you do, Ada ? 
 Ethel, old girl, how are you?" he exclaimed, kissing his sister, 
 and shaking hands with the two young ladies In a vehement 
 manner. 
 
 r^iW^f^&^^T^vrmiiiSSSw^ 
 
I ML'sr HAVK SALMON. 
 
 67 
 
 " W e!l, I declare ! you ought to he ashamed ot" yourself to 
 come l)etbre these young ladles in such a state as you are. 
 Reggie," said Ethel, looking, however, lovingly ujjon lier bro 
 ther. '• How in the world did you contrive to get yourself so 
 ragged and tattered, and oh ! how you do smell of fish. What 
 hare ) ou been doing with yourself? 
 
 "• \\\\\ I my clothes got torn in the woods, I suppose. V'ou 
 should have seen all the places we have been through — rocks, 
 woods, rivers, swamjjs, lakes, and all the rough places between 
 here and Lake Nipissing. But we had a good time, though, ind 
 oh ! the jolly lark I had this morning. So I smell of fish, do 1 , 
 Kthel } [ should think I do. VV^hy, I have been occupied as ;i 
 fishmonger to-day. Such a lark I See all this money, Ethel," 
 said he, producing a four dollar bill from his pocket. *' See the 
 hard-gained earnings of your brother I 1 exj^ect that it's about 
 the first money he ever earned, and I fear, I very much fear, 
 that it was not earned with that altogether strict and exact spirit 
 of honesty that should enter into the mercantile dealings of a 
 Mordaunt. But it was a great lark — fun, I can tell you. I shall 
 relate the whole story for your edification." 
 
 '* ^'ou see, all the chaps, e.xcept Gus. Ferguson and myself, 
 got tired out and disgusted with the expedition at the end of 
 the first week ; they cleared out for home, leaving us with one 
 canoe and the old Indian guide. We had a rough time of it, 
 and piles of adventures — after they left us — up to Lake Nipiss- 
 ing, and back on our way home, until we struck the Mmitoii 
 river two days ago, and followed it down to the settlements. 
 We got lots of fish too, and yesterday-night in the woods, up aL 
 Missiscjuit falls, we got six whopi)ing big salmon, as they rested 
 before making the leap — and a few smaller ones also. 'I'here 
 were piles of them. VV\'ll, we got out lo Harmer's ]>lace — 
 twent) miles from here — late yesterday evening, and tried to 
 get him to drive us home at once. He wouldn't do it, though, 
 until this morning ; and he routed us up, I can tell you, bright 
 
68 
 
 SH]: MlCiHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 • 
 
 I 
 
 and eariy, for lie wanted to get back early to his harvesting. 
 His rig-out was not the most handsome m the world, though he 
 had a bully horse. We i)iled the whole lot of fish we 
 had caught yesterday — the six big salmon, a lot of pickerel, 
 bass, maskinonge, two whopj^ing sturgeons, and a lot of big 
 suckers to swell out the pile — in the the back of the wagon ; 
 and off we started. Gus' ajjparel was even in a more ragged 
 and used up condition than mine, and as old Harmer is not 
 very tasty as to his dress, we were three of about as tatterde- 
 malion a set of beggars as you w ould meet on a day's journey. 
 We jogged on splendidly, though, to Ten Eakes ; and when 
 Gus got out at his })lace, and had loaded himself up with his 
 share of the fish, his own mother didn't know him when she 
 came our of the front door,and told him she 'did'nt want any to- 
 day.' Gus laughed and told her she'd have to take them, 
 whether she wanted them or not. And then he got a rating for 
 daring to show himself in such a state of rags and dirt. He 
 didn't look much like a mother's darling, certainly, in his rags, 
 with a great pile of slimy fish in his arms ; and the Farquhar 
 girls all looking out of the window and laughing. But very 
 little Gus cared, as he stood, winking at the girls, and joking his 
 mother, that she didn't know his own son, I had to laugh too, 
 uj)on which the old lady ga\e me fits too. Then old Harmer 
 laughed, and he got fits too — at which he but laughed the more. 
 So the old lady finished up by ordering Gus into the house — a 
 command he dutifully obeyed, for he and his mother are crazy 
 about one another ; and old Harmer and I and the fish jogged 
 on again. 
 
 " Well ; just as we were going to turn in here from the main 
 road, who should we meet but a couple of commercial travellers 
 from Montreal, driving an express wagon, Avhich was loaded up 
 with their sample trunks. One of them was about half seas over, 
 and the other about as comfortably tipsy as he could be and live, 
 though it was not then more than ten o'clock. They had evidently 
 
^^j^j^ 
 
 . ' ^n*^ 1**^. *'AW*wi*' *" 
 
 1 MUST HAVE SALMON. 
 
 69 
 
 !;ed 
 
 lain 
 
 lers 
 
 up 
 
 fer, 
 
 ive, 
 
 itly 
 
 had a fine time of it tlie niglit before, and had commenced 
 early again, for they were awfu]ly-.sleei)y looking, and could 
 hardly see out of their eyes. 
 
 '"Hello! my honest agriculturalist," called out the l)iggest 
 and drunkest one. "' l^ this the road to 'I en Lakes ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes it is. You're all *ght," I re])lied. 
 
 '' • And how many thousand miles have we to go before we 
 get there ? ' he enquired.' 
 
 *' * Three miles," I replied. 
 
 •' ' Tree mile I ' screamed the little one, a French-Canadian ; 
 * tree mile more? It was seex mile to 'I'een Lake when we did 
 leave de hotel dis morning, an we journey, we have make more 
 as twentv mile alreadies.' 
 
 " ' Look'ee here 1 my dear young bullock-hastener," continued 
 the big one, ' the fiiscinating outlines of thy bucolic lineaments 
 shall be forever engraved upon our hearts, if you will tell us — 
 though T misdoul)t me much if thou art cajjable, from thy Ar- 
 cadian simplicity, of judging — if they keep at the hotel there 
 anything fit for gentlemen to eat ? ' 
 
 "MVell.' I said. M don't know whether they keej) anything 
 fit for gentlemen to eat ; but they have ])lenty of 'Id rye' and 
 * lT])per Canada whiskey,' which will suit your complaint tx- 
 actly — my affectionate old '1 apes-and-Laces.' 
 
 " ' \'at you mean — buckwheat larmare ? ' exclaimed the little 
 Frenchman, with excited gesticulation ; ' who you call Taj)es- 
 and- Laces — hey? Vat you mean to insult de gentlemans as 
 dis ? You bettare go vid yourself and cut \ ou grass, you 
 hay. March, den, vid Vou dirty feesh.' 
 
 " Fish : has he got fish ? Is my disresi)ectful and erratic 
 husbandman piscator as well as orator ? Latin, by Jove .' ' said 
 the big cha]> ; 'well, I must be slewed pretty comfortably when 
 I get on Latin,' continued he, muttering as he climbed down from 
 tlie wagon with laborious effort : ' We will inspect his mer- 
 
 6 
 
 
ttMat 
 
 ^x'>T?^y-7?-'/gyyTffi"'.."^'^"**j7 
 
 Kfi <v.<. 
 
 m 
 
 -■'III 
 
 70 
 
 8HK MIGHT BWli DONK i.JK'l'l'KR. 
 
 thandise,' and he ga/ed upon my finny treasures with eyes as 
 tishy as tlieirs. 
 
 " 'Glorious prosj>ect I How doth my longing soul gloat over 
 the pleasant vision. Here is your true romance — your real 
 j)oetry ! How ravishing the thought that no vile tavern dinner 
 shall desecrate to-day my gentlemanly interior. My youthful 
 agricultural friend, how style }'ou these noble creatures ? ' 
 
 '* ' [ style these noble creatures salmon,' I replied ; ' but you 
 can give their Latin names if it suits you better. You seem 
 fond of the language, though it is the first time I ever heard a 
 bagman speak Latin.' 
 
 '* ' The lordly salmon I Feirre' — addressing his companion — 
 'my soul hungers for salmon. I must have salmon. 'I'he look 
 of .salmon is disorganizing the very being of your friend, Lo ! 
 1 will temporize with this rude child of the soil.' 
 
 *' ' I not know vat you say wid yourself,' answered the 
 Frenchman ; ' f tinks you bettare climb u[) vid de wagon, and 
 leave alone de nasty feesh.' 
 
 •* Peirre, salmon I must have ! \Vould'st thou abridge to 
 t'urther tenuity the interior of thy friend ?" he rejjlied solemnly. 
 •• Young man, your aspect is one of impecuniosit)-. Poverty, 
 doubtless, has ofteii seized thee with iron gripe. These tattered 
 habiliments betray a pocket unwarmed by the comforting dollar. 
 \'oung man, I will be thy benefactor — a friend to thy )outhful 
 simplicity. 1 will give you gold for your salmon, (iold, boy! 
 the yellow glittering gold I What though my respected boss in 
 Montreal is doubtless fretting his gizzard, worrying and fuming 
 over his contracted discounts, his notes, his engagements and 
 inflexible bank managers. Doubtless he thinks I am doing the 
 same over lines of samples. Deluded man I Yet nuist T have 
 salmon I Is money scarce? Yet must I have salmon ! .Salmon 
 alone can soothe my outraged soul. I must have salmon. Let 
 him fret a little harder, for I will have salmon, and l will give 
 g«yld for salmon. I will e'en bargain with this corn-fed hind. 
 
 :.' ■'■r-T-llT^i>niliimifillrtiiMiMMiir] 
 
 rt*iiiihiiiniiirM<iiniiriii'-ri-r-i'-ir'irn-T-vi-tr ■■^1' 'f-i'-JtVi'-n. 
 
-*■ ■■ v^ 
 
 1 MUST HAVE SALMON. 
 
 7* 
 
 My iricnd," he ccMitinucd to nie, " my soul is moved to benevo 
 Icnce by thy i)ite()iis condition. I would fain provide you with 
 the means of procuring for yourself a new pair of netlier gar- 
 ments by purchasing of thy fish. Now, how much filthy lucre, 
 current coin of the Dominion, will thou take for two of those 
 lordly salmon ?" and he pointed as he spoke to two great horrid 
 looking suckers which ornamented the to^^ of the i)ile. 
 
 " Most wortliy bagman," 1 rejjlied to him, '• I may be, as- 
 you say, but a corn-fed hind, a buckwheat tarmer, as your Frencli 
 friend says, yet I opine that I am as good as a couple of whisky- 
 soaked Montreal drummers, and I will not sell you my fish." 
 
 " Not .sell your fish — your salmon !" sliouted he, in accents of 
 mingled astonishment and despair. •■ Not sell your salmon 1 
 What means this ? Have we lunatics here to do with ? Be- 
 hold I" he exclaimed, seizing me by the wrist, ''just behold these 
 rags and tatters. Look down at this disgraceful old coat, these 
 shockingly dilapidated unmentionables, and pause ere you ven- 
 ture to utter so rash an assertion. Not sell your salmon and 
 get the cash ? W'hiit do I hear? Can these things be true? 
 A farmer, an honest agriculturalist, refusing money? Impos- 
 sible! My ears have deceived me. A tarmer refusing cash 
 down, and at his own i)rice. What ! have we Arcadia here ? 
 Has the millennium descended upon Central Ontario all at once ? 
 I will sit down and weej). Peirre, my worthy friend I Peirre, 
 I say I" he added, in mournful tones to his companion, " hand 
 me the little pocket pistol. I must e'en take something that 1 
 may die easy under this afilicting state of things." 
 
 " Oh ! my friend, my worthy and excellent young friend," he 
 went on to me, '' I see a noble spirit framed in your interesting 
 lineaments. Show mercy to us and revoke thy dire decision. 
 Behold this withered and emaciated anatomy, this wreck of 
 what was but a short week since, a robust and noble frame, 
 i)roughi down, by villianous fare of wretched country taverns, 
 to the j)oint of dissolution," and he patted, with melancholy 
 
72 
 
 SHK MKIHT HAVK DONK I'.F/ITKR. 
 
 M 
 
 & 
 h' Si 
 
 asjjt'ct, liis rotund ligiire, " My whole nature lacks salmon — 
 longs for salmon — cries out for salmon — salmon to snatch it from 
 the jaws of death. Ileliold this four dollar bill — mark it — gaze 
 \ipon it ! It is yours, if those i)retty creatures," indicating the 
 two big suckers, " are mine." 
 
 " Why, you blamed old fool," shouted old Harmer, no longer 
 able to contain himself, "are you so blind drunk that yon can't 
 see that tliose ain't salmon, \othin' but great, dirty, bony, use- 
 less suckers." 
 
 '' My venerable friend of the wooden countenance," he re- 
 ])lied to Harmer, " I did not address my observations to you 
 and do not require your advice. 1 am not blind drunk, my 
 worthy old patriarch, for I can very easily ])erceive the villainous 
 expression of your an( 'entand battered physiognomy. When 1 
 get drunk 1 i)a}- for the liquor myself, and therefore request you 
 will not shove }'Our dirty oar in. 1 know what a fish is when I 
 see it, my excellent sir. I have not fished for tommy-cods off 
 the wharves for nothing, my good sir. These are salmon, sir ! 
 salmon, sir ! salmon." 
 
 1 broke in with as grave a face as I could command, and told 
 him that, seeing he was so nearly starved to death, I would sell 
 him two of my salmon for the four dollars, but not the two he 
 wanted, as 1 required them as a present to a friend, and would 
 give him two just as good. So I took a big salmon, weighing 
 nearly twenty i)0unds, and a maskilonge as big, and ]>.it them 
 into his wagon." 
 
 He handed me the mone\', and took his leave as follows : — 
 " Respected young member of the agricultural persuasion, our 
 conference is now at an end. I jmrt from thee with regret, but 
 still with a sense of joy in my heart at having met with thee. J 
 shall approach now the hostelry in Ten Lakes witli singular 
 equanimity, and I shall walk into the affections of these lordly 
 salmon in a style to astonish you. Farewell, young hay-seed I 
 Farewell, old wooden head ! Drive on Peine." 
 
|£j£££a|icj>^>Aaj|-<^^^j«E 7- -.-'TJ:?:- 
 
 ga rfa^gg-':' ■oj :>s aiw >w ~'w?"wi i»i 
 
 1 Mi;sr HAVK SALMON. 
 
 73 
 
 Well I s:iid Old Harmcr U) tlicni, as a i)arting salutation : — 
 
 " Of all the blamed fools tl-.at ever I see, you two drunken 
 st;anips are the hardest to beat. If you don't know any more 
 about your business than you do about fish, it must be pretty to 
 see you at work. If I'd been him, I'm dogoned if I would'nt 
 have let you take the two suckers, and sarvedsuch l)lamed fools 
 right too.'' 
 
 '• \"at dat you say, old man ugly." screamed tlie excitable little 
 h'renchman. " }5egar I if I joomp off d!s wagon, I make you see 
 tunder, begar ! (io vid yourself and feed your pig. I 'a done! 
 cochou ! Old wood face, begar," and he drove off in. a rage. 
 
 " \ow, wasn't that a jolly lark, Ethel ?" 
 
 " Well I" answered Kthel, " I think you ought to be ashamed 
 of yourself Wh;U business had you to talk with those drunken 
 men ? And you should not have cheated them by giving them 
 only one salmon when they bouglit two. It was not right, 
 Reginald, though i daresay you found it Uniny enougii. And 1 
 don't wonder at them taking you for a conunon laborer, for you 
 are simjjly disgraceful in your present attire. Hut 1 cannot .see 
 that it was a 'jolly lark,' as you call it, at all, and you have n( -■ 
 thing to boast of by your share in it." 
 
 " I did not cheat them, Ethel ; I gave them a twenty-jx)und 
 salmon, which v.as worth the four dollars itself, and a maski- 
 longe, worth half as much more," answered Reggie ; " and how 
 do you suppose two men are going to eat twenty i)Ounds of 
 salmon while it is fresh? It can't be done, even bv bagmen 
 with unlimited grog." 
 
 " No matter ; it was not right, Reggie," said his sister. " But 
 you had better go and get yourself into decent attire again. A\'e 
 are going for a ])ic-nic to the end of the lake to-day, a«d we want 
 you for a game of croquet. Be quick I Win will be off di- 
 rectly." 
 
 " Ally doin' too, Reggie," broke in little Alida. " Ally dot 
 
 ■ 
 
 % 
 
74 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONK J5KTTER. 
 
 new hat on and new boos (shoes) too. ( )o del new hat too, 
 Reggie, and yook i)itty." 
 
 CHAFI'KR X. 
 
 A PIC-NIC l',V THK I.AKK. 
 
 
 f 
 
 'J'he large sail-boat, ahnost large enough to be dignified with 
 the name of a yacht, were it not that cajjacity and not speed 
 had been the ])rincii)al object in its construction, was warped up 
 to the little landing-place with mast stcpj^ed, sail ready to hoist, ii 
 comfortable awning raised for the ])rotection of the ladies, and 
 all ready for a start. 
 
 The party, comprising Mrs. Mordaunt, Kthel. the two Misses 
 Dearborn and little Ally : L'ncle Edward, Vance and Reggie 
 stood on the little wharf ready for their embarkation. 'J1ie 
 hami^ers containing the good things, which form so important a 
 ]^art of the programme of a i)ic-nic party, with the appliances 
 for comfort and amusement which Mrs. Mordaunt's and Ethel'^ 
 foresight had jjrovided. were carted down already, and had but 
 to be jmt on board. A gentle breeze was Ijlowing down the 
 lake, the day was fine, the cool western wind mitigating the 
 sultry down-])our of a Ju.ly sun and nothing remained but ft)r 
 the party to step on board to proceed to their destination. 
 
 But Reggie, howe\"er. upon seeing the boat raised the perti- 
 nent question that, although the breeze was ver}- favora4)le for 
 their present voyage, it would not be found so easy, without a 
 <'hange of wind, to effect their return, unless the gentlemen 
 were willing to undertake the task of rowing so heavy a boat 
 ])ack again. 
 
 ** I'll tell you what it is," said he. " We'll sail down this morn- 
 ing all right, as nice as ninepece, but if there's not a change of 
 wind before evening, we fellows will have a jiretty time of it 
 rowing this concern four miles up ngain. She's big enough to 
 
A IMC-NIC JJV IHK LAKK. 
 
 75 
 
 tarry twenty-five peoijle, and she's as heavy and chimsy as a St. 
 Lawrence batteau. Even if we have to row both ways, woiild'nt 
 it ])e better to take two small boats? 'J'hey'll carry us all and 
 tile plunder too. It's no joke to row that old tub uj) the lake, 
 I <:an tell you. I know it by sad experience." 
 
 " 'i'hero's something in that, Reggie," said Mr, Horton. " I 
 never thought of it when Kdwin \'ance and I got her ready. It 
 is too late now to change, and we'll have to get her back the 
 best way we can. The small boats, too, are not comfortable for 
 a warm day like this, and has not your father plenty of men work- 
 ing down there who can helj) us to row ?" 
 
 '' Rut she's rigged fore-and-aft, and is keeled enough to hold 
 the water ; we can tack her back this evening. It will be slower, 
 but it will be a pleasant sail. I'll engage to get her back if the 
 wind will only hold out until sunset, and if it does not we'll gt»t 
 the men to help us to row her u])," said Edwin, who thought the 
 larger boat would be more comfortal)le for his Ethel, to say no- 
 thing of the other ladies, and who did not wish to change. 
 
 " All right," said Reginald, " J'm willing. Anything for a 
 (••juiet life, so jump aboard, ladies. Uncle, give me a hand with 
 the plunder; it won't do to leave the eatables behind. Put the 
 ladies on board, Mr. Vance, and make yourself useful. J hoi)e 
 you have provisioned the garrison well, mother. I had my 
 breakfast at four o'clock this morning at Harmer's and I'm as 
 hungry as a hunter." 
 
 "You will ha\c no reason to complain, Reggie" said his 
 mother. 
 
 " That's right, mother, the inner man ha^ claims which are not 
 to be neglected," rei)lied Reginald. 
 
 '' The inner boy you mean, Reggie," said Ethel laughing. 
 Isn't that the case, Ada?" 
 
 " Never mind, Reggie, you'll be a man some day, though you 
 are not particulary ancient yet, and sell surkers for salmon to 
 tijjsy j)eople," answered Ada to him. 
 
7^ 
 
 SHK MICHT HA\'K DONK BK'i'rKR. 
 
 ■<• m 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 " Very well. Ada, just wait a bit, will you ? See if I don't, pay 
 you off for this at crocjuet to-day. You're mighty sauuy for a 
 little girl." 
 
 " Now, Reggie, stop your tal'King and i)us1i Jier off." said his 
 uncle. *• We are ready at last. U[) with the jib, Kdwin, while 
 J hoist the main sail, and we'll get her out." 
 
 Soon fairly on their way down the ple-isant lake, they sat 
 chatting and laughing over the iiUeresting trifles that form so 
 pleising a i)art of every day conversation. A hap])y looking 
 ])art> cuougii, though doubtless to many of them there were 
 deeper tlioughts beneath than the light rijjj^les of their surface 
 talk would show, IJut these did not reveal themselves, and 
 merry voices and hai)])}' laughter echoed from beneath the cool 
 awning as they tlcjated on o\er the sunny waters,. 
 
 Mr. Horton and Kdwin X'ance, with little Ally a deeply in- 
 terested spectator beside them, were busily engaged in get- 
 ting out a trolling-line for the ca]jture of such of the finny 
 tribe as might be induced to try a bite of the silvery spoon, rlut 
 Kdwin's thoughts were far less intent upon this occupation than 
 upon what method he should adopt to induce his Kthel to sepa- 
 rate herself from her companions, that he might get////;/.!r^^into 
 an agreeable little tcte-a-tete. 
 
 Reginald, unable to sit still a moment, was teasing his sister 
 and the two Dearborn girls at one moment, and rambling al)Out 
 the boat the next. At length he got his incjuisitive hand into a 
 package among the supplies, and }»roceeded to an investigation 
 of its contents. 
 
 " Hallo ! gut i( e here. That's good this hot day. And what's 
 this.'* Champagne, as I'm alive! \\'ell done, Kthel I Now 
 you are coming out grand to-da). But who is going to drink 
 all this you have here ? \'ou girls, I suppose. Wh}', you'll all 
 be as tipj^y as the two drummers to whom I sold the f»>li," he 
 cried out. 
 
 " Yes ! I should'nt wonder, with that stuff here," ejaculated 
 
A IMC-NIC n\ THK LAKK. 
 
 77 
 
 Mr. Horton. '' Wlint made you bring it, Kthcl ? And wlio Is 
 there to ilrink it ? 
 
 " \ot I. tor one. uncle," rei)liefl that young lady, laughing. 
 " Don't blame me for bringing it. I don't drink, thank }(?u. 
 Perhaps yourself, uncle. with Mr.\'ance and pa])a, will get tlirough 
 it all. It's a tem])ting beverage, uncle." 
 
 *' \'es ! I dare say it is a very temjiting beverage, but it will 
 not t'jmpt me," was the reply. " Thr temptation and the e\am|)le 
 to the young ])eople are the great evils. And " 
 
 "Oil! well, Mdward." interruj)ted Mrs. Mordaunt, " ! brought 
 some chamj)agnc because I thought my husband would like it 
 after liis long morning in the woods, and t'nr others, too, if tliey 
 choose it. There will be some claret-'. u|<, too. for those who pre- 
 fer that, and tea for good teetotallers like vourself. I am verv 
 sure that but little of what is brought will be drank, and certainly 
 claret-cup is a very mild beverage." 
 
 '* It may be so ; yet it is alcoholic, and therefore dangerous. 
 All such nuiy tester and confirm a habit of using the stronger 
 forms of the jjoison, whose dreadful intluence is the bane, not 
 alone of our country, but of nearly the v.hole world," rejilied Mr. 
 Horton, energetically, for he was u])on his favorite hobby, and 
 was very sincere on this question. •* Could I but see the day 
 when by the education of popular sentiment on the subject and 
 stern legislative enactments, the evil is totally swept away from 
 these countries. I should deem it the happiest of my life. The 
 cause is advancing, making its way among the peoi)le, and it 
 behooves us all by our own firm attitude, our consistent example, 
 to aid and strengthen it, until the governing bodies, whom 1 be- 
 lieve to be the chief defoulters in the matter, are forced into 
 action. 
 
 " I agree with you, Mr. Horton," said Kdwin ^'ance, " that 
 the vice of intemi^erance can be suppressed by a law of total 
 prohibition, in the strictest sense of the words, alone, and from 
 what I know of public sentiment on the question, I believe that 
 
7'^ 
 
 SHK MICH r HAVK DONK HKITKR. 
 
 
 wtTc it jnil U) />/('/> /sa'h' — llic vote of the eiuire population over 
 fifteen years of age — to-morrow, it would be carried by a large 
 Jiiajority in the whole Dominion. It is the duty of the (iiovern- 
 nient of the country to take this step — its plain duty ; hut the 
 aboniinahle s|)irit of party that ])rcvails, and thee(iually divided 
 strength of the two contending tactions, deter our |)resent rulers, 
 no matter how well inclined they jjossibly may be. A change 
 of the party in power will. I fear, do but little good either, as the 
 oj)])osition leaders, even if sound on the cjuestion. could not at 
 the jjresent, a-t any rate. gra])ple with the financial (juestioii, 
 which the loss of the revenues derived from alcohol would j)re- 
 sent for their solution. The bringing uj) of the sentiment of the 
 <'.ountry to a i)oint which will force the government of the day to 
 act, or dislodge it for one tiiat will, is, in my opinion, the only 
 means of affecting the ol)ject. and this recjuires time, unfortui 
 nately. I drink but little wine myself, and when the day of 
 prohibition arrives — as arrive it will — I shall be only too glad to 
 make the little sacrifice entailed by the deprivation of a needless 
 and useless luxur>." 
 
 "But why not make tiaat little sacrifice at once. a?Kl by join- 
 ing actively in this good and patriotic movement, aid it with 
 the influence of your name and ixjsition, instead of remaining jjas- 
 sive until others effect the object. A declared enem\ could do 
 but little worse than you do now." rei)lied Mr, Horton, effec- 
 tively. 
 
 " Because I hav'nt thought of the matter as yet." answered 
 
 Kdwin." Besides, like many other really temperace people. I 
 have a strong objection to ally myself with any of the socie- 
 ties." 
 
 " Ves I I am aware that many hold the same objection, but 
 
 you can be a firm and consistent abstainer without uniting yeur- 
 self to one of them. Remember that when once you become a 
 total abstainer your symi»athies will be^\ith the tem])erance cause, 
 and you become a declired enemy to King Alcohol. Otherwise 
 you remain i)assive or neutral." 
 

 A PIC-NIC JiV THK LAKE. 
 
 79 
 
 '• 1 will think of it aiul gi\c: you my ideas ii))oii tlic iiuittcr 
 kiter," re[)lied Kdwin. 
 
 '* And you, also, Reginald ; will you also (onsider the matter 
 and join the nohle cause?" added Mr. Horton. 
 
 " All right, uncle, I'll do so, said Reginald. " Kut seeing that 
 all the alcohol, as you call it, that I have ever drank would'nt 
 till a teaspoon. I think I'm pretty safe." 
 
 *' Ves ! do so, Reggie," said his sister. - For my j)art. 1 could 
 never again res])ect a ])erson whoever became intoxicated, were 
 it but for once onlv." 
 
 '* ( )h, untie I" screamed little Ally, who hail been much nxore 
 interested in watching the trolling-line than in listening to the 
 temperance lecture. -.Sometin' dot oo string. It's ])ullin' it. 
 I'um and see. Is it a big heesh?" 
 
 " ^'es I Ally, it is a big ' heesh,' as you call it, and we'll have 
 the tun of catching it instead of talking temperance any longer," 
 said her uncle, running to the troller and hauling in the prize. 
 •' Bravo ! Ally, you've caught a fish as big as yourself," he con- 
 tinued, as he lifted a splendid lake trout into the boat. Ally, 
 however, who had \\atched its silvery struggles ax it was splash- 
 iiigly drawn up, with great delight, screamed with terror at its 
 energetic Houncings about in the bottom of the boat, and ran for 
 J protection to her mother's arms. 
 
 Reginald soon gave the [joor lake trout his c[uietus, however. 
 
 " Come and see him now. Ally. He's dead enough and can't 
 hurt vou." 
 
 '• He's a pitty heesh. Reggie," said Ally, who had ventured 
 again near her object of terror. 
 
 " Yes I he's a very pretty fish. Ally, and we'll eat him lor our 
 l)ic-nic dinner. Vou and I will cook him ourselves, Ally, and 
 he's a beauty, a regular fourteen-pounder. .Ain't you proud of 
 } our fish ?" 
 
 On nearing their destination, Reginald ran the boat towards 
 a pretty bay, which, embowered between wooded and hilly 
 
art! TT. mc'-jr-^^'-'^v-jf^vrvvK'mv.iWjm.if^mir y^.''vxv'wxfvwv^''vry!ai'JK*Miwaium! i v * nMW%**wc*i'=wgnMfcfnK.-;j^.?^<r:7 
 
 80 
 
 SHE MIGH'I' HAn'IC DONE BETTER, 
 
 Ji:;- 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 . 
 
 p 
 
 
 
 
 
 points, lay on tlic nortlicrn side of the lake, near its end or 
 outlet. 
 
 " Here's the [)lace !" said Kthei. springing up and [joiiiting 
 up the bay. " Is'nt it i>retty, gir's ? It is the prettiest spot, 1 
 think, on our lake or any lake. 'I'here, too. stands pai)a await- 
 
 ing us. 
 
 It was, as i^thel had said, a very pretty scene. The high 
 ])oints which guarded either side of the hay rail back inland in 
 rounded and somewhat steep ranges, covered with the primeval 
 growth of the beautiful maple, the towering elm and the silvery 
 birch, with an occasional pine rearing its dark foliage over all. 
 The smooth, broad valley lying between, was cleared far back 
 from the head of the bay, a'-^d lay '■smiling in its cultivated beauty 
 and green luxuriance beneath the umbrageous shelter of its 
 guardian hills. A clear and [)ebl)ly lirook wandered, like a sil- 
 ver riband, through the fields and jjlashed at last its bright wa- 
 ters into the little bay. Occasional groves and patches of hand- 
 some trees of various and contrasted foliage were intersi)ersed 
 throughout the cleared valley for the double purpose of shade 
 and ornament ; their situations judicio 'sly selected by the beauty 
 loving eyes of the owner of I.ake Moreaunt to modify yet not to 
 break the viev.-. Through these and the indented and wavy 
 lines of the woody hill sides, charming glimpses, winding \isias 
 of green fields and bright foliage were traced uj) the lovely val- 
 ley as it gently rose from the waters of the bay. 
 
 Arched in with the blue Canadian sky — heightened by the 
 warm, unclouded rays of a summer sun, and glowing in the 
 varied riches of foliage and harvest — the valley and its ba\ 
 presented a delightful «-ffect as the boat ran in from the witlc 
 lake, contrasting, as it did, with the somewhat soml)re, yet still 
 beatiful, growth of i>ines and firs which here at all points 
 shrouded the lake shore to the water's edge, and constituted. 
 excei)t on th.e hills and points, wl-iere the l)irch, beech and oth- 
 
 
A I'JC-MC BY 'I'HE lAKE. 
 
 81 
 
 er (leciduous woods glowed in their brighter green — the iiir.jor 
 jmrt of the primeval forest. 
 
 'Jo the Dearborn girls, Edwin Vance and Mr. Horton the 
 .scene ^vas novel, and Ada, with the two latter, loudly e.\i)ressed 
 their admiration of its beauty. Kmil\-, who though she saw the 
 beauty felt no enthusiasm on the subject — contented herself 
 with apj)roaching Edwin, in order to secure his undivided ser- 
 vices for the landing, and to get. it possible, the chance of a 
 Hirtation. 
 
 "Is not this most charming, Mr. Vance," exclaimed she, rather 
 affectedly. '' 'lb city gentlemen, like yourself, the dusty streets 
 and ujjroar of the town must surely stand at a disadvantage 
 with such a sweetly .sylvan landscaj)e as this which meets our 
 view. J do so admire the cjuiet beauty of our countr\' 
 scenery." 
 
 'i'his from P^mily, who infinite!}' ])referred the dusty streets 
 and ui)roar of the town, together with the gentlemen it con- 
 tained, to all the natural beauiv, was not altogether sincere ; 
 but Edwin accepted it as such, and replied : 
 
 " I'he scene is certainly very beautiful. Miss Dearborn, and 
 worthy of your admiration. I am not an admirer of city life 
 and would much ])refer the quiet beauties of the country, with 
 one's chosen friends, to all the uproar and bustle of a city. I 
 heartily agree with you in that. Hut j permit me to assist you 
 on shore," he continued, as the boat slowly touched the bank, 
 Its sails cut off by the ])oint from the imjjelling breeze of the 
 lake. "Stei)on the side of the boat, Miss Dearborn — now 
 jump," and holding her hand, he lightly dejjosited her on terra 
 iimia. 
 
 Much to her disgust, however, he at once stepped back on 
 board, to helj) his Ethel ashore. 
 
 Reggie and Mr. Horton had engaged themselves in securing 
 the boat, while Mr. Mordaunt had — as in duty boimd — h« Iped 
 ashore his wife and his little daughter. Ada, who needed no 
 
82 
 
 SHE mi(;ht have done better. 
 
 M tl 
 
 cavalier, had, witli the spring of a deer, placed lierself comfort- 
 ably on dry land, and was waiting for little Ally. 
 
 Edwin thus had his Ethel — who had remained a few mo- 
 ments to see after the unloading of the hamjjers — to himself for 
 a word or two. 
 
 " Ethel, my darling, i have seen them both, and it is all 
 .ight. \'ou are my Ethel now ; but our engagement is to last : 
 whole year. It's too long altogether to wait — still, I am ver\ 
 happ)', Ethel, my dear." 
 
 " \'es, Edwin ; but don't make too much love to me now ; 
 they're looking at us. Never mind about the year ; it will not 
 be very long, dear Edwin. But lift this out for me, and wait 
 for a better opjjortunit}' to talk to me," replied Ethel." 
 
 *' How do you do. Miss Dearborn ? and you, Ada ? " said 
 .VIr. Mordaunt, going up to the girls and shaking them by the 
 hand in his hearty fiishion : •• Come out for a day in the woods, 
 eh I and some fun, 1 hope. Ada, I foresee croquet this after- 
 noon. Hallo ! Reggie ; where did you sj^ring from, and where 
 have you been all this time? " 
 
 " \"es : I am l)ack safe and sound this morning, father. CI us 
 Ferguson and I got to Lake Nipissing. but the other fellows 
 left us the first week. We had fun and hard work enough — if 
 not much sport. I got home this morning remarkabl}- ragged," 
 replied Reggie, as he jumj^ed from the l)oat with die last item 
 of the 'plunder,' as he called it. 
 
 "Where shall we take it all to, mother?" he in([uired ; 
 *' That grove is large enough for shade, and there's nice grass 
 there for croquet. Shall we go there ? " 
 
 " 'I'hat's the place, Reggie," said his father. " \ got one of 
 the men to mow a i)iece of grass as short as possible on tiic 
 shady side. We'll adjourn uj), too, at once, as I am very hur- 
 jfry — you are all so late." 
 
 hi a few minutes they were all engaged in tlie pleasureal)le 
 (>rru]>ation of preparing their 'al fretsco' meal, on the .shaded 
 
^^Jii_^ 
 
 A PJC-NIC n\ VHK LAKK. 
 
 «3 
 
 side of the little grove, Ktliel and tlie two young ladies spread 
 ing the white cloth on the green table of grass, and hastily ar 
 ranging the various substantials and delicacies that would re- 
 quire no appetiser after their breezy voyage, Reginald built 
 the fire, and his uncle i)repared the forked sticks, on which to 
 suspend the tea-kettle, "without which," he declared, "dinner, 
 and especially a pic-nic dinner, would be an unmitigated failure 
 for a Yankee, or for a Canadian either." 
 
 " Took my big heesh, Reggie," said little All}- ; " I want my 
 heesh for my Ijriktist. Took it, Reggie." 
 
 " All right. Ally ; I'll cook it as soon as the fire's hot, and 
 there's any coals. But you are not going to eat it all yourself, 
 are you, Ally ? " 
 
 Very well he cooked the trout too, backwoods fiishion, on 
 the hot embers. 
 
 " All right, mother," he answered to her objection, that they 
 had not brought plates enough for so many different things. 
 •' AVe'll eat off basswood leaves." 
 
 And very well it tasted, too, eaten off its primiti\e trenches. 
 Very well, too, the dinner passed off — altogether amid laughter 
 and fun, and pleasant chatting ; for a pic-nic dinner under the 
 trees, unceremonious and free — eaten lounging on the grass, is 
 a very pleasant, gustatory performance, after mus(iuito time has 
 jjassed — th(jugh hardly otherwise. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt, Kdwin and Emily drank their glass of cham 
 pagne. which the others declined, and laughed at Mr. Horton's 
 good-natured grumblings al)out it. But Kthel oljserved, with 
 surprise, that Emily not only drank her's and enjoyed it. Init 
 had on two occasions during the meal asked Edwin \'ance : — 
 " .\re you looking for the champagne, Mr. \'ance.' " when, in 
 fact, he had neither been looking for it, nor had wholly emi)tied 
 his glass, and had answered a 'No, thank you' each time she 
 asked him. 
 
 *She sujxjly could not have wished," Ethel thought, "to in- 
 

 .84 
 
 <>HE MIGHT HAVE DOXE HETTKR. 
 
 
 ■n iS. 
 
 (.luce liiiu to drink too much clianipagnc, knowing, as slie docs, 
 my opinion on ihc subject. She could hardly have formed a 
 motive so base ; yet it was strange, too," and Ethel did not like 
 it. ^'et as the attempt had been unsuccessful, the affair soon 
 dropi^ed from her thoughts. 
 
 Immediately after their open-air dinner had concluded, they 
 adjourned to the cro(iuet-ground, with the excei^tion of Mr. 
 Mordaunt, who strolled up tlie valley to his men — and Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, who with Ally, settled beneath the trees. 
 
 '* Reginald," said Ada. "you and I will clioosc sides. We 
 play the best, you know." 
 
 " Very modest, Ada. in your ideas of yourself," laughed Mr. 
 Horton. •* Vou don't know what the rest can do yet." 
 
 *' Oh : yes I do," answered Ada ; "and I can play well 
 enough to make U]) for \ou, so you are on my side, remember," 
 Who do you choose, Reggie. I've taken Mr. Horton to show 
 vou I'm not afraid of \ou." 
 
 " Emily, i)lay with me," he replied. 
 " Ethel, you are on my side," said Ada. 
 "Mr. Vance — last but not least," concluded Reginald. 
 The sides thus stood: Ada, Kihel, and Mr. Horton: 
 against Emily, Reginald, and Mr. Vance." 
 
 " I claim to play last, as 1 know so little of the game, said 
 ^[r. Horton; "and, Ada, you must direct me at first, until 1 
 see my way clear." 
 
 " N'ery well, Mr. Horton. Mmily, you begin, as you have 
 scarlet. And now to work." 
 
 l'!mily made the two first hoops, and got into position for the 
 third. She was followed by Ethel, who on getting through the 
 same missed a croquet ui)on Emily's ball, and went beyond, 
 hvdwin came next, got through his two first, missed l)Oth balls, 
 and left his own close to Ethel's, Ada followed ; got her ball 
 diagonally through the first hoo[), went hard through the second, 
 getting close to the others' l)alls, and crocjuetted Emily's ; split- 
 
A PrC-NlC ()\ THE LAKE. 
 
 «5 
 
 ling on it, slie put her adversary's ball ont of position, between 
 the third and middle hoops; went through herseh"; croquet- 
 ted Ethel's and sent it through ; then on Edwm's and left him, 
 to go with her two strokes back to Emily's ; took it, placed it 
 where she wanted it, went through the middle hooj), and so on. 
 By her care and skill she struck the first post and back through 
 the two hoops ere her ])lay ceased. Reginald followed with his 
 play, but upon getting through his two first hooi)s found that 
 Ada had left him nothing to hit, and so had to play for a safe 
 position, out of danger from Edwin. Mr. Horton came last, 
 and as he was a good billiard player, and was co-aided too by 
 Ada, he croquetted Reggie's ball, got through his third hoojj, 
 croquetted Ethel, went through the middle, and made some 
 very good single shots and a good run. 
 
 So the game progressed, amid Ada's alternate rejoicings, 
 scoldings and endless directions. Croquettings, roijuetings. 
 drivings out of positions and general excitement. 
 
 Emily played affectedly, requiring endless instructions from 
 Edwin, whom she called to her side at every stroke she had to 
 make, and went to him to advise on each of his. He was so 
 polite and attentive to her requests ; so apparently anxious to 
 do anything she asked, that she alnwst began to think that she 
 had made an impression, and that it was not as she had feared 
 about Ethel. She was all smiles and sweetness, and worked a 
 great deal harder at being smiling and sweet than she did at 
 crociuet, which was a subsidiary object. F.dwin was very gal- 
 lant towards her, with the natural courtesy and chivalry of feel- 
 ing of a gentleman. Besides, was she not very pretty and 
 stylish-looking? and then she made herself very |)leasing when 
 she chose to do so. 
 
 Edwin's attentions to his Ethel during the game consisted 
 principally in croquetting her ball at every op])ortunity, and 
 driving it away as far as possible — thereby s])oiling his own 
 
 „,.. ^....^JtfiL 
 
86 
 
 SHK MIGHT HA\ K DONK BKITKR. 
 
 ii »; : 
 
 [)iay, as tight-croquet had been voted old-fasliioned l)y that very 
 scientific player, Ada. 
 
 AVherever the battle raged the fiercest, tliere would Ada and 
 Reggie be found, they delighting more in hindering their adver- 
 saries' play than in advancing their own, and laughing obstrep- 
 erously whenever they succeeded in vexatiously sending an ad- 
 versar\- far out of ])Osition. 
 
 Mr. Horton, made interested by his first success, and his e) c 
 skilled by long practice at his national billiards, had pla)'ed 
 himself ahead, and became the first rover. Seeing this, Ada 
 commenced to coach Ethel, who was behind hand, and succeed- 
 ing in getting her through to the two last hoops, she then made 
 a diversion on the enemy, scattering them on the field ; took 
 Ethel's ball with her, and holding a good position with all 
 rovers, won the game in a canter, amid exultant rejoicings over 
 her crest-fallen antagonists. 
 
 Other games tbllowed with varying success, though in the 
 end victory ])erched upon the crest of the unconquerable Ada, 
 who was, therefore, satisfied and happy. 
 
 A pleasant stroll through the pretty valle>' succeeded, during 
 the course of which Edwin managed to get his fair one to him- 
 self for a few minutes, and doubtless many sweet things were 
 said; of much greater interest to themselves than any other 
 persons. 
 
 Ada and Mr. Horton went off together, and a very jjrosaic 
 flirtation they would have of it. Nevertheless, they contrived 
 to amuse each other very well, for every now and then a ringing 
 laugh from Ada, or a bass chuckle from her coinpanion, would 
 arise on the air, as they negligently and unceremoniously strolled 
 on in company. 
 
 Emil\' was thus left to the rather youthfL^l cavaliership of 
 Reginald. A very ])leasing dut\- to him ; for h.er formed and 
 stylish good looks were to his young eyes \ery attractive. 
 Like mo ft very young men, his admiration was bestowed upon 
 
 J 
 
 f 
 
 I 1 
 
 ! it 
 I 
 
 
A IMC-MC \\\ I'HK [.AKK. 
 
 ^'7 
 
 d girl older than himsflf. Her handsouie dress, finished iij;- 
 pearance and fine figure impressed him very slrongl}- — the more 
 strongly, perha[>s, that not having himself attained j)olisl'v and 
 finish, he, conscious of the lack, found the (jualities admirable 
 m another. 
 
 Kven her somewhat overstrained manner and would-be 
 dignitv of demeanour were to him but additional charms. 
 When in her society he was very much in love, and not bei;ig 
 attlicted with bashfulness by any means, he pushed his bold 
 love-making in a direct and straight-through-the-bush nUiUner — 
 iio l)eating around it — that might not have been i)leasing to 
 many girls, but ver}' well suited her taste, and met with no dis- 
 couragement. 
 
 She doubtless would have [)rererred her walk to haxe been 
 with Edwin, as he was an immediately eligible parti, and lier 
 cause was in danger from Ethel ; but she had not obtained his 
 company, and was contented to exercise her charms upon Reg- 
 inald, who appr«"'iated, and who — if not directly — would cer- 
 tainly l)ecome an '• eligible ;" and she would hold her power over 
 him as a dernii'r resort. Besides, there were many things 
 which she very much wished to know which Reginald might 
 know, and which she might easily discover from him. 
 
 So during their walk — I'^dwin and Ethel a little in advance, 
 "jbliviiously interested in each other — she interrujjted the flow oi 
 Reggie's open compliment and direct fine s])eeches — Avhich slic 
 liad rewarded by a smile, a glance, or not unpleasing reply — In 
 remarking : 
 
 "Now, Reggie, you'll make me believe you're in love wth 
 me if vou .s'^eak to me like that. Vou should'nt, vou knov, 
 when, I dare say, you make the very same fine s[)eeches to evei > 
 girl you meet. But see, what a very interesting conversation 
 Mr. Vance and Ethel are holdmg. They seem totally lost to 
 all the world except themselves." 
 
 ■*(.)h I that's nothiuv." said Re'.>'.:ie. '• \'ance was alwavs soft 
 
m 
 
 88 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVK DUNE BETTER. 
 
 I 
 
 upon Ethel, because she talks riibl)ish about books and poetry 
 with him ; astronomy and travels, and stuff. Til bet that its 
 botany or some such nonsense they're talking about now. I 
 never heard them at anything else but some scientific 
 humbug or other, and I'm very glad of it, too, for I would not 
 like him to come spooning around you, Emily. I'd rather tlo 
 that myself." 
 
 " Oh, fie ! Reginald," returned Emily ; "and such an ex- 
 pression to use I But," she added, " you've been away, and 
 young ladies see more quickly into these things than young 
 gentlemen do, at any rate. I'm very sure that if those two are 
 not engaged to each other, they soon will be — and then you'll 
 lose your sister, Reggie." 
 
 " Well ; if they're engaged, I know nothing of it. 'They 
 hav'nt told me anything, but I'll find out, though. I'll ask my 
 mother first chance I get ; I don't care if it is true, either. I'll 
 follow the example, and get engaged myself ; and I know to 
 whom," said Reggie, looking straight into her face as coolly and 
 unabashedly as possible. 
 
 " You seem very confident. Master Reggie," replied Emily, 
 who having discovered that her youthful admirer could tell her 
 nothing, thought she might as well relapse into the pleasant 
 flirtation again. " Pray who may the young lady be!* — any 1 
 know? 'This, too, after all the sweet speeches you have made 
 to me to-day, Reggie ! " 
 
 " I've been telling you all day — and her name is Emily," 
 
 said the young reprobate, snatching a kiss with sudden adroit- 
 ness and agility, avoiding with equal alertness her rather playful 
 return-box of the ear of the by-no-means displeased Emily. 
 " Well, I'm sure ! " she exclaimed with a laugh. " Take care 
 
 that I don't take you at your word, you bold young 1 don't 
 
 know what to call you." 
 
 " That's right, Emily, do, and if you don't, I will," he said. 
 And so on, and so on — neither of them very much in earnest ; 
 
 I 
 
 k 
 
A KKVELATION— ARRIVAL AXJ) LKCTLFRE. 89 
 
 and 
 
 neither of them troiibh'ng themselves with the reflection that 
 there are such things as conse(iiiences. 
 
 At length the decHning sun warned them of return. Mr, 
 Mordaunt mounted his horse and went home by the road, while 
 the rest of the party took to their boat again, which Edwin 
 slowly and surely tacked u\> the lake against the head wind. 
 
 'I'heir da}- had been a jileasant one, yet they were all glad 
 enough to step out upon the little wharf, with its short distance 
 to the house alone left them to traverse. 
 
 As Reginald and Emily walked uj) together, she asked him : 
 *' Well, Reggie ; what did your mother say ? Are Ethel and 
 Mr. Vance engaged? Did you ask yet?" 
 
 '* No ; I hav'nt as yet. But why do you wish to know about 
 it so earnestly ? " with some surprise and curiosity. 
 
 •M)h I young ladies always like to hear of engagements and 
 love affairs," she answered lightly. 
 
 •'Do they? How very odd! I'll remember that. And 
 perhaps you would not dislike to take part in a love affair also," 
 said Reggie, looking up into her face and laughing. 
 
 On entering the house, Edwin enquired if .Mr. A\'olverton 
 had not come, and was answered in the negative, noi> at the 
 time that the family retired to bed, had he or Barney i)ut in an 
 appearance. 
 
 CH.VPTER XI. 
 
 A kKVKLA llON ; AN ARRIVAL AN1> A I.KC I'URI'.. 
 
 When Mrs. Mordaunt — an early riser — descended the stairs 
 on the following morning, she entered, as was her wont, the 
 conservatory, for a few minutes' enjoyment of her beloved 
 flowers — the charm of whose beauty and fragrant;e is the most 
 keenly appreciated in the early hours of the day, when the eye 
 and the sense — refreshed, invigorated and unsatiated, awaken 
 
 I 
 
*)0 
 
 SHK MKiHl HA\ K DONK 15K1 TKK. 
 
 ') il^^H 
 
 in 
 
 ■^1 
 
 1 
 ■I 
 
 Avitli renewed dclij^ht lo the outsjjread and ever-new glories of 
 the universe. 
 
 The first ol)ject that met her eye, however, on this occasion, 
 was our friend Harney — by no means a beautiful Hower — loung. 
 ing in deeply reflective attitude up against the o])en door, through 
 which the fresh morning breeze entered ; and e\idently, knowing 
 iier custom, on the uatch for her coming. 
 
 '* (iood mornin' till ye, Mistiiress Mord;iunl," said he, doffing 
 his hat, and advancing in from the door. '* It's mighty foine 
 the harbs in ver conservathorv are the dav ; and, faix 1 it's \er- 
 self is lookin' as fresh and as purty, ma'ain, as iver a flower av 
 thim all, this blissid marn." 
 
 " (iood morning to you, Harney," said Mrs. Mordaunt. •' 1 
 know you have something to say to me, when you commence 
 with your soft solder and blarney, ^\'ell, what is it, l?arney ? — 
 fUit what in the world kept you so late last night ; and did Mr. 
 Wolverton come witli you? " 
 
 " Late was it? Och ! an it wur late enough or arly — wan a\ 
 the two. Oh, yis ! ma'am, he kern wid me — bad scran ! or its 
 liome I'd a bin atadacent hour a\ the night. I tought now as 
 he niver intended to get hisself started," re])lied Barney. 
 
 •' But what kept him so late? Did he not come by the day 
 train ? ^'ou did not keejj him waiting, did you, Barney ?" 
 
 •' Faix ! the boot was on the udder fut, I'm thinking, ma'am ; 
 mebbe it wur bishness, ma'am, or mebbe he had raisons of his 
 own fur not appearin' before the family till he'd slej)' on it, and 
 got hisself brightened up agin. And it's right he was. more be- 
 token," returned Barney, sarcastically. 
 
 •' Why I whatever do >ou mean, Barney ? 1 can't under- 
 stand you ; don't speak in riddles," exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 •'Troth 1 and indade, ma'am, it's jist nuthin' at all, at all, I'm 
 manin'," returned Barney. "Ye see, ma'am, av I wur to go out 
 to spind the avenin' wid a few friends, an' it wur not a timper- 
 ance meetin' they wur houldm', an' it shud ha])])en whin it 
 
 I 
 
 l! 
 
^iSS^iS^i^ 
 
 A RFA KL.VnoN—ARKlVAL AND LKCTIKI' 
 
 9' 
 
 in : 
 his 
 nd 
 
 1)C- 
 
 K 
 
 wur time to he makiiV fur homt, that I sliiid frnd incsilfa acliii' 
 strange aiV talking (juare, an' singin' and makin' to git a l)it av 
 shillalegh in me hands, Hke linough-more-he-token ; would'nl I 
 he fur waitin' anhile till the dacent folks wor in their hids, an' 
 thin I cud slij) in onohsarved ? Kaix ! an' barrin' a (juare fee! av 
 me hid It's all straight I'd be by marning." added he, with ;i 
 comiad twist of his eve. 
 
 •• Why you do not mean to say he had been drin " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Mordaunt, impulsively, horrified at the idea, but 
 she was hastily interrupted by the shrewd i]arney at this 
 dangerous ])oint. witich threatened to bring a close to the con- 
 versation. 
 
 "Och! it was'nt alludin' to the gintleman I wor at all, ma'am," 
 .said the hypocritical IJarney, conscious he had been trespassing 
 on the sacred rights of guesthood. ** it wuv nivsilf I wor ;i 
 sphakin' av whin I wud do the like. Ve see, ma'am." continued he, 
 " I wint to the stashin whin the train kem in. an" ! seed Misther 
 Wolverton git aff av it, .so I wint u])till himan'tould him 1 had a 
 baste riddy till fetch him u\> till the Lake, an' lie tould me till 
 wait awhile as he had some bishness till attind till, an' off he wini 
 liot-fut till the bank. He stayed there a mortial while, an' whin 
 he kem back till the hot-tel. lie lukked as black as tunder. He 
 called fur brandy intill a room there, where its two udder gin- 
 tlemin wor wid him." 
 
 •' 1 waited, an' I waited, an' 1 waited, " continued Barney, 
 ** till it kem on six av the clock, whin I wint and axed him if it's 
 |)ut the baste in I wor to do. as it wor gettin' mortial late, an 
 we hid twinty mile afore us. Begorra I but it's sound asleep 
 they wor, an' it vor no timjjerance meeting they'd been houldin' 
 av ather, so it wur'nt. 
 
 *' Be me sowl I but it med me as crass as a i)0st-office dark, 
 so it did, till see the sthate he wur in, an" if it had'nt been that 
 he wor a gintleman fur the Lake, it's bla("k an' blue I'd ha' bate 
 
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 92 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAN'E DONE BETTER. 
 
 him, so I wild, l)egorra ! fur disghracing us all that a-away, the 
 dirthy spalpeen." 
 
 " Stop, Barney I" wamily interrui)ted Mrs. Mordaunt. " 1 
 cannot listen longer to your imi)ertinent stories. Vou presume 
 too much in thus traducing the characterof a gentleman visiting 
 here. Vou mistake, also. Mr. W'olverton was probably fatigued 
 with his journey and needed some rest," added poor Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, horrified at the character of the guest she had beneath her 
 roof, vet knowing that she ought to jjrotect him, while unable 
 to disbelieve Barney's very graphic and evidently veracious state- 
 ment. 
 
 " Faix I then, ma'am, an' ye don't wish till hear more av it, the 
 divil a wurrud more has Barney got to say agin it," rej)lied that 
 individual, carefully plucking a dead leaf from a geranium, but 
 nevertheless proceeding with a great many other words, unre- 
 strained too. 
 
 " Fur the mather av that, ma'am, ye can as will affoord till hear 
 anything consarning the family as Barney can. And its me 
 duthy, too, so it ' ;, be the powers ! till tell yes all 1 know av it, 
 gintleman or no gintleman. The ind av the mather wor that I 
 let them slape on till it kem to be nine at night, and thin I wint 
 and put the baste intill the vahicle — ]>oor ill used craythur, that 
 h.ad her day's wur-ruk afore her yit, whin it wur home she shud 
 be — and tould the waither till mek out his bill, an' we wint in, 
 A-an wid another, an' vvekkened him. Troth I an' the waither 
 pvor mighty short wid him, and poked the pajjer intill his neb 
 an' toult him till i)ay it an' be aff wid him. Faix ! he wekkened 
 up quite an' sober-like, an' dhrank some brandy till straightei^ 
 himsilf up wid, an' I got him intill the vahicle aisy an' plisint, an' 
 its glad I wor till get aff wid him. A\'e driv on, nately enough, 
 an' niver a wur-rud he said, goodor bad, till we'd med a couple 
 av miles av the road." 
 
 " ' Barney,' says he, ' What's Misther Wmce doing uj) at the 
 
 1 
 
A RRVELA'l'ION— ARRIVAL AND I.KCTURK. 93 
 
 Lake these days. He's been there tin days or more, hasn't 
 he?' 
 
 " ' ( )ch !' says 1, ' the divil a know I knows wliat he's doin' av. 
 He's a quite gintleman an' amuses hissilf as a gintleman shud.' 
 
 '* ' iiut how does he spind his time ? He must find it rather 
 dull up there, one would think, unless he has some strong at- 
 traction. Eh I Barney ?' says he. 
 
 " ' Dull is it ? An' what for is it dull he'd be ?' says I. ' Be- 
 gorra I if it's dull he finds himself, I'm thinkin' he likes it, an' he'll 
 be afther takin' wan av the family aff wid him to kaj)e him dull 
 for iver. * An' its how does he spind his time is it ?' Faix, its 
 mighty agraable his way of spindin' it, so it is. It's a mortial 
 hand he is tor jjlazin' the ladies,' says I. * A ridin' on horse- 
 back troo the fields wid thim. A sailin* on the little lough, a 
 talkin' pothry an' jommethry wid thim. Playin' crokey wid thim 
 — a quar : furrui game they have, where the gintlemin can be 
 coortin' the ladies, while they're pretmdin' to knock (luare little 
 wood balls troo wires up agin little barber's posts. An'standin' 
 in the consarvathory wid Miss Kthel fur hours togither, tilling 
 av her the names av her harbs in Latin an' Grake, an' i)ullin' 
 laves an' blossoms to bits — as a choild wud a fly — an' talkin' 
 about it as grand as ye plaze in the hay thin' tongues. Och I 
 it's a mighty plisint way he has av bein' dull, an' it agraes wid 
 more nor hmi up there, more-be-token,' says 1. 
 
 " * Oh ! that's the way of it, is it, Barney,' says he. ' I sup- 
 pose now he and Miss Ethel agree very well together ?" 
 
 " * Troth ! it's lookin' in the upholstheres shop he'll be afore 
 long,' says I, an' he looked as black as tunder, so he did, whin 
 he heard it. He swore till himself, and muttered away some- 
 thin' about ' forestalled,' though what he mint the divil a bit av 
 me knows. An' it's quite and silent he sat till w^e arruv home. 
 
 " Good rnarnin' till ye, Misthress Mordaunt. I must be aff 
 till me wur-ruk," exclaimed Barney at the conclusion of his long 
 story, and shuffling off as fast as he could. " It's mighty purty 
 
til 
 
 «)4 
 
 SHK MKIHT HANK I)()NK BKITKR. 
 
 her harbs are lookin' the day, and a line day it is, so it is, thimk 
 the Lord." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Mordaunt liad l)ut h'ttle enjoyment left for her 
 flowers on this morning. 'I'hat was all taken away by Barney's 
 revelation. She blamed herself severely, now he had gone, for 
 having listened to it, though not a little shocked at its tenor, 
 while she could not but wonder at the tact and shrewdness with 
 which the man, a]jj)arently rude, ignorant and uneducated, had 
 carried out his statement, really compelling her to hear it by 
 sheer management and address, and who, when his tale was 
 told, had so adroitly scuttled off, without giving her the oppor 
 tunity for a word. 
 
 .She felt humiliated in her character of hostess that she had 
 had to listen to such a tale from a servant, reflecting in such a 
 manner upon her guest, Avhile she could not but recognize the 
 honesty of i)urpose and faithfulness of the man who had thus 
 given himself a dangerous and disagreealile task. 
 
 '' How could Kdwin Vance — her son-in-law that was to be — 
 have for a friend such a man as this Mr. Wolverton," she ask- 
 ed herself. "Ought he to be warned? Ought not his eyes 
 to be opened to this i)recious friend's character and habits?" 
 
 No '. that would not only be a violation of the hosi)italit} of 
 the rules of the house in which the man was a guest, but she had 
 nothing more than the story of an ignorant Irishman to support 
 her charges : and, again, she felt that she could not bring her- 
 self to repeat the details, some of them so humiliatingly j^er- 
 sonal. 
 
 No 1 she would do nothing at present, sjive to keep watch 
 and ward u])on Mr. Wolverton and his schemes while he was 
 in her house ; while to save Ethel from any possible annoyance 
 her engagement should be made patent to the world. 
 
 .So this Wolverton had come with designs to make himself 
 agreeable to her daughter, had he ? That man who had come 
 under her roof yet stui)ihed from his debauch. But he was too 
 
A RKVKl.A'noN—ARRIVAI. AND LECTURE. 95 
 
 l.ite ; he was ' tbrestalle<I,' as Barney had said, ilioiigli the latter 
 knew not the meaning of the word his very unj)leasant hints had 
 brought out. 
 
 After all. Barney had done lier a service, she thought, and 
 he needed not to have scuttled off so fast when he liad com]>Iet- 
 ed his tale ; and he was forgiven. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, with a bare look at her blossoming lavourites, 
 departed thoughtfully from the conservator)-, and went about 
 her morning avocations. 
 
 * 5!-- ;;: 5;i :;s * <; 
 
 Air. Sydney Wolverton. on entering the breakfast room an 
 hour later, presented by no means an unfiivourable ap])earance 
 either in dress, manner or look, and Mrs. Mordaunt, fresh from 
 her early conversation with Barney, thought, at the first glance, 
 '* how well he has got over his night's dissipation.'" 
 
 He api^roached her with ease and self-pos>ession as one al- 
 ready known to her, and though her .salutation, suftii-iei.tly polite, 
 was involuntary cool and even a little distant, he addressed a 
 few words to her and Ethel liefore going through the formalities 
 with the rest of the party.with the quiet and assured air of a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Edwin Wince's greeting to hira was warm and hearty, on his 
 [)art, at least, the meeting with a friend. 
 
 " I hardly exjjected to see you this morning, Sythiey. old fel- 
 low," he said. '* We ga\e you up for the night at eleven o'clock, 
 supposing you had been detained." 
 
 " Ves I" re]>lied Sydne\-, turning at the same time to Mrs. 
 Mordaunt. " I must beg [xirdon for detaining the conveyance 
 and its driver, which you so kindly sent for me. until an hour so 
 late. 
 
 " On arrival at Cascades I found there was some bank busi- 
 ness to which I had to attend, which kept me longer .than I 
 expected. Afterwards some gentlemen connected with me in 
 business arrived at the hotel, and >\ith \arious matters claimed 
 
96 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXK BKTTKR. 
 
 Hi 
 
 my time until ver) late. I trust that I did not cause much in- 
 convenience by my delay." 
 
 ** Certainly not," replied Mr. Mordaunt, answering for his wife. 
 '' Further than that you would not meet with a very warm re- 
 cojition on arrival, as we had all retired. You must make u]) 
 now with a good l)reakfast which, I am hai)py to say, is ready." 
 
 " You should have been here yesterday, Mr. Wolverton," said 
 Emily. " We had a uelightful sail and a })ic-nic, whick I know 
 you would have much enjoyed : and there have been lots of 
 things going on here and at Ten Lakes lately. You don't know- 
 how much you have lost by not making your ajj])earance amongst 
 us sooner." 
 
 *• Oh, yes, Mi.ss Dearborn! I am sure there has been much 
 of interest going forward with \'ou all, and a visit to this j)art i*; 
 always a bright era to me. But, unfortunately, my arrangements 
 do not often permit them. No one can be better aware than I 
 am myself how much I have missed," he replied, with a smile, 
 though his eye unconsciousl) rested for a moment upon Plthel's 
 face, and his thoughts returned to Barney's hints during their 
 drive. He had couched his phrase in words conveying more 
 than he otherwise would have expressed had he suspected that 
 either of those present were j)artially initiated into an idea ot 
 his views, and could construe them very differently from his inten- 
 tion. Kmily, who knew him best of all, was very certain that the 
 motives of his visit was not alone the enjoyment of such c[uici 
 pleasures as a countr)- house afforded, and who intuitively sus- 
 j)ected one ot them, at least — smiled mischievously at the 
 success of the bait she had thrown out, and resolved to make 
 him rejjent his meditated treason to herself. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt looked him fixedly in the face for a moment 
 — an ominous light in her eye, which he noticed, but could not 
 comprehend ; but she made no remark, and the conversation 
 l)ecame general. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, as he sat easily and composedly among 
 
A REVKLATION— ARRIVAL AND LKCTURH. ^)^ 
 
 them, presented the appearance of a fine-looking and rather 
 distinguished, if not a handsome, man, with an air of ability 
 and force about him. Tall and well-built, carefully and effect- 
 lively dressed, he had the api)earance and manners of a gentle- 
 man. His features were good, though very marked ; he might 
 have been called handsome were it not that a somewhat satur- 
 nine and lowering expression sat upon his face in his usual 
 moods, which was not pleasing. Only when some conscious 
 effort or other occasion brought out a smile, would the dark ex- 
 pression change and brighten. But he was quite able to produce 
 the change when it suited him to do so. The acpiiline and 
 [pointed nose, with its large, thin and drawn nostrils ; the bright 
 dark eyes and black hair, determined mouth, the lips set tight 
 against the gleaming teeth, told of a forceful will — dark and 
 tierce as it was forceful, and of the strong executiveness to 
 carry out its decrees — a striking, if not a dangerous mentality. 
 
 And although the general expression of the dark face — when, 
 as under the present circumstances, it was smoothed down to 
 society appearance — -would hardly be called fierce or tigerish, 
 yet it was very easy to imagine that the man himself,if impelled by 
 necessity, the gratification of his passions, or his desired ends 
 — would become so, and spare nothing that stood in his 
 course. 
 
 From the advantages and opjjortunities which had been lib- 
 erally bestowed upon him, Sidney Wolverton ought to have been 
 a wealthy — a prosperous man. 
 
 The Hopetown mills — an extensive and heretofore profitable 
 establishment — had been bequeathed, at the death of a bach- 
 elor uncle, imencumbered and free from debt, although some- 
 what in need of renovation and repair. His father, a well-to- 
 do merchant of Nova Scotia, had put him in ])ossession of 
 sufficient cajjital for this purpose, and for an untrammelled and 
 unembarrassed carrying on of the business ; had advised him 
 to be careful and judicious ; that his property was a good one, 
 
98 
 
 JSHK MiGH'l" HAVK DUNK BK'I TKR, 
 
 
 and by pnitlence and foresight, should lead him to fortune— ai 
 the same time warning him that he had now to depend upon 
 himself alone, without further assistance, as his other children 
 must also he advanced in life. 
 
 Instead, however, of profiting by thiswise advice, or [)robal)ly 
 too young for his j^osition — he had sunk a great jjart of his 
 capital in additions and extensions to his establishment, some 
 of them, too, altogether out of the legitimate course of the 
 l)usiness, and had of late purchased, for sjjeculatiNe purposes. 
 ii large tract of land totally unconnected with the establish- 
 ment, for which he had only been as yet enabled to pay a small 
 portion o^ the i)urchase money. 
 
 Naturally extravagant, and inclined to dissipation, he had in 
 the [)ursuit of his pleasures, entrusted too much to foremen and 
 overseers, that to which he should himself have attended ; and 
 as a consei[uence he had for some time found himself not in an 
 easy or ])rosperous condition, but continually harrassed and 
 embarrassed. As we know, he had endeavoured to alleviate 
 this i)osition by the attempt — unsuccessful, however — to induce 
 Mr. HortO:! and his friend, Vance, to enter the business with 
 him. 
 
 Since these attempts he had carried on the business as best 
 he could — da\' to day — a regular hand-to-mouth s) stem. But 
 what chance could there be left for a concern to stand under a 
 chronic state of hand-to-mouth administration ? At the time of 
 his visit to the Lake, things had arrived at a desperate pitch 
 with him. Aid he must have, by whatever means it might ))e 
 obtained. 
 
 " I say, Mr. W'olverton, how did you and the other fellows 
 get liome ? " asked Reginald — " when, in our late expedition, 
 you basely deserted Gus Ferguson and myself in the woods ? " 
 
 " \V^e reached home next day easily enough, Reginald, " he 
 rej)iied ; " but as to deserting you, I imagine it is the other 
 way, and you deserted us. That is my imi)ression." 
 
1 
 
 A RbiVKLATION— ARRIVAL AND I.ECrijRK. 
 
 9'> 
 
 •• How do >oii make that out? I cai,i't see it in that light. 
 Did you not all of you turn l)ack before we hatl got halfway 
 to our proposed point ? " exclaimed Reggie defensively. 
 
 •'Yes; I'll admit we did not fulfil our whole intention; hut 
 how very often does not poor human nature fiiil to complete all 
 that it designs ? We had been gone a week, you must admit, 
 Reggie, and jjrovisions were expended. Again, there was 
 much more hard work than i>leasure upon that expedition into- 
 ihe wilds. Hut how did you two go.-*" asked W'olverton in 
 return. 
 
 •'Oh! we got to Lake Nipissing before we turned — as we 
 said we would ; and a rough time we had of it. You fellows 
 used up all the eatables and drinkables before you left, and we 
 had to depend upon our rifles and fishing-tackle for a living. 
 We only got back yesterday morning, but after all we had a 
 good time, and saw lots of countr)-. Adventures enough, too.' 
 
 •' Well ; I'm glad you found it rough. \'ou deserved it tor 
 your pains. A week in the woods is enough for any reasonable 
 Christian," answered Sidney, laughing. " Beyond that the hard 
 work gets monotop'' 
 
 •' All right ! " excla d Reggie. " \Ve'll give you count} 
 fellows some hard worK on Saturday, too — see if we dor.'t.. 
 You'll find it harder than a day in the garden, much more a 
 day in the woods — you bet I 1 suppose you fellows think you 
 have a soft thing on Ten Lakes in the match, don't jou ? 
 \'ou'll have to work for it, though." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Reggie I we must beat them, or I'U never be able 
 to show my face again I " said Ada energetically, clasping her 
 hands together. " I'd die before I'd let that boasting county 
 club beat us all 1 If they win, I'm ruined ! The pairs of gloves 
 that I'll lose, I'll never be able to pay for them all." 
 
 *' Ada," said her sister, severely. " One would imagine, from 
 the tenor of your conversation, that you belonged to the Ten 
 Lakes Club and were going to take your innings, as they call it,. 
 
 '♦ 
 
 \ ifitlKi'.isarr.Jst.^^jMnisutt .u 
 
(00 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE IJEITER. 
 
 . 
 
 
 in the match to-morrow.. Do try to remember that you are a 
 young lady." 
 
 " 1 wish I wasn't sometimes," Ada answered, in jiiteous tones 
 that made her hearers laugh. " And I only wish I was going to 
 play to-morrow. I do belong to the Club, and so ought every 
 girl in Ten Lakes who has any spirit in her," she added, ener- 
 getically. 
 
 ** Well I if all the young ladies show the same interest as you 
 do, Miss Ada, in the Cricket Club, the * County ' will have to 
 look to its laurels against an opponent so inspired," said Mr. 
 W'olverton with a gallantry wholly unappreciated by her to whom 
 it was addressed. '* I must say though that I think it to be a 
 little over-confident in challenging so strong a Club as the 
 * County,' and I fear it will have to record a sound drubbing on 
 Saturday," continued Sydney to Reginald. 
 
 *' Not a l)it of it :" 
 
 *' I'd like to see them do it I" exclaimed Reggie and Adj? to- 
 j^ether in emphatic denial. 
 
 " That's right, Ada. I like to see you stand u\) for the honour 
 of your Ten Lakes, the place where you were bom and where 
 you live, though it is but a village," said Mr. Horton, warmly, 
 to her. " Were your spirit diffused throughout the extent of the 
 country, and did it animate all its inhabitants, it would 
 be the better for it — very greatly the better for it. Not that I 
 mean thus to infer the encouragement of local or sectional jeal- 
 ousies as a benefit, far from it, such is but an evil outgrowth. 
 The love of one's home, the i)lace of one's birth or residence, the 
 Jitrong personal interest in them is, when one possesses it, the 
 oiitspring of ardent sentiment, of which true patriotism, the love 
 of one's country — one's own country — is the extended growth, 
 and one of the purest, most unselfish sentiments that can animate 
 the human breast. Of this patriotic feeling, in its true sense, 
 I cannot but perceive a lamentable deficiency in this Canada of 
 yours. A deficiency the more consi)icus and the more inex- 
 
 _..„-»,-.. ,---.,-.T^%«.>^>.-. - .■.■i>Lwr'm«g.xja.-vw-s^j-,-.vti^-'--;:-r 
 
 Tmjv- 
 
A REVELATION— ARRIVAL AND LECTURE. loi 
 
 disable in the inhabitants of such a land as this — a land whose 
 very vastness, grandeur and capabilities should arouse the senti- 
 ment in its highest degree. A deficiency which is one of the 
 great rocks ahead in its progress towards the status of a great 
 nation. There exists, too generally, I regret to say, a lack of 
 confidence, even of interesi, in the future of the country. A de- 
 j)lorable lack, which of necessity must exercise a paralyzing ef- 
 fect upon its advancement.'' 
 
 " The patriotism of the F'rench-Canadian, for instance," he 
 continued, "seems to be mainly directed towards the language, the 
 laws and customs of the race from which he sprang, and I very 
 much doubt if the sentiment as towards his own country — Canada 
 — the land of his birth, is felt in any but a very slight degree. And 
 this same tone, with native born Canadians of uther races, holds 
 true also. They look with greater pride towards the country 
 from which they are descended than to the land to which they 
 are native. The confederation of the separate provinces, now 
 the great ' Dominion of Canada,' by binding them together into 
 a solid unit, by the gradual obliteration of narrow provin- 
 cial views and prejudices, and the aspect of power which 
 territory and population gives, will probably in the course of 
 time conduce to a change in this respect that is so desirable. 
 But a great deal depends upon the population itself. The his- 
 tory of the country though a short, is certainly not an inglorious 
 one, and its study — laid in proper form and colouring — before 
 the rising generation, should be used as powerful means to that 
 end. But I have observed with astonishment in my various 
 rambles throughout the provinces the great number of American 
 ' text books ' and ' readers,' highly objectionable from a Canadian 
 point of view, which are used in the Common Schools. To thus 
 l)ermit the impressionable minds of the youth of the country to be 
 imbued and tinged, with the ideas, hostile and prejudiced, of any 
 foreign country, especially the case with those advanced by our 
 American School books, is simply a suicidal policy. As it should 
 
 8 
 
Uf ' 
 
 w 
 
 '..■'T*t-'*r^TPff-:' T;ryi-y ■ 
 
 'M 
 
 109 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BEITER, 
 
 be the aim of the government to foster a. national, a patriotic 
 spirit, without which a state never became great, it is its primary 
 duty tC' unhesitatingly stamp out so glaring a source of danger, 
 and enforcedly substitute, constitutionally or unconstitutionally, 
 whether agreeable to sectional feeling or disagreeable, a nation- 
 ally conceived course of their own in all the public schools. 
 
 " What can be a more despicable object than the man in whom 
 the spirit of patriotism, the natural love of his nati\ e country is 
 a. dead sentiment ? He cannot but think meanly of himself, who 
 thinks meanly of the land from which he sprang," continued Mr. 
 Horton, warming up to a favourite subject of his, and he went 
 on — 
 
 " Place in contradistinction the intense j)atriotisni of the Bri- 
 ton, for instance. With what pride, quiet and dignified, arrogant 
 and supercilious, as the case may be, he carries the love cf his 
 country about him, and bears himself as if its honours, its renown, 
 reflected themselves upon him. He feels himself a sharer of 
 them — that he and his ancestors achieved them, and he glories 
 in the name of a Briton. He may look with interest and admir- 
 ation, it is true, and accord the due praise to the great works of 
 a rival nation, but would laugh at an assertion of that nation's 
 superiority. From the fact of his being a Briton, and not from 
 physical or mental peculiarity, arises his proud confidence in him- 
 self and his native land. His coimtry may be hated for its power 
 and success, he knows it, and rather likes the idea, for it is, in his 
 '.>yes, the world's tribute, its sweetest praise to his beloved land. 
 What might be considered of the arrogant confidence of a power 
 that would venture to take up arms and wage war against the whole 
 world combined in assurance of success ? Yet who would affirm 
 that Britain would hesitate a moment in defence of her rights to 
 enter upon such a tremendous conflict. She'did urge that war once, 
 and did not emerge from it second best either. Tl-at is where 
 patriotism comes in ! And nowhere, Miss Ada, is the* love of 
 home, of one's own place, one's own roof-tree, more exerriDlified 
 
jy^irttiirM y^>' 
 
 I 
 
 riotic 
 mary 
 inger, 
 nally, 
 ation- 
 
 whom 
 itry is 
 If, who 
 id Mr. 
 ; went 
 
 le Bri- 
 TOgant 
 cf his 
 enown, 
 arer of 
 glories 
 admir- 
 orks of 
 lation's 
 from 
 in him- 
 power 
 in his 
 land, 
 power 
 e whole 
 d affirm 
 ghts to 
 ar once, 
 where 
 love of 
 TiDlified 
 
 A HEVELATION— ARRIVAL AND LECTURE. 103 
 
 than in England, and nowhere does there exist a people more 
 patriotic." 
 
 " Well done ! Uncle Edward,'' said Reginald, impudently. 
 " We'll run you in for member next election, certain. But 1 
 think you are rather hard on us Canadians. We younger ones, 
 at any rate, are proud of our country, and believe in it, and if 
 we do look with affection and pride to the country from which 
 we are descended, we do not love our own any the less on that 
 account. I do not deny, though, that there is more truth than 
 poetry in a good deal of that you have told us." 
 
 " That's right, Reggie," replied his uncle. " Stand up always 
 for the land of your birth. You won't run me for a member, 
 though," he added, as they rose from the table. " I'm too good 
 a Yankee for that." 
 
 " Oh ! are you though," returned Reggie. " An M. P. of 
 Canada is just as good as a Yankee Senator any day. Come 
 now ! senators and generals and colonels are as plentiful in the 
 States as leaves in Valambrosa." 
 
 " Yes !" and M. P.'s are plentiful enough in the Dominion also, 
 under the present condition of things. Why I how many par- 
 liaments are you running now? when one is ample for all there 
 is to do. Cut off your ridiculous little Provincial Houses, with 
 their parish politics and your country will be all the better for 
 it. I am free to confess my own country would be none the 
 worse for doing the same," replied Mr. Horton. 
 
 " Mrs. Mordaunt," asked Ada, as they entered the drawing- 
 room, " Have you anything for me to do this morning ? I 
 don't like to be idle, and to commence amusing one's self at 
 half past eight is rather early. I'd be tired out before night." 
 
 " No ! Ada, I have not," said Mrs. Mordaunt. " 1 think 
 you'll have to try to amuse yourself There's lots of things you 
 can do. Try billiards, or a book, or a ride on horseback, or get 
 the geiitlemen out to croquet. I have nothing to do myself par- 
 ticularly, or Ethel either. Mr. Mordaunt will keep so many ser- 
 
104 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 f I 
 
 ml 
 
 I 
 
 vants about that they hav'nt enough to do. I think I have heard 
 of the servant question certainly, and the difficulty peojjle ex- 
 perience in getting the assistance they require. For my part 1 
 have never had any difficulty in getting the assistance I require. 
 Yet I pay the wages only that are customary in this district. 
 And certainly not nearly so high as they pay in the cities." 
 
 "Well ! I'm sure you're very lucky, Mrs. Mordaunt," exclaim- 
 ed Emily, " for of all the pests and nuisances we have to endure 
 at home the servant question is the most vexatious. We never 
 can get the creatures to stay more than a month with us, no mat- 
 ter what wages we pay, A\''ith two we can get along, but most 
 of thp time we have but one, and generally when we manage to 
 get another, the first one has left us. I'm sure I don't under- 
 stand how it is that some people seem to have no trouble with 
 their girls." 
 
 " I think the matter can be easily enough accounted for in 
 oi.r case, Emily," said Ada, " With such a large family as ours, 
 it is as much as two servants can do to get through, even with 
 some little help from us ; but they get very little of that gener- 
 ally. And it is very much the same when we have only one. 
 We don't help her enough. The girl cannot do the work, and 
 won't stay with us. Besides, as a general thing, they are 
 not treated properly in our house, or spoken kindly to, and have 
 no time left for recreation, I don't wonder that we find trouble 
 with our servants." 
 
 " Oh ! that's Ada all over," rejoined Emily, " She likes to do 
 housework and place herself on a level with the servants. It's 
 only the other day that one of our girls gave her month's warn- 
 ing just because I scolded her for not having my breakfast ready, 
 for I'd been out the night before at a party and had come down 
 late, and told me that she would leave the house instantly, were 
 ?t not that she knew Miss Ada would have to do all the work 
 herself. For my part, I would not curry favor with such crea- 
 tures. As it is, Ada does half the girls' work for them, speaks 
 
[)j^y ^'i3jfMgw».?:?r;K!CT'Vi<BTM^gj,i»^7tw?a-:»;a''ji'-^^ 
 
 card 
 t ex- 
 art 1 
 ^uire. 
 strict. 
 
 :laim- 
 ndure 
 never 
 mat- 
 most 
 age to 
 under- 
 e with 
 
 for in 
 IS ours, 
 n with 
 gener- 
 ly one. 
 k, and 
 ey are 
 id have 
 trouble 
 
 es to do 
 s. It's 
 s warn- 
 t ready, 
 
 He down 
 y, were 
 
 ■le work 
 h crea- 
 , speaks 
 
 A REVELATION— ARRIVAL AND LECTURE. 105 
 
 to them as if they were ladies, and that's why they like her." 
 " V^'ell ! 1 think Ada is right," sa"d Mrs. Mordaunt, quietly. 
 " A word of kindness goes a great way with them. But, Emily 
 and Ada, I have some news for you which I think you will find 
 interesting, and as we are alone I will tell you. Edwin Vance 
 and Ethel have taken it into their heads to fall in love with each 
 other, and they are engaged to be married. \\'hat do you think 
 of that ? It was, I must say, rather a surprise to Mr. Mordaunt 
 and myself We had not expected such a thing, though I could 
 see that Edwin liked Ethel. However, the match will be suit- 
 able enough in all respects, and, I think, will be for their happi- 
 ness. You must congratulate me upon the new and unexpected 
 ro/e which I am to enter upon — the uneviable one of a mother- 
 in-law. I do trust that my dear Ethd may be hap])y." 
 
 " Oh ! I am so glad, Mrs. Mordaunt, so glad to hear such good 
 news of Ethel. I always knew that she would marry some nice 
 fellow. So Ethel's going to marry Mr. Vance, Dear Ethel, I'm 
 so glad. I do congratulate you, dear Mrs. Mordaunt. He is a 
 nice fellow, and Ethel is just perfection. Oh ! I know they'll be 
 so hajjpy," exclaimed Ada warmly, springing from her seat and 
 kissing Mrs. Mordaunt in the impulsive good nature of her 
 heart. 
 
 " Then they are engaged. Well ! I thought as much the 
 minute I arrived," said Emily, almost unwittingly, for though she 
 had been half expecting such,the news came to her with something 
 of a shock. It was not utter dismay, for it was not her heart 
 that was touched. Her vanity and her jealousy were the feelings 
 that were outraged. It was not agreeable to her that Ethel Mor- 
 daunt, whom she disliked, and of whom she was envious, should 
 have come between her and a prize, which, in her eyes, was well 
 worth having. Still less did she like it that Edwin Vance should 
 have preferred that detested rival to herself. Besides, was it 
 not another " eligible" gone — a direct loss, for she held imaginary 
 rights over all that admired but limited class. And it was no 
 
'1. '! 
 
 "t 
 
 )l 
 
 4: 
 
 u 
 
 I ^ 
 
 rf 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 h 
 
 
 r 
 
 T 
 
 
 t 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 f 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 KM* 
 
 
 io6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 wonder that she did not respond to the news with the joyous 
 unselfishness of her sister. She managed to say at last, " Well ! 
 I wish them joy, and hope they will be as happy as they doubt- 
 less are at present. But when is it to be, Mrs. Mordaunt ? and 
 where is Ethel's engagement ring ? I'm sure she has not got it 
 on, for I looked," added she, unconsciously. 
 
 " There is time enough for the ring yet, Emily," returned Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, " seeing their engagement is but two days old. I 
 don't suppose either of them have as yet thought of sue!, a de- 
 tail. The marriage will not take place for a year, at any rate," 
 she continued, a little restively, to these enquiries. 
 
 " Only two days ago !" exclaimed Emily, emphatically. With 
 self-reproach in her heart she thought : " Had I come but a day 
 sooner I could have prevented this." And then her spitefulness 
 overcoming her, " And they are not to be married for a year. >. 
 Don't you think it is rather a long engagement to allow to a per- 
 son so yielding and changeable as Mr. Vance ?" she added. 
 
 " I have never observed such traits in his character, Miss 
 Dearborn, nor I think have you," returned Mrs. Mordaunt, in- 
 dignantly, with displeasure and anger in her tone. " I am as- 
 tonished at the remark from you. Pray what do you mean ?"^ 
 
 " Now ! Emily, you ought to be ashamed of yourself You 
 are vexed because Ethel is engaged to be married before you 
 are, and you show it. I would not be so mean if I were you," 
 interrupted Ada, vehemently, yet putting the least unfavourable 
 construction to her sister's impertinence. 
 
 Nevertheless, Emily's words left an unpleasant impression on 
 Mrs. Mordaunt's mind. 
 
 " I'm sure I did not mean to offend, Mrs. Mordaunt," said 
 Hmily, a little ashamed at what she had done. " I only meant 
 that — that — that Mr. Vance was inclined to be very attentive to 
 young ladies," she added, lamely enough. 
 
 " As all young men are ! You would find it very dall were 
 
m 
 
 wmmm 
 
 wmiA 
 
 ' ^■T'7;,^ay?^^i^:■s^^■■.::^v;^te.■;>■^■;^.' 
 
 DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHE WAS WELL OFF. 107 
 
 they not so, Emily," answered Mrs. Mordaunt, pointedly. " With 
 Mr. Vance the case is now a different thing." 
 
 " As if butter would not melt in his mouth," said Emily to 
 herself, but, wisely, she did not give the thought utterance. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 DIDNT KNOW WHEN SHE WAS WELI, OFF. 
 
 On the morning of the twenty-first day of July, A.D. 187 1, Mr. 
 John Hatchitfess, of the old and highly reputable firm of John 
 Hatchitfess & Son, Notaries, Conveyancers and House and Land 
 Agents, of the City of Toronto, sat in his comfortable room, one 
 of the suite of three which constituted the firm's offices, busily en- 
 gaged in reading the morning papers, and keeping a sharp eye 
 on the three middle-aged and respectable-looking clerks in the 
 main oftice, as busily engaged at their respective desks, and in 
 casting regretful glances into the third apartment, the most 
 handsomely furnished of all, which was the sanctum of, and 
 ought to have been graced by the presence of Albert Maximus 
 Montague Hatchitfess, Esquire, junior member of the firm and 
 only son and heir of the said Mr. John Hatchitfess. But as 
 business was not the forte of that young gentleman ; while spend- 
 ing his share of the profits about Her Majesty's goodly city of 
 Toronto in the most agreeable manner possible — most decidedly 
 was ; the regretful glances of his worthy progenitor continued to 
 meet but dull vacancy, and he had to content his paternal eye 
 by looking still sharper after the three middle-aged clerks, who, 
 well aware of the supervision, wrote away for dear life, as if it 
 were a certain nameless personage, sulphurously odorate, bifur- 
 cate of extremity, and of comate aspect, who so enthusiastically 
 drove them. 
 
 The firm was wealthy, and bore the odour of being very honest, 
 quite to be depended upon, though perhaps a little hard in its 
 
*!|i( 
 
 ■ 
 
 io8 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 HI 
 
 W' w 
 
 dealings. The offices, upon a flight of stairs in King street, 
 were very wel! known to a goodly proportion of the inhabitants 
 of Toronto, and to a goodl)' number of people outside of 'I'o- 
 ronto also. A very large business was done in those offices, 
 and a great deal of money was made by the firm, not so much 
 by its legitimate notarial business, as by the more general line 
 of the House and Land Agency. 
 
 It might be a very hard, but it was a very honest firm, and 
 numerous gentlemen who liked to have their rents paid them 
 the day they were due, and who did not wish to have their 
 charitable souls agonized by appeals for delay from jjoor ten- 
 ants, found it very convenient to place their business in the 
 hands of John Hatchitfess & Son, who had no soul, and they 
 got their rents to the day. 
 
 Gentlemen who wished to dispose of property, repaired 
 thither also, and they shortly had the pleasure of handling the 
 price. Even were there great necessity for the transactions 
 being very hurriedly got through with, it was all the same. The 
 seller may not have got so much money, but he got it promj)!- 
 
 ly. 
 
 Gentlemen who wished to purchase property, or invest 
 money or effect a mortgage, or do almost anything in the way 
 of real estate, did the same; and they got what they wanted. 
 Should a nice young man, with property behind him, have been 
 spending rather too freely, and his pocket needed replenish- 
 ment, he went to John Hatchitfess & Son, and got the needful 
 cash, on giving his written promise to pay the advance, with a 
 good deal more added to it ; which promise, too, the young 
 gentleman generally found that he kept, whether it were agree- 
 able or not to him to do so. 
 
 These processes going on for long years, resulted in the ac- 
 cumulation of dollars, and Mr. John Hatchitfess, at the period 
 of our story, was regarded in the light of a very wealthy man. 
 
 * Honesty ' had been so persistently the battle-cry of the 
 
i>'in.'.*\\':^-''i^:^!*'^'L'^>';^*^t"-:^73'''-if-r-.^?'''c-.t-iV'-- 
 
 street, 
 itants 
 )f To- 
 )ffices, 
 much 
 i\ line 
 
 m, and 
 I them 
 e their 
 or ten- 
 ia the 
 id they 
 
 repaired 
 
 ling the 
 
 sactions 
 
 The 
 
 ])rompt- 
 
 ir invest 
 the way- 
 wanted, 
 ave been 
 plenish- 
 needful 
 ;, with a 
 le young 
 re agree- 
 
 the ac- 
 
 le period 
 
 |thy man. 
 
 of the 
 
 DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHE WAS WELL OFF. 109 
 
 firm, that they had built up a solid reputation for it, and in 
 their dealings /or or between other parties, not directly widi 
 them, they had been honest. After the transaction of some 
 piece of business, Mr. John Hatchitfess would severely remark : 
 " We are very honest, but we are not charitable, " in the words, 
 and probably in the paradoxical sense of the manager of the 
 steamboat company,who,one of his moribund tubs having bn.'ken 
 down on the journey, thoroughly cleaned out the pockets of 
 the poor passengers, already depl'ted by their expensive delay, 
 for bringing them back to their starting pointy in another of his 
 old machines. 
 
 Mr. John Hatchitfess could not certainly be regarded as a 
 handsome man ; but as beauty is at a discount in business 
 matters, and is wholly overlooked in the person to whom 
 one pays one's rent, the deficiency was but of little moment to 
 the principal party concerned. 
 
 In person, though largely built, he was spare, angular and 
 ungainly ; his face was angular, his cheek-bones were angular, 
 his nose was angular, his large mouth was angular, and dried-up 
 looking ; and his prominent eyes would have been angular also, 
 had there been anything else about them save the amiable ex- 
 pression of the cuttle-fish. 
 
 His visage was capable, certainly, of producing a smile ; but 
 the effect was so ghastly, and reminded the beholder so forcibly 
 of the hideous contortions produced by the galvanizing of a 
 corpse, that his physiognomy Avas a i)leasanter sight in a state 
 of repose. I'he movements of the dried-up mouth and the 
 baleful aspect presented by the wrinkling up of the fishy eyes 
 during the fearsome operation, was rather horrifying to nervous 
 people, and would freeze up the smile that might happen to be 
 playing on their countenances with instantaneous suddenness. 
 
 But if his personal appearance was peculiar, it was his own, 
 and he could not change it had he desired to do so. With his 
 manners, though, it was a very different affair; and he graded 
 
no 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ' 
 
 
 them with infinite variety. Delicately shaded they were not to 
 the virtues or merits of those with whom he came in contact, 
 but to the amount of cash which their pockets contained. 
 
 With a wealthy client he was, oh ! so greasily nice ; so oilily 
 polite, and full of obsequious bowings and compliments, and 
 the fearful smile convulsed his countenance like the approach 
 of epilepsy. To one from whom he had nothing to expect or 
 gain, he was cuttingly brief and contemptuously indifferent. 
 But the unfortunate who ought to pay him money, and had it 
 not wherewith to pay, came in for savage wrath and roused in 
 full measure the natural wild-beast ferocity of his nature. Ve* 
 hement were the denunciations — outrageous the insults, and 
 bloodthirsty the threats hurled at the poor delinquent, who, if 
 he had expected — if not mercy — at least the politeness of a 
 gentleman — speedily found himself undeceived, and got neitJier 
 the one nor the other. Not a very agreeable character, on the 
 whole, was that of Mr. J-ohn Hatchitfess. 
 
 However, he sat in his office very comfortably, and did not 
 trouble himself about the estimate people might put on his 
 social qualities, so long as they did their business with his firm ; 
 and as the morning wore on plenty of people came in and 
 transacted business with him. 
 
 Some entered with a confident bearing, and proceeded to pay 
 their rents, interests, instalments, or whatever it might be — re- 
 ceived civility and a receipt, and departed, breathing the freer 
 that they were over it, and out again in the bright air. Others 
 anxiously, and with a deprecatory air, to ask, mayhaps, 
 timidly, for a few days grace for some payment. Stern refusal, 
 couched in insulting terms, was what they got, together with the 
 pleasing promise that a paper, of a wholly different nature from 
 a receipt, would very shortly be presented to them, commenc- 
 ing with the ominous words : 
 
 " Canada, Province of Ontario, ^^ictoria, by the Grace of 
 
^v^f;^r■,,'-Vpv^^>J^^j:^Jyy;i^,'^I^^/.,;.l>f.^^■a><^v^»f^?^;^y^iyW''7"rJ■:^^^^^^ 
 
 lOt to 
 mtact, 
 
 D oilily 
 s, and 
 proach 
 pect or 
 ifferent. 
 
 i had it 
 used in 
 •e. Ve^ 
 Its, and 
 who, if 
 ess of a 
 t neitJier 
 r, on the 
 
 did not 
 on his 
 
 lis finn ; 
 in and 
 
 ed to pay 
 be— re- 
 the freer 
 Others 
 mayhaps, 
 rn refusal, 
 with the 
 itiire from 
 commenc- 
 
 Grace of 
 
 DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHE WAS WELL OFF. 1 1 1 
 
 God, &c., " and very well might the unfortunate depend that 
 the promise would be kept before the day was out. 
 
 Has it not become high time, here let us observe in 
 parenthesis, that the honored name of our gracious Sovereign — 
 a name dear to every heart ; a name associated with all that is 
 good, fine and womanly ; a name blended into and almost re- 
 presentative of the sentiments of loyalty and patriotism that an- 
 imates our breasts — be removed from its present unworthy 
 appearance on the harrassing processes of the law, which, nec- 
 essary though they be, but too generally carry in their train the 
 evils of distress, anxiety, ruin, want and misery — and with such 
 evils that august name cannot be said to be in keeping. The 
 fiction is not only wholly unnecessary and absurd, but is also 
 ridiculous. 
 
 As if it were necessary for Her Gracious Majesty to send 
 " Greeting " — Heaven save the mark 1 — to every dirty officer or 
 bailiff, when authorized to pounce upon the wretched traps of 
 some miserable delinquent. With the unhonorable precepts, 
 uncleanly scriptures, and unholy procedures of law — the high 
 and honorable name of " Victoria " is degraded. Placed in 
 very bad company, in fact. 
 
 Some less august name — that of the judge, for instance, or 
 some other officer — would surely as well answer the purpose, if 
 a name is necessary, and would be more fitting for appearance 
 on such unnecessary documents. 
 
 Business was brisk in Mr. Hatchitfess' office this morning, and 
 liis hands were kept pretty full in attending to it. He had nu- 
 merous and well-improved opportunities of displaying the var- 
 ious phases of his character and disposition, from the fawning 
 civility and obsequious bowings with which he cringed to the 
 wealthy, down to the obstreperous bullyings with which he re- 
 galed impecunious humanity ; and a very varied assortment of 
 the genus komo in the course of an hour or two had passed 
 through the office, and had their business done for them, or 
 
II 
 
 112 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 tl 
 
 
 themselves done for. The ordinary run, however, of the busi- 
 ness was at length agreeably diversified by the entrance of a 
 young lady, who in tasty summer dress and jaunty hat, looking 
 as fresh and cool as the morning, and as bright as its earliest 
 sunbeams, stepped up to one of the clerk's desks, and asked for 
 Mr. John Hatchitfess. 
 
 She was very pretty, with a bright and spirited look about 
 her ; and as she stood in the dirty, hard and sordid office, she 
 ai>j)eared all the more charming and all the more out of keep- 
 ing with the scene. 
 
 The clerk addressed jumped down from his stool, with a 
 deferential " Good morning, Miss Seaforth. I'm sure Mr. 
 Hatchitfess will see you at once," and she was at once bowed 
 into that gentleman's room. He arose and bowed as she en- 
 tered, and as he placed a chair for her, smiled the sweetest 
 smile of which his countenance was capable, sufficiently grotesque 
 and horrible, however, and seeming as v^hough it would twist his 
 unlucky jaw from its sockets ere the ghastly convulsion was over. 
 
 " How do y(3u do I my dear Miss Agnes Seaforth," he said. 
 " I am very glad to see you again. You are very late in paying 
 your semi-annual visit to our poor office this time. First of 
 January and first of July are your days, and now it is the 
 twenty -first — three weeks behindhand. I generally find, too, 
 that people who have money to receive are prompt, to the day. 
 I am surprised to find you an exception." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Hatchitfess," was the reply ; " my aunt has been 
 so very unwell lately that I could not leave her, even for the 
 few minutes necessary to come here. I did not need the money 
 very particularly before, and knew it was useless to send for it." 
 
 " Ah I yes. Miss Agnes, quite useless. My instructions are 
 to pay the money each half year to yourself, personally; and 
 take your receipt for it — so that it is necessary that you honour 
 us at these times with your personal visits." 
 
 " In so far as that I have to come to your office twice p year 
 
 M' 
 
^TTHWilBMtll ■IW il I ■■ 
 
 busi- 
 : of a 
 )oking 
 larliest 
 ced for 
 
 about 
 ce, she 
 f keep- 
 
 with a 
 ire Mr. 
 bowed 
 she en- 
 sweetest 
 lotesque 
 twist his 
 ^•as over, 
 le said, 
 in paying 
 First of 
 It is the 
 find, too, 
 the day. 
 
 has been 
 n for the 
 the money 
 ndforit." 
 ctions are 
 ally; and 
 ou honour 
 
 ice n year 
 
 DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHL WAS WELL OFF. 1 13 
 
 I have but little of which to complain, Mr. Hatchitfess. My 
 visits are i)robably more troublesome to yourself than they are 
 to me," replied the young lad) . " But there is one thing which 
 r wish to mention to you, and if possible have altered. Since 
 my mother's death, when I liave had to attend here to obtain 
 my annuity myself, it has been invariably paid me in the form 
 of Mr, Edwin Vance's cheque, payable to myself, to my own 
 name, so that 1 am compelled to present it in person at the 
 bank for payment. Why should I have to take Mr. Vance's 
 cheque ? It is my own money, and not his, and I wish that a 
 different and more pleasant arrangement be made." 
 
 " You cannot mean to be serious in objecting to such a 
 very trifling matter as that, Miss Seaforth," said Mr. Hatchitfess, 
 surprisedly. " Surely your si.\ hundred dollars per annum is just 
 as available through Mr. \'ance's cheque as from any other 
 source. I cannot see the force of your objection," 
 
 '' That is not the question, Mr. Hatchitfess," Miss Seaforth 
 answered decidedly. '' Were the cheques yours, or those of 
 any other business firm, I would have nothing to say. But it is 
 inexpressibly painful to me to have to present these cheques, 
 of a young man like Mr. Vance, personally for payment; to 
 answer the questions and bear the gaze of impudent ])ank 
 clerks. I feel myself put in a position liable to misconstruc- 
 tion by reason of it, and I shall bear it no longer. Why cannot 
 you pay me the money yourself, Mr. Hatchitfess ? " 
 
 " For the very good reason, my dear young lady," he an- 
 swered drily, " that I hold no funds of Mr. Edwin Vance's for 
 the purpose." 
 
 '* Why of Mr. Vance's ? What have I to do with Mr. 
 Vance? It is of my own annuity I am speaking," she replied 
 hotly. 
 
 '* Certainly, Miss Seaforth ! of that 1 was aware. I can 
 only repeat to you that I have no power to alter existing ar- 
 
114 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 Illi 
 
 I 
 
 |: 
 
 rangements; and can only follow the instructions we have 
 received from Mr. Vance in the matter." 
 
 " Mr. Vance again ! What has Mr. Vance or his instructions 
 to do with the matter — I repeat again ? Are not the six hundred 
 dollars a year to which I am entitled, the income of the pro- 
 perty on Yonge Street? — which belonged to my poor dead 
 father ? " she exclaimed with excitement. 
 
 " In a measure, it arises from that source. I see, however, 
 that you do not understand the circumstances of the case, and 
 1 do not perceive that it is any part of my duty to explain 
 them you. I would advise you to ' leave we'll alone ' ; take 
 your money, and ask no more questions about it. Please to 
 sign the receipt," he continued, placing it and a pen before her. 
 
 " Then you are going to pay me in money this time, Mr. 
 Hatchitfess. I am so much obliged to you for sa\ing me the 
 annoyance of presenting the cheque," she exclaimed, as she signed 
 the receipt, but mistaking the tenor of his words, which she had 
 understood literally. 
 
 " Why this is a cheque of Mr. Vance's again," she continued, 
 as she glanced at it. *' You told me you would give me the 
 money, Mr. Hatchitfess. Why have you deceived me thus?" 
 looking for the receipt, which, however, he had already taken 
 into his possession, and rising from her chair in excitement. 
 
 " 1 did not deceive you. Miss Seaforth. You deceived your- 
 self." he replied, coldly. " I have already had the honour of 
 telling you I could not alter the arrangements. That cheque 
 you hold in yoyr hand is as much money as though I counted it 
 down dollar by dollar to you. If you will but think for a mo- 
 ment of what I said to you, you will perceive nothing more than 
 our usual course. Did I not advise you," he continued, " to let 
 what was well alone, and trouble yourself no more about the 
 matter ?" 
 
 " You did, Mr. Hatchitfess, and I ask your pardon for what I 
 said in my anger and disappointment. You must impute it to 
 
;w?|ff.|,j ;^aA'».<fAa'X■'^l^'■^'■^^'''»!^lPFgg?^'^:gT?»»'l 
 
 DIDN'T KNOW WHKN SHE WAS WELL OFF. 115 
 
 have 
 
 :tions 
 idred 
 ; pro- 
 dead 
 
 wever, 
 
 e, and 
 explain 
 ; take 
 ;ase to 
 3re her. 
 ne, Mr. 
 me the 
 e signed 
 she had 
 
 |ntinued, 
 me the 
 thus?" 
 taken 
 
 lent. 
 
 :d your- 
 »nour of 
 cheque 
 |ounted it 
 ir a mo- 
 tore than 
 ., " to let 
 ^bout the 
 
 )r what I 
 lute it to 
 
 the want of business knowledge of a woman. Uut there is some- 
 thing else which you said to me of which I must demand an 
 explanation. What did you mean by telling me there were cir- 
 cumstances connected with my annuity which I did not under-^ 
 stand and that I had better leave well alone? These circumstances 
 and Mr. Vance's seeming connection with my affairs I must have 
 emphatically settled, or I shall be compelled to resort to legal 
 advice." 
 
 " That you had much better not do, young lady," shortly 
 answered Mr. Hatchitfess. " For your own sake, such a mea- 
 sure can but distress yourself and your warm friend, Mr. Vance,, 
 also. I warn you again, for your own sake, to leave matters as 
 they are, and seek to know nothing further of matters which cer- 
 tainly are, or ought to be, if you would not give way to a ridicu- 
 lous whim, very satisfactory to you. You are but seeking un- 
 pleasantness." 
 
 " AVhat you say, Mr. Hatchitfess, but the more determines 
 me. If there are circumstances connected with me or my af- 
 fairs, which have been hidden from me, I feel that I have a right 
 to know, neither do I perceive how their elucidation can cause 
 distress to those who are not concerned in them," replied Miss 
 Seaforth, with spirit. 
 
 " Very well ! Miss Seaforth. Since you are determined to 
 hear, you shall hear. For my own interest, as I do not choose 
 to risk the loss of a good client like Mr. Vance, who being — as 
 you will shortly know — t. very warm personal friend of you and 
 yours, would not be too well pleased if I allowed you to procure 
 yourself a greater annoyance than you have now brought on 
 yourself by the course you propose of seeking legal aid. For 
 my own interest, I repeat, I will tell you the circumstances you 
 find so mysterious, and shall preface the story by remarking that 
 were the firm of John Hatchitfess & Son in the ])osition of Edwin 
 Vance in this matter, you would neither be in this office at this. 
 
mr 
 
 ..11 
 
 !> 
 
 
 ii6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 moment or liolding that cheque for three hundred dollars in your 
 hand. 
 
 " We are honest hut not charitable," exclaimed the amiable 
 Mr. Halchitfess, relapsing into formula, and shewing a touch of 
 liis tigerish nature towards the spirited young lady, who, in de- 
 fence of her rights, had so infringed u})on his precious time. 
 
 " What do you mean by that, sir?" exclaimed Miss Seaforth, 
 as she sprang from her seat, her eyes blazing. 
 
 " Never mind I You'll hear all in a few moments now, young 
 lady. " Pray delay me as little as possible, for I have many 
 affairs to attend to. It was a mere business expression that I 
 used, which almost unconsciously escaped me," he replied, 
 apologetically, waving her back to her seat again. 
 
 " Then, permit me to say that it is a very strange and im- 
 pleasant expression, and the sooner you learn to use more judg- 
 ment and discretion in the use of such tne better, sir," she said, 
 and then a little maliciously added — 
 
 " Though your honesty might possibly be disputed, T think 
 but few would be disposed to deny the truth of the htter i)art 
 of your aphorism, esi^ecially in regard to your charity towards the 
 feelings of others." 
 
 " Very true, young lady, I am a business man, and probably 
 know but little of sentimental things. But allow me to proceed. 
 *' Many years ago before you could remember, nay I before 
 you were born," he continued, '* your late father, during a season 
 of commercial disaster, met with some heavy lossess, and found 
 liimself in ])ressing need of a considerable sum of money. After 
 vainly endeavoring to sell the property on Yonge street — to which 
 you referred but now — he went to Mr. A^ance — the father of 
 the present young gentleman — and offered it to him at a price 
 much under its value, being in fact the amount he actually 
 needed for his business affairs. His friend, as he showed him- 
 self to be — instead of the sharp business man he ought to have 
 been — declined to take the property at a sacrifice, but offered 
 
DIDN'T KNOW WHKN SHK WAS WKLL OFF. n; 
 
 1 your 
 
 miable 
 
 juch of 
 
 in de- 
 
 me. 
 eaforth, 
 
 V, young 
 ^e many 
 n that 1 
 
 and im- 
 
 lore judg- 
 
 she said, 
 
 \^ I think 
 atter part 
 )wards the 
 
 probably 
 ) proceed. 
 I^y : \)efore 
 ig a season 
 and found 
 |)ney. After 
 _to which 
 |e father of 
 at a price 
 le actually 
 lowed him- 
 Ight to have 
 Ibut offered 
 
 to advance your father the money he required. To this your 
 father, entertaining the same romantic notions about friendship 
 and such stuff — suitable enough for women, I dare say, demur- 
 red — stating tlie money was needed to carry on his business ; 
 that he could not see his way clear as to its repayment, and 
 that the [)roperty had to go at any rate. In the end, Mr. Vance 
 purchased the projjcrty actually for what he called friendship's 
 sake, paying the then full market value for it, when it was oflfer- 
 ed him for a great deal less, merely stipulating that the differ- 
 ence should be invested by your father in the ])urchase of an 
 annuity on his and your mother's lives. Mark this ! The an- 
 nuity was on the lives of your father and mother alone. Of these 
 facts I hapi)en to be aware, as the annuity was purchased from 
 our firm, and a very good bargain we made of it." 
 
 " If what you are telling me is true, Mr. Hatchitfess, how does 
 it happen then that I have been paid the six hundred dollars a 
 year since my mother's death? " asked Miss Seaforth, showing a 
 little agitation. 
 
 "The few words I have to tell will explain all to yoi . Miss 
 Seaforth. The purchase of the Yonge street property turned out 
 to be a very profitable speculation for Mr. Vance. Its value in 
 the course of a few years doubled, then trebled and quadrupled, 
 and the sale of a small portion of it, as I know, recouped him 
 the entire purchase money. On the other hand, your father was 
 not successful in his business matters, and when he died left 
 c-rbsolutely nothing behind him save the annuity on your mother's 
 life, and the little house with its furniture, in which you now re- 
 side — no very great fortune — when, if he'd held on to his lands, 
 he would have died a rich man. At your mother's death, two 
 years ago, the annuity, of course, ceased. Had her life not last- 
 ed so long by two days it would have saved me three hundred 
 dollars. Ft fell due just that time before she died. Think of 
 that ! ' We are verv honest, but we are not charitable.' Three 
 hundred dollars lost by ju.st two days. We are very honest, but 
 
if.' 
 
 w 
 
 ii8 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 it is very hard to think about that," and Mr. Hatchitfess' feel- 
 ings ahiiost overcame him at the harrowing reflection. 
 
 " Shortly after this Mr. Vance came to me and actually had 
 tlie folly to propose buying an annuity on your life for your bene- 
 fit, and offered me a certain sum of money for it. Of course, as 
 you were a very young life, I had many enquires to make about 
 health and probability of life, and to find' out if you had any ten- 
 dency to diseases v/hich might make the bargain a more desir- 
 able one." 
 
 " But during our negotiations, Mr. Vance was overtaken with 
 his kst illness. Well do I remember the haste with which I 
 was summoned to his bedside to make his will, which, like too 
 many men of property, he had postponed until the supreme 
 moment had almost arrived for him. So near was he to disso- 
 lution, that it was in the briefest words I prejiared the documents 
 leaving a handsome income to his widow for her life, and the 
 remainder of his property to his son Edwin. It was not until 
 after all was executed, that he suddenly — almost at his last 
 gasp — remembered you, and, turning to his son, asked his 
 promise that, so long as you lived, he would cause you to be 
 paid the same sum as your mother's annuity amounted to, from 
 the proceeds of the Yonge Street i)roperty. The promise was 
 freely given, and has been faithfully kept. You see now, Miss 
 Seaforth, that I was right when I advised you to ' leave well 
 alone.' You see now that you have no legal right to it, though 
 Mr. Vance really bequeathed you six hundred dollars a year, 
 with his dying breath. While you are perfectly justified in 
 taking the money, you will perceive the propriety of moving no 
 fiirther in the matter. When Mr. Vance, in tender and loyal 
 consideration for you, caused the payments to you to be made 
 from this office — where your mother's annuity was paid by his 
 cheque, payable to yourself, both for your protection and to 
 cause you to think the money justly your own, — you will per- 
 
' feel- 
 
 yr bad 
 
 bene- 
 rse, as 
 
 about 
 ny ten- 
 ; desir- 
 
 en with 
 
 aiich I 
 
 like too 
 
 supreme 
 
 [O disso- 
 
 )cuments 
 
 I and the 
 
 not until 
 his last 
 ked his 
 
 3U to be 
 to, from 
 mise was 
 ow, Miss 
 ;ave well 
 ;, though 
 ; a year, 
 Lstified in 
 noving no 
 [and loyal 
 be made 
 lid by his 
 In and to 
 will per- 
 
 DIDNT KXOW WHEN SHE WAS WELL OFF. 119 
 
 ceive the propriety of no longer objecting to the mode of pay- 
 ment ; and I trust you agree witli me in this." 
 
 Agnes rose from her seat, as Mr. Hatchitfess concluded — 
 pale, and evidently greatly agitated, though striving hard for 
 calmness. 
 
 •' What you have told me, Mr. Hatchitfess, is so strange — so 
 utterly new and unexpected — that I can hardly believe it possi- 
 ble. How is it, that my mother never told me a word of this ? 
 She must have known it, were it true." 
 
 " Of that I can tell you nothing, Miss Seaforth," he replied. 
 " Probably she did not know it. It would not be the first in- 
 stance of a wife being kept in ignorance of her husband's 
 affairs. Nevertheless, the story is true ; of that I can assure 
 you. It is to my own interest that what I have told you should 
 be the truth — no more, no less, — and that is the best guarantee 
 I could give you. Mr. \'ance will not be too well pleased that 
 yeu have heard the story ; but he would have been still less 
 satisfied had I deceived you when the exj}lanation became a 
 necessity — as you have made it to-day. If you do not believe 
 me, you can obtain copies of the deed-of-sale, and the deed-of- 
 annuity from the Registry Oflice in this city ; or you can write 
 to Mr. Vance, whom I suppose you know well enough to con- 
 sider worthy of belief" 
 
 " That I shall do, at any rate," replied Miss Seaforth. " I 
 thank you, Mr. Hatchitfess, for having told me to-day what I 
 ought to have been told before. 1 am not sorry to hear what I 
 have heard ; but it would have been better for me to have 
 heard it two years ago. No matter how pure the motiNe, de- 
 ception never aids in good. I take this money to-day because 
 1 need it ; — I must have time to think of the position in which, 
 so unexpectedly, 1 find myself and my poor aunt placed, and 
 to form my plans. Otherwise, I should not take it." 
 
 '• Not take the money I — not take six hundred dollars a year ! 
 Pray why should you not take it ? Not take the money, when 
 
t '» 
 
 SHE iMlGHT HAVE DO^JE BETTER. 
 
 all you have to do is to come and get it ! 1 know something of 
 human nature, and its folly ; but of all the arrant humbugs and 
 stupid folly that ever I heard of, this — Faugh ! — it is enough to 
 sicken one ! " exclaimed, with genuine indignation, that guile- 
 less son of nature, Mr. Hatchitfess, who would have taken 
 money from the glowing hands of Apollyon himself, provided 
 he could have gotten it to the Bank lefore it turned into slate- 
 stones ; and there was not too great consideration to be paid 
 therefore. 
 
 " I shall take it to-day, at any rate," said Miss Seaforth ; and 
 with " Good morning, Mr. Hatchitfess I " the interview closed. 
 
 The young lady departed from the office, where a throng of 
 impatient visitors were awaiting Mr. Hatchitfess' leisure, and 
 walked sadly and thoughtfully up the street in the direction of 
 her home. 
 
 She was a proud and high-spirited girl, and the story she had 
 so newly heard was very galling to her. It was not with her — 
 as with Mr. Hatchitfess — a matter of course, that she should 
 come to that office twice a year, and take this money, to which 
 she now knew she possessed no right. 
 
 Had old Mr. Vance left her this money directly by his will, 
 instead of extorting a promise — willingly or unwillingly — from 
 his son, that he would pay it to her, there would have been a 
 difference ; and she felt that she would willingly have taken it, 
 from the surplus wealth which her fiither's proi)erty had given 
 him. As the case stood — although it was morally the same 
 thing, ^'"helher effected by a few words signed by the dying 
 man's hand, or his dying connnand — the sense of jjecuniary 
 obligation was revolting to her. She longed to I;e at home in 
 the quietude of her chamber, to think over and i^onder her 
 position, which, if this story was true, she knew was a changed 
 one for her. 'Hie first thing she would do, at any rate, would 
 be to write to Mr. Vance, for corroboration or disproval of Mr. 
 Hatchitfess' narration : and, pending his answer, she could 
 
 '^:-i^'-l:i-L:-^f-i^;s^ ' ■-■ 
 
JSi. 
 
 jsmi. 
 
 jll^Ogg^ 
 
 *'ifT^r'i?-;i''ig3a MWiw i « iBi M9*wi>e*>gp ■ 
 
 of 
 
 nd 
 
 to 
 
 ile- 
 kcii 
 ded 
 late- 
 paid 
 
 and 
 sed. 
 iig of 
 , and 
 on of 
 
 le had 
 her— 
 jhould 
 which 
 
 [is will, 
 
 from 
 
 been a 
 iken it, 
 given 
 
 lie same 
 le dying 
 icuniary 
 home in 
 ider her 
 I changed 
 would 
 a of Mr. 
 he could 
 
 DIDN'T KNOW WHEN SHE WAS WELE OFF. 121 
 
 make up her mind as to the course left open to her, in the 
 event of that narration being a true one, and prepare for the 
 battle of life on her own unassisted resources — a solution which 
 her proud heart indicated as the only solution of the j)osition. 
 
 She had reached the corner where she expected to meet the 
 street-car, which would convey her close to her residence, and 
 was watching its slow j^rogress towards her, when she was ac- 
 costed by a young gentleman, who, hurriedly advancing in the 
 direction from which she had come, had stopped suddenly in 
 his career on perceiving her; and taking off his very loud- 
 looking and extremely glossy beaver with elaborate profundity, 
 laboured grace, and extensiveness of sweep — aired his scented 
 and anointed locks in the calorific street breeze — and performed 
 a deep and conceitedly afiected bow, as he addressed her. 
 
 Georgeously arrayed in the very height and agonizing 
 extremity of the fashion ; be-ringed, be-chained, be-studded, 
 be-pinned, and diamond-locketed — with the utmost possible 
 l)rofusion of expensive and massive jewelry — booted, gloved, 
 tied, collared and cuffed, with painfully demonstrative s])ruci- 
 ness, this magnificent and interestmg individual actually 
 sparkled in the sun, as he i)erpetuated his polite gyrations, 
 amid the rattling of chains, the scintillation of gems, the flash- 
 ing of gold and the creavings of shining clothes. 
 
 But his personal appearance did not consort with the 
 beaming glory of his garments ; for excei)t that he was younger 
 and not so v/rinkled, Albert-Maximus-Montague Hatchitfess, 
 Esquire, was the very counterpart of his worthy and 
 and amiable progenitor. He ])Ossessed the same angular and 
 long feature.s — the same cheese-paring ex})ression — the same 
 fishily-lurid eye — even the same harrowing smile. The son — 
 it were almost needless to remark — resembled in disposition, as 
 in feature, almost to the last trait, his father ; save that one 
 liked to spend the money that the other liked to make. One 
 
'trr 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ! 
 
 ill 
 
 1 
 
 1 :i 
 
 1 
 
 ij 
 
 . 
 
 If 
 
 il 
 
 ( ( 
 . 1 
 
 ! 
 
 y , 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 11 
 
 ' 
 
 1 
 
 • 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 1 i 
 
 1 1 ' 
 
 1 - ■ ; 
 
 1 
 
 
 122 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 led an evil, dissipated, idly-bad life, while the other led a hard, 
 avaricious and grasping one. 
 
 The father's one human weakness — as he would probably in 
 his own eyes view it — was his love for his son, whom he 
 indulged, allowed to have his own way, and to give free vent to 
 his idle and depraved tastes, when he had better have been 
 kept in check and restrained by persistent occupation. 
 
 To leave him the wealthiest man in Toronto was the father's 
 great ambition, but his son was unfitting himself for that end 
 faster than his father was accomplishing it. 
 
 " Good morning ! — ^fiss Agnes" — he said. " delighted to 
 meet you so very unexpectedly ; I'm sure. Such a lovely 
 morning — almost as lovely a,s yourself ; *' the loveliest flower 
 of Toronto." 
 
 " When you wish to address me, Sir, please to do so pro- 
 perly. It is a fine morning, Mr. Hatchitfess, pray do not let 
 me detain you from > our rnisiness," was replied coldly. 
 
 " Oh I no hurry at all ; only too delighted if I can be of 
 service to the ladies. Been to the office, I suppose, this morn- 
 ing ?— ^Miss Seaforth. You look very gloomy over it too. 
 Vance has not thought better of it, and cut off the supplies ; 
 has he ? Or forgotten to send a cheque ; Eh ? Not much 
 hope from the Governor in that case. If you'll walk back to 
 the olllce with me I'll use my influence for you. No one can 
 work on the old boy's feelings as I can." 
 
 "' Mr. Hatchitfess, if you do not at once free me from your 
 impertinence, and attend to your own concerns, I will call on 
 the passers-by — or the police for protection," said Agnes, in- 
 dignantly, as she walked on and left him. 
 
 But he was at her side again immediately. 
 
 " I'm sure I did not mean to offend you, ]\Iiss Seaforth, I 
 only thought you looked sad, and wanted cheering up with a 
 joke. "Were you looking for the car ? Now if you would wait 
 a moment — I left my turn-out standing up the street a little 
 
ARCADIAN LOVERS TRULY 
 
 123 
 
 ard, 
 
 y in 
 I he 
 It to 
 been 
 
 .her's 
 end 
 
 sd to 
 ovely 
 lower 
 
 3 pro- 
 lot let 
 
 be of 
 morn- 
 too. 
 plies ; 
 
 much 
 ack to 
 
 e can 
 
 n your 
 call on 
 les, ki- 
 
 forth, I 
 with a 
 
 lid Nvait 
 a little 
 
 way, while I ran into the Governor's place for a minute — 
 I'll take you for a drive, behind a pair of spankers that you 
 ain't accustomed to every day, and we'll have some nice talk, 
 before I leave you at home. Come now — will you ? Miss 
 Seaforth." 
 
 " I prefer the street car, and I decline your escort. It is 
 not the first time I have told you so, and I should think that 
 any person possessing the faintest spark of a gentlemanly 
 spirit, would have taken the hint, which I now convert into 
 plain speaking. Your attentions and your company are disa- 
 greeable to me, and I will no longer be persecuted by you. 
 Good. morning, Mr. Hatchitfess." 
 
 Turning abruptly she walked back to the corner, where tke 
 street-car had just driven up, and entered it. 
 
 Looking after her, his eyes glaring, and his mouth distorted 
 with rage. " Oh ! very well, .Afiss Agness Seaforth, but it's 
 not the last of it, as you'll find to your cost. You're very high 
 and mighty with the beggarly six hundred dollars a year that 
 Vance pays you. I'll pay you for this. Take care I don't 
 make it hot for you, my young lady," he muttered savagely 
 between his teeth, and with a scowl he went on his way. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 ARCADIAN LOVERS TRULY. 
 
 " Well ! Ethel, I think you might hare told me the news 
 yourself, and before this too, when I have heard it from an- 
 other person," said Emily Dearborn, as the two girls putting 
 on their sun-hats, stepped mto the garden in search of the 
 other young people. 
 
 " What news ? — Emily. I'm sure I've heard nothing new 
 or strange this morning." 
 
 " Not this morning perhaps ; for I don't suppose you find 
 
 m 
 

 I 
 
 W. ti 
 
 I!' 
 
 
 Auv 
 
 f* \r 
 
 t ... 
 
 ! i| 
 
 
 it 
 
 I* 
 
 ■M 
 
 124 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 the tender little love-scene in the conservatory, at which I 
 surprised you and Mr. Vance erewhile, anything new by this 
 time ; but I referred to your engagement with that gentleman, 
 Ethel, which you have kept to yourself so shyly," returned 
 Emily. 
 
 " Oh ! that's it, is it ? Well ! I did not think it would be 
 of interest to any but ourselves. But who told you of it ? — 
 Emily." 
 
 " Mrs. Mordaunt told Ada and me half an hour ago," — was 
 the reply. " You are wrong if you think it is not of interest 
 to any but you two lovers. If I am not very much mistaken, 
 the gentleman who made his appearance among us this morn- 
 ing, is so much interested that he will be dreadfully disappoint- 
 ed when he hears of it. I feel very certain the main object of 
 his visit here was to make you a proposal." 
 
 " To make me a proposal — Mr. Wolverton ? you mean — not 
 very likely, Emily. Why I have'nt spoken a dozen words to 
 the man in my life, or he to me. It's much more probable 
 that he would propose to you ; judging from all I have heard ;" 
 replied Ethel with a laugh. 
 
 " That might be — Ethel — were I an heiress like yourself, or 
 were my father as wealthy a man as yours. But, Sidney wants 
 money so much ; I know, that he is quite ready to throw love 
 and all other considerations over-board to get it, even if he had 
 to take a wife whom he did not want with it. I feel quite 
 certain that he came here for the purpose of honouring you by 
 a proposal for your hand and your dollars," said Emily, who 
 was determined to punish her recreant lover. 
 
 " Then he is a very contemptible person, and I wonder that 
 Edwin is such a friend of his," returned Ethel indignantly. 
 " You will be much better without his love, Emily. But I 
 cannot conceive it possible this which you tell me. In the 
 first place the man is almost an utter stranger to us here, and, 
 
 ^^^M^IfteeSifajiagiB^^ 
 
ARCADIAN LOVERS TRULY 
 
 125 
 
 besides, I have heard Edwin say that he was coming here on 
 business wi'.h him." 
 
 " Some trifle as an excuse for his visit, probably. But you 
 can rest assured, that he will ask you, before the week is out 
 too, and this is Thursday, unless he is told of your engage- 
 ment ;" said Emily laughing. 
 
 " Well 1 I hope some one will tell him then. I do not feel 
 convinced that what you say may not be an error on your part,, 
 but were he to confirm it — by daring to hint at such a thing, 
 even ; he would speedily repent it, by as unceremonious a 
 dismissal as ever such a contemptible wretch received," replied 
 Ethel with warmth. 
 
 " Well ! it would serve him right," said Emily laughing. " I 
 don't thmk you need fear it though. Ada will soon blurt your 
 engagement out. You might do worse though than marry 
 Sidney Wolverton, who to my mind, is a far finer fellow than 
 your rather yielding and confiding Edwin Vance, with a little 
 more life about him," continued she, giving Ethel a hit for 
 herself safejy enough — as they came up with Ada and Regi- 
 nald — knowing that she would not reply before others. 
 
 Ada was sitting — croquet mallet in hand — very comfortably 
 in one arm of a rustic bench, with Reginald facing her at the 
 other, engaged in an apparently very earnest colloquy. Edwin 
 Vance and Mr. Wolverton a little in advance were strolling 
 along a shady path, the latter enjoying a cigar and neither 
 appearing very much interested witn each other. 
 
 Ada, on perceiving the approach of the two young ladies, 
 jumped up, and unceremoniously closed her conversation with 
 Reginald, by running forward to meet them. 
 
 *' Oh ! Ethel," she said. " I've been dying to see you for 
 
 the last half hour. I unfortunately told that tiresome Reggie 
 
 that I had some news and, when his curiosity was excited, I 
 
 remembered I had not got leave to tell it. He has been teaz- 
 
 ing my life out ever since to find out what it is, and I would 
 
:|i 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER, 
 
 not tell him. 1 suppose I may though, as he is your brother, 
 and does not know it yet. It was about your engagement. 
 " Oh ! Ethel, I was so glad to hear it, and I know you'll be 
 happy, he is such a nice fellow, so quiet and gendemanly, and 
 not like that hateful Mr. Wolverton, who stared at me so 
 rudely when he passed just now, although he is Emily's lover, 
 and he knows I hate him." 
 
 *' But here's Mr. Vance coming," continued she, " Shall I 
 leave you alone with him, Ethel ?" 
 
 " Oh ! No. Vou need not, Ada," replied Ethel laughing. 
 
 " One does not want one's lover all the time, even though 
 we are engaged. You can tell Reggie, if you like, though he 
 will tease me awfully, 1 suppose. But you want some cro- 
 quet ; don't you ? Ada. It looks like it with that mallet in 
 your hand. Well ! we had better have a game. We have 
 but little else to amuse ourselves. Where is Emily off to ?" 
 
 " Oh ! she's off for a talk with her sweetheart ; I suppose," 
 answered Ada scornfully. " We don't want either of them. 
 There are four of us here. Come on ! Reggie. You'll play 
 Mr. Vance ; won't you ! Ethel's going to play ; you know ?" 
 
 " I suppose I must, Ada, for your sake. Though it is a 
 little early in the day for croquet is it not ?" said Edwin. 
 Come along then ! let us get to work at once." 
 
 Emily, when Ada had run up to meet them coming, had 
 moved on to where Reginald had been left sitting alone, and, 
 as he rose to allow her to seat herself, as he too willingly sup- 
 posed, she said, 
 
 " I cannot stay with you just now, Reggie, a.< I wish to 
 speak with Mr. Wolverton there. I won't be long though. 
 Did you find that out yetj of which we were speaking yester- 
 day ? You've forgetten it, I suppose, as usual." 
 
 " Well ! It is too bad ; I declare. But I have forgotten 
 it again. Look here ! Emily, I'll find it out from mother as 
 
 li 
 m 
 h 
 
 m 
 
 hi 
 F 
 tri 
 
 bI 
 
 V 
 
 IK 
 
'-■tmvmtsfwm 
 
 ARCADIAN LOVERS TRULY. 
 
 127 
 
 soon as we go back to the house, as you're so anxious to 
 know." 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself now, Reggie, for I have 
 found it out without your hel^:. It is true what I told you. 
 Your sister and Mr. Vance are engaged to be married. Your 
 mother told me this morning," answered Emily. 
 
 " Is that so," said Reginald drawlingly ; " Well ! they'll be 
 a quiet enough couple ; at any rate. They kept it pretty well 
 to themselves, though. But, I say, Emily, you know what I 
 told you yesterday when we were talking about it. One has 
 come off, and so will the other. Don't bt that W'olverton make 
 love to you ; or there will be a row in the camp." " I'll watch 
 you both," continued he as P^mily walked over to join !Mr, 
 Wolverton. 
 
 " Well ! Sidney, you look as if solitude would suit you this 
 morning. Your appearance is anything but bright and cheer- 
 ful. Have you found things on your arrival not altogether as 
 you could Vv'ish them, or what is the matter ?" said Emily as 
 she overtook him on his slow stroll alone. 
 
 Mr. Sidney Wolverton was not feeling too well on this 
 morning. The dissipation and late drive of the preceeding 
 night had had the effect as Miss Dearborn had said of leavmg 
 him anything but bright and cheerful. His head ached, and 
 that with the disagreeable thoughts and plans that occupied 
 him, gave him a more gloomy and saturnine air than usual. 
 For all that his brain was busily occupied. He had been 
 trying since he arose to discover if the hint given him by 
 Barney on their drive, concerning Ethel Mordaunt and Mr. 
 Vance was correct, or the mere gossip of a servant. 
 
 He had walked and talked with Edwin for an hour and by 
 hints, inuendoes and enquiries, had striven to obtam a glimpse 
 into the state of affairs ; but, having heard or discovered 
 nothing to confirm or disprove the matter, he had begun to 
 think that there was not anything between them, and a revival 
 
 M' 
 
 m 
 
 lU 
 
I 
 
 128 
 
 SHE MIGH'I' HAVE DONE BEITER. 
 
 J 
 
 of his idea of Ethel Mordaunt which he had been incHned to 
 give up as hopeless, had taken form aga'n in his plans. 
 
 He was not as pleased as he should have been when so 
 charming a young lady as Kmily Dearborn apj^eared beside 
 him, nor were the words with which she addressed him more 
 pleasing; either. He did not wish, under the circumstances, a 
 renewal of their intimacy, and he did wish, as his time was 
 brief, to be alone, to arrange the order of his campaign. 
 
 '* I am a little fatigued and out of sorts to-day, after my late 
 drive last night, and I fear you will not find me amusing Cv^m- 
 pany, Emily, for the present at any rate. \Vniere is Vance 
 and the rest of them ? Don't let me detain you, if you are in 
 search of them." 
 
 " Oh I that is it, is it ?" replied Emily laughing, and looking 
 amusedly up at him. " But you need not fear. My presence 
 with you can no more injure your cause than it can advance 
 it ; for it is a lost cause. You may as well continue your stroll 
 with me, for my dangerous companionship cannot compromise 
 you, and I have interesting news for you." 
 
 " I cannot even conjecture what you mean : my dear Emily. 
 by your ' lost cause,' and 1 doubt the interest of news current 
 in this dull place," replied Sidney, as carelessly as he conld, but 
 evidently pricking up his ears. 
 
 "Oh ! you are not so innocent as you would have it appear 
 as to my meaning, Mr. Sidney W^olverton ;" retorted Emily. 
 
 *' And I happen to know that you have been prying about and 
 striving all the morning for the bit of news that I am generous 
 enough to come and give to you to save you from ridicule." 
 
 " Pray be more explicit. 1 am quite at a loss to understand 
 your rather mysterious expressions. 1 am unaware that I was 
 going to render myself an object of ridicule, and feel anxious to 
 know how I was to do it," quietly replied Sydney, though pro- 
 bably he was feeling uneasy. 
 
 " Well I I will both explain the mystery, which, however, is 
 
 iSSSisf 
 
ARCADIAN LOVERS TRULY. 
 
 129 
 
 ined to 
 
 ,'hen so 
 
 beside 
 n more 
 inces, a 
 ime was 
 I. 
 
 my late 
 Ing ccm- 
 is Vance 
 n\ are in 
 
 d looking 
 
 presence 
 
 advance 
 
 ^our stroll 
 
 m promise 
 
 ar Emily. 
 ws current 
 conld, but 
 
 it appear 
 Emily, 
 about and 
 generous 
 
 icule." 
 .mderstand 
 that I was 
 anxious to 
 hough pro- 
 how* ver, i^ 
 
 no mystery to you, and relieve your very great curiosity by sim- 
 ply telling you, that which I came to tell you, Etliel Mordaunt is 
 engaged to be married to Edwin X'ance. Is it not a great pity, 
 Sidney, that you should have Iiad all the trouble and annoyance 
 of a visit to a dull i)lace, and the perfecting of a nice little scheme 
 to find that your main object is defeated, and that you will not 
 dei)art strengthened by an engagement or probable engagement 
 to an heiress. It is very mortifying, is it not ?" said the cool 
 Emily, stooping to gather a rosebud. 
 
 " You are certainly very agreeable this morning, my deap 
 Emily," replied Sidney. " Permit me to tell you that 1 half ex- 
 pected to hear of this engagement on my arrival." 
 
 *' Permit me to tell you, my dear Sidney, that you came here 
 to propose for Ethel Mordaunt, and Ethel Mordaunt's money. 
 That was your primary object, and this engagement is a great 
 disappointment to you, or at least to your pocket You may 
 as well admit it at once." 
 
 " It is my opinion, Phnily, that you do not like this engage- 
 ment any more than I do," returned he, " and that you are just 
 a little bit jealous about it. I admit all you require ; to please 
 you. So you can admit also." 
 
 '* Oh ! with pleasure. I frankly confess that I am as much 
 forestalled as you are. I fully intended to have married Edwin 
 Vance myself if I could. Not that I like the man. He is not 
 my style. But then he is wealthy. Had you been — as you 
 ought with your opportunities to have been — a wealthy man, I 
 should probably have married you, as you know. The best thing 
 that could have happened to you. I would have wasted a small 
 portion of your wealth on my personal adornment and in mak- 
 ing a show ; but 1 would certainly have prevented you from 
 wasting the greater portion in your absurd speculations and your 
 expensive vices. I would have made a man of you." 
 
 " I believe you would, Emily, I believe you would, and per- 
 haps a better man than I am now. But you are not such a very 
 
 :el: 
 
If: 
 
 % 
 
 r 
 
 If 
 
 130 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXK BETTER. 
 
 I' 1 
 
 unsophisticated creature yourself. It is not yet too late to try," 
 he said, looking interestedly at the pretty face near him. 
 
 " I don't know aDout that. Erom what I can understand I 
 fear you are pretty hard run. You have plenty of i)roperty, but 
 you are in debt, and need money })ressingly," she rei)lied, as 
 coolly as possible to his rather odd speech. 
 
 " I may as well tell you," she continued, " that having an idea 
 that your subsidiary object is an attack on Vance's purse to tide 
 over your difficulties, you may as well prepare yourself, if not for 
 defeat in that also, but for greater difficulty than you at present 
 imagine. I do not know what your plans may be, but I warn 
 you that you will have to be careful in the matter. You will 
 have to look for and assail him on a weak point — at a weak 
 moment — when he is not himself, if you desire success. I have 
 heard enough to know that he has been warned against you, in 
 so far as to have no money dealings with you, and I believe also 
 that he does not intend to have any such." 
 
 " I have no farther intentions with regard to him than to in- 
 duce him to join me m the Hopetown concern, and advance 
 some capital. If that were managed, I should be on my feet 
 again. To effect it was a principal part of my business here." 
 
 " ^^''ell then ! in my opinion you will not effect it. You can 
 but try though, and his refusal will ])ain him so much more than 
 it will you, that his heart will in all probability be more oi)en to 
 a subsequent attack in some other form. Make as little delay 
 as possible, as your visit will not be so pleasant to you as to 
 make you desire its prolongation. Keep good friends with Vance 
 at any rate. It is very necessary. You and I may as well be 
 friends also. We can help each other. And now I will leave 
 you to your meditations. Au revoir, Sidney." 
 
 " For the present, Emily. Yes ! we'll be friends at any rate, 
 and oh ! I wish that you and I Emily, were better than we are, 
 and a pair of innocent young lovers," he said, loc king tenderly 
 in the charming face and pressing her hand. 
 
■" "A^'^-^g*^ 
 
 THE FIRST niSAGREEMExNT. 
 
 131 
 
 " Not at present," she replied, laughing. '* It depends on 
 yourself though," and Emily walked away to rejoin the cro- 
 (|uetcrs. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE FIRST DISAllRKKMENT. 
 
 That a pair of lovers, in the first bright halcyon days of their 
 engagement ; very happy in each other's society ; very much in 
 love with one another ; very anxious to show their affection in 
 all possible demonstrativeness, and all unselfish and tender, 
 would be veiy likely to agree with each other in all entirety on 
 every possil)le subject that could be raised between them is 
 highly probable ; though differing in a marked degree from the 
 later and duller days. 
 
 The most tenaciously held opinions ; the most obstinately 
 hugged theories ; the best loved dogmas or panaceas for the 
 ills of the world ; all the pet monsters of the imagination and 
 the brain, which the owners regard with joyful and admiring 
 eyes as their products of all beauty and perfection, would pro- 
 bably at once give way at the first dicta of the loved one during 
 the flow of these golden hours, and it would augur badly for 
 them and their future happiness if, in the budding spring time of 
 their love, such tender agreement one with the other should not 
 exist. Yet it is possible for instances to occcur even during 
 those bright periods of human existence, in which the \mY "pies 
 of those to whom principle is all in all, to whom the rig^t, as 
 they conceive and feel it, is plain duty, might be involved ; that 
 cases might arise in which both parties, feeling themselves to be 
 in their views the same as being right, might conscientiously 
 difter on some such question, and it could not properly be main- 
 tained that either could give way in such event. 
 
 Tliftt such an unfortunate question should not arise would be 
 
 I 
 
 ■.f' 
 
: 
 
 !(|H 
 
 132 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 their best fortune, for the dim little cloud that such a difference 
 would show on their clear and spotless horizon, minute, trifling 
 and unimportant as it might appear, remains there, a hurricane 
 spot, to swell and augment, until its overcasting masses over- 
 •s'lad^w the darkened sky of their lives. 
 
 For such instances to occur is possible enough, but in gene- 
 ral the blissful opening days of an engagement are too entirely 
 devoted to tender rhapsodies, sweet inconsequential nothings of 
 imbecile yet rapturous converse and delightful egotisms and 
 truisms, for any really serious question to arise where discussion 
 might create difference. And very happy it is that the rhapso- 
 dical nonsense which permeate the brains of declared lovers 
 from the moment of declaration precludes the danger of such. 
 Tremendously important in their own eyes are their ecstatic im- 
 becilities, while absurdly ridiculous in the eyes of every one 
 else. An original idea, profound reflection or thoughtful re- 
 mark from people during the first week of their engagement are 
 remarkably scarce articles. It is all sugar-and-water, custard, 
 cream and candy and such like sweetmeats. 
 
 I^Mwin Vance and Ethel Mordaunt were very ha])py in those 
 new, bright days of their love. The delicious little tdes-a-tete 
 that opportunity gave them, if not so numerous as they could 
 wish, were all the more delightful when they did occur, and 
 when they did not, they were haj^py in being near to each other, 
 in speaking to each other, in looking at each other, and in lov- 
 ing each other. 
 
 They '.vcre very much in love with each other, and many and 
 ingenious were Edwin's little schemes to get his V.thel to himself 
 for a few delighltul moments. 
 
 It was with dismay he looked forward to the new week ap. 
 proaching, which for a time would separate them, as he was 
 obliged for a few days to return to Toronto, and here was Thurs- 
 day of the old week. Ethel herself was not at all averse to 
 enjoying the pleasure of her lover's society, and she had, with 
 
 ■:-y*i?-.-lwf-si-'ki^t;'-A?,\f<..--':, 
 
gr^g^gtaasEsa 
 
 THE FIRST DISAGREEMENT. 
 
 133 
 
 rence 
 rifling 
 :icane 
 over- 
 
 gene- 
 ntirely 
 ings of 
 ns and 
 3USsion 
 rhapso- 
 [ lovers 
 3f such, 
 tatic im- 
 ,ery one 
 ;htful re- 
 iinent are 
 
 custard, 
 
 in those 
 lics-a-iete 
 ey could 
 :cur, and 
 Lch other, 
 Id in lov- 
 
 hiany and 
 Ito himself 
 
 week ap. 
 lis he was 
 
 as Thurs- 
 a verse to 
 had, with 
 
 great meekness, obeyed his request, during the afternoon, tc put 
 on her hat and go for a walk with him, the more willingly since, 
 in addition to the delights of lover's converse, she had something 
 to tell him. 
 
 She had not forgotten the morning's conversation with Emily 
 Dearborn in reference to Mr. Wolverton, or Ada's single but 
 confirmatory remark, and had gone to her never failing source of 
 comfort and counsel, her mother, to repeat what had passed. 
 To her surprise she received both confirmation and warning 
 from that quarter, and in addition her uncle, who had entered 
 the room during their conference and had been taken into their 
 confidence, not only strongly agreed in Mrs. Mordaunt's views, 
 but related to her what he knew of Mr. Wolverton's character 
 and plans with all that had passed between them and between 
 Edwin Vance and himself. Sidney was therefore at a great dis- 
 count in her estimation. She had made up her inkid, at the 
 first opportunity, to warn her aftianced, without, however, going 
 into particulars, that his friend was not the friend that he ought 
 to be, or was looked upon to be. 
 
 Therefore, after the usual quantum of sugared and honied 
 raptures of a lover's tete-a-tete had passed with distinguished bril- 
 liance and interest to themselves, but probably to no other liv- 
 ing creature, she broached the subject to Edwin, hesitatingly and 
 timidly, as she knew that with him friendship was a reality, not 
 a name, and that it would be a difficult thing to convince him of 
 his friend's unworthiness. 
 
 " Edwin I there is a subject on which I wish to speak to you, 
 on which I feel that I ought to speak, yet do not know that I 
 have the right to do. But I think that you ought to know that 
 which I wish to tell you, and trust you will not feel it as an in- 
 terference on my part." 
 
 " My darling Ethel," he replied, " if you have not the right to 
 speak to me on any subject you choose, I would like to know 
 who could have. As if it would be an interference ? You need 
 
 10 
 
134 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 r ''' 
 rr 
 
 I 
 
 not have said that to me. I am only too happy to hear every 
 word that falls from your dear lips. You need not have said 
 that, Ethel ! 
 
 *' I do not know about that, Edwin. Perhaps you may think 
 diflferently when you have heard what I have to say," answered 
 Ethel, looking lovingly at him for his words. " It is he whom 
 you consider your friend, Mr.Wolverton, of whom I would speak." 
 
 " Of Sidney ! Why ! what in the world has he done to you, 
 Ethel ?" he replied, laughing. 
 
 " It is what I have been told by others — Emily and Ada Dear- 
 bom, my mother and my uncle, that I wish to tell you. If you 
 do not know what is said of your friend, it is only right that you 
 should be informed, while you can judge for yourself as to its 
 probability," answered Ethel. 
 
 Now that she had commenced her subject, Ethel began to 
 find it more difficult than she had anticipated. The accumula- 
 ted charges which had seemed so heinous to her as they were 
 freshly brought against him, now that they had to be formulated 
 and marshalled before his friend, seemed to vanish into airy 
 nothingness, unsupported by proof, and Ethel almost wished she 
 had left the matter alone. 
 
 *' Your uncle," said Edwin, " two days ago spoke to me about 
 Wolverton's visit here ; warning me in a general way to have no 
 business transactions with him, and telling me that in his opinion 
 he was not straightforward. This may be so, though Mr. Horton's 
 proof was not of the strongest kind, and I told him then that I 
 had no intention of engaging in any of Sidney's speculations. 
 If then what you have to tell me is of the same kind, Ethel, you 
 see I know it already." 
 
 " I v/ill simply tell you what I can of that which for the first 
 time I heard to-day concerning Mr. Wolverton. This morning 
 Emily Dearborn told me something of him and of the object of 
 his visit here, which I could not believe and which seemed very 
 improbable, but its truth was so earnestly asseverated by her, that 
 
 tl| 
 
 All 
 
 £1 
 
 ! I 
 
 ■«|S5^ 
 
 B OUKii;-..-.',.. 
 
THE FIRST DISAGREEMENT. 
 
 ^35 
 
 , about 
 
 ive no 
 )inion 
 )rton's 
 
 [that I 
 
 titions. 
 
 lei, you 
 
 \e first 
 iorning 
 Inject of 
 Id very 
 ler, that 
 
 I thought it better to relate the matter to my mother. To my 
 surprise, the probabiHty of the story was conl rmed by her, with 
 some other particulars, no more to Mr. Wolverton's credit than 
 the other. These had only come to her ears from another source, 
 trustworthy sufficiently, my mother considered, though perhaps 
 liable to mistake. I was advised for that reason to think no 
 more of the matter, but my mother added that she did not con- 
 sider Mr. Wolverton was a person fit to be your friend. My 
 uncle came in and was told what had occurred, and he told us 
 that he had not a good opinion of Mr. Wolverton's character, 
 and that it was but too likely that all was true which was averred 
 against him. 
 
 " It made me feel so alarmed for you, that you were on such 
 friendly terms with one who was unworthy, that it has prompted 
 me to speak to you. I know I ought not to have done so as I 
 can give you no proofs. All I can say is, that under no circum- 
 stances could I ever look upon Mr. Wolverton as a friend, and 
 I ask you, dear Edwin, not to place too much reliance on him 
 in any way." 
 
 " To tell the truth, Ethel, when I heard that Sidney was com- 
 ing to Lake Mordaunt, I was not too well pleased, for the good 
 reason, I must honestly confess, that he might be as much in 
 love with my Ethel as I am, and he is a handsome fellow. I did 
 Mot then know that I was to be as happy as I am to-day, assur- 
 ed of her dear love. I certainly am not afraid of him now. In 
 fact, I can afford to feel very good-natured towards him. Sidney 
 has his peccadilloes, I suppose, though I have never seen any- 
 thing wrong in him, and I have known him now for years. Don't 
 you think, Ethel, that you are all a little hard on him ?" replied 
 Edwin, with a smile, and a pressure on her hand. 
 
 " Certainly not my mother or Mr. Horton. I never knew 
 them to be unjust, whatever I may be myself or you deem m«, 
 and I do not think you should have said so, Edwin," answered 
 Ethel quickly, and with warmth. " Emily, I admit, showed a 
 
 ..,*iS^i^^t'■W;'iftiv^■■■?^i'i^':vSa...*-'i^»i.■^*'r.■^Ll 
 
 i'.?ft:'=A,:-.'irriaft:.:'. 
 
^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■ 
 
 fi« 
 
 i 
 
 
 136 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 little rancour in speaking of him, but he has been, oris, her lover, 
 afid he has not, it appears, been a very true one to her. But, 
 however, I see that the subject is not a very pleasing one to you, 
 and I will say no more, especially as Mr. Wolverton is at present 
 a guest in my father's house. It was for your sake alone that I 
 spoke at all, and I am now sorry that I did so." 
 
 " My darling Ethel I" repHed Edwin, anxiously, " I hope that 
 I have not offended you by anything that I have said. Such 
 was very far from my intention. Forgive me, if I have done so. 
 Sidney Wolverton is a friend, nothing more, and I shall most 
 certainly regard with all attention that which you have told me. 
 Tell me, Ethel, that you are not offended." 
 
 " Oh ! not at all ! only I can see that you do not like the sub- 
 ject," said Ethel. 
 
 But she did not like the way in which he had received her 
 warning, so kindly meant, and a first slight coolness, almost im- 
 perceptible, yet still existing, the first little difference of opinion 
 had arisen between them. 
 
 Their walk home was not so pleasant as it had been, though 
 both strove to throw off the incubus, and it was some hours be- 
 fore they were the same Ethel and Edwin they had been to each 
 other. 
 
 The conversation, short as it was, while it had the effect of 
 grieving Ethel, her lover not having taken it in the good i)art 
 she thought that, under the circumstances, he ought to have 
 done — had equally grieved him, and he thought over it with a 
 touch of bitterness towards Sidney that he had contrived to bring 
 down on himself so much dislike. He scanned over such details 
 of his friend's life with which he was acquainted, to discover if 
 from thence any grounds could be deduced to justify the verdict 
 of so many at Lake Mordaunt against him. Not, however, be- 
 ing of a susi)icious nature, and Wolverton having been quite 
 able to present only those points of character to his friend's view 
 which he thought would be acceptable, the process was not very 
 
THE FIRST DISAGREExMENT. 
 
 ^37 
 
 It, 
 >u, 
 ;nt 
 t I 
 
 :hat 
 lUcH 
 I so. 
 most 
 . me. 
 
 : sub- 
 
 d Vier 
 )st im- 
 Dinion 
 
 lOUgh 
 irs be- 
 o each 
 
 [ect of 
 _)d part 
 have 
 with a 
 ,0 bring 
 details 
 over if 
 verdict 
 ver, be- 
 ll quite 
 Id's vie%r 
 Lot very 
 
 successful, and he could bring very little to remembrance of dis- 
 credit against him. Yet it was strange, he considered, that people 
 
 like Mr. Horton, Mrs. Mordaunt and Ethel should, in so short 
 a time, have found so much, and so very evidently regarded his 
 friend with dislike. 
 
 The result of the conversation was that Edwin did not feel so 
 well disposed towards his friend, and though, without condemn- 
 ing him, he resolved to watch for himself, his conduct, and learn 
 the source of so much, to him, inexplicable ill-will. 
 
 He noticed during the day that Emily Dearborn and Sidney 
 seemed very friendly — in fact, rather lover-like towards each 
 other — and this was to him the more unaccountable since his 
 Ethel had told him that Sidney had not been '• true lover " to 
 her, and he also noticed that Ada either took no notice of him 
 or was markedly cold; that Reginald did not either look upon 
 him with favourable eyes ; that Mrs. Mordaunt, though polite, 
 was not gracious towards him ; while Mr. Horton talked and 
 laughed with him in all ease and absence of restraint. He, how- 
 ever, found hunself much more pleasantly occupied in devoting 
 himself to his fair Ethel, and in endeavouring with a lover's as- 
 siduity to remove the unpleasuig impression of their afternoon's 
 conversation. But the day had not been a pleasant day for 
 'Ethel, and though she was ha})py enough, while Edwin strove 
 so hard to be agreeable to her, yet the little clouds could not at 
 once be entirely removed from her sky. A certain restraint was 
 visible over all the party, with the exception of Mr. Mordaunt 
 and^Mr. Horton, the former of whom, knowing nothing of the 
 by-play, was quite at ease, and the latter, had there been a great 
 deal more of it going forward, would not have lost his. 
 
 Edwin was, however, the happiest of the party, for he found 
 the society of his Ethel, despite all little " disagreements," so very 
 delightful, that when during the evening, Sidney came up to 
 him and asked him if " he would not like a walk and a cigar, as 
 he had something to say to him," he assented with visible reluc- 
 
 I 
 
 > 1 
 
138 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 tance, and rose to follow his friend out with a look that very 
 plainly expressed that he would rather have remained by Ethel's 
 side. Sidney had not been opportune in his choice of a mo- 
 ment for his communication, if he expected that any success to 
 attend it lay in the present good nature of his friend, Edwin 
 Vance. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ASKING FOR WHAT HK MFAXT TO TAKE. 
 
 " Well ! what can I do for you, Sidney?" said Edwin, as they 
 
 left the house and sauntered down the leafy-arched avenue of 
 the carriage-way together. 
 
 The soft evening breezes murmured through the foliage above 
 them with quiet and sluml)erous rustling. The golden wealth of 
 stars of the blue Canadian skies shone down on them with peace- 
 ful stillwess through the branchy openings of the trees. Long 
 gleams of silver moonlight pierced through the leaves and lay 
 like waving ribands on the soft svrard. The cool air of the 
 darkening evening, laden with the perfume of flower and of field, 
 moved with freshening touch around them, and brushed past 
 their faces like the cool hand of woman over the fever-heated 
 brow of the invalid. 
 
 The low chirp of some bird, awakened in its umbrageous rest- 
 ing place by their tread on the gravel, harmonized with the 
 sleepy rustle of the leaves, and these, the sole sounds of the night, 
 spoke of a world gone to rest. Nature in its night beauty — 
 wrapped in the soft silvery mantle of die moonlight ; watched 
 by the silent stars ; resting in the shadowy sleep — lay spread out 
 before them in calm and quiet peace, inviting man, with influ- 
 ence sweet and all delighting, to cast aside the cares and pas- 
 sions of the day, with the glare and the turmoil, and take to their 
 hearts and soften their thoughts with the still loveliness, the 
 
ASKING FOR WHAT HE MEANT TO TAKE. 139 
 
 el's 
 no- 
 5 to 
 win 
 
 they 
 le of 
 
 above 
 ilthof 
 )eace- 
 T-ong 
 d lay 
 )f the 
 field, 
 past 
 seated 
 
 Is rest- 
 Ih the 
 ght, 
 [nty — 
 itched 
 lad out 
 influ- 
 pas- 
 their 
 ;. the 
 
 m 
 
 beautiful quietude and majestic silence of the velvet-robed 
 Night. 
 
 But to these two men the lesson so conveyed was read, if read 
 by both, with very different view. 
 
 To the one, his thouglits full of the sweet object of his love, 
 whose side he had so unwillingly quitted, the romance and the 
 beauty before him seemed the fitting scene, the delighting mo- 
 ment for the whispering of a love tale, the tender out-pour- 
 ing of sweet phrases into the willing ear that would find them 
 sweet, and he thought — longingly thought — how much more to 
 him would the romance and the beauty be, were it her step that 
 sounded beside him and for her that the charming softness of the 
 night inspired him. The step that did sound beside him might be 
 that of a friend, it is true, yet, nevertheless, he heartily wished 
 the absence of his friend, and his replacement by the dearer 
 presence of his Ethel, so much more agreeable to romance, silver 
 moonlight and soft evening shades. The discordance of the 
 male presence, redolent of cigar smoke and the world, amid the 
 perfumed air, and in that witching hour, fretted him. It was 
 sulkily enough that he accepted the situation and walked on 
 with his friend. 
 
 To the other it was the fittest opportunity for the opening to 
 his plans, for rehearsing a story that was necessary for him should 
 be told, the telling of which was not too pleasant for him, and 
 which was easier for him to tell beneath the favouring shadows 
 of night, than in the open light of the day. 
 
 " Well ! what can I do for you, Sidney ?" Edwin had said. 
 Now, though this seemed, on its face, to be the opening, the 
 very proffer of service to Sidney, which he wished to obtain and 
 very ardently desired, yet he did not appear with any eagerness 
 to seize on the opportunity thus presented to him. He paused, 
 hesitated — the hurried puffing of his cigar and the nervous 
 clenching of his hands showing that he was in a state of incer- 
 titude and jDerhaps of mental excitement at the prospect of the 
 
 1 
 
 l-i 
 
140 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 task before him ; which, from a previous experience, he could 
 but anticipate would be an unpleasing one. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton had contrived to get his affairs into such a 
 state that only the immediate aid of a very considerable sum of 
 money could extricate him from the embarrassment and prevent 
 him from going to the wall. The need was urgent, immediate, 
 and had to be met at once. Within a week he must have com- 
 mand of the money, or he might leave the country. Xay I would 
 have to do so, for some transactions would then come to light, 
 unless covered up by settlement, that would carry disgrace with 
 them, at the least. 
 
 Could he have gone back from Lake Mordaunt the accepted 
 suitor of an heiress, he would have staved off the evil day, and 
 all would have gone on well again, but that was now out of the 
 question altogether, while all other resources for aid were so far 
 dried up that he had to look to Edwin \'ance for extrication, 
 and to him alone. Nothing else was left him. Yet he paused, 
 and hesitated, even when the ice had been broken, and the, to 
 him, momentous [[conversation, had been commenced. The 
 sentiment of self-respect inherent, in some measure at least in 
 every man, held a deterrent effect against the renewal of a sub- 
 ject that had once before been discussed between them, and had 
 been closed with an unfavourable result to him. Perhaps there 
 lingered in his breast some little spark of conscientiousness, 
 some little ember, still warm amid the dust and ashes which a wast- 
 ed life had left of the generous fire of good intent and of right, 
 which, in common with most men, had been nurtured in his 
 heart during his better, earlier days, whose momentary sparkle 
 told him that it was not right to lead him, whom he called his 
 friend, into a risk which might as easily result in the sacrifice 
 of that friend's fortune as it had done with his own. It may 
 have been so. Perhaps within the seething depths of his mind 
 lay the thought that it were better, manlier and nobler for him 
 to suffer his shipwreck alone, to buffet manfully against the waves 
 
ITiXT. .'.V i.^lZXJC:^ 
 
 ASKING FOR WHAT HE MEANT TO TAKE. 141 
 
 which threaiened to overwhehn him, and if lie should rise over 
 them, to begin his life anew, a better man, purified by trial and 
 better prepared to bend his energies on the right road of ex- 
 istence. 
 
 His thoughts during the three or four moments of his hesita- 
 tion ranged backwards over the whole varied range of the years 
 he had passed with regretful glance at their misspent hours, 
 and the impulse was strong within him to draw back from that 
 on which he had resolved, and face his misfortunes boldly, in- 
 stead of seeking to draw another into the vortex. But, when 
 suddenly the remembrance of the coming week, with its dangers, 
 flashed back on his mind, his good resolves fled before the 
 prospect and his hesitation vanished. No longer was he dubi- 
 ous, uncertain or unreserved. He was himself again. The 
 bold, coolly-resolved, skillful of address, and calculating Sidney 
 Wolverton. 
 
 '* As I wrote you Vance, the business on wh!ch I came to this 
 place was principally to see you on a matter of importance to 
 myself. As it refers to a subject concerning which we ha\e al- 
 ready held some conversation, and on which I wish you to recon- 
 sider your then expressed detemiination ; may I ask you to 
 listen patiently to what I have to say,'' answered he, to the re- 
 mark that heads the present chapter. 
 
 " All right, Sidney ! go ahead with your story. Though if it 
 concerns the Hopetown business, I may as well tell you now 
 that my position and my ideas of the matter are the same as 
 when we spoke of the matter before, and I fear it will be use- 
 less to discuss that affair," replied Edwin, his irritation giving 
 way under the apparently frank manner of his friend, and his 
 usual good natnre struggling for its ascendancy. 
 
 " Well ! I will tell my story in as few words as possible, and 
 leave the affair to your judgment," said Sidney, who was bright 
 enough to perceive the improvement in his friend's manner, and 
 ready enough to take advantage of it. " You may remember. 
 
f 
 
 142 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 wlien I asked you to join me in a partnership, advancing some 
 capital, it was for the purpose of extending the works and in- 
 creasing the business of the Hopetown factories. These exten- 
 sions I have since myself completed and with satisfactory results, 
 except that my available capital is all absorbed, and I find it 
 still necessary to take another into the business who can provide 
 the means requisite to its proper conduct. In addition, I have 
 made, wisely or unwisely, as the event may prove, the purchase 
 of a large and valuable tract of land in the same county, and no 
 great distance from Hopetown. On the purchase money of this 
 l)roperty I have paid a considerable part — nearly one-half; but 
 the balance is falling due, and, unaided, I cannot meet it. Under 
 this contingency I should not only have to bear the heavy loss 
 of the money paid up on it — neglect to meet the balance, by the 
 terms of purchase, carrying forfeiture — but would suffer a heavy 
 blow to my credit, which the great expense of the additions to 
 the Hopetown works has already somewhat strained. 
 
 " Now, I will give you one-half interest in the whole property, 
 mills, lands, stock on hand and all, if you will put forty thousand 
 •dollars into the business. Its value may be very fairly estimated 
 at five times the amount, so that really by assisting a friend out 
 of a difiiculty, you will do so much to your own advantage. The 
 sum I have named will clear off every liability to the last dollar, 
 and leave a suflicient amount available as working capital. The 
 lands have so increased in value since my purchase of them that 
 that part of the property will more than doubly recoup you the 
 money you are asked to put into the affair. It is the increase 
 that is taking place in the value that makes the former owner so 
 merciless as to payment of the balance due him. * Pay on the 
 day, or you forfeit,' is his ultimatum. They can be rendered 
 immediately productive on the rest of the purchase money being 
 paid. We can sell a part, sell the cut of timber, or make the 
 timber ourselves, and in either case large profits will result. 
 The factories at Hopetown are also in a prosperous condition. 
 
ASKING FOR WHAT HE MEANT TO TAKE. 143 
 
 and would be more so, were I not so hampered for want of 
 capital, as you can easily imagine. It would be useless for me 
 to enter into details in this conversation, but if you entertain the 
 idea of accepting my offer, I will prove to you the truth of my 
 asseverations. The offer I make you is a most liberal one, such 
 as I would only offer to a friend, and will, if you accept it, in a 
 few years, treble your fortune. At the same time, by assisting 
 me, make mine also." 
 
 " That may be all very true, Sidney," replied Edwin. " But 
 the fact remains that I do not possess in ready money the amount 
 you name, or anything like it. My property, as you know, 
 wholly consists of real estate in the City of Toronto, and there 
 are many reasons — cogent reasons — to prevent me from dispos- 
 ing of even a part of it, were I inclined to do so. From the 
 offer you have made me, and the facts you state as to your pro- 
 perty, I should imagine you would have no difficulty in finding 
 some person able and willing to join you, who could assist you 
 in the business, which I cannot do." 
 
 " Yes I doubtless there are people who would be ready enough 
 to go in, but so far as I have made enquiry, they are not such 
 as I would care to associate with me. Rather I would prefer to 
 meet my losses. Besides, I must have command of the money 
 to complete the purchase of the lands next M'eek, or the cer- 
 tainty of it, and what time is left to me to look out for a suitable 
 l)erson to join me in a partnership ? 
 
 " If you win not do it, Vance, I will have to leave affairs to 
 take their course. Neither would there be the immediate neces- 
 sity for the disposal of any of your city property. Your name 
 alone would command the money. Come ! make up your mind 
 to that which will be so much to the advantage of both. I en- 
 gage to convince you of the truth of my statements as to the 
 condition of the Hopetown property, before I ask your name on 
 paper. It is a good thing that I offer you. An opportunity not 
 occurring every day of the year. An opportunity of enii'^.hing 
 
 III II 
 
 t;£S#:«$iyiSC9tt»«WHa«UR»KMx^.u^^M. 
 
144 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER, 
 
 yourself in a legitimate business, without interference with your 
 profession, and at the same time materially assisting me in a 
 strait." 
 
 Sidney Wolverton had not laid his position before his friend 
 in the^'""' that he would have laid it before a man of business. 
 In tha; >e he would have found it an eminently useless i)ro- 
 ceeding to appeal to the feelings which he rightly supposed could 
 be engaged when addressing a friend on the subject. Under 
 the stern examination of figures and of facts, which would have 
 been required of him, he could not have stated his case in such 
 a rose-tinted aspect as he did to Edwin, and so far removed from 
 the real condition of things. His knowledge of the world and 
 of his friend had served him in good stead, for Edwin was evi- 
 dently wavering in his decision, and he paused in thought before 
 referring to his friend's remarks. 
 
 " I V Mid do a great deal to serve you, Sidney, as you well 
 know commenced. " To assist you in your difficulty, though 
 entering on a pursuit of which 1 am wholly ignorant is very re- 
 pugnant to me, and the hope of gain you picture would not be 
 my object, yet if " 
 
 Suddenly the conversation u])on this very subject which he 
 had held with Mr. Horton, and, that very day with Ethel, flash- 
 ed upon him, with the remembrance of the promise made to the 
 former, and he stopped barely in time to save himself from coiii- 
 mittal to Sidney's views. 
 
 " However much, for your sake, I might wish to help you in 
 this affair, Sidney, I unfortunately cannot enter into the arrange- 
 ment proposed, for I am under a promise not to undertake any 
 speculations whatever for the present. There are, however, a few 
 days left to you, and I will think over the matter before you leave. 
 What little ready money I have at command, which, however, 
 does not exceed a couple of thousands, is at your service, if it 
 will help you. I am sorry that I cannot do more at this pre- 
 sent, and meanwhile I will endeavour to find some way of extri- 
 
ASKING FOR WHAT HE MEANT TO TAKE. 145 
 
 ith your 
 ne in a 
 
 s friend 
 )usiness. 
 ess pro- 
 ed could 
 Under 
 lid have 
 in such 
 i-ed from 
 )rld and 
 was evi- 
 ht before 
 
 you well 
 
 y, though 
 
 very re- 
 
 not be 
 
 hich he 
 lel, flash- 
 de to the 
 oni com- 
 
 ) you in 
 
 arrange- 
 
 Uike any 
 
 •er, a few 
 
 ou leave. 
 
 lowever, 
 
 ice, if it 
 
 his pre- 
 
 nf extri- 
 
 cation foi" you. Let me know the name of the creditor from 
 whom you purchased these lands, and I can probably get you 
 time, at any rate, in which to get your affairs into a better 
 state." 
 
 To do this latter would not, however, by any means have 
 suited Mr. Wolverton, for the ver) good reason that the lands 
 had already been paid for in paj)er that would not bear scrutiny 
 or the light of day, and which if not met when due, would con- 
 sign him to flight, or to durance if he remained. He therefore 
 replied coldly and haughtily, wishing the other to feel as if he 
 had committed an injury against him. 
 
 " Thank you I no I Vance ; since you will not do that which 
 is easy enough to you, and would be salvation to me, I must 
 take my chance alone. You are right enough, I suppose, to 
 keep your j)romise sacred. As to the two thousand dollars you 
 so kindly offer me, I cannot take it, as it would no. oe of service 
 in clearing me and would probably be lost. Perhaps you are 
 right in keeping yourself clear from connection with such an 
 unlucky dog as I seem to be." 
 
 Then, walking on rapidly a few steps, he turned and con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 " Forgive me, Vance, for any hasty expression I have used. 
 I feel vexed and disappointed, and almost at my wit's end. We 
 will say nothing further of this. Let us go back to them in the 
 drawing-room.'' 
 
 " I am always your friend, Sidney ^\''olverton, and would help 
 you if T could. Yes I do anything to help you," said Edwin, 
 feeling as if he had in reality outraged his friendship and acted 
 as a traitor to his friend. His generous, confiding and unsus- 
 picious nature had been moved thoroughly towards him who had 
 asked his friendly aid, and whom he had refused. 
 
 Sidney felt almost with triumph that, if he had not gained his 
 point, he had at any rate achieved a victory, and as they walked 
 
^tr-j^f^icy •■'VT-'-7,'?»>/F^fegfcfi;f 
 
 ! W'.i 
 
 I ii 
 
 f 
 
 !■ 
 
 146 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 back together, his brain was busy with new schemes by whose 
 aid he trusted to reap its fruits. 
 
 Nothing further passed between them, and they re-entered 
 the drawing-room where they left the party, Edwin flying back 
 to the side of his Ethel. 
 
 In her sweet society to seek renewed solace to the feelings so 
 perturbed in his interview with his friend, and Sidney joined in 
 the genera! conversation around him as unmoved, and apparent- 
 ly as joyous, as if all his prospects lay before him bright and 
 unclouded as a summer mom. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE WAY TO DO IT. 
 
 " What a pretty dress you are wearing this morning, Ethel, 
 both in style and pattern. May I enquire of what material it is 
 composed," said her uncle," as the next morning after their early 
 breakfast the ladies and gentlemen staying at Lake Mordaunt 
 had gathered on the wide verandah for what remained of the 
 freshness of the morning air before the July sun ran the ther- 
 memeter up into the nineties. 
 
 " My dress ! Why whatever have you got to do with ladies' 
 dresses, uncle ? Are you going into millinery, or is it the insa- 
 tiable curiosity of a Yankee which prompts your question?" re- 
 plied Ethel, looking down at the gn.:ment referred to. 
 
 " Yes ! and like an Irishman you reply to one question by 
 asking another. I said your dress was pretty, and asked of 
 what it was made." 
 
 " So you find it pretty, uncle. Well ! it possesses another 
 virtue — that of cheapness. It is only a French pi 'nt. But wlmt- 
 erer do you want to know about it for ?" answered his niece. 
 
 " Curiosity, Ethel. So it's a print, is it ? But you need not 
 not have told me it was French. I fully supposed that, like 
 
THE WAY TO DO IT. 
 
 147 
 
 everything else you Canadians use, it was of foreign manufac- 
 ture. You are not so smart as we Yankees nor have you sense 
 enough to employ your own people, and keep your money in 
 the country by producing your own requirements, but must re- 
 main tributary to and build up the wealth and power of foreign 
 nations, by employing their laborers to do it for you. I doubt 
 the cheapness of your dress also, Ethel. Did you ever reflect 
 how much freight, commission, insurance — how many profits, 
 etc., you paid out of the wheat, butter or other raw produce 
 which you sent to France to pay for that dress — to say nothing^ 
 ot the same charges, with duties added, you paid also for sending 
 the dress out to you. Come now, think of that !" 
 
 " Such nonsense, uncle ! Why I paid for that dress in cash. 
 Do you suppose I go to the stores trucking wheat and butter for 
 my dresses ?" replied Ethel, laughing. 
 
 " Your answer shows that political economy is not your forte, 
 at any rate, Ethel. Why, you would do for a Finance Minis- 
 ter ! It's of no use talking with you on the subject longer. I'll 
 tackle your father and Vance and Wolverton there, and see if I 
 cannot hammer a little of the science into their benighted Cana- 
 dian understandings," returned her uncle. 
 
 " And a good riddance of you with your prosy talk, uncle. 
 I wish the gentlemen joy of their bargain," she answered. 
 
 " So you want an argument, Mr. Horton, this morning. )Vell ! 
 we are resigned to our fate, and ready for the onslaught. But 
 if protection is the branch you are going to inflict upon us, I 
 range myself on your side at once by admitting its absolute ne- 
 cessity to build up the industries of a n«w country like this of 
 ours," said Vance, who had listened to the conversation with 
 Ethel. 
 
 " I should think there was an absolute necessity for it in this 
 country," exclaimed Mr. Horton, who had mounted a favourite 
 liobby. " Could a more suicidal policy be devised than that now 
 adopted by your wise rulers, and I suppose acquiesced in by 
 
^'^»^t»»«»iasa«i6Wiw-i 
 
 ■Tr^*tffiTfrfTf"i- 
 
 HHj 
 
 
 
 4 i 
 
 
 ii 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 ; f 
 
 '■J 
 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 your people, who, however, j^robably know no better ; a policy 
 which drives thousands of the bone and sinew of the land to the 
 States and other countries in search of the work they cannot find 
 at home, while you are paying thousands of labourers in foreign 
 countries to manufacture the goods you use every day of your 
 lives, which you might manufacture as well and as cheaply in 
 your own country, theieby keeping your population in the land 
 of its birth. You complain of its exodus, and talk insanely of 
 Reciprocity as a remedy. A powerful remedy, forsooth ! And 
 do you suppose the Yankees are so blind to their own interests 
 as to give it you ? No I you are just in the position they like 
 best to have you. You are compelled to take the goods they 
 want to sell you, because you do not manufacture them for your- 
 selves, and they don't want and will not have your raw pro- 
 duce to enter into competition with their own producers. 
 
 " From his cradle to his grave, the Canadian is the tribute- 
 paying slave to foreign manufacturers. Arriving on this sub- 
 lunary sphere, the screaming little stranger is swathed in English 
 flannel to begin with. Departing from it, after a long life of con- 
 sumption of foreign goods, the silver-headed nails that stud his 
 very coflin are English too. He eats his. dinner off English 
 plates, with English knives, forks and spoons. He drinks his 
 tea out of English cups and saucers. He looks out of the win- 
 dow through English glass. If he wishes to nail up a board — 
 one of his few native manufactures — does he use Canadian nails ? 
 Not he I they are made of English iron, driven with an English 
 hammer, and the holes bored witli an English gimlet. And yet 
 Canada contains mountains of the best iron in the world. The 
 vast amounts of hardware and the manufactures of metals he 
 uses are wholly English and American, while his country teems 
 with mineral wealth. He goes to church in a suit of English 
 cloths, and his wife and daughters in French silks or English 
 dress goods. With the exception of a little grey cotton and a 
 few tweeds, every yard of the vast quantity of cloths of all de- 
 
cs his 
 e win- 
 )ard — 
 nails ? 
 nglish 
 nd yet 
 I'he 
 als he 
 teems 
 
 Inglish 
 nglish 
 and a 
 ill de- 
 
 THE WAY TO DO IT. 
 
 149 
 
 scriptions used in Canada are imported. Imported into a coun- 
 try whose natural manufacturing facilities are unrivalled, which, 
 had it but a pronounced and stable policy of encouragement to 
 its home industries to inspire the confidence of capitalists, would 
 become an exporter of most of the articles of which it is at 
 present an importer, and would at all events produce all of its 
 requirements that are possible to its situation and climate. A 
 state of things wliich is the true desideratum of a nation's life 
 and progress — tlie true savings bank and increaser of its wealth 
 and consolidator of its power. The markets of a country thrown 
 open and exposed as yours naturally are to the assaults of all 
 the world, lie at the mercy of every change or passing event and 
 are never stable, equable or sound. 
 
 " A purely agricultural country sucli as Canada at the pre- 
 sent time is, and seems to aim at remaining, never becomes rich 
 or powerful. It is of necessity poor, thinly settled and non- 
 progressive. Poor in material v/ealth and equally poor in in- 
 tellectual and scientific advancement. Manufactures, mines, 
 the thousand industries by which a nation produces, ready for 
 use, every possible article of its consumption — in short, by which 
 it does all its own work — conserve that nation's wealth, retaining 
 it within itself, employs its population, no matter how fast its 
 increase may be, and gives that limitless caj)ability fo expan- 
 sion of growth to which even territorial area is not a bound. A 
 new country, as this is, cannot inaugurate and establish on a firm 
 basis these industries without a vv-isc and stable policy of pro- 
 tection against the competition of the old, firmly-rooted and 
 strong manufacturing nations, ^\'ithout such aid any attempt to 
 establish manufiictures in a new country is met by the natural 
 strength and firm determination of old manufacturing countries 
 to crush out the rivalry in its infancy, in a market they have 
 come to regard as their own. Your fiscal regulations are un- 
 statesmanlike and vacillating, framed with no higher view than 
 the wants of the hour — as changeable and variable as the winds, 
 
 1 1 
 
150 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 and apparently devised better to suit the unhappy spirit of party 
 which pervades tlie community or the thirst for office of poHti- 
 cians — than for the general good of the country. From such an 
 uncertain, shifting and unsound state of affairs can progress be 
 expected ? 
 
 " Experience would prove the co'^'trary 1 From a country 
 whose commercial matters are exposed to such continual and 
 dangerous interference, capital and enterprise must fly. They 
 must erect their foundation upon something more enduring than 
 such a shifting sand, or they v/ill not build at all. A fixed and 
 declared policy of protection to all industries that can be made 
 home industries, of keeping your Canadian market for your 
 Canadian producers, will build mills on your idle water powers ; 
 will erect and keep open the factories which you now keep open 
 in foreign countries ; will work your mines and employ your 
 surplus population, which now drifts away to swell the wealth 
 and power of the States. Will bring the operatives you employ 
 in Manchester, Bradford, Birmingham ; in France, Germany and 
 elsewhere, to do your work, over to your own country to do it 
 for you at home ; to spend the money you pay them amongst 
 yourselves and kee}) it in your own country, instead of augment- 
 ing the wealth of foreign nations ; will advance your wealth, 
 power and progress ; will teach you dependence on yourselves 
 — a real independence and patriotism. That is the true policy 
 for your country ! A regime of life and vigour. No more of 
 your truckling to Yankeedom under the illusory hope of obtain- 
 ing the ignis fatuus of Reciprocity, which they have no inten- 
 tion of giving you, bemg very well pleased and entirely satisfied 
 with you as you are ! ! ! ! 
 
 " As it is at present, any fixed fiscal policy, so long as it is a 
 fixed one, is better than the meddlesome child's play — the vacil- 
 lating feebleness and cowardly fence-straddling that distinguishes 
 the labours of your church-door politicians and amateur states- 
 men. Even a policy of so-called 'Free Trade,' which is tantamount 
 

 r\ 
 
 THE WAY TO DO IT. 
 
 1^51 
 
 and 
 do it 
 longst 
 ment- 
 alth, 
 selves 
 jolicy 
 ore of 
 3btain- 
 inten- 
 tisfied 
 
 it is a 
 ■e vacil- 
 uishes 
 states- 
 mount 
 
 to a declaration of ' No further progress here,' would be better 
 than that," and Mr. Horton looked around him with the virtuous 
 glance of one who has done his duty. 
 
 " Admitting that a great part of what you say is very appli- 
 cable to this country, Horton, yet you surely must admit that 
 free and unrestricted trade is the most just and perfect principle 
 of political economy," said Mr. Mordaunt, who, being English, 
 felt inclined patriotically to defend the Free Trade principles of 
 his native land. 
 
 " Yes ! I will grant it, with the proviso that all nations be first 
 on an equal position with one another. That all have their 
 manufactures, arts and industries equally established and firmly- 
 rooted — each producing all the products of civilization that it is 
 capable of producing, and consequently fairly capable of an 
 equal race with its compeers. Then Free Trade is the natural 
 and rational order of things. But in the case of a new country, 
 whose first industries lie mainly in the raw products of the 
 field, the forest, and the sea alone ; whose arts, manufactures, 
 completing and refining of their products, have not been estab- 
 lished, it is unequally matched against those countries who have 
 had centuries for their consolidation and building up, and must, 
 if she would fit herself for equality with them, shut them out 
 from her markets until she has built herself up and become strong 
 enough to bear their competition. Otherwise it would be the 
 infant trying conclusions with the matured and full-grown man," 
 replied Mr. Horton, enthusiastically, and, warmed with his sub- 
 ject, he drew nearer to Mr. Mordaunt and Vance, and re-com- 
 menced in full force his arguments. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, who had probably become tired of it, 
 moved towards the young ladies, who were conversing together, 
 and as he approached them, Emily Dearborn, advancing towards 
 him, apparantly to gather a morning glory that had attracted her 
 attention on the trellis, whispered as he passed her — 
 
 " Meet me in a few minutes in the walk towards the lake near 
 
 r .-MMiiJUiSiaNrai 
 
152 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 the end of the garden ; I would like to spea^.c to you," and then, 
 plucking her flower, she continued aloud — 
 
 " Ethel I let us go for a walk in the grounds, the gentlemen 
 are talking their tiresome politics. Let us leave them to their 
 enjoyment and go and amuse ourselves." 
 
 " Very well !" replied Ethel. " Come along, Ada. We'll go 
 and get some flowers." 
 
 " Won't you join us, Mr. Wolverton ?" said luiiily, looking at 
 him, as Ethel and Ada moved away arm-and-arm together. 
 
 " Should like it above all things," replied he, and, as the others 
 had got out of ear-shot, he added : " I will join you there in a 
 minute or two." 
 
 Emily followed her sister and Ethel until they reached the 
 ilower garden, and occu[)ied herself in gathering a boquet until 
 the other.5 had become interested over theirs, when, watching her 
 opportunity, she strolled away slowly towards the place indi- 
 cated to Sidney, which was well out of sight of her companions, 
 and where, on arriving, she found Wolverton, sauntering about 
 waiting for her. 
 
 *' Ah ! you are here before me," she said, as she came up. " I 
 did not suppose you were gallant enough for that. Hov.'ever, 
 as it is not for love-making I am come, it does not matter whether 
 gallantry induced your promptitude or curiosity. How did you 
 get along with }'Our spooney young friend last night? Did you 
 attain your object or had the warnings of ofiicious friends closed 
 his heart against the appeal of friendship ?" continued she, look- 
 ing up sarcastically in his face. " Of such a friend as Mr. Sid- 
 ney Wolverton." 
 
 " Is that all you liave to say to me, Emily ?" he replied, gazing 
 at the charming face turned to him. " I had hoped it was for 
 something more than a sarcastic enquiry you had for me when 
 I came to meet you. I was not vain enough to suppose it was 
 as a favoured lover, though that thought would have been very 
 pleasant to me." 
 
 ''A'-Z 't' ?:<&^i<M^'S^:7^-C- 'sJM 
 
8 l:';8anlat^lH>.l■l B»?!»■^« ^^^I 
 
 lii 
 
 THE WAY TO DO IT. 
 
 153 
 
 Igazmg 
 
 I'as for 
 
 when 
 
 lit was 
 
 very 
 
 " Would it indeed ! I sliould hardly have imagined it, seeing 
 that you came to this place with the intention of becoming the 
 lover of Miss Mordaunt. Your affections seem to be conve- 
 niently adai)ted to quick and easy transition from one object to 
 another. There are disadvantages, however, for there are those 
 — your humble servant included — who are not apt to aj^preciate 
 the facile honours accorded them," replied E .ily, laughing. 
 
 " But," continued she, " if it is not as a lover I meet you to- 
 day, it is as a friend ; and in tliat capacity 1 wish to know what 
 passed between yourself and Vance last evcnmg. \'ou may 
 find it to your advantage to accept my assistance and advice in 
 the matter." 
 
 "I shall be only too happy to oI)lai i it, Emily, again, for it 
 has already been of use to me. As you had forewarr.ed me, I 
 found there would be great difficulty in managing him about the 
 partnership — in fact, that appears to be hopeless, as he claims 
 to be bound by promise not to enter into any busines:-; relations 
 with me. i placed the matter in a very attractive ar.d tempt- 
 ing light before him, and urged his acceptance — both :is a ques- 
 tion of advantage to himself, and of salvation to me — appealing 
 to his fi-iendshiijj strongly. Although I did not tell him the 
 whole urgent and pressing facts of the case, I sho.ved him 
 that without instant aid, 1 would meet with very heavy, almost 
 irreparable loss. My appeal would have been successiiil had it 
 not been for his promise, which 1 saw he regretted bitterly, and 
 was very nearly on the point of breaking. I must say this for 
 him, that his heart was generously moved. He did not, 
 however, break his promise ; he offered me what ready money 
 he had at disposal, but as it was not sufficient to be of use, I 
 declined it — he telling me at the same time, he would think 
 over matters, and wo ild assist me to the extent of his ability. 
 The interview was o'l the whole successful on my part. The 
 sum, however, which I need to clear me of danger is so large 
 tliat I do not know how to proceed towards him with hope of 
 
I 
 
 154 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 success. I have little doubt that with careful management I 
 could get his name on paper for ten thousand dollars ; but, at 
 the least, thirty thousand dollars is requisite to wipe out press- 
 ing debts, and another ten thousand to place the Hopetown 
 business in a prosperous state again. To ask such sums would, 
 to a certainty, startle him, and I feel at a loss how to a^^t. 
 Have the money I must, or else all goes to pieces, and I leave 
 the country." 
 
 " Leave the country 1 " exclaimed Emily ; " why leave the 
 country — even if tilings come to the worst ? You surely can- 
 not have run through the whole jjroperty. There must be 
 more than sufficient to pay what }0u owe — unless you have 
 gone very fast indeed." 
 
 " Unfortunately," returned he, " there is some paper alloat 
 on whicli the names are not genuine — his amongst the number." 
 
 " Oh : that's it, is it ? \\;ell I you are bold," replied Emily, 
 laughing, and apparently more amused than disgusted at the 
 unblushing avowal of t!ie descent into crime, of him who had 
 been — and might really still be — considered, her favored lover. 
 " However, this puts a different face on the matter, and you 
 must no\v become successful. \'ance must be brought to aid 
 you by fiiir means or by foul." 
 
 "The worst of it is, there is so little time left me. The most 
 of this paper falls due next week," said Sidney, gloomily. 
 
 " Well you must procure his endorsement in time, then, and 
 for the full amount you require ; you may as well be hanged for 
 a sheep as a lamb, Sidney, — l)ut you must act energetically and 
 promptly. I'll tell you what it is," said Emily, walking on 
 rapidly a few steps, as of thinking out a decisive idea ; then 
 turning again towards him, she continued : " There will be a 
 cricketing dinner to-morrow afternoon, when the game is fin- 
 ished, and if Ten Eakes is what it used to be, champagne, etc., 
 will be abundant at it. Vance will be at the match, and you 
 will not find it difficult to persuade him to stay at the dinner. 
 
iwi«a»tTwt-g»»iM»y--'».''»7aiat^iwtqaw-^^B^^aia*wBiwgNway«*itB>w'^ff'^ 
 
 i:i:rft?ly^^s«■' ''»-"' 
 
 THE \VA\' ro DO IT. 
 
 '55 
 
 You must play your cards well with him during the day, and 
 keep his friendly sentiments, towards you, alive. At the dinner 
 you must try by all possible means to induce him to drink 
 chamj)agne — sjieechify him, flatter him, cajole and persuade. 
 He will have to return thanks — to propose others, in his turn. 
 His nature is such that, unless bound by a promise not to do 
 a thing, he cannot bear pressure. He is yielding, and vv'ill ac- 
 quiesce in what he regards as a trifle, rather than dispute them. 
 Not being a total abstainer, he will look ujjon an extra glass of 
 Avine as a trifle. If you contrive to get him somewhat excited 
 with wine, you will have the game pretty well in your own 
 hands, if you act with caution. He will see things in a very 
 different light than in a calmer moment; and probably will not 
 scrutinize very closely any paper you ask him to sign." 
 
 " I am afraid he will have to be very tipsy before he will en- 
 dorse for thirty thousand dollars, " said Sidney. " It will not 
 be so easy to get him to drink to intoxication, Emily, I have 
 never known him to take enough wine to be in the least affected 
 by II." 
 
 " I could have told you that myself," replied Emily, impa- 
 tiently ; " but because he never drank, is that any reason that 
 he will not do so on this occasion ? It is what I am telling you 
 to induce him to do so. And it does not need that he is made 
 intoxicated. That would i)robably spoil all, by rendering him 
 perverse and obstinate. Get him to take some extra cham- 
 pagne, sufficient to pleasantly excite him — to raise his spirits to 
 a jovial, free and careless pitch — and if you seize the opportu- 
 nity, and adroitly introduce your subject, he will probably do 
 what you ask him, without even looking at what he puts his 
 name to, but will accept your word that it is what you repre- 
 sent. Why should he know that he endorsed for thirty thou- 
 sand ? ^^'■hy not ask him for three thousand ? — hand him the 
 note, and in all likelihood he'll write his name accross it with- 
 out looking at its face." 
 
"^'^'■'•^^""••'"B" ' 
 
 IH,' 
 
 156 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 " I don't see your drift, P^mily. Of what use will his en- 
 dorsement for three thousand be to me ? " interrupted Sidney. 
 
 "Why! cannot you see? It appears to me that you are 
 very stupid to-day, Mr. W'olverton, and that I am the man of 
 business. Ask him to endorse for tliree thousand — hand him 
 the note, with tlie three thousand in figures at the top ; but the 
 space for the written amount left blank. He'll probably take 
 it to be as you say, and sign without once glancing at the face. 
 Or, better still, make out a note for three thousand — show it 
 him before he endorses, and while you are signing it yourself, 
 spoil it by a blot. You can then make out another for the 
 higher figure ; hand it him to endorse, and you may feel assured 
 he will not trouble himself to scrutinize it. You will get your 
 money, and will have three months clear before Vance hears a 
 word further. Plenty of time to arrange your ])lans ; and then 
 Vance, to save himself, will be forced to go into the business 
 with you, whether he likes it or not." 
 
 " Why, Emily ! — you are a genius. The idea is a splendid 
 one, and if I can only manage the matter as A\e!l as you have 
 mapped it out for me, success is assured. You are the man of 
 business — that's certain," said \\'oIverton. " I shall most cer- 
 tainly act upon your suggestion. I should never have originat- 
 ed .so feasible a solution of the difficulty. You have rendered 
 me a great service, Emily, and one that I will not easily torget," 
 continued he, gazing with admiration, and yet some astonish- 
 ment, at the girl beside him, who, so outwardly fair, had not 
 hesitated to i)ropound so atrocious a thing. His astonishment 
 though, could not be said to be raised by the atrocity, but rath- 
 er by the knowledge of human nature displayed, and the clever 
 adaptation of her scheme. 
 
 " I do not feel so sure that you would not forget it," she said, 
 " but I do not intend to allow you to do so. In return for 
 my assistance, I may shortly require yours in a little project of 
 
 . 
 

 WHAT'S THE MATTER Wri'H MV ROSE ? 157 
 
 my own, not yet developed ; and I shall not hesitate to de- 
 mand it." 
 
 " Or I to render it, Emily. Anything I can do — no matter 
 
 what it may be — you have only to ask, and I shall be read}- to 
 perform to the utmost extent of my ability. Oh, Kmily ! — if, 
 when things become better witli me, you would but permit me 
 to assume a tenderer relation towards you, it would make m.e 
 very ha[)py." 
 
 " Thank you, no, }>h. W'oWvvton — not at the piesent, at all 
 events. You can hardly be considered now — and, unless you 
 change mucli, it is to be doubted if you vv ill ever become — that 
 safe person to wJiom I would care to entrust my future. I will 
 make no promises. If you desire my love, you must deserve it 
 by success. 
 
 " I must return nov»- ; our interview has been long enough, 
 
 and I do not wish to be surprised in a i?tc-a-tete with you. 
 You had better give your thoughts to yoiu' affairs for to-morro^^•. 
 Ada and I return to Ten Lakes then. You had better call at 
 our house during the evening, and let me h,ear of your success 
 with Vance. And now I must go, — Good-morning, Sidney ; 
 we will remain friends and allies, at any rate," she said, extend- 
 ing her hand. 
 
 " Good morning, Emily, " he answered, taking her offered 
 hand ; then drawing lier towards him, before she was aware of 
 his intention, kissed her on the lips — " To inspire me for success 
 to-morrow, and for a yet sweeter success to come." 
 
 She freed herself instandy. 
 
 " I do not desire your kisses, Mr. Wolverton, and shall take 
 care in future ! " she exclaimed, and turning awa\', v/alked back 
 to the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 what's the matter with my rose? 
 During the afternoon, Ethel Mordaunt and her lover, esca- 
 
 lij. 
 
±as£L- 
 
 y^/r ^•'-. ^y-^^ 
 
 158 
 
 SHE iMIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 ping from the others of the party — to whom the fervour of the 
 summer sun, made the coohiess of the house preferable — had 
 •wandered off into the gardens, to enjoy the deHghts of each 
 other's society, and some sweet lovers' talk together. Any 
 amount of caloric was to them but a secondary consideration, 
 compared with the privilege of being alone. Old Sol might 
 have run the thermometer up to any i)oint he liked, and his fer- 
 vid beams would have been complacently endured by them — 
 provided that all others were kept there])y to the house. AVhat 
 were a few degrees of Fahrenheit to them when thrown into 
 the balance against the incstimuble pleasures of wandering aim- 
 lessly about the garden with each other, and being ridiculously 
 hapi)y together. Cacouna, without Ethel, would have been 
 Tcted a fraud by Edwin. A hundred and ten in the shade, 
 with Ethel — a state of bliss. And Ethel herself would ])roba- 
 bly have shared the opinion. 
 
 So they strolled on, and laughed and talked — api)arently 
 vastly interested in the smallest trifles — and really vastly inter- 
 ested in each other. 
 
 " How beautiful the world is I — Ethel," he said, though the 
 beautiful world looked as if it were very hot, indeed, and might 
 fairly be sui)posed to wonder if he would be able to stand 
 this thing out until sunset, without melting. 
 
 " It seems so much more beautiful since I am so happy. It 
 is my love for you, perhaps, that gives the added beauty to all 
 I see." 
 
 " It is still a beautiful world, whether we are happy or un- 
 happy, Edwin. But happiness, however, is a wonderful charm- 
 er to our eyes. I am happy that you love me, and the world 
 is very beautiful to me," replied Ethel. " Oh ! that our love 
 may be as lasting as it is great." 
 
 "Why should it not last, my darling? Our love will last 
 life-long, and while that exists, happiness is with us — will never 
 fail us," he replied. 
 
W HAT'S THK MATTKR WITH MY ROSE ? 159 
 
 It 
 
 to all 
 
 1 un- 
 
 larm- 
 
 ^orld 
 
 love 
 
 " Yes ; but it must be based on a higher — holier ground than 
 our earthly love. For true happiness, there must be the Divine 
 love. Tliat is the rock on which our lifelong structure must be 
 founded ; and then we shall find happiness, indeed," she said, 
 with earnestness. 
 
 " My good little Ethel I " he exclaimed, looking with loving 
 admiration into the beautiful eyes turned towards him ; " you 
 deserve all hapi)iness and all love. U it is not always yours — 
 darling — it will be because this world is not right, and that its 
 best treasures are those to whom its buffets are the hardest to 
 bear. Oh I — Ethel, how I pray that never through me shall 
 any misery flow to your angelic s[)irit. The very thought of 
 such possil)ility would be torture." 
 
 " Then don't think of it, lOdwin. I hardly chink it is probable 
 that you are going to cause me any misery," answered she laugh- 
 ing. " It is getting rather warm, though ; lei us go into the 
 shade. There is a rustic seat yonder under the trees. It is too 
 warm to walk," and together they went towards it. Hardly had 
 they seated themselves and resumed their conversation than our 
 friend Barney was seen making his way from the house towards 
 them. He approaclied them, and after performing an original, 
 complicated and in his own eyes, very graceful bow, said — 
 
 " It's a foine war-rum day, so it is, Miss Ethel. The poor 
 craythurs that are short o' firing this blissid weather won't know 
 how bad they're off, thank the Lard 1 It does a bhoy's heart 
 good till see the sun shinin' down on till us so swate and paceful 
 and so sthrong, as if he knowed the cowld winther was a comin', 
 whin it's no good, at all at all, he is, wid his bames all friz up 
 wid the cowld blasts of Bore-us. Faix I it's a har-rud sowl to 
 plaze he'd be that 'ud say he's not doing his best the day." 
 
 " I think so, too, Barney," said Ethel. " I'm sure that I am 
 quite satisfied with his exertions, and would have no objection 
 to a few of the rude blasts of Boreas at this moment." 
 
 " Troth ! We do be mostly havin' some sort of wedder or 
 
 
i6o 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE PETTER. 
 
 anoder, the Lard be praised for it. But in convarsin' so p!issint 
 I kem near forghetting me missage. Mistlier \'ance, the masther 
 tould me he'd be plazed to si)hake wid ye for a minnit, av it 
 wild not be too much throuble till ye. It's in the liivrary he 
 wor." 
 
 " Wishes to speak to me, Barney ? Well I I'll go at once, 
 though I cannot imagine what he wants with me just now. Will 
 you return to the house or wait for me here, Ethel ?" replied Ed- 
 win, rising from his seat. 
 
 " Begorra I and jihat's the matter now wid that party rose tree 
 av yourn, Miss Ethel. Bedad, it's mighty sick it's looking," in- 
 terrupted Barney, suddenly looking towards a i)lant cf that si)ecies 
 a few yards off, 
 
 " Oh ! my poor rose ! I'll await your return here, Edwin," 
 exclaimed Ethel, springing up, and running to her favourite, whilst 
 Edwin proceeded towards the house. 
 
 " Why I What's the matter with my rose, Barney ? I see 
 nothing wrong with it. it looks as well as ever," she con- 
 tinued, turning to that individual who was following Jier, 
 
 " Bcdad I To see the like of that now," was the surprised 
 remark of the hypocrite, who was perfectly well awarti that there 
 was notliing wrong with the plant. " Me ould eyes desaved me 
 purty nate now, by the pov/er ot Mosjs' feet. Yer iiower's as 
 sound as iver it^wor. Miss Ethel. I thought thin that it luhked 
 moighty bad, so i did. But I'm wantin' till sj^hake till ye a 
 minnit, Miss Ethel, honey, whin there's no wan Ijy." 
 
 '' 'i'o speak to me, Barney ? Well, what is it ? Oh I t/uit was 
 the matter with the rose. I see nov,-," said Ethel laughing. 
 
 " Well I go on with your story. You deserve that 1 should 
 listen for having managed the interview so well. Did you serve 
 Mr. \'ance with the same trick also, Barney ?" 
 
 But Barney, save by a comical twist of the eye, took no notice 
 of the latter question, and ])roceeded with his tale. 
 
 " Yer see, Miss Ethel, after me marnin's wur-ruk was redd 
 
WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH MY ROSE ? i6i 
 
 up this marnin', I tought I'd go down till the long walk at the 
 lother ind of the gardin, and shear the little cedar hidge there 
 that ye're so fond oj havin' sheared, the same as if it wor a sheep, 
 though it's little wool ye git aff av it for all the shearin', begorra ! 
 But, nevertheless, I sheared away, an' sheared away, an' faix I 
 it's a moighty nate job I made av it, as smooth an' as round as 
 the back of a young pig, be the powers. But the sun kem out 
 that povv'erful, so it did, that whin I wor troo wid the job, it's 
 war-rum I wor, and no mistake about it eder, sol tought I'd get 
 acrass intiil tlie shade av the hidge, an' lie down unther it fur a 
 dhraw of me pipe, an' it v.'as'nt long I wor there afore I see ould 
 Sidney Wolverton and the banker's daughtherover till 'i'in Lakes 
 a comin' along togeder, and me smhoking away undher the 
 hidge 1 ke a house afire. But it's no notice they tuk av me, they 
 were convarsing so arnest, an' I lay quite and said noting at all 
 to thim. They walked up an' down past where I wor a power 
 av times, bedad 1 an' 1 heard some av their conversation thin, 
 so I did, an' moighiy qunre talk it wor what I heerd av it, con- 
 sarnin' IMishter \'ance an' a schame of Ould Sidney's wid false 
 papers, they have agin him, an' so I tought I'd come and tell ye 
 yerself av it. Miss Ethel, seeing that I kno'.ved ye better nor I 
 did him, an' ye'd betther have them lukked out fur, fur it's at the 
 crickety dinner at Tin Eakes the morrow tliey're goin' te thry it 
 ontill him, so it is.'" 
 
 " But I have nothing to do with Mr. Vance's affairs, Barney, 
 and 1 must not listen to your stories. Why don't you go and tell 
 ]\Ir. Vance himself everything that he ought to know?" answer- 
 ed Ethel, who hated eavesdropping, and had besides a lively re- 
 colleccion of an already unsatisfactory interview with her lover, 
 connected with Sidney \VoIverton, and who moreover deemed 
 it derogatory to herself and t'le guests of her father's house to 
 listen to idle stories concerning them. 
 
 *' Och 1 thin. Miss Ii^thel, wud ye be afther [)urtindin' the like 
 of that to an ould craythur like meself, that's knowed ye 
 
 I.,. 
 
 '!■ ; 
 
 mmftmmmtmm 
 
l62 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 since ye cuddent crape over a sthraw. Sure I an' doesn't the 
 whole counthry side know that yersilf and Misther Vance are as 
 thick as two paas in a pod, an' that it's mari;it ye'll be till wan 
 another afore the year's done. It is'nt afeared I am till sphake 
 till him, an' it's tell't he ought to be, but for the likes avmesilf till 
 tell him wud be av no sarvice, fur it's^his friend he consithers ould 
 Sidney to be, an' it's blackguard me he wud, more-be-like, than 
 listen. But till a swate young lady like yersilf. Miss Ethel, that 
 he's going till be marrit till, he'll listen fast enough, be japers, 
 wid his ears open, an' it's know it he ought, fur I heerd the 
 banker's daughter, that wor there wid that baste Wolverton, not 
 the dacent little girl, but the tall flashy one, telling him to thry 
 to git Misther Vance dhrunk wid shampain at the crickety dinner 
 the morrow, and whin that he'd got him hot wid liquor, and him 
 not caring for man, baste or divil, savin' yer prisince, to soother 
 him intill writin' his name on a paper wid tree tousand ontill it 
 and thin he wor to splatther it up wid ink a purpose an' spile it, 
 and thin till ax Misther Vance to do it over agin wid anoder waft 
 like it, but wid tirty tousand ontill it, an' thin she tould him that if 
 he'd git l::m dhrunk enough, he'd nivir bother his hid to luk at 
 it to see av it wor like the first wan, an' thin in tree months 
 Misther Vance wud have to go in pardner wid Wolverton in his 
 
 ould rotten mill at Hopetown beyant, wedder he wild or 
 
 Och ! murther alive ! Here he is himsilf now, and me here yit. 
 Howly vargin ! but trie fat's in the fire now. Begorra ! an' it's 
 out av this I wish I wor," continued Barney, suddenly startled 
 by the appearance ol* Edwin \'ance, who, unnoticed in the ex- 
 citement of his story, had walked up unperceived, while Barney 
 endeavoured quietly to take himself off. 
 
 " I say, Barney," exclaimed Edwin, as he came up, " how came 
 you to send me on such a fool's errand ? Who gave you the 
 message ? Your master never sent it, nor had he asked for 
 me." 
 
 " The masther nivir sint me fur ye, Misther Vance !" replied 
 
.M^^s^.-ro-or-<-^--^^f^v> 
 
 ,::w';>T!";.i£iVii';a:;fjy''J' 
 
 ■•■>;j?-.>i'r-S'r-Tgy.'-' 
 
 ..I.'. ^V7<1 ■«W!'^*-«»«t"''» 
 
 his 
 
 yit. 
 i' it's 
 'tied 
 
 ex- 
 irney 
 
 :ame 
 the 
 for 
 
 ilied 
 
 WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH MY ROSE ? 165 
 
 Barney, apparently astonished. " Faix ! an' that's quare thin. 
 Begorra I it's soiild I am. Bad scran till her, it wor that desate- 
 ful jade of a housemaid sint me fur yiz. By the tousand pipers, 
 it's aven I'll be wid her before it's dark the night. Belike it wor 
 to redd me out av the kitchen r^he tould me fur, bad cess till 
 her. But sure now, Misther Vance, honey, there's no grate har- 
 rum done is there by me little mishtake ?" 
 
 " Well ! not a great deal, Barney. I'll forgive you this time." 
 
 " But it was laughable, too," turning to Ethel. " Your father 
 looked so astonished when I went in and announced myself as 
 awaiting his commands, and I was confounded and looked fool- 
 ish enough in exlpaining that I had received a message from him 
 that he wished to speak to me. AVhen, however, he found out 
 who had brought the message, he burst out laughing and said, 
 * Oh ! it was that blarneying old rascal was it?' " 
 
 " There's for you, Barney !" put in Ethel, laughing. 
 
 " Most likely, Mr. Mordaunt said," continued Edwin, " the 
 old Villain got you out of the way, Vance, in order to humbug 
 Ethel into saving him from the consequences of some of his 
 scrapes, or to get something or other. She likes the old hum- 
 bug, and he knows it, and in consequence does pretty well as 
 he likes, sure that sheVill befriend him. Ten to one he trumped 
 up the message to get rid of you while he related some pitiable 
 story to her." 
 
 " And how about the sick rose bush, Barney ?" added Ethel, 
 mischievously. 
 
 " Faix ! ye may laugh, Miss Ethel, it's wid yiz this time, and 
 it's a nice c'racther the masther's after givin' of a bhoy that's been 
 wid him this twenty year an' more. ' Blarneying old huml)ug 
 I am, am I, begorra !' " grumbled Barney, walking off apparent- 
 ly highly offended, but in reality accepting the uncomplimentary 
 terms as a gratifying tribute to his diplomatic powers. 
 
 Ethel, left again with her lover, had to decide whether or not 
 she would coinmunicate Barney's extraordinary and somewhat 
 
 (•I 
 
 m 1 ' 
 
164 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 incoherent story to him or any part of it. As she had not pre- 
 viously held a very high opinion of Mr. Wolverton or of Miss 
 Dearborn either, for that matter, she could very readily believe 
 that Barney, whom she knew to be faithfulness itself to her fa- 
 ther's family, and especially her friend, had really overheard some 
 part of a plot between the t\vo concernmg her lover, very much 
 she could easily suppose to his detriment than to his advantage. 
 A great part of the disjointed and incomprehensible history she 
 could not understand, though it appeared to her tolerably evi- 
 dent that the papers *' wid tree tousand ontill it and tirty tou- 
 sand ontill it," had reference to valuable securities that were to 
 be obtained from him for 'Wolverton's behoof There was, how- 
 ever, one i)art of the story that was very plain, and that was 
 that there was to be an attempt at the cricketer's dinner on the 
 morrow to produce her lover's intoxication, and that the success 
 or failure of the entire scheme hinged on the success of that at- 
 tempt. 
 
 To prevent that danger was to nullify the whole i)lot. 
 Ethel however could not and would not believe that her 
 Edwin, her hero, her prince of men, was or could be in any 
 possible danger of so dreadful ;i degradation. She would as 
 easily have imagined that lie would steal the spoons at her 
 father's table, as become, by any means whatsoever, intoxicated. 
 But she had heard of drugged wines ; she remembered also 
 that Kdwin at the |)ic-n!c had drank a glass of champagne, and 
 uas not therefore a total abstainer. Might he not at tlie dinner 
 jjartake of a single glass, and might not that glass be dru.gged. 
 She could easily believe any depth of evil possible to Sidney 
 Wolverton ; and that this su}jposition was therefore not outside 
 the range of possibility. 
 
 The unpleasant nature of her i)revious interview with Edwin 
 on the subject of Mr. Wolverton whose very name she now 
 thoroughly detested, had determined her never again to enter 
 dirccdy into a conversation regarding him ; and again, though 
 
Tift 
 
 
 Iney 
 tside 
 
 WHAT'S THE MATIER WITH MY ROSE ? 165 
 
 Barney's incomprehensible story was fully believed by her to 
 have a sound basis of truth, it would in all likelihood be totally 
 rejected by him, as ridiculous and absurd. He had already 
 been fully warned as to W^olverton's character ; and so long as 
 his senses were clear, he ought to be ])erfectly able to take due 
 care of himself and his interests. \Miile her lover retained the 
 full possession of his faculties, she felt she had no right to inter- 
 fere further in his affairs. 
 
 Could she obtain from him, however, a promise that he would 
 drink no wine, at the dinner on the morrow, she could feel safe, 
 as regarded him. It would not need then for her to tell him of 
 what she had heard from Barney ; and she felt that this was the 
 best way open to her to discharge the duty that seemed incum- 
 bent upon her. She resolved thciefore that this should be her 
 course. 
 
 Accordingly as they returned from their walk and were n ear- 
 ing the house, she plucked up her courage, turned towards him 
 and said, 
 
 " Edwin, T have a great favor to ask of you ; a favor that I 
 do not feel that I ought to ask, but whicli I hope you will for- 
 » give me that 1 do ask." 
 
 " My darling Ethel it is granted, if within my possibility. As 
 if anything you could ask of me could be a favor for me to 
 grant. What is iL ? Ethel." 
 
 " I don't like to ask it, Edwin, it really seems to be an inter- 
 ference with you, but if you could grant it to me it would make 
 me very hapj^w \\.;u will probably have to remain for the 
 dinner after the match to-morrow at Ten Lakes. From what 
 I have heard of such dinners there, I fear there will be a great 
 deal of wine. There are many young men who will be present 
 to-morrow, who are not particular with respect to how much 
 they use, and you will be pressed — very much pressed — to 
 follow their example with regard to it." 
 
 " I wish to warn you against these young men, and to ask you 
 
 12 
 
11' 
 
 i66 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 to be careful, as they will try to induce you if possible to drink 
 too much wine. Forgive me for mentioning such a subject to you, 
 but please promise me ; I know there is no danger of such a 
 thing as that you will take too much wine ; but I know that 
 you will be very much pressed to do so," and Ethel's lovely 
 eyes looked appealingly up into his face. 
 
 " My dearest Ethel, you may rest assured that if I remain 
 for dinner at all, I will be very careful as to what wine I take. 
 Most probably none at all. No amount of pressure will suc- 
 ceed in inducing me to exceed, at all events. That I promise 
 you. I have never exceeded yet, and most certainly will not 
 do now that I have my sweet Ethel ; my beacon of light and 
 purity and all beauty ;" he replied earnestly, but not so satis- 
 factorily as under the circumstances of which she was aware, 
 she could have wished. 
 
 In her earnestness and fear for him, she contmued the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " And, Edwin, promise me that if you do take any wine at 
 all, you won't drink champagne. I have a reason for asking. 
 And don't sit near Sidney Wolverton. He has a design against 
 you. I would so like to aak you, as a personal favor to myself 
 to take no wine at all to-morrow." 
 
 Edwin as well as Ethel retained an unpleasant impression of 
 that interview between them concerning Sidney Wolverton and 
 he had a lively feeling that the subject would be better avoided. 
 Therefore, though a little interested and somewhat more an- 
 noyed by Ethel's reference to him, he forebore to notice it. 
 It was however an unfortunate remark. 
 
 " My darling," he replied, not quite so cordially, " I have 
 already told you that in all probabilit}' I shall take no wine — 
 and I promise you, since you wish it, that I will not drink 
 qliampagne to-morrow, at any rate and that I will not sit near 
 Sidney Wolverton, since you also wish that. 
 
 Satisfied with this almost direct promise and very glad that 
 
EMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 167 
 
 Edwin had nOt seemed to noace her unfortunate * lapsus 
 linguae, with regard to Mr. \\'olverton, Ltliel changed the sub- 
 ject, and they proceeded homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 EMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 ri 
 
 It. 
 
 Lve 
 
 lat 
 
 His long anticipated Saturday morning at length greeted the 
 expectant eyes of Reggie Mordaunt ; and greeted hmi as he 
 could have wished it. 
 
 A clear blue sky ; a brilliant sun, and a cool breeze to 
 tt:mper the fervor of his rays, made it a cricketer's day. To 
 Reggie a day of delights, for its exciting hours would test the 
 prowess and crown the victory — as he fondly hoped — of his 
 dear Ten Lakes Club over the formidable county. 
 
 Early was he astir ; unwontedly early, and as he hastened 
 down stairs he held the vain impression that every one was 
 equally enthusiastic with him and would be down stairs also. 
 It 7C'as a vain impression, for he found himself alone ; the 
 breakfast- room ready for occupancy but without occupants, and 
 It was very evident that he was the only one of the Lake Mor- 
 daunt party, who had as yet come to the conclusion that ihe 
 early freshness of the morn, with a cricket match in prospect, 
 could outweigh the lingering charms of somnolency. 
 
 Half an hour of impatient waiting and it was still the same. 
 No one, with the consciousness of virtuous early rising shining 
 over him, but looking as if it was yet the middle of the night, 
 had put in an appearance down stairs. Half an hour in the 
 early morning, alone down stairs, in a great house, the rooms 
 all done up ready, and wearing an intolerable air of waiting, 
 with breakfast not at hand, is a very quiet, very lonely, very 
 hungry, very long period of time. It was too much for Reg- 
 gie's equanimity. In another minute his feet were boisterously 
 
 'iir 
 
 S! 1; 
 
tf i gBB # MJj t t^^i*Mr^_t^^ 
 
 ■ '^'.'^r'^'f"',' 
 
 ,^_, 
 
 1 68 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ascending the stairs, and he was thundering at Vance's and 
 Wolverton's respective doors. 
 
 " I say ! you fellows — this is getting just a little too thin. 
 Here it is, as late as it can be, and you lazy wretches sleeping 
 away as if you hud nothmg to do but get up for an evening 
 party. If you sleep on much longer you'd be too late for that 
 even. Try and get down — do now — before sunset," he shouted 
 loud enough to wake up a pyramid of mummies. 
 
 " Hallo 1 what's the matter ? Reggie," exclaimed Edwin 
 drowsily. " Is it time to get up ? Why ! it isn't seven o'clock 
 yet, if my time is correct. You don't call that late, do you ?" 
 
 " I guess you'll find it late enough before you're through. 
 There's a pile of things to do, and no one up yet. 
 
 " You've got to get down stairs ; have breakfast ; write 
 your letters, get ready, and drive out to Ten Lakes, and wickets 
 to be pitched at eleven o'clock" replied Reggie in an injured 
 tone of voice. 
 
 " All right ! I'll be on hand. Plenty of time yet," was all 
 the satisfaction he got from Edwin. 
 
 " I say ! Uncle," cried Reggie, saluting that gentleman's 
 door. " A pretty specimen of a moral philosopher you are ; 
 to be sure. Here you are in bed in the middle of the day» 
 Why don't you do as that old humbug of a countryman of 
 yours, Ben Franklin says. I'll bet you never heard of him 
 though." 
 
 " Be oft ! you young scamp" replied his Uncle from within. 
 " It's little enough you know about Ben. Franklin. If it was 
 not for your stupid cricket-match, you would not have been out 
 of bed so early this morning yourself. I'm always down before 
 you are, at any rate." What are you making all that noise 
 for ? he continued, as Reggie kept shouting along the passages. 
 " Get up ! Ethel. I want my breakfast." Get up Allie, 
 and come to the cricket match. "Get up, Emily and Ada; 
 you'll be too late for the fun ;" were boisterously vociferated, 
 
EMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 169 
 
 all 
 
 day* 
 of 
 him 
 
 until he was satisfied that no one could by any possibility be 
 left longer asleep. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Reggie. I'se tummin' to see the tittet," exclaim- 
 ed the small voice of Ally, as he retreated down stairs again to , 
 another impatient wait for breakfast. 
 
 •K 'l^ •I* "t* 'P t^ 't^ 'P "I* V T^ 
 
 " Well ! I suppose you are all going to the cricket match," 
 said Reggie, who having satiated tolerably his hunger, found 
 leisure to make a remark to the party assembled at the break- 
 fast table. " I've told Barney to have round every trap about 
 the place at ten o'clock sharp, so everybody must be ready to 
 start then. " You are going, are you not, mother ? with Allie 
 and father. Mr. Vance, Mr. Wolverton and I ought to start 
 earlier, as there will be lots to do before eleven, and so uncle 
 you'll have to drive Ethel, and Emily, and Ada. Oh I my, what 
 a time you'll have driving three girls. I would not be you, I 
 know. Don't you feel delighted at the prospect, uncle.?" 
 
 " Never mind, Reggie. Til stand it for tlie chance of seeing 
 pride taken down before night. Perhaps you won't make such 
 a fuss coming home this evening as you have tliis morning. If 
 all your Ten Lakes Club are such boasters as one young gentle- 
 man I know, I'll probably have the pleasure of seeing ihem well 
 beaten to-day. Don't you hope so now. Miss Ada ? for I sup- 
 pose you will be on the grounds to-day," replied ]Mr. Horton, 
 addressing his last remark to Ada, with mischief in his eyes. 
 
 " I'll see every over of this match played, if I stay there until 
 dark ; I'll count every run, too, and I'll never speak to one of 
 the I'en Lakes Club again if they let themselves be beaten. No ! 
 not to my own brother, I won't, ' answered Ada, with \'ehement 
 decision in her voice. 
 
 " Why I Ada, you seem to think it would be a disgrace for 
 Ten Lakes to be beaten. Don't you think now it would be a 
 greater disgrace for the County Club to be beaten by a small 
 affair like Ten Lakes ?" said Mr. Horton, teasingly. 
 
 ill' 
 
A:M*^iit.^«lt*^'^/^■ ■^' ■ 
 
 170 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 I 
 
 • I 
 
 *' Oh I who cares for the old fogy County Club, anyway ; and 
 let me tell you, Mr. Horton, that our Ten Lakes Club is no small 
 a ffair. If it does not beat the County to-day, I'm a Dutchman, 
 replied Ada, too excited to be elegant in her language. 
 
 " Ada, you perfectly shock me," said her sister. " Your ideas 
 and expressions are those of a common street boy. When are 
 you going to adopt the manners of a lady ? I am inclined to 
 ask mamma not to let you go to the match at all. You will he 
 much better at home where you cannot commit yourself" 
 
 •' Oh I no, you won't, Emily," exclaimed Reginald. " Ada's 
 all right, and she's a jolly girl for sticking up for the club.'" 
 
 A tap at the door at this point of the conversation turned all 
 eyes towards it as it opened a short distance and the comical 
 physiognomy of our friend Barney appeared behind it. 
 
 " May I come in, sorr ?" he enquired of Mr. Mordaunt. 
 
 " Certainly I Barney. AVhat's the mattei- now ? Are the 
 horses all sick this morning as usual when they are wanted? or 
 have you found out some new excuse for them to-day ? Eh ! 
 Barney," said Mr. Mordaunt. " Don't you think now your 
 ' poor bastes ' will be * kilt intoirely ' taking us all out to Ten 
 Lakes, four long miles, such a day as this." 
 
 " Troth ! thin, Mr. Mordaunt, ye na'adent be afther bantherin' 
 me the like av that about me harses. It's well enough the poor 
 crathers are the day, but it's going to folly yiz I am, to see they're 
 put up dacent ; nivir a fut wud I thrust thim divils at the hot-tel 
 wid a fut av thim," replied Barney. 
 
 " And look out for a little whiskey at the same time, Barney, 
 or is it the cricket match you want to see ?" said Mr. Mor- 
 daunt. 
 
 " Begorra ! av it wor a game of shinney ye had afut, where 
 iviry bhoy has a sthick av his own in his hand, an' can have a 
 belt at the ball whiniver he has a chance av it, an' can rap the 
 bhoy over the hid av they're onmannerly an' don't behave dacent 
 
 I 
 
 m 
 
.< ^:-^i^ .^^t^^f^^^^i^^^j ^^,)i^j^.r.^r,^^ ^ ,.. . .-c ■■■■ .,^^^^^^4>;^, . j, <^^^u»,<^>^■, . . ^--.^e^im-iir ■ 
 
 -, .t ^s^TSKs-joivr:.; 
 
 KMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 171 
 
 an' paceful, it's i)lazecl I'd be to join in the divarshun, but cricket's 
 too quite a game fur me, sorr !" 
 
 " Every one to his taste, Barney. Is there anything else you 
 Avant ?" 
 
 " Faix ! there is'nt, sorr I barrin' that I've got the litthers and 
 ])aijirs fur yiz. I got thim last night, but I wor kej) waitin' on 
 thim that long at Tin Lakes beyant, that I cuddent git back 
 time enough to give ye thim till the marning." 
 
 " Oh ! we'll say it was the letters, Barney, but I think it was 
 the tavern that kept you so late. It's all right, Barney. That 
 will do," and with a bow and a scrape that individual made hifj 
 exit. 
 
 " Here are a couple of letters for you, Vance," said Mr. Mor- 
 daunt, handing them to him. " One bears a lady's handwriting 
 too ; take caio, or some one will be looking after your corres- 
 pondence," he added, with a laugh. 
 
 " Oh ! it will bear inspection — I'm not afraid," replied Edwin, 
 lightly, as he put them in his pocket. " And they will bear wait, 
 ing also until I have finished my breakfast." 
 
 A delicious after breakfast saunter through the conservatory 
 with his Ethel caused them to remain forgotten until its conclu- 
 sion, when suddenly remembering their existence, he took them 
 from their resting place and read as follows : 
 
 Toronto, July 22nd, 1873. 
 Dear Sir, — 
 
 We beg to advise you that a decision has been reached in the 
 suit "Orden ef a/, vs. yourself," which terminates, it would appear 
 to us, with a result not unfavourable to your interests. Your title 
 to that portion of your Toronto property involved in the suit is 
 declared perfect, and should not have been questioned, and on 
 this ground costs have gone against the other parties. As was anti- 
 cipated, the properties in Western Ontario, attached in the same 
 suit, go to those New York people, but burdened with the pay- 
 ment to you, as representing your late grandfather, of the settle- 
 ments, etc., to which they were liable, when, as apparent next 
 of kin, he took possession, together with the interest to this date. 
 
 •; li 
 
 iil 
 
 |!: 
 
 "^''tt'iitfaseiBne^.iju.i gifrtwag 
 
■wir >fwh«: 
 
 liyy^twir riTnriiTfii' 
 
 ^t^^m 
 
 172 
 
 SHE MIGH r HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 Tlieir lawyers have already jiaid over on account twenty-five 
 thousand dollars, until the amount of your claims against the 
 property are definitely ascertained, and at the same time the>- 
 ask for a year's delay for payment of the balance. This we re- 
 fer to your decision. The sum of twenty-five thousand dollars, 
 mentioned above, we hold to your order. 
 
 We would also advise you that, yesterday, Miss Agnes Sea- 
 forth, on visiting our office to receive the half-)'early allowance 
 made her by you in lieu of the annuity exi)ired by her mother's 
 decease, comi)lained of annoyance to which she claimed to be 
 subjected, in presenting for payment your cheque for the amount, 
 and required, i)eremptorily, that some other mode be adopted. 
 Upon our statement of the fact that we held no other funds for 
 the purpose, she enquired in what manner your name had a 
 right to be mixed up with her business, and threatened law pro- 
 ceedings if her demand was not complied with or her enquiries 
 answered. In order to avert a course which could not fail to 
 be disagreeable to both herself and to you, and could be pro- 
 ductive of no good end, we were comi)elled to explain the entire 
 matter to her, and that in reality she possessed no legal claim 
 upon you for the sums she had received since the death of her 
 mother. As she very evidently hesitated to believe our account 
 of this matter, we advised her to address herself for its confirma- 
 tion to you. It is our opinion that the young lady, being of a 
 romantic turn of mind, will decline further to receive money from 
 the same source, which will be so much the better for you, and 
 will save you six hundred dollars a year. 
 
 Please advise us at your early convenience of your decision 
 in the matterc referred to above. 
 
 We are, Sir, 
 
 Your obedient servants, 
 
 John Hatch itfess & Son. 
 Edwin Vance, Esq., \ 
 Lake Mordaunt. J 
 " Well ! t am twenty-five thousand dollars richer at any rate 
 
 than I supposed myself," said Edwin to himself. " For since 
 these people turned up with their claim, I have never considered 
 my title good, or that the property would ever yield me a dol- 
 lar. So much the better. I am very sorry, though, about this 
 matter of Agnes Seaforth's. It will be a difficult thing with that 
 
MMM 
 
 r? 
 
 rate 
 lince 
 ired 
 Idol- 
 this 
 Ithat 
 
 EMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 173 
 
 proud and independent spirit of hers to arrange this affair again 
 on the satisfactory footing it held before the unfortunate inter- 
 view with the Hatch itfesses. If she would but have left well 
 alone ! The money is hers — most justly hers. My father's dy- 
 ing breath, which left it to her, makes it sacred to me — as binding 
 as if his command had been engrossed on parchment, signed, 
 sealed ahd delivered. I wish it had been, for I fear her proud 
 spirit will view it in a different light, and spurn the thought of 
 accepting the money from me, as she will too probably look at 
 my mere agency in it tor my dead father. 'I'his letter is, I sup- 
 pose, from her." 
 
 Toronto, 22nd, July, 1873. 
 Mv Dear Mr. Vanck, — 
 
 I trust you will excuse, for the sake of the old friendship 
 that existed between my father's family and yours, my address- 
 ing you on a subject which, though it is of serious and disquieting 
 importance to myself, may not be considered so by you, and that 
 you will on the same score, kindly consider and reply, at your 
 early convenience, to th(,' contents of this letter. 
 
 Yesterday I came to hear, for the first time, a story con- 
 nected with myself of a very unexpected nature, and one, which 
 if it be true, would have been much better for me liad I heard it 
 long since, as it would have relieved me from the involiintar}- 
 assumption cf a burden, whose removal presents an aspect of 
 great difficulty to me. • 
 
 During the course of a conversation with Mr. John Hatchit- 
 • fess, which conversation, I may premise, was brought on by 
 myself, in fact unwillingly forced upon him by me, for various 
 reasons, to which it is needless to advert. I learned to my sur- 
 prise and great disgust, that the income which, during my 
 mother's life, she had enjoyed, and which I had always been led 
 to believe had, since her decease, become mine, was an annuity 
 which expired with her life ; that in effect I was then left penni- 
 less, and that you, with a generosity which is none the less 
 honorable to you that it was mistaken, had continued since that 
 period, the same amount from your private funds for my benefit, 
 in deference to the expressed wish of your father. I also learn- 
 ed, at the same time, from Mr. Hatchitfess the various transactions 
 alike honorable -to both, that occurred betvveen your father and 
 
 I : 
 
 
 
 ill 
 
 . 1 
 
 ■i 
 
 I 'I 
 
174 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BEITER. 
 
 mine, with reference to the property from which my mother's 
 annuity was derived, together with the events which preceded 
 and brought to pass these transactions. 
 
 From all this, for the truth of which Mr. Hatchitfess vouched, 
 and which I do not see any reason to disbelieve, it would seem 
 that, for too long a time past, I have been receiving and living 
 in idleness upon money which was not mine, to which I was not 
 lawfully entitled, and for which 1 had no legal claim upon you. 
 Upon your money, in fact, I have been for over two years exist- 
 ing, and I have to repeat that it would have been much better 
 for me had I been informed of the true state of affairs at my 
 mother's death, and much easier also, as I would not then have 
 had to commence life under the burden of a heavy debt to you. 
 A debt which my self-respect will not permit me to breathe freely 
 under until it is discharged to the last dollar. 
 
 While thanking you for tlie kind motive which imi)elled your 
 mistaken generosity to me, I must at once and peremptorily de- 
 cline to accept any farther aid from that source. It would not 
 be right for me to do so. I will earn my own bread, by my own 
 exertions, and will not consent to live upon the generosity of 
 another. 
 
 I took yesterday the three hundred dollars which Mr. Hatchit- 
 fess paid me, as a loan, in order to enable my aunt and myself 
 to live until I can find the means of earning our living, and stern 
 necessity alone compelled me to take it even in that light. 
 
 May I request the favour of your early reply, as I wish the 
 assurance from yourself that Mr. Hatchitfess's account of these 
 matters has been a true one, and also the hope that my decision, 
 as expressed above, may not come between the friendship that . 
 exists between your mother and m}self, and, I hope I may add, 
 with you also. 
 
 I am, dear Mr. Vance, 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Agnes Skaforth. 
 
 Such was the letter that Edwin Vance read, and as he con- 
 cluded it he walked up and down the room disquietly and 
 
 soliloquised as follows : — ■ 
 
 " Poor Agnes ! That brute Hatchitfess in his cold-blooded 
 
 epistle, describes you as of a romantic turn of mind. Well ! per- 
 haps he is not far wrong, but you are nor a whit more romanti- 
 
EMILY BEGINS TO PLOT. 
 
 175 
 
 cally inclined than I am, and no more determined about this 
 matter either. It would more burn my fingers to keep this money, 
 which is so rightfully yours, than it will burn yours to take it." 
 
 " Not if I know it, shall you spoil your good looks and drudge 
 away your life in the slavery of teaching, or some other equally 
 harrassing and ill-paid occupation, to which won^en have to re- 
 sort. Could I rest at ease ? a great part of my fortune sprung 
 from the purchase, equitable though it may have been, of her 
 father's i)roperty, and with my fatlier's last commai. J yet ringing 
 in my ears, while she might be starving on a crust, No ! it shall 
 not be. "^he matter shall be decided at once. I'll write to-day 
 to Hatchitfess and order him to purchase an annuity for her life 
 out of this money which has so opportunely fallen to me, and if 
 she will not take it, it will not be for want of persuasion on my 
 part. I'll write to her also at once and try to ombat her deci- 
 sion." 
 
 Having formed this virtuous resolution, Ed'in Vance took 
 his way from the conservatory, and proceeded in search ot his 
 writing materials. 
 
 Passing through the hall, he met Mrs. Mordaunt, and asked 
 her if he could go to the lil)rary to answer the letters he had re- 
 ceived that morning, as he could post the replies in Ten Lakes 
 that day as they were pressing. 
 
 '* Certainly ! Edwin. You will find all the material you require 
 there. You have not much time, though, for Reggie is hurrying 
 the horses up to the door," she replied. 
 
 " Thank you I Mrs. Mordaunt," he said. " They are of im- 
 portance, so I must try to answer them to-day." 
 
 He entered the library, got out his letters for reference, and 
 had seated himself to write, when Sidney Wolverton entered the 
 room in search of him. 
 
 Dii-ectly after leaving the breakfast table, when the party had 
 separated in different directions, Emily Dearborn had sought an 
 
 !• 
 
 i,l 
 
 
".'?«■« »!!a«:-»sV'"^"- 
 
 176 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETIER. 
 
 opportunity to meet Wolverton, and finding him alone enjoying 
 a cigar in the garden, addressed him — 
 
 " Sidney I I want you to do me a favour. Edwin Vance receiv- 
 ed this morning a letter from a lady, and I am convinced by a 
 glimpse 1 obtained of the envelope that it is the handwriting of 
 a, young lady that it bears. If you can by any means, without 
 showing interest in the matter, find out the name of the writer, 
 you will do me a service. I have a reason for wishing to know 
 this." 
 
 " I'll do it with pleasure, Emily, if I possibly can," replied he. 
 " But it is rather a difficult task. However am I to get an op- 
 portunity to see it ? I can't very well ask him who his fair 
 correspondent may be." 
 
 " If you can do so, I mean. It is not of great importance, but 
 if you find an opportunity take it. I will see you in I'en Lakes 
 to-day." 
 
 It was for this purpose that Sidney had followed Edwin into 
 the library and was lounging about the book-case, on the watch 
 for the means of accomplishing his undignified mission. That 
 he did not feel the indignity laid upon him in the mere proposal 
 that he should accept so unworthy an errand was very evident 
 from the fact of his seeking to fu'fil it. He had ceased to be, 
 though he still bore the outward semblance of a gentleman, and 
 no sense of his degradation, no mortifying perception of its 
 own withered insignificance, stung his soul to the quick, or 
 shrank him into nothingness. 
 
 Il ^He attained his object, such as it was, easily enough, through 
 the unwitting and unexpected aid of another. 
 
 Hardly had he been in the room a couple of minutes when 
 Reginald entered it with his usual impetuosity, shouting — 
 
 " Oh ! here yo.i are. Come on now as fast as you can. It's 
 nearly ten o'clock, and the horses are ail waiting. The others 
 all ready too. Never mind your letters, Mr. Vance ; write them 
 to-morrow. They'll wait for one day, I'm sure." 
 
 Hi 
 
EMILY BECilNS To PLoT. 
 
 -ply written," exclaimed Ed^ l^. °"'^ g<« 'he half of one 
 pen would movs. ' ''^"''W.ng away as fast as his 
 
 " Well ! you can write them in r r , 
 •e for the mail after the match i, '"'"^ ""'^ «^«»i"g in 
 
 -tel or the Dearborn,. HI how vnT ^°" <^''" «<> '<> "'e 
 ^n wnte them. That's you bet ^ " °'" P'^'^*''* »*ere you 
 grotmd before eleven," retold '""'■ '^' °"S'« '° ^e o„Z 
 , " Ali right ; Regg,-; i"^2t T'""' '^'«^''- 
 "-- is one whiclfmu t b™ L':;';: •?'"• P'^" ''^ "'^ "-«, for 
 -;™e now, that is evident "'2 dF? "'"'""' ^"<^ ^ "-- 
 ha!f-fin,shed letter to the HatcS , ""' ""'^ f^'dingup his 
 '"'". "' the same envelo,^ 1 ^ ?'' ''" '^'"'^^d " '"'th theirs to 
 *ch had contained M tattSTf. ''f"' "' ««^ ^ • 
 had forgotten that he had taken ? f 'j '"" ^"'"' >>'hich he 
 ference, he turned and left ^ oomaft ^ '"'^ '^'^'^ ^- - 
 
 Wolverton, whose eye had IT? R^S'nald. 
 
 emered noticed the omisS.^'f ;/ f" '"'^^ --e he had 
 
 Hatched t,p that which Vane had left 11 '''''"■ *^ '^"^ ''e 
 
 and followed them out of the room J"" " '""' ^'^ P°^ket 
 
 P-'y were on the road to T J^^TIJ^ "/?' ''''""''' '"^ -hole 
 
 Dunng the drive .S,d„,v, , /t '' "''*^' ™«'^h. 
 
 by^^he s,de of Knu-ly, ,„,;;;. ^"J^^-ntnved to seat himself 
 and Mr. Horton, seized ,„ .v,^ if '^''"''•■"'P'edalso bv Ada 
 
 j-iieres the letttT • i,,,, • ■ 
 "'•Thant.t ■ " ""= "Sht one ; had no. time 
 
 ^'HAPTKR XIX. 
 
 I'HE CRICKET AfviCH Avr. 
 
 -— «veo.loc,i::;;----™o... 
 
 '"itrest was manjiested 
 
 m^ 
 
 II 
 
 F'-ir 
 
 ■ff 
 
 ^ 
 
178 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 9i , 1 
 
 by the crowd of spectators assembled on the Ten Lakes cricket 
 ground as the match between the club of that village and the 
 formidable County Club drew to its close. Expectation was on 
 tip-toe ; little flutters of excitement and whispered ripples of 
 suspense ran over the field, for the Coimty had sent its last 
 man to the bat, and had still six runs to make to beat their op- 
 ponents. But one wicket to go down and six runs to make. 
 
 It was an unwonted position for them — in the present case 
 wholly unexpected. Instead of a score high above that of their 
 somewhat complacently regarded rivals, they had six runs to 
 earn ; with their last man handling his willow. Their men, col- 
 lected in an eager knot, watched with anxiously directed eyes, 
 each ball cf the over as after determinate preparedness it flew, 
 swift and direct from the round sweei)ing aim of the Ten Lakes 
 bowler ; to be carefully blocked down by the count}' batsman. 
 The Ten Lakes players, at their posts around the field, alert, 
 watchful and active, become doubly so with the close contest, 
 and the knowledge that victory or defeat for them depends on 
 the next two or three overs. 
 
 " Ha 1 Well played I For two — run it for two," shouts the 
 county-field captain, as a ball, slightly off the wicket is beauti- 
 fully cut to leg by the player, and as beautifully stopped in its 
 course and thrown up l)y the Ten Lakes fielder whose ground 
 it invaded. 
 
 " How's that ? Umpire," exclaims the wicket keeper, as sim- 
 ultaneously the bails fell and the panting runner's bat giound- 
 ed in his popping^crease. 
 
 " Not out," is the quiet reply, and two runs are added to the 
 score. 
 
 Four to make. The Coiuity men's faces lighten up with re- 
 newed hope, and again a buzz of excitement runs through the 
 field. Ada Dearborn, seated with her sister in a carriage among 
 the spectators, shivers with apprehension. 
 
 " Well be beaten. They're onl)' four to make to beat us. 
 
A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 179 
 
 Only three to tie ; will they never get that wicket down ;" she 
 groans out between her clenched teeth, 
 
 " Ha ! they're running it. "W^ell done I" shout the County 
 men, as a ball struck barely past mid-wicket is run by the ex- 
 cited batsman, who barely saves his wicket. 
 
 " Three to make to win," and the County is jubilant. 
 
 " Over," cries the Umpire, and as the Ten Lakes cross to 
 their posts, Reggie Mordaunt catches the ball thrown to him 
 by the wicket keeper, and walks to his place to bowl the over. 
 
 Determination is written on his face, but anxiety in his heart, 
 for he feels as if the honor of Ten Lakes lay in his hand. 
 
 Carefully he measures his distance and pitch, as he poises 
 himself in readiness. 
 
 " Play," cries the Umpire, and running his four paces, his 
 gracefully round-even ball flies straight for the middle stump. 
 It is blocked dead. Again, and it meets the same fate. The 
 third, somewhat swifter, rises higher, is missed by the batsman, 
 and passing six inches above the bails, goes into the wicket- 
 l«ee])er's hands. 
 
 " That's it ! That's the kind you don't like. Swift and 
 pitching high," mutters Reggie to himself, as he walks forward 
 to receive his ball. Again it liies to its mark, rises as it pitches 
 almost into the popi ing crease, glances over the shoulder of the 
 bat, and drops the off bail to the ground. 
 
 The match is over and the hitherto invincible County Club 
 is defea'.ed. Defeated b}- only two runs — it is true — but de- 
 feated by a young village club of their own county, whom they 
 had half condescendingly met, and had fully intended to defeat 
 in one innings. Instead of this, though they had played but 
 one innings, ^len Lakes had played but one also, and had de- 
 feated them by two runs. 
 
 Probabl) this over-confidence in themselves and their record 
 had led them to underrate their opponents' prowess, and had 
 induced careless play on their part. On the other liand, the 
 
 
 iMCUWll. «JlMiC«ietiBaD«!>trtnr'' 
 
't irt-vr:f^'T\'A'Wi'.-'. 
 
 i8o 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i 
 
 Ten Lakes Club, in general younger and more active, and in- 
 spired by a wholesome awe of the formidable County, had 
 striven by constant practice since receiving the challenge to 
 bring their fielding and their play up to the scientific standard 
 of their opponents. 
 
 It was hard on the County, and they felt it hard, but like 
 true cricketers they did not shew their disappointment and cha- 
 grin. Gathered into a knot together, and swinging their hats 
 over their heads, they manfully gave three rousing cheers for the 
 Ten Lakes Cricket Club ; and by thus honoring those who had 
 defeated them, they honored themselves. In return the Ten 
 Lakes' proved themselves to be not less generous. Every out- 
 ward demonstration of the exultation that swelled their hearts 
 was carefully restrained, and their answering cheers were voci- 
 ferously hearty ; taken up and prolonged as they were by the 
 whole body of spectators, for Ten Likes had turned out its 
 population eu masse to witness the play of their cricketers 
 -against the picked men of the County. After the graceful 
 handing over of a new ball, the usual tribute to victory, had 
 been performed by the C(junty field Captain, the dispersal com- 
 menced, and the assemblage began to move towards home. 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, approaching the Dearborn's carriage, 
 found it occupied by Emily alone ; the delighted Ada having 
 flown to jubilate over the Ten Lakes' victory with Ethel and 
 Reggie, and every one else who would listen. 
 
 " So you are beaten, it seems, Sidney, at your stupid 
 cricket," she said. " Are your feelings much injured by the 
 defeat ?" 
 
 '' Well ! I should much liave preferred it the other way. It 
 comes hard on our fellows to be beaten by the club of a litde 
 place like this. I trust, though, I won't meet like defeat in the 
 little game I have to play to-night ;" he answered. 
 
 " If you play it right, you will not. It depends on yourself. 
 Are you sure he remains for the dinner ?" 
 
glg^ 
 
 >">l'X'WK-ffW.'1!<iJfiWBB' 
 
 iyg^^^p^^-a*s,>v^-^«w^:t.v;sv.^ 
 
 I 
 
 A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 i8i 
 
 )lf. 
 
 " Yes ! I think so," he replied. He said as much before 
 eaving this morning." 
 
 " You had better make it assured for all that," replied Emily. 
 " Remember he is rather love-sick at present, and the charms 
 of his beloved one may induce him to alter his intention and 
 return with her instead." 
 
 " It's ]iossible enough ; by jove, iMiiily. I'll go and hunt 
 him up. By-the-bye, was that letter the right one that I got 
 hold of so nicely this morning ?" inquired he, with a laugh. 
 
 " Yes I it was ; but, unfortunately, it is not of much impor- 
 tance to me," she answered. " I wonder if his rei)ly would 
 have been of use ? I should have liked to have seen it." 
 
 " His reply 1 Why he has not written it yet. He n^s in 
 terrupted by our starting, and intends visiting somewhere here 
 this evening," exclaimed Sidney. 
 
 " Well ! As you'll have him in low — try to see it or get it 
 for me, if you easily can do so. ft might be of use to me," re- 
 turned the young lady. 
 
 " All right, Emil)'. I'll kcej) m) e}cs open. I'll run over 
 and see you this evening, if ail goes well with my undertaking. 
 " All revoir" and Sidney went off to search for Kdwin in the 
 direction where he \" .' ^ lost likely to find him — with the Mor- 
 dant and I''the1. 
 
 The dinner of the Ten I-akes Cricket Club in honour of their 
 rivals and guests of the day, with its j)osi prandial accompani- 
 ment of laughter and song, toasting and speechifying, had at 
 length coriie to a conclusion. The i)layers, at least, had brought 
 sharji appetites to it, for a hotly-contested field-day ends with a 
 nol)le sense of hiniger, and the dinner had been a sumptuous 
 one, so sumpttious that by reason of it the funds of the Clflb 
 would i^robably also need refreshment by an assessment. But, 
 as Reggie Mordauiit had observed, " It's not everyday we play 
 with a County Club and beat them into the bargain," so that 
 the ordinarily i)lain cricketer's dinner had swollen to the pro- 
 
 13 
 
iiiiim 
 
 - ■'/!»*■ .».^t.»f.^!■^#.tJ^;^^ 
 
 ifift 
 
 i8: 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE 13ETTER. 
 
 portions of a banquet, and the flowing bowl had passed in mis- 
 taken hospitalitv-, more freely than was altogether good for the 
 revellers, even though there had not been excess. That there 
 was a ball on the tapis was tlie probable reason that there had 
 not been such, for there had been those present, Sidne)' 'W'olver- 
 ton among the number, to whom an orgie was an acceptable 
 element. But the entertainment had not degenerated into excess, 
 and had come to a conclusion. 
 
 Edwin Vance and Sidney ^Volverton were walking arm-in-arm 
 after leaving the dining-hall, down the street, in amicable con- 
 versation together. 
 
 The former appeared to be in a peculiarly light-hearted vein. 
 He talked fastly and freely, laughing heartily at every observation 
 of his companion or of his own that bore the faintest semblance 
 of point about it. There was an unv/onted sparkle in his eye, 
 an unwonted Hush upon his cheek, and there was aj^parent a 
 tendency to ellipse in his sentences, and to cut last syllables from 
 his words. 
 
 Wolverton, on the contrary, although he had drank three times 
 as much wine as his companion had done, did not betray the 
 slightest appearance of having drank any. Neither by his man- 
 ner, his conversation nor his looks would he have been supi)osed 
 to have just quitted a convivial meeting. 
 
 But then he was seasoned. ^Vhat would to another have been 
 a drunkard's potion, was to him a harmless and unexciting 
 draught. On this occasion he congratulated himself on the self- 
 sacrifice of being temperate, although the three or four glasses of 
 chamjjagne which had exhilarated his companion, fell far short 
 of the quantum he himselt had imbibed. But then the one was 
 an accustomed bibationist and the other was not. 
 
 " I have a couple of letters to write, Sidney, for this evening's 
 mail, and I must find a place to write them. AMiere shall we go 
 to ?" said Edwin. 
 " Oh ! we'll go the hotel and get a private room. You'll 
 
A CRICKET .MATCH. 
 
 183 
 
 self- 
 >s of 
 lort 
 'as 
 
 -u'll 
 
 find materials there. I've got to dress for the ball, and my 
 valise is there, at any rate. We'll ^0 to the hotel," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " A'ery well I I'm agreed. I>y-the.l)ye, Sidney, have you done 
 anything since we had that conversation the other evening rela- 
 tive to your affairs ? Have you thought of any plan ?" returned 
 Edwin. 
 
 " Oh ! well ! Get your letters off your mind, and then we'll 
 have a talk over m?.tters. Here we are at the Ten Lakes Hotel. 
 I've seen better, but it will answer all our purposes." 
 
 Paltering the hostelry, a large, plain looking brick structure, 
 with an infinity of windows garnishing its front, and opening on 
 to the many-posted galleries which ran under each of its three 
 stories, they found themselves in a bare, uncarpeted liall, with 
 the usual Canadian-country-hotel arrangement of a dingy com- 
 mon sitting-room on one side, and the bar-room, with its inevitable 
 crowd of loafers, on tlie other. 
 
 Turning into the first, Sidney rang the hand-bell on t!ie cigar- 
 ash-ornamented table for an attendant. This operation having 
 failed in its effect, he proceeded to the bar-room in -lersonal 
 search of the delinquent official. Finding in that classic regioji 
 no one bearing the appearance of connection with the establish- 
 ment except the bar-keeper, he address^ . himself to that impor- 
 tant personage. 
 
 '' Can you give us the use of a private sitting-room for a short 
 time ? I have some business to transact." 
 
 '• All right I" was the curt reply of the man of bottles, desisting 
 for a moment from the dispensing of Upper Canada whiskey to 
 his bibacious clients. " Here ! Jim, show these gentlemen to 
 the little drawing-room up stairs, and see what they want," he 
 called out to a coatless individual sitting among the habitues of 
 the bar-room. 
 
 This personage, wljo was the ostler of the hotel, the perfume 
 of his attire sufficiently indicating the nature of his vocation, 
 
 1 "I 
 
 '.^' 
 
i84 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVP: DONE BETTER. 
 
 accordingly preceded the two gentlemen to a comfortable and 
 rather handsomely furnished room, and ligliting a lamp, awaited 
 their commands. 
 
 " Bring some i)ai)er, i)ens and ink," said Sidney. " And, look 
 here ! have you any chami)agne in the house ? C'hampagne. I 
 mean. None of your cider and gooseberry jokes. Have you 
 any good ?" 
 
 " You bet, we have !" replied he of the stables. "There ain't 
 as much fiz drank in this consarn as there is whiskey by a long 
 chalk. But we've got the real stuff for all that." 
 
 " Well ! bring up a botde and glasses, and don't forget the 
 writing materials," answered Sidney, and their queer attendant 
 departed on his errand. 
 
 " What did you order the champagne for, Sidney ? I'm sure 
 we've both had enough already. I shall not drink any, at least," 
 said Edwin, reproachfully, to his friend. 
 
 " Oh 1 nonsense, Vance. What does a glass of champagne 
 amount to? I want some, at any rate, for I'm tired after my 
 day's work, getting beaten by those young scamps. And so do 
 you, too, after standing roasting in the sun all day with a bat in 
 your hand," replied Sidney, decidedly. 
 
 " I've had too much as it is, and I won't drink any more to- 
 night," answered Edwin. " A glass of soda would do better. I 
 wish you had not i)ressed me so often to take wine, Sidney. I am 
 not used to so much." 
 
 " Pooh ! AVhat the worse are you f jr it ? But have the soda 
 if you like," returned Sidney, and as he spoke their attendant re- 
 turned bearing the chami)agne in one hand and a couple of glasses 
 upside down in the other. 
 
 " Here's your fiz ! The writing fixings will be here directly. 
 They had to send out for them. Old Whiskey Mixer, down 
 stairs, allowed as how you champagne gents would'nt be satisfied 
 with the yallar envelope, blue-ruled, ten-cent-a-quire sort he 
 keeps on hand in gineral. It goes well enough with your hot 
 
:^^ 
 
 . MH^^^.^^ '■«»« 
 
 A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 185 
 
 whiskey callers thougli," said the queer genius, who waited on 
 them. 
 
 •' All right I Bring up a glass of soda with a stick in it, mind, 
 for tliis gentleman," said Sidney. " Here I take your pay out of 
 this, and a quarter to treat yourself with. Hurry up with those 
 writing materials and the soda — a stick in it, remember," — he 
 added, the last words in a low and significant tone, as he hand- 
 ed the man a five dollar bill. ** High wines ! and keep the change 
 yourself" 
 
 " All right !" was the reply, and as the door closed behind him, 
 our worthy ostler shook his head and muttered — 
 
 " Sid's up to some of his games to-night with that young fel- 
 low. Soda and high wines is a queer mixture on the toj) of 
 champagne ; but its no business of mine, though." 
 
 He presently returned with the materials for writing, a bottle 
 of soda water, and a large tumbler, nearly a quarter full of the 
 fiery liquid, y'clei)t high wines, which, being colourless, escaped 
 Edwin's notice, through the thick sides of the common moulded 
 glass, 
 
 "That will do! Thanks," said Sidney to the man, wlio de- 
 parted. 
 
 " Here's your paper, \'ance. \V'rite away now as fast as you 
 like," he continued, handing Edwin the writing materials. Then, 
 taking up the bottle of soda, he opened it, and poured its 
 contents into the tumbler, with the fiery potion it contained. 
 
 " Here ! Drink it while it is fresh, though in my opinion a 
 glass of champagne would be better for you," he added, as he 
 gave the traitorous dose to his friend, who drank off what, inno- 
 cently, hj supposed to be a cooling draught. 
 
 " Well I that soda water has a very strange taste," said Edwin, 
 as he put down the empty glass. 
 
 Had he known what a glass of soda " with a stick in it " meant 
 as, if he had been a tavern'frequenter, like his friend, he would 
 have known, he would most certainly have avoided it ; but to his 
 
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 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 unsophisticated mind the stick meant merely a country contri- 
 trivance for adding si)arkle to a stale commodity, a mere dis- 
 engager of latent carbonic acid gas, which in country kept soda, 
 was probably very apt to be latent, or, in i)lain English, very 
 flat. 
 
 Hovv'ever, as the soda possessed a cooliiig effect in itself for 
 the moment, in spite of the dosing to which it had been sub- 
 jected, whose action was not so immediately apparent, he sat 
 down and finished his letter to the Hatchitfesses coolly and 
 equably enough. 
 
 But when, in the course of a fev/ minutes, he commenced his 
 reply to Miss Seaforth, and raised himself from the recumbent 
 attitude of v/riting to search for her letter, it could be seen that 
 there was a deeper tnish on his face, an unsteady and excited 
 light in iiis eye, and an unnatural expression of feature, which 
 too plainly showed that Wolverton's potion had accomplished 
 its intended purpose. 
 
 " What can I have done with that letter?" he exclaimed, im- 
 patiently, as, after searcliing his pockets in the vain attemj.t to 
 find what was not there, he held the empty envelope in his 
 hand. " I'm sure I picked it up with the other, and all I can 
 find is the envelope. I wonder now if I left it on the library 
 table. It's vexatious, for I wanted it to refer to in my replying. 
 However, I must do the best I can without it, and answer the 
 letter from memory." 
 
 " Perhaps you left it on the cricket ground to-day. Likely 
 enough if you had it loosely in your pocket," said Sidney, 
 
 " I may have done so, although it is strange too. I'll write a 
 few words, at any rate. I wish now I had UTitten this morning, 
 for I shall not express myself so clearly as I should wish after 
 that champagne. The soda water has done me no good either," 
 replied Jie. 
 
 " I told you so at the time, Vance, that a glass of champagne 
 would have been better for you. Take some now." 
 
A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 187 
 
 )ntri- 
 dis- 
 
 for 
 sub- 
 sat 
 and 
 
 the 
 
 " Indeed I will not, Sidney. I feel as if I had toe much al- 
 ready," was his answer, as he picked up his pen again. After 
 a moment's consideration, he dashed off a few lines to Miss Sea- 
 forth, folded, enclosed and addressed the two letters, and taking 
 another, written the evening before, from his pocket, laid them 
 on the table. 
 
 " I sui)pose I can get that fellow who showed us up to mnil 
 these letters," he observed. 
 
 " Oh ! yes ! I think so ; I'll ring," replied Sidney, taking up 
 the hand bell. 
 
 " Never mind I Sidney. I don't feel very well, and will go out 
 for a minute. I'll send him up. That soda water or something 
 has overset me. A breath of fresh air is the thing," he said, and 
 going to the door, he walked down stairs. 
 
 Sidney thus left to himself with the letters he desired to obtain 
 wholly within his reach, pondered for a moment as to whether 
 he should risk the rhances of Vance's return to the room before 
 the man came up and take immediate possession of the prize or 
 w^ait until sure which of them came first. He hesitated awhile with 
 the uneasy and nervously guilty feeling, the deterring conscious- 
 ness that, spite of being alone in the closed room, its very walls 
 contained a thousand eyes fixed upon him and taking silent note 
 of the act he was meditating. 
 
 " Why did I not think of it at once," he said, almost aloud, 
 and jumping up he put the three letters into his pocket. " If 
 Vance comes \\\) first I'll tell him I have sent the letters off to 
 the post office, and I can then go down stairs and find the man 
 myself." 
 
 His pilfering object was attained. 
 
 But though attained there remained a sensation of intolerable 
 unrest upon him alone in the room. The letters seemed to burn 
 in his pockets like fire — to drag him down as by tons' weight. 
 Not from remorse or shame of the act he had accomplished, but 
 simply from the fear that, until they were safely on their way to 
 
 i ni 
 
 wii T I'lWil'ft.Wiii 
 
■Ml 
 
 1 88 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 the post office, there was possibility of detection. Unable to 
 bear it longer, he left the room, and started down stairs in search 
 of the ostler, to meet him half-way coming up. 
 
 " The other gentl 'jman told me to get some letters for the mail 
 in the room you were in," he said to Sidney. " Hurry up with 
 them, or it'll be too late, and the office will be shut." 
 
 " Here they are," said Sidney, taking the two he did not want 
 from his pocket. " Save the mail if you can, there's a good fel- 
 low. Where's my friend ?" 
 
 " Oh ! he's walking about on the gallery down stairs. I cal- 
 culate he's feeling sick," replied the man with a grin, as he turned 
 down again with the letters. 
 
 Sidney followed slowly after him and joined his friend out- 
 side. 
 
 " Whatever is the matter with }'ou, \'ance ?" he exclaimed. 
 "If you are feeling the effects of the champagne still, you will 
 be better out of the air. Come up stairs again. You will be 
 all right shortly. Are you not well ?" he added. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm well enough, but I'm half intoxicated, I'm sorry to 
 say, and am worse since I took that villainous soda. I am not 
 accustomed to anything more than a single glass of wine, and I 
 am easily affected, I suppose," replied Edwin, with a half-asham- 
 ed laugh, continuing his rapid walk up and down in the fresh 
 evening air. 
 
 Sidney saw that he had gone quite far enough with his friend. 
 His eyes had assumed a glassy brightness and shone with an 
 unnatural and wild expression, which,with an occasional unsteady 
 movement in his gait, showed plainly enough that he was not 
 himself by any means. 
 
 " Pshaw ! You are not half intoxicated, but you will be better 
 out of the air. Come up stairs with me and sit down. Yc u will 
 be straight enough in an hour," said Sidney, taking him by the 
 arm to lead him in. 
 
 " Well ! I believe I shall do so. Anything would be better 
 
A CRICKET xMATCH. 
 
 189 
 
 than my present sensations," replied Edwin, as they walked 
 into the house together. " I wanted to speak with you of your 
 own affairs to-night, but I don't feel capable of much at present,' 
 he continued. 
 
 Returning to the room they liad left, Edwin threw himself 
 down on a sofa and fanned his flushed face with his handkerchief, 
 while Sidney, pouring out some champagne, handed a glass to 
 him, which, however, was refused by a gesture. 
 
 " No more for me I thanks," he said. " I'm quite satisfied 
 with my evening's experience." 
 
 " Well I please yourself. You make too much of a trifle, 
 though," replied Sidney, puttmg the glass down again on the 
 table. 
 
 Seating himself, he continued. " I suppose you don't care for 
 going into business matters to-night, Vance. Don't feel up to it 
 quite, so we'll defer consideration of my affairs until another 
 opportunity, but in the meantime you can do me a g -eat favour 
 if you will. You mentioned, during our conversation the other 
 evening, that you had a couple of tl-iousand at command which 
 you could let me hare. Now, I find on a careful review of my 
 immediately available resources, that I can in the course of a 
 couple of days rake together a sum somewhere between six or 
 seven thousand dollars. If you will let me have a thousand for 
 immediate expenses, and give me your endorsation to my note 
 for three thousand five hundred dollars, I can tide over my press- 
 ing difliculty. I can thus pay ten thousand on the lands, and 
 get sufficient time to enable me to procure the balance either by 
 disposing of a portion of them or by some other method. The 
 payment for these lands is the most pressing demand I have 
 upon me, and that disposed of I can get along well enough, I 
 think. At any rate, will try to do so. Can you do this for me,. 
 Vance?" 
 
 This specious liltle address had been admirably calculated by 
 VVolverton. The falsehoods in regard to his position, and the 
 
 >lSSf^3SKNT 
 
190 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 means necessary to dear him from his difficulties, had been so 
 stated that, in his present condition, Vance was neither Hkely to 
 perceive their want of coherence to former statements or to ques- 
 their probabiHty. The latter had listened, reclining on the sofa, 
 and his head resting on a cushion, and when Sidney had finish- 
 ed he raised himself to a sitting position, as if endeavouring to 
 pluck up a little interest in the matter, as he replied — 
 
 " All right ! Sidney. I'm glad to see that you think you can 
 get so easily out of your present troubles, and hope sincerely 
 that you will be enabled to do so. I am not fit for business or 
 anything else this evening, but will be happy to do as you ask. 
 You shall have a cheque for a thousand, and either my note 
 or endorsaticn for the three and a half Have you a blank ? 
 All right, then, fill it up, and here's my cheque-book. Fill up a 
 cheque, I can't do anything," he continued, throwing his aching 
 head down on the sofa again, unmindful of all his promises and 
 good resolutions with respect to Wolverton and his affairs. 
 
 Sidney hesitated a moment as to whether he would accept the 
 offer of the note instead of an endorsation. The former was in 
 many respects infinitely preferable. It was more business like. 
 The presentation for discount of his own paper, no matter how 
 well endorsed, did not look well and bore " accommodation " on 
 its face as plainly as if the word were written there, and Vance's 
 name on the face of the paper would make it the more easily 
 discountable. But then he reflected that bank managers knew 
 quite too much of his affairs to look on Vance's note to hmi as 
 other than " acommodation." Again, and this decided him, 
 Vance would have to put his name on the face of the paper in- 
 stead of the back, and this did not suit his ends. 
 
 " Oh ! If you endorse mine it will do as well, thanks. Much 
 obliged to you for the offer, though," replied Sidney, producing 
 a book of blank forms from his i)ocket. 
 
 Taking up a pen he then filled it in properly, promising to 
 pay three thousand five hundred dollars to Edwin Vance or 
 
A CRICKEr MARCH. 
 
 191 
 
 order, three months after date, and handed it to liim for exami- 
 nation. 
 
 " All riflfht ! Sidnev. Three thousand five hundred. I see 
 
 you've made it payable at the bank where I keep my account. 
 All the better, since if you cannot conveniently meet it when due, 
 I can the easier see to it myself," said Edwin, sitting up and 
 glancing over the paper. He then got up, and, going to the 
 table endorsed it, handed it i)ack to Sidney, and then went back 
 to his sofa. 
 
 .Sidney took a bill stamp from his pocket-book, alfixed it to 
 the note, and took up the pen to cancel it with the date and his 
 initials. 
 
 " Confound it !" he exclaimed, springing up impatiently, " I've 
 
 sjioiled it. S{)lashed it all over with ink, with the spluttering 
 
 pen. I am afraid I'll have trouble you to endorse a new one, 
 
 Vance. This is done for," and walking over he showed it to 
 
 him. 
 
 "Yes, I think so," said Edwin, with a half laugh. " Make 
 
 out another and the cheque too. How my unfortunate head 
 does go I My brain feels as if it were red hot," he continued, 
 burying his head in the cushion. 
 
 Sidney filled up the new note, and a cheque from Vance's 
 
 book. Having finished them, he went to the piano, which stood 
 
 in the room, took a music book from it, laid the note and the 
 
 cheque upon it, the former face downwards, and carried it to the 
 
 sofa, with a pen in his hand. 
 
 *' Here ! Vance, just siga thern. I won't trouble you to get 
 
 up, as you are suffering," he said, in an accent of apparent con- 
 cern, as he held the bo jk before him. 
 
 Edwin raised himself with a sigh, took the pen and wrote 
 
 his name across the back of the note, and signed the cheque 
 without looking at either, too generously confident of his friend. 
 " Thank you 1 I won't trouble you again. Try to rest a few 
 minutes until the pain leaves you," said Sidney, removing the 
 book, the moment Edwin had signed. 
 
 \ I 
 
192 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 i 
 
 J 
 
 He walked back to tlie table, and with a sense of triumph 
 placed the latter's endorsation for thirty-five thousand dollars, 
 duly signed, stamped and comi^leted into his pocket and he felt 
 secure. 
 
 No twinge of remorse, no sense of disgrace for the shameful 
 act he had peri)etrated, tugged at his heart strings with the 
 arousing grasp of conscience, or quenched the exultant gleam of 
 his eyes in self-humiliation. No inward retrospect swejjt over 
 his soul and lowered the confident poise of his head at the ab- 
 horrent aspect of his own vileness. 
 
 No gleam of pity for the generous-hearted and confiding friend 
 — blameable alone in that he was too aimable and too yielding, 
 whom he had not alone robbed, but had drugged and tried his 
 best to degrade that day — i)assed from his remorseless eyes. 
 
 Did not the reflection — chilling as a northern blast — sweej) 
 over him that, as crime after crime, the crimes whose perpetra- 
 tion he had but just accomplished, added their blackness to his 
 soul, the blackness became the more indelible ? the harder to 
 be washed out, as washed out they must be, even in tears of 
 blood. Did not the paralyzing thought, like a blow, crush into 
 his consciousness, that for the blackness of that which he had 
 received from his Maker in purity, he was alone responsible, for 
 had he not, with his eyes open, deliberately and again sinned ; 
 and as he was responsible, so must he atone ? 
 
 That, as he added wickedness knowingly to wickedness, 
 hardening his seared conscience in its guilt, so became it the 
 harder for him — the more impossible, the more undesired, even, 
 to turn himself away from his sin ; and looking towards the 
 Great Atonement, that would wash his soul again white as snow 
 — appealing to the world-embracing sacrifice — his Saviour's 
 blood, cry forth the cry that His mercy never refuses : '' I re- 
 pent me of my sin — forgive." 
 
 No ! Sensations such as these would be the last to occur to 
 Sidne}' Wolverton, as he stood there, triumphant. There was 
 
A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 193 
 
 no remorse or shame — no pity — no sense of his own vilcncss 
 present to him, as he looked down on the generous friend whom 
 he had injured — and considered as to his next move. He was 
 the victor — what cared he for the victim ? He had swei)t away 
 the trace of one crime, and its danger to himself, by the com- 
 mission of another — and what cared he who suffered therel)y ? 
 Joy, and the pride of success reigned in his heart in ]jlace of 
 bitter humiliation and disgrace of himself. 
 
 He had but little left to do : his work for the day was very 
 nearly completed. He had but to see Miss Dearborn, and then 
 take himself off with his spoil. Now that he had been success- 
 ful, he had not the slightest intention of returning to Lake Mor- 
 daunt to spend the Sunday, or even to bid his '* Farewell!" 
 He had brought his travelling valise with him to 'Jen I«ikes, 
 and an hour lience would see him on the road. He sat for a 
 few minutes meditating 'upon the events of the day, and his 
 next moves — and quietly finishing his champagne. 
 
 At length he rose from his seat, looked at his watch, and half 
 audibly muttered : " If I can make a start in half an hour, I'll 
 catch the night ' -^'n at Cascades ; and the first on .Monday for 
 Toronto. But 1 . ' .ve to hurr\ . though. I must see T'.mily 
 Dearborn before I g^. I uonder how m\' friend there is getting 
 along," continued he. walking over to the sofa, where Vance 
 still lay reclining, and found that he had fallen asleep. 
 
 " All the better for him," he said to himself; " he'll be straight 
 enough again when hr wakes. . Well ! If I had such a Ilea d as 
 he has — that two or iluvc gl.isses of champagne would knock, 
 me into a cocked hat, like ihal — I'd — yes ! — I'd become a tem- 
 perance man, or I'd season it with a little ' del. tre.' 
 
 " I guess that that vrhiskcy sickened him ; but it was a bright 
 idea of mine, though ! How Paiiily will laugh over it ! I'll go 
 and see her now, and I'll come back and bid him ' good-bye ' 
 before I start," and turning away he walked quickly from the 
 room, not to disturb the sleeper. 
 
194 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE l^E'lTER. 
 
 Proceeding to the bar-room, he asked that a conveyance be 
 read\' in lialf an hour to take him to Cascades. 
 
 " Cascades ! — the devil I " replied the bar tender with agree- 
 able politeness. "What in thunder do you want to go to Cas- 
 cades for, at this time of a Saturday night? Vou can't get out 
 of it before Monday." 
 
 " Can I have the team, or shall I go elsewhere for it ? " said 
 Sidney, jjeremptorily. " I want to catch the night train, and 
 am willing to pay for speed to do it." 
 
 "Oh ! you can have it fast enougli, if you must have it. It 
 will be ready for you on time," replied the bar-tender sulkily. 
 
 "All right ! I'll be back for it in half an hour," and Sidney 
 departed for his interview with Miss Dearborn. 
 
 " I wonder what in the world Emily wants this letter ot 
 Vance's for?" he soliloquized, as he walked along the street to- 
 wards the Town Hall. " She's up to some deep game or other 
 against him and his love affair with the Mordaunt girl. I can't 
 see into her idea — though I'm very certain there's nothing be- 
 tween him and this Miss Seaforth, to v/hom he is writing. He's 
 not the kind to make love to two at once, by any means," and 
 vSidney laughed at the idea of his very i)roper friend indulging 
 himself with two strings to his bow. 
 
 She's trying to break off the match with the charming Ethel, 
 I feel pretty sure ; but for what end I can't imagine," he contin- 
 ued. " She surely can't expect that he'll marry her after. Not 
 much I — he won't. I would not give a fig for her chance. She's 
 too fast — too knowing a chicken altogether for his taste. One 
 of your straight-laced beauties, very proper and very good, is 
 his ideal of female perfection. Strange ! — how tastes differ. 
 
 " I'd rather have that vicious litde witch of an Emily — full of 
 life and wicked cleverness — than forty Ethel Mordaunts. But 
 she won't catch Vance, though ; if she breaks off his marriage, 
 with some of her schemes, the poor wretch will break his heart 
 over it. Well ! it's no business of mine ; I have enough of my 
 
A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 195 
 
 own affairs to take care of at present, and she may play her 
 game for all I care. Let her fire away, and amuse herself. I'll 
 marry her myself as soon as I get ready. 
 
 "She'll be at the hop to-niglit, that's certain — flirting away 
 with some of the young puppies around here, in lieu of higher 
 game. I'll have to send in for her to come out to me, as I ain 
 not altogether in ball-room fig." and he concluded his soliloquy 
 as he arrived at the Town Hall. 
 
 He had to wait for a few minutes in an anti-room, after send- 
 ing in his message — until Emily Dearborn, a radiant vision in 
 white — beautiful as a dream — came out to meet him. 
 
 So very fair v/as she — so lovely in her charming youth and 
 beauty, — the gauzy folds of her shining dress floating around 
 her in snowy purity ; so sweet and so innocent seeming, she 
 hardly appeared as belonging to this lower earth, wliere angel- 
 visits are few and far between. And well might she be im- 
 agined some such starry creation, strayed from its transcending 
 abode ; yet how eagerly had she come forth on what she knew 
 to be a mission of evil ! 
 
 Sidney Wolverton, fresh from his scene of crime, gazed v.-ith 
 rapt and wondering admiration at the spectacle of loveliness 
 before him, and — so strongly is imbued in our consciousness 
 the impression that innocence and beauty are natural allies ; 
 that loveliness is the visible appearance of innocence, — he ab- 
 solutely hesitated to address himself to her on his unworthy 
 errand, even though it had been herself who had instigated it. 
 
 " Well ; how have you succeeded in your projects ? " she en- 
 quired, as soon as they were alone. 
 
 " I felt a little dubious as to the result, as I found that the 
 dinner party broke up early, and that Vance had hardly drank 
 enough to be affected. How did you get on with him ? " she 
 continued. 
 
 " Everything worked to perfection, from beginning to end ; 
 and resulted as you foretold it would, Emily. In the first 
 
 iiil 
 
196 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BFITTER. 
 
 place, here is his letter to Miss Seaforth, which you asked me 
 to get. Whatever is the motive you have in view with these 
 letters ? You surely do not suspect the pious Edwin Vance of 
 having two loves, do you ? " he rej^lied, handing her the letter, 
 
 " Never mind my motive for it," answered Emily, taking her 
 l)rize, which she unhesitatingly proceeded to o])en and read. 
 
 " This is splendid I — it's capital ! The very thing I wanted, 
 Sidney ! Tell me all al)out it, and how you got it ! " exclaimed 
 Miss Dearborn exciteal^'. 
 
 '• I'll tell you the whole story, Emily ; it will be the shortest 
 way, and I have not much time, as I leave for Cascades 
 to-night. 
 
 " Notwithstanding all I could do, Vance would not l)e per- 
 suaded to drink more than two or three glasses of champagne, 
 at the dinner; but, nevertheless, he was considerably excited 
 by what little he had taken, and when he got out into the fresh 
 air he was visibly affected. He is probably not so much accus- 
 tomed to drinking as some i)eoi)le I know. Well ! v/e got a 
 room at the hotel here, where he could write his letters, and 
 have a talk over my affairs. I ordered u\) chami)agne, but 
 nothing would induce him to partake of it. He complained of 
 my pressure at dinner, and said he had taken too much, and 
 called for soda-water. I privately directed the attendant to put 
 a strong glass of whiskey into the tumbler, and I i)Oured the 
 soda nito the same glass. This was worse than champagne 
 would have been for him, and speedily had a powerful effect. 
 
 •'Of course he was unable to find the letter I got for you this 
 mornmg ; and I noticed he merely dashed off a few lines in haste, 
 and seemingly glad to get it done. The whiskey had made 
 him ill as well as intoxicated him, and he laid down on a sofa, 
 just as I wished. In fict, he acceded to my request at once. 
 The little game of spoiling the first note was eminently success- 
 ful. He never looked at the new one 1 made, but^endorsed it 
 unhesitatingly — little imagining, however, that he endoised ten 
 
A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 197 
 
 per- 
 ignc, 
 cited 
 fresh 
 
 lCCUS- 
 
 lot a 
 and 
 
 iDUt 
 
 d of 
 
 and 
 
 put 
 
 1 the 
 ;agne 
 ct. 
 
 i this 
 Kiste, 
 Imade 
 sofa, 
 once, 
 cess- 
 ed it 
 ten 
 
 times the amount lie sui)posed. 'This puts me all right, nnd re- 
 moves all danger. I doubt that he would have looked at it, 
 even had he not been suffering. He never susi)ects any one." 
 
 " Wish mc joy of my success, Emily," he continued. '* I am 
 a rich man again. 'I'ell me you are glad for my sake, and Emily I 
 tell me also you are glad for your own." 
 
 " Well I Tm glad for your sake, at any rate, Sidney. You are 
 not out of the mire yet, though you have escaped the danger 
 that pressed you. You know I like you, though you are not the 
 most honest man in the world," she answered, laughing. " But 
 I am still too doubtful of your future to make promises. How- 
 ever, I congratulate you," and she held up her rosy lips to him. 
 " How beautiful you are to-night, Emily," he said, when he 
 had availed himself of the tempting privilege. " As you came 
 in just now you were such a dazzling vision, so sweet, so lovely 
 and so innocent-looking, so like an angel might appear, I was 
 half afraid to speak to you on our rather uncelestial subjects. 
 Oh ! Emily, you know that I love you, and you say you like me ; 
 why then do you so unceremoniously throw to one side every 
 overture of my love ?" 
 
 " Because I'm not so innocent as I may appear, and T go 
 about the world with my eyes open, Sidney," she rej^lied, decided- 
 ly, though evidently pleased at his tribute to her charms and her 
 j)ower. " I've told you already that I will not marry an unsuc- 
 cessful man. Be successful, and it may be different, though I 
 make no promises." 
 
 " Unsuccessful ! I am not an unsuccessful man to-day, F.mily. 
 You nre too hard upon me," he replied. 
 
 " No ! I am not too hard upon you, Sidney, and if you think 
 a moment you will acknowledge that I am not so. I do not 
 pretend to romance, to ' love in a cottage,' or the thousand and 
 one merits of the heroine of a novel. I am a live girl, alive to 
 my own merits, and determined from the first that I wiil not 
 throw away my chances, my marketable value, so to speak, upon 
 
 14 
 
198 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 any ridiculous notions of love, and love alone. Yet I can love, and 
 love intensely,\vith all the intensity of a woman's love, and can add 
 to that love the inestimable advantage, the infinite variety with 
 which the talent of a clever woman, who sees the world as it 
 should be seen, and adapts herself to it, enhaloes and glorifies 
 her love. But I intend to marry a rich man, and if 1 can love 
 the man I marry, so much the better. Yet if that is not possible, 
 I would still marry him, for without wealth and the power and 
 position it gives, there could not, for me, be happiness. Again ! 
 silly as you may think it, Sidney, though I am not a good wo- 
 man, yet I would like to marry a good man, not alone for tiie 
 respectability which attaches to his status as such, but because it 
 would bt so much better for me in the end — in that future which 
 surely comes. Though such as you and I appear to regard it as 
 too far off — it's well worth our calculations. But enough of this." 
 
 " Well ! Emily, I am not a good man, most decidedly, and I 
 don't think I ever can be, I'm too far gone for that. But do 
 you think yourself that, even with your beauty and talents, your 
 marriage to a good man whom you loved, would make him 
 happy or yourself a good woman ?" sarcastically enquired 
 Sidney. 
 
 " No ! but if I loved him he might make me a good woman, 
 and then find both his own happiness and mine. As however, 
 such an event is not at present probable, we'll talk no further 
 about it," replied she, gently enough. 
 
 " I will have to be moving, 1 think. I must catch the night 
 train at Cascades, so as to get the first Grand Trunk train for 
 Toronto on Monday." 
 
 " Toronto ! Shall you be in Toronto ?" interrupted Emily. 
 " Then you can do something for me. Do you know Mr. Hatchit- 
 fess' office, Sidney ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Yes. I know the old villain to my cost and his scamp 
 of a son also. Whatever do you want with these people, Emily ?" 
 he replied. 
 
 
?i'iD--».: • ,'Sf?:r:yiV Kji'mum mavst 
 
 A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 199 
 
 lor 
 
 ut- 
 
 PP 
 
 ■ 
 
 " Some information. I wish you would go to their office and 
 try to find out from one of them all they know about Miss Agnes 
 Seaforth. Who she is ? What they think of her ? What she 
 is like ? and generally any information you can obtain concern- 
 ing her, and write me at once the full details. You'll render me 
 a service by so doing, Sidney." 
 
 " Well I under the circumstances, I must say it is cool of you, 
 Emily, to exj)ect me to do this. I can see plainly enough that 
 you are hatching a scheme against Vance's engagement, hoping, 
 I suppose, to marry him afterwards. And you ask me to help 
 you to that end. I've helped you more than I like already," 
 answered Sidney, disgusted. 
 
 " You will do it, Sidney, whether or not you like to do it, and 
 you had better not quarrel about tlie matter. You are in my 
 power at present. Supposing I were 'to enlighten Mr. Vance as 
 to to-day's proceedings, what then would follow ? You and I 
 had better remain allies and assist each other. Do you really 
 deem me capable of the folly of imagining that I could marry 
 Vance, supposing I wished it, by breaking off his engagement ? 
 His heart is too deeply concerned for so facile a change, and he 
 already honours me with his dislike. You will send me the in- 
 formation I require, Sidney," replied Miss Dearborn, decisively. 
 
 " That makes the matter different, Emily," and I will do all 1 
 can. I must really say ' good-bye,' though I could wish to stay. 
 By-the-bye, show me the letter to this Miss Seafortli which I 
 brought you. What can it contain to be of use to you ? Vance 
 is the most unlikely man in the world to have two loves. Let 
 me see it ?" 
 
 " I'd rather not at present. I'll tell you so much, that, had 
 Vance not drank any wine to-day, he would not have been so 
 careless in his expressions. " Well ! ' Good-bye.' Get yourself 
 out of danger as quickly as you can. and cease your vicious and 
 extravagant habits, if you have any object at heart which you 
 desire to attain. You know what I mean. Farewell," and shak- 
 
1 
 
 > I 
 
 I 
 
 ; 
 
 200 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ing hands with him she returned to the ball room, while he walked 
 back to the hotel. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 PECCAVI. 
 
 Edwin Vance, lying asleep on his sofa, became suddenly con- 
 scious of the fact that he was undergoing the operation ^^ being 
 well shaken up, and shaken too with no gentle hand. 
 
 Springing to his feet he found himself confronted by the fami- 
 liar form of Mr. Barney Conley, whose features, generally twink- 
 ling with fun and of pleasant expression, on this occasion, at 
 least, wore by no means an asi)ect of amiability. 
 
 " What the divil are ye doing here, sorr ?" were the first words 
 that greeted his astonished ears. 
 
 " Doing !" repeated Edwin, not yet wholly awake, and looking 
 around him in a surprised manner. " What am I doing ? Why 
 r should think I have been asleep." 
 
 " Aslape ! It's just aslape ye wor, and no mishtake," re])lied 
 Barney, glancing significantly at the empty champagne botdes 
 and glasses on the tal);t'. "Ye'd better come wid me and at 
 wance too." 
 
 " Go home with you. What ! are you waiting for me, Barney ? 
 But Where's Mr. WoUerton?" answered Edwin, now thoroughly 
 awake, and finding that his nap had had the effect of making 
 him feel like himself again, mitigating to some extent his head- 
 ache. 
 
 " Oh ! it wor liim ye were with then ? I tought as much, be- 
 gorra ! It's in bad company ye wor, anyhow, sorr !" replied 
 Barney, sarcastically. Then, gazing fixedly at him for a moment 
 or two, he continued. " But ye're not dhrunk, after all, I per- 
 cave. By the j^owers o' war ! it's lucky for ye then, in this 
 murdhering shebeen ^vid ould Sidney Wolverton. Didn't ye 
 
K-a«haaraaj;awg;*a 
 
 PECCAVI. 
 
 201 
 
 »g 
 
 |h, be- 
 
 iplied 
 
 )ment 
 
 II per- 
 
 In this 
 
 n't ye 
 
 have enough av it at the denner, that ye had to come here fur 
 more ?" he enquired, in continuation. 
 
 " Why, whatever is the matter with you, Barney ?" exclaimed 
 Edwin, gazing at the man as if probably thinking he had taken 
 leave of his senses. " Vou have not been taking too much whis- 
 key, have you ?" 
 
 " Faix, thin ! I had a tasthe or two, mebbe, av it, but I hav'ent 
 made an omadhaun av meself widit, and I did'nt put whishkey 
 and soda wather on the top av cliampagne eider," replied Bar- 
 ney, who had got a part of the facts of the dosed soda from 
 the ostler, whom he had closely questioned on finding the two 
 friends were there. " And did ye sign yer name to tlie false 
 jjapers ould Wolverton give ye } — for the tree tousand and the 
 tirty tousand ? Begorra I if ye've got " 
 
 '* Wliat's going on here ? " exclaimed Sidney A\''olverton, 
 walking into the room, at this [)oint of the conversation, to 
 which he had been quietly listening for a minute or so at the 
 door. 
 
 " Is our friend Barney drunk or crazy to-night, that lie is in- 
 flicting his maudlin rubbish upon you ? Vv'hat have you been 
 doing v/ith yourself, Barney, tliat you for;,j,et to whom you are 
 sjjeaking ? " h,e continued, 
 
 •• It's to Misther Vance I am sphnkin', sorr, and not to you, 
 sorr. It's better ye'd be wid the banker's daughter — hatching 
 schames again honest tolk, sorr. Dlirunk, am I I Faix I and 
 if I was as dhrunk as v/an gentleman I know, the night I drove 
 him to the Lake, it's raison \e'd liave to talk, ' returned Barney, 
 in high indignation ; for he cordially hatccl Sidney Wolverton, 
 ai^.d ^vas probably a little inspired by tht; elevating effects of 
 L'^pper ('anada whiskey. 
 
 '• Xo moj-e of this, Barne)' ! — we have had enough. 
 Go and get your carriage ready ; we will be down directly," 
 broke in Edwin impatiently : and Barney turned on his heel 
 and left the room. 
 
202 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 '' I see you are all straight again, Vance. It certainly does 
 not take much to overset you. When you fell asleep I went out 
 for a walk and a look at the ball-room, and I've come back to 
 say good-bye to you, and ask you to make my excuses at the 
 Lake. I have received a telegram calling me a*: once to Hope- 
 town on business of importance ; and 1 start direcdy to take 
 the night train at Cascades. I'm very much obliged to you for 
 what you have done for me to-night, \'ance ; you are a true 
 friend. Remember me to them all at the Lake, and especially 
 to yoiu- fair fiancee. 
 
 " (jood-bye, old fellow ; I must be off ; " and Sidney held out 
 his hand to his friend. 
 
 "Good-bye, Sidney — sorry you have to go to-night. You 
 have a long drive before you. 1 shall start, too. with Barney ; 
 so we'll go down together. When shall I see you again ? ''' re- 
 plied Edwin, shaking his hand warmly, as they went down 
 stairs together. 
 
 ^ >i( ^ >|( :|e :|c Hf 
 
 Edwin Vance's reflections, as he returned with Harney to the 
 Lake, were none too pleasant. 
 
 As he looked back on the events of the evening, he felt hu- 
 miliated, and blamed himself >;everely for his want of firmness 
 and ability to utter that very useful word ' No 1 ' at the proper 
 time. Tie acknowledged to himself that his yielding nature, 
 which would submit to inconvenience, or the opinions and 
 wishes of others, rather than make a scene api>ear to be dis- 
 obliging or different from those around him, in the assertion of 
 what he knew to be the right ihingis'as a fault which on this 
 occasion notably had placed him in a false ix>sition, and which 
 must be corrected. 
 
 Had he not been, this very evening, overexcited by wine, 
 and been ill by reason of it ? \'et, though lie bad drunk but 
 little — had it not been too much for him ? A\'as it not his own 
 fault in weakly yielding to apparently friendly pressure?- — an 
 
[Al5!Tv'iii4^tifS£*^UBS 
 
 Mli8IIHB8Sl^fiSiiJiMii^!i!^^-ifi^^ . 
 
 PECCAVI. 
 
 203 
 
 is- 
 
 ch 
 
 I 
 
 example to those around him ? He was comj^elled to acknow- 
 ledge that it was such. - ...^^ •. 
 
 He remembered with dismay his implTqit promise to Ethel, 
 that he woiild not drink wine on this opCksion ; and how had 
 he kept it ? he asked himself. He had told her that in all pro- 
 bability he would not do so — and he meant what he said at the 
 time ; while she had evidently, to his mind, accepted his state- 
 ment as an unconditional promise, and was satisfied. Vet he 
 had broken his word to her ! 
 
 'I'his was an intensely bitter remembrance to him — so bitter 
 that he could have thrown himself to the ground in his shame 
 and agonr. and ha\e hidden himself from the world and his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 Thiit, in the very fnst days of tlieir engagement -of the ac- 
 ceptance of his love by a being so beautiful, so sweet and so 
 pure — who. in return, luidoubtedly expected of him tliat he 
 should keep himself undefiled, both before the world and in his 
 own eyes : he liad not onl}' touched defilement, but had violat- 
 ed his word of honour to her. He groaned in spirit. His 
 humiliation and (^onlempt for liimself almost amounted to de- 
 spair. 
 
 "How has this evil thing arist-n to me ?' he asked himself, as 
 he gloomily and remorsefully jtoudered over the incidents which 
 had led to this self-ajjandonment. 
 
 " This morning I no more i;nagined tliat I should do what I 
 ha\e done, than I should lia\e supposed myself cai)nb1e of 
 commitdng a murder. 1. may do that next," he added with 
 bitter humour, " .After this, wh}' should I not deem myself 
 equal to any atrocity ? A man who will drink and tell lies, may 
 not regard himself as a saint ; and yet [ have been in the habit 
 of considering myself a \ ery decent fellow. 1 could hardly 
 claim dist.in(nion on that score to-da\ ," he continued, with a 
 savage Laugh at himself. 
 
 " ft is a hard lesson for mc — a ver\- hard lesson : but I will 
 
 ill 
 
j 
 
 204 
 
 SHE MIGHl' HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 learn it to the last letter, and reap the benefits of its teachings. 
 I will drink the bitter cup to its dregs ; I will accept manfully 
 my humiliation and the consequences of my fault, and shall not 
 attempt to avert them by any dastardly throwing the blame 
 upon others, which so rightly rested upon myself. 
 
 " No more moderate drinking for me I I have had enough 
 of that ; I accept that as a finality. Moderate, indeed I It 
 would hardly seem so to-day. I have prided myself upon being 
 a temperate man ; that in this matter 1 was under control, and 
 could not commit excess ; yet my moderate drinking has bro't 
 me to grief. It shall do so no more. Never again shall the 
 wine cup touch my lii)S. AVith the firm resolve to place between 
 myself and harm tlie breast-plate of total abstinence, I can 
 deem myself safe. I have proved to-day that for me there is 
 not safety without its protection. The temperance people are 
 right. They may be injudicious and unwise towards the ad- 
 vancement of their cause, by their peremptoriness and resist- 
 ance upon this very subject of moderate drinking ; it is very 
 possible that they may rather repel than attract those who have 
 not )'et suffered ; — but I ha\e now for myself experienced its 
 insidious dangers, and can no longer wonder that they be not 
 dispassionate and calm in their denunciations.'' 
 
 Edwin's reflections were here interrujjted by Earney, who 
 was driving him home, and had apparently been, since they had 
 started, cogitating over some cpiestion of interest — who now in 
 a tone wheedlingly conciliatory, and of disarming respectful- 
 ness, put forth the following quer}- : 
 
 " Shure now ! J\Iisther \'ance, didn't ye know Detter nor to 
 put whishkey intii yer sodha-wather, after the hoiglU av cham- 
 pagne ye'd all been dhrinking at the dinner? — or worita thrick 
 some wan wor playing on ye ? " 
 
 " What's that you say, Uaniey ? " exclaimed Edwin, looking 
 up hastily ; '' I don't understand what you mean. A\'hiskey ! 
 put whiskey into my soda water ! I had no whiskey." 
 
'.''ge>:''A't<<i':iM«Big3P'ii!twwigfsaitj 
 
 iiil'lM*'"'*^^'''^-'^ ''^'"' • »i^'^^''J^g**-^-^gMP'g'™'''^--'^*»»t' — ... 
 
 pt:ccAvi. 
 
 205 
 
 "Oh, begorral then, but it's the truth I am tellin' ye. It 
 wor the dirty baste of an ostler they kape over at the hot-tel there 
 as tould nie that he'd carried up a smashing big glass o' whiskey 
 and a bottle av sodha wather till ye, and, bad luck to me, but I 
 was thmking it was quare it wor av a quite gintleman the like av 
 yoursilf for to do. Arrah, thin ! but it was a bad mixther ye 
 made av it — the whiskey and the chamijagne ye drank. It's 
 foighting together they'd be, and it's as dhrunk as a piper and as 
 sick as a dog they'd lave ye, in just less nor no time." 
 
 " But I had no whiskey, Barney, I tell you. I drank nothing 
 but a glass of soda water at the hotel, though I noticed it was 
 not good, and had a peculiar taste," rei^lied Edwin, who was 
 becoming interested. 
 
 " Faix I It's likely the taste av it wud be peculer, wid a noggin 
 av high wines intil it. It wor a shabby thrick wor played ^on 
 yer, Misther Vance," answered Barney. 
 
 " You mistake entirely, Barney. What i)Ossible interest could 
 the people of the house have to serve by jjlaying me such a 
 senseless trick ? Besides, my friend opened the bottle of soda 
 water in my presence." 
 
 " 'Deed it wor not the people of the hot-tel played it on ye ; 
 they did as they wor bid, belike. If yed looked intil the tumbler 
 afore yer friend put the sodha wather intil it, }e'ed have seed 
 the whiskey there. If yer friend, Misther V\'olverton, did'nt 
 know of the dirthy thrick, then no man knowed it. But, be- 
 gorra ! he'd his raysins for getting ye dhrunk, and it wor him as 
 gin ye the whiskey, and no mishtake about it." 
 
 " This is impertinent nonsense, Barney, and I'll have no more 
 of it. You shall not say another word on the subject," returned 
 Edwin, angrily. 
 
 " Oh ! the divil another word '11 pass me mouth. But lie axed 
 ye till sign papers fur him, did'nt he now, Misther Vance ? False 
 papers and sphoilt papers, and he wanted to put ye free like and 
 careless, so ye'd take no notish till his doings. I meant no har- 
 
wmr^iw. m'Jii'i:^''^ , ' 
 
 1 
 
 206 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 mm to say what I've said. It's raisons av me own I have, and 
 ye can ax Miss Ethel." 
 
 Barney would say no more, and Edwin did not dsk him. 
 Here was a new light on the subject. He remembered again 
 and with more significance the pressure which Wolverton had 
 applied to induce him to drink champagne, both at the din- 
 ner and at the hotel afterwards, and tor the first time the suspicion 
 arose in his mind that all was not right. A suspicion that was, 
 however, cast aside and rejected as unworthy of himself and of 
 his friend, as soon as formed. 
 
 '* Absurd and imi)0ssible !" he said to himself ; but Barney's 
 words nevertheless left their impression. 
 
 'ITieir arrivel at I^ke Mordaunt, however, put an end to his 
 further reflections on the matter, 'i'he carriage drew up at the 
 house, and he proceeded to alight 
 
 Hardly had the crunching on the gra\el ceased, than Ethel, 
 who had evidently been on the watch for them, ap[)eared, a lamp 
 in her hand, at the door. 
 
 " How late you are I" she exclaimed. 
 
 Apart from her lover, she had probably found the time to be 
 long. 
 
 '* I thought you did not intend rem^iining for the ball, P'dwin." 
 As he entered the hall, and the light fell ii\)on his pale face 
 and eyes, from which the excitement of wine had vanished, 
 leaving them unwonted!}- dim and watery, she, looking up 
 eagerly for the accustomed smile, listening for the accustomed 
 loving words, saw the change, and with anxiety in her voice, 
 enciuired— 
 
 " Are you ill, Edwin? What has occurred? Is anything the 
 matter with you ? Tell me I dearest." 
 
 Then, as an idea of the truth flashed upon her, or as probably 
 some faint trace, some infinitesimal wafting of the odour of 
 wine reached her pure and sensitive nostril, she started and 
 said — 
 
^^tmrntmrnrnMiam 
 
 •■TJd'.lSX .^'J.'.lL'^^n 'i!V\ 
 
 ^''^^™^"°="°^"°-^' 
 
 PECCWVI. 
 
 207 
 
 "Oh: Edwin.'" 
 
 The hearty rei)roach conveyed in the tone of the lo\v, Sweet 
 voice ; the fading away of the smile from that dear face ; the 
 mute sorrow expressed in the lovely eyes fixed upon his, was 
 anguish for hmi, as deep as he had ever experienced. 
 
 " Yes ! Kthel ; I have something to tell you," he answered ; 
 with deep sorrow in his voice, but a tone of firmness and deci- 
 sion ringing tlirough it. 
 
 " In regret, decj) shame and sorrow I tell it, yet whatever the 
 con.sequences to myself may he, I am decided to tell it — my 
 shame and my ■jin. 1 promised you, my darling, but yesterday 
 that [ would not, in all j)rol»ability I would not, take wine at 
 this dinner to-day, and I have broken my promise — my pledged 
 word to you, my pure d:uiing, my atfianced wife— that I would 
 not touch the acursed thing, and [ have touched it. I have 
 been miserably weak and yielding when I should, in my faith 
 to you, have been strong, and I have fallen. I have no one to 
 blame but myself. I have yielded, in {)ure want of tiimness, 
 when r should not have 3ielded. 1 have, it is true, committed 
 no disgraceful e.vcess, ami drank but little wine. Still, little as 
 it was, it was excess for me, for I was not mvself, and 1 was 
 made ill. The only atonement in my power to make, and my 
 l)lain duty to you, as my atlianced wife, required of me that I 
 should <ome, as I have cf)n-ie regardless of the shame, to tell 
 you of my tault and my sin. 
 
 " Could you but know, ni}- darling, the shame, the bitter 
 shame, and humiliation that o[)presses me as [ relate these 
 things to you, } ou would pity me. Forgi\e me, if \ou can ! 
 Kthel ; though I cannt>t forgive myself. If you cannot do so, 
 r must l>ear the bitter conse(piences as I best can. My lesson 
 has been a hard one, but its teachings shall not be in vain, the 
 warning shall not be lost upon me, and 1 have made my re- 
 resolve : the determination to maintairi my resolve, that never 
 again shall my lips touch the wine cup. Bur as t have already 
 
208 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 violated a promise, and that a promise made to you in the first 
 fe>v days of our new engagement, a promise, which of allothers» 
 I should have held sacred, you may well question my power or 
 my will to maintain the sanctity of another vow. But for the 
 .space of one year Ethel, I surely am able to hold inviolate my 
 word, and I solemnly promise you, that for such space, I will 
 remain in total abstinence. Had I been as little self-confident 
 as I am now — when you — knowing me better than I know my- 
 self — asked for my promise, I would not have had the shame 
 of these avowals to make to you ; my darling." 
 
 *' You did not break any promise to me Edwin, for you did 
 not make such. You merely told me that in all probability, 
 you would not drink wine at the dinner ; I would not have 
 thought of asking for your promise, had I not been aware that 
 in all i)robability an attempt would be made to induce you to 
 take too much wine. Had your friend, Mr. Wolverton been 
 absent, I should not have dreamed of such a request. It wa:> 
 in anxiety for you that I did so, for I had good reason to know 
 that he had a design against you, whicli was to be forwarded in 
 this manner. In fact you were plotted against," rei)lied Kthel, 
 quietly, standing before him as when she first spoke. 
 
 " That may be so, Ethel. Indeed, 1 suspect tliat all v/as 
 not right, though I cannot conceive what reason -Sidney Wol- 
 verton, could possibly have for such a cause ; still, that does 
 not excuse me, or relieve me of my culpability in yielding, 
 when tempted ; for breaking as I, in reality did break — my 
 word to you," returned Edwin mournfully enough. 
 
 " I do not blame you, Edwin, under the circumstances, '-ex- 
 cept for your over confidence in your friend, whom 1 know — if 
 you have not yet discovered — to be false, and also, perhaps, 
 thacyou are inclined to be too complaisant, and to give way to 
 those surroundinj, you. Forgive me for saying so. Let me 
 also tell you, tha I honour you for your manliness and cour- 
 age in coming tome as you have done to-night ; that. would 
 
mmm^iii 
 
 AND HE WAS COMFORTED. 
 
 J 09 
 
 convince me, were I inclined 10 doubt the sincerity of your re- 
 solve of total abstinence ; in which I rejoice, as armed with 
 that one is always safe. Were it not for the mental sufferings 
 you havj endured both by the occurrences of this evening, and 
 by your brave avowal of them to me, I should not regret them, 
 if they have but the effect of opening your eyes to the real 
 merits of your friend Mr. Wolverton. 
 
 " Of whom hereafter I shall not speak." 
 
 " Where is Reggie ? Did you see him this evening ?" she 
 added. 
 
 " Not since we parted on leaving the dining hall. He then 
 told me that he would remain for the dance, and would not be 
 home until after midnight," replied Edwin to her question. 
 
 " And is it possible that you forgive me ? Ethel." "Is it 
 the same as ever between us ?" he continued looking wistfully 
 at her. 
 
 " I have told you so already, Edwin. There are others who 
 are to blame, and whom I do not forgive. Now run up stairs, 
 Edwin and make yourself presentable for the half hour or so 
 before bedtime," he answered with a reassuring smile. 
 
 CHAPi^ER XXI. 
 
 AND HE WAS COIMFORTED. 
 
 To apply to Miss Ethel Mordaunt the appellation of a 'girl 
 of the period ' in the usual acceptation of the term, would be 
 certainly the application of a misnomer. She was not either 
 ast enough, loud enough, dressy, showy or brnz-^n enough to 
 merit the enviable distinction. And yet, if she were not a gir 
 of the period, she was truly a girl for the period — for any 
 period — for all periods. 
 
 Whether her century were the nineteenth, the thirteenth or 
 the third ; A. D., or B C. ; in savage or in civilized life ; in 
 
m 
 
 210 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE VOSK BETTER. 
 
 ! 
 
 poverty or in affluence, the amiabilities of her character would 
 have made her, in every age, that best and lovcHest of creation 
 — a true woman ; an ornament and a blessing to the world in 
 which she lived. 
 
 That the Earth has been a treasure-house of such, through 
 all its ages, is a truth self-evident ; else had not the ))ages of 
 its history borne the record of so much that is noble and pure 
 and good ; else had not so much of happiness shone out over a 
 dark blank of misery and crime. Their beneficent influence 
 dies not with themselves, but flowing after them in t leir off- 
 spring, blesses the future. Were all the women of the world of 
 such-like cast ; how soon would not much of the pain and 
 care, the wretchedness and sin that mar its bright bosom, dis- 
 appear ? 
 
 The mothers of civilizers and advancers — as themselves — 
 rather than of the destructive and the criminal, how soon would 
 not the generations spread out over the earth, the pleasant pic- 
 ture of virtue, of goodness and ofpuritj^ ; of prosperity, peace 
 and happiness, in contrast to the old time storm-shadowed 
 landscape, all blackened with misery and lurid with crime. 
 
 Had not Ethel Mordaunt possessed the elevated and elevat- 
 ing characteristics which make a good woman, the discernment, 
 patience and Christian forbearance, the charitable amiability 
 and sympathizing kindness of heart which exist among the vir- 
 tues of such a being and make her a chief conservator of the 
 goodness arid happiness of the world, she might by an unguarded 
 word almost, during her trying interview of the preceding eve n- 
 ing, not only have destroyed her own earthly happiness, but 
 that also of the man who loved her, and whom she loved. 
 
 For a young girl, in the first bloom and joy of her love — her 
 hero, her pnnce of men set up on the high pedestal that youth- 
 ful love and romance assigns ; to find that hero slipping down 
 to earth, proving himself but mortal, the common clay of sur- 
 rounding humanity, is a sore disillusion, a bitter awakening, 
 
il 
 
 i^M^ggjjjjgglgjjggjajjjjj^ggMsgjfc. 
 
 AND HK WAS COMFOR'rEI). 
 
 1 1 
 
 n 
 
 g' 
 
 and carries with it a sufficiently sliarp sting, a personal loss and 
 injury that would be the more resented the higher and more 
 perfect are the susceptibilites thus wounded, and tliough Kthel's 
 lover had almost raised himself to the hero again by the moral 
 courage, the open candour he had displayed in a situation of 
 mental pain and humiliation, still, had he not fallen ? 
 
 'ITiere was a loss and an injury to be resented. 
 
 But though Ethel had felt the blow, the more keenly i)erhaps 
 as her own standard of i^urity was so high ; her Christian charity 
 that imputeth not the evil, and the true discernment it gave 
 her, had enabled her to perceive that it was not intentionally, but 
 from pure want of firmness, that her lover had erred, and she 
 had estimated at it's just value the painful effort — to a man of 
 his character how painful— 'le had made in the courageous avowal 
 of his faults to her. 
 
 In place therefore of selfish complaint and re[)roach, which, 
 to a man who had so thrown himself at her feet, would almost 
 inevitably have wholly alienated him, by ungenerosity; her power- 
 ful yet sweet infiuence had assisted him to his feet again before 
 her ; had raised him from his humiliation ; had strengthened his 
 resolution toward the good ; had doubly bound him in the bonds 
 of his love for her, and had raised herself the higher in his eyes 
 that she had raised him. 
 
 But although her Edwin's errors had been condoned and for- 
 given, and himself restored, she could not conceal from herself 
 that the faults existed. The habit of yielding to others in little 
 matters, arising from his want of firmness, and the rather jjer- 
 verted " trait " of an inconsistent, if honourable obstinacy, in 
 sticking to his friend, because he was his friend, even when he 
 held good reason to consider him an unworthy friend. That these 
 were not very grave errors she acknowledged, but, nevertheless, 
 strive as she might to put the remembrance of them away from 
 her, they left their imprei:sion on her mind. Had she not 
 asked him, almost in plain terms, to discard for her sake the 
 
ft 
 
 i?I2 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 lii 
 
 friend whom she knew to be false ? and he had not done so. 
 The sore touch of a woman's wounded vanity kept alive the pain- 
 ful recollection. 
 
 That sho cordially disliked Mr. Sidney Wolverton she felt in 
 the depth of her heart. Disliked him more thoroughly than she 
 had conceived it possible for her to dislike any human being, 
 and she imputed to him everything that had come between her 
 lover and herself that had ruffled the bright smoothness of their 
 young engagement. She remembered this l)itterly against him 
 and strengthened herself in the determination to brealc the friend- 
 ship with which she knew Edwin still regarded him. There 
 should no longer be but passive resistance on her part ; he had 
 become actively aggressive, and so would she beccane. It should 
 be war to the knife between them — a fight for her own and her 
 affianced's happiness. 
 
 The news of his sudden departure the preceding evening had 
 been received by the family of Lake Mordaunt with remarkable 
 equanimity and by herself with secret joy. He was gone, that 
 was an undisguised blessing ; she was rid of him and his machi- 
 nations for the time being. His absence was rejoiced over by 
 her, and not particularly regretted by any person else. 
 
 So little was it noticed that the want of courtesy displayed by 
 his hasty departure and the meagre explanations of it sent by 
 him was not commented uj^on, although it may have been out 
 of respect to Edwin that reticence was observed. 
 
 Ethel was, at any rate, perfectly satisfied — the disturber of 
 her peace was gone, and with him all present anxiety. She re- 
 solved to enjoy the hours as with golden feet they flew. 
 
 She was happy, and all she had to do was to make her lover 
 happy again also, that the remainder ot his visit should be as 
 delightful to both as their own society could make it. 
 
 Edwin Vance appeared among them on the Sunday morning 
 grave, silent and constrained enough. Although his interview 
 with Ethel, the evening before, had been a much happier one 
 
m'9Kr^'-r''':ii!ir<<f-''^' 
 
 ■^'r^^r^xs^im^.i 
 
 AND HE WAS COMFORTED. 
 
 213 
 
 ker of 
 he re- 
 
 I lover 
 Ibe as 
 
 )rning 
 trview 
 Ir one 
 
 than he had anticipated ; had resulted so favourably to him, and 
 his darling had shown herself before his loving eyes, almost as 
 an angel would have done, ii¥ kindness, mercy, soft sympathy and 
 forgiveness, still his night-accusing conscience had pressed hard- 
 ly upon him, and he depreciated himself the more that he had 
 the more to appreciate the worth of the lovely girl whose heart 
 he had gained. He loved her the more for her generosity to his 
 unworthiness, that he loved himself the less for that unworthi- 
 ness, and though she had forgiven him, he could not forgive 
 himself. 
 
 So he appeared before them constrained and depressed. The 
 smile and the loving glance of his Ethel, even her kind greeting 
 did not at once altogether reassure him, and he sat down to 
 the breakfast table with a more sombre aspect than was usual 
 with him. 
 
 Reggie, however, was full of life and in high spirits. Every 
 moment he could spare from his breakfast was devoted to an 
 enthusiastic narration of the delights of the ball, and his enjoy- 
 ment thereof ; marred, as he feelingly deplored, by the sad ftict 
 that it had taken place on a Saturday night, when respect for 
 the Sunday had necessitated a break-up before twelve o'clock. 
 '• Oh ! so you found the time short, did you, Reggie ?" said his 
 uncle with a mischievous laugh. " Twelve o'clock was all too 
 soon for your parting from the fair EmiKy Dearborn, was it? 
 Were I a young man I would not fall in love with a woman old 
 enough to be my grandmother. Did you dance with her all thft 
 erening, or only those dances for which she could not find a 
 more elligible partner?" 
 
 Highly disgusted at these insinuations, Reggie replied, " I 
 danced with her as often as I desired, uncle, and that's more 
 than some fellows there can say." 
 
 "Oho ! I dare say," said his uncle, laughingly. "She's old 
 enough to know how to keep you in good humor, and flirt with 
 half a dozen besides yourself. Why, she's as old as the hills and 
 
 15 
 
Hi 
 
 
 
 l! 
 
 214 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 the most consummate flirt in the country. Ada's worth twenty 
 of her. Why did you not take a fancy to her, Reggie ? Tliere 
 would have been some sense in that." 
 
 " Ada ! puoh ! that great hoyde;i," replied Reggie, indignantly. 
 " Emily Dearborn is the prettiest girl in this part of Canada, let 
 me tell you, uncle, and he'll be a very lucky fellow who gets her 
 for his wife," added he, incautiously, in defence of the cliarmer 
 who had bewitched him. 
 
 " Oh ! and you hope to be that lucky fellow," returned Mr. 
 Horton, in a fit of laughter. " Well ! Reggie, I don't admire 
 your taste. You might as well marry your grandmother at once. 
 Why, Sidney Wolverton and half the young men of Ten Lakes 
 have been making love to her for ages past. She'll only laugh 
 at you for your pains." 
 
 " Will she though ! I know better than that. Perhaps you'll 
 
 see before " But Reggie thought again and did not complete 
 
 his sentence, while Mrs. Mordaunt, whose attention had been 
 attracted by their conversation, interposed. 
 
 " Don't tease him, Edward. Reggie has more sense than that. 
 Emily Dearborn may be a pretty girl, but she is not one whom 
 Reggie would marry, or whom his father or I would like to see 
 him choose ; she is not, to say the least, an amiable girl, and, be- 
 sides, if I am not mistaken, Sidney Wolverton is the man whom 
 she will marry. Reggie has time enough in six or eight years 
 to look out for a wife ; meantime, he will find quite enough to 
 attend to with his books and his college." 
 
 Reggie muttered something so inaudibly that even his uncle, 
 who was watching him, failed to catch the words, and the latter, 
 thinking ne said enough, changed the conversation. 
 
 " When are you going to Cacouna, Florence ?" he said, ad- 
 dressing Mrs. Mordaunt. " As was proposed ; or do you prefer 
 waiting until the hot weather is all c^ei before you start ? Here 
 it is nearly the end of July, and we are nearly roasted alive. If 
 
AND HE WAS COMFORTED. 
 
 215 
 
 )e- 
 
 )m 
 
 irs 
 
 to 
 
 er, 
 
 Ifer 
 
 If 
 
 you will get your mind made up for the start in two or three 
 days, I'll go with you. 
 
 " But I don't think a winter trip would be agreeable," he con- 
 tinued, with a laugh. 
 
 " Don't be nonsensical ! Edward," she replied. '' We did 
 think of a trip there this summer, but it is so hard to get away 
 with a large household to look after and the farm. It would be 
 very nice, though, for us all. But oh ! there's so much to see 
 to on a large place like this, and who can be got to do it " 
 
 "Oh ! never mind your house, Florence," said Mr. Mordaunt. 
 " You have servants enough to look after it while you're away, 
 and I'll see that the farming matters are left in proper train. 
 We'll go to Cacouna for a month. August is the best time of 
 the season, as it is too hot here for comfort, and just getting a 
 Httle above freezing point down there. " We'll all like the change. 
 Suppose we start Thursday, so as to get comfortably settled by 
 Sunday. You'll go with us, Vance, won't you ? It is the long 
 vacation, and you have nothing to do at present. We'll take a 
 trip down the Gulf, too, while we're away." 
 
 " I shall be most happy to accompany the party, I'm sure," 
 said Edwin, with a delightful look towards Ethel. " But I fear 
 I cannot remain for a month. I must be back in Toronto ten 
 days at least before Term time. But I can spare three weeks 
 for it, and will be delighted to join you in the trip." 
 
 " That is quite a long enough time for me to be away from 
 my home affairs, Mr. \ ance, and I cannot consent to a longer 
 visit, so we'll all come back together," Mrs Mordaunt said, deci- 
 sively. 
 
 " Oh ! well then I it's settled," remarked Mr. Mordaunt. "The 
 ladies must have their own way. Be all ready for Thursda}- 
 morning early to catch the mid-day train at Cascades." 
 
 And the party separated to prepare for the drive to church. 
 
 9|C T* V 1* ^ •!* V V 
 
 As Edwin knelt in worship beside the fair yoimggirl who had 
 
■9S==rr-rr~ 
 
 
 2l6 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 given him her love, his yearning soul rose in earnest petition — 
 heartfelt, sincere and humbled from the searchings and reveal- 
 ings of accusing conscience — for God's favour upon them both 
 — for her that she might have all happiness ; that if her life 
 and her happiness on earth were to be confided to his care, he 
 might have a greater strength than his own to fulfil the precious 
 trust ; that God with His merciffu! ces would look down 
 upon them and grant His all-powerful aid, i-i^U tb:/ might walk 
 before His face all the days of their life in purity and humble 
 faith ; that as he was weak and feeble and had sinned, he sought 
 for grace that he might sin no more, and be made strong. 
 
 As the grand old Litany of his Church sounded in his ears, 
 with its matchless songs of praise, its earnest and appealing 
 prayers, and its glorious promises of salvation, his full heart 
 clung with a deeper and more reverential love to the sublime 
 words that carried with them strength and comfort and hope ; 
 the grand old words that his infancy had heard, and that Sunday 
 morning after Sunday morning through the circling ages rise in 
 glorious concert from the worshipping lips of united millions from 
 one end of God's bright world to the other. 
 
 And he was comforted and strengthened. 
 
 He walked into the sunlit air with the reverential demeanour 
 of one who has been in the presence of his God, but with a new 
 happiness shining in his eyes, a lightened heart at peace with 
 himself and the world. 
 
 As the Lake Mordaunt party stood near the Church door 
 waiting for their carriage, Emily Dearborn and her sister Ada 
 approached them. 
 
 After the customary greetings and mutual enquires were over, 
 the former seeing that Ada was engaged in talking to Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt, attached herself to Ethel, and regardless of the fact that 
 she had just come out of Church, proceeded to regale her with 
 an account of her donigs at the last night's ball. 
 
 " Why in the world did you not wait for it, Ethel ?" she at 
 
^^^<''^#*^ 
 
 BBS! 
 
 WgJJW 
 
 AND HE WAS C03LF0RTED. 
 
 217 
 
 ith 
 
 Lor- 
 
 Ihat 
 
 ith 
 
 at 
 
 length asked. " It was a deHghtful affair, and you would have 
 enjoyed it wonderfully. Was it because you knew Mr. Vance 
 would not be there that you j^referred going home ?" 
 
 " I did not care for it, Emily. Mamma could not go, and of 
 course I could not hnve appeared there witliout her," replied 
 Ethel, coldly enough. 
 
 " But Mrs. Mordaunt would have gone had you asked her, 
 and you would have enjoyed yourself in spite of the early 
 break-up," answered Emily. 
 
 " By-the-by, huw did you get home, Mr. Vance ? All right ! 
 I hope," she added, with a meaning laugh. " And why did you 
 not come to the ball ? I suppose, though, you would not think 
 of it unless Ethel were there. Or had you attractions more 
 potent than dancing ? The flowing bowl for instance. You were 
 at the dinner, I know, and I have heard that by some of the 
 revellers a good deal too much champagne was drunk. I hope 
 you were not one of the number." 
 
 This direct, pointed and very unexpected attack of the merci- 
 less Emily, took poor Edwin v.omi)letely by surprise. He gazed 
 at her speechlessly for a moment, though without indignation, for 
 the calm peace of his last two hours had not passed from him. 
 But he was thoroughly astonished, not so much at the rude at- 
 tack upon himself, but that it should have been made by so fair 
 and outwardly lovely a young lady as Emily Dearborn. 
 
 Recovering himself, however, he replied — 
 
 " I was not at the ball last evening, Miss Dearborn, for the 
 reason that " but Ethel indignantly interposed. 
 
 " Miss Dearborn ! After the conversation between yourself 
 and Mr. Sidney Wolverton, in the long walk at Lake Mordaunt, 
 during your visit there last week, which was overheard, and, I 
 am sorry to say, reported to me, I should have supposed it quite 
 unnecessary for you, at any rate, to make enquiries ag to the din- 
 ner and the drinking of champagne that was to accompany it > 
 seeing that you and the person I have named, on that occasion, 
 
Ilil 
 
 2lS 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 
 n 
 
 arranged the details of a most nefarious scheme to force wine 
 upon a gentleman who was to be present, for certain ulterior 
 purposes with which you are well acquainted, and of which, per- 
 mit me to remark, I also have been informed. I wish you 
 'good morning,' Miss Dearborn." 
 
 Uttering these words with a cold sarcasm in the farewell that 
 suggested but kw others, Ethel turned away and walked to the 
 carriage which had tlien drawn up at the church door, leaving 
 Edwin standing in a fresh burst of astonishment at the sudden re- 
 versal of the attack and apparentl}^ incapable of either speech or 
 action. 
 
 Emily, on the contrary, though startled enough, was not in 
 the least abashed, but with an innocently surprised and per- 
 plexed expression of face, looked after Ethel as she walked 
 away. 
 
 " Whatever is Ethel talking of, Mr. Vance ? I don't under- 
 stand it at all. How very strange," she said, addressmg him in 
 a voice of wonderment. 
 
 He, however, raising his hat and bowing politely but gravely, 
 merely answered, '* Good morning, Miss Dearborn, I must join 
 them," and following Ethel, he helped her into the carriage, to- 
 wards which the rest of the party were then approaching. . 
 
 Emily, left to herself, gazed after them a moment. " However 
 came she to learn of that interview ? Who could have overheard 
 It! ? But it is all the worse for her, for there is open war between 
 us henceforth. Take care ! Miss Ethel Mordaunt. My turn 
 comes next," she soliloquised, with a dangerous gleam in her 
 eye, and then walked towards Ada, who, after shaking hands 
 with the Mordaunt party, stood waiting for her when they had 
 driven off. 
 
 The carriage had proceeded but a short distance — a couple 
 of hundred yards or so — when Mrs. Mordaunt, whose motherly 
 anxiety knew no rest, turned to her brother, and said — 
 
 " Edward, pray look back and see if Reggie is following us. 
 
AND HE WAS C0:MF0RTED. 
 
 219 
 
 us. 
 
 He surely ought to have got his horse out by this time. Fm 
 ahvays anxious unless I have him in sight. 
 
 Mr. Horton, turning round, gazed in the indicated direction. 
 
 '' Oh ! yes ! I see him," he answered. " But he is walking 
 
 home with the Dearborn girls. He is going to dinner with them, 
 
 I'll bet a new dollar." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is Mordaunt," he continued, " you will 
 
 have to look after that boy, or he'll give you trouble. He's in 
 
 love with that detestable Emily Dearborn to a certainty. 
 
 " If you don't take care she'll lead him into an entanglement, 
 
 she is as smart as a steel trap ; as fond of intrigue as she's 
 
 capable of it, and will stick at nothing. She knows what's good 
 
 for herself too, and, absurd as it seems to be with a boy of his 
 
 age, it would be a very good match for her. She's leading him 
 
 on, I'm certain — a spare string to her bow, and will marry him 
 
 the first day it suits her. 
 
 " Oh ! I hope not, uncle. It can't be true. Reggie would 
 
 never marry that hateful girl," exclaimed Ethel, with alarm in 
 
 her tone. 
 
 " Oh ! you have found out that she is a hateful girl, have you, 
 
 Ethel .^ She is both very pretty and very sharp as well, and 
 can do almost anything she pleases with a very young man like 
 Reggie. I am afraid for him I confess," replied Mr. Horton. 
 
 " Pshaw ! Horton. It is not so bad as you represent," said 
 Mr. Mordaunt. " Reggie likes to be with the girls, I dare say, 
 but he has too much sense to get himself into a scrape. How- 
 ever, he'll be away with us to the salt water in a day or two, and 
 after we return he goes to Sarnia for a visit to a college friend, 
 or for a trip up Lake Huron. That will keep him away and 
 
 occupied until vacation is over. He'll come out all right." 
 "Very well! I hope so," said Mr. Horton, in reply. "I 
 
 have warned you. That he is in love with the girl at this pre- 
 sent I am very confident. Keep him away from home as much 
 as possible, at any rate. I wish we were home, for I'm himgry. 
 I hope you have a good dinner, for us, Florence." 
 
220 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 " Better than you deserve, uncle, for you've taken away my 
 appetite completely by the fright you gave me about Reggie," 
 answered Ethel quickly, for her mother. 
 
 " Bad plan to lose one's dinner by the mere anticipation of 
 trouble. I don't lose mine, even when it arrives," said Mr. 
 Horton, and the conversation changed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXH. 
 
 COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 
 The fair city of Toronto, throned in queenly state between the 
 two splendid domains over which her sceptral hand holds sway 
 — the noble Lake Ontario, with its golden commerce and the 
 vast and wealthy Province to which it gives its name — was duly 
 honoured, on the Monday evening after his hasty exit from 
 Lake Mordaunt, with the presence of Mr. Sidney VVolverton, 
 who, being determined to strike whilst the iron was hot, had 
 made such very good speed that he had caught the same morn- 
 ing tl'ke Grand Trunk day express from the East, and had been 
 delivered in the Queen City at the very earliest moment it was 
 possible for him to be. 
 
 But, nevertheless, the speed of his journey had been laggard 
 sloth to his impatience, for until the endorsed paper, he had so 
 villainously procured from his friend Edwin Vance, was convert- 
 ed into hard cash, he was in a fever of uneasiness and disquiet. 
 For might not, by some unlooked for mischance, some mischie- 
 vous contingency, his trick be discovered by him whom he had 
 wronged, and his design frustrated. 
 
 The glittering and interminable lengths of the telegraph wires 
 scorched his eyes with fevered apprehension, and carried guilty 
 fear and dismay to his heart as the train had flown passed them ; 
 for what was its speed to the instantaneous spark which at any 
 moment might flash the truth before him hundreds of miles in 
 
s.r^ - 
 
 COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 221 
 
 SO 
 
 lert- 
 liet. 
 
 liie- 
 
 lad 
 
 Ires 
 
 ilty 
 
 im; 
 
 iny 
 
 in 
 
 advan> 0, which mocked at time and distance, to v/hich a thousand 
 miles was as one. 
 
 How he had longed, as the bright threads stretched on in 
 endless continuity, in danger-menacing completeness, for some 
 happy accident — a sudden gale — the lall of some monster tree 
 — a devouring thunder-bolt — anything that might dash them, 
 scorched, paralyzed and useless to the earth, to break their silen t 
 speakings and end his fears. 
 
 And had not his tortured reflections during the journey forced 
 his mind with painful minuteness to ponder again and again, 
 unending and unsatisfied, over every circumstance of that inter- 
 view whose results had been so triumphant for him ? 
 
 Had not his reason again and again assured him, with the 
 force of a mathematical demonstration, that discovery was well 
 nigh impossible ; that he might rest in the consciousness of safety 
 and peace ; yet had not even the logic of reason failed to con- 
 quer the nervous fears, the trembling apprehensiveness which 
 beset his guilt-dismayed heart ? 
 
 Every hour of the journey had been an unending nightmare, 
 every mile a long drawn agony. 
 
 But as station after station had been passed* in safety, when 
 no denouncing officer of the law had appeared to arrest his pro- 
 gress, his nervousness had been gradually allayed, and when he 
 stepped from the train at his destination, unopposedly placed 
 himself in the hotel omnibus, he regained his composure and 
 steadiness, satisfied that all was so fir right with him, and that 
 as discovery had not yet taken place, it was not likely to take 
 place at all. 
 
 In a few moments his name appeared on the register of dis 
 tinguished arrivals at the " Queens," one of the best hotels in 
 the Dominion, comfortable, homelike and withal fashionable ; 
 facts which Mr. Sidney Wolverton was not slow to appreciate, 
 for he had a keen sense of enjoyment for personal surroundings 
 
TtT" 
 
 :-- ir^-ir^&i! 
 
 222 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 I { \ 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 and the good things of this world, for which reasons he designed 
 to honour the said hostelry with his guestship. 
 
 When the necessary change of his travel-dusted attire had been 
 effected, and a prolonged attention to the wants of the inner 
 man paid, very necessary and enjoyable after his long, fatiguing 
 and anxious journey ; he resolved, as it was much too late for 
 the transaction of business, to devote the remainder of the even- 
 ing to the amusements most congenial to his tastes, of which 
 billiards, brandy and water and cigars formed a not inconsider- 
 able part, in the gratifications to be derived from which he found 
 little difficulty in obtaining the assistance of kindred and most 
 capable spirits, as ready as he himself for these or like exhilarat- 
 ing pursuits. 
 
 However, when two or three hours had been spent in these 
 delights, and he was lounging about the billiard rooms, fatigued- 
 ly, making up his mind to retire for a good night's rest, in 
 readiness for business on the morrow, a young gentleman — 
 magnificent of attire and of much jewellery, with his hatrakishly 
 stuck on one side of his head, a cigar angularly placed in the 
 corner of his mouth, and the fires of many hot brandies glisten- 
 ing in his eves — sauntered into the room, and proceeded to make 
 a patronizing inspection of the denizens thereof and of the play 
 going on. 
 
 His gaze at length rested upon Sidney, who had not perceived 
 his entrance, and when he had remained standing a few moments 
 with a hopelessly muddled expression on his features, as if he 
 was sayiixg to himself, " I ought to know who that fellow is, but 
 hang me ! if I can make him out," he decided apparently that 
 the best thing he could do would be to get nearer to him, and 
 find out. Accordingly he staggered as well as he could into 
 nearer proximity, when Sidney, turning at his step, held out his 
 hand, as he recognized him — 
 
 " Hallo ! Hatchitfess, is that you ? Arn't you out late to-night ? 
 One would think the worthy governor would have had you in 
 
COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 223 
 
 l)ccl long ago. How wags the world with you ?" said Sidney, as 
 they shook hands. 
 
 ** Hang th« world and the governor too !" answered the duti- 
 ful Albert Montague Maximus Hatchitfess, for it was no less a 
 person. " The old boy would like to know I was in bed, I dare 
 say, but he's away out of town and can't help himself, the old 
 skin flint. But what's brought you to Toronto, Sidney Wolver- 
 ton ? No good, I'll be bound. If you have come for money 
 this time, you won't get it at our shop, I can tell you. especially 
 as the old boy's away," and the amiable youth grinned diaboli- 
 cally at his listener. 
 
 " Ha I ha ! ha ! Why you must have been drinking pretty 
 hard to-day, my worthy Albert. Do you imagine that I'm ass 
 enough to wish to put myself into your father's fifty per cent, 
 clutches, if I can help it ? Not yet awhile, if I know it. But 
 come along, and we'll have something to drink. I want to talk 
 to you. You can help me in an affair I have on hand of im- 
 portance," said Sidney. 
 
 " All right ! \Volvy. Brandy first and business after," replied 
 the playful Albert, as they adjourned to a parlour upon calling 
 for the desired stimulants. 
 
 " Well 1 What's your biz, Sid ?" he continued, as he mixed 
 himself a strong glass of brandy and water, which he sipped with 
 loving relish. " Look here, though, before we go into things I 
 must understand about the pay first. I don't ^v'ork for nothing, 
 and any business of yours is apt to be rather fishy, you know. I 
 must have money for it. The old governor, confound him ! 
 has taken to tightening the purse strings of late to keep me in 
 order, he says, and I want a lot of tin just now." 
 
 " Oh ! you do, do you ?" answered Sidney, looking at him. 
 " Debts that it won't do to leave unpaid, I suppose. Got to 
 keep them dark, or the old man raves." 
 
 " Yes ! that's about the figure of it. And the money I must 
 get. It's pull devil or pull baker with me," was the reply. 
 
 >» 
 
I 
 
 i 
 
 224 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " Well ! you enact the part of the devil, I suppose, and if 
 you'll help me, I'll enable you to pull the !)aker about as you 
 wish. Look at this !" continued \Volverton,'producing from his 
 pocket-book the note which Edwin Vance had so innocently 
 endorsed. " I want you to get this discounted for me to-mor- 
 row morning, so that 1 can get away by the Eastern train in the 
 afternoon. You see I cannot very well put it up myself as I 
 am the maker of the note, and it would look too much like an 
 ' accom.' Now, you get it done for me, and I'll i)ay handsome- 
 ly," he continued, showing the note to his companion. 
 
 f ' Hallo ! What's this ? You don't say. ^Vell ! If Vance 
 is'nt a bigger fool than I took him to be. How in the mischief 
 did you get this out of him ?" said Hatchitfess, staring at the 
 paper, and turning it over and over as if he could not believe 
 its too plain api)earance. " Look here ?" he continued, with 
 sudden suspicion. " Is this all right ? You did not put that 
 name on yourself, eh, Sidney? You're capable of it enough." 
 
 " No 1 I did not put that name there myself, my young friend," 
 answered Sidney. " The name is genuine, as you could see 
 were you not so much under the influence of brandy and water 
 as you are at present. Do you suppose I'd run my neck into a 
 noose for such a trifle as this is ?" 
 
 " I don't know about that," was the flattering rej^ly. " The 
 signature looks right enough, aiy way. Yes I By George. It's 
 only a lawyer who could write such a villainous scrawl as this is. 
 But, if I put this up at the bank, I'll have to endorse it. I can't 
 do it," he continued. 
 
 " Now, look here ! Hatchitfess. You want money, don't you ? 
 Now, if you do this for me by twelve o'clock to-morrow, I'll al- 
 low you two per cent, out of it. That's seven hundred dollars 
 in a lump. Worth having for a short half hour's work," sa 
 Sidney, coming to the point at once. 
 
 "Seven hundred I" replied he. " Will the note be met.?" 
 
md if 
 s you 
 m his 
 ::ently 
 :)-mor- 
 in the 
 fas I 
 ike an 
 isome- 
 
 Vance 
 lischief 
 at the 
 believe 
 d, with 
 lut that 
 bugh." 
 
 riend," 
 d see 
 water 
 into a 
 
 " The 
 
 It's 
 
 this is. 
 
 I can't 
 
 I't you ? 
 I'll al- 
 dollars 
 :," sa 
 
 It?" 
 
 COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 225 
 
 " Yes ! It will," replied Sidney. " And is'nt Vance good for 
 it in any event ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Yes ! he's good enough. But your note is more likely 
 than not to go to protest. However, I ^uess I'm able to hum- 
 bug the old boy yet, mad as he'll be if it does . Seven hun- 
 dred," he repeated, musingly. " With what I can scrape up, I 
 can pay the piper, and have something left over, free, for running 
 expenses, independent too of old Grip and Gripe," continued the 
 dutiful son, with touching allusion to his father. " I'll do it, Sid, 
 if you'll keep mum, and pay me the seven hundred. No trouble 
 to get it done. Vance's name and ours would \nit anything 
 through." 
 
 " All right I" replied Sidney. " That matter is settled. You 
 can tais:e your seven hundred out of it when you get it done. No 
 cure, no pay, though. Now, mix yourself another glass, for I 
 have something else to say to you. Not business matters. Only 
 a few questions to ask." 
 
 " Go ahead with your questions. But you're not going to 
 make much money out of me with them, I can tell you." 
 
 " Bother your money," exclaimed Sidney, impatiently. " You 
 think of nothing but your money, you greedy little wretch. I 
 want to find out something concerning a young lady." 
 
 " Do you know a Miss Agnes Seafortli ?" he continued. 
 
 " Agnes Seaforth ! AVhat in thunder do you want to know 
 about her for ?" asked Hatchitfess in return. 
 
 " Oh ! you know her then, do you ?" replied Sidney. "Well ! 
 Who is she? What is she like ? and what conneC'on has Vance 
 with her ? She writes to him and he to her." 
 
 " They write to each other ! oh ! I dare say," answered the 
 mischievous young imp, with a laugh. " Yes ! and more than 
 that too, if all were known." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? You don't mean to say she's 
 a sweetheart of Vance's," said Sidney, with an answering laugh. 
 
 " Sweetheart !" exclaimed Hatchitfess, as with drunken fury 
 
226 
 
 Tf 
 
 I 
 
 li I 
 
 ^i ( 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 his mind reverted to the very disagreeable interview he had held 
 with the young lady a few days previously. " Sweetheart," and 
 bending over he whispered, into Wolverton's ear, glancing with 
 guilty timorousness around, as if the spirited girl he traduced 
 could hear and revenge his words. 
 
 " Come now ! Hatch itfess, that's too thin. I know better 
 than that. Vance is not one of that kind, at any rate. But 
 with whom does she live ? Are her parents alive ? No ! no I 
 my sjiiteful young friend. Tell me a more probable story ; that 
 statement won't wash. I know Vance too well to beiieve all 
 that. He's got what he calls his principles, and he's a pious 
 young man," answered Sidney, who, though he stood up for his 
 friend, did so more from the deduction of reason which his know- 
 ledge of liim gave, than from the charitable wish to impute the 
 good motive rather than the evil. 
 
 " He's got principles ! has he ? and he's pious, is he ? Thun- 
 der !" sneered the remarkably unprincipled Albert Montague 
 Maximus. " Then what does he give her six hundred dollars a 
 year for, I'd like to know ?" 
 
 " Do you mean to say Vance gives her six hundred dollars a 
 year?" asked Sidney, with ahttle astonishment in his tone. 
 
 " Yes, I do ! I know it, for she gets the money twice a year 
 at our office." 
 
 " Oh ! Indeed I One would imagine that the respectable 
 firm of John Hatchitfess & Son would not mix themselves up 
 with so dubious a transaction as you would make it appear. 
 Stuff! It's some settlement or annuity, some just debt, I'll be 
 bound. Tiiere are fifty ways to account for it. Why, he's head 
 over ears in love with, and engaged to be married to, a very 
 pretty young heiress down in the country," replied Wolverton, 
 anxious, however, to get all the information he could from his 
 inebriated companion. 
 
 " Going to be married to an heiress ! Oh ! ho ! That ac- 
 counts then for his instructions to us to-day to purchase an 
 
 II 
 
r^y£>j||^|jvr2^»<m]y^ ir,xw.»!i«frgj^ 
 
 COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 227 
 
 , year 
 
 annuity on the life of this same young lady for six hundred dol- 
 lars a year. Out of his own funds too, for she has not a rap," 
 exclaimed Hatchitfess, with triumph in his tone. " What do you 
 think of that ? Looks fishy, don't it ? As if he wanted to keep 
 her quiet, you know !" 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that ! He may hold funds of hers in trust 
 for all you know." 
 
 *' Funds in trust. Pshaw ! She has'nta cent nor never had. 
 We know all about her," replied Hatchitfess. 
 
 " Well ! What is she like ? Is she a pretty girl ? and where 
 does she live ?" queried Sidney, getting interested in spite of his 
 convictions. 
 
 '•' She's one of the prettiest girls in Toronto, but she's got the 
 temper of a vixen, a perfect little fury, and looks at a fellow as 
 if he was dirt under her feet, confound her !" Hatchitfess replied, 
 brandy and spite getting the better of his tongue. 
 
 "^Oh ! I see," returned Sidney, " and you don't like it. Very 
 natural ; quite so, indeed. But where and with whom does she 
 live ?" 
 
 " She's an orphan, and lives with an old half blind and deaf 
 aunt in a little house out in the suburbs," was answered sleepily. 
 " I say ! Hatchitfess, wake up if you want to get home to- 
 night," said Sidney. " Rouse yourself up, and I'll see you part 
 of the way. Look here 1 What's Miss Seaforth's address ?" 
 
 " Oh ! leave me alone, can't you ? What do you want her 
 address for? Want to make love to her yourself? Try it on 
 just and see how you'll come out," replied Hatchitfess, impa- 
 tiently, as he was becoming more hopelessly somnolent and 
 intoxicated. 
 
 " Not much ! thank you. I'll leave that to you — I'm no 
 
 spooney gawk," said Sidney, with a sneering laugh. " Listen I 
 
 Hatchitfess, I've a reason for wishing to know the address. 
 
 Tell it me, there's a good fellow, and the old aunt's name."' 
 
 " Oh ! confound it ! I'm sick of your questions. The aunt's 
 
H 
 
 J 
 
 (i 
 
 1 
 
 ■i i 
 
 in 
 
 1 ; 
 
 1;- 
 
 t2g 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 name is Patience Springle. The address I don't know, and if 
 I did I would'nt tell you, so there's an end of it," was the angry 
 reply. 
 
 " Indeed ! You won't tell it. Well ! It does not matter 
 much, at any rate. But its quite evident where the trouble lies 
 with you. I don't believe a word of that nice little story you've 
 told me. Is'nt it all pure malice and spite of your own ? You've 
 been persecuting the girl with your cubbish attentions, and you 
 have got thundering well snubbed for you pains. That's what's 
 the matter with you, my disappointed little Hatchy," said Sidney, 
 sticking his feet upon the table and surveying his companion 
 with an exasperating smile. 
 
 " It's no such thing. You be hanged* Sidney Wolverton. I 
 would not condescend to speak to the girl," exclaimed . Hatchit- 
 fess, springing up from his chair, his face purple with mortification, 
 rage and ardent spirits. " And my story is'nt true, you think. 
 All Toronto is ringing with it, at any rate, as you can find out if 
 you choose to enquire." 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say ! with your version of it," interrupted Sidney, 
 " but you need not get vexed, Hatchitfess. I don't care a pin 
 whether your story is true or false. It's no affair of mine. It 
 will, however, do very well for my purposes, and may probably 
 do more mischief than it has done already. Never mind what 
 I have said, Hatchy, I did not mean tc offend you. Take 
 another glass of brandy to steady yourself up, and I'll get a cab 
 called for you. You'd better get to bed, or you'll be fit for nothing 
 in the morning. Remember, you've to attend to that business of 
 mine." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself about me. I'll be on hand, never fear. 
 " You'd better be more civil than you are, Wolverton, it you ex- 
 pect a man to do anything you want," was the surly answer, as 
 he helped himself from the decanter. *' Well ! I must be off, 
 I suppose. Come to the door with me, Sid. There's a cab- 
 stand close at hand, and I'm none too steady on my pins." 
 
P**l^*^?S?r, 
 
 m 
 
 Ltttt^st'T¥3^^<aiMi»'i«tMart'»Sa3!B<aJi^iS« 
 
 id if 
 ngry 
 
 atter 
 i lies 
 ou've 
 ou've 
 5 you 
 what's 
 lidney, 
 oanion 
 
 ;on. I 
 latchit- 
 i cation, 
 1 think, 
 d out if 
 
 Sidney, 
 re a pin 
 ine. It 
 robably 
 d what 
 Take 
 let a cab 
 nothing 
 siness of 
 
 ^ver fear. 
 \ou ex- 
 iswer, as 
 It be off. 
 Is a cab- 
 Ins. 
 
 COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 229 
 
 " All right ! Come along then. Here's your hat. I'll see 
 you at the office early to-morrow," said Sidney, taking his arm 
 and steadying him as they left the room. 
 
 " He's a beaudful specimen, I must say," soliloquised Sidney, 
 as he returned towards the hotel, after safely installing his pre- 
 cious friend in a cab. " He is his worthy father all over, with a 
 thousand additional and meaner vices superadded. The atro- 
 chus little wretch. I'm not a saint myself, by any means, but I 
 hope I'm not so unutterably bad, so despicably base as he is. 
 When I do evil, I do it because it is necessary for me or profit- 
 able, or because the stress of circumstances compels me to do 
 it. I may not be an honest or a good man, but nothing in the 
 w(jrld could induce to traduce and vilify a woman as he has 
 done this evening, and that too out of mere petty spite. I don't 
 want to do unnecessary evil. I'm bad enough as it is. The little 
 brute has almost made me sick with myself, tJiat I have to be 
 classed with such villiany as his. I am a villain, and I feel 
 myself more than ever such that I have to send this lying story 
 down to that girl at Ten Lakes. Could I help it, I would most 
 certainly not send it. She's bent on mischief against that unfor- 
 tunate Vance and his pretty Ethel. Such unnecessary mischief 
 too, for it can avail her nothing. But she's got the rein over me, 
 and I must obey. Well ! It's no affair of mine to attend to 
 the morality of other people. Plenty to do to look after myself. 
 Yet I don't like to do unnecessary evil," and with this highly 
 virtuous reflection on his lips, Mr. Sidney AA^olverton betook him- 
 self to bed. 
 
 * * * ^ ;|c H( * 
 
 At the hour of ten the next morning, as the banks opened, 
 and the stir and bustle of the city's daily life had fairly set in, 
 Albert Montague Maxinius Hatchitfess, Esq., compelled by the 
 dire necessity of his father's absence to attend to the affairs of 
 the office, was driven up in his own very gaudily equipped 
 vehicle — which rivalled himself in flashy magnificence — to the 
 
 16 
 
 tcmua!^£. i;^. .-.-'iSUFittiiU; t--^it ■ i 
 
230 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ii'' 
 
 detested door, where work, which he did not like, and no idle 
 pleasures, which he did like, awaited him. 
 
 Excepting a somewhat redder aspect than usual of his fishy- 
 eyes, his potations of the previous night did not seem to have 
 affected his personal appearance to any great degree ; but then, 
 it is to be remembered, that his features had naturally been so 
 unpleasantly endowed that no amount of dissipation, or indeed 
 any other conceivable despoiler of beauty, could have made 
 him look more hideous than he appeared in his normal condi- 
 tion. 
 
 Entering the private office, after a glance around to see all 
 was going on as it should do, and a few harsh words to the 
 clerks to show his authority, he found Sidney Wolverton already 
 installed there before him, seated at the desk engaged in writing 
 a letter. 
 
 " Good morning I" said Sidney, looking up at the other's en- 
 trance. " How do you find yourself to-day ?" 
 
 " All right ! A little seedy perhaps, but I'm used to that. 
 You're early this morning. Making yourself at home, too, as if 
 it were your own office. Pretty cool ! I must say," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Oho ! a love letter we're inditing. * My dearest Emily," and 
 so forth ! and so forth !" he continued, peering over the other's 
 shoulder at the letter. 
 
 " Well ! You're pretty cool too, my inquisitive yoimg friend," 
 exclaimed Sidney, hastily turning down the letter in which he 
 was giving Miss Dearborn a full detail of their last night's con- 
 versation. " One would think you were raised in a barn by the 
 good breeding you display." 
 
 " Well, it's after ten and the banks are open." 
 " I wish then you'd attend at once to that little financial tran- 
 saction of ours, as I want, if possible, to be off by the afternoon 
 train for the East. It may take you a little time," he con- 
 tinued. 
 

 masi 
 
 lA'sr, .^^(tnwntwatg-i 
 
 COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 231 
 
 and 
 )ther's 
 
 kend," 
 Ich he 
 Is con- 
 )y the 
 
 " Confound it ! Wolverton. If I put that thing up for discount 
 I'll have to endorse. I've been thinking it over, and I'm afraid 
 almost, for if the old governor finds it out, I'll never hear the 
 last of it." 
 
 " Yes ! and if he hears about those little things which had 
 better be paid, and for which you have not the money, you'll 
 never hear the last of it either. You have your choice between 
 the two evils. Seven hundred dollars is a lot of money, when 
 one wants it," replied Sidney, coolly and quietly. 
 
 " Hang it ! Yes ! I suppose I'll have to do it. Here ! give 
 me the note, and I'll be off before my mind changes, for I must 
 have that money," exclaimed Hatchitfess. 
 
 " That's talking sensible now. Here it is ! Just sign this for 
 form's sake," said Sidney, rapidly writing off a receipt for the note 
 which he placed before the other. 
 
 " Well ! You are suspicious. Do you suppose I would run 
 away with your precious note, which if it was not for the name 
 on it's back, would not be worth the stamps on it," Hatchitfess 
 said, with grumbling indignation, as he wrote the firm's name 
 to the receipt. 
 
 " Safe bind, safe find, my dear Albert. In case of any little 
 accident I have this to show for the note, which is fortunately 
 worth a good deal more than its stamps. Farewell for the pre- 
 sent, and success attend you," replied Sidney, as the other took 
 up his hat and went off on his errand. 
 
 A period of something more than an hour elapsed, the first 
 part of which \Volverton occupied very comfortably in finishing 
 his letter to Miss Dearborn, and the latter very uncomfortably 
 in striding up and down the room, tormenting himself with all 
 the chimeras that harass the soul of the man who lives outside 
 the strict path of rectitude ; the thousand and one fears that 
 oppress the guilty mind in every thinking moment ; the squeez- 
 ing of the heart that makes the success of a nefarious plan as 
 intolerable as it's failure ; that blanches the hair and wrinkles 
 
232 
 
 SHE MIGHT HxWE DONE BETTER. 
 
 the cheek faster and more surely than ceaseless labour or grind- 
 ing poverty ; that wastes the body as it dries up the soul. 
 
 His harassed thoughts, searing, anxious and painful, flew 
 over, again and again, every contingency, possible and impos- 
 sible, that could militate against and bar his success. 
 
 " Why did I not do it myself? Why did I trust another? 
 and he a rogue also. The bank ma}' suspect something and re- 
 fuse to discount. 
 
 " Emily Dearborn may have let fall a chance word ; Vance 
 may have discovered the fraud and telegraphed. At this moment 
 Hatchitfess may be in the hands of the officers, and they " — he 
 glanced uneasily around — '' are on the watch for me. Who knows 
 but at this moment a liveried official of the law stands outside 
 awaiting my exit ?" 
 
 Such were the unendurable reflections that burned in his brain 
 as he walked up and down and made that waiting hour a drawn- 
 out age. 
 
 *' I can't stand this longer," he exclaimed at length, catching 
 up his hat. " I'll go down to the bank and see for myself what 
 the upshot of tlie matter may be, let it be good or evil for me." 
 But just as he had wound himself up to the highest possible 
 extent of mental agon}- and misery, the door opened, and young 
 Hatchitfess entered, with an aspect cool and calm, very much 
 in contrast with AVolverton's excited and harassed looking ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 '* Hallo ! AVhat's the matter with you?" exclaimed the for- 
 mer, arresting his steps in surprise, as he gazed at Sidney. 
 " Have you been having snakes in your boots since I left you ?" 
 " Oh ! you're back at last, are you, Hatchitfess ? You've 
 been gone long enough," he said, snappishly, though evidently 
 very glad to see him. " Well ! How did you get along? Is it 
 all right?" 
 
 " Right as a trivet. And I've got the cash," was the reply. 
 " The Board is sitting to-day, and the thing was sent right into 
 
SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 233 
 
 rind- 
 flew 
 npos- 
 
 ther ? 
 nd re- 
 Vance 
 Loment 
 r "—he 
 knows 
 outside 
 
 is brain 
 , drawn- 
 
 :atching 
 
 elf what 
 or me 
 
 possible 
 d young 
 y much 
 ing ap- 
 
 the for- 
 
 Sidney. 
 
 ^ftyou?" 
 
 You've 
 
 evidently 
 
 ;? Is it 
 
 le reply- 
 isiht into 
 
 11 
 
 them. They kept me waiting long enough, and ?-fter all tliey 
 would not discount without our name, hang it. They were 
 rough on you too, Sid, I can tell you. The old Presideiit is a 
 great friend of Vance's, and before I got through getting the 
 cash and the other formalities, he came out and asked me a lot 
 of questions which of course I could not answer, as to wliat you 
 and Vance were doing together. He shook his head, and very 
 evidently showed he did not like the transaction. He had to 
 acknowledge the endorser.ijnt as genuine, but he said bed write 
 at once to Vance about ic. Fact he did !" 
 
 " The mischief he did I" exclaimed Sidney, unguardedly, the 
 surprise of such danger coming upcn liim being too much 
 for his presence of mind. " What business is it of his, I'd 
 like to know ? I suppose he'd like to constitute himself guardian 
 to Vance and myself, would not he ? AVe are quite co.iipetent 
 to manage our own affairs. He'll get no good hy his writing," 
 he continued, recovering his momentarily lost self-possession. 
 
 " I say ! Wolverton. That name on the note is genuine, is'nt 
 it ?" Hatchitfess returned, with alarm pictured on his visage, for 
 he had noticed Sidney's imprudent and hasty exclamation. " You 
 did'nt put it on yourself did you ? You turned as pale as death 
 just now wiien ycu heard about t iiem writing to \'ance. There's 
 sometliing wrong about the affair, I'm certain." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense! Hatchitfess. Don't make a fool of 
 yourself with your absurd suspicions. You know as well as I 
 do that the name is genuine ; did not the old banker himself 
 acknowledge it ? How about that, i/h ? And so I turned as 
 pale as death because he's going to write to Vance, did I ? 
 Ridiculous I I'll own I was vexed at his impertinent interfer- 
 ence in afHiirs v/hich do not concern hirn. But the terrors of 
 his writing to Vance are simply the creatures of your ov/n fright- 
 ened brain," returned Sidney, h.otly. 
 
 " Well ! It may be as you assert, Wolverton. Had it been 
 any person but yourself who presented the note, the name v»'ould 
 
 ikttMiJffjiji^JC^DtUiaM 
 
i 1 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 have passed wholly unquestioned. But as the matter stands, 
 with our firm's name endorsing, I intend to hold the proceeds 
 until you have proved that it's not forged paper," said Hatchit- 
 fess, his fears lending him determination. 
 
 ' Forged paper, the devil I" exclaimed Sidney, wrathfuUy, but 
 as a scene would not have suited him, he cooled down. " Come 
 now, Hatchitfess, be reasonable and use what sense you possess. 
 The note is genuine, and you know it — know it just as well as 
 you know that it is accommodation paper. Here ! hand me 
 over the cash before I have to resort to other measures," continu- 
 ed he in a firm tone, which showed he would allow no trifling. 
 
 " Resort to what you please ! I'll hold the money until you 
 get an acknowledgement of his signature from Vance," replied 
 Hatchitfess with equal firmness, though edging away from his 
 companion. 
 
 " You'll do no such thing," Albert Hatchitfess," was the calm 
 answer. " And you'll find I'm not the man you can play your 
 tricks upon. Settle up this instant, or I'll call a policeman." 
 
 " Pooh ! Call in your police, and see what you'll make by 
 it. Who'll be believed the first, I wonder? Albert Hatchitfess, 
 of the firm of John Hatchitfess & Son, or Sidney Wolverton, a 
 stranger of doubtful repute. Ha ! ha ! Call in your police," 
 sneered the other rather emboldened that the law was the 
 arbiter proposed than intimidated by the threats of its terrors. 
 
 " That's your game, is it ? you little thief. I'll see about that," 
 roared Sidney, as he sprung from his chair, and reaching the 
 door at a bound, he locked it and placed the key in his 
 pocket. 
 
 His features swollen and working with rage, every muscle of 
 his stalwart frame tense and quivering with his powerful excite- 
 ment he was not a very pleasant or reassuring-looking object 
 for the now thoroughly alarmed Albert Hatchitfess, locked in 
 alone with him, to confront. " Out with the money this instant, 
 you cursed little wretch, before I wring your ugly head off your 
 
COVERING UP HIS TRACKS. 
 
 235 
 
 2 calm 
 y your 
 n. 
 
 .ke by 
 litfess, 
 rton, a 
 police," 
 as the 
 
 errors, 
 t that," 
 mg the 
 
 in his 
 
 iscle of 
 
 excite- 
 
 object 
 
 bked in 
 
 (instant, 
 
 )ff your 
 
 shoulders," and with a msh the unfortunate little Albert was seized 
 by tlie collar and whirled into his chair, helpless and gasping 
 in the strong hands of the enraged Sidney. " Now ! you cower- 
 ing hound I Will you fork out the cash, or shall I take it from 
 you and throttle you afterwards." 
 
 With one horrified glance at his captor, and an utterly futile 
 effort to wrench his half-crushed shoulder out of the vice-like 
 grasp that compressed it, the wretched litde Albert, with the 
 most abject expression of fear convulsing his features into ludi- 
 crous contortions, exclaimed, in mumbling accents, 
 
 " Here it is, Sidney. I did not mean to offend you. Oh ! 
 let me go. You're killing me. It was but a harmless joke I 
 played you," and he threw his pocket-book down on the table 
 before him. 
 
 " A joke, however, which resulted differently to your anticipa- 
 tions, Mr. Hatchitfess," replied Sidney, releasing him and taking 
 up the pocket-book. " Sit down, I'm not done with you yet," 
 he continued, and proceeded to count .he drafts and money con- 
 tained in the bundle he took from the pocket-book. " What dis- 
 count did they take ?" he enquired of his yet trembling com- 
 panion, " and have you taken your seven hundred out of it ?" 
 
 " Seven per cent, was the rale they charged. Yes ! I took 
 mine out," was Hatchitfess' reply. 
 
 " Well ! then, there's a hundred dollars short. There are only 
 thirty-three thousand five hundred here, and there ought to be 
 thirty-three six. What's the reason ?" asked Sidney, looking at 
 his companion. 
 
 " Well ! I had to endorse the note, and an extra hundred 
 was little enough, I thought, for the risk. Besides, I want the 
 money." 
 
 " Oh ! I won't quarrel with you about it," answered Sidney, 
 pocketing his cash. " Nevertheless, as you might wish to play 
 some more of your jokes upon me, and as I don't wish to be 
 detained in Toronto, you shall sign a receipt for it as your com- 
 
 / '.^^.■i^'^iii.; «5jfii!a53iSiSi^^feyis*^ai" \^i!^; :vL^*; ';^^ 
 
:^^mmmmmm 
 
 235 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 ^i 
 
 mission for discounting the note for me. With this in my 
 possession I can defy any little joke you might like to perpetrate 
 upon me to make up for your rather imsuccessful first attempt. 
 Here sign this at once, and no nonsense, unless you choose to 
 get into my hands again." 
 
 Frantically snatching up a pen, for the terrors of Sidney's for- 
 mer attack were still so strong upon him that the prospect of 
 another was simi)ly appalling, he barely glanced at the first lines 
 of the receipt, and hastily dashing off his signature at the bot- 
 tom, he pushed the paper towards Sidney, exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh ! Here you are ; who wants to play tricks upon you ? 
 Not I, for I've had enough of you." 
 
 Sidney chuckled audibly as he placed the following paper in 
 his pocket — 
 
 "Toronto, July 27th, 1873. 
 " Received of Sidney ^^'olverton the sum of one hundred 
 dollars, our commission for procuring the discount of his note 
 endorsed by Edwin C.Vance, dated July 24th, 1873, at tliree 
 months, for thirty-five hundred dollars. 
 
 " John Hatchitfess &: Son, 
 
 " Per Albert Hatchitfess." 
 
 " How scared he must have been when he could not see that 
 hundreds were written in place of thousands," he thought to him- 
 self ; and then exultantly, " How well I'll humbug Vance with 
 this when the note falls due. It will come in most excel- 
 lently." 
 
 " Here is the acknowledgement you ga\-e me for the note. I 
 don't want it longer," he continued aloud to his companion. 
 " Look at it, before I tear it up ; it's of no use to any one. Well ! 
 Hatchitfess, I don't bear malice, if you don't. Let's shake 
 hands and we'll go and have something to drink. Will )ou 
 come ?" 
 
 '* All right ! I want sometliing at any rate. I bear no malice, 
 
 e," he added to himself. " And vou 
 
 nth 
 
 your 
 
 ^1! M 
 
j£Si^£g^»MMW! 
 
 fess." 
 
 that 
 iiim- 
 iwith 
 Ixcel- 
 
 I 
 
 liion. 
 VcW ! 
 
 I\ike 
 ou 
 
 I'ice, 
 
 )0U 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 237 
 
 call afford to come down handsomely after your morning's work," 
 replied Hatchitfess, surlily enough, however. 
 
 " Oh ! Well ! for that matter you've made a good day's work 
 too. But, I'll stand the champagne. Come along I" 
 
 5(t * 5ft * * * >i; * 
 
 The Grand Trunk eastward bound express of that afternoon 
 carried one passenger, at least, who was very well contented and 
 light-hearted. Mr. Sidney \\'olverton's pockets were full of cash. 
 His troubles and anxieties were, temporarily, at least, thrown far 
 into the future. He felt that he had been successful ; that he 
 had obviated and overcome the dangers that menaced him ; his 
 confidence in himself and his self-importance hourly increased. 
 Prosperity was his again, and the sun shone for him more bright- 
 ly, and nature's loveliness smiled forth for him more sweetly as 
 he gazed on the bright panorama that Hashed past him as the 
 train flew on. . He did not watch the stations with nervous dread 
 or long for some falling tree to interru})t telegraphic communica- 
 tion on his return journey. 
 
 His soul soared above such vain terrors now. " What a fool 
 I was," and he laughed a light-hearted laugh. 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 
 
 Mrs. Dearborn and her daughter, Ada, for Emily had reso- 
 lutely declined the sultry honors of a July afternoon's walk, had 
 betaken tliemselves, despite the heat, upon a shopping expedi- 
 tion among the half dozen stores of the village of Ten Lakes, for 
 the purpose of effecting some necessary household purchases. 
 To the former it was a sufficiently pleasant occupation, for she 
 dep.rly liked the spending of money, the lingering and long 
 drawn out delights of rambling from one store to another, ex- 
 amining with intense minuteness and circumspection each 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 238 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 separate i)iece of goods tliat each separate establishment con- 
 tained, and driving the outwardly smiling but inwardly anathe- 
 matizing attendants to the verge of imbecility and despair by the 
 wandering indecision, which would reject but to return again to 
 twenty different articles as many times in an hour, finally to re- 
 solve ''♦^d fix upon and purchase something as wholly unsuitable 
 to he -iposes as it was unexpected either by herself or any 
 person else. 
 
 But to the straightforward and decided Ada, who regarded 
 dress as a necessary evil incident to mankind and mipossible to 
 be averted, like whooping cough or ceremonious calls, and worse 
 than these because of daily recurrence — these expeditions were 
 simply unendurable horror. Any other mortal thing in this 
 world, washing dishes, darning stockings, or worse than all, en- 
 tertaining in state some fashionable visitor, were infinitely pre- 
 ferable in her eyes. It was only her sense of duty, and her love 
 for her -nother, outraged by the blank refusal of her sister, that 
 enab' er to listen and consent to a proposal of the kind with 
 any toi«_.^Ole comi)lacency, and even then her bright, good-hu- 
 mored smile had to cover a shuddering heart. A couple of 
 hours pleasure for the one and dire penance to the other had 
 come to an end ; they were walking, their purchases concluded, 
 to Ada's great content, itlong the street towards home, after Mrs. 
 Dearborn had nearly driven mad the two partners and the entire 
 force of assistants of the largest establishment in the place, 
 and were on the point of turning in at their own gate, when a 
 carriage dashed up behind them, stopped, and the pleasant voice 
 of Mrs. Mordaunt who, with Ethel, were its occupants, sounded 
 in their ears. 
 
 " Good afternoon ! Mrs. Dearborn — How do you do, Ada ? " 
 said the former. " We are coming to you in great haste, and 
 have a favor to ask of you." 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Mordaunt ? I'm sure I'm delighted 
 to see you both. Pray come inside out of this broiling sun," 
 
ia ? " 
 and 
 
 thted 
 5im," 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 239 
 
 replied Mrs. Dearborn, shaking hands with the ladies. " I 
 hav'nt seen you, Miss Mordaunt, since I heard of a certain 
 event of late occurrence. I'm sure I congratulate you, and 
 hope you'll be very happy," she continued to Ethel. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Dearborn," answered the latter. " But 
 my happiness is a long time off yet, and I wish that you will 
 make me very happy in the meantime by granting me a favor. 
 We are going to the seaside for a month, and mamma has come 
 to ask you to let Ada go with us for the trip ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Dearborn," continued Mrs. Mordaunt ; " Ethel 
 wants her young friend, Ada, with her, an'd we hope you will 
 let her come with us. We'll take good care of her, and try to 
 give her a i)leasant trip. We decided upon it very suddenly, 
 and we start to-morrow morning — consequently we don't give 
 Ada much time to get ready ; but we could not help it, and we 
 will see to everything after we arrive at '^-'couna." 
 
 " Ada ! — Ada to go to the seaside with you ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Dearborn, in utter amazement at the idea of Ada being 
 asked. " You want Ada — Oh I Mrs. ^lordaunt, I'm very much 
 obliged to you, I'm sure, but I'm afraid she cannot go. I'll 
 never get along without her, and she has not a dress ready. 
 
 Besides, I don't know where the rnon 1 am very sorry, but 
 
 I fear Ada will have to decline your kind invitation. We have 
 only one girl to help us, and I'd never get along without Ada. 
 I wished it had been Emily you asked," she continued, wring- 
 ing her hands in doubt and indecision. " But pray come in. 
 Ada ! call Fin to take the horse." 
 
 "Oh! nevermind about Ada's dresses, Mrs. Denrborn, or 
 anything else. She must come with us. She has not much 
 change or amusement, and a seaside trip would do her a world 
 of good every way. We want her with us, and I'll undertake 
 that her dresses shall not discredit you ," said Mrs. Mordaunt 
 laughing. " Thank you, Mrs. Dearborn, we are really in haste, 
 and will not come in to-day. You must consent that Ada goes 
 
11 
 
 t ■ 
 
 240 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 with LIS, though. You'll be ready for to-morrow morniug, 
 Ada?" 
 
 " Oh ! Mamma ! I should so like to go," said poor 
 Ada, looking up most supplicatingly to her mother. " I'll work 
 hard to make up when I come back. Could you not manage 
 it?" 
 
 But then, as she remembered their continued hard scrape for 
 money — her mother's ill health, and the numerous little things, 
 which if hie herself did not do, would be left undone, she 
 hesitated, and, with a sigh, continued : 
 
 " Oh ! well, then, m'amma, never mind ; I won't be so selfish 
 as to wish it, when you cannot spare me, and it's not conven- 
 ient. I'm so much obliged, dear Mrs. Mordauntand Ethel, but 
 I am afraid I cannot go this time," and she looked up wistfully 
 at them all. 
 
 "•You're a good, unselfish girl, Ada; but Mrs. Dearborn will 
 let you go, I know," said Mrs. Mordaunt, mih a kind smile at 
 the disappointed, yet bright young face. 
 
 " Yes ; she is a good girl, Mrs. Mordaunt, and slie deserves 
 a little i)leasure. But I don't know what iv say, and Mr. Dear- 
 born is not here," said Mrs. Dearborn, whose u-eak but loving 
 heart beat very warmly towards her dutiful little 4augliter,w]iose 
 willing liands had ever done so much to smooth her troubled 
 road. '-Run down to the bank, Ada, and ask your father if 
 you can go. It's after hours, but he will be tliere still, 'i'ell 
 him, too, that I'll try to manage without you." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, Mrs. Dearborn," said Ethel warmly. "I 
 know Mr. Dearborn will let you go. Jump in, Ada ; I'll drive 
 you to the bank, and add my persuasions." 
 
 " Yes, do, Ethci," exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt. '' I'll get out 
 and stay v/itli Mrs. Dearborn until you return." 
 
 In*afew minutes they were at the door of tlie bank offices, 
 and Ada had rushed into the little private room, where her 
 fLither sat, finishing his day's business. 
 
,erves 
 )ear- 
 
 jving 
 
 ■lose 
 
 ibled 
 
 er if 
 
 Tell 
 
 •' I 
 
 Id live 
 
 o;i: 
 
 luces, 
 her 
 
 '.•-C^lRTv'ite'JIBnBSJC.UHUWlSfffltiV^ 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 241 
 
 '' Oh ! Papa ! " she exclaimed, breathless with excitement. 
 " Mrs. and Miss Mordaunt have asked me to go with them to 
 the sea-side to-morrow, for a month, and mamma has sent me 
 to ask you if it is possible ? " 
 
 " To go to the seaside with the Mordaunts, for a month ! 
 That would be delightful, Ada ! " he answered, looking up from 
 his work with a smile. But a moment after the smile faded 
 from his face, as he remembered his difficulties and struggle to 
 make all ends meet — and he sorrowfully continued : 
 
 " My dear little girl ; Vm very sorry, but I am afraid I must 
 refuse. I don't think I can afford the expense, and you have 
 nothing ready. Do you wish to go very much, Ada ? " 
 
 " Oh ! so much, papa ! That is, if you can afford it. It 
 won't cost very much — just my travelling expenses and a little 
 bit to keep in my pocket. And I have lots of nice dresses — 
 all ready," said Ada, beseechingly. 
 
 " Yes ; but I would not like my daughter to look shabby 
 beside other people. I fear it's impossible, my dear little Ada," 
 he replied — his besetting sin coming up to the surface, though 
 he looked very sadly in the pretty disappointed face of his dar- 
 ling Ada. 
 
 *' Oh ! but I sha'nt be shai)by, papa. I'll be as nice as any 
 one else, and I'd like to go awfully. But never mind, pajm, if 
 you can't afford it, I'll give up the idea. There are so many 
 things that the money has to go for that are necessary," she 
 added, with a sigh, and then she looked uj) lovingly into her 
 father's face. 
 
 " I love him — my dear, hard-working father," she continued 
 to herself, " and I will not increase his difficulties to gratify my 
 own selfish pleasures," and she turned away to rejoin Ethel. 
 
 " Stay, Ada — my dear little girl ! Let me think a minute," 
 said her father. " The expenses cannot be very great, and you 
 are a careful little thing. You have hardly ever been out of 
 this dull litde place, or had any amusement — while you, at any 
 
wmsm 
 
 if I I" ^ 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 242 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 rate, are a dutiful and good girl. Yes ; you shall go, Ada, if I 
 have to scrape closer for it. You have not had many pleasures 
 in your young life ; you shall have this trip. You go with nice 
 people, too. I'll miss your bright face, though, my dear little 
 girl, from our dull fireside. You shall have your trip, though, 
 my dear ; so you may go and get ready," continued Mr. Dear- 
 born, with a kiss on his young daughter's cheek. 
 
 *' Thank you, papa ! — thank you so much. But I fear you 
 cannot afford the expense, and, if so, I'd rather not go. I could 
 not enjoy myself if it made things harder to you and mamma. 
 I'll give up the idea," said the generous-hearted girl. 
 
 " No ! No ! Ada. I can bear the expense well enough, and 
 it would be harder to me to think I had kept my unselfish 
 little daughter from a pleasure. You shall go with the Mor- 
 daunts, Ada," replied her father, and he looked with a smile 
 into the now grateful face, whose answering smile already re- 
 paid him for the little sacrifice he had made ; for to Mr. Dear- 
 born's credit, be it said, it was more that he would miss the 
 only bit of sunshine of his daily life, the presence of his joyous 
 and natural Ada, than he would the money that her pleasure 
 trip would cost him. He remembered how self-sacrificing and 
 generous had she been to him and to all, amid much that was 
 selfish and undutiful. 
 
 " Thank you ! Mr. Dearborn," exclaimed Ethel who had at 
 flie moment entered the room. " I knew we should get your 
 consent to Ada going with us, and I am much obliged to you, 
 for my own sake as well as for Ada's." 
 
 " Good evening ! Miss Mordaunt," he replied, warmly. " I 
 am delighted to see you, though yau are going to take my 
 little Ada from me. But I spare her willingly, for I know 
 she'll be happy with you, and enjoy her excursion to the salt- 
 water." 
 
 "Oh ! Yes I Mr. Dearborn. We'll take good care of her; 
 and bring her back to you all safely. And we'll try to make 
 
a, if I 
 isures 
 li nice 
 r little 
 hough, 
 Dear- 
 
 ar you 
 [ could 
 lamma. 
 
 gh, and 
 Qselfish 
 e Mor- 
 a smile 
 ady re- 
 :. Dear- 
 liss the 
 
 joyous 
 ileasure 
 ing and 
 
 liat was 
 
 at 
 your 
 you, 
 
 " I 
 
 my 
 
 know 
 
 salt- 
 
 of her? 
 make 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 243 
 
 the trip pleasant to her you may be sure," said Ethel. " Ada ! 
 We must be moving, mamma is in a hurry, and we both have 
 lots to do. Good evening ! Mr. Dearborn. We will come 
 round for Ada in the morning," continued Ethel, and they went 
 back to the carriage. 
 
 As they drove back again Ethel, who had heard the few last 
 words of the conversation between father and daughter and 
 who had her instructions from her mother, turned to Ada, and 
 said. " I'm very glad you are going with us, Ada, for Mamma 
 and I would have found it lonely without a nice girl like your- 
 self of the party, and I'm especially glad that I have a friend 
 to depend upon, when the gentlemen tire of us or we of them. 
 We ^hould have been very much disappointed if you could not 
 have come. 
 
 " But, Ada, there's not to be any question of expense on y.-^ui 
 part. You are my mother's invited guest, and one of us. So 
 you are not to waste your money on tickets or things, but keep 
 it for your own pleasures. The through tickets are already 
 purchased and everything arranged, so that " 
 
 " Oh ! but Ethel. Neither papa nor I could consent to such 
 a thing as — " 
 
 " Oh ! but Ada, you'll have to consent to it. It's all arranged 
 before hand. So make your mind easy that yo cannot help 
 it. And here we are back again," replied Ethel hastily. 
 
 " Well ! Ada is to accompany us ; is she not ?" said Mrs. 
 Mordaunt, who, with Mrs. Dearborn, came out of the house as 
 the carriage drove up. " I see by Ethel's face that such is the 
 case." 
 
 " Oh ! Yes ! Mrs. Mordaunt. Papa has consented that I 
 should encumber you, I am happy to say, and mamma will I'm 
 sure also. Won't you, mamma ? But Ethel, I'll dictate my 
 own terms about that of which we were speaking," said Ada, 
 with serious face. 
 
 ^'!u^n 
 
m 
 
 ^ w^aT^pa^T^jTtn^TaHqPBF^I 
 
 i I 
 
 
 I 
 
 1! 
 
 
 f I 
 
 M4 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " Very well ! Ada. We'll see though," replied Ethel, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Come along, mamma. We must be off. We have lots to 
 do yet." 
 
 " Yes ! indeed we have." Good bye ! Mrs. Dearborn. I 
 am very glad, you have let Ada join us. I will take great care 
 of her. Good bye ! until to-morrow ! Ada. We shall call for 
 you in the morning," and shaking hands with the ladies, Mrs. 
 Mordaunt was assisted by Ada into the carriage and they 
 drove off. 
 
 During the time that Ethel and Ada had been absent on thei** 
 mission to the bank, Mrs. Dearborn and Mrs. Mordaunt had 
 com.fortably ensconced themselves in the cool and handsome 
 Dearborn drawing-room — the pride of the Dearborn heart and 
 measure of its claims to bank and society. Unless to Ada, to 
 whom it was the purgatory, where, for her sins, she underwent 
 the — to her, unendurable penance — of unendurably prosy, 
 momentously ceremonious and horribly pretentious, morning 
 calls — and amid the stumps ! ! ! ! ! 
 
 And well might the handsome and handsomely furnished 
 apartment be their pride, — for to its glories were sacrificed the 
 necessary means for the comfort of the rest of the house ; a 
 bed of liowers in a garden of weeds — a swell of handsome coat 
 — but no shirt. Outside magnificence, held forth to the world, 
 at the cost of how many meannesses of discomfort endured by 
 themselves. And as the two ladies entered it, they found the 
 equally handsome and handsomely equipped Emily leaning 
 back in an easy chair, reading a lengthy letter of that evening's 
 
 mail. 
 
 Rising from her seat, at their entrance, she hastily concealed 
 the letter — crumpling it up out of sight, as if its very existence 
 was to be held secret, and proceeded to do the agreeable, in 
 her very sweetest manner to||Mrs. Mordaunt. She listened to 
 and was interested with the sweetest sisterly sympathy, to all 
 
i;ff«3BftBffl^'Z.TS?',7i.':::- 
 
 laugh- 
 
 ; lots to 
 
 »oni. I 
 reat care 
 call for 
 es, Mrs. 
 md they 
 
 t on thei'- 
 laiuit had 
 landsome 
 heart and 
 ) Ada, to 
 underwent 
 
 ^ly prosy, 
 morning 
 
 furnished 
 -rificcd the 
 house ; a 
 dsome coat 
 the world, 
 ndured by 
 found the 
 ily leaning 
 t evening s 
 
 concealed 
 |ry existence 
 Igreeable, in 
 listened to 
 athy, to all 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 245 
 
 appearance, in the proposed excursion of her sister with the 
 Mordaunts. She smiled, and made herself pleasant, was en- 
 thusiastic, delighted and hopeful for Ada's pleasure and enjoy- 
 ment j took the thing for granted and laughed at all doubts of 
 her father's consent ; shewed herself so generous-hearted and 
 open ; so unselfish and amiable in the matter ; was so avowed- 
 ly grateful on Ada's account and in consequence so polite and 
 deferential to Mrs. Mordaunt, that the latter lady, in the happy 
 unsuspiciousness of her heart, began to wonder if she had not, 
 — despite everything — wrongly misdoubted and calumniated 
 her. It was therefore with some twinge of repentance that she 
 regarded her, and was kind and conciliatory where, from pre- 
 vious impressions, she would have remained cool and distant. 
 So well had Emily's attractiveness and well assumed agreeabil- 
 ity won upon her preconceived dislike, that she began to wish 
 that her invitation had been extended as well to the elder as 
 the younger sister ; and to w^onder whether it was not possible 
 yet to manage the extension of it, without the proffer being 
 looked upon, and resented as an afterthought. But as she 
 listened and thought, there arose to her mind the remembrance 
 of her brother's warning ; so far, but lightly regarded by her- 
 self, it is true, that Reggie — her son — her child of promise, in 
 whom centered so much of her earthly future, was infatuated 
 with this girl, who sat there before her, so charming, so dan- 
 gerously sweet and attractive ; and as she looked at her — with 
 the warning present in her mind — she, for the first time realized 
 that it might not be wholly imaginary, and that there might be 
 a probability of the, to her, bitter truth. It might be, it is true, 
 but the evanescent and shallow-rooted passion of a boy, whose 
 budding love so oft does homage to the full-blown rose, and 
 then wears itself off so easily by its own expansion and capabi- 
 lities to fix itself anew upon some object whose real beauties 
 can bear the testing light of more matured experience. 
 ■But yet tlie thought was agony to the mother's heart that 
 
 17 
 
¥i 
 
 246 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 Reggie should love this girl. The remembrance cleared away 
 — as a wholesome breeze — the misty haloes of charms and soft- 
 ness, with which Emily's deferential politeness and attractive- 
 ness had enshrouded her real self, and revived more strongly 
 than before all the old dislike. 
 
 Whether the young lady was right in this matter, or was 
 wrong ; whether she encouraged or did not encoiu^age Reggie's 
 silly suit, was nothing to Mrs. Mordaunt. She disliked her — 
 hated her almost just the same for it. But that she did encou- 
 rage his love, was, to her mind, certain ; persistently en- 
 couraged it — for her Reggie, she was sure, would not need a 
 second rebuff, if his attentions were not agreeable. She was 
 therefore very glad that she had not included Emily in 
 her invitation. She would keep her Reggie away from the syren 
 as much as she could, and would save him from her if possible. 
 
 For what purer or nobler motive could the girl have who, all 
 the world said, looked with favoring eyes on no better a lover 
 than Sydney Wolverton, if she could look with favoring eyes 
 on any lover — than the hoped for advantages of position and 
 wealth which the prospect of a marriage with Reggie offered. 
 It could not be for love, that was certain — though the mother's 
 proud heart would not allow that it was possible for any girl 
 not to love her handsome Reggie — for if this girl loved at all, the 
 favored personage was Sidney Wolverton, and no person 
 else. 
 
 Her manner, which had been interesting, attractive and kind 
 — changed all at once under the new impression, and became 
 again cold and distant, and the keen perceptions of Emily in- 
 stantly noticed the alteration. The swelling burst of rage which 
 had filled her breast at the preference shown her younger sister 
 over herself — which heretofore she had kept forced down within 
 her breast — now almost over-mastered her ; while it was only 
 the knowledge that in her hand — soon to ripen into forceful 
 action — lay her triumph, a double triumph of revenge and 
 
jg ^y.,X>i.jJ'M «ejigian 
 
 d away 
 Lnd soft- 
 tractive- 
 strongly 
 
 , or was 
 
 Reggie's 
 Led her— 
 id encou- 
 tently en- 
 ot need a 
 
 She was 
 
 Emily in 
 n the syren 
 if possible. 
 ve who, all 
 tter a lover 
 coring eyes 
 
 )sition and 
 
 rie offered. 
 
 le mother's 
 
 ir any girl 
 
 fd at all, the 
 
 no person 
 
 ^e and kind 
 md became 
 l)f Emily in- 
 ■ rage which 
 Imiger sister 
 iown within 
 [it was only 
 Into forceful 
 -venge *nd 
 
 YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 247 
 
 victory to come; that did restrain her. When the two girls, 
 returning from their drive to the bank, stopped at the gate, and 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, rising to leave and bid her adieux, asked Emily 
 if she would not walk out and speak to Ethel in the carriage, as 
 they were hurried to reach home, — she declined, but could not 
 help saying : 
 
 *• No, thank you, Mrs. Mordaunt ; I vv'U not detain you, as 
 you have doubtless much to do in the v/ay of preparation, and 
 we also have to help Ada with hers. Pray give my love to 
 Ethel. Her bright young dreams of love, doubtless, urge her 
 back to Lake Mordaunt, and her waiting lover. It would be 
 cruelty to longer keep her. I only hope her dreams of happi- 
 ness may not prove evanescent. If Mr. Vance remains as suc- 
 cessfully cautious and reticent in his actions as heretofore, there 
 is no reason why it should not be so." 
 
 " What do you mean by that. Miss Dearborn ? " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, turning round and looking fixedly at her. 
 
 " Oh ! nothing in particular. It was only merely the expres- 
 sion of my hope that everything may go on as smoothly as it 
 has done, and that Mr. Vance may continue to avoid and get 
 over certain difficulties of his position," replied Emily, looking 
 back as fixedly in the face of the other. 
 
 Too indignant to reply, Mrs. Mordaunt bade Mrs. Dearborn 
 farewell, and left the house, accompanied, however, by the latter 
 to the carriage, and drove off, as before narrated, after promising 
 to call for Ada in the morning. 
 
 The fair Emily, so soon as her sister entered the house and 
 ran to acquaint her with her own happy prospects, commenced 
 at once, as stated to Mrs. Mordaunt, to help her on with her 
 preparations for the journey, as follows : 
 
 •' And so the dear little girl has wormed herself into an invi- 
 tation from the ?Iordaunts, to go to the seaside — has she? 
 Very well done indeed, for ingenious simplicity and innocence I 
 And pray from whence does the money come to pay Miss's 
 
 ■ inm¥j«im'iivri 
 
MIIM't 
 
 248 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 expenses ? — or are you hired out as companion and foil to the 
 magnificent Ethel ? Pray let us know," continued Emily, with 
 her profoundest scorn. 
 
 Poor Ada! her eyes sparkling and her face bright at the 
 prospect of her anticipated pleasures, was stopped in her course 
 by this sisterly salute as suddenly as by a blow. The light 
 faded from her face and the tears sprang to her eyes, at the 
 cruel words. But indignation at Emily's malicious and unde- 
 served taunts — coming as they did in place of the expected 
 sisterly response to her happiness — came to her aid, and over- 
 mastered her lachrymose tendency, as she warmly replied : 
 
 " What a shame ! Emily, to say such things ; which you 
 know to be as false as they are cruel to me. When have I ever 
 tried to worm myself into the Mordaunt's favor, or even sought 
 them ? You are a selfish and ungenerous girl. You are vexed 
 because it is I who am asked for this occasion, and not yourself. 
 It is my father who pays my expenses and it is no concern 
 of yours. Let me tell you also that Ethel ^fordaunt's beauty 
 requires no foil ; while I am quite sufficiently aware of my own 
 good looks to know that I am unfitted for the honorable poet 
 you would assign me, Emily." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed. We are getting on our high horse ; are we ? 
 And we talk of our beauty too. How very interesting !" replied 
 Emily, with a sarcastic laugh. 
 
 " The family, too, must remain contentedly stinted and cut 
 down to the scraping of cents that our sweet young lady may air 
 her newly-discovered good looks among the fashionables of 
 Cacouna. Truly a pleasant prospect for the rest of us." 
 
 "Have I ever si)oken to you — Emily — of the very many 
 pleasures you have enjoyed, in the manner you now speak to 
 me at the prospect of the only visit, almost, I have made from 
 home ?" queried Ada in reply, with a quiet but fixed gaze at her 
 sister. 
 
YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 249 
 
 to the 
 iT, with 
 
 at the 
 course 
 le light 
 
 at the 
 i unde- 
 xpected 
 id over- 
 jd : 
 
 lich you 
 ve I ever 
 m sought 
 are vexed 
 ; yourself. 
 
 concern 
 :'s beauty 
 ,f my own 
 Irable poet 
 
 , are we ? 
 I" replied 
 
 Id and cut 
 
 Idy may air 
 Duables of 
 
 IS." 
 
 ^rery many 
 Iv speak to 
 (made from 
 Igaze at her 
 
 " No ! I should think not ! I should imagine there is a dif- 
 ference between us," answered Emily meaningly. 
 
 " Visit forsooth ! As if you, a mere country girl, were asked 
 without a purpose. If nothing else you will be made useful to 
 walk on ahead ' solus' in Miss Ethel's promenades, so that she 
 and Vance can spoon together to their heart's content." 
 
 " It is simply disgraceful in you to say such things, Emily, to 
 which I will not listen. You are beside yourself with rage that 
 I am to get this little pleasure ; and you do not know what you 
 are saying," said Ada, turning to leave the room. 
 
 " Stay a moment, piay ? I have not done with you, Miss," 
 exclaimed Emily barring Ada's exit by running to the door. 
 " I suppose now, little Miss is looking forward to a delightful 
 time with Reggie Mordaunt for her devoted cavalier. Dear 
 me ! how mistaken we shall find ourselves ; how unpleasantly 
 shall we be undeceived." 
 
 " Reggie Mordaunt has been, and will still be, polite ; and 
 that is all that will be expected of him. I am not, which is 
 more than my sister can say — in the habit of flirting with any 
 person ; much less of endeavouring to draw on, and entangle a 
 mere boy, as he is." 
 
 " Oh ! mdeed. Then I have drawn him on to some pur- 
 pose though," replied Emily, now flaming with rage. " How 
 pleased you will be to hear that he and I are engaged." 
 
 " I should not be pleased to hear it ; either for his sake or 
 the credit of the family, Emily ; what is more, L do not think it 
 is at all a likely thing to occur ;" said Ada, with a startled look 
 at her sister, however. 
 
 " Oh ! hear the Mentor I Little miss has turned preacher. 
 ' Credit of the family' — forsooth ! Little miss is not pleased to 
 hear it. How very dreadful," replied Emily, laughing long and 
 loud. " And not a likely thing to occur ; is it not ? Whether 
 our dignified little miss is pleased or is not pleased, allow me to 
 tell you that the event has occurred ; that Reggie Mordaunt and 
 
250 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 myself are engaged to each other. What thinks our young 
 lady of that ? Her newly found beauty will be absolutely 
 thrown away upon a brotherin-law elect upon our pleasant 
 little trip. Ha ! Ha ! Ha !" and Emily shook with mingled 
 laughter and rage. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that you are engaged to be mar- 
 ried to Reggie Mordaunt, a mere boy of eighteen, Emily Dear- 
 born. In love with another man at the same time. You surely 
 cannot be in earnest ; so mercenary ; so evidently mercenary. 
 It simply means disgrace to us all. It's not true, is it ? Emily," 
 rapidly and earnestly exclaimed Ada, now interested enough 
 and with a painfully shocked face. 
 
 " Yes ! it is quite true, Miss. Since it is so easy to disgrace 
 the family — it is disgraced. Reggie Mordaunt and myself are 
 engaged. At least he is engaged to me and I to him so long as 
 it suits me. The privileges without the penalties and disadvan- 
 tages, you know. Oh ! la ! how horried Miss appears. The 
 good little girl. As if butter would'nt melt in her mouth. Yes ! 
 and shall probably marry him into the bargain. A very goM 
 match it will be for me, as he is the only son, and they're tc o 
 fond of him to throw hmi over. I'll do it to spite that hateful 
 Ethel and the old lady ; little miss here also," and Emily cour- 
 tesyed in mocking derision of her sister, took little dancing steps 
 before her, holding her skirts back as she took took them and 
 poking her face into Ada's with the most aggravatiug and exag- 
 gerated smilingness she could command. 
 
 " And are the Mordaunts acquainted with all this ?" asked 
 Ada, taking no notice of the pantomime, and regarding her sis- 
 ter fixedly. 
 
 " That is no business of yours ! little miss. You attend to 
 your own affairs and do not trouble yourself with mine, or it 
 will be the worse for you and your dear friends, the Mordaunts, 
 also," replied Emily, still backing up against the drawing-room 
 door. 
 
 ;-,s.;tX*jt3«f»t.'*SI^-„ 
 
YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 251 
 
 roung 
 lutely 
 jasant 
 ingled 
 
 ; mar- 
 
 Dear- 
 
 surely 
 •cenary. 
 Emily," 
 
 enougli 
 
 disgrace 
 
 yself are 
 
 o long as 
 
 iisadvan- 
 
 Irs. The 
 
 [th. Yes! 
 
 rery go.Mi 
 
 ley're tco 
 .t hateful 
 tily cour- 
 ;ing steps 
 them and 
 [and exag- 
 
 ■s?" asked 
 jig her sis- 
 attend to 
 Une, or it 
 kordaunts, 
 kving-room 
 
 " Have you told papa and mamma, Emily ?" again asked Ada. 
 " But I know " 
 
 " Mind your own business ! Ada Dearborn," wratiifully ex- 
 claimed the enraged Emily. You go upon your pleasure trip, 
 for which 1 and the rest of us have to pay, and do not you dare 
 to say a word of this to living soul, or I send word to Reggie, 
 and marry him to-morrow morning. He'll only be too glad." 
 
 " Yes ! I dare say, the poor boy. He is doubtless entranced 
 
 enough for that. I can only say your heart, Emily is not in 
 
 keeping with your beautiful face. I pity him, and hope for all 
 
 our sakes — for yours also — that his delusion will pass away. 
 
 Let me pass, Emily. I will no longer be stayed," and with a 
 
 push the vigorous young girl, who under less excitement would 
 
 not have dared, moved her sister aside and gained the door. 
 
 " Yes ! you have gained what you desired, Emily. I shall not 
 
 go with the Mordaunts to-morrow upon this excursion. I will 
 
 not be a party to this wickcuncos. I am a loyal sister to you, 
 
 but I will not, knowing what I now know, treacherously implant 
 
 myself among them as a friend, when I am not, and cannot be, 
 
 a real friend. It is not my business, as you say, and it is not 
 
 my place to interfere in this matter. But I will have nothing to 
 
 do with it, and I shall not go willi them, until your engagement 
 
 is approved by the Mordaunts, to whom at the present it is, 
 
 I am certain, wholly unknown, and by papa and mamma also. 
 
 I shall hold myself aloof I'rom them, and shall not pretend to be 
 
 a friend when I shall be a traitor. You have gained your wish, 
 
 Emily. I do not go with them to-morrow. I remain your sister 
 
 — most sorrowfully your sister. But you shall make my excuses ! 
 
 No matter what they think ! I will not appear before them 
 
 to-morrow morning. I am your sister, and, as I see it, no longer 
 
 their friend !" 
 
 ^P ^P ^P #1* *!* 'JV ^* ^P 
 
 Mr. Edwin Vance was very much astonished, on opening a 
 letter which his fair fiancee handed to him, on her return with 
 
Mum 
 
 252 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 her mother from Ten Lakes. It was short, if it was not sweet. 
 
 Yet its contents surprised him ; not that they were very un- 
 
 usiial, but that he should have been written to at all upon the 
 
 subject. 
 
 "Toronto, July 28th, 1873. 
 " Mv Dear Vance, — 
 
 "I see that a note of Wolverton's for a considerable 
 sum, endorsed by you. was discounted at this bank to-day 
 by a third pajty. As president of the bank, I ask you if every- 
 thing is correct ; and, as an old friend, I ask you likewise if the 
 transaction is a wise one on your part ? 
 " I remain, dear Edwin, 
 
 " Yoiu-s faithfully, 
 
 " E. Chuter.' 
 
 " What in the world does the man mean ?" he exclaimed aloud, 
 as he glanced again over the epistle. " Can not I endorse a note 
 for two or three thousand dollars without being brought to book 
 about it, as if I was not capable of taking care of myself? If 
 I had a d >zen or so of them afloat it might be different, I allow ; 
 but even it I lose altogether a trifle like this I shall not be very 
 much hurt. * Is everything correct ?' That's tantamount to 
 saying that I or Sidney forged the note. If they were afraid 
 of it what did they discount it for ? and then come bothering me 
 about it. It is interference that I won't put up with. Though 
 I suppose old Chuter meant well enough." 
 
 Vance walked hastily into the library, snatched up pea and 
 paper, and replied as follows — 
 
 "My Dear Sir, — 
 
 " The note of which you speak in yours is perfectly correct. 
 Neither Wolverton nor I have forged it, as you would seem to 
 imply. I was not aware that either of us had developed talent 
 in that line. As to the wisdom or unwisdom of the transaction 
 that is another affair, of which, however, I must beg to retain my 
 own opinion. 
 
 I am, my dear sir, 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
 " Edwin Vance." 
 
 u 
 
YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR TRIP, ADA. 253 
 
 t sweet, 
 ^rery un- 
 pen the 
 
 1873- 
 
 siderable 
 ik to-day 
 . if every- 
 vise if the 
 
 Chuter.' 
 med aloud, 
 orse a note 
 Tht to book 
 nyself? If 
 nt, I allow ; 
 not be very 
 tamount to 
 were afraid 
 othering me 
 Though 
 
 np pen and 
 
 Ictly correct. 
 
 juid seem to 
 
 [oped talent 
 
 transaction 
 
 I to retain my 
 
 riN Vance. 
 
 "There is one thing seems evident," continued he, as he 
 closed liis reply and left it for mailing. " That Wolverton manages 
 to get me into a scrape through everything I have to do with 
 him or for him. He is either uncommonly unlucky, or the ra- 
 ther bad opinion of him of which I have heard so much lately 
 about here must be formed by something other than mere pre- 
 judice. Well ! I won't trouble myself with old Chuter's letter 
 
 further," and he tore it up and threw it into the waste-paper 
 basket. 
 
 V ^r V *l* V V ^F T^ 
 
 But after all Ada Dearborn went with the Mordaunts on their 
 trip to the salt water. There was a scene at the Dearborn resi- 
 dence that evening, but the commands of papa and mamma were 
 imperative and Ada had to submit. She resolutely persisted in 
 divulging, despite Emily's threats, menaces and fury, the secret 
 of the engagement between the latter and Reggie Mordaunt, but 
 was very much surprised that sides were taken against her, and 
 to find herself in a hopeless minority, represented, in fact, by 
 
 herself alone. 
 
 " It's Emily's affair and not yours," exclaimed her mother, 
 
 " and I forbid you to speak of it to any person, unless it is first 
 
 mentioned to you by some of the Mordaunts." 
 
 " It is no business of yours ! Ada, and go you shall ! whether 
 you like it or not," she continued with more than ordinary deci- 
 sion, for she was more delighted than vexed at Emily's engage- 
 ment, and possessed none of Ada's scruples. 
 
 " Do you suppose that the Mordaunts can speak to me about 
 
 it, mamma ? when they do not know it themselves. If they had 
 known and approved of it, would they not have asked Emily, 
 and not myself, to accompany them ?" queried Ada in reply. 
 
 " Approve of it ! Approve ! indeed. They may think them- 
 selves very lucky if a girl of Emily's accomplishments and refine- 
 ment marries him. Where could they find another who could 
 so well do the honors of his house ? Approve of it indeed," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Dearborn, with scornful emphasis. 
 
254 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
 i 1 
 
 
 " A mere boy, for whom she does not care one straw," return- 
 ed Ada, warmly. " If she marries him it will be because she 
 thinks it will be a good marriage in a money point of view for 
 her, and for no other reason. She would throw him over and 
 marry Mr. Wolverton to-morrow if she thought he was rich." 
 
 " Come ! Cease all that nonsense and ridiculous stuff about 
 engagements and love," said Mr. Dearborn, impatiently. " Ada ! 
 you will go on this journey to-morrow, as arranged ! I repeat 
 it. I'll believe it when I see it that Emily marries young Mor- 
 daunt. If he does, he's a bigger fool than I take him to be, and 
 all I can say is that I won't envy him," continued he, and, seiz- 
 ing his newspaper he turned away from the group and said no 
 more. 
 
 " Thank you ! papa, for the compliment," almost screamed 
 Emily, jumping from her chair in a flaming passion. " I'll marry 
 him if I choose, no matter who approves or who does'nt. As 
 for you, you minx," to Ada, " I'll pay you and your fine friends 
 the Mordaunts off for this, so sure as my name is Emily Dear- 
 born," and rushing past them, she slammed the door behind her ;,' 
 with a bang, and was gone. 
 
 So Ada went with the Mordaunts in the morning, but all the 
 anticipated pleasure of the trip seemed to have gone from her. 
 She obeyed her parents' commands, yet it was a woeful-looking 
 young face that appeared before them when they called for her. 
 
 " "Was it not traiterous and disloyal in her ?" she enquired, " to 
 accept the friendship and hospitality of these people, knowing 
 what she knew." She would much ratlier have stayed at home 
 and kept herself aloof from them. 
 
 She had to go, though, and bear her load — which would have sat 
 lightly enough in all conscience on many other shoulders — as 
 best she might. 
 
 How could she, a young girl, interfere in the matter, or say 
 anything to the Mordaunts of that which she felt sure they were 
 not acquainted with, but which they ought to know. 
 
 '41 
 
 //iiia.'c^i/f!!;-.;:'^/ 
 
A COMIXG STROKE. 
 
 255 
 
 It was not for her to interfere, and had she not her mother's 
 absohite command not to do so. 
 
 Oh ! how she longed and wished for an opportunity to arise 
 by which she could escape the visit witli them. But no such 
 god-send arose, and she had to go. She bade her farewells to 
 her brothers and sisters, and was driven off to enjoy or disenjoy 
 her pleasure trip as best she might. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A COMING STROKE. 
 
 V 
 
 ir say 
 were 
 
 That a human creature, the masterpiece of creation, living 
 in this world of ours, and to all appearance making it subservient 
 to him, though he be gifted with its choicest blessings, intellect, 
 energy and industry, wisdom, physical strength and beauty, or 
 even the possession of fortune, should have the current of his 
 life altered, turned aside and deflected from the wished for chan- 
 nel by the mere force of circumstances surrounding him, in almcct 
 as great degree as one who, possessing none of these advantages, 
 is floated helplessly along the stream of his existence, amid sun- 
 shine or amid storm as chance may befall, is a seeming contra- 
 diction, an apparent paradox, yet, nevertheless, a truth in fact. 
 For of those we see around us, no matter what talent, application, 
 force of character be displayed, who is there that can so wholly 
 direct and control his course, that some slight event, springing 
 mayhap from the veriest trifle, may not turn aside that straight 
 course into a devious pathway, unlocked for, unexpected and 
 irretrievably giving a new tenor to the whole after destiny ? 
 
 Happiness, the possession of all that seems desirable, may to 
 some of us appear to be almost a secured certainty — within the 
 grasp ; the cup of enjoyment overflowing to our lips, yet may not 
 some untoward accident of a moment drop its poison into the 
 sweet draught of existence and vitiate for this world every bright 
 prospect. 
 
^'■T^^..- 
 
 256 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 V 
 
 *ii 
 
 It does not need that the untoward thing be of our own causa- 
 tion. Were it of such alone the race of man could much bet- 
 ter command its own happiness. Inevitable Death — with his 
 gaunt terrors that separate the beloved from us — would then be, 
 in things of earth, the sole destroyer we would need to fear. 
 For who could command the stay of his dread approach ? 
 
 It is not the effects of our own errors and imperfections with 
 which we alone have to contend. These are numerous and force- 
 ful enough to wreck full many a hope, to lend full many a carking 
 care and sorrow for the embittering of oiu- steps. But these are 
 not all. 
 
 Our course is devious and uncertain. Full many an evil of 
 which we are innocent shall bend its force against the would-be 
 straight lines of our life, and we have to bear the brunt who 
 provoked not the fray. Full many a good, that to our short 
 seeing eyes is disguised as evil, stems its power against and turns' 
 us from our fancied way, in present pain and toil, and though in 
 after days we recognise the brightness and the beauty, and ac- 
 knowledge the Beneficence that changed our road, yet in its time 
 it had added to our load. 
 
 Or how many chances and events, outside of our cognizance 
 or intention, wholly independent of us and beyond our control, 
 come between us and our wished for goal ; marring our fancied 
 happiness : thwarting our best laid plans ; diverting us, perforce, 
 from our most cherished aims, and, strive as we may, les.ving us 
 to flounder in uncertain seas, at the mercy of changing wind and 
 wave, to regain o'.t course, as we best may, in whatsoever sorry 
 plight we may find ourselves. 
 
 Even he, who battered by long misfortune, wearied, scarred 
 and calloused in the ceaseless fray of life, the bright vision > of early 
 days all dimmed, and hope ensanguined no more,^ forces himself 
 again upon his road, content with quiet content, that his hard 
 journey is brightened by the loved ones whos2 steps are with liim, 
 may not, even he may not, pass scatheless. Mayhap a lovely 
 
ausa- 
 i bet- 
 h his 
 in be, 
 ) tear. 
 
 s with 
 L force- 
 ;arking 
 ese are 
 
 evil of 
 ould-be 
 nt who 
 r short 
 id turns' 
 ^ough in 
 and ac- 
 its time 
 
 rnizance 
 control, 
 • fnncied 
 perforce, 
 ;o.ving us 
 ind and 
 »er sorry 
 
 scarred 
 
 1 5 of early 
 
 fs himself 
 
 his hard 
 
 Ivvith him, 
 
 a lovely 
 
 A COMING STROKE. 
 
 157 
 
 little child, expanding before his eyes like a flower, and in very 
 sweetness and beauty winding close and closer its little bands of 
 love around him, until his seared heart wells forth again with 
 bright hopes for his little one, with tender and unselfish love, 
 and in fond prospects for his darling's happiness he is again 
 happy. Untimely Death — the surer that the little child is the 
 more lovely and loveable, too sweet, too pure and briglit for 
 earth's long, hard journeyings — snatches away his beloved form 
 from him, and casts him, with heart strings torn and bleeding 
 prostrate and nerveless to the desert sands ; until, from Him, the 
 great Aider, coming the strength, He always gives to those who 
 bow to His fiat, and seek His aid, knowing that in mercy was 
 His stroke — he rises to repeat the onward march of his sad pil. 
 grimage. 
 
 But if sorrow and pain and bitter trials seem to dog with re- 
 lentless pursuit the hard steps of man, yet how many gleams of 
 brightness, of goodness, and of love light up the dreary way ? 
 It is not all pain. The pleasures equal the pain, but are not 
 remembered in the same degree. To the sorest grief is brought 
 time consolation and solace. The short seeing eyes are opened 
 to the Mercy and the Benificence. It is not always sorrow. 
 Had not the fond parents, whose hearts are wrung by the loss of 
 their beloved little one, exquisite joy and pleasure in the pur. 
 little life whilst it was with them ? Do they wish in their agony, 
 their wringing of hands, that their darling had never been born 
 to them ? 
 
 No ! the loving breasts could never frame the thought ; that 
 their little angel in the robes of light had never been. Rather do 
 not they think, and thinking know that their child was God's 
 child — too pure and lovely for this world — that He made its 
 probation short, and here its journey ended, took it to Himself 
 safe in His arms forever ; that he loved their darling better than 
 the}-, and in His mercy removed it from earthly care and sin 
 to His heavenly realms of bliss, and do not they, with longing 
 
 181 
 
IIM 
 
 m 
 
 258 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 hearts, look forward to the heavenly meeting, when, life's struggles 
 over, there shall be no more separation, no more sorrow, but in- 
 finite joy, eternal bliss ? 
 
 Man's life is not all darkness. There may be shadows over 
 the road, but God gives His light to aid us through them. There 
 may be pains to be endured, but there are pleasures also. La- 
 bors, but there is rest, and over all His Hand guides us — not, 
 perhaps, in the way we, blind mortals, would wish, but as He 
 knows best for us — in His mercy to lead us to Him. He places 
 the obstacles in our path. He sends the trials and the sorrows 
 that we may be turned from our own way and seek the true road 
 that His mercy and loving kindness would fain that we find and 
 which His Hand helps us to gain. 
 
 We may not see the Hand nor recognize the Mercy. We 
 grieve over the trials and fruitless labors, the hard chances and 
 circumstances that surround and prevent us. We fret at the 
 bonds tliat restrain us from our cherished aims ; not seeing that 
 our griefs and trials and the force of circumstances that we so 
 lament as beyond our control, are the putting forth of His force- 
 ful yet merciful strength to save us from ourselves, to lead us 
 in the right road, whose ending is everlasting felicity. And if 
 we bend to Him, and seek His guidance in humble faith, we shall 
 not find it all sorrow here below. 
 
 Five weeks have elapsed, and the Lake Mordaunt party have 
 ended their salt water excursion, and are again within the plea- 
 sant walks of home. 
 
 Delighted they all were to be back again amid the loved and 
 familiar surroundings, for there is nothing like absence, short 
 though it may be, to show the true beauties of, and open wide 
 the heart, to Home. 
 
 Their seaside visit had been a very enjoyable one to all of 
 them, except perhaps to Ada Dearborn, who had not started 
 upon it in a happy frame of mind, and who, unwillingly forced 
 by parental authority to accompany the Mordaunts, and to 
 
t^-iT^ji "«^ia^. wr;>(»*r*i-*"«i«niB 
 
 iil 
 
 A COMING STROKE. 
 
 259 
 
 rgles 
 it in- 
 over 
 Chere 
 La- 
 -not, 
 ts He 
 places 
 arrows 
 e road 
 id and 
 
 f. We 
 :es and 
 at the 
 j\g that 
 we so 
 is force- 
 lead us 
 And if 
 we shall 
 
 rty have 
 he plea- 
 zed and 
 , short 
 len wide 
 
 Ito 
 
 ly 
 
 all of 
 started 
 
 forced 
 and to 
 
 keep silence to them, had found herself wholly unable to cope 
 with, or interfere in the disagreeable subject that oppressed her, 
 and who though interested and attracted, as any young girl 
 would be, by the novel scenes and experiences of her trip, found 
 her chief pleasure in its conclusion, and was unfeignedly glad to 
 be on her way home, where, if she still had to maintain the se- 
 cret that weighed upon her heart, she could at any rate, keep 
 away from the Mordaunts, and no longer be involved in the 
 treachery of apparent friendship to them, when she felt that 
 ' per force,' she was not a real friend. 
 
 To Edwin Vance and Ethel, the return had been the only 
 alloy to their pleasure, for it involved the sad season of their 
 first parting ; to lovers a very sad season. 
 
 Their five weeks* excursion had indeed been five weeks of 
 summery delights, the sunny hours, bright skies and smooth 
 seas of a happy love. Five weeks of Elysium together, never 
 to be forgotten ; the bright dawning of the long and happy day 
 of their love ; for which the sun rose brighter, and beautiful 
 earth smiled more sweetly on her children, whose softened eyes 
 drank in the greeting beauty that lighted the dawn of their life 
 of love and hope. The few weeks tliey had spent together 
 since their engagement had drawn them very close to each other, 
 and had brought their love into a perfect accord of thought and 
 of feeling. They had learned to perceive and to admire the 
 good qualities, the sterling worth, and the fitting amiabilities of 
 each other's character. Qualities which their love intensified 
 and brought forward the more prominently to each other's 
 view. 
 
 The threatening storm that had blown over them with menac- 
 ing wreck, had but cleared their sky, and freshened the morning 
 air of their life. The gale had swept away the dregs of egotism 
 and self-confidence from them, and its menacing aspect had 
 shewn them how necessary they were to each other — 
 that their love had become the greater part of their earthly 
 
■ -■-/'■'.•.'-■ .r,^;;iTi^ 
 
 ^^jomsssm 
 
 m 
 
 ^ [ 
 
 M 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 life and the knowledge had drawn them the closer to each other. 
 If they had loved from the first with a pure and unselfish love, 
 they loved now more purely and more unselfishly. The enno- 
 bling passion that loves because the object is wholly worthy, 
 that recognises that in this love is alone to live as oneself ; that 
 Edwin Vance could not be Edwin Vance unless he loved Ethel 
 Mordaunt, and Ethel Mordaunt could not be herself unless she 
 loved Edwin Vance ; that no calamity could subvert that love, 
 or make either different. They felt this and gloried in the 
 knowledge. When Edwin Vance and Ethel Mordaunt return- 
 ed with their party from their bright summer'trip, they were, in 
 each other's eyes, perfect, they loved each other with an ab- 
 sorbing love, and they were happy. 
 
 But the hour of their parting had come ; the inevitable first 
 parting of little pangs and sweet memories. A short parting it 
 is true ; far a month was to bring her Edwin again to the tear- 
 ful Ethel's feet, but it was nevertheless the parting. The car- 
 riage that was to drive her hero away, stood at the door, and 
 Barney reining up his impatient horses, turning his reproachful 
 eyes into the hall from whence the lingerer came not, and she 
 hated Barney. Ada Dearborn, who was to accompany Edwin 
 to her home at Ten Lakes, stood on the verandah bidding 
 ' farewells' to the Mordaunts, who had been so kind to her, and 
 yet from whom she longed to get away — while Edwin and Ethel 
 lingered over their parting in the hall. 
 
 " It is very hard to leave you, my darling !*' he said. " A 
 month away from you is the prospect of an age. But you shall 
 never be absent from my thoughts, Ethel, my beautiful love. 
 And you will write to me often. Will you not ? to brighten 
 my lonely absence." 
 
 " Yes ! Edwin, I will write, and you must also, so soon as 
 you reach Toronto, for I shall be anxious," she answered. 
 " But the time will soon fly away, tor we love each other, Ed- 
 
m 
 
 7!HgWi.*a»wr>i'»v'^^ •;',■:. "?iJ'-iiir >>-jir?j .- 
 
 A COMIXG STROKE. 
 
 261 
 
 other. 
 1 love, 
 
 enno- 
 vorthy, 
 if ; that 
 d Ethel 
 less she 
 lat love, 
 i in the 
 
 return- 
 were, in 
 I an ab- 
 
 able first 
 
 parting it 
 
 ) the tear- 
 The car- 
 oor, and 
 
 ^proachful 
 , and she 
 
 ny Edwin 
 th bidding 
 D her, and 
 and Ethel 
 
 said. " A 
 you shall 
 jLitiful love, 
 (to brighten 
 
 Iso soon as 
 answered, 
 other, Ed- 
 
 win, in full trust and confidence, and we will be happy in our 
 love. Nothing can come between us now" 
 
 " That nothing can come between us now, is the sweetest 
 consolation that is left me in our parting; my darling ; and we 
 can trust each other's love. See ! Ethel, " he continued, 
 taking a handsome ring from its case, and holding it up that she 
 might read its inscription. " While this little circlet is the sign 
 of our happy engagem'^nt, it is also the pledge of my unalter- 
 able truth. I shall not change while time exists for me." 
 
 " I believe it Edwin," she replied ; " I know it, for I judge you 
 by myself. What a beauty it is !" she continued taking the 
 ring. My love faileth not. No need to have engraved the 
 motto within the ring, Edwin. Have I not your sweet pro- 
 mise in my heart. No need of symbols when I have the 
 reality." 
 
 " My darling !" was his brief but comprehensive reply. " If 
 I were but worthy of your love ! But I must place the ring on 
 your finger witii my own hand, and bind my pledge. Remem- 
 ber always, Ethel, that, whatsoever befalls, so long as life shall 
 last, ' my love faileth not.' And now I must say ' farewell ' — the 
 first sad ' farewell.' I must not miss my train, and Barney will 
 be raving." 
 
 Their parting words shall be sacred. A few short minutes 
 and he was seated in the carriage with Ada, in another he was 
 gone. Ethel, with her lover's parting kiss upon her cheek, turned 
 away and fled up stairs into solitude. 
 
 ^^ ^0 *j^ %^ ^^ ^0 %t# 
 
 " Oh ! Indeed ! AVe've managed to find our way home at 
 last, have we ?" exclaimed Emily Dearborn, meeting her sister 
 in the hall of the parental mansion, Mr. Vance having hurriedly 
 bid her " farewell " at the door and driven on. " Oh ! yes ! our 
 little girl has come out grand among her fine friends, I see. 
 Fine feathers make fine birds, indeed," she continued with a 
 contemptuously critical gaze at her sister's general make-up. 
 
 18 
 
262 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 f 1.' 
 
 " And pray, why could not little miss have come home the 
 day before yesterday, when she arrived ? I should like to be in- 
 fonned. But no ! that would not have done at all. Litde miss 
 must go on to Lake Mordaunt for two days mpre with her grand 
 friends. I know all about it you see. I have a friend at court 
 also. But how humbly grateful we must be that little miss has 
 condescended at length to honor us again with her presence after 
 her fashionable summer visit." 
 
 " Oh ! Emily, how can you speak to me so ? If you only 
 knew how glad I am to be back again. Mrs. Mordaunt insisted 
 on my going to Lake Mordaunt with them. They could not 
 come out of the way to leave me, as little Ally was not well, and 
 they hurried on home with her. It was not my fault, and, oh ! 
 Emily, I'm so glad to be back," continued Ada, attempting to 
 kiss her sister. 
 
 " Enough of that, thanks !" returned Emily, repulsing the em- 
 brace. " A fig for your affection ; I know it's value. You were 
 net so much missed, let me tell you, that we are to be in raptures 
 at your coming home. Hardly that, I think. In fact, little 
 miss' return is at least as unendurable as her absence." 
 
 " Ada ! my darling ! my child ! How happy I am to see you 
 again," exclaimed Mrs. Dearborn, rushing in and clasping her 
 daughter to her warm motherly heart, kissing her again and 
 again. 
 
 " My dear mamma — my dear mamma. How glad I am to 
 be back to you again," returned the affectionate girl, holding her 
 arms around her mother's neck. " How glad I am ; how glad 
 I am. And how is papa, and all of them ? " 
 
 " They're all well, Ada. Your papa will be glad to see you 
 again. He has missed you more than you can tell, " was the re- 
 ply. " How well you look and how pretty you are grown, my 
 darling. Mrs. Mordaunt has taken care of you in every thing,'> 
 continued Mrs. Dearborn, gazing admiringly at the pretty figure 
 of her younger daughter. " Your trip has done you good, as it 
 
L. »».'^>N?:?>gl?^ie>'?Btg;?^^ 
 
 
 A COMING STROKE. 
 
 263 
 
 e the 
 be in- 
 j miss 
 grand 
 : court 
 iss has 
 ce after 
 
 )U only 
 msisted 
 )uld not 
 veil, and 
 and, oh '• 
 ipthig to 
 
 g the em- 
 You were 
 raptures 
 act, little 
 
 |to see you 
 ,sping her 
 
 lagam 
 
 and 
 
 I am to 
 lolding her 
 how glad 
 
 see you 
 was the re- 
 grown, iT.y 
 verything,'' 
 
 rctty fig^^'^^e 
 ood, as it 
 
 S« 
 
 has taught you to pay proper attention to your ap[)earance and 
 your dress. But you are looking very pale. Have you enjoyed 
 yourself, and has all gone right with you, Ada ?" 
 
 "Oh ! yes, mamma. It was all very pleasant ; but I am very 
 glad to be back again, though. 'J'hey had intended remaining 
 some time longer, but little Ally was taken unwell, and Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt hurried home." 
 
 " Alida unwell ! What is the matter ? Nothing infectious, I 
 hope. But come into the sitting-room and tell me all the news, 
 Ada," said her mother, fidgetting about and anxious for a chat. 
 " How are Mr. Vance and Ethel getting along ? and Emily's 
 Reggie ?" 
 
 " Mr. Vance left to-day for 1 oronto. He brought me home 
 with him on his way to Cascades. He is very nice, and so is 
 Ethel, and they are awfully fond of each other. Reggie goes 
 to Toronto and Hamilton to-morrow to visit a couple of his 
 college friends," answered Ada, with a quiet meaning glance, 
 which she could not help, at her sister. 
 
 *' Oh ! yes, Ada. I perceived your look towards me. It falls 
 harmless. Reggie was here yesterday, and he told me all about 
 it. He does not go of his own will. But I'm just as well pleas- 
 ed, so long as he is in the frame of mind that I find suitable. 
 I don't care for his presence, as I'm sure of his fidelity. So 
 your shot fails of effect, miss," replied Emily, with a laugh and 
 a sneer. 
 
 " You should not speak in that manner, Emily ; it is not right," 
 said her mother, deprecatingly, but smiling nevertheless at her 
 elder daughter's assured confidence. " Did any of them speak 
 to you, Ada, about Reggie's and Emily's engagement ? Was it 
 referred to in any way?" 
 " No ! mamma, the matter was not mentioned. I'hey did not 
 speak to me about it, and I had your orders not to speak to 
 them. I think also that none of them are aware of the engage- 
 ment, at any rate, and I am very glad to be iwvay from them for 
 
 i-uaj&-j;>T' (^i^^,Sfl■<L' 
 
SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 that reason. The engagement should not be kept secret from 
 Reggie's parents." 
 
 " That is no business of yours, miss. Reggie and I can 
 manage our own affairs ; your opinion will not be required in 
 the matter. Of one thing you may rest assured, if I ever marry 
 Reggie, it will be of my own free will. We shall be married as 
 soon as Edwin Vance and Ethel Mordaunt are, in any case, as 
 you will shortly see," exclaimed Emily in a rage, getting up from 
 her seat, and preparing to leave the room. 
 
 " If their engagement is ever broken, it will be through your 
 treachery, Emily — your unhappy spite and malice. They love 
 each other truly, and it will not be easy to part them. But you 
 have warned me, and I will warn Ethel to beware of you," re- 
 plied Ada, warmly. 
 
 " Ah ! indeed ! How much little miss's efforts will avail," said 
 Emily, as she passed out of the door and looked back with a 
 mocking sneer at her sister. " I do not forget their insulting 
 slight in passing me over for little miss's desirable company. 
 We shall see." 
 
 "Mamma! I am confident that Emily is meditating some 
 scheme against Ethel Mordaunt's happiness,** said Ada, when 
 her sister had gone. " She does not like her, I know, and was 
 very much annoyed from the first that Edwin Vance became 
 engaged to her. She wished that his liking had been for her- 
 self, and I fear that she is ripening a plot to sunder them. Could 
 you not interefere with her and prevent any cruelty ag^nst poor 
 Ethel, who has been so kind to us both ; and again, discovery will 
 be in the end certain, with deep disgrace to us all. Speak to 
 her, mamma, on the matter." she continued. 
 
 " Oh ! now, Ada, how can you imagine such things of your 
 sister. I am sure Emily has no such wicked idea as you sup- 
 pose. What interest can it be for her to interfere^between Ethel 
 and Mr. Vance ? especially now as she is engaged to Reginald," 
 replied Mrs. Dearborn, with some warmth. "You are unjust to 
 
 ^^aasik^.^fer'J'^i^^^a'tin.Sit^t'Jfii.^^'^ifjdri^eL i. i, 
 
 
 ^w-^<i- 
 
-«•« »^ w,< iwi lam 
 
 mt 
 
 wm 
 
 A COMING STROKE. 
 
 265 
 
 from 
 
 [ can 
 ed in 
 marry 
 ried as 
 ase, as 
 ip from 
 
 gh your 
 ley love 
 But you 
 you," re- 
 tail," said 
 \i with a 
 insulting 
 Icompany. • 
 
 ^ing some 
 Ida, when 
 [, and was 
 \q became 
 In for lier- 
 tm. Could 
 rd^nstpoor 
 
 [covery will 
 Speak to 
 
 Igs of yo^^^ 
 
 Is you SUp- 
 
 jweenTi^thel 
 I Reginald,' 
 Ire unjust to 
 
 your sister. But even were it true, what can I do ? You know 
 she is unmanageable by any one, even her own father, and she 
 has her own way altogether. I can do nothing. I thmk though 
 that you are wrong, and that she has no such intention as you im- 
 pute to her. She is vexed, I dare say, that she was not asked 
 to accompany them to the sea side, while you were instead, and 
 she, very likely, does not like the necessity of keeping her en- 
 gagement secret from the Mordaunts." 
 
 " Well, it may be so, mamma, and I hope it i'> as you think, 
 but I do not feel confident. When Emily can consent that her 
 engagement can be kept a secret at her lover's requesi, she shows 
 so little self-respect that there can be no confidence. That sh« 
 does not lovelReggie, I am certain ; her engagement is but a part 
 of an ambitious scheme, and when she could do one wrong 
 thing she would do another, if it suited her. If she can break 
 Ethel's engagement and get Mr. Vance at her feet, do you think 
 she will not throw poor Reggie over ? Yes ! without compunc- 
 tion, and moreover, if Sidney Wolverton were in the position 
 she requires, it would be the same, for if she loves any person 
 it is that despicable man," said Ada, in return. *' I will watch 
 her as well as I can, and if I get trace of any overt act I will 
 warn Ethel." 
 
 " You are cruel to Emily, and have no reason to say such 
 
 hings, Ada," replied her mother. •' Don't do anything rashly, 
 
 at any rate, and make no more trouble than we have already. 
 
 What could a girl like Emily do ? I'd like to know, to break off 
 
 their engagement ?" answered Mrs. Dearborn. 
 
 *' That I do not know, manmia, but Emily is very clever, and, 
 I fear, unscrupulous. However, 1 vrlll say no more about the 
 matter. For all our sakes, do not allow her to do anything that 
 would disgrace us," said Ada, earnestly. And now I am going 
 to be useful to you after my long absence. I'll go and get my 
 fine clothes off, and get back to the dear old work-a-day life 
 
■ir»TrT 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 which I had no l)usiness to have ever left. I would have been 
 better and happier at home." 
 
 "You are a good girl, my little Ada," replied her mother. 
 " Though I think you are too hard upon Emily, aiid misjudge 
 her." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MY LOVE FAILETH NO'l' ! OH ! EDWIN, EDWIN ! 
 
 A week after the events narrated in the last chapter, Mrs. 
 Mordaunt and her daugliter Ethel sat in their pleasant morning- 
 room, the former busily employed in looking over the dearly 
 loved plagues of a good housekeeper, the mending and darning 
 of a large family, and the latter as pleasantly at least engaged 
 in reading over and over again, a letter received the night be- 
 fore from her absent lover — the second love letter of her life 
 — and, as may be supposed, a very delightful occupation of an 
 hour it was to her before commencing the duties of the day. 
 
 There was a new liglit shining in the soft eyes, and a brighter 
 bloom on her fair cheek, a soft smile on the rosy lips, as the 
 loving words, read so often, and yet so fresh, passed before her 
 sense. 
 
 There lay the words on the paper, all plain, distinct and last- 
 ing. Plain and distinct as though he whispered them in her ear. 
 She could almost imagine he spoke them to her, and that she 
 would hear the soft inflections of his voice upon every syllable. 
 It was very delicious, and as each rounded phrase, redolent of 
 their sweet romance, and delightfully nonsensical — for even a 
 lawyer, it is to be supposed, can write a love letter — swept be- 
 fore her eyes and kept time with every pulsation of her heart, 
 she realized almost as keen a pleasure as if indeed in pro- 
 per person he spoke the words. For they did not, as spoken 
 words would do, die away with the sound and end there. There 
 
 L^^L£E%<faLl>;.. 
 
 ■/-?^???',-ttvW"'--: 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT ! OH ! EDWIN ! 267 
 
 ive been 
 
 : mother, 
 misjudge 
 
 apter, Mrs- 
 It morning- 
 
 the dearly 
 and darning 
 ast engaged 
 he night be- 
 of her life 
 
 pation of an 
 \hc day. 
 
 ,d a brighter 
 lips, as the 
 
 T before her 
 
 [net and last- 
 mi in her ear. 
 land that she 
 Ivery syllable. 
 :, redolent of 
 -for even a 
 .r— swept be- 
 of her heart, 
 ideed in pro- 
 fiOt, as spoken 
 there. There 
 
 they were before lier, to be mused over, delighted over, pressed 
 to her lips and held to her heart exultingly, again and again. 
 Dreamt over again and again in bright day dreams. Soft smil- 
 ing landscapes, wherein lay pictured the bright unending vistas 
 of love and happiness. 
 
 " Well ! That' must be a very delightful epistle, Ethel," said 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, after a pause from her work, during which she 
 had gazed with a smile at her preoccupied daughter. " You have 
 spent an hour over it. You find your first letters from him very 
 sweet, I dare say. Your pre// x c/icTa/ierh3.s done his devoir in 
 knightly style. Two letters a week. It will not do ; you spend 
 the week in reading them." 
 
 Ethel, at her mother's first words, started, and a blush spread 
 over her face. With a forced little laugh she answered, " Oh ! 
 mamma, that's too bad. I was only thinking a little." 
 
 " Yes I I dare say ! Dreaming hai)py dreams, Ethel," replied 
 her mother. " I hope your life will be as wholly bright as your 
 fimcy now pictures it, my darling daughter. Does he give any 
 news of interest to any one but yourself? Anything but sweet 
 phrases meant only for your own ear ?" 
 
 "Don't tease me, mamma ! He does not say much of him- 
 self, except that he is very bu?;-. He sends love to all, and asks 
 after every one, down to his friend Barney, who greatly amused 
 his journey to Cascades. He asks particularly after Ally, who 
 was so unwell after he left." 
 
 " Very kind of him. I feel anxious about x\lly. I think I 
 will send for Dr. Streatham again at once. She is getting very 
 thin, and I do not like the whooping cough stopping so suddenly," 
 said Mrs Mordaunt, her motherly thoughts taking a new direc- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh ! I do not know ! I think Ally is better. She is getting 
 very thin, certainly, and her cough is not altogether gone, though 
 there is no whoop left. She is a little weakened, and should be 
 strengthened up." 
 
». 
 
 It; 
 
 : "»W^vii7 3 
 
 268 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " She is not \?ell, at all, my little beautv'. She has no appe- 
 tite, and eats nothing. She is not like her usual little bright 
 self. I am getting very uneasy about her. She seems to have 
 a low fever, too, though there are hardly any ferverish sympton -S,'' 
 replied Mrs. Mordaunt. 
 
 " She does not seem to me to be any worse) except that she 
 is weaker, than usual, which probably accounts for her listless- 
 ness. And then, is it not a good thing that the horrid whooping 
 cough is gone ? What did the Doctor say when he was last 
 here ? I hope our Alh' is not really ill." 
 
 " The last time the Doctor was here he said there was no 
 danger, but that we were to watch her well, and notice her throat 
 and lungs. All is right there, so far, but I do not like her list- 
 lessness and the sudden abatement of the cough. I'll go to her 
 now to see how she is, and I will send Barney off at once for 
 Dr. Streatham. She was asleep when I came down ; she is too 
 sleepy, more so than is natural," said Mrs. Mordaunt, as she rose 
 and gathering up her work, left the room. 
 
 * " Five minutes more with my dear letter, and then I must dis- 
 enchant myself for the work-a-doy world," exclaimed Ethel, throw- 
 ing herself back in her chair, and proceeding to lose herself 
 again in the bright reveries that charmed youth can alone weave 
 out of the unsubstontialitics and unrealities, which man, dis- 
 severing from the hard unpleasing facts of his existence, exalts 
 before him, and v/ith eager, though vain attempt, essays to erect 
 thereon the delightful structures of his happiness, but upon which 
 foundation, imstable as the shifting sand3, the painted house of 
 cards, comes all too soon and too oft, to hopeless wreck, at the 
 feet of the sanguine but hapless builder on the sand. Another 
 bright vision disappears before the disappointed eyes, and for 
 him again the world is all desolate, cold and bear. 
 
 But happy youth, all doubtless, of hope unl)lastcd, and 
 whose flowering blooms the withering frosts of disaj^pointment 
 have not cut down, builds fast its frail but brilliant edifices of 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT ! OH ! EDWIN ! 269 
 
 ■ight 
 lave 
 in.iS,' 
 
 t she 
 tless- 
 
 oping 
 s last 
 
 as no 
 throat 
 er Ust- 
 . to her 
 nee for 
 s is too 
 phe rose 
 
 \ust dis- 
 l throw- 
 herself 
 - weave 
 m, dis- 
 ;, exalts 
 Ito erect 
 |n which 
 use of 
 it the 
 |,\nother 
 md for 
 
 :d, and 
 |)intment 
 lifices of 
 
 imaginary bliss, and for Ethei, all happily engaged in such, the 
 minutes liew past with unsounding wings. At length the graving 
 of wheels on the gravelled roadway attracted her attention, and, 
 looking from the open window, she perceived the approach of 
 a rarriage towards the house, having for its tenant, so far as she 
 '"ould discern, a young lady. 
 
 " Who can it be at this time of the morning .?" she asked of 
 herself. " A lady driving herself and alone ! She cannot have 
 come from any distance to be here at ten o'clock in the morn- 
 ing. Who is it, I wonder ? Why, it is Emily Dearborn, I do 
 believe ! It is not likely that she would honor us by a mere 
 call and alone. It is something other than that improbable c\ ent 
 that brings her to Lake Mordaunt," she continued, with no par- 
 ticular pleasure on her countenance, for Emiiy had not made 
 herself a favorite. " Well ! I suppose I mu^ ' go and receive 
 her,^as mamma is up stairs busy, and I must, though somewhat 
 against my inclinations, be polite to her, for dear litde Ada's 
 sake," and as the carriage drew up before the door, she left the 
 room to meet her visitor on the verandah. 
 
 " Good morning ! Miss Dearborn," she said. •' Come in ! A 
 man \vill be round directly to take your horse. She will stand a 
 moment, I suppose." 
 
 " Thank you ! Miss Mordaunt, it is not necessary," was Emily's 
 reply. " I am going to remain but a few minutes, and will se- 
 cure the horse in a moment," she continued, throwing a weight, 
 which she produ(ied from the carriage, to the ground and attach- 
 ing it by its strap to the animal's head. " You see I am a Cana- 
 dian girl. Miss Mordaunt, andean manage my horse without other 
 assitance than my own." 
 
 " Yes ! I perceive so. ^Vere it otherwise we would be de- 
 prived of a chief pleasure of the country, driving about when 
 we wish to do so. Pray walk in this way," continued Ethel, 
 shewing Emily into the room in which she had been sitting 
 
270 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 where she had built up her bright tinted castles of the cerial 
 future. 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn are well, I hope? and my friend 
 Ada. I have not seen her since she left us a week ago." 
 
 " Yes ! they are all well, thank you. Ada has been much 
 occupied ; she has to make up for lost time now, I suppose. I 
 was sorry to hear from her that little Alida had been very un- 
 well, and we all trust that by this time she has recovered," replied 
 Emily. 
 
 " "W'ell ! I cannot say that she is either better or worse. The 
 whooping cough lias apparently abated, but still she is not well, 
 and is very thin and weak, but I do not think there is any 
 danger." 
 
 " I have never heard that it is a dangerous disease, but Alida 
 is of a nervous organization, excitable and rather precocious _; 
 such children are easily prostrated," answered Emily, unable to 
 resist the temptation of administering a little of the comfort 
 which Job received so plentifully. 
 
 " Mamma feels uneasy about her, which must be her apology 
 for her absence this morning. Did you wish to see her?" 
 
 " No ! thank you, Ethel. It is yourself whom I came to see. 
 Something which I have to tell you," was the reply, and then 
 finding that her subject was more difficult to open than she had 
 imagined, Emily paused to collect her thoughts and prepare her- 
 self for her object. 
 
 " Something to say to me ! Well ! It must be something of 
 more than ordinary importance, then, to have brought you from 
 Ten Lakes on jiurpose. What is it, Emily ?" answered Ethel, 
 laughing after her first surprise, that the mission was to herself, 
 had giveii way to curiosity. 
 
 But Emily did not reply on the instant. Perhaps it was that 
 some tv'lnge of remorse awakened within her spirit and pressed 
 hardly on her evil-seared conscience. Perhaps the perception 
 th?t that which she was about to do, might be of more direful 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT! OH! EDWIN! 271 
 
 [erial 
 
 friend 
 
 much 
 >se. I 
 sry un- 
 replied 
 
 J. The 
 iot well, 
 : is any 
 
 )Ut Ahda 
 jcocious ; 
 enable to 
 I comfort 
 
 r apology 
 
 Ir?" 
 
 tiie to see. 
 and then 
 .n she had 
 :epare her- 
 
 uicthing of 
 t you from 
 [red Ethel, 
 10 herself, 
 
 it was that 
 
 .id pressed 
 
 perception 
 
 liore direful 
 
 consequence to the fiiicr, purer and softernature before her than 
 it would have been to her own case-hardened and earthy mind 
 — the mere destruction of a girl's ambitious hopes, a blow to 
 her vanity, whose pain a few days would smooth over or efface. 
 Or, perhaps, the risk of discovery, with its disagreeable prospects 
 of inconvenience, if not of danger to herself, might have been 
 the more selfish urging which prompted her delay. Did not the 
 very baseness of the act she was about to commit : the base act 
 which was to effect a baser purpose, appal her self-respect and 
 tighten the restraining chain of Pride — that quality, unworthy in 
 the main, but which is so often beneficial that it will hold back 
 from sin and crime those to whom, in but too many instances, 
 neither the Divine commands nor the ordinances of man v/ould 
 bring prevention. 
 
 Did not the remembrance of these Divine commands come 
 upon her soul even at this eleventh hour ? The fear of her God ? 
 All merciful, if she but repented her of her sin, at even this late 
 moment ; but whose justice she was about to provoke, and whose 
 mercy she was about to despise. It may have been so ! But 
 if these thoughts — even the dread thought of her Creator's 
 anger — flashed over her soul, her purpose was not altered. 
 
 Rejected as sentimentalities — which in the conduct of life were 
 to her absurd — were alike the soft gleams of mercy, the call of 
 self-respect and the promptings of her pride. The idea of dan- 
 ger held no terror to her bold si)irit, nor had either the prospect 
 of inevitable disgrace which would follow discovery of her plot, 
 and mayhap the deadened conscience was irresponsive and 
 answered not, to even the ligltening-stroke — the dread force of 
 the last terrible reflection — her Maker's wrath. 
 
 Emily Dearborn, clever, bold and self-confident ; ill brought 
 up, untrained to the right, and left, as she had been, wholly to 
 the unchecked workings of her own heart, was not the spirit 
 who, for a few moments timourons reflection, would turn aside 
 from her decided and matured way. 
 
11 
 
 mu 
 
 272 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, Emily ? Why do you not speak ?" 
 at length exclaimed Ethel, who with gradually increasing sur- 
 prise had waited for Emily's reply, and at last broke the pause. 
 " What is it that you can have to say to me that yo u hesitate so,' 
 she continued, impatiently. 
 
 Thus adjured, Emily Dearborn straightened herself in her 
 seat, erected her head with a decisive motion, and turned her 
 face full towards her companion. 
 
 " My dear Miss Mordaunt, I am come to you, to day, on an 
 errand — a mission, I should rather call it — which is neither 
 pleasant to myself, nor, do I suppose, will it be pleasing to 
 you. A mission, which has been to me, the theme of anxious 
 debate, of doubt and hesitancy for some days, and of wiiich 
 I would much rather have been excused. And, I would most cer- 
 tainly have excused myself of a painful, and, to me, cruel 
 duty, had I not, after anxious deliberation, come to the con- 
 clusion that it would have been a greater cruelty and injustice 
 to you to have refrained from its performance ; for, from your 
 concern in the matter, it is but justice to you, and better for 
 you, for your own sake, in every way, that you should at once 
 be made acquainted with that which is of vital interest to you. 
 And this premise must be my apology and excuse to you for 
 entering upon a subject not otherwise of concern to me, and 
 for an apparent interference." 
 
 '* Oh ! never mind apologies, Miss Dearborn, but come to the 
 point at once ; if, as you say, the communication you have to 
 make affects me in any way, though I connot see how such 
 can be the case, thus indirectly brought forward," replied Ethel, 
 gravely and composedly, yet, nevertheless, with an involuntary 
 glance at the shining ring on her finger, and a tight clutch of 
 the precious letter in her pocket, as if they had power to protect 
 and comfort ; to allay the alarm that already gnawed at her 
 heart. 
 
 Emily's eyes flashed fire, and an angry colour rose in her 
 
 d; 
 
 ■.■.!^i..;ii'-:;s.j.lili,;-'L 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT! OH! EDWIN! 273 
 
 sur- 
 luse. 
 ;e so,' 
 
 \ her 
 i her 
 
 on an 
 leither 
 
 iing to 
 mxious 
 
 which 
 
 ost cer- 
 
 I, cruel 
 
 he con- 
 
 njustice 
 
 m your 
 
 tter for 
 
 ut once 
 to you. 
 you for 
 
 [ne, and 
 
 ^e to the 
 1 have to 
 )\v such 
 1 Ethel, 
 .luntary 
 llutch of 
 , protect 
 at her 
 
 le ui 
 
 her 
 
 cheeks, as the remark, and the tone in which it was uttered, fell 
 upon her ears, and there was no hesitancy or semblance of 
 anything that could be construed into feeling or friendliness in 
 her voice, as she continued. Her soul had thoroughly warmed 
 to her work. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Mordaunt, I will come to the point at once, for 
 the communication I have to make does affect you, notwith- 
 standing the impossibility you would imply. I am well aware 
 that what I have to say will be found unpleasing, and for that 
 reason, any apology, or rather, any delicacy of entering upon 
 the matter, is made by me. However, it pleases you to repudi- 
 ate the kindness, even before " 
 
 " I would repeat. Miss Dearborn, my desire that you will 
 confine your remarks to the object of your visit, or else permit 
 me to close the interview, which, I certainly find unpleasant," 
 interrupted Ethel, who, although alarmed and anxious, would 
 nut allow Emily's impertinences. 
 
 " Very well ! Miss Mordaunt, as you desire, the interview 
 shall be made as brief as possible. I find it no more pleasant 
 than you do," returned Emily, quickly, but, in spite ol her 
 words, her whole appearance and manner showed that the in- 
 terview was not so unpleasing to her as she implied. 
 
 She was in battle now, and the ring of her \-oice already be- 
 trayed an anticipated triumph, as she continued — 
 
 " Three days ago, I received from a lady in Toronto this 
 letter and its enclosures, which have brouglit me here to-day. 
 With thi'j lady I am acquainted — slightly acquainted, it is true 
 — but still sufficiently so to know who she is, and to justify me 
 in taking notice of her communication. I may also mention 
 that 1 met her in the company of Mrs. Edwin Vance's mother, 
 which is sufficient guarantee of her respectability. My ac- 
 quaintance with her, is the probable reason why I have been 
 selected by her in this affair, and why the letter has been ad- 
 dressed to me, though for many reasons, I wish that it had not 
 
SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 been so. The letter speaks for itself, and requires no comment 
 on my part. It is here for you to read, if you choose to do 
 so, and is indeed meant for your perusal." 
 
 As she spoke, Emily Dearborn took from her pocket an 
 envelope, from which she produced a letter, within which 
 another i)aper lay. Handing the first to Ethel, but retaining in 
 her hand the other together with the envelope, she continued — 
 
 " Please to read this first, and its enclosures will then be at 
 your service." 
 
 Ethel, who, at the mention of her lover's name, had :;rown 
 deadly pale, her vague fears confirmed that the unwelcome 
 visit had reference to him, and who was now visibly startled, 
 took the letter handed her, and proceeded to read it, but not 
 before her eyes had again lighted on the ring, which, so few 
 days before, her Edwin had fitted on her finger, and not before 
 her lips had moved with a silent repetition of its legend " My 
 love faileth not I" as if she would assure her beating heart that 
 she could not mistrust. She read these words, written in a 
 cramped and old-fashioned hand : 
 
 "Toronto, Sept. 13th, 1875. 
 
 "My De:ar Miss Dearborn, 
 
 " For aadressing you, to-day, upon the subject which oc- 
 cupies the pages of this letter, I am well aware that I am 
 presuming very heavily upon the acquaintance which I had the 
 pleasure of forming with you, at the residence of our mutual 
 friend, Mrs. Vance, during your visit to this city a year ago. 
 Were it not a matter of i)aramount importance to one very dear 
 to me, and, consequently, to myself, I would not so presume 
 upon that slight acquaintance, but, as the affair in question is 
 most pressing, involving, as it does, the interests of a person 
 of your vicmity, and, as I have no other friend in that vicinity, 
 excepting yourself, in whom I could confide, I am under the 
 necessity of taxing your good nature, and asking you, in 
 Christian kindness, to lend me your fiiendly aid. A report — a 
 well-authenticated report — I regret to say, has reached me that 
 Mr. Edwin Vance, who, since the death of his father, two years 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT ! OH ! EDWIN ! 275 
 
 mment 
 ; to do 
 
 cket an 
 1 which 
 aining in 
 tinned— 
 -n be at 
 
 ad thrown 
 [Welcome 
 y startled, 
 it, bnt not 
 ch, so few 
 
 not before 
 :gend"My 
 r heart that 
 
 ritten in a 
 
 1875- 
 
 which 00- 
 that I am 
 h I had the 
 our mutual 
 a year ago. 
 le very dear 
 
 so presume 
 I (question is 
 \oi a person 
 Ihat vicinity. 
 In under the 
 ling yon, in 
 1 V report — a 
 
 hed me that 
 |r, two years 
 
 ago, has been the affianced liusband of my niece, Agnes Sea- 
 forth, and who, by every right, human and divine, should, ere 
 this, have made her his wife, with the blessing of the Church, 
 and openly, as he has done, taking advantage of her love for 
 him, in real fact, has become engaged, during the last two 
 months, to marry a young lady of good i^osition in your neigh- 
 borhood — a Miss Mordaunt. 
 
 " If this report has the foundation of truth, and the source 
 from which it is derived, leaves me no reason to doubt its ac- 
 curacy, not only has a very gross act of cruelty been per- 
 petrated against my poor Agnes, but a great injustice is done 
 to this Miss Mordaunt, who, of course, must be in ignorance 
 of the real facts of the case, or she would have not accepted 
 the love of a man capable of the baseness of deserting the 
 sweet young girl, who so fondly had placed h.-r trust in him. 
 
 " As 1 am informed, that the marriage with Miss Mordaunt 
 is being hurried on, and takes place almost immediately, it be- 
 comes, for that young lady's sake, a pressing necessity that she 
 be, at once, made aware of the position in which she stands, of 
 the dangers of the almost inevitable wreck of her life's happi- 
 ness if she becomes the wife of a man, who, in the bitterness 
 of my heart, 1 am forced to proclaim a villain. A villain I And 
 yet the circumstances are such, iliat I un compelled to hope, 
 to wish, and to strive for his marriage with my poor niece. 
 Yes ! though the marriage be for her a living death, the sacri- 
 fice of her life's comfort and happiness, 1 am compelled to 
 strive for it, in ordei to save my child. 
 
 " I, therefore; write to you, trusting to your kindness, that 
 you will, at once make these things known to Miss Mordaunt, 
 wi.u whom, in all probability, you are acquamted. To-night, I 
 have addressed her directly, but, unfortunately, I am not ac- 
 quainted with her, and she might, very naturally, demur to, and 
 reject the unguaranteed statements of one to whom she is wholly 
 unknown. 
 
 " I have not yet been able to summon up sufficient courage 
 to inform poor Agnes of this last crowning proof of her lover's 
 perfidy. That she has had reason of late to doubt his good 
 faith to her, I am tolerably certain, for she has been visibly de- 
 pressed in spirit for four or five weeks past, and the en^jlosed 
 letter from Mr. Vance to her, of which I have been enabled to 
 
 obtain possessio.\ would ajDpear to have 
 
 given 
 
 her ample 
 
'■■'-'A'JJUj 
 
 276 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 reason. And it is a!so a strong guarantee of the truth of the 
 statements I have advanced. For that reason I send it you. 
 If further proof is required, it is easily attainable, for the fact 
 of their intimacy and their engagement is not unknown in this 
 city. I would also mention the fact that, for some time past, 
 my unhappy neice has been in the habit of receiving from Mr. 
 Vance the annual sum of six hundred dollars. I had been 
 aware that, since her mother's death, some two years ago, my 
 niece was in the reception of such an income, but it had been 
 represented to me as derived from an interest in certain property 
 which had belonged to her father, and it has, but very lately, 
 come to my knowledge, on the authority of Mr. Vance's agents, 
 the Messrs. Hatchitfess, of this city, that such is not the case, 
 but that it was paid by Mr. Vance to Agnes, ostensibly for her 
 proper maintenance, until her marriage to him should take place. 
 
 " i have to admit, with pain and humiliation that my 
 niece has been most indiscreet, and much to blame in this 
 matter, but it has to be said for her that she has Icved him 
 fondly and trusted in him, and she is my dead sister's child. 
 
 " Were it only the desertion of a recreant lover, the wound 
 of which loss time would soon heal, we would have endured in 
 silence : I should not, old and infirm as I am, have interfered, 
 and Miss Mordaunt would have been welcome to her lover; 
 his gain not to be envied, or our loss worth the counting ; but 
 there is more than this involved. I must use all exertion to 
 bring him back to her, whom he ought to marry. 
 
 " Trusting that I am not asking too much in thus implor- 
 ing your kind offices, and that you will, at once, lay this before 
 Miss Mor daunt, with your representation that I am the person 
 I represent myself to be, and that you will forgive one, who is 
 not so well able to help herself in the hard affairs of the world 
 as she once was, for thus troubling you, 
 " I remain, dear Miss Dearborn, 
 
 " Sorrowfully, but faithfully yours, 
 
 " Patience Springle." 
 
 Poor Ethel ! Her bright world cut away from under her feet. 
 She read the. precious tissue of falshood, the fiendish concoction 
 of Emily Dearborn's brain, with blanching cheeks, wildly beat- 
 ing heart and pale drawn lips. What horrible calamity was this 
 to fall upon her youth ? What intense burthen of misery ? 
 
.^>.vj.. •-•■ ./--..wrft^Vj^TT-.e* j?iw <.i . 
 
 ith of the 
 id it you. 
 r the fact 
 wn in this 
 time past, 
 y from Mr. 
 had been 
 irs ago, my 
 t had been 
 in property 
 very lately, 
 ^ce's agents, 
 lot the case, 
 5ibly for her 
 i take place. 
 3n that my 
 ame in this 
 Ls Icved him 
 er's child, 
 r, the womid 
 '6 endured in 
 ve interfered, 
 to her lover; 
 [ounting; but 
 |l exertion to 
 
 thus implor- 
 ly this before 
 Im the person 
 }e one, who is 
 
 of the world 
 
 ]:e Spring le. 
 imder her feet. 
 ,sh concoction 
 s, wildly beat- 
 lamity was this 
 n of misery? 
 
 MY LOVE FAILETH NOT ! OH ! EDWIN ! 277 
 
 Quenching the happy sunlight from the set eyes that were still 
 fixed in direful fascination upon the dreadful words, whose import 
 squeezed her heart with vice-like deadening grip. Stunned and 
 bewildered she sat for a moment gazing at the paper, unable as 
 yet to wholly comprehend and realize the extent of her great 
 evil. Her mind groped about blindly in the dark unlooked for 
 shadow. Tumultuous images of despair and misery, unconnect- 
 ed and disjointed, surged through her brain, but she could not 
 think. At last the drawn lips quivered, and the soft tears forced 
 themselves into her eyes. And then started up like a fresh giant 
 to her aid. Pride — Pride, the invigorator, for her enemy sat be- 
 fore her, and she should never see the quailing of her heart. 
 The forcing tears vanished, the quivering mouth composed itself 
 into calm gravity, the colour rushed back into the white cheeks, 
 and Ethel Mordaunt, herself again, sat up erect with steady 
 gaze, and laid the letter cjuietly down on the table before her. 
 
 Her thoughts were pertinent enough now. Was not this girl 
 her enemy ? Always her enemy, her bitter enemy ; and, was 
 she not capable of any depth of scheming baseness for the ac- 
 complishment of her own ends. She could not believe her lover 
 could be so false. She knew that he could not be the villain that 
 dreadful letter would fain portray him. She was as certain of 
 his love as of her own existence, though, if these things were 
 true, she would have to cast it aw^y from her as unworthy, and 
 not of right hers, but due to anoth -. She glanced down at her 
 ring again, as if to derive comfort from its very presence ; the 
 encirclement of her finger of its faithful legend. She felt the 
 words pressing into her very flesh, and her very brain throbbed 
 with — 
 
 " ' My love faileth not.' Oh ! Edwin, Edwin !" 
 
 And then she spoke — 
 
 " This letter might be all very well. Miss Dearborn, did it 
 carry some stronger i)roofs with it. It will require something 
 more than its mere assertions, and these, coming, too, from a 
 
 19 
 
 : n;J,'^>!^«;ife»aR'^ 
 
278 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 m I 
 
 mere stranger, to convince me of Mr. Vance's disloyalty. How 
 am I to know that tliis letter is not a forgery, an invention of 
 your own, for instance. I am too well aware of your senti- 
 ments towards me to imagine that your mission, to-day, is not 
 a labor of love on your part, a i>leasing duty, tmd I am not in- 
 clined, without much stronger confirmation than 1 think you 
 are able to produce, to accept the luttc; as a veracity." 
 
 " Indeed I Miss Mordaunt. How sorry i am .!\at I have not 
 your good opinion," replied Emily, with s.neering politeness. 
 " My pleasing duty, my labor of love, as you term it, merely 
 requires me to lay before you these two letters. With the con- 
 firmation of their truth or falsity, wlicther or not they are genuine 
 even, I have nothing to do. Vuu can form your own opinion. 
 Pray read this letter, the enclosure of Miss Springle's. It may 
 enlighten you somewhat. Vou will, perhaps, notice that it is 
 dated from this house, a week or so after your engagement. 
 The reflection v/ill be pleasing to you. The handwritmg you 
 will hardly fail to recognize." 
 
 As Emily concluded her amiable remarks, she handed to 
 Ethel the letter which Edwin \'ance had addressed to Miss Sea- 
 forth, in response to hers, and which Sidney Wolvcrton had pur- 
 loined at the hotel in Ten F.akes. the eventful evening of the 
 
 en eke t match. 
 
 Ethel took the letters, and diough her pride and indignation 
 
 upheld her spirits, her heart nearly ceased to beat, when she 
 
 recognized the handwriting of her Edwin. Hastily she perused 
 
 it j hope dying within her at every \vord. Though short, it was 
 
 momentous, when taken in connection with the first letter 
 
 which had been written to suit its rather ambiguous terms, with 
 
 Emily's patient but remorseless ingenuity. 
 
 " Lake Mordaunt, July 26th, 1873. 
 
 " My DearI'.st .Vones, — Your letter was received by me, 
 
 this morning, and I reph' at once, though in haste. I regret 
 
 extremely the conversation you have had with these law people. 
 
 I wish that it had not taken place, as it makes things unplea- 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT! OH! EDWINM 279 
 
 How 
 ntion of 
 XT senti- 
 y, is not 
 n not in- 
 link you 
 
 have not 
 oliteness. 
 t, merely 
 [\ the con- 
 re genuine 
 n opinion. 
 3. It may 
 : that it is 
 \gagement. 
 /ritmg you 
 
 handed to 
 Miss Sea- 
 Ion had pur- 
 ning of the 
 
 indignation 
 „ when she 
 ishe perused 
 thort, it was 
 first letter 
 terms, with 
 
 |6th, 1873. 
 ^ived by me, 
 te. I regret 
 law people. 
 fings unplea- 
 
 sant for both of us, which l:)efore were smooth enoiu;!i. As 
 you wish a categorical reply to your (luestion, I can only con- 
 firm tliat which xMr. Hatchitfess told you. You have no /e^^a/ 
 claim upon me, ])ut )')ii Ivdvc a very strong moral claim. A 
 claim which I recognize to he as binding upon me as though 
 the law compelled it, and wliich I will fultil, as for the two past 
 years I have fulfilled it. 
 
 " The concealment vrhich has been j^ractised waD to spare 
 you from disa])pointment and mortification. That you have 
 reason to feel both disappointed and mortified, I mti.-l admit, 
 nor do I hold myself free from blame. I wish that things were 
 not as they are, but they cannot now be altered, to my regret. 
 This is hardly a fitting time to announce my engagement and 
 approaching marriage, to you, bill later 0:1, you will be able to 
 congratulate me. 
 
 " I have, to-day, instructed trie Messrs. Hatchitfess to im 
 mediately effect tlie i)urchase of an annuity on your life, for 
 six hundred dollars per annum. 'I'his Vv-i11 be your own, and is 
 but the certain carrying out of my solemn agreemer.t of two 
 years' ago. I will see you, my dearest Agnes, immediately on 
 my return to Toronto, and I trust then to remove any painful 
 impressions that may linger In }'our nund, r.nd will explain 
 everythinij fullv to vou. 'i'hese thinc^s are better done l)y word 
 
 J CD ^ O y 
 
 of n:;outh, than l.)y the cold formalities of a letter. Please re- 
 member me iindiy to your au?-;t. 
 
 '' L am, my dearest Agnes, . _ 
 
 "Yours wis ever, 
 
 " Edwin Vance. 
 
 " P.3. — Any objection on your part to the life-annuity, Szc, 
 &c., will be useless, as by the time you I'eceive this,, the affair 
 will be completed, and 1 will not vary from my solemn promise. 
 — E. V. 
 
 " x^iiss Agnes Seaforth." 
 
 innocent of intention as Edv/in Vance had been in writing 
 this letter, he could' not have put a more powerful v/eapon 
 against himself into the unscrup:ilous hands to whom it had 
 falie.'i. What bitter fruits for his gathering had not already 
 sprung up from tha* fatal evening's weakness, and the bitterest 
 of them all was fast ripening to his unconscious hand. Had he 
 
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SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 been himself when he wrote it, his judgment clear and uncloud- 
 ed, its wording had not been so incautious, so carelessly ambigu- 
 ous, and capable of misconstruction. 
 
 Yet how was he to suspect that his letter, a mere business 
 reply, would fall into evil hands. Even had it come before Miss 
 Seaforth's eyes, it was hardly a proper letter for him to have 
 written. Too warm in some of its terms, for his heart warmed 
 towards the high-spirited girl, for whose care his father's dying 
 commands had been uttered to him, in others, its rendering had 
 not been sufficiently smooth and careful. But such as it was, it 
 had been written, and, as the sowing of dragon's teeth it was to 
 be for him. 
 
 Poor Ethel ! all hope was dead within her as she read this 
 letter. Its meaning, all doubtful and ambiguous as it appeared, 
 was but too apparent to her. How could he have been so bad, and 
 so cruel? Within the very week of their engagement, and from 
 her father's house, her lover had written to this girl. That 
 very mornihg — she remembered, with a bitter pang — they had 
 had that long interview in the conservatory, the very words of 
 which were still vivid on her mind, that had held so well his every 
 lovmg tone, and had he not gone straight from her to pen those 
 wicked words, wickedly loving, wickedly familiar, and wickedly 
 cruel, to this Agnes Seaforth. It was quite enongh. Her 
 misery had come upon her, and she must bear it as best she 
 might. 
 
 The first thing to do now, was to get rid of her enemy, who 
 sat before her, watching, with gloating eyes, for the expression 
 of her pain and agony. But she should not see it. She laid 
 the letter down upon the other, folded them carefully, and put 
 them into her pocket 
 
 " You will be so good as to return me those letters. Miss 
 Mordaunt," exclaimed Emily, on seeing the action ; for her 
 triumph not having been as great as she had anticipated, and 
 Ethel apparently taking the matter a great deal too coolly, she 
 
iii 
 
 M. 
 
 incloud- 
 ambigu- 
 
 business 
 ore Miss 
 to have 
 warmed 
 's dying 
 ring had 
 it was, it 
 [ was to 
 
 ead this 
 ppeared, 
 bad, and 
 nd from 
 . That 
 they had 
 words of 
 his every 
 en those 
 wickedly 
 Her 
 3est she 
 
 ny, who 
 
 pression 
 
 She laid 
 
 and put 
 
 :rs, Miss 
 for her 
 ted, and 
 oily, she 
 
 MY LOVE FAILETH NOT ! OH! EDWIN! 281 
 
 had become alarmed and wished to have her forgery safely back 
 into her own possession. 
 
 " Most decidedly not ! Miss Dearborn. I have " 
 
 But at this moment the door opened, and her uncle hastily 
 entered, exclaiming — 
 
 " Oh ! you are here then, Ethel 1" He advanced into the 
 room, and perceiving Emily, bowed coolly, and said, " How do 
 you do, madam !" Then, turning to his niece, " I must bid you 
 a hasty ' good-bye,' Ethel," he continued. " I have this moment 
 received a telegram calling me to New York on business of great 
 importance to my interests, and I cannot delay a minute. Why ! 
 what is the matter with you, Ethel ? You look as miserable as 
 if your lover had jilted you. What iz the trouble now ?" he ex- 
 claimed, with astonishment, as poor Ethel, with drawn face and 
 piteous eyes, rose from her seat at his speech. But she answer- 
 ed him — 
 
 " There is nothing much the matter, uncle. Miss Dearborn 
 has come to persuade me if she can, that he is false, and finds 
 it a pleasant duty." 
 
 " Tolerably successful too, I imagine," sarcastically added that 
 young lady, as Ethel spoke. 
 
 " Well then ! Ethel, you are a fool if you listen to her. It is 
 not Vance but she who is false, believe me ! Do not hear a 
 word I I will answer for Vance. But I cannot remain. I want 
 to catch the mid-day train at Cascades ; but write me all about 
 it, Ethel. Don't listen to her, and don't do anything rash. Write 
 to me. And now, good-bye, my darling. Believe me all will 
 come right." 
 
 Ethel looked up with a mournful smile at his confident words. 
 He kissed her more warmly than was usual with him, and turn- 
 ed away. As he left the room, he bowed with sarcastic pro- 
 fundity to Miss Dearborn. " Yours truly, madam," he said, and 
 was gone. 
 Miss Mordaunt turned and confronted her visitor with proud 
 
 r ',i li'ihi I ■■■■iiiiriiiii BniM 
 
"mm^ 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DOXE BETTER. 
 
 scorn in her brilliant eyes and a cold smile on the beautiful face. 
 However crushing the weight of misery resting upon her, this 
 girl — her bitter foe — should not be delighted at the exhibit 
 should fail of her anticipated triumph, and though her heart was 
 weak and sinking, Emily Dearborn should not perceive its 
 weakness nor gloat over the sorrow she had hoped to witness. 
 
 ' Is your case stated, or have you further dubious epistles for 
 my edification ?" she asked, looking at the other from a con- 
 temptuously averted profile. 
 
 " No more. Miss Mordaunt 1 I should have imagined you 
 had had enough. But I must insist upon the return of the two 
 you have appropriated,*' replied Emily, rising from her seat 
 angrily, and looking disdainfully at ,the other, though her most 
 prominent feeling was the desire to regain possession of her 
 letters. 
 
 " You can insist, if you please to do so, yet I shall most cer- 
 tainly retain them, Miss Dearborn," And then, though her heart 
 did not bear the same confidence as her voice, she continued : 
 " These letters are genuine, or they are not. If not, it will be 
 very interesting to trace them to their f:)untain head. I am not 
 surprised at your wish to have their possession, but I shall not 
 gratify it.'' 
 
 " The letters are mine, and I will ha\-e them l)ack, Ethel /.Tor- 
 daunt, unless, indeed, you mean co steal ihem," exclaimed Emily, 
 her voice raised in passion. . . , 
 
 " Our interview is, I presume, terminated. You have had 
 my answer," said Ethel, as she struck a silver bell. She tlien 
 resumed her seit and awaited the appearance of tl;e atten- 
 dant. 
 
 " Oh 1 you need not have rung. I am quite able to fmd my 
 way out of the house. I wish you * good nio/ning,' Miss Mor- 
 daunt, and I trust you find the prospect of your happiness in 
 the faithful love of ]\Ir. Edwin Vance — or rather in the sliare of 
 
MY LOVE FAILETH NOT! OH! EDWIN! 283 
 
 utiful face, 
 n her, this 
 e exhibit 
 : heart was 
 lerceive its 
 ) witness, 
 epistles for 
 :om a con- 
 
 agined you 
 . of the two 
 in her seat 
 jh her most 
 sion of her 
 
 }\ most cer- 
 
 if,fh her heart 
 
 continued : 
 
 will be 
 
 1 am not 
 
 1 shall not 
 
 Ethel T.lor- 
 imed Emily, 
 
 ,. have had 
 She then 
 the atten- 
 
 10 ilnd my 
 Miss Mor- 
 luppiness in 
 Ithe share of 
 
 it 
 
 it he can spare from Agnes Seaforth — very reassuring," and 
 Emily, with head erect, marched past her out of the room. 
 
 Ethel followed her to the hall door and said : " If you will 
 wait a moment, Miss Dearborn, the man will attend to your 
 horse for you." 
 
 *' I can attend to him myself, thank you !" was the ungracious 
 reply, and in a moment Emily was in her carriage and had driven 
 off. 
 
 She departed from Lake Mordaunt with a great deal less of 
 pleasant triumph in her heart than she liad expected, and with 
 a great deal of mortification, anxiety and alarm for herself which 
 she had certainly uof anticipat'^d. 
 
 When once a vicious end is acccomplishcd, then commences 
 Its retribution. 
 
 The ardent desire of its attainment, the unholy devisal of 
 means to that end, overshadow consideration of consequences, 
 but, the act once committed and irretrievable, the false excite- 
 ment over, the expected pleasure a Dead Sea i.pple of dust and 
 ashes, then stalk in Fear and Anxiety. Then grim foreboding 
 and the degrading sense of guilt harrow the trembling soul. The 
 unnerved mind, frightened at every shadow ; its waking hours 
 one long terror; its sleep a vision of dread, is led along the 
 gloomy road of black Remors j, until in agony comes the cry : 
 '' Oh ! that I had not done this thing ! Oh ! that I could call back 
 my yesterdays !" 
 
 Ethel Mordaunt stood at the open door looking out on the 
 bright landscape, in its Hooding sunshine, where the birds sang, 
 and all was filled with peaceful life and happiness. She won- 
 dered, with a dull wonder, sprung from that refinement of 
 human]egotism winch would bind and connect the whole universe 
 to the pleasures or the pains of this individual I — how the sun 
 could shine, the flowers bk)om, the birds give forth their song, 
 or the world move on unchanged, in its daily round, when for 
 her had come such wreck. The stm shone, but its beams 
 
 J 
 
284 
 
 SHE MIGHT HAVE DONE BETTER. 
 
 lightened not hev shadows. The birds sang, but their songs 
 were painful mockings to her ears. The flowers bloomed as be- 
 fore, but where was their fragrance and beauty for her ? The 
 world moved on in its bright paths, but she was struck down 
 from its brightness to follow on its dreary wake. 
 
 She turned away and went back to the sitting-room, where she 
 had that morning dreamed her sweet dreams, where their dissi- 
 pation she had witnessed, and the ending of her happy love had 
 come to her. 
 
 Tearless, pale and benumbed, she threw herself into her chair 
 and tried to think. 
 
 But she could not think. A dead weight pressed upon her 
 brain, and her temples throbbed to bursting. 
 
 Her eyes, burningly bright, fixed themselves, through Lie 
 window, on vacancy. She sat down and tried to collect her 
 thoughts, to bring herself to the knowledge of that which had 
 befallen her, to realize the full extent of her misery. Presently, 
 she took from her pocket the fatal letters. There might be some 
 loop-hole of escape, some overlooked expression from which to 
 deduce hope — some unthought of explanation. She opened out 
 that which bore the handwriting of her lover, and glanced, 
 shudderingly, over the fatal lines. But she could bear no more, 
 the strain upon her nerves had become too great. As its per- 
 verted meanings again flashed on her brain, she sprang to her 
 feet, and in the access of powerful excitement, the culmination 
 of agonized sorrow and outraged love, she would have torn the 
 paper into a thousand fragments and scattered them from her 
 
 but her nerveless fingers refused their oflice, and mechanically 
 she replaced the letter in the receptacle from which she had 
 taken it. 
 
 " Oh ! Edwin ! Edwin ! Cruel and false ! Why did you come 
 to me ? Why with your cruel love have you blasted my life ?" 
 
 An hour after Mrs. Mordaunt, entering the room, found kei 
 daughter lying senseless upon the floor. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 
ill songs 
 led as be- 
 ;r? The 
 ck down 
 
 vhere she 
 leir dissi- 
 ' love had 
 
 her chair 
 
 upon her 
 
 ough Lie 
 Dilect her 
 '^hich had 
 Presently, 
 t be some 
 
 which to 
 pened out 
 [ glanced, 
 I no more, 
 is its per- 
 ng to her 
 ilmination 
 e torn the 
 
 from her 
 
 chanically 
 
 ri she had 
 
 you come 
 . mvlife?" 
 found liei